#not dismissing the fact its mens job to solve their problems themselves

[junotter]

All the jokes about Ken and horses are good but I just wanna say it's such a good parallel to how actual young men get swept into misogyny and the patriarchy.

Like they're told to believe it means men get to be cool and manly and have this power but with that comes extremely rigid commands of what they can be as a man and a cycle of self hatred for never matching those gender roles perfectly. Patriarchy tells men that if they just do exactly what is expected of them, then they get all the "cool stuff" that comes with. That doesn't work though when there's only a small group that actually gets that power, but men will keep trying to fit into those roles in hopes that they can.

In the end there are no horses or the myth men are told, it's just endless cycles of self hatred and ingroup fighting.

#barbie #barbie movie #barbie spoilers #ig #ive got a lot more on how barbie looks at feminism and the patriarchy cause god they did it #not to say there isnt faults such as very little conversation about intersectionality #but i can also understand the impossible task of talking about EVERYTHING in one movie #not everyone will be happy and thats fine #anyway i think something barbie did really well is fight this battle of both wanting so deeply to love (romantically or not) men but also #not dismissing the fact its mens job to solve their problems themselves #that even if women need to be the front runners of breaking the patriarchy men cannot rely on them to solve their own problems completely #also just god im so glad this wasnt a girl boss slay movie #women deserve respect and love and life regardless of accomplishment #we should not have to be ceos and presidents and world problem solvers to gain equality #i can also understand if nonbinary people feel left out/disconnected from the movie #but as always gender abolition and acknowledging the gender binary (ie the one societially impossed) go hand and hand 👍 #just incase cause idfk terfs dni the barbie movie is not for you #barbie literally states constantly that her gender has nothing to do with (non existent) genitals so f off

[pumpacti0n]

abolition is never “off the table”-- and we shouldn’t let anyone try to convince us otherwise.

allowing goals like abolition to get watered down and constantly misrepresented by the propagandized public, private corporations and career politicians leads to all these problems we keep hearing about on the news getting worse.

for example, we learn about instances of police violence, indigenous women going missing, the horrific prison industry, domestic & reproductive violence against women and non-men, systemic anti-blackness, families separated at hellish border facilities, seemingly endless wars and being on the brink of environmental collapse on a daily basis.

it all seems never-ending and overwhelming that no matter what good we do in our personal lives, it isn’t ever enough, because these problems will continue to manifest. somehow, it is always the same problems coming back to haunt us.

those are the consequences when attention and energy for micro problems are given priority, instead of investigating and healing the relationships people have to power, space and resources on the macro scale at the same time.

micro-scale problems are somewhat easy to package as isolated incidents for people who we believe are responsible for handling them, and they often can handle them well enough that the majority of people affected by the issue may feel placated enough to accept the authority as legitimate

these politicians and other micromanagers “solving” the problem is often used as evidence that the authorities are competent at their jobs and that issues can be solved by the system (when it wants to solve them), thus providing evidence of their legitimacy, even when it’s these same individuals and groups that are the direct causes of the problems to begin with.

beware that not being impressed or made passive by the reform logic of authorities and capitalism can be misrepresented as: “oh, you xyz group are never satisfied, you always want to save the world, but this is the real world, you’re too idealistic and your standards are too high!”

this is not an accurate portrayal, and it often isn’t meant to be. it’s meant to distract us, divide us and obscure what the problem is.

very simply, if the direct cause of a problem is not addressed, the problem is not going to be solved.

everything else is a surface-level approach that will allow the root of the problem to continue to endlessly self-reproduce the same harmful structure and power dynamics, but in different forms.

the best way to illustrate this is to picture the structure we live under (capitalism) as a living structure, like a tree. all living structures move, transform, grow and adapt given any and all external and internal forces that affect it, no matter what scale we observe it at -- either microscopically or as part of a larger surrounding ecosystem.

you’ll hear people say that radicalism is “grasping at the root” of a problem -- which is precisely what we must do if we have any hope at addressing any problem(s) that any structure provides us with.

the goal isn’t to eliminate all possibilities of conflict, or to be so bold as to think we can perfectly meet the needs of every single person affected negatively by something. not even capitalism which boasts as being this hyper-efficient, almighty, all-powerful system can do that, even on its best day.

the people who are intimately aware of the intricacies of this system are always found at the center, at the “grassroots” level of where the structure forms its base. without a base, without grounding, without roots, the rest of the structure cannot form, spread out or replenish itself when damaged or “reformed”. so that is where we must start; with the people, communities and land that is primarily affected.

rather than manage these groups by trying to decide what their needs are for them, or what actions must be done to meet their needs, they should be empowered to decide for themselves how to best maneuver and achieve those needs, while providing necessary aid when we can, and expanding the options for possible solutions when we can.

if something affects us negatively, there is a chance it affects others, too, and it follows that it’s in our mutual interest to work together to achieve a future where both our needs are met and that we can live healthy and fulfilling lives, together.

according to the janky ass reform logic of capitalism, this is an unnecessary and dangerous approach, because it does away the authority of the people who just say that they represent us and say that they’ll take responsibility for a problem -- the same people whose jobs hinge on appearing as if they care, with platforms, talking points, photo-ops and co-signs from other politicians and high ranking members of the public to offer “proof”.

they often use the logic that says that we must preserve this system, because it is sacred and perfect, that it would interrupt business, so we can’t empower people to make these decisions, even if it means that some people have to suffer and die because the system is inefficient and does not represent them, or demands that they experience social death.

we should not be impressed by these people. in fact, if they are standing in the way between these grassroots efforts, either by preventing these programs from assembling or actively attacking them politically, then they are enemies. when you become an enemy of the people you claim to represent, you are a tyrant and an opp.

and we do smoke opps.

at every grassroots level, there are groups of people who are very sensitive to the changes that happen at all the other levels of the living structure that oppresses them. from this perspective, they can experience for themselves the effects of the things that happen above the surface, and they experience the dissonance personally when another politician promises to change something, only to eventually fall short or make the problem even worse.

they get news that claims that a problem is (going to be, maybe, eventually) fixed, are present as media moves on to the next sensational story only to experience the problems same thing again, and again.

just because the cameras are turned away, because the tweets stopped getting traction, doesn’t mean that the people and communities have disappeared. and yet, no matter what, this is a cycle that continues.

the only answer, the only consistent thing that has been proven to make a difference, is there being a complete break with the logic of this system. as long as we follow the capitalist logic, the same structure will replicate. as mentioned, the roots will create new stems, leaves, seeds and thorns if left undisturbed. we’ll continue to see new iterations of the same problems as long as the logic, the roots, are left intact.

there’s no hope of creating new structures in the the place of one that’s taking up room at the same space, so the old system must be uprooted.

its this uprooting that some call a “revolution”.

this word might seem scary to a lot of folks for a lot of different reasons. it has way less to do with the chaos and bloodshed that's associated with it in our imaginations.

it has more to do with deeply investigating the roots of a problem and actually addressing them by changing the conditions -- something that capitalism refuses to do unless there is a profit motive, or only if the problem interferes with the flow of capital to private interests. the only way this chaos and violence would occur is if (and some would insist when,) these forces mobilize to preserve the same harmful system we’re attempting to uproot in the interest of private accumulation of profit.

should we just allow these corporations and wealthy individuals stop us from changing the things that affect the quality of our lives? the wealthy capitalists would say “why yes, of course you should!” but obviously they would say that -- and we have been given no reason to believe them.

we should each of us be prepared to deal with this violence in some way. to insist otherwise is naive and not realistic, and actually harmful to the communities that encounter this violence. this may look like armed patrols and free firearms & training for the most vulnerable communities, or creating an alternative directory that people may access instead of calling the police. these matters are up to the communities themselves to envision and implement.

we aren’t suggesting that we seek out violence where it’s reasonable to avoid it, or escalate problems beyond our management of them. this isn’t meant to encourage people to fulfill revenge fantasies for the hell of it, but to be prepared in case such conflicts occur.

