Game, Set, and Matches

by Mithen

Summary:

Clark Kent and Superman both find themselves involved with unsavory gangster Matches Malone.

Chapter 1: Eel O'Brian's Very Strange Night

It all started when my boss, he called me into his office.  "O'Brian," he said, "I got a job for you and Matches."

"Matches ain't here today, boss.  Said he couldn't make it until tonight," I told him.

"Vito then.  Doesn't matter to me.  I need you to kidnap someone."

Well, I almost felt relieved.  Black Mask'd been getting downright nutty lately, and it wouldn't've surprised me if he'd asked me to rub someone out.  And you and I both know Eel O'Brian ain't no saint, but I never killed anybody in my life and I didn't really feel like starting.

But then when Black Mask started talking, I didn't feel relieved anymore.

"Are you crazy?"  I yelped.  I could tell from his posture it wasn't a good idea to be mouthing off, but I couldn't help it.  "Why mess with Superman?  We're Gotham thugs, we don't pick fights with Big Blue!"

"I've lost too much recently.  It's time to recoup my losses," the boss said, totally steady, like he wasn't completely nuts.  "If we can take down Superman, it'll make up for everything.  I've lost too much face.  I gotta make it up."  He patted this big metal box on his desk like it was a favorite Chihuahua.  "I'll make it up all at once."

I don't know what he'd had to hock, which organs he'd had to sell, or who he'd had to have sex with to get a lump of Kryptonite large enough to fit in that box.  He'd obviously gambled everything on this latest crazy scheme, and I knew the boys and I were going to have to be extra careful to get out of this one with our skins intact.  "So who exactly's going to be the bait, boss?  The loudmouth skirt?"  I kind of hoped not;  it was going to be long car drive back from Metropolis.

He chuckled.  "No, he watches her too close.  I got a different guy in mind.  A pal of Superman's.  Works at that Daily Planet too.  Superman'll come, he always comes to save his friends.  And when he does--"  The boss punched his hand with his fist.  "It'll be curtains for Big Blue!"

I still wasn't real happy about it, but me and Vito went down to Metropolis and nabbed the poor sucker at gunpoint, brought him back up to Gotham, trying to talk us out of it all the way. 

When we threw him into the room with the Kryptonite in the middle of it, he threw his hands up like he couldn't believe what he was seeing.  "What--what--where did you get--"  He was really pale, shuddering and sweating with fear, and he didn't even fight back when we manacled him to the wall.  The poor guy was clearly in over his head, and I have to admit I felt kind of bad for him. 

"Don't worry, Kent," I said, "We're just holding you here until Superman comes to save you.  Then we'll let you go."  I wasn't actually sure Black Mask would let him go, to be honest, but I figured it wouldn't hurt to give him a little hope.  He just closed his eyes and looked really miserable, so I let him be after that.  Big baby.

Pretty soon, Black Mask came in, with Mikey and Matches by his side.   "Good work, boys," the boss said, rubbing his hands together.  "Superman'll be here any minute, and then--then!  You'll be part of the gang that offed Superman!  I'll be king of this town, you wait and see."

The reporter's eyes were still shut.  He looked worse than ever, all washed-out and tired.  I was starting to wonder if he'd eaten something bad for lunch or something.

Now, Matches Malone's a stand-up guy, but I gotta tell you he's got a weird laugh.  It's more like a bark than anything else, and it always sounds like he's laughing at you from...somewhere on the side.  No, I don't know what that means either.  Matches started laughing then, that dry, cold laugh.

"You've kidnapped some pathetic bastard from Metropolis, and you're holding him here until Superman comes to rescue him."  His laugh got a little louder, and Kent lifted his head to squint at him.  "Boss, that is the greatest plan ever."  His laugh kind of ground out when the reporter met his eyes, and he bit down hard on the end of the match he's always chewing on.

Black Mask was staring at him like he wasn't sure if Matches was making fun of him or not.  "It is my greatest plan ever," he said, real serious.  "Eel, Matches, Vito, you keep guard on him.  You hear Superman coming, be ready to jump him."

He left, and I started pacing.  What the hell was I supposed to do if Superman showed up?  The K was supposed to make him weak enough we could tie him up for the boss to kill, but--honestly, I didn't really like that idea much.  Who really wants to be known as the guy who helped kill Superman?  What did it ever get Doomsday?

I was wondering how we were going to get out of this mess when I realized Matches hadn't budged from the doorway.  He was still staring at the reporter.  "Yo, Matches," I said, snapping my fingers in his face.  He started and glared at me.  "We need you here, man."

"I'm here, I'm here," he muttered.  Then he jerked his chin toward the reporter.  "What's his name?"

"Kent.  Clark Kent.  Works for the Planet.  Friend of Superman's."

Matches looked Kent up and down;  the reporter looked back at him, sweating and shivering.  "Superman's got piss-poor taste in friends," Matches said.

Kent's mouth twitched just a little, almost a smile.  "I think Superman...understands that his friends...can't always help him."

Matches made a growling noise deep in his throat.  "I bet you and Superman are real close."  His eyes were raking the other guy all over, sizing him up.  "I wonder how close?"  He was practically leering around his match. 

