d2iose - Tumblr blog

d2iose · 23 days ago

Text

WOWWWW I LOVE

P: Auction winner!Niki x ballerina!reader

Warnings: Power imbalance, possesiveness, very minor mention of blood, mentions of financial desperations, dubious consent, reader is said to have delicate feet, ownership themes, human auction (reader is sold in an auction), physical touch, fluff-?, usage of both Niki and Riki thought referring to the same person- Nishimura Riki, obsessive behaviour, kisses on feet-?

Synopsis: You were a ballerina—graceful, delicate, and broke. When your mentor whispered about a secret gala, you didn’t know you’d be sold. Bought for a hundred million dollars by a man who spoke little and watched too closely, you expected control, cruelty, maybe even a golden cage. But he gave you quiet hallways to walk barefoot, silk sheets to sleep in, and a world scrubbed clean for your comfort. He never asked you to love him. He only made sure you had no reason not to.

Wordcount: 11,1k

Ballet wasn’t just another hobby to you.

It was your life. A silent language your body spoke when words didn’t do justice.

You find solace in the way you move your muscles, the way you pad on your toes, the way you twirl gracefully with your arms stretched.

You love the beautiful symphonies your body makes mirroring the music that plays, it was as if you were one with the music- the art.

You remember the first time you stood on your tip toes- your calves aching, your ankles trembling to balance the weight of your body, but you didn’t mind the pain. You loved it.

The pain only meant one thing- you were reaching, striving.

In a world where everything was slipping through your fingers, ballet stayed.

The studios which mirrored your delicate form. The pale pink ribbons that moved with you like it was another part of your body. The aching swell in your chest when the music began- like your heart recognized a home it had never seen.

There was some kind of peace to it. The kind of peace when your thoughts melted away and your body moved through the air.

You didn’t need applause- you didn’t want it. You didn’t dance because you wanted to satisfy your mentor, you didn’t dance because you wanted the cheers. No. You danced because it reminded you you were alive. And that you weren’t alone- that ballet was with you.

Your shoes which weren't yours padded against the red carpet which led to a theatre. The dress you’re wearing wasn't yours either. Neither were the diamond earrings which adorned your ears and the glittering thin chain which brushed against your neck everytime you turned your head.

Even your name on the invitation which was printed in delicate gold foil didn’t feel like yours. It was like your name didn’t deserve to be written and printed with such care, such luxury and such extravagance.

But desperate people learn how to lean on to illusions which aren’t theirs.

You looked around the huge halls, the empty space filled with over-the-top pieces covered with diamonds, detailed art pieces and tall ceilings. The interior was lit with warm gold light, soft classical music humming faintly through the windows.

You didn’t eat a full meal in days. Your rent was overdue. And yet here you were- drawn in by whispers and rumors, all tracing back to one thing.

A private gala. A mysterious host. A ballet auction.

“Just smile,” your mentor had told you interrupting your thoughts.

“You’re not there to blend in- you’re there to be seen.”

And so, you walked up the marble steps. You didn’t know that once you entered, you wouldn’t be leaving on your own terms. You didn’t know his eyes were already on you- sharp, unreadable, and far too focused for someone you’d never met.

And that’s how you are here, on the huge stage.

The air heavy with perfume and money. Everyone’s sitting around the velvet curtained stage, wearing sharp suits. Eyes gleaming. Like wolves dressed in suits.

You’re barefoot, your feet feeling the expensive and polished wood beneath you. Dressed in the faintest ivory silk, hair pinned like you are made out of porcelain, not bone and flesh.

You don’t speak. You don't need to.

The music begins. A single piano note continued by multiple.

And you dance.

You dance like the men there don’t exist. Your body remembers the movements though your brain doesn’t. You spin. Controlled. Graceful. Your body dances as if it’s one with the notes.

The room holds its breathe like it’s amazed by your performance- your art.

A voice is heard cutting the invisible amazement resting on the peoples’ faces,

“Starting bid, 5 million dollars.”

It rises quickly.

“Seven.”

“Eight million.”

“Ten”

“Twenty-two.”

You kept dancing as if you aren’t hearing the money proposed to win you.

“Thirty-five million!”

Another shout. Another flash of a raised card.

And then—

From the back of the room:

“One hundred million.”

Silence. His voice sharp and sudden like a blade.

Everyone turns.

A young man sits alone, legs crossed, completely relaxed. No paddle. No number. Just a glass of untouched wine in his hand and eyes fixed solely on you.

He doesn’t say it again.

He doesn’t need to.

The host swallows. “Sold.”

The music stops. But you don’t. You do a one last spin. One last breathe. Before everything disappears into velvet.

And he? He watches you. Like he didn’t just buy you. Like he just bought you freedom and like he’s been waiting his whole life just for you to exist.

The sleek black car pulls up infont of the mansion- a fortress of glass, cement, history and wealth. The gate opens with a mechanical hum, and you feel the car entering. No one speaks. The driver doesn’t dare to glance at you. The windows are tinted too dark, but you don’t care.

The car finally stops; the door opens.

You step out, barefoot, the cool stone pressing against the arches of your foot. The mansion stands before you, towering and gleaming in the moonlight as if it’s the mansion’s way of welcoming. Everything is quiet, too quiet.

You’ve never been here before. You’ve never seen anything like this before.

You enter the mansion, your feet touching the cold marble underneath it. You admire the beautiful interior. It wasn’t extravagant, wasn't filled with huge chandeliers and wasn't filled with unnecessary expensive house decors. But it was perfect, plain black walls which reflected him, high ceilings, few paintings, and most minimal but luxurious interior you’ve ever seen.

And then-

“Welcome home.”

You turn to the source to see him standing, the one who bought you.

Nishimura Riki.

His hands are folded, his eyes too calm for someone who just spent an amount of money that could buy entire kingdoms. He looks young. But there’s something behind those dark eyes. Something old. Too old for his face.

“You should have stayed inside the car,” he continues, eyes moving over your bare feet, your attire, the soft lines of your form. “You’ll catch a cold.”

You raise an eyebrow, unfazed.

“Do you worry about everyone who steps foot in your home?”

He watches you for a long moment. Just looks. As if studying your every move, your breath, your body.

“Not everyone,” he answers finally, his voice dropping an octave. “But you’re different.”

You tilt your head slightly. A challenge, though still wrapped in that quiet, ethereal calm.

“How am I different?” you ask.

He doesn’t smile, but there’s an edge to his gaze.

“You’ll know.”

A slow pause, and you step forward, moving with the same grace you showed at the auction. You don’t say anything, just step lightly, like your drawn to the mansion despite the icy feeling it gives you.

“Do you own this?” you ask, your eyes scanning the modern, polished interior of the mansion.

“I do,” he says.

You don’t respond immediately. The silence wraps around you both again, thick and heavy.

