A Life in DC Ch.12 [DC Universe] (Patreon)

A Life in DC

Chapter 12

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The warehouse near the old docks smelled like rust, salt, and old diesel. Rain hammered the corrugated roof in a steady, angry rhythm that made the whole place feel like it was shaking. Water dripped from a dozen leaks and pooled on the cracked concrete floor. Selina Kyle stood near a stack of rotting shipping crates with her arms crossed under her tits. Her catsuit was zipped only halfway up, leaving the soft inner curves of her full C-cups on display. The black leather clung to her long legs, thick thighs pressed together, the firm, round ass she worked hard for sitting high and tight. She looked at the other two women and already regretted calling this little pre-meeting.

Harley Quinn bounced on the balls of her feet a few yards away, pigtails swinging wildly. Her red-and-black jester top was cut obscenely low. Heavy D-cup tits barely stayed inside the fabric; every bounce made them jiggle and threatened to spill out completely. Her nipples poked hard through the thin material. Short shorts hugged her thick thighs and the generous curve of her ass. She grinned like she’d already won a prize no one else knew about.

Poison Ivy leaned against a rusted support beam, one long leg bent, the other straight. Her green bodysuit looked painted on — full, heavy tits straining the material with every breath, narrow waist flaring into wide hips and a thick, juicy ass that jiggled slightly whenever she shifted her weight. Living vines curled lazily around her wrists and upper arms like jewelry that could kill. Her red hair hung damp from the humidity.

Harley spoke first, voice high and bubbling with excitement. “Okay so like… Daddy’s finally calling us for a real group date. He’s done with the one-at-a-time bullshit. He’s gonna walk in here, look at all three of us, and just bend us over these crates one by one. I bet he makes me call him Daddy the whole time while you two watch and get all pissed off and jealous. That’s definitely it. He’s been thinking about my throat since last time. I can feel it.”

Ivy’s eyes glowed a faint, unnatural green. She pushed a strand of damp red hair behind her ear, heavy tits shifting under the tight suit. “Don’t be ridiculous. The Green already chose him. This meeting isn’t some cheap orgy invitation. It’s about the next step. He felt it when he filled me — the way the life-force moved. He’s going to offer himself properly this time. As seed. As something that lasts. He wants me to take him somewhere the plants can witness it. Somewhere sacred. The two of you are just… extras. Temporary entertainment.”

Selina let out a short, sharp laugh that echoed off the metal walls. Her full tits rose and fell under the half-open catsuit. “Extras? Bitch, I found him. I was the one who got my cunt stretched first on that living room floor. You’re both standing here acting like he sent engraved wedding invitations. He sent a note. A short, boring, note about meeting at the docks to talk. That’s it. No poetry. No prophecies. Just talk.”

Harley spun in a little circle, thick ass bouncing under the short shorts, heavy tits jiggling hard. “Talk? Selina, baby, no man walking around with a cock that thick just wants to talk. He’s gonna line us up and make us take turns until none of us can walk straight. I already told two of my guys I’m gonna be too sore for jobs for days. Daddy’s got plans. Big, heavy, thick Daddy plans. He’s probably gonna cum in all three of us and make us thank him.”

Ivy pushed off the beam. Her heavy tits swayed under the green material with the movement. The thick ass under her suit rolled as she took two slow steps closer. “Your little delusion is almost adorable. He smelled like deep earth and raw growth when he came inside me. The plants still hum about it days later. He’s not interested in your circus act, Harley. And he’s definitely not interested in your little cat-and-mouse games, Selina. He wants to plant something that actually matters. I’m the only one who can give him that.”

Selina’s jaw tightened. Her arms squeezed tighter under her full tits, pushing them up. Thick thighs flexed under the leather. “Plant something? You mean you’re gonna get all mystical and try to grow a fucking baby tree out of his balls? Wake up. He just wants us to stop making the cops look like complete idiots for a couple of weeks. That’s it. Simple. Practical. The man writes parking tickets and noise complaints for a living. He’s not looking for a sacred breeding ritual.”

Harley stopped bouncing and pointed a finger straight at Selina, heavy D-cups rising with her sharp breath. “Oh my god you are so boring when you try to sound smart. He’s totally gonna fuck us stupid and then tell us we’re his girls. I already practiced the face I’m gonna make when he cums down my throat again. Eyes rolled all the way back, tongue out, drooling — the whole dumb slut look. Daddy likes when I look completely wrecked. He gets harder when I do it.”

Ivy’s vines twitched and curled tighter around her wrists. Her thick ass shifted as she planted her feet. “He likes when I take every single inch and thank the Green for it while he’s pulsing inside me. You two can fight over leftover scraps. I already know what he actually needs. The Green told me.”

Selina stepped forward, thick thighs flexing under the tight catsuit, firm round ass tight and high. Her full C-cups bounced once with the movement. “Scraps? I had him first. I had him the next morning when he was still half-asleep and slow. I had him in the shower against the tile. You both showed up late to the party and now you’re writing entire fantasy novels in your heads about what he wants.”

Harley’s heavy tits bounced hard as she got right up in Selina’s face. The smell of her cheap candy-sweet perfume mixed with the warehouse rust. “Late? I made him cum so hard his knees almost gave out! And he let me call him Daddy the entire time. That’s special. That’s real bonding. He didn’t tell you to call him anything cute while he was rearranging your guts, did he?”

Ivy’s voice dropped cold and sharp. Her full heavy tits rose with a slow breath. “Bonding is for animals in heat. What he and I did was communion. The Green recognized him the second he spilled inside me. You two are just convenient holes he used because you were there. Temporary. Forgettable.”

Selina’s eyes narrowed to slits. Her full breasts pressed together hard as she crossed her arms tighter under them. The leather of her catsuit creaked. “Say that shit again and I will shove one of those vines so far up your—”

“Ohhhh here we go!” Harley clapped her hands and bounced in place, thick thighs rubbing together, heavy D-cup tits jiggling wildly. “Catfight! Can I watch? Better yet — can I join? We should all just get naked right now before Daddy gets here and skip the boring talking part completely. He’ll walk in, see three dripping wet pussies ready for him, and just start railing us over these crates. Problem solved. Everybody wins. Especially my cunt.”

Selina rubbed her temples with both hands. Her rational brain knew exactly what Vieri’s note meant. He wanted the three of them to cool the big flashy jobs so the task force stopped looking like a joke. He wanted to keep fucking them without the entire city catching fire around it. Simple. Clean. Smart. But standing here listening to Harley’s endless Daddy fantasies and Ivy’s sacred seed sermon made something hot and stupid twist low in her belly anyway. Her cunt clenched without permission.

“You’re both completely insane,” Selina said, voice tight and low. Her thick thighs pressed together hard under the leather. “He’s going to show up, say five practical sentences about laying low, maybe fuck one or two of us if the mood hits, and then leave. That’s it. No wedding rings. No Green marriage ceremony. No forever-home with Daddy. Just a conversation and maybe an orgasm if we’re lucky.”

Ivy stepped even closer. Her thick, juicy ass rolled with every step. Heavy tits shifted and swayed under the tight green suit. The vines on her arms whispered against each other. “Then why did you almost get caught twice last week, Selina? Why were you daydreaming about his cock instead of watching the rooftops like a professional? You missed an entire guard rotation because your hand was between your legs thinking about how he stretches you.”

Harley gasped, delighted and loud. Her heavy tits bounced as she spun toward Selina. “Ooooh she actually got you there! You were totally distracted. I saw the security footage from that jewelry place. You completely whiffed on a guard because you were touching yourself thinking about that thick dick. Don’t even try to deny it. Your face was all flushed and stupid.”

Selina’s face heated. A dark flush crawled down her neck and across the tops of her full C-cups. Her thick thighs squeezed together so hard the leather creaked. “Shut up, Harley.”

“Make me,” Harley sang, bouncing again on her toes so her heavy D-cups jiggled and threatened to spill out of the low-cut top. “Or better yet — wait for Daddy to make both of us shut up with his cock. I bet he cums in all three of us tonight. Fills us up until it’s running down our legs. Marks us. Then we all go home sore and happy and stop bitching at each other for five minutes.”