Kent looked confused. "What?"

"You're a smart boy, Kent.  Educated reporter-type.  You figure it out.  I bet a boy like you'd be happy to be Superman's bitch."

The reporter flinched and then looked like he was going to laugh for just a second.  "You think I'm Superman's boyfriend?"  The smile disappeared when Matches reached out and grabbed his chin, pulling his face up into the weird green light from the Kryptonite.

"You're no prize, Kent.  Couldn't hold a candle to the Man of Steel.  So I figure you must have some...other talents to be his pal, you know what I mean."  He laughed a little, low in his throat.  "Your mouth's not so bad.  Pretty mouth.  Bet it'd look good wrapped around a Kryptonian cock."  Matches rubbed his thumb across Kent's lower lip and Kent made kind of a hissing shocked noise. 

Come to think of it, he did have a pretty mouth, I got to admit.  Not that I notice these kinds of things, but Matches did mention it.

Matches just stayed like that for a while, his grip so strong on Kent's chin I was afraid he'd bruise him.  Then he said, "What makes you worth saving, anyway?  Maybe I should find out what's so hot about you, Kent.  Sample the wares a bit."  Matches smiled, that sort of mean, distant smile he gets sometimes, and Kent went totally still.  "You're almost pretty, all tied up like that," Matches murmured almost dreamily, and the reporter started shaking again.  "Pretty boy, all helpless and shivering."

I gotta say, Kent was braver than I thought.  He was shaking like a leaf, but he glared at Matches.  "I'm not afraid of you," he said.

Matches cocked his head and the took the match out of his mouth, real slow, tossed it on the floor.  "No?" he said, like he was honestly curious.  "Well.  Maybe you should be," he said.  And then--I couldn't believe he did this, but suddenly he leaned in and kissed Kent really hard, hard and with a lot of tongue.  And he was groping Kent really hard too, his hands all over the guy's crotch.

And--now this is where it gets really weird--I think the reporter was really getting into it.  No, I know he was!  I know what it looks like when someone likes being kissed, and this guy was kissing Matches like he wasn't able to think of anything else, and shoving his crotch up against Matches' hand, and moaning and--well, he was!  I couldn't help watching, could I, they were right there in my face!  Apparently the guy had a serious bondage kink or something.  I wouldn't understand that, myself--I'm more all about getting out of being tied up, but--right, right, you're not interested in my life story.  Anyway, when Matches finally backed off, I could tell the reporter had about the biggest hard-on I'd ever seen.

It was pretty clear what Superman saw in the guy then, if you know what I mean.

Matches walked away and took out a fresh match, and I was really surprised to see his hands were shaking as he put it in his mouth.  Matches is usually a pretty cool customer, but after macking on this Kent guy like that I bet he was afraid Superman'd find out about it and take it out of his hide later.

"Coward," Kent said, and his voice was all breathless.  "Come back here and make me suck you off.  Or are you afraid you couldn't handle it?"

Matches just laughed.  "Maybe--maybe later, sweetheart," he said.  "There's no hurry.  I can get some of you anytime."

"Yes," the reporter said. "Yes, you can."

Kent was staring right at Matches, but Matches wouldn't meet his eyes.  He turned to Vito and me.  "That Kryptonite's creeping me out.  Stuff's radioactive," he said.  "I ain't gonna stay in a room with it for long no matter how nice the scenery is.  I'm waiting outside."  He swung the door open and looked back at me.  "I'll be able to hear when Superman comes busting in anyway."

Well, I wasn't feeling so good about staying there without Matches, waiting for the super-powered alien to come in and save his pal, especially now I knew it was his boyfriend too.  I gave Vito a look and we both kind of agreed waiting outside was a better idea.

Except it wasn't, because when Black Mask came back and we went to check on him, Kent was gone.  The shackles were empty and a vent on the wall was open;  no reporter.  He was furious, screamed at me and Matches and Vito to go find him, but it was too late, the guy was nowhere to be found.  And honestly, I was kind of relieved he was.  The boss packed up the Kryptonite, yelling and screaming, and went back to his office--and then when the box with the K disappeared from his office too, that's when he went totally ballistic.

I was still kind of relieved, though.  Not just because we didn't have to worry about taking on the big guy anymore, but--well, you probably wouldn't appreciate this, but...I kinda like Superman.  I know, weird, a punk like me, but...

Eh, anyway.  I didn't want to see him get killed by some crazy loser like Black Mask.  Or me.

Aw, c'mon, let me go, damn it!  I told you everything I know!

: : :

Eel O'Brian flinched as the wind blew Batman's black cape up beside his head, cringing back against the bricks.  "C'mon," he repeated, a whine in his voice, "I don't know anything else, I swear.  Why you always gotta pick on me, anyway?"

Batman didn't respond, still staring at him.  "So Malone was hitting on the reporter, huh?  And this...Kent, he was enjoying it?"

O'Brian rolled his eyes.  "I wouldn't call it 'hitting on him.' I'm sure Matches had some reason for doing what he did.  He was throwing him off his game or something, I don't know, but he had a reason."

