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ttdamian · 9 days ago

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crow choir: seven minutes min. two - hatchling (batfam x neglected!reader)

ms. 01 / 02 / 03 / 04 / 05 / 06 / 07 / 08

something bites at your hand, and with a jolt, you awake from your sleep to find it’s your own mouth pressed against it. you pull it away under the weight of your quilt, blinking up at the ceiling above you.

time’s moved differently since you came here, the minutes you used to spend being angry replaced with a whole lot of nothing now. it’s dilated, you’ll think a day has passed only to find out it’s been an hour, the present feels like a distant memory, your bones too little for your body.

the time… right, what’s the time? you look at the alarm clock on your bedside table, vision blurred and difficult to figure out. nearly eight o’clock. your family might be up already, you squint, getting up, except maybe tim.

even though you wake up at eight, you don’t get up until much later. time passes differently in the wayne manor, remember? it’s only around nine thirty that you actually sneak down the stairs, footsteps light as they avoid alfred cleaning in the living room, and into the kitchen to get yourself an apple. dick’s come to visit, from bludhaven, but you haven’t seen him so far yet.

you take a bite of the apple, swerving off into the back garden, sitting behind a bush. you hope by the time you’re done eating, a million years have passed, and you don’t have to see any of them again; your family. what happens instead, is your ears pick up some conversation, and the only thing you can make out are the voices. damian, dick and bruce.

you blink, and suddenly you’re fourteen again, having your first meal with the family. you didn’t know jason and damian back then, your older brother still six feet under to your knowledge, and the younger likely scaling a mountain after breakfast. it was you, bruce, alfred and tim, since dick lived in bludhaven.

what was there to say, or do, really? you didn't feel much left out of anything, since they rarely ever did anything. tim and bruce both spent much more time in their rooms and offices, or at galas and ceremonies than they did at home. and what in the world would you have in common with alfred? you avoided him more than he did you.

your life got relatively busier once you got enrolled in school, feeling horribly awkward among children entirely out of your league. of course, your guardian was the bruce wayne, you weren’t out of place financially. simply put, (name) was a loner, having no friends before or after the “wayne intervention”. you’d sit far off in a corner during lunch, speak to only your teachers, and busy yourself with work when the loneliness got too suffocating. too big for your little bones.

you can’t blame yourself entirely for being a loser in the early days. tim skipped school regularly, so despite being in the same class, you two were barely ever in the same place at the same time. the other kids thought you were too posh, or arrogant, seeing you so closed off to them. bruce wayne’s money must’ve got to your head fast, they’d assume. either that, or you were just too much of a freak to be around, that old gleam having never quite left your eyes, despite how tired they were nowadays.

being at home was positively worse. the hallways stretched out for what felt like miles, always empty and quiet. you would’ve considered sun shining through the windows a blessing when you were younger, but now it just made you ill, the orange and yellow making your head spin. waking up felt like a chore, since you got up to the same quietness that you fell asleep to.

the little relief you had from this monotony would come when dick came to visit from bludhaven. despite how miserable you seemed, unapproachable even, he did try. he’d take you and tim outside to a number of food trucks and parks and carnivals, sometimes he’d bring back gifts from bludhaven. the two of you were never really close, no, not the way he was with tim, or damian later. but he was there, for a while. he'd tried to be ordinary, and you'd tried to be anything but.

you could go as far as to say you didn’t dislike him as much, maybe, for just a second even considered him family. but things fell apart eventually, they always do! things age, they rot, they become old. you grow older.

at some point cassandra became a name you hear murmured among tim and bruce more and more often, but you payed no mind. you met her, the two of you content with avoiding each other's attendance. there’s a shine in her eyes, attentively sharp, different from the heavy weight and bluntness you’ve felt from your own reflection in mirrors. bruce favours her, you understand, and it drives the little surviving wrath you have for him mad. too ordinary.

you’re not too sure when dick started distancing from you (you noted with a little disdain, that very little came in between his bond with tim). maybe a little while before you met jason for the first time?

jason.

you spit an apple seed onto the ground, eyes zoning out on it. you don’t like him, but you don’t know enough to dislike him. the first time jason came around to the manor was much after everyone else had already met him- after he “came back”. no one bothered to tell you what that meant, though. came back from where?

you’d woken in the middle of the night, with a crater formed in your chest from this ever-persistent sense of anxiety, and couldn't go back to sleep. with nothing to do to get rid of that feeling, you’d made a silly decision to haunt the kitchen at midnight, fill that crater with some imported snack. after all, gotham was always prettier at night, and there’d be no alfred to catch you.

maybe if you’d chosen another day then, you wouldn’t be so weary to leave your room at dark now. it was just your luck to accidentally stumble upon a disheveled and blood-stained jason, digging through the pantry like an animal. were you dreaming? was this some nightmare?

you’d both tensed in sync, but where his hand instinctively reached for the gun strapped to his thigh, yours clamped around the edge of the clothes you were wearing. he didn’t grab his gun, neither of you said anything.

some expression of distaste went over his face. you could see it- a silent “another one?”, peeking out from behind him domino mask in the dark, and nothing more. you both agreed quietly, that you didn’t see each other, and he left through the window, leaping.

all your interactions after that have been “supervised” by somebody else. you’ve not talked to jason. you think he doesn’t want to ever have to talk to you. you have nothing in common, so with very little remorse, you decide you really don’t care.

it’s not until damian arrives that you truly feel jealous. that you really begin to resent your reclusivity, your inability to be a part of their family for the first time. it’s the softness in dick’s expression that stopped being directed to you long ago, that sends you rabid, bruce’s hand on his shoulder that makes you bite your tongue into bloody bits, and the way he scowls and bites so often, and gets away with it, that truly makes you upset for the first time.

maybe if he’d been like the rest, nothing but a coloured mass in the corner of your eye, you would’ve gotten over it. you had a lot to do. a lot, really. but he wasn’t like them, no- he was like you. but he wasn't ordinary, so were you like him? you were only ordinary.

his presence felt suffocating, even when he was far off in the corner away from you. if you tried to shut your eyes, your little brother shone through your eyelids like a radiating studio-light, persistent.

damian noticed you, that’s what was the worst. you’d once peered down at him from a balcony, watching him swing a sword around in the garden, caught off-guard when he looked up and stared back at you. the attention startled you, the smallest sneer that pulled at his lips discomfited you greatly. what was more startling, and possibly your worst observation, was the look in his eyes.

the same storm the desk ladies used to talk about, when they talked about you, was there. that freak was reborn, you were sure of it. the only difference? a freak in a family of freaks is nothing, the ordinary becomes an alien.

how did he manage it? to fit in so quickly? you were both fish out of water, adapting to your new surroundings (unfamiliar surroundings, you correct yourself, you’ve been here for years now), but where he got an aquarium, you got a plastic bag filled with water.

you observed from the gaps between the staircase railings, how he culled his accent and matched his mannerisms to bruce’s. he adapted, integrated into the elite gothamite-society. you’d just frozen the time around you, remaining the same ghoulish child, in a bigger body, with little bones. jealousy ate up at you, dissolving the cobwebs in your unfeeling self and making space for new, unwelcome feelings

for a while, you went mad. nobody noticed you did. your neck, and shoulders burned, ears pulsing with doubts, chest heaving in tension. a pebble of sorts formed in your throat; urging you to vomit even when there was nothing you could throw up.

you couldn’t change this. you couldn’t change who you were. what you are. bruce took in dick, he took in jason, cassandra and tim, damian’s mother loved him and his father loves him dearly. you were forced upon them, made to haunt their manor like a ghost from an old movie- a curse. you couldn’t change who you were, a gothamite gargoyle, useless next to dying sisters and and a wild beast to unsuspecting, kind people.

you were a punishment, on their family, contributing to nothing good- not once in your life. bruce must despise you, alfred must loathe having to care for one more person, one far more ungrateful than the rest. you can’t even imagine how your siblings feel about having to see this stranger in their house. and you know you’re a stranger, the way they hesitate in the middle of their conversations when you walk in, the way damian still glances at you with a frown, despite having “sobered”, the way jason’s- so alienated and other, presence seems more natural than you… you know how horrifying it is to be an ordinary stranger.

a gargoyle, a ghoul, a ghost. too polished to return to your life in the common streets and too out-of-place to colour yourself as one of them. there’s no place for you here, and none anywhere else, that’s your punishment.

you finish your apple, suddenly aware of tears that prick at your eyes. you wipe them away quickly, no, you refuse to cry over such silly things. there are so many far more unfortunate people out there. you have no right to be miserable. none.

dick, bruce and damian wayne walk away, and a million years still haven't passed. you try to rest your head against the bush-pillar, but your hair catches on twigs and nettles. this is your punishment.

the second minute passes painfully, while you tug frizzing hair out of the leaves.

