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˚₊· ͟͟͞͞➳❥ Postal Service !

Postal service rules : Don’t request any NSFW for TMC/The Mandela catalogue. Don’t request any kinks that involve bodily fluids. Don’t request any minor characters aged up for NSFW requests.

[Requests/Letters delivered : 7 out of 14]

You are beginning to make a letter for that special person, where do they live?

Detective Comics / Arkhamverse

Squid Game

Dead by Daylight

Elden Ring

The Mandela Catalogue

Ghost ( Band )

Identity V

The Magnus Archives

The Outlast Series

How long is your letter?

Couple pages, Oneshot

A page, Headcanons + Short fanfic

What envelope did you choose for the letter?

Blue Envelope, Angst

Red Envelope, NSFW

Lavender Envelope, Platonic

Pink Envelope, Fluff

What stamp did you put on the envelope?

Heart themed stamp, No AU

City themed stamp, Ex-Husband/Wife/Spouse AU

Food themed stamp, Slasher AU

Animal themed stamp, Monster AU

Bird themed stamp, Apocalypse AU

Semi-postal stamp, Hospital AU

NetStamp, Detective / Killer AU

Forever stamp, Yandere AU

Flower themed stamp, Cult AU

Ocean themed stamp, Siren AU

Horseshoe themed stamp, Wild West AU

What else did you put in the letter? (Optional)

Dried flowers : Early morning prompts

Paper hearts : Fluff scenarios

Paper flowers : Platonic sentence starters

Pink wax seal : Found family prompts

Scented letter : Levels of intimacy

One ring : Smut Prompts

Kiss stains : Inexperienced smut prompts

Photographs : Smut sentence starters

Deep blue wax seal : 20 prompts for friends with benefits to lovers

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CHAPTER 4 IS OUT GUYS I'M SCARED AAHHH----- a few sketches while I was waiting

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a very doey hug

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knight in shiny armor

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Jason Todd has an ofrenda for día de los muertos like he has marigolds and occasionally will make a petal path for them to come home and enjoy the meals that he managed to make them and he always makes sure that he has the pictures on the ofrenda.

(ﾉ◕ヮ◕)ﾉ*:･ﾟ✧ I just made this hc for fun!

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🤠🦇ride a …..

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Chat Log Name : Why have you forsaken me?

Chat log description : Batman tries to get used to having a new Robin.

Online users : Batman/Bruce Wayne, Robin! Tim Drake, robin! reader

‼️CONTENT WARNINGS : Third POV, Minor injuries, OOC! Tim Drake, OOC! Batman/Bruce Wayne, Mentions of a nightmare, Overly descriptive appearance. ‼️

<< previous [ao3 link] next >>

It was a couple days after Batman reappeared during the correct time—night. He begrudgingly took under his wing, a new Robin yet every single day felt like a old wound was reopening due to him putting another in your place yet he couldn’t point why a child who lived in luxury with two alive and loving parents would want to fight crime alongside him; he understood you better than this Robin since you had came from a very rough childhood in the narrows, always struggling to find a next meal or shelter.

Robin stood in front of him—wearing the uniform that had cradled you to an early demise. Different designs can’t take away the pain it caused him.

“How many times have I told you to be cautious of your surroundings?” He scolded, lightly. “You have a slight cut here [Na—Robin…”

This new Robin wasn’t you—he couldn’t ever be you while he pressed the antiseptic pad on Robin’s cheek and put animal patterned bandaids on scraped knees and a cut cheek.

“You sometimes call me by that name,” Robin asked. “It was the name of the previous Robin, right?”

“Yes, it was,” He replied.

The drive through Gotham was colorful—bright neon lights and flickering light bulbs with descriptions of the latest items and so very quiet. He continued to drive throughout the dark streets of Gotham—always expecting to hear a snide remark or multiple complaints to get a late night meal at Bataburger after patrolling.

“Batman,” Robin said.

“Yes, [Nam—,” He interrupted himself. “Yes, Robin. What is it?”

