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Among the hundreds of patrons in the club are many Bruce recognizes, people who make their living in politics, business, or outright criminality. He hasn't seen any big name villains outside of Penguin, not yet. Given that the Igloo is one of Cobblepot's ventures, it's not like they're unwelcome.
No one recognizes Bruce, unless it's as Matches Malone. Selina convinced him to tone down the usual Malone getup, but she didn't seem much happier with the sky blue suit and Hawaiian-print shirt, left unbuttoned halfway down his chest. It doesn't stand out like his usual plaid, though, and it's less noticeable in the dim lighting.
He's taken a post at the bar, ignoring his piña colada as he takes in the mass of scantily clad patrons dancing, grinding, and outright copulating on the warehouse floor. Gotham has more refined sex clubs, one of them also owned by Penguin, but this one caters to those with grimier predilections. The warehouse's renovations were minimal, leaving the rusted railings, water-stained concrete, and filthy windows and adding little decor. After all, the guests focus on each other.
Bruce is less interested in the groans audible between each beat blasting from the speakers than the faces he can discern. Specifically, he's looking for Paulie Strinati, a regular at the club's weekly parties. The GCPD raid of the Thorne family's drug operation confiscated most of the product, but word on the street is that Strinati still has a shipment to get rid of before the cops nail him too. While Strinati couldn't keep his mouth shut about it, he's being careful about who he offloads to, avoiding the usual suspects. Connecting with someone known for arson and not drugs, like Malone, could be an appealing solution for him, especially with an atmosphere like this clouding his judgment.
Intel says he usually arrives by this time of night, but so far he's a no-show
Selina emerges from the heaving crowd, her leather bustier drawing not a few leers. Those leers turned bemused when she leans back against the bar next to Matches, with his pushbroom mustache and unfashionable square-framed glasses.
"Whadja get, doll?" Bruce asks out of the side of his mouth to keep the match in place between his lips.
She props her elbows on the counter behind her. "Paulie texted his favorite girl that he got pulled into a browbeating," she says, "but he'll be here in an hour, especially after that. Take the edge off."
Bruce nods and takes in the room again, looking for any new faces. He sees Selina shift closer to him out of the corner of his eye, and their arms touch.
"I know you're thinking of how to make the best use of that time," she says. "I am too. Of course, I'm more willing to mix business with pleasure."
"This place is a goldmine of connections," Bruce replies.
"And we've got plenty of time for that too."
He can't help but look over at her. Her eyes are hooded with that same knowing, enticing expression she's had on isolated rooftops and in the city's dark corners, a look that laughs at the supposed steel of his resolve.
They haven't been together for some years now, but now and then they'll mess around. Sometimes it's fine; he can think of it as blowing off steam. Other times he can't deny that it activates a longing, though he doesn't let her know. He should let her know so they stop doing this. He should stop doing this to himself.
He tries to brush her off. "Professionalism is my brand, doll."
She cuts to the chase. "Come on, Matches I know you can handle a little recreation on the job." She lifts her chin, pointing across the warehouse. "See over there, the door frames painted gold?"
There's a long room that used to be office space, with entrances on either side. The windows that look out over the warehouse floor have been blacked out.
"They've set up glory holes in there," she finishes.
Bruce wrinkles his nose. "We know each other."
"But it would be fun if we didn't," Selina says playfully. "If we were just two strangers taking from each other what we want."
That's not far from how she sees their fun already. She wants a harmless little game. He's never seen it as a game with her. He hesitates.
She steps in front of him and walks her fingers up his exposed chest. "I'm gonna head to the little kitty's room," she says, "and in a couple minutes, I'll meet you in the Gold Chamber."
She doesn't wait for him to agree before she walks away, but he doesn't have to meet her. It's not the first time he's ruined her fun. Fooling around is a terrible idea, and Batman isn't supposed to get distracted on the job.
He tries to think about that and not about the times Selina distracted him thoroughly, her sharp claw tracing the angle of his jaw, her soft breasts pressing against his chest, and her mouth…
There's still fifty minutes until Strinati arrives when he checks his watch. When he looks up, he sees Selina maneuvering through dancers across the room toward the gold doorway on the left.
He pushes off the bar and strides through the crowd.
