Why Doesn't Anyone See Me?

Why doesn't anyone see me?

Warnings before you start There are disturbing elements, self-harm, eating disorders, and implicit mentions of harassment.

The grand hallways of Wayne Manor looked magnificent from the outside, but to you, they were nothing more than cold stone. You were sixteen, and in this house, in this family, you had always been just a shadow. The man you called your father — Bruce Wayne — had left you to drown in his darkness. The marks on your body, on your arms, back, legs... each was a silent scream. Each one reminded you how a world you once trusted had torn you apart. And the worst part? The one who did this wasn’t a stranger. It was someone who had existed in the background of your life, like a ghost.

You tried to speak up once. That night, you opened the door to his study. Bruce sat at his desk, surrounded by files and glowing monitors. His Batman suit hung in the corner — as if that costume was his real face.

“Dad,” you said, your voice trembling. “I need to talk.”

He looked up, his blue eyes tired, distant. “What is it?” he asked, but there was no real curiosity in his tone.

You took a deep breath, trying to ease the tightness in your chest. “I... Something happened. A while ago. And it still…” The words got stuck in your throat. You didn’t want to show him the scars — but maybe, just maybe, he would understand. Maybe he’d see you.

But Bruce lowered his head back to his files. “Now’s not the time,” he said, voice flat. “A lot’s going on in the city. We’ll talk later.”

Later. Always later.

You closed the door behind you, and tears began to slide down your cheeks. Batman could save Gotham — but he didn’t even try to save you.

The next day, you turned to Jason. The rebel of the family, a soul forged in his own pain. Maybe he’d understand.

You found him in the garage, working on his motorcycle.

“Jason,” you said, stepping closer. “I need to ask you something.”

He looked at you, wiping his hands with a grease-stained rag. “What do you want, princess?” he said with a mocking lilt.

You swallowed hard, gathering your courage. “Something happened to me. Something bad. And no one’s listening. I have scars—here,” you said, pulling up your sleeve slightly to show a faded mark.

Jason fell silent for a moment — then laughed.

“Everyone’s got issues, little lady. Go outside, see what I’ve seen. Then come back and cry.”

His words hit like a blade.

“But this is serious!” you cried, your voice cracking.

“Serious?” he snapped, standing and getting close. “You mean your little princess trauma? Grow up.”

Under his sneer, you felt yourself shrink. He didn’t see you either. He left you, too.

You decided to try Damian. Despite his young age, he had a sharp mind. Maybe he had noticed something.

You found him in the training room, practicing with a sword.

“Damian,” you said from the doorway. “Do you have a minute?”

He turned to you, green eyes cold and calculating.

“What do you want?” he asked, stabbing the blade into the floor.

“I… Something happened to me. And it’s hard to carry,” you said, choosing your words carefully.

He frowned, then smirked. “You’re weak,” he said, flatly.

“What?” was all you could manage.

“If you can’t carry it, then you don’t belong in this family. I know pain — but all you do is complain.”

His words were poison. His scorn felt worse than Jason’s mockery. Because Damian saw you as a burden. And in that moment, you felt the final thread tying you to this family snap.

You found Tim in the library, headphones in, eyes on his laptop.

“Tim,” you said, sitting beside him.

He pulled out one earbud. “Yeah?” he replied, eyes still on the screen.

“I need to ask you something. It’s important.”

“One sec, let me finish this line of code,” he mumbled.

Minutes passed. You sat there, waiting.

Eventually, he said, “Just tell me later,” and put his headphones back in.

He hadn’t even heard you.

Dick seemed different — or so you thought.

You found him in the lounge, laughing, mid-conversation.

“Dick, can we talk?” you asked, voice faint.

He turned to you with his bright smile. “Of course, little one! What’s up?”

But before you could say more than “I…” his phone rang.

“Hold that thought — I gotta take this,” he said, walking away.

He never came back.

That night, in your room, you stood before the mirror. You looked at the scars — each one a story no one wanted to hear. Tears wouldn’t stop. This house, this family, was a prison. Bruce didn’t see you. Jason mocked you. Damian belittled you. Tim and Dick didn’t even notice you were there. You might have been Batman’s daughter, but in this place, you were nothing.

You walked to the window and looked out at the lights of Gotham. Maybe it was time to leave. Maybe you couldn’t escape your family, but you could escape this silence. You packed a small bag — a hoodie, some money, a long-sleeve shirt to cover the marks. At the door, you paused. Maybe someone would notice. Maybe someone would stop you.

But the hallway was quiet. No one came.

