Alone, together.

My heart can lean on nothing.

[efhemra]

hello, ♡ i go by vayne (they / them). here i present ikeda kojirō (bullet train) — a twenty-four-year-old aspirant vocalist treading the ever-beaten path of existential monotony in hopes of finding something more for himself in the end. beneath the cut, i've divvied up his character information by bullet point and category, in hopes of keeping it concise and digestible. if you'd like to interact with me, i'm available here through tumblr ims; just let me know. thanks for your time!

BIOGRAPHICAL:

born in mugunghwa. moved to busan following his dad's promotion to manager at a hotel around the time the town's economy started to plummet. his parents divorce when he's six or seven. mom chooses to return to picturesque mugunghwa. "rewriting our memories," she said

two moves so early on disrupt the growth of his social skills, making kojirō an introverted child reluctant to branch out because he wasn’t sure when he’d have to move again. waiting last in line, defecting to the back row, keeping conversations minimized with answers equally as short. all traits he still keeps

gets into music the same way most people get into music: he likes how it sounds. he values the sense of escape. of flooding the world out to a muted backdrop. being alone but not lonely. sometime amidst all that he discovers he can sing. actually, it’s more like his mom overhears him. she encourages him and even surprises him with his first guitar on christmas day

adolescence is a short but long and disillusioning blur, calcifying in the way it usually is. he doesn't like the feeling of being alone anymore. starts to blame the earlier moves on why he’s struggled to make friends and continues to struggle to make friends now. blames his mother for the earlier moves even being necessary. after all, if she hadn’t cheated on his dad, their family would still be together and they wouldn’t have had to move in the first place. thinking he’s right and affording her no empathy in comes a very catastrophic argument where he tells her how much he hates her and how much she's failed him as a mom. she's still there for him. a mother's love

he decides to start working so he can move out. first is his job as a bartender [as soon as it was legal]. he likes it a lot, eager to meet new people, eager to do something that felt “different”. it’s easy to secure his spot at the hotel too as he can use his dad as a reference. his second job as a line cook isn’t nearly as fulfilling but the pay’s way more consistent because he gets more days. eventually he’s saved up enough for a ragtag studio apartment not too far from what he’s really been eyeing: mugunghwa university

he’s never lost his passion for music despite everything with his mom. if anything, his experiences only strengthen it. plus, it feels like a good way to honor the memory of her. not that she’s died or anything, he had just spent so long blaming her for his inhibitions that it feels impossible to tell her he was wrong. he likes to tell himself she doesn’t deserve the apology anyway but he knows she does. dad told him on his 20th birthday that mom didn’t actually cheat and that he had just said that to get him to hate her. he figures his relationship with mom's been left in shambles for so long, there's no use in making amends. plus dad already apologized in the form of covering his tuition so naturally he should just never speak to her again...?

NOW:

happily enjoys teetering whatever intersection exists between not being popular but also not being a complete outcast. he enforces his jurisdiction with a little cantankerousness a lot of laughing under his breath at other people and voicing his opinions but knowing when to not be a complete asshole

will never apologize to his mom because now he can just recycle the accountability and guilt through his mind like a big slab of granite just weighing him down. this way if he ever catches himself being too happy he can recall the memory of treating her badly alongside their present-day relationship and sober up quickly

longer way of saying he struggles with taking responsibility and with being clear about the things that actually matter. it’s like everything’s made him angry but he’s compressed it all into hot coals and he’s carrying them all with his bare hands but because he’s been carrying them for so long he can’t feel that it’s burning anymore but if he looks down he will see something horrific

so look down he will, of course. but only when he’s alone and only when he can effectively romanticize it through music, otherwise the view is impossible to stomach because he knows he is very much a bleeding heart behind all the internal gymnastics and the façades

despite all this he makes the bartending job work to his advantage. as charismatic as ever when he's behind the counter and a conversationalist the likes of which you have never seen. money acquirer. it's a charm he keeps in his day to day interactions honestly it's just frayed at the edges with the shadow of something heavy that's ambiguous and indiscernible and dispelled therapeutically through being crass and attitude-y

edit: HE'S A MUSIC MAJOR. and he's in the paranormal investigative club i completely forgot to say all of that i am so sorry

i prefer brainstorming alongside each other since i think my ability to form open-ended plots is very lackluster lol 😖 i'm available here on tumblr if you'd like to plot together thank you and happy new year!!!!

