#challenge: draw with only black and white

[teleport-warning]

Day 21: use black and white only

[bananafire11]

He has arriiiived. I think i got almost everyones suggestions.... oh and wretched is there too

[delilahhyuuga]

Day 22 of Inktober 2023: Scratchy

[delta-syrup]

ive been drawing w screentones for an upcoming art project i want to apply for... i really dont like drawing w screentones LOL

[pencilofawesomeness]

Color Wheel Challenge: Light Blue

Whelp Toph absolutely destroyed the green poll. All Hail the Melon Lord. Now, onto the next color! Light blue. Or cyan. Or teal, I've seen people use it as... Something like that. Anyway!

[gwinverarrouz]

Part 3 of my “photo studies without picking colours” is portraits!! And phew that was challenging. I expected it because, y'know, faces are hard and it's much easier to notice when it's wrong, but man... At first I didn't like them that much but I think that's just me staring at the reference too hard. They're fine :D

Although I have decided that I would draw whatever the hell I want for the last part, I've earned it X)

Part 1 Part 2 Part 4

(references from pexels.com, putting some comparisons under the readmore if you want to see how well I did with the colour matching)

:>

[yueebby]

2 + 1 — gojo satoru

synopsis. two times megumi thinks gojo is a lost cause and one time he approves of the white haired idiot

contents. fluff, lovesick!gojo, ooc, misogyny (from the clan heads), he is so pathetic for his wife (nauseating!), slight yandere behavior, violence, in megumi’s pov, not proofread eep

notes. can you tell i've been obsessed with the apothecary diaries? >< also how long has it been since i've posted a fic? anyways... enjoy!

fushiguro megumi has always wondered how that blue eyed idiot managed to marry you. he must have resorted to underhanded tactics; or at least that's what the sea urchin suspects. though he's never voiced it, the question has bothered him since the day he first encountered the both of you.

nobara clicks her tongue. “this is borderline creepy.” her orange eyes are filled with nothing short of distaste.

“there’s more too,” megumi’s voice responded, carefully flipping the page. the delicate artifact in his hand is something that he should have not touched. perhaps he should have wrapped it with a talisman and destroyed it while he had the chance.

it was too late for that anyway, because not even a second later, gojo satoru bursts through the shoji doors of the classroom. 

with eyes blown wide as if they were caught committing a crime (they were), the first years who had pulled three seats up to a singular desk stare at him. satoru's eyes widen behind his blindfold as he catches sight of the object of their focus.

there lies in the middle of the wooden desk was the physics textbook that all first year jujutsu tech students were required to read. however, this wasn’t just any plain old textbook. it was gojo satoru’s former textbook. brimmed with doodles of their beloved [name] sensei and gojo himself when they were back in highschool.

any free space that was not filled with words were taken up by drawings of you inside of hearts and sometimes a depiction of a chibi version of the two of you.

a true testament to gojo satoru’s pining and devotion to you.

“sensei, we can explain���” yuji attempts to explain himself but gojo holds up a hand to silence the boy. 

unlike you, megumi finds it a lot more challenging to read the white haired sorcerer’s expression with the blindfold on. he wonders if his punishment will be a painful beating disguised as a sparring session (megumi will run to you, who will scare gojo into backing down). you have that effect on him.

it seems like the heavens have answered megumi’s prayers because gojo satoru doesn’t seem to harbor any anger at his shocking revelation.

“i can’t believe you guys found this old thing.” satoru dismisses his students’ personal space by leaning closely to observe the pages. the black haired boy makes a noise of disapproval, but was quickly cut off by his benefactor. “megumi, be grateful that i’m in a good mood today.” he doesn’t elaborate the ominous message, rather choosing to hum happily as he studies his own drawings.

megumi is smart enough to keep his mouth shut. 

“i never took you to be the pathetic type,” kugisaki continues to flip through the pages of the textbook. yuji nods furiously, as if to agree to her observation.

“you seriously never noticed?” megumi mutters under his breath.

gojo places a strong hand on megumi’s back, a languid smile on his face, “it was only natural, considering the lengths i had to go through to win her over.” he ignores the way megumi gasps for air.

“seriously?” itadori asks in disbelief.

“seriously.” gojo confirms wholeheartedly.

megumi shudders, recollecting memories of times before gojo tied you down for good.

2009

“sorry i’m late!” gojo bursts through the dingy apartment door with a convenience store bag in his arm. he was breathing heavily, an indication that he had run to the apartment. an uninterested seven year old megumi doesn’t bother leaving his place on the couch to greet his benefactor.

“they’re in the kitchen,” he says in his monotone voice, eyes never leaving the book that you had just gifted him.

“they?” gojo walks up to megumi to ruffle his hair aggressively. he receives a hiss in return.

“tsumiki and [name]?” the black haired kid says it like it was obvious. his sentence is accompanied with an eyeroll.

at the mention of your name, gojo immediately perks up. megumi imagines that if he were a cat, his ears would be swiveling and his nose twitching, attuned to pick up any trace of your presence. he had just learned that from the nonfiction book in his lap. 

“[name]?! here? now?” gojo’s eyebrows are raised all the way to his forehead. the white haired sorcerer immediately started fixing his uniform and hair. megumi thinks it was comical. he was a lost cause.

the snarky look on his face is quickly wiped off when he sees gojo leaning down, mouth wide open.

“oi brat, check my breath,” gojo opens his mouth wide for megumi to check. the black haired kid shrivels up into the couch the further gojo leans down. megumi considers summoning his newly discovered jujutsu technique, hoping to avoid his fate.

“—toru? what are you doing?” your voice, like a divine intervention, stops gojo from sending megumi to the depths of despair. a sigh of relief escapes his lips.

now it was his turn to watch gojo squirm. the older male’s face contorts to an awkward smile and all of a sudden gojo is reduced to nothing but a mess.

“don’t worry about it darling!” gojo slowly turns around to face you. “agh—?!”

megumi has to peek around satoru’s big frame to see what elicited such a response from the man.

he’s met with a wave of underwhelming familiarity. there you stand, clad in a frilly apron with a wooden spoon in hand, the essence of domesticity incarnate. the soft glow of the warm kitchen lights dances around you, casting a warm aura that seems to envelop the room.

“welcome home, satoru.” you give him your signature closed eye smile. “i mean, you probably don’t consider it your home but—“

you’re cut off by satoru banging his head on the nearest wall repeatedly. he’s muttering something under his breath that you don’t hear.

to his dismay, megumi's keen ears catch every syllable. satoru's voice, though hushed, carries a hint of longing, "what an angel," he whispers, his words laced with adoration. "just marry me already."

unamused, he watches while you try to desperately pry gojo from his strange outburst.

a lost cause indeed.

2009

in that very year, megumi learns that gojo’s efforts to win your affection had yielded no progress. it had become increasingly apparent that his frequent visits to megumi and tsumiki's humble home were motivated to immerse himself in the semblance of domesticity that your presence offered. megumi almost pitied the man, if it wasn’t for the fact that he knew you deserve someone more sensible.

me

[name]

[nameeeee]

i’m dying.

and it’s your fault t^t

[name] ⸜(｡˃ ᵕ ˂ )⸝♡

excuse me?

me

i’ll have you know that i worked the hardest that i have ever worked to finish all of my paperwork so i could see you tonight… only to find out from megumi that you’re on a date?!!?

i feel like my chest is caving in. 

i’m going to throw up.

[name] ⸜(｡˃ ᵕ ˂ )⸝♡

oh this is what you’re interrupting my date for?

me

i’m going to be sick.

please tell me, is he hotter than me? wealthier? funnier?

megumi quickly looks away from gojo’s phone screen when the white haired male slams it shut and mutters under his breath a couple of curses. he’s pretty sure half of them were death threats.  honestly, couldn't you have attracted someone with more dignity?

“change of plans,” gojo claps his hands together. “movie night’s off.”

“what?” megumi protests, confusion etched in his features.

“our beloved [name] is getting swept off of her feet. you wouldn’t want that to happen, right?” gojo continues, his tone light but his gaze sharp as it bores into megumi's soul. something unpleasant coils in the pit of his stomach.

megumi feels a chill run down his spine, his mind racing with the implications of gojo's words. if you choose to date this new guy, he realizes, you won't need him or gojo anymore. and that thought terrifies him. it pains megumi to feed into gojo's delusions.

but he can’t let this unnamed suitor steal you away.

a wolfish grin makes its way to gojo’s mouth when he realizes that he’s won.

“what's the plan?”

2016

it was only years later that megumi had seen the true monster that lurks inside of gojo satoru. 

on a hot summer evening, amidst a gathering of esteemed clan heads, he and satoru found themselves in a traditional chamber. while the finer details of the meeting escape his memory, the image of the room that altered his perception of gojo satoru is etched in his mind indefinitely. the wooden walls, adorned with subtle yet elegant designs, speak volumes about the room’s significance as a venue for the most influential members of jujutsu society.

throughout the meeting, he finds himself driving in and out of focus, content to let his mentor represent the gojo clan. however, his attention is abruptly seized by a particular remark that cuts through the haze of his thoughts.

“how’s that whore of yours, gojo?” a clan head jeered, clearly drunk on the sake that was constantly refilled by the servant on the side. his flushed complexion is scarcely discernible thanks to the dim glow emanating from the few lanterns scattered around the room. 

there was only one person he could have been referring to: you. underneath the wooden table, his fingers tightened painfully into fists. pretentious bastards, megumi thinks.

another geezer rubbed his beard thoughtfully, “she has a nice body. perfect to be a concubine, but i would marry a more submissive woman.”

megumi's gaze stealthily darts towards gojo, seated beside him.

he’s startled to find the white-haired man wears a wide grin that belies a hidden truth. unseen by the elders before them, lurking beneath gojo's outward expression, is a manic gleam in his eyes—a revelation that sends a shiver down megumi's spine.

“i’d hold my tongue if i were you.” gojo satoru’s voice was dripping with venom. he sounded downright murderous.

"i'm right, am i not? we can share her if you'd like- name the price." the drunkard continues loudly.

megumi senses an instinctive wave of primal dread washing over him, compelling him with an urgent, almost instinctual need to flee or die.

before he can move a muscle, the flames that surround the room flicker before extinguishing in succession by an unknown force. the metallic stench of blood fills the air and all he can hear is the sound of flesh mutilating and bones crushing accompanied by the painful shouts of the men that once sat in front of him. he doesn’t have to see it with his own eyes to be able to sense gojo’s strong curse residue that suffocates the room.

“stand up megumi. we’re leaving.” his voice carries a feral edge, leaving no room for objection.

on their way out of the compound, the two don’t utter a word at what had just transpired. 

megumi's gaze remains fixed on the ground beneath his feet, the images of the recent events swirling in his mind, leaving him unsettled and shaken. with each step, he grapples with the unsettling realization that beneath gojo satoru's charismatic facade lies a darker, more sinister nature.

the strongest sorcerer of today, riled up by the mere mention of your name.

megumi supposes he doesn’t feel much remorse for those clan heads anyway. he was never the type to mourn over people he didn’t know dying. especially not people who he knew would live on to do evil. it doesn’t help that they were blatantly disrespecting you. perhaps he could sympathize with the monster inside of gojo.

oblivious to the turmoil that stirs inside of megumi, gojo starts to smile.

“i know what you’re going to say,” gojo hums happily. “gojo sensei, you’re so cool! i approve of you marrying my beloved [name]! kyaa~’” he makes a pathetic attempt to imitate megumi. 

the black haired boy grunts. he was going to say something along the lines of his approval for his benefactor, but all desires of flattering the white haired sorcerer disappeared.

gojo watches the black haired boy intently before tutting.

“not that it matters.” megumi is startled to hear how his voice dropped an octave. “i was always going to marry [name] and i’ll be damned to let anyone stop me.” 

2018 – present day

after satiating his students with tales from his pining days, your husband comes home often clingier than normal (is that even possible?). the moment satoru enters your home, his arms envelop you, caging you in his hold.

you can't help but giggle as his hair brushes against the side of your neck, his embrace pulling you in close, as if he's inhaling your presence.  his muscles flex when you attempt to slip away, keeping you in his tight embrace.

“sato– what is going on?!” 

“is it a crime to show my wife some love?” he kisses your neck. when his flurry of kisses stop, he resorts to absorbing all of your features with those cerulean eyes of his.

you don’t bother pushing him away again, choosing to thread your fingers through his soft hair. even after all these years, you will never not feel the effect of satoru’s eyes on you.

“i was telling my first years about you today,” he says softly.

you smile, “is that so?”

he pushes his nose into your neck again, nodding.

“you’re so good to them,” you whisper. despite the initial shock behind satoru choosing to pursue education, you’re extremely proud of how far he’s come.

“mhm,” satoru inhales. “i’d be good to our little ones too.” one of his hands sneak to your stomach.

you delicately guide his face away from your form, your fingers tenderly urging him to meet your gaze. "is there something you want to tell me?" you inquire softly, your eyes reflecting the warmth of your affection.

satoru's smirk deepens, a glint of mischief dancing in his eyes. "perhaps," he murmurs, his touch light as he guides you towards the bedroom. without hesitation, you yield to his lead, eager at his sudden intimate gesture.

from outside your home, three first year students stand, waiting for their sensei’s cue to enter.

“do you think he’s forgotten about us?” yuji furrows his eyebrows, hands full of grocery bags that were going to be prepared for dinner.

extra notes. had the idea of gojo and megumi crashing your date in my drafts for so long. maybe ill elaborate on it if the ppl want to see :,)

[choochooboss]

Submas Sketchdump Vol. 4 July 2022 Part 2!!

I knew that particular month beat my all time record for productivity multifold but I had forgotten SO MANY PIECES from the original collection!! I think I finally got them all?? More stuff under the cut!!

BREAKMAS!! WIP of the first piece I posted of them, here's the link to the final version! I tried coloring this first but the black & white had ultimately more impact so I went with that!

TRAINS!! I like this base color version too! Link to the final version!

The top sketch is a direct reference to Cluedo! A spinoff game, "Missingo", starring certain familiar characters trying to figure out what happened to Ingo/trying to prove their innocence in the case! Also WIP sketches for these two Breakmas comic pages!

As you may know I adore butlermas! For the classy and stylish look which appeals to me in general, and coincidentally I had played PLA & got hit by submas train only one week before butler Ingo's banner rolled out! The pure bliss of finally meeting both twins in a game I felt was incomparable!! This moment in the Curious Tea Party event was really entertaining to me! We got to see submas get serious and stand up against this selfish collector thief! Two towering train twinks with commanding voices looming over the unfortunate guy was enough to make him change his mind ahah! They truly are the protectors

1-hour submas challenge prompt "Descend"! This is the actual one hour result before I continued rendering this!

Mmmmm not my first attempt at drawing them hug and definitely not my best OR last. I want to make that moment something very special when I finally go all out on it!!

Comic cover vibing~

The scrapped last page for this silly comic! Sorry the dialogue is all over the place on the first piece, might be hard to read! I wasn't happy with how I presented Elesa, I wasn't familiar enough with her character back then so I thought of her carrying a toy taser to threat her friend even as a joke was too much and I couldn't come up with anything else for it. This held me back from posting the other three pages for another 5 months! In the last panel

I prefer to not mess up the twins too much but my brain is still very curious and conjures some peculiar stuff like this sometimes.. I think I may have broken his arms there looking at the anatomy, ooops! I hope you don't mind the photo quality or the two weird guys in the corner, they escaped containment!

Idea of warden Ingo, being projected to modern era by his Alakazam, walking through crowd on a train platform & Emmet standing inside a passing train. Their eyes meet for just a few seconds...

Pokemas Ingo practise!

Another WIP of a piece I posted! I started this piece like this but then later I decided to flip the whole thing.

YET another WIP of something I already posted! No idea why I went and mixed up his suits but I like this sketch! They rarely end up looking this clean haha

Sketch version of the self-defense practise piece! I love getting creative with action stuff! I barely ever think of how difficult they are to draw, I just get so excited and fixated on visualising the scenes in my mind I just keep at it, pull out refs and pose in front of mirrors until it looks good to me! I want to draw more action scenes but besides being challenging to draw my brain comes up with more silly and cute ideas than cool ones unfortunately ahah

One more WIP, here's the link to the final results!! I really like how genuine their expressions look here even if the faces are a little off. I recall spending a long time figuring out this perspective. I thought it would be fun to you to see how all these pieces started and... looking at the sketch above and the stuff before that, you can compare some range of my style!

RANDOM SUBMAS MISSILES GO

OHHH looks like some nasty passengers got the best of them!! If I recall correctly there was no fight because they managed to paralyse the two before they could act. Fully awake yet completely helpless... how convenient unfortunate. Thank you so much for checking these out!! Not every sketch is that exciting but I'm always happy to hear your thoughts on these!

Previous posts: Sketch dump Vol. 1: April-June 2022 Sketch dump Vol. 2: July 2022 Sketch dump Vol. 3: August 2022

[crystalliumdaisy]

redesigning star dresses part 1!

part 2 and part 3

notes and individual pieces below <3

keep this in mind i love the og stardresses! i just wanted to challenge myself and i’m an inspiring fashion designer!!! my goal was to create dresses that reflect the spirits and u could easily match them up.

these were my initial sketches, i wanted every dress/outfit to have a different colour and silhouette to make them more recognisable.

aries ~

- pink was the obvious choice for a colour. I didn’t want to use any major black like in the og design because aries design is so light and bright!

