Hot Dark Love Story: Chapter 1
from Salt Forged Stories
Heatstroke checked the information on his phone one more time before he landed on the ground: a lone metahuman, hostile, no known accomplices, involved in a robbery. Several reports of injuries and property damage, but no fatalities. By all accounts it was the exact kind of situation he excelled at solving quickly and simply. He'd run in there, let his or his squad's reputation precede him, and then, if he was lucky, get to fight a little besides. The thought spread a smile across his brown face as he leapt through the air. The superhero gripped the high collar of his chestpiece with both gloved hands as the ground raced up towards him. Heatstroke grunted with the impact of his boots along the concrete, taking a few running steps to gather himself like a plane landing on the tarmac. He'd gotten more accurate with his massive leaps across town, but timing his solar powers to soften the landing was often more trouble than it solved. Instead he skidded across the asphalt, trying not to warm it beneath him with each step.
It wasn't hard to distinguish which building had been hit: the block had only one building whose facade looked like some giant beast had taken a bite out of its second floor. Debris littered the floor outside the building, and he considered whether to use the front door or enter via the hole that someone else had already made. The latter made more sense, and glass crunched beneath his laced boots as he looked around.
“Oh thank God!” Someone yelled as he stood there in the hole in the wall, illuminated by the midday Sun behind him. He loved the feeling of sunshine on his back and the promise of his energy stores refilling as he fought. Thank God for daytime missions. Heatstroke presented the picture of aggressive confidence as he scanned the room.
“Oh shit... is that Heatstroke?” another asked.
“Like... from Kinetic Solutions?”
“Ahhh shit...”
“You're safe. I'm here.” He quieted the crowd's chatter, his hands already glowing with his signature solar might. The facility's employees sat in small clusters, each guarded by a strange shadowy creature. From this distance, each bipedal guard looked like an undifferentiated mass of dark grey, like an opaque shadow. The creatures turned to face him the moment the civilians began yelling, and Heatstroke prepared for the fight he'd been waiting for.
The monsters—bipedal and clawed with strange, misshapen heads—leapt at him en masse. They made low, guttural noises, more beastly than human, and Heatstroke met their aggression in kind. He bobbed and swayed, moving his thickly muscled frame with agility and efficiency of a trained boxer. The first creature raked the air in front of him and then disappeared into a puff of smoke when he punched through what would have been its chest. The next leapt at him, and Heatstroke discovered they had tails when a third wrapped its appendage around his exposed knee. It pulled him off balance and the one sailing through the air sliced his cheek with a sharpened foot. Both puffed into smoke a moment later when he punched down into the one wrapped around his leg and caught the other in his white hot palm. He hurled the mysterious beast into another of its kind and then scanned the room for threats, calling out the hostages ringing the room.
“Everyone still alive? Did you see who did this or where they went?”
The clump of hostages nearest him waved him over, its members still looking around as if the monsters might emerge from the shadows again at any moment. A woman with bright brown eyes held half of a ripped shirt against a nasty looking cut, and a younger man explained that the woman responsible had burst through the wide building unannounced and unprovoked. She'd summoned a dozen of the monsters he'd fought before subduing the building's meager security and leaving most of the monsters to guard the hostages. Another employee interrupted to describe the woman, and the one who'd spoken before nodded along.
“Big purple hat, purple clothes, and glowing eyes.” They all agreed about her eyes. They bickered loudly about her stature and complexion and exactly what she'd told them. Heatstroke let them talk, already signaling for a paramedic.
“Ok, great. Aside from shadow monsters, what did she do?” He asked. The sunlight bounced off his gear: boots reminiscent of hard armor plates affixed to boxing boots, a thick belt around his flared shorts that left room for his thick calves to see the sun, an armored breastplate that stopped just below his ribs and just before his shoulders but featured a high collar that nearly covered his chin, and armored gloves that stopped at his knuckles as to not hamper the sunlight that gathered in his fingertips. He'd consulted with a few designers and manufacturers on how to maximize protection without impeding his brawling, kickboxing fighting style or covering too much of the bare brown skin that turned sunlight into superhuman abilities.
He'd picked the colors—a deep red and pure white with vivid yellow details—to further emphasize his solar powers and draw attention. And also because he thought the entire thing looked badass when put together.
The initial report, the one he'd responded to when he accepted this job, didn't identify her as any known meta, hero, villain, or otherwise. That was rare but not unheard of, but he wanted some foresight about who he was about to apprehend and if or how they might resist. Even boxers studied tape of their opponents to prepare for a match.
