MikoMisa Games

Approximately one year later.

Mikoto checked her phone, the smooth surface of the screen catching the last glints of sunlight as the evening stretched long across the horizon. It was a rare sight: the new Gekota variant. A phone that flipped open with a satisfyingly soft click. How she managed to get her hands on it, she couldn’t quite recall—Junko, of course, had some way of procuring the most coveted items, slipping through the cracks in the city like water through a sieve. Mikoto had long since stopped asking how. When it came to that lavender-haired minx, the answer was always an unspoken wink and an unapologetic grin.

The time read 5:30.

She exhaled a soft sigh and glanced up, tapping her foot with the impatient rhythm of someone whose schedule never quite seemed to belong to them. Campaigning had wrapped up early, an unexpected surprise given her usual track record of scheduling disasters. Mikoto had just finished a speech in downtown Academy City, the crowds less enthusiastic than expected—no surprise, really, after the debacle of the previous year. But here she was, heading toward the westside with a purpose, a mission.

People flowed around her, faceless, indistinct, like shadows drifting across the street. She stood still in the crowd, folding her arms and leaning back on her heels, every inch the image of a woman who had no intention of being rushed. For once, Mikoto wasn’t the one running behind. For once, she was the one who’d arrived early.

And perhaps that, in itself, was a subtle sign of change.

The Railgun—Mikoto Misaka, candidate for mayor of Academy City—stood poised in the thick of it all, clad in a black velvet suit shimmered in the evening spring light. The suit’s deep, inky black was a perfect contrast to the bright red trimming and oversized gold buttons that gleamed like eyes in the orange light. Her hair was slicked back with static in a neat ponytail, minus the long bang that swayed over her face. It made her look like a vision from another time, a 70s fashion model frozen mid-pose, with a poise that could have easily belonged to a woman featured in a double-page magazine spread.

Yet, beneath it all, something unmistakable lingered in the air around her—an energy, a spark, that had nothing to do with the clothes or the sleek design of the campaign. It was her. The real Mikoto, still sharper than a million yen, even in the face of all the city’s polished facades. She was nothing like a politician; she was the same Mikoto who had brought down the greatest dangers of Academy City, who had clashed against the horrors of that dark year with a grit that defied expectations.

The aftermath of the death games still haunted the city’s underbelly, though few dared to speak of it openly. It was buried beneath layers of bureaucracy, glossed over with smooth words and vague gestures. Kuroko and the others had shared their stories, but who would listen? No one. Not when the narrative was inconvenient, not when the truth posed a challenge to the image the city worked so hard to maintain. Investigative bodies had dismissed it all as a far-fetched nightmare—after all, who could believe such a tale when it was buried under a mountain of lies?

Mikoto thought it better that way. The darker truths that lurked beneath the surface would remain there. It was a strange sort of peace, the quiet that settled after the storm had passed, a silence that was anything but serene. The city had a tendency to bury its wounds beneath glossy, sterile surfaces. If you didn’t look too closely, you might forget that it was all built on a foundation of violence, of betrayal, of things unsaid that Crowley did ritualistically.

The Misaka Network had resumed, becoming a valuable aid for Misaki’s detective agency, but despite all of her efforts, she was unable to discern what had led to the coup d'etat and their reformation. The mysterious X-masked figures had vanished, and Misaki sincerely doubted they were also clones. Though Kazari appeared to be the main conductor of the games, the curious honey bee couldn’t help but wonder if there were others on equal footing—that the web extended deeper than any of them could imagine.

A few of the VIP lounge members had survived the carnage and were interrogated—but only for a time. The investigation had ended as suddenly as it began, and any remaining survivors were silenced in ways that seemed all too convenient. Those who had fought alongside Mikoto had been given their share of the prize money, a pittance in exchange for what they had endured. But Mikoto often wondered: Would it have been better if they had spoken? If they had forced the truth into the light, no matter the cost? She’d thought about it in the quiet hours, the moments when the city hummed with its normal melody, unaware of what had truly transpired. Perhaps, then, they would’ve spoken if the money had been awarded after.

But in the end, it didn’t matter. Should've, could've, would’ve. Those were the words she whispered in the solitude of the nights she couldn’t sleep. The past was a shadow, a fading echo in the distance, and it would always follow them—no matter how fast they ran.

And so she waited. Patient. Calm. A politician with a purpose, but still that same Mikoto who had once watched a city burn and felt the weight of a thousand lost lives upon her shoulders. She couldn’t pretend to be someone else now, not even for this campaign. Not when the world had seen the truth of her, and perhaps that was her greatest strength of all: She had nothing to hide. Nothing left to lose.

Well, that last part was a complete and total lie.

The sound of footsteps. Familiar ones, approaching. And there she was: the honey-laden detective, walking through the crowd with a calm grace that contrasted Mikoto’s simmering impatience.

Her lips quirked upward at the sight. “You’re late,” Mikoto said, her tone betraying her words.

Misaki, ever the vision of aplomb regality, shot her a teasing smile. “Wasn't my fault this time,” she said, offering Mikoto a gloved hand.

A hint of warmth stirred in Mikoto’s chest as she took it, the touch grounding her in a way that few things ever had. The world continued to move around them—faces passed, strangers with their own quiet stories, lives half-lived—but in this moment, with Misaki’s hand in hers, Mikoto felt as though the world was hers, if only for a breath.

“Ready?” Misaki asked, her voice soft, but with that unwavering certainty Mikoto had come to trust.

Mikoto gave a small nod, her lips curving into a rare, unburdened smile. “Let’s go.”

They turned together, their footsteps clacking as they approached the large oak doors of the building—an imposing structure that seemed to be something out of a forgotten era, a place where time had slowed down to admire the beauty of old-world craftsmanship. It was a building that wore its age with pride, its stone walls and towers like the bones of an ancient fortress, both sturdy and welcoming. The smell of polished wood and aged leather lingered in the air as they entered.

Inside, the atmosphere was rich with a warm, golden light, streaming in from the high windows that adorned the walls. Green velvet carpets ran like soft rivers across the floor, edged with delicate patterns, as if each footstep was meant to be a whispered secret in a grand hall. The space felt both majestic and intimate, a perfect juxtaposition. Behind the wooden podium that stood in the center, a host flipped through the pages of a book, her movements quiet and practiced.

Awatsuki Maaya, the owner of this unique establishment, looked up with a smile that could melt even the coldest of hearts. She was as composed as ever, her black bow tie and matching vest with white collared shirt impeccably neat.

“How’s business?” Mikoto asked, her voice warm, returning Maaya's smile.

“Better than ever~!” Maaya hummed happily, her eyes twinkling with a playful gleam. She moved with practiced grace around the podium, opening the wicket door with a flourish and gesturing for them to enter.

The air in the restaurant seemed to hum with a sense of quiet satisfaction—a contentment in purpose. Mikoto and Misaki walked through the space, pausing to appreciate the surroundings before Maaya jogged ahead, her pace light and eager. They climbed a set of stairs, their shoes clicking on the smooth stone, until they reached a balcony that overlooked the main floor. A giant stained-glass window in the shape of an intricate ocean wave spread vibrant hues of crimson, emerald, and cobalt across the room, each color a brushstroke of evening light, casting the tables below in an ethereal glow.

At the top of the stairs, Maaya placed the menus on the table with a small bow. “Reservation for MikoMisa,” she said cheerfully, before stepping aside.

Mikoto felt her cheeks warm at the sound of their combined name, her hand instinctively reaching for her napkin, folding and adjusting it with unnecessary precision. Maaya poured them both a glass of water before turning on her heel, her demeanor shifting to one of quiet anticipation.

Misaki broke the silence, her voice carrying that playful, yet inquisitive note Mikoto knew so well. “So, Awatsuki-san,” she asked, glancing at their host, “what exactly made the two of you buy a church and renovate it into a restaurant after everything that happened?”

Maaya paused for a moment, tapping her chin thoughtfully. The movement was deliberate, like she was carefully considering how to offer a reply to a question that carried both humor and weight. “Well, it’s a really beautiful place, you know,” she said with a smile, her voice soft, almost nostalgic. “And it would’ve been such a waste to see it destroyed in favor of yet another drive-thru coffee shop. The space has... soul, you know? It deserves better than that.”

Misaki nodded as if understanding completely, her eyes softening slightly. Mikoto, her legs crossed, leaned back in her chair, watching the exchange with quiet interest.

“Kin-chan’s dream was always to own a restaurant,” Maaya continued, her voice fond, full of admiration for her partner. She gave a small, almost comical pose with her hands, a charming display that seemed to fit her effortlessly. “And I’m just happy to help her realize that dream.”

Mikoto smirked, her mind briefly flicking back to the years of struggles, the scars both visible and hidden, and the strange ways life had unfolded. The memory of the battles they had fought seemed distant now, like the echo of a thunderstorm long past. She couldn’t help but feel a strange relief in seeing someone like Maaya, someone who had been through their own trials, striving for something so simple, yet so beautiful. A rolling dream.