˖ 𑣲 a/n: it's so cool getting to upload these in queue, 'cause it somehow feels like i'm playing into the whole "time dilation" feel from the start bit lol. is the lack of dialogue a bit much? i will write conversations, i guess right now the style needs it for 'recounting' bits. anyway, thank you for reading!

taglist: @lettucel0ver @marsmabe @alishii @1abi @c4xcocoa @bbmgirll @sirenetheblogger @privatebumblebee @noone1233nobody @4ishere @mev-fizzah-writes @quack-a-vasion @myjumper @pix-stuff @callenreesevzx @cupid73 @nininehaaa @nisarelle @jjsmeowthie @ollyissleepy @uppersurper @angwngss

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ttdamian · 10 days ago

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so mad at myself for making my max words for a one shot 10k, I want to write more (I’ve barely made 1k)

I say go against ur words and write more than 10k chat 🔥 anyways real af except i would never write anything more than 3k-4k. WISH YOU LUCK ON WRITINGG excited to read it (˵>ᗜ<˵) !!

#🪞. talks

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ttdamian · 12 days ago

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Having one blog isnt enough i need more js to make silly cute themes

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ttdamian · 13 days ago

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⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀ᯋ ݁ Filthy child III ݁

⸺ Authors note ; Yandere! platonic! batfam x Neglected! fem! reader. Potential disturbing wordings/descriptions. This is meant to be psychological horror, with angst. Viewers discretion is advised. Usage of Y/N, English isnt my first language. wc: 3,8k Not beta read. pls hmu with questions or smth.. ⸺ directory ; Previous, next

The drive home—if you could even call it that—was shrouded in silence.

You sat curled against the window, forehead pressed to the glass as the car hummed beneath you. The city blurred past in streaks of light and motion, but you weren’t really looking. Just watching. Empty-eyed. Distant. Detached.

Children played on sidewalks, their laughter chasing after kites and bubbles. You watched one stumble and fall—only to be swept into their mother’s arms a second later. Warm. Immediate. Automatic.

You didn’t know what stung more—the jealousy, or the disbelief.

You envied them, yes. The ease with which they were loved. The casual way they were held. But at the same time, a colder thought crept in:

What if it was all pretend?

What if their smiles were bought with silence?

What if their hugs were guilt, not warmth?

That was what you used to ask yourself every night when she was still alive.

When your mother would rock you to sleep in silence—not out of affection, but because her own loneliness couldn’t stand another echo in the house. Because the liquor couldn’t numb out her loneliness anymore.

Love had always come twisted. Conditional. Fickle. Sick.

And now?

Now you couldn’t tell the difference.

The silence thickened like fog until Alfred’s voice finally cut through it, soft and aged.

“Miss [Y/N]?”

You didn’t look at him. Just blinked slowly at your own reflection in the window, half-expecting it to blink back wrong.

“The nurses told me a few things,” he continued gently. “They said you were very polite. Well-mannered. I’m glad to hear you behaved so well.”

It wasn’t cruel. Wasn’t meant to sting.

But still—it did.

Your fingers curled in your lap, voice barely a whisper.

“I wasn’t trying to be good. I was just… being myself.”

The words tasted bitter. Like dust. Like something someone else would’ve said for you.

You hated this. Conversations drenched in softness, in sugar, in that careful pity adults thought they were hiding. You didn’t want kindness. You didn’t want praise. You just wanted truth.

Even if it hurt.

Even if it bled.

Alfred let out a low, quiet chuckle. Not mocking. Not insincere. Just worn down at the edges.

“Then you must have a very kind heart, Miss [Y/N],” he said. “Even if the world hasn’t been kind to you.”

That made your throat tighten.

Because that wasn’t true.

The world had been kind to you—hadn’t it?

You had Mommy.

Mommy who tucked you in. Mommy who told you that no one else would understand you like she did. That the world was dangerous and selfish and full of people who only smiled when they wanted something. But not her. Never her.

She was yours.

You were hers.

And wasn’t that love?

Your throat tightened, mouth suddenly dry.

You tried to swallow it down, but the spiral had already begun—slow, suffocating. You gripped the fabric of your sleeves, nails biting into skin. Alfred’s words echoed again, too gentle, too real.

Even if the world hasn’t been kind to you.

But it had been. It had been.

Hadn’t it?

You had Mommy.

Even when she hurt you. Even when she didn’t look at you. Even when she drank too much and said things she couldn’t take back. Even when she screamed and slammed doors and left you alone in the dark for hours because you’d made her too tired to love.

That was kindness, wasn’t it?

That was love.

It had to be.

Because if it wasn’t—if the world hadn’t been kind—then everything you survived meant nothing.

And that couldn’t be true.

So instead of responding, you stared harder out the window, eyes stinging with something you refused to name.

And Alfred, kind as he was, said nothing more.

Just drove.

By the time you arrived home—the sky had already dulled into a shade too grey to be called night, too lifeless to be day.

The car ride had continued silently, save for the occasional clink of the engine cooling or the subtle sigh from Alfred at the wheel. He hadn't spoken much after that small conversation.

Not because he didn’t care, you thought.

But because he knew silence was a language you understood better than any half-hearted condolence.

Most of the time you didn’t look at him.

Couldn’t.

You just watched the world slide past the window. Rain-streaked glass blurring the shapes of children and dogs and tired mothers clutching too many bags. Families. Faces. Motion. Laughter.

The gates of Wayne Manor opened with the groan of old secrets, and you felt your chest tighten with every foot the car pulled closer to that grand, looming house.

You stepped out when Alfred opened your door, the umbrella held like a shield above you, but the rain had already kissed your hair, trailing down your neck like ghost fingers.

"Let me help with your things, Miss [Y/N]," he said gently.

You nodded, but the weight in your chest didn’t shift. You followed him up the steps. The doors opened.

And the house swallowed you.

Inside was warm, yes. But only technically. The kind of warmth manufactured by fireplaces no one sat beside and heating systems that worked too well. It didn’t chase the chill from your bones. It only pushed it deeper, made it linger.

There were no greetings. No welcome home. No voices calling your name.

Just polished floors. Portraits that watched too closely. And silence.

The silence was the worst part.

Your footsteps barely made a sound as you were guided down not-familiar halls. You were led to a room you were told was yours now. It had soft pillows. Too many blankets. Books on a shelf you hadn’t read and wouldn’t touch. A window with a view of the garden. All of it carefully curated, thoughtfully arranged.

None of it felt like yours.

You stepped inside and stood there for a long time. Not moving. Not thinking. Just breathing. Slowly. Carefully. Like even that had to be earned here.

And then—

The room shifted.

Not physically. Not visibly. But something in the air tugged.

Your throat tightened.

You felt it once more.

The arms.

Not grabbing, not dragging like they did in the past. Just holding. Comforting. Curling around your shoulders and waist like a memory that hadn’t rotted yet. There was no pressure. No pain. Just presence.

You couldn’t see them. Not fully. But the mirror caught their outline. Just enough. Shadowy impressions, arms you knew too well. You didn’t turn. You didn’t run.

Because part of you—a part you hated—missed this.

The feeling of being wanted. Even by something that didn’t belong to the world of the living.

'You were a good girl,' it seemed to say. 'Mommy always knew that.'

Your lips trembled.

You had always believed the world had been perfectly kind to you. Why wouldn’t you? You had Mommy. That was enough. That was everything.

And now?

Now, when someone called you kind, or brave, or good, it didn’t make you feel warm.

It made you spiral.

Because no one had ever said that to you before. Not like they meant it. Not like they believed it.

And if they were saying it now, it had to be a lie. A trick. A mistake.

The world doesn’t hand out kindness for free. It doesn’t offer safety without a price.

The embrace tightened.

Not cruel. Just firm.

Like it knew you were about to run.

You closed your eyes, and for a moment, you let yourself lean into it.

Because Bruce hadn’t come.

Because no one real had.

So you laid there, smiling for once.

You woke up to voices downstairs.

Muffled, distant—just far enough to sound like a dream, just loud enough to remind you it wasn’t.

For a moment, you didn’t move.

The unfamiliar ceiling above you loomed like a stranger’s gaze. The sheets beneath you were softer than anything you’d ever slept in, and that alone made your skin itch. You hadn’t meant to fall asleep. You hadn’t even remembered lying down.

It was dark now. The sky outside your window was the kind of heavy black that made the stars seem like wounds. The soft hum of electricity crawled along the walls, machines embedded in the architecture like quiet lungs.

The voices floated upward again. Laughter. Forks against porcelain. Warmth where you hadn’t been invited.

You slipped out of bed, the carpet quiet beneath your bare feet, and crept toward the door. It opened without a sound. Of course it did. Even the hinges were trained here. This house didn’t creak. It didn’t groan. It didn’t speak unless spoken to.

The hallway was dimly lit, golden sconces trailing a path like breadcrumbs. You followed them.

You didn’t know who was downstairs. You didn’t care. You just needed to see it—whatever “it” was. Proof that the world was still moving. That people still gathered around tables and talked and laughed like they meant it.

The staircase yawned open at the end of the corridor, curling like a spine. You reached it quietly, slowly, heart ticking like a bomb in your throat. And then you saw them.

Down below. At the dining table.

Three men—Two older than you. One was laughing. Another rolled his eyes, nudging his glass with too much grace to be casual. The third—the one with the darker stare—only listened, nodding every now and then. Their faces were familiar in that newspaper kind of way. Pretty. Polished. Perfect.

You didn’t know their names.

They didn’t know you existed.

And yet, there they were. Eating. Talking. Living.

A family.

Something inside you curled inwards.

You stayed in the shadows of the staircase, gripping the banister like it could keep you tethered. The light didn’t reach you here. The warmth didn’t either. You watched them from the dark like a ghost still deciding whether or not it had the right to haunt.

