#gotham love letters

[boyfridged]

a city can be an ouroboros too

[yvtro]

not to code gotham as eastern europe but eastern europe is the gothic literature locus classicus so i'm in full right to do it and it's just such a good parallel because. for westerners/outsiders it looks like a literal nightmare but the locals find comfort and humour in all things that throw the foreigners off. you have to find hope in a place that the others claim to be unlivable. if you give up and leave, it will always stay in your heart like an open wound.

also it just never ceases to amaze me how there are so many similarities between gothic lit & eastern european lit of the period that we would never call 'gothic' because our ghosts and our supernatural elements are not portrayed as the Other most of the time. they're there to bring you closer to your culture and heritage. they are horrors that bring you home and connect you with your people. tell me this is not the perfect approach for gotham.

i think this is also why i hate the portrayal of the city as some unsalvageable monstrosity with no kidness to be found. often places where the circumstances seem the most dire, the cultures that are branded gruesome because of the focus on the dead produce the most loving communities, as they are needed.

[justanoasisimagines]

To my puzzle piece

Hey Lovelies, back with another love letter. As always requests are open and my request guidelines are pinned at top of the page! Credit to cafekitsune for the banner and the divider!

I have been admiring you for a while. Seeing you from afar and what a precious gem you are. You bring such light to my dark days. You force light into my shadow while I shy away.

I need you to see me. For what I am. An enigma, a poet, a force to be reckoned with. I wish for you to be at my side. Until my dying breath, I will always be your greatest protector.

No harm will come to you. They will regret it. They will know my wrath, they will feel the sharpness of my mind. No one would ever harm you, mentally or physically. That I can guarantee.

I can see our future. I have it all planned out. Me and you against the world. I can see us walking hand in hand down the street. I can see us dancing to our own beat. I can see us falling in love. I can see you being my one true love.

Please notice ne for you are my missing puzzle piece. You will make me complete. I see you at lunch. You've passed me in the corridor, you've passed me in the street. You look right through me. I still hold hope.

No, you will notice me whether you like it or not. You will give me the future I have created for us. It will happen. No matter what. I am coming for you whether you like it or not!

See you soon my little puzzle piece

?

[psalmsofpsychosis]

real talk though; if i could surgically remove the Bruce & Alfred scenes out of Gotham TV and make an entire separate Batman project out of them i would, because they're so distinctly different from the rest of the show and from the common Batman comic narratives, it floors me everytime. If we take the whole show as a body, the heart is placed in Bruce Wayne and it bleeds into his relationships with people, but most importantly with Alfred. It's such stark and exciting constrast to how Batman comics generally portray Bruce Wayne or the Batman persona; Gotham!Bruce is so tender and bare and transparent, heart beating and bleeding so close to his skin, you can see when it taints through his shirt, and his moments of absolute irrational sentimentality are not played cheap or like missteps in a planned protocol rational persona, they're utterly sincere and every emotion he expresses is as integral to his character as his moments of analytical calculation.

[flowerflamestars]

where the middle meets snippet

Llewellyn deleted the message without opening it- he’d learned extremely early on that mistake. And because it was sometime between ten am and one pm wherever in the world Dick Grayson currently resided, exceedingly busy getting shot at or blown up or learning the difference between mousse and hair gel, allergic to schedules and addicted to this one ritual, a second followed. Safety, if that could be measured in Llewellyn’s aching head, came with the second. Usually. Wells hadn’t spoken to Dick for more than a year after the last earnest attempt at sexting, but that didn’t actually mean something. Time and magic, soul bonds just a little different, when they had to stretch for what could be an endless eternity. Five years gone now, if he really tried a world away, there was still just a little color behind his eyes. Blue. The best childhood skies, the deadest dreams, the sea on the shore of his realest home: Dick Grayson, a jagged little piece of his soul burning so very goddamn bright. Llewellyn yanked the half crushed toggle back up the cord of his retrieved hat. Weighed amorphous guilt over real desire- the very best way to know if someone had managed to stab Dick lately was to look. He was significantly too good of a liar to let it on to anyone if he was really in trouble- had wholesale stopped asking sometime around acquiring a foul-mouthed brother to watch out for- but Wells had decades on him. He could tell. He wanted to know, if in equal measure to how much he wanted to keep countries and continents between them. He looked. Dick Grayson, unabashed against dark, cloudy sky. Bare shoulders filling a rainy window, tan despite the season. A casual wave, caught, a broken finger splinted. No other bandages, a near unmistakable bite mark bruised halfway up his neck, a smile that actually reached his eyes. “Fucking Christ,” Llewellyn sighed to the grass. It said nothing back.

[viscerally-tired]

fictional character love letters

Oi if I started writing love letters from fictional characters would anyone buy them? Cause bro I'm part of so many fandoms, no smut but like, sweet romance, details about how the character knows you, the dates they'll take you on, etc.

