A Life in DC Ch.5 [DC Universe] (Patreon)

A Life in DC

Chapter 5

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High above the city, deep within the cavernous, humid air of the Batcave, a monitor flickered to life, displaying the grainy feed from a camera Batman had installed in Vieri’s house weeks ago — a precaution, a surveillance measure meant to track a man who moved like a ghost in Gotham. But now, the feed was a slow-motion nightmare.

It showed the small, red light blinking in the corner of the room, hidden behind a stack of old magazines. The device had captured every primal moment of their coupling — the wet slap of skin, the guttural screams, the shock of milk, the violent climax. It had recorded the complete destruction of Selina Kyle, watching as she was reduced to nothing more than a trembling, gasping vessel for a man she couldn’t resist — a man who didn’t even need to be Batman to command her.

Batman watched the screen, his gloved hand tightening on the console until the plastic groaned under the pressure. His chest heaved with a mix of shame and a burning, possessive jealousy that twisted in his gut like a live wire. He had seen her fight, seen her steal, seen her outmaneuver him, outwit him, outplay him — but never like this. Never so… undone. Never so utterly surrendered.

He didn’t look away. He couldn’t. His jaw was clenched so tight his teeth ached. The image burned into his retinas: her legs folded, her body broken open, her voice cracking under the weight of pleasure and pain. The way she begged — not for mercy, but for more. The way she called Vieri’s name like a prayer. The way her body betrayed her, trembling, spasming, leaking, begging.

And then — the alarm blared.

A red light flashed across the cave. A priority alert. Joker.

Batman didn’t move at first. His eyes stayed locked on the screen, watching as Vieri collapsed on top of her, his body heaving, his sweat mixing with hers, their breaths ragged and synchronized in the aftermath. He saw the way Selina’s fingers twitched against the couch, the way her eyelids fluttered, the way she didn’t even try to move — just lay there, broken and satisfied.

Then, the alarm screamed again.

He tore his eyes away. His fingers moved with mechanical precision, pulling up the location. The old abandoned chemical plant on the riverbank. Classic Joker territory. Classic chaos.

He didn’t speak. He didn’t need to. Alfred’s voice came through the comms, calm as ever.

“Master Wayne, the Joker’s targeting the riverfront. He’s got hostages — three of them, tied to the railings. He’s broadcasting live. Says he’s ‘redecorating Gotham’s skyline with a splash of color.’ He’s… unusually agitated.”

Batman didn’t respond. He was already pulling on the cowl, the familiar weight settling over his skull like a second skin. He didn’t need to hear the rest. He knew what Joker was like when he was agitated. He knew what it meant when he was unusually agitated.

He didn’t need to hear the part about Harley.

But he did.

Alfred’s voice, softer now, almost apologetic. “He’s… mentioned Harley. Said she’s ‘gone soft.’ That she’s ‘playing dress-up with the girls.’ He’s furious, sir. More than usual.”

Batman’s gloved hand clenched into a fist. He didn’t need to hear that. He didn’t need to hear that Harley had left him — that she had chosen Selina, chosen Ivy, chosen them — over the madness of the Joker. He didn’t need to hear that the one person who had always been there, always chaotic, always loyal in her own twisted way, had walked away.

He didn’t need to hear that she was now part of something bigger — something that included Selina.

Something that included him.

He didn’t need to hear any of it.

He was already in the Batmobile, the engine roaring to life with a guttural snarl that vibrated through the cave’s stone walls. The tires screamed as he peeled out, the screech echoing off the cavernous ceiling like the wail of a dying beast. The Batmobile surged forward, a black bullet tearing through the underground tunnel, the lights blurring into streaks of white and red as he punched the accelerator.

The city outside was a storm of neon and rain, the streets slick and reflective, the buildings towering like tombstones. He didn’t see them. He didn’t see the flickering signs, the wet pavement, the people huddled under umbrellas, the cars crawling through the downpour. He saw only the screen. Only Selina’s face, twisted in ecstasy, her lips parted, her eyes rolled back, her body arching under Vieri’s brutal thrusts. He saw Vieri’s hands — large, calloused, possessive — gripping her hips, pulling her apart, forcing her to take him deeper, harder, until she was nothing but a trembling, gasping mess. He saw the way she had screamed his name — not in defiance, not in protest, but in surrender, in need. The way her body had betrayed her, convulsing, spasming, begging.

He didn’t need to hear Joker’s voice over the comms, crackling with manic energy. “Batman! You’re late! Again! You always are! Always running after the wrong things! You think you’re the hero? You’re just a ghost! A shadow! A coward who watches from the dark while the real fun happens!”

