Salt Forged Stories

So much for an easy first job.

Demise had run this playbook before: A quiet heist conducted while the city's heroes were busy elsewhere. Pacify the local civilians, collect whatever item had attracted her attention, and leave quickly and quietly. A clean first job. She'd learned from her previous mistake. Experience had sanded down the rough edges of her procedure until even a heroic response didn't phase her. She'd dismissed Thundriana in less than 3 minutes when she attempted to stop her in Eagleton. She'd put the Pale Strider in the hospital for trying to keep her from snatching the Rabanastre Diamond. Heroes were goofy, sanctimonious, predictable. Barely even worth her time.

She'd assumed the same of the fierce looking Black man in the red and white armor who'd accosted her in the R&D facility of the Meritron Building. He was tall, muscular, and as cocky as the rest. Demise remembered yawning before dropping the stellar engine she'd stolen into the starry abyss of her coat. She'd barely felt anything at all when she'd cast her favorite spell and hurled toward him. Malus Meteora sent her flying through the air and to take her target down with meteoric force. Despite her knees on his shoulders and the solar powered superhero's warm face between her thick thighs, Demise had barely felt anything at all. Heatstroke, as he'd introduced himself, was uncommonly attractive, but she remained unconvinced that he was uncommonly smart or strong. Defeating him, embarrassing him, would be like going through the motions, and she wouldn't feel anything at all doing so. It was all so mundane.

Then he'd proved her wrong. Repeatedly. The Black women with mystical powers hated this man in a way she struggled to fully articulate. It was something in the way he called her a “witch” and said it like a pejorative. The way he kept staring at her chest, or her thighs, or her eyes like some horny, disgusting voyeur. The cocky way he joked as they traded blows. Heatstroke was so goddamn sure of himself. All of it lit something in her, excited her. She'd already hit him with much of her repertoire, including using her summoned shadow servants to bolster her own techniques. She'd put him through the ringer from the very first. And he'd kept getting up, as obnoxious as ever.

He took her best shots and hit her with the kind of power that defied easy hyperbole. He didn't “hit like a truck,” and he didn't have “monstrous strength.” This Heatstroke had already proven he was better, stronger than any of that; he was a real fighter in the superpowered sense. It was the way he moved in his stance, steady and balanced. The way he threw feints and paced his stamina and whatever powers he possessed. He was game for a fucking fight, and the sensation was intoxicating. No distractions, no objectives, no mercy. Demise loved the heat in her blood, the warmth spreading throughout her curvy frame, the glee that came from hurting someone who dared to stand up to her. The 33 year-old witch savored this chance to get to fight without worrying about the rest of the coven getting in the way of her fun, or getting themselves hurt. She wanted to make her name off of his and establish a new threat here on the sunny Southern California Coast. She didn't know much about Heatstroke but she knew she wanted to beat him senseless. She didn't need her thick glasses to see that this man was a challenge and a threat.

And WitchWay's field leader and resident Combat Witch fucking loved every moment of this. It reminded her of why she'd picked this line of work, why she'd been comfortable operating on the wrong side of the law. She was bad. Demise wanted to take all of his strength and pride and joy and crush it. She wanted to hear Heatstroke whimper and watch him cower and see the look in his eyes that said he regretted crossing her. She wanted to have her way with him. She wanted to break Heatstroke and let his humiliation serve as her fearsome introduction to this city. And if he were lucky, maybe she'd have some fun with him before someone came to cart him off. She certainly had enjoyed the feeling of his warm face between her thighs. If his dick was as hard and hot as the rest of him she might just leave him alive after she'd emptied him out.

But as she wrapped her legs around him in midair and spun him to the ground hard enough to crack the tile and leave a crater, the short, curvaceous combat caster had to face a dispiriting truth: Heatstroke didn't stay down. Not when she bounced him off the wall of the laboratory, not when three summoned shadows hit him with consecutive diving elbows, not even when she taunted him about the ass kicking she was delivering. No, instead the musclebound hero stood up, nearly blinded her with a flash of light, and then hit her hard enough that Demise worried he might have knocked a spell out of her memory.