I'm part of so many fandoms bro I could probably write for most sought after characters, I really want to get back into writing beyond rp and little short stories that I keep hidden away like a squirrel hiding away nuts in the winter

[helga-heason]

Letter #2

Dear Selina,

It’s been a few months since you left the city, and… Not much has changed. I know I said that in my last letter, but the promised relief efforts haven’t happened. Bella Réal has been trying, but the council has been blocking her each time. Corruption seems to form the foundations of this city. It isn’t just a flesh wound, something that can be patched over and healed later - no, this is bone-deep, something that runs to the very core of Gotham itself. The Riddler believed he’d had his ‘gotcha’ moment when he exposed the last mayor and the Waynes - in terms of ‘unmasking the truth’, so to speak - but he’d only scratched the surface. So much in this city is founded in its labyrinth of lies, in the manipulation of the people, to control its populace. I’m sorry I didn’t believe you at first. I’m also sorry that I believed you to be one of them. I see now that I was wrong, and that you were infact correct. This city’s streets cannot be trusted - nor can its leaders. Cleaning up this place may take years, but, like I said to you when you left, I have to try. This city is my home, and I will go to my grave before I let it rot like its previous officials have. It will open up some festering wounds I still have, and it may leave me broken and bloody, but at least I will be making an effort to make a change. Which is more than can be said for those who have been elected to do that very same thing.

This is a short letter, but I don’t have much to say. Robin says hi (or, more accurately, ‘mrrrrrreeeeeowwwwww…?’). City’s still shit. I hope you’re well.

Yours, always, the Bat(man) - and Robin the cat.

[kreativ-ag]

Grand Central Terminal. #reflective

[marcyvamp1re-blog]

SILLY LITTLE BAT

pairings ⸺ Yandere! Platonic! Batfamily x Anti-Hero! Fem!reader.

sinopsis ⸺ In the shadowed halls of Wayne Manor, a girl lost among the darkness seeks the connection she never had. Her mother, a kleptomaniac with a broken heart, vanished, leaving only echoes of empty promises. Surrounded by a family that never sees her, her pain turns into a deafening silence. The void left by her past traps her in a limbo of solitude and sorrow.

One dark night, seeking her own way, she became what she once despised. Now, like the albino bat rejected by its own flock, she flies alone in the twilight. Her pale skin glows in the dark, but her heart still yearns for the warmth of a home she never came to know.

warnings ⸺ Dark Themes, Dead, murdering,Disturbing Content, Unhealthy Obsession, Discrimination, Violence, Blood, LGBT Content, Child Abuse, Kidnapping, Implicit Sexual Content, Mental Illness, Addiction, Suicide, Torture, Corruption, Isolation, Trauma, Phobias, Paranoia, Manipulation

Chapter Guide! Pt 2. Pt 3. Pt4

A/N — English is not my first language—Spanish is—so there might be some grammar or spelling mistakes here and there. This is the first part of a story I’m writing for a friend (Isabel, I love you, you brat), and also an experiment to see what it’s like to write on Tumblr. Please support me! :"((

Nobody is coming to save you

Get up.

Your mother was not a good woman, and that was an undeniable fact, heavy as the shadow that covers Gotham City at nightfall. She was a creature of the underworld, one among the specters that wandered under the yoke of crime, walking among dangerous names like Selina Kyle or Harleen Quinzel, yet always remaining in the background, never reaching their fame or infamy.

She was nothing more than a kleptomaniac and a mythomaniac, doomed to live by cunning and deceit. She took advantage of the men who crossed her path, from the lowest criminals, like The Penguin, to the most powerful man in the city: Bruce Wayne.

You never called him Dad. To you, he was always Bruce, and on the rare occasions you addressed him, you did so with distant formality, "Mr. Wayne." Richard, your adoptive brother, found in him a father figure, while to you, he was just another shadow in the mansion, that huge, cold house you arrived at after your mother’s death.

You remember how, time and again, you tried to warn your mother to stop stealing, to stop lying, that those dark paths would inevitably lead her to Arkham Asylum, surrounded by all the lunatics you feared so much, or even worse: to death. But she always responded with a playful smile, stroking your head with her delicate hands, adorned with stolen jewelry and crude tattoos. "Those are just fantasies of an eight-year-old girl," she would say sweetly, while her ring-laden fingers assured you that you needn’t worry, "I will always come back for you," she promised, "because you are the only thing more valuable than any diamond I’ve ever held."

But the cruel truth was that was the last time you saw her. That night she left, and she never returned. It was then that the last vestiges of innocence faded with her absence. From that moment on, you ceased to be a child.

And that was one of the few things you understood with absolute clarity. There were no more empty promises, no more caresses tinged with lies. All that remained was the silence of a life fading away, like a stolen jewel that never returns to its rightful owner.

