#Batman: I DIDN’T EVEN LOOK THIS IS DISCRIMINATION | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

marcyvampire · 1 month ago

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Pt.3 SILLLY LITTLE BAT.

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

sinopsis ⸺ There are only memories, fragments of a past that, like shadows, will haunt you until your last breath, whispers of what was and will never be. Gotham cries out for a guardian, a soul to face the darkness, to challenge fate in its shadowy alleys.

But tell me, who will rise to protect you, traveler of scars and broken dreams? Who will watch over your light when the world swallows your hopes?

In the eternal night, amidst the echo of fear and longing, there is only one path: to confront the monsters and become the hero this city needs, even if the price is the forgetting of oneself.

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

Chapter guide! Pt.1 Pt2. Pt.4

A/N — English is not my first language—Spanish is— Here is the continuation of the other parts. There will be a few more parts but you should know that we will soon reach the end, but there are still things to clarify and so on. I don't know if you would like me to do another Batfam yandere series in the future or similar. Send me your ideas if you want :3

They are upset because I left

Where they never included me.

The car moved slowly under the gray sky of Gotham, as if the universe itself understood the weight of the pain you carried in your small figure. Commissioner Gordon, with his firm hands on the wheel, cast furtive glances at the rearview mirror, where he saw you curled up in the back seat. Wrapped in an old blanket, the same one you had hugged for days, your face was hidden among the folds, but the silent tears that fell could not be disguised. There were no words that Gordon could offer to heal the recent wound of losing your mother, but his empathy, though silent, was there, wrapping around you like the coat that couldn't quite warm you.

In your lap, a small Batman doll rested, pressed against your chest, as if that fabric toy could protect you from the world that had just destroyed your innocence. Your eyes, still swollen and red, looked out the window without seeing, watching the city that seemed so distant, so foreign.

"You will be loved and cherished," Gordon whispered, breaking the silence that had weighed like fog in the car. "Bruce Wayne... he will take care of you, I promise."

But you didn't respond immediately. The name Wayne felt strange, distant, as if he spoke of someone living in a story, not in your reality. You looked up, your eyes meeting Gordon’s for a second in the rearview mirror.

"And if they don't want me...?" you murmured, insecurity clouding your childish voice. "I don't know them, Commissioner... and they don't know me. What if they leave me in an orphanage? Mama always told me those places aren't nice."

Gordon swallowed hard, understanding the depth of your fear. "You were just a child, but you had already learned that love was not a guarantee." The world had taught you that cruel lesson too soon.

"The Waynes..." he began, searching for the right words, "are good people. You might not understand it at first, but I assure you they have suffered too. Bruce..." he paused, recalling the losses that man had faced. "He understands what it is to lose someone. He will do everything he can to make you feel safe, to help you find a home again."

But you kept looking at the doll in your hands, your fingers squeezing it tightly, as if it were the only stable thing in a world crumbling around you.

The silence grew heavy, uncomfortable, as if the words wanted to come out but didn’t know how. Again, Gordon spoke, his voice low, almost afraid to break the stillness.

"And/y/n... what was your mom like?" he asked softly, not taking his eyes off the road, as if by doing so, he could give you space to be honest, to not feel pressured.

You fell silent for a long moment, your small fingers nervously playing with the edges of the blanket. The world outside the car seemed a reflection of what you felt inside: cloudy, cold, distant.

Finally, you exhaled, as if gathering the courage to speak. Your voice came out shaky at first, filled with a mix of sadness and a hard-to-accept truth.

"My mom..." you murmured, not taking your eyes off the window. "She wasn't a good person, but... she wasn't a villain either."

Gordon nodded slowly, without interrupting you. He knew things were rarely black or white, that life had that cruel ability to mix the two.

"She... told me she grew up in an orphanage. She never had anything that was really hers." You paused, your eyes glassy as you recalled details that now seemed more painful than ever. "Well, except for me."

"Gordon felt a knot form in his throat." He knew that loss was a terrible burden to bear, but there was something more in your words, something suggesting that, amidst it all, there had also been love. An imperfect love, but real.

"She always dreamed of having a little house..." you continued, and for the first time, a faint smile appeared on your face, though it was tinged with melancholy. "A house with a garden, lots of Barbie dolls, and a little dog. She didn't need more. She just wanted something that was hers."

You stopped for a moment, as if the simple act of recalling those dreams your mother had hurt you. You knew she would never have them. That the world had been cruel to her, denying her even the small things she wished for so fervently.

"But... she never got it. We were always moving around, fleeing, searching for something better. And now... she doesn’t even have that."

The car seemed to shrink, the air denser. Gordon felt a wave of compassion for that woman who, though perhaps not perfect, had dreamed of something so simple, so human, and yet had not achieved it.

"I'm so sorry, Y/n," he murmured.

"Commissioner, what if... what if I can't forget her?" you asked, almost in a whisper. "What if I can't stop thinking about Mom?"

The silence in the car became heavy, almost tangible. Gordon wanted to tell you that you didn't have to forget, that it was natural to carry that pain. But the words didn't come, and instead, only a long sigh escaped his lips.

"It's not about forgetting, Y/n," he finally said, his voice low but firm. "It's about moving forward, even though it hurts. Your mother would want you to find happiness again, even though it may not seem possible now. And I’m sure Bruce will do everything in his power to help you."

The car turned onto the long, dark road leading to Wayne Manor. The trees formed a tunnel of shadows, as if the road were wrapped in the same mourning you carried within. The mansion, with its imposing grandeur, appeared in the distance, its walls as high as the secrets it held. "You were so small in the face of the immensity of this new life that awaited you."

"We're almost there," Gordon said softly, as he slowed down. "The wind outside whispered through the trees, like an echo of everything you had lost."

You didn’t know it at that moment, but that house would be full of stories, some broken, others in the process of healing. And although you felt like a stranger in a strange land now, Gordon hoped that, one day, that place would become your refuge.

The car stopped in front of the enormous gates. Gordon looked at you one last time before getting out. In his eyes, you could see a mix of sadness and hope, an empathy that went beyond words.

"You are not alone, Y/n," he said, his voice now firmer. "You will never be alone again."

You remained silent, gazing at the mansion as you clung to the blanket and the Batman doll. The weight of the world still rested on your small shoulders, but for the first time, there might have been a glimmer of relief in knowing that someone, even if he was a strange and distant man, was waiting for you inside."

And in that moment, although you still felt the burning pain of your loss, a ray of hope began to break through the shadows of your heart.

Y/n was sitting in the BatCafé, that corner of the city where the tables wobbled and conversations were woven into murmurs, as if the place knew how to keep secrets that even you wouldn’t dare to share aloud. The walls, a mossy green, were filled with stories that no one had asked for. She looked at her lukewarm latte as one looks at a future that hasn’t quite arrived, a liquid mockery evaporating before it could warm her hands. It had barely been a month since she left her family home, but she already felt that independence was more of a myth than a fulfilled dream. At first, the heroism of having thrown herself into the world had filled her with pride, but now reality lurked like a treacherous chill seeping through the cracks, and the fact that she was waiting for her potential roommate didn’t help matters.

“Well, at least the rent will be cheaper,” she told herself, or rather to the coffee, as if the dark liquid could reply with something sensible.

Sharing an apartment was, for Y/n, the only way out. Her salary barely covered survival, but only if she fed on fresh air and broken dreams. And there she was, waiting for someone named Pamela Isley, who, according to the ad, didn’t even seem to be from this planet. "I hope she’s not one of those people with invisible cats," she thought. Of course, the alternatives weren’t very promising: people who collected Batman figurines or guys who made friends with cockroaches in the kitchen. She had seen it all; after all, her apartment was in one of the most dangerous areas of Gotham, and she knew it all too well.

You were born in that area. One could say the neighborhood chose you before you had a chance to choose it. You didn’t remember exactly which apartment; in that hive of broken windows and half-painted bricks, all the floors seemed like a blurry copy of the previous one, each with the same square footage and an air of silent resignation. In the end, it didn’t matter, because in a way, everything was the same. Dust in the corners, worn tiles, cracks in the walls that seemed to form a map of some invisible and secret city, a place that only you could decipher if you stopped to observe long enough.

It was an unpretentious place, where people rarely smiled, but neither did they let themselves be trampled. There was something in the air, a kind of poorly disguised pride, as if every neighbor, every stray dog, knew that surviving there wasn’t a matter of luck but of will. Heroes didn’t exist in that corner of the world, but villains didn’t dare impose their law without facing some gaze that, without saying anything, said it all. It was rough terrain, where kindness camouflaged behind growls and complaints, and malice grew tired before it could fully settle.

And yet, you loved it. It was absurd, but you loved it with that devotion reserved for things you don’t choose, for roots that sink into your chest without asking for permission. The place was filled with memories you didn’t ask for, stories you never wanted to hear but that seeped into your skin. Tales of people who vanished in alleyways, of broken promises around the corner, of loves that drowned in factory smoke. And yet, those same tales were like echoes that held you, reminding you that you were born there, in that half-hell where life was always a fight but never a complete defeat.

The clock in the BatCafé struck six ten when the door opened. What happened next was hard to explain, like when you dream and you don’t know if it’s the pillow or the universe holding you. Pamela Isley walked in, and it was as if the wind, that autumn wind that brings memories, had gently pushed her in. Y/n looked up, and the first thing she noticed was her hair, a red that was out of this world, more fire than pigment, more nature than dye. The roots tangled as if they were living branches, and for a moment, Y/n wondered if the sun had made a mistake and was shining only on her.

Pamela walked as if she had a pact with the earth. Her steps were slow but firm, as if her feet waited for the ground to respond before settling. She wore a jacket that was impossible to describe without sounding crazy: green vines and small buds peeking out, as if at any moment the plants would grow over her. "Where does this woman come from?" Y/n thought, feeling something beyond mere curiosity. There was something she couldn’t deny, an attraction that felt unsettling, like those waves that, without warning, sweep you away when you think you can still touch the bottom.

Pamela approached the table with a calculated calm, a calm only nature or time can sculpt. And then she smiled. In that smile, Y/n felt something familiar yet strange, as if she were facing a younger version of her mother, but instead of being terrifying, it was comforting. What was happening?

“Y/n L/n?” Pamela said, her voice reminiscent of the whisper of dry leaves underfoot.

“Yes, that’s me,” Y/n answered, trying to make her voice sound normal, even though everything inside her felt out of place.

Pamela sat down across from her, crossing her legs with an almost feline elegance. The BatCafé seemed to conspire around them; the air smelled of wet earth and freshly brewed coffee, a strange mix, like the combination of what was about to be born and what had already died.

“I didn’t expect you to be…” Y/n began, not knowing exactly how to finish the sentence. She wasn’t even sure what she was expecting.

“Strange?” Pamela completed, with a playful smile that left Y/n with a sense of defeat and fascination in equal parts.

“Something like that,” Y/n replied, looking at Pamela’s hands. Her long, slender fingers were covered in small green spots, as if she had just planted a forest with her own hands. There was something almost magical about her, as if every part of her being was connected to the earth in a way that Y/n couldn’t quite understand. And there, amid that confusion, was the fine thread of attraction.

Pamela let her gaze fall on her own latte, turning it between her hands as if it were about to reveal some hidden secret in the foam.

“So, what do you do? I mean… aside from, you know… looking like you walked out of a Tim Burton movie,” Y/n said, attempting a bit of humor to ease the tension she felt in her stomach.

Pamela glanced at her and laughed softly, a laugh that felt like an unexpected breeze on a hot day.

“I’m… a caretaker. Of plants.” She paused, gauging Y/n’s reaction. “And other things.”

“Other things?” Y/n asked, intrigued but also amused by the way Pamela toyed with the mystery.

“Yes, like people who don’t know how to water a plant without drowning it,” she replied, arching an eyebrow mischievously.

The response made Y/n laugh, a laugh she hadn’t expected, as if Pamela had found a way to touch something deep within her, something that hadn’t bloomed in a long time. And without being able to help it, she felt drawn, not just by the way Pamela moved, spoke, or even by the air of mystery surrounding her, but because there was something more, something familiar, something that reminded her of her mother, but without the shadows of authority and judgment. It was like a wild, free version of what had once been security.

“So… are you going to save my cactus or criticize it?” Y/n said, trying to sound casual while feeling that her heart had started playing a game of chess with her emotions.

Pamela smiled again, and this time it was a different smile, one that seemed to carry a promise.

“It depends. Would you let me stay to try?” Pamela said, with a playful seriousness that left Y/n unsure whether the question was about the cactus or something much larger.

Y/n blinked, trying to process the phrase, but deep down she knew that any answer would sound awkward. Pamela’s question hung in the air between them like a leaf falling slowly, right at the perfect point where it was neither entirely a joke nor completely serious. And there she was, caught in that space, wondering whether she should laugh or just blush.

“Well… you can try,” she finally said, trying to hide the warmth creeping up her face. “But I can’t promise the cactus will survive. I’m something like… a serial plant killer... When I was younger, I had time to care for them as they deserved, with help from… from my father. But now work consumes me a lot, and the truth is I’ve neglected them too much… they must feel the same way I felt when… sorry, I talk too much about myself, don’t I?”

Pamela raised an eyebrow, with a smile that seemed to say more than either of them dared to voice at that moment.

“Oh, no, keep talking about yourself; I’m used to it. I have very… eccentric friends, to be honest.” She leaned a bit closer, as if about to share a secret. “Though I prefer not to work under threats, so don’t look at me like I’m going to be your next plant murder victim. But I doubt a little scared bat can kill even a fly.”

Y/n laughed nervously, surprised at how easy Pamela made everything. She, who had always been clumsy with conversations and glances, felt like the words flowed with Pamela in a way she didn’t quite understand but didn’t want to question either.

“...Little Bat?” Y/n asked, with a clumsy and blushing smile as her fingers nervously toyed with the edge of her cup.

Pamela let out a low giggle, that laugh that always seemed to carry the sound of dry leaves being trampled in autumn. With a gentle gesture, she pointed to her clothes.

“Is it that obvious?” she said with a half-smile, raising a playful eyebrow as she leaned a little forward.

She wore a dark fur coat, enormous, with a wide fall that, under the dim light of the BatCafé, seemed to have the precise shape of bat wings extending. The high, well-fitted black boots completed the image of a figure that seemed to have emerged from the very shadows. And for a moment, Y/n didn’t know whether to laugh or get lost in that air of mystery that Pamela seemed to wear like a second coat.

“Well…” Y/n diverted her gaze with a shy smile, “it’s not like you’re hiding it much.”

Pamela smiled with that touch of mischief that characterized her.

“Does it bother you? I’m sorry, it’s just… I’ve been fascinated by bats since I was little.” she asked, her voice low and slow, as if measuring every word, as if the world were a delicate plant that required to be touched with the tips of her fingers.

Y/n let out a small nervous laugh, feeling the heat rising to her cheeks again.

“No, not at all. I think it’s…” she hesitated for a second, searching for the right word, unsure how to avoid the obvious, “I think it suits you well.”

Pamela watched her for a moment, and then, with that look that always seemed to go beyond what words said, added:

“You’re turning red, you know?”

Y/n’s eyes widened a bit more, surprised by Pamela’s directness, but all she could do was laugh at herself.

“Well, it’s just that, I’m not really used to… this.”

“This?” Pamela repeated, raising an eyebrow. “Sharing coffee with someone or bats?”

“Both,” Y/n admitted, shrugging, which provoked another smile from Pamela. “I always wanted one as a pet… but I have a vegan little brother who’s very… spooky… so I’ve always been afraid he’d steal it from me or accuse me of having exotic pets.”