the aforementioned unorganized violent activities are, at best, a strategy to cope with and purge the unending stress of life under capitalism or distract the state and similar private forces in combat while other solutions are being explored. we shouldn’t fall for the strategy of turning rioters, saboteurs, arsonists, vandals and looters into enemies of the people, when they are the people...and we shouldn’t dismiss these strategies as being harmful by definition when it is often only insured property that is the target of their actions, not individuals.

we shouldn’t disparage rioters for causing damage to this system, when capitalism has been damaging the world and our communities for as long as it has existed on this planet. both violent and non-violent methods of “grasping at the root” are legitimate, can coexist and inform each other, and are necessary to combat the terror capitalism’s logic has inflicted on us all.

remember that revolutions are only as peaceful as they are allowed to be.

the process of uprooting, of revolutionizing, may indeed be violent in nature when resistance is offered, but that shouldn’t stop us from continuing the process if it is necessary. just because a dangerous system is difficult to uproot doesn’t mean that it’s more reasonable or desirable to leave it alone to establish its roots and adapt.

we must acknowledge that multiple attempts may be necessary before any transformation takes place, possibly over the course of several years, perhaps lifetimes. it might require lots of planning. however, in the interest of conserving time and energy, the most simple and direct methods of applying pressure and healing should be prioritized. we do not want to resemble, in practice or theory, the politicians we hope to depose -- by making promises we don't intend to keep, making plans that never pan out, putting off immediate solutions until we personally benefit at the expense of others.

for example, this means that rather than coming up with overly-complicated, difficult-to-achieve long-term plans of gradually moving a low-income family out of a house infested with mold, they’d be moved immediately into safe housing if such housing is ample and available. this means that, rather than waiting on the state to decide how much food a hungry person needs or should have access to, we supply them with the food if it is abundant and we have it to spare.

if the needs people and communities have are immediate, the solution should also be immediate, whenever possible. the means are the ends.

this is because people need aid now, not in the future, not when the moment is perfect and some sort of irrelevant criteria is met, not when it’s more profitable to do so, but in the present. representatives and authorities have gotten really proficient at promising to solve issues in some far-off future they’re never be around to guarantee, abstracting issues and people so that they’re seen as insignificant to greater issues. how often have you heard: “we would like to do something about xyz, we just don’t have the time (money)”?

when these so-called “representatives” package all of these lies, and the time comes to prove their worth and legitimacy, there is often no reconciliation process that any of them must go through so that they’re held accountable for straight up lying and abusing the responsibility they had to the people. this is so often why our issues aren’t solved -- we started by trusting those that aren’t even affected by the problems we face to have our best interests in mind.

that is why we say enough electoralism -- enough elections -- enough career politicians -- enough bipartisanship -- enough government -- enough hollow campaign promises -- enough “lesser of two evils” -- enough “vote blue no matter who -- enough pitting poor communities against each other -- enough celebrity & corporate “activism” -- enough self-aggrandizing authorities -- enough micromanagers -- enough permanent elected positions

yes to community control -- yes to autonomous communities -- yes to free associations -- yes to reconciliatory organizations -- yes to federations of workers and professionals -- yes to voluntary work -- yes to open borders and travel -- yes to direct democracy and direct engagement with relevant issues -- yes to immediately recallable, voluntarily chosen delegates -- yes to grassroots organizing -- yes to self-defense and community-informed reactions to crime -- yes to direct action, mutual aid and solidarity for mutual survival -- yes to returning land and resources to indigenous and black communities -- yes to yielding space and resources to historically harmed communities on the margins (LGBT+, disabled, refugees & migrants, prisoners, non-human animals) -- yes to liberation for all!!!

#abolition #revolution #capitalism #reform #elections #politicians #long post #write-up

[svynakee]

Mulan (2020)’s idiotic cultural appropriation of chi is really stupid

Qi is a real thing. Not in the way that oxygen, or electromagnetic waves, are real. You cannot find an atom of qi. You cannot measure qi with a device. Qi is real the way romance, or luck, are real. And in the same way that the romance most people experience isn’t the same romance that is depicted in movies of passionate, melodramatic, wild love, the qi in wuxia and other genres is not the qi experienced in real life.

Now, when it comes to romance movies, the concept of love at first sight does not need to be established. It is accepted that there can exist, in the setting of the story, an unseen powerful force that drives strangers together on the whims of fate. There doesn’t need to be a professor pointing at a blackboard explaining the mechanics of destiny, and the evolution of true love, for an audience to willingly accept that love at first sight can be real for the sake of the story. In this way, it is unnecessary for there to be a martial arts master in every story that uses qi to explain what qi is, why it exists and how humans have learned to harness it.

However, the individual story’s take on qi should be established. If there are organised, respected, powerful sects teaching students to use qi, then assumptions can be made about how society views qi, how developed the study of qi is, the place of qi users in this world. If qi users are almost mythical and tend to hide in seclusion, assumptions can be made. If the emperor’s strongest generals proudly use qi in battle, assumptions can be made. If a teacher cautions against improper usage of qi because it can result in both physical and mental harm to the practitioner, assumptions can be made. And even if nobody bats an eye at the fact that the duke’s eldest son and the third imperial prince are doing flying leaps across rooftops on market day, then assumptions can be made about qi, such as ‘using qi is so common that the price of cabbage is more interesting than watching someone doing magic parkour’.

Simply saying ‘qi exists and is for warriors’ does a poor job of worldbuilding. Worldbuilding is important because it sets the stage, gives context to the stakes, lends weight to the protagonist’s struggles. What does Mulan (2020) tell us about…’chi’? One important thing to note is that in Disney’s Mulan (2020), chi is referred to as a skill; ‘he has strong chi’, ‘he has a talent for soccer’. In Chinese works, qi is the energy, the skill is qigong, which is qi (air) + gong (effort). A martial artist therefore has strong qi, or skill in qigong. They are not skilled in qi. In the following points, I will be discussing Disney’s idea of chi, so I will use their terminology.

Only men can use chi, but chi is also available to women.

Not being true to yourself poisons your chi.

Chi is for warriors, implying that women cannot be warriors (this is actually uncommon in Chinese wuxia stories, more common in historical ones where QIGONG AND WITCHES DO NOT EXIST).

The existence of a woman with chi powers is unusual and a cause for alarm, but not unusual enough that the Emperor dismisses the idea after hearing ONE REPORT FROM A RANDOM SOLDIER.

Those in the Imperial army are trained, briefly, to use chi – this is shaky because I think the commander talks about how chi can be used, and Honghui’s compliment to Mulan implies that her usage of chi is what makes them equals, meaning Honghui can also use it.

People recognise that chi allows humans to do super gymnastics and have enhanced reflexes, enough that when the villagers see a young Mulan doing these things, they are freaked out. Or the ancient Chinese really hated backflips.

Despite women using chi being so taboo, Mulan’s father decided to teach his daughter chi just because she was born with a high midichlorian count- I mean, high chi. When she displays chi abilities in front of other villagers, her mother gets angry and tells him to stop teaching her. Yet Mulan still retains her chi proficiency into adulthood, meaning either her father continued to teach her, or chi mastery lasts for a lifetime. In that way, using chi is a bit like riding a bicycle.

Rourans can use chi to run up walls, but Mulan’s friends are only shown to do this very briefly near the end of the movie, with normal Imperial soldiers failing to use this ability.

The Emperor of China is a proficient chi user. His chi lets him use drapery as weapons (actually a common technique in wuxia, the idea being that qi is personal energy and a skilled practitioner can channel their energy into any object, giving them sharp edges or huge kinetic force).

When a woman can use chi, she is a witch. And this is where this becomes HILARIOUS. Because there IS a witch in Mulan (2020).

Xian Lang is a witch.

In her introductory scene, Xian Lang is shown POSSESSING A MAN, her physical form completely disappearing as she does this. She then nails two long range kills using throwing stars and engages in melee combat, easily defeating Imperial guards despite being outnumbered. She is later shown to turn into a bird, or a large swarm of bats. She never turns into multiple birds or a single bat.

Xian Lang was an outcast as a young girl because of her chi. This is why she joined the Rourans, despite being Chinese (as evidenced by her name). She believes that Bori Khan will make a world where girls like her, born with strong chi, will not be outcasts.