“How long are you planning to keep me here?” You ask, your voice finally laced with something less passive—just a soft curiosity.

His lips curl into a smirk, just a little. But there’s something behind it. Something dangerous. He steps closer, leaning slightly forward as he speaks.

“As long as I want. And as long as you don’t give me a reason to make you leave.”

You meet his gaze evenly. No fear. No hesitation.

“I don’t leave,” you say quietly, “unless I’m forced to.”

His smirk fades slightly, replaced by something else—something darker.

“Then I suppose we’ll have to get along,” he says, almost like a promise.

He turns, motioning toward the hallway.

“Come. I’ll show you to your room.”

Your eyes flicker to his back as he leads you deeper into the mansion. It’s huge, an endless series of hallways, high ceilings, stark walls. There’s a feeling that every step you take is watched by invisible eyes. And every step he takes is watched by your eyes.

You reach a door at the end of the hallway; he slides the door open.

“This is where you’ll stay.” he says softly and steps aside so you could enter first.

The door slides open into a room so large it feels like a wing of the mansion. Your eyes widen slightly as you take in the scale of it- the enormous canopy bed, the floor to ceiling glass windows draped with rich, dark curtains, the white marble absorbing the soft glow of the lights.

The room smells like fresh flowers and something else, something clean, like new silk.

The bed is enormous, draped in white silk sheets that shimmer under the low lighting. Pillows are stacked high, luxurious, inviting. There’s a sitting area to the left, complete with velvet chairs and a long marble coffee table. A bookshelf filled with books you know you’ll read. A dresser, a vanity, a full-length mirror.

And then there’s the view. Out of the windows, you can see the mansion’s sprawling gardens- lawns so well-kept they look like the perfect still-life paintings. Nothing out of place. Everything too perfect.

For a moment, you don’t speak. Don’t move.

Niki watches you from the doorframe, his posture relaxed but his eyes intense. He knows you’re analyzing everything, but he doesn’t rush you.

“It’s a little…” he pauses as you step inside, your gaze still flickering around the room. “…larger than what you’re used to, I assume.”

You don’t respond at first. Instead, you run your fingers across the back of a velvet chair, then moves toward the bed. The silk sheets ripple slightly under your touch as you sit at the edge, your legs folded underneath you.

“It’s a little too much,” you say, almost under your breath. Your fingers graze the silk again, still hesitant.

You look up at him.

“What do you want from me?” you ask, your voice steady, but laced with something softer this time. There’s no edge to it, no rebellion—just a curious calm.

His gaze softens. Just a little. There’s something like admiration there, a flicker of understanding.

“For you to be comfortable,” he says quietly, his voice low, as if choosing his words carefully. “I’ll make sure you have everything you need.”

You don’t know if you believe him.

You glance at him, assessing. His eyes are steady—calm. He doesn’t seem like the type who’d force anyone into something they didn’t want. But his silence speaks louder than his words.

“Comfortable,” you repeat, tasting the word. The weight of the room, the overwhelming luxury, feels foreign. But you don’t want to show him that. Not yet.

You stand up, the silk sheets pooling around your feet as you walk towards the window. You stare out at the garden for a long moment, taking in the moonlight, the cold air that filters in.

Riki stays at the door, watching you, but doesn’t speak yet.

“It’s still too much,” you say softly, almost like a confession.

“Everything I have,�� he says after a pause, his voice a little more serious, “I have because I want it. If I wanted you to be just another piece of property, I would’ve given you a room just like any other. But I bought you for a reason. I want you to want this.”

You look back at him over your shoulder.

“You think I want any of this?” you ask, your words quiet, but sharp.

Riki doesn’t move, but his gaze doesn’t waver.

“You will,” he says simply.

You don’t answer. You can’t.

He nods, stepping back slowly, giving you space.

“If you need anything,” he says, his voice softer, “just call. The house is yours now. But only as long as you make it your own.”

With that, he turns, but not without one last look over his shoulder.

“Goodnight, Y/N.”

You stand there for a long moment, staring at the door long after he’s gone.

And though the room feels too large, too empty, you can’t help but wonder how long it’ll take before it starts to feel like yours.

The dining table stretched long and polished, lined with plates and neatly folded napkins that look too delicate for how heavy the air felt.

A staff guides you to the dining room, your bare foot padding behind them against the marble floor.

You sat near the middle, fingers curling and uncurling in your lap. The silk dress they’d given you was too smooth, too perfect. You felt like a misplaced figurine — breakable in a place built for power.

And at the other end of the table…

He watched.

Riki.

He nodded once at the maid. A plate was set before you, silverware shining like it had never been used.

“You should eat,” he said, voice smooth — quiet, but final.

You glanced down at the food. Everything looked expensive. Fragile. Like if you touched it wrong, it would vanish or crack under the pressure of being touched by someone like you.

He noticed your hesitation.

“They asked what you liked,” he added, almost softer this time. “I told them to make a little bit of everything.”

Your gaze lifted slightly, brows tightening.

“You didn’t know what I liked.”

“I wanted to find out.”

Silence again. The kind that wrapped around your throat but didn’t choke.

He was eating too, now — unhurried, elegant in the way predators usually were. Not once did he look away. Not once did his focus shift.

You took a bite. Small. Careful.

He smiled.

“Do you like it?”

You gave the faintest nod. And something about that pleased him too much.

“From now on,” he said, sipping his wine, “you eat with me.”

It wasn’t a demand. It wasn’t a suggestion either. It was just something he had already decided.

And you?

You only picked up your fork again. Because you could feel it — the way the walls of this place whispered his presence.

There was nowhere to hide.

But there was also… no reason to.

Not when he looked at you like you were a piece of art finally returned to its rightful collector.

After completing dinner, you left to your room to rest as Niki suggested. The staff guided your way back to the room, your feet as always, bare walking on the marble but now, it didn’t feel cold. You don’t know if it’s because you accepted it or because you started to like it.

A few days pass by. Niki showed you a ballroom filled with delicate and sheer white cloth surround few areas, art painted across the ceiling with an elegant chandelier in between, a gramophone which fills out the room when played in the corner of the room sitting on a table beside a box full of classical discs.

Riki told you few stories which were experienced by the people in the frames which sat on his wall in the office room. He told the meanings of every art piece you questioned the backstory of. He bought you drinks in the middle of the day when you were laying on the bed bored or just were simply watching the TV.

One thing Niki also did was he noticed every single thing about you.

Like how you like your drinks cool, how you always read in the evenings when it’s about to get dark outside, how your eyes don’t glow with delight when you eat food you don’t like, how you nod your head- just a little when you like the food, how you like to roam around the huge space and especially how you walk barefoot all the time.

You walk barefoot all the time. Right. He noticed it, ofcourse he did.

