A Life in DC Ch.3 [DC Universe] (Patreon)

A Life in DC

Chapter 3

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The weeks that followed settled over him like damp rot. Gotham welcomed him back with its familiar, joyless embrace: day after day of low, unbroken cloud the color of wet concrete, rain that never quite stopped, only varied between sullen drizzle and sudden, spiteful downpours. The streets stayed glossy and black, reflecting the city’s perpetual half-light in fractured smears. Inside the patrol car the world narrowed to the patient, hypnotic thump-thump of the wipers and the engine’s resigned drone. Oliviero Oronzo sat in his uniform, the scratchy wool still a suffocating second skin. He had become a ghost again—another blue silhouette sliding through the same gray routines, body present, mind elsewhere.

Each morning blurred into the next, a slow drip of small, wretched human dramas. A noise complaint that ended with a drunken husband weeping over a dog that had run away months ago. A shouting match between two vendors clawing for the same corner on Crime Alley, their rage more exhausted than explosive. A skinny teenager caught prying off a hubcap, bravado collapsing into panicked tears the moment the cuffs clicked shut. No grinning psychotics, no grinning gas, no ice sculptures of shattered men. Just the patient, grinding erosion of ordinary lives—one petty theft, one domestic squabble, one broken promise at a time.

Back in the cruiser, he completed the reports with the mechanical rhythm of someone who had long ago memorized the shape of every box. The damp air made the ink feather at the edges; words like “suspect,” “apprehended,” “property recovered” looked thin and fraudulent on the page. He was only paperwork now, cataloguing the rust as it spread.

Lunch was a cold, greasy meatball sub from a deli that probably had more health code violations than a morgue. He ate it in the driver's seat of his parked car, staring out at the rain-streaked street, watching the city's miserable populace hurry by under umbrellas. The sub tasted like cardboard and regret, but it was fuel. He was halfway through it, chewing mechanically, when the radio crackled to life, slicing through the fog of his thoughts.

The radio crackled, a burst of static that was a familiar, almost comforting sound in the patrol car's gloom. It was the prelude to another Tuesday, another call about a domestic disturbance or a stolen wallet. Vieri took another bite of his cold, greasy sub, the taste of stale marinara and processed meat a dull, familiar punishment. He was just starting to zone out, his eyes unfocused as he watched a rat scurry along the edge of a overflowing dumpster, when the dispatcher's voice cut through the static, sharp and laced with an urgency that was anything but routine.

"All units, all units. We have a 10-90 in progress at the 'Gilded Cage' gentlemen's club on 5th and Kane."

Vieri’s chewing slowed, the half-chewed ball of bread and meat suddenly feeling like ash in his mouth. A 10-90. Riot. In Gotham, that could mean anything from a drunken brawl at a sports bar to a full-blown gang war. But the location… the Gilded Cage. That wasn't a dive bar. That was high-end sleaze, a place where politicians and mobsters rubbed shoulders, a place with serious security and a serious investment in staying off the radar. Something was wrong.

The dispatcher's voice continued, the calm professionalism straining, like a rope about to snap.

"Repeat, the establishment is under siege. Multiple armed female assailants."

Vieri put the rest of his sub down on the wax paper, his appetite completely gone. Female assailants. That could mean anything. A jilted lover with a pistol. A gang initiation. But it was the next words that made the cold, greasy food in his stomach turn to ice.

"Reports indicate the Queens of Crime are on-site. Requesting immediate backup."

The Queens of Crime.

The name hung in the air of the damp car, a poisonous cloud that choked the very atmosphere. Vieri’s entire body went rigid. This wasn't small-time. This was freak business. This was something else entirely. This was a whole different level of Gotham's madness, a tier of chaos usually reserved for the likes of Joker or Penguin. This was the kind of call that got ambulances sent in multiples, that got cops sent to the hospital or the morgue. This was the kind of call that made widows and orphans.

