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A terrible affliction of purple prose.

Chapter Text

What she notices first about Kanaya: tall, limbs just too long like vines draped off a tree, skin flat and pale-grey on her face with its narrow eyes and pointed teeth and errant curls framing sly intelligence. That's a lot for a first notice, and Rose makes a note to banish that part of her imagination that interprets first impressions with purple prose.

What she notices second about Kanaya: she looks, for all her long grace and floor-length skirts and glowing skin, very much like the other trolls. They are all of them strange, a step to the left of human, aside from the obvious color-drained skin and bright horns. Each one of them with button noses and wide mouths and teeth like nightmares, hair that looks wiry and mad even in Kanaya's tight cut, which had surely been forcefully tamed. All of their eyes are long and narrow and orange and underlined with the exact same tired shadows that spoke of days and days with no sleep. They all have a certain -- not an accent, exactly, but a tone to their voice that sounds as if it had been gone over with a wire brush a few times.

And not one of them, Rose notes with an amusement she didn't bother to hide, had outgrown their baby fat quite yet.

They are still children, after all, even if she feels she has been around for years more than she should have been and even if Kanaya pulls a bloodied chainsaw from her sylladex and takes on a face like experience and murder. They are still children who need a mother. A lusus, she supposes, if she wants to be culturally accurate. Or an ectobiological father/brother.

Whatever it is, they certainly required one, she thinks while Karkat twitches on the floor, a tiny nervous mess with a possible concussion. They won't get one, certainly not, but they are in desperate need.

They play mother and father for all of each other for the course of three years. There is an honest pairing off of thirteen-year-old aliens just to keep one another sane. And it's sweet, in ways, to watch them mingle and shift. Some days it is Dave and Terezi tucked in a corner with computers propped on their laps, Karkat bent sharp over Gamzee with a snarl that turned up at the edges, Aradia and Sollux hovering with that half-light in his eyes and the red flaring out from hers. And the very next it's Terezi snickering menacingly over Karkat, Dave and Aradia playing time gods, Gamzee gone and Sollux fixating on the impenetrable code on his husktop. There are eight of them on good days, and they tangle in a familial web of sorts.

But it's always Rose and Kanaya. Every day, the two of them, tight-pressed smiles and quiet little words and the human emotion of sarcasm, or however Kanaya puts it.

Three years is a long time to be alone with one another.

Rose kisses her on the day that she would be turning fifteen, if age was something that mattered, anymore. Years feel stretched and rotted, and she knows it isn't just her when she watches Dave feel out time and sees his brow furrow just so. But it is the day she would be turning fifteen had none of this happened, and what happens is Rose looks Kanaya up and down as if she's judging her for the first time. Rose puts her hands on Kanaya's face -- her fingers cut shadows into Kanaya's glow like Venetian blinds -- and says, "Kanaya Maryam, I think it is high time I put my mouth on yours."

Kanaya barely has time to let her eyes widen then narrow before Rose makes good on her promise. Rose knows her lips are cracked, dry, and bitten, and they catch on the strange troll skin of Kanaya's mouth. It's childish, nothing romantic at all, Rose has no idea what she's doing and it goes on a little long with her fingers at the edge of Kanaya's rough mess of hair (two years they have had next to none of the essentials -- an unpleasant surprise for Rose when she stumbled over puberty). She's just thinking maybe she should tilt her head, maybe she should open her mouth, and Kanaya pulls back.

Two years let Kanaya's eyes start to fill out jade, a startling clash of colors over top all the matching clothes. Here, this close, Rose can see all the tiny lines that stretch out from the middle and all the green edges of Kanaya's iris between her lashes.

"Rose," she says, and her head is twitching to each side. Rose can't stop the stupid teenage girl in her head, the one that chatters on about the light skipping across Kanaya's cheekbones and the gem-purity of her eyes and the softness of her lips. It's hard to hear Kanaya over you, she says to it, stop, stop.

