Superhero Imagines - Tumblr Posts

Part 1 Here! / Part 2 Here! / This is Part 3! / Part 4 Here!

A/N: I don’t think the poll is over yet, but this one was very clearly going to have the highest percentage, I’ll do the “maybe if we were closer in age” one later though!

If you haven’t already please check out my Batman zine, it’s got so much fanfiction and beautiful art from five different artists! Please check it out, please. I need to find a way to compensate these artists. You can check it out here!

Bruce slumps in his chair, a longing glance spared to the decanter on the bookshelf.

He closes his eyes and wills away the craving. It’s always ten times worse when he wakes up the next day, and he can’t afford feeling worse at this point in his life.

Wasn’t it just yesterday he was twenty years old and he could spend all night playing Bruce Wayne’s party boy image, and be up in three hours feeling none the worse for wear. Now even after nine hours of solid sleep, he wakes up sluggish with an ache in his bones.

I have to be strong.

“Why did you keep her away from us?”

“Who?” he asks absentmindedly, his entire focus still on the brandy.

“(Y/N).” It’s the last name he expected to hear, especially from his oldest son. He looks up, hoping he’s misheard, but the look in Dick’s eyes proves him wrong.

Looks like I’m going to need that drink after all.

He reaches for the decanter, two crystal glasses retrieved from his desk drawer instinctually, glittering on his desk.

“Why are you bringing this up now?” He stalls by taking a sip, feigning casual, like the mention of your name alone didn’t set his heart racing.

“Don’t play this game with me Bruce,” Dick sounds more sad than angry, and it softens him. “Why didn’t you let us see her?”

“It’s complicated.”

“Then start untangling it for me.”

Bruce sighs, taking another sip of his father’s brandy. There’s a million reasons he could tell his son, none of which would be lies entirely, but softer than the truth.

But when he looks up into Dick’s eyes, he can’t bring himself to say any of them. Armed with nothing but liquor at the bottom of his cup, for the first time in four years, after dodging this question from reporters and acclaimed journalists and new paramours, he finally tells the truth.

“Because I didn’t want her to see you.”

A simple, ugly truth. He doesn’t bother looking up to see his sons reaction, he already knows a kind boy like Dick, a boy who’s fully believed his entire life that good prevails, won’t be able to process that his father did something like this. He makes better use of his time by refilling his glass.

Dick slumps in the chair by the time he’s polishing off his second peg, and pouring in his third.

“You did it to punish her?” He can see anger begin to replace shock, and he doesn’t blame him for it, but Bruce is angry enough at himself for the both of them.

“I wanted her to forget we ever existed.” This truth is as kind as it is ugly, and the nuance confuses Bruce even now. But three glasses of brandy affect him in a way that makes his tongue feel lighter and his mind feel free.

“I wanted to give her a potato sack full of money and jewels, and send her far away where no one knew who she was. I wanted her to meet a good partner, someone who would always put her first, and if they decided to extend their family I wanted her to be able to move on without feeling like she left anyone behind.”

“So you wanted her to have a great life, far away from you, and you never wanted to hear anything about it,” Dick’s voice is cold.

Bruce shakes his head. He wanted to hear everything about your new life. What kind of partner you picked. How you spent your days. When you got married. When you had your first child. When you had your second. Everything. And on bad days, he’d close his eyes and let himself imagine it was him standing next to you, that in some alternate universe he made a single different decision that gave him permission to deserve you.

“I was just tired of hurting her,” when you came in to his life, for the first time, he felt like he’s been allowed to have something of his own. Not as Batman, protecting to the city, or Bruce Wayne the mask he carried, but him as a man. But he could never seem to return the reverie you extended to him.

“Do you think she’d ever be able to move on, to live even a semblance of a normal life, if all of you were showing up at her house all bruised and beaten?”

Dick stays quiet now, and Bruce hates himself for having to say it out loud. His son may be an adult in the eyes of the law, but some parts of him are still childlike. After all, Bruce isn’t the only one putting Gotham first.

“I wouldn’t call the way she’s living now normal.” Dick’s been to your penthouse, he’s seen the photo albums full of tabloid clippings and the rare pictures he and his extended family post on social media. He’s seen the journal you keep, hidden on your bookshelf that he mistook for a regular novel during his bi-weekly trips to your place, full of notes on every article and picture and what might be happening behind the scenes to prompt a public appearance like that. Years of deductions and question he could have answered with a single text message a month, but Bruce wouldn’t even allow that.

Dick’s anger grows.

If Bruce had told him he did it to punish you, he’d be angry, but he would understand. Sometimes when you love someone that much, someone who’s too good for you, you grasp at any way to keep them. But this is a million times worse than that.

“If you loved her that much why’d you even let her go?”

Again, another question he wasn’t expecting. Maybe it’s the alcohol, but he doesn’t feel the sharp sting of surprise this time.

“Because sometimes love isn’t enough.”