[filmgifs]

SPIRITED AWAY (2001) dir. Hayao Miyazaki

[efhemra]

moonflcwrs:

fingers poised against her cheek as her chin sinks into the palm of her hand, miyoung is frivolous in her bearing, blithe coquetry remaining discernibly latent in her tone when she questions, “will you name it after me then?”

“i know the way to your heart?” kojirō asks, leaning in toward her with the same inclination and innateness; gravitational. “really?” 

he’s not sure what to call it, her magnetism. though, thinking about it, he doesn’t want to call it that. metal has the kind of permanence that’s frightening. steel makes the swords sharp and the immovable doors with the heavy hatches. it makes the cars that take you to different places and sometimes accidentally collide. all of it’s just finalities with consequence. it’s not something he wants. especially not here, amidst the infinitesimal space between them that shrinks every second he brings himself closer in his forward slide over the bar. there’s only enough room for the two of them. so much so, in fact, kojirō’s moving his thumb up the mound of her cheek so slowly it’s like he’s got to squeeze it in, be mindful of his wheedling. he tilts her head up, one half of him contemplative and the other half admiring. he taps her chin and murmurs softly, “tell me what it tastes like and i can do that for you. i’ll even leave out all the clichés.” kojirō winks. “i don’t wanna use a drink to tell you how pretty you are, you know? there's better ways i can do that.”

[efhemra]

had his chance come to leave and had he missed it? was any of what he had done the right thing to do? “does it matter?” kojirō asks himself beneath his breath, alone in the bar, spare the overlying, poltergeist sort of feeling that’s clinging to him like wet flesh. where the shadows come in the late hours and encroach upon the room like a looming, indomitable portent revivifying the darkness to its primordial and ingenious perfection. ever malleable and unlimited in its potential, was that really how it all started? how all of this starts. where it starts. drowned in black oblivion, save for a few specks of light that don’t really mean anything until they mean something. sometimes it’s just phosphorescence, other times it’s people. is that the way of the world? if that’s how things go, does it matter? 

when her glass clatters over the counter he’s leaning against, it reminds him he’s not actually alone in the bar. mina’s here, too. as expected. she’s made a habit of it in the last few months and kojirō does what he can to monitor her because he knows she’s been through a lot. eventually, the bar just didn’t have the capacity to carry what she needed to put down—his kinder way of telling her she has to leave. she lingers, he escorts her back to her building. she doesn’t make a fuss like the other patrons. afterwards, kojirō wonders if it’s because she’s already acquainted with the idea of being alone. he doesn’t know what it’s like to lose someone you love, after all. if it really plagues everything. he only knows how to pretend they’ve been lost.

kojirō waves his hand dismissively, tries to pass off his earlier rumination as a broken thought, teases her. “does it matter that much to you?” he asks, fully reemerged into his lazy slouch over the bar as he slides her the drink he’s finished. it’s a mix between red wine he knows she likes, brandy and triple sec liqueur garnished with some oranges he slices in front of her so she can tell him when it’s enough. sangrias are sweet, summery. reminiscent crowd-pleasers. not at all like mugunghwa right now, so maybe she’ll like it. 

“what’d you think i’d do, not tell you?” kojirō tilts his head, quiet for the moment it takes for him to decide how to steer it. he tries softness, looks at her with no inkling of condemnation, only sincerity and warmth. especially warmth. “you don’t deserve that, mina. it’s not fair to you. i know i don’t know much but—i know it’s been hurting you. everything that’s happened. i don’t know why anyone would wanna make it worse for you but—i never would." kojirō huffs and winks. "me and seina, of course.”

@plctwists \ escapism

[joshuasmullet]

yuta serving visuals during 2 baddies promotions ♡

[efhemra]

96ymh:

and now there's the faint crinkle of his eyes, mouth curving slightly. "mm. you don't usually talk this much before you play your music for me. this must either be the worst or the best thing you've ever produced." he hoists himself up onto the counter, and patting the spot next to him is a habit. "we don't have all night."

