㊑ ------- detective!niki au. You meet him at your favourite bar. Reader is 21 niki is 23. Contains smut.
A/N I'm working on the older!niki fanfic as well since you guys liked it thank u for the support. So for the while please take this old fic. smooch smooch ♡
it's really long but I put alot of effort into it so I'll make it worth your time THANK YOU ૮(´ ꒳ `)ა
TW Usual NSFW. Contains smut. My fics are self-indulgent.
This was your sanctuary, your favourite bar for a reason: the quiet. No desperate men with wandering eyes and empty wallets. Just solitude.
You breezed through the door. Sighing dramatically, you hoisted yourself onto the plush velvet stool at the far end of the bar. A little huff of frustration leaving your lips as the hem of your dress rode up another tantalizing inch, revealing the smooth, creamy skin of your thighs. You didn’t bother to pull it down; you were too busy signalling the bartender. He just nodded and started making your usual.
You didn't even glance to your left, where the only other person at this bar was sitting. You were too absorbed in your own world of trivial grievances. The man was a quiet, unassuming presence, the kind your radar usually missed. He wasn't flashy. He wore a cream jacket. His dark hair was slightly dishevelled, as if he’d been running his fingers through it, but it was a look that worked for him. He was nursing a glass of what looked like whiskey, his long, slender fingers wrapped around the crystal.
It was the glint of silver on his hand that finally snagged your attention, pulling you from your thoughts.
You blinked, your gaze sliding to his left hand as it rested casually on the polished counter. There, on his middle finger, was a ring. A thick, chunky piece of silver, with a black inlay and intricate detailing. It was a Chrome Hearts piece. You’d been trying to get your hands on it for months. It was limited edition and sold out everywhere.
And this man just wearing it on his finger.
A sharp, possessive feeling clawed at your chest. That ring belonged to you. It was an object of your desire, and if there was one thing you’d always been taught, it was that the universe was simply waiting to give you what you wanted. It was just, apparently, being temporarily held by this random man.
You didn't have the patience for subtlety. Not tonight. You were already irritated.
"Hey," you said, your voice a sharp, melodic cut through the quiet jazz. You didn't look at him directly, just tilted your head slightly in his direction, your eyes still fixed on the ring. "That ring."
He didn't respond for a long moment. You could feel his gaze on you now, a slow drag of his eyes. Like you were a puzzle he was trying to solve.
"You're talking to me?" his voice was a low, velvety, with a slight accent you couldn't quite place. It was smooth, utterly without inflection, and it made the hair on the back of your neck prickle.
"No, I'm talking to the ring," you snapped, finally turning on your stool to face him. You almost faltered. He was beautiful. Not in the pretty-boy, pin-up way you were used to. It was a sharper, more intense beauty. High cheekbones, a jawline that could cut glass, dark eyes that held a universe of secrets, and a full, perfectly-shaped mouth that was currently tilted in the faintest hint of a smirk. And there was that mole, a tiny dot right under his lower lip.
"I want it," you stated flatly, your gaze dropping pointedly to his hand again. "That ring. I’ll give you three times what you paid for it."
He just watched you, a flicker of amusement in his dark eyes. He didn't even look at the ring. "It's not for sale."
You let out a short, incredulous laugh. "Everything is for sale. How much?"
"Everything?" he repeated, the word a soft, questioning purr. He took a slow sip of his whiskey, his eyes never leaving yours.
"Don't be obtuse," you hissed. "The ring. Name your price." You leaned forward, placing your elbows on the bar. It pushed your breasts together, accentuating the generous swell spilling from the low-cut lace of your dress. You knew the effect it had.
He didn't even glance down. His gaze remained locked on your face. "What makes you think I want money?"
This was infuriating. "What else is there?" you demanded.
He set his glass down with a soft, decisive click. "Why are you so insistent? It's just a piece of jewellery."
"Just a piece of jewellery?" you repeated, your voice dripping with disdain. "It's the piece of jewellery. It's limited. It's sold out. And it's mine."
"Yours?" he asked, a single dark eyebrow arching. The smirk was growing more pronounced, more infuriating. "Funny, I don't recall you wearing it."
The sheer, unadulterated nerve of this man. You felt a hot flush of anger and something else you refused to identify. "Because you're wearing it! It's supposed to be on my finger, not on some… some anonymous man in a bar."
"Anonymous?" he mused, his head tilting slightly. "You don't even know my name."
"I don't need to know your name," you shot back, crossing your arms under your chest. "I just need that ring."
He let out a soft, low chuckle. "Are you always this demanding?"
"Am I always this demanding? I get what I want. It's a fundamental law of the universe," you retorted. "I never have to ask for anything twice."
"That's quite a statement," he said, a flicker of something dangerous and intriguing passing through his gaze. He looked at you then, really looked at you, from the defiant glint in your eyes to the pout of your glossed lips, down the elegant column of your neck, to the dangerous swell of your chest, and the long, bare expanse of your legs. His assessment was slow and clinical, like he was cataloguing evidence. When his eyes finally met yours again, you felt strangely… seen. Laid bare. And it was more than a little unsettling.
His hand moved slowly, deliberately, lifting from the bar. He brought his ringed finger to his lips and pressed a kiss to it. His eyes, dark and unblinking, remained fixed on yours the entire time. A "fuck you."
Your breath hitched. "You're infuriating," you breathed, your voice losing its earlier edge. The anger was still there, simmering just below the surface, but it had been joined by something else. A sharp, electric tension that crackled in the air between you.
"You're spoiled," he countered, his voice just as low. "You're used to men falling at your feet, giving you whatever you want just to bask in the glory of your presence."
"Maybe because it works," you shot back. "You're just a man. All men are the same."
He leaned in closer, and the scent of him hit you—spicy, clean, masculine. He smelled like expensive cologne, and rain on a city street. "Is that so?" he murmured, his voice a low vibration that seemed to travel right through you. "How many men have you met who can say no to you?"
"None that I can remember. And you're going to be the first? Why? What do you want?"
He was close enough now that you could see the fine, dark lashes framing his eyes, the tiny, almost invisible scars that peppered his knuckles.
"I told you," he said, his gaze flicking down to your lips for a fraction of a second before snapping back up to your eyes. "Everything isn't for sale. Some things are… sacred."
"Sacred?" you scoffed, trying to regain your ground. "It's a ring. A piece of metal."
"It's the ring I was wearing when I solved my first major case as a detective," he said, his voice soft and utterly distracting. "It's the ring I was wearing when I realized I'd never be the same man again. It's part of my story. Do you have a story to match?"
You stared at him, your mind blank for a second, which was a rarity in itself. You had stories, of course, but none of them felt worthy of him. His story sounded like it involved real life, real grit, real pain. The kind of stories you read about in books, not the ones you lived. He’d managed, with a few soft words, to make you feel like your own existence was hollow, empty shell.
"I…" you started, but the retort died on your lips.
His eyes softened, just a fraction. He seemed to sense your discomfort, the sudden crack in your perfectly constructed armour. "Let me get you a drink."
"I have a drink," you said, gesturing to the untouched martini.
"Then let me buy you another one," he countered smoothly. He was playing with you, you realized. He was teasing you, needling you, and enjoying every second of it. He wasn't intimidated by your beauty or your money or your tantrum.
"You think you're so clever," you murmured, a reluctant smile threatening to pull at your lips. "Sitting there in your bar, spinning your little stories. You're a detective. You're supposed to be solving crimes, not trying to solve me."
"Maybe you're the biggest mystery I've come across in a while," he said, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. "A woman who walks into a bar wearing a dress that cost more than most people's rent, demanding a ring off a stranger's finger, all the while looking like…"
"Like what?" you pressed, your voice softer now, a little breathless.
He paused, his gaze scanning your face. "Like you're the most fascinating thing I've ever seen. And yet, I can't decide if you're the criminal or the victim."
"Maybe I'm both," you whispered, the line slipping out before you could stop it.
His eyes flickered with something, a spark of recognition. "I'm Riki," he said, his voice a low, intimate murmur. "Nishimura Riki."
"Y/N," you replied, the name sounding foreign and inconsequential on your tongue.
