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You, Karkat Vantas, have reached a new record-breaking low.
It's weird and it's wrong, but as long as no one knows then the only audience to contend with is your own reproachful stare.
You should be ashamed of yourself, you should want to stab your bulge repeatedly with a culling fork for even considering engaging in this lewd act. Have you no dignity?
But it's the fact that it's so opprobrious that gets you off. It's scandalous on so many levels that Lalonde would have a field day dissecting the psychology of your wanton self-debasement.
You sit on the futon in your private quarters (the only piece of furniture besides your recuperacoon and desk) which faces the mirror. It never used to face the mirror, not until you met your ancestor, Kankri Vantas.
And fell in hate.
You couldn't stuff enough cotton in your auricular spongeclots to drown out the discourse, and he clung to you like a barnacle wherever you went. He wore your patience down to fraying threads, and he insisted on pushing every one of your buttons as passive-aggressively as he could without coming off as rude. God forbid the politically correct fuckwit slip on a derogatory term or outright insult someone. You would love to see him sling mud like you can.
Obsidian emotions took root in you and blossomed when you inadvertently spouted your intentions over a fit in the hallway. Kankri was shoved up against the wall and flattened there by your form. Gripping him by the neck of his shirt, you professed your black desires: I hate you so fucking much, I can't help myself, tell me you feel this too so I can check my privilege in your protein chute--
He flat out rejected you. You honestly had not seen that one coming, just as you had not expected him to turn you down. You felt the sparks, the tension, the fucking explosive chemistry, and the sanctimonious bastard has the nerve to condescend you. He tries to embrace you, shoosh you, pap you--
You retreat in a blustery storm of frustration that has led you to your current situation. You fix the mirror with a burning glare, and an identical glare stares you down. From the rounded tips of your nubs to the tips of your socked feet, you are a spitting image of your ancestor (well, maybe if you showered more often). You continue to scowl at your reflection as you envision what his eyes must have looked like when he was alive. Deep scarlet, beady when enraged, fiery even.
Just like yours.
If the world didn't hate you as much as you hate yourself, you'd have him prostrate before you. Or maybe he'd be nestled between your thighs giving his mouth a good workout if he wasn't gagged and bound, writhing in your lap as you ripped his chastity from him.
Chastity. What a bizarre concept. What's he trying to protect himself from? He's dead.
But he didn't decline your caliginous advances because of his abstinent pledge.
He doesn't hate you.
Your only response to that? You'll make him hate you.
But in the meantime, you had dire needs to attend to.
Pants-less, you slowly spread your legs, exposing everything to your mirror image. When you look down, he looks down, you both lick your lips and watch as your bulge swells and your nook glistens with the memory of pressing yourself against your fellow Vantas.
Drawing in a breath, you slide your hand down your torso, nails streaking the flesh en route to your lap where they tease your length with sharp grazing, just enough to get your vascular pump thumping with excitement and anticipation.
You cast a glance from beneath your lashes at your counterpart who is predictably mesmerized, and you share a torrid look as your hand palms your engorged bulge and squeezes the rigid shaft. You are sensitive and receptive, throbbing hotly, thickly, within the clasp of fingers. You can feel its beat strong enough to make your entire body pulse. Your gaze ping-pongs between his (your) face and his (your) bulge. You swipe a few fingers against your nook which spasms at the touch, collecting fluid with which to slather your protruding bulge.
Enclosing the eager shaft, you hold it firmly as you buck your hips, thrusting through the tight tunnel of your hand. You struggle to keep your head up, your concentration slipping. You don't want to miss a thing. You're putting on a show for yourself and visualizing your unrequited hatemate. You've managed to remain virtually silent, biting and licking your lips to stave off the emission of words or even moans but you capture yourself staring heatedly. Your eyes are fogged over, your face is scrunched in ecstasy, your hair is disheveled around your horns and your lips are mouthing:
Kankri.
Not a second later you hear the name echoed on your tongue, husky and carnal and full of raw intensity.
Arching your back against the futon, you use your unoccupied hand to complete the shameful deed. Spreading your nook, you ease two fingers into the wet canal, and the penetration is the clincher that drives you over the edge. His name possesses your mouth, your pan, your bulge, and you realize you're infatuated.
It's him.
It's you.
It's hate. It's need.
And soon enough you're a sticky mess and you could have sworn you spotted a wicked smile from your reverse reflection.