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Throughout the course of their very long life, Kenjaku had never met someone quite like you; someone so open, so daring to challenge what was normal and what wasn’t. Out of all of the bodies they’ve lived in and out of all of the people that they’ve met, they couldn’t take their eyes off of you.
Until you suggested something that gave them pause. It was so bizarre that they asked you to repeat yourself.
“C-Come again?” they strained, their voice suddenly hoarse and their eyes wide, staring at you as if you had lost your mind.
You laughed in response, acknowledging the absurdity of the request you were asking, but your intentions were pure. You didn’t wasn’t to kiss the vessel, you wanted to kiss the last remaining part of them that truly belonged to them.
Trying again, you repeated yourself, “Can I give you a kiss on your brain?”
Kenjaku stared for a moment longer before their hands subconsciously moved to undo their stitches as though on autopilot—as if locked into a trance—thoroughly mesmerised as they reached to part the skull cap that rested over their brain.
“Are you sure you want to do this?” they asked, suddenly seeming almost insecure. Nobody had ever asked such a thing of them before and yet, here you were, being the first to do so.
You nodded, slowly leaning closer, not deterred from the grotesque side at all, not even as the pink flesh glistened and pulsed, nor as the wrinkled seams bulged in the exposed air.
Kenjaku was into this, they absolutely were, but for the first time in centuries—or perhaps ever—they felt insecure around you. You made them get flustered and even embarrassed. They both loved and hated this feeling, but couldn’t quite bring themselves to tear away from you, the morbid curiosity and perhaps, slight arousal, impairing their judgment.
Still, they tried to talk you out of it as you drifted closer. A first for them, given just how openly forward they were with every other sort of oddity in the world.
“I don’t even have any lips,” they started.
“I don’t care.”
“I’m not even sure that these teeth are teeth either,” they continued.
You repeated yourself. “I don’t care.”
“It’s very potentially gros—“
However, rather than hearing those three repeated little words, they were instead met with your lips against their mouth, their mind suddenly blank. It was a surreal sensation, but they tried to manoeuvre their way around the strange situation, working into it however they could. Their tongue pushed against your own, working against the muscle, tasting your skin on theirs, intoxicated by the taste.
They had kissed you so many times before, but never like this and when you finally pulled away, they felt like they had lost something; their heart dropping at the sudden void-like sensation.
They hated to admit this, if even at all, but you—out of all of them—out of all of the countless years and the like—might have been the one person that they were missing all along in their very long life.
(Which meant that they couldn’t ever let you go.)
(Even if it meant subjecting you to unspeakable things to keep you around forever.)