@saeviio (x)
Killing in the dreamscape was either too neat, too pretty (a gasp, a lolling head) or too ugly (vertebrae breaking through skin and jutting wet into the flesh of his hands). In a vast difference the throat beneath Arthurâs hands had jerked and struggled. Tendons had strained. It was long before the pulse gave a stutter under his fingers, desperate for one last beat, and died. Long before his rage finally ebbed like a dark, droning wave.
Untouched, the sin sauntered across the floor.
Arthur let him. Barely looked at the blade. The excuse of self-defense was too flimsy to grasp, heâd lunged like a dog with his teeth bared â but the looming presence of the sin, his saccharine, soothing voice quieting whispers of doubt made it easy to believe it was okay, and for a moment it was. He jerked away from the touch. Then turned pliant.
Stiff knuckles unclenched, moving painfully into something less clawed as a shiver rippled through his shoulders. In his periphery the corpse stared at him. It didnât matter. Any bond they had had been severed. Hands that had once clasped his shoulders had tried to slit him open from flank to flank, and Arthur was almost overcome by disgust with what had happened, his grip around that crushed trachea had been far too sure, blindingly unthinking, oh Christ â
Eyes squeezed shut, welcoming searching for heavy, blanketing, indifferent comfort.
It was just a body now, and in a few minutes, it wouldnât even be warm.
   Always so peculiar, this one. That his soul screamed out in need and yet found will to disparage his chosen outlet in the very same breath belonged to a degree of pigheadedness seen only in the self-righteous. The boy protested far too much to claim full ignorance toward this kind of magnetism. Did he honestly believe he belonged within his Sisterâs circle alone? Wrath considered taking moment to gloat a possessive spiel before dragging him down to Hell. Pride would appreciate the visit --- and with the promise of a little menage a trois?  This was the sort of opportunity not to pass up.Â
   But it was not Arthurâs time. While that little stipulation hardly stopped desire to kill in his tracks in prior centuries, this reached far beyond rules, proper etiquette and timekeeping. The boy had fire, the kind far too volatile to throw away on a whim. Wrath would endure this self-pitying little antic --- if only to see him squirm before proper submission.    âWho are you shedding those tears for?â No, heâd not diminished enough to permit that sort of drivel. But where cheeks remained dry, soul wept. Bled. And to what end? A disloyal little twit with as many daddy issues as his kill count? âWere your positions reversed, heâd have left you here to rot. For the vermin to scatter and shit out.â Fingers not unkind rose: from coddling strong jawline to sifting through his hair. Wrath preferred it this way: a little askew, without the sleek comb. Without the pretense.      Only raw, uninhibited Arthur left to stew and cry about it.    âChrist isnât here anymore, Arthur. You had better start looking elsewhere.âÂ
