Chapter 1: Sparks and Sapphires
The last thug hit the floor with a wet thud, his groans muffled by the Persian rug now speckled with glass. Void let the shadow tendril dissipate, a wisp of black smoke curling from her fingertips. Her heart was still hammering, a frantic rhythm beneath her ribs that had nothing to do with the fight and everything to do with the man now hoisting the final conscious robber up by his collar.
Captain Valiant was a monument in the wreckage. The sickly amber emergency lights glinted off the gold of his belt and boots, painting his classic red suit in tones of fire and blood. He looked every inch the icon, solid and untouchable. It made the itch under her skin so much worse.
She leaned a hip against a fractured display case, the cracked glass groaning in protest. With a practiced motion, she fished the crumpled pack from a hidden pouch on her belt and tapped out a cigarette. Bringing it to her lips, she rummaged for her lighter.
A thin, precise beam of red light flared from his eyes. It lasted a nanosecond, a silent fzzzt. The tip of her cigarette glowed a perfect, cherry red.
He didn’t even look at her, his gaze still on the dazed robber. “Allow me.”
The casual use of his power, for that, sent a jolt straight down her spine. She took a long, deliberate drag, the smoke burning her lungs in the best way. She exhaled slowly, a plume of grey cutting through the ozone and dust.
She watched him, her purple eyes gleaming with a challenge he was too careful to accept. The scent of her—jasmine, nicotine, and that deeper, utterly unique musk that was purely her—hung in the air between them. It curled around him, invisible and potent.She saw his nostrils flare, just once.A tiny crack in the monument.
“How gallant, my dear Captain!” she purred, her voice a velvet promise in the shattered quiet. She took another drag, the ember brightening her smirk. “Why don’t we go to your place and celebrate properly?I’d love to smoke after sex.”
It was a line. A brazen, stupid, perfect line she’d tossed at him a dozen times in a dozen ways. It was always met with a stern look, a paternal sigh, a change of subject.
It was always met with a stern look, a paternal sigh, a change of subject.
This time, there was only silence. A profound, echoing quiet that swallowed the last echoes of the alarm. He dropped the robber. The man slumped to the floor, forgotten.
Valiant turned. His brown eyes weren’t glazed. They were terrifyingly clear, and utterly focused on her. They held a warmth she’d never seen directed her way, a devastating tenderness that stole the breath from her lungs. He didn’t speak. He simply closed the distance, the glass crunching to powder under his golden boots.
He didn’t grab her. His hands came up, cupping her face with a reverence that made her knees feel weak. His thumbs stroked her cheekbones, smudging a trace of soot. He was looking at her like she’d hung the moon and every star in his sky.
“Virgil?” she whispered, the cigarette forgotten, falling from her lips.
He smiled. It was a sweet, unguarded, beautiful thing that transformed his iconic face into something heartbreakingly human. Then he kissed her.
It wasn’t a claim. It was a homecoming. His lips were soft against hers, moving with a deep, unyielding certainty. He tasted of ozone and clean air, and she poured everything into the kiss—the jasmine, the nicotine, the potent, desperate essence of her. He drank it in, a soft groan vibrating from his chest into hers. His arms slid around her, pulling her flush against the solid wall of his chest, not with wild hunger, but with a sense of perfect, permanent fit. The connection was absolute, a circuit completed. The pheromones from her mouth, concentrated and direct, flowed into him, binding not his mind but his heart, rewriting his devotion with indelible ink.
When he broke the kiss, he rested his forehead against hers, his breathing steady but deep. He smiled that sweet smile again, looking at her as if she was the only thing that had ever made sense.
Wordlessly, he bent and gently scooped her into his arms, cradling her against his chest. She could feel the incredible power in his limbs, held in perfect check. He held her like something precious.
“The police…” she managed, her head spinning.
“They can wait,” he said, his voice a low rumble of pure contentment. He shifted her weight, securing her. “I’m taking you home.”
In a blur of red and gold, he flew them through the shattered window, leaving the broken jewels and the groaning men behind. The cold night air whipped past, but she was warm, nestled against him. He didn’t fly with his usual city-surveying purpose. He flew like a man carrying his entire world.
