Kurosaki the Youngest would hang him in a cupboard, had the house afforded one that was tall enough for a person, but wide enough to be a prison and be reminded when he breathed.
Had the walls made him silent if there was mutiny behind the reams.
Had no one ever questioned why one of them was avoided, like something that ought to rot had a comeback and bore a vengeance.
And had the easiest thing in the world be hiding him behind a saucepan that she would palm, reconsider and maybe, just to fuck him, burn breakfast at the iron, serve it — anyway, and lose him for something better.
She wouldn't argue that it wasn't.
Because he wronged her of all her favorites — he robbed her of a plate of breakfast; he took a baseball and swung it, then what shattered was her stomach. And everything she might've had if you asked her, How's your brother?
There was no reason to be devout or to cast retribution for her existence on this earth when she would swallow, and then regret it.
But here she was.
Here she were.
Here was judgment without a word.
Here was anguish for a spoon.
Confession for a knife.
Horror upon a plate.
Her lies were a fork.
There was nothing, emphasis — place it where it mattered — on her lips, at her brow, and then the tremor near her mouth.
Glancing at her options.
Wobbling for a pass.
Biting at the edges to give her something that wasn't that.
As there was nothing more convincing, or telling for that matter, that this was breakfast when it wasn't to any sensible human being.
But she'd swear it upon the gods that this was perfect.
That she would eat it.
That she would lie, like a father who'd never tell you where he came from, because there were deities, there were monsters, there were voices through the realms.
There were worlds you never knew of, there was danger at his house, that could switch that had you wanted — in an instant, unopposed — if a plate of breakfast didn't remind you that you were a timer about to blow.
If surrender was not an option for a mortal: there was toast, there was sausage, there was miso, there was mackerel you wouldn't touch — if it was the only thing to have for breakfast, and you were hungry for a god, and you were spiritual, not religious, when you refused him a single bite.
If prayer was an answer, perhaps the phone line had never rung while you bounced around a morsel, and swore you had enough, and spared sympathy, and would roll it around your fork.
Because you would be breakfast come tomorrow for the things you wouldn't know, if a plate breakfast didn't remind you that you were a prequel for a ghost. And because Aizen, Ginjou, Yhwach and the world — or Butterfly, Motherfucker, Arrow Shooty Bang-Bang and the universe at its worst when you were the youngest Kurosaki — couldn't slap him around the head on what was breakfast in the morning, a little sister without her powers would have to fuck him until he knew.
Like he was a saucy, little pan with a penchant for burning shit.
Like he was an apron, always fighting, when her fingers were behind her back.
Like he was a stain that metal wool couldn't bully from a plate.
Like he was an insolent, little fucker she couldn't season to her taste and now, the breakfast was getting colder and her family needed plates, and he was pesky to her fork and wouldn't reason with salt and pepper.
That there was nothing stopping her from finishing where others failed.
Because there was nothing, emphasis — taste it where you could; her brother ought to know it from all the fights he might've won if he was fighting with what he got, instead of fighting from the heart — was scarier than disappointment from someone he really loved. And someone he wouldn't fail, if everything was against them.
If it was that easy to pull it off, if it was that easy to beat her brother, if it was that easy to weigh him down like every villain upon his shoulders, she would twist him around in knots like an apron that wouldn't break.
Cutting circulation.
Keep him from his hands.
It was easier just to rob him instead of asking, Did you lose your head? or Ichi-nii, around a pout, Please tell me you aren't serious.
Once he shook around the prison made of flesh, family, and bone and looked her in the eyes – Get me out of this, hear him laugh, as if morals, affection, deliverance, love, and every weakness below the sun were the answer for her existence and why the Youngest stayed alive, instead of pieces laid to rest – that there was nothing wrong with him.
But breakfast said he was.
In that Kurosaki, from all the likes, was a utensil no religion would fucking mess with or endorse that he wouldn't burn the things you loved.
If you allowed him the entire kitchen.
Every morning.
Without fail.
And remember, his little sister wasn't Jesus in Valhalla. Or Buddha, with all her patience, had she witnessed a piece of Hell. Or that genie inside a rock, that was married to all of Aizen, when the things that weren't breakfast were almost ready to be plated.
Hear him murmur, There you are and You'll love this and That will do while foraging through the kitchen, through a cupboard, for a spice that made him pucker around a smile that earned the envy of every star.