The chatter grew louder as the worried victims each tried to speak over each other. The brawny hero heard no fewer than a dozen terrified and conflicting accounts of what this woman had done or said and what she was capable of. the only thing that they agreed about was that she'd headed upstairs, into the R&D department. A vicious rumbling interrupted his investigation and sent the room into violent cacophany as people huddled on the ground. Screaming and wailing, the tall, atheltic hero quickly decided that he had no better option than to investigate on his own. It was no secret that the Kinetic Solutions—the superhero team he led— were recommended for the jobs likely too violent for other teams. Nails in need of a team of hammers. He checked his armor—red and white with yellow accents in a clear artistic interpretation of the Sun that powered him— and jogged toward the stairs.
What's her hazard rating right now? He wondered, checking his phone. The Hazard system, long used as a rough guide, informed what level of response he could reasonably justify. A villain who hadn't murdered anyone shouldn't expect lethal force, and neither hero nor villain could claim they “feared for their lives” without serious extenuating circumstances. This woman's No one needed to die today
Shattered glass and twisted metal decorated the stairs. Heatstroke wondered if the damp, unpleasant smell of the stairwell predated this attack or not. He leapt up the center of the stairs, zooming out of his stories high arc and over the railing when he heard the familiar buzz of damaged electronics.
The door presented only token resistance when he pulled it off its hinges and stepped onto the R&D floor of the Meritron Inc building. Smoke poured from ruined devices lining the walls, engineering and science equipment he'd only seen in machine shops and labs. Whoever had been working here had been busy with something. The far side of the room was too obscured by smoke to see clearly, but the high ceilings, thick concrete walls, and sturdy floors of this level made clear that Meritron intended on keeping whatever work was done here close at hand. Heatstroke's brown eyes glowed with the same yellow white light that wound around his dark brown skin in ever changing patterns.
The blue-grey haze 20 feet in front of him was smoke. Natural. Carbon based. The product of burning plastic and silicon. But the smoke pooling behind it?
Magic.
Blocking his vision, denying the illumination pouring off of him. His hands glowed and Heatstroke braced himself, bobbing and shifting in his stance to present a moving target. He threw a single bolt of solar energy into the smoke, angling it towards the floor to hopefully avoid any further damage. It burst against the tile and spread a harsh glow that illuminated her silhouette in the smoke
“If you're in there, this is your chance to come out, hands up, and keep this simple.” He said.
A door opened in the deep grey smoke, like curtains parting. And then she appeared. He saw her eyes first: her irises were yellow discs sent against the deep black abyss of her pupils and sclera. The effect was chilling, inhuman. She stared at him behind thick, golden framed glasses, and a curious smile spread across her dark brown face. Her cheeks were soft and round, as was the rest of her. Her visage clarified as he approached her. She was small, with a deep purple dress inlaid with gold glyphs that stretched over her generous curves. He looked over her quickly, noting the purple fog blanketing the floor around her. The purple hat and cape gave her the distinct image of a sorcerer or a witch, but her heavy gloves and boots suggested someone much more accustomed to hand to hand combat.
She stared at him, hard, for a long while before saying anything. He figured she was sizing him up the same as he was her. “You first responder heroes are never any fun.” she said, resting her chin in her palm and folding that arm over the other. “Go call for backup and tell them to bring me a challenge.” She dropped something from her hand and it disappeared into the split cloak waving behind and below her without a sound. Then she dismissed him with a wave and turned around, returning to whatever she'd been doing when he'd arrived.
Heatstroke gritted his teeth but kept his emotions in check. He'd done this for too many years for such a simple barb to get under his skin.
“Joke's on you, witch; when I'm the first responder, I'm the only response they need.” He knew exactly how 'witch' sounded and relished the wide eyed rage that flashed across her admittedly pretty brown face. Even with her long purple and black braids partially blocking her face, there was beauty there. Only those inhuman eyes ruined the effect. A reminder that she wasn’t just a pretty thicc woman in a revealing dress.
“Oh?” The tendrils of smoke beneath the woman tightened and coalesced as she turned to face him again, and he noticed now that she was floating. Likely mere centimeters above the ground, but the visual of her bobbing up and down made it clear that she wasn't standing on solid ground. She unfolded and crossed her arms and regarded him with what looked like intrigue. “Tell me more, hero.” He noticed her fingers waggling but ignored it.
Now it was Heatstroke's turn to regard someone with intrigue and interest. “You're new in town, huh? Pretty sure they have wifi in the jails now. When you get there, look up “Kinetic Solutions. Last I heard I was the man in this city. Ask about me. As a matter of fact...”
He lost himself in his own introduction. Who wouldn't? He'd led the city's— no, the state's— most dangerous superhero team for almost 3 years. He was tall, dark, handsome, and as skilled at tactics as he was as scrapping. He was squad leader for a reason. His solar powers made him sturdy, dangerous, mobile, and let him be as aggressive as he wanted. He didn't even have them on yet. His bands weren't even glowing right now. And-
And then she was flying toward him, knees first, yelling what sounded distinctly like “Malus Meteora.”
