Chapter 8: The Proposition
The dive bar’s air hung thick and greasy, a permanent fog of frying onions, stale beer, and decades of smoke soaked into the leatherette booths. Billy picked at the congealed cheese oozing from his lukewarm burger, his gaze fixed on the laptop screen glowing between them on the sticky table. The OnlyFans Creator Partnerships message seemed to pulse with impossible promise. Featured Creator. Homepage placement. Official blog interview.
Roxy hadn’t touched her fries. She leaned forward, elbows planted firmly in rings of dried condensation, her fiery hair catching the dim neon glow from a Budweiser sign. Her eyes, sharp and calculating, scanned the message for the tenth time. "Special," she murmured, the word tasting strange on her tongue. "They want to know what makes us special." She tapped the screen with a chipped nail polish. "PlastiqueFantastique."
Billy swallowed a lump of burger that felt like sawdust. "It’s the pheromone spray, right? The… heightened realism?" He sounded uncertain, even to himself. The spray felt like a cheap trick now, dwarfed by the raw intensity they’d captured without it.
Roxy snorted, a short, sharp sound that cut through the bar’s low hum. "The spray helped kickstart the freakshow, Farmboy. But that?" She gestured vaguely towards her apartment building, invisible beyond the grimy window. "That flip? That… sound? That wasn't just your bottled horny juice. That was us." Her voice dropped, low and intense. "They felt it. Through the screen. That’s why the numbers exploded. That’s why they," she jabbed a finger at the laptop, "are knocking."
Billy stared at her. The dive bar’s mundane chaos – the clatter of dishes, the shouted order for another pitcher, the jukebox’s tinny wail – faded into a dull background buzz. All he heard was Roxy’s conviction.
"Yeah, us," Roxy insisted, leaning even closer. The scent of her shampoo – something dark and vaguely spicy – cut through the fryer grease. Her fingers tightened around his wrist where it rested near his forgotten plate. Her touch was warm, grounding. "Whatever weird alchemy happens when you," she squeezed his wrist, "put on that ridiculous cape, and I," she released him to tap her own chest, "strap on the lasso… it’s fucking lightning in a bottle. They want the lightning." Her eyes burned with a fierce, almost frightening revelation. "Billy… we need to show them exactly how deep this rabbit hole goes."
She snatched a napkin from the dispenser, the cheap paper rough against her fingertips. Without looking down, she pulled a stubby eyeliner pencil from her jacket pocket. Her hand moved swiftly, decisively, etching dark, angular letters onto the thin paper. She slid the napkin across the sticky table towards him.
Three words, scrawled with urgent intensity:
Batman. Catwoman. Tonight.
Billy stared at the napkin. Gotham’s Dark Knight. Selina Kyle, the thief in the night. A different dynamic entirely from the god-like clash of Superman and Wonder Woman. Darker. Edgier. More… intimate? The implications buzzed in his head like trapped flies. "Tonight?" His voice cracked slightly. "Roxy, the Batman suit… it’s intricate. The cowl, the armor plating… Catwoman’s whip, the goggles…"
"Details," Roxy waved a dismissive hand, already pulling her phone out. Her thumbs flew across the screen. "I know a guy. Runs a niche costume shop downtown. Mostly caters to… discerning cosplayers. High-end replicas. Opens late." She glanced up, a predatory gleam in her eyes. "We have the cash flow now, Kent. We invest." She tapped her phone screen decisively. "Sent him pics of what we need. Told him it’s urgent. Triple his usual rate for immediate pickup."
Billy blinked. The speed of her decision-making was dizzying. "Triple?"
"Cheaper than missing this wave," Roxy stated flatly, shoving her phone back into her pocket. She grabbed a cold fry, crunching it absently. "Think about it. Gotham shadows. Alleyways. That whole predator/prey vibe. Batman’s all brooding intensity, control… until Catwoman flips the script." She mimed a fluid, sinuous movement with her hand. "She’s chaos. He’s order. They want each other, even when they’re trying to take each other down. It’s… messier. More psychological." She leaned forward again, her voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. "Imagine the sound of that latex in a damp alley setting. The close-ups on the eyes through the masks. The struggle that’s half fight, half foreplay."