- i really think the og stardress hair is lacking. A fun fluffy 80s hair adds to the whole sheep aesthetic and creates a different silhouette to other designs.

- the 80s hair also inspired a more 80s look with fluffy legwarmers and big hoop earrings.

- i also wanted to bring in those pink pompoms on the side of aries dress so i made them star shaped and put them in lucy’s hair

taurus ~

- why put her in a bikini if she’s a cowboy??? this haunts me everyday.

- I couldn’t put her in mainly black and white cos that’s virgo i comprised and landed on a brown.

- for inspiration it was pretty obvious to go with a cowboys and the wild west! i always disliked the one leg pants her og design has so i modified it to a cut out.

- her og design was a mix of the aquarius and scorpio one and it always didn’t stand out to me, so i think by exaggerating the cowboy aesthetic it stands out much more.

gemini ~

- her og design is actually one my favs. so i really only made minor changes

- the colours stood out against other dresses and were easily identified as gemini. the dual colour symmetrical dress is a great way to reflect the double spirit.

- Gemini is a pretty symbol spirit so to reflect them i used circular shapes and organic lines. i changed the head piece mainly because i struggled drawing it but i realised it made the design too top heavy anyways.

- i extended the dress width and length mainly for silhouette reasons (she wears so many skin tight dresses) as well as to give a nod to the dresses the alternate geminis wear.

cancer ~

- my issue with cancer star dress isn’t the dress itself. I actually love the dress in the manga. it’s the colour. WHY IS GREEN?!?

- if it weren’t for the symbol i wouldn’t be able to match this dress with cancers design, so it had to change.

- other than that there’s no major differences, the ribbon tie is meant to resemble scissors, i love the claw shape hair ties in the og design so i brought them back and i brought the stripes in cancers top to her bow.

leo ~

- i was inspired by beauty and the beast, in the movie the beast kinda looks like lion.

- i swapped the yellow and black in the og design since it has a pretty similar colour story to virgos dress. The og kinda gets lost next to leo since the black doesn’t have variation and leo is in a deep black too.

- i wanted to make her hair bigger like a lions mane and curled around her face.

[help-itrappedmyself]

Summoning Game Show

Masterpost

They are all in a warehouse fighting a bunch of cultists, trying to keep them from activating their summoning circle when it happens. One of the cultists manages to hit Red Robin across the face hard enough for blood to drip down from you cut. The blood lands in the summoning circle at Red Robin’s feet and he has a moment to realize he is standing in the circle before it starts glowing Lazarus green and sucks him in.

He lands with a yelp in a very large room. There is a podium at the front and people are starting to come in from the walls, but they aren’t human. They are also glowing lazarus green, and Red tracks a boy with white hair and a black suit as his tail turns into legs and he starts walking towards the podium.

Red looks up and the portal is still open above him, but It’s starting to flicker. He assumes that means it’s closing and starts trying to find a way back up there, but it’s to far from any walls, and the ceiling has nothing for the grapple to attach to, and he can’t get any further before Nightwing is falling towards him.

“Oh, shit.” Red mutters, getting out of the way. Of course, Dick rolls with it and pops up ready to fight.

“Red, are you okay?”

“ Fine, but we have no way back up.”

Dick turns to look at the portal, only for Hood and Robin to fall through as well, right before it closes.

Dick and Tim share a look as Damian and Jason pick themselves off the floor.

“Wonderful!” They all turn to the voice at the front of the room. “Now that everyone is here, we can get started! Welcome to the Infinite Realms. I’m Danny, your host for the competition. You are here because you tried to summon the Ghost King, Great One, Slayer of Pariah Dark, Ruler of the Infinite Realms. You shouldn’t have thought it would be so easy. He has brought you here instead so you can compete for the right to an audience. The rules are simple, each round you will compete against one of His subjects, and if you are successful, you will earn a clue in the final puzzle! There will be one round for each contestant to earn a clue. If you lose your round, the others play on without you. Only those still in the game at the end of the last round will have the chance to solve the final puzzle. Any questions?”

The vigilantes looked among themselves. They didn’t mean to be here, but this seemed worth at least getting more information on.

“What happens if we lose exactly?” Nightwing asks.

“You spin the wheel of dimensions, and then Kitty takes care of you.” 

“And… What if we don’t want to play?” Red asks hesitantly. 

There is a frown from Danny. The other ghosts in the room shared looks. Danny starts to flicker as he grows fangs and his eyes start to glow more brightly. 

“Are you trying to tell me that after finding, drawing, and successfully activating your summoning circle, after hearing the terms of engagement you have decided that your goal was not to meet the King, but instead to waste all of our time?”

“No! Nope, we are so ready to compete.” Nightwing states. “We’d love to meet the King.”

“Ah!” Danny calms back into a smile. “Then we continue!”

Danny nods to one of the ghosts, who leaves through a side door.

“Now you can decide who plays each challenge, but remember, each person can only compete in one round. The first three rounds are physical competitions. The first is a timed obstacle course. Since us ghosts have a natural advantage over you guys, this is a timed event rather than a race. However, since we still need to participate, Skulker will be chasing you as Boxy tries to distract you. Choose your contestant!”

Nightwing raises his hand.

Inspired by this post by @phantoms-world-and-more

[hauntedtrait]

BUILD YOUR OWN VAMPIRE (a cas challenge by hauntedtrait)

I looove cas challenges, and I've been particularly enamored with these where you roll or pick attributes based on something about yourself, I also love vampires so I combined the two! The only rule is to have fun! Also, you don't HAVE to pick attributes based on yourself, you're entirely welcome to randomly roll for those too! Use the tag #ht: vampcas to showcase your creations!

The same list that is on the image is under the cut for accessibility.

birth month = color scheme

1-2: bloody red

3-4: demure pastels

5-6: earth tones

7-8: dark and moody

9-10: black & white

11-12: bright and colorful

favorite mythical creature = hair color

dragon: ginger

sphynx: brown

phoenix: blonde

unicorn: white

chimera: multicolored

hydra: fantasy colors

hellhound: black

favorite animal = eye color

snake: blue

spider: black

bear: brown

wolf: purple/pink

tiger: yellow/orange

shark: white/gray

hawk: hazel

fox: red

alligator: green

favorite hobby/ies = extras

cooking: scars

fiber arts: piercings

gaming: prosthetics

painting/drawing: tattoos

sculpting: body horror

programming: glasses

outdoor activities: freckles/beauty marks

playing an instrument: weird eyes

randomly generate a theme

romantic

gothic

emo/scene

victorian

1920s

1950s

1960s

1970s

1980s

1990s

y2k

modern day

historical

rockstar

dark academia

futuristic

urban

punk

hippie

minimalist

maximalist

out of this world

western

animalistic

[superstarcadet]

A very belated Day Six of @byler-week! Now I am completely aware that what I have made only SCRATCHES THE SURFACE of what a confession regarding The Painting could look like. A comic going THAT in-depth would take me way too long! Mainly wanted to draw my vision of Will screaming that he's in love with Mike at the top of his lungs and everything suddenly clicking into place for Mike after the fact. Idk it was very cathartic for me :-) Day Seven will be coming ASAP! Thanks for sticking with me as I wrap up this challenge! <3

Day Six Prompts were: Develop, Drawer, Valuable, White/Black color scheme

Part One || Part Two || Part Three || Part Four || Part Five

[astraystayyh]

Echoes of love

"to love someone is firstly to confess : i am prepared to be devastated by you."

Chapter i. to forget

genre : memory loss trope. angst. slow burn. unrequited love except you were in a loving relationship and everything changes overnight.

pairing : minho x reader.

summary : if given the choice would you love minho again? yes, you would've once said in a heartbeat. but now, you aren't sure of your response anymore.

cw : depiction of a car accident. mention of blood and physical wounds. depiction of a nightmare and anxiety attack. reader has she/her pronouns.

word count : 14.8k words.

song recs : the night we met/terrible love/black friday/cover me.

a.n: she's here, she's yours, i hope you'll enjoy reading one of the most challenging things I've ever wrote :') your feedback is highly appreciated <3

special thanks to @forlix for going through this journey with me, i love you thank you, seriously, you mean the world to me. and to @dorisnumber1fan for listening to my initial rants about this fic, and all the ones i ever write. i love you and appreciate you so much, more than i could explain <3

quotes series masterlist. next chapter.

Day 1.

You're floating in a dark void, save for the specks of light swirling around you. A peculiar serenity fills your being, a tranquility unlike any you’ve ever known. It’s as though your body isn’t your own; but rather an otherworldly vessel, calmly traversing the cosmos, dancing in constellations with the stars that encircle you.

A sudden electrifying warmth surges from your hand, traveling down the contours of your knuckles, melting into the lines of your palm. It pulsates within your being as if you’re holding the Earth's very core between your fingers. You stir from your ethereal orbit, longing to break apart from the celestial lights, to reunite with your body once again.

The warmth intensifies, causing your fingers to involuntarily clench. A deluge of radiance enfolds you, drawing you into a luminous hole. You squint your eyes, drinking in the light- your first breath.

Your eyes flutter open in a daze, your throat parched, rasping like sandpaper against your vocal cords. White encompasses you yet again, from the high ceilings to the pristine bed you’re lying on. It takes you a few blinks to grasp your new environment- an unfamiliar hospital room. You wearily close your eyes, hoping for the stillness to return, aching for the peace you felt within your bones mere moments ago.

But to no avail; only the tingling sensation remains.

You tilt your head, eyebrows shooting upwards as you notice a hand clasping yours. A figure lies their forehead beside your body, black disheveled locks tickling your palm.

The warmth, you understand where it comes from now.

You attempt to slip your hand out of theirs, prompting the man to awaken with a jolt, surprise dancing across his features as his gaze meets yours. Dark circles adorn his face- testimonies to days of fatigue imprinted upon every feature of his. Yet, all of it dissipates as he gazes at you, lips slightly parted, bunny teeth peeking out. His face transforms into a radiant smile, stirring a mysterious longing within your soul- it brushes against your fingertips before slipping beyond your reach. 

"You're awake," he whispers in awe, and your tiredness renders you mute. You point to your throat, hoping that he'll understand what you need. "Water? Is- Is that what you want?" he asks, a touch too eager, fingers running through his hair in sheer disbelief. You nod and he rises swiftly, pouring you a glass of water and bringing it to your lips.

You sip diligently as his hand caresses the crown of your hair, the warmth now traveling to the top of your head. You feel lightheaded as if the blood in your veins has thickened, the very life in you slowed to a faint whisper. Yet, a timid relief emerges as your thirst is finally quenched.

"I'll- I'll go call the doctor," he tells you, his beaming smile unwavering. It’s too bright, everything around you is, and you feel a throbbing headache growing at your temple’s base.

It's a mere minute before the man returns, a doctor and two nurses on his trail. You float within a haze as the nurse shines a beam of light in your eyes. The response of your pupils seems to please her.

"Do you remember what happened?" the doctor inquires and you frown. You've been racking your brain for an explanation as to why you're here, but to no avail. You shake your head.

"What's your name," he proceeds, lips growing into a thin line.

"Y/n, Y/l/n," you respond, your voice sounding foreign to your ears, as though it hasn’t left the confines of your throat for ages. You miss the darkness; you want to sleep again.

"What date are we?"

Your eyebrows knit together as you try to think of an answer. "The 20th or maybe the 21st September."

"What year?"

"2022."

An eerie silence falls upon the room, a stillness resembling the one of your dreams; but it isn’t comforting, on the contrary, it fills your being with an unsettling dread, one that trickles inside you with each second spent in silence. Tick. Tock. Tick. Tock. You close your eyes to avoid the sorry ones of the nurse.

"We need to run you an MRI scan," the doctor finally speaks up, tone somber. "It appears you're suffering from retrograde amnesia. But we have to make sure."

It takes time for the words to permeate your consciousness, for the syllables to settle in and start to make sense. Amnesia.

What have you forgotten?

“What…” you chuckle warily, fingers reaching up to soothe your throbbing forehead. “What year is it?”

"It's the 24th of September 2023. You were in a severe car accident two days ago, a drunk truck driver rammed into your car on your way home. You have a fractured rib and extensive leg injury, but no broken bones thankfully. We'll get you to the scan shortly, okay?" he speaks easily as if announcing that you've missed the rain while asleep. As if it’s not a year’s worth of memories you’ve seemingly forgotten, erased in the span of a blink, akin to footprints on sand washed away by the waves. Nothing of importance.

"So, you don't... remember me?" a soft voice quivers, barely above a whisper, and your eyes meet those of the man who’s been at your side, temporarily forgotten in the conversation.

His question is laced with a grave fear, evident in his dilated pupils and trembling hands. A lump blooms in your throat, its thorns pricking at your voice. You aren’t sure you want to answer that question.

"I- I don't."

"Oh."

You’ve never known that a human could crumble in silence, in an imperceptible gasp, so small you almost did not hear it. A crestfallen expression materializes on his face in the span of a heartbeat, features coming together in the rawest expression of anguish you’ve ever seen. You bite your lip.

"Who- Who are you?" you implore, urgency inflecting your tone, hoping that he's no one of importance. Someone who helped you when you got into a car accident. Someone minor who you wouldn't fault your brain for forgetting.

"I was... I-I am your boyfriend. Minho," he utters his name like a broken plea, eyes slightly widening to gauge your reaction. As though those two syllables hold within them a myriad of memories, ones you simply cannot forget.

You don't remember.

The doctor was right in his diagnosis. The scan showed unusual activity within your brain, characteristic of post-traumatic amnesia. You listened numbly as he cited the precautions you should take to heal your physical wounds- to rest, not carry anything heavy, ice your lungs, and go on walks. But you did not care for the state of your body, you’ve bruised it before and it has healed in its own time. It will do it again; it is a familiar path you’ve already undergone. But what about your memory? Your mind that robbed you of a year of your life? How do you get it back?

“There is no guarantee you’d remember. There is also no treatment for amnesia. We advise that you focus on healing first. Do not strain your mind,” your doctor smiled, before leaving the room. His silver wedding band shined mockingly underneath your eye. He doesn’t know what it’s like to forget the lover awaiting you at home.

Minho dutifully sat by your side, nodding along to the doctor’s words. He signed your discharge papers and settled your bills before you could protest, and he was now pushing your wheelchair through the hospital's corridors. You didn’t know what to say to him- how do you talk to a stranger who uttered your name with love dripping between its letters?  

In the hospital’s parking lot, Minho pauses, squatting before you. His eyes are puffy, red veins contrasting against the pristine whites, betraying the tears he must have shed when he excused himself to the toilet.

You suddenly want to beg for a reprieve; it is too much pain for one day, too much for one soul to bear. But it is only six p.m. and Minho's gaze holds you captive, a new emotion dancing in his brown irises- grief. He's looking at you as though you're a phantom, gone when you are still very much breathing.

“We've been together for eleven months, and we moved in together two months ago,” he licks his lips nervously. “You have a two-month medical leave, and I- I don’t want to leave you alone, while you recover. So, you can think of us as… as roommates.” The word felt heavy on his tongue, a fresh wave of tears brimming in his waterline. He swiftly blinks them away.

Your parents are in a faraway city, so is your best friend. You were the one who decided to move somewhere so far, to flee from the skeletons threatening to spill out of your closet. You don't want to burden anyone. You just want to rest.

You nod in agreement and Minho attempts to smile. It is a useless effort; one he quickly gives up. There was nothing to be joyous about.

Minho takes your hand, gently helping you to your feet. He opens the door to his car, and you settle into the passenger seat. It smells pleasant, an apple-scented diffuser dangling from the rearview mirror. Yet, as Minho closes the door, the scent suddenly suffocates you. Your lungs ignite, consuming your oxygen to douse their rising flames. You can no longer breathe inside, panic rippling in your heart violently, pushing at your ribs, begging for an escape. You open the door, collapsing to your knees as a violent coughing fit overtakes you. You blindly clutch at Minho’s arm and he tumbles to the ground with you. 

The ugly sob that had been trapped within your throat finally escapes, and passersby pay you no mind. It must be usual to hear gut-wrenching cries in a hospital parking lot. But Minho seems to care, as his hands soothingly rub your back, undergoing a steadfast path from the nape of your neck down the base of your spine. He’s not panicking and his touch appears to instinctively know how to speak to your sadness, how to soothe your sorrow with unheard words.

You imagine it's not his first time comforting you, and the thought only forces another sob from the depths of your soul, as Minho pulls you up once again. He sits your shaky figure on the wheelchair, closing the car doors.

“We can walk,” he tells you gently, and despite the quietness of his voice, it manages to break through your raging storm. A singular sun ray parting the gloomy clouds.

“It’s okay, I’ll... I’ll suck it up”

"You've been through a terrible car accident, and I won't let you sit here and panic, especially when your wounds are still fresh and your mind is trying to protect you."

His tone is resolute, eyes blazing with determination as he looks at you. You can only nod in response. So, Minho pushes your wheelchair to his house. He doesn’t huff, nor complain about the autumn sun scorching his skin, the effort to push you for the entirety of the road, and then inside his building. He only smiles when his eyes meet yours in the elevator mirror.

He’s tentative as he opens the door to his apartment, hand tightly gripping the keys before turning them, as if preparing himself for a bigger heartbreak, one that lies within what was once his sanctuary- yours too, you suppose.

