A Life in DC [DC Universe] (Patreon)

A Life in DC

Chapter 1 - Selina Kyle

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The rain in Gotham wasn't water. It was a perpetual, greasy rinse cycle, cycling the grime from the sky-scraping gargoyles down to the cracked asphalt, where it pooled in iridescent puddles that reflected a city perpetually caught in the moment before a scream. Oliviero Oronzo knew this rain. He knew its smell, its cold, insistent kiss on the back of his neck. He’d known it his entire life, and for most of that life, it had felt like a poorly-fitted coat, something that was technically his but never quite sat right on his shoulders.

He sat in his beat-to-shit sedan, the engine ticking over a pathetic, asthmatic rhythm, watching the downpour sluice down the windshield. The wipers were on their last legs, smearing the city lights into a watercolor nightmare of neon and decay. He was on a stakeout, of a sort. Watching a known fence’s apartment in a part of the Bowery so bad even the rats sent postcards home warning their families not to visit. It was busywork. The kind of job they gave the new guy, the guy who was just another body in the blue uniform, a placeholder until he either quit, got killed, or learned to play the game.

Vieri, as everyone but the precinct captain and the DMV called him, was learning the game. He was a quick study.

The weirdness had been a constant companion since he was a kid. It was a low-level hum behind the symphony of Gotham’s usual madness. Other kids accepted the costumed freaks, the weekly super-villain attacks, the fact that their skyline was dominated by a building shaped like a bat. Vieri never could. It felt like he was watching a play and everyone else had been given the script except him. He’d lie in bed at night in the house his parents left him, a small, stubbornly well-kept brick thing in a neighborhood that was only "nice" by Gotham’s generous standards, and just… feel the wrongness of it all. It was like a phantom limb, an itch for a world he couldn't quite remember.

His father, Detective Antonio Oronzo, had been a ghost in a photograph for as long as Vieri could recall. A strong-jawed man with tired eyes and a smile that didn't quite reach them, standing next to a younger, brighter version of his mother. Antonio had died in the line of duty when Vieri was four. A warehouse shootout gone sideways. The official story was clean, simple, heroic. Vieri had no memories of the man, only the weight of his absence, a gravity that seemed to pull his mother down year after year.

His mother, Elena, had been an accountant. A woman of numbers and quiet strength. She’d tried her best to shield him from the city’s rot, filling their small home with the smell of baking bread and the sound of classical music on the radio. But Gotham always found a way in. It found her on a Tuesday when Vieri was fifteen. A gang war had erupted over a disputed drug territory at the open-air market on Kane Street. She’d just been there to buy vegetables. A stray bullet, a chaotic splash of red on a canvas of brown grocery bags and terrified faces. That was it. No grand villain, no dramatic monologue. Just the city being the city. Grinding a good person into dust between its gears.

After that, the house felt too big, too quiet. The weirdness intensified. The world felt thinner, like a film set he could see through if he just squinted. He drifted for a couple of years, a ghost in his own life, until his father’s old partner, a grizzled lieutenant named Frank Costello, slapped him on the back of the head and told him to stop moping. "Your old man was a cop," Frank had grumbled, his breath smelling of stale coffee and regret. "It's in your blood. Plus, the academy's hiring. Pension's shit, but it's a paycheck."

And so, Vieri became a cop. It wasn't a calling. It wasn't about justice or making a difference. It was a job. A sure way to pay the property taxes on the house his parents had bled for and to keep the lights on. He went through the academy with a detached sort of competence, doing what was required, not an ounce more. He learned how to shoot, how to fill out paperwork that would inevitably be lost, and how to look the other way. The last skill came naturally.

The explanation arrived on the day of his graduation, standing in the sweltering sun in his starched, uncomfortable dress blues. As the police commissioner, a man with a politician’s smile and eyes like frozen fish, droned on about duty and honor, the world tilted. It wasn't a dizzy spell. It was a download.