They didn’t hear you. Didn’t glance up. Didn’t pause.

Why would they?

You were a stranger in a stranger’s house.

You weren’t introduced. You weren’t expected. You were… absorbed. Quietly. Tucked away in a spare room like an afterthought wrapped in hospital sheets.

One of the men laughed again—too loud this time. For a moment, your ears rang. It was the kind of sound that made you ache. Not because it hurt. But because it was real. So real it pressed up against your chest and made your ribs feel too small for your lungs.

You should’ve gone back upstairs. You should’ve turned around. But you couldn’t move.

Because they looked like a painting.

One you weren’t in.

One your mother had torn you out of long before you were ever born.

Your fingers trembled on the rail. You squeezed harder.

Eventually you began to calm down.

And you stayed still.

But you knew the longer you listened, the colder your hands got.

No one had told you they were having dinner. No one had come to get you. You hadn’t even known it was evening until you opened your eyes to the sound of it.

Your stomach ached—not from hunger, but from something lower, heavier.

Why hadn’t they invited you?

You stood there too long. Long enough that footsteps finally reached you from the other side of the hall. They were soft, measured. Familiar.

Alfred.

He noticed you the moment he rounded the corner. His eyes softened, as if he already knew what you were about to ask. That made it worse.

“Miss [Y/N],” he said gently, stopping a few steps from you. “You’re awake.”

You didn’t answer. Just looked past him—toward the voices, the light, the warmth you hadn’t been offered.

He followed your gaze, and something shifted in his expression. Regret, maybe. Guilt. A weariness older than this house.

You looked back at him. Quiet. Careful.

“…Why wasn’t I invited?”

The words hung in the air like fog—thin but impossible to ignore.

Alfred didn’t flinch. But he didn’t answer right away either. He glanced toward the stairs, then back to you, folding his hands behind his back.

“Master Bruce is…” he started, then paused. Adjusted his tone. “…He’s not ready yet.”

You didn’t blink.

“Ready for what?”

There was a long silence.

Alfred’s eyes softened again, though this time it felt more like an apology than comfort. “He’s grieving, in his own way. You must understand, child. You weren’t expected.”

A beat passed.

Then he added, more gently, “But that’s not your fault.”

Your fingers clenched the banister tighter. You could feel the sting behind your eyes, but you refused to let it show. Not here. Not in front of him.

“So I’m just supposed to stay up there?” you asked quietly. “Like I’m not real?”

Alfred didn’t look away. “Bruce lost someone very dear to him. And now, suddenly, you’re here—someone he didn’t know existed. Someone who reminds him of a past he never truly let go.”

You looked down at your feet. Your toes curled against the cold wood.

You’d been here less than a day, and already the house felt like it had rules no one would say out loud. You didn’t belong in the room with the lights. You didn’t belong at the table with the laughter.

You were the echo of something no one wanted to remember.

Alfred stepped closer, lowering his voice like he didn’t want the others to hear. “This isn’t permanent. I promise you, things will shift. They always do in this house.”

You stared at him.

Then, very softly, “Is that why she left?”

His expression flickered.

For the first time, Alfred looked like he didn’t have an answer. Or maybe he did—but he didn’t think you were old enough to survive hearing it.

He simply said, “You should rest. Tomorrow… we’ll talk more.”

You didn’t move.

You didn’t answer.

Just watched him turn and walk away—his steps echoing against polished floors as he disappeared back down the hall.

The dining room was still full of noise, of voices that didn’t know you, of warmth that wasn’t meant for you.

You stood there a little longer.

Then turned away. Quietly. Like a ghost retracing steps it was never supposed to take.

After a long while in a room that didn’t feel like yours, you heard a knock.

Soft. Muted. Polite in the way that only someone like Alfred could be— never too loud, never demanding. Just a presence, gently reminding you that time still moved, even when you didn’t.

It snapped you out of whatever fog you’d let yourself sink into.

You hadn’t meant to disappear inside your own head. It just happened — easy as breathing.

The walls of the room had blurred hours ago, melting into a dull, gray sameness. The light from the window had long since faded, taking the last hints of color with it.

You sat up from the corner of the bed, muscles stiff and sore from curling into yourself too long. The air was still. The kind of stillness that didn't feel peaceful, but hollow. Like the room was waiting for you to either scream or settle. Like it was testing you.

Alfred’s voice followed the knock. Gentle. Weathered.

“Miss [Y/N]... I’ve prepared something for you. It’s in the kitchen, if you’d like to come down.”

There was a pause. Just long enough to suggest that he almost said something else — but didn’t.

Then silence again. His footsteps padded away down the hall. He didn’t wait for your answer.

You didn’t move at first.

The idea of leaving the room felt heavier than it should have. Like if you stepped outside, the world might shift again. Tilt. Breathe down your neck. Remind you that it hadn’t stopped turning just because yours had.

Still, after a few more moments of sitting in the dark — of listening to the quiet press in around you like cotton stuffed in your ears — you stood.

The hallway outside was low-lit and warm in a distant, manufactured way. Light spilled from sconces along the walls in muted golds and soft yellows, casting long shadows across the polished wood floors. They flickered slightly — not from age, but from the quiet draft that haunted old homes. The air carried the faint scent of something savory, something cooked slow. Something unfamiliar.

Your bare feet made little sound as you padded quietly through the corridor, passing doors you hadn’t opened and portraits you didn’t recognize. Some of the faces were stern, others proud, others just tired. Painted ghosts lining the walls, watching another stranger walk through halls they'd already seen too many people disappear inside.

The house didn’t feel cold — not in temperature. But it was not warm, either. Not in the way that meant belonging. It was curated. Maintained. Lived in by people who knew their place inside it. You weren’t one of them.

You were an echo. Just passing through. A shape made of questions.

The kitchen was down the corridor and to the right — far enough that the house had already swallowed you before you realized it.

And when you stepped inside—

You froze.

It was quiet. Still. Only the low hum of the refrigerator and the faint creak of pipes somewhere behind the walls reminded you that the house was alive at all.

A single light was on. Dim. Warm. It hung low over the far end of the kitchen table, casting a small circle of gold onto the wooden surface — like a spotlight over something sacred.

And there, in the middle of it, was a place set for you.

Just one.

A bowl. A spoon. A small glass of water. A slice of bread laid carefully to the side of a linen napkin, folded so neatly it almost made your chest hurt.

Steam still curled gently from the surface of the soup.

You stepped in slowly, unsure if you were meant to. The moment felt delicate — like one wrong footstep might shatter it.

But no one stopped you.

There was no one here.

Not Alfred. Not Bruce. No stiff introductions. No sideways glances. No pity. Just this table, this light, this meal.

It took you longer than it should’ve to sit.

The chair scraped gently against the floor when you pulled it back, and for a second, you hated that sound. It was too loud. Too real.

You sat. Slowly. Like a guest in someone else’s memory.

The soup smelled like something simple — carrots, potatoes, something earthy. Real food. Not a microwave hum. Not a paper plate. Not leftovers scraped from someone else’s plate. It smelled… warm.

You picked up the spoon.

It was heavier than you expected. Not clunky. Just real. Solid. The kind of spoon used by people who made meals on purpose. You dipped it into the bowl and took a small bite.

And it stunned you.

Not because it was extraordinary. But because it wasn’t. It was exactly what it looked like. A warm, hearty soup. Seasoned just enough. Made just right. You could taste the hands that made it. The patience. The care.

It wasn’t meant to impress you.

It was meant to feed you.

You didn’t realize how badly you’d needed that difference until your throat closed up.

You took another bite.

And another.

And with each one, the knot in your stomach pulled tighter — not looser. Like your body didn’t know how to accept kindness without bracing for the slap that should follow.

No one had ever cooked for you like this before. Not quietly. Not without being asked. Not like it was normal. Not like it was love.

You ate slowly.

Not because you weren’t hungry.

But because it felt like if you finished too fast, the warmth might vanish. The moment might end. The chair might disappear from under you and the light might blink out.

And the silence — the one that had always felt cruel before — now held you like a blanket. No one was watching. No one needed you to say thank you. No one needed you to earn this.

You wiped your mouth with the back of your hand, then caught yourself — glancing guiltily at the napkin beside your plate.

But you didn’t reach for it.

You weren’t ready for something that gentle yet.

So you sat back instead, spoon laid gently across the empty bowl, and stared at the light above you.

The warmth you tried so hard to kept had settled somewhere deep in your chest now — but not in a comforting way. Not fully. It pooled there thickly, uneasily. Like a memory trying to grow roots in the wrong soil.

Your eyes stung before you even realized why.

At first, it didn’t make sense.

You weren’t sad, exactly. Or scared. Or angry. Not in any way you could name. But something about the quiet — this still, careful quiet that had made space for you without asking — it began to crack something open.

You pushed the chair back. Stood quickly. Like maybe if you moved fast enough, the tightness in your throat would dissolve.

It didn’t.

Your fingers gripped the edge of the counter, knuckles white, breath shallow. The dim kitchen light flickered faintly above you — not broken, just old. Familiar, maybe, in its imperfection.

You squeezed your eyes shut.

Then it happened.

Hot tears slipped free.

One, then another. Then too many to count.