“nice.” kojirō nods, “very good. thank you.” three of his fingers line up to nurse that spot on his forehead with a consoling rub as he eyes minhyuk. more noticeably than whatever mere corporeality provides, no matter how cohesive and absolute it is.

it means he’s watching minhyuk in a way that’s not just registering the fleece jacket he’s got on, the pants or the shoes. means he’s watching in a way that makes him ponder what he’s like without the glasses; in a way that says he even cares about that. like, is there a reason he’s not smiling? and what can i do to make him smile? watching in a way that doesn’t just imagine the curve of it but the kind of environment it needs to really flourish, his smile. even when kojirō looks away, he’s still looking at minhyuk. scouring the room quietly, trying to see if he’s left traces of his real identity anywhere. maybe stickers on the wall hidden beneath the desk’s countertop so nobody can see or a book he’s checked out from the library with no intentions of returning. could he even get away with doing that? would he want to? would he try? 

“what kind of person are you?” kojirō asks aloud what he means to preserve for the monologue, takes his seat beside minhyuk nevertheless. he tries to save face, “do you like pop, i mean. pop music.” he unwraps the earphones’ wire the same way somebody might loosen a noose. he doesn’t offer the earbud to minhyuk so minhyuk can do it himself, kojirō just does it for him and reserving the mangled, did-a-dog-eat-this-but-his-apartment-doesn’t-even-allow-pets half of the pair for himself, presses play. 

“cyberpop.” kojirō says, a blush of pink inhabiting the dominion of his skin with the fullness of a lamp switched on and flooding a dark room. he gestures vaguely and clears his throat. “it’s— it’s cyberpop. i’m actually playing the guitar myself.” he points to his phone as if to specify where in the song he means. “usually i just use a free vst plugin or something but this time i set up my amp and played. at a studio in busan, though. not my apartment.” he groans, slowly deflating until he’s sprawled out against the tabletop surface in a concerning, up-then-down contortion that slopes the small of his back. kojirō wants to tell him about the old lady who lives across from him. the one who always gets really mad when he’s struggling with his keys or if he’s playing a song above a certain decibel. how even renting the studio for just an hour set him back so much he’s sure he’ll be working another eight years. wants to make conversation. maybe make him laugh. just to see if kojirō’s got it in himself already, whatever it takes to make minhyuk smile.

outright and not in the subtle way, the obfuscated way, the way where maybe it would’ve happened but conveniently, the topic’s changed. 

the song ends and kojirō is helping himself again, hand reached out to minhyuk. over minhyuk. his thumb and the curve of his knuckles brushing lightly against minhyuk’s skin as kojirō retrieves the earbud. lingering, deciding he isn’t afraid and squishing up minhyuk’s cheek with a gentle press of his thumb. he laughs and pulls his hand away, “like it? the song.”

[efhemra]

stageprop:

keep reading

“i don’t know.” dulcet and smiley, kojirō only mirrors her palatability. he knows, of course. the answer. it does mean something to him, occurs to him in some aspect, what they’re doing. greed outweighs it. though, on second thought, is it really greed? maybe there’s a better word for it, he thinks.

maybe insatiability isn’t always hand-in-hand with lust unbridled. maybe there is somewhere helpless gluttony lives alone and commiseration takes its form in another body to push back the solitude. where understanding is a wordless affirmation of mutual desire, her holding him in her hands while he’s peeling down her bra and shearing her blouse. him leaning forward to feel her breasts against him, lowering his legs to sit her in his crisscrossed lap so his fingers could go in-between her like his knee had.

“will you be able to sleep tonight?” kojirō says. he spreads his hand over her slowly, draws his centered line so close, his fingertip kisses right where he wonders how his tongue would feel. if she’d like him tracing her with his mouth the same way he’s remembering the shape of her right now. pushing against her with two fingers—in—stretching them apart—her—slightly, softly. warm through all her diminishing fabrics. he likes that, their vanishing acts. how the magic exceeds their clothing, enchants nari’s touch, the way she’s coaxing him in and out of her hand.

kojirō exhales, “after i’ve done this,” his breath, all fluttery. “after i tell you i don’t care. i really don’t,” he reconnects his fingers between her, twists them to churn in her, steeping his push. “is that bad?” kojirō murmurs. he tilts his head against nari’s to pocket her against his neck, kissing along her temple, rasps. “is it bad that i’m not thinking about it? actually, nari,” his fingers pushing her again, “that’s not true.” his fingers spreading her again. “i am thinking about it, only ‘cause it makes it better, nari. it makes it better.” kojirō confides against her ear, tongue tracing a streak up her skin. “it makes thinking about you underneath me right now, right here, that much better. is that okay?” kojirō coos. he mimicks his own command, shifts his legs so she’s sat closer to him, so his fingers go deeper.  “is that okay, nari?”

