Chapter 10: The Bat, The Cat, The Quinn
The silence in the warehouse felt like a physical weight. Dust motes swirled in the harsh beams from Billy’s portable LEDs, catching the light like trapped spirits. He adjusted the angle of Camera B, the cold metal of the tripod head biting into his fingers even through the thin underlayer of the Batsuit. The armor plates felt heavier today, less like protection and more like a cage. Every breath echoed slightly in the vast, hollow space, bouncing off corrugated metal walls and forgotten machinery skeletons. The lingering chemical smell – oil, rust, something vaguely acidic – was sharper in the cold air, mixing unpleasantly with the plasticky scent of his cowl.
Roxy paced near the designated ‘stage’ area – a cleared patch of concrete floor stained with decades of grime. She was already in the Catwoman suit, the dark vinyl molding to her form like a second skin. Her movements were sharp, restless. Not the languid predator from the alley, but a caged animal. She kept adjusting the fit of her gloves, her gaze flicking past Billy towards the cavernous darkness at the far end of the warehouse. The interview’s echo – "It’s love" – felt like a taunt in this desolate place.
"Chloe’s late," Roxy muttered, her voice tight, muffled slightly by the half-mask she hadn’t pulled up yet. Her jaw was clenched. "Typical."
"Traffic?" Billy offered, checking the feed on the monitor. Grainy black-and-white images showed Roxy pacing, the stark angles of abandoned machinery, deep pools of shadow.
Roxy snorted. "Or she’s doing a grand entrance. Wouldn’t put it past her." She stopped pacing, facing the shadows. "This whole thing… feels off, Billy."
He didn’t answer. He knew. The thrumming unease had started the moment Chloe’s manic laughter had crackled over the phone. This wasn’t just another shoot. It was a landmine.
A sharp clang echoed from the darkness, followed by whistling. Not a tune Billy recognized – something discordant, playful, and slightly unhinged. Footsteps, light and bouncing, approached. Then she emerged.
Chloe stepped into the harsh circle of light like an explosion of color against the warehouse grime. Her Harley Quinn costume was cartoonishly bright – diamonds of red and black, a skintight leotard that gleamed under the LEDs. Fishnets. Chunky boots that clicked on the concrete. Her face was painted with exaggerated, white-powdered features, bright rouge circles on her cheeks, crimson lips stretched in a wide, manic grin beneath mismatched pigtails. Her Asian features made the stark makeup even more jarring, striking and deliberately artificial.
"Ta-da!" Chloe spread her arms wide, spinning once. The leotard shimmered. "Whaddya think, Bats? Pussycat? Ready to cause some trouble?" Her Brooklyn accent was thicker than usual, leaning hard into the character.
Roxy didn’t move. Her eyes raked over Chloe, cold and appraising. Billy felt a familiar tightening in his gut – part performance anxiety, part something sharper. Chloe looked… committed. Dangerously so.
"It fits," Roxy said finally, her voice flat.
"Oh, it fits perfectly," Chloe purred, stepping closer. She patted her hips, her abdomen, then gestured downwards with a wink. "See? Practicality! Hidden zippers." Her fingers traced an invisible line low on her belly. "Right here. Easy access. And up top…" She mimed unzipping across her chest. "Gotta let the girls breathe when the action heats up, right? Keeps things dynamic." She beamed at them, the smile not quite reaching her eyes behind the painted-on whites.
Billy forced himself to look away, back to the monitor. The image of those hidden zippers burned in his mind. Practical. Efficient. Fuel. Roxy had called it fuel. He saw her reflection in the monitor screen; her posture was rigid, her gaze fixed on Chloe with an intensity that wasn’t Catwoman’s calculated allure. It was pure, unfiltered Roxy. And it looked an awful lot like jealousy.
"Let’s get started," Roxy said abruptly, her voice tight. She pulled her Catwoman cowl up, the movement sharp, final. "We’re burning daylight." She walked towards the designated spot, her movements regaining some of the feline slink, but the tension in her shoulders remained.
Billy took his position, the heavy cowl settling over his head, narrowing his world to the view through the eyepieces. The familiar pressure, the restricted breathing. Batman. Focus. Chloe bounced into the frame, adopting a playful, loose-limbed stance. Roxy, as Catwoman, prowled the edge of the light, radiating wary hostility. Billy triggered the camera recording lights. The red dots glowed like malevolent eyes in the gloom.