The black shape in front of him snorted.  "Yes.  I'm sure he did."

"But yeah, if you gotta know, Kent sure as hell was enjoying having Matches' tongue jammed down his throat and his hands all over his crotch, yeah."  He eyed Batman suspiciously.  "You're collecting dirt on some beat reporter in Metropolis?  Jesus, you bastard.  What are you going to do, use this information against him or something?"

Batman made an indecipherable sound.  "Or something, yes."

"That's cold.  You are a cold, cold man."  O'Brian tried to edge around the dark figure, and for the first time he caught sight of the lead box up against the far wall of the alley.  He moaned and clapped his hand to his forehead.  "Of course, you stole the damn Kryptonite.  I bet you helped Kent escape, too, didn't you?"

A dark chuckle.  "I might have had something to do with it."

O'Brian waved his arms energetically.  "So you already knew all this!  Why the hell bother to interrogate me, except to scare the crap out of me yet again?  You need a better hobby."

"I wanted to double-check something.  I suggest you lay low for a while, O'Brian."  Batman moved back and lifted the heavy lead box with ease.  "And now I do believe I'm off to Metropolis.  It seems I have something that Superman is interested in." 

O'Brian caught a knife-edge of a smile, predatory and pleased, and shivered as Batman's last words echoed in the empty alley.

Chapter 2: A Midnight Tryst

Summary:

Superman finds himself blackmailed by Matches Malone.

The note was almost ludicrously cliche:  letters cut from a newspaper taped together to form a message.  Tell Superman to meet me at midnight in Centennial Park.  I got something he wants. 

No signature, just a match taped to the bottom of the letter.

Clark Kent folded the letter, frowning.  He still wasn't feeling quite at full strength after a few hours of Kryptonite exposure the night before, when Black Mask had kidnapped him to use as bait for Superman.  Clark shuddered slightly, remembering how the green glow had sapped his strength, had been slowly killing him.  Then he shuddered again when he remembered Matches Malone looking him up and down.  "Pretty boy," he'd drawled, but the eyes above the chewed match had been Bruce's, worried and planning.

He'd--he'd kissed him.  Matches--Bruce--had kissed him.  Only to slip him the key, Clark tried to tell himself, but that didn't explain why the kiss had lasted a lot longer than the time it needed to transfer the bit of metal.  And it didn't explain the shaking hands on his belt, then lower, groping and grabbing in a frenzy of lust.

And it certainly didn't explain the way Clark had shoved himself against that touch, the way his mind had gone blank with need, his body hot with want.  "I can have you anytime I want," Matches had said, his voice taunting and yearning and demanding and requesting.

Yes.  Anytime he wanted.

And now the note. 

He put the letter down on his desk and realized he was out of breath again, almost panting.  Malone said Clark had a pretty mouth.  He'd said he wasn't as hot as the Man of Steel. 

Tell Superman to meet me at midnight.

He was so hard it hurt. 

I got something he wants.

It was twelve hours to midnight.

Eleven hours, fifty-nine minutes, and thirty seconds.

: : :

Centennial Park was always well-lit, but there were still places that were shadowed at midnight, places where trysts and assignations happened.  Superman startled a few pairs of lovers from the bushes as he patrolled the park, his mind elsewhere, until he heard the familiar Jersey-accented drawl nearby.

"Superman.  Good of ya to come."

He turned to find Matches Malone leaning against a tree--a tree that had been resolutely Matches-free just a moment ago.  He was wearing an absurdly ugly powder-blue suit with a wide striped tie;  sunglasses covered his eyes despite the dark of the evening.  He was chewing on a match, and the leer he turned on Superman immediately made Clark's body start to run riot.

Superman crossed his arms and looked scornfully at the petty criminal.  "Clark Kent told me you wanted to speak with me?"

A dark chuckle.  "Speak with ya.  Yeah, that's what I wanted.  To start with."  He looked Superman up and down.  "Kent told you what happened?  That I saved his sissy little nancy life?"

"He told me."

"Maybe he didn't tell ya that I nicked a bunch of Kryptonite from Black Mask after that.  That's right, I got myself a bunch of the stuff that can kill you dead, buster."  He pointed his finger at Superman like a gun and made a clicking sound with his teeth, grinning.

Clark kept his voice cold, although he was having some problems breathing somehow.  "Are you attempting to blackmail me, Mr. Malone?"

"Oh please," the thug said, "Call me Matches.  All my friends do.  And you and I are gonna be so much more than friends."

"Like hell we will.  I'm not going to submit to petty bribery by some two-bit hood."  Superman bit off the words, sneering.

"I thought you might say that," said Matches, one corner of his mouth lifting smugly.  "Mr. Truth and Justice, our high and mighty, untouchable one. So here's something else to consider: I got security camera shots of your buddy, Clark Kent, in a serious liplock with yours truly. And he wasn't exactly fighting me off, if you get my drift," he said, lifting his hands and wiggling his fingers in the air. "You think that getting caught making out with a gangster would be good for his rep-u-tay-shon?"

