Posted originally on the Archive_of_Our_Own at https://archiveofourown.org/
works/983744.
  Rating:
      Explicit
  Archive Warning:
      Underage
  Category:
      F/F
  Fandom:
      Homestuck
  Relationship:
      Rose_Lalonde/Kanaya_Maryam
  Character:
      Rose_Lalonde, Kanaya_Maryam
  Additional Tags:
      Meteor, Xeno, Unfortunate_Biological_Realities
  Stats:
      Published: 2013-09-28 Words: 3047
****** An Imposed Distance ******
by meatsuit
Summary
     After a messy first time, Kanaya discovers Rose is allergic to her
     genetic fluid.
Notes
See the end of the work for notes
The first time she sees your bulge she compares it to a trackball on a mouse.
“Urgh,” you say, fighting the urge to slam your legs closed out of
embarrassment. “That's a hackneyed thing to say.”
Rose is purposefully nonchalant, lying horizontal on the bed-sized velvet
pillow she alchemized especially for the occasion, her head propped up on her
elbow.
“Why that particular critique?” she asks. Rose's proud lavender gaze gives her
the air of an empress in the midst of conquering vast territories of prostrate
would-be devotees. She smiles and bites her lower lip at the way you squirm
when her fingers begin to explore you.
“Ah,” you gasp. “Um. Comparing shame globes to-” she's started to circle the
base of your bulge in slow, maddening strokes and it's hard to breathe, much
less talk- “to- to, um. Those outdated cursor manipulation devices. On Alternia
the joke had been-” you try to stifle your moan, but it raises a few octaves
instead- “repeated incessantly.”
She shrugs, removing her hand from between your legs to gesture with it as she
talks. Oh, fuck.
“I apologize for blindly appropriating the traditional genital aphorisms of
your people. Perhaps I should have voiced my initial impression, instead: your
junk is also not unlike an oversized clitoris.”
You make a noise somewhere between a laugh and a wimper, confused, and try to
grab her hand so you can shove it back where you're aching for her the most.
“What's a clitoris?”
“Exactly,” she deadpans. You don't have enough time to parse whatever the hell
she meant before she takes pity on you. Rose shifts upright, scoots closer, and
starts massaging your globe again. This time she's more sure, all of her
fingers stroking clockwise in firm, fluid movements.
Between your quickening breaths you warn her that there will be a mess, and in
the interest of keeping your new bed pristine, inform her repeatedly that your
bucket is right on the floor next to you. Rose, giddy at the sight of your now
trembling body, only laughs and kisses your hip.
“Loosen up, Kanaya, you're doing fine,” she murmurs, consoling. She slides her
other hand up to your waist and grins like she knows something you don't.
“Relax. And kindly shut up.”
You take pleasure in obeying her. It takes about a minute, but once the tension
in your muscles dissolves you are overpowered by the divine pressure of Rose's
fingers. Your focus quickly escalates into a thrilling obsession. You close
your eyes to better feel her, and your moans edge deeper and longer as you
start lifting your hips into her hand, eager for more.
Genetic material lubricates the opening of your nook, getting thicker with each
swirl of her fingers. Rose notices the moisture sticking to her palm and swipes
her fingertips lightly over your opening, smearing the wetness upwards. She
presses into your slick globe once more, faster this time, and you can hear her
increasingly ragged breathing syncopated alongside your own gasps.
“Rose,” you breathe, your throat drawing out the vowel against your will.
She whispers, “Kanaya,” then, “Oh, God,” as if she's the helpless one, as if
she's the one lying on her back.
You prop yourself up on your elbows, anxious to see her. She blinks hard
against the shifting glare of your light: once, twice, tearing her gaze away
from your body. She was staring at you, observing the way your muscles are
shaking, the way you're straining your hips into her with each sweep of her
fingers.
Her face betrays her fraying control. Rose looks into your eyes, now, her own
half-lidded, her cheeks flushed pink underneath them. Her mouth hangs open, and
after she swallows it goes slack again. She's forgotten all pretense of
confidence. She looks so beautiful. Perfect, even like this, and you reach out
to her, pressing your fingers to her cheek.
“Um,” she says. She's staggering onto her knees, bending her body towards you.
