#powerxreader

Implied young adult!reader.

19/03/2025: Minor edits regarding how Reader refers to Aki (Mr Hayakawa).

A delicious, familiar smell reached Power's nostrils, pulling her out of the wreaths of that nebulous half-asleep, half-awake state on which we cling as much as we struggle against during lie-ins. She opened her eyes wide in one go, her Devil sight almost instantly adjusting to the room barely illuminated by the dim sun rays seeping from under the closed curtains. In the same abrupt fashion, she straightened up into a sitting position, disturbing a sleeping Nyako curled up against her chest. The cat, displeased but used to his mistress' abrupt demeanour, let out a short, irked mewling for form, before jumping off the bed and trotting out of the room to attend to some feline business.

Power inhaled deeply, taking in more fully the appetising smell of fresh, healthy blood. Such smell was synonymous with one simple, primal action: feeding. Power knew all too well how to identify a species' odour, and the one she was smelling right now was undoubtedly this of a piece of choice.

A human.

Something in the smell, however, was disconcerting her acute nose. A tangy scent, almost seafood-like, was mingling with the sweet aroma of copper; a scent that she quickly identified, as she often smelled it on her own human body.

Looking between her legs, Power frowned. Fresh blood? In this place? Weird.

Discarding her initial plans of sleeping in while neither Aki or Denji (who were out for the day) could scold her for it, she got up from the mattress, mechanically grabbed the baseball cap lying at the foot of the bed and let the smell guide her steps.

She ended up on the small balcony. There, she only had to turn her head to the side to have the prey in her field of vision. There it was, standing on the neighbouring balcony, leaning on the railing with a hand on its belly and looking at the horizon— or really, at the gray building facing theirs.

Power quickly identified the human as Aki's direct neighbour. She recognised it from the disinterested glances she would catch of it once in a while, of it hanging out its washing on that same neighbouring balcony; or from when it greeted the trio formed by Denji, Aki and her, on the sparse couple of times all four of them happened to circulate on the passageway at the same moment. Power didn't know its age, weight, or for how long it had been Aki's neighbour— and had never cared to know more up to now.

In short, nothing stood out about the biped— at least to Power's eyes, for whom every human was more or less devoid of interest if not fitting into either of the two following categories: a potential prey, or someone she was bound to be around against her will due to Makima's damned schemes.

This morning, Aki's neighbour fell into the first category.

***

You inhaled an ample gulp of air, feeling your abdomen swell up under your palm. Tokyo's air was by no means clean, but its coolness in your sinuses helped entertain the belief of it being a good alternative to the stuffy air of your apartment. With some concentration, you could almost ignore the afterscents of asphalt and exhaust emissions lingering in your nasal cavity. Almost.

The sea air would have probably done you better; however, you had been forced to cancel at the last minute your plans of going to the beach with your friends, a periodic visitor dropping by a few days earlier than expected.

You sighed, rubbing your lower abdomen like you would have done with an unwell pet. At least your insides were clement with you for now, not (yet) unloading crippling degrees of torments. The calm before the storm? You hoped not, crossing fingers for a mild week.

Some motions in your peripheral vision diverted your thoughts from your anatomical condition, and caused you to turn your head to the next balcony. A girl with long, uncombed hair sticking out of a baseball cap was standing there, looking at you with an indecipherable expression on her face.

A handful of seconds were all you needed to place the individual— mostly aided by her strawberry blond hair.

Recently, two odd characters had joined the household of your discreet neighbour, Mr Hayakawa: A teenage boy with shaggy hair and dark circles reaching his navel, and a young woman with golden eyes and long hair dithering between blond and ginger.

A ray of sunshine shone on said hair — courtesy of a pack of gray clouds finally drifting away from in front of the sun —, making the woman in front of you tilt toward the blonde category.

You smiled and waved at her. She remained still for a few seconds, staring at you with the same indecipherable look which could have hidden vibrant interest as much as utter dispassion; eventually, she raised a hand to shoulder level and waved back in an awkward motion.

A handful of equally mumchance seconds went by, before the girl abruptly said: "Name's Power. You?"

Power... You didn't reply right away, a bit taken aback by the designation. Was it a nickname? A foreign name, maybe?

You nonetheless nodded and, with a smile, replied with your own name.

