Nemeses (Ourobouran and Praxis)

[Ourobouran]

What do you wear when you go to meet your new nemesis? Something commanding, yet refined, something that exudes confidence but leaves a hint of mystery.

What will he do?

Is he going to reach across the table and take me in right now?

But David also wanted to be friendly. He was a friendly person, outgoing if a little naïve, and he liked to make people comfortable around him. Every person deserved a sense of invitation, a feeling of warmth and connection with whoever they met.

So how would he be commanding yet refined, confident and a little mysterious, while also being welcoming?

He was standing mostly naked in cornflower blue boxers that matched his cornflower blue eyes the bedroom of his cramped apartment. After moving in, David painted the bedroom walls a shade of blue that wanted to be cornflower, but wasn’t, and slouched a little dimly for that reason. The sliding mirror doors to his closet were half open so he could look critically over outfit ideas, reject them, give them a second shot, and reject them again.

Then his alarm went off.

The five minute alarm.

The time for careful decision making was gone now. He looked himself over, less critically than desperately, and realized there was a certain confounding factor. His clothes would need to fit over his suit.

He struggled to pull the tight kevlar woven blue-and-white body glove over his muscular thighs and flexed to pull it over his shoulders. David had all but mortgaged his soul to get it from the Seamstress, a woman who specialized in supersuits that wouldn’t crap out in a hail of gunfire or from a well-aimed plasma burst. Since he struggling to get by, still working a day job and bereft of sponsorship, he’d only been able to get a simple white-on-blue pattern with a large V from the chest down that drew the eyes to his well-turned legs and bulge. The Seamstress had glittering eyes and a smile when she fitted him for it. Next came something bland.

Once he finished dressing David took a final look at himself in the mirror. He’d pulled a paired of black chinos on and tucked in a navy button-up with a cat’s eye pattern. His curly strawberry blonde hair was recently cut, his nose obviously once broken and healed—altogether, bland.

He’d never make it big if he was so bland.

David took the bus to the restaurant, passing yellow cranes working through the night at the city’s feverish pitch. There were superheroes and supervillains and monsters and madmen and secrety societies that dueled with cults and gangsters here. The city was a center for powered activity, for science that crossed over into something else, and the power struggles of the new gods.

David desperately wanted Mr. Magnificent to be a new god, but suspected that he never would be. Chances are his future included a superfan-slash-stalker and eventual retirement into construction. Unless he got a good villain. A nemesis people would remember.

He hopped off the bus, darted around a woman having a fight with a public trash can, and made his way towards the busy, loud pho restaurant he had proposed to his new rival. Whoever she was. He hopped on the encrypted messaging app on his phone and sent her a picture of his torso, the navy blue shirt with its subtle cat’s eye pattern and the white loop over the breast pocket.

So he stood there, in the foyer, like a dingus, putting his hands in his pockets and then taking them out and then deciding that it would be better if he was more casual so he pulled his shirt from out of the front of his pants before no, that was stupid, he had ironed this just yesterday and tucking it back in but now the line would be ruined--

And then she was there.

 

[Praxis]

And there he'd stood. Like a dingus, shifting about like there was ants in his briefs or doubt in his mind. All fussed up over nothing and wearing the good bone structure of the sort of guy she'd like to punch.

Ok, maybe punch was a bit extreme. The likelihood of her cutting herself on those cheekbones of his seemed high anyway. While a good raking -three claws, no more- would probably be more satisfying. Broken, dagger-tipped nails included.

Leave him with something that would show. People usually remembered things that embarrassed them.

Even still, what was he expecting from this? He had the look of a Pos Three, at least; blonde curls and stupid posture suggesting a skosh in the direction toward three and a half. Anything more and he'd have already been sponsored instead of slumming his way through whatever the dregs had to offer.

Dregs. Like her. A Neg Two with proclivities that suggested trouble if provoked. Manipulative and highly choreographed bouts sub-psychotic rage if cornered. The sort of girl who'd show up twenty minutes early and scope out the foyer. Waiting for whatever dingus arranged to meet at a crowded restaurant to show up in ...what?

Chinos and a pressed shirt?

Did his belt match? It did.

Oh. My. God.

"Fuck." She'd hissed, knowing it was him before her phone even pinged. She swiped at the screen, swaying from her place, perched along the scaffolding of a nearby construction base and looked down at his notification.

"Mr. Magnificent." It hadn't sounded any better being spoken by her own lips.

Huffing, Tres hopped to the street below and went to join him, his matching belt and later's bus fare.

~​

"What was all that? Before, by the door. All the fidgeting around." She was waving a pointed index finger at him. They'd settled into a horrible table crammed next to a street facing window and every few moments a passing waiter or patron would bump her elbow as they went.

"Also, shitty location. Do you live in the city? Or did you just pick literally the worst place on the East end?"

She certainly looked the part. If drop-dead gorgeous, strawberry-blonde bombshell with twitchy eyes and a permanent scowl was what she'd been aiming for that morning. The feathered collar of her long, black coat mingled well with golden curls that looked closer to their red hues in the mix of evening and neon. Pretty enough. Conceivably more so had she not the expression of someone who'd just sucked a lemon or was perhaps working up something mean to say.