Pamela settled into the chair, not taking her eyes off Y/n.

“But you’ll get used to it,” she paused, letting her words float calmly.

Y/n felt a shiver run down her spine, a mix of nerves and a spark of something she couldn’t quite define. Pamela’s dark coat and relaxed smile were a disconcerting yet strangely familiar contrast, as if they had always been there, waiting for her. And suddenly, all she could do was wonder how soon that would happen… getting used to it.

“Although I can’t promise my apartment isn’t… a battlefield,” Y/n said, trying to sound confident, but noticing the slight tremor in her voice.

Pamela looked at her intently for a moment, with that mix of flirtation and something deeper, something that seemed impossible to decipher completely. Then she relaxed in the chair, as if the game had just begun.

“A battlefield, huh?” she said, playing with the spoon of her coffee. “Well, I like challenges. And chaotic places have their own charm if you know where to look.” Pamela let the phrase slide smoothly, like someone throwing a stone into a lake and waiting for the ripples.

Y/n couldn’t shake the feeling that every word Pamela spoke carried a double meaning, but far from making her feel uncomfortable, it sparked something akin to contained laughter, as if they were sharing a private joke that she was just beginning to access.

“Don’t you have plants at home?” Pamela suddenly asked, as if the question had sprung from the foam of her coffee.

“Well, there are a couple of cacti… and a fern that I think hates me,” Y/n replied. “But I always forget to water them. Or I overwater them. Seriously, it’s like plants come to me already doomed.”

Pamela smiled, one of those slow smiles that seem to grow little by little, like a sprout deciding when the perfect moment to emerge into the light is.

“It’s not just about water, Y/n,” she said, with that voice that seemed to carry the calm of the wind and the weight of centuries of nature. “Plants need attention. Patience. Sometimes they just want to know you’re there, even if you don’t say anything.” She paused, letting Y/n’s gaze get lost in her eyes. “Sometimes, like people.”

Y/n felt a little shiver. It wasn’t what Pamela was saying, but how she was saying it. There was something in her voice that disarmed her, as if every word had been calculated to penetrate a defense that Y/n hadn’t even realized she had up. And then, almost without thinking, she let slip a truth she rarely shared.

“I’m not very good with people.” The confession came out of her mouth before she could stop it. She said it without drama, almost as if she were talking about the weather. But something in Pamela changed, barely perceptible, like a leaf moving without the wind touching it.

“Really?” Pamela asked softly, but without an ounce of pity. Just curiosity.

Y/n looked down for a moment, fiddling with the edge of her cup, before daring to continue.

“I grew up in a huge house, but… empty. My father… well, he was busy with his things. Business, parties, the usual. Shrugging it off, wanting to downplay it, even though inside she knew it wasn’t something that could easily fade away. Alfred, the butler, raised me. And yes, he was amazing. But it was always just him and no one else. It’s not the same as having… friends.”

Pamela listened in silence, but not in that awkward way where people listen just to see how you respond afterward. No, there was something in her attention that enveloped Y/n, as if she were giving her space to bare herself without fear of being judged.

“You never had friends,” Pamela asserted more than asked.

Y/n shook her head.

“Until now,” Pamela said, with that same softness that seemed to have become her trademark, and something in Y/n’s chest stirred, as if she had just heard the most important thing in the world.

There was a moment of silence, but it wasn’t uncomfortable. It was a silence that somehow connected them. And then Pamela broke the spell, with a mischievous smile that lit everything up again.

“So… are you going to let me be your first friend, or would you rather keep killing plants?”

Y/n couldn’t help the laugh that escaped her lips, a sincere and liberating laugh, as if something inside her had broken an invisible chain. After all, it was clear that Pamela wasn’t just another person passing through her life. There was something different about her, something that made the air feel lighter, that made the future seem less uncertain.

“Well, if you can survive the cactus…” Y/n said, leaving the sentence unfinished, but knowing Pamela would understand.

And then, for the first time in a long time, Y/n felt that everything might be okay. That maybe, just maybe, Pamela Isley wasn’t just a roommate, but the first person in a long time with whom she could imagine a less lonely future. She was already caught in that web, and the worst, or perhaps the best part, was that she didn’t care at all.

Bruce Wayne was sitting in the mansion's garden on a gray afternoon that seemed to drag memories along like the wind drags fallen leaves. In his hands, a cup of black coffee, still steaming, its strong and bitter aroma mingling with the scent of damp earth after the rain. In front of him, on a small wrought-iron table, rested a piece of dark chocolate cake topped with melting strawberry ice cream, forming a pink puddle around it. But he found no pleasure in the view. It was more of a bitter symbol of a routine he once believed unbreakable.

In the garden, where the wilted flowers swayed gently, a little girl flitted about with contagious energy, as if the chill of the afternoon did not exist for her. Her laughter, so innocent and pure, filled the air, breaking the sepulchral silence that seemed to reign in that old home for a moment. She wore a pink dress with small white dots, an 80s style that would have been charming in another time but now seemed out of place with the scene. Her patent leather shoes shone as she ran back and forth, chasing her dolls.

In her small hands, she held action figures, one of the Batman her father portrayed and another of the Joker, his eternal rival. The girl, no older than six, organized her battles with adorable seriousness. In a high-pitched, mischievous voice, she brought the characters to life, staging an epic duel between hero and villain.

“You won’t defeat me this time, Batman!” she exclaimed, raising the Joker figure with a malevolent laugh.

“I will stop you! I always do...” she replied with her other hand, giving voice to Batman, but with a childlike touch that contrasted with the darkness of the character.

Bruce watched the scene with a mix of tenderness and pain. He knew she wasn’t really there, that this vision was nothing more than a distant echo of what never was. Y/n, his little Y/n, had vanished months ago. And he… he had never given her the love she deserved, always wrapped in his own shadows, in his endless struggle to protect a city that never rested.

The air felt thick, heavy with nostalgia and regret. The girl continued to play, laughing, talking to her dolls, oblivious to the weight of the years, to the loss. And Bruce, although he knew it was an illusion, couldn’t look away; he couldn’t stop imagining what it would have been like to give her what he never knew how to offer. What it would have been like to see her grow, to laugh more, to run through those gardens with the carefree spirit only childhood allows.

Suddenly, the sound of soft footsteps interrupted the daydream. Alfred appeared at the garden entrance, always elegant, always with that air of discretion and understanding that only he possessed. He approached slowly, placing a hand on Bruce’s shoulder as if he understood the pain that kept him trapped in that scene.

“Mr. Wayne” he said in a low voice, filled with compassion, “it’s time to come back.”

Bruce closed his eyes for a moment, letting Alfred’s words seep into his consciousness. He knew what they meant. He knew that girl, in her 80s dress and her dolls, was nothing but an idealized memory, a distorted reflection of what never was. Because Y/n wasn’t like that. She didn’t like those old dresses; she had always preferred the fashion of the 2000s, with its vibrant colors and comfortable clothes. And she never enjoyed the chocolate cake now sitting in front of him. She liked carrot cake, simple and sweet, but he had never paid attention to those details when he still could.

How did he know those little details about his daughter? Bruce often wondered. It wasn’t because he had learned them by being close, because proximity had been a luxury he never allowed himself. No, those small fragments of her life he had discovered in the album that Alfred kept with an almost reverential discretion. That album was more than just an object; it was a silent refuge where Alfred had archived what the big house, always filled with shadows and echoes of footsteps that never came, had refused to hold.

The day the children learned of the album’s existence marked the beginning of a chaos he still remembered with a mix of exasperation and a contained smile. They had decided, like little conspirators, that treasure belonged to them. A kind of all-out battle had ensued in the mansion, something that over time acquired the quality of family legends.

Bruce, standing in the study, could still see the sparkle in Damian’s eyes, the intensity, the almost playful fury with which he had taken that assault as a personal mission. Damian, with his perpetual impatience, had been the fiercest of all. He vividly remembered how his youngest son had burst into the room wielding two katanas, with the cold precision of a millennia-old warrior, even though his hands were still too small to fully grasp the handles.

“It’s mine!” Damian shouted, with that mix of stubbornness and vulnerability that only the youngest possess, as if he could cut not only the air but the very uncomfortable silence that always floated between them.

“It belongs to all of us, Damian” Bruce had tried to intervene, with that authoritative voice that, curiously, never managed to control his own children as he did with the chaos of the city.

But Damian wasn’t listening. For him, the album was not just an object; it was a relic, a bridge to something he felt but couldn’t name. His sister Y/n, so distant in daily life, was closer in those pages than in any superficial conversation they had ever had. She was his sister, but not enough. He wanted those photos, those notes that Alfred had kept, he wanted to understand what it was about her that slipped away from him daily.

Bruce watched from the threshold, not really intervening. He let the chaos unfold, as if it were necessary. The children fought, but it wasn’t just for the album. They fought for something deeper, a kind of silent reclamation of what they had never been able to have: time, connection, perhaps even love. Alfred, from a corner, merely smiled with that quiet wisdom, knowing that those battles of childish katanas, of shouts and disputes over photos and notes, were actually the way they tried to find each other in a house full of absences.

Bruce sighed, remembering. Alfred had always known more than he did, always understood those invisible things that Bruce, no matter how much he wanted to, could never quite grasp. And so it was that he himself, at the end of it all, also ended up snooping in that album, with a silent curiosity he would never admit. There, in those carefully tended pages, he found his daughter. Or at least, he found the idea of her, the pieces of a life he hadn’t shared but that, somehow, had always been present in those photos, in those little notes that Alfred, more of a father than he was, had kept with such love.

“She won’t come back, Alfred... I lost her... maybe forever... ” Bruce murmured, his voice barely audible, as if admitting it aloud would make her absence more real—“and I… I was never there for her as I should have been.”

The old butler sighed, his tired eyes filled with infinite patience.

“It’s never too late to remember, sir. It’s never too late to honor her memory in the right way.”

Bruce opened his eyes, looking again at the scene, but this time more clearly. The girl had disappeared.

The wind blew gently through the Wayne mansion's garden, carrying away the murmur of the dry leaves. Bruce remained motionless, as if the weight of the years, of the mistakes, had turned him into another statue in that landscape. The aroma of coffee had dissipated, and the cake before him remained untouched. Y/n’s figure still floated in his mind, her laughter like a distant echo that wouldn’t fade but also wouldn’t console him.

Alfred, with the patience only a father at heart could have, stood by his side, his firm hand on Bruce’s shoulder, as if in that gesture he could transmit strength to face the pain that gnawed at him.

“Mr. Wayne” Alfred began, his voice soft but laden with meaning, “the kids have gone looking for Y/n again.”

Bruce closed his eyes, allowing those words to sink into his consciousness. He knew all the Robins and Batgirls had been following leads, searching for answers in the darkest corners of Gotham, but the emptiness he felt remained overwhelming. They had failed so many times… what did another attempt matter? The city, always hungry for its heroes, seemed more a trap than a cause.

“It doesn’t matter anymore, Alfred” Bruce replied, his voice rough, worn down by years of struggle. “None of this will change what happened. Y/n… is gone.”

“With all due respect, sir,” Alfred interjected, this time with a firmer tone, “Y/n is still out there. And as long as there’s a single chance to find her, you cannot allow yourself to give up.”

Silence stretched between them. Bruce’s gaze remained fixed on some point in the garden, lost in thought. But Alfred, with his usual insight, knew he needed more than empty words to awaken him.

“There’s something else,” Alfred added, taking a breath, “a new figure appeared last night during a robbery in the East District. They call her Kerosene. The White Bat. She was seen taking out a group of assailants in seconds.”

Bruce didn’t react. Kerosene. The city had always generated figures willing to fill the void he had left every time he stepped away, every time Gotham lost the light of its vigilante. But this time, he didn’t feel the urgency to learn more. What did it matter? He repeated to himself. Gotham already had its heroes.

“I don’t care” he murmured, his voice empty, as cold as the air surrounding the garden—“Let others deal with Gotham. Kerosene, the Joker, or whoever… the city doesn’t need me anymore.”

Alfred tightened his grip on Bruce’s shoulder, almost like a father refusing to see his son give up. He stepped forward, and this time his voice was lower but more incisive.

“This isn’t about Gotham, sir,” he said with an intensity Bruce hadn’t expected—“It’s about Y/n.”

Bruce lifted his gaze, his eyes finally meeting Alfred’s, as if those words had ignited a spark within him.

“If you don’t want to protect this city, do it for her ” Alfred continued—“Because you will find her, sir. I’m sure of it. And when you do… how would you want her to find you? Destroyed? Defeated? No. You need to be ready, you need to be strong, for her. Wherever she is, Y/n is still waiting for her father.”

Bruce felt the pain in his chest intensify, a constant reminder of his failure, but Alfred was right. Y/n was somewhere out there. Alive or not, it didn’t matter. What mattered was that as long as he didn’t find her, he couldn’t give up.

“The kids have done everything they can to find her,” Alfred said, softening his tone—“They’re still at it. Every day they search for new leads, explore new corners of Gotham… but there’s only one man who can put everything in order. There’s only one father who can bring her back.”

The air tensed between them, and for the first time in a long time, Bruce felt a slight tremor inside. He remembered the moment he decided to become Batman, driven by the guilt and pain of losing his parents. Now, that same guilt, that same pain, called to him again, but this time, it wasn’t for Gotham. It was for Y/n. His daughter.

“Tell me, Alfred, who is this Kerosene?” Bruce murmured, finally reacting to the information Alfred had given him.

“Yes, sir. Her abilities are astonishing, according to reports. Agile, fast… but her true identity remains a mystery. Some say she’s just another vigilante trying to fill the void you left. But the important thing is that she is acting with lethal precision.”

Bruce stood slowly, leaving the cup of coffee on the table, already cold and forgotten. He looked at the empty garden, but this time, with a new determination blooming in his chest.

“If this Kerosene is connected… if there’s any link to Y/n, I will find out,” he said, his voice firmer, closer to the one Alfred had known for so many years—“And if not… then I’ll find her myself.”

Alfred nodded, a mix of relief and satisfaction reflected on his face. He had managed to awaken the man Gotham needed, but more than that, he had awakened the father Y/n deserved.

“ Very well, sir,he replied with a slight smile, always the unwavering servant—“The Batcave is ready for your return.”

Bruce turned toward the mansion, but not before glancing once more at the garden, where Y/n’s figure, so real in his mind, faded like morning mist.

Wherever you are, I will find you.

Richard “Dick” Grayson knocked forcefully on the old apartment door, the echo resonating in the narrow hallway of the building, where dust gathered in the corners like forgotten memories and the lights flickered as if trying to perform one last dance before going out. Beside him, Barbara Gordon, the commissioner's daughter, crossed her arms, staring at the door with an intensity that could have splintered the wood.

Jason Todd, restless to his left, kept his gaze fixed on the doorknob, his body tense, as if each passing second brought him one step closer to breaking through that wooden barrier. Above, on the roof, Red Robin, The Spoiler, and Batgirl waited, shadows in a world that seemed to ignore their pounding hearts, ready to act.

“I don’t know why we always have to deal with the worst specimens of humanity,” Barbara murmured, adjusting her coat as she shot a sidelong glance at Dick, who seemed to have a plan in mind.

“Because we’re lucky,” Jason replied, sarcasm lacing his words, a crooked smile on his lips that didn’t quite fit the situation. “And when I say ‘lucky,’ I mean we’re carrying someone else's karma because we… are screwed.”