As you stepped into the street, the cold air slapped your face. Were you free? Or just stepping into a different kind of shadow? You didn’t know. But at least now… now, you were trying to find your own voice.

Gotham’s streets swallowed you whole. You had escaped Wayne Manor, but the darkness inside you came along for the ride. What you thought was freedom was just another kind of prison — this time, one built within your own mind. With your bag slung over your shoulder, you walked under the flickering streetlights. The cold concrete beneath your feet was a warning: No one here is coming to save you. But you weren’t expecting to be saved anyway. Your family had never seen you; maybe you really were invisible.

Days passed. You holed up in a cheap motel, using the credit card your father once gave you. You knew the money would run out — but you didn’t care. Under the dim lights of the room, you stared into the mirror. The scars were still there — on your arms, your back, your legs. Each one whispered that you were something filthy, something ruined. You clenched your fists, nails digging into your palms.

“Why me?” you murmured.

No answer.

The reflection staring back filled you with disgust. This body, these scars… it was all your fault, wasn’t it? If you had been stronger, if you had spoken louder, maybe your family would have heard you. But you hadn’t. You were weak. Damian was right.

---________________________________________---

Days blurred into weeks. Gotham’s gray sky felt like a mirror to your soul. In the motel’s small bathroom, you sat with a cheap razor in your hand. You stared at your scars… and added new ones. Thin lines of blood appeared — but they didn’t bring relief. Pain couldn’t fill the emptiness. Every cut echoed the rejection you’d endured. Bruce’s cold “Not now.” Jason’s mocking laugh. Damian’s “You’re weak.” Tim and Dick’s silence. It all etched itself into your skin.

Every time you looked in the mirror, the hate grew.

“This is my fault,” you whispered.

Your eyes were swollen. Hair tangled. You’d stopped eating — your stomach turned at the thought of food. Sleep brought nightmares. Again and again, you relived the trauma — shadows, hands, the silence of your unheard screams.

When you woke, clutching your pillow, all you felt was emptiness.

Your family hadn’t called. Maybe they didn’t notice. Maybe they didn’t care.

Batman saved Gotham.

But not his own daughter.

Depression wrapped itself around you like a blanket — cold and heavy. Hurting yourself became a routine. Your arms were covered in cuts, but even that wasn’t enough.

“I’m worthless,” you said one night, your voice breaking.

“No one wants me. Not even me.”

You punched the mirror. Glass cracked. Your knuckles bled.

Still, you felt nothing.

Then, one day, everything stopped.

You lay on the stained motel bed, razor in hand again. Sirens wailed outside, but your world was quiet. You looked at your scars one last time.

“It’s over,” you said.

“I can’t do this anymore.”

Tears slid down your cheeks as you thought of your family — Bruce buried in files, Jason fixing his bike, Damian swinging a sword, Tim staring into his screen, Dick laughing…

None of them had seen you.

None of them had heard you.

This time, you used the blade one last time.

There would be no coming back.

The blood soaked the sheets — slow and silent.

You stared at the ceiling. Through the window, Gotham’s gray sky watched over you.

“I’m sorry,” you whispered, though you weren’t sure to whom.

Your breathing slowed.

Darkness closed in.

The sirens faded.

Bruce Wayne’s daughter vanished into the shadows.

---________________________________________---

The next day, the motel worker knocked, but there was no answer.

They opened the door — and found you.

The police report was brief:

“Female, aged …, suicide.”

When the call reached Wayne Manor, Bruce finally put his files down.

Jason went quiet.

Damian dropped his sword.

Tim turned off his screen.

Dick’s smile faded.

But it was too late.

They hadn’t seen you.

They hadn’t heard you.

And now… they never would.

---________________________________________---

when the sun came up

Summary: “So,” Jackie trails off sheepishly. “You, uh– You know how vampire’s need blood…?” A/N: the "jackie's a vampire 😍" fic in question

“What are you being so weird about, Jackie?” You ask finally, getting irritated by her constant glances. She looks surprised, almost as if she truly believed you wouldn’t notice. With a roll of your eyes, you lean back on the chair, setting your phone down on her desk as you give her your full attention. Jackie starts fiddling anxiously with her fingers as she glances around the room in a pathetic attempt to feign innocence.

Acting was never her strong suit, expressions always unconvincing and exaggerated; More reminiscent of a cartoon character than a real person. Despite her failure, there’s still something undeniably charming underneath it all even as Jackie’s awkward energy ends her ruse before it can even begin. While she hasn’t succeeded in fooling you she’s definitely succeeded in getting your attention.

