#light woven mirror frame

[melloface]

Bedroom Indianapolis A mid-sized transitional girl's room design example with white walls and a beige floor.

[carmen-hathaway]

Indianapolis Children Kids Room Mid-sized beach style girl carpeted and beige floor kids' room photo with white walls

[evilgwrl]

Neighbour!Simon Riley x Reader

Girl Next Door (One)

CW: Mutual masturbation ;)

Inspired by Neighbour!Simon

Chapter Two

Your legs perched up across the woven strings of the porch chair, knees littered with blue and black kisses, knotted joints tucked into your chest as you watched the peak of gold settle into a deep blue. Bony fingers laced the pages between parched hands, eyes darting maliciously between words as you hummed to yourself softly.

You were used to being out here alone, an orchestra of bats occasionally sounding out to you as they scurried away into pine trees, nipping between each other.  Your flat, a smaller duplex, was tucked away into a quiet cul-de-sac, away from the hustle and bustle of London life. It was an organised routine, your body succumbing to the night air as you bathed in the comforting atmosphere of the twilight. There was an occasional hum from up the road, the chug of a car passing through, but your interest peaked when the gravel road lit up, headlights streaming towards you as you shielded your eyes.

The sound of the engine frightened you a bit before you adjusted your vision. A large shadow stepped into view, the staggering height of a man peaking your attention before you took in the balaclava flushed against his face, russet eyes covered by a delicate frame of blonde lashes, stained with black face paint staring at you before dropping his head in a curt nod.

You recognised him as your neighbour. Quiet bloke, away often on deployment you presumed, but nether-the-less was a comfort for you. Even at home, it was like he was never there, the occasional echo of hollow boots sounding against the floorboards before they disappeared. He was ghostly, slightly peculiar but you noted him down mainly as mysterious.

You had spoken a few times, sounding good morning as he was outside having a smoke when you were leaving for work. His response was gruff and shallow, a deep voice barking out a short reply before smashing the dart under the rubble of his shoe, calloused hands gripping the door handle.

He walked past you, duffle bag dropped against the porch as he huffed with his keys, bruised knuckles peaking your attention as you glanced at him, framed eyes peering in curiosity.

“Y’ alright?” His tone was curt, a hint of annoyance ringing through as his eyes stained trained on the metal knob, working the key through the hole.

You squeaked out a noise, taken back by him as you adjusted in the chair, feet flat against the floor now. “Yeah, sorry, I’m just not used to you being here, it’s uh, nice for you to be back, less lonely,” you rambled, shuffling your hands awkwardly before you shut yourself up.

He let out a grunt, the noise almost animalistic sounding as he shut the door, his vague appearance shuffling into the quiet of his own home as you sat outside, whispering an expletive under your breath as you prodded at the ecchymosis on your nobbled knees.

Rough hands rubbed at the face paint, gentle soap working into the scorn skin, thickened skin almost melting under the velocity of the scolding water. Simon’s throat was scratchy, the irritating feeling of sandpaper lining his oesophagus as he choked out a cough. Broken blood vessels littered across the scarring of his back and ribs, a splurge of hematoma drawn across the broken skin.

Ivory skin was now painted with falling droplets of water, a scratchy moose-coloured towel adorned his hips as he shook his hair, moist residue landing on the mirror as he rubbed his hands across his face, a soft moan leaving his lips as he prodded the tender knot in his back.  

His home felt foreign, no matter how long he had lived there for.

His bedroom had dusk lighting, a double bed pushed against the flaky walls, the metal rods holding the frame scraping at the paint. A singular pillow to each side perked up against his touch as he layered them, unused linen welcoming him with a slight dusty smell, aching body collapsing into the plushness of the duvet.

He was aware that your bedroom was adjacent to his, your beds pushed directly together on opposite ends. He could hear the subtle creaks of your feet against the floor as you shuffled around, a chair squeaking across the floor as it collided with something before the noise of you walking sounded again. Simon could hear the springs in your bed, an acknowledgement that you were now lying down.

There was a low hum of a fan whirring, the white noise drifting into his room as he stared up at his own, the stagnant noise felt unorthodox, the familiarity of the barracks being the usual for the Lieutenant. Simon’s hands felt weighed down as he moved them from his chest to rest at his side, his breathing shallow as his ears perked at every movement you made.

You were restless, sweaty body tangled between cotton as you adjusted yourself, flinging your blankets off you as you let out gentle pants. You cursed at the lack of air conditioning available in British homes, peeling off your silken pyjama shorts as you flung them somewhere across your bedroom. Your body was hot and achy, the heat settling in even during the night as you turned to the side, beady eyes watching as the wind flickered the branches occasionally. You were tempted to sleep outside at this point, your room feeling like a sauna as you let out a frustrated quip.

There was a subtle ache between your thighs, a dull throbbing ringing through your brain as you attempted to position yourself better, clicking your calves as you rustled around. Tired arms stretched your top over your head as it too met the wraith of your floor, bare breasts perked against your sheets as you closed your eyes, cuddling up against a pillow.

Slumber never succumbed to your heated frame, the drill of your fan almost teasing you as it provided minimum cooling. You spread your legs, sweat prickling over your stretch marks as you moaned in annoyance. Your fingers trailed your slit through the thin fabric, turquoise-coloured panties fading into an aqua as you let out a shaky breath. You felt dirty, the dull throb of your cunt mocking you as needy fingers hooked into the lace, dragging them down the plushness of your thighs before settling at the end of your bed.

You fumbled around in your draw, clumsy fingers feeling around for your bullet vibrator before they rubbed against the silicone. You were sure to be quiet, your hands covering the majority of the vibrations as you nestled it between your folds, collecting the sweetness of your slick before resting it on your achy clit, an instant moan rising at your throat as you tweaked at your nipples.

The hum against your sex wasn’t enough as you sat up, resting the vibrator on your swollen nub as you straddled a pillow, sloppy pussy grinding against it rapidly as you rutted like a dog in heat, chasing your high.

You were a sight for sore eyes, breasts bouncing at your movements as you humped against the cushion, the cheap sex toy sounding against the bundle of nerves as you let out soft whimpers, mouth opened in an ‘o’ shape as you tugged at your hardened nubs that were practically aching against your chest.

It was like you were going through puberty again, squishy sounds squelching from your cunt at the licentious actions, hips getting sloppy as you felt your coil forming, antagonising moans dripping from your lips as you stilled, the silicone pressed sweetly into your clit as you whined into your hand, orgasm ripping through you as you jutted away from the stimulation, collapsing into a heap.

Simon frowned at how quickly your noises were over as a spit-covered cock throbbed in agony, veiny hands jutting around the angry member as he milked himself to the memory of your orgasm, hot splashes of cum spurting against his belly, a thick trail of hair leading down to his softening cock as he cleaned himself up before nestling into the comfort of his sheets and the barely audible hum of your breathing.

[joelsrose]

Grays & All

no warnings just fluff :)

Joel groaned softly as he swung his legs over the side of the bed, his body stiff and aching from another night of fitful sleep. His knees cracked as he stood, stretching his back, the familiar twinge of discomfort settling into his joints like an unwelcome guest, reminding him of every year he’d survived. He let out a slow, weary breath, rubbing the sleep from his eyes, and turned his gaze to you.

You were still curled beneath the covers, a serene picture of softness and peace. The golden rays of sunlight that filtered through the curtains bathed you in a warm glow, making you look even more ethereal. The rhythm of your breathing was steady, your chest rising and falling in quiet slumber, and Joel couldn’t help but watch you, captivated by the quiet beauty of the moment.

You’d been together for some time now, but each time he saw you like this, it felt new. His heart—old, aching, and hardened by years of survival—skipped a beat as he took you in. He couldn’t quite grasp what he’d done to deserve you, or why you’d chosen him.

His thoughts tangled, heavy with doubt, circling like vultures. He couldn’t help but wonder what someone like you, so young and full of life, saw in him—a man worn down by years of pain, loss, and hard living. You deserved someone who matched your energy, your light. Someone whose body didn’t betray them with every creak and groan, someone whose laughter wasn’t tinged with regret.

In Jackson, there were plenty of younger men, men who hadn’t been weighed down by the past, who didn’t wake up with an ache in their bones. Joel couldn’t fathom why you’d chosen him, but he knew deep down that he was afraid to ask, afraid of the answer.

With a heavy sigh, Joel made his way into the bathroom, the cool tile beneath his feet grounding him for a moment. He turned the water on as hot as it would go, letting the steam rise and fill the small space, hoping it would wash away the doubts swirling in his mind.

Stepping under the showerhead, he closed his eyes and tilted his head forward, pressing his palms against the cool tile as the scalding water cascaded down his back. The heat soothed his aching muscles, but it did little to ease the weight in his chest.

The water pounded against him, each drop heavy, like the thoughts he couldn’t shake. Every streak of gray in his hair, every wrinkle around his eyes felt like a reminder of the years he’d lived, of the mistakes he couldn’t undo. He let the water stream over his face, his hands gripping the edge of the tiled wall as if holding himself together. Joel felt the pull of time in his bones, the relentless march forward, and it terrified him. The world had taken so much from him already, and he couldn’t help but wonder how much longer he could hold onto you.

When he finally emerged from the shower, steam billowing around him, he wrapped a towel low around his hips and caught his reflection in the mirror. His damp hair clung to his forehead, but the strands of gray were unmistakable, streaking through the dark like threads of time woven into his life. He ran a hand through it, frowning slightly as his fingers tangled in the silver that seemed more prominent with each passing day.

His eyes traveled to the dresser beside the mirror, where the necklace he’d had made for your birthday lay draped next to a photograph of the two of you from one of Jackson’s gatherings. The image was one of laughter, of a time when the weight of the world didn’t seem so heavy.

Joel’s hand hovered over the photograph, his thumb brushing against the frame as a flicker of doubt tightened in his chest. How could someone as radiant as you love someone as broken as him? He dropped his hand, letting the question go unanswered.

The soft rustling of sheets behind him pulled him from his thoughts. You stirred, waking to the lingering scent of his familiar body wash that clung to the steam in the air. As you sat up, stretching lazily, your eyes found him standing in front of the mirror.

The sight of him—bare-chested, hair slicked back, still damp from the shower, the early morning light framing his body—made your heart stutter. Joel, even with all his scars and his age, was the most beautiful man you’d ever known. Every line on his face, every silver strand in his hair told a story of survival, and you loved him for every part of it.

“Good morning,” you murmured, your voice still thick with sleep as a soft smile tugged at your lips. “What a nice view to wake up to.”

Joel turned to face you, the tension in his shoulders easing at the sound of your voice. “Mornin’, sleepyhead,” he teased, though the smile didn’t quite reach his eyes, and you noticed the flicker of something unsettled beneath the surface.

You watched him for a moment, noticing the way his gaze flickered back to the mirror, the way he ran a hand through his hair with a sense of hesitation. “What’re you doin’?” you asked gently, sensing that something was weighing on him, something more than the usual early morning stiffness.

Joel sighed, his hand raking through his hair once more. “Ah, it’s nothin’,” he muttered, though the heaviness in his voice told you otherwise.

You sat up straighter, your concern deepening. “Joel,” you pressed softly, your gaze locked onto his. “What’s wrong?”

For a moment, he didn’t answer, his jaw tightening as he stared at his reflection as if it were someone else looking back at him. Finally, he sighed, a quiet sound that felt like the weight of the world slipping through his chest. “It’s stupid,” he said, his voice low, rough. “These damn gray hairs… they’re gettin’ worse. Feels like I’m really startin’ to show my age.”

Your heart softened at his vulnerability. Joel wasn’t one to open up easily, especially about things that made him feel exposed. You hadn’t given his gray hairs a second thought—if anything, you loved them. They were a testament to his resilience, to the life he’d lived, and you found them incredibly sexy. But now you could see how much they weighed on him, how they reminded him of every year that had passed, of everything he thought he might lose.

You adored Joel in every angle, in every moment. The way his calloused hands ran through your hair, gentle despite their roughness, always sent a warmth through you. Watching him as he worked, his broad back flexing as he repaired something around the house or chopped wood outside—it made your heart race in a way you couldn’t quite explain. His movements were always purposeful, a quiet strength in everything he did, whether he was leaning over the table, focused and determined, or simply reaching out to brush a stray hair from your face with such care, you’d almost forget the harshness of the world outside. Even the way he drank his coffee in the morning, his jaw clenching and relaxing with each sip, or the quiet hum of satisfaction he’d make when he stretched after a long day—it all captivated you. He was rugged, raw, but to you, every motion, every glance, was filled with tenderness that only you were lucky enough to witness.

Without hesitation, you swung your legs over the side of the bed and padded across the room to him. You reached up, your fingers sliding through his damp hair, smoothing back the strands as you offered him a soft, reassuring smile. “I love your gray hairs,” you whispered, your voice full of warmth and sincerity.

Joel shook his head, still looking uncertain. “I don’t know, darlin’. Feels like the world’s catchin’ up to me.” His voice was quieter now, almost hesitant. “Don’t know why you’d want someone like me when there’s plenty of guys in Jackson who don’t groan every time they get outta bed.”

You frowned, your hand sliding down to cup his jaw, your thumb brushing lightly against the rough stubble that shadowed his skin. You’d noticed the way Joel had become more self-conscious lately—the way he moved a little slower, the quiet sighs he thought you didn’t hear when he sat down after a long day. But to you, he was everything. “I want you,” you said firmly, your voice steady and unwavering. “Just as you are, right now.” Your hands trailed down his chest, fingers lightly tracing the lines of his body, the warmth of his skin beneath your touch. “Those other guys? They don’t know how to make me laugh like you do. They don’t take care of me like you do,” you added, your smile turning playful as you pressed a soft kiss to his jaw, then another to his neck, letting your lips linger there.

You leaned closer, your lips brushing the shell of his ear, and in a soft, teasing whisper, you added, “They don’t know how to make me cum like you do.”

Joel’s breath hitched slightly, his hands tightening on your hips, and you felt the tension between you shift, the vulnerability of moments before melting into something heavier, something laden with the desire that had always simmered just beneath the surface.

“And those gray hairs?” you continued, a smile dancing on your lips as you met his gaze again, your voice low, “They make you even sexier.”

Joel’s eyes flicked up at that, his gaze dark.

“You’re just sayin’ that to make me feel better,” he muttered, though the gruffness in his voice was starting to fade.

“I’m not,” you insisted, stepping closer until your bodies were flush, your hands resting against his chest. “I mean it, Joel. You’re everything to me. The gray hairs, the scars, the rough edges… they’re all part of you, and I love every single part.”

For a long moment, Joel didn’t say anything. He just stood there, his chest rising and falling slowly as he let your words sink in. He stared at you, as if trying to figure out how someone like you could love someone like him—with all his flaws, all his doubts.

Finally, Joel reached up, his hand cupping the back of your neck, pulling you gently into him. His lips pressed softly against your forehead, lingering there for a long moment as if trying to absorb every bit of comfort and reassurance you were offering him.

When he pulled back, there was something different in his eyes now—something softer, more accepting. “You’re somethin’ else, you know that?” he muttered, his voice low and rough, but there was a smile tugging at the corners of his lips now, a hint of the Joel you knew so well.

You grinned up at him, your fingers still tangled in his hair. “I know,” you teased, standing on your tiptoes to press a soft, lingering kiss to his lips.

It was a quiet promise—of love, of everything you cherished about him, flaws and all.

[aventurineswife]

can i request argenti, aventurine, and boothill with a gender neutral reader who has long hair but struggles to style it? i swear doing anything beyond a ponytail is so complicated 😭 also your writing style is absolutely amazing !!!

Tangled in Your Hands

Tags: Argenti x Reader, Aventurine x Reader, Boothill x Reader, Gender Neutral Reader, Fluff, Established Relationship (Can be read Platonically), Domestic Moments, Hair Styling.

A/N: I have medium hair but I definitely get the struggle, it's painful 💀💔, also thank you!!! <33 i literally write these fics during night-time while I'm half asleep so I mostly write the characters a bit incorrecly or make them ooc💀

The sound of birdsong filtered through the open window of your modest cottage, but you barely noticed as you sat at the kitchen table, your head resting in your hands. Before you lay an array of hairbrushes, combs, and pins—all useless in the face of your long, unruly hair.

“Is something troubling you, my radiant muse?” Argenti’s voice, warm and musical, broke through your sulk.

You looked up to see him standing in the doorway, his red hair glowing like fire in the morning light. Clad in his knightly attire, he looked every bit the picture of chivalry and grace.

“My hair,” you admitted with a sigh, gesturing to the mess on your head. “I just can’t seem to make it look… decent.”

Argenti approached, his expression softening with understanding. “Your hair is as beautiful as the rest of you,” he said sincerely, “but if you wish for assistance, I would be honored to oblige.”

“You know how to style hair?” you asked, surprised.

“I have braided the manes of warhorses and woven laurels for festival days,” he said with a small smile. “I assure you, your hair is no greater challenge.”

He pulled a chair beside yours and reached for a brush. His hands were strong but careful as he worked through the tangles, murmuring quiet reassurances whenever you winced. Despite his self-proclaimed inexperience, his touch was steady and deliberate, each motion infused with patience and care.

“I find this task quite fulfilling,” he remarked after a while. “It is not often that I have the privilege of tending to something so delicate.”

When he finished, you turned to look in the mirror. Your hair was now styled in an intricate crown braid, adorned with a few wildflowers he had picked from the garden. It was charming and whimsical, perfectly reflecting your personality.

“It’s beautiful...” you whispered, touched by the effort he had put in.

“As are you.” Argenti replied, his voice filled with warmth.

You sat on the plush ottoman in your shared apartment, fingers tangled in your long hair as frustration simmered beneath your skin. The golden-framed mirror before you reflected the mess of locks that refused to cooperate, no matter how many attempts you made to tame them.

“Honestly, how do people make this look easy?” you muttered, glaring at your reflection.

Aventurine, lounging nearby in his signature attire, had been watching you with an amused glint in his eyes. He adjusted the rims of his glasses before setting aside the deck of cards he had been casually shuffling.

“Well, darling,” he said, standing and approaching you with a charming smile, “you’re not just people, are you? Perfection takes a bit more effort.”

You rolled your eyes at his teasing tone but couldn’t suppress the small smile tugging at your lips. “Are you offering to help, or are you just here to commentate?”

He chuckled and crouched beside you, his hand brushing against your wrist as he gently took the brush from your hand. “Let’s make a wager,” he suggested, his voice light and playful. “If I can style your hair into something breathtaking, you owe me a favor. If I fail, I’ll owe you one instead.”

“And what counts as ‘breathtaking’?” you asked, raising a skeptical eyebrow.

“You’ll know it when you see it,” he replied with a wink.

Before you could protest, he was already at work, fingers deftly moving through your hair. The rhythm of his motions was soothing, each stroke of the brush accompanied by his soft hums. Occasionally, he’d pause to tilt his head, observing his progress as though you were a masterpiece he was crafting.

“Where did you learn to do this?” you asked, curiosity piqued by his apparent skill.

“Oh, here and there,” he replied nonchalantly. “One picks up a few tricks in my line of work. Charm and presentation, my dear, are invaluable assets.”

Minutes passed, and you felt your initial frustration melt away, replaced by a sense of calm. Aventurine’s focus was unwavering, his usual flamboyant energy tempered by a surprising gentleness.

“There.” he announced finally, stepping back to admire his handiwork.

You turned to face the mirror and gasped. He had woven your hair into an elegant braid that cascaded over your shoulder, adorned with delicate twists and loops that framed your face beautifully. It was simple yet sophisticated, a style you had never managed to achieve on your own.

“It’s… perfect.” you said, genuinely awestruck.

“Breathtaking, you mean,” he corrected, his grin widening. “Now, about that favor—”

You laughed, reaching out to pull him into a hug. “Fine, you win. But don’t push your luck, mister.”

“Luck has nothing to do with it,” he replied smugly, though his arms wrapped around you in return.

“Damn it...!” you muttered, wrestling with a stubborn knot in your hair.

Boothill leaned against the doorway of your shared abode, his arms crossed as he watched you struggle. “Need a hand there, sugar?”

You glanced at him, skeptical. “You know how to do hair?”

He smirked, pushing off the doorframe. “I’ve wrangled worse things than tangles in my time. Sit tight.”

Before you could protest, he had taken the brush from your hand and settled behind you. His rough (mechanical) fingers were surprisingly gentle as he worked through the knots, his cowboy hat tilted back to give him a better view.

“You’ve got some patience for this.” you said, half-impressed.

He chuckled lowly. “Patience comes with the territory, darlin’. Besides, it ain’t so bad when it’s you.”

He didn’t try for anything fancy, but when he was done, your hair was free of tangles and pulled back into a neat ponytail. It was simple, practical, and—most importantly—comfortable.

“Better?” he asked, stepping back.

You touched your hair and smiled. “Much better. Thanks, Boo.”

“Anytime, sugar,” he said with a wink. “You just holler if it gives you trouble again.”

[th3mrskory]

Chapter 1: Unspoken Goodbyes

© th3mrskory. don’t copy, translate, or use my works in any form with AI, ChatGPT or any other automated tools. I only share my stories here, so if you see them posted elsewhere, i’d appreciate it if you let me know.

______________________________________________________________

Pairing: Original fem!Reader x Fiancé (past/present) / Original fem!Reader x Origins!Logan (future)

Word count: 2.3k

The morning of her wedding should’ve been a dream—a culmination of love and promises. Instead, she stood before the mirror in silence, the soft rustle of her wedding dress the only sound in the room. The knot in her stomach tightened, its weight dragging her heart down with it.

Memories of their last argument played on a loop in her mind, the words sharp and unresolved. Had she missed something? Ignored the signs? The questions clawed at her, each one pulling the knot tighter, as if her body already knew what her heart refused to admit.

She glanced at the clock—ten minutes, then fifteen—still no sign of him.

The bridal suite grew quieter with each passing minute, the hum of voices from outside the door fading into a distant murmur. Her mother had checked on her earlier, fussing over her veil and assuring her everything was perfect. But now, as she sat alone in the priest's private room, the knot in her stomach tightened.

Her bouquet lay on the table next to her, the vibrant blooms a vivid testament to what the day should have been—a celebration of love and unity. Yet, their liveliness seemed to mock the pallor of her trembling hands, a cruel juxtaposition to the ache that tightened her chest. They reminded her of the promises they had made, the plans they had woven together, and now, the sharp sting of those fractured dreams. She tried to breathe, to steady herself, but her thoughts raced, louder than the silence around her. Where is he?

He wasn’t one to be late. He had always been the responsible one, the steady rock in their relationship. If anyone had doubts, it wasn’t him. It couldn’t be him.

The door creaked open slightly, its groan breaking the oppressive silence of the room. She looked up sharply, her breath catching in her throat as her heart skipped. Her pulse pounded in her ears, and the faint scent of the wooden frame mixed with the distant murmur of voices outside, amplifying the moment's tension. For a moment, she thought it was him. Relief bubbled up, but it quickly evaporated as she saw who it was.

It wasn’t her fiancé. It was his best man.

“Hey,” he said softly, stepping into the room and closing the door behind him. He looked uncomfortable, almost pained, his hand fidgeting with a piece of paper.

“What’s going on?” she asked, her voice strained as she stood, her heart pounding harder. “Where is he?”

The best man hesitated, his gaze flicking toward the floor. “He wanted me to give you this,” he said quietly, holding out the folded letter.

She stared at it, her stomach twisting into knots. Her hands shook as she reached out to take it, her mind racing with every possible explanation except the one she feared the most.

The paper was light in her hand, but the weight of it pressed down on her chest, as though the words scrawled within it carried a gravity she wasn’t prepared to face. Her breath hitched, the air feeling heavy in her lungs. Slowly, she unfolded it, her breath catching as she read the words written in his familiar, careful handwriting:

"I can’t do this. I’m sorry."

The world seemed to tilt. Her vision blurred as the words echoed in her mind.

She looked up at the best man, her voice shaking. “What’s this?”

His shoulders slumped, his guilt palpable. “He left the letter this morning,” he admitted, his voice barely above a whisper. “Didn’t tell me anything. Just... left this for you.”

Her legs felt weak, and she sank into the nearest chair, the letter crumpling in her hands. 

The best man nodded, his expression pained. “I’m so sorry, Evelyn. I tried to stop him, tried to get him to talk, but he wouldn’t. He just...” He trailed off, shaking his head.

The air felt suffocating, the walls of the small room closing in around her. The sound of muffled laughter and conversation from the guests waiting outside was like a cruel reminder of what was supposed to happen today.

Her mother burst into the room moments later, her expression shifting from excitement to worry the instant she saw her daughter’s face. “What’s going on? Where is he?”

Evelyn didn’t answer, couldn’t find the words to explain. Her mother’s gaze flicked to the best man, who still stood there, looking like he wanted to disappear.

Her mother’s gaze flicked to the best man, her expression sharp and demanding. “Where is he?”

The best man shifted uncomfortably, his hand running over the back of his neck. He glanced toward Evelyn, hesitant, before finally saying, “He’s not coming.”

Her mother froze, her brows furrowing as the words sank in. “What do you mean, he’s not coming?” Her voice rose, each word more incredulous than the last. “This is his wedding day! What the hell does that mean?”

The best man’s jaw tightened, his guilt and discomfort clear as he said, “He couldn’t go through with it. He’s gone.”

Her mother’s face turned red, a mix of disbelief and fury twisting her features. “Gone where? How could he just leave? What kind of man does that?”

“Mom,” Evelyn said weakly, her voice barely audible, the letter crumpled in her hands.

“No,” her mother snapped, rounding on her daughter now, her anger spilling over. “He doesn’t get to do this. He doesn’t get to just walk away! There are people waiting out there. He owes you—he owes all of us—an explanation!”

Her voice cracked, and for a moment, her anger seemed to falter, replaced by the raw pain of watching her daughter’s heart shatter.

The murmurs outside the door grew louder, the guests undoubtedly beginning to wonder what was causing the delay. She could already imagine the questions, the judgment, the whispers.

“What do we tell everyone?” her mother asked, her voice trembling.

Evelyn stood abruptly, the chair scraping against the floor. Her hands trembled as she clenched the crumpled letter, her emotions bubbling to the surface. Anger. Pain. Humiliation.

“I don’t know, Mom!” she snapped, her voice cracking under the weight of her hurt. “Just... get me out of here.”

Her mother froze, her expression shifting between shock and heartbreak, but Evelyn didn’t wait for her to respond. She grabbed her bouquet off the table, not because she needed it, but because her hands needed something to do—anything to stop them from shaking.

She turned back to the best man. “Did he say anything else?”

“No…” he replied. 

Her heart broke all over again at those words. She pushed past them both, leaving the room and making her way to the car waiting outside. She ignored the stares, the questions, the looks of pity. She needed to get out, to get away from all of it.

That night, while the wedding venue emptied and the guests went home with their unanswered questions, she packed her belongings in silence. The apartment she and her fiancé had shared during their engagement felt suffocating, every corner filled with traces of a life they would never have. Her wedding dress hung limp over the back of a chair, mocking her with its unfinished story.The bouquet sat on the kitchen counter, its once-vibrant blooms already wilting.