He didn’t tell you to wear slippers- hell, he didn't even ask you to wear socks. Because he thinks, you can do whatever you wish for. He didn’t want to restrict you, no. He didn’t buy you at the auction for that. He wanted you to be free. He wanted you to do whatever you want without any concerns. He wanted you to think of him as your safe place.

But that doesn’t mean he doesn’t care about you- care about the floors which may not be truly clean because before you, no one walked around the mansion barefoot. The floors were cleaned once every morning due to the sake of it. But this shouldn’t continue because now? Now you’re here, in the mansion with your delicate foot pressing on the white marble.

And that’s the reason why he’s standing in the middle of the main hall, his dark eyes sweeping upon the numerous staff lined up before him. A cold silence hung between them—until he spoke.

“Now on, the floors will be cleaned three times a day,” he said, voice like a blade. “In the morning, during lunch and during dinner.”

A few of them blinked, confused. No one dared question him. Still, one hand lifted in hesitation.

“Sir, if I may—”

“You may not,” he cut, calmly.

“No shoes in the east wing. No carts. No buckets left out. Not a speck of dust. If her feet touch it, and I see a mark…”

He paused, tilting his head slightly. “Let’s just hope I never have to explain what happens next.”

The room went still.

“And one more thing,” he said, voice soft but full of threat. “Do not approach her. Do not speak to her. If she asks for something, inform me. If she wanders into your space, you disappear from it.”

His tone didn’t rise once. He didn’t have to. Every word was an order etched in stone.

“That girl walks barefoot in my house,” he murmured, almost to himself now, eyes distant. “So, the world she walks on will obey.”

Then he turned away and disappeared into the endless hallways, his staff watching him until he’s out of sight. No one understood why he’s like this, but no one dared to question too. With that, the staff disappeared with the new rules repeating in their mind like mantra.

The room feels like it’s closing itself again, the silence too thick, too still. You’ve been staring out the long windows for too long, your fingers brushing against the cool glass. The garden bellow calls to you in a way you can't ignore.

The huge transparent mirror is acting like a shield, protecting the freedom, the liveliness and the peace that comes from the garden. It’s the only thing that’s stopping you from going out and laying on the grass.

It looks alive, so alive compared the stillness inside your room right now. The trees sway gently in the night breeze and you can hear the soft hum of insects even through the thick glass windows. There's something about it, the life, the freedom of it all tugs at your chest.

You stand up abruptly, walking to the door, your silk gown brushing against your mid thighs and you slide the door open before you can second guess yourself. The house is quiet as always, but you aren't interested to keep up with the silence anymore.

You find him in the hallway, sitting on the couch with his legs crossed and a phone in his hand.

"I want to see the backyard." You say, the words slipping out. It's not a demand, but it's not a request either. It's a need, a soft yearning in your voice which surprises you more than it should.

He pauses and then turns his head, looking at you with that unreadable expression. His eyes flicker down to your bare legs and feet, the hard marble beneath, before meeting your gaze again.

"It's late." He replies, but the tone isn't dismissive. There's something about the way he speaks that feels more like a suggestion, but also more like permission. He's not stopping you, but he's not pushing either.

You hold his gaze for a beat longer before speaking again.

"I know, But I can see it from my room- I want to go, it seems so lively out there. I just want to feel it. The world out there feels different." You trail off, unsure of what exactly you're trying to say.

Niki doesn't respond immediately, and you almost thought he'll deny it-

"Alright," he says after a moment, he gets up, his voice soft but firm. "If you really want to."

You're happy, more than anything. It feels like there are no more chains which make you roam only in the insides, no restrictions- just freedom. Freedom of going out for the first time after coming here, taking in the fresh air. You don't waste any time. You step forward and he follows you as you move towards the exit- towards the freedom.

When you finally step outside, the cool and fresh air brushes over your skin and you breathe it in deeply, savoring it. The grass feels soft beneath your feet, like walking on a thick carpet, cool and welcoming.

You pause, letting the sensation sink it. The feel of nature beneath you is something you didn't even realize you craved until now. The quiet rustling of leaves and the happy sounds of birds are the only sounds that fill in the air.

You close your eyes for a moment, letting the moment stretch out, almost like you could forget where you were for just a brief instant. But the sound of footsteps approaching made your eyes open.

Riki’s in the garden with his back leaning against the garden side of your window. He doesn’t come any closer, but his presence is still felt.

“It’s peaceful out here,” you murmur, looking back at him.

“It is,” he agrees, his voice low, almost like a secret shared between them.

He watches you, a small, knowing smile tugging at his lips. Not one of triumph, not one of ownership—just something soft, something real.

“You’ll get used to it,” he says, his voice barely above a whisper, the way the night air carries a promise.

“It’s nice,” you murmured, half to yourself.

“You can come here whenever you want,” he said, his voice lower now, softer. “I had it made for you. Just... don’t be out too late.”

You don’t answer. Instead, you look back down at the soft grass beneath your feet, your toes curling into it, grounding yourself.

And for a moment, it feels like home.

The door creaked open with barely a sound.

You didn’t flinch — you heard the footsteps long before. Measured, quiet, almost respectful. You didn’t need to look to know it was him.

Still, you kept your eyes on the book resting in your lap, the pages bathed in the soft golden glow of the bedside lamp. Your legs were tucked beneath the sheets, the silk brushing your skin, and the room smelled faintly of lavender and well, you.

“You’re not asleep,” he said, more observation than question.

You turned a page.

“Neither are you.”

There was a pause.

Then the soft click of the door shutting behind him.

You could feel the air shift, his presence taking up more space than his body ever did. He stepped closer, eyes flickering to the book in your hands.

“What are you reading?”

“Something old. Something quiet,” you replied.

He nodded once, slowly. And then, without asking, he moved to the armchair across from your bed and sat — legs crossed, one hand pressed to his lips as he simply watched.

“You could’ve slept in your own bed,” you murmured.

“Could’ve,” he echoed. “Didn’t want to.”

Your eyes met across the space. And for a moment, it was quiet. Deep, gentle quiet. The kind that doesn't demand answers, only stays.

Then he leaned back, voice barely above a whisper.

“Read to me.”

You blinked. “Now?”

“You’re already awake.”

A beat.

“And your voice makes things softer.”

You didn’t answer.

You just looked back down at the page, cleared your throat, and began.

And while your words filled the silence, Niki didn’t say anything more.

He just… watched.

Listened.

Stayed.

Your feet padded themselves to the ballroom without you knowing few days after that.

The ballroom was empty, but it never felt lonely. Because ballet and music accompanied you in this vast room.

You stood in the center — barefoot, breath steady, arms poised.

The early morning sun spilled through the grand windows, golden and soft, catching on the polished floors like liquid light. The air was quiet, save for the gentle creak of old gramophone and the faint rustle of your skirt as you moved.