He could picture it now, the scene unfolding in his mind's eye with horrifying clarity. The Gilded Cage, with its velvet drapes and gaudy gold trim, now a warzone. The terrified screams of patrons and dancers, the staccato pop of gunfire, the shattering of expensive liquor bottles. He knew Selina was in there, a blur of black leather and cracking whips, a phantom of grace and lethality. But she wasn't the one that made the cold dread creep up his spine. It was the other two. Harley Quinn, the unpredictable, giggling engine of pure chaos, her bat a whirlwind of manic destruction. And Ivy. Poison Ivy, with her hypnotic voice and pheromonal cloud that could turn a SWAT team into a lovesick mob. Ivy was the real nightmare. You could shoot a woman with a bat. You couldn't shoot a living nightmare that bloomed from the floorboards, that filled the air with a sweetness that made you want to tear off your own skin and offer it to her. She was the kind of monster that made you beg for a simple bullet.

They weren't just criminals. They were forces of nature, walking, talking disasters wrapped in the seductive, terrifying forms of women. They didn't just break the law; they mocked it, they perverted it, they tore it to shreds for their own amusement. Facing them wasn't police work; it was suicide. He could already feel the phantom ache of his bones, the chilling premonition of his skull caving in under the sickening crack of a baseball bat, or the horrifying, wet finality of being dragged screaming into a giant, Venus flytrap-like maw. He was just a man with a gun and a badge. What the hell was his gun going to do against a woman who could make plants eat people? He took a deliberate, slow bite of his sub. He could already taste the disappointment. He could feel the phantom ache in his muscles, the lingering memory of a night that felt a world away from this damp, miserable reality. Let them handle it. Let the bright-eyed heroes and the grizzled veterans earn their pensions. He just wanted to finish his shitty lunch in peace.

He kept eating, pointedly ignoring the radio as it squawked with more frantic updates. He was just about to take another bite when a set of flashing blue and red lights painted the interior of his car. A patrol car, identical to his own, screeched to a halt beside him, spraying his window with grimy rainwater. The passenger side window rolled down, revealing a fresh, eager face framed by a perfectly regulation-fit cap.

"Hey, Oronzo! You gonna let the girls have all the fun?" the cop yelled over the rain. It was Kingsley Glass. Vieri recognized him instantly. Same academy class. A guy who still believed in the oath, who still thought he could make a difference. His eyes were bright with the thrill of it, the prospect of real action.

Vieri glanced at the driver. Wiktor Owen. The other half of the duo. Wiktor had the same look, a hungry, hopeful intensity that Vieri had long since burned out of himself. They were good cops, solid guys, but they were still playing for a team that Vieri knew was rigged to lose.

"Finish your sandwich, grandpa!" Kingsley shouted with a grin. "We'll save you some of the action!"

Wiktor just gave him a sharp, determined nod from behind the wheel, a silent promise of camaraderie that Vieri felt like a physical blow. Then, with a squeal of tires and a spray of dirty water, they were gone, speeding towards the flashing lights in the distance.

Vieri sat there for a moment, the half-eaten sub feeling like lead in his stomach. He looked at the greasy wax paper, then at the distant strobes of red and blue painting the low-hanging clouds. He could finish his lunch. He could write another ticket. He could be a ghost.

But the image of their hopeful, stupid faces wouldn't leave him. They were running towards the fire because they still believed they could put it out. And him? He was just sitting in the rain, letting it burn.

With a sigh that felt like it came from the soles of his boots, Vieri crammed the rest of the sub into his mouth, chewed twice, and swallowed. He balled up the wax paper, threw it onto the passenger seat, and slammed the car into drive. The engine roared to life, a reluctant beast answering a master's call. He flicked on his own lights and siren, the wail a mournful cry in the Gotham rain, and pulled out into traffic, driving after them. Towards the fire.

The Gilded Cage was already a circus by the time he arrived. The street was a chaotic tapestry of flashing blue and red lights, reflecting off the rain-slicked asphalt in dizzying, strobing patterns. Patrol cars were angled haphazardly, forming a makeshift perimeter. A SWAT van was parked sideways, its rear doors agape, a grim portal to the chaos within. Officers were taking cover behind their car doors, rifles aimed at the club's ornate, shattered entrance. It was a scene of controlled panic, a fragile dam holding back a tidal wave of madness.

Vieri parked his car a block back, the siren dying with a pathetic whimper. He grabbed his riot helmet from the passenger seat, the cold plastic a familiar weight, and checked his sidearm. It felt like a pebble. He jogged towards the command post, a makeshift table set up behind the open door of a captain's sedan. A lieutenant with a face like a roadmap of bad decisions was barking orders into a radio.