"No," Kanaya says, wetting her lips. "We can't. Well - I suppose I mean to say - I can't."

Still strange, hearing her sentences end. The way she typed, Rose had always just imagined that she was only catching snippets of a long discussion going on without her.

"Humans," Kanaya says, and then, "uh," which is how Rose knows she's flustered.

"The problem is," she says, starting again. If one knows Kanaya well enough -- and Rose is fairly certain that she does -- there is the undeniable fact that she stutters, hovers between words, disjointed like her mouth is still trying to piece things together while her brain is the next paragraph over. "Humans are not entirely like trolls at all. Or that is to say, they are very much like trolls, physically, at least, however I am growing to believe more and more that the human mind is an entirely foreign place never to be fully explored by trollkind, even if we were not a dying race currently composed of six children, because your thought processes are impenetrable if not inscrutable, and this would also be true were your kind not a dying race currently composed of four children. Thus unless --"

"Kanaya, you're rambling."

"Oh," Kanaya replies, blinking. "So I am." And she says 'uh' again, which Rose feels properly entitles her to begin a tally. "My point is that we cannot, Rose."

"Why is that?"

"I do not pity you a single unit of weight measurement."

Rose remembers, then, as if she had long forgotten (and she could not have, not with how Karkat is so outspoken on the subject whenever Dave so much as mentions 'sloppy makeouts,' which is often) how trolls see romance. Pity, hate, pale and dark forms of emotions that never ring quite right for human hearts. And maybe she pities Kanaya, after crushed hopes of continuing the race and everything fall apart and dying and dying and dying, but she can't imagine that it's remotely the same pity that trolls feel.

Love makes humans flutter and buzz, like a numbing lightness trapped inside their ribcage. Pity must do something the same to trolls.

Kanaya is still talking.

"I once pitied you, earlier in your session. An adolescent girl thrust into the many-armed grip of the game, forced to cope with the premature loss of her guardian figure, driven to extremes in order to attempt to salvage the wreckage of her session? Of course I pitied you." There is a rustle of fabric when Kanaya twines her skirt between her fingers, which too is strange, even after years. Kanaya, nervous; this is the same nymph-like alien girl who wielded a chainsaw and promised to go Clown Hunting.

"I will safely assume that my devilishly good looks forced you to acknowledge that there was nothing pitiable about me," Rose says, even as her chest seems to sink into itself. Nevermind, she wants to say, nevermind any of it.

"I am afraid I would be inclined to pity anyone who must suffer through bearing that face," Kanaya says. The snark drops right to her feet where she stands, and she regards it where it lies dead on the floor with a sigh. "No, Rose, you are not pitiable any longer. I should have seen this coming, I think, when I found myself acting as your moirail." Dear Rose, do not go gently into that good night. "But you never seemed entirely fazed by the death of your lusus-analogue, nor did you appear at all shaken by the many horrible things which occurred through your session. In fact, when we met, first, I thought you were quite admirable."

For what a high compliment it is, Rose notices her heart sinking. "No, I understand," she says, still- composed. She might put Strider to shame. "I am not about to force you into feelings which you simply do not have, Kanaya."

So she makes an attempt to squash her own. They are like particularly stubborn weeds, pushing through the cracks of concrete and asphalt despite all the sprays and dustings, blossoming into pretty flowers that reach tall for the light of sun and are plucked from the ground at the root. And they grow back. Gardeners everywhere throw violent fits over the persistence of these plants. Weed-killer corporations go out of business. She puts Striders to shame again for her ability to allow a metaphor to run away.

She smothers the jump of her nerves at the sight of Kanaya with a layer of grim and dark. Kanaya smiles as soon as she finishes telling her that she understands and it is like an electric jolt into her lungs.

Rose tries, and she tries, and she sets aside things which cannot be set aside, and it is half a year more. There is a veritable pile of untended emotions growing in Rose Lalonde's heart, occupying storage space which had previously collected only cobwebs.