Bori Khan treats Xian Lang horribly, being prejudiced against her gender and dismissing her strength. The Rourans in general also hate her for being a witch.

Xian Lang saw through Mulan’s disguise easily and also identifies that she has strong chi.

Oh and Chinese stories rarely have witches, Xian Lang should’ve been an nugui, kind of like an evil spirit or demoness but from Chinese folklore.

Here’s the thing that I find the funniest about the world Mulan (2020) has created.

Women should not be allowed to use chi. It has given all the proof for this rule to exist, and none to dissuade me from agreeing with it. Because the movie gives us two women with strong chi. Mulan, who actively suppresses her chi, and presumably only learns to use it during her training with the army. So, she is a chi beginner. The other woman is Xian Lang, who is immensely strong despite not looking much older than Mulan. She is probably the strongest character in the story, and definitely a chi master. The only other contenders for the title of strongest chi – not gender restricted – are the Emperor and the Commander. I believe the Emperor is stronger because Bori Khan lures him into a trap and still loses men trying to capture him. He restrains the Emperor with a ton of thick ropes. This guy is terrified of the Emperor and from the few times we see the Emperor fight? I don’t blame Bori Khan at all.

And yet the Emperor never possesses people. He doesn’t turn into a bird, or a swarm of bats, even when these would have FREED HIM AND SAVED HIS COUNTRY. Notably, none of this is ever stated as being against chi law. None of these abilities are stated to be the result of evil experimentation, forbidden techniques or any other taboo method. In the worldbuilding of Mulan (2020), Xian Lang’s chi is only evil because she is evil. And she is only evil because she is a woman with strong chi.

Mulan is a woman with strong chi.

The implication, the weird mess that Mulan (2020) has made, is that All Women With Strong Chi Become Witches. And men CANNOT become witches. Men cannot possess others. Men cannot shapeshift. Men can possibly learn to use throwing stars, but this is debatable. Women can not only do all these things, women are FATED to do so. If a woman is born with strong chi she becomes a witch.

And I don’t blame the ancient Chinese for wanting to suppress witchcraft! It looks hecking dangerous! They can possess anyone. They can break into secure spaces by shapeshifting. Sure, it’s not ethical to deny women access to chi because they could potentially become supervillains, but I can see why they went to that conclusion. The movie does nothing to address this. Mulan doesn’t vow to teach girls to use chi for good. But that’s FINE, because Xian Lang only became evil because of sexism, which is solved now, so cue the happy ending.

Even disregarding how the message of the movie is “girls get bullied for being born weird unless they prove themselves worthy of basic respect”, what is this WORLDBUILDING. Is Mulan in danger of poisoning her chi again and becoming a witch? If chi is for warriors, does that mean civilians can’t use chi? What if a farmer is born with strong chi, do we exile him until he becomes a warlock for the Rourans? How often are girls born with chi and how many of them suppress it correctly? Are they killed if they fail? Do they just join a circus and masquerade as acrobats?

Disney, chi is not a magic you can just throw around! It’s not bibbidi-bobbidi-boo! If you have a magical world, you need to teach the audience about the magical world. INSTEAD OF JUST POINTING. AT ANOTHER CULTURE. AND SAYING “THIS IS REPRESENTATION AND IF YOU HAVE PROBLEMS TAKE IT UP WITH THEM”. Yes, qi is part of my culture! CHI. IS. NOT. Its your abomination, stop using OUR STORIES and OUR TRADITIONS as a shield for YOUR SHODDY, LAZY, IDIOTIC WRITING.

Anyway all they had to do was not add ‘chi’ and have Mulan doing normal martial arts for fun or something. Just make her a normal tomboy. Sometimes girls like sport it doesn’t have to be because they were born with baseball magic.

#disney #mulan #mulan 2020 #mulan live action #disney mulan

[vikingpoteto]

Red Robin under the spotlight

Read on AO3 

______________________

Relationships:  GEN. Tim Drake & Jason Todd, Stephanie Brown & Tim Drake

Summary: Red Robin and Red hood are basically urban legends, no one is sure they're real. That is, until there is a picture of the two of them grinning at each other on Gotham Gazette's front page.

________________________

Tim Drake is having… a day. 

Stuck in his office for the afternoon, he is praying for nightime to come soon so he can put on his suit and vent his frustration by beating up some unsuspecting criminal. He’d known being a CEO wasn’t particularly fun, but he didn’t expect the board of directors to be babies for so long. 

He skims his proposal for what feels like the hundredth time unsure of how to make it clearer that that is the best course of action for their investments. The fact that he is only 18 should not trump his very solid, data-based arguments. 

So he’s already in a bad mood and praying for a distraction when his office door swings open and Tam Fox storms in.

“Timothy!” she shouts. 

He feels like he's about to learn he should be careful with what he wishes.

“Hey, Tam, I missed you too?” He tries.

Behind her, his secretary makes a helpless gesture as if trying to communicate she tried to stop Tam. Tim gives the woman a tired smile and makes a dismissive gesture.

Ignoring that, Tam slams the door closed and repeats for emphasis: “Timothy.” She pushes an iPad into Tim’s chest. “What is the meaning of this?”

Raising an eyebrow, he takes the iPad and looks at the screen, noticing he’s staring at a Gotham Gazette article and… Tim’s heart stops.

The headline screaming at his face says RED DYNAMIC DUO? by Vicki Vale and beneath it…

“Oh god,” Tim whimpers.

Beneath the headline there’s a picture of him and the Red Hood. 

Or, well, Red Robin and Red Hood. They’re sitting on the fire escape of one of the abandoned buildings in Jason’s territory and both are seemingly at ease. Too at ease. There are two BatBurger bags at their side and their fingers are intertwined. Red Robin is staring at their joined hands with a wide smile. Fucking hell. Tim always makes a point of never smiling in front of anyone when he’s in his suit, he has a reputation to protect. He doesn’t know if it’s better or worse that Red Hood isn’t wearing his helmet, because it emans his open grin is visible as well - and thank god  Jason has the habit of wearing a domino under his helmet. 

Who the hell took that picture? How the hell did they go unnoticed by both Tim and Jason?

He then starts reading the article, every word feeling like a punch to the gut. 

Gotham City has seen its share of vigilantes over the years and, unlike public figures such as Superman, they prefer to keep to themselves, making many people wonder whether they’re even human. As a shot captured by an amateur photographer that chose to remain anonymous, we find out at least a pair of the many Gotham “heroes” are closer to us than we thought. 

The vigilante known as Red Robin Gotham's patheon of heroes a couple of months ago and little is known about him. He’s been seen working with the likes of Batman, Robin and even Batgirl, making us all think he’s one of the good guys. It seems like Red Robin’s circle of friendships doesn’t include only Justice League members, though.

The Red Hood, the man so tenderly smiling at Red Robin, is a notorious mob boss whose territory's size, GCPD especulates, rivals Black Mask’s. Red Hood wanders between both criminal activities and a violent brand of justice and, while he's been seen working side-by-side with heroes like Nightwing, a hero that since has only been seen in Bludhaven, no one can claim to have seen the Red Hood so comfortable around one of the bats of Gotham

The two young men were pictured in a tender moment. Could this mean that Red Robin is straying towards villany? Is the Red Hood is considering changing his ways? Or, perhaps, are we facing a pair of starcrossed lovers, separated by different set of morals, but still unable to stay away from one another? 

Tim makes an inhumane sound. The words  star crossed lovers  jump from the screen, burning his eyes and making him wish he was going over a dumb business proposal still.

“Well?” Tam demands. “What is that, Tim?”

“I don’t know, Tam,” he answers, his voice weak. “What on earth- How the hell… Oh, god .”

“Why were you hanging out with the Red Hood?”

“Stakeout,” Tim says simply.

“Why were you on a stakeout with the freaking Red Hood?”

At that, Tim recovers enough to feel a bit miffed. That’s the same tone she had last year when Tim was working with assassins and he gets offended on his brother’s behalf. Even if, you know, said brother had also been somewhat related to the assassins in question. In the past.