She heard him standing over her, certain he'd won, never noticing the spell she was weaving. Commanding her shadows was second nature and she could do it with her eyes closed. The taunting? The taunting came naturally. With talent and strength and desires like hers, she had the liberty to say whatever she wanted, take whatever she wanted. But he lit something inside her, something bloodthirsty and insatiable. Something she had to fight to keep control of her own desires. Each time she adjusted her wide brimmed hat or glasses or braids was an attempt to keep her burgeoning desires in check. But she didn't want to fuck him.

Demise wanted to annihilate him.

She felt it in her veins, flowing as surely as her magic. She wanted to consume him. He looked worse for wear, his brightly colors clothes and glowing body each bearing the marks of her punishment. But the harder she fought, the harder this cocky superhero hit her in return. The brawny, athletic Black man wasn't ceding any ground while the short, stocky Black witch steadily burned through her mana and her ideas to demolish or demoralize him. And so when they tumbled on the ground for the umpteenth time, she swerved. When she couldn't fully pin him beneath her, she kissed him. The feeling of her lips on his, her chest against hers was almost as gratifying as feeling him go limp. The taste of his mouth was as delicious as his surprise. She adjusted her broad brimmed witch hat and grinned down at him, black and yellow braids falling down around her chubby face, black sclera eyes staring imperiously at him.

It wasn't fair. She'd changed the rules of their conflict on a whim with no warning, adding eroticism to what'd been a simple fight, simply because she'd wanted to. But that was her ethos: doing whatever she wanted, whenever she wanted, and destroying anyone who dared challenge her. It was why she'd never seriously considered working as a hero. Goody two shoes like Heatstroke didn't get to do things like this. They had rules and procedures and limitations. She had whatever her mind could conceive. Demise seized her moment, pitching forward and trying to choke him with one of her favorite techniques. When Heatstroke fought her complicated maneuver, the frustrated witch wrapped her arms behind his head and pulled him deep into her massive cleavage.

There was more than one way to choke a hero, after all.

But the heat from his face sent an immodest shiver through her chest and between her legs. Fully seated on his waist, Demise felt the rippling muscles of his hips and thighs strained her hips. Just straddling him was a stretch. But Heatstroke's warmth didn't stop at his face. Demise stifled a gasp of her own and kissed him harder, grinding her lips against his abs just to see the shocked look on his stupid face. She especially savored the delicious moment he lost sight of their fight. She knew what enchantment she'd placed on her lipstick, and his subtle, unseemly moan made no secret of what he wanted to do with her, to her.

Fucking loser.

“Ohhh? I wasn't sure that spell would work, but that's not a torch in your pants is it, Heatstroke? Be a good boy and I might reward you.” She teased him, gesturing at her massive chest to further emphasize her body even as she denied him. An obnoxious man like Heatstroke deserved to writhe with unmet need forever, begging for mercy that she'd never give him.

But even that abuse didn't put him down and out. Instead he, woozy and distant, muttered some unintelligible bullshit and pushed him off of her with a strength that was frankly insulting. How was he this strong, even after the beating he'd endured, and the effects of her enchanted lips?

The 33 year-old villainess knew her strengths: she'd overpowered heroes three times her size, and just last month her kisses had turned the pair of thieves who'd tried to double-cross her into needy, drooling sluts crawling over each other for the chance to worship her.

So what made Heatstroke so agonizingly different? She wanted to know, if only before she ruined it, before she despised him. But Demise recognized the grim reality of the situation. Her mana reserves were rapidly depleting and she was no closer to escaping or destroying the sole hero she'd encountered. The realization was sobering, and whatever fire she'd harbored while fighting him had died, smothered by the uncomfortable realization that anyone who arrived on the scene with powers wouldn't be there to help her. At best they'd be greedy villains who'd demand a cut of her take in exchange for help. At worst they'd be whatever this hotheaded asshole counted as friends. Meanwhile, she'd come here for some lawless fun and to start the first of what would surely be many lucrative high profile thefts in this sprawling metropolis. The deceptively strong witch needed to escape now, while she still had her wits, mana and the prototype stellar engine she'd stolen moments before he arrived.