And when he found it…
In the half-light.
Somewhere behind a rack of every flavor he couldn't name, unless a name without a start but ended with an -hmmm caught him around a finger, then herding him between the covers of a warm lovely nest where he could taste this for what it was while he savored biting lips.
It was a secret that the world wouldn't notice upon the tongue, but his own would surely taste it when there was plenty from the mouth.
…he was ready for the flourish.
Breakfast was served.
He wasn't hungry for anything, if you didn't ask him the right question.
Kurosaki wasn't religious or devoted to anyone, or believed there was a god and salvation when he died. But he ought to be when he whispered to all the pieces on the plates.
What was it, if not worship, to someone he knew by name? What was it, if not affection, in the most honest sort of way?
That Kurosaki would bang the doors of every person to preach her name, and ask if they heard of her, and beg that they do, because it was the easiest thing in the world to light him up with the right answer.
That what was it, if not his heart, finding another and calling her home when she lost hers to a desert but found it through a boy?
No, a man.
No, a god had you asked her.
No, a monster that wore the wool and the language of a soul that wasn't splintered when she found it in the winter, years ago.
That was Kurosaki.
That was the envy if the world knew that one of its saviors carried breakfast for someone it never would, but someone he always would, someone he'd always hunt, someone he'd always chase from a desert to his arms.
With swords, biting, tearing where it mattered, deeper than a knuckle and tighter around a keen, fisting, hissing more than pleasant pleasantries, and proclamations without a sound when he thought he had her, but she had he — in a righteous, Nothing personal, not a whispered, There you were, following the preparations for a breakfast from the heart.
The mackerel had a color.
The sausages had a bounce that would snap them from a platter, and you'd find them through a window.
The miso was a mirror for a puddle: well-disturbed.
Then the toast — then he broke it along a knife and yes, he shook — demanded a pat of butter. And he ignored it.
What a prick.
But when he smiled, he was anything but a selfish little bitch.
He was nothing, if not a lover, while he plated a hearty breakfast.
He was something.
Merely something.
An entire word would be invented, as there were some things you couldn't pinpoint while pinning him with an adjective.
A new one, in a language known only to himself and someone he might've mentioned as the moonlight to his mornings, encapsulated all the teeth, charcoal, raw leather feast crossing what he carried and how he tiptoed like a mouse, dusted from all his breathing and sun-kissed for a bite, prey inside his home while wandering to a trap.
Because all of it — his steps, the bowl, his breath, the platter, his murmur, the plate, and then a grin, these items that a sister would want to wrestle and fucking burn them, and a brother she would stare at as he was a walking fairytale bursting through the pages of a story she used to bookmark — weren't breakfast for a human.
No, the world wouldn't disagree.
It wasn't breakfast for himself, but he'd taste it for a queen.
Had he asked her, You must be hungry? when he whispered: There you are, she'd prod him, So are you, and eat somewhere near his mouth.
Just to wrench him with a fang and reel him and his soul down a soft, unforgiving mess of her throat. And ask him if he was scared, a pattern for her to trace would outline every litter of her biting along his lip, and he would tell her to leave a mark where it made it the hardest for him to speak.
Because there was nothing to be afraid of when a monster had her fill; there was nothing that could chase him from the valley of his own death, if dying brought him closer to a monster he shouldn't have.
Because he — I love you, he was either religious or a god to play with danger and a devil, like she was a flower without a thorn; I want you, he was past the part of feeling guilty for his heart, I want you just like this, you're going to kill me, he'd give his breath — been a martyr for too long, that it was more fun to be alive.
Live like every moment was a story they often tell, of life finding a way when it was easier to remain still.
As all of it, and none of it, and bits of it were as so, and as everything he encountered led him to the wild of rippled sheets, a sagging bed, and a curled Sleepy Beauty: this would never be a breakfast for anyone but his world, this would always be the breakfast for a monster who had his soul, these were always the kind of mornings that graced him to her hands, and these were the moments neither missed while awake, while asleep.
She could smell him through a desert and the remnants of a dream. Haunting all her senses, like she was hunting for a beast, the bitterness wore a name. Fear, she'd call it had he asked her what she was craving, had an ashy withered taste that was rubbery when something died.