“Hey, Hood is not as bad as the news make him look. Sure, he’s not exactly clean, but he’s a valuable undercover agent and…”

Tam makes sounds of a woman whose white Valentino bag had liquid lipstick spilled in. “Does that mean you  are  dating the Red Hood?”

“What? NO!”

Tim pinches the bridge of his nose. God, what a mess. 

“He’s my brother,” he says. 

Tam looks like she goes through the 7 stages of grief in a very short time and, honestly, Tim feels for her. He likes Tam a lot. She is smart and strong and the poor girl has had to deal with so much since she and Tim became friends.

“Are you telling me… that Dick Grayson…”

“No, Dick’s not the Red Hood.”

She stares at the picture again and then at him. “This isn’t Duke or Damian, Tim.”

“You’re right. It’s a long story. I can’t tell you, though. I trust you but Hood’s identity isn’t my secret to share.” 

Tam closes her eyes and breathes in and out slowly. After all the crap she had to deal as one of Red Robin’s friends, a stranged brother that happened to be a crime lord (an anti-hero, really) wasn’t that far fetched. She didn’t know much about the Drakes because Tim didn’t talked about them, so, for all she knows, Red Hood could be Jack’s or Janet’s bastard child. Although Tim can figure her theories, he doesn’t try to explain anything. Whatever she works out is better than letting her know Red Hood is Bruce Wayne’s son brought back from the dead.

“Fine. You’re not dating a criminal. You’re a criminal’s brother.”

“I mean… if you think about it, I’m a criminal too.” He smiles sheepishly under her glare. “Being a vigilante isn’t exactly something I can put on my resume.” 

Shaking her head, Tam checks the picture again. “What were you even doing? Because it looks like you’re holding hands and finding it hilarious.”

“We… hm. We were thumb wrestling.”

She stares at him, her expression empty of any emotion. Tim cringes.

“Look, not everything is death traps and high risks, alright? Sometimes stakeouts get boring!”

“You were laughing your head off because you were having a thumb war with the Red Hood,” Tam deadpans.

“Hm. Actually the thumb war wasn't that funny, that was him cheating. I was winning so he kept talking shit about Dick’s past to make me laugh and lose focus.”

Tam finally sits down and she looks at ceiling as if she’s considering all the life decisions that lead her to this moment. At this point, Tim knows she’s just being dramatic, because knowing Red Hood cheats at thumb war for certain isn’t more shocking than the time she met Tim. 

“The thumb was isn’t important now, though,” Tim says. “ This  is a huge problem. Hood’s gonna be in hot water if people think he’s  friends  with a hero.”

He refuses to use the word lovers, because ew. Sure they’re not related by blood, but… ew. Tim  sees  him as a brother, damn it.

“Well, I’m afraid there’s not a lot we can do now,” Tam says apologetically. “The article’s been up since this morning. Even if we have them take it down, it’s already out there. #RedDynamicDuo is trending on Twitter.”

Oof. That’s… oof.

Tim intertwines his fingers and glares at the tablet in front of him as if waiting for the puzzle to solve itself. He knows it won’t, so it’s up to him to fix this. His burnt out brain suggests calling Bart and asking him to run back in time and stop that cursed thumb war. His practical brain has half a mind to call Oracle and see how much online evidence she can get rid of. He has to contact Gotham Gazette and threaten them into not putting vigilante’s identities at risk by posting such pictures, although he doesn’t hold high hopes for that course of action. What he needs now is a bigger scandal, although he fails to think of something more dramatic than Red Robin and Red Hood being buddies…

Right as he’s starting to feel a bit forlorn, his phone buzzes on the table. A picture of Dick smiling flashes on the screen and Tim allows himself to perk up for a moment. Dick for sure will be able to help him.

“Dick!” He picks up, full of hope.

Tim is greeted with cackling. Dick’s cackling.

He groans. “Richard.”

“AHAHAHAHA O-oh god, you… aha... b-baby bird, you… HAHAHAHA--”

Tim isn’t paid enough for this. He hangs up.

“Can you help me with this?” He asks.

“Don’t I always?” Tam quirks an eyebrow.

Smiling tiredly, he stands. “I’m taking the rest of the afternoon off. Can you take care of… you know… day job stuff?”

“I guess. Good luck with your… your family thing.”

 THE BIRDNEST

spoiler alert: *insert game of thrones joke here*

In the hood: Go fuck yourself, Stephanie

spoiler alert: not judging u bro he hella cute

WonderWing: steph please

cassandra cain-wayne: ?

send me a Signal: they’re talking about that picture of Hood and Red holding hands cass

yumm: were NOT holding hands

cassandra cain-wayne: I print that picture.

In the hood: W H Y ! ?

cassandra cain-wayne: cute :) 

spoiler alert: she right and she should say it

In the hood: Steph, turn on your location. I just want to talk.

yumm: stephanie I hv pics of u sleep drooling on me from that that 1 patrol dnt test me

spoiler alert: shut up red dynamic duo

 Tim hates the internet.

Barbara is kindly trying her best to muffle the online reaction, but there is only so much she can do without outright deleting people’s tweets. Tim knows for a fact that that would only cause a bigger uproar, so he asks her to settle for burying mentions of them under a fake algorithm. 

He has yet to think of gossip hot enough to top the rumors, but he doesn’t think even his fake engagement to Tam last year received so much attention. A glimpse into Gotham’s elusive heroes’ personal lives was too exciting to let go quickly.

When he walks into his apartment, he wants nothing but to take a hot shower and a nap. He knows he can’t, though. 

As well as he knows he isn’t alone. 

He plays it cool, walking in as though he doesn’t notice the person in the shadows. He drops his keys and phone on the nearest table as he would normally and turns around too abruptly to allow a reaction, his fist connecting to… someone’s palm.

“Nice reflexes, Baby Bird,” Jason says, quirking an eyebrow as though mildly impressed.

Tim groans. “Would it kill you to use the door?”

“It might, better not risk it.”

“It shaves five years of my life span every time I come home and you’re waiting in the shadows. Of all of Bruce’s habits to pick up…”

Jason simply shrugs. “So… what’s up,  honey? ”

“Ew, don’t say that,” Tim groans.

Keeping his nonchalant facade, Jason lets himself fall into Tim’s couch as though he belongs there. Tim heads to his room to change into more humane clothes.

“I’m assuming Dickie shared the news already,” Jason says.

“He couldn’t stop laughing long enough to say anything,” Tim replies from his closet. “Tam was kind enough to show me, though.”

“Tam… is that your ex-fiancée? Hmm… The news sure keep shipping you with everyone, speaking of which.”

Grumbling the whole time, Tim puts on a purple hoodie he might or might not have stolen from Stephanie and that he wears whenever he’s stressed. He wears that hoodie a lot. Heading back to the living room barefoot and feeling slightly more prepared to deal with the situation, he says:

“I’m assuming you aren’t here just to hang out.”

Jason gives him an unimpressed look. “I’ll give you three guesses.”

Tim blinks once. Twice.  No, it can’t be that… “ Everyone thinks you’re a rat.”

“Bingo.”

And this situation keeps getting better and better. Red Hood is feared enough that he can get away with hanging out with the goody two shoes every now and again and keep his rep. Being caught eating burgers and giggling with a hero was a whole new animal. 

They have to assume Hood’s safe houses were compromised as well. The point of having many hideouts is that you’re never left with nowhere to go, but even Jason wasn’t prepared to have everyone in his territory turn on him. That and they all had been raised and trained to be paranoid. It was too big of a risk to assume he’d be safe in a known place.

“Crap,” Tim mutters. 

“I considered ditching Gotham and spending some time with Roy instead…”

“But that would be as good as a confession. You’d never gain their respect again,” Tim completes for him.

Jason nods. 

The only silver-lining about this situation is that this is Jason. Granted he isn’t too angry to think, Jason is practical and willing to do what’s needed, even if it’s annoying or if it makes him uncomfortable. Tim likes working with him because of that.

“You know where the extra blankets are,” Tim says. 

Because, of course, if Jason can’t be at his own place and he can’t be with Roy and Kory, he’d crash Tim’s place. The manor isn’t really an option for him and Tim doesn’t blame him for that. 