He felt her shins on his shoulders, and braced, and then felt something around his ankle. Hands. Cold shadowy hands. And then he toppled over onto his back and got a much clearer view of the witch rampaging through Meritron's R&D facility. She sat on his hard chestplate, her full body weight on top of him. She was heavier than she looked. Solid. And surprisingly muscular beneath the soft squish of her thighs. Her dark brown skin contrasted with the rich purple and gold of her skimpy robes. The slit on each side put her wide, curvy hips on full display. From this angle, trapped beneath her, he couldn't see her face, not with her massive chest obscuring her view. Each breast looked like it might be just a little larger than her head. But when she leaned forward. It was her eyes that caught him and held his attention. Her irises glowed, golden halos set against the night sky of her jet black sclera. A demon's gaze, nearly hidden by her curtain of black and purple twists spilling out of her witch hat.
This was dangerous. She'd pinned him immediately, gotten the drop on him while he'd gotten lost bragging about himself. She was almost certainly going to try and incapacitate him here. The thought of a genuine brawl excited him like little else could, and Heatstroke watched her expression curdle as she looked down on him.
“Glad to know heroes here love the sound of their own voices as much as they do everywhere else. Sorry to cut this short, hero, but I'm in a time crunch. Any last words before I turn you into an unpleasant memory?” She stretched out her arm above him, fingers curling to contain a rapidly growing black hole that churned and seethed in her palm, a miasma of energy from an unknown source. He didn't have to understand its origin or mechanism to know that he wouldn't enjoy her shoving it into his face. She caressed his jaw with her other hand. “It is a pity though. You're cute, in a 'big dumb idiot' kind of way. I would have had a lot of fun playing with you until you broke like a cheap toy.”
“Just one.” He said. Her eyes narrowed at him. “Mind if I turn my powers on?”
Heatstroke didn't give her a chance to respond. Instead, the burst of light and heat flung her away from him, directly up into the air. The two shadow servants disappeared in the flash while he rolled away and onto his feet, body now coursing with his sunlit powers. The white gold bands of light pulsed and shifted across his skin in changing patterns, a human light show.
“Sorry.” He said, cracking his knuckles. “That was rude as fuck, but goddam is that shit funny. “'Some hero you are.' 'Man you're weak.' Yada yada.” he laughed in a mocking tone. “Then I turn the lights on and they start running like roaches.”
In front of him, the curvy, dark skinned witch had righted herself, smoothing out her dress and already mumbling a spell. She didn't have any words for him this time, and Heatstroke fell into his familiar stance, looking to close the distance and bring his sunlight charged fists to bear. Or a knee, maybe a spinning elbow. He wasn't especially picky about how he hit her, or even if he made direct contact. Light and heat poured off his limbs in sufficient amount to turn near misses into painful reminders for opponents to keep their distance from the Sun. To his surprise though, she didn't flee. Most spellcasters preferred to keep their distance to give them more time to react with the proper incantation. This one bent forward in a half-crouch, hands spread out wide like a...
Like a wrestler?
There was a first time for everything. They met in the center of the room when she ducked his wide, arcing punch to launch herself at his waist. He felt her arms wrap around him, soft and smooth until the muscles beneath tensed as the diminutive witch hauled him off his feet and onto her shoulders. She capsized, falling to her side to drive him headfirst into the cold tile of the research lab. They fell much further than he expected, than they should have, until Heatstroke saw the now disintegrating puff of obsidian colored magic that must have catapulted them both into the air. The impact sent an ugly thud resounding through the drafty room and rattled him. Then two shadow beasts he hadn't seen darkened his vision and stomped him like they were trying to squash a roach. He drew his arms up to cover his face but otherwise ignored them. The witch kneeling near him was the bigger issue. The eerie purple glow emanating from her body and especially her hands hurt just from touching him, and he recognized the danger immediately. Whatever spell pulsed around her seemed concentrated around her body. No wonder she wanted to wrestle. It ate at him, sapped him, even as her massive chest squished against his bare abs.
“What's wrong, hero? You don't look so hot.” She said, already trying to roll him over onto his stomach. Heatstroke braced himself and fought free, she lunged at him again, and this time he caught her with a sharp punch that stunned her long enough for him to back away and shake off the lingering traces of her spell.
They both caught their breath, and he strafed and circled as she walked straight towards him, brimming with menace and confidence. She could summon seemingly endless amounts of those shadow beasts on a whim, and the purple smoke that trailed her and her ominous purple energy crackling around her both seemed to eat at his vitality. It looked bad, no matter how he considered it?
Did he need to call for backup? At least one of the other five members of Kinetic Solutions was likely available if he needed it.
