@cursedblessed ( con't. )
the steel shivers. painted on a knife's edge is a bead of red, a slow and trickling roll of blood that smears against a wavering pulse and a shaking thumb. arthur breathes in deep and swallows his unease. his knife stills against the other's neck, so unmoving that, as atlas leans, the nick deepens. wine pearls on pretty skin.
brown eyes flick to the wound and then back, circling the face that snickers and sneers from below him. deep clay irises flare until gold eats at them, amber and aureate swirling around the pupil. the blood stops flowing. it becomes a perfect droplet on a knife's heel, and sticks uncomfortably to peeling flesh.
there is a pause. taunting words are ignored. the slayer looks at the other—no, through him—and blinks as if he finds someone else deep within the depths of atlas' eyes. his other hand, curled around the other's shoulder, squeezes. pale fingers dig into fabric. a breath releases from tired lungs as if held.
death is a friend and a fool. weapon slides, dangerous point pushing into the back wall instead, pinning the fabric of shirt at atlas' shoulder into the wood instead. “ oh what i'd do, ” arthur murmurs, falling close until breaths mingled, mimicking the push of the knife, tip into surface. “ to kill those things inside of you. ” bright eyes flick down to lips, then up to meet a narrowed gaze with a look of intrigue and contempt.
“ tell me, do you like being claimed by something you cannot control ?? ”
