Chapter Twenty-Two

Part Five.

Zane inspected the suit of power armour with a critical eye, arms folded across his broad chest. The chassis dominated the middle of Dr. Ruth Ruthless’s laboratory workshop like a goddamn mech from a Saturday-morning cartoon—bulky, intimidating, and unapologetically overbuilt.

“Are you sure this’ll fit me?” he asked, prodding a chest plate thick enough to deflect a missile.

“It had better,” Ruth replied without looking up, her tone equal parts scientist, schoolteacher, and forbearing parent. “That armour is custom-tailored to your current dimensions, darling. Kindly refrain from growing any larger.”

Jet black ballistic plating layered the nanopolymer exoskeleton in overlapping scales. Shield emitters pulsed with blood-red light. Servo-assisted joints promised to double his already ridiculous strength. A sleek, full-head helmet sat atop a workbench, visor gleaming as Ruth’s bespoke AI—a digitized simulacrum of her own hyper-intelligent psyche—ran diagnostics in a soothingly smug voice.

“I don’t know,” Zane’s brow wrinkled at the dark color scheme. “It gives off a sinister vibe–”

“Yes, I know. It’s very intimidating, very masculine,” Ruth added, waving an elegant hand. “Woe betide any foe who scratches it. Or bleeds on it. Or looks at it funny.”

She returned her attention to Wildfire, who sat nearby like a skittish schoolgirl out of her depth in a physics lecture. The foxgirl’s red-furred tail swished anxiously behind her as Ruth guided her through a holographic diagram of meltdown temperatures.

“Now pay attention, sweetheart. Steel melts at twenty-seven-fifty Fahrenheit. Concrete fails at twenty-two-ninety. You? You can now burn five times hotter than a house fire. Sneeze too hard and you’ll vaporize someone’s front porch.”

“Yes, ma’am!” Wildfire nodded vigorously, ears twitching.

The cute beastkin still seemed a tad dazed at her sudden change in social status. The scarlet and gold bodysuit, emblazoned with the Ladies of Liberty logo above her fat bosom, fit her curvy form nicely,

Zane let Ruth’s increasingly dire safety warnings fade into background noise as he inspected a shoulder-mounted plasma thrower. He recognized the design—a prize from the Ladies of Liberty’s trophy room. They’d yoinked half the team’s confiscated superweapons, and Ruth had wasted no time stitching them into his new ensemble.

“Here you go, Zay-Zay!” Colly sing-songed as she floated in, cheeks rosy, hovering with the grace of a cherub sporting airbag-sized tits. She carried a tall glass of her special milk.

She pushed it toward him. “Drink up! You’ll need your strength today.”

Zane’s mouth watered for the strengthening lactate as he ogled the wet spots on his girlfriend’s two sizes-too-small costume. Her nipples stood out like bullets beneath the shiny Lycra. Licking suddenly parched lips, he reached for her…

“What did I just say?” Ruth’s voice snapped like a whip. She stepped between them, wagging an admonishing finger. “He’s enormous already. Do not give him any more of your… muscle-boosting dairy, Colly. At least not until after the event.”

“The what now?” Zane asked, curiosity piqued.

Both women froze. Smiled. Too innocently.

Zane had a sneaking suspicion that these damned women were scheming something behind his back.

Again.

But it was Colly, his beautiful, adoring girlfriend, and…

She wanted what was best for him.

His concern evaporated like Wildfire’s hypothetical porch.

“I think Sir could go, like, a teensy bit bigger, right? S’not like we’d ever complain.”

“Mmmlurg… urg… gak~!”

Down at Zane’s feet, two other problems snuggled against his calves: Silvejia, the lilac-skinned speedster who was presently preoccupied with worshipping his ebullient erection, and Sarah, the green-haired shapechanger who had wrapped her teammate’s heavily upholstered figure in elongated coils like an over-affectionate python.

The gorgeously naked pair of super-women had been swapping him back and forth all morning, greedily sucking and slurping up every spurt of his copious cum. Zane had lost the will to object hours ago. As Colly said…

There was nothing to worry about.

What was so wrong with being surrounded by world-class mega-babes, begging for his enhancing seed? It served the greater good, making them stronger and better prepared to fight injustice. He was doing the world a service. And if they happened to be the sexiest, most venerated group of female supers in the northern hemisphere, well…

He deserved the best.

“You look, like, sooo~ totally hot sucking on Sir’s babymaker.” Sarah chirped. She nuzzled Silvejia’s cheek, licking up a glowing glob that dribbled down her chin.

Silvejia glowered. “Unhand me, airheaded noodle-girl. You cannot keep me from my betrothed.”

“Betrothed?” Zane sputtered. “Since when am I—? Wait, do I need a lawyer?”

What new madness had he landed himself in now? No one warned him that banging hot alien royalty came with lifelong obligations. Why weren’t there pamphlets or PSAs about this shit?

Sarah only squeezed her tighter, purring like a happy kitten. “Sister, relax! Sir brought the whole gang together. Well, the good members.”

That caught Zane’s attention. Somehow, amid the circus his life had become, the young enhancer had completely forgotten about the final heroine of the famous Ladies of Liberty—a certain buff brunette duplicator.

