DCEU Prompt Post #1

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Welcome to Round One of the DCEU Kink Meme!

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FILL: Man of the Hour (2/4ish) -- Clark Kent/Matches Malone, undercover as a stripper

[(Anonymous)]

I don't even know who to apologize for this, nonnies.

---

* (C) *

It was a warm summer night, and the city still had a few good hours of light left in it until the streets in the Bowery turned into a neon-drenched wonderland. Clark hustled his way down an alley to the Red Room’s side entrance--a metal door along a featureless wall. He stepped through into pandemonium. A blast of cold air hit his skin, and then the door clicked shut behind him.

The backroom of the Red Room was overflowing. Women and men preened in front of mirrors, turning their faces this way and that, to check the integrity of their contouring. A man nearly took his arm off backing into Clark, but he stumbled back with just enough counter-force to give the impression he’d been knocked over.

Clark adjusted his glasses, and got a few apologetic, “don’t mind him, he’s an asshole,” from the ladies at the mirror.

“Can I help you, honey?” One of the make-up stylists yelled over the crowd.

Clark raised his garment box overhead, pointed at it, then at himself.

“There are no changing rooms, but if you’re feeling shy, there’s a few empty corners in the hallway,” she shouted back, motioning toward a short, dark hallway with a spray bottle.

Clark ducked into an alcove, and undressed as quickly as he could. He’d gotten over the burn of embarrassment for changing in public after his first month as Superman, but he’d never striped out of his clothing this slowly where he could be seen. And never without the suit on underneath. He stripped down to the pair of extremely tight cyan-blue compression shorts he’d thrown on this morning, then wound the layers of gold filigree around his waist, and secured it with a few tiny safety pins. He pulled the single-piece bolero jacket and the false front (that was meant to look like a high-waist corset, but would pull away with the jacket), with its intricate gold braiding and modern epaulets.

The last piece of the costume was a Venetian macramé mask, finely worked with gold leaf and cultured pearls, that covered his whole face. The straps had been modified at his request to include a full mesh that slid over the back of his head. It covered nearly every identifying feature--his hair, his lips, his eyes.

Clark wasn’t ready for it yet, so he held the mask loosely in his hands as he elbowed his way through those still wriggling into their skin-tight costumes to reach the curtain that separated the room from the side of the stage. Phaedra, the VIP manager drummed her fingers on the clipboard. They had talked on the phone, but he had never met her in person. He wasn’t surprised that she barely looked at him, her attention on the commotion behind him.

“Name?” She barked, when Clark opened his mouth to ask her a question.

“Clark--”

“Stage name,” she corrected less harshly.

“I’m not a regular to these kinds of things, sorry,” he apologized. “I don’t have one.”

“All else fails, go with--” She glanced over at Clark, who was not wearing his glasses. “Your eyes are--” she sucked in a surprised breath, and Clark held his. Had she recognized him, he thought frantically, had she recognized Superman? Phaedra blinked and shook her head slightly, as if she was dismissing a crazy idea. “Ohhhh, you’re going to be a hit tonight.”

Clark blushed. “Afraid I’ll be performing in a mask.” He lifted the mask just a fraction.

“Their loss,” she said sincerely. “How about Azure?”

Clark nodded his assent, and she jotted it down. Her head rose again, and she prompted, “song choice and length?”

“Oh, um. ‘Capsize,’ Five minutes.”

“Great. Give your song to the DJ, and you’re set. Azure will be up third.”

“Excuse me,” Clark tried again. “I don’t remember if you recall, we spoke on the phone a few weeks ago about a particular patron--Matches Malone?”

"Yeah, you’re the one interested in Matches?” Her gaze grew evaluative. “Stingy on the drinks, but obliging. Very selective. That's him, table 3."

Phaedra blocked his path with the clipboard. “Matches doesn’t ever go in for the dark-haired ones. Don’t be disappointed if he says no.”

“I just wanted to say that I’m a--fan.” Clark forced himself to laugh something light and airy, something that someone who didn’t expect to get shot down would laugh, and he slid the mask over his face. Phaedra returned his grin, like they were in on a great joke together.

“Be sure to be back in the wings in twenty minutes,” she said, and turned to the next contestant who had finished putting themselves together.

No retreating now, Clark reminded himself, and drew back the velvet curtain.