Watching Jackie attempting to shake your attention is bizarre, to say the least. Never once have you seen her shy away from soaking up every bit of approval and attention you give her. Yet she seems almost eager for you to move on to something else which makes you grow more concerned by the second. You’re filled with a strange mixture of curiosity and unease, both vying for your attention.

“Jackie?” You prompt again, smiling invitingly at her as she finally meets your eyes.

She clears her throat awkwardly, fingers resting against her legs as she starts rolling the edge of her shorts back and forth between her fingers. “So,” Jackie trails off sheepishly. “You, uh– You know how vampires need blood…?”

You nod your head, lips twitching as you suppress your smile. You know exactly where this is heading. “Yeah.”

“Could I… Could I have some?” Jackie asks, quickly flushing with embarrassment. She watches you closely, hope evident on her face.

“Like… from me?” You ask slowly. Unlike Jackie, you were good at feigning innocence.

“Yeah. Just like a little bit,” She pleads, gesturing with her hands as she holds her thumb and index finger just barely apart. “You won't even know it was gone, promise.”

She's utterly fixated on you, staring at your neck like it holds the secrets to the universe. You hum in consideration, enjoying the way Jackie squirms in desperation as you pretend to think it over. After a moment you hold your arm out invitingly toward her and she's across the room and in your lap before you can blink, literally.

You forget just how strong and fast she's become, and sometimes you think she does too. The chair rocks dangerously on its back two legs as Jackie slides in your lap. You close your eyes in wait for the inevitable crash but Jackie's reflexes are just fast enough to plant her foot firmly, sending you crashing back forward as the chair settles. It rocks ominously for a second before stilling, Jackie quickly taking the chance to scoot up your legs.

Your hands rest loosely on her hips as you try to make sense of what just happened, just a hair too fast for your mind to fully make sense of. You can feel the thrum of your heartbeat in your fingertips as your heart races through your chest. Jackie makes an apologetic noise as she slips her arms between your back and the chair, pulling herself snugly against you.

You squeeze her hips in a gentle sign of affection as you slip your hands up the back of her shirt, wrapping your arms tightly around her bare back. If it has the side effect of pulling her shirt up, well that's no one's business but your own. You hear a snort of laughter that you'll know she'll deny later– and threaten to tell people about the incident if you don't keep it to yourself– which makes you grin as you bury your head into her neck. You breathe in the familiar scent of her perfume, slowly relaxing back against the chair as it calms your racing heart.

You bite lightly at her neck, barely grazing the skin before you hear a petulant noise coming from Jackie. “That's my job,” She complains, slapping at your shoulder as she leans back and pulls her neck out of reach.

“Oh? Is it?” You tease, a smile splitting your face as you watch her.

She nods eagerly, just a hint of her fangs peeking out of her smile. Your eyes narrow at the sight, leaning forward to get a closer look. She practically preens as she widens her smile, clearly appreciating your admiration of her fangs.

You reach up to cup her jaw and Jackie immediately nuzzles her face into your palm as she closes her eyes with a contented noise. You roll your eyes fondly as you end up supporting the weight of her head, adjusting your grip to press your thumb against her lips.

Jackie just barely peeks her eyes open as she presses a kiss against your thumb, the beginning of a question forming on her face. You press your thumb against one of her sharp fangs, sighing quietly as it pierces the skin and draws a drop of blood. You watch her expression closely as her tongue flicks out to taste the blood, teasing at the edge of the cut as she lazily draws the remaining drops in her mouth.

You shudder involuntarily as she swallows, the intimacy of the action catching you off guard. You’re not sure that you’ll ever get used to the sight of her drinking your blood. "Tastes good," Jackie finally says, licking her lips as she pulls away.

Jackie’s gaze flits down to your neck, her eyes filled with longing. She leans forward and inhales deeply as she buries her face into the crook of your neck. Her hand cups the other side as she tilts your head, her warm breath caressing your ear. “Please?” She whispers, voice a soft plea tinged with her desperation.

Jackie's lips just barely graze your skin, sending shivers down your spine as you feel the gentle pressure from the tips of her fangs. “Go ahead, Jackie,” You say, hissing in surprise as she doesn’t hesitate to sink her teeth in. She presses herself impossibly closer to you with a muffled moan, her fingers clenched tightly at your shirt as she greedily sucks at the wound. You thread your fingers loosely through her hair, cradling her head as you relax limply against the chair.