Her parents arrived just as she was throwing the last of her clothes into a battered suitcase. Her mother, still in her formal gown, clutched her pearls with trembling fingers, while her father’s tie hung loose around his neck, his face etched with exhaustion and worry.

“Sweetheart,” her mother began carefully, stepping into the room.“You can’t just leave,” her mother insisted, her voice sharp yet quivering with emotion. “You’re upset, and I understand that, but running off won’t fix this. It won’t undo what he did to you.”

Her father stepped forward, his tone measured but firm. “Selling the house? Taking off? You don’t even know where you’re going.You need to take a breath, let us help you figure this out. This isn’t the answer, kid.”

She froze for a moment, then turned to face them, her eyes red-rimmed but blazing with defiance. “And what is the answer, Dad? Stay here and keep pretending everything’s fine? Wake up every day in a place that reminds me of him? Of what I wasn’t good enough to hold on to?” Her voice cracked, but she didn’t care.

“Sweetheart, no one’s saying that,” her mother began, but she didn’t let her finish.

“Yes, you are!” she snapped. “You want me to stay here, smile through the pain, act like nothing happened. Well, I can’t. I won’t. I need to go. I need to get out of this town, out of this house.” She gestured around her, her hands trembling. “It’s like he’s everywhere. I’ll never get away from it.”

“Please,” her mother said, tears welling in her eyes. “At least sleep on it. You’re not thinking straight.”

She let out a hollow laugh, running a hand through her hair. “I’ve never been thinking clearer in my life, Mom. Staying here will kill me. I need to leave.”

Her bestfriend, Martha, showed up later that evening, carrying a bottle of cheap wine and wearing the dress she’d worn to the ceremony that never happened.

“I get it,” her friend said, breaking the silence. “I’d want to burn the whole damn world down if I were you. But you can’t just pack up your life and disappear. What about work? Your family? What about us?”

Evelyn shook her head, her fingers gripping the rim of her coffee mug so tightly she thought it might shatter. “I’m not running. I just…” She shook her head, biting her lip to keep her voice steady.“I can’t be here anymore. Every time I close my eyes, I see him standing at the altar. Except he’s not. He never was.”A tear rolled down her face, she sniffed and whipped her cheek“I just know I can’t be here anymore. It’s like... everything about this place is choking me. I need space to figure out who I am without him.”

Her friend sighed, but there was no point arguing. The decision had already been made.

Her friend hesitated, her expression softening. “What if you regret it? What if you run, and it just... follows you?”

“Maybe it will,” she admitted, her voice breaking. “But I’ll take that chance over staying here and pretending like everything’s fine.”

The house sold faster than she expected. Within days, strangers had walked through it, commenting on the potential it had—the very same potential she and her fiancé had dreamed of building on together. 

Walking through it one last time, she couldn’t stop the memories from flashing before her eyes—the corner where they’d put up the Christmas tree, the creak in the floorboard he always promised to fix, the way the light filtered into the bedroom where they’d planned to start their mornings together.

By the time she handed the keys to the new owners, her chest felt hollow, but it was a relief to walk away.

She packed her things into her old Chevy, a mix of essentials and sentimental items—though not much of the latter remained. The radio became her only companion on the road, playing Fleetwood Mac, The Eagles, and Pink Floyd as she drove for hours aimlessly through towns that all blurred into one.

There was no plan, just the old creased map folded on the passenger seat and the faint hope that somewhere out there, she’d find a place that didn’t remind her of everything she’d just lost.

The miles rolled by in a haze of faded road signs and forgotten gas stations. The highways blurred into narrow backroads, lined with towering trees that seemed to close in around her. A week passed before she saw it—the sign, small and weathered, half-hidden by overgrown brush: Welcome to Clearwater.

The sign was small and unassuming, barely visible through the overgrowth vegetation.

The town looked like it belonged in another decade—or maybe another century. Small shops lined the main street, their faded signs creaking in the wind. A church with a tall steeple stood proudly against the skyline.

 It was the kind of place that seemed untouched by time.

She parked outside the church, stepping out of the car and stretching her legs. The air smelled of pine and damp earth, and for the first time in days, her chest didn’t feel quite so heavy.

Pinned to the bulletin board by the church steps was a weathered “For Sale” flyer. The edges were curling, and the ink was faint, but the words were clear:

Small cottage for sale. Fully furnished. Need’s lots of love. Located near the river. Please Contact Pastor Edwards.

She tore the flyer from the board and dialed the number from the payphone outside the general store, fishing a few coins from her pocket. Each turn of the rotary dial echoed loudly, and she tapped her fingers nervously as the line clicked and rang.

“Pastor Edwards speaking,” came a warm, steady voice.

“Hi, Pastor Edwards my name is Evelyn” she said, clearing her throat. “I’m calling about the cottage. Is it... still available?”

“It is,” he replied. “It’s a little rough around the edges, but it’s got good bones. Peaceful, too. Folks around here say it’s the kind of place where you can hear yourself think.”

She arranged to see it that afternoon, and when she did, it took her breath away.

_____________________________________________________________

The cottage sat nestled at the edge of the woods, its shutters faded and crooked, the porch sagging with age. Ivy climbed the stone walls, and the river just beyond the trees glimmered faintly in the sunlight. It wasn’t much, but it felt like a sanctuary.

Pastor Edwards smiled kindly as he handed her the keys. “It just needs someone to put in a little love.”

The transaction was quick—cash exchanged for a set of old, rusted keys—that night, as she stood in the center of the dusty living room, surrounded by creaking floorboards and chipped paint, she felt something she hadn’t felt in weeks: hope.

The house wasn’t perfect. Neither was she. But maybe, just maybe, they could rebuild each other.

Chapter 2

______________________________________________________________tagging some amazing people that showed interest on my previous post (if you don't want to be tagged please let me know): taglist

@coocoocachewgotscrewed @latinapiscess @littlebunnybigheartfics @themareverine @pandapetals @logansbaby @the-quick-red-fox @throwmethroughawindow @ifyouseethisnoyoudont22 @galacticglitterglue @whos-nin1

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© th3mrskory 2025 — all rights reserved.

[simdertalia]

🌺🎍 ACNH Harmonious Set: Part 2 🎍🌺

💗 Sims 4, Base game compatible besides 2 items (ourdoor retreat & get together for hearth & dance floor). 55 items. Many extra swatches added by me. Items with only 1 swatch are not pictured in the swatch previews.

Always suggested: bb.objects ON, it makes placing items much easier. For further placement tweaking, check out the TOOL mod.

You can raise & lower items with 0 and 9 on your keyboard.

Use the scale up & down feature on your keyboard to make the items larger or smaller to your liking. If you have a non-US keyboard, it may be different keys depending on which alphabet it uses.

I hope you enjoy! ☺️ Download below, all in a zip file or pick & choose!

I hope you enjoy!

Set contains: -Another Wall Hook | 5 swatches | 104 poly -Asian Screen | 5 swatches | 2280 poly -Asian Wall Shelf | 5 swatches | 2612 poly -Bamboo Bench | 3 swatches | 1968 poly  -Bamboo Nightstand | 3 swatches | 1094 poly -Bamboo Seat | 3 swatches | 1094 poly -Bird Bath | 12 swatches | 1194 poly -Bonbori (2 items, short and tall versions. Lights up in the dark) | 5 swatches each | 1226 poly each -Dharma Decor | 10 swatches | 1124 poly -Dharma Flower Pot | 12 swatches | 2116 poly -Dresser | 6 swatches | 1662 poly -Framed Art Decor | 24 swatches | 52 poly -Go Board | 1 swatch | 1190 poly -Hinaningyo (lanterns light up in the dark) | 1 swatch | 4802 poly -Japanese Coffee Table | 6 swatches | 1208 poly -Japanese Hearth: Functional (requires Outdoor Retreat) | 2 swatches for fish color | 3042 poly -Japanese Kettle (steams) | 8 swatches | 1200 poly -Japanese Lantern (lights up in the dark) | 33 swatches | 824 poly -Jars Glow Moss 1-5 (5 items in different shapes & sizes, glows in the dark) | 21 swatches each | 810 poly each -Make-Up Brushes | 17 swatches | 1730 poly -Maneki-neko Flower Pot | 8 swatches | 1396 poly -Miso Soup (steam & no steam versions) | 5 swatches each | 196 poly each -Mochi Pestle | 14 swatches | 1194 poly -Pagoda Statue | 5 swatches | 2702 poly -Sakura Blossom Lantern (2 items, small and tall, lights up in the dark) | 2 swatches each | 1238 poly each -Sakura Dance Floor | 1 swatch | 2 poly -Sakura Petals | 4 swatches | 633 poly -Sakura Purse (wall) | 7 swatch | 736 poly -Sakura Wall Clock | 7 swatches | 876 poly -Sakura Alarm Clock | 7 swatches | 952 poly -Salad | 3 swatches | 238 poly -Shoulder Bag (wall) | 25 swatches | 782 poly -Spring Rolls | 3 swatches for plate | 328 poly -Stone Arch: functional (marriage altar) | 5 swatches | 2102 poly -Torii | 5 swatches | 1976 poly -Vanity Anti-Dust Cloche | 8 swatches | 964 poly -Vase | 1 swatch | 812 poly -Vines 1-3 (3 items of different vine plant combinations) | 7 swatches each | 783, 741, & 720 poly -Vine Chair (the actual chair one) | 7 swatches | 1313 poly -Vine Lamp (lights up in the dark) | 5 swatcesh | 1238 poly -Vine Purse (wall) | 7 swatches | 810 poly -Vine Seat (the plant one) | 5 swatches for pot | 1032 poly -Vine Wall Hook | 5 swatches | 312 poly -Wall Flag | 4 swatches | 1203 poly -Wooden Make-Up Mirror | 12 swatches | 298 poly -Woven Trivet (slotted for tea kettle) | 11 swatch | 482 poly

Type “ACNH harmonious 2” into the search query in build mode to find  quickly. You can always find items like this, just begin typing the title and it will appear.

📁 Download all or pick & choose (SFS, No Ads): HERE

📁 Alt Mega Download (still no ads): HERE

📁 Download on Patreon

Will be public on September 1st, 2024 💗 Midnight CET

Happy Simming! ✨ Some of my CC is early access. If you like my work, please consider supporting me (all support helps me with managing my chronic pain/illness):

★ Patreon  🎉 ❤️ |★ Ko-Fi  ☕️  ❤️ ★ Instagram📷

Thank you for reblogging ❤️ ❤️ ❤️

@sssvitlanz  @maxismatchccworld @mmoutfitters  @coffee-cc-finds  @itsjessicaccfinds  @gamommypeach  @stargazer-sims-finds  @khelga68  @suricringe  @vaporwavesims  @mystictrance15 @moonglitchccfinds @xlost-in-wonderlandx @jbthedisabledvet

Harmonious Set 1

-Potted Palm CC & Plumeria Blooms -Sakura Branch in Vase CC -Altar Cloth CC

The rest of my CC

[raven-at-the-writing-desk]

Welcome Back.

From the moment those tall iron gates— elegant and ebony—swing open and you pass through them, a dizzying nostalgia floods into you. Here is the line that divided the rest of the world from the campus guard behind its barrier. The air is thick with magic, tasting sweet as you sip it.

This feeling, you think, head buzzing from the thrill, can be matched by nothing else.

You’re in a crowd, allowing yourself to be swept up by it and carried along its current. Men in casual wear, men in formal suits, men in outlandish and odd attire. All of you, set on the same path down Main Street.

Seven statues stand erect, monuments to seven great historical figures.

The Queen of Hearts, her rounded proportions blossoming from a patch of roses. She holds up part of her skirt with one hand and a heart-topped wand in the other. Her peaceful expression betrays the sternness with which she commands.

The King of Beasts, perched upon a rock that slants up. The lion has persisted and finally scaled the peak. He now looks skyward, his cunning visage locked to and even grander future.

The Sea Witch, tentacles curling amid carved waves. She casually leans back, unfurling a contract in one hand. Sign, and she will bless you with her benevolence.

The Sorcerer of the Sands, appearing in a cloud of sand. He stands, thin and wiry, with his serpent scepter and a hand on his hip. His face is contemplative, mindfully considering visitors.

The Beautiful Queen, svelte and lovely as she steps forth from the smoke, A poisoned apple is suspended from her fingers. She is as tempting as she is tenacious.

The Lord of the Underworld, grinning amid broiling flames. His hands are both lifted, a ball of fire conjured on one fingertip. Playful as he is, the man is diligent in his work.

The Thorn Witch, her horns and tattered robes right at home in the briar. She is poised and elegant, fingers curled at her chest. Truly noble in every way.

You lower your head to them in deference as you pass.

The crowd funnels into a doorway, then into a dimly lit room. It’s circular in design, with several windows, the curtains drawn over them, and floating coffins ringing the outskirts. With the day banished, the only source of light were the apocalyptic green flames emitting from high sconces.

An elaborate crystal chandelier and many pearl lines hang over their heads. They shift in and out of the void, sometimes catching and shining in the glow of the flames.

In the center is a large mirror upon an elevated platform. The frame, an intricate braid. Its surface, dull and dark—as if coated in a layer of coal dust.

This, too, you remember vividly.

But not the small figure standing become the mirror.

They are fitted in a mourning gown of blacks and deep blues. Feathers adorn their chest, scattered iridescent fragments woven into their skirt. A long wispy veil obscures their face—but you swear you can hear an eerie, faint giggle come from behind the gathered fabric.

They lift their hands, beckoning you to draw nearer. You are compelled to obey, your feet drifting.

“Welcome, welcome, one and all,” they announce cheerily.

Your scalp tingles. And they sound so close too. Like a childhood lullaby, a musical box wound up.

“Welcome back to our Night Raven College. It is a pleasure to see you again. How nostalgic.”

Rose gold comes to mind, and you're unsure of why that is. It comes with a familiar feeling--of rediscovering a lost part of yourself, of rose-tinted glasses slipping on and clouding one's vision, of the wonderfulness of meeting an old friend. The color of dawn beckoning a new day.

Who is…?

They reach for their veil and carefully raise it.

Your heart leaps. Deja vu.

A demure smile. Honey-colored eyes staring straight into your soul. Wonder and curiosity radiating off of her.

You suddenly know who it is.

“We’ve missed you, dear alumni.”

[yandere-yearnings]

It Comes On Red Dragons (Male Yandere!Mafia Boss x GN!Reader)

feat. Laurent Sanchez

♡ oneshot, approx. 1.6k words

♡ post-specific warnings: mentions of blood and injury

♡ a/n: the promised christmas fic requested in this ask, i hope you enjoy it nonnie!! i'm super glad laurent is getting love, can you tell he's my favourite haha😭🩷 i had a lot of fun w/ this,, i might just make a part two next year. unedited, not proofread.

♡♡♡

“Take your pick.” Clover’s shoulder nudges yours as she walks past you to the balcony. You catch her eyes and melt a little at the gentleness in the amethyst. On the bed, there’s a few outfits splayed out for your choosing, tailored to a custom-fit that you’ve quickly come to learn is a formality specifically adopted by this mafia. You recalled hearing it was a teaching of the former head, one’s garment was one’s pride — or something of the sort.

The sheets on the mattress crinkled when you sat down, thumbing through layers of silk and satin, trying to make a choice between the cherry reds and chartreuse that stole your attention away from all the other various shades surrounding. Every piece was impeccable. Every piece was made especially for you, so whatever you settled on, you were sure to look good; that’s what Laurent had told you before he’d rushed out.

Three hours to the start of the party, and he still hadn’t returned.

Through frosted glass, you watched Clover’s silhouette lean out and shout muffled directions to the men below. Laughter floated up and the tones fell into one another, a symphony far from the nature of its source. Fabric wrinkled under your palm, you looked down, clenched your teeth and decided you’d just go for this one. What was the point of putting your energy into something you weren’t sure would even be seen by the person you wanted it to be?

When you stood, it was the mirror on the other side of the room that stared back at you. Trefoil-woven, solid dragons carved into a golden frame, so grand you instantly lost your reflection in it. Swallowed up in the quiver of your bottom lip, and the sting that no amount of blinking could soothe. Nails leaving angry red scratches in their wake whilst you stripped, putting on the clothes for the occasion was wrapping back the chains around your heart you were not supposed to let loosen. You had been told time and time again, if you continued to wait with flowers you would inevitably be bringing them to a grave. Even then, it wasn’t something you could help — being worried — you felt you had the right to be.

Behind you, Clover clears her throat, closing the sliding doors with her back turned to them. There’s a light dusting of snow dispersed in her neatly styled curls, half-melted, looking like glitter when she tilted her head at you. “You’re tense,” she assessed, advancing to you and smoothing out a crease on your sleeve, “still afraid?”

Her demeanour was ever graceful, and you took it in like it could ease your nerves. Wondering how Clover could remain as calm and unperturbed as always when her best friend was out there, when she’d watched him leave and knew his life would be hanging up as the largest target on the front lines. You supposed the uneasiness that was eating you up inside was something she had long been desensitised to. Somewhere, you were envious. If only you could have as much control as she did.

“I just…” your gaze fell to the patterned rug beneath your feet, and you licked your dry lips, “heard the gunshots.”

“Ah.” Clover returns your concern with a rare expression, akin to surprise. “The music’s not loud enough.”

You raised a brow. “You were trying to drown them out?”

“No,” she answers swiftly, “I was trying to make good use of the far-too expensive speaker system we had installed for tonight. This is Juan’s fault. Mariah Carey should’ve had everyone’s ears bleeding out by now.”

For the first time since noon had rolled around, you found yourself cracking a smile. “You’re not gonna chew him out, are you?” You followed Clover out to the landing where she tipped her head over the balustrade in search of the man in question. “I’m starting to think Juan might quit at this rate.”

“Please,” Clover dismissed the comment with a wave, “he likes Laurent too much to even consider it. Oh— speak of the devil.”

“What, did you find him already?” the laughter in your tone died when you finally caught sight of who Clover was pointing at. Rather than a frazzled Juan who you were expecting to see, it was Laurent — clutching his side and greeting the members on the lower floor with a smile as he entered the building with his entourage. 

You’d run down the stairs so fast, Clover hadn’t even finished taking a headcount.

“Laurent!” Out of breath, your fingers grasping at his shoulders to pull him to his full height, then for leverage when your focus zeroed in on the blood seeping through the torn fibres of his suit.

“It’s nice to see you too,” his clean hand cupped your face, voice airy when he leaned closer to you, dimples making themselves known. “Hey. It’s okay. I’m alright. It’s just a graze.”

Chest falling, throat tight, reaching out to touch him and hearing him hitch on an inhale. “Don’t lie to me.” You bit your lip. “Don’t fucking—”

Laurent took your wrist. “If it’s more than that, I will still live,” he said, and brought it up to leave a kiss that smeared his lips in his own tinge of red, “we have some talented guys. Álvaro is always happy to see me.”

“I am not.” A tired voice cuts in, and you turn your head to see the mafia’s most trusted — and feared — doctor shining a torch into another member’s eye. “What? A chariot won’t fall out of the fucking sky for either of you,” he sighs as you remain rooted in the entryway, “haul ass to the med wing, I’m behind you.”

♡♡♡

You’d never seen tenderness on an angry man, but contrary to his own complaints, Álvaro had patched Laurent up meticulously. Thankfully, no one had been gravely injured on the job, and as much as your heart remained surging over Laurent’s wound, it had been largely nonfatal. He was lying down shirtless, trying to get you to concentrate on him rather than the injury — calling out your name, increasingly apologetic each second you went without responding.

“We’re so lucky it wasn’t a major evolution,” you sighed finally, when you’d snapped to, and stifled laughter had your sights turning to glare at the cause of your distress. “What?”

“I think—” Laurent curled away from you, and you almost mistook it for pain before he finished his sentence, giggling, “I think you meant avulsion.”

“Wow,” your brows rose in disbelief, “who died and made you medical professional? Actually, who’s fault do you think it is that everything Álvaro said went through one ear?”

Knuckle wiping a stray tear from the corner of his eye, he answered: “mine,” and then apologised softly. Genuinity that could not be mistaken pooled in the way he reached out for you, in warm skin and a pulse you never wanted to feel change pace. “Hey,” Laurent whispered, “don’t you wanna go join the party?”

“Not unless Santa himself comes and drags me away on his sleigh,” you huffed. “I’ll stay by you, can’t have you getting lonely here while everyone enjoys themselves, can we?”

“Are they?” he perked; had you cradling his face from the magnetism of his sincerity.

“Of course they are.” There was no doubt about it. Beyond the walls, Christmas festivities were in full swing amongst the members. It was almost strange, to hear Jingle Bell Rock being sung as loudly as it was by the mafia of all groups, yet, you supposed this was what Laurent worked so hard for. Any sacrifice for these small securities, so that under his roof, everyone could return to their roots — simply people trying to survive amongst people. You admired that.

Carding through his hair, soft brown locks kissing back at your fingertips, you tracked the tension deliquesce and run off his shoulders easy. “Anyway,” Laurent lurches when you skim over the reddened skin peeking from his bandages. His dragon has colour bursting from it now, it looks alive. “There goes our outfit coordination plan.”

“We can still do that.”

“Yeah,” you snicker, gesturing to yourself, “let me just take this off and we can both match.”

“Why is that the first place your mind goes?” sitting up with a chuckle, he shakes his head. “I’ll go change. We should spend the night celebrating with everyone.”

Trailing behind him needlessly with the intention of, likely unsuccessfully, catching him if he fell, you found yourselves stopped at the doorway in little time, exchanging looks. Outside, there was quiet shuffling and a not-so-quiet clash of badly hushed profanities. Some of the voices you could recognise instantly; Juan’s ever apprehensive commentary undercut by a group dismissal, Diego’s snickering and a tired sound of bewilderment from Clover. From your peripheral, you caught Laurent’s eyes crinkle, hiding brilliant emerald as he let his weight rest on the frame, waiting in patience for the crowd to disperse on the other side. 

“They never let up, do they?” Laurent’s expression was entirely endeared when he opened the door at last, staring up at the mistletoe that hung overhead, and then at you.

“I like that about them,” you confessed, drawing closer, “works in my favour.”

Your lips touched, delicate, unknotting all the agonising thoughts bundled up inside of you. Careful where you rested your palm, the pads of your fingers brushed up against gauze and you let it be. Taught your heart that it could hold its silence — that all it was is that your gift this Christmas came on red dragons.

[keehomania]

troublemaker (트러블) — kim namjoon (김남준)

✧.* 18+

you were trouble, everyone knew it. from the moment you entered a room, you carried an aura that demanded attention, the kind of allure that held people captive in the snare of your presence. in a world where appearances could be weapons, you were the embodiment of femme fatale—an archetype as lethal as it was beguiling. your beauty wasn’t merely skin-deep; it was a complex tapestry woven from threads of danger, allure, and an almost tangible sense of enigma.

your eyes, framed by a cascade of midnight-black lashes, were twin pools of mystery that could ensnare anyone who dared to meet your gaze. they shimmered with an intensity that hinted at secrets too dark to unveil, secrets that whispered of peril and allure in the same breath. when you walked, each step was a masterstroke of elegance and seduction, the hem of your dress swaying like the tendrils of a siren's call. the colors you wore were never just colors; they were statements, woven into the fabric of your being like the brushstrokes of a master painter’s most provocative work.

your voice, when it cut through the ambient hum of a room, was velvet and smoke—rich and inviting, yet laden with the promise of consequences that could spiral into chaos. it could lure and disarm, coaxing even the most guarded heart into the realm of vulnerability. conversations with you were like navigating a labyrinth; each word, each pause, was meticulously crafted to captivate, ensnare, and ultimately control.

in your presence, the air seemed to shimmer with an otherworldly light, an ethereal glow that made reality seem like a mere shadow of the world you conjured. you moved with a grace that was almost otherworldly, a dance that was both hypnotic and dangerous. the way you tilted your head, the slight curve of your smile—it all contributed to a spellbinding performance that kept everyone on edge. if looks could kill, you would have been executed long ago. your mere gaze was a weapon honed to perfection, capable of dismantling the strongest of defenses with a single glance. the enchantment you wielded was not merely a play of physical beauty but a deadly precision of emotional manipulation and psychological prowess. to encounter you was to walk a tightrope over an abyss, where every step was fraught with the potential for either profound enchantment or complete destruction.

you were a canvas of contradictions, a symphony of beauty and menace. each interaction with you was an intricate dance on the edge of a razor, where the thrill of the unknown mingled with the inevitable sting of consequences. In the grand theater of life, you were the lead role in a drama so intense and captivating that it demanded the audience's complete surrender. the enigma you embodied was a work of art in itself, crafted with the precision of a masterful painter and the allure of an ancient legend. you were the perfect embodiment of femme fatale—an archetype so potent that even the hint of your presence could render the most formidable of souls powerless.

you were a vision of lethal elegance, the very embodiment of danger wrapped in glamour. in the dimly lit bar, your presence was nothing short of an intoxicating spell, casting a spell that had everyone under its sway. the room pulsed with life, the throbbing beat of music mingling with the electric current of your allure. all eyes were drawn to you, some with a flicker of lust, others with a trace of envy. you anticipated this reaction with an almost preternatural certainty, knowing exactly how to wield your beauty as a weapon of desire and control.

perched on a plush velvet bar stool, you sipped your martini with an air of nonchalance, the delicate glass catching the ambient light and casting glimmers that mirrored the sparkle in your eyes. the glistening liquid within the glass seemed to reflect the dangerous playfulness that danced beneath your composed facade. every sip was a deliberate act, each moment stretched out to heighten the tension that thrummed through the bar like an electric charge.

as you savored your drink, a man, drawn in by the magnetic pull of your presence, approached you with a confident stride. his gaze was fixated on you with a mixture of desire and admiration. he leaned closer, his voice a low murmur as he offered to buy you another drink. you responded with a smile that could melt steel and a purr that was as soft as it was deadly. “i’m not thirsty anymore,” you whispered, your breath warm against his ear. “in fact, i’ve worked up quite an appetite.”

your words were accompanied by a slow, deliberate exploration of his body—your knee pressed suggestively against the bulge in his pants, your fingertips tracing lazy, teasing patterns along his arm. he was ensnared, mesmerized by the intoxicating blend of your touch and your voice. with each subtle caress, you could feel his resolve dissolving, his body responding with a mix of anticipation and vulnerability. you guided him with practiced ease toward the staircase leading up to the hotel above the club. each step you took was measured, each glance you cast over your shoulder a calculated part of the seduction. when you reached the room you had rented hours before, the anticipation hung in the air like a charged current.

inside the room, the atmosphere shifted from the vibrant chaos of the bar to an intimate and charged tension. you pushed him onto the bed with a combination of grace and dominance, your lips finding his in a heated kiss that spoke of all the promises and perils to come. as the passion intensified, you suddenly pulled away, a playful smirk curling at the corners of your lips. “wait here,” you instructed, your voice a velvet command as you slipped away to the bathroom. the soft click of the door closing behind you was the only sound before you emerged, your form now adorned only in a lacy bra and panties. in your hands, you held a bundle of rope, its coiled lengths a stark contrast to your alluring appearance. you presented it to him with a languid, almost theatrical flourish, the rope glistening in the soft light as you displayed it with a provocative grace.