Minho pushes you inside, pausing near the entrance as your eyes drink in the interior. He seems to await something, perhaps for you to remember the place you’ve called home for the past months. A few seconds pass, and he clears his throat, holding your arm to guide you forward. He avoids your gaze as you both venture in.

“This is the kitchen,” he points to a small kitchenette, where a flower bouquet seems to have wilted, much like the man near you- his emotions now diluted, eyes dimmed as they glaze over the walls. You spot your favorite mug on the racks, one that resembles a fairy mushroom. The sight of it makes your heart clench in your chest. So, this is your home, after all.

You leave the kitchen and walk down a narrow hallway when you stumble on your feet. “Easy, honey,” Minho cautions, and your hold on his forearm falters. He blinks at you before gazing up at the ceiling. “I’m sorry, force of habit.”

“It’s okay,” you reply in a small voice.

Minho leads you to the living room, cream-colored sofas with a navy blanket on top, multiple fuzzy pillows scattered all around. A tulip field painting graces the accent blue wall- your favorite flower, two matching slippers rest by the couch, racks of your novels adjacent to his collection of cookbooks, you assume. 

It is all the more evident to you that you’ve both lived here, lives intertwining so seamlessly into one another. The place radiates comfort and warmth, but it refuses to penetrate your being, as if you’re harboring a shield of oblivion, ricocheting off any touch of remembrance. You’re an intruder, standing in stark contrast to the inviting coziness that envelops you.

“I like that wall,” you say in an attempt to lighten the stuffy atmosphere.

“We painted it together,” Minho smiles sadly, and your remorse seems to liquify, blending in with the blood running through your veins.

From the corner of your eyes, you spot three furry masses bolting towards you, small paws clawing at your feet. You feel another dent add to your heart, so much you are sure it would blow away at the tiniest gust of wind. Just how much have you forgotten?

“We… We had cats?” you ask breathlessly, eyes widening as you take in the two orange felines, and the gray, much smaller one.

“These are mine, but you also adopted them, in a way,” he explains, crouching down to pet his cats, scratching the sensitive spot behind their ears. He is tender with them and they appear at ease in his presence. You realize you’ve felt the same since you’ve woken up.

“Hey, my babies,” he coos softly. “Mom- I mean y/n- is tired so let’s give her some space, okay?” he quickly corrects, before gently pushing the cats away from your feet.

Minho shows you the bathroom before leading you to the bedroom- it's a bit untidy, worn clothes thrown on the ground, some of your accessories tossed on top of the vanity. As if the room was also frozen in time, awaiting your return to resume its familiar course.

“You'll sleep here and I'll just take the couch,” Minho interrupts your thoughts as he gently sits you atop the bed.

"But-"

"I’ll make you dinner so you can take your medication, okay?” he ignores your objections, adjusting two pillows behind your back to help you sit up straight, just like the doctor cautioned. His necklace, adorned with your initial, brushes against your cheek. “Try to sleep meanwhile. You need to rest.”

“Minho this is too much-"

“It’s not. If you need anything just call me over, I’ll leave the door open,” he says, tucking you in beneath the blanket. 

“I don’t want to burden you,” you finally admit, voice slightly raised so he’d finally listen.

“Y/n, I love you.” He speaks so suddenly, fists balled on either side of your body. “And this is what I do for the person I love. I… I don’t know how to not care for you, don’t take that away from me, please. Please,” he repeats, voice faltering under the weight of his plea. 

"Okay," you concede. 

You can't quite remember that first night, the morphine injected into your veins made you ebb and flow out of consciousness, only recollecting small fragments of the hours flowing by.

But you remember the dull pain settling into your bones, one you knew would accompany you for the following weeks. You remember the thoughts swirling in your mind like a tempest- your near brush with death, how she almost trapped you into her icy hold; the year of memories gone with the wind, as if they were never yours to begin with; and the stranger whose home you are in now, the very one who took care of you throughout the night.

And you can't perfectly recall it, but you swear Minho stayed by your side until the early hours of the morning, warm hand pressed to your forehead to check your temperature, cold tears falling on your arm as he laid his head next to your sleeping body.

Day 2.

You miss being asleep the second you wake up in.

Every fiber of your being aches, as though pain has latched itself into every muscle, its grip unrelenting now that the morphine's comforting veil has lifted. You drag a hand tiredly across your face, tears of frustration welling like dewdrops in your eyes. It's only 10 a.m. Far too early for one's spirit to crumble.

A bright post-it note on the bedside table catches your weary gaze. "I went to drop your medical leave at your work. I've made you breakfast it's in the kitchen. Don't forget to drink your medicine, I'll be home soon"

What home was Minho referring to, exactly? Because this one wasn’t yours, and neither was the one back in your hometown. Were you destined to be a passerby in temporary places, always lingering near the door, ready to put your shoes back on and leave at any moment?

10:03. Still too early.

You find solace in having two months off of your work. You couldn’t bear being somewhere where everybody knew you for months, while your memories of them span but mere weeks. The expectations they would have, the pressure to conform, to mirror the footsteps of your past self was an unbearable burden. What if she was better than you? Made better choices, spoke more eloquently? What if you couldn't live up to the image they had conjured? What if you couldn't face the repercussions of your past actions?

10:07. You need to shower.

You slowly ease yourself off the bed, careful not to put pressure on your injured leg, avoiding even the slightest exhalation. You pretend as if nothing’s happening as you pick up a pair of pajamas that you recognize from the closet – a familiar relic from the life you’ve always known.

It's a charade, you’re aware of it. You're but treading on fragile ice, your pain threatening to shatter the frozen façade beneath your feet, plunging you into the frigid truth at any given moment.

You walk into the shower, attempting to rinse the day's tiredness away. But moving your limbs is a strenuous task, and you can't reach over your head to wash your hair. You let out a dry chuckle as the water runs over your back, splattering across the white tiles.

Your heart swells in your chest, an uncomfortable weight pressing against your fractured ribs. Still, it beats, and you cling with all your might to this one silver lining.

Minho has made you pancakes, not the most nutritious meal but the only one you can stomach on your sick days. He's also brewed you tea, a singular sugar cube resting at the bottom of your cup, just the way you like it. Your grip on your fork tightens, knuckles paling. You wish he had put three sugar cubes, or that he made you anything but pancakes, something to reassure you that he didn’t know you so intimately. That your mind hasn’t stolen a love where every detail of you was known. 

The door opens, keys clinking on a solid surface. The sound of it tugs at your heart ever so faintly, a distant bell ringing somewhere far- it quiets down before you even realize it is there.

“Good morning,” Minho greets, the corners of his mouth curving upward although his eyes remain downcast, redness tinging its outlines. You look down at your cup, unable to hold his wounded stare.

“Good morning. Thank you for the breakfast and for going to my work. I really appreciate it,” you say.

“It's nothing. Your coworkers wish you a speedy recovery.”

“Mm,” you murmur. “That's nice of them."

“Here,” he slides a phone across the table. “I bought you a new one since your phone’s screen was smashed in the car accident, but I took it to a repair shop. Maybe they’d manage to fix it.”

You go to protest when he shakes his head, silencing you. “Don’t say It’s too much.”

A surprised giggle escapes your lips at his accurate prediction, momentarily halting Minho in his tracks. You swallow the sound down as Minho clears his throat, dissipating your laughter into thin air. “I put my phone number there. Also, the ones of your family that I have. Always call me if you need anything, okay?” he pauses, locking your eyes with his. “Anything.”

“It's okay, I really don't want to bother you. You might be busy."

“I’ll still answer,” he quickly responds. “I’ll always answer you.” 

There is a certain sincerity that coats Minho's words, one that softens the edges of his letters, making them easier to permeate your being, to sink into the seas of your soul.

“Minho,” you call out gently.

“Yes, hon- " He inhales deeply, eyes looking anywhere but at you. “Yes, Yn?”

“Thank you, for everything.”

“Of course.”

The ensuing hours blur into a hazy dance, in which you’re only awakened by Minho’s warm hand on your shoulder, as he brings you lunch, then dinner to your room, paired with the medicine you need to take. He doesn’t talk to you, only carrying out the tray outside when he deems you asleep- as if tiptoeing near your existence, afraid he’d slip into you again, knowing you won’t be there to catch him.

It's nearly midnight when you leave your room to use the bathroom. You pause near the door when you spot Minho petting his cats. You don’t even know their names, you haven’t dared to ask, still foolishly holding on to the hopes that this is but a horrible nightmare, one clawing at your tender skin even after you rose.

“You’re sad, aren’t you?” he coos softly, and the cats respond with plaintive mewls as if understanding his words. “Mm. I’m really sad too,” his voice is barely above a whisper, as though it’s a confession he isn’t ready to speak out loud. The pain in your ribs intensifies.

“But it’s okay, she’ll remember us. We are her family, she can’t forget us forever, right?” your breathing hitches. “Right,” he adds softly, as if to reassure himself; to inflate hope in a heart deserted by you.

Day 3.

Minho threw away the wilted flowers, leaving the vase bare at the center of the kitchen table. 

You almost wish he hadn't- those lifeless blooms were the sole reflection of your faded spirit within this home. Now everything in the house seemed alive, grand windows ushering in daylight to cascade upon the living space, causing the ivory walls to glisten. Everything, except for you and Minho, two ghosts skirting along the existence of one another.

There is, was, love imprinted in this house. You could sense it though you couldn’t feel it anymore. By the two cat mugs that connect through their tails, your products intermingling with Minho's in the bathroom sink, the notes you found hung on the fridge- some with his handwriting, most with yours, reminding Minho how much you loved him.

Where did all that love go? Did it dissipate into thin air, gone as if it had never existed? Has it turned into something else, lurking beneath the surface of your skin, waiting for you to remember?

You can’t find the answers, and as Minho finishes up his breakfast, you find yourself longing to ask him about the past year. Who you were and what you’ve lived. But you know it’ll feel like salt on a wound, akin to bringing a mirror before his face, reminding him of all that's been lost.

So instead, you offer to wash the dishes. He refuses, not that you expected anything else given his attentiveness to you.

“It’s only two plates and two cups, I can do it,” you insist, but he just stares blankly at you, before motioning to your ribs, and your swollen ankle. “It’ll be quick, please. I-I want to do it.”

“Fine,” he concedes, gaze softening. “But if you feel pain you'll stop.”

“Okay,” you smile tentatively, eager for the sense of normalcy that this mundane act would bring. You haven't forgotten how to wash a cup, at least.

Five minutes pass, and you suddenly freeze, plates drying in your hands. You have no idea where the dishes go.

This was your home, yet you can't even remember which cupboard holds the plates. 

Silent tears flow down your cheeks and you wipe them away angrily. You clutch the plate in your hands so tightly you’re surprised it hasn’t shattered. You selfishly wish it did- you were tired of being the sole broken entity in this house.

A small whimper escapes your lips, startling Minho who was mindlessly scrolling through his phone. He rushes to your side, brows furrowed, concern woven into his face. 

“What’s wrong? Are you in pain? Should I call the doctor?” he questions; eyes raking through your figure anxiously.

You shake your head as your tears double over. You can feel your heart constricting in your chest, longing for comfort, for a missing piece that was snatched from you, the void it left behind pulsating achingly within your being.

“I-I don’t know where the dishes go, and yesterday I tried to w-wash my hair and I c-couldn’t do it,” you admit through hiccups, plate still in your hands. Minho gently takes it from your tight hold, and your pinky brushes against his palm. He flexes his hand at the touch.

“It’s okay, it’s my fault. I should've shown you,” his voice is gentle, reminding you of how one soothes a child during a tantrum. You're embarrassing yourself but you can't find it in you to care. 

“I’m so sorry. I couldn’t p-put them back in their place,” you choke out, head turned down, tears ricocheting off sage tiles. You’ve always wanted a green kitchen. You’ve gotten it and you can’t remember.

“It’s okay, I’ll put them back. Shh, yn, please don’t cry.” He’s slightly panicking, hands tightly fisted near his body as if he’s afraid they’d act on their own accord, reaching out to touch you the way they’ve done the past few months. He sighs softly before taking a cautious step toward you. 

“I’ll wash your hair for you,” he offers, smiling tenderly at you, knuckles brushing ever so gently against your cheeks. “Hm? You can sit in front of the sink and I’ll wash it.”

“You’d do it?”

“I’d do anything for you.”

There is a softness that emanates from every atom of Minho, flowing from his fingertips, molding everything he touches. You were sure of it as he stood beside you, pouring shampoo over your hair with you sitting on a stool, head tilted back to the sink, your favorite song playing in the background. As he dried your hair with a warm towel, and then settled behind you on the bed, gently lathering your hair with your familiar serum, brushing your strands with care, avoiding any tugs that might pain you.

Everything Minho does is not to hurt you. 

You went to sleep with the ghost of his fingers lingering on your scalp, his warm breath still caressing the back of your neck. You found slumber came much easier to you that night. You account it to your hair finally being clean.

Day 4.

“Yn?” Minho calls out gently, his head peering through the bedroom door.  “Should we go on a walk? Just around the block, the doctor said it’d be good.”

“Sure,” you nod, glancing at the bedside clock. 9:43 p.m. it reads. 

“Dress warmly, it’s cold outside,” he advises softly before leaving.

A few minutes later, you're clad in a gray university hoodie that drapes slightly past your thighs and a pair of matching sweatpants. Minho halts in his tracks upon seeing you, his eyes racking furiously over your figure. He shakes his head, swallowing a growing lump of despair. 

“Wait here,” he whispers, vanishing into his room, leaving you fidgeting in place. An orange cat sidles up to your feet and you slowly bend down to scratch its ears. “I’m sorry I don’t remember you,” you smile sadly and he purrs in response, as if forgiving you for forgetting.

You wished you could forgive yourself too, one day.

Minho comes back, a red scarf in his hands. He steps forward until only a few inches are separating your bodies. With attentive care, he wraps the scarf around your neck, securing it in place. His brows furrow as he loops the fabric through and you release a small, shaky exhale.

There is a fog dissipating before your eyes, a misty veil lifted off your irises. In the four days you've known Minho, you always willed yourself to not look at him for too long, afraid of the pain you'd discern brewing over his figure, the shadows cast across his face.

But now, he stands so near that you cannot help but look at him. Wispy black bangs fall on top of his forehead, framing his rich honey eyes. His long eyelashes flutter with each blink, pupils dilated like a constellation-laden night sky. The smooth bridge of his high nose, dotted with the smallest mole; a well-defined cupid's bow outlining rosy, plump lips. He’s beautiful, even in his sadness; with sunken cheekbones and darkened eye circles, the hunch of his back, and the shake in his hands as he gently frees your hair from underneath the scarf.

Was it wrong of you to find beauty in his pain?

His gaze softens when it finally meets yours, his hand still holding your scarf tightly, as if it's a lifeline tethering him to you, one with which he verifies your existence, suddenly so elusive now that it no longer entwines with his.

It must be strange, surely, to grieve the loss of someone who’s still alive, breathing in the room next to yours.

Minho smiles at you, his fingers hovering above your head, as though he wished to smooth down your hair. He retracts his hand back, burying it deep inside the pocket of his black sweatpants, physically trapping it, stopping it from reaching it out to you once again. 

You’ve noticed his reticence to touch you, even when he wakes you in the morning to drink your medicine. His hand never fully rests upon your shoulder, it is only his fingertips that delicately graze your skin. It's as though he’s convinced you're but a figment of his imagination, and he fears that once he touches you, his hand will pass right through your body, shattering the illusion he foolishly held onto.

You blink and Minho’s already three steps away, grabbing his keys and opening the door.

Despite cautioning you against the cold, Minho doesn't say no when you ask for ice cream, paying for it before you can reach the counter. It's an unfamiliar brand, one that he advised you to try, and you don't regret following his choice. It’s a sweet mixture of vanilla and caramelized almonds, coated in rich milk chocolate- you can't stop the happy smile that graces your lips upon tasting it. 

You glance at Minho to find an unprecedented softness coloring his expression, the corners of his mouth tugging upwards. It isn't a smile directed at you, but rather an uncontrollable display of his feelings, splashing across his face like paint on a canvas. 

You expect him to swallow this mark of affection down, to conceal it with a placid expression, but he doesn't. He only tilts his chin forward, gesturing to the ice cream.

"Do you like it?"

You hum in agreement, a grin stretching wider on your lips. "I do."

"You did too, back then, when I showed it to you," he says, almost casually, as if referring to a childhood memory that turned out to be more important to him than to you.

"You have good taste," you reply, scrunching your nose playfully at him. The smile slips away from his face, his voice somber when he speaks again. "I really do, don't I?"

Walking with Minho isn't as awkward as you had imagined it might be. He shows you the neighborhood- the nearby playground, the hidden flower shop tucked away in a corner and you make a mental note to visit it later. You point at closed shops inquiring about them- he answers each of your questions diligently.

Your accident is never brought up, and you both tiptoe around the topic, skirting the edge of a dark forest where the light no longer seeps through and dark vines cover the sun. 

You both refuse to venture into the unknown.

"Just down the road, there is a bookstore. They have really great deals and I bought most-" Shouts erupt from somewhere nearby, loud slurred voices of two men under the influence. Your hand instinctively wraps around Minho's forearm, while his hand moves in front of your body, acting as a shield. 

You freeze, letting out a shaky breath. "I- I hate yelling."