The scene unfolded. Catwoman stalked Batman, their choreographed tension familiar, a dance honed in the alley. Chloe-as-Harley watched, giggling, darting in and out of frame like a hyperactive shadow, disrupting their rhythm. She taunted Catwoman, mocked Batman’s stoicism, her voice pitched high and grating. Billy moved through the fight blocks mechanically, the punches and parries feeling hollow. Roxy’s responses were sharp, almost vicious. Her claws seemed to rake the air just a fraction closer to Chloe’s painted face than necessary.
Then Harley darted in, a burst of chaotic energy. She didn’t go for Catwoman. She went for Batman. A surprise move they hadn’t blocked. One moment Billy was bracing for Catwoman’s lunge, the next, Chloe’s surprisingly strong legs were wrapped around his waist, her momentum slamming him back against a cold, metal support pillar. The impact knocked the breath from his lungs.
Thud.
He grunted, pinned. Batman’s strength felt useless against the unexpected leverage, the dizzying proximity of Harley’s painted face inches from his cowl. Her scent – cheap candy and theatrical makeup – overwhelmed the warehouse smells. Her giggle was a harsh whisper against the audio feed.
"Gotcha, Batsy!" she chirped, her hips grinding against the armored codpiece. "All dark and broody." One hand snaked up to trace the edge of his cowl. The other… dipped lower. Quick, practiced fingers found the hidden zipper low on her suit. With a sharp, metallic zzzzip, she yanked it down.
The bright vinyl peeled open. Skin, shockingly pale against the costume’s colors. The dark triangle of pubic hair, glistening. Wet.
Billy froze. Not Batman. Billy. Stunned by the sudden, brutal exposure. The clinical efficiency of it. The monitor feed in his peripheral vision showed it all in stark black and white: the forced proximity, the open zipper, the deliberate display. It wasn’t erotic. It felt like an ambush.
Chloe leaned in closer, her painted lips brushing the shell of his ear where the cowl ended. Her breath was hot. "Cat got your tongue?" she whispered, loud enough for the mics. She shifted her weight, trapping him tighter between her thighs, grinding deliberately against the rigid armor plating. The sensation was jarring, alien pressure through the suit. "Or," she purred, her free hand moving to the hidden zipper across her chest, "just waitin' for the main event?" Her fingers hooked the pull.
Billy’s eyes snapped past Chloe’s shoulder. To Roxy.
Catwoman stood frozen at the edge of the light, claws half-raised. Not moving in for the planned rescue. Just… watching. Her face, half-hidden by the cowl, was unreadable. But her body language screamed. Rigid. Vibrating with a coiled stillness that felt more dangerous than any lunge. Her gaze was locked on Chloe’s exposed body pressed against Batman, on the fingers poised to reveal more. And in that gaze, stripped of any Catwoman mystique, Billy saw it with terrifying clarity: pure, incandescent, possessive rage. Not jealousy over the scene. Jealousy over him.
The realization hit like a physical blow. Love. Her declaration in the interview hadn't been just fuel. It hadn't been just playing. It was a live wire, and Chloe Quinn had just grabbed it with both hands. The air crackled with it. The dust seemed to hang suspended. The warehouse held its breath. Billy, pinned against cold metal, felt the fragile world they’d built – the alley intensity, the whispered confession, the desperate hope – teeter on the edge of annihilation, held there by the manic grin inches from his face and the murderous stillness watching from the shadows.
The manic grin stayed plastered on Chloe’s painted face, inches from Billy’s cowl, but her eyes flickered – a microsecond of uncertainty. That invasive scent of candy makeup choked him. Roxy hadn’t moved. Her stillness was a physical pressure, thicker than the warehouse dust, heavier than the Batsuit. Billy felt the cold metal pillar bite into his backplate, the grinding pressure of Chloe’s thighs against the armored codpiece. Her fingers twitched on her chest zipper pull. Time stretched, thin and brittle.
Then Roxy moved. Not a lunge, but a blur of silent, lethal grace. Catwoman flowed across the stained concrete like spilled ink, no wasted motion. Chloe barely registered the shadow before Roxy was on her. Not attacking Harley. Claiming her. One latex-clad hand snaked around Chloe’s waist from behind, pulling her back flush against Roxy’s body, disrupting her grip on Billy. The other hand, claws retracted but palm flat and demanding, pressed low against Chloe’s abdomen, pushing her hips forward off Billy even as Roxy held her trapped.
