Fic: Public Transports (Matches/Alvin)
Title: Public Transports
Fandom: DCU
Pairing: Matches/Alvin (Bruce/Tim)
Rating: Adult
Warnings: Public sex, age gap
Summary: Alvin takes the train.
Words: 2000
Notes: For batstalker and for pornday.
The train sways as it rumbles around the curve out of the Tricorner Yards, headed for the Dixon Tunnel, and Alvin sways with it. Once the train goes under, it won't come out til Bristol, and that seems fitting somehow, that the only thing it ever sees of Gotham proper is the darkness, the underground. Alvin moves down the center of the train, trying to find a seat. He wouldn't bother, if this were a short ride, but *he* won't be seeing the light of day til Amusement Mile. He might as well get comfortable.
The car's pretty full with all the nine-to-fivers getting off work. Alvin spies an empty spot, but it's next to a lady trying to keep two kids in line. He keeps walking down the train, reaching up every few steps to catch his balance on one of the straps, until he gets to the end of the car. There's an open seat here, too, but some asshole's using it for a coathook.
"Hey, buddy," Alvin says. "Move yer shit." It's the ugliest coat Alvin's ever seen, too, green and brown plaid with big lapels. There's a yellow carnation pinned to one of them. Alvin wrinkles his nose at it and looks up at the jacket's owner. He's...really kind of a big guy, and maybe Alvin should have paid more attention to that before he asked the way he did, but he's not going to back down now.
"I ain't yer buddy, kid," the man says, and then looks at him over his mirrored shades. There's a long pause while the man puts a matchstick between his teeth and looks Alvin up and down. "Could be, though."
Alvin scowls. "Could be what?"
"Buddies," the man says with a sudden grin. He uncrosses his legs and sits back, opening his arms with an expansive gesture. "I'll even let you sit on my lap."
"Fuck you," Alvin says, bored. The guy's not just an asshole, he's a perv, too, and Alvin's not gonna encourage him by giving him attention. He turns around and looks at the suit sitting on the other side of the car, reading his paper. There's a drunk or a bum sleeping in the seat next to him, drooling on the back window.
The train dips as it heads into the tunnel, and Alvin adjusts his grip on the strap. In the split second his hand is slack, something nudges the back of his knee, and something yanks hard on his shirt. He goes over backward to land in a sprawl across the asshole's lap. Alvin elbows him hard in the gut before he's even got his balance, but the guy just huffs in his ear and holds on as he struggles. "Let me go, you fucker!"
"Hey," somebody says, and Alvin looks up to see the suit staring at them. "Let the kid go."
Something brushes its way into Alvin's palm, and then the hold around him relaxes. When he looks down, there's a fifty in his hand, all folded up small. "Nah, it's okay," Alvin tells the guy. "We're just horsin' around. We're buddies."
Mr. Hero looks at him skeptically for a few seconds, but they're drawing up to the Triangle Park station, and he gathers his stuff up and heads for the doors.
"Whadaya want?" Alvin murmurs as the guy wraps an arm around his middle again.
"Just get comfortable," the man says in his ear, quiet but gruff. Alvin squirms until he's sitting properly in his lap, legs spread on either side of the man's knees. "Name's Matches."
"The fuck do I care?" Alvin asks, and squirms a little, trying to get comfortable. "You get off on little boys sittin' in yer lap?"
There's a chuckle in his ear, dark and deep, and Alvin shivers despite himself as it tickles the hair in his neck. "Not so little," Matches says, and cups him through his jeans, giving him a light squeeze. "Sellin' yerself short, sweet cheeks."
Matches isn't groping him so much as really *feeling*, exploring with his fingers, and the heat of his big, hard hand is causing the predictable result. Okay...Alvin can handle being felt up, if he's gonna get a Grant out of it, so he tries to make himself relax. The touch feels good, actually - Matches' finger's are wrapped around him as best they can, considering his pants are in the way. He's wearing boxers underneath, and the jeans are loose, so there's lots of room for the man to play with.
Generally, Alvin tries to avoid boners on public transportation. He's not too shy, though, and Matches is being reasonably discrete. There's nobody near them but the drunk, and he's too far gone to care. Down the way a bit, there's a guy wearing headphones staring in their direction. Alvin stares back until he looks away, then lets his head fall back against a broad, hard shoulder. "I ain't gettin' off the train with you," he says. "cash or no cash."
Matches chuckles again and mouths his ear. "We'll see, babydoll." His hand slips down to squeeze Alvin's balls, rubbing and rolling them in his pants, and Alvin can't help squirming. He can feel the man's cock now, a hard ridge under his ass. He gets a growl in his ear when he moves, so he does it again, rubbing against it.
The train squeals to a stop under Wayne Plaza, and people come and go. A woman takes the seat across from them, all perfect suit and power pumps. She's not looking at them when she sits down, busy with her purse. She's got a little dog in the bag. It's staring at Alvin. Alvin bares his teeth at it, but it doesn't even blink.