However, showing no signs of acknowledgement of your admittedly succinct introduction, Power simply tilted her head to the French windows and said: "D'you want to come over to my place? Denji an' Aki are gone."

"Denji and Aki?" You parroted.

Power wiggled her hand above her head, gathering her fingers together and gesturing as if she was pulling on some sort of pointed hat. "Aki's the one with the funny topknot. Denji's the ugly boy."

Aki and Denji. Hayakawa Aki, and… Hayakawa Denji?

You simply nodded, settling for this piece of intel— fearing that verbalising your other interrogation would come across as too intrusive.

From what you knew of their interactions based on the noises coming from the other side of the thin walls, family members was the safest guess. The angry outbursts, that you had never heard until then from your quiet neighbour’s mouth, weren’t exactly something expected between simple flatmates; at least not so soon in the cohabitation, or so long and so frequently without it resulting in a break of the deal.

Perhaps the pair of newcomers came to Tokyo to study? It seemed like the capital still had its appeal after all, despite the Devils concentration and the consequent lowering rent prices. Not low enough for Mr Hayakawa’s relatives to live on their own, apparently.

Truth be told, within the passing years, you had come to grow a bit anxious about your polite but sombre-looking neighbour; the feeling greatly fuelled by his tendency of coming home with dressings or casts, or else on crutches, despite his white-collar attire.

The idea of possibly living in the vicinity of a yakuza wasn’t the most securing thing— as testified by the piece of opaque tape you had stuck on your peephole, in an attempt to jam the hindering reflex of antsily looking through the magnifying opening each time you heard the sound of footsteps passing by your door and to your neighbour’s. Thankfully, during that paranoid period, only the brown uniform of delivery persons had been caught by your eyes through the small, round frame, instead of the dreaded tattooed men from your imagination.

Would visits of the latter cause as much ruckus as the trio, whose nightly concerts of raised voices and stomping were barely muffled by the cheap walls separating your apartments? Since their occurrences, the fictive images of the Yakuzas in your brain, once credible and forbidding, were now fantastical and faraway wanderings of your mind; chased by the manifestations of more commonplace interactions— hence why, perhaps, the evening disturbance didn’t irritate you as much as it logically should.

Some evenings, when the voices had a more cheerful ring to them than usual, the desire to join their pack seeped into your heart, suddenly making you more aware of the solitude you might have grown a bit too accustomed to. You had often fantasised about going to their door and raising a hand to the bell, which high-pitched ring twined your own; the other hand holding some goods bought at a nearby bakery and ready to be shared between four people.

What would Mr Hayakawa– Aki’s place look like? Were the furniture laid out the same way as in yours?

Was there a lot of decorating? Was it deeply personal, reflective of aspects of his personality known only to his closest acquaintances? Maybe had he a fondness for disco music, and vintage 70’s furniture filled the space with their curvy patterns and sprightly colours while the walls were hidden under a tapestry of vinyls?

No; the only sound you had ever heard coming from Mr Hayakawa’s apartment before the coming of the other two was the TV’s muffled monologue, your neighbour apparently favouring the verb over the melody.

Coming back to the yakuza hypothesis: was the other side of the wall hosting a variety of weapons, ranging from old-school katanas, shurikens and nunchakus to Austrian glocks and automatic carbines? Were boxes of white powder and little pills of many colours waiting stacked in one of the bedrooms?

Or else (and more probable), was the apartment disappointingly impersonal, generic items bought at a generic furniture store brand to fill some empty spaces on the shelves?

These frequent wanderings of your mind were what led you to accept Power’s invitation to ‘come over’ at Mr Hayakawa’s apartment, as unexpected as the offer had been. You couldn’t let the opportunity to finally satiate your curiosity and confirm or disconfirm the pictures created by your mind slip through your fingers.

At your positive answer, Power’s lips stretched and parted to reveal an awkward but toothy grin of yellowish teeth. The range of teeth quickly disappeared, however, as the young woman suddenly frowned and brought the collar of her T-shirt to her nose. You watched her nostrils subtly dilate while she was sniffing the fabric, before she released it and looked back at you.

“Jus’ gimme, like, twenty minutes,” she simply said before swiftly crossing the French window and going back inside.

Twenty-one minutes later, you were standing in front of The Hayakawas’ front door, freshened up and a box of dorayakis(*) in hand.

