The sterile scent of the Coalition cruiser's recycled air couldn't entirely mask Anissa's lingering perfume—a sharp, alien floral note that clung to my skin like a promise, or a threat. Hard to tell with her these days. Outside the viewport, Earth hung like a blue-green jewel against the void, achingly familiar yet loaded with ghosts. Did Diana snap when she heard the obvious? Did Thragg carve through the Graysons like tissue paper? Is Oliver already ash floating in some backwater system? The questions hammered against my skull, a relentless drumbeat beneath the cool mask. Kinetic energy thrummed in my veins, a low-grade hum begging for release—leftover adrenaline from everything considering what had happened to me and Anissa's equally volatile moods.
Beside me, Anissa stretched, muscles flexing under the thin fabric of her Coalition-issue tunic. Her blue eyes, usually narrowed in suspicion or disdain, watched Earth's approach with something softer. Contradiction was her brand after all. Once upon a time in prison, she had kissed me like she wanted to devour my soul, then threatened to break me in two seconds later. Now? Now she tolerated my presence. Occasionally enjoyed it. Profoundly.
"Still playing the stoic Sovereign?" Her voice was a deep throaty purr, like gravel beneath silk. She sagged bonelessly back into her acceleration couch, a movement calculated to project exaggerated carelessness, exaggerated daring. "I can feel the tension coming off of you. Like your worried about something." She reached out, ran her finger down the ridge of my jaw, the barest pressure against my skin. A tiny shock ran down my spine, and my orange vision flickered unwilled, lighting the shadowed cabin in brief, flame-hued illuminance. My emotional sense was turned on. Beneath the studied calm she projected lay a buzz of conflicting signals: the burrs of resentment tangled into a reluctant knot of respect, twined viciously into the poorly hidden unguardedness of the raw lust of a skilled predator, and under that... A less dignified sense of homecoming, lust. And that one was directed toward me.
"Just calculating vectors," I lied, shifting my weight. The neural pathways in my brain fired like overclocked processors: nanoseconds spent mapping the angles of her gaze, the potential arc of her hand, the emotional topography shifting within her. Predicting Anissa was like predicting a hurricane. It was thrilling and exhausting. "Earth looks intact from here. Thats something."
She huffed a short, bark of a laugh. "Optimism? From you? After you died?" She scooted closer, and I could feel the heat radiating off her Viltrumite skin even we were in a climate-controlled cabin of the cockpit. Her scent enveloped me, stronger now; ozone, and violence, and something uniquely, though savagely, feminine. "Or maybe you're just distracted." Her hand trailed down my chest, scraping ever so slightly with blunt nails along thick muscle buried beneath my borrowed Coalition uniform shirt. I could hear the subtle quickening of her heart, feel her core temperature as it spiked just slightly higher. No pretense, nothing complex, nothing dragged out. Just desire, in its pure form, for now.
The attraction had been a live wire between us since that Coalition holding cell, when I had made my intentions—my hopes—brutally, obscenely clear. She'd spat venom and heat at me for it, but she hadn't ripped my head off. It was progress back then. And now, as we hurtled toward a largely uncertain Earth, that wire crackled. Being an asshole aside, it wasn't entirely my fault this time around that my kinetic absorption flashed subtly, grounding some of the stray energy prickling through me, redirecting it... elsewhere. Focus, dammit. Earth, first. Answers, first. The math changed when Anissa's fingers hooked into my waistband.
"Distraction is a valid tactical response," I murmured, my voice raspier than I had intended. I closed my hand over hers, pinning her wrist. Not roughly but possessively. The orange embers in the depths of my pupils roared up with greater brightness. "Particularly on long journeys." My sense for emotion was focused entirely on her now, reading the fractional dilation of her pupils, the catch of her breath, the predator's flare of anticipation that was mixed with that delectable, contradictory hatred. She wanted the fight as much as the fuck. She needed it.
The couch bucked with movement, and my knee bashed hers as she wedged it between mine. "Tactics?" she panted in my ear, teeth skating against the lobe. "You talk too much." She unfolded with a snap, all coiled, sudden power and intent, her mouth swooping down on mine with bruising force, tenderness abandoned. It was conquest.
Beneath my skin, the kinetic energy that lived barely restrained sang, hypersensitizing the rich tapestry of sensation—the sharp nip of her teeth on my lip, her unfeminine firmness as her weight drove me into the cool surface of the plas-steel bulkhead. Her hand twisted in my shirt, which shredded like paper against Viltrumite strength. Cold mechanical air met my skin a split-second before her mouth did—biting, staking her claim. My own fingers wound in her thick black hair, jerking her head back to bare her throat to me. She gave a low snarl deep in her chest, a wordless acceptance of the challenge.
She ripped my trousers clean off, fabric dissolving under her grasp. She took in my donkey dick with obvious approval and her hands went to caress it immediately. My eyes rolled back as her rough palms scraped along my skin. She climbed onto my lap, frayed Coalition tunic bunched around her waist, straddling me in one violent, efficient motion. Her ass slapped my thighs as she settled her weight. Her blue eyes burned as she leaned forward, fingers digging into my shoulders as she balanced herself, her breath hot against my chin.
