You stand on the surface at the meteor, staring at the incoming dream bubble. Your hands ball tightly into fists. He's there waiting for you. He always is, with an obnoxious voice and taunting bed and small but sharp teeth you can still feel on your shoulder from the last time.

It was fucking blessing when Dave rejected your arrangement with Terezi. Your hatred for your kismesis has no bounds and you're so glad to have found him, even if he's been dead since the birth of your universe and the humans are squeamish about the idea. But if they don't want to fuck their dancestor, that's their prerogative. Someone who's so like you, every bit as intolerable as your past and future self but so much more solid and therefore all the more fuckable, would be completely irresistible for anyone without a damaged frontal lobe. You doubt that even your rivalry with John could have grown to be this potent.

Fuck, your bloodpusher's pounding and your palms sweat. What has he cooked up this time? He's as creative as he is annoying and keeps coming up with new ways to worm his way into the non-existent space beneath your skin. It was your turn last time, and you'd never seen so much fury on his face then. You'd tied him up and proceeded to rant for as long as he could about blood caste and leadership using every slur you could dig up in every book on the meteor. He's going to have something good, you can feel it.

Then you cross into the dream bubble. You'll never get used to the sudden shift in reality as the real world shifts from your senses. Then you're standing in a memory of his respite block. And he's- oh fucking no he is not.

"What the ever loving fuck are you wearing, Kankri?"

He smirks. Such a smug expression doesn't belong on his stupid, sexy, asshole face. "My dear kismesis, I think you know exactly what I'm wearing."

"How dare you," You snarl, "How fucking dare you!"

"They're my clothes, aren't they?"

You take a step forward, raise your right fist and punch him in the fucking face. "You are not him."

He touches his cheek in surprise, but then glares at you. God, that's so much better than the smirk. You're the only one who he looks at like that and it ties your digestive tubes in knots.

"And you are?" He hisses. "I've seen the pictures. We were forced to learn in school about The Unifier. You wear his sign, you wear his sweater, but you've done nothing. You're not the man who stood up, who gathered high and lowbloods alike, put an empress who would usher in an era of peace on the throne. You're a spoiled brat, who doesn't deserve to share his true name. And furthe more-"

There's been a growl in the back of your throat since the beginning, but now it's become a full blown animalistic hissing snarl. You're barely resisting the urge to initiate a strife before you've had your chance to talk. "Shut up! Shut the fuck up! I don't have time for one of your fucking 'sermons.' I don't even know why you insist on calling them that. They're just rants. Rants from a fucking wimp who never knew real trouble." You're nearly pressed up against him now, and you loathe the fact that he's still three years older and nearly a foot taller after all the growing you did. "Before you even think about calling me a spoiled brat, how many days did you go to sleep hungry because your lusus couldn't gather any spoiled scraps from nearby hives? How many nights did you spend curled in a ball shaking in fear under your desk because the drones were coming and if they saw you they'd paint the streets with your mutant blood. Think about that and then talk to me about nook-sniffing privilege."

You tear his pretentious cloak off and can't help but smile at the satisfying ripping sound. Then you shove it in his face, taking his moment of weakness to swipe his legs out from under him. He manages to get untangled but by then your sneaker is planted firmly on his chest and you have a sickle pointing right at his disturbingly vacant eyes.

"And you never are going to be him. Even if you'd lived, you couldn't have become someone like that. You are nothing like the man who whispered to me in my dreams all those sweeps, who promised me I would survive, that I would succeed to bring a new order where he'd failed. You've never Suffered, so what in Her Imperial Condescension's name makes you think you have the right to dress like him? Fuck, even when you did come back as someone worth existing it wasn't half of what I'd been in your universe."

He's trying to remain composed. If he was still alive his pupils would have nearly blocked out his irises with the combination of aggression and arousal that always came with this sort of confrontation. You wonder how you look to him. Your irises have nearly filled in, your voice no longer breaks and you stand in a dominant position over him. The two of you have been waxing pitch since your eyes started to turn red, but you've never actually gone the entire way. Kankri was always such a tease, saying that if he dominated you so easily you weren't ready. Well, if anything is going to prove you were a man, it would be this. Your heart is racing even harder than before.

How are you supposed to even-?

For a moment you're unsure of what to do, and he capitalizes on it. Next thing you know you're falling backwards. You tuck and roll and get back to your feet, but by then he's standing a good fifteen feet away with his own sickles drawn.

"If you feel that strongly," He says, finally allowing himself to snarl and show his teeth, "Let your actions speak louder than you words. Come get them off."