And so the sinister Black woman considered what spellstrikes she hadn't tried yet. The Umbra Driver, a fearsome combination of magical and wrestling acumen, wasn't the kind of move you merely walked away from. She relished the thought of leaving this bright eyed nuisance half buried in the floor as she offered the last words and thoughts he'd ever elicit. But the spell was complicated to weave and harder still to perform. Its substantial costs also meant she'd only get one attempt at it. The risk of burning out her reserves and collapsing somewhere in the city before even securing her ill gotten gains was too great.

No, the thirty-three year old Black witch needed something a little more... measured. And so she began considering alternatives. And when Heatstroke struggled to his feat, she envisioned his defeat. It took the form of a tightly coiled ball of dark magic, churning and vibrating with frenetic energy. Cupped in her palm, the purple-black mass buzzed angrily like TV static. She stared at her work and smiled. Then she leapt at him, enjoying the fear in his glowing eyes as she plunged it into his chest.

---

The curvy, sneering haughty witch didn't remember leaving her feet or hitting the floor. But there she was, pushing up to her hands and knees, coughing and sputtering and swearing and bleeding. Her eye had swollen enough to obstruct her vision, and her cheek and ribs ached. Her head rang like a telephone and her veins throbbed. It was absolutely infuriating. How the hell had the first hero she'd met in this godforsaken city pushed her to her absolute limit? Inconceivable.

Worse yet, this asshole couldn't even die right. Instead he'd deflected the spellstrike at the last possible moment, turning a lethal strike into a devastating one. For both of them. Whatever solar power enveloped him tightened at the last moment and reacted violently to the concentrated mass of dark magic she'd summoned.

Now she heard him murmuring, beginning to wake. Demise decided then and there that fighting Heatstroke was no longer fun, satisfying or lucrative. He stood, armor cracked, hero swaying, and Demise felt an unwelcome pang of arousal shoot through her. The blood and bruises marring his frame did nothing to obscure his good looks. If anything, seeing him battered and ailing only made her want him more. The broad bands on his skin had dulled to pale yellow, and he swayed on unsteady feet. She'd done that to him. She wanted to finish things between them.

Demise waved him in, losing herself in the heat of the moment. In him. She swung at him, annoyed by her own lethargy, only for him to grapple willingly with her. She'd never be too tired to drop a loser on his head.

And then he kissed her, and her plans changed again. He tasted nice, the sweat on her lips and the warmth of his tongue. She wanted him, the strength of his hands on her bountiful hips, the way he squeezed her like she was his already. It was presumptive and bold and she didn't hate it. He'd stood up to her and meant it, lasted in a way few others could, or had. This could be a consolation prize before she conquered him. Heatstroke, this brawny hero, grabbed her bare ass, slipping his hand underneath her torn dress. She gasped, stifled a moan, and fought to maintain her composure, and to think about anything but her burgeoning lust. They kissed, once, and then again: slow, wet, sloppy kisses exchanged by opponents who'd each expected a quick, decisive victory.

She hated how much she wanted this, liked this sensation. Her hands explored him, touching him in ways she hadn't been able to while trying to physically overpower him, doing things she simply couldn't while summoning servants to help her slam, stomp, twist, and choke him. She wanted him, she decided. But she needed to leave. Now.

He'd asked her if she was ready to give up. He must have known how she would answer.

“So what comes next?” He'd asked her. And the Field leader for WitchWay drew on every ounce of her training as a combat witch.

“Your demise.”

She'd left her familiar as a lookout, tasking the enchanted creature with watching for anyone with enough power to interfere with her ongoing robbery. At least, anyone else. Now she spoke to it without words with a bond only the two of them understood. The creature was a fount of mana and Demise needed every drop of it.

The haughty spellstriker summoned her last few shadows, pitiful, threadbare things barely held together like poorly sewn dolls. While they engaged the weary hero, Demise ran, touched her black cat familiar and weaved, a familiar, desperate spell.