It's not a specific day at all when Kanaya crosses her long legs and stares very hard at Rose, every blink a kiss in itself. It's not a special day whatsoever, but Kanaya leans in and says, "Rose Lalonde, have you been practicing?"

"Practicing what, Professor Maryam?" Rose asks.

"Being intensely pitiable."

"If I say yes, will I receive extra credit?"

Kanaya lifts one fine eyebrow and pulls a face. "I would appreciate it if you did not hijack my highly premeditated pick-up lines."

"Is that what this is?"

Kanaya smoothly ignores that. "You have been very adept at being pitiable, Rose. I should think myself lucky to be the first to approach you."

"Assuming you are."

"I did ask you nicely to stop."

"Of course; sorry, Professor." Rose draws her fingers across her lips, zipping them, and throws away the key. Or the zipper pull? The action never fully made sense to her.

"You have been brooding terribly for some time now. You look as though the world has ended, which I suppose it not completely unexpected, as it has, but that is of practically no concern now. I have seen you staring at your own fingernails for hours as though they hold answers." Kanaya glances down at Rose's hands, and Rose does as well. Finely, perfectly manicured, as they had been since the day she ascended to god tier. A not entirely unwelcome perk.

"They do, you know," Rose says. She wiggles her fingers at Kanaya for extra effect. "All of me does. I am the Seer, after all."

"Your humor is consistently hilarious, but allow me to continue." Kanaya is starting to give her a look which Rose associates with mothers. Her eyes are now a deep, murky green, and they narrow particularly well. "You have seemed lost, Rose. And as you have said, you are the Seer, so you have no good excuse."

She allows it to sink it, let Rose get as far as parting her lips to defend herself, and then says, "Which makes me pity you that much more. Now, I do believe it is high time that I put my mouth on yours."

Kanaya leans in and kisses her, and Rose embarrasses herself immensely by sighing into it. She cannot bring herself to properly care.

Chapter Text

Kanaya moves quiet as she ever does, a tilt of her head that comes into a curve of her neck. With the passive glow she gives off, it reminds Rose of the crescent edge of the moon back home. She touches the length of it and floats through space. The kiss is mute and chaste until Rose opens her mouth around Kanaya's bottom lip and wets it with her tongue.

"Kanaya," she mumbles through it, "I'm not sure exactly how trolls work when it comes to this, but I am nearly sixteen years old and we have been on an asteroid which is practically made of teenage hormones for years. And this is the first time I have been kissed where I was not dead."

"You are very talented at setting the proverbial mood, Rose Lalonde," Kanaya says back. Everything is separated with licks, nips, cliche little kissing sounds, and Rose momentarily thanks God (excusing how she is that herself) for what privacy there is on this rock. If Strider --

She will have to analyze her concern about Dave Strider at a later time. Now she is walking the stretch of Kanaya's neck to her shoulders, pale and bright like white sand in sunshine. The skin of her is just a little cool, something between a natural chill and the feel of something warm that has been left out a while. Rose wants to drink it in for days. She chases her fingers with her tongue, tasting the stretch of Kanaya's muscles when she tips her head back.

"Please hold your applause," Rose says, humming the syllables into Kanaya's veins, "until after the show." She slides her hands down the shallow curves of Kanaya's ribcage, over fine fabric and tiny stitches and the slim swell of her breasts, through which she can feel the breath Kanaya pulls at.

Kanaya is entirely, terribly, horrifyingly lovely, this oil pastel painting of a nymph in the stretched-out in-between stage of growth that makes her long, soft, and only just beginning to bloom. She is the peasant girl they found to be queen and who took the training to heart; she holds her shoulders back and her chin high and her words round, even around that jagged accent that all trolls have when they borrow English. When Kanaya leans into Rose's hands with a soft sound, her teeth flash around the vowels and they are still sharp enough to rip Rose's skin from her bones. She is silk and satin wrapped thick around barbed wire. Rose wants to dive right into the center of her. She wants to open this troll girl up, at the center of her where Rose is following the curve of muscles and bones, and settle right in the pit of her. She walks the matched ladders of Kanaya's ribs with her fingers instead, to the soft curved rise of skin at the bottom of Kanaya's chest.

