Idk, I guess I always have Superbat on the mind and I saw the painting and thought "that helmet could be the bat cowl" and it sort of spiraled from there.
I also kinda wanted to go with Injustice Superman, but Henry Cavill has so many more reference pictures (and I also tend to think back to the Knightmare scene from BvS a lot...for some reason) so it's not the new Superman because he is too nice and I could see him there - so no Corrensupes/Battinson sorry
Also,
guess this could be called
Kryptonian Overlord with Cowl
(feel free to like and reblog, no reposts tho, I genuinely worked hard on this, thank you)
Vogue le magazine by metropolisjournal needs a sequel so bad
Like so so bad
I need the sequel to be in Clark's POV about what he had noticed of Bruce's behaviour during the whole of the fic or even missing scenes
Vogue le magazine was Bruce in a self destructive mode (as usual) and grappling with his attraction to Clark, the man who gave Bruce his faith in humanity back
Bruce thinks Clark would never do the most depraved thing he wanted done to him JUST YOU WAIT BUDDY
Bruce having self deprecating thoughts about the scars on his body, what must the people in Gotham think huh? The rags all say Bruce Wayne doesn't know his age anymore, still acting as outrageous as ever, half naked or fully naked with a coat barely covering all the scars on his body, Batman's identity known to the world just like that if Bruce gave a fuck anymore
Clark on the other side of this spectacle, he wants to worship Bruce's body if only he would let him.
The things that could have killed Bruce just made him more determined to not surrender in the face of all the bad things in the world. Clark wants Bruce to know that he's so so good, he's not irredeemable, even if he's made mistakes
He would hold Bruce down and give him all he ever wanted, if he would just ask
Cue Bruce finally gets his shit together to apologise to Clark for the way he's been behaving, just because he has feelings for Clark doesn't mean anything. Doesn't mean he can't keep it under wraps and keep everything else professional.
Clark comes to the lakehouse to put his plans into action.
Bruce doesn't even get to say anything before Clark says in a stern commanding voice telling him to stay still and close his eyes, only moving when he is moved.
Clark blindfolds Bruce, lists out the rules of their game, cataloguing the reaction Bruce has to what's happening: the clenched jaw, the barely there hitch of a breath that most people wouldn't hear, the fine tremors running through his body.
Bruce doesn't know what's happening. Is he dreaming? Hallucinating? He can feel the gentle hands unbuttoning his dress shirt, one button at a time, unhurried, seemingly enjoying the act of unwrapping him. He can feel the overly warm hands caressing his body reverently, he doesn't deserve that type of attention, memorizing all the scars on his body as if it's important to know where each mark is
It's torture for Bruce to imagine all the ways Clark is touching him, how would Clark look as he's memorizing and caressing his body? Would he look at Bruce with that heat in his eyes that Bruce occasionally catches and chalked it up to wishful thinking?
And Clark is here, trembling with overwhelming feelings, being able to finally see all of Bruce without needing to use his x-ray vision. Being able to appreciate Bruce's body, a weapon honed to its peak physical condition. He's seen Bruce's naked body before, half changing out of the body armor, when he's injured in the field and needs emergency first aid.
But never like this, not getting ready for a mission, not bleeding out on the battlefield. Just being able to finally hold Bruce Wayne like the fragile thing that he is, but the face he puts out to the world is cool, aloof, unwavering, unstoppable unless he wanted to be stopped, so determined and stubborn for the thankless job of protecting his city.
Clark kisses the scars on Bruce's body, the obvious ones, the shallow ones, the faded ones, the ones that can't be seen by the naked eye. The first kiss made Bruce gasp out loud involuntarily, and then the clench of his teeth as he tries so hard to be unaffected.
Bruce is doing so well for Clark, not moving unless moved. Clark knows Bruce wants to push him away sometimes, but instead clenches his fists and lets Clark lead.
