roronoa-zelda

[roronoa-zelda]

been reading world's finest comics and fell in love with superbat co-parenting robin dynamic. that's litcherally their son

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You were so bright.

Discord friends are the best lmaoooo

[roronoa-zelda]

How to kiss your helium balloon.... 🎈

[roronoa-zelda]

Clark calls him “darlin’” on patrol.

Bruce nearly drives the Batmobile into a fire hydrant.

It’s the third time this week. Last time it was “sweetheart.” The time before that—horrifyingly—“sugarplum.” They’re on comms. Diana chokes on her tea.

“Stop doing that,” Bruce growls.

Clark, all southern sunshine, just laughs. “Doing what, sugar?”

“You know what.”

There’s a pause. Then a whisper, so low only Bat-tech hears it:

“Pumpkin.”

Bruce disables the channel and jumps off the rooftop.

Clark catches him mid-fall, grinning.

“You’re the worst.”

“You like me.”

“….Unfortunately….”

[roronoa-zelda]

Clark is the one who panics.

Which is ironic, because Bruce should be the emotionally stunted one here. But Bruce just says it, one night, like a tossed batarang: “I love you.”

And Clark—mighty, brave, fireproof—chokes on air.

“You—you what?”

“I love you,” Bruce repeats, looking him dead in the eye. “Do I need to repeat it in Kryptonian?”

Clark splutters something about needing water and heat visioning the sink by mistake.

Hours later, when he’s calmed down, he shyly walks into the Manor kitchen. Alfred is folding towels. Calm as ever.

Clark mumbles, “He told me he loved me.”

Alfred nods. “Yes, Master Bruce has a tendency to terrify his loved ones with honesty.”

Clark smiles. “You think he means it?”

Alfred pauses. “If he didn’t, I’d have shown you the door long ago.”

[roronoa-zelda]

Clark Forgets He’s Not On a Farm

He calls Batman “darlin’” on a League call. Diana chokes on her coffee.

Bruce doesn’t react.

Thirty minutes later, he shows up at the Kent apartment with zero explanation and says, “Say it again.”

Clark: “…What?”

Bruce: “You know what.”

[roronoa-zelda]

Batboys who, when they’ve upset someone in their lives who they care about, just buy them copious amounts of things they like because that’s how Bruce tries to rectify his small mistakes with his children

Wally: Hey, Dick? Did you order basketball tickets?

Dick: Oh, yeah. Last week. I ate your leftovers and you were upset about it, so I got you tickets for your favorite team in apology.

Wally: …thank you? Weren’t these expensive though? It’s the finals.

Dick: :)

Roy: Hey, Jaybird, did you get a new toolbox?

Jason: It has your name engraved on it.

Roy: I saw that.

Jason: Apology for when I forgot to lock the bedroom door when you asked, and Lian walked in on us

Roy: That was, like, a month ago? And I wasn’t even mad?

Jason: Engraving takes a long time.

Tim: To make up for missing our last date due to work, I made reservations and laid out outfits for both of you on the bed.

Bernard (in the bedroom with Kon): I don’t remember these being in our closet?

Kon: Since when did you have that necklace?

Bernard: And you those earrings? Shit, is that diamond?

Kon: Oh, I see what’s happening. Tim does this when he feels guilty.

Bernard: I hate rich people so much.

Damian: Hello.

Jon (jumping): Oh…hey? How did you get here? And when? I thought you said you were busy today and couldn’t hang out.

Damian: Irrelevant. I have a gift.

Jon: Oh my god! Is that a signed guitar?

Damian: …do you like it?

Jon: Yes, duh. But, how? Why? When?

Damian (climbing out the bedroom): Bye.

Clark (walking into Jon’s room): Oh, you and Damian made up?

Jon: WE WERE FIGHTING?

(Bonus SuperBat)

Clark (to his mom on the phone, walking into his Daily Planet office): Me and B were in a bit of a fight last night. Nothing big, but I feel bad about it. He slept in the guest room- holy shit.

Martha: What? You ok?