Billy stumbled back, freed but off-balance, the sudden absence of pressure leaving him cold. Chloe yelped, a sharp, startled sound swallowed by the warehouse. "Hey! What the fu—" Her protest died as Roxy’s latex-covered hand slid lower, finding the open zipper, slipping inside. Chloe gasped. Not a character gasp. A real, ragged inhalation. Her painted eyes went wide, unfocused.
"Shhh, trouble," Roxy murmured, her voice a low purr directly into Chloe’s ear, amplified by the mics. Her face was a mask of feline intensity beneath the cowl, eyes fixed not on Chloe but burning into Billy’s lenses. Her hand moved deliberately beneath the vinyl, hidden from the cameras but visible in its effect on Chloe. "Just playing Harley's game... deeper." Roxy’s free hand came up, sliding over the diamond pattern of the leotard, finding the hidden zipper at Chloe’s chest. Zzzzip. The vinyl parted. Roxy’s palm covered one exposed breast, fingers squeezing possessively, thumb circling the nipple.
Chloe moaned. A low, involuntary sound that started deep in her throat. Her spine arched, pressing back against Roxy, her head lolling against Roxy’s shoulder. The manic Harley grin had vanished, replaced by parted lips and fluttering eyelids. "Feels good, Kitty," she breathed, the words thick, slurred. "K-keep it up... might... reward you..." Her hand scrabbled weakly at Roxy’s forearm, lacking conviction.
Roxy increased the pace. Her fingers worked rhythmically beneath the vinyl leotard, the subtle shift of her wrist visible only as a tremor in her arm. Above, her other hand kneaded Chloe’s breast roughly, almost clinically. Chloe’s breathing hitched, turned into sharp, shallow pants. Her legs trembled. The playful Harley persona shattered completely. "God... Roxy..." she whimpered, the name escaping like a plea, not the character.
Billy stood frozen, a statue in Kevlar and rage. He saw the raw need, the surrender on Chloe’s face, the absolute control radiating from Roxy behind her. It wasn't passion on Roxy’s face. It was ownership. Cold fury. A reclaiming. He was the one pinned now, by the sight.
"Release me…" Chloe gasped, her voice cracking, high-pitched and desperate. She squirmed violently, trying to twist away from Roxy’s invading hand, her body betraying her words as it pushed back against the stimulation. "Roxy! STOP! NOW!" The raw panic in her scream echoed off the rusted metal walls, shattering the last pretense of the scene, leaving only violation reverberating in the dusty air. Roxy’s grip only tightened, her expression unreadable stone behind the mask, her hand still working relentlessly beneath the vinyl. The red recording lights pulsed like accusing eyes.
The red recording lights pulsed like accusing eyes. Chloe’s scream died abruptly, choked off by a sharp gasp as Roxy’s relentless fingers found their mark. The latex-covered hand worked brutally beneath the vinyl leotard, demanding rather than coaxing. Chloe’s painted eyes rolled back, wide and unseeing, her manic grin replaced by a rictus of overwhelming sensation.
Her body stiffened violently, back arching impossibly tight against Roxy’s unyielding hold. A guttural cry tore from her throat, raw and ragged. Fluids pulsed, hot and sudden, coating Roxy’s hidden hand as Chloe’s entire frame erupted into violent tremors. Her legs buckled, held upright only by Roxy’s iron grip around her waist.
She convulsed for long, shuddering minutes, whimpering, gasping, a puppet shaken by uncontrollable strings. The tremors gradually subsided into weak twitches. Roxy’s grip shifted, lowering the spent figure gently but firmly to the cold concrete. Chloe crumpled onto her side, a boneless heap of shuddering breaths and smeared makeup, lost in post-orgasmic oblivion. Her diamond-patterned chest rose and fell rapidly.
Roxy stood over her, breathing steadily, her Catwoman cowl a stark silhouette against the harsh LEDs. She stripped off the slick, soiled glove, tossing it disdainfully aside before fixing her piercing gaze on Billy. "Batman," she stated, her voice low, resonant, and utterly devoid of warmth, "is mine." She took a step towards him, each movement deliberate, a predator claiming territory.
