#bruuuuce

[hellomystraightlacedfriend]

Writers: Greg Pak, Fred van Lente

Artist: Ariel Olivetti

Hercules: Fall of an Avenger #2

[bruciemilf]

I’m melting at the thought of Battinson meeting Ma and Pa Kent;

Homemade pie in his arms, - not Alfred’s, not the store’s, but his own. It’s dry, burnt, ugly, and Clark wants to devour it all. It’s sitting warm and steaming on some knitted sweaters. His boy’s newest hyperfixation.

Bruce almost hiding behind Clark as he hugs both of his parents.

Ma Kent frames his face with careful hands, tough and warm, “oh let me look at you — Oh, Clark, he’s STUNNING, — oh? What do you have there, sweetheart?”

Bruce, face burning, “ …Sweaters. Pie. Um. The crust is good. Was. I ate it on the way.”

Pa and Ma Kent are SMITTEN

[afterthegoldrushes]

[sleepycyb0rg]

got to see Bruce live in concert last night (!!!) & this is by far the best picture I took

[incorrectbatfam]

Where is the best place to plant glitter bomb?

"Bruce, can you refill my coffee?"

"Batman, check the window"

"Bruuuuce, Clark's on the phone"

"Father, I can't reach the top shelf"

*points to the vent*

"Hey, B, I saw Jason mess with your tires"

"Dad, I'm stuck in my helmet"

"Yo Bruce, I dropped a batarang down the dinosaur"

"Morning Bat, Harley made cupcakes"

"Master Bruce, I got you a bath bomb"

"Kids, I brought Batburgers"

[fickle-tiction]

Hey fickle! Do you think you would be interested in doing 11 and 24 for superbat? If not that okay, hope you’re have a good day!-bookanon💚

On a rare peaceful night in, Bruce and Clark were sat on the couch together, Bruce on one end and Clark in the middle. (Bruce's ear was still stinging from where Clark had flicked it earlier, after Bruce asked if he would be faking a yawn so he could wrap his arm around his shoulders.) On screen a couple were laying in bed together, when all of a sudden the guy rolled on top of his girlfriend and began tickling her, causing her to burst into sweet laughter. Clark positively lit up as an idea stuck him.

"Hey B?"

"Hmm?"

“Can I tickle you?”

Bruce slowly turned his head, meeting Clark's hopeful smile with a frown.

" …"

"I'll take your silence as a yes."

Bruce wasn't given a chance to react. One second he was sitting on the couch with his "loving" boyfriend, and the next he was flat on his back and being crushed to death by over 200 pounds of solid muscle. "Clark!" Bruce grunted, trying to dodge Clark's attempts at grabbing a hold of his wrists.

"The fact that you're struggling this hard tells me you must be really ticklish." Clark taunted, lighting up with glee when he saw a dusting of pink appear high on Bruce's cheeks.

"That. Is. Classified Information." Bruce protested. "Shit." Clark laughed triumphantly when he got a hold of Bruce left wrist, stretching it above his head and securing it to the couch cushions with an iron grip.

"Any last words, tough guy?"

Bruce tried one last Hail Mary and used his free hand to sucker-punch Clark in the stomach. "Motherfucker." He immediately regretted his rash decision, knuckles stinging where they managed to connect just as Clark sucked his stomach in to avoid him breaking anything.

"Oh, you're going to pay for that." The smile on Clark's face was truly the stuff of nightmares.

"Can't we talk about this?" Bruce asked, unsurprised when his right arm was also pulled above his head and secured in Clark's grip.

"Sure." Clark walked his free hand down Bruce's right arm, feeling the muscles jumping beneath his skin as he slowly made his way past his armpit and down to his ribs. "You talk." He noted every spot that caused Bruce's heartrate to spike, though his expression remained unchanged. "I'll tickle."

"Clark, this is ridiculous," Bruce said, but the corners of his mouth betrayed a hint of amusement.

"Time to find out just how ticklish the Playboy Prince of Gotham really is."

