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luv-lock · 3 days ago

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ㅤֹㅤ⊹ㅤ #ㅤLITTLE BROKEN BIRDㅤ.ᐟ ֹ ₊ ꒱

☆⁠ PAIRING : Platonic Bruce Wayne x Fem Reader Part 1

☆⁠ SYNOPSIS : You had a father. You know you have one. You don't know him. But that doesn't matter because your mother never let you forget it anyway. You're a child born from rejection. And everything hurts.

☆⁠ WARNINGS : Child abuse (physical, emotional), suicide, trauma, corpse horror, neglect, PTSD, mental illness, child grief, self-hatred, self-harm, child psychological horror, psychotic episodes, depression, dissociation.

☆⁠ NOTES : English is not my first language. Hope you enjoy!

“You have his eyes.”

That’s the first thing your mother ever told you. Or at least, that's what you remember.

She was a goddess once. A woman carved from glossy magazine pages and runway lights. Models tried to be her. Men tried to own her.

But none of it mattered.

Because the only man she ever wanted—never loved her back.

Bruce Wayne.

She told you about him sometimes.

Told you how his eyes were darker than pitch. How his smile was soft but never real. How he kissed her like she mattered and then left like she was dust.

Told you how he made her feel like she was something. And then made her nothing.

And you—you were the consequence.

You looked exactly like him.

It wasn’t just resemblance. It was uncanny.

His hair. His lashes. His fucking eyes.

Your mother couldn’t look at you without breaking.

The apartment was always cold.

The kind of cold that seeped into your bones. Rotten milk in the fridge. Cigarette smoke in the curtains. You’d press your palms to the radiator and tell yourself it was a hug.

You stopped counting wounds.

The first time you couldn’t walk, it was because your mother threw a glass ashtray at your legs. You were three.

The second time, she pushed you down the stairs.

You tumbled like a doll. Limbs bent backwards. Your arm cracked. Your teeth hit the floor. You lay still for hours, not moving. Not screaming. Not crying.

You didn’t want to make her mad.

She told you she loved you.

Always after.

After the belt. After the bat. After she dragged you by your hair and pressed your face to the oven because you spilled her wine.

She kissed your blistered cheek and whispered, “I’m sorry, baby. Mommy’s just tired.”

You smiled with bleeding gums. “It’s okay, Mommy. I love you.”

Your voice was always a whisper. You were always afraid of being too loud.

Because she broke your nose, for laughing too loud once.

You didn’t even cry until the second punch.

She told you your laugh sounded like him.

Your room was small, dark. She kept it that way. She didn’t want to see you.

You had no friends. You weren’t allowed to leave. You barely went to school.

The bruises had to fade first.

She didn't feed you unless she remembered. You used to eat the leftovers she left out for the cats that never came.

And yet you adored her.

You loved her.

Even when she bruised your ribs with a hairbrush.

Even when she pushed you down the stairs and you couldn’t walk for two weeks.

Even when she knocked your tooth out and told you not to smile again.

You tried so hard to make her happy. You’d pick dandelions from the sidewalk cracks and tuck them into her hair, even when she swatted you away. You draw her with stolen crayons—smiling versions of her, the way you wished she’d look at you. Crayon hearts. Painted macaroni necklaces. Birthday cards with shaky little “I love you”s. She’d rip them up, call you a freak. But sometimes—just sometimes—her eyes would go glassy after she hurt you. And for a moment, you thought she felt guilty.

Once you cut your long hair yourself, thinking she’d like it short—because she had short hair now—and she screamed at you until you vomited.

But you still crawled into her bed every night.

You still kissed her cheek when she cried.

You still whispered, “It’s okay, Mommy. I love you…”

You didn’t know love wasn’t supposed to feel like this.

You scavenged alleys like a little rat.

You were six and barefoot, digging through trash cans near the broken fence behind the apartment.

Looking for coins. Or maybe a dollar. Maybe someone left behind a flower in the dumpster again.

Anything to make her smile.

One time you found a pack of candy cigarettes. You wiped off the dirt and gave them to her in a box wrapped in your old sock.