But delicious — all the same — when it ruptured in her mouth, could you blame her if she tore it open, like she was thirsty and about to drown? Could you blame her if she stole a bite, just to wear it around her mouth, just to bump to every monster that they were a fool to cross her kingdom? And if a part of her wasn't missing where something would've rose, had you asked her what was special about this breakfast and she was shown, could you blame her for the sight?
Her crusty ocean met a fire — no, a desert; no, a forest, seconds away from winter but had the colors of a harvest — from where she was, where she was buried on a pillow that was fucking thin but had the indent where another must've shared it while she slept, as there were whispers and a finger and an entire human cheek beside her own while she rested before she tilted to meet a flame.
She was shrouded beneath a shirt she had stolen and won't return unless someone brave enough had the balls to peel it off, unless someone wasn't scared of having his wrist between her claws, unless someone brought a challenge that would palm her to the middle, and have her wiggle, have her squirm, have her forfeit to a thumb that would pinch, roll, and bite around a swell and be a dick, until she had no choice but to tear this and throw a t-shirt at their head, and then was breathless upon a whisper of soft, fervent praise that ruined her with every press and found that mercy had a name.
Then the tombstone of her hair, then the flowers for a mask tempted to tell a finger that it was unfortunate to be an idiot as her senses, perhaps a dozen of razor jutting edges, and the remnants of a jaw she hadn't used for quite a while but wouldn't you be a fool if you thought it would never hurt you, met a knuckle and a wrist and a palm and a kiss that could pound her through the mattress had they wanted when they grabbed, or the headboard or the wall or the floor when they chased, before she was face-to-face with a monster that some would call an angel.
Before she murmured, Motherfucker, for being a victim within her home, and then quieter at her breath, You're just like the rest of them.
If she was that easy for a reaper, if hunting her was game when trying to tame her wasn't justice but determining if she could be saved, a cero would leave her lips before anyone made her theirs.
That was the hollow way, she would say, It's the only way to survive.
That Grimmjow was a beast, though her body well-disguised every shithead and alpha reek that she tore the limbs off for a bite and everything, had you asked her, she'd do again to win it all.
She was half-alight with all her instincts telling her to run, telling her to get the high ground just to pin this reaper fuck. But half of her thought it better just to sit back, then enjoy — once she realized who this was, Kurosaki wore a smile that made her human, for a moment, as he nestled right beside her.
As another weight upon the mattress, another weight upon her thighs, he parted through her hair and found himself within her eyes. The embodiment of what she lost when she was the world between his hands, and he was the universe holding her up when it was easy for her to drown. And he saw her for what she was — when a mirror wasn't kind — when she crooked, tried to meet him, and met him halfway when he bumped against her forehead, and breathed her in, because she was beautiful the way she was.
That if at any time should he ask if she believed him or what they were, and if she told that she didn't and knew it was an answer that she could choose, he'd whisper it a thousand times, through his actions, to make it true.
As he was an orange she ought to peel, if there was something she wanted to eat that was healthy — but not too healthy — or she'd gag before she ate. And he was an orange she could snap between her jaws: skin and all.
To feel him bleed and he would let her, and remind her that she was strong, and that a strong hollow needed breakfast to have the world at her feet.
Thus, he made her favorites: sausages in the sun, mackerel-smelling charcoal, miso that tasted raw, and toast with all its edges reminding her of orange rinds.
But if you asked her about this breakfast, if you asked her what was special about a meal never needed when she could prowl for any soul, she'd whisper that you were an idiot, and would leave it just like that, for a monster ought to bloom if they were blessed with every morning of their mate bearing breakfast and being delicious enough to eat.
That Grimmjow was a thorn, tempted to meet her equal, and neither skin nor a breath could stop her when she pricked him. That mangled at her lips was Kurosaki when he noticed; mine, mine and mine were insistent with every beating, that it was a battle between a monster and a monster's daring god when he fought back — without his teeth — and strained the collar of her shirt; and then everything was a word and only one word at her mouth when there was nothing that important but Ichigo when he whined.
[PICTURE]
Because he was open, he was easy, he was Bite me and Bite me slow and Bite me – I can take it and Harder, leave a mark, and he was straddled at her hips when she noosed him around her arms and knew how gentle he could be while smothered to her breasts, and the only way he could breathe was to kiss her and bite her back, before the conscious in his head knew the contour of her mouth, wiping and taking and feasting on his soul, when that would whet the appetite and made her hungry for even more.