"Nice shirt, I guess?"

The latter, apparently.

Tres groaned, leaning forward to rub at the pits of her eyes with palms. "This is sad, right? This. What we're doing." Laughing dryly, he'd watch her expression go sour again as she slapped viciously at a drunk who'd stumbled a bit too long.

"I mean, fuck! You're a -what, Pos Three? What the hell are you even doing here? I'm sure Vitality would sign you. You've got the dumb hair and stupid color scheme to make it work. It's the pay, isn't it? Or the exposure? The fame? The risk? Don't tell me you couldn't find someone. You know, your ...some one."

Settling in her little, plastic chair, she would bring a cylinder to her lips; inhaling a long while before expelling a strawberry scented haze back at him.

"That can't be it. I hate you a little already."

Well, imagine that. She was pretty when she smiled.

 

[Ourobouran]

Maybe landscaping wasn’t so bad. Landscapers got to work in the sun, David definitely liked being in the sun, it gave him this nice tan complexion that emphasized his forearm vascularity and made his smile seem even brighter. His grandmother had immigrated from some European enclave in Morroco and the hint of Arab or Berber or Maghreb in his blood had lent itself to a certain tan. Cape-ing was generally a sort of night business so there wasn’t much opportunity to get a tan unless you were radioactive, but then you were automatically a villain.

David was contemplating how nice he looked with a tan and the merits of radioactivity because he was mortified.

He’d gone into this like he did with ninety-seven percent of everything else: the best of intentions. Now he was trapped on the other side of a small square table, being absently kicked under the table by a supervillain whose named he didn’t even know out of sync with the conversation while she ranted like her boss had chewed her out at work and her ex- had been drunk texting her. People were glancing at them, sidelong, and he experienced a mix of existential terror, fascination, and social anxiety.

When she smiled and the waitress silently delivered their pho, shooting David a look of mixed pity and fascination, he was glad for the momentary respite. Well, and that compelling smile, that something so beautiful could transform Jekyll-like from the ranting woman who had been... Negging him?

Was David being negged?

No.

There’s no way someone would neg him.

That would be just, well, manipulative.

He instinctively smoothed down his shirt and cleared his throat, uncomfortably shifting, before he embarked on something like a defense. “Well, I’m not very... Interesting. You know how it is.

“My power is, uh,” he muttered something, cleared his throat, and spoke low, “I get hard. ... Not like that, I didn’t mean it like that.”

He flushed prettily, embarassed, “So I need someone. Like you.

“Tried out for Vitality, they bounced me. Tried out for New Wave. Bounced. Skirmish, Reign, and even,” he cradled his face with his hands, “Heaven’s Kingdom.”

He raised a finger.

“I was desperate. But!” David brightened up and opened his arms, then narrowed them to point at her, elbows tight against his body in the small space they shared. “We found each other! Think about it. I can already tell you’re a monologuer, probably a really good one, lots of witty repartee, clever, fast.

“You are uh-may-zing. There’s nobody like us on the East End and I live out here because I’m,” don’t say broke don’t say broke don’t say broke, “happy to be where the work takes me.”

While he spoke he dressed his bowl in a neat, circular arrangement with bean sprouts, basil, sliced peppers, and lime. "Pretty good pho, though, right? And it's a family business! Good to support family businesses, welcome people into our communities."

 

[Praxis]

She sure did blink a lot.

Both the short, fluttering sort that might've conveyed confusion and those long, protracted sweeps as he'd began gesticulating at her. These suggesting that she was neither amused nor endeared by his bisque-thick charm and apparent relief at finding her. She hadn't noticed any discernable tan, too distracted by the shape of his shoulders as they rolled from beneath thin fabric. Guessing which would break first; skin or teeth. Who would be first on their knees should they come to blows.

Shrugging off her coat, she looked to be settling in for the meal at the very least. Even if every molecule in her seemed to be grappling with the urge to scratch up that pretty face of his and really cause a scene. If she'd dressed any particular way for their meeting, he could have maybe, possibly, been flattered. It was doubtful someone so outwardly perturbed would bother with quite as much cleavage.

Or a slinky, sleeveless number she may as well have been born in.

This was bad. She'd already managed to insult his clothes, his choice of restaurant and ...what, his hair? She was fairly certain she'd said something about his hair, given the way a particular, front-facing curl was glaring at her from above the shape of his brow.

Did he manicure? Stupid question, of course he did. How often though? How much time does this blowhard devote to mirror time each morning? And how much of that scrutiny would be turned back on her should she choose to acknowledge his offer of purpose? It seemed silly, that so much of his intent should be so readily available to her when all she had to do was click.

“We found each other!"

"Yeah. Lucky us." She replied flatly, flashing him a peculiar combination of gathered lips and intense, green eyes.

"Clever, fast..."

"Yeah, look..." Squinting, shaking her head as though she disagreed. Or was horrendously uncomfortable with praise. Or both.

"You're uh-may-zing."

"What the fuck is wrong with you?"

Probably both.

"Did those dorks over at Heaven's Kingdom send you off with a consolation prize? You know, normally, I'd suggest not taking candy from strangers. But ...in your case, drink the Kool-Aid, slick."

