#TW: Misandry

[cas-backwards-tie]

Chapter Two: Cruel New World

Heiress of Gotham

Bruce Wayne x Daughter!Reader

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Summary: It's your first-day living life in Wayne Manor. A new house, a new school, and of course there's the new siblings thing too.

Warnings: Negativity, Damian's Jealous, Talks of Death, Numbness, Depression, Disassociation, Misandry, Crying, Suicidal Thoughts (if u squint), Existentialism, Cursing, Yelling, Outbursts, Anti-Police Rhetoric, Injury, Blood, Catcalling

Mentions of: Suicide, Body Fluids (mucus),

Words: 6.7k

A/N: POV kind of switches in some points, but I think it's fine. You know when it's the reader and when it's more of a third-person pov.

"Please take a seat, Miss Wayne," Alfred suggests as he pulls out a chair directly center of the long black cherry wood table. Your father sits at the opposite end of the room at the head of the table to your right, while a smaller black-haired child sits with his back to the kitchen doors on the left. There's one other person who sits directly across the table from where Alfred stands behind the chair meant for you.

"Are you serious? We really have to do this today of all days?" The child whines.

"I thought I told you no technology at the table this morning, Tim," Your father tells the person you're meant to sit across from. Ipad propped up on the table beside his plate, the teenage boy's grayish-blue eyes remain on the screen for a few moments as he shovels forkfuls of eggs into his mouth. In a tacit conversation, they make eye contact for a moment before he flips the cover back over the device and shoves it into the backpack by his feet. "Thank you.”

"You know, Bruce, I really need to get this essay done by this afternoon.” Tim—as you now know—explains.

"Oh? And what's it on?" Always wanting to get more involved in the kids' lives, Bruce attempts some sort of civil conversation other than indulging the begrudging eye-roll Damian throws him from across the table.

"It's on-" Tim begins to explain.

"You're really making us eat breakfast all together at-" Damian interjects.

"-the table like the nice, loving family we are? Pssh, you're lucky everyone's actually here this morning!" Dick cuts Damian off in an attempt to dissuade the boy's frustrations and some of his, perhaps just, points. Walking over to his chair he pulls it out enough to plop down.

"Everyone's coming?! Just for her?!" Damian, as you now know, complains, pointing his cereal’s spoon in your direction.

"I'm afraid Stephanie has a doctor’s appointment, and Jason is... well," Bruce doesn't finish his explanation as he glances around the table.

"Jason," Dick defends, even if he's still somewhat suspicious of the man's current motives. "You'll meet them later, I'm sure," he tosses toward you as he sits at his chair between Tim and Damian still tying his tie.

"Why are you even here? Don't you have work? It's a Tuesday!" Damian chastizes Dick.

"Well if you must know, I have a few suspects I need to bring in for interviews today. They're extraditing a few people since the uptick last week."

"But I thought that-" A look from Dick makes Damian's thoughts linger in the air for a moment as he cuts himself off. Right. Next subject.

"I'm a detective over in Bludhaven," he explains to you, "Luckily I don't live here anymore, so... hopefully that lessens the overwhelming sense of a constant presence of people," he jokes in an attempt to lighten the mood.

With a nod, you finally reach for your fork. It’d been bad enough that it seems more and more people are continuing to engage you when really, it’s been hell enough to process all the transitions currently taking place in your life. While it’s nice in some sense that you’d have breakfast with your Mom on school days like this, having someone cook for you, let alone push in your chair is… well… strange.

“Hello? He’s talking to you,” the sassy child spits at you, garnering your attention. Eyes flitting from him to the person sitting across from you beside Tim, you offer what you can in an attempted smile. It comes across more as a grimace than anything. The Detective politely calls your name, finally tightening his tie as he finishes dressing.

“It’s okay, I get it. This is all a lot. I asked if you ate breakfast with your—“ he spares a quick glance at your Father before it settles back on you, “—Mom, often before everything?”

Though he smiles and has a jovial and pleasant attitude, you can’t bring yourself to really return the favor. While he’s extending an olive branch of friendship, one you’d usually take up, you’re unable to. “Yeah. Nothing like this though,” you mutter, voice surprising even you with the uncharacteristically quiet quality to it.

While the rest of breakfast is filled with questions and trivial conversation, you feel off, with a weary sense of the world. It’s almost like everything is a dream. Once you’ve finished your food, your eyes raise to take in the vase of flowers and candles on either side of it in their ornate silver holders sitting in the middle of the table. “Can I be excused?” Suddenly turned toward your Father, you await his hesitant permission before getting up and heading back to the room they’ve deemed yours just last night.

“She didn’t even look up at me when she answered any of my questions. That’s not good,” Dick points out. There's a hint of concern in his voice as he eyes Bruce.

“She’s probably still grieving her Mom. It only happened yesterday,” Tim proposes with a shrug as he looks up at Dick, who sits to his left.

“Shit,” Dick whispers.

“Do we even know how it happened?” Damian asks from the end of the table, hands clasped in front of himself like a miniature businessman.

“Damian,” Tim whispers with hostility, eyeing him for the inappropriate nature of his comment. Though he’s also curious, as it seems Dick is too, as they all look toward Bruce.

“What? I mean, her Mom dies and suddenly she’s a Wayne? No way,” Damian speaks with confidence.

With a clearing of his throat, Bruce stands. “It’s true. I… hadn’t-” he begins, though hesitates as this wasn’t really a conversation he’d wanted to have with his teenage son of all people. “It wasn’t planned. It was a one-time thing back when I was a little more reckless with keeping up my image.”

“So during your Party Bruce years? Oh my god,” Dick quietly laughs with incredulity. He’d known about it, sure, that ‘phase’ of his Father… yet he hadn’t anticipated him to be that reckless. The look of guilt upon Bruce’s face is all it takes for them to know it’s true.

“I did the math, I looked into her mother’s history, and… it all adds up. I wouldn’t have taken custody of her yesterday if I wasn’t certain.”

“So she was an accident? Ha!” Damian laughs as if he wasn’t technically an accident on his Father’s behalf as well.

“Hey! I will not hear any jokes or have any information imparted on her without my knowledge. It wasn’t her fault, and I won’t see anything but acceptance and welcoming from you three. Will I?” His stern voice sends chills down their spines to some degree. While Bruce doesn’t often take up a fatherly role in terms other than the awful jokes and rare wistful advice, this is a side none of them have ever gotten quite used to.

