I Need More Bruce Interacting With Jon And Conner. Bruce Mother Henning Conner Despite The Mf Being A

I need more Bruce interacting with Jon and Conner. Bruce mother henning Conner despite the mf being a tank on two legs and pretty much indestructible.

Reminding him to eat, and sleep, and put a jacket on whenever he steps outside, even if Kon has no need for them. Who tends to his wounds after battle.

Long trips to the medical bay. Kon pretending to be sick, struck down by some Kryptonian illness, cause he learned from Clark Bruce makes a great chicken soup.

Bruce scolding him for pointlessly throwing himself at danger for the sake of showing off, "Benched. 2 weeks. No fussing."

" Yeah, whatever, mom."

Someone's waiting for Bruce to correct him. They'll be waiting a long time.

Bruce goes from " Mr. Damian's Dad" to " Bruce" to " Pa" with Jon; The transition is cleaner and smoother and faster than Bruce expected, but he's not complaining.

Give me Bruce who patches up Jon's uniform, who tells him it's perfectly fine to still have toys at his age (it's not about objects, but the familiarity they bring) and he takes them with on patrol. Just in case.

Bruce who picks him up from school, who tells off bullies for him with a tongue so mean Jon actually gulps, who picks him up when he pretends to sleep in the Batmboile.

Bruce who has their favorite snacks on his utility belt, who just slightly overprotective and tells Clark please, don't throw their kids into the oxygen layer because they dared you to.

"Our kids?"

" I don't mean to overstep. I apologize. I'll be more mindful of my language in the fu--" Clark is crying and hugging him and Bruce simply pats his back.

“Do you think those two are making out?” Lois asked as she and Selina went to sit down.

“Is your friend willing to take the first step?” Selina asked, not-so-carelessly stepping on the foot of one of the guests. She didn't feel guilty. The guy was about to put his hands on her and Lois's bottom. Selina had just reminded him of his place.

The other woman snorted, “Why would Clark make the first move? Mr. Wayne seems to know what he wants."

“A boy wants to be wooed,” Selina retorted.

Lois gave a delightful giggle, “Is the rich boy old fashioned? I would never have said it."

“You wouldn't say many things about him.”

“Yeah, in fact I had no idea that he was interested in men…”

Selina shrugged, “He had a very strict upbringing and only recently came out as bisexual.”

Alfred seemed like a good guy to her, but certainly not the best one to ask questions about why guys were hot too. Though she had to give him more credit considering how much he had to put up with Bruce.

Lois accepted the explanation. She then asked, “And what does he think of Superman?”

“Superman?”

“You in Gotham have Batman, we have Superman.”

Selina smiled, “I know, I'm surprised you ask about Superman.”

“Oh, you know…curiosity. Now it seems like everyone has to have an opinion on something.”

Nice save there. Lois Lane lived up to her reputation. But Selina certainly couldn't tell her oh Bruce is a first rate paranoid and is convinced that Superman is secretly evil or something.

There it was necessary to maintain a certain image.

“He enjoyed flying with Superman Airlines, and he would probably repeat the experience at the first opportunity.”

“Because of the arms,” Lois said.

“Because of the arms,” Seliana agreed. “He couldn't stop singing them to me. They were so toned Selina. They could have broken me in two and I would have thanked him.”

“Very interesting,” the reporter said, a mischievous glint in her eyes. Who knows what her brilliant head was working up at that moment.

Selina didn't investigate. What she had to do was direct Lois towards the conclusion she wanted.

They finally took their seats. The chairs next to them were still empty. She smiled.

Read more Mission: seducing Superman

I think Bruce would start wearing his children’s merch and it would backfire horribly

He buys a whole shipment of shirts, mugs, bags, etc because he loves his kids and he’s so proud of them it hurts.

The day after it arrives, the manor dissolves into a cold war. Long held alliances snap in half, and tentative truces break down. Damian is staring hatefully at Dick. Jason’s glaring at Tim like he wants to recreate Titans Tower. Bruce has no idea what set them off.

After a week of this, Bruce is at his wit’s end. None of his kids will talk to him, so he goes to the bat computer for some well intentioned stalking. Except- what’s this? There’s an unnamed file, hidden in the depths of the computer. Bruce, having great respect for privacy and personal space, immediately starts to crack it. It’s- a spreadsheet.

The two categories are his children’s names and the type of merch (hat, pin, fridge magnet, etc). With a grim and dawning horror, Bruce realizes that his children are keeping track of how many times he wears/uses their merch and is using it as a favoritism competition. There’s a hot debate about if the yellow bat symbol should belong to batgirl or to black bat. Murder threats are sprinkled liberally in the annotations.

So Bruce comes up with a plan- he’ll create his own spreadsheet that cross-references with his calendar to ensure that he wears/uses everyone’s merch equally. No favoritism accusations if it’s a rotating schedule, right?