Ivy’s vines curled tighter, snaking a little higher up her arms. Her thick ass flexed as she shifted her weight. “He marks me. The Green already decided. The rest of you can clean up the leftovers after I’m done.”

Selina finally snapped. Her full tits heaved as she sucked in a sharp breath. The firm round ass under her catsuit clenched. “Both of you shut the fuck up for five goddamned seconds. He wants to talk. That’s all the note said. We show up, we listen, we maybe fuck if it goes that way, and we leave. If either of you starts with the sacred seed bullshit or the forever-Daddy speech in front of him, I swear to god I will leave you both hog-tied to a crate for the harbor patrol to find.”

Harley stuck her tongue out childishly, heavy tits still rising and falling fast. “You’re just mad because deep down you know I’m his favorite. He lets me call him Daddy. That’s basically a marriage proposal in slut language.”

Ivy smiled, slow and sharp. Her heavy tits shifted as she crossed her arms under them, pushing them up. The thick ass under her suit swayed as she cocked one hip. “And both of you are temporary. The Green doesn’t share its chosen forever. Eventually he’ll understand that.”

Selina’s full C-cups heaved again as she dragged in a long breath through her nose. She wanted to stay rational. She really did. The note was practical. The plan was practical. Vieri was practical. But the mental image of his thick cock stretching her open again while these two watched — Harley moaning “Daddy” and Ivy thanking the Green — made her cunt clench hard and get wet against the leather of her suit. She hated how badly she already wanted it. She hated that part of her wanted to win whatever stupid competition these two thought they were running.

“Just… be there,” she muttered finally, voice rough. Her thick thighs stayed pressed together. “And try not to make it weirder than it already is. For once.”

Harley grinned wide enough to show teeth. Her heavy tits bounced as she gave a little happy hop. “No promises, kitty-cat. Daddy likes weird.”

Ivy simply turned away, thick juicy ass rolling under the green suit with the movement. The vines on her arms whispered and arms whispered against the damp air as she walked toward the deeper shadows of the warehouse. “The Green will decide. It always does.”

Selina stood there in the dripping warehouse, arms still crossed under her full tits, thick thighs tight, firm ass clenched, and wondered how the hell a simple conversation had already turned into this.

Rain kept hammering the roof like it was trying to get in.

***

Two days later the precinct smelled like burnt coffee and wet wool. The ancient pot on the warmer had been sitting too long again, filling the bullpen with that bitter, scorched scent that never quite went away. Rain still clung to coats and boots from the morning drizzle, adding a damp, musty edge to the air. Phones rang without pause. Keyboards clacked. Someone near the holding cells was arguing loudly about coffee filters.

Vieri sat at his desk finishing a noise complaint report from the night before — two neighbors screaming about a dog that wouldn’t stop barking. He was halfway through the last sentence when Montoya’s voice cut clean across the bullpen.

“Task force. Conference room. Now.”

Chairs scraped back immediately. Boots moved across the worn linoleum. Vieri saved the report, grabbed his notepad and a pen, and stood. He followed the small group of detectives toward the back hallway. Montoya walked ahead of them all, back straight, pace clipped and sure. Her dark hair was pulled into a tight, practical ponytail that still let a few strands frame her face. The white button-down she wore stretched taut across her full C-cup tits; every breath pulled the fabric just tight enough to show the soft upper curves and the faint outline of her bra. Dark slacks hugged her solid runner’s ass and thick thighs with every step. 

Inside the small conference room she waited until the last person entered, then closed the door firmly. The space was cramped — scuffed table, mismatched chairs, a whiteboard covered in old timelines and red arrows from the Kane Street raid. Sawyer leaned against the far wall, arms loosely crossed. Her thick thighs were stacked one over the other, heavy D-cup tits pressing against her dark blouse with every breath. A couple of the other task force detectives took seats. Vieri sat near the middle of the table, notepad ready.

Montoya walked to the head of the table and rested both hands on the back of the empty chair there. Her golden-brown eyes swept the room once — professional, assessing — and then lingered on Vieri a full second longer than anyone else. Her gaze dropped to his mouth, held there, then slid lower down his chest before climbing slowly back up to his eyes. She blinked once, slow, and started speaking like nothing had happened.

“I got a call this morning from upstairs,” she said. Her voice stayed even and professional, but her eyes flicked to Vieri again almost immediately. “Direct from a deputy commissioner. If the Queens of Crime go quiet for a while — and I mean real quiet, no big scores, no headlines, no viral videos of them making us look like clowns — Internal Affairs backs off. Completely. They’ll even give this unit more room to run future operations. Actual breathing room. Real trust instead of constant second-guessing.”

Sawyer shifted her weight against the wall. The movement made her thick ass press harder against the scuffed paint. Her heavy tits rose under the blouse. “How quiet are we talking? ‘Lay low for a week’ quiet or ‘disappear off the face of the earth’ quiet?”

Montoya’s eyes slid back to Vieri’s face, then down to his chest, then lower for half a second before she forced them up again. She cleared her throat. “Quiet enough that the brass stops asking why we keep coming back empty-handed every single time. Quiet enough that they stop looking at this task force like a budget line they can cut tomorrow. So here’s the job, plain and simple. We keep doing solid police work. We take the small wins — the street fights, the thefts, the disorderlies — and we document every one of them clean. We stay sharp. And we watch every alley, every confidential tip, every drunk whisper about the Queens. If they slip even a little, we take them. This might be the only real window we get before someone upstairs decides the whole unit is a waste of money and manpower.”

One of the other detectives, a lanky guy named Ruiz, nodded and leaned forward. “Any specific intel on their current movements? Safehouses? Patterns?”

Montoya’s gaze locked on Vieri again. Longer this time. Her full tits rose with a deeper breath; the buttons on her white shirt strained just enough to show a thin line of olive skin between them. Under the table her thick thighs pressed together hard. She was eye-fucking him plain as day — slow, hungry, completely unprofessional — like she was already remembering exactly how he’d stretched her open inside this same building. Her nipples had started to push visibly against the thin bra and white fabric.

“No solid intel yet,” she said, and her voice dropped a fraction lower. “But they’re distracted. Something’s got them off their game the last couple weeks. Timing’s sloppy. Jobs are smaller. They’re making mistakes they didn’t used to make. We use that. We stay ready. We don’t get cocky.”

Sawyer’s blue eyes flicked between Montoya and Vieri. A small, knowing smirk tugged at the corner of her mouth. She adjusted her stance against the wall, thick thighs shifting, heavy tits pressing harder against her blouse. She knew exactly where Montoya’s head was. She’d been there herself.

Montoya kept talking — coverage schedules, which detectives would take point on which borough tips, how they were supposed to log every Queens-related rumor no matter how stupid it sounded — but every few sentences her eyes drifted back to Vieri. To his hands resting on the notepad. To the way his shirt fit across his shoulders and chest. To the front of his pants. Her nipples were clearly hard now, two tight points against the white shirt. She shifted her weight from one foot to the other, thick thighs rubbing together under the table, and forced herself to turn and look at the whiteboard instead.

“We do this clean,” she continued, eyes on the old Kane Street timeline like it might save her. “No cowboy shit. No chasing ghosts into alleys alone. We build the case properly so when IA looks at us again they see results instead of excuses. Questions?”

Ruiz shook his head. Another detective muttered a quiet “No, boss.” Sawyer just kept watching Montoya with that small smirk, heavy tits rising and falling steadily.

Montoya waited another beat, then nodded once. “Good. That’s it. Get back to work.”

Chairs scraped. People stood. The room filled with the low shuffle of boots and the rustle of notepads. Montoya’s eyes found Vieri one last time as he rose from his chair. She stared at his mouth like she wanted it between her legs right there in front of everyone. Her full tits rose with a sharp breath. Then she looked away, jaw tight, and walked out of the room first — thick thighs flexing under the dark slacks, solid runner’s ass rolling with each purposeful step.