(*)Japanese cake made of two small pancake-like patties and a sweet red bean paste filling:

Your pointer didn’t even press the button of the doorbell that the door suddenly opened in one brisk motion. You barely had time to catch your breath before a beaming Power cheerfully shouted: “come in!”

Having discarded the oversized T-shirt and sleeping shorts she was previously wearing, the young woman was now sporting a more fitted pair of black shorts paired with a green tank top, the thin coral straps of a bra visible next to the thicker straps of the upper garment. The long strands of her hair, adopting a ginger hue in the shadow of the narrow corridor, were now docilely flowing down her back, neatly combed— still slightly wet at the ends. You couldn't determine if the colour was natural or not, her baseball cap still sitting on top of her head — this time turned backward — and still hiding some possibly darker roots.

Barely giving you time to take off your shoes, Power grabbed your hand as soon as the second sole hit the floor and pulled you through the corridor and into the small living space. Disorientation seized your brain for a fraction of seconds when you saw the kitchen alcove on the left, its counter frame partially hiding the left side of the living room: the apartment’s layout was the same as yours, except mirrored.

Still pulled forward by Power’s hand, your body made a non-instinctive turn to the left in order to face the coffee table at the centre of the room.

“Sit down,” she ordered more than she offered while putting her hands on your shoulders and firmly pushing you downward. “I’ll make you somethin’. You, huh, just wait there,” she said before turning around and rushing to the kitchen space.

Now seated on one of the flat cushions of the living room, you put the box of dorayaki on the table and waited as requested by Power by letting your gaze wander around the room; savouring the novelty which was the symmetrical inversion of a familiar setting.

Which side of the mirror was the best? The Hayakawa’s or yours?

In order to come to a fair answer, you would have to imagine your own furniture, trinkets and other decorative elements in place of your neighbour’s not-so-surprisingly generic interior. Right in front of you, in place of a retro ball chair, stood an unassuming tube TV, tallying with the sound ambience pre-cohabitation; at its left, on top of a cabinet, a square tray was tidily holding a kettle, three cups placed upside-down and some packets of tea and ground coffee. Its content, as well as its accessibility and readiness, directly echoed the dark rings under Mr Hayakawa’s eyes.

As it happened, Power skirted around the counter at a rapid pace, just to stop in front of the tray. She busied herself in front of it, her back hiding her actions from your view. You heard a faint ‘click’ and the kettle activated itself while the strawberry blonde girl rushed back to the kitchen space.

On the wall behind you, a paper titled “Cleaning chore charts” which was displaying the names of the three inhabitants dispatched in cells — the days in vertical and the chores in horizontal — replaced the sharp and menacing shurikens from your imagination.

If you happened, lead by the sound of scraping and clinking, to look on your left, you could see Power disturb the neat alignment of jars and bottles of condiments on the counter while busying herself on the motive of your waiting.

Said scraping and clicking came to an end when she exited the kitchen space with a plate sporting two sandwich pieces: one small, triangle-shaped, and a bigger, pentagon-shaped. You inferred that the two ought to be the same size and shape but that unfortunately, a square toast’s diagonal was a bit too difficult of an aim for your hostess.

The kettle whistled, and Power promptly walked to it and poured the hot water into two of the cups before bringing them both to the table. She then heavily dropped on the cushion at your left and looked at you deadpanned for two or three seconds, before she suddenly smiled and loudly exclaimed: “enjoy your meal!”

The next five minutes were a rather peculiar experience, in line with the asymmetrical sandwiches and the blades of tea floating at the surface of your cup (were tea balls strictly prohibited in the Hayakawa household?). After a bite of the small triangular sandwich, you tactfully brought up your dorayakis, not fully convinced by the… original combination of ingredients hitting your taste buds.

Power flashed a large grin at the offer and enthusiastically drew one of the small cakes from the box. She made short work of the transparent wrapping protecting the good with one swift bite-and-pull of her pointy teeth, before closing said teeth on the round snack.

You squinted your eyes despite yourself, perhaps to compensate the fact that they were unable to look away from the ghastly scene taking place before them: in a fascination akin to morbid curiosity, you watched Power ferociously maul the poor dorayaki, the grisly spectacle reminiscent of the most gruesome scenes from Assault on Giant— a series popular among the youth at the moment. This voracious giant with strawberry blond hair, you doubted even the brave Ivel Mannacker would manage to vanquish.