Memories that weren't his crashed into his consciousness like a tidal wave. A life lived in a different world, a world without capes and cowl, without a city that was a character in its own horror story. A life of comic books, of movies, of stories told in ink and celluloid. He remembered reading about Gotham. He remembered watching the cartoons, seeing the movies, poring over the fan wikis.

He remembered that Bruce Wayne, the brooding billionaire philanthropist, was Batman.

The revelation didn't come with a shock of lightning or a gasp of horror. It settled into him with the quiet, devastating certainty of a terminal diagnosis. Oh. That's why it felt so fake.

He stood there, sweating in his uniform, the commissioner's words washing over him, and he knew. He knew who the Penguin was before he even started his first shift in the Major Crimes Unit. He knew Two-Face's tragic backstory. He knew the Riddler's narcissistic need to leave clues. He knew that the friendly, slightly creepy groundskeeper at Arkham was probably one of the Joker’s henchmen in disguise.

It was, in a word, useless.

What was he supposed to do with this information? Walk up to his captain and say, "Hey, you know that creepy bat-signal thing? I'm pretty sure I know who's on the other end of it. Also, we should probably check the sewers under the old Falcone warehouse, I think Killer Croc is using it as a crash pad." He'd be fired so fast his head would spin. Or worse, they'd think he was crazy and he'd end up in Arkham himself, as a patient.

The knowledge was a cosmic joke. It was like being given the cheat codes to a game that was already rigged against you. Knowing Batman’s identity didn't stop the junkie from shanking you for twenty bucks. Knowing the Joker’s real name didn't make his laughing gas any less lethal. Knowing the city was corrupt from the mayor on down to the meter maids didn't give you a magic wand to fix it. It just gave you a front-row seat to the inevitable shitshow.

So, Vieri adapted. His motivation, never exactly stellar to begin with, solidified into a single, crystalline philosophy: coast. Be just corrupt enough to be left alone, just competent enough to not get fired. Take the free donuts, look the other way when a small-time dealer slipped you a twenty to "lose" some evidence, and write your reports with just enough detail to pass inspection. The goal wasn't to be a hero. The goal was to survive. To collect his paycheck, go home to his quiet house, and try to forget the screaming he heard in his head, both from the streets outside and the echoes of another life.

He had two assets in this city. Two small, pathetic bulwarks against the encroaching darkness.

The first was the house. It was a small two-story brick colonial on a tree-lined street in the Gotham Heights district. "Tree-lined" was a generous term; the trees were mostly skeletal things that looked like they’d given up years ago. The neighborhood was "nice" in the sense that you were less likely to be shot on your way to the corner store, and the only rats you saw were the size of a cat, not a German shepherd. It was his. Paid for. A small fortress of solitude in a city that hated peace. It was the one thing his parents had managed to give him that Gotham couldn't easily take away. It was his anchor.

The second asset was… more complicated.

Vieri was, by any objective measure, absurdly well-endowed. It wasn't something he boasted about. It wasn't something he even particularly liked. It was just a fact of his anatomy, as undeniable as the color of his eyes or the scar on his chin from falling off his bike when he was seven. It was comically, almost cartoonishly, large. And, as if to compensate for some cosmic imbalance, he had also discovered, through a series of fumbling encounters in his late teens and early twenties, that he was a remarkably good lover. Patient, attentive, intuitive. He had a knack for reading a partner's body, for understanding what they wanted before they did.

It was a useless, superfluous skill in his line of work. It wasn't like he could seduce the Penguin into a confession. It wasn't like he could fuck his way out of a shootout. In a city of gods and monsters, of men in powered armor and women who could control plants with their minds, being good in bed felt like bringing a spork to a gunfight. What good was it against a man who laughed while he poisoned the city’s water supply? How did it help against a creature made of living mud? It was a non-power, a party trick in a world-ending crisis. It was the ultimate cosmic punchline: give a man the tools to be a god in the bedroom, then drop him into a city that was actively trying to kill him in the streets.