The only thing you knew after calling the police when your mother didn’t show up after two days was that they found her corpse in a back alley far from Gotham, showing signs of having been beaten and bruised by some underground gang.

Commissioner Gordon searched the entire house for illicit substances and signs of debts to mobsters, but he only ended up finding documents, stolen jewelry, and letters from your mother that were never sent, and most importantly, DNA evidence implicating that the city’s millionaire was your biological father.

From then on, your life was stained with eternal gray, that muted shade that erased all traces of light or shadow. There was no more white or black, only a silent fog that, day by day, enveloped you and dragged you into a madness that seemed inevitable. Gotham itself seemed more alive than the place you called home, although "home" was never the right word.

You didn’t love any of the Wayne family members. Bruce, your biological father, never listened to you. To him, you were always just another shadow, a ghost in the vast mansion that he prioritized over his other children, his "true" heirs. There was always something more important, something more urgent, and your presence faded among the cold walls and the echo of his hurried footsteps. With each passing day, you became more invisible to him, as if your very existence were a mistake he preferred to ignore.

Richard, the perfect brother, was kind on some occasions. He spoke to you courteously, but when you needed him, when you asked him to attend one of your performances, there was always an excuse, something that kept him away, as if your passion and accomplishments were insignificant details in his heroic life.

Jason, on the other hand, despised you from the start. He saw you as an intruder, a child of gold—but not of that pure and valuable gold, but of a dirty and false one, which he always mocked with disdain. And although you never cared for him, when he died, silent tears rolled down your face. It wasn’t out of love, but out of respect for what he represented, for the brutal reality of his fall.

Tim, in contrast, was the most indifferent. To him, you were a nobody, so irrelevant that you weren’t even worth a glance. Spending time with his friends or being the Robin of the moment mattered more than you did. You lived on his periphery, in a limbo where neither your name nor your face seemed to exist.

Cassandra, Stephanie, Barbara… at least they treated you with politeness, but you knew they didn’t really remember who you were. They saw you, smiled at you out of obligation, but deep down you knew they had no idea of your name, your story, your struggle to be more than a shadow in that world.

The worst of all was Damian, your younger half-brother. When he arrived at the mansion, Alfred introduced him to you with that serene formality he always had, and you, driven by an almost desperate impulse, tried to reach out to him. You wanted to offer him the support and affection of an older sister, that warmth you would have longed for in his situation. But all you received in return was a cold response: a katana piercing your abdomen. I wish I could say it was just a metaphor, but no, that wound was as real as the blade that cut your skin.

You would have liked to think that the pain was symbolic, that Damian had only rejected your affection with harsh words or his usual arrogance. But no, it was much more than that. The only thing you received in exchange for your attempt at fraternal love was a stab, a scar you still carry not only on your body but also in your soul. Because in that brutal gesture, you understood that the blood that united you also separated you, sharper than any weapon. And that was how you tried to connect.

You strived to stand out, to learn, to shine in your own ambitions, wishing that your success would be enough to earn you a place, a bit of affection. But no matter how hard you tried, it was never enough. Your talent crashed against indifference, your achievements faded into the air, as if they had no weight in the lives of others.

The only light, the only beacon in that storm of gray, was Alfred. The only one who smiled at you with genuine tenderness, the only one you truly loved. To you, he was the real father, the one who was always there, expecting nothing in return, offering you a silent but firm love. You did call him father, and his presence was the only thing that kept your sanity, the only thing preventing the gray from consuming you completely.

But even that love, so genuine and deep, was not enough to fill the void that your own family left you. And in that void, you continue to float, trapped between the girl you were and the woman you are trying to be, searching for a place you can truly call home.

Y/n's small room, though modest, had always been her refuge. The walls were adorned with unfinished sketches, trophies from various activities, and some paintings she had completed with dedication, showcasing her passion for both manual and performing arts.

The dawn light filtered softly through the curtains, bathing the space in golden tones, giving it a warmth that contrasted with the coldness of the rest of Wayne Manor.

On the desk, a small cake rested on a plate, simple yet made with love. Beside it, Alfred, with his usual understated elegance, watched Y/n with a mixture of nostalgia and concern. He, the only one who seemed to remember her birthday, offered her a delicate professional drawing set, wrapped in smooth, elegant paper.

"Happy birthday, Miss," Alfred said with a gentle smile, although his eyes reflected a sadness that was hard to conceal. "I know how much you love art, so I thought this would be helpful for your new projects."

Y/n took the gift in her hands with a genuine smile. It had been so hard for her to find moments of joy lately, but Alfred's gesture filled her with a warmth in her chest that she hadn't experienced in a long time. She placed the gift into one of the many brown boxes she had prepared for her upcoming move.

