The private rehearsal studio was four walls of after-dark anesthesia: blackout glass, no clock, the only sound the low hum of HVAC and the intermittent tap of condensation on steel window mullions. At this hour, the world outside was dead.
Even the main soundstage had been scrubbed of life, its crews run off with a half-case of beer and a desperate need to not be the last one caught by the Joker after hours.
The room had been prepped for the post-heist sequence—Catwoman and Joker, alone, aftermath and mutual betrayal coded into the script, but the set was bare of anything but two chairs (dark leather, shine dulled by age), a fake-marble coffee table, and a single lamp with a shade that bled a circle of amber across the carpet. The rest of the place was shadow and negative space.
Marcus was already there.
He did not sit.
He stood in the triangle of illumination, purple velvet coat open over a green-black shirt and matching gloves, the makeup applied so precisely it looked like it had been inked by a machine, not a human hand. Under the lamp, the white of his skin was shocking, bordered by lines sharp enough to cut.
The mouth, always too red, was drawn to a point that seemed to drag the cheeks into a perpetual sneer. The hair was up tonight, every strand slicked and lacquered, the green deep as aquarium moss in a chemical bath.
He did not look at the door when she entered.
He just waited.
Anne paused outside, one hand pressed to the steel of the frame, waiting for the chill to fade from her palm before she crossed the threshold. She was in full Catwoman: black leather and latex suit zipped to the throat, seams stitched with silver, the mask pulled up to show her face but not the hair, which was pinned tight in a coiled chignon.
The heels were four inches, the tread rubberized for actual traction—props, but functional. She'd had to fight the wardrobe girl to keep the stilettos; the girl had said, "Nobody wears them for a fight scene," but Anne knew better. The suit made her feel safe, armored, but also—tonight—off-balance. Every breath pressed tight against her ribs.
She entered.
The door closed behind her, so quiet it might have been intentional.
Marcus still did not turn.
"You're late, Miss Kyle," he said, voice stripped of warmth.
Anne felt the pulse at her throat, immediate. She shrugged, tried to keep the movements loose.
"I'm always late," she said,
"You should have planned for it."
"Incorrect," he said, pivoting to face her with an abruptness that shattered the momentary illusion of safety. He took three steps forward, measured and perfect, until the lamp cast a shadow behind his head that was almost a halo, black and infinite.
Anne crossed to the second chair and did not sit. She kept the table between them, hands on the back of the chair.
"You wanted a rehearsal," she said.
"Let's rehearse."
He nodded, slow, never breaking eye contact.
"Let's."
A beat.
She tried to read the lines in her head, but they wouldn't come. Instead, she saw only the last two days of him on set: the bar scene, the interrogation, the way he'd spoken soft into a man's ear before breaking his nose against the bar. She remembered the laugh, the way it had twisted the air even from across the room.
She cleared her throat.
"The script—"
He cut her off, the voice soft but with a steel thread.
"Do you really think scripts matter to people like us?"
Anne said nothing.
Marcus let the silence pool, then broke it with a razor's edge.
"We could run the lines, Selina. Or we could do something dangerous instead."
He took another step forward, closer now, just beyond the circle of table. The cologne hit her—a scent of leather and smoke, but there was a base note under it, chemical, sharp.
Anne drew herself up, tried to square the space between them.
"Danger's for people with something to lose," she said, letting Selina's sarcasm tint her own fear.
"I've already spent my nine lives."
His mouth twitched, but he did not smile.
"I think you've got at least one left."
He circled, slow, the coat trailing behind him like a shadow. She followed, always keeping the table between them, letting her hands glide along the smooth lacquered edge. The room was small, but he made it seem smaller with every lap.
"Is this still rehearsal?" she asked, voice low.
He shrugged, gloved fingers splayed against his chest, mock-theatrical.
"That depends. Can you tell when you're pretending anymore?"
Anne's skin prickled. The words were too close to what she'd texted herself the night before, a secret only her phone and a dark room should have known.
He must have seen it—something in her face. He pressed the attack:
"You're not scared of me," he said, voice dropping to a hush.
"But you should be. Not because I'm dangerous, but because you're not as different as you want to be."
She exhaled, sharp.
"Is that your therapy voice? I don't buy it."
He stopped moving, but the tension in his body was kinetic, ready to unspool at any second.
"You could," he said.
"You could buy it, you could sell it, you could break it into pieces and bury it under the floorboards. You could do anything, if you wanted to."