“The plan of action?”

“I’ll let you know as soon as I figure out.”

Jason sighs. “I’m going to punch something in your Red Robin cave.”

“Be my guest.”

 Damage control is necessary, of course, especially for Red Hood’s safety, but there is something bothering Tim more. He opens the news and studies the picture. It’s a damn good shot, almost looks like it was staged. He closes his eyes and tries to remember that night. In order to take that picture, the photographer would have to be in of of the buildings across the street and they’d have to be good enough to go unnoticed not by one, but by two highly trained vigilantes, one of which had his senses enhanced by the Lazarus pit. 

He messages Babs quickly for more info on whoever sent those pictures to the news, but not even Oracle had managed to track them yet. It sounds like the photographer walked into Vicki Vale on the street and handed her the picture, because there was no digital footprint of such interaction.

Without any more ideas, he puts on his suit and heads out, glad that is patrol night. Perhaps punching criminals will give him some clarity.

Tim is nowhere near closing any of his cases and Gotham is unusually quiet because of course the criminals would choose tonight of all nights to be chill. The night Tim needs a crime. That’s why he’s more than a little thankful when a crackling sound in his comm lets him know someone’s trying to send him a message.

“Hey, hot stuff,” a familiar voice calls, “I have an underground gambling den to dismantle tonight, you want in?”

Red Robin smiles. “Is that a date?”

“I don’t know, is it? I don’t want Red Hood coming after me.”

“Batgirl.”

She laughs shamelessly. He hopes Barbara isn’t listening. Although the alternative would be Wendy listening, and he doesn’t know which one would be worse. Steph’s sense of humor isn’t for everyone and while, Tim doesn’t mind their inside jokes and got used to her eternal flirting, he feels as though those should remain between the two of them only.

“I’m serious, though,” Steph continues. “I don’t think backup is needed per se, but I miss fighting criminals with you. Plus I figured you could use a punching bag or two.”

He grins. He just  really  loves Steph. 

“Send me the details. I’ll meet you there.”

Turns out it’s a pretty standard burst for them. Gambling den covering a massive drug operation, because this is Gotham. Why wouldn’t they use an illegal thing to cover another more illegal thing? That sounded like a great idea. 

He finds Batgirl waiting for him on top of a building. She simply smiles and points at the shady alley down the street. 

“Gentlemen first?” she offers. 

“It’s your case.”

With a nod, she dives towards the ground and Red Robin follows her closely, frowning in confusion when she doesn’t dropkicks any windows. Instead, she casually strolls towards the back of the alley where a suspicious metal door that could easily go unnoticed if it didn’t scream CRIMINAL ACTIVITY HERE. Batgirl knocks at the door and gestures at Red Robin to stay away.

A slit on the door slides open and a confused crook tries unsuccessfully to see who’s there. With both vigilantes’ out of his line of sight, the poor bastard has no option other than opening the door to check. Batgirl swiftly pulls him into a headlock as soon as he walks into view and Red Robin’s grinning face is the last thing the man sees before the pressured applied makes him pass out.

Red Robin doesn’t figure what Steph’s plan is until she cuffs the unconscious bouncer and stands straight, offering her arm.

“You’re so dramatic.” He rolls his eyes, even as he takes it.

“Shush, you think I’m awesome.”

That he does. Especially when the two of them climb down into the basement turned illegal cassino with their arms locked as if they’re a couple. It’s cartoonishly comic how long it takes everyone to realize Red Robin and Batgirl are standing on the entrance, looking around at the 50 different illegal activities happening at once. 

Not as comic as when Batgirl shouts over the music: “Please, don’t stop on our account!”

The gamblers sober enough to freeze in horror. 

“Before we start, anyone wants to just give themselves in?” Red Robin offers.

That’s when guns start firing and all hell breaks loose. 

 The night ends, as it would, with Batgirl and Red Robin walking home a trio of strippers. The women weren’t to blame that their work environment was less than ideal and they certainly didn’t need to be left tied up waiting for the GCPD like the mobsters Steph and Tim beat up tonight.

Red Robin wanted to just watch them from the top ot the buildings and make sure they got home safe, but Batgirl insisted they walked alongside the women. Their costumes don’t look completely out of place near them and Red Robin doesn’t know what to think of that.

For a second, he thinks he hears someone behind them. Everytime he turns around, he finds nothing but an empty alley, so he shrugs if off as him getting hit tooo many times.

While Batgirl excitedly chats with two of the women about their future employment - one of them is in this line of work just to get by, the other genuinely enjoys sensual dancing as a form of art but wishes she could work somewhere better - when the third of them discreetly detaches herself from the group to walk closer to Red Robin.

She still looks tense and guarded, her arms tightly wrapped around herself and Tim wishes he had a jacket to offer her. The way she sideeyes him says she wants to say something, but is too nervous to start. Not wanting to betray his persona, he simply waits, trying to appear as non threatening as possible.

“Thanks a lot for savin’ us, Red Robin,” the woman says finally. “I can’t believe I’m meetin’ ya.”

He gives her a small smile. “I’m just glad you’re safe, ma’am, there’s no need to thank me.”

“I just wanted ta say… I get ya.”

Red Robin tilts his head to the side. “Ma’am?”

“The thing with your man. Must ta’ be hard dating the Red Hood. I know how it is.”

He was… He was getting sympathy from a stripper with bad taste in men.

“There’s nothing gross between Hood and I!” He lets out before he can help himself, his voice a little louder than intended.

The other women startle at his outburst and turn to him, wary. One of them reaches for what is clearly a pocket knife that she thinks is cleverly hidden in her bra.

He sighs. “I’m sorry, ma’am, just… Batgirl, I believe you’ve got things from here. I’m taking off.”

She gives him a concerned look, but ultimately nods. Under Batgirl’s and the three strippers perplexed glares, Red Robin grapples his way out of there.

 Tim wakes up around noon feeling as though he was hit by a truck, as he does when he sleeps longer than three hours a night. He slowly sits up and looks around his messy room, wondering how come he’s feeling so miserable. The smell of food stirs him into some sort of alertness.

Right. He’s not home alone today.

Yawning and scratching his belly, he forces himself to get out of bed. He know that the longer he stays the more likely he is to slip into a coma, his body demanding compensation for years of sleep deprivation. Tim drags his feet towards his kitchen where he finds one of Gotham’s most dangerous vigilantes humming to himself as he makes breakfast. Or Lunch. Brunch. Whatever.

“And here I thought I was the family’s zombie,” Jason says in lieu of good morning.

Tim grumbles something about his brother being too comfortable in Tim’s kitchen, but he doesn’t dare complain. Jason is probably the only person that uses Tim’s stove and one of the perks of having him over is that he does cook. A lot. 

The one disadvantage about having Jason over is…

A knife lodges itself on the counter in front of Tim when he tries to reach for the coffee pot. Tim didn’t even see him throwing it. He glares at his brother.

“Food first. Coffee after,” Jason says. 

“I’m too nauseous to eat, I just woke up.”

Again without breaking eye contact with the pot he’s stirring, Jason blindly reaches for a package of crackers casually left on the counter and hands it to Tim.

Tim makes sure to give him his best rebellious teenager glare before grabbing the stupid crackers and sitting down to eat them. Stupid Jason with his stupid boredom. Tim had forgotten Jason goes into full mom mode when he has nothing else to do and that he’s particularly obnoxious about Tim’s eating habits.

“I consume the necessary calories,” Tim mumbles over his cracker.

“Okay, Damian.”

Tim throws a cracker at him. Jason easily dodges without looking, which is kind of annoying.

After that, the two brothers fall into comfortable silence. Tim knows Jason wants to talk about their plan of action, but he knows Tim is nowhere near awake enough to hold a conversation. Besides, Jason doesn’t like being bothered while he’s cooking anyway.

By the time the food is ready, the crackers worked their magic and Tim no longer feels as though his stomach is ready to puke out its emptiness. He grabs dishes he hadn’t used in quite a while and sets the table for the two of them. The brothers start eating in silence, Tim slowly recovering his sense of self - no wonder he goes for so long without sleeping, he takes too long to reboot when he does - and Jason mindlessly scrolling through his phone. 