He shifted in the driver's seat of his sedan, the cheap vinyl groaning in protest. The stakeout was a bust. The fence wasn't coming home tonight. Probably already in a holding cell downtown, or more likely, at the bottom of the river with a new pair of concrete shoes. Vieri didn't care. He just wanted to go home, take a hot shower, and wash the day off his skin. He put the car in drive, the tires hissing through the grimy puddles as he pulled away from the curb.

As he drove, the city’s soundtrack played on. Sirens in the distance, a chorus of lonely, desperate cries. The rattle of a loose manhole cover as he drove over it. The murmur of the homeless huddled under awnings, their faces illuminated by the flickering neon of a 24-hour noodle shop. He saw it all through a dual lens. The cop, and the man who remembered reading about it. He saw a mugging in an alley and his cop brain started calculating angles, distances, response times. His other brain, the one from a world without capes, just thought, Yep, classic Tuesday in Gotham.

He passed the old Gotham Gazette building. His other-life memories supplied the name of its long-suffering editor, Jack Ryder, who would one day become the garishly-suited Creeper. He knew the woman running the flower stand on the corner was secretly Poison Ivy's favorite plant supplier, a fact that was utterly useless to him unless he suddenly needed a dozen rare, carnivorous orchids. The knowledge was a weight, a constant, low-level static that buzzed behind his eyes. It made him feel like a ghost at his own life, a spectator in a sport he was forced to play.

He finally turned onto his street. The skeletal trees dripped onto the pavement. His house was the third one down, looking exactly like the others, a little brick box trying to hold its own against the encroaching gloom. He parked in the small driveway, the engine’s death rattle a final protest before falling silent. He sat there for a moment, just listening to the rain.

This was his sanctuary. The one place the weirdness felt a little less potent. Inside these walls, he wasn't a cop or a man with another life's memories. He was just Oliviero Oronzo, a guy who owned a house and paid his bills on time. He got out of the car, the cold rain immediately plastering his hair to his forehead. He fumbled with his keys, his fingers numb, and let himself in.

The smell of the house hit him first. It wasn't fancy. It was just… clean. Lemon-scented polish, old books, and the faint, lingering scent of his mother's baking, a phantom aroma he could never quite scrub away. It was the smell of a life that could have been, a life in a normal city, in a normal world. He locked the door behind him, the deadbolt sliding home with a satisfying thud, a small, defiant sound against the chaos outside.

He dropped his keys on the table by the door, shrugged off his damp jacket, and hung it on the hook. He walked into the living room, his boots leaving faintly damp prints on the hardwood floors. The furniture was old but well-maintained, a mix of his parents' taste and his own minimal additions. A comfortable sofa, a worn armchair, a lamp that cast a warm, yellow glow. It was a pocket of warmth and quiet in a city that had neither.

He went to the kitchen, pulled a beer from the fridge, and twisted off the cap. He took a long swallow, the cold liquid a welcome shock to his system. He leaned against the counter, looking out the window over the sink into his small backyard. It was overgrown, a little wild, but it was his. He thought about his two "assets." The house, this small piece of land he owned. It was something real. Something tangible. A foothold.

And then there was the other thing. The joke.

He thought about it sometimes, usually late at night when the city's noise was too loud to let him sleep. What was the point? In a world of metahumans and sorcerers, what good was a talent for making a woman's eyes roll back in her head? It was like being the best tuba player in a world being consumed by fire. Impressive, perhaps, but ultimately irrelevant.

He finished his beer and crushed the can in his hand. He tossed it in the recycling bin and headed for the shower. The hot water beat down on him, steaming up the glass, turning the small bathroom into a foggy, private world. He stood under the spray, letting it wash the day away. The grime of the street, the stench of corruption, the phantom weight of another man's memories.

He closed his eyes and just felt the water. He thought about the sheer absurdity of it all. He had a cheat sheet for the entire goddamn city and the only thing it was good for was giving him a constant, low-grade anxiety attack. He had a body that was, in one specific and admittedly impressive way, heroic, and it was about as useful as a screen door on a submarine in a fight.