Billy felt a familiar heat prickle under his collar, unrelated to the dive bar’s warmth. He pictured it: the restrictive weight of the Batsuit, the narrowed eye slits, the gravelly voice modulator. Roxy, sleek and lethal in black vinyl, moving like smoke. The potential for raw, gritty intensity was undeniable. More visceral than the bright, primary-colored clash of Superman and Wonder Woman. "The alley setting…" he mused aloud. "Lighting would be tricky. Need portable spots. High contrast. Deep shadows."
"Already on it," Roxy said, tapping her temple. "Got a location scouted. Abandoned loading dock two blocks from here. Perfect graffiti. Perfect grime. Minimal foot traffic after midnight." She grinned, a flash of white in the dim light. "We go dark. Literally and figuratively. No ring lights. Just portable LEDs, bounced off walls. Gritty. Cinematic as hell."
The waiter slapped their check down on the table with a damp thud. Roxy didn’t flinch. She pulled out a thick wad of cash – earnings from the Wonder Woman upload – and peeled off several bills, tossing them onto the check without counting. "Keep the change," she said, her voice already shifting gears, focused on the next move. She stood, shrugging her leather jacket back on. "C’mon, Farmboy. Time to go shopping for our new work uniforms." She scooped up the laptop, tucking it under her arm. "And Billy?" She paused, looking down at him still seated, holding the napkin with its three-word command. Her expression softened, just for a fraction of a second. "Try not to look so terrified. You nailed Superman. Batman’s just… moodier."
Billy looked down at the napkin again. Batman. Catwoman. Tonight. The grease from his fingers was already smudging the pencil marks. He crumpled the napkin in his fist, the cheap paper crackling. Terrified? Maybe. But beneath the fear, coiling tight in his gut, was something else: a fierce, electric anticipation. He pushed himself out of the sticky booth. "Moodier," he repeated, forcing a grin that felt less awkward than usual. "Right. How hard can brooding be?"
Roxy snorted, already heading for the door. "Famous last words, Bats. Let’s move."
The humid city air hit them like a wall as they stepped out of the bar’s stale embrace. Neon signs reflected in the wet pavement, fractured streaks of garish color. Roxy hailed a cab with a sharp whistle Billy hadn’t known she possessed. As they slid into the backseat, the scent of pine air freshener battling with old vinyl, Billy glanced at her profile. Her jaw was set, eyes fixed ahead, already strategizing, visualizing. The napkin felt like a live wire in his pocket. Tonight. Gotham awaited. And whatever strange, terrifying magic happened when Billy Thompson stopped being Billy Thompson and became something else entirely… Roxy Valentine was betting everything they had that it was about to get a whole lot deeper. The cab lurched forward, merging into the river of taillights, carrying them towards costumes, shadows, and the next impossible leap.
The cab ride was a blur of flickering streetlights and Roxy’s low, urgent voice negotiating final details on her phone. "Yeah, the full Tactical Batsuit. Kevlar weave, articulated plating. And the Catwoman… Midnight Shadow vinyl, articulated tail, functional goggles. Functional. Check the seams on the cowl, Mikey. I need zero light bleed." She paused, listening, then barked a laugh. "Triple. Cash. Be there in ten." She hung up, vibrating with coiled energy. "Prep time, Farmboy. Think gritty thoughts."
The costume shop, tucked beneath a pawn shop sign, smelled of dust, ozone from a flickering fluorescent, and the sharp tang of new plastic. Mikey, a wiry man with intricate ink covering his arms, eyed them with bored professionalism as he laid out the suits on a glass counter. The Batsuit was a beast: layers of dark grey textured fabric mimicking armor plates, a thick utility belt, a cowl with imposing, sculpted ears and narrow, reflective eye slits. It felt heavy, dense, like wearing a building.
Beside it, Roxy’s Catwoman suit gleamed under the shop lights. Sleek, liquid-black vinyl hugged the dummy form, cut high on the thighs, plunging deep in the front and back. Sharp metal claws tipped the gloves. The goggles sat beside it, lenses dark and impenetrable. Roxy ran a reverent finger down the vinyl’s smooth flank. "Oh, hell yes," she breathed, a predator admiring new claws. "This is the ticket." She tossed the thick envelope of cash on the counter without counting. Mikey just nodded, sliding two large garment bags towards them. "Break a leg. Or whatever."