* (C) *

The Red Room’s clientele was in transition between the old guard, who’d moved over from the tittybars and the strip joints that had shut down as the Bowery gentrified, and trendier young professionals who came in singles and pairs to unwind after a hard week of treading water in Gotham’s volatile business scene. Gotham was perennially playing catch-up, based on the whims and trends of its sister city, and Clark remembered this week the stock market had taken a beating as LexCorp and Wayne Enterprises were both forced to back out of a massive government contract due to accounting irregularities. The Red Room was fuller than usual (though Clark only knew this through second-hand accounts), and not a single table was empty.

Table 3, toward the center of the main club floor, was currently occupied by Matches Malone. Clark didn’t need to pull out the picture he’d left with his messenger bag to know it was him. The man looked like a two-legged hurricane of bad taste.

A bit of flirting with the county clerk had netted Clark a DMV photo where Matches leered at the camera in a pinstripe jacket, Hawaiian shirt, and thick aviators.

Matches Malone’s current get-up was hardly better. He was dressed in a purple satin button-up, a leather jacket that was a size too small, tight black jeans. The top buttons showed off a chest that glinted with an odd material, not skin, but it sure looked like skin. Two thick gold chains hung around his neck, a small cross hiding behind the ostentatious jewelry. He chewed the end of a matchstick, rolling it side-to-side with his teeth, caressing it with his tongue. One of his arms hung over the back of the low velvet chairs, tense despite the studied carelessness of the man’s pose.

Clark knew next to nothing about who Matches Malone actually was. The man had no credit cards in his name. No rental history. No address. No email address. No data plan. He wasn’t so much as tagged in a person’s Instagram. In short: Matches Malone had nothing that made him a person by any modern definition of the word.

He knew two things for sure about the man: he drank Dewar’s & soda, and he had the focus of a hawk. From the moment Clark stepped out from the side entrance, Matches eyes never left him.

Another man sat at Matches’ table, heavyset, in his 50s, with similarly slicked-back hair. They laughed and touched glasses. Clark listened, wondering if he could actually be that lucky; would Matches discuss business openly? Clark’s hopes dimmed when he realized they were exchanging tips on the track.

Then they both stood, Matches slapped the other man on the back, and he was alone. Matches slammed back the whiskey & soda, and tracked Clark the remaining few feet as he came up to the knee-high table.

Matches watched him across the table.

Oversized mirrored aviators covered the upper half of his face. A thin Clark Gable mustache with two days of stubble transformed his face into something uncanny. The dappled gray hair at his temples--he felt the familiarity/unfamiliarity of the face thrum through his mind, and he tried not to think about it too closely.

“You, ah, look lik’a strip-a-gram matador,” was the first real thing Matches said to Clark. The accent was a surprise. Mid-century Gotham, like something you’d hear in gangster flicks, thick and grating.

Clark ignored the jibe. “Lucky me,” he said cheekily, “that’s the look I was going for.”

Matches throat bobbed, and he rolled the match to the other side of his mouth.

“Sorry kid, Imma, not entertainin’ this evenin’.”

Clark’s face flushed behind the mask, but he stood his ground. He either needed Matches to agree to meet him later, or he needed to be sure that he’d made enough of an impression, that after the competition Clark could approach him again with better results.

He angled his body so the bolero jacket fell open, showing a hint of his collarbone and his pecs as he shrugged. His body had a strange way of catching and holding the light, something he’d always thought was one of those smaller perks of catching and storing energy like a solar battery. The shadows slid over him like honey.

“Sure I’m younger than you?” Clark tried to make it sound like something other than genuine curiosity, and failed. In his three weeks of planning, why, why hadn’t he practiced flirting?

He pulled the match out of his mouth and stared at it for a moment, before he let his tongue claim it off his palm. “Kid, at my age, you ain’t dressin’ up in masks and throwing yourself at strange men,” was the response, when it came at last.

“Go on,” Matches bit out, as he settled himself on the low-backed corner chair, the satin button-up rippling over his body, pulling across his torso.

“If you change your mind--”

“Talk to Phaedra, I know the routine,” Matches said, waving his hand in a clear dismissal, as he looked past Clark to another table--perhaps at another potential client.

“Mr. Malone.” Clark nodded at him, and slid himself out of Matches’ space.

Shot down. It wasn’t a setback; it just meant that he had to commit to the dance competition.
At least part one of the plan was complete: he had made contact with his target, and he knew Clark was interested. As he wound his way towards the DJ booth to deliver his song for the competition’s queue, Clark wondered why he hadn’t bothered to give Matches his name.

