A Life in DC
Chapter 1
The rain in Gotham wasn't water. It was a perpetual, greasy rinse cycle, cycling the grime from the sky-scraping gargoyles down to the cracked asphalt, where it pooled in iridescent puddles that reflected a city perpetually caught in the moment before a scream. Oliviero Oronzo knew this rain. He knew its smell, its cold, insistent kiss on the back of his neck. He'd known it his entire life, and for most of that life, it had felt like a poorly-fitted coat, something that was technically his but never quite sat right on his shoulders.
He sat in his beat-to-shit sedan, the engine ticking over a pathetic, asthmatic rhythm, watching the downpour sluice down the windshield. The wipers were on their last legs, smearing the city lights into a watercolor nightmare of neon and decay. He was on a stakeout, of a sort. Watching a known fence's apartment in a part of the Bowery so bad even the rats sent postcards home warning their families not to visit. It was busywork. The kind of job they gave the new guy, the guy who was just another body in the blue uniform, a placeholder until he either quit, got killed, or learned to play the game.
Vieri, as everyone but the precinct captain and the DMV called him, was learning the game. He was a quick study.
The weirdness had been a constant companion since he was a kid. It was a low-level hum behind the symphony of Gotham's usual madness. Other kids accepted the costumed freaks, the weekly super-villain attacks, the fact that their skyline was dominated by a building shaped like a bat. Vieri never could. It felt like he was watching a play and everyone else had been given the script except him. He'd lie in bed at night in the house his parents left him, a small, stubbornly well-kept brick thing in a neighborhood that was only "nice" by Gotham's generous standards, and just… feel the wrongness of it all. It was like a phantom limb, an itch for a world he couldn't quite remember.
His father, Detective Antonio Oronzo, had been a ghost in a photograph for as long as Vieri could recall. A strong-jawed man with tired eyes and a smile that didn't quite reach them, standing next to a younger, brighter version of his mother. Antonio had died in the line of duty when Vieri was four. A warehouse shootout gone sideways. The official story was clean, simple, heroic. Vieri had no memories of the man, only the weight of his absence, a gravity that seemed to pull his mother down year after year.
His mother, Elena, had been an accountant. A woman of numbers and quiet strength. She'd tried her best to shield him from the city's rot, filling their small home with the smell of baking bread and the sound of classical music on the radio. But Gotham always found a way in. It found her on a Tuesday when Vieri was fifteen. A gang war had erupted over a disputed drug territory at the open-air market on Kane Street. She'd just been there to buy vegetables. A stray bullet, a chaotic splash of red on a canvas of brown grocery bags and terrified faces. That was it. No grand villain, no dramatic monologue. Just the city being the city. Grinding a good person into dust between its gears.
After that, the house felt too big, too quiet. The weirdness intensified. The world felt thinner, like a film set he could see through if he just squinted. He drifted for a couple of years, a ghost in his own life, until his father's old partner, a grizzled lieutenant named Frank Costello, slapped him on the back of the head and told him to stop moping. "Your old man was a cop," Frank had grumbled, his breath smelling of stale coffee and regret. "It's in your blood. Plus, the academy's hiring. Pension's shit, but it's a paycheck."
And so, Vieri became a cop. It wasn't a calling. It wasn't about justice or making a difference. It was a job. A sure way to pay the property taxes on the house his parents had bled for and to keep the lights on. He went through the academy with a detached sort of competence, doing what was required, not an ounce more. He learned how to shoot, how to fill out paperwork that would inevitably be lost, and how to look the other way. The last skill came naturally.
The explanation arrived on the day of his graduation, standing in the sweltering sun in his starched, uncomfortable dress blues. As the police commissioner, a man with a politician's smile and eyes like frozen fish, droned on about duty and honor, the world tilted. It wasn't a dizzy spell. It was a download.
Memories that weren't his crashed into his consciousness like a tidal wave. A life lived in a different world, a world without capes and cowl, without a city that was a character in its own horror story. A life of comic books, of movies, of stories told in ink and celluloid. He remembered reading about Gotham. He remembered watching the cartoons, seeing the movies, poring over the fan wikis.
He remembered that Bruce Wayne, the brooding billionaire philanthropist, was Batman.
