Posted originally on the Archive_of_Our_Own at https://archiveofourown.org/
works/3465902.
  Rating:
      Explicit
  Archive Warning:
      Underage
  Category:
      F/M, M/M
  Fandom:
      Homestuck
  Relationship:
      Rufioh_Nitram/Kankri_Vantas, Cronus_Ampora/Kankri_Vantas, background
      damara_megido/rufioh_nitram, background_rufioh_nitram/horuss_zahhak
  Character:
      Kankri_Vantas, Rufioh_Nitram, Cronus_Ampora, Latula_Pyrope_(Mentioned),
      horrus_zahhak_(mentioned), Damara_Megido_(mentioned), Porrim_Maryam_
      (Mentioned), Karkat_Vantas_(Mentioned)
  Additional Tags:
      based_off_of_some_really_obscure_headcanons, Dubious_Consent, Emotional
      Manipulation, brief_medical_setting, Implied/Referenced_Cheating, Self-
      Loathing, implied_asexuality, (it's_really_subtle_though), (sorry_if_i
      couldn't_do_it_a_justice), some_pretty_warped_morals, but_mostly_as_a
      result_of_a_turbulent_upbringing
  Stats:
      Published: 2015-03-02 Words: 2673
****** The Exceptions to a Relative Celibacy ******
by SolivagantSleepyhead
Summary
     Time and time again, you tell yourself: This is the last time.
     That doesn't make it any more true than it was before.
     Because, when you wake up, wrapped in the arms of someone you could
     never bring yourself to love,
     The feeling of the emptiness inside you grows, voracious and wanting.
     And you know that it's only a matter of time until you fall right
     back into the trap that circumstance set for you,
     The one you never intended to become so deeply entrenched in.
     -------
     Really just a vent fic based off of some Kankri headcanons I've held
     for a while. I'm, like, /moderately/ sorry.
Notes
     based largely off of the whole latent Beforan corruption headcanons,
     as well as the famous "relative celibacy" (chastity??? im too lazy to
     look it up rn) quote. in case you're wondering, the first guy kankri
     sleeps with is about 7-8 sweeps (16 or 17, give or take), and kankri
     was about 11-12 (human years) at the time. his unofficial name is
     Everst and he's a mutated green blood. okay? okay.
See the end of the work for more notes
The earliest recollection you have of being alive is bathed in blinding white.
Even innumerable sweeps afterwards, the heavy, oppressive smell of antiseptic
shrouding the building still hangs hazily in your senses, as if it were new.
You remember the hands touching your wriggler flesh, their cold fingers
prodding at you, their chastising tones admonishing you to stop squirming,
Kankri. We’re trying to help you.
You were 3, maybe 4 at the time—the time that you were forced to come to terms
with the fact that you were a mistake.
Until then, you’d just been different, and you had always known that. The fact
that you had no lusus was different. Your red blood (far too bright to mistake
as maroon) was different. The knowledge that your friends and neighbors were
growing every single day, growing more than you might ever—that, too, made you
different.
But, it was only then, in that cold, bright examination room, that you learned
that there were words to define trolls like you.
None of them were ever as kind as “different.”
It’s been about a billion sweeps since that first visit to the Correctional
Facility, not that time is even a remotely pertinent concept anymore. Even so,
the memories of your time there are as fresh in your mind as they ever were.
They linger like a washed-in stain on the very edge of your thoughts, dredging
back memories that bring bile to your throat. Like a predator, they hide,
latent; just waiting for the moment to strike and tear you asunder. They’re
near when Porrim insists that you were “lucky” to be “coddled” as you were, as
if she had an iota of understanding as to what it was like for you. They’re
near when your descendants arrive, and you can hear Aranea chatting excitedly
about how peaceful and benevolent Beforan life was, and all you want to do is
tear your hair out in barely-contained frustration. And, especially, they’re
there when your own descendant comes—seeks youout—and, just when you think
you’ve found the one person who might understand what it’s like, how it feels,
wholly and truly, you open your eyes to find that he’s gone.
And you’re as alone as ever.
…
Despite what your friends assume of you, the Correctional Facility left you
with probably the most comprehensive sexual education out of anyone you knew.
It was a necessity, after all—the empire couldn’t risk the propagation of a
shameful mutant lineage such as your own. By age 4, you knew the workings of
sex like the back of your hand, and, most of all, you knew that you were
expressly forbidden from ever engaging in it. Too risky,they’d said, and you
had believed them for a sweep or two.
Then, you’d met him.
He was a mutant, just like you. You met him in the purgatory-esque waiting room
before a monthly examination somewhere in your 5th sweep. Speaking to him was
like the first breath of air when you stepped from the humidity of the ablution
block after a scalding shower. Up until then, honesty was a rarity that you
were constantly deprived of. You almost felt guilty drinking it his every word,
because it felt like a privilege that you didn’t deserve to have—like a luxury
not meant for you.