"I know," he responds simply, lowering his hand.

He knows you- it is a comforting thought, to realize that you exist beyond the confines of your own mind.

Day 5.

Minho’s staring blankly at his phone, your conversation shining dimly before his eyes. You’ve just sent him a text reassuring him that you indeed took your medicine since he wasn’t home today with you- his three days off work passing by in the blink of an eye. 

In his mind, the past week felt like a mirage, a nightmare woven with intricate threads of his deepest fears- losing you, never getting to see the glimmer in your eyes again, and then looking at it and realizing it is no longer directed at him. 

He exhales softly, tucking his phone into the pocket of his navy trousers. The salty breeze from the nearby lake grazes his senses, and he closes his eyes, yearning for a fleeting respite. 

He purposely avoids watching the sun's descent into the water, which paints the sky in hues of yellow and orange. He no longer finds the sunset unfolding before him captivating, or any other scenery, for that matter, even those he once deemed beautiful. The world, in his eyes, has become lackluster and devoid of vibrancy, overshadowed by a profound sadness he never fathomed would reside in his heart. 

He still doesn’t know how he managed to remain strong until now, tending to you, holding your gaze, and breathing near you when you don’t even remember him.

You’ve survived, he reminds himself, you were lucky enough to be able to draw these breaths. The thought of any other outcome sends uncomfortable shivers down his spine. You’re alive and you’ll be home, he clings to this truth as he starts making his way back to his apartment. 

For how long will this knowledge offer him solace? How long will it push him to face a new day? He doesn’t know. He doesn’t think he wants to. 

It is much deeper into the night, the sound of the TV playing softly in the background. Minho has given up on slumber since the day of your accident. He was used to the feel of your fingers playing with his hair, your goodnight kisses planted on his forehead, then his on yours. 

He doesn't know how to sleep without burying his head in your neck, your chest, your stomach, wherever he saw fit that day. And he was used to your warmth- the warmth of your body as he pressed it tightly to his, the warmth of your love as you whispered goodnight to him. And the living room feels immensely cold in your absence. 

He fixates his gaze on the ceiling, resolute in his effort to avoid scanning the room. Since every corner he dares to inspect serves as a poignant reminder of the life you both once shared, a life whose echoes still reverberate in the air around him. The sound of your laughter, the memory of your annoyed whines when he teased you a bit too fervently. Vivid recollections unfold before his eyes- your tender kisses exchanged under the fridge's light, warm hugs by the front door after a particularly long day, none of you willing to let go first. 

He remembers your delighted giggles the first time you entered the house. It was still unfurnished, save for a floatable mattress and two empty cups of ramen beside it. But you were happy, immensely so, and your joy seemed to fill every room, painting it with shades of your love. Now the house feels empty- you're here and yet you aren't, and he is still on the sidewalk where he received that fateful call from your hospital. 

The moonlight filters through the window, and Minho looks at the light without truly seeing it. It's as if darkness surrounds him entirely- a bottomless sky where the stars of your affection have fizzled out, so suddenly, leaving him alone to wander blind. He can't help but feel guilty- had he not given you a love worth remembering?

Minho sighs loudly once again, trying to coax the reluctant breaths to escape his body. He pulls himself to his feet to check on you, knowing that you had to sleep upright for the first few days so your ribs would heal properly, which is why he often found himself readjusting your body at night. 

He peeks through the door, the light from the hallway casting an ethereal glow on your body. He frowns when he notices you fidgeting in your sleep, eyebrows knitted together. A soft gasp escapes your lips and Minho hurries to your side. He's witnessed your nightmares before and he knows that this one must be particularly terrifying to elicit such startled sounds from you.

“Y/n,” Minho coaxes gently, but you don’t respond. He presses his palm to your shoulder, shaking you slightly. “Y/n, wake up.” You writhe in your place, fear evident in your features, and Minho grabs both your shoulders, growing more urgent in his attempts to wake you. “Y/n, come on wake up!” he speaks louder, and you startle awake, pushing his arms away.

“I’m... Where am I?” you ask frantically, hand running through your hair. A sharp pain seems to surge through your ribs as you clutch your chest, slightly doubling over. 

“Take it easy, Y/n. Deep breaths,” he wills gently and you raise your head, meeting his eyes. Recognition shines in them, but not love, not anymore. He never knew affection could alter someone’s gaze this much.

“Minho… I- I remember,” you gasp, tears trailing down your face at an alarming rate. He freezes in place, tongue thickening in his mouth, unable to move it.

“What... what do you remember?” he asks carefully, sitting on the edge of your bed. 

“The accident. I remember driving and I… I was going in my lane, I- I didn’t… I wasn’t driving fast, but a truck came out of nowhere and its lights blinded me, and then… it rammed into the passenger seat side of the car and-" Your hands shake as you bring them to your face. “The blood, there was so much blood coming out of me, that’s- that’s the last thing I remember, it was in my hands and my arms and-" You’re wiping frantically at your skin as if erasing remnants of the red liquid only you can see. “I bled so much but I was… I- I don’t-"

“Can I hold your hands?” Minho cuts you off, needing the panic to dissipate from your being.

“Please,” you stutter, and he promptly grabs your hands in his warm ones, intertwining your fingers together, rubbing his thumb soothingly across your palm. 

“You are safe now. You are alive and you are breathing and you are safe.”

“I didn’t do anything wrong, I drove safely, why… why was I hit?” you ask in a small, broken voice, overwhelmed by the unjust reality of the world. Minho swallows his own tears, throwing them down the pits of his pain. The one thing he wished you’d never remember was your accident, the sight of your unconscious body for those three days nearly driving him insane. 

“He was drunk. And he’s in jail now. It wasn’t your fault you couldn’t have prevented it." 

You remain silent, gaze lost on the wall. “Hm? It wasn’t your fault, right?" he presses, squeezing your hand lightly.

“Yeah.” You sigh, unconvinced. Minho reluctantly drops your hand to pour you a glass of water, and you diligently drink it, before curling around yourself in a ball. 

“No, you can’t sit like this,” he gently reprimands and you pout. 

"My heart hurts. The pressure helps."

“I know it does,” he smiles in understanding, “but we have to make sure your ribs won’t hurt more, alright?” he explains as he pulls you upright, tucking pillows beneath your arms. He grabs a hoodie from the closet and rolls it into a ball, placing it gently on your chest. 

“Here, you can hug this instead.” You giggle quietly at the makeshift plushie, but your laughter suddenly morphs into fresh tears, catching him off-guard. 

“I’m so tired, Minho. And I’m so frustrated and mad and sad. Is it possible to f-feel all these things at once?" You hiccup, burying your face into his hoodie, soaking it in tears. 

“It is,” he hums gently, “Do you think it’d help if you talked to a therapist?” He feels you tense up beneath the comforter. “Only if you want to, on your own terms.”

“I’ll think about it,” you whisper. 

“Of course,” he says. “Try to sleep again, mm?”

“I don’t think I can,” you chuckle quietly, wiping your tears away with the sleeves of your cardigan. “Do you have work tomorrow?” you ask.

“I do.”

“What do you work as?” 

“Computer programming. I’m also a dance teacher on the side,” he adds quietly, feeling a bit vulnerable at revealing this bit about himself again.

“How do you manage both?” you ask in awe and he shrugs.

 “My IT job leaves me a lot of free time. And I’ve always loved dance, so it doesn’t really feel like a job, you know?”

“Mm, you must work very hard at it. That’s why your body’s so toned,” you say almost absentmindedly, as Minho lets out a surprised chuckle at your words. 

“You think my body is toned?”

“I mean- I didn’t ogle you I just… you know, you wear these fitted shirts it’s hard not to notice your muscles and-"

"You are sick and yet you’re staring at my body?” he tsks. “I feel used.”

“Hey,” you hit him with the hoodie he gave you. “Forget I said anything,” you pout. 

“It’s okay, I work very hard for these, thank you very much,” he flexes slightly, and genuine laughter bubbles up from you both. This might be the one thing he misses the most. 

You both quiet down, silence filling the room once again, but it isn’t awkward, it’s comfortable, almost as if you're the same person he's always known.  

“What’s your favorite color?” you suddenly ask. 

“Purple.”

“Did my favorite color change over this past year?”

“No,” he chuckles, “it’s still that obnoxious orange.”

“It’s not obnoxious, it’s peculiar.”

“it’s weird and it hurts my poor eyes,” he whines, covering his face as if wounded by the mere thought of it. 

“Hey, what if it can hear us and now you just hurt its feelings?”

“Colors have feelings now?” he asks, amused.

“Everything has feelings,” you nod matter-of-factly.

“Okay then think of the feelings of this bed we are both squishing with our weights.”

“Don’t say that. Now I’m sad for it,” you pat the comforter gently, a slight pout tugging at your lips. 

“I think you should sleep,” he smiles and you fake a gasp. “Is my convo boring you?” 

“Yes. Now sleep, Yn,” he brings the comforter up your body, sliding away from the bed. “You’ll be okay, right?”

“Can you… can you sleep here too? I saw the inflatable mattress in the storage room. If that’s not… too much to ask for.”

"Of course not. I'll be back." 

"Thank you, Minho" you smile, lower lip slightly quivering. "Thank you for not being mad at me."

Just how many cracks can one heart bear before breaking beyond repair? Minho thinks he's close to finding out. 

Day 6.

The lights of your dreams have returned, but they are no longer comforting, nor warm, they glare harshly, searing your eyes as they announce your impending doom. Each second draws out in slow-motion and you find yourself counting the breaths you inhale, fearing they may be your last. One in, one out, one in, one out. The moment you dreaded unfolds- the truck collides with your car, flipping it upside down.

However, this time, flames rage within. You know that your car wasn't burned, but they feel terrifyingly tangible as they latch onto your skin. The heat becomes unbearable, you are no longer sure that this is just a mere dream. You try to scream but smokey air fills your lungs instead, robbing you of your ability to speak.

You need to wake up. You need someone to rouse you from this nightmare. Minho. You try to utter his name, but it escapes your lips in a strangled whisper. The lights won.

A cool hand clasps your own, yanking you from the fiery dream, dissolving it like sugar in a hot cup of tea. You startle awake to find Minho hovering over you, brows knitted in concern, his hand tenderly cradling yours.

“Are you okay? Another bad dream?” he inquires and you sigh in response, nodding as your head falls back onto the pillow.

He brushes your hair back, some damp strands still clinging to your sweaty forehead. "You screamed my name. Was I in your nightmare?” he ventures carefully, afraid he was one of the sources of your fear.

“No, I… I thought of you, in my dream,” you reassure, although your words seem to have the opposing effect, making Minho pause in his tracks. You’ve noticed his habit of freezing around you as if needing time to process what you just said. You wonder if you’ve ever came to learn the meaning behind each of his silences, what his blinks convey in ways his tongue fails to.

“You are heating up,” he clears his throat, pressing his hand against your forehead. “Do you wanna shower? I’ll make you tea meanwhile.”

“Okay, yeah. I’d like that,” you nod, glancing at your phone- 3.47 a.m.

Twenty minutes later, you find Minho sitting on the inflatable bed, legs crossed, two steaming mugs of tea before him. He appears drowsy, eyes shutting and reopening as if fending off slumber. It’s almost an endearing sight- the way his bangs fall before his eyes, obstructing his vision, the sleeves of his pullover dangling over his hands, hiding them from your view. He brought the mattress without you asking him to. The attention brings a smile to your face.

“Hi,” you greet softly and Minho looks up, a tender smile on his face. “Hey. Here is your tea.”

“Thank you,” you beam at him, settling on the edge of your bed, legs crisscrossed to mirror his. “I’m sorry that I woke you up.”

“It’s okay. I wasn’t really asleep, just resting my eyes.”

“Isn't that what sleep is?” you snort and he chuckles, shaking his head. 

“I was still conscious, you know. I can’t really sleep these days.”

“Is the couch uncomfortable?” you ask, worried, fidgeting with your lower lip.

“It’s not the couch,” he says as his eyes lock on yours, a stare so intense it forces you to look down at your cup. ‘it’s you’, you read in his gaze. You have no answer for that.

“What's your favorite food?” you suddenly wonder.

“Pudding.”

“But that’s dessert?”

“I really like the one you used to make me.”

“I cooked for you? and you liked it?” you giggle. “I’m not really good at it, usually.”

“I taught you some basic skills,” he smirks, raising his eyebrows proudly at you.

“Too bad your effort is now wasted.”

“It’s not a waste if it was done with love,” he pauses, licking his lips. “And I remember it.”

A bittersweet fog shrouds the air- he remembers that memory, but you don’t. Perhaps you will never bridge that gap, no matter how much you want to. The room in your heart may remain forever locked, the gateway to that chamber brimming with your stolen memories. Maybe you're condemned to merely stand before the closed door, straining to hear the echoes of the love that resonates behind, forever just out of reach.

You don’t fall asleep again that night. And as Minho’s quiet snores fill the room, you rummage your mind in search of a pudding recipe, hoping to retrieve the memory he spoke of so tenderly, shaky hands holding his mug tightly. Silent tears trail down your cheeks and you try your best to stifle the sound of your cries. 

You want to make pudding. You want to make him pudding so badly.

Day 7.

It’s been a week since you woke up anew. Seven days adrift in a vast sea where waves of your memories lap at the shores of your mind, unable to breach the walls guarding your recollections of the past year.

Minho took you to the hospital for your weekly check-up. He sat by your side as the doctor reassured you that your ribs were healing relatively well, but you still needed time to recover, time for your body to mend, time for your memories to return. You loathed the waiting, the wasted days slipping through your fingers. You wanted a now. 

But you kept all these thoughts to yourself, thanking the doctor as he exited the room. 

Minho rented a bicycle to drive you around since the thought of being in a car made your anxiety spike. He installed a little seat for you, in that bright, obnoxious orange color you love very dearly. The sight of it nearly brought tears to your eyes this morning.

Minho idly pedaled around, choosing a scenic route, one he knew by heart from the looks of it. You closed your eyes, savoring the last sun rays of the year. Autumn was fading, winter clawing its way into the seasons slowly. You weren’t sure you could handle both the cold and the grief.

Miho took time off work for your doctor's appointment, and you both spent the day around one another, side by side on the couch, a new book in your hands, and an anime playing on the TV for Minho. 

You could see him casting occasional, nervous glances in your direction, as you flipped the pages of the book. You didn’t understand why at first.

But then you did.

You only brought it up at night, when it was past 2 a.m. and you knew that Minho wasn’t sleeping either, the screen of his phone illuminating his face. He left the inflatable mattress in the room, no longer waiting for a nightmare to occur. You weren’t complaining. You desperately needed company.

“Minho,” you call out gently.

“Mm?”

“How did we meet?”

You can hear Minho suck in a deep breath at your question, before placing his phone down, the only light source in the room fizzling out. It made talking easier that way, when only your voices were heard, carried around, as if emitting from two entities that weren’t you both.

“We met… near your old apartment block. I was going to the kimbap place near yours, you remember that one, right?” 

You hum in response.

“And I saw you crying, crouching near an injured cat. Some car had run over her leg, and she couldn’t walk anymore. And you didn’t know what to do, so I helped you. You insisted on coming with me to the vet where I take my cats. So, we caught a cab. And you were so worried, you didn’t stop crying, so the cab driver thought I did something to you,” he chuckles faintly.

“Then, the vet put a cast on her leg and reassured us that she’d be okay. And I told him I’d take her home and bring her for check-ups. But you were so worried, you begged me to send you updates about the cat. So, you gave me your number. And we talked.”

“What happened to the cat?”

“I took her to a rescue store I trusted since I couldn’t take her in. and we still visited her from time to time. And then, she found a good family.”

“And what happened to us?” you inquire softly, hoping that if your voice was quiet enough then your question wouldn't hurt Minho as much. 

“We kept in touch," he said. "And it was… easy to talk to you, I felt as if I had known you for my entire life. When you found out I had three cats, we Facetimed a lot so you’d see them, but then we just kept on calling, every day, for nearly two weeks. Being with you felt natural, you know? I didn’t overthink it. I never did."

“And then three weeks later you came over to see Soonie, Dori, and Doongie. We ended up watching three movies in a row, and you were so tired you slept on my couch.”

“That’s embarrassing,” you chuckle.

"Yes," he laughs and you reach over to swat his shoulder playfully. "But it was also cute, and endearing. Then you came over a lot, and we just cooked together. Well, I cooked and you watched.”

“Right, that sounds more like me," you instantly agree. 

“We hung outside too, whenever one of us had free time. We had a lot of common hobbies and interests so we never ran out of things to talk about. We made time for each other too.”

“How did we start dating?”

“You made the first move.”

“I did?” you shoot up from your place, hissing when the abrupt movement causes a twinge of pain in your ribs.

“Take it easy,” he giggles, as he illuminates your face with his flashlight. “You did.”

“Did you put a spell on me? I swore I’d never make a first move again after I was rejected in third grade. That was my most sacred oath."

“Well… you were ranting about this book. The one you were reading today,” he adds, and your excitement fizzles out, as the pieces of the puzzle finally fall into place. “You were sad because you had no one to talk to about it. So, I bought the book and read it. I gave you my copy, complete with highlighted passages and notes. And when I did… you kissed me, without warning,” his voice is softer now, as he fiddles with the tip of his blushing ears. "You said it was the most thoughtful thing anyone has ever done for you.”

