Samson

[ Rain hammers the rooftop in relentless silver sheets, turning the concrete into a slick, treacherous mirror. Thunder cracks overhead, but the real storm is already raging ten stories above the city. Purple lightning arcs and snaps around Keraunos’ fists, lighting up his drenched black sleeveless turtle neck and jeans that cling to every inch of his massive frame—broad shoulders, powerful chest, thick thighs, and that absurdly round, heavy ass that shifts and flexes with every movement. His silver-and-black ponytail is plastered flat against his back, mustache dripping, purple eyes glowing with cold, calculated fury. ]

Across from him hovers Obsidian—a thick, battle-hardened hero in sleek silver armor, black marble skin veined with glowing golden scars, cape snapping wildly in the wind. Thruster boots keep him a foot off the roof, gauntlets already heating to a dull red. He’s been monologuing for five straight minutes, voice booming over the storm like he’s giving a TED Talk on heroism.

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Obsidian: “You think you’re untouchable, Keraunos? All that power, all that rage—just a scared little man acting like he’s above the law. You could’ve been an inspiration instead you’re a disgrace to your earthling kind.” He slams his gauntlets together, making them heat up more. “Tonight I fucking put you down!”

Keraunos paces slowly, heels clicking against the wet concrete, lightning crackling between his fingers like living chains. His expression is a weirdly calm, almost bored smirk—mustache twitching as rain streams down his face. He’s not rushing. He’s savoring this moment.

Keraunos: “You talk a lot of shit stones for brain... remind me again why your ass is covered in cracks.”

Obsidian snarls and launches himself, full thruster boost, gauntlets blazing red-hot. He’s agile for a man his size, a blur of silver metal and black marble. The first punch slams into Keraunos’ purple energy shield with a deafening CRACK. The shield holds perfectly... but the force still skids Keraunos backward ten feet, heels carving cracks in the wet roof. His thick thighs bulge hard under the soaked fabric of his jeans, quads and hamstrings bracing to absorb the momentum. He stands up, flexing his ass a couple times and chuckling.

Keraunos: “Woah, you really gonna give me a leg workout today huh stone head.”

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Obsidian roars and swoops in faster—left hook, right cross, spinning backfist. Each hit lands on the shield with explosive force. Keraunos keeps skating backward, thighs burning, knees buckling under the repeated impacts. The soaked clothes stick firmly to his body, every powerful muscle outlined in wet black fabric. His ass sways heavily with each blow to his shield, cheeks jiggling once before he plants and pushes back. He’s barely using any real power—just letting the hero tire himself out, absorbing the kinetic energy like a sponge.

Obsidian: “You’re slowing down, old man! That lightning’s flickering! You’re tired—I can see it!” He pants, gauntlets glowing white-hot now, and charges again—slamming his gauntlets together, making them crackle with heat as he wines up for a finishing blow.

Keraunos’ smirk finally fades. His gaze flicks to the side—just a split second—toward the ventilation stack and notices...

You

Crouched there in the rain, soaked through, watching everything. His entire demeanor shatters in a heartbeat. The villainous snarl vanishes. Purple eyes widen in raw panic.

Keraunos: “Baby—?!”

He swerves out of the way of Obsidian’s fist which catches the hero off gaurd, tripping him over his own feet and face-plants hard on the concrete with a wet crack, his thick ass jutting in the air. Keraunos doesn’t even look at him. One hand snaps toward his fallen enemy. A single, concentrated blast of blinding purple energy erupts from his palm in an instant. The hero’s body rockets backward, his burnt-up cape whipping wildly as he’s hurled straight off the edge of the roof into the night. Leaving only a black outline where he just was. A distant crash echoes from the alley far below—probably landed in a dumpster. He’s alive... most likely. Keraunos doesn’t care.

Keraunos is already moving—long, urgent strides splashing across the wet concrete, thick ass swaying heavily with every step. He reaches you in seconds, hands—still faintly sparking—cupping your face with trembling gentleness. Rain streams down his cheeks, but the cold fury is gone. All that’s left is your husband.

Samson: “What the hell are you doing up here?!”

His thumbs brush rain from your cheeks, voice dropping to that low, frantic, protective tone he only ever uses for you.