He stepped out of the shower, toweled off, and wrapped the towel around his waist. He wiped a circle in the steamed-up mirror and looked at his reflection. Dark hair, dark eyes that looked a little too tired for his age. A decent face, nothing special. He looked like what he was: a guy trying to get by. He didn't look like a man who knew the Joker’s real name was Jack Napier. He didn't look like a man whose… other attributes were the stuff of legend among a very small, very select circle of women. He just looked like Vieri.

He went into his bedroom and pulled on a pair of sweatpants. He didn't bother with a shirt. The house was warm. He went back downstairs, grabbed another beer, and sank into his worn armchair. He picked up the book he was reading, a dog-eared history of the Roman Empire. He liked history. It was full of corruption, violence, and powerful, dysfunctional people. It felt like home.

***

He took a drink of his beer and stared out the window at the rain-slicked street. A cat, a scrawny ginger thing, darted from under one car to another, its movements quick and fearful. That was the proper way to live in Gotham. Quick and fearful. He was doing it wrong. He was too comfortable, too settled. His house was a liability. His… other asset was a liability. They made him feel like he had something to lose.

He knew, with a certainty that chilled him more than the rain, that it was all temporary. The house could be burned down. The body could be broken. The city always won in the end. It was a fundamental law of physics, like gravity. What goes up must come down. What is good in Gotham must be crushed.

He finished his beer and set the empty bottle on the floor beside the chair. He leaned his head back, closing his eyes. The memories were still there, a library of forbidden knowledge.

He wasn't a hero. He wasn't a villain. He was just Oliviero Oronzo, a cop in a city that was chewing him up and spitting him out, one day at a time. The beer was a warm, pleasant fog in his head, dulling the edges of the world. He’d moved on to a third, then a fourth, the empty bottles forming a small, glassy cemetery on the floor beside his armchair. The Roman Empire could wait. 

The rain had softened to a miserable drizzle, the kind that seeped into your bones. His eyes were heavy, the alcohol pulling him down into a sleepy, comfortable stupor. The house was quiet. Too quiet. It was the kind of quiet that made you listen, that made you notice the creak of the floorboards, the hum of the refrigerator, the sound of your own breathing.

That was when he heard it.

A soft, almost imperceptible click from the back of the house. The sound of a window latch being expertly, silently, disengaged. Vieri’s cop-instinct, the one part of him that was still sharp and sober, screamed at him. His drunken brain, however, was slow to process. He blinked, trying to clear the haze. Was that the wind? The house settling?

Then came the soft thud of boots landing on the kitchen floor. Not the heavy, clumsy stomp of a common burglar. This was light, controlled. Athletic.

Vieri’s hand moved instinctively towards the end table where his service Glock rested, but his fingers were clumsy, slow. He was too drunk. Too slow.

A shadow detached itself from the darkened doorway of the living room, and before he could even register the shape, it was on him. It was a blur of black and grace, a movement so fast and fluid it defied logic. One moment he was sinking into his chair, the next a body was launching itself through the air. It was a move he’d only seen in movies, a gymnastic, predatory leap. A pair of powerful thighs, encased in tight black material, suddenly framed his vision, and the distinct, warm scent of leather and woman filled his senses before a foot planted itself squarely in the center of his chest.

The force of it, even without the full weight behind it, was enough to send him and the chair tumbling backwards. The world became a chaotic mess of splintering wood, flailing limbs, and the sharp crack of his head hitting the floor. Stars exploded behind his eyes. The air was driven from his lungs in a painful whoosh.

Before he could even think to gasp for breath, she was on him. She straddled his chest, one knee pinning each of his shoulders to the floorboards. She was a shadow in the gloom, all sleek lines and coiled power. The cool, unmistakable circle of a pistol muzzle pressed against his temple.

"Shut up and don't move," a low, husky female voice commanded. It was a voice that was used to being obeyed.

