
Posted originally on the Archive_of_Our_Own at https://archiveofourown.org/
works/1415209.
  Rating:
      Explicit
  Archive Warning:
      Underage
  Category:
      Other
  Fandom:
      Homestuck
  Relationship:
      Kanaya_Maryam/Dave_Strider, Rose_Lalonde/Kanaya_Maryam
  Character:
      Kanaya_Maryam
  Additional Tags:
      Sheathplay, Masturbation, Rainbow_Drinkers, Vampires, Blood_Drinking,
      Awkward_Boners, Pale_Romance_|_Moirallegiance, Desperation, Masochism,
      Blood, Plot_What_Plot/Porn_Without_Plot, Gift_Exchange
  Collections:
      Ladystuck_Treats_2013!
  Stats:
      Published: 2014-04-06 Words: 1686
****** Rituals ******
by doxian
Summary
     Dave falling asleep on you typically would not pose any sort of
     problem beyond a few fleshtingles along your leg, but right now you
     have a rather major problem located squarely under your skirt - the
     tip of your bulge has been peeking out from your sheath, like a new
     shoot on a vine, for the last ten minutes at least, curling and
     uncurling insistently between your legs.
Notes
     Is it cheating to base a giftfic off of something written by the
     giftee?
     Anyway, the prompt was for Kanaya solo. The suggestions I went with
     were "blood-drinking turns her on" and "embarrassed tentaboner at an
     inopportune time".
     Background pairings are Dave♦Kanaya and Kanaya♥Rose.
     Also includes Kanaya having body dysphoria about having become
     undead.
  This work was inspired by
      Choke_on_Sun by jadebloods
You're making a valiant attempt at extricating yourself from underneath Dave's
prone form without waking him up.
There's always significant disparity between your energy levels after a
feeding. While you're practically thrumming with fresh energy, Dave is sleepy
and useless. You often wonder what it's like to be fed from, considering your
only knowledge of it originates from the embarrassingly flowery novels you used
to read, and you'd never had the opportunity to experience it yourself. Your
then-favourite writers loved focusing on the terror - and occasionally swooning
passion - of the rainbow drinkers' victims, but in the flesh it looks almost
relaxing. Perhaps you should ask Dave about it sometime.
It's become a bit of a ritual for you to languish with him after you've drunk
your fill. He has difficulty doing anything for himself until he's replenished
his own energy, so it's really the least you can do to give him water and feed
him those chewy-crumbly nutrition oblongs that he complains weakly about
without fail. (Baked goods have turned out to be one of the more challenging
creations to alchemize. Those treeskin-like snacks are the closest the humans
have been able to get.)
It's not quite apple juice and cookies, but you make do.
But now he has finished eating (and mumbling in between bites), and him leaning
against you has transitioned very naturally into him falling asleep half on top
of you. His inert body is oppressively warm - there's a light sheen of sweat
along where his arm rests against yours and where your leg is squished against
the couch. Maybe this room is particularly poorly ventilated (if one can even
ensure the adequate aeration of one's living quarters in space), or maybe
humans as a species are just this warm, but whatever the cause, it's oddly
comforting. A little like the rays of your sun, just in a slightly more
uncomfortable form.
Dave falling asleep on you typically would not pose any sort of problem beyond
a few fleshtingles along your leg, but right now you have a rather major
problem located squarely under your skirt - the tip of your bulge has been
peeking out from your sheath, like a new shoot on a vine, for the last ten
minutes at least, curling and uncurling insistently between your legs. Holding
it in completely had proved to be a lost cause, so now the most you can do is
to keep the rest of it from surging out by squeezing the muscles surrounding
it, hard. Doing this crossed the line from "okay" to "ouch" near
instantaneously, but the thought of popping a full wriggly right after a
feeding with your moirail-and-primary-energy-source in your lap is so
mortifying that you'd gladly endure this indefinitely instead.
(You aren't attracted to Dave at all, not sexually, but this isn't about that,
you think. You just feel so good when you're full, so amazingly good, so bright
with power.)
Slow and torturous expiration via blue bulge isn't exactly on your agenda for
the day, however, (or ever to be quite honest) so you nudge Dave a little more
insistently. He grumbles at being jostled but sprawls back out in his original
position as soon as you get up. He's sleeping with his mouth open and his cape
is hanging over one arm of the couch. Really, if he wasn't unconscious you'd
question whether he was trying to look this pitiful on purpose, but on second
thought you doubt he has accumulated enough knowledge about troll relationships
for that. Unless his story sessions with Karkat have been more fruitful than
he's let on. You readjust his crooked shades, take the water bottle from his
slack hands and place it on the table, and quickly vacate the premises.
You ache. You spend a few minutes searching for Rose but can't find her
anywhere. It's not long until you give up looking - doing it with Rose always
feels amazing right after you've fed, but you'll have to go with ease over
quality right now, so you book it to your respiteblock and hurriedly shut the
door behind you.