Bruce couldn't even protest at the stupid nickname Clark saw in one newspaper and refused to let go of.

"Oh fuck." Bruce breathed, yanking uselessly at his arms as Clark's fingers began their dance across his stomach. It was just dumb luck that he started with Bruce's worst spot, but laughter was pouring out of him in no time.

"Bruuuuce," Clark said it in that sing-song voice that usually irritated Bruce, but he was too busy trying to burrow backward into the couch cushions to even notice. "You're supposed to be talking remember?" a quick squeeze to Bruce's side caused him to jolt and level his gaze on Clark. "I'm holding up my end of the agreement."

"You---Are--A--SOnOfABitch." Bruce broke down into deep belly laughter when Clark slipped his hand beneath his shirt and started scratching blunt nails over his bare skin.

"That's not a very nice thing to say." Clark admonished, dipping a finger into Bruce's belly button. He let out a delighted laugh when Bruce threw his head back and cackled. There really was no better word for it.

"I'm--fuck--I'm sorry." Bruce gasped out, cheeks bright red when Clark finally took pity on him and stopped vibrating his finger into his bellybutton at a slightly inhuman speed.

"Hmmm." Clark idly tapped his fingers on Bruce's ribcage as he pretended to mull something over. "No, I think you're going to have to do better than that." He then released Bruce's arms and buried his wiggling fingers into Bruce's armpits, unbothered by the arms that came flying down to try to force him out.

"I--AmGoingTo--hahaha-fucking--KihihihihihiKILLYOU!" Bruce shouted, doing his best to curl into a ball while Clark was sitting on his thighs and pinning him in place.

"The more you threaten me, the more I'm going to tickle you." Clark warned him as he easily slipped his hands out of his armpits. Bruce had 2 seconds to calm down before Clark was using one hand to squeeze at his side, while the other once more slipped beneath his shirt to gently scratch at bare skin.

"Cl-Cl-hahaha-Clark! You fu-hahaha-fucking asshole!" Bruce's knuckles were white with how tight he was clinging to Clark's wrists, but his hands might as well be pinned above his head again for all the good it was doing him.

"Oh?" Clark asked, dipping into Bruce's belly button warningly. Bruce squealed, face flushing bright red the second the sound left his mouth, and Clark took pity on him and allowed him to pull his hand out from beneath his shirt. "It's like you want me to keep tickling you."

"Shut up Clark." Bruce growled, the red flush in his cheeks racing down his neck and disappearing into the collar of his shirt.

"Wait," Clark's smile softened at the embarrassed look Bruce was now sporting. "Do you want me to tickle you?"

Bruce couldn't help the embarrassed little whimper that slipped out, shifting nervously beneath Clark's bulk. "I don't...not want you to." He mumbled looking anywhere but at Clark.

"Really?" Clark looked like Christmas, his birthday, and every holiday in between had just come early.

"If you tell anyone about this.." Gone was the embarrassed boyfriend of 5 seconds ago. That look and voice were all Batman.

"Yeah, yeah." Clark huffed, rolling his eyes fondly. "Your stash of kryptonite. My ass. Honestly, you need new threats."

Bruce looked like he was revving up for what was sure to be a chilling new way in which he could murder Clark so, naturally, Clark chose that moment to see if Bruce's neck was as ticklish as his entire torso seemed to be. Newsflash: it was worse.

[crybabycinna]

Heyyy so since it’s Bruce’s birthday here’s a shitty smut I wrote when we were in the era of Batman doesn’t eat pussy which we all know he does…it’s short and bad so I’ll probably never do this again so enjoy! Also I am an adult I’m 21 I can write this before anyone tries to say anything! This is just Bruce being a bit of a dom and oral being given to a lady

"B-Bruce!" You moaned. Your legs shaking as he devoured you. You were laid out on his bed gripping at his bed sheets, trying to run from the pleasure that was too good, he quickly grabbed your legs and pulled you back to him. "Stay still princess." He growled. "I can't Bruce, fuck! It's too good." You whined. His tongue buried deep inside your walls, he had been gone all week and you had been teasing him. You missed him so much while he was away on business.