“It’s been going off since we got in.” Robin’s green gloved finger pointed to the obvious flickering red light next to the shifter knob. “Is it an emergency signal, Batman?”

“It’s���“ Batman looked at the flickering red light. “It has to be a malfunction. Did you tear anything during patrol, Robin?”

Robin looked down at himself, seemingly trying to examine himself despite being buckled to the econoline bucket seat.

“I don’t think so, Batman,” he replied. “Here—“

“It—oh,” he said. “I must’ve pulled hard on your cape. One of the emergency trackers must have slightly came off.”

“Emergency trackers?” Robin asked.

“The trackers are located on your costume,” he explained. “In the previous Robin’s suit, there was only one—this one has multiple ones scattered.”

Batman’s eyes stared at the flickering light while driving—watching it go on and off before dying like burning candlelight and watching it slowly dim before turning off.

He pulled up to the back route of the Drake estate and boosted up Robin to reach his window to climb into.

Batman drove around Gotham as night was soon coming to an end—he drove home back to the Wayne manor; back to that large empty house that only held memories of a family.

He exited the batmobile, pulling down his cowl and seeing on a silver tray was a teacup with saucers and a teapot. He passed your memorial that was trapped in a circular tube, looking down to see the broken teacup. He picked up the shards of the broken tea cup and walked over to the silver tray, placing the shards of the broken teacup on the empty saucer and reading the note that Alfred left. The contents of the note weren’t interesting as his footsteps echoed throughout the Batcave—stepping each step up towards the entrance point.

He reached his room as he passed yours—it was an open wound that he couldn’t bear yet. He couldn’t open your door without expecting to see you and not seeing an empty room.

He slumped in his armchair, still wearing the suit while his cowl on his shoulder—slightly twitching with his eyebrows furrowed.

He knew where he was at being small and trapped in an arcade machine. The lights of the other machines were scattering with color, surrounded by stuffed animals that were oddly shaped like allies and foes; Oracle, Alfred, Two-face, Catwoman, Calendar man, Ventriloquist and Ten-eyed man.

He heard a familiar laughter that was born from You, seeing you wander around the neon arcade—wearing your Robin uniform but it’s clean.

Your gloved hands were pressed on the glass case, a smile was pressed into your face as you seemed to point at him. The golden arcade coin glittered in the neon light—machine’s gears twisted and turned while the mechanical claw managed to grab him to your joy—

The lights around the neon arcade were being shattered—one by one but you didn’t hear the loud shattering of the color light bulbs. You merely were grinning ear to ear; the darkness surrounded the machine. His eyes saw a gloved hand rest on your shoulder—long arm that disappeared into the darkness. He heard it—that deep wheeze that came before every laughter.

A pale face whose face seemed to be sagging, held up with metal staples that had multiples in one area—certain areas that showed the reddened muscles and the reddened gums of the elongated smile that had too many teeth. Pitch black eyes that looked similarly to dots than sockets with strands of wispy green hair. He tried to scream to warn you or too move being in this state but he couldn’t—plush limbs and embroidered mouth aren’t real.

Your eyes behind the domino mask looked at him while the other gloved hand came out of the darkness, a nail-like talon was carving into your cheek. He heard your voice from behind the thin glass.

”Batman, where are you?” you asked.

He had fallen from the mechanical claw back into the sea of stuffed animals that looked like people that you both recognize. Bruce's embroidered eyes watched as the large burlap sack stained at the bottom was thrown over the shoulder—the spinal bone poked from underneath the purple pinstripe suit. Familiar cackling echoed the broken arcade, shattering of the machine's lightbulb; surrounded in darkness.

Bruce rubbed his eyes and covered his face with his hands—his eyebrows knitted with discomfort alongside an aching chest. He left the lingering bed that had cradled him during the days of heartache that threatened to tighten around his neck to release empty tears to nobody that would listen since it wasn't the latest news anymore.