"Thank you, Alfred. It's perfect," she said, examining the set carefully, as if each detail were a reminder of the affection he held for her. "It will help me a lot... although, well," she sighed, as if searching for the right words. "Actually, I wanted to talk to you about that." Alfred raised an eyebrow, attentive, as she continued, glancing at the small space that had been her home within the vast mansion.

"Today... today is not just my birthday. It's the day I leave here." Her voice was firm, yet there was a sense of liberation in it, as if this were a long-awaited step. "I am finally no longer a Wayne. I go back to being a L/n."

Silence filled the room for a moment, heavy and dense. Alfred clasped his hands, striving to maintain his composure.

"Miss, I can't help but feel a certain unease hearing this. Are you sure this is what you want? This house, though empty in many ways, has always been your home..."

"Home?" Y/n looked at him with a mix of sadness and determination. "This house has never been my home, Alfred. Not like it was for Dick, nor even for Bruce. I have always been a stranger here, the daughter of a woman who never fit into this world, the bastard child. My mother taught me to find my own path, to not cling to what doesn’t belong to me... and being here, being called Wayne, has never belonged to me." Alfred sighed softly, turning his gaze toward the window. He knew there was truth in her words, but that didn’t lessen the pain of her leaving. "I know it’s hard to understand," Y/n continued, "but for the first time in a long time, I feel happy, Alfred. I’ve graduated, college is just around the corner, and I want to start anew. I want to find what truly makes me, me... not what others expect of me."

The old butler remained silent for a few moments, nodding slowly. He knew he couldn't retain her, that it was not his place to interfere in the young woman's dreams. But still, he couldn’t help but feel a pang in his heart at the thought of the house being even emptier without her. "I just wish you find what you’re looking for, Miss. And if you ever need a place to return to... this door will always be open for you."

Y/n stepped closer to him, gently hugging him, something she had rarely done. "Thank you, Alfred," she whispered against his shoulder. "You will always be my family, but I need this. I need to discover who I am outside of this last name."

The old butler felt the lump in his throat as he tightened the embrace a little longer before letting her go. He knew that deep down, she was doing the right thing. But that didn’t make it hurt any less to see her leave.

"Alfred, can you call the movers? I’ll be leaving tonight," Y/n said as she closed the last box with trembling hands, her gaze lost in the empty corners of the room she once considered her refuge. The butler, ever serene, nodded with his unwavering calmness.

"Don't worry, Miss, I assure you they will be here on time." His voice was soft, almost an echo of the ancient walls of the mansion, as if he himself were part of that structure that had seen so many comings and goings, so many lives broken and healed in silence.

Alfred turned halfway to leave, but Y/n's voice stopped him, broken yet sweet, like a melody at sunset. "Alfred..."

The man turned slowly, his eyes filled with paternal warmth, though always contained behind a formal gesture. "Yes, Miss?" he replied, with that tranquility that had always brought Y/n peace in her worst moments.

She took a breath, feeling how the words she had kept for so long fought to come out, to break the shell she had built since childhood. "I’ve never told you, but... thank you. Thank you for being the father I never had, for being there when no one else was."

For a moment, the silence in the room was heavier than all the accumulated boxes, deeper than any word. Alfred, who had been a witness to so many confessions and secrets in that house, stood still, his eyes shining with an emotion he rarely showed. "Miss," he murmured, his voice slightly choked, "it was an honor and a privilege to take care of you. If I ever gave you anything close to what you deserved, then my life has had true purpose."

Y/n smiled sadly, nodding slowly. "You did, Alfred. You did. And for that, I will always carry you with me, even if I leave here."

The butler slightly bowed his head in respect, swallowing any emotion that might betray his composure. "Wherever you go, you will always have a home here, Miss."

"I know," she said, though in her heart, she knew she wouldn’t return.

And as Alfred left the room to make the call, Y/n let out a long sigh, as if with it, she were leaving behind a part of herself, a part she could no longer carry with her.

Life in Gotham is like constantly walking on the edge of a razor blade. The city never sleeps, always alert, always dangerous, and for someone with the Wayne surname, the risks multiply. It has been a year since you left the mansion, trying to erase any ties that bound you to that life, desperately wishing the name would fade into the echo of the dirty streets and crumbling buildings. But it's not that easy. The name Wayne remains an indelible mark that the media and the people of Gotham refuse to let fade. The forgotten child, the silent accident of billionaire Bruce Wayne. And although you try to live as if you don’t exist under that shadow, the weight of the legacy haunts you.

