Fic: Flip Side | DCU | Hooker!Jay/Matches Malone | NC-17 | 1/1
Title: Flip Side
Fandom: DCU
Pairing: Hooker!Jay/Matches Malone (& Jason/Bruce)
Rating: NC-17
Word Count: 4,054
Prompts: For 50_darkfics: Match, Anonymous, Mighty, Rule/Ruler, Forced, Clamps, Wax, Tight, Masterpiece, Slave, Non-Con (in that exact order!)
Summary: It's way too cold for Jay to be out here like this, so Matches does something about it.
Disclaimer: DC and WB own everything, the schmucks.
Author's Notes/Warnings: Fic in eleven parts, written for pornday the Seventh! Takes place post-death-and-resurrection, so Jay is over 18. Warnings for filthy acts, language (and the butchering of it), really unsafe sex, and what *looks* like dub-con, but isn't. Potentially triggery. Identity porn, ahoy!
Flip Side
I. Matches
It's way too cold to be out here like this, Jay knows damn well, but a kid's gotta make a living, right? Even if it is pushing freezing out, his breath puffing out almost as thick as the smoke from his second cig of the last hour, the only way to make his quota is to stand here and look pretty, his jeans strategically ripped and his lips slicked up with the shiniest gloss he could find.
Leaning against the lamp post to display himself, he can't help the shiver that shoots down his spine at the icy touch of the metal at his back, the cold getting him easily through his hoodie jacket.
“You look cold, kid.”
Jay barely suppresses a startle at the warm breath that ghosts over his neck, trying to straighten himself casually as he stubs out his cig with a boot heel. “Maybe,” he says cautiously, eying the guy that managed to sneak up on him. Too fucking slow, Todd. Fucking cold. “You lookin' to warm a kid up?”
The stranger leers at him from behind huge aviator sunglasses, a matchstick clenched between his teeth and one corner of his thinly-mustached lip curled up, and he nods slowly with a subtle flash of a full money clip, starts to shrug his jacket off. “Here, don't want ya' to freeze your ass off,” he offers, draping the ugliest green plaid sport coat that Jay's ever seen over his shoulders, along with a thick, heavy arm. “C'mon, kid. Let's get you good and hot.”
Thinking this guy must be the skeeviest old man he's ever met, Jay tenses, but fuck, it's too damn cold to stay out here.
A buck is a buck, and a warm room is a warm room.
II. Motel 6
A warm room turns out to be the same kind of nondescript crap motel room he's gotten used to in the years he's done this; threadbare carpet, cigarette burns on the bed spreads, a full ashtray, take-out containers and empty beer cans all over, the reek of sweat and day-old Chinese food lingering. In short, it's a real pit, just like every other flea-bag motel he's been brought to in this part of Gotham. Hell, he's probably even been in this very room before. That scorch mark on the wall does kinda look familiar.
Feels almost like home. Heh.
“Make yourself comfy, kid, while I go freshen up,” the skeevy old man says, nodding toward the big bed before he disappears into the bathroom.
Jay lets himself shudder.
Slipping the ugly plaid jacket off along with his hoodie, he drapes them both over a chair and flops down to pull off his boots. He'd go ahead and get naked, too, but he's still freezing. Maybe Mister Skeevy will take it easy on his clothes.
Maybe he'll even get a meal out of this, too. Just not day-old Chinese, he hopes.
A kid can dream, right?
III. Muscle
Jay's stretched out on one of the beds, hands behind his head and ankles crossed, when Mister Skeevy comes out of the bathroom a few minutes later, looking more or less freshly showered-though Jay sure as hell didn't hear the shower running-his hair slicked back, wet, and his cheap button-down shirt opened over a wife-beater. Guy's apparently got a lot goin' on under the tank, though; probably hired muscle for one of the big-shots running Gotham, Jay thinks, with that kind of meat on him. Scarred, too, from what he can see of the guy's chest, and that clinches it.
All the better to just go with the flow, get the guy's rocks off, get his payment, get the hell out.
Firmly squashing his urge to shudder, Jay gestures with a jerk of his head. “'M fucking freezin', here. You gonna warm me up, or what?”
Mister Skeevy leers at him again, lowers his stupid aviator sunglasses just enough to eye him with a cold, beady stare for a moment, and starts forward, unbuckling his wide leather belt.
Jay stares back with fascinated horror as the matchstick slides from one side of the guy's mouth to the other and back again, Skeevy's tongue flashing thick and red between his too-white teeth, his whole mouth shiny with spit. It takes a Herculean effort to keep from shivering.
IV. The Rules
Before Jay can so much as take his eyes off the damn matchstick hanging out of Skeevy's mouth, the guy is on him, hauling him up from the bed by his arms-fuck, this dude is strong-until he's sitting, back against the wall. Jay can't even get his hands up to defend himself against the sudden wall of sleaze bag, and that warm breath is on his skin again, tickling close to his ear.
“Here's the rules, kid. You do what I tells ya' to, ya' get paid. Capiche?”
Nodding dumbly, Jay feels the matchstick pull upward against his cheek, slowly. “Y-yeah.”
“Good,” Mister Skeevy says, voice suddenly light and cheery. But his words don't match up to anything at all, when he hauls Jay around again, grabbing and pulling with swift, rough movements.
Jay finds himself seated sideways in Skeevy's lap, the old guy rubbing his big hands over Jay's arms as if to warm him up at last, and he can't help the shiver that takes him over, quivers from his head to his feet almost violently.
The rubbing stops. “Cut that shit out. You ain't that cold no more.”
Forcing every muscle in his body tense, Jay does as he's told.