He buttoned up his dress-shirt while he breathed in the silence of the floorboards no longer creaking with your footsteps. Lacing his dress-shoes while he got into the car and was driving towards Wayne Enterprise on Miagani Island.

His eyes looked from the windows, seeing the Halloween decorations slowly getting placed outside bodegas—seeing the slow creation of painted cartoons on frosted tipped windows from an employee and the sweeping away of broken glass or remaining green powder that was eventually deemed as harmless after multiple tests from Gotham’s health organizations.

Bruce’s brows furrowed in thought about Gotham’s Halloween parade and how tight the streets would be during Halloween—overcrowded with parents and children dressed up in costumes. The parades with their heavily decorated floats and special events of the Gothamettes performing their dances.

He entered the elevator, opening and closing his hand. The familiar ding didn’t echo into his ears till the familiar voice of Clara, the only receptionist before he entered his office.

“Mister Wayne?” She poked her head from her desk. “I said that you had a gift from someone on your desk…”

Bruce shook his head slightly, stepping out of the elevator as he adjusted his cuff.

“A gift?” He asked. “From who?”

“I don’t really know, Mister Wayne,” she admitted. “But it passed the examination procedures.”

Bruce tried desperately to shrug it off since it could be a one night stand trying to get his affections again, entering his office and observing the wrapped gift—simple colors and missing wrapping paper in certain areas due to Clara doing the mandatory examination procedures. As it was safe, right?

He stared at the gift while he stepped close to get towards his desk— metal shrapnel buried into his skin—the pain was seemingly infectious as the shrapnel burned like they had been coated with flames or other substances that could burn him internally.

Yet the thing that coursed through his veins wasn’t adrenaline but fear.

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Me when Jason Todd

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Sometimes her arms bend back

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Skinner Man is just cool skeleton meme

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Chat Log Name : Fallen from the nest

Chat log description : Bruce Wayne gets the news that he never wants to hear from and from the person he hates to hear it from.

Online users : Batman/Bruce Wayne, Robin! Reader

‼️ CONTENT WARNINGS : Funeral practices, implied torture and viewing of death tape, Major character death, Survivor’s guilt, OOC! Bruce Wayne/Batman, Second/Third POV, Nicknames used for Reader (Chum).‼️

<< A03 link next >>

It was the only time you and him had an argument.

“You are not going patrolling tonight,” Bruce stated.

“Why?” You crossed your arms. “I am doing everything fine—“

“Is this fine?” He grabbed your hands, showing that they were bruised and bandaged up. “You’ve gotten more violent during patrol. You need to learn to not use these as often…”

“But you use them too,” you retorted.

“I know my limits,” he replied. “But you don’t know your limits. Understand that I’m doing this because I care about you, chum. I don’t want you to go down a path that you might regret.”

He hugged you as it was one of things that he could let himself feel like he’s doing a good job as a caretaker to you.

“I know it’s going to be hard but don’t stay up tonight.” He smiled. “You have a very important day tomorrow.”

He patted your head before leaving down the hallway—you stood there, watching him leave. You knew your limits, right? Besides it’s not like he would know if you decided to try going solo.

Your eyebrows knitted together, sitting in your desk chair. You got into your pajamas to sleep but something was running through your veins and the clicking of a pen echoed throughout your room as you caught a glimpse of your uniform peeking from the small gap of the closet.

You walked over and took it off the hanger; dressing yourself in the Robin uniform.

He paced back and forth—where did you go?He couldn’t find any of the tracker signals that he put in the uniform, his hands trembling while he fidgets with a batarang on your whereabouts.

He walked around in the manor opening the fridge but closing it back; you were missing on your birthday. It was supposed to be a happy day—he got you the things that you had been begging for.

To his nerves, nobody would say anything about where you went but only one thing was for certain—you left wearing your Robin uniform. It felt like the ground underneath him was slowly chipping away to control his emotions that he thought were locked away.

An odd occasion for Batman to be awake during the day but he couldn’t help it—he needed information and he had to force it out. But nothing was spilled as it felt like a secret that only they knew but didn’t want to tell him.