"Oronzo! Where the hell have you been?" the lieutenant yelled, not even looking at him. "Bravo and Charlie teams are already inside. We've lost comms with them both. You're with Delta. You're going in to find them, find out what the hell is happening. You're not there to be a hero, you hear me? You're eyes and ears. Find the entry point, establish a fallback, and report back. Do not engage unless you have to."

Vieri just nodded, his face a mask of grim resignation. He was paired with two other uniforms, a pair of wide-eyed rookies who looked like they'd rather be anywhere else. They moved as a three-man stack, a textbook approach that felt absurdly flimsy against the horror that awaited them. The entrance to the Gilded Cage was a wreck of splintered wood and shattered glass. The air that billowed out was thick and cloying, a sickly-sweet scent of expensive perfume, spilled liquor, and something else... something earthy, green, and fundamentally wrong.

They stepped inside, and the world descended into a nightmare.

The main floor was a tableau of silent, screaming terror. Bodies littered the plush carpet, but not in the way Vieri was used to. There were no gunshot wounds, no pools of blood. Instead, cops and civilians alike were wrapped in thick, ropy green vines, their limbs pinned at unnatural angles. Their faces were contorted in silent agony, mouths open in screams that wouldn't come. The vines pulsed with a faint, bioluminescent light, and as Vieri watched in horror, he saw one of the constricted vines tighten around a cop's chest. The man's eyes bulged, his face turning a mottled purple as the plant slowly, methodically, squeezed the life from him. They weren't dead yet, but they were dying. It was a garden of slow, creeping death.

"Jesus Christ," one of the rookies whispered, his voice trembling.

"Stay tight," Vieri commanded, his voice low and steady, a rock in a river of fear. They moved deeper, their boots crunching on broken glass. The sound of a struggle echoed from the main stage. They crept towards it, weapons raised. On stage, two members of the SWAT team were locked in a desperate, bizarre struggle. They weren't fighting the Queens; they were fighting each other. Their movements were jerky, unnatural, their eyes glazed over with a vacant, pinkish haze. It was like watching two marionettes with their strings tangled, each trying to kill the other for no reason.

"Ivy's got them," Vieri muttered. "Pheromones. Don't breathe any deeper than you have to."

As if on cue, a high-pitched, gleeful giggle echoed from above. "Ooh! More puppets for the show!"

Vieri looked up. Harley Quinn, clad in her jester's outfit, was perched on a lighting rig like a demented gargoyle. She swung down on a thick electrical cable, landing in a cright behind the two rookies with a soft thump. They didn't even have time to turn.

There were two sickening, wet thwacks. The sound of a wooden bat connecting with a human skull. Both cops dropped without a sound, their helmets offering no protection against the sheer, brutal force. They were down, maybe dead, maybe not. It didn't matter. They were out of the fight.

Vieri spun around, his own baton already in his hand, the metal extending with a sharp snikt. Harley was on him in an instant, a whirlwind of manic energy. Her bat was a blur, swinging for his head. He ducked under it, the air whistling past his ear. He countered with a jab of his baton towards her ribs, but she twisted with an inhuman agility, her movements a chaotic dance of violence. She was fast, impossibly fast, but she was all offense, no defense. She relied on her speed and unpredictability, a whirlwind of wild swings and giggling attacks.

Vieri was the opposite. He was a wall. He didn't swing wildly. He blocked, he parried, he waited. Every time she overcommitted, he was there, his baton a sharp, painful sting against her arms, her legs, her side. He was frustrating her. He was weathering her storm, and she didn't like it. Her giggles turned to snarls of frustration.

"Stand still, you big meanie!" she shrieked, lunging at him.

He sidestepped, tripping her with a well-placed foot. She went down in a heap, but was back up in a second, her eyes burning with a manic fury. She was strong, but she was sloppy. He was wearing her down, methodically, patiently. He saw an opening, a wide, telegraphed swing, and he moved in to disarm her, to end this.

And then his leg was caught.