Dick leaves. Bruce pours another glass, and when he’s sure he’s alone he pulls out his wallet, tugging out the family photo he keeps tucked beneath his black card, turning it over to see your portrait taped on the other side.

The corner of his mouth quirks up.

It was from when you’d both just gotten married, before you were used to upper class etiquette. You complained all morning about having to get ready and wear a bunch of expensive uncomfortable clothes designers had sent in for the article in the Gotham Times, emphasizing how ridiculous opulence like this was when there were so many bigger issues in Gotham.

He’d bought out every copy of the magazine in the city. He still had most of them, tucked away in a box in his closet that became the casket for your relationships. Every now and then he’ll unearth it, just to allow himself to be haunted again by your memory.

But for tonight, just your picture and a glass of brandy is enough.

“You’re so much better at this than I am.”

Part 1 Here! / Part 2 Here! / Part 3 Here! / This is Part 4

A/N: I wasn’t going to write this, but after I got the ask I had to haha. No beta or proof reading because we die like Jason.

Aaaaand if you like my writing please check out my fanzine/fanbook here, it’s got gorgeous art from 5 different artists and ten different fanfictions!

When you heard a knock on the door, you expected a package or maybe a friend who’d decided to stop by for an impromptu view of the Gotham skyline.

You certainly weren’t expecting an elementary schooler standing on your blue patterned doormat with an expression so severe he could make someone cower from the memory alone.

You stare at each other for what feels like ages in a one sided staring contest. Something about him feels so familiar, the shape of his nose, the cut of his jaw—

“Oh, you’re Damian.”

He looks different from the grainy photographs in the tabloids you’ve become accustomed to. Somehow, in the flesh, he looks younger.

“Can I come in?” he asks with all the eloquence of someone a second from inviting themselves in.

“I don’t think your dad would like that.”

This stops him in his tracks. His head ducks down, the tips of his ears dyed bright red. The boy doesn’t give a damn about social conventions, but he cares about what his father thinks, huh?

The sight of him flushed and awkward is endearing in a way you didn’t expect,

He looks so much like Bruce.

“Well, I think he’d like photographs of you and his ex-wife sitting in the coffee shop downstairs in the tabloids even less, so…” you open the door a bit wider, and it’s all the invitation he needs.

He perches at the edge of your arm chair. You ask him if he wants something to drink, he refuses, you turn on the tea kettle anyway.

You’re thinking of a polite way to ask Bruce’s carbon copy what the hell he’s doing at your doorstep, when he points to something behind you.

“Is that Father?”

You follow his direction, landing on a photograph in a cheap metal frame.

“Yeah, it’s from our wedding.”

It’s not a memory from the extravagant portion, the part that was televised on channel 6 news that all of Gotham followed with a fervor equivalent only to a royal wedding. It’s a memory after everyone left, you’re in a white slip dress a carton of French fries clasped in your hand, Bruce is beside you grinning from ear to ear, his bow tie untied and laid flat around his shoulders. Dick and Jason are sitting at your feet, Jason has a grin with his arm slung around Dick’s shoulder, still wearing his formal attire, while Dick has three French fries hanging from his mouth, his suit jacket and pants long gone, a hint of his blue and white striped boxers visible underneath his oversized dress shirt.

It was before everything bad happened, before monumental realizations were had and deaths were cemented, back when you were still living in the dream of what you thought married life could be.

“I think this is the last time we had everyone all together in one picture.” Shortly after Jason passed away, and no one felt like taking candid pictures, there wasn’t much to celebrate in the year after.

“Drake’s not in it,” Damian notes, accepting the frame with both hands.

“No, Tim came into our lives a year after.” After an entire year of sleeping in Jason’s bedroom and fighting Bruce on not donating his things.

Damian nods, and you feel like the social weight has finally shifted in your favor.

“What do I owe the pleasure of this visit Damian?”

He looks at you with an unwavering gaze, it reminds you of his dad. Bruce might have his flaws, but you always admired the way he would look someone straight in the eyes when he talked to them.

It feels a bit like you’re going back in time, healing a wound you didn’t realize you still had.

“How long were you with my Father?”

It’s been four years since your association with Bruce Wayne and his alter ego ended, but you can’t break the habit of searching for what his children are not saying. The same way Dick is chatty when he’s covering a mistake he made, or Jason who’s first emotional response to any new situation is guilt, or Tim who covers his own self worth issues with hard work, and the way Bruce used to kiss you a little more freely in public when Batman was making headlines.

It’s alarming that this boy’s real motive is twice as difficult to decode as his father’s.

He wants to know if Bruce was cheating on me.

It’s a question you’d pondered yourself after a handful of reporters shoved microphones in your face asking about how you felt about Bruce Wayne’s secret love child a few years ago. It took them a month to realize you weren’t going to give them any information, and it took you half a year to realize even if he did cheat on you it didn’t really matter.

“We were dating for about two years before we got married.” It’s not entirely the truth, but it’s the only kindness you can offer this boy at the moment.

