Chapter 1: First Contact
The city below was a river of light, a million pinpricks of human endeavor stretching to the black horizon. Up here, in the silent, cool expanse of her penthouse, Kara Danvers could almost pretend she was above it all.The glasses were off, the bulky cardigan discarded on the back of a gray sofa. She stood at the floor-to-ceiling window, a silhouette against the neon pulse of National City, a crystal tumbler of amber whiskey hanging from her fingers. It didn’t affect her, not really. But she liked the ritual of it, the slow burn that was a pale echo of what she craved.What she needed.
The club had been throbbing, a mass of bodies and bass. She’d gone as herself, the other herself—not Kara Danvers, photographer, and not Supergirl, hero. Just a blonde in a slash of crimson silk that left little to the imagination. He’d been attractive in a generic way: tall, expensive watch, jawline sharp enough to suggest discipline.His eyes had held that familiar cocktail of desire and conquest. It was easy.It was always easy.
“So,” his voice was a low murmur against her ear now, his hands already on her hips, turning her from the view. The soft jazz from hidden speakers seemed to sync with the quickening of his pulse, a rhythm she could hear all too clearly.“You’re even quieter up here.”
Kara offered a small, practiced smile. “Just enjoying the view.” She let him steer her backwards, her calves hitting the edge of the immense black marble platform bed.
He kissed her, and it was all human urgency—hot, wet, demanding. She responded in kind, letting her hands slide under his shirt, feeling the frantic beat of his heart against her palm.He smelled of cologne and club sweat and ambition. It was so far removed from the sterile, sun-drenched halls of the Fortress of Solitude, from the weight of the El family crest on her chest.Here, she was weightless.
He broke the kiss, breathing hard. “Christ, you’re intense.” His fingers found the thin strap of her dress and pushed it down her shoulder, his mouth following to suck a bruise into her collarbone.A jolt, sharp and bright, shot through her. She gasped, her head falling back.Her senses, always dialed to eleven, began to amplify everything. The rough texture of his wool slacks against her thighs became a detailed landscape. The rush of blood through his veins was a roaring river in her ears. The minute scratch of his stubble was a point of exquisite, almost painful focus. She leaned into it, craving the overload, willing it to drown out the ghost of Krypton’s funeral dirge that sometimes hummed in her bones.
“Tell me what to do,” she whispered, a lie of submission.She was always in control, even here.Especially here.
He groaned, a sound of pure male gratification.“Turn around.” His voice was thick. “I want to see that ass in this dress.”
She obeyed, turning to face the window, her reflection a pale ghost overlaid on the cityscape. She heard the rustle of his clothes, the clink of his belt buckle. Then his hands were on her again, hiking up the crimson silk, bunching it around her waist.The cool city air kissed her exposed skin.
“Fuck, you’re perfect,” he breathed, his palms smoothing over the curve of her rear. One hand slid between her legs from behind, fingers probing. She was already wet, her body responding with efficient, human biology.She pressed back against his hand, a low moan escaping her. This was the mechanical part, the easy part. The feel of his rough fingers inside her, the promise of what came next—it was a clean, sharp sensation, a bright line drawn against the messy complexity of her days.He didn’t wait. He guided himself to her entrance, the blunt, hot pressure unmistakable. With a grunt, he pushed into her, filling her in one steady, stretching motion.
“Oh, god,” he choked out, his hands clamping onto her hips, holding her still as he settled deep. Kara closed her eyes, letting the full, stretching sensation radiate through her. She adjusted her internal density, just a fraction, to feel more—to make the pressure almost too much.Then he started to move. A slow pull back, then a hard, driving thrust that shoved her forward, her palms slapping against the cool glass of the window. He set a relentless pace, each impact jolting through her frame. The sounds were obscene, wet and fleshly in the clean, curated space—the slap of skin, his ragged curses, her own sharp, bitten-off cries that she only half-faked.
“Yeah, take it,” he panted, his thrusts growing faster, less controlled. His fingers dug into her hips hard enough to leave marks on anyone else.On her, they’d be gone by morning. “Jesus, you’re so fucking tight. Clenching around me like that…”
His words dissolved into a stream of filthy praise.Kara focused on the sensations, letting them build. She could hear the precise moment his cardiovascular system went into overdrive, the arrhythmic gallop of his heart. She could feel the minute tear of a muscle fiber in his thigh with each piston of his hips. It was intoxicating, this hyper-aware immersion in the raw, animal act.
She reached a hand between her own legs, needing the extra friction to tip her over. Her clit was swollen, sensitive, and with a few concentrated circles, the tension coiled in her core snapped. Her orgasm washed over her, a wave of pure physical release that made her vision whiten at the edges. She cried out, a real sound this time, her inner muscles pulsing around him.The feel of her climax triggered his. With a shout that was almost a roar, he slammed into her one final time, shuddering as he came, his body going rigid against her back. He collapsed forward, his sweat-slick chest heaving against her spine, his weight pushing her fully against the window.
For a long moment, there was only the sound of their breathing and the distant hum of the city. The electric, ozone-tinged scent of their sex filled the air.
He peeled himself off her, pressing a sloppy kiss to her shoulder.“Holy shit,” he muttered, stumbling towards the en suite bathroom. “Give me a sec.”
Kara didn’t move. She stared at her reflection, at the woman with flushed skin and smudged lipstick, her dress twisted around her waist. The glorious, numbing haze of the climax was already receding, leaving the familiar hollow quiet in its wake. She felt his release cooling on the inside of her thigh.Another mark that wouldn’t last.The shower turned on. He’d be quick, she knew. He’d make awkward conversation, maybe ask for her number she wouldn’t give, and then he’d leave. And she’d be alone again with the skyline and the silence.A familiar, heavy restlessness settled in her bones. The night was still young. She could be in Tokyo in minutes, find another club, another stranger, another temporary fix for the permanent ache of being the last daughter of a dead world.
As she straightened her dress, her eyes caught a faint, flickering glow far below, near the docks. A distress signal on a marine band frequency, inaudible to human ears. A ship was in trouble.Kara’s posture shifted, the languidness burning away in an instant. The man in her shower was already a memory. She walked to the terrace door, slid it open, and stepped into the night air.The silk dress fluttered around her knees.
She took a final, deep breath, the city’s smells—exhaust, brine, frying food, human lives—filling her lungs.Then she stepped off the edge.For a heartbeat, she fell. Then, with a thought, she stopped, hovering a thousand feet above her own penthouse. The wind whipped her hair.She reached up, unclasping a necklace that wasn’t a necklace. The metal expanded in her hands, fabric weaving itself from nowhere, the familiar shield ‘S’ settling on her chest.
Supergirl looked down at the flickering pinpoint of light by the docks, her face set in a mask of determined compassion.The night’s other work was calling.
Below, in the bathroom, the water shut off. The man would find the suite empty, the whiskey glass washed and left neatly on the bar. He’d probably smirk, thinking he’d been part of something thrilling and anonymous.
He had no idea.