The abandoned loading dock was a concrete canyon choked with the ghosts of industry – rusted chains dangling from a skeletal gantry, graffiti screaming neon obscenities on stained walls, the pervasive stink of stale urine and damp concrete. Billy wrestled into the Batsuit in the back of Roxy’s battered van, the confined space amplifying the sounds of Velcro, zippers, and his own labored breathing. The cowl settled over his head like a vise, narrowing his vision to two slits, muffling sound. He felt encased, anonymous, powerful and alien. The voice modulator clipped to his throat felt cold. "Testing," he rasped, the sound transformed into a low, menacing growl. "Affirmative."
Roxy emerged from behind a stack of mouldering pallets. The transformation was staggering. The vinyl clung to every curve, absorbing the weak ambient light from distant streetlamps, making her seem like a piece of the night itself given form. Her hair was pinned up, hidden beneath the cowl that framed her face sharply, leaving only her mouth and jaw visible. The goggles reflected fractured slivers of light. She moved silently on soft-soled boots, a fluid shadow. "Well, hello, Batman," her voice purred, amplified slightly by her own tiny mic clipped near her collar, a sibilant counterpoint to his growl. "Lost your way out of Gotham’s fancy towers?"
Billy felt the character settle over him, deeper than Superman’s alien nobility. Batman was rage, control, vengeance made tangible. "This is my city, Catwoman," the modulator rumbled, the words feeling foreign, dangerous on his tongue. "You don't belong here." He took a heavy step forward, the suit’s weight lending gravity. The portable LED panels Roxy had rigged to nearby pillars cast stark, angular shadows, slicing the alley into planes of light and utter blackness. The camera on its tripod was a silent observer, its red recording light a single, unblinking eye.
Catwoman didn’t retreat. She tilted her head, a slow, insolent appraisal. "Possessive, aren't we?" She took a step closer, hips swaying deliberately. "I saw something shiny down here. Thought I'd… borrow it." Her hand moved with impossible speed, a glint of metal flashing. Not the prop diamonds they’d scattered earlier. Her clawed fingertips grazed the sculpted bat emblem on his chest. A deliberate provocation.
Billy reacted instinctively, not as Billy, but as the Bat. His hand shot out, catching her wrist with a solid thwack of armored glove against vinyl. The grip was iron, honed by years of imagined combat training. She gasped, genuine surprise flickering in the visible slice of her face. "You shouldn't touch what isn't yours," the modulator grated. He twisted, using his body weight and the suit’s leverage, intending to pin her against the cold brick wall.
But Catwoman flowed like water. She used his momentum, pivoting, her free hand lashing out. Not a strike, but a rake of claws down his ribs, the sound a sharp scritch-scritch echoing off the concrete. Pain, sharp and surprising, lanced through him – the suit protected, but the pressure was real. It broke his hold. She was behind him in a heartbeat, her breath hot against the cowl’s edge near his ear. "Fast," she murmured, the sound vibrating through the armor. "But predictable."
The dance intensified. It was a fight, brutal and efficient – blocks, grapples, shoves that slammed against the graffiti-covered walls, sending chips of paint flying. Their breaths came harsh through the masks, Billy’s a mechanical rasp, Roxy’s a panting hiss. But beneath the violence, a different current surged. Each touch lingered a fraction too long. A struggle for dominance became a push-pull of bodies straining not just against, but towards each other. The camera captured the intricate ballet: the gleam of sweat on vinyl under the stark LED light, the flex of muscle beneath armor, the desperate locking of eyes through the narrow slits and dark lenses.
Catwoman managed to hook a leg behind his knee. He stumbled, off-balance. She pressed her advantage, shoving hard. He went down onto his back on the gritty concrete, the impact jarring even through the suit. She straddled his hips, pinning his arms with surprising strength, her weight solid and demanding. "Got you," she breathed, triumph laced with something darker, hotter. Her lips, painted a deep burgundy that looked black in the shadows, hovered inches from his cowl. "What does the mighty Bat do now?"
He bucked, trying to dislodge her, but she ground down, the rigid codpiece of the Batsuit pressing against the thin vinyl covering her core. A sharp gasp escaped her, not pain. Her eyes widened behind the goggles, visible for a split second before narrowing with predatory intent. The friction, the pressure, the sheer absurdity and intensity of it – the line dissolved. Billy stopped resisting. He surged upwards, not to fight, but to capture her mouth with his.