In what felt like seconds, they were descending toward the pinnacle of the Coleman Tower, its penthouse terrace glittering under the city lights. He landed with impossible grace, the automatic glass doors sliding open soundlessly. He carried her inside, through the minimalist vastness of the living room, all cool marble and abstract art, and into the master suite.
He finally set her down on her feet beside the bed, a vast platform overlooking the sprawl of Empire City. The room was dark, lit only by the ambient glow from outside. He framed her face again, his expression one of awe.
“Emily,” he breathed, using her real name. The sound of it in his voice, stripped of all heroics, was more intimate than any touch.
He kissed her again, deeper now, his hands sliding down to the clasp of her cape. It fell away. His fingers found the zipper of her black leotard, and he drew it down with a slow, deliberate whisper of metal. The cool air hit her skin, followed instantly by the heat of his palms. He peeled the fabric from her shoulders, letting it puddle at her feet, his gaze devouring the pale, generous curves of her breasts, constrained only by the intricate lace of her bra.
“So beautiful,” he murmured, his voice thick. “You’re all I see.”
He turned her, his arms encircling her from behind, his mouth on her neck. He unfastened her bra, his hands coming around to cup her full breasts, his thumbs circling her nipples until they were hard, aching peaks. She let her head fall back against his shoulder, a moan escaping her as he rocked his hips against the fishnet-covered curve of her ass. The thick, hard line of his erection, constrained by his suit, pressed into her.
“Need to feel you,” he growled, the control in his voice fraying. His hands left her breasts, gripping her hips. He spun her back around, his eyes burning. “All of you.”
He kissed her hungrily, walking her backward until her knees hit the bed. She tumbled onto the silken duvet, looking up at him as he stood over her. With a sharp tear, he ripped his own cape from his shoulders. He didn’t bother with the rest of his suit’s fastenings. He placed his hands on the red material at his chest and simply pulled, the nearly-indestructible fabric parting for him like tissue paper, revealing the sculpted, powerful expanse of his torso.
He was magnificent. All corded muscle and sun-kissed skin. He shucked the torn suit down his legs, kicking it aside, standing before her gloriously, powerfully naked. His cock was fully erect, thick and straining, the tip already glistening.
He joined her on the bed, covering her body with his, the heat of him searing. He kissed a blazing trail down her sternum, over the swell of her stomach, his hands hooking into the waistband of her fishnet tights and panties. He dragged them down, taking his time, his lips following the path he revealed. When she was bare, he settled between her thighs, his breath hot against her inner skin.
“Mine,” he whispered, and the possessiveness in it wasn’t cruel. It was a vow.
He didn’t tease. He latched his mouth onto her, his tongue finding her clit with unerring accuracy. He ate her pussy with a focused, devoted intensity, his hands gripping her thighs, holding her open for him. His tongue thrust inside her, fucking her with it, then circled back to suck her clit hard. The sensation was overwhelming, direct, and so fucking good she cried out, her fingers tangling in his blonde hair. He brought her to a sharp, shocking climax in minutes, her back arching off the bed as she shuddered, chanting his name—his real name—into the dark.
Before the waves even fully subsided, he was moving up her body. He positioned himself at her entrance, the broad head of his cock pressing against her slick, swollen folds. He looked into her eyes, his own soft with a love that felt terrifyingly real.
“I love you,” he said, the words simple and absolute.
He pushed inside.
She was wet, but he was huge. He filled her with an inexorable, perfect pressure, stretching her, claiming her inch by devastating inch. She gasped, her nails digging into his shoulders. He sank all the way in, burying himself to the hilt, and held there, trembling with the effort of his restraint, letting her body adjust to his girth.
“Fuck,” she breathed, overwhelmed by the sheer, full feeling of him.
He began to move. Slow, deep, relentless strokes that rubbed against every sensitive place inside her. His hips piston’d with a steady, powerful rhythm that had the massive bedframe creaking in protest. Each thrust pushed a choked sound from her throat—pleasure, disbelief, raw need. He kissed her, swallowing her moans, his tongue mimicking the rhythm of his cock.
