Chapter 2 – Sparks, Suits, and Stirrings
Three months in that godforsaken cave. Tony's ingenuity turned the damp rock walls into a makeshift forge, but the air still reeked of sweat, gunpowder, and desperation. I'd watched it all unfold from my perch—tendrils retracted, form a mere whisper against the stone. He built the suit, that clunky Mark I beast of red and yellow, powered by the glowing heart in his chest. Yinsen paid the ultimate price, buying time with his life as bullets tore through him. Tony blasted out, flames roaring from the suit's repulsors, turning Ten Rings scum into charred confetti.
I followed. Slipped through the chaos like smoke, latching onto the underbelly of their escape chopper without a hitch. The desert blurred below as they flew toward freedom—or whatever passed for it in this powder keg of a world. Tony ditched the suit on landing, but I didn't need metal to hitch a ride. By the time he was back in Malibu, shaking off the sand and the trauma, I was already stateside, weaving through the undercurrents of this hybrid reality.
A year total now, but those cave months sharpened my edge. I'd slipped out during lulls, hunting in Afghan outposts nearby. Two more kills: a arms dealer with maps of black-market tech etched in his mind, and a sniper whose steady aim I plucked like a ripe fruit, adding a fraction of that precision to my own strikes. Memories filed away, half-discarded to keep my head clear. No room for their ghosts; I was forging my own path.
Back in the States, the world opened up. New York pulsed with that chaotic Marvel energy—spider-kid rumors in Queens, mutant whispers from upstate. But DC's underbelly tugged too: Gotham's fog rolling in on east winds, Metropolis gleaming like a beacon of false hope. I stuck to the shadows, building strength. Assimilated a bit more—drained a low-tier enhanced thug in Jersey, his minor strength boost making my form denser, hits landing harder when I shifted.
Tony? He was spiraling. Partying harder, burying the cave in booze and women. I tailed him from afar, a black ripple in the night. Saw him suit up in secret, testing that sleeker Mark II in his workshop. The man's a magnet for trouble, and I was drawn to it. But patience—always patience. I needed to gauge him, see if he'd be tool or target.
Then came the break. SHIELD's eyes turned his way, and with them, her. Black Widow. Natasha Romanoff. Red hair like fire, body honed to lethal curves—ass tight from endless training, breasts straining against that black tactical catsuit like they were weapons in their own right. I'd caught glimpses in extracted memories from a HYDRA defector I'd taken down in D.C.: her file, her kills, the way she wrapped legs around throats and squeezed until spines cracked.
She infiltrated his life smooth as silk, posing as an assistant or some bullshit cover. I watched from the mansion's rafters, senses extended. Tony flirted, oblivious, but she was all business under the seduction. That night, after he'd passed out from scotch, she slipped into his lab, scanning files. I dropped down, form shifting to human guise—tall, dark-haired, eyes like polished obsidian. No suit, just jeans and a shirt that hugged the symbiote's sculpted frame.
"Looking for something, Red?" I leaned against the doorframe, voice low, laced with that predatory amusement.
She spun, gun drawn in a blur, aimed at my chest. Green eyes narrowed, assessing. "Who the hell are you? Stark's security?"
I chuckled, stepping closer. No fear—bullets wouldn't stick unless I let them. "Something like that. But I'm not here to play guard dog. Name's... call me Shade for now. And you? Widow, right? Heard you spin quite the web."
Her finger tightened on the trigger, but she didn't fire. Smart. Sensed I wasn't human-standard. "Get out of my way, or I put a hole in you."
Instead of backing off, I closed the distance, tendrils itching under my skin. Up close, she smelled like leather and faint jasmine—intoxicating. My cock stirred, the symbiote amplifying base urges into something primal. Straight as an arrow, and she was the kind of woman who made a man want to conquer. "Shoot me, and you'll regret it. Or don't. But let's talk. Stark's cave changed him. You SHIELD types want to leash him? I might have insights."
She lowered the gun a fraction, curiosity flickering. "Insights from where? You smell like trouble."
"Afghanistan," I said, letting a hint of black ooze seep from my palm, coiling like a serpent. "I was there. Saw the whole show. And I think we could... align interests."
Natasha's gaze dropped to the tendril, then back up, lips curving in a dangerous smile. "Align how?"
I stepped in, close enough to feel her heat. "You handle the spy games. I handle the shadows. And maybe, after, we handle each other. No strings—unless you like them."
She holstered the gun, but her stance screamed readiness. "Bold. Stupid, but bold. What makes you think I'd trust a freak like you?"
"Because you're alone in enemy territory, and I'm the only one offering a hand." I extended it, the tendril wrapping loosely around her wrist—not tight, just a tease of control. Her pulse jumped under my grip, and I caught the subtle hitch in her breath. Attraction? Wariness? Both.
She pulled back, but not before I felt the spark. "Fine. Talk. But if you cross me, I'll gut you."
We spoke in whispers—me feeding her half-truths about Tony's tech vulnerabilities, her probing for my origins. I dodged, turned it flirtatious. By dawn, as Tony stirred upstairs, she'd slipped out, but not before brushing against me in the hallway, her hip grazing my thigh. Promise in the contact.
That was the start. Natasha became my first mark—not for killing, but claiming. Over weeks, I shadowed her ops, intervening when SHIELD's leash tightened on Tony. Saved her ass once in a Budapest safehouse raid, tendrils whipping out to crush assailants while she fired rounds. She didn't thank me with words, but later, in a dingy motel, she pushed me against the wall, lips crashing into mine.
"You're a liability," she growled, hands yanking my shirt open, nails raking my chest.
"And you're addicted," I shot back, gripping her ass, pulling her tight against my hardening cock.
She bit my lip, drawing black ichor that healed instantly. We fucked rough—her on top, riding me with that assassin's precision, pussy clenching like a vice as I thrust up, tendrils teasing her nipples, wrapping her thighs. She came hard, screaming into my shoulder, and I followed, pumping cum deep while assimilating a sliver of her skill—stealth, seduction, the works.
Not full bond. Not yet. But she was mine now, the first in the web. Harem? Call it alliance with benefits. Straight-up conquests, women who could handle the dark.
Tony suited up publicly soon after, Iron Man roaring into the skies. I watched from Natasha's side, her hand on my thigh under the table. Metropolis buzzed with Superman sightings—blue streak saving a falling plane. Gotham's Bat signal pierced the night. The worlds collided, and I was poised to feed.
Supergirl? Whispers of her reached me through Natasha's intel—a blonde powerhouse from the stars, vulnerable in ways her cousin wasn't. Kryptonite chinks, emotional cracks. Maybe next. For now, Widow was enough—loyal, lethal, and insatiable in the sheets.
The game's afoot. Tony's arc lights the fuse, and I'm the shadow spreading.