But pride might be harder to defeat than this woman was. He didn't need anyone. Not for a one-on-one against a spellcaster who didn't even know his powers. Instead he considered tactics and possibilities. What hadn't he tried yet? Ideas raced through his head as he parried her advances, throwing small bursts of sunlight at the horde of shadows that stepped forward from the edge of the room. She taunted him but that could wait. A vaguely hand-shaped spark of energy raced out toward him and Heatstroke made up his mind. The latest spell raced past him as he ducked beneath it, surging toward the caster as he delivered his first solid punches of their fight. The third blow erupted in a pulse of sunlight that sent the woman skidding along the cold floor of the R&D lab until one of the shadow creatures caught her and turned her upright. She might be as sturdy as she was haughty, but he bet that this small, voluptuous woman couldn't absorb many of the strikes that had sent larger villains flying and stopped armored vehicles in their tracks.
“You have a name?” He asked. “Or a callsign at least?”
“You can call me... Demise.” She said after taking a moment to wipe her face and adjust her glasses.
“Of course I can.” He shook his head. “Edgiest shit ever.”
“Heatstroke doesn't sound very heroic.” She said, circling him again.
“Anything's heroic if you're putting villains away and saving the day.” He swore that disdain flashed across her face as he finished the rhyme.
They circled like two predators fighting for territory, feinting and lunging, firing off bolts and rays of energy in an attempt to force one reaction or another. He caught her as she overextended, tagging her with a jab and a glowing kick before looping his hand behind her head and pulling her close to him. Her short stature and compromised posture pressed her chest against him, her massive chest squishing against his chiseled abs. He caught the shock in her cold black and yellow eyes as he drove his knee into her soft middle and tried to rearrange her face with a blistering right hook that sent a crescent of yellow white light through her and briefly dissipated her smoke cloud..
“You're almost too pretty to hit, nahmean? If you weren't robbing the place I'd be asking for your number.” He admitted, preparing to hit her again.
“If I fuck you, will you let me get off with a warning?” She asked, with a vulnerability he'd never heard from her. It gave him pause. Rumors, some confirmed, of heroes and villains working out extralegal agreements to conclude their hostile engagements persisted, but Heatstroke had never offered. He'd been solicited once, by a villain who'd clearly heard of the practice and thought it might work for them. Heatstroke had impolitely declined before putting them down for the count.
“I-I'm not like that. I didn't show up to fuck you.” He stammered, giving her the moment she needed to turn the tables on him.
“Pity.” She cackled, sliding out of his grip and behind him. “You're pretty hot, and you're good with your hands. I wouldn't mind seeing how good exactly.” Her warm breath tickled his ear and sent a twitch of distraction through him. Magic? He couldn't tell. She wrapped her arms around his waist and pressed her body into his back, smashing her hips into his, her generous chest into his. “If you change your mind, I might just see if you can let me off easy. Or get me off easy.” The implications were as explicit on her long, wet tongue dragging across his hot back. The sensation didn't last long though, not when he felt her pillowy legs wrapped around his neck.She nearly sat on his shoulders, legs tangled around his neck. She fell backwards, trying to use the momentum to drag him backwards off his feet and onto the ground, headfirst, but a mighty effort from his glowing frame kept him upright. The shadow slammed into his calf and sent him toppling. Heatstroke saw the wan fluorescent lights of the laboratory come into view and then disappear as Demise slammed the top of his head into the floor.
The tile cracked with the impact, and Demise maintained her grip. The soft squish of her legs gave way to taught cords of muscle threatening to cut off his blood circulation. She sat on his back and reclined, straining with the effort of grapevining her legs around his thickly muscled neck. Her thighs rubbed against his goatee, and he fought desperately to unwind her limbs. When he made a little progress, she swore aloud and then changed tack. He felt Demise pitch forward, her chest pressed against him. She looped a leg under either of his and slipped her arms under his chin. He didn't recognize the hold until she pulled back, straining his bare abs. Heat fought this hold like the other, and they grunted into strained silence. He looked back at the too-handsy witch and plotted his escape. She cracked an unwelcome smile.
When he looked ahead again there was a shadow beat running at him. He didn't recognize the summoned shadow's intent until it reared back and kicked him square in the face like a soccer player taking a penalty kick. The creatures might not pose a threat to him when he could strike back, but undefended, their blows hurt like any other. Thankfully, the impact was sufficient for the brawny hero to rock backwards and then forward out of Demise's grasp. She didn't pursue him, instead she rested her head in her palm and watched him scramble up onto shaky legs.
“I'm gonna devour you. You realize that yet? You're doomed. Fucked. I'm gonna be your, and this city's-”
“Don't you fucking dare.” He roared, too late to stop her.
”-Demise.” She finished, laughter creasing her dark brown face. “I'm glad you're a sun hero. You're cooked. Well done, in fact. But if you get on your knees and put your face between my thighs, I might let you live. You'll make a delicious pet.”
Something about her taunts was strangely reassuring. A villain who deigned to banter was a villain engaged with the task at hand. She was focused on him. This wasn't easy for her. Now he had to unravel her strategy and put her on the defensive. Ideas already ran through his head as he assessed their fight so far.
