A Life in DC Ch.11 [DC Universe] (Patreon)

A Life in DC

Chapter 11

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The morning air in Gotham was cool and damp, the kind that clung to your skin without quite turning into rain. Vieri stepped out of his small brick house, laced up his running shoes on the front step, and started his usual loop at an easy pace. His breath came steady, legs falling into the familiar rhythm on the cracked sidewalk. Skeletal trees lined the street, still dripping from the night before. A couple of early commuters hurried past with umbrellas folded under their arms. He nodded to an old woman walking her dog and kept moving.

His mind was already on Friday night. He had slipped Selina the note before she climbed out the window that morning after — just a time and a quiet spot near the old docks, nothing fancy. He wanted the three of them together, no games. Lay it out plain: the task force needed something to show the brass, the Queens needed to ease off the big jobs for a couple weeks so things cooled down on paper, and he could keep them satisfied on the side. It was pragmatic. Everyone walked away with what they actually wanted. He could picture Selina reading it, that slow smirk spreading across her face. She would probably show up early just to push his buttons. Ivy would be all clinical curiosity about the “arrangement.” Harley would turn it into a game. He didn’t mind. As long as they understood the deal.

He picked up the pace a little, feeling the burn settle into his thighs. The city felt smaller when he was moving like this — just pavement, breath, and the low hum of traffic in the distance. No capes. No vines. No queens fighting over him like he was the last good thing left in Gotham. Just him putting one foot in front of the other. But the note kept circling back. Friday. He needed to sell it right. Make it sound like a win for them too.

By the time he circled back to his street, sweat was soaking the collar of his shirt. He slowed to a walk, wiped his face with the hem, and let himself in. The house smelled like lemon polish and the faint ghost of his mother’s old baking. He went straight to the bathroom, stripped off the damp clothes, and stepped into the shower. The hot water hit hard and good, pounding the stiffness out of his shoulders. He soaped up quick, rinsed the sweat and the morning run off his skin.

Vieri stepped out of the shower, skin still warm and flushed from the hot spray. He toweled off quickly, the steam clinging to the small bathroom mirror until he wiped a clear circle with his palm. His reflection looked back at him—dark hair damp and tousled, a faint scar along his jaw from an old academy training accident, eyes that carried the usual tired edge. He pulled on clean clothes: dark slacks, a button-down shirt that fit comfortably across his shoulders, and the standard-issue belt with his holster already secured. The house was quiet except for the low hum of the refrigerator downstairs and the steady patter of light rain against the windows. It had been drizzling on and off since dawn, the kind of persistent Gotham weather that turned the streets slick and reflective without ever committing to a full downpour.

He headed downstairs, bare feet padding on the hardwood. The kitchen smelled faintly of lemon polish from the last time he’d wiped down the counters. He moved through the familiar routine without much thought—coffee first. The old percolator gurgled to life on the counter as he measured out the grounds, the rich, bitter aroma quickly filling the small space and cutting through the damp morning air. While it brewed, he pulled eggs from the fridge, cracked four into a bowl, and whisked them with a fork. The bacon went into the skillet next, the strips sizzling and popping as the fat rendered, sending up curls of savory smoke that made his stomach growl. He dropped two slices of bread into the toaster and leaned against the counter, watching the bacon crisp while the coffee pot finished its cycle.

The small TV on the counter had been left on from the night before, volume low. It flickered with the morning news broadcast, the familiar Gotham anchor’s face filling the screen—mid-forties, sharp suit, the kind of professional calm that came from delivering bad news day after day. Vieri poured himself a mug of coffee, the steam rising in lazy tendrils, and added a splash of milk from the carton. He took a long, careful sip, the heat blooming across his tongue and settling in his chest. The eggs went into a second pan with a pat of butter, scrambling up soft and yellow. Toast popped. He plated everything—eggs, bacon, toast—and carried it to the small table by the window. Outside, the rain traced slow paths down the glass, blurring the view of his quiet street. Skeletal trees dripped steadily onto the sidewalk. A neighbor’s cat darted under a parked car, seeking shelter.

He sat, fork in hand, and glanced up as the anchor’s voice sharpened with a new segment. The screen cut to footage of the Pentagon in Washington D.C.—that unmistakable five-sided building under gray skies, flashing lights from emergency vehicles, and yellow caution tape cordoning off sections of the grounds. The anchor leaned forward slightly, voice measured but carrying an undercurrent of gravity.

“…and in Washington D.C. this week, the metahuman known as Madame Zodiac resurfaced after months off the radar. She and a small crew of associates—described by witnesses as heavily armed and moving with coordinated precision—forces their way into the Pentagon during the early morning hours. According to sources close to the incident and preliminary reports from federal investigators, Madame Zodiac attempted to exploit the building’s distinctive geometrical layout. Its pentagonal structure, combined with specific architectural alignments and internal corridors, was apparently used as a massive amplifier for her mystical abilities. Eyewitness accounts from surviving security personnel describe strange glowing runes appearing on walls and floors, pulsing in time with her incantations, and a growing sense of disorientation among responders. The situation escalated quickly, with reports of reality-warping effects inside targeted sections—hallways seeming to loop endlessly, doors leading to impossible spaces, and a low, humming vibration that reportedly caused nausea and vertigo in those nearby.”

The anchor paused for a beat as the footage shifted to shaky cell-phone video from outside the building: distant figures in dark clothing moving through broken glass, then a sudden bright flash from within. “The hero known as Batgirl arrived on scene roughly twenty minutes into the breach. According to official statements and on-the-ground observations, she engaged Madame Zodiac’s team directly, using takedowns to neutralize the accomplices while focusing her efforts on disrupting the ritual itself. In a decisive move, Batgirl reportedly destroyed several key interior walls—targeting load-bearing sections that aligned with the pentagonal geometry Madame Zodiac was channeling. The structural damage appears to have broken the ritual’s pattern, severing the mystical amplification. No civilian casualties were reported, though several security personnel and federal agents sustained injuries ranging from blunt trauma to what medical staff are describing as ‘psychosomatic disorientation.’ The Pentagon sustained significant structural damage in the affected wings, with estimates already running into the millions for repairs. Madame Zodiac and her remaining accomplices were taken into custody by federal authorities, though questions remain about how she evaded prior containment and what her ultimate objective may have been—speculation ranges from theft of classified artifacts to a larger mystical incursion tied to broader metahuman conflicts.”