Anne felt the heat at her cheeks. She wanted to snap back, something cutting, but the line stuck in her throat.
He saw it.
He always saw it.
"Sit down," he said.
It was not a request.
He sat first, elbows on knees, hands folded, posture perfect.
She sat opposite, the leather cold even through the suit, her legs automatically crossing at the knee. She tried for bored but knew she looked cornered.
He leaned forward, slow, until his face was level with hers across the table. The eyes—green, but ringed in kohl and shadow—never blinked.
"You ever think about how easy it would be?" he asked.
She shook her head, barely a movement.
"Easy to what?"
He smiled, this time full and predatory.
"To stop pretending. To do the thing you actually want. Even if it's the last thing you ever do."
Anne felt her hands clench into fists on her lap.
He reached out, but did not touch her. Instead, he pointed one gloved finger and traced the air between them, as if drawing a cut in the empty space.
She watched the finger, not the face. It would be safer, she thought, to watch the hands.
His voice softened again.
"You ever wonder if you're the hero, or if you just like the costume?"
Anne swallowed.
Her tongue felt thick in her mouth.
He leaned back, the chair creaking.
"Maybe I don't need to be the hero," she said.
"Maybe it's enough just to not be the villain."
"Maybe," he echoed, but the tone said he didn't believe a word of it.
The rehearsal was off-script now, but neither of them cared.
He stood, coat sweeping behind, and walked a half-circle around her chair. He did not touch her—never touched her—but the air shifted as he passed. The scent followed, dense and specific.
He came to rest behind her, so close she could hear the faint brush of fabric as his hands flexed, opened, and closed.
He spoke into the back of her head, voice low, intimate.
"You ever get tired of being watched?"
She didn't answer.
Her pulse thumped in her ears.
He moved to her side, then crouched, elbows on his knees, face level with hers again but now in profile.
"You can run," he said, "but you can't hide from yourself."
Anne felt the words vibrate at her collarbone, then lower.
He straightened, offered a hand.
"One more time, from the top?"
She took it, gloved hand in gloved hand. His grip was cool, firm, unyielding.
He pulled her to her feet, but held her hand longer than necessary. Their faces were inches apart.
He did not break character, even for a second.
"Ready?" he said.
She nodded, felt the mask slide into place over her fear.
They stood in the center of the circle, faces close, breath mingling. The lamp above painted their shadows onto the floor in sharp, jagged outlines.
He smiled, wide and real.
"After you, Miss Kyle."
She smiled back, the script finally returning to her like a lifeline.
But nothing about this would ever be safe again.
...
He watched her as if waiting for Selina Kyle to blink first. The lamp's yellow halo cast shadows under her eyes, turning the whites into shards of moon in a midnight face. The SYSTEM HUD flickered at the edges of his sight, parsing micro-facial expressions, calculating breath intervals, tracking the dilation of her pupils.
Anne took her mark.
She stood, arms folded across her chest, every line of her posture calculated to say: I'm not impressed. But her fingers twitched against the latex, and the way she shifted her weight to the outside of her heel did not escape him. The suit, so perfectly fitted, amplified every tremor beneath.
He smiled—small, private—then let the Joker through in a slow, bright pulse.
"You ever think about what happens next?" he said, voice so low it forced her to listen.
She hesitated, then:
"You mean after you lose?"
He tilted his head, slow, hair gleaming in the lamplight.
"Kitten, I'm not here to lose."
The script said she should respond with a clever retort, something about leverage and power, but Marcus didn't want her cleverness. He wanted the pulse that beat under it, the edge of real fear, or real want.
He closed the gap by one step, watching as her chin rose a half-inch in compensation. The SYSTEM overlay pulsed: [BREATH RATE: +17%]. He let his voice drop lower, a caress disguised as threat.
"You're trembling," he said.
"It's adorable."
She flared.
"Maybe it's the air conditioning. You know this place is a health hazard, right?"
He grinned, showing teeth.
"Don't lie. It's me."
A SYSTEM alert flashed in the corner: [EMOTIONAL IMPACT: INCREASED]. He read it, filed it, but didn't let it break the flow.
He circled again, boots soundless on carpet, the velvet coat catching shadows with every turn. When he came to rest beside her, he stood close enough that she would have to move first to keep him out of her space.
She didn't. She held, but the tension in her jaw was a dead giveaway.
He leaned in, just enough for her to feel it.
"You ever get tired of pretending you're not like me?"
Her lips parted, a fraction.
"You think you know me?" she said, voice thin with effort.