"You bastard," snarled Superman, knowing Matches could see the hard-on pushing at his red briefs at the memory, "You'd ruin a good man's life just to get at me?"

"Oh baby," drawled Matches, his eyes fixed on Superman's crotch, "You have no idea what I'd do to get at you," and Superman didn't feel capable of acting anymore. 

He let his shoulders sag.  "What would I...have to do to get you to promise to leave him alone?" he whispered.

"Maybe I'd be satisfied if you'd just get down on your knees on the ground in front of me and beg me nicely to be good," sneered Matches.

Superman glared at him, not moving.  "As if I'm going to give you more blackmail material."

A low chuckle.  "Don't worry, sweetheart.  There's no cameras anywhere on this spot, I checked.  No, what you do here is for me and me alone.  Now--you were about to get on your knees and ask me pretty please to leave your pal alone, I believe."

Slowly, as slowly as he could stand, Clark walked over to where Matches was leaning against the tree.  He sank to his knees, reluctance in his every motion, ravening lust in his heart.  Staring down at the ground, he muttered, "Mr. Malone, please be nice to Mr. Kent."

"Look at me," said Matches.  Clark raised his head slowly, keeping his face studiously ashamed.  The thug's face under the sunglasses was flushed, his breath short.  "Call me 'honey' and ask again."

Clark licked his lips, slowly.  Matches' crotch was right in front of his face and Clark could see the fabric shuddering from the twitching of the erection beneath it.  "Matches...honey...won't you please be nice to me and Mr. Kent?"

"Oh yeah," muttered Matches, "Yeah, I'll be nice."  He reached down and there was the sound of a zipper being undone;  in the shadows Clark could see hard, ruddy flesh.  "You're gonna suck me off now."

Clark managed to keep himself from immediately leaning forward and finally, finally--more fun to slow it down, he reminded himself, although his pulse was hammering and he was having a hard time thinking--"You're holding all the cards now, Matches.  You win."  He moved forward until his lips were almost touching Matches' cock;  above him he could hear Matches swallow.  "I've got no choice but to do anything you want," he said, and took Matches deep into his mouth, all in one long motion.

Matches' hips shuddered against him and his knees almost buckled;  Clark could hear a long, stammering exhalation as he licked and sucked.  "Yeah.  Yeah," Matches said as his gasping breaths became words again.  "That's it.  Oh, you're good.  I knew that mouth would be good wrapped around my cock.  Fuck.  Fuck," he said, bucking against Clark.  "Yeah.  The Man of Steel.  Fucking Big Blue Boy Scout.  Sucking me off like a two-bit hooker in a city park.  Ah," he added as Clark did something with his mouth, "A fucking good hooker.  Yeah.  More of that.  Do it."

His scent filled Clark's senses;  a scent that he couldn't disguise like he could his face and his voice, and Clark lost himself in mindless motion until his own arousal became too imperative to deny any longer.  Tugging at his tights, he got one hand in and started stroking himself, pleasure coiling unbearably.

Matches made a hoarse sound.  "Oh, you horny bastard, you like this.  Pull down those tights all the way and let me see you jacking off," he growled, and Clark did, pumping at his own cock, hearing himself making mumbling noises of bliss as he sucked fervently.

"Oh God," said Matches, and his accent was notably less Jersey now, his diction less thuggish, "Oh God, you're really doing this."  His hands were in Clark's hair, gripping hard, pulling.  "I can't--can't--God, I want to see you come first.  Want to see you come so hard because you're getting off on sucking me off, want to see that gorgeous hard cock of yours--ah," he gasped.  "I'm going to fuck you so many times, so many ways, you're going to beg me for it over and over, you're mine now, Kal-El, my Kal-El..."  He shuddered and groaned, every muscle in his body tense.  "God, I can't wait any longer, you're too good, come now, please--"  And Clark felt his climax thunder through him at the plea, undeniable;  he heard himself making small whimpering sounds, heard a groan of delight and sucked even harder until Matches' hands tensed in his hair and he cried something wordless and came in turn, long and shuddering.

Clark stayed on his knees and the hands clenched in his hair slowly relaxed, the clutching shifting to something like stroking as Clark continued to nibble and lick at sensitive skin for as long as possible.  "You can...you can stop now," said a hoarse voice above him.

Clark looked up from below his lashes as he slowly, reluctantly eased away from hot skin.  The sneering mouth was lax with pleasure now, the tension gone from shoulders and jawline.  Clark smiled.  "Are you finished debauching me, you worthless scum?"

The man groaned slightly as he zipped up his pants.  "Kal," he whispered.  "I don't know what I was think--"

"You were thinking I wanted this," Clark said, still on his knees.  "That I wanted, just for a little, to be depraved and dirty and flirt with some handsome thug."  He reached out and traced the zipper on the powder-blue pants.  "That I wanted to put aside my morals for a bit and give in to the temptation to be shamelessly wanton and perverted."  He met the sunglass-covered eyes squarely.  "With someone I trust more than anyone else in the world."  He waited.  The other man's face was still blank.  "I still want it," he added, in a whisper.  "If you do."