“It was. It is,” you whisper, heart caught in your throat. “I saw the photograph of us both lodged between the pages of the book. Did we take it that day?”

“Yes, we weren’t dating, not yet. Because I told you I wanted to take you out on a proper date. But you wanted us to take a picture holding the book… So you’d remember.”

“So I'd remember,” you repeat, voice quivering. What good was it for in the end?

 “I looked so happy in the photograph,” you whisper, tears welling up your eyes. “I looked so happy with you,” your voice breaks as you utter that last part. "Did I love you, Minho?"

"You did," he nods softly, blinking away his own tears. 

“And did you love me?”

“I did. I still do, very much.”

“Thank you, for loving me. It sounds like I’ve lived a happy year with you.”

Minho's pain is akin to a polite guest; it lingers by the corner, speaking in whispers, hardly ever raising its voice. You'd never really notice it, unless you strain your ears, as you're doing now. Only then would you discern the tremors of his quiet sobs- broken, stifled, determined not to make themselves known, only escaping his lips when he thinks you've fallen asleep. 

Day 8.

Whenever an overwhelming emotion ran freely along the corridors of your soul, you'd often find yourself curled in a fetal position, knees drawn to your chest, like a fragile leaf.

Your teacher once explained that it reminds us of safer times in the wombs of our mothers, when the cruelty of life hasn’t yet reached us. 

It is the way you’re resting now, upon the cold, hardwood floor, dozens of books surrounding you. You decided to go through each book in Minho’s library, the need to satiate your curiosity overtaking you. You didn’t know what you were looking for, exactly. Other photographs, surely, in the hopes that one of them would spark up your memory, ignite the flame of remembrance. 

What you didn’t expect was to find Minho talking to you through books. Within the pages, amid the words, scribbled in small, dainty handwriting, threads of his thoughts all relating to you. Quotes he thought you’d appreciate, highlighted segments that reminded him of you. And dedications, so many dedicated lines you felt like you could drown in them. It felt as if Minho was on a quest to find love within every line, only to inscribe your name beside it.

Putting down the last book, you were left with a huge void, akin to a black hole eating away at your heart. So, you laid on the floor, one arm underneath your head, knees held tightly to your chest- as if trying to create borders for your sadness, to stop it from spilling out of your body, drowning the house in even more sorrow. Those four walls have had enough, more than they could contain. And so did you.

You suddenly longed for the very beginning of your life, when time was but a tranquil stream, when you were unaware of the hurtful years it would carve into your existence. Back to when your spine was still curled around itself; for it was never meant to be straightened. Your spine was never strong enough to bear your pain. 

You wanted to talk to someone, but you didn’t know who you could turn to. You didn’t know how to articulate these emotions into words, tangible enough for someone to understand them. And you couldn’t talk to Minho about it, not when he was hurting on his own. 

Because he smiled down at his cats, the corners of his mouth tugging upwards. His laughter echoed around the room when he talked to his friends on the phone. And sometimes, he even hummed under his breath while making you breakfast. But this happiness never reached his eyes, behind his pupils the sadness seared itself into his veins, casting a gloomy shadow that followed him everywhere he went. It was a palpable ache, one that filled the very atmosphere with the metallic taste of grief. Making it almost impossible for you to breathe in. Even more so when you remember it was all your fault.

These are the thoughts that haunted you all day, as they have been doing for the past week. Minho must have noticed that you were feeling gloomier than usual, a silent storm raging by his side, since he put up a romcom for you. “It made you laugh a lot when you watched it months ago.”

“How do you remember all of these things about me?” you ponder, scratching the fragile skin near your nails, easily torn, just like you. 

“Does it make you uncomfortable? Should I stop?” he asks quietly, deflecting your question.

“No,” you say the truth. “It'd be weird if you were an actual stranger, but… you knew me. And I knew you. and I still feel safe around you.” 

He nods silently, but something in his gaze compels you to keep talking. 

“I mean, I never felt uncomfortable around you these days, which surprised me too. I just… I suppose that even if my mind doesn’t remember, my heart does, in a way?”

“My heart will always remember you,” he whispers, gaze adrift in a faraway memory. 

A gear shifts in your mind, a sudden light flooding your vision. You find yourself within a grand canopy bed, its pure white curtains swaying to the rhythm of a whimsical breeze, their delicate fabric brushing lightly against your cheek. It’s slightly cold from the wide-open windows, but then it’s warm, as a gentle hand finds its place on your thigh, kindling an ember deep within, setting your very soul ablaze. 

The curtains sway with the wind, obscuring your view, but you can still discern the sound of your laughter, echoing like distant chimes. And a tenderness, so delicate it seemed almost otherworldly, trailing along your skin, as warmth caresses your cheek and gently traverses the curve of your collarbones, peppering it with the softest kisses. You can't quite behold it, but it is unmistakably there, an ineffable presence that threatens to burst your heart at the seams—a memory of your love for Minho.

It is a blurry sight, like peering into a worn-out photograph, its details softened by the sands of time. But you clutch to it- to your fading laughter and hushed conversation, and then your voice ringing clearly in your mind, the promise you made to Minho. 

'My heart will always remember you'. 

You startle back in a jolt; the light and warmth have extinguished. They are now dull, withered down, sitting next to you with their head hung low. 

It takes you an inhumane effort to swallow down the lump in your throat.

Day 16.

This week has been particularly cold. Not temperature-wise, October has always harbored these same frigid temperatures and you've gotten used to them, to the relentless winds brushing against your skin. Only this time they pierced right through your soul instead.

You knew what had changed. You had felt the sadness, the frustration, the guilt- all blending into one sorrowful symphony, pulling at your heartstrings the way one does to a harp. Yet, amid these familiar emotions, a new feeling loomed large this past week- anxiety.

It arrived in sudden, icy bursts, cold beads of perspiration cascading down your spine, feet suddenly freezing no matter how fuzzy your socks were- the physical telltales, then came the emotional ones. The shadows of dread, for we fear the unseen more than that which we can touch. The growing panic gnawing at your heart, hinting that something profoundly disastrous lurked on the horizon.

Anxiety held you suspended in the air, bound by invisible ropes that compelled you to watch from above as the days drifted past you. You were a ghost haunting an empty shell, hollow and resonant with anxiety's clang, akin to an empty can's descent to the ground.

Your appetite had fled, leaving you alone to grapple with the chore of feeding yourself, mechanically ingesting food only to pacify Minho’s concerned gaze. The TV’s volume blared, since you desperately needed the voices of other people to invade your mind, to render your thoughts merciless, forcing them to put their sword-like tongues down.

And the exhaustion, not accounted to your broken ribs, for Minho had meticulously overseen their recovery. It was an emotional fatigue, a weariness that clung to your every breath, trapping them within your ribcage, far beyond their time, until they tethered on the brink of exploding in your lungs- a supernova of darkness devouring your essence. Only then did the breaths release their hold on you.

So, you patiently awaited the inevitable unraveling, because you knew this wasn’t an ordinary anxiety. Your soul whispered to you in a language your mind could no longer translate, throbbing with a message you couldn’t quite recollect, striving urgently to jog your memory of a monumental truth.

But you didn’t remember– you should have.

You should've known it was Minho’s birthday.

It is near midnight when you venture out of your room, the inflatable bed by your side unusually vacant. A dim glow draws you to the kitchen, and as you stand by its entrance, an intensified cold grips you. It chills the blood in your veins, transforming it into splintered shards that prick uncomfortably beneath your skin.

Minho is sitting by the table, a small, muted cake before him, a shoebox by his side. A solitary candle flickers in front of his face, casting elongating shadows on his chiseled features. The flame is about to fizzle out- you feel like your heart will closely follow suit.

"Minho..." you call out gently, careful not to startle him from the trance ensnaring him. He doesn't react to the sound of your voice.

"Minho, I…"

"Today was my birthday."

His tone is cold, like the darkening clouds before a stormy night. His words feel like lightning bolts piercing your core.

"It would be stupid to blow this candle out, wouldn't it? Because you and I both know my wish won't come true. Maybe it never will. And it's killing me, yn." His voice quivers as it utters your name, a slight shake taking over his lips. His cheeks are tear stained- glimmering reflections under the golden flame. You've never seen him this sad. You don't know how to comfort him in his sadness.

A rush of nausea overwhelms your being, a yearning to expel every emotion, methodically, until your heart transforms into a tranquil organ, solely pulsing life's crimson essence through your frame. Nothing more, nothing less.

"This shoe box is yours. You kept it under the bed, filled it with everything that reminded you of me. You told me..." he pauses, taking in a deep breath. "You told me that you wanted to remember everything about us, every single detail. But I... I don't care if you don't remember every date we went to. I just-" his forehead rests on his palm, as he squeezes his eyes shut. "I just want you to remember that you love me."

Hot tears are rolling across his cheeks, splattering across the table like a broken mosaic. He doesn't try to hide them or wipe them away. He's had enough.

"Minho, I’m-"

"I mean- that's not too much to ask for, right?" he finally lifts his head, locking his eyes with yours. A black abyss, a dark void. You are the one who sucked out all the light.

"You- you said you loved me. And I- I felt it, y/n, when you looked at me, when you touched me. I felt it, it wasn't- it wasn't just words, I-" he pauses, running a hand through his hair, tugging at his black locks furiously. "You loved me," his voice breaks. "Why- why can't you remember that you loved me?"

Your tongue bursts to flame in your mouth, its grey ashes choking you from within. What could you even say? How do you stop the bleeding of a heart when you carry knives for fingers?

Minho abruptly stands up, his chair scraping loudly across the floor. "We talked about marriage, a-about kids, you said- you said you'd choose me to be the father of your children, you said you wanted a big house w-with me and you-” he points at you, chest heaving, eyes rimmed red. “You said you wanted us to sit at the patio when we're eighty and you wanted us to hold hands still," he chuckles bitterly, his arms falling limp by his side incredulously. "And now you don't even remember me."

He grabs the box, rummaging through its contents furiously. "You see this?" he waves dried flowers before your eyes, their petals falling to the floor from the force of his agitation. "These are the flowers I got you for our first date. You dried them and put them here because you- you said you wanted to preserve it, to remember."

"And this, the cinema tickets from our first movie date. You were so tired you just slept on my shoulder all the time and then I- I carried you home and you kissed me." He's growing more frantic, rifling through the shoe box in a frenzy. You remain rooted by the kitchen's entrance, a sense of powerlessness holding you captive, an unbreakable vice around your being.

"This is the napkin from our favorite cat café, and look," he grabs your hand, clammy palm pressed to yours, pulling you toward the table." This is the receipt of the first time we went grocery shopping together and-" he waves it in the air, before slamming it onto the table. "And, you e-even kept this stupid rock I gave you right before I told you I love you for the first time, because you said it was the happiest day of your life, my god Yn how can you not remember?"

A broken, sob-laden chuckle escapes his lips, a sound so heart wrenchingly human, so painfully poignant that for an instant, it fills you with a bitter aversion to your own humanity- it was never meant to inflict this much pain upon someone else.

Your thoughts shatter as Minho tenderly cups your face, urging you to confront his turbulent gaze. He seeks something within your eyes, and you desperately hope he'd find it, whatever it may be, anything to stop the tremor in his hands as they anchor you in place.

"Why did you- why did you keep all of this if not to remember me.” He asks, unblinking, lip quivering. “Please, please, remember me, just- just try, okay?"

"I’m so sorry-"

"No. No. Don't- don't apologize like it's final like you could never love me again," his hands glide to your shoulders, shaking you slightly in place. "Don't you understand? I-I don't want an apology I want you to remember me."

"Minho..."

"Just look through this, it's our happiest memories y/n, okay?" he let goes of you, circling the table before shoving the box into your hands. He smiles- attempts to, it is an unnatural presence amidst his tears, so out of place it sends shivers down your spine. "Look at it, yn, please," he pleads as your hold on the box falters. "I can’t remember us alone. I’m crushing under the weight of everything we lived it’s exhausting me!"

His voice ascends pitch, the end of his words hanging into the air, searing themselves into the particles you breathe. His voice leaves a painful echo on his trail. You’re exhausting him.

You put the box down, taking three cautious step forwards.

And then you hug Minho.

He can't even hold you back, body trembling with the sobs rippling through him as soon as your chest presses to his. He sinks to the floor and you follow suit, arms enfolding his concaved shoulders tightly, his face buried in the crook of your neck. "Im sorry, I'm so sorry Minho. I- I wish I could remember."

You want the kitchen to collapse upon itself. There is too much grief in such a small room- it stains the walls like blood droplets, absorbs his cries like a saturated sponge.

You don’t think you could ever sit at this table again.

He finally clasps your back, drawing you even nearer to him. "Can- can you pretend, just today, please? For my birthday. Pretend you still love me."

"Of course. It's okay, I’m here, honey. I'm here."

"I love you. I love you so much," he whispers, lips pressed against your neck. "And it hurts to love you, so much." He brings your hand to his heart. "It hurts so much right here."

He doesn't let go of your hand, softly caressing your knuckles. His breath hitches as his thumb hovers over your ring finger. "I... I was going to propose, you know? I even bought the ring, stored it away for when the time is right. Do you think you would have remembered if you woke up wearing it?"

He knows your answer would've been yes. You know that too, in the matching cat mugs and the book annotations and the way Minho gently held your face, even in the depths of his despair. Everywhere you look, your answer echoes back- yes, the home chants in unison, that's what you would've said. Yes, yes, yes.

Day 17.

In the cracks of concrete sidewalks, tenacious flowers manage to sprout. Just how in the depths of Minho’s pain, small joys bloomed, nestled in the vacant spaces between you and him. 

You'd greet him each time he opened the door, your voice resonating through the apartment like the sweetest sonnet. And he would always pause by the doorknob, basking in the sound of your voice that hadn’t changed in the slightest. Your tone still held that same dulcet timber, a golden honey that once dripped freely upon his soul. 

But today, Minho swung open the door and an eerie hush greeted him instead. He ventured in, calling after you, only to be met with utter silence. He anxiously checked the rooms, opening the doors hastily one by one. But you weren't there. You weren't home. 

Minho felt the familiar tendrils of worry coiling around his heart, constricting it with each passing moment. He quickly grabbed his phone, dialing your number, only to fall into your voicemail, the robotic voice chilling him to the core.

In the past two weeks, you had made sure to text Minho each time you went outside- a precaution you took due to your fractured ribs which came with frequent fits of dizziness. It was a safety measure for one person, at least, to know where you are. 

But you didn't text him today. And he had no idea where you might’ve gone to. 

Minho tried to suck in a deep breath, willing the fear to relinquish its icy grip on his body so he could think properly. Maybe you had simply forgotten, he reasoned. Yet, he knew that you never back out on your promises. They were sacred for you since they were once senselessly broken.

For the second time in a mere three weeks, Minho’s deepest fears unfurl like a nightmare before him, ensnaring him in a tapestry woven with the bloody threads of everything that went wrong yesterday. 

He carried his shame akin to heavy bricks on his shoulders, causing them to hunch forward- a coward, leaving the house before you even rose, and on his trail, your breakfast and a hastily written note. He couldn’t fathom eating at that kitchen table with you, not when his sobs still echoed around those sage walls, as did your quiet voice as you tried to soothe his cries, holding him between your tender arms. 

Minho was scared. He was terrified you’d never come back home after everything that had happened, the words he said and the way he pleaded, nearly at your feet, consumed by a sadness grander than anything he’s ever known. 

So, he storms out of the apartment in a hurry, scouring the nearby playground. But you aren’t there. The grocery store is next, the library, the flower shop, the cat café tucked in a corner that you may have stumbled on. 

You were still nowhere to be found.

A dreadful sense of foreboding overcame him, akin to how he felt when his phone rang two weeks prior- the unfamiliar number of the hospital shining before his eyes. What if something happened to you, a fit of dizziness but no one was around to help? Life doesn’t grant you a second chance. No one has ever brushed against death’s shoulder twice and lived to tell the tale. What if he receives another call? 

He couldn’t survive another call.  

Minho stands in the midst of the road, clutching his head with a tight grip, desperately searching his memory for the places that once brought you solace during the months he spent knowing you. However, he quickly remembers that you no longer know of those places.

So where could you have gone? 

An epiphany dawns upon Minho- the bridge you had pointed out to him from a distance on one of your walks, the first place you claimed as your own in the city. It towered above the ocean, suspended several meters in the air. He couldn't accompany you there that day, bound by a paralyzing fear of heights.

He prays with all his might that he's right. 

He dashes towards the bridge akin to a madman, the desperate rhythm of his pounding feet mirroring the urgency in his heart. It looms tantalizingly close, a mere 15 minutes away, and Minho, in a state of disarray, knows he's not fit to drive right now. He was never fond of running, he didn't enjoy the searing ache in his lungs, robbing him of his ability to breathe. But he welcomes the pain today- it means that he's running fast enough to reach you. He hopes, he prays.

Minho spots you from a distance, a mere silhouette standing at the bridge's edge, your figure unmistakable with the red scarf tightly wound around your neck. Relief nearly brings him to his knees - you're alive.

Minho doesn't think as he sprints to you, eyes solely focused on you and not the void beneath his feet.

"Yn!" he calls out from afar, and you startle, snapping your head back to look at him. He wonders what he must look at you, disheveled hair, the wind knocking down his jean jacket. But he doesn't care. 