Frowning, she'd reach for her own paper-wrapped cutlery, tearing it open with teeth and taking to stir idly at the steaming bowl. That last bit of her tirade had seemed to shut him up for the moment. Long enough for that slow creep to begin. The one that, usually, corraled her back toward civility. She wanted to apologise, even if it were only with another half hearted smile or dismissive shrug.

She wanted to, yeah.

But that fucking stupid curl was bobbing with each tiny movement he made.

"Mr. Magnificent is a pretty dumb name."

She didn't have much room to criticize. A name meant a lot in their field of work; carrying with it not only the weight of the hero behind it, but too of the stories told. Names like Hyperion, Athena, The Dagger, all rang with something that spoke to any ear and hummed to a tune anyone knew. And she, indecisive as ever, hadn't been able to land on something that rang with her.

Try as she did.

Besides, what catchy title was there for what she did? What clever stage name did an enzyme give itself when everything she touched became brittle? The Corruptor? Too gimmicky. Lady Plague? Please.

Blight?

That one did ring.

"So you get hard, huh?" Slurping a bit of the broth that she'd drowned in a bright, red sauce. "All the time, or just early in the morning?" Another grin, this one hinting further at a sweetness the girl very seldom let show.

 

[Ourobouran]

Drink the Kool-Aid.

If only he could. Heaven’s Kingdom had been a last-ditch effort before David had a hard talk with himself, metaphorically, about what he would do to make it in the game. He wanted to be in a position where he could be a role model and help people but with all the whispers that came out of Heaven’s Kingdom... There was something wrong with the heroes involved in the franchise. A plastic falseness that had always rung hollow to him, the connection to the Quiverfull movement, that time they purchased antiquities stolen by ISIS to stock a biblical museum. At first David had told himself that he would keep his thoughts and feelings on the inside for a few years and get with the program—there was much to be said for being Jesus-like—but after the tryout he had figured that rejection was the best thing that could have happened.

It’s what made him put up the Craigslist ad.

Then this nameless woman that even David hadn’t introduced himself to because her imposing, mountain huge personality had swept him up. With her strawberry blonde hair, green eyes deep enough you could drown in them, a pretty little mouth that gave better than it got. Tres was enrapturing, sharp featured from her expressive mouth to eyes that thundered in opprobrium and approval alike. Even when she lashed out, he wanted to invoke the smile he saw earlier, the little flash that drew her into focus. Even the low-rent Superman was self-aware enough to realize that the discomfort she made flood through him elicited another, different type of response.

Something a little good, a little bad, and very biasing.

The food seemed to calm her down until: “Mr. Magnificent is a pretty dumb name.”

He bit the inside of his lip and winced. She was right, and he knew it. “It is. But it was that or Tough Guy.” It took a lot more than an honest criticism or reality to get the sunny superhero down. With a shrug, David returned to eating the still steaming soup with a wolfish focus.

Right up until she said, “All the time, or just early in the morning?”

Crimson flooded from his cheeks and forehead down to his collar. Chopsticks clattered to the table and rolled to the floor. David’s throat convulsed and squeezed as he choked. He gripped the edges of the table so hard it let out a creak, fingertips leaving indelible imprints on the wood. They weren’t even fighting, and this woman would kill him!

A worthy opponent. The Joker to his Batman, the Red Sickle to his Freedom Raptor.

He coughed up a wad of broth and noodle, tears streaming from his eyes, and stopped gripping the table like it kicked his dog. David wiped his face with a paper napkin and mechanically reached out to grab another set of chopsticks while he felt his resolve solidify.

The curly haired superhero met Tres’ gaze while his color settled, “I’m a little hard all the time.” He winked, ghostly blonde lashes fluttering close like a camera lens.

“What about you?” He tapped the tips of his chopsticks. “Too good at what you do to choke?”

 

[Praxis]

What could she do in response to that? Aside from the obvious; nervously shift in her seat, wish she had more space than a small table could provide and turn to scowl at an overly concerned party opposite. They’d gathered something of an audience from the moment of her first outburst. And though it had settled easily enough, curious eyes never lingered too long elsewhere when such a show was waiting to boil over. They’d been pointing their phones at them, waiting perhaps, for her to spit more acid, be it verbal or physical.

He’d find her face locked in a sort of uncertain limbo as his flush faded and he tried -not too desperately- to guide the conversation back to where it had gone off the rails. Something like a laugh slipped from her lips.

“Wanna see?” She asked, a smirk tugging at one corner of her lips.

There was a fire there, beneath green eyes that were glittering then at the prospect of getting to exercise herself in ways that so often lay dormant. A good stretch, like any indulgence, seemed necessary if she was going to be hitching herself to his …wagon? That hardly seemed accurate. City bus? Didn’t exactly bode well for the handsome, young dingus. But, then again, neither did she.

Slipping an index finger into her mouth, she'd swirl her tongue about it before removing with a loud pop. A totally unnecessary maneuver, but one that she felt added a bit of showmanship to what she was about to do. She lowered to the steaming bowl, piercing the surface with a dagger-tipped, black nail and began to swirl.