V. Look at Me
Jay can't deny that he's well and truly warmed up by the time one of those big hands lands in his lap, the hard heel of a palm pressing down against him, and oh man, he isn't even hard, and that's not gonna go real far with Mister Skeevy, he can tell.
“The fuck is this?” Skeevy snorts, seeming amused. “You a boy whore or what? I ain't payin' you to just suck my dick, kid.”
Closing his eyes, Jay tries to will himself hard while the old guy rocks his hand against him. He doesn't expect the slap that lands on his face then, only feels the sudden absence of pressure on his crotch and the slight breeze just before the hand finds his cheek.
Jay tries to bury his head, his skin stinging. “S-sorry.”
“Fuckin' look at me.”
Jay bites the inside of his own cheek, his heart racing with fear he'll never admit to.
“I said fuckin' look at me!” Skeevy shouts, and his big hand wraps around Jay's throat, forcing his head up.
His eyes pop open involuntarily as he gasps for breath.
“Already breakin' the rules, kid. Let's see what we can do about this, then, huh?”
Skeevy takes the matchstick out of his mouth, laughing wheezily when Jay flinches, and flicks it away. Releasing Jay's throat, he turns him on his lap until he's halfway straddling him and halfway down on the bed. It's awkward, but in this position, the strategic rip in Jay's jeans lays wide open, a gaping invitation. Leaning over him, Skeevy props himself up on a hand and works the other into Jay's pants.
To Jay's surprise, the hand is actually pretty warm against his bare skin-no tightie whities on work nights-pressing and rubbing slow circles, callouses dragging just right. He takes a shuddering breath and lets it out even slower.
“Yeah, that's it,” Skeevy says, like he's trying to encourage him. “Relax, kid. Shh, just relax.” Leaning closer, he gets his mouth on Jay's neck, all wet and slick, and licks, sucks. It's fucking disgusting, but... but Jay's brain is starting to shut down just a little, blood rushing south.
“Yeah, kid, that's perfect.”
VI. Vise
Jay doesn't even realize he's grabbed the guy's shoulders until his fingertips start to hurt. The vague realization is unsettling, but that seems to be the whole nature of Mister Skeevy, so there's no point fighting it.
“Just go with it, kid,” Skeevy purrs in his ear, his voice like motor oil on asphalt, and Jay just gives up and rolls his hips, pressing up into the guy's touch.
That's when he feels Skeevy's dick against his hip, hot through both their pants, and-Jay swallows automatically-really fucking thick.
“Yeah, kid.” And Skeevy shifts, rolls his much wider hips against Jay's, breathes against his neck before sucking at it again. “Yeah.”
Jay reminds himself again, a buck is a buck, and hopes the guy has enough lube for what he's packing. But while he's fighting the urge to tense again, his mind trying to keep up, Skeevy pulls his hand out of Jay's pants to work open his own.
“You gonna participate in this, or what?” the old guy snickers, grabbing one of Jay's hands and tugging it down to wrap it around his dick.
Holy fuck, Jay was right.
Swallowing again, he nods, tries not to look at Skeevy as he starts to stroke him, his hand barely wrapping around the dude's shaft. Skeevy shivers a little, himself, and lets out a little grunt of pleasure, thrusting into Jay's hand. “Got soft mitts, kid, good for jacking a guy off, y'know?” he says, breath hot on Jay's face.
Jay can't help himself. “I use a good moisturizer,” he says brazenly.
“Bet you do,” Skeevy chuckles. But then he grunts again, pushing himself up and away. “Takin' too fuckin' long,” he mumbles.
And just as Jay absently mourns the loss of the dick in his hand and the body heat against him, Skeevy grabs him up and gets his hands under Jay's shirt, yanking it up and off.
“Been around the block, huh, kid?” Skeevy taunts him, before working his hands over Jay's chest and abs, kneading and pressing thick fingertips into his lean muscles and brushing across way too sensitive nipples. “'Bout as scarred as I am. We should form a club or somethin'.”
Jay tries to jerk out of that touch, not so cool with being ogled so fuckin' openly, but Skeevy just grabs his arms again, manhandles him up and around, presses him down face first into the pillow. Struggling against the sudden loss of air from his lungs at the impact, Jay shivers again.
“Said cut that shit out!” Skeevy commands him, pressing him harder into the pillow with a broad palm across his back. “Hold the fuck still.”
Doing as he's told again, Jay tries to concentrate on breathing while Skeevy grabs his wrists and pulls them back behind him, hands like vises clamped and secured firmly. He feels the bed rise briefly and one of Skeevy's hands disappear for just a second before that heavy weight is back on the mattress and the cold of metal bites into his wrists with a twin set of clicks.
Oh, fuck.
This is so not in Jay's pay grade. Fuck, fuck, fuck!
VII. Molten
“Up on your knees,” Mister Skeevy orders, hands free to yank at Jay's hips to get him to comply.
Jay goes with the pull, rising up on his knees until Skeevy's hips slam against him, dick poking him hard through his jeans, Jay's shoulders and face sliding against the rough bed spread fast enough to burn a little.
“Oh yeah, that'll do just right,” Skeevy murmurs almost to himself then, before reaching around to undo Jay's pants and tug them down over his ass and to his knees.
Jay falters a bit when his jeans are yanked off unceremoniously, leaving him unbalanced, but Skeevy grips his hips again and pulls them flush together. He feels the thickness of the old guy's dick sliding against his crack, and once again hopes against hope that there's a shit ton of lube stashed somewhere.