He let his laughter out, soft and clean, then brought his mouth within a breath of her ear. "I know you better than you want."
The SYSTEM scrolled: [DISTANCE TO SUBJECT: 7.2cm]—he calibrated closer, another half-inch.
"You'd burn the world just to keep warm, wouldn't you, kitten?"
She inhaled, sharp. The SYSTEM mapped the spike, [OXYGEN UPTAKE: +22%], but Marcus didn't need the numbers to see the shiver at her neck.
He raised his hand, slowly, until the gloved fingers hovered just above her jawline. He didn't touch, not yet. He traced the air, mapping the contour of her face by negative space, letting her decide whether to flinch.
She didn't.
He let his hand fall.
"You're out of lines," he said.
"You could improvise. Or you could run."
Anne found her voice, barely.
"Maybe I'm just waiting for you to get tired."
He stepped back, not out of mercy but strategy.
"We don't get tired, Selina. That's the problem."
She glared at him, then looked away, but the moment lingered—her body still angled toward him, as if waiting for the next command.
Marcus let himself admire her for a moment. The suit, the mask, the way she wore her discomfort like armor. The SYSTEM whispered at the periphery, but he forced himself to ignore it. This was too good for data.
He ran the scene again, this time with no script at all.
He lunged, fast, and braced both hands on the arms of the chair behind her, boxing her in without contact. The movement yanked her attention back to his face, eyes wide.
"Want to know the secret?" he said, voice a purr.
She didn't answer, but her gaze was locked.
He leaned in, so close the words hit her skin before her ears.
"The secret is, we all want the same thing. We just hate admitting it."
Her hands, clenched a moment before, relaxed, fingers curling around the edge of the seat.
He watched her—really watched her—and saw the flicker of vulnerability under the mask.
The SYSTEM HUD pinged: [IMMERSION: 95%].
He almost laughed.
Almost.
Instead, he whispered:
"You're not scared of me. You're scared you might actually like what happens next."
Her pulse throbbed at the neck—he could see it, could have counted it in real time. The SYSTEM counted for him, anyway: [HEART RATE: 124 BPM].
She didn't blink.
He straightened, let her see the white of his teeth, and stepped back to give her the illusion of control.
She stood, slowly, then walked a half-circle around him, measured, deliberate.
"Maybe I just know how to pick my monsters," she said, but her voice was softer now, as if the lines were no longer hers to command.
He felt a swell of something—pleasure, maybe, or victory.
He advanced again, slow, until she was pressed between the back wall and the sweep of his coat.
He placed both hands on the wall behind her, caging her without touch.
The room was silent but for their breath.
She looked up at him, a challenge and a plea in equal measure.
He let her wait.
Then, softly:
"Smile."
She did.
He walked away, and the SYSTEM lit up with triumph.
(New an Improved R18 scene, let me know how it turned out)
She watched him walk away, every muscle in her body strung out and buzzing. He made it three paces before she snapped, lunging across the gap to seize the velvet lapel at his chest. She twisted, half fury, half self-dare, yanked him back toward her so hard the Joker's posture buckled, just for a moment.
"Where do you think you're going?" she hissed—half Selina, half raw Anne.
He didn't flinch. The gloved hand shot out, pinning her wrist against the wall, the pressure exquisite and total. His other hand found her waist, fingers biting into leather hard enough to leave a bruise.
She tried to wrench free, failed, tried again, and was answered with a twist that spun her face-first against the steel panel. The impact was real; she tasted blood at the inside of her cheek, and her eyes blurred with tears she'd never admit.
He pressed close, so his entire body caged hers. She thrashed once, felt the sweep of his coat at her knees, the cold of the wall at her face, and the heat of him everywhere else.
His voice came, velvet and dangerous, right at her ear:
"You wanted dangerous, kitten?"
Her retort stuck in her throat, replaced by a ragged gasp as he forced her arm higher, wrist bent and locked against the concrete. The angle should have hurt, but what hurt more was the way her hips ground involuntarily against the curve of his thigh.
"Let go," she said, but it wasn't a command.
He did, but only to let her spin, catching her by the throat with gloved fingers soft enough not to bruise but firm enough to control the air. She gripped his forearm, nails digging through the mesh, then slid her hand up to his face.
Her thumb smeared the line of his red-painted mouth, dragging the pigment up his cheek in a jagged second smile.
The Joker grinned, mouth stained, and shoved her back, overbalancing her so she crashed into the nearest chair. It toppled, bounced off the table, and spilled her onto her ass. She scrambled upright, expecting him to pounce, but he waited, coat flared, watching with that wolf-stillness that said: You move first.