While she thumbs where Kanaya's breasts meet the stretch of her stomach, Rose feels for all the different raised lines on Kanaya's throat. Vessels and veins, some she knows and some that are a mystery, strange troll anatomy becoming attractively obvious under her tongue, the pulse underneath feeling more like a pull than a push. Rose mouths the side of Kanaya's neck and nips for ironic effect. She does not imagine the gasp and the twitch of fingers on her back to be ironic in the least.

Rose wanders the padded skin over her ribs, counting them up -- seventh sixth fifth, too many days spent staring at wikipedia pages -- on the sides of her body. "Rose," Kanaya says, and then she falls into a stuttery sound when Rose sweeps her hands around to palm the whole of Kanaya's breasts. "Rose," she forces out, "I am not certain how this will work."

"Neither am I," Rose says, "but I suspect the adventure is where the real fun lies. May I?" Kanaya peers over her royal cheekbones at Rose's fingers where they dance at the hem of her shirt, and nods. Rose does her the favor of at least folding it before she puts it down, using it as a nice little pillow for Kanaya's delicate brassiere.

Kanaya radiates out from this dark mass of scar, wrinkled and pitted like a weathered stone. It's huge and round and Rose imagines it like a cork plugging the hole blasted through her, that if she pushed hard enough it would slide out and show an empty, cauterized wound. She goes to her knees and lays kisses on the warped edges of it and holds her thumbs in the pocket of space that hovers around the shape of Kanaya's hips. On there other side, there's a matching disc that presses flat into the curves of Kanaya's back.

"Can you feel if I touched that?" Rose asks idly as she rolls her thumbs over the crest of Kanaya's hips. She plants a kiss just over where Kanaya's navel would be, if it ever existed in the first place.

Kanaya shrugs a single shoulder. "Sometimes," she says. "But never as strongly as anything else."

Which leaves Rose little choice but to drag her mouth up to Kanaya's chest and run her tongue from underneath one breast to Kanaya's open mouth.

The room in which Kanaya saw fit to instigate this venture is fortunately equipped with what Rose supposes is a bed-analogue, something not quite intended for humans but certainly not the sort of strange squishy alien thing that trolls would enjoy. Rose lays Kanaya flat on its surface, then herself flat on Kanaya's. She straddles Kanaya's thin hips, takes Kanaya's thin cheekbones in her hands, licks at her pointed teeth, and grinds down gentle.

Kanaya opens her mouth into Rose; Rose breathes a groan into the sharp mess of her teeth. "Kanaya, you look lovely in those long skirts you so enjoy," she says as she moves in tiny circles, "but they are really fucking inconvenient."

Kanaya laughs, something airy and lilted just like everything else about her. "It is hardly fair that you demand every article of my clothing to be removed while you are still fully dressed."

"I suppose, then, we are to count to three and then neither of us remove anything because we were both under the assumption that the other would trick us?"

"I was thinking, actually," Kanaya says, with her fingers lifting up Rose's shirt, "that I might just kind of reach over, and..."

Rose's shirt catches on her headband, but she spares Kanaya the snark inherent in the situation. All the better, because when Kanaya's face reappears, her glow is diffused green with a blush. She hides it by running her troll claws over the lace that covers the cups of Rose's bra, the points of them catching in the mesh. They drag feather-light down Rose's nipples.

And Rose, in return, searches the waistband of Kanaya's skirt for a hook and a zipper, opens it around pale grey-white stretches of thighs, follows the pull with her tongue. When she tugs the skirt off Kanaya's hips, Rose dips her hand into the warmth between Kanaya's legs and is met with a caught sound.

Rose pauses.

"Well," she says, as she drags her fingers in sequence along the length of what is apparently a ridge instead of a fold. "This is unexpected."