Batman didn’t respond. He didn’t need to. He was already there.

The Batmobile skidded to a halt outside the chemical plant, the tires kicking up a spray of rain and gravel that hissed against the metal. He didn’t wait for the doors to open. He was out before they finished sliding, his cape snapping behind him like a living thing, the wind whipping it into a furious arc. The air was thick with the smell of chemicals and smoke — acrid, biting, the kind that clung to the back of the throat. The sound of laughter echoed through the night — high-pitched, manic, unhinged. It wasn’t just Joker. It was his goons, too — a chorus of cackles and whoops, the sound of men who had lost their minds and were having the time of their lives.

Inside the plant, Joker was holding court, but his heart wasn't in it. He stood on the catwalk above, a king surveying a kingdom of rust and decay, his green hair plastered to his forehead with sweat, his face painted in a grotesque grin that didn't quite reach his eyes. His suit, once a garish symbol of chaotic authority, was stained with sweat and cheap bourbon, the bottle of which he clutched in one hand like a scepter. In the other, he held a detonator, his thumb hovering over the big red button with a kind of bored, petulant menace.

His goons, a ragtag collection of thugs in cheap clown masks, were scattered around the yard below, their usual manic energy replaced by a clumsy, uncertain enthusiasm. They dragged three terrified hostages toward the railings overlooking the churning, chemical-green river, their movements jerky and uncoordinated. They were trying to laugh, to whoop and holler, but it was forced, the sound hollow and tinny in the cavernous space. They were feeding off Joker's energy tonight, and his energy was a poisoned well.

"Come on, come on, you lumps!" Joker snarled, his voice a grating rasp that lacked its usual musical glee. He took a long, burning swig from the bourbon bottle, wiping his mouth with the back of his glove. "Tie 'em tighter! We're making a statement here! Art! You're all my brushes, and they're my… well, they're the canvas. A very, very boring canvas, but we work with what we have, don't we, boys?"

One of the goons fumbled with a rope, and the hostage, a middle-aged man in a suit, whimpered. Joker's eyes narrowed, and for a second, the grin faltered, replaced by a flash of pure, venomous irritation. He pointed the detonator at the goon. "Do I have to do everything myself? I'm the visionary! You're the muscle! The muscle is supposed to be… muscular! Not… floppy!"

He turned away, pacing the length of the catwalk, his boots thudding a restless, uneven rhythm. He wasn't looking at the hostages. He wasn't looking at his goons. He was staring into the middle distance, his gaze unfocused, his mind a million miles away.

"Harley," he muttered, the name a low growl, almost a curse. He took another swig of bourbon. "Little Harlequin. Thought she had a vision. Thought she was an artist." He let out a short, sharp, humorless laugh. "An artist. She was a critic, that's what she was. My best critic. Always knew where the joke was going." He spun around, his arms wide, addressing the empty air. "But now? Now she's playing tea party with the plant lady and the kitty cat. 'The Queens of Crime,' they call themselves." He spat the title, his lip curling in disgust. "Queens? Please. They're a book club. A gardening society. They're… domestic."

He slammed the bourbon bottle down on the metal railing, the clang echoing through the plant. "She left me for a cause! For sisterhood!" He shrieked the word, his voice cracking with a mixture of fury and genuine, baffled hurt. "Sisterhood? We had a brotherhood! A beautiful, chaotic, explosive brotherhood! And she traded it in for… for what? For Catwoman's hand-me-downs and Ivy's… potpourri?" He started pacing again, his hands gesticulating wildly, a conductor leading an orchestra of madness. "Oh, she thinks she's so clever now. So independent. 'We're taking what we want, Mistah J,' she'd say. 'We're not just your sidekicks anymore.' Sidekicks? SIDEKICKS?!" He roared the word, his voice echoing off the steel walls. "She was my muse! My better half! The yin to my yang! The… the other half of the punchline!"

He stopped, breathing heavily, his chest rising and falling. He stared down at the detonator in his hand, his thumb tracing the red button. "She'll see," he whispered, his voice dropping to a low, conspiratorial hiss. "She'll see what real art is. What real chaos looks like. When this whole river goes up in a beautiful, green, bubbly… poof… she'll come running back. She'll remember what real fun is. She'll remember who the real king of this city is."

He looked down at his goons, who were now watching him with a mixture of fear and confusion. He plastered the grin back on his face, but it was a brittle, fragile thing. "Alright, boys! Showtime! Let's give the Bat a real welcome! Let's make some… noise!"

“Batman!” Joker shrieked, his voice ricocheting off the corroded steel walls of the chemical plant, sharp and shrill as shattered glass. “You’re late! Again! You always are! Always running after the wrong things! You think you’re the hero? You’re just a ghost! A shadow! A coward who watches from the dark while the real fun happens!”