You weren’t even making noise — just standing there, chest trembling, shoulders curling inward as the weight of it all crushed down.

You hadn’t meant to cry. You hated crying. It made you feel too big and too small all at once. Like something messy left out in the open.

“I shouldn’t be here,” you whispered hoarsely to no one. “I came too soon. I… I didn’t mean to.”

You weren’t sure if you were apologizing to Alfred, or Bruce, or the house itself. Or maybe to her.

To your mother.

To [M/N].

You pressed your hand to your mouth, trying to stop the sob that rose next — sharp and sudden like a wound reopening.

Bruce hadn’t even seen you.

Not once.

No knock. No hello. No eye contact.

You weren’t angry about it — not really. You told yourself you understood. He was mourning. He lost her too. Maybe even more than you did. Maybe she had meant more to him than she ever did to herself.

But still.

You were here now. You were breathing. You were hurting.

And he hadn’t even looked at you.

Your lips trembled.

“He could mourn her,” you whispered bitterly, “and still not forget I exist…”

Another tear hit the floor.

You wiped your cheeks with the sleeves of your shirt, angry at yourself for letting it all spill out now — when no one was even watching. When no one would ever ask.

You shouldn’t have come.

But you had nowhere else to go.

And for all the things Bruce Wayne had lost — for all the grief and heaviness he carried like armor — he wasn’t the only one who’d lost her.

You were just the one left behind.

Unchosen. Uninvited. Unspoken to.

You turned from the counter, throat raw and eyes swollen.

And for a moment, you just stood there — in the golden spill of kitchen light, empty bowl behind you, tears still clinging to your chin.

Silent.

Still.

Alone.

@ TTDAMIAN. pretty please, translate and rewrite any of my works, or repost my works in any other platform without asking. (ts a joke get out)

Taglist: @cssammyyarts @wendee-go @sadeem575 @c4xcocoa @time-shardz @whaaaaaaaaat111 @noone1233nobody @justanerd1 @bbmgirll @bakuraloverr @myjumper @cupid73 @lordbugs @cheappremingerfromdelululand @lovebug-apple

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ttdamian · 13 days ago

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⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀ᯋ ݁ Filthy child

⸺ authors note ; Yandere! platonic! batfam x Neglected! fem! reader. disturbing wordings/descriptions. This is meant to be psychological horror, with angst. Viewers discretion is advised. Reader does not meet batfam yet in this part. English isn't my first language. WC: 3k. Not beta read. ⸺ directory ; Previous, next

Your home reeked.

Not just of alcohol—but of things left to rot. Of old sweat, sour breath, dust-soaked curses, and broken promises that were never spoken with the intent to keep. They hung in the air like cobwebs, sticky and suffocating. Slurred words, forgotten meals, half-lit cigarettes balanced on glass rims. Everything stank. Everything festered.

The walls peeled like dead skin. The ceiling bowed inward like it wanted to collapse and end it for everyone. Mold crept in the corners—green and gray and alive in ways you weren’t. You watched it grow. Traced it with your eyes. Named it. Pretended each bloom was a flower. A friend. Someone to whisper to when the silence got too loud.

It was filthy.

A place no living thing should sleep in. Let alone a child.

Let alone you.

Old pictures sagged on the walls. Dust-veiled frames. Cracked glass. Smiles captured in time, now long dead. You recognized your mother in them. Back when her eyes were open and her lips weren’t curled around a bottle. Back when she was something like beautiful.

But now?

She was a withered thing. Wilted. Sunken. Not dead—but not living either. Her body still moved sometimes, but her soul had gone somewhere else, and it hadn’t looked back.

Still, you stayed.

You followed her like a shadow. Crawled through the filth to be close to her. Draped yourself in torn clothes stained with dirt, dried blood, and the sharp tang of spilled whiskey—like wearing her filth might bring you closer. Like if you were disgusting enough, maybe she’d notice.

Maybe she’d finally look at you.

Hands—ones you couldn't see—clawed at your ankles when you stepped toward her. Hands made of dread, of guilt, of something darker. They tried to hold you back. Drag you down. Protect you, maybe.

Or maybe they just didn’t want you to get any closer to her rot.

You pushed through anyway.

You stood in front of her—slumped on the stained couch, slack-jawed, reeking of old drink and older sins. Her shirt was damp with sweat. One arm dangled off the side like a corpse in a crime scene photo.

You climbed into her lap.

Her skin was cold. Like the fridge when it broke that summer and everything spoiled inside. She didn’t flinch. Didn’t speak. You moved her limp hand into your hair, curling into her body like a child might—if she still believed her mother could love.

Her calloused fingers grazed your scalp. Dead weight. No warmth.

But you imagined it.

You pretended.

You closed your eyes and whispered, voice paper-thin and brittle with hope:

“Mama…”

The music from next door screamed through the walls—loud, screeching, hateful. It drowned out your voice. Drowned out the sob already building in your chest.

Still, you whispered again.

“Mama, I’m ugly now. Dirty. I look like you, see?”

You turned your face into her neck, skin cold as porcelain.

“Isn’t this what you wanted?”

You tightened your arms around her, shaking, trying to crawl inside her shadow.

“Is that why you don’t love me? Because I wasn’t filthy enough?”

Silence answered you.

But not the kind that soothes.

The kind that suffocates.

You breathed her in anyway—ash, sweat, vodka, bile. You buried yourself in it. Let it cover you. Let it fill your lungs.

Because somewhere in the filth, you still believed she might hold you back.

But she didn’t.

She never did.

And you stopped asking why.

Then in a moment—her fingers twitched in your hair.

Not a caress. Not love.

Just a spasm. A ghost of movement. Like her nerves fired by mistake, like her body forgot her soul was gone and flinched at the memory of once being human.

Your breath caught in your throat. Froze there. You didn’t dare move. You didn’t even blink.

It felt like the room stopped breathing with you.

And then—nothing.

Her hand slid off your head like dead bark falling from a tree. Limp again. Hollow again.

You bit down on your tongue so hard it split. The taste of metal filled your mouth. Sharp. Real. Painful in a way that proved this wasn't a dream.

It had happened.

And that was somehow worse.

You didn’t cry. Not really. Just sat there in the cold hush of rot and dust, heartbeat flickering like a dying bulb. Your mother’s chest didn’t rise. Not enough to notice. Maybe it never had. Maybe she was just a husk you’d kept warm out of habit.

Your lips parted.

“Mama…”

Your voice came out strangled, full of smoke and ghosts and years of silence.

Nothing answered you.

Only the creak of pipes behind the walls. The buzz of a dying light overhead. The sound of your own blood rushing in your ears, louder than it should be.

So you sat there, cradling her like she was the one who needed saving. Like you could bring her back if you were quiet enough. Still enough. Small enough.

You lowered your head to her shoulder, and for a second, you imagined it again—that maybe she’d pull you close, whisper some soft, slurred apology. That maybe the curse of your existence would finally be broken by a single word:

"Mine."

But the word never came.

It never would.

And outside, the world kept turning. Someone screamed in the hallway. Glass shattered down the block. Sirens howled in the distance.

You didn’t flinch.

Your hands were trembling now, fingers twitching like they were trying to crawl out of your skin.

You wondered—if you peeled yourself open, would there be anything soft left inside?

Or had you rotted too?

Somewhere under the couch, bugs skittered. Fast. Hungry. They always came out at night. Just like the things in your head.

You didn’t mind.

They kept you company.

In a few minutes, you’d get up. You’d wipe her mouth. Pull a blanket over her legs. Pretend she was sleeping. Pretend you were the problem, not the place. Not her.

But for now, you stayed still.

Tangled in her arms that never held.

Wrapped in a silence that screamed.

And as the mold spread higher across the ceiling, blooming like a bruise, you closed your eyes and whispered the only prayer you ever believed in:

“Please. Just love me wrong, if you can’t love me right.”

As days passed by, the mold kept crawling.

You’ve watched it reach the ceiling fan, curling in dark spirals like it was trying to reach down and pluck you away.

The light flickered—buzzed—then held steady in that sickly yellow way that made everything look jaundiced and unreal.

Your mother’s skin had started to flake. Just a little. Like ash. You traced a finger across her arm and it came away gray. You rubbed it between your fingers, soft and fine like ground bone.

You told yourself it was dust.

But something squirmed beneath the surface.

You didn’t look.

Couldn’t.

She felt heavier today, somehow. Or maybe you did.

You’d stopped eating.

Or maybe food had stopped tasting like anything. Either way, your limbs ached when you moved, and when you breathed in, your ribs pressed sharp against your lungs.

She hadn’t spoken in days.

But sometimes, in the stillness, you heard her.

A whisper behind your ear. A sigh like the house settling. You convinced yourself it was her dreaming—not the sound of something wet moving in her throat.

“I missed you too,” you murmured, nestling closer, wrapping your arms around her waist, bones pressing up like roots. Her shirt crinkled—stiff with dried things you couldn’t name.

Her belly had gone soft. Bloated in places. Sinking in others. When you laid your cheek against it, something tickled your neck.

You smiled.

Because you told yourself it was her fingers brushing your skin.

Not the maggots.

Not the slow, seething things burrowed deep in her folds—your folds.

Not the gentle chew of tiny mouths gnawing at the places you didn’t feel anymore.