Magic wrapped around the beast, turned her familiar into a facsimile of her current appearance. She placed her hand on the black cat's head and suddenly beheld herself instead of the creature. Her familiar still couldn't talk; it was only a cat, albeit a magical one, but the important thing was that her beloved pet looked exactly like she did right now. On one hand this made it a convincing decoy. On the other hand, the sight was frankly disconcerting

Her black and purple braids were frayed, singed, torn. Her cheek was swollen. Her dress had ripped in several places and afforded her precious little modesty. Her heaving breasts strained the now ripped fabric, and her hat and cape both had rips and tears in the night sky fabric. Bruises marred her beautiful dark brown skin and one eye looked swollen. This was not a haughty, conquering witch. No, the Demise she beheld in front of her had been in a fucking fight with a truly fearsome.

And survived. Maybe even won.

She nodded at the familiar-turned-facsimile and fled. Behind her, the hero tore through the last of her summoned shadows. The short, stocky witch felt Heatstroke pull on her threadbare cape. “Get your fucking hands off me!” She yelled, pulling away from him. The fabric gave way and she heard it rip before she broke into a full sprint. “Bitchass!” She offered one last insult and dove through the illusory plate of jet black shadow at the end of the room.

When the black abyss finally parted, she emerged onto a busy street. The witch ducked into an alley, out of sight, and paused to catch her breath. What a fucking ordeal. When her pulse finally slowed, Demise gathered herself, pulling the hat off her head and reaching into the night sky of its underside. The fabric was deeply enchanted, less a fashion accessory than a portal, and her hand vanished into it as she scrounged around the void of starry space stitched into the underside of her hat.

She finally found what she was looking for, not a moment too soon. Someone had come around the corner into the alley, and she was unwilling to engage anyone while she was so utterly depleted. She might have her pride, but more than anything she still had some sense. Heatstroke hadn't knocked all of that loose at least. The witch pulled out an inky, eerie black circle, and shoved it against the wall. A transportation spell. All she had to do was think of her destination and walk.

She heard yelling behind her but it was too late. They'd never catch her. Instead she thought of the loft her and her coven had leased, spun around to face her mysterious pursuers, and flipped off what ended up being a bunch of young, poorly dressed adults. Heroes perhaps? Mere goofballs? None of it mattered as she fell back into the void and away from the world.

---

“Tea and an ice pack?” The pale woman cackled. “Looks like someone had a rough-”

“Shut up, Mathilda.” Breanna Thompson wasn't in the mood for her teammate's acerbic sense of humor. “It's too early for that shit.”

Mathilda Lundstrom shrugged, and walked past the short Black woman to begin digging into the nearby fridge. “So, two questions, Demise.” Mathilda ran a slender hand through her messy blonde tresses. Her stocky friend eyed her warily, and the two women exchanged glances in their airy loft.

“You get one, Maddie.”

“Did you get the number of the truck that hit you?” Breanna watched her teammate dissolve into ugly cackles.

“That's your question? Not 'did you get the Star Engine?' Not 'did you find out more about the heroes in this city?' Not, 'how are you feeling?” She'd been willing to humor the older woman, but the combination of the oppressive morning light and Mathilda's wisecracks was too much for the cranky witch.

“Honestly? I figured we'd get to the important shit later. You're good for that. That's why we made you coven leader, remember? That way I get to be your wise cracking deputy who handles morale and discipline. And fundraising.”

Breanna didn't know when the lithe Swedish woman had found, or began eating, an apple, but that was the least of her questions right now. Mathilda Lundstrom, known professionally as Overhaul, specialized in transmogrification magic. While Demise had shaped her magic into control of shadows and close range combat, Overhaul focused on turning things into other things. A backpack into a jetpack. A metal box into a car. A pebble into an an apple.

“And also,” Mathilda continued. “I know you, Bre. If you hadn't brough the engine back, we would have known about it. You're a lot of things, but 'a good loser' ain't one of them. Seriously though. The fuck happened to you?” She pulled up a chair, spreading her legs to sit backwards in it. The two woman sat there in the broad, vacant studio. Witch Way's two oldest members, and its longest tenured. Breanna didn't want to be dressed this early, let alone at the studio and conducting buisiness. That annoyed her, but the fact that the other members besides Maddie hadn't shown up yet frustrated her more. She stared across the table at her friend. Maddie had a quirky charm to her, especially when she wasn't covered in her characteristic sheen of motor oil. The woman sat with her arms crossed, open flannel shirt partially covering her soiled tanktop, messy hair spilling out from her backwards cap.