You spread your legs wider, thinking she wants to kneel in the space between
them, but she takes her hand off your bulge to pull one of your thighs closer.
Why isn't Rose communicating what she wants? You manage to gasp, “What,” but it
doesn't sound like a question, or much of a word.
After a troubled pause she positions herself over your hips, a knee on either
side. Her naked body towers over yours, her face hardening with determination
as she reaches one of her hands down toward the gash between her legs. When you
both undressed not long ago you were too self-conscious to ask her about it,
and you're beginning to regret it.
She hastily spreads the lips apart with her jade-stained fingers and you note
with some surprise that the inside is pink. It's all very strange and obscene,
the way her coarse hair obscures this rosy valley of draping, delicate skin.
You want to map this unknown landscape with your fingers, or perhaps explore
her with your tongue; you briefly think of surging forward and pinning her
underneath you to accomplish this desire.
But Rose only allows you a short, unsatisfying glimpse before she lowers
herself onto you and grips your waist. You suck in a breath at how soft and
warm and wet Rose feels against your bulge. Of course she's wet, and of course
her genetic material is clear. Why did you expect anything else?
“I need you, Kanaya,” she moans, and rocks forward. “I need this.”
Her uncensored expression, wide-eyed and slack-jawed and blushing, is a tacit
addendum: “I don't know what I'm doing.”
You don't, either. If her weight on your globe wasn't generating such
overwhelming heat, you could articulate that to her. Instead, you whimper
something resembling her name and place both hands on her hips, digging your
nails into the flesh there.
She grinds into you again, breathing hard, beginning a tentative rhythm. The
both of you are getting slicker. Her sensitive pink skin is smooth, almost flat
as it slides against your bulge, and the way her thick outer folds are teasing
the base of your globe is driving you crazy. You never want her to stop. If she
stopped you would again be bereft of an important thing you had lost when she
first touched you, something she alone can return to you. You're nothing but a
hollow shell, and Rose is all substance.
“Kanaya,” she keens, louder this time. She's more confident, rocking faster and
holding your gaze.
You suspect saying your name brings her pleasure. Even in the most mundane and
sexless of circumstances she overuses it: “Kanaya, you alchemize a perfect
grubloaf,” (but how would she know), “Kanaya, I'm bored. What do you want to
do, Kanaya?,” “Kanaya, you're the most effective book light I've ever
encountered.”
Now, “Kanaya,” between harried gasps, senselessly repeated as if your name is
all she knows. It makes a thrill smash through you. You moan and guide her hips
into you with accelerating urgency. You remember Rose likes it when you touch
her breasts, so you lift your hand to tease her nipple with your thumb.
She looks lost again, wild. Her back stiffens and she lets out a cry on the
last syllable of your name. The fluid movements of her hips shorten to staccato
thrusts, and her hands are suddenly everywhere, groping your shoulders, your
breasts, your stomach. It's a futile effort to keep herself steady. You let her
ride it out, hauling yourself up to rub a comforting hand over her back as she
orgasms.
Rose, upon winding down, climbs off of your hips and flops down beside you. Her
cheeks are flooding with the brightest shade of red you've ever seen her flush,
and she's smiling at you as if she's in a haze. Though you made sure she didn't
drink a drop of human soporifics this evening her demeanor strongly resembles
that giddy, lazy complaisance she adopts when intoxicated. You experience an
acute rush of pleasure knowing that she brought herself to this state as she
called your name and clung to you.
Despite her exhaustion she manages to press her lips to yours with enough
passion to remind you how much genetic material has built up inside you. Your
interior fluid sack is burdened enough to press against the wall of of your
nook. You need to pail so badly it's getting painful.
“My bucket,” you say, breaking the kiss. You expect Rose will be too lethargic
to assist you so you abandon her to scramble to the side of the pillow where
you stashed it.
Rose's voice sounds husky when she drawls, “I'm sure it's safe.”
That isn't helping! You're having too much trouble positioning yourself over
the bucket properly to answer her. You fumble with the rim, slide down to the
floor, and try to ignore how cold the tile is as you frantically arrange and
rearrange your gawky legs.
“Oh,” she says.
