Kanaya/Rose :: Spoonful of Descent
Title: Spoonful of Descent
Troll boys aren’t the only ones with bulges. Kanaya puts off having sex with Rose because she knows that human females are built differently and she’s worried that Rose will react poorly. But in the end, Rose is 0kay with having even more tentacles in her life.
Warnings: Ad-libbed alien biology, tentadick, awkward teenage lesbian interspecies exploratory sex.
I thought long and hard about putting this on tumblr, but after Jabberwock manned up about her most recent Dave/Tavros fill, I said what the hell and just did it. Who needs dignity and anonymity when you have potentially incriminating porn to post?
So glad I finally finished this, though. Hopefully I can start on the next parts within the week!
==>Kanaya: Be overwhelmed by self-consciousness.
At any other moment, you would scoff at the mere thought. Insecurities are not something you are well acquainted with, even concerning the Rose human (who you have taken to calling Rose in recent days, for reasons of convenience and affection alike, and Karkat will just have to accept that, thank you very much). This does not count your tendency to become excessively verbose in her presence — that, of course, is merely a result of having the opportunity to converse with someone who posseses a vocabulary as extensive of yours. Yes, this is surely the answer.
But, as appealing as dissecting the reasons behind your uncontrollable rambling around this particular human is, there are more pressing matters at hand, i.e. the fact that Rose has stopped kissing you and is staring down between your bare chests to where your bone bulge is making a rather embarassing first impression on her hip.
"What," she asks, slowly, the way she talks when she’s explaining Complex Time Shenanigans to John, "is that?"
In her face you read shock and a rare tinge of hesitance, but - you think… you hope - not disgust. And, since you are almost painfully close to unsheathing at this point, you swallow all your apprehension and move your hands to her hips, wishing you felt as steady as your grip.
"That would be my bone bulge," you tell her, your protein chute dry with anxiety as you wait for a response. Her eyes flick up to yours for a moment, long enough for you to catch that same hesitance, now overwhelmed by curiousity and, unless you are deluding yourself -which you fully admit is quite likely, especially in circumstances such as these- a most subtle hint of desire.
One of her hands slips from your shoulder, trailing down your shirt until her fingertips are hovering over the rise in the fabric of your skirt.
"May I?" she murmurs, and your blood pumper makes a dramatic leap up into your windhole. You can only nod, watching in a daze as she undoes the fastenings of your skirt. To Rose’s credit, she only pauses for a heartbeat before pulling the fabric apart. She stares, and you’re lost in the way she bites her lip; automatically you reach to touch her mouth, nudging gently until she opens it. With a little gasp, she comes back to herself, gaze lifting to yours.
"Kanaya," she says. You gape in response, hoping that you don’t look as dumbstruck as you feel. It doesn’t seem to matter; Rose has already gone back to staring at your bulge - except now she seems determined, something you think shouldn’t make you as hot as it does. She leans forward, shifts until she’s sitting between your legs, and rests her head on your shoulder, still poised to watch but more comfortable. You wonder if she’s steeling herself the way you are. Suddenly she reaches out with the hand not resting on your shoulder, and you inhale sharply, preparing for a rush of sensation that never comes.
Rose has faltered again, and though you almost want to scream with pent-up sexual frustration, you simply turn to kiss her forehead, letting a desperate breath slip out against her. She answers with a soft touch to the tip of your bulge; it’s sudden and electric and you shiver, hard, feeling the very tip of it unsheathe.
"Oh," Rose sighs, the sound hot on the skin of your chest, and that alone makes you extend further, a soft noise churring in the back of your throat as her hand becomes bolder, tracing up and down the length of the sheathe until you’re out fully. By then you’re a shuddering, clicking mess, grasping tight at her hips as she lets your bulge wind itself around her wrist, tip wriggling into the gaps between her fingers in a relentless bid for friction.
You open your eyes to find her flushed and staring, and only now does it occur to you that her skirt is still quite resolutely on, and her not-quite-bulge very much unattended to.
Saying her name in this state is a concerted effort; your tongue spends nearly half a minute on the r alone, rolling it in your mouth like one of John’s fruit-flavored hard candies, and by the time you get it out she’s already staring at you, eyes half-lidded but intense. The way her hand is still absently working your bulge makes it hard to concentrate, but you’re incapable of - and intensely opposed to - telling her to stop. Instead you put your own hands to good use, fumbling a few times with the zipper of her skirt before you’re able to pull it down.
You massacre her name again, as insistently as you can, and she smirks (though you must say that the effect is positively ruined by the slight panting cant to her breath) and shifts up onto her knees once again, slipping the skirt down her legs and off. The silky fabric slithers off the bed, hitting the floor in a whisper, and you’re left to stare at the absurd, completely flat front of her underwear. For the first time you get a taste of what Rose must’ve felt earlier: Confusion, curiosity, and the deep, delicious thrill of having no idea what you’re in for.