Dick knocked on the door again, this time with more force. The echo reverberated through the hallways, a declaration of intent.

“We should break it down. You know it’s not going to open just from a gentle knock,” Jason said, stepping forward, his intention clear and palpable.

“Calm down, Jason. Not all problems are solved with violence,” Barbara retorted, though a part of her knew that idea faded every time they found themselves in a situation like this.

“Sure, as if we have another option. Do you want me to schedule a tea date instead of kicking down the door?” Jason frowned, the tension palpable.

Finally, a sound came from behind the door. Chains, the metallic echo of locks being unlatched with a maddening slowness, as if someone on the other side knew that every second of wait was boiling the blood of the three standing before the door. At last, the door opened just enough to reveal a face: the landlord. A short man with small eyes and a slimy smile that seemed to ooze like dirty oil through his yellowed teeth.

“What do you want?” he asked in a thick voice, looking at Dick with suspicion, but his gaze soon dropped to Barbara, lingering unpleasantly on her figure, and then to Jason, who had already tensed the muscles in his jaw.

“We’re looking for Y/n Wayne L/n,” Dick said, trying to maintain his composure, the heat of anger threatening to overflow. “We know she lives here. And we know you know where she is.”

The man let out a laugh under his breath, a rusty squeak that resonated like a heavy joke.

“Ah, the pretty girl… yeah, yeah. And who are you all, huh?” he asked, his slimy tone sending chills that seemed to crawl over Dick's skin.

“It’s none of your concern. We just want to know where she is,” Barbara said, her voice firm and resolute, although the tension in her body betrayed her impatience.

The landlord tilted his head, like a cat playing with its prey, and smiled with a disturbing mischief.

“Well, if you haven’t found her in five months, maybe you don’t want to know,” he said, letting the words drop like stones in a pond, creating ripples of discomfort.

“I warn you, this isn’t a game,” Jason interjected, his voice low and dangerous. “Don’t make me remind you what can happen when a man plays with fire.”

The man shrugged, trying to appear unconcerned, although the glint in his eyes betrayed him.

Jason's hand rested near his belt, right where he kept his gun, and although he hadn’t drawn the weapon yet, the threat was clear.

The landlord noticed but instead of being scared, he wore a repugnant smile, like a predator that had just spotted a wounded prey. His gaze shifted back to Barbara, and then, without the slightest respect, murmured something that made Dick’s fists clench.

“Ah, Y/n... yeah, I remember her. She came around when she had just turned eighteen. Good material, if you catch my drift. She looked innocent, but... those are the most interesting ones, right?” The man's gaze darkened, scanning Barbara again, as if evaluating merchandise.

“Say that again,” Jason growled, drawing his gun in a motion so quick that the landlord barely had time to blink before feeling the cold barrel pressed against his forehead. “And I swear I’ll blow your brains out right here.”

The words hung in the air, sharp, loaded with contempt and a lust that twisted like a snake inside him.

The man let out a cynical chuckle, relishing the moment.

“The last time I saw pretty Y/n was a while back. I don’t know what she’s up to now, but I kept some pictures of her and her friend.” His tone was defiant, almost mocking.

Rage was bubbling in Jason. His fists were clenched, a deadly spark in his eyes.

“What did you say?” His voice trembled between anger and control, like a string about to snap.

The landlord, feeling invincible, continued. “I don’t know if they’re lesbians, but seeing them together was quite the spectacle. Both of them were hot, you know?”

Jason could no longer hold back. The anger erupted like a volcano.

“Shut up!” he shouted, and the sound echoed like a gunshot in the tense silence that had invaded the room.

Before the landlord could react, Jason pulled his gun, aiming with precision.

“I’m going to give you one chance. Tell me where Y/n is. Now.”

The man’s laughter faded, his eyes widening in shock. “Wait, wait, there’s no need to…”

“WHERE?!” Jason's voice thundered, firm and filled with rage, like a storm rumbling in the atmosphere.

The tension became palpable, the air thick with promises of violence.

“Alright, alright!” the landlord stammered, but Jason’s voice turned even colder.

“I’m not going to ask again.”

“She just left for work at night and that’s it…” he started to say, but Jason could no longer hear. The man had photos of Y/n. Compromising, crude, and that simple mention ignited hell in his chest.

In an instant, the sound of an explosion resonated in the hallway, and the man fell to the ground, his silly smile erased by the terror that had overtaken his face. Blood gushed forth in a dark torrent, staining the floor and nearby walls.

Barbara covered her mouth in shock, while Dick stood frozen, stunned.

“Jason!” she exclaimed, but the image of the landlord lying on the ground with his vacant stare was etched in her mind.

Jason holstered the weapon, his breath rapid and uncontrolled. He had crossed a line, and in that moment, he realized there was no turning back. Anger had found a way to break free, but at a terrible cost.

“I won’t let anyone hurt Y/n again,” he murmured, his eyes filled with determination. No one else would stand in his way to find her, no matter the price he had to pay.

The room was saturated with the echo of the gunshot, and the silence grew heavy, almost palpable. Barbara took a deep breath, the anger sparking in her eyes as she looked at Jason, who still seemed dazed by the act he had committed.

“What the hell were you thinking?” she said, her voice contained but sharp as a blade. “That’s why we didn’t bring Damian along, because he would have gone off just the same, but in a much more reckless way.” Her gaze fixed on the corpse, lying in a pool of blood, a scene that could have come from the mind of a disturbed artist.

Jason, with his chest heaving and jaw clenched, simply shrugged.

“I couldn’t just stand by. He knew something, and I wasn’t about to let it slip away.” The fervor in his voice didn’t hide the confusion that was beginning to seep in, like the cold of the night creeping through the windows.

Barbara didn’t respond, but the silence that filled the room grew even denser when the others entered, alarmed by the gunshot. Tim, Stephanie, and Cass arrived, their expressions filled with concern that quickly transformed into indignation.

“What happened here?” Tim asked, his eyes widening at the scene. Blood slid across the floor like a dark river, and the landlord’s body faded beneath the flickering light.

“Are you crazy, Jason?!” Steph exclaimed, disbelief palpable in her voice.

Cass crouched down, her expression grave as she looked at the fallen man. She didn’t need to speak to convey her disapproval; every glance said more than a thousand words.

“It doesn’t matter how we got here,” Dick intervened, his authoritative tone trying to restore order. “We need answers. Let’s investigate.”

With a determined movement, Barbara approached the body, while Jason still breathed irregularly, as if the weight of his actions began to settle on him. Barbara looked around; the apartment was a dusty and sad place, filled with shadows that seemed to whisper secrets.

As the others searched, Tim found a series of photos pinned to the walls, each one showing Y/n and other women from the area, frozen laughter in time, trapped between moments that should have been happy. However, there was something unsettling about the way they were arranged, a disorder that seemed a declaration of possession.

“Look at this,” Tim said, pointing to the images. There was Y/n, always smiling, but next to her was a figure that couldn’t be ignored. The silhouette of Pamela Isley, better known as Poison Ivy, stood beside her, her red hair like a fire that seemed to consume the sadness of the place.

“Pamela…” Cass murmured, her voice almost a whisper. “She’s been in Arkham for three months.”

Barbara moved closer, examining the photos more closely. “This is more complicated than we thought. Ivy has been involved, and that changes everything.”

Jason, still trying to comprehend the chaos he had unleashed, ran a hand through his hair. “It doesn’t matter. We’ll find Y/n. I don’t care what I have to do.”

Barbara looked at him, her expression one of challenge but also understanding. “We can’t do this recklessly. We have to be smart. Silent.”

The group nodded, realizing that the road ahead would be filled with dangers, but also promises of redemption. They were all willing to kill for Y/n, but they had to do it quietly, like shadows slipping through the streets at night.

“Listen, we’re going to find her,” Dick said, his voice resonating like a mantra. “No matter how many doors we have to break down, how many truths we have to drag into the light.”

And so, in the echo of the silence that followed the violence, the five united in a tacit pact, intertwining their destinies in the search for Y/n. Each lost in their thoughts, each remembering that shadows sometimes have the power to conceal not only secrets but also the light that clings to hope.

The shadows stretched as they moved away from the apartment, leaving behind the vestige of a dead man and the echo of trapped laughter. The search had begun, and Y/n’s fate hung in the balance, a thread of light in the darkness that promised to bloom amid the ruins of despair.

The city lights flickered in the distance, like lost stars in the asphalt.

The tears of Y/n fell onto the slippery ground, forming puddles that blended with the blood, a dark ruby staining every part of her thin body, as if sins were being tattooed onto her skin. The humidity of the place smelled of iron and fear, of broken promises and a destiny she had chosen but didn’t quite know how to accept.

“It doesn’t feel good, little one?” said the Doctor, his voice a bitter whisper echoing off the damp walls of the room. He, with his dirty blonde hair falling messily over his forehead, wore a white coat that looked more like a rag than a symbol of authority. A cynical smile spread across his lips, revealing teeth that seemed sharper than the fate he had designed for her. “Bathing in the blood of enemies, isn’t it an exquisite pleasure?”

Y/n, her gaze lost at a point on the floor, nodded slowly, as if each movement cost her an eternity. The blood, warm and sticky, slid between her fingers, a sensory experience that drowned her in contradictions. On one hand, there was a dark delight in the power that image conferred upon her, a power she had learned to wield. But on the other hand, there was an abyss of pain threatening to consume her.

“It’s…” she whispered, barely able to form words. Her voice trembled like a leaf in autumn, indecision etched in her features. Guilt suffocated her, and each tear that fell was a reminder of what she had lost, of what she had left behind.

“What is it?” asked the Doctor, leaning toward her, his eyes lit by a glow that was not exactly compassion, but rather a cruel satisfaction. His gaze seemed to pierce through the layers of her being, scrutinizing the dark corners of her soul. “Is it pleasure you feel, or is it fear?”

Y/n recoiled, feeling her skin burn under his gaze. The Doctor’s words tangled in her mind, forming a knot that seemed impossible to untie. Her voice, almost a cry for help, resonated in the air.

“I don’t know! I don’t know if it’s pleasure or pain.” The words shot out like arrows, but only managed to embed their tips in the empty air, finding no destination. She trembled, caught between repulsion and the desire to free herself from the invisible chains that kept her anchored in that place.

The Doctor let out a cold laugh, as if he were enjoying the spectacle unfolding before him. With a careless gesture, he threw another bucket of blood onto the floor, creating a small puddle that slid toward Y/n.

“That is the beauty of your situation, my dear. You have been chosen to cleanse Gotham of the scum, and along the way, you will discover that pain and pleasure are two sides of the same coin.”

“Chosen?” replied Y/n, her voice shaking with the fierce mix of disbelief and rage. “Chosen for what? To be your puppet?”

The Doctor stepped closer, letting the distance between them fade. His presence was oppressive, like a shadow that swallowed light.

“You are not a puppet, Kerosene” he said, pronouncing her name as if caressing it. “You are the spark that can ignite the revolution. The tears that fall now are the ashes of the old you, and it’s time you embrace what awaits you.”

Y/n felt the air grow dense, as if the Doctor’s words were trying to envelop her, to convince her. But there was a truth in his voice, an echo of what she had longed for deep within her being. Hadn’t she been searching for purpose, a place to belong?

“No… I don’t want to be what you’ve made me.” she said, though her voice sounded more hesitant than determined. It was as if reality slipped around her, like the slippery ground she stood on.

“Of course you do, Y/n.” He smiled, and there was something unsettling in that smile, something that made her feel she was on the brink of a revelation. “Your pain is the echo of the city, and you, little one, can be its savior.”

The Doctor’s words resonated in her mind, and Y/n felt herself teetering on the edge of the abyss, the possibility of becoming Kerosene, the force of vengeance and power. She fought against the idea, but there was a part of her that was beginning to awaken, to open like a flower in the desert.

“So, what do I have to do?” she asked, finally facing the reality that surrounded her. The tears, instead of being a sign of weakness, now seemed a recognition of her new identity.

The Doctor looked at her with a mix of satisfaction and complicity, like a teacher who sees the spark of greatness in his student.

“First, you must accept that the past does not define your future. The blood that surrounds you is only the first step toward freedom. Become what you have always been. Your destiny is to burn, and in doing so, illuminate others.”

Y/n felt the weight of her decision slowly fading away. By accepting her destiny, she had found a new way to free herself, a purpose that shone like fire.

“Then I will do it.” she said, her voice now firm and resonant, as if she were finally embracing the darkness that had always dwelled within her. “I will be Kerosene.”

The Doctor smiled, and in that smile lay a world of possibilities. Together, they could shake the foundations of Gotham.

“That’s right, my dear Kerosene.” He stepped back, allowing his figure to fade into the shadows..“And remember, every decision you make will be a step toward glory or toward downfall. The line is thin, and you are destined to cross it.”

“What about them?” Y/n asked, pointing to the shadows surrounding her, referring to the Waynes who remained silent in their luxurious prison of silence. “Where is Batman?”

The Doctor paused, his gaze turning serious and contemplative.

“Since your appearance, the Waynes have become shadows of what they once were. Batman has vanished, as if fear has locked him in his own game. They don’t want you to know the truth, and I wonder if, deep down, he fears what you are capable of.”

“Fears?” repeated Y/n, incredulity splattering her voice like a rain of dead stars. “Why?”

“Because the truth is that there is no longer space for the good in this city.” The Doctor stepped closer, his tone low but filled with fervor. “Soon you will go after the Court of Owls. We will expose those monsters in the streets, as they deserve, and they will have no one to defend them. Not even their beloved bat.”

A chill ran down Y/n's spine. The idea of stepping out into the night, of facing the villains who had ravaged her city, filled her with a strange power. She remembered Pamela, laughing amidst the shadows, her voice like an echo urging her to fight.

“I will not be their puppet. I do not want to be a pawn in a bigger game.” The words erupted from her with the force of an approaching storm, and the vision of Pamela dancing among the flowers filled her with a sudden sweetness.

“You will not be a pawn, Kerosene.” The Doctor smiled, and in his eyes was an air of admiration. “You are the queen in this game. Your vengeance will not only bring down those villains, but it will also seek the man behind the mask of Batman. We need to end him.”

“End him?” The question hung in the air like a trembling whisper. Her heart stopped for an instant, remembering the nights spent with Batman, the unspoken words, the caresses of an absent father.

“Yes. Because he, like them, has become a legend that needs to fall.”

Y/n felt the darkness looming over her, a shadow whispering promises of power and pain. But there was something more, a spark igniting within her, a fire burning with the strength of a new dawn.

“Then I will do it.” said Y/n, her voice resonating with a clarity that surprised her. “I will expose the Court of Owls and make my father see.”

The Doctor watched Y/n with palpable satisfaction, as if he had finally ignited a spark deep within her being. With a gesture of his hand, he made the invisible shackles that kept her trapped fade away. In that moment, a strange freedom slipped over her skin, a freedom laden with dark responsibility.

“Come, Kerosene.” he said, his voice now a hypnotic chant rising among the shadows. “There is something you need to see.”

He led her through a labyrinth of damp hallways, each step resonating like an echo of past decisions. The walls seemed to whisper forgotten secrets, tales of those who had fallen into the abyss before her. As they advanced, the light of day faded, and the gloom became an accomplice to their thoughts.

Finally, they reached the balcony of the building, a place where time had stopped its march. The Doctor gently pushed Y/n toward the railing, forcing her to look out over the vast expanse of Gotham that stretched before them. The city was a canvas of flickering lights and deep shadows, a portrait of intertwined chaos and order.