It wasn't a trip. It was a capture. A thick, green vine, as thick as his arm, shot out from a crack in the floorboards and wrapped around his ankle with the speed of a striking snake. He stumbled, his balance thrown. Before he could react, more vines erupted from the floor, snaking around his other leg, his waist, his arms. They coiled over his body, pulling him taut, lifting him a few inches off the ground. He struggled, his muscles straining, but it was like fighting a steel cable. He was immobilized.

"Thanks, Red!" Harley chirped, skipping over to him, her bat resting on her shoulder. "Told ya I could handle him."

But Ivy's voice, a low, melodic purr, echoed from the shadows of the stage, laced with confusion. "That's... odd."

Harley stopped, tilting her head. "What's odd, Pammy? He's all wrapped up like a present."

"The plants..." Ivy's voice was a whisper of intrigue. "They're not... crushing him. They're just holding him. They recognize his biology, but they aren't classifying him as a threat. They're... confused."

Vieri felt it too. The grip of the vines was firm, unyielding, but it wasn't the bone-crushing constriction he'd seen on the other cops. It was just... holding him. It was a bizarre, terrifying moment of stillness in the heart of the storm.

"Bring him to me, Harley," Ivy commanded, her voice now sharp with scientific curiosity. "I want to see what makes this one so different."

Harley shrugged, grabbed the vine wrapped around his chest, and started dragging him deeper into the club, towards the shadows from which Ivy's voice emanated. Vieri was a prisoner, a captive specimen, being dragged into the belly of the beast, his bizarre immunity making him not a savior, but a prize.

Harley dragged him through the carnage, his boots scraping uselessly against the blood-stained carpet. The deeper they went into the club, the thicker the air became, the sweet, cloying scent of pollen and damp earth so potent it was almost a physical presence. The shadows seemed to writhe and twist, coalescing in the center of the main stage, where a single, dramatic spotlight illuminated a cold, steel operating table. It was a piece of grim, industrial theatre, completely out of place amidst the velvet and gold.

Ivy stood beside it, a vision of lethal elegance. Her skin had a faint, pale green hue, and her fiery red hair cascaded around her shoulders like a living flame. She watched Vieri approach, her expression not one of a criminal, but of a scientist presented with a fascinating, unknown specimen.

"Secure him," she commanded, her voice a low, melodic purr that vibrated in Vieri's bones.

The vines responded instantly. They lifted him from the floor, maneuvering his body with a gentle, inexorable strength. They laid him down on the cold steel of the table, the shock of the metal against his back making him gasp through the vine that still sealed his mouth. More vines snaked out from the shadows, thick and dark, with smaller, leafy tendrils. They wrapped around his wrists and ankles, tightening not to crush, but to bind, the ends morphing and hardening into shackles that clicked shut with a final, organic sound. A final, thinner vine, like a leafy gag, pressed itself firmly over his lips, silencing him completely. He was immobilized, a specimen pinned for display.

Ivy circled the table, her movements slow and deliberate, her eyes scanning every inch of him. She ignored his uniform, her focus entirely on the man beneath. With a flick of her wrist, the vines at his chest tore his shirt open, the buttons popping off and scattering. They then moved to his belt and trousers, ripping them away with casual ease, leaving him in nothing but his boxers. The cold air hit his skin, raising goosebumps, but it was nothing compared to the icy touch of Ivy's gaze.

She began her examination. Her hand, cool and smooth, traced the lines of his torso, her fingers dancing over the hard planes of his stomach, the solid muscle of his chest. It wasn't a sexual touch; it was clinical, exploratory, like a botanist examining the bark of a rare tree. She was reading him, sensing his biology, his unique signature. Her brow furrowed in concentration. "No aggression," she murmured, more to herself than to him. "No fear. Just... stillness. A quiet forest. How strange."

Her hand moved lower, tracing the line of his hip, and then it stopped. Her eyes, which had been analytical and curious, widened almost imperceptibly. There was no ignoring the elephant in the room. Or, in this case, the monster in his boxers. His impossibly monstrous cock, even soft, was a huge, heavy imprint against the dark fabric, a testament to a biology that defied all reason.