Sending him pictures in lingerie and videos of you touching yourself. Telling him how much you needed him and how your fingers didn't feel the same as his. You drove him wild all week so he was gonna drive you wild. He licked up your slit and started sucking on your clit. A gasp escaped your lips and he slid two of his fingers in. Pumping them in and out vigorously. "Fuck," You gasped. "Please don't stop."

You could feel your walls tighten and your vision blurring. So close to cumming but he quickly stopped. You sat up so fast and looked down at him. "Bruce." "What?" He asked as he came up to your face. "Get back down there." You whined. "I don't think I will, I just remembered I have some work to do." Bruce said as he slowly got out of bed. You quickly latched on to him.

"Bruce please, please." You begged. He turned to you and grabbed your chin. "Please what?" Bruce asked. "Please make me cum." You begged. "Good girl, very good." He growled. He quickly went back down on you. He slid his two fingers back into you, arching your back as his fingers curled. He always knew how to make you feel good.

The strong thrust of his fingers made your vision blur again. Your orgasm was building fast. He removed his lips from your clit and he kissed up your body. "Look at you, such a pretty girl. My pretty girl." He said. "Yes sir I’m your pretty girl.” You mewled out. “You’re so good to me princess.” Bruce told you. “Bruce I'm so close." You whined.  "Cum for me." Bruce growled as he kissed on your neck. Leaving hickeys that you would have to cover up later but you knew he wouldn't let you. He enjoys seeing the hickeys he left and you couldn't lie you liked them too.

They turned you on. Every time you saw them you would think about Bruce and the sex you two would have. "Bruuuuce," You whined. "Come on baby." Bruce said. Your legs started shaking again and you orgasm washed over you. Your mouth flew open and your eyes rolled back. "F-f-fuck!" You cried out. "Good girl." Bruce said as he continued to finger you more. Helping you through your orgasm.

[frankiefellinlove]

Jon Bonjovi, Bruuuuce & Roger Federer

July 2023

[killadelphias]

really interested to see what st s5 does with this whole potential theme of being trapped in your hometown, etc. the context and ramifications of the upside down split. is it a true quarantine like at one point it's like, if you're here, you stay here. hawkins is closed off. you leave or you stay. boom, time jump. trapped. & since we're at a crossroads for several of the characters, the older teens should be heading off to college. so many arcs about breaking off on your own (nancy, jonathan, robin etc). & we know will can't be truly happy in hawkins. and the smalltown boy himself mike destined to run away and leave. the hellfire members potentially being vilified and hunted and how the town doesn't want them. and the whole thing the creators promised with it all being contained to hawkins. it's all very interesting. i love the concept of the town itself being a living force, an antagonist, a monster.

*starts blasting my hometown by bruuuuce* 😎✌️

[dollarbin]

Dollar Bin #18:

Bob Dylan's Dream / Lord Franklin

At some point in 1988 I discovered that there was music in my childhood home.

We'd grew up largely without it. I had an ancient, AM-only, dial radio at the head of my child sized bed, but that was strictly for listening to Vin Scully call Dodger games. At some point around 83 I spun the corroded dial experimentally and heard Borderline followed by Thriller. It was terrifying, and I did not repeat the experiment.

Therefore, as a child, the only song I remember singing along to was this ditty, which always immediately preceded Vinny declaring that it was "time for Dodger Baseball!"

Of course, I heard snatches of music outside our home. When Dolly, Emmylou and Linda put out Trio in 87 my mom bought the tape, shoved it into our red and white Vanagon's deck and kept that thing on repeat for years. And on the fourth of July I'd watch the annual Beach Boys Special at friends' houses while we lay about, sunburnt from head to toe and waiting for rock hard burgers off the grill. And yes, I'd sit in the park every summer and try to figure out how to eat KFC while the US Navy Brass band played. But all that music was around me, not in me.

