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apocalypse-shuffle · 1 year

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BATMAN | BATFAMILY (assorted canon)

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“Long Overdue” (Bruce Wayne x Batmom!Reader)

| Reader was with Bruce in the past but grew distant after Jason’s death. No one tells her when he comes back from the dead until Bruce is forced to bring her in on an ambush when they’re overwhelmed.

-Jason and Batmom!Reader reunion.

| SFW, canon typical action, cursing, past death of a child, Reader & Bruce are divorced, -angry!reader

| This is like half fanon half UTRH/Batman:Hush. I’m really just fucking around with canon rn. Also the pictures used are just for aesthetics and have no contextual meaning to the story. (pic source: Batman - Three Jokers comic)

| 1k+ words

| parts: one, spurt, two, three, four, five, six/six point five, seven.

Bruce clears his throat for the third time in ten minutes.

In contrast you roll your eyes for the third time in just as long before bending over to switch on the A/C. The Batmobile got stale whenever Bruce started binging. The vehicle not smelling like old blood and sweat stopped being important once your ex husband neglected his duties as Bruce Wayne.

Once upon a time that negligence would have worried you. Still does even if you vehemently tamp it down.

Another clearing of his throat.

“Spit it out already.” You hold your arm tighter to your chest at a bump in the road as you watch him, bullet wound treated rudimentarily enough to hold you over until you get to the cave but still adding to the scent of blood.

Bruce isn't a meta-human; he still emoted even if he did it in such small increments that the untrained eye wouldn’t catch on. You were far from untrained though; you’ve been speaking Bruce almost as long as Alfred has and so you see the twist of fearangersorrow that flashes across his face.

The same damn twist of fearangersorrow from the last days of you and Bruce’s relationship. This time around your stomach doesn’t drop and your body doesn’t flare, mirroring those same emotions. You don’t answer Bruce's natural pull at all in fact, only sigh as you do your best to keep your arm from jarring.

“I didn’t come here to fight. Say what you want.”

Not that you expected to get much leeway on that front. Asking Bruce to communicate without a million half truths was like asking a baby to scrape the paint off thirty feet walls. It could be done technically, it would just take a lot of patience and outside assistance.

His hands tighten on the steering wheel, gloves creaking, before he works through the motions of forcing himself to relax.

“You’re not going to like it.”

“Bruce, when's the last time I liked anything that came out your mouth?”

“You were on a video call with Dick and you laughed when I was complaining about that mite infestation in the cave.”

Of course he would remember that, living filing system that he was.

“Yeah, I was laughing at you,” you clarify with a tiny snort and Bruce gives you his faint smile.

“I know,” he says voice gone soft. You have to clench your eyes shut against the onslaught of emotions that tone elicits. How long has it been since you’ve heard it? “I'm…sorry.”

You don’t think he’s talking about the joke.

“Bruce-”

“I know,” he repeats before pausing. You recognize the active way he’s composing himself and something in you can’t help but to shrivel up. What could be so bad that he's acting nearly as off as when he had to explain how Joker killed your son to you?

Your heart pumps faster in your chest like it wants to run away from the impending news, and you have to open your mouth so that your breaths don’t begin to stutter. No more, not after Jason, you can’t take another death.

In an attempt to avoid the nearing collision of your anger and worry at Bruce gearing up to drop yet another bomb on you and straight up verbally expressing he’s sorry about it beforehand - which what the hell? - you run through what you know.

He could just be acting funny about a shared account you forgot to separate. That’s always a possibility. You focus on keeping your breathing level.

You’d seen Dick and heard from Babs tonight, talked to Dick on how to not burn down his house whilst cooking just three afternoons ago and he’d mentioned Alfred doing fine then. Hopefully that still rings true. The newest Robin that’d been dragged out of a collapsing building last week would still be recovering and no one had mentioned Timothy adding to his injuries so it likely wasn’t him that had Bruce like this, and you haven’t heard anything negative or otherwise about Batgirl.