his eyes were locked on the rope, his eagerness palpable as he reached out, his breath quickening with anticipation. but before he could fully grasp his desires, you were swift and unerring. the rope was suddenly around his throat, its fibers cold and unyielding against his skin. his eyes widened in shock, a strangled gasp escaping his lips as he struggled to breathe. the thrill of the moment was palpable in the room, the transformation from seduction to danger swift and complete.

your expression remained impassive, almost detached, as you tightened the rope with measured precision. you watched with an indifferent gaze as the life began to ebb from his eyes, the struggle growing weaker with each tightening of the rope. the room was silent save for the faint, strangled sounds of his attempts to breathe, and your own calm, steady breaths as you held him in your grip.

once the light of life had dimmed from his eyes, you released the rope with a smooth, practiced motion, the finality of your actions as clean and efficient as the execution of a well-rehearsed performance. without a moment's hesitation, you retrieved your phone from the nightstand, dialing the number you knew by heart. your voice was cool and composed as you delivered the message, “the job’s finished.” the transaction was complete, your demeanor as flawless and unperturbed as ever. the power of your presence, combined with the lethal precision of your actions, left no room for doubt. your looks could, indeed, kill.

in the dimly lit ambiance of a high-end club, where shadows danced along the walls and whispers wove through the air like silk, kim namjoon emerged as a figure of compelling elegance and magnetic allure. his presence was a striking contrast to the dim setting, an embodiment of polished sophistication and commanding charm. from the moment he entered the room, it was as if the very air around him shifted, aligning with his undeniable magnetism.

his appearance was nothing short of captivating. his sharp, chiseled features were sculpted with an artist’s precision—his high cheekbones, a strong, defined jawline, and the perfectly straight bridge of his nose created a visage that could have been plucked from the pages of a fashion magazine. his eyes, dark and intense, held a glimmer of mischief beneath their calm facade. they were the kind of eyes that seemed to see through every pretense, a deep, penetrating gaze that drew people in and held them captive, like a spell they were powerless to break.

his hair was styled with an effortless grace, each strand falling into place as if it had been carefully tousled by an unseen hand. it framed his face with an artful disarray that only enhanced his allure, giving him a look that was both casually disheveled and meticulously groomed. every movement he made was fluid, a smooth, deliberate motion that spoke of both confidence and control. his attire—a perfectly tailored suit that accentuated his broad shoulders and lean frame—was a testament to his keen sense of style. the fabric draped over him with an elegance that was both understated and luxurious, the dark hue of his suit contrasting sharply with the warm glow of the club’s lighting.

as he navigated through the room, every step seemed to radiate a quiet power, his aura compelling and commanding. there was an inherent grace to his movements, a calculated ease that made him seem as though he were gliding rather than walking. women turned their heads as he passed, their gazes lingering with a mixture of admiration and desire, their reactions a testament to the impact of his presence.

he knew precisely how to wield his beauty and charm, turning it into a weapon of seduction and influence. his smile was a carefully honed tool, flashing with just the right amount of warmth and allure to disarm even the most guarded soul. it was a smile that suggested both confidence and an intimate understanding of human nature, a combination that made him irresistibly intriguing. in conversation, his voice was a smooth, velvety timbre that could both soothe and stir, a voice that could command attention or whisper promises of indulgence. each word he spoke was measured and deliberate, imbued with a charisma that made every interaction feel like a dance. he could make the simplest of exchanges seem like a tantalizing game, where every glance and every phrase was part of a larger, more complex play.

kim namjoon was more than just a man of striking appearance; he was an embodiment of an almost otherworldly charm that made him a force to be reckoned with. his beauty was not merely skin-deep but a carefully curated blend of aesthetics and allure, sharpened by a sly intelligence and a commanding presence. his very being radiated a magnetic energy that drew others to him, an aura of irresistible power and charm that made him both a captivating enigma and an undeniable force.

as he moved through the crowded club, his presence was like a magnetic force drawing the eyes of every observer, yet his attention was singularly focused on one woman. she was a vision of allure, her eyes locked onto him with an unspoken recognition of his power and charm. he approached her with a fluid grace, his every movement deliberate and poised.

he came from behind her, his touch an intimate caress that seemed to awaken a shiver down her spine. she arched into his touch, as if her body had anticipated his arrival, responding to his presence with a blend of eagerness and trust. his fingers traced a path along her delicate skin, sending waves of warmth and anticipation through her. leaning in, he whispered in her ear, his breath hot and tantalizing. “do you wanna get out of here?” the words were laced with a promise of excitement and danger, an invitation wrapped in seductive undertones. she nodded almost imperceptibly, her lips curving into a smile of eager compliance as she allowed him to guide her through the throng of revelers.

as they navigated their way out of the club, namjoon’s hands continued their languid exploration along her back and sides, each touch a reminder of the allure he wielded with such ease. they moved together in a rhythm of anticipation, their path illuminated by the flashing lights of the city as they ventured into the shadowed recesses of an alleyway. in the quiet, obscured alley, the vibrant chaos of the club seemed like a distant memory. his whispers became more insistent, his words slipping into a darker, more provocative territory. the woman's excitement was palpable, her breath hitching as his voice wove a tantalizing promise of what was to come.

as they reached a more secluded spot, his hand brushed against his pocket, his keys falling from his grasp and clattering onto the ground. he paused to retrieve them, his movements precise and deliberate. it was in this moment of vulnerability that the woman's anticipation turned to confusion, her eyes widening as the reality of her situation began to dawn on her.

in a swift, practiced motion, his demeanor shifted from seductive to menacing. as he straightened, his hands were no longer gentle but cruelly firm. his fingers closed around her throat with an unyielding grip, his strength a chilling contrast to the tenderness he had earlier exhibited. her eyes, once filled with lust, were now wide with a horror that seemed to freeze time itself. he applied pressure with a cold efficiency, the life gradually ebbing from her eyes as she struggled against the relentless force of his grip. he watched impassively as the light in her eyes dimmed, her struggles growing weaker until her body went limp. the transition from desire to demise was abrupt, the room falling into a stifling silence as she dropped dead at his feet.

with her lifeless body at his feet, namjoon remained calm, his expression a mask of unperturbed satisfaction. he removed his phone from his pocket with the same grace he had shown throughout the evening, his fingers moving with practiced precision. dialing a number, he spoke into the phone with a voice that was as cool and collected as ever. “the job’s finished,” he said, his tone devoid of emotion, a stark contrast to the passionate persona he had so masterfully projected moments before. the efficiency of his actions, the seamless transition from charm to ruthlessness, underscored the true extent of his dangerous allure. kim namjoon was a master of manipulation, his beauty and charm just facets of a more profound and deadly artistry.

the morning sun cast a golden haze across the room, its rays filtering through the gauzy curtains and illuminating the opulent space in a soft, ethereal glow. you sat gracefully at the edge of a lavish, velvet-clad armchair, a picture of effortless sophistication. in your hand, you held a glass of deep, ruby-red wine, the liquid swirling gently as you lifted it to your lips. the wine’s rich aroma filled the air, mingling with the faint hint of your perfume—a heady blend of jasmine and sandalwood.

there was a certain serenity in the ritual of your morning indulgence, despite the gnawing presence of alcohol's creeping dependence. the wine had become both a sanctuary and a torment, a paradoxical solace that masked the terror of its increasing hold over you. each sip was a delicate escape from the relentless pressure of your world, a brief respite before the day's demands unfolded.

as you savored the wine, your phone buzzed on the polished marble table beside you. the sharp, insistent sound shattered the tranquil cocoon you had wrapped yourself in. with a graceful motion, you reached for the device, your fingers curling around it with a practiced ease. the screen lit up with the name of your boss, and a flicker of tension passed through you.

you answered the call, your voice steady and composed despite the slight edge of apprehension that had begun to surface. “yes?” you intoned, your tone smooth but alert. the voice on the other end was cold, the authority it wielded palpable even through the phone. “listen closely,” she commanded, her voice carrying the weight of unspoken threats. “we have a high-priority target for you today. this isn’t just any assignment. you’re to eliminate kim namjoon.”

the name hit you with an unexpected force, a jolt that made you sit up straighter. you had heard whispers about him, tales spun in dark corners and hushed conversations, but it all seemed like distant lore—stories of a man who was, in your mind, nothing more than an intriguing footnote. now, the reality of the task set before you was both startling and intensely personal. “kim namjoon?” you repeated, your voice a blend of disbelief and challenge. the name rolled off your tongue, testing the weight of its significance. “i’ve heard of him. he’s part of a rival team, correct?”

“correct,” she affirmed, her tone leaving no room for doubt. “he's a significant player, a dangerous one. this job requires precision. you must understand the risks. he’s not to be underestimated. we need this done cleanly and without trace. his elimination will shift the balance in our favor.” the intensity of her words sharpened the focus of the task ahead. the air around you seemed to thicken with the gravity of the assignment, the warmth of the wine now mingling with a cool edge of determination. the threat posed by namjoon wasn’t just about personal rivalry; it was a crucial move in a broader, more intricate game.

you took a deep breath, feeling the weight of the responsibility settle upon your shoulders. your resolve hardened, the initial disbelief melting into a fierce, unwavering determination. “i understand,” you said, your voice resolute. “i assure you, the job will be finished in no time.” with that, the call ended, leaving you with the echo of her command and the impending challenge that loomed large in your mind. you set the wine glass down, its contents reflecting the slivers of sunlight that now seemed to pierce through your calm exterior. the stakes had been set, the target identified, and the path forward was clear.

kim namjoon would be your next conquest, a puzzle to be solved with the precision and finesse that defined your craft. the thrill of the hunt coursed through you, blending with the calm confidence you had cultivated over countless assignments. the morning’s tranquility had dissipated, replaced by a focused intensity that sharpened your every sense. the game was on, and you were ready to meet it head-on.

the morning sun peeked through the narrow gap in the curtains, casting a hazy light that filtered through the cluttered room. namjoon sat at the small kitchen table, cradling a steaming cup of coffee in his hands. the rich aroma of the brew was a stark contrast to the disarray that surrounded him. his gaze was fixed on the scene before him—his disheveled roommate sprawled across the couch, the telltale signs of a wild night evident in the scattered cans of alcohol and the faint scent of stale beer that clung to the air.

namjoon’s distaste for alcohol was well-known, a preference rooted in the queasiness it induced rather than any moral stance. to him, the presence of the empty cans was a nauseating reminder of indulgences he avoided. he turned his attention back to the comforting warmth of his coffee, seeking solace in its steady, untroubled existence. the silence of the morning was abruptly broken by the shrill ring of his phone, an intrusion that jolted him from his thoughts. he glanced at his roommate, ensuring that the phone’s call wouldn’t disturb his friend’s slumber. with a deft motion, he picked up the phone, his fingers moving with practiced ease as he answered.

the voice on the other end was as sharp and commanding as ever. “namjoon, good morning,” his boss greeted, the tone both professional and serious. “i trust you’re ready for the next assignment?” he nodded, even though his boss couldn’t see him. “of course,” he replied, his voice steady and attentive. “what’s the task?”

there was a moment of silence, heavy with anticipation, before his boss continued. “today’s assignment is likely the hardest one you’ve faced. we’ve come across a particularly elusive target. her name is (y/n) (l/n), and she’s not just any case. she’s known for her lethal precision and cunning. the stories you’ve heard about her are not mere rumors; they’re a testament to her skills.”

the gravity of the warning was palpable, and namjoon’s interest was piqued. he had heard fragmented stories about a woman of your reputation, a figure shrouded in intrigue and danger. he had never expected his path would cross with someone like you, nor had he anticipated the challenge this would present. “understood,” he said, his tone taking on a determined edge. “i’m aware of her reputation. if she’s as formidable as you say, i’ll handle it with the utmost care. rest assured, i’ll eliminate her with the precision and efficiency expected.”

the conversation concluded with a sense of mutual understanding and resolve. namjoon ended the call, his mind already strategizing the best approach to the task at hand. he looked once more at his roommate, who remained oblivious to the gravity of the conversation that had just transpired. with his coffee in hand and a newfound determination, he prepared himself for the day. the sight of the alcohol-strewn room and the hungover state of his friend were now just background noise, eclipsed by the seriousness of the mission ahead. the challenge posed by you—an enigmatic and dangerous opponent—was about to become the focal point of his day, a test of his skills and resolve that would push him to his limits.

you entered the coffee shop, the soft hum of conversation and the aroma of freshly brewed coffee enveloping you in a warm embrace. the morning light streamed through the large windows, casting a serene glow over the rustic wooden tables and mismatched chairs. as you walked to the counter, your mind buzzed with tactical considerations, strategizing the most effective approach to handling the formidable kim namjoon. the complexities of the task at hand melded with your thoughts, each possibility and scenario swirling in your head like the delicate patterns in your latte.

you placed your order with a casual ease, the barista’s polite nods and friendly banter barely registering as you were lost in contemplation. when you finally settled into a corner booth, the quiet rustle of newspapers and the clinking of cups provided a backdrop to your musings. men around the café couldn't help but steal glances in your direction, their eyes lingering with a mix of admiration and intrigue. you were accustomed to such attention, a mere side effect of the aura you carried, but it never failed to draw your awareness.

as you were absorbed in your thoughts, a voice interrupted the solitude of your reflection. “must be tiring, isn’t it? getting looks like that all the time?” the voice was warm and smooth, laced with a hint of curiosity. you turned your head to find a man standing by your table, a friendly smile playing on his lips. he had an air of casual confidence, his demeanor effortless and disarming. you couldn’t help but notice the way he seemed to effortlessly attract the gaze of those around him, much like you did. offering him a measured smile, you replied, “it seems like you’re no stranger to stares yourself,” gesturing toward the group of women who were openly admiring him from across the room.

he laughed softly, a sound that was both genuine and charming. “true enough,” he said with a shrug. “but it’s something i’ve chosen to ignore.” you tilted your head slightly, a playful glint in your eyes. “would you like to join me? it looks like most of the other seats are taken.” without hesitation, he accepted your offer and slid into the seat across from you. As he settled in, he extended his hand with a graceful flourish.

“i’m kim namjoon,” he introduced himself, his voice steady and inviting. a chill ran down your spine as the name registered, a shockwave of realization coursing through you. was it fate? you fought to maintain your composure, your face draining of color as you processed the situation. with a controlled breath, you extended your own hand and offered a smile. “i’m (y/n) (l/n). it’s nice to meet you, namjoon.”

his eyes widened imperceptibly, a moment of surprise flickering across his face before he masked it with a practiced ease. you were even more striking than he had imagined from the stories he had heard—an ethereal beauty that exceeded every expectation. his heart sank slightly, a sinking feeling that hinted at the gravity of the situation.

the two of you engaged in conversation, each of you carefully concealing your underlying tension. namjoon asked about your work, his curiosity piqued. you swallowed your nerves and fabricated a story, telling him that you worked in finance. his gaze remained steady, though the mention of your profession triggered an internal churn in his stomach. he responded with a lie of his own, claiming to work in business management—an elaborate deception. as the conversation flowed, punctuated by casual laughter and probing questions, you felt the delicate balance of this encounter shift. the façade of casual coffee talk masked the underlying intensity of your real interactions. with every exchange, you assessed his reactions, every nuance of his demeanor scrutinized as you navigated this unexpected encounter.

when the time felt right, you reached into your bag and pulled out a slip of paper, extending it toward him with a nonchalant air. “here’s my number. it would be nice to continue our conversation sometime.” he accepted the slip with a genuine smile, his eyes reflecting a mixture of intrigue and admiration. “i’d like that,” he said warmly, his tone sincere. “i’m looking forward to seeing you again soon.”

with that, you gathered your things, the weight of the morning’s revelations settling heavily on your shoulders. as you stood and made your way to the door, his gaze followed you, a lingering reminder of the complex web you had just woven. the encounter had been more than mere chance; it was a delicate dance of deception and allure, setting the stage for the intricate game that lay ahead. the bell above the café door chimed softly as you exited, leaving behind the warm, inviting space and the enigmatic man who would soon become central to your plans. the city outside bustled with its usual rhythm, but within you, a storm of anticipation and calculation brewed, your path now irrevocably entwined with his.

you paced your room with a measured intensity, the rhythmic scuff of your heels against the floor mirroring the churn of your thoughts. the walls seemed to close in, laden with the weight of strategy and anticipation. every corner of the room held a potential plan, a calculated move in the intricate game you and namjoon were unwittingly playing. the persistent buzz of your phone interrupted your brooding. you glanced at the screen, recognizing namjoon’s name. with a composed breath, you answered. “hello?”

“hey, (y/n),” his voice came through with a casual warmth. “i was wondering if you’d be interested in grabbing lunch sometime today. or am i already being too clingy?” you couldn’t help but laugh, a sound that was as light as it was genuine. “i’d love to have lunch with you, namjoon. where do you want to go?”

he suggested a charming bistro not far from where you were staying, a place known for its elegant ambiance and exquisite cuisine. you agreed, and after hanging up, you turned your attention to your wardrobe. selecting a dress that clung to your curves with just the right balance of elegance and allure, you prepared to meet your unexpected lunch companion.

arriving at the bistro, you found him already seated at a table near the window, his gaze scanning the room with an anticipation that matched your own. when he saw you, his eyes widened slightly, a clear reaction to your striking appearance. the corner of his mouth lifted in a genuine smile that softened the usual sharpness of his features.

“wow,” he said as you approached, his voice tinged with admiration. “you look amazing.” you smiled, feeling a warm flush of pleasure. “thanks. you don’t look too bad yourself.”

you both settled into the cozy booth, the soft light of the bistro casting a flattering glow on both of you. the menu was soon presented, and you made a decision almost automatically. “should we start with a bottle of wine?” you suggested, the words flowing with casual ease. his demeanor shifted subtly, a fleeting shadow crossing his face as he flinched slightly at your choice. “actually,” he began, hesitating for a moment, “i’m not really fond of alcohol.”

your curiosity was piqued. “oh? why’s that?” he leaned back slightly, his expression thoughtful. “my father was an alcoholic. it left a pretty negative impression on me. i avoid it whenever i can.”

you noted the pained edge in his voice, your own heart twisting in sympathy. “i’m sorry to hear that. let me get us a coffee instead. we can still enjoy a great meal without the wine.” namjoon’s smile brightened with genuine appreciation. “that sounds perfect. thank you.” you signaled the waiter and changed the order, opting for coffee instead. namjoon’s gratitude was evident in his appreciative nod, his eyes softening as he watched you.

the conversation flowed naturally, a gentle exchange about his father and the memories that lingered. “he was involved in some dangerous dealings,” he recounted. “the debts caught up with him, and eventually, it cost him his life. it’s a part of my past that’s hard to shake off.” you reached out, placing a comforting hand over his. “i’m truly sorry for your loss, namjoon. it must have been incredibly difficult.”

his gaze met yours, a mixture of gratitude and vulnerability shining through. “thank you. it’s been a challenge, but i’ve managed to move forward. meeting someone like you today has been a nice distraction.” as the food arrived, he leaned forward to serve himself. in a moment of unanticipated clumsiness, his glass of water tipped precariously on the edge of the table. instinctively, you reached out with practiced precision, catching the glass before it could hit the floor. it fell into your grip with barely a sound.

his eyes widened as he watched the maneuver, a dawning realization of your skill and preparedness clear in his gaze. “you’re pretty adept at handling situations,” he commented, a note of surprise in his voice. you shrugged lightly, attempting to downplay the incident. “just a little bit of practice. nothing to worry about.”

with a playful smile, you encouraged him to continue enjoying the meal. as the conversation resumed, the initial tension between you seemed to ease, replaced by a genuine connection forged over shared stories and experiences. the food was delightful, and the time spent together was as pleasant as it was unexpected. both of you indulged in the meal, savoring each bite and drink as if it were a reprieve from the unspoken truths hovering just beneath the surface. the lunch was more than a simple meeting—it was an intricate dance of charm and deception, a prelude to the complexities that lay ahead.

as you and namjoon strolled back toward your place, the conversation flowed effortlessly, the natural rhythm of it making the day feel almost ordinary. the world seemed to hum in harmony, your laughter mingling with the ambient sounds of the city, creating a brief respite from the tension that lurked beneath the surface.

however, as you approached a lamppost with a memorial photo attached, you felt a sudden jolt. the image on the pole was unmistakable—the face of the man you had eliminated the previous night. his eyes seemed to stare out from the photograph with a haunting, silent plea, and you shuddered involuntarily. namjoon, noticing your abrupt halt and the sudden pallor of your face, turned with concern. “what’s wrong?” he asked, his voice gentle but laced with worry.

you swallowed hard, struggling to compose yourself. “i knew him,” you managed to say, your voice barely above a whisper. “he was a friend.” his expression softened with empathy. “i'm sorry. that must be really tough.”

you offered him a shaky smile, appreciating his kindness. “thank you.” the two of you continued walking in contemplative silence until you reached your house. you turned to face namjoon, your heart swelling with a mix of emotions. without hesitation, you wrapped your arms around him in a warm, genuine hug. it was a simple gesture, free from any ulterior motives, and as you held him close, you felt a fleeting connection that seemed both comforting and poignant.

his smile broadened as he returned the hug, his embrace warm and reassuring. “good night, (y/n),” he said softly. “i’ll see you soon.”

“good night, namjoon,” you replied, pulling away and watching him walk down the street with a bittersweet feeling.

as he made his way home, the streets began to fade into the distance, and he took out his phone. the sense of unease that had been bubbling beneath the surface now surfaced with a jolt. with a few swift taps, he brought up the details of the deceased man’s profile. his eyes widened in shock as he read the police report—the victim had been strangled to death with rope, and the case was eerily devoid of leads or footage.

his mind raced, the chilling realization of the situation dawning upon him. the pieces of the puzzle fell into place with unnerving clarity. he had just spent the afternoon with the very person who had carried out such a methodical and lethal act. the connection between you and the man on the pole was a stark revelation, and the weight of the truth settled heavily upon him. he shuddered, his thoughts spinning as he grappled with the realization of who you truly were—and what he now had to confront. the night seemed to grow darker and more foreboding as he walked, each step echoing the grim understanding that had just settled into his gut.

the next evening, you found yourself once again in the opulent embrace of the hotel. the grand ballroom, resplendent with its glimmering chandeliers and elaborate decor, was a far cry from the grim memories it held for you. the place where you had claimed your previous victim now seemed almost serene, its beauty contrasting starkly with the dark deeds that had unfolded within its walls. with practiced ease, you adjusted the earpiece nestled in your ear and connected with your boss. the cool, metallic voice of your superior resonated through the small device, crisp and unwavering.

“(y/n), are you in position?” the voice inquired. “yes,” you replied, your tone steady. “i'm monitoring the cctv feeds now. the hallways are clear, and namjoon should be arriving soon.”

“good. remember, we need to ensure the task is completed efficiently. keep your wits about you and stay focused.”

“understood,” you said, disconnecting the call and turning your attention back to the array of monitors before you. the security cameras provided a meticulous view of the hotel's layout, allowing you to track every movement with precision. your gaze was fixed on the entrance, waiting for namjoon’s arrival. when he finally appeared, impeccably dressed in a sharp suit that accentuated his striking features, you couldn’t help but feel a pang of anticipation. he moved with a confident grace that only added to his allure, and you watched as he navigated through the crowd.

as soon as he entered the room, you swiftly disconnected from the monitoring feed, leaving the cameras to their own devices. you made your way through the throng of elegantly dressed guests, your heart beating with an unusual mixture of excitement and trepidation. “namjoon!” you called out, your smile warm as you approached him. he turned, his eyes lighting up at the sight of you. “hey, you look absolutely stunning.”

“thank you,” you said with a playful glint in your eye. “should we head to the bar? i thought we might enjoy a drink.” the two of you made your way to the bar, the conversation flowing as naturally as it had the day before. you refrained from drinking, choosing instead to sip on sparkling water, a choice that did not go unnoticed by him. he observed you with a blend of admiration and curiosity.