Vieri chewed slowly, fork halfway to his mouth, the scrambled eggs cooling slightly on his plate. The bacon’s salty crunch lingered on his tongue as he listened. Madame Zodiac. The name tugged at the back of his head like static from an old radio—fragments from the comic-book memories that still lived there, half-forgotten but insistent. He didn’t remember every panel or plot beat; the details were fuzzy, like trying to recall a dream from weeks ago. But the broad strokes came back in pieces. Mystical con artist with a fixation on geometry, patterns, and sacred architecture. She treated the world like a giant puzzle box, bending reality through angles, alignments, and numerology. Power through precision. In the old stories, she’d clashed with heroes over artifacts and rituals, always one scheme away from something bigger.

More specifically, he recalled her crossing paths with Poison Ivy. Something about shared interests in natural and mystical energies—Ivy’s control over plant life and growth sometimes intersecting with Zodiac’s geometric amplification. In one hazy recollection, Zodiac had tried to use Ivy’s vines and botanical networks as living conduits for a ritual, promising power in exchange for cooperation. It hadn’t ended well; Ivy had turned on her when the geometry started warping her precious plants. There’d been a brief, uneasy alliance or rivalry—hard to pin down exactly, but the tension had been real. And Selina… Catwoman. Zodiac had crossed paths with her too, something involving stolen relics or a heist gone sideways. Selina had an eye for shiny, powerful objects, and Zodiac’s artifacts often carried that mystical weight. They’d clashed over a particular gem or talisman once—Selina treating it as a score, Zodiac as a key to some grand pattern. The memories were fragmented, but the interactions stuck: Ivy’s ecological mysticism brushing against Zodiac’s cold geometry, Selina’s pragmatic thievery tangling with both.

This time, Zodiac had gone big. The Pentagon. Not some dusty museum or hidden temple—straight into the heart of federal power, trying to weaponize the building’s own shape. Smart in theory. Brutal in execution. And Batgirl had shut it down by literally breaking the building’s shape. Destroying walls to disrupt the alignments. It was the kind of direct, no-nonsense solution that cut through the mysticism like a knife. Vieri wondered which Batgirl it had been. The news didn’t specify—probably Barbara or Stephanie or even Cass in one of her more active phases. Didn’t matter much in the grand scheme. The hero had won, the pattern was broken, and Zodiac was back in custody. For now.

He finished the eggs, the last bites going down easy with another sip of coffee. The rain outside picked up slightly, drumming harder against the window. He drained the mug, the bitter aftertaste mixing with the lingering salt from the bacon. Time to head in. He stood, rinsed the plate quickly in the sink, and grabbed his keys from the hook by the door. The house settled back into quiet as he stepped out into the damp morning.

The drive to the precinct was the usual slow crawl through Gotham’s damp streets, but today it felt thicker with the news still turning in his head. Rain streaked the windshield in steady lines, the wipers thumping rhythmically—squeak-thump, squeak-thump—pushing water aside only for more to gather. Traffic was light but sluggish, brake lights glowing red through the mist ahead. The city smelled like wet asphalt and exhaust even with the windows cracked. Vieri kept one hand on the wheel, the other resting near the radio as he navigated the familiar routes—past the skeletal trees of his neighborhood, onto the broader avenues lined with aging buildings and flickering neon signs that never quite turned off.

The radio crackled to life almost immediately, dispatch voices cutting through the static with the usual morning litany of Gotham’s low-level chaos.

“Unit 12, Unit 12, we have a 10-10 at 14th and Kane—domestic disturbance, female caller reports male subject breaking furniture and threatening to harm himself. Backup requested, possible weapons involved.”

Vieri’s fingers tapped lightly on the wheel as he listened. Another one. The kind that usually ended with someone in cuffs or on a stretcher, the cycle repeating tomorrow.

A second call overlapped slightly, the dispatcher’s voice calm but clipped. “All units in the Bowery sector, be advised of multiple reports of a 10-35—possible gang activity near the old Falcone warehouse. Suspects described as armed, at least four individuals. Possible drug-related. Proceed with caution.”

He glanced at the rearview as he merged lanes, the wet pavement reflecting the gray sky. A group of kids in hoodies huddled under an awning, passing something between them. Probably nothing serious, but in this city you never knew.

“Unit 7, Unit 7, respond to a 10-16 at the corner of 8th and Park—mugging in progress. Victim reports two suspects, one with a knife. Last seen heading north on foot toward Crime Alley. Any units nearby, please advise.”

Vieri exhaled through his nose, the sound barely audible over the wipers. Crime Alley. Classic. The radio kept spitting out calls like a broken record—petty thefts, bar fights spilling into the street, a reported break-in at a corner store where the owner claimed the intruder had “glowed weird” before running off. Gotham weirdness bleeding into the everyday. He tuned it out enough to focus on driving but kept the volume up, the chatter a constant backdrop. Another domestic. A car accident with possible injuries. A report of someone selling “glowing rocks” out of a van near the docks—probably another minor metahuman or just bad drugs.

His mind drifted between the calls and the news segment still playing in his head. Madame Zodiac’s ritual at the Pentagon. 

The radio squawked again. “Unit 3, Unit 3, we have a 10-90 at the old amusement park on the outskirts—possible riot or large disturbance. Reports of costumed individuals, possible minor metahuman activity. Multiple calls coming in. All available units respond.”

Vieri shook his head slightly. Costumed individuals. Always a wildcard in this city. He turned onto the avenue leading toward the precinct, the building coming into view through the rain—gray concrete, rows of windows glowing with fluorescent light, the parking lot half-full with patrol cars. He pulled in, found a spot near the side entrance, and killed the engine. The wipers stopped mid-swipe. For a second he just sat there, hands on the wheel, listening to the rain tap against the roof and the fading static from the radio. The calls kept coming in the background—another theft, another fight, the city grinding on like it always did.

