The Cat's Cradle of Cruelty

Chapter 3: The Rooftop Reckoning

The rain had been falling for three hours, and Dick Grayson was starting to think he'd made a mistake.

Not the kind of mistake that got you killed—he'd made plenty of those, and he knew the difference. This was the slower kind. The kind that gnawed at you from the inside, that kept you up at night replaying conversations you'd never had, that made you check your phone every five minutes even though you knew she wasn't going to call.

Three weeks.

He'd counted every day. Every hour, if he was being honest, which he wasn't—not to Alfred, not to Barbara, not to the tired reflection that stared back at him from bathroom mirrors. He'd told himself it was professional interest. He was tracking a known criminal. Gathering intelligence.

The lie held up about as well as wet tissue paper.

The rooftop above the old Orpheum was slick with rain, the gravel crunching beneath his boots as he landed in a crouch. The marquee below flickered with that same dying neon sign—GOTHAM, half the letters burnt out, the rest buzzing like angry insects. The smell of wet concrete and ozone filled his nostrils, and beneath it, something else. Something that made his pulse spike.

Jasmine.

He straightened slowly, water streaming down the lenses of his mask. The rain was coming down in sheets now, turning the city into a blur of neon and shadow. He could barely see ten feet in front of him.

But he could feel her.

"You're getting predictable," he said to the darkness.

A laugh answered him—low, warm, coming from somewhere to his left. "Am I?"

"You've hit three penthouses in the last two weeks. All of them within a mile of this theater." He turned toward the sound, his hand drifting toward the escrima stick on his hip. "You're either sloppy or you're waiting for me."

"Maybe both." Her voice moved—she was circling him now, staying just beyond the edge of visibility. "Maybe I just like this neighborhood. The ambiance. The history."

"The rats."

"The company."

He caught a flash of movement—leather and moonlight—and then she was there, perched on the edge of an air conditioning unit like she'd been sitting there all along. Her suit was slick with rain, the black leather gleaming, and her goggles were pushed up on her forehead. Water dripped from the tips of her hair, running down her cheeks like tears.

She looked like something out of a fever dream.

"You're soaked," she observed.

"It's raining."

"Astute." She tilted her head, studying him with those green eyes that always seemed to see too much. "You've been following me."

"I've been tracking you."

"Same thing."

"It's really not."

She smiled—that slow, dangerous smile that made his stomach do things he didn't want to acknowledge. "You want to know why I'm still here. Why I didn't leave Gotham after our little... conversation."

"The thought crossed my mind."

"I've been thinking about your mouth."

The words hit him like a punch to the gut. He didn't move. Didn't breathe. The rain kept falling, drumming against the AC unit, against the tar paper roof, against his shoulders.

"That night," she continued, sliding off her perch and landing silently on the gravel. "On the stage. You kissed me like you were trying to prove something."

"I wasn't—"

"You were. You always are." She walked toward him, unhurried, her hips swaying with that feline grace that was entirely natural and entirely deliberate. "But I liked it. I liked the way you tasted. Cheap whiskey and bad decisions."

"Selina—"

"I want to see if you still taste the same."

She stopped an inch from him. Close enough that he could feel the heat radiating off her body, close enough that the rain hitting her splashed onto his face. She reached up and pulled his mask off, tossing it into the dark.

"Hey—"

"You don't need it." Her fingers traced the line of his jaw, feather-light. "Not up here. Not with me."

He should have argued. Should have pushed her away, called this what it was—a complication, a mistake, a disaster waiting to happen. But her hand was on his chest now, palm flat against the Nightwing emblem, and she was looking at him with those eyes that saw everything and judged nothing.

"I've been thinking about your mouth too," he admitted.

"I know."

"Arrogant."

"Honest." She rose on her toes and pressed her lips to the corner of his jaw. "There's a difference."

The kiss was soft. Tentative. Nothing like the raw, hungry thing they'd done on the stage. This was a question, not a demand, and he answered it by turning his head and capturing her mouth with his.

She tasted like rain and mint and something underneath that was purely her—that electric, dangerous thing that made him forget every reason he had for staying away. Her hands slid up his chest, over his shoulders, tangling in his wet hair, and he pulled her closer, one arm wrapping around her waist.

"I missed this," she breathed against his lips.

"Liar."

"Sometimes." She nipped at his bottom lip, hard enough to sting. "But not about this."

He kissed her again, deeper this time, and she moaned into his mouth—a low, throaty sound that went straight to his cock. His hands found the zipper of her suit, and she didn't stop him. Didn't even flinch when he pulled it down, exposing the pale column of her throat, the curve of her collarbone, the swell of her breasts.

"I want you," he said. Simple. Honest. The only true thing in a city full of lies.

"I know." She stepped back just far enough to peel her suit down to her waist, and he watched, transfixed, as the leather slid over her shoulders, her arms, pooling at her hips. She wasn't wearing anything underneath. "Now show me."

He didn't need to be told twice.

He lifted her by the waist, and her legs wrapped around his hips automatically, her boots locking behind his back. The AC unit was cold against his palms as he pressed her against it, and she gasped—not from the cold, but from the contact, her bare chest pressing against his suit.

