#pschology

You feel a touch, light and teasing, fingers brushing against your skin. The sensation pulls you from sleep. Your eyes open in a sudden jolt, your heart skipping a beat as you almost scream. But then you see him. Arthur. His smirk plays on his lips as he hovers over you, enjoying your vulnerability, basking in your moment of weakness.

Your breath catches in your throat as you stare up at him. "Arthur," you manage to whisper, your voice sharp,"Don't you think your sudden presence can give someone a heart attack." While you were serious, Arthur as always find it humourous and states that you are not the type that can die from heart failures.

"Correct. And it's not my preferred type of death anyways." You state in a monotone tone, thinking Arthur once again might give some sadistic repose but shockingly he was interested in what kind of death you preferred.

You didn't hesitate. "Strangled," you reply, your tone flat, almost detached. "That’s how I’d prefer to go." One might think this lead to a deeper conversation though that wasn't case here.

There’s silence between you, thick with tension. And then, without warning, his shoots out, wrapping his hands around your neck. His grip is firm but not yet suffocating. His eyes lock with yours, a cruel glint flashing in them as he leans in closer, his voice a low growl. "Like this, (Y/N)?"

He envisions you panicking—your nails digging into his skin, your face twisting in terror, begging for breath. He imagines your body writhing beneath him, your life slipping away as you fight to stay alive. But as stated, it was all part of his imagination cause reality doesn’t match his fantasy.

Instead of desperation that all he saw was a calm face. Your hands rest still at your sides, not reaching for him, not fighting back. You just stare at him, your eyes unwavering, your breath slowing under his grip. And in your gaze, there’s something that unsettles him—a quiet, chilling acceptance.

You wait, your eyes locked on his, as if challenging him, daring him to go further. There’s no fear in you, no panic. Only a calm, resolute strength. It unnerves him in ways he didn’t expect.

His fingers tighten for a brief moment, just enough to feel your pulse beneath his touch. But it’s not enough to scare you. Instead, it’s him who feels the tension, the pressure of your gaze weighing down on him. He expected fear, he wanted resistance. Instead, you give him nothing but quiet defiance.

His grip loosens. His hand slips from your throat, retreating in frustration. You don’t move, don’t flinch. You just keep staring, your eyes holding that same unreadable expression, as if you see through him, see past his cruel games and into something far deeper, far more fragile.

He stands, watching you for a long moment, his heart pounding in his chest, his control over the situation feels hollow, as though you’ve taken it from him without even trying.

He loosen his grip on your throat as he let out a comment that was supposed to be taunt to you but sounds more like a cover to hide his lack of power in situation.

"Do you really think I will let you die this easily?" A smirk dancing on his charming face.