At the end of the strike, all that remained was a pile of soft crumbs on the surface table, which Power gathered and scooped with her hand just to bring to her mouth.

And then there was none.

The young woman licked her lips with satisfaction before she glanced at you and froze, as if suddenly remembering your presence. She straightened her back, took a tissue from the box on the table and proceeded to politely dab the edges of her mouth, which did little to clean up the traces of her carnage.

“Hm. Thanks for the snack,” she said, discarding the crumpled tissue. “It tasted really good. Better than vegetables, that’s for sure…” She scrunched her nose, her face turning into one of disgust. “Aki always forces me to eat some, but I hate it! Tastes like bird shit!” Her face shifted once again, a malignant smile on the lips. She snapped her fingers. “Y’know what? I should put bird shit in his food. Give him a taste of his own… His own food!… Yes, that’s what I should do!”

“Sure, uh… Well! You know, there’s red bean inside dorayakis,” you replied, not wanting to incentivise Power’s vengeful thoughts of coprophagic nature against your neighbour. “I think that counts as vegetable.”

Power’s smile faded away, and her eyes widened. You cringed internally, already bracing yourself for the consequences of your social blunder. Some truths were better left unsaid, especially with unpredictable personalities such as the girl in front of you…

…Unpredictable, or maybe just hard for you to read, as Power burst into laughter: “The face Aki’ll pull when I’ll tell him I ate vegetables today! Of my own will!” She exclaimed. “It’ll knock him for six!”

She then gave you a wide, genuine smile, enhanced by sparkling eyes. Against all odds, you had chosen the right dialogue option, and Power seemed to appreciate your company. You smiled back: although a bit eccentric, the young woman was strangely endearing, and past the initial awkwardness, it would have been be in bad faith than to say the moment was disagreeable on your end.

“Wanna listen to some music?” She asked out of the blue. “I love music!”

You barely nodded in agreement that Power had already jumped on the radio sitting on top of the cabinet to turn it on. But instead of a song, a solemn voice emerged from the speaker: “...—olent attack of another devil, which caused the destruction of three houses in Nth district. Four bodies have been found, among them one child; at present, firefighters are still searching for others among the rubble. While the devil has been taken care of by the Public Safety Commission, the damage–”

The voice was suddenly cut off by a press of Power’s finger, and was instead replaced by the tune of some giddy chart hit.

Despite the bubbly pop fluttering around the room, you felt as if a bucket of cold water had fallen on your shoulders.

Truth being told, being constrained by circumstances into your condo and not having to wander all the way to the beach wasn't so big of a disappointment: with devil attacks intensifying more than ever, ravaging the streets of Tokyo… You had already reduced outings as much as possible, avoiding public transports and populated areas.

With a rampant fear gradually invading your day-to-day life, and an impossibility for you to leave the capital at the present, you had eventually taken the route of burying your head in the sand: avoiding the news and other forms of media, growing afraid to even be afraid at the risk of your fright attracting devils.

These simple words, coming from the stern voice of the newsreader, had violently pulled you back to a reality you were desperately trying to ignore. A feeling of dread fell on your shoulders like a block of concrete: danger was everywhere, ready to maul you at every turn of the city— At your own home, even.

"You okay?"

Power's voice made you snap out of your daze. Realising you had been staring into space this whole time, you looked at her and met her concerned face. "Ya don't like this song? It's okay, there's plenty of other stations—"

"No… No, I like it. It's…" You shook your head negatively and sighed, trying to drive away your dark thoughts— With very little result.

Power's finger pulled away from the button of the radio, and the girl sat down next to you. Her inquisitive face prompted you to offload your anguish.

"The devils…" You began. "The surge in attacks, all over Tokyo… All over the world… It's really been gnawing at me. I mean, like all of us, I guess…" You shrugged, dejected. "Maybe it's the effect of living all by myself for the first time, but… I feel really paranoid by all of this. My world has been getting so small lately, when I'm at that age where it should be getting bigger…"

"I've met devils before, y'know." Your eyes widened just as Power's lips stretched, revealing her pointy teeth. "They're actually not that scary. Some of'em are even real' weak. I was able to crush them with a single punch, like this–"

The kettle tilted dangerously when Power's fist hit its side, her other hand swiftly grabbing the item and stabilising it just in time.