“Fuck,” You murmur slowly, tilting your head back enticingly as Jackie makes use of the available space. With each drop of blood she takes from you a heady mix of exhilaration and vulnerability washes over you, both intoxicating and unnerving at the same time. It’s a strange intimacy, a connection borne in the exchange of life; the knowledge that your blood is what sustains her, what gives her the strength she wields over you.

It should make you feel weak to be entirely at her mercy, but you’ve never felt stronger than you do when Jackie drinks from you. You revel in her desire for you, eagerly embracing the weight of her unending hunger.

You'd majorly psyched yourself out the first time she'd asked this of you, thoughts of her teeth digging into your flesh had left you such a nervous wreck that your hands were visibly shaking as she descended on you. You were pleasantly surprised at just how good it felt once you got past the initial bite. There was barely a difference from Jackie's more possessive moments, intent to mark you up at the slightest sign of interest from someone else. You were sure that it could hurt if she wanted it to, but your girlfriend was steadfastly gentle in everything she did. With her arms wrapped around you, even the act of feeding became an intimate exchange, another bond that only the two of you would ever share.

You take a shaky breath as Jackie drinks her fill, trying your best to ignore her breathy noises of enjoyment in favor of keeping your eyes open. You get more lightheaded the longer she's attached herself to you, her lack of the need for air never more apparent than in these moments. She pulls away as you begin to slump back in the chair, soothing the bite with her tongue as she savors every last drop. You blink wearily up at her, faced with the impossible task of keeping your eyes open.

Jackie stands up happily, watching herself in the mirror over your shoulder as she licks at her thumb and rubs the stray blood off her face. A quiet laugh escapes your lip, more of an exhale than a sound. “Messy,” You murmur with a weak smile on your face.

“Shut up,” Jackie defends, pulling on your hand as she tries to coax you to your feet. You let her pull you up, but quickly slump into her arms as your shaky legs betray you. Jackie grunts as she catches you, grunting dramatically in exertion even as she effortlessly guides you back to her bed.

She climbs up excitedly to straddle your lap as you recline back against the pillows. You make a surprised noise as she leans down and kisses you, pulling back after a moment when she realizes you aren’t reciprocating. “Y/N,” Jackie whines, pouting down at you.

You lazily shake your head, not bothering to open your eyes. “Too much,” You accuse weakly.

“Did not,” Jackie protests. “You’re fine. Look!” She lifts your hand pointedly, staring in dismay as it falls limply back to the bed.

“Oh,” She murmurs sheepishly. “That's… That’s my bad, really.”

You make a vaguely amused noise in response that turns into a contented sigh as Jackie settles down on top of you. She buries her head in your neck, placing a tender kiss against the bite mark she’s left as she maneuvers your arms around to wrap around her.

161 notes View Post

mitsukii-07

1 month ago

I don't know if you write for Jackie but she's so pookie so Imma send it

Imagine like, loser!Jackie having the biggest crush on the reader and just being a mess trying to be confident around them to impress them, but just failing at that (reader is obviously endeared with this type of behaviour from Jackie)

loser behavior - Jackie Taylor

—

“She’s staring at you again”, your friend spoke to you as your eyes trailed to her.. Jackie Taylor The yellowjackets captian.. she has been staring at you for the whole hour she was to distracted by you. .. you knew what she was doing, ''you should try and talk to her'', shaking your head before you tried to speak the bell rang for the next class.your math class wasnt so bad but jackie was sitting next to you. ''hey did you know im the captain of the yellowjackets'' she tried to impress you her eyes looking into your, laughing at her and smiled at her, ''i know Jackie'' smiling at the captain, she was the biggest loser and you loved it.

Jackie Taylor was once again looking at you she watched everything you did write,laugh,walk… man you were a real life Disney character — she was in a trance.. your eyes trailed to Jackie who was staring at you again, “hm?” Humming at her Jackie blushed at you and played with her hands nervously, it wasn’t the first time she was near you - quiet for a moment she opened her mouth trying to find the right words to say to you. ''your boobs are nice'' fuck did she just say that to you.. ''huh?'' tilting your head at jackie.. she was a nervous wreck right now ''i mean do you wanna go hang out after school its kinda like a datebutiwouldntmindijustwantedtoaskyou'' nodding at her laughing ''sure i would love to jackie see ya after school'' you had left class leaving jackie alone in her thoughts who was cheering in victory like the gay loser she is

103 notes View Post

mitsukii-07

1 week ago

The price of justice

Batfam x neglected reader

What happens to a child that suffers neglect?

Why does a child have to suffer from their parents actions?