Vieri’s drunken mind was a whirlwind of confusion and pain. He blinked, trying to focus on the face looming above him. It was framed by a cowl of dark material, but he could make out the sharp line of a jaw, the plump curve of lips, and a pair of eyes that glinted with feral intelligence in the dim light.

"It's only fair," she continued, her voice a dangerous purr. "I point a weapon at your face, since you have one that looks like it's wanting to get out of your pants."

The sheer audacity of the line, combined with the throbbing in his skull, cut through the alcoholic fog. A laugh, ragged and breathless, escaped his lips. "Very funny," he rasped, his chest aching. "But seriously, I'll keep quiet. Nothing happened here. I didn't see you or anyone."

As he spoke, his vision started to clear, and his brain began to catch up with the situation. The way she moved, the outfit, the confidence… it all clicked into place. He wasn't just dealing with a burglar. He was dealing with the burglar. Selina Kyle. Catwoman.

The alcoholic fog was burning off, seared away by an adrenaline-fueled clarity. He was suddenly, sharply aware of the woman pinning him to his own floor. As his eyes adjusted to the low light, they traced the lines of a body built for violence and seduction. The black suit was a second skin, clinging to lean muscle and generous curves. She was a study in contrasts: powerful yet feminine, dangerous yet beautiful. And the entire, intoxicating package was currently seated directly on his crotch.

His body, betraying his precarious situation, responded with a will of its own. Blood rushed south, and his cock, trapped beneath the thin fabric of his sweatpants, began to harden with a speed that was almost painful. It was a traitorous, undeniable reaction to the pressure and the proximity of one of the most dangerous women in Gotham.

Selina shifted slightly, a subtle movement, and then she froze. She felt it. The thick, rigid length pressing against her, a formidable presence even through the layers of their clothing. A slow, curious smile spread across her lips. The gun at his temple wavered, just for a second.

"But somebody doesn't seem to want to stay quiet," she murmured, her voice dropping an octave, laced with a new kind of intrigue. The immediate threat of her pursuers seemed to have faded, replaced by a far more immediate and fascinating discovery. She had been curious the entire time since she landed on him, the sheer size and solidity of it a stark contrast to the soft give of his chest. In her mind, a seed had been planted. A dangerous, thrilling thought about what exactly was hiding in those pants. Her burning cunt, still thrumming with the adrenaline of the escape, now had a new, more primal focus.

With a slow, deliberate roll of her hips, she decided to see for herself. The friction was electric, a promise of heat even through the layers of their clothing. She let out a soft, involuntary gasp as the sheer, solid length of him pressed perfectly against her most sensitive spot. It was bigger than she'd imagined. Much bigger.

The last vestiges of his drunken haze were burned away by pure, unadulterated lust. His hands, limp at his sides only a moment before, came up to clamp onto her hips. His fingers dug into the slick material of her suit, not to stop her, but to hold her in place, to anchor himself to the source of this sudden, intoxicating friction. He met her gaze, his own eyes dark with a predatory hunger. "It looks like you're eager to make an acquaintance," he growled, the sound rumbling up from his chest.

The challenge, the raw confidence in his tone, seemed to break the last of her professional reserve. With a fluid strength that belied his position, Vieri sat up, twisting his body. Selina, caught off guard, yelped as he used his core strength to lift them both. He rose to his feet in one smooth, powerful motion, her legs still wrapped around his waist. He stood there, holding her effortlessly, the hostility between them evaporating like mist in the sun.

She slid down his body until her feet touched the floor, her eyes never leaving his. The gun was still in her hand, but it was pointed at the floor now, forgotten. Her gaze was locked on the massive bulge straining against the fabric of his sweatpants. It looked less like a part of a human body and more like a biological weapon.

"Free my cock," Vieri commanded. It wasn't a request.

Selina’s hands trembled slightly as she reached for him. Her gloved fingers hooked into the waistband of his sweatpants and pulled them down. The spring of his erection as it was released from its confinement was almost violent. It stood out from his body, thick, heavy, and rigid, a testament to impossible biology. It swung up and, with a soft, fleshy thwack, struck her squarely on the cheek.

