aFireFist
A Life in DC
Chapter 10 - Part 3
Cassandra Cain stood silently right behind them, arms crossed under her chest, but her usual calm, unreadable demeanor had completely cracked. She shifted her weight from foot to foot, her firm, perfectly sculpted ass flexing noticeably inside the tight black Orphan suit. The sleek material clung to her compact, athletic body like a second skin — defined shoulders, narrow waist, and powerful thighs that looked ready to crush. A faint flush colored her cheeks, and her dark eyes were locked on the screen with intense focus.
She signed quickly, her movements sharp and decisive: He's strong. They all wanted him. Badly.
Barbara rubbed her temples with her free hand, trying to maintain some semblance of control, but her other hand continued pressing rhythmically against the seam of her suit, seeking friction. "We can't keep doing this," she said, though her voice came out far too breathy to be convincing. "It's distracting. We're supposed to be monitoring the city, not… not getting off to hacked raid footage."
Steph let out a soft, knowing laugh and leaned closer, her heavy breasts brushing against Barbara's shoulder. "Babs, you're literally touching yourself right now. Don't even try it." She bit her lip harder, eyes sparkling with wicked delight. "That cop… Vieri. He's got something special. The way those three dangerous bitches were losing their minds over him? Harley calling him Daddy while she got railed, Selina's usual attitude completely broken, Ivy talking about the Green singing inside her pussy? I need to see it up close. I need to feel what makes trained killers turn into desperate little cumsluts like that."
Cassandra nodded firmly, her expression softening into something hotter and more intent. She signed again, slower this time, emphasizing each gesture: Investigate him. Personally.
Barbara looked at both of her teammates, her face burning. The fresh audio of Montoya and Maggie's office moans — the wet sounds, the Spanish dirty talk, the desperate begging — was still playing faintly in the background on a secondary monitor. She swallowed hard, thighs squeezing together as another pulse of heat shot through her core.
"Fine," she finally breathed, voice noticeably unsteady. "We investigate Vieri. Personally. Tomorrow night. We find out exactly what he's about. What makes him turn women like Selina, Ivy, and Harley into… that."
Steph's grin widened into something predatory and delighted. She shifted on the console, her thick ass spreading slightly against the edge as she squeezed her thighs together. "About time. I call dibs on going first. I want to see if I can handle him better than those three combined."
Cass gave a small, rare smirk — the kind that promised trouble — and signed smoothly: We share.
Barbara didn't argue. The thought of the three of them cornering Vieri, testing him, experiencing whatever power he held that could break Gotham's most untamable women… it sent a fresh shiver down her spine. She glanced back at the screen where the frozen audio waveform still pulsed with the memory of those raw, filthy sounds.
"I mean… did you hear the way Montoya switched to Spanish when she got close?" Barbara murmured, almost to herself. "And Maggie begging for more? They're both experienced detectives and they completely folded. Just like the Queens."
Steph hummed in agreement, one hand idly tracing the zipper of her suit, pulling it down another inch so more of her soft cleavage spilled out. "Exactly. I want to know what it feels like when he grabs your hair and calls you his slut in that low voice. I want to see if I can make him lose control the way they did. Or if he'll break me first."
Cassandra stepped closer, placing one hand on Stephanie's shoulder and the other lightly on Barbara's. She signed with deliberate care, her eyes flicking between them: All three of us. Together. We watch how he reacts to different bodies. Different strengths. A faint, hungry smile touched her lips. I want to test him.
Barbara let out a shaky exhale, finally admitting defeat as she pressed her palm more firmly between her legs. "Tomorrow night, then. We track his patrol route, find the right moment, and… approach him. Personally."
The three women stayed glued to the screens for a while longer, bodies warm and flushed, minds already drifting to vivid fantasies of what they were going to do when they finally got their hands on him.
***
Vieri got home well after dark. The drive back through Gotham's rain-slicked streets had been quiet, almost eerily so. The steady thump of the wipers carved rhythmic arcs across the windshield, clearing away sheets of water that immediately reformed. The low hum of the engine and the occasional splash of tires through puddles were the only sounds accompanying his thoughts. Streetlights blurred into streaks of sickly yellow and red, reflecting off the wet asphalt like spilled blood and piss. He kept both hands on the wheel, knuckles occasionally whitening as memories from the day flashed unbidden — vines wrapping around his body, the taste of three different women on his tongue, the desperate moans of two fellow detectives in a precinct office that now smelled permanently like sex and bad decisions.
He parked in the short driveway, killed the lights, and sat there for a long minute, staring at his small brick house. The skeletal trees in the yard dripped steadily onto the roof, their bare branches clawing at the night sky like they were trying to escape the city. From the outside, the house looked peaceful — a stubborn little fortress of normalcy in a city that devoured peace for breakfast. Warm light glowed faintly from the living room window where he'd forgotten to turn off a lamp that morning. He knew better than to trust that illusion. Inside waited the only sanctuary he had left… and the weight of everything that had happened today.