“Less about me.” Breanna's head still ached but the pain was already beginning to dull. She wore a sweater baggy enough to mostly hide her curvaceous physique, paired with short shorts that always seemed too eager to ride up her thighs. The result was something nondescript without being uncomfortable or looking unsightly, helped by a series of charms on her necklace, a nose stud, and a pair of fashionable earrings. She looked like the kind of woman who might live at, or perhaps also run, an artist commune. “So Wwere are the cadets?”

“Abbi Kadabra and Hextasy went out on the town last night. Said something about painting the new town red.” Mathilda laughed. She was now drinking from a porcelain cup. It smelled like good coffee.

“It's not our town, yet.” Breanna's hand tightened around the handle of her own tea cup. The flavor helped ease the tension curling her fingers. Loose leaf, of course. Cherry, and lemon and vanilla. The store she'd bought it from had called it 'Cherry Swirl.' That wasn't too far off.

“Alright. Sounds like we need to talk.

Breanna took a deep breath and pushed her glasses up her nose. Those frames were the only part of her 'Demise' wardrobe that perssisted into her civilian life. Her wide-brimmed, connical hat, sultry dress, and wrestling boots were more 'work outfit' than 'everday gear.' She looked up from her still steaming cup of tea, and then started explaining exactly what had happened the night before. At least, most of it. Breanna had to catch herself a few times, stopping mid-sentence to pointedly elide the most intense of her emotions, as well as the two kisses she'd shared with the hero. She'd expected to literally walk all over him, to embarass him and leave him for the medics to find. Instead he'd matched her,m step for step, and forced her to nearly empty her mana and her bag of tricks to escape.

But even her escape hadn't been absolute. Left entirely unspoken was the fact that she'd seen Heatstroke again that night, if only in her head: the brawny, tenacious hero had crossed her mind more than once while she masturbated in bed, trying to relieve that day's tension. Something about his bright eyes and broad shoulders and the warmth of his face made her tingle even now. In her lewd fantasies he'd been bound by thick tendrils of shadows, powerless to do anything but squirm before she rode his warm, satisfying face to a messy conclusion. It was lewd, and lurid, but that was one fantasy she'd have to keep secret from the rest of her coven.

“I can' t remember the last time you didn't absolutely maul somebody on your first night in a new town. Are you slowing down, Bri?” Mathilda flashed her crooked smile. The two small horns protruding from her forehead didn't ruin the effect. Each member of their coven bore a brand, some physical indication of the pact they'd forged with whatever entity had given them their powers. Breanna didn't regret the pact that gave her her sinister colored eyes. Black sclera and yellow irises were a small price to pay for the kind of power that could disrupt a city. Mathilda's knobby horns were similarly a small cost for powers that let her turn a plastic fork into a plastic explosive, or a sheet of cardboard into a functional parachute. Breanna shook her head, sending her black and purple braids shaking like a curtain of beads. “Same. But it doesn't change anything. We're running the same playbook as always. Art gallery by day, crime ring by night.”

“Technically those both happen at night.” Mathilda said, unable or unwilling to hide her cheeky grin.

“Shut it, Maddie. Anyways, that hero from last night said he was from the “Kinetic Solutions” like that was supposed to mean something. Tell Abbi and Hextasy that if they wanna hit the streets so damn badly, they can go round up some intel on what we're dealing with. I like wins, not surprises.”

“Point taken. I'll make sure Dylan and Stef get the message. So do you have something planned for tonight?”

“Sleep.” Breanna said, once again sounding like the confident leader of a coven of superpowered witches “Tomorrow I want a coven meeting at sunset. We came here because I have a few leads I wanna follow. Also, Maddie, go wherever you go to find all that scrap metal. If we're gonna pull off this 'artist commune' thing, we need to actually make some art. I'm planning an exhibition in a week and a half. Gives us enough time to build a little buzz without making it feel like a spur of the moment thing.”

“Aye aye, captain. Your wish is my command.” Her deputy grinned, and the two women switched to other topics.

“So how are we on cash?”

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