For a moment, Selina Kyle, the Catwoman, was utterly still. Her eyes were wide, a mixture of shock and pure, unadulterated adoration. She had seen men of all shapes and sizes, from paunchy crime bosses to chiseled vigilantes. She had never seen anything like this. It was magnificent.

A slow, reverent smile spread across her face. She leaned in, not with the predatory grace of a thief, but with the worshipful awe of a pilgrim. She nuzzled her face lovingly against the hot, hard shaft, her lips and cheek brushing against the velvety skin. She planted soft, worshipful kisses all over its length, from the base to the swollen, weeping tip.

"Take it properly," Vieri’s voice rumbled from above her.

She looked up at him, her eyes burning with a new kind of fire, and opened her mouth. She took him in, her lips stretching wide to accommodate his incredible girth. She tried to take him as deep as she could, her jaw protesting, nearly breaking at the strain. She could only manage a few inches before he hit the back of her throat, her eyes watering.

He wasn't going to let her struggle alone. His hands came to rest gently on the back of her head, his fingers tangling in the dark strands of her hair that had escaped her cowl. He didn't force, not at first. He guided her, setting a slow, shallow rhythm, letting her get used to the overwhelming size of him. Each time she pulled back to gasp for air, a thick string of saliva connected her lips to his cock, a gossamer thread in the dim light.

Her initial awe was quickly being replaced by a frantic, desperate need. The adrenaline from her escape, the thrill of the break-in, and the shocking discovery of his magnificent cock all coalesced into a burning, liquid heat that pooled between her thighs. She could feel her own arousal, a slick, insistent wetness that was soaking through the thin material of her suit. A small, dark puddle was already forming on the hardwood floor beneath her, a testament to the effect he was having on her.

He felt her surrender, felt the tension in her jaw give way to a hungry, willing acceptance. That was when he took control. His grip tightened, holding her head in place as he began to thrust his hips. He started slow, but each stroke was deeper, more demanding. He was fucking her face now, using her mouth for his pleasure. The wet, obscene sounds of it filled the quiet living room, a counterpoint to the drumming of the rain outside.

Selina’s eyes rolled back, her body going limp in his grasp as she surrendered completely to the raw, primal act. Her hands, which had been resting on his thighs, clenched into fists, her nails digging into his skin through the sweatpants. This was nothing like the calculated seductions she was used to. This was pure, unadulterated possession, and she was reveling in it. Her cunt was a throbbing, aching void, clenching around nothing, desperate to be filled.

He could feel her body trembling, see the way her hips twitched with need. With a final, powerful thrust, he buried himself as deep as her throat would allow and held himself there. A guttural groan escaped his lips as he came, his cock pulsing as he unloaded directly into her throat. Selina choked, her body convulsing as she struggled to swallow the thick, copious waves of his release. It was too much, too fast, spilling from the corners of her mouth, but she drank him down like a woman dying of thirst, her body shuddering with a small, intense orgasm of her own.

When he finally released her, she slumped to the floor, her body boneless, her chest heaving as she gasped for air. She was a mess, her makeup smeared, her lips swollen and glistening, a dazed, blissed-out expression on her face. She was in a trance, completely overwhelmed by the experience.

Vieri looked down at her, his chest rising and falling, his cock still hard and jutting out from his body, slick with her saliva. There was no trace of the drunken, self-pitying cop from moments before. In his place was a man who knew exactly what he wanted, and what he wanted was her.

He reached down, hooking his arms under her knees and around her back. He lifted her effortlessly, her body limp and pliant in his arms. He hooked her legs over his shoulders, folding her nearly in half. The position left her completely exposed, the soaked crotch of her suit pulled taut against her dripping cunt. He held her there for a moment, his eyes locking onto hers. "Time to meet him properly," he growled.

He didn't wait for a response. He lined the monstrous head of his cock up with the entrance of her cunt, the fabric of her suit the only thing separating them. With one hand, he gripped the material between her legs and tore. The sound of ripping fabric was sharp and loud in the quiet room. The suit gave way, exposing her glistening, swollen folds to the cool air.