Then, in 88, my buddy Matt's parents got cable, so MTV happened and we learned all about girls, I guess, from Straight Up Now Tell Me. By that point Buffalo Soldier, Shout, Brass Monkey and Take My Breath Away where spinning at elementary school dances and all the cool kids were bravely listening to Guns and Roses.

But I wasn't cool. I recognize this fact must be a surprise to all of you given the incomparably cool nature of this august blog and the meteoric rise of my Gordon Lightfoot musings among the cognoscenti (I have no doubt that among my legion of 14 followers cheesebot47 is Obama and dannhann is Bruuuuce while bloggin - I see you gentlemen! Thanks for my grand total of two heart emojis!), but I feel that my uninterrupted lifelong run of uncoolness needs to be acknowledged nonetheless. As proof I offer up the following evidence: my initial attempt at getting into music in 88 was buying the cassette single for Chicago's Look Away:

Yeah, definitely not cool. Even my father thought the song spewd chunks and the only song he ever sang to us as kids was Home on the Range. Baby! Look away!

So I did hear music at age 12. But my home had none to offer, and I'd yet to hear anything that really spoke to me, that shouted its way into my soul.

Then, somehow, furniture got rearranged or I opened my eyes a little wider and found a hitherto unknown cabinet in our living room. There weren't fur coats inside, or mothballs; nor did it take me straight to Mr. Tumnus. No, it was better than that. Instead, when I looked inside, I found The Freewheelin' Bob Dylan.

That's right: there was a record player in my home that I'd never noticed before, and records sat underneath it. No one had touched anything in there for a decade or more. But I knelt down and figured out what to do with it somehow and the next thing I knew I was listening to Blowin' in the Wind.

Picture me on my 12 year old knees, all 80 pounds of me watching the record spin, holding my breath. What was this noise? Why did it sound so glorious? And why, oh why, wouldn't it play smoothly?

You see, from the first moment Dylan began slapping at his 6 string and asking how many roads a man must walk down, the filthy, bruised record and the turntable's utterly battered needle refused to meld. I could hear only snatches of Blowing in the Wind before the whole thing popped and bolted and before you knew it there was a broken harmonica blast and Dylan was already telling me that he'd learned the next song somewhere down in the U-nited States. Then everything erupted again and it wasn't long before the needle leapt and dragged into full skid before thudding to a stop.

And yet somehow, one song on my parents' long forgotten and utterly ravaged copy of the Dylan's first masterpiece was largely intact and skip-free: at age 12 I joined Dylan on a train going west; I too dreamed a dream and weathered many a first storm. But Bob Dylan's Dream did not make me sad. Rather, it took my breath away.

And it still does.

I suspect each of us has a specific, elemental melody that insistently tugs at us; like an invisible tether, there's a combination of notes and pacing out there that's ineffably linked with our individual soul. Somehow, wonderfully, the borrowed melody Dylan used for his Dream is that tether for me.

Of course at that point I couldn't put any words together to describe what was happening to me when I listened. I was just fired up. What's more, I found that each time I replayed the record a bit more of it would emerge intact: the tortured needle harvested bits of dirt and debris from the grooves each time it passed through. Sure, I had to bully the record through several skips, but eventually I could track most of the record.

Next, somehow, probably at my friend Eric's, I found a blank tape and a turntable connected to a tape deck and was able to transfer my chopped up record into something I could carry around in my pocket like a talisman. There was a world of music out there, just for me. I had not found it yet, but I had a map.

And so I did what came naturally: I took the world's worst version of the The Freewheelin' Bob Dylan to my next Dungeons and Dragons game. Doing so made total sense to me. I was clearly 12 years old.

