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Mikami whines, her hips arching off the mattress.
“Does it feel good, Teru?” Light asks, though she knows the answer and doesn’t particularly care.
“Thank you, God. Yes. I don’t deserve it. Thank you for giving it to me. Oh, please, Kira.”
It does warm Light, somewhere within the cold depths of herself, to hear Mikami moan her name. Her true name. The name of God.
In spite of this, her face remains stony, impassive — not that Mikami can see that through her blindfold. Light had begun to require she wear it after the first time she’d fucked her. Mikami’s eyes had been wide, worshipful, pleading, and it should have done something for Light, to see all that lust and devotion in her face. Instead, it had shaken her, more than she’d care to admit. She’d seen her own face, all of eighteen, overwhelmed and wet and desperate to please, kneeling on the floor for —
She is not thinking about that. Anyway. It’s easier to fuck her when Light can’t see her naked adoration. Light likes things to be easy, these days.
At present, she’s inside Mikami to the wrist. Mikami doesn’t need to be bound in place to stay still when she’s told (unlike Light, in a past life). She’s sprawled across her neatly-made bed in her tidy little bachelor’s apartment, taking Light’s fist in her tight cunt, oddly delicate somehow in spite of her height advantage and the chiseled marble of her muscles. She stands up to rougher treatment than Misa and Takada ever have, which is something Light likes about her. But then, Mikami isn’t like them — none of Misa’s infantile, simpering girlishness or Takada’s elegant, empty femininity. She’s like Light, broad-shouldered and handsome, competitive and intelligent, cutting a fine figure in court in her men’s suits and ties. Light had decided to fuck her for the first time after finding out how highly she had scored on the bar exam.
She twists her wrist slightly so the tips of her fingers plunge up against Mikami’s g-spot, beginning to pick up a slow rhythm, easing her hand in and out of her. Mikami gasps sharply but doesn’t grind down into it, just makes a high, wavering noise and breathes out, “thank you, God, yes please.” She never asks for any more than she’s given, which Light appreciates. Light detests begging. When Mikami says please it’s a matter of courtesy and gratitude — like she can’t accept Light’s graciousness without having it on the record that she asked politely. Were Light ever inclined to let Mikami eat her cunt (she won’t be; no one’s touched her there in almost five years), Mikami would probably say itadakimasu before her knees hit the ground.
She isn’t always so gentle. Mikami can handle a firm hand; indeed, she flourishes beneath one. On one occasion Light had attended a trial for which Mikami had delivered oral argument on behalf of the state — a murderer who was on their reserve list of criminals to handle personally. She didn’t warn her in advance, just appeared in the galley in her typical business attire with the rest of the hangers-on and waited for Mikami to notice her. It had worked; in the midst of delivering a blazing indictment of the scum playing at humanity whose freedom hung in the balance, Mikami turned to face the audience to drive home her point. Her gaze skipped over Light at first and then caught on her, and Mikami had stuttered over a word and turned pink, then recovered when Light mouthed Go on. It was a split-second’s error, probably completely unnoticed by anyone else, and Mikami had won her case, as usual, with the maximum penalty for the defendant, who was going to die either way.
That night, while she was still glowing from achieving her result in front of Light, Light had broken her down slowly, putting her over her knee with her hands bound by her own tie and striking her on her thighs and ass and back with a very nice leather riding crop until she wept and her skin sang with bruises. Mikami isn’t a crier, and it had taken a long time until the pain and humiliation had worn down her resolve enough for the tears to come.
“You were lucky enough to win this time,” Light had said, “but what if that hadn’t been enough? How do you think that sort of stammering looks in the eyes of the judge? Do you think you can execute the interests of justice and the law if you’re so led by your own cunt that words fail you when it’s wet? Do you think a person like that is capable of carrying out the will of Kira? Of God?”