She took one look at them and slapped you so hard you peed yourself.

You apologized. You cried.

But you still left her a drawing under her pillow. It said:

— “To Mommy. You are my sun. I’m sorry for being bad. Please smile.”

And then one day, she smiled.

It was your birthday. You were turning eight.

She’d been quiet that week. No hitting. No yelling. Just staring out the window. Smoking.

You were scared to breathe.

But that morning, she woke you up with soft hands. She brushed your hair. She put your favorite cartoon on the old static TV.

And then—she brought you into the kitchen.

There was a cake on the counter.

Burnt on the edges. Icing dripping off one side. But it had eight candles.

You gasped so hard you started hiccupping.

She laughed. A real laugh. The first one you’d ever heard.

You hugged her around the waist with your skinny little arms. “You made it for me…?”

“Of course I did, baby,” she whispered. “You’re my whole world.”

You cried so hard you couldn’t blow out the candles.

You gave her the flower that day.

It was crushed. Wilted. Found outside a gas station after a week of saving coins in a tin box under your bed.

You'd kissed every penny like a prayer.

You tied it with a shoelace. You wrote a card.

— “To Mommy. Thank you for being born. I love you even when you’re sad :)”

She read it in silence. She didn’t smile. She didn’t frown. She just stared.

And then she held you in her lap. You were still so small.

She cradled you like a baby. She touched your face.

You remember this part because you wrote it down in your head, word for word.

“You have his eyes.

I wish I’d killed you when you were born.”

And then she put you down.

And got the gun.

You thought she was going to shoot you.

You stood still. Like a rabbit before the hawk.

Instead—she turned it on herself.

And she smiled again.

“Goodbye, baby.”

The sound was fireworks. The smell was meat.

You didn’t scream. You didn’t run.

You knelt beside her. You touched her hair. You kissed her temple and whispered,

“Wake up, Mommy. You forgot to eat the cake.”

You curled up in her lap. Her blood soaked through your dress.

You didn’t notice.

The corpse began to change.

By day two, her stomach swelled. Her face twisted. Her skin turned purple-black.

You were a kid. You didn’t know how to be alone. So you stayed near her.

You stroked her bloated fingers and whispered stories. You sang her lullabies you made up on the spot.

You told her you were being good. You told her you found another penny.

You curled up on her chest, even when the skin turned ugly.

You kissed her bloating face and told her she was pretty.

You told her she could be alive again if she wanted.

Because you loved her that much.

You chewed your nails down to the bone.

You smeared her lipstick on your mouth and pretended to be her.

You cooked invisible food in the corner and served it to her bloated hand.

You pressed your ear to her chest and said you heard her heartbeat.

You told her it was okay.

She could be dead for now. But you’d wait.

You’d wait forever if she needed.

The body rotted.

Her stomach burst open first. It made a noise like balloons popping.

You didn’t scream. You just sat on the edge of the bed and cried until your tears ran dry.

You tried to clean the blood. You used your favorite dress as a rag.

You laid it over her like a blanket.

She was gone for five days.

When Aunt Lila came, she almost vomited from the stench.

She found you sitting cross-legged, holding your mother’s hand, humming a lullaby to a corpse.

When they dragged you out, you were screaming.

Your eyes were wide. Your hands were black with rot.

You tried to bite the EMT that took you.

“I made her cake,” you sobbed. “She can’t leave if she didn’t eat the cake—!”

You were silent after that.

They called Bruce. Aunt Lila told them about him.

You never spoke a word in front of him.

But you watched him.

His eyes. His mouth. His hands. His smile that didn’t reach his eyes.

You memorized his breathing. You stared into his eyes for hours.

You wanted to see what your mother saw.

You wanted to understand what she died for.

Why she hated you.

“He looked at me the way you do. You little freak.”

When Bruce tried to speak to you, you turned away.

When he tried to hold your hand, you pulled back.

You didn't want his money. You didn’t want his name.

You wanted your mother alive.

Even if she hated you.

Then he took you home.

Wayne Manor was too clean. Too quiet. You felt like a ghost in a glass box.

Alfred was gentle. He never raised his voice. But you still flinched.