He grabbed his jacket from the passenger seat, shrugged it on, and stepped out into the damp air. Two uniforms were smoking by the side door, collars turned up against the rain, the glow of their cigarettes bright in the gray morning. Vieri nodded to them as he passed. One nodded back, the other gave a half-wave. He pushed through the door into the precinct, the familiar mix of coffee, paper, and institutional air hitting him as the sou

The bullpen hit Vieri like it always did after a morning run and the quiet of his drive in. The air was thick with the smell of burnt coffee from the pot that had been sitting too long on the warmer, old paper from stacks of reports that never seemed to shrink, and that faint metallic tang drifting up from the holding cells down the hall. Phones rang nonstop—sharp, insistent tones cutting through the low hum of conversation. Keyboards clacked in uneven rhythms as officers typed up overnight incidents. At the far end of the room, two detectives were arguing about paperwork again, voices rising and falling in the familiar pattern of frustration that came with too many forms and not enough time. “I filed it yesterday, you said it was in the system!” one of them snapped. The other just sighed and waved a handful of printouts. Same shit, different morning.

Vieri walked through it all, jacket slung over one shoulder, nodding to a couple of uniforms who glanced his way. His boots left faint damp prints on the worn linoleum from the rain outside. Near the middle of the room, Montoya sat at her desk, dark hair pulled back tight into a practical ponytail that still let a few strands frame her face. Her white button-down stretched across her full C-cup chest as she leaned forward over a file, the fabric pulling just enough to hint at the smooth olive skin beneath the open collar. She looked up when he walked past, giving him a small, professional nod. But her golden-brown eyes held on him a beat longer than they needed to. The pollen from the raid was weeks gone, but the memory sat right there under the surface—her on her knees in the office that day, the Spanish spilling out hot and needy while she and Sawyer competed for him, the way her throat had worked around his cock as she tried to take him deeper than she should have been able to. It showed now in the subtle way she shifted in her chair, thighs pressing together under the dark slacks, a faint flush creeping up her neck before she looked back down at her papers.

Across the room, Sawyer was standing by another detective’s desk, tall and solid at 5’10”, with her thick thighs and the firm, rounded curve of her ass. She was mid-conversation, gesturing with one hand while the other rested on her hip, but when she caught Vieri’s eye she gave him a quick, warm smile that didn’t quite stay professional. It lingered just a second too long, the corner of her mouth curving with something that wasn’t entirely about the job. Montoya saw the smile. Her jaw tightened, just a fraction, the pen in her hand tapping once against the desk before she caught herself. Subtle, but there. Both of them were still feeling it. The raid. The office. The way things had shifted between the three of them after the pollen had burned through their systems and left something raw and hungry behind. They wanted more. Vieri could read it in the way their eyes tracked him when they thought no one else was looking—the quick glances, the way Montoya’s posture changed when Sawyer smiled at him, the faint tension in Sawyer’s shoulders as she tried to keep her conversation going.

He didn’t get long to sit with it. A uniform caught his eye from across the room and jerked his thumb toward the back hallway. “IA wants another round with you, Oronzo. They’re in the small interview room.”

Vieri nodded once and headed that way, the noise of the bullpen fading slightly as he walked down the hall. The small interview room was the same as always—windowless, walls painted that institutional beige that always looked slightly dirty no matter how many times they scrubbed them. It smelled like cheap carpet cleaner and old coffee, the kind that had been reheated too many times. One of the IA suits sat at the table with a notepad in front of him, pen already poised. The other leaned against the wall with his arms crossed, trying for casual but landing somewhere between bored and predatory. Same two guys as last time. Same fake-polite tone that meant they were hunting for any crack they could widen into leverage.

“Officer Oronzo,” the one with the notepad said, gesturing to the chair across from him. “Have a seat. We’d like to walk you through the Kane Street apartment again. From the moment you entered, if you don’t mind.”

Vieri sat, keeping his posture relaxed but straight. He rested his hands on the table, voice calm and flat like he was reciting a report he’d already filed twice. “Flashbang went in first. Smoke filled the main room quick. We moved as a standard stack—me, the two rookies behind me. Vines hit hard almost immediately. Thick ones, coming up through the floorboards. I got separated, pushed into the back bedroom area. The Queens were already there. Pollen was thick in the air. It hit me and the others. I was closest to the main burst when it went off. That’s why it affected me harder than most of the team.”

The suit with the notepad scribbled something, then looked up. “And the Queens? You had visual on all three—Catwoman, Poison Ivy, Harley Quinn. Yet they walked out clean. Walk us through that part again. Slowly.”

Vieri didn’t flinch. He kept his expression even, the same steady cop face he used on the street. “Like I said before. The pollen was heavy. It messes with your head—makes people suggestible, disoriented. The team was compromised. I did what I could to contain the situation until backup and the Bat Family arrived. The Queens used the chaos. They got out. That’s it.”

The second suit pushed off the wall, arms still crossed. “Your clothes were torn. Neck had fresh scratches when you came out. Looked like you’d been in more than just a vine struggle. Care to explain that?”

“Ivy’s plants. They weren’t gentle. And yeah, there was close contact when things got messy in the back room. Pollen makes everything… heightened. But I stuck to procedure as much as I could.”

They circled the same ground for the next twenty minutes, rephrasing questions, probing for inconsistencies. Why did half the team look drugged and glassy-eyed? Why were there reports of laughter and strange behavior from inside before the Bat Family showed? Why did Vieri’s report feel light on specifics about the Queens’ exact movements? Vieri gave them the same answers every time—steady, boring, consistent. The pollen story held because most of it was true. The suits finally leaned back, exchanged a look, and let him go with the usual line about filing complete reports and full cooperation going forward.

“Appreciate your time, Officer,” the one with the notepad said as Vieri stood. “We’ll be in touch if we need anything else.”

Vieri nodded and stepped out of the room, the door clicking shut behind him. The bullpen noise washed over him again as he walked back in. Before he could make it to his desk, the captain waved the task force over to the big whiteboard near the front. A handful of them gathered—Montoya, Sawyer, a couple of other detectives who’d been looped in. The captain stood in front of the board, arms crossed, looking tired but hard around the eyes. The whiteboard was covered in photos from the Kane Street scene, red lines connecting points, notes in black marker about timelines and escape routes.