Vieri walked out of the conference room with the rest of the task force. The bullpen noise washed back over him immediately — phones ringing, keyboards clacking, someone still arguing about the coffee filters near the break table. He headed straight to his desk, dropped into the chair hard enough to make it creak, and let out a quiet breath through his nose.

The meeting had gone better than he expected. Cleaner. If the Queens actually slowed down like he planned at the docks tomorrow night, IA would ease off and the task force would finally get some real room to operate. No more constant second-guessing from upstairs. No more wondering which week the whole unit would get shut down and scattered. His little conversation with Selina, Ivy, and Harley would fix the biggest headache on the board and give everyone breathing room at the same time.

He pulled the stack of unfinished reports toward him across the desk. The pile was thicker than he liked — three days of small, ugly Gotham noise that still needed to be turned into clean language the system could swallow. Overtime was fine tonight. He wanted every piece of paperwork finished and filed before he walked out the door. No loose ends. No excuses for anyone upstairs to look twice at his name.

He opened the first file and started typing.

Two nights ago. 11th and Kane. Rain misting under the streetlights. He and Maggie had rolled up on a street fight spilling out of a bodega doorway. Three grown men screaming over a dice game that had gone bad. One of them — a heavy guy in a stained hoodie — had a broken beer bottle in his fist, glass edges catching the light. Maggie had taken the left side of the sidewalk without needing to be told. Vieri took the right. He remembered the way she moved: thick thighs planting solid and wide for balance, heavy D-cup tits rising under her vest as she sucked in a breath and barked the first command. Her voice had cut through the yelling.

“Drop the glass. Now. Hands where I can see them.”

The guy with the bottle had hesitated half a second too long. Maggie stepped in, grabbed the wrist, twisted, and the glass hit the wet sidewalk with a sharp clink. Vieri had the second man turned and facing the wall before the third even decided whether to run. They cuffed all three without throwing a single punch. Standard. Clean. The bodega owner had watched from the doorway the whole time, arms crossed, not saying thank you.

Vieri typed it out in the flat, official language the department wanted.

Incident Report – Officer Oronzo / Det. Sawyer

Responded to 10-10 at 11th and Kane. Three male subjects engaged in physical altercation outside commercial establishment. One subject armed with broken glass bottle. Subjects verbally ordered to comply. Subjects separated and secured without further incident. No injuries to officers or civilians. Evidence (broken bottle) photographed, bagged, and logged. Subjects transported to central booking without incident. Bodega owner declined to press additional charges.

He hit save, closed the file, and dragged the next one over.

Yesterday morning. Just after shift change. A stolen bicycle reported near the south edge of Robinson Park. Some skinny teenager had snatched it from a delivery guy while the man was dropping off an order of empanadas. The kid had a three-block head start. Vieri and Maggie caught up to him on 9th and Park trying to sell the bike to a pawn-shop guy who took one look at their badges and immediately stepped back with both hands up. Maggie had laughed after — low and rough in her throat — when the kid started crying the second the cuffs clicked. Vieri remembered the exact way her thick ass filled out her dark pants as she leaned into the open back seat of the patrol car to guide the kid in. The fabric had pulled tight across both cheeks. Her heavy tits had pressed against the side of the car door when she straightened up and slammed it shut.

He typed faster.

Incident Report – Officer Oronzo / Det. Sawyer

Responded to 10-31 (theft of bicycle) near Robinson Park south entrance. Suspect described as male teenager in dark hoodie. Suspect located at 9th and Park attempting to sell stolen property to third party. Third party cooperated fully upon seeing badges. Suspect detained without resistance. Bicycle recovered in original condition and returned to registered owner (delivery worker). Suspect processed for petty theft and released to juvenile intake. No injuries. No use of force.

Next file.

The night before last. A drunk who had decided a parking meter on 8th and Nash owed him money. The guy had been kicking the metal post hard enough to dent it, screaming about “government robbery” and “thieving machines” while a small crowd of bar stragglers watched and laughed. Maggie had handled the talking. Vieri had kept the little crowd back with one hand and a look. The drunk took a wild swing at Maggie’s head. She stepped inside it, hooked his arm, and dropped him with a clean, practiced takedown. Her knee landed solid in the center of his back. Thick thighs pinned him flat while she wrenched both wrists behind him and cuffed him in under four seconds. Vieri had watched her heavy tits press hard against her shirt as she breathed through the adrenaline afterward, cheeks flushed, eyes sharp. He’d already filed the use-of-force addendum that same night. Now he just finished the main report.

Incident Report – Officer Oronzo / Det. Sawyer

Responded to 10-37 (disorderly conduct / criminal mischief) at 8th and Nash. Male subject highly intoxicated, actively damaging city property (parking meter). Subject ignored multiple verbal commands. Subject became combative and attempted to strike Det. Sawyer. Subject secured by Det. Sawyer via takedown and handcuffing. No serious injuries to subject or officers. Subject transported for booking and mandatory medical clearance. Meter damage photographed from multiple angles and logged with Public Works. Crowd dispersed without further incident.

He kept going.

A noise complaint on Anderson that turned into a full domestic — husband and wife throwing plates, neighbors recording on their phones. Maggie had taken the wife; Vieri had taken the husband. Both parties drunk, both screaming about who cheated first. They ended up cuffing the husband after he shoved Maggie’s shoulder. Another shoplifter at a corner store on 5th who’d stuffed two bottles of cold medicine down his pants and tried to run when the clerk yelled. Maggie caught him by the hood two storefronts down and rode him to the sidewalk while Vieri bagged the merchandise. A guy pissing on the side of a building on Kane who decided that being told to stop was a personal insult and took a drunken swing at Vieri’s chest. Maggie had him face-down and cuffed before Vieri even finished the turn.

Every report had Det. Sawyer’s name next to his. Every one of them was clean, boring, and exactly what the brass wanted to see — solid police work, no drama, no headlines, no body-cam footage that needed explaining. Just two cops doing the job and writing it down so the system could pretend the city still made sense.

By the time he finished the last one and hit the out the final form, the clock on the wall read 9:51 p.m. The bullpen had thinned out to almost nothing. Only night-shift uniforms and two detectives still pecking at their own stacks remained. The air had gone quieter. The burnt-coffee smell was stronger now that fewer people were moving around to stir it.

The TV mounted high in the corner was still on, volume turned low. Some late sports highlight reel played on mute — big men crashing into each other, crowds leaping, replays in slow motion. Then the screen suddenly cut to black for half a second before the breaking-news banner slammed across in red and white.

Vieri glanced up.

The anchor’s face filled the screen. Mid-forties, sharp charcoal suit, hair perfect, the usual calm delivery that always sounded a little forced whenever Gotham went truly sideways.

“We have breaking developments tonight regarding the metahuman known as Madame Zodiac. Earlier this evening, while being transported from federal holding to Arkham Asylum under heavy escort, the convoy carrying Zodiac was ambushed in a highly coordinated rescue operation. We go now to the footage obtained from traffic cameras, officer body-worn cameras, and nearby business security feeds. Viewer discretion is strongly advised.”

The screen split into three angles at once. Grainy but clear video started playing in real time.

Rain slicked the bridge surface. Yellow sodium lights reflected in long, shaky streaks across wet asphalt. A black armored transport van rolled steadily in the center lane. Two marked federal escort cars held position — one two lengths in front, one two lengths behind. Windshield wipers thumped. Everything looked routine. Boring, even. Three full seconds of nothing but rain and tires on wet road.

Then green-gold light flared hard from the right-side shoulder.

Three figures in long dark coats and angular geometric masks stepped out of empty air — one second the shoulder was vacant, the next second they were simply there, coats already wet with rain. The lead escort car took the first hit. A concussive blast of distorted space slammed into the front quarter-panel with a sound the microphones caught as a deep, wrong thud. The car lifted onto two wheels, spun sideways, and smashed into the concrete barrier in a shower of sparks, broken glass, and folding metal.