The revelation didn't come with a shock of lightning or a gasp of horror. It settled into him with the quiet, devastating certainty of a terminal diagnosis. *Oh. That's why it felt so fake.*
He stood there, sweating in his uniform, the commissioner's words washing over him, and he knew. He knew who the Penguin was before he even started his first shift in the Major Crimes Unit. He knew Two-Face's tragic backstory. He knew the Riddler's narcissistic need to leave clues. He knew that the friendly, slightly creepy groundskeeper at Arkham was probably one of the Joker's henchmen in disguise.
It was, in a word, useless.
What was he supposed to do with this information? Walk up to his captain and say, "Hey, you know that creepy bat-signal thing? I'm pretty sure I know who's on the other end of it. Also, we should probably check the sewers under the old Falcone warehouse, I think Killer Croc is using it as a crash pad." He'd be fired so fast his head would spin. Or worse, they'd think he was crazy and he'd end up in Arkham himself, as a patient.
The knowledge was a cosmic joke. It was like being given the cheat codes to a game that was already rigged against you. Knowing Batman's identity didn't stop the junkie from shanking you for twenty bucks. Knowing the Joker's real name didn't make his laughing gas any less lethal. Knowing the city was corrupt from the mayor on down to the meter maids didn't give you a magic wand to fix it. It just gave you a front-row seat to the inevitable shitshow.
So, Vieri adapted. His motivation, never exactly stellar to begin with, solidified into a single, crystalline philosophy: coast. Be just corrupt enough to be left alone, just competent enough to not get fired. Take the free donuts, look the other way when a small-time dealer slipped you a twenty to "lose" some evidence, and write your reports with just enough detail to pass inspection. The goal wasn't to be a hero. The goal was to survive. To collect his paycheck, go home to his quiet house, and try to forget the screaming he heard in his head, both from the streets outside and the echoes of another life.
He had two assets in this city. Two small, pathetic bulwarks against the encroaching darkness.
The first was the house. It was a small two-story brick colonial on a tree-lined street in the Gotham Heights district. "Tree-lined" was a generous term; the trees were mostly skeletal things that looked like they'd given up years ago. The neighborhood was "nice" in the sense that you were less likely to be shot on your way to the corner store, and the only rats you saw were the size of a cat, not a German shepherd. It was his. Paid for. A small fortress of solitude in a city that hated peace. It was the one thing his parents had managed to give him that Gotham couldn't easily take away. It was his anchor.
The second asset was… more complicated.
Vieri was, by any objective measure, absurdly well-endowed. It wasn't something he boasted about. It wasn't something he even particularly liked. It was just a fact of his anatomy, as undeniable as the color of his eyes or the scar on his chin from falling off his bike when he was seven. It was comically, almost cartoonishly, large. And, as if to compensate for some cosmic imbalance, he had also discovered, through a series of fumbling encounters in his late teens and early twenties, that he was a remarkably good lover. Patient, attentive, intuitive. He had a knack for reading a partner's body, for understanding what they wanted before they did.
It was a useless, superfluous skill in his line of work. It wasn't like he could seduce the Penguin into a confession. It wasn't like he could fuck his way out of a shootout. In a city of gods and monsters, of men in powered armor and women who could control plants with their minds, being good in bed felt like bringing a spork to a gunfight. What good was it against a man who laughed while he poisoned the city's water supply? How did it help against a creature made of living mud? It was a non-power, a party trick in a world-ending crisis. It was the ultimate cosmic punchline: give a man the tools to be a god in the bedroom, then drop him into a city that was actively trying to kill him in the streets.
He shifted in the driver's seat of his sedan, the cheap vinyl groaning in protest. The stakeout was a bust. The fence wasn't coming home tonight. Probably already in a holding cell downtown, or more likely, at the bottom of the river with a new pair of concrete shoes. Vieri didn't care. He just wanted to go home, take a hot shower, and wash the day off his skin. He put the car in drive, the tires hissing through the grimy puddles as he pulled away from the curb.
