Shadows
✩ Teru Mikami
contains soft domination, bratty behavior, power play, overstimulation, cum play, rough sex, public tension, dirty talk, mild manipulation, lying, possessiveness, size kink, light bondage
The order came through in clean white envelopes—no name, no signature, just a single sentence in cold, perfect type:
“Follow Teru Mikami. Do not engage. Watch for the notebook.”
You rolled your eyes the first time you read it. A prosecutor. That’s who they had you tailing? Not a high-ranking Yotsuba exec, not even a L-chosen suspect. Just a painfully disciplined, routine-driven gym rat who made every hour of your surveillance feel like watching paint dry.
At first.
Then came the patterns. The obsessive route changes. The matching briefcases. The flickers of paranoia he didn’t let reach his face.
And then the notebook.
It was fast, but not fast enough to fool you. He wrote in it at the exact same time Kira killed. And when he tucked it away, your gut twisted.
So you started pressing closer. And closer. You joined his gym.
You never made eye contact. Never let him see your face directly.
But you watched him in the mirror. Always.
One night, you stayed late.
You waited for him to finish his workout, locker number logged, path memorized. You had the fake notebook in your bag. The copy was perfect. Pages, weight, binding, all exact.
You timed your approach. Locker 36. He always showered after upper body. Ten, maybe twelve minutes but this time, he was faster.
A whisper of breath behind you. A shadow over your shoulder.
Then fingers closed like a vice around your wrist.
Your breath caught.
„You‘re not very good at this.“ His voice was low. Dangerous. Too calm.
You didn’t flinch. Instead, you turned your head, lips curling like the brat you were trained to be.
“Aren’t I? Maybe I don‘t want to.”
He said nothing. Just stared. His glasses fogged slightly with heat, his chest still slick from exertion, skin flushed and glowing with discipline you’d never touch.
He was a full head taller than you, and he looked down at you like a judgment, like a line of scripture meant to cleanse.
But he didn’t let go. So you leaned in. Slow. Measured. Until the scent of sweat and soap filled your lungs and your free hand drifted up his chest. You traced his sternum, finger brushing the line where pectorals met torso. Light. Deliberate. “God, you really are real, huh?” you murmured, tone mocking. “Sweat and muscles and everything.”
He didn’t stop you. His jaw tensed. But your wrist was still pinned.
So you pushed. “Tell me, prosecutor… do you always restrain strange women in wet locker rooms, or am I special?”
That’s when something shifted. He didn’t snap. Didn’t raise his voice. He let your wrist go. And then, wordlessly, he walked you backward into the lockers.
Metal pressed cold against your back. His arm blocked your left side, the other still hovering in the space where he’d held you.
And you… You reached up and took his glasses off. Delicate. Respectful. Almost tender. His eyes blinked, bare now. Less sharp. More human.
You tilted your head and whispered—“You’re really beautiful. Sad you’re a freak.”
Then, still smiling, you leaned in and kissed his cheek. Soft. Warm. Perfectly cruel. You slid the glasses back into his hand, then stepped past him, brushing your shoulder against his chest as you passed. “See you, Teru.”
He didn’t follow you. Didn’t speak.
But in the mirror near the exit, you caught his reflection, eyes still fixed on the spot where you’d touched him, mouth slightly open, fingers curled tight around the frames.
And you knew.
You crossed a line. You just weren’t sure which one of you would burn for it first.
You tell yourself it’s the job. Of course it’s the job. The surveillance. The objective.
You have to watch him, clock his schedule, track the notebook. That’s what you were told to do. But somewhere in the second week, you stopped reporting every movement.
Somewhere in the third, you started waiting for him in places you weren’t assigned to.
And now?
Now you sit in your unmarked car, eyes locked on the fourth-floor gym window, breath fogging faintly against the glass, and you whisper: “Come on, Teru…”
He’s late. That alone makes your skin itch.
Because Teru Mikami is never late. He eats at 06:15. Commutes by 07:00. Courts from 08:00–12:00. Lunch. Return. Gym. Home. Repeat.
Order. Perfection. Control.
But something changed after that night in the locker room. He doesn’t look at mirrors anymore. He leaves the gym five minutes earlier. And worst of all, he doesn’t even try to catch you tailing him.
He’s pretending you don’t exist. It’s working too well.
You bite your lip, heartbeat rising.
You’ve seen him in every mundane form a man can take: sweating at the bench press, wiping condensation from his glasses, scribbling at his desk so fast the pen nearly breaks.
And somewhere in all that watching, you lost the upper hand.
It’s maddening. Because he should have turned you in. He should have reacted. But he didn’t. He let you go.
And somehow that makes it worse. You’ve touched his skin. You’ve tasted the heat on his cheek. You’ve seen his eyes without the barrier of glass, and you know now, without question. He is beautiful in a way that shouldn’t be legal.
But more than that, he is dangerous. And you want to see what happens when he finally stops pretending he doesn’t see you.
You want him to snap. You want him to grab you like he did that night, but this time not let go.
You shouldn’t be thinking about his hands about what they’d feel like around your throat, or on your hips, or buried in your hair while he whispers things that sound like scripture and sin at once.
You shouldn’t be clenching your thighs at the thought of it. You shouldn’t be wet. Not for a fucking Kira acolyte.
But here you are. Still watching. Still waiting.
And the moment you see that tall figure in a black coat step through the gym doors, your breath leaves you.
Because this time? This time, he looks directly at your car as he passes.
Not long. Not accusing. Just… knowing.
And you know exactly what that look means.
Soon.
Three days later you were waiting for your train. You had no reason to look back. No reason to doubt your footing, no reason to pause when the train hissed into the station—But you did.
Your neck prickled the second you stepped onto the platform.
And when your eyes found him, there he was.
Immaculately dressed, briefcase in hand, framed by the soft flicker of subway lights like a noir painting. His glasses gleamed. His mouth was neutral. But his gaze?
You’d only seen it once before. That one night two weeks ago, when you trailed too close. When your heel scraped against the sidewalk and Mikami Teru turned, deadpan, unbothered and locked eyes with you for one long, terrifying second.
He hadn’t chased you. He hadn’t reported you. He hadn’t said a word.
And that made it worse.
Because now, with him twenty steps away on the same goddamn platform, your heart tried to climb up your throat.
You turned quickly—too quickly. The train wasn’t there yet. A minute or two, maybe. Long enough. You walked to the far end of the platform, not looking back.
Not running. You didn’t run…Until you heard his steps.
One-two. Then faster. Your jaw clenched. „Fuck.“
You reached for the phone in your coat pocket, fingers brushing cold metal instead.
Then his voice came. Right behind you. Too close. Too calm.
“You’ve been very sloppy lately.”
Your hand froze.
The scent of paper, subtle cologne, and something sharper, like ozone before lightning, hit your senses. You didn’t dare move.
“You watch me every day, but you don’t pray. You don’t write. You don’t even believe.” His breath kissed the shell of your ear as he leaned in. “So what are you, then?”
Your lips curled despite yourself.
“A fan,” you offered, dry and dangerous. “You’re very handsome, Teru.”
A pause.
His breath didn’t catch. But something behind you shifted. The briefcase? His stance? “You’re not funny,” he murmured. “But you are… persistent.” His hand landed on your hip. Gentle. Too gentle.
“Why did you try to switch my notebook?”
Your mouth went dry. You turned your head slightly, eyes narrowing. “You saw that?”
“I let you think I didn’t.”
You laughed once, too loud, too tight. “You’re full of shit.”
He turned you. Fast.
Your back hit the cold tile wall. His palm was braced just beside your head. And that goddamn calm was still on his face, but his eyes, sharp behind glass, burned. “You think you’re untouchable. You’re not.”
You swallowed. You shouldn’t feel heat licking at your stomach. You shouldn’t lean into the danger.
But your lips parted. “Then touch me.”
And there it was. A flicker of real amusement crossed his face, small and terrifying. His free hand ghosted down your side, brushing your thigh through your coat. The pressure was feather-light. Teasing. Measured.
“You’re not very righteous, are you?”
You grinned. “Never claimed to be.”
“No.” His voice dropped. “But you want to be punished like one.”
Your thighs pressed together instinctively. Fuck.
“You’re trembling.”
“I’m cold.”
“You’re aroused.”