This place — for all its grandeur, its intimidating size — felt oddly yours when you danced.

You moved slowly at first, like the music was inside you and still waking. A turn. A lift of your arm. A precise bend of your ankle. The marble kissed your feet like it knew their rhythm.

And then — freedom.

Your body spun into motion, fluid and deliberate. Every step, every gesture, a word unspoken. You danced like you were trying to remember who you were before the world asked too much of you. Before names and price tags. Before being sold, before belonging.

Now — you only belonged to the music.

You danced.

Not for anyone.

Not to impress.

Just because you could.

Just because the quiet felt softer when your body moved to fill it.

Your silhouette spun beneath the high ceilings, your nightgown fluttering like the petals of a lily, weightless with every turn. Every step glided, every pirouette melted back into stillness, like water finding its shape again.

Somewhere behind you, unseen but always felt, Niki leaned silently against the doorway.

He didn’t interrupt. He never did when you danced. He just watched.

His lips didn’t part.

His hands didn’t move.

But in the quiet corners of his soul, something stirred every time you danced.

As if you were a language only he could read.

As if you were never meant to be anything but his.

No matter how many times you ate multiple meals in the dining room you never got used the ridiculously long dining table.

You counted the chairs once — twenty-six, twelve on each side and two on each end. All of them carved from dark walnut, shining under the crystal chandelier that glowed like a silent star above the table.

You were seated at one end. He sat at the other.

And yet, the room didn’t feel empty.

"You're not going to move closer?" you asked, delicately spearing a piece of fruit on your fork.

Niki looked up from his plate — eyes steady, expression unreadable.

“No,” he said calmly. “I like seeing you like this. Lit up. Like you're part of the art in this room.”

You didn’t answer, though your brows lifted slightly. His gaze lingered, not on your plate, but on your fingers — the way they moved, how your foot tapped lightly against the marble beneath.

You chewed slowly. “It’s strange eating alone when someone else is here.”

He smiled faintly. “You’re not alone. I’m here.”

“Across twenty feet of table,” you murmured.

He didn’t deny it. Not when you were right and even if you weren’t he wouldn’t deny it then too.

Instead, he stood. You watched him silently as he walked — unhurried — around the table, the soft clink of his shoes echoing in the high-ceilinged hall.

And then, without a word, he pulled out the chair beside you.

He sat, poured you more water like he’d been doing it for years, and placed your napkin across your lap again when it had slipped.

“Better?” he asked.

You looked at him, quiet, your voice softer now.

“Why do you always wait until I ask?”

His gaze was steady.

“Because I like when you ask,” he said. “It means you want me close.”

You didn’t respond. Just lowered your eyes back to the plate and took another bite.

But now, the table didn’t feel so large.

And neither did the space between you.

You both continued to eat while you talk about random stuff. Random stuff including you talking about the recent book, the trope, the characters, your opinion, your analysis most of the time and him nodding, replying and asking questions.

It was simple and you liked it like that.

Somehow, he didn’t make the empty mansion feel lonely, he made it homely even though it’s hard for you to accept it. Not because you hate him but because you never felt like this before. Never felt someone’s care, never felt someone’s love and never felt someone’s presence which was homely and comforting for once. And now that he’s giving all of it to you at once, you aren't sure if it's a dream or not.

Another thing which you never got used to no matter how many times you’ve wandered in these hallways and rooms are its vastness.

You were walking on your feet just like every day but this time you wandered too far.

The hallway you were in was quiet, long, and unfamiliar — no windows, only polished walls reflecting your silhouette and a dozen identical doors. The mansion was a maze made of marble and silence, and you’d made the mistake of thinking you’d remember your way back from the garden wing.

You turned a corner, paused.

And then — a voice behind you.

“Miss? Are you lost?”

You looked back. One of the newer staff, young, maybe a year or two older than you. He looked nervous, holding a tray of clean towels.

“A little,” you admitted. “The halls here feel endless.”

He gave a soft laugh and stepped forward, hesitant but kind.

“I can walk you back to your room— It’s easy to get turned around in the east wing.”

You nodded gratefully. Just as he was about to gesture toward the main corridor, he hesitated — then gently reached for your hand, fingers barely brushing your wrist to guide you.

“This way—”

And then he froze.

The air changed.

You turned your head just as a voice, low and sharp as cut glass, filled the space.

“Don’t touch her.”

Riki.

You hadn’t even heard his steps. But now he was there — at the end of the hallway, his figure calm, but his tone ice-cold. The staff member instantly pulled his hand back, eyes wide.

“S-sorry, sir— I just—”

“She knows how to walk on her own,” Ni-ki said, approaching slowly. “And she doesn’t like being touched by strangers.”

He was looking at you when he said it. Not the staff.

You watched the way his eyes flicked to your wrist — the one that had been touched — then back to your face. Not angry. Just… quietly displeased. Possessive, in a way that didn’t shout but made the whole hallway hold its breath.

“Go,” he said to the boy. The worker bowed quickly and disappeared down another hall.

Riki stepped close, his voice softer now.

“You should’ve waited for me.”

You tilted your head. “I didn’t realize I needed permission.”

His lips curved, ever so slightly.

“You don’t. But I like it when you wait anyway.”

Then he offered his hand — not demanding, not forceful — just there.

And this time, it was you who took it.

He didn’t speak much as he walked beside you.

Just the sound of your bare feet against the cool marble and his longer steps matching your pace. The mansion stretched behind you like a forgotten dream — and ahead of you, he guided, not pulling, just… gently leading.

When he finally stopped, it wasn’t your room. It was his.

Warm light filtered through sheer curtains, and the smell of something faintly familiar — cedar and rain — hung in the air. His room always felt lived-in, quiet, real.

You stood in the middle, not saying anything.

Then, slowly, Niki turned toward you.

His eyes dropped to your wrist.

The same one that had been touched earlier.

He didn’t ask. Didn’t comment.

But his fingers reached for it, careful and slow — like he was checking if the imprint of someone else still lingered there. His thumb brushed over the skin, once. Then again.

“Did it bother you?” he asked quietly, eyes not meeting yours.

You shrugged. “It didn’t mean anything.”

“I know,” he murmured. But he kept his hand there anyway. His touch was different — it never lingered where it wasn’t wanted, but when it did stay, it stayed with meaning.

You looked up at him, curious. “Then why do you look like it did?”

He didn’t answer.

Just kept his thumb moving across that same spot — soft, absent, like he was wiping away a fingerprint only he could see.

“Because it’s yours,” he finally said, voice low. “Your wrist. Your skin. But I’ve seen you dance enough to know every inch of it by heart. It doesn’t feel right when someone else touches it before me.”

Your heart ached, not in pain — but in the strange, quiet way someone’s protectiveness can settle deep inside you.