“Fine. But I’m not changing my entire life around for her. Jon is still coming over after school,��� Damian announces with a click of his tongue and a cross of his arms over his chest.

“Good. Now I know this absolutely will not leave the room but I looked into her cause of death last night and it was a car crash.” With that, Bruce leaves the table.

“Sometimes things are just life, I guess,” Dick thinks aloud, still processing the information.

How cool is it that this room has a window seat? You think to yourself, still baffled by the enormous room you’d been gifted. Absolutely awesome! Unfortunately, that’s not something you can fully appreciate as everything has already started to feel numb. They’d explained at the hospital that it’d been a car crash. You know the number of stitches they’d placed, the degree of burns she’d taken as they attempted several grafts to save her life… yet it wasn’t enough. There was nothing they could do. A frown overtakes your expression as a pinch of immense sadness pricks your heart.

“I’ll do it-” you hear a man’s voice from outside the door, “-I’m sure, Alfred.” With three knocks and no response, it creaks open. Unbothered to check who it is, you watch as the rain droplets roll down the leaves on the tree outside your window and slowly drip toward the ground below. He clears his throat and shifts on his feet before speaking. “I really hate to do this to you. I know everyone processes things in their own time, but I’ve got to make arrangements on top of work today and so the best thing I can think to do is get you into a routine.” A look in his direction is all it takes; uniform neatly folded in his extended arms, your Father presents it to you with a sympathetic look on his face.

“What about Melville High?” The question leaves your lips, and all he can think is that you’re too innocent for this world. He doesn't even know you, but already the world has taken too much from you. His daughter. The sentiment still lingers awkwardly between the two of you, both still not used to the idea. After all, you’d both only found out yesterday afternoon. Hell, and that was less than twenty-four hours ago.

“It’s… too far, I’m afraid. Gotham Metro Academy is where Damian goes, and it has a lot of better opportunities from what I know. I’m sure you’ll like it once you get settled in.”

It isn’t the end of the conversation. While you’re barely responding, he imparts as much wisdom and comfort as he’s able, but it goes in one ear and out the other. All too soon you find yourself running your hands over the lapels of your navy uniform’s blazer. A prep school with uniforms was something you’d never imagined in your future—in fact—it’d been far from it! Growing up with enough money to keep you comfortable was fine, but prep school was never in the cards. You and your Mom knew that. Without too much thought to your hair and any accessories or makeup, Alfred is rushing you downstairs and into the awaiting Rolls Royce.

“Had you ever been to Gotham prior, Miss?” Alfred asks from the driver’s seat as you pull away from the infamous Wayne Manor. It looks much more opulent and welcoming in the daylight, yet it still has an intimidating air of aristocracy to you.

“Um… just once, a long time ago.” It hurts your chest to think about; there’d been a weekend you’d gone with your Mom a few years back when she’d wanted to show you all the sights. From the shows to the Financial District, to the historical sights and monuments, it’d been a weekend to remember, truly. If memory serves you right, you even still have a sweater and baseball cap tucked away somewhere from that trip.

Expecting some sort of snarky remark from the child you’ve deduced is Damian, you finally take him in. Sure, everyone’s heard of him. He’s a celebrity for what it’s worth: ‘Bruce Wayne’s Secret Son’ the headlines read. It was national news at the time, his Mom still remaining a mystery. His skin is darker than yours, and while his eyes are a striking green, you can’t deny that he has a resemblance to your Father. Neither can you deny your resemblance, either, really.

“What?” Damian finally bites. His scrutinizing emerald eyes glaring your way. With a quiet, automatic ‘sorry’ and a shift of your eyes out the window and away from the kid on his phone, you can’t help but think about it.

Was Bruce Wayne really as much of a playboy as the media made him out to be? Yours and Damian’s mom would surely proffer the confirmation. Yet, having met the legendary man behind the technological empire, you aren’t sure he really seems the type. As much as your mother tried to keep you from boys and men, you’d met more than your fair share of assholes. Womanizers, scumbags, misogynists; no matter the differences in look or personality, there were always a few similarities they’d have in common, usually in their speech, behavior, or beliefs.

Nevertheless, it’s odd that you’ve been able to place the term ‘Father’ in his grasp so easily. Your mother had feigned a forgetful memory oftentimes when you’d ask during your childhood. Only offering the slightest of details and assuring you that he’d left the both of you as a baby. It was only as you grew up that she eventually let you know that whatever relationship the two of them had, it wasn’t as serious as one would expect of a mother and father. She’d never named him, exactly, having always told you it wasn’t important, or she didn’t remember. He wasn’t worth searching for, seeking out, begging for some answer you surely didn’t want to hear. Why? Why did you leave us? Why don’t you care about us? It was all a waste of time. That much, you knew. Never, even in your dreams would you imagine it’d be the Bruce Wayne.

Before you know it, the trees and streetlights are turning into buildings and stoplights. While you're nervous about going to a new school, it also provides a bit of excitement at the thought of reinventing yourself and making new friends. Surely with the funding from Wayne Enterprises, it'll have more clubs, activities, and maybe more sports, too. You'd always wanted to try out for sports or even be on the varsity squads if possible. Would it be like in the movies? As the car slows along the street, Alfred meets your anxious eyes in the rearview mirror.

"Damian, I expect you'll be there if Miss--" he says your name, "--needs anything. I'm going to park the car and escort you inside, as there happens to be a bit of preliminary paperwork your Father has requested I accompany you to fill out."

Surprisingly, Damian doesn't refute Alfred's sentiment, though as he parks the car, your half-brother hastily exits, headphones still in his ears as he scrolls through his phone. A quiet 'see ya later' is heard from him before the door slams shut. Soon enough you've filled out the registration forms and are given a schedule and tour. Alfred offers you a courteous nod and a lingering hand on your shoulder before he departs for the day. "I'll be here to pick you up when school lets out. You can do this, Miss," he assures with a warm smile. The comforting sentiment only lingers for so long.

It was somewhat embarrassing that you'd had to interrupt class to join in on eleventh-grade, American Literature, yet upon introduction, it doesn't go past your observation that many of the kids start whispering to one another. You’re sure it’s the fact that they’d introduced you as a Wayne. While a few people attempt to talk to you, for the most part, you feel overwhelmed with all the information and the way the lesson quickly continues. Trying to catch up and take everything in, it all feels like too much, and the unintentional tendency to disassociate naturally begins to happen. You zone out for most of the classes, the day passing in a whirlwind with sympathetic smiles from the teachers.