Your laugh turned breathless. His leg slid between yours. That fast. Pressed in. Pinning you. The train howled down the tunnel, still far enough that the crowd hadn’t noticed the two of you tucked in the far alcove.
His hand slipped to your jaw, lifting your chin. Eyes searching yours. “When the train comes,” he murmured, “you’ll follow me. No talking. No running. If you behave, I’ll let you keep your clothes on while I make you confess.”
You blinked up at him, heart hammering. “And if I don’t behave?”
That same calm smile. Too patient. Too assured. “Then I’ll make you come before we even leave the train.”
The train roared in. Doors screamed open. He stepped back smooth, composed and held out his hand without looking at you.
You hesitated only one second.
Then took it. And the second your fingers slide against his palm, you feel it—Control. Not yours. His.
He doesn’t sit like you expected. He stands. Back straight. Shoulders sharp. That same terrifying stillness stretched over bone and purpose.
He tugs you forward. You stumble, just a half-step, and he catches you in the crook of his arm.
One arm stays out, braced on the overhead bar, anchoring you both like a steel frame. The other snakes around your back, firm and close, drawing you against his side like you belong there.
You freeze.
He’s looking down at you. Right at you. Into you.
And your breath stalls. Your mouth parts. Because for all the games, all the tailing and touching and flirting, this wasn’t planned.
You didn’t come here to see him. You didn’t even know he’d be on this platform. You just needed to clear your head.
And now? You’re trapped in the storm you created.
His chest rises with the motion of the train. He smells like black tea and sweat and fabric softener. His suit brushes your coat. His jaw is close enough to rest your forehead on.
You look up, almost involuntarily.
He’s already watching you. Like you’re one of his handwritten prayers and he’s trying to figure out what god made you this way.
The train brakes. Abruptly. The momentum sends you forward with a soft gasp. And he grabs your waist, strong and immediate, right before your arms fly up in reflex and wrap around his torso.
Fuck.
You freeze again, flush blooming hot across your neck. His chest is warm under your hands. His coat parts at the bottom, and your palms flatten against his shirt.
“Sorry,” you breathe, soft and automatic, but your eyes don’t drop.
You hold his gaze. He doesn’t blink.
And then: “No.” One word. Heavy. Sure.
You swallow. “No…?”
“Don’t apologize.“
His hand stays on your waist. His thumb moves slightly—just enough to brush where your ribs meet your hip.
His eyes drop once to your lips. Then back to your eyes.
“You didn’t come here looking for me,” he murmurs, voice like dark velvet, “but now that you’ve found me, don’t act like you’re afraid of what you wanted.”
Your heartbeat pounds against your ears.
He leans closer, not enough to kiss you, but enough that his breath grazes your skin when he whispers—“You’ve been watching me. Wishing. Obsessing.” He pauses. “Now you’re in my arms.”
The train speeds again. But you’re still. Locked to him like gravity.
“You can walk away,” he says calmly. “You can let go.”
His words say choice.
But his hand never moves. Neither do you.
Not even when the lights flicker and the train dives into the tunnel.
Because somewhere in your chest, beneath the nerves and the heat and the endless, electric ache. You don’t want to let go. Not anymore.
The train rumbles under your feet, smooth and heavy, the hum of motion wrapping around your bodies like a second skin.
You haven’t moved. Neither has he. Your arms are still around his torso, fists clenched into the fabric of his coat like you meant to be there. His hand rests at your waist, anchored, firm, unmoving. A claim disguised as support.
His breathing is steady. His jawline cuts clean and still beneath the station’s fluorescent flicker.
His heart? You can’t hear it. Can’t feel it. Too calm. Too quiet. Too composed. It gnaws at you.
So finally, voice low, you ask: “Why are you so calm?”
A simple question. But it tastes like salt on your tongue. Because you’re not calm. You haven’t been calm since the night he touched you in that locker room. Since the moment he looked at you like he could see through everything you’d ever hidden. And now he’s holding you like it means nothing. Like he’s done this before. Like you’re the one unraveling, not him.
You feel his gaze shift again. Lower. And then—His mouth is right beside your ear.
His lips don’t touch you. But his voice: “Because I’ve already decided what I’ll do with you.”
A breath catches in your throat. He pulls back just enough to see your face. His expression is unreadable. But his eyes? Hungry. Controlled. Certain. “I’ve known for a while.”
You blink. “Known what?”
He tilts his head slightly, like he’s disappointed you don’t already understand. “That you want to be caught.” His fingers press just slightly firmer into your waist. “That you don’t know how to stop. That you were waiting for me to do this. Just like now.”
You should snap back. Should say something sharp and cocky and bratty to wrest control back from this spiraling tension. But you don’t.
Because he’s right. And you know it. And now he knows you know it. His voice drops lower. Softer. Deadlier. “I’m calm because I’m patient. And because I have you now.”
Your chest rises. Your hands clench harder in his coat. He doesn’t break eye contact. Not for the next stop. Not when the crowd shifts and a woman bumps your shoulder. Not when the lights flicker again and the train screams into another bend.
You’re the one who finally looks away. And when you do, he leans in again. Just behind your ear. His lips not touching your skin, but closer this time. Almost reverent. “You should be more afraid of me.” A pause. “But I think it’s too late for that.”
The train starts to slow.
That deep screech of brakes curls under your skin like a warning bell. Doors hiss. Wind pushes through. Bodies shift around you, voices murmuring in waves.
But Mikami doesn’t move. Not until the last second. His hand, still heavy at your waist, slides down, and he takes your hand. Deliberate. Warm. Certain. His palm swallows yours, long fingers curling smoothly around your knuckles.
You blink. You don’t move. He starts to walk. Tugging you gently. You hesitate. For just a second. You look at your joined hands like they’re foreign. They shouldn’t feel this natural.
You didn’t plan to follow him. You didn’t plan any of this. You were supposed to be observing, controlling, keeping distance. Not being led out of a subway car by the man you were meant to expose. But when your fingers twitch with the urge to pull away, he intervenes.
He threads his fingers between yours. Slowly. Firmly. Completely. A locked grip. His hand around yours like prayer around purpose.
And then you look up. His eye contact is immaculate. Deadly still. Softly terrifying. Not angry. Not even possessive. Just… decided. “You’re coming with me.” Not a question.
He says it like gravity. Like law. You want to be clever. You want to throw something sharp at him, cut the tension with a joke, a smirk, a tug of war. But your hand is in his, and your mouth won’t move.
He watches you. He always watches you. And he doesn’t let go. Not as you step out onto the platform. Not as he guides you up the stairs, never once looking away. Not even when the crowd thickens and the cool night air cuts across your cheeks.
You don’t know where you’re going until the street shifts. Quiet. Clean. High-end. Office buildings blend into stone apartments and polished iron gates. He moves with purpose, never checking back, never slowing. And you follow. Hand in hand.
Because somewhere deep in your chest, even through the rush of fear and the taste of guilt, you want to know what he looks like in his space. What books he keeps beside his bed. What his hands feel like when he’s not holding back. You want the full obsession. And now? You’re in it.
The elevator ride is silent. Not awkward. Not uncertain. Just… quiet. You stand beside him, your hand still in his. His grip hasn’t loosened once. He doesn’t look at you. Not because he’s avoiding you, because he doesn’t have to. He already knows exactly what you’re thinking.
The doors open. A quiet hallway. One apartment at the end. He unlocks it without ceremony, steps inside, and only then he lets go. Just long enough to take your coat.
His fingertips brush the inside of your wrist. You shiver, but not from cold. The apartment is everything you expected: clean, minimal, almost surgical in its order. White walls, dark wood, not a single object out of place. A stack of books. A legal brief. One single framed photograph, his mother, probably.
He shuts the door. And locks it. The sound is soft. Final.
He doesn’t offer you tea. Doesn’t ask you to sit. He just turns to face you fully, dark eyes raking over your figure once—slowly—and says, in that low, controlled voice: “You came willingly.”
Your throat is dry. You nod once. You don’t speak. His gaze drops to your hands. “You’re not trembling anymore.”
“I’m used to you now,” you breathe, trying for strength.
He steps forward once. Close. Not touching. “You’re not.”
That shuts you up. The silence is suffocating.
He lifts one hand and cups your cheek. Just one hand. Just that. But your knees nearly give. His thumb brushes your skin, slow, reverent. His eyes stay locked on yours. “You know what I am,” he says softly. “And you came anyway.”
