Adore me, Hold me and explore me
Charlie lets him have a few seconds, enough to breathe, to brace, to accept. More than that and it would blur into cruelty, and they had already decided against torture. Respect was its own kind of ritual, and she offers it freely, knowing full well the weight of what she’s about to do. Even for a man like Asta, who had endured horrors written into every line of scar, the mind was not so easily numbed as flesh.
Stretching up onto her toes, Charlie bends low, her lips brushing his cheek in a fleeting kiss, her breath warm at his ear. "You’re going to do amazing at this," she whispers, her voice smooth and bright as silk ribbons, carrying all the affection and certainty she feels for him. The lace curls around her tail, held ready like a sacred net to catch the first spill of crimson.
And then the dagger bites. Not a cruel stab, but a decisive slice along the jugular, angled lengthwise so the vein parts and blood begins to ooze in a steady, deliberate stream. It is hot at first, almost startling in its rush, a searing warmth that beads and spills before the body realises what’s been done. His heart will likely flutter with the sudden alarm of it, trying to thrum faster, harder, to keep up with the loss, and then—insidiously—it'll want to slow, to pull everything inward and conserve.
Charlie keeps her blue eyes fixed on him, adoring and unshaken. Her hand presses the lace into place against the wound, reverent in its efficiency, as the first stains blossom across the fabric. "That’s it," she murmurs, tone steady, as if coaxing him through something holy. "Let it come. I’ve got you." So saying, she'll press one palm against his cheek, encouraging him to tilt his head away from the wound that she might have more access to it, her fingers sweeping little symbols of praise against his olive skin.
Stretching up onto her toes, Charlie bends low, her lips brushing his cheek in a fleeting kiss, her breath warm at his ear. "You’re going to do amazing at this," she whispers, her voice smooth and bright as silk ribbons, carrying all the affection and certainty she feels for him. The lace curls around her tail, held ready like a sacred net to catch the first spill of crimson.
And then the dagger bites. Not a cruel stab, but a decisive slice along the jugular, angled lengthwise so the vein parts and blood begins to ooze in a steady, deliberate stream. It is hot at first, almost startling in its rush, a searing warmth that beads and spills before the body realises what’s been done. His heart will likely flutter with the sudden alarm of it, trying to thrum faster, harder, to keep up with the loss, and then—insidiously—it'll want to slow, to pull everything inward and conserve.
Charlie keeps her blue eyes fixed on him, adoring and unshaken. Her hand presses the lace into place against the wound, reverent in its efficiency, as the first stains blossom across the fabric. "That’s it," she murmurs, tone steady, as if coaxing him through something holy. "Let it come. I’ve got you." So saying, she'll press one palm against his cheek, encouraging him to tilt his head away from the wound that she might have more access to it, her fingers sweeping little symbols of praise against his olive skin.
Mark your territory, Tell me I'm the only, only, only, only one
Hella golden retriever energy. Small unrefined horns made of ruby. Regular spade-shaped tail.