As he drove, the city's soundtrack played on. Sirens in the distance, a chorus of lonely, desperate cries. The rattle of a loose manhole cover as he drove over it. The murmur of the homeless huddled under awnings, their faces illuminated by the flickering neon of a 24-hour noodle shop. He saw it all through a dual lens. The cop, and the man who remembered reading about it. He saw a mugging in an alley and his cop brain started calculating angles, distances, response times. His other brain, the one from a world without capes, just thought, *Yep, classic Tuesday in Gotham.*
He passed the old Gotham Gazette building. His other-life memories supplied the name of its long-suffering editor, Jack Ryder, who would one day become the garishly-suited Creeper. He knew the woman running the flower stand on the corner was secretly Poison Ivy's favorite plant supplier, a fact that was utterly useless to him unless he suddenly needed a dozen rare, carnivorous orchids. The knowledge was a weight, a constant, low-level static that buzzed behind his eyes. It made him feel like a ghost at his own life, a spectator in a sport he was forced to play.
He finally turned onto his street. The skeletal trees dripped onto the pavement. His house was the third one down, looking exactly like the others, a little brick box trying to hold its own against the encroaching gloom. He parked in the small driveway, the engine's death rattle a final protest before falling silent. He sat there for a moment, just listening to the rain.
This was his sanctuary. The one place the weirdness felt a little less potent. Inside these walls, he wasn't a cop or a man with another life's memories. He was just Oliviero Oronzo, a guy who owned a house and paid his bills on time. He got out of the car, the cold rain immediately plastering his hair to his forehead. He fumbled with his keys, his fingers numb, and let himself in.
The smell of the house hit him first. It wasn't fancy. It was just… clean. Lemon-scented polish, old books, and the faint, lingering scent of his mother's baking, a phantom aroma he could never quite scrub away. It was the smell of a life that could have been, a life in a normal city, in a normal world. He locked the door behind him, the deadbolt sliding home with a satisfying thud, a small, defiant sound against the chaos outside.
He dropped his keys on the table by the door, shrugged off his damp jacket, and hung it on the hook. He walked into the living room, his boots leaving faintly damp prints on the hardwood floors. The furniture was old but well-maintained, a mix of his parents' taste and his own minimal additions. A comfortable sofa, a worn armchair, a lamp that cast a warm, yellow glow. It was a pocket of warmth and quiet in a city that had neither.
He went to the kitchen, pulled a beer from the fridge, and twisted off the cap. He took a long swallow, the cold liquid a welcome shock to his system. He leaned against the counter, looking out the window over the sink into his small backyard. It was overgrown, a little wild, but it was his. He thought about his two "assets." The house, this small piece of land he owned. It was something real. Something tangible. A foothold.
And then there was the other thing. The joke.
He thought about it sometimes, usually late at night when the city's noise was too loud to let him sleep. What was the point? In a world of metahumans and sorcerers, what good was a talent for making a woman's eyes roll back in her head? It was like being the best tuba player in a world being consumed by fire. Impressive, perhaps, but ultimately irrelevant.
He finished his beer and crushed the can in his hand. He tossed it in the recycling bin and headed for the shower. The hot water beat down on him, steaming up the glass, turning the small bathroom into a foggy, private world. He stood under the spray, letting it wash the day away. The grime of the street, the stench of corruption, the phantom weight of another man's memories.
He closed his eyes and just felt the water. He thought about the sheer absurdity of it all. He had a cheat sheet for the entire goddamn city and the only thing it was good for was giving him a constant, low-grade anxiety attack. He had a body that was, in one specific and admittedly impressive way, heroic, and it was about as useful as a screen door on a submarine in a fight.
He stepped out of the shower, toweled off, and wrapped the towel around his waist. He wiped a circle in the steamed-up mirror and looked at his reflection. Dark hair, dark eyes that looked a little too tired for his age. A decent face, nothing special. He looked like what he was: a guy trying to get by. He didn't look like a man who knew the Joker's real name was Jack Napier. He didn't look like a man whose… other attributes were the stuff of legend among a very small, very select circle of women. He just looked like Vieri.
He went into his bedroom and pulled on a pair of sweatpants. He didn't bother with a shirt. The house was warm. He went back downstairs, grabbed another beer, and sank into his worn armchair. He picked up the book he was reading, a dog-eared history of the Roman Empire. He liked history. It was full of corruption, violence, and powerful, dysfunctional people. It felt like home.
