mithen | Fic: Cruising

Title: Cruising
Characters/Pairings: Clark/Matches
Rating: NC-17
Summary: Clark finds himself summoned to an assignation with Matches Malone.
Word count: 1100
Continuity: Toonverse
Notes: Continues from Eel O'Brian's Very Strange Night and A Midnight Tryst.

Clark Kent glanced at his watch as he made his way through Union Station. Habit, really--he made this exchange between trains twice every day, he knew the routine by heart. The crowds bustled around him, a sea of humanity, on their way to work, home, stores, parks. Another routine commute.

A woman banged into him. "I'm sorry," Clark said relexively. The woman didn't respond, disappearing into the crowd. Staring after her, Clark stuck his hands in his pockets--and found a piece of paper that hadn't been there a moment before.

He unfolded it. 7:00. The bathrooms on the west side. Be there if you know what's good for you. --M

The handwriting was messy, scrawling and hasty.

Clark glanced at his watch. 6:45.

He swallowed hard, feeling his heart abruptly pick up into something close to a pound. Not a routine commute, not routine at all.

Soon he was standing in another station corridor, the crowd jostling him unnoticed. In front of him were the entrances to the men's bathroom--a bathroom with a very particular and seedy reputation that Superman knew quite well.

He was fairly certain Matches didn't want to meet him to exchange small talk.

He cast another nervous glance around the bustling station, then went into the men's room, trying not to look too conspicuous.

Slipping into a stall, he stopped to catch his breath, looking around at the close metal walls as if there were cameras everywhere. Which there wouldn't be, Bruce would have seen to that, he reminded himself. Besides, there was nothing to be embarrassed about. He was just standing in a stall. Anyone could do that, there was nothing particularly illicit about standing there, no one could possibly be sure that he was waiting for someone. Waiting for someone to slip in with him and--

He felt himself hardening as he listened to people entering and exiting the restroom, waiting for some sign. There was a scuffling noise a few stalls over and a low, quavering inhalation that made him both more embarrassed and even harder. He shifted slightly, rubbing a little at eager flesh through pinstriped pants, feeling a wave of shamed lust thundering over him, masturbating in a public men's room, waiting for-- his eyes were slipping closed a little despite himself. Waiting.

Then he heard new footsteps on the ceremic tile, and someone whistled a snatch of melody: the theme song from The Gray Ghost, of all things. Clark turned his snort of laughter into a discreet cough and the footsteps came closer to his stall, step by step.

The door opened and closed; Matches was there in the tiny cubicle with him, grabbing him by the necktie and dragging him into a kiss that was all tongue and heat. Clark grabbed back, feeling cheap polyester under his fingers, a blare of chartreuse this time, with an aqua tie. Then he was spun around and there were sure hands on his belt, his fly, pulling his pants down to his knees. He put his hands on the tile wall, straddling the toilet, bending over, and there was cool slickness and then--

It wasn't gentle; if he had been human, it would have hurt. It was fumbling and frantic and damn he had to bite his lip to keep from crying out as the urgent motion stabbing into his body transmuted into something burningly sweet and aching, he wanted more and then even more. Matches' hands were on his shoulders, then on his hips as silence shifted into small, desperate grunts of pleasure; Clark threw himself back against the pressure building in him, twisting his hips, and Matches tensed and shuddered, one hand banging briefly against the steel wall as the other groped at Clark's erection with a rough desperation that did more to drive Clark over the edge than the touch itself. Matches's breath was hot and sibilant in his ear, the echoing silence of the tile and cement more erotic than any obscenity.

They clung there together for a long moment. Clark was dimly aware that Matches seemed to be holding him up; he turned around into another kiss, wordless and breathless. Then Matches adjusted his sunglasses, his mouth shifting like quicksilver from sensuous to sardonic. Clark saw his own eyes in the mirrored shades, heavy and satiated, just a glimpse before Matches arranged his clothes and slipped out of the stall.

After taking a moment to catch his breath, Clark followed after.

Matches was sitting on a bench within a stone's throw of the station, casting a jaundiced look at a flock of strutting pigeons. Clark sat down next to him. "I told Superman I'd make you cry with joy," Matches chuckled.

Clark smiled. "Superman warned me you were...an experience," he said.

"Good or bad?"

Clark wagged a finger at the obscuring glasses. "He's a superhero and you're a two-bit thug," he said. "He's very unlikely to admit he got any pleasure from being blackmailed by you into performing sordid deeds."

Matches snorted. "And how about a reporter? He got the same stick up his ass as the superhero?"

"A reporter doesn't need to be quite so...morally rigorous," Clark said, still smiling. "So...yes. I enjoyed it."

"I knew you would," smirked Matches. "Ain't never disappointed yet."

"I'd like to return the favor," Clark said. When Matches said nothing, he continued, "I'd be willing to...you know..."

Matches sat very still for a moment, drawing in a long breath. Then two. Clark saw him lick his lips.

Then he abruptly turned a disbelieving sneer on Clark. "Whaddaya think I am, some kinda pansy?" He stood up, drawing his shoulders up in disdain. "Matches Malone don't take it up the ass from no one, bub." Then he was gone, scattering pigeons in his wake, leaving Clark staring after him.

The next day, Clark got another note in the now-familiar scrawl:

Hey Tiger. I know a poor little rich boy who likes a little fun on the side, suggested I might find him a rentboy for a good time, discreet-like. I told him I ain't got any better than you, baby. He wants you there this Friday, nine o'clock. Use the back door, it'll be open.

An address followed. Clark blinked at it for a moment, then continued reading.

Remember I got the goods on you and your Super-pal and show the billionaire nancy-boy a good time. --Matches. There was an even messier addendum scrawled at the bottom, written as if in haste, before the writer could think better of it. P.S. Word is he likes it kinda rough, needs a good top. I promised him you wouldn't disappoint. So see you don't.

Clark stared at the note--the note from Matches Malone pimping Clark out to Bruce Wayne. It was trembling, the paper rattling gently. His hands were shaking slightly, but he wasn't sure if it was from laughter or lust.

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