He entered her in one single, devastating thrust. Selina cried out, a sharp, ecstatic sound that was half pain, half pure pleasure. He was impossibly huge, stretching her to her absolute limits, filling her so completely it felt like he was touching her soul. A fleeting, traitorous thought sparked in her haze of lust: Four inches. All that drama and brooding for a measly four inches. The memory was pathetic, a joke instantly erased by the sheer, overwhelming reality of Vieri. This wasn't a tool; this was a weapon.

He didn't give her time to adjust. He held her suspended, her weight resting on his shoulders as he began to pound into her, his hips driving into her with a relentless, powerful rhythm. The world dissolved into a blur of sensation. The feel of him, hot and hard and deep inside her. The strength of his arms holding her, the sheer, masculine power of him as he used her body for his pleasure. The sound of his flesh slapping against hers, the guttural grunts he made with each thrust. It was too much. It was perfect.

Her orgasm hit her like a tidal wave, a blinding, all-consuming explosion of pleasure that ripped through her body. Her back arched, her toes curled, and a silent scream tore from her throat. Her cunt clenched around him, spasming violently, trying to milk the thick shaft impaling her. The intensity of it was too much, and for a couple of seconds, her world went black. She passed out, a limp, weightless doll in his arms.

He felt her go limp, but he didn't stop. He didn't even break his rhythm. In the back of his mind, a flicker of a thought surfaced: She had a thing with the Bat. The image of a shadowy, grim figure was instantly overwhelmed by the feeling of Selina's cunt clamping around him, the sight of her taking him so completely. Fuck it, he thought, his own pleasure obliterating everything else. Thinking is useless. There's only this.

He carried her, still impaled on his cock, through the living room and down the short hall to his bedroom. He laid her face down on the bed, her body pliant and unresisting. He pulled her hips up, positioning her on her knees, her ass high in the air. He entered her again from behind, his hands gripping her waist as he resumed his relentless pounding. The new angle allowed him to go even deeper, and Selina, roused from her brief blackout by the renewed assault, could only moan into the pillow. Her body was no longer her own; it was a vessel for his pleasure, and she was lost in a sea of sensation. Another orgasm crashed through her, then another, each one more intense than the last. She was cumming continuously, a series of rolling, ecstatic waves that left her trembling and breathless.

He pulled out of her suddenly, and she whimpered at the sudden emptiness. He flipped her over onto her back, her limbs splayed out on the mattress. He loomed over her, his body glistening with a fine sheen of sweat, his eyes burning with a feral intensity. He grabbed her legs, pushing them up and back, folding her into a mating press. He was going to possess her completely, to claim every inch of her.

He entered her again, and this time, the angle was so deep, so profound, it felt like he was rearranging her insides. He leaned over her, his weight pinning her down, his face inches from hers. He was all she could see, all she could feel, all she could smell. He was her entire world. "Cum for me," he commanded, his voice a low, dominant growl.

His words were the trigger. Her body obeyed instantly. The most powerful orgasm yet tore through her, a cataclysmic release that shattered her into a million pieces. Her vision went white, her body convulsing uncontrollably as her cunt clamped down on him like a vise. The sensation of her spasming around him was his undoing. With a loud, guttural roar, he thrust himself as deep as he could go and unloaded inside her, his cock pulsing as he filled her with his hot, thick seed.

He stayed there for a long moment, his body trembling with the force of his release, his forehead resting against hers. Then, as the last spasms subsided, he slowly pulled out of her. Selina didn't move. She was completely spent, her body limp and sated, a small, blissful smile on her lips as she drifted into a deep, exhausted sleep, his cum already leaking from her well-used cunt to pool on the sheets beneath her.

He stood up, looking down at the woman passed out in his bed. The rain was still falling outside. The city was still Gotham. But for the first time in a very long time, Oliviero Oronzo felt like he had something in this city that wasn't a liability. And it was currently asleep in his bed.