“Look, little one.” the Doctor whispered, his voice wrapping around her like a veil of mystery. “This is your city, a monster that feeds on the secrets you hold in your chest. The blood that stains your skin is a symbol of the struggle that lies ahead.”

Y/n leaned over the edge of the balcony, feeling the cold wind caress her bare skin. The city glimmered like a sea of dying stars, each light a story, each shadow a whisper of betrayal. The vision enveloped her, and for a moment, she felt like a spectator of her own destiny.

Her bare skin, still stained with blood, prickled at the chill of Gotham, a freezing breeze sneaking through the cracks of crumbling buildings, as if the city itself reminded her that she was alive, that darkness embraced her with its mantle of forgetfulness and despair. Each small contact of the air made her more aware of her vulnerability, and at the same time, of the power that blossomed from within her. It was a reminder that, amidst chaos, she was the spark of a new flame.

The puddles of blood that had stained her skin, silent witnesses to her transformation, shone like a dark ruby under the dim light of the moon. In that moment, each drop was an echo of past decisions, a symbol of the life she had left behind. And yet, in her mind, the Doctor's words echoed: “You are the spark that can ignite the revolution.” The irony of her state wrapped her in a sweet and bitter confusion; deep down, her nakedness felt like a release.

The city stretched before her, a vast ocean of twinkling lights and lurking shadows. Gotham, in its complexity, seemed to breathe, a living being pulsing with stories of pain and longing. The streetlights flickered as if about to go out, and Y/n felt that each flicker was a whisper calling her, a reminder that she was destined to be part of something much larger than herself.

As she gazed at the horizon, her mind filled with images: the faces of those she had lost, those she had loved, and those she had to confront. Her heart wrestled between the desire for vengeance and the longing for redemption.

“What do you see?” asked the Doctor, his eyes shining with an unsettling intensity.

“I see…” Y/n began, but the words slipped away like sand through her fingers. The city was a labyrinth of emotions, a stage where pain and pleasure intertwined in a macabre dance. It was a reflection of her own internal struggle, her desire for vengeance and her yearning for redemption.

“I see a sea of shadows, a stage where illusions collapse like houses of cards.” she finally replied, her voice echoing. “Each light, a hope; each shadow, a whisper of unhappiness.”

“Perfect.” The Doctor smiled, his face illuminated by an almost fraternal satisfaction. “Gotham is a mirror, and you are the light that can break the darkness. You must be able to see beyond what shines.”

The Doctor’s words resonated in her mind, tearing through the veil of confusion that enveloped her. In that instant, Y/n understood that every tear shed had fed the city, that every drop of blood on her hands was an echo of what she had lost. And yet, vengeance offered her a new purpose, a path into the unknown.

“The city cries for change, for a fire to purify it” she whispered, her voice gaining strength in the night breeze. “And I… I am that fire.”

“That’s right, dear.” The Doctor nodded, a mix of pride and malice in his expression. “The fire that will purify Gotham and, in its wake, consume everything that stands in your way.”

Y/n felt the air fill with electricity, a palpable current connecting her to the city, to its pain and desire. Deep within her, something began to change. She was no longer just a puppet; she was no longer merely the shadow of her past. She was Kerosene, the spark that would ignite the flame of change.

“But, Doctor, what about those who love the darkness?” she asked, her voice now an echo of what she had learned. “What if they cling to their shadow?”

The Doctor stepped closer to her, his penetrating gaze filled with complicity.

“Darkness is a possessive lover, but there is always a price to pay. The truth is that they cannot hold onto it forever. And when the fire burns, only those ready to be reborn will be saved.”

Y/n felt a mixture of anguish and determination. The city before her became a symbol of her internal struggle, a stage where light and shadow intertwined in an eternal game. Every street, every building, every corner whispered her name in a song of warning and challenge.

“And when the fire consumes everything in its path, will there be anything left of me?” she asked, her voice trembling with the fragility of a leaf in the wind.

The Doctor smiled, a smile that seemed to mock the questions still dancing in her mind.

“Perhaps, dear Kerosene, you will find yourself in the act of burning. Or maybe, you will fade into the ash. That is the enigma of transformation: in the fire, death is merely the prelude to a new beginning.”

As she gazed at the city, Y/n felt her identity fragment and fuse, in an endless cycle of creation and destruction. The image of Gotham before her became a metaphor for the human soul, a reflection of the struggles everyone faced in the darkness. The city, with its chaos and its heartbreaking beauty, enveloped her like a hug.

With one last look at the flickering lights and lurking shadows, Y/n stepped back, a firm decision rising within her.

“There’s no turning back now” she murmured, her voice an echo of her new reality. “I will be the fire that illuminates this eternal night.”

The Doctor, with a gesture of approval, retreated into the shadows, leaving her alone in her revelation. As the city spread before her, a mantle of mystery and power, Y/n knew that the true journey was just beginning. The line between fire and ash was thin, and in her chest burned the certainty that by crossing it, nothing would ever be the same.

“So be it, Kerosene” she said to herself as the wind enveloped her in secret whispers. “Let the fire speak in your name and let the night receive your lament.”

And looking at Gotham, she understood that, in the end, her destiny was not merely to be a spectator, but an unstoppable force, a storm that would unleash chaos. And so, with her heart beating to the rhythm of the city, she prepared to embrace her truth, her fire.

☆

A/N — Here is the long-awaited third part of this series. Thank you for all the support and love you have given me. I decided to make this part longer (at the cost of not being able to include the last image :( ) so that you can enjoy it more.

I was reading your comments where you were asking if Y/n and the Doctor would have a romance (which horrifies me a bit :d, but it gave me an idea) or if he performed a lobotomy on her. Well, that will be answered in the next part or in a headcanon, whatever you ask me.

By the way, in the tag list, there are some users I couldn't add, sorry about that 😔. I really appreciate your understanding and patience. Your enthusiasm keeps me motivated to keep creating and sharing these stories. I hope you find this installment engaging and that it brings you the excitement and emotions you’ve come to expect from the series. Enjoy!

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

take a bath!

Tag list! ◇ — @amber-content @toast-on-dandelioms @feral-childs-word @sweetconnoisseurgardener @victoria1676 @toasted-cat18 @nosyrobin @beeaskewwrites @yandere-enthusiast @telltaletoad @dhanyasri @vanessa-boo @m3vl0vesu @jellypotato66 @midnightgrimoire @cherryxxxxyoongi @imnotdumbimstupif @plsfckmedxddy @h0neysiba @mybones537 @erikasurfer @sheepintherain @pix-stuff @yan-rai @uniquecutie-puffs @arlandvery @theblonde777 @alishii

@maicenitas @ti-girl1226 @vanilliona @chickenwings435 @thedramabrotherss @bat1212 @imnotdumbimstupif @somebodyrandom-613 @aelxr @jsprien213 @sheepintherain @lovebug-apple @zenychwan @starsdotalk @holylonelyponyeatingmacaron @misdollface @clementinesyummy @bunbunboysworld @lunaluz432 @kiarst @meowmeeps @adeptusxia0 @mettatons-number-1fan @fairygardenprincesss @nervousalpacalady @mottysith

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

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ao3-top-batfam-ships-bracket · 4 months ago

Note

Anon wants sources? Here:

https://slate.com/culture/2016/04/the-history-of-the-gay-subtext-of-batman-and-robin.html

This is why many people have historically shipped them together. When you don’t have any representation at all in the media, when your existence is reviled and you can’t even legally live your life peacefully, you take what you can get.

I don’t think young people understand how gay life was back then. Adult adoptions between couples were not uncommon-and no, it wasn’t always a man preying on someone 20 years younger than him. Couples 3 years apart were adopting each other because that was the only way to let your partner inherit your estate, to visit you in the hospital, to legally be family. It wasn’t a kink, it was a safety net. Is it so hard to understand then, why people would look at Batman and Robin, and see parallels? Especially in a visual medium, where images can say or imply things that would not be written out in a book? Especially in comics, where everyone is so overly muscled that Robin often doesn’t look or act like a kid, or even a teenager?

It’s okay not to ship them. I don’t ship them. Shipping has ALWAYS been about grabbing crumbs of subtext and implied tension regardless of what the canon source says. Roddenberry didn’t intend for people to ship Kirk and Spock. Spirk fanworks were literally hidden under tables at conventions and people would sit under the tables to browse and exchange things. Nowadays it’s not illegal to produce gay media. But at the height of gay panic, when discrimination was not only tacitly legal, but done by the laws themselves, and the only gay people in media, though few, were either villains or played off as a joke, is it so hard to understand why people would look at some of those runs, and put two fictional people in a relationship?

(At the very least, just use the back button and the mute button and move on instead of playing purity police over something that’s not real. )

Thank you for your thoughts! We recommend checking out the linked article.

We've also found some more articles and book chapters on this subject that people might appreciate:

Chapter "Panic and Aftermath" from Glen Weldon's "The Caped Crusade: Batman and the Rise of Nerd Culture".

Chapter "1954: Censorship and Queer Readings" from Will Brooker's "Batman Unmasked: Analyzing a Cultural Icon".

Chapter "Batman, Deviance and Camp" by Andy Medhurts from the book "The Many Lives of the Batman. Critical Approaches to a Superhero and his Media".

Shyminsky, N. (2011). ‘‘Gay’’ Sidekicks: Queer Anxiety and the Narrative Straightening of the Superhero. Men and Masculinities, 14(3), 288-308.

Lang, R. (1990). Batman and Robin: A family romance. American imago, 47(3/4), 293-319.

York, C. (2000). All in the Family: Homophobia and Batman Comics in the 1950s. International Journal of Comic Art, 2(2), 100-110.

Best, M. (2005). Domesticity, homosociality, and male power in superhero comics of the 1950s. Iowa Journal of Cultural Studies, 6(1).

This article from 2005: "Gallery told to drop 'gay' Batman. DC Comics has ordered a New York gallery to remove pictures which show Batman and Robin kissing and embracing." http://news.bbc.co.uk/2/hi/entertainment/4167032.stm

This article from 2012: "Batman can't come out as gay – his character relies on him being in denial" by Will Brooker. https://www.theguardian.com/commentisfree/2012/may/28/batman-gay-character-relies-denial

And this sketch:

youtube

#asks #brudick #propaganda

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ao3feed-brucewayne · 3 months ago

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Birds of a Feather

read it on AO3 at https://ift.tt/3g9jq76 by gotham_girl “Why are you’re out this late at night?” “I just…” Hawks looks out over the ocean of lights and smog. “Need to fly. Sometimes. It helps clear my head.” “Sure,” Robin snorts unbelievingly. “You don’t believe me?” Robin turns to look at him. Really look. His mouth, for once, isn’t smiling, but pressed into an unwavering line. “I believe you like to fight.” There’s a sharp tone under his words that makes Hawks not interrupt him. Robin continues, finally turning back, and looking out at the city with Hawks. He looks almost– fond when he stares out at Gotham. “I think you’re just like me. That you like to fight. You like to feel the wind on your face. The adrenaline in your veins. You like helping people. I saw you get the drop on that mugger earlier. If he didn’t have a gun, I wouldn’t have needed to step in. Even then–” The boy pauses, and Hawk realizes that he’s not breathing. A grin finally appears on his lips. Quiet and subdued compared to his previous ones. “Yeah. Sure. I believe you need to fly.” _ Or: Impossibly, Hawks finds his home in the friendship of a Gotham vigilante. Words: 9055, Chapters: 1/?, Language: English Fandoms: Batman - All Media Types, 僕のヒーローアカデミア | Boku no Hero Academia | My Hero Academia (Anime & Manga) Rating: Teen And Up Audiences Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply Categories: Gen Characters: Dick Grayson, Bruce Wayne, Tim Drake, Jason Todd, Takami Keigo | Hawks, Aizawa Shouta | Eraserhead, Midoriya Izuku Relationships: Dick Grayson & Takami Keigo | Hawks, Jason Todd & Takami Keigo | Hawks, Dick Grayson & Bruce Wayne, Bruce Wayne & Takami Keigo | Hawks Additional Tags: Takami Keigo | Hawks is a Little Shit, dick grayson is a little shit, Thats it- that's the fic, Crack Treated Seriously, Fluff and Angst, DCU and MHA take place in the same universe, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Takami Keigo | Hawks Acts Like a Bird, Possessive Takami Keigo | Hawks, Quirkless Discrimination (My Hero Academia), Quirkless People with Extra Toe Joints Wear Custom Sneakers | Red Shoe Theory (My Hero Academia), Good Sibling Dick Grayson, Good Sibling Jason Todd, Protective Dick Grayson, Platonic Cuddling, Protective Takami Keigo | Hawks, Child Soldiers, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Corrupt Hero Public Safety Commission (My Hero Academia), fuck those guys - Freeform, Hawks gets a new family, Good Parent Bruce Wayne, Dick Grayson Needs a Hug, And He Gets One!, Robin sees a winged hero and goes mine now read it on AO3 at https://ift.tt/3g9jq76

#IFTTT #bruce wayne #batman #the caped crusader #the dark knight #dcu #ao3 #ao3feed

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apocalypse-shuffle · 11 months ago

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JASON TODD | RED HOOD (generalized fanon | wfa)

—

“Past The Time till Midnight” (Jason Todd & Fem!Reader)

| Jason’s a no good bastard and now you’re bored out of your mind.

| SFW, galas, mild(?) discrimination, -platonic!reader & queer!reader

| Could be pre-relationship if you want, I suppose. Background!(Rose Wilson x Jason Todd) & (Rose Wilson x Fem!Reader)

| Pic source — Batman: Wayne Family Adventures webtoon)

| 2k+ words

You’d had zero clue up until tonight just how fun draining a New Year's Eve gala could be. Honestly, you're upset you had to gain the knowledge through first hand experience too, but that only translates to you hip checking Jason when you make your way back to him.

He lets himself rock sideways the tiniest bit for your benefit. You roll your eyes.

“I thought you said this would be fun?”

You pass one of the drinks in your hands to him and he pockets his phone - whatever urgent call dealt with for now.

“Oh did I?” He nods in thanks then knocks back the flute of champagne. “I lied.”

You suck your teeth, “I fucking hate you.”

A burst of brief snickers is all that proclamation provokes.

With a sigh you cross your arms, sipping at your drink at a far more acceptable pace as you people watch.

Jason and you both are largely out of the way by design. You were of the vast majority of people who didn’t see the fun in being scrutinized by droves of rich socialites for hours on end, and Jason was…Jason.

He maybe showed up to two of these things a year - and never without extensive weedling and bribery from some other one of the bats (though noticeably never by Bruce himself who was almost always the host of the Galas that Jason bothered to show his face at).

Two ladies throwing small looks your way, giggling and laughing, catch your interest on your sweep of the ballroom. You squint.

It’s you who redirects Jason’s attention towards them with an elbow to the side. He makes a low irritated sound that makes you laugh but doesn’t even retaliate before following your gaze.

When he does his eyes briefly light up with recognition. Instantly you perk up too.

Finally, something interesting.

The both of you glance at each other - a grin spread across his face and a raised brow on yours - before moving in tandem towards the other duo without another word.

The women straighten, standing impossibly taller, smiles losing their genuity, as you close in on them.

“Hi,” Jason reaches out to take the shortest of the two’s offered hand. He doesn’t bend down to kiss it though, just holds it until the woman frowns at his lack of kiss then let’s go. “We saw you laughing and couldn’t help but want to join in on the fun. These things can be so uneventful sometimes.”