Batman didn’t answer. He didn’t need to.

He was already moving.

One moment he was a silhouette against the storm-lashed night, the next he was a blur of black and gray, cape snapping like a war banner as he leapt from the roof of the Batmobile to the catwalk above. He landed without a sound, boots biting into the grated metal, the rain sluicing off his cowl.

Joker whirled, his grin widening into something feral, delighted. “Oh, look! The Bat’s finally decided to show up! Took you long enough! You’ve been busy, haven’t you? Watching? Waiting? Or maybe you’ve been… distracted?”

Batman didn’t respond.

He was already in motion — a predator striking. His fist connected with Joker’s jaw with a sickening crack that echoed through the cavernous space. Joker’s head snapped sideways, his painted grin slipping for a fraction of a second — not from pain, but from genuine, startled surprise. He hadn’t expected Batman to move so fast. Not at this moment when he’d seemingly been so… distracted.

Joker staggered back, boots scraping against the wet metal, but he didn’t fall. He spat blood onto the grate, then laughed — a wet, gurgling sound that turned into a wheeze. “Ooooh! Feisty tonight, Batsy! Did someone steal your lunch? Or maybe… maybe you’re just mad ‘cause the city’s gone soft on you?” He wiped his mouth with the back of his glove, smearing crimson across his cheek. “Harley’s off playing dress-up with the girls — Catwoman, Poison Ivy. They’ve got their own little circus now. Guess they don’t need the Clown Prince of Crime anymore. Too messy. Too loud. Too fun.” He spat the last word like a curse, his voice dripping with a venom that was only partly for show. The insult was a wild, lucky shot in the dark — but it landed with the force of a hammer, and Joker’s eyes lit up with manic glee as he saw the flicker of something unreadable in the Bat’s stance.

Batman didn’t react. Not outwardly. His jaw remained locked, his eyes narrowed behind the cowl, fixed on Joker like a predator on wounded prey. But inside, the words cut deeper than any knife. Harley’s off playing tea party. They’ve got their own little club. The image flashed — not of Harley, but of Selina, sprawled on that couch, her body broken open, her voice begging for more. And Vieri — not a villain, not a hero, just a man who had taken what Batman had never dared to claim.

He didn’t let it show. He couldn’t. Not here. Not now.

He lunged again, not with rage, but with precision. His elbow slammed into Joker’s ribs, the impact muffled by the clown’s padded suit but still enough to make him double over. Joker gasped, then laughed again, a wheezing, broken sound. “Ohhh, you’re mad! I can see it! You’re not just angry — you’re hurt! Did someone finally tell you the truth? That you’re not the center of the universe? That even your little kitty cat doesn’t want you anymore?”

Batman didn’t answer. He didn’t need to.

He grabbed Joker by the collar, hauling him up, their faces inches apart. The stench of cheap whiskey and sweat filled his nostrils. Joker’s grin was back, wider than ever, his eyes wild and gleaming with manic delight.

“You’re just a shadow, Bats,” Joker whispered, his voice suddenly quiet, almost intimate. “A ghost haunting the edges. You watch. You wait. You never take. And that’s why they leave you. That’s why they choose the real thing — the messy, the loud, the alive.”

Batman’s grip tightened. His knuckles whitened. He wanted to crush the life out of him. He wanted to silence that voice, that laugh, that truth that cut deeper than any blade.

But he didn’t.

Instead, he threw Joker hard against the railing. The clown hit the metal with a clang, his head snapping back, stars dancing behind his eyes. He slumped to his knees, still laughing, still grinning, still alive.

Batman turned away. He didn’t look at Joker. He didn’t need to.

He was already moving — down the catwalk, toward the hostages. His movements were fluid, efficient, silent. He disarmed the first goon with a chokehold, the man collapsing without a sound. The second tried to run. Batman caught him with a batarang to the knee, dropping him like a sack of bricks. The third raised his gun. Batman was already on him, his fist connecting with the man’s temple, sending him crashing to the ground.

He didn’t speak. He didn’t need to.

He freed the hostages, his hands quick and sure, cutting the ropes with a flick of his knife. The hostages stumbled back, wide-eyed, trembling, but alive.

He didn’t look at them. He didn’t need to.

He was already back on the catwalk, standing over Joker, who was still on his knees, blood trickling from his lip, his grin still plastered across his face.

“You’re not the center of the universe, Bats,” Joker whispered, his voice hoarse but still dripping with mockery. “You’re just the guy who shows up after the party’s over. The cleanup crew. The ghost who watches from the dark.”

