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Batwheels of Desire

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Clark can hear the growl of the Batmobile from Mars, it's so loud. Bruce is tearing up along the backroad to the manor and not for the first time, Clark wonders how he never comes across any other cars. The headlights are low and the beam is broken by trees and undergrowth but anyone awake at 4am would hear it.

He catches up easily, and lets his cape flutter in front of one of the cameras mounted on the frame so Bruce knows he's there. He probably knew the minute Clark entered the air above Gotham, but landing precisely on top of the car while Bruce was driving at 80 miles an hour would require him to move just as quickly and the resulting velocity would send his foot shearing through the roof. Bruce usually slowed down a bit so Clark could safely touch down and ride the car. He would never admit it, but it was fun, like balancing on an ultra-powered skateboard.

Tonight Bruce just speeds up to 120 miles an hour, whipping through the forest surrounding his house before almost driving into the lake instead of waiting for the entrance ramp to rise from the water. Clark frowns but slips under the ramp anyway to the tunnel, following Bruce down into the cave. By the time he gets out of the stiflingly dark tunnel to the cool fresh air of the cave, Bruce is stalking away from the car, tossing his cowl onto a worktable and already working furiously on the latches of the suit. Alfred is nowhere to be seen, but he has to sleep sometime. Clark floats down hesitantly because he can feel the irritation coming off Bruce even from 20 feet up

"Hi?" he offers up eventually. Bruce stops dead. Turns around. Fixes an icy glare on Clark who lands a few feet away. And then whips a kevlar lined glove with razor edges along the forearm straight at Clark’s face.


"Hey? That's all you have to say after that spectacle you put on in front of the press, the tabloids, and my kids?"

"I’m going to tell Jason you called him your kid."


Clark swats the other glove away from his head. "You said we needed to draw attention away from Lois, what better way to do that than give everyone some gossip?"

"I meant offer up some tidbit about Krypton or give a heartfelt interview on Ellen, not kiss me in costume."

"I panicked?" Clark offered up sheepishly. Bruce shot daggers at him with his eyes. "C'mon, don't worry too much." Clark says, trying to appease him. "We’ll do an amicable breakup in a few weeks and no one will be the wiser."

"Bruce Wayne cannot be connected to Superman—" Bruce starts, but Clark cuts him off.

"The whole world thinks Oliver slept with a Lantern, it'll be fine." Bruce opens his mouth again but Clark cuts him off with a kiss, which he knows Bruce dislikes but also can't help but fall for.

Clark's sheer bulk makes it hard to resist when he takes a step forward with his lips still on Bruce’s. He's never forceful, never even convincing, but Clark has a way of making his desires known when he's in costume with just a tilt of his head or a small movement. And Bruce is good at reading Clark, knows all his tells, so he knows Clark is aiming for the car.

Clark's tongue sweeps over his and his hands tighten on Bruce’s arm and waist, and Bruce forces himself to break the kiss. "No."

"Come on, just this once."

"The boys will never let me hear the end of it if they find out."

"You’re Batman, I think you can keep a secret."

"The car is dirty, it's not hygienic."

Clark pulls back from where he was whispering in Bruce’s ear and raises an eyebrow. "Neither was the back of that warehouse in London."

His face lights up and the curl on his forehead bounces from Clark’s sudden excitement. "You owe me!"

"Excuse me?"

"I bet you that Diana would punch that guy who asked her to punch him and you thought she wouldn't. You owe me." Bruce rolls his eyes up to the ceiling and sighs. Clark continues beaming in front of him and looking hopeful. After a long moment, Bruce can't take anymore.

"We’re using your cape."


Clark is a gentleman as usual, detaching his cape and laying it nice and flat over the hood of the Batmobile before he turns back to Bruce with a devilish look and Bruce finds himself stripped down and on his back on the car. "Cheating."

"Efficient," Clark shoots back before leaning over Bruce, blocking out the lights behind his massive shoulders and settling his forearms next to Bruce’s head. "Hi."