There was a long moment.  Then the handsome mouth twitched into a sneer once more and rough hands grabbed him and dragged him to his feet.  "You were pretty good, tiger," Matches announced.  "Not bad at all, for a novice.  You got potential, if you ever want to turn pro."

Superman backed off a little, crossing his arms.  "And you'll leave me and Kent alone now?"

Matches snickered.  "I didn't say that."

"But you promised--"

"You're gonna trust the promise of a bastard like me?"  Matches made a tsking noise.  "You're even more naive than I thought.  Nah, I'm not done with you yet."  He stepped forward and took Superman's chin in his hand, tilting it up.  "Tell your friend Kent I'll be getting in touch with him.  He'll be meeting me somewhere for a little fun later."

"Cl--Clark?"  Superman's stammer was unfeigned this time.  "Why would you want to get Clark too?"

"Are you kiddin' me?"  Matches leered at him.  "That Kent kid, he's gorgeous.  Maybe you never noticed it under those ugly suits, but he's got a bod anyone would want to bang.  I'm gonna pop his cherry so hard he'll cry with joy.  Gonna show him just how kinky a farm boy from Kansas can be."  The leer went a little quirky at the edges.  "Kal-El.  I want both of you.  And I intend to have you."

Clark tried to sound imperious and cold.  "And just what do you intend to do with me?"  But his voice was hoarse and husky and warm, and he wasn't even sure he cared.

"Right now?"  Matches said.  "Right now I intend to kiss you."

And he did.

Chapter 3: Serious Games

Summary:

Clark finds himself summoned to an assignation with Matches Malone.

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 reflexively.  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.

 

 

Chapter 4: Serious Games

Summary:

Clark goes to the Manor under cover of night and surprises a playboy in bed.

"I'm bored," said Flash, a bit redundantly since his super-speed pacing around the Watchtower's observation deck was making Superman dizzy. 

"We should be glad it's a slow night," said Superman.

"Uh-huh, yeah, great," said Flash.  "How's it going?" he asked, leaning over Batman, who was on his back on the floor, head and torso buried in the monitors.  From within the computer came intermittent sparking noises.  Three of the dozen monitors were currently showing only snow.

"Not bad.  It would be going faster if you weren't asking me every five minutes."

Flash sighed, then picked up a remote.  "Well, let's see what's on the news."  He flipped around at a breakneck pace for a bit, then stopped.  "Oh, Gossip Town," he said.  "I love this show."

"--had the pleasure of interviewing Bruce Wayne this morning," Vicki Vale was saying.  "And now I get to share that interview with you, our loyal viewers."

"Oh, this should be good," said Flash.  "This Wayne guy's got more money than God, but he's a total moron.  Vale loves having him on, he's always a total scream."

"Oh?"  Clark said nervously, looking over at Batman, still deep in the guts of the computer.

"Oh yeah, he's hysterical?  A bit light in the loafers.  Always good for a laugh."  Wally sat down and watched the television avidly.

On the screen, Bruce Wayne was sitting in a comfortable chair, his legs crossed, wearing a lavender sweater.  Vale asked him about some of his latest charity work, and Bruce answered in a careless drawl, his hands waving languidly.  "All right," said Vale, "Let's get to the good stuff.  Are you seeing anyone regularly right now?"

Bruce's eyes glinted.  "Oh Vicki, I'm far too complicated a man to ever limit myself to one person."

Flash snorted.  "Complicated?  That guy?"

"No," Bruce was going on, "I'm seeing a variety of fascinating people.  There's the country boy with the sweet smile that I've corrupted, the brilliant writer in Metropolis who won my heart..."  He leaned forward, tapping Vale's arm and lowering his voice to a mock-whisper.  "Why Vicki, I'm even seeing a member of the superhero community sometimes.  And he is yummy, let me tell you!"  He fanned himself dramatically as Vicki's eyebrows arched.

"So...will we be seeing you at the premiere of the new production of La Boheme this Friday?  All of Gotham's glitterati seem to be planning on making it."

"Friday night?"  Bruce's smile was slow and lascivious and sent a chill all the way down Clark's spine and to much more private regions.  "I'm afraid I've got plans for Friday night.  Plans I'm very much looking forward to.  The world will have to make do without me, I'm afraid."

"Can you believe that guy?  'Dating a superhero.' As if.  Like any of us would be interested in someone like that." scoffed Flash. 

"Friday night...show the billionaire nancy-boy a good time...he likes it kinda rough."  The phrases from Matches's note to Clark rang in Superman's ears so he could hardly hear the Flash.  "Uh," he said vaguely, trying not to dwell on images of Bruce naked and pliant beneath him.  Or maybe not so pliant.  Bucking against his grip, panting a little, grinding...

"He's from Gotham.  Maybe he's dating you, huh, Bats?"

Superman almost yelped as he realized Batman had emerged from his work and was standing right behind him, looking up at the image of Bruce Wayne on the screen in his lavender sweater.  "Impossible," grated Batman.

"Yeah, I know," said Flash.  "What a brainless himbo."  He shook his head in disgust.  "Gonna make some coffee.  Be right back."  And he was gone.