“why no drinks tonight?” he asked, leaning closer to you, his voice a soft murmur. you met his gaze with a calm smile. “just a personal preference. i don't wanna drink in front of you.”

his heart swelled at your sincerity. “that’s admirable. i wish i had your self-control.”

after some time spent in pleasant conversation and gentle flirtation, you glanced at him with a knowing look. “if the noise gets too overwhelming, i’ve rented out a room here. we can escape the crowd if you’d like.” he seemed intrigued and a bit relieved. “that sounds like a great idea. lead the way.”

you guided him through the bustling crowd, the stares of other guests momentarily ignored as you made your way to the reserved room. the door closed behind you with a soft click, and an almost palpable shift occurred in the atmosphere. the room, dimly lit and serene, was a stark contrast to the lively chaos of the gala. as you stood there, his gaze was filled with a mix of awe and longing. without a word, he closed the distance between you, his eyes locked onto yours with a intensity that made your breath catch. he leaned in slowly, and you felt his lips brush against yours in a tentative, electrifying kiss.

you responded with equal fervor, your lips meeting his with a growing urgency. the kiss deepened, turning heated and passionate as the world outside seemed to fade away. his hands roamed your back, pulling you closer as his lips moved with a fervent intensity. your fingers tangled in his hair, guiding him as the kiss became a fervent dance of desire and need.

his hands traveled to your waist, lifting you effortlessly and guiding you to the bed. you landed softly on the plush surface, your body arching slightly as namjoon followed, his lips never leaving yours. the bed beneath you was a luxurious expanse, and the sensation of his body pressing against yours was intoxicating.

his kisses trailed from your lips to your neck, his breath hot and uneven as he explored your skin. you moaned softly, the sound mingling with the rustling of fabric as he undressed you with a careful urgency. his touches were both tender and possessive, his desire evident in every caress. “you feel incredible,” he whispered between kisses, his voice a deep rumble that sent shivers down your spine. “show me,” you breathed, your hands pulling him closer as the night unfolded in a passionate dance of exploration and desire. the world outside became a distant memory as the two of you lost yourselves in the moment, the intensity of your connection making every touch, every kiss, a thrilling and unforgettable experience.

his fingers traced the contours of your body, memorizing every curve and dip with a reverence that made you feel worshipped. his eyes, dark with lust, took in the sight of you laid bare before him. “so pretty,” he murmured, his voice thick with want. you felt a rush of heat pool in your belly at his words, and you reached for him, eager to return the favor. your hands found the hem of his shirt, and with a quick tug, you pulled it over his head, revealing the firm planes of his chest.

his skin was warm and smooth under your fingertips, and you took a moment to appreciate the sculpted muscles and the faint scent of his cologne that lingered. your eyes traveled down to the waistband of his pants, and a devilish smile played on your lips. you bit your bottom lip, and with a seductive glance, began to unbuckle his belt. namjoon watched you, his pupils dilated with anticipation.

once his pants were discarded, you took in the full view of him, your eyes widening with desire. he was already hard, his arousal clear and prominent. you reached out, your hand lightly brushing against his length, and he hissed through gritted teeth. you wrapped your hand around him, feeling him pulse in response to your touch. “fuck, you’re so big,” you said, a hint of wonder in your voice.

his hips rolled into your touch, and he groaned, his head falling back. “yeah, baby, just like that,” he encouraged, his voice low and strained. you stroked him slowly, savoring the feel of his skin, hot and velvety under your palm. “you’re so fucking sexy,” he murmured, his eyes never leaving yours. your heart raced as you felt the power of his desire in your grasp. “i want you so badly,” you admitted, your voice a breathy whisper.

his hand reached down to cup your cheek, pulling you back up for a kiss that was as fiery as the passion in your veins. you could feel his urgency, the need to claim you, to make you his in every way possible. your hand didn’t stop moving, but instead picked up the pace, your thumb circling the sensitive head of his cock. “i need to be inside you,” he growled, his control slipping.

his words sent a bolt of excitement through you, and you nodded eagerly. he reached for a condom from the bedside drawer, and you watched as he rolled it on with a practiced ease. the anticipation was palpable as he positioned himself between your legs, the tip of his cock pressing against your entrance. you took a deep breath, ready for the delicious stretch as he pushed inside you.

his first thrust was slow and deliberate, filling you completely. you gasped at the sensation, your nails digging into his shoulders. “fuck, yes,” you moaned, your back arching to meet him. he began to move, his rhythm steady and deep, his eyes never leaving yours. with each stroke, the pleasure built, your body responding to him in a symphony of sensation.

you matched his pace, lifting your hips to meet his every thrust. the room was filled with the sounds of skin slapping against skin and muffled moans of pleasure. his grip on your hips tightened, his movements growing more forceful. “you’re so wet for me,” he said, his voice gruff with need.

you couldn’t help but let out a filthy response, the words rolling off your tongue with surprising ease. “i’ve been waiting for this all night. need you to fuck me hard, namjoon.” your words seemed to push him over the edge, and he obeyed, his hips driving into you with a newfound ferocity. the sensation was overwhelming, a mix of pleasure and pain that had you teetering on the brink of ecstasy.

his thrusts grew erratic, his breathing ragged as he approached climax. you felt your own orgasm building, your muscles clenching around him. “i’m gonna cum, baby,” he warned, his voice tight. you nodded, your eyes locked on his, and together, you fell over the edge, your bodies writhing in a delicious crescendo of pleasure. his release came, moans rolling off his tongue, and you felt yourself shatter around him, the intensity of your climax stealing your breath. for a moment, you were lost in the feeling, your bodies joined as one. as the waves of pleasure receded, he collapsed on top of you, his chest heaving with exertion.

when dawn’s first light filtered through the thin curtains, you awoke to the disorienting haze of reality. the hotel room, now bathed in soft morning light, seemed almost serene compared to the passionate chaos of the night before. you lay on the bed beside namjoon, his body sprawled in a relaxed, innocent slumber, entirely unaware of the dangerous path that had led to this moment.

the memories of last night crashed over you like a tumultuous wave. the intimate connection you had shared with him, the unexpected depth of your feelings, and the chaotic rush of desire—all of it felt like a vivid, intoxicating dream. but reality was a stark contrast. you had a mission, a job to complete, and the time for pleasure had long since passed. as you slowly and carefully disentangled yourself from his warm embrace, you glanced at him. he was completely vulnerable, his handsome face serene and peaceful, the picture of tranquility. it was then that you remembered the task that had been set before you: to eliminate him. you had let your guard down, and it could cost you dearly.

your hand instinctively reached under the pillow where you had left it the night before. your fingers brushed against something cold and metallic. the sensation sent a jolt of adrenaline through you. your breath caught in your throat as you realized what you were holding—a gun. It was not your own; it was an unfamiliar weight that felt both foreign and foreboding. you pulled the gun from beneath the pillow, its cold metal a harsh reminder of the deadly precision required of your role. for a moment, your hand trembled around the grip. the thought of ending his life right then and there, of completing the mission with ruthless efficiency, was overpowering. his calm breathing, so close to you, only added to the intensity of the moment.

you aimed the gun at him, pressing it into his haie, your heart pounding in your chest as you stared at him. every instinct told you to pull the trigger, to end it all quickly and cleanly. but as you tightened your grip, the weight of the decision pressed down on you with crushing force. anger and frustration surged within you. it was supposed to be a straightforward task, a mere job to be done. yet here you were, paralyzed by your own conflicted emotions.

the gun felt heavy in your hand, the responsibility of the act you were about to commit weighing down on you. you cursed under your breath, a raw, guttural sound that seemed to echo your inner turmoil. your eyes burned with unshed tears as you fought with the impulse to follow through with the assassination. the gun trembled in your grasp, your resolve wavering as the reality of what you were about to do loomed large.

in a fit of anger and desperation, you hastily shoved the gun back under the pillow, as though trying to hide the physical manifestation of your internal struggle. you shoved on your dress with frantic movements, your fingers fumbling with the fabric as if it were a shield against the overwhelming emotions crashing over you. without another glance at him, you fled the room. the hallway outside seemed unnervingly quiet, each step echoing with the weight of your decision. your breath came in sharp, ragged gasps as you made your way through the hotel, each step driven by the desperate need to escape the oppressive weight of your failure. the mission had become a tangle of conflicting desires and stark reality, and you were left with the knowledge that you had to confront both, no matter how painful it might be.

the morning had settled into a quiet, contemplative silence as you sank into your armchair, the soothing warmth of the wine mingling with the turmoil in your mind. the shower had washed away the remnants of the night, but it did little to cleanse the confusion and guilt swirling within you. your hair was pinned up, an effort to restore some semblance of order to the chaos you felt inside. the half-empty wine bottle on the table served as a silent testament to your attempts at solace.

as you took another sip, the doorbell’s chime shattered the solitude. your heart skipped a beat. the sound seemed to carry an unspoken promise of complication. you set your glass aside and padded to the door, bracing yourself for whatever awaited you on the other side.

opening the door revealed namjoon, his presence as strikingly composed as ever. his soft smile greeted you, its warmth contrasting sharply with the chill of your internal disarray. “i hope i’m not intruding,” he said, his voice smooth and gentle. you blinked, momentarily lost for words. “not at all,” you managed, stepping aside to let him in. as he crossed the threshold, his gaze fell upon the nearly empty wine bottle, its presence seeming to draw an involuntary frown from his lips.

“do you drink this often?” he inquired, a note of concern edging his tone. you offered a wan smile, trying to mask the discomfort brewing beneath the surface. “i drink as often as i can,” you admitted, trying to sound casual despite the tumult within you.

his eyes softened as he looked at you. “how about we lighten the mood a bit? any plans for today?” relief washed over you at his attempt to steer the conversation away from the wine. “actually, no plans at all,” you said, feeling a flicker of hope. “would you like some breakfast? i could use the company.”

his smile broadened, and he agreed readily. “i’d love that.” you led him to the kitchen, your heart racing with an unsettling mix of anxiety and anticipation. as you prepared breakfast, the knife felt heavier than usual in your hand. each slice through the vegetables seemed to echo with the weight of your thoughts. you clenched the knife tightly, struggling to maintain composure, but namjoon’s voice broke through the haze of your thoughts.

“are you uncomfortable with what happened last night?” his question was gentle, but it carried an undertone of concern that only deepened your internal conflict. you tensed momentarily, the knife’s grip tightening in your hand. “no, not at all,” you said, though your voice wavered slightly. “what about you?”

his smile was reassuring, but it did little to ease the knot in your stomach. “i enjoyed it quite a bit,” he admitted, his eyes holding a glint of sincerity. his compliment, however genuine, did little to dissolve the worry gnawing at you. you could feel his gaze on you as you worked, his presence a constant reminder of the dangerous duality of your situation. yet, amidst the chaos of your thoughts, you couldn’t help but appreciate his genuine demeanor.

as you plated the food, you made a conscious effort to push the wine bottle out of sight, its dark contents now a symbol of a past you wanted to distance yourself from. the wine in your glass met the sink’s drain, a small but significant act of cleansing. namjoon’s eyes widened slightly at the gesture, and he offered a look of quiet gratitude.

the breakfast was pleasant, if a bit tense. as you neared the end of the meal, an idea took shape. “would you be interested in going to the local fair with me?” you asked, trying to offer a distraction from the lingering unease. namjoon’s face lit up with genuine enthusiasm. “that sounds like a great idea. i’d love to.”

as you finished clearing the table, the simple, shared activity brought a momentary respite from the tangled web of your thoughts. the fair, with its bright lights and cheerful bustle, seemed like a perfect escape—a chance to savor normalcy amidst the chaos. little did you know, the fair would bring its own set of revelations and challenges, testing the fragile truce you had established with yourself and with namjoon.

the fair was alive with vibrant hues and lively sounds, a kaleidoscope of lights and music weaving through the crisp evening air. the scent of popcorn and cotton candy mingled with the excitement of the crowd, creating a sensory tapestry that seemed to momentarily lift the weight from your shoulders. namjoon’s presence beside you was both comforting and disconcerting, a constant reminder of the complexity of your situation.

as you strolled past the myriad of stalls and attractions, his enthusiasm was infectious. his laughter rang out, mingling with the ambient noise of the fair, as he pointed out various games and food stands. “you have to try that one,” he said, gesturing toward a colorful stall where a shooting game was set up. curiosity piqued, you followed him to the stand. The game was simple: shoot a gun at moving targets to win a prize. the booth was adorned with bright lights and plush toys, each one more garish than the last. the carnival worker handed namjoon a toy gun with a grin, and you felt a shiver run down your spine as he took it with casual confidence.

his demeanor was relaxed, his face lit up with a childlike excitement as he aimed at the targets. the way his fingers wrapped around the gun was almost graceful, and you could see the focus in his eyes as he lined up each shot. goosebumps pricked your skin, an involuntary reaction to the intensity of the moment. the steady click of the gun punctuated the otherwise joyous cacophony of the fair. each shot he took was precise, hitting the center of the targets with unerring accuracy. his movements were fluid and practiced, a testament to his skill and composure. as he finished, he set the gun down with a satisfied nod, his eyes gleaming with triumph.

“you’re really good at that,” you commented, trying to mask the unease that had settled in your chest. his smile widened, and he reached over to collect his prize—a large, plush stuffed toy, its bright colors and oversized eyes almost comical. he turned to you, his expression a mix of pride and affection. “here,” he said, extending the toy toward you with a charming grin. “i think this is for you.”

your fingers brushed against his as you took the stuffed toy, and you could feel the warmth of his touch linger on your skin. the toy was soft and absurdly large, its beady eyes staring up at you with an innocent expression. despite the cheerful facade, you couldn’t shake the cold, creeping sensation that the toy represented something far more ominous.

you accepted it with a smile, but your mind was racing. the stuffed toy felt like a symbol, a reminder of the precarious balance between your roles as predator and prey. you stared at the toy, its bright, plush exterior now a stark contrast to the dark reality that lurked beneath the surface. his gaze lingered on you, his eyes filled with genuine warmth. “i thought it might make you smile,” he said, his voice tender. “do you like it?”

you forced a smile, nodding as you clutched the toy a little too tightly. “it’s very thoughtful,” you replied, trying to keep your voice steady. the toy seemed to loom larger in your hands, a reminder of the mission that still awaited you. you had promised yourself that you would finish what you had started, but in that moment, amidst the lights and laughter of the fair, you found it increasingly difficult to reconcile your feelings.

his expression remained hopeful, his gaze never wavering. “let’s walk around a bit more,” he suggested, seemingly oblivious to the internal battle raging within you. you nodded, trying to push your worries aside and focus on the present. as you continued to wander through the fair, the toy felt like a weight around your neck, a reminder of the danger and deception that hovered just beneath the surface of your seemingly normal day. the fair was a fleeting escape, a chance to revel in the illusion of normalcy, but the shadows of your true mission loomed ever closer, threatening to shatter the fragile peace you had managed to cultivate.

the two of you eventually found a bench situated beneath a canopy of fairy lights, their gentle glow casting a warm aura over the space. the bench offered a moment of respite from the sensory overload of the fair, and you both settled down, the lively sounds of the carnival muted by the small oasis of tranquility.

as you sat side by side, you watched the children running around with boundless energy, their laughter mingling with the distant music of the fair. the sight brought a soft smile to your lips, a fleeting sense of nostalgia for something you had longed for but never quite had. “i’ve always wanted to be a mother,” you admitted, your voice almost wistful as you watched the joyous chaos before you. “seeing these kids, it just makes me realize how much i’ve dreamed about it.”

namjoon turned his gaze from the playful scene to you, his eyes reflecting a genuine warmth. “i can’t imagine you not being a wonderful mother,” he said softly, his voice laced with sincerity. “you have such a kind heart. i’m sure you’d be amazing at it.”

the compliment warmed you more than you expected, and you glanced at him with a tender smile. “thank you. that means a lot coming from you. what about you? have you ever thought about being a father?” namjoon’s eyes darkened slightly, a shadow of something deeper flickering across his features. he took a deep breath before responding. “yeah, i’ve thought about it. i always wanted to be a dad someday. i just don’t want to follow in my father’s footsteps.”

you could sense the weight of his words, the way they tugged at his heart. “you’re nothing like him,” you assured him, your voice firm yet gentle. “i’ve seen how you are with people, how you handle things. you’re kind, thoughtful. you’re not defined by your father’s mistakes.”

a pang of vulnerability flashed across his face, and for a moment, he looked lost in thought. he managed a small, grateful smile, though it was tinged with sadness. “it’s hard not to feel like i’m stuck in his shadow sometimes,” he admitted. “but hearing you say that—it helps.” the sincerity in his eyes made your heart ache, and you reached out, placing a hand gently on his arm. “you’re creating your own path, namjoon. you have your own values and your own way of being. don’t let his past define your future.”

his smile widened slightly, a mix of relief and gratitude washing over him. “thank you. i guess i needed to hear that.” you both sat there for a moment, the carnival’s vibrant activity humming softly in the background. the connection between you felt genuine and poignant, the weight of your respective burdens momentarily lifted by shared understanding.

as the evening drew on and the lights of the fair glimmered around you, the conversation deepened, weaving a tapestry of hope and reflection amidst the backdrop of the carnival. the simple joys of the fair seemed to highlight the more profound truths you both were navigating, bringing a sense of clarity and closeness that neither of you had anticipated.

the evening had passed in a tranquil haze, and as you finally arrived home, the comforting stillness of your home seemed to envelop you. the echoes of laughter and joy from the fair faded behind you, leaving only the soft hum of your own thoughts.

you were in the midst of unwinding, removing your shoes and loosening your coat, when the sharp ring of your phone broke the serene quiet. the caller id displayed your boss's name, and a knot of anxiety tightened in your stomach. you answered, the line crackling with the unmistakable edge of frustration. “where have you been?” her voice cut through the air like a blade, its harshness bringing you back to the present with a jolt. “you were supposed to be focused. the mission isn't over. it’s crucial that you finish it.”

you took a deep breath, steadying yourself against the surge of guilt and urgency her words stirred. “i understand. i was preoccupied, but i’ll get back on track immediately.” the silence on the other end was brief but heavy, her displeasure palpable. “you have a job to do. this is not a game. you’re dealing with someone who’s as dangerous as they come. i need results, not distractions.”

with a firm sigh, you replied, “i’ll get it done. i promise.” the call ended abruptly, leaving you with a lingering sense of urgency. your gaze drifted to the drawer where you had carefully stored your weapon. with a mixture of resolve and trepidation, you walked over and pulled it open. your fingers closed around the cold, metal grip of the pistol, its weight a stark reminder of the gravity of your task.

you took a moment to steady your breathing, the echoes of the evening’s warmth fading into the background. the contrast between the peaceful day and the chilling reality of your mission was stark. As you clicked the safety off and checked the chamber, a steely determination took hold. tonight, you promised yourself, the job would be done. the warmth of your recent encounters would be set aside, replaced by the icy focus necessary to carry out your orders. the boundaries between personal and professional were blurred, but you had to navigate the dangerous dance with precision.

the night air was crisp and sharp as you approached his house, the weight of the pistol heavy in your hand. each step felt deliberate, every breath a careful measure against the storm of emotions swirling inside you. the street was quiet, shadows playing tricks in the moonlight as you neared the front door, which stood ajar. your heart raced as a chill of apprehension ran down your spine.

you hesitated, the open door a harbinger of foreboding. had he anticipated your arrival, or was something else afoot? the usual calm of his home felt eerie in its silence. you stepped inside, the creak of the floorboards loud in the stillness. you moved with practiced stealth, checking each room with growing trepidation. the soft murmurs you heard drew you upstairs, the sounds of struggle and muffled voices leading you to his bedroom.

the door was slightly open, and you pushed it gently, your pulse quickening. the sight that greeted you was one you hadn’t anticipated. the room was a disarray of empty beer cans, a stark contrast to the polished image you had seen earlier. namjoon was pinned against the wall, his roommate's hands wrapped around his throat in a desperate, violent struggle. the scene was raw, the tension palpable.

for a moment, you were frozen, shock and horror warring within you. but the urgency of the situation jolted you into action. with a swift, practiced movement, you pulled the pistol from your holster. the shot rang out, a sharp crack that cut through the chaos. the roommate crumpled to the floor, his body going limp as a bullet found its mark in his head. namjoon fell to his knees, gasping for breath, tears streaking down his face.

you rushed to his side, dropping to your knees beside him. “namjoon, are you okay? What happened?” your voice trembled with a mixture of fear and concern as you pulled him into your arms. hee clung to you, his sobs muffled against your shoulder. “he was an assassin,” he gasped between ragged breaths. “a part of a rival group. he came after me—and i couldn’t stop him.” his voice broke, the weight of his words pressing down heavily.

you looked around the room, the sea of empty beer cans now a grim symbol of his internal struggle. “what’s with all the beer cans?” you asked, trying to piece together the fragments of the night’s horror. namjoon swallowed hard, his voice strained. “he drank—a lot. the alcohol, it brought up old memories. bad ones,” he hesitated, a pained expression crossing his face. “i killed my own father, you know. it was me who took his life. the alcohol made him violent, it twisted his mind. i couldn’t stop it.”

the revelation hit you like a sledgehammer, leaving you reeling. the man you had come to care for was entangled in a web of violence and guilt. you tried to offer comfort, your own shock mingling with the empathy you felt for him.

“did you know about me? about who i am?” he asked, his voice barely a whisper. you nodded slowly, unable to meet his gaze. “i did.”

he seemed to digest this, a troubled look crossing his face. “and i knew about you too. i left the gun under the pillow, to see if you would use it. when you didn’t, i knew you wouldn’t kill me.” the admission struck you hard. his confession left you feeling as though the ground had been pulled from beneath your feet. the intricate dance of deceit and truth that had bound you both seemed to unravel in an instant. your heart pounded painfully in your chest as you grappled with the realization.

despite the turmoil inside you, holding him in your arms, feeling the warmth of his body against yours, felt strangely precious. the notion of completing your mission seemed to fade in the face of his vulnerability. you tried to fight it, but the connection you felt was undeniable. his presence, despite everything, seemed more valuable than the task at hand.

as you held him close, the night’s darkness seemed to swirl around you, a reminder of the tangled, violent path that had brought you together. in the midst of the chaos, one thing was clear: the boundaries between duty and desire had blurred, leaving you both grappling with the consequences of a night that had irrevocably changed everything.

you held him close, the weight of the night crashing down on you as you tried to steady your racing heart. his tears mingled with yours as the gravity of your shared truths settled around you. his face was flushed, eyes filled with a mixture of confusion and sorrow as he clung to you.

in a moment of aching tenderness, you cupped his face gently, your fingers trembling. you leaned in, pressing a soft, bittersweet kiss to his lips. the kiss was delicate, a fleeting touch that conveyed a world of regret and unspoken emotions. the taste of his lips lingered, a painful reminder of everything that had led to this moment.

tears streamed down your cheeks, the sorrow overwhelming. you pulled back, the anguish in your eyes mirrored in his own. “i’m so sorry, namjoon,” you whispered through your sobs. “i’m so sorry.”

his confusion deepened, the words you spoke only adding to the turmoil. as you stood up, a fresh resolve hardened in your chest. with shaking hands, you pulled the gun from your side, the cold metal a stark contrast to the warmth of your tears. you raised it slowly, pressing the barrel to his forehead. his eyes widened in shock, his breath hitching as he stared up at you.

but you couldn’t bear to look at him anymore. you turned away, the enormity of your actions crashing over you like a relentless wave. your fingers tightened around the trigger, the weight of your decision feeling unbearable. the muffled sound of the gunshot echoed in the small room, reverberating through your very soul. the finality of it struck you hard, and you stumbled backward, feeling as though your heart was being wrenched from your chest.

standing amidst the wreckage of your emotions, you fumbled for your phone. with a final, heavy sigh, you dialed your boss's number, each ring a jarring reminder of the mission that had led to this. the call connected, and your voice was shaky but resolute.

“it’s done,” you said quietly, your voice barely more than a whisper. “the job’s finished.”

✧.*

a/n: this hurt to write omg if yall want a happy ending lmk bc...

[sweet-honey-tears]

Advertising Hero

Makeup. P2

Part one

Tetsu, Shoji, Tokoyami, Aoyama x Reader

Hello, all my bubble bees. IM BACK -for a limited time only. As requested, we have another hero makeup! I did these while taking a break between work, and it was really enjoyable to do. I also can't get over the idea of Deku’s makeup being cosplay makeup—that boy definitely costplayed all might. Anyway, I hope you enjoy.

Warnings: Reader wear dress and makeup, possibly suggestive if you squint.

“New Pro Hero makeup brands have been released to the public as of yesterday. And all I can say is it is no bullcrap branding. There seems to actually have been a lot of thought out into these product- cruelty free and safe. There even seems to be ointments in the makeup to help with skin… actual care was put into these products.”

-Vlogger

🩶 Tetsutetsu 🩶

Tetsu: Luid metallic eyeliner

Advertisement: The background was black, allowing all focus to be on you and Tetsu. You stood facing the camera, arms crossed and legs shoulder width apart, a power pose. The tight version of Tetsu’s hero costume was barely visible on your frame. The room was dark, minus the sliver of light that crept in to catch the liquid metallic linear that adorned your face; its mirror-like quality allowed the shape of Tetsu’s signature ‘mask’ to be seen. A mysterious, dangerously flirty smile played on your and testus lips as he ‘looked’ over his flexing arm, his eyes covered in shadow. Tetsu stood behind you, back to yours, as he flexed his arms, his quirk causing the tiny sliver of light to shine over each defined muscle in his bicep and catch on the points of his sharp white smile.

💪 Shoji 💪

Shoji: Wet Eye Liners - Water Activated Dry Liners Pallet

Advertisement: It was a sweet scene with a calming blue background. You and Shoji sat face to face as the camera caught your side angle, the warm lighting only causing the two of you to rest in your golden hour. You sat on your knees, leaning over to reach the towering man sitting before you. Shoji’s mask remained on, but it was clear from his eyes that he was smiling widely. Your hand held a small brush, a light blue pigment at the end of its bristles as if caught in mid-motion of painting on flowing hearts to his upper cheeks. Your own were adorned with small, beautiful pink flowers that reached the corner of your eyes. The open pallet played to the side, and its light colors were fully displayed to the camera. The label ‘inner calmness’ with all the color's names splayed open.

🖤 Tokoyami 🖤

Tokoyami: Gothic Eye Shadow Pallet and Black Lquid Linear

Advertisement: It was a dark mansion setting, with a dark background and an almost throne-like chair where you sat. Slightly leaned over to rest your chin on your palm, elbow resting on the armrest. You glanced over at the camera, a confidently dangerous grin on your dark-painted lips. Your hair was woven in a way that portrayed a crown, with silver strands woven in. Your eyeshadow was dark purple blended to black with a slight touch of a dark grey shimmer nestled between the two colors, a sharp glossy cat-eye cutting through the blended color. Tokoyami stood by your side, leaning against the relatively large chair. You both wore black; Tokoyami a suit and you a simple dress with a slight shimmering bottom to compliment the look.

✨ Aoyama ✨

Aoyama: Fine Body Glitter- Safe to put on eye lids

Advertises:You were standing on the red carpet with Aoyama, your arm resting on his as you turned to model for the many paparazzi. You stare at the camera, a large smile on your lips, a hand on your hip, and the other resting on Aoyama’s. Your strapless shimmering dress with elbow-length matching gloves complemented the shimmering body glitter on shoulders, eyelids, and even hair; which was elegantly pulled up. The lights of hundreds of cameras only made the sparkles more beautiful. Aoyama stood off your side, seeming perfectly fine not to be in the camera flash for once, his eyes glued to you.

[the-fiction-witch]

By The Fire

Media - Rings Of Power Character - Elrond Couple - Elrond X Reader Reader - Y/n Rating - 12 Word Count -1250

Fictional Advent Day Twenty Five

Elrond stood before the ornate mirror, carefully finishing his preparations for the evening. He slipped into his fine garments, the rich fabric of his deep blue robes shimmering slightly in the light. The white accents along the edges of his attire, highlighting the intricate patterns woven into the cloth. As he pulled on his tall, polished boots, the soft leather hugged his calves snugly.

Once properly dressed, he moved to the dresser, where he selected his prized pin brooch. It glinted in the firelight, and he attached it to his robes with a steady hand. Next, he turned his attention to the bedside table, where several rings lay waiting. Each ring was unique, adorned with different gemstones that caught the light and sparkled as he slipped them onto his fingers. With a final glance in the mirror, he ensured his hair was perfectly arranged.

“Are you almost ready, my love?” He called out,

Elrond turned and found himself unable to hold back his wide smile,

The chambers were enveloped in a warm and inviting ambience, thanks to the multitude of sweetly flickering candles that adorned every surface. Their soft glow danced across the room, casting gentle shadows that wavered like whispers against the intricately carved walls. The fire in the grand hearth crackled with vigour, sending sparks into the air as it devoured the seasoned logs, its warmth spreading throughout the space and wrapping it in a comfortable embrace.

Beyond the leaded glass windows, the enchanting elven city lay cloaked in midwinter snow, a blanket of glistening white that softened the edges of the towering spires and delicate rooftops. The snowflakes twirled and swirled gracefully as they descended, creating a delicate ballet against the backdrop of the city's majestic architecture. Icy tendrils of frost framed the stained glass windows, where vibrant depictions of the sea and sky came to life, the colours glowing like jewels under the ethereal candlelight within the chamber.

Y/n settled comfortably on the plush couch, her shoes elegantly set aside, her flowing gown that cascaded around her. The fabric, a beautiful blend of deep blue and pure white, mirrored the attire worn by Elrond. Adorning her neck and wrists was an array of silver jewellery, each piece delicately crafted, glimmering softly against her skin,

Her hair was a masterpiece in itself, styled into luxurious curls and intricate braids that framed her face. A stunning golden branch hairpin held the tresses away from her features. With gentle hands, Y/n cradled her swollen baby bump, her fingers moving in soothing circles, instinctively comforting the little ones nestled within her.

Elrond scoffed as he went over kneeling in front of her and resting his hands on her own to feel her bump’s movements. “Why must you do this?”