“I see,” Misaki replied, taking a delicate sip from her glass of water. “Love wins, after all.”

Maaya nodded gracefully, the sentiment one she had embraced fully. “A server will be by in a moment for your order~,” she said before turning to leave, her steps light and sure.

Mikoto sat back in her chair, a playful glint in her eyes as she watched Maaya head off, disappearing into the bustling kitchen. “Seems like everyone’s a lesbian now, huh,” she said under her breath, half to herself, half to Misaki, a hint of amusement in her voice.

Misaki raised an eyebrow, the corners of her mouth twitching with delight. “Are you complaining~?” she asked, her inflection teasing yet tender.

Mikoto coughed, a deep flush creeping into her cheeks. “N-no, of course not! I’m just not used to sharing… tothings,” she stammered, her voice faltering slightly as she glanced away, caught between a moment of discomfort and a desperate attempt to cover up her own insecurities.

Misaki giggled, her eyes glimmering with affection. “You’re always a little bit prickly about that, aren’t you?” she teased.

Mikoto grumbled under her breath, but the lightness of Misaki’s teasing warmed her, even if it made her face flare with heat. She had always been fiercely independent, but when it came to Misaki… there were still some things she was getting used to. It was the comfort of normalcy outside of her bubble, that the world wasn’t quite so foreign anymore with its culture or expectations. That it was okay to show everyone how she really felt.

The air between them softened, the quiet murmurs of the restaurant settling in as they both turned their attention back to the scene unfolding around them. The sun had nearly set, the world outside becoming darker. It was peaceful now—no more fighting. Just the simple quiet of a life beginning again.

“I really love your hair like that~,” Misaki chimed in, titling her head as she gazed at Mikoto lovingly.

“O-oh really,” Mikoto smiled, looking down at her hands.

“It’s beau-ti-ful~✧,” Misaki said in English, causing Mikoto’s eyes to focus on her. It had come out, at some point, how cute she found delicate motion of her tongue on the language. And ever since, the honey blonde detective had weaponized it to her advantage, making Mikoto melt like putty in her hands just to see it.

Mikoto’s hear throbbed as her lips parted for a moment before speaking. “I—”

And then, before the would-be ace of politics could finish, the server arrived with their menus, ready to take their orders. As the evening continued, Mikoto and Misaki were left to bask in the warmth of this moment—a moment of peace.

“Oh my, these cakes look divine~!” Misaki exclaimed, her eyes lighting up as she stared at the dessert menu, her voice delighted, a childlike innocence that Mikoto couldn't help but find endearing.

“I told you, didn’t I?” Mikoto replied, the hint of smug satisfaction evident in her smile. Her tone was one of quiet triumph, the satisfaction of a promise fulfilled. “I’d treat you to the best cakes the city has to offer.” She leaned back in her chair, her eyes glinting with quiet pride.

Misaki hummed, her finger tracing the edge of the menu as she considered her choices. “I was beginning to think you forgot about that~,” she teased, a playful pout tugging at the corners of her lips. “Although this isn’t quite Tokyo~.”

“Of course not,” Mikoto shot back, her eyes narrowing slightly in mock offense. “I never forget about the important things.” Her gaze softened, and for a brief moment, she wondered how much of their lives had changed in the past year. “We can still go to Tokyo too,” Mikoto said, basking in the simple, gentle moment.

Misaki, still gazing at the menu, finally settled on her choice. “I’ll have the orange vanilla crème cake,” she declared, her voice as sweet as the dessert she’d chosen. There was something about her smile when she made decisions, something decisive yet full of care, that made Mikoto’s heart flutter in a way that was impossible for her to ignore.

Mikoto’s eyes flicked over to the panna cotta, drenched in strawberry syrup—so delicate, so impossibly smooth. The thought of it made her mouth water. “I’ll take the panna cotta, drenched in strawberry syrup,” she said, as if each word was a carefully measured promise. It wasn’t just about the food, though—there was something about the ritual of it all. The quiet act of sharing a meal, of choosing together, of savoring the simple pleasures in life.

The server appeared, gliding to their table with the soft swish of her apron. Her presence was as gentle as a breeze, and in the manner with which she took their orders, Mikoto felt a sense of peace settle in her chest.

As the server retreated, Misaki turned her gaze back to Mikoto, her expression softening as she studied her, as if seeing her anew. “You know,” she said thoughtfully, her voice gentle, “we’ve come a long way, haven’t we?”

Mikoto blinked, momentarily caught off guard by the unexpected sentiment.

“Yeah,” Mikoto said softly, her eyes drifting toward the stained-glass window. The colors danced like slow-moving fire, the light falling on the table like a blessing. “I guess we have.”

She looked back at Misaki, her heart swelling with a hotness that reminded her of morphine. There was something beautiful in the way they had arrived here, together. They had lost things, yes—so much had been shattered—but what remained, what they had built in the wake of it all, was something infinitely more valuable. A life shared, quiet and steady.

Misaki smiled, and it was soft, like the first rays of dawn. “I think we’re finally where we’re meant to be.” Her voice was light, but there was something profound in the way she said it, something Mikoto couldn’t quite put into words. “By the way, what were you going to say earlier~?”

“Ah…” Mikoto was caught off guard. She scratched her cheek.

“You don’t have to tell me right now,” Misaki said, still smiling, before warbling, “Just know, baby you’re the falling star in my eye~.” And she blinked for emphasis.

Mikoto couldn’t help but snicker and give a big toothy grin in response. “It’s the magic in your eyes~,” she sang back.

“Please don't fade away~☆,” Misaki sang longingly, the faintest picture of her front teeth framing between her pink, plump, passionate lips.

For a moment, neither of them spoke. Mikoto didn’t have to say how Misaki taking an interested in her music felt, how much her memorizing the English lyrics from Nakayama’s song meant to her. The world outside seemed distant, and for that moment, it felt as though they were the only two people left in it.

Then, breaking the stillness with her usual mischievous tone, Misaki leaned in closer, her eyes glinting with an unspoken challenge. “But, just so you know, I’m totally going to eat more of your panna cotta than you realize,” she said with a grin, her voice playful.

Mikoto couldn’t help but laugh, her heart light, as the tension that had been brewing in the pit of her stomach melted away. “Over my dead body, Misaki,” she replied, her tone mock-serious, though the warmth in her eyes betrayed her.

They both chuckled, the sound echoing softly in the quiet of the restaurant, as the evening stretched on, comfortable and unhurried.

The two sampled one another’s desserts when they arrived, the romantic ritual part of the evening’s charm. The panna cotta was smooth and creamy, each bite a soft kiss of sweetness, but it was the strawberry syrup that sent Misaki into a giddy frenzy. The rush of flavor was so intoxicating, so rich in its simplicity, that she practically melted at the first taste, her eyes closing in delight. Mikoto watched, bemused and slightly amused, as Misaki continued to savor the dessert with abandon, her enthusiasm as boundless as her affection. True to her prediction, Misaki devoured more than half of Mikoto's serving, leaving the Railgun with only a few remnants of the sweet indulgence. Mikoto, her elbow resting on the table, propped her cheek in her hand, her gaze fixed on the other woman, a smile brushing across her face.

The night stretched on lazily, and by the time they left the restaurant, the air had taken on a cool, soft edge, the fading light of twilight casting a soft glow across the city. They walked side by side, the gentle evening breeze stirring the air, their footsteps muffled by the low hum of the city. Mikoto’s blazer felt slightly too warm against her skin despite the breeze, but she didn’t mind, because she always seemed to be hot around her girlfriend—not that she would ever outright say that. It was the kind of evening that spoke of secrets hanging between them like a quiet melody.

Mikoto’s hands slipped into the pockets of her blazer as they strolled, her gaze flitted briefly to the ground beneath her feet. It was then that she realized just how short Misaki’s red cocktail dress was, the fabric a smooth contrast against her skin. She glanced down at her legs, each step bringing her closer to the realization that she was wearing those low, red kitten heels—unassuming but utterly charming, like the soft glow of the streetlights around them.

For a moment, Mikoto felt a strange dryness in her mouth. Her heart picked up its pace, an unexpected flutter coursing through her chest. She wasn’t sure why the thought of her attire was suddenly so… disarming. It wasn’t the heels, nor the dress, but something about the way the night felt, about the presence of Misaki walking beside her with that quiet confidence.

Then, Mikoto felt the weight of Misaki’s gaze. She caught the sparkle of attention in her eyes, and in a split second, Mikoto looked away, her eyes wandering to the sky above them, where the stars began to emerge one by one, like diamonds strewn across the velvet of the night. Even then, it only reminded her of Misaki’s eyes, causing her to look back.

