black-quadrant:

(loosely inspired by this bc i’ve always wanted to write something relevant to it)

This is not how normal people hate themselves.  Some might call this form of self-loathing healthy if it weren’t so completely dysfunctional at its core.  One might even mistake it for self-love if they didn’t know Karkat Vantas.

You should be ashamed of your very existence, and you are, but this is such a fucking joke that you can’t even begin to take yourself seriously.

You’ve jacked your haterod to a lot of weird shit, but this ranks high on the list of kinks that you’re too ashamed to acknowledge in any other form but miserably perverse fantasies.

You’re standing in front of your mirror, naked as the day you were hatched, staring down your reflection.  You watch your movements intently, following the fingers that trickle down the glass, imagining the touch of your double while your other hand freely gropes your strife-chiseled chest.

It’s just you, alone with yourself, but you’re flushing all over in mounting embarrassment.  If future you could see you now…

Wouldn’t that be nice.

Cringing in disgust, you try to shake off the thoughts and hopefully rattle your pan loose, but the seed has been planted and it’s taking root.  Your lust is at the helm, steering you toward complete and total debauched devastation.

Your hand leaves sweaty smears down the mirror, marring your reflection, reaching down to receive your bulge emerging from its sheath.  But you’re not looking at it.  You’re drinking in the curve of your shoulder lit by a side lamp, the way your throat clenches against a gulp and your thighs involuntarily quiver.

It’s much too easy to imagine yourself from another point in time separated from you by a pane of glass, a transparent barrier to your pitch peepshow.  Linked mind body and soul, you match each other perfectly, not a single snag in your synchrony.

Pressing your fevered forehead to the cool glass, you search your copy’s eyes, pretending (not that it takes much convincing) that he’s sizing you up just the same.  Your labored panting fogs up his mouth, but you wouldn’t kiss him anyway.

What you wouldn’t give to have him on his knees, choking on your bulge.  You’d record the whole thing, ordering him to glare at the camera, to show you just how deep his contempt runs.

How much do you hate me?  How much do you need me to hate you?  Tell me how much you need this, you desperate fuck.

No one else can hate you as thoroughly as you.  No one else can hold a candle to the intensity of your passionate inferno.

You’re tugging your meat vigorously now, knowing just how you like it; he’d know just how you like it, and probably he’d use it against you.  Tie you down and take it nice and slow, make you live in the moment until your fury erupts like a volcano.

He knows just how to break you.

“Unnngg… fuck… fuck you…”  You pause, squeeze your swollen bulge throbbing in your palm, and moan, red-faced.

“Fuck me.”

You’re rutting against the mirror with wild abandon, savagely pawing at the mirror while smudging your replica’s groin in precome.  To any onlooker this would either be erotic or proof that you’ve gone shithive maggots at last.  Maybe you’re obsessed, but you don’t care.  Plastering yourself to the glass, seduced by your own charring glare, you drag the flat of your tongue across your reflection and dig your nails into one of the many cracks you’ve left in the mirror from punching it at the height of ecstasy.

Your gaze snaps up to the fractured parts your nails are embedded in, and the reminder is all you need to trigger your orgasm.  Slamming yourself painfully against the unyielding surface, you howl as you strangle your throbbing shaft, shuddering violently as wave after wave of pleasure tears through you until you’re left, sticky and heaving, shards lodged in your fingers.

The only sound in the stifled room is that of your own rasping breath, your image staring mutely back at you.

You know it’s impossible, but your craving for more is damn near unquenchable.

Your legs liquefy, the mirror squeaking irritably as you slip gracelessly down its surface into a mess of slime and sick satisfaction.

Your husktop sits, open, recording every second… for future reference.

Next time you should surprise one of your alternates with a viewport performance.