"You are such a child." Whatever Clark would say in response is cut off as Bruce pulls his head down. His feet are just dangling against the bumper so he shifts around and sets them on an angled plane of the armor where they'll sit comfortably. Clark hums (Bruce loves how he can feel the vibrations in his lips) and moves closer so that his stomach brushes Bruce’s cock. The exotic textured weave of the Kryptonian symbols make Bruce shudder and he wonders if it's some kind of blasphemy to dirty the fabric with precome.

They spend a leisurely few minutes just kissing on the car with Bruce trying to rock his hips up against Clark’s suit and Clark sinking lower and lower to immobilize him. Bruce would really like to learn who taught Clark to kiss, because he does it with infinite patience, sweeping his tongue over Bruce’s palate and biting down on Bruce’s lower lip to make it red and swollen. He takes Bruce’s straining against him with an easy smile Bruce can feel against his own lips. Bruce rakes his fingers through the short hair at Clark’s nape in retaliation and relishes the shiver he gets in returns.

When Clark pulls away Bruce follows his mouth up before remembering himself. "Hurry up and get naked," he rasps. He runs his hands through the rest of Clark’s hair, mussing the gelled back style and letting all the curls loose again. Little things like that fascinate him; Clark has curly hair. He's seen pictures even, of Clark as a teenager with his hair a little longer than now, curling at the tips and over his forehead. It's been the same glossy blue-black all his life and Bruce is amazed the strange sheen has never given him away.

Clark reaches over his shoulder and lets the fabric read his biometric signature so it splits at the neckline and he can pull it off. Bruce would really like to examine that a little more but the computer system at the fortress had been surprisingly antagonistic about it. At the very least, it gets Clark out of his suit faster so Bruce can admire all the skin laid bare before him

Clark is always golden from indulging in a tanning session in the ionosphere and his muscles fairly gleam under the bright white lights of the cave. Bruce settles back with his head against the windshield and admires the smooth shifting of all those muscles. Clark gets a mischievous look on his face and Bruce starts calculating what he's about to do but then one of his feet are in the air and Clark is licking up the back of his knee and making him jerk in surprise.

Clark settles between his legs and Bruce opens his legs a little more, tipping his chin down pointedly at his cock. Clark doesn’t hesitate before he takes Bruce into his mouth and begins sucking. The wet tunnel of his mouth is suddenly the most stress-relieving thing Bruce has experienced in three days and he tips his head back and tightens his hold on Clark’s hair. Clark is a lazy cock sucker—exploring different twists of his tongue on the head, running his nails gently down the shaft instead of just pumping. He laps at Bruce’s balls like they're a new flavor of candy he's never tried before. Bruce, used to this, slings his calves over Clark’s shoulders and pulls his head up. "Later," he says and Clark’s eyes gleam with the realization that Bruce is too desperate to wait through a blowjob.

Bruce feels a rush of air and hears a clatter a millisecond after Clark appears back in his sight, slicking his fingers up. Something over on one of the worktables crashes to the floor but neither of them are paying attention. Clark hums in thought for a second and then climbs on to the wide, flat hood of the Batmobile. The car is meant to be a tank that can fit between Gotham’s narrower streets and so it's low and level enough that both of them can lie down across it. He lift Bruce’s left leg onto a wide shoulder and squeezes Bruce’s knee again, laughing when Bruce shoots him a glare. Clark always likes to watch Bruce’s face as he stretches Bruce, and this time he leans forward, bringing Bruce’s leg with him and folding him in half.