“No,” Mikami had sniffed, hanging on by a thread as she tried to keep herself together. Her entire body had been trembling by that time, wound tight by the pain and the arousal and the tears. “No, God, there’s no excuse. I should have done better. I’m so sorry. It isn’t enough. I don’t deserve for you to touch me. I don’t deserve to sit at your right hand. It should have been perfect. I’m sorry I’m such a stupid whore. I’m sorry I think with my cunt. Your will is my only priority. I’m sorry for disappointing you, God. I’m so — s-so sorry —” She had really dissolved, then, into ashamed, near-hysterical sobbing she couldn’t control, and Light had decided that that was quite enough to teach her a lesson and untied her to steady her and clean her up and get her into a bath. She hadn’t been allowed to come that evening, of course, but she performed flawlessly the next time Light watched her at trial, even with the awareness of Light’s eyes on her, and Light had rewarded her by taking her home to her apartment right from the courthouse and eating her pussy until she moaned herself hoarse. Light is a benevolent god.
Mikami has a safeword, technically (it’s “bergamot”), but she’s never used it; she almost certainly senses (correctly) that Light would disapprove. She never cries for mercy, only in atonement. Light likes this about her.
She’s panting softly now, edgy sounds escaping on every exhale. Mikami is very good at keeping her pleasure quiet, well-mannered — especially taking into consideration the fact that she’s never fucked anybody else — and much as Light is in the business of rewarding her for keeping a good handle on her responses, she does relish the opportunity to shake her out of that box. Slowly, so Mikami can’t detect the movement, Light shifts her position on the bed and lowers her face to her cunt. Mikami has soft, sparse pubic hair, very neatly trimmed, and she’s fastidiously clean in all things, factors which combine to make her very easy and relatively pleasant to eat out. It’s grounding, sometimes, when Light gets overinvolved and Mikami’s messy black hair and pale skin and strong thighs knock her a little sideways and make her forget where and when she is; Mikami is much too deliberately well-groomed to be anyone else.
Not that she would be anyone else, anyway. Light shuts her eyes and twitches her head like a dog trying to clear its ears of water. She doesn’t get confused about these things. She is twenty-three years old. She is here, in this apartment, with Mikami Teru, who is a desperate, needful little slut deeply inclined to bend to Light’s will, and Light is in control of this situation.
Light licks hard over her clit with the flat of her tongue.
Mikami shudders all over and lets out a loud, sharp whine, gripping tight to the comforter with a white-knuckled fist. She is not allowed to cover her mouth (Light had learned that lesson herself, once, back when — stop it), though Light has sometimes done so for her; the recent occasion on which she had fucked her in the women’s room of the public prosecutor’s office following a routine task force liaison comes to mind. Nor is she permitted to touch Light’s hair. Hanging onto the sheets is therefore sometimes the only thing tethering her to Earth.
“Thank you,” she breathes, “thank you, Kira, thank you, yes, please — y-you’re so — good to me, it’s better than — I-I deserve — use me as you will, God, please —”
Light smirks into her, sucking her clit hard and pushing her fist up against her g-spot again at the same time. The moan Mikami lets out verges on a scream; she digs her heel hard into the mattress near Light’s shoulder and devolves into a litany of pathetic little noises.
Light keeps working her over, letting her shiver and whimper and pant, reaching down with her free hand to dig her nails into her own thigh through her slacks. Sometimes going down on her is hard, not because Mikami does anything at all to make it so but because Light finds a rhythm and starts getting that slow, underwater feeling, with her eyes closed and her mouth busy and her ears pricked for praise, and then wonders blindly, stupidly, why no one is offering it and why no one is gripping her hand or guiding her by the hair with strong, spindly fingers and starts to feel vulnerable and small and has to drag herself back up, gasping, to the present, to reality, where things are as they should be and no one touches her and Mikami calls her God and writhes beneath her tongue like she’s being fucked, not like Light’s mouth is something for her to take. Like she is offering herself to Light, rather than being served by her.
Light serves no one.