"I don't really think they have a word for it," the steam would begin to dissipate. "If what I'm guessing you do is called getting hard, then," colder still, the top layer of the liquid beginning to congeal, "I guess you could say I soften things up." Likely ice cold then, the first, skim-thin layer of bacteria beginning to coalesce. "Break 'em down." Removing her finger, she'd wipe it on a napkin.

The smile that followed was sickeningly sweet.

Death Touch, maybe. That rang.

"Granted, that's soup." Her posture slouched, elbows falling to the table while she stared dejectedly at the now rotten bowl. "Takes a bit more effort for anything bigger. Can do rats well enough. Made a horse sick for about a week," she shrugged, "but he got better."

"Excuse me," she reached to grab at a passing Asian woman who might have worked there. Not hesitating to make contact with the very same hand that'd assigned death. "This," she pointed furiously at the bowl before her, a wild, almost housewife indignance flaring, "is rotten. And we won't be paying for it."

Tres waited for the bewildered woman to go; bowl in hand, before she turned back toward Mr. Magnanimous. Softer somehow, though he would be hard pressed to put a finger on it, clearly her little display had elicited something in the young woman. Something fierce that looked a bit too much like a girl eyeing him with intent from across the table. Eyeing him with an expression of maliciousness scented in strawberry and wreathed in a fabric so thin that even late-night neon could peer through.

His belt matched. Her panties remained in a drawer. How quaint.

"You wanna get out of here? I'm actually ...bad at crowds." And small talk, and basic human decency, and social norms and ...well, people in general.

 

[Ourobouran]

In the light of a demonstration David leaned forward, greedy and excited. “Yes,” he hissed from low in his throat. David watched with rapt attention. His gaze held at her verdant green eyes before falling downwards to her lips as they plumped around her finger; over her chin, down to that cleavage, pausing, tracing her arm to the sharp nail. Her fingers were soft, long, the kind that could wrap around something and squeeze but not crush. David shifted in his seat, pushing the insides of his legs together before wrapping his ankles around the chair legs and scooting forwards. His cat’s eye pattern navy blue button up, ruffled from his earlier antsiness and the brief choking Tres evoked, pressed against the edge of the table.

His breath caught in his throat as the soup cooled, bubbled, clotted—until it was a roiling mess of deadness.

He looked up at her in wonder, blue eyes round and open as if he were looking at Tres for the first time. In a way, he was. He was seeing double the woman. On one side was was the vituperative mouth, toxic eyes, an outfit like a witch, and killing touch. On the other side was a mischievous little smile that made her eyes a forest, half a laugh, soft skin, blonde hair that bounced when she turned her head, lips that begged for a kiss. The real woman was all those things and more.

“A week,” he muttered. David was... He didn’t know, not as big as a horse. Maybe if he’d been able to go to college instead of jumping two feet first into the hero life and floundering for years, he’d know.

Equestrian College. Horse University. Equine Academy.

David was distracting himself from the green and black butterflies in the pit of his stomach.

“Get outta here?” It wasn’t a real question. He stood up so fast his chair tipped back—and he just caught it before it clattered to the ground. He’d been holding his breath. Dumb, David. Focus your breathing.

He righted the chair as he stepped out from the side, nostrils flaring as he pulled in air, held it, and breathed out. Breathing techniques helped with the most disruptive parts of his life, and pre-fight jitters were one of them.

He kind of was a super virgin. He’d only ever fought one other cape, and it was one of those hyper-skilled cat burglar types, no one with actual powers. David lacked the mindset and mobility to find juicy supercrime in action, part of the problem with his asymptotic career trajectory.

Would his skin fall off in sheets? Would cysts and boils erupt across his chest the first time she touched him? He suppressed a shiver of fear and excitement, pushed away a thought about the person that mix made him.

“Time for a little bit of justice.” Another wink and smile.

Weird knot of feelings aside, David wanted to get out of there ASAP. He went to Pho King regularly and wanted to maintain a good relationship with the wait staff. He slid his wallet out of his pocket when he thought Tres wasn’t looking and dropped enough to cover the meal and leave a generous tip.

He followed Tres’ sway out of the restaurant and tried to dim the skip in his step. Even though he was an undeniably large man, armored in muscle and good looks, he had a lightness to his step that betrayed his background in boxing. He did his best not to crowd Tres, not to get too close and bump up against her like he was trying to start the fight early or lay some mark on her.

“There was a brownstone, I was thinking we could go there. Might get some good traction. Zero police response in this neighborhood,” unless there’s someone collecting their dues from a dealer, “but I’m into it if you have a better idea.”

 

[Praxis]

There was no such lightness in her step. Scraping across pavement in a pair of black flats and sucking on her strawberry cylinder she continued to produce from places unknown, she’d only turned once over shoulder to ensure he was still following. Between the wild mane of now almost white girls and the thickly feathered collar of her coat, she certainly appeared quite the witch. Complete with hapless dummy in tow; too distracted by the snarl of fishnets up otherwise bare legs and the promise that she tasted as good as she looked.

She was leading them down Pickering Street, toward Eleventh. Originally, she’d considered a city park on the North side of their burgeoning East End, but it had been mostly destroyed a week prior in a skirmish between The Wasp and Jiang’Shi; a Japanese-American villain who’d made headlines for his apparent lack of concern toward landmark and populace alike. Escaping at the last moment by detonating what the media had dubbed a “Paint bomb” and slathering most of the park in a viscous layer of off-white goop.

