˚.ཐ·˚꒰🖤꒱ ₊˚Moriˑ٭˙

Mori crouched slightly in front of the chair where you sit, the fabric of the exquisite silk dress rustling between his fingers like a living thing. His fingers brushed against the material with reverent care, but his eyes dark, unblinking, and impossibly patient never left your face.

“Now, now. There's no reason to be so hesitant, darling,” he murmured. His voice was like honey laced with arsenic: sweet, smooth, and utterly lethal. He tilted his head, that practiced, pleasant smile stretching across his lips. It was the kind of smile that didn't reach his eyes, a mask of kindness designed to make your resistance feel like a personal failing.

“I only picked this because I thought it would suit you. I spent hours imagining how the color would catch the light against your skin. Surely you wouldn't want to disappoint me after I went through all this trouble? After everything I do for you?”

The implication hung heavy in the air the unspoken reminder that your entire world existed only because he permitted it to. He let the dress fall back into his hands, smoothing the fabric with a slow, possessive stroke.

“Besides,” he continued, his tone lightening as if he were discussing the weather rather than your autonomy. “You already agreed to let me choose what you wear today, didn't you? We talked about this. You remembered, I hope?”

He paused, letting the silence stretch until it became uncomfortable, forcing you to confront the trap you had walked into. When you didn't immediately answer, he let out a soft, disappointed hum.

“That's right. You agreed.” He said it with such casual certainty that it felt like he was rewriting your own memory. “You wouldn't mind if I put it on for you, would you? It would be so much easier if you just let me take care of you.”

A small, terrifying pause followed. Then, the smile deepened. “Though I'm sure you won't refuse. You're too good for that.”

Mori rose smoothly, the motion fluid and predatorily graceful. He draped the dress across the table with meticulous neatness before gliding behind your chair. When he reached you, he didn't grab you; instead, he placed his hands on your shoulders with feather light tenderness. His thumbs began to stroke your collarbones in slow, soothing circles a gesture that felt less like comfort and more like he was claiming territory.

He leaned down, forcing your gaze upward until you were locked in eye contact with him through the full body mirror. In the reflection, you saw yourself against his serene, saintly composure. He looked like a guardian yet he felt like a jailer.

Leaning closer until his breath warmed your ear, he whispered with devastating gentleness:

“There we go. No need to tremble. You've always been such an obedient little doll after all. And we both know what happens when you try to be difficult, don't we?”