You swallow. “I wanted—”
“No,” he cuts in, gentle but firm. “You needed.”
He’s right. You don’t respond. You can’t. You stand there, still in your boots, coat draped over his armchair, heart beating so hard you’re sure he can hear it.
He touches your mouth. His finger. Just his thumb, brushing the edge of your lips like he’s testing how real you are.
“You watched me,” he whispers. “Day after day. Until you couldn’t take it anymore.” He leans in. Not fast. Not aggressive. Just closer. “So tell me—” His mouth is near your jaw now, almost grazing skin. “Did you come here for punishment…” A breath. “Or permission?”
Your stomach drops. Your hands twitch at your sides. He watches you. Waiting. And when you don’t answer fast enough, he steps even closer, his chest brushing yours now. His mouth beside your ear. “Take your shoes off.”
Simple. Soft. Not up for discussion. You bend down automatically, pulse roaring in your ears, and when you look back up he’s unbuttoning his sleeves. Calm. Patient. Precise.
His voice stays low. “Everything that happens from here on out,” he murmurs, “you don’t get to pretend you didn’t want.”
Your breath catches. Because he’s right again. You did this. And now? He’s going to take you apart for it.
You stand in his apartment, breath held, shoes off, coat gone, your body still tense like it hasn’t caught up to the room.
And he doesn’t say anything else. He just walks past you. Unhurried. Measured. He moves to a high-backed armchair by the window. Dark velvet. Monastic.
He sits. Spreads his legs a little. Hands folded loosely in his lap. And watches you. He doesn’t tell you to undress. He doesn’t move toward you.
He just looks. You shift your weight. Try not to fidget. His eyes stay locked on yours. He blinks once. Slowly. You realize your pulse is thudding in your ears like gunfire.
The silence presses in. And then he lifts a hand. Not high. Just enough to gesture you forward. “Come here.” Soft. Final.
You walk slowly. When you stop in front of him, he reaches up. And touches your hand. Just your hand. His fingers slide along your knuckles, so gently it’s maddening. A ghost of pressure. Reverent. Intentional. Then up past your wrist, to the soft skin of your forearm. Still featherlight. Still quiet. He’s watching your face the entire time. When his hand reaches your neck, he doesn’t grip.
He just rests it there. A warm palm against your throat. Calm. Measuring your breath. “You’re shaking again.”
You try to speak. Can’t. His thumb brushes the underside of your jaw. “I haven’t even touched you yet.”
Your eyes flutter. Still, he doesn’t kiss you. He just leans in slightly, still seated, one hand on your throat, the other resting on the arm of the chair. His breath grazes your cheek. “I don’t need to ask if you’re comfortable.” A pause. “You wouldn’t be here if you were.”
That hits somewhere deep. You swallow, lips parted. You want to move. You want to do something but you don’t know what.
He tilts your face with his thumb, studying you. Then, just above a whisper: “Take off your shirt.”
It’s not a demand. It’s truth. Like he already knows you will.
Like this moment was already written. Your hands move before your thoughts catch up. And when the fabric slips from your shoulders, you hear him exhale, just once. Controlled. Almost silent. He doesn’t touch your skin. He just watches you stand in front of him, bared, tense, obedient, exposed under nothing but his gaze.
“Beautiful.” One word. Like a sentence passed. A judgment made. Then his fingers return to your jaw. Not rough. Not possessive. Just his. And you feel yourself coming undone. From nothing but his voice. His silence. His certainty.
And that awful, aching fact that he hasn’t even kissed you yet.
His thumb leaves your jaw. He leans back in the armchair, hands folded again, and speaks without a hint of hesitation. “Strip.”
Your stomach tightens. But you don’t move. Not immediately. His eyes lift to yours, expectant. “Until there’s only lace between you and obedience.” Your breath hitches—just barely. Your fingers move to your waistband. You peel your clothes off one by one. The sound of fabric slipping from skin feels loud in the still apartment. Shirt. Pants. Socks. Nothing left but lace, a soft black set that clings to your hips and chest in sheer confession.
You stand in front of him. Back straight. Chin up. Bratty. Bold. Unapologetic. You fold your hands behind your back and tilt your head slightly, a quiet smirk pulling at your lips. “Satisfied?”
He exhales. Almost a laugh. Almost. His eyes drink you in, long legs, the swell of your chest, the cut of your collarbone. But he doesn’t rise. “Interesting,” he murmurs. “You look like you’re trying to win something.”
You don’t answer. You step forward instead. Slowly. Deliberately. He doesn’t move. Even when you reach him, knees between his, your skin almost brushing his thighs, he just looks up at you. Waiting. You reach for his face.
And once again—You take his glasses off.
He lets you. Your fingers are soft on the frame. You slide them from his face with care, as if they’re more fragile than he is.
You lean down just enough to whisper: “I like your face bare.”
A beat of silence. His lips twitch, just barely. Not a smile. Approval. His voice is soft, low, dark honey: “Well…” His hand slides to your hip. Just his palm, warm and sure, fingers splayed where your skin meets lace. “I do like you bare more too.”
His thumb brushes the edge of the fabric. His eyes never leave yours. “But not just like this.”
You blink. “No?”
His other hand lifts. Fingers ghost up the center of your chest, never touching, just tracing the air above your sternum. “I want you bare of noise. Bare of ego. Bare of that little look you keep giving me like you’re still in control.”
Your breath catches.
“Because you’re not.” His hand finally cups your cheek again. “Not in this room. Not with me.”
You exhale shakily, lips parted, heat blooming low and dangerous in your stomach. “Then what do you want me to do?”
A pause. His gaze softens. Just a little. “Kneel.”
You kneel without a word. It’s not obedience. It’s a challenge. Your hands brace lightly on the inside of his knees, fingers curling up the strong lines of his thighs just enough to tease, not enough to touch. Your posture isn’t shy. It’s defiant. Chin up. Eyes burning. The lace clings to your chest like a second heartbeat. You look at him like you’re still trying to win.
He doesn’t blink. He leans forward slowly, shoulders sharp, gaze locked, one knee shifting further apart until your arms stretch with the distance. Your hands slide a little higher. You feel the muscle shift under his slacks.
You smirk. His voice is low. Smooth. Too calm. “You’re not good at being patient.”
You hum. “Maybe you’re just too slow.”
He exhales through his nose. Amused. Dangerous. He starts unbuttoning his shirt. Not rushed. Not to tempt you. Just deliberate. One button. Two. Three. You can see his chest now, strong, tight, still damp with heat from earlier. The cut of his abs, the dip between muscle and bone. Controlled perfection.
You lick your lips. Not subtle. He shifts forward in the chair, just slightly, bringing his body closer to your face, his shirt now hanging open, sleeves still cuffed.
He leans in, not enough to touch. Just close enough for your breath to hitch. And then he speaks—“I’m going to fuck that behaviour out of you.”
Your heart stops.
“But not yet.”
His hand lifts to your cheek again—soft. Too soft. “First,” he murmurs, “I’m going to make you say amen.”
Your brows flick up. “You want me to pray?”
“No,” he says simply. “I want you to beg.”
You laugh once. Short. Cocky. “You think I’ll beg for you?”
He smiles now, quiet. Calculated. Like you just gave him permission. “Not for me.” A pause. His thumb strokes your lower lip. “For what I’ll give you.”
Your breath stalls. “And when I do?”
“Then,” he says softly, “I’ll give you more.” He tilts your chin up, barely an inch. His voice drops lower, silk and steel. “I’ll touch you where you’re already aching. I’ll say your name like it’s a verse. And I won’t stop until you forget why you followed me in the first place.”
You swallow hard. Your thighs press together on instinct. He sees it. And still—he doesn’t kiss you.
Just watches. Still unbuttoned. Still in control. Waiting for you to crack. Your nails drag slow and deliberate up the inside of his thighs not hard enough to hurt. Just enough to tease. You smirk up at him from your knees. And he smirks back. But only with his eyes. His mouth doesn’t move. Just that glint—dark, dangerous, knowing. Like he’s letting you play. For now.
“Come here.” A whisper.
You rise. Before you can say a word, he hooks one finger inside the waistband of your lace panties. Not tight. Just enough to pull you closer. You stumble slightly, palms catching his chest.