I moved faster than her with enhanced reflexes, grabbing her hips and lifting her off me entirely before slamming her down onto her knees before me. Her startled curse was muffled against my lap as I guided her mouth onto me, hips bucking uncontrollably as the wet heat enveloped me. Her throat muscles worked against the intrusion, fingers clawing into my thighs as she fought for control, fought *not* to gag as I filled her. I kept her head locked in place with one hand tangled in her hair, forcing her mouth down to the base, pulling her back up slowly only to thrust deep again. Spit slicked her chin, mingling with the rapid pulse thrumming at her throat. It felt heavenly. Each drag of her tongue sent fire licking up my spine. Her orange gaze flickered up, furious, challenging. I saw the calculation behind it—the angle of escape, the leverage she might gain.
Her fingers dug deeper, blunt nails threatening to pierce my skin as she sank her teeth into my thigh, biting hard enough to bruise. Pain flashed bright and sharp before my absorption kicked in, diffusing it into a low thrumming wave that amplified the pleasure. She sucked harder, hollowing her cheeks, rhythm turning punishing. Her hatred was palpable, a tangible force radiating from her like radiation, fueling her need to dominate. It only made me harder. My grip tightened in her hair as I drove her deeper onto me, thrusting into her throat with abandon as she choked and gagged around me, her nails drawing blood that evaporated under my skin's reactive field. The heat built low in my gut, tightening impossibly with her hateful gaze locked on mine. With a ragged groan, I came violently down her throat, thick ropes spurting past her lips. She swallowed convulsively, gagging again, attempting to pull away as I pushed deeper until every drop was spent.
She broke away coughing, spitting onto the deck plating, wiping her swollen mouth with the back of her hand. Anger still burned in her eyes, but beneath it roiled satisfaction in having wrung that reaction from me. She didn't waste time. Before I could recover from the wave of climax, she rolled forward onto all fours in predatory readiness, presenting her ass to me. Her wetness gleamed in the cabin light as she arched her back, white skin kissed softly by bruises already forming from my grip. An invitation and a dare.
I gripped her hips, fingers sinking into dense, yielding muscle. Alignment was instantaneous, angles calculated and compensated for effortlessly as I thrust forward hard, burying myself to the hilt in one brutal stroke. Her cry tore through the cabin—half shock, half savage delight—as her claws raked deep furrows in the deck plating. Her inner muscles clenched around me, a vice grip that threatened to drag me under. I pulled back almost entirely, relishing the slick friction, before plunging in again, setting a punishing rhythm that verged on painful. Each thrust slammed her forward, forcing a high, keening gasp from her lips. My hands moved lower, sliding beneath her to cup her breasts, pinching her dark nipples hard as I drove into her with unrestrained force. Beneath the ferocity, the hatred and competition that fueled her, the base truth of her passion resonated through my empathetic awareness—pure, unfiltered need. She wanted it savage. She wanted it brutal. She wanted to *feel* overpowered.
I obliged. Yanking her up onto her knees, I wrapped one arm around her throat in a chokehold, pulling her back flush against my sweat-slicked chest as I continued to pound into her slow and deep. The other hand slipped between her legs, fingers finding her clit and stroking viciously. She threw her head back against my shoulder, exposing the vulnerable column of her throat as she gasped. "Is this—ah!—what you'd do to an enemy?" she gasped out, her voice thick with exertion and something dangerously close to surrender.
"Enemies don't get this," I growled against her ear, my teeth scraping the sensitive skin. My fingers worked her clit faster, relentless. "Only mine." Her hips bucked wildly against mine, her breaths coming in sharp, desperate pants. The tension coiled tighter and tighter inside her, a bowstring stretched to snapping. With a final thrust so deep it lifted her off her knees, my fingers pressed hard against her clit. She shattered. A raw, guttural scream ripped from her throat as she came violently against me, her body locking rigid before collapsing like a puppet with cut strings against my chest. Her inner muscles milked me, pulsing waves dragging a second, deeper climax from me. I spilled inside her with a groan muffled against her sweat-damp hair, my vision exploding in shades of orange.
I held her slumped form against me, chests heaving in unison against the quiet hum of the ship. Her skin was fever-hot beneath my palms. Possessiveness surged through me, thick and primal. My fingers traced idle patterns on her damp stomach. "Mine," I breathed against her temple, the word less a reminder than a benediction. I didn't need my empathy sense to feel her reaction—the subtle relaxation against me, the acquiescence riding her exhaustion. In her haze, exhaustion compounded, she murmured something indistinct, her head lolling against my shoulder as unconsciousness claimed her. Viltrumite pride required dominance. I had delivered and she had accepted.