Misaki’s smile was slow, languid, stretching across her lips like a secret too beautiful to keep. The sultriness in her expression made Mikoto's pulse quicken in ways she hadn’t expected, hadn’t prepared for. And before she could steady her breath, Misaki closed the distance between them, reaching for her arm and pulling herself into Mikoto’s side, her touch light but commanding.

“Why don’t we…” Misaki’s voice was a soft, teasing whisper under the hum of the city. Her breath brushed against Mikoto’s ear, sending a shiver down her spine. “Head back to my place?”

The words hung in the air, a spark of desire that neither of them could ignore. Mikoto’s body tensed at the invitation, her heartbeat accelerating faster and faster with the rush of blood to her face.

For a brief moment, Mikoto stood frozen, the night falling silent around her, her mind whirling with possibilities. She could feel Misaki’s body heat beside her, her fingers still gently grasping her arm, as though she were holding onto something fragile, something precious. It wasn’t just the invitation that made Mikoto’s pulse race—it was the intensity behind it.

Misaki’s grin deepened, more mischievous now, as she felt the change in Mikoto’s stance. She could practically see the gears turning in Mikoto’s mind, the hesitation that followed. But there was no rush, no need to push. Misaki knew Mikoto well enough to understand that there was a delicate balance here. The offer lingered, waiting for Mikoto to find the courage—or the desire—to take that step.

Mikoto opened her mouth, her breath coming in shallow gasps, her thoughts tangled in a dance of longing and uncertainty. And yet, even as the words started to form on her lips, she realized she didn’t need to say them aloud. Everything that needed to be said was already there, written in the way her her body responded to Misaki’s presence.

“I…” Mikoto began, her voice quieter than she’d intended, her gaze flicking back to Misaki. She swallowed hard, her throat dry, before finally meeting her eyes—those warm, intoxicating eyes. The tension that had coiled between them for so long seemed to dissipate with that one look. And with it, the uncertainty faded into simple honesty.

“Okay,” she whispered, a smile forming at the corners of her lips. “I’d love to.”

Misaki leaned in close to Mikoto’s face, and her lips nearly brushed hers, in fact maybe they did ever so slightly. But the honey haired woman merely giggled before puling Mikoto’s arm. Mikoto in turn felt her breath catch in her chest as she allowed Misaki to lead her down the path they had yet to walk—together.

The chateau was a dream, a vision that seemed to have sprouted from the pages of an old, hushed fairy tale. Gothic-inspired quatrefoils adorned the tall, looming windows, their intricate designs casting strange shadows on the stone walls. The architecture was both Baroque and Neoclassical, like a carefully curated collection of forgotten eras; the tall chimneys rose like guardians, crowned with decorative corbelled tops, and the rounded towers, with their conical roofs, seemed to beckon travelers from some distant world. The overall structure was steeped in a rich palette of baby yellow, a soft, delicate hue that seemed to mimic the warmth of her hair, casting a golden glow that made the whole building feel alive with a quiet, quaint, charm. Every detail, from the steeply pitched roofline to the gabled formers, was crafted with such care that Mikoto couldn’t help but be awed by it every time she saw it.

As Misaki pressed the code to the gate, the two stepped through, and Mikoto felt her heart flutter like the wings of a bird in a spring breeze. The driveway was a winding path, twirling around the estate like a ribbon, each step toward the house cascading down a piano, each key lower measuring a greater feeling of anticipation. The air was soft, laden with the scent of fresh grass and—… Misaki. Mikoto found herself breathing it in deeper as they walked.

When they reached the stairs, Misaki giggled at something Mikoto whispered in her ear, her laughter like a delicate chime in the cool evening air. It was a sweet sound, familiar and warm, that made Mikoto’s chest feel fuller, like the evening itself had wrapped her in a comforting embrace. But it was when they reached the doorway that everything seemed to pause—her whole world, for just a moment, deciding to hold its breath.

Misaki turned toward her, her gaze steady, soft, yet piercing like a cat’s. Mikoto’s pulse quickened as their eyes met—for a fleeting second, Mikoto found herself drowning in the warmth of Misaki’s gaze, lost in the depth of her eyes.

Then, something shifted. Misaki’s expression morphed, an almost imperceptible change, like a shadow crossing over her face, a glint in her eyes that was equal parts mischievous and desire-filled. Slowly, she stepped closer, the distance between them shrinking until Mikoto could feel the heat radiating off her skin, each step deliberate and sure. Mikoto’s breath caught in her throat as her heart thudded, a gentle but insistent rhythm that seemed to echo through the quiet night. Could she hear it too, or was it her imagination?

And then Misaki spoke, her voice a velvet murmur.

“Miko,” she began, and the way her name curled on Misaki’s lips made Mikoto’s lungs tighten, her breath sputtering out. “I’ve wanted you since the night we came back~.”

The words struck Mikoto like a bolt of lightning, her body suddenly alive with electricity, as if her very skin had become hypersensitive. A tendril of electricity crawled across her face and slithered into the air. She forgot to breathe, her mind scrambling to process the gravity of those words. It was like being caught in a storm of emotions, a whirlwind of thoughts and feelings that blended into a single, overpowering sensation. Mikoto could feel the warmth pooling in her stomach, spreading out to every corner of her body, and all she could do was stare at Misaki. The way those words hung between them, the softness of her lips as they parted, sent a ripple through her, and suddenly, she felt her emotions stirring like a cake being whisked, sweet and intense, the kind Misaki would bite into and savor.

She knew what Misaki meant—how could she not? But, in that moment, Mikoto decided to play along, feigning ignorance, her voice softer than she intended. “Yeah? Got something that needs fixing?”

Misaki’s laugh was a low, melodic sound, almost a purr, as she leaned in close, her breath hot against Mikoto’s ear. The feeling of Misaki’s body pressing against hers was like a wave crashing over her—sweet, irresistible, and pulling her deeper. The soft, intoxicating scent of honey perfume swirled around them, and Mikoto could feel the press of Misaki’s leg between hers, an electric tangle that left her dizzy with anticipation.

“You could say that~,” Misaki responded, her voice hushed with a playful promise. Her gloved hand touched Mikoto’s cheek, a soft caress that made Mikoto’s heart skip a beat.

Without another word, Misaki led her inside, guiding her through the large doorway with a gentle tug on her hand. The space was grand, the elegance of the room almost too much to take in all at once—the pale blue twilight seeped in through the vast window above, bathing the grand staircase in a soft, dreamlike light. The baroque flourishes along the walls were intricate and lavish, with bold, swirling patterns and dramatic, curved lines that seemed to demand attention, and the marble statues that dotted the space felt like silent witnesses to the unfolding of something quietly beautiful. Mikoto couldn’t help but feel like she had stepped into a queen’s palace, though it wasn’t just the decor—it was the presence of the woman beside her, the one who made her feel like royalty, too.

Misaki, with her playful grin and twinkle in her eyes, led Mikoto farther into the grand hallway, her voice dancing in the space between them. “I… think,” she said, running ahead with a mischievous gleam in her eyes, “the thing that needs fixing is upstairs.”

She leaned against the banister, her posture full of grace despite the sexual nature of it, the very image of a panther waiting to pounce, her smile wickedly coy. Mikoto couldn’t help but laugh softly, her eyes sparkling with curiosity as she placed her hand on her hip, tilting her head as she considered the suggestion.

“Oh? Is that so,” Mikoto teased, rubbing her chin with a dramatic flair, trying to mask the heat rising in her cheeks. She was nervous, but that was the charm of it—how each moment with Misaki felt new, like they were writing a story with every passing second.

Misaki tilted her head slightly, her golden locks cascading over her shoulder as she gave Mikoto a look that said it all. “Mmhmm,” she hummed, the playful lilt in her voice sending a shiver down Mikoto’s spine. “But I suppose it depends on whether you’re up for the challenge.”

Mikoto rolled her eyes, crossing her arms, though the smirk playing at her lips betrayed her amusement. “Since when have I ever backed down from a challenge?”

Misaki’s grin widened. “That’s what I like about you, Miko.” With that, she turned and ascended the staircase, her movements slow and deliberate as her hips swayed from side to side, a silent invitation wrapped in each step. Mikoto hesitated only a second before following, her heartbeat drumming in her ears. There was something undeniably hypnotic about the way Misaki carried herself, an effortless grace… the contour of her hips in the cocktail dress sashaying back and forth. Back and forth, transfixing Mikoto’s gaze on them.

At the top of the stairs, Misaki glanced over her shoulder, her eyes shimmering, the stars bright and piercing in the twilight. She gestured toward a set of ornate double doors at the end of the hall. “This way, my prince~.”

Mikoto took a deep breath, steadying herself before stepping forward. When she entered, the room was nothing short of opulent—warm lighting cast soft shadows across red velvet drapes and gilded furniture. A faint hint of vanilla and something floral lingered in the air—perhaps jasmine—wrapping around her like a comforting embrace.