Bruce kept trying. Too late. Too distant.

He bought you dolls. Expensive ones. Their glass eyes looked like yours.

You smashed them against the walls when no one was watching.

You don’t know how to sleep anymore.

Not in this house. Not in this cold, quiet place where the lights are too soft and the blankets don’t smell like ash and blood and broken wine bottles.

Here, they wash your clothes. They clean your face. They comb your hair.

But no one screams.

You rip your hair out at night.

Big chunks. Bloody clumps. The strands are soft and dark just like his.

You stare at them in your hands and cry because you can’t stop.

You whisper, “I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” as you dig your fingernails into your scalp, over and over and over again. You pull until your skin comes off with it.

You don’t even know what you’re sorry for. But it’s safer to say it.

In case someone gets mad.

You don’t like mirrors.

Because your eyes are his eyes.

Your mother said so.

She used to scream it.

“You look just like him—just like him—get out of my sight—get out—!”

You hit yourself in the face. As hard as you can. Until your cheek swells or your eye goes red.

You don’t want to look like him.

You don’t want to be bad.

You eat too much. Then nothing at all.

At first, you ate everything.

Because Bruce had food. Warm food. Real food. Not expired peanut butter or ketchup packets.

You ate too fast and threw up. You apologized. You cried. You told Alfred you didn’t mean to waste it. You’d eat it again if they let you.

Then you stopped eating completely.

Because maybe you were stealing. Maybe you were greedy. Maybe she’d come back and she’d see you at the table and hit you with the plate.

So you stopped.

You chewed your fingers instead. You bit your nails until you bleed.

You scream at night.

Blood-curdling. Violent. Until your throat goes raw.

You scream for your mother.

You scream for the dead body.

You scream because she never came back.

You scream because no one hits you anymore, and that means no one cares.

Bruce comes to your room once.

Just once.

He kneels by the bed, but you press yourself to the wall and sob until you vomit. You bang your head against the headboard. You claw at your skin.

He doesn’t touch you.

He just says your name.

But it’s his voice.

His voice, coming from her face.

You shriek until you pass out.

You ask for a knife.

Alfred is bringing you milk. It’s warm. He’s so kind it makes your teeth ache.

You smile at him. Your face is swollen from a panic attack. You still have dried tears on your lashes. You ask:

“Can I have a knife, Mr. Pennyworth?”

He pauses. Blinks. “What for, my dear?”

“I want to cut off my hair. And my face.”

Bruce tried. But he was failing.

He wasn’t a father.

He didn’t know what to do with a little girl who flinched when someone coughed too loud.

Who didn’t understand what toys were.

Who curled up in the fireplace to sleep because it reminded her of the oven.

He thought about hugging you once.

You bit his wrist.

He said your name. You didn’t react.

But when he said her name—your mother’s—you looked up so fast your nose bled.

“Where?” you whispered. “Where is she? Did you find her? Did she eat the cake?”

So Bruce puts you in therapy.

You don’t talk.

You stare at the floor. You whisper apologies into your lap. You ask if you’re allowed to cry. If you’re allowed to talk.

The therapist is a woman. She looks a little like your mom.

So you love her.

You follow her around the office. You sit close. You smell her perfume and imagine your mom again, but soft this time. Nice.

You called her Mommy once.

And then you start hitting yourself in the face so hard she has to restrain you.

You don't know how to play.

When other kids come to visit the Manor—some politician’s brats, a cousin of Lucius Fox—you just stand there.

Stiff. Silent. Watching.

One time, a girl offers you a doll.

You take it. You snap its neck.

You hold it close after and whisper to it all day.

You draw your mother over and over.

You draw her face, melting. Her smile. Her blood.

You draw her hugging you. You draw her laughing.

You draw Bruce dead. You draw yourself in the coffin with your mom.

You draw a wedding between the three of you.

You say it’s pretend.

You say it’s just a game.

You talk to her.

She sits in the corner. She watches you at night.

Sometimes, you hear her crying. Sometimes, she sings.

Sometimes, she tells you you’re bad and you believe her.

You scream at her, “I’m not like him!”