Matches lets go of his crotch, and for a moment Alvin thinks the game is over. He's about to get up, but the arm around his stomach tightens and one big hand slides up to his chest, rubbing it through his t-shirt. Matches picks up his ugly jacket with the other hand and drapes it over Alvin's lap, then reaches underneath.
Well, fuck, Alvin thinks as he feels his zipper inch down, this wasn't what he signed on for. Not for fifty bucks, anyway. He could bolt, but the train is even more full now than it was before, and it's not like he could get off before the next stop, anyway. Matches has a pretty good hold on him, too - he'd have to fight to get loose.
Lips on his neck, and Alvin goes tense at the tickle of the man's mustache. He feels the slick, wet stroke of a tongue behind his ear just as that big, broad hand pushes through his fly and the slit in his boxers, wrapping around his hard cock and pulling it out. The lining of the jacket is cool and feels like silk against the head of his cock, and it makes Alvin suck in a breath and close his eyes. He reaches under the jacket to grab the man's wrist, but he can't bring himself to actually pull, so he ends up just holding it, feeling the flex of muscle and tendon as Matches tightens his fist and starts to stroke.
Matches' hand is hard and rough and nothing like a girl's. Alvin bites his lip as a callous drags against him, his eyes flying open against his will. The jacket doesn't so much hide what Matches is doing as give it a veneer of plausible deniability. The rise and fall has got to be obvious for what it is, to anyone who's looking. The cool fabric drags against the back of Alvin's hand, and he feels something heavy bump his wrist through it on the upstroke. He can't turn and look at Matches, to see if he's watching, so he tries to make his own distraction as he feels for the lump with his other hand, squirming and panting and generally making a whore of himself. Obviously Matches likes it, from the grunt in his ear and the rough thrust of hips under him, before the man gets himself under control. By then, though, Alvin's got his wallet, and he's sliding it into the pocket of his jeans, hidden from view by the man's hideous jacket.
His little act has drawn some attention. A few people shuffle and glance toward them, then look away. The lady across from them is staring, her eyes wide and color high on her cheeks. Alvin can't decide if she's disgusted or turned on, so he winks. Her whole face flushes red, and she quickly looks down and starts fiddling with her phone.
The dog is still staring. Alvin growls until it noses its way under the woman's hand.
They're rumbling under Old Gotham, now, and Matches' hips are grinding against his ass with the rhythm of the train. Every time they stop, Alvin thinks again about bolting, but as skeevy as this guy is, his hand really feels fantastic. He's hitting all the sweet spots, rhythm and pressure just right, teasing around the crown, just how Alvin likes it. He's jerking him like he knows him, like his hand and Alvin's cock aren't just buddies - they're old friends.
Only two stops til Amusement Mile, and if Alvin doesn't get off before then, he's going to have to catch a return train, once they get across the river. If he doesn't... if he doesn't get off, before then, he's going to be wandering the old boardwalks with a boner that won't quit and beard burn all down his neck. Christ, even the mustache is starting to feel good. He whimpers and gets a good hard squeeze for it, so he does it again, and then there's a big hand over his mouth to muffle the sound he makes when he shoots. He bites down on the man's middle finger, the one with the big gold ring, and feels his hips pumping through the orgasm, obvious to everyone around them and completely beyond his control.
When he opens his eyes, the lady with the dog has moved further down the train. Nobody is looking at them. Alvin sits very still and pants through his nose until the hand moves and he can breathe through his mouth. Thick, scarred fingers brush down his jaw, stroke his throat, dip under the torn collar of his t-shirt. Matches doesn't say anything, and his hips are barely moving now, just enough to rub his cock against Alvin's ass.
His sticky hand slides up, out from under the jacket, but Alvin can only see it for a moment before it vanishes under his shirt to rub against his belly, up to his chest to toy with his nipples. He can feel the trails those fingers leave in their wake. Alvin makes a face and reaches under the jacket to tuck himself back into his pants and zip his fly. "This is my stop," he mumbles, and gets to his feet.
He makes it two steps before his feet get tangled on something and he's jerked back down again with Matches' foot between his own. "Not so fast, sweetheart."
Alvin squirms and struggles, but he's caught in a bear hug that pins him to the man's broad chest. No one tries to help him, this time. The train's starting to empty, and everyone's looking the other way. "Let me go," he hisses. "I'll scream."
"You won't," Matches says into his ear. "Because if you get the coppers involved, they'll find out you're a little thief."
Alvin goes still.
"I like you, kid," Matches says, sounding for all the world as if he isn't rock hard with a teenage boy in his lap. "Stay on the train. Come up to Bristol with me." He presses his hips up against Alvin's ass, and the grind of his cock is either a threat or a promise. Maybe both.
"Yeah," Alvin says, after a moment. He swallows hard. "Okay."
The sequel, Private Party (Brucie/Alvin)