Seconds later, you're on your knees, having wrangled the bucket between your
thighs. Rose comes behind you, apparently not minding the distance you put
between yourself and the bed to keep the fabric from staining. She wraps her
arms around your waist.
She says, “I want to help,” rubbing her palm over your inner thigh. Her breath
is tickling your ear.
“Is this all right, Kanaya?”
Is she stalling on purpose?
“Yes,” you beg. “Please!”
You know Rose has been snooping around your embarrassing novel collection, so
you expect she already understands how pailing works. You don't expect Rose to
shove two whole fingers into your nook. This would have hurt if you weren't so
wet; you've never been able to fit more than one digit inside yourself. Shame
heats your cheeks at how good this feels: usually only a kismesis would try to
push their partner's anatomy to its limits like this. That cultural detail must
have evaded Rose in her otherwise thorough perusal of dubious Alternian
erotica.
Your skin strains around her knuckles, refusing to stretch, and a burning
pleasure floods through your nook. The rim of the bucket bites into your palm
as you tighten your grip, afraid you'll topple over. When your thighs begin to
shake Rose squeezes your waist with her free arm. She breathes with you for a
second, resting her forehead at the base of your neck. She lets you get used to
the girth of her fingers, waiting as you huff and swallow and try to relax your
muscles.
She starts to move, and a low chur rumbles from your windpipe at the feel of
her tight inside you, her nails scraping against the walls of your nook, her
thumb grinding against your bulge. Your sack is so desperately full.
“Rose,” you pant, struggling. “Deeper. Please.”
On the next thrust she manages to push her fingers where they need to go.
Something inside you shifts, and you can feel your sack beginning its slow
release of genetic material. Rose realizes you're pailing too late, and you can
feel the fluid urging to escape past her hand.
She rushes to yank her fingers out of you. The sudden emptiness is a shock, but
the first warm spurt of genetic material splashing into the bucket is a welcome
release. Low, desperate cries throb from your throat as waves of liquid surge
out of your nook. Some of it doesn't make it to the bucket at all, flowing down
the back of your thighs and pooling on the tile where you and your matesprit
are kneeling.
When the last of it drips into the pail Rose supports your weight and you
listen to your own shallow breathing, the rapid beating of your heart.
She says, “Are you all right, Kanaya?” and reaches a hand around to pull the
bucket away.
It's a sluggish effort, turning to face her, but you manage it. There's jade
everywhere. It's making your legs slide together, and you're not too keen on
spreading it around. Reluctant to get too close to Rose, you gingerly touch her
knees.
“I'm fine. Well. Immensely satisfied,” you rasp. Rose's concern softens into
the sweetest smile.
“Come on,” she says, and helps you up. She leads you back to the oversized
pillow, reassuring you that there's always enough grist to alchemize a new one
if it's irreparably stained. You're too tired to protest. You let her guide you
down, and as she wraps her arm around you, you realize you don't actually care
if more genetic material gets smeared onto Rose's skin. You look good on her.
Rose has filled you and emptied you; now she holds you close. A sweet alien
scent mingles with the familiar musk of your genetic material. She tangles her
legs with yours, even though they're sticky, and beams at you: proud, loving.
She brushes fingers still wet from your pailing over your jaw, then over your
lips, spreading jade onto you, kissing you. You raise an eyebrow.
“Are you sure you don't care about the mess?”
You hope she got the sarcasm. Rose just laughs and kisses you again.
---------------------
You jolt awake in utter darkness, instinctively groping for Rose. She's gone,
probably using the load gaper. The velvet is still warm from Rose's body heat
and you lazily run your hand over the fabric, missing the sound of her
breathing. You wonder how long it's been since you dozed off.
Seized by a sudden bout of restlessness, you allow yourself to fill the room
with light. You're filled with belated regret: the genetic material looks ugly
smeared on your skin, spotted on the pillow, streaked onto the floor. It's
dried on your legs, tight and uncomfortable, and you unstick them, grimacing.
No wonder Rose left: she wanted to bathe. You wonder why she didn't invite you.