[56345643563-deactivated20210707]

I’ve learned that people will forget what you said, people will forget what you did, but people will never forget how you made them feel.

—Maya Angelou

Image by Rich Stapleton

[efhemra]

viragosoul:

that exchange nearly slips her mind as the days pass, throwing herself into the project once the idea gets going. it's only when a flash of ash blonde is comes into her peripheral view that it comes into the forefront of her memory, dark eyes moving from the bottom of her sculpture onto the sight of kojirō at the entrance, widening as they do so. "shit, you were being for real?" she questions with a couple of blinks, then her next thought is something along the lines of how she should have looked more presentable than how she does now ⏤ brunette tresses tossed into a messy bun, on the floor surrounded by wood shavings and decrepit, thrown away planks of wood in several assortments. "well, come on in then. we'll finally get to see if you're more than just a pretty face and a lame mouth," laughter follows as the woman rises to her feet, brushing the wood particles off of her clothes and hands before moving closer, "did you actually come here to learn something or work? or was that just your way of trying to be alone with me?" a raised eyebrow, a set up for another possible punchline.

he knows she’s not taking him seriously, even by the third time he asks to help her out. not that it discourages him, though. the prospect’s like an additive flavor of sorts, a sweetness that hadn’t been there originally. he loves the back and forth between them, hates the idea of it getting too routinely, thinks they need a moment just like this. a pliant one, where he’s more countenance and open-to-suggestion than words and comeuppance. where his face is all tender and a little blank from the lack of expectation, that way when he sees her and his smile grows the way that it does, she knows that it’s her doing. that he’s saying that he really does want to be here, just without saying it—which makes it more meaningful. in his mind, anyway. if he can give her that impression without opening his mouth, it’s fun to imagine what he could do with it open. 

“of course.” kojirō says, like it's an obvious and unassailable truth. “I told you i work two jobs outside of the band, right? i take my freetime very seriously.”

after all, there’s a difference to him in doing something because he really values it and doing something because it’s a learned routine or a survival instinct. spending time with siyeon’s the former. has been since he met her. she comes through the door following along behind minjun to sit in at a practice she didn’t really have to sit in at. makes kojirō think she must feel similarly about time management and its allocation, which is a note he pockets when he starts talking to her. honestly, siyeon dating minjun never mattered to kojirō. ethics did, though. a little.

mainly in the sense of what she’d think of somebody capable of doing that, talking to their bandmate’s girlfriend. so as one could imagine, it’s an inexpressible relief when they break up, though kojirō only suspects something when siyeon is absent from enough practice sessions to make it seem like she’d never come again. he makes a point to seek her out, says he’s concerned about her (because he is. fuck the other guy). makes a point to spare her all the dated truisms he’s sure she’ll hear regardless, consolatory ones about how she deserves better and she’s too pretty for minjun anyway (not really consolatory, actually. just a matter of fact. look at her).

instead he makes it a point to be different, asks her if she’d ever want to come by the bar sometime. the hotel’s a little more lavish, kojirō told her. triply more exciting with him behind the counter too, mixing up whatever’s hottest on all the social media right now. for siyeon, she gets watermelon diced up pretty in a little punch-cup, half-full from a vodka and lemon juice intermixture. what makes it really meaningful is the watermelon itself. it takes a couple days to get it peeled and cut and blended and then to strain the blend. like he said, he takes his freetime very seriously.

gives effort where effort is received.

kojirō stands amongst the riffraff that he’s sure all has a purpose, spares it one glance before returning his eyes to siyeon like he wants her to be the one to enlighten him. he tilts his head, “any chance you’re more partial to one of the two?” he leans in toward her, searches her face for nothing more than the satisfaction of being able to look at her this close and then leans away. “you invited this ‘pretty face’, after all.” he winks. “thanks, by the way. glad i don’t gotta pull teeth to get a compliment from you. the rest of your posse is pretty uppity.” kojirō feigns a bleh sound, rolls his eyes and sits himself down where he’d first spied siyeon, spanning his hands out over the slabs of wood. “so, what are we thinking here? noah’s ark?”

[efhemra]

44m4:

"i, uh..." he hasn't been doing this for very long, so he's not sure what the protocol is. he puts a fist over his mouth when he clears his throat. muyeol extends his hand towards them, the lit cigarette pinched between his fingers. "did you want...?"

