Goth Mommy Roommate

After a long treacherous night of working on dresses, Suits, and some new lipgloss you’re exhausted. So you drive home late into the night to your shared apartment with your goth roommate/co-worker. When you arrive the apartment is dark as expected since your Roommate Kiko should be at a gala Tonight. Then you see her bedroom door is lit and is cracked open so you go inside. When you see her changing into a very revealing fishnet body suit and she sees you at the corner of her eye.

"Oh good, you're home early." "I’m having problems putting on this new outfit we came up with"

The words curled through the air like smoke—low, velvety, utterly unbothered—as the bedroom door swung open on its own damn timing.

Kiko stood half-turned toward the mirror, one hand hooked into the waistband of a fishnet bodysuit that clung like a second skin, the other adjusting the swell of her hip where the mesh bit into plush flesh. The skirt pooled at her feet, a black silk puddle. She didn’t startle. Didn’t cover herself. Just arched a brow at your reflection in the glass, those ice-blue eyes dragging over your frozen frame in the doorway.

"You gonna stand there gawking, sweetheart?" Her fingers trailed up her own side, pressing dimples into the softness of her waist. "Or you gonna come help me with these damn straps?"

The air smelled like her perfume—something dark and expensive—and the faint salt of sweat at the crease of her thighs, where the fishnet had already started to stick. One pierced nipple peeked through the weave. She caught you looking.

Her smirk deepened. "Clock’s ticking, darling."

The office hummed with the usual mid-afternoon chaos—keyboards clacking, espresso machines hissing, interns darting between cubicles with proofs clutched like holy texts. You were elbows-deep in layout revisions when the air pressure changed. That familiar scent—black orchids and something darker, smokier—drifted in first. Then the click of stilettos on marble, slow and deliberate as a panther circling prey.

Kiko leaned against your desk, her hip nudging a stack of color swatches askew. "Darling," she purred, fingertips brushing your shoulder as she bent down. The neckline of her new dress plunged dangerously, the sheer black fabric stretched taut over her heavy curves, the corset detailing making her waist look even more impossibly cinched. "Be honest. Does this scream 'gothic romance heroine' or 'vampire queen who’ll ruin your life in the best way'?"

She spun slowly, the dress flaring around her thighs—a masterpiece of lace and structured satin that clung to every dip and swell of her body. The silver embroidery at the hem caught the light like spiderwebs in moonlight. When she turned back, she bit her plush lower lip, now glossy with a deep violet-black that made her ice-blue eyes glow even brighter. "The gloss changes color with body heat," she murmured, leaning closer. "Wanna see how dark it gets?"

Her thumb brushed your jaw before you could answer, leaving a smudge of cool, shimmering pigment. The office noise faded into white noise. Somewhere, a stapler hit the floor. Someone coughed. Kiko just smiled, slow and knowing, her lashes lowering. "Mm. Looks even better on you."

The office hummed with the low chatter of editors and the rhythmic clicking of keyboards, sunlight streaming through floor-to-ceiling windows that showcased the city below. You were hunched over a layout draft, fingers smudged with ink, when the scent of jasmine and vanilla crept into your space before she did.

A shadow fell across your desk—tall, deliberate, unmistakable. Kiko leaned her hip against the edge, the fabric of her fitted charcoal dress pulling taut over her thigh. Her fingers drummed once on the surface next to your elbow. "Darling," she purred, voice like poured honey, "if I have to listen to one more debate about serif versus sans-serif, I’m staging a coup."

You glanced up into those blood red eyes, dark liner intensifying the way they flickered over you. A single black-nailed fingertip hooked under your chin, tilting your face up further. "Tell me you’ve got an escape plan," she murmured, thumb brushing your jaw. "Preferably involving that little Italian place with the terrible lighting." Her lips quirked—the same lips that had traced the shell of your ear that morning while zipping up her stilettos.

Around you, junior designers pretended not to stare. Kiko didn’t so much enter rooms as redistribute the oxygen in them. Now she arched one brow, waiting, her other hand idly toying with the silver chain at her collarbone. The office AC kicked on, sending a strand of her ink-black hair fluttering against her cheekbone.

"Or," she added, leaning down until her breath warmed your ear, "we could skip dinner entirely. I’ve got two buttons loose on this dress. Think anyone would notice if—"

A passing intern dropped a stack of proofs. Kiko straightened, exhaling through her nose, but her fingers trailed possessively down your arm. "Clock out early," she said, not a question. "I’ll be at the elevators in five. And wear the gray shirt—the one I can almost see through."

She turned, her hips swaying like a metronome set to sin, leaving behind the faintest imprint of her lipstick on your earlobe and the certain knowledge that whatever you’d been working on wasn’t getting finished today.

The suitcase clicked shut with finality, the sound muffled by the plush hotel carpet. Kiko's fingers lingered on the latch for a moment before trailing up to adjust the silver chain around her neck—the one you'd bought her last anniversary, now slightly tarnished from wear. Outside the floor-to-ceiling windows, Mediterranean sunlight painted stripes across her collarbones where the black silk robe gaped open.

"You're staring again, little love," she murmured without turning around. The corner of her mouth curved as she watched your reflection in the window—the way your throat moved when you swallowed, how your fingers twitched against the bedspread.

It was supposed to be a working vacation. Some bullshit team-building retreat disguised as a luxury getaway. But the moment you'd stepped off the private charter (courtesy of Kiko's agency), she'd slipped her hand into yours and whispered "Try to keep up" with that throaty laugh of hers. Three days in, and you hadn't set foot in the conference center once.

Now her robe slid off one shoulder as she turned, revealing the crescent-shaped scar above her hip—the one from when she'd fallen off a runway in Milan. "They'll be expecting us at the rooftop dinner," she said, though her fingers were already working loose the tie of your trousers. The scent of her sweat mingled with expensive perfume, warm and musky where her thigh pressed against yours.

Somewhere below, a speedboat cut through the waves. The sound faded beneath Kiko's breath against your ear: "Let them wait."

And really—who were you to argue?

(Your own scenario)