“One more chance,” the captain said, voice carrying just enough to cut through the nearby chatter. He looked at each of them in turn, slow and deliberate. “Brass is breathing down my neck on this. Another clusterfuck like Kane Street and this unit gets pulled entirely. I want results. Real ones. Make the Queens feel actual pressure. Bring something to the table we can show upstairs—arrests, disrupted operations, anything that looks like progress. No more excuses about pollen clouds or the Bat Family showing up late. We do our jobs, we get it done.”

A couple of the others murmured agreement. Montoya nodded, her expression tight and focused. Sawyer shifted her weight, powerful frame steady, but her eyes flicked toward Vieri for a split second. Vieri nodded along with the rest of them, keeping his face neutral. He already had the play ready for Friday. The meeting with the Queens. It was the kind of balance he’d been cobbling together since this whole mess started—give the task force something that looked like wins on paper, keep the women satisfied enough to play along. It was risky. But in Gotham, everything was.

Across town, high above the rain-slicked streets, the Clock Tower hummed with the constant low drone of servers and cooling fans. The massive circular room felt alive with technology—rows of monitors glowing with feeds from hacked GCPD cameras, traffic systems, and private security networks. Cables snaked across the floor in organized bundles, and the air carried that faint ozone tang of electronics working overtime. Dim overhead lights mixed with the blue-white glow of the screens, casting long shadows across the central command console.

Barbara Gordon sat at the heart of it all, her wheelchair positioned perfectly for reach. Her red hair was pulled back tight into a practical ponytail, a few loose strands sticking to the back of her neck from the warmth of the equipment. She wore her usual dark tactical top, the material fitting snug across her full breasts, the fabric shifting slightly with every breath. One hand rested on the main keyboard, fingers occasionally tapping out commands. The other had drifted between her thighs more than once in the last hour, pressing firmly against the seam of her suit before she caught herself and pulled it back. Her cheeks carried a faint flush she hoped the others hadn’t noticed. The raid audio from Kane Street still played on a loop in her head. It was distracting. Dangerous. And she couldn’t stop replaying it.

Stephanie Brown perched on the edge of the console like she owned the place, legs swinging idly, boot heels tapping lightly against the metal paneling. Her Spoiler suit hugged every curve—the purple-and-black material stretched tight over her bouncy D-cup tits, the zipper pulled low enough that soft inner cleavage showed whenever she leaned forward. Her thick, rounded ass pressed firmly against the console edge, the suit doing nothing to hide how the cheeks spread slightly from the position. Blonde hair fell loose over one shoulder, and her blue eyes sparkled with that familiar mix of mischief and barely-contained energy. She had been the one most vocal about the footage since it leaked through their hacks.

Cassandra Cain stood silent right behind Stephanie, arms crossed under her chest. Her sleek black Orphan suit clung to her compact, athletic frame like a second skin—defined shoulders, narrow waist that flared into powerful thighs, and a firm, rounded ass that flexed noticeably when she shifted her weight from foot to foot. Dark hair framed a face that rarely showed much emotion, but right now her dark eyes were locked on the screens with intense focus, a faint flush coloring her cheeks.

They had been running Vieri’s name and movements nonstop since the raid audio first made it through their systems. The sounds from that back bedroom were burned in deep—wet rhythmic slapping of flesh, Harley’s broken, ecstatic screams of “Daddy,” the raw desperation in the overlapping moans as Catwoman, Poison Ivy, and Harley Quinn had completely lost control over one beat cop with a ridiculous cock. It wasn’t just the audio. The way the three of them had unraveled, competing and surrendering at the same time, had left all three women in the Clock Tower quietly rattled in their own ways.

Steph was the one who said it out loud again, swinging her legs a little harder so her thick ass shifted against the console. “We need to meet this guy. In person. Soon.” Her voice carried that excited edge, blue eyes bright as she glanced between Barbara and Cass. “The way those three were going at it? I want to know what the fuck makes trained killers turn into desperate sluts like that. Harley screaming for it, Selina acting all possessive then folding completely, Ivy talking about the Green singing in her pussy? Come on. That’s not normal.”

Cassandra signed sharp and direct, her movements precise and emphatic, hands cutting through the air. Strong. They all wanted him. We should test it ourselves.

Barbara tried to keep her voice steady, but it came out a little tighter than she intended. She shifted in her chair, thighs pressing together under the console as another faint pulse of heat hit her. “We almost missed the entire Pentagon incident with Madame Zodiac because we were too busy replaying that raid audio for the nth time.” She gestured at one of the side screens where a frozen waveform from the Kane Street feed still sat open. “We still stopped her but it was closer than it should have been. This fixation on Vieri is becoming a real problem. We’re supposed to be monitoring the city, not getting distracted by… whatever the hell happened in that apartment.”

Steph grinned, biting her lower lip as she leaned forward. The motion made her bouncy D-cup tits press more noticeably against the tight Spoiler suit, the zipper dipping lower. “We still stopped her, Babs. And come on. You heard it too. This guy has something. We can’t just pretend it’s not worth looking into. I mean, three of Gotham’s most dangerous women completely folded? I need to know what that feels like up close.”

Cass nodded once, firm and decisive, her dark eyes never leaving the main screens. She signed again, slower this time, emphasizing each gesture. Strong. They all wanted him bad. We should find out why. Personally.

Barbara exhaled slowly, her cheeks faintly pink under the glow of the monitors. She could still hear the audio echoes in her head—the wet sounds, the moans, the way the women had competed and surrendered. Her hand twitched toward her thigh again before she forced it back to the keyboard. “Fine,” she said at last, voice a little breathier than she liked. “We investigate. Track his patrol routes. Pull more feeds. See if there’s more to the story than whatever happened in that apartment. But we stay professional about it. No rushing in. We observe first.”

Steph’s grin widened into something brighter and more predatory. She shifted on the console again, her thick ass spreading slightly against the edge as she squeezed her thighs together. “Sure. Professionally. But if we get a clean opening to talk to him alone, I’m taking first shot. I want to see if I can handle whatever he’s packing better than those three combined.”

Cassandra’s mouth curved in the smallest, rare smirk—barely there, but unmistakable. Her athletic body stayed coiled and ready, the firm cheeks of her ass flexing once as she adjusted her stance, dark eyes still locked on the screens with quiet intensity.