Misaki sauntered toward an antique vanity, running her fingers over the smooth surface before turning to face Mikoto fully. “You always act so composed,” she mused, her voice almost teasing, “until you’re around me.”

Mikoto scoffed, leaning against the doorframe. “And what might you be implying my little honey bee?”

“Oh just that,” Misaki teased, stepping closer, “you might have a little crush~.”

There it was again. Mikoto felt her breath hitch as Misaki reached up, gloved fingers brushing against her cheek. The touch was light, almost fleeting, but it sent sparks through Mikoto’s entire body. She wanted to move, to say something witty, to maintain the upper hand, but all she could do was stand there, caught in the gravity of Misaki’s gaze.

“You’re thinking too much,” Misaki whispered, her breath warm against Mikoto’s lips.

“And you’re thinking too little,” Mikoto countered, though her voice lacked its usual oomph.

Misaki giggled, the sound rich and velvety. “Then I guess we balance each other out.”

And before Mikoto could form a retort, Misaki closed the distance, her lips ghosting over Mikoto’s in a touch so soft it was almost maddening. It was a question, a challenge, a promise all at once. And for the first time that night, Mikoto stopped thinking and simply let herself fall into the moment.

Misaki’s fingers traced the line of Mikoto’s jaw, her touch both delicate and insistent. She deepened the kiss, pressing closer, and Mikoto felt her hands move of their own accord, one settling on Misaki’s waist while the other tangled in her silken hair. The warmth between them was intoxicating, a slow-burning fire that threatened to consume them both.

Mikoto’s mind was a blur, her usual sharp instincts dulled by the sheer intensity of the moment. The sensation always felt new, every time with Misaki; although there was something different this time, something more intense. But she wasn’t afraid. Not with Misaki’s lips against hers, grounding her in this shared moment of reckless vulnerability. It wasn’t the first time they kissed by any means, but it was the first time she could feel it leading her elsewhere.

As they finally pulled apart, their breaths mingling in the dimly lit room, Misaki’s eyes held a satisfaction that sent another jolt through Mikoto’s already frayed nerves. “I knew you’d rise to the challenge,” she murmured, her fingers tracing lazy patterns along Mikoto’s collarbone.

Mikoto swallowed hard, waiting for her heartbeat to slow. “Yeah, well,” she muttered, her voice huskier than intended, “I don’t like losing.”

Misaki’s smirk was nothing short of wicked. “Oh, baby, neither do I.” She said, placing emphasis on the English ‘baby’.

She trailed her gloved hand down Mikoto’s arm, fingers brushing over her wrist before entwining their hands together. There was something possessive in the gesture, a quiet declaration wrapped in the softness of her touch.

Misaki took a step back, her eyes never leaving Mikoto’s. “Now,” she whispered, leading her toward the grand princess canopy bed draped in silk, “I told you that day, I’d reward you handsomely, did I not~?”

A year. A year of stolen moments, of kisses that seared and lingered, of fingertips ghosting over the edge of something inevitable before retreating. A year of almost.

But not tonight.

Misaki’s fingers traced the curve of Mikoto’s breasts, the touch reverent, deliberate.

Mikoto didn’t flinch, didn’t step back like she had all those times before. “Are you sure?”

Misaki laughed, soft and knowing, her lips curling into something dangerously close to devotion. “Darling, I was sure the first time you kissed me.”

Mikoto swallowed, throat tight, her pulse a drumbeat against the quiescent sounds of her body. She had always been strong, always in control, but with Misaki, control had never been an option. It had been stolen in the way she smiled, undone in the way she spoke, shattered in the way she touched her like she was something to be cherished, not conquered.

Tonight, she wouldn’t fight it.

Mikoto surged forward, catching Misaki’s lips slow, and deep. Not desperate—no, desperation was for people who feared time, and they had already defied it, taking as much as they needed. This was certainty, the meeting of two storms, not to clash, but to merge.

Misaki responded in kind, pressing forward until Mikoto’s back met the edge of the headboard. Her gloved fingers slid beneath the collar of Mikoto’s blouse, pushing it from her shoulders with aching patience. The fabric whispered as she unbuttoned it, letting it hang underneath her blazer, revealing her black satin bra.

They only looked at each other.

Mikoto’s breath caught as Misaki leaned in, tracing the line of her throat with her lips, slow, teasing, like she had all the time in the world. Because she did. Because this was not a moment to be rushed, not a victory to be claimed, but a devotion to be given.

Misaki paused, her lips brushing against Mikoto’s ear, her voice barely above a whisper. “Say it.”

Mikoto exhaled, shuddering, before tilting her head to meet Misaki’s gaze. And for once, she didn’t deflect, didn’t hide behind bravado or a playful lilt. Instead, she reached up, threading her fingers through golden locks, pulling her close until their lips were a breath apart.

“I love you.”

Misaki smiled, slow and wicked and unbearably tender, before capturing her lips again, sealing the words between them, weaving them into her mouth.

Mikoto shivered as Misaki’s hands traced the bare skin of her arms, her touch adoring, mapping every scar, every memory, every proof of the battles they had fought. She wasn’t in a rush. No, Misaki had never been one to rush anything worth savoring.

And Mikoto—Mikoto was letting herself be known.

She cupped Misaki’s face, her fingers trailing over the soft curve of her cheek, the smooth sweep of her jaw and up to her small pointed chin, the delicate shape of her lips. A year ago, she wouldn’t have allowed herself this luxury—this kind of touch, the kind that asked for nothing but to feel.

“You’re looking at me like you’ve never seen me before,” Misaki murmured, her voice warm, teasing, but edged with desire.

Mikoto swallowed, her lips parting, but the words tangled in her throat. Instead, she leaned in, capturing Misaki’s lips in a kiss that was softer than the last, deeper in a way that had nothing to do with urgency and everything to do with the way her heart pressed against her ribs.

“I’m memorizing you,” she admitted against her lips. “Every part of you.”

Misaki’s breath hitched, and for the first time that night, she faltered. She had spent a lifetime mastering the art of poise, of charm, of knowing exactly what to say and when to say it. But Mikoto—Mikoto had always been the one person who could steal the words from her mouth.

“Then take your time,” she whispered, a promise, an offering.

Mikoto did.

She moved slowly, tracing the delicate line of Misaki’s throat with her lips, drinking in the way her breath stuttered, the way her fingers tightened against her skin. There was no rush, no frantic need to claim—only a devotion that felt like poetry, like the kind of verses neither of them had ever dared write until now.

The bed met their bodies with a sigh, and Misaki let herself sink, let herself be held. Mikoto followed, hovering above her, her hair falling around them like a curtain, shadow and gold intertwined.

“You’re beautiful,” Mikoto murmured, her voice hushed, almost awed.

Misaki’s smile was slow, lazy, but her eyes burned with passion. “Flattery will get you everywhere, Ms. Mayor-to-Be.”

Mikoto huffed a quiet laugh, but it was stolen the moment Misaki pulled her down, their lips meeting again, this time with nothing between them—no hesitation, no fear, no ghosts of the past whispering warnings in the dark.

Tonight, they were infinite.

There was only the heat between them, the slow, intoxicating rhythm of their breath mingling in the hush of the room. Mikoto hovered over Misaki again, her fingers tracing the soft silky strap at her shoulder, as if grounding herself in the moment, as if this was the most important, precious thing in the world.

And then it struck her—the sensation, deep and undeniable. A pulse, a slow, insistent throbbing that started low in her abdomen, trailing down in a deliberate, aching path, winding through the nerves that stretched from her core to the damp fabric of her panties. It wasn’t just desire. It was gravity itself, pulling her toward Misaki, toward the warmth of her body, the shape of her beneath her fingertips.

Misaki must have felt the shift because she smiled, slow and knowing, her gloved hands sliding down Mikoto’s sides, resting just above her hips. “You’re trembling,” she murmured, her voice like the gentle rustle of silk.

Mikoto shivered at the observation. She had fought wars, stood before crowds of thousands with an unshakable gaze, defied death itself in the corridors of that godforsaken game. And yet, here, under Misaki’s touch, she was undone.

“I’m not,” she lied, breathless.

Misaki giggled, and the sound sent a fresh wave of heat through her, pooling low, coiling tight. “Oh, my darling baby,” she whispered, leaning in, her lips a breath away from Mikoto’s ear. “Lying doesn’t suit you.”

Mikoto’s breath stuttered. Misaki shifted beneath her, and the sensation—the unbearable friction—sent a jolt through her, her stomach tightening, her thighs pressing together instinctively. That nerve, that maddening, throbbing pulse, was alive with electricity, crackling through every inch of her skin.

Misaki must have felt it too. Her hands slid lower, fingers tracing the waistband of Mikoto’s panties, teasing, never rushing. Her lips found the hollow of Mikoto’s throat, tasting, savoring. “Tell me what you want,” she whispered against her skin.