The gleam in his eyes tells you he can see right through you.

“Is that when you met?”

Figures he’s just like his Dad.

“No, we met in college, about six years before that.”

“And you had romantic feelings for him since then?”

You shake your head. “No, I didn’t like him very much at first.” All the girls fawned over him like he was gods gift to the world, even if a part of you thought he was attractive, you’d rather cut your hand off than admit it.

“What changed?”

“Time, I guess.” You can’t remember when your feelings for Bruce turned from annoyance to friendship, or when that friendship turned to affection.

“There was a period where I didn’t see him for a few years, after we both graduated, and then we reconnected.” You’re giving him a window, a place where his mom and dad might have met and fell in love. The peace of knowing that you came after her, and that no one betrayed anyone.

Unlike his father, he accepts this logic with a nod. You bite back a sigh of relief. But before you can rejoice, you see his mouth start to part.

“How do you like Gotham so far Damian?”

He blinks, and just like that he’s ten years old again.

“It’s okay, the food is bad.”

You laugh, and you miss the way his shoulders jump at the sound.

“I guess it is, have you been to Fig’s bistro off of 45th street yet?”

“I have, but I’m a vegetarian so there’s usually a single dish on the menu that’s basically an after thought.”

“That makes sense, how about Uchi? It’s a sushi restaurant that’s entirely vegetarian.”

You go on like this, reviews of resteraunt turn into conversations about Alfred’s home cooking, which turns into discussion about school. Somewhere along a tirade about the American education system you get him to accept a cup of tea, and by the time you’ve pulled old photo albums out you’ve polished two plates of snacks.

It would have gone on like this if you weren’t interrupted by a knock on your door.

You both trade surprised looks, and with wrinkle eyebrows, you open the door.

“Oh, hi Tim.” It’s been years since you’ve seen him in the flesh, unlike Dick he doesn’t post on social media often, and when he does it’s never a picture of his face. The best you’ve gotten in the years that have passed is a side profile during a gala interview where he hurried past his older brothers.

He looks older now, older than sixteen. The circles under his eyes seem extra dark under the dim lights of your hallway, and you can see faint lines on his forehead starting to form.

“Hi (Y/N).”

Tim isn’t like Dick and Jason, you only got a few years with him, and for most of that time he wasn’t in the manor full time. You can’t remember doing anything particularly special for him when you were with Bruce, other than occasionally forcing him to drink water and applying cream to his cuts while he slept.

“Bruce sent me to get Damian.” The sound of your ex-husband’s name sends a chill down your spine, even after all this time. You force yourself to nod.

You move out the way, and Tim inside.

“It’s time to go.” If you thought the look Damian gave you was severe, then the way he’s looking at Tim is downright murderous. But he doesn’t object, tugging on his jacket as he walks over to the door.

He turns to look at you when he’s halfway to the door.

“Who do you think Father’s true love is?”

You cock your head to the side, on the surface it’s a loaded question, but by now it should be fairly obvious to anyone in Bruce’s inner circle.

“Gotham, of course.”

Damian stares at you hard for seven long seconds, before turning abruptly and walking out the door.

You wait for Tim to follow him, but instead he’s looking at you.

“I’ll be eighteen in a year,” he says. Your eyebrows wrinkle together as he averts his gaze, his ears bright red. “I-is it okay if I give you a call on my birthday?”

You soften immediately, and before you can stop yourself you’re pulling him into a hug. He returns it automatically. You hold his face in your hands, caressing the soft skin under his eyes with your thumbs.

“I’ll call you on July nineteenth, I promise.” He nods and you kiss his forehead. “Take care of yourself Timmy.” He nods again, pressing a quick kiss to your cheek. He waves at you before stepping into the elevator, and then just as quickly as he appeared, he’s gone again.

By the time Tim’s caught up to Damian he’s already halfway down the street.

“I just wanted to see what all the fuss was about,” Damian grumbles. Tim considers retorting with a question about when he asked, but decides against it.

He kind of gets it, when he started his fee dive into the Wayne household lore, you were the thing that surprised him most. You’re not exceptionally beautiful, not in the way you’d have men drooling as soon as you entered a room, and you’re not well off or socially superior either.

From the outside looking in, you’re not someone people would expect Bruce Wayne to end up with.

“So what’s the verdict?”

Damian’s eyes get steely, his mouth turned down.

“She’s kind.”

There it is. The thing that makes you extraordinary. So simple from the surface, but incredibly complex underneath.

Tim nods in agreement, he hadn’t realized how much he missed you until you were standing in front of him. A little older than he remembered, but just as warm as always.

“She’s wrong about Bruce’s true love you know,” he says, the corner of his mouth twitching. “If she asked him to quit being Batman, he would have.”

His mouth gets harder, and his eyes glaze over.

“Yeah, I know.”

Bonus:

“Hey Damian.”

“What?”

“I parked the car in the other direction.”

A/N: I hope you liked it, and please check out my fanzine if you have a second :)