Cover Charge

The 808 is a familiar gut punch, every synthesized beat driving his internal organs up against his ribs and shaking them into his throat. There's people who'd rather dive face-first into Gotham harbor than deal with this kinda disco throwback atrocity amped up to eleven, but not Matches Malone—was a time that this was his church. And ask any devout, religion sinks its hooks in deep. So here he is again, shades on indoors and a suit that remembers better days, scanning the sweaty crowd for his mark. (The fire exit's on his three, bathrooms at six.)

Got tipped off by a mutual friend. Kent's snooping around his city again. Boy doesn't know to stay on his own turf.

This used to be an interesting hotspot back in the day, high rollers and bottom-feeders rubbing shoulders, but nowadays Bruce Wayne and his ilk wouldn't be seen dead in an establishment like this, not any more. That old boy's in the habit of falling down in an entirely different fashion compared to his dissolute youth, so now it's Matches who gets to be man of the hour.

Nice and sleazy quick and easy, keep it loose. Wink at the guy behind the bar (familiar, one of Falcone's picciotto?), leer at the chick draped over it (not the usual clientele, remember her face), swagger his way towards the front of the stage with a drink in one hand and exaggerated self-importance in the other. Act like you own the place and most folks'll believe it. In some respects it ain't all that different from his usual shtick—there's more than one side to that counterfeit coin.

He's jostled by a patron (nobody), spills half the cocktail on himself, half on the floor, unloads a wink and a line on the guy. "It's fine, sweetheart, I only wanted the cherry anyway, ha, ha. Maybe buy me a drink later if I'm still thirsty, if ya catch my drift."

He does. Handsy. Where the hell is Kent.

Not among this hot press of bodies. Some of them mighta clocked enough hours in the gym but none of them can touch the unearthly—none of them are him. They got the diamond-cut abs, sure, but ain't a one of em comes with a face like a summer's day.

Then the lights drop and the music changes, the dancefloor swells and surges at his back. The stage is blasted bright under the spotlights, its lone occupant a figure in a domino mask, painted-on shorts and not a stitch else.

Well, ain't this a delight.

Seems Kent's lead has tugged him in deep and dirty. Serves him right, sticking that insultingly perfect nose where he shouldn't.

As far as entertainment goes it's downright prosaic for a place like this, but that just means nobody else in the joint has eyes on him like ol' Malone does. He spits his match and plucks the cherry from its spear, squishes it between his teeth, sharp astringency of alcohol under sticky-sweet.

Kent moves like the music's trying to grab him, though fat chance of anything getting a grip with the amount of oil the kid's got smeared over his body. He's shining under the spotlights, hair slick and in his face, sweat-damp like after a fight—or like after a long, hard fuck. Yeah, that's pretty enlightening, and all of a sudden Matches feels like he could ignite as easy as his namesake.

The fact that Kent's face is set in a frown of concentration as he counts the beats under his breath does nothing to cool things down. It might read like a sultry pout to anyone else, but it ain't nothing but embarrassed determination. It's a look Matches can get behind, and he's gonna make damn sure that he does.

He dips into his pocket, licks his thumb and peels a bill from a roll. When Kent goes down onto his knees for a slow grind of his hips, rising staccato in time with the beat, Matches leans over the stage and presses a benjamin against the boy's gleaming chest.

"Got what you needed?" Matches says, one shoulder propped against the flaking doorframe. He knows what he looks like: six foot four inches of unfortunate fashion decisions stretched over shoulders like a stevedore, meticulously accessorized with enough laissez-faire so as to be an obvious misdirect. It's a different kind of intimidation. Spice of life and all that.

The rest of the dancers knew to clear out of the dingy little dressing room when they saw him coming, just Kent left lollygagging in front of the lit-up mirror and pushing his hair around like it's not beyond hope. He's in street clothes, which ain't a patch on no clothes, but that's something that can be remedied.

"Er," Kent says. "Sorry?" He puts on a naive expression behind those thick-framed glasses of his, but he ain't fooling anyone with that doe-eyed act, least of all Matches. Matter of fact, that kinda look is liable to get him into more trouble than he knows.

"I said." He shifts the matchstick from one side of his mouth to the other, shows a sliver of tongue between his lips as he does. Kent watches it happen with slow fascination. "Did you find what you were lookin' for, kid?"

Something's got him upset, and Matches grins like a shark. "No," Kent says, and now there's blood in the water. He's either too honest for his own good or too flustered to pretend he wasn't poking into business that don't concern him.

"Well, then." Matches comports himself in a gentlemanly fashion, shooting the door bolt before bearing down on his quarry. "Maybe I can be of assistance."

"Uhm," Kent says, more a gulp in his throat than a real word. Matches is ninety percent sure he's never heard a more nervous sound in his life, and he meets a helluva lot of nervous people in his line of work. "Listen, Mister..?"