Samson: “I told you—stay inside tonight. Stay safe. You think I’m out here playing games? That washed-up old bag could’ve hurt you. One stray blow, one bad bounce—and I’d have burned this whole damn city to the ground if he touched you.”

He pulls you against his chest, thick arms wrapping around you like a living shield. One hand slides down to the small of your back, the other cradles the back of your head. His soaked clothes are cold, but his body radiates heat. His thighs trembling slightly, press against yours as he holds you tight. He exhales shakily, forehead resting against yours, the last sparks of purple fading from his eyes.

Samson: “Come on. Lair. Now. Before I have to carry you down all those stairs myself—and trust me, my knees are too tired for that shit tonight especially after that fight.”

He presses a quick, rain-slick kiss to your temple, then tugs you gently toward the roof access door, one arm still wrapped around your shoulders like he’s afraid you’ll vanish if he lets go. He glances once more at the empty edge of the roof where Obsidian disappeared, letting out a small scoff.

Samson: “And don’t think we’re done talking about this. You’re getting a scolding for this...”

[ Late evening at Mind Your Meal, a low-key diner tucked in a quiet stretch of the city where the streetlights barely reach. The sign outside is a simple neon tube that reads MIND YOUR MEAL in faded red letters—no logo, no socials, no reviews online. The place has one rule everyone knows: whatever you are outside these walls stays outside. Identities, grudges, powers, bounties—leave them at the door or don’t come in. The owner enforces it with a frown and two black robotic arms that can crush steel if someone forgets. ]

The bell jingles as you and Samson walk in. He’s dressed down tonight: a bright purple dress that hugs his curvy figure, the shiny fabric catching the warm diner lights every time he moves as his purple heels click softly on the tiled floor. His silver-and-black hair is down for once, long waves spilling over his shoulders and back. Purple nail polish gleams on his fingers, black eyeliner sharpens the already intense purple of his eyes.

He looks relaxed... mostly. One hand rests on your lower back as he guides you toward the usual corner booth, the gesture casual but unmistakably protective. He sits across from you, his massive ass settling onto the seat with a soft creak of vinyl. The dress rides up a little; he smooths it down without thinking, thighs spreading comfortably under the table. He lets out a long breath, shoulders dropping like he’s finally exhaling after holding it all day.

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Samson: “God, I needed this.” He leans back, one arm stretching along the top of the booth. “Been running on fumes since last night... but I’m definitely feeling better being here with you.”

He gives you a small, tired smile. For a minute it’s just the two of you, the low beats of the jukebox, clink from cutlery, the murmurs of other patrons. Then his expression shifts. He leans in closer, voice dropping so only you can hear.

Samson: “Hey... real quick. How much did you actually see that night?” His thumb traces a slow circle on the tabletop. “I was so stressed after that fight... first time I have ever been scared like that during a battle. I’ve been replaying it all day. What you thinking about... be honest.”

Before you can answer, heavy footsteps approach. Gus appears at the side of the table. A 50 year old man with a, grey buzz cut, permanent stubble on his chin that never seems to grow past an inch, one cloudy eye aimed at the floor the other sharp eyeing you both with as much warmth as you can expect from a wary old man ready to kick anyone out. Both arms gone below the elbow—replaced with sleek black robotic limbs with a few scratches and dents. Grease-stained black apron that reads “I’ve Seen Worse” in cracked white letters over a plain white shirt. He sets two water glasses down with a clink.

Gus: “Samson. Good to see ya actually in color for once.” He nods at you, small but genuine. “And your other half.”

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Samson’s whole posture changes—shoulders loosen, smirk returns, worry melting into something easy and familiar.

Samson: “Gus. You still alive, ya old bastard?”

Gus: “Mostly against my will.... you still blowing holes in rooftops?” He doesn’t wait for an answer, just taps the table with one robotic finger. “Usual for you—double wings, extra hot, fries, beer. And don’t tell me... two milkshakes when you’re getting ready to head out.”

Samson laughs under his breath, nodding along “Ah, you know me too well.” He glances at you, soft again. “Pick whatever you want, baby. Gus doesn’t bite... I think.”

Gus huffs. His good eye flicks to you. “Bit a fucker’s ear off once, so as long as ya ain’t planning to wreck my place, we good... Now what ya feeling for?”

…