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Omaru kisses with an open mouth and soft, eager lips.
When Toko closes her eyes, she thinks of the fairytale princes she used to dream of in her childhood—but there’s none of the bite, none of the cruelty or the disgust. There’s only curiosity, and fingers that trill a path up Toko’s thigh, and a hand curling delicately around Toko’s cheek.
It’s weird.
When Komaru breaks, it’s just to breathe and promptly leap back in, her inhales low mewls, her eyes perfectly-kissed shut crescent moons fuzzed by her eyelashes. Her nose tickles Toko’s. Her lips are plush, moist. She’s never kissed anybody before Toko and somehow it doesn’t even matter. She’s so sweet. Toko could rot herself on her, could sink her teeth in, but it’s better, like this, it’s good, with Komaru’s arms looped around hers and her breaths slow and sure.
She’ll rest her palms on the small of Toko’s back and lean into her, her exhales secretive. She’ll comb her fingers through Toko’s hair. She’ll nuzzle into her and draw kisses down her neck, and pull herself so close that their hearts beat together. Toko’s clumsy and clueless and pretty sure she was straight up until a scant while ago, and Omaru waits for her. Omaru holds her and giggles when Toko covers her shameful face or stumbles out a compliment that sounds like an insult. Omaru just twines herself around her, catlike in her comfort, in her trust, and then they lay together.
Toko likes that, when they’re side-by-side, their palms laid flat, fingers knit. Two halves becoming whole, or whatever. Komaru brings out the real creep in her, the one who could actually stay like this, who could close her eyes without minding the proximity.
She’d kill for Komaru. She has killed for Komaru. She’d do it again, too, she would. Komaru’s all honeysuckle and ivy. Pink cheeks and sweet smiles and just enough bite to get a real kick out of.
Her eyes linger on Toko when she catches her staring. And then she leans in and kisses her again.
Toko kisses like a… psychopath. Her lips are like dull scissors, chapped and worn down and jagged. Jagged! Who knew a mouth could be so full of angles? But it kind of aches, and when Toko’s excited it really aches later, but it kind of feels good, too, in a way. Like Komaru’s being stained with her.
That’s kind of gay. Komaru’s really gay, it turns out. And maybe she likes the force that Toko uses on her. Maybe she likes nail-bitten fingers gouging her skin and awkward, fumbling kisses. Maybe she likes the passion that’s so desperate it’s gawky. Maybe she likes spit and sharp teeth and a thick tongue.
Toko’s strong. Her arms wrap around Komaru, and Komaru’s safe. She’s cared for. She’s loved, and protected, and whole. She could be up against the world, and yet, with Toko, she knows the world will fall first. (Genocide Jill kisses like a psychopath, too.)
But all of that’s no fair to Toko. It makes her sound mean, or cruel. She’s the total opposite of that. She blushes like mad when Komaru hugs her, and half the time she has to squiggle out of the embrace so she can stuff her face in her hands and hyperventilate a little—they’ve come a long way. Toko’s protected Komaru even when it went against her own heart—although, okay, maybe not, not if Komaru really is part of her heart, now. She can be really gentle, too. Soft as moonlight, when she thinks she’s hurt or upset Komaru, when she has a bad dream and she accidentally wakes Komaru up and she buries her head in her, and she’s still and quiet and almost, almost shivering.
She’s loving, too. She is. She wrote a poem for Komaru that Komaru isn’t allowed to show anyone (on punishment of death, naturally, if she dares). She spent a stint sleeping outside Komaru’s bedroom door just to make sure nothing happened to her. Until Komaru found out and begged her to at least sleep inside of the room, anyway.
She’s kind. She doesn’t think she is. Komaru’s told her plenty of times, while she gazes up at Toko, her head resting in Toko’s lap, her arms wound around her waist. Toko says, No, no, she’s filth, she can’t be kind. And it breaks Komaru’s heart a little.
The Ultimate Writing Prodigy is awfully bad with words, despite herself.
But she responds well to the pads of Komaru’s fingers, tucking behind her head. To the trace of her lips and her exhale, and her smile.