***
He took a drink of his beer and stared out the window at the rain-slicked street. A cat, a scrawny ginger thing, darted from under one car to another, its movements quick and fearful. That was the proper way to live in Gotham. Quick and fearful. He was doing it wrong. He was too comfortable, too settled. His house was a liability. His… other asset was a liability. They made him feel like he had something to lose.
He knew, with a certainty that chilled him more than the rain, that it was all temporary. The house could be burned down. The body could be broken. The city always won in the end. It was a fundamental law of physics, like gravity. What goes up must come down. What is good in Gotham must be crushed.
He finished his beer and set the empty bottle on the floor beside the chair. He leaned his head back, closing his eyes. The memories were still there, a library of forbidden knowledge.
He wasn't a hero. He wasn't a villain. He was just Oliviero Oronzo, a cop in a city that was chewing him up and spitting him out, one day at a time. The beer was a warm, pleasant fog in his head, dulling the edges of the world. He'd moved on to a third, then a fourth, the empty bottles forming a small, glassy cemetery on the floor beside his armchair. The Roman Empire could wait.
The rain had softened to a miserable drizzle, the kind that seeped into your bones. His eyes were heavy, the alcohol pulling him down into a sleepy, comfortable stupor. The house was quiet. Too quiet. It was the kind of quiet that made you listen, that made you notice the creak of the floorboards, the hum of the refrigerator, the sound of your own breathing.
That was when he heard it.
A soft, almost imperceptible click from the back of the house. The sound of a window latch being expertly, silently, disengaged. Vieri's cop-instinct, the one part of him that was still sharp and sober, screamed at him. His drunken brain, however, was slow to process. He blinked, trying to clear the haze. Was that the wind? The house settling?
Then came the soft thud of boots landing on the kitchen floor. Not the heavy, clumsy stomp of a common burglar. This was light, controlled. Athletic.
Vieri's hand moved instinctively towards the end table where his service Glock rested, but his fingers were clumsy, slow. He was too drunk. Too slow.
A shadow detached itself from the darkened doorway of the living room, and before he could even register the shape, it was on him. It was a blur of black and grace, a movement so fast and fluid it defied logic. One moment he was sinking into his chair, the next a body was launching itself through the air. It was a move he'd only seen in movies, a gymnastic, predatory leap. A pair of powerful thighs, encased in tight black material, suddenly framed his vision, and the distinct, warm scent of leather and woman filled his senses before a foot planted itself squarely in the center of his chest.
The force of it, even without the full weight behind it, was enough to send him and the chair tumbling backwards. The world became a chaotic mess of splintering wood, flailing limbs, and the sharp crack of his head hitting the floor. Stars exploded behind his eyes. The air was driven from his lungs in a painful whoosh.
Before he could even think to gasp for breath, she was on him. She straddled his chest, one knee pinning each of his shoulders to the floorboards. She was a shadow in the gloom, all sleek lines and coiled power. The cool, unmistakable circle of a pistol muzzle pressed against his temple.
"Shut up and don't move," a low, husky female voice commanded. It was a voice that was used to being obeyed.
Vieri's drunken mind was a whirlwind of confusion and pain. He blinked, trying to focus on the face looming above him. It was framed by a cowl of dark material, but he could make out the sharp line of a jaw, the plump curve of lips, and a pair of eyes that glinted with feral intelligence in the dim light.
"It's only fair," she continued, her voice a dangerous purr. "I point a weapon at your face, since you have one that looks like it's wanting to get out of your pants."
The sheer audacity of the line, combined with the throbbing in his skull, cut through the alcoholic fog. A laugh, ragged and breathless, escaped his lips. "Very funny," he rasped, his chest aching. "But seriously, I'll keep quiet. Nothing happened here. I didn't see you or anyone."
As he spoke, his vision started to clear, and his brain began to catch up with the situation. The way she moved, the outfit, the confidence… it all clicked into place. He wasn't just dealing with a burglar. He was dealing with *the* burglar. Selina Kyle. Catwoman.