The transport van swerved hard right. Tires screamed. The rear escort car braked and tried to angle in to box them.

The middle masked figure raised both hands. Reality hiccupped. The air around the van warped like heat haze over summer asphalt. The rear doors of the transport blew outward from the inside — not from any explosive charge, but from raw, directed force. Heavy reinforced metal peeled back like wet foil. Madame Zodiac stepped out barefoot onto the wet asphalt. Her orange prison jumpsuit was already half-shredded along one side. Glowing runes crawled across her bare arms and collarbones, shifting and reforming in sharp, precise geometric patterns that hurt to look at directly. Her eyes glowed the exact same green-gold as the light that still hung in the air.

She didn’t run.

She walked.

One of the federal agents from the ruined rear car scrambled out and opened fire. Three clean rounds. All three bullets slowed visibly in the air three feet from Zodiac’s chest, hung there spinning in perfect unnatural stillness, then dropped harmlessly to the wet road like someone had simply turned gravity off for them and then on again.

Her accomplices moved at the same time. The left one fired an angular, ugly weapon that bent light around itself — a beam that hit the remaining escort car and folded the entire hood. The right one threw something small and metallic underhand. It stuck to the bridge surface with a wet clack and immediately bloomed into a spreading lattice of glowing geometric lines that raced outward and trapped two more agents in place, their limbs locked mid-motion.

Zodiac raised one hand, palm out. The runes on her skin flared brighter, almost white at the edges. The entire section of bridge under the ruined lead car seemed to twist and fold. Asphalt cracked in perfect pentagonal patterns. The wrecked car sank three feet into a sudden, clean sinkhole that had not existed a second earlier, metal screaming as it went.

Forty-one seconds from first flash of green-gold light to empty bridge.

Zodiac and her three people simply stepped sideways into a fold of warped, rain-streaked air and were gone. Rain kept falling in the same steady rhythm. Broken glass glittered under the sodium lights. One agent groaned on the ground, holding his knee. Another shouted hoarsely into a radio that no longer produced anything but static.

The anchor’s voice came back over the footage, steady but noticeably tighter than before.

“Authorities have confirmed that Madame Zodiac is once again at large. The rescue is being described by federal sources as highly sophisticated, utilizing both mystical and technological elements consistent with her previous known patterns. Joint federal and GCPD task forces are already expanding the search radius across the greater Gotham area and surrounding counties. Citizens are strongly advised to report any unusual geometric markings on buildings or pavement, unexplained spatial distortions, sudden feelings of disorientation near large structures, or any individuals matching Zodiac’s description. We will continue to update this story as more information becomes available. Repeating: Madame Zodiac was freed tonight during transport to Arkham Asylum in a coordinated ambush that left multiple agents injured but, miraculously, no fatalities…”

The screen cut back to the studio. The anchor kept talking, pulling up older file footage of previous Zodiac incidents — the museum geometric collapse two years ago, the failed attempt to turn the old subway nexus into a power amplifier — but Vieri had already stopped listening.

He sat very still at his desk, eyes fixed on the now-dark screen where the sports highlights had quietly resumed without sound.

Madame Zodiac free again.

The same woman who had once tried to turn Poison Ivy’s living plant networks into circuit boards for a city-wide ritual.

The same one who had crossed Selina years back over a relic that was supposed to amplify geometric magic through stolen jewels.

And she had just pulled a clean, brutal, forty-one-second rescue right when the Queens of Crime were already distracted and the task force was hanging by a single fraying thread of goodwill from upstairs.

He looked at the clock on the wall.

10:07 p.m.

Time to go home, get a few hours of sleep, and get ready for the docks tomorrow night.

He shut down his computer, grabbed his jacket off the back of the chair, and stood. The bullpen was quiet enough that the hum of the old fluorescent lights felt loud. He pushed the chair in with his foot and turned toward the side exit.

That was when Montoya appeared at his elbow like she’d been waiting for the exact second the screen went dark.

Her hand closed around his wrist — warm, tight, no hesitation. Her palm was slightly damp. She didn’t speak. She didn’t look at him. She just pulled.

Vieri let her walk him down the short hallway to her office. Her thick thighs moved with purpose under the dark slacks. The firm, rounded ass in front of him rolled with every step. She pushed the door open, shoved him inside with a hand on his chest, closed it behind them, and locked it with a sharp, final click that sounded too loud in the small room.

Then she turned around.

Her golden-brown eyes were dark, almost black in the low light. Her full C-cup tits rose and fell fast under the white button-down; the fabric was already pulling tight across them with every breath. Without a single word she started unbuttoning.

One.

The top of her chest opened.

Two.

A line of smooth olive skin appeared.

Three.

The inner curves of her heavy tits showed.

Four.

The shirt fell open completely.

She shrugged it off her shoulders and let it drop to the floor. The plain black bra underneath was already losing the fight — the cups strained, the dark nipples clearly stiff against the thin material. She reached back with both hands, unhooked it, and pulled it forward. Her heavy tits spilled free — soft, full, perfect C-cups that bounced once and settled, dark nipples tight and begging. She tossed the bra onto the desk without looking.

Next came the slacks. She popped the button, dragged the zipper down, and shoved both the pants and her underwear down her thick thighs together. The fabric caught for a second on her solid hips and the full curve of her firm, rounded ass, then peeled free. She kicked everything off along with her shoes. She stood there completely naked except for the faint marks the bra straps had left on her shoulders, full tits heaving, thick thighs pressed together, the dark curls between her legs already shiny and slick with want. The smell of her arousal hit the air immediately — hot, musky, thick.

“I’ve been soaking since the meeting,” she said, voice rough and low. “Every time I looked at you my cunt got wetter. Every single time. Sit on the desk.”

Vieri sat on the edge of her desk. The wood creaked under his weight. Montoya stepped between his knees, grabbed his shoulders for balance, and climbed up. Her thick thighs spread wide around his hips. The heat of her bare cunt pressed against the hard bulge in his pants immediately. She grabbed one full, heavy tit with her right hand, lifted it, and fed the stiff dark nipple straight into his mouth.

“Suck it,” she ordered, breath already shaky. “Hard. Don’t be gentle.”

He opened wide and took as much of her soft tit as he could fit. His mouth worked — tongue flicking the tight nipple, lips sealing, teeth grazing just enough to make her jolt. Montoya moaned low and filthy, the sound vibrating through her chest into his mouth. She shoved her other tit against his face, smearing soft, warm flesh across his cheek and nose, drowning him in the scent of her skin. Vieri’s hands slid down the bare curve of her back and grabbed two big handfuls of her firm, rounded ass. He squeezed hard. His fingers sank deep into the hot meat, pulling her cheeks apart so he could feel the heat coming off her cunt. The flesh was heavy and soft and perfect in his palms. He lifted one hand and spanked her right cheek — sharp, loud, the crack echoing off the office walls. Her ass rippled under the blow. Montoya jerked forward and ground her dripping cunt harder against the thick bulge in his pants, leaving a wet spot on the fabric.

“Otra vez (Again),” she panted, voice already breaking. “Pégame el culo más fuerte (Spank my ass harder). Hazlo doler un poco (Make it hurt a little).”

He spanked the other cheek harder. The sound was louder this time — a full, meaty crack. Her thick ass jiggled and rippled. A bright red handprint started blooming on the olive skin. Juice from her cunt soaked through his pants in a warm, spreading patch. She kept grinding, smearing herself all over him while he sucked one tit and then the other, switching whenever she pulled the first free and shoved the second into his mouth. Her nipples were rock-hard against his tongue. Every time he flicked or sucked hard she made a broken little sound in her throat.

She finally pulled her tit from his mouth with a wet pop. A thin string of saliva connected her dark nipple to his bottom lip for a second before it broke. Her face was already flushed dark, lips parted, eyes glassy and unfocused. Her full tits rose and fell fast, shiny where his mouth had been.

“Edge of the desk,” she said, voice hoarse. “I need your tongue in my cunt right now. I’ve been thinking about it since you walked into that meeting.”