Even this new Red Hood guy didn’t seem to be much of a problem outside of you not knowing who the hell he is and him being all up in your business earlier. You’d take a lot of shit over the dysfunctionality of you and Bruce’s relationship, but not from a stranger. Besides, you weren’t omniscient - that was more Alfred’s deal - so you weren’t exactly the best gauge on the greater intentions of the city’s newest crime boss. You made a habit of not looking too closely at Gotham’s vigilante scene if you could help it.

Joker did go by that once though, right before his metamorphic dip in a vat of acid green, but you knew it wasn’t the clown under that helmet. For one, Joker didn’t fight with Hood’s brute strength and honed finesse and secondly you knew for a fact the green haired bastard was in Arkham right now. Alive and well.

Your hands clench at the reminder.

“You let him live!”

“We are not executioners, Y/n!”

“Uh uh. Absolutely not, that’s where you’ve got me fucked up.” You take a deep breath before gesturing towards the expanse of Gotham. “When you choose over and over for this man to live you are explicitly signing everyone else’s death sentences, and how you don’t see that is beyond me.”

The way Bruce shakes his head is almost reflexive.

“We always stop him before he can do anything like that.”

“Oh really? Always? Because I got a son six feet under that says otherwise, and last time I checked so do you.”

Bruce twitches. “We don’t trade lives.”

You stare at him, your frustration a harsh nearly livable thing at that moment. The memory of him throwing you off the Joker, of the screaming match afterwards, makes your tongue taste like ash.

“Sure we do,” you murmur. “You just won’t see it that way.”

“We. Don’t. Stoop. To their level, Nightfall,” he accentuates gruffly and just as suddenly as it came your anger rushes away with the next gust of wind that lashes at your face.

An argument on methodology is not what you came here for. You're furious about The Joker, you have no doubt you always will be, but that fury isn’t what drove you to hunting Bruce down on a random rooftop. Joker isn’t what got you back in your suit on this night. Bruce is.

Bruce Batman who’s clearly getting ready to turn this into a thing again.

“Bruce. Bruce stop it.”

You look at him. Really look at him for the first time in weeks and something just…clicks. Bruce and you have been standing at a precipice this whole time. This was it. How Bruce handled Jay’s death was either going to make or break you. And if Dick going virtually no contact had been the trial run the continual state of your marriage wasn’t looking too good. No more kids to patch up the cracks. No more looking away from new cracks formed.

Your mask gets pulled off a second later.

“My baby is dead, Bruce. We had to bury our mangled son today and you want to go out and be Batman when Bruce Wayne is needed at home. I don’t want to argue philosophies, I want you to leave the cape at the door and be here for me as my husband.”

Problem was that Bruce hadn’t been able to do both, and by the end of that interaction you’d punched him for it. Punched him for your son too. One failed attempt and all of a sudden he couldn’t kill Jason’s killer or let you do it for the both of you. No, he’d cracked down instead. It would be inexcusable and he’d clash with you the whole way.

You can admit to yourself that you gave up because you didn’t want to be faced with the possibility of Bruce throwing you in jail over the Joker. He’d stopped you from wiping him from the earth three times at that point, who’s to say he wouldn’t have eventually caved and gotten you committed?

Bruce couldn’t balance being the husband to a grieving wife and being the grieving father of a murdered son. Couldn’t handle being Bruce Wayne when The Batman was so much simpler; easier to hide behind than confronting everything. So he retreated.

In a way you understood, the death of a child wasn’t something you walked away from at all in some cases and it certainly changed you in every situation, but you were supposed to have been able to deal with that blow together.

Bruce’s voice, tight and broad, less Bruce and more Bat once more, brings you out of your head.

“A few weeks ago the Red Hood made his presence known after an undisclosed amount of time hiding below the radar in Gotham with a duffel bag full of severed heads.”

You hum lightly having already known this. Dick got chatty when he was stressed.