Mikoto exhaled, her hands grabbing the sheets beside Misaki’s head. She wanted to say something clever, something sharp—to turn the moment into another game of push and pull. But her body betrayed her, pressing into Misaki’s touch, chasing the relief that she knew only Misaki could give.

Misaki pulled back slightly, her golden hair spilling across the pillow, eyes gleaming in the dim light. “No more almosts, Mikoto,” she whispered, fingertips slipping beneath the last barrier between them. “Not tonight.”

Mikoto met her gaze, chest rising and falling with a breath that felt like surrender.

She had never been more certain of anything in her life.

A thin, crackling band of electricity fluttered around them, ghosting over Misaki’s skin like a lover’s whisper—warm, shivering, alive. It flickered, danced, responding to every breath, every brush of their bodies.

Misaki pressed forward, lips finding the crook of Mikoto’s neck, the place where her pulse strummed wild and erratic beneath her skin. The moment they touched, Mikoto gasped, sharp and desperate, her body jolting as if struck by the very lightning she wielded. A violent shudder rolled through her, a surge of something smoldering, gathering deep, making her limbs weak and pliant.

Misaki must have felt it—felt the way Mikoto melted into her, how her resistance shattered like glass. A slow, knowing smile curved against Mikoto’s throat before Misaki kissed her again, this time softer, lingering, her tongue tracing over the sensitive skin like she was licking every last drop of her while learning her by heart.

A snap of static arced between them, sharp and sudden—a little spark, pressing against Misaki’s lower stomach, right above her hipbone. She gasped softly, the sensation threading a thrill through her own nerves, making her thighs press together in unconscious desire.

Mikoto stilled, breathless, her fingers digging into the sheets. “Did I—?”

Misaki chuckled, low and sultry, nipping gently at the skin just beneath Mikoto’s ear, right where she knew she was weakest. The response was immediate—Mikoto’s hips twitched forward, her breath shattering into a gasp, another delicate zap rolling off her skin, kissing against Misaki’s ribs like a caress.

“Oooh~,” Misaki purred, voice drenched in delight. “You really are sensitive here, aren’t you?”

Mikoto wanted to protest, wanted to maintain some sliver of composure, but it was impossible. The heat, the tension, the way Misaki’s lips worshiped her skin—it all overwhelmed her completely. Her body arched, pressing closer, offering everything.

“Misaki…” The name spilled from her lips, breathless, helpless.

Misaki hummed, pleased, letting her hands roam—tracing every inch of skin, following the patterns of electricity that flickered in response to her touch. She delighted in the way Mikoto trembled, in the way her power, usually so wild and untamed, bent to her will, responding to every kiss, every whisper of fingers against skin.

Another little spark kissed Misaki’s inner thigh, and she exhaled, shivering at the sensation. “Mmm, I think I like that.”

Mikoto buried her face in the crook of Misaki’s shoulder, trying and failing to suppress the way her body reacted, the way every kiss, every touch sent a new pulse of electricity arcing through the air, pressing against Misaki in ways that made her breathless.

Misaki smiled against her skin, voice a soft, teasing murmur. “Don’t hold back.”

And Mikoto didn’t. Not anymore.

Misaki’s gloved fingers traced the bare skin just above Mikoto’s bra, her touch featherlight, deliberate. The soft leather was cool against the heat of Mikoto’s skin, a stark contrast that sent another shudder rolling through her. The velvet blazer she still wore hung loosely from her shoulders, the fabric slipping further down with every breath, every shift of her body.

Misaki pulled back just enough to admire her handiwork, her golden hair cascading over her shoulder as she gazed at Mikoto—flushed, trembling, her tie still knotted loosely around her neck like a forgotten afterthought. With slow, measured movements, Misaki reached for it, wrapping the silk around her fingers, tugging just enough to make Mikoto gasp.

“You’re beautiful like this,” Misaki murmured, voice thick with deep adoration that had simmered for far too long.

Mikoto swallowed hard, unable to summon a retort, not when Misaki’s hands—still gloved, still unbearably gentle—slid down her sides, teasing the waistband of her pants. Another flicker of static curled in the air, kissing against Misaki’s thigh, and she exhaled, pleased.

She leaned in again, lips brushing just beneath Mikoto’s ear, knowing exactly what it would do to her. The moment they touched, Mikoto’s back arched, her blazer slipping from her shoulders entirely, slumping onto the floor in quiet folds of crushed velvet. The throbbing sensation deep in her abdomen flared, sharp and insistent, and all she could do was grip Misaki’s waist, grinding herself against the warmth of her, in the intoxicating scent of her perfume—a syrupy honey that was undeniably her.

Misaki smiled against her skin, her hands finally working open the clasp of Mikoto’s pants, dragging them down just enough to tease. The sharp little gasps, the way Mikoto’s breath stuttered—it was everything to her.

“You always act like you’re in control,” Misaki whispered, nipping at the delicate skin just below her ear. “But look at you now.”

Mikoto barely had the presence of mind to glare at her, the heat in her gaze diluted by the sheer longing in her expression. “Shut up.”

Misaki chuckled, tugging at the tie again, playfully this time. “Make me.”

A sharper jolt of electricity crackled between them, licking against the outline of Misaki’s pubic bone, making her sigh, really sigh, her own composure slipping.

Mikoto smirked then, breathless but victorious. “You like that, huh?”

Misaki hummed, pressing another lingering kiss to her throat, her fingers slipping beneath the waistband of Mikoto’s panties, just enough to make her entire body tense, the throbbing between her legs unbearable now.

“Darling,” Misaki whispered, her lips brushing against the shell of her ear. “I love it.”

Misaki’s lips trailed lower, her breath a warm caress against the flushed skin of Mikoto’s neck, lingering just long enough to make her shiver. The way her body reacted—helpless, undone—was almost embarrassing, if not for the love in Misaki’s languid touch, the slow, deliberate worship of every milimeter of her. Her fingers gently pried at the sides of her hips and loosened the zipper of Mikoto’s svelte pants, which swiftly fell to the floor beneath them in a delicate crumple.

Mikoto’s head tilted back, baring more of her throat, inviting more of those kisses, those maddeningly soft nips. Her nerves were alight, but it wasn’t just the electricity crackling in the air—it was the sensation of Misaki’s body pressing against hers, the weight of her breasts squishing into hers, the way her full, generous curves molded against Mikoto’s lean frame.

Misaki pulled back just enough to look at her, eyes dark and lidded with an endless universe of their own. There were stars in them, constellations of want and devotion woven together in the golden depths of the nebulae that were her irises. Mikoto had always thought Misaki’s gaze could be dangerous—hypnotic, all-consuming—but here, now, it was something else entirely. It was love, unguarded and raw.

“Tell me what you were going to say,” Misaki whispered, one hand splayed against Mikoto’s stomach, the other still toying with her tie. She pressed forward slightly, her breasts pushing against Mikoto’s chest, soft and warm even through the lace of her bra and the smooth velvet of Misaki’s dress. The sensation sent another pulse of need straight down that aching nerve, from her abdomen to the damp heat between her legs, making her grip Misaki’s waist just to steady herself.

“Y-you’re my,” Mikoto began between breaths as Misaki kissed her her chin. “The only drug I need…” Mikoto gasped as Misaki’s lips met hers once again, plunging hard as her hand dipped beneath her panties. Mikoto could only arch her back with baited breaths as a small wisp of static danced across Misaki’s dress, landing itself on her bottom lip, causing her to bite it with a moan.

Misaki smiled—sly, knowing. “Sensitive tonight, aren’t we?”

Mikoto wanted to say anything at all, but all that came out was a ragged breath. Misaki leaned in again, this time kissing the center of her throat, then lower, lips brushing the exposed curve of her collarbone.

Mikoto gasped excitedly, another errant spark snapping between them. This one landed right against the swell of Misaki’s breast, just above where her dress dipped low, and the detective let out a slow, pleased hum, her grip tightening ever so slightly.

“Keep doing that, and I might start thinking you’re teasing me,” Misaki purred, voice thick with heat.

Mikoto smirked—looking down and eyeing her slender, upturned nose—though it was wobbly at best. “Maybe I am.”

Misaki laughed, rich and honeyed, before lowering herself even further, lips ghosting a path between Mikoto’s ribs, following the subtle contours of her body. Every touch left her trembling, every syrupy kiss that left a thin strand of saliva made her forget how to think.

And then Misaki’s fingers curled around the waistband of her panties with intent. “Let’s see how long that defiance lasts.”

Misaki’s gloved fingers toyed with the fabric, her touch both teasing and commanding, tracing just beneath the elastic, sending another shudder through Mikoto’s already overwrought nerves. The anticipation was unbearable, her body taut as a live wire, strung between the aching heat in her abdomen and the maddeningly slow movements of the woman before her.