When school lets out, you find Alfred exactly where he'd parked this morning in front of the school. Leant against the car with his hands clasped in front of him, you begin making your way down the steps to meet him. Two boys quickly pass you, both laughing as they playfully smack one another's arms and talk in hushed voices. As you approach the car you realize it's Damian and some boy. He has friends? Who would be friends with him? He seemed so rude earlier, you can't help but think. Maybe he's just upset because you came along.

"Who's this?" The boy in the blue jacket asks as he watches you join Alfred.

"Mister Kent," Alfred greets the boy, "I take it you'll be joining us tonight?" When the boy flashes a smile full of bright white teeth up at him with an eager nod, you take it this is a family friend.

"She's... apparently Dad's daughter," Damian reveals, eyes slicing across the space till the intimidating green orbs land on you. "Don't mind her. I planned a few things we could do when we get to the Manor! I just got Mario Kart Ten and it's supposed to have a bunch of new maps and characters!"

Upon Alfred opening the car door, all three of you slide into the vehicle, the Kent boy separating you and Damian in the backseat. "So... your sister, you mean," He laughs. Despite what he'd said about ignoring you, the boy turns his smile your way with an extension of his hand. "I'm Jon! Damian's best friend. I actually go to West Reeves but I got out early so I could catch a ride to your house. You are..?"

Revealing your name, he repeats it with a fondness as you shake his hand. "I don't know that I'd say best," Damian groans with a roll of his eyes.

"Oh hush! Yes, you would," Jon argues, nudging your half-brother with his body as the two laugh.

"How was your first day, Miss? Did it go alright?" Alfred asks in the rearview mirror before pulling off the school's sidewalk and onto the street.

While this question was unexpected, you can't answer it. Was today good? You're unsure that any sort of sentiment could capture what today was like, truly. With your mother's death, the move, the new school, new people, and the luxury of it all... you feel unable to describe it all in one simple response. It doesn’t feel anything like the life you’ve come to know all these years. Sufficing simply for a nod, you purse your lips before opting for a quiet "Thanks." If nothing else, you can't deny that this old man has been kind to you since the moment you arrived. It seems he cares, but... isn't that also his job? You're not sure how butlers work, exactly, but surely that detail encompasses part of his job description, you think.

With the car parked in the driveway, you all exit the vehicle and head inside. Alfred asks if anyone wants a snack, however, you shake your head and point upstairs, signaling your destination.

You aren't sure what comes over you, a wave of hurt, sadness, angst, pain... there are endless synonyms for whatever it is that washes over you. It winds up there, wallowing in your chest like a weight you hadn't realized was weighing your shoulders down. Maybe it was the attention, the comments, the questions, or the energy it took to put on a 'fine' facade, yet it all finally comes crumbling down. With a click of the lock on your door, you make the final steps toward your unfamiliar bed. Letting the backpack fall from your shoulders haphazardly on the carpeted floors, you flop onto the bed face first, chest hitting the plush comforter before the rest of your body follows, the rebound sending your body bouncing slightly. Face screwing up into one of pain, you do your best to hold it back, and you're not quite sure why. No one's around, no one cares, so why won't you let yourself cry? Would that make it all real? Would that mean you're accepting her death? That she's really gone? That you're letting go? Moving on with your life? Thoughts of guilt consume you as you feel as though you should've known, you should've called her, or said something, maybe asked her to pick you up that day. Anything would've changed the chain in the course of events, right?

It's then, with the realization of a possible butterfly effect that a sob wracks your chest and tears stream down your cheeks. Like rapid fire, the sting of hot, salty tears cascade down your skin leaving streaks of mascara in its wake, you're sure. Screaming into your pillow, you can't help but struggle to breathe as you're not sure what to do. How do you move on from this? Where do you begin? What's left in your life, really? What does anything matter if she's gone? Your mom? The only person who's been there through your whole life from the beginning till, well… now. She was your best friend, your confidant, your partner in crime, your... everything. At the end of every day you always knew you'd have her to go back to. Never has the fear of being alone crossed your mind until right this second. Now you understand why so many people commit suicide each year. If their pain feels anything like this, then you can understand. All you can think, wish, and mentally pray for is this to stop. For the tears to stop falling and your breath to stop coming in quick bursts of panicked, hyperventilating heaves. Snot runs down your lips and it's hard to see with the blurriness of the tears in your eyes.

After a while, the crying eventually dies down and you lie--wishfully--lifeless on your bed. A small hand towel you'd grabbed from the bathroom is folded under your face where the tears would fall and you've folded it over the few times you'd blown your mucousy snot into it. Silence consumes the room, and you've found yourself simply staring up at the ceiling for what feels like hours. Constantly caught in your thoughts, between crying and being eerily silent, you're unsure if all this was destined to happen. Or maybe it was supposed to come out sooner. You’d never dealt with a grief like this. Maybe it's only because you've been pushing everything down into a deep dark place that only feels safe for you to express once you're absolutely sure you're alone. That has to be it.

In the midst of a quiet moment, your eyes and throat sore, head throbbing, there's a knock at the door. "Dinner will be served in just a few minutes." It's Alfred. You hope he hadn't heard your crying, though if he had... what can you really do? Nothing... just like everything else in life. You can't do anything.

A quick splash of cold water on your face, and hands combing your hair down, you make sure you look as presentable as possible. With that, you're ready to confront them again. Aside from the slight red tinge that persists around your eyes and the dark circles beneath them that are impossible to get rid of, you head downstairs. While you're sat in the same spot as this morning, you're joined by many more people this time. Bruce and Damian both sit at the ends of the table again, Tim sits across from you, he's flanked by the Detective, though this time by another man you don't recognize. He has a white stripe in his hair and a longer face than the others, but it suits him with his angular features. On your right sits a very tall and broad man clad in a business suit and glasses. Past him, sits Jon--who you'd met this afternoon--and across from Jon there's one more person who makes the table uneven in terms of people. It's a blonde girl, with an enticing sparkle in her eyes and a charming smile from what you can see from the other side of the table.