Minho stands before you without pause, instantly pulling you into the shelter of his chest, his hand cradling the back of your head. He buries his face in the curve of your neck, inhaling the familiar smell of your shampoo, a constant through the months of knowing you. He clings to it, to the familiarity of your scent and the way your heartbeat seems to pour from your body to his, speaking in a language only your souls can comprehend. His arms clutch at you tightly, rugged breaths escaping his body, dew tears gathering in his eyes and dropping down your shoulders. 

Your arms hang limp by your side, confusion etched across your face at the urgency, the frenzy in which he pulled you to his chest, an emotion you hadn’t known in him in these past weeks.

You tentatively raise your hands, patting his back slowly. "Minho, what’s wrong?" you whisper, and he shakes his head.

"You weren't home. I- I thought something happened to you." 

"No, I just went on a walk and lost track of time," you reassure him and he pulls away, warm hands cradling your cheeks. 

"You're okay, right? Tell me you're okay," he pleads and you smile, nodding your head. “I'm okay, don’t worry.” 

Minho drops your face, embarrassment flooding his being at his outburst. It morphs to panic as he realizes the expanse beneath—nothing but the vast ocean, the wind slamming into his body, making him lose his footing.

"Are... you okay?" you ask cautiously. "Minho, you're shaking," you point out, a frown tugging at your lips. "Are you cold?" 

He stays silent, unable to place a word beyond the stutter of his lips. 

"Here," you hurriedly unwrap your red scarf, enclosing it around his neck. "You're shivering, Minho," you grab his hands, rubbing his fingers, blowing warmth into them, an attempt to kindle fire into him.

"I'm not- not cold. I- I’m scared of heights," he admits through a stutter, eyes tightly closed. 

"Then why are you here?" You ask, surprised. 

"Because you are." 

His confession comes out quietly, softened by the blow of his fear. His eyes remain closed, missing the tears gathering in your eyes, the ones you swiftly try to blink away. 

"Let's go, just keep your eyes closed. Hold my hand," you entwine your fingers with his, squeezing it lightly to signal you're there, as you walk across the bridge. 

You don't let go until you finally regain solid ground. 

"You're safe. you can open your eyes," you say quietly. 

"You're okay, right?" he inquires again, stepping closer.

"Why are you asking me this when you're the one shaking?" you chuckle, almost exasperated, nothing funny in the sound.

"I was worried about you, and I thought you left… after yesterday."

"Why would you- My god Minho why would you even come running across this bridge? Why would you do something like that when you're afraid?"

"Because I love you," his voice is resolute, soft as a whisper, as he states a simple truth. It only makes yours reach new heights.

"But why- why do you love me? Why would you still love me after everything I put you through?" 

"You didn't put me through anything," he shakes his head, and you take a step back, facing away from him. He can see your body heaving up and down, the weight of unspoken words making your heartbeat race. And then you snap. 

"You broke down yesterday," you pivot back, pointing at his chest. "You broke down in my arms because of me. Why would you still love me after all this Minho I don't- I don't understand." 

"I shouldn't have done that, I'm sorry, I'm really sorry, I know I probably made you uncomfortable and I shouldn't have asked something like that out of you-" 

"No, no, Minho, you don't understand, you shouldn't apologize, I should. I’m the one who hurt you-"

"You didn't hurt me. It's something out of your control, you didn't choose this." 

“Stop- just stop being so nice and understanding for a minute. I don’t deserve it!" you shout exasperated, tears pricking at the corner of your eyes. "You can't look me in the eyes half of the time you can't even fucking breathe in your own home. It's now a- a cemetery for our memories and it'll soon become yours too because I suck the life out of you, can't you see that?" 

"I'm not asking you to remember me,” he holds his hands up, in surrender, “I was wrong yesterday, you don't have to remember us." 

"There is no us!” you yell, hands thrown in the air, “Not anymore, Minho, maybe never."

You suck in a deep breath, shutting your eyes, willing your voice to ebb and flow into calmness. 

"I thought about it. It'll hurt less if you don't see me, time will pass and you'll get used to it, I'm not worth this."

"You are,” he interjects. “You don't get to pick for me, Yn." 

"Stop- stop talking like this is normal, stop being so complacent with your pain, Minho you shouldn't love someone who hurts you!"

"Then make me stop loving you. Spare me. Tear open my heart and bleed it dry at your feet or else it won't stop beating for you. Don't you understand? If you are near or if you are far, I will still love you. The only difference is that I'd worry more about you. I'd worry if you're eating, I'd worry if you're taking your medicine, I'd worry if you're drinking out of your favorite cup or if you have a spare shampoo in your drawer because you hate running out of it. I'd worry out of my fucking mind, Yn don't leave." 

It had been an encompassing sadness that made his true feelings surge yesterday, breaching the myriad of cracks in his heart. But today, it was fear that cast a revealing light upon his feelings, hidden in the recesses of his being. They surged forth in a transparency you were still not used to, the way the ocean throws on its shores the debris of sunken ships, allowing the grieving families of sailors to finally discover the terrible truth.

Still, his honesty, his soul bare at your mercy isn’t enough to make you stay.

"I'm sorry, I'm so sorry, I just... I can't- I'm sorry."

You take three steps back, before turning your back to him and walking away. A numbness, like icy talons, seizes his limbs, his gaze fixated on your diminishing figure—carrying away everything he's ever loved. Paralysis envelopes his very essence, a haunting realization that the distance between you is more than a mere physical space. You're vanishing beyond the horizon of his reach, slipping through his desperate grasp. The fear of never seeing you again fractures the stillness, snapping Minho out of his trance.

"To love someone is firstly to confess, I'm prepared to be devastated by you." He shouts, making you pause in your tracks. "Isn't that your favorite quote, Yn? You told me this is what love is about. To place your heart in the palm of the person you love. And your hands are soft, Yn. I don't mind if I'm bruised by them." 

"I lied then!” You yell back, tears cascading down your cheeks akin to a waterfall, “Belcourt lied and I lied when I told you this and when I promised that I'd always remember you in that canopy bed-"

"What did you just say?” Minho quickly walks to you, chest heaving. “What canopy bed?"

“It doesn't matter now,” you speak in a small voice, avoiding his eyes, seeking refuge in the ground beneath. Yet, Minho, gentle and determined, cups your face, guiding your gaze to meet his.

“It matters to me, Yn, please. What do you mean?"

“We were in that white canopy bed, when I told you that my heart would always remember you.” 

“We were,” he whispers, eyes glazed over as the memory washes over him too. “Did you remember?”

“Not clearly, it was really hazy in my mind. But I remember that the windows were open, I was supposed to feel cold but… your hands on me, and they were warm. And I…” you suck in a deep breath and Minho smiles encouragingly, running his thumb in a tender caress across your cheek. 

“I remember feeling that I loved you,” you finally confess. “Even though I couldn’t see you. That's why I said that I'd always remember you. Because you filled every chamber in my heart, so much that it'd still hold your name even if you left it…that's how I felt.” You pause, as Minho forcibly swallows the lump down his throat. 

“But it didn't unlock any new memories and I-”

“It's okay, it’s okay. You still remembered,” he smiles and the gesture brings you to his lips, rosy, plump. Were they still as warm? Still as soft? 

“I did…” you trail off. “You also kissed me, in my memory. Your lips were everywhere and… they were soft.” You add quietly, eyes fixated on his mouth, the smile that once adorned it slipping away. 

A tentative warmth courses through your being, a subtle blaze that ignites your cheeks in a shade of crimson. In this moment, a need unfurls within you, a yearning that eclipses the delicate boundaries of restraint. The memory of his lips on your skin becomes a beacon, standing tall amidst the tumultuous winds of uncertainty. You want to taste the warmth again. You want to kiss Minho.

“I kissed you.” His hands, once gentle on your cheeks, now slip down with purpose, cradling your jaw in a gesture that speaks of both reassurance and longing.

“You did.” 

“And my lips were soft,” he repeats, his red scarf brushing against your throat. 

"They were," you respond, breathless. His mouth stands electrifyingly close, a mere hairbreadth away, as you contemplate the simple act of tilting your head, closing the tantalizing gap. All that stands between you and the echoes of the love that was is the lift of your head, a movement that could breathe life into the dormant embers of your heart.

"Yn," Minho speaks softly, his words a gentle brush against the canvas of your shared vulnerability. His minty breath tickles your nose, as you hum, a wordless acknowledgment that hangs in the air. Your eyes remain closed, your heart beating loudly in your ears, drowning out the sound of the waves nearby.

“Use me. Use me to remember.”

[astralibrary]

i had fun putting together the reference boards for my ayuri style challenge so i went ahead and made some for this one too hehe

waaa i started this so long ago and only just recently picked it up again but hey it’s finally finished!! art style challenge w my girl celestine bc i love her design & wanted an excuse to draw it several times lol

kyoani by far took the longest and i’m not convinced i fully captured it but that’s okay, it just makes me appreciate how skilled their artists are even more! and gives me something to aspire towards ;w;

[mayullla]

Title: The Wedding is Today

Character(s): Viscount (Unnamed character/original work)

Summary: The wedding is today as you look at yourself in front of the mirror, wearing a white gown. Are you scared or are you broken? You weren't sure. Yet your time was limited till you become whole his.

Warnings/tags: Yandere Viscount x Fallen aristocrat!reader, F!reader, general yandere themes, manipulation (both physical and mental), power imbalance, forced marriage, loss of control, womb tattoo that is not sexual, forced servitude, 2k words

This is part two, click here for part one!

Dressed in the most beautiful white wedding dress, decorated with lace and pearls, you looked at yourself in the mirror.

You had always dreamed of wearing a wedding dress; after all, it was something that you had always been told you would have. And you had always been fascinated by the idea of wearing a dress that was the image of purity and elegance. In the past, you thought you would have it with your ex-fiancé but instead of him you were to wed another man, someone so infatuated by you.

Even with carefully done hair and makeup, it could not hide your empty eyes.

Was this the result? It had been a long time since you last saw your face in the mirror. In that dark room, forced into the whims of that man, you didn't have much. There was no mirror there, just a bed, table, and desk, with most of your clothes and necessities brought by the silent servants.

Hollow eyes covered by a black cloth.

You felt weak, your body shivering as you pulled your eyes away from the mirror. Tears threatened to fall as you tried to hold them in, worried that you might ruin your makeup and irritate him, who only wanted perfection.

You didn't want this… you didn't want this at all.

You were marrying a monster.

Even if you wanted to escape, there was no way you could. He had made sure to snuff out all your ideas or thoughts of running away. That man had placed his hands all over you just to ensure that you could think of nothing but him, making sure you would never be able to run away even after you were finally let out from your prison. You still felt like a trapped bird.

Invisible chains locked your wrists, legs, neck, and hands, forcing you to dance to his orders. You could not stand up; it was as if something was holding your stomach down, a weight keeping you still on the chair as you waited for the time drawing near, challenging you to even think of trying. A white choker necklace tightened around your neck, making you conscious of every breath. Your back was straightened with a corset designed to keep your posture rigid, preventing you from even bending slightly.

He said that he had to make sure, after all, worried that you might hunch and cry while walking down the aisle, your face would be hidden with the white veil, but he just had to make sure of your shoulders and your back.

“Your tears are pretty. But if you don't give the crowd a happy cry then we shall keep most of that in private. Oh love, you are my precious and it is the same with your tears also. They should only be seen by me.”

Yet nothing could be as shameful as the womb sigil placed on your stomach the glowing ever so bright under the dark room when you were told to go to sleep late at night. A warmth it created that you didn't want. You would have preferred to freeze to death that feel this.

The viscount rambled about how much he adored you, his perfect doll, during the carriage ride, and how much you have improved in the past days that you stayed here. He commented on your suffering and how hard you were working just to please him. You flinched the moment he said that he could not wait to make it official that you were his. “In just a few hours my dear and all the world would know that you are mine forever.”

You didn't want to look at him. You didn't want to look at anyone.

“My lovely bride," his comments made you want to vomit as tears fell down to your skirt in the carriage. His hands touched your cheeks as he gently lifted your face. Your eyes met his, and not even a lick of pity or guilt was in them, nothing but obsession, lust, and thrill. "Aww… Let your tears out now, dear, so that later when they put on your makeup, you won't ruin it," he whispered as he moved his thumb to clean your tears from your cheeks. 

“I am the only one here with you right now. It is okay to cry.”

“My little dear is just so pretty. Sometimes I don't know if I could hold back later when you finally become fully mine." Lowering his head, you flinched again when he placed his chin near your neck, his hands wrapped around your waist. You could feel his cold skin against yours, hot from your emotions.

“I worry that I might just break you one day..."

None of the guests touched you when you arrived at the wedding hall only able to greet you with a bit of a distance; maids that worked under him had made sure of that. Small adjustments in the dress or helping you reach one place or another were all done by them. They worked efficiently, but you knew that their main job was to be watchdogs.

You could never stare into their eyes for too long, though. To someone who knew or who was sharp, it was obvious that the shine of life in them, meant to fool outsiders, still looked somehow fake.

You stared at the floor of the dressing room, zoned out. The music from the orchestra outside was loud yet muffled. You could hear people talking, enough to realize that the Viscount made sure that everybody attended just to see him put a lock on your finger.

In just a few minutes, you will belong to him, and you can do nothing to stop it.

It was difficult to breathe.

You didn't want to move at all when your feet started moving, tried to stop yourself when you felt a certain buzz in your core under your stomach again, warning you not to try anything.

You remember after all that time when you so desperately wanted to run away and were so close to doing so. Back then when the Viscount left the room without locking the door, you thought you could run away at that moment and that this was your chance. Even if your feet hurt from dancing the same steps for hours just moments ago, you forced yourself to move, so desperate to leave.

There was no one in the halls as you ran, careful not to cause any sound that would let servants or him notice your presence. And you were close… very close to the door to the outside.

Only to feel a shock in your core running through your whole body. It was like fire burning your skin inside out, licking your skin, leaving trails of fire that grew hotter and hotter. You fell down in the hallway, unable to move as waves of pain threatened to melt your body. You couldn't scream at all, barely a gasp.

The sigil on your stomach had reacted violently to your escape.

And the pain didn't stop, no matter how many tears fell from your eyes. No matter how much you wanted to escape from the pain, it kept you wide awake. The pain in your stomach was gruesome, while your veins felt like it was lit on fire. At one point, it did dull down, as if someone deemed that your punishment had been properly given… but you could not move, and he made sure of that. You covered your face and sobbed still feeling like every body part was burnt to a crisp.

Later, when the Viscount came back from a meeting and saw you on the floor he tutted at you… no anger in his eyes when he picked you up in a bridal carry. “My dear honey, you shouldn’t have done that. What if you had gotten hurt while running away?” He asked you with a smile, his grip on your leg painfully tight.

You received another punishment from the Viscount himself.

You watched him place a chain on your ankle, securing it to the bed. You flinched at his touch, whining when the cold metal touched your skin.

“I made sure to go lightly on you. But don't think it will be the same next time, dear,” he told you as he carried you to your bed, giving you pecks on your forehead while combing your hair as if to comfort you. “It will be even worse than this..”

Let me remind you that as long as you know that you belong to me, I will spoil you more than kings and emperors could ever do for their queens. But if you could not understand that, then we could only just fix it… and you already know what I mean by saying that.”

“Right, Love?”

“It will be your turn soon. Please get ready,” a servant spoke up. In public, they removed all their masks around their eyes. You had expected their eyes for a moment to be dead just as they were before, yet instead, you saw a liveliness that didn't belong to the person. “Please wait a moment, and we will finish up a few remaining touches,” the servant spoke in a cheerful voice, as other servants walked around with similar smiles.

You disliked how fake it was, but more than anything, you were scared that this would be what you would finally become if you even made the Viscount mad enough, pushing the thought that maybe you already were deep in your mind.

A long veil attached to your hair, the Viscount had a favor towards longer hair and told you to grow it if it was short. The dress was cleaned from any fold marks, wrinkles and small imperfections. 

A white bouquet held by another maid given to you.

Your hands took the white bouquet without listening to your fear and hesitation. Again, you wondered if you were broken, already a marionette that he sometimes called you.

Walking out of the bride's room, you stood in front of huge doors in the long hallway, your own eyes empty of any delight but hidden by the innocent white veil, sheer enough to see your face just a little. Your neck moved by itself when it heard the announcement of the bride, your chin being forced up as the doors opened. You could hear the clapping first, and as you started to walk down the aisle alone, you could see some nobles who once watched you be humiliated by your past fiancé and his girl. 

You didn't care about them anymore.

Your eyes moved to see in front of you, and you saw your parents, both smiling as you walked down the aisle, almost as if proud parents when in reality you knew it was a picture the Viscount wanted of something perfect.

Looking at the man again, watching you walk towards him with a satisfied smile on his lips, you could see the madness and obsession swirling in those eyes, knowing that you have been placed into a corner where all he must do is choke you even more.

Standing in front of him, you looked at him, the same sly smile on his lips as the day you first arrived at his mansion and fell into his trap. The marriage officiant continued to speak, yet most of his words you could barely hear as you were too deep in your thoughts. This moment, these last few seconds would be the last that belonged to you until it becomes official that you would be forever trapped and controlled by the man's obsession and delusions for you.