You left with little, barely enough money to rent a small apartment in one of the worst corners of the city. You share the space with a friend, a plant-loving girl who has filled every nook of the place with leaves and pots, as if trying to make green defy the constant darkness of Gotham. You get along well with her; her love for nature is almost an antithesis to the chaos of the city, and she has taught you that even in the hardest concrete, something can bloom. She always accompanied you on the coldest, loneliest nights, giving you a warmth that, although ethereal, was very welcome. But still, life is not easy. You barely survive, spending the little you have on cheap food and paying the rent. There are days when the cold seeps through the poorly sealed windows, and you wonder if it was really better to be in the mansion instead of this little trench. However, you prefer this rough freedom to the soulless luxury of Wayne Manor.

Freedom, however, comes at a price. It wasn't enough to distance yourself, to change your life, or even to always carry a knife for defense. Gotham does not forget. People recognize you in the shadows, whisper your name, and approach you, sometimes with curiosity and other times with disdain. You have been beaten more than once. Some just for being a Wayne, others because they think they can extort you, even though they have no idea you can barely get by. The scars on your body bear witness to those beatings, but you refuse to give up. You get up every morning, despite the pain, and continue on your way. You don’t need Batman. You don’t need Bruce. You learned long ago that he wouldn't come to save you.

That night, like so many others, you were heading to the subway for your night shift, with the hood of your coat covering your face, trying to go unnoticed. The sound of the tracks echoed in your ears, a constant reminder of the city's hustle. You had gotten used to walking fast, avoiding eye contact, as if each step was a small battle won against the city. But this time, something was different.

"So it was true, the little Wayne girl is roaming the city... how lovely." The raspy, mocking voice rang out beside you, cutting through the heavy air of the train station. The man speaking wore a suit that, at first glance, seemed elegant, but there was something about his extreme thinness, his skin clinging to his bones and his disheveled hair, that made him look more like a specter of Gotham than a distinguished figure. A ghost from the shadows that had stalked you since you set foot on the streets.

If it weren't for his gaunt appearance and unsettling aura, you might have mistaken him for one of your father's employees. "I'm not a Wayne anymore," you said disdainfully, your voice sharp like the edge of a dagger refusing to be touched. "If you want money, I don’t have any. And Mr. Wayne wouldn’t give a cent for me either."

Your gaze drifted to the station clock. 8 minutes until the train that would take you away from this corner of Gotham, far from the shadows and faces that always seemed to recognize you.

The man let out a dry, raspy laugh that sent chills down your spine. "I don’t want your money, pretty girl," he replied, moving closer, invading your space with the same familiarity that Gotham’s filth slipped into every corner. "You’re worth more than that." You felt his calloused, scarred hand rest on your hip, with a pressure that was neither violent nor friendly. The contact filled you with disgust.

7 minutes.

You clenched your fist, your jaw tight as you struggled to maintain your composure. "I don’t want sex either, idiot," you spat, your words loaded with contained fury. Your hand subtly slid toward your bag, where your knife lay, waiting to be used.

6 minutes.

The man didn’t flinch. In fact, he let out a low, mocking laugh. "And I don’t want that either, little girl," he murmured, his cold, deep blue eyes scrutinizing you as if they could read every dark corner of your soul. "I want something more from you."

5 minutes.

"What do you want then?" you asked, forcing yourself to keep your voice steady, even as the ice of fear began to creep down your spine. Your eyes scrutinized him, searching his gaze for any hint of his true intentions, but all you saw was darkness.

4 minutes.

He let out a long, chilling laugh, tightening his grip on your hip. "Do you know what I want, Y/n?"

3 minutes.

His voice dropped, as if his words were a cursed secret the wind refused to carry away. "I want you."

2 minutes.

The world seemed to stop. You knew there was no time to run. There was no time to pull out the knife or to scream. It was as if the clock itself had conspired against you, reducing those last minutes to mere seconds.

1 minute.

The blow was sharp, a flash of excruciating pain at the back of your head. The cold metal of the station, the hum of the city, everything faded abruptly. The last thought that crossed your mind, before the world vanished into darkness, was that this time, you didn’t expect Batman to save you. It wasn’t a mere thief or a street threat that was taking you.

Gotham, with all its cruelty, always had new ways to remind you that there is no escape.

That night, when the Gotham subway stopped at the station, there was no one to pick up.

The mansion felt emptier than ever, like a deserted and cold labyrinth, where each hallway seemed to stretch into an infinite tunnel, devouring the light.

The silence was overwhelming, an oppression that enveloped every corner, as if even the ancient walls had run out of words. It was so heavy that the few who remained in the mansion couldn’t help but move uncomfortably, trying to fill that void with something, anything.

Bruce Wayne walked through those same hallways with a strange feeling, as if something was missing, though he didn’t know what. An unease, a persistent discomfort that he couldn’t shake off.

He had been like this for months, with that absence haunting his mind, a gap he couldn't identify. And then, suddenly, like a gust of icy wind, the truth struck him.

You.

His daughter.

His little daughter.