Then something on the small screen makes Jason choke on his food. 

Tim quirks an eyebrow. “You okay?”

“Hm… Timmy, you may wanna take a look at this.”

“What?” Tim takes Jason’s phone. “Oh, for fuck’s sake !” 

It’s another news article. The picture is fortunately less detailed, just a red and black silhouette against Gotham’s sky that may or may not be Red Robin standing over one of the many gargoyles. The text, however.  

RED ROBIN MAKES HOMOPHOBIC REMARK AND SHOCKS ADMIRER

Gotham’s newest vigilante busted an underground gambling den last night. Despite his heroic deed, his words after the fact were less than commendable. When questioned about his relationship with the Red Hood by one of the women he rescued, the hero allegedly said that there’s “Nothing gross between him and Hood.”

“Personally, I was shocked,” said the woman in question, Krystal Math, 25  years old. “Red Robin became my favorite hero when I heard he also has a dead-beat boyfriend. I was starting to finally see myself in one of those bats, you know? I couldn’t believe when he said being gay is gross. Never meet your heroes, I guess.”

   THE BIRDNEST

WonderWing sent a screenshot.

WonderWing: red robin is cancelled for homophobia, pass it on

Robin: Good. It’s about time we rid ourselves of him.

Cassandra Cain: Little brother does not approve gay rights? :(

yumm: im literally bisexual

spoiler alert: he avoiding the question

in the hood: #redrobinisoverparty

yumm: I hate this fucking family

 Tim hasn’t stopped pacing around the room since he read the most recent article. Those were his exact words by the letter, meaning someone had been listening. He doubts Krystal, bless her heart, was the one going to the news with his “homophobic remark”. 

Having basically given up on getting Tim to calm down, Jason is the one to get the porch door open for Steph. Because apparently she’s been learning from Jason and acquired his hatred for front doors. Steph knows how Tim gets, so she promptly ignores him and gets comfortable on the reading chair to check the article fully.

“This is nuts,” Steph says. “We were being careful. I made sure of it.”

Tim believes her. Batman and Robin are basically public figures at this point, even if they don’t interact with civilians if they can help it. Red Robin and the Signal were heard of and spotted around the city, but not a lot of people really  know  of them. Red Hood was basically a urban legend until recently and Black Bat sill is. Batgirl, however, is known for being a people hero. 

She was, back in Barbara’s time, stopped for a bit with Cass, but Steph embraced the old tradition whole heartedly. She would walk people home late at night to make sure they were safe, wave at little girls in the bus, talk to kidnapping victims until they were under heavy blankets handed by the police. Steph was extroverted and charming and she used that fully as Batgirl like she never could as Spoiler. That being said, she and Barbara always made a point to avoid pictures, security cameras and whatnot. If there was a hero good at hanging with civilians while unnoticed by the media, that hero was Stephanie Brown.

Tim’s phone is buzzing. He ignores it in favor of stomping around some more. 

“Well, something must have slipped your watchful eye,” Jason says, shrugging.

Steph glares at him. “Mine, perhaps, but are you implying someone went unnoticed by Oracle?”

“Well, someone obviously did,” Tim snaps, tossing his phone at the couch in frustration. “What happened after I left, Steph?”

“Nothing,” she says honestly. “I walked the ladies home. Krystal was a bit miffed but she didn’t say anything, so I thought she was just a shipper upset that her OTP wasn’t canon.”

“You think she went to the news after?” Jason suggests.

Steph frowns. “Why would she? She didn’t look like she had media connections exactly.”  

Tim’s phone, that bounced off the couch and fell with a soft thud on the carpet, continues to explode with texts. He sighs and stops to pick it up and finally answer them.

“Appearances can be deceiving,” Jason argues. Then turns to Tim: “You should look into her. I’m gonna check other possible sources.”

“Hm-hum, just a second,” Tim mumbles, typing furiously. “Damian is being a nightmare and asking for help on a case.”

“Wack. Are you telling him to solve his own cases instead of using your intell to impress Bruce?”

Tim glares at Jason.

“Really? C’mon, Timmy, we’ve been over this.”

Stephanie gives them a puzzled look. “You’ve been over… Dami being a nightmare?”

“Jason says that whenever someone is mean to me I should reply by attacking them where hurts the most,” Tim explains.

“He knows all of our weaknesses and he has the quickest thinking,” Jason says, frustrated. “The least he should do is stand up for himself with that knowledge!”

"Kinda rich coming from the guy that tried to kill him," Steph says, quirking an eyebrow.

"Steph," Tim scowls. "He didn't know me then and the pit rage--"

"Timmy," Jason cuts him off. 

Tim sighs. "Besides now I could off him in 20 different ways if he tried any of that shit again. There. Happy, Jason?"

"That's my baby brother."

Steph smiles at him. “You know what? You’re onto something, Jaybird.”

Tim interrupts his walk of worry again to smile a bit. Something about Stephanie and Jason agreeing on something is immensely satisfying.

Still, on the matter at hand, Tim says, “If I go off on Damian, Dick’s gonna get mad…”

“Then go off on Dick as well,” Steph promptly suggests.

Jason high-fives her. “Atta girl. Besides if Dick doesn’t want us to tell Damian to fuck off he has to work harder on teaching him not to be a little shit. Everyone here has a tragic backstory here and we all know Damian goes too far sometimes.”

Tim shakes his head again. “Regardless, Damian’s case will have to wait. We’re gonna go with your plan, Jay. And Steph…”

“Wow, no way, José. I’m just here as an eyewitness. I don’t want to get involved with homophobes and end up shipped with Jason or some shit.”

Tim glares at her. “I was going to offer you some of our leftovers, but since you’re not interested, that’s fine.”

While Jason laughs and Steph protests, he proceeds to look for his laptop, hoping this isn’t going to be a dead end. 

 “This is a dead end,” Tim declares.

From what he can find, Krystal wasn’t even paid for her impromptu interview. Apparently Vicki Vale showed up at her place to confirm the veracity of a story that she heard God knows where. 

Dick is in Bludhaven, but he insisted on facetiming them when he realized his brothers were struggling, even if he mostly just made worried faces from Tim’s phone as Tim, Jason and Steph exchanged notes. As a rule of thumb, Tim doesn’t involve his siblings in his cases since he became Red Robin, but this is definitely an all hands on deck situation. Tim isn’t desperate enough to get Bruce involved, but he’s getting there. Especially when Dick says:

“Babs couldn’t find anything in Vicki’s email or phone. She’s double checking all of Vicki's sources, but so far it’s been no good.”

“We could always get Vale and hang her by the ankles on top of some building until she talks,” Jason suggests. "Let's go old school on her."

Everyone ignores Jason. Tim stands for another mug of coffee. Dick lets out a frustrated sigh. Steph keeps watching all of them from the couch, where she’s been lying down and tossing gummy bears into her mouth for the past half-hour. 

When no one acknowledges him, Jason sighs and stands. “Alright, this’ been fun. I’m going to patrol.”

Dick frowns. “Are you sure that’s a good idea?”

“He can’t vanish,” Steph says. “One thing is crashing Tim’s place to make sure he won’t get ambushed in his down time. If Red Hood goes AWOL he might as well admit he’s working with the Batclan.”

Jason nods. “If I don’t do my job, next thing I know Black Mask takes over my stuff.” 

“Can’t have Black Mask taking over his stuff,” Steph agrees.

Dick glances at Tim as though expecting him to disagree with the plan. Tim lets out a defeated sigh. “He’s right. Just… make sure to find a safe place to change into your gear so no one sees you. If there are any safe places, that is…”

Jason rolls his eyes. Tim knows he’s going full Robbie Downer mode, as Jason likes to call it, but he can’t help it. It’s not often that he finds himself without any ideas. He  should  have been able to solve this already. Since nothing comes to mind, he starts imagining unrealistic scenarios in hopes that they’ll give him some insight outside of the box.  AU in which I was never shipped with my brother by some nosey reporter. AU in which I went out Damian instead of Jason that night.