“Do what?” Y/n laughed,

“Look so distractingly gorgeous.” He chuckled kissing her nose,

“I cannot help it,”

“I know you can’t,” he smiled, “But with your sweet bump you’re utterly irresistible.”

Y/n chuckled and allowed him to savour his time stroking the bump, “Must we go?”

“What?” he chuckled,

“Must we go today? I’m sure my father wouldn’t mind if we didn’t attend, just say the baby is too tired.”

“As adorable as that would be, you know we can’t my love.” He cooed, “Come, you know you’ll enjoy yourself.” He smiled taking her hands and helping her to her feet, “And you know how they love the snow.” he chuckled giving her bump a kiss,

Elrond smiled and helped her into her warm boots and wrapped the thick robes around her,

“Elrond! We’ll be fine.” she laughs,

“I still worry,” he cooed kissing her forehead, “Shall we my love?”

“We shall,” she nodded as she wrapped her hands around his bicep, laying her head on his shoulder and snuggled up,

Elrond grasped her hand firmly, their fingers entwined as they stepped out of their chambers. Together, they meandered through the serene, snow-covered city, the world transformed into a winter wonderland. The towers rose majestically, their spires resembling the peaks of an elaborate cake, each adorned with a delicate blanket of powdered sugar-like snow. Fluffy flakes danced gently from the sky, settling softly on the vibrant plants, ancient buildings, and the wise, weathered elven statues that stood sentinel, their features softened by the snow's embrace.

As they walked, warmth glowed from within the cosy windows of nearby homes, casting flickering shadows that played upon the pristine landscape outside. The air was filled with a tranquil hush broken only by the sound of their footsteps crunching softly on the thick carpet of snow. Together, they savoured the quiet beauty of their surroundings, a perfect reflection of the peacefulness in their hearts.

Finally, they arrived at the grand gardens where many high elves gathered savouring the traditional midwinter wines as they prepared for the feast. Musicians plaid the soft and knelt yule songs as the snow fluttered down.

Many lords and ladies came to greet them wishing sweet futures and cooing at Y/n’s bump. Many of these lords and ladies had never spoken of much less to Elrond on account of his birth and social status but all now flocked to them with warmth and joy to hear tales of her pregnancy and any news of names, kicks and arrival dates for their children.

But Y/n and Elrond staid close never leaving each others arms happy to discuss their children till dawn if needed.

The feast was soon called,

“My Daughter,” Gil-galad called opening his arms to pull Y/n into a strong hug,

“Father,” she cooed,

“How are you fairing?”

“Just fine Father, they're very happy and excited.” she cooed stroking her bump, “And Elrond is taking very good care of us,” she smiled clutching Elrond’s arm once more,

“I do my best, my love.” He smiled giving her forehead a soft kiss,

“I admit I have concerns, how well a half-elf can aid such a-”

“Father.” She warned, “He aids us perfectly,”

“That brings me peace.” He nodded,

Everyone sat at the large carved table enjoying the treats and rich meats ceremonial for this time of year. All engaging in idle chat about the festivities for the whole of the long and slow meal.

When darkness truly came to fall, all the high lords and ladies gathered in the garden before the large tree that had been growing since last yule, Elrond wrapped his arms around Y/n and set his chin on her shoulder, his hands on hers as they sat on her bump as they stood by the fire. 

They shared some tender kisses watching as the tree was set aflame and the high lords and ladies began to celebrate, they watched as the flames engulfed the tree sending the bright light into the sky and causing the snow to sparkle and glitter like diamonds, 

“Y/n, My love?” He cooed,

“Yes, Elrond darling?” she smiled,

“The next yule we have, they will be with us.” He whispered into her ear, giving her bump a soft stroke,

“They will,” she nodded, “next yule we’ll get to hold them up to see the yule tree.”

“We will. I’ll happily sit them both on my shoulders every yule for the rest of my life if I must.”

“You will?”

“I will, my love.” He nodded, “And perhaps in a few more yules I’ll get to hold your sweet bum again?”

Y/n scoffed, “We’ll see, at least let me get these two out first!” She chuckled,

“Of course,” He cooed, “Happy Yule my Love,”

“Happy Yule darling,” she smiled

The two shared, a soft and tender kiss, and a warming stroke to her bump. 

[fantasticsandwich]

yandere siren Neuvillette x reader (pt 2)

Your consciousness stirs as the first tender fingers of dawn caress the horizon. Half submerged in moon-warmed sand, salt and sea linger in your mouth. Framed by grey gorges, your eyelids reluctantly part. There is no immediate recollection of the night’s storm. Rather,  only fragments and lightning-flashes of memories flood your mind—fury, fear, and the visceral thrumming heart of the ocean. The bags beneath your eyes mirror the tumultuous gray of the storm-washed sky above as you exhale, hoping to dislodge the saltwater from your lips and lungs.

Wrestling the sand, you rise from your back onto your elbows. With your body aslant, a blanket of meticulously woven seaweed falls from your lap. Vestiges of brine trickling from your skin as you rise to survey the novel sight. The land slopes down, seaward to slip into blue. Further down the coast, gulls shriek and pluck at the remnants of a wrecked pier while chunks of driftwood clot at the tide-line, bobbeling in the harbor. A ship’s splintered timbers jut out into the water like the skeletal fingers of a drowned giant, grasping for salvation in the rising tide. It seems that after innumerable missions across the seas, the Waverider has at last ridden a storm to her demise. It pains you to look at, so your gaze is drawn to the chalky cliff sides across the bay. In the other direction, behind you a distance away, lies a clamoring village.

At first, there is no sound: your attention is only commanded from the village by a rippling disturbance in the waters. Cleaving through the ever-churning sea face, a series of clicks soon bubble from the waves. Your heart clenches with a primal panic when the sound reaches your ears. Memories of the storm’s wrath ignite within your veins. Yet there, amidst the undulating waves and through a cloak of seafoam and kelp, emerges not a harbinger of peril but the visage of an angel. Your senses, still shrouded in the fog of slumber and disorientation, sharpen as he surfaces from the silken depths, an apparition clothed in the palest light of morning. His skin glows alabaster against the shifting hues of the sea, and his white hair, caught by the nascent breeze, streams about him like threads spun from moonbeams. He moves with a casual serenity that seems at odds with the chaotic aftermath scattered along the shoreline, his form undulating with the subtle grace of the ocean’s pulse.

“Be… not… scared…” he intones, his voice fractured bits of language with odd, lilting sounds. With everything but his face submerged, you await his ascent, viewing as he breaches the water. He rouses slowly, digging into the sand with his forearms. Bared to the light, his skin shimmers with the kiss of the rising sun. Eyes dark as the fathomless deep gaze upon your with an intrinsically foreign interest tinged with a curious inclination as he draws nearer.

Likewise, his presence brings both mirth bewilderment for you, who grapples silently with the improbable reality of your savior. He hovers at the threshold where sea meets sand, an ethereal being drawn to the terrestrial realm by a fascination as relentless as the tides.

“Save… friend.”

“It’s you,” you say in awe. Your terror is overcome by intrigue. As a sailor, you cannot waste the opportunity of a lifetime. “You’re my saviour.”

He is moored on land now, elbows resting near your ankles. His flesh begins human, yet as your gaze follows down his torso, you discover a mottled patch of pale, luminescent scales. Crowning his image is the long tail flippantly lying in the sand.

Almost timid, you offer a smile. A pale mimicry, his lips contort into a grotesque expression. You would laugh at the innocence of it, but it is precisely that—grotesque, unfitting of his noble mien, terrifying. His mouth is like a cat’s: wide-mawed with a pink and a barbed tongue framed by rows of razor teeth.

“Touch,” he says, still smiling.

For a fretful moment, you fear he is requesting your hand in his mouth. You are not certain if his desire is less shocking: without warning, he seizes your ankle. Rather than fear, captivation grips you. His unfocused gaze houses a profound weightlessness as you hesitantly extend your legs towards him.

His touch is tentative at first, as if the texture of your skin is another language he is fearful to speak. His skin is moist, somewhat slimy, and certainly softer than yours. Webbed fingers trace the contours of your legs, sharp nails occasionally nicking. A chuckle escapes you, a sound that feels misplaced amidst the solemnity of the interaction, yet it blossoms into existence, as natural and necessary as breath itself. The siren, perturbed at first by the foreign mirth, chirps. Spurred by a mix of surprise and intrigue, you permit his wandering hands to ghost across your limbs. But when his hands cup the junctures beneath your calves and thighs, holding you in place as he presses his cheek against your knee, your breath hitches. Your lips part, ready to object to the actions that stir a strange sensation within you, when the intrusion of another presence pierces the sacred silence. The moment fractures, splintering under the weight of reality’s relentless march as the dunes give way to a figure descending its slope with the ease of nightfall upon the horizon.

“Miss!” A voice booms across the sands, its urgency underscored by the sloshing of waves against the shore. “Lady down by the shore! Are you alright?”

You turn, glimpsing the man as he descends the slope, lantern swinging wildly with his movements, casting erratic shadows that disrupts the serenity of dawn. The lantern’s sway mimics the pulse of your straining heart. Each swing feels like a metronome ticking away the precious seconds you have left in the company of the enigmatic being before you.

The siren’s form tenses. With the grace of a startled swan, he retreats into the safety of his domain, his departure swift and silent save for the gentle kiss of water lapping at his retreat. The arrival acts as the tide’s turn, pulling the siren back into the embrace of the sea. As if he had never been more than a figment of your muddled mind’s yearning, he vanishes, melding seamlessly with the water that birthed him. A whisper of white hair and the ghost of a melody are all that remain, hanging in the air like a dirge for a life dispelled too soon. Your gaze lingers upon the undisturbed water, searching for a sign, a ripple, anything that might suggest his return, his existence at all. Only the vast, unyielding expanse of sea stares back, indifferent to the tumult unfolding upon its shores.

“Miss!” The dune-treading man calls out again. His form ebbs in and out of light as he strides toward you, his lantern painting him in thunderbolts of amber. It casts a golden corona on the sand. The ornate patterns decorating the sides cause it to cast flame-like shadows. In his steady hold, it becomes a miniature sun.

Your pulse quickens, hotness creeping up your cheeks as he halts directly before you. You are not even granted a proper view before he draws closer. With your gaze lingering on the horizon, you see only his dark trousers and boots until he leans down. Raven strands, so dark they almost appear blue, fall across his face. Tickling your shoulder, you pull back. His face is visible now, but your attention is drawn to his eyepatch.

Without so much as a word, he shrugs off his coat. The sleeves slip down his arms, pooling near his waist, where he seizes it. A navy and gold ensemble clings to his form. The blouse beneath is partially unbuttoned, exposing a sliver of his well-defined chest. You could have done without the proximity, but at the very least, you are warm.

“It’s a cold morning,” he says, fastening the clasp around your neck. You quiver when the cold metal skims your tender, freezing flesh. “Let’s find you somewhere to stay.”

His hand extends toward you. Surrendering to the pull, you draw a steadying breath and reach forth, fingers brushing the calloused warmth of the stranger’s palm. The contact sparks warmth into your icy appendages. His grip is firm and secure. With the gentlest of tugs, he beckons you to rise, to turn your back on the siren’s call. Your feet shift, grains of sand slipping beneath them.

You halt, an inexplicable pull urging you to look back one last time. Your figure cuts a lonely figure against the sprawling dawn. Through the misty veil of morning, the ocean stretches before you, vast and inscrutable. And there, just beyond the frothy lacework of tide, two eyes like darkened sapphires gaze from beneath the surface. A smile graces your lips, gentle and knowing, as the siren dips beneath the waves, a spectral vision dissolving into the fathomless blue. In that fleeting moment, the lines between myth and reality blurs, and at last, you begin to grasp the essence of Fontaine’s fatal allure—the dance of the visible and the invisible, ever present in the susurrus of the sea. If your crew has perished for this, then you will exonerate this land of its treasures.

He glances over his shoulder. “What was that?”

“A seagull,” you find yourself saying.

“Those creatures get braver by the day,” says the man, squinting. Attention returning to you, he gently prompts, “Tell me, what swept you here? You don’t appear to be a local.”

“There was a storm,” you tell him, your voice warbling at the admission. “And before that, it had been the sea. You no longer know who you were before, but mostly recently, you were a captain. “It… It took everything and delivered me here.”

The knot in your stomach unfurls when he doesn’t press the matter. Instead, he hums, the lantern still swinging with each stride.

“People say we should do unto others as we wish,” he murmurs. “But somehow, I don’t imagine you’re deserving of a fate like this. The sea has such malice. It’s cruel how she gives and she takes just as swiftly. Unfortunately, that is merely the way of this world.”

“Indeed. It is cruel.”

As you crest the final slope, the village enters into full view. Sheltered by stone seawalls, its quaint cottages huddle in solidarity against the capricious moods of nature. The village burgeons before you, an intricate display of maritime life. Timbered houses nestled against the meandering embrace of the inland rivers parceling the land into different nooks. The hushed whispers of the ocean still cling to your skin, yet you are ensnared by the village’s rustic charm; its cobbled streets and woven nets. Billowing sails peek out from smaller docks in rocky-walled nooks. A mosaic of piers and posts carve channels through the town in which the river courses.

Amidst the symphony of awakening—a blacksmith’s hammer singing anvils into chorus, fishwives calling in melodic cadence, gulls echoing their own shrill hymns—your spirit wavers on the fulcrum of belonging. The cacophony of coastal life reaches your ears, but it digs deep gashes into your chest, piercing your heart. You should not be viewing these streets alone. A captain drowns with their ship. A captain should die for their crew, and yet, your heart beats as if to taunt. Each pulsebeat is a mariner’s knot, tying her to the tangible world even as your soul yearns to plunge into those cruel depths, to go under and not resurface until you are reunited with your crew.

Still, your resolve to thrive crystallizes like ice amidst a wintry brook. Decidedly, you will delve into the enigmatic depths of your encounter with the siren, that creature divine. To turn away now—when everything but your curiosity and rage is lost—would be to deny the inexorable whimsy of your soul.

“I’ll take you to someone who can house you tonight,” says the stranger. “He takes in all the strays, but if you’d rather not spend your days fishing in return, my doors are open.“

“Thank you,“ you mutter.

His words are filtered from your ears by the breeze. Only now does your throat constrict. You remain silent, chewing your tongue as you acquiesced to the mind-numbing guidance, complimented by the stranger’s commentary. Fontaine is not his home—if he had not already divulged such, then his foreign appearance and slight accent would certainly betray the fact—yet he speaks at length, with a scholar’s precision. Fortunately, the walk is short. Your destination is a ramshackle, single-story cottage. Stout and wind-battered, its shingles wobble and the windows rattle with the breeze. From here, you are granted a fine vantage point of the waters beneath.

“Here.” He gestures to the modest dwelling. “Luca, as I’ve come to know, is fond of taking in travelers.” Although the offer is kind, it rouses suspicion: no good deed is faultless. Fortunately, the offer of a roof is soon followed by the prospect of purpose. “But in return, he expects you to do a few hours of work aboard his fishing vessel. Luca!” He calls, rapping a fist against the wooden door. “I’ve brought another guest for you.”

A clatter from inside, then the sound of several latches sliding out of place. A few awkward moments pass, then you’re greeting a burly man with a halo of candle light. His voice is a gruff, rumbling sound. “You called?”

“Luca! Might I introduce you to the newest transient, the enigmatic…”

“Y/N,” you tiredly offer, suppressing a yawn.

“Y/N,” he repeats, turning the sounds over. “Such a lovely name.”

Luca squints, scrutinizing your form. Flexing your biceps, he nods in approval.

“Looks reliable and hardy. Will do,” is all he offers before retreating inside.

Incredulous, you splutter. All it takes to gain a man’s favor is brawn? This land is a wondrous place, filled with peculiar figures. And you, perhaps, might be the most curious of them all.

“And what may I call you?” you ask at last.

Smiling, he tilts his head. “Kaeya.”

Your posture slumps as you lean against the doorframe. Already, the coy act is nerve-rending. “And what is your business, Kaeya?”

“I’m here on official business between Fontaine and Mondstadt,” he coyly says. “I shall see you tomorrow, Y/N. Until then, I hope you have a good rest.“

Mumbling in response, you promptly turn away and join Luca inside. To your utter surprise, you see a table set for three. Two chairs are occupied by Luca, and a woman who can only be his wife. Strangely, the wood grain of the third, empty seat appears just as worn as theirs.

Neither says a word, but you slot yourself across from the pair, begrudgingly join the vivant of domesticity. The clink of silverware and the lack of conversation paints the image of an mundane, everyday life, threads you grasp at but cannot quite weave into your own disjointed narrative. Did you once have a treasure like this? If so, will you ever again?

Through the window, dusk paints the horizon with strokes of melancholy blue and fervent gold. You see something stirring in the water beyond. You see everything and nothing: the moon’s pale reflection, a shadow, a shimmer, a secret. Unfathomable secrets beckon, yet you turn away. For now, your odyssey lay here, amidst the clatter of dishes and the warmth of hearth fires. The siren's call, though potent, will not sway you this eve. There is much to unearth in Fontaine, and first to be discovered are the dinner rites.

Eagerly, you partake, your senses alive to the flavors and sounds, yet your mind still roams those boundless seas and that moonlit visage haunts the edges of your consciousness, plastered across your eyes like an apparition.

a/n: y'all this took too long 😭 the entire story ended up being around 20k, but I'm editing a bit and reworking some scenes, so I've split it into separate parts to keep people interested. just wanted to post this. more to come soon

[nanamineedstherapy]

Velvet Sin & Clandestine Vows - Getting *ahem ahemed* by Nanami in a bathroom at a billionaire's party!

Minors DNI/Implied Cheating but not really/Shameless Smut/My First Smut

Summary: Nanami X F!Reader Porn with plot if you squint Nanami at a bougie party? Weird. Nanami getting dragged into a bathroom with a woman who isn't his wife? Even weirder. What’s hotter than luxury, mystery, and terrible decision-making? Spoiler: nothing. Let the chaos (and a closet with better taste than Gojo) ensue. Or Getting Railed by Nanami in a bathroom at a billionaire's party! This fic started as a joke & spiraled into a mix of billionaire aesthetics, deadpan sass, & unhinged party vibes. Buckle up—it’s classy, messy, & totally Nanami-approved. 💅 #Rewritten since I hated the first draft. TW: Maybe Cheating

A/N: This is my first time writing smut of any kind so let me know if it hits the spot ( ✧≖ ͜ʖ≖) Y’all, I swear, Nanami is loyal as hell, but who doesn’t love a little tension and mystery? If you’re living for the luxury or just here for the smut, drop a comment or a kudos—your chaos feeds mine. Cheers, besties! 🍸

The road twisted like a serpent through a dense forest, the towering pines stretching skyward, their shadows merging into a dark canvas under the fading sun. As Nanami’s Aston Martin DBS Superleggera glided past the last cluster of trees, the view opened into a scene pulled from the pages of an expensive dream.

The estate stood by a tranquil lake , its surface a sheet of liquid sapphire, mirroring the golden hues of the evening. The mansion, impossibly grand, didn’t merely rise—it commanded the horizon, almost otherworldly.

Towering walls of smooth stone enclosed the property, their minimalist design interrupted by intricate wrought-iron gates that whispered exclusivity rather than screamed it. AI-quipped security cameras, seamlessly embedded into the structure, blinking like mechanical sentinels, their presence a silent testament to caution wrapped in discretion. Guards in impeccably tailored suits patrolled the perimeter, some with guns, some with drones, some with androids, some with canines, their demeanor more akin to that of secret service agents than traditional staff.

The driveway stretched before him, a sleek ribbon of obsidian stone that gleamed like polished onyx under strategically placed lighting. The circular courtyard at the end was a gallery of excess : a Koenigsegg Jesko , a Bugatti Chiron , a Maserati Folgore , a Mercedes-Maybach S-Class , a Cadillac Celestiq , and a Rolls-Royce Phantom sat gleaming among other cars, their black, forest green or electric blue flawless exteriors reflecting the golden glow of vintage lampposts.

The lawns rolled outward like an emerald sea, interrupted by marble fountains with sculptures so detailed they seemed to breathe. At the edge of the estate, a private dock cradled a yacht —a floating palace that promised indulgence on the water. Above, the faint hum of helicopter rotors signaled rooftop landings, where multiple sleek, futuristic aircrafts waited in perfect formation.

The mansion itself was a contradiction brought to life. Its towering facade bore sharp lines and elegant curves, an architectural ballet where glass and steel met aged stone and brushed brass, each material woven into a seamless tapestry of power and refinement. High ceilings soared above, the kind that made you feel small without making you feel insignificant. The structure breathed genius—an intellect so vast it had turned ambition into reality.

As Nanami pulled up, the double doors opened before he even stepped out, as though the house had been expecting him. Inside, the ambiance shifted into a warm, inviting opulence. The grand hall shimmered under crystal chandeliers that fractured light into golden rain. Polished marble floors reflected the glow, amplifying the sense of space, while floor-to-ceiling windows turned the lake into a living painting framed by midnight silk drapes.

Walking in, he adjusted his Tateossian 18K gold cufflinks out of habit, the gold gleaming briefly in the chandelier light. The fabric of his Tom Ford silk Charmeuse shirt cooled against his skin as he rolled up his sleeves neatly, a testament to effort without indulgence. His tailored Mohair trousers—his entire outfit, his wife’s suggestion—fit him perfectly, a fact he acknowledged with a silent nod to her exquisite taste.

He knew she had spent more time selecting them than he ever would. She had an eye for these things, a maddening precision that made him trust her implicitly. He'd let her spend a good amount on tonight's party outfit to blend in with his office crowd, even though price tags were the least of his concerns. His wife, however, was a different story. Her taste was so particular that she rarely found anything worth buying at a store. But once she did, if it was casual, it would likely be inexpensive. However, if it was anything work- or party-related, it would undoubtedly carry a hefty price tag

The party coursed through the mansion like a heartbeat. In one ballroom , laughter mingled with the clinking of glasses as soft jazz played from hidden speakers. A smaller, more intimate space pulsed with energy, decked out like a private nightclub , where a few couples swayed to Spanish music under the prismatic glow of lights. Staff moved seamlessly among the crowd; their movements choreographed perfection, while their uniforms—a balance of practicality and haute couture—highlighted the wealth that surrounded them.

Each corner of the estate exuded thought and precision. From the soft, ambient lighting casting shadows on minimalistic art pieces to the way every surface seemed untouched yet lived in, the house wasn’t just a home; it was a living entity—one that whispered of brilliance, extravagance, and untold secrets.

Soon, before he knew it, corporate small talk had already grated on him; he’d barely resisted the urge to check his watch. Conversations about ‘exciting’ fiscal projections felt like sandpaper on his nerves, but years of navigating boardrooms had honed his stoic armor to perfection. He tilted his head just enough to feign interest in a junior analyst’s enthusiastic recounting of how they saved 0.5% on operational costs last quarter.

“Impressive,” he muttered, his voice so flat it was unclear whether he meant it or not. The analyst beamed anyway, oblivious.

His whiskey remained mostly untouched, a mere prop for these tedious rituals. He glanced down at the gold trim of the glass and thought fleetingly about hurling it through one of the massive floor-to-ceiling windows—not out of anger, but for something more stimulating than listening to Steve from Compliance recount his golf trip.

“Nanami-san!” Steve called out, loud enough to turn heads. “What’s your handicap? Bet you’re deadly on the green.”

Nanami turned slowly, blinking once as if the words needed extra time to register. “I don’t play golf, Steve,” he replied, deadpan. “I have a job.”

Steve’s laugh was loud and awkward, his ego crumpling in on itself. Nanami allowed himself a flicker of satisfaction before turning back to the entrance, silently daring someone interesting to walk in and save him.

A marketing executive drifted over, a glass of champagne precariously balanced in one hand, their other already extended for a handshake. “Nanami, old sport!” the exec crowed, as though they’d survived war trenches together instead of working in adjacent departments.

“Hardly,” Nanami said, shaking their hand briefly before folding his arms, an unmistakable signal that the conversation was over before it began.

Then the intern appeared like a fly buzzing near a fresh wound, her enthusiasm bordering on suffocation. “Nanami-san, you look great tonight,” she gushed. “Is that Tom Ford? I could tell from a mile away!”

He resisted the urge to roll his eyes the moment he saw her making her way towards him from the other corner of the room. Her extremely short gold dress barely covered anything, highly inappropriate for co-worker parties. Where was HR when you needed them?

He regarded her with the kind of cool detachment that made people second-guess speaking to him in the first place. His response was little more than a nod, a gesture so dismissive it might as well have been punctuation. “Yes,” he replied curtly, sipping his whiskey for the first time just to end the interaction. The burn of alcohol was preferable to enduring another comment.

“I’ve never seen you in anything so... relaxed ,” she added, eyes wide as though he’d arrived in a Hawaiian shirt instead of a $25,000 ensemble.

Nanami considered a sarcastic remark— yes, I’m positively unhinged tonight with my gold cufflinks and tailored trousers —but decided against it. “Enjoy the party,” he said instead, his tone as warm as a January morning.

Her persistence, however, was unwavering, her enthusiasm grating on his last nerve. She was the type who delivered coffee he never asked for, lunches he didn’t need, flushed cheeks, and doe-eyed stares he couldn’t unsee. What he had initially dismissed as professional eagerness was now so obviously a crush that even the office ficus had likely noticed. He didn’t mind admirers so long as they kept their distance, but this one was suffocating. Tonight, he had a plan: feed her to his wife .

He let her ramble, tuning her out while his colleagues began their usual background drone: glowing self-praise about the last quarter’s financial performance. Occasionally, Nanami nodded, just enough to seem engaged while maintaining an expression that screamed, I’d rather be anywhere else .

Then a peer from Finance leaned in, his smirk as oily as his hair gel. “You’re quite the magnet tonight, Nanami. What’s your secret?”

“Competence,” Nanami replied, without missing a beat.

The peer’s laugh faltered into a cough as he quickly excused himself. Events like this always managed to sap what little energy he had left after work. First, they stole every waking moment with deadlines and deliverables, then they expected polite socializing in his so-called free time. It was, in his opinion, borderline sadistic. He took another sip of his whiskey, wishing—not for the first time—that he hadn’t shown up. He didn’t much care to mingle, despite appearances. These events were breeding grounds for insincerity, where pleasantries masked ulterior motives. His colleagues jumped him, juniors seeking advice on everything from office politics to investment strategies, while his peers probed for weaknesses under the guise of camaraderie.

Then, previously flanked by armed bodyguards, she walked in.

He felt it before he saw it—the slight shift in the room’s energy, the way conversations seemed to falter for half a second. When his eyes finally found her, it was like everything else dimmed in comparison.

Time didn’t stop—not in some romanticized way, but it slowed just enough to emphasize her entrance. Classy, confident, and untouchable. The sound of her heels on marble cut through the hum of conversation, subtle but commanding. The red rubies on her dress flowed like molten lava, catching the chandeliers’ light with every step. The slit revealed long, toned legs that seemed almost deliberately designed to catch the attention of every person in the room. Her movements were languid but purposeful, as though she were fully aware that the entire party had turned their focus toward her and didn’t mind in the slightest. The siren-like glint in her eyes warned anyone brave enough to approach.

