A prequel to my other Bat/Cat story,
Black Velvet.
They're fairly stand-alone, and can be read in either order.
Contains minor Daddy kink themes (inspired by a line from the comics). Title is from the Dua Lipa song of the same name.
***
April 12, 2:37 AM
Darkness permeated the streets of Gotham, smothering and constricting the city in a miasma of fear and desperation. Fog crept, thin like gauze, while the howling of sirens blared into the distance, vanishing and leaving behind the wary creeping of those hidden, the rattling of cans in an alleyway, the sudden noisy steps of criminals making a hasty exit.
There were still a good many hours left until the break of dawn, and though the majority of the city's residents were huddled in their beds, asleep and oblivious to the illicit happenings taking place around them, he was not. Crime had been on the rise over the past few months, and April was looking to be even worse than the last: everything from assault, to rape, to murder, to burglary and larceny. The city was deteriorating into a state worse than it had been in decades, and discontent was steadily growing. The duty to fix it was his, not as an official mandate, but as a mantle of servitude he himself had donned.
When he was young, very young, he'd once been told that there were only three types of people out this late at night: cops, drunkards, and criminals. It had been a fair enough assessment, largely true even now, but here he was, an anomaly dressed in black and grey watching over all three of those from imperceptible heights and silent shadows. He was tall and powerful yet lithe and sleek, a flurry of motion within the darkness, barely recognizable from the shadows themselves. Every movement was controlled: every step, every twist and turn of the body, every punch and kick a masterful display of human ability. He was a perfectionist, and he was without a doubt the best at what he did.
There was, of course, always room for improvement, and he did not allow himself to become complacent.
A brick wall belonging to the corpse of an abandoned building stood behind him, while a flickering lamp post illuminated a small square of lighted ground that belonged to half of a basketball court beset on three sides by run-down buildings, and on the fourth open side by a crumbling road. It was a fairly remote area, and as such there was very little in the way of light at this time of night, giving the boxed in square an almost otherworldly atmosphere, as if he had stepped into the Twilight Zone, black, gray, white and alone.
Except he was not alone. There were five others on the basket ball court with him. Three were already unconscious, or near to it, with the other two soon to be joining them. He waited, hoping they would be wiser than their companions. Unsurprisingly, they weren't.
They charged him, their movement slow and sloppy. He sidestepped a clumsy tackle with ease, cape fluttering as he moved like a shadow given life, smooth and agile yet hard and tangible. His hand enclosed around the throat of the thug that hadn't tried to tackle him, squeezing, and when the man reached for his hand he swept his legs out from underneath him, slamming him to the ground and immediately whirling to catch a kick from the remaining assailant. Surprise flashed across the final man's face as he was pulled off balance and then struck across the nose, his body collapsing with a painful grunt and a spray of blood before he even realized what had happened.
Standing up straight, he surveyed the area, double checking the men on the ground and taking mental notes of their attire, their race, their height, and any distinguishable features such as tattoos or piercings. They were common street trash, criminals dealing in narcotics and weapons, likely with gang ties. Maroni, Sabatino, Moxon, perhaps even one of the cartels. Whatever they were, they were a menace to Gotham, and their time would be better served behind bars.
"Bravo! Encore! Encore!"
A feminine voice accompanied the slow reverberation of hands clapping together. He looked up at the building across from him, eyes flickering and his head inclining ever so slightly upwards, spotting the barely visible figure of a tall woman clad in a purple catsuit.
Catwoman. Selina Kyle.
She waved to him with her fingers, blew him a kiss, and his eyes narrowed. He had known she was there, had known that she'd been trailing him even, but had chosen to ignore her.
The woman was an enigma. A dangerous one. Despite her prior clean record, she'd made her debut as her alter ego only shortly after he did, involving herself primarily in theft with the occasional assault of a guard or a thug when they got in the way of her kleptomaniacal tendencies. Nothing too serious, all things considered, but even though she seemed to avoid violence when such an option was feasible, there was always the possibility that her misdeeds would escalate into far more egregious offenses, as was often the case with criminals. Her unusual interest in him, her propensity to stalk or lure him to the scenes of her crimes so that she could converse with him about things that were far from appropriate, only made him more cautious as to her true intentions and the dangers of getting close to her.
Disregarding her for the time being, he turned towards the two men he had just fought. They were each conscious, albeit out of commission, and he handcuffed them together before moving onto the other downed men, doing the same to them and then notifying the police to pick them up. Once the distant blaring of sirens could be heard, he grappled his way up to where Catwoman had been, finding her lounging atop a broken-down HVAC unit like it was a throne.
"Do you always keep your fans waiting backstage this long?" she asked, making a show out of inspecting her nails, then standing and taking a few steps towards him. She led with her hips, a careless, undulating walk that emphasized her long legs and her lissome body all pent up and confined in that tight leather suit of hers. She stopped a few paces in front of him, her mysterious green eyes reflecting the light of the moon in a way that appeared almost unnatural.
Up close and bathed in subtle moonlight, her catsuit was skintight, highlighting every curve, contour and line of her athletic body. In a further appeal to her feline namesake, Selina wore a mask with short, triangular cat ears; it hid her brow and formed little ovals around her eyes, but otherwise showed off her elegant nose, high cheekbones and strong jaw.
"I would have bet money on you but, well..." She held up her hands, indicating how vacant the area was, and then shrugged.
"You could have helped," he said, voice stern, deep, and slightly accusatory.
She loved his confidence, that no nonsense tone of voice. It made flirting with him all the more enjoyable. "I could have, but I just love watching you fight." Her lips curved into a winning grin, revealing a row of pretty teeth that made her face light up beautifully. It was the kind of grin that one couldn't help but stop and admire; playful, mischievous, cat-like--drawing him in with the dangers of what could be if only he humored her advances.
Bruce snorted.
"Why are you here?" he asked.
"Because I'm curious," she said, leaning into him. "Because you're
exciting.
"
He studied her for a moment, trying to deduce her intentions, ignoring the swell of her hips and breasts straining against her catsuit and instead peering at the necklace of pearls resting atop her chest. He raised an inquisitive eyebrow at her, his cowl raising, and she returned the gesture with an eyebrow of her own, arms crossed and daring him to call her out on it.
He didn't. "You've been following me for the past half-hour," he said, ignoring the likely-stolen necklace. "Why?"
"Mmn, so you did know I was there. There's just one problem..."
"Which is?"