Misaki, ever the tactician, pressed her advantage. She kissed lower, lips trailing the faint line between Mikoto’s abs, her breath tracing over sensitive skin. The sensation sent a fresh pulse of need down that throbbing nerve, deep into the core of her, making her clench her stomach.

“You’re holding back,” Misaki murmured against her skin, her voice a silken thread weaving into Mikoto’s senses. “Let go for me, Miko~.”

The words unspooled something deep inside her, something tightly wound from years of restraint, of walls built and rebuilt. But here, with Misaki’s lips on her skin, with the slow slide of a glove against her thigh, those walls were crumbling, dissolving into nothing.

And then—Misaki pressed her mouth to the soft dip where her hip met her thigh, and Mikoto broke.

A sharp jolt of electricity crackled through the air, snapping against Misaki’s ribs again and traveling down to her thighs—the blonde let out a soft, pleased sigh, almost a moan, her grip tightening at Mikoto’s waist.

“You really don’t know what you do to me,” Misaki whispered, lifting her gaze. There was something devastating in the way she looked at Mikoto—eyes half-lidded, lips parted, the faintest flush beseeching her cheeks. She was beautiful like this, radiant, a honeycomb burning with desire.

Mikoto swallowed hard, trying to find her voice. “Then maybe you should show me.”

Misaki grinned, slow and wicked. “With pleasure.”

And with that, she finally, finally pulled Mikoto’s black panties down.

Misaki’s lips caressed over the inside of Mikoto’s thigh, the heat of her breath sending a shudder through her trembling frame. Every kiss, every teasing flick of her tongue was deliberate—exquisite torture drawn out with the precision of a woman who knew exactly what she was doing. Mikoto’s fingers twisted into the sheets, her breath uneven, her body arching into every touch, every maddening, fleeting press of Misaki’s mouth.

She was melting, unraveling, every nerve burning with pleasure. The gentle scrape of Misaki’s teeth against her skin sent sparks through her body, tiny hums of electricity flaring to life in the air, skimming against Misaki’s bare shoulders.

A shiver ran through the blonde, but instead of pulling away, she leaned into it, her lull of approval vibrating against Mikoto’s skin. “You’re always so responsive,” she whispered, the sound sultry and rich. “It drives me wild~.”

Mikoto barely had time to process the words before Misaki finally—finally—lowered herself fully, her tongue pressing into her clit with agonizing slowness. Mikoto’s entire body jerked, her head falling back, her mouth parting in a sharp gasp. Misaki’s grip tightened around her thighs, keeping her firmly in place, guiding her into a slow, torturous rhythm.

The pleasure built steadily, higher, hotter, an unbearable crescendo that had Mikoto clenching the sheets, her breath coming in ragged bursts. Misaki never rushed, never hurried—she savored, she teased, she devoured—and it was driving Mikoto to the brink.

She was close, so damn close—

And then, suddenly, Misaki pulled away.

Mikoto barely had a second to react before she was yanked forward by the tie still hanging loosely around her neck, dragged into a crushing, breath-stealing kiss. It was rough, urgent—Misaki’s lips claiming hers with an intensity that sent fresh heat surging through her body. Their breaths mingled, desperate and uneven, their bodies pressed together so tightly that Mikoto could feel the heavy rise and fall of Misaki’s chest against hers. The feeling of the kiss alone was almost enough to push her to climax. Almost.

Mikoto let out a broken whimper against her lips, frustration and longing tangled in her voice, but Misaki only smirked into the kiss. “Patience,” she whispered, her voice the sweep of lace.

Mikoto growled in response, her hands moving before she even thought—one sliding up to cup the mass of Misaki’s breast, her thumb brushing deliberately over the peak, the other tugging her closer by the small of her back.

Misaki gasped, her breath catching in her throat, a sound so soft yet devastatingly intimate. Mikoto felt her shiver, her body pressing into the touch instinctively, her own restraint fraying at the edges.

For a moment, the dynamic shifted.

Mikoto pushed forward, Misaki yielding, allowing herself to be guided onto her back as Mikoto hovered over her, drinking in the sight beneath her. Misaki, breathless, golden hair tousled across the pillows, her lips flushed and slightly parted, her chest rising and falling in uneven motions—she was stunning.

Mikoto leaned in, kissing along her jawline, her hands making slow, deliberate work of peeling away the straps of Misaki’s dress. The fabric slipped lower, revealing more of that soft, smooth skin, the curves Mikoto had dreamed of touching bare for so long.

She kissed the space between Misaki’s collarbone, dragging her lips down, lower, until—

“God, I love you,” Misaki whispered, voice barely more than a breath.

Mikoto froze, her heart slamming against her ribs.

Then she smiled, slow and warm, pressing a kiss over Misaki’s heart. “I love you too.”

And with that, she slipped the dress from Misaki’s shoulders completely.

Mikoto barely breathed as the dress slipped from Misaki’s shoulders, the fabric gliding down her body like silk unfurling from a masterpiece. It pooled around her waist, baring the smooth expanse of her skin, the curves that had haunted Mikoto’s thoughts for years when she was alone. The light caught in the gold of her hair, the warm glow casting soft shadows over her collarbone, the elegant slope of her neck, the swell of her breasts—full, perfect, rising and falling with each unsteady breath.

Andgods, those eyes.

Mikoto had always thought Misaki’s eyes were beautiful, but here, now, they were devastating. Half-lidded, nuclear with desire, flickering like stars caught in the moment between night and dawn. They held her, pulled her deeper, made her ache.

She swallowed hard, her fingers twitching with the need to touch—to worship, to claim, to make Misaki come undone beneath her.

“You’re staring,” Misaki teased, her voice low, sultry, but her own breathlessness betrayed her.

Mikoto smirked, but it was shaky at the edges. “Can you blame me?” Misaki could only happily snicker in reply.

She reached out, her hands finally, finally tracing the shape of Misaki’s waist, sliding up over her ribs, feeling the way her skin trembled beneath her touch. She wasn’t gentle—she didn’t want to be gentle. She wanted to consume, to map every square-centimeter of her with her hands, her mouth, her tongue.

Misaki arched into her touch, a soft gasp escaping her lips as Mikoto’s palms brushed over her breasts. She squeezed, testing their weight in her hands, her thumbs circling over the peaks with deliberate precision. The sound Misaki made—half moan, half breathless plea—sent a sharp, burning bolt of pleasure straight through Mikoto’s core.

And then it happened—uncontrolled, instinctual.

Electricity snapped between them, tiny, flickering sparks trailing from Mikoto’s fingertips as she rolled Misaki’s nipple between them. The reaction was instantaneous.

Misaki cried out, her back arching aggressively, her thighs wrapping around her as the jolt of sensation tore through her. “M-Miko—”

Mikoto grinned against the skin of her throat, her own breathing uneven now. “You like that?”

Misaki’s nails dug into her back, her body shuddering. “Do it again.”

Mikoto didn’t need to be told twice.

She let the electricity dance across her touch, little shocks ghosting over the most sensitive spots—trailing along the soft underside of Misaki’s breasts, down her waist over her stomach to the curve of her hips. Each jolt sent a new tremor through her lover, drawing out the sweetest, most desperate sounds from her lips.

Mikoto was entranced. She had never seen Misaki like this—unraveled, trembling, completely at her mercy. And it made something inside her snap.

She moved fast, too fast for Misaki to catch her breath. One moment she was teasing, the next her fingers were between Misaki’s thighs, pushing against the damp heat that was already soaking through the sheets.

Misaki gasped, her hips bucking into the touch.

“Oh?” Mikoto’s smirk was razor-sharp as she pressed firmer, rubbing slow, deliberate circles that had Misaki’s breath coming in ragged bursts. “You’re already this wet?”

Misaki’s response was a sharp tug on Mikoto’s tie, yanking her into a breath-stealing kiss. It was messy, urgent—her tongue sweeping over Mikoto’s lips, her body arching into her, silently demanding more.

Mikoto didn’t deny her.

She moved with a speed that made Misaki gasp, slipping her fingers under the soaked fabric, parting her with ease, sinking into heat.

Misaki shattered.

Her head fell back against the pillows, a breathless moan escaping her lips as Mikoto moved—fast, relentless, her fingers curling, twisting, pressing in all the right ways as little bits of static jolted between lips and up to the hood.

The way Misaki writhed beneath her, the way she clung to her, the way her body pulsed around her fingers—it was too much, too perfect.

Mikoto leaned down, her lips brushing against the shell of Misaki’s ear as she whispered, voice husky, trembling, “I want to watch you fall apart.”

And with that, she went faster.

Mikoto barely had time to catch her breath before Misaki’s fingers draped around her loosened tie, yanking her forward with just enough force to make her stumble into the heat of her body. Their lips met in a kiss that was anything but gentle—demanding, desperate, tasting of longing held back for far too long. Mikoto moaned against her, moving her hands away to grip Misaki’s waist, fingers pressing into soft, yielding curves as she rotated her own hips against her leg.