Nanami’s grip tightened imperceptibly on the whiskey glass, his chest rising and falling in a controlled breath. His gaze locked on her instantly, though he couldn’t pinpoint what drew him first—the way her dress hugged her or the quiet authority in her stride. One moment, he was half-listening to his coworkers drone about quotas; the next, he was captivated .

“Who is she?” The intern whispered, her tone laced with poorly concealed jelousy.

Nanami didn’t look away, his gaze steady and unreadable. “Trouble,” he murmured, his voice low and even.

She didn’t need to seek attention—it sought her. Women flocked to her, showering her with warm greetings and effusive compliments. She reciprocated their affection with gracious smiles and her charm disarming even the iciest socialites. The men weren’t as brave, unsure whether to admire her or cower under her gaze—her siren-like aura daring any man to try their luck.

Except for one idiot.

Fucking Gojo.

Nanami’s jaw tightened as his white-haired colleague made a spectacle of himself, wrapping his arms around her from behind like an old friend reunited. Her face scrunched in irritation, a flash of disdain that Nanami couldn’t help but savor. But then she turned, her expression softening as she saw who it was. To his dismay, she hugged him back.

Nanami’s fingers curled harder around the glass of whiskey, the gold trim biting into his palm. Jealousy wasn’t his style— not like he wasn’t already married . But Gojo was a different story. The man had a knack for testing limits, his arrogance as boundless as his charm.

She, on the other hand, was the embodiment of contradictions: sharp yet soft, fun yet untouchable, her elegant demeanor veiling something far more dangerous. As if on cue, her eyes scanned the room lazily, not in search of anyone but allowing people to search for her.

And then their gazes locked. Her lips quirked into a knowing smirk, a silent dare.

Nanami’s breath hitched. Her smile—a challenge, a tease, a warning. His pulse quickened, a subtle betrayal against his otherwise calm exterior.

The intern beside him shifted uncomfortably, clearly feeling the weight of the unspoken connection between the two. Nanami almost pitied her. Almost. Definitely not.

His focus remained on the woman; she approached the bar with the kind of confidence that made the world rearrange itself around her. Even the bartender seemed to straighten his posture, offering her a champagne flute without so much as a question. Her long fingers, adorned with a curious glove-like jewelry piece , brushed the glass as she murmured her thanks, her tone effortlessly polite but laced with disinterest.

He didn’t notice the minutes slipping by; time blurred under the soft hum of chandeliers and the muted conversations he was no longer part of. Her every movement consumed his attention, the sway of her hips in that red silk dress a calculated provocation.

When she slipped through the gilded archway leading toward the bathrooms, his decision was already made.

Keeping his drink down, Nanami barely registered the figure stepping into his path until he heard the familiar sing-song voice that grated worse than nails on glass. “Nanami! Where’s your wife? Haven’t seen her yet tonight,” his rival cooed, wearing his trademark smug grin that Nanami fantasized about erasing.

“Still at work,” Nanami replied smoothly, his tone devoid of emotion but cutting enough to silence further prying. He didn’t slow, leaving behind muttered speculations about his sudden interest in someone other than his wife .

The hallways had the richness of the place amplified. The further he moved from the party, the quieter it became, the noise receding into a distant hum. The mansion’s grandeur became starker in the silence. High ceilings arched above, their ornate crown moldings gilded with gold that caught the soft light of sconces. The black marble floors shimmered under his polished shoes, stretching endlessly toward the private quarters. Staff passed like shadows flitting through the ethereal glow of this labyrinthine estate.

He paused in front of the bathroom door, glossy black with intricate gold fixtures, left slightly ajar as though inviting him in. The faintest sliver of light spilled out against the marble.

Knock. Knock. Two taps. Firm. Purposeful.

The response was immediate. The door cracked open, and before he could utter a word, her hand shot out, grabbing his shirt and yanking him inside with a force that surprised him.

The door closed behind them with a soft thud as he was shoved against it, followed by the decisive click of the lock. Her scent lingered in the air, both grounding and intoxicating, cutting through the bathroom . Then her mouth was on his, hot and demanding, leaving no room for hesitation.

“Not even a hello?” He murmured against her lips, his tone low, strained, yet laced with wry humor.

“Hello,” she whispered mockingly, her voice syrupy sweet, before pulling him back down. Her nails grazed the nape of his neck, sending an electric jolt through him.

Oh, she was definitely a siren. He thought as she drew him in with effortless ease, leaving him half-convinced she could drag him into the ocean and he’d thank her for it.

Her fingers worked at the buttons of his shirt, deft yet impatient. When one refused to cooperate, she let out a soft growl, yanking hard enough to send buttons scattering across the tiled floor.

“They’re custom,” Nanami deadpanned, his voice thick with effort. “My wife chose them.”

“No wonder they’re ugly,” she shot back, her smirk as sharp as a blade. “Send me the bill.”

Her sass drew a low chuckle from him, the sound reverberating deep in his chest. She was cutting through his composure so easily, leaving him disarmed in a way he hadn’t thought possible.

In a swift motion, he flipped their positions, pinning her against the full-length mirror. Her front hit the glass with a muted thud, the chill drawing a sharp gasp from her lips. For a moment, he held her there, his gaze sweeping over her—flushed cheeks, swollen lips, pupils blown wide with a mix of defiance and desire.

His reflection caught his eye in the mirror—a man undone, his hair disheveled, his usually sharp expression softened by raw hunger. He barely recognized himself, and for some reason, that didn’t bother him.

“Temptress. You’ve already got me obsessed,” his voice dark as he leaned down to press his lips to the curve of her ear.

“Stop talking,” she countered, her tone dripping with impatience. Her fingers tangled in his hair, pulling just hard enough to make him groan softly.

He obliged.

The kiss turned feral, finesse abandoned in favor of raw, unfiltered need. His hands roamed, the fabric slipping against her skin like water.

Once she turned in his arms, more of his buttons clattered to the floor, the sound echoing in the small space as she ran her fingers on his chest then abs. The room filled with their gasps and whispered curses, the sterile luxury of the bathroom a backdrop to the pandemonium unfolding. She took off her handpiece, chucking it on the counter just to feel his skin against her fingertips unhindered.

Her scent was everywhere now, filling his lungs, embedding itself in his memory. It was familiar in a way, like déjà vu dancing on the edge of recognition. Unsettling, magnetic, and impossible to ignore.

“Careful,” she murmured against his lips, her voice teasing. “You might just fall for me.”

Nanami pulled back slightly, enough to meet her gaze, his expression a mix of annoyance and reluctant amusement. “Highly unlikely,” he replied, deadpan, though the corner of his mouth betrayed the faintest smirk.

“Your loss,” she quipped, her voice light, but her hands circled around his shoulders, pulling him back toward her.

Whatever this was—whatever dangerous game they were playing—Nanami knew one thing: he didn’t want it to end.

The bathroom’s air carried a subtle mix of sandalwood, bergamot and cedarwood, understated yet lingering—a scent that seemed designed to make every breath feel curated, the kind of understated opulence that whispered money rather than screamed it

Yet for all its grandeur, it wasn't the decor that took center stage. It was the mess unfolding next to the countertop, where passion replaced polish.

Nanami now had her pressed against the large, mirror-backed counter, its polished surface now marred with the aftermath of their urgency—smudged fingerprints, scattered toiletries, and the faint condensation of their mingled heat. The cool marble against her back seemed to amplify the fire between them.

His grip was firm yet restrained, one hand steadying her thigh while the other trailed upward, tracing the daring slit of her dress with deliberate slowness. His fingers paused at the neckline, the silk sliding under his touch like water. His hold spoke of possession, but his eyes, half-lidded and burning, betrayed something deeper—curiosity, defiance, and a hunger he rarely let surface.

She kissed him again, her lips a demand he had no intention of denying. Teeth scraped against his lower lip, the sting pulling a soft groan from him that melted into a low chuckle. His hands roamed with precision, finding her waist, her hips, her breasts—each touch firm, unapologetic, and met with a sharp inhale or muffled moan. Every touch was a battle for dominance, each moment teetering on the edge of control and disarray.

He lifted her with ease onto the countertop in one fluid motion. The chilled mirror behind her elicited a gasp as her dress slid higher at her thighs. Her legs tightened instinctively around him, pulling him closer.

“Not bad,” she teased breathlessly, her voice a mix of amusement and provocation.

Nanami’s lips quirked into a rare smirk as he leaned in, his breath warm against her ear. “I aim to impress.”

Her laugh was soft, intoxicating, and far too knowing. “You’re getting there.”

Her scent enveloped him now—a crisp, briny ocean breeze tinged with something wild and woody, a sharp contrast to the muted, earthy warmth of the bathroom. It was a siren’s scent, designed to disarm, to enthrall, and it worked far too well.

The sounds of their frenzy filled the room, chaotic yet rhythmic. Her nails dragged along his back, leaving faint crescent imprints as if marking her territory.

Then, with a devilish smirk, he dropped to his knees, his large hands splaying across the backs of her thighs.

“On your knees already?” She started, her voice faltering as he pushed the fabric of her dress higher. His lips ghosted over her inner thigh, his breath warm and teasing.

“You talk too much,” he murmured, his tone flat but edged with mischief.

Her laugh turned into a gasp as he tore through the delicate lace of her underwear with his teeth, the sound of ripping fabric punctuated by her sharp intake of breath.

His mouth found her core, hot and demanding; his tongue moved with deliberate precision, drawing broken whispers from her lips. Her fingers tangled in his hair, long nails digging into his scalp as she arched into him, every nerve alight with sensation.

Each touch was a battle for dominance, each moment teetering on the edge of control and chaos. His fingers dug into her hips, holding her steady as she raised her head, her eyes wide at the sight of him.

When his fingers joined the fray—one, then two, then three—she let out a muffled cry, her hands trembling as they gripped his hair tighter. The rhythm turned torturous, each stroke a ploy to keep her teetering on the edge.

“Quiet,” he murmured against her, though the command was half-hearted at best.

Her laugh, shaky and breathless, cut through the haze. “Make me.”

He obliged, taking off his shirt & shoving it into her mouth to muffle her moans.

The room, a masterpiece of design and decadence, bore silent witness to their undoing. The perfection of its lines, the care in its curation—all of it had melted away, leaving only raw, unbridled chaos in its place.

Her body trembled, hips bucking against his mouth. His tongue and fingers were moving in perfect harmony. Her mewles grew higher in pitch, her body arching further as the tension began to pool in her belly.

Nanami’s grip on her tightened, his fingers digging into her hips to hold her steady as her body trembled beneath him. Her moans, muffled by his discarded shirt, vibrated against his chest as he felt the waves of her release pulse through her. She clawed his scalp, a claim he wasn’t entirely sure he didn’t enjoy.

When she finally collapsed against the mirror, her breath came in uneven bursts, fogging the glass behind her. Her flushed face, her dress still bunched at her waist, chest rising and falling as aftershocks wracked her frame left her looking like Mayhem personified. Still, he didn’t stop, his tongue lapping up every drop of her release like she was the finest wine.

Few moments passed, & Nanami stood, brushing the back of his hand against his lips, catching the faint taste of her. He was the picture of disheveled restraint—his hair tousled, his chest bare, and his trousers hanging low on his hips. The hunger in his eyes, however, was anything but restrained.

His gaze lingered on her as he reached for the straps of her dress. Tugging them down, he exposed her bare chest, the fabric sliding away like water until it pooled uselessly at her waist. Her breasts bounced with the movement, drawing a low growl from him that rumbled deep in his chest.

“Perfect,” he muttered, his voice gravelly as he leaned down. His lips closed over one breast, flicking her nipple with his toung, while his hand found the other, his touch alternating between firm and teasing. She gasped, her back arching off the mirror as he bit gently before soothing with his tongue, leaving her gasping & mumbling incoherently, her voice ragged but threaded with laughter—the kind that would have thrown a lesser man off balance. “You’re enjoying this way too much.” She spoke against the fabric in her mouth.

He paused, lifting his head to meet her gaze. “You started it.”

She smirked, sharper than the edge of the counter, biting into her legs. “And I’ll finish it.” She gestured.

Her hands fumbled with his waistband, still trembling but determined. The flicker of impatience in her eyes was oddly endearing, though he’d never admit it. Nanami stepped back slightly, watching as she struggled with his belt, her fingers clumsy but relentless, then the same belt clattered to the floor, the sound echoing in the small space.

When she finally freed his cock, her hand paused holding it, her eyes widening as her lips parted slightly.

“Cat got your tongue?” He teased, his voice dropping into that smooth, sardonic tone.

“Shut up,” she muttered, voice muffled by the shirt.

He bit down lightly on her neck, one hand busy kneading her breast, while the other left faint crescent moons in the flesh of her ass.

Despite her reservations, her hand moved, slow at first, tentative strokes exploring him with a curiosity that bordered on reverence. The low "fuck" that escaped his lips emboldened her, and her fingers became bolder—squeezing at the tip, letting her thumb tease the slit, earning sharp hisses from him.

His control, usually ironclad, wavered, catching himself before her touch unraveled him entirely.

“Enough,” he growled, his hand wrapping around hers as he guided his cock to her.

She braced herself, her legs parted further instinctively as Nanami growled, guiding his cock toward her slick entrance. She mewled softly as he deliberately didn’t push in, instead teasing her, the thick head of his cock gliding against her swollen folds. The wet slide was maddening, the tension building as he refused to give her what she wanted. Her breath coming in shallow bursts as the tension coiled between them like a spring wound too tightly. Her eyes flashed with impatience, and the look of anger made him smirk through his own restraint. Then she hissed something, muffled, her voice low and threaded with irritation.

Nanami’s smirk was infuriating. “Patience.”

That patience didn’t last long. With a sharp thrust, he pushed inside her, his jaw clenching as she clenched around him, her walls tight and pulling him deeper. He moved slowly at first, letting her adjust; the intensity of the moment mirrored in their matched gasps and muffled curses.

Once he was fully sheathed, the restraint snapped. He withdrew almost completely before slamming back in, forcing a loud, uncontrollable moan from her.

His pace turned brutal, his hips slamming against hers with a force that made the marble countertop tremble beneath them. Her cries morphed into curses, each one sharp and biting, and directed at him with a venom that only fueled his hunger.

“You—oh my God—” she let out a muffled gasp, head falling back against the mirror as he drove her higher.

Nanami leaned down, yanking the shirt from her mouth as he captured her lips in a messy, heated kiss. Her teeth immediately bite his lower lip, drawing blood, but he didn’t care. Their tongues clashed, the kiss more battle than affection, each one pushing and pulling, neither willing to yield.

Breaking away to catch his breath, Nanami's thrusts didn’t falter.

“Still talking?” he muttered against her lips.

“Shut up,” she replied, biting him again, the taste of him & herself lingering on her tongue.

His hips slammed against hers, forcing cries from her throat. Her nails raked down his back, desperate, as though she needed them to fuse on a molecular level.

Despite his relentless pace, his lips softened, trailing kisses along her jawline, down her neck, and finally to her breasts. He nipped and sucked at the delicate skin; his attention split between breaking her apart with his cock and worshipping the parts of her he loved most.

The sound of skin meeting skin filled the room—a brutal rhythm that matched the pounding of her heartbeat. His hands roamed over her body, his nails leaving faint crescent moons in her thighs, her back, wherever he could reach.

Her body arched into him, trembling & walls tightening as another wave of pleasure threatened to overtake her. He knew she was close; his hand slid between them, his fingers finding her clit and circling it with a precision that left her gasping.

Her reaction was instant as she came with a sharp, keening cry, muffled when he cupped a hand over her mouth, entire body clenching around him as her nails dug into his shoulders.

“She’s sucking me in... so tight,” he murmured, voice hoarse, as his control finally broke. Movements turning erratic as he buried himself deep, his groan muffled against her neck. His eyes fluttered shut as his own climax surged through him, leaving him breathless and trembling. He barely managed to catch himself before collapsing onto her as the aftershocks rolled through him.

Two forces of chaos colliding. Neither of them moved, just staying for a bit; she rubbed his back as they caught their breaths, the occasional tremor running through her as she adjusted to the lingering sensitivity.

The bathroom was a battlefield of indulgence and chaos. Perfume bottles lay toppled on the black marble counter, the delicate crystal shimmering under the ambient lighting. A faint mist lingered in the air, clouding the oversized mirror that stretched from floor to ceiling, capturing distorted reflections of disheveled hair, flushed skin, and heat that had yet to fully dissipate. The mingling scents of bergamot, cedar, and salt—the sharp tang of the ocean—clung to the air, layered with the undeniable intimacy of their aftermath. Despite the mess around them, the silence between them felt clean, untouched by the outside world.

Soon her fingers were idly tracing patterns on his back, grazing over faint red marks she’d left moments before. When she finally broke the silence, her voice was teasing but warm, her eyes glinting with mischief. “Your technique hasn’t changed.”

Nanami froze, the words cutting through the lingering haze like a cold blade. He pulled back just enough to study her face, his brows furrowing. “What?”

“You heard me,” she replied, her tone deliberate and light as she brushed her fingers along his jaw. Her touch was deceptively soft, almost disarming.

Before he could spiral into overthinking, she laughed—a sound both melodic and cutting, slicing through his composure with surgical precision. “Relax, Mr. Nanami,” she teased, her lips curling into a smirk. “I’m just grateful for the first million you invested in my company when no one else would even hear me out.”

The tension in his shoulders eased as realization dawned, corners of his mouth twitching into the faintest smile. “Mrs. L/N,” he said dryly, his voice laced with equal parts amusement and exasperation. “Should I prepare my chequebook again?”

“Always,” she quipped, her smirk softening as she leaned up to kiss him. Her lips brushed against his with a familiarity that belied the game they’d been playing all evening.

“You’re still mine, Kento,” she murmured against his ear—almost biting them, her voice dropping to a whisper that sent a shiver down his spine.

Straightening himself, hand lingering at her waist, he pulled her closer to hold as the reality of her presence grounded him. When they finally pulled apart, her tone shifted. “Nice house, by the way.”

“Thank you, Mrs. L/N,” he replied, his thumb brushing a stray strand of hair from her face. The simple gesture felt intimate, grounding, a contrast to the disarray they’d left in their wake. He arched a brow, a wry smile playing on his lips. “Though I do have to ask—what was the dress for?”

Her smirk deepened, her silence deliberate.

“Y/N,” he pressed, his voice carrying a mix of affection and exasperation. “You planned this, didn’t you?”

“I was informed that you looked miserable out there,” she said simply, shrugging with nonchalance that only made her look more self-assured. “Your coworkers are vultures. I couldn’t just stand by and watch you suffer.”

His exhale was slow, measured, but his forehead dropped against hers, his voice softening. “I owe you one.”

“You owe me plenty,” she countered, her hands sliding over his chest with a teasing confidence. “But I’m not done yet. My company just hit a billion-dollar valuation, which means—"she smirked, her tone mock-serious—"you can finally quit working for those corporate overlords. Effective immediately.”

Nanami blinked, her words settling in slowly. Just as he opened his mouth to protest, she cut him off with a single raised finger.

“And don’t start with the ‘backup plan’ speech,” she added, rolling her eyes in dramatic exasperation. “I’ve secured enough for the next fifteen generations to sit around and squander. You’re free, Ken. ”

He let out a long exhale, relief washing over him like a tide pulling him out to calmer seas. His hands tightened gently at her waist as he pulled her closer, his forehead brushing hers again.

“I can finally retire,” he mused, a rare chuckle breaking the steady timbre of his voice. “What a dream.”

Her grin was wicked and teasing. “Don’t worry, I’ll deck you out with butlers, drivers, private pilots—the works.”

He shook his head, laughing softly. “You’re ridiculous.”

“And you love it,” she said, her voice lighter now, pressing a quick kiss to his jaw before stepping down. She fixed her dress, the fabric shimmering under the soft lighting as if it had never been touched. After quickly rinsing & drying her hands, she shuffled for something in the drawer below the sink counter, then gestured Nanami to turn around, who obliged and then winced as she sprayed antiseptic healing spray on her nail scratches on his back. Then, putting it back with one hand while she rubbed his shoulder with the other, soon she adorned her handpiece again.

“Now, pack your bags. We’re going on a month-long vacation. We’ve barely seen each other this quarter.” Her tone practical, though the playful glint in her eyes was still sparkling while Nanami, who knelt on one knee to zip up her askew heels with a gentle touch. This was a stark contrast to his usual stoic demeanor; he radiated a quiet eagerness to serve her, even if she had never asked for it—or even forbade him from kneeling—for anyone, including herself. His care for her was unwavering, as he found joy in these small devotions.

Raising up to his full height, Nanami tilted his head, arching a brow. “When do we leave?”

“An hour.” Her smirk was maddeningly smug, the kind that always made him want to both kiss her and roll his eyes. “Don’t worry about clothes—we’ll buy what we need when we get there.”

His frown deepened slightly, his gaze flicking toward the door. “The house is still full of people.”

She waved a hand dismissively, her confidence unshakable. “The white-haired menace can handle it.”

As if summoned, a sharp knock echoed against the ornate black and gold bathroom door.

“Nanami,” Gojo’s unmistakable voice called out, muffled yet infuriatingly cheerful. “I know you told me not to disturb you, but if you want to leave on time, you should probably come out now.”

Nanami groaned audibly, burying his face in her hair. “I hate that he knows us so well. Or worse, that he was probably hovering outside.”

Her laugh bubbled up, light and unrestrained, as she turned to press a soft kiss to his nose. “Good thing no one will know,” she teased, her tone laced with mischief as she nodded toward the party still raging beyond the door.

“Small mercies,” he muttered. His hand reached down, scooping up her ripped panties. He shoved them into his pocket—a gesture equal parts practical and ridiculous. Housekeeping didn’t need to discover that.

He reached for his ruined shirt & still-ok belt while his cufflinks were probably lost to the similarly colored lines in the bathroom floor’s marble. Sighing, he shrugged the shirt on. With most of the buttons broken, the fabric barely clung to him, but he managed enough to appear vaguely presentable, then did his belt & washed his hands. Before stepping out, he winked at her, his rare smirk making her laugh again as she leaned on the counter, ogling him.

Walking out of the bathroom, Nanami was immediately engulfed by the sheer scale of the mansion. The vaulted ceilings soared above him, an intricate lattice of brass and black lines reminiscent of sharp geometry. Recessed lighting cast a warm, almost ethereal glow over the polished marble floors, their obsidian surface streaked with veins of gold that seemed to shimmer with every step.

Security was seamlessly integrated into the decor—discreet cameras nestled within decorative sconces, motion sensors hidden within the intricate carvings of doorframes, and biometric panels that blended effortlessly with the black lacquered walls.

Gojo leaned casually against the wall near the bathroom door, his smirk as sharp as the lapels on his bespoke electric blue suit. “Well, well,” he drawled, his tone dripping with amusement. “Looks like someone had a productive break.”

Nanami cast him a withering glare, brushing past him without a word.

“Don’t worry,” Gojo called after him, clearly undeterred. “Your secret’s safe with me. Well Mostly .”

Nanami strode into his bedroom, its absurd luxury understated yet undeniable once he unlocked it’s door with his thumb. Warm recessed lighting bathed the space in a golden hue, highlighting the polished marble floors and the California king bed draped in silk sheets that whispered decadence with every subtle fold. The walls were a study in contrasts—one side a sweeping expanse of black glass overlooking the estate, the other adorned with minimalist art deco patterns in gold and dark maroon.

A walk-in closet occupied one corner of the room, its glossy black doors sliding open with a faint hum. Rows of designer suits, pressed shirts, and tailored trousers moved along tracks, neatly organized by color, fabric, and season. It wasn’t just a closet—it was an AI-driven sartorial fortress.

Gojo trailed behind Nanami, Martini glass in hand, his ever-present grin practically glowing under the warm light of the bedroom.

Nanami shrugged off his ruined shirt, revealing faint nail marks trailing down his back.

Gojo’s exaggerated gasp was immediate. “Knew you were freaks,” he declared, grinning like a cat who’d just discovered a fresh bowl of cream.

“I have no idea what you’re talking about,” Nanami replied, his tone dry as he waited for the first shirt the AI closet presented.

The automated system whirred softly, its sleek black panels sliding open to reveal a neatly arranged selection of tailored clothing. The closet’s AI chimed in, its voice smooth and masculine: “Good evening, Mr. Nanami. May I suggest the Maurizio Miri blue Sam Arold , double-breasted blazer for optimal sophistication?”

“No, a white shirt will be enough for now. Thank you.” Nanami replied smoothly as the closet handed him the shirt.

Gojo’s eyes lit up. “Hold up, your closet talks?”

Nanami buttoned up the crisp white shirt, the fabric molding to him like it had been made yesterday, which it probably had been. A subtle reminder of how far he—and this house—stood from anything resembling average. “Of course it talks. Everything here does. Wife is particular about it,” he muttered, casually pulling out a certain incriminating piece of fabric from his pocket & tossing it into the hidden incinerator bin while Gojo eyed the AI.

Then Gojo leaned closer to the closet; his curiosity piqued. “Hey, Mr. Closet—do you take orders? I need something that makes me look like a billionaire without actually trying. Extra points if it comes with a holographic logo of the Gojo Clan.” Gojo didn’t have such bad likes; he just enjoyed being a menace.

The AI responded without missing a beat. “My name is Winston, & I’m sorry, sir. My services are exclusive to Mr. Nanami. While I assure you, no attire could enhance perfection.”

Nanami’s lips twitched as he fought back a smirk. “Even the closet knows you’re insufferable.”

“Hey, I like this guy!” Gojo shot back, pointing at the sleek black panel like it was a long-lost friend. “At least he has taste.”

The AI, apparently more than willing to engage, added, “Taste, sir, is precisely what you lack.”

Nanami turned away, struggling to suppress his laughter, as Gojo gawked. “Traitor! I’m officially boycotting this brand,” Gojo declared, though his curiosity kept him glued to the closet. “Btw what brand are you.”

Nanami smacked his arm. “Do you forget my wife invents AIs for a living, among other things?”

Gojo shrugged, “I didn’t know it was one of hers.”

As Nanami folded his sleeves up again, Gojo shot one last look at the closet. “You’re lucky I’m a forgiving man, Mr. Closet-Winston. Once I babysit this house, bet you’ll miss me when I leave.”

“I highly doubt that,” the AI replied, its tone impossibly smooth.

Gojo huffed, muttering something about finding an AI closet with better taste, while Nanami finally allowed a small smirk to surface.

Once out of the closet, Gojo chirped, “Aren’t you going to thank me for organizing this amazing party?”

Nanami took the whisky glass Gojo handed him, savoring a slow sip. “Thank you, Gojo, for organizing this party,” he said, his voice flat. “It’s not like we paid for it or anything.”

“Fair,” Gojo replied, recovering quickly with a shrug. “But I still expect to cash in the favor someday.”

Nanami nodded, flooding his sleeves with practiced precision before striding back toward the party.

Gojo followed on his heels like an overenthusiastic puppy, Martini in hand. Then looking back at the sentinel closet, he mused. “I need one of these. Think the wife will help me place an order?”