“I thought I told you that when I'm the first responder, the city doesn't need a second. I'm having fun with you. This is a great workout. But I'm a big guy: if you want me on my knees, do it yourself, witch.”
The same insult, the same twitch of rage. He'd struck a nerve with that one. He'd have to remember to use that again later. She'd hurt him each time she'd caught him off guard, and he'd need to be more diligent about staying focused on her. Her style was similar to Gamma Crush, his radiation powered teammate, though Gamma's grappling was less technical, less precise. And he dealt with magic on a regular basis courtesy of training with the Emissary, the mage whose pact with an incubus had turned him into a very petite, very unassuming magical hazard. His teammates had prepared him for this. Heatstroke could do this, no matter how heavy his legs felt or how much his head throbbed.
He took the advantage this time, leaping into the cavernous room and then using a burst of solar power to change his direction in midair. He shot downwards like a missile and caught her dead in the face, then knocked the reeling woman off her feet with a charged sun ray.
“I'm Heatstroke, and I don't lose fights.” he promised her, pounded his gloved fist on his cracked armor.
Their battle soon settled into a clear dynamic: they both wanted physical contact on their own terms. She wanted to lift him, slam him, strangle him with those big soft legs of hers. He wanted to turn her into a very pretty punching bag, or target practice for rays of solar energy projected from his fists. His brawn made him difficult to keep down, and his control of his powers gave him the kind of mobility most opponents didn't expect from a man of his size and strength. On the other hand, he couldn't tell exactly what spell or wrestling hold she'd attempt next, and the element of surprise made her dangerous. Her shadows threatened to tip the balance on more than one occasion, and he grew accustomed to evaporating them via bolts of sunlight hurled in their direction each time he had a second to spare. He'd guessed that they were more expensive for Demise to create and maintain than they were for him to destroy, and doing so had the added effect of hampering some of her most vicious spells and techniques. He'd also guessed that direct sunlight would be particularly effective at dissipating summoned shadows.
He still had questions about this mysterious woman, (none the least of which was how her glasses hadn't broken after being punched in the face repeatedly) but all those could be settled after she'd been apprehended.
“You know,” she asked as Heat absorbed a glancing blow from a jumping spinning kick he'd only seen on wrestling shows, “you might think about offering that whole 'sex for freedom' option. You're hot, and I get the feeling you're more of a lover, not a fighter.”
The brawny hero responded with a kick of his own. The blow missed but the arc of light it produced knocked her off balance enough to launch her into the air with a solar uppercut and guarantee her a hard landing with another strike as she fell back towards the floor. Each titanic blow sent waves of blinding light and blistering heat through the distressed building. So much for the typical financial incentive for reducing collateral damage. Demise hit the ground hard enough to bounce against the tile, finally landing face up and eyes closed. She didn't move further, splayed out on the cracked tiles and visible concrete. Heatstroke allowed himself a deep breath as he stood over her. Her sumptuous curves were distracting to say the least. Her soft, chubby waist terminated in hips and thighs each thicker than his impressive biceps. They jiggled softly as her chest rose and fell, but not as visibly as her massive chest. Each labored breath lifted breasts each larger than her head, and she murmured softly, apparently unconscious. With her demonic eyes closed it was easy to admire her face. Rich dark brown skin, large lips that demanded he investigate if they were as soft as they looked, and round cheeks that made her look younger, cuter, than anything else about her did. He guessed she was in her thirties, but considering her magical talents, she might be a hundred years old, concealed by a glamor spell.
“You're cute when you're asleep.” He admitted, but 'cute' was an understatement. She was as gorgeous as she was hazardous, as alluring as she was lethal. He wanted her. Not enough to take her while she was unconscious, but he knew they hadn't seen the last of each other. The surge of desire passed, and he pulled restraints from the pouches on his waist. He knelt by the vicious witch and paused. There was movement on the edge of his vision.
He noticed her fingers wiggling a new spell and mouth murmuring a new incantation a moment before three summoned shadows barrelled into him, knocking him headlong onto the floor. He shook off dust and sat up just in time for the decidedly not-unconscious to collide with him knees first: her shins caught his broad shoulders before her crotch collided flush with his face. They rolled in a heap before she sat on his waist, and Heatstroke cursed his complacency. He should have pummeled her till he was certain she wouldn't be an issue any time soon. The swelling on her eye didn't conceal those unsettling jet black eyes, their yellow irises only serving to make her more scary, not less. He prepared to rely on his grappling training to escape, before she ran her fingers along his chest.
“Awwwww, did the big, scary, hero fall down? That's twice I've hit you with 'Malus Meteora,' Heatstroke; maybe we're both getting used to me pressing my kitty against your face. If you wanted to taste real villainy, you should have asked earlier, champ.”