You try not to look too excited. You've probably failed because for a moment his expression softens with that bizarre fondness you have for your archrival. Then you leap forward and your strife begins. You don't need to think anymore when you battle. Your sickles have been with you since you pupated. You'd learned to fight when you'd learned to walk and had practiced about as often.

In fights past his longer reach and your new awkwardness had let him win, but as you duck under his flailing arms to deliver hit after hit you knew it won't be the case this time. You haven't grown in what you assumed to be a few perigrees and you've been practicing with Gamzee, who is taller, stronger, and crazier than Kankri. It takes about three minutes until his leggings are in shreds and he's sprawled on the carpet, dripping your disgusting shared blood all over the place. He drops his sickles and you kick them under the couch. You won't be using that anytime soon. No, you have better plans.

You recapchalogue your own weapons and pin him down. He doesn't bother to struggle, although his eyes look at you with pure hatred. Pure, beautiful, erotic hatred.

"Go on," He spits. "Claim your damn prize."

He wants this as badly as you do, and for a moment you lose control and smile down at him. As soon as you realize it, though, you lean down and bite his shoulder as hard as you can, hoping he can't see your blush from this angle. You reach down to shove the remainder of his leggings down, only to realize with a jolt that you let one of his arms go.

Instead of trowing you off or even flipping your positions, he slides his hand under your shirt, claws raking harshly down your back. You hiss into his shoulder and arch into the painful touch. For someone who'd held a vow of celibacy for so long, Kankri makes a wonderful lover. You know that much already, and you plan to tear the shreds of that promise away like you did his costume.

When you've gotten everything down you pull back to look at him and say, "You're so much less disgusting naked."

"You would be too," he points out.

You let his other arm free and he drags your sweater up over your head and throws it across the block. You're the one, though, who undoes your pants, shoving them low enough to give your bulge ample space. You look down to his crotch. The edges of his bone sheath are flushed with blood. With a fierce grin you trace the seam and he pops right open for you, his bulge waving, needy for something to tangle with. The longest tendril finds your sheath and traces it, making your nearly identical bulge come out.

Fuck, you can't stop looking. Your bulges love each other almost as much as the two of you hate each other. One or the other of you twists just so and with a shudder and a gasp you fall back down onto him, biting his unharmed shoulder to keep you from screaming. He's just a bit larger than you are, but that only means he can wrap around you more. He's sleek and muscular and so much better than your own fingers, especially when your bulges sort themselves out and each tendril wraps around it's corresponding partner. And he's the perfect temperature around you, hot enough to drive you wild but cool enough that you'll be able to keep pressed against him for hours.

You understand now why so many people like partners of their own caste. The two of you fit together perfectly as you rock your hips back and forth to increase the friction. You trade bite for bite, scratch for scratch as you race to the finish line.

If you come first, it means that you can take his bucket and leave him unsatisfied as you've felt for the last three years after every conversation the two of you have ever had. And you win. You're younger, you're hornier, and you're more determined.

As you feel your orgasm approaching you reach for the bucket beneath the couch and detach at the last moment to spill yourself into his bucket. You smirk at him as your satisfied bulge retreats. You've never seen Kankri so broken.

"Please," He whispers. "Please, Karkat, I need it."

There's a tightness in your throat, and you blame the recent loss of your virginity for the inexplicable pity you suddenly feel for this bulgesucker. You slide a hand down and massage his bulge while guiding it over the bucket. With a scream he comes. And comes. And comes. Your eyes don't know where to land as you watch him spasm over and over again. Fuck, and you'd thought you'd produced a lot. At this rate the bucket is going to overflow.

…That would be the sexiest thing you that might ever actually happen to you.

But it stops just a little short of that, and Kankri, beautiful Kankri, collapses back onto the floor. From where you tower above him you can see how debauched he is: genetic material clinging to his thighs and belly, bites and cuts and so much red. You did this. This was all by you. For you.

You capchalogue the bucket and lay down next to him, tracing his fresh wounds. Kankri shudders and turns towards you, swollen lips more red than black twitching into a smile.

"I loathe you," he whispers.

"I loathe you too," You reply.

The two of you kiss, deep but so gentle it's almost flushed.

You run your fingers through his hair as you pull apart to stare at each other. It crosses your mind that you want him to dominate you next time, but for now the bucket is full and you're both tired. You let yourself curl up to nap against him, and as you drift off you think you hear a voice between Kankri's and Signless's whisper, "Rest, my child, my darling, my one true hate."

But you probably are just imagining it.