The kiss was ferocious, muffled by the cowl, a clash of teeth and heat and desperation. The modulator distorted his groan into a guttural snarl. Catwoman melted into it, her hands releasing his arms to claw at his shoulders, her hips grinding against the hard ridge of the armor plate between his legs with increasing urgency. The sound was obscene, rhythmic: the wet slide of mouths, the sharp inhalations, the creak of stressed latex, the low thump thump thump of her moving against him.
"Off," he growled against her lips, the word vibrating through both of them. "Get this… off." His hands found the hidden zipper at the back of her suit, fingers clumsy with urgency against the slick vinyl. It hissed open down her spine. He shoved the top down, freeing her breasts, pale and heavy in the harsh LED light, nipples hard peaks against the cool night air. He buried his face in the valley between them, the rough texture of the cowl contrasting with her soft skin, his muffled groans lost against her flesh. His right hand scrabbled at the front of his own suit, finally finding the release for the codpiece. It snapped open. Then he was fumbling at the zipper on her lower back, frantic.
She helped, arching her back, pushing the vinyl down over her hips with a frantic shimmy. The suit pooled around her thighs. His freed erection pressed hot and insistent against her belly. No teasing, no preamble. The need was too raw, too deep. He gripped her hips, guiding her positioning. She rose slightly, then sank down onto him with a choked cry that echoed off the alley walls.
Full. Immediate. Intense. The fit was almost too much, breathtakingly tight and hot. Billy saw stars behind the eye slits. Catwoman threw her head back, a wordless cry escaping her throat, the cords standing out in her neck. She braced her clawed hands against his armored chest and began to move. Slow at first, a deep, grinding roll of her hips, savoring the stretch. Then faster, harder, building rhythm. Slap. Slap. Slap. The sound was different here, wetter, fleshier than the latex-on-latex of the apartment, amplified by the alley’s acoustics. Vinyl creaked. Armor plates scraped against concrete. Their breathing became ragged sobs.
Billy’s hands were everywhere – gripping her ass, sliding over the slick vinyl still covering her thighs, thumbs digging into her hip bones. He thrust upwards to meet her downward strokes, the angle deep, punishing. Catwoman rode him like a storm, her movements becoming less controlled, more frantic, a wild abandon taking over. Her cries turned into high-pitched gasps, punctuated by the relentless slap of skin on skin. She leaned forward, bracing her hands on his shoulders again, her breasts swaying, her mouth finding the edge of his cowl near his jaw, biting down through the material.
The pressure, the friction, the sheer visual overload captured by the unblinking camera – the dark knight pinned beneath the agile thief, her body a pale arc of desperate motion against the grimy backdrop – pushed them both to the edge. Billy felt it coiling, a supernova building low in his gut, amplified by the confinement of the suit, the anonymity of the mask, the raw physicality of her taking what she wanted. "Roxy," he gasped, the modulator failing, his real voice raw and broken beneath the growl.
Her real name shattered the last pretense. Her rhythm faltered. Her eyes snapped open behind the goggles, meeting his slits. "Billy…" she choked out, a plea, a surrender. She slammed down, hard. Once. Twice.
He arched beneath her, a strangled roar ripped from his throat, muffled by the cowl. The release was seismic, tearing through him, white-hot and obliterating. He felt her inner muscles clench violently around him, milking him through the pulsing waves. Her own cry was a sharp, broken sound as her body locked, trembling uncontrollably. She collapsed forward onto his armored chest, her breath coming in ragged, wet sobs against the sculpted bat emblem. They lay locked together, shuddering, the damp cold of the concrete seeping through the suit, the only sounds their harsh breathing and the distant wail of a siren.
Silence, thick and stunned, settled over the grimy loading dock. The camera’s red light still glowed, a silent sentinel. Slowly, the world seeped back in: the smell of their sweat mingling with the alley’s decay, the chill air raising goosebumps on Roxy’s exposed back, the gritty press of the concrete under Billy’s shoulders. He felt utterly spent, hollowed out, the Batsuit suddenly an oppressive shell.
"Fuck," Roxy whispered, the word muffled against his chest. She pushed herself up slightly, wincing as she shifted off him. The separation was sharp, intimate. She scrambled to pull the vinyl back up, covering herself with shaking hands. "Fucking hell." She sounded dazed, breathless.