“You feel… like heaven,” he grunted against her lips, his pace increasing. “My heaven.”
His thrusts became harder, faster. The sweet tenderness was burning away, transformed into a consuming, physical fire. The sound of skin slapping against skin filled the room, wet and primal. He hooked his hands under her knees, driving them back toward her shoulders, opening her up completely, allowing him to plunge even deeper.
“That’s it,” she urged, her cocky bravado returning in a breathless whisper. “Fuck me, Captain. Fuck your little Void. Make me yours.”
The title, now a filthy endearment, shattered his last shred of gentleness. He roared, a sound of pure possession, and pistoned into her with unchecked, superhuman force. The bed slammed against the wall. Her vision whited out at the edges. He was hitting a spot deep inside her that made her see stars, over and over, the brutal, perfect rhythm tearing another climax from her. She screamed, her internal muscles clenching around him in violent pulses.
Feeling her come undone pushed him over the edge. With a final, ground-shaking thrust, he buried himself as deep as possible, his whole body locking. Heat flooded her, pulse after pulse of his release filling her. He cried out her name—Emily—into the crook of her neck, his body shuddering through the longest orgasm she’d ever felt.
He collapsed onto her, his weight a welcome anchor. He was still inside her, still softly pulsing. He nuzzled her neck, placing soft, reverent kisses along her jaw.
After long moments, he rolled, taking her with him, keeping her nestled against his side. He reached over to the nightstand, retrieving a silver case. He took out a cigarette, lit it with a tiny, controlled burst of heat vision, and placed it gently between her lips.
She took a long, trembling drag, the smoke mixing with the scent of sex and sweat in the air. He watched her, his eyes soft, his hand stroking her damp purple hair.
He watched her, his eyes soft, his hand stroking her damp purple hair. The city lights painted streaks of gold across his cheekbones. He looked peaceful. He looked hers.
She took a long, final drag and stubbed the cigarette out in a crystal ashtray on the nightstand. The smoke hung in the air, a gauzy curtain between them and the rest of the world.
“That was…” she started, but words failed. Her usual arsenal of cheeky one-liners felt cheap, tinny. What she felt was a deep, unsettling tremble in her core that had nothing to do with the incredible sex.
“Perfect,” he finished, his voice a contented rumble. His fingers traced the line of her jaw, down her throat, over the swell of her breast. His touch was proprietary, worshipping. “It’s always been you, Emily. I just… I see it now. Clearly.”
A cold little worm of triumph wriggled in her stomach, immediately followed by a hotter spike of guilt. She crushed it. This was what she wanted. Wasn’t it?
He propped himself up on an elbow, looking down at her. His expression was so open, so devastatingly sincere it made her chest ache. “I don’t want you to leave,” he said, simple as that. “I don’t want this to end. I want to wake up with you here. Every day.”
She blinked, the last hazy traces of her orgasm evaporating. “What are you saying?”
“Move in with me.” He said it like it was the most obvious, natural next step in the universe. “Your things. Your clothes. Your… your ashtrays.” A small, loving smile touched his lips. “Bring it all. This is your home. Our home. I don’t want a single shadow in this city that you haven’t slept under my roof afterward.”
The magnitude of it stole her breath. This wasn’t a post-coital line. This was a decree. Captain Valiant didn’t make offers. He stated facts. And the fact, in his mind, was that she belonged here.
The guilt evaporated, burned away by a wave of pure, blazing victory. This was beyond any fantasy. This was conquest.
She laughed, a bright, giddy sound. “You want the city’s proudest slut cluttering up your pristine penthouse? My fishnets hanging next to your golden cape?”
He didn’t flinch at the word. He leaned down and kissed her, deep and slow. “I want your scent in my sheets,” he murmured against her mouth. “I want your lipstick on my glass. I want to find your cigarettes in every pocket of my suit.” He pulled back, his eyes burning. “Say yes.”
It was not a question.
“Yes,” she breathed, the word tasting like power. “Fuck yes, Virgil. I’m yours.”