"Fuck," she whispered. "I forgot how strong you are."

"Liar."

"Shut up and kiss me."

He did.

Her hands were everywhere—in his hair, on his shoulders, clawing at the back of his neck. He felt her nails rake down his spine, through the fabric of his suit, and he groaned into her mouth. She was grinding against him now, her hips rolling in that same slow, circular motion she'd used in the dressing room, and he could feel the heat of her through two layers of leather.

"Off," she demanded, tugging at his suit. "I want to feel you."

He set her down just long enough to strip off his top, and then she was on him again, her mouth on his neck, her teeth grazing his pulse point. The rain was coming down harder now, plastering her hair to her skull, running in rivulets down her breasts. He lowered his head and caught one nipple in his mouth, and she cried out—a sharp, startled sound that dissolved into a laugh.

"Fuck, Dick."

"That's the idea."

He sucked harder, rolling the pebbled flesh between his teeth, and she arched against him, her nails digging into his shoulders. The taste of rain and salt and her skin filled his mouth, and he wanted more—wanted all of her, wanted to consume her.

"Pants," she gasped. "Get your fucking pants off."

He fumbled with his belt, his fingers clumsy with cold and desire, and she helped him—unzipping his fly, pushing the wet leather down his thighs. His cock sprang free, hard and aching, and she wrapped her hand around it with a sound of pure satisfaction.

"There you are," she murmured, stroking him slowly. "I've been thinking about this too."

"I bet you have."

"You have no idea." She guided him toward her, and he felt the wet heat of her cunt against the tip of his cock. "No condom this time."

"Selina—"

"I'm clean. You're clean. I want to feel you." She met his eyes, and there was something fierce in her expression, something almost desperate. "I want you to come inside me."

The words short-circuited his brain. He stood there, frozen, rain streaming down his face, his cock pressed against her entrance, and she laughed.

"That's the face I wanted to see."

"You're insane."

"Probably." She reached between them and guided him inside her with one smooth motion.

The sensation was overwhelming—tight, wet, hot, nothing between them, just skin on skin and the pounding of the rain. She gasped and clawed at his back, and he buried his face in her neck, breathing her in.

"Move," she ordered. "Fuck me. Now."

He moved.

The AC unit rattled beneath them, metal groaning against the force of his thrusts. She was so fucking tight, and wet, and perfect, and every stroke sent lightning up his spine. He gripped her hips and pounded into her, fast and rough, exactly how she wanted it.

"Harder," she gasped. "Fuck me harder."

He obliged.

Her nails raked down his back, leaving fiery trails in their wake. He felt the sting of broken skin, the warmth of blood mixing with rain, and he didn't care—couldn't care—not when she was clenching around him like that, not when she was moaning his name like a prayer.

"Fuck," he grunted. "Fuck, Selina—"

"Don't stop. Don't you fucking stop."

He didn't.

The rain was coming down in sheets now, turning the rooftop into a river of gray and silver. Lightning flashed somewhere in the distance, illuminating her face—flushed, feral, absolutely fucking beautiful. She looked like a goddess of chaos, like something that had crawled out of the storm just to wreck him.

And he was letting her.

"Close," she gasped. "I'm so fucking close—"

He drove into her harder, angling his hips to hit that spot deep inside her, and she screamed. Actually screamed—a raw, wild sound that echoed off the neighboring buildings. Her whole body convulsed around him, and he felt her come, felt the rush of wetness that coated his cock.

"That's it," he breathed. "That's my girl—"

She slapped him.

Not hard. Just enough to sting, just enough to make him laugh.

"I'm nobody's girl," she snarled.

"Whatever you say."

He fucked her through the aftershocks, chasing his own release. It was building at the base of his spine, a tight, desperate pressure that demanded relief. He was close—so fucking close—and then she pushed at his chest.

"Pull out," she said.

"What?"

"Pull out. I want to see it."

He didn't understand at first. Then she pushed him back, and he slipped out of her with a wet sound, his cock slick with her juices. She dropped to her knees in front of him, and he stared down at her, rain streaming off his lashes, his breath coming in ragged gasps.

"Come on my stomach," she said. "Do it."

He wrapped his hand around his cock and stroked, fast and desperate, and it took about three seconds before he was coming—hot, thick ropes of it painting her pale skin, striping her stomach and breasts. She watched him the whole time, her eyes bright, her lips parted, and when he finally finished, she laughed.

"There," she said. "Now you're learning."

He couldn't speak. Could barely breathe. She stood up, rain washing his come off her skin, and pressed a kiss to his slack mouth.

"Same time next week?"

"Selina—"

But she was already gone.

He watched her sprint across the rooftop, a black shadow against the rain, and then she leapt—from the edge of the building to the next, to the next, a dark blur that disappeared into the storm. The vault she'd been after was probably already emptied. The contents probably already fenced. She'd played him, used him, and left him standing here with his pants around his ankles and his come still drying on his stomach.

He should have been angry.

He should have been humiliated.

Instead, he was already hard again.

"Fuck," he whispered to the rain.

The rooftop was empty. The AC unit was still rattling, slowly winding down. The city stretched out below him, wet and glittering and indifferent.

And somewhere in the darkness, a woman was laughing.