Kanaya hums around the edge of an 'm' and barely breaks the sequence to answer, "I'm sorry?"

Rose feels it out, but she can't draw the picture in her mind; it's warm and soft, yes, but almost like what she had expected turned inside out. She makes a sound and succumbs to curiosity. "Do you mind if I remove these, Miss Maryam?" And she allows herself to enjoy a moment of Kanaya blinking herself back into coherence.

"Rose, I'm afraid I must -- " She swallows air, blinks over a luminescent flush. "I must insist you remove those."

"Who am I to deny orders?" There is something undeniably appealing about Kanaya lifting her hips to let Rose slide her underwear down her legs.

Rose doesn't get much time to savor it, though. "Oh," she says, eyebrows raised, peering between Kanaya's legs in a way that is most certainly unattractive. Kanaya actually fidgets. She moves to press her knees together-

"No," Rose says, pushing them apart again, and oh is her own voice rough.

What Kanaya has, it's familiar but entirely different, like seeing deja vu. Rose remembers Kanaya having mentioned some extravagantly preplanned speech on Karkat's part about how The Humans were his creation, how they were pale shadows of trolls, and she can see it, in a reverse perspective. There is Rose, dark and blood-flushed and shining wet, but there also is the other half, a warm length of skin tucked away in between. Rose supposes she can permit herself to use the crass language necessary for the situation. There is something like a cock slicked wet in the dip of Kanaya's slit. It sprouts from where a clitoris would be and lays flat to cover where Rose assumes is a hole. Rose draws two fingers down it and it rises up into her touch, the spine of a cat.

It's completely alien, and Rose is not disappointed at her capacity to find such things terribly arousing. (The horrorterrors and years of writing wizard slash likely helped, though.)

Rose moves her thumb down it firmly and Kanaya doesn't have to lift her hips into it, not when the thing lifts up, unlatches from its place (these tiny fine tendrils releasing from around it, flattening away) and pushes into Rose's hand. They make echoing 'oh' sounds. Rose wraps her fingers around it, grey flushed green showing between her knuckles, tracing the shape of it. It's thinner than a human cock, smooth and tapering at the end. The underside shines with wetness from, she supposes, Kanaya's nook, colored like her blood and her sweat and her tears. When Rose spreads her fingers to span the length of it far as she can, the tip tries to wind around her thumb. Rose's brain very eloquently goes 'fuck.'

She says, soon as her mouth isn't dry, "It is called a bone bulge, correct? So where is the titular bone?"

"Internal," Kanaya says. Her brow is furrowed and her eyes focused on the dark paint on Rose's fingernails. "If you move your hand upwards, though I am ... loathe to suggest it. The reproductive organs are highly important for survival in troll society; the added protection is certainly welcome."

There are, in fact, hidden shields of bone that Rose had not earlier noticed, spreading out from the point of Kanaya's bulge. It goes from hip to hip, sliding down to connect to the bones that already frame her thighs. Rose's fingers itch to hook under the edge of the bone and tug.

"I assume from your apparent wonder that this does not exist in humans." Kanaya's tilted voice breaks Rose's concentration. She gets back at her by sliding her hand down and grinding the heel of her palm into the slit of Kanaya's nook. Rose lets herself smile sly, and drops a kiss onto the joint of Kanaya's hip.

"I think my curiosity for troll anatomy can only be sated by hands-on experience," she says, in a verbose edition of an old cliche. Kanaya mutters an 'honestly' and Rose tightens her grip just so and moves her hand in long lazy strokes. Kanaya's whole self seems to go a pale green and she shudders.

"Tell me," Rose goes on. She's going horribly slow, and she's sure Kanaya absolutely hates her. She punctuates her strokes by dipping her thumb into the slick heat adjacent to Kanaya's bulge. "How do trolls ... navigate this sort of situation?"

"Pardon?" She's surprised Kanaya's gasping breaths aren't tinted green, too. Rose carefully times a stroke to peak while Kanaya's mouth is open so as to savor the sound. It blooms from her mouth like a clover field, like emerald crystals dotting the air.