Tim groans in frustration. “Why did it have to be Jason? We could get away with me having a thumb war with literally anyone. If it was Batman out there, this wouldn’t be that much of a problem.”

“Maybe if you hung out with all your brothers and not just Jason there wouldn’t be as many rumors about you and Red Hood,” Dick mumbles.

Tim glares at the phone. 

“Really? You wanna go there? You wanna talk favoritism, Richard? Because you’ve been favoring Damian for-freaking-ever.”

“Drag him!” Jason cheers. 

“Tim,” Dick says, looking genuinely upset, “I love all-”

“Save it,” Steph cuts in. “We all have favorites Dick, there is no use denying it.”

Because Dick’s eyebrows are knitted in confusion, Tim clarifies: “Bruce’s favorite is Cass, yours is Damian, Jason’s is… I don’t know, his guns. Steph is my favorite, unfortunately. Steph’s favorite is Cass, Cass’ favorite is Duke, Duke doesn’t have favorites, he’s the only good person in this family, and Damian’s is also you.”

Steph nods. “You did it! You broke the Bat Family dynamics to its bare essentials!”

“And that is why Tim is my favorite. After my guns,” Jason adds.

“Jason, we do not rate our siblings.”

“That’s why you’re in last place, Dick.”

Ignoring Dick’s enraged noises, Tim sets his mug aside. “I’m going patrolling, even if today isn't my turn. Solo this time. Hopefully Red Hood and Red Robin being separate out there will help the rumors die down a bit.”

No one has a better idea - Tim’s least favorite sentence - so that’s what they do. 

 It’s another infuriatingly quiet night.

Red Robin stops a couple of muggings, scares the crap out of some drug dealers. At some point, he considers contacting Poison Ivy and asking if she has any corrupt CEO she wants help with. He could, you know. It’d stop Ivy from killing someone and on his last run with Harley Quinn she did let slip that Tim was Ivy’s favorite Robin. 

He almost falls mid swing at the memory, thinking he might be onto something, but then he remembers Harley hadn’t particularly recognized Red Robin as the third Robin. She was just ranting about how the new tiny Robin had no sense of humor and Ivy missed the last one. Besides of course Harley Quinn wasn’t feeding Vicki Vale some BatFanfic. Tim’s brain must be really burnt out if that’s the best hot take it can come up with. 

It’s almost 3am and he’s taking a pair of muggers that can’t be much older than Tim to the police. He’s about ready to call if a night when someone shouts:

“Red Robin!” 

He looks on instinct and his stomach drops when he sees Vicki Vale running towards him.  Crap.

“Red Robin, can I get a statement?”

He keeps walking. He’s just one dirty alley away from GCPD, otherwise he’d just tie the stupid muggers to his back and would use his grappling hook to get out of the situation, grapple safety be damned. The muggers gingerly attempt to hide their faces as the reporter runs to them swinging a digital recorder. Vicki acts as though she can’t see them.

“Red Robin, what do you have to say about the rumors of your relationship with the Red Hood?”

The rumors you created?  Red Robin quickens his pace and the muggers trip over themselves. He stares straight ahead, pretending he doesn’t notice the woman basically running in heels to keep up with him. 

“Are you ashamed of it? Is it because he’s a criminal or because he’s a man?”

Red Robin wonders if the muggers would walk the rest of the way and turn themselves in if he asked nicely.

“Don’t bother, lady,” one of the muggers says. “He’s a nasty bigot.”

The other mugger  nods and the two of them are wearing matching pouty expressions. Now Tim just feels bad. He didn’t become a hero for the recognition and he’s not in the business of doing PSAs like Superman, but he doesn’t want the strange socially woke criminal youth of Gotham to think they’re being arrested by a homophobe.

“I have no problem with two men in a relationship, I’m bisexual,” he tells the muggers. “Still, I’m not dating Red Hood. Just because I’m bi it doesn’t mean I’m dating every male vigilante I run into.”

At that, the two crooks look mildly surprised and suddenly they seem to feel a bit better about being arrested. Would you look at that. 

Red Robin delivers them to the police, painfully aware that Vicki Vale is nowhere to be found anymore. He feels like he’s going to pay dearly for being too prideful to let himself be mistaken for a heterosexual person. 

 Lo and behold, Twitter, on that very same morning.

@Gotham_Gazette:

Red Robin hints that he might be bisexual. “No, I’m not dating the Red Hood, just because I’m bi it doesn’t mean I’m dating every male vigilante,” said the hero on the rumors about his relationship.

        @dgraysonman hints??? he literally said he’s bi smh

        @stephssss wow only the male vigilantes? biphobic. let red robin date batgirl too

        @babsgeez be gay do crime, be bi serve justice

        @thomascommaduke no cops at pride, only Red Robin using a bi flag as cape.

“Timmy…” Jason starts.

“Don’t. Just leave me alone to die.”

“That’s fair, have a nice day.”

 At this point, Tim is surprised Bruce hasn’t intervened. As unaware of social media as Bruce can be, he’s always on the look for anything that might compromise their secret identities. Tim pulls two all-nighters in a row doing detective work and still makes no progress on his search for the person that sent Vicki that picture and overheard his conversation with Krystal. He fully expects Batman to jump him on his next patrol and give him a lecture.

When he comments that to Jason, he gets a confused look in response.

“You didn’t get a lecture? Bruce was the one that told me first. I had to hear about being careless for 20 minutes before I got home and could take off my comm.”

Tim frowns in confusion. Bruce had talked to him once or twice after the news got out and he didn’t comment anything on it. 

“That’s Batman’s psychological profiling,” someone suggests. 

Tim almost jumps out of his skin when Steph casually walks into the living room with a bowl of chips. 

“What are you doing here? And are those my clothes?”

Steph shrugs in the sweater that clearly doesn’t belong to her. “Jason and I are doing movie night.”

“Movie night,” Jason mocks. “She’s been here for the past two days. Did you seriously not notice, Tim?”

Tim’s jaw drops. 

Steph sighs and her expression turns guilty. “Fine. My mom is out of town for the week and Jason is a better cook than I am. Is it a crime to bum off your ex-boyfriend and his bizarrely talented in the kitchen brother?”

Before Tim can say anything, Jason interrupts: “What were you saying about Batman, Steph?”

She heads to the couch and starts looking for the remote, her feet propped on the coffee table. “B knows Jay will just shrug it off and deal with the consequences, hence the need of a lecture. If he annoys Jason, he’ll stop and reflect on it, even if out of rage. He knows Tim’s already overthinking and working his butt off to fix it, so he doesn’t want to add any pressure.”

Both Jason and Tim stand in dumbfounded silence.  Since when does Steph know Bruce so well?

She raises her gaze when the quietness stretches and quirks an eyebrow at them. “What? Am I wrong?”

“Hm. No. That’s pretty much what we’ve been doing,” Jason admits, if a big begrudgingly. “That’s annoying though.”

Steph simply makes a dismissive gesture and pats the sit beside her. “Tim, you need a break. Wanna join us?”

Tim hesitates. On one hand, the fact that Bruce trusts him that much is a tad touching… and knowing it makes him feel he has to solve this as soon as possible. On another… it’s kind of annoying that Bruce knows him so well and yet doesn’t think about offering any assistance. Tim is not stubborn enough to refuse a helping hand when he’s on a pinch.

“You’re not going to solve anything if you’re hallucinating from sleep deprivation, Timbers,” Jason points. “Besides we’re watching Avatar.”

“Fine,” Tim says.

If for nothing else, just to prove to Bruce that he’s  not an overworker and he can slack off in the absence of a parental figure.

Tim falls asleep in the middle of the second episode. Steph and Jason vow to take him to bed once they’re sure he’s completely out, but they only last until the end of the first season. The three sleep soundly on the couch for good eight hours and regret dearly when they wake up with necks too sore to fight crime for at least a day.

 Consequences. They always come.

Almost a week goes by in which the rumors are but an annoyance to Jason and a source of stress to Tim - but almost anything can stress Tim if he tries hard enough, so that’s not saying anything. Jason is still staying at Tim’s, but he’s considering going back to his own place when they go for three days with no new article and nothing unusual has happened. 

Until it does. 