She did.
She kicked the overturned chair at him, a black arc across the carpet. He side-stepped, caught the leg mid-air, and used the momentum to sweep the table away, sending it skidding into the shadows. The lamp nearly toppled, but held, casting everything into a dizzy amber strobe.
He was on her then, a blur of hands and teeth and heat. He grabbed her by both wrists, forced them above her head, pinned her to the wall. The latex squeaked against her skin, the leather at her shoulders creaking with every shift. His face was inches from hers, the breath between them humid, animal.
"Not scared?" he murmured.
She spit in his face, the glob catching the paint just above the lip.
He didn't blink.
He licked it off, slow, deliberate, the gesture obscene and holy.
Her knees buckled.
He laughed—quiet, private, a sound made for her and her alone—and let go of her hands. She clawed at his shirt, raking her nails down the front. The fabric tore, exposing a stripe of bare, pale flesh. She bit him, hard, just above the clavicle, tasted the salt and the faint sharpness of sweat and cologne.
He shuddered, then seized her jaw in one hand, squeezing until her mouth opened in a gasp. He kissed her then, brutal and perfect, teeth scraping the inside of her lip until she tasted blood and something else she could not name.
They fought their way to the couch, a ballet of violence and need. He bent her backwards over the arm, the angle obscene, one hand twisted in her hair, the other at her throat.
She tore at his gloves, desperate for skin, and when she found it—cool, dry, shivering with aftershock—she dug in deep, scoring crescents into the muscle.
He rewarded her with another surge, lifting her bodily and throwing her down onto the cushions. The force knocked the air from her lungs. She bucked under him, legs wrapping around his hips, and for a moment she thought she might have the upper hand.
She raked her nails down his shirt, leaving jagged trails through the soaked fabric, then hooked her fingers at the seam and tore. The rip was animal, a snarl of cotton and thread, the Joker's chest bared in a single, reckless gesture.
He laughed into her mouth, the sound vibrating into her throat, then seized the collar and ripped it the rest of the way himself, scattering buttons across the floor like vertebrae.
Her fingers plunged into the mess of tattoos and sweat and paint, clawing at him, desperate for traction. She wanted to score him, mark him, rip away the mask and see what lived beneath it.
He let her, knowing it would only end one direction, and bent forward, tongue pressing against her jaw in a line of bruising, paint-stained kisses.
She retaliated by biting his shoulder, teeth meeting flesh, and he moaned—high and sharp, almost a giggle if you didn't know better. The sound made her shudder, an electric current straight to the core, and she'd barely registered it before he spun her, slamming her against the wall, hands at her waist.
He clawed at the zipper of her suit, found it, and yanked. The metal screamed as it tore open, the teeth gnashing at her spine. She gasped, the cold air hitting her back and her breasts all at once, nipples pebbling instantly, her skin awash with goosebumps.
He didn't slow, didn't hesitate, just peeled the suit off her in one practiced motion, exposing her, burning her with the look in his eyes.
She tried to fight him, to turn the tables, but he was ready, pinning her hands above her head with one gloved fist. His other hand found the thin black fabric of her bra, twisted, and with a single motion snapped it in two.
She'd barely noticed the sound of the elastic breaking before he buried his mouth in the hollow of her throat, sucking a bruise into the soft skin until she thought she might scream.
She kicked at him, he caught her leg and threw it up around his hip, grinding her against the wall, the pressure obscene and perfect. One hand at her wrist, the other at her thigh, he levered her up, holding her weight effortlessly, forcing her to look him in the eyes. She hissed, tried to spit another challenge, but he kissed her again, biting her lip until she tasted blood.
He pulled his own pants open, the motion rough, and she heard the sharp clatter of his belt buckle against the floor. He was hard already, cock straining, and she knew he'd been waiting for this, that he'd been holding back for her sake, and now the holding back was over.
He thrust into her, his cock pounding into her pussy with a relentless, brutal rhythm. There was no gentleness, no seduction—just a raw, carnal challenge.
How much could she take?
How hard, how deep before she broke?
She met each thrust with her own force, her hips bucking against him, her nails digging into his shoulders. Their bodies were slick with sweat, their breaths coming in ragged gasps.
He fucked her on the couch, his hands gripping her hips with bruising intensity. She wrapped her legs around him, urging him deeper, harder.