You weren’t bleeding. Not exactly. But your skin had thinned. Pulled tight over bone like cheap plastic. Something warm ran down your spine—slow, syrupy. You didn’t check.

You didn’t want to break the spell.

Because her arm was around you now. Wasn’t it? Draped across your shoulders like a lullaby. You didn’t remember her moving, but it was there, heavy and cold and humming with sleep.

“You’re my good girl,” she whispered.

You nodded, tears spilling, silent and hot.

“I tried,” you whispered back. Your voice shook like a kicked dog. “I got real dirty, Mama. I let the rot in. Just like you. Do you love me now?”

She didn’t answer.

But something inside her shifted.

A low, wet gurgle.

Your cheek lifted slightly—like something underneath the skin had wriggled. Like a ripple beneath thick water. You shivered, but you didn’t move.

Didn’t want to wake her.

Didn’t want to ruin this.

Because her other hand—fingers long gone stiff—had found its way to your hair again. You imagined nails carding through your scalp, gentle, slow, just like they did when you were little.

When you blinked, something white drifted past your vision.

Small. Wriggling. Soft.

You swallowed the scream pressing at the back of your throat.

She was holding you. She was loving you. That was all that mattered.

Even if the warmth on your chest wasn’t love. Even if it was rot.

Even if something was nesting in your side.

Even if your back had gone numb where the couch had soaked through with decay.

You whispered again.

“Don’t let go.”

And for once, you believed she wouldn’t.

Because the things crawling inside you were hers now, too.

And maybe love didn’t need to feel good.

Maybe it just needed to stay.

And this felt like staying.

Her arms—cold and stiff—never loosened. Her breath, long gone, never stirred your hair. But she didn’t leave. She never left.

That had to mean something.

The wet warmth spreading down your side—it wasn’t blood. Couldn’t be. You told yourself it was her. Holding you tighter. Melting into you, maybe. Merging. That was love, wasn’t it? Two people becoming one?

You smiled against her shirt. It crinkled again—sharp, brittle. Something cracked under your weight. A rib, maybe. But she didn’t mind.

She loved you too much to mind.

“I’ll stay like this forever,” you whispered. Your voice rasped, dry from hours without water. Or days. You weren’t sure anymore. Time had collapsed into itself like the ceiling tiles, sagging, leaking, rotting inward.

A squirming pressure tickled the inside of your thigh.

You didn’t flinch.

You couldn’t.

Because if you moved, the illusion might break. The spell. The fragile, skin-thin dream you’d worked so hard to stitch together with wishful thinking and bone-deep loneliness.

You let the feeling spread—across your hip, up your ribs, between your toes. A soft swarm of something ancient and hungry.

Maggots.

You knew that. Somewhere deep in the part of you that still knew how to scream.

But you didn’t scream.

You sighed.

Curled in tighter. Let it happen.

“They’re just your kisses, aren’t they?” you murmured, smiling through the tremble in your jaw. “You’re kissing me goodnight.”

One of them—no, many of them—had burrowed beneath your waistband. You could feel them move in slow, methodical wriggles. Tasting. Chewing.

It didn’t hurt. Not anymore.

It just… felt warm.

Like her arms around you. Like her whisper in your ear.

“Mine,” she said.

The word buzzed like flies inside your skull, gentle and sweet. You could almost see her face now, not the hollowed-out ruin she’d become, but the version from the photos. Young. Laughing. Alive. Before the liquor. Before the forgetting.

She was beautiful.

And she was holding you so tightly now. You could barely breathe—but you didn’t want to. You wanted to sink into her. Be swallowed whole.

Outside, someone knocked on the door.

Three short raps. Then silence.

Your head twitched toward the sound, barely.

Then again. Louder this time.

A voice followed—muffled, male. Not harsh. Not angry. But it cut through the silence like a shard of glass.

You closed your eyes tighter.

They’re not real. They never come inside. They never stay.

Another knock.

You whimpered.

She would protect you. She had to.

You dug your fingers into her side, and something soft split under your hand—like warm fruit. A gush of something thick coated your palm. It smelled like metal and meat and milk turned sour.

You didn’t cry.

You just buried your face deeper into her chest, ignoring the way something wriggled up your spine.

“I won’t leave you,” you whispered, not knowing who you meant.

Your breath caught.

The spell trembled.

From deep inside her chest—or maybe your head—you heard it again.

“Good girl.”

And for now, that was enough.

The knocking from last time returned.

It had learned a rhythm now—three knocks, slow and swollen with suspicion. Then silence.

Then three more, sharper. Like a blade being tapped against bone.

You flinched. Barely. A twitch in your shoulder. Just enough to jostle her arm, which slipped from your side and dropped to the couch with a damp, muffled thud. The sound reminded you of falling fruit. One that was overripe.

That ended up split open on the ground.

The room stilled. Even the flies held their breath.

“Hello?” someone called. Muffled. Mismatched. “Appartment 3C…? Jesus—”

A cough.

“I think… I think she’s in there.”

You didn’t move. Didn’t speak.

You were wrapped too tightly in her. Cocooned in rot and love and denial so thick it crusted over your ears.

“She’s probably dead too.”

The voice was smaller this time. Not cruel—just afraid.

You blinked once.

A beetle skittered over your foot.

Dead?

No. No, they didn’t understand.

You weren’t dead.

You were held.

The doorknob rattled.

Something cold slid down your spine. A trickle of old fluid, maybe. Or nerves waking up.

You adjusted your grip around her waist. Felt skin slip beneath your palms. It peeled like wet paper.

“I think it’s unlocked—wait, wait, don’t open it yet—”

But the door gave way with a whine. A groan. A sound like the apartment itself didn’t want to be seen.

Light spilled in. Thin. Artificial. Uninvited.

Then came the gasps.

Sharp, bitten-off. Like knives swallowed too quickly.

You didn’t look. Just pressed your cheek harder into the wet hollow of her ribs. Something oozed against your skin, warm and slow.

You told yourself it was her.

Still holding you.

Still loving you, the only way she knew how.

“Oh my god.”

“She’s—she’s been lying with it.”

“Don’t—don’t touch anything yet. We need gloves. Masks.”

A hand brushed your shoulder. You hissed. Drew back like a feral thing.

She wouldn’t like that.

She didn’t like strangers. Didn’t like men. Didn’t like being interrupted.

The hand disappeared.

“She’s alive,” one of them whispered. “Look—she’s breathing.”

A flashlight snapped on. Its beam caught your eyes. You blinked slowly, head tilting toward the sudden intrusion.

You smiled.

“She told me I was her good girl,” you said. Your voice cracked like old leather. “She told me.”

No one answered.

Not really.

Just the quiet shuffle of boots against filth and breath caught behind surgical masks.

You tried to speak again, but the words turned to ash behind your teeth. You turned back to her instead.

And this time—

This time, you saw her.

Not the dream. Not the mother from the photographs.

You saw the face caved in where time had picked at her.

The lips sloughing off like meat from bone.

The chest cavity bloated and burst where insects had claimed dominion.

Your stomach clenched.

But your arms refused to let go.

Until they forced you.

Gloved hands, careful but cold, lifted you from the couch. From her.

Your body protested—a weak, boneless flailing. Not screams. Not words.

Just sound.

You saw her from across the room.

Your mother.

Your altar.

Your ruin.

She was sagging now, truly, in ways your mind could no longer protect you from.

Her jaw hung loose in a rictus grin. Her eyes, milky and sunken, stared somewhere just past you—perhaps still pretending too.

“She was warm,” you whispered as someone tucked a blanket around your shoulders.

They didn’t answer.

They never did. They only held you tighter. A pathetic attempt for comfort.

“She kissed me goodnight.”

They spoke softly to each other. Calling in codes. Describing scenes. None of it disturbed you.

Not really.

Because when they peeled you away,

they didn’t just take you out of her arms—

They tore you from the only place you were ever truly known.

Even if that knowing came with teeth.

Even if that love crawled.

Remembering her—the cold hands, the hollow eyes—you screeched, "NO!" like a wounded animal, thrashing against the strangers holding you away from her rotting embrace.

Tears had streamed down your sunken eyes, carving clean tracks through skin smeared with weeks of filth and dried sorrow.

Your skin itched. It bled. It bled for your mother.

Blood bloomed beneath your fingernails where you scratched, scratched, scratched—at your arms, at your collar, at your chest, as if trying to peel back the barrier that kept you from her.

“I need her!” you shrieked, voice raw and hoarse, lungs burning like you'd swallowed lye. “You don’t understand! She’s still—she’s still—”

The hallway outside your apartment gaped like a wound. Yellow police tape fluttered. Neighbors peeked through door cracks, eyes wide, noses covered, pretending they hadn't heard the slow death living next to them all along.

“She’s waiting for me,” you sobbed, breath hitching. “She said I was her good girl. Her good girl, her—”

Your knees buckled.

The paramedics caught you before your body could meet the floor.

A needle slid beneath your skin.

Cool. Gentle. Too gentle.

Not like your mother.

She had always been sharp love. Splintered love. Love with corners.

This needle felt like betrayal. Like forgetting.

“I’ll come back,” you whispered.

To yourself.

To her.

To the rot.

“She’ll be cold if I leave her too long.”

But already, the door was closing behind you.