You bite your hand until you can’t scream anymore.

You don’t like his touch.

You ask Alfred to squeeze you tighter when he hug you. You ask the therapist to hold you when you cry and dig your fingernails into her arms.

When Bruce touches your shoulder, you flinch so hard you fall over.

You say, “Sorry. Sorry. Sorry.”

Then you cry.

You are eight. You are rotting.

You don’t understand love. But you understand pain.

You don’t understand death. But you understand gone.

You don’t know how to be a daughter.

You only know how to apologize.

You hold your breath sometimes. Just to see if you die.

You count. One. Two. Three. Four…

You always let go by thirty.

You always feel guilty for breathing after.

And then—someday—he takes you to the circus.

He wanted to “cheer you up.”

You didn’t want to go. But you went.

And then—there he was.

A boy who flies.

A boy on the trapeze, flying like he had no weight. Like he didn’t belong to the ground.

You sat up. Watched him like he was the first real thing you’d ever seen.

You clapped with bloody nails. Whispering “He looks like a star…”

You wanted to fly too.

And you felt something inside your chest you didn't recognize.

He was beautiful.

You smile. Real smile. Just for a second.

And then he fell.

Not from the trapeze. But from life.

His parents died. In front of him.

You knew that kind of silence. You knew that feeling.

When Bruce brought him home, you watched from the stairs. He was smaller than you expected. He cried in his sleep.

He asked for his mom.

And for the first time in your life—you weren’t alone in grief.

You slept by his door that night. You didn’t know why.

And then it became routine. He found you every night. Crawled into your bed. Clung to you like a life raft.

You didn’t push him away.

Because he didn’t look like your father.

You gave him the flower.

Not a new one. The old one. Dried. Dead. Crushed flat between your mother’s last book pages.

You gave it to Dick and said, “It’s magic. It keeps monsters away.”

He cried.

You hugged him.

That night, you curled beside him in bed. You watched the moon rise.

And for the first time in your life, you whispered to someone else:

“It’s okay. I love you.”

— MASTERLIST ☆

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moonstruckme · 5 months ago

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hi love I like all ur fics!!! Ur most recent emt Maurader made me realize tho we don't always get to see Sirius being vulnerable so what about a fic where may be he's having an off day? Or runs into a cousin and they completely ignore him and he tries to act like it doesn't bother him and just reader comforting him and giving him space

Thank you for requesting angel!

cw: allusion to past abuse, discussion of toxic workplace dynamics

Sirius Black x fem!reader ♡ 1.1k words

Sirius gets home from work early. You’re in the bedroom, stomach-down on the mattress with your book in front of you. You hear the front door open and come out to greet your boyfriend, but your smile falls when you see him.

Sirius’ face is red. He doesn’t usually color when he’s upset, so you take it to mean something that he has now. He steps on the back of his shoe a couple of times before he manages to get it off, stomps on the back of the other even more harshly. You think he might be shaking.

“Sirius?”

He flinches. Turning around, his expression twinges with some mix of emotions at seeing you, too muddled to parse apart. He seals them all away quickly.

You take a step towards him. “You okay?”

“Yeah.” It comes out hoarse. Sirius clears his throat. “Yeah. Just a shit day at work.”

“You’re home early,” you note.

Sirius nods curtly. You think maybe that’s that, but his expression is conflicted.

“Do you wanna sit down?” you ask gently, going to the couch and hoping he’ll follow. He does. It’s a challenge not to reach for his hand, to pull him closer or offer some kind touch, but the stiffness about Sirius’ frame hints that it may not be well received right now.

When he’s still silent after a moment, you say, “We don’t have to talk about it if you don’t want to. I could make tea and we could just relax.”

Sirius shakes his head. “It’s okay,” he says, tersely, like he might be trying to convince himself more than you. “I think I’m probably going to be fired, though.”

You feel your eyebrows go up.

“I…you know how I got a new boss a few weeks ago?”

You nod mutely.

