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CG: WHAT? NO, NO, NO, NO, NO.
CG: PLEASE, KANAYA, YOU UNDERESTIMATE ME.
CG: I SAID THEY HAD SOME APPALLING KIND OF SEXUAL DIMORPHISM. I NEVER SAID ANYTHING ABOUT NOT BEING ABLE TO *HELP* YOU.
GA: Karkat
CG: AS IT HAPPENS, DAVE AND I HAVE DISCUSSED THIS SUBJECT EXTENSIVELY. I THINK I HAVE SOME OF THE DIAGRAMS RIGHT HERE, IF YOU WANTED TO TAKE A LOOK.
GA: Karkat
CG: SO THE BASIC PRINCIPLE IS THAT IN FEMALES THE WASTE CANAL RECEDES INTO THE BODY, CAUSING A SUBSEQUENT SHRINKING OF THE VESTIGIAL PLEASURE APPARATUS. I KNOW, TOTALLY BIZARRE, BUT BEAR WITH ME HERE.
CG: NOW, THE IMPORTANT THING FOR YOU TO KNOW IS
CG: WAIT, HOLD ON. I THINK THIS IS UPSIDE DOWN.
GA: Karkat
GA: I Genuinely Never Anticipated Myself Saying Something Like This But
GA: Do You Not Have A Quadrant-Fluid Human Partner To Be Making Out With
GA: Like
GA: Right Now And Also Somewhere Else Far Away From Any Sort Of Computer Equipment
GA: Please
*
Your first time is, to put it mildly, an unmitigated disaster.
She’s nervous. You’re terrified. You never did manage to get used to how soft humans are, how thin and buttery their skin feels at the same time, which is wonderful when you’re pressing your mouth to the crease of her neck and shoulder but the minute you have your hand down between her legs you can’t stop thinking about how sharp your teeth and claws are, and how easy it would be to hurt her, and how sharp the scent of her blood is, beating at the hollow of her throat—
You try to restrain yourself. It turns out restraint does not make for good sex. “Ah,” you mumble shamefacedly, feeling uncomfortably hot as you stare down at her flushed face. No, of course she’s not, Kanaya, why are you even asking— “Are you—er. Is this—all—”
“You’re fine,” Rose says quickly, an obvious lie. “You’re—Kanaya—ah.” She strokes your bulge gently, and the surge of pleasure that rushes through you—unfortunately—does nothing to stem your mortification. “Do you—I’m afraid I don’t see where the bucket comes in . . . . ”
Neither of you drink mind-numbing substances (anymore, in Rose’s case), but after that encounter, you begin to understand the appeal.
TT: So. Ah.
TT: As reluctant as I am to remind you of any incident that suggests my prowess in bed is anything less than awe-inspiring, perhaps we should talk about the Great Sexual Comi-Tragedy of Year Two, as I’ve taken to calling it?
TT: I have all these New Age pamphlets extolling the values of “sexual communication,” as they call it, and between that and pagan cleansing rituals, this seemed like the less complicated of the
TT: … Kanaya, please say something.
GA: Sorry I
GA: Yes
GA: Yes I Agree We Should Talk That Is Not Yes Regarding The Pagan Rituals Although I Assume You Know More About Those Than I Would And Also I Still Dont Really See Where The Bed Comes In But
GA: Sorry Am I Rambling
TT: Yes. But I can’t claim any kind of superiority on that front.
TT: Kanaya, I should say.
TT: You don’t have to worry so much about hurting me. I’ll let you know if you do something—well. Ah. You get the point.
GA: Rose To Put It Bluntly I Dont Think That Interrupting Our Encounters To Attend To Your Bleeding Is Either Of Our Ideas Of A Good Time
TT: Not as such, no. But—have you ever—
TT: This is proving much more complicated to discuss than I had anticipated, my apologies.
TT: Limited amounts of pain can be an aphrodisiac, in some circumstances. So can other things.
TT: We’ve talked about the mythology surrounding human rainbow drinkers in the past, but I may have neglected to mention that in human culture, the legend often has a certain ... metaphorically prurient undertone. I don’t suppose that’s true for trolls as well?
GA: Metaphorically Prurient
GA: . . .
GA: Oh
TT: Yes, quite.
GA: I Ah
GA: I Know What You Are Speaking Of And Yes This Seems To Be One Of The Many Things Our Cultures Have In Common Although I Never
GA: Quite Considered
GA: In This Context
TT: ... not your thing, I presume?
GA: Its Not That Its More
GA: I Had Always Imagined Myself
GA: On The Other End
GA: So To Speak
TT: … *Ah.*
TT: Well. I’ll show you mine if you show me yours?
*
Rose gets strangely reticent after the, ah, after the basics get straightened out. “You’ll see. I’d like it to be a surprise,” she says, and when you point out that she’s the one getting ravished, “Well, I don’t see why I can’t plan my own ravishment." Then she goes serious.
“Kanaya,” she says, “I’d like to do something nice for you. Will you trust me?”
You often find yourself feeling outmatched against Rose Lalonde, but never quite so much as during those rare moments when she is sincere. You leave her to her Pyropean scheming. And you are surprised, although not as surprised as you could be, when she turns up in your room in the middle of the night, wearing a slitted skirt and a black velvet corset that leaves, well, very little to the imagination. She’s always had a taste for the dramatic.
“I don’t think I remember sewing that for you,” you say, and she smiles. She cuts a fine figure, her bare arms on display as she clutches the top of the window-frame for support—and yes, she did crawl in through the window.
“I alchemized it. It is based on the other corset, though,” she says, a bit breathlessly. “If that helps. I did say I wanted it to be a surprise.”
“You did, at that.” You step closer. She narrows her eyes at you, a kind of leer.
“So? What do you think?”
You slide your claws up to her waist, and she glances down, a bit flushed, a bit pink. “I think it lacks subtlety,” you murmur, which is when she kisses you.
She’s easy, pliant, lets you control the kiss, and you take your cues from her, tugging her roughly down to your level. She tastes sharp. You don’t take as much care with your fangs as you might otherwise, and when her tongue scrapes against one of them—not by accident, you are pretty sure—the iron-copper that floods your mouth is heady.
You don’t—you would never hurt her. But you never quite got over seeing her as something to be consumed.
Three steps back has her pressed up against the wall, off-balance, one hand clutching at the back of your neck for support. You press your face against her throat, take in the scent of her: blood and desire. “Well, Miss Lalonde,” you say, low. “What are we going to do with you?”