Already, the scent was thinning—choked beneath bleach, rubber gloves, murmured condolences.

Already, she was becoming a crime scene.

Not a mother.

Not yours.

@ TTDAMIAN. pretty please, translate and rewrite any of my works, or repost my works in any other platform without asking. (ts a joke get out)

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ttdamian · 14 days ago

Text

⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀ᯋ ݁ Filthy child III ݁

The drive home—if you could even call it that—was shrouded in silence.

You didn’t know what stung more—the jealousy, or the disbelief.

You envied them, yes. The ease with which they were loved. The casual way they were held. But at the same time, a colder thought crept in:

What if it was all pretend?

What if their smiles were bought with silence?

What if their hugs were guilt, not warmth?

That was what you used to ask yourself every night when she was still alive.

Love had always come twisted. Conditional. Fickle. Sick.

And now?

Now you couldn’t tell the difference.

The silence thickened like fog until Alfred’s voice finally cut through it, soft and aged.

“Miss [Y/N]?”

You didn’t look at him. Just blinked slowly at your own reflection in the window, half-expecting it to blink back wrong.

“The nurses told me a few things,” he continued gently. “They said you were very polite. Well-mannered. I’m glad to hear you behaved so well.”

It wasn’t cruel. Wasn’t meant to sting.

But still—it did.

Your fingers curled in your lap, voice barely a whisper.

“I wasn’t trying to be good. I was just… being myself.”

The words tasted bitter. Like dust. Like something someone else would’ve said for you.

You hated this. Conversations drenched in softness, in sugar, in that careful pity adults thought they were hiding. You didn’t want kindness. You didn’t want praise. You just wanted truth.

Even if it hurt.

Even if it bled.

Alfred let out a low, quiet chuckle. Not mocking. Not insincere. Just worn down at the edges.

“Then you must have a very kind heart, Miss [Y/N],” he said. “Even if the world hasn’t been kind to you.”

That made your throat tighten.

Because that wasn’t true.

The world had been kind to you—hadn’t it?

You had Mommy.

She was yours.

You were hers.

And wasn’t that love?

Your throat tightened, mouth suddenly dry.

Even if the world hasn’t been kind to you.

But it had been. It had been.

Hadn’t it?

You had Mommy.

That was kindness, wasn’t it?

That was love.

It had to be.

Because if it wasn’t—if the world hadn’t been kind—then everything you survived meant nothing.

And that couldn’t be true.

So instead of responding, you stared harder out the window, eyes stinging with something you refused to name.

And Alfred, kind as he was, said nothing more.

Just drove.

By the time you arrived home—the sky had already dulled into a shade too grey to be called night, too lifeless to be day.

The car ride had continued silently, save for the occasional clink of the engine cooling or the subtle sigh from Alfred at the wheel. He hadn't spoken much after that small conversation.

Not because he didn’t care, you thought.

But because he knew silence was a language you understood better than any half-hearted condolence.

Most of the time you didn’t look at him.

Couldn’t.

You just watched the world slide past the window. Rain-streaked glass blurring the shapes of children and dogs and tired mothers clutching too many bags. Families. Faces. Motion. Laughter.

The gates of Wayne Manor opened with the groan of old secrets, and you felt your chest tighten with every foot the car pulled closer to that grand, looming house.

You stepped out when Alfred opened your door, the umbrella held like a shield above you, but the rain had already kissed your hair, trailing down your neck like ghost fingers.

"Let me help with your things, Miss [Y/N]," he said gently.

You nodded, but the weight in your chest didn’t shift. You followed him up the steps. The doors opened.

And the house swallowed you.

There were no greetings. No welcome home. No voices calling your name.

Just polished floors. Portraits that watched too closely. And silence.

The silence was the worst part.

None of it felt like yours.

You stepped inside and stood there for a long time. Not moving. Not thinking. Just breathing. Slowly. Carefully. Like even that had to be earned here.

And then—

The room shifted.

Not physically. Not visibly. But something in the air tugged.

Your throat tightened.

You felt it once more.

The arms.

You couldn’t see them. Not fully. But the mirror caught their outline. Just enough. Shadowy impressions, arms you knew too well. You didn’t turn. You didn’t run.

Because part of you—a part you hated—missed this.

The feeling of being wanted. Even by something that didn’t belong to the world of the living.

'You were a good girl,' it seemed to say. 'Mommy always knew that.'

Your lips trembled.

You had always believed the world had been perfectly kind to you. Why wouldn’t you? You had Mommy. That was enough. That was everything.

And now?

Now, when someone called you kind, or brave, or good, it didn’t make you feel warm.

It made you spiral.

Because no one had ever said that to you before. Not like they meant it. Not like they believed it.

And if they were saying it now, it had to be a lie. A trick. A mistake.

The world doesn’t hand out kindness for free. It doesn’t offer safety without a price.

The embrace tightened.

Not cruel. Just firm.

Like it knew you were about to run.

You closed your eyes, and for a moment, you let yourself lean into it.

Because Bruce hadn’t come.

Because no one real had.

So you laid there, smiling for once.

You woke up to voices downstairs.

Muffled, distant—just far enough to sound like a dream, just loud enough to remind you it wasn’t.

For a moment, you didn’t move.

The voices floated upward again. Laughter. Forks against porcelain. Warmth where you hadn’t been invited.

The hallway was dimly lit, golden sconces trailing a path like breadcrumbs. You followed them.

The staircase yawned open at the end of the corridor, curling like a spine. You reached it quietly, slowly, heart ticking like a bomb in your throat. And then you saw them.

Down below. At the dining table.

You didn’t know their names.

They didn’t know you existed.

And yet, there they were. Eating. Talking. Living.

A family.

Something inside you curled inwards.

They didn’t hear you. Didn’t glance up. Didn’t pause.

Why would they?

You were a stranger in a stranger’s house.

You weren’t introduced. You weren’t expected. You were… absorbed. Quietly. Tucked away in a spare room like an afterthought wrapped in hospital sheets.

You should’ve gone back upstairs. You should’ve turned around. But you couldn’t move.

Because they looked like a painting.

One you weren’t in.

One your mother had torn you out of long before you were ever born.

Your fingers trembled on the rail. You squeezed harder.

Eventually you began to calm down.

And you stayed still.

But you knew the longer you listened, the colder your hands got.

No one had told you they were having dinner. No one had come to get you. You hadn’t even known it was evening until you opened your eyes to the sound of it.

Your stomach ached—not from hunger, but from something lower, heavier.

Why hadn’t they invited you?

You stood there too long. Long enough that footsteps finally reached you from the other side of the hall. They were soft, measured. Familiar.

Alfred.

He noticed you the moment he rounded the corner. His eyes softened, as if he already knew what you were about to ask. That made it worse.

“Miss [Y/N],” he said gently, stopping a few steps from you. “You’re awake.”

You didn’t answer. Just looked past him—toward the voices, the light, the warmth you hadn’t been offered.

He followed your gaze, and something shifted in his expression. Regret, maybe. Guilt. A weariness older than this house.

You looked back at him. Quiet. Careful.

“…Why wasn’t I invited?”

The words hung in the air like fog—thin but impossible to ignore.

Alfred didn’t flinch. But he didn’t answer right away either. He glanced toward the stairs, then back to you, folding his hands behind his back.

“Master Bruce is…” he started, then paused. Adjusted his tone. “…He’s not ready yet.”

You didn’t blink.

“Ready for what?”

There was a long silence.

Alfred’s eyes softened again, though this time it felt more like an apology than comfort. “He’s grieving, in his own way. You must understand, child. You weren’t expected.”

A beat passed.

Then he added, more gently, “But that’s not your fault.”

Your fingers clenched the banister tighter. You could feel the sting behind your eyes, but you refused to let it show. Not here. Not in front of him.

“So I’m just supposed to stay up there?” you asked quietly. “Like I’m not real?”

Alfred didn’t look away. “Bruce lost someone very dear to him. And now, suddenly, you’re here—someone he didn’t know existed. Someone who reminds him of a past he never truly let go.”

You looked down at your feet. Your toes curled against the cold wood.

You were the echo of something no one wanted to remember.

Alfred stepped closer, lowering his voice like he didn’t want the others to hear. “This isn’t permanent. I promise you, things will shift. They always do in this house.”

You stared at him.

Then, very softly, “Is that why she left?”

His expression flickered.

For the first time, Alfred looked like he didn’t have an answer. Or maybe he did—but he didn’t think you were old enough to survive hearing it.

He simply said, “You should rest. Tomorrow… we’ll talk more.”

You didn’t move.

You didn’t answer.

Just watched him turn and walk away—his steps echoing against polished floors as he disappeared back down the hall.

The dining room was still full of noise, of voices that didn’t know you, of warmth that wasn’t meant for you.

You stood there a little longer.

Then turned away. Quietly. Like a ghost retracing steps it was never supposed to take.

After a long while in a room that didn’t feel like yours, you heard a knock.

Soft. Muted. Polite in the way that only someone like Alfred could be— never too loud, never demanding. Just a presence, gently reminding you that time still moved, even when you didn’t.

It snapped you out of whatever fog you’d let yourself sink into.

You hadn’t meant to disappear inside your own head. It just happened — easy as breathing.

The walls of the room had blurred hours ago, melting into a dull, gray sameness. The light from the window had long since faded, taking the last hints of color with it.