"Ouch! Shit, shit shit!–" She quickly pulled her hand away from the hot glass and blew on her palm.

You chuckled: "so as long as it's not the kettle Devil, you can defeat them just with your fist? That's pretty impressive."

You didn't know whether to trust Power's claim or not; maybe the girl was watching too much cartoons. Regardless, seeing someone tackle the dreaded topic in such a lighthearted tone eased your anguish, if momentarily.

The melody ended, replaced by the next song. Another upbeat hit, this time dating back to a few years ago; a classic of your teen years, bringing you back to simpler times…

Suddenly feeling lighter, you got up and pulled on Power's arm, prompting her to stand up too.

With some hip sways, shoulder rolls and head nods, you got into the tempo, silently inviting your host to do the same. Not to be outdone, she gladly joined the dance, throwing one arm around and holding her cap in place with the other while her hair swayed right to left in strawberry-blond waves, in tune with the song.

You two began dancing in the small living room, the verve in your steps only restrained by a subconscious habit born from condo life— one indispensable to insure good terms with one's downstairs neighbour (although one could doubt, in Aki and his roommate's case, of the salvageable-ness of the relationship).

A spin, however, perhaps a bit too enthusiastic and poorly controlled, made you trip and fall right onto Power. Before the impact made you both hit the ground, two arms wrapped around your body and suddenly stopped its momentum.

At this moment, time froze; you remained a few seconds in Power's arms, not daring to move if even one finger. The strength wrapped around your limbs took you by surprise, especially in contrast with the slenderness of the arms which exerted it: unexpectedly, Power seemed to be stronger than she looked. This discovery, paired with the warmth of her chest flushed against yours, made you a bit dizzy.

Eventually, you regained control of your own body and straightened up, reluctantly quitting the woman's embrace.

In a flustered state, it took a few seconds for your brain to come up with the idea of apologising for the collision; but just as you opened your mouth to apologise, Power forestalled you.

"You smell good."

The mere three words, blurted out in a low, poised voice, unnerved you further. You could only stutter in response:

"R-really?"

A positive hum came from the woman's throat.

"Well… Hah, thank you. You do too," you added, feeling your cheeks heat up.

The answer was genuine: despite having evidently showered a few minutes ago, Power's natural scent was beginning to resurface, reaching your nostrils during the sudden embrace: a delicate aroma— the middle notes of her skin, not yet overpowered by sweat or outdoor emanations, mixed with the tamely sweet smell of the doriyaki crumbs lingering on her cheeks.

"D'you like women?"

This question, simple yet parlously charged, was the fatal blow. Power's eyes were riveted on you, oozing with candour and expectation; with great effort, you mentally recollected yourself and opted to answer as confidently and bluntly as your host— Or at the very least to try.

"Yes," you replied, doing you best to ignore the distressed beat of your heart hammering inside your chest. "Do you?"

With a delicateness which caught you off guards, she took your hands in hers.

"Yeah."

Her eyes had not left yours, and didn't until your lips touched.

You couldn't help but tighten your grip around her hands when her tongue invited itself into your mouth; she squeezed them back in return, and your own tongue naturally found its way between her parted lips.

The inside of Power's mouth tasted like red bean paste, with an aftertaste of minty toothpaste. While exploring further, your tongue brushed against her surprisingly pointy teeth. A shiver ran down your spine at the sharp texture; of alarm or excitement, you couldn't exactly pinpoint which.

When you parted, Power bore a wide smile. “Seriously. You smell so good.” The remark flattered your self-esteem once again: what better praise than to be complimented on your scent, moreover by a natural beauty like Power?

She grabbed your hand and gently pulled you to another room. In case you couldn’t have already deduced its function from the fact that three people lived in this two-bedrooms apartment, an unmade (but decidedly comfortable-looking) bed was taking up a good portion of the room. Some magazines were scattered on the floor, with scantily-dressed covers seducing the potential reader with exaggerated poses and cheeky expressions.

Probably following your gaze and noticing the incriminating material, Power rushed to crouch and gather the magazines, probably with the aim of putting them away; but finding nothing more than already full cardboard boxes in close proximity, she opted for throwing over the mags some of the many clothes laying rumpled all over the floor.