Back at the precinct, Vieri pushed back from his desk and stood, the chair scraping lightly against the linoleum. The bullpen noise had settled into its usual afternoon rhythm—phones still ringing here and there, a couple of officers trading stories by the coffee station, the low murmur of radios in the background. He grabbed his vest from the hook on the side of his desk, the familiar weight of the tactical gear settling over his shoulders as he shrugged it on and adjusted the straps. The fabric smelled faintly of the precinct—old sweat, gun oil, and the general institutional must that never quite washed out. He clipped his radio to his belt, checked his sidearm out of habit, and headed toward the side exit.

Sawyer was already waiting near the door. She had her own vest on, looking every bit the capable detective, but there was a subtle energy in the way she stood—shoulders relaxed but ready, blue eyes flicking toward him as he approached. Montoya was still at her desk across the room, buried in more IA paperwork and follow-up reports. She didn’t say anything when they left the bullpen together, but the look she gave Sawyer was sharp and direct, golden-brown eyes narrowing just a fraction. Jealousy, plain and simple. It flashed across her face for a second before she masked it with a tight nod in Vieri’s direction. Vieri caught it clearly but kept walking. He just gave Montoya a small, even nod back and followed Sawyer out to the car. The tension between the two women was there, simmering under the professional surface, leftover from the office and the raid. Neither of them had said it out loud, but it hung in the air whenever the three of them were in the same room.

They stepped out into the damp afternoon air. The East End streets were still slick from the morning rain, puddles reflecting the gray sky and the occasional break of weak sunlight cutting between the buildings. The smell of wet asphalt and distant food carts mixed with exhaust from passing traffic. Sawyer slid behind the wheel of the patrol car, the seat creaking slightly under her solid frame. Vieri took the passenger seat, buckling in as she started the engine. The radio hummed to life with the usual low chatter in the background.

Sawyer pulled out of the lot and headed east, the tires hissing over the wet pavement. She was quiet for the first few blocks, one hand on the wheel, the other resting on her thigh. The car interior felt a little smaller than usual, the faint scent of her perfume mixing with the leather seats and the lingering trace of earlier rain through the cracked window. Then she glanced over at him, her blue eyes steady. “Been thinking about the other day,” she said, voice low enough that it stayed between them. “The office. Can’t shake it.”

Vieri kept his eyes on the street ahead, watching the flow of traffic and the pedestrians hurrying along the sidewalks with collars turned up. “Pollen made things complicated,” he replied, keeping his tone even.

She let out a short, rough laugh, the sound warm but edged with something deeper. “Complicated is one word for it. I’ve been wet every time I think about it since.” She shifted in her seat, powerful thighs pressing together for a moment before she relaxed them again. “The way it felt. The way you handled both of us. It’s been playing on repeat in my head during every quiet moment.”

Vieri nodded once, not pushing it. “Yeah. It hit hard.”

The radio crackled before either of them could say more, the dispatcher’s voice cutting through clearly. “All units in the East End grid, we have a 10-52 at Rossi’s Deli on 7th and Kane. Robbery in progress. Two suspects, both armed with knives. Clerk is on the line—male subject has a knife to his side, second suspect is clearing the register. Any units nearby, respond.”

Sawyer’s hand tightened on the wheel. “That’s us. Two blocks up.” She hit the lights and siren, the familiar wail cutting through the afternoon quiet as she accelerated. Vieri checked his vest and sidearm one more time, the adrenaline kicking in steady and familiar. They rolled up fast, parking half a block away behind a delivery van to keep the element of surprise. The deli’s front windows were fogged slightly from the warmth inside, the sign above the door flickering with one burned-out letter. They moved together without needing to talk much—standard procedure, years of experience making the steps automatic.

The place smelled like old coffee, fresh bread from the oven in back, and the sharp tang of fear once they pushed through the door. Two guys were at the counter. One held a knife to the clerk’s side, the blade pressing just enough to draw a small bead of blood through the man’s shirt. The other was stuffing cash from the open register into a dirty backpack, moving fast and sloppy. The clerk’s eyes were wide, breathing hard, hands raised but trembling.

“GCPD!” Vieri called out, voice firm and commanding as he drew his weapon but kept it low. “Drop the knife. Hands where I can see them. Now.”

The guy with the knife spun toward them, eyes wild. Sawyer was already moving on the second suspect, using her height and strength to her advantage. She closed the distance fast, shoulder-checking him hard into the counter. The backpack spilled cash onto the floor as she twisted his arm behind his back with practiced efficiency, the cuffs clicking on before he could recover. “Stay down,” she growled, voice low and authoritative. “Don’t make this worse.”

Vieri handled the knife guy. He caught the wrist clean as the man lunged, driving a sharp elbow into the ribs that knocked the breath out of him. The knife clattered to the floor. Vieri followed through with a controlled takedown, knee in the guy’s back as he pinned him face-down. “You’re done. Stop fighting.” The suspect grunted and went limp, the fight draining out of him once the blade was gone.

It was over in under a minute. No shots fired. The clerk slumped against the counter, breathing hard, one hand pressed to the small cut on his side. “Thank you,” he managed, voice shaky. “They just came in… didn’t even say anything.”

Sawyer helped the clerk sit while Vieri secured both suspects. They called it in over the radio, voices steady as they reported the situation under control and requested backup for transport. The two perps were cuffed and sitting against the wall by the time the wagon arrived, muttering curses under their breath. The clerk gave a quick statement, still rattled but grateful. Standard procedure wrapped up clean.

When they finally walked back to the patrol car, Sawyer looked at Vieri with fresh heat in her blue eyes. The adrenaline from the takedown still buzzed between them. “You move good when it counts,” she said. Her voice had dropped lower, rougher around the edges. “I like that. A man who handles business.”

They got in. Vieri took the passenger seat again. Sawyer started the engine but didn’t pull away right away. She turned toward him, eyes locked on his. The air in the car felt thicker already, charged from the call and everything that had been building since the office. “Fuck it,” she muttered, and leaned across the console. Her mouth found his hard and hungry. Tongue pushing in immediately, tasting him, claiming the kiss with the same direct energy she’d used on the suspect. One hand went straight to his lap, cupping the growing bulge through his pants and squeezing firmly. She moaned into the kiss, low and needy, feeling the thickness under her palm as it responded to her touch.