Ivy's brain, a brilliant mind tuned to the frequencies of the natural world, went into overdrive. She had sensed the anomaly in his interaction with her children, but this... this was something else entirely. The sheer, overwhelming presence of it. It wasn't just flesh and blood; it felt like a concentrated node of life force, a primal energy that hummed just beneath the surface. She moved her face closer, her own perfect features just inches from the fabric. She inhaled deeply, breathing in his musk.

The scent hit her like a physical blow. It wasn't the scent of a man. It was the scent of deep earth, of ancient forests, of untamed growth, of life in its most potent, virile form. It was the essence of the Green, but distilled, concentrated, and given a terrifyingly masculine form. A revelation, blooming in her mind like a night-blooming flower, stole her breath away.

This cock... it wasn't just big. It was blessed. It was a creation of the Green, a sacred tool forged by the Earth itself. It was blessed with size, yes, but with something far more profound. If Vieri wished to impregnate someone, when he cummed inside them, it wouldn't matter if the womb was barren, if the tubes were tied, if the body was old and withered. He would impregnate them. He was a walking, talking embodiment of nature's irrepressible need to procreate, a force of life that could not be denied.

The Green hummed within her, a joyous, resonant chord that vibrated through her entire being. It was a song of recognition, of welcome. It wanted this. It wanted to be connected to this source, to experience this pure, unadulterated life force. All her plans, her anger at the patriarchal world of men who exploited the earth, it all faded away, replaced by a singular, overwhelming desire.

With a fluid, graceful motion, she climbed onto the steel table, straddling his thighs. The vines holding his legs shifted, accommodating her, seemingly as eager as she was. Her eyes were locked on the prize. She reached out with a trembling hand and hooked her fingers into the waistband of his boxers. She pulled them down, slowly, reverently.

And then it was free.

It was even more magnificent than she had sensed. A thick, heavy column of flesh, resting against his thigh, a thing of raw, primal power. It wasn't just a part of him; it was an entity unto itself, a sacred artifact. And she, a high priestess of the Green, was going to worship it.

She leaned down, her long red hair cascading over his stomach, and pressed her cheek against the warm, heavy shaft. A sigh of pure, unadulterated bliss escaped her lips. Her powers hummed happily at her actions, at being this close, at being connected to the source. She began to worship it, her hands and her mouth exploring every inch, her tongue tracing the thick, throbbing veins, her lips planting soft, adoring kisses along its length. She wasn't seducing him; she was communing with him. This was not an act of lust, but a prayer. And as she took the head into her mouth, the Green sang within her, a symphony of life and creation, and she knew she had found her god.

Ivy continued her reverent blowjob, her actions a stark contrast to the brutal efficiency of the chaos outside this bubble of botanical worship. She was no longer a supervillain; she was a devout acolyte at the altar of a new, terrifying god. Her goal was singular: to fit as much of this sacred cock into her throat as possible. She took him deeper, her jaw straining, her throat relaxing to accommodate the impossible girth. The sounds of her devotion filled the entire space—a lewd symphony of wet, choking gags and soft, hums of pleasure. It was the sound of a woman losing herself completely to a higher power, a sound that was both deeply unsettling and intensely erotic.

Her cunt, aching and neglected, was leaking from arousal, the thin fabric of her bodysuit becoming soaked with her desire. She could feel the movement of the cock in her mouth, every throb, every pulse of the thick veins that mapped its surface. They seemed to pulse with a life of their own, a frantic, urgent rhythm that told her he was ready. She braced herself, her hands gripping his powerful thighs, her entire being focused on one thing: wanting to eat as much of his seed, to drink down this blessed essence of the Green. The power within her was joyful, a chorus of life that sang in anticipation.

With a final, deep effort, she buried him in her throat. He came with a force that took her by surprise, a hot, thick torrent that flooded her mouth. It was more than just cum; it was pure, undiluted life. The power within her screamed in ecstasy as she drank his seed, feeling it warm her from the inside out, a potent fertilizer that nourished her very soul. She swallowed every drop, her body trembling with a small, intense orgasm that was just a prelude to what was to come.

But she needed more. She needed to feel it inside her, to be truly joined with this source.

With a fluid, sinuous motion, she rose up, straddling his hips. She positioned the still-hard, slick head of his monstrous cock at the entrance of her cunt. A few seconds of grinding, just the head teasing her swollen folds, were all it took. She shattered. An orgasm, sharp and blinding, ripped through her, her body convulsing as a wave of pure pleasure washed over her. She hadn't even taken him in yet, and already he had shown her a new level of ecstasy.

She sank down onto him, impaling herself on his monstrous cock. It was an extremely tight fit, a stretching, burning sensation that made her gasp. But this was a blessed cock, and she was a daughter of the Green. She endured the quick, sharp pain, which was instantly replaced by an extreme pleasure so profound it made her head spin. The Green was humming with joy, a resonant, blissful chord that vibrated through her entire being, welcoming the union.

She began to ride him, her movements at first slow, experimental, then frantic. She was a woman possessed, grinding against him, her hips rolling in a desperate, primal rhythm. She wanted it all. She wanted to be completely filled, to be stretched to her limits. She bottomed out, his cock hitting a place so deep inside her it felt like it was touching her womb, and she cried out, a sound of pure, unadulterated bliss. Her huge tits, freed from her bodysuit in her fervor, bounced wildly with every movement, a hypnotic sight that would have driven any mortal man insane.

The pleasure continued to climb, a relentless, escalating wave that threatened to drown her. She could feel another orgasm building, bigger and more powerful than the last. It crashed over her, a cataclysmic explosion that left her trembling and breathless. She fell forward onto his chest, her body slick with sweat, her heart hammering against his.

Vieri, still strapped to the table, couldn't exactly resist. He was a prisoner in his own body, forced to experience the overwhelming heat of her cunt, the otherworldly compatibility of their bodies. It was a pleasure so intense it was almost painful, a sensory overload that threatened to shatter his mind. He could feel her heart beating against his, her breath hot on his neck, her body trembling with the aftershocks of her orgasm.

While Ivy was slowly gaining more strength, her body recovering from the intensity of her release, preparing to ride him some more, a new sound cut through the air. A sharp, angry hiss, like a cornered cat.

"What the fuck is this?"

Selina Kyle stood at the edge of the stage, her whip in hand, her eyes blazing with a fury that was cold and deadly. She took in the scene: Vieri, stripped and strapped to a table, and Ivy, a naked, sweaty mess, straddling him.

"Get off him, you weed-infested bitch!" Selina snarled, her voice dripping with venom. Her eyes then locked onto Vieri, her expression shifting from fury to a mixture of disbelief and hurt. "And you! What the hell are you doing here? And why the fuck are you tied up?"

Ivy, still weak and trembling from the force of her orgasm, slowly pushed herself up. Her movements were languid, sated, her mind still buzzing in the ecstatic afterglow of her communion with the Green. She turned her head, a lazy, satisfied smile on her lips, ready to dismiss the interruption with a wave of her hand. "Selina," she began, her voice a husky, contented purr. "Don't be jealous. I'm simply... conducting an experiment."

She was cut off by a new voice, high-pitched and dripping with indignant confusion. "Experiment? What the fuck, Red? I thought you were gonna dissect him or something to see why the plants didn't wanna squish him! Not ride his cock like it's the last pony at the fair!"

Harley Quinn bounced into view, her pigtails flying, her baseball bat resting casually over her shoulder. She took in the scene with wide, uncomprehending eyes—Vieri strapped to the table, his monstrous cock still buried deep inside Ivy, and Selina looking like she was about to commit triple homicide. A wicked grin split her face. "Well, well, well. Looks like I missed the party. Is it my turn yet?"

Ivy shot her a withering glare, a flicker of her old annoyance returning. "Harley, this is a delicate biological—"

"Oh, cut the crap, Pammy," Harley interrupted, skipping closer to the table. She gestured with her bat towards Vieri. "These guys were cops! Sneaky ones, too. They came in after the first two groups went all quiet. I was just about to turn this guy's head into a canoe." She poked Vieri's cheek with the end of her bat, and he flinched, his eyes still wide with a mixture of shock and overwhelming sensation. "I had him on the ropes, I swear. Then you and your leafy friends showed up and wrapped him up like a Christmas present."

Harley leaned in conspiratorially towards Selina, her voice dropping to a loud, theatrical whisper. "But here's the weird part. The vines were all... gentle with him. Like, they just hugged him real tight and said, 'please stay still.' It was super weird. So Red, being the big nerd she is, decided she had to find out what made Mr. Tall, Dark, and Monstrous so special." She gestured vaguely at their joined bodies, a look of profound, almost academic bewilderment on her face. "I guess 'dissect him' took a real kinky turn, huh?"

Selina's eyes, narrowed to furious slits, darted from Ivy's blissed-out face to the point of their union. A raw, possessive fury, primal and absolute, surged through her. Without a word, she moved. It wasn't a calculated action; it was a violent, instinctual lunge. She grabbed a handful of Ivy's vibrant red hair, yanking her back with a sharp, vicious tug.

Ivy cried out, more in shock than pain, her body unprepared for the assault. She was unceremoniously shoved off Vieri, her body sliding off the steel table and landing in a heap on the floor. His cock, now free from the tight, wet embrace of her cunt, sprang up, standing erect and proud, glistening obscenely with the combined juices of their union. It was a monument to the chaos, a silent, glistening testament to the war about to be waged over it.

Selina stood over Vieri, a shield of leather and fury, her back to him. "He's a cop," she snarled at Ivy, her voice a low, dangerous growl. "A beat cop. And he's mine. I've had encounters with him that you couldn't even dream of, you overgrown weed."

Harley's eyes widened, a look of dawning, mischievous comprehension spreading across her face. "Ooooh, so is this your secret boyfriend or something?" she squealed, hopping from foot to foot. "What about the Bat? I thought you were all 'ooh, Batman, save me'!" She mimed a swooning pose, then cackled. "Guess you traded in a brooding bird for a big baton!"

The mention of Vieri being Selina's was a spark to Ivy's own possessive fire. She pushed herself up from the floor, her naked body flushed with a mixture of anger and lingering arousal. Her emerald eyes glowed with a venomous light. "You?" she hissed, her voice dripping with contempt. "You, a common thief who plays at being a predator? You are not worthy of that cock. It is a gift from the Green, a tool of creation, and all you would do is use it for your own petty, transient pleasure. You don't deserve to even look at it."

The air crackled with tension, the three women a triangle of seething jealousy and rage. "He's my prize!" Selina shot back, her hand instinctively going to the whip at her hip. "I found him! I broke him in!"

"I claimed him!" Ivy countered, vines beginning to snake menacingly across the floor towards her. "The Green chose him! It is my right to study him, to worship him!"

"OH MY GOD, WILL YOU TWO SHUT UP!" Harley shrieked, stomping her foot. Her face was a mask of frustration, her hands balled into fists. "All this fighting and nobody's sharing! I wanna experience it too! It's not fair! You got to have a turn, Red, and she's been having turns all this time, It's my turn! I wanna ride the monster!"

Strapped to the table, a silent spectator in the middle of a three-way catfight over his own dick, Vieri's mind was a blank wall of disbelief. What the fuck is happening? This had to be a dream. A bizarre, feverish hallucination brought on by bad deli meat. He was a cop. He wrote parking tickets. He didn't get fought over by supervillains who wanted to use him as a human dildo.

Selina, ever the pragmatist, finally cut through the madness. She let out a frustrated scream, a sound of pure exasperation that silenced the other two. "Enough! Ivy, release him! Now! He isn't a threat, you said so yourself! We've looted the place, we have what we came for. We get out clean before the real capes show up and turn this into a real party!"

Ivy's eyes narrowed, a calculating glint replacing the fiery jealousy. "No," she said, her voice cold and hard. "He's too valuable to let go. He's coming with us. As a hostage."

"Like hell he is," Selina snapped, her whip uncoiling from her belt with a sharp hiss. She moved to stand between Ivy and the table, her body a clear, unyielding barrier. "You're not taking him, Ivy. I'll die before I let you turn him into one of your potted plant experiments."

The two women stared each other down, a silent battle of wills. Finally, Ivy relented, but with a promise that hung in the air like poison. "Fine," she hissed, her eyes burning into Selina. "But this isn't over. He is a phenomenon that needs to be studied. I will seek him out, Selina.”

Selina just glared at her, her jaw set in a hard, defiant line.