She stopped inches from the armored figure, the scent of sex and vinyl thick in the air. Her bare hand rose, cool fingertips tracing the edge of his cowl before sliding behind his neck. She pulled him down. Their lips met – not a kiss, but a deep, consuming possession. Her tongue invaded, claiming his mouth as definitively as she’d claimed the space. "You're my true love," she breathed against his lips, the words a command, not a confession.
Billy’s armored hands found her waist, gripping hard. "And you are mine," he growled, the Batman voice rougher, stripped bare of pretense. Roxy responded instantly, her lithe form coiling. She leapt, wrapping strong legs around his armored torso, her vinyl-covered core grinding hard against the rigid abdominal plating. Heat bloomed through the layers, undeniable. Her hand snaked down between their bodies.
A sharp metallic rip echoed as she unzipped her own suit, exposing slick skin. Her other hand fumbled expertly at his armored codpiece, releasing the rigid plate. It clattered heavily to the floor, forgotten. She guided him, positioning herself, then sank down onto him with a low, possessive groan. "Mine," she breathed again, locking her lips to his as she began to move.
Her hips rolled in slow, deep undulations, claiming every inch. She owned the rhythm, owned the sensation, owned him. Billy braced, his hands gripping her hips, helping lift her slightly before she pushed back down, grinding deep. The pace built, driven by her possessive intensity. Her legs locked tighter around his waist. He met her thrusts, bouncing her slightly against his strength. The warehouse echoed with their ragged breaths, the slick sounds of their joining, the occasional scrape of vinyl against armor.
Their climax built in tandem, fueled by the raw claim, the violent energy crackling since Chloe’s intrusion. It crested suddenly, a shared detonation. Billy groaned, a deep, animal sound muffled by her mouth. Roxy threw her head back, a sharp cry tearing free, back arching as she pulsed around him, milking every spasm. They held each other tightly, shuddering through the aftershocks, breaths ragged against sweat-slicked skin and vinyl.
Slowly, deliberately, Roxy unwrapped her legs and slid down his body. Her feet hit the concrete. She turned without a backward glance, zipping her suit with a definitive rasp. She strode towards the edge of the lit circle, the harsh lights sculpting her silhouette. Pausing just before the darkness swallowed her, she tossed a glance over her shoulder, voice dripping with feline satisfaction. "Hey, Batty… Had you came?" She didn't wait for an answer, melting into the shadows, leaving only the echo.
Billy stood rooted, breathing hard, the cold air hitting his exposed skin. He looked down. Chloe lay curled on the concrete a few feet away, watching them. Her painted face was streaked with tears cutting through the white powder, her expression hollow, devastated. Not jealousy. Profound, aching sadness. The raw connection she’d just witnessed, the brutal claiming, was a universe away from the chaotic, attention-seeking frenzy she offered. It was a loneliness deeper than the warehouse shadows.
The silence was a physical weight. Billy bent, retrieving his discarded codpiece, the metal cold against his knuckles. He reattached it with stiff, mechanical movements. Roxy reappeared silently from the gloom, carrying her discarded glove. She didn’t look at Chloe. "Clean up," she stated flatly, her voice devoid of any trace of the passion moments before. She began gathering cables, coiling them with sharp efficiency.
Wordlessly, Billy moved to the cameras, powering them down. The accusing red lights died. Chloe slowly pushed herself up to sit, wiping uselessly at her ruined makeup, her movements weak. She pulled her leotard zippers closed with trembling hands. No one spoke. The only sounds were the rustle of vinyl, the scrape of equipment, the soft click of tripod legs folding.
They packed the van in oppressive quiet. Chloe huddled in the passenger seat, face turned to the grimy window. Roxy drove, her knuckles white on the wheel, jaw set. Billy sat rigid in the back, the lingering heat in his groin warring with a spreading cold dread. The warehouse’s chemical smell clung to their clothes, mixing with sweat, vinyl, and the metallic tang of betrayal. The alley’s intimacy felt like a naive dream. The interview’s "love" declaration felt like a grenade pin pulled. Back at Roxy’s cluttered apartment, the air thick with old books and fresh tension, they faced the blinking upload button. The footage held violence, possession, and a devastating sadness flickering in the corner of the frame. Lightning crackled, but the bottle felt cracked, leaking sparks.