* (M) *

Dewar’s whiskey had no kick to it. Mix it with soda, and it barely tipped you past sober. Matches preferred something stronger, but the Red Room required his concentration. As Maroni’s man on the street, he was exposed when he conducted business in the open. Sure he’d led a charmed life, with neither hide nor hair of the Bat onto his operation, but rival mobs had been known to feel umbrage at Matches Malone making deals in their territory. So he sucked down amber-colored soda water, and made nice with the local establishment. Kept his head down, tipped well, and made himself as likeable as an aging hometown boy could be.

A server passed Matches a new drink, and made a weak joke to get his attention. With his mouth closed, the boy was almost pretty, but he had dark hair and a clean-cut jaw. Matches didn’t have a type. He liked them red-headed, or blond, or with corn-rows--anything but boy scouts. He gave the server a slow but dim smile, like he didn’t know or didn’t care about what he was offering.

The server caught the message, and left without kicking up a fuss.

Boy scouts. Christ.

Matches adjusted himself discreetly.

The masked kid, now, he’d been interesting. He’d pushed into Matches space without an invitation, and he’d stayed there until he’d said his piece. He looked ridiculous in the gold braided bull-charming get-up. Hadn’t even dropped his name. Like whatever word would have tumbled out of his mouth, it would have meant nothing.

Matches said he wasn’t entertaining tonight, and that had been true at the time. But, well, maybe tonight he needed it.

(The personal calculus Matches used for need felt obscure, but definitive. Matches only took what he was offered, and he always paid for it. A man in Gotham had to have a code, or he had nothing.)

The lights dimmed, and a spotlight lit up the stage. The pole dance competition began.
Matches finished the highball, leaving the new one untouched. He watched the first two dancers with an abstract curiosity that felt strange to Matches, but familiar to a deeper part of himself.

He almost missed the announcer’s, “--pleasure to introduce you to Metropolis’ newest sensation, Azure!”

The sound of a lone percussion came up as the dancer stepped lightly into the spotlight, between the two poles. He hovered at the edge of the light, movements precise but jerky, like a gaudy, nervous hummingbird. The light caught on all of the gold filigree, rippling over his toned physique. Suddenly, the jacket didn’t seem so ridiculous to Matches.

Then the bass kicked in, and with a clean shrug of his shoulders, his jacket was off, and around the back of his arms, pinning them together. He vaulted himself backwards into a handstand, and wrapped his legs around the bar to pull himself in an arc against it. The matador jacket fluttered to the stage.

You move forward, I move backwards

And together we make nothing at all...

The routine began in earnest, Azure’s body flexing against the pole as he swung himself around it in a pirouette. He landed soundlessly. Matches felt more than saw Azure’s head swivel towards his table.

(Surely the kid couldn’t see through the spotlight.)

Azure swung himself back up onto the pole with only his upper body, as though he was more comfortable in the air than on the ground. With a deftness of movement that would make an Olympic gymnast weep, the kid wove a complicated pattern around the bar with a steady gyration of his hips.

Matches swallowed roughly, and reached for the second glass.

When Azure darted between the two bars, turning his torso in mid-air, Matches mouth dried up. He took a rough swig of whiskey.

That effortless half-turn, his arms moving down his side, the impossible weightlessness of his body.

He had seen that turn before. He had studied it.

Me and my song

We’ll do it alone

Azure pulled himself into a tight spin, arching his back, walking off the bar on his hands.

The song faded into a long outro, and in a study of contrasts, Azure’s smoothness in the air faded into another bird-like paces on the ground, as he tested the boundaries of the spotlight, never leaving the light, but never finding home within it either.

“Azure, ladies and gentlemen!”

The crowd gave up wild applause, and Matches set the now-empty glass on the table.

Azure wasn’t your average pole dancer, then. He was one of them--what was the pundits calling them, metas. Metahumans. In his city.

He had a problem on his hands, one he hadn’t been aware of coming. He wasn’t the type to have plans inside of plans. Matches barely could juggle the moving parts of Maroni’s organization without facetime with the head honcho himself.

But something dark and terrified in him told him that Matches Malone was the right tool for this job. Matches swallowed heavily, and threw a tip down on the table. He’d need to cancel the rest of his meets. He didn’t know why, exactly--but he knew that his life depended on hustling Azure out of the city.