“A few days after that Red Hood and I got in an altercation wherein he unmasked and gave me his blood and fingerprints. Both that I then tested…”

Behind your mask you squint, breath rushing out of you as another possibility you hadn’t dared to let yourself think comes to mind. Grief’s most dangerous wish. You start shaking your head. It's a useless attempt to not let the pieces come together.

“The results matched that of Jason Todd’s,” there’s a moment of brief wrenching stillness before he adds quieter, as if his veneer of control has suddenly been punched out of him. “Our Jason….”

…TBC

NOTES: Hope you enjoyed! Comments would be appreciated if you wanted to leave one! I read all of them, I only don’t respond cause this is a side blog.

P.S.: It’s gonna come off like I hate Bruce in the later chapters (only sometimes irl) so yeah. Apparently I’m just getting out some general Bruce frustrations with this, so fair warning. This is not a happy ending for his ass.

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adhdslugcrimes · 1 year

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Wally: are we allowed to comment on it?

Bruce, annoyed: no.

Bat-mite: aw, bat that's not any way to treat a friend!

Oliver: where did this thing come from?

Wally: what's your name?

Bat-mite: the name Bat-mite, flash. And I'm a part of ol' batty, his funny side!

Diana: thought he killed that side of him a long time ago.

Bruce: I did.

Bat-mite: he did. I'm just immortal!

Wally: does Dick know about him?

Bruce: yes.

Wally: did Dick brought him back?

Bruce: Jason did... For fun

Wally: can we keep him?

Bruce: no.

Wally: aw no fun Bruce.

Oliver: we should keep him, unless you want him to follow you every where.

Clark: why can't he stay here?

Bruce: because.

Diana: because why?

Bat-mite: Bruce doesn't want me to tell you guys about his secrets, like his huge crush on Wonder woman and Superman!

Bruce:

The team:

Hal: wait that was a secret?

Wally: uncle Hal, it was... Only Dick told us.

Hal: oh... Right... Awkward.

Bruce: *gets up, walking away*

Wally: Bruce, where going?

Bruce: to jump off the tower.

Team: oh shit—

#i fuckin loved bat mite so #wally west #bruce wayne #diana prince #clark kent #hal jordon #oliver queen #superwonderbat #wonderbat #superbat #bat mite #hinting to birdflash because of course #y'all know me

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romeulusroy · 11 months

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Summer Storm (Roman Roy Oneshot)

Characters: Roman

Word Count: 1,228

Requested: Roman interrupting a baking/cooking session but he’s like completely clueless? - anon

Requested: could you do spending a lazy weekend being fluffy spent with Roman Roy pls??💕💕 - anon

Tag List: @locke-writes

A/N: I decided to combine these requests, I hope you don't mind!!! This fic is currently inspired by the thunderstorm happening rn lol. I love Soft Roman. I love him, I love him, I love him. I hit a bit of a writers block getting this done, so I'm sorry if it isn't my best!!! Feedback is always appreciated!!! 💜💜💜

The thunder rolls in like the tide. You watch the bright sky darken, the clouds pooling in. The heat, the humidity, the thick, sticky air becomes electric. You hear it first, the tantrum. The growling, low and angry. So angry. So breathless. Don't you scare him, you thought, watching the storm. He never liked them. You don't have to say a thing, though he knows. Drink in hand, he pushes your float towards the steps of the pool. The water is warm, not like it was when you first got in. You drag your fingers all the way there, hands pruned, skin burning from the long day in the pool. His sunglasses are big, covering those puppy dog eyes. He holds it in place as you step out, thanking him with a kiss. Don't be here long. You look up from him, his small frame, his red cheeks, to the sudden wind. Strong, passionate, prickling your skin. Suddenly it had gotten cold. Dark. Even in the city you can smell the Earth, the wet soil, the soaking leaves of home. From far away. You stood there a second, on the edge, dripping, letting him take you in. He wasn't the type to look you up and down. Your relationship wasn't like that. There was love outside of your bodies. Now though, something must've caught his attention. Something about you, smelling of chlorine and sunscreen. What are you staring at? You ask, smiling despite your shaking. You're freezing. You're awfully full of yourself, he defends, sipping his drink. You know, even as you turn around, grabbing a towel, he's watching. He can’t take his eyes off you.