"Y/N," he repeated, testing the name. It sounded different in his voice. Softer. Like a secret. "You still want the ring, don't you?"
He gave a slow, deliberate nod, his gaze holding yours captive. "And what would you give me for it, Y/N? Since you say everything is for sale, what would you give me for this piece of my story?" His hand moved again, and he slowly, meticulously, slid the heavy ring off his finger, holding it up so it caught the dim light.
You swallowed. Your eyes were on the ring, but your mind was a furious, confusing blur. What were you willing to give for it that wasn't materialistic and monetary?
He leaned in again, his lips hovering just a breath away from your ear. You felt his warm breath, smelled the whiskey and the rain.
"five thousand," he murmured, "For the ring."
Your eyes widened. It was way too much. Maybe the alcohol was getting to him...that had to be it.
"Five thousand and… what else?" you whispered, turning your head so his lips nearly brushed your cheek. "You said it was part of your story. You're not selling it for money. What are you selling it for?"
He pulled back, his smirk firmly back in place. He looked down at the ring, then back at you, his gaze challenging and hot. "Five thousand," he repeated. "And one date."
"A date?" you echoed, your voice rising in disbelief. All of that tension, all of that breathless anticipation, and he wanted a date? Your irritation flared back. "Are you serious? You're holding a ring hostage for a date?"
His smirk was infuriating. "Worth it to me," he said with a casual shrug, as if he hadn't just turned the tables on you completely. "Or do you not have any stories left to trade?"
This man was impossible. Completely, utterly, maddeningly impossible. And yet, as you stared into his dark, knowing eyes, you knew you were going to say yes. You were utterly, shamefully defeated.
"You want one date," you said slowly, a plan forming in your mind. "One. And you'll give me the ring. For five thousand."
"Cash," he added. "And you get the ring after the date. If it goes well."
"Annnnd we're back to the ring being a hostage," you hissed, crossing your arms again.
"It's just incentive," he said smoothly. "A reason for you to be nice to me."
You let out a long, frustrated sigh, pinching the bridge of your nose. This man was going to be the death of you. This was absolutely insane. You were about to agree to pay five thousand dollars and go on a date with a man you'd just met, all for a single piece of jewelry.
A slow, deliberate smile spread across your face. "Fine, Detective. You've got yourself a date." You held out your hand. "The ring. As a deposit."
He laughed again, that low, honeyed sound that made your stomach flip. "Oh, no, princess. You don't get the ring. You get the promise of a date." He slipped the ring back onto his finger. It was a small, possessive gesture. He was teasing you. "I pick the place, you pick the time."
"You're insufferable," you said, but the word came out as a breathy sigh.
"Thank you," he replied, his eyes glinting. "I'll text you." He pulled a business card out of his jacket pocket and slid it across the bar to you. It was simple, with his name, a phone number, printed in a clean, black font.
"I'll let you know I'm not looking for anything serious." To which he didn't react. You stared at the card. "You're really a detective?"
"I told you," he said, his voice dropping to a low, intimate register. "I'm a man of mystery."
He gave you one last, slow perusal, then stood, leaving a few bills on the bar. He was tall, his lean, sharp frame moving with an unnerving grace.
The restaurant he chose was not what you expected. It wasn't some flashy, Michelin-starred establishment with a waiting list that required presidential intervention. It was tucked away in a quiet alley, unassuming, with no sign outside. Just a single, warm light above a heavy wooden door. Inside, it was intimate, candlelit, the kind of place where the tables were far enough apart that conversations stayed private, where the staff moved like shadows, anticipating needs before they were spoken. The kind of place that felt like a secret.
You arrived precisely on time, because you were never late. Your hair was swept up in a high, elegant bun, a few delicate strands deliberately left loose to frame your face. The black dress was a second skin, the neckline plunging just enough. Your makeup soft—a sultry, smudged eyeliner, a slick of nude gloss.
He was already there when you arrived, seated at a corner table, nursing what looked like the same whiskey he'd had at the bar. He stood when he saw you, and for a moment, something flickered in his dark eyes. Appreciation. Perhaps even surprise. But it was gone in an instant, replaced by that infuriating, knowing smirk.
"You're early," you said, sliding into the seat across from him.
"I'm always early," he replied, settling back into his chair. "It's a detective thing. Gives me time to scope out the exits."
"Dramatic," you murmured, picking up the menu. But you were smiling. A small, reluctant smile you couldn't quite suppress.
The food was exquisite-simple, Italian that tasted like it had been made by someone's grandmother, not a pretentious chef for once. The wine was perfect smooth and slipping down easily. And the conversation… the conversation was unexpectedly, infuriatingly good.
He was funny. Genuinely, effortlessly funny. He told you stories about stakeouts that had gone horribly wrong, about witnesses who were more uncooperative than you, about a case involving a stolen parrot that had somehow led to a major art heist. His voice was low and warm, and he had a way of telling stories that made you lean in, hanging on every word.
You laughed. A real, unguarded laugh that surprised you. "You're making that up."
"I swear on my badge," he said, holding up his hand in a mock pledge. "I have the case file to prove it."
"Can you blame him?" you teased. "You probably traumatized him with all your detective talk."
"Detective talk?" He tilted his head, a playful glint in his eye. "What does that even mean?"
"You know," you said, waving your hand vaguely. "All that… brooding. The dramatic pauses. The way you look at people like you're trying to see through them."
"Ah," he said, leaning back, his gaze dropping to your face. "You mean like this?"
He fixed you with that look-the one from the bar. The slow, deliberate assessment, as if he were cataloguing every detail, every flicker of expression. It sent a shiver down your spine.
"Exactly like that," you said, your voice a little breathless. "It's unnerving."
"Good," he said, the smirk returning. "I like keeping you on your toes."
You rolled your eyes, but you were smiling again. This was… nice. More than nice. You couldn't remember the last time you'd enjoyed a dinner this much. Usually, dates were a performance. You'd smile, you'd flirt, you'd let the man talk about himself while you mentally calculated how long you'd have to stay before you could politely escape. But with him, it was different. He didn't talk about himself unless you asked. He was more interested in asking you questions, in peeling back your carefully constructed layers.
"Do you always wear your hair like that?" he asked, gesturing with his glass. "All perfectly in place?"
"Are you suggesting I look less than perfect?" you shot back, raising an eyebrow.
"I'm suggesting you look like you spent an hour on it," he said smoothly. Eyes looking right at you above the rim of his glass. "Which is impressive."
You blinked. You felt a warmth spread through your chest, one you quickly tried to tamp down. "You're not as smooth as you think you are, detective."
"I'm not trying to be smooth," he said, his voice dropping. "I'm just being honest. You look beautiful, Y/N."
The way he said your name, soft and deliberate, made your stomach flip. You looked away, focusing on your wineglass, not trusting yourself to speak. You weren't supposed to be affected by this. You were supposed to be the untouchable one, the one who held all the cards. But he kept finding ways to slip past your defences.
"So," you said, eager to change the subject, to regain some control. "Tell me more about your cases. The real ones. The ones you can't tell anyone else."
He studied you for a moment, his dark eyes unreadable. Then he leaned forward, his forearms resting on the table. "You really want to know?"
"I wouldn't have asked if I didn't," you said, matching his posture.
He was quiet for a moment, and you watched the way the candlelight flickered across his sharp features, casting shadows that made him look almost dangerous. Then he began to talk.
He told you about a case involving a missing person. A woman who had disappeared without a trace, no evidence, no leads. He'd spent weeks tracking her down, until he finally found her in a small town, living under a new identity. She hadn't been kidnapped. She'd just wanted to disappear. To start over.
"She didn't want to be found," he said, his voice low. "And for a moment, I almost let her go. But I had a job to do. A family that was desperate for closure."
"Did you find her?" you asked.
"I did," he said. "And I had to make a choice. Tell the family where she was, and destroy her new life. Or tell them I couldn't find her, and live with the lie."
He met your eyes, "I told them the truth. That she was alive, that she was safe. But I didn't give them her location. I gave her the choice to reach out to them, to let her decide if she wanted to reconnect. She never did."
"That's… heavy," you managed.