You didn’t stop him.

And he didn’t stop touching you.

He turned around, opening the door and moved aside so, you could enter first.

You enter without hesitation and let your eyes wander around his room.

You didn’t ask to stay.

But you didn’t have to.

You moved to sit on the edge of his bed — silk sheets pulled tight, a softness that held no weight. You touched the hem of your dress absently; your bare feet tucked beneath you. He said nothing. Just watched, still standing where he had been, as if waiting to see what you needed.

You looked up at him.

“Is it alright if I…?”

You trailed off. The words didn’t come easily — they never did when it came to him. Because no matter how gentle he was, Riki had a way of making everything feel fragile, sacred. Like one wrong move would crack the porcelain.

But he understood anyway.

“Stay?” he asked quietly, as if confirming something he already knew. “Of course.”

He walked to the far side of the bed, slow and calm. Then without another word, he drew the curtains closed with a single tug. The night dimmed around you like a secret being kept from the world.

“You don’t have to be anywhere else,” he added, voice softer now. “Not tonight.”

You watched as he stepped away for a moment — returning with a folded blanket and placing it at the edge of the bed, like a silent offer. But then he sat beside you, careful not to crowd your space. His presence alone was warm.

Your wrist still tingled faintly where he had touched it.

“You always walk like you don’t want to leave footprints,” he murmured, not quite looking at you.

You blinked, smiling faintly. “I don’t like disturbing the world.”

He tilted his head. “Then I’ll make sure the world stays quiet when you move through it.”

There was no grand gesture. No reaching for you. Just stillness.

But you leaned back against the pillows anyway, letting the silence hold you.

And when he eventually laid down beside you, careful and slow, you didn’t flinch.

You stayed.

And so did he.

The next morning rolled by quickly, it was the same routine. You both had meals together, once in a while you’d bump into each other and then you’d talk but return to your own things quickly. And now, you were laying on your bed tossing and turning. It was late, you should be asleep by now but you aren't because whenever you close your eyes, yesterday’s incidents show up.

It was as if the insides of your eye lids were etched with the memory of you and him sleeping together in the same bed, same room and same atmosphere. You never slept so peacefully and carefree before yesterday. You felt comfortable and... protected.

But now that you are alone without Riki’s invisible shield of comfort, you feel weird and sleeps not coming to you at all. So, with a groan, you put your feet down and walk yourself to the bookshelf taking a book you found interesting.

You took that book and without a second thought, slid the door open and walked towards Niki’s room.

The silence of the mansion stretched endlessly, broken only by the distant sound of the wind brushing against the tall windows. Your bare feet padded softly along the cold marble floor, like a ghost searching for something familiar in a place too grand.

Eventually, your steps brought you to his bedroom.

Riki was already sitting on the bed, back against the headboard, long legs stretched out in front of him, his phone resting in his hand. The glow of the warm bedside lamp threw shadows across his face, making him look almost unreal—too still, too beautiful.

He looked up when you entered. His expression didn’t change, didn’t question. Just a quiet understanding in his eyes.

“Couldn’t sleep?” he asked, voice low and calm.

You nodded, your voice barely above a whisper.

“Can you... read to me?”

There was a pause, and then a small tilt of his head as he glanced at you and the book in your hands.

“Come here.”

You climbed onto the bed, not in the middle, but closer to his side—close enough that your shoulder lined up with his chest. You leaned gently back into him. He didn’t move away. In fact, he adjusted as he took the book, shifting the book slightly and pulling you into him more securely.

His right arm held the book, while his left, the one curled around you from behind, slid up and helped support the other edge of the book—like you were both reading together, but he held it for you.

His arm stayed firmly around your waist, your back against his chest, his chin at the side of your head. The book was stretched across in front of you both, resting against his arm and yours. His fingers gently flipped the pages as his voice began to fill the room, reading the story with a steady, soft rhythm.

You barely heard the words.

Because all you could focus on was this: The warmth of him at your back. The slow rise and fall of his chest against your spine. The way his hand, the one around your waist, adjusted the book with care—not once letting go of you, not even to turn the page.

You were in his arms.

Not trapped. Not caged. Just… there. Held. Close. Safe.

Every time he spoke, the words hummed softly against your back. Every time he breathed, your body rose with him. You didn’t speak. You didn’t need to. In that moment, he wasn’t the man who bought you. He was just the man reading beside you—holding the book with you, like it was a shared secret.

And you let yourself sink into the comfort of it, slowly, silently, like a petal folding into the palm of his hand.

You weren’t even aware of when your eyes began to flutter shut.

His voice had that effect—low, steady, curling into your mind like warm smoke. The story blurred at the edges. Words became sounds. Sounds became nothing.

His chest rose and fell gently behind you, one arm still wrapped around your waist, the other steadily holding the book, though the words had started to slow, and then pause.

He felt it.

The shift in your body. The weight of your head relaxing back, your temple brushing against his collarbone. Your breathing evened out. Calm. Light. Deep.

He lowered the book slowly, carefully—not wanting to move too much.

His eyes shifted down to you. Your lashes rested softly on your cheeks, lips parted slightly. Your hand had curled lightly against his thigh, fingers resting there as if you had been reaching for something in your sleep and found him.

Riki didn’t move. Not for a long time.

He just watched you, the way you trusted him without saying a word. The way your body softened only in his arms. Like this enormous house, this lonely palace of glass and silence, only became real when you were inside it, barefoot and blinking at the world.

His thumb brushed the side of your arm, tracing slow circles through the fabric of your sleeve.

You sleep like you belong here, he thought.

And God help him—he wanted you to.

He reached over with his free hand, setting the book down gently on the bedside table. Then, with a slow breath, he shifted down, pulling the blankets over the two of you, careful not to wake you.

You didn’t stir.

So he stayed like that—your face tucked just beneath his chin, your breath warming the cotton of his shirt, your fingers lightly curled against his chest.

Niki pressed a kiss to the top of your head, light but firm.

“Sleep dove,” he whispered, the word only for you.

“You’re safe here.”

And for the first time in years, he slept too.

You woke to warmth.

Not the cold shine of chandeliers or the hush of marble floors. Not the distant echo of silence that usually greeted you. No — it was warmth that curled over you like sunlight and safety.

Your cheek was resting on something steady. Soft fabric. A heartbeat beneath it.

You blinked, slowly, and looked up.

He was already awake.

Niki’s gaze was already on you — sharp eyes calm, unreadable, but somehow... soft. His arm was still around you, firm but gentle, the weight of it like a promise you didn’t ask for.

“You slept through sunrise,” he murmured, voice low with sleep. “That’s rare.”

You didn’t answer right away. Your voice hadn’t found you yet, and the weight of the moment held your tongue in place.

