It just figures that when Karkat finally finds that special someone he hates more than he hates himself, that person turns out to be the guy who's essentially his clone, but fifty million times more annoying.

It was so much easier to be celibate when you were dead.

Show of hands, who didn’t read it as a porn prompt? anyone? anyone? bueller? Contains sort-of-public sex, oral and penetrative sex, some slurry retention.

He sits back, deliberately putting distance between you despite the part of your brain that wishes he wouldn't. "Okay. Freakout over? Good. Now how about some small words and short sentences to work out exactly what the fuck is wrong with you." You sniffle. "Yes. Good. Opening a constructive dialogue in order to put the oppressive apparatus into language so it can be engaged—" "Less theory, more practice," Karkat says.

He pushes off the bed in one smooth motion, and your bloodpusher skips a beat as he takes a step towards you. “Really.” “If, if you’re trying to imply anything lewd—” “Lewd? Seriously? You sound like Zahhak.” Another step. Your voice is too shrill when you ask, “But are you?” He braces one hand against the wall over your shoulder, tilts his head to the side, and smirks in that infuriating, awful way. “What do you think?”