He doesn't have long to wait, though, when Skeevy withdraws again, and suddenly there's warm breath against his ass, fingers digging into his flesh and pulling his cheeks apart. The first swipe of the old guy's tongue over his ass hole is hot as fuck, like someone's poured molten wax over him, and he can't help squirming, whimpering.
The firm squeeze on his ass stills him, though, and he realizes foggily that he's muttering curses under his breath, fuck, fuck, fuck, please, yeah, fuck, over and over again, and that ain't exactly in Jay's repertoire. Usually his begging is all act. Not this. Not-
When that hot tongue pierces him, spreads him open, slick, it's like he's had a freshly burned candle shoved up his ass, and he just can't help the cry of pleasure that rips itself from his throat.
VIII. Virgin
Soon enough there's a thick finger pressed into Jay alongside Skeevy's tongue, one of the old guy's hands still squeezing an ass cheek tight, and Jay forces himself to resist the urge to push back. More, please, fuck, more!
“Impatient little fucker,” Skeevy says, withdrawing from Jay's ass just enough to swipe that tongue over his loosened hole and shove three big fingers in all the way to the second knuckle.
“You wish,” Jay says shakily, enough blood drawn away from his brain to pool heavy in his dick and balls hanging between his legs that he's feeling brazen again.
Skeevy slaps him hard across the ass, pulling out his fingers and shifting on the bed behind Jay. “Don't gotta wish it, kid. You're the one squirmin' like the little whore you are. Fucking beggin' for it, ya' slut.”
And Jay hears Skeevy spit into his hand, loud and wet-Fuck, he ain't got any lube! his mind reels; he ain't even got a condom on!-hears the squelch of so much spit being slicked onto the old guy's dick, and feels those hand clamp around his hips again, jerking him back.
The first press of Skeevy's fat dick against his ass hole is like somebody tryin' to work a tennis ball into him, and he can't help trying to pull away from it, fucking quota be damned; he don't get paid enough to wind up in a hospital with a torn ass and a sudden case of the clap, or worse.
“Take it easy, kid,” Skeevy laughs, yanking him back again.
Jay whimpers when the head of the old guy's dick pierces him, forcing its way inside. It's so fucking hot, too dry, fucking huge, threatens to rip him right open. And then Skeevy rolls his hips, sliding in deeper, and Jay whimpers again at the utter enormity of the dick in him, filling him to what feels like his damn tonsils. Never been so damn full in his fucking life.
There's a spitting sound again, and finally the ride smooths out, the rest of Skeevy's dick sliding in easily. He pulls out a little, works some more spit into the action, and-
Oh, fuck, yeah....
“Fuckin' tight, kid,” Skeevy murmurs, pulling almost all the way out, spitting again, thrusting in harder. “Like a goddamn virgin. 'S a wonder nobody's loosened up that gorgeous little hole yet. Gotta break you da' fuck in!” he finishes, slamming in all the way until Jay feels Skeevy's balls tight up against his own.
A cry of pleasure and pain rips itself from Jay's throat, and he draws in a surprised breath when Skeevy grabs the links between the handcuffs on his wrists and pulls, one hand still on his hip. His shoulders ache with the sudden backwards strain, his back arching as the guy hammers him.
“Yeah, yeah,” Skeevy mutters. “Fuck, yeah.”
IX. Work of Art
It doesn't take long after Skeevy's worked up a rhythm, pounding Jay's ass, for Jay to start to feel that tingle in his legs that lets him know he's gonna blow soon. “Fuck, please,” he whimpers-can't do much beside whimper anymore, with a dick the size of a baseball bat shoved up his ass-and he's surprised when Skeevy actually gets a hand around him to pump his cock in a tight fist.
“Yeah, kid. C'mon and come for me.” Leaning close over him, the old guy whispers in his ear harshly, “You knows the fuckin' rules.”
Body shaking, Jay complies without so much as a thought, ruining the bed with his come. Stars ignite behind his eyelids as he squeezes them shut, and he rides out the shock of it, Skeevy driving him in turn, hips jerking.
“Fuck, kid,” Skeevy bites out, his voice as tight as his grip. “Fuck!” And with a final slam, he screams out his own pleasure, Jay feeling the pulse of the fat dick in him as Skeevy empties himself into Jay's ass.
Everything goes fuzzy for a second as Jay tries to recover, feeling the dick slide out of him, and his knees finally give and let him collapse to the bed, falling into the puddle of his own come.
“Jesus fuckin' Christ, kid,” Skeevy breathes, leaning over Jay and kneading his now-bruised ass cheeks again. “Should see yourself.” He drags his softening dick over Jay's ass, spreading a trail of come all over, and Jay can feel him shiver, the bed quaking with it. “You're a fuckin' work of art, kid, you know that? A goddamn masterpiece.”
Slapping his ass and chuckling, Skeevy rises from the bed and steps away.
Jay has just about enough brain power left between the bliss coursing through his veins and the ache in his ass and shoulders to hope that this was worth at least that much, because he ain't gonna be able to work for a fuckin' week, much less sit up.
That is, assuming Mister Skeevy lets him the hell outta' these damn cuffs!
X. Let's Do This Again Sometime
Instead of freeing him, Skeevy leaves him cuffed on the bed as he wanders into the bathroom to wash up, and Jay can't quite help the stab of panic that lances him when he hears the water running. Fuck, dude's just gonna leave him like this, he fucking knew it!
But he gathers up whatever self-control he has left, his brain finally starting to kick into gear again, and gets himself in check. He can get outta' this. He's done it before, once. The cuffs had been just a little loose, and he didn't have too much trouble slipping them.