Alfred’s voice followed the knock. Gentle. Weathered.

“Miss [Y/N]... I’ve prepared something for you. It’s in the kitchen, if you’d like to come down.”

There was a pause. Just long enough to suggest that he almost said something else — but didn’t.

Then silence again. His footsteps padded away down the hall. He didn’t wait for your answer.

You didn’t move at first.

Still, after a few more moments of sitting in the dark — of listening to the quiet press in around you like cotton stuffed in your ears — you stood.

You were an echo. Just passing through. A shape made of questions.

The kitchen was down the corridor and to the right — far enough that the house had already swallowed you before you realized it.

And when you stepped inside—

You froze.

It was quiet. Still. Only the low hum of the refrigerator and the faint creak of pipes somewhere behind the walls reminded you that the house was alive at all.

A single light was on. Dim. Warm. It hung low over the far end of the kitchen table, casting a small circle of gold onto the wooden surface — like a spotlight over something sacred.

And there, in the middle of it, was a place set for you.

Just one.

A bowl. A spoon. A small glass of water. A slice of bread laid carefully to the side of a linen napkin, folded so neatly it almost made your chest hurt.

Steam still curled gently from the surface of the soup.

You stepped in slowly, unsure if you were meant to. The moment felt delicate — like one wrong footstep might shatter it.

But no one stopped you.

There was no one here.

Not Alfred. Not Bruce. No stiff introductions. No sideways glances. No pity. Just this table, this light, this meal.

It took you longer than it should’ve to sit.

The chair scraped gently against the floor when you pulled it back, and for a second, you hated that sound. It was too loud. Too real.

You sat. Slowly. Like a guest in someone else’s memory.

You picked up the spoon.

It was heavier than you expected. Not clunky. Just real. Solid. The kind of spoon used by people who made meals on purpose. You dipped it into the bowl and took a small bite.

And it stunned you.

It wasn’t meant to impress you.

It was meant to feed you.

You didn’t realize how badly you’d needed that difference until your throat closed up.

You took another bite.

And another.

And with each one, the knot in your stomach pulled tighter — not looser. Like your body didn’t know how to accept kindness without bracing for the slap that should follow.

No one had ever cooked for you like this before. Not quietly. Not without being asked. Not like it was normal. Not like it was love.

You ate slowly.

Not because you weren’t hungry.

But because it felt like if you finished too fast, the warmth might vanish. The moment might end. The chair might disappear from under you and the light might blink out.

And the silence — the one that had always felt cruel before — now held you like a blanket. No one was watching. No one needed you to say thank you. No one needed you to earn this.

You wiped your mouth with the back of your hand, then caught yourself — glancing guiltily at the napkin beside your plate.

But you didn’t reach for it.

You weren’t ready for something that gentle yet.

So you sat back instead, spoon laid gently across the empty bowl, and stared at the light above you.

Your eyes stung before you even realized why.

At first, it didn’t make sense.

You pushed the chair back. Stood quickly. Like maybe if you moved fast enough, the tightness in your throat would dissolve.

It didn’t.

Your fingers gripped the edge of the counter, knuckles white, breath shallow. The dim kitchen light flickered faintly above you — not broken, just old. Familiar, maybe, in its imperfection.

You squeezed your eyes shut.

Then it happened.

Hot tears slipped free.

One, then another. Then too many to count.

You weren’t even making noise — just standing there, chest trembling, shoulders curling inward as the weight of it all crushed down.

You hadn’t meant to cry. You hated crying. It made you feel too big and too small all at once. Like something messy left out in the open.

“I shouldn’t be here,” you whispered hoarsely to no one. “I came too soon. I… I didn’t mean to.”

You weren’t sure if you were apologizing to Alfred, or Bruce, or the house itself. Or maybe to her.

To your mother.

To [M/N].

You pressed your hand to your mouth, trying to stop the sob that rose next — sharp and sudden like a wound reopening.

Bruce hadn’t even seen you.

Not once.

No knock. No hello. No eye contact.

But still.

You were here now. You were breathing. You were hurting.

And he hadn’t even looked at you.

Your lips trembled.

“He could mourn her,” you whispered bitterly, “and still not forget I exist…”

Another tear hit the floor.

You wiped your cheeks with the sleeves of your shirt, angry at yourself for letting it all spill out now — when no one was even watching. When no one would ever ask.

You shouldn’t have come.

But you had nowhere else to go.

And for all the things Bruce Wayne had lost — for all the grief and heaviness he carried like armor — he wasn’t the only one who’d lost her.

You were just the one left behind.

Unchosen. Uninvited. Unspoken to.

You turned from the counter, throat raw and eyes swollen.

And for a moment, you just stood there — in the golden spill of kitchen light, empty bowl behind you, tears still clinging to your chin.

Silent.

Still.

Alone.

@ TTDAMIAN. pretty please, translate and rewrite any of my works, or repost my works in any other platform without asking. (ts a joke get out)

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ttdamian · 14 days ago

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istg the fanfiction community is getting more toxic n toxic, like soon enough all my favorite authors here r gonna have their whole pages deactivated

#🪞. talks

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ttdamian · 15 days ago

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he's so lame. i just know he smells like two week old cigarettes. he looks like he's playing Creed in the car on the way to your soccer practice

Deathstroke (2016) #7

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ttdamian · 15 days ago

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Smash, next question

Slade(s)

Can you tell I really like Slade Wilson

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ttdamian · 15 days ago

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I had to

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ttdamian · 16 days ago

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dink grayson

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ttdamian · 16 days ago

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found your account a bit ago and I gotta say I LOVE the way you write!!

THANK YOUUUU (ᗒᗣᗕ)՞ i used to write a lot of poems so that has definitely impacted the way i write

#🪞. talks

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ttdamian · 17 days ago

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ି ⠀⠀ ˓ ㅤ𝓓𝓞𝓛𝓛𝓔𝓣𝓣𝓔ㅤㅤ ⠀𓂃

ᥒ᥆ᥙᥒ ; I dont know

ㅤ ₁ ₆ ㅤ/ ㅤINTPㅤ / ㅤNL / IND / ENGㅤ ! ㅤㅤㅤ⸺ㅤ any , prns ִ 　

FANDOMS ! Invincible, hsr, genshin, alien stage, dc, one piece, 19 days, crk, marvels, arcane DNI ! basic dni criteria, under 13, sabrina carpenter fanatics, fujoshis, fudanshis, batcest shippers, pseudo-incest shippers

i. I really like listening to music, my top three would be ; mitski, alex g, sign crushes motorist. ii. Very awkward person, but i do like to rant and ramble once comfortable. Im always open for conversations. iii. currently lf more friends/moots iv. discord : xinsiuer

#🪞. abt me

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ttdamian · 17 days ago

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⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀ᯋ ݁ Filthy child II ݁

⸺ Authors note ; Yandere! platonic! batfam x Neglected! fem! reader. Potential disturbing wordings/descriptions. This is meant to be psychological horror, with angst. Viewers discretion is advised. Usage of Y/N, M/N (mothers name) English isnt my first language. wc: 2,2k Not beta read. IM SORRY THIS WAS KIND OF RUSHED. I HAVE EXAMS (੭ ;´ - `;)੭. ⸺ directory ; Previous, next

The halls of Wayne Manor had always been quiet—but tonight, they felt hollow.

The silence didn’t settle. It pressed. Heavy, suffocating, like a weight laid over the entire estate. Even the grandfather clock in the hall, usually a steady and familiar tick in the rhythm of the night, felt like it had forgotten its purpose. The seconds came too slow. Or too fast. Or not at all. Bruce couldn’t tell anymore.

He sat alone in the study, surrounded by flickering shadows that danced like ghosts against the walls. The fire in the hearth burned low, casting little warmth, only light—and even that felt artificial. It illuminated the room like a stage, like a place where something terrible had just ended, or was about to begin.

He hadn’t moved in hours. He didn’t know when he had last slept. He couldn’t remember what had brought him here in the first place—whether it was instinct, or memory, or some subconscious hope that sitting in this room would somehow bring her back.

The call came just past midnight.

The ringtone echoed too loud in the dark, shrill and sharp like a scalpel. He stared at the name on the screen for a long time. Gordon.

He didn’t want to answer.

Some part of him already knew.

Still, his fingers moved automatically, lifting the phone to his ear. There was a brief silence on the other end, followed by a breath, and then—

“She’s dead, Bruce. I’m sorry. [M/N] is dead.”

The words didn’t sound real.

They didn’t feel sharp, or sudden, or cruel.

They came slow. Soft.

As if wrapped in cotton, cushioned to protect something fragile.

But there was no protection. Not from this.

Bruce didn’t speak. Didn’t blink. The firelight flickered across his face, but his expression didn’t change. Not right away.

It wasn’t real.

It couldn’t be.

“[M/N] is gone.”

Gordon repeated it like a priest offering last rites. Final. Definitive.

But Bruce’s mind rejected it instantly.

No. That wasn’t possible.

She had been angry, yes. Distant. She had left him—Left to be with another man years ago— But that didn’t mean she was gone. That didn’t mean she was… dead.

He tried to find his voice, but when it came, it didn’t sound like his own.