How long had it been since he last saw you? When was the last time he heard your laughter, the one that always seemed too sarcastic, too filled with resentment? He stopped abruptly, frowning. Why couldn’t he remember you? He couldn’t bring to mind a clear image of your face, not even how you used to look at him... why? How could he have forgotten you like that?

Damn.

It was as if time had stopped. It had been a year, maybe more, since he had really thought about you. He felt a pang of guilt pierce his chest, a heavy, silent guilt that dragged him into the abyss of his own negligence. Not knowing what else to do, he began to check the rooms, one after another.

Each door he opened was another blow to his conscience. Where was your room? The more he searched, the more confused he felt. The mansion was enormous, but how could he have forgotten where you slept? How was it possible that he didn’t know where you lived in the house where both of you grew up? Had you been here all this time?

Each door he opened was identical to the last, as if all the rooms had fused into one.

None showed a trace of you.

None seemed to have a hint of your presence. Didn’t you decorate your room? He thought frantically, didn’t you even mark it as yours? Panic began to take hold of him. Anxiety wrapped around him like a fist tightening on his chest. Were you still living in the mansion? Or had you left without saying a word, like a shadow fading at dawn? But... no, you hadn’t mentioned anything. You hadn’t said you were leaving. Or had you? And if you had, why didn’t he remember? How could he have ignored you for so long that now he didn’t even know if you were still under the same roof?

“Ah!” he exclaimed in a whisper, unable to contain the dread he felt.

Frustration consumed him from within. He stopped in the middle of the hallway, breathing heavily, and the echo of his voice faded into the empty walls. He tried to remember something, anything about you, about the last time they spoke, about how you were... but everything was blurry, as if his mind was betraying him, hiding you behind an impenetrable fog.

How could he have forgotten so much?

He brought his hands to his head, trying to calm himself, but only felt more confusion, more desperation. The mansion, which had once been his home, now felt like a strange and foreign place.

Had you been the one who made it feel like home? The question echoed in his mind, but he had no answer. Just more questions. More uncertainties. Finally, he let his arms fall, exhausted. He had checked almost all the rooms and had found not a trace of you. Not a clue. Not a sign that you had been there. And at that moment, something dark and painful began to settle in his heart.

Had you ever really been there?

Then something caught his attention as he passed by the cleaning room. In a dusty corner, next to a forgotten bag, something was protruding. Something small, old, and faded. He bent down and pulled it from the dirty clothes. It was a stuffed animal, or what was left of one. The faded black of its suit left no doubt. It was a figure of Batman, but worn down by time, battered to the point of looking forgotten.

Bruce's eyes were fixed on the small piece of fabric hanging from the doll's neck. A tag.

Your name.

Your name, handwritten, in ink that was already fading.

Bruce felt a lump in his throat, a mix of guilt and rage. How could he have forgotten something so important?

He clutched the doll tightly, as if doing so would return a piece of you to him, but instead of comfort, he only felt more emptiness. Where were you? He ran to Alfred, who looked at him with a mix of concern and pity.

"Alfred..." Bruce said, his voice breaking. "Where is she? Where is my daughter?"

The butler, with his always serene face, seemed to age suddenly. A long silence settled between them, as if time was fading away. "Mr. Bruce, I didn’t mean to..." Alfred lowered his gaze. "I didn’t want to burden you with that truth, but... it’s time you know."

Bruce felt a chill run down his spine. Truth? What truth?

"She left almost a year ago. She didn’t say where. She just... she took all her belongings, though they weren’t many, and left. She said she didn’t want to be a burden. That you and the other family members had too many things to worry about."

Bruce took a step back, as if the words had physically struck him. Did she have enough age to leave? A burden? Never, not for a second, did he think that of you, of his little daughter who, even though she wasn’t wanted, he embraced under his wing just like Damian.

You were never a burden.

...or were you?

No, he refused to acknowledge it; he just... he hadn’t spent time with you because Gotham needed him!

But when you needed him, where was Batman?

Where was Bruce Wayne when his only biological daughter needed him?

"Alfred, do you know anything about Y/n?" the hero asked, worry clear on his face.

Alfred didn’t look at him; he only stared into nothingness. "...I haven’t heard anything about her for two months...

And honestly... I'm starting to think...

that she might be lost to us forever..."

A/N — This is definitely apart from being my first official Tumblr post, it is also my first DC post and especially the first from the Lord of the Night xD

Don't hesitate to ask me anything if you want.

Isabel, I dedicate this to you, my love. Eat more to be well, you fucking anorexic, don't suck.

take a bath!

inspiration: @acid-ixx with his Again & Again series, @gotham-daydreams' work, @i-cant-sing's work and @klemen-tine's work, be sure to check them out!

[haveihitanerve]

Dad How Do I but with Bruce Wayne.