\

“did i wanna smoke from the same cigarette you just had in your mouth?” kojirō teases. he leans in toward muyeol, balances the white cylinder between his two, steady fingers. “yeah. naturally.” he takes a long drag just for emphasis, exhales the smoke and then yawns.

kojirō doesn’t really know much about him, the detective’s kid. it’s probably for the best. there was something surrounding jisoo’s death. something amorphous, like a stygian fog that haunted all the brightest outlooks or something else equally foreboding. not that there had even been any real headway made on that front, the investigation, at least to the knowledge of the general public. the police had ruled out any foul play and the world had gone back to the way it was. so if kojirō has to guess, it’s just the feeling that muyeol doesn’t really belong here.

he remembers when muyeol’s dad first joined the police force three years ago, the peculiar feeling it invoked because mugunghwa is really just mugunghwa. small and pretty with the last decade having torn it asunder. jisoo’s death makes everything metamorphose again. detective lee sangwoo spearheads the case and muyeol is suddenly the most obvious person in the world to kojirō, maybe to a lot of people. obvious because of his dad, what his dad’s doing. not that kojirō knew him or could afford to judge him or compare him to whatever arbitrary idea of “normal” people imagine when deploying the word normal. muyeol just feels like a sore thumb. someone kojirō can’t really place.

“what’d you think?” he means about the party. it was a ragtag assembly of twenty-somethings in another twenty-something’s apartment, bonded by beer and whoever’s phone had been sacrificed to the music stereo. kojirō was there because he just happened to be there, really. he flicks off some ashes and passes the cigarette back. “your dad get mad about this kind of stuff by the way? they always make cop parents really tense in the tv shows.”

[lixdejun]

‘Ay-Yo’ #YUTA

〖Ay-Yo - The 4th Album Repackage〗

➫ 2023.01.30 (KST)

[efhemra]

there’s something i’m remembering. it goes like, “savor it” and “nothing lasts”. it sticks with me. i see the moment her body relinquishes its flesh like it was a burden, like it was something to let go of, something where its going away was a celebration. i remember a million things i would be better off forgetting. a million things that will never serve me willingly; never kindly. i remember things no one else does. the times you turn away. the times you don’t believe me. the times you laugh. i spend forever right now thinking about what comes next. it goes like, “am i really here without you” and “i didn’t think i would be”. afraid of surprises, wanting to know what happens, wishing things were ⸺ ?

PATHOS, my conceptual moodboard for ikeda kojirō, based on the philosophy of impermanence. the time between seconds, the sun kissing the land, transitional moments and the language we use to personify them, how we might best migrate through their phases, the unnavigable “don’t know what”, the “just that feeling”, the “yeah, i get you”, human empathy as a universal possibility. and truth

@mgufm, 10 points

[efhemra]

stageprop:

keep reading

“yeah,” kojirō indulges her fully, unabashed and especially curious about what he could do with where she put his hands on her body. “you did.” his tongue slips free again, wraps a loose enough coil around her thumb and tugs it into his mouth. he keeps his eyes on her like at this point, she’s the only reason he even has them. “scared me really bad.” kojirō murmurs, leading his hand around the shape of her, the same way he’s seen sculptors do. she’s better than art.

he keeps his hand on her hip and dips her fingers past the waist of her skirt, splays his fingers over her skin slowly. it’s like he’s trying to understand her, get to know her better. get to know if she likes his hand underneath her thigh, likes his fingers moving along until they’re in-between her thighs. if she thinks it feels good when he’s pulling her thighs part, his hand then cupped underneath one of her knees so he could keep it on his own hip. he sits up more and fixes his own knee, so that it can support the straddle he helps her end up in. a makeshift perch that he’s kneading into her gently, still wondering what she thinks, if she likes it. if it feels good, the spot where he’s put it, his knee.

there is probably something contemptible about all of this. there is, surely. how contemptible, though, was always subjective. everyone dies. nari and him even laughed about it before coming in here. the process is so normalized the room goes back to being a room once the police are done with it. it’s just got more history now. kojirō brings his hands around her body again, slides them up from under her knees so he could hold her hips with his pressing thumbs. he pulls one of his hands back to reach for her’s, holds her hand close so she could help him take his shirt off. “were you trying to get even?” kojirō asks, leaning in to actually kiss her, that one hand cradling her cheek while the other goes up her back, skims the edge of her bra. "did it work?"