"This line of work usually is," he said, a hint of a smile playing on his lips. "It's not all playing hero and stolen art."
"Will you tell me another one?" you asked, surprising yourself. You didn't usually ask for more. You didn't usually care.
He seemed surprised too, but he nodded. And for the next hour, he told you story after story. It was only when the waiter brought the bill-which Riki insisted on paying, despite your protests-that you realized how late it had gotten. The restaurant had emptied around you, the candle on your table burned down to a stub, and you were still there, still talking, still laughing.
"Okay," you said, as he signed the receipt. "I'll admit it. This wasn't terrible."
"High praise," he said, his smirk firmly back in place. "I'll treasure your approval forever."
"Don't let it go to your head," you warned, gathering your clutch. But you were smiling.
"Wouldn't dream of it," he said, standing and offering you his hand. "Shall I walk you to your car?"
You took his hand, and the touch sent a jolt through you. His palm was warm, his fingers calloused. "Why not.." you replied, a little breathless.
He walked you to the door, his hand resting lightly on the small of your back. The touch was electric, a point of heat that burned through the silk of your dress. You found yourself not wanting the night to end.
"I had a good time," you admitted, the words slipping out before you could stop them. "And don't you dare say 'I told you so.'"
He laughed, a low, warm sound. "I wouldn't dream of it." He pulled out his phone. "Though I should warn you, my expectations for the next date are now extremely high."
"Next date?" you said, raising an eyebrow. "Who said there's going to be a next date?"
His smirk was infuriating, but his eyes were soft. "You did. When you smiled at me like that."
You felt the heat rise to your cheeks, and you hated how easily he could do that to you. "You're impossible."
You were furious. Your bag-your custom made, one-of-a-kind Vivienne Westwood bag that had taken you three months to acquire-was gone. Stolen. Vanished into thin air-well not thin air, you'd left it on the empty stool at the bar last night and forgotten it while on a call with someone-distracted. You'd gone back and couldn't find it where you left it.
You swept through the glass doors of the police station.
You were dressed, as always, to perfection. A white blouse, unbuttoned just enough to be distracting, tucked into a cute skirt. Your hair in waves, your makeup flawless and dewy.
The officer at the front desk, a tired-looking man with a coffee stain on his shirt, looked up as you approached. His eyes widened, and you could practically see him scrambling to compose himself.
"Can I help you, ma'am?" he asked, his voice a little too high.
"Yes," you said, your voice dripping with ice. "I need to report a theft. My bag. It was stolen. And I need you to find it. Now."
The officer blinked. "I'll need you to fill out a report, ma'am. If you could just-"
"No," you cut him off, slapping your hands on the counter. "I don't have time for paperwork. My bag is irreplaceable. custom-stitched, with my initials in gold. I need you to get off your chair and find it."
The officer opened his mouth, but before he could respond, a familiar voice cut through the chaos.
You turned, and there he was. Nishimura Riki. Leaning against the counter with an infuriatingly casual posture, your bag dangling from his long, elegant fingers like a trophy. Other hand tucked into his pocket. He was wearing his white button-up, the top two buttons of his shirt undone, his dark hair slightly dishevelled. His smirk was firmly in place, his dark eyes glinting with amusement.
"Me," he confirmed, pushing off the counter and walking toward you with that slow, predatory grace. He held up the bag, giving it a little shake. "Is this what you're looking for?"
"Where did you get that?" you demanded, your voice rising. "Give it to me. Now."
He stopped just in front of you, close enough that you could smell his cologne, that familiar mix of spice and rain. He held the bag just out of reach, a teasing glint in his eyes. "I'm a detective, remember? It's kind of my job to find things."
"I didn't ask for a lecture," you snapped, reaching for the bag. He pulled it back, and you stumbled forward, catching yourself on his chest. The contact sent a jolt through you, and you quickly stepped back, your cheeks flushing. "Give me my bag, Riki."
"Riki?" he repeated, his smirk widening. "That's new. Usually, it's 'Detective' or 'insufferable man.'"
"It's still insufferable man," you hissed. "Now give it to me."
He sighed, a dramatic, put-upon sound, and finally handed you the bag. You snatched it from him, clutching it to your chest like a lifeline. It was intact, not a scratch on it. You let out a breath you hadn't realized you'd been holding.
"Thank you," you said grudgingly. "Now explain how you got it."
"I was at the bar," he said, leaning against the counter again, his arms crossed. "I was actually hoping to run into you. And then I saw some guy trying to pawn this off at the shop across the street. Recognized the initials. Figured it was yours."
"You saw it at a bar," you repeated flatly. "And you didn't think to call me?"
"Didn't have your number," he said smoothly. "And besides, I thought it'd be more fun to see your reaction in person."
"Fun," you repeated, your voice dangerously low. "You thought it would be fun to watch me panic?"
"Panic?" He tilted his head, that infuriating smirk still in place. "Is that what you were doing? You looked more like you were about kill this poor guy." He nodded to the guy behind the counter.
"I was not," you said, your voice rising. "I was being proactive. There's a difference."
"Right," he said, his tone dripping with scepticism. "Proactive. That's one word for it."
The tired-looking officer at the desk cleared his throat. "Ma'am, I'll still need you to fill out a-"
"She won't need to do that," Riki cut him off, his voice smooth and authoritative. "I'll handle it. You can go back to… whatever you were doing."
The officer nodded quickly, clearly eager to escape the tension crackling between you. He scurried off, leaving you alone with Riki.
"You didn't have to do that," you said, your voice softer now.
"I know," he said. "But I wanted to see you."
The words hung in the air between you, heavy and unexpected. You stared at him, your heart pounding in your chest. He was looking at you with that unreadable expression, the one that made you feel like he could see right through you.
"You wanted to see me?" you repeated, your voice barely above a whisper.
"I had a good time," he said, echoing your words from the restaurant. "And I was hoping you did too."
"I did," you admitted reluctantly. "But that doesn't mean-"
"I know," he interrupted, stepping closer. "You're not looking for anything serious. You're too busy being perfect and unattainable. I get it."
You opened your mouth to argue, but the words died on your lips. Because he was right. You'd said that. You'd thought that. But standing here, with him looking at you like you were the only person in the room, you weren't so sure anymore.
"I still want my ring," you said, deflecting. It was easier to focus on the material things, the things you could control.
"I know," he said, that smirk returning. "And I still want my date. We're at a standoff, princess."
"Excuse me?" you said, clutching your bag a little tighter. "You had your date. Now give me the ring."
"Ah," he said, holding up a finger. "That was our first date. I believe I said one date and five thousand. You didn't bring the money."
"I can write you a check," you said through gritted teeth.
"Cash only," he said smoothly. "And I haven't decided if the date was good enough yet."
"Are you serious?" you demanded, disbelief clear in your voice.
"Dead serious." He was enjoying this. You could see it in his eyes, the way they sparkled with mischief. "You need to prove yourself, princess. Earn that ring."
"You're impossible," you said for what felt like the hundredth time.
"And you're demanding," he countered. "We make quite the pair."
You glared at him, but there was no heat behind it. You were exhausted, and despite everything, you didn't want to leave. You wanted to stay here, in this grimy station, arguing with this infuriating man.
"Fine," you said finally. "What do I have to do to prove myself?"
He considered you for a moment, his gaze sweeping over you in that slow, deliberate way that made your skin tingle. "Dinner. Tomorrow night. My place."
"Your place?" you repeated, raising an eyebrow.
"My place," he confirmed. "I'll cook. I have good wine too."
"Alcohol at a detective's place? Sounds like a trap," you said, a reluctant smile tugging at your lips.
"Maybe," he said, his voice dropping. "Maybe it's just a chance to get to know you without a table between us. What do you say?"
You wanted to say no. You should have said no. But the words wouldn't come. Instead, you found yourself nodding.
"Fine," you said. "But if this is some kind of setup, I'm pressing charges." You take his phone from his hands, your fingers brushing.
"Noted," he said, his smirk softening into a genuine smile. "I'll text you the address." He says, watching as u type out your number on his phone.
"I'm going to hold you to that," you said, handing his phone back and turning to leave. But before you could take a step, his hand caught your elbow, stopping you in your tracks.