Bruce is too tired to change before flopping into bed one night, and comes downstairs wearing the same shirt. The breakfast table explodes.

Bruce gives up and goes back to wearing Superman merch.

A version with the black pools of nothingness eyes I usually draw; since irises were creeping people out 👁️

🎶👉 https://open.spotify.com/track/003vvx7Niy0yvhvHt4a68B

The thing is, Clark doesn’t even like coffee. Yet there sits a shitty drip coffee maker, glass carafe and everything, on his worn linoleum countertop. The office was throwing it out, as they had recently upgraded to some single-serve machine (pods full of damp coffee grounds soon filled the break room trash can, and Clark has to hold back a gag every time he passes it) and was giving away their old one.

Clark stares at the chipped black paint on the coffee maker from his bed. Gentle morning light filtered through his curtains in his studio apartment, and Clark turned to watch how the glow and shadows played along Bruce’s bare back. HIs hand starts reaching out of its own accord, determined to feel if the sunlight had warmed Bruce’s skin. But millimeters above a scarred, broad expanse, Clark stops and lets his hand hover.

Because him and Bruce? They don’t do that. There’s no loving caresses, no morning kisses with horrible breath. Each touch is purposeful, yanking off shirts and ripping down zippers. There’s slamming against walls and hungry hands, and, if Clark is really lucky, rough kisses and wine-stain marks left on his neck. Bruce is, if nothing else, an efficient man, so Clark knows why they do this. Bruce will come in after patrol, peppered with bruises, and push Clark against the wall. Or Clark will hover over the entrance to the Batcave after flying halfway across the world for a tsunami, screaming of those he could not save ringing through his head, until Bruce will let him in. They aren't gentle, and they aren’t romantic, and Clark has almost gotten used to having this. Tantalus finally gripping onto the fruit to take a bite, and having it yanked away after the first taste.

Because he wants it all. He wants to cook for Bruce in the early hours of the morning after patrol. He wants to wrap gently around him in bed, for no reason other than he wants to be close, and he wants forehead kisses. He wants to soothe Bruce from nightmares and have dinners with Bruce’s kids. He wants Bruce to look at him with a soft smile and gentle eyes.

He wants to make Bruce coffee in the morning. 

And so the coffee maker sits in Clark’s kitchen, glass glinting as if to make sure Clark can’t ignore it. 

Clark sighs and lays back in the bed with a thump. He glances over to Bruce, sheets pushed around his torso and the rise and fall of his hips,  If this is all he gets, he will gorge himself on these small moments. Clark zeroes in on Bruce’s heart rate (something that is halfway to an obsession at this point. He’ll find himself reaching for the steady beating multiple times a day, just to check, he tells himself. Just to check.) and realizes the tempo has increased too much for Bruce to still be asleep.

Clark doesn’t rouse him with doting kisses on his neck, or wrapping his arms around his waist. He doesn’t thread his hand through Bruce’s foppish hair and he certainly doesn’t run his fingers lightly down his back.

So Clark waits. He glances around his room, something to distract him from gazing at Bruce with what he is sure is an entirely too honest face. His eyes catch on the glare of the coffee-machine in the kitchen once again and he feels his heart pick up its pace.

It was an impulse decision to bring it back to his apartment, fueled by some pipe dream that maybe he could be something for Bruce besides a stress-reliever. He regrets it immensely. Every time he saw it, it was a stark reminder of what he couldn’t have and hopes that would never be realized. He should just throw the damn thing away. Clark rubs his hands over his face and sighs heavily, then glaces over to Bruce. Soft grey eyes peer up at him.

“G-goodmorning,” Clark stammers, feeling caught.

“Goodmorning.” Bruce says, low and even. 

Neither of them move, and for a moment the two meet eyes. In moments like these, where Clark is not only looking, but he’s being seen, that he has hope. He feels it flutter in his chest now as he takes in Bruce’s pillow wrinkled face and sleep-laden expression. 

Clark wants to be brave in love. He wants to reach out and try and not be ashamed if he fails. He wants to stand on that precipice and see if he’s caught when he falls. And as Clark stares, he smiles gently, and swears he sees something reflected in Bruce’s eyes. Bruce breaks contact and looks away, and the moment should be gone. The ache in Clark’s chest should dissipate, and yet he can see a light flush in Bruce’s cheeks.

Maybe Clark can be brave. If Bruce doesn’t leave, if he stays in the bed for one more minute, Clark will ask him. 

So Clark waits, counting silently along with the beat of Bruce’s heart. He stares up at the ceiling, the glow of sunlight trapped in his curtains, down at his hands. He avoids and he waits.

Bruce shuffles to sit up in bed around the 45 second mark, and Clark’s heart drops. But Bruce simply props his pillow up and lounges, glancing over.