“God, you talk too much.” Heatstroke said, squirming under her. She was heavier than her short stature suggested, and he wondered if this was also a spell. From her he could just make out the brim of her hat past her prominent bust. The bottom, the inside of the hat's brim swirled with stars and galaxies set against a black sky. It took him a moment to realize that the sky wasn't merely a pattern sewn onto the hat; the sky and stars were moving in her hat, like a window of a night sky. He caught a single shooting star before it disappeared past her breasts and out of view. “Normally that's my job.”
They fought for position, rolling over once and then again, before she eked out a short advantage and pressed her body flat against his. Her chest squished against his cracked chest armor as she fought to pin his broad hands above his head. When she couldn't capture his hands or wrists for more than a moment he watched her lower her head until...
Until their lips met. He didn't expect the kiss, though he immediately discovered that her dark, plump lips were exactly as soft as they looked. Her tongue wiggled past his lips and delivered a taste of villainy he hadn't expected. It was faintly sweet like her breath, with a taste he struggled to place. He wanted her. Needed her. He wanted to taste her, he wanted to touch her, he wanted to fill her. Her grinding on his waist made him uncomfortably aroused and he had grief visions of fucking her in various positions and locales. From behind, the witch bent over a desk. On a bed, the witch on her back, single thigh lifted up to rest on his chest while she made soft, vulnerable moans.
“Ohhh?” Her taunt roused him from his lewd dream. “I wasn't sure that spell would work, but that's not a torch in your pants is it, Heatstroke? Feels like you're more than a little curious about what's under my dress. Be a good boy and I might reward you.”
Heatstroke realized that this was bad. Critically so. Here he was thinking about her mouth while she was trying to put him in the hospital or the morgue en route to making a clean getaway with unknown technology. She might be fine as [i]fuck[i/] but Heatstroke had a [i]fucking[/i] job to do and [i]fucking[/i] wasn't part of it.
He made one last effort and dislodged her with considerable effort.
“An infatuation spell? That hardly seems fair.” He groaned, pushing up to his hands and knees.
“I'm a villain, asshole. Did you expect me to play fair? If you wanna play pattycake, go find some dopey hero. I'm Demise, and Witch Way runs your city now, loser. Tell your little loser ass friends too.”
“Witch way?” He coughed, quickly connecting that Witch Way was likely the name of her group. Her coven? “Run the city? Y'all not even jogging. I've never heard of you.” He stood again, ailing and aching. “But come down to the station with me and I'll make sure we get your squad registered before you do some time in jail, nahmean?”
She rushed at him now, and Heatstroke expected more wrestling from the grappler witch until he noticed the black orb in her open palm, churning and swirling like liquid night.
“Here's your answer!” Demise screamed, and Heatstroke swore as he considered his options. She was too close, moving too fast. He couldn't dodge in time. He was too weak, still recovering from whatever her kiss had done to him. He didn't want to match power against power, especially with only a split second to charge. Instead a surge of churning light swaddled on muscled arm and he deflected her hand as best he could away from his head and heart. He'd live with the consequences.
Probably.
Demise's latest spell hurled them across the room in different directions and Heatstroke lost his bearings before he finally tumbled to a stop. He felt nothing and considered for a moment that he might in fact be dead. Maybe he hadn't survived whatever dark orb she thrust into his chest after all. He felt briefly furious at the idea of dying here, to her, on a job like this. It was insulting.
Then the pain found him and he briefly wished he had died. His body felt like a punctured water bottle, leaking fluid from a new and unwelcome orifice. Whatever she'd done to him was trying to sap him or his solar energy. It was draining him. He wanted to vomit. He wanted to sleep. He wanted to cough. But more than anything, he wanted to win. The pain finally subsided enough for him to stop writhing and stand, stance and armor both severely compromised. He touched his armor, chest and legs both, and found numerous holes in each. His ablative armor had done its job. He bled, but between him and his chestpiece, only the armor had been pierced. The cracked and fraying edges of it threatened to cut the fingers he ran along it, and when he instinctively grabbed his high front collar, the entire thing gave way. The red and white sleeveless crop top armor crumbled in his hands and fell onto the cement floor, looking very much like a shattered porcelain urn.
He swore as he felt the cold air on his bare, brown skin. He flexed, wincing each time his body alerted him to a new tweak, bruise, or strain. At least nothing felt broken. Across the room, Demise didn't look much better than he felt. Her already revealing robe had further tattered and threatened to reveal her deep cleavage and whether she had a thigh gap or not. She wobbled slightly, punchdrunk and winded, while Heatstroke checked his arms. His sun bands had cooled to dull yellow and pulsed in sluggish, lazy waves across his brown muscle. He needed to finish this now. The audience of shadow servants that had originally ringed their fight was now much thinner, and the ones that remained fuzzed and blurred like TV static. She was running on fumes like he was.
She waved him in, steadying herself as he approached. His fists felt heavy and he felt slow, but he had one attack he hadn't tried yet. Heatstroke ducked low and surged forward, coming out of his crouch to wrap his arm around her again. He could feel her tense up, which made it all the more satisfying when he kissed her instead.His hands slid down the curve of her voluptuous frame and he allowed himself a little indulgence as he tasted her, nibbling on her lip, feeling the odd coolness of her soft, doughy waist and the sheer size and impressive shape of her hips. Her tattered dress offered no resistance as his fingers found a purchase on her hip, his broad hand grabbing the sensual crease where the curve of her ass met the curve of her thigh. He felt her gasp, felt the heat in his hands warming her. She resisted, but only at first. The next sound she made was a swooning, purring, moan. As satisfied as a cat napping, basking in the sunlight warming the window sill.
“Ready to give up yet?” He asked between slow kisses.
Her heavy bust pressed into his and he felt just how far her massive breasts could squish, freeing on hand to roam upwards along her dark brown frame. The rest of her was human. So delightfully human. He caressed her neck as they embraced, fighting to keep his own composure as her hands explored his muscles. From his broad shoulders to his chest, chiseled and bare, to the muscular ridges of his waist. She wanted all of him.
Her answer came slowly. An unintelligible but distinctly negative response. He'd expected that after all. Heatstroke nibbled on her neck again and whispered into her ear. “Then you know what comes next.”
“Your demise.” She muttered, eyes glowing once again.
They broke their kiss with a frenzy of action. She deflected his first blow but he caught her cleanly with two lighter punches that knocked her head backwards. She grabbed him, first his torso, then his thigh, and almost tripped him to the ground before disengaging. She turned to leave, but not before he caught hold of her short, high split cape. The same one she'd dropped a peculiar looking device into. It held the same night sky pattern as the underside of her hat, he noticed.
“Ughhhhh you're being unpleasant, Heatstroke! We had our fun, now it's time to go our separate ways.” She said with apparent exhaustion.
“We're not done quite yet, Demise.” He reminded her, still tugging on her cape. The fabric stretched then tore with a loud noise and a puff of magic. Demise kept her footing and spun away from him towards the darkened back wall. Heatstroke took a deep breath and leapt over her, landing within arm's reach. He needed to finish this soon or not at all. He was spent and he knew it.
The supervillain turned and ran in the other direction, towards the set of stairs he'd used. He dashed, sunlight in his steps as he curved around her and ended up back in her way. But the hero realized too late that this latest movement had been a feint, meant to distract him from her preferred path. She was running back towards the back wall after all. The one cloaked in shadow that she'd been standing near when he'd arrived. Now a throng of fading, buzzy shadows leapt into his path now, obstructing his vision. He vaporized them all with a glowing left hook that sent a sputtering wave of light into the air and sought out their creator.
And there she stood. Hands on her knees, panting, gasping. Her curves were more noticeable than usual. She held up a finger in a plea for time to catch her breath. Heatstroke couldn't, wouldn't oblige. They weren't having [i]that[i/] much fun, no matter how attractive she was. He expected a quip from her. He did not expect her to look into his glowing eyes and meow. Not the mimicked sound a human might make, but a full throated, authentic cat noise. He stared at her, and then Demise wasn't Demise anymore.
He was holding a large black cat. Other than the feline he was now alone in a room bereft of shadows or villains. He stood there, holding a cat in one hand and a length of tattered purple fabric in the other, and scanned the room.
He caught only a glimpse of her, but that was enough to see Demise—the real, human one—take a final step and leap through the wall in front of her, which rippled and shimmered like the surface of an ebon pool as she phased through it. He dropped the cat and chased after her, arriving at the same wall she'd used and quickly recognizing that the intense darkness on this side of the room had been the result of a witch’s spell rather than mundane darkness. She’d worked magecraft to black, shadowy plate to cover the gaping hole in the building wall she’d made sometime previously. He punched through it with his light, but staring down into the busy street below he could find no trace of the woman.
Demise had escaped.
He spun around and her cat too, was gone. He yelled with frustration and pounded the wall with his fist before deactivating his powers and slumping to the ground. All he had of her was her taste and the cape in his hands, tattered and torn. He looked at it and sighed. It would have to do.
“So Demise, huh? This city just got a lot more interesting...” “So what happened at Meritron?” 10-Count asked over breakfast the next morning. The Kinetic Solutions headquarters was modest, but well equipped to house its team of 6 superheroes and a small contingent of staff dedicated to the team’s success.
This morning the two superheroes sat in the chow hall in relative silence, save a TV playing the latest news. Jessica Nguyen, known to the world as '10-Count,' was an aggressive, determined superhero, enough so to stand out on a team full of them. She wasn’t the oldest or most experienced or the most socially adept, but the woman recognized a weakness when she saw one and knew how to exploit it.
Heatstroke looked up from his hot cereal. “C'mon Jess. Not now.”
Jessica looked away, and then the solar powered brawler returned to his meal.
“So Cal, what happened at Meritron yesterday?” Heatstroke heard her clearer this time for everything she said nonverbally: the way she used his government name, the curt tone in her voice, and the way she now specified the location and date. He might be the group's field leader, but 10-Count was the enforcer on a team full of superpowered enforcers. Heatstroke outranked her, and could make her drop it, but pulling rank over a debrief would be more trouble than it was worth. Instead, the bruised and weary solar powered hero acquiesced. He could give a little now and get a little more back from her later.
The dull ache in his skull and back had ruined enough of his sleep that he didn't feel like fighting her over this. Come to think of it, the dull aches plaguing him were likely what she wanted to talk about. The shredded cape he'd pulled off of Demise sat in a tattered heap next to him on the cafeteria table. He doubted 10-Count recognized it as such.
“Sure,” he said, reaching past the strap of his white tank top undershirt to rub his traps and shoulder. “She was there when I got on the scene. Took care of her magical... shadows or whatever and called in a medevac for the civilians. She didn't care, didn't try to use the employees as hostages. You'd think she tied 'em up and forgot about 'em.”
Calvin saw curiosity bloom in her brown eyes, partially hidden as they were by her short, wavy hair.
“So what was she there for?”
“Fuck if I know. You know Meritron ain't saying shit either. But I caught her pulling some shit out of a container in their third floor lab.”
Jessica motioned for him to keep talking.
“She dropped it into her cape.”
“Like, her pocket? Gamma Crush said you brought her cape back with you.”
“Nah. Not quite.” Calvin gestured at the witch's cape. “You see any pockets on that thing?” He failed to conceal his frustration or fatigue. “When she was wearing it the inside looked different. It glowed. Had stars on it like a night sky.”
The short, athletic woman stared at him, uncomprehending. “So what. Magic?”
“I mean, she had no shortage of spells for me. But once I ripped it off of her-”
“The spell dissipated?”
They shrugged at each other. That was as far as deduction could take them.
“Yeah, basically. I wanna ask Em about it. Where is he?”
Jessica's scrunched up face and exaggerated shrug was all the answer Calvin needed.
Emile Collet, better known as the Emissary, served as the Kinetic Solution's only current magical expert. The man was an antisocial jackass even by their loosened standards, but Calvin couldn't deny that the caustic little jackass was their best bet at determining what the hell had happened to the cape.
“So the job went sideways and lil' miss witchy-poo gave you the business.” Jessica was teasing him now and he knew it. “Bet you wish you called for backup now, huh Cal?”
Hand-to-hand combat excellence was a prerequisite for Kinetic Solution membership, but 10-Count surpassed even that. She might not have the other skills necessary to be team leader yet, but being the best fighter on the team was a constant debate and a point of pride for all six of their team's current members.
Calvin swore at her first. Then he explained what Demise had done, or tried to. She and her ‘Witch Way’ coven represented new forces acting on the already delicate balance of superhumans in the city and beyond. A new team capable of going toe to toe with the Kinetic Solutions threatened everything they'd built, including their reputation as the city's foremost fighters. He omitted, however, any mention of Demise's physique or the way she'd groped, kissed, taunted him. He wanted her he realized, or at least he had during their brief encounter. He'd more than wanted her. He'd needed her. Their last kiss had been one he'd initiated, and he couldn't lie to even himself that he'd done so solely to recover what she'd stolen. He'd kissed her to keep her from leaving.
But 10-Count didn't think that way about anyone, and mentioning his brief infatuation with the voluptuous witch would only make her doubt his judgement. As far as Jessica needed to know, Demise was just a wrestler with magical powers who’d squabbled with him before escaping. He snapped at her, fully aware of his exhaustion now.
“But anyways... a wrestler witch, huh?” The lithe Vietnamese woman took a moment to consider the possibility. “So like, a battle mage, combat witch kind of vibe. Like a magus or a warlock I guess. But I've never heard of one fighting barehanded.”
“First time for everything.” He said.
10-Count nodded. “Gotta love it. That's the superhuman world for you. If she's as sturdy as you say she is, I can't wait to get my hands on her.”
“Be careful. I hit her with the same punch that put Mac Mortar down. But she got up. I don't know if it's a dark magic vs Sun power thing or what, but you can bet I'm gonna find the fuck out.”
“Someone's touchy. You want your lick back, don't you?” Jessica shot him a devious smile.
Calvin nodded. “Damn right. I owe that witch some bruises.”
#Writing #FirstDraft #Series #SFW #HotDarkLoveStory #HDLS #Fiction #Romance #Action #Fight #Magic #Superheroes #MartialArts