The groove Light falls into is almost mechanically perfect. Her hand and mouth move in flawless tandem, playing Mikami like an instrument. The sounds coming out of Mikami’s mouth just get higher, more broken, more strained; the words Light can make out come ever closer to nothing. She’s trying to stay still and composed, but her hips have started to twitch wantonly against Light’s face, like there’s nothing she can do about it.
“C-close,” Mikami manages to say, just barely, “very — v-very close, oh —”
It’s not a request, but rather a warning — allowing Light to make an informed decision about what to do next. Mikami has never once felt entitled to an orgasm, not even the first time Light took her to bed, which Light thinks is a commendable trait in a person who wishes to be sexually dominated.
In fact, she often seems to feel better if she isn’t allowed to come. On the occasion Light had punished her for stumbling in front of the judge, she had rolled up her sleeves and pant legs and stepped out of her socks and taken Mikami into her nice glass-doored shower with its something like five separate showerheads and washed her gently, like she was tending a child, shampooing her hair for her and scrubbing her body down with a warm washcloth, paying special attention to the few small places where she’d hit her hard enough to break skin. She had massaged conditioner into her scalp and then fucked with the faucet settings until the waterfall shower mounted on the ceiling had shut off, leaving only the removable showerhead running, and then she’d backed Mikami up against the tiled bench on the wall until her knees hit the edge and she had no choice but to sit down (hissing with discomfort as she went, which pleased Light). She had tested the pressure and temperature of the water against her hand and, when she was satisfied, had stepped between Mikami’s knees and held the running jets against her swollen cunt at point-blank range, making her startle backward and wringing a loud moan out of her throat.
There hadn’t been anywhere for her to go, between Light and the wall. She’d twitched desperately under the showerhead, struggling not to outright rut herself against it, and whimpered pitifully, taking what Light gave her. Her head dropped forward so her damp forehead rested against Light’s chest, which Light had mercifully allowed even though it left a wet spot on her white button-down.
“Close, please, God, I’m close,” Mikami had begged after almost no time at all, and she and Light had both known that she was not asking to be allowed to come. “P-please, I’m so — s-so close, Kira, please —”
Light had hushed her, the picture of gentleness, and hadn’t moved in the slightest, keeping Mikami trapped beneath the onslaught of pleasure that tormented her. It was only when Mikami let out a tight, panicky noise, almost fearful, on the very edge of orgasm, that Light had relented, drawing the showerhead away and using it to rinse the conditioner out of Mikami’s hair like she’d never intended to do anything else. Mikami had immediately slumped back in relief, secure in the knowledge that she was not being given anything she had not earned, and when Light had said nonchalantly, “let’s get you in the bath, hm?” she had gone willingly, more than content to follow Light anywhere.
In the present moment, Light doesn’t torture her — not today, at least. Mikami has been doing well in her duties, and Light appreciates her hard work. She lifts her mouth from Mikami’s cunt and asks, “Do you want to come, Teru?”
Mikami trembles. “I want whatever God thinks I deserve,” she says honestly, a response so sickeningly perfect in its submission it would turn Light’s stomach if it were offered to anyone else. Because it’s being said to her, though, and is the kind of blissful obedience she objectively deserves, she accepts it with a pleased hum, lifting her hand from where it’s been clawing itself into her leg for the last fifteen minutes and giving Mikami’s thigh an approving little pet that practically makes her purr.
It’s a sight better than “I swear I will bite your fucking hand off if you don’t fucking let me come”, chimes a flat, sardonic voice in the back of Light’s brain. She winces in something like pain and is very glad Mikami can’t see her face.
Shut up. Shut up. Shut up. Shut up. Shut up, she thinks but does not say.
“Very good. You may,” she says, without opening her eyes, and she leans down again, attempting to center her focus toward licking an orgasm out of Mikami’s cunt and away from the obscene, very much not real muttering of the corpse currently dryly attempting to remind her that she used to pull Light around on a leash when she misbehaved, which she did much more frequently than the obedient young woman Light is currently wearing like a mitten.