“Clark,” Bruce clears his throat. 50, 51. “Are you..alright?”

Desperate to not lose count, Clark holds up a finger. 58, 59, 60.

He finally turns and faces Bruce, only to see a softly furrowed brow and concerned eyes. 

“Yeah,” he says. “Yeah, I’m alright.”

His heart drops and Clark wants to be brave. He can feel each word lodged in his throat, ready to be spit out, and distantly he’s aware that he is simply about to ask if Bruce wants coffee, as any mid-westerner raised properly would. But he knows Bruce, despite the distance the vigilante tries to create. He knows what this invitation would mean to both of them.

You are the ledge I leap off of, and you are the ocean I fall into, he thinks.

“Bruce, would you like some coffee?”

Bruce schools his expression immediately and Clark feels the wind whipping his clothes as he falls.  Clark glances down at his hands curled in his lap, and he waits and he waits. He hears Bruce clear his throat once, twice.

“I would.”

Clark feels a grin lift his lips, unbidden, and he laughs a gentle huffing thing.

“Yeah?” He looks over at Bruce and sees a small smile playing at the corner of his mouth. “Let me, um, let me get that started then.”

He lifts the sheet and quickly walks over to the nearest pile of clothes (he may have superspeeded a bit) to grab a shirt. He throws it on and walks towards the kitchen, hearing a shout of, “It better not be that awful bottled shit you drink, Kent!”

Clarks laughs again, giddy, and yells back, “Shucks Bruce, I had just picked some up at the gas station for you!”

CLark moves around his kitchen, grabbing a mug and the bag of grounds he had picked up the day prior, before moving over to the coffee machine. His coffee experience is limited to glass bottles of cream and sugar with the barest hint of coffee in only the direst of circumstances (days of no sleep or after battles with kryptonite), so he tries to emulate the movements he’s seen at the office. He dutifully fills the carafe with water and pours it into the machine, then reaches over to grab one of the filters he had stolen from work. After successfully filling the filter with grounds, he reaches over to flip the switch and … nothing. He hears a teasing huff from behind him.

Bruce leans against the counter and Clark marvels at how quietly the man moves. Bruce forwent a shirt, standing only in boxers. Clark stares for a moment, taking in sharp hip bones, a stark v-line, and pale skin before realizing Bruce had spoken.

“I’m sorry?” Clark asks and tears his eyes away back to safety.

Bruce huffs once more.

“I said the machine wasn’t plugged in.”

Clark flushed and quickly went to plug it in, fumbling on the way there. He tried once more to push the button, and lo and behold, the machine started with a small whirr. Coffee collected and dripped into the glass carafe, the sound filling the silence left in the kitchen.

The light had shifted to something brighter, heartier as it fell through Clark’s windows. It hit the side of Bruce’s face and Clark let himself look unabashedly, for once. He felt almost hedonistic, basking in the presence of a sleep-warm Bruce and the morning light.

“So you’re a big coffee drinker, huh?” Bruce said, a smile playing at his lips.

“Rao, no.” Clark protests. “I just thought it might be nice for when I have, uh, guests over.”

Clark can see the ghost of a smirk and has never felt more transparent. He takes the leap.

“You’ve never stayed.” 

“You’ve never asked.” Bruce replies and the two let that hang in the air.

“I wanted you to一 want you to.” Clark breaks the silence with a sheepish smile. “I just never thought you’d want the morning-afters.”

Bruce moves to grab a mug from the counter and starts to fill his cup up. He takes a sip, and Clark knows that the coffee is too damn hot just as he knows Bruce needs a second to process. And he’s more than happy to wait.

“I wasn’t sure of the parameters of … this. So I erred on the side of caution.”

Clark stares at him for a moment, trying to decipher what Bruce meant. Reading Bruce has become a skill (an artform) that he’s honed over years. He tries to rid himself of a hopeful bias as he discerns what Bruce meant, but it almost sounds like一

“I was happy to take what I could get too.” Clark says softly. He can feel every desire he has bubbling in his chest, fueled by hope. He wants to say it all, but he swallows down his words. He couldn’t break this fragile moment. Now was not the time. But there would be a right time, Clark knew now. 

They let the minute stretch quietly, both content. Bruce takes another sip of coffee and grimaces.

“Clark, this is terrible.”

Clark laughs, a bright, surprised thing and looks over at Bruce. Both men are smiling, carrying a lightness that Clark hadn’t seen before. 

You are the ledge I leap off of, and you are the ocean I fall into, but you are the hand I grip as we slip off the edge. Clark thinks.  

*Krypto sniffing Bruce after he and Superman save him*

Clark: "Sorry about that Mr. Wayne. Kyrpto likes to sniff every new person he meets :)."

*Krypto ignoring Batman the first time they meet*

Clark: