Wine and Gun

"Indeed," Herstal replied, gazing at his sideburns, soaked in sweat and blood, stuck to his pale forehead.

"That Psychopathy

Chapter 32 Lida and the Swan 03

It's true for anyone: that hurts.

Each of the next few cuts was deep, at least in comparison, much deeper than those slender, petty wounds that were no more than a centimeter deep. Although Herstal's movements remain cautious and restrained - not yet deep in the abdominal cavity, but definitely injuring the muscles, I wonder if this is a strange kind of mercy: otherwise no matter who his prey is, it will die before it is all over. ——But Albarino still felt the warm blood gushing out with his movements.

He made a few muffled guttural sounds, mixed with intermittent moans and curses: it wasn't a real rejection, just the most instinctive and direct expression of pain. Herstal was still buried deep in him, the pain was thin and dull compared to the other wounds; the lubrication was sloppy before, and he was pretty sure the mouth must have been torn and now running down his leg only blood.

Herstal's knife pressed against his abdomen coldly, and yīnjīng still squeezed deeply into his body, the other's fingers folded on his legs, and the fingertips pressed into his thighs forcefully. One of them excited Herstal, and Albarino could feel it in those heavy gasps in his chest. Albarino looked at each other through his eyelashes tangled in tears or sweat (and possibly blood), and the Westland pianist watched him like a fanatical stalker.

"Thirteen." He angrily reported the number of knife marks to the other party, with a hoarse laughter in his voice, "...a very lucky number, I can probably guess what word you engraved. Now—I don't even know if I should praise you for your lack of taste."

Herstal slowly attached his hand to the burning scar on the opponent's abdomen, blood gushing under his palm, and he slowly wiped the blood away, hearing the other man gasp like a convulsion.

Albarino's eyes fell on him in a slack manner, and a frightened bird perched somewhere on his face. One of his legs was still loosely and weakly wrapped around Hestal's waist, and the yīnjīng was completely slack, looking almost like some kind of shame when the other party was still partially buried in him.

- and yet they all know that is not the case.

Herstal chose to throw the knife back to the floor at this moment, and brutally bent the opponent's body - he felt as if he was twisting a piece of cloth and was squeezing blood out of the opponent's body through the wound - with force into Albarino's body.

Albarino let out a low snort, and his hands, which were tightly tied above his head, twitched slightly. Herstal freed a blood-soaked hand to hold his wrist, and he could feel those fingers twitching feebly under his pressure, fingernails scrambling across his palm.

Herstal was even distracted by what would happen if he undid those piano strings: whether Albarino's fingers would scratch limply across the floor or dig deep into his shoulders.

He could feel a fire burning between his spine, like the emotion he felt every time he killed someone, or more intensely, more like hunger, like sin itself. And Albarino is still struggling as hard as he can, wiping the blood off the floor, making the scene even more startling.

"You like this," Albarino's voice rolled out in his breath, and was knocked to pieces again; those green eyes seemed to hold pain and madness at the same time, which was quite a shocking scene. "You like the feeling of being in control and judging me, and—ah, and I'm pretty sure you like my face at least."

Hestal did not intend to deny this without self-knowledge, if he refused to admit it, he would be insulting the other party's IQ. Albariño's appearance is his preferred type - or rather, the type furthest away from the one that often appears in his nightmares, which can also be used to explain the frequent visits to him in Albariño. In the office, he was very tolerant of each other.

But he still hated some of the expressions that the other party had inadvertently leaked out of his eyes, and when this man laughed, it seemed like he was always winning: even now. Those greens danced like crazy ghosts, but when they were occasionally obscured by fog, Albarino's eyes seemed almost joyful and tolerant.

This always speaks to the fact that it is because Albarino allowed them to get to where they are now.

And Herstal really hated that feeling.

Albarino babbled in a low, choked voice, and he pointed out the truth with these broken words—

"You like to see me being torn apart by you, better show my wreckage in front of everyone - Herstal! Fuck!"

Herstal poked a finger into the wound in his stomach.

Blood was pushed from between his fingers and splayed muscles, making a wet, erotic sound. Albarino's body jerked under his fingers, his legs trembled, and the uncontrolled tightening of the inner wall let out a low growl from Herstal's mouth.

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