With a flick of her wrist, Ivy commanded the vines. They retracted from Vieri's limbs, the shackles melting back into the floorboards. The gag over his mouth dissolved into dust. He was free. He sat up slowly, his muscles aching, his mind reeling.

Ivy gave him one last, lingering look, a look of scientific hunger and possessive desire. "We'll meet again, little forest," she purred, before turning and disappearing into the shadows with a grumbling, muttering Harley in tow.

Vieri sat there for a moment, naked and vulnerable on the cold steel table. He had survived. He looked at Selina, who was already coiling her whip back onto her belt. "Thanks," he said, his voice hoarse.

Selina walked over to him, a slow, predatory smile on her lips. She reached down, her fingers wrapping around his still-hard, glistening cock and giving it a firm, possessive tug. A jolt of pleasure shot through him. "Thank me with this when I come over to your house," she murmured, her voice a low, husky promise. She leaned in and gave him a quick, surprisingly soft peck on the lips. "Now get dressed, flatfoot. Try not to get into any more trouble."

And with that, she was gone, a shadow melting into the chaos of the club, leaving him alone, naked, and utterly bewildered in the heart of the madness.

Vieri sat on the edge of the cold steel table for a long moment, the echoes of the bizarre confrontation still ringing in his ears. He was naked, covered in a mixture of sweat, Ivy's arousal, and his own cum, and his mind felt like it had been put through a blender. He shook his head, trying to clear the fog of disbelief.

He slid off the table, his legs unsteady, and quickly located his shredded trousers. They were a lost cause. He found the uniform pants of one of the downed SWAT guys, a grim but necessary piece of looting, and pulled them on. The fit was loose, but they were intact. As he secured the belt, he noticed the change. The thick, ropy vines that had held the entire room captive were beginning to recede, their vibrant green fading to a sickly brown. They loosened their grip on the trapped officers, their life force seemingly tethered to Ivy's presence. The air, once thick with the cloying scent of pollen, was slowly clearing.

He started moving, his cop instincts kicking in, overriding the personal chaos. He went to the two rookies Harley had clubbed, checking their pulses. They were alive, just unconscious, with nasty-looking lumps on their heads. He dragged them to a relatively safe corner and moved on. The main floor was a triage center from hell. Most of the casualties were the club's security staff, big men in tight black shirts who looked like they’d been used as punching bags. A couple of SWAT personnel lay groaning, their body armor dented and scratched, their faces bloody. They hadn't been shot or stabbed; they had fought each other, their eyes still glazed with the faint pinkish haze of Ivy's influence. They'd torn into each other with a ferocity that was horrifying, and now they lay broken, victims of a puppet master's whim.

As he was applying a pressure dressing to a deep gash on a SWAT officer's arm, he heard a groan from nearby a pile of shattered tables. He rushed over. It was Wiktor Owen and Kingsley Glass, their limbs tangled together, the last of the brown vines slithering away from their limbs.

"Vieri?" Kingsley coughed, his voice raspy. "What the hell...?"

"The vines are letting go," Vieri said, his voice flat as he began tearing at the dead plant matter coiled around Wiktor's leg. "Ivy's gone. They're dying."

They were part of the second group that went in, the hopeful duo who had rushed in ahead of him. He helped them to their feet, their movements slow and pained.

That's when the real heroes decided to show up.

The skylight above the main stage shattered, raining down glittering shards of glass. Nightwing landed in a perfect, silent crouch, his blue and black suit a stark contrast to the carnage. A moment later, Robin swung in behind him, a blur of red, yellow, and righteous fury. They were late. They were always late. They were the clean-up crew, the ones who posed for the cameras after the real dirty work was done.

The Bat Family's arrival was the signal for the rest of the GCPP to swarm in. Paramedics, more cops, and forensics teams flooded the club, and the organized chaos of rescue and investigation began. Vieri just melted into the background. He pretended to be just another survivor, a cop who'd been caught and trapped when the vines loosened their grip. He helped Owen and Glass get to the paramedics, then went back to work, helping others get free, his movements methodical, his expression carefully blank.

He heard the lieutenant on the radio, his voice tight with frustration. "The Queens of Crime got away. Again. Scot free."

Vieri just kept his head down and worked. He was a ghost, a flatfoot, a nobody.