Batman’s grip tightened, his knuckles white, but instead of crushing the clown’s windpipe, he shoved him away. Joker stumbled back, his feet tangling, and he collapsed against the railing with a metallic clang. For a fleeting second, the manic grin faltered, replaced by a flicker of genuine surprise at being let go.

That was all the opening Joker needed.

Dazed but never truly beaten, he pushed himself up, swaying on unsteady legs. His eyes darted around, a frantic, calculating assessment. He glanced at the detonator in his hand — still live, still a threat. He glanced at the hostages — now free, their hands being cut by the Bat. He glanced at the spot where the Bat had been standing — vanished.

A low, chuckling laugh escaped his lips, a sound of pure, unadulterated triumph. He didn't run. He didn't need to. He turned and stumbled toward the far end of the catwalk, his movements clumsy but purposeful. He reached a rusted service ladder, gave a mocking little salute to the empty air where Batman had been, and swung himself over the edge. He disappeared into the labyrinth of pipes and catwalks below, a ghost in his own right, slipping into the shadows like smoke.

Batman didn’t chase him. He didn’t even watch him go. The moment Joker’s feet left the catwalk, Batman was already turning his back on him. Joker was a distraction — a loud, bleeding, screaming distraction — and the real work was here, in the rain-slicked yard below, where three terrified civilians were still trembling against the railings, their wrists raw from the ropes, their eyes wide with the kind of shock that came from staring death in the face and surviving. The clown could wait. The living could not.

Batman moved like a storm given form. He dropped from the catwalk in a silent arc, landing in a crouch beside the first hostage — a woman in her forties, her suit torn, her face streaked with tears and grime. She flinched when he approached, her body curling in on itself, but he didn’t speak. He didn’t need to. His presence was enough. He pulled a small, razor-sharp utility knife from his belt and, with a single, precise flick, severed the ropes binding her wrists. His movements were efficient, almost clinical, but there was a gentleness in the way he pulled the frayed ends away, careful not to snag her skin.

“Stay behind me,” he murmured, his voice low, rough, but not unkind. “Don’t move.”

She nodded, her breath coming in shallow gasps, and stumbled back, pressing herself against the cold metal of the railing.

The second hostage was a man in his fifties, his glasses cracked, his tie askew. He was trying to stand, his legs shaking, his eyes darting wildly around the yard. Batman was beside him before he could take a step. Another flick of the knife, another clean cut. The man didn’t thank him. He just stared, dumbfounded, at his freed hands, then at Batman, then back at the spot where Joker had been.

“Move,” Batman ordered, his voice leaving no room for argument. “Stay behind the first woman. Keep your head down.”

The man obeyed, stumbling toward the woman, his hands still trembling.

The third hostage was younger — early twenties, a delivery driver by the look of his uniform, his face pale, his mouth open in a silent scream. He was still bound, his wrists bleeding where he’d tried to saw through the rope with his teeth. Batman knelt beside him, his gloved fingers brushing the man’s arm — a brief, grounding touch. “Look at me,” he said, his voice softer now, but still firm. “You’re safe.”

The kid’s eyes, wide and glassy with shock, finally focused on the dark cowl. He flinched, but held his gaze. Batman didn't wait for a response. He sliced the ropes with the same efficiency, the blade parting the fibers without a sound. He then moved to the kid’s feet, freeing them as well.

“Can you stand?” Batman asked.

The kid nodded shakily, trying to push himself up, but his legs buckled. Batman caught him by the arm, his grip firm but not crushing, and helped him to his feet, guiding him toward the other two huddled hostages. “Stay with them. Don’t move until I say.”

The three of them formed a small, terrified knot against the railing, watching him with a mixture of awe and primal fear. They were safe, but the danger wasn't over. The goons were still here.

Batman turned, and the air grew cold. The playful chaos of Joker’s performance was over. Now, it was just business.

There were six of them left, scattered across the yard like confused, oversized children. They had been laughing and whooping moments ago, but now they stood frozen, their cheap clown masks doing little to hide the sudden, stark realization that the party was over and the bouncer had arrived.

One of them, a brute built like a refrigerator, seemed to decide that bravado was his best option. He raised a rusty crowbar, pointing it at Batman. “Hey! Bats! You’re not gonna take us all on, are ya?”

Batman didn’t answer. He moved.

He was a blur of motion, a shadow that detached itself from the darkness and struck with the force of a car crash. He closed the twenty-foot distance in three strides. The crowbar-wielding thug swung wildly, the metal whistling through the air. Batman ducked under the clumsy arc, his fist driving into the man’s solar plexus. The air left the thug’s lungs in a whoosh, the crowbar clattering to the ground as he collapsed to his knees, gasping like a fish on land. Batman didn’t even watch him fall. He was already moving to the next.

