&& . DEVOUR YOU .ᐟ

Her expression softens at his admission, thumb drifting in a reassuring path along his side, though worry lingers stubbornly beneath the surface, refusing to retreat fully in the face of crimson ichor seeping through linen and bandage alike. It pains her deeply to witness him in such a state, wounded and vulnerable; a harsh reminder of how precarious even their carefully cultivated power can be, how easily she might lose those she loves despite the fierce protections she has tirelessly woven around them. The specter of such loss has haunted her far too many times already.

“It seems likely some stitches have reopened,” she confirms, fingertips poised near his side, assessing. “The wound itself was deep enough to be troublesome, though not severe enough to be dangerous long term, provided it heals properly; still, it certainly warrants careful attention.”

His suggestion about moving to the bathroom draws a soft hum of approval from her; indeed, the practicality and brightness of the en suite would serve far better than the dim lighting and torn bedding currently surrounding them. Her hand rises to brush affectionately along his cheek before she stands from the edge of the bed, pushing aside any lingering fatigue as she reaches out to assist him upright. “Lean against me if you must, amor; do not push yourself unnecessarily.”

Once within the en suite, Carmilla guides him toward the cushioned bench near the vanity, waiting until he's seated before crossing to the cabinets; she gathers fresh gauze, sterile bandages, antiseptic solution and a needle for fresh stitches, experience has long since taught her to remain prepared.

Returning to his side, she kneels to gain a better vantage point as she reaches for the edges of his soiled shirt, fingers brushing against cool skin while lifting the fabric upward to expose the injury beneath. A small frown creases her features at the sight of blood blooming vividly through now saturated bandages; though not as severe as the night he had first sustained the wound, the sight stirs anew a heavy ache within her chest.

   AN  EXHALE  OF  BREATH  denotes  the  very  effort  it's  taking  him  to  stand  on  its  own.  He  leans  against  her  frame  for  support  (  as  he  does  whenever  needed!  )  -—  i  trust  you  -—  and  walks  along  her  side.  Lips  remain  down  -  turned...  a  gaze  expresses  exhaustion!  Drip  by  languid  drip  of  VITALITY  'gainst  the  softness  of  gauze,  energy  seeps  from  his  ancient  soul  in  phases.

   With  some  awareness of his surroundings,  Zestial  ducks  under  the  doorframe  before  he  makes  the  silly  mistake  of  HITTING  it  straight  -  on.  How  much  blood  had  he  lost  back  there?  And,  is  it  the  wound  itself  what  now  still  tires  him  so?  Or  is  it  the  fact  he's  spent  LONGER  than  he  realizes  in  an  unconscious  state?

   Whatever  the  case  may  be,  the  taller  Lord  of  Hell  takes  a  seat  where  INSTRUCTED  (  &  a  curious  gaze  stalks  her  every  move!  ),  remaining  quiet,  lest  he  end  up  distracting  her.  The  brighter  light  of  the  bathroom  makes  him  lightly  squint  (  bespeckled  eyes  struggling,  but  only  for  a  few  moments!  ),  and  he  decides  to  focus  on  remaining  as  physically  STILL  as  possible,  while  she  peels  the  wrinkled  clothes  off  the  lean  lines  of  body.

   He  STUDIES  her  -—  studies  the  faint  crease  in  her  brow  when  she  gets  to  work,  studies  the  way  her  own  eyes  linger.  He  studies  the  manner  in  which  she  touches  the  area  around  the  wound  and  its  bandages,  trying  to  piece  together  the  machinations  ticking  away  in  her  mind,  this  day.  The  truth  is,  he  doesn't  like  knowing  she's  plagued  by  guilt  or  any  rampant  worries  (  even  if...  under  the  circumstances  it's  to  be  expected  ),  but  it  comes  naturally  with  being  attuned  to  her  spirit,  to  being  thoroughly  INTERTWINED  with  her  being  (  he  can't  help  it,  you  see!  ).

   His  own  frown  deepens,  and  a  cool  hand  moves  to  briskly  REST  atop  one  of  hers  (  &  encasing  it  in  a  reassuring  little  squeeze!  )  -—  head  dips  and  lowers,  his  voice  coming  out  as  soft  and  calid  as  the  gentle  lick  of  candle  -  fire  'pon  the  richness  of  oxygen.  “My  mind  holdst  some  disquiet,”  he  confirms  slowly,  releasing  her  with  some  apparent  hesitation  (  fingers  brush  over  the  back  of  her  hand  in  a  saccharine,  LINGERING  gesture!  ),  “...  for  many  a  question  doth  trouble  me.”  Both  regarding  himself  and  the  Carmines,  that  is.