He doesn’t break eye contact. He shifts in the chair just enough to part his legs wider, guiding you over him.
And you straddle him. Face to face. Too close. His hand settles on the small of your back. His chest brushes yours. The open shirt frames the contact like it’s something sacred.
You both breathe in the same tight space. You can feel his breath on your cheek. Your lace grazes his skin. Your thighs press to his sides.
And then his voice. Low. Filthy. Like blasphemy whispered in a church. “You don’t even realize how easy you’d come on my thigh right now.”
Your breath catches. His other hand grazes your hip, thumb sliding just beneath the lace. “I wouldn’t even have to fuck you.” He leans forward, nose almost against yours. “Just let you grind on me until you cry. Until you beg. Until you can’t remember your own name—only mine.”
You inhale sharply. And smile. Your nose brushes his. Soft. Mocking. Teasing. “That’s cute,” you murmur. “You practice that in the mirror, prosecutor?”
His jaw flexes. But he doesn’t lose composure. His hand drifts up your back. Barely there. Possessive.
“No,” he breathes. “You make it too easy.”
You snort, head tilted, still mocking, still holding yourself like you’re in charge. But you feel the tension in his thighs beneath yours. You feel the slow shift of his hips. And you know he’s done letting you get away with this. His mouth ghosts along your jaw. Not kissing. Just there. “Say it again.”
You blink. “Say what?”
His hand grips the nape of your neck. Gentle but firm.
“Call me cute again.” A beat. “See what I do to you.”
You reach up. Your fingertips trail along his cheek, one slow stroke of your nail over smooth, warm skin. Delicate. Dangerous. He doesn’t flinch. You smile as your touch glides past his jaw, brushing a single, loose strand of dark hair back behind his ear.
He lets you. Lets you move like you own the moment. Even when you lean in again, nose brushing his with that same defiant softness.
“You,” you murmur, “in fact… are very cute.” Your fingers skim down, slow across his temple. “But,” you whisper, “you’re also very hot.” Still, he doesn’t speak. He watches. Like a priest watches a confession he’s already condemned. You press your chest to his, shift your hips just a little more snug in his lap.
His jaw tightens. Your lips ghost his ear. “And you are very, very hard, Teru Mikami.”
Silence. A beat. And then he moves. It’s subtle. Barely anything. But he rolls his hips up just once, slow and measured. The hard line of him presses right between your thighs, thick through the fabric. You gasp quiet, involuntary.
„That‘s your doing.“ he murmurs. Still calm. Still deadly. His hands slide to your hips. Secure. Contained. Firm. “You act like this isn’t what you wanted.” His voice curls around your ear. “You’re grinding on my lap and calling me cute. You followed me for weeks. Watched every move I made. And now you’re in lace and shaking on top of me.”
His hands grip tighter. “You’re not in control anymore.”
Then his nose brushes your jaw. His breath fans your throat. “So here’s what happens next.”
Your breath stalls.
“You’ll grind again. Just once. And if you moan—if I feel anything—I’ll pull this lace off you, with my teeth or my hands, I don’t care which. And I’ll make you pray loud enough for your god to leave the room.”
You go completely still. He waits. Smirking? No. Just watching. Like he already knows you will.
You hum sweet, fake innocence and lift your hand from his thigh. It hovers over the hard plane of his chest, barely brushing the heat there.
He doesn’t react. So you push more. You grab the loose edges of his shirt, open halfway already and start undoing the rest of the buttons. Slow. One. Then another. Your hips roll down against his, slow and deliberate, one long grind of your soaked lace dragging across the thick press of him beneath his slacks.
You feel him twitch. Your smile sharpens. “You know, Teru…” Your voice is low. Lazy. So unbothered it hurts. “I like you.” You flick open another button. His shirt spreads wider. You see the sharp lines of his chest, the cut down his stomach. “But your little god complex?” Your eyes flick up. Hold his. And you roll your hips again. Slower. Crueler. “It’s getting a little annoying.”
A pause. You drag your finger along his sternum. “A little boring.” You say it like you mean it. Like your cunt isn’t soaked for him. Like you’re not on fire. Like you’re not daring him to lose control.
He still hasn’t moved. But something in his eyes shifts. The stillness turns to silence. The patience goes razor-sharp. His breath is even. His shirt is open now, his chest bare, skin hot beneath your fingertips. You watch his throat move as he swallows once.
His hands slide up your back. Smooth. Slow. You expect force. But he doesn’t grab. He just lifts his head. And says, dangerously soft: “Say that again.”
You raise a brow. Lean in. Your lips brush his ear. “Which part?That I like you…” You kiss just beneath his jaw. “…or that your god complex is pathetic?”
Silence. Thick. Charged. Final. He grabs your wrists. Suddenly. Hard. Not enough to hurt. Just enough to show you how easily he could. He holds your arms behind your back, both in one hand. And the other? It slips under your thigh. Lifts. Spreads.
Your lace presses tighter to him now, your core lined up perfectly with the hard line of his cock. Your breath stutters.
He leans in. Too close. Too calm. Too far gone. “You can either worship me…” His hips roll once. “…or beg me not to make you.”
You shift. Slowly. Deliberately. You reach down and take his big, clean, strong hand that’s been holding your wrists, your waist, your goddamn composure hostage. You guide it to your stomach. Palm facing in. You let it hover there. No pressure. Just heat. Then, gently, you twist his forearm, guiding it down between your legs. The heel of his palm meets the soaked lace. And you sit on it.
You grind down slow, pressing yourself to him, soaking the creases of his palm. The fabric doesn’t hide anything now, heat, wetness, want. His breath catches, a real sound, just once. His hand twitches beneath you. But he doesn’t pull back.
So you lean in. Your nose brushes his jaw. “I’ll worship you,” you whisper. You kiss it. Soft. Barely there. “I can also beg you…” You lick a slow line along his neck. “…if you want me to.” You feel his fingers shift—his palm tightening slightly, the edge of one finger pressing deeper against the thin lace.
“I can do everything you want me to do.” Your hands rise to his face cupping both sides, gentle and wicked. You tilt his head, kiss the other side of his throat, slower this time and breathe against his skin. “You just have to talk to me, baby.”
The word baby hits the air like a sin. You feel him go still beneath you. His body’s hot. Tight. Coiled. You lean back just slightly, still holding his face, and whisper—“I can also leave you here.”
One kiss on his nose. A teasing peck. Sickly sweet. “With your boner.” Your thumb brushes his cheekbone. “Desperate.” Your palm presses gently to his throat. “Leaking.”
Your lips graze his. Not a kiss. Not yet. Just a whisper of what’s waiting. His palm twitches. Hard. You gasp genuine, breath catching as one thick finger presses just slightly more into the drenched lace. His eyes flicker. Just once.
And when he speaks, it’s quiet. Dangerous. Fucking final. “Strip.”
“No. Do it yourself.” You say it like a dare. Like you’re still the one in charge. Your grin is slow, feline, lethal.
Mikami doesn’t blink. He doesn’t sigh, doesn’t smile, doesn’t say a word. His hand moves. One flick. His fingers slide behind your back with effortless precision and your bra snaps open like it had been waiting to fall apart in his hands. The straps slide down your arms. He still hasn’t touched your skin properly. Not once. You peel the loose fabric off, slow and smug, and toss it onto the coffee table, right next to his glasses. That little altar you built for everything you’ve stripped away.
And then you kiss him. Soft. Your mouth brushes his like a reward. But he doesn’t kiss you back. Not even a twitch. You tilt your head, lips curving into a crooked smirk, and guide his face again, twist it gently, reverently, like he’s something holy.
You kiss his neck. Open-mouthed. Wet. Filthy. You mouth at his throat like you’re trying to make it bruise. Then your lips brush his ear. And you whisper: “Go on.” A pause. Your breath hot against him. “Fuck me like you mean it, Mikami.”
That breaks something. But not loudly. He doesn’t growl. He doesn’t curse. He just moves. Fast. Exact. His hand wraps around your waist. And he stands. With you. You gasp, arms catching his shoulders as he lifts you like nothing, your legs instinctively wrapping around his torso.
You’re off the ground. His hands grip your ass, fingers digging in, still calm but unrelenting.