It’ a rainy night Tim is going over reports for the next WE meeting when he hears a noise coming from the balcony. His stomach gives a familiar twist when he recognizes Batgirl hunched over the weight of one Red Hood. 

He rushes to her aid, already feeling nauseous. There’s no blood in sight but whatever happened must be serious if Jason is willing to let Batgirl give him a piggyback ride. Tim lets them drip water all over the floor and, in his panic, has half a mind to appreciate that Batgirl’s boots have enough traction that she doesn’t slip.

“What on Earth…”

“The most ridiculous thing,” Steph bables as she and Tim drag a very dizzy Jason to the couch. She then starts ranting so fast Bart Allen would be proud. “He was doing his thing as usual, but some of his people turned on him and there was an ambush and so many flipping people against one poor Hood and good god that guy shot his helmet at point-blank which,  damn , that was so stupid, of course the freaking helmet is bullet proof, it just ricocheted and…”

“Steph, calm down,” Tim interrupts. “Jason, can you report?”

When he gingerly attempts to take off his helmet, Steph takes over and undoes the safety measures before carefully removing it. There is a dent on the back part where he had been presumably shot. 

“Hm,” Jason grunts, squinting even behind his domino mask. “Ambush. Shot. Concussion. Very concussion. Ankle hurts? Prolly not broken, tho. Also stabbed?”

Tim nods. “Steph, get the medical supplies. Where’s the stab wound, Jay?”

Jason points to his thigh and there is an improvised bandage keeping him from losing too much blood. Considering how well done it is, Tim figures it’s Steph’s work. He nods and starts checking his brother’s vitals and making sure there aren’t other serious wounds.

When she comes back with the supplies Tim needs, Steph has her cowl down and a somber expression. She turns off the lights for Jason’s sake, the only source of light left on being the lamp near where Tim is already ripping off a piece of Jason’s pants to have better access to his wound. Steph sits by Jason’s side and grabs his hand, much to Tim’s surprise. He’s too busy taking care of the stab wound to ask, but he doesn’t have to. Steph breaks the silence:

“I’m so sorry, Jason.”

Jason gives her a confused look. “You saved my ass?”

“Yes, but…” Steph sighs and turns to Tim. “Babs is with the Birds of Prey tonight, so I was on my own. I was messing around with my comm frequency when I accidentally got into Jason’s. I heard the mess and it sounded like he was in trouble so I panicked. I went to get him and… Well, if there was any doubt that he’s working with the Bats, there isn’t now. It was too obvious that I was protecting him.”

Jason squeezes her hand. “Hm. Pigs.”

“Right. Then the police arrived and instead of leaving right away I stopped to make sure Jason wasn’t bleeding to death. More than a few cops saw me patching him up.”

Tim sighs. Well, shit. 

“It’s not your fault, Steph,” Tim says. “I mean… he literally wears a bat on his chest. People were bound to find out it isn’t just to stick it to Batman.”

“Is too,” Jason mumbles.

Tim ignores him. “The situation isn’t ideal, but we all prefer people knowing Red Hood is associated with the Bats than him being dead.”

“I died before.”

“We know, Jay.”

“Do not recommend.”

“We know, Jay.”

Steph fidgets a bit, still looking guilty, but ultimately nods. Tim is about to start stitching Jason’s wound closed when she says: “There’s more. You, hm, you know Renee Montoya?”

“The one valid pig,” Jason says. “I like her.”

“She was there. She helped a ton keep the other cops away from us before we could escape,” Steph says. “I think she wanted to check on Jason and…”

Tim stops moving. He knows Montoya, worked with her before and she’s a nice woman. That being said, she doesn’t have any connections to Hood. Why would she… Oh. The gay rumors. Damn wlw/mlm solidarity.

“What happened?” Tim asks, already fearing the worst.

“Hmmm, we’ll tell you, but I’m concussed, so you have to promise you won’t be mad.”

“Jason.”

Jason sighs. “Well. She asked about our relationship and… Hm. I might have told her we’re brothers.”

Tim stares at them. Steph is cringing and Jason is too out of it to care. At this point… Tim starts laughing, making the other two - even the concussed one - frown in worry.

“Aw, man,” Tim says between chuckles.  “What the fuck, am I right? I’m too old for this. Who cares? Not me! Fuck it. Fuckety fuck fucky-fuck.”

“I think we broke him,” Steph whispers even as Tim resumes stitching his brother.

They went from not-sure-if-real to a freaking cop knowing about their family in the span of a week. Tomorrow #TimDrakeIsRedRobin could be trending on Twitter and Tim wouldn’t care. Not anymore. Let them come.Literally everyone in his friend circle is a vigilante, a hero or a criminal at this point, he doesn’t even care about endangering anyone.

 It takes actually two days for it to hit the news. He’s alone in his office when Tam texts him a link to Gotham Gazette online. Judging by the lack of other words, Tim figures she’s cutting ties with him again.  

The newest article has no actual pictures, but a sketch of Red Hood standing with his guns pointed at the viewer and Red Robin standing behind him, his face only partially turned. The thing looks more like superhero fanart than an official sketch, but that never stopped Vicki Vale before.

 VIGILANTE FAMILY? by Vicki Vale

Red Robin, one of Gotham’s many masked vigilantes, was cause of intrigue recently. Many  people noticed the hero doing his work around Red Hood’s territory, something not even Batman dares on the regular. Speculation turned into a craze of theories when both red-themed vigilantes were caught sitting on a roof sharing a meal from Batburger and many thought perhaps there was more than your regular vigilante team up. 

Turns out the hero and the mob boss aren’t lovers, against popular belief. When questioned about the nature of their relationship, Red Hood snapped and confirmed one of the less popular theories: the two men are, in fact, related. “Red is right and he should say it,” said Red Hood to a bewildered policewoman. “Of course he’d say it’s [REDACTED] gross, he’s my little brother.” When asked about the conversation overheard by our reporter, the policewoman in question refused to give any more details and requested to remain anonymous.

It’s hard to be sure how such development came to be. The Red Hood has been active in Gotham for years as a mob boss and, more recently, a vigilante and ally to Gotham’s bats. While Red Robin is a newer vigilante, could it be that he was trained by the Red Hood? And how do the two brothers fit with Gotham’s oldest vigilantes? Unlike his older counterpart, Red Robin has been often spotted working side-by-side with the likes of Batgirl and Robin, making some question whether Red Robin is distancing himself from his criminal brother. However, sources spotted Hood being aided by Batgirl more recently. Could it be that his former sidekick is bringing Red Hood closer to the side of justice? More on the Red Twins as the story develops.

 THE BIRDNEST

spoiler alert: RED TWINS

WonderWing: R E D  T W I N S

send me a Signal: ~ * R E D T W I N S * ~

in the hood: uhhhh my bad?

yumm: dis is great

yumm: now im hoods stranged sidekick

yumm: i fucking hate u jason.

in the hood: hey, if you didn't want to be my sidekick you should've picked another color

yumm: screw u u dont own the color red

in the hood: I was born first

yumm: u died first 2

WonderWing: Tim!

spoiler alert: oof 

send me a Signal: wow Tim that was too far

in the hood: I’ve never been prouder to be your brother I taught you so well Timmy

send me a Signal: … I stand corrected. I sometimes forget everyone in this family is clinically insane

 “Hey Tim. There is discourse about you and Jason now.”

Tim lets out a whimper. 

“So apparently some people still ship you two. But those people are being cancelled because shipping incest is problematic.”

“Steph, are you planning on going home? I noticed you took one of my drawers.”

“There’s fanart of you two.”

“I don’t want to see it. That'll scar me for life."

“I’m DMing it to you. By the way there is civilian Red Robin fanart and for some reason they made you blonde.”

“Why?”

“I don’t know, I guess it’s more fun to ship people with different hair colors. Should we dye your hair?”

“Why.”

“That way when you finally hook up with Co-”

“Finish that sentence and I kick you out of this apartment for good.”

 With the cat out of the bag, they start doing different damage control. 

Red Hood is now openly working with the Bats, so Steph and Cass dismantle Hood’s former safehouses around Gotham which mostly means getting