Hotter than Hell

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.

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?"

"I've been following you for an hour."

He caught a smile and forced it back down.

"Why?" he repeated.

"I told you, handsome: I'm curious." Her voice was rich and sultry in a deliciously feminine manner, and she circled around him, slowly, looking him over, clearly liking what she was seeing.

Catwoman was tall for a woman, but he nevertheless towered over her, strong and imposing like a heroic effigy, but lacking some of the edge he normally carried with him. There was, at times, a nervousness about him when he interacted with her, a subtle indication that she affected him more than he let on. This did not go by unnoticed, and she made sure to use it to her advantage.

"So big and strong... but you're no meathead are you, Batman?" One of her fingers trailed along the full extent of his shoulders, teasing at the back of his cowled neck before reappearing in front of him.

"When I first heard of you," she continued, "I figured you were probably just another one of Gotham's long list of psychos, or a creep who gets his kicks beating people up. And on the off chance that you were genuinely trying to do good... well, I thought you'd be dead by now."

"But I'm not."

She smiled.

"No, you're not."

For a long, smoldering moment they eyed each other, her intelligent green eyes transfixed on the whites of his cowl, and then she moved in so close that the tips of their boots were touching.

"You know," she began, and the whispery way that she spoke enticed him to hang onto her every word, "I've never met a man who could resist me. All I have to do is unzip this suit"--Selina drew down on her zipper, parting the luxurious purple of her catsuit and revealing a few tantalizing inches of pale, ivory cleavage--"like this, and they're putty in my hands, willing to do anything for a taste."

This woman was far more dangerous than the group of men he had fought. She could ruin him if he wasn't careful.

He swallowed.

"And have you ever let them... have a taste?"

It was unwise to play her game, but it was hard not to.

For a moment she just looked at him, a smirk traveling in slow motion across her face, her breathing becoming ever so slightly less controlled. Was he jealous? Judgemental?

She shook her head, the motion faint.

"No. They can look but they can't touch. But you?" She ran a finger down his broad chest, an admiring, hungry look in her eyes. "Well... I like you. I might just let you have a taste."

That thumb and forefinger of hers stole his attention as they drew ever downward on her zipper, exposing more of her and only stopping when the valley between her cleavage was fully revealed, salacious in its design and pressed on both sides by the soft fullness of her bare mountains, unimpeded by cloth or lace. His blood ran hot, and he struggled to maintain his self-control even as he simultaneously struggled for words.

"You don't even know me," he managed.

"And whose fault is that?"

He blinked and looked away from her. It was true that, outside of a few ill-advised kisses, he had rebuffed her advances in the past; but he couldn't afford a distraction such as her, no matter how fine of a distraction she was. And besides...

"You're a criminal."

"So are you, technically."

She was standing atop his boots now, leaning into him on her toes like a ballerina, her lips only a short distance from his while her hands slid up his chest. She smelled good, like leather and sweat and some kind of perfume, and again he floundered for words as one of her arms wrapped around his neck, the other moving so that she could play with one of the ears on his cowl.

"You... steal," he offered as a final, flimsy resistance.

"Yeah," she said simply. "I do."

Selina robbed him of rational thought, and her lips met his in a disarming kiss, a softness that quickly turned passionate. It was a lingering kiss; a kiss that acted as a release for past frustrations and containing within it an ardor that went beyond that of a simple fling. This obstinate criminal of a woman, whom had invaded his thoughts for the better part of a year and who refused to be cast out, refused to be refused despite his increasingly difficult to maintain mask of cold stoicism, was in his arms, her tongue demanding entrance and then mingling with his, taking his mouth. She was hungry and enthusiastic yet sweet and inviting, and he returned the gesture while his hands matched hers as a mirror, roaming along the curve of her waist, the swell of her hips and backside, then threading through the ebony blackness of her long, luscious hair, straight but slightly curled at the ends in a majestic sort of way as it tumbled forth from the back of her mask.

They were hot.

Tremulous.

Starving.

A door slammed, breaking their kiss like the unwanted clapping of thunder. They glanced to the side, observed the flashing of red and blue and the group of officers that were retrieving his criminal offering, then looked back at each other. Something unspoken passed between them, and they shared a faint smile.

"They'll get ideas," she murmured, motioning with her half-veiled eyes towards an officer shining his flashlight up over them. The man appeared both startled and nervous, as if he had witnessed something he shouldn't have, and quickly diverted his flashlight elsewhere.

"Let them."

He surprised her with another kiss, one hand resting upon the ensellure curve of her lower back while the other raised his cape like a curtain, hiding them from the prying light of another curious officer. In response, she murmured a muffled sound of approval, shocked at his directness but nevertheless appreciative of the way his tongue slid against her, causing warmth to spread through her, heating her shoulders, her thighs, and making that secret area between her legs ache with need. The floodgates were open now, and their combined passion surged forth, their mouths voracious, their bodies starving for one another. Wanting more, she tightened her grip around him and pulled herself up with a little moan, still standing upon his boots as she molded herself into him, her breasts pressing against his chest and her heart beating like a drum as she grinded against him, racing, racing, accelerating for him like a catastrophe in the making.

