Her apartment was nicer than his by a factor of about ten.
Fourth floor, corner unit. Big windows that looked out over Tatooin Station's shopping district. The furniture was white and minimalist and probably came from a catalog that didn't list prices. A framed poster of her own debut covered half the entryway wall. She'd signed it. To herself.
Riku noticed all of this in the first three seconds. Then she closed the door and locked it and he stopped noticing the apartment.
"So," she said. She leaned back against the door, arms behind her, chin up. The pose. She couldn't help it. "Welcome to my professional hero mentorship facility."
"Nice place."
"I know." She pushed off the door and walked past him toward the living room. Her hips moved differently than they had at the park. More deliberate. She knew he was watching and she was giving him something to watch. "You want a drink? I have water. And water."
"I'm fine."
"You look nervous."
"I'm not nervous."
"You look a little nervous."
He wasn't. What he was, standing in Yu Takeyama's apartment with the door locked behind him and a week of starvation making his skin buzz, was hungry. The aura was spiking. He could feel it pushing outward, filling the apartment, and he was too tired and too close to what he needed to pull it back. She was breathing it in with every inhale and probably didn't realize the warmth spreading through her chest wasn't from the walk up the stairs.
She stopped in the middle of the living room and turned to face him. Green eyes, direct. Her jacket was already half unzipped from the walk over and the hero costume underneath caught the light from the windows.
"Okay," she said. "Cards on the table. We both know why you're here."
"Do we?"
"Don't do the coy thing. You're bad at it." She pulled the zipper down the rest of the way and shrugged the jacket off her shoulders. It fell on the floor and she didn't pick it up. "I've been thinking about you since the park. I don't do that. I don't think about random kids I meet at community events."
"I'm not random."
"No. You're not." She looked at him and the performer's mask slipped for half a second, something real underneath. Then it came back and she grinned. "So. You said your quirk needs physical contact."
"Yeah."
"And you haven't had any in a while."
"About a week."
"That sounds uncomfortable."
"It is."
She reached for the collar of her hero costume. The bodysuit was purple and tan, skin-tight, the material thick enough to be functional but thin enough that he could see the shape of everything underneath. She found the seam at her throat and pulled.
The suit peeled.
She did it slow. Of course she did it slow. Everything about Yu Takeyama was a performance and this was no different. She rolled the material down from her shoulders, revealing skin inch by inch, watching his face while she did it because his reaction was part of the show. The suit peeled off her collarbones, then the tops of her breasts, then the curve of them, then her stomach. She wasn't wearing anything underneath. The suit was the only layer and she'd known that when she'd put it on this morning.
Riku's mouth went dry.
He'd been with women in his previous life. He had the memories and the general understanding of how this worked. But the body he was in now was fifteen years old and had never been touched and the gap between knowing and experiencing was hitting him in the chest like a fist.
She was beautiful. The word was inadequate but his brain wasn't producing better ones. Her skin was flushed from the bodysuit's trapped heat, pink across her chest and shoulders, radiating warmth he could feel from two meters away. Her breasts were full, heavy, the nipples already hard from the air or from something else. Her stomach was toned, hero-conditioned muscle under smooth skin. A beauty mark on her left hip that the costume always hid.
She rolled the suit down past her hips. No underwear. Blonde hair between her legs, trimmed short. She stepped out of the suit one leg at a time and stood there, completely naked in her living room with the afternoon light coming through the windows, and posed.
"Like what you see?" She put her hands on her hips and tilted her head. The performer's smile, bright and practiced. "Obviously you do."
Riku crossed the distance between them.
His hands found her waist and the contact hit him like voltage. Vitality Drain activated on instinct, a low pull, barely a trickle, but after a week of nothing it felt like drinking cold water in a desert. Her skin was hot under his palms. The bodysuit had trapped her heat and she was radiating it through his fingers, up his arms, into his chest. She inhaled sharply when he touched her but didn't step back.
"Eager," she said. Her voice was steady but her pulse was visible in her throat, jumping.
"You have no idea."
He pulled her closer. His hands slid up from her waist to her ribs, thumbs brushing the undersides of her breasts. She was still half-performing, holding the pose, but her breathing shifted. Faster. He could hear it. His mouth found her neck and she tilted her head to give him room, a practiced motion that became less practiced when his teeth grazed her skin and she made a sound, small and surprised, that she hadn't planned.
"You're still dressed," she said. "That's not fair."
"So take my clothes off."
She pulled his shirt over his head. Her hands were on his chest before the shirt hit the floor, fingers spread, palms flat, feeling. She looked at his body like she was deciding what to do with it. His build was lean, athlete's muscle. Her hands lingered.
Her fingers traced down his stomach to his waistband. She unbuckled his belt and unzipped him. His pants hit the floor. His cock was hard and had been since she'd started peeling the suit off. She looked down at it and her eyebrows went up.
"Oh," she said. Just that.
"Problem?"
She wrapped her hand around him. Her fingers were warm, slightly calloused from hero work. She squeezed once, testing, and his hips jerked forward.
"Not a problem." Her voice had dropped. The performer was still there but she was losing the script. "Just... bigger than I expected for a fifteen-year-old."
"Sixteen in two months."
"Still not helping."
But she was stroking him, slow, her thumb rubbing over the head on each upstroke. He was leaking already and she spread it with her thumb, the slick sound filling the quiet apartment. His hands tightened on her hips and she shivered.
The Vitality Drain was still pulling. Low-level, passive, feeding on the skin contact between his palms and her body. Energy trickling into him like warmth through a cold pipe. His senses were sharpening. He could smell her now, not the perfume, the actual smell of her skin underneath it. Sweat and arousal under the perfume, clean underneath, like fresh laundry left in the sun.
She pushed him backward. He hit the couch and sat down hard. She followed him, climbing onto his lap, straddling his thighs. Her breasts were at his eye level and she knew it. She cupped the back of his head and pulled his face into her chest.
"Good boy."
His mouth closed around her nipple and she gasped. Covered it with a laugh. "Okay, you don't waste time."
He didn't answer because his mouth was busy. His tongue circled her nipple, slow, then faster, and her hand tightened in his hair. Her hips started moving on his lap, a slow grind that pressed his cock against her stomach. He could feel how wet she was against his thigh. Already. The foreplay had barely started and she was slick.
Her commentary was running. "That's, yeah, okay, you're good at that, I'll give you that." He let her talk. Every sentence was getting shorter.
He switched to her other breast. His hand came up to cover the one his mouth had left, wet from his tongue, the nipple hard against his palm. She arched into both points of contact and her hips rolled harder.
"Okay, my turn," she said. She climbed higher up his body, knees on either side of his head. Her hands gripped the back of the couch for balance and she lowered herself toward his mouth. "Open."
He opened.
Her thighs bracketed his face and she settled her weight onto his mouth and the sound she made was not a performance. A raw, full-body "Ah" that she cut off by biting her lip. He could feel her thighs clench around his head, the muscle in them hero-strong, quivering. Her hands white-knuckled on the couch back.
She was wet. Slick and hot against his tongue, the taste sharp, flooding his mouth. He licked from bottom to top and her hips twitched. Did it again, slower, pressing harder at the top where her clit was swollen and obvious. Her entire body jolted.
"Fuck." Breathless. "Right there. Yeah. Right, ah, right there."
He stayed there. His tongue worked her clit in small circles while his hands gripped her hips, holding her in place. She was trying to grind but he was controlling the pressure, giving her what he wanted to give, when he wanted to give it. She was on top but he was setting the pace.
Her commentary degraded. "That's so, you're, ah, oh god." Sentences failing. Syllables replacing words. Her thighs trembled against his cheeks. Her blonde hair fell around both their faces, a curtain of it, strands sticking to his forehead with sweat.
He looked up. She looked down. Their eyes met and her face flushed deep pink, mouth open and eyes half-lidded. The performer's smile was gone.
She was getting wetter. He could taste it changing, thicker, the sounds his mouth made against her getting louder, sloppier. The couch creaked with the rhythm of her hips. Her moans were leaking through despite her best efforts. "Ah, nn, right, don't, ah, don't stop, I'm." She heard herself and her face went red. Redder than the flush. She could hear herself and her hips weren't stopping.