Just seven seconds after Selina, he enters the "Gold Chamber," a presumably ironic name for the ramshackle setup. Against the back wall, eight booths the size of bathroom stalls have been cobbled together with planks of wood. The stalls are just a foot taller than Bruce, leaving a gap below the ceiling. The long halogen bulb that once lit the whole office casts harsh white light across the mismatched doors. All the doors are closed except for the closest of the second pair.
In the booth, it's dim again with only some of the overhead light reaching inside. All Bruce finds is a stool and, of course, a ragged hole cut into the wall shared with the next booth. The hole is at the level of Bruce's hips and three or four inches wide. While it's not a trashy bathroom stall, the sparseness and the haphazard construction give it the same neglected vibe.
"Ready, sweetness?" Bruce asks as he unbuckles his pants, and instantly regrets the sound of Matches' voice. That persona doesn't really get Selina in the mood. He hears a light snort on the other side of the wall.
He's suddenly embarrassed that he's half-hard. The idea of sticking his dick in a hole to get sucked off by a stranger is just crass, almost silly. He's never really felt that kind of need for sex, not until it was the right person, the right setting, the right moment. The fact that this scenario isn't actually anonymous makes it feel even sillier.
But even more awkward would be backing out now. The sooner they get on with it, the sooner the physical sensation will wash his reservations away. He steps up to the hole and cants his hips to poke his length through, anticipating Selina's touch.
She takes him in hand immediately, in her mouth immediately, and Bruce chokes back a surprised gasp. Selina usually takes her time, almost like playing with prey, and she didn't seem overly eager when she suggested this. But he's not inclined to question the greedy, blissful, wet suction pulling on his dick again and again.
His hands move reflexively to curl his fingers in his partner's hair, to grip tight, but of course he can't. He growls and bangs his fist against the wall. There's a chuckle on the other side, around his cock.
It's an octave too low to be Selina's.
The alarm in his head sounds for a blip, silenced by the stranger's talented mouth. Bruce may have been expecting a certain someone, but this person was waiting for anyone. And any cringy thoughts he had about getting sucked off anonymously are hard to find now that the caress of a warm mouth has him rock hard. He needs to find out what happened with Selina, but in this moment, that's less important than coming straight down this welcoming throat.
Bruce braces his hands on the wall and thrusts as much as he can, pelvis knocking against wood. The wall must be teeming with microbes from all the others who've used this stall, who've just wanted to use someone. Bruce didn't want to use Selina, but she was right; it's exciting to lose himself in a primal need, to know the person on the other side of the wall doesn't want anything more than a cock in their mouth.
Though they take a moment to let his dick out in the cool air, to hold it as close to the base as the wall allows and slather the underside with their tongue. Bruce hears a happy moan and can't help but growl, "Enjoying the taste?"
He's rewarded with a swirl around his glans before the stranger takes him back down, bobbing faster now. Bruce curses and hits the wall again, trying to stop himself from careening into climax, but then he feels fingers slip through the hole and fondle his balls. He presses his forehead against the wall as he comes, as the person on the other side sucks him dry, and he lets them do it even as the sensation gets to be too much. If they want their depraved satisfaction, it should be his seed.
But soon enough the feeling edges into unbearable, and Bruce pounds his fist on the wall another time. The stranger pauses, then slowly pulls off, their lips keeping a tight seal down the length of his cock. They make a pop noise once Bruce's tip slides free, and give it a last teasing flick of their tongue. Bruce steps away from the hole, looking at his softening, spit-shiny dick.
He's panting, almost dizzy. He's gotten a lot of blowjobs, but none felt as intense as that in such short a time. He should have lasted longer, could have if he hadn't been caught off guard.
But with that thought creeps in the guilt. He should be worried about where Selina is, not lingering on getting off with someone who isn't her— but that part shouldn't even be a factor. Selina would hate it if she knew that he felt like he cheated, and she wouldn't give a damn about someone else giving him head. Bruce runs a hand over his face, bringing his breathing back under control. He needs to get himself together. He's been in here too long and should get back to the club.
He puts his dick away and straightens his suit, then leaves the stall— just as the other door opens. Bruce prepares Matches' smirk and a sleazy remark, but his thoughts and his blood freeze when out walks a lanky man with green hair and bone-white skin, dressed in a purple suit.
Joker is dabbing at his chin with a polka-dotted handkerchief. His poisonous green eyes light up with recognition.