"Y/N," he said, his voice low.
You turned back, your heart racing. His face too close. "What?"
"Nothing.." he said softly. "You're free to go m'lady." He does a gesture to the door.
His apartment was not what you expected.
You'd braced yourself for something bleak-a minimalist bachelor pad with a futon on the floor and takeout containers on the coffee table. Instead, you stepped into a space that was warm and lived-in, filled with mismatched furniture that somehow worked together. There were books everywhere, stacked on shelves and piled on tables. The kitchen was open, visible from the living room.
"Make yourself at home," Riki said, shrugging off his jacket and draping it over the back of a chair. "Wine's on the counter. I'll be done in ten minutes."
You wandered over to the wine, eyeing the bottle he'd left out-a deep, dark red that promised to be expensive. You poured yourself a glass, taking a sip as you explored his space. The wine was good. Too good. It went down smoothly, warming your chest in a way that made you feel instantly relaxed.
His books had variety. Fiction, non-fiction, accounts, poetry. You ran your fingers over the spines, a smile tugging at your lips. There was something endearing about the way he'd marked certain passages with small, folded corners.
"So," Riki said, emerging from the kitchen with two plates. "What's the verdict?"
You turned, taking in the sight of him in his element. He'd rolled up his sleeves, revealing the lean, corded muscle of his forearms. His hair was slightly mussed.
"It's not what I expected," you admitted, settling onto the couch.
"Good surprised or bad surprised?" he asked, setting the plates down on the coffee table.
You studied him for a moment, taking in the way he watched you with those dark, unreadable eyes. "Good surprised," you said softly.
He smiled-real smile, not the smirk you were used to-and handed you a fork. "Eat. Before it gets cold."
The food was incredible. He'd made a simple pasta, tossed in a rich tomato sauce with fresh basil and garlic. It was the kind of meal that felt like it came from the heart, not a recipe book. He watched you with that same quiet amusement.
"Shut up," you said. "You know it's good."
He laughed, a low, warm sound that made your stomach flip. You reached for your wine, taking another sip, and then another. The glass emptied faster than you'd intended, and you poured yourself another without thinking.
"Easy," Riki said, raising an eyebrow. "That's a strong one."
"I can handle it," you said dismissively. But even as the words left your mouth, you felt the warmth spreading through you, loosening the careful control you always kept in place.
The conversation flowed easily, like it had at the restaurant. He told you about his day. A man who was caught buying unlicensed guns to distribute. Both the distributer, the buyer and the seller were caught.
"You're so… good at your job," you said, your words slightly slurred. "It's sexy."
He blinked, clearly surprised. "Did you just call me sexy?"
"I did," you said, leaning closer. "Is that a problem?"
"Not a problem," he said, his voice carefully neutral. "Just unexpected."
You were aware, somewhere in the haze of wine, that you were being bolder than usual. That your usual walls were crumbling. But you couldn't bring yourself to care. Not when he was looking at you like that, his dark eyes soft and curious.
"You're always so… put together," he continued, his gaze sweeping over you. "Like you're performing. But right now, you're…"
"I'm what?" you asked, your voice a breathless whisper.
"Real," he said softly. "I like it."
The words hit you harder than you expected. No one had ever said that to you before. No one had ever seen past the perfect facade and wanted to stay.
You moved closer, your body pressing against his side. He was warm, solid, and you could feel the steady beat of his heart under your palm. His scent enveloped you—spice and rain and something uniquely him.
"You're so frustrating," you murmured, your fingers tracing the line of his jaw. "And so handsome. It's infuriating."
"Y/N," he said, and his voice was strained. "I think you've had too much wine."
"I haven't had nearly enough," you said, leaning in until your lips were a breath away from his. "I want… I want to kiss you."
He went very still. His eyes searched yours, and you could see the war raging behind them-the desire warring with the propriety you'd come to expect from him.
"Y/N," he said again, and this time his voice was rough. "You're drunk."
"Not that drunk," you insisted, pressing closer. Your body was soft against his, the curves of your chest pressing against his chest. You felt the sharp intake of his breath, the way his hands twitched at his sides.
"I want," you said, your lips brushing his ear, "to do so many things to you."
He let out a shaky breath, his hands finally coming up to rest on your waist. "You're going to regret this tomorrow."
"I won't," you said, pulling back to look him in the eye. "I never regret anything."
"I think you will," he said, and there was something almost sad in his smile. "Because I'm going to do the right thing, and you're going to hate me for it."
Before you could protest, he stood, scooping you up in his arms like you weighed nothing. You let out a surprised squeak, your arms instinctively wrapping around his neck.
"What are you doing?" you demanded, though your voice came out more slurred than you'd intended.
"Putting you to bed," he said, carrying you down a short hallway. "Like a gentleman."
"I don't want a gentleman," you protested weakly. "I want…"
"I know what you want," he said, gently setting you down on the edge of a bed. The sheets were soft, the pillows fluffy. "And you can have it. Tomorrow. When you're sober and you still want it."
He knelt in front of you, reaching down to unstrap your heels. He removed them with careful, practiced hands, setting them aside. Then he reached for the throw blanket at the foot of the bed, draping it over you.
"You're a good man," you murmured, your eyelids heavy. "It's annoying."
"Thank you," he said dryly. "I think."
You reached up, your hand finding his cheek. "You're not going to kiss me goodnight?"
He hesitated, and for a moment, you saw the war in his eyes again. Then he leaned down, pressing a soft kiss to your forehead.
"Goodnight, princess," he whispered. "Sleep well."
You pouted, but the warmth of the bed and the wine were pulling you under. As you drifted off, you heard his soft laugh, felt his fingers brush a strand of hair from your face.
"What will I do with you?" he murmured.
You woke up slowly, swimming up from a deep, dreamless sleep like a diver breaking the surface of warm water. The sheets were impossibly soft, the pillows smelled like him, and the sunlight streaming through the window was the perfect shade of golden morning. Everything felt hazy and warm and utterly perfect.
You stretched lazily. Your back arched instinctively, your face pressing into the pillow as you let out a soft moan. The sound was pure, unfiltered pleasure, the kind of noise you only made when you were completely unguarded.
Your spine curved, your hips tilting upward as your legs shifted beneath the blanket. The thin strap of your black dress had slipped down your shoulder, and the fabric had ridden up in the night, bunching around your hips. The cool air kissed the bare skin of your thighs, your ass, the curve of your hips.
You wiggled slightly, adjusting your position, and the dress crept higher still. The delicate lace of your pink panties was on full display now, the sheer fabric doing little to conceal the round curve of your cheeks. Your top had shifted too, the low neckline sliding sideways until one full, round breast had nearly escaped entirely. Only your nipples remained covered. The other was perilously close to following suit, the smooth, flawless skin of your chest catching the morning light like it had been airbrushed by angels.
"Mmm… that feels so good…"
You moaned again, the sound softer this time, more contented. Your fingers curled into the pillow, your hips giving another unconscious little wiggle. You were still half-asleep, still floating in that blissful space between dreaming and waking, completely unaware of the world around you.
A faint sound broke through the haze. It was soft, almost imperceptible-a sharp intake of breath.
Your eyes snapped open, and for a moment, you couldn't process what you were seeing. The room was unfamiliar. The sheets weren't yours. The pillows, the walls, the-
You turned your head slowly, every muscle in your body going rigid. And there he was.
Nishimura Riki was sitting in an armchair by the window, a cup of coffee in his hand, watching you with an expression that was utterly unreadable. His dark eyes were fixed on you, and there was something in them-a flicker of heat quickly banked, a muscle twitching in his jaw. He was wearing a simple white t-shirt and grey sweatpants, his hair slightly mussed, looking infuriatingly composed for someone who had just witnessed the most mortifying moment of your life.
You scrambled upright, clutching the blanket to your chest, your face burning. "WHAT ARE YOU DOING?! HOW LONG HAVE YOU BEEN THERE?! DID YOU SEE-OH MY GOD!"
He raised an eyebrow, taking a slow, deliberate sip of his coffee. "Good morning to you too."