Two more goons charged from either side, trying to flank him. One had a knife, the other a length of chain. Batman pivoted, his cape swirling around him. He caught the knife-wielder’s wrist, twisting it with a sharp, audible snap. The man screamed, dropping the blade, and Batman drove a boot into his knee, sending him crumpling to the ground. The chain-wielder swung the metal links in a wide arc. Batman ducked under it, stepping inside the man's reach, and chopped him hard in the throat. The goon gagged, stumbling back, clutching his neck, before Batman swept his legs out from under him, sending him crashing to the wet concrete.

It wasn't a fight. It was an extermination.

The remaining three goons, their confidence shattered, decided discretion was the better part of valor. One turned and ran for the main gate. Batman didn't give chase. He simply reached for his utility belt, selected a small, disc-shaped object, and hurled it. The batarang flew through the air with a faint whir, striking the back of the fleeing man’s knee. He cried out, pitching forward into the mud, where he lay groaning, clutching his leg.

The last two stood frozen, their weapons suddenly feeling like useless toys. They looked at each other, then at the dark figure standing amidst their fallen comrades, his cape settling around him like a shroud. They dropped their guns and raised their hands.

“Please! Don’t hurt us!” one of them whimpered.

Batman ignored their pleas. He strode toward them, his footsteps the only sound in the rain-slicked yard. He moved with a cold, detached purpose, disarming them and binding their hands with zip ties, his movements economical and final. He worked in silence, the only sounds the distant wail of approaching sirens and the quiet sobbing of the hostages.

Within two minutes, it was over. Six goons were either unconscious, moaning on the ground, or trussed up like hogs, awaiting pickup. The hostages were safe. The bomb was disarmed. The mess was contained.

Batman stood in the center of the yard, the rain washing over him, cleaning the grime from his suit. He turned to the three terrified civilians. “GCPD is on their way. They’ll take care of you.”

He didn't wait for their thanks. He didn't want it.

He fired a line from his grapple gun, the hook catching on the catwalk above. With a smooth, silent ascent, he vanished back into the shadows, leaving the chaos behind him, the image of Selina’s face still burning in the back of his mind.

***

The first thing Oliviero knew was the warmth. It wasn't the sun creeping through the blinds, though that was there too, casting long, lazy shadows across the floorboards. It was the heat radiating from between his legs, the wet, rhythmic suction that coaxed him back from the edge of a deep, exhausted sleep.

He groaned, a sound buried in his throat, his body instinctively arching as her tongue traced the sensitive vein along the underside of his cock. He was sore, his muscles protesting the position, but her mouth was a miracle worker. She wasn't frantic; she was slow, deliberate, treating him with a reverence that made his head spin. She was appeasing the angry, overused flesh, coaxing it back to life with soft, swirling licks and gentle, firm sucks.

"Mmm," she hummed, the vibration sending a jolt straight to his spine. Her eyes, dark and half-lidded, flicked up to meet his, a silent question before she took him back in, her lips sealing tight around the head.

"God," Vieri breathed, his hand finding its way into her hair, fingers tangling gently in the messy strands.

She pulled back just enough to let him catch his breath, a wet, obscene pop echoing in the quiet room. She looked up at him, her lips glistening, her cheeks flushed. She didn't say a word, just reached up and adjusted the strap of the oversized t-shirt she was wearing, which barely covered her, before sliding her hands behind her back and untying the knot of a frilly white apron.

"Breakfast," she announced, her voice raspy but bright with pride. "I made you lasagna. It's in the oven. It's gonna be ready in about ten minutes."

Vieri blinked, his brain struggling to process the domesticity of it all. He looked down, really looked at her. She was standing there in his oversized t-shirt, the hem of it barely grazing her thighs, and the apron—his mother’s old floral apron, he realized with a start—tied around her waist. It was a ridiculous image, really. The Queen of Gotham, standing in his apartment, wearing his mother’s apron and smelling like dinner. It was cozy. It was home. It was everything he hadn't realized he missed until this exact moment.

"You didn't have to do that," he said, his voice thick with genuine affection. He reached out, his thumb brushing her cheek. "I can order takeout. I can cook. I'm not helpless."

She leaned into his touch, a small, satisfied smile playing on her lips. "I know. But I wanted to." She looked down at his lap, her gaze dropping to his half-hard cock. "And I wanted to take care of this, too."

She reached out, her fingers wrapping around the base again, her eyes locking onto his. "You praise me," she said, her tone a challenge as much as a statement. "I like that. Tell me how good I am."