               SHARP   EYES   WATCHED   ZESTIAL’S   HAND   AS   IT   HOVERED   OVER   HIS   shoulder.   Alastor   observed   it   longer   than   most   would   before   he   dropped   his   gaze   elsewhere;   a   silent   permission.   And,   when   he   felt   the   other’s   claw   on   him,   Alastor’s   muscles   twitched.   

               TOUCH   WAS   A   CONTROVERSIAL   TOPIC   FOR   THE   RADIO   DEMON.   HE   desired   human   contact,   but   flinched   away   whenever   the   possibility   seemed   likely.   He   didn’t   mind   violence   for   he   was   no   stranger   to   it,   but   gentleness?   Like   the   steady   hand   Zestial   placed   on   his   shoulder?   It   made   him   pause,   made   him   feel   uncertain,   and   made   him   feel…   weak.   He   knew   weakness   for   such   a   long   time,   and   he   never   wanted   to   feel   it   again.   Was   that   the   reason,   though?   Alastor   didn’t   know.   He   buried   his   emotions   down   deep,   and   when   they   surfaced,   he   was   confused   on   what   they   were.   

Yet...  a  sinner's  body  is  quite  a  RESILIENT  thing,  is  it  not?

❛ far be it from me to judge another man on his aesthetic choices , but we're in the modern age now , in case you weren't aware. ❜

other OVERLORDS were quite easy to get under his thumb after a while ; all self serving and thinking themselves higher and mightier than the last. it was only a small few that he couldn't truly get to eat out of his palm of his hand like good obedient lackies. the wretched SCARECROW being one of them.

so if he couldn't control him , he could at least goad him.

❛ it's always a bore to see you at these meetings looking like THAT. at this point i'm almost willing to offer you velvette's services free of charge. ❜

  Neon  hues  pierce  right  through!  Judging...  They  trail  a  downward  path  over  the  other's  form,  and  then  slowly  BACK UP  again.  (  aren't  you  mirroring  radio's  general  attire  yourself?  )  whatever  has  happened  to  originality?  Though  he  assumes  it's  hard  to  come  up  with  new  ideas  when  all  you  do  is  imitate.  What  WOULD  Velvette  do,  anyway?  Dress  the oldest one  up  like  Valentino?

Highly selective & mutuals only HAZBIN HOTEL MULTIMUSE starring VOX, VAL, ALASTOR, KATIE KILLJOY, TRAVIS, AND LOTS MORE! Recorded by Al. 21+. MINORS DNI. Read the rules BEFORE you engage! 🦋📺❤️

   Pools  of  neon  DRIFT  &  find  hers  anew,  when  she's  pulled  back.  His  gaze  lingers  in  a  gentle  look,  and  it  remains  attentive  (  &  it  seems  as  though  he  were  basking  in  her  mere  joy!  )...  taking  in  the  brightness  in  her  eyes,  the  raw  TRUST  she  exudes.  How  exquisite!  How  sweet.  May  I  sink  into  it?

   To  feel  what  she  feels,  even  if  for  a  brief  moment  -—  he  UNDERSTANDS  her.  Her  love  is  his  own,  and  it  flows  through  them  like  the  very  energy  that  shapes  them  in  death.  “Is  there?”  he  inquires  in  a  soft  rumble,  returning  some  of  the  same  teasing  she's  summoned  forth.  “Can  I  not  call  upon  thy  person  simply  to  enjoy  such  pleasant  company,  as  MENTIONED?”  Would  that  be  so  wrong?  (  after  all,  this  could  have  been  a  letter  )...

“Dinner on the fourteenth?” she repeats, the date inspiring a playful lilt and a lift of painted lips. “Surely such an invitation might have found me through simpler means; a letter, perhaps, or even a phone call.”

Her free hand moves to rest atop his own, fingers threading through his and anchoring his touch securely against her cheek, the familiar chill providing a pleasant balm to the lingering warmth of her skin. Tilting her head slightly upward, she closes the remaining distance and brushes the softest kiss against the corner of his jagged mouth.

               MAESTRO   TENDED   TO   BE   SPONTANEOUS   IN   THE   LIKES   OF   VISITS.   True,   he   should   be   more   mindful   of   this,   but   if   the   one   he   wished   to   visit   was   busy,   he   would   then   make   arrangements.   A   man   such   as   himself,   who   was   rather   recluse,   meant   the   desire   for   company   occurred   at   arbitrary   intervals,   “   Ha!   Your   recollection   proves   quite   accurate.   ”   Maestro   admitted   with   another   tilt   of   his   head   in   a   gesture   meant   as   an   apology.