Why do they only regret it at the end?

"I don't want to live anymore..."

The dream was a tapestry of vibrant colors and impossible landscapes. I flew through fields of molten gold, danced with ethereal beings in a sky painted with swirling nebulae. It was a symphony of joy, a world where anything was possible.

Then, the colors dimmed, the landscape shifted. I found myself in a stark, grey room, the air thick with a palpable sense of sorrow. In the center, a child sat huddled on the floor, their tiny frame shaking with silent sobs. Their face, streaked with tears, was a picture of desolate despair. I tried to reach out, to comfort them, but my hand passed through their form, my voice swallowed by an impenetrable silence.

The child’s sobs morphed into a guttural wail, a sound that ripped through the dream's delicate fabric. It was a cry of utter loneliness, a desperate plea for solace. I felt a pang of sorrow, an overwhelming sense of helplessness. This child's despair felt so real, so palpable, it bled into the very core of my being.

Then, the child looked up. Their eyes, swollen with tears, met mine, and in that instant, I knew. The child was me. Not the me of now, but a younger version, a reflection of a past I had long suppressed. I recognized the worn, faded teddy bear clutched in their small hands, the same one I had carried everywhere as a child.

The realization hit me like a physical blow. I was the child, weeping in the corner, ignored, forgotten. The neglect I had experienced, the loneliness that had gnawed at my soul, it was all there, echoing in the child's despair. It wasn't a dream of another child; it was a reflection of my own forgotten pain.

The dream dissolved. I woke with a jolt, my heart pounding, the image of my younger self etched on my mind. The room was dim, the silence oppressive. I felt a cold shiver crawl down my spine, a chilling awareness that the child's pain wasn't just a dream. It was a reminder of a reality I had buried deep within myself, a painful truth I had tried to forget.

The dream, a haunting echo of my past, had cracked open a dam of long-suppressed memories. They flooded back, a torrent of painful moments, each one a sharp shard of neglect cutting through my heart.

Fifteen years of my life replayed in my mind, a painful montage of missed birthdays, forgotten promises, and empty apologies. I saw myself, a small, hopeful child, yearning for attention, for a simple hug, a kind word. But my pleas were met with indifference, my needs dismissed, my existence overlooked.

I remembered the holidays spent alone, the birthday cake left untouched, the Christmas morning devoid of presents. I remembered the silence, the empty spaces where laughter should have been, the hollowness where love should have resided.

Each memory was a fresh wound, a reminder of the small, fragile child I once was, a child who had craved the warmth of a loving embrace, the comfort of a shared laugh, the simple reassurance that I mattered. I had been a shadow, an unseen presence in a house that felt more like a prison.

Pity washed over me, a wave of sorrow so profound it choked me. I pitied the child I had been, the one who had spent years yearning for acceptance, for love, for the basic human connection that every child deserves.

It was a crippling realization. Fifteen years of neglect, fifteen years of feeling invisible, of being a ghost in my own home. The memories were raw, agonizing, and the weight of them pressed down on me, a crushing burden of sorrow and resentment.

The memories flooded back, each one a searing reminder of the years of neglect. But as I grappled with the painful truth of my childhood, I couldn't help but think of my family, the ones who had shaped my life, the ones who had, in their own way, contributed to my pain.

My father, Bruce Wayne, was a multi-billionaire playboy in the eyes of the media, a man who seemed to have it all. Yet, behind his charming facade, he was Batman, a vigilante who spent his nights fighting crime, leaving his days consumed by the burdens of his alter ego. He was always busy, always preoccupied, always a figure shrouded in shadows, both figuratively and literally. He was my father, yet he was a stranger, a distant presence who felt more like a mythical figure than a real, living person.

Then there was Dick, my older brother, a whirlwind of happy-go-lucky energy. He was always smiling, always joking, always trying to lighten the mood. But beneath his sunny disposition, his promises were often empty, his gestures more about appeasing than genuine affection. He meant well, but his life was filled with his own struggles, leaving him with little time for genuine connection.

Jason, my second older brother, once held a gentle warmth, a genuine kindness that I craved. But a traumatic incident, a brutal encounter with a villain, had changed him. He had become guarded, cynical, and distant. He was still sweet at heart, but his harsh exterior was a shield he wore to protect himself from further pain.

Tim, the third brother, was brilliant, a master of strategy, a whirlwind of caffeine-fueled energy. He was always working, always planning, always trying to control the chaos around him. He was sharp, insightful, and often sarcastic, but underneath his gruff exterior lay a vulnerability he tried to hide. He was the one who could articulate his feelings, but never seemed to allow himself to be vulnerable.