The rain pours in sheets. The sky opens like an open wound without a tourniquet. Patting against the windows, leaving tiny handprints, the rain is angry, defensive, falling with all their mite. He left the glass door open, the smell intoxicating. Clean. Fresh. Stormy. The rain patters down the streets, the empty sidewalks, against the rooftop. Cars below honk their horns, everyone forgetting how to drive in the rain. Their tires plunge through the puddles. You stir the vegetables in the pan, watching the lightning flicker. Flashes so fast you question if they're even real. Ooooh spooky! He laughs, pouring you a glass of wine. He comes up behind you, resting his chin on your shoulder. Are you scared of a little lightning? Watch out, it's got a knife! You take the stem of the glass, taking it in. A white wine, summery. Chilled. Distracted, he takes his chance, slipping the spatula from your grasp. Do you even know what you’re doing? You laugh. This isn’t rocket science, I hate to break it to you. But the asparagus is beginning to burn. Outside the sky cracks like shattered glass. Low, moaning, the wind blowing through the apartment. The curtains blow violently, dramatic. Beads of rain are beginning to come in. Neither of you make any moves to shut it. There is something too familiar, too nostalgic, about thunderstorms. About this thunderstorm, as if you have lived a million lifetimes together, the three of you. There is safety in this idea. Security.

You take a step back, leaving your back against the counter, taking him all in. He’d taken a shower after the pool, his hair still wet. His stubble was shorter, but never gone. His soap, yours, a vanilla scent, mahogany, woodsy. Warm, inviting, opposite the character he forgets he’s playing. He moves through the wound so uncomfortable, as if existence is agonizing, excruciating. He can’t keep still. He nurses his own drink, his tumbler reeking of gasoline. He stirs lightly, as if afraid to bother, to be a nuisance. The oven timer dings and he turns it off, leaving the rest of dinner in the warmth. You resist the urge to wrap your arms around him, to hold him tight and never let him go. But you don’t, because you know he will jump at your touch, any touch, without warning. And it will ruin it. It will ruin everything. So you watch and want. You want him. You want him to feel full and safe and satisfied. You want to wrap him up and never let him go, never let anyone near him again. There are things in this world too precious for mankind. They get used and abused and ruined all because they are beautiful, because they are something otherworldly. He is one of those things. Your Romulus. Your Roman.

Need any help? You ask, already reaching for the oven mitts. The rain has lightened to a steady downpour. The thunder growing fainter. The lightning is as bright as ever. Sometimes it regains its strength, the storm, and it will throw a punch you have not yet braced yourself for. Your vital organs go unprotected. Your teeth sprawl out across the floor. Sometimes it makes him jump, catches him off guard. He is frozen for a moment, before your hand reaches his shoulder, squeezing lightly. Do you need any help? You ask again, nudging him out of the way. He does not object. It is his time to observe you. You reach in, grabbing the pans, leaving them on the stovetop to cool off. The apartment fills with blinding light, just for a few seconds. Maybe less. You both take another sip. It’s his favorite meal. Your favorite to cook. Easy enough, anyways. The breeze cools your back, your neck, your cheeks. You watch the goosebumps on his arms. Want me to close it? The sliding glass door. No, no- you, you like it. No. He shakes his head. He should be drinking water, you think, he’s spent all day in the sun. But you don’t push it, not now. Later you’ll hand him a glass and watch him drink. He’ll be so full of sarcasm, of quips and jokes and anecdotes, but you will get your way.