Vieri stayed sitting. Montoya turned around on shaky legs, backed up, and planted her thick thighs on either side of his head. The smell of her hit him even stronger — pure wet cunt, hot and thick and desperate. She reached back, grabbed two handfuls of his hair, and lowered her soaked pussy straight onto his mouth.

He dragged his tongue through her folds in one long, slow lick from bottom to top. Montoya’s whole body shuddered hard. A broken moan tore out of her. Her full tits bounced heavily as she grabbed the back of his head with both hands and started riding his face hard. Her thick thighs framed his head. Her firm, rounded ass flexed and rippled against his forehead and nose every time she rolled her hips.

“Sí… cómeme el coño (Yes… eat my pussy),” she groaned, already grinding in tight circles. “Chúpame el clítoris (Suck my clit). Lámeme toda (Lick me everywhere). No pares (Don’t stop). No te atrevas a parar (Don’t you dare stop).”

Vieri locked his arms around her thick thighs and pulled her down heavier, burying his mouth against her. His tongue speared inside her tight heat, fucking her with it, then flattened and licked all the way up to her swollen clit. He sucked the little nub between his lips and flicked it fast and hard with the tip of his tongue. The wet sounds filled the office — filthy, sloppy, loud, the kind of wet sucking and licking noises that left nothing to the imagination. Her juice ran down his chin, over his jaw, and dripped onto his neck and shirt. Her heavy tits swayed and slapped softly together with every desperate roll of her hips. Her firm ass cheeks flexed and rippled against his face every time she ground down harder.

“Me voy a correr (I’m gonna cum),” she gasped. Her face twisted above him — mouth open wide, eyebrows drawn tight, eyes half-rolled back. Sweat already shone at her temples and between her full tits. “Tu lengua se siente tan bien… tan jodidamente bien… no pares… no pares— (Your tongue feels so good… so fucking good… don’t stop… don’t stop—)”

He sucked her clit harder and slid two thick fingers into her tight cunt, curling them up immediately to drag against the front wall. Montoya’s thick thighs clamped around his head like a vice. Her ass cheeks clenched hard. A raw, broken cry ripped out of her throat. She came hard — a full-body seizure that locked every muscle, cunt spasming and fluttering wildly around his fingers, a gush of wetness flooding his mouth and chin and running down his neck. Her hips jerked and stuttered. Her full tits heaved wildly, bouncing and swaying. Juice soaked his face, his shirt, the edge of the desk. She kept grinding through it, smearing herself all over his mouth, riding the orgasm out until her thighs started shaking so hard she could barely stay upright.

She stayed there trembling for several long seconds, cunt still twitching against his lips, breath coming in ragged, broken pulls. Then she lifted off on shaky legs, almost stumbling. Her face was completely wrecked — cheeks dark flushed, lips swollen from biting them, eyes glassy and unfocused, a thin string of her own wetness still connecting her cunt to his chin before it broke. Her full tits rose and fell hard. Juice ran down the insides of her thick thighs in shiny trails.

She looked down at the massive, thick bulge straining the front of his pants and licked her lips slowly, still breathing like she’d run up a flight of stairs. Her full tits rose and fell hard. Juice from her orgasm still shone on the insides of her thick thighs.

“Mi turno de saborearte (My turn to taste you),” she muttered.

She dropped to her knees between his legs hard enough that her kneecaps hit the floor with a soft thud. Her hands were already yanking his belt open, popping the button, dragging the zipper down. She reached inside, wrapped her fingers around the thick, heavy shaft, and pulled it free. It sprang out hard, flushed dark at the head, already dripping a long string of precum. Montoya’s eyes widened. A low, hungry sound escaped her throat. She wrapped both hands around the shaft — her fingers didn’t meet — and leaned in. She dragged her tongue from the base all the way up to the tip in one long, slow, filthy lick, tasting her own cunt all over him mixed with his salt.

“Joder… puedo saborear mi coño en esta verga gruesa (Fuck… I can taste my pussy on this thick cock),” she whispered, voice already rough. “Está todo mezclado… mi jugos y tú… (It’s all mixed… my juices and you…). ” She licked again, slower, swirling her tongue around the fat head and collecting every drop. Then she opened her mouth wide and took him in.

Her lips stretched obscenely around the thick girth. She sank down several inches at once, cheeks hollowing hard, and sucked like she was trying to pull more of him out. Wet, filthy sounds filled the office immediately — loud slurps, wet glucks, the soft filthy noise of spit building up. Spit ran down the thick shaft in shiny rivers and coated her fingers. Her full C-cup tits hung heavily and swayed with every bob of her head, dark nipples stiff. She pushed deeper. The fat head hit the back of her throat. She gagged hard, throat bulging visibly around him, eyes watering and tearing at the corners, but she didn’t pull off. She moaned around the thick cock instead, the vibration running straight down the shaft, and forced herself farther.

Vieri’s hand tangled in her dark ponytail and held on, not forcing, just gripping. Montoya looked up at him through teary, hungry eyes, mascara starting to smudge, and took him even deeper. Her nose pressed into his skin. Her throat squeezed and fluttered. Spit poured out the corners of her stretched lips and dripped onto her full tits in long, sticky strands.

She pulled off for air with a long, filthy string of saliva still connecting her swollen lips to the head of his cock. It stretched, thinned, and finally broke. She stroked him fast with both hands, twisting her wrists, looking up at him with glassy eyes and a shiny chin.

“Me encanta el sabor de mi coño en tu verga (I love the taste of my pussy on your cock),” she panted, voice already wrecked and hoarse. “Está toda mojada y espesa… joder, me encanta (It’s all wet and thick… fuck, I love it).” She licked a broad, flat stripe up the underside from balls to tip, then wrapped her lips around just the head and sucked hard, cheeks hollowing dramatically. “Quiero que me folles ya (I want you to fuck me already). Pero primero trágate esto (But first swallow this). Quiero sentirlo en mi garganta otra vez (I want to feel it in my throat again).”

She dove back down, taking him as deep as her throat would allow. Vieri’s hand tightened in her dark ponytail. He let her work for another full minute — the office filling with wet glucks, gagging sounds, and the heavy smell of spit and cunt — then pulled her off by the hair. Her lips left his cock with a loud, wet pop. Spit shone all over her chin, her cheeks, and the tops of her full tits in glossy streaks.

“Desk,” he said.

Montoya stood on shaky legs, turned around, and bent over her own desk without being told twice. She planted her elbows on the wood, arched her back hard, and pushed her firm, rounded ass out and up. The thick cheeks spread open, showing her soaked, puffy cunt — lips swollen, shiny, still dripping from her earlier orgasm. Juice already ran down the insides of her thick thighs in long, glistening trails. Vieri stepped behind her, grabbed one cheek with each hand, and rubbed the fat, leaking head of his cock up and down her slit, smearing himself through the mess. Then he lined up and shoved in with one long, hard, ruthless thrust.

Montoya’s mouth fell open. A raw, broken sound ripped out of her throat. Her face twisted hard — eyebrows knotted tight, eyes squeezing shut, lips stretched wide around a silent scream that finally turned into words. “¡Joder! Está tan gruesa… me está abriendo toda (Fuck! It’s so thick… it’s opening me all the way up). Siento cada puta vena (I feel every fucking vein).”

Vieri grabbed her hips hard enough to leave marks and started pounding. The wet, heavy slap of his hips against her thick ass filled the office in a steady, filthy rhythm. Every thrust drove her forward and made her full C-cup tits swing heavily underneath her, slapping together with soft, meaty sounds. The desk creaked and shuddered. Her firm ass rippled and jiggled wildly with every impact, the flesh bouncing and shaking. He lifted one hand and spanked her right cheek hard. The meat of her ass bounced and rippled. He spanked the left. Bright red handprints bloomed instantly on the olive skin.

“Más duro (Harder),” she gasped, looking back over her shoulder. Her face was a complete mess — flushed dark from cheeks to chest, mouth open and slack, eyes glassy and unfocused. “Fóllame como una puta (Fuck me like a slut). Usa mi coño (Use my cunt). Destórramelo (Wreck it).”