Damian, my half-brother, was a different breed entirely. He was harsh, aggressive, and constantly seeking to prove his worth. He was the product of a family dynasty, trained in the arts of combat and deception. His coldness was a defense mechanism, a way to protect himself from the world's brutality.

And then there were the others, the ones who were not blood but still part of our strange, fractured family. Stephanie Brown, a vibrant, determined woman with a passion for justice, was like a whirlwind of energy, always buzzing with activity, always trying to help, but her efforts often felt like an attempt to fill a void rather than a genuine connection. Cassandra Cain, a gifted martial artist, was a quiet presence, a shadow in the corner, her communication a series of subtle gestures and a piercing gaze. She was a warrior, a protector, but her own struggles with social interaction made it difficult to forge a true bond with her. Duke Thomas, a young man with a kind heart and a thirst for justice, was a constant source of optimism and hope. He saw the good in everyone, and his attempts to connect with me were genuine, though sometimes awkward.

And then there was Barbara Gordon, a brilliant detective and a kind heart, a figure of strength and resilience. She was a source of wisdom and support for everyone, but her own battles with her past left her with a guarded nature, a sense of caution that made it difficult to truly open up to her.

They were all vigilantes, each with their own reasons for fighting for justice, each carrying the weight of their own burdens. They were my family, yet they were so far away, so consumed by their own battles that they failed to see the child who needed them most.

And then there was Alfred, our loyal butler, a man who truly cared for all of us. He tried to cheer me up, offering me a warm smile and a comforting cup of tea, but he was always busy managing the manor, tending to the needs of the family, and keeping the wheels of this chaotic household turning. He was a constant presence, a rock of stability in a world of constant upheaval, but even he, with his endless kindness and dedication, couldn't fill the void left by my family's neglect.

He tried, he really did. He'd often sit with me in the library, offering me a book or a cup of hot chocolate, but even his kindest gestures felt like an attempt to appease rather than a genuine attempt to connect. He was a servant, a caretaker, and while his love was boundless, it was a love that was always tempered by his role. He couldn't be the parent I longed for, the one who would understand my pain, the one who would hold me close and tell me that everything would be alright.

I was the biological daughter, the one who carried Bruce's blood, yet I felt like an outsider, a ghost in a house filled with shadows and secrets. They had adopted others, embraced them with open arms, but I was left on the periphery, a constant reminder of a past they seemed to want to forget. I was the biological child, yet they were so busy fighting their own battles that they never really saw me. It was as if they were all living in a different world, a world where I did not belong.

Their neglect wasn't malicious, not really. It was more a matter of circumstance, a byproduct of their own burdens and struggles. They were fighting for justice, for the greater good, but they had failed to see the small child who needed them most, the one who was simply yearning for a family, for a connection, for a love that felt real and genuine.

So I was left, a solitary figure in a grand house, surrounded by a family who loved me in their own way, but who ultimately failed to see the child who was yearning for something more than a fleeting glance, a hollow promise, or a well-meaning gesture. I was the biological daughter, the one who carried Bruce's blood, yet I felt like an outsider, a phantom in a house filled with shadows and secrets.

The dream had shattered the illusion of a happy family, leaving me with a raw, painful awareness of my own neglect. My heart ached with a longing for the love and attention I had been denied, but a cold distance had settled over me, a shield I wore to protect myself from further hurt.

I became polite, courteous, but distant. I engaged in conversations, listened to their concerns, but my heart remained closed. My responses were measured, my laughter strained, my smiles hollow. I was a ghost in the house, a presence they acknowledged but never truly understood.

Their attempts to make amends felt clumsy, insincere. My father, consumed by his guilt, tried to spend more time with me, but his efforts felt forced, his words empty. He bought me gifts, took me on extravagant outings, but they were never the right gifts, the right outings. He was still Batman, still lost in the shadows, and I was just a small part of a grand, complicated life he couldn't fully comprehend.

Dick, ever the charmer, tried to be more present, to offer his support. He would take me to sporting events, try to share stories of his adventures, but his attempts felt more like a performance than genuine connection. He was always trying to fix things, to make everything alright, but his solutions felt superficial, his efforts misplaced.

Jason, with his cynical exterior, struggled to reconcile his past actions. He tried to be more open, to share his struggles, but his pain was so raw, so overwhelming, that his attempts to connect were more likely to push me away than bring us closer.