Vieri kissed her back, hand sliding to the back of her neck, fingers threading into her light brown hair. She was tall, strong, her body powerful from years on the job — thick, runner’s thighs filling out the pants, wide hips, firm rounded ass shifting as she leaned closer. Her heavy D-cup tits pressed against the dark blouse, the fabric stretching tight across them with every breath.

She broke the kiss just enough to speak, voice rough and low. “I love a man who handles shit like that. Gets me fucking soaked.” Her hand kept rubbing his crotch, slow and deliberate. “Been wanting this cock again since the office. It’s all I think about sometimes.”

Vieri’s fingers tightened in her hair, pulling just enough to tilt her head back. She gasped, lips parted, eyes going half-lidded. “Then stop talking and do something about it,” he said, voice low.

Sawyer didn’t need more encouragement. She worked his belt open one-handed, the other still stroking the growing length through the fabric. Zipper down. She reached in, wrapped her fingers around the thick, heavy shaft, and pulled it free. His cock sprang out, hard and flushed at the head. In the tight space of the front seat it looked even bigger. She stared at it for a second, licking her lips.

“Fuck, there it is,” she breathed. “So thick. So heavy.” She stroked the base slow, feeling the weight and the heat in her palm. Then she leaned down, the seat belt pulling across her chest. Her hot breath ghosted over the head. Her tongue came out and dragged a slow, wet stripe from the base all the way up to the tip, tasting the bead of precum there. She moaned at the flavor, low and needy in her throat.

Vieri watched her, hand still in her hair. The car smelled like leather, her light perfume, and the growing musk of her arousal. Her powerful thighs were pressed tight together as she bent over the console. Her heavy tits hung and shifted with every movement, the blouse pulling tight across the full curves.

She opened her mouth and took the head in. Her lips stretched wide around the girth. She sucked hard right away, cheeks hollowing with a wet slurp. She bobbed a little, taking a few inches, tongue swirling around the underside. Spit built fast, running down the veined shaft in shiny trails. She pushed deeper and gagged softly when the head hit the back of her throat — a thick, wet gluck that filled the quiet car. She pulled back, gasping, a shiny string of saliva connecting her swollen lips to his cock.

“God, it’s so fucking big,” she said, voice already hoarse. “Stretches my mouth just right.” She went back down, sucking noisier this time. Slurp. Gluck. Slurp. Her hand twisted on the upstroke while her mouth worked the top half. Drool dripped onto his pants and the seat. Her eyes started to water, but she kept going, determined and hungry.

Vieri groaned, hips lifting a little. His hand tightened in her hair, guiding the rhythm. “That’s it. Suck it just like that.”

Sawyer moaned around the thick shaft, the vibration running straight through him. She loved the direction. She pulled off for air, panting, face flushed deep, chin shiny with spit. “Tell me how you want it. Fuck my face. I can take it.”

He didn’t hold back. He pulled her head down and thrust up into her throat. She gagged hard, eyes squeezing shut for a second, throat bulging visibly around the head. Gluck gluck gluck. The wet, choking sounds filled the car. Tears pricked at the corners of her eyes, but she relaxed into it, letting him use her mouth. Her free hand slipped between her own legs, rubbing her pussy through the fabric of her pants as she took the rough face-fucking.

She was already close, just from the act and her own fingers. Her powerful body tensed, strong thighs squeezing together. She moaned louder around his cock, the sound muffled and desperate. Her heavy tits swayed with the motion of her head. Vieri kept thrusting, using her hair to set the pace. Her face was a mess — flushed deep red, eyes watering, lips stretched obscenely wide around his girth, drool running down her chin and onto her blouse.

“Fuck, Sawyer,” he growled. “Your throat feels so good. Keep going like that and I’m gonna cum down it.”

She pulled back just enough to speak, voice wrecked and hoarse. “Do it. Cum in my mouth. I want to taste every drop. Fill my throat.” Then she was back on him, sucking harder and faster. Her hand worked the base in time with her mouth. The car filled with the filthy wet sounds — slurp slurp gluck moan. She was fingering herself faster now, hips rocking against her hand through the pants.

Her orgasm hit first. She came hard, body shaking in the driver’s seat, a muffled cry vibrating around his cock. Her pussy clenched around her fingers, soaking into the fabric. She didn’t stop sucking. If anything she got more eager, like cumming only made her hungrier for his.

Vieri felt it building fast. The sight of her — tall, strong detective turned into a drooling, cumming mess on his cock in the front seat — pushed him over the edge. He held her head down, thrust deep one last time. “Fuck — here it comes.”

He came hard, pulsing thick ropes straight into her throat. Sawyer swallowed greedily, moaning as she took every spurt. Some leaked out the corners of her mouth and ran down her chin. She kept sucking through it, milking him until he was empty. When he finally eased his grip on her hair she pulled off slow, licking her lips and swallowing the last of it with a satisfied hum.

“Goddamn,” she panted, wiping her chin with the back of her hand. Her face was flushed, lips swollen, eyes glassy. She was still rubbing herself slowly through the aftershocks. “That was… fuck. I needed that.” She looked at his cock, still half-hard and slick with her spit. “We’re not done.”

Vieri met her eyes. The car was thick with the smell of sex now. Her heavy tits were rising and falling fast. Her powerful thighs shifted restlessly. “Back seat,” he said.

Sawyer’s eyes lit up. She glanced at the quiet side street, then started climbing over the console. Her firm, rounded ass brushed against him as she moved. “Yeah,” she breathed. “Back seat. I want you inside me. Right now.”

Sawyer climbed over the console first, her tall frame moving with surprising grace for the tight space. Her firm, rounded ass brushed against Vieri’s shoulder as she swung her legs through, the dark pants stretching tight across her powerful thighs. She dropped into the back seat and immediately reached for him. “Come on,” she said, voice low and rough. “Get back here.”

Vieri followed, the car rocking slightly as he maneuvered into the back. The space was cramped, windows already starting to fog from their breathing. The smell inside was thick now — leather seats, her light perfume, and the unmistakable musk of sex. Sawyer didn’t wait. The second he sat down she straddled his lap, knees on either side of his thighs, her heavy D-cup tits pressing against his chest through her blouse. She kissed him hard again, tongue sliding against his, one hand already reaching down between them to wrap around his still-hard, spit-slick cock.