He hooked one strong arm under her belly and hauled her upright so her back slammed against his chest. Her full tits filled his left hand immediately — he mauling them hard, squeezing the soft heavy flesh, lifting them, pinching and rolling the stiff dark nipples while his right hand snaked down her stomach and found her clit. He rubbed tight, fast circles over the swollen nub while he kept thrusting up into her from behind. Her thick thighs trembled violently. Her firm ass bounced and rippled off his hips with every upward slam. The wet schlick-schlick-schlick sound of his cock driving through her soaked cunt got louder and filthier, mixed with the slap of skin and the creak of the desk.

“Me voy a correr otra vez (I’m gonna cum again),” she cried, voice high and cracking. Her face crumpled completely — eyes rolling back, mouth hanging open, eyebrows drawn tight. “No pares… no pares… ¡me estoy corriendo! (Don’t stop… don’t stop… I’m cumming!) ¡Joder, me estoy corriendo en tu verga! (Fuck, I’m cumming on your cock!)”

Her cunt clamped down hard, fluttering and squeezing. She came with a full-body shudder that started in her thick thighs and ripped upward. Juice squirted around his thick cock and soaked his balls and thighs. Her legs almost gave out completely. Vieri held her upright with the arm under her tits and kept fucking her through it — deep, hard, relentless strokes — until she was a whimpering, twitching mess in his arms, cunt still spasming, spit running down her chin.

He pulled out with a wet sound. A thick string of her juice connected the head of his cock to her swollen lips for a second before it broke. He spun her around, lifted her by the backs of her thick thighs, and set her on the edge of the desk. She lay back immediately, legs spreading wide, full C-cup tits heaving and spreading slightly from gravity. He hooked her knees over his elbows, folded her thick thighs back toward her chest, and drove back into her deep in one hard thrust. The new angle punched a raw, broken cry out of her throat. Her face went completely slack with pleasure — eyes half-lidded and glassy, mouth open in a constant low moan, cheeks flushed dark, sweat shining at her temples and between her tits.

He pounded her hard. The desk shook and scraped another inch across the floor. Her full tits bounced wildly with every thrust, almost hitting her own chin, the soft flesh rippling and swaying. Wet, filthy slapping sounds echoed off the walls. He leaned down and sucked one dark nipple into his mouth while he fucked her, teeth grazing, tongue flicking the stiff peak, switching to the other tit whenever he wanted. Montoya’s hands scrambled for purchase on the edge of the desk, knuckles white. Her thick ass jiggled and rippled every time his hips slammed home against her. The wet sound of his cock driving into her soaked, cum-ready cunt filled the room.

“Más profundo (Deeper),” she begged, voice completely cracked and broken. “Lléname… fóllame el coño hasta que no pueda caminar (Fill me… fuck my cunt until I can’t walk). Dámelo todo (Give me everything).”

Vieri gave her exactly that. He fucked her through another orgasm that left her toes curling hard in the air, thighs shaking violently against his arms, and her voice gone high, broken, and wordless. When he finally buried himself as deep as her body would take and came, he flooded her with a thick, heavy load — long, pulsing ropes that she felt in her belly. Her cunt milked him greedily, squeezing and pulling. Cum already started leaking out around his thick shaft in creamy white rivulets while he stayed inside her, still hard, still pulsing.

He pulled out slowly. A thick river of white cum ran out of her swollen, fucked-open folds and onto the desk in a messy puddle. Montoya looked down at it between her legs, licked her lips, then slid off the desk on trembling thick thighs and dropped to her knees again.

“Quiero saborearnos (I want to taste us),” she muttered, voice wrecked.

She took his messy, glistening cock back into her mouth and cleaned him — long, slow, filthy sucks, tongue working every drop of her juice and his thick cum off the shaft and head. She moaned at the taste. Spit and cum ran down her chin in sticky strands and dripped onto her full, heaving tits. She kept licking and sucking until he was clean and shining, then gave the head one last lingering kiss before she stood.

She turned him, put both hands on his chest, and pushed him down onto the small couch against the wall. He went willingly. Montoya climbed on top immediately, thick thighs spreading wide over his hips, and reached down to grab his still-hard cock. She lined him up and sank down onto him in one smooth, filthy drop. Both of them groaned deep as her cunt swallowed every thick inch. Her full C-cup tits bounced heavily right in front of his face from the impact. She started riding hard right away — rising up until just the fat head stayed inside her, then slamming her hips down so her firm, rounded ass cheeks clapped loudly against his thighs. The wet, filthy sound of her cunt taking him over and over was obscene. Her tits swayed and slapped together with every bounce, dark nipples stiff.

Vieri’s hands grabbed two big handfuls of her thick ass, fingers sinking deep into the soft, hot meat, spreading her cheeks open so he could watch his glistening cock disappear inside her cunt over and over. He lifted one hand and spanked her mid-ride — a hard, sharp crack that echoed off the office walls. The cheek rippled and bounced under the blow, firm flesh jiggling. She moaned louder and rode faster, tits bouncing harder, slapping together with soft, heavy sounds every time she dropped her hips.

“Eres tan grueso… me llenas tanto (You’re so thick… you fill me so much),” she panted, face twisted with raw, open pleasure. Eyes glassy and half-rolled back, mouth hanging open, sweat shining on her forehead and between her full tits and running in little rivers down her stomach. “Usa mis tetas (Use my tits). Apriétalas (Squeeze them). Ábreme las manos con ellas (Fill your hands with them).”

He did. Both hands left her ass and mauling her full C-cups hard — squeezing the soft, heavy flesh until it spilled between his fingers, pinching and tugging the stiff dark nipples, lifting the whole weight of them and letting them drop so they bounced and swayed. Montoya’s head fell back. Her dark ponytail swung wildly. A broken, high sound tore out of her throat. She came again on his cock without warning — cunt spasming and clamping down in tight, rhythmic waves, thick thighs shaking hard against his hips, a fresh gush of wetness soaking his lap and balls. She didn’t stop riding. She fucked herself straight through the orgasm, hips stuttering and slamming, tits bouncing wildly, ass rippling and clapping against his thighs, face completely lost in it — mouth open, eyes rolled, cheeks flushed dark.

Vieri sat up abruptly, wrapped both arms tight around her waist, and stood in one powerful motion. Montoya locked her thick thighs around his waist on instinct, ankles crossing behind his back. He fucked her standing right there in the middle of the office, hands gripping her firm, rounded ass cheeks hard, bouncing her up and down on his thick cock like she weighed nothing. Her full tits dragged and smeared against his chest with every bounce, nipples scraping his skin. The wet, filthy slap of skin on skin filled the room — heavy, rhythmic, obscene. Her juice ran down his balls and thighs. She came one more time with her face buried in his neck, moaning broken, desperate Spanish against his skin.

“¡Me corro otra vez! (I’m cumming again!) ¡No pares, no pares! (Don’t stop, don’t stop!) ¡Tu verga me está matando! (Your cock is killing me!)”

He carried her the short distance back to the desk while still buried inside her, laid her down on her stomach across the wood, and pulled her hips up so her thick ass was high and presented. Her knees spread naturally on the edge of the desk. He pushed back inside in one long, smooth thrust and started railing her from behind again — harder this time, deeper. One hand tangled in her dark ponytail and pulled her head back sharply, arching her spine. The other hand spanked her ass in time with his thrusts, hard and steady. Her firm cheeks jiggled and reddened under every slap, bright handprints stacking on top of the earlier ones. Her tits dragged and swayed heavily under her with every hard thrust, scraping against the desk surface. The desk itself scraped another few inches across the floor with the force.

“Dime que soy tu puta (Tell me I’m your slut),” she gasped, face turned sideways on the desk, cheek pressed to the wood. Eyes rolled back, mouth open and drooling a little onto the surface. “Dime que te gusta este coño (Tell me you like this cunt). Dime que te encanta cómo te aprieta (Tell me you love how it squeezes you).”

