TW: NSFW Mature Content
Michiko insisted they go to her place.
She told herself it was about logistics—closer, quieter, cleaner. But really, it was about control. About staying in familiar territory. About not giving Ji the upper hand just because they made a few drinks and looked at her like they could see through her skin.
She didn't want to be impressed. She wanted to be in charge.
But the second Ji stepped inside her apartment—quiet, still, eyes roaming her space like they already belonged—she knew she'd already lost.
The lights were dim, just a single lamp on the nightstand. Michiko stood by the edge of the bed, not waiting to be told what to do. She was already unbuttoning her blouse, slipping it off one shoulder like it was just another routine. Her skirt came next. She moved slowly, deliberately. Confident in her own skin.
When she glanced back, Ji hadn't moved. They stood just inside the doorway, watching her with a quiet intensity that tightened Michiko's throat.
"Are you just going to stand there and stare?" she asked, forcing a defiant tone into her voice.
Ji approached slowly, their gaze unwavering. "You're so beautiful, Michi-chan."
Michiko hesitated, scoffing softly. "I know."
Their lips twitched. "Lie down."
She raised an eyebrow but did as instructed, reclining on the bed, her head resting back against the pillows. Her heart thudded unevenly in her chest, adrenaline mixing uneasily with the alcohol still clouding her judgment.
Ji didn't touch her at first. Just sat beside her on the mattress, one hand resting near her knee, not quite grazing.
"Eyes closed," they murmured gently.
Michiko hesitated, opening one skeptical eye.
"Trust me." Ji's voice was quiet, certain, almost gentle. It was enough to break through her carefully guarded walls.
Her lashes fell shut, a reluctant surrender.
Ji's fingers grazed her thigh, deliberate, precise—mapping out every inch of her skin as if it were sacred. Their touch wasn't tentative or rushed; it was knowing, confident, assured. It was a careful exploration, respectful yet powerful.
Ji never removed any of their clothing. Michiko felt the soft fabric of Ji's shirt against her bare skin, the faint warmth radiating from their hovering presence. They leaned in without fully pressing against her, maintaining a controlled distance.
Fingers trailed lower.
Michiko gasped softly, her muscles tightening instinctively. Flashes of memory intruded for just an instant—the cruel grip of hands, laughter that mocked her vulnerability, the metallic echo of lockers against her spine. She stiffened briefly, breath hitching in a moment of fleeting panic.
Ji paused, sensing her tension instantly. "Breathe," they whispered softly, their voice tender and grounding. "You're safe."
The quiet reassurance caught her off guard. No one had ever spoken to her like that, as if her comfort truly mattered. Michiko inhaled shakily, the gentle certainty in Ji's voice calming her fears enough for her to nod slightly, allowing her body to relax again.
Ji resumed their tantalizing exploration, skillfully employing both hands and mouth to lavish attention on her most sensitive spot, heightening every sensation and drawing out sighs of ecstasy.
It was like nothing she'd allowed herself to feel before—pleasure without power, intimacy without imbalance. Her breath quickened as they found a rhythm that unspooled the tension from her body.
She didn't understand this.
Didn't understand how she could feel so consumed by someone who wasn't even her type. Someone who looked like this. Sounded like this. Confused her in every single way.
But it didn't matter. She arched toward them, a soft, involuntary sound slipping past her lips. Her arm stretched above her head, fingers curling tightly into the sheets, holding on as the thrill built inside her, coaxed from carefully locked depths. The whisper of Ji's breath against her skin, occasionally mumbling something indistinct, kept her anchored in the moment.
They never once asked for anything in return.
This wasn't sex.
It was something stranger.
She moaned once—sharp, involuntary—and her voice caught as she whispered, "Ji…"
The name came out fractured. Personal. Too intimate for someone she'd only met hours ago.
And in that moment, something inside her shifted.
She realized she didn't even know their real name.
No, she thought—I never told them mine.
But Ji didn't pause.
Didn't question it.
Their lips, their tongue, explored every inch of her skin.
Not gentle, not harsh.
A fervent, insistent claiming.
Michiko finally shuddered beneath them, gasping and letting go, it felt like a release of something far more than physical—a brief, terrifying glimpse of what it meant to be unguarded.
Ji watched her unravel with something close to reverence.
She was stunning when she let go—sharp edges dulled by pleasure, mouth parted, brows furrowed. She whispered their name like it meant something. Like it had weight. Like it belonged to her now.
They hadn't taken anything from her.
She'd given it.
And Ji—barely breathing, their skin searing beneath their clothes, felt a storm of fierce emotions surge within them, raw and untamed.
Mine, they thought, the word cutting through their mind like a blade, definitive and unyielding. She was oblivious to the chaos she ignited within them. Unaware of the transformation she was triggering. They refused to let it untangle. Not tonight.
They would embody the facade, hold it together, until the moment she craved the true essence.
When Michiko came down from the high, she was trembling—half from aftershocks, half from confusion. She turned her face to the side, resting against the cool pillowcase.
Ji said nothing. Just pulled the blanket over her with delicate fingers and brushed a strand of hair from her face.
She lay still for a few moments, trying to collect herself.
Then, dazed, she spoke, "Aren't you going to…?"
Ji leaned down beside her, their voice just a breath in her ear. "Don't worry about me."
"But that's not fair—"
"Close your eyes," they said. "I'll be here when you wake up."
She wanted to argue. Wanted to shift the balance back in her favor. But her limbs were heavy, her brain hazy.
She let herself drift.
Ji waited until her breathing slowed.
Then they rose from the bed in total silence.
They moved through her room like they'd done it a hundred times. Found her bag slumped over the arm of a chair. Opened it carefully.
Her wallet was small, soft pink leather. Clean. Simple. They opened it and found her student ID tucked behind a credit card.
Iwai Michiko. University of Tokyo, Photography major, a student number consisting of various numbers. A photo—older, slightly blurry, but undeniably her. Less eyeliner. Softer smile.
Ji's thumb stroked lightly over Michiko's name, letting it sink into their consciousness. She hadn't offered it willingly, yet now Ji possessed it—another piece of her to cherish.
Ji slipped the ID from the slot, folding it into their palm like something precious. Their fingers brushed over the corners of her books on the shelf, the lotion bottle on her dresser, the spare camera battery left on her desk.
So many small pieces of her, waiting to be collected.
Back at the nightstand, Ji picked up a pen and wrote something on a slip of paper from her notepad. Neat handwriting. Almost delicate.
"Last night was lovely. Text me if you want a round two. –Ji
-XXX-XXX-XXXX"
They left it beside the lamp.
Then they slipped out the door, quiet as a breath, the student ID tucked securely in their jacket pocket.
For future opportunities.