Her ‘rearranging’ done, she turned around and sheepishly grinned at you: “…you’re way hotter than them, heh.”

You didn't have the opportunity to revel too much in the compliment, as Power abruptly stood up and pushed you by the shoulders to sit on the bed. A slander hand reached for your bottom garment but stopped midway; after two seconds of immobility, it deviated on the side to finally settle on the sheet, next to your thigh, copying the other hand.

Thus, Power’s stretched arms were framing your thighs, her upper half propped on her hands and her eyes right at level with yours.

Despite the proximity, the posture you were in, and Power’s amber stare riveted into yours, you felt surprisingly at ease.

The softness of the sheets; the quiet rays of sunshine penetrating inside the room into clear square shapes, trimmed by the straight, half-opened curtains; the feminine, yet — and — animalistic aroma coming from the bed sheets, cocoon holding remains of Power’s natural scent before she dimmed it through water and soap… A combination of elements which put you at ease— if perhaps was it not your own mindset the active source of comfort, casting a favourable meaning on whatever your senses caught.

As pleasant as this mere moment was, though, you still wanted more.

You opened your mouth to say something but Power forestalled you once again, shifting and climbing onto the bed. The mattress slightly rose back up on each side of your thighs when she withdrew her hands, just to heavily sag again under the weight of her own legs, and of her backside resting on your lap. You noticed how surprisingly light she was, despite the strength with which she had caught you earlier; she was probably all lean muscles, despite having been blessed by nature with a generous bosom which was accentuating her hourglass figure.

An asset which she was visibly aware of, as she stuck out her chest and seductively fondled it though the green fabric. It was obvious she was groping herself like so for your visual enjoyment, grabbing the roundnesses a little too tight, her fingers a little too claw-like; not taking the time to support the supple weights in a self-pleasurable manner, more so focused on manipulating them into sensual movements than on truly caressing herself. (At this moment, your thoughts redirected to the smutty magazines on the floor; a spike of bitterness piercing through amidst the bubble of intimacy.)

To your relief, however, Power freed her hapless breasts and reached for your wrists, lifting them and effectively placing your hands on her torso. She looked at you with inquisitive eyes, both gauging your incoming reaction and silently demanding one. It didn’t take you long to fulfil her unspoken request: carefully, you activated your hands, sliding your palms under the round shapes and extending your thumbs away from the other fingers and toward Power’s solar plexus to hold the weights more fully. Right above, Power had tucked her chin and was following your ministrations with attentive eyes; pleased by the attention, and confident in your capacities (at least relatively to Power's), you let your fingers slide up and emerge from underneath the curve of her breasts just to teasingly graze her nipples— or at least against where they should have been underneath the two layers of fabric. You decided to give a teasing goodbye squeeze, with the intention of momentarily quitting her breasts just to make them more accessible to you; but just as you did so, you couldn’t help but notice the surprising firmness under your palms, way more important than what two layers of fabric would provide. You frowned, and carefully squeezed again: the sensation against your hands made you think of perhaps breast implants, or…

You heard a laugh, followed by a: “of course, you’re not as dumb as Denji.”

With that, Power gently shooed your hands away and plunged hers under her tank top through the collar just to pull out, one after the other, two beige pads which soon hit the floor with a soft sound. The (now oversized) bra followed them at the foot of the bed, a coral addition to the multiple fabrics already piled up on the hardwood.

You didn’t have time to reflect on her words and on the nature of her relationship with Denji that she hungrily put your hands back on her (smaller) bosom. This time, you finally met her nipples, small bumps nestled into your palms which sent a rush of arousal through your guts.

You reactivated your hands just like before, slowly massaging the soft flesh through the single layer of fabric. Power sighed, closing her eyes. “You’re way better at this than Denji, das’ for sure.”

You smiled to yourself, the praising nature of her words helping you cast aside the thoughts of your possible complicitousness in adultery.

Eventually, Power decided to reciprocate, bringing her hands to your chest. A sharp pain surged through your bosom; the claw-like hands had struck again, this time with your tender breasts as victims instead of the impervious breast pads.

