[Location: Rooftop Above Central District | Time: 8:47 PM]

You saw the explosion from five blocks away.

The power lines snapped like threads of spaghetti, the rooftop crumpled inward, and that same angry crimson light flared against the evening sky like a signal flare. Civilians screamed, car alarms wailed, and emergency frequencies lit up your comm like fireworks. It was always around this time. Thursdays. 8:40ish. Gamma o’clock.

You landed hard on the rooftop, already knowing what to expect.

And there she was.

Betty Ross. Red She-Hulk. Seven feet tall and built like a war god sculpted in molten rage. Her hair whipped like flames in the wind. Her muscles were coiled, tense, ready to launch into another building—or another round of innuendo, whichever came first.

“You’re late,” she growled, kicking what was left of a ventilation unit off the edge of the roof.

You raised both hands slowly, cape fluttering behind you. “I had to stop a train from derailing. Again. Was that you?”

“Maybe,” she said, stepping forward, her lips curling into that devastating, familiar smirk. “Maybe I was bored. Maybe I wanted to see you lose that righteous little moral dilemma again.”

You arched a brow. “You mean the weekly game of ‘Do I talk you down or let you tear my suit off?’?”

Her eyes glowed brighter. “Exactly. What’s it gonna be, hero?”

A moment passed. The wind picked up. She took another step, now inches from you, body radiating heat and pure untamed power.

“You know what happens if I stay like this too long,” she whispered, voice thick with hunger and tension. “The rage builds. The gamma burns. I either crack this city open like an egg—or you cool me down. Your call.”

You swallowed hard. This wasn’t a trap. Not entirely. You’d done this dance before—tried reason, tried empathy, even tried hand-to-hand once. It rarely ended well. Destruction, panic, cleanup. You were tired of patching holes in the city.

Tonight, you made your choice.

“…We go to the bed,” you said, eyes locked on hers.

Betty blinked once. Slowly. Then her grin returned, wider this time. More satisfied. More dangerous.

“Well then,” she purred, lifting you like you weighed nothing and tossing you over her shoulder, “say goodbye to your superhero dignity for the next few hours.”

“I wasn’t using it anyway,” you muttered, already flushed.

She didn’t waste time. You barely had a moment to register movement before you were in your apartment, the door shattered inward, her lips on yours, her body pressing you into the mattress with a dominance only gamma strength could offer.

It was feral. Raw. She kissed like she fought—relentless, overpowering, but never careless. Every second was a tug-of-war between destruction and desire, and you were the only thing tethering her to sanity. She needed this. You needed her.

By the time dawn began to bleed into the sky, her skin had cooled. Her muscles had softened. Red became human again, limbs tangled with yours in a silent, peaceful heap.

You brushed the hair from her face, sweat and breath still tangled between you.

Her voice was hoarse when she murmured, “You satisfied me, hero. Guess I’m not blowing up downtown this week.”

You smiled.

Maybe this was your purpose. Not saving the world from her.

But saving her from herself.