He was older than you by a few sweeps, and his knowledge of the inner workings
of the system had you catching on his every word, enraptured. He was the one
who first told you what the doctors really thought you were: a disgrace. That
was the reason why they forced you to come here, fed you these lies. He taught
you that pailing wouldn’t hurt anything but the empire’s pride, and you can
still remember that swell of sudden indignation in your gut. That was the first
time you ever even thoughtto be angry with your situation. It hit you so
suddenly, the injustice of it all.
Before you knew it, you were at his hive. He undressed you and then himself and
you’d fucked, right then and there; entirely too fast and entirely too early.
That night stands as your ultimate regret. At the time, you’d thought it was a
great idea. You were so young, so impetuous. He had easily convinced you that
pailing was this grand gesture, like a gigantic “Fuck you!”to the very people
who had been oppressing you and lying to you since you were a child, and you’d
been so eager to do something for once—to be anything but a disgrace in someone
else’s eyes.
The emptiness that lingered after was like nothing you’ve ever experienced,
both in and after life. Every vacant second taunted you with memories, with
shame. You filled the silence with the sound of your own voice as best you
could. You learned to lecture, and it helped. Words became the wall that you
built around yourself. When you were speaking, nothing could hurt you; it was
light floating on a gentle breeze, and you almost didn’t mind it when people
stopped listening, anything not to feel the crushing pressure of your own
thoughts rushing inside you.
…
The destruction of your planet left you without a twinge of sadness. The others
were devastated; after all, the planet you lost was a prison, but the one they
lost was a home. You couldn’t comfort them, for you had never experienced a
loss in your life.
You could never lose what had never been yours to begin with.
Even with the near constant battle for survival, as well as the question of
whether or not success was an option, there remained a lot of free time to
spend with your group. It was then that you experienced your first (and last)
love.
Latula—even her name feels like poetry as it drops from your lips. Everything
about her was perfection to you. Her joie de vivre will forever be
unparalleled, especially considering the futility of the circumstances. All in
all, Latula was love, personified. You wanted for her like the void longs for
the caress of light. You, who had never had a gentle touch in his life, were
dying just for a moment of her tenderness.
But, of course, she loved another. You agonized over her for sweeps on end; the
one thing you wanted above all else, and you knew that you could never have
her.
The worst, however, was not your inevitable rejection, but the itch it left
inside you. It set alight that feeling that you had forgotten long ago, and
your thoughts were flooded with broken-ended recollections of calloused fingers
against your skin. For you, it had been about rebellion; but what about him?
Had hewanted you as much as you wanted her, or was it as simple as wanting to
get off with someone you knew had no reason to be repulsed with the mere fact
of your existence?
You began to comprehend what that emptiness you had felt then was.
…
Towards the end, right before the inevitability of death came to strike down to
lot of you, you began to notice Rufioh. Initially, you had been comforted by
the fact that (for once), you weren’t the only mutant—the only mistake.
However, you very quickly became aware of the fact that the others considered
him to be less of a mistake than you were. He tore down everything you had
understood as truth for so long—a mutant who was loved. And not just that, he
was loved despite the horrible things he did. Rufioh cheated on your friend,
dumped her like yesterday’s refuse, and left her to a group of people who
couldn’t even understand a word she said. The resentment you felt for him
wasn’t even intense enough to be mistaken for caliginous hate—you platonically,
completely, hatedRufioh Nitram and everything that made him better than you.
You can hardly remember when you started seeking him out, but you know that he
instantly allowed you to. That in itself was surprising; not only for the fact
that he was so loved, his time so desired, but considering the fact that you
were, decisively, not. Even so, he always seemed eager to make time for you.
You would meet together every few days and just sit out and talk, as if it were
the simplest thing in the world. It was almost like he wanted you there, and
the thrill of that—of being accepted—was a little overwhelming.
Of course, you didn’t love him, you could never. The sting from Latula was too
fresh in your heart, but fuck if he didn’t made it so hard for you to hate him.
Your relationship was fairly close, but in a secluded sort of way. There was an
unspoken agreement between you two: he couldn’t harm you in any way, and you
couldn’t question his actions. It was easy, clean, and the finality of it was
pretty comforting.
Of course, there was no way it wouldn’t blow up in your face.
The sound of a knock on your hive door one day had you pulling your exhausted
limbs from your recuperacoon to stumble clumsily down the hall. Still sopor-
blind and half-asleep, you nearly fall into his arms when you open the door to
an over-excited Rufioh. He’s speaking too fast for you to understand,
gesticulating wildly and helping walk you to the resting platform. A few key
words make it past your heavy haze of hypnagogia: Horuss, Damara, “Not working
out”… Basically, enough to have you wresting your eyes open to fix him with an
incredulous stare, him speaking all the while.
“What.” You state unintelligently, rubbing your eyes while he runs a hand
through his hair, his brows furrowing tightly.
