Her cold tongue is stationary but mine'll keep moving. My lips can't get enough of her sweet, sweet nectar. She's what propels me; what keeps me going. She keeps me from going insane. And here she is, breathing or not.

If anything, her cheeks are some sort of tell of her liveliness. They wouldn't be this pink, otherwise.

I hear their barbaric chanting outside. Their plastic ripping against my door. MY wooden door. Fucking imbeciles.

I'd open the window for air, but why would I want to share the air with them?

(she's my queen)