"This is my good friend, and Jon's dad, Clark Kent," Bruce introduces, gesturing to the man beside you. Said man holds out his big hand and offers a friendly smile.

"Pleasure to meet you," he recites your name and you reciprocate the handshake. It's good to know that not everyone in Damian's association is a complete asshole, you suppose.

"Nice to meet you too," you respond quietly. With the meal served, everyone dives into eating, leaving you a little unsettled. While your mother had come from a very religious upbringing, she hadn't forced it on you. Yet, you'd still find yourself and your mom praying before dinner to whatever God or higher deity might exist. In a way, it was more to give thanks each day for being alive and having food on the table. Sometimes it was a conversation starter when someone would mention what their day entailed, the good things they'd seen, or maybe the bad things they'd ask for protection from. Nevertheless, it's clear that this family operates differently; digging your fork into the fancy black-peppered pork roast, you use your knife to slice a piece off for yourself. Not in the mood to talk at the moment, you simply listen to what everyone's discussing.

With the lack of response they'd gotten from you, Bruce opts for talking to Clark about business and how things have been. Dick and Tim fill in the mysterious man on the little they knew of you. The blonde girl talks with the younger boys at the end of the table at moments but also butts into the other conversation among the young adults diagonally across the table from you. Stabbing multiple string green beans onto your fork, you don't make eye contact with anyone as you simply try to get through this dinner. Maybe then you can go upstairs and try to relax away from everyone.

"-something we shouldn't really talk about too much, but I can guess the funeral will be by the end of next week with all the arrangements I made today," Bruce speaks to Clark.

"Wait, what?" Your voice is quiet, only drawing the attention of those sitting closest to you. Butting into their conversation, you raise your eyes to meet your Father's surprised blue eyes.

"The funeral will be at the end of next week, I'm presuming. It'll take a little while with all the arrangements," he repeats. Though he seems hesitant, he doesn't keep himself from speaking it again. After all, he's someone who stands behind his actions. “I told you, this morning.”

"What? Why?" Your fork clanks against the chinaware, lips parted in shock as you dropped it. "You made the arrangements without me?"

"Yes. It was important that you go to school and it was all right there in the will." Forkful of mashed potatoes lingering in the air as his blue eyes bore into yours, you find your breath beginning to rise and fall at a faster rate.

Of course, none of them know your buttons and what it looks like once they've been pressed, but if your mother was here right now, she'd know. With a screech of the chair being pushed back hastily and a quiet slap of your palms on the table to stand, you're livid. "Why would you do that? How could you do that?!" Hands shaking, you begin to gesticulate, any former semblance of masked placation now fallen. All eyes are transfixed on your figure. "She's my mother! Mine! You don't even know her- I do! I know what she would've wanted, and this isn't it. Just because your name was on my birth certificate that means you get to take over my life? You, who doesn't even know anything about me, and yet you act like we're best friends?! Your children call you 'Bruce' and you have no problem with it! You don't get to just come into my life and fuck everything up! You sleep with her once, what? Sixteen years ago and now you come in and take over everything?" A wry laugh leaves your lips, "Well, more for you, I guess! Did you ever stop to think that there's a reason I had no idea who you were? Let alone, why she never told me? She never once asked for your money or your help, and now I'm just here. All my stuff? Gone. All my friends and family? Gone, a-"

"-We can go get your-" The Detective begins.

"-Oh, shut up! You really think anyone wants to hear what you have to say? You're adopted, so you're not even related to me! You don't know me. None of you do! The only good thing about this is I don't have to put up with being interrogated by the BPD every goddamn time I walk down the halls of school. But I'd at least take that over never seeing my friends again!"

"-What do you mean?" He follows up, commenting over you. Everyone else looks around the table silently, taken aback by what they're witnessing.

"You want to 'Bring Justice to Bludhaven', I guess, when everyone already knows what happened to Perdy Chapman! Everyone except the BPD, I guess!"

"How dare you?! You can't speak to my brother like that, you-"

"Finally! The only person I'm actually related to here. My half-brother, the mysterious 'Wayne Boy' who doesn't have a mom! You have no fucking empathy for me, you've been giving me shit all day! And yet you're the only person I would've expected to actually give a damn! So sit your ass down, pendejo twerp!"

Without asking for permission you storm out of the dining room and through the living room toward the staircase.

"I'm guessing you're done with your dinner?"

The voice stops you in your tracks, hand on the banister, you let out a loud sigh, shoulders falling before you try to maintain a jovial demeanor when turning to him. "I don't need you to do anything for me, Alfred. I think it's fucking ridiculous to have a servant when it's the twenty-first century for crying out loud!"

"It's my job. I assure you he pays me, if that gives you any consolation," Alfred speaks in a calm tone, unfazed by your words or behavior.

"Great! Well, I still don't need you doing things for me that I can do myself. Thank you, though," while the words come out through tense, grit-together teeth, you turn and head upstairs. It doesn't take long to get to your backpack, slinging it over your shoulders. Luckily, this was the one thing you knew you could do with the advantages of not only your room’s placement but a backyard. Opening the window, you climb out onto the tree branch sidled an arm’s length away.

Soon enough, you're on solid ground, out of the boundaries and gate of Wayne Manor. With a heaving chest and shaky hands, you speedwalk down the road toward where you know the bridge will be heading into Bludhaven from the transfer point on the Eastern Seaboard. This time for whatever reason, you can't bring yourself to cry. Maybe all the tears had already flooded from your body this afternoon, but nothing emanates from your tear ducts. Eyeing the blood that's already starting to dry on your palms from the splinters and the last little drop you'd had to take from the tree, you stare at your scraped palm.

It'd been silent upon your departure from the dining room. Bruce insisted that everyone return to eating, that everything was fine, and that this wasn't unexpected. While things returned normal for the most part, Jason excused himself with a displeased look toward his father. It wasn't until an alarm rang from Bruce's phone that he groaned and pulled it out only to find the surveillance outside capturing your figure leaving the premises. Announcing what the 'emergency' was, at everyone's persistence, Jon ran out of the room before Bruce could elect Clark to go check where you were headed.