“Kanny, I don’t think I can stay with Horuss anymore.” He says quickly, as if
the words physically pain him. “It was nice and all at first and shit, but….it
just doesn’t feel right, you get me?”
He looks at you, as if he’s trying to tell you something with his glance. Your
throat goes dry. You feel as though you’ve seen that expression before.
“What will you do?” You ask, forcing the words out past the tongue that
suddenly feels too big for your mouth. “There isn’t someone else, is there?”
But he doesn’t answer, save for that almost pleading look he’s giving you.
There’s this irregular pounding in your chest, like your heart is trying its
damndest to tear its path right out of your ribcage and into your lap. His arm
is around your shoulders, and it isn’t unusual but it definitely feels
so—especially with how close he’s getting and how close you’re getting and oh
god oh god oh god—
And, then, you’re kissing him. You unashamedly make out with him, cradled in
his arms like you’re actually as dear and as loved as he is, and, maybe, just
maybe this is it,the reason why he’s loved and you’re resented. The more
rational part of your mind tells you that you should feel ashamed, that he’s
just using you, but those are the very things that got him to where he is,
aren’t they?
The floor beneath your knees is freezing and unyielding, but you go, once
again, willingly. He whispers encouragements to you as you take his bulge into
your mouth and give him what he came for. The parallels between this and what
happened back then are enough to send your stomach flipping, but you choose to
ignore it, let your mind go purposefully blank. When he finishes, you swallow
as much of his slurry as you can—mostly because you can’t really think of what
else to dowith it. He moans gratefully all the same, his thick-fingered hand
brushing through your hair almost lovingly.
As he comes back down from his orgasm, he smiles fondly at you and pulls you up
into his arms on the platform, snuggling you close against his chest like a
child. Even if it isn’t real, you’ve never felt so cherished, and the thought
of it alone has you slipping into a contented slumber, cuddling close to his
body and smiling for the first time since god knows when.
When you wake up, however, he’s gone. No note, no word, and barely a trace to
even suggest that he’d been there in the first place.
He’s back with Horuss the next day, and he never mentions it again. He does,
however, stop coming to see you.
The empty feeling returns not long after, but this time, you have a better word
for it: used.
…
You watch Cronus putter around the afterlife endlessly; staring after each
person like he’s a starving barkbeast and they’re nothing more than slices of
bloodied meat hanging in the butcher shop window.  He’s disgusting, you decide,
and choose not to associate with him unless absolutely mandatory.
However, his interest in you only begins to grow with time. You do your best to
shelter his extremely tender sense of species-dysphoria (all while avoiding him
as much as is physically possible in the inescapable afterlife), but, no matter
what hints you drop and how conspicuous they are, he seeks you out willingly
time and time again.
Initially, you assume he’s only after you for validation; after all, who better
to validate hisstruggles than the one person nearly as starved for attention as
he was? But the way he speaks to you, touches you…it’s a little much. Unlike
the others, who he’ll shamelessly flirt with whenever they cross into his field
of sight, he’s almost gentle with you, caring, even. He makes an honest effort
not to offend you, and not only for the sake of keeping your good grace.
It hits you one day—entirely too late, mind you. Cronus loves you; probably a
lot. The realization is enough to floor you, after all, you’d trained yourself
to the thought that no one, no one could ever. Yet, there is Cronus (a
highblood, no less!) and he desires you so much that it makes you feel
physically ill when you catch him gazing at you. He wants you so intensely, so
fully, that he makes a point of protecting you from the others, promising you
that he cares, and it’s new and special, and somehow disgustingly wonderful and
you just—
You give in.
On the 8 zillionth sweep of afterlife, you let Cronus, Cronus fucking Ampora,
take you to his concupiscent block—something you had learnt of, all those
sweeps ago, in that cold, tomblike hospital.
He lowers you down, pressing sugar-sweet kisses to your lips like you are the
most precious thing he has ever known (you really, really hope that you are).
Cold fingers caress your flesh reverently as he strips you nude, his eyes
roaming over your body as if in worship of it. His touch is so tender, so
loving—it breaks something deep within you, and you feel the long-forgotten
prickle of tears at the corners your eyes. A soft, pitiful noise makes its way
from his throat when he leans over you, holding you close enough to feel the
remembered-sensation of a beating heart behind his flesh. He kisses your tears
away, whispering soft, worried nothings against your skin.
You’re shaking—you don’t know why. The feeling of his frigid flesh against your
own grounds you like nothing else, but, still, your body trembles and shivers.
It isn’t like before, you think. You know it isn’t, you know he cares, but do
you? Do you even have the capacity to feel anything but the most exhausted,
platonic resentment for everyone and everything?
You don’t know—you honestly don’t.
But, just the same, you close your eyes. Let the familiar emptiness back in to
your head. It’s okay, you tell him. I’ll be fine, you say, (more for your sake
than his).
And the cycle repeats itself.
End Notes
     please don't bitch me out i will fucking find you i swear
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