Hands trembling, you take her hips once more, distraced a moment by the smooth warmth of her thighs under your palms; she leans forward at your pull and you press your face into her stomach, breathing deep and letting the soft clean smell of her steady your mind even as it excites your bulge (which is writhing agitatedly against your leg quite like a petulant wriggler - you consider scolding it, then decide that that would be thoroughly silly and would definitely, as you’ve heard the humans say before, kill the mood).
You can feel the blood pulse under Rose’s skin, swift and soft and urging you on the way she would never. Her underwear slides easily down her thights when you pull at them, and she shifts again when they reach her knees, hooking a thumb into the band and tugging them down her calves and off.
With a final inhalation, you pull back, as prepared as you’ll ever be to find out what you’re dealing with.
Your first impression is that you’re looking at a nook.
Your second is that you are definitely not looking at a nook. With a cautious finger, you touch the front of … whatever it is, feeling along the strange blonde hairs there and down between Rose’s legs. Suddenly you feel slickness and heat, and above you she lets out a soft sigh, her hands tightening on your shoulders. A glance upwards lets you know to keep going, that you are most likely doing something right, for Rose is hunched over you, glassy-eyed and panting once more.
Most impossibly attractive.
The only problem is that you’re not quite sure where to go from here - there is slickness, yes, but it’s nothing like your own nook, and the last thing you want to do is hurt her in your ignorance. It doesn’t help that in the pit of your abdomen is a mess of pure want that makes it hard to be rational and deductive.
"Rose," you plead, staring up at her, your hands hovering awkwardly near her not-quite-nook. A little lucidity comes back into her eyes, and she reaches down to take one of your wrists, guiding it upwards.
"See," she breathes, voice tinged with a light hoarseness that makes you want to pail right then and there. "In." At her nudge, you slip a finger into her, watching as she chokes back a (hopefully) appreciative noise.
(And suddenly, her insistence that you clip your nails this afternoon makes perfect sense.)
It’s more nooklike than you first thought, slick and hot and contracting around your finger as you move it further inside her. It feels different though, somehow, in a way you can’t describe; until she presses close to you, burying her face in your hair and whispertelling you to add another finger, you don’t realize that the word you’re looking for is big.
Or, at least, bigger. You ease your fingers back into her, experimentally flexing them to find that yes, in fact, Rose’s nook is larger than the average troll’s. It occurs to you then that you could probably fit your entire bulge inside her, and a shiver races down your spine at the thought of being buried sheathe-deep in something that tight and warm.
You just hope she’ll let you.
You bend your knuckles and Rose gasps, grasping suddenly at your horns, her palms sweat-damp and desperate. You’re pretty sure you’re staining your favorite skirt green at this point but you can not even bring yourself to curse leaving it under you, not with Rose so undone around your fingers, not with the coiling heat in your gut. You want so badly now to give into the natural urge to pail, to make her pail, one hand digging too-tight into the swell of her hip as you shift your arm, moving faster into her.
God you think, her quiet gasps scorching through your think pan and leaving it incapable of stringing sentences together. One of Rose’s hands leaves your horns, straining instead down to your bone bulge. The pads of her fingers only barely brush the tip, coming away sticky and green, and with a half-swallowed groan of frustration Rose sits back on her heels; your hand is trapped beneath and inside her, twitching helplessly as she strokes your bone bulge, working the length.
She rolls her wrist, spreading her fingers to loop every last inch of your bulge around her digits; you jerk and dig deeper into her as she begins to squeeze, grip pulsing gently. Clumsily you kiss her, mouths open and mid-breath, tongues slipping sloppily together. A lip catches on your tooth, slicing it open just enough for a trickle of blood to slide down her chin, lurid red and beckoning. You lean in to lick it off, dragging the tip of your tongue over the small gash and relishing Rose’s sharp shudder.
Suddenly a pang hits you deep in your core, and you realize that this is it, you absolutely need to pail now, your entire body aching for it. Still unable to say her name properly, you let go of her hip and reach blindly behind you for the bucket tucked between the pillows at the head of the bed. The look she gives you is searing, sending a jolt of arousal straight to your bulge, now clenching almost frantically around Rose’s wrist.
With some effort, you get the pail into position, cold metal pressed against your thighs. There’s still one more thing, though, one more maddening, entirely inconvenient thing: Rose still hasn’t triggered your pailing reflex. You’d be a little put out at the lack of attention given to your nook, were it not for the fact that your anatomy is, after all, completely novel to her, and that your bone bulge is very well taken care of.
You reach for one of the hands on your horns (for a moment it clenches tight and you gasp, back arching), pulling it down to your waist as gently as you can in this state; Rose still winces, grimace of pain disappearing as you murmur slurred apologies and slide your fingers deeper inside her. Only a part of you really feels bad - the other part is too busy pushing her hand between your legs. Her fingertips slide against the entrance to your nook and you jerk, biting down hard on your lip as the churring in the back of your throat deepens in your chest.