It's a lone road, cypress trees lining it along the gravel-filled sides. With the road only being garnered by private property of the elite, and no real intersections for miles, no cars pass in either direction. As the sound of a faraway motorcycle approaches, you don't let it deter you. It'll be at least an hour or more before any of them realize you've left the property. They all think you're just upstairs crying to yourself, most likely. Rage still swirls in your gut, however, it's drained somewhat, being replaced by the determination to get home. A billionaire, his family, servant, and even a few splinters won't stop you. It doesn't strike you as odd that the sound of the nearing motorcycle slows; after all, not many people hitchhike on this road, you're guessing, and with the speed limit being higher in this area, the wind could cause you damage perhaps.

Jon had been faster, intrigued for some reason to find you--his justification upon later questioning--to find out where you were going. Clark trails behind him, neither of them bothering to change clothes as they fly above the closest road, trailing you from a distance silently in the shadows the darkness nightfall provides . It's only when they spot the familiar motorcyclist approaching you that they hold their position.

"Where do you think you're going?" The voice is unfamiliar. While being catcalled isn't a stranger to you, it's still annoying that it'll happen in the middle of fucking nowhere. Ignoring the motorcycle that now stalls to your left, you continue walking with determination, eyes ahead and fists wrapped around each strap of your backpack upon your stiff shoulders. "Really? You're gonna ignore me and play it that way? Get on the motorcycle," the man calls your nickname, which elicits a reaction from you.

Eyes widening and lips parting, your eyebrows shoot upward as you finally look at the man. You don't remember his name, but he'd been sitting at the table across from you between Tim and that Detective. Expression immediately turning into one of anger, your jaw setting, you feel reinspired to make your way to Bludhaven. "I'm not going back! I can't," you argue, "plus I don't even know you. Why would I go with you?!"

A chuckle leaves his lips and you hear the shifting of plastic before the motorcycle revs in a way that elicits an automatic jump from your body. The motorcycle speeds a few feet down the road before it does a loop and skirting and drifts into a stopped position just a few feet in front of you. Legs on either side of the vehicle, the man flicks the visor of his helmet back up and reaches into the back compartment, producing another. Before you have time to react, he throws the helmet your way. Hands instinctively reach out to catch it instead of letting yourself get hit with the speed of it. You wince; it pushes the splinters further into your palm. You come to a standstill a few feet away from him as you lift the helmet slowly, inspecting it only to see the blood starting to pool around your palms again.

"I'm Jason," he reveals, "I don't know where you plan to go running away like this, but you don't think the old man will notice you're gone sooner than later? What's your plan then?"

Irritation and a desperate anger linger in your chest as your eyes finally raise to meet his. "Well, Jason, it's none of your business! Regardless, it doesn't matter. You can't stop me." Approaching him, you're about to shove the helmet in his hands when he raises a hand of his own, palm out facing you in an effective halt.

"Truce? Look, I know you don't know me, but I was like you. I grew up in Crime Alley and had to steal tires for a living. I tried to steal the-" he stops himself, another chuckle escaping his lips, "the old man's, and that's how we met. I get it... it's not easy, and, no one expects you to just go along with everything, alright? If you're thinking about going home, well, that'll take what-? Hours on foot? You really want to walk hours to... where are you from, again? Bludhaven, right? What part?"

"Canaveron District, yeah," you respond gruffly, some of the tension leaving your shoulders. His points are all ones of useful consideration.

"You won't get there for another three hours walking, at best. If you just want to get your things, well, I can take you there. But we'd have to get everyone else-"

"No! no, I don't want-"

"-If you let me finish," he warns, "I was going to say get the others to help tomorrow or this weekend, to get the rest. Alright? Just essentials tonight, and I bring you right back here. Got it?" His eyes search yours for a moment before he adds, "That's the best I can do for you, kid. Otherwise, I've gotta drag you back to the Manor kicking and screaming, which I really don't want to do."

"He sent you?" You weren't too surprised, only that if anyone was coming, you figured it would've been Bruce, himself. It's only when Jason notices you looking around and contemplating your decision that he cocks his head toward the Manor, signaling the Kents to leave. He's got this.

"No. I came, because... unlike those other dicks, I actually know what it's like to come from, well, somewhere that's not the greatest," he admits, a look of sympathy and understanding in his eyes.

"And this isn't some scam? You just tell me this, get me on the bike, and then take me back to the White House?" This elicits a laugh from the man, and he runs a gloved hand through his black and white hair.

"Look, I don't know how much they've mentioned about me, but... let's just say I'm not exactly in Bruce's good favor if you know what I mean." Reading the look on your face, he expands. "I'm not exactly the goody-two-shoes of the family. If you want your stuff, I'll take you, but only because I know he wouldn't do that."

"Why?" Standing in silence, the two of you search one another's eyes for any sense of understanding. It's tacit, the question that you both know you were really asking, yet he doesn't make you voice it: why would you do this for me?

"Because I know what it's like to have everything taken from you." A sigh leaves his lips, and you can tell simply from his stance and demeanor that this man has been through much more than he's letting on. "If you wanna do this, we should get going. I can't be out too late tonight. You coming? Or should I call the old man and let him know what your plan is and where you are?" With a raised brow and eyes flicking toward the helmet in your hands and back to your eyes, he awaits an answer.

"I'm coming." Sliding the helmet over your head, you approach the vehicle. "Just... don't tell him, please! At least don't tell him for another... fifteen minutes?" The request elicits a questioning look before a smirk replaces it.

"Deal. Hang on," he requests. Shifting the bike to stand upright, he leans closer and reaches under your chin to clip a strap in place you hadn't noticed. He tightens it, checking in with you, and then gets onto the bike. "You ever ridden a motorcycle?"

With a thick swallow, your eyes shift from his to the bike. Sliding over the seat, you're unsure where to place your feet, but Jason instructs you, making sure you're comfortable before you slide your arms around his waist and brace for takeoff. Visor flicked down and everything in place, he revs the motorcycle before speeding down the road.

Beneath the helmet, the ends of your hair tickle your arm as it whips through the air. Cool breeze wooshes past your body, arms able to feel the chill through the blazer of your new uniform, your legs gaining goosebumps through the exhilarating experience. Cypress trees turn into willows, which become more and more sparse as gates and brick walls slowly fade with the elitist properties into cemeteries and then into more forest before turning more industrial. As different plants and factories appear, so do the cars. Jason weaves in and out of traffic as he maneuvers his way down the highway and onto the bridge that winds around Gotham and finally goes into Bludhaven. The lights and sights passing this fast is intimidating at the thought of crashing, however, it's thrilling in a way you've also never experienced. Skyscrapers line the island, lights, signs, and monuments only add a sort of fascination and exuberant liveliness to it. As the Wayne Enterprises sign passes, you finally feel comfortable enough to remove one hand from Jason's side for a moment, long enough to flash a quick middle finger at the sign before fearfully grabbing onto his jacket again.