These, however-oh fuck, oh fuck-are pretty damn tight, he realizes, testing them. He manages to turn over onto his side to get a better look at the room, see if there's anything he can use to get out of the cuffs, and whaddaya know? The key to the cuffs is right the fuck there on the nightstand.
Halle-fuckin'-lujah.
Breathing a heavy sigh of relief, he pushes himself up-harder than it seems-and works his way around to get a hand on the key. The tiny piece of metal slips into his fingers easily, and slowly, carefully, he twists his arms to get the key to the lock on one of the cuffs.
CLICK.
An even bigger wave of relief washes over him, flooding him, and he pulls his wrist free of the broken circle of metal and brings both hands to his front, unlocks the other side and tosses the cuffs, rubs his sore wrists.
It's then that the door to the bathroom opens and Skeevy steps out, this time actually looking properly showered and dressed in clean-albeit ugly as fuck-clothes, his aviators still weirdly in place over eyes that Jay has absolutely no fucking desire to see, thank you very much.
There's a fresh matchstick hanging between his teeth as he leers at Jay, crossing his arms over his huge chest.
“Shoulda' taken the key with me, I see,” he chuckles. “Didn't I tell you to fuckin' stay put?”
“No,” Jay bites out, scrambling for his clothes as a spike of adrenaline hits him square in the chest. “Just pay me and I'm outta' here.”
Skeevy barks out a harsh laugh, then reaches into a pants pocket and draws out his money clip, starts flipping through the bills with his thumb. “Let's do this again sometime, kid,” he muses, looking more at Jay than at the money. “Maybe I'll keep ya' a couple'a days, cuff ya' up good and tight and hide the key. You could be my little cabana boy, lay ya' out by da' pool. Whatch'a think about that, huh, kid?”
Jay swallows. “Sounds fuckin' fantastic,” he lies.
But Skeevy catches his sarcasm easily, and scowls, before his expression turns to a grin and he tosses the whole clip at Jay. “Keep the room for the night, kid,” he says, moving to grab up his ugly plaid jacket and head for the door. “Get cleaned up; there's plenty towels left, and the other bed ain't been slept in. I'll have the maids come clean this other shit up.”
“Wait, no-” Jay starts to protest, but Skeevy waves him down with a broad sweep of a hand as he pulls the door open.
“They won't give a shit, kid. Just go with it. It's too fuckin' cold to be out there on a corner, anyway.”
Jay eyes him warily; he's been thrown out of worse places than this before, and for far less.
Skeevy just laughs. “Who do ya' think owns this model establishment?” And with a swift move, he's gone, the door clicking shut behind him.
Dropping onto the bed and resolutely ignoring the feel of come still dribbling out of his ass, Jay pulls the wad of money out of the clip and starts counting, his eyes widening as the total rises.
Four fucking thousand dollars in huge bills.
Holy shit.
Just who the hell was that sleaze ball?
His mind spinning, Jay tucks the money into his jeans pocket and heads into the bathroom after triple-locking the door.
On the counter by the sink, there's a stack of neatly folded clothes waiting for him in just his size-jeans, t-shirts, boxer-briefs, pajama pants, even a sweater and socks-next to a fresh, unopened pack of his brand of cigs and a black Zippo.
Jay smirks to himself as he strips and gets in the shower. The water spits at him from the rusted shower head, but that's just fine. In fact, it's fucking perfect.
XI. Morning
The smell of fresh coffee and really clean sheets wakes Jason slowly, cluing him in to the dawn of a new day, and he stretches languorously in the bed, blinking against the sunlight peeking in through the curtains. It's too fucking bright, but he can deal with it, he figures.
“Look who decided to finally wake up and join the world,” a smooth, deep voice says, and Jason realizes Bruce is sitting in a tall chair by the window, sipping a high-end coffee in a to-go cup with a Wayne-Tech hand-held computer in his lap. There's another cup on the table, steaming lazily, and Bruce looks like the cover of fucking GQ, all pressed and sleek in a suit and tie and shining wingtips.
“You watching me sleep?” Jason grumbles halfheartedly, raising an eyebrow as he sits up in the motel bed. “That's pretty skeevy, Bruce.”
Bruce has the audacity to laugh loud and full at that, and sets his coffee and hand-held aside, standing and stepping over to the bed. “You had a long night. Least I could do was check up and make sure you were okay,” he says, sitting next to Jason and running a hand through his sleep-mussed hair.
Jason presses into his hand, almost purrs at the heat and strength there. “Yeah, yeah,” he says, the words coming out more like a sigh of contentment as he absently notes that the room has been cleaned to spotless while he was dead to the world. “Could'a let me sleep in, you know. 'M fucking sore.”
Laughing again, Bruce leans over and kisses him quick, all gentle and easy, his fingertips wrapping around the nape of Jason's neck. “You ought to be.”
A snort, and Jason smirks. “Better be careful, B, people are gonna think I went and got my ass raped.”
Bruce's expression stills, his face still close enough that Jason can see the minor irritation from the mustache glue on his upper lip. “I could never.”
Jason can't suppress a shiver at that, seeing the open caring there in Bruce's eyes, all naked and spread out before him. It's too fucking much to take, so he pulls back, returning a mischievous look, and says, “So, where're you taking me for breakfast?”
Bruce smiles. “Some place with a dress code. I brought you a suit.”
Spotting the garment bag hanging on the back of the door, Jason laughs. “Yeah, ritzy it is, then. I can handle that.”
“Good,” Bruce says, rising from the bed and going to retrieve the garment bag. “Because we've got a flight to Hawaii in two hours. You're already packed.”
A slow grin, and Jason shakes his head as he slips out of the bed. He's really fucking lucky these things have a flip side.