Bruce still held hope that you were just being upset at him for a couple days but you always came home. He continued to pace and pace more—it was piling up, you were gone for a month now. He sat on your bed, grabbing a folded cold blanket of yours; quelling his heart for a moment to breathe in the lingering remnants that he was able to salvage.

It was two years—two years since your disappearance, nothing swayed him from you being alive as a slight crack was forged when he heard about a caged bird in the abandoned wing of Arkham Asylum.

His boots crushed the broken glass, he saw a metal rusted utility table; rusted scissors, a stained scalpel, plier and a cold steel rod that held remains of something burnt. The room seemed to be ruins of an operating room—rusted and stained objects littered the cracked tile floor.

He looked around, seeing that the other doors were blocked by rubbles and seeing a turned over wheelchair that was stained with dried blood—he knelt down to get a sample, it registered to your blood type. He stood up—the notification of dings registered throughout the room, speckles of your blood were scattered over the whole room.

“Robin?” He called out the emptiness.

His voice echoed each step throughout the room. It only had a flickering lightbulb but it was obvious that nobody was there— the water droplets echoed in the room as he noticed a spare room.

He pushed open the door—silently pleading to anyone who would be listening to his begging to hear that it would be you; it wasn’t you rather a large purple and green present that had the doodle of a bat and read as For Bats’ eyes only. The room only had a makeshift cot with bits of barbed wire, crude crayon drawings of him, faded tally marks and he looked in the corner to see a chair with leather straps and a bucket which seemed to be filled with a rag.

He stood in the middle of the Batcave—his cowl was on his shoulders. He peeled the colorful wrapping paper; green with that familiar purple ribbon. It was a macabre present, seeing the camcorder with pieces of an armor from a suit that seemed to be stained—He pulled out the camcorder from the purple plastic straw.

He attached the camcorder to the bat computer, making sure the wires were in the correct spots. His eyes widened at the video, gloved hands didn’t want to press play; he saw you—you were tied bound by your wrists, bloodied. Despite his hands shaking, he pressed play as he heard your anguished whines that he knew by heart since he always made sure that you lived a life of comfort rather than misery. You were his ward, right?

The hot tears dribbled down his face, he stumbled towards the box while his trembling hands found the pieces of your suit—just tiny pieces, he found it; your chest plate that he always remembered that you were meticulously cleaning.

His reddened eyes stared back at the screen, he heard the clips of your scream—the clips of the slow hope dying from your voice.

“Who do you hate?” The familiar snarly voice asked.

“Batman,” you replied, roughly.

His heart aches underneath the layers of armor that are bleeding over you.

“What did…Chum,” he whispered to himself. “My child… my sweet child…”

The damaged chest plate slipped from his fingers—burning in his chest exploded throughout his body, his heart—his heart is dying filled with weights that made him fall to his knees. It echoed the gunshot that made itself home in your chest plate, he scrambled to tightly hug the chest plate; this was just a sick dream which he would wake from and you’d be in his arms with the familiar hint of the spark that made you.

He tightly shut his burning eyes—wanting to feel the warmth that you have, he opened them to see your chest plate stained with dirt and your dried blood. He stared up at the screen of the bat computer, seeing the final clip of you laying there. Your dead eyes staring up at the twinkling lightbulb that he had shined on you, he saw your lips move but he couldn’t hear the broken words—someone was screaming but it wasn’t you.

Bruce clutched your blanket—it still smelled of his Robin, he couldn’t part with it but he had to. He folded it in the casket—an empty casket with your burial clothes. He wanted a body to accompany the casket. Days before, He interrogated Joker but he only replied with laughter and a snarky remark while he stared and stood beside a basin filled with water and a rag to wipe a nonexistent body to bury in the wooden casket.

His reddened eyes watched them put the empty casket into the hearse—watching the hearse drive to the place where you would now rest despite never having a body in the casket. He turned around to hear the clammer of noisy cameras from behind the closed gates of the private plot.