With a laugh and shake of his head, he removes a hand from the handlebar to flip the bird alongside you, eliciting what he thinks is a laugh. Nevertheless, he can feel the fear in your grip so he returns his hand to the handlebars and makes sure to keep his focus on the road. It's not likely they'd crash, not unless someone was out for him and knows his bike, not to mention his civilian identity. Not that he goes too far out of his way to hide it, but it's not impossible. He's confident in his abilities, but considering you don't know each other that well, he doesn't do anything to further scare you.

As he draws nearer to the Canaveron District, he slows down enough for you to give him directions. Parking the bike outside the apartment complex you’ve identified, Jason helps you off the bike and stashes the helmets in the back. "Lead the way, little lady," he encourages.

~~~~~~

forever taglist: @ohdamnadam , @safarigirlsp , @jynzandtonic , @moonlightsolo

hog taglist: @luvly-writer , @clairese1980

[sirenscrawlings]

The Truths of Things

[Owlcatober 2024 - Prompt 1: Teatime - @owlcatober]

Words: 736; Characters: Camellia Gwerm

She had never much cared for tea.

As much a staple of the nobility as it was, she should, by all accounts, have loved it—at least, as a symbol of status. It had distinctions between its differences in quality much as class itself did—upper to lower, noble to peasant—and boasted of pedigree and rarity much the same. It, supposedly, had subtleties in its aromas and tastes that told truths down to the very nature of its soil and seed and pampered care, of the nuance that only the most sophisticated of palates could discern; in a way, like telling the difference between something real and of a pretender—of something or someone truly noble, blood as blue as fresh tartare, or of someone merely hiding behind a gilded mask.

Perhaps that was the reason. It could very well have been the flavor: too delicate for her sharpened tongue, too earthy like the dirt her porcelain fingers refused to be soiled by, too floral; a reminder of the namesake she'd long despised. It could have been any of these excuses, but they, ultimately, did not matter. What did, was that she had never had a taste for it to begin with, and, in her mind, it was because she had not been born with it. She never could have been. A gilded mask, no matter how fine, no matter how opulent and wealthy and rich, was only ever in the end a lie.

Camellia Gwerm hated tea.

And the man beneath her reeked of it.

It was all the excuse she'd needed when he'd approached her, all dazzling smile above his shining armor, itself decorated with wrought flowers and leaves. Desperation and relief had radiated from him upon spotting her, all alone in that quiet corner of Drezen she'd come to find solace in, much like the wretched stench of tea that suffused his very presence and threatened to wrinkle her nose. She'd needed no other reason to settle for him, and getting him alone had been a trivial matter as always for even as nobles were nobles, men were men.

He'd said his name for naught use to her at all and when she'd given him her own, a demure giggle, and an innocent question asking about the design of his armor, his fate had been sealed.

Men, would always be, men.

It didn't matter if they came from some long pedigree of merchants who'd made their wealth off of vaunted teas from far off Casmaron—"Lovely at this time of year at our sah-ray", which she'd gathered to mean some sort of villa. It didn't matter if they were so wealthy and wanted for naught that it seemed they could very well bathe in the swill. Men were men, it was only a simple task of getting them talking about themselves for long enough that they would soon find themselves on their backs, chest straddled by her supple thighs, and idiotic, naive grins on their faces.

Her nose finally did wrinkle, then. The mustiness of the old, forgotten basement only seemed to make his stench worse, and the thought of a bath—preciously rare, hot, clean water—soiled and tainted with leaves filled her with disgust. Dried. Musky. Old leaves from the dirt. That's what tea really was, and every noble, every so-called 'refined palate,' was merely lying to themselves in mutual harmony about it.

And just as tea was merely leaves, so too was this man merely meat.

She would've breathed a sigh of relief as that wretched floral stench gave way immediately to the dominance of fear and blood, but her exhilaration, as always, triumphed over all else. How swiftly she'd pulled the stiletto from her boot, and how even swifter still she'd brought it forth and down that he hadn't had time to scream. Only now as the life and light left his eyes did they become colored by shock and then terror in realization—twas a delight she always savored with glee. And, only then, did he possibly see in his final moments what was her true sultry smile, and hear her true husky, ravenous laugh.

Camellia Gwerm hated tea.

She hated pretending even more.

The gilded mask fell away. Tea was leaves, but meat was meat, blood was blood, and she was Camellia Gwerm, whose tongue had not been made to savor the taste of anything delicate.

[lara-prism-light]

I just found someone saying that misandry doesn't exist! bro, this really exists!! Men also suffer a lot, especially at the hands of bad women! my friend was almost SA by his own mother! To think that there are people who say that this doesn't exist coming from another woman makes me extremely disgusted…

For those who call me "pick me", shut up, none of you know me! I have ZERO attraction to men! I'M ASEXUAL! If you think I'm "obsessed with men's attention" it just proves that you don't know anything about me!

I'm an antisocial recluse, I hate attention and I'd rather be locked in my room! I don't care about a man's opinion of me! Another thing, I was once in a toxic relationship with a boy, but I ended it because I couldn't stand being with him and having him constantly ask for attention and "photos". I just have empathy and I'm open-minded! block me, insult me, call me pick-me and all that nonsense! I'm not going to waste my time with you.

[maniacalchuckling]

Is it just me or do a decent percentage of Tumblr users have a weird hatred of cis men? I swear every time I see any sort of discussion about minority rights or whatever at least one person will go "gosh at least it isn't cis men, they're the worst", and it's like, what the fuck?

And every post I see call this out only ever does so by relating it back to trans people instead of the fact that sexism is evil on its own

Anyone know why this happens or did the fucking terfs win?

[queenoftsage]

I knew about that movement[4B], but didn't give a fuck...

Then I saw your video and I was like... ah... The privilege is privileging... [person was claiming they didn't know about it, while living in SK]

Like, when privileged people speak from a privileged place, it's kind of mind numbing. In a lot of sentences you uttered, you basically invalidated a lot of people. I guess it's how you say, letting people live a life of a 'equality' is just a fantasy.

.... cute... But not cute at all.

Must be so nice to have grown up with a really loving father who showed you nothing be sweetness and such. I hope he was like that with everyone around him and not just you and your brother.

[and out of pure fear, those people he might have hurt 'will NEVER' speak on the fucked up shit your father did. I hope I'm very wrong about that.]

I tried to sit there and listen to your entire shpiel and got nothing but 'pick me' vibes from it because well... You yourself said you were a pick me while not saying you're a pick me. lol. You said you wanted to be a wife and not lose out on the 'marriage age bracket'.

Apparently you've never seen some people who meet each other way after the 'marriage age bracket' thing you kept speaking of. lol.

That's how I know, you invalidated a shit ton of people. Congratulations. *claps ironically*

I still don't agree with you. End of story.

I'm sure the people who follow the '4B movement' are just quiet about it in your country, because they know they'll get privileged people like you, invalidating their stance. It's kind of the same shit that happens with 'Feminism' over there.

I'm sure there are tons of people holding in all the shit they could say about the 'nicest' people ever, just because of pure fear.

Speaking up to bring down monsters is the scariest shit we as humans can try to do, but also the bravest.

[koxiia]

😀

[aishabellasbigblogofeverything]

I love it when women hate men. I love it when women are allowed to vent to each other about how horrible and creepy men are. I love it when women form friendships with and prioritize each other over relationships with men(whether they're attracted to them or not). I love it when women put men dni in their bios and on their nude photos and on posts on their blogs. I love it when women refuse to mollycoddle and accommodate entitled male feelings with "but this doesn't mean I hate all men, I know a few men who are great, I love my father/sons/brothers/uncles/male cousins/guy friends" I love it when women complain about men WITHOUT "not all men" being a disclaimer. I love it when women avoid socializing with/refuse to be around/befriend/get close to men because they know men can't be trusted. I love it when women make "kill all men" jokes. I love it when women offer absolutely no concern or care for men's feelings and if their misandry offends men whatsoever because why should we, men are the oppressor class who have raped and killed and abused us and kept us as subjugated as second-class citizens for millennia, they regularly mistreat us and the women in their own marginalized communities still every single day and make this world so much harder and more awful for us to be in, and if we choose to hate them and not spare them any sympathy then so be it, and I don't just mean "men as a class" either, you can be a woman who doesn't want to have anything to do with any man on an individual basis and completely cuts off men from her personal life too and ykw I will love and fucking support you in that because men deserve absolutely NOTHING from us. If they're so tough and strong then they can handle it just like they can handle being lonely. If you are a woman who hates men, ESPECIALLY IF YOU ARE A LESBIAN AND/OR A TRANS WOMAN, then just know that I love you. I love you, I support you, and you are safe here.

[tranquil-turbulence]

This is so important. And if you are one of these “yas femme ew men” folk, you need to take a step back and do some introspection.

Hate, based on gender, sex, identity - that is not what we stand for.

I'm too tired to do a video description so if someone could help me out that would rock.

[star-anise]

Fun upside of rats and spambots fleeing Twitter for Tumblr are all the new fucking, uh...

They're not TERFs this time, they're "not feminists" because "feminism is cancer", they're, uh...

"Violent Misandrists"?

Like, huge use of Judith killing Holofernes vibes. 15yos posting "Kill all men (except my male mutuals lol!)" and insinuating that banning pornography will end child abuse forever.

(deep breath)

Look.

If you are a teenager from the USA, and your parents are Republicans, please consider that EVERYTHING you were ever taught about media, politics, gender, sex, feminism, and the advisability of mass murder as a political tool

has been carefully tailored to make you feel enraged with the state of the world, which is full of Good People and Bad People (groups it is very easy to sort everyone you meet into) and the way to Fix Society is to criminalize, incarcerate, or brutally murder as many Bad People as possible. You have probably seen several different sorting systems proposed, and may not have seen much political discourse beyond debates about "Which PART of society are Bad People who should be punished?"

And yes, I realize you've also been taught that people like me insisting on bullshit like "nuance" and "tolerance" and "educating yourself" are literal Satan and probably in favour of ritualized child abuse and puppy-kicking.

We're not. I'm not. I'm like a lot of people you wouldn't think are Good People, who nevertheless work to make the world better in what we understand to be the best methods available.

I don't know why I'm saying this. I'll probably end up a target of vitriol and regret ever speaking up. Just.

You are not smart for coming to the conclusion that the world is full of Bad People who just need to be killed. You did not figure out (or find the true prophet of) The Secret Truth of the Entire Universe. You haven't figured out how to fix the world. You just followed the fucking breadcrumb trail laid down by people who want to recruit you to commit atrocities in their name.

The world is so much more complicated than you've been led to believe. Fixing its problems is so much more tedious and difficult. Cruelty is so much less useful. And you've got so much more learning to do.

[dollmaxxxing]

Women's rights being considered a "controversial topic" is the reason why I'll always be an angry feminist

[unhingedtiktoks]

Description: Tiktok from user heckyesconcrete stitching user lruperez7. The first video shows a girl looking confused with a flashing color filter and the caption "What do men have in their body in place of a uterus? Are their other organs just bigger/shifted differently? Or is there like... free space?" A different girl says "I'm really into anatomy so I have a real answer for this! Here you can see the male anatomy and it has all the same things that the female anatomy does, lungs pancreas gallbladder all that good stuff, but right here you can see there's a little spot where the uterus would be and in the male anatomy, that's where the fucking audacity is-"

[cruel-kaya]

Kab Tak ?

How long are we going to endure it ?

[princessefemmelesbian]

Maybe I’m just being dramatic but it does legitimately scare and sadden me to see that a lot of transandrophobia truthers are literally just…young boys. Like, actual children. Like you’re not even old enough to vote yet and you have your whole life ahead of you and yet you are being manipulated into joining an mra group that hates trans women with a passion and thinks that men are oppressed in society for being men, and constantly uses Black men as their talking point in order to sound diverse and inclusive, meanwhile they’re also appropriating and misusing terminology specifically created by Black women to talk about our own oppression in order to get their misandry point across…to say nothing of the fact that the largest people in this group(including but not limited to its creator!) have misogynistic rape/detrans kinks centered specifically around preying on lesbians and trans women and this is something that is normalized and defended by the vast majority of transandrophobia truthers, or at least defended viciously by every single transandrodork that I’ve ever encountered who argued with me(a lesbian!!!) that actually there’s nothing wrong with getting off to the corrective rape of women because two consenting adults can do whatever they want in the bedroom(yeah right)! Not to mention I have yet to come across a transandrophobia truther who wasn’t also a raging die-hard Zionist.

And that’s why it disturbs me so much to see young trans boys jumping onto this transmisogynistic hate train like you guys realize these men don’t have your best interests at heart, right? They’re only going to manipulate you into being a sexist entitled asshat who shuns and bullies the trans women in your community and sees them as oppressing you. Like I know you’re still in middle/high school but you can still think for yourselves, you can choose to be better than this, you can choose to actually learn about feminism and realize that it’s not actually misandry that oppresses you, it’s transphobia. Misandry doesn’t suddenly become real because you slap a trans paint over it that’s not how it works that’s not how intersectionality works that’s not how any of this shit works. There are better trans men to talk to about trans issues who know that the patriarchy is real and don’t shit on trans women in order to speak out about trans topics, so go seek them out, okay? You absolutely do not have to listen to shit that the “male supremacists but trans” group of lowlives has to say. Hell, tell them to fuck off instead! Please, I promise you that there are much better options, there are ALWAYS better options, and you still have time to escape before they fully radicalize you into basically being an incel. There will ALWAYS be another way. ❤️

[koxiia]

me and who ????? me and WHO ???

[aretheyqueer]

Anyway I sent you that ask but I’m not like boiling over mad about it, it’s just like. The experiences of men and women are different but it is because a woman’s experiences breaks off from the default, which is the male experience. I do not think things can be that clean cut when it comes to gender identity but for cis men? The intersectionality of being black and disabled makes sense, the intersectionality of being black and a man doesn’t. That is called anti black racism. And it is foolish to act like the ways black men are seen, as violent, aggressive, poor, untrustworthy, older than they are as children, aren’t applied to black women too

what are you talking about

well its about this post and normally I try not to give attention to angry anons but I'll talk a bit about it

misandry. a difficult topic for some. it seems that a lot of people believe that in order for misandry to exist, misogyny has to not exist. but that's not true. both exist at the same time and both affect everyone.

men are seen as more violent than women, and if you combine that with the "black people are more violent" mindset, you get a violent black man stereotype, which is different from what a black woman experiences. doesn't mean one is more oppressed than the other. but one of them has been affected by misandry as well. one of the people I know is a black man and because we get "violent black person + violent man" together, people cross the street in order to not pass him on the sidewalk. he has been told to his face by women things like "you're actually cool, I thought you were going to hit me when I first saw you...", which they somehow think is a compliment. this is not only because of racism or misandry, but because of both at the same time.

generally speaking in the US, women get away easier with crime than men. there have been cases where all the evidence shows that the woman killed someone, only for it to be randomly decided that she didn't. this is a combination of pretty privilege, and difference in how men and women are treated. white people also get away with crime easier than black people. it's not ridiculous to think that these combine, that black+man (violent+violent) has different expectations of how much evidence is necessary and how harsh the punishment should be.

when a trans man transitions, it's likely that he will feel a change as he starts to experience male privilege. but things aren't as great as a man as they tell you on the internet.

men and women have different beauty standards. generally, it's seen as unattractive if a man is chubby, has acne, lack of muscles, beard growing in the wrong places etc. (even women who "like dad bods" often go for the conventionally attractive men). now, as a trans man basically going through your second puberty, acne, fat redistribution, hair growth - it can all impact your appearance in ways that you don't actually like.

and this happens. some trans men experience these "ugly" changes, and suddenly they go (literal quote) "people are so mean to me now!" becaaauseee... society has different expectations of men and women, and when men don't meet those expectations, they are treated differently. not only because they're "ugly", but because they are "ugly" men.

a lot of women don't like to admit it, but they can be really horrible to men. there's this assumption that men have it easy, which leads to a couple things:

"Ugly" men are treated horribly by women

Every ugly man is assumed to have worse morals than handsome white men

Women's abuse against men isn't taken seriously

Remember the Johnny Depp and Amber Heard case? There was a lot of evidence that a man was being abused by a woman. Him literally taking her to court and showing the world that men CAN be abused by women and there are things you can do about it, was an inspiration to other men that had been abused. But then you open twitter, and... people are demonising him because he has "started a culture where men take women to court over every little thing". You hear that? That's misandry, baby. (btw, rape and abuse accusations have been used against men to take advantage of the "trust all victims" mindset. it's horrible to do something that causes distrust against women who speak up, but it is an unfortunate truth. this happens both off the internet and on the internet.)

Now...

It's important to step out of radfem and "hate all men" bubbles sometimes, because while their purpose is to support women, they are frequently spaces where misandrists thrive. there, it's normal to think every man you pass wants to rape and/or kill you, and it's normal to laugh at and make fun of ugly or weird men.

men and women have different experiences. disabled men and disabled women have different experiences. trans men and trans women have different experiences.

and that's ok. we don't need to have a competition about which one is worse. misandry being a problem doesn't mean that misogyny isn't. we can fight both at the same time.

I would encourage people to think about what they mean when they say they hate all men. if you tense up when you walk past men. how quick you are to believe that a man is a rapist before you've seen the proof. how you define an ugly man, and how you think about ugly and handsome men differently. if you've ever made fun of a man for having traits that you praise women for. if you've ever forgiven a woman for something that you would have never forgiven a man for. etc.

there aren't any titles or stuff in this post so I don't know how readable it is. but if you got this far, cool.

tldr: misandry is real and it is amplified to the max when a man is a minority or doesn't meet the expectations of what a handsome man is, go talk to a man in your life about it

[nerdylilpeebee]

Successful suicides are a product of impulsivity and easy access to lethal means, not greater distress. The fact that males die more from suicide is a natural consequence of their greater impulsivity and therefore tells us nothing about how much males suffer. I'm sorry if facts offend you.

....

It's not that this offends me, it's that you're just being stupid thinking that wanting to kill yourself and actually trying is not an indicator of a high level of suffering, regardless of how impulsive someone is or not. Impulsiveness means nothing about how much you're suffering.

Literally all it means is you're more likely to act upon your suicidal tendencies.