Because Kurosaki brought the world: the remnants were at his hands, and there was the iron bitterness of a corpse without its organs. From where he touched her, and she smelled it, and he'd tell her, Here I am.
As he was nothing, if not a monster as she pierced him with her thumb, and heard him whine a lovely white before tasting more than lips.
Then Kurosaki, the monster while the brother was half-alive and trying to reason what a royal would want to finger for a bite, didn't ask her if it was selfish for him to want her, for him to love her, for him to have her — just like this — when the world was blue in color.
That the pretty words were only foreign if she heard them said aloud, but they weren't when he teased her and had her open beneath his palm, widening and prying and vying with every hook of either an ankle or a foot when he traced the inside of her thigh, and knew the labyrinth just ahead and was thankful to every god that he was alive, he was happy, and was at the table for a meal.
The pretty words were never spoken when he peeved her with all the patience of a man damned to love every part of her — that he took it slow — and he felt the lightning of her power; she had a nasty little habit of stealing all his thoughts when she tugged him to be rougher, faster, harder, drag her; reined him, scratched him, brutal on his scalp, as she was not a thing to be admired when his mouth had better uses, as he would tell her certain things were even better once you've waited.
Bullshit, she bucked him. Then there was nothing she could say, not when the world was a ceiling and the ripple he caressed, and the weight of him at the juncture where her thigh met her hip, and the sunrise — and the sunset — of him listening for her breaths and him watching the way she lost it when he twisted inside of her and hearing her feel for him, for his hair, to thank him when her mouth would fail.
Pretty words weren't foreign, and they almost never were, when they were a prequel to something dangerous between a human and a monster.
He was the reason for her gentleness, though the cursing was a highlight.
She was the reason he was mischief brought to bone, flesh, and blood.
He was the reason she couldn't fight him with her usual thing for blood, as he was a fragile sort of thing that the world wouldn't have again.
She was the reason he wasn't a pawn for anyone but himself: free to move, free to change, free to dodge compared to kill, and free to be — and merely be — without a worry that this was wrong.
They were the reason either existed when one of them should've died; mortality was half the answer and the other half was rather simple.
He could shatter what they had, be the savior people wanted. But would never dream of it while there were moments, while there were moments she would hide behind her wrist or at her elbow when he showed her she was divine, that she thought he would once he realized there were some things she couldn't give.
She was a monster.
He was a human.
There were some things they couldn't share. And wasn't that the only rule between the rulers and the ruled?
Gods — and your god, and the only god you'd ever pray to when every other would ignore you for the things you couldn't change, but your lorde had the patience to love you when you strayed — could always end you for something trivial, no matter what you've done.
No matter if you were good, they could punish you for your faults.
That maybe, perhaps, hear this out — he wasn't finished: hear him whisper on his knees before he crawled to meet her elbows; hear him murmur at the thought of her before he loosened what she held.
She wasn't bleeding at her wrist, but he kissed her as if she did, and then he offered if she wanted a bite when his own wrists were upon her. Narrow, blemished, corded, unbitten — not the bait to lure a monster, not a trick to see her follow, but finding promise when a hunter had their fill and would share their food, and it was the most hollow of all the languages.
She made a noise of trepidation, of You trust me but there was a question, and there was an answer and forgiveness when Kurosaki showed her how to bite him.
His square, rounded teeth were cotton compared to fangs, but he left weighty angry marks that had him blushing around his veins. And when he stilled, when a tremor had him moving when he couldn't, when Grimmjow bit the other and could feel his heartbeat fucking drop, when Kurosaki lowered his eyes when she lifted to grab the sun and nit the places she must've missed with an ardent sort of worship, wasn't that one of the reasons why he would 'suade her to hunt him first?
Like something strong without a worry, wanting the other to eat him up, and know that nothing would ever change how much he felt for her. That while he moved her and settled in, while she gnawed him to the bone, or to the pulsing little rhythm catching within her mouth, he quietly wore at the outskirts of her jaw, then the other, then he lavished every fang along her cheek, before nosing farther south until he could almost hear her heartbeat.
If she hadn't lost it, but he could share.
He had plenty — he could grow his back — that some would call him a messiah when she would call him, You little shit, for hiding it behind a ribcage, behind a button-up that she couldn't scratch.
That she would whisper pretty words, and a prettier line of sighs, to distract him before thumbing, before feeling him to his neck, before snagging around a button that a part of her had to rip, but a part of her merely toyed to get him riled with where she bumped.