She ground harder against his mouth. Her whole body rocked. Her hand left the couch back and grabbed his hair, pulling him closer, tighter, her thighs clamping.
"I'm, ah, I'm going to, fuck, I." She came with her thighs locked around his head, her body arching, a broken "AH" that echoed off the apartment's high ceilings. Her hips jerked against his mouth through it, short desperate pushes, riding it out. He held her hips and let her take what she needed.
She stayed there for a few seconds after, shaking, breathing hard, her forehead pressed against the wall above the couch. Then she lifted off him. His face was wet. Her inner thighs were glistening.
She dropped between his legs without a word.
Her mouth was on his cock before he could say anything and his head fell back against the couch. Warm and wet and tight. She took him deep on the first stroke, her eyes looking up at him, watching his face. The performer was back. This was a show and she was starring in it, her cheeks hollowed, her green eyes locked on his.
She was good at this. Technically excellent, like everything else she did. Her tongue worked the underside while her lips sealed around the shaft. Her hand covered what her mouth couldn't reach and the rhythm was steady, confident, a pace she'd set and planned to keep.
But then he groaned. Low and involuntary, pulled from somewhere in his chest. And her eyes widened slightly. And her rhythm changed.
She went deeper. Sloppy now, not controlled. His hand found the back of her head and his fingers tangled in blonde hair and she made a sound around him, a muffled "Mm" that vibrated through his cock and made his hips push up. She pushed deeper in response and gagged, barely, pulled back and went again. Deeper.
The feedback loop. Every sound from her vibrated through him. Every twitch of his hips told her she was doing it right. She pushed deeper because he liked it, and she liked that he liked it, and the cycle kept going. Her hands gripped his thighs. Her saliva was running down his shaft, slick and messy. The sounds were obscene. Wet, rhythmic, her breathing through her nose between strokes.
She pulled off with a gasp and looked at him. Her lips were swollen, wet, her eyes glazed. "Okay," she said. Her voice was wrecked. "Okay, I need. Come here."
She climbed back onto his lap, straddling him again. His cock pressed between her thighs and she ground against it. Not inside. Between. The slide was frictionless because she was soaked, her arousal coating him, the sound of it filling the apartment. Wet, rhythmic, skin on skin.
She rocked her hips. His cock slid along her, pressing against her clit on every forward stroke, and she bit her lip and her eyes closed. The almost. She was chasing it, grinding harder, the wet sound getting louder. His hands were on her ass, pulling her tighter against him. Her forehead dropped to his shoulder.
"God," she said into his neck. "God, just. Put it in."
"Not yet."
"I swear to god."
"Not yet."
She whined. Actually whined, high and desperate, and then caught herself and tried to turn it into a scoff. Failed completely. Her hips kept moving, grinding his cock against her, the friction between them slick and relentless. Her breasts pressed against his chest, slippery with sweat. Her makeup was smudged around her eyes. Her hair was stuck to her neck in damp strings.
He looked at her.
"You're doing this on purpose," she said. Panting.
"Yeah."
"I hate you."
"No you don't."
He lifted her by the hips. She grabbed his shoulders for balance. He positioned himself at her entrance and she sucked in a breath and held it, her whole body going tense. Not afraid.
"Ready?" he asked.
"Don't ask me if I'm ready like I'm, ah."
He pushed in.
The stretch made her face change. Her mouth opened wide and her eyes went wider and her whole body froze for one second while she adjusted. He was thick and she was tight and the fit was a physical negotiation that played out across her face in real time. Pressure and fullness, the stretch turning from almost-too-much into exactly right.
"Oh," she said. "Oh, that's. Oh."
He slid deeper. Inch by inch, watching her face, reading every micro-expression. Her jaw clenched and released. Her fingers dug into his shoulders hard enough to leave marks, her breath coming out in a shudder.
He bottomed out.
Their eyes locked. Hers were wide open. The performer was nowhere. The woman underneath was staring at him with her mouth open and nothing coming out, full of him, pressed against him, every inch of contact between their bodies singing with the Vitality Drain pulling energy into him in a steady warm flood.
She breathed.
He didn't move. Not yet. He held there, fully inside her, watching her face, waiting.
"Move," she whispered. "Please move."