You tentatively cover yourself with a towel, making your way through the halls
to the nearest ablution block. You think you hear something as you're stepping
off the transportalizer, and once the mechanical ringing fades you're
absolutely sure. The tile walls that surround the nearest ablution trap are
amplifying muffled whimpers, high-pitched over the thundering of running water.
“Hello,” you call, hovering near the open doorway. “Rose?”
The whimpering suddenly stops.
“Kanaya?”
It is Rose. You rush into the block, wondering what is wrong, and Rose reacts
to your entrance with extreme, unusual anxiety. She's clean, and so is the
water filling the trap, but her skin is inflamed with rashes. She twists away
from you, as if to hide it, but it's difficult to obscure how much of her body
is tinged bright purple.
A sympathetic moan escapes from your throat as you rush to her side. Her legs
are particularly bad, her dark skin marred with huge, splotchy patches of
color. Both of her hands are streaked with purple, but there's almost no trace
of her correct skin tone on her right hand. Even her lip is swelling. She's got
her legs splayed open and you realize, with horror, that her genitals are
likely in a lot of pain, too.
Distress pulses from her throat as she speaks, making her tone waver
dangerously. “I think I'm allergic to your genetic material,” she says, smiling
ineffectually, and you notice she's crying. She starts rubbing her legs in
frantic, imprecise movements.
You feel a sharp pang of shame. You wish you could touch her, but your hands
are still stained with jade.
“Oh, Rose. I'm sorry.”
She shrugs, trying to keep her breathing even as she uses her hands to gather
water, repeatedly pouring it over herself.
“I never reacted to your skin or saliva. It was natural to assume your other
body fluids would behave the same way.”
“That's a very reasonable way of looking at it,” you say. She sniffs, then
laughs. It's an unnerving reaction, given her transparent pain. “But this is my
fault. I forgot about the poison.”
She's trying to wring the purple off of her hands, now, and turns her head to
stare at you. “What?”
You are uncertain about how to best respond; you tentatively decide upon a
historical approach.
“Proto-trolls, being primitive, had no protocol whatsoever and therefore no
mass-regulated collection system. Each concupiscent pair would fill hand-made
bowls of leaves and mud.”
You run your hand along the rim of the trap, rubbing at the dried genetic
material there. You're aware that this explanation is already too lengthy for
an itchy Rose, who's begun rocking back and forth as she massages her legs
again. You wish you could do something, other than telling her unpleasant
things.
“Of course, the pair's subsequent migration to the mother grub would be
punctuated by many obstacles. Various mammalian beasts would try to consume the
slurry. It would have proven a fragrant, protein-packed snack.”
She laughs. “I suppose I must search elsewhere for an adequate protein source,
then, if a less fragrant one,” she says, sounding less agitated. If you weren't
swelling with pity for her now you would think the comment condescending.
“Proto-trolls were therefore encouraged to develop poisons that would
discourage hoofbeasts and the like from eating their genetic material,” you
continue. “These toxins remain even as civilized collection protocol has
rendered them obsolete. I incorrectly assumed you would be immune to them.”
You look at Rose again. She's frowning. “It didn't occur to you that it might
hurt me?”
“Of course not. You're not an animal.”
Quiet, Rose turns off the faucet, then leans back to submerge herself in the
water. It's hard to gauge her reaction. Her furrowed brow could signify
offense, but it's likely just a symptom of her discomfort. She spreads her legs
as far as they can go and scratches at her swollen lip. You feel very guilty.
“I'm going to the trap next door to clean myself up,” you say, standing.“I'll
do it quickly, because I want to clean our mess and make you a comfortable pile
once you're finished bathing. Okay?”
She nods. “Thank you.”
There's an adjacent stall containing another ablution trap, and as you hang
your towel over the wall you hear Rose's voice echoing off the tile.
“I did enjoy our evening, Kanaya,” she says. “I don't regret a thing.”
You wish you felt the same way.
End Notes
     This old(ish?) fic was inspired by a_kink_meme_prompt. Might as well
     post it here! Why not, in this relative Rosemary drought.
     Unfortunately I never quite reached the meat of the plot before I
     became preoccupied with my thesis, but I may continue this story some
     day.
     Constructive criticism is always appreciated, but praise shall be
     graciously accepted.
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