Last Tres had heard, his whereabouts were top priority for Vitality and their brand of ultra-righteous crime-stoppers. Apparently, the Mayor had planned an event at the very same city park and was hopping mad about having to change venue with such little warning.

Such were the downfalls of fame. Sooner or later, everyone had a bone to pick.

“Time for a little justice.” She mimicked, her voice dropping to a pitch that came nowhere close to his own. “What was that, a catch phrase? And the wink!?” She cackled, scraping on heels as she turned to, again, pantomime a gesture she’d seen him make, tuckering her elbows against herself and pointing. "Time for a little justice!" Again, harder through the nose that time.

"Nerd!" She'd erupt into a fit of laughter before suddenly grabbing at him, yanking by his shirt front to pull herself forward and up onto the tips of her toes. She doubted she'd be able to move him of her own strength anyway. Studying his face, lips pursed in thought, mapping every smooth line and chiseled feature of him as though she'd finally gotten to lay poisonous hands on Michelangelo's David itself, Tres let a smoldering silence drift around them. Only speaking when the shriek of a police siren interrupted from several blocks over.

"I don't even know where to begin with you." A small grin crept across her lips while eyes continued to flick over his features. Affectionately, maybe. Though, with her, it was ever difficult to tell. "One minute I think you could be the next Hyperion. Two seconds later," she let her eyes drift down and away from his own to somewhere along his chest. Lowering to the soles of her feet, she'd shake her head and send curls in a cascade, "I think you might be the dumbest hero I've ever met." Slipping two fingers beneath the seam of her dress, she'd produce the same fold of bills he'd left back at the Pho King from where they'd rested against her left breast.

"You need to pay more attention, Tough Guy. You can't just punch all of your problems, you know. Gal like me needs the sorta guy who can keep up the pace." Slapping the fold of bills against him, she'd spring backward and continue down an alleyway. Calling once she was a short distance away, "so that's a no. To your request. But..."

Pointing her attention anywhere he wasn't, she'd hum out one last bit. "You could've kissed me just then. I would've let you."

It was a shame, really, that he'd miss the toxic light behind her eyes as she pointed to a third floor window. Dark, but open. "This is me. Forgot my keys in my other tights, I guess." A shrug, eyes darting to the window, the fire escape, to him and back to the window again. "Well?" She asked, showing him open hands of defeat. "Are you going to climb up there and let us in?"

 

[Ourobouran]

It was a good catchphrase! Jovial, friendly--but strong! It was a mission statement and fact alike.

That’s what David told himself.

He also knew he was terrible at branding.

When Tres whirled around and grabbed him, David froze in place. Would this be the attack? While he was out of costume, on the street, passing by white girls and homeless people and young men wearing checkered red and yellow colors. If she rotted off the fibers of his shirt and reveal the costume below he’d be unmasked as a young, dumb superhero working a young, dumb job who was too pathetic to hack it.

His heart raced like he was running a mile and David felt himself grow hard in the burning silence between the two. He was breathing her air as he looked down blue eyes caught between confusion and stark consideration. This is how his whole career would end—he hardened, firmed up against the outside world, to defend himself from an attack he knew was coming.

He smiled in relief and lost some of that hardening when she spoke again, his shoulders unclenching and forearms veins losing their bulging rigidity. The green-eyed witch kept him on his toes, from her fishnet clad legs to her mercurial personality and complete lack of fear. Only minutes ago she’d almost been pinned against a wall while he held back from crushing the table between them while he choked.

“I’m not the—” The bills came out, and he gaped like a fish. He thought she’d been in front of him the whole time.

Oh, shit.

He dined and dish at Pho King.

The owner, Ly, would be pissed.

David’s groan cut short when the bills slapped against his chest. He snagged them just before they fluttered to the ground and followed, picking up his step, following his erratic rival.

”... I would’ve let you.”

“Oh, uh,” the night took a tilt. David had done this to himself. He’d told himself it wasn’t a date, it was a meeting for the two of them to feel each other out before they made a go of it. Fighting, posing, stopping, starting, winning, losing.

But of all of them, he’d picked the girl who...

Another flush spread across David’s face when he remembered her first, taunting message. Not as broadly combative as Tres in person, but like a slumbering volcano oozing stem through cracks in the ground. There was something wrong with him, to be in this situation, to have ignored and pushed away the fear-excitement combination. To get hard and, to be honest, get hard just from her dismissals and rare praise.

It wasn’t “healthy.”

"Forgot the keys in my other tights.”

His eyes flickered to her legs as he caught up in the alley and adjusted to the dim, narrow path between the buildings. Legs that vanished up a dress—he tore his attention back to Tres.

"... let us in?”

“Oh, yeah!” He could do that. With only some hazy ideas about what Tres had planned, realizing that this could all be an elaborate setup to kill him and deciding not to ask questions, he looked up at the fire escape and jumped.