"DON'T 'GOOD MORNING' ME!" You grabbed the nearest pillow and launched it at his head. He dodged easily, the smirk spreading across his face making your blood boil. "YOU WATCHED ME! YOU JUST SAT THERE AND WATCHED ME!"
"You were sleeping," he said calmly, setting his coffee down on the side table. "I didn't want to wake you."
"I WASN'T ASLEEP! I WAS-" You grabbed another pillow, hurling it with all your strength. He caught this one, tucking it under his arm with an infuriating nonchalance. "I WAS STRETCHING! I WAS MAKING NOISES! YOU-OH MY GOD!"
"Pretty noises," he said, and his voice was so low, so smooth, it sent a shiver down your spine despite your rage. "Very pretty."
"SHUT UP!" You were trying to yank your dress up your chest and down your thighs at the same time, a futile, flailing attempt that only made things worse. The fabric was twisted, the lace straps slipping, and you were fairly certain he could see everything anyway. "WHY ARE YOU EVEN HERE?! THIS IS YOUR FAULT!"
"My fault?" He tilted his head, feigning confusion. "For making sure you got to bed safely? For letting you sleep in?"
"FOR-" You grabbed a third pillow, but he was on his feet now, crossing the room with that slow, predatory grace. He stopped at the edge of the bed, looking down at you with dark, amused eyes.
"Y/N," he said softly, and the way he said your name made your stomach flip. "You were very drunk last night. I was being a gentleman."
"A gentleman wouldn't have WATCHED!"
He shrugged. "I didn't plan to. But when you started stretching and making those sounds…" He let the sentence trail off, his eyes dropping for just a fraction of a second to where your dress had slipped again. "I couldn't look away."
You were going to die. You were going to spontaneously combust right here, in his stupidly comfortable bed, and it would be all his fault.
"I hate you," you hissed, finally managing to tug your dress into some semblance of decency. "I absolutely hate you."
"You don't," he said, and he was smiling now, that genuine smile that made your heart do stupid things. "You said some very interesting things last night."
"I was drunk," you said quickly. "I don't remember anything."
"You remember," he countered, leaning down until his face was level with yours. "You said I was sexy. You said you wanted to kiss me. You said-"
"I DON'T REMEMBER!" You shoved at his chest, but he didn't budge. He just laughed, that low, warm sound that made your skin tingle.
"Fine," he said, straightening up. "I'll let you pretend. But you're still in my bed, Y/N. And you're still wearing that dress."
You looked down at yourself, at the rumpled black lace, the straps slipping again, the hem still barely covering anything. You were a mess.
"Help me," you said, huffing. "Fix it."
He tilted his head. "What's the magic word?"
"Please," you said, breathless.
"Good enough." He reached down, his fingers brushing your shoulder as he carefully pulled the strap back into place. His touch was featherlight, but it burned through you, leaving a trail of fire in its wake. He smoothed the fabric over your chest, his knuckles grazing the swell of your breast, and you forgot how to breathe.
"There." he said, his voice soft. "Better?"
You nodded, unable to speak. He was so close, his scent surrounding you, his eyes fixed on yours. You could feel the heat radiating off him, could see the way his pupils had dilated, the way his jaw tightened.
"You're blushing," he murmured.
"Liar." He smiled, and it was softer now, almost tender. "I like this version of you."
"You're insufferable," you breathed.
"I know." He leaned in, his lips brushing your ear. "you love it."
You shoved him again, the tension breaking. "Get away from me. I need coffee. And a shower. And to never speak of this again."
"Deal," he said, stepping back. "But I'm keeping the memory."
He was already walking toward the door, but he paused, glancing back over his shoulder. His smirk was back, but there was something else in his eyes—something warm. "For the record," he said, "you looked beautiful."
You threw the last pillow at the door as he shut it behind him.
You were at his work, perched on the edge of a desk like you owned the place. You'd come with a purpose-or so you'd told yourself. You'd had a "question" about a case. A completely fabricated question that you'd spent an embarrassing amount of time coming up with.
But the moment you'd walked in and seen him leaning back in his chair, sleeves rolled up, that infuriating smirk already in place, you'd forgotten every word you'd rehearsed.
"You're back," he said, his voice a low purr. "I was starting to think you'd forgotten about me."
"Impossible," you said, crossing your legs. Your skirt rode up just a fraction, and you watched his eyes flick down for the briefest moment before snapping back up. "You're too annoying to forget."
"And yet, here you are. Annoyed. Again." He leaned forward, resting his elbows on his desk. "What's the excuse this time?"
"Excuse?" You feigned offense, pressing a hand to your chest. "I don't need an excuse to visit my favorite detective."
"Favorite?" He raised an eyebrow. "How many detectives do you know?"
"You'd be surprised," you said airily. "I have a very diverse social circle."
"Mhmm." He was grinning now, that slow, lazy grin that made your stomach flip. "And what does your diverse social circle think about you spending so much time with me?"
"They don't know," you said, leaning forward conspiratorially. "It's our little secret."
"Our little secret," he repeated, and the way he said it made your skin tingle. "I like the sound of that."
You were about to fire back a retort when something caught your eye. His hand was resting on the desk, fingers drumming a lazy rhythm. And there, on his middle finger, was the ring. If you brought it up now, if you demanded it, if you got it. Maybe all this would end. So you didn't. Because now you wanted what you had with niki more than the ring.
It was well past midnight when your phone buzzed on the nightstand, the screen lighting up with a name that made your heart skip. You'd been lying in bed, watching the ceiling, unable to sleep.
You answered on the second ring, your voice a low, teasing purr. "Detective. Shouldn't you be out solving crimes instead of calling me at this ungodly hour?"
His voice came through the speaker, low and warm, with that familiar hint of amusement. "I am solving a crime. The crime of a beautiful woman keeping me up at night."
"Pretty sure that's not a crime," you said, settling back against your pillows. "Though I suppose I am a bit distracting."
"Distracting is an understatement," he murmured, and you could hear the smile in his voice. "I've been staring at the same file for an hour. Can't focus."
"Poor baby," you cooed, your voice dripping with false sympathy. "Is the big, bad detective having trouble concentrating?"
"Something like that." There was a rustling sound on his end, like he was leaning back in his chair. "You're not helping, you know. With the teasing."
"Teasing?" You let out a soft, breathy laugh. "I have no idea what you're talking about."
"Liar." His voice dropped lower, and you felt the heat pool in your stomach. "You know exactly what you're doing. You always do."
"Maybe I do," you admitted, your voice dropping to a whisper. "Maybe I like knowing I'm on your mind."
"You're always on my mind," he said, and there was no teasing in his voice now. "It's becoming a problem."
The precinct was quiet for a Friday night, the usual chaos of the day reduced to a low hum of fluorescent lights and distant keyboard clicks. Riki had needed air. The case files were starting to blur together, the stale coffee was doing nothing for his headache, and the image of you had been haunting him for hours. He'd stepped outside, walked three blocks, bought a bottle of water he didn't want, and returned feeling a tiny bit more human.
The moment he pushed through the glass doors, he knew something was wrong.
The officer at the front desk-a young kid named Chen who usually greeted him with a nervous smile-looked up and immediately froze. His eyes went wide, his mouth opening and closing like a fish. He quickly looked away, busying himself with a stack of papers that had been sitting there for three days.
Riki frowned. "Chen. Everything okay?"
"Yep! Totally fine! Everything's great!" Chen's voice cracked on the last word. He didn't look up.
Riki's gaze swept the room. It was the same scene he'd left twenty minutes ago. A few officers at their desks, a suspect being processed in the holding cell, the usual Friday night rotation. But every single person he passed seemed to be avoiding eye contact. One officer-a veteran named Miller who had never once shown him anything but professional indifference-actually flinched when Riki walked by.
"What the hell," Riki muttered under his breath.
He rounded the corner toward his office, and the answer presented itself in the most distracting, infuriatingly perfect way possible.
You were sitting on one of the desks.
Your legs were crossed at the ankle, one foot swinging lazily as you scrolled through your phone. You were wearing a cute skirt again, leaving the smooth, endless expanse of your legs on full display. Your blouse was a soft, babypink, fitted and buttoned just low enough to show the delicate hollow of your throat, the hint of lace at the edge of your bra.
Your hair was down, straightened. Your makeup was, as always, flawless. Your lips were glossed, and you were chewing on the bottom one absently as you scrolled.
You hadn't noticed him yet.
Riki stood in the doorway, frozen. He cleared his throat.
You looked up, and your face broke into that slow, devastating smile. The one that made his chest tighten and his brain short-circuit in equal measure.
"Detective," you said, your voice a warm purr. "There you are. I was starting to think you'd abandoned me."
"I was gone for twenty minutes," he said, his voice carefully neutral. He walked toward his desk. "How did you get in?"
"Your officer at the front desk," you said, waving a hand dismissively. "The cute one. He recognized me from the last time I was here. I told him I had a consultation with you, and he waved me right through."
"Chen," Riki said flatly.
"mhm" you slid off the desk. You landed on your heels with practiced grace, your skirt somehow staying perfectly in place despite the movement. He was absolutely not going to think about how that was possible. "Anyway, I was in the neighborhood-"
"You were in the neighborhood," he repeated, his eyebrow arching. "At eleven o'clock on a Friday night."
"I missed you," you said, and the words came out softer than you'd probably intended. You looked away quickly, busying yourself with your phone. "That's all. I was bored, and I couldn't sleep, and I figured you'd still be here, brooding over your case files."
"I don't brood," he said.
"You absolutely brood," you countered. "You're brooding right now. You have a brooding face."
"I don't have a brooding face."
"You do. It's very attractive, by the way. Very mysterious.'"
"Y/N." His voice was a warning, but there was no heat in it.
"What? I'm complimenting you."
He glanced around. Officers were still watching. Chen was taking a very long drink from an empty coffee cup.
"Can we talk in my office?" he said, his voice low.
"Ooh, the office," you said, your eyes lighting up. "Is that where you take all the pretty girls?"
"You're the only pretty girl who's ever been in this building," he said, and he didn't realize the words were true until they left his mouth.
You blinked, caught off guard. For a moment, your carefully constructed facade slipped, and he saw something real underneath. Something soft.
Then it was gone, replaced by your usual smirk. "Good answer, Detective. I'll let you off the hook."
He gestured toward his office-a small glass-walled room at the back of the bullpen. "After you."
You walked ahead of him, and he absolutely did not watch the sway of your hips. He absolutely did not notice the way your blouse clung to the lines of your back.
The moment the door closed behind him, he felt the tension in the room shift. It was just the two of you now, enclosed in the small space, the glass walls offering only the illusion of privacy.
"So," you said, settling into the chair across from his desk. You crossed your legs, and the movement made your skirt ride up just a fraction higher. "What were you brooding about before I got here?"
"A case," he said, sitting down in his chair. He leaned back, studying you. "Which is all I'm going to say about it."
"Secretive," you said, your eyes glinting. "I like it."
You leaned forward, resting your elbows on his desk. The movement pushed your chest together just slightly, and his gaze flickered down before he forcibly dragged it back up.
"Tell me about the case," you said. "I'm curious."
"Curious," he repeated. "That's one word for it."
"What other word would you use?"
He was quiet for a moment, watching you. The way your hair caught the light. The way your lips curved into that teasing smile. The way your scent-something floral and sweet-was slowly filling his space.
"Distracting," he finally said. "You're distracting."
"I'll take that as a compliment."
You smiled, and it was softer this time. Less teasing. You looked at him for a long moment, and he could see something shifting behind your eyes. Something cautious.
"I'm glad I came," you said quietly. "Even if I did get your officers all riled up."
"They'll recover," he said. "Though Chen might need therapy."
"He'll be fine. I gave him a little wave when I walked in. He nearly dropped his coffee."
You stood, smoothing down your skirt. "I should probably let you get back to your brooding. It's late."
"You don't have to leave," he said, and the words came out before he could stop them.
You paused, looking at him. "Do you want me to stay?"
He should say no. He should tell you to go home, to get some sleep, to stop showing up at his workplace like some kind of gorgeous, infuriating apparition. He should protect himself from whatever this was, because he knew it could only end in disaster.
The drive back to your apartment was quiet. You'd spent it ride stealing glances at him, watching the way his fingers gripped the steering wheel, the way the shadows played across his sharp features. He caught you looking once, his lips twitching into that familiar smirk, and you'd looked away quickly, feigning interest in the passing buildings.
"See something you like?" he'd asked, his voice low and amused.
"Just checking for traffic," you'd replied smoothly, turning your head back to your window. "You're a terrible driver."
"I'm an excellent driver."
"You drive like a grandmother."
"Grandmothers are notoriously safe drivers."
You'd laughed, the sound filling the small space, and he'd smiled-that real smile that made your heart do stupid things.
Now, the car was parked in front of your building, the engine idling softly. The night air was cool, carrying the faint scent of rain. You should have gotten out. You should have said goodnight and disappeared into the safety of your apartment, where you could overthink every interaction in peace.
Riki cleared his throat, the sound deliberate and slightly awkward. His hands were still on the steering wheel, his knuckles white. He wasn't looking at you. He was staring straight ahead, his jaw tight.
"Uh," he said. "So. This is your place."
"It is," you said, a smile tugging at your lips.
"Right." He cleared his throat again. "It's. Nice. Building. Very… building."
"Riki." Your voice was soft, teasing. "Are you trying to say something?"
He finally looked at you, and there was something vulnerable in his dark eyes. "I don't know what you're talking about."
"Really?" You leaned closer, your voice dropping to a whisper. "Because you've cleared your throat about four times in the last thirty seconds. It's almost like you're waiting for something."
"I'm not waiting for anything," he said, but his voice cracked on the last word.
You laughed, a soft, breathy sound that seemed to fill the car. "You're a terrible liar, Detective."
He opened his mouth to argue, but you didn't give him the chance. You leaned across the console, your hand finding his jaw, your lips pressing against his.
The kiss was soft. So impossibly soft. Your lips were plush and yielding, tasting faintly of the lip gloss you'd reapplied in his office bathroom. His lips parted slightly in surprise, and you felt the sharp intake of his breath, the way his hands instinctively came up to frame your waist.
You pulled back before he could deepen it, a smirk curving your lips.
His eyes were dark, his pupils blown wide. His lips were slightly parted, pink and glossy from yours. The sight made something warm curl in your stomach.
"First kiss," you said, your voice light and teasing. "Don't let it get to your head."
He blinked, clearly trying to process what had just happened. "First…?"
"I told you I was a light drinker," you said. "And I don't make a habit of kissing men I've only known for a few months. So consider yourself special."
"Special," he repeated, his voice faint, dazed.
"Very special." You reached for the door handle, your smile widening. "Goodnight, Riki."
You slipped out of the car before he could respond, the cool night air hitting your skin. You didn't look back as you walked toward your building, but you could feel his eyes on you, tracking your every movement.
You paused at the door, glancing over your shoulder. He was still sitting in the car, his hands frozen on the steering wheel, his lips still pink and glossy from your kiss.
You gave him a little wave, then disappeared inside. Your phone buzzed in your purse.
He sat in his car for a long time after you disappeared inside.
The engine was still running, the heater humming softly against the cool night air. His hands were still on the steering wheel, his knuckles white, his grip so tight it was almost painful. He couldn't seem to move. Couldn't seem to breathe properly.
His lips were tingling. He raised a hand, touching his mouth with his fingertips. They were still slick with your gloss-vanilla, you'd said. He was going to remember the soft press of your lips, the way you'd leaned across the console like it was the most natural thing in the world.
And then you'd pulled back.
Pushed him away. Teased him. Told him not to let it get to his head.
"First kiss," he muttered to himself, the words hollow in the empty car. "First kiss my ass."
He knew you weren't lying. He'd seen the flicker of nervousness in your eyes before you'd closed them, the way your fingers had trembled slightly against his jaw. You'd been just as affected as he was. You'd just been better at hiding it.
He dropped his head against the steering wheel, letting out a long, shaky breath.
