Chapter 11: The Ex
The stale air in Billy’s lab corner held the sharp tang of ammonia from an earlier experiment, layered over the usual ozone smell of electronics and the damp-earth scent of neglected takeout containers. Test tubes clinked softly in a drying rack by the humming mini-fridge. Billy stared at a beaker of swirling green liquid, not really seeing it. The warehouse footage – Chloe’s scream, Roxy’s brutal claiming, the raw, possessive sex against the pillar – played on a loop behind his eyes, louder than the low drone of the cheap TV across the room.
"Pass the gummies," Roxy murmured, her voice a low thrum that cut through his thoughts. She was sprawled on his worn couch, bathed in the flickering blue light of the TV screen playing a mindless action movie. She wore one of his oversized university hoodies, her legs bare and tucked under her. The casual intimacy felt jarring, a fragile veneer over the violence of the afternoon. Her gaze flickered to him, assessing, then back to the screen where something exploded.
He tossed the bag towards her. She caught it without looking, her movements fluid, predatory even in repose. "You’re brooding," she stated, popping a gummy bear. "Numbers are insane. We nailed it." There was a cold satisfaction in her voice, the kind reserved for a perfectly executed hunt, not a shared triumph.
Before Billy could form a reply – a denial, an echo of his unease – a sharp rapping echoed at his door. Not a knock. A demanding rat-a-tat-tat.
Both froze. Roxy’s eyes narrowed, sharpening instantly. She muted the TV, the sudden silence thick with the hum of the mini-fridge and the thudding of Billy’s heart. Nobody came here unannounced. He exchanged a glance with Roxy. Her expression was unreadable, but her posture had shifted, coiled and alert.
He crossed the cluttered space, past stacks of journals and a precariously balanced spectrometer, and opened the door.
Deborah stood there. Billy’s ex. Her usually neat blonde hair was slightly windblown, her cheeks flushed. She wore smart work clothes – a tailored blouse and slacks – but her eyes… they weren't the cool, assessing gaze he remembered. They were wide, pupils dilated, darting past him into the apartment with an intensity that felt visceral. She smelled of cold night air and expensive perfume, but underneath it… something electric, agitated.
"Billy," she breathed, her voice tight. She didn’t wait for an invitation, pushing past him into the small apartment. Her eyes swept the room, landing instantly on Roxy. Recognition flared, followed by a wave of something raw Billy couldn’t immediately place.
"Deborah?" Billy managed, closing the door, feeling the cramped space shrink further. "What are you—?"
"Found your little… project," Deborah interrupted, her voice trembling slightly. She pulled out her phone, thumbing the screen frantically. The familiar PlastiqueFantastique logo flashed. Billy’s stomach dropped. She’d found it. The interview. The alley. The warehouse. Her thumb hovered, not over the interview clip they'd hoped people would see, but directly over the thumbnail for the latest drop: Batman pinned, Harley exposed, Catwoman’s approach radiating lethal intent.
Deborah stabbed play. The sound was low, but instantly recognizable in the tense silence: Chloe’s manic giggle, the metallic zzzip, her gasp. Deborah didn’t watch the screen. She stared at Roxy, who hadn’t moved from the couch, her expression now a mask of cool indifference, though her eyes glittered like chips of obsidian in the TV light.
"You… you bastard," Deborah hissed, turning back to Billy, the phone shaking in her hand. "This? This is what you do now? This… filth?" But her voice lacked conviction. Her breath came fast, shallow. A flush crept down her neck, disappearing beneath the collar of her blouse. Her gaze flickered back to the frozen image on her phone – Roxy’s latex-covered hand vanishing into Harley’s suit – then darted around the messy apartment, landing on Roxy again, bare-legged in Billy’s hoodie.
"It’s… work," Billy said lamely, the words ash in his mouth. He saw the conflicting signals: the disgust warring with the unmistakable heat in her eyes, the rigid posture fighting against a subtle tremor. Jealousy? Arousal? Both, twisting together.
"Work?" Deborah’s laugh was brittle. "God, Billy! I knew things were… stagnant after me… but this?" She gestured wildly at Roxy with the phone. "Her? This is your solution? Prancing around in spandex like some… some cheap porn circus?" Her gaze swept over Roxy again, lingering on the exposed length of her thigh. "It’s pathetic."
Roxy finally moved. Slowly, deliberately, she unfolded herself from the couch. She padded barefoot across the small space, stopping inches from Deborah. The air crackled. Deborah stiffened, taking an involuntary step back, bumping into a stack of journals that wobbled precariously. Roxy tilted her head, a predator considering prey.