There was a moment's silence as Clark and Batman watched Bruce Wayne on the screen, his head tilted back and laughing, his eyes jaded and knowing.  Clark angled a little closer to Batman.  "Actually, I think he's very attractive."

"You do?"  Batman sounded honestly surprised.

"Definitely.  Look at those eyes.  That's a man who knows what he wants, for all his teasing."

"And just what do you think he wants?"

Clark lowered his voice a bit more.  "I think he just needs someone to take him in hand, show him who's boss.  He wants someone to set some limits, force him to behave.  And I think he'd behave very well in bed for the right man."

Batman was staring at the screen, seemingly lost in thought.  He took a long, slightly shaky breath.  "Tell me more," he said, his voice very low.  "Tell me."  His hands were clenched in the black silk of his cape.

"He's got a beautiful voice," Superman noted, keeping his voice nearly clinical, just the slightest bit of lust darkening it.  "I think he'd love to be driven into screaming his lover's name as he got fucked."

Batman made a small sound that might have been shocked disapproval at Superman's coarse language, or might have been a different kind of reaction entirely.

"Coffee!" announced Flash, carefully holding three paper cups, and Superman moved away from Batman's side to check the monitors.  Flash held out a cup to Batman, but Batman ignored him entirely, staring into space, black cloth still tight in his fists.  "Yo, Bats?"

"No time for coffee," Batman said brusquely, brushing Flash aside.  "I've got work to do."  He strode out of the observation deck, his breath a bit fast, his cape swirling around him.

"What a killjoy," said Flash, handing Superman a cup and draining Batman's in a quick gulp, then starting on his own.  "That's a man who has no idea how to have a good time."

Superman hid his smile in the cup.  "He does seem that way, doesn't he?"

: : :

Friday night.  Clark made his way toward the back door of Wayne Manor, dressed in a black turtleneck and slacks.  The glasses were off.  He wasn't sure exactly who he was right now:  he wasn't exactly Clark Kent, he wasn't Kal-El, and he sure as hell wasn't Superman.

All the lights were off in the Manor;  it loomed, dark and impressive, against the starry sky. 

The back door was unlocked, as Matches had promised it would be.  Clark slipped inside.  There was a heartbeat on the third floor, Bruce's bedroom.  It skipped, stuttered at the sound of the door opening two floors below, then evened out into a slightly-faster-than-normal pace.

Clark made his way through the darkened halls, across the elaborate Persian rugs, and to Bruce Wayne's bedroom door.  He paused outside for a moment, then pushed the heavy oak door open and went inside.

The room was dominated by a massive four-poster bed in dark wood.  Black silk draperies hung from it, not quite concealing the figure lying apparently fast asleep in the middle of its vastness, burgundy cloth pooled around him like blood.  The silk rose and fell with his slow breaths, and his eyes were closed.

Clark moved to an armchair on the far wall, facing the foot of the bed, and sat down, still unable to tear his eyes from the sleeping man.  Bruce's hair was tousled, dark strands disarranged on the pillow.  One bare shoulder was outside the sheets, pale skin and corded muscle.  Everything about him looked completely relaxed, vulnerable in sleep, only the tiniest flutter to his heart-rate betraying that he knew full well he was being watched.

He never had the chance to really watch Bruce, Clark realized.  The other man was always in motion, always in flux, never at rest.  Clark stared and couldn't seem to get enough:  the dark-winged eyebrows, the curve of the hand on the coverlet, the lips relaxed and slightly-parted, the very faintest of smiles on them, as if he were dreaming of something pleasant.  Clark stared, devouring Bruce with his eyes.  A sweet, slow heat was building in his body;  not the sharp flash of lust he usually felt around Matches or Batman, but a deep, liquid burn rising.  He sat, feeling desire simmering in him, transforming his body with slow arousal, the tightening in his groin a pleasure not yet demanding release.

"Mr. Wayne," he finally whispered.

Bruce's eyes snapped open and he stared around the dim room wildly until his eyes fell on Clark.  He pulled the silk sheets up to cover himself in an almost comically prim movement.  "Who the hell are you?" he gasped.  "Get out of here!"

Clark tried to keep from smiling--and then smiled anyway, a slow and assessing smile.  "Matches sent me," he said.

Bruce tossed his head.  "I don't know what you're talking about.  Breaking and entering is a crime, you know--"

"--I didn't break and enter.  The door was unlocked.  And Matches told me you wanted me here."  Clark leaned forward, putting his elbows on his knees.  "You know Matches Malone, don't you, Mr. Wayne?"

Bruce seemed to relax just the tiniest bit, his grip on the sheets slackening ever so slightly.  "Matches Malone is a horrid, horrid little man," he announced indignantly.

"Oh, I beg to differ about the little," said Clark with just a touch of a leer in his voice;  unbelievably, Bruce cast his eyes down and looked flustered, almost blushing.  "And despite your protests, Mr. Wayne, I'm afraid I won't be leaving here tonight without having my way with you.  Because Matches Malone told me to come here and give you a good time.  And I always do whatever Mr. Malone tells me to do."

