She’s asleep. Of course she’s asleep, if you’re awake. It just feels strange – it always does – to allow yourself this debauchery when she’s still just metres away from you, if that. You can’t stop your eyes from flickering towards her, almost terrified that she’ll wake up and see this display. You are not terrified though, of course. You are many things, but you are never terrified. You are proud and strong and one day her blood will stain your claws. You will not hesitate, not for a second.
However that is neither here nor there. Your claws are spotless and they catch the button of your suit trousers as quietly as possible, as if the noise of it could invade her dreams and rouse her. Your palms are rough and dry and you absently tug at a loose scale next to your thumb until it falls to the ground. The colour has never truly disturbed you – though you know you are ugly. You are, in fact, utterly hideous. However you have no need for anything but a caliginous quadrant and you refuse to indulge in the fantasies of anything more flushed or brazenly depraved, not like your sister does. You simply refuse. Well, you refuse to do it again.
Except... Except you do have those drawings, the smut that you commanded your fleshy inferior to draw for you. They’re saved – in the same folder as the pesterlogs you have with him. The defiance he showed you while still submitting to your most lewd demands. The disgusting, boundless lengths of his perverted mind. The creative endeavours he showed you, sent to you...
She is asleep, after all.
It couldn’t hurt too much. Just this once.
(Just one more time)
Your clicks down on the mouse, password quickly clattered onto the keyboard, and the files open.
Those blushing cheeks, that ecstasy that floods through her tiny, artificial, drawn veins... You do not empathise or sympathise with this fake Crocker girl one bit. You could never desire to be her, not one inch of her artificial skin. The Dirk human’s lips are upon her cheek, puckered, their hands by their sides. After all, you are perusing the edited version without the bizarre human breast-cupping ritual that, honestly, does nothing for you whatsoever. It’s as if they dare not to touch, to show their love. Their deeply, madly flushing love for one another.
You know you should stop already before this gets too much – before it really begins. Your claw taps onto the right arrow and you are taken to the next picture saved in your file. It is the same image, but with her words, bright blue and heartfelt over them. A genuine expression of romanticism that you know will never be extended to you.
For a brief moment, your cardiovascular muscles clench deep in your torso cavity, protected by bones and layers of skin and scales and your hideous outward appearance.
(You can do little else but ignore it)
You tap on the right arrow again and try to pretend that your other hand is not creeping inside your underwear. You flash your sister another nervous glance, but she sleeps fast. Oblivious. Although her fantasies are ultimately depraved and sickening, you believe they are of a mostly more innocent quality. A harmless game of pretend. She at least does not do this to herself, you are almost sure of that. You are alone in your debauchery.
It is the close-up picture next. Pixels glare awkwardly against the screen, but it is still refreshing to see artistic endeavours other than your own. You can never quite capture how perfectly wrong this all is with your own talent, not like Dirk can.
Dirk, with his puckered lips and soft, sweet kisses and she is darling to him. You know he only wrote that because you prompted him, but you still imagine him conjuring those words himself. Conjuring them for you. Perhaps he even gives you roses, or cups your face, strokes the (scaled, rough, unlovable) skin of your (protruding, swirled, ugly) cheek. He looks in your eyes, his own hidden behind meddlesome shades, and tells you that you are darling to him.
You can’t help it now. Your fingers are curled around yourself and for all your terrified glances towards your sister, you have no wish to stop. You skip forward another few pictures, stopping at the... the hug. The embrace between the humans Roxy and Jake. You talk to them rarely, much more rarely than Dirk. He is, you have to admit, your favourite. He complies with your depraved desires and he does it willingly. You like to imagine that he would perhaps do this in person, should you ever meet him. You know that is only fantasy, but still...
Perhaps he would stroke over your scales, and tell you he is not disgusted. Tell you that... You are beautiful, darling to him. That he does not fear you, but that he wants you. He wants your soul, your rapidly beating human metaphor for a cardiovascular system.
He wants you, entire, every inch of your hideous carcass. Perhaps he would even embrace you.
(You can only speculate what that sensation would feel like, and you will speculate on it for a while yet)
You’re close and you can’t even bring yourself to care. In your mind, the Dirk human kisses your monstrous cheek, your forehead, your eyelashes. He holds you close and breathes your scent in. You shudder as you imagine what he would smell like, what he would feel like against you. How it would feel to be in his arms.
When you click next, the simulated Jake’s words are that he loves her, and you have to choke back a guttural moan. You imagine Dirk saying that to you. Saying he loves you. Saying it over and over again. You pretend he loves you with every fast, pumping stroke. When you come, it almost surprises you – but not as much as the fluid leaking from your eyes.
She is still asleep. You clean up and close every window with shame thumping against your ribcage. She will never know. Nor will he, not ever.
You detest yourself.