Billy fumbled the codpiece back into place, the mechanics feeling absurd now. He sat up, the armor plates scraping loudly. The cowl felt suffocating. He reached up, unclipped the modulator, then wrestled the cowl off. Cool air hit his sweat-slicked face. He gasped, running a trembling hand through his soaked hair. Roxy had pulled her goggles off. Her eyes were huge, dark pools reflecting the harsh LED lights, her makeup smudged, lips swollen. She looked… wrecked. Beautifully, terrifyingly wrecked. "You okay?" he rasped, his real voice hoarse.
She stared at him, then let out a shaky, incredulous laugh. "Define okay. Again." She shook her head, pushing damp hair off her forehead. "That wasn't acting, Billy. That was… tectonic." She shivered violently, hugging herself. "Let's get the fuck out of this freezer before we get frostbite on our dignity. And get that footage."
Packing up was a blur of cold fingers, stiff movements, and minimal conversation. They hauled the heavy suits, the lights, the camera back into the van in near silence, the adrenaline crash leaving them brittle. The drive back to Roxy’s apartment was tense, both hyper-aware of the raw, illicit energy still crackling between them, the memory of the alley clinging like the smell of garbage.
Inside the familiar clutter of Roxy’s apartment, the contrast was jarring. Warmth, the scent of old paper and dust, the hum of the record player silent now. They dumped the gear by the door. No energy for cleaning suits tonight. Billy peeled off the Batsuit’s underlayer, down to his boxers and t-shirt, feeling exposed and drained. Roxy vanished into the bathroom, emerging minutes later in just an oversized t-shirt, her face scrubbed clean, hair damp. She looked younger, vulnerable.
They crowded onto the couch again, the laptop screen casting its familiar glow. Roxy slotted in the memory card. The footage loaded. Seeing it was like being punched. The alley looked even more oppressive, more cinematic on screen. The lighting was perfect – chiaroscuro nightmares of deep shadow and harsh highlights making the textures of the suits, the sweat on skin, the grime of the location hyper-real. The fight was brutal, beautiful, a desperate ballet. And then… them.
They watched the seduction unfold, the violence morphing into raw need. The kiss muffled by cowls, the frantic undressing, the moment of penetration captured in stark, unflinching close-up by the stationary camera – Roxy poised above him, then sinking down, the expression on the visible part of her face a mask of agonized ecstasy. The sounds were visceral: the wet slap of flesh, the choked cries, the guttural roars distorted by the modulator, Roxy’s keening gasps. It was raw, explicit, and undeniably electric. They watched themselves come apart in that filthy alley, the camera holding steady as Catwoman collapsed onto Batman’s armored chest.
Roxy exhaled shakily. "Holy shit," she murmured, her voice thick. "It’s… brutal. And kind of perfect." She scrubbed through, checking angles, lighting consistency. "No glitches. Sound is… intense. Raw." She looked at Billy. "It’s the realest thing we’ve ever done."
Billy could only nod, his throat tight. It felt like watching someone else, yet it was undeniably him, stripped bare beneath the armor. "Upload it," he said, the words rough.
Roxy navigated back to OnlyFans. The dashboard was still buzzing with notifications from the Wonder Woman upload. She clicked 'Upload', dragged the new video file. The title came quickly, tapping into the gritty vibe: GOTHAM HEAT: Catwoman Claims the Bat (Raw Alley Fight-to-Fuck 4K). Tags followed: #Batman #Catwoman #Latex #BDSM #Roleplay #Public #Hardcore #4K #Darkside. Price: $29.99. She selected the thumbnail: a freeze-frame moments after penetration, Catwoman arched back, mouth open in a silent scream, Batman’s gloved hands gripping her hips, the alley’s grime stark behind them. Publish.
The upload bar crawled. "Thirty bucks," Billy murmured, watching it fill.
"Premium fucking chaos tax," Roxy stated, leaning back. Exhaustion was etched deep into her features, but her eyes held a fierce triumph. "Now, the interview." She found the OnlyFans Creator Partnerships message, hit reply. Her fingers flew over the keys, suddenly all business. "PlastiqueFantastique confirms. Available for virtual interview. Tomorrow. 2 PM EST. Let's talk lightning in a bottle." She hit send.
The notification whooshed away into the digital ether. Roxy slammed the laptop shut with final