I emailed my personal dungeon lord, Jon, this week and asked him to recall what happened next. But Jon remembers nothing, which is surprising, because something definitely happened. The moment I pressed play on my brutalized copy of Freewheelin' in the middle of Jon's personally scripted orcfest he freaked the hell out, unplugged the stereo and carried my character sheet out to his dad's Weber, ranting all the while about how if I ever brought such crazed and unbearable sounds to one of his games again my character (I think he was named Illure...) would get doused in lighter fluid and would serve as a fitting holocaust to every god one could name. And Jon was true to his precociously literate 12 year old word: a few months later, when I brought not Bob Dylan but instead swiped cans of beer to D&D, Illure did indeed taste Jon's threatened flames and I was altogether banned from D&D henceforth. My buddy Jon: always totally awesome.

It's too bad about Illure. But I wouldn't change a thing.

So let's talk about Lord Franklin. Dylan openly acknowledged that he borrowed the tune for his Dream from Martin Carthy's version of the original. Let's drop the needle on the song's gold standard: Pentangle's version from their wrongly maligned Dollar Bin treasure, Cruel Sister.

Listen to John Renbourn, just above a whisper, recall his sighing dream. Bert Jansch's weary concertina trembles and pulses and Jacqui McShee's accompanying voice arches above and beyond until Renbourn finally produces the world's smallest and gnarliest electric guitar. Wow. What a song; what a version. That's my personal pulse friends; that's my tether.

Who knows how far back this melody actually goes; its primary known source, the Irish song Cailín Óg a Stór, is least 400 years old, but surely people were humming this thing under their breath long before any peer of Shakespeare thought about claiming ownership of it in print. Maybe my ever so great grandmother had some hand in its creation; or maybe yours did. I'll bet people all over the world have been warbling this melody in their own tongues for time out of mind.

Take a listen to the Carthy version that first inspired Dylan:

You can hear the song's racing pulse in Carthy's fleet picking beneath the swaying, stately melody. Maybe that tension of paces is part of the song's allure for me. I love slowly sung songs that still contain lurching threats of violence, terror or despair. Think Danger Bird or This Monkey's Gone to Heaven; think Mr. Bojangles.

Sure, Jerry's telling us his story with a smile. But he's not okay. He's grieving deeply as he sings, channeling his old prison mates' terrible loss for his dog.

Cailín Óg a Stór is a root stock that's been grafted beyond Franklin's tale and Dylan's dream. Happily, Stephen Stills' own take, a reworking entitled I Suck, remains unreleased. But check out Fairport Convention's A Sailor's Life. Hear the incomparable Sandy Denny spin that glorious melody in a new direction.

It takes some real guts to completely reconsider a song this elemental, but people are forever doing just that. Check out Renbourn's own masterful and hilarious version from the 90's. Just look at the guy sweat as he giggles then dives deeply in.

All of these examples help make Dylan's Dream particularly audacious. Forget telling timeless tails of terror on the deep; Dylan instead takes us to a scene from his own childhood: there they are, gathered about an old wooden stove, the first few friends he had. They never much thought they could get very old; but they have, they are all aged now, just like me and Jon, and all our long ago friends from 88.

Only art is timeless, Lord Franklin reminds us. Only art can never die.

Rest in Peace Sinead.

[littlelouprophetjohn]

this is essentially what my substack article is about https://open.substack.com/pub/centuryofakers/p/e-is-for-everything-else?r=1hz7x8&utm_campaign=post&utm_medium=web

[ivebeenghosting]

me doing any kind a lengthy project: i should throw on the batman 2022. just for background noise.

me kicking my feet in the air, project abandoned: teeheehee hee. i love you bruuuuce waaaaayne. :)

[my-chemical-aromance]

my newest vocal stim is just mimicking the way the riddler says “bruuuuce waaaaayne” in batman 2022

[disniq]

BRUUUUCE WAAAyne!!!

I would murder him with my bare hands <3

[forkborb]

BRUUUUCE

been going insane over Bruce in his eating dome for 24 hrs now

[nadja-antipaxos]

BRUUUUCE ON ABC!!

I'm not crying.

I'm totally crying.