"Pathetic?" Roxy echoed, her voice a low purr that vibrated in the small space. She leaned in slightly, forcing Deborah to meet her gaze. "Or… jealous?" One corner of Roxy’s mouth lifted in a faint, cruel smirk. "Saw the interview, didn’t you? Saw him say I was his one true love." She emphasized the words, watching Deborah flinch. "Saw what we made together. Saw how he wants me." Roxy’s eyes dropped pointedly to the phone still clutched in Deborah’s white-knuckled hand, displaying the frozen chaos of the warehouse scene. "Saw that… and it got you hot, didn’t it? Thinking about what could have been yours… if you hadn’t let him go." Roxy’s gaze flickered down Deborah’s body, dismissive yet utterly invasive. "If you hadn’t been so… cold."
Deborah’s flush deepened to a furious crimson. "You have no idea what you're talking about!" she spat, but her voice cracked. She shoved the phone into her purse as if it were contaminated. "This… this thing you have? It’s not real! It’s exploitation! It’s…" She faltered, her eyes darting back to Billy, pleading now, desperate for him to deny it, to refute Roxy’s accusation. "Billy, tell me! Tell me this isn't what you really want! That this… actress…" She threw the word at Roxy like an insult.
Billy looked from Deborah’s anguished, aroused fury to Roxy’s calm, possessive certainty. The green liquid in the beaker seemed to pulse. The hum of the mini-fridge filled his ears. He remembered the alley fire, the warehouse possession, the raw, undeniable need that flowed between him and Roxy, toxic and magnetic. He remembered Deborah’s polite disinterest, the slow cooling of their bed.
He didn't look at Deborah. He looked at Roxy. "It’s real," he said, his voice low but clear in the charged silence.
The impact was immediate. Deborah recoiled as if slapped. The raw hurt in her eyes warred with the lingering heat, the humiliation. Her carefully constructed world – the one where Billy was just her misguided ex – shattered. She saw the truth in his eyes, the anchor he’d found in Roxy’s dangerous orbit.
"Fine," she choked out, the word thick with unshed tears and venom. She straightened her blouse, a futile attempt at dignity. "Fine. Play your sick little game." Her gaze swept over both of them, lingering on Billy with a mix of profound sadness and burgeoning, ugly resentment. "But mark my words, Billy," she whispered, her voice trembling but gaining a dangerous edge. "This path you’re on? With her? It doesn't end in Gotham. It ends in ashes." She looked pointedly at Roxy, her eyes blazing. "And I’ll be watching when it burns." She spun on her heel, wrenched open the door, and slammed it shut behind her with a force that rattled the test tubes in their rack.
The silence was absolute for a heartbeat, broken only by the frantic hum of the mini-fridge. Roxy turned slowly back to Billy, a slow, triumphant smile spreading across her face. She stepped close, tracing a finger down the front of his shirt. "Mine," she murmured, the word a dark caress. She glanced towards the door Deborah had just stormed through, her smile turning predatory. "And she knows it."
Billy looked at the closed door, then back at Roxy. The air still vibrated with Deborah’s threat. The green liquid in the beaker bubbled softly, a tiny, contained cauldron. Outside, the city pulsed, indifferent. Inside, the hum of the fridge intensified, a constant, insistent counterpoint to the storm brewing within Billy, knowing the fragile bottle holding their lightning was cracking under pressure, and Deborah had just thrown the first stone.
The slammed door’s echo died, leaving only the mini-fridge’s frantic whine and the faint sizzle of tension in the air like ozone before a strike. Deborah’s perfume lingered, clashing with the lab’s chemical tang and the vinyl scent still clinging to Roxy. Billy stared at the closed door, Deborah’s final words – ashes – scraping against the raw edges of his nerves, mixing uncomfortably with the phantom echoes of Chloe’s warehouse scream.
Roxy’s low chuckle cut through the static in his head. "Drama queen." She padded back to the couch, the oversized hoodie slipping off one bare shoulder. Her eyes, reflecting the TV’s blue flicker, held amusement, not concern. "Jealousy’s an ugly color on her. Suits me better." She stretched, a languid, predatory movement that drew Billy’s gaze despite the turmoil. "Fuel, though. Good fuel."
Billy raked a hand through his hair, dislodging the cowl’s phantom weight. "Fuel for what, Roxy? She’s pissed. Really pissed. ‘Watching when it burns’ isn’t exactly a fan letter." The green liquid in the beaker seemed to bubble more aggressively. He could still see Deborah’s face: the disgust warping into something darker, hotter. He remembered her shaky breath, the dilation of her pupils when she’d looked at the frozen image on her phone. Roxy was right about the jealousy. It didn’t make it safer.