“Oh! Of course.” She laughs, high and melodic and fake, “Any son of Thee Brucie Wayne is always welcome to join!”

“Great.” Watching Jason’s crowd smile spread across his face is fascinating. “No problem telling me what gossip had you laughing and saying my name then? I like to get ahead of the press.”

He caps the sentence off with a jovial shrug, smile still in place, and it works. Even with their reservations in place - and the fact Jason’s never left his pure disdain for the likes of them secret - they don’t seem to catch that they’re walking into a trap, their smiles broadening. Jason has somehow managed a very distinct balance between alarming and painfully boyish and it’s actually working.

If this is what he always looked like when he did this song and dance in the helmet you were going to clown the hell out of him later.

“Well alright, but we were just talking gossip like girls do.”

You exchange another rapid fire look and Jason’s grin dips teasingly, eyebrows raising.

His look says, “You're up. Bet you can’t do better.”

You grit your teeth just long enough he catches your acceptance, then force the corners of your mouth up.

“Oh yeah, about what?” You look between both women. Jason’s already bracing himself, expertly masking his amusement.

Clare laughs in that airy way these types love so much.

“Me and Linda were just discussing how…fitting it is that two people from your backgrounds would come together under the Wayne name.”

“A wonderful coincidence really,” Linda nods along. Any faster and you think her head will fall off. You wonder if it would look like those mannequins that get knocked over at the mall.

You shake your own head, adopting a bewildered expression. “I’m sorry I’m just not seeing what’s so funny. Could you explain?”

Jason chokes - on what? you don’t know - beside you and dissolves into a short coughing fit. You reach around without looking away from your companions to pat him on the back, silently handing him the rest of your drink.

Clare makes an aborted motion as Linda coos uselessly at Jason.

“Well,” she clears her throat, flipping her hair over her shoulder. “Well. It’s not funny per say. I think you may have misinterpreted - um, confused - our reactions. We just think it’s sweet that two…um…uh…. disenfranchised people managed to meet and get so close after being helped by Bruce. That’s all hun.”

You're not her ‘hun’ and you want to burn the patch of skin she touches when she pats your arm. A reminder to settle down; like a half trained dog stepping out of place.

Your teeth grind together but you maintain your open expression, saying your next words cheerily.

“Oh! Girl, I’m not ‘disenfranchised’,” you laugh, head thrown back for a moment and all, before dropping your head to look her in the eye, “I’m just black.”

Instantly the laughter Clare had joined in on peters off into silence on her end. She stares at you a little blankly. You smile, continuing, “Yeah, and I - uh - just met Bruce Wayne today actually, but I do think I get what’s funny now. Now I know you’re just as fake as your smile…and your personality too, probably. Hell, I’d even be willing to bet that whatever charities you deign to donate to you bad mouth on the side too. Gotta keep up appearances though, right?”

Clare goes beet red and Linda freezes, her little smile and nod deal etched in place.

Clare sputters, brows furrowing in an especially non flattering way in a bid to find something to respond with.

Jason hums lowly, gesturing idly with your now empty glass and her mouth snaps shut like a snapping turtle with a baby’s finger in its clutches. “And I think the word you were looking for was ‘homeless’, Nats.”

Clare doesn’t respond, she stops doing much of anything in fact, only getting redder by the second in the face of Jason engaging directly with her. Wayne influence was strong enough that everyone wanted to gossip about them but no one was willing to say a damn thing to their faces about it it seems.

You can’t help the little grin that realization pulls out of you. The way your heart starts to race alongside it makes it hard to tell whether you want to spit in her uppity little face or laugh in it.

Ultimately you don’t get a chance because Jason’s face rapidly shifts from that deceptive boyishness to a sneer that’s very skillfully hidden behind his own even nastier grin.

“I don’t like you Nats, you know that, and we’ve blown up about this before so I don’t want to hear any more of your shitty justifications trust me,” he pauses purely because he’s just that dramatic, huff of laughter falling past his lips, “but you know who would like to hear them?”

Clare scowls, lip upturning. “Who Wayne?”

His sneer drops and all that’s left is that grin. Still just as nasty but clearly mocking. “Vickie would. And she’s always begging for an interview with the previously estranged ‘disenfranchised’ son of Bruce Wayne. She’d eat up every word out of my mouth.”

Jason doesn’t wait for a response, just grabs you by the hand and leaves her horrified face and Linda’s meek cries of: “Jason please,” behind.

You blow out of there so fast that Jason eventually ends up having to catch up with you, long strides barely holding a candle to you fleeing the scene like there’s an active fire up under your ass.

“Don’t bring me back to one of these, Jason.”

“Gotcha.”

“I mean it.”

“I know,” he waits a beat, “and I’m sorry.”

“It’s fine.”

“It’s not.”

“She insulted you too.”

“Yeah but I’m used to rich people’s inability to feel real human emotion, and even more familiar with Clare Nats’ particular brand of it.”

“Fine.” You step over someone's jewelry laying on the floor. You turn back to your friend after giving the diamonds and gemstones a good glance. “And that was definitely a tie by the way.”

“Sure,” he starts leading you towards the other end of the ballroom. “You want something to drink? I need a drink. Hate name dropping Bruce like that; makes me itch.”

You also already knew that from first hand experience; watching him act like he’d quite literally broken out in hives after needing to pull out his father’s name to get through a hospital of all places faster. Steph was hurt so obviously he’d done it but he’d scratched the whole way to the floor she was being held at in Gotham General like he honestly couldn’t help himself. You hadn’t laughed then and certainly haven’t brought it back up to laugh at him after the fact, but you think about it often.

It was a really good pick me up out of context, how could you not?

The two of you hit the bar like sea drifters catching sight of land for the first time in ages, more so because of Jason than you though. You weren’t nearly that thirsty; just dragged along.

He grips the lip of the bartop hard and flags down the bartender. He’s forcing the coolness in his voice, in his posture, when he orders but it’s not like they’d know that.

“Who is Clare exactly?” You gesture to him, unimpressed. “And is Bruce gonna be pissed you mouthed off or something? It’s not like you just ended all prejudice around the world and now he’s got nothing left to fight for or some shit. Why are you drinking?”

“Fuck you, I do not need his ‘okay’ to talk to people.”

You roll your eyes, “Then why, Jason?”

He glares over his shoulder at the way you accentuate his name, roughly emphasizing the vowels, but you don’t do anything more than stare back.

“Nats and I grew up at the same time and she had a lotta opinions about my adoption back then, but I’m mainly irritated cause they’re gonna start…gossiping now.”

You laugh.

“Aww is the big bad outlaw scared of a few blog articles now? I’ll make sure to keep that in mind for when we go up against some asshole with a gossip column.”

The shot of tequila comes, no chaser, and Jason snatches and downs it in one fluid motion. You cringe just as he brings his head down to look at you, pointing with his hand still occupied by the little glass.

“You are…the worst.”

Your facial expression widens; eyes getting big, brows rising towards your hairline, mouth agape - the whole nine yards.

“Me?” You tutt, “I know you fucking lying. You can’t expect me to take your fear of women who sit in front of keyboards while probably sipping on lattes seriously? Come on, man.”

“It’s not just- It’s not just the keyboards okay? It’s the whispers. I don’t give two shakes of a rat’s ass about what these 10% assholes think of me, but having all their attention…”

You find yourself nodding (and mercifully skipping over the rat comment) and hum quietly. “Alright, when you put it like that I guess I get it.”

Jason grunts, sliding the shot glass closer to the opposite edge of the counter, “Yeahhhh. I hate when this happens.”

The bartender takes the glass without even stopping in their rush to the couple flagging them down and you squint.

“Aren’t you 19?”

“Twenty; and nobody asks questions when it could mean they won’t get paid at rich people parties.”

“How very criminal,” you say. You wait for that to - predictably - get a smile out of Jason before jostling him. “Now come on.”

He follows you easily when you walk away, catching up to you almost immediately now your gait is calmer.

“Where are we going?” Jason’s hands shove into the expensive pockets of his suit pants.

You get part way up the first flight of stairs leading to the second floor till you answer him.

“We’re gonna make Bruce do something embarrassing so everyone’s too busy talking about him to remember you exist.”

“Gee,” Jason scoffs, “you sure got a weird way of showing you love me.”

“It’s in spite of how lame you are, trust me.”

Once you get past the stairs Jason automatically takes the lead and steers you towards the east wing of the house.

You’re both rummaging in the attic for anything sufficient for the combined goal at hand, and you’ve got a mesh bag of brightly colored marbles in your palm, when Jason stops searching and turns to you with a grave look on his face.

For your part you stop too, facing him fully with the bag bouncing in one of your hands.

“Hey, in all seriousness I’m sorry again, yeah? My plan was for us to be bored together, not angry together.”

You can’t help the way your eyes roll. “We literally made the decision to go screw with them, because they were talking about us, to-ge-ther. Chill out.”

For half a second Jason looks like he’s legitimately fighting the urge to flip you off - or set Artemis on you during y’all’s next sparring session - but ultimately he just ends up shaking his head at you.

His lips undeniably quirk in the low lighting you guys are working with though so you’ll call that a win.

“Alright yeah. The way she changed colors was pretty funny.”

“Wish I’d gotten a picture,” you add, nodding.

The two of you glance at each other before bursting out into laughter.

After that coming up with a plan to fuck with Bruce - and Tim, per Jason’s added stipulation - takes barely anymore time.

Although—

Conspicuously you check the time on your phone and when 11:53 flashes up at you you grin.

“Hey, do you know if Dana is still here?”

Jason’s brows furrow, but he shrugs at you as he’s looking out over the grounds. He thinks Bruce is entertaining people outside right now and is doing his best to locate him from afar.

“Pretty sure she is. Why?”

It’s then that he turns to you and whatever flashes through your eyes gives you away apparently because then he’s practically wagging his damn finger at you.

“You better—”

“—You better hope I don’t get to her before the clock strikes,” you cut him off.

A beat passes where Jason clearly digests the challenge issued and then you’re both fighting to get through the little door that leads to the attic.

Your plans for Bruce - and Tim - could wait for later.

NOTES: Hope you enjoyed!!

This feels slightly all over the place, but whatever. Mind any typos I will catch them later.

Ending off yet another year with a Jason Todd fic. Till next year Lovelies!!!🧡

btw: if you’d like to leave a comment I’d very much appreciate it!

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avatarwarriordreamwalkers · 2 years ago

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We all don’t have to look far to see in the news, humanity is a very violent species. The 1st outlet of violence is on the outside, internally directed outwards with no bulwark stopping its expression. We get war, mass shootings, Suicide bombings, the list goes on and on.

But the 2nd outlet of violence has the opportunity to be redemptive and transformative. It is internally directed outwards on the page or canvas as art. It allows the creator to process their demons in a dimension of the imagination where they have complete control, and thus can prevail, using their expression in films, theater, visual art, music and even sharing their internal battle through books.

And often times these “warrior dream-walkers” come out of their internal journey transformed, no longer a puppet of the violent thoughts that once dominated their mind. One might even say they have come closer to an Avatar consciousness, piloting their own body on a heroes journey, the way we might control an Avatar in a video game, no longer dominated by fear, but liberated by an experience where we connect to our higher self that is consciousness itself. I see filmmakers as warrior dream-walkers, facilitating an Avatar consciousness, helping others face the same demons they did, and potentially rise from them triumphant as a new human. This is the hope I see in the arts. 🎭

Sure, Avatar the film is violent, and there are a lot of films that are even worse! But this is the case with art throughout all of human history. Even the moral guidebook of great religions is filled with violent stories, where God exacts vengeance on the humans who wronged him.

I see Avatar as a means for our world culture to exercise demons of its past, in the form of lamenting the horror of our story and how disappointing our world has been for so many over the centuries. Avatar is Cameron’s vehicle for imagining a better world. The story of the Tulkun is the story of our whales. And the story of the Na’vi is the story of indigenous peoples everywhere. But what if we lived in a world where whales could fight back and didn’t passively let humans slaughter them centuries for their oil? Or what if the indigenous could mount a defense against the imperialists and win! What a spectacle that would be, for bows and arrows to defeat tanks and gunships, and imagine how gratifying it would feel for those traumatized by the story of native american genocide, or someone who loves nature and wants to see our world fight back against corporate greed destroying the environment for the sake of profit.

This is the power and value I see in art. Sure, there are people who don’t get it. One may use an example of a young boy who shoots up a movie theater screening of Batman. Some may argue “Batman and other movies incite violence and this is proof!” But what if this young man had the bulwark of art in his life, to help him exercise his demons before they played him like a puppet. That’s where my idea for “Temples of Light” comes in.

Movie theaters are like a universal temple spread across every continent and nation, with stories that transcend borders and barriers of all kinds, drawing diverse masses into theater temples for a profoundly sacred experience, transcending human differences bound to race, class, religion, sexual orientation, gender discrimination and nationality. What if this global entity in a sleeping state, could awaken and even strengthen through the power of fellowship, making the audience feel they are part of a new family that truly sees them; a place where we can exercise demons, and dreams can be made more powerful than nightmares.

This is the fellowship and tribe I long for, but doesn’t yet exist. Because I don’t see anyone trying to create this, I have to do what I can to imagine that it’s real, hoping to turn my dreams to reality.

🎥✨📽️✨🌟✨✌🏽👁🌍👁

I talk about all this in my Avatar video from last year, https://youtu.be/SfrhQrz4Vg4 and hope to continue the conversation soon in my Avatar 2 video.

#avatar #avatar2 #james cameron #jamescameron #pandora #navi #thewayofthewater #worldspirit

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celtyradicalfem · 2 years ago

Photo

I made you Big Mad if you wrote all that

Me: “Dude you think choking women is acceptable and use the ‘she was asking for it defence’ rape defence”

You: Rape is literally defined by lack of consent

You just used the ‘she was asking for it’ defence by hiding behind the definition to excuse sexual violence against women at the hands of men

“It’s only a hate crime if I hit her because she’s a woman. Which will never be the case, unless I go insane.”

You want hit women because they are women

You defend (and most likely want to) choking women because they are women

You wouldn’t be saying ‘equal rights equal fights’ to a man because it wouldn’t make sense and you are a chicken shit coward who picks fights with women

“Personally, I’d rather not have to use force to defend myself or other people. Ever”

You are practically publicly masturbating to the thought of beating women and getting a ‘justified’ defence

“I took a few screenshots and spent a few minutes typing up a post a post on a social media site. That’s not a “cry campaign”.”

Assholes like you have been sulking about women having rights and not being allowed to hit women for years

Quoting the lamest instalment of Batman is the latest cry campaign of man child movement

“Also, what was she retaliating for, exactly”

You want to retaliate against women using physical force, for what exactly?

Verbal harassment from a guy who couldn’t hurt her in any physical way?”

Random man didn’t know she had super powers and could defend herself

From his perspective he went up to a random woman intruded on her space and posed a threat

She was within her rights to kick his ass

You were relying on the assumption she couldn’t/shouldn’t defend herself

“And this deserved…hurting him with her alien energy powers”

He was asking for it

“and stealing his bike?”

youtube

Any Nerdy Nitpicking on this classic scene?

He is a cybernetic robot who used excessive force on humans to strip a man off his clothes and steal his bike

Obviously this is not a demonstration to the audience the Terminator’s powers and threat level but a moral dilemma

“There’s a reason that was a cut scene. Even the studio thought she looked bad.”

That was one of the more memorable moments from the film

Years later men’s rights man children are still crying about space lady twisting a biker’s arm like it happened in real life

Movie cut scenes all the time even when the producers wanted the scene in the movie btw

“I’m not surprised that you don’t know how dictionaries work, on top of the many, many other things you’re usually wrong about.”