Bruce suddenly leaned over to the nightstand and pressed a button on it.  "Alfred!  Alfred!  Come here at once!" he cried.  "There's a strange man here threatening me!"

Clark found himself on his feet, feeling rather alarmed.  He certainly didn't want to deal with Alfred... 

Then Bruce's shoulders slumped dramatically.  "Oh dear," he murmured, "I've given Alfred the night off.  And the boys are both out of town."  He raised limpid eyes to Clark's.  "It appears I am utterly at your mercy, you wicked brute.  There is not a soul in the house to hear my desperate cries."  With a slight shrug, he reached for a jade bowl of sweets on the nightstand and picked out a chocolate-covered cherry.  He bit a hole in the dark chocolate and slowly lapped up the oozing liqueur, keeping one eye on Clark.  His tongue darted into the chocolate, rolling the cherry around inside its shell, prodding at its sweetness.

Clark sat down again slowly in the armchair, prompting a flickering raise of Bruce's eyebrows as he continued to tease the cherry.  "Are you not going to ravish me now, scoundrel?"

"Maybe I feel like making you wait a little longer," said Clark.

Bruce extracted the fruit from the chocolate and swallowed, then licked his lips slowly.  "You're not brave enough to do the heinous deed," he scoffed, his eyes slightly taunting.

It was all in jest, yet Clark felt some part of him tighten at the jibe.  "I fully intend, you spoiled brat, to pin you down on that bed and fuck you senseless."  Bruce's eyes glinted and Clark found himself unable to stop.  "You'll find out just how helpless you are against me when I take what I want from you and plunder that sweet body of yours until you beg me for mercy.  No matter how hard you fight, there is no way you can stop me."  He was breathing heavily now, and the color in Bruce's cheeks was very sharp--not a blush, but the dark red flush of arousal.  "I am going to fuck you so hard.  I want you to know it's coming, and make you wait for it, until your treacherous body is begging for it--it is, isn't it, Mr. Wayne?"  Bruce bit his lip, his eyes bright.  "You're sitting there in your silk getting hard, thinking about how it's going to feel when I force you wide open and fuck you."

Bruce made a small sound in his throat and twisted his body against the silk sheets without seeming to realize it.  "No," he said.

"Oh, yes," said Clark.  "Look at you.  Your eyes, your body.  You want it so bad.  You're wondering how much I'm going to hurt you.  And you're wondering how much you're going to like it."  He dropped his voice.  "You're afraid you're going to like it a lot."

"Ah," breathed Bruce, his eyes sliding half-closed.  "Just...just do it and get it over with."  His hands kneaded the silk sheets aimlessly as he took a jerky breath, then curved around his erection, pulling the red silk taut against it.

"Don't touch yourself," Clark said sharply, and Bruce groaned.  "No one gets to touch you but me now."

"You're not touching me, you bastard," moaned Bruce, but his hands shifted away.

"You're going to fight me," said Clark.  "But it won't do any good.  That's why Matches hired me, you know.  Because he knew he had taught me an very important lesson."

"What?"  Bruce breathed, almost reluctantly.

"He taught me that there is a certain pleasure to being forced to do what you want to do.  To fighting it every step of the way and being forced to submit and enjoy it."  Clark stood up then, undoing his belt, pulling his sweater over his head until he stood naked and erect at the foot of the bed.  "Like you're going to enjoy this."

"No," Bruce said.  "No."  And then Clark was on him, pinning him onto the bed, hands on his shoulders, one leg heavy across Bruce's thighs, holding him down.  Bruce gasped and convulsed against him, but without Kryptonite Clark was an immovable object, a force stronger than nature itself, crushing him gently onto the bed, as gently as velvet, irresistibly.

Bruce broke against him like a wave, a desperate surge of motion, and Clark kissed his neck as he struggled, nipping gently.  Bruce pummelled him, but his blows were those of an untrained playboy, wild and unfocused.  They rained on Clark's face and chest like frantic beats from butterfly wings.  There was a liquid tearing noise as Bruce's hand caught in one of the black silk draperies, and black silk fell down around them, draping across Clark's back like nightfall all around them.  "You're beautiful when you fight," Clark said, hearing his voice break, meaning it on every level, and kissed him.

Bruce bit his tongue as it entered his mouth, bit hard enough it would have drawn blood from anyone else, but Clark merely laughed into his mouth, exploring the soft slickness of it, the tender ridges on the roof.  There was a taste of dark chocolate and sweet cherries and the soft burn of liqueur, and Bruce bit and moaned in an ecstasy of vain resistance, his body twisting and thrusting against Clark's.  He grabbed a pillow and tried to cover Clark's face with it, pushing;  Clark grabbed it away and feathers filled the air now, drifting like stars or snow, sticking to Bruce's sweat-damp skin.

"Nn," Bruce said, "Let me go."  His eyes were wild, transported, his breath hitching in his throat.  "I'm rich, I can give you anything you want."