These shoes crumbled upon the concrete pathway that the hearse took, it was getting harder to walk. He followed the hearse to the place where he could mourn for a moment—pulling on wooden handles to carefully lay the casket to rest. He stood beside the shovel, scooping the dirt and putting it in the six feet hole that wanted to consume any memory of the happiness that you offered him. He stared at the now covered hole and turned around expecting to see you tugging on his nerves about wanting to patrol alone again; he shouldn’t have let you go alone.

The world had been drained of its color—he felt alone again. He feel to his knees and his hand rested on the dirt, a hard gasp escaped his lips while his tears that he had held in were falling down his face.

Seven days felt similar to jabs in his bleeding heart, yet the meals that were placed in the kitchen from guests couldn’t soothe his pain. He couldn’t stomach the meals as it felt unfair—his watery eyes stared at the plate, sniffling and his suit was no longer smoothed and ironed rather it was wrinkled. He couldn’t take it off, it still had crumbs of the dirt from the burial. He needed his child back, just this once to say a proper goodbye to wipe away their tears before returning to the dirt that swallowed the coffin.

He sunk into the bed—there was no escape in the folds of the blankets that held no reminder of a child who would steal the blankets for their own greed. His voice was broken while limbs had been replaced with metal; it was somewhat comforting to just lay in the covers and hide from the world that had taken the people he loved from his arms. A belief that he could nurture his little bird and protect them while crime fighting and the pain stabbed his heart that had been ripped apart—he caused their death.

The protector of an entire city yet he failed to be a protector to the ward that he thought could fill the void except it left a void that was never ending and now felt similar to a skin rotting disease taking away his life day by day.

It was the first time in a month since he entered the Bat-cave as his legs trembled towards the miniature memorial dedicated to you, a Robin that was taken too young. He clutched his chest, his hand remained on the glass case that had the chest plate and pieces of your suit. This wasn’t here before, his heart was healing only to be ripped open again.

It had your name engraved in the bottom— A good soldier. Good soldier yet you were never a soldier in his eyes rather you were his little bird despite having rough edges; you were his child.

It was the first night, he wore the batsuit again as he got into the batmobile—pulling on the seatbelt to hear the familiar clip.

“Are you buckled, Robin?” He turned to the passenger seat; nobody responded back. “Oh…”

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Sakamoto Days - volume wallpapers

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and like the only time Bruce’s rests is when Jason gets out from the coffin again—he missed again. ＼(^-^)／

Bruce Wayne wakes up in the past, five months after Jason Todd died, and spends most days sat beside the grave because he never found out exactly when Jason had come back and he wanted to be there to save him when he did.

From an outside perspective, everyone is extremely concerned.

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Jason Todd as        ARKHAM KNIGHT

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DETECTIVE COMICS MASTERLIST

↺ try again ? continue >>

BATMAN BRUCE WAYNE

Oneshot : Love like a tidal wave

Oneshot : Peace of mind !

Oneshot : 730 Days

Fallen from the nest

18 + EXCLUSIVE LIVESTREAM : Sugar bones taste sweeter! (MDNI)

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• LIVESTREAM NAME : There was supposed to be no other way out !

LIVESTREAM DESCRIPTION : Clyde Perry realizes that normal interrogation tactics aren’t working, he resorts to a different approach.

★ STARRING : Clyde Perry , Fem! Reagent Reader

‼️ CONTENT WARNINGS : MDNI 18+ , Referenced torture, Soft sex, OOC! Clyde Perry, Second POV, Nicknames used for the reader (Dollface), Praising.

<< previous [ao3 link] next >>

You were Easterman’s prized reagent— he didn’t; couldn’t let you be born into the callous world that he rightfully took you out of only to be brought back into it.

Leather straps held you down to the metal seat, your troubled breathing echoed throughout the room while the stench of burnt skin wafted through the interrogation room. Your heavy head lull back and forth, the blood with saliva dribbles down your bruised lips. Your body trembled and ached that it felt as if it affected your DNA—it must’ve been the green gas that the scientists first shoved in your face to try and reveal something from your lips.