They tumbled off the couch, crashing onto the floor, taking a lamp with them. The bulb shattered, sending the room into darkness, except for the faint glow of exit signs and an emergency strip above the door.
She clawed at his face, her nails dragging through his makeup, leaving wild streaks of red and black across his Joker paint. He bit her shoulder, his teeth sinking into her flesh as he marked her, his thumbs pressing hard into her hipbones, leaving bruises that would show tomorrow—if she survived tonight.
He flipped her onto her stomach, his hands gripping her ass as he entered her from behind. She gasped, her fingers clawing at the carpet as he fucked her with renewed intensity.
His cock filled her completely, each thrust sending waves of sensation crashing through her body. She could feel every inch of him, every ridge and vein as he slid in and out of her.
He hooked an arm around her waist, pinning her to the floor, and with his other hand reached down, not even pretending civility—just the Joker's own version of rude, mechanical tenderness. He worked his fingers along the hot, swollen line of her sex, finding her clit with a practiced, vicious efficiency.
His thumb circled it in unison with the hammering rhythm of his cock, each thrust and press calibrated to a feedback loop of stimulus and response. Anne's moans were staccato at first, then rising, then a continuous, strangled sound, her entire body tensing beneath him as she teetered on the edge of something feral.
He watched her face. He'd learned to read the language of pleasure and pain, every twitch and flicker of her eyes a preamble to surrender. She tried to snarl at him, to spit another insult, but all she managed was a guttural gasp that dissolved into a whimper.
Her nails raked down his back, scoring lines through the smeared makeup and sweat, and she arched off the carpet, desperate for more, for harder, for whatever depravity he'd give her.
He leaned in, mouth at her ear, teeth grazing the lobe.
"Don't pretend you don't want it," he hissed, each word a goad.
"You love it. You love what it makes you." His fingers tightened, working her clit faster, and the effect was immediate: her thighs clamped around his hips with a bruising force, trapping him, daring him to finish what he started.
He obliged. He fucked her deep, relentless, one hand digging into the muscle of her thigh as his hips slammed against her ass, the other still tormenting her clit.
She was sobbing his name now—not Joker, not Marcus, but the sound of it was blurred, shredded by pleasure and humiliation and the abject loss of control. He could feel her pussy tighten around his cock, the involuntary spasms ratcheting the friction to a fever pitch.
"Say it," he whispered, lips slick against her temple.
"Beg."
She bit down on her own fist, tears streaking her cheeks, shaking her head.
"No."
But her voice broke, the denial hollow.
He slowed his hand, teasing, threatening to pull away.
"Beg or I stop."
She thrashed, desperate, then spat:
"Please. Fuck. Please, don't stop."
The plea was raw, stripped of all artifice, all Selina bravado burned away by the heat of it.
He rewarded her, then—harder, deeper, faster—each thrust calculated to push her closer to the precipice. She came with a violence that startled them both, her body convulsing so hard it almost unseated him.
He rode it out, savoring every buck and tremor, his own orgasm ricocheting up his spine with an intensity he'd never allowed before. The world pitched to white, a blackout of sensation, and for a moment the only thing that existed was the shuddering, shared ruin of their bodies.
With a final, savage thrust, he sent her over the edge. She came hard, her body convulsing as she screamed out her release. He followed soon after, his cock pulsing as he spilled himself inside her.
He collapsed on top of her, his body shaking with the force of his own orgasm, his mouth pressed against her pulse point as if to drink in the aftermath of their furious coupling.
The only sound was breath.
In the dim, her eyes adjusted. She could see the Joker's face, now smeared with her lipstick, a second smile painted over the real one. His eyes were closed, but the lashes fluttered with afterglow.
She wanted to say something—anything—but there were no lines left in the world for this.
He opened his eyes, watched her for a long, silent beat.
Then, without prelude, he kissed her again, soft this time, a benediction and a threat in equal measure.
The SYSTEM, wherever it lived, pinged one last time: [IMMERSION: 100%].
She smiled, teeth stained with blood and lipstick, and thought:
This is who I am.
This is what I want.
She turned her head, pressed her mouth to his ear.
"Goodnight, beautiful," she whispered.
He laughed, and it was the only answer she would ever need.
...
[Okay I've decided to put a target out there! If you want more chapters then gotta trade for power stones! I don't know if 50 per extra chapter is fair but let's start with that for now. You can complain here if it's not and let me know! Next I will also trade youa chapter per 5 extra reviews... seems excessive but we can change it later if it's too much but it seems achievable if you really want extra chapters.
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