all i’m saying is i think that clark should be the one to crossdress/wear makeup in a mission for a change!!
i do love the fics where clark discovers something abt himself seeing bruce in eyeliner or a skirt but…the alternative.
clark—who sees no shame in it, but has never tried it before—gets asked to accompany bruce on a mission undercover, and since bruce already has a disguise established, clark has to be the one to slip on a dress and put kohl around his eyes.
he goes to lois for help, because something about the idea of asking bruce makes him stall, a tight heat rising in his chest. lois helps him find a dress that exposes his strong arms and pushes his chest up and in, creating the illusion of breasts. it hugs his waist just so, curving over the top of his ass before flowing outward for a looser fit at his legs.
clark is surprised by how much he likes it. the way the fabric molds to his body, the way it makes his chest look even before lois adds contour between his pecs, the way it flutters at his ankles as he walks—it's all so new, and the feeling it gives him is indescribable.
some part of him itches to know what bruce might think, seeing clark dressed like this.
he has to leave lois' place before they try out makeup, too hot in the face and overwhelmed to commit to something more.
when he gets home, he stands in front of his mirror and smooths his hands down his body, watching with wide, fascinated eyes, as the dress shifts and bunches beneath his palm. he can't stop himself from pretending it's bruce's hands on him, bruce cupping the curve of his pecs, bruce sliding a hand down clark's thigh and then back up, dragging the dresses hem with him to expose the smooth, delicate skin of clark's leg. bruce holding him, surrounding him. bruce gripping him, hard and possessive, the dress skirt gathered in one hand as his other slips between clark's legs and— and—
clark barely manages not to ruin the dress. he wipes down the mirror with shame colouring his face, but he can't quite make himself take the dress off as he cimbs into bed.
the makeup trial with lois has pretty much the same result. clark removes the dress before sleeping, this time, taking care to hang it well and avoid wrinkles. he's grown attached.
and then it's time to show bruce. there's no avoiding it, now—they have to get used to each other in different personas the day before so they aren't surprised in the middle of the operation. it's sound logic. clark can't argue with it, but he also can't get his face to cool once the dress hangs off his frame. the makeup doesn't hide as much as he'd like it to, and soon bruce is calling for him, asking if he needs help, god, and clark just needs to get this over with—
bruce thought nothing of it, asking clark to play a part for him. it was a routine operation, one he'd done with clark many times before, the only thing truly different was the preparation, and clark had assured bruce he had it handled. bruce had no reason to argue, and had focused instead on gathering information about their suspects and building contingency plans should things go awry.
he hadn't thought to plan for this.
"this", of course, being clark kent in a frankly stunning dress, his eyes rimmed with dark liner, lips painted a shiny cherry red, cheeks dark with a flush that’s actively spreading down to his full chest as he avoids bruce's eye.
bruce stands there, and freezes. clark is beautiful—a fact bruce has always known and tried to ignore, but now he can't. there's no way he can look at clark with his pouted lips and bright eyes and dimples and not acknowledge the beauty in front of him for what it is.
bruce is screwed. he knows this with absolute certainty, even before his mind starts conjuring up images of clark's lipstick smudged onto his cheek, his eyeliner running. ideas of the way clark would look in bruce's bed, his skirt shoved up to pool at his waist as bruce— as he—
bruce doesn't see any telltale seam from an undergarment. is clark even wearing any?
before bruce can deduce further, clark asks, shyly, if he looks okay. bruce says yes, and the husk of his tone is all kinds of damning, but the blush on clark's cheeks must be clouding his brain, because he doesn't comment on it.
bruce manages, somehow, to reel in his consuming desire with a white-knuckled grip, going over the details of the operation with clark's fucking cleavage over his shoulder. christ.
if the mission weren't time sensitive, bruce would have tried to bury his face in it the moment clark leaned in. as it stands, bruce is stuck in a hell of his own making, and cannot justify abandoning his months-long investigation for his own selfish desire.
he breathes. he lets clark go. he ignores the shape in his pants when he comes back from patrol that night thinking of skirts and eyeliner and lipstick and clark.
(they finish the mission successfully, except for a small tear on one of clark's dress sleeves that has it hanging off his shoulder. clark seems genuinely distraught, pulling the sleeve up over and over again with a pout as it slips while they walk back to their stashed car.
the glimpse of clark's bare collarbone has bruce going crosseyed. he can't take it anymore. he has clark against the hood of the car before he can think better of it, and the noise that comes from clark's cherry red mouth is enough encouragement to continue, hands sliding up clark's legs.)
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