Your tired eyes burned, dried tears dribbled down your dirty face. You stared up at the standing figure of—it wasn’t a guard rather it was a man with a suit and different color eyes which his blue eye seemed to just stare. He undid the leather strap that held you down to the metal chair—he cupped your bruised cheek, pouring fresh water down your bruised lips.

The water dribbled down your lips and he wiped it away. Your weak hands gripped him while the cold water calmed down your system that was overheating.

“Dollface.” He caressed your face. “I need some answers.”

You gasped weakly while you stared at him as he pulled away the water from your bruised lips.

“How many were in your group?” He asked.

The smell of fried skin stayed in the stale air of the enclosed room as it was overwhelming—feeling the burning slowly creep up your throat. Your head swayed back and forth in his palm, a metallic taste of blood swirled through your mouth, spitting out the loose teeth that had been smacked out by Murkoff guards with their metal flashlights.

“I…I’ve already told you—what do you want me to say?” You choked out the bloodied sobs. “Just tell me what do you want me to say!”

“The truth, Dollface,” he replied. “This all can be over if you tell me the truth.”

“I don’t know what else you want me to say, sir,” you faltered.

His thumbs wiped away the tears from your face—it had been so long since anyone treated you with kindness as this was reserved for Easterman; only he could give. His lips softly kissed yours while he helped you sit in the metal table—Contact desire was something prohibited in the facility but it was foreign at first once more—yet you didn’t want it to stop. You forgot how addicting it could be.

His soft kisses continue a trail of fire down your neck, his hands undid the ESOP harness that was attached to your chest. He tugged off your stained shirt, softly kissing your chest and your hands ran through his hair. You tugged off of his suit jacket, his kisses continued down your neck.

“Dollface.” He rubbed your nipples between his rough thumbs. “Be honest for me.”

Your gasps escaped your lips, tilting your head back but his free hand guided you back to stare at him. His other hand that has played with your chest began to tug at the waistband of your baggy pants, his knee parting your once closed legs.

“How many were in your group, Dollface?” He asked.

You went back and forth on his leg, seemingly rocking on his leg. The broken gasps escaped your lips and his grip tightened, lifting you off his thigh for a bit to stop you from getting off.

“Dollface.” He tilted his head to match how your head was tilted. “I asked a question. How many were in your group?”

“Three,” you whined out.

He placed you back on his thigh but he didn’t let go from the back of your nape—seemingly increasing the pressure on your aching crotch that wanted him. Your eyes stared at him then to his belt buckle, it was a desire that you forgot you had due to being shown the horrors of the therapy.

“Oh—“ He seemed to have noticed your staring. “You need additional help to remember, right?”

“Ri-Right!” You stammered out.

He undid his pants, dropping them to his ankles and finally tugged down your waistband to the baggy pants to your ankles. He noticed the scars scattered over your body from the trials; recognizing the familiar injuries of the prime assets and the ex-pops. He hitched up your leg around one side of his waist, inserted himself in while he noticed the tears that dribbled down your face as he softly kissed away the tears from your face.

“Let me ask again.” He slowly thrusted in and out. “How many people were in your group?”

“Three,” you gasped out.

He didn’t like your response and continued to thrust himself in and out at a little higher pace and broken moans escaped your lips.

“Come on, Dollface.” He went back at his slow pace despite your pleas to return back to a faster pace. “How many people were in your group?”

“Thr—Four!” You gasped out; remembering her.

“Good girl.” He continued his fast pace thrusts. “Such a good girl, Dollface.”

Your gasps and broken moans escaped your throat despite your cords aching with each gasp due to the previous treatment from the guards.

“What was her name?” He asked. “Can you remember it?”

“Ammm—“ you gasped out.

“Am—what?” He thrusts deeper into you. “Come on, use your words.”

“Amelia…Amelia,” you moaned out.

“Good girl,” he praised. “Such a good girl for me.”

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Clyde Perry…you are next