Your breath sounds louder to you here. It's a little irritating. You sink down
into your lumpy fuschia armchair, squeeze your legs tight together and try your
best to focus on the task at hand over the awkward and impotent mechanisms of
your now-unnecessary internal organs. Your bulge is this close to escaping.
Clamping down on it is hardly necessary now, but the sensation of it attempting
to squirm, unbearably swollen and restricted in your sheath, straddles the line
between painful and pleasant, and you want to sustain that for a little longer.
The ache is a strange combination of needing to fill a bucket, needing to use
the load gaper, and feeling like someone punched you straight in the slurry
manufacturing bladder some hours ago. It isn't something you would ever have
predicted yourself enjoying, but then past you also didn't foresee present you
having your redrom quadrants filled by humans, or careening through paradox
space on a giant piece of rock that two overpowered psychics threw half a sweep
ago like a massive... what did Dave call it? Touchdown? Anyway, the point is
that past you was clearly very uninformed about present you, much like you
would typically expect of a past self before all these time-traversing
messaging shenanigans.
So you hike your skirt up and press the heel of your hand against your already-
damp underwear, gently, rubbing the delicate, trapped tip, shuddering at the
warmth that spreads through you in response.
The taste of Dave's blood lingers on your tongue. Like Rose, his blood tastes
sweet - almost cloying - when compared to troll's blood. Unlike Rose, his has a
piquant undertone that makes it particularly delicious. (Is taste part of the
reason why - aside from it being more of a pale thing than a flushed thing -
that you drink from him the most often? Or is the reverse true - that his blood
tastes better to you because you always have him when you're hungry, so that
drinking from him feels like relief, like rainfall after a drought?)
As much as you want to, you don't think you can keep this up for much longer.
You're a little surprised you've even managed to for this long. As soon as you
relax, your bulge ripples into your underwear before you can even pull it down,
rushing up against the seam of one leg and almost spilling out. The feeling of
giving in to what your body wants is so perfect that that in itself is almost
as unbearable as the denial. You exhale sharply and take hold of your bulge,
trying to detangle it from the garment as it writhes about in a pathetically
needy manner, only for it to twist into your bunched-up skirt instead, staining
it with broad streaks of green.
You'll bemoan ruined underthings later. For now, you shimmy them down enough so
that you can grab the tip of your bulge and hold it close to your belly,
preventing it from doing anything aside from twitching pointlessly. Merely
running one fingertip lightly along the exposed, ridged underside is intense
enough that it makes you shiver - another perk courtesy of keeping it sheathed
for so long.
You're still thinking about drinking from Dave. About the specific way he
tenses at the initial bite before relaxing in your arms, and continuing to
relax as you drink, until his limbs are all limp and noodly. (You can't decide
if doing this is more or less awkward than how you were sitting with him in
your lap earlier.) This is going to be over embarrassingly quickly. Everything
about this entire ordeal has been terribly embarrassing, but you can't bring
yourself to care much about that now, not when you're moving your hand over the
stalk of your bulge in quick caresses and sinking deeper into your armchair,
parting your legs slightly to give yourself better access to your nook. You let
go of the tip of your bulge in favour of pushing two fingers into yourself,
already warm and sticky with genetic material, and start thinking about Rose
instead, about idly lapping at blood trickling down her throat to her chest for
the thrill of it and not for sustenance, and - you need a pail.
You abandon your nook and desperately twisting bulge for as long as it takes
you to stand, shuck your underwear down and retrieve your pail from the bottom
drawer of your nightstand. Falling to your knees, you wedge it between your
thighs and push your skirt up again, returning your hand to your nook and
allowing your bulge to coil around the other, squeezing it firmly and - You're
so close. Your inner thighs are slicked with green and you're biting your lip
hard and you're so close.
You come whilst kneeling on your floor, curling your fingers in your nook and
thinking of how soft human skin is, how easily it is to pierce open.
The sound of your breathing obnoxiously recaptures your attention as you slowly
come back to yourself. If you thought it was uncomfortably loud before, it's
even more so now. You might not need air, but panting after physical exertion
is a reaction your undead body has yet to unlearn.
You look down at your pail. It's full of genetic material, none of which has
gotten onto the floor. Thank the Mother Grub that your carpet was spared. Your
clothes, on the other hand, are quite ruined. The front of your skirt is almost
more green than red, now, and there's a stripe of material across the bottom of
your shirt as well. Sighing, you take everything off and replace it with a
bathrobe.
As you head to the ablution block next door, you notice that the buzz of energy
within you has been tempered from frenetic to steady. Maybe Porrim was right
about the benefits of pailing - and self-pailing - after feeding, you think.
You have a feeling that, like the languishing and nutrition oblongs, this is
quickly en-route to becoming another ritual, too.
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