He cleared 12 vertical feet in a single bound, snagging the railing and vaulting open it to land with feline grace. David unlatched the ladder and let it down to Tres. When she was up he pulled it up after her and re-latched it, following her up the fire escape. A good boy, he did his best not to look up her dress, but he sneaked a few peeks to watch her rolling cheeks and got little for the trouble anyway. It was too dark.

When they got to the window, he pressed his fingers against the edges and pushed upwards without having to be told. He’d done this a few times before when he’d gone after the 9th Street Stick Club, a street level gang restricted to the East Side that had a few low level supers in their top spots. He figured they’d be easy pickings, but they’d proven too clever for him and he’d lost hope of ever squashing that menace.

The curlicue metal latch on top of the window popped after a moment’s effort. David took a deep breath, let the strength ooze out of him, and slid the window the rest of the way up. He clumsily squeezed through the open window, putting first one arm through and then the next before awkwardly crouching in. His athletic ass was on full display as it strained against the seat of his chinos before he made his way through the window and cursed.

“What are these, caltrops?” He asked, perplexed, as he found his footing in the dark and kept on crushing small, plastic things.

 

[Praxis]

“Yeah, uh…” she had to search her mind for exactly what the hell he was talking about. She didn’t know the word but was made immediately aware of his issue as she too crunched on what felt like tiny, pointed bits of plastic or metal. Swearing in turn, she kicked at them through darkness. Through the dim offerings of a nearby streetlight, she was only able to catch the reflections of paper as it had been tacked across walls. All different shapes and sizes. Numerous, strange, figures lined along every surface.

Posters? Figurines? The hell?

And what the fuck had she been stepping all over? Whomever owned the brownstone was a prize-pig of a man, enviable street location obviously not equating to living standards.

“We have a lotta break-ins …around here…” She settled onto what felt like a bed, though it crinkled at her palms and knees, as though still wrapped in its plastic from the factory. Paying it little mind, much preferring claws over hands, she tugged blindly at him to bring them both down onto it. Small, too small for two people really, she felt the nag of reason, demanding that she beg the question: what kind of man slept in a twin bed?

It didn’t matter. He was mumbling something, all stiff hands and hesitation until she was able to slither her way on top.

“Don’t say anything, ok? Just don’t talk for, like, a minute.” Reaching down between them, working at a feverish pace to undo his matching belt, she would lean in, close. "Just shut up, ok? Shut up, and get hard for me." With that, and without warning, she would sink the points of her nails into the flesh of his shoulder, nearly piercing the fabric that attempted to stop her. Raking her hand down his chest, feeling for a difference, she'd move to unsheathe him from beneath the folds of his clothing and ...what felt like a thick nylon?

Neoprene? A wetsuit?

His super suit!

What a loser.

Attacking his lips, baring teeth, Tres would melt against the shape of him. Furiously finding the taste of his tongue with her own and scrambling at waistband with curled toes to tug his idiot chinos the rest of the way off.

"Hands, dummy. You can touch." Though barbed, her words were sweet in the darkness. Sweet, almost, as the flavor she imparted on him with another long, searing kiss. Staying, whining softly as fingertips felt for as much of his girth as she was able, she'd angle him up and against her. With claws braced against him, the blonde would, very slowly, rock her hips to only brush gently against his tip.

She couldn't exactly fault him for his hesitation. She'd been rather cross with him most of the evening. And when she hadn't been hurling insults or mocking his delivery...

She'd been robbing him.

She had given it back, for what little karma that afforded her. Even still, without light and only the mingled riot of their breathing her guide, she was left to dictate by touch more than any dumb look he might've been wearing. Touch that, while quickly abandoning timidity, was still a shade or five away from what she needed him for.

"Getting there..." she hummed, clenching one hand tighter while feathering with the other. Demonstrating the immense disparity between her touch. Still stroking, she'd let him slip further, whimpering airily as he did and maybe drawing blood.

"Come on, Tough Guy." He didn't need to see her face to appreciate a very salacious grin.

 

[Ourobouran]

“A lot of...? You were robbed? Just now?” David asked incredulously as his eyes adjusted and swept over the room. There were more posters on the walls than he would have expected for a woman of her age, or demeanor. He strained to make out the shapes and colors on the posters before distraction set in. Two brief, tight tugs nipped at his button-up and he went with the flow, tugged further along Tres’ wake.

And her hands were on him, pushing against washboard abs and a chiseled chest and the other little model-hot giveaways he was a touched or a chosen or an anomaly or a perihuman or a metaperson or—thoughts were spiraling in tightening circles that would imprison him if he let them.

He brushed back against her when she squeezed his biceps and started muttering, “We just met and I, I don’t even know your name and I didn’t mean—“

Then Tres straddled him and he instinctively leaned back to make space for her. Even though she was so soft and warm on his lap, Tres may as well have been a crushing weight.

“Don’t say anything, ok? Just don’t talk for, like, a minute.”

Oh god. Oh god, David, he thought, it’s like your first time all over again.

While David was basically a super-virgin, he wasn’t a virgin-virgin. Being a failure-to-launch cape made it rough on the relationships, what with his decision to live within the periphery of one of the so-called “worst” parts of the city and how he made compromises with his day job that left his paycheck shorter than it could have been. Most women would look the other way on his lack of commitment and the bland lack of personality he projected onto the world for access to his body. An access he enjoyed and freely exchanged, but this was pushing a certain envelope.