"Perhaps a light hand does not benefit this situation." Rose plays her fingertips down the bulge, down the wet join, drawing her fingertips over the bristling tendrils that still squirmed just inside. "I mean to ask, Kanaya Maryam, what can I do to make you moan?"

Kanaya, predictably as ever, moans. Rose cannot help but laugh.

"How do trolls enjoy sex, Kanaya?" she asks, resting her head on the jut of Kanaya's hip. "I am not familiar firsthand with the human rituals, though I have done as much research as any young teenager. But I can't claim to know what you will like." Fanfiction and wizard slash tells her now will be a good time to pick up the pace just slightly. For once, it tells her correctly. The vowels Kanaya meant to make are swallowed before she can speak.

"Usually," she chokes, "usually the, uh, bulge is employed to stimulate the -- the reproductive organs through the..." She's burning green, grass and gems and suns. Rose could bottle it and soak in the glow for years. "Through the walls of the nook, until both parties are ready to --" she's squirming, which Rose discovers is delighting "-- expel their genetic material. Is that adequate, Rose?"

I don't quite think so, says the thing in Rose's brain which is lapping the disgraced blush and the bitten lips like fine wine, but Ruse paints herself with a smile. "More than. But, darling, whatever do you do when there is no second party?" Stimulate the nook, do they -- Rose rubs Kanaya's nook, barely touches the opening. Her bulge winds farther around Rose's fingers in an immediate response.

"Rose how am I meant to speak to you and endure this all at once," Kanaya grinds out. Rose understands this to mean Do Not Stop, Rose, Please.

"All right, then simply nod or shake your head. You can manage that much, I'm sure?" Rose admits she deserves it when Kanaya smacks her lightly on the back of her head. She grins into Kanaya's skin, pumps at her bulge. Behind Kanaya's whimpering noise, Rose takes a steadying breath. For all her played-up confidence, she is, after all, an insecure little girl. (Psychoanalysis likely has no place in this situation, she presumes.)

When she has coaxed her heart to a decent pace, she fixes her stare on the tangle of her own fingers and the diluted green of Kanaya's bulge. She weaves her fingers around it. "How do you touch yourself, Kanaya?" She coaxes it flat against the stretch of grey, skin that showed ripple of bone. "What is it you do when you are alone? Do you stroke yourself like this? Or." Rose taps her fingers along the distance between Kanaya's bulge and the opening of her nook. "Do you use your fingers? Put them inside you and think of someone else?" She palms Kanaya's bulge, presses a finger to the opening of her nook, lets her skin coat jade. It has the same translucent shine and peculiar color as sugar glaze. Rose puts her finger on her tongue. The holy host of Maryam.

Kanaya's groan is breathy and long. Rose sucks the taste of her off her finger like she could draw the noise in. too. It's something between an aphrodisiac and liquid confidence.

What do you do, she asks Kanaya, taking the finger from her mouth and putting it back to the entrance of Kanaya's nook. She waits for the insistent nod. Do you do this until you come, Kanaya? Rose pushes a finger slow into her, all heat with a thick, unfamiliar slickness and rippling ridges all the way in. Do you think of who you pity or hate? It's so unlike the soft skin in Rose, but the overwhelming wetness is the same -- Rose slips one of her legs over one of Kanaya's, grinds herself gently down. Do you fuck yourself and imagine someone telling you every detail? Two fingers, a tight fit, but Kanaya presses down onto them as if they're nothing. Her bulge writhes in Rose's hand, wraps around a finger tip like it's grounding itself.

"Do you think about me," Rose asks. The ends of her are pulling out in different directions; she sweeps her fingers inside Kanaya and strains to push farther in and finds a smooth, yielding patch hidden deep. When she presses at it, Kanaya gasps and bites at her lip enough that she bleeds from two tiny points. The bloodtrails cut shadows in the flickering glow in Kanaya's skin. "Do I run through your dreams? Dear me, my legs must be tired."