Misaki’s lips curved against hers before she pulled back, just enough to whisper, “You really are eager, aren’t you?” Her voice was silk spun into sound, thick with amusement and something darker beneath.

Mikoto scoffed, but her breath hitched when Misaki’s teeth grazed her bottom lip, trailing down to her neck right where her pulse thrummed strongest. A sharp gasp left her lips, her whole body jolting as a flutter of electricity escaped her skin, snapping through the air before landing against Misaki’s own. The shiver that raked through Misaki was unmistakable, her breath catching, eyes momentarily fluttering shut as the sensation hit her in some hidden, sensitive place.

“…Dangerous,” Misaki murmured, though her smirk betrayed the fact that she liked it.

Mikoto’s fingers twitched against her waist, her control fraying at the edges. The scent of Misaki’s perfume—honeyed, warm, intoxicating—wrapped around her again, seeping into her lungs until she felt lightheaded with want. She was stunning, lying there in that folded red dress that clung between her perfect curves, golden hair spilling in loose waves over her bare shoulders, eyes shimmering like a sky filled with stars. Mikoto had always known Misaki was beautiful, but tonight, with the way twilight flickered across her skin, highlighting the soft swell of her chest, the dip of her waist, the slow, deliberate rise and fall of her breath—tonight, she was something otherworldly.

It made Mikoto throb.

And then Misaki pushed Mikoto back onto her back.

Mikoto barely had a second to process before she felt lips, teeth, tongue—slow and deliberate—trailing down her stomach, mapping every inch of her with precision and mischief alike. Her back arched against the touch, hands flying to tangle in Misaki’s golden hair, but just as the pleasure began cresting, just as the world blurred at its edges—Misaki pulled away. Again.

A strangled sound caught in Mikoto’s throat, something between a whimper and a growl.

Misaki chuckled, voice thick with satisfaction. “Payback’s a lovely thing, isn’t it?”

Mikoto’s glare held no heat, not when her body was thrumming with electric frustration, not when the space Misaki had left felt unbearably empty. But she wasn’t one to let such things slide.

With one swift motion, she grabbed the loose end of her own tie—the very one Misaki had been using against her—and yanked. Misaki gasped as she was pulled upward, forced onto her knees digging into the soft mattress once more, but Mikoto wasn’t done.

In the next breath, she shoved Misaki against the cool headboard, pressing against her, relishing the way Misaki’s breath stammered, the way her large, full breasts rose and fell so tantalizingly close to her own chest.

“You started I,” Mikoto murmured, lips brushing against Misaki’s ear before she bit, just hard enough to draw a shudder from her.

Misaki laughed breathlessly, but the sound melted into a moan when Mikoto’s hands roamed lower, fingers moving too fast, too skilled, leaving her trembling for more.

“M-Mikoto—”

Mikoto hummed, but then, just when she had Misaki gasping, she slowed her touch to a teasing, unbearable crawl.

Misaki’s frustration burned in her gaze, and then, in one swift motion, she hooked her fingers beneath the strap of Mikoto’s bra—

—and tore it clean off.

Mikoto gasped, eyes flying wide, but before she could react, Misaki’s lips descended upon her, not on her mouth but on her chest, on her sensitive skin, tongue flicking, teeth grazing as her hands squeezed her breasts harshly—

A shrill cry escaped Mikoto’s lips, her hands clutching at Misaki’s shoulders, at honey hair, at anything that could tether her to the moment. Pulses of energy buzzed in the air, tiny zaps pressing against Misaki’s skin, and each one made her shudder in delight.

“Damn you,” Mikoto gasped, but it held no malice, only breathless awe.

Misaki only smiled, wicked and triumphant.

And then it became a game—give and take, pleasure and denial, lips meeting lips, bodies pressing, hands wandering in a desperate, endless attempt to close the space between them. The room was a tangle of golden hair and chestnut locks, of velvet gloves brushing against smooth, bare skin, of low, shuddering breaths breaking against each other’s lips.

The air between them was thick with heat, charged with electricity as the faint smell of ozone intermixed with perfumes, sweat, and their natural scents. Misaki’s dress lay bunched around her waist, crimson folds pooling like silken petals against the bed, her golden hair fanned across the pillows in an unruly halo. Her panties had been discarded at some point, and neither cared to know when or where. The tie still hung from Mikoto’s neck, the last vestige of her former composure, a reminder of restraint that felt more fragile with every passing second.

Misaki traced a gloved hand up Mikoto’s spine, fingertips skimming the dips and ridges, her touch featherlight yet devastating. The contrast of velvet against bare skin sent a shudder through Mikoto, her nerves attuned to every caress, every whisper of pressure. She was drowning in Misaki’s presence, in the scent of her, the warmth of her, the sheer overwhelming beauty of her.

“Look at you,” Misaki purred, her voice rich with admiration and something softer—something almost worshipful. Her fingers moved to Mikoto’s jaw, tilting her face, forcing their eyes to meet. And there they were—the stars in Misaki’s gaze, twin constellations that burned only for her, filling the space between them with something as vast as the universe itself.

Mikoto’s breath paused, sweat trickling down the side of her face. How could someone be this beautiful?This breathtaking? Misaki was poetry given form, all golden curves and soft, impossible light. The sight of her—sprawled beneath her, flushed and waiting—stirred something deep within Mikoto, something raw and urgent, a desire that sent electric veins racing beneath her skin.

A string of electricity shimmered in the air, drawn instinctively to the heat between them, and as if the energy had a will of its own, a sudden, gentle zap pulsed against Misaki’s thigh. Misaki gasped, her hips bucking, her breath a pointed, keening sound that sent a thrill through Mikoto’s chest.

“Oh, Miko,” she breathed, half-laughing, half-melting beneath the sensation. “That’s hardly fair~.”

Mikoto smirked, her confidence returning in waves. “Fair?” she murmured, dragging her fingers down the length of Misaki’s body, memorizing every contour, every rise and fall of her form. “I think you like it.”

Misaki’s only response was a soft, shivering sigh as she pressed closer, her hips rolling instinctively against Mikoto’s. The friction, the heat—it was maddening. Mikoto could feel her pulse everywhere, from the throbbing in her abdomen to the deep, insistent throb gestating between her thighs. And she knew Misaki felt the same, could see it in the way her breath grew unsteady, in the way her gloved hands trembled slightly as they gripped Mikoto’s tie and tugged—just enough to remind her who had started this game.

Mikoto groaned, the sensation sending another involuntary jolt of electricity crackling between them, this one catching Misaki just on her nipples and traveling down to her clit, traveling to Mikoto’s in turn. Misaki’s eyes fluttered shut, her lips parting in a breathless moan, and the sound was enough to make Mikoto’s head spin, let alone the feeling of their kittens kissing.

She was lost in her. Lost in the way Misaki’s body fit against hers, in the way every sigh, every gasp, every whispered plea filled the space around them like music. She traced the curve of Misaki’s hips, her hands mapping the soft swell of her waist before skimming higher—higher—until she was cupping the whole of Misaki’s breasts in her palms, feeling the vibrating warmth radiate into her.

Misaki shuddered, her fingers tightening in Mikoto’s damp hair, her control slipping with every careful, deliberate stroke of Mikoto’s hands. And then, just as she began to surrender, Mikoto pulled back—just enough to leave her wanting, just enough to return the torment Misaki had given her earlier.

Misaki’s eyes snapped open, her expression dark with need and frustration. “You wouldn’t dare,” she whispered.

Mikoto only smirked. “Oh, I think I would.”

The words had barely left her lips before Misaki surged forward, her hands finding Mikoto’s back, pulling her in, pressing their bodies flush.

Mikoto gasped as the heat of Misaki’s mouth pressed to her breasts. Teeth grazed the tender skin of her chest, and the shock of it sent another spark of lightning dancing between them—wild and untamed, mirroring the storm raging in her blood.

The tie around Mikoto’s neck tightened for the briefest second as Misaki pulled her down, claiming her lips in a kiss that was all hunger and fire. It was a battle, a surrender, a give and take of control as they moved together, as their bodies found a rhythm, a language all their own.

Mikoto forgot to breathe as Misaki’s fingers traced slow, deliberate lines along her waist, the pressure airy yet burning. The warmth of Misaki’s touch left a tingling imprint on her skin, a reminder of just how much power those delicate, gloved hands had over her. The red dress, now a silken ruin around Misaki’s hips, framed the perfect curve of her body—lush, inviting, breathtaking.

Mikoto had always known Misaki was beautiful. It was an undeniable fact, something even she had begrudgingly admitted back when they were younger, when they were rivals more than anything else. But here, now, in the dim glow of the moonlight, with the city humming faintly beyond the windows and the memory of their survival behind them, Misaki was more than just beautiful. She was devastating. A siren draped in red, golden curls flowed over her shoulders, and eyes—those star-flecked, knowing eyes—watching Mikoto with a hunger that made her weak.