"Oh, you are so right," Clark chuckled.  "And you're going to."  With a quick motion, he flipped Bruce over on to his stomach and re-pinned him.  Pulling open the nightstand with one hand, he pulled out the bottle of lube x-ray vision had revealed there.  "Did you think I wouldn't find this, Mr. Wayne?  Did you think I wouldn't be brave enough to use it on you?"  Pressed against Bruce's bare flanks, he pushed against the backs of Bruce's thighs, letting him feel heat and hardness.

Bruce bucked against him as well as he could while held nearly immobile, making muffled cursing noises.  "You should be relieved I'm going to use this at all," Clark noted idly, then slipped a slick finger into Bruce's body, not too gently. 

It was hot, hot and tight and oddly silky--Clark hadn't been sure what he had expected, but the soft, yielding tightness made him bite back a moan of surprise and rising anticipation.  "No, no, no," Bruce was saying over and over.  Clark added another finger, plunging deeper, and Bruce's protests sharpened and then shattered:  "No, no--yes--no, please no--"  then much more lowly, "--don't stop..."

Clark didn't stop.  "I'm...Oh.  Oh my God," he whispered, struck with the enormity of it, the vulnerability.  Bruce just moaned and tossed his head against the undamaged pillow, feathers starring his dark hair.  "I can make you--make you feel--"  He wasn't sure what he meant anymore; he crooked his fingers and Bruce gasped sharply, going rigid.  "Can make you scream."  He couldn't wait any longer.

Bruce moved against him as Clark entered him, pushing sharply against him, refusing to let Clark go slowly.  "Make me scream," Bruce muttered.  "Yes."

"My name, " Clark agreed, keeping his movements steady, inexorable.  "I want to hear it."

"I don't--"  Bruce broke off into a groan, continued:  "I don't know your name.  I don't know...  Tell me your--Tell me--"

He wanted to tell Bruce, he really did, but there seemed to be nothing left of him but the sensation of heat and pressure, building past all endurance.  He couldn't seem to remember his own name--which one, there were too many choices, they all fled his mind like a cascade of feathers, like ripped cloth, there was nothing but the need to move harder and make Bruce make that sound again, he was lost.

"Clark," gasped Bruce, a sharp inhalation:  "Clark."  And then he screamed it, over and over, and Clark was lost in a different way, they were lost together.

When Clark could think again, he found himself with Bruce tucked up against him, head buried in the crook of Clark's neck.  Bruce was breathing heavily, long, almost moaning breaths.  They lay in silence, gathering the pieces of themselves up.

"You know what I'd like?"  Bruce's voice was small against Clark's skin.  "I'd like to be with my best friend in the world.  I'd like him to come by and see if I'm okay, and I'd make him a cup of coffee and we'd talk all night."  Clark could feel Bruce's lips moving against his shoulder.  "And I'd want to tell him how much he means to me, how precious he is, but I know he already knows.  So maybe I'd just kiss him instead."  He exhaled, a small puff of air, not quite a sigh.  "My best friend in the world."

Clark gently disentangled himself from Bruce's body, damp and relaxed.  "You've been fun, Mr. Wayne, but I do have to get going," he said softly.  "Mr. Malone wouldn't want me to spoil you."

Bruce pulled the sheets over his body as Clark got dressed, watching him intently.  "You'd do anything that horrible little man told you to, wouldn't you?" he asked.

Clark leaned over the bed and kissed his shoulder.  "He owns me, body and soul."

Bruce stretched like a lazy cat.  "But who owns your heart, my handsome ravisher?"

Clark turned at the door and smiled.  "My best friend in the world, of course."

Ten minutes later Clark Kent--wearing his glasses and a baby-blue cardigan sweater--knocked on the front door of Wayne Manor.  Bruce opened the door wearing a Gotham Knights sweatshirt and sweatpants, his feet bare.  His lips were a bit swollen and there was a small rosy bite mark on the side of his neck.  "Clark," he said.  "I was just thinking about you."

"I couldn't sleep," said Clark.  "Thought you might like some company."

Bruce smiled.  "Come on in, I'll put on some coffee."  He turned away to pad across the marble floor and Clark could see a downy feather still caught in his hair.

"I hope I didn't wake anyone up," said Clark as Bruce puttered around the kitchen.

"Everyone's out for the night," Bruce said.  He looked back over his shoulder as he reached for a couple of mugs.  "It's just you and me now."

They sat and talked--about the monitors Batman had fixed at the Watchtower, about Clark's latest story assignment, about Bruce's latest modifications to the Batmobile.  There were crickets singing outside the kitchen window.  Bruce took a long breath.  "Clark," he said.  "I have to tell you--"

"--I know," said Clark.  "I do know."  There was a long silence.  "You're supposed to kiss me now," Clark said, smiling.

"I want to tell you anyway.  I don't want you to think I'm not serious.  I play games, but they're...serious games.  And under it all, every person I am...belongs to you."

"I know," said Clark.  "But thank you for saying it."  He didn't say the same was true for him; the World's Greatest Detective was always impatient when people stated the obvious. 

Bruce leaned forward and kissed him, a slow, almost awkward kiss.

His mouth still tasted of chocolate and cherries and liqueur:  dark and sweet and intoxicating.