The stale coffee smell in Roxy’s apartment felt thick, suffocating, after the van’s chemical fug. Billy dumped the equipment bag by the door, the thud echoing in the heavy silence. Chloe hadn’t spoken since the warehouse, vanishing into her own apartment with a slammed door that still vibrated in Billy’s bones. Roxy moved like a ghost through the clutter, powering up the laptop on the cleared coffee table, her movements precise, devoid of warmth. The harsh glow of the screen cut through the gloom, illuminating dust motes dancing like frantic insects.
"Get the footage," Roxy commanded, her voice flat, devoid of its usual feline purr. She didn’t look at him, already pulling up the PlastiqueFantastique dashboard. The blinking ‘Upload’ button pulsed like a malevolent eye.
Billy plugged in the camera card, his fingers clumsy. The warehouse footage loaded – stark, grainy under the LEDs. He hit play. The silence deepened as the scene unfolded: Catwoman’s prowl, Harley’s chaotic intrusion, the ambush at the pillar. Billy watched himself freeze, pinned. Saw Chloe’s deliberate exposure, the wet glisten shockingly visible even in monochrome. Felt the echo of that invasive scent.
Then Roxy’s blur of motion. Her hand vanishing beneath the vinyl. Chloe’s gasp, the shuddering climax Roxy forced from her. The raw terror on Chloe’s face as she screamed "STOP!" was unmistakable, a silent scream etched onto the digital frame. Billy flinched. Roxy’s expression remained stone. The claiming kiss, the brutal coupling against Batman’s armor – it played out with horrifying clarity. Chloe’s crumpled form watching, the utter devastation on her streaked face, was the final, gut-punching note.
They watched the replay silently. The only sound was the laptop fan whirring, straining against the weight of the images. Billy’s stomach churned. He couldn’t look at Roxy. He focused on the timeline, the cold mechanics of editing. He trimmed the very end, cutting just before Chloe pushed herself up. Removed a second of dead air after Roxy’s command. Anything to shorten the exposure of Chloe’s broken aftermath. He added the PlastiqueFantastique intro card, the jaunty music a grotesque counterpoint.
"Done," he rasped, pushing the laptop towards her. His throat felt raw.
Roxy scanned the edit, her eyes flicking over the timeline. She gave a single, sharp nod. Her finger hovered over the trackpad, then stabbed down on ‘Upload’. The progress bar crawled. They sat in the charged silence, the ghosts of vinyl, sweat, and warehouse chemicals clinging to them. The screen refreshed. Views ticked upwards. Then the comments exploded.
OMG.
THEY DO A THREESOME!!
HOTTEST THING EVER. PERIOD.
HARLEY’S ORGASM WAS HOT! SOUNDED SO REAL!
CATWOMAN OWNED THAT! FUCK YES!
CAN CATWOMAN FINGER ME? PLEASE?
Batman got wrecked (in the best way)
Chloe Quinn MVP! That scream! 🔥🔥🔥
They read through countless more, scrolling silently. Notification chimes pinged rapidly, a relentless digital applause. The subscriber count for PlastiqueFantastique surged, climbing faster than after the alley drop. Billy clicked over to Chloe’s channel. Her subscriber graph was a near-vertical line. It had doubled. Comments flooded her page too: HARLEY QUEEN!, That was WILD Chloe!, Need more HQ chaos!.
Roxy leaned back, a slow, satisfied breath escaping her. The corner of her mouth twitched, not quite a smile. "Told you," she murmured, her voice low, almost to herself. "Premium fuel." She tapped the screen where Chloe’s doubled numbers glowed. "Even boosted her."
Billy stared at the comments praising Chloe’s "scream," mistaking terror for ecstasy. He saw the excited demands for more Harley Quinn. The image of Chloe’s tear-streaked face, hollow and lost, superimposed itself over the celebratory numbers. The lightning Roxy rode crackled brighter on the screen, illuminating the cracks spreading through the bottle, sparks spilling out onto the cluttered floor, singeing everything they touched. Roxy was already scrolling, her eyes calculating the next move, while Billy watched the digital storm rage, feeling the cold dread seep deeper into his bones. Success tasted like ash and betrayal.