Clark's touch is firm, two fingers rubbing over Bruce’s hole in small circles, trying to get the muscle to relax. Clark's fingers are big—everything about Clark is big, but not everything goes into Bruce’s ass so it's a pertinent detail to notice. They're long and clever and feel like they know all the secret spots that can make Bruce writhe and curse and tremble in overstimulation. It's always a little embarrassing to remember the things he's said while Clark looked up at him with a smirk, fingers still working inside him. Bruce realizes he's rambling inside his own head about Clark’s fingers and can't seem to care. Bruce likes the burn, likes being pushed, so Clark rubs a thumb over his perineum and breaches Bruce with two fingers instead of one. He's leaning over so far his curls brush Bruce’s forehead and Bruce closes his eyes just to get away from the neon blue heat of Clark’s eyes. Clark lays a kiss on Bruce’s eyelid, then the bridge of his nose, then his forehead, tender and soft. His fingers thrust slowly but incessantly, scissoring in and out to get Bruce ready for his cock.

Bruce always feels soft and hot, not like velvet, but close. Clark watches the sweep of Bruce’s eyelashes, how they twitch when he curves his fingers and how Bruce’s throat catches on a dry swallow as Clark presses on his prostate for a full ten seconds before letting up. Clark had asked his stoic boyfriend to give up the silence he had initially maintained a long time ago, and now Bruce let him hear the quiet gasps and little whimpers he would make. Not even the Batman could silently endure someone fucking him like this; attentively, unhurriedly, deliberately.

When Clark deems him ready after a third finger and milking him almost to completion, he lifts Bruce’s other leg up and over his back. His own cock is flushed red and dark, wet with precome at the tip and curving up to kiss his stomach. Watching Bruce quake under him, unravel from his hands and mouth and words excites him more than anything. He fits the head of his dick to Bruce’s hole, still looking too small to take Clark’s thick shaft but now slick and wet looking in the lamp lights, then ducks down to bite one of Bruce’s nipples. Hard. "What—fuck!" Bruce exclaims as Clark thrusts at the same time. Clark slips his arms under Bruce’s back and grips his shoulders. His left thumb is over a knife scar, a thin little line, while his right middle finger is directly on a long-healed bullet wound. Bruce's hands flex uselessly on Clark’s sides as he waits out the abrupt entrance. Like this, pinned to the car just by Clark’s cock, he feels trapped. He doesn't mind it.

It might not hurt, but Clark can still feel the way Bruce’s nails rake up his back in return for the biting, so he braces his feet carefully (don't dent the car, don't dent the car) and begins to thrust like a jackhammer, solid and heavy. Bruce loses all control of his voice and he yells into Clark’s hair while Clark worries his nipple between his teeth. He bites down gently this time, increasing the pressure slowly until Bruce hisses and arches up into the pain instead of away; then he switches to the other side of Bruce’s chest and starts over. He fucks like a metronome, in rhythm forever, while Bruce gets fucked to within an inch of his life and has to lie there and wait for Clark to show some mercy. "Clark—please," Bruce wasn't used to begging in bed. He'd never had a lover that strung him out, that took every inhibition he had and smashed it against the wall, that cracked him open like this to show all his whims and weaknesses. Being with Clark had changed that. Most lovers weren't Clark. Wiley and patient, willing to spend months learning every tell Bruce had, tease out a new reaction every time he rode Bruce in the morning or fucked him in midair.

"Say it." Clark says into his chest, nuzzling at Bruce’s pec. "C’mon." He does something--rises up on his knees and lifts Bruce by his shoulders so he can sit Bruce on his cock. Bruce sinks down even further and groans at the feeling. Clark is like an iron pole, he's sure he could feel Clark’s cock in his stomach soon enough and it still wouldn't be enough to sate the fire Clark was slowly stoking in his belly.

"Clark, god."

"Some say so." The amusement is evident in his voice, but Clark takes pity on him and grabs him by the hips, beginning to slide Bruce up his cock and then letting him fall again, spearing Bruce on that perfect dick until he shudders and groans low in his chest and comes, painting Clark’s stomach.

Bruce flops onto Clark’s chest and lets his arms hang limp while Clark continues, just lifting Bruce and dropping him like a toy. Bruce's asshole feels overstretched and hot now, sensitive now that he'd come, and trying to close only to be forced open by Clark on each drop. When Clark comes, he pulls Bruce down and grinds up as if to come as deeply in Bruce as he can. He mumbles praise and love into Bruce’s neck, sweet to the end, even as his hands trace the faint bruises already appearing on Bruce’s hips.


"I'm going to get you back for this," Bruce hisses.

"This isn't my fault!"


They wait, crammed together in the passenger seat of the Batmobile. Clark's elbow is digging into Bruce's side. This is not an optimal situation.

"Huh, I thought for sure he'd be in by now."

"Father would not give up his patrol simply because of a little cold, Richard."

"I didn't say that, I said it's been quiet so he might have finished up quick."

Damn it.

"Why didn't you just superspeed us upstairs?!"

Clark gives him a dirty look. "We were naked and my come is leaking out of your ass, I panicked."

"What does...that...have to do with why you panicked."

"Nothing, I just like mentioning it and seeing you blush." People seriously underestimated the depth of Clark’s cruelty, Bruce reflects bitterly.

"Is there any chance Pennyworth made more of those cookies?" Damian's voice fades as he clomps up the stairs in those big green boots of his. Dick's voice doesn't follow it.

"It’s Alfred’s day off and you don't need sugar after patrol. Eat one of those granola bars."

Damian's voice was too far now to hear his answer.

"Is Dick still here?"

"He’s in the showers," Clark whispers.

"Ok, let's go."

Clark freezes. "You know."

Bruce turns his head very slowly, hits an uncomfortable angle, and keeps going. It has just the unnerving effect on Clark it has on criminals. "No."



"We’re already naked," Clark's voice slips lower into a rumble against Bruce's neck. "I bet I can make you come again."

"Not all of us are 30 years old, Clark." Clark's lips brush against his stubble as he speaks.

"I’m 36," Clark says, and reaches under the chair to lever it back. The seat flops backwards under their weight and finally, they can stretch out. Bruce has about three seconds to straighten his legs out and sigh in relief before Clark starts kissing his pulse and stroking his cock.

"I don't think--"

"It’s ok," Clark soothes. "I just want to make you feel good."

What he wants to do is get his car kink satisfied, Bruce thinks grumpily, but Clark is being sweet and his hand did feel good, loosely surrounding Bruce's mostly soft cock and twisting just a little

"C'mere," Clark says and lifts Bruce so he can slide one leg under Bruce's and the other between Bruce's thighs like a lattice. The leather underneath squeaks as they settle back down and Clark goes back to softly stroking Bruce and fitting the fingers of his left hand to the intercostal spaces of Bruce's ribs. Bruce sighs and shifts closer so he can pat down Clark's thighs. The little twitches of his hips push his cock through the tunnel of Clark's fingers, closer to Clark's dick too, until Clark just takes both of them in one big hand and squeezes. Bruce makes a strained noise against Clark's nipple and sucks on it to distract himself--Clark becomes sensitive there when aroused. His fingers stretch in and out on Clark's thigh in a small radius.

Just the feeling of Clark's cock, the velvety skin against his own makes Bruce harder. It takes a good ten minutes of Clark drawing his fingers through the hair at his nape, kissing his neck and collarbones, sweeping over the muscles of Bruce's back. When he spills, it is with a quiet sigh and a contented stretch towards Bruce, hand tightening briefly. Bruce draws him in with a press of his nails and his teeth on Clark's chest until Clark comes down and resumes his movement, using his come as lube to make them slick and sticky between their stomachs.

He clutches Clark close for the few seconds it takes for him to go nova, the heat tightening in his stomach and at the base of his cock, balls drawing up, and then he relaxes into the feeling of being thrown into disarray. They come down together, taking deep breaths and unwinding their legs. Clark looks up and his eyes go a little unfocused.

"Dick’s gone."

"Take me to bed," Bruce rasps, and promptly falls asleep.