You shifted slightly — his hand tightened around your waist without thinking, pulling you back before you could move far.

“Stay,” he said, simply. Like a rule.

Your lips parted, brows raising just a little.

“I wasn’t leaving,” you whispered.

A silence passed. His eyes flicked down to your lips, then back up to your eyes.

“Good.”

His hand moved to your hair, brushing it back gently from your face, fingers warm against your cheek. He didn’t smile — Riki rarely did. But there was something else. Something deeper in the way he looked at you.

Like he could command the entire world to stop spinning — if you ever asked him to.

Like he already had.

And still, he didn’t ask you why you came to him last night. He didn’t ask what kept you awake. He never asked for more than you gave.

He simply reached behind you, pulled the blanket up again — and drew you back to his chest.

“Five more minutes dove,” he murmured into your hair. “Then I’ll have breakfast brought up.”

You didn’t protest.

You didn’t want to.

You stayed.

You must’ve dozed off again, because the next time your eyes fluttered open, the sun had climbed higher — spilling golden light across the silk sheets, warm and almost surreal.

The space beside you was empty.

But you weren’t alone.

The faint sound of footsteps reached your ears first — steady, deliberate — followed by the soft click of the door opening.

“You’re awake,” Riki’s voice came, smooth and quiet.

You turned toward him — he was dressed now, though not fully formal. Still loose dark sleeves, still barefoot. Still impossibly composed, as though nothing ever touched him.

Except you.

He stepped aside, and in came the staff, heads bowed, silent. A tray was set down on the marble side table, covered in a fine white cloth.

“Leave it. I’ll handle it,” he ordered.

They left. Quickly. Quietly. Like shadows.

You sat up slowly, the blanket still drawn around you, hair falling gently over one shoulder. Niki’s eyes followed you with a look only he wore — the kind that studied and claimed at the same time.

“You didn’t have dinner last night,” he murmured, pulling the tray closer. “Eat.”

He lifted the cover — steam curling into the morning air. Warm fruit pastries. Soft eggs. Toast. Fresh juice. Not too much. Just enough.

You blinked. “You didn’t have to bring it here.”

He didn’t respond at first. Just placed the napkin gently in your lap, then slid the tray over your legs.

Then his eyes met yours.

“I wanted to,” he said. “Especially when it comes to you.”

You looked away.

But not for long.

His fingers reached out and tucked a strand of hair behind your ear — slow, deliberate.

“Eat,” he said again. “You can go back to not talking to me after.”

You let out the barest breath of a laugh. Not mocking. Just… small. Real.

And you took a bite.

His eyes stayed on you the entire time.

It was just another day, you were walking around the mansion, padding through different hallways and just enjoying the peace. The floor- like always is clean. No clutter. No forgotten dust. No stray things that could catch your toe or disturb your peace. Especially after you came here. Every surface, every hallway, every corner—immaculate.

But today, someone had made a mistake.

You were walking down the hallway again, your steps light and silent as usual, your thoughts elsewhere. Until—

Crack.

A sharp sting sliced through the underside of your foot.

You inhaled sharply, stumbling back with a soft gasp, your heel immediately lifting off the ground. You looked down. Red. It was already trickling across the white marble like a delicate thread of silk.

Your breath hitched—not in panic, not in pain. But in mild disbelief.

Your fingers gripped the wall for balance, the pain sharp and clean. You look at the cut brining your leg up and then the glass that shimmered in the light, a sliver of it still embedded which was on the floor.

That’s when you heard him.

“What happened?” came the voice—calm, deep, but already laced with something tight.

You didn’t have to look up. You knew that tone. He was always behind you. Always watching.

He was beside you in seconds.

His eyes dropped to your foot, and something changed in his expression. Softness cracked beneath steel. His jaw tensed as he crouched infront of you, fingers already reaching for your foot, surprisingly gentle.

He looked at the cut as if he’s processing something unacceptable.

You watched him as he cradled your foot in his hands, inspecting the wound with careful attention. He didn’t speak again—just moved. He pulled a handkerchief from his pocket and pressed it gently to stop the bleeding.

You whispered, barely audible. “I didn’t see—”

“You shouldn’t have had to,” he cut her off quietly, but not coldly.

Then he stood.

“Ji-woon!” His voice rang sharply down the hall. A name barked, cold and final. One of the workers came rushing in, face already pale. “I told you,” Riki said, voice low and dangerous, “this house stays perfect. No dust. No clutter. No risk. She walks barefoot.”

“S-sir, I—I thought—”

“You thought,” he interrupted. “She’s bleeding.”

He didn’t raise his voice. He didn’t have to. The worker was already shaking.

“Get out,” he said simply. “You're done, I'll deal with you later.”

Once the man disappeared, Niki was kneeling infront of you again, dabbing the blood off with his kerchief. He didn’t speak as he cleaned the wound carefully. His fingers were gentle. Reverent. As if hurting your foot was equivalent to failing as a man.

He was already moving again, lifting you up before you could protest. His arms were warm, strong, and you let your head rest lightly against his shoulder, feeling comfort in his presence.

“You walk on your feet too much.” He states as he walks with you in his arms.

You wrap your hands around his neck and hum, “I like to feel the world beneath me.”

“You shouldn’t have to bleed to feel the world,” he whispered.

And you didn’t know if he meant it as comfort or warning.

Later that night after he made a doctor treat your cut, he left while you stayed on your bed. Dinner was bought to you. There were constant maids checking up on you if you wanted anything. And more books bought into your room by one of the staff.

You were sitting on the bed with your back against the headboard and your thoughts floating in your brain.

You heard the door before you saw him. A soft click, so soft it could’ve been the wind. You didn’t lift your head — you knew who it was by the silence he always carried.

“You’re still awake,” Ni-ki said quietly, his voice brushing the room like velvet.

You kept your eyes on the book.

“I didn’t feel like sleeping.”

He moved closer, not bothering to ask permission, and sat at the edge of the bed. You glanced up briefly — his shirt sleeves were rolled up, veins visible on his forearms. His gaze wasn’t on your book. It was on your foot — the one wrapped neatly in a soft bandage.

“Still hurts?” he asked.

You shook your head once. “Not really.”

He didn’t answer, but his fingers ghosted over your ankle anyway — just barely. Checking, like he didn’t quite trust your words.

“Don’t worry” he said. “he’s fired.”

You blinked. “You fired him?”

“Of course I did.” A pause. Then softer — “I don’t like seeing you hurt.”

You stared at him then. Not because of what he said, but the way he said it. Like it offended him. Like your blood on the floor was a crime against something sacred.

“You should sleep,” he murmured after a beat.

“You should, too,” you replied.

He smiled faintly — almost like it surprised him. His hand left your foot, brushing the edge of the blanket instead.

“I will. Once I know you’re resting. Sleep early, dove”

You didn’t respond.