Most dictionaries reference sexism as discrimination against women

Sexism is defined as discrimination against women since the term was created by feminists

I find it ironic that you are relying on dictionary definitions tho

“I also notice that not a single word you’ve said actually addresses my criticism of feminism, or that one person’s claim. It’s nothing but attacks on me.”

You didn’t really make a critique to address

It was a cry campaign about men not being permitted to beat women

I said you will probably end up with violence against women charges with your seething entitlement issues 🤷‍♀️

“Struck a nerve, did I?”

Space lady make you upset?

“men’s primary abusers are other men#men are also evil squared#they can f off :)#men”

Statistics show men’s biggest danger is other men

I didn’t even make that argument that time but you know

“Boy, noMoreRWW”

@nomorerrw

“that certainly sounds like a statistic you just made up.”

I can get the statistics but I’m going out soon

“And I’ve seen actual evidence showing women make up a significant amount of abusers.”

You have read propaganda from men’s rights sites and believed it

Space Lady Made him Upset

He blocked me

Feminist in Youtube comments: Feminism is about equality! Feminists a few years ago: It’s perfectly okay for Captain Marvel to assault a guy and steal his bike because he asked her to smile! Also feminists a few years ago: Any man who asks if gender equality means men get to hit women just wants to hurt women!

I think “equal rights, equal fights” went mainstream despite feminism.

So it’s hilarious to see feminists trying to take all the credit for gender equality issues that they’ve been trying to suppress for decades.

Issues mainstream feminism still refuses to call “sexism against men”.

#this rant didn’t show up in my activity for some reason #all that writing and you are still wrong #feels so threatened by women he can’t help calling me ‘crazy’ for saying he is pathetic #womanhatblr

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violetmessages · 2 years ago

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Every single community character is bi and I will prove it here:

Jeff: he’s desperate for some kind of emotional intimacy, it seems obvious that doing it with men means more of a chance of getting that connection - he never does, mainly because he doesn’t realize he’s using sex as a way to cope, but he does realize that men are just as hot as women and he’s great at sleeping with them

Britta: she’s spent her whole life being accepting, the biggest ally, the one who goes to all the marches and parades but she can’t possibly be gay, she’s attracted to men. It’s not until she realizes how much she actually enjoyed kissing Paige that the realization that, oh perhaps it’s not *just* men pops into her head.

Annie: she’s always been so close to her childhood friend, close enough that when they were 14 they promised each other that they were going to go to the same college and then the same grad school then work at the same job and live in the same house forever and always be together. It doesn’t end up working, her friend goes to a “real college” and they lose contact (truthfully they had been estranged ever since Annie got addicted to pills). Her friend is married now and she’s totally not jealous at all until Britta points out that it’s not exactly the norm to want the kind of relationship that she clearly expected would happen. It’s only then that Annie realizes she’s bi and was in love with her childhood best friend

Troy: He grew up in a household where they didn’t talk about it, being gay was a sin, and he was always great with women - it’s not until abed shows up that he realizes what it’s like to have the most important intimate connection of his life. And he knows, this feeling, this love, it can’t possibly be a sin because it feels so holy.

Abed: he’s always known, it’s something that he’s known ever since it was possible to have feelings for another person. Love isn’t hard for him, he doesn’t need to worry or discriminate based on gender, love is freeing. Love is a warm hug from Annie and a day spent in the dreamatorium with Troy. Love is six other people who care about him more than anyone else has. Love is a signed Batman movie with extra footage and buttered noodles and special drink. It’s easy.

Shirley: she doesn’t realize it. Not until the group points it out. She’s a godly woman, a woman who prides herself on being a Christian, but she looks at the group and sees how happy they are, knows in her heart that being bi doesn’t make them sinful, and being bi herself doesn’t mean she’s going against god

Pierce: you’d never know on the surface. He’s the first to make a gay joke, he’s the old man stereotype to a fault, he’s has 7 marriages and countless other relationships with women. But he’s defensive. Too defensive on one day and it’s something he’s hidden from everyone, even himself. His father wasn’t a tolerant man, not in the slightest, and he had to be the perfect son in this, especially because he failed in all the rest. So what if the man he secretly loved was dying of a disease that seemed incurable. So what if it was his first love? A man he hadn’t even confessed anything to, a man who saw right through him and never once pushed him to say a thing. All he had to do was nod his head and pretend to agree when his father called it a plague that was richly deserved, that AIDS was a punishment from god. He turned his head and he never looked back because he was too frightened to see what he had left behind.

#community #jeff winger #britta perry #troy barnes #abed nadir #annie edison #shirley bennett #pierce hawthorne

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folk-ever-lore · 2 years ago

Text

with great power comes great responsibility

Tim had always been a huge superhero fan, even after he became one himself. As a kid, they’d been his escape, and nothing could change that. He’d looked up to and practically worshipped the real-life heroes in his world, but fictional ones? He loved them even more if that was even possible.

He loved the way that they were both so human (even if they weren’t really human) and so incredibly unrealistic power-wise. The MARVEL universe had always been his favourite, in any form. He’d devoured the comics, the movies, and the TV shows. He loved them all.

He loved how the mutants in MARVEL were so similar to metahumans in his own world. Both groups struggled with discrimination, both had good and bad individuals with gifts, and their gifts come from genetic mutants that people were born with.

He loved the Avengers and how their group reflected the Justice League. Iron Man was a bit of a play on the little that was known on Batman; Thor was a Norse, male version of Wonder Woman; Dr. Strange was a play on Zatanna; Hawkeye was clearly a less rich version of Green Arrow. Of course, not all of the MARVEL characters were based on real-world superheroes and issues, but Tim always found it more enjoyable when they were.

But his real favourite character was Spider-Man. He’d never once been able to pick out any one reason for that, but no other character could compare in his opinion. Maybe it was his age, maybe it was the fact that he’d fought to become a hero at a young age just like Tim, maybe it was all the different versions of Spider-Man. But either way, Tim truly loved the character.

That was why the Ultimate Spider-Man TV show was his favourite. That and the plots and the cameos from other MARVEL characters and the humour. Maybe the show in general just stood out to him. However, that didn’t matter. What did matter was it was his favourite TV show and he’d just found out that his girlfriend hadn’t watched it.

“You haven’t seen Ultimate Spider-Man?” He’d asked, completely bewildered. Marinette had always loved superheroes, or so he thought. He would have thought that she’d have watched it.

“Non,” she replied, “I haven’t watched many superhero films or TV shows. Real life was crazy enough in Paris, we didn’t need to watch the TV shows.”

“I suppose that is fair. Not much could top the stupidity that was the Bubbler or any of the many times Mr. Pigeon was akumatized,” he admitted. That was fair. At least half the akumatized villains Paris had dealt with during Hawkmoth’s reign felt like they could have been from a comic book or TV show or film without an issue. That’s why it had taken so long for the Justice League to offer aid to the Parisian superheroes. “Would you like to watch it with me now?”

Marinette laughed lightly. That was such a Tim thing to do. “Sure, I’ll watch it with you.”

“Yay!”

“But,” she started, upon hearing his automatic cheer, “you only get five episodes to try to convert me before I make my judgement. Do we have a deal?” She held her hand out for him to shake if he was going to accept.

He paused. Only five episodes? Would that be enough? He supposed he’d have to work with what he had been given. “Alright. We have a deal.” He shook her hand.

“You set it up and I get the popcorn?”

“Sure,” he said quietly, not wanting her to change her mind. He loaded up Disney+ on the TV and found Ultimate Spider-Man in the Spider-Verse section of the MARVEL page on the streaming service.

“You ready?” He asked as his girlfriend handed him a bowl of popcorn and sat down next to him.

“Oh go on then,” she sighed, clearly faking her annoyed reaction as the smile on her face was as bright as a day in Paris.

He pressed play.

Jonah Jameson: “I know you’re out there you wall-crawling menace! It is the duty of every New Yorker to report the actions of these masked miscreants! So listen up: As long as J. Jonah Jameson is CEO of Daily Bugle Communications, I won’t rest until New York has seen the last of Spider-Man!”

...

Nick Fury: “With great power, comes great responsibility. Good words from a good man.”

Spider-Man: “Uncle Ben was the best.”

Nick Fury: “It’s been what? A year now?”

“What happened to Uncle Ben?” She asked.

“He was killed in a robbery gone wrong,” Tim informed her. “Peter was there and couldn’t help, blamed himself and became Spider-Man.”

“Well that’s awful,” she commented. Her heart ached for the young boy, fictional as he was.

...

Nick Fury: “I want to S.H.I.E.L.D. train you to be a better Spider-Man. The Ultimate Spider-Man.”

...

Dr. Otto Octavius: “Impressed, Mr. Osborn?”

Norman Osborn: “Very, Octavius. More than ever, I’m convinced Spider-Man is the key to military superiority. Once I replicate his abilities, I’ll market an army of spider-enhanced super soldiers to the highest bidder. Nick Fury is a fool to think he can get Spider-Man to work for S.H.I.E.L.D. I prefer Spider-Man the way he is. Headstrong, undisciplined, easy to anger.”

Dr. Otto Octavius: “And easier to turn. I’ll inform our remaining allies to begin phase two.”

“Those two seem nasty,” she muttered under her breath. Only getting a hum in response from Tim.

They must be very important then, she guessed if he didn’t want to confirm anything about them. Could they possibly be the big villains of the season? Maybe.

...

Wizard: “Warning students. Your principal has something to tell you.”

Principal: “Students. Your attention, please. Your school is now under the control of the … the …”

Thundra: “The Frightful Four.”

Mary Jane Watson: “Uh, there’s only three of you.”

Marinette laughed at that. Maybe this show wasn’t too bad. She could definitely- maybe, see herself enjoying it. It was definitely funny.

Sure it was a bit childish with all the narrating and stuff, but it had originally been a kids’ show. Maybe that was the beauty of it. She definitely liked this show.

...

Jonah Jameson: “In a shocking betrayal of the justice system he claims to uphold. Spider-Man, today, led known super-criminals in an attack on innocent school children. Believe me, ladies and gentlemen, it gives this humble commentator less pleasure. I imagine to say: I told you so. It is the opinion of Daily Bugle Communications that the police should issue a warrant for Spider-Man’s arrest! And that nothing less than deadly force should be employed in the pursuit of Spider-Man!”

“Well he’s just a nasty piece of work,” she remarked at the news reporter’s announcement. “Spider-Man is just trying to help people and is getting slandered like this?”

Tim nodded, “Unfortunately that’s what happens to Spider-Man. In every single story, he gets unjustified hate from the press and the public.”

“Well, that’s unfair.”

...

Spider-Man: “Okay let’s do this. Put out the welcome mat S.H.I.E.L.D. Spidey’s come a callin’. Fury was right. With his help, I can do better. I’m done with this lonely loser routine. It’s time for me to step up and show the big boys what the Ultimate Spider-Man can do.”

...

Peter Parker: “Your friendly neighbourhood Ultimate Spider-Man, reporting for duty sir!”

Nick Fury: “Welcome to S.H.I.E.L.D., Spider-Man. Hope you survive the experience.”

“How was that?” Tim asked once the first episode finished, anxious to hear what she thought.

“It was certainly something,” she replied carefully. Not wanting to give him any definite answers until she’d watched a few more episodes. Tim didn’t need any false hope. “It was enjoyable and I’ll certainly watch the next few episodes with you, but I refuse to give any further judgement until the end of episode five.”

“But-” Tim tried to argue, wanting to hear more about what his girlfriend thought about his favourite TV show of all time.

“But,” she interrupted, “we could try watching as much of the next four episodes as possible so I can tell you my thoughts after that.”

Tim sighed, “That’s the best I’m going to get, isn’t it?”

“Yep,” she replied with a smile on her face.

“We better get watching then.”

“We’d better,” she snuggled up close to him as he pressed play.

Throughout the next four episodes, which they totally didn’t binge-watch, Marinette and Tim made sure that they were always stocked up with popcorn. At the start of every episode, they would take turns with making some more. It probably wasn’t the most healthy thing to do, but at least it wasn’t coffee. Alfred would have had their heads if he found out that they’d drunk that much coffee in that little time.

They weren’t going to risk that.

When one of them wasn’t making popcorn, they were generally cuddled up together. That had been very nice. The pair of them had smiles plastered on their faces. They didn’t get to do stuff like this all that often - not with all the work they had to do and all the superheroing - so it was incredible to get the chance to relax and have some fun now.

When they got to the end of the fifth episode, Marinette faked a huge sigh. “I guess it wasn’t that bad,” she admitted.

“So you liked it?” an ever-curious Tim asked.

“I did,” she confirmed. “It was good. I’ll happily watch it with you anytime.”

***

Ladybug grinned. She’d been planning this for weeks.

Even since Tim had shown her the Ultimate Spider-Man, she’d wanted to surprise him somehow with some new knowledge on the character, so she’d started watching some of the other Spider-Man movies and TV shows. And when she’d watched the Toby Maguire films, she’d focused in on one scene that she thought Tim would love, probably did love.

The infamous upside-down kiss.

Ladybug and Red Robin had teamed up for patrol that night, and she’d lead him on a bit of a wild goose chase so that she could find the perfect spot to re-enact the kiss in question.

She jumped down to the ground from a building using her yoyo to control the landing. Tim followed her without question, presuming that she’d seen something down there for them to deal with.

Once Red Robin was down on the ground with her, she threw her yoyo up so it went around the house’s chimney before suspending herself upside down, hanging in the air.

“Do I get a kiss or what?” She asked cheekily.

“Oh go on then,” Tim responded jokingly, “I guess I can do that.”

He grinned, pulling her face close and kissing her.

“You’re the best,” he said playfully after they’d pulled away. “You know that right?”

She grinned, “I could have guessed that, but why don’t you kiss me again to show me?”

Tim laughed, “Deal.”

#maribat #marinette dupain cheng #tim drake #tim x marinette #timinette #timari #marinette x tim #ultimate spider man #watching the show #tim drake is a nerd #marvel reference #spiderman kiss #dc x mlb #mlb x dc #fluff #a surprisingly high amount of fluff for me #peter parker

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writingwithcolor · 3 years ago

Note

I'm writing an AU of a movie that takes place in the 1880s USA, where a travelling white character and a Jewish character are waylaid by Native Americans, who they befriend. Probably because it was written by and about PoC (Jews) the scene actually avoids the stuff on your Native American Masterpost, but I'd still like to do better than a movie made in the 1980's, and I feel weird cutting them from the plot entirely. I have a Jewish woman reading it for that, but are there any things you (1/1)

2/2 1880s western movie ask--are there things you'd LIKE to see in a movie where a white man and a Jewish man run into Native Americans in the 1880s? I do plan to base them on a real tribe (Ute, probably) and have proper housing/clothes and so forth, but right now I'm just trying to avoid or subvert awful cowboy movie tropes. Any ideas?

White and Jewish Men, Native American interactions in 1880s

I am vaguely concerned with how you only cite one of our posts about Native Americans, that was not written by a Native person, and do not cite any of the posts relating to this time period, or any posts relating to representation in media.

Sidenote: if you want us to give accurate reflections of the media you’re discussing, please tell us the NAME. I cannot go look up this movie based off this description to give you an idea of what my issues are with this scene, and must instead trust that the representation is good based off your judgement. I cannot make my own judgement. This is a problem. Especially since your whole question boils down to “this scene is good but not great and I want it to be great. How can I do that?”

Your baseline for “good” could very well be my baseline for “terrible hack job”. I can’t give you the proper education required for you to be able to accurately evaluate the media you’re watching for racist stereotypes if you don’t tell me what you’re even working with.

When you’re writing fanfic where the media is directly relevant to the question, please tell us the name of the media. We will not judge your tastes. We need this information in order to properly help you.

Moving on.

I bring up my concern for you citing that one—exceptionally old—post because it is lacking in many of the tropes that don’t exist in the media critique field but exist in the real world. This is an issue I have run into countless times on WWC (hence further concern you did not cite any other posts) and have spoken about at length.

People look at the media critique world exclusively, assume it is a complete evaluation of how Native Americans are seen in society, and as a result end up ignoring some really toxic stereotypes and then come to the inbox with “these characters aren’t abc trope, so they’re fine, but I want to rubber stamp them anyway. Anything wrong here?”. The answer is pretty much always yes.

Issue one: “Waylaid” by Native Americans

This wording is extremely loaded for one reason: Native American people are seen as tricksters, liars, and predators. This is the #1 trope that shows up in the real world that does not show up in media critique. It’s also the trope I have talked about the most when it comes to media representation, so you not knowing the trope is a sign you haven’t read the entirety of the Native tag—which is in the FAQ as something we would really prefer you did before coming at us to answer questions. It avoids us having to re-explain ourselves.

Now, hostility is honestly to be expected for the time period the movie is set in. This is in the beginnings (or ramping up) of residential schools in America* and Canada, we have generations upon generations of stolen or killed children, reserves being allocated perhaps hundreds of miles from sacred sites, and various wars with Plains and Southwest peoples are in full force (Wounded Knee would have happened in 1890, in December, and the Dakoa’s mass execution would have been in 1862. Those are just the big-name wars. There absolutely were others).

*America covers up its residential schools abuse extremely thoroughly, so if you try to research them in the American context you will come up empty. Please research Canada’s schools and apply the same abuse to America, as Canada has had a Truth and Reconciliation Commission about residential schools and therefore is more (but not completely) transparent about the abuse that happened. Please note that America’s history with residential schools is longer than Canada’s history. There is an extremely large trigger warning for mass child death when you do this research.

But just because the hostility is expected does not mean that this hostility would be treated well in the movie. Especially when you consider the sheer amount of tension between any Native actors and white actors, for how Sacheen Littlefeather had just been nearly beaten up by white actors at the 1973 Academy Awards for mentioning Wounded Knee, and the American Indian Religious Freedom Act had only been passed two years prior in 1978.

These Native actors would not have had the ability to truly consent to how they were shown, and this power dynamic has to be in your mind when you watch this scene over. I don’t care that the writers were from a discriminated-against background. This does not always result in being respectful, and I’ve also spoken about this power imbalance at length (primarily in the cowboy tag).

Documentaries and history specials made in the 2010s (with some degree of academic muster) will still fall into wording that harkens Indigenous people to wolves and settlers as frightened prey animals getting picked off by the mean animalistic Natives. This is not neutral, or good. This is perpetuating the myth that the settlers were helpless, just doing their own thing completely unobtrusively, and then the evil territorial Native Americans didn’t want to share.

To paraphrase Batman: if I had a week I couldn’t explain all the reasons that’s wrong.

How were these characters waylaid by the Native population? Because that answer—which I cannot get because you did not name the media—will determine how good the framing is. But based on the time period this movie was made alone, I do not trust it was done respectfully.

Issue 2: “Befriending”

I mentioned this was in an intense period of residential schools and land wars all in that area. The Ute themselves had just been massacred by Mormons in the Grass Valley Massacre in 1865, with ten men and an unknown number of women and children killed thanks to a case of assumed association with a war chief (Antonga Black Hawk) currently at war with Utah. The Paiute had been massacred in 1866. Over 100 Timpanogo men had been killed, with an unknown number of women and children enslaved by Brigham Young in Salt Lake City in 1850, with many of the enslaved people dying in captivity (those numbers were not tracked, but I would assume at least two hundred were enslaved— that’s simply assuming one woman/wife and one child for every man, and the numbers could have very well been higher if any war-widows and their children were in the group, not to mention families with multiple children). This is after an unknown group of Indigenous people had been killed by Governor Brigham Young the year prior, to “permanently stop cattle theft” from settlers.

The number of Native Americans killed in Utah in the 1800s—just the number of dead counted (since women and children weren’t counted)—in massacres not tied to war (because there was at least one war) is over 130. The actual number of random murders is much higher; between the uncounted deaths and how the Governor had issued orders to “deal with” the problem of cattle theft permanently. I doubt you would have been tried or convicted if you murdered Indigenous peoples on “your” land. This is why it’s called state sanctioned genocide.

This is not counting the Black Hawk War in Utah (1865-1872), which the Ute were absolutely a part of (the wiki articles I read were contradictory if Antonga Black Hawk was Ute or Timpanogo, but the Ute were part of it). The first official massacre tied to the war—the Bear River Massacre, ordered by the US Military—places the death count of just that singular massacre at over five hundred Shoshone, including elders, women, and children. It would not be unreasonable to assume that the number of Indigenous people killed in Utah from 1850, onward, is over a thousand, perhaps two or three.

Pardon me for not reading beyond that point to list more massacres and simply ballparking a number; the source will be linked for you to get an accurate number of dead.

So how did they befriend the Native population? Let alone see them as fully human considering the racism of the time period? Natives were absolutely not seen as fully human so long as they were tied to their culture, and assimilation equalling some sliver of respect was already a stick being waved around as a threat. This lack of humanity continues to the present day.

I’m not saying friendship is impossible. I am saying the sheer levels of mistrust that would exist between random wandering groups of white/pale men and Indigenous communities wouldn’t exactly make that friendship easy. Having the scene end be a genuine friendship feels ignorant and hollow and flattening of ongoing genocide, because settlers lied about their intentions and then lined you up for slauther (that’s how the Timpanogo were killed and enslaved).

Utah had already done most of its mass killing by this point. The era of trusting them was over. There was an active open hunting season, and the acceptable targets were the Indigenous populations of Utah.

(sources for the numbers:

List of Indian Massacres in North America Black Hawk War (1865-1872))

Issue 3: “Proper housing/clothes and so forth”

Do you mean Western style settlements and jeans? If yes, congratulations you have written a reservation which means the land-ripped-away wounds are going to be fresh, painful, and sore.

You do not codify what you mean by “proper”, and proper is another one of those deeply loaded colonial words that can mean “like a white man” or “appropriate for their tribe.” For the time period, it would be the former. Without specifying which direction you’re going for, I have no idea what you’re imagining. And without the name of the media, I don’t know what the basis of this is.

The reservation history of this time period seems to maybe have some wiggle room; there were two reservations allocated for the Ute at this time, one made in 1861 and another made in 1882 (they were combined into the Uintah and Ouray Indian Reservation in 1886). This is all at the surface level of a google and wikipedia search, so I have no idea how many lived in the bush and how many lived on the reserve.

There were certainly land defenders trying to tell Utah the land did not belong to them, so holdouts that avoided getting rounded up were certainly possible. But these holdouts would be far, far more hostile to anyone non-Native.

The Ute seemed to be some degree of lucky in that the reserve is on some of their ancestral territory, but any loss of land that large is going to leave huge scars.

It should be noted that reserves would mean the traditional clothing and housing would likely be forbidden, because assimilation logic was in full force and absolutely vicious at this time.

It’s a large reserve, so the possibility exists they could have accidentally ended up within the borders of it. I’m not sure how hostile the state government was for rounding up all the Ute, so I don’t know if there would have been pockets of them hiding out. In present day, half of the Ute tribe lives on the reserve, but this wasn’t necessarily true historically—it could have been a much higher percentage in either direction.

It’s up to you if you want to make them be reservation-bound or not. Regardless, the above mentioned genocide would have been pretty fresh, the land theft in negotiations or already having happened, and generally, the Ute would be well on their way to every assimilation attempt made from either residential schools, missionaries, and/or the forced settlement and pre-fab homes.

To Answer Your Question

I don’t want another flattened, sanitized portrayal of genocide.

Look at the number of dead above, the amount of land lost above, the amount of executive orders above. And try to tell me that these people would be anything less than completely and totally devastated. Beyond traumatized. Beyond broken hearted. Absolutely grief stricken with almost no soul left.

Their religion would have been illegal. Their children would have been stolen. Their land was taken away. A saying about post-apocalyptic fiction is how settler-based it is, because Indigenous people have already lived through their own apocalypse.

It would have all just happened at the time period this story is set in. All of the grief you feel now at the environment changing so drastically that you aren’t sure how you’ll survive? Take that, magnify it by an exponential amount because it happened, and you have the mindset of these Native characters.

This is not a topic to tread lightly. This is not a topic to read one masterpost and treat it as a golden rule when there is too much history buried in unmarked, overfull graves of school grounds and cities and battlefields. I doubt the movie you’re using is good representation if it doesn’t even hint at the amount of trauma these Native characters would have been through in thirty years.

A single generation, and the life that they had spent millennia living was gone. Despite massive losses of life trying to fight to preserve their culture and land.

Learn some history. That’s all I can tell you. Learn it, process it, and look outside of checklists. Look outside of media.

And let us have our grief.

~ Mod Lesya

On Question Framing

Please allow me the opportunity to comment on “are there things you'd LIKE to see in a movie where a white man and a Jewish man run into Native Americans in the 1880s?” That strikes me as the same type of question as asking what color food I’d like for lunch. I don’t see how the cultural backgrounds of characters I have literally no other information about is supposed to make me want anything in particular about them. I don’t know anything about their personalities or if they have anything in common.

Compare the following questions:

“Are there things you’d like to see in a movie where two American women, one from a Nordic background and one Jewish, are interacting?” I struggle to see how our backgrounds are going to yield any further inspiration. It certainly doesn’t tell you that we’re both queer and cling to each other’s support in a scary world; it doesn’t tell you that we uplift each other through mental illness; it doesn’t go into our 30 years of endless bizarre inside jokes related to everything from mustelids to bad subtitles.

Because: “white”, “Jewish”, and “Native American” aren’t personality words. You can ask me what kind of interaction I’d like to see from a high-strung overachieving woman and a happy-go-lucky Manic Pixie Dream Girl, and I’ll tell you I’d want fluffy f/f romance. Someone else might want conflict ultimately resolving in friendship. A third person might want them slowly getting on each other’s nerves more and more until one becomes a supervillain and the other must thwart her. But the same question about a cultural demographic? That told me nothing about the people involved.

Also, the first time I meet a new person from a very different culture, it might take weeks before discussion of our specific cultural differences comes up. As a consequence, my first deep conversations with a Costa Rican American gentile friend were not about Costa Rica or my Jewishness but about things we had in common: classical music and coping with breakups--which are obviously conversations I could have had if we were both Jewish, both Costa Rican gentiles, or both something else. So in other words, I’m having trouble seeing how knowing so little about these characters is supposed to give me something to want to see on the page.

Thank you for understanding.

(And yes, I agree with Lesya, what’s with this trend of people trying to explain their fandom in a roundabout way instead of mentioning it by name? It makes it harder to give meaningful help….)

--Shira

#platypan #genocide #native american #North America #america #history #american history #media #representation #asks

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ghostiiiee · 3 years ago

Text

Just Like Me

To read at my Ao3 CLICK HERE This is the first chapter. sorry is its a little rough. :sweatdrop:

Almost forgot! Tw: i will be going heavy on quirkless discrimination and mental health issues. Theres not much in the first chapter but i do want to touch on it at some point.

School was never something he looked forward to. After all, what was there to look forward to? He was used to getting bullied, made fun of for being different, called names, shoved around. The irony wasn’t lost on him. Many years ago, maybe he would have been the normal one?

Then again, what even was normal?

It used to be normal to go to school- learn history, math, science and whatever language the school taught.

It used to be normal to not have any powers, after all - superheroes were a dream. Stories people made up to tell themselves. Heroes existed, yes, but they never had powers. Heroes were just people, average people.

Again, there's another word that's changed. Average.

Normal. Average.

Two hundred years ago, it was normal for the average person to look human.

Two hundred years ago, it was normal for the average person to have no powers.

Two hundred years ago, it was normal for superheroes to only be a thing of stories.

That was two hundred years ago. Not now.

Now it's weird to not have powers.

Now you get bullied for being regular. Quirkless.

One of 20%.

Mathematically, he thought it was stupid that so many people get treated so differently. He did remember Mr. Lancer telling him of people getting treated for less. Mr. Lancer told him two hundred years ago, 10% of the population was seen as satanic because of what hand they used to write with. A similar estimated percent was discriminated against because of who they loved, or what they identified as.

“Sadly, Mr. Fenton, the human race has a history of not tolerating those who they see as a minority.”

“I remember that from history Mr. Lancer.” Danny sighed, leaning his head on his hand. His eyes stared out the window, looking at the stormy weather. “I remember you talking about how things used to be.”

The teacher pursed his lips, staying quiet and looking at him with concern.

Lancer had asked Danny to stay after class to speak to him. He never did like how Daniel’s peers would gang up on him after school ended. The best he could usually do was this. Casper’s principal was... far too likely to be accepting of anything the more wealthy students’ parents had to say.

“Is that why you’ve been spacing out all day then, Danny?”

It was asked gently. Danny’s eyes glanced over to the balding teacher before darting back to the window. He hummed for a moment. “...Kinda. I got a lot on my mind.”

“Penny for your thoughts then?” Lancer pulled his chair next to his desk.

It was quiet for a few minutes, the sound of rain gently pattering against the classroom windows filled the room while Danny collected his thoughts. Blue eyes watched raindrops roll down the glass.

“I don’t get it, Mr. Lancer.” His voice was quiet as the floodgates opened. “Everyone in my family has quirks. Dad is strong. My mom can copy anyone’s fighting styles just by watching. Jazz can look at someone and-.... well you know.” He sank down into his chair. “Aunty A, even has a quirk. I've never seen her miss a shot. And then there's me. Daniel James Fenton. The first quirkless person in our family in a long time. Don’t get me wrong either, it doesn’t bother me too much.” Liar. “It’s just... it feels like the cherry on top of everything else.

“My parents got an invitation to teach some classes at UA in Japan. In Japan, I've never lived anywhere but here. Amity Park. It’s not like they can leave me here. PLUS, Jazz has always wanted to go there for the General studies.”

“I understand your concern, Danny. But I’ve seen your work,” There was slight amusement in Mr. Lancers voice. “Aren’t you good at building things? I know I’ve caught you tinkering with something more than once in class.”

Danny’s face flushed red. “...My parent’s usually make those. They’re old models of support gear they have made. I was seeing if I could get a glitch out.”

“And?”

“...I keep shocking myself.” He mumbled. “It hurts like hell.”

“While I can’t say I’m happy that you are getting injured. As long as you are safe, I'm glad.” Mr. Lancer offered a smile to the teen. “As for the other predicament, you are always open to contact me if you need me after you move.”

“Thank you Mr. Lancer.”

~~~~~~~

Danny was thankful that they moved over the summer and not in the middle of the year. School was already hectic enough as was. Moving in the middle of the year was not something he ever wanted to do, let alone moving across the globe in the middle of the year.

He kept to himself for the first few weeks. He liked to walk around, exploring the new area. It felt different than Amity park. More crowded. He noted early on there was definitely more hero around too. It didn’t bother him too much.

That's a lie.

More heroes means more villains.

He didn’t like villains.

He also didn’t like being a hostage.

Lucky him!

He was held hostage by a villain not even before the end of the second week. Not that this was a first time experience for him, having been a favorite target back in Amity Park. He knew all the heroes back home personally because of it. People just loved to take quirkless people hostage. One would think, with the target that seems to hang over his head, that Daniel James Fenton wouldn’t take such risks as walking around alone at night. One would think that if he did, it would be out of necessity, and he would at least have something on him to defend himself.

...yeah no that's not the case. Why in the world would that be the case?

Danny was shoved onto the ground, air leaving his lungs as he hit. He gasped for air, trying to look at who was targeting him now. He couldn’t really tell much about the person, ratty clothes and a hoodie pulled up to cover their face. Nothing could be seen under the hood, it was just shadow, pure, black shadow.

“What’s a runt like you doing out right now?” The villain crouched next to Danny. Chuckling when he tried to scoot away. They put a foot on one of Danny’s wrists, “Ah-ah. Now that’s rude. I’m talking to you punk.”

Danny didn’t respond, wincing at the pressure on his arm.

“It’s rather rude to ignore your elders.” The villain put more pressure, adjusting so they were crouched like a vulture next to prey.

“F-fuck you. I’ve seen worse.” He growled

The regret in saying that was nearly instant. In the blink of an eye, the ground next to his head - that was solid concrete what the hell- was shattered. The villain was making an inhuman noise, a low gutteral sound coming from them. “You haven’t seen my worst. I wasn’t gonna do much to ya, but I’m starting to change my mind kid.”

He knew he should do anything else - he was already on a thin line - but fuck it. He had a free hand anyways. He grabbed something from his pocket and slammed it against the villain. “As I said before. Fuck. You.” He pressed the button on the side.

The machine sparked to life. Quite literally. Danny still didn’t know what it was supposed to do, but he could make it shock things. Like a weird taser. Unlucky for Danny he was literally pinned to the ground beneath the villain getting tased. And as everyone knows. Humans are conductive. Very conductive.

Strangely the villain didn't even flinch. The growl getting louder as they grabbed the device from their shoulder and crushed it with their hand. Danny started shaking. Okay so that was a horrible idea.

The shadows of the alley gathered around the villain. Climbing up their clothing and slowly slithering along their arm. They held Danny down, forming chains around him. In the villain’s hand, a knife, absorbing all light, The villian made the move to attack, and Danny closed his eyes, waiting for the pain to come.

It never did.

It lessened.

Weight lifted from him, a weight he hadn’t realized was there besides his arm. Tentatively he opened his eyes.

The villain was on the ground a few meters away from him, knocked out and tied up to a fire exit- similar to how Batman would leave criminals for the cops. Danny blinked. He hadn’t heard anything. So what in the world happened? And how could that have happened so fast?

Standing up, he looked around for a sign of anyone being there to help him.

Oddly enough. It seemed no one had caused the villain to go down, at least not that Danny could see. Blue eyes scanned the area for a moment, looking for anything that wasn’t there before. Nothing popped out. Nothing was out of place. It looked like no one had been there.

He let out a breath he didn’t realize he had been holding. The air condensed, forming mist as it left his mouth and floated away. It was like when he first stepped outside in the winter. Which was strange- it was the middle of summer. A small frown formed on his face. The nights here weren’t that cold normally.

He brushed it off, ignoring the goosebumps running along his skin as the air chilled. Perhaps whoever knocked the villain out had a rather cold quirk, he mused to himself. Heroes normally make themselves known at this point, checking to see if he was okay.

He had an inkling it wasn’t a hero. At least not a licensed one. Not that he minded. He didn’t care who it was really. They saved his life… he was grateful for that.

Danny looked up to the clear sky, moonlight peaking over the buildings enough to illuminate the alley where the street lights glowed. He smiled up to the stars. “Thank you.” He said softly. “I wasn’t paying attention tonight.”

He left the alley, starting his way back home. He never caught sight of the figure watching him.

#Danny Phantom #danny fenton #mha x dp #bnha #mha

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nobodyfamousposts · 4 years ago

Text

Mominette AU: The Superhero Ban

TRIGGER WARNING!

___________________________________________

It was an indisputable fact that Paris had been the first city to institute the infamous “Supers Ban”. The Justice League knew it. Heroes knew it. Villains knew it. The whole world knew it.

What nobody knew was “why”.

Sure, there had been comments in political circles. Some minor news outlets had mentioned Paris as the latest place where the idea was being considered. But nobody had thought they were serious.

Not until it had been made into law and the Mayor of Paris held a press conference to announce it.

Those who didn’t take it seriously certainly did when Superman himself attempted to go to the Mayor to discuss the matter. And was promptly arrested the instant he set foot in the city.

Outrage was immediate. Cries of discrimination rang out across the world and even at the UN. Various politicians decried the act. Many celebrities admonished it. A good number of people threatened to boycott Paris (which turned out to be for the best as far as Andre and most of Paris was concerned, given that a decrease in tourism meant less people for Hawk Moth to target or the heroes to have to pull out of the fray due to gawking).

Yet a year passed and the ban remained. Even the League would not cross it. Eventually, it just became an accepted fact of the world. Everyone knew to stay out of Paris.

And yet it was still unknown as to why.

Well, people suspected, of course. There were other things happening around the time that seemed to be involved.

It possibly started with the 12 hour timeframe where all of Paris had been closed off. Its citizens had been forced to evacuate. All communication lines were down, and no one from outside of the city had been able to contact anyone from within it. It was news stations in nearby cities that picked up on the fighting and tried to report it, but only several hours after it had started and they seemed to play it off as some sort of freak lighting storm.

Afterwards, things had been strange, but also easily overlooked. The Ladyblogger had gone dark for a several day period. Similarly, the regular correspondent for Paris News, Nadja Chamack had taken a leave of absence. Resident hero Chat Noir had suddenly gotten involved in matters with City Hall, resulting in talk of the hero going into a career in politics. “Chat Noir for President” became a short-lived meme.

It all appeared to come down to a specific “incident”. An akuma fight worse than any other before it. But no one would speak of it. And no information about it was available.

Except for one thing.

There were reports of the existence of video footage of the fight. The Ladyblog had supposedly crashed during a livestream of the mess due to the number of people watching it. Plenty of news reports during that time referenced it. It was rumored to have been played before the city council, resulting in unanimous support of the ban. But what was on the video remained a mystery and any remnant of the video itself couldn’t be found.

Which shouldn’t be possible with the internet. Conspiracy theories abound on the matter—some saying there was no footage in the first place and others saying it was so horrible as to have been erased by time traveling aliens.

In truth, it was the work of a hacker. One of considerable skill to wipe out any trace of this video and not be discovered. There were people willing to pay millions just for a segment of the footage. Plenty of hackers across the world had tested their skills to find even a trace of the original video to no avail.

These other hackers were not Robin.

“I got the footage.” He announced as he held up the USB drive.

Superbly started in surprise, staring at the item in the Boy Wonder’s hand. “This is it?”

“Supposedly.” Robin replied with a shrug.

The Holy Grail of hidden data. A hacker’s ultimate prize. Every journalist and tabloid reporter’s wet dream.

“I haven’t watched it myself,” as he felt it wasn’t his right to intrude on this when it was an issue of his friend’s family, “so I don’t know what’s on there. But whatever’s in this, it’s safe to say it isn’t going to be pretty.”

That was putting it lightly. The video had been so deeply hidden that it was its own urban legend at this point. The incident it showed was bad enough to not only warrant it being hidden from the world, but to set off the “Paris Supers Ban” and arrest of Superman.

The death of a hero was always big news. Even if it’s only barely avoided.

The fact that anyone could HIDE it spoke volumes. Both in regards to the original censor’s ability as well as the importance of the data itself.

Conner nodded, resolute.

“I need to know.”

Robin handed over the device. He probably should have taken it to Batman…probably. But this was Conner’s case. His family. It was his right to decide what to do with the information.

Ladybug and Chat Noir were…accepting of Conner to say the least. They allowed him to enter Paris despite the ban. They let him help. They were kind and accommodating and quite frankly everything that Conner needed.

But…they weren’t exactly open. Not about certain things.

This was one of those things, and Conner had been wanting answers about the “Incident” that cut Paris off from the Superhero world. What made them finally say “enough”? He would ask, but nobody knew. The few who did know refused to speak of it.

Conner wanted to know why. What had they experienced that was so horrible?

Maybe it was a way of feeling closer to them?

Maybe it was a way to understand them better?

Maybe it was just wanting to see the harder things they had faced?

“We’ll be right here with you, Conner.” Wally reassured him when his hands started to shake.

“Remember, you’ll have full access of the gym and training grounds, but you won’t be allowed to leave the Mountain for 24 hours after this.” Kaldur gently stated. Partly to remind Conner of the agreement, lest he attempt to run off to Paris in anger or fear and risk an akuma. Partly to subtly prompt everyone else to ensure that Conner does not accomplish the former.

Still…the choice was already clear.

Conner put the drive into the computer and pressed play.

The video only lasted a few minutes.

A few minutes was more than enough.

_______________________

“Oh…oh my god.” Came the words of the person recording, her voice as shaky as her hands that held the camera.

The damage was…extensive. Rubble, broken glass, and downed buildings littered the background. There was a sad mix of gray and brown as far as the eye could see. Of the destroyed roads and pavement. Of steel beams littering the ground. Of rock and dirt and what may very well have been ash.

Amidst the ruined landscape, there was one spot of color. A bright red standing out amidst the muted neutral around her. Normally a source of bravery and inspiration, it took a few seconds for the camera to get her properly in focus, and a few more for it to register that there was significantly more red in the scene than there should have been.

Ladybug wasn’t standing so much as she was leaning backwards in a half-upright position. Forced to stay on her legs despite her clear lack of strength. The only thing holding her up were the very things responsible for her current state…three steel spikes that extended from the ground beneath her.

They were exiting her torso. One piercing the upper left part of her body, right close to her shoulder. One through her naval. And the third on the right side, for all purposes appearing to have hit a lung.

She was breathing, though it was clearly labored. She was constantly torn between some variation of taking a gasping breath in and crying it out. Her suit could protect her—it was supposed to protect her from anything, but even this was too much.

It was clear she couldn’t move. She had to remain there, impaled on steel. Both to limit her injuries as much as possible and just due to inability from the sheer pain she was in.

The camera was focused on her, though it was shaky at best. The person recording it could be heard muttering unintelligibly with some mention of a hospital and frequent repetition of “oh god” thrown in. Some noise could be heard in the background of someone sounding quite ill, which was understandable given the sight of their hero impaled and choking on her own blood.

Within a minute of the video starting, the crunching sound of boots running on glass and stones could be heard coming closer. The sound of panting grew louder as Chat Noir cleared a hill and entered into view, rushing and stumbling towards Ladybug while holding something in front of him.

The camera zoomed on him, bringing him into focus as he cleared the last hurdle.

“I’ve got it!” Chat exclaimed, racing back to her side with her yoyo in hand. “I’ve got it! It’s okay. It’s over. It’s over now. It’s finished. He’s done.”

“Sh…Ch…” Her head hung limply and her eyes were barely able to focus on him as he tried to get her to look at him without moving her too much.

“It—It’s okay! It’s going to be okay!” He whispered to her, so softly that the camera barely caught it. He was clearly panicked and trying desperately not to let it show. “We just need the Cure. If you cast the Cure, everything will be better, okay?”

She didn’t appear to be listening, though. And barely seemed aware of anything. “Ch-ck…Chaaa…”

The video zoomed in on them both. Ladybug dazed and bleeding out. Chat crying and trying not to break down completely.

“Please! I just need you to say the words! Say the words and you’ll be okay! Can you do that?”

“Huurrr…s…” She slurred, begging him without words for help.

“I know! I know! But you can fix it. C’mon, M’lady, please!”

“I…I cn…”

“Say the words. Just two words, okay?” He begged desperately, patting her cheek in an attempt to both soothe her and keep her attention on him. “Two words and then you can go to sleep, I promise.”

“Ch…a…”

“Just…just two words, that’s it! I’ll…I’ll even say them with you, okay?”

She winced. “Nn…”

She clearly wasn’t listening, but he was desperate and so started to try. “Miraculous—”

She sobbed.

“No, no. Listen to me, okay? Say it with me!” He ordered, forcing her to look at him. “Mi. Say it with me! Mi!”

“M…mi…”

“Racu!”

“ra…” Her gaze started to waver.

He shook her. “Cu!”

“…cu…lous…”

He gave a weak laugh. Even now she was ahead of him. “Ladybug.”

“La…laa-deee…”

He shook her again. “LADYBUG!”

“……b…u—gahck-ugh—" She was cut off by harsh coughing.

But it was enough.

Thank every god out there it was enough.

The Cure spilled out from the object she was holding, transforming into magical ladybugs that covered everything in their wake. Unfortunately, the casting of the Cure and incoming loveliness caused the person holding the camera to drop it, losing sight of the video and cutting the feed.

_______________________

The ringing of her phone got Marinette’s attention, drawing her away from the movie she was watching with Adrien and the Dolls.

“Hello?”

“Miss Ladybug.” Came the voice on the end. “This is Aqualad.”

She blinked in surprise. “Aqualad? Is everything okay?”

“Yes…just…” The sound of angry whispers could be heard on the other end. “Would you be able to come speak with Conner today?”

Marinette frowned at that. While she certainly enjoyed seeing Conner, that…didn’t sound like a good thing. If anything, it sounded like a plea. And the voices that sounded like an argument in the background only made it sound worse.

“Is everything okay?”

Adrien seemed to notice the concern in her voice as he had stopped paying attention to the movie to focus on her. In turn, Chaton was peeking over the couch at her, curious as to what was going on.

“No. We found a recording of something…personal to you. Conner saw it and now he’s rather upset. We think it might help if you were here.”

“WHAT?!” She exclaimed. This definitely got the attention of the other dolls, all of whom had abandoned the movie in favor of checking on their Mama.

Her eyes narrowed. Suddenly full Mom mode was on.

“Aqualad. Tell me right now what happened.”

And Kaldur caved immediately with only a small sigh.

“Robin found the video of the akumatized hero who attacked you and instigated the events leading to the Paris Ban.” He explained. “I apologize. We should have checked with you first, but at Conner’s request, we all watched it.”

Marinette sighed. “I thought that was buried.”

“We’re rather good at digging.” Robin’s voice could be heard on the other side of the line.

“Hang on. I’ll be right over.” She told them before hanging up.

“Marinette? What happened?” She turned to see Adrien standing before her, looking rather concerned. Picking up on her tension, he had stopped the movie. And sure enough, four little dolls stared up at her in worry.

She sighed. There was nothing else for it.

“Who wants to go on a trip?”

The Dolls perked up at that.

Adrien, however, noticed how tense she was.

“Mari?”

“They saw the tape.”

His eyes widened. “Oh.” He reached out to her, and without even thinking, she moved into his arms. He clutched her tightly, soothing her and himself. It was…not a pleasant thing to have to relive. That so-called “hero” had caused more damage than just that one day. And more than any of them had truly recovered from.

The dolls seemed to catch on to the atmosphere, because their excitement died down.

“It’ll be okay, Mari. Let’s just be there for him. And I’ll be here for you.”

She held him back just as tight.

“Together then?”

“Always.”

#ml fic #mominette #superhero ban #ml crossover #dc crossover #conner kent #robin #Young Justice #marinette dupain cheng #ladybug #adrien agreste #chat noir #dolls au #trigger warning

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