That’s the thing that catches her, sometimes — the things that come into her head that she herself would really never say in a million fucking years. It’s the lens that threatens to bring the blurry shape that dogs her peripheral vision into focus. It’s the reason she faces away from the mirror when she flosses her teeth. Light is sane, very much so, and in order to continue to be sane she needs to be able to acknowledge beyond the shadow of a doubt that these stupid ever-present things she’s heard and seen and felt anytime she’s been alone with her thoughts for more than thirty seconds for the last five years are things she only hears and sees and feels because she is batshit fucking crazy. It’s a subtle balancing act.
Mikami whimpers hotly, bringing Light back to Earth, and twists beneath her ministrations. Light slides the hand resting on her thigh up to her hip and pins her in place, holding her still so she can’t do anything but take what Light gives her. Mikami’s breath starts to come fast and shallow. She makes an urgent, needy little noise.
“Yes yes yes,” she pants, just barely above a whisper. “Thank you thank you thank you God thank you, thank you, Kira, I’m — oh, God, you’re going to m-make me —!”
Light gives her clit one hard, final suck, expertly rolling her tongue over the swollen flesh in her mouth, and fucks her fist in and out of Mikami’s soaked cunt, hard and fast, and that’s all it takes for Mikami to shake and moan and fall apart, her pussy pulsing tight around Light’s hand like it’s molding itself to the shape of her. She babbles grateful nonsense about how good it feels, how devoted she is to Light, how much she loves her. Light does not roll her eyes, even though Mikami can’t see her, because that would be unkind, and Light is not unkind. Light is a good person.
When it’s over she draws slowly out of Mikami, who shudders at the loss, and wipes the wetness off her hand on a dry towel folded at the end of the bed. When it’s reasonably clean (she’ll wash her hands before she leaves, of course), she reaches up and undoes the black blindfold over Mikami’s eyes. She is met with the full force of Mikami’s starry-eyed affection, as expected, which is for some reason much more tolerable when Light is not actively fucking her.
“I have to go,” she says matter-of-factly, and she appreciates the valiant effort Mikami puts into not looking disappointed. Some people (naming no names, Misa) aren’t capable of the pretense, which always makes Light a little uncomfortable.
“Of course,” Mikami replies, like it doesn’t bother her at all. She pushes herself up into a sitting position, taking the towel Light offers and using it to delicately mop the sweat off her brow. “Thank you, for, er, attending me. As always. You’re much more generous to me than I deserve.”
“Don’t be silly, Teru,” Light says indulgently, though it’s probably true. “You’ve done very well lately. It’s the least I can do.” Mikami glows, her cheeks dusted with pink.
Light stands up, dusting her hands casually against the front of her pants, and takes Mikami’s strong shoulders in her palms, dropping a kiss to her forehead like a benediction. The shivering blush that overcomes Mikami makes her look like a much smaller woman. Before Light had chosen her, she had never been kissed, which makes her unique among Light’s regular sexual partners. It does charm Light in a prideful sort of way that she never seems to get used to it.
Light lets her pull herself together, stepping into the bathroom to wipe her mouth clean and wash her hands. She runs the water very hot, scrubs beneath her nails with Mikami’s nail brush, and makes a point of looking hard into the mirror, just to prove there’s nothing behind her. She isn’t scared. She’s Kira. Nothing fucking scares her.
When she’s finished, she rolls her shirtsleeves back down and redoes the buttons at her cuffs. She brushes her hair back into neatness with her fingers (though it hadn’t even been mussed, really) and straightens her tie, pulling it tight to her throat like a noose.
There. She’s fine. She’s good.
She’s God.
By the time she goes to pull her suit jacket off the rack in the entryway, Mikami has already put on a bathrobe and started readying herself for a shower. They don’t say anything else to one another, thankfully — this particular transaction is over, and Light’s ability to continue conversation is waning. She’ll have to contend with the crowded subway home, and with Misa when she gets there, and with the mocking, rail-thin shadows that flicker in the dark of their bedroom and taunt her when Misa falls asleep and Light lies awake staring at the ceiling.
Everyone has their trials. She supposes there could be worse things.