”God, Kanaya,” Rose moans, and the fact that she has joined you in stooping to such lowbrow dialogue spurs you on. You press harder at her wrist and she obeys, sliding a finger up into your nook and holding it there, her mouth slightly slack with surprise. It feels thick, incredible, the same slim digit that can wiggle through the gaps in your button-down shirts all but filling you up.
Your palms are slippery on her skin, slick with panic and want and you fight hard to form words, grasping at her sharp shoulderblades.
"Bend it," you manage, all your pride drained by the need to pail. You would beg if Rose asked you to, bent low to kiss the tops of her feet and writing whole epics on her grace and poise and ultimate superiority.
Thankfully, she doesn’t make you beg.
Instead, she crooks her finger, pressing (probably) by luck against the exact right spot, and it is no sort of exaggeration to say that you see the gaseous balls of fire and chemical reaction that Rose calls stars.
With a low purr throbbing deep in your chest, you feel the knot in your stomach come loose. You rock forwards, burying your face in Rose’s neck as the first trickle of genetic material hits the bottom of the bucket. Your bulge tenses around her hand in uneven pulses as a second wave hits you hard. Rose gasps quietly as the pail’s bottom is coated with slick green fluid; the hand in your nook falls still.
For a moment the loss of sensation is dizzying, dismaying. You jump, keening loudly, as she presses her hips forward into the bucket, steadying it between your bodies. Rose breathes out against your hair, and you can’t bite back your chirp of surprise as she works another finger into your nook.
The stretch is edging on painful, but apparently a little pain is a thing you quite possibly enjoy, in immediate and gratifying manners. You let go of her wrist, clenching your fingers instead in the green-damp fabric of your skirt as fire licks through your lower half, pouring out the tip of your bulge in slick spurts until the bucket is nearly half-full and you are drained, dizzy.
The last few drips trail down Rose’s wrist as she spreads her fingers, your bulge unwinding its tight hold on her and sliding back into its sheathe. Almost immediately, almost hurriedly, Rose reaches down between your legs and moves the bucket, the material inside sloshing dangerously high as she plunks it down on the small table beside the bed.
You watch her, your mind in a thick, post-pailing haze, and in a second she’s back in your lap, pressing hard against you. As your think pan is positively (and possibly irreversibly) empty, all you can do is yield to her force, opening your mouth to let her devour your lips. Her hand scrambles for yours, pressing it back between her legs, and some semblance of thought begins to form: She wants to pail. She needs to pail, more likely.
Does she pail?
Curiosity building, you slide your fingers inside her once more, hesitating only a moment before adding a third, for good measure.
She shudders and groans, long and low, against your lips, her body moving in rhythmic grinds on your hand.
"Right there," Rose murmurs, breathless after an experimental crook of your fingers finds what is probably her internal release gauge - what is hopefully her internal release gauge, because if not you are utterly and completely lost and will probably fail to make her pail properly.
Since you do not believe you could bear the embarrassment of failing in your duties as a matesprit, you press up against the front wall of her nook once again, sighing in relief and awe as her back arches, her fingernails raking through your hair as she tries to smother another soft noise. She touches the bases of your horns, and even in your drained state, the sensation still sends a reflexive shiver through you.
Rose’s face is hot and flushed and you drag your lips over her cheek, kissing soft at her jaw as she tenses around your fingers, clutches at the length of your horns.
”Harder,” she begs you in between heavy, shaking breaths, pulse jumping in her throat and under her skin as you kiss her, complying - and draw back in alarm as her entire body goes rigid against you. Then, with a low groan, Rose relaxes, falling limp against your chest with her arms draped over your shoulder.
Wait, what? Did you miss something?
Rose, for all intents and purposes, looks utterly drained and satisfied, despite the lack of fluid expelled. A quick glance downwards confirms your suspicions - where there ought to be a slick, sticky mess of her genetic material, there is only the drying remains ofyours. Your hand as well is only barely wet, a puzzling, disconcerting observation.
Oblivious, your matesprit hums quietly against your clavicle, pounding heartbeat slowly winding down to its odd (but apparently normal, for her at least) two-step rhythm.
This is surreal.
You didn’t even have time to ask if she needed the pail.
She’s quiet against you now, breathing slowly with a small, rare smile on her face. You’re loathe to disturb her, but your curiosity simply will not allow you to leave it at that.
"Rose," you ask quietly, giving her a gentle nudge between the shoulderblades.
"…Is that all?"
She cracks an eye open, giving you that look she does when she’s not sure if you’re attempting human sarcasm or not. Whichever she decides it is, she apparently doesn’t care.
"Hush, Kanaya," she orders, stroking an affectionate thumb down the side of your chest. "We can’t all be veritable reservoirs."
You hush, and place your hand over hers, feeling both a faint stickiness on her skin and an overwhelming feeling of self-satisfaction.
Maybe next time, you think, you can actually use your bulge properly.
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