“Eres una puta caliente con un culo rico (You’re a hot slut with a delicious ass),” he growled, spanking her harder so the cheek rippled and bounced. “Y este coño apretado es mío esta noche (And this tight cunt is mine tonight). Todo mío (All mine).”

She came again — hard, violent, shaking. Her thick thighs trembled. Her cunt locked down and squirted around his thick cock in messy, wet pulses. The wet squelch of him fucking through her orgasm got louder and filthier, mixed with the slap of his hips and the sharp crack of his hand on her ass. Vieri fucked her straight through it, never slowing, until her moans turned into broken whimpers. Then he buried himself as deep as her body would take and dumped his second thick load straight into her. Long, heavy pulses. She moaned long and low and wrecked as she felt every spurt pumping inside her, filling her up until it started leaking out around his shaft in creamy drips.

He stayed inside her for a moment, breathing hard, balls deep, feeling her cunt twitch and flutter around him. Then he pulled out slowly. Cum poured out of her in a thick, creamy mess, running down her thick inner thighs in sticky white rivers and dripping onto the onto the desk. Montoya stayed bent over exactly as he left her — ass still high, back arched, cunt twitching and leaking, face completely blissed out. Eyes half-closed, lips swollen, cheeks flushed dark, a thin string of drool connecting her mouth to the desk.

She looked back at him over her shoulder, eyes glassy, voice hoarse and ruined.

“Una más (One more). Quiero sentir otra carga (I want to feel another load). “Lléname otra vez (Fill me again). Por favor (Please).”

Vieri stepped back in without a word. He rubbed the fat, cum-slick head of his cock through the thick mess of his own seed and her juice leaking out of her, smearing it around her swollen lips, then pushed deep again in one slow, heavy thrust. Montoya’s mouth fell open in a silent, unbroken moan. Her eyes fluttered. He started fucking her slow and deep at first — long strokes that let her feel every thick inch dragging against her sensitive walls — then harder, faster, hands gripping her thick ass cheeks and spreading them wide so he could watch his cock disappear into the creamy, fucked-open mess of her cunt. Her full tits swung and dragged under her with every thrust. The wet, filthy sounds of their mixed cum being fucked back into her filled the office — squelching, slapping, obscene.

She came one last time, body locking up tight, a broken, raw cry tearing from her throat as her cunt spased and milked him. Vieri followed right after, slamming deep and pumping his third heavy load as far into her as it would go — thick, pulsing ropes that joined the first two until she was completely overflowing.

He finally pulled out. A thick river of cum poured out of her immediately and puddled on the desk and floor in a messy white pool. Montoya collapsed forward, completely spent, thick thighs trembling so hard she could barely stay on her knees, firm ass still raised and marked with layered red handprints, tits flattened against the desk. Her face was a total wreck of pleasure — sweaty, flushed dark, lips parted and shiny, eyes glassy and unfocused, completely empty of anything except satisfaction.

Vieri stayed close behind her for another few seconds, one hand still resting on the hot, marked curve of her ass, catching his breath, before he finally pulled back completely. A thick, creamy mix of his cum and her juice immediately ran down Montoya’s thick inner thighs in heavy drips and dripped onto the desk in slow, sticky strands. She stayed bent over, ass still high, tits flattened against the wood, breathing hard. Her firm, rounded ass was covered in layered red handprints that were already starting to darken. Her dark ponytail was a complete mess, half undone, strands stuck to the sweat on her neck and cheeks. When she finally pushed herself up on shaky arms, her face was completely wrecked — cheeks flushed dark, lips swollen, eyes glassy and half-lidded, a small, satisfied, almost shy smile she couldn’t quite hide even though she tried.

Neither of them spoke for a long moment. The office smelled thickly of sex, sweat, and cum. The faint sounds of the bullpen outside — a phone ringing once, someone coughing, the hum of the old lights — felt a million miles away.

Montoya straightened up slowly, wincing as her spine cracked. Her thick thighs trembled hard enough that she had to brace one hand on the desk. Cum continued to leak down the insides of her legs in slow, sticky trails that reached past her knees. She looked down at the mess on her desk — the puddle of mixed cum and juice, the smeared handprints, the crumpled tissues already scattered — then at the bigger puddle on the floor between her feet, then at Vieri’s still-half-hard cock shining with their fluids. A deep flush crawled up her neck and spread across her chest and the tops of her full tits.

“Shit,” she muttered, voice hoarse and rough from moaning. She grabbed the box of tissues from the drawer with a slightly shaky hand and started wiping between her legs, hissing through her teeth at how sensitive and swollen she was. Every drag of the tissue made her thighs protest. “We… made a mess. A real fucking mess. Desk is ruined. Floor’s ruined. I can still feel it running out of me.”

Vieri found his pants on the floor, stepped into them, and pulled them up, tucking himself away carefully. He grabbed a few tissues and cleaned off as best he could — wiping the shine from his cock, his thighs, his stomach. The smell of her cunt stayed on his fingers. Montoya cleaned the desk next, cheeks still burning, tits swaying heavily as she leaned over and scrubbed at the wood with wadded tissues. She wiped the edge, the surface, even the side where her tits had dragged. When she bent lower to get the floor her firm ass — still red and marked — pointed straight at him for a few seconds before she straightened up again, breathing harder.

She found her underwear and slacks in the small pile of clothes. She stepped into the black panties first, pulling them up her thick thighs carefully, and hissed loudly when the crotch dragged over her sensitive, cum-smeared cunt and trapped the mess against her. “Fuck… that’s going to keep leaking all night.” She pulled the dark slacks up next, hopping once on each foot to get them over her hips and ass. The fabric hugged her thick thighs and firm, rounded cheeks tightly. She hooked her bra next, struggling for a second to get her heavy tits settled into the cups; they were still swollen and sensitive, dark nipples rubbing against the material. She finally got the clasps done and adjusted the straps. The white button-down went on last. She buttoned it wrong the first time — one side higher than the other — cursed quietly under her breath, undid every button, and redid them properly with slow, deliberate fingers. Her hands were still not quite steady.

When she finally looked at him again she couldn’t quite meet his eyes. She looked at his collarbone, his shoulder, the wall behind his head.

“I don’t usually…” she started, then stopped. She smoothed her ruined ponytail with both hands, pulling the elastic out completely, gathering the dark hair, and yanking it back into something tighter and neater. Still not looking at him. “I don’t do this. At work. Or… like that. Not with people on the job. Not in my own office with the door locked and half the night shift still outside.” Her voice was quieter now. Embarrassed. But her body told a different story — shoulders dropped loose, thick thighs no longer locked tight with tension, a deep, satisfied calm sitting under the flush on her skin and the slight tremble still left in her legs. “I just… needed it. After the meeting. After looking at you the whole fucking time and feeling how wet I was getting under the table. Every time you shifted in your chair I felt it. Every time you looked at me I got wetter. I couldn’t sit there anymore.”

Vieri nodded once, still leaning against the edge of the desk. “Yeah.”

The silence stretched again, thicker this time. Montoya grabbed her shoes from under the desk, slipped them on one at a time, and finally forced herself to look at his face. Her golden-brown eyes were still a little glassy, still a little dark with leftover heat. The awkwardness sat heavy between them — the reality of what they’d just done in the middle of the precinct — but so did the lingering heat and the bone-deep satisfaction that made her limbs feel heavy and loose.

“This stays here,” she said, voice low and firm even though a fresh flush crawled up her neck. “No one finds out. Not Sawyer. Not Ruiz. Not anyone. I don’t care how good it was. I don’t care if I still feel you leaking out of me when I sit down later. This stays between us.”

“It stays here,” Vieri agreed easily. “No one hears it from me.”

She nodded once, swallowed, and walked to the door. Her firm ass still looked slightly reddened and fuller under the tight slacks; the handprints weren’t visible but the way the fabric sat on her made it clear she’d been handled roughly. She unlocked the door, cracked it open two inches, and checked the hallway both ways. Clear. Only the distant hum of the bullpen and the soft glow of the exit sign. She glanced back one more time over her shoulder. The embarrassment was still there in the tight line of her mouth, but so was the relaxed, well-fucked glow on her skin and the slight softness around her eyes.