With a heavy sigh, he grabbed his keys, the metal jingling loudly in the quiet night, and walked up the short path. The rain had eased to a miserable drizzle that soaked into his collar and made the scratches on his neck sting. He unlocked the door, stepped inside, and let the familiar smell of lemon polish and old wood wash over him like a tired embrace. He locked the deadbolt behind him with a solid thunk, shrugged off his damp jacket, and hung it on the hook by the door. His boots left muddy prints on the hardwood as he headed straight for the fridge.
He grabbed a cold beer, twisted the cap off with a satisfying hiss, and took a long, grateful pull as he made his way into the living room. The bitter chill of the liquid slid down his throat, grounding him for a moment. He flicked on the TV. Football highlights were playing — some Monday night game between two teams he didn't care about. Bright helmets crashed into each other, commentators shouted excitedly, and the crowd roared through the speakers. He didn't really care who was winning. It was just noise. Background noise to drown out the chaos still ringing in his head.
He dropped into his worn armchair with a groan, the old springs protesting under his weight. He leaned back, put his feet up on the coffee table, and took another long drink. For a few precious minutes, he just stared at the screen, watching enormous men slam into one another while the crowd cheered like it was the most important thing in the world. It felt almost soothing — a reminder that somewhere, in some universe, life was still simple.
But a pressure was there.
It sat behind his eyes like a low-grade headache that refused to fade. No matter how hard he tried to focus on the game, the events of the day kept crashing back in vivid, unrelenting detail. The raid at the Kane Street apartment. The flashbang, the vines, the sudden shift from combat to pure, animalistic fucking as the three Queens of Crime turned on him like starving predators. Then the precinct office — Montoya and Sawyer cornering him, the pollen still burning in their blood, the way they'd knelt and competed for his cock with filthy Spanish dirty talk and desperate moans. And underneath it all, the constant awareness that Batman was probably watching from the shadows somewhere, Selina had already been in his bed that morning with surprising tenderness, and his "useless" assets were now the center of a dangerous web that could get him killed, fired, or both.
He'd been living in this world for years now. Long enough that the initial mind-shattering revelation — knowing secrets, backstories, and plotlines from another life — had dulled into a constant, low-level static. He knew Batman's identity. He knew how most of these stories were supposed to end. That knowledge had kept him alive, kept him coasting, kept him from playing hero.
But this new mess? This was different.
He took another deep sip of beer and let out a tired, ragged breath that seemed to come from his bones.
Being wanted — craved — by powerful, dangerous women definitely took some of the sting out of the constant danger. Selina's rare softness that morning, the way she'd held him gently after they'd come together, the surprising affection in her voice when she warned him they were all getting sloppy because of him… it felt good in a way he hadn't expected. Then there was the raw, frantic hunger from Montoya and Sawyer in the office — two competent, professional detectives reduced to competitive, cum-hungry sluts begging him in Spanish while they shared his cock. It was ridiculous how intoxicating it felt. How alive it made him feel in a city that usually tried to grind him into dust.
But it also made everything far more dangerous. One wrong move, one leaked video, one suspicious glance from the wrong person, and his quiet little life — his anonymity, his ability to coast — would burn down around him in spectacular fashion. His cock was supposed to be a cosmic joke. Now a liability wrapped in temptation.
He leaned his head all the way back against the chair, eyes half-closed as the TV flickered with another touchdown celebration.
"I should go see them," he muttered to himself, voice low and rough in the empty room. "Visit the Queens soon. Sit them down… or fuck them senseless… Make the task force look like it's actually winning on paper. Create enough visible 'pressure' that they "decide" to lay low, go quiet on jobs for a bit. It would be a win for Montoya and the captain. And a win for them because they'd still get exactly what they really want from me — regular access to this ridiculous cock. Everybody walks away happy. Or at least satisfied and not dead."
Vieri let out a short, disbelieving laugh that turned into a tired chuckle. He shook his head slowly, staring at the ceiling.
"Jesus Christ. Listen to me," he muttered, voice thick with self-mockery. "I'm actually sitting here planning how to diplomatically fuck three of Gotham's most dangerous women so my fucking paperwork looks better and Internal Affairs gets off my ass. 'Hey Selina, Ivy, Harley — mind robbing fewer places and causing less chaos for a couple weeks? I'll eat all three of your pussies in rotation as payment.' This is my life now."
He drained the rest of the beer in one long pull, the cold liquid doing little to wash away the absurdity.
"This world is fucking ridiculous."
He crushed the empty can in his hand with a metallic crunch and reached for another beer from the six-pack he'd brought over. The game continued on the TV — more hits, more cheering, more meaningless spectacle. But his mind stayed firmly on the women waiting somewhere out there in the night: Selina with her unexpected tenderness, Harley's manic enthusiasm, Ivy's almost religious reverence for his cock, and now Montoya and Sawyer circling closer with professional curiosity turning into raw hunger.
The growing list of people in his life who wanted a piece of him — one way or another — was getting longer by the day. And the scariest part? Part of him was starting to enjoy the chaos.
For now, though, the house was quiet. The beer was cold. And the pressure behind his eyes felt just a little lighter.
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