Uragirimono no Hisou na Sakebi
There are a million ways to die, but when Ichimaru Gin sees the tortured agony that's etched upon his former fukutaichou's bony face coupled with the curiously violent mix of anger, relief, and disbelief within those hollow cerulean eyes; when he hears the almost inaudible cadence of sanguine drops meeting the ground beneath their feet, eerily in time with the harsh, anguished pants that escape Izuru's pale throat; when he feels the life force being dragged out of him so excruciatingly slow, as if it were forcing him to savor every mordacious moment of his unexpected defeat; when he feels Izuru's hands shake so forcefully from gripping the sword's - not Wabisuke's, not Shinsou's, but an ordinary, sealed zanpakutou's - hilt so tight the way Hinamori did once; when the coppery taste of blood pools at the underside of his tongue before filling and spilling over the sides of his ever-present smile, he knows there is no better way to die than this.
When Azuma bites into the fruit's pulpy, orange flesh and his pristine lips close around Hihara's overeager ones scant seconds later; when his tongue roams unrestrained inside his companion's willing, responsive mouth, tasting and relishing every drop of acrid juice underscored with a flavor that's inherently, essentially Kazuki, he can't help but marvel at Hihara's uncanny ability of making something so bitter taste so sweet.
He has never been one for holidays, but Iruka's wickedly talented tongue swirling over the head of his throbbing, icing-coated cock makes Touda convinced he could easily get used to this Christmas thing.
Yuuri runs his hand over handlebars now rusted, along a frame whose bright blue paint has long since peeled off, atop a well-worn saddle which has faithfully borne his weight for so many years, and wonders - not for the first time nor the last - how his life would be now had he not attempted to rescue a bullied Murata Ken that one fateful day.
Renji glares balefully at the dusky horizon - teeth sinking into his fuller bottom lip, fingers reflexively tightening their hold on his denim-clad knees, terrifying vacuity rising from the depths of his stomach and enveloping his heart; hating and missing her, and it, and above all, loathing himself - while he thinks of how wrong Takumi was to aver that he wasn't weak enough to need him for the rest of his life.
Kenpachi studies the woman who is both gentle and intimidating, polite yet authoritative, warm but just as deadly; the compelling mixture of prettiness and prickliness, equal parts salve and poison, a blue-eyed, ebony-haired china doll composed of filigree masked steel that makes one inimitable Unohana Retsu, and muses that the violet-streaked, white Phalaenopsis lindenii in her hair - while not a complete misrepresentation - isn't entirely accurate.
It begins like an infinitesimal spark that builds rapidly into something bright and scorching and alive, filling her heart to its bursting point before climbing the passageway of her throat that's suddenly so narrow, she can't even speak (and it's a good thing too, cos words won't do her emotions justice at this point - it feels tenfold like their reunion on the bridge of Senzaikyuu, even though she yelled at him back then), before it reaches higher and higher and spills over her large violet eyes when she sees him; his vibrant orange hair (still as spiky as ever), his coffee-brown eyes (full of stubborn pride and cocky defiance), that peach-skinned, angular face (still adorned with his ever-present scowl), his lanky but well-built frame (which constantly radiates his signature overprotective ferociousness), all of him that's truly looking (not past her, nor through her, but right at her) in her eyes the way he used to; and in that instant, it feels like nothing's changed - that two arduously tormentous years hadn't really gone by at all.
He has no idea how she does this, although he's certain he hates her for it; but when Renji kisses him back fervently, hungrily, needily, Byakuya mentally - and grudgingly - admits that Shihouin Yoruichi-senpai (when she gently guided - or, more accurately, less than subtly shoved - him in a certain redheaded fukutaichou's direction with a typically teasing and bossy, "Never mind farsightedness, you really ought to learn to see what's right in front of you, Byakuya-bou!") was, for the millionth time, right.
Tatsuki aggressively crushes her lips against Orihime's, tasting copper and sorrow and despair; plundering that hot, wet mouth and robbing her of her very last breath, fingernails digging desperately - possessively - into the girl's upper arms, squeezing that curvaceous but feeble body against her much leaner frame, and doesn't stop until the orange-haired beauty is well and truly dead, because Orihime's life is hers - hers alone - and she'd be damned if she let that horned bastard have her.
The widening of her large, innocent, earth-colored eyes, enhanced by the rapidly broadening grin across her pretty face, punctuated by the impulsive leap of joy that's shortly followed by a very zealous glomp and a "Thank you, Sado-kun!" when he presents her with the piece of paper certifying that comet they'd witnessed together the week before now shares her name, convinces Chad that Orihime is far and away the cutest thing he's ever seen.