"Let her watch," Roxy shrugged, popping another gummy bear. She studied him, that unnerving calm settling over her features. "See what real fire looks like." She unfolded herself again, crossing to the cluttered closet near the makeshift lab. "We need a palate cleanser. Something… brighter." She rummaged inside, her movements decisive.
Billy watched, the dread coiling tighter in his gut. "Brighter? After that? Roxy, Chloe’s probably still curled up in a ball, Deborah’s threatening arson, and you want… what? Rainbows?"
Roxy emerged, holding two long, opaque plastic garment bags. The zippers gleamed under the overhead light. A slow, feline smile spread across her face, sharp and anticipatory. She tossed one bag lightly onto the couch beside Billy. It landed with a soft whump. The other she held up, the plastic rustling. "Forget Gotham’s grime for a night, Batty," she purred, her eyes locking onto his, challenging, promising. "Ready for Supergirl to meet Spiderman?"
The plastic bag landed beside Billy with a soft, accusing rustle. Supergirl? After the warehouse, after Deborah’s scalding exit? The sharp chemical tang from his nearby experiment stung his nose, mixing unpleasantly with the lingering ghost of Deborah’s perfume. "Roxy, seriously?" Billy gestured vaguely towards the door, the echo of the slam still vibrating in the cheap drywall. "Deborah just promised to watch us burn, Chloe’s probably plotting our demise in glitter, and you want… spandex?"
Roxy unzipped her own bag, revealing a flash of vibrant blue and red, the unmistakable S-shield. "Exactly," she said, her voice a low purr cutting through the tense air. She shook the costume out, the material shimmering under the harsh overhead bulb, a stark contrast to the grimy apartment and the ominous green liquid bubbling softly in its beaker nearby. "World’s burning anyway, Batty. Might as well look iconic while it goes down." She tossed her head, a flicker of that manic warehouse energy in her eyes. "Besides, Spidey’s got that whole relatable nerd thing going. Bet the subs’ll eat it up. Think of the crossover potential."
Billy stared at the opaque bag on the couch. Spider-Man. A different kind of mask. He ran a hand over his face, the warehouse footage replaying – Chloe’s scream, Roxy’s hand working beneath vinyl, the raw claim against the pillar. Deborah’s furious, flushed face superimposed itself. Everything felt fractured, accelerating towards some unseen cliff. "Iconic catastrophe, maybe," he muttered, picking up the bag. The plastic felt cold, alien. "Chloe won't come back. Not after… that." The unspoken 'what you did' hung heavy.
"Her loss," Roxy shrugged, already shimmying out of his hoodie. Her bare skin caught the light, smooth and deliberate. "Views doubled. Her channel blew up. She got exactly what she wanted." She stepped towards him, leaving the hoodie pooled on the floor, the Supergirl costume held loosely. "Stop thinking. Start stripping." Her gaze, sharp and demanding, pinned him. "Suit up, Parker. Let's give the good doctor something really juicy to watch."
The command brooked no argument. Billy felt the familiar pull, the dangerous undertow of her certainty. He unzipped the bag, revealing the familiar red and blue fabric, the web pattern intricate. It felt flimsy compared to the Kevlar weight of the Batsuit. He peeled off his t-shirt, the cool air raising goosebumps on his skin. The bubbling beaker hissed, a tiny, furious engine mirroring the turmoil inside him. He could smell the ammonia, the old takeout, Roxy’s vinyl scent as she stepped closer, watching him.
He fumbled with the Spider-Man suit’s zipper, his knuckles white. Deborah’s threat – ashes – echoed alongside Chloe’s broken expression. Was this just more fuel for a fire they couldn’t control? Roxy’s hand suddenly covered his, stopping his fumbling. Her skin was cool, her grip firm. "Look at me," she ordered. Her eyes, usually so sharp with calculation, held an unnerving intensity in the dim light. Not lust, not anger, but something more primal. Possession. Absolute. She pulled his hand away from the zipper, letting the suit fall open. Her other hand cupped the back of his neck, fingers tangling in his hair. She didn't speak. She pulled him down.
Roxy kisses him. Not softly. Not playfully. It was a collision. A branding. Her lips slammed against his, hard and demanding, silencing every doubt, every fear, every echo of Deborah or Chloe. Her tongue invaded, claiming his mouth with bruising force, a visceral declaration that cut through the chemical smells and the looming dread. It was power. It was territory marked. It was the only answer she ever gave.
The kiss was a demolition. Roxy’s lips, hard and demanding, crushed any protest Billy might have formed, her tongue a claiming brand against his. The faint chemical tang from his forgotten experiment mixed with the salt-sweet taste of her, the vinyl scent sharp in his nostrils. She broke it just as abruptly, stepping back, her chest rising and falling slightly, eyes dark and gleaming with that warehouse intensity.