[voirlvmer]

Grief is a very complex machine, it told me so itself, a matrix that takes years                            A. to navigate                            B. from you like teeth

Caitlin Scarano, from “I know we’re all sick of poems with deer but let me explain”, The Necessity of Wildfire

[efhemra]

she’s really special to him. 

if he thought about it anymore, he might be better equipped to entitize those feelings and make them graspable. beyond the subtleties, beyond the gestures inscrutable to everyone else. it’s a weird, incommunicable idea, that seina’s special because of how kojirō acts (is?) right now. that once upon a time, he had very much been the kid hiding behind his mom like he was afraid of the rest of the world. once that world had transitioned to white corridors, however, with their inevitable, horizontal streak of color brushing through their center as if to insist there was life residing between those barren walls, he had changed.

seina, he remembers himself greeting her, his hands meticulously cleaned and fumbling around the shape of a nintendo ds, sky-blue. remembers how eagerly he’d fit himself to her bedside. look at this, he means the 2d too-cool-to-him-to-really-be-monster shapes on the handheld’s screen. it’s new, too. my mom got it for me. look, i caught a zangoose already. do you wanna play? you gotta use mine ‘cause i can’t make another thing. he had meant a save file. but you can still play, here! oh, actually, seina, check this place out. i got here yesterday. i really like the music. it reminded me of you.

calming, somehow nostalgic, like an unforgettable moment seized by freezing time, where it then metamorphosed into the most precious crystal imaginable. he still sees their reflections there in the gem, carries it with him even when he’s ground his mom out of the jewel like a preform. it looks better like this, anyway. feels way more rewarding. if the crystal’s still shining it’s because he’s making sure it’s polished. no more car rides to playdates or phone calls set up by mom because he’s been having a hard time leaving the house; hard time making new friends. everything right now comes from his own effort.

honestly, kojirō could always find a way to brute-force himself into optimism. 

“you listened to the song, right?” he asks, a polaroid hung from the strap around his neck. he’s currently leading the pair the rest of the way that his car couldn’t drive into a remote woodland where he’d left the rest of his set-up. “i think i want a… i dunno. i want something halloweeny. haunted. creepy. in a weird, mysterious but enchanting way, like a forest fairy. i haven’t mixed in the vocals yet but the lyrics are…” he glances at her, rolls his eyes, shrugs embarrassedly. “emo. i guess. but upbeat. and then i’m gonna… submit it… i think.”

@dulcetcure \ green world

[jjsungie]

Yuta - Hello

for @yuutopiaa​

[efhemra]

stageprop:

"what even is this?" she squints at the stuff he's covered in. even with just the pale moonlight illuminating everything, she can see it's red. she stares at him for a second, expression obscured by all that darkness. the tear tracks on her face no longer match the look in her eyes. she already knows what it is, but she leans back down, slower. "syrup?" she asks in a low whisper, licking up the underside of his jaw where some of the crimson liquid had splashed.

“i thought you said you were gonna stop doing pranks like that,” kojirō groans. “there’s a difference between fake blood and making me think…—” he pauses. he doesn’t really know what he thought had happened. any chance at recollection also withered away when the space separating them did.

nari reminds him of silk like this. at any time, truthfully, but especially like this. the way she drapes over him, familiar and opulent. even if someone had never touched silk before, looking at it was enough to give you an idea of how it felt. downy, unmistakable, really good. he tilts his head to encourage more of the attention she’s sparing him and eases his chin up to welcome her to the slope of his neck.

“it is syrup,” he murmurs, his head turned toward her now to reciprocate the pleasure, words coming slowly so that every movement of his mouth could double as grazing kisses. “grenadine, to be specific. like it? i’m thinking about using it for some special halloween cocktails.” he breathes into her skin like a confidant, shifts himself so he’s more on his elbows and his legs are upright to ensure she has all the support she needs to stay in the center of his lap.

“it’s pretty good, right?” though he’s not really asking, just using words so that she’ll use words and he can detect any stutter in her breath when he’s up against her ear like this. “sweet, but not too sweet,” he punctuates with a kiss on her cheek that welcomes itself to the rest of her skin with true reverence until his lips are playing against the edge of her own. “a little citrusy.” his tongue drags over her bottom lip. kojirō brings their foreheads together with the help of his hand guiding her to him and whispers against her,

“reminds me of you, actually.”