You heard the Viscount speak for a moment, bringing you out of your thoughts immediately. You had become too sensitive to his voice. You noticed the marriage officiant turn to you after hearing the answer of the Viscount and asking you the question, “Would you take this man as your lawfully wedded husband?”

Looking at the Viscount who stared at you lovingly yet at the same time knowingly, waiting to hear you say the words that will bind you to him forever. This breath would be the last that you breathe for yourself and not for him. He was a serpent, he had already bitten into your skin, letting poison seep into your veins. Any hope now would be too late. 

You closed your eyes, letting tears fall down your face.

“Yes… I do.”

[g-xix]

🔞Locked In | ArthurTV

Based on ArthurTV in Locked In S2 on Footaslyum! Summary: Y/n is set the challenge to ignore Arthur for a full day. Too bad that when Arthur realises this, he does everything to try and make you acknowledge him again... Wordcount: 7.3k aka LONG

--------------------------

"Y/n to the storeroom please"

"Hey sugarlips!" You plopped yourself into the leather seat and smiled at the camera and tripod in front of you. 

The Locked In Footaslyum reality show had been hard, that was for sure.

Surprisingly though, one week away from your phone wasn't what had you all that worked up. No, instead it was ArthurTV. He'd been ever so nice at first, when he'd popped up in your Instagram DM's with a "Hi! Saw you're going on Locked In asw :)". And from there you spent your last few days with your phone only messaging Arthur. You woke up? You checked your phone to reply to Arthur. Midday? You had your phone on vibrate to alert you for when he replied. Night-time? The two of you were facetiming in your beds, giggling and both secretly ecstatic you'd be spending two weeks alongside one another. 

Then when you entered into the house, Arthur was first to spot you across the kitchen island, and ran over to wrap you in a hug. The other housemates thought it was just initial, friendly banter. But you were weak in the knees just hugging him. And anyways, soon enough the housemates started guessing at least one of you had a crush on the other.

Afterall, Arthur seemed to always be at your side. If you and Steph were doing your makeup, best believe Arthur was sat at the other spot on the makeup table just waiting there and listening. When Arthur was trying to get better at football with Jamie and Jokeman, you were sat in your puffer jacket on the outdoor sofa watching and occasionally passing the ball back to them. And whenever one of you had to go to the storeroom, best believe the other was piggy-backing them there. 

"Y/n, you and Arthur have been exceedingly close." 

"Is it that obvious?" You questioned with a little giggle. "Hey, we might be close but nothing could get between you and I, Sugarlips, don't you worry."

"I know." She bluntly responded, drawing a laugh from you. "Do you like Arthur?"

"I like everyone in the house, Sugarlips."

"You know what I mean."

You laughed as you could only imagine her rolling her eyes. "Only if he likes me as well I suppose."

"Interesting." Came the enigmatic voice's reply. "We have a challenge for you, Y/n."

"Tell all, Sugartits."

"Please just Sugarlips." She stopped you, making you snort. At least your Scottish mate would be happy you tried. "Your challenge is to ignore Arthur for the whole of today for three points."

"ALL OF TODAY!" You exclaimed with a gasp.

"That's right."

"What, so no doing anything with him."

"You must treat him like he is not there at all."

"Bloody hell that's a whole ask and a half."

"Do you accept your challenge, Y/n?"

"Gah... I... How many points did you say it was?"

"3 points."

"Fuck it, let's do it."

Arthur was already there waiting for you when you exited the store room. He wore one of those fitted white tees- the type that clung to his biceps and broadened his chest, hanging looser around his waist and giving him such a sexy look along with his black cargos, it was a task and a half just ignoring him and walking past him there. You could almost imagine the look of shock on his face as you passed him, pretending you hadn't noticed him and walking up the stairs- flashing one of the recording cameras a you-did-this look before continuing out of the corridor just as you heard Arthur call "Wait for me then, Y/n!" meaning that as soon as you turned the corner, you sprinted across to the bathroom, locking the door behind you to give yourself a moment to recollect your thoughts without Arthur on your back.

Listening closely, you could hear Arthur padding slowly, pausing at some point- before padding up the stairs and into the bedrooms. You allowed yourself to press your back to the door, leaning your head back and squeezing your eyes shut, groaning and wondering how the hell you were meant to do this challenge.

"Y/nnnn..." It wasn't even midday and you were sat across from Anisa and Anastasia doing your makeup, when you heard Arthur's voice looming from down the corridor. Anisa and Anastasia giggled, giving you a look as they normally did when Arthur came looking for you, though they were surprised to see that instead of having your usual big grin on your face, you just did your mascara as though you hadn't heard a thing.

"There you are, feel like I haven't seen you at all today." You refrained from turning around and looking at the oh-so handsome face of Arthur behind you, printing some dewey blush onto the back of your hand instead. 

A tension was raised upon the little makeup table as Arthur's words were met with a blank expression and non-existent response. 

"Have I put too much blush on?" You broke the silence, looking up from the mirror to the girls in front of you, who stared back with open jaws and looks of confusion. Anisa was the first to close her jaw and snap herself out of it, shaking her head before responding.

"It's more than your usual but it suits you, I like it."

"Let me have a look-" Arthur was persistent in trying to get your attention, and when met with no response as you did your best to ignore him, you felt the material of his cargos brushing against your arms as he squat down behind you. Your peripherals showed Arthur's face behind you in the mirror as you searched your makeup bag, doing your best not to look and acknowledge the man behind you- though as you found your pen and your eyes flicked back to the mirror- they momentarily met Arthur's big doe eyes before flitting away- causing a wide grin to light on Arthur's face.

A wide grin you wished you could've been looking at.

"Looks perfect." Arthur commented on the blush, still smiling cheekily as he snaked an arm around you shoulder, travelling across your collarbone so that his fingers brushed your opposite shoulder as he held you in what felt like a possessive way. 

He didn't make it any easier for you to ignore him, the way you could feel butterflies dancing around your stomach and your skin tingling from his touch, hairs raising on the back of your neck as you could feel his every breath land coolly against the side of your neck. 

Being in a house with eight other room-mates was not the place to start getting hot and bothered over a boy, though as you felt Arthur's other hand place softly against your  waist, thumb caressing the soft skin of your stomach exposed by your cropped top whilst his palm rubbed up and down sensually slowly, you could feel your thoughts turning hornier by the second.

"I know what you're trying to do," Arthur whispered into you ear just as Anastasia and Anisa started getting back into their own conversation, not noticing the closeness between yourself and Arthur as pressed his lips to your skin. You gulped and starting unscrewing the lid of your highlighter pen, trying to ignore Arthur's husky voice in your ear. "Good luck tryna ignore me, but just know that I won't make it easy for you..."

Arthur pressed a chaste little kiss behind your ear, patting your hip as a little goodbye before getting up from behind you and departing down the stairs as though nothing had just happened.

You exhaled a breath you didn't even realise you'd been holding.

At some point, Sugarlips gathered you all to the living room sofa, turning a screen on and taking you through comments left on recent videos. 

You lounged yourself besides Steph, resting your head on her shoulder and waiting for the others to arrive. Anisa, Millie, Spuddz, Johnny- they all slotted through the door one by one, and lastly , Arthur came and (to your disappreciation), plopped himself right besides you on the cushions.

One of his arms fell over your shoulders instinctually, though as the comments were read out one after the other, his arm seductively slowly trailed from your shoulders down to your thigh. It was painful, the way you fixated on that soothing touch of his thumb rubbing slowly over your outer thigh, biting your lip and glancing down just momentarily to catch the sight of his large hand almost enveloping the width of your thigh from the tip of his pinkie to his thumb. You felt as though you were discovering new kinks, as the way his hand looked so grand on your thigh had your pupils dilating, thoughts dipping into the forbidden horny vault as your felt his fitted "manwhore" shirt brush against your arm as he leaned close.

"Don't get let me distract you," Arthur whispered into your ear quietly, the cruel smirk dripping from his voice as he taunted you, his breath across your skin making you shiver, feeling his lips brushing the sensitive skin. "You just focus on tryna ignore me, hm?"

You kissed your teeth, not wanting to entertain him and yet having to pretend as though he weren't there regardless. It became easier to ignore his presence as his thumb slowed and slowed until it eventually stopped, just resting against your thigh and sleeping, letting you find yourself back in the moment and laughing with the rest of the housemates as you came back in touch with reality until-

You choked over your word as you felt Arthur's hand slip further across your leggings, his palm resting on your inner thigh and shocking you- turning your face bright red and making you instantly choke on your word, silencing you with shock as your splutters coughs, though nobody seemed to notice it over Darkest's yells of laughter, allowing you a moment to recover. 

Eyes squeezing shut, you couldn't help but flicker your gaze over at Arthur for just a moment, his expression poker straight with just the slightest curl of his lip- amused by your suffering- amused by the way you were like putty in his hands. 

His hand was so dangerously placed. His palm fell over that soft skin ranging from the uppermost bit of your thigh down the inside, fingers spread facing down to your knee so comfortably it was like they belonged there. So sinfully entitled. Bright pink heat rose to your cheeks at the thought of how close he was to you, how one slight fraction of a movement would have his hand on something completely different and have you feeling some other way completely... It felt so wrong, having him like that whilst you were sat by nine others- being recorded for the whole of the internet to see, too.

You were squirming internally, wanting to tell Arthur to stop, get off and leave you be- but you were torn between fulfilling your challenge of ignoring him and your genuine need to have him closer. To tell him to touch you instead. Entertain him. Tell him to do something, and see whether he'd follow it up and play the game with you- who would be first to back down?

And as though Arthur could read your mind, you felt the tip of his pinky which was closest to the seam of your leggings ranging upwards, scaling the see-through mesh region of your leggings and closer to your core.

The only difference between yourself and Arthur though, was that whilst Arthur seemed quite up for a casual bit of exhibitionism just to see you fail your challenge- you were not about to let him fuck you on the Locked In sofa with eight other people watching.  Even if that would set a pretty fuckin unbeatable legacy-

You emit a little gasp as you felt Arthur's pinkie slip perhaps more than he'd meant it. He was barely millimetres away from his finger tips touching the uppermost of your legging's inseam- and you jumped, gripping his wrist firmly enough to make it begin glowing white from the contact- stopping his movements and pinning his wrist in place. You'd jumped around to face Arthur- give him a long, hard look for the first time all day. 

His eyes were completely blown out, brown irises pushed out by feral black pupils, eyes wide in a way you'd never seen them before. A bright red glow was present across either cheek, connected across the bright of his nose which was blushed also- his lips slightly parted as though he was struggling for air, simply running on animalistic desires and needs. 

Even he seemed shocked at the fact you'd acknowledged him- even if it were only for a moment, before both of your heads snapped back to the screen as-

DING! 

"Arthur and Y/n are my absolute faves omg, istg these two have sm chemistry but also sexual tension either they come out of this house FWB's or married atp"

It took a moment for the shock of Arthur's previous actions to mull over and be replaced with the words Sugarlips read out. And then register those words... 

The girls squealed and leaned over to kick your legs with titters of told you! and laughs, whilst Johnny and Darkest just cheered and slammed Arthur on the back as a well done. 

Arthur looked proud despite the even brighter red glow of embarrassment across his cheeks, whilst you just collapsed against Steph's side, using Steph's body as a shield for your rudolph-red face, leaning against her for a moment longer than you really needed to just so to fully recover from whatever the Hell had happened within the last ten minutes. 

Retracting from Steph as the attention shifted back to the screen, the next comment already being read out, you looked back at Arthur's face.

He glanced at you, lips curving into a devious smirk. "You're welcome." He grinned maliciously, drawing a huff from you as you turned around to face the screen and purposefully crossed your leg over the other- swinging one thigh over the other and away from Arthur. 

"Y/n, please report to the storeroom."

You plopped your ass on their confession seat. "He's an absolute wanker you know, Sugarlips, been testing my patience out."

"We can tell. He is very touchy today."

Your ears went bright red. "Whatall have you seen, sugarlips."

"His hand was around your shoulder at the seats. And Steph's body blocked our view of his hand, but it looked like it was on your knee."

Oh thank fuck the cameras didn't see what happened. You mentally breathed a sigh of relief. God bless Steph and her beautiful body. 

"We also have seen you look at Arthur and talk to him momentarily."

"Whoa whoa whoa, sugarlips you gotta understand that was necessary, he said he'd poo on my bed tonight if I didn't."

"Do you expect us to give you a second chance?"

"Well, if you're offering one sugarlips, those three points would be much appreciated."

"Hm... We'll see how you do for the rest of the day, Y/n."

You grinned, knowing that meant she agreed. "Cheers, Sugarlips, I'll do you proud."

"Of course you will, Y/n."

Just as you got up to leave, you felt the need to double back to Sugarlips.

"Oh, and please give Arthur something to do. Otherwise he's just constantly on my back."

Turns out the distraction Sugarlips provided to Arthur was insufficient. 

The chessboard they'd gifted Arthur was entertaining for twenty minutes, in which time you'd decided to begin making some sort of dinner, and Arthur had already won 4 games against the other house members.

The pot sizzled as you added the soy sauce into the mince, the garlic, shallots and red chilli following as you double checked the rice also to make sure everything was cooking just fine. Given that within the first few days the house had ran through the entire supply of pot noodles, everyone who could actually cook without transferring salmonella had gone on a rota for who cooked each night.

Tonight was your night, and although most times whenever someone cooked the rest of the house would join them and entertain them- you'd asked to just be able to cook alone so that you could just let your mind declutter after the day. Plus, you wanted to make a Thai bowl for everyone, and that required a little bit of mental effort to just remember how exactly that was cooked. 

Questions whizzed around your head as you separated the mince out using the wooden spatula, keeping your mind so occupied that you didn't realise someone else had joined you in the kitchen until it was too late. 

A gasp was drawn straight from your throat as you felt a pair of arms wrap around your waist, squeezing you and swaying from side to side in what would've been a sweet, domestic way- had it not been for the way you already knew who it was hugging you from behind.

You weakly shrugged those arms away, trying not to let butterflies form as a result of his touchy loving. You couldn't tell if you were relieved or slightly despondent as Arthur really did pull away. 

"I'll get plates out," Arthur hummed, reaching to open the draw above your head and easily managing to do so as it swung open without touching a hair on your head.

For the second time within the minute, a gasp left your throat as Arthur's body came flush with yours from behind, pressing up against your back as he leaned over to find ten china bowls in the cupboard above your head.

Though the action of Arthur pressing his body up so close to yours you could feel the heat radiating through his shirt was enough to get your cheeks reddening- the feeling of something beneath his cargos pressing into your lower back gave you the realisation that you weren't the only one getting unmanageably horny within the locked in house.

As Arthur pulled away a moment later, hands laden with china, he made eye contact and passed the most subtle of winks that had you rolling your eyes and looking for the videoing camera within one of the four corners before locating it and mouthing I hate him, all the while fighting to turn your face a more normal colour.

Of course, Arthur caught your reddened face with a cheeky grin, only returning for more as he claimed to "help set the table", feeling the need to place his hands on your hips to move you out of the way of the cutlery drawer. 

And that didn't help the rudolph-red face.

Thank God Spuddz had gotten too bored of all the chess and wandered into the kitchen, spotting Arthur and bounding over, holding Arthur beneath one arm and chatting to you with the other half of his brain about how Arthur must've been cheating with the chess board ("I'm telling you- he must have a bishop shoved up his bu-)

You allowed Spuddz to remove Arthur with a sigh of relief, finishing up the Thai cuisine and plating up equal sized portions in each bowl before loading them onto a tray and handing them out- joining Millie on the sofas and enjoying watching her playful bickering with Jamie whilst you ate your rice. 

And it was nice to see everyone appreciate your cooking, as the girls begged for you to move in with them just to try more of your cooking, whilst Darkest, Johnny and Jokeman declared you "wifey" material and gave Arthur pointed looks. 

Whilst it was all well and fun eating with your housemates and listening to the banter that was contentedly thrown from person to person, you found yourself getting up to stretch after you'd eaten- deciding to excuse yourself to take a shower.

"I'll be about half an hour in there, if you wanna grab your stuff to brush your teeth downstairs be my guest." You informed the room before heading up, grabbing a towel and your shower kit, heading into the bathroom and letting the water run.

Nobody appeared to be interested in getting their toiletries, thus you took great pleasure in slinging your towel over the shower door and stepping into the glass door confinement and allowing the warm jets to run down your body and cleanse all the soapy suds that trailed from your neck down your body and into the drain. 

It was calming, and a bloody good place to just get a moment to yourself whereby you knew you could go unbothered- and you got a nice good look at yourself in the mirror as you dried yourself down with the towel you'd initially brought in for yourself- even getting out the moisturiser to nourish your skin with. 

It was only when you turned around to the bare radiator, you realised that you had left your clothes outside. In a little bundle on the edge of your bed- you could practically visualise it there, see it almost tauntingly sat on the edge of your bed. 

Your head fell into your hands, your digits barely muffling your groan as you realised you'd have to run to your bed in just that towel to try and grab the clothes and get back in without anyone seeing you. Or at least none of the boys; all the girls were fine, at least.

Peeking through the keyhole, it appeared nobody was even there. And you weren't going to start second guessing yourself and leave enough time for someone else to walk on up and enter in the bedroom meaning you had to wait any longer to get your clothes.

You pushed the door handle down firmly, one hand gripping the towel which was knotted at your chest to hold the it safe around your body...