Vieri groaned, the sound low and ragged. "You're incredible," he said, his hand tightening in her hair. "You're the best thing that's ever happened to me. Look at you, taking care of me like this. It's... it's everything."

The praise seemed to be exactly what she needed. A spark ignited in her eyes, a hunger that went beyond simple hunger. She didn't say another word. She didn't wait for him to adjust. She leaned in, her mouth opening wide, and took him in. This time, she didn't tease. She took him deep, her cheeks hollowing out as she swallowed him whole, her nose pressing against his pelvis, her throat stretching to accommodate the girth.

"Oh, fuck," Vieri hissed, his back arching off the couch. "Selina... yeah, just like that."

She hummed, the vibration sending shockwaves through him, and she began to bob her head, a slow, steady rhythm that drove him crazy. She was taking him deeper than she had before, a challenge she was determined to win. Her hand pumped the base, her fingers digging in, matching the suction of her mouth. The room was filled with the wet, obscene sounds of her oral service—the slurping, the gagging, the wet slap of her lips against his skin.

Vieri watched her, his chest heaving, his mind blanking out all thoughts of the job, of the city, of the ghosts. There was only her. Only the sensation of her mouth, hot and tight and perfect around him. He was close, the tension coiling tight in his lower belly, a familiar pressure building rapidly.

"God, you're a slut for this," he growled, his hand tangling in her hair, pulling her back slightly so he could watch her face. "Look at you. Choking on my cock. Taking it all like a good girl."

She moaned around him — a low, guttural, almost animal sound that vibrated through the thick flesh of his cock, sending electric shocks up his spine. It wasn’t just pleasure; it was surrender, a raw, vocal offering of herself to the rhythm, to the heat, to the sheer, overwhelming need of it. The sound was muffled, swallowed by the wet, clinging suction of her mouth, but it echoed inside his skull, a primal chant that drowned out everything else — the ticking clock, the distant hum of the city, the memory of the night before.

Her eyes watered, not from pain, but from the intensity of the moment — the burn of her throat stretched wide, the pressure of his cock pressing against the back of her mouth, the sheer fullness of him. Tears tracked down her cheeks, glistening in the morning light, mingling with the slick sheen of saliva coating her lips. She didn’t wipe them away. She let them fall, a silent testament to the effort, the devotion, the raw, unfiltered hunger that drove her.

She sped up.

It wasn’t a gradual increase. It was a sudden, desperate acceleration — a frantic, almost feral rhythm that took his breath away. Her head bobbed faster, a blur of motion, her lips stretching and sealing around him with every downward plunge. Her hand, still gripping the base, moved in perfect, punishing sync — a tight, twisting stroke that matched the suction of her mouth, milking him, coaxing him closer to the edge with every stroke. The wet, sloppy sounds filled the room — the gluck-gluck-gluck of her mouth working his shaft, the wet slap of her lips against his skin, the soft, choked gasps she managed to pull in between thrusts.

Vieri’s fingers tightened in her hair, not to pull her off, but to hold her there, to anchor himself as the world began to blur. His hips bucked involuntarily, his body betraying him, chasing the pleasure she was wringing from him. He felt the tension coil tighter in his lower belly, a familiar, urgent pressure building with terrifying speed. His breath came in ragged, uneven pants, his chest heaving.

He knew he was done for.

There was no warning. No grand declaration. Just the sudden, overwhelming certainty that he was seconds away from detonating. His body locked up, every muscle tensing, his cock swelling impossibly thicker in her mouth. He tried to speak, to warn her, but all that came out was a choked, guttural groan.

And then he was gone.

He shot load after load of hot, thick cum down her throat, filling her mouth to the brim. She swallowed eagerly, her throat working to gulp it all down, her head bobbing up and down to get every last drop, her eyes rolling back in pure ecstasy.

Vieri collapsed back against the cushions, his chest heaving, his body trembling. He looked down at her, a satisfied smirk on his face. "Fucking incredible," he breathed. "You're a marvel, Selina."

She pulled back just enough for the saliva to break the seal, her lips parting with a wet, obscene pop that echoed in the quiet room. She wiped her mouth with the back of her hand, a smug, satisfied smirk playing on her lips as she looked down at him, her eyes dark and hungry.

"I'm ready," she whispered, her voice a rough, raspy rasp that barely carried over the hum of the refrigerator. She turned slowly, a deliberate, teasing motion, the oversized t-shirt sliding up her thighs to reveal the soft curve of her ass. The frilly white apron, the one his mother had worn a thousand times, was tied tightly around her waist, the strings dangling and swaying with every small movement she made. It was a ridiculous image—a domestic goddess in a kitchen apron. "I made you dinner. I'm wearing your apron. I'm all yours."

Vieri didn't speak. He didn't need to. The sight of her, the scent of her, the way she was offering herself up like a willing sacrifice to his lust—it was enough to snap the last of his control. He lunged forward, his hands grabbing her hips with bruising force, his fingers digging into the soft flesh. He flipped her over in one fluid, aggressive motion, tossing her onto the couch cushions, her legs dangling over the edge like a ragdoll.

He didn't give her time to adjust, to catch her breath. He positioned himself between her spread thighs, his cock already hard and leaking, the tip weeping against her entrance. He slammed into her in one brutal, earth-shattering thrust. The sound was deafening—a wet, heavy thud as his hips met hers, the friction blinding, the stretch searing.

"Oh fuck!" Selina cried out, her back arching off the couch, her head thrown back, her mouth open in a silent scream. She was already there. The angle was perfect, the sheer size of him stretching her walls wide, and within seconds, the first wave of her orgasm crashed over her like a freight train. Her inner muscles clamped down on him, rippling and spasming in a vice-like grip that milked him instantly, trying to pull every drop from him. "I'm cumming! I'm cumming! God, Vieri!"

Vieri didn't slow down. He didn't stop. He kept pistoning into her, hard and fast, his hips slapping against her ass with a rhythmic, thunderous smack-thud-smack. "Look at you," he growled, his voice a low, guttural rasp that vibrated through her entire body. "You came already? You're cumming just from that? You're a mess, Selina. You're dripping all over my cock. You're soaking me."

"I can't stop!" she gasped, her body trembling, her nails digging into the upholstery, her toes curling. "It feels too good! Don't stop! Fuck me harder! Fill me up!"

He grabbed her ankles, his grip iron-hard, and hauled her legs up, hooking them over his shoulders with a rough jerk. The shift in angle was immediate and devastating. It widened her completely, opening her up like a flower to the sun, and drove him deeper than ever before. He hit a spot inside her that made her scream, a raw, high-pitched sound that tore from her throat as his cockhead bullied its way past the barrier, battering against her cervix with brutal precision.

He began to pound into her with renewed aggression, his thrusts becoming short, sharp, and punishing. He wasn't looking for rhythm anymore; he was looking for impact. Thrust-thrust-thrust. The room was filled with the wet, obscene sounds of their bodies meeting—squish-slap-squelch—echoing off the walls like a wet slapstick comedy. The frilly strings of the apron whipped against her skin with every impact, a stinging animalistic pleasure, the fabric snapping like a whip.

Selina was delirious, her mind shattered by the relentless assault. Her body was a jumble of nerves and sensation, every nerve ending screaming in unison. She was cumming again, a third time, her body shaking so hard it was a miracle she didn't slide off the couch. Her inner muscles clamped down on him, rippling and spasming in a vice-like grip that milked him frantically, trying to pull every drop from him. "Yes! Yes! I'm cumming again! I'm yours! Take me! Ruin me!"

Vieri roared, a primal sound that echoed through the apartment, a guttural growl. He slammed into her one last time, burying himself to the hilt, and then he let go. He pumped load after load of hot, thick cum deep inside her cunt, filling her up, marking her, flooding her womb with his seed with every pulse.

He collapsed on top of her, his chest heaving, his body covered in a sheen of sweat, his breathing ragged and heavy.

Beep-beep-beep-beep.

The shrill, jarring sound of the oven timer cut through the haze of their passion, signaling that breakfast was ready. It was a jarring, mundane intrusion into the post-coital silence.

Vieri groaned, burying his face in the crook of her neck, nuzzling against her skin, inhaling the scent of her hair mixed with the smell of sex. "The lasagna," he mumbled, his voice thick with exhaustion and satisfaction. "It's ready."

For a long moment, neither of them moved. Vieri remained slumped over her, his weight a comforting, grounding pressure, his face buried in the crook of her neck, his breathing a slow, steady rhythm against her skin. Selina lay beneath him, a boneless, sated mess, her limbs tangled with his, the apron strings still knotted loosely around her waist.

Finally, with a low groan that seemed to vibrate through his very bones, Vieri pushed himself up. His muscles screamed in protest, a symphony of aches from the night before and the morning’s vigorous activities. He looked down at her, taking in the mess of tangled hair, the swollen lips, the blissed-out expression on her face, and felt a warmth spread through his chest that had nothing to do with sex.

"Breakfast," he murmured, his voice a low, gravelly rumble. "You weren't kidding."

Selina stretched languidly, a satisfied purr rumbling in her chest. "I never joke about lasagna," she said, her voice still husky. She propped herself up on her elbows, the t-shirt riding up to reveal the soft curve of her stomach. "But first, a shower. And maybe another round. You know, to work up an appetite."

Vieri chuckled, a low, tired sound. He stood up, holding out a hand to help her up. "Let's eat first, woman. I'm not sure I have the energy. Starvation might kill me."

She took his hand, her fingers lacing with his, and let him pull her to her feet. She swayed slightly, her legs still unsteady, and leaned against him, her head resting on his chest. "Good," she whispered, her voice muffled against his skin. "I'd rather you die inside me than on the battlefield."

He wrapped an arm around her, holding her close, and for a moment, they just stood there, in the quiet aftermath, the smell of sex and baking lasagna filling the living room.

They showered together, the hot water washing away the sweat and the grime, their touches slow, gentle, exploratory. There was no urgency now, no desperate need. It was just the quiet intimacy of two people who had seen each other at their most raw and vulnerable, and had chosen to stay.

Dressed now in clean clothes—Vieri in a pair of worn jeans and a t-shirt, Selina in one of his hoodies that swallowed her whole—they sat at his small kitchen table, plates of steaming lasagna in front of them. The first bite was heaven. The pasta was perfectly cooked, the cheese melted and gooey, the sauce rich and savory. It was the kind of meal that felt like a hug, a warm, comforting blanket on a cold day.

"This is amazing," Vieri said, his mouth full. "Seriously, Selina. Where did you learn to cook like this?"

Selina shrugged, a small, almost shy smile playing on her lips. "I spent some time in a convent once. Long story. Let's just say I learned a few things."

He raised an eyebrow. "A convent? You?"

"Don't ask," she said, taking a sip of water. "Look, Vieri… as much as I'm enjoying this… this domestic bliss… that's not why I came here last night."

Vieri put down his fork, his expression sobering. He knew this was coming. The bubble was about to burst. "I figured."

"Harley and Ivy know where you live," she said, her voice dropping, the playful tone gone, replaced by a quiet, serious urgency. "I don't know how, but they do. And they're planning on coming to visit. Soon."

Vieri leaned back in his chair, his arms crossed over his chest. He didn't look surprised. He didn't look scared. He just looked… resigned. "And?"

"And?" Selina stared at him, her eyes wide with disbelief. "And? Vieri, these aren't just a couple of thugs. They're unpredictable. They're dangerous. They're… obsessed with you. Especially Ivy. She's not just interested in you. She's… fascinated. Like you're a new species of plant she's never seen before and wants to… dissect."

Vieri picked up his fork again, twirling a strand of pasta around it. "What happens, happens," he said, his voice calm. "I'm a cop, Selina. I deal with dangerous people every day. It's what I do."

"This is different," she insisted, her voice rising with frustration. "This isn't some random mugger or some low-level enforcer. This is Ivy. She can control plants. She can create toxins that can kill a man in seconds. She can make you do things you don't want to do. And Harley… she's chaos. She's a walking, talking, cackling time bomb. They're not just going to knock on your door and ask you out for coffee."

"I know," he said, his voice still calm. "But what do you want me to do? Run? Hide? Change my name and move to a different city? That's not who I am, Selina. You know that."

She sighed, running a hand through her hair. "I know. I just… I worry."

"I can handle myself," he said, his eyes meeting hers. "I always have."

Just then, the TV in the living room, which had been on mute, flickered to life, the image of a news anchor filling the screen. Vieri grabbed the remote and turned up the volume.

"—another night of chaos in Gotham," the anchor was saying, her expression grim. "The Joker, in what appears to be a solo act, took hostages at the old Ace Chemical plant on the riverbank. Police say the situation was resolved by Batman, but not before the Joker and his gang caused significant damage to the property. Three hostages were rescued, and six of the Joker's accomplices were taken into custody. The Joker himself, however, managed to escape. Authorities are warning citizens to be vigilant, as the Joker's motives for this attack remain unclear, though sources say he seemed unusually agitated, reportedly ranting about betrayal and the formation of a criminal faction known as the 'Queens of Crime'."

Vieri and Selina stared at the screen. The image of the burning plant, the terrified hostages, the maniacal grin of the Joker—it was a stark, brutal reminder of the world they lived in.

The anchor continued, her voice a monotone drone in the background, but Vieri wasn't listening anymore. He was thinking about Montoya's offer, about the task force, about the danger, and the reward. He was thinking about the Queens of Crime, and the fact that they knew where he lived.

He looked at Selina, at the worry in her eyes, and then back at the TV, at the chaos unfolding on the screen. He took a deep breath, then picked up his fork again, and took another bite of his lasagna. It was still warm. It was still good. For now, that was enough.