He gets two plates for you, handing you one. You know, if it wasn’t for me, we wouldn’t even have any vegetables. You give him a fork and knife. Oh yes, where are my manners? Thank you Roman Roy for this delicious meal. Where would I be without you? You kiss his cheek, making him smile. He shrugs. Probably dead in a ditch, I don’t know. You laugh. Fuck off! You sit at the kitchen island across from him, glancing at him. What? What are you looking at? He asks, chewing. Can’t I look at my boyfriend? You finish your glass, meeting his eyes. No, actually you can’t. It’s illegal. You’re under arrest. You get closer to him, leaning in. Do I get parole? Mmmm no. Who’s my lawyer? Tom. Fuck you! Despite himself, you catch him grin. You’re tired. The sun took everything out of you. What you want is to leave dinner, leave the dishes, crawl into bed beside him where you can listen to the rain all night and fall asleep. You don’t want the day to be over though. It was too good to be true. Even the storm, even the rain could not ruin it. Whatever quiet time you had together lounging in the pool, cooking dinner, whatever peace you created was enough. More than enough. It was wonderful, it was everything you wanted. Who gets to be the judge? Greg. Are you kidding me? Nope.

#requested #writing #roman roy #roman roy imagine #roman roy x reader #succession #succession imagine #succession x reader #roman roy fic #roman roy oneshot #roman roy drabble #he finally gets his steak #i think lol #i cant remember the exact quote

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laufire · 3 months

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I ended up making a bunch of dc icons for the snowflake challenge in dreamwidth so. here they are! all from comics I've read or re-read recently-ish: bruce and talia's first interactions, spoiler's introduction, nightwing/huntress, mark of cain, titans (1999), batman/superman annual, dc speechless!, and 'twas the mite before christmas.

Do not edit them or claim as your own. Like/reblog if you use them or save them. Credit is appreciated.

[Detective Comics issue 411. Bruce, as Batman, with a saddened expression, hugs Talia as she cries in his arms.]

[Batman issue 244. Close-up to Talia al Ghul, looking up with a pleading expression.]

[Batman issue 244. Bruce presses Talia to his chest, grabbing her from the waist and the arm, and kisses her for the first time. He's shirtless but still wearing the cowl.]

[Detective Comics issue 648. Tim has unmasked Steph, and she, snarling, hits him in the face with a brik.]

[Detective Comics issue 648. Tim, dressed as Robin, humps behind Steph, dressed as Spoiler, in her motorcycle, aggravating her.]

[Nightwing/Huntress issue 2. Dick and Helena kiss, before an orange sunset. They're in their vigilante suits, her hands on his chest, and his on her arm and her back, with the wind making their hair and Helena's cape fly.]

[Nightwing/Huntress issue 4. Helena is in a brown blazer with her hair up in a relaxed bun, hugging herself with her arms. Dick stands next to her, in civilian blothes and with a fake goatee.]

[Batman issue 567. Cass sits in front of Barbara, while Barbara, in her wheelchair, leans in and shows her flash cards, teaching her to speak.]

[Detective Comics issue 734. Close-up to Cass, wearing a black mask covering her upper face, scowling, with hair flying around her face.]

[Detective Comics issue 734. Barbara, smiling, holds up a picture of herself as Batgirl, showing it to Cass.]

[Titans issue 11. Jesse Quick looks up at Nightwing, enthanced, while she sits in the Titans' plane.]

[Titans issue 12. Jesse, visibly upset and a bit angry, approaches Nightwing. She's in civilian clothes, he's shirtless but with a mask, training against a punching bag.]

[Titans issue 19. Jesse and Dick sit in her office. She's in her C.E.O chair, with her legs crossed, speaking on the phone; he's in civilian blothes, sitting at the other side of the table.]

[Batman/Superman Annual issue 1. Supergirl and Red Hood standing side by side, with their profiles on display. Kara is looking down, with her eyes closed.]

[Batman/Superman Annual issue 1. Kara and Jason, fighting back to back with their swords (hers given by Diana, his made by fire), with Krypto in the background.]

[DC Speechless! issue 4. Zatanna entering a portal she summoned by drawing a pentagram in the floor of a library, surrounding it with candles. She's stepping into the portal.]

[DC's 'Twas the Mite Before Christmas, "Wonderful Toys". Damian hugs tight onto a mirage of Talia conjured by Bat-Mite.]

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