“You want to know what I mean?” he murmurs. His voice brushes the shell of your ear, warm and deadly. He starts walking. Down the hall. His apartment still dead quiet, except for the soft thud of your bodies, the breath he exhales through his nose like he’s holding in a flood. “I mean to make you cum until you beg me to stop—then beg me not to.”
His mouth finally touches your skin. Not your lips. Your shoulder. One slow, open-mouthed kiss. Then another—lower now. Across your collarbone. “I mean to fuck that bratty behaviour out of you so completely, you forget how to smirk.”
You moan quiet and helpless. You reach for his face again but this time he turns it away.
“No.” His voice is sharp now. Still low. Still in control. But it cuts. “You don’t get to kiss me until I say so.”
You clench around nothing. Fuck. He kicks the bedroom door open. The bed is pristine. Like everything else.
Until now. He drops you to it, not rough. Not gentle. Just inevitable. You barely land before he climbs over you, hands spreading your thighs, and finally his eyes drop to your soaked panties. “You really thought you were leading this?”
You start to answer. But his hand slides up your thigh. And this time he doesn’t stop. His hands glide slow over your thighs spreading them, steady, reverent. Fingertips ghost up over your hipbones, his eyes tracking every movement like he’s engraving them in memory. Then, low “Up.”
A single word. You smirk. Your hips lift. And he slides your panties down slow, peeling the soaked lace from your skin with almost obscene care. He holds them in one hand for a moment. Not staring. Not mocking. Just… weighing. Then he drops them gently to the floor, like the removal of a final boundary.
He kneels between your legs. Settles there, formal, focused. His hands slide up the backs of your thighs, tugging you down the bed with practiced strength until your legs hang over the edge, wrapped loose around his hips. He looks at you. Dark eyes. Slight flush. Breath too even.
And you—You look at him with wide, mocking eyes. Puppy-eyed. Like you don’t already have his sanity curled around your little finger. You reach down to one hand grazing his hand still resting at your thigh. You trace the knuckles. Then you thread your fingers through his. Soft. Intimate. Intentional.
And you tug. His body leans forward, just enough. Just close. “I don’t care what you say,” you whisper. He blinks. And that’s all the permission you need. Your other hand slides around the back of his neck, fingers threading into the perfect strands of his hair. And then you grip. Hard. Not playful. Claiming.
You pull him down. “If I want to kiss you,” you breathe, your nose brushing his “I’m kissing you.”
And you do. You press your mouth to his, slow at first. Soft. Almost sweet. And he doesn’t move. Not for a second. But you feel it, the way his chest tightens. The way his shoulders lock. The way his breath catches like he’s trying not to shatter.
And then he kisses you back. Hard. His mouth opens against yours, heat, pressure, need. His hand grips your jaw. Your fingers fist tighter in his hair. Teeth scrape. Tongues tangle.
It’s not gentle. It’s not chaste. It’s weeks of control breaking at the seam. You moan into his mouth, gasping when his body presses flush to yours, the heat of his cock still caught in his slacks grinding against your bare core. “Fuck,” you breathe, lips brushing his.
And for the first time, he smiles. Just barely. But it’s there. His hand moves, down your chest, slow and burning and he whispers against your mouth: “You’ll regret that.”
You grin back. “Then make it worth it.”
Your body’s warm under his, open, needy, trembling. His mouth is still on yours. You try to lift your arms, to grab him again, but he pins them. One hand snakes up, capturing both wrists and pressing them to the mattress above your head.
Not rough. Just enough to remind you: You gave him control. You moan into his mouth. And he swallows it. His lips move lower, kissing down your jaw, your throat, hot breath curling over your collarbones. His free hand trails down your side, over the curve of your waist, slow, light, barely there. You arch into him, thighs trembling, but he doesn’t touch where you want it.
Not yet. You gasp. He doesn’t answer. His mouth finds the top of your breast. Kisses. Doesn’t bite. Just soft open-mouthed heat that makes you squirm. His hand moves lower. Across your stomach. To your hip. You breathe harder. Your legs shift open. He drags two fingers just above your slit. You whine.
He doesn’t push in. Instead, he circles the heat of you—lazy, precise, maddening. You bite your lip. “You like that, yeah?” he whispers, voice low against your skin. You whimper. Nod. “Say it.”
You twist your wrists beneath his grip. He holds tighter. Your voice breaks. “Yes—fuck, I like it—”
He exhales. Smirks against your throat. His fingers ghost over your entrance, dipping in just barely, just enough to feel how soaked you are. Then he pulls back again.
You whine, louder now, frustrated.He kisses your lips again, deeper this time, slow and drowning and when he pulls away, your eyes flutter open to find him watching you. Smug. Calm. So patient it hurts. “Then you’ll beg for more.”
You’re writhing now, hips rocking, desperate for friction as Mikami slides his fingers just close enough to ruin you. Every moan is swallowed in his mouth, every twitch of your body met with maddening stillness.
His fingers dip in once, shallow, teasing your entrance, and then retreat again. You cry out in frustration.
“God, you’re—” Your voice cracks. His lips brush your cheek. He whispers against it—“Almost ready for me.”
Your whole body clenches. But you don’t give him the satisfaction. Instead, breathless and shaking, you glare up at him and smirk. “You’re lucky you’re so strong, Mikami…”
He raises a brow. That perfect composure still intact.
“Otherwise I’d palm you through your pretty little slacks and make you come untouched.”
That gets him. He chuckles. A real sound, low, quiet, deep in his chest. “You would, yeah?”
You grin.
And then he lets go. Your wrists drop to the mattress, your chest rising hard and fast, but before you can grab him he pulls back. Kneels upright between your legs.
Towering. You watch. His hands move to his belt. He unfastens it without hurry, without ceremony. Then the button. The zipper. And then he shoves his slacks and briefs down in one clean movement.
Thick. Heavy. Gorgeous. Hard enough to make you forget your name. You stare eyes wide, lips parting. Your head tips back against the pillows in genuine, helpless awe. “Oh fuck—” It slips out of you in a whisper. Honest. Ruined.
He laughs again—quiet and smug, like he was waiting for that reaction. “Too much?” he teases softly.
You shake your head and then he leans forward. Not entering you yet. Just grinding that thick, hot length right against your soaked cunt. You gasp. Moan. Grind back without meaning to.
“Do you need prep, sweetheart?” he breathes at your jaw.
His lips brush your skin. His cock drags slow over your folds, wet with your slick, heavy with promise. “Or can you take it like that?”
You moan into his neck. He rolls his hips again, not inside. Still not inside. Just enough pressure to make your thighs shake. And then his voice again. Lower. Closer. Deadly soft. “Be good.”
“Tell me. How do you want it?”
Your hands rise not to his shoulders, not to his hair. But down. Between your bodies. Your fingers wrap around his cock, hot, thick, perfect in your palm. And for the first time, his breath hitches. A sharp little intake. Not loud, but real.
The sound of a man whose control just cracked at the seam. Your grip is steady, your thumb dragging slow over the head, spreading your slick back along the shaft.
He watches you. Watches your hand. Watches your face. You grin, too sweet. Too smug. And lean up, your mouth brushing the curve of his ear.
“I bet you’re vocal.” A whisper. A command wrapped in honey. “Cute moans.” You lick the shell of his ear. “If not…” You kiss the corner of his jaw, slow and cruel. “I’ll be so disappointed.”
You feel his cock twitch in your hand. You guide him lower. Right to your entrance. Soaking. Ready. Bare. His hips shift forward—slow, careful.
And then you press him between your thighs. And he slides in. Your lips part. Eyes roll back. The stretch is so deep, so slow, you choke on a moan, fingernails curling into his back as your walls try to adjust.
And him? His mouth opens. Not a sound at first, just breathless, like he’s never felt anything like you. Then a soft, deep grunt escapes him. Not loud. But so raw.
His eyes are locked on yours, burning, reverent, devouring every twitch in your face as he sinks deeper inch by inch, until he’s fully inside. He doesn’t move. Just stays there. Filling you. Stretching you. Letting your body shake around him.
And then he whispers: “You wanted it like this…” A kiss at your throat. “Now be good—”
Another shallow thrust, just enough to make your breath catch. “And let me hear you beg next.”
His hips still. Buried deep.
Your walls clench around him, fluttering, desperate for movement. He leans down again, hands bracing on either side of your face. Eyes dark. Breath hot. Lips just over yours. “You want me vocal, hm?” You nod, dazed, your hand sliding up his chest. He kisses you hard. Slow. Filthy. Tongue deep, pulling a whimper from your throat before he pulls away.
Then he speaks. Voice low. Reverent. Almost cruel. “Then listen when I fall apart…”
His hands slide down. Gripping your waist. Hard. He draws back. And then slams into you. Once. Your body jolts. You gasp. He does it again. And again.
And suddenly the rhythm is brutal. Unrelenting. He pounds into you with calculated force, your legs flung wide around him, the sound of skin meeting skin echoing sharp in the bedroom.
“Fucking God—” he gasps, voice breaking as your cunt clamps down around him. “You feel like sin. Like a fucking—” He moans—loud, rough, needy. You claw at his shoulders, barely breathing as he pistons his hips into you.
Your eyes roll back again. He leans over, growling into your neck: “So tight—so wet—you wanted this—wanted me to ruin you—fuck—” You’re whining now, half-crying from how deep he hits, how full you feel.
Your head falls back. Your voice is ragged. “Fuck—please—!”
His hands slide under your ass, lifting your hips just slightly, angling deeper. You scream. For real this time. He groans. Louder. “That’s it,” he pants. “Fucking take it—look at you—fucking coming undone on my me—You like that? Hm? You like hearing me fall apart?”
You nod desperately, mouth open, no sound. He kisses your jaw again, sloppy, breathless. And with every thrust, his moans grow louder, dirtier, utterly wrecked by the way you tighten, squirm, arch up into him. He’s losing control. And this time?
He’s letting you hear all of it. Your legs are shaking.
He’s deep inside, panting against your neck, both of you soaked in sweat, tangled in sheets and sound. But Mikami’s not done.
Not even close. “Turn over.” His voice is low, not asking. A growl, broken on the edge of restraint.
You don’t even hesitate, you roll, stomach flat to the bed, thighs still spread wide, ass lifting instinctively like your body’s been trained just for this. You hear him groan behind you—dark and desperate. “Fuck…”
The mattress dips. His hands find your hips hard. Bruising. He drags you back to the edge of the bed like he owns you. Your cheek presses to the sheets. You whimper, grinding back against him once, just once and then he slams into you. Deep. Brutal. You choke on a moan.
He moans too, a real sound, loud and broken, echoing through the room as his hips snap into yours with reckless rhythm. “You feel—you feel so fucking good like this—” His voice is wrecked now. Not smooth. Not composed.
Just raw. His hand tangles in your hair. He pulls. Not enough to hurt—just to claim. Just to make you arch. “Look at you,” he groans, thrusting harder. “On your knees for me. Spread out. Ruined.” You cry out again, high, wrecked, the pressure building in your belly too fast, too sharp.
“You sound so pretty like this…”
His other hand slides around your front, between your thighs, pressing tight circles against your clit. You scream into the sheets.
“That’s it—fuck, give it to me—let me feel you fall apart—”
You’re gone. You come with a sob, body convulsing around his cock, clenching so tight he curses under his breath—louder, dirtier than before.
“Fuck—yes—yes—just like that—” He doesn’t stop. He fucks you through it, chasing his own high, panting, moaning, hips slamming hard against your ass, his rhythm falling apart.
And then—“Where do you want it?” he grits, barely able to speak. “Inside? Over your back? Say it, sweetheart—say it.”
His thrusts are falling apart. Deep. Hard. Desperate. His moans are wrecked now, nothing calm left, nothing patient. You can feel the way he’s fighting it, trying to hold on, to stay composed even while you’re trembling beneath him, your body clenching, already fucked senseless.
You glance back, breath still broken. You smirk. And you push back into his hips once, slow and mean. “Pull out.”
He groans, high in his throat, like it hurts. “W-What?”
You twist your head, eyes glittering. “I want to feel it.”
A pause. A stutter in his breath. “I want it all over me, come—” You arch again, grinding into him. “Be a good boy and give it to me.”
That’s what breaks him. He snarls, a real sound, unfiltered, dragged out of his lungs like you ripped it from his chest.
He pulls out in one desperate motion,thick and swollen, slick with you. And then he comes, without touching himself again.
“F-Fuck—look at you—look at you—”
You do. You crane your neck just enough to see it—his face breaking, mouth open, head tilted back. Hot ropes of it painting your back, your thighs, your hips, dripping down your skin as his voice pours out in helpless moans.
“Fuck—fuck—fucking perfect—” He strokes through it, body shuddering, breath stuttering, spilling everything he’s held in all over you.
And you? You just lie there, smug, aching, full of aftershocks, as the last drops hit your lower back and the heat of it makes you smirk into the sheets. He collapses to his knees behind you, hands bracing on either side of your hips.
The only sounds are panting. Breathing. The echo of him falling apart. You murmur into the quiet: “Told you I’d be disappointed if you weren’t vocal.”
He laughs—hoarse. Shaky. Completely undone. “I hate you.”
You smirk. “No. You do not.”
You let the silence sit. His cum’s still warm on your back, slowly cooling across your skin, staining his perfect sheets with messy proof. He’s slumped behind you, chest heaving, hair mussed, face dazed.
You flip over. Fast. And Mikami’s eyes snap open, wide. Horrified. His gaze drops instantly to the bed, where his cum now smears in hot white streaks across the sheets. His mouth opens. Closes.
He looks like his soul just left his body. You push yourself up on your forearms, slow and smirking. “Wow,” you murmur, fake-innocent, “Teru Mikami… defiled by his own orgasm.”
He glares. You just grin wider. Your eyes drop between his legs. He’s still hard. Still flushed. Still twitching. You tilt your head.
“Still hard, huh?” And before he can say a word you grab him. One hand, soft but sure, wrapping around the base of his cock.
His whole body jolts. “Shit—stop—!” His voice is broken, moaning, trembling on the edge of pain and pleasure. Your grip tightens just slightly. You pull him closer by it, like a leash.
“Mikami…” Your voice is silk. Dangerous. “You didn’t say I couldn’t.” He braces one arm on the mattress, other hand grabbing your wrist lightly, as if he doesn’t even know what to do with himself. “I—I just came—”
You stroke him once. Slow. He gasps. “Fuck—don’t—”
You sit up further, licking a line up his neck. “Did I say you could breathe yet?”
His breath stutters. His cock twitches in your hand again, too sensitive, too full, already threatening to get harder again. You kiss his throat. “C’mon, pretty boy.” A stroke. He groans. “You said I could worship you.”
Your lips ghost over his ear. “That means round two is mine.”
You pump him once, just once. Firm. Too slow.
And Mikami breaks. His hand flies to your wrist grabbing it tight. His head tilts back, mouth open, moaning like you’ve got him bound to the edge of hell.
“I—I can’t—fuck—please—I’m too sensitive—”
His voice is wrecked not the calm, smug bastard you knew. This is desperation. This is raw.
You blink. Tilt your head. And smile.
“Wow, baby, that‘s the first time you show emotions…” You pump again. He shudders. Leftover cum slides down the shaft, dripping into your palm. You lift your hand slowly. Let him watch. Then you lick it.
Your tongue drags across your own skin, collecting the taste, your eyes never leaving his. He stares. Chest rising hard. Pupils blown. Lips parted. He looks like he could come again just from that.
And then you lean forward, lips just beside his ear. Voice velvet-sweet: “Lay down.”
Not a question. Not even a command. A sentence. Inevitable. Final. He stares at you. Still holding your wrist. Still twitching in your hand. And after a second, he obeys.
His body sinks back into the ruined sheets, muscles taut, throat working. He looks up at you. Waiting.
You don’t straddle him. You don’t pin him down. You just roll onto your side. One arm bent beneath your head, the other stretching out, fingers light and teasing as you let your nail drag slowly over the skin of his stomach.
Down. Over the soft rise and fall of his breath. Lower. Across his hipbones. He flinches. Not from pain. From how deeply sensitive he still is. His cock twitches once on the sheets, still half-hard, still wet, still desperate for peace.
He doesn’t move. He just stares at you. Eyes wide. Chest rising too fast. Hair mussed and sticking to his temples. Mouth parted like he’s still trying to process what you just did to him.
You smile. Not cruel. Just… victorious. “Not so smug now, huh?” Your voice is soft. Mocking. Your nail traces back up to his ribs, barely touching him.
He breathes in sharply. Still no words. You glance down, watch his abs twitch under your fingertips. And when your eyes find his again, he’s just looking. Quiet. Devoured. Like you’ve rewritten everything he thought he knew about power.
And the worst part? You didn’t even fuck him again. You just watched. And he let you. Because now?
He’s yours. And he knows it.
He’s still staring. Chest rising like he just ran a marathon in silence. One arm limp on the bed, the other bent, hand twitching near your shoulder like he wants to reach but isn’t sure he’s allowed.
You smile lazily. And don’t say a word. Your fingertips trail up his ribs again, light as dust. You watch the way his stomach tightens, the way his jaw clenches with effort just to stay still.
And then he moves. His hand finds your waist. Slow. Almost careful. He slides it up, palm warm, wide fingers brushing your ribs, then resting lightly just beneath your breast. Not groping. Not gripping. Just… holding.
And when he finally speaks his voice is wrecked. “Can I touch you now?” So soft. So real you almost forget to tease.
Almost.
You brush his hair back from his forehead, nails scraping lightly through damp strands. “Now you ask?”
You kiss the corner of his jaw just a brush of lips. “You should’ve begged sooner, Teru.” He groans softly, almost smiling. Almost. Your hand slides down his chest.
You shift a little closer. Your nose brushes his. “You’ll worship me tomorrow,” you whisper against his mouth. Then you kiss his jaw. Final. “If you behave.”
He breathes out like he might lose it again. But this time, he doesn’t reach. He just pulls you closer. Wraps one arm around your back. Presses his forehead to yours.
And lets you win. For now.
The sun hasn‘t fully risen yet.
Just that dull grey glow pressing against the curtains, filtering light across ruined sheets, dried sweat, and a man who refuses to loosen his grip on you. Mikami is asleep, but his arm is still locked around your waist, tight.
Possessive. Bruising. You shift a little. He grumbles softly. You smile. His face is finally peaceful, even if his body isn’t. Hair a mess. Lips parted. Jaw slack.
You brush a hand over his cheek. Soft. Dangerous. “Mikami.” A hum. Deep in his chest. Low and rough, like he’s trying to respond without waking up.
His grip tightens slightly, like his body’s afraid you’ll vanish if he lets up for even a second.
You lean in. Nose brushing his. Mouth curved into a smirk that shouldn’t feel fond, but somehow does.
“We still have unfinished business, y’know.”
No answer. You tap his jaw with your fingertip. He blinks, one eye opening, barely.
“What am I supposed to tell my boss?”
That stirs something. He shifts but doesn’t let go, just breathes deeper, head nuzzling into your collarbone. Then, voice half-asleep, half-smirking: “Tell him you watched me cum on your back…” Another breath. Slower. “…moaning like a teenager.”
You snort. He doesn’t laugh. Just smiles faintly against your skin. “You’re disgusting,” you whisper.
“Mhh, but you liked it,” he replies, almost too quiet to catch.
That shuts you up. For a moment. His thumb rubs absent over your side, lazy and warm. You stare at the ceiling, fingers trailing over the top of his spine.
“You gonna let me get dressed eventually?”
“Mm.”
You wait. “That’s not an answer.”
“No,” he mutters into your neck.
You chuckle. But deep inside, something soft tightens. Because maybe, just maybe, you don’t want to get dressed yet either.
The bed is a mess, sheets ruined, your body sticky with memory, the taste of him still ghosting your tongue.
He stirs beside you after a while, a lazy, muscled stretch, breath through his nose, hand gliding over your waist as he murmurs something soft against your shoulder.
Then he gets up. No clothes. No shame.
Just naked, half-asleep Mikami, quietly padding into the kitchen to grab water like this is a Sunday morning and not the middle of a goddamn intelligence breach.
You exhale. You sit up, the headboard cool against your back, your skin bare, thighs parted slightly where you let them fall.
The air is warm. The silence golden.
Until your phone buzzes. You glance at the screen. Your stomach drops.
BOSS (SPK – ENCRYPTED CALL)
Fuck.
You answer it. Of course you do.
“Hey.” You clear your throat. “Yeah, I—no, he hasn’t made a move. Still doing his usual circuit. No signs of deviation.”
From the doorway, Mikami reappears.
Two glasses in hand. Still naked. Still looking at you like he never stopped touching you.
His eyes flick to the Death Note on the side table.
Then to you. Still naked. Still on the phone. And you see it click. His mouth curves, just slightly. Then he walks back to the bed. You meet his gaze. And you spread your legs. Just a little.
He sets one glass down. Then the other. And climbs onto the mattress.
Kneels between your thighs. One hand comes up, fingers under your chin, gripping your jaw. Your phone trembles slightly as you hold it out, just far enough that the speaker won’t catch the wet sound of his lips brushing yours.
“I think I’ll keep shadowing him from afar,” you say, voice calm, steady, perfect.
And then he kisses you. Hard. Open-mouthed. Slow.
Every time your boss talks? He kisses you again. You breathe through it, a masterclass in deception. Your lips part, but not for the man in your earpiece.
“No,” you murmur, voice a little breathy, “he hasn’t noticed me yet.”
Another kiss. This time his teeth graze your lower lip.
You grip the phone tighter. “Right. I’ll stay another few days. Routine intel.”
Kiss. Tongue. He’s smiling against your mouth now.
Then he lays down, his head settling warm and heavy on your bare stomach. He exhales like he belongs there. You tangle your fingers into his hair. He closes his eyes as your hand glides gently over his cheek.
“I’ll call in again tomorrow,” you finish softly.
Your boss says something final. You don’t hear it. Because Mikami opens his eyes, lips brushing just above your navel, and whispers “Liar.”
You hang up. “Your fault.”
The silence after the call is deafening. Mikami doesn’t move.
He’s still lying between your legs, head resting on your stomach, one arm heavy over your waist. It’s not gentle. It’s not even affectionate.
It’s like he’s making sure you don’t leave.
Your fingers drift through his hair again. He exhales slowly, almost like he doesn’t want to admit it. “You lied well.”
You snort dry, bitter. “That’s not the point.”
No answer.
You keep staring at the ceiling. “I shouldn’t be here.” Still no reaction. “This shouldn’t have happened.”
His breath brushes your skin. “But it did.”
You tense under him. “That doesn’t make it less fucked up.”
He lifts his head slowly, just enough to look at you. His hair’s messy. His eyes are clearer than they should be for a man who just came undone. “So what, you’re going to walk out of here and pretend it meant nothing?”
You blink at him. “It can’t mean anything.”
He holds your gaze. “Then why are you still touching me?”
Your jaw clenches. You yank your hand back from his hair.
“Because I don’t know what else to do.” You sit up slightly, “I’m going to have to send a report. I’m going to have to explain why my intel hasn’t changed. Why the man they suspect of being connected to Kira hasn’t made a move.”
Mikami doesn’t flinch.
“What am I supposed to write? That I was too busy letting him fuck me to do my job?”
He speaks low. Controlled. “Write what keeps you safe.”
You stare at him. “You think this is just about me?”
“It should be.”
“It’s not. If they think I’ve been compromised—”
He cuts in. “You have.” You freeze. His words hit hard. “So have I.”
You search his face for sarcasm. There’s none. Just honesty. Too much of it.
“Then what happens now?”
He doesn’t blink. “Now, you stay.”
“That’s not an answer Teru.”
“It’s the only one I have.”
Your breath stutters. You lie back down, stare up at the ceiling. His head returns to your stomach like it never left. “This changes everything.”
“Yes.” A beat of silence. Then, quieter—“But I don’t want to go back.”
Your fingers find his hair again. This time, slower. Uncertain. “Neither do I.”
The silence sits heavy. Too heavy. Your hand’s still in his hair, but you’re not moving anymore. Not breathing steady. Not resting. Just… there. Still. Too still.
He shifts slightly, eyes closed, head on your stomach but it’s not relaxed anymore. His brows twitch, faint. You move.
You reach out, off the edge of the bed, and grab the nearest thing, his shirt, crumpled from last night. Your own is still somewhere in the living room. You pull it over your bare chest slowly, arms sliding through sleeves like armor.
And that’s when he stirs. His voice is soft. Uncertain. “…What are you doing?”
You hesitate. Then, too quietly: “I’m feeling unwell.”