Tim, ever the strategist, tried to understand my pain through logic and analysis, but his intellectual approach felt cold, distant. He could articulate my feelings, but he couldn't truly understand the emotional depth of my experience.

Damian, with his usual arrogance, tried to assert his authority, to be a protective brother, but his efforts felt condescending, patronizing. He was still the same impulsive, driven boy, unable to fully grasp the emotional complexity of the situation.

Stephanie, ever the enthusiastic helper, tried to fill the void with her boundless energy, but her constant efforts felt like an attempt to compensate, to fill the silence with noise rather than truly understanding the quiet desperation of my heart.

Cassandra, with her stoic silence, tried to offer her silent support, but her struggles with communication made it impossible to truly connect. Her attempts at affection were often clumsy, her gestures misconstrued.

Duke, with his genuine kindness, tried to create genuine connection, but his awkward attempts felt like a child trying to mend a broken heart with a band-aid. He was a good boy, a caring friend, but he was still young, still learning, and couldn't fully grasp the depth of my pain.

Barbara, with her sharp mind and empathetic heart, tried to understand my pain, but she was trapped by her own demons, her own struggles, and couldn't offer the kind of unyielding support I needed. She was a friend, a confidante, but she couldn't be the mother I had never had.

Alfred, ever the loyal servant, continued to offer his unwavering support, his kind words and comforting gestures, but even his best efforts couldn't fully erase the pain.

But as time passed, their efforts to mend the broken bridges only served to highlight the depth of their neglect. They saw the distance in my eyes, the cold politeness in my words, and it was as if a mirror had been held up to their own failings. Their guilt became a palpable presence, a weight that hung over them like a suffocating fog.

They started to grovel, begging for my forgiveness, pleading for a chance to make things right. My father, the billionaire playboy, the brooding vigilante, stood before me, humbled, his pride shattered. He spoke of his regrets, his failures, the burden of his secrets, but his words were hollow, his apologies devoid of true remorse.

Dick, ever the charming boy, now spoke with a broken voice, his carefully constructed facade crumbling under the weight of his own guilt. He confessed his failings, his empty promises, his inability to truly connect, but his words felt more like a desperate attempt to regain my favor than a genuine expression of remorse.

Jason, the once gentle soul, now stood before me, his cynicism replaced by a raw vulnerability. He confessed his inability to cope, his inability to offer the love I needed, and his pain was real, but his attempts to make things right were overshadowed by his own self-preservation.

Tim, ever the strategist, now spoke with a quiet desperation, his analytical mind failing to grasp the depth of his emotional failings. He acknowledged his shortcomings, his inability to connect, but his attempts to reason his way out of the situation only served to highlight his inability to truly understand my pain.

Damian, the arrogant boy, now stood before me, his pride swallowed by a crippling sense of shame. He confessed his cruelty, his inability to offer genuine affection, and for the first time, his words were not tinged with defiance but with a raw vulnerability.

Stephanie, the vibrant, determined woman, now stood before me, her energy drained, her spirit humbled. She confessed her misguided efforts, her attempts to fill a void with noise rather than genuine understanding, and her voice trembled with a mix of regret and self-reproach.

Cassandra, the stoic warrior, now stood before me, her silent gaze filled with a depth of remorse that even her limited communication couldn't mask. She confessed her struggles with connection, her inability to express her feelings, and her gestures, though still restrained, now conveyed a genuine depth of sorrow.

Duke, the young man with a kind heart, now stood before me, his awkward attempts to connect replaced by a genuine sincerity. He confessed his lack of understanding, his inability to offer the support I needed, and his words were laced with a genuine desire to make things right.

Barbara, the brilliant detective, the empathetic friend, now stood before me, her sharp mind failing to find the words to express the depth of her regret. She confessed her own struggles, her inability to be the mother I had never had, and her voice was filled with a pain that resonated with my own.

Alfred, ever the loyal servant, now stood before me, his usually stoic facade replaced by a genuine concern. He confessed his inability to fully understand my pain, his inability to be the parent I needed, and his eyes were filled with a deep sorrow for the child I had become.

They all groveled, begging for my forgiveness, pleading for a chance to make things right. But their words were hollow, their actions insincere. I had become a symbol of their collective guilt, a reminder of their failures, and their desperate attempts to mend the broken bridges only served to highlight the depth of their neglect.

I was no longer the same child, the one who yearned for their attention, their love. I had become a stranger to myself, a shell of the person I once was. I had grown up in a house full of shadows, surrounded by a family who loved me but who ultimately failed to see me.