"Malone. But most folks call me Matches, since I usually got a—"

"Match. Yeah. Mister Malone. Thank you for, for…" For the hundred bucks, presumably. "But I'm not interested in—"

"In my help. Mm, gotcha. Thing is, what I think is this: you need all the help you can get." He's crowded Kent against the wall, got to leaning in real close, and he can pinpoint the exact moment the kid gets the full force of his aftershave. "You can shake that ass for extra value meals all the livelong day, but I guarantee you nobody around here's gonna drop a dime on your guy."

"Why's that?"

Ah, lookit that. He's dug his resolve out from the bottom of his art student manbag, got himself a thunderous frown and that stubborn set to his jaw. The game is on. Matches brings a heavy hand to rest on his hip, thumb sliding into a belt loop. He barely even flinches.

"Cause they don't know shit, either. This place is softcore, kid. First stop for the aspiring stripper cause you don't gotta get your dick out when you dance, more's the pity. High turnover, lots of through traffic. You think the big guys are gonna hobnob in earshot any old waif who can gyrate worth half a damn? Ha!"

"That—that's bull." Kent stumbles a little over the words when Matches plucks the tail of his remarkably plaid buttondown out of his jeans. Bet the boy scout tucks the damn thing into his underwear. "I had it on good—my source is reliable."

"I guarantee you he ain't, not if he sent you here," Matches says, and slides a palm under Kent's shirt, against the unreal silk of his skin. He lowers his voice. "Sounds to me like he's the type to play games. That a fair assessment, you think?"

Kent just stares at him, halfway to looking suspicious. Christ, his eyes are so blue, it ain't natural.

"Me, though," he carries on, "I'm a straightforwards kinda guy. I got what you're looking for, and you got something I like. I propose an exchange of…" he clicks his tongue, lets two fingers curl under the waistband of Kent's jeans. "Goods."

Kent startles like someone smacked him on the ass. His ears go pink and he opens his pretty mouth so wide that Matches half-expects hayseeds to fall out.

Gotcha. Finally twigged. "Hey." Matches snaps his fingers in front of his nose. "Space cadet. Whatcha say, we got an understanding here?"

"Oh," Kent says. He's gone still, all his unsurety blustered off someplace. "Oh, yeah. Now I understand."

"Sweet." He wets his lips, lets the match drop out of his mouth and gathers the back of Kent's shirt, pushes in to kiss him, slow and filthy and with way more tongue than is polite on a first date. Kent makes a fragment of a sound; his hands come up onto Matches' shoulders and he really gets into it for a second, even pushes his knee between Matches' legs.

"You," Kent says when they pull apart, and he sounds like he can't decide whether to catch his breath or bitch at him so he's doing both at once. "Unbelievable. You couldn't just—"

Matches catches his chin, goes to suck the words right outta his mouth, and the sound Kent makes is definitely frustration this time, no matter how hard he is against Matches' hip.

"I got up there and danced," Kent says. Matches grins in the face of his hectic indignation. "Twice. And you're telling me—"

"I ain't telling you nada unless you put a cork in it. I didn't come here to listen to your personal lamentations, capiche?"

Kent finally laughs at that, sweet as anything. He shakes his head. "How does anyone take you seriously?"

Matches tucks his chin, raises his eyebrows and winks at Kent over the rim of his sunglasses. The eye contact makes his cock twitch. "I got me a reputation," he drawls. "In fact, I got several."

"Uh-huh," Kent says. "And which reputation are you trading on tonight?"

"Turn around," Matches croons in his ear, "and I'll show you."

"...here?"

"What, you gonna take me back to your place?"

Kent gives him a wide-eyed once over, the very picture of polite dismay. "Okay, yeah, here is fine."

"What would the neighbors think," Matches says, mostly under his breath.

He only has to manhandle Kent a little, and to his credit he doesn't complain a whole lot, just shifts his elbows against the vanity, bows his back when Matches rests his palm between his shoulder blades. He's hot like a fever. Shivering like he's got one, too.

Matches leans over him and yeah, maybe that gets him tight flush against his ass, enough that he can feel his own damn pulse down there, but he just wants to get his mouth to Kent's ear. He catches his eye in the mirror but as it happens, doesn't need to say anything. Kent gives him a small nod. Doesn't even break the mood. Good kid.

"You feel that?" he whispers, and lets his hips roll, nice and slow. Kent makes a delectable sound. "Your fault, sweetheart." He slides his hand under Kent's shirt, over the vertebrae of his spine, spreads his fingers across the solid muscle of his shoulder. He makes a low noise of approval. "You looked so good. Almost wanted to climb up on that stage and fuck you right there in front of everyone."

Kent exhales sharply, pushes back against him.

"Oh, you like the sound of that, huh? Into some kinky shit?"

