Title: Kiss of Death
Rating: PG-13/T
Genre: Romance; Angst
Characters: Dave Strider, Rose Lalonde
Summary: Her kisses used to taste like grape and raspberry. Now, he only tasted death and ashes. Dersecest.
Notes: Let's pretend, pretend being the key word here, that the alpha-thing didn't happen, and they're actually dead, for the sake of angst and tragedy.
The first time they kissed, it was unintentional. Or at least that's what he thought, because fuck, it felt like half of his memories had been erased the moment his lips met hers. Crashed might be the right word to describe it, but he's not an airplane, and he's damned sure that Rose wasn't a car either. And she kissed him back, or he kissed her back too, so even though it felt so god-damned wrong, they didn't stop until someone knocked on the door.
He almost killed whoever-it-was until Rose stopped him.
The second time they kissed, he was bored out of his mind, and Rose refused to stop reading her book.
Eventually, he snatched the book off her hands and leaned closer; his breath ghosted across her skin, and his lips only a few inches apart. She looked shocked and dumbfounded (god he loved that look), and when he grinned—his teeth flashed, perfect lips quirked up, blazing red eyes stared into her dark purple ones through the shades—she crashed her mouth to his.
It was passionate and totally hot. Her hands tangled in his soft blonde hair, making a mess out of it, but he thought it was worth it. Both of his hands were wrapped around her waist, pulling her impossibly closer to him and pressing his body to hers. Dave made sure to relish and memorize the taste of her lips (all grapes and raspberries and wet), the way her tongue wrestled against his, and how her lips moved oh-so-sensually that he forgot how to breathe.
They stopped only because they needed air for their lungs, and because they knew that if they were to go any further than this, it would be chaos.
Honestly he didn't care, but Rose did, so they stopped before this unhealthy siblings-bond could ruin them any further.
The third time they kissed, he realized he would definitely and totally be dead, and he couldn't help it.
Rose was standing there, staring at the bomb and the timer. Her hands crept up to hold his and intertwined their fingers tightly. When the numbers decreased to fifteen, he yanked her to his and kissed her senseless, like there's no tomorrow, and ironically, there might be no more tomorrows for either of them. So he kissed her and poured all of his love for her in one single kiss.
She still tasted like grapes and raspberries, only this time, her lower lips also tasted like salt and tears. Maybe she was crying, and the tears stained her lips. Maybe she bit her lower lip too hard that it bled.
He lost his consciousness, but instead of seeing black or white, the last thing he saw was purple.
When he woke up, Dave realized that he was lying on something soft yet hard at the same time. His cheeks were wet, but it wasn't water or rain or even—god forbid, his tears.
It was Rose's tears.
Her eyes were wet and red, he observed, and she was paler than she usually looked. Did they die?
Suddenly she leaned down to kiss him, and he knew they were dead.
Her mixed of grapes and raspberries kisses were gone. She tasted of ashes and death and Rose, but it's different, and he almost thought that she's not Rose and might be Tereza.
But she's not. She's still Rose with blonde hair and purple eyes and pale skin and the same lavender-smell. Her kiss tasted different, but she's still Rose.
Ironically, her kiss was the reason he knew they're dead though.