“Good night, Oronzo,” she said, a little stiff, a little formal, like she was trying to put the badge back on.

“Night, Montoya.”

She slipped out. The door clicked shut behind her with a soft, final sound. He listened to her footsteps fade down the hallway until they mixed with the general precinct noise and disappeared.

Vieri waited a full thirty seconds, just breathing, then left the office himself. The bullpen was almost empty — one night-shift uniform at the far desk filling out a log, the cleaning guy emptying a trash can near the holding cells. No one looked at him twice. No one sniffed the air or raised an eyebrow. He walked to his desk, grabbed his jacket off the back of the chair, signed out on the sheet by the door with a quick scrawl, and headed for the side exit.

The night air hit him cool and damp the second he stepped outside. Rain had started up again — light, steady, the usual Gotham drizzle that turned the streetlights into soft yellow smears. He walked to his car parked under the flickering lot light, climbed in, and sat there for a moment with both hands on the wheel and the door still open. His body felt loose. Used. Good. The deep, satisfied ache in his muscles and the faint throb in his cock felt earned. The scent of Montoya’s cunt and their mixed cum still clung faintly to his skin and the front of his shirt under the clean rain smell. He could still feel the phantom grip of her thick thighs around his waist and the way her ass had rippled under his hands.

He pulled the door shut, started the engine, and pulled out of the lot. The wipers kicked on automatically, thumping a steady rhythm across the wet glass.

The drive home was quiet. Streetlights smeared long yellow streaks across the windshield. The rain made the empty streets look slick and black. He kept the radio off. His mind drifted in the silence between the docks tomorrow night and the look on Montoya’s face when she’d come the last time — eyes rolled back, mouth open, completely gone, the small satisfied smile she couldn’t hide afterward. The task force had breathing room coming if the Queens played along like he planned. IA would ease off. The captain would stop looking at them like a problem that needed solving. Everything was lining up for once.

He parked in his short driveway, killed the engine, and sat listening to the rain drum on the roof for another full minute. The skeletal trees in the yard dripped steadily. Finally he got out, locked the car, and went inside.

The house smelled like lemon polish and old wood — the same clean, quiet smell that always hit him when he came home. He locked the deadbolt, dropped his keys on the small table by the door, and shrugged off his jacket. The living room lamp was still on from that morning, casting a warm yellow pool across the worn armchair and the coffee table. He kicked off his boots, left them by the door, and walked into the kitchen in his socks. He opened the fridge, the light spilling out across the floor, and pulled a cold beer from the shelf. He twisted the cap off with a hiss and took a long, deep pull. The cold liquid cut through the leftover heat in his throat.

The small TV on the counter was already on — he’d left it playing that morning and never bothered to turn it off. Some late-season football highlights rolled across the screen in bright, noisy loops. Big hits in slow motion. Helmets cracking. Crowds leaping to their feet in a blur of team colors. Commentators talking too loud about yardage, turnovers, and playoff implications that didn’t matter to anyone in Gotham. Perfect background noise. He turned the volume up a little so the voices filled the quiet house and leaned against the counter, drinking, letting the night settle around him. The beer was cold enough to ache going down. The rain tapped steady against the kitchen window.

That was when he saw it.

On the kitchen table, right next to the empty fruit bowl he’d been meaning to fill for a week, sat a pair of black lace panties. Expensive. Familiar. The kind with the little silk bow at the front and the scalloped edges that always looked too delicate for the woman who wore them. A folded scrap of paper was pinned to them with a silver safety pin, neat and deliberate.

Vieri set the beer down slowly on the counter. The can made a soft, wet sound against the laminate. He walked over, boots still off, socks quiet on the hardwood, and picked the panties up by the waistband. They were still warm from being worn. Not body-hot anymore, but warm enough that he could feel it against his fingers — like she’d only stepped out of them twenty minutes ago and slipped back out the window. The scent that rose off them hit him immediately: pure Selina. Leather from the catsuit she must’ve already put back on. Clean skin. That faint, expensive perfume she always wore that smelled like night-blooming flowers and something sharper underneath. He brought them a little closer without thinking and breathed in again. His cock gave a tired, interested twitch even after everything with Montoya.

He unpinned the note carefully. The safety pin made a tiny metallic sound. The handwriting was sharp and clean, black ink, no smudges — the kind of handwriting that belonged to someone who practiced control in every little thing.

Flatfoot —

I know what you want to talk about tomorrow. The boring practical stuff. Fine. We’ll listen.

But when you’re done explaining how we all have to behave for the cops, you better look me in the eyes and tell me I’m your favorite.

Out loud.

— S

Vieri stared at the note for a long second. The football commentators kept yelling about a questionable holding call in the background. Rain ticked against the glass. Then a short, genuine laugh broke out of him — low, real, surprised out of his chest. He shook his head, still holding the warm lace in one hand and the unfolded note in the other.

“Crazy as ever,” he muttered to the empty kitchen. His voice sounded louder than he expected in the quiet house. He read the note again, lips twitching. “She really thinks she’s the sane one out of the three. The reasonable one. The one who’s got her shit together. And she’s still completely fucking crazy.”

He could picture her exactly: perched on his kitchen table in the dark with one leg crossed over the other, writing the note in neat block letters, pinning it to the panties she’d just stepped out of, and then slipping back out the window like it was the most normal thing in the world. No smashed lock. No note on the door. Just black lace and demands left in the middle of his kitchen like a cat leaving a dead bird on the porch.

He folded the note once, then again, and set it on the counter next to the fruit bowl. He brought the black lace panties up to his face one more time, slower. He breathed her in deep — leather, skin, perfume, the faint musk of her cunt that still clung to the crotch. His cock twitched again, heavier this time. He exhaled against the fabric, then dropped them next to the note in a small, deliberate pile.

He grabbed his beer again, took another long drink, and leaned back against the counter hard enough that the edge dug into his lower back. The cold can rested against his stomach. The football game kept playing — another big hit, the crowd roaring through the speakers. Rain kept tapping like it was trying to get his attention.

Tomorrow night. The docks. Three Queens. One conversation that was supposed to be practical and clean. And apparently he had to look Selina Kyle in the eyes when it was over and tell her she was his favorite, out loud, or she was going to make the whole thing difficult on purpose. He could already hear the way she’d say it if he refused — that low, amused, dangerous voice that always sounded like she was one second away from either kissing him or knifing him.

He looked at the panties again and laughed once more, quieter this time, almost to himself.

“Yeah,” he said to the empty house. The word hung in the kitchen air. “She’s definitely crazy. Certifiable. And she’s going to be the biggest problem in that warehouse tomorrow.”

He finished the beer in three long swallows, the cold settling in his gut. He crushed the can in one hand — the metal crinkling loudly — and tossed it toward the recycling bin under the sink. It landed with a hollow clatter. He pushed off the counter, rolled his shoulders, and headed down the short hallway toward the bathroom.

Hot water. Clean clothes. Sleep. Tomorrow was going to be a long night either way — three dangerous women, one practical deal, and at least one of them already demanding favorites like they were picking teams in a schoolyard.

Outside, the rain kept falling on Gotham like it always did, steady and gray and endless. Somewhere across the city three dangerous women were already were already arguing about who got him first and how long they each got to keep him. Somewhere else a detective was still feeling him between her legs every time she shifted in her chair at her desk, thighs pressing together under the pretence of finishing paperwork. And somewhere in the dark, other eyes — colder, more patient — were starting to turn in his direction.

Vieri stepped into the bathroom, turned the shower on full, and let the water run hot until steam started to fill the small space. He stripped without ceremony — shirt, pants, socks, underwear — and left everything in a pile on the floor. The mirror was already fogging. He stepped under the spray, hissed when the heat hit the scratches and bite marks Montoya had left on his shoulders and chest, and closed his eyes.

One problem at a time.