"Quit stalling, Parker," she commanded, her voice rough, already turning towards the garment bag. "Suit. Up." She jerked her head towards the blue and red fabric pooled on the couch beside him. The air still vibrated with Deborah’s furious exit, the phantom slam echoing against the hum of the mini-fridge. Ashes. The word hung, acrid.
Billy stared at the Spider-Man suit. It felt flimsy, absurd. "Roxy, Deb just—"
"Deb's history," Roxy cut in, already unzipping her own plastic shroud with a sharp rasp. "Cold ash. We're fire." She pulled out the costume. Midnight blue latex, vibrant crimson accents, the stylized 'S' shield a bold promise on the chest. "Focus on the fuel." She began peeling off her leggings, the movement economical, unhurried, yet radiating a predatory grace. The soft shhhk of fabric sliding over skin was loud in the tense quiet.
He fumbled with the Spider-Man suit, his fingers clumsy. The warehouse flashed behind his eyes – Chloe’s scream, the raw humiliation on her face as Roxy forced that climax, his own complicit silence. "Chloe won't come back," he muttered, pulling the red and blue top over his head, the material clinging instantly. "Not after... what happened."
"Her choice," Roxy replied, stepping out of her underwear. She stood for a moment, bathed in the apartment's harsh overhead light, a sculpture of lean muscle and pale skin. Unselfconscious. Utterly focused. She picked up the Supergirl briefs – tiny scraps of blue latex. "She got her numbers. Her screams paid off." She stepped into them, the tight material snapping against her hips. Her fingers traced the edge of the briefs, a slow, deliberate stroke. "Premium content." The words were flat, factual, devoid of any warmth.
Billy tugged the Spider-Man mask over his head, the world narrowing to the mesh eyeholes. He felt exposed, vulnerable in the thin spandex. He watched Roxy smooth the blue latex briefs higher, the material gleaming like oiled skin under the bulb. She picked up the corset top. Blue, structured, designed to lift and separate. She turned her back to him. "Zip."
He moved behind her, the scent of her skin, clean sweat and something uniquely Roxy, filling his senses despite the mask. His fingers, encased in the red spandex gloves, fumbled with the small metal teeth of the zipper at the base of her spine. The latex was cool, slick beneath his touch. He pulled slowly, the zipper's teeth meshing with a soft, continuous zzzzip that seemed unnervingly loud, echoing the warehouse zipper Chloe had pulled. He felt the resistance of the material tightening, molding itself to the curve of her waist, the swell of her hips. He saw the faint indentations the waistband of her discarded leggings had left, now disappearing under the shiny blue confines.
The zipper reached the top. Roxy took a deep breath, expanding her ribcage, testing the fit. The corset held, emphasizing the dramatic flare of her hips against the narrow cinch of her waist. She turned.
The transformation was startling. The cheery, primary colors of Supergirl clashed violently with the cold calculation in Roxy’s eyes. The bright red belt emphasized the sharp angle of her hips, the plunging neckline of the corset pushed her breasts up into daring, impossible cleavage, the blue latex gleaming like a weaponized second skin. She ran her hands down her torso, smoothing the material over her abdomen, a gesture that was part inspection, part sensual display.
"Comfortable?" Billy managed, the word muffled by the mask, sounding absurd.
A slow, dangerous smile spread across Roxy’s face. She struck a pose, one hand on her hip, the other raised as if deflecting an invisible projectile. "Depends on your definition, hero." She dropped the pose, stepping closer. Her gaze raked over his Spider-Man suit, lingering on the chest insignia, then lower. "Red and blue. Cute." Her tone was mocking, yet her eyes held that familiar, unnerving heat. She reached out, her latex-clad fingertips brushing the spider emblem on his chest. The touch sent a jolt through the thin material. "Still thinking about Deborah? About Chloe?" She leaned in, her voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper that vibrated through his mask. "Or just thinking about this?" Her hand slid lower, tracing the defined muscle of his abdomen through the spandex, a deliberate, possessive stroke that stopped just above the waistband. Her other hand rose, fingertips tracing the edge of her own corset's neckline, drawing attention to the exposed swell of her breasts. The bright overhead light caught the high polish of the blue latex, making it gleam like cobalt glass against her skin, the crimson 'S' a stark, demanding focal point. She tilted her head, the faint scent of the new latex mixing with her own, a synthetic yet intoxicating aroma. "Well, Spidey?" she breathed, her painted lips curving into a smirk that promised chaos. "Does seeing Supergirl like this... tingle your spidey-sense?"