His head lifts. The blanket slides lower on his hips, revealing skin, still warm and marked where your nails raked him.
His voice stays level. But sharper now. “No. Hey.” He sits up, one hand bracing beside you. His hair falls into his eyes. “Look at me.”
You don’t. So he says it anyway. Calm. Steady. “I didn’t sleep with you because I wanted something out of it.”
That hits. You close your eyes. The shirt clings to your skin in places still sticky with dried sweat and regret. He watches you for a second.
Waits. Then says it again, quieter this time, like it matters more now that you’re trying to run from it. “I didn’t use you.”
You whisper, still not looking at him. “But I used you.”
The words feel thick in your mouth. Sharp. Final. He exhales slow, like he doesn’t want to break the moment but can’t let you sit in that lie. “You came here to watch me. To report on me. To build a case.” A pause. His eyes don’t leave your face. “You didn’t come here to touch me.” He leans in slightly. His hand reaches, stops an inch from your thigh.“But you did.”
You swallow. Hard.
“So did I.”
You finally look at him. Eyes glassy. Guard gone. And he adds, almost a whisper: “So maybe we both got used. Or maybe we both just wanted something real. Even for a night.”
Your eyes meet his.
And you feel it breaking in your chest, slow and quiet, like paper tearing. You don’t speak. You can’t. Your lashes flutter once. Twice. And then your eyes begin to well up.
You inhale too sharp, too fast and the breath doesn’t go anywhere. It just gets stuck behind everything you’re too afraid to say.
Mikami sees it instantly. His face changes. He shifts on the bed, moving without hesitation.
The blanket falls down his hips as he kneels in front of you, naked but for the sheet pooled around his waist, chest bare, muscles flexing with the motion. You catch a glimpse of his v-line, sharp and defined under soft morning light, but that’s not what matters.
It’s his face. Worried. Unmasked. Real.
His hands reach up, big and warm and careful. Both palms cup your cheeks. Thumbs brushing just under your eyes. “Hey…”
You blink again, and a tear slips out. His thumbs catch it. He leans closer, nose almost brushing yours. “Look at me.”
You do. Barely. Your throat works around a sound you don’t want to let out. But he doesn’t let go. “Whatever this is… whatever you think you’ve ruined—” His voice cracks, just slightly. “You haven’t.”
Your lip trembles. Your hands finally move, reaching up, covering his where they hold your face. “I didn’t mean to—”
“I know.” His forehead touches yours, slow and careful.
You exhale and this time it breaks you. You fall forward into him. And he catches you like he’s been waiting.
His thumbs brush one more tear off your cheek. And then he moves. Without a word, he takes your thighs gently and closes them with both hands, shifting your legs together before tugging them to the side, making space for your body to move.
You don’t resist. You just sit there, heart in your throat, breath shaky, still clutching his shirt around you like it can hold everything in. Then his hands slide up your sides. Warm. Slow. Not possessive. Not greedy. Just steady.
He pulls you forward, into him, arms wrapping around you as if you’ll break into pieces if he lets go. Your knees slide across the bed. And then you’re there. In his lap. In his arms. Pressed against his bare chest. One hand holds the back of your head. The other curls tight around your waist. And then—his voice.
Low. Close. “Don’t cry.”
It’s not a command. Not cold or sharp like you’re used to hearing from him. It’s almost pleading. Like it’s hurting him too. You bury your face in his shoulder, knuckles pressed to his collarbone. Your whole body trembles once. His arms tighten.
“You’re allowed to fall apart. Just… not alone.”
Your fingers grip his back. You nod, barely. Because for the first time, you’re not running. You’re just here. In his lap. In his hold. Letting yourself be touched like you’re something fragile, not just useful. And Mikami holds you like he means it.
Like this is not a mistake.
You’re curled into him. Pressed into his chest, shirt half-buttoned, breath uneven. And Mikami who once looked untouchable behind courtroom steel and courtroom silence is holding you like you’re glass.
Not a word leaves his mouth for a while. Only his hand stroking softly up and down your back. Not asking for anything. Not expecting. Just letting you fall apart in peace.
“Is it fear or regret?” His voice barely breaks the quiet.
You shift in his arms. “Both.”
A beat. His chin rests against your hair. “You don’t need to explain. But you can, if you want.”
Your fingers curl into the fabric of his blanket over his lap. You stay there a moment, pressed against his sternum, heartbeat slow under your ear.
“I feel like I broke something I can’t fix.”
“What?”
“My purpose. My rules. The way I’m supposed to be.”
He pulls you in a little closer. “You didn’t break anything.”
“I compromised the whole mission.”
He leans back slightly, not far, just enough to tilt your chin up with a knuckle beneath it. Your eyes are wet again.
And his…His are steady. Not judging. Just there. “I know you didn’t come here to fall in love with your target.”
Your breath stumbles. You don’t deny it.
He smiles just barely. It’s not smug. It’s sad. “But I didn’t expect to fall for my observer either.”
Your lips part. Your voice breaks when you whisper: “Why are you being kind to me?”
He brushes his thumb under your eye again, collecting the wetness there. “Because you look like you need someone to be. Because you look like you never let anyone.”
You nod. Barely. Then, still curled in his lap: “I don’t know what to do now.”
His arms wrap back around you. Tighter. Warmer. “Then don’t do anything.”
“What if I’m making it worse?”
“Then I’ll stay here until it gets better.”
You blink. Look up at him. That calm, sincere look on his face. Not cold. Not manipulative. Just… him.
“You’d really do that?”
He leans in and presses his forehead to yours. Breath warm. Still shirtless. Still beautiful. Still dangerous in ways that don’t scare you anymore.
“Yes. As long as you’ll let me.”
You’re still in his lap, arms around his neck, his wrapped tight around your waist.
But the warmth? It doesn’t stop the fear.
Not all of it. You pull back just enough to look at him, eyes still glassy, lip trembling just a little. And then, soft. Barely a whisper: “I’m scared that you’ll hurt me.”
Mikami stills. His jaw flexes once. But his hands and his hold doesn’t change. Just tighter. More present. His voice is low when he answers. Measured. “I would never do that.”
You swallow hard, shaking your head once, not because you don’t believe him but because that’s not all of it.
“But you have the second notebook.”
He’s silent.
You go on. “You are a threat. To everyone. To the people I work with. To strangers. To… to me.”
His breath catches just for a second. But he doesn’t look away. He lets it land. You expect him to pull back. To go cold. To turn distant like he always does when people say things he doesn’t want to hear.
But he doesn’t. He just looks at you. Tired. Sad. Something close to ashamed. “I know what I am to the world.”
You blink.
“I’ve accepted it. I chose it. I don’t ask for forgiveness.” He touches your jaw gently. Thumb brushing the corner of your mouth. “But I would never write your name.”
You exhale. A slow, shuddering sound. “You don’t even need a reason.”
“I do now.”
You stare at him. Hard. He meets your gaze. And when he speaks again, his voice is lower. Firmer.
“You’re not a name in a file to me anymore.”
You hesitate. Your fingers grip his shoulder a little tighter. “And if they order me to take you out?”
His hand finds your waist again. Warm. Steady.
“Then I hope you lie.”
Your eyes well up again. But this time, you don’t pull away.
Because you’re not sure who’s more dangerous now—
him, or what you feel for him.
That did something to you, didn’t it?
The Masterlist has more trouble for you. If you want a different kind, Requests are open.
⋆✴︎˚｡⋆ © ᴠᴇʟᴠᴇᴛɢʜᴏᴜʟ
𝘙𝘦𝘣𝘭𝘰𝘨𝘴 𝘢𝘳𝘦 𝘴𝘸𝘦𝘦𝘵. 𝘛𝘩𝘦𝘧𝘵 𝘪𝘴 𝘯𝘰𝘵. 𝘋𝘰 𝘯𝘰𝘵 𝘤𝘰𝘱𝘺, 𝘳𝘦𝘱𝘰𝘴𝘵, 𝘵𝘳𝘢𝘯𝘴𝘭𝘢𝘵𝘦, 𝘳𝘦𝘤𝘭𝘢𝘪𝘮, 𝘰𝘳 𝘧𝘦𝘦𝘥 𝘮𝘺 𝘸𝘰𝘳𝘥𝘴 𝘪𝘯𝘵𝘰 𝘈𝘐.