He'd known it from the moment you'd walked into that bar, all honeyed skin and spoiled attitude, demanding his ring like it was your birth right. He'd known it when you'd woken up in his bed, half-dressed and moaning, your body arching so beautifully he'd had to physically restrain himself.
But this-this was something else entirely.
He started the engine, pulling away from the curb with a sigh. The drive to his apartment was a blur, his mind still stuck on the moment your lips had met his. He caught himself smiling in the rear-view mirror and immediately forced his expression into something neutral.
By the time he stumbled through his front door, he was exhausted and wired all at once. He tossed his keys on the counter, kicked off his shoes, and collapsed onto his couch.
His heart leaped in his chest-a reaction he absolutely refused to acknowledge-and he grabbed for it. But it wasn't you. It was Chen.
He sent the message before he could think better of it, then stared at the screen in horror. What the hell was he doing? He sounded like a jealous teenager, not a grown man with a career and responsibilities.
Riki tossed his phone onto the coffee table, dragging a hand through his hair. He was losing his mind.
The next morning, Riki walked into the precinct with a coffee in one hand and a headache that had nothing to do with sleep deprivation. Chen looked up from the front desk, a knowing grin spreading across his face.
"Morning boss," Chen said, his voice dripping with amusement. "You look… distracted."
"I'm not distracted," Riki said flatly.
"Sure. And I'm not still thinking about that girl from last night."
Riki froze mid-step, turning slowly to face the younger officer. "What did you say?"
Chen held up his hands in surrender. "Nothing! I'm just saying...she's… memorable. That's all."
Riki stared at him for a long moment, then turned and walked toward his desk. He sat down at his desk, pulling out a case file he had absolutely no intention of reading. His phone buzzed.
The knock on your door came around 10pm. You opened the door, and he was there.
Riki stood in your doorway, his chest heaving slightly like he'd run up the stairs instead of taking the elevator. His dark hair was even more dishevelled than usual, his jaw set, his eyes burning with an intensity that made your breath catch.
He just stepped forward, his hand finding the curve of your waist, and crushed his lips to yours.
The kiss was nothing like the soft, tentative one in the car. This was hungry. Demanding. His lips parted yours immediately, his tongue sweeping into your mouth with a possessiveness that made your knees buckle. His hand slid up your back, pressing you flush against him, and you could feel the heat of his body.
A whimper escaped your throat, high and breathy and embarrassingly needy. The sound seemed to spur him on. He groaned against your lips, his other hand tangling in your hair, tilting your head back to deepen the kiss.
"Riki," you gasped, the word muffled against his mouth.
He pulled back just enough to look at you, his dark eyes blazing. Your cheeks were flushed, your lips pink and swollen, your chest heaving with shallow breaths. You knew you must look absolutely wrecked, and the sight of your glazed eyes and parted lips made something dark and satisfied flicker across his face.
"Fuck," he breathed, his thumb tracing your swollen bottom lip. "Look at you. So pretty when you're flustered."
"I'm not-" you started, but he kissed you again, swallowing the protest.
This time, his hands roamed lower, gripping the curve of your ass through the silk. You gasped into his mouth, your fingers curling into the fabric of his shirt. He walked you backward, kicking the door closed behind him, and you stumbled against the wall in the entryway.
He broke the kiss. His breath was warm and ragged against your lips, and you could feel the rapid beat of his heart through his chest. His hand slid up from your ass to the small of your back, pressing you even closer.
"Look at yourself," he continued, his voice a silken tease. "Flushed. Panting. Making those little sounds for me. And you want to pretend you're not completely undone?"
"I hate you," you breathed, but the words had no heat. They came out breathy and weak, unconvincing.
"You don't," he said, kissing the corner of your mouth. "You love this. Love when I take control. Love when I make you forget your own name."
"You're so-" Another kiss. "-insufferable-" Another. "-I swear to-mmph!"
He cut you off, his lips claiming yours again. His tongue slid against yours, slow and deliberate, and you melted into him completely. Your hands fisted in his shirt, pulling him closer, and he groaned against your mouth.
"Say it," he murmured against your lips. "Say I'm your first."
"You are," you gasped. "You're my first. I told you before. Are you happy now?"
"Overly." He kissed the corner of your mouth, then your jaw, then the sensitive spot just below your ear. Your head tilted back, a desperate little moan escaping your lips. "mmpnf.." "And I'm going to be your last too, princess. Just so we're clear."
"Shh." His lips ghosted over your throat, and you shivered. "Just let me have this. Let me have you."
He pulled back again, just far enough to look at you. His eyes were dark, hungry, but there was something softer there too. Something that made your chest ache.
"Good girl," he murmured, his thumb stroking your cheek. "My good girl."
"You're really letting it get to your head, aren't you?" you said, your voice still breathless.
"Absolutely," he said, grinning. "I'm never going to let you forget this. I'm going to remember. Flushed. Wanting. Mine."
"Mmhm." He leaned in, his lips brushing yours. "Your first. And your last. That's the deal."
The bathroom door clicked open, carrying the scent of your expensive body wash and something sweet that niki had come to associate with you. He was sprawled on your bed, propped up against the headboard, scrolling through his phone.
He looked up, and his brain short-circuited.
You were standing in the doorway, fresh from the shower, your skin glowing and dewy. Your hair was dried and glossy. You were wearing the shortest, tightest pair of shorts he'd ever seen-tiny navu blue things that barely covered the curve of your ass, leaving your long, flawless legs on full display.
Your top was even worse. A tight, thin camisole in pale pink, so clingy it might as well have been painted on. Your breasts were full and round, pressed together by the fabric. Your skin was so soft, so smooth, so impossibly perfect, and you were looking at him with that innocent, teasing smile that drove him absolutely insane.
"Hey," you said, padding across the room toward the bed. "I was thinking. Do you want to cuddle? Or watch a movie? I'm kind of in the mood for something mindless."
Riki opened his mouth to respond, but no words came out. His throat was dry. His hands were gripping the sheets so tightly his knuckles were white. He could feel the heat building in his body, the tightness in his sweatpants becoming increasingly impossible to ignore.
You didn't seem to notice. You bent over to grab the remote from the nightstand, and Riki's entire world narrowed to the sight of your ass. The shorts rode up, the plush, plump, round curve on full display, and he had to physically bite the inside of his cheek to keep from groaning.
"You okay?" you asked, straightening up. You were holding the remote, looking at him with your head tilted. "You look a little tense."
"I'm fine," he managed, his voice strained. "Just… fine."
You climbed onto the bed, your body settling beside his. Your bare thigh pressed against his, and he could feel the warmth of your skin through the thin fabric of his sweatpants. You were so close. So soft. So utterly unaware of the effect you were having on him.
"You sure?" You reached out, your fingers brushing his arm. "You feel a little warm."
"Y/N." His voice was a warning, low and rough. "If you keep touching me like that, I'm not going to be responsible for what happens."
Your eyes sparkled with mischief. "Oh, really? And what exactly might happen?"
You smiled, slow and deliberate, and shifted closer. Your body pressed against his, and he could feel the softness of your breasts through the thin camisole. Your hand slid up his chest, your fingers tracing the line of his jaw.
"What if I want to find out?" you whispered, your lips brushing his ear.
He groaned, a low, pained sound. "You're going to kill me."
"Maybe." Your hand slid lower, trailing down his chest, his stomach, stopping just above the waistband of his sweatpants. "But you'll die happy, right?"
"Tell me," you said, your voice a soft, teasing purr. "How bad do you want it?"
He looked at you-really looked at you. The flush on your cheeks. The way your lips were parted. The hunger in your eyes that mirrored his own.
"I want it so bad I can barely breathe," he admitted, his voice rough. "I've wanted it since the first night I saw you. I've been losing my mind, Y/N. You have no idea."
"I have some idea," you said, and then you were straddling him, your soft thighs on either side of his hips, your plush, round ass settling right over his aching hard-on. "I've been doing this on purpose, you know. I wanted to see how long it would take you to snap."
"You're evil," he breathed, his hands finding your hips. "Absolutely evil."
"I know." You ground down against him, slow and deliberate, and he groaned, his head falling back against the headboard. "But you love it."