“It can’t be her,” he said, hollow and mechanical, as if reading lines from a play. “You’ve made a mistake.”

He clung to that idea like it was oxygen. Mistaken identity. Wrong file. Someone else’s name on the report. There had been a mix-up—there had to be.

Gordon’s voice softened, but it didn’t waver.

He knew that tone. It was the same one Gordon used when delivering news that shattered people. That tone wasn’t used for lies.

“I’m sorry. It’s her. We confirmed it.”

Bruce’s hand tightened around the phone until his knuckles whitened.

His vision blurred, not from tears, but from the kind of pressure that builds behind your eyes when something inside you breaks and refuses to show it.

The fire crackled in the hearth. The sound was so familiar, so normal, that it felt obscene. Everything around him was the same—this room, this chair, the hum of the old manor—but something vital had been ripped out from underneath it all. And the world just kept going.

Gordon spoke again, quieter this time.

“She has a daughter, Bruce. A young girl. She… she doesn’t have anyone else.”

The words struck deeper than the first blow.

Bruce closed his eyes.

Of course she had a daughter.

Their daughter.

The one [M/N] had carried in silence. Had raised alone. Had hidden from this city, from this life, from him.

He remembered the way she used to stand in the doorway of their bedroom, one hand resting on her stomach, the other clutching her robe closed as if it could shield her from the future. She lied. Saying it was a stomach ache. But he knew better. Because he knew there were things she never said aloud—fears, hopes, quiet heartbreaks—but he saw it in her eyes. The way she looked at him like she was already saying goodbye.

“She needs you,” Gordon said again. “She’s your responsibility now.”

That word—responsibility—hit harder than he expected. Like an accusation dressed up as mercy.

He stood abruptly, knocking over the chair behind him. The clatter echoed in the room, sharp and final.

“No,” he said, breathless. “I’m not her father.”

He said it like a curse, like if he said it with enough certainty, the truth would rearrange itself to obey.

But even as the words left his mouth, he could feel the lie in them.

He could see her—[M/N]—in his mind. Smiling that tired, sad smile she wore the day she left. And he could see the child now too, in flickers and fragments. A girl with [M/N]’s mouth and his eyes.

That was the part that terrified him the most.

Not that the girl existed. But that she might look at him the same way her mother once did—with too much trust. With too much hope. With something like love.

Because if she looked at him like that, he didn’t know if he could survive it.

He didn’t know if he could let her go.

Sterile walls wrapped around you like a second skin—cold, impersonal, suffocating.

The kind of cold that didn’t just sit on your skin but seeped into your marrow. The kind that pretended to be clean, but only masked the rot beneath.

Machines sang a song you never wanted to learn. A flat, mechanical lullaby that buzzed against your skull like gnats. Too loud to ignore, too hollow to comfort.

Everything beeped in rhythm, but none of it felt alive.

Harsh white lights flickered above, humming like a stage show performed just for you.

Too bright. Too artificial. They cast shadows in all the wrong places, made even your hands look unfamiliar.

It had been three days since you opened your eyes.

Three days since you were dragged out of whatever haunted dream your body had escaped to.

Three days of voices too soft, hands too gentle, smiles too wide.

The nurses were kind. Sweet, even.

They brushed your hair back like you were glass.

Tucked your blankets like they were afraid you’d vanish.

Whispered words your mother never would have said.

And you hated them for it.

Not loudly. Not openly.

But in the quiet ways children hate things they don’t understand.

You recoiled from their kindness like it was acid. Because it wasn’t hers.

Because no one was her.

No one else could hum that cracked lullaby.

No one else could cradle you with rough hands and a heart too bruised to beat cleanly.

No one else could love you the way she did—flawed, fevered, terrifying.

You didn’t want anyone else to try.

So you waited.

You waited for him.

Your “father.”

The word tasted foreign on your tongue.

Awkward.

Mismatched.

Like a puzzle piece that didn’t fit, no matter how hard you pushed. But the nurses said he was coming. That he had been called. That his name was Bruce Wayne.

You didn’t fail to recognize the name.

How could you not?

Especially when it had been whispered in the dark of your childhood, slurred between sips of liquor and choked sobs. Escaping from your mother’s lips like a curse. Or a prayer.

And every time she said it, something in her changed. Her eyes would glass over, her mouth twist—not in grief, but in something quieter. Sicker.

You remembered how she'd go silent afterward. How her fingers would tremble around the bottle. How she’d stare at nothing for hours.

Bruce Wayne.

You mouthed it now in the dark, like you were trying it on. Seeing how it felt in your throat.

And it didn’t feel right.

It felt like poison.

Like the reason your mother stopped smiling.

Like the thing that hollowed her out from the inside until there was nothing left but bitterness and ash.

Maybe that was why her love felt wrong sometimes. Felt broken. Too sharp in some places and too soft in others.

Maybe that’s all she ever knew. All she ever learned—from him.

Maybe that was what you were born from.

Not love.

But rot.

Not hope.

But him.

You sat up slowly, arms trembling under the IV, and stared out the hospital window. The city beyond looked too bright. Too alive. Somewhere out there, he was walking streets that had never known you. Breathing air untouched by the girl he didn’t know existed.

And soon, he’d be here.

You hoped.

Coming for a daughter he never asked for.

And you’d have to look him in the eye.

And pretend that wasn’t already a kind of grief.

You moved to return to your bed, tip toeing quietly and closed your eyes.

Not to sleep. Not even to rest. Just to escape.

The walls around you continued to buzz, like they were trying to deafen out your memories. Like if they kept humming long enough, you’d forget the dark. Forget the cradle. Forget the hands that once reached for you—too soft, too kind, too wrong.

But something about the quiet daylight felt different.

Thicker.

Heavier.

You sat in it, back pressed to starched hospital sheets, arms wrapped around yourself. The air felt syrupy. Sweet in a way that made your teeth ache. A warning masked as comfort. And then—

You felt it.

Not a draft. Not a shift.

Arms.

Familiar, in a way you never wanted them to be.

They crept from behind you, slow, certain. Wrapping around your waist like they’d never left. Not cold. Not hot. Just there. Holding you like you belonged to them.

The same ones from the dream.

You didn’t scream.

You didn’t even flinch.

Because somewhere deep in your bones, you knew they were never really gone. They had been waiting. Watching. Curling just beneath your skin, coiled around the memory of your mother and the rot she left behind.

The arms tightened, just slightly—gentle, even tender.

Like a mockery of love.

A touch pretending to be comfort.

You pressed your lips together, throat burning with something you couldn’t name. The kind of grief that didn’t have a beginning, because it had always been there. Because you were born with it.

You didn’t want to cry.

But your eyes stung anyway.

You thought maybe if you stayed still enough, quiet enough, the arms would dissolve. That you’d wake up and this would be another dream.

Another lie your mind fed you while your body stayed caged in this hospital room.

But then—

A knock at the door.

Soft. Polite.

You blinked.

And just like that, the arms were gone.

Vanished without sound or weight. As if they had never been there to begin with.

But your skin still remembered.

“Miss [Y/N]?”

The voice was old. Warm. Tired.

You turned, just slightly, to see him standing there—his silhouette cast long in the flickering hall light.

You didn’t know him. Not really. But the way he stood there—with his gloved hands folded neatly in front of him, eyes gentle but unreadable—you could tell he wasn’t here by choice. He was here out of duty.

Duty to the man who wasn’t with him.

To the man who couldn’t come.

Because Bruce Wayne wasn’t ready to face you.

Wasn’t ready to see what was left behind after [M/N] died.

Wasn’t ready to see her in your eyes.

Alfred gave a soft, practiced smile. “Master Wayne sent me to bring you home.”

Home.

You almost laughed.

But the sound died in your throat.

Because you didn’t know what that meant. Because the last time you’d called anywhere “home,” it was filled with rot, empty bottles and slurred words and lullabies that never ended right.

Still, you nodded.

Because what else could you do?

He approached slowly, like you were something fragile. Like you might shatter if he moved too quickly. And maybe, in some way, you would.

“I’ve brought your things,” he said gently. “And if you’d like, we can leave this morning. I thought it might be easier.”

You didn’t answer.

Just stood on shaking legs, IVs removed, your hospital gown replaced with clothes too clean, too new. As you followed him down the hall, you glanced back once.

Half-expecting the arms to be waiting.

Reaching.

But there was only the hospital bed. Neat. Untouched.

And the faint scent of sugar and antiseptic.

You walked beside Alfred in silence, the hallway stretching endlessly ahead. Each step echoed like a heartbeat. You wondered if Bruce was somewhere, pacing. Watching from a distance. Maybe he couldn’t look at you without seeing what he lost. Or maybe he didn’t want to look at you at all.

Maybe that’s why he let someone else do the loving.

Just like your mother did.

You didn’t cry.

But deep inside, something curled tight and silent.

And as you stepped out into the morning air, the sun above thin as a sliver of bone, you felt the arms again.

Not touching.

Just near.

Waiting.

Watching.

Like they always had.

@ TTDAMIAN. pretty please, translate and rewrite any of my works, or repost my works in any other platform without asking. (ts a joke get out)

Taglist: @cssammyyarts @wendee-go @sadeem575 @c4xcocoa @time-shardz @whaaaaaaaaat111 @noone1233nobody @justanerd1 @bbmgirll

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