A/N This story is a short continuation of Misguided. It is from Karkat's perspective.
The shitty rap is all mine. I cannot rap.
You wanted to know what was on the record? This is it.
Pardon any mistakes, I wrote this at 4 in the morning.
"Karkat."
The unmistakable voice of one Dave Strider echoes through the static and the soft thumping rhythm drifting from the record player. You sit cross-legged on your bed, heart pounding and face as red as his eyes when you hear it. Your whole body stiffens. You expected a shitty-ass song. You expected…you expected something that is not this.
Quiet your thoughts a moment, Karkat. Just listen.
"Yo, Vantas. You're listening to this record 'cause I gave it to ya to listen to. I don't want it back, though I said I did. Made this because even thinkin' these words knocks my Strider cool down by half, so just sit the fuck back and listen.
"So you're new here in town and you ain't got a friend but a guy like you's gonna try to pretend that you're fine as wine and dine and dash with cash left over in your pocket. See, I know that, Karkat, Strider knows where you at , and maybe I'm just a brat who wants to skip over that.
"You get pissed off at me for no good reason. You make me feel like I've committed treason. All I really want is to talk to you, bro, get to know what I know that you don't wanna show. Cuz I'm sittin' here mixin' and twistin' and wishin' I had enough balls to say this shit to your face with some grace and an attitude that won't make my raditude way too apparent. Or some shit. Fuck.
"Really, though, Vantas, i'm holdin' in all these words and if you haven't heard or haven't inferred that I'm crazy aboutcha, and no I ain't high 'cause I know I can't fly I just think you're the guy that I want all those sappy-ass cliché motherfuckin traditions. Dude, I've got my own, and they're Strider edition!
"You can break this old disk if you wanna offend me, wanna pretend you don't want what I'm sending. Or you can just sit there all gaping, because Dave Strider's in love with Karkat Vantas."
You feel your eyes well up with tears. Dave Strider, mister "Cool," wrote sappy shitty love rap about you! You hate yourself even more for not having listened to this prized possession sooner.
You remove it and place the vinyl in a safe place before sitting back on your bed, shirt clenched close in your fists and your teeth. The rap was shitty but you knew that Dave actually willingly gave up being cool for a day to write it for you. It makes you want to curl up really small and scream into your sweater or your pillow.
You do love that Dave Strider.