Wine and Gun

They can justify the fact that the dead people in the house are the source of the loss of control, precisely because they are different from everyone else - but that could also be a lie.

Albarino made some obscene noises, which must have been intentional. Herstal's fingers scratched across the floor, and when he stared at the empty ceiling, he felt that his eyes might be more empty than the dead. Finally, the culprit straightened up, his lips were red, and his voice was almost uncontrollable.

"It will hurt," Albarino warned, crawling over Herstal when he said this, pulling out his belt with one hand as he braced himself. Hestal realized for the first time at this moment that when he was about to be stripped, the other party was still neatly dressed. This feeling really made him uncomfortable - but considering that Albarino was the The man whose clothes were cut into pieces by the pianist's knife, perhaps he should be more forgiving.

Herstal sneered at Albarino's reminder, and the breath came out weakly from between his lips and was still loud in this death-pleasing room. Albarino hung his legs in the crook of his arms and pushed himself into him little by little, listening to him whisper cursing and gasping, which seared, stings, and murdered as alive.

He remembered that Albarino did talk about sex and death before—

But he didn't have time to think about it now, Albarino enveloped him like a huge shadow, dipping his fingers into his hair, rubbing wet blood on the blonde hair.

Then his hands wrapped around Herstal's sideburns, forcing him to turn his head to the side - Herstal's cheeks were sticking to a pool of blood, uncomfortably sticky, and Anthony Sharp's body lay not far away At the place, his face was dripping with blood, and his abdomen was open. Because the incision was too deep, his internal organs were about to flow out; his white teeth were exposed in the air, and the corners of his mouth were stained with reddish foam.

"I guess you would mind, but I wanted to gān you on him." There was almost no smile in Albarino's voice, but there was a crackling of electricity at the end of his words, "No, sorry—' It'. You can feel the blood being squeezed out of its body, the blood depositing downward, forming purple spots on the skin, the muscles gradually stiffening, the cornea clouding, like watching death. At times like this, you Will know you're still alive and it's just soot."

Herstal cursed in resistance, and he would not doubt that Albarino Bacchus could have done something like that; it just shows that many people think that the pianist is more terrible than the Sunday gardener, which is really slippery. Great joke of the world.

"Of course I'd mind," he said hoarsely, almost accusatory, "since many people know that I kill them precisely because I don't like them—"

His voice stopped abruptly, replaced by a gasp, his voice teetering on the edge of excruciating pain and ecstasy.

"Is it because of your nightmarish shadow on them, or is this just a senseless self-punishment?" Albarino pinched his leg, bending his body almost cruelly, "You have How disgusted you are for not being able to resist in the first place? How happy are you when you kill them, and how painful is the nightmare that visits you late at night?"

There's no point in talking about it, Herstal staring at each other from under his vapour-entangled eyelashes, the harsh reality undercutting the power of that stare. Albarino looked down at him, the neckline opened a little, the neck and collarbone were tangled with fresh scars, threading down and disappearing into the depths of the fabric: these marks would accompany them for a lifetime, like a silent memoir.

Albarino looked at him, sighed suddenly, and leaned down. Long strands of hair fell down and brushed against Herstal's cheekbones.

"Mr. Armalette," then Albarino whispered in his ear, as if chewing those words to feed him, slow, intimate, and breathtaking. "I repeat: you are very different from these people."

He chose to plunge deep into Herstal's body at this moment, feeling those muscles twitching around him, soft, hot, frantic. Herstal made a small sound from between his throats, as if someone had strangled his throat, and a vague sigh.

Albarino grabbed his hair with one hand and pinched his head with the other, leaving dark, half-dried marks on the skin of his chest and abdomen. Herstal struggled half-heartedly, the blood in the air was so thick that it seemed to be suffocating, a black vortex that could devour people. He was gasping for breath between the other's tight attacks, until Albarino shoved his fingers into his mouth.

Herstal tasted a strong smell of blood on his fingertips, of course he knew where it came from. In response to this, he could only bite the opponent's fingers with his teeth angrily, and the dentition was deeply embedded in the base of the opponent's finger. He really used the force, although it may not be enough to break the skin, but it was enough to make Albarino let out a low hiss.

As if in retaliation, Albarino entered his body very hard and deeply, letting out a groan mixed with cursing from his throat as he hit the prostate.

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