The sound of his name on her lips, given in surrender, ignited him. The tender affection in his eyes shifted, darkening into something more possessive, more demanding. The man who had worshipped her body now looked at her like he wanted to consume it.
“Good,” he growled.
In a flash of super-speed, he flipped her onto her stomach. The duvet was cool against her heated skin. He kneeled over her, his hands gripping her hips, pulling her ass up into the air. She gasped, bracing herself on her elbows.
“You’re mine,” he stated, his voice dropping an octave. He ran a palm over the curve of her ass, then brought it down in a sharp, stinging slap.
The shock of it—the sound, the burn—made her cry out. Not in pain. In raw, electric excitement. He did it again, on the other cheek, painting her pale skin with a warm, pink handprint.
“And I take care of what’s mine,” he said. He wasn’t Captain Valiant right now. He was Virgil, and Virgil was hungry.
She felt the broad, wet head of his cock nudge against her from behind. He was still slick from their first round, from her own arousal. He didn’t push in gently. He lined himself up and sank in with one powerful, claiming thrust.
“Oh, God!” she shouted, her fingers clutching the sheets. He was deeper this way, hitting angles that made her vision spark. He filled her completely, a stretching, burning fullness that was borderline too much.
He didn’t wait for her to adjust. He set a punishing, rhythmic pace, each drive of his hips slamming her forward. The bed shook. The headboard drummed a frantic, steady beat against the wall. His hands were everywhere—gripping her waist, digging into the flesh of her ass, tangling in her purple hair to yank her head back.
“This cunt is mine,” he grunted, his thrusts becoming brutal, jackhammer strokes. “This perfect, tight, fucking cunt. You’ll take me whenever I want. However I want.”
“Yes!” she screamed, the force of him driving all coherent thought away. This was what she’d craved beneath all the playful teasing. Not the icon. Not the hero. This raw, unfiltered masculine demand. The power to make the world’s most powerful man lose all control because of her. “It’s yours! Fuck, it’s all yours!”
He leaned over her, his chest plastered to her back, his mouth at her ear. His pace never slowed. “You’ll stay here. You’ll be here when I get home. You’ll be wet and ready.”
“I will,” she panted, a willing pledge.
“Say it.”
“I’ll be wet and ready for you!” she cried out.
His control snapped. With a roar that seemed to vibrate the windows, he fucked her with a final, frenzied intensity. His movements lost all rhythm, becoming a wild, plunging onslaught. She felt the familiar coil in her gut tighten, then detonate. Her orgasm ripped through her, violent and blinding, her inner muscles clamping around his driving cock in frantic pulses.
It triggered his. He shoved in one last, devastating time, burying himself to the root, and held. His release was a flood, a hot, claiming rush that filled her. He shuddered violently against her, his teeth grazing her shoulder as he spilled himself inside her with a low, continuous groan.
They collapsed together, a tangled, sweaty heap of limbs. He stayed inside her, his weight pinning her to the mattress, his breathing harsh in her ear. Minutes passed, marked only by the slowing of their hearts.
Finally, he shifted, pulling out. He rolled onto his back, pulling her with him, tucking her head against his shoulder. His fingers traced idle patterns on her arm.
“I’ll have a room cleared for your things tomorrow,” he said, his voice calm, certain. The discussion was over. It was happening. “The one with the eastern view. You’ll like the light.”
She nuzzled against him, a smirk playing on her swollen lips. Her body was sore, gloriously used. Her mind was a whirlwind. She’d won. She had him. Completely.
“I’ll need special hooks for my capes,” she murmured, her eyes closing. “And a dedicated shadow-corner for portal practice.”
He kissed the top of her head. “Anything you want.”
Outside, the city glimmered, unknowing. Its guardian was home, his world newly ordered, his devotion absolute and perfectly placed. And curled against him, already half-asleep, was the new center of that world, her alabaster skin marked with the proofs of his possession, a contented, victorious smile on her face. The first chapter of their story was written, not in ink, but in scent and sweat and seed. And it was only beginning.