kissing, a short foray on how each sans kisses you.
classic / undertale = impact, underfell = drux, horrortale = acri, error is error, ink is ink.
impact kisses you like he’s afraid something might break. be it you, him, the very world, it’s a tentative thing where his skull tips up suddenly, and he almost startles you (he’s caught you like that a couple of times, craning up and catching your chin; nevermind the time you were pressed so close his head hit your nose, and you jumped, only to further slam into him), but never on purpose.
you really can’t blame him for being so careful. he loves to wander the lines of your face, your skin at times, noncommittal touches that leave bruises without even trying, and even now, teeth pressing to your lips, he tucks your hair behind an ear and hums into you, slow, seated heavy into your body.
he kisses carefully, but he kisses thoroughly. taking as much time as you’ll give him and more, there’s no such thing as chaste when he tugs you down by the hair or the front of a shirt, or the way he nestles up into an open lap and begins teething at your bottom lip, slow to the rising heat of a moment, and slower to conjure magicked tongue, enjoying all of the build-up and not afraid to put the breaks on things if only to leave you wanting.
drux drinks in your lips like a monster starving. no such thing as sacred when he’s seen it all, kissing is less a cherished thing, more a prequel, a teaser to bigger, better things. if the skeleton had it his way all together he might not bother with kissing at all - it’s too intimate for him, too even for a playing ground, little way to gain an advantage with but teeth and tongue, both better meant for breaking skin and making you cry.
that doesn’t mean he’s bad at it. no, far from the contrary, skeleton has a masterful use of tongue and teeth, pulling at your lip until it’s bleeding and suckles at it with bite to spare, swiping along your own teeth before diving, drinking you in. kissing is either done fully, sloppily and roughly with too much pain and too little time, or not at all.
in the end, fellan leaves the kissing up to you, for the moments you catch him by surprise. for all his blustering and that ragged, bandaged soul, he’s quite the nervous creature, and when you catch his teeth with your lips, quickly, sweetly, the way he shades red is worth the look he gives and the curse spat in return.
acri kisses to conquer. there is little room for misintent in his world, facades and deflecting. if he wants you - when he wants you, he takes you quickly, roughly, by the pull of a chin, towards his own teeth and kisses hard, commanding in the way the world has turned him. he doesn’t want back-talk, he wants you pliable to a tongue that tastes of blood and teeth too thin to be so strong, tugging without any of the bite (for both your safety and his).
he kisses you to remind you he loves you, for whatever words can’t say, for whenever he forgets to, in that consuming, encompassing way of his. acri refuses to let there be room left for you to breathe, to think, to doubt, for a single moment in the way he tugs you close, presses hands to skin, digs in to bruise, that you don’t belong to him just as much as he does to you.
it’s the only way he can do things, here. all at once without a single doubt or not at all, and it’s often once he’s started he doesn’t stop; not until you’re heaving, a mess, spoiled and ripe all the same for his taking, and how he loves you like that, kissing you so richly that you’re ruined for anyone but him.
error doesn't kiss you. he might claim he doesn't care for it, spitting static slurs with the taste of battery acid in the air, but you know that's not true. he knows how, you're sure, and par his hesitation to partake, is far weaker for it than you'd give him credit for.
kissing for error is a daring, daunting thing and it comes after the harrowing flings with his archenemies, comes after returning covered in dust and static and marrow, comes after the frightening idea of tucking a lock of hair behind your ear with shaking phalanges and barbwire sharp teeth pressed into a thin line. kissing is dangerous, error says without words. kissing is reckless.
so you kiss him. when the hiss of the antivoid is but a soft cradle against your ears, when his hands are still and steady on those rare days between, when he seems at peace, maybe, if his scowl wasn't so heavy set; when he's got thick red-rimmed glasses set on a dark nasal ridge, and isn't expecting it - a soft press of lips to his skull, his cheekbones, his eye-socket. quick, stolen before he can erupt into a flurry of strangled snarls accented with a bumble-bee blush. before you can enjoy the moment between, when shattered eye-lights had widenned and teeth fell in surprise, and error must have thought to himself, what did I do to deserve you?
ink often forgets to kiss you at all, between the mischevious, innocent way he takes your hand in his and leads you about, place to place, and the blunt, blatant way he regards you when he’s got that passion-fruit colored paint betwixt his teeth. it’s not his fault, you know, because artist is oft either far too grounded and focused to really remember such trivial things, or somewhere between jupiter and saturn with how distant in orbit that soulless one-track mind has taken him.
but when he remembers? oh, when he remembers.
there is no mercy from an artist’s plunging tongue or pointed fangs, no refuge or hiding from the way he maps you out every single time, as if he’s forgotten ( he probably has, and yet, you would not be surprised to find your taste and texture scribbled out upon his scarf like some treasure map for him to follow, time and time again ) how you feel beneath him, always hands-on and eager to tumble into you, head first. ink has no such thing as modesty or restraint, not when he kisses you with a fevor that near demands to swallow you whole - learning, thorough, kissing until you’re just as drunk as he is on the taste of acryllic paint and that chalky, sweet musk that’s all him. he kisses you until you’re more desperate for air than his touch, catching little glimpse of that mink’s grin he wears so well - before he dives in again, always chasing after more.