“Right, well, she’s got a temper. At least a couple times a week I’ll hear her shouting at someone in her office and she’s already managed to fire from almost every team.” Your dread mounts as Sirius goes on, speaking faster now that he’s on a roll. “She called me in after lunch. I fucked up something in a report—I hadn’t checked it and it had gotten sent out with the error—and she was pissed. She screamed at me—really screamed, stood up and got red in the face and all that—for probably ten minutes before she sent me back to my desk. And I just came home.” Sirius lets out a dry chuckle. “If she doesn’t fire me, I might quit.”

“You should, baby.” Your voice pitches with dismay, hurt and outrage for him warring inside you. You take a chance and reach for his hand. Sirius fits his fingers between yours instinctively, something seeming to loosen in him at the touch. “I can’t believe she really shouted at you. No one deserves that, least of all for a silly error in a report. She should be fired for that.”

Sirius gives you a little smile, but it dissolves at the edges, watery. A cavity opens in your chest as his eyes grow shiny.

“Baby.”

He shakes his head, jaw clenched. Blinking. “Sorry,” he says roughly. “I never used to do this.” You feel your face pinch with sympathy. He means cry, you know. Sirius as an adult is more emotional than he was as a child, but you still rarely see him cry. “She just—she sounded just like my mother.”

Realization comes like a blow to your middle. “Oh, my love,” you say breathlessly, moving to put your arms around him.

Sirius usually hugs with his whole being. He throws himself into it, with force and purpose and his own rough brand of caring. So you’re used to letting him take the lead, but now, when his arms come around you hesitantly, you’re the one who applies the pressure. And Sirius melts against you.

You cup the back of his neck in one hand and squeeze between his shoulders with the other, imagining your love pouring out of you and into him through your palms. Sirius is quiet, but you feel a couple of hot tears transfer from his chin to your shirt. You worry he’s holding his breath.

“Sirius.” You say his name with all the tenderness you can summon, afraid of him hearing echoes of his mother’s voice. “I’m so sorry, lovely. You never, ever deserve to be shouted at that way.”

“Even if I told you I left your favorite mug at my office?” he jokes weakly.

You let him go. There aren’t many tears to brush off his cheeks, and you make short work of them, soothing your thumbs over his face just for the sake of it. Surprisingly, his complexion is less agitated than it had been when he’d come in. He was holding it in, you realize.

“Don’t ever let me speak to you like that,” you say.

Sirius’ expression sobers. “You wouldn’t. I know you wouldn’t.”

“Really. Leave me if I talk to you like that, I’m serious.”

“No, that’s me.”

One side of your mouth tips up without your consent. “Bad joke.”

Sirius mirrors you, grinning halfheartedly. “You think you’d have learned to evade it by now.”

You gather that he wants things to be light now. That’s okay. You know Sirius has a difficult time with the truly heavy emotions—anger is an instinct for him, but tears and sorrow he’s never known what to do with. You’ll talk about it more over time, in bits and pieces where he’s comfortable. And just because you’re letting it go now doesn’t mean you’re done coddling him.

You let your hands coast down from his face to either side of his neck, massaging gently the tension in his shoulders. “Did you really bring my favorite mug to work?”

Sirius’ smile goes a tad sheepish. “Yes?”

“Why would you do that?”

“Because it makes me think of my most favorite sweetheart when I get coffee from the break room,” he says, smarmy. “Also, it was the first one I saw when I went to grab one from our cabinet.”

You smile at him. Sirius pretends at facetiousness, but you know the first reason had been the genuine one.

“What,” he asks, “you didn’t notice it was missing?”

“No, I did. I only thought you’d broken it.”

“And you weren’t going to say anything?”

“What’d be the point?”

A soft, intimate look comes over Sirius’ face. “I don’t deserve you,” he says, gray eyes raw and quiet, “do I?”

You match his tone. “Of course you do, lovely. You deserve better than me, it’s just I’m what you’ve got.”

“Mm, there’s another way you’re not allowed to speak.” He wraps his arms around you, pressing a heavy-fond kiss to your hairline. “I won’t have any of that talk.”

“I’ll trade you that for the jokes about your name.”

“No, I don’t think so. You’re going to have to work a little harder, doll, I’m not giving those up so easily.”

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