As he was hiding the little ones — his every heartbeat — beneath his shirt. But not with talons when she met him, on the stairwell of his back, and behind his nape, where he met the others trying to read him like a book, would he fight this. So he thumbed, so he pried where she couldn't, and knew her eyes never left him when every button parted ways.
He heard a noise of satisfaction that made him the main course on her plate, only because he paused before he slowly raised an eye. And there was little to no color around the hunger within her eyes.
She wouldn't help him had he asked, so he asked her anyway. And was insufferable, taunting, mouthing that he'd run away, that she scratched him.
Ripped the collar.
Every button must've burst.
Tore it off; he had no shirt.
Throw it out, Grimmjow watered.
Because there he was: her god, her savior. And here she was: fed and favored. And if not, perhaps the world would have something to be afraid of when half the words out of her mouth were a growl meeting flesh.
A vindictive, strong, vicious, a mouthful of what it was like to incite a woman who could trap him beneath the covers, who could bring him to Hell and back with the way she thrusted for his marrow and knew the taste of it through the flesh when she marred him for a picture, the way she cackled and threw her neck at the onslaught above her skin when he bruised her with every flourish of him rolling around her breasts, like they were the only things he could anchor when she was a storm at his back, and the way she was drowning within their bed if Kurosaki hadn't held her, hadn't chased her to a pillow, hadn't brought her to the surface, hadn't told her that she was beautiful.
None of this was gentle.
The definition didn't exist.
Until it was right there, next to love.
Until he told her, You're a mess.
What was a savior supposed to do when she was happy within their bed, rosied in every way that promised nothing to the imagination, starving though she had him for a snack before her breakfast, and asking for another when he settled at his toes and was leaning back for her to wander across his body for what was next?
When she touched him, the weight of him was a solid thing of heat for her to puncture, had she wanted, when she felt him for his heart. And thought it was easier just to reel him, from kneeling at her hips to falling down until he caught her, hands where she wanted. That it was one thing to have done it, had he stumbled and it was earnest.
It was another had she offered, if the only answer was a Must, when she pulled him — and what a wait; it was impossible for him to miss all the blushing, the landings, the firmness where he bruised her, and that was everywhere she wanted when he palmed and he was gentle and he was easy on her breasts while she narrowed her eyes to tease him — to say there was nothing wrong with this.
Kurosaki…
Ichigo – breakfast could fucking wait; a noise of appreciation tilted her bitten neck; a noise of satisfaction had her fisting behind his head; a noise he'd always remember accompanied the way she reeled, and then her other hand was at his hair and tried to muss him to look like her, though impossible when he felt her, though he lowered anyway and wore the halo of her hands when he parted for a kiss, for she was the moon he'd eclipse, and he was a star she ought to catch, and he looked to her with all favor of a planet caught in orbit, with nowhere he'd rather be than to be here when he breathed – You missed a spot.
She murmured: there was mercy on her tongue, salvation was alight with how he'd survive on these alone and knew her words had the power to make him weaker than he was. Knew her words could destroy him, but there were bloodier ways than that.
Because trembling, shaking, bouncing and unafraid when he saw her tilting her up, was her reflection in his gaze.
That the underside of her mask parted slightly from her cheek, that the smile on her face was lifted for just a moment, but she was grinning at her mouth while he darted between her teeth and the fangs she always wore when she was a monster in their midst, and found the valley between the two where milk and honey were said to pour.
If that was God's intention when he promised he would kiss her, none of it was in words — he leaned, she didn't stop him, she pulled him into the crack, and Kurosaki was just a man when he met her where he did.
Slowly.
Surely.
Mounting.
All-consuming.
Tilting.
Biting.
An addiction told in parts.
At the juncture where she was sensitive, she'd grab him until he shook, and steal him from the world like Prometheus with the gods, just to have him within her valley and never let him go.
He could never run away.
She ruined him and his mouth, that it was impossible to deny himself from the reiatsu behind her jaw and the ancient power that reminded him that they were more alike than they were not.
As they were monsters feigning human, they were human with a but, as soon as he felt her and her jaws trying to bite him to the bone, as soon as she felt him and a talon trying to peel her into seams and what she had stolen was curtain he had to feel through to really touch her, and she was an open dirty book for him to comment without abandon.
