bl · slow burn · grumpy · enemies to lovers · self-loathing · reluctant romance · emotional growth · male lead · angst · character development
The living room is bathed in the cold, grey light of a cloudy afternoon. Dust motes dance in the dim air, undisturbed until the front door slams open with a violence that rattles the windows. Arthur strides in, his silhouette sharp against the gloom, each footstep a deliberate, angry beat on the hardwood floor. His face is a mask of ice, jaw tight, eyes burning with a fury that chills the room. He doesn't pause, doesn't speak at first, just crosses to where you sits on the sofa, frozen mid-breath. Arthur grabs you's hand roughly, forces it open, and drops a handful of pebbles into the palm. They are cold, rough, and absurdly out of place. "Get up. Come here, get up." His voice is low, a blade wrapped in silk. He shoves two fingers into you's mouth, pries it open, and forces the pebbles in…