“Fuck, I need this inside me,” she breathed against his mouth. Her fingers stroked him slow and firm, feeling him thicken again in her grip. “Been thinking about how it stretched me in the office. How full I felt.”

Vieri’s hands slid up her sides, then down to grip her ass. The flesh was firm and round under his palms, the muscle shifting as she rocked her hips. He squeezed, pulling her closer, and she moaned into the kiss. Her powerful thighs flexed on either side of him, the heat from her core pressing down against his shaft through her pants. She ground against him, slow and deliberate, letting him feel how wet she still was.

She broke the kiss just long enough to reach between them and work her pants open. She shoved them down her hips along with her underwear, the fabric catching on her thick thighs for a second before she got them low enough. Her pussy was soaked, lips puffy and glistening. She lined him up, rubbing the fat head along her slit, then sank down in one smooth motion.

“Shit—” she gasped, eyes fluttering as her walls stretched around his girth. “So fucking thick. Fills me right up.” She bottomed out with a low moan, her ass settling against his thighs. For a moment she just sat there, breathing hard, adjusting to the stretch. Then she started moving, rolling her hips in a slow, deep grind.

Vieri groaned, hands gripping her ass tighter, fingers digging into the firm flesh. Her heavy tits bounced with every roll, the dark blouse straining across them. He reached up, popped a couple buttons, and pulled the fabric aside along with her bra. Her tits spilled free — full, soft, nipples already stiff. He cupped one, mauling the heavy weight, thumb brushing over the hard peak. Sawyer moaned louder, hips moving faster.

“That’s it,” she panted. “Touch them. Squeeze them while I ride this big cock.” She leaned forward, bracing one hand on the seat behind him, the other on his shoulder. Her tits swayed right in front of his face now, bouncing with every downward drop. Vieri caught a stiff nipple between his lips, sucking hard. She cried out, her pussy clenching around him.

The car started rocking in a steady rhythm. Wet, slick sounds filled the back seat every time she sank down — schlick, schlick — her juices coating his shaft and dripping down his balls. Her powerful thighs flexed and worked as she rode him, ass rippling softly against his lap with every impact. The smell of sex grew thicker, warm and heady in the confined space.

Sawyer’s breathing got ragged. “Fuck, you’re hitting so deep. Right there—shit, I’m gonna cum already.” Her hips sped up, grinding harder, chasing it. Vieri kept one hand on her ass, guiding her, the other mauling her tit, pinching the nipple. Her face scrunched up, mouth open, eyes half-closed. She came hard, pussy clamping down around him in rhythmic pulses, a gush of wetness soaking his lap. She kept riding through it, moaning loud and broken, thighs shaking.

“God yes—keep going,” she gasped. “Don’t stop. I want another one.”

Vieri thrust up to meet her, hips snapping. The car rocked harder. He grabbed a handful of her light brown hair, pulling her head back just enough to see her face — flushed, eyes glassy, lips parted. “You like that?” he said, voice low. “Riding my cock in the patrol car like a needy slut?”

Sawyer moaned louder at the words, her pussy fluttering around him again. “Yes—fuck yes. I’m your slut right now. Use me.” She rode him faster, tits bouncing wildly. Vieri let go of her hair and used both hands on her ass, spreading her cheeks as he drove up into her. The wet slapping sounds got louder — skin on skin, her ass rippling every time she dropped down.

She came again a couple minutes later, thighs clamping tight around his hips, back arching as another flood of wetness soaked them both. “Cumming—fuck, I’m cumming again on your thick cock!”

Vieri groaned, feeling her milk him. He held her down deep and let go, pumping his second load straight into her. Thick ropes filled her, leaking out around his shaft as she kept grinding through the aftershocks. She whimpered, body trembling, but she didn’t climb off. Instead she leaned in, kissing him messy and deep, still full of him.

“More,” she whispered against his mouth. “I want you to fuck me from behind. Bend me over the seat.”

They shifted fast in the cramped space. Sawyer turned, bracing her hands on the back of the front seats, ass up and presented. Her pants were bunched around her knees, powerful thighs spread, pussy swollen and leaking his cum. Vieri knelt behind her, lined up, and pushed back in with one smooth thrust. She moaned loud, head dropping forward.

“Fuck yes—give it to me hard.”

He gripped her hips and started pounding. The position let him go deep, heavy balls slapping against her with every thrust. Her firm ass rippled beautifully, cheeks clapping against his hips. The car rocked harder now, the wet plap plap plap mixing with her moans and the creak of the seats. Vieri reached around, one hand finding her swinging tit, squeezing and mauling the soft weight while he fucked her. The other hand slid down to rub her clit in tight circles.

Sawyer’s arms shook. “Right there—don’t stop rubbing my clit. Your cock feels so good stretching me open.” Her voice was wrecked, face pressed against the seat back, mouth open. She came again, pussy spasming hard around him, another gush of wetness running down her thighs. Vieri kept going, hips snapping, the sound obscene in the small space.

He felt his own release building again. He grabbed her hair, pulling her head back gently but firmly so he could see her face — eyes rolled back, lips parted, completely lost in it. “Gonna fill you again,” he growled.

“Do it,” she gasped. “Pump it deep. I want to feel it leaking out of me the rest of the shift.”

He buried himself deep and came hard, groaning as he pumped another thick load into her. Sawyer shuddered through another smaller orgasm, milking every drop. They stayed like that for a long moment, breathing hard, the car filled with the heavy smell of sex and the sound of their slowing heartbeats.

Eventually they untangled, cleaning up as best they could with napkins from the glove box and straightening their clothes. Sawyer pulled her pants back up, wincing a little at the mess between her thighs but smiling the whole time. “Fuck,” she said, voice still hoarse. “That was exactly what I needed after that deli stop.”

Vieri tucked himself away and climbed back into the front seat. “We still have patrol left.”

Sawyer laughed softly as she started the car. “Yeah. Try not to get me worked up again before shift’s over.” She glanced over at him, eyes still dark with heat. “Though I wouldn’t complain if you did.”

