Fic: Cruising
Feb. 3rd, 2009 04:26 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
mithenTitle: 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.
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.
![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
(no subject)
Date: 2009-02-03 08:15 am (UTC)(no subject)
From:(no subject)
Date: 2009-02-03 09:03 am (UTC)Hot HOT HOT >:D
(no subject)
From:(no subject)
Date: 2009-02-03 09:27 am (UTC)I can't wait to read the next part too!
(no subject)
From:(no subject)
Date: 2009-02-03 09:40 am (UTC)(no subject)
From:(no subject)
Date: 2009-02-03 09:51 am (UTC)Just... dude.
I love how Bruce is totally playing into both their kinks with this not quite anoni-sex thing he's doing and it's cute and sad how he just can't bring himself to ask but has to keep using his different identities to give them both what they want.
If that isn't coherent, I'm sorry. My brain is melted on the squee.
(no subject)
From:(no subject)
Date: 2009-02-03 10:56 am (UTC)You WILL be writing that next part. You cannot just leave this hanging like this, right?
(no subject)
From:(no subject)
Date: 2009-02-03 11:59 am (UTC)(no subject)
From:(no subject)
From:(no subject)
Date: 2009-02-03 12:43 pm (UTC)(no subject)
From:(no subject)
Date: 2009-02-03 12:57 pm (UTC)(no subject)
From:(no subject)
Date: 2009-02-03 12:58 pm (UTC)(no subject)
From:(no subject)
Date: 2009-02-03 01:00 pm (UTC)(no subject)
From:(no subject)
Date: 2009-02-03 02:28 pm (UTC)(no subject)
From:(no subject)
Date: 2009-02-03 02:51 pm (UTC)(no subject)
From:(no subject)
Date: 2009-02-03 03:01 pm (UTC)*glomps the writer* You...are SUPER AWESOME!
You have this way of writing that makes me want to hug you forever! It's not graphic, but you can clearly see (and get a mental nosebleed) from the imagery within your writing. *holding her nose* XD I can't believe Matches Pimped Clark to Bruce!!
*trying not to faint from the possibilities* Oh...My loving head. :D More please~~!
(no subject)
From:(no subject)
Date: 2009-02-03 05:10 pm (UTC)(no subject)
From:(no subject)
Date: 2009-02-03 05:43 pm (UTC)Clark is a perfect rentboy, yes, he is!
(no subject)
From:(no subject)
Date: 2009-02-03 07:08 pm (UTC)Hello there, Bruce! I'm still caught on "Oh God, you're really doing this," from the last one. The little flashes of real!Bruce add a touch of tenderness and wonder to Matches' sleaze.
(no subject)
From:(no subject)
Date: 2009-02-03 07:21 pm (UTC)Hee! :p
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.
Bruce, as Matches, whistling The Gray Ghost theme is just fantastic. :D
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.
Guh. You have to write that. You have to!!
I love all the identity porn in this, Matches pimping Clark to Bruce is just... guh. *eyes glaze*
(no subject)
From:(no subject)
Date: 2009-02-03 07:36 pm (UTC)This is hot and frantic and perfect, and the last leaves me anticipating more!
(no subject)
From:(no subject)
Date: 2009-02-03 08:37 pm (UTC)(no subject)
From:(no subject)
Date: 2009-02-03 09:05 pm (UTC)oh god, you're gonna keep this going, right?? Pleez!!
i needs it O_O!!!
*loves the ID porn*
(no subject)
From:(no subject)
Date: 2009-02-03 09:09 pm (UTC)Identity porn is always for the win.
Which is of course why I want the next installment, like, five minutes ago. Chop-chop! :D
*and just giggles at the thought of Matches pimping out Bruce*
(no subject)
From:(no subject)
Date: 2009-02-03 09:25 pm (UTC)Identity porn rocks! Thank you!
(no subject)
From:(no subject)
Date: 2009-02-03 09:53 pm (UTC)billionaire nancy-boy
Bruce describing himself like that, lol.
I tell you though, Clark isn't the only one trembling with anticipation!
(no subject)
From:(no subject)
Date: 2009-02-04 12:18 am (UTC)I love how Clark ends up rambling to himself inside the stall after getting the note.
I also love the fast pace towards the end and the silence. No words are exchanged, they just get to the down and dirty then leave.
I can't blame Clark for being torn between laughter and lust at the end.
(no subject)
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