“Listen, I’m not,” he cleared his throat. “I mean, you’re gorgeous.” Breath caught somewhere around his esophagus when she tugged against his belt—one he had chosen specifically because it tied the outfit together—and he felt whatever tenuous illusion of control he had on the situation evaporate entirely.

He had taken a supervillain out on a date hoping to arrange this nemesis thing for them to...

“... get hard for me.”

He snapped his mouth shut and stopped trying to talk when she pushed against his shoulder, scratched across his chest, his heartbeat quickened and he got a little harder. His skin toughened right as she got his trousers loose and showed the basic costume beneath it.

With eyes adjusted to the dark, Tres’ features were all the sharper. Her pale skin picked up the red glow of reflected neon signs and he could see her expression, a mix of contempt and naked lust. It was one of the most deeply tempestuous moments of his life. A witch riding him with a mane of feathers, an evil faerie queen, the girl you’d never mention to your mother.

It was something different for a good boy like David.

She had taken the offensive every step of the way, moving forward against a resistance that failed to materialize. David kissed back, welcoming her tongue, making small groaning noises when she worried on his lip. Without thinking he tensed, rolled his pelvis forward to ease Tres’ effort to slide his boring chinos down his burly legs.

“Hands, dummy. You can touch.”

Oh, right.

Yes.

Yes, he could.

With that, David left a fog reminiscent of awkward adolescence complicated by newly emerging superpowers and once again came into his own. He openly moaned into Tres’ mouth when she brushed against his very tip. He fruitlessly, instinctively bucked at her, sliding against her folds. His hands pushed up against the bottom of her thin dress, strong fingers pushing up her sides and pulling her into him.

His left hand moved towards her spine, then up, his wrist erupting from the neckline as he grabbed her neck and wrested a small amount of control from her. He firmly guided her mouth away from his, rested her head against his shoulder and turned his lips to her neck. With an intent that spoke to his absolute interest in Tres, he nibbled at the sensitive skin along her clavicle. That attention peppered with kisses that soon alternated with bites just hard enough to get her taste firmly in his mouth.

“Come on, Tough Guy.”

Her nails cut through his skin and Tres got the walk on the wild side she wanted. Strength kicked up, surging through his frame and he was suddenly too aware of his fingers curled against the back of her delicate, human neck.

“It’s Mister,” he grunted as he leaned to the side and carefully pushed her onto the bed, “Magnificent.”

Flipping the squirming, hot little woman onto her belly was easy. Not that she fought him too much. He kicked his shoes off and his chinos and the lower half of his suit went with them. He insinuated his knee between her legs as he pulled his enemy’s blonde curls back from her neck, gracing her nape with a kiss. “You think you’re so smart,” he growled into her ear before biting her earlobe.

“So clever.”

With her legs open, David’s right hand caressed down her side, over the hillock of her firm ass with a lingering squeeze, and then onto her thigh. He cupped her sex and rubbed back and forth, insinuating his middle fingers between her folds to collect her wetness.

“But what you really are is trusting,” his words came out as a hiss a bare inch away from his maybe partner’s ear as the pad of his blunt finger found her clit. “Keep your legs open for me.”

He buried his nose into her hair and breathed in deeply as he played with the woman’s sensitive body. “I will make you cum. Then I will fuck you so hard you'll feel it for days.” David pushed his left arm underneath Tres to unceremoniously yank her dress down her shoulders and free her breasts. He roughly squeezed one, taking a moment to adjust to a comfortable angle where her nipple dug into his palm.

David was hyperaware of his member nestled between her ass cheeks, the tip slick and leaking pre-cum across the small of her back. His breathing was hot and ragged, his heart pumping in time with his throbbing member, and all he could think was: it’s my turn now.

 

[Praxis]

And who in the world was this guy?

Tres released a pent-up sigh as he -finally- took control of the situation. Maybe for the first time in who knew how long. Days, weeks, months? Years? Ever? Had Mr. Tough Guy ever truly given up his blunt-fisted grip on the control that life dangled in front of everyone? Or had it only taken her, her nails, and the sweet, bare invitation between her legs to give him that push?

She enjoyed the idea of it; being able to break someone who considered themselves so strong with that she’d call minimal effort. It certainly seemed the case, with him grunting behind her, kicking off what she hadn’t removed of his lowers even as he tore the long, black coat from her body and threw it to fall somewhere near the doorway. Going about her with a reckless brusqueness that left her dress to tear a bit at the strap and be shoved aside otherwise.

“Who are you?” She purred out, lifting her head as she was able, despite fingers wound in the curls of her hair.

He certainly talked as much as any of them.

Gonna do this, until that happens. Gonna blank you so bleep that you can’t blam right for a week.

Men.

Yeah, yeah, Tough Guy, she’d muse to herself. Offering not a nod of credibility to the brief, slightly pained whine that poured from behind sharp teeth and parted lips at the sensation of palms rolling over the stiff bud on her left breast. Reaching the length of her body, she'd feel through her own slickness to where he slipped and beckoned against her. Again, nail tips would take to only graze at the delicate flesh of him, lest his pace rock too riotously, too soon.