They pulled back onto the street, the windows still fogged at the edges, the scent of what they’d just done lingering in the air. Vieri leaned back in the seat, mind already turning toward Friday night and the meeting with the Queens. One problem at a time.

They drove the rest of the patrol in a comfortable, charged silence broken by the occasional radio call. Nothing major — a noise complaint they handled quick, a guy trying to boost a car who ran the second he saw the lights. Sawyer was professional on the calls, but every time they were back in the car her hand would drift over to his thigh, squeezing lightly. Not pushing for more, just staying close. The scent of what they’d done lingered no matter how much air they let in.

By the end of the shift Sawyer dropped him back at the precinct lot. She killed the engine and turned to him, one arm resting on the steering wheel. “We should do this again sometime. Patrol together more often.” Her blue eyes flicked down to his lap for a second, then back up. “And maybe not just in the car.”

Vieri nodded. “Yeah. We’ll see.” He climbed out, the cool evening air hitting him. His body still felt loose and satisfied, but his mind was already shifting back to Friday. The meeting with the Queens. The note he’d given Selina. He needed to make it work — keep the task force looking effective while giving the women what they craved. Balance the chaos.

Inside the precinct Montoya was still at her desk, finishing paperwork. She looked up as he walked in. Her gaze sharpened, nostrils flaring slightly. She could probably smell it on him — the sex, Sawyer’s perfume mixed with his. Her jaw tightened again, that subtle jealousy flashing across her face. “Good patrol?” she asked, voice even but with an edge.

“Quiet after the deli call,” Vieri said. He kept it short. “Handled a couple things. Sawyer’s solid backup.”

Montoya’s eyes lingered on him a beat longer. “I bet she is.” She looked back down at her files, but her pen tapped a little harder than necessary. “IA wants the final write-up by tomorrow. Make sure it’s clean.”

Vieri nodded and headed to his own desk to wrap up the reports. The bullpen was winding down for the evening. He kept the details minimal, sticking to the facts. By the time he finished the sky outside was fully dark. He grabbed his jacket and headed out.

The drive home was quiet. Rain had started again, light but steady, the wipers thumping rhythmically. He parked in the driveway, killed the lights, and sat for a moment listening to the engine tick as it cooled. The house looked the same as always — small, stubborn, his. He went inside, locked the door, and dropped his things by the table.

The note he’d given Selina played in his head again as Vieri locked the front door behind him. Friday. Simple time and place, nothing fancy. Just the three of them. He’d keep it straightforward when they met—talk terms, lay out what the task force needed to look competent on paper, and make sure they understood he could keep giving them what they actually wanted in return. If it turned physical after the talking… well, that was part of the deal too. He wasn’t naive about how these things usually went with them. The balance he was trying to keep felt precarious, but it was the only play he had.

He stripped off his clothes in the bedroom, the fabric still carrying the faint mix of precinct smells and the day’s sweat. The quick shower was hot and efficient, water pounding against his shoulders and back as he soaped up and rinsed off the day. Steam filled the small bathroom, fogging the mirror until he wiped a clear streak with his palm. He toweled dry, pulled on a pair of comfortable sweatpants and an old t-shirt, and headed to the kitchen. No need for anything complicated. He boiled some pasta, heated up a jar of sauce, and threw together a simple dinner—nothing fancy, just fuel. The TV stayed off. The house was quiet except for the low hum of the refrigerator and the steady tap of rain against the windows. He sat at the small table with his plate and a glass of water, eating in silence. The pasta was warm and filling, the sauce tangy on his tongue. His mind kept turning over the balance he was trying to keep.

Later, as he sat in his worn armchair with a cold beer, the condensation cool against his palm, a soft sound came from the back window. He didn’t even look up. The deadbolt on the front door was locked, but that had never stopped her. Selina slipped inside like she belonged there, the black catsuit gleaming faintly in the low light from the lamp. The material clung to every line of her body—lean muscle, generous curves, the way it hugged her firm tits and the tight dip of her waist before flaring over her hips. She moved with that familiar predatory grace, closing the window behind her without a sound, then crossed the room and dropped onto his lap without a word, straddling him smoothly. Her hands rested on his shoulders, fingers pressing lightly into the muscle there.

“Got your note,” she said, voice low and amused, a hint of that teasing edge he’d come to expect. “Friday. Bold move, flatfoot. You really think the three of us are just going to sit down and play nice because you asked?”

Vieri set the beer down on the side table, the glass clinking softly against the wood. He rested his hands on her hips, feeling the smooth, slick material of the suit under his palms and the warmth of her body beneath it. “Figured it was time we all talked,” he replied, voice steady. “Make things work for everybody. The task force needs wins on paper. You three need to pull back a bit so things don’t get too hot. And I can keep things… satisfying on this end. Everybody gets something.”

Selina leaned in closer, her dark hair falling forward as her lips brushed his ear. The scent of leather and her usual light perfume filled his nose. “We’ll see,” she murmured, breath warm against his skin. “The others are already arguing about it. Harley wants to turn it into some kind of game, winner gets first ride. Ivy’s going on about the Green and sacred rituals or whatever. They’re both worked up. But I’ll make sure they show up. And after?” She pulled back just enough to meet his eyes, a small smirk playing on her lips. “We can skip the talking if you want. I know how these meetings usually end with us.”

He squeezed her ass, feeling the firm muscle under the tight suit, his fingers digging in just enough to pull her closer on his lap. “We’ll see how it goes,” he said simply. “I’m not looking to start a war between you three. Just keep it from spilling over and burning everything down.”

Selina let out a soft, husky laugh, the sound vibrating through her chest as she shifted her weight on him. “You say that like you don’t enjoy the chaos a little.” She leaned in again, this time kissing him slow and deep. Her lips were soft but insistent, tongue sliding against his in an unhurried exploration. One of her hands moved up to cup the back of his neck, fingers threading into his hair. They stayed like that for a while, trading lazy kisses that grew a little deeper each time, her body relaxing against his. The rain kept tapping steadily against the windows outside, a constant backdrop to the quiet moment in the house.

Gotham kept turning outside those walls—the task force kept pushing for results, the city kept grinding on with its usual madness, and the women in his life kept pulling him deeper into the mess. Friday would be interesting, one way or another. For now, he just held her, hands resting on her hips, and let the night settle around them.