Wine and Gun

But if so, why the box is here is a paradox in itself.

Herstal didn't want to think too deeply about the meaning behind this fact - at least not today - when he turned around, he saw Albarino lying on the floor, shrouded in a very weak skylight leaking in from the rainy night outside the window, His chest heaved and he was covered in blood.

The fire finally burned to embers, and there were some orange sparks smoldering in the black carbon. Without those sources of light, Albarino's complexion looked like a pale corpse in a gray light, and Herstal's night vision was good enough for him to see the red, swollen, twisted scars that covered his skin. , like a black net.

Herstal finally knelt down beside him, pushing his legs up with his knees, dipping his fingers into the slits of his thighs with the dripping blood. Albarino's legs trembled violently when he pushed his fingers in, his voice was chopped up and down by the gān astringent pain, but there was still something scorching hot between the words.

"I thought you wouldn't feel intimate enough wearing gloves," he said stumblingly.

"It's a good idea to wear gloves when there's blood all over the place," Herstal scribbled over him and retorted lightly.

"Really? I'm pretty sure you didn't wear gloves when taking out those victims' internal organs. What's the point of letting you feel the heat in their bodies through a layer of rǔ glue?" Albaly Nuoha made a sound, and the tone was like a mixture of burning heat and pain.

"Because I'll clean up the bloody fingerprints left on them afterwards," Herstal shoved two fingers into his fingers, feeling the muscles tense at the base of his fingers, "but I'm not going to do that today."

Albarino gave a breathless laugh: "Because cleaning up the blood will ruin the beauty."

Herstal did not answer him, but they both knew Albarino was right.

Then there was a long silence: the soft thud of a knife being placed on the floor, the screeching of fabrics and zippers, the crunch of a plastic wrap being ripped open, all the while signaling that something was about to happen. what.

——Then that burning organ pressed against his thigh, rubbing tentatively in his mouth, where the wet, sticky liquid had no charm at all, it was all his blood.

Albarino looked at each other, and in fact sometimes, Herstal looked at him as if it was almost distressed, as if he was wondering why he didn't disembowel the man with a knife.

Some part of that fact still makes Albarino feel like laughing, though he's not sure if he has the strength to do it now. He was almost exhausted and raised one leg to hook Hestal's waist, and he did feel pain all over his body when he made any movements, he could just imagine the tragic situation of these wounds slowly healing.

Although he is not a nüè madman, he can't be hardened in this situation, but somehow, he can still use his leg to grab Herstal's waist, twist suggestively, almost let go He rubbed his butt against the other's crotch.

This action squeezed out a roar from Herstal's throat, and then Albarino gave the initiative gracefully - let the other party fuck it rough, and it was difficult to distinguish the lower body that was not fully extended from those on the body. The one between the bleeding wounds hurts more. Herstal pushed his legs up, nearly flexing Albarino's body, and those movements squeezed more tickling blood from the wound.

The other's hip bone slammed into his skin without mercy, his fingers pinched his neck again, and the blood-stained fingertips pressed into the skin. Albarino almost felt nauseous in this continuous pain, and when he was conditioned to curl up, Herstal grabbed his neck like breaking a clam. Roughly nailed him to the floor.

It was by no means "good," even for a Sunday gardener, but it tasted almost like victory; The things under the lead mask of , finally flowed out from the huge fissure that could not be repaired.

That is the essence of wild shòu, pure, evil metallic sweetness.

Albarino's fingers scratched weakly across the floor, feeling Herstal touch the knife again from somewhere beside him, his grip on the hilt even graceful.

As Herstal slammed into his body, the knife cut into his skin - deeper than every previous one, and even managed to let out a hoarse sound from Albarino's throat. screaming, the tightness of his mouth twitching in pain forced Herstal to curse in a low voice. It was like a hot knife stabbing into the oil, and blood overflowed from the bubbling soft edges.

The scar was restrained and planned. It started from the lower edge of his ribs, went straight down, and a long line, and it definitely stopped somewhere in the abdomen.

"I guess you did prepare a brand," Albarino whispered, his voice muffled, possibly from excessive pain or blood loss.

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