This was far different than any other kiss they had shared in the past; it was bolder, it was hotter, it was more, and this fact alone excited them both to an unprecedented degree, as if they were teetering on the edge of a great abyss, willing but not quite ready to fall into the uncharted depths of their own dually fashioned eroticism. His mind was uncharacteristically cloudy, his body just as warm with their mutual desire as hers was, and it felt good to embrace her, to touch and feel her, to kiss her upon those pouty lips, to indulge himself in this one maddening act. They lost themselves in that despair of desire, that tender sweetness, and when his hand traveled lower, across the bountiful hills of her behind, her own hands took to roaming as well, exploring, trailing downwards and gripping at his belt with a sense of urgency, of desperation in her touch as she sought for the natural progression of their coupling. The belt clicked, loosening around his waist, and clarity returned to him in a cold flash of awareness that nearly made him gasp.

He pulled away from her. She leaned forward, seeking his lips again.

"We can't," he said, gently pushing her away and snapping his belt back into place.

Selina blinked, once, twice, and then her brows furrowed.

"Why?" She looked angry--angry and hurt--and her voice shook with repressed fury. "I'm not good enough? I'm--"

"No," he said firmly. "It's not that. This won't work."

"Why?"

"We're too... different."

"Because I'm a criminal and you're one of the good guys?" Much of her anger melted away, and she looked at him, studying him with both her eyes and her hands as she feathered her fingers over his chest and jaw. She shook her head slowly, maybe even sympathetically. "You skulk. You brood and scowl." Her hands cupped his face, forcing him to focus upon the intensity of her words. "You spend every night out here... patrolling, helping, fighting against an opponent no man--or super-man--can beat. But when you're chasing me, I see the way you smile. And you know what else?"

Her lips were a handsbreath away from his. Unconsciously, instinctively, he licked his lips and allowed them to remain ever so slightly parted, recalling her taste, the thrilling sensation of her mouth on his.

"I see the way you look at me," she breathed. "You want me, Batman. And when you chase me? You have fun. Just like I do."

She was right. He did want her, even though he shouldn't, and he did enjoy chasing her, catching her, the back and forth conversations they had that were often doused in sexual tension. Criminal or not, he simply enjoyed being around her.

"You say that we're too different, but I don't think so," she said, whispering against his lips, a finger caressing ever so gently at his cowl. "I think you're hurt; I think you're lonely; and I think this Batman act helps you cope with that pain. Makes you feel in control. I get that."

"Do you?" he asked, and there was skepticism in his voice, but something more as well.

"When you put on the mask, it's liberating, like it's the real you, like you can do something rather than just be a cog in a broken machine."

Her lips had never looked more inviting than in that moment, but still he held back. Perhaps it was true, perhaps they weren't so different. There was only one problem, glaring at him, at them, like a headlight.

"You use that freedom to hurt people," he said.

She blinked in surprise then breathed a derisive laugh.

"I'm a thief, not a murderer. And I only steal from institutions and people who are so rich that it takes them two weeks to notice that their $30,000 jade and diamond necklace is missing." A caustic edge crept into her voice as she spoke.

"You break into people's homes, Selina. You take things that might be irreplaceable based on sentimental value alone and scare some of them half to death, so that they feel unsafe in their own home afterward." She opened her mouth to speak but he kept going. "And just because they don't immediately notice doesn't mean it isn't important to them. I own things--precious things--that I likely wouldn't notice had been stolen for weeks or more, but that doesn't make them any less valuable to me."

Selina sighed.

"All right." She held up her hands, anger bubbling up just beneath the surface of her skin. "I didn't come here for one of your lectures, and I definitely didn't come here to be lectured by someone who probably paid for his suit with daddy's money."

His eyes narrowed.

"And what about you?" he asked. "Does your family know you're a thief?"

Unintentional as it was, his words cut to the quick. Her eyes, normally so piercing and in control, took on a dreadfully emotional quality, as if recalling a deep-rooted childhood horror. This shift--this crack in her defenses--lasted but a split second before a barrier of calm assertiveness wrested control, but that short period of vulnerability told him all he needed to know. He had misspoken, and he had clearly not done his due diligence looking into Selina's past.

She looked over the Gotham skyline, a beautiful phantasmagoria of metal peaks against the black of night, the brilliance of stars and the greatness of a big, full moon, then back at Bruce with a quick look of defiance, challenging but defensive.

"No. I'm just a stray kitten trying to get by," she said, sarcastically, mockingly. "Won't you help me Batman?"

"You know I will," he said, and his voice was firm, but tender as well. "But I can't, not until you want to help yourself."