❝you weren’t getting out of here alive, not when his other hand held a knife at your throat.❞
tch. Alipede was getting sick of this. he had a mission to fulfill and he couldn’t have you getting in his way. how many times did he have to tell you to fuck off? there was already an apostle on the task, there was no fucking need for you. you were so damn infuriating.
but you seemed set on getting on his nerves, on making his blood boil. and of course, it always resulted in him threatening to kill you once and for all. not that you’d let him, but seeing his frustration was both amusing and utterly adorable.
you’d tease and probe at him like some harasser. even after purposely ruining his plans, he could sense that smirk and smugness of yours. he despised it. he hated you. he hated how you managed to get under and just how you were able to keep up with him. by now you would’ve been dead if it weren’t for your annoyingly impressive skills.
you were trying to throw him off balance and he wasn’t having any of it. no matter how backhanded your compliments may have seemed. ‘pretty?’ him? bullshit. what the hell was wrong with you?
now, even with a knife at your throat, you still had the audacity to utter such distasteful words. did you think he’d fold, just because you called him pretty? that vital organ of his, the one he had wanted to get rid of—to harden for all these years still managed to beat somewhat rapidly at your words. As if he’d fuil your ego by letting you know what you did to him.
you weren’t getting out of here alive, not when his left hand had a firm grip of your waist and the other held a knife at your throat.
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