"You do," Kanaya says in a frame of sibilant sounds. She gives Rose a downward glance and somehow, the haze clears enough to show the sharp look that accompanies the snarky horseshit of sexy broads. "Of course, all of my dreams are nightmares."

"Let it be known that you shall never again insult the one who is in you two fingers deep," Rose announces, and in a fit of horribleness, withdraws completely.
 
Kanaya's bulge twists with the loss, and the disappointed groan twists up too. It's satisfying like success. Rose slips down off Kanaya's leg and settles between her knees, hips rocked back to rest on her tailbone. She can feel the hard base of the bed through the mattress, the heavy wetness stringing between her fingers that sticks to the hem of her skirt when she pulls it up daintily around her hips and to the cotton of her underwear when she presses her fingers to the damp spot between her legs. Something is indulgent and beautiful about how her panties slide along her all because of Kanaya, or rather not because of Kanaya; Kanaya who is now leaning up on her elbows, all disappointment forgotten, whose lips are parted with her dark tongue showing, who is watching like it's her religion. Rose pushes up her hips, spreads her thighs a little wider. She rolls her fingers hard over her clit through the fabric, breath hitching in guttural stops, all the tendons in her twitching.

"A shame," she gasps out, "that you decided you didn't want to be part of these proceedings, Kanaya." Rose slips her hand, her long violinist's fingers, into her underwear, and coos softly at the slippery feel of herself. "Your invitation was signed and ready, if only you had chosen to behave."

Oh, Kanaya, Kanaya who licks her teeth and whose eyes are more black than green, now, her claws tap out a path to her bulge and Rose pushes out an 'uh-uh,' a shake of her head. Rose moves her hips into her hand and squeezes her eyes closed for just a second.

Pinpricks on her hips and Rose opens her eyes again at Kanaya between her legs, prowling-like, fingers splayed out on Rose's thighs, lighting strange long shadows on themselves. Kanaya presses her thumbs into the soft skin edging Rose's hips and she gets this look like she's heard something, like she's listening hard. Rose can feel her pulse beating under the pads of Kanaya's fingers. Her hand twitches to a stop.

"I am entirely willing to tear these off with my teeth," Kanaya says to Rose's pulse points, trying hard to clarify the breaks between her words even as they mangle on her tongue.

"I should like to see you try," Rose says, even if the threat jolts down her spine. "Your canine teeth are like a vampire bat's, more suitable for puncturing, not tearing, and for flesh, not fabric, thus --"

The tear echoes into her ears as Kanaya digs a fang into the material of the panties and pulls, tearing a long line straight through. The point of her tooth clips close to Rose's skin and it pulls up goosebumps like puppets on a string. Kanaya is all raised eyebrows and sly grins.

"Rainbowdrinking leatherwinged flapbeasts," Kanaya says as if it is the most matter of fact thing, dragging the panties down Rose's legs, "use their incisors to scratch cuts, not puncture. Perhaps your research is faulty?" And she deposits Rose's panties cleanly off the side of the bed.

The rush that darts from Rose's heart to her groin is not, she is sure, pity. Her mouth is open and going cool from the air in the room. Kanaya sucks her teeth while she looks over what Rose has to offer.

"It's called a vagina," Rose suggests, "I'm not entirely certain trolls exhibit sexual dimorphism, but humans do. There is no bulge, but there is a clitoris, and --"

Kanaya pushes Rose's legs apart further and swipes her tongue into her. Rose cannot coax herself to continue her lecture on anatomy after that.

God, she thinks, trolls are -- they're strange, strange in entirely good ways, like how their tongues are practically too long for their mouths and it must roll up against their horrible teeth when a troll closes their mouth. Kanaya draws her down into a sort of open-eyed blackness, Rose dropping her head back and letting her whole chest go with her breaths. Her mind snatches at descriptors; they dart away, flicking their tails until they fade deep in the water. She flexes her fingers into the bed, some rhythm unidentified, until one of Kanaya's hands catches her wrist and her fingers snake around the joint till they hiss. Kanaya slides Rose's hand onto the top of her head, glances up just a second.