Bruce who teaches life advice- showing kids how to tie a tie, how to tie their shoes, braid their hair, teaching young adults to do taxes, to surf, the best lawyers to hire when in trouble, how to avoid scams, he educates the less fortunate on the best places to get free food, where to go in Wayne Enterprises for a hot shower and some toiletries, how to eat at formal functions so the higher elite have one less thing to criticize them on. He teaches people how to do card tricks and make your niece laugh by pulling out a quarter from behind her ear, teaches moms how to rock their baby to sleep properly, teaches teens to do front flips and cartwheels and calculus, educates them on how to write job applications and two weeks notice letters. He teaches people to sew, to cook(alfred helps) to assemble an IKEA shelf, how to work a lawn mower, and all sorts of different things. And when his son dies… Bruce uses his account to share his grief, his story, shares everything about Jason, what a delight he was, how awesome he was, how much he loved to read and school… and then one day, he gets Batman to join a video. And the hero is stiff and everyone can see the exhaustion, the anger and sadness in his joints, his movements, radiating off him. But he sits down heavily into the chair Bruce Wayne had previously vacated… and begins to speak. He tells the story of Robin, his young child sidekick, who just like Jason Wayne, was murdered by the Joker. He tells everyone how his little boy tried to save Jason Todd, and how they both perished in the aftermath. He tells people about his grief, his anger, and why Batman is suddenly harsher and hurts more. “Because I hurt more.” he confesses quietly, and the people finally get to meet the man behind the mask (figuratively) and truly get to see who their hero really is. The account’s popularity skyrockets, and soon Batman is a lot more common to be seen, teaching people how to defend themselves and handle the Batarangs he knows they collect after he fights. Nightwing shows up too sometimes, teaching more elegant flips and tricks and they demonstrate their workout together, and a few months later, Batman shyly introduces his new Robin, same messy black hair as the one before, but slightly smaller, and theres something… more behind those lenses in his mask. But the kid is soon a fan favorite, making sarcastic comments and countering Nightwings witty remarks, and the people get to see a new side of Batman, get to watch as he rolls his eyes at them, as he uses them to teach people how to disguise themselves, ways to use clothes to stem blood, tie tourniquets. 

Then Red Hood returns. And a kid in Crime Alley catches him cursing at his jacket because a button fell off and he cant get it back on. “Um! Mr. Red Hood sir?” the kid pipes anxiously. Red Hood turns to him, angry, but the kid doesn't back down and just goes “You should watch ‘Mr. Wayne How Do I: Sewing’ it'll help.” and then he scampers off. And Jason is pissed and even more angry because of course while he was dead Bruce decides to become a father to everyone in Gotham. But he watches the video. And it helps. And… well, its one of the older videos. And Jason finds another old video. The one about… the one about his death. It shouldn't make his anger lessen, shouldn't make him cry, shouldn't bring him to Bruce’s doorstep where he reveals himself and they hug and cry and catch up and cry some more… but it does. 

Gothamites are a little surprised when their local Crime Lord appears on the channel, standing right next to Batman. Surprised, but pleased. Because Batman looks happy in a way he hasn't in a long time and well… Red Hood watched out for them too. And now their two protectors are working together.

[boyfridged]

countdown presents: the search for ray palmer: gotham city gaslight // night walk (franz wright)

[the-witchhunter]

#hey hi hello howdy I’m devouring this#and the thick plotens#shoveling this into my moufh#OUGH the dESCRIPTJONS#GOOD SHIT

My secret is I just really wanted to talk about food

Short DPXDC Prompts #620

Danny started a new bakery in The Narrows. Red Hood can’t quite believe that this shop is still open… until he actually goes there and fully realizes why.

[justanoasisimagines]

Dollface,

Hey my lovelies, back with another love letter. As always my requests are open and my request guidines are pinned to the top of the page! Credit to cafekitsune for the banner and the divider!

Dollface, I asked Barbra what women liked and she said romantic gestures. To which I then asked what they were. Then she went on some spiel about flowers, chocolates and showing the lady you care about. It's a lot more complicated than I thought it would be. But it's going to be big, so big all of Gotham is going to see it.

In the meantime, I want to thank you for being my partner in crime. Thank you for always having my back regarding the situation. YOu have been there for me in situations no one else knows about. Thank you for always knowing when I need a pick-me-up.

Thank you for watching the world burn with me. Thank you for standing beside me beneath the anarchy and the chaos. Being the match to my dynamite. You are my other half in every single sense of the world. I cannot wait for you to see what I have planned for you my sweet.

I promise you, you're going to love it. All my love, Jerome x

[psalmsofpsychosis]

"The devil finds work for idle hands" but it's Alfred side-eyeing Bruce like "the devil finds idle hands multimillion dollar clean energy independent projects to fund"

[yupaendo]

I love the idea of Bruce Wayne keeping his children secret like on those fanfics where nobody knows Tony Stark has another child other than Morgan???