Clark: Yeah, yeah. I just walked into my office and…like everything’s been upgraded?

Martha: …what?”

Clark: There’s a really nice keyboard and computer and one of those fancy desk chairs and…oh. Hey, B.

Bruce (in the corner of the room): Good?

Clark: Uhhh…yes?

Bruce: :)

[roronoa-zelda]

I always wonder if Clark has accidentally called Bruce by a Midwestern pet name without realizing

Bruce: Superman

Clark working on something: yes darlin

Bruce*burning bright red*: uhmm.... M-Mission reports

Clark, oblivious: what's that doll?

Bruce gay panic Wayne: nothing.... doesn't matter

*Smoke bombs away*

Clark finally turn around: weird. what was that about

Later that night in bed Clark wakes up in a cold sweat realizing what he's done.

Clark: Oh no. He's gonna kill me

_____

Bruce still on the floor 6hrs later: you don't understand Alfred. That midwest charm. It's psychological warfare.

Alfred so done with this gay shit: I only asked if you want tea, Master Wayne. However I now realize that nothing can quite quench your thirst

[roronoa-zelda]

Clark didn’t think Bruce meant it when he invited him to stay the night. He packed light: just a toothbrush and an “I ❤️ Kansas” tee.

He’s given the east guest suite, which has a fireplace, a bookcase full of first editions, and a bed large enough to land a plane on. Alfred politely refuses his offer to help clean up after dinner.

At 2AM, Clark hears a knock. It’s Damian.

“You’re loud when you sleep.”

“I—what?”

“You snore like a dying walrus.”

Clark is still processing this when Jason appears with popcorn. “Movie into the media room. Bruce passed out with a glass of scotch and ‘Casablanca’ queued up.”

Clark ends up with five kids sprawled over him by dawn. Bruce wakes up, sees the pile, and pauses. He’s got Cass sprawled all over him, Dick painting his toenails a terrifying pink.

Damian puts a hand over Clark’s chest, sipping easily from Bruce’s abandoned glass of scotch.

“…He stays.”

[roronoa-zelda]

The lesson was Alfred’s idea, naturally.

“One cannot evade galas forever, Master Damian,” he said, laying out the polished oak ballroom floor with the same clinical exactness he applied to bullet wounds and broken ribs. “The League may have taught you ten ways to strangle a man with piano wire, but I very much doubt you know how to lead in 3/4 time.”

So: the Batkids are being taught to waltz.

Dick is overly enthusiastic, as always, spinning Stephanie in exaggerated circles that make Cass laugh from the sidelines. Tim pretends to be above it all but corrects people’s posture anyway. Damian glares at every hand extended in his direction, as if touch were a personal insult, and Jason tries to dip Alfred, who laughs loudly.

Bruce is not participating. Which is expected.

Clark is present. Which is not.

He’s just there. Quiet in the corner in a black sweater, sipping coffee with the manner of someone who’s been invited but not necessarily welcomed, though no one’s asked him to leave. He’s watching, not in the way Bruce watches—calculating, hypervigilant—but like he’s collecting a moment he wants to remember. Which is, in some ways, worse.

Bruce doesn’t dance. Not with them. Not in public. Not when he can help it.

He did once, long ago. Cotillions, charity balls, UN receptions. The first time Clark saw him waltz was in Vienna—Bruce in a tailored suit, whispering into the ear of a war criminal’s daughter while pulling intel off a blood diamond broker. It was surgical. Elegant. Seduction as espionage.

So Clark knows Bruce can dance. He also knows he chooses not to. Especially now.

So when Alfred turns to him and says, “Master Bruce, you are hardly exempt,” it is a test, not a suggestion.

Bruce says nothing. His mouth draws into that tight, unreadable line he always uses when something hurts.

Clark watches him.

And—maybe it’s habit, or pity, or the particular brand of grief that attaches itself to old friendships—but Clark steps forward, sets down the mug, and says, without bravado:

“I’ll lead.”

It’s half-offer, half-olive branch.

Bruce does not move.

Not at first.

But then: a breath. A shift. And slowly, as if surrendering to something inevitable, he places his hand in Clark’s.