And then Clark fucks Bruce silly, edging him a few times until Bruce is a limp noodle and can only let Clark manhandle him, take care of him. Clark breaking Bruce into pieces and then molding him into something gentler.
Sorry, lost my steam after finishing the worshipping part. But that's the gist of it. Thanks for reading.
I had a burst of inspiration the other day, after posting that thing about first kisses and revisiting one of my favorite, so far unwritten first kiss scenarios, and wondering if maybe, just perhaps, it would be possible to get there without going through a complicated, twisty plot thing first.
This, still unfolding, is the result. I’m at that stage of not being sure it’s worth pursuing, however. Keep in mind that it’s really, really rough at this stage...
Last First Kiss
“We are agreed then?”
The conspirators exchanged looks around the table. Some of them shifted in their chairs, uneasy with guilt, while others failed to mask their dubious regard for the mission’s success. One or two were lit with an unholy glee at the prospect. For all that, they did all share one thought: if not this, then what? Another moment and each head nodded in agreement.
A deep exhalation from their leader, and a firm nod to confirm the decision. “Then let it be done.”
And let the chips fall where they may.
x
“So, no luck finding your archfiend?” Clark asked as he joined Bruce at the ship’s railing.
Bruce glanced at him, suspicious of the note of indulgent humor in his voice. “I never said it was an archfiend.”
“Sorry, my mistake.” Clark still sounded amused though. He turned to lean back against the railing, his head tipped up to the star-filled sky, and Bruce took the opportunity to add further details to his memory catalog. Images like Clark with his collar and bow tie undone, so the strong column of his throat was exposed. Or, just then, as the cool breeze off the water ruffled his hair and caused a stray curl to tumble onto his forehead. There was no relevance in these images, nothing to be gleaned, but Bruce stored them up all the same. He’d have a multitude of such images by the end of this voyage.
And perhaps it did take an archfiend to have set them up on this cruise.
Bruce had believed he was following a set of clues, that in fact he had worked out enough to be a few steps ahead of whoever was behind the puzzles--right up until he found himself sharing a one-bed, inside cabin on this cruise ship with Clark Kent. That had altered the picture considerably. Who would go to such elaborate lengths to get him and Clark in the same place like this? It had to be Luthor, and yet not one trace of evidence led back to him.
“You’re sure you’ve scanned everything?” he asked, his own gaze trained on the ocean now, its midnight depths lit only by the moonlight that glimmered down.
“Bow to stern. There’s nothing suspicious.”
“No lead-lined crates or luggage?” X-ray vision was all well and good unless they were dealing with someone who knew to take that into account when smuggling a container of kryptonite.
“Bruce, there’s nothing. Nothing at all,” Clark said, turned to face him now.
“Then they’ll be waiting for us on the island.” That had to be it. “I’m having Alfred look into the island’s history. Luthor could own property there.”
A gusty sigh, and Bruce looked over to catch Clark giving him a look blended of equal parts exasperation and amusement. “Bruce, how long are you going to keep this up?”
Bruce pushed back from the railing, head cocked with misgiving. “Keep what up?”
“This,” Clark waved a hand to encompass the ship, the water. “This idea that Luthor and some evil cabal have banded together to lure us to our doom.”
“I never said evil cabal, either--or anything about being lured to our doom.” Not if he could help it. Where was this coming from?
“In those words, no, but you’ve implied it from the beginning.”
“You have a better explanation?”
Eyes warm with what looked like affection, Clark reached over and tapped him on the chest. “You did this.”
Bruce stared at him. “What?”
“Admit it. Me winning an all-expenses paid cruise in a contest I never entered, us having to share a cabin--the wardrobe, everything fitting like it was tailored for me.” Clark waved a hand to indicate himself and the tuxedo that did indeed fit him to a T. “You did this, so we could have some time together.”
Bruce had most certainly not done this. For one split second he allowed himself to regret that he hadn’t thought of it, however.