I have already talked about this, but is like the whole fostering and adopting his children was super top secret and all the cps that knew about them were like super well paid. So the only ones that are publicly know (since the assosiation with batman in their public personas could be lesser AND they either wanted to be public or didn't have another choice) are Tim and Damian.

(All the other children of Bruce are still his children, but Dick didn't want people to know about him due to MANY things, Jason was super scared, Cass hated the idea of everyone knowing her before she was ready. All of them were more complex but wth).

Tim's parents were very publicly dead. He was also bery publicly Bruce's intern/heir and somewhat board member?? Bruce adopted him that very moment, and everyone tought "well, that's fine, it was prob. a financial move" but still was like "better not???" So they had to say that he took care of Tim when his parents were out of the country (which kinda true but kinda not...) and even showed photos of 14yr old Tim in the manor (he is 16-17 in this moment)

AND THEN, came Damian. He was insisten in being shown, since he was the blood child and kinda weird and insecure so Bruce gave him the pleasure and ALL of Gotham was like omg your actions are catching up on you and Bruce, to prevend Damian from being bullied and called a bastard son (which is only important if you are rich and famous and as man eater and womanizer as brucie) had to say that, in fact, he was married when damian was concived.

(This was, ofc, a whole other drama. Bcuz he was never, ever publiclly married, yet there is paperwork and blurred photos, etc. And Bruce still keeps the rings (talia left hers too) so...)

Anyways, so then lets say a couple of years have passed. Both of Bruce's children are grown up and Tim is fully into the W.E. bussiness + whatever else he wants to do, same with damian. And then one day the three of them are talking in front of some w.e. emplyees or at a gala or sum and Bruce, acting like a father (which he only does when his children are right in frontal of him) is all like "can any of you call your brother X/sister and tell them..." and everyone is like 😧😧😧😧😧

And then people say he has like a little child now, that this, that, etc. And it's really like... olympic golden metal winner Dick grayson (or professor from blud d.g., or policeman from blud d.g., or firefighter d.g., or detective d.g.,) or super ballerina cassandra w. (which, ok, Wayne is not THAT common) or some random man from the low sides of gotham that is either a) a mob boss or 2) a teacher or some letters major

[luvf4ngz]

In Bloom - jason todd.

Contents: Marking, Biting, Scratching, Possessiveness, Implied Sexual Content

Word Count: 464

Authors Note: Consider this a love letter to Jason Todd and my marking kink - taken from my AO3 <3

For the most part, Jason Todd enjoys the powers that he got from his dunk in the lazarus pits. Increased strength, increased speed, and increased stamina - things like that made it easy for him to do his job. To take down the baddies of Gotham and clean her from the inside out. To protect the ones he cared for, to protect the ones that didn’t have anyone else.

One thing he hated, however, was his healing factor. 

He hates how fucking fast your scratches and hickies disappeared off his body, leaving him a blank and loveless canvas once again. 

He always craves your marks on his skin. He absolutely adores the scattered love bites and dark bruises decorating his frame. He can often be seen in the bathroom of your shared home, body twisted in the mirror as he admires the deep carmine strokes that paint his back, or leaning in close to lovingly rub at the mauve blotches that stain the skin of his neck. 

He makes it a habit to show off your markings, often refusing to sport a shirt wherever he’s out and about - or at the very least a quite revealing muscle tee. His marked skin makes his friends’ eyes roll, makes his brothers give him disgusted expressions, and makes strangers on the streets grimace at him. 

He doesn’t care. He's shameless, especially when it comes to you. 

He always just wants to show you off, to express how fucking grateful he is to be yours. 

That's why he always encourages you to sink your teeth in harder, to rake your nails down his back harsher, anything to make those little symbols of your love for him last longer.

“That’s right, princess, there you go. You’re taking me so well, huh? Hold onto me a little tighter.”

In return, he’ll slam his cock into you faster, grip onto the soft of your hips harder, bite and mark you up himself. He paints your body like Monet, because to him you’re definitely as precious as the most exquisite work of art in the world.

He’ll never get enough of feeling how your skin gives way to his sharp canines, or how your shaking body feels under his calloused fingertips.

It’s the thought of losing you, of ever having to let you go that makes him fuck you rougher - that makes him hide his face in the crook of your neck and dent your skin with his teeth.

He relishes the sight of you the next morning: spread out on the bed with telltale signs of lovemaking covering every inch of your flesh. 

He can feel his heart beating out his chest, feel his blood thrumming furiously under your veins because you’re so wholly and undoubtedly his.

Just as he is yours. 

Thank you so much for reading! A comment or reblog is much appreciated. Have a great day <3

- sumi ☆ミ

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