"Fancy seeing you here!" he chuckles, folding the handkerchief and tucking it back into the breast pocket of his jacket. "Malone, right?" When Bruce doesn't answer right away, Joker laughs again. "I suppose it is more surprising for you to see me."
"Y-yeah," Bruce manages, barely remembering to use the accent. "Didn't know ya went to these things."
"When you get the itch, who can beat low effort?" Joker gestures to the booths. "And the anonymity gets right to the point. Performance anxiety can be a hoot, but I wasn't in the mood."
Bruce tries to laugh, but it sounds hollow.
And Joker is basking in his nerves. "So much for anonymity, though!" The clown looks Bruce up and down, his gaze pointedly lingering on the crotch of Matches' pants. "I might as well say, you were my favorite of the night."
What is Bruce supposed to— no, Matches. Matches would have a response. "Never a terrible thing fer a guy to hear," he says with a loose grin, a tight chest.
"So you've heard it before, eh?" Joker pulls a pack of cigarettes from his pocket and taps one out. He holds it in his mouth— between those colorless lips, wiped clean on Bruce's throbbing cock— and pats his pockets. He stops when his eyes alight on Bruce's face. "Do me another favor?" he asks, but he's already swiped the match from Bruce's lips and struck it on the wall.
He brings the flame to the end of the cigarette; when it lights, he carelessly tosses the match away. Bruce watches it burn down on the concrete floor, until a stream of acrid smoke brings his gaze back to Joker. His eyes sting, but they focus on Joker's lips, puckered like they must have been when popping off Bruce's tip.
"Hey!" comes a snarl. One of the security goons has stuck his head in the closest doorway. "No smoking! Penguin's rules!"
"Of course!" Joker laughs. He moves past Bruce and pats his arm. "Everyone here's licking a rando's ass, but they have their health concerns!"
Bruce's laugh is still weak.
"Hey…" Joker leans in again with a smirk and hooded eyes. "If I see that cigar at the next shindig, I'll do more than smoke it."
Bruce twitches in his pants, and his stomach lurches, and he imagines the clown back in the stall, bent over with his pants around his knees, shamelessly banging his ass against the wall to get Matches' cock deeper.
With another pat, Joker strolls out. A moment later there's a shout, and when Bruce darts to the doorway, the goon is cursing and patting a black and red mark on his shoulder. The cigarette is stamped out on the floor.
And suddenly Selina's at Bruce's side, hooking their arms. "Sorry, Matches!" she says with an apologetic look. "Oswald's goons dragged me off because he had an issue with a transaction, but there was only one booth open when I got in there anyway."
He tries to latch onto that information, to overwrite the thoughts in his head. Seven seconds is long enough for Selina to enter the room, see the single booth, be spotted by a goon, and get pulled out the other doorway before Matches walks in. He should be suspicious and alert about this transaction with Penguin, about how she hasn't disclosed recent business with him and what that could mean. But it all amounts to him stupidly going into that booth and indulging in sexual pleasure with a maniacal mass killer.
(It was never supposed to happen. The dreams were just dreams, results of specious connections in his subconscious that in reality amounted to nothing. But now in reality—)
"I have to go," Bruce says stiltedly, accent barely there.
Selina's brow furrows. "What? Why?"
He shakes her off his arm and heads for the exit, pushing through the crowd toward the fresh air. Selina catches up when he's nearly at the door.
"Your guy is gonna be here in a half-hour," she hisses.
"Forget it," Bruce says as he sidles past a couple coming in to get out.
He almost knocks into the bouncer just outside, but finally he's on the sidewalk. He keeps walking, away from the line of people waiting to get in and away from the sickly odor coming off the river. The clip of stiletto boots trails him, and he keeps up his pace. He doesn't want to look at her.
After a block, when they're alone, Selina asks, "What happened in there?"
"This isn't going to work," Bruce says. "Matches is too sleazy. It'll be suspicious."
"No," she says impatiently. She's too annoyed to keep up; her steps are slowing down. "Sleazy is Paulie's thing. He relates to sleazy. That's why we were at the Igloo."
"I changed my mind. I'll think of a different cover, a better one. We'll find him again."
He can hear the roll of her eyes when she says, "Does where have to change too? Because we know he'll be at the next party."
The next shindig, Bruce thinks, warmth pooling into his groin. He vanishes into the next alley and is grateful Selina doesn't follow.