"Not—not really. I just wasn't expecting you to be... like this."

"We can't all be romantics, kid." Matches glances at the mirror again. Kent's looking down, eyes half-shut and mouth half-open and he bites at his lower lip as Matches watches him. God damn, but he's either putting on a show or he doesn't know how stunning he is. It's hard to decide which option is hotter.

He keeps one hand pressed at Kent's back and unbuckles his belt with the other, pushes his jeans down roughly. Kent tries to spread em but the denim traps his legs together, and that's just fine, just perfect, because Matches has a plan and that plan involves heavily muscled thighs and the bottle of baby oil that's on the vanity.

He wraps his hand around the inside of one of said thighs, feels the muscles tense into solidity. "Shh," he says absently as he shimmies Kent's underwear off, pushes the elastic as far down as he can get it.

He's hard as hell already, and Matches reaches around to cup his balls, lets them rest heavy in his palm before squeezing them gently, then harder, until Kent makes a strained noise. He drops em to take hold of his cock, which at least makes him stop shifting on his feet. Kinda tormenting, that.

He grabs the oil and makes a mess with the stuff, pouring it over Kent's ass so it trickles down between his legs, makes everything slick and shiny, soaking into the waistband of his jeans. He unzips and Kent leans, looks back over his shoulder. If he's expecting Matches to whisper sweet nothings in his ear while they do this, he's about to be disappointed. Then again, maybe he just wants to cop an eyeful.

Matches slides himself between Kent's thighs. Kent says, "oh," kinda flat. So he pulls back, adjusts, pushes so the head his cock nudges at his balls, and the next oh is a lot more interested. Not exactly the Hallelujah chorus, but it's early days yet.

On his next thrust he pinches at the warm skin of Kent's thigh. He chokes and jerks into Matches' other hand, the one that's still got a grip on his cock, and then the son of a bitch clenches.

"Holy Jesus fuck, kid," Matches hisses. "That is tight. Could crack walnuts with these thighs. Crush a watermelon. A man'd be crazy to—ah, Christ."

His head between those thighs, Christ. He grabs at Kent's hip and ruts between his legs, slip-slide of oil gliding him between the hard press of those insane muscles. Kent's gasping and rolling with it, got some kind of preternatural ability to keep rhythm despite Matches' inability to keep it slow or fast for any distance, eager like it's the first time he's gotten his dick wet. It doesn't take long before he's coming with about as much ceremony as he affords most things he does, which ain't much. He's vaguely aware that Kent is laughing.

He staggers back, turns him, lifts him onto the vanity with the strength in his shoulders and leans over him. Kent stares up with his insolent mouth open in a smile, all blue eyes and pink cheeks and Matches jerks him without mercy.

"Bruce," he says, and he's grabbing at his hair, fingers dragging through the Brylcreem, breath deepening. He knocks Matches' shades off his face and they clatter to the floor. He pays them no heed, just kisses, hard and nasty until Clark is panting into his mouth, coming over his fingers with a shocked noise.

He slumps, cheek pressed against Bruce's. "Okay, wow," he says, catching his breath. Bruce can feel his heartbeat drumming even as he sits up, sets his shoulders in that stubborn way he has. "Okay. You owe me a name."

"Hm." Bruce wipes his hands on Clark's shirt and watches the amused disgust play across his face. He bends down, retrieves Matches' sunglasses. "How 'bout you gimme your number. I'll send you the details."

"No," Kent says, in the kind of tolerant tones reserved for speaking to a misbehaving child. "Come on, play fair. You already have my number."

Matches raises his eyebrows. "Is that right," he drawls, and twists another match from its book, rests it between his lips. "Don't think you got mine, though." He holds his hand palm up, crooks his fingers: give me your phone.

Kent hands it over with the bare minimum of eye-rolling. Jesus, this kid is high maintenance. Matches leaves oily smears on the screen as he taps in his number, calls himself 4 A GOOD TIME both as a reminder and also to put himself at the top of the contacts list, and hands Kent his phone back. He knows he ain't gonna call—and even if he did, he wouldn't know about it. No point in a burner if you keep it. It chimes when he sends over the dirt Kent was after, but Kent doesn't check it, just absently touches his pocket and nods like he can trust whatever Matches tells him. He ain't gonna last five minutes in this city.

"Well." Matches straightens himself out, combs his hair back with both hands. He grabs Kent's chin, rubs his thumb over his lower lip, admires his reddened mouth. "It's been swell, sweetcheeks, but don't you think it's 'bout time you flew on home to Metropolis?"

"Maybe." Kent's eyes narrow. "But first I have to go have a word with my source. I'm pretty mad at him."

"Sounds like a real piece of work."

"He sure is," Kent says. He frowns, then leans to kiss him hard on the mouth, bends the match against his teeth. "But for all his trouble—I've got say, he's matchless."