You just watched as he stood, walking back toward the door — slow, deliberate, never turning his back on you completely.

And as the door closed again with that same quiet click. You laid yourself completely on the bed and pulled the covers up- the silk rubbing against your legs as you reach your dreamland with full of thoughts- thoughts of him.

You were curled up on the oversized velvet couch, legs stretched out, your back resting comfortably against the armrest. A quiet film flickered on the screen in front of you. The room was dim and warm, the kind of stillness that made time feel slower.

Then, you heard the faint sound of footsteps — the kind that were so familiar by now you didn’t even have to turn to know it was him.

Niki.

He didn't say anything at first. Just walked in quietly, gaze drifting to you with that unreadable calm he always wore. You stayed as you were, unmoving, used to the way he never asked before doing things.

He reached the couch, and you felt his hands gently take hold of your ankles. You blinked, watching as he carefully lifted your legs — like you were something breakable — and sat down in the space where they had been. Then, without a word, he laid your legs back across his lap.

Your heel rested against his thigh, your toes brushing the edge of his coat. You watched him from the corner of your eye, something inside you oddly still. His hand found your foot, thumb stroking a slow, lazy circle against your heel.

It wasn’t ticklish. It wasn’t meant to be. It was grounding.

Comforting.

“You’re cold,” he said softly, mostly to himself. His other hand settled on your ankle, thumb brushing along your skin again. “You should’ve said something.”

You didn’t respond right away. Didn’t need to.

“I didn’t notice,” you murmured, half-focused on the way his thumb moved. " ‘s warm now."

His jaw ticked slightly, like he wanted to say something else, but didn’t. He just kept rubbing soft, unhurried circles against your foot — the kind of gesture someone wouldn’t do unless they really cared.

You watched him in stillness — the way his fingers traced every curve, every line of your sole like it was scripture only he could read. His brows were slightly drawn; lips parted like he was whispering secrets to your skin without words.

Then his head dipped lower.

You felt his breath first — warm, feather-light against the delicate arch of your foot.

And then, he kissed you there.

Not rushed, not fleeting. A slow, deliberate press of his lips against the softest part of you. Like it was sacred. Like you were sacred.

His thumb brushed your ankle as he pulled back just an inch, but he didn’t look up. He stared at the place he kissed, then lowered his head again — this time to the side of your heel, then your toes, reverent, unhurried.

“You don’t even know,” he murmured, his voice quiet, a little rough. “How much I’d ruin the world just so you never have to walk on it.”

Your breath caught.

He finally looked up, eyes dark but soft, mouth still near your skin.

“I’d carry you everywhere, if you let me.”

You look away not knowing what to say, but your attention was on him.

And his on you.

You pressed your feet not hard- but light and firm against the palm of his hand.

Neither of you needed to speak. Not in moments like this.

Here, in this cocoon of quiet, he didn’t need to say what you already knew — that you were his, that he would always make space for you. Even if it meant rearranging the entire world just so you could lie comfortably on a couch.

With that you both continued watching the film in the comforting atmosphere which made both of yours hearts warm.

The door to his bedroom was open, just like always.

You stepped in quietly, the silk of your nightwear whispering against your skin as you padded barefoot across the polished floor. Niki was sitting against the headboard, laptop on his thighs, the pale light from the screen casting a soft glow across his sharp features.

You climbed onto the bed without a word, your movements slow and silent, as if not to disturb him — but Niki didn’t need you to be careful. He always knew when you were near.

You settled beside him, laying on your stomach, your face resting just beside his hip. The cool silk sheets felt soft against your skin, your legs curling slightly to the side. He was warm there beside you — not just in presence, but in something else, something steadying. Familiar.

Niki didn’t glance down right away, but you could feel the shift in his breath, the subtle stilling of his fingers on the keyboard. Then his hand, the one not working, moved gently — his knuckles brushing along your cheekbone, slow and absentminded an. His thumb swept just beneath your eye before sliding into your hair, fingers threading through it gently.

“You always end up right here,” he murmured, almost to himself.

You nuzzled closer without answering, your eyes fluttering shut, cheek resting against the softness of his hoodie where it draped across his hip, your chin on his thigh.

“Makes it hard to concentrate,” he added, but you could hear the smile under his breath. He didn’t ask you to move.

Instead, his hand settled at the back of your head, protective, his thumb occasionally stroking your temple while he kept working — one hand typing, the other gently cradling you like you were something fragile, sacred.

You watched him for a while, the soft glow of his laptop illuminating his focused expression, his fingers moving swiftly over the keys. The quiet buzz of the room, the soft rhythm of his typing — it all seemed to fall into the background as you settled more comfortably beside him, your face still near his hip.

Curiosity tugged at you. “What are you doing?” you asked softly, breaking the quiet, your voice barely above a murmur.

Niki didn’t look at you right away. His gaze was still focused on the screen, but you could see the faint twitch of his lips. “Work,” he answered, his voice casual, but with a hint of amusement.

You raised an eyebrow, unconvinced. “Work?” you repeated, shifting a little to look at him more directly. “I didn’t know you were working tonight.”

He finally glanced at you, the corner of his mouth pulling into a small, knowing smile. “There’s always something to handle,” he said, his voice low. But the smile didn’t last long — instead, it softened as he looked down at you again, the light from the screen catching the warmth in his gaze.

You tilted your head slightly, curiosity still lingering in your eyes. “You are working so late,” you murmured, a small frown tugging at your lips.

He hummed softly, shifting his position just slightly so he could lean closer. “I don’t mind,” he said quietly, the words filled with that same quiet intensity he always carried, “But I don’t want you to feel like you’re bothering me.”

A comfortable silence hung between you, but you didn’t break your gaze. Niki’s hand, still resting on the laptop, slowly moved away as if in response to the unspoken tension in the air.

“Do you need anything?” he asked after a pause, a softness creeping into his voice.

It was then that you let your curiosity spill into something more intimate. “Just you,” you whispered, shifting closer to him, ready to pull him from the world of his work.

And just like that, the click of the keyboard stopped, the weight of his attention shifted, and you felt his focus solely on you. His hand, the one that had been cradling your head, paused for a moment before gliding down your back in a long, quiet stroke. Then came the soft click of his laptop closing.

“You're done?” you murmured, barely above a whisper, eyes still closed.

“Yeah,” he said, voice low, almost lazy. “I’ve got better things to hold.”

You felt the laptop move off the bed, replaced by the warmth of his full attention. Niki shifted, slowly turning his body toward you. His hand found your waist and pulled you gently into him, tucking you into his side. Your face now rested against his abdomen, and one of his arms curled around your shoulders like a shield, holding you close, like you were his grounding point — not the work, not the empire, just you.

He pressed a kiss to the top of your head, staying there for a moment longer than usual.

