She's all over you

In the throes of the freeze, you let go, and Malice was upon you, her boot-heels striking the floor with a sharp, echoing crack. Her impact sent you reeling, your step faltering as the field at your back caught you, a hard, invisible brace preventing your fall. She clung to you, her limbs wrapping around you, using the field to her advantage, making the ground irrelevant. Her mouth found yours, hungry and insistent, her tongue sliding in, hot and salty from her scream. She sucked your lower lip, pulling gently, then delved deeper, her moan vibrating in your mouth, a primal, desperate sound. Her hips rolled against you, the slick leather of her cunt tracing the line of your cock through your trousers, each roll smearing her lipstick, her spit, her broken moans all mingling in your mouth.

Your hands found her, one at the small of her back, the other at the nape of her neck, guiding her hips, setting the rhythm. The field held you upright, and she used it, hanging off your mouth as you moved the clinch, her tongue chasing yours, her cunt grinding against you, lipstick and spit smearing wetter with each movement. "You come to me like this," you growled into her mouth, "and you earn it." Your words fueled her, a broken sound escaping her as she rolled her hips harder, her slick leather flush against you, locked in the embrace, grinding for the release that seemed to live in the front of your trousers, her breath ragged, her body refusing to relinquish the kiss.

The kiss went deeper until there was no clean edge to it, teeth and tongue and the salt still on her breath, and your hands stopped guiding and started gripping, pulling her tighter so the grind had nowhere to wander. Nails raked your back through the shirt. Her legs cinched at your waist and the field at your spine took the extra weight without comment while you lifted her a fraction and changed the angle, leather sliding hotter along the trapped line of your cock.

A gasp broke into your mouth. Her hips jerked, found the new line, and rolled there like she had been waiting for someone to set it, the slick drag turning dirty enough that the moan started low in her belly and came out through the kiss instead of around it. “You like that,” you said against her teeth, and she answered with her forehead hard to yours and a hissed yes before she was in your mouth again, demanding, grinding with the kind of urgency that did not leave room for a speech.

Pressure built in the clinch until her head fell back and her body arched against the hold you had on her ass, mouth open on a sound that never quite became a scream. She came on you like that, cunt pulsing through the leather in tight helpless flutters, fingers digging into your shoulders while the field kept you both upright and your cock throbbed unanswered under the wet heat of her. When the shaking thinned she slumped into your neck, still wrapped around you, and found your mouth again, not slow and not grateful, just hungry for the next breath of it.

“Don’t stop,” she got out against your teeth. “I’ll be good. Use me. I can feel all of it and I still want this. I don’t want it gone. Let it go here.”

The field opened the front of your trousers with no patience in it. Her hand wrapped the length she had been grinding on, notched you against her, slick and tight from what had just gone through her, and she had to work it, an inch and a loss and an inch again until heat closed around the stretch and she sank to the root, ass flush to you, a broken sound punched into the kiss. “Like this. Don’t put me back in the quiet.”

Your hands took her hips and used the brace at your spine to keep her on that line. Each lift dragged her almost off the head of your cock and dropped her back onto the whole of it, leather wet against your groin, the field taking the shock so the wrap never needed a wall. She clung and met the drop, kissing through it, scraps of useful and here and don’t stop dying in your mouth whenever you seated her harder.

It caught her differently this time, not the first helpless flutter through cloth but a deep clench around the cock she had just taken, rolling through her belly in pulses she could not spend in one burst, moaning into you while her cunt milked what she had asked to keep. You did not pull out. You kept her there and spent in her, thick heat filling the place she had given it, and she kissed you through that too, shaking, stuffed, still working her hips in small wrecked rolls as if she could keep the quiet from coming back.

The heat had thinned by then, but she stayed against you anyway, forehead resting to yours between slow kisses, as though the quiet waiting beyond them was something she did not trust yet. “Don’t take it back,” she murmured, and there was no need to ask what she meant. Not the guilt, not the empathy, not even the part of her that now hated what she had done. She had spent too long carving pieces out of herself to escape the weight of being Susan Storm, and now that the weight was back she was frightened of losing it almost as much as she was frightened of carrying it.

That interested you more than it should have. There was still appetite in the way she clung to you, but appetite was not a good enough reason to keep going, and neither was the satisfaction of seeing all that work take hold. You had put a conscience back into that skull, forced Susan and Malice to occupy the same mind, and given the result somewhere to point itself. Pushing her through another round tonight would only turn craft into indulgence, and there were still names waiting in your pocket.

Now your cane tapped lightly between her shoulder blades instead. The old costume answered at once, not disappearing so much as shedding the parts that had belonged to a woman who needed every inch of herself to announce danger. Spikes softened and ran away, the crown and claws followed, the X loosening from her face while the red and black remained. What settled in their place kept the scarf, cape, gloves, fishnet and boots, but lost the hardware, leaving something cleaner and less desperate to prove what it was. She noticed the change only after it was finished and glanced down at herself with the dazed suspicion of someone expecting another trick.

“You’re still Malice,” you said. “You just don’t need to dress like you’re trying to convince yourself.”

The look that earned you was tired enough to be almost Susan’s.

She kept her arms around you when you stood, helping without comment by taking most of her own weight with a thin cushion of force. By the time you reached the dormitory her face had settled against your neck, the earlier tension finally beginning to drain out of her, although every so often some memory caught hard enough to make her breathing change. Carol was already asleep on one side of the bed, gold hair spread across the pillow, and the sight of her made Malice go still for half a second.

Not fear. Recognition.

Another hero asleep without armor. Another person close enough to trust the room.

You felt the hesitation before she let you lower her onto the empty side of the mattress. She looked at Carol once, then back at you, and when your hand left her shoulder her fingers caught your sleeve on instinct. They stayed there for a moment before loosening.

“You’re not going anywhere,” she said quietly.

“Not far.”

That was apparently enough. Her hand fell back to the blanket, though her eyes stayed on you until you reached the door.

Only then did the folded list in your pocket make itself felt again, the paper pressing against your leg with every step. There had been more names on it before Susan Storm arrived, and there were still more now.

The door shut on both women.

The list was waiting.