Day two, you're knee deep in crouton o' Christ, helping your brother close up the barrels from this evening's holy communion. The kitchen in the church remains empty as campers scramble from mass to mess hall for supper. Kankri has been falling all over himself for the past fifteen minutes and you're starting to wonder if this is what they call a religious experience.

"I noticed you chose not to partake in the body of rice," Kankri says with a completely straight face, full condescension. He wags his fingers and tilts the basket, hundreds of christ crackers slipping to break away on the tiled floor. It's about right here that you realize he's drunk.

"Wait a second," you say cautiously. Suddenly the air reeks of old fruit. "Have you been guzzling this shit for every fucking mass? Save some for the goddamn people," you say, and make a grab for the pitcher.

"I only supervise six," Kankri reassures you. "And of course this isn't real wine," he says with a wink. At this point you can't be sure he isn't kidding. "We should partake in the Lord's sacrifice," Kankri implores you. He struggles to retrieve the unbroken wafers from the floor and stuff his face.

This is somehow, impossibly weirder than you expected. "Cut that shit out. You're like mom with the fucking paella!"

Kankri licks the last of the wine out of the bottom of a tiny paper cup. The way it's making you feel inside can't be on purpose. Meenah can't be right. Your brother wouldn't even agree to watch Passion of The Christ with you on Halloween as a compromise. He insists the entire move is an offensive farce to anyone with a personal connection to Jesus and the Holy Bible. There's no way in hell he's nursing a cockrock for you. In fact, you're certain he doesn't even have genitalia. He's flat like a Ken doll or a fucking CareBear. You've never seen nor heard of a single exploit or girlfriend.

"I'm married to the Lord," he tells you. Three shots later when his face is pink he admits, "But the lord doesn't put out."

His own defeated laughter leaves an eerie ring in your ears. "Pass me a little more of that Lord," you tell him, so you don't have to register the way your palms are sweating. You still haven't stopped talking about paella. You're blaming everything on the wine.

"Okay, so mom sets the bowl in front of you-the yellow rice unappealing in every possible way, but it creates a smell so attractive you have to at least try it. Slowly, you pick up your fork and grab a reasonable sized bite. 'Go on honey, eat,' Mom is really pushing you to take the bite. You nervously take the rice into your mouth and chew. 'Do you like it, honey?' Swallowing, you answer with a quiet yes, making mother smile, but in your head you're thinking, get this fucking crap out of my mouth oh my god can I just have a fucking sandwich?"

Kankri turns to you like the memory has struck a chord. "Remember when you used to sit in my lap during confessional?" He says with the syllables all running together.

"Remember when you fantasized about me sitting in your lap during confessional?" You grimace. "Like that ever happened."

"Maybe not," Kankri relents. "But there's a first time for everything."

It turns out the whole thing isn't just a thinly veiled metaphor for sex. Kankri doesn't grind on you or get hard, he just holds you in his lap and whispers in your ear. You should probably stop him but unfortunately this is the closest you've come to human contact since you fell asleep on your wrist and it felt like someone else when you jerked off after.

Then he actually tells you, ghosting his breath across your neck in a hush. "Confess."

The urge to give in hits you like the first time you listened to a My Chemical Romance album: right in your feelings. The implicit secrecy of the act shakes you. Shame sucks up your soul and climbs your throat until you're spilling your sad guts into the crook of your older brother's shoulder. This is what you get for being second-born, you guess. The shit end of the shit stick.

"I'm a raging faggot," you admit. "A fucking dick connoisseur. Up my tailpipe, down the hatch. Fuck it. Time to fulfill my gay destiny."

He rewards you with a hand at the front of your pants. Something about how fucked up this is means you've been hard since you accidentally tipped a quarter pitcher of wine off the table. You reach toward Kankri to return the favor but he closes his fingers around your wrist and tugs your palm until it touches the cold linoleum floor.

"Ah, ah," he says, almost as if he were correcting a toddler. "I don't share your shame baby brother, but I can help you fix it." That's the most asinine bass-ackwards religious diatribe you've ever heard, but right now with your dick flushed, you'll buy it.

"I don't share your denial," you spit. "And you don't see me bragging about it." It's not entirely true, but it's the only thing close to control within your reach. Kankri lets his eyelashes flutter closed as his hand comes to a halt behind the waistband of your pants. "But fine. I'll be the Abel to your Cain." You take a deep breath. "Show me the path to light, motherfucker."

There's no way he practices abstinence with the way he's cranking your dick. This is no tube twist of a novice. Your fingers fly to his shoulders to brace yourself and your hips jerk forward. His grip around your cock is loose, holding his hand still so you have to work to reach any kind of rhythm.

"How many hail marys do you owe for your sins, child?" You wish the religious theatrics would kill your boner but much to your shame you stiffen further.

You struggle to formulate a response without losing your pace. "Like I can keep track. Isn't that your fucking job?"

Kankri closes his fist suddenly and tightly at the base of your dick. "Language," he reminds you. Your toes curl and you suck in a breath.

There is still no sign of an active dick beneath you. Are you relieved or disappointed? You grind your ass down and a hand stills you at your waist. Kankri uses the other to finally offer you some friction. When his thumb teases back your foreskin and presses against the slit of your cock your legs tighten reflexively. Is he actually going to catch your load in his hand like a softball?

"I can't let you climax if you don't deserve it," Kankri tells you plainly.

What the fuck happened to your christianity spouting, god sucking, saint of a bible thumping brother? He slows the pace as your hips struggle for more contact. Do you really deserve to cum anyway? You should probably be more ashamed of yourself for finally crossing the line between fantasy and literally plunging headfirst into hellfire, but something about bringing his sorry ass with you is making your dick throb.

Kankri pulls the foreskin over your cock. You're aching to bust a nut already. Whatever humiliation and degradation Kankri is requesting suddenly seems worth it. You press yourself against his chest, cock rigid at his lower belly. "I'll let you know when to stop," he tells you.

The guilt is skyrocketing your arousal level. "Forgive me father," you manage through clenched teeth. "For I have sinned." You're trying to think of it as a kinky roleplay, but it's not helping. "Hail Mary, Mother of God," you recite on autopilot, almost eager. Contrary to his earlier argument, this isn't his first time in the proverbial confessional booth.

"Hail Mary, Mother of God," you repeat, finding cadence in the words with each downstroke.

The prayer is distracting, something to keep you from thinking about how you can't even make your brother hard. Are you that fucking unattractive? So disgusting that even your own brother can't be bothered to notice the similarities between your more salvageable features. The acne has cleared significantly since eighth grade but your stumpy height isn't doing you any favors. The two of you are similar enough that you can see where God went wrong in his divine creation. Tears well in your eyes and your dick pulses, muscles coiled like a wound jack in the box.

Kankri pumps your dick fast and nuzzles the skin on your neck. "Karkat, Karkat," he says gently. He pets your hair. "All is forgiven."

The minimal affection sends you shooting spunk into the fabric of your jeans. You muffle a cry against your brother's shoulder and the familiar smell of his fabric softener sticks in your nostrils. Kankri retracts his hand before your semen ever reaches his skin.

Afterward, you vomit up two weeks worth of communion into the wastebasket.