His mind, clearer now than it had been all night, started to process the sheer insanity of the situation. The adrenaline and lust were receding, leaving behind a stark, sobering reality. Well, I guess I got lucky this time, he thought, running a hand through his hair. He looked at the torn, soaked suit on the floor, the discarded gun, and the beautiful, dangerous woman in his bed. It seemed his most improbable, most useless asset had found its purpose in the most unlikely of scenarios. It was a defense mechanism he never would have guessed in a million years. I just hope she doesn't shoot me in the face in the morning.

The thought was enough to sober him up completely. Sleeping next to her felt like tempting fate. He moved quietly towards the living room, grabbing a throw pillow and a blanket from the closet. The couch was lumpy and unforgiving, but it was safer. He lay down, the events of the night replaying in his head, a bizarre, erotic dream that felt terrifyingly real. He eventually drifted into a restless sleep, the scent of her still clinging to his skin.

He was awakened not by an alarm, but by a wet, rhythmic pressure that pulled him from sleep with a jolt of pure pleasure. He opened his eyes to the soft morning light filtering through the blinds and looked down. Selina Kyle was on her knees beside the couch, her head bobbing in his lap. Her cowl was off, her dark hair a messy halo, and her eyes, bright and mischievous, were locked on his. The sound was obscene—a loud, wet sucking that filled the quiet room.

She pulled away with a pop, a thick string of saliva connecting her lips to the tip of his now fully erect cock. She grabbed the thick base and playfully slapped the heavy, saliva-coated head against her cheek, then again against her other cheek, leaving glistening smears on her skin. A third, harder slap against her outstretched tongue made her grin.

"Good morning, big boy," she purred, her voice husky. "The name's Selina Kyle. And I should say, good morning." She gave him a slow, deliberate lick from base to tip. "This big, bad bully really wore me out last night. I don't think I've ever been fucked so thoroughly in my life." She took him back into her mouth, her movements confident and practiced. The sight of her, Selina Kyle, the most wanted woman in Gotham, on her knees for him, was almost enough to make him cum right then and there.

"So that’s how it’s gonna be this morning?" he managed to groan, his voice thick with sleep and arousal. “Oliviero Oronzo — but everyone calls me Vieri,” he added, the hint of a lazy smile in his voice. He reached down, his hand tangling in her hair, not to force her, but to feel her, to ground himself in the overwhelming sensation. Best-case scenario, he thought, relief and pleasure washing over him. He could’ve been dead — or woken up shot and bleeding on the floor.

She moaned around his length, the vibrations sending a jolt straight up his spine. She redoubled her efforts, taking him deeper, her hands cupping his balls, massaging them in time with the movements of her mouth. The room filled with the raw, primal sounds of their pleasure, a world away from the usual grim soundtrack of Gotham.

He was a cop, she was a criminal, but here, none of that mattered. All that mattered was the heat, the slickness, the undeniable connection. He felt the pressure building, an inevitable tide. "Selina, I'm gonna—" he started, but she only moaned and took him deeper.

With a loud, guttural groan, he came, his hips bucking as he emptied himself into her mouth. She stayed with him, swallowing every pulse until he was completely spent. When she finally pulled off, she looked up at him, opened her mouth wide to show him it was all gone, and then gave a deliberate, proud swallow. A wicked smirk played on her lips as she crawled up his body, straddling his waist.

"See? All gone," she whispered, leaning down to kiss him, her tongue tracing his lips. "Now... about round two. And three. I think last night proved I can handle anything you've got." She rolled her hips, grinding her slick heat against his already hardening cock. "Besides, it's so much better than wasting my time with brooding vigilantes who are all talk and no action."

He flipped her over, pinning her beneath him. A low, predatory chuckle rumbled in his chest. "Handle anything?" he growled, his hands roaming her curves possessively. "Selina, you passed out. Multiple times." He leaned in close, his voice a hot whisper against her ear. "Let's see if you can still say that when I'm done with you."