Firm.

She wondered what he tasted like. On the back of her throat. Layered in the proof of her own arousal.

Throbbing.

He wouldn't abide much more of this. The selfish tease that she'd secretly been dosing him with all evening.

And then?

The final push. Grasping toward a longing, deep-seated reach for him. Born from somewhere near the lowest part of her stomach and radiating outward.

Reaching. For him.

She didn't know if she'd ever been accused of being trusting. Though, currently, she had to relinquish this point to him. What with her; knees bent and free hand clutching for purchase at rough, patterned sheets. And him poised to take the proverbial plunge that would thrust them further from anything even remotely reminiscent of casual.

"Talk, talk, talk..." she'd hum to him, throwing a bit of her weight back. "That's the problem with you hero types." Another long, sultry moan as she took his length to run it across an oppressive heat. Posturing aside, she was keeping her thighs parted, per his orders. "All... you do... is talk."

A shove would send her back to the bed, his own arm braced at her side. She could feel him back, angling, and turned to flash him a sinister, green eye. Scrambling, against bedding and position alike, claws would pierce into what bare flesh of his arm she could find.

 

[Ourobouran]

It might have been believable that Tres was bored if she hadn’t been pushing back against him, rubbing herself against his groping hands and making those little throat noises that made his member pound with excitement. David loved those little noises women made when they were in the midst of passion, each uniquely their own, each uniquely hot and uniquely compelling. He sucked air in through his teeth when he felt his head slide against her sex, toes reflexively curling and then feet flexing at being so close.

He canted himself backwards and to the side, lining up against her, when suddenly Tres struck. He let out a yelp of surprise when he nails struck home and went to work on him, somehow burning through his admittedly limited invulnerability and making a sort of burning-tingle-stab pain radiate through his skin.

“You jerk,” he snarled, twitching with impotent frustration. He stopped breathing for a second and became perilously tougher and stronger, letting go of Tres for a moment before wrestling against her. He put his hands on her shoulders and pushed her down against the bed as he slid off of it. With his newly increased strength he flipped pushed her over on the mattress hard enough to bounce without thinking about what he was doing.

He slid from the bed, a portion of blanket sliding with him, and grabbed Tres’ thighs, pulling her up onto her feet and knocking her legs apart.

The only metaphor he could come up with for his situation was wrestling a crocodile. She clearly, absolutely, wanted him as badly as he wanted her right now. But she was making it difficult, because she liked to make every little thing difficult.

Well, fine.

Two could play that (hot, sexy, pulsing rock hard) game.

One of the benefits of being a tall man was reach. He it was easy for him to grab each of her elbows and pull the green eyed witch back, back until his broad head was pushing against her folds, back until he was sliding past the first initial resistance within her wetness.

David let out a long, excited sound between a moan and a purr from deep in his chest as he finally got within her. He pulled her backwards by the elbows as he thrust forward, setting up a steady counterpoint aided by the fact that, at this point, he could bodily pick her up and throw her across the room if he needed to.

“There, you dirty little herofucker,” he said in a thick, lusty voice over the sound of his legs slapping against her ass. “Now you got what you wanted this whole time.”

 

[Praxis]

She certainly didn't feel like a crocodile. On her back, as she was, and being mauled by a pair of eager hands and one curious mouth. Prey, felt more accurate, as she squirmed beneath him and reflexively clenched and released her thighs. He may not have expected her to be as reactive as she was, given her apparent preference for stiff interaction when not belittling. Fingertips would find each new inch of her that he took as pleased to see him as the next.

She mumbled something, though it's exact shape was uncertain. Lost in the open, tense space of the room and fizzling into another whorish purr as she was dragged and positioned on the lip of the bed. Her eyes had adjusted to the dark some and she was able to make out ghostly figments of his expression.

Furious, in a way. Teetering on the cusp of the face worn by a man who didn't tip at Pho King. Didn't bother with social niceties. Didn't mind that the two of them hadn't actually exchanged names.

We just met

She could practically hear him saying it again. She wondered, briefly -a moment or two before she felt him begin to sink into her- what he must've been like in his formative years. Deciding it was probably better to not, she'd grasp blindly for something to grab ahold of through the frenzy. Again, dagger tips found the flesh of his forearms as they gripped back at her. Though, on this attempt, she found considerably less give. Urging her to clutch tighter, both with claw and thighs. Hooking her heels, she'd pull him into her at the peak of his thrust.

And?! She'd wanted to spat back at him.

Best to not think about it. The less she knew about him the better. Lest that stupid curl of his or boyish outlook on life became what she took away from this night.

A circuit rode through her as he hit home at just the right angle, coursing from her hips and quite literally pouring from parted lips in an undulating arc. Reach, as it turned out, had proven to be rather beneficial for both of them. Where he wasn't, his hands were. Roaming or conquering.

"Ok," she managed through a breath, "don't stop..."

"Dont stop..."

She'd repeat this, each time a little breathier than the last before it was no more than a rhythmic whine. As he went, he'd draw closer until Tres was able to release her grip and move to his scalp and chest. Pulling no punches, she'd press, hard. Hard enough to probably draw blood on anyone but him.

Anyone but Mr. Magnificent.