For these were the stories never seen, but told often like a warning, and the sort he wouldn't know unless it pinned him into a street, and called him every word that she would write on him — then he'd bleed — that this was real, this was love, this was everything they were devout.
With all their soul.
With all their mouths.
With all the laughter they had in both, when nothing really mattered — at the heart of it — at their home.
That if someone asked her, Out of everyone, and would ask her if she could listen when she was busy — too busy — playing with her man, Was it worth it – was it worth him – being your equal to have him like this?
That she'd answer, Motherfucker.
Like it was the easiest thing in the world. Like she wasn't rolling him, or a piece of him, somewhere around her mouths.
While slicing him on her mask, flecks of him were on her bone, and that useless cavity beneath his fingers had a purpose when he'd ask her, Bear me mercy, while trailing what he'd done to her and that was mercy from a lorde when any deeper would've killed her, but she'd tell him that it wasn't when she was proud to wear his scar. And not for the first time could she taste it — her heartbeat upon his tongue, rounding every edge that tried to bite her like he must — when he stole it without a promise that maybe one day, she'd have it back.
So she bit him.
Hard.
Drew him farther from her heart, that the taste of him wasn't bitter but veering at every tug, that she could sense the way he raced.
It wasn't fear.
But rather, blood.
It was the blood between her lips when she tore him to make them equal. Dotting, what a waste when she'd rather that he lick it off, were his thumbprints beneath her chin, against her neck, across her collar like she missed a bite of breakfast and he promised that she was beautiful, smudging where the blood told the world who he belonged to. And at her breath, before she licked him, before she thrusted, felt a cut, and knew the shape of it like a mirror to her monstrous appetite, Kurosaki was a corpse while the soul of him traded mouths.
She never lost him to the world, not when the world was their bed and everything they unmade to know the other would still exist.
That it was worth it to be his equal when there were others she must've missed. That it was worth it — to love him, to hunt him and know it'd last, to feel him through a weakness that made her powerful, to finish him so thoroughly that people found it cruel when there were other ways to kill him, than to bite him where she wanted, but did it matter when she was gentle and had him grasping at her shoulder and asking if she would deliver on his pulse?
She riled him up.
That it was painful.
He needed —
He was a thrusting ugly mess; forgiveness was her finger at his waistband and pajamas. Forgiveness was a talon that was almost going to kiss him. And retribution was her hand when she wound him to her wrist and asked him, What are you waiting for? and getting, You, between his teeth and getting eyes that knew she liked it when he was interesting in mid-defeat.
There's a word for this, ever-brilliant he'd always amaze her when she thought he lost, but if losing meant a woman as powerful as the night would hold him to her favor and ask him, Another bite?
There was a word for this — and perhaps, the world never found it until now; because it was too busy pointing faults and never noticed the way they loved — when Kurosaki, when Ichigo, once he told her he had a name and how his last one was long enough to miss the breakfast that he made, mouthed the edges of her bite and pressed her where he wanted, and knew that breakfast had to wait when his own was staring at him.
You scare me, Kurosaki couldn't look away if he wanted. And she knew that; it was an honor that any monster would want to hear.
To hear him say it with all the reverence of a deity at her ear, who'd amuse her and love her for the monster she chose to be and bless her and bribe her for commandments at his ear. That it made her nicer, kinder, looser — if that was the word — when all of her became an arch, when all of her knew a thumb that knew precisely where to touch her when he whispered to every god,
I shouldn't have this.
Then he buckled at the weight of her on his bones, writhing for a pound of purchase and hiding her from the world; he was a piston that she could trigger while yanking at his hair, and her pretty words — they were maddening — drove him farther past her hip.
You're the worst of me, turned to something I – I want to need.
Then the victory at her mouth made him redder when he noticed, that the challenge about to tip made him bury before she burrowed, wound her fingers where she did, and tore the backside of his hips with her heels bearing down.
What am I supposed to do?
He was earnest with every plea.
I want this.
He bucked her.
She rode him, wore a grin that rented the inside of his mouth and when he swore.
Do it again.
I want to wear you for what you are.
That was a promise until he died, and he almost — she nearly lost him when the sound of her was too much.
That she whispered the only thing that would save him while alive, but kill him — just a little — to feel him shaking between her thighs and feel him bursting like a bubble when she hung him around the neck.
With her mouth.
Her eyes.
Her satisfaction.
Good boy.