The music restarts. Something slow, formal. Chopin or Strauss, probably. Clark doesn’t know. It doesn’t matter.

What matters is Bruce’s hand in his—warm, calloused, very still. His shoulder under Clark’s palm, tense like a coiled spring. His chest barely moving, like he’s not breathing.

Clark leads cautiously. He’s terrified of stepping wrong, of pressing too hard. Bruce is the one person he can’t afford to misstep with. But Bruce doesn’t flinch. He lets Clark steer. One step, then another. Slowly, they begin to move. Despite Clark’s slight clumsiness.

The children go quiet.

Not mockingly—just watching.

Even Damian says nothing.

Around them, the manor hums. Rain taps the windows. The grandfather clock ticks, unrelenting. The ballroom is warm.

Clark thinks: this is the most contact Bruce has allowed in weeks.

Bruce thinks: this is the most I’ve wanted to be touched in years.

They complete one turn around the floor. Then another. Neither speaks.

Then, at last, Bruce pulls away. Carefully. The moment ends.

He leaves the room without a word.

Clark exhales, still holding the shape of him.

And Alfred—who has seen wars, weddings, and every kind of grief known to man—clears his throat, dusts his lapel, and says simply:

“Begin again, please. From the top. Miss Stephanie, lead Richard.”

[roronoa-zelda]

Clark had always known Bruce cared.

He'd seen it in the way Bruce takes care of him in the cave without complaint, in the way he deflected every insult aimed at Clark with a single icy glare, in the way he always, always, texted after any mission with a "Report back" that actually meant "Are you safe?"

But every now and then (just rarely enough to feel like a miracle) Bruce did something so unapologetically soft that it short-circuited Clark completely, like now.

Clark blinked, still holding the small paper box in his hands "you… baked?"

Bruce looked vaguely like he wanted to sink into the floor. He crossed his arms, expression unreadable "It's not complicated, they're just oatmeal"

"Oatmeal with chocolate chips" Clark grinned, reading the little label in Bruce's handwriting "you remembered I like chocolate in mine"

Bruce looked away "you said it once"

"That was months ago"

Bruce's jaw flexed but he didn't answer.

Clark stepped closer, heart swelling painfully "Bruce… you baked for me"

"Alfred supervised" Bruce muttered, still not making eye contact "I didn't want to give you food poisoning"

Clark set the box down gently and cupped Bruce's face, forcing him to meet his gaze "You made cookies. For me"

"...Stop saying that"

Clark didn't, he beamed "You're ridiculous, and I love you so much"

Bruce's ears flushed, he grumbled something under his breath.

Clark kissed his cheek "Say it back"

"No"

"Say it"

A pause, then—gruff, low, but sincere: "...I adore you"

Clark's chest tightened. He laughed, breathless "You adore me?"

Bruce sighed "That's worse, isn't it?"

"It's perfect" Clark whispered, drawing him into a hug.

Bruce leaned into it after a beat, his arms tight around Clark's waist "I don't say it much."

"You don't have to" Clark murmured against his hair "You always show me. Every day"

Bruce rested his forehead against Clark's shoulder "I like watching your face when you smile like that. Like I've done something right."

"You always do something right when it comes to me"

Bruce scoffed "you're biased"

Clark kissed the side of his head "I'm loved. That's what I am"

[roronoa-zelda]

(Also he said "yes")

@emmeddt sent a meme to our WhatsApp group, and so here we are ❤️

[roronoa-zelda]

@headcanonthings

[roronoa-zelda]

bruce's turn to be flustered ☺️

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i drew a little superbat comic based on an old convo in the superbat server…

[roronoa-zelda]

Superbat post-mission - whipped clark

Whipped Clark and a confused Bruce taking a break in a random field

[roronoa-zelda]

First meetings

Drawing superbat as ghibli memes part 3/3

I still struggle with shading and honesty I don't give a fuck anymore. I'm simply doing this because I wanna draw, not cause I wanna be an artist

Reference and extra under the cut

I thought the outline looked cool too.