~*~*~*~
Fandom: DCU
Pairing: Hooker!Jay/Matches Malone (& Jason/Bruce)
Rating: NC-17
Word Count: 4,054
Prompts: For 50_darkfics: Match, Anonymous, Mighty, Rule/Ruler, Forced, Clamps, Wax, Tight, Masterpiece, Slave, Non-Con (in that exact order!)
Summary: It's way too cold for Jay to be out here like this, so Matches does something about it.
Disclaimer: DC and WB own everything, the schmucks.
Author's Notes/Warnings: Fic in eleven parts, written for pornday the Seventh! Takes place post-death-and-resurrection, so Jay is over 18. Warnings for filthy acts, language (and the butchering of it), really unsafe sex, and what *looks* like dub-con, but isn't. Potentially triggery. Identity porn, ahoy!
Flip Side
I. Matches
It's way too cold to be out here like this, Jay knows damn well, but a kid's gotta make a living, right? Even if it is pushing freezing out, his breath puffing out almost as thick as the smoke from his second cig of the last hour, the only way to make his quota is to stand here and look pretty, his jeans strategically ripped and his lips slicked up with the shiniest gloss he could find.
Leaning against the lamp post to display himself, he can't help the shiver that shoots down his spine at the icy touch of the metal at his back, the cold getting him easily through his hoodie jacket.
“You look cold, kid.”
Jay barely suppresses a startle at the warm breath that ghosts over his neck, trying to straighten himself casually as he stubs out his cig with a boot heel. “Maybe,” he says cautiously, eying the guy that managed to sneak up on him. Too fucking slow, Todd. Fucking cold. “You lookin' to warm a kid up?”
The stranger leers at him from behind huge aviator sunglasses, a matchstick clenched between his teeth and one corner of his thinly-mustached lip curled up, and he nods slowly with a subtle flash of a full money clip, starts to shrug his jacket off. “Here, don't want ya' to freeze your ass off,” he offers, draping the ugliest green plaid sport coat that Jay's ever seen over his shoulders, along with a thick, heavy arm. “C'mon, kid. Let's get you good and hot.”
Thinking this guy must be the skeeviest old man he's ever met, Jay tenses, but fuck, it's too damn cold to stay out here.
A buck is a buck, and a warm room is a warm room.
II. Motel 6
A warm room turns out to be the same kind of nondescript crap motel room he's gotten used to in the years he's done this; threadbare carpet, cigarette burns on the bed spreads, a full ashtray, take-out containers and empty beer cans all over, the reek of sweat and day-old Chinese food lingering. In short, it's a real pit, just like every other flea-bag motel he's been brought to in this part of Gotham. Hell, he's probably even been in this very room before. That scorch mark on the wall does kinda look familiar.
Feels almost like home. Heh.
“Make yourself comfy, kid, while I go freshen up,” the skeevy old man says, nodding toward the big bed before he disappears into the bathroom.
Jay lets himself shudder.
Slipping the ugly plaid jacket off along with his hoodie, he drapes them both over a chair and flops down to pull off his boots. He'd go ahead and get naked, too, but he's still freezing. Maybe Mister Skeevy will take it easy on his clothes.
Maybe he'll even get a meal out of this, too. Just not day-old Chinese, he hopes.
A kid can dream, right?
III. Muscle
Jay's stretched out on one of the beds, hands behind his head and ankles crossed, when Mister Skeevy comes out of the bathroom a few minutes later, looking more or less freshly showered-though Jay sure as hell didn't hear the shower running-his hair slicked back, wet, and his cheap button-down shirt opened over a wife-beater. Guy's apparently got a lot goin' on under the tank, though; probably hired muscle for one of the big-shots running Gotham, Jay thinks, with that kind of meat on him. Scarred, too, from what he can see of the guy's chest, and that clinches it.
All the better to just go with the flow, get the guy's rocks off, get his payment, get the hell out.
Firmly squashing his urge to shudder, Jay gestures with a jerk of his head. “'M fucking freezin', here. You gonna warm me up, or what?”
Mister Skeevy leers at him again, lowers his stupid aviator sunglasses just enough to eye him with a cold, beady stare for a moment, and starts forward, unbuckling his wide leather belt.
Jay stares back with fascinated horror as the matchstick slides from one side of the guy's mouth to the other and back again, Skeevy's tongue flashing thick and red between his too-white teeth, his whole mouth shiny with spit. It takes a Herculean effort to keep from shivering.
IV. The Rules
Before Jay can so much as take his eyes off the damn matchstick hanging out of Skeevy's mouth, the guy is on him, hauling him up from the bed by his arms-fuck, this dude is strong-until he's sitting, back against the wall. Jay can't even get his hands up to defend himself against the sudden wall of sleaze bag, and that warm breath is on his skin again, tickling close to his ear.
“Here's the rules, kid. You do what I tells ya' to, ya' get paid. Capiche?”
Nodding dumbly, Jay feels the matchstick pull upward against his cheek, slowly. “Y-yeah.”
“Good,” Mister Skeevy says, voice suddenly light and cheery. But his words don't match up to anything at all, when he hauls Jay around again, grabbing and pulling with swift, rough movements.
Jay finds himself seated sideways in Skeevy's lap, the old guy rubbing his big hands over Jay's arms as if to warm him up at last, and he can't help the shiver that takes him over, quivers from his head to his feet almost violently.
The rubbing stops. “Cut that shit out. You ain't that cold no more.”
Forcing every muscle in his body tense, Jay does as he's told.
V. Look at Me
Jay can't deny that he's well and truly warmed up by the time one of those big hands lands in his lap, the hard heel of a palm pressing down against him, and oh man, he isn't even hard, and that's not gonna go real far with Mister Skeevy, he can tell.
“The fuck is this?” Skeevy snorts, seeming amused. “You a boy whore or what? I ain't payin' you to just suck my dick, kid.”
Closing his eyes, Jay tries to will himself hard while the old guy rocks his hand against him. He doesn't expect the slap that lands on his face then, only feels the sudden absence of pressure on his crotch and the slight breeze just before the hand finds his cheek.
Jay tries to bury his head, his skin stinging. “S-sorry.”
“Fuckin' look at me.”
Jay bites the inside of his own cheek, his heart racing with fear he'll never admit to.
“I said fuckin' look at me!” Skeevy shouts, and his big hand wraps around Jay's throat, forcing his head up.
His eyes pop open involuntarily as he gasps for breath.
“Already breakin' the rules, kid. Let's see what we can do about this, then, huh?”
Skeevy takes the matchstick out of his mouth, laughing wheezily when Jay flinches, and flicks it away. Releasing Jay's throat, he turns him on his lap until he's halfway straddling him and halfway down on the bed. It's awkward, but in this position, the strategic rip in Jay's jeans lays wide open, a gaping invitation. Leaning over him, Skeevy props himself up on a hand and works the other into Jay's pants.
To Jay's surprise, the hand is actually pretty warm against his bare skin-no tightie whities on work nights-pressing and rubbing slow circles, callouses dragging just right. He takes a shuddering breath and lets it out even slower.
“Yeah, that's it,” Skeevy says, like he's trying to encourage him. “Relax, kid. Shh, just relax.” Leaning closer, he gets his mouth on Jay's neck, all wet and slick, and licks, sucks. It's fucking disgusting, but... but Jay's brain is starting to shut down just a little, blood rushing south.
“Yeah, kid, that's perfect.”
VI. Vise
Jay doesn't even realize he's grabbed the guy's shoulders until his fingertips start to hurt. The vague realization is unsettling, but that seems to be the whole nature of Mister Skeevy, so there's no point fighting it.
“Just go with it, kid,” Skeevy purrs in his ear, his voice like motor oil on asphalt, and Jay just gives up and rolls his hips, pressing up into the guy's touch.
That's when he feels Skeevy's dick against his hip, hot through both their pants, and-Jay swallows automatically-really fucking thick.
“Yeah, kid.” And Skeevy shifts, rolls his much wider hips against Jay's, breathes against his neck before sucking at it again. “Yeah.”
Jay reminds himself again, a buck is a buck, and hopes the guy has enough lube for what he's packing. But while he's fighting the urge to tense again, his mind trying to keep up, Skeevy pulls his hand out of Jay's pants to work open his own.
“You gonna participate in this, or what?” the old guy snickers, grabbing one of Jay's hands and tugging it down to wrap it around his dick.
Holy fuck, Jay was right.
Swallowing again, he nods, tries not to look at Skeevy as he starts to stroke him, his hand barely wrapping around the dude's shaft. Skeevy shivers a little, himself, and lets out a little grunt of pleasure, thrusting into Jay's hand. “Got soft mitts, kid, good for jacking a guy off, y'know?” he says, breath hot on Jay's face.
Jay can't help himself. “I use a good moisturizer,” he says brazenly.
“Bet you do,” Skeevy chuckles. But then he grunts again, pushing himself up and away. “Takin' too fuckin' long,” he mumbles.
And just as Jay absently mourns the loss of the dick in his hand and the body heat against him, Skeevy grabs him up and gets his hands under Jay's shirt, yanking it up and off.
“Been around the block, huh, kid?” Skeevy taunts him, before working his hands over Jay's chest and abs, kneading and pressing thick fingertips into his lean muscles and brushing across way too sensitive nipples. “'Bout as scarred as I am. We should form a club or somethin'.”
Jay tries to jerk out of that touch, not so cool with being ogled so fuckin' openly, but Skeevy just grabs his arms again, manhandles him up and around, presses him down face first into the pillow. Struggling against the sudden loss of air from his lungs at the impact, Jay shivers again.
“Said cut that shit out!” Skeevy commands him, pressing him harder into the pillow with a broad palm across his back. “Hold the fuck still.”
Doing as he's told again, Jay tries to concentrate on breathing while Skeevy grabs his wrists and pulls them back behind him, hands like vises clamped and secured firmly. He feels the bed rise briefly and one of Skeevy's hands disappear for just a second before that heavy weight is back on the mattress and the cold of metal bites into his wrists with a twin set of clicks.
Oh, fuck.
This is so not in Jay's pay grade. Fuck, fuck, fuck!
VII. Molten
“Up on your knees,” Mister Skeevy orders, hands free to yank at Jay's hips to get him to comply.
Jay goes with the pull, rising up on his knees until Skeevy's hips slam against him, dick poking him hard through his jeans, Jay's shoulders and face sliding against the rough bed spread fast enough to burn a little.
“Oh yeah, that'll do just right,” Skeevy murmurs almost to himself then, before reaching around to undo Jay's pants and tug them down over his ass and to his knees.
Jay falters a bit when his jeans are yanked off unceremoniously, leaving him unbalanced, but Skeevy grips his hips again and pulls them flush together. He feels the thickness of the old guy's dick sliding against his crack, and once again hopes against hope that there's a shit ton of lube stashed somewhere.
He doesn't have long to wait, though, when Skeevy withdraws again, and suddenly there's warm breath against his ass, fingers digging into his flesh and pulling his cheeks apart. The first swipe of the old guy's tongue over his ass hole is hot as fuck, like someone's poured molten wax over him, and he can't help squirming, whimpering.
The firm squeeze on his ass stills him, though, and he realizes foggily that he's muttering curses under his breath, fuck, fuck, fuck, please, yeah, fuck, over and over again, and that ain't exactly in Jay's repertoire. Usually his begging is all act. Not this. Not-
When that hot tongue pierces him, spreads him open, slick, it's like he's had a freshly burned candle shoved up his ass, and he just can't help the cry of pleasure that rips itself from his throat.
VIII. Virgin
Soon enough there's a thick finger pressed into Jay alongside Skeevy's tongue, one of the old guy's hands still squeezing an ass cheek tight, and Jay forces himself to resist the urge to push back. More, please, fuck, more!
“Impatient little fucker,” Skeevy says, withdrawing from Jay's ass just enough to swipe that tongue over his loosened hole and shove three big fingers in all the way to the second knuckle.
“You wish,” Jay says shakily, enough blood drawn away from his brain to pool heavy in his dick and balls hanging between his legs that he's feeling brazen again.
Skeevy slaps him hard across the ass, pulling out his fingers and shifting on the bed behind Jay. “Don't gotta wish it, kid. You're the one squirmin' like the little whore you are. Fucking beggin' for it, ya' slut.”
And Jay hears Skeevy spit into his hand, loud and wet-Fuck, he ain't got any lube! his mind reels; he ain't even got a condom on!-hears the squelch of so much spit being slicked onto the old guy's dick, and feels those hand clamp around his hips again, jerking him back.
The first press of Skeevy's fat dick against his ass hole is like somebody tryin' to work a tennis ball into him, and he can't help trying to pull away from it, fucking quota be damned; he don't get paid enough to wind up in a hospital with a torn ass and a sudden case of the clap, or worse.
“Take it easy, kid,” Skeevy laughs, yanking him back again.
Jay whimpers when the head of the old guy's dick pierces him, forcing its way inside. It's so fucking hot, too dry, fucking huge, threatens to rip him right open. And then Skeevy rolls his hips, sliding in deeper, and Jay whimpers again at the utter enormity of the dick in him, filling him to what feels like his damn tonsils. Never been so damn full in his fucking life.
There's a spitting sound again, and finally the ride smooths out, the rest of Skeevy's dick sliding in easily. He pulls out a little, works some more spit into the action, and-
Oh, fuck, yeah....
“Fuckin' tight, kid,” Skeevy murmurs, pulling almost all the way out, spitting again, thrusting in harder. “Like a goddamn virgin. 'S a wonder nobody's loosened up that gorgeous little hole yet. Gotta break you da' fuck in!” he finishes, slamming in all the way until Jay feels Skeevy's balls tight up against his own.
A cry of pleasure and pain rips itself from Jay's throat, and he draws in a surprised breath when Skeevy grabs the links between the handcuffs on his wrists and pulls, one hand still on his hip. His shoulders ache with the sudden backwards strain, his back arching as the guy hammers him.
“Yeah, yeah,” Skeevy mutters. “Fuck, yeah.”
IX. Work of Art
It doesn't take long after Skeevy's worked up a rhythm, pounding Jay's ass, for Jay to start to feel that tingle in his legs that lets him know he's gonna blow soon. “Fuck, please,” he whimpers-can't do much beside whimper anymore, with a dick the size of a baseball bat shoved up his ass-and he's surprised when Skeevy actually gets a hand around him to pump his cock in a tight fist.
“Yeah, kid. C'mon and come for me.” Leaning close over him, the old guy whispers in his ear harshly, “You knows the fuckin' rules.”
Body shaking, Jay complies without so much as a thought, ruining the bed with his come. Stars ignite behind his eyelids as he squeezes them shut, and he rides out the shock of it, Skeevy driving him in turn, hips jerking.
“Fuck, kid,” Skeevy bites out, his voice as tight as his grip. “Fuck!” And with a final slam, he screams out his own pleasure, Jay feeling the pulse of the fat dick in him as Skeevy empties himself into Jay's ass.
Everything goes fuzzy for a second as Jay tries to recover, feeling the dick slide out of him, and his knees finally give and let him collapse to the bed, falling into the puddle of his own come.
“Jesus fuckin' Christ, kid,” Skeevy breathes, leaning over Jay and kneading his now-bruised ass cheeks again. “Should see yourself.” He drags his softening dick over Jay's ass, spreading a trail of come all over, and Jay can feel him shiver, the bed quaking with it. “You're a fuckin' work of art, kid, you know that? A goddamn masterpiece.”
Slapping his ass and chuckling, Skeevy rises from the bed and steps away.
Jay has just about enough brain power left between the bliss coursing through his veins and the ache in his ass and shoulders to hope that this was worth at least that much, because he ain't gonna be able to work for a fuckin' week, much less sit up.
That is, assuming Mister Skeevy lets him the hell outta' these damn cuffs!
X. Let's Do This Again Sometime
Instead of freeing him, Skeevy leaves him cuffed on the bed as he wanders into the bathroom to wash up, and Jay can't quite help the stab of panic that lances him when he hears the water running. Fuck, dude's just gonna leave him like this, he fucking knew it!
But he gathers up whatever self-control he has left, his brain finally starting to kick into gear again, and gets himself in check. He can get outta' this. He's done it before, once. The cuffs had been just a little loose, and he didn't have too much trouble slipping them.
These, however-oh fuck, oh fuck-are pretty damn tight, he realizes, testing them. He manages to turn over onto his side to get a better look at the room, see if there's anything he can use to get out of the cuffs, and whaddaya know? The key to the cuffs is right the fuck there on the nightstand.
Halle-fuckin'-lujah.
Breathing a heavy sigh of relief, he pushes himself up-harder than it seems-and works his way around to get a hand on the key. The tiny piece of metal slips into his fingers easily, and slowly, carefully, he twists his arms to get the key to the lock on one of the cuffs.
CLICK.
An even bigger wave of relief washes over him, flooding him, and he pulls his wrist free of the broken circle of metal and brings both hands to his front, unlocks the other side and tosses the cuffs, rubs his sore wrists.
It's then that the door to the bathroom opens and Skeevy steps out, this time actually looking properly showered and dressed in clean-albeit ugly as fuck-clothes, his aviators still weirdly in place over eyes that Jay has absolutely no fucking desire to see, thank you very much.
There's a fresh matchstick hanging between his teeth as he leers at Jay, crossing his arms over his huge chest.
“Shoulda' taken the key with me, I see,” he chuckles. “Didn't I tell you to fuckin' stay put?”
“No,” Jay bites out, scrambling for his clothes as a spike of adrenaline hits him square in the chest. “Just pay me and I'm outta' here.”
Skeevy barks out a harsh laugh, then reaches into a pants pocket and draws out his money clip, starts flipping through the bills with his thumb. “Let's do this again sometime, kid,” he muses, looking more at Jay than at the money. “Maybe I'll keep ya' a couple'a days, cuff ya' up good and tight and hide the key. You could be my little cabana boy, lay ya' out by da' pool. Whatch'a think about that, huh, kid?”
Jay swallows. “Sounds fuckin' fantastic,” he lies.
But Skeevy catches his sarcasm easily, and scowls, before his expression turns to a grin and he tosses the whole clip at Jay. “Keep the room for the night, kid,” he says, moving to grab up his ugly plaid jacket and head for the door. “Get cleaned up; there's plenty towels left, and the other bed ain't been slept in. I'll have the maids come clean this other shit up.”
“Wait, no-” Jay starts to protest, but Skeevy waves him down with a broad sweep of a hand as he pulls the door open.
“They won't give a shit, kid. Just go with it. It's too fuckin' cold to be out there on a corner, anyway.”
Jay eyes him warily; he's been thrown out of worse places than this before, and for far less.
Skeevy just laughs. “Who do ya' think owns this model establishment?” And with a swift move, he's gone, the door clicking shut behind him.
Dropping onto the bed and resolutely ignoring the feel of come still dribbling out of his ass, Jay pulls the wad of money out of the clip and starts counting, his eyes widening as the total rises.
Four fucking thousand dollars in huge bills.
Holy shit.
Just who the hell was that sleaze ball?
His mind spinning, Jay tucks the money into his jeans pocket and heads into the bathroom after triple-locking the door.
On the counter by the sink, there's a stack of neatly folded clothes waiting for him in just his size-jeans, t-shirts, boxer-briefs, pajama pants, even a sweater and socks-next to a fresh, unopened pack of his brand of cigs and a black Zippo.
Jay smirks to himself as he strips and gets in the shower. The water spits at him from the rusted shower head, but that's just fine. In fact, it's fucking perfect.
XI. Morning
The smell of fresh coffee and really clean sheets wakes Jason slowly, cluing him in to the dawn of a new day, and he stretches languorously in the bed, blinking against the sunlight peeking in through the curtains. It's too fucking bright, but he can deal with it, he figures.
“Look who decided to finally wake up and join the world,” a smooth, deep voice says, and Jason realizes Bruce is sitting in a tall chair by the window, sipping a high-end coffee in a to-go cup with a Wayne-Tech hand-held computer in his lap. There's another cup on the table, steaming lazily, and Bruce looks like the cover of fucking GQ, all pressed and sleek in a suit and tie and shining wingtips.
“You watching me sleep?” Jason grumbles halfheartedly, raising an eyebrow as he sits up in the motel bed. “That's pretty skeevy, Bruce.”
Bruce has the audacity to laugh loud and full at that, and sets his coffee and hand-held aside, standing and stepping over to the bed. “You had a long night. Least I could do was check up and make sure you were okay,” he says, sitting next to Jason and running a hand through his sleep-mussed hair.
Jason presses into his hand, almost purrs at the heat and strength there. “Yeah, yeah,” he says, the words coming out more like a sigh of contentment as he absently notes that the room has been cleaned to spotless while he was dead to the world. “Could'a let me sleep in, you know. 'M fucking sore.”
Laughing again, Bruce leans over and kisses him quick, all gentle and easy, his fingertips wrapping around the nape of Jason's neck. “You ought to be.”
A snort, and Jason smirks. “Better be careful, B, people are gonna think I went and got my ass raped.”
Bruce's expression stills, his face still close enough that Jason can see the minor irritation from the mustache glue on his upper lip. “I could never.”
Jason can't suppress a shiver at that, seeing the open caring there in Bruce's eyes, all naked and spread out before him. It's too fucking much to take, so he pulls back, returning a mischievous look, and says, “So, where're you taking me for breakfast?”
Bruce smiles. “Some place with a dress code. I brought you a suit.”
Spotting the garment bag hanging on the back of the door, Jason laughs. “Yeah, ritzy it is, then. I can handle that.”
“Good,” Bruce says, rising from the bed and going to retrieve the garment bag. “Because we've got a flight to Hawaii in two hours. You're already packed.”
A slow grin, and Jason shakes his head as he slips out of the bed. He's really fucking lucky these things have a flip side.
~*~*~*~