The alcoholic fog was burning off, seared away by an adrenaline-fueled clarity. He was suddenly, sharply aware of the woman pinning him to his own floor. As his eyes adjusted to the low light, they traced the lines of a body built for violence and seduction. The black suit was a second skin, clinging to lean muscle and generous curves. She was a study in contrasts: powerful yet feminine, dangerous yet beautiful. And the entire, intoxicating package was currently seated directly on his crotch.
His body, betraying his precarious situation, responded with a will of its own. Blood rushed south, and his cock, trapped beneath the thin fabric of his sweatpants, began to harden with a speed that was almost painful. It was a traitorous, undeniable reaction to the pressure and the proximity of one of the most dangerous women in Gotham.
Selina shifted slightly, a subtle movement, and then she froze. She felt it. The thick, rigid length pressing against her, a formidable presence even through the layers of their clothing. A slow, curious smile spread across her lips. The gun at his temple wavered, just for a second.
"But somebody doesn't seem to want to stay quiet," she murmured, her voice dropping an octave, laced with a new kind of intrigue. The immediate threat of her pursuers seemed to have faded, replaced by a far more immediate and fascinating discovery. She had been curious the entire time since she landed on him, the sheer size and solidity of it a stark contrast to the soft give of his chest. In her mind, a seed had been planted. A dangerous, thrilling thought about what exactly was hiding in those pants. Her burning cunt, still thrumming with the adrenaline of the escape, now had a new, more primal focus.
With a slow, deliberate roll of her hips, she decided to see for herself. The friction was electric, a promise of heat even through the layers of their clothing. She let out a soft, involuntary gasp as the sheer, solid length of him pressed perfectly against her most sensitive spot. It was bigger than she'd imagined. Much bigger.
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He stayed there for a long moment, his body trembling with the force of his release, his forehead resting against hers. Then, as the last spasms subsided, he slowly pulled out of her. Selina didn't move. She was completely spent, her body limp and sated, a small, blissful smile on her lips as she drifted into a deep, exhausted sleep, his cum already leaking from her well-used cunt to pool on the sheets beneath her.
He stood up, looking down at the woman passed out in his bed. The rain was still falling outside. The city was still Gotham. But for the first time in a very long time, Oliviero Oronzo felt like he had something in this city that wasn't a liability. And it was currently asleep in his bed.
His mind, clearer now than it had been all night, started to process the sheer insanity of the situation. The adrenaline and lust were receding, leaving behind a stark, sobering reality. Well, I guess I got lucky this time, he thought, running a hand through his hair. He looked at the torn, soaked suit on the floor, the discarded gun, and the beautiful, dangerous woman in his bed. It seemed his most improbable, most useless asset had found its purpose in the most unlikely of scenarios. It was a defense mechanism he never would have guessed in a million years. I just hope she doesn't shoot me in the face in the morning.
The thought was enough to sober him up completely. Sleeping next to her felt like tempting fate. He moved quietly towards the living room, grabbing a throw pillow and a blanket from the closet. The couch was lumpy and unforgiving, but it was safer. He lay down, the events of the night replaying in his head, a bizarre, erotic dream that felt terrifyingly real. He eventually drifted into a restless sleep, the scent of her still clinging to his skin.
He was awakened not by an alarm, but by a wet, rhythmic pressure that pulled him from sleep with a jolt of pure pleasure. He opened his eyes to the soft morning light filtering through the blinds and looked down. Selina Kyle was on her knees beside the couch, her head bobbing in his lap. Her cowl was off, her dark hair a messy halo, and her eyes, bright and mischievous, were locked on his. The sound was obscene—a loud, wet sucking that filled the quiet room.
She pulled away with a pop, a thick string of saliva connecting her lips to the tip of his now fully erect cock. She grabbed the thick base and playfully slapped the heavy, saliva-coated head against her cheek, then again against her other cheek, leaving glistening smears on her skin. A third, harder slap against her outstretched tongue made her grin.
"Good morning, big boy," she purred, her voice husky. "The name's Selina Kyle. And I should say, good *morning*." She gave him a slow, deliberate lick from base to tip. "This big, bad bully really wore me out last night. I don't think I've ever been fucked so thoroughly in my life." She took him back into her mouth, her movements confident and practiced. The sight of her, Selina Kyle, the most wanted woman in Gotham, on her knees for him, was almost enough to make him cum right then and there.
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