Rose gasps, "you watch far too much porn," and Kanaya laughs into her. Rose is uncertain whether that's the reaction she wanted.

Kanaya is almost too adept for Rose's tastes. She studies Rose's shape with her mouth, and Rose can only close her eyes and try to track the details of her movements through her nerves. Broad sweep marking out the whole vertical length. Tracing the taut skin around her entrance. An open mouth around her clit, the buzzing thrill when the front face of Kanaya's teeth push against her. Kanaya has her on strings, has her skin full of static and needles and cotton fluff, has her crossing her ankles tight on Kanaya's back till she's using the leverage to push up into Kanaya's mouth.

She doesn't moan or scream when she comes, just feels herself clench and twitch and she tightens her legs around Kanaya's head, the rough keratin of horns driving into the insides of her thighs. Her eyes squeeze shut but it's white, not black, and she's got her skin her nerves twitching all over, spasms arcing like electricity inside. When Rose cracks open her eyes and forces her breaths to slow, there's Kanaya, back on her knees but bent over Rose, one hand jammed between her legs and the other wrapped around her bulge. Her mouth is dropped open and her glow is actually flickering. Rose pulls herself up and leans over, mingling her fingers with Kanaya's -- there's a different slickness to her bulge, now, her fingertips slip over it easily -- and sinks a kiss onto Kanaya's teeth and tongue. It's a sloppy kiss, and both their mouths are cool from their heavy breaths, but Kanaya clings to her as she rocks forwards into their hands, down onto her own. She tastes like something strange, and Rose suspects that it's herself.

Rose doesn't see when Kanaya pulls the pail out of her sylladex, and to be honest she'd been slightly hoping it was some strange extended joke but Kanaya manages to situate herself over it even with herself still tangled around Rose. Kanaya, though, she makes noise, a high shuddering moan that shows all through her shoulders. Her eyes shut and her lashes cast soft shadows through her luminescence. She comes jade, too, this milky green that pours out of her, dripping down the inside of her legs in rivulets Rose wants to chase. Her bulge writhes in their hands, waves running through it like through water. Kanaya goes longer, stretching into beautiful shapes that Rose pulls back to see -- eyebrows drawn, eyes shut, mouth open in an o cut jagged by her teeth, all of her tight and loose at the same time. Next time, she shall have to borrow her brother's camera.

Kanaya comes down in a way that makes her slump into herself, breathing like she's never breathed before. She pushes loose, sweat-damp hair out of her eyes.

A minute exists in which they simply breathe. The sounds are grounding, dry flat strips of air.

"Well," Rose says finally, sliding her skirt back down to her knees. "That was educational."

"This is, after all, the standard process of educating humans on troll biology." The pail disappears back into Kanaya's sylladex (that's a mite unsanitary, Rose thinks) and she simply lounges naked on the bed.

"Of course." Rose feels around in her own sylladex until she finds something cloth, pulls it out, and crawls over Kanaya to wipe the green from her legs. "I shall file a review stating my satisfaction with your teaching abilities. Though I will include my disappointment that you did not show up in full wizard attire."

"Another reason I pity you, Rose Lalonde. You simply fail to understand the advantages rainbowdrinkers have over wizards. I am speaking from experience."

They fall into conversation like that, petty arguments over silly half-mythological creatures. At some point Rose enforces the rule of 'put your clothes on, for heaven's sake, you'll catch a troll cold like this' and Kanaya laughs but accedes. Rose does acknowledge at some point that she does not conveniently have another pair of underwear captchalogued, which means she will have to figure out how to make her way to an alchemizer with an accurate code and create herself a new pair without running into, say, Dave Strider.

Well, she says to herself as she curls into Kanaya's side and lets her eyes fall closed, future Rose has permission to loathe current Rose, because it is definitely her problem.