"Ouch!" You scrunched your face in pain, which caused the vice on your chest to loosen. "Too rough!… Be more gentle, please…"

"Sorry," Power said with a contrite pout. Her hands stayed still, simply resting on your breasts, while she tuck her chin back to observe your ministrations.

More than willing to provide some visual (and physical) instructions, you slowed down the pace of your fondles: cupping the delicate breasts and lifting them in slow motion, then letting them come back down while supporting their fall; letting your thumbs wander upward and tease the buds of her nipples through the green fabric.

You felt your own bosom being lifted in the same manner, just to be carefully lowered like one would have done with a precious vase.

Focused, Power began to mirror your motions, replicating each of your caresses on your own body. A delicious exchange began, in which you revelled through each and every of its apsects: the dynamic of being in position of power over Power (hah) herself after she had until then been the one taking the lead in your interactions; the sensation of manipulating her hands like you would have done with a puppet's; the two pleasures succeeding, first the visual one of caressing a body you both desired and empathised with, then following close the sensorial concretisation of some erotic sensations you had planned, implemented, and expected; each fondle of your partner's hand a reward.

You still hadn't forgotten your initial plans of making Power's body more accessible. Within minutes, you both found yourselves bared before the other, your respective upper garments scrunched up and sitting right above your breasts.

From the moment your bosom had come into view, Power had done nothing but stare at them, eyes wide and mouth agape, as if they were the first organic pair she ever had before her eyes— which was probably the case, although the idea did nothing to diminish how flattered you felt from the shameless gawking.

With Power's soft skin and pink nipples now fully accessible, you intensified the fondles, allowing yourself to toy with the two curves with more fervour at the risk of your partner doing the same; however, as you were kneading her flesh while the hardened buds rested at the junction between your middle and index fingers, the woman's hands were still lying still, resting on her sides.

You paused your actions to check up on your partner. "Power? Is everything—"

Your were never able to complete your sentence as suddenly, in a swift motion, you were being pushed backward and against the bed by two hands on your shoulders.

Power accompanied your fall by leaning forward, placing her body parallel to yours; a brief eye contact, and your lips were back on each others. Power’s enthusiasm made up for her sloppiness: you melted into the messy open-mouthed kiss, wrapping your hands around her waist.

When you parted, chins covered in saliva, the woman crawled backward and away from you. You raised your head just to see and feel her fingers searching for the hem of your lower garment. Suddenly, the thought of some quite important matter resurfaced inside your mind like a submarine-launched torpedo. “Wait… Wait, Power…”

The latter looked up at you, her hands stilling. You swallowed your saliva before explaining: “I forgot to tell you… I’m on my period.”

Power paused. And frowned. “Your… Period, uh…”

More so than repulse, it was mostly a feeling of confusion which seemed to have seized Power at the moment. Remembering your first thought upon hearing her uncommon name— about its possibly foreign origin, you tried to explain the situation through more evocative terms: “Yeah… You know, my… My monthlies. I’m bleeding, uh, down there...” You pointed at your crotch, giving an awkward smile.

“Oh!” A light bulb seemed to appear above Power’s head, before she shrugged. “Yeah, I know. I know that you’re bleeding.”

Inside your mind, a preliminary confusion quickly made way for panic. Straightening up, you hastily removed your bottom garment and spread it under your eyes, turning it around and anxiously inspecting it under every angle.

Confusion reared its head back: no blood stain.

“How did you know?” You asked Power, who had meanwhile simply observed your goings-on sat on the side. She shrugged once again; stayed silent for a few seconds, looked to the side; eventually, smiled and winked. “Feminine intuition. Don’t worry ‘bout it”.

This apparently shut the conversation as Power climbed down the bed and knelt before it, right in front of you.

In a swift motion, off went your underwear, while your top was discarded all the same by your own hands. 

Framed by your legs, Power’s amber irises shone of a rapacious glare; her eyes riveted on your crotch, bare and at her mercy. Her warm, stuttering breath grazed your sensitive flesh. Your heart hammered inside your chest; not only from the buzzing expectancy, or from the electric arousal, but also from a more obscure sentiment, akin to this of a trapped prey about to be devoured…

Power licked her lips. She stuck her tongue out…

Some hurried, panicked noises made you simultaneously turn your heads toward the door. Mr Hayakawa appeared in the door frame; aghast, pupils as small as pinheads.