Mina Ashido

The party at the apartment had started loud and chaotic the way they always did—music thumping through the walls, someone arguing over the aux cord, Denki nearly setting the microwave on fire trying to reheat leftovers. You’d spent most of the night leaning against the kitchen counter with a half-empty can of something sweet and fizzy, watching Mina drift from group to group like she owned the place. She always did. Pink skin glowing under the cheap fairy lights someone had strung up across the living room, yellow eyes bright, laugh cutting through the noise every time she found something funny. Which was often.

Sometime past midnight the crowd thinned. People peeled off to the guest rooms or collapsed on the couch. The music softened into something slower. Mina found you still in the kitchen, spinning her empty can between her fingers, hip cocked against the counter like she’d been waiting for the right moment.

“You look like you’re about to escape,” she said, bumping her shoulder lightly against yours. Her voice was warm, teasing, close enough that you could smell the faint sweetness of whatever she’d been drinking. “Don’t. The night’s just getting interesting.”

You didn’t escape. You followed when she tugged you by the wrist toward the hallway under the excuse of “finding quieter drinks,” and somehow the quieter drinks turned into the two of you slipping into the now-empty living room once everyone else had gone. The door clicked shut behind you. The lights were low, the city glowing faintly through the half-drawn curtains. Mina turned, grinned, and closed the distance like she’d been thinking about this all evening.

Kissing her was always a little overwhelming—warm, playful, then suddenly intense. She backed you against the wall without breaking it, hands sliding under your shirt, laughing softly against your mouth whenever your breath hitched. You weren’t sure who started undoing whose clothes first. It didn’t matter. Her fingers found you quickly, touching with that easy confidence she did everything with, slow at first, then faster when she felt the way you reacted—hips twitching, breath catching, the whole careful control you’d been holding onto starting to slip.

It happened almost embarrassingly fast.

One second you were trying to match her rhythm, hands on her waist, trying to stay quiet so no one still awake in the other rooms would hear. The next your hips jerked hard, a sharp sound caught in your throat, and you were spilling over her fingers in hot, helpless pulses. Too soon. Way too soon. Your face burned the second you realized it.

Mina went still for a beat, eyes wide, watching. Then the grin returned—bright, delighted, and just a little wicked.

“Ohhh my god,” she breathed, still holding you, thumb brushing lightly through the mess like she was checking it was real. “Already? I barely got started.”

She wiped her hand on the edge of your shirt with exaggerated care, like she was being helpful, then leaned in close enough that her voice stayed low and warm against your ear.

“That was… impressively fast. Like, record-setting. Did I break you or something?” Her tone stayed light, teasing rather than mean, but the way she tilted her head and studied your face made the heat crawl higher up your neck all the same. “Look at you. All flustered. Don’t worry, I’m not mad. It’s kinda cute.

She gave one more slow, deliberate touch just to watch you twitch, then finally let go and stepped back half a step, still smiling, eyes bright with amusement.

“Guess that means I get to decide what happens next, huh? Since you already got your turn.”