“She’s not your wife,” Nanami deadpanned, savouring the whisky burn as he sipped.

Once they had stepped into the grand ballroom, Nanami’s gaze swept over the room. Gojo, meanwhile, leaned in conspiratorially.

“So,” he began, his grin as infuriating as ever, “how was she?”

His gaze immediately found her. She stood along the far wall; an expansive bar carved from obsidian and gold stood like a centerpiece, its surface laden with bottles of rare vintages.

He didn’t falter in his reply, expression flat. “She’s a woman, Gojo. Not a secret.”

Gojo smirked as Nanami ignored the conspiratorial knowing smirks and whispers that seemed to surround him.

His gaze lingered as she laughed warmly, her head tilted slightly, the sound unguarded and genuine. She was speaking to two women he vaguely recognized as the CTO and CFO of her company, their expressions a mix of respect and admiration. For a moment, he simply watched. Despite himself, Nanami felt a rare sense of pride.

Just as he was about to make his way to her, a voice sliced through the moment.

“Nanami-san! There you are!”

The same intern with an unfortunate crush on him had caught sight of him again, waving over one of her equally annoying cohorts, a smug backstabbing bitch of a coworker Nanami didn’t even bother to remember the name of. They approached like vultures, the intern’s over-the-top enthusiasm clashing painfully with the coworker’s grimey smirk.

“Nanami-san!” she chirped, clasping her hands together. “This house is incredible! You must feel so inspired here.”

“I feel inspired to have another drink,” Nanami deadpanned, raising his glass slightly before taking a sip.

The coworker, clearly fishing for gossip, leaned in. “Yeah, no kidding. So, where’s your wife we’ve all heard so much about?” He practically sang the last part, his tone dripping with mockery. “Must be so busy to miss an event like this.”

Listening to this, Gojo moved closer to Nanami’s side like chaos incarnate, throwing an arm around his shoulder. “Oh, you haven’t met her yet?” he asked, his grin practically weaponized. “Tsk, tsk, Nanami, keeping secrets from your best friends .”

The coworker scowled at the jab.

The intern blinked, momentarily stunned into silence. Nanami bit back a smirk, swirling his whisky lazily in his glass.

When the intern finally recovered, her tone turned defensive. “Well, he’s never mentioned her to me!”

Nanami’s expression darkened, his patience stretching to its breaking point. One thing he wasn’t—had never been—was unfaithful. And this implication, no matter how cluelessly delivered, crossed a line.

Yet Gojo wasn’t finished. He turned his full attention to the intern, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper loud enough for everyone to hear. “You know, he does talk about her all the time. But I guess you two must not hang out much, huh? Just acquaintances, then.”

“Excuse me?” Nanami’s voice was sharp, each syllable cutting.

The intern, oblivious to the shift in tone, pressed on. “You never mentioned you were married—”

“Please,” arching a brow, he interrupted, his expression one of detached amusement. “Do not imply that I’ve hidden my marriage. I’ve been married for years and have never avoided speaking about my wife when asked. If you’re unaware, perhaps that says more about you than it does about me.” Each word measured and sharp. It’s not like he cared to keep his job anymore anyway.

The intern blinked, stunned into silence.

Gojo erupted into laughter, clapping him on the back. “Kento, you’re killing it tonight. Who’s next on the chopping block?”

Without waiting for a response, Nanami brushed past them, his focus already shifting back to her. Gojo, naturally, wasn’t done yet. Turning back with a smirk, he delivered one final dig.

“He talks about her all the time with his friends. Trust me, I’d know since I’m his best friend. I know all his secrets ,” he said lightly. “Guess you’re just colleagues.” Nanami could hear the mockery directed at his coworkers, with a hint of possessiveness over their friendship in Gojo’s voice, along with the intern’s sputtering, behind him.

Once he approached, his hand slid around her waist, the gesture subtle yet unmistakable. It wasn’t a public claim so much as a quiet reassurance, a tether grounding him in the chaos of the room.

She turned to him, her smirk softening into something more intimate as she acknowledged the unspoken exchange.

“Hello,” he murmured, inclining his head with a faint smile toward the women she’d been speaking with. They were better than his coworkers; hence they were hired.

As Gojo approached them behind Nanami, she introduced him smoothly, her tone warm yet commanding. “Ladies, my closest friend, Gojo Satoru.”

Gojo’s professional smirk slipped into place with practiced ease. “A pleasure,” he said simply, his arm resting on Nanami’s shoulder again.

The conversation progressed for a bit before the sound of glass clinking drew their attention.

“Everyone!” Gojo’s voice rang out, cheerful and uncontainable. He was sitting atop the bar, manspreading, grin wide enough to rival the chandelier’s glow. “A toast to the lovely couple!”

Heads turned toward them, though many had already been stealing glances at her all evening while others were glaring daggers at Nanami.

Nanami cleared his throat, voice steady, effortlessly commanding the room. “Thank you all for coming to our housewarming party,” he began, his tone formal but with a warmth that felt uncharacteristic. His hand rested securely on her waist. “For those of you who don’t know, this is Y/N L/N. She’s my wife. She’s the one who bought us this house.”

A ripple of polite claps followed, though Nanami wasn’t finished.

“She hasn’t visited my office because she’s been working tirelessly on her company, Curse Cop, which, as of today, has officially reached a billion-dollar valuation.” He paused, his voice softening as he glanced at her, unguarded admiration flickering across his face. “Please, drink to your heart’s content, because starting tomorrow, I’ll be on vacation with her—and I’ll also be stepping down as Finance Director to spend more time with my wife, as I promised her.”

The room erupted in applause and a few ‘awws’ from mostly female guests, though Nanami barely noticed. His focus remained on her as she looked up at him, her expression a blend of amusement and affection.

From somewhere behind them, he heard whispers, envy poorly concealed.

“How’d he even get with her?” one muttered.

“It makes sense,” another replied begrudgingly. “He’s the kind of man every woman wants.”

But none of it mattered. Nanami leaned down, pressing a tender kiss to her lips, as if the room around them didn’t exist.

For him, in that moment, it didn’t.

Soon the evening had progressed—Nanami was comfortably leaning against the bar, whisky in hand, Gojo, still on top of the bar, flanking him as usual, when the intern caught sight of Y/N between them.

She stumbled her way toward her, clearly drunk, with newfound boldness, her barely-there dress doing little to enhance her sense of professionalism. Nanami’s lips twitched as he watched the scene unfold, hiding his amusement behind his glass. He wasn’t much for unnecessary public fights, but he was waiting for this one since she had really become a nuisance for him over the months, hence the reason she was invited today.

“Y/N,” Gojo whispered, sidling closer to her as she inquired about the launch of their latest multiplayer game with the COO of her company. “See that girl over there?”

Pausing, she glanced over, her brow arching slightly as she clocked the intern making a beeline toward her.

“That one’s been after Kento for months,” Gojo murmured, his grin wicked. “Unrequited coffee deliveries, surprise lunches... the works. You’re about to have front-row seats to her grand finale.” He had noticed it all while visiting Nanami’s office, along with Nanami’s look of frustration when she wouldn’t take the hint and leave him alone.

Y/N didn’t miss a beat, her expression remaining poised as she turned fully to face the intern. The air around her seemed to shift, her unapproachable aura sharpening to something razor-edged.

The intern, blissfully unaware, extended a hand, her confidence teetering on arrogance. “Hi! I’m Nat. I work closely with Nanami-san in finance. It’s so great to finally meet you.”

Y/N’s gaze flicked briefly to the outstretched hand before returning to the intern’s face, her expression neutral but distinctly unimpressed. “Oh?” she said coolly. “And what are you to him?”

The intern faltered, her hand dropping slightly. “I... like I said, I work with Nanami-san! He’s been so helpful to me in the office. Such a great mentor.”

Turning his head from his vantage point, Nanami’s smirk widened as he took another slow sip of whisky. He had actively avoided helping her since he discovered her hidden agenda.

“Is that so?” Y/N replied, tilting her head slightly. “And what exactly have you learned from him?”

The intern brightened, eager to elaborate. “Oh, just... everything, really! He’s so dedicated and focused. I can see why you married him.”

There was a pause—a beat of silence that stretched just long enough to become uncomfortable. Then Y/N smiled, and it wasn’t kind.

“I see,” she said, her tone dripping with polite venom. “And yet, here you are, at a party in our house, introducing yourself to me like you’re a stranger. How odd for someone who claims to work so ‘closely’ with my husband.”

The intern’s expression wavered, a flicker of panic breaking through her confident facade. “Oh, I didn’t mean—”

“Didn’t mean what?” Y/N interrupted smoothly, her smile widening. “To sound presumptuous? To overstep? Or to assume familiarity where there is none?”

Gojo, now openly laughing, gestured to Nanami, “Remind me never to piss your wife off.”

The intern stammered something unintelligible before finally scoffing & retreating, her confidence crumbling as she melted back into the crowd.

Y/N turned back to the COO, now flanked by CTO and CFO without so much as a backward glance as they dragged her off to introduce a potential investor, the conversation resuming as if nothing had happened.

Turning straight, Nanami finally let his smirk show, raising his glass toward Y/N in a silent toast.

She caught his eye, the faintest curve of her lips betraying her amusement, before she returned her attention to her companions.

“Worth every penny,” Gojo muttered under his breath, clinking his glass against Nanami’s.

“Agreed,” Nanami replied, his tone calm but his eyes glinting with mirth.

A/N: You thought Kento would cheat huh ☜(ˆ▿ˆc) Thanks for diving into this tangled mess of lust & love. If you caught the twist & liked it (or even hated it), drop a comment. I live for your chaos & crave your feedback like Nanami craves his wife. 🖤

Masterlist

[itskindofidontknow]

What dreams know about love?

Chapter 16

Dream of The Endless/Morpheus x Love!OFC

Summary: The Queen of Love has grown used to the absence of her husband, the Dream King. After banning her from the Dreaming, they only saw each other when Morpheus summoned her for social or marital duties. He would go decades without calling for her, enamorated by a variety of mistresses. It broke Love's heart. Not that her husband cared. However, after being imprisioned for a century, The Dream King wants to regain his Queen's love. She doesn't believe him, not after centuries of neglect. The question is: Can dreams repair a broken heart?

Tag: Established relationship, arranged marriage, regency romance, eventual happy ending, angst, morpheus is a dick prepare to hate, love is eoster from west germanic mythology, typos are to be expected

TW: Abortion as an option, light violence between sisters

If I forgot any TW, please let me know!

The lake shimmered beneath the gentle rays of the afternoon sun, its surface dotted with the occasional ripple where a stray leaf or bird’s feather met the water. Surrounding the lake were tall trees whose branches swayed lazily, offering shade from the warmth above. The breeze was soft, warm tender even, brushing through the reeds at the water's edge. It was a typical summer day and one could easily hear the buzzing of cicadas all afternoon. It was a place designed for peace, a sanctuary of nature where the muses often congregated for lazy leisure and might enjoy each other’s company undisturbed by the chaos of gods and mortals. And yet, tension now held the air hostage.

What was meant to be an afternoon of gentle persuasion had already turned sour.

Calliope sat with her knees drawn up to her chest, her gaze fixed stubbornly on the far side of the lake, with her back turned away from her sister. The gentle overture from Polyhymnia, the eldest of the muses, to begin the conversation—one that every muse but Calliope knew to be the very purpose of this gathering—had met with quiet resistance. What began as a moment of peaceful indulgence, as Polyhymnia softly brushed her hair in that familiar sisterly manner, soon transformed into a posture of defiance, quickened by the shift in the air, her sisters encircling her as if she were some creature ensnared. Their expressions ranging from concern and frustration.

“She is a spoiled child who saw something she could not have and worked in a devious way to take it!” Calliope’s voice rang out, raw with the emotion she could no longer suppress. Her dark eyes flashed with fury, but beneath that fiery surface, tears glistened, threatening to spill. Her sisters had ambushed her, invited her under false pretenses to what she believed would be a tranquil afternoon. Instead, they had brought their judgment, their warnings, and she could no longer bear the condescending in their demeanor.

“Sister!” Polyhymnia’s tone was sharp, her face marked with the effort of maintaining composure. “Do not speak of what you do not understand.” Her dark brows knitted together, and for the first time in this conversation, her regal calm began to waver. She had promised herself, and the others, that they would approach Calliope with reason, that their words would be tempered with love and concern, the way that was always the best to talk to Calliope, the only way to make her listen. But how difficult it was when faced with such stubbornness, such blindness.

Polyhymnia’s figure, always elegant, now felt rigid. Her dark, braided hair, so carefully woven into a crown, stood in contrast to the loose, windswept strands that framed Calliope’s tear-streaked face. Both sisters, mirror images in appearance, now seemed so far apart.

“What is there to understand?” Calliope spat, turning to face the older sister, even if it felt almost unbearable. “She got what she wanted, didn’t she? She trapped him, and Desire helped her. They plotted together to force him into this—this cage of a marriage!”

At this, Polyhymnia’s lips thinned, her patience unraveling thread by thread. But before she could form a response, Erato stepped forward, her eyes burning with righteous anger. "Is that the sweet lie Oneiros has been feeding you?” Her voice, sharp as a blade, cut through the air between them. Erato’s cheeks flushed with the heat of her own frustration, the kind that only sisters can invoke in one another. Though a few years older than Calliope, she moved with the restlessness of youth, her steps quick as she paced in front of the group. “Does he truly make you believe he is some victim of love, poor and powerless in the hands of a scheming queen?”

Polyhymnia sighed, casting a glance at Erato—her warning unheeded. She had told her sister not to let her closeness with Lady Love cloud the conversation. Erato and Calliope always had friction between them, disagreeing on even the most mundane topics, and Polyhymnia was clear that Erato should not let the emotions of the heart interfere with the delicate matter at hand. But now it was too late.

Her devotion to Lady Love had always made her the first to rush to protect the queen, and judge anyone that dares to speak ill of her. It could almost be compared to the devotion of cupids, although they would not like to be compared. And it showed now in every line of Erato's body.

“He is not kind to her, Calliope. Oneiros treats her with cruelty,” Clio interjected quietly, her voice steady, calm—too calm. She emerged from the lake, her red hair dripping as she wrung it out with slow deliberation, as if the conversation was but a trivial matter.

Calliope’s breath hitched. That calm tone unnerved her more than Erato’s fire. Clio, ever the pragmatist, always seemed to know more than she let on, as she was a specialist on every subject in the universe. And Calliope always believed in her sister's wisdom, now however it sounded as over-the-top pretentiousness. The younger muse looked up at her, seeing in her sister's expression not malice, but pity. And that, she could not abide.

“And what of it?” she replied, her voice now cold, detached. “He is cruel because she deserves it. He punishes her for what she took from him. A fitting retribution for all that she has deprived him of.”

In an instant, the air seemed to still. Polyhymnia’s breath caught, and the others exchanged startled glances. Then, with a sudden, sharp movement, Polyhymnia’s hand connected with Calliope’s cheek, the slap echoing in the quiet, idyllic scene. Not even the buzzing of cicadas could be heard.

Calliope’s hand flew to her cheek, stunned. She had not expected this. Not from Polyhymnia. A deep sense of betrayal flooded her, mingling with the stinging pain of the slap. She opened her mouth to speak but found no words, only a raw, wounded silence.

Polyhymnia’s chest heaved with the effort of regaining control, her hand still trembling slightly from the force of the blow. She never raised her hand to any of her sisters, she never resorted to violence and her immediate instinct was to hug Calliope, and beg for forgiveness. A quick glance at Clio, who locked eyes with Poly, gave her the strength to keep her stance. This was bigger than Calliope’s feelings. This was for her own good. “You defend a man who punishes his wife, and for what? A fleeting love that cannot last?” Her voice softened, but the steel remained. “This affair... it must end, Calliope.”

“She deserves it,” Calliope whispered, her voice barely audible, her pride still clinging to the remnants of defiance. Her sisters exchanged glances, even Euterpe, Melpomene, Thalia, Terpsichore, Urania who let the older ones guide the conversation, sitting on the side, realized with the exhausted sigh of Poly. They were no longer listening to her as a sister, but as a threat to their way of life.

Clio stepped forward, her eyes hard. If love and gentleness didn’t resolve, maybe rationality would. “And what of us, Calliope? What do we deserve? The wrath of the Queen of Four Loves for your defiance?”

The muses all knew what that meant. Lady Love’s sisters, the Ladies of Emotion, were known throughout the realms for their beauty, gracefulness, the embodiment of every form of feeling— They were good sisters, and loving nieces to the Aunts, but they were also known for their ruthless and unforgiving nature. Each had their way of exacting revenge. Honesty and Pride were quick to act when their husbands strayed, they had a tendency for the drama, crafting the bloodiest violent scenes as lessons to their husband.

Not that it worked, as their husbands were equally kin on bloodshed, feeling more proud and enticed by their wives. It is what Lady Honesty called “games of love”. Melancholy and Happiness had more long-term provoked suffering, playing with the lovers' emotion until they themselves ended their lives. Love didn’t agree with her sisters, and they would often fight when it came to discussion. Love used to say that they should punish their husbands for the infidelity, not the affairs they search for. Her sisters always disdain her opinion, saying that she would understand when she got a husband of their own.

Eoster promised herself to her if it ever came to infidelity, she would punish her husband and hold no ill against their lover. But more than often she broke that promise, and hated Calliope and referred to her by despicable names when fighting with Morpheus. Eoster knew it would elicit a reaction from him, she would have his attention, and after she hated herself for it, to reach so low, and found herself wanting her husband to defend her honor against the gossip and awful whispers that called her frigid and unfit, as he defended Calliope’s to her. But even in her lowest moments, Aphrodite never thought to resort to her sisters’ tricks and games. The muses however couldn’t know this, they couldn’t be certain, and they couldn’t risk it. It was for Calliope's own good and survival.

“If Lady Love chooses to punish you…,” Clio said, her voice now edged with fear, “She may be softer, but do not think her heart will remain unscathed by your defiance. She may not draw blood as Pride and Honesty do, but she can withhold her blessings, and with them, the very inspiration that keeps us alive.” Calliope’s sisters feared not just for her, but for themselves. They could not afford to anger the Queen of Love, the one who controlled mortal desires, the very prayers that sustained the Muses’ power.

Polyhymnia’s eyes hardened, her voice unwavering. “The mortals pray to us because they are moved by Love, Calliope. The songs, the poems, the art—it all begins with her. And if she turns away from them, if she takes away that spark… what would become of us?”

Calliope’s heart sank. She knew the weight of those words. Without the prayers, without the devotion of mortals, the Muses would fade. And it was all tied to Love, the queen whose influence stretched farther than even they could see.

“Oneiros won’t allow her. He promised me…” Calliope began, but her words sounded hollow even to her.

“Promised you?” Clio cut her off with a cold laugh. “What good are his promises when our very existence hangs in the balance? He will protect his queen, his soul, not you. You are a passing affair. She wears the crown.”

Polyhymnia stepped forward, her voice firm but tinged with sorrow. “You must understand, Calliope. This is not just about you or your heart. This is about all of us. We cannot risk losing everything for the sake of your… infatuation.”

Tears welled in Calliope’s eyes, but this time, they were not born of anger. They were tears of realization, of betrayal. Her sisters—her family—were not standing by her out of love or concern for her well-being. They were protecting themselves, preserving their own power.

Melpomene with her melodic voice, spoke for the first time, without directly facing Calliope, her tone different from all the others, she didn’t seem like to be talking directly to them, but to an invisible audience preaching a prophecy, her voice was distant “When push comes to shove, he will have one choice only. And she is the one sitting by his side, wearing his crown. She is, and always will be, his queen.”

Calliope looked at each of them, searching for a sign that they still cared for her, that their words came from love. But all she saw was fear—fear for their power, for their survival. They used the worry for her as an excuse to veil their desire of self preservation. The bond they shared, as muses, as sisters, had been broken, replaced by cold practicality.

She stood, feeling the sting of betrayal heavier than the slap across her cheek. She had lost her sisters.

—------------------ Calliope sat at the edge of the bed, her thoughts swirling as heavily as the storm outside the window. Her fingers rested on her belly, a gentle gesture, yet one laden with uncertainty. The Three stood before her, their dark chitons contrasting sharply against her pale gown, their presence an embodiment of fate and finality.

“My child,” the Mother began, her voice both tender and admonishing, “I feel for your tears, but you were warned. You were advised against this.”

Calliope had hesitated to summon them, but the silence of her sisters and the weight of her secret had driven her to desperation. She could no longer bear the burden alone. Weeks had passed without her monthly bleeding, and as the truth of her condition settled in, fear took its place. Oneiros had to know—yet how? How could she speak of the life growing inside her when the very act of creating it was shrouded in betrayal?

She could almost see the dream she once had, seemingly a lifetime ago, before the complications. Calliope watches them from the window from the same bedroom she sat now. A child wrapped in Morpheus’s arms, eyes like the starry skies of the Dreaming, cherished by the Lord of Dreams, as Morpheus would cradle him with the same tenderness he once held for her. How Morpheus would love him, their child, his child. She knew that, just as surely as she knew the stars would continue to shine. A father of stories would fill their child’s nights with tales of the Dreaming. In another life, perhaps, it would be a perfect future. But perfection, Calliope now knew, was fragile.

“It is the last time,” said the Crone, disapproval dripping from her lips as if she had already judged Calliope’s heart. “That is what she said, the last time,” echoed the Maiden, sitting beside Calliope and placing a compassionate arm around her shoulders.

Every breath Calliope took seemed to make the room smaller, as though the air itself was pushing in on her. “Please, my mothers, what shall I do? I crave your guidance.” A blessing it should be. A blessing that belongs only in that perfect life in her dream life.

Because the moment the universe learned of this child, the whispers, and gossip would become insufferable. A scandal, which according to Oneiros, was all that Love wanted to avoid. The Lady of Love herself floated through socials with her sweet, brittle smile and gentle manners. But a child would be different. No amount of feigned ignorance or public pleasantries would quell the storm that would follow.

Calliope knew little of Eoster beyond her public mask—preaching love, displaying polite affection for her husband, always by his side, with her hand holding his arm, in a way that grated on Calliope’s nerves. She expected to see a fracture in her facade or regret, but the Lady of Springs was always composed. In private, Eoster was miserable; Calliope knew this. And yet, despite her misery, the queen had never directly harmed her. She didn’t torture her by any means. But could she trust that?

Eoster might not harm the child, but Calliope didn’t know that. What guarantees did she have, besides Morpheus' word?

And worse— She could see the future as clearly as she could feel the weight in her womb—Morpheus loving their child, yes, but unable to silence the outside judgment. He could not protect him from the scorn of entities, nor from the cruelty of his own family. What would be his place in the universe? The opinion of others might not be relevant to the Dream King, but to a child, it might shape their future.

“I see it,” Calliope whispered, her voice trembling. “I see the life we could have. The child would be so adored by his father, loved as no child could dream to be loved. But...”

Her voice faltered as the weight of the decision pressed down upon her.”My mothers, What would you have me do?” She repeat the question, craving for an answer, for an solution made by others. If she kept the child, he would be a source of joy, but also a source of endless conflict. Their son would grow up knowing he was not entirely welcome, his very existence a reminder of the broken vows of a True Marriage. Would Eoster ever allow Calliope’s child to feel love? Or would she punish him by devoiding him from the feeling? An empty shell, never satisfied, never knowing what is missing.

“It is not a question of what we would have you do,” replied the Mother, her expression softening as she seated herself beside Calliope. “It is a question of what your heart will allow.”

Calliope’s gaze fell to the small cup in the Crone’s hands. The tea was warm, fragrant, almost inviting. “Poppy for a dreamless sleep,” said the Mother. “Peony and safflower to ease your pains, and honey to sweeten the bitterness.”

She stared at the cinnamon-colored liquid, her heart pounding in her chest. How easy it would be—just a sip, and the terrible weight that had settled in her bones would lift. Maybe in a few decades she would tell him. What would he think of her then? Morpheus would forgive her, embrace her, soothe her pain, but beneath that forgiveness would always lie a wound—a wound that would never heal, because she had taken away something he would have loved beyond all measure. He would always feel betrayed, even if he never said it aloud.

The Maiden’s voice broke her thoughts. “What pains you now will not pain you any longer.”

But Calliope’s hands were already trembling. Could she live knowing that she had denied her child the life he could have had, the father who would have adored him, all because she feared entities whose whole lives revolve around gossiping and whispering lies? Could she truly carry on, lying beside him, pretending as though nothing had happened?

She looked at the tea again, the weight of her decision pressing down harder with every passing second. She imagined again her child in Morpheus’s arms, the life they could share together. But then the universe’s whispers crept in—the cruel, cutting judgments, the sarcastic jokes and mean laughs, the reminders that their love was hurting love itself.

The Mother’s voice broke through her thoughts, gentle yet firm. “A child can be a blessing.”

“And a curse,” added the Crone, her tone far less comforting. “What the Dream Lord gives to one, he denies to another.” Calliope closed her eyes, taking a deep breath. She had made her choice, though the weight of it bore heavily on her heart. “I will talk to Oneiros,” she said, her voice steadier than she felt.

The Three exchanged glances, their expressions unreadable. The Mother spoke softly. “Guard your heart, for his answer may not be what you wish it to be.”

“And yet,” the Maiden added, “perhaps it will be.”

Calliope swallowed hard, fear and hope warring within her. Whatever path she chose, it was clear: there would be no peace. Whether she kept the child or ended its life, the scars would remain forever. Yet one thing she knew—she could not bear the weight of this choice alone. Morpheus had to know, and together they would face whatever came.

But the final words from the Three echoed loudest of all, chilling her to the bone. “Remember dear Calliope, if you keep this child, it will never be entirely only your son. It belongs to the Dreaming, and tragedy follows the Dream King.”

—------------------ They had a home, the Dream King and Calliope. It wasn't a palace, like the one in the Dreaming or the one in the Garden. It was a quiet home nestled within a secluded glade, where the trees whispered ancient secrets, and the light filtered through leaves in soft, golden dapples. It was their escape from both their realities. And Calliope and Morpheus were content there, the best they could, taking the circumstances. The land around them was pastoral, untouched by time—wildflowers spilled across the meadow, and a gentle stream wound lazily through the valley. It was a place that seemed to belong more to myth than reality, where dreams and reality blurred together, a sanctuary for their love.

In the early days, the thought of ending her pregnancy had never truly surfaced in their conversation. Calliope’s worry were clouded by the unexpected emotion by her so often introspective king. Morpheus had cradled her growing belly with tender reverence, his dark eyes softened by the love he felt for the life within her. Orpheus grew in their little bubble, they had built dreams of their son, untarnished by the harshness of the universe beyond. And Calliope had been cherished, adored by the Lord of Dreams as if nothing else mattered.

But no child can be forever protected, and Orpheus grew into a fine gentleman, and gifted of music. He was enamored by life and nature, and soon, against his mother’s wishes, started to frequent socials, only from the greek pantheon, which Aphrodite was usually absent. His charisma and harmonic voice, inherited from his mother, soon made him a dear guest at any greek social. Both Calliope and Morpheus forbade him from going to any universal manifestation meeting. Until one day his eyes turned to a girl that always ran way, but in early spring, decided to stay longer than usual, to celebrate the spring solstice and the good fortune that came from mortal’s abundant harvest.