The damage was done, the wounds too deep. I had learned to survive without them, to create a world of my own where their neglect couldn't touch me. But the scars remained, a constant reminder of the child who had been left behind, the child who had yearned for a love that never came.

I looked at them, at their humbled faces, their desperate pleas, and I felt nothing. No anger, no resentment, no desire for revenge. Just a deep, profound indifference. They had hurt me, but they had also taught me a valuable lesson: the only love that truly mattered was the love I could give myself.

And so, I turned away, leaving them to their guilt, their apologies, their desperate attempts to make things right. I had no need for their forgiveness, no desire for their love. I was free.

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mitsukii-07

1 month ago

can I be 🦌 anon?

was wondering if you had any thoughts for a jackie's sister! reader x any character really that you think would fit, prob shauna honestly...

especially if she was a younger sister (like 16)

- 🦌

a/n: welcome, 🦌 anon! i think we all need fluff in these trying times until the 4th episode comes out 😔 so like…what about some precrash!shauna and taylor!reader thoughts? rlly missing the girls when they were happy and not traumatized :(( sorry if it seems short!! (sfw)

thinking about being jackie’s younger sister who still babies you (even though you two are like a year apart -__-) but it's all in good affection as she always wanted a little sister! she's definitely the kind of older sister who adores you with her whole heart and just oh so supportive ☹️ always looking out for you and just dragging you along to everything and anywhere (despite your wishes on just wanting to stay home). specially if you're on the timid side/the exact opposite of the jackie taylor — you two do share the same qualities that don't go unnoticed by people.

even on jackie's outings with shauna, you're tagging along too that it's one of the reasons why shauna has developed a soft spot on you and you it amplifies your crush on her, thinking she's so cool and pretty. you obvs don't tell jackie because that's her best friend ofc.

you two sharing the same interests 😞 like perhaps both of you having a passion for literature or photography — shauna who always pitches your ideas for her writing :(( you also trying to impress shauna more by liking her music taste (i see all those alt rocks bands in her room) listening to every track and trying to use it as topic to talk about.

oh, oh! sleepovers would be a constant thing. jackie who ends up being on the phone with jeff midway into the night, leaving you and shauna alone painting each other's nails while watching a movie and just softly giggling and smiling to each other.

you think she doesn't notice how you start fumbling over your words a bit whenever she's so close yet she does. she smiles to herself but doesn't comment anything but rather writes it down on her journal when she reflects on her day.

feel like shauna's way of dropping hints of liking you in return is by staring with her big, brown eyes. you always feel her soft gaze on yours during in class or either during practice. even sharing her writing and she has the biggest smile when your compliment on her pieces.

maybe shauna admitting to you that she isn't genuinely interested in soccer, she loves jackie and the team though! but soccer wasn't in her heart in the first place.

and whether if you're interested in soccer or not, shauna would take the time to practice with you just to have you around :))

jackie who has her suspicions of something going on between you two but brushes it off instantly 😭

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mitsukii-07

1 month ago

introducing . . . queen bee ! reader !!

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where would the yellowjackets be without their queen ─ their bee ㅤ ㅤ the muse to lottie matthews' madness ㅤ ㅤ the diamond to natalie scatorccio's rough ㅤ ㅤ and the anchor to jackie taylor's spiral ㅤ ㅤ charismatic, golden, wearing a crown of wildflowers of rose pink and violet ㅤ ㅤ pink bedazzled walkman & deftones cassettes ㅤ ㅤ treated like a princess, worshipped like a deity ㅤ ㅤ a softness that cannot be broken by the wilderness

LOTTIE'S HONEYPOT ! SOON.

NATALIE'S HONEYPOT ! SOON.

JACKIE'S HONEYPOT ! SOON.

to bee or not to bee ? requests for any of the other yellowjackets ? want to discuss bee & her girls ? meet me in my inbox !

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notes. yellowjackets fever is so strong. and they r all so pretty this season. and i had the thought of the yellowjackets having a pretty little queen bee in their mix :') anyways PLEASSEEE INDULGE ME ON THIS I LOVE WOMEN SOOOO BAD

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mitsukii-07

3 weeks ago

–BRING BACK THE DEAD UNIVERSE!

WARNING : emotional neglect, kidnapping, murder, physical abuse/torture, obsessive behavior, schizophrenia, self-harm(?), more will be added.

NOTE : If you are sensitive to the subject matter, leave immediately! Please provide any feedback so that I can improve. Just don't go off the deep end by telling me to commit suicide because you don't like my writing, okay? Thanks! :)