“Hold up.” Zane paused. Fog lifted. “The whole gang? Doesn’t that mean…”

Sarah’s expression twisted into a dramatic grimace. “Ugh. Yes. Miranda.”

Zane winced. The name alone conjured images of paparazzi photos, broken barstools, and pride flags used as fashion accessories rather than political statements.

“Miss Miriad?” He asked. “Is she really that bad?”

“Bad?” Silvejia resurfaced for air, snorting back a cum bubble. “She’s a walking PR Chernobyl. A total media whore. She gets drunk, multiplies into like thirty copies of herself, and starts wild bacchanals with entire queer nightclubs. Last month, she suplexed a drag queen into a recycling bin for ‘clam jamming her.’”

Wildfire piped up timidly. “But she’s… like… iconic?”

“Don’t mind if I do.” Sarah said to nobody, helping herself to Zane’s luminescent length. “Mmmmph!”

“She’s a mess,” Colly declared. “A hot mess, but still.”

Zane wasn’t so sure, absently fucking the elasticated girl’s elasticated throat as he pondered.

Sure, he’d seen the magazines. And the swimsuit calendar. And the leaked CCTV footage of an orgy that had gone viral. Miss Miriad was a copy editor's wet dream. She attracted the trashiest type of press, starting drunken brawls, punching reporters, and scandals galore, but nobody could deny her wicked charm or sex appeal.

She was chaos wrapped in muscle, self-love, and tequila.

A bad girl with abs sharp enough to slice bread.

The kind of woman you knew would ruin your life—and you still texted her after midnight.

“Right,” Zane said, massaging his temples, feeling the energy within him building once again. “So she’s the only one left.”

A hush fell over the lab. They all sensed his impending release. The resultant shockwave would send each of them to breath-taking peaks of carnal rapture.

Colly drifted close, looping her arms around him as she pressed against his back. “Don’t worry your cute head, sugar. Focus on giving Sarah her daily boost. We’ll handle Miranda.”

Ruth shot her a loaded look. The MILF mad doctor’s breathing quickened in anticipation. “Yes… Later today. Now, sweetie, don’t you want to cum for mommy?”

“Later today?” Zane groaned, drinking in the buxom redhead’s ripe curves stuffed into a little black dress beneath her unbuttoned lab coat. “Promise?”

Silence. Expectant smiles. Faux innocence.

His inquiring gaze shifted to Colly, who batted her long lashes and gave him a heated kiss. Her amethyst irises blazed like pink, heart-shaped suns.

She wanted what was best for him.

And just like that… the questions slipped away.

Then Sarah morphed her warm, wet throat into the perfect fuck-glove around Zane’s glowstick, and he exploded in a nimbus of sickly yellow light, much to the delight of every superpowered woman present.

They all wailed and spasmed orgasmically as he came with a roar.

Miranda kicked the LoL headquarters door open with the casual **** of a drunken goddess and staggered inside on wobbling legs. The entry hall spun like a nightclub dance floor–except the nightclub had worse carpets and fewer framed photos of Colly shaking hands with governors.

“Helloooo?” she called, voice cracking. “All-hands meeting, my ass…”

The words echoed, lonely and accusatory.

Huh. Weird.

Colly had sent that urgent message three… or maybe five hours ago? Time got fuzzy when you were bouncing between rooftop ragers, VIP lounges, and that one particularly kinky private dungeon.

Miranda blinked. Her mascara-heavy lashes stuck together like Velcro. She rubbed at a stain on her costume top, hoping it was salsa, not blood, this time. Her outfit consisted of little more than a crimson sports top, accented in gold, and matching briefs. She claimed it offered a greater range of movement, but honestly?

Bitches went crazy over bare skin and her combat-honed bod.

“Girls?” she tried again. “Anyone? Sarah? Silvie?”

Silence.

She wasn’t overly alarmed—the LoL ditched her all the time when she was off on a bender—but it was still odd. Colly treated “all-hands” meetings with the same reverence that other people reserved for weddings, funerals, and new Marvel movie releases.

She rubbed her temples.

Ow.

Her skull felt packed with broken glass and last night’s EDM bassline. Purple twinkles danced at the edges of her vision. She’d overdone… everything.

Again.

Miranda took a shaky step forward—and paused. There was a scent in the air.

Subtle. Salty. Mildly smoky?

It wasn’t perfume, nor sweat, or booze for once. Something comforting, vaguely familiar, like a half-remembered memory and… sex? Was that sex?

“Mmnh. What the hell?”

Her thighs squeezed together involuntarily. She’d scored plenty of trim over the past few days. As an LGBTQ superstar, Miss Miriad never lacked for eager young muff-munchers and could handle dozens at once. Sometimes they got too attached, and feelings had to be hurt afterward, but never hers.

The scent tickled her nostrils, weakening her knees. She shook her head hard enough to dislodge a plastic tiara she’d forgotten was up there.

“Focus, Miriad. You’re a superhero. You’re a role model.” She snorted. Then hiccupped. Then snorted again. “Okay, maybe not a role model. But still. Professionalism.”

Her stomach grumbled violently.

Right. Hydration. Food. Sanity. Liquids. She needed something to drink that didn’t come in a bottle with a worm floating inside.

She stumbled down the hall toward the kitchen.

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