And from a young love, the promised tragedy came.

“I am going to kill her!” Calliope's voice, raw from endless weeping, cracked with a fierce determination as Morpheus appeared, his presence still and impenetrable as ever. Her face was gaunt, cheeks hollow from the toll grief had taken. She had not truly slept since Orpheus' death, haunted by the cruel fate that had befallen her son.

Morpheus stood there, watching her, his expression unchanged—a figure wrapped in shadows, the weight of the Dreaming ever present in his silence.

“My beloved, calm down,” he said, his voice low, distant. But the words felt empty to her, hollow like the chasm now carved into her heart.

“Calm down? She killed him, Morpheus!” Calliope’s fists clenched, her eyes wild with fury. “She used that girl—Eurydice! She took him from us on the day of their wedding, trapped him in darkness. Our dear boy…”she wailed, her voice thick with sorrow. “He will hate the Underworld. He loved the sun, the earth, the very breath of life. And now... now, he is lost, forever entrapped, his soul, his poor soul.” Her sobs broke free again, as though the tears would never end.

Morpheus said nothing. He simply held her, as he had done countless times before, letting the storm of her grief rage while he remained the silent center. Rain began to fall in the Dreaming, clouds swirling above, a reflection of Calliope’s inner torment. He, however, was removed from it. His thoughts drifted to the Garden, to the figure of Love, serene in her eternal role, utterly unaware of this grief. He hadn’t seen Eoster in what felt like an age. The thought of her, oddly, surfaced now, perhaps jealousy of her unremarkable week. The bond was quiet, it has been for a few thousand of years.

Calliope’s tear-streaked face turned up toward him. “Promise me you will bring her to justice. Promise me that you will make her pay.” Morpheus’ eyes darkened. “Calliope... Eoster had nothing to do with this.”

“How can you be so sure?!” Her voice broke with disbelief. “There was a mortal girl, Morpheus. He followed her because he loved her. Loved, Morpheus. Does that sound familiar to you?”

He averted his gaze, jaw tight. “I warned him. I told him not to pursue Eurydice.”

“And that is all you have to say?” Her voice trembled with rising anger. “You warned him?” She scoffed bitterly. “She despised him. She despised me. Her sisters, her aunts, her cupids, her circle of protégés—they all called him a bastard behind your back, they shunned your son. Who do you think allowed that?”

“They needed no permission to behave as they did. Eoster does not control them any more than I can control the tides of time. She would not—”

“Why are you defending her?” Calliope’s voice was raw with accusation. “Orpheus’ blood is barely cold, and you’re here defending her! Why are you not feeling this? Why are you not seeking justice for your own flesh and blood? He was your son!”

Morpheus’ voice hardened, though his expression barely shifted. “Do not mistake my restraint for indifference. I grieve our son. But I will not be ruled by madness.” “Madness?” she spat. “Is that what you call a mother’s grief?” Her breath caught as she trembled. “How can you be so... How can you not see that she is responsible for this?”

His voice was ice, unyielding. “Eoster would never harm a child. She is the queen of love, of family. She would not break her vows so easily.”

Calliope's laughter came sharp and bitter. “Easily?” She whipped a tear from the side of her eye” Wouldn’t be the first time she’s bent her ‘sacred vows’ to get what she wants.”

A brief flicker of emotion crossed Morpheus’ face—something too fleeting to grasp. He inhaled deeply, grounding himself in the calm he always maintained. “Do not speak of what you don’t understand.” It was difficult to explain the bond, how he could be certain that Eoster had nothing to do with it. How he could vouch for her innocence even after years of not seeing her. How he knew her nature even if he didn’t properly know his wife as one often does.

“No. You’re right. I don’t understand. I don’t understand how you can stand there defending her—defending the woman who has scorned us since the day of that accursed marriage, who has despised your son from the moment of his birth.”

Silence.

Something dark and cold settled in her gaze as she looked at him.”Oh, I see” Calliope let out a sharp, mirthless laugh, one that sent shivers through the cold air. “She’s pregnant, isn’t she?” Her voice dropped to a low, venomous whisper. “That’s why you don’t care. She’s carrying your heir—your legitimate heir.” Morpheus’ brow furrowed, his face set like stone. “Calliope, that is not—”

“That’s why!” she cried, interrupting him, voice rising in hysteria. “That’s why you defend her! You have a new child to look forward to, a new legacy to secure. You won’t accuse the mother of your ‘legitimate’ heir, will you?”

His voice, usually a command in the realms of dream and reality, faltered for the briefest of moments. “Do you hear yourself? I know you are in pain, but do not twist this into something it is not.”

Her eyes blazed. “When push comes to shove, you’ll have only one choice.”

“What?” His voice was low, almost a whisper, but filled with a deep, unspoken sorrow.

“You’ll choose her. The one wearing the crown. Sitting by your side.” Calliope’s voice was cold now, final.

Morpheus moved closer, trying to reach her with words, with a touch—but she recoiled.

“Get out,” she demanded, her voice barely audible.

“Calliope, please...”

“Get out!” she screamed, her face twisted in grief, in rage.

Morpheus stood there, the weight of centuries pressing down on him, but his expression remained impassive. He gave a small nod, turned, and walked away.

Even as the pocket sand wrapped him, Calliope’s heartache echoed through the emptiness, and Morpheus was left to face the terrible truth—he could not bridge the gap between them. She would always hate him, see him as the one who could not protect their child.

And somewhere in the depths of his silence, he knew she was right.

@secretdreamlandmentality @littlemoistcarrot @lokigirlszendaya @notyourwildestdream @roxytheimmortal

[v1ctor1asecretangel]

Lets Groove Tonight

kit walker x reader

song i recommend listening too: i want your love by chic

warnings: mention of alcohol, suggestive dancing? not really though! reader is mentioned to be a "lady" and female pro nouns are mentioned. lots of build up cuz again.... im a slut for a backstory KIND CORNY.

word count: 4.5k

notes: yes yes i know kits timeline is in the 60s but i mean.... what would it hurt to put him in the 70s🤫 i thought of this while writing a waren lipka club fic and i was like..... KIT + 70S + DISCO = FUCKING HOT! and i apologize for how clunky this is ya girl is TIRED.

Ahh yes, the 1970. The year of the disco scene, the decade of bold colors, high fashion, and music that pulsed through your veins. It was all alive around you, vibrant and daring, and somehow, you were right in the middle of it.

So here you are, seated at the wooden vanity that your husband, Kit Walker, had crafted for you with his own hands. Each detail of it was unmistakably his work, the smooth, polished surface, the sturdy frame, and the slight scent of cedar that lingered as you leaned in closer to the mirror. Warm light glowed softly across the room, catching the soft, coiled strands of your hair as you adjusted them. The pin curls sat tight and meticulous, framing your face with a precision that took effort but looked effortless.

You focus on your reflection as you apply the last touches of your makeup, finishing off the look you’d spent the evening carefully crafting. You sweep a vibrant teal eyeshadow across your lids, letting the pigment stand out against your skin, shimmering in that daring, unapologetic way that only 70s fashion could. You smile at the final effect, a flash of color that catches the light every time you blink. Finally, you glide on a layer of nude lipstick, pressing your lips together to set the look—a perfectly balanced mix of bold and understated.

Taking a deep breath, you reach up and slowly pull each pin from your hair. The curls unfurl one by one, cascading around your shoulders in voluminous waves. You fluff them gently with your fingers, marveling at the soft, touchable texture that’s equal parts glamorous and natural. To complete the look, you slip on a simple white headband, tucking it back behind your ears and pushing the loose waves away from your face. The band sits perfectly in place, giving your style that effortless, carefree touch.

As a finishing touch, you reach for your Aqua Net hairspray and give a few even spritzes, holding the can at a practiced angle to ensure each curl holds without stiffness. The familiar scent fills the air as you watch your reflection take shape, your hair settling into soft, bouncy waves that will last well into the night.

You stand up from the vanity, taking one last look in the mirror to admire the final result. The gleam of teal eyeshadow, the soft waves, and the vintage headband all come together perfectly, embodying that effortless, chic vibe you’ve been craving. You smooth your hands down the front of your makeup-stained robe, then cross the room to the closet you share with Kit. As you open the door, your fingers glide over the colorful array of fabrics inside, each one a piece of the vibrant spirit that fills your life.

Your hand pauses on a bell sleeve mini dress, a shimmering piece of cream coloured fabric with a floral pattern woven into the material. The sleeves are long and flowy and the skirt has just the right amount of swing, giving it that playful, flirty edge that fits the mood of the night. You lift it from the hanger and step carefully into it, sliding the dress up over your hips, letting the fabric settle softly against your skin.

Just as you slip your arms into the airy, loose sleeves, you feel a warm presence behind you, a familiar touch that sends a shiver down your spine before you even turn around. Kit’s hands rest gently on your waist, and he leans close, his breath warm against your neck.

“Hey, suga’,” he murmurs, his voice low, tinged with a hint of mischief. You can hear the smirk in his words, and the sound alone is enough to make you smile. “Need some help with that?”

You glance over your shoulder, meeting his gaze with a grin. “Yes, actually, Kit. Could you please zip me up?”

Kit’s hand slides up to find the zipper, his fingers grazing the small of your back. He takes his time, zipping the dress slowly, letting the fabric hug your form as he draws it up inch by inch. Just when you think he’s done, Kit presses a gentle kiss to the back of your neck, and then another, his lips warm and soft against your skin. His touch is slow, lingering, as if savoring the moment with each kiss he leaves along the curve of your spine.

His hands rest on your shoulders as he finishes, giving them a gentle squeeze before he steps back, admiring his handiwork. “There you go, darlin’. Lookin’ like a dream.” His voice is low, thick with warmth, and his gaze travels over you with a blend of pride and adoration.

“Thank you, you’re an angel, Mr. Walka’,” you say with a playful lilt, pressing a kiss to his cheek. His skin is warm under your lips, and a slight grin spreads across his face as he watches you glide past him. You feel his gaze on you, that familiar, gentle heat, as you make your way out of the room.

At the front door, you reach down to grab your knee high white platform boots, admiring their pristine shine. The boots are perfect, capturing a daring vibe that’s made for a night like this. You slip each one on carefully, adjusting the fit and feeling the slight lift they give you. The smooth leather feels snug against your legs, accentuating the line of your calves, while the glossy finish gleams under the soft lighting. Once they’re on, you stand up, feeling a whole new level of confidence as you balance on the chunky heels.

Kit reaches for the door, his fingers wrapped around the handle, and with a smooth, gentlemanly gesture, he opens it wide for you. “Ladies first,” he says, voice warm and teasing as he dips his head slightly, holding the door as if he’s unveiling something grand.

You grin and step outside, feeling the cool evening air wrap around you, your dress swishing around your mid thighs as you walk. He follows you out, and the two of you stroll together, his hand finding the small of your back, guiding you toward his red truck parked under a tree. The truck has a certain charm, its deep crimson paint shining under the glow. When you reach it, he’s already ahead of you, opening the passenger door with a little flourish.

With a laugh, you hop up onto the seat, the soft interior fabric a comforting contrast to the cool night air. Kit closes the door gently behind you, his face lighting up as he circles around to the driver’s side. He climbs in, settles into his seat, and starts the engine, the gentle rumble filling the quiet of the street.

As he pulls away, the radio crackles to life, and “Heart of Glass” by Blondie fills the vehicle, the familiar bass line vibrating through the seats. You can’t help but start to sing, belting out every lyric with a confidence that only the two of you in the truck could hear. You sway in your seat to the beat, letting the music take over, glancing over at him as he watches you with a smile that reaches his eyes.

You look to the side, propping yourself up over the middle console just enough to reach him, and press a sweet kiss to his cheek, feeling the slight stubble under your lips. His hand reaches over instinctively, finding yours and giving it a quick squeeze, his thumb rubbing gentle circles on the back of your hand.

Finally, the neon lights of the disco club come into view, casting a rainbow of colors over the street. The parking lot is buzzing, the bass from inside thumping faintly even from here, and you can already feel the excitement pulsing through you. Kit pulls into a spot, shifts the truck into park, and turns to you, a twinkle in his eye, like he’s just as ready for this night as you are.

You step out of the truck, feeling the buzz of excitement as the neon lights from the club reflect off the polished white leather of your boots. Kit slides an arm around your shoulders, pulling you close as you walk toward the entrance. The bass from the club’s sound system pulses through the doors, thudding in time with your heartbeat. Kit flashes a grin at you, his own excitement mirroring yours.

As soon as you step inside, the club’s energy hits you in waves. Multicolored lights swirl overhead, flashing across the dance floor packed with bodies moving in perfect rhythm, their sequins, bell-bottoms, and feathered hair catching the strobe lights. The air is heavy with the scent of hairspray, perfume, and a hint of leather and smoke, mingling with the beat of the club

Kit gives your waist a little squeeze, leaning in close to shout over the music, “Gonna start the night off with somethin’ strong? White Russian for the lady, right?”

You nod with a grin. “You know it, babe. Let’s do this right.”

The two of you make your way to the bar, Kit’s hand never leaving your hip. You feel his warmth even in the cool air of the club, grounding you amid the frenzy. He leans across the counter and orders with his signature Boston charm, flashing a confident smile. “White Russian for her, whiskey for me, pal.”

Moments later, the bartender hands over your drinks, and you take a long, slow sip of your cocktail. The mix of cream, vodka, and coffee liqueur slides over your tongue, rich and smooth. Kit watches you, his eyes alight with amusement as he takes a swig of his whiskey.

“Tastes good, huh?” he teases, leaning in close.

“Mmm, perfect,” you say, licking a trace of cream from your lip, giving him a playful look. “Now let’s see if you got the moves to keep up with me, Mr. Walker.”

He laughs, a low sound that mixes with the beat of the music, and takes your hand, leading you toward the dance floor. The opening beats of I Want Your Love by Chic filter through the speakers, and the room seems to come alive in time with the rhythm. People on the floor cheer, spinning in wide circles, hands raised as the song’s bass line rolls out in waves.

Kit moves behind you, his hands slipping onto your waist, pulling you back against him. You can feel his warm breath at your ear as he murmurs, “Show me whatcha got, darlin’.”

With a grin, you start to sway to the beat, slipping effortlessly into the classic disco moves. You stretch one arm out, fingers pointed, before pulling it back in, letting your hips sway side to side in sync with the music. Kit’s hands stay firmly on your waist, guiding you, his thumbs grazing over your hips as he sways along with you. The two of you move as one, sinking into the rhythm of the song as it fills the room. You throw your arms up in the air, fingers snapping to the beat, feeling the pulse of the music flow through you.

Kit chuckles, leaning in close to your ear, his voice thick, “Ya look like a million bucks out here, baby. Like ya were born for this.”

You laugh, pressing back against him, feeling his solid presence behind you. “Maybe I was, Kit,” you say, flashing him a playful look over your shoulder. “Ya got the moves to keep up?”

“Oh, I got moves,” he replies, his grin turning a bit cocky. His hands tighten on your waist, and he pulls you even closer, his hips swaying in perfect rhythm with yours.

The chorus kicks in, and you spin around to face him, throwing your arms over his shoulders as you sway together. Kit grins, his eyes crinkling at the corners, the lights above flashing in his dark eyes. He’s got that look of pure joy, the kind you only see when he’s completely in the moment.

“Damn, baby, you’re somethin’ else,” he says, his voice a low murmur against your ear.

You toss your hair back, giving him a wink.

"Right back atcha, handsome." His eyes glint with something deeper as he gazes down at you, that grin slipping into something softer, more intense, that pulls you in closer.

The music pulses around you both, like it's part of you now, a beat that syncs with your heart. Kit's hands slide up your sides, his fingers skimming over the soft fabric of your dress. You shiver under his touch, feeling every gentle pressure as he wraps his arms around you, pulling you closer until there's hardly any space left between you.

You look up into his eyes, the colored lights flashing above casting shadows that make his gaze even more mesmerizing. His face is just inches from yours, and you feel his breath, warm and slow, against your cheek. He leans in, and you can see the slight smile on his lips as his hand moves to the small of your back, guiding you in a slow, sultry sway to the rhythm of the music. You press yourself against him, letting him lead you, feeling his solid warmth, the gentle press of his body against yours.

Your hands find their way up to his chest, fingers lightly tracing the edges of his collar as you take in the texture of his shirt, the steady beat of his heart beneath it. His hands tighten on your waist, holding you like he doesn't want to let go, and his head dips down toward you, his lips brushing softly against your cheek. It's barely a kiss, more of a tease, his lips grazing your skin as his hands slide down your back.

You feel your heart race, each beat quickening in time with the music. The world around you blurs, the swirling lights, the heat of the crowded room. All of it fades away until there's nothing but you and Kit, caught in this intoxicating dance. His mouth moves to your ear, his voice a low murmur that sends a thrill down your spine.

"Ya know, I could dance with you like this all night," he whispers, his breath warm against your ear. "Makin' everyone here jealous as hell."

You smile, tilting your head to meet his eyes, your hand slipping up to cup his cheek. "Good. Let 'em be jealous." Your voice is soft but daring, and his smile widens at your words.

Without another word, he leans in, his lips finally pressing against yours. The kiss is slow, unhurried, like he's savoring every second. His hand slides up to cradle the back of your neck, fingers tangling gently in your hair as he pulls you even closer, deepening the kiss. The music fills the spaces between you, heightening every sensation, every touch. You feel the strength in his arms, the steady way he holds you, grounding you and setting you alight all at once.

Your arms wrap around his neck, pulling him closer as you lose yourself in the kiss, in the warmth of his body against yours. The crowd around you seems to fade entirely, the music a distant pulse as he presses his forehead against yours, catching his breath, his thumb gently brushing over your cheek.

"You're somethin' else, ya know that?" he murmurs, his voice thick with feeling, his gaze locked onto yours, as if he's seeing something in you that no one else ever has.

You bite your lip, barely able to keep the smile from spreading across your face.

"Guess you bring it out of me."

With a grin, he spins you around, his hands on your hips as he pulls you back against him, moving with you in time to the beat.

You laugh, the sound light and free, and he leans down, his lips brushing your shoulder, sending a shiver through you. You sway together, moving as one, his hands guiding you in slow circles, as though he's afraid to break the spell.

As the song's beat pulses on, you let yourself sink into him, feeling his breath, his touch, the steady rhythm of his heartbeat against your back. You close your eyes, allowing the moment to consume you completely, each note of the song carrying you both deeper into a connection that feels as electric as the music filling the room.

The night at the club felt like magic, like stepping into a different world. But now, as you and Kit step out into the cool night air, there’s a different kind of warmth between you. A quiet, lingering happiness that’s somehow just as bright as the flashing lights and thumping beats of the club.

Kit’s arm wraps around your waist, pulling you close as you make your way back to his truck. The music from the club fades as the door swings shut behind you, leaving just the sound of your laughter and the soft crunch of gravel underfoot. Kit’s fingers give your side a little squeeze, and he glances over, his dark eyes reflecting the soft glow of the streetlights.

“Didn’t know ya had moves like that, darlin’,” he teases, that playful Boston drawl coming through thick and warm.

You laugh, leaning into him as you walk. “Thought I’d surprise ya. And you, Mr. Walker, I had no idea you were such a smooth dancer.”

“Yeah? Well, I do my best,” he says with a grin, reaching out to open the passenger door for you. “Hop on in, Mrs. Walker.”

You slide into the seat, a smile lingering on your lips as he shuts the door gently behind you. A second later, he’s in the driver’s seat, settling in and giving you a quick, happy look before starting the engine. The gentle rumble fills the truck, and Kit reaches over, finding your hand with his and giving it a soft squeeze.

The drive home is quiet, the streets empty, and the only light is from the streetlamps casting a soft glow over everything. Kit keeps one hand on the wheel, the other intertwined with yours, his thumb brushing small circles over your knuckles. The radio hums softly, playing a familiar, gentle tune. A perfect backdrop to the night.

Kit glances over, catching your eye, his smile tender. “Ya had a good time, sweetheart?”

You nod, squeezing his hand in return. “Perfect night. You, me, a little disco… Couldn’t ask for anything better.”

“Yeah?” He lets out a soft chuckle, looking back to the road. “Well, I’ll have to take ya dancin’ more often. You light up that floor, ya know?”

You lean your head against the seat, watching him with a soft smile. “Only ‘cause you’re there with me.”

For a moment, he just looks at you, his eyes warm and deep, like he’s memorizing every detail of you in this moment. “Darlin’, you got no idea what you do to me,” he murmurs, his voice low and a little rough around the edges, softened by affection. “Every time I look at ya, I just feel… lucky.”

A warmth spreads through your chest, and you feel yourself blush a little under his gaze. “Kit, I’m the lucky one,” you say softly, your fingers lacing even tighter through his.

“Yeah, well,” he replies, his grin turning a little sheepish, “maybe we’re both lucky, then.”

As you pull closer to home, Kit rolls down the window a bit, letting the night air sweep in. It’s fresh and cool, a welcome contrast to the warmth inside the truck, and the scent of pine and earth fills the air. You close your eyes for a second, breathing it in, feeling completely at peace.

Kit looks over, his face softened in the gentle moonlight, and reaches up to brush a loose strand of hair behind your ear. “Y’know,” he murmurs, “nights like this… they’re what I live for.”

You smile, your eyes meeting his. “Same here, babe. Just us. Nothing else.”

The truck rolls to a gentle stop in front of your shared house, and he cuts the engine. For a moment, neither of you move, just sitting there, soaking up the quiet, intimate warmth of the moment. He brings your hand to his lips, pressing a soft, lingering kiss to your knuckles, his eyes never leaving yours.

Kit’s hand lingers on yours as he gently releases the seatbelt, his eyes catching yours in the soft, dim light. The world feels quiet, like it’s just the two of you wrapped in a bubble of peace and warmth. He leans in, pressing a gentle kiss to your forehead, his lips warm and soft against your skin.

“C’mon, darlin’,” he murmurs, his voice softened, barely above a whisper. “Let’s get ya inside.”

He slides out of the truck, circling around to your side in a few strides. Even after all this time, he always insists on opening the door for you, and tonight is no different. He pulls it open with a gentle smile, extending his hand to help you down from the seat. As your boots touch the ground, you can’t help but smile up at him, your fingers still laced in his.

The night air feels even cooler as it brushes over your skin, but Kit’s hand is warm. The two of you walk up the path to the house slowly, savoring each step, your fingers still intertwined. He holds you close as you make your way up the steps, the wooden porch creaking slightly underfoot, a familiar sound that makes home feel even cozier.

Kit pauses at the door, giving you a long, lingering look, his dark eyes shining with that deep affection you’ve seen in countless moments like this. He raises your joined hands to his lips, pressing another kiss to your knuckles. “Ya look real pretty tonight, ya know that?”

You smile, feeling a warmth bloom in your chest. “Thank you, Kit. You’re not so bad yourself.”

He chuckles, a quiet, content sound, and finally reaches for the door, opening it with a slow creak.

As you and Kit step through the front door, a calm stillness settles over the house. The warmth of your night together lingers between you, a gentle reminder of the fun and closeness you shared. Kit’s hand is steady at your waist as he guides you inside, his fingers tracing slow, comforting circles.

Once you’re in the soft glow of the living room, he turns to you with a gentle smile. “Alright, darlin’,” he murmurs, his voice soft with tenderness. “Let’s get ya comfy.”

Without another word, he kneels down in front of you, one hand sliding along the back of your calf as he reaches for the zipper of your boot. His fingers work slowly, careful not to rush, as though he’s savoring every little moment. When the first boot slides off, he leans down, pressing a gentle kiss to the arch of your foot, then moves up to your ankle, leaving a trail of warm, soft kisses that send a shiver up your spine.

He looks up at you, a soft grin lighting up his face as he takes off the second boot. “Been lookin’ at these all night,” he teases, his voice low and playful. “Ya wear the hell outta these boots, but I’ll tell ya, they look even better comin’ off.”

You laugh softly, feeling warmth rise to your cheeks. Kit stands, sliding his hands up to your waist, his fingers tracing over the fabric of your dress before he takes your hand and leads you down the hallway. You follow him, feeling a gentle anticipation as he brings you into the bathroom.

Once there, he turns to you, his gaze warm and focused. He reaches for a soft cloth, dampening it under warm water, and then brings it up to your face with a gentle touch. He starts wiping away your makeup, careful and precise, his thumb brushing softly over your cheek as he clears away the remnants of eyeshadow and lipstick. The warm cloth feels soothing against your skin, and his tender gaze never leaves your face.

As he works, he murmurs softly, his voice thick with affection. “Ya know, you’re somethin’ else. Didn’t need any of this to begin with,” he says, gesturing to the makeup he’s gently wiping away. “Just as beautiful as ya are. Hell, I’d say even more so.”

You smile, eyes soft as you watch him. “Flatterer,” you tease, but his words make you feel warm, like you’re wrapped in a soft glow that only he can give you.

Once he’s finished, he sets the cloth aside, giving you a quick kiss on the forehead before gently guiding you out of the bathroom. His hands are steady on your shoulders as he leads you to the bedroom, his touch grounding, calming. He steps behind you, unzipping your dress with the same care he showed with the boots, sliding the fabric down over your shoulders and letting it pool softly around your feet.

He finds your favorite pair of pyjamas. A soft, worn set that’s seen countless cozy nights and slips the top over your head, guiding your arms through the sleeves. Then he gently pulls the matching pants up your legs, his hands warm and careful as he helps you step into them, before smoothing the waistband comfortably against your hips.

“There we go,” he murmurs, his voice filled with quiet pride as he guides you toward the bed, pulling back the covers and tucking you in with a softness that melts your heart. He presses a quick, tender kiss to your forehead, his eyes lingering on you with an adoring smile.

“Alright, sweetheart,” he whispers, “just get settled. I’ll be right back.” He straightens, giving you one last look before heading back to the bathroom to finish getting ready himself.

You watch him go, feeling the warmth of his care still wrapped around you. A few moments later, he returns, his face fresh and hair slightly damp, and he slips into bed beside you, the mattress dipping under his weight as he pulls the covers up around you both. He wraps an arm around you, and you feel his warmth spread across your back as he settles in close.

You turn to face him, resting your head on his chest, feeling the steady beat of his heart beneath your cheek. His arm slips under your head, his fingers finding their way into your hair, gently twirling and stroking through the strands. His other hand rests against your back, drawing slow, soothing circles that send you into a deep, quiet peace.

“Ya know somethin’?” he murmurs, his voice a low, comforting rumble in your ear. “I’m the luckiest guy in the world, and I mean that. Every damn day, I get to look at you, love you, be with you.”

You smile, nuzzling into his chest. “I love you too, Kit,” you whisper, feeling a deep, contented warmth settle in your chest.

He holds you close, his hand brushing gently through your hair as his voice grows softer, his words gentle. “That’s my girl… Just close those eyes, honey. I gotcha.” His hand continues its gentle, soothing motion, and the sound of his steady heartbeat lulls you into the sweetest, most peaceful sleep.