I stayed like that for long moments, cradling her limp form, listening to the deep steady rhythm of her breathing against my skin. The kinetic charge in my veins had fallen to a low thrumming beat, sated for the moment. Earth stared up at me outside the viewport. The dread returned, creeping tendrils of ice past the afterglow. Gently, I extracted myself, laying Anissa down on the couch. She muttered something and shifted but didn't wake. I focused my orange laser vision with great care on the mangled couch, the scattered scraps of Coalition fabric… and wiped away the remains of our encounter and then wore a spare. It was efficient and practical. My skin tingled where her claws had tried to gouge my flesh, the faint scratches already easing as my reactive field knit the nonexistent damage together. There was almost no way for me to remember this aside from a scent and a recollection.
Impatience gnawed at me. The waiting—docking procedures, clearance—was intolerable. Anissa shifted slightly against me, drawing in deep, even breaths indicative of slumber and I ran a possessive thumb over her bruised hipbone. Satisfied she wouldn't wake anytime soon, I stole over to the airlock controls. Manual override. The hatch fumed open angrily and vacuum clawed at the interior air before I slammed it shut behind me. Bitter cold and silence and starlight filled my world. Earth shimmered below, close enough to touch. Fuck protocol, fuck coordinates. I kicked off the hull, orienting myself effortlessly with a consideration of launch angle and atmospheric drag flickered silently in my quaternary mental processing lobe, an entry vector was plotted easily against the probable orbital flotsam predictions, murmured at the edges of my augmented reality vision. Then I launched myself planetward. The atmosphere howled tirelessly around me, friction escalating into an orange corona that my kinetic absorption drank greedily, fueling my descent until I sliced through the final layer of cloud cover.
Chicago sprawled out beneath me. It was intact and familiar. The skyline cut into the heavy morning haze. Relief was at war with suspicion as I scanned, patterns collecting and collapsing across my field of view. Signs of cataclysm were conspicuously absent. There weren't any craters where Viltrumite enclaves should've been headquartered. There weren't any trouble swarming the Willis Tower. There were… pedestrians... walking. Normal was wrong. Normal was suspicious.
I banked toward the Gold Coast. My penthouse—the one Cecil co-signed on because I could more or less get paid as much as I wanted whenever I wanted via taxpayer dollars—was perched near the top of a glimmering tower. The balcony doors whisked open silently at my approach. Inside, the air smelled like expensive leather and stale popcorn. Soft electronica percolated through the surround system. Diana Prince—Wonder Woman herself, or more specifically, Absolute Wonder Woman—lounged on the sectional, legs tucked beneath her, absorbed in an episode of Real Housewives? Her attention flicked over to me as I landed lightly inside, barely disturbing the plush carpet. Surprise registered, shifting quickly into a deep warmth that lit up her face.
"Zandale?" She vaulted to her feet, crossing the room in two strides. Her Amazonian strength swept me into a hug so energetic my bones bent beneath it. "By Heras girdle! Where in Tartarus have you been?" She drew away, her eyes scouring over my face. "The war... Your suspicious unexplained absence when Invincible and his father returned." Her look changed, harder. "Did Thragg?..."
The tension coiled inside me snapped relief swift and scouring as the loss of it left an oddly hollow lightness. Diana didnt know. She hadn't gone berserk on the Viltrumite moon settlers. The world hadn't ended. Thragg hadn't gutted Mark halfway to Rigel. It was... okay, better then okay even. "There's a peace." I spoke, and the word tasted like a ice cream. "Truce." I walked past her, toward the wide glass windows overlooking Lake Michigan. It couldnt be that easy. Not with Marks luck. But the sunshine looked honest enough, glittering banded bright on the morning-water, and with my supervision I could see the Viltrumites on the moon, rebuilding. Carefully, warily, if Diana's power was to be considered, but it was there. Hope. "Slowly." I paused and turned back to her. "They're rebuilding. Slowly. Here. On Earth," I said, "in the planets own subtle, underhanded way. Earth will domesticate them. Earth wears hard edges soft." I squared my shoulders, and smiled at her. "Best case scenario, Diana. Better than we deserve, really." Because, after all, I knew. Passively, reflexively, with my metaknowledge. Viltrumites, vicious and hard-headed and all, will change. Earth will soften them. That change, that softness, could save the universe. (Or me.).
Diana regarded me with close attention, her warriors gaze scrutinised me, missing nothing. The set of my shoulders, the scent of Coalition disinfectant and traces of Anissa that clung to me. Her features softened. A familiar hand settled on my arm. "It's good to see you alive, Zandale. Truly." Her thumb smoothed lightly over the fabric of my overalls. There was a silent offer in the gesture, in the warmth of her palm, the promise of comfort. "Stay. Talk. Tell me everything."
I gave her hand a little squeeze. For an instant mine was filled with urgency that had not quite passed altogether. "Not yet." I indicated the window with a nod. "Gotta see Cecil. Fill him in." There was understanding behind her smile, and a hint of disappointment. She nodded.
Stepping back out onto the balcony, I stopped for a moment. Earth spread out ahead of me intact, buzzing, unconcerned. The war was over. The future was still and quiet. Unwritten. For now. Estimating wind shear and air density and the best path to D.C., I bent my knees and jumped away from the building. Away from Chicago. The sun was warm on my face. The answers were out ahead of me. And Cecil Stedman, the GOAT, didnt like to be kept waiting.