As if. There were more things that Malachi wanted than he didn’t, and that had always been the biggest problem in his life.

He exhaled an appreciative sigh against the soft skin of Arthur’s neck, leaning harder into him as nails scraped his scarred skin. For a moment the questions did not even register; his grip on Arthur’s hair just released and tightened again as his face burrowed in his neck.

Soft lips pressed kisses to the healing scar, memorizing the shape of it against his mouth.

“The…?”

Why was he always asking him things when he just wanted to feel?

The knife was on his person as it always was, though he had taken to tying it around his ankle in favor of the hidden extra pocket of his cassock.

Less chance of stabbing himself in the thigh again, that way.

Malachi finally lifted his head, eyes narrowed in their heavy-lidded inspection of Arthur’s bruised face. That knife was important to him! He wasn't just going to hand it over because he asked him for it.

Not without being difficult first.

“If you want it, make me.”