Marching with a quick pace- you barely made a step outside of the bathroom before you slammed into a body which sent you recoiling with a gasp. Yet they only closed the gap between you, shutting the door behind them with a backwards kick as your back hit the sinks leaving you no exit as he leaned in close.

Arthur's eyes had you unable to look away, the blaze within them making knots form in your stomach whilst the smirk that rested on his face seemed to bring that same feeling down to your core. 

"Been having fun ignoring me all day?" He cocked his head and asked with a devious grin. 

"Yeah and I still should be ignoring you." You managed to break the eye contact, focussing on a wall instead. Yet by not being able to see Arthur you only became more wary of his touch which only seemed to bring a redness to your cheeks as you realised how vulnerable you were in just a thin towel with a flimsy knot at the top. Fuck, you could feel goosebumps lighting across your skin as you realised that the towel barely reached your thighs and your weren't even wearing panties beneath! Arthur appeared to notice all that embarrassment on your face too, and seemed to take great satisfaction in it.

"Oh c'mon, you know damn well they can't hear you in here..." You turned back to him and looked onto his shirt, realising he'd also unplugged his mic from his tee shirt. And his grin only widened as he watched you notice this and glance upwards to meet his eyes, a glimmer of realisation and maybe even desire in your eyes. "I think we have some unfinished business, Y/n."

"And what would that be?" You tried to match his confidence with a cocky grin of your own, having realised that nobody- not even Sugarlips would be able to see what happened now. "Was it trying to fuck me on that sofa downstairs? Or grind until we're fucking on the kitchen counter..."

"Didn't realise you such were an exhibitionist," His fingers found your jaw, thumb gently padding over your lips whilst his index and middle lightly pushed against your chin, indicating for you to tilt your head back- allowing him to close the very last bit of space between the two of you- his lips delicately brushing your jawline as he mumbled "But why don't we start here, for now..."

His lips were feather light, his stubble brushing gently across your tender skin as he mumbled those words before pressing a kiss at the prominent bone at your jawline, his touch delicate despite the passion behind it, causing butterflies in your stomach as his gentle touch trailed down from your jawline to your lower neck. 

Your eyes fluttered and closed as Arthur caught you by surprise, gasp leaving your throat as he bit down onto a sensitive spot between your neck and collarbone which made your heartrate shoot up, lips fall between your teeth in a futile attempt to try and muffle a moan as Arthur's mouth formed a suction around the skin, ravenously leaving a dark purple mark which he pressed his tongue flat onto once more, pressing until you were whimpering and clenching your thighs together subconsciously- the whine in your voice only turning Arthur on as you felt his lips curve into a smirk atop your skin.

"Can I take this off?" He looked up, two fingers hooked around the knot of the towel between your breasts, the only thing holding your dignity together. Yet you could feel your 'dignity' dripping between your legs, and couldn't restrain yourself from nodding your head, whispering "Fuck, yes" and relishing in the feeling of Arthur's long, talented fingers unravel your towel in a mere second, dropping to the floor and exposing you.

There was almost a feeling of shyness, being this vulnerable to him, and you looked down- your arms crossing over your stomach loosely, subconsciously shielding yourself, though Arthur seemed to hate the idea as-

"-No-" His hand grabbed your arm, pinning it back besides your body so quickly a gasp left your throat as you looked to catch Arthur's expression. Wholly mesmerised. "Fuck, you're so beautiful..."

That queued another blush to rise to your cheeks, biting down on your lip and looking to the floor, yet you weren't given an opportunity to bask in the praise as Arthur's hands snaked down to your tits, large hands encompassing the soft flesh as he fondled both boobs simultaneously, thumbs teasing over the sensitive buds and making your legs shake as you let out a shaky breath, trying not to moan, considering you had not clue whether anyone would be able to hear what was happening from outside if they just so happened to wander into the bedroom...

Only when Arthur's head lowered to one titty, did you realise how defenseless you were though, as a unexpected moan was pulled from your throat, back arching from the sink as his hot mouth was placed around one nipple, his tongue swirling before flicking the hard nub with such experience you inadvertently started grinding down onto his clothes leg which rested between either thigh all too invitingly. 

"A-Arthur-" You managed to hold your moans to whine his name. He pulled away with a hum in response, his hands following the curve of your sides down to your hips where the space between his thumb and index fit perfectly in your hip dips. You almost got lost in how fucking intoxicating the feel of his hands over your hips was- controlling your movements and handling you as he turned you around so that you faced the mirrors, looking at him in the reflection and doting on how infatuated he looked as his eyes scanned down your body, his eyes lingering at your fat ass. Your responsible thoughts all came back to you though as you felt Arthur's hand glide over to your peachy skin, fingers closing around a handful of ass before you opened your mouth again. "Arthur- we shouldn't be doing t-this..."

You watched as his lips quirked, curving into a sinful smile that only made your thoughts juxtapose your previous words.

"That's funny." He hadn't moved to meet your eyes yet. You just stared at his reflection wonderingly, only feeling as his hand slowly moved across your skin, his other hand finding your lower back and you unintentionally arched your back at the touch, exposing your core to him which caused a low chuckle to come from his throat. "You say we shouldn't be doing this, but your body seems to feel otherwise-" A gasp fell from your throat, your neck rolling back as you felt Arthur's hand between your thighs, his thumb tracing up between your folds until he felt touched your clit- the bundle of nerves shooting fireworks all over your body as he just touched it only a fraction. 

He chuckled at your response to even the slightest of stimulation, your thighs clenching and clamping around his hand with the little friction he gave. His fingers only kept working, however, as he traced his middle and index finger back up from to your slit, collecting your arousal on his fingers and only using it to lubricate his motions as he slipped his fingers into your pussy, curling them and making you let out a loud moan, closing your eyes and biting down on your lip after as you realised how loud you were. 

"Because we don't have to do this if you 'know' that we shouldn't..." Arthur's words were taunting, borderline cruel as his words told you one thing, yet the fingers that slid between your walls told you another. "You want to stop? You just tell me and I'll stop touching you..." He was cruel - he knew you were too drunk on the feeling of his digits pushing into your pussy, finding that pleasure spot and making you want to cry out as you felt him brush it with every stroke, his thumb pairing with the motion and rubbing agonising circles on your clit.  

Your hands gripped the edge of the sink, knuckles glowing nearly as white as the marble as you tried not to let out stupidly loud noises. And as though Arthur could read you mind:

"Don't be too loud, hm?" He was scorning you yet again, taunting with sarcasm dripping from his voice in such a sexy way you could feel yourself quite literally dripping onto his hand between your thighs. "I'd say you'd hate if anyone knew what we were doing, but if you wanna fuck on that sofa downstairs next, then I really don't know how you'd feel..."

You didn't humour his mocking, your eyes already rolled to the back of your head, hips inadvertently rocking back and forth, following the movement of his hand so that you could feel a knot forming in your stomach - your orgasm echoed in your actions as you felt yourself clench just the slightest bit around his fingers- 

Before he took them out of you.

You were dazed, so close to orgasm and so disappointed as you opened your eyes, frowning at Arthur in the mirror before seeing his unbuckling his belt behind you...

Not so disappointed after all, you rocked your hips back and forth, easing away the draining feeling of the lost orgasm and instead looking at his reflection in the mirror and waiting for him to take his cargos off...

"Fuck, do they have condoms here?" 

"No need," You smiled innocently. "On the pill."

Arthur groaned at the way you said it, his hand disappearing under his cargos to stroke his length under his boxers, feeling over the rock-hard boner, tip red from the blood rush and precum smeared sinfully over the tip. 

Feeling his cock running along your folds, collecting your wetness on his tip as he directed his cock from your clit all the way back to your hole had you in a state- loud moan leaving your throat as you threw your head back.

"Go on then, tell me how much you want this," That devilish grin had returned to his face as he waited for you to talk.

"So fucking bad, Arthur..." You didn't even bother with being subtle about it, the way you were so needy for it, you'd completely lost your filter and were completely ravenous for Arthur. 

Feeling him push the tip into your pussy was enough to have your mind completely broken with pleasure, the stretch already so good... Yet Arthur didn't push in fully as you stopped talking. "Keep going," Arthur encouraged you to speak with a devilish grin. 

"Need you so fucking bad Arthur, I want you inside me..." You could feel him sinking furthering into you, his cock filling your pussy up inch my inch and having you completely wasted as you kept babbling. "Please, fuck, fuck me Arthur..."

Arthur had bottomed out as you said the last bit, waiting a moment or so and only just allowed you to adjust to his size before he pulled back slowly before thrusting right back inside, your whole body jolting at the feeling, a raw moan leaving your throat as you felt his tip brushing you G-spot instantly, making your legs feel jelly when he was only one thrust deep.

He felt so good, the stretch, the angle, the way he hit that spot - your head was bowed, whole body shaking as you felt his hands on your hips, manhandling and snapping your body back by the hips to match his thrusts, only reaching deeper into your pussy and making you nearly cry from how good it felt. 

One hand moved from your hips, reaching up and grabbing your hair in a bunch and pulling your head back so animalistically you almost got whiplash (and yet you would've been willing to thank him for it), the motion making you groan as he pulled your head up so that you were forced to look into the mirror. 

Arthur looked fucking Godly. His hair spiked and messy, jaw slack and eyes half lidded, that gorgeous body that looked as though it had been chiselled by Zeus itself... 

A gasp fell from your throat, pushing you forwards as you felt him hit somewhere completely new, taking you with shock and complete euphoria as you felt stars clouding your vision. 

"Ugh, fuck, Arthur- I think..." You had to bite down on your lip to prevent the absolutely filthy moan from escaping your lips. Arthur got the message though, and he didn't seem that far away either- the way his thrusts grew sloppier by the second.

"Same, fuck, c'mere gorgeous-" He could feel your legs giving out already, and didn't hold himself back in wrapping one arm around your leg, raising it so that it was by your side as you leaned your bodyweight back onto him- his other arm holding your body against his own whilst he snapped his hips up to thrust into you. He could practically feel how close to your climax you were, and grunted "Say my name- fuck- say my name when you cum-"

You were body had completely faltered, unable to support itself under the buzz of fruition that had each individual neurone in your body racing with impulses running at the speed of light, the knot in your stomach growing tighter and tighter by the second until you were seeing stars in your vision, thighs shaking from the muscles tightening so much- your whole body filling with euphoria as you followed his command and chanted his name "A-Arthur, ohmyfuckinggodArthur!", your orgasm rushed dopamine through your whole body as you came - hard - black spots clouding your vision as you felt the pleasure drain from your head to the tips of your fingers...

And just as you felt that pleasure turning into just the slightest of painful overstimulation- Arthur's cock still thrusting into you as he chased his own climax, his athletic arms practically picking you up and manoeuvring your body so that he could fuck himself into you to get his own end- he let out one loud groan, his head burrowing into the crook of your neck as you felt him filling you up, reaching his own orgasm and painting your insides with his hot white climax, his lips leaving one final hickey against the already marked skin of your neck before gently lowered you onto your own (shakey) legs.

There was a peace in the air.

A strange sort of mutual serenity came, having shed all of that sexual tension and weeks of hopeful talking and finally, finally just fucking and resolving all of that built up traction.

"Fucking finally," You were the first to break the silence with a grin, turning around so that your body faced Arthur's smiling as you looked at that beautiful face of his.

"What, you've been wanting this for a while, too?" Arthur asked jokingly, though it was obvious he was really being genuine with what he said. 

"Yeah, considering you've been teasing me all day it's no big shock that I've been wanting this." You rolled your eyes, Arthur laughing himself. "I think I need another shower though..."

"Am I coming?" Arthur quirked a brow with a hopeful smile.

"No, you just came in me a minute ago," You rolled your eyes at him, stalking over to the open shower and turning the tap on before turning around with a wide grin and beckoning him over despite your shitty joke. "Come on- get in here, you big idiot."

With no need for any more convincing, Arthur joined you in the shower with a laugh- flicking water on your face and attacking you with full-power setting on the shower head for a few minutes, laughing as you defended yourself with the loofa before eventually stopping him by just pressing a kiss to his lips to distract him for long enough before you took the shower head back and started attacking him with it. 

"You know, I didn't realise this showerhead had such a high pressure setting..." You smirked, turning it back onto the high pressure and admiring what good use it could go to.

"I can use it on you." Arthur only doubled down far too quickly, making you laugh as you turned it back to a normal setting.

"Why don't we save that for tomorrow, hm?" You proposed jokefully, yet Arthur's enthusiastic nods told you that maybe it wouldn't be a just a joke after all.

What could've been a simple, five minute shower was drawn out into a fifty minute one, and when you came out giggling besides Arthur and you were met with Johnny sat on his bed. 

He sat far too smugly, arms crossed with a smirk and a knowing look, reminding you of his presence AND making you remember the fact you were in a house with eight other people, making a great heat rise to your face as all the giggles with Arthur fell to a deadpan expression, realising you hadn't been quite so mindfully of your volume just half an hour ago when Arthur was seven inches inside of you... 

Your face went bright red as you passed Johnny, hissing a you better keep your mouth shut to him before quickly walking out of the room in embarrassment, hoping Johnny didn't notice your limp, hearing his laughs from behind you which indicated that Johnny was not, in fact, going to keep his mouth shut.

---------------------

Bonus scene!

"Guys, I've got a message! It says everyone to the living room!"

You all huddled on the sofa and awaited further instructions.

"Y/n was set a secret mission today." You grinned as some of the people around the sofa let out gasps at Sugarlips' words. Your smile at your friends slowly faded however, as you remembered what that challenge was.... And what you'd just done an hour ago. "Y/n's challenge was to ignore Arthur all day."

"I knew something was up with you at the makeup table earlier!" Anisa exclaimed, punching your arm and making you mumble a little something, cheeks beginning to tinge pink as you wondered whether Sugarlips knew anything...

"Y/n, can you guess whether you passed or failed?"

You groaned internally. Why the hell would she leave it up to you to decide? Did she expect you to admit what you'd done?

You looked over to Arthur for help, and he just had a hand over his mouth in obvious shock as well, though he let out laughs nonetheless. 

Your face was flushed bright red when you finally answered, and of course Spuddz pointed out- "Oi, why's your face like a lobster?" To which Steph hit him on your behalf, though Anastasia to your right gave you a shove and doubled down on Spuddz's question.

"Y/n, do you want to tell the house how you failed the challenge?" The wide grin was evident even in Sugarlips' voice as she asked the taunting question.

Anisa let out a little scream and Johnny burst out laughing all too knowingly- yourself cringing at Johnny's insider knowledge and forcing you to cover your face with your hands in pure horror, just wishing the ground would swallow you up in that moment. 

"Spilll then, tell us!" They all clamoured over one another, one of the girls shaking you by your arm, though you didn't look up to see them. 

"Look, c'mon, c'mon we can work this out guys...." Darkest hushed everyone around the sofa, taking on the role of Sherlock Holmes. "When was she set the task?"

"Probably at eleven like we were all brought in when we had our challenges." Jamie deduced.

"What did she do after eleven, then?" Darkest asked.

"Oo, that was makeup with me and Anastasia!" Anisa perked up. You raised your head with your eyes wide, watching as everyone began connecting the dots and fearing for their eventual conclusion...

"Then we had the comments read out where she was on the sofa with all of us..."

"Then the group challenge we were altogether, and she was on a different team to Arthur anyways-"

"And then cooking dinner... Wait! Arthur got up and went to the kitchen then, didn't he?"

"Yeah but she still ignored him there- I walked in and just saw him laying the table in there in silence..."

"Well, what then? That was just an hour ago wasn't it...?"

"Yeah"

"True"

"Hmmm..."

You hoped they'd all finish there. Reach decide their deductions were eventually inconclusible and finish up.

"Well, that's the end of that-" You tried to clap your hands together and end them, though Johnny couldn't wipe the grin off his face as he slipped-

"Then she went upstairs."

"Ohmygod and Arthur went up as well, didn't he..."

Jokeman let out a scream, getting up onto the sofa and pointing between yourself and Arthur with a hand over his mouth in shock.

"What? What? what happened?!" Everyone began exclaiming at him, not quite reaching the conclusion as fast as him. You could tell that Jokeman knew just by the look in his eyes, and went to cover your face for the third time of this evening, not wanting to even hear it as Jokeman yelled-

"HE'S FINALLY GOT SOME HASN'T HE?!"

That queued everyone to let out screams, yells, cries of laughter and response which you tried to shield yourself from as you pulled your knees up to your chest as well, burrowing in a ball as the girls shook you and cheered for you, noisily nattering besides you and throwing questions at you whilst you could only assume the boys had gone to pester Arthur.

You were practically crying into your arms, wishing the ground would swallow you up as you felt the commotion from the girls rocking the sofa beneath you- one whacking you with a pillow... Yet all you could think about was the countless number of views and clips this would get- not to mention the people that you knew were going to see it...

You looked up after a couple seconds, embarrassedly meeting Arthur with embarrassed eye contact. He grinned, offering an overdone wink with a pink dusting of blush all over his cheeks as he leaned to the right and slapped his palm into Jokeman and Darkest's, dapping them up with a far-too-cocky grin and laugh, making you roll your eyes and un-ball yourself as a grin began growing on your face.

Absolute prick, you thought towards Arthur, before looking to the camera in the corner of the look- pointing at it and grinning as you yelled- "THIS IS YOUR FAULT, Y'KNOW?!"

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