The friction was maddening-your soft ass pressing against him through the thin layers of fabric, the little sounds of pleasure escaping your lips as you rocked against him. He could feel the heat of you, the dampness between your thighs, and he knew he wasn't going to last.
"Please," he gasped, the word torn from somewhere deep in his chest. "Please, Y/N."
"Please what?" You leaned down, your lips brushing his. "Please stop? Please keep going?"
"Please," he repeated, and he couldn't even form a coherent thought anymore. "I can't- I need-"
"Tell me what you need," you whispered, and your voice was so soft, so sweet, so utterly at odds with the way you were torturing him. "Tell me, baby."
"I need you," he said, and it came out broken, desperate. "I need you so bad it hurts."
You kissed him then, soft and sweet, and he felt something inside him shatter. He flipped you over, his body covering yours, and the sound you made-a sharp, surprised gasp-was the most beautiful thing he'd ever heard, "mnh-!"
He smashed his lips to yours, and you whimpered against his mouth, your legs wrapping around his waist. His hands found the hem of your camisole, tearing it off you. Your breasts spilled free, round and full, the nipples already hard. He groaned at the sight, his mouth descending to claim one.
"Riki," you gasped, your fingers tangling in his hair. "ngh-ah!"
"Say my name again," he demanded against your skin. "I love the way you say my name."
"Riki," you breathed, and it was the sweetest sound he'd ever heard.
He moved lower, his lips trailing down your stomach, his hands pushing your shorts down your hips. You lifted your hips to help him, and he tossed the tiny scrap of fabric aside, his eyes darkening at the sight of you.
"You're so beautiful," he said, his voice reverent. "So fucking perfect."
"Riki," you whimpered. "Please. I need you."
"Not yet." He wanted to savor this. Wanted to memorize every inch of you. He kissed the inside of your thigh, and you shuddered, a desperate little sound escaping your lips.
"Please," you begged, and he had never heard anything so sweet. "Please, Riki. I can't wait anymore."
He looked up at you, at the flush on your cheeks, the desperate need in your eyes. And he knew he couldn't deny you anything.
He shrug in clothes off desperately, positioned himself at your entrance, and you gasped, your nails digging into his shoulders.
"Riki," you breathed, your eyes wide. "You're so-mm.. it's so big."
"Shh." He kissed the corner of your mouth. "I'll go slow. I promise."
He pushed in, inch by agonizing inch, and the sound you made-a sharp, breathless "ahh!"-sent a jolt of pleasure straight through him. You were so tight, so warm, so impossibly perfect. Your soft thighs pillowing, bracketing his hips.
"Okay?" he asked, his voice strained. "Tell me you're okay baby."
"Y-yeah mnh.." you whimpered, your eyes fluttering shut. "I'm okay. Just- give me a minute."
He held still, waiting, watching the way your chest rose and fell, the way your lips parted on little gasps. Then you nodded, and he began to move.
It was heaven. Every stroke, every sound, every time you cried out his name. Your nails raked down his back and you were so soft beneath him, so pliant and perfect.
"Riki," you whimpered, your head falling back. "Oh, ki- mmngh- ah- nhh-"
"You feel so good," he groaned, burying his face in your neck. "So fucking good. Like you were made for me."
"Was I?" Your voice was breathless, teasing even in the midst of it all. "Was I made for you?"
"Fuck yes." He thrust deeper, and you cried out, your body arching off the bed. "So perfect. So fucking perfect."
He flipped you over, your soft body on your knees, your back arching into a perfect curve. He entered you from behind, and the sight of your plush ass pressed against him made his mind go blank.
The pleasure was overwhelming. Your soft ass was like heaven. You were so tight, so wet, so warm.
"Yes, yes, yes-" you were babbling, the words spilling out with each of his thrusts. "Oh god, Riki- so deep-ngh!"
"Did you think about this?" he demanded, his hand tangling in your hair, the other one coming up to fondle your tit. "When you were teasing me all week? When you were wearing those tiny clothes? Did you think about me fucking you?"
"Y-yes," you gasped. "Every night- nhh- I couldn't stop- ah- think about you inside me."
"Good girl." He thrust harder, your body shuddering beneath him.
The first round ended with you crying out his name, your body clenching around him, pulling him over the edge with a groan that was half-relief, half-desperation.
You collapsed beside him, both of you breathing hard, and he pulled you into his arms.
"You didn't last five minutes" you said, your voice breathless.
"Shut up." he said. "That was round one. I have stamina."
You were on your back now, your body limp and pliant beneath him, your legs wrapped loosely around his waist. Your hair was a wild mess on the pillow, your lips swollen and pink, your cheeks flushed with a deep, beautiful rose. Your eyes were half-lidded, glazed over with pleasure, barely able to focus on the man above you.
He was still inside you, moving slow and deep, savoring every soft sound that fell from your lips.
"Nhh... mmngh..." You whimpered, your head falling back against the pillow. "ki... s'too much..."
"Too much?" He leaned down, his lips brushing your ear. "You can take it, princess. You've been taking it all night."
You moaned, a broken, needy sound, your fingers weakly clutching at his shoulders. You were so soft beneath him, so pliant and warm. Your full, round breasts pressed against his chest, the peaks hard and sensitive, brushing against his skin with every movement. He looked down at them-perfect, soft, right there-and couldn't resist.
"So pretty," he murmured, his thumb brushing over one tight peak.
"Shh," he murmured against your ear, his voice low and teasing. "You're so loud, princess. So needy. What would your friends think if they saw you like this?" He eased back inside you.
"No?" He thrust deeper, and you cried out, your back arching off the bed. "You don't care that they'd see you like this? All soft and desperate and begging for it?"
"Look at you," he said, his voice dripping with mockery. "So desperate. So needy. And you pretend to be so put together. But underneath all that makeup and attitude, you're just a mess for me. Aren't you?"
"Y-yes… mmph… a mess…ngh- for you-"
"Love it- mmh… love you..”
"Say that again," he said, his voice barely above a whisper.
“Love you...” you breathed. A soft laugh escaped his lips and he kissed your lips.
"You're a mess," he continued, his voice low and mocking. "So fucked out you can barely speak. And you started this, remember? You wanted to tease me. Wanted to see how long I could last."
You whimpered, your nails raking down his back, but you couldn't form words. You were too far gone, floating in a haze of pleasure, your mind blissfully blank.
"And now look at you," he said, his hips rolling into yours, drawing another broken moan from your lips. "So pretty. So perfect. All mine." Your head lolled to the side, your eyes fluttering shut.
"Open your eyes princess." His voice was soft but commanding. "I want to see you. Want to see how good I make you feel."
You obeyed, your heavy-lidded eyes finding his.
"There you are," he breathed. "There's my girl."
"Fuck." He followed you over the edge, his body shuddering against yours, his face buried in your neck.
For a long moment, neither of you moved. You lay tangled together, your breathing slowly evening out, your bodies slick with sweat.
He reached out, his hand fumbling for the nightstand. Watching you like this-soft and pliant and completely undone beneath him, he couldn't wait anymore. He wanted a piece of him to be yours.
He found the ring, his fingers closing around the cool metal. He pulled back just enough to look at you. Your eyes were lidded, your lips parted, your body flushed and glistening with a fine sheen of sweat. You looked utterly wrecked. Utterly beautiful.
"Y/N," he said, his voice soft but firm.
Your eyes fluttered, struggling to focus on him. "Mmph...?"
"I need you to hear me." He shifted, his hand finding yours. "Can you hear me baby?"
You nodded weakly, "Mmhm..."
He slid the ring onto your finger-slow, deliberate, watching the way the metal caught the dim light. It was too big for you, obviously.
You didn't even notice it on you.You were too far gone, lost in the haze of pleasure, your eyes already fluttering shut again. He pressed his lips to your forehead, hiding his smile against your skin.
"There," he murmured, his voice a low, intimate whisper. "Now you're really mine. Not that you ever had a choice."
hello oomfs im sorry if the ending part is bad because i kinda rushed it since i wanted to get this out without delay since I've been working on this since exam season..இ௰இ
Thank u to anyone who made it so the end i appreciate people reading all of what i write more than the likes and follows ❤︎