“This is better,” he whispered into your hair.

You smiled, eyes fluttering closed again.

And he just stayed like that, holding you, work forgotten on the nightstand.

The grand ballroom stretched out before you, its lavish details and golden accents reflecting the light from the crystal chandeliers above. The air was quiet, only the soft echo of your footsteps as you stood in the center, surrounded by the opulence of the room. Niki’s presence was steady beside you, his figure just as commanding as the room itself.

You turned to face him, your heart pounding in your chest. The moment felt surreal, like a scene out of a dream, but you weren’t dreaming. His gaze was on you, steady and intense, and without thinking, you spoke.

“Niki,” you said, your voice barely a whisper but full of meaning. “Dance with me.”

He didn’t respond immediately, his eyes searching your face. There was a brief pause, but then his lips curved into a small, knowing smile. He stepped closer, his hand reaching for yours, his fingers curling around it with a soft but firm grip.

Without a word, he led you toward the center of the ballroom, his body moving effortlessly, guiding you as you followed his lead. Your feet glided across the floor, as though you’d been dancing together for years, the music between the two of you unspoken, but felt in every movement.

The rhythm of your bodies was fluid, as if you were both lost in the moment, and yet there was something more — an electricity that ran between you. His hand rested gently on the small of your back, pulling you closer. Your heart beat faster, not from nerves, but from the undeniable pull you felt toward him.

As the dance continued, his gaze never left you, his movements slow and deliberate. Your body pressed against his, and with each step, it felt like the world around you disappeared.

You tilted your head up toward him, the rhythm of the dance no longer enough to hold the tension between you. The space between your faces grew smaller until his lips were almost brushing yours.

“Riki…” you whispered again, your breath catching.

He didn’t need another prompt. With a small movement, he leaned down, his lips brushing yours in a soft, lingering kiss. Time seemed to stop as he deepened the kiss, his hand tightening around you, pulling you even closer. His lips were warm, familiar, and you melted into him, your arms winding around his neck, the world outside the ballroom fading into the background.

The kiss was everything — soft but filled with an intensity that left you breathless. The ballroom, the music, everything around you became a distant memory as you both lost yourselves in the moment, surrounded only by the feeling of each other’s presence.

When you finally pulled away, your faces still close, he looked down at you with a quiet intensity. “You’re mine,” he whispered, the words settling into your skin like a secret.

And as you rested your head against his chest, the world could have stopped, and you wouldn’t have cared. In that moment, it was just the two of you — dancing, kissing, and belonging to each other.

That night the moonlight spilled through the curtains, casting a soft glow across the room. The night was still, save for the sound of your breath mingling with his, a rhythm you both seemed to fall into effortlessly.

His hands roamed over your skin, gentle yet possessive, as if he were trying to imprint his touch into every inch of you. The tension between you had been building for what felt like forever, and tonight, the air was thick with desire.

His lips trailed down your neck, sending shivers through your body, and you couldn’t help but let out a soft sigh. Your hands tangled in his hair, pulling him closer, your lips finding his once more. It was a kiss of urgency, like you both needed something more, something deeper.

In the heat of the moment, you pulled back just slightly, breathless, your fingers still tangled in his hair. The question escaped your lips before you could even stop it.

“Do you love me?” you asked, your voice barely above a whisper, the vulnerability of the words making your heart skip a beat.

For a moment, Niki didn’t respond. His gaze locked with yours, and there was a brief flicker of something in his eyes — something unreadable, but intense. You could feel the weight of the silence between you, the gravity of the question hanging in the air.

His lips curled into a smirk, a dangerous, knowing smirk that only made your heart race faster. Slowly, deliberately, he moved his face closer to yours, his breath warm against your ear.

“Do you think I would be here, right now, with you... if I didn’t?” he murmured, his voice low, almost dangerous.

The words sent a thrill through you, but you needed to hear it. You needed him to say it.

He pulled away just enough to look into your eyes, and in that moment, the world around you seemed to disappear. There was no pretense, no games. Just him, just you.

“I love you,” he whispered, his voice raw and sincere, his hands gripping you tighter as though saying the words made it real. “I’ve loved you since the moment I laid eyes on you, my dove.”

The words hit you like a rush of warmth, and you felt your heart swell in your chest. Before you could respond, he kissed you again, harder this time, as if he were sealing his confession with the heat of his touch. And in that kiss, you could feel everything — the love, the intensity, the raw, undeniable connection between you two.

A year passed like a dream draped in silk and quiet mornings. Days blurred into evenings filled with shared meals across candlelit tables, where words weren’t always needed and glances spoke more than conversation ever could.

You learned the shape of his presence — the way he liked his tea, the way his gaze always found you first in any room. Nights melted into warmth, into the comfort of shared blankets and whispered goodnights, into his arms around you and your breath against his chest.

The mansion no longer felt foreign. It breathed with you. It held your laughter in its walls, your footprints on its floors.

There were kisses pressed to your temple without warning, fingers laced absentmindedly under sun-drenched gardens, soft embraces that lingered longer than necessary. Somewhere between the silences and stolen glances, love settled — slow, certain, and deeply rooted.

Now, the night had quieted, the air in the room warm and still, lit only by the faint glow from the wall lamp near the bed.

You lay tangled in his arms, the sheets slipping low around your waists. His lips brushed lazily against yours, the kisses slow, unhurried — the kind you melt into without realizing. One hand rested on your waist, thumb tracing slow circles on your skin like he was memorizing you all over again.

You breathed against his mouth, murmuring something incoherent, and he chuckled quietly. “What?” you asked, voice a sleepy whisper.

He pulled back just enough to look at you. His gaze wasn’t teasing. Not soft. Not playful.

It was quiet. Steady. Unnervingly serious.

“Do you want to marry me?” he asked.

Your breath caught.

You blinked up at him, mind foggy from the warmth of his body and the softness of the moment. But his expression didn’t shift. He wasn’t joking.

His fingers grazed your jaw, gently tilting your face toward him.

“I want you here forever,” he said, voice low. “No more pretending this isn’t everything. No more wondering if you belong to me. You do.”

A pause.

“So let’s make it permanent.”

The silence in the room was louder than any answer.

But you didn’t pull away. You smile and nod.

And that — was all he needed.

His hand slid to the back of your head, pulling you into another kiss.

Possessive. Final. Yours. His. Forever.

taglist: @gnarlyhoons @stormlit-pages @himynameisraelynn @see-c (lmk if u wanna be added!)

A/N: HELLOOOO???!???!?! did y'all miss me? also the layout is inspired by the extraordinary author, (whom im lucky to call my friend hehehe) @elikajinnie !!!!!!! REBLOGS ND COMMENTS R VERY MUCH APPRECIATED, stay hydratedddd!

2K notes · View notes