Misaki leaned in, her lips glossing over the pulse at Mikoto’s throat, where her heartbeat betrayed her composure. “Still thinking too much,” she murmured, amused, with affection, with something… lustful.

Mikoto’s hands skimmed down Misaki’s wet back, her fingertips pressing into soft skin and silky hair. She pulled her closer, their bodies aligning in a way that left nothing between them but the entropy of their love. A soft, charged hum filled the air, subtle flickers of electricity dancing along Mikoto’s skin, flaring when Misaki gasped. The first time it had happened, Misaki had been startled—now, she reveled in it. The little jolts, the sharp, fleeting sparks pressing against the most sensitive parts of her, pulling quiet gasps from her lips.

Misaki’s grip tightened around the knot of Mikoto’s tie, yanking her forward into a deep, claiming kiss. Mikoto groaned into it, her hands roaming, memorizing every dip and curve. When Misaki shifted, her thigh pressing against Mikoto just right, a shudder wracked through her, the sensation sending a deep, throbbing pulse from her core outward, leaving her breathless.

“Misa,” she rasped, her voice barely more than a whisper.

Misaki pulled back just enough to look at her, her lips kiss-bruised, her expression unreadable except for the smirk playing at the edges. She was taking her time, savoring every second, as if she were drawing it out as long as humanly possible, teasing them both with the tension winding tighter and tighter between them, their second lips slipping past each other, their clits giving each other Eskimo kisses.

Mikoto wasn’t sure how much more she could take.

Her fingers tangled in Misaki’s slightly moist hair, pulling her back in. Their bodies fit together perfectly, the red velvet bunched at Misaki’s waist a stark contrast against Mikoto’s bare skin. Every brush, every shift, every slow, languid roll of movement sent pleasure curling low in her stomach, the anticipation coiling unbearably tight.

Misaki leaned in, pressing a trail of slow, lingering kisses along Mikoto’s jaw, down the column of her neck, pausing just below her ear—her weak spot, the place that she could never quite build an immunity to.

The moment Misaki’s lips grazed the sensitive skin, Mikoto shuddered violently, a breathless cry slipping from her mouth before she could stop it. A bright, sharp pulse snapped against Misaki’s bare shoulder. Misaki gasped, exhaling a slow, delighted laugh against Mikoto’s skin, her breath sending fresh waves of shivers down Mikoto’s spine.

“You really can't help yourself, can you?” Misaki teased, her voice rich and syrupy, her hands smoothing down Mikoto’s sides before settling on her hips, holding her in place.

Mikoto barely had the breath to respond. Her world had narrowed down to this—Misaki’s body heat, the intoxicating scent of her perfume, the way her body moved against hers with maddening slowness. Every touch, every kiss, every whisper of love against her skin undid her further, pulling her deeper into overwhelming and all-consuming ecstasy.

And then Misaki moved again—deliberate, slow, perfect.

A sharp, gasping sound escaped Mikoto's lips as her fingers dug into Misaki’s back, her head tipping back into the pillow. The sensation was almost too much, pleasure winding hot and insistent through every nerve, spreading outward in throbbing, aching, waves. The tension built, spiraling impossibly tight, and then—

“Not yet,” Misaki murmured against her lips, pulling back just enough to smirk.

Mikoto gasped against Misaki’s lips, their bodies moving together in perfect rhythm, every touch and motion sending waves of heat coursing through her veins. The friction between them was infuriating—intense, electric, overwhelming. The last remnants of restraint had shattered, leaving only raw, unfiltered passion in its wake.

Misaki’s fingers dug into Mikoto’s back, nails pressing into her skin through her gloves just enough to send delicious sparks of sensation up her spine. Every movement sent another pulse of pleasure surging through her, scrambling the butterflies low in her stomach. Mikoto could feel every inch of Misaki—her hotness, her softness, the sheer perfection of her body pressed flush against hers.

Their breathing was erratic, their moans tangled in the heated space between them. Mikoto’s tie still hung loose around her neck, swaying with every movement, while Misaki’s gloves and stockings remained—a decadent contrast against her bare skin.

Misaki gasped beneath her, her back arching, her damp golden hair fanning out against the pillows in silken waves. The sight alone sent Mikoto reeling, her pulse hammering in her throat. Misaki was stunning—flushed and writhing beneath her, her lips parted in breathless, trembling moans, her body moving in perfect rhythm against hers. The sight alone was enough to send Mikoto spiraling, but it was the way Misaki looked at her—those starry, pleading eyes, darkened with desire, the rosy red blush all around her, and the trembling lips that showed her two front teeth that bit down to stifle it all—that truly undid her.

“God, Misaki,” Mikoto whispered, her voice rough, almost hopeless.

Misaki pulled her closer, their bodies pressing together in perfect synchronicity. “I know,” she whispered in return, her voice barely more than a breath. “I’m right there with you.”

The friction, the heat, the sheer intensity of it all reached its breaking point.

Mikoto’s breath hitched, her entire body trembling as she clung to Misaki, their movements growing more and more fevered. Every touch, every brush of their bare skin sent electric shocks rippling through her, a pleasure so raw and consuming that it stole the breath from her lungs.

Their movements became frantic. A hunger not just for touch but for closeness, for connection, for each and every bit of one another’s bodies.

“Miko—!” Misaki's voice broke into a helpless cry, her hands tightening in Mikoto’s hair, yanking her closer, as though terrified of letting her go.

Mikoto shuddered at the sound, the sheer need in it. Her own moans slipped free, breathless and unrestrained, as their hip rotations became asynchronous. She could feel everything—the heat, the wetness, the delicious friction that sent shivers racing up her spine, the overwhelming pulse of pleasure spiraling from her vulva, growing tighter and tighter with every passing second.

And then—Misaki gasped sharply, her entire body going rigid beneath her. A shuddering cry tore from her throat, her nails digging into Mikoto’s back as hard as she could, finally tipping over the edge, pleasure crashing over her like so many ocean endless waves.

The sight, the sound, the feeling of Misaki trembling in her arms, lost in pleasure, was too much. Mikoto’s own climax followed, ripping through her with an intensity that stole her breath, left her reeling, drowning in wave after wave of pure, overwhelming bliss. She barely registered her own strangled moans, the way her body curved into Misaki’s, the way she clung to her as though she were the only thing anchoring her to reality.

For a moment, everything else ceased to exist. There was no city outside, no election, no past, no future—just this. Just them. The heat, the sweat, the trembling limbs and pounding hearts, the scent of Misaki’s perfume mixing with the faint charge of electricity still clinging to the air.

It wasn’t until the aftershocks had passed, until their bodies finally stilled, that Mikoto became aware of the quiet.

Their heavy breathing was the only sound, mingling softly in the space between them.

Slowly, Mikoto collapsed against Misaki, her body spent, her forehead pressing against the soft, sweat-dampened skin of Misaki’s breast.

For a long moment, neither of them moved, taken aback by the vibrating heat between them and the cool air being pushed away as soon as it me the surface of their bodies.

Then, Misaki let out a soft, breathless laugh, her fingers dragging lazily through Mikoto’s hair. “Holy fuck…” she whispered in English, her voice hoarse and trembling.

Mikoto chuckled weakly, pressing a lazy kiss to Misaki’s collarbone. “Yeah,” she murmured, still struggling to catch her breath. “That was… incredible.”

Misaki hummed in agreement, her arms wrapping around Mikoto’s bare back, holding her close as her arms stuck to her skin. The warmth of her embrace, the steady rise and fall of her chest, was her foundation, anchoring Mikoto back to the present—to reality.

She tilted her head, just enough to catch Misaki’s gaze. Their eyes met—hazy and sated.

“I love you,” Misaki whispered, her fingers tracing slow, gentle patterns against Mikoto’s spine.

A warmth blossomed in Mikoto’s chest, softer than the heat they’d just shared, but just as powerful. She smiled, pressing her lips to Misaki’s in a slow, lingering kiss.

“I love you too.”

Misaki sighed contentedly, her fingers lacing with Mikoto’s. “You’re going to win, you know.”

Mikoto blinked, still dazed. “Win what?”

“The election.” Misaki smirked, pressing a kiss to the tip of Mikoto’s nose. “You’re going to be mayor. I just know it.”

Mikoto let out a soft laugh, curling deeper into Misaki’s embrace. “I guess that makes you the mayor’s wife.”

Misaki arched a brow. “Oh? Is that a proposal?”

Mikoto giggled again, her eyelids growing heavy as exhaustion finally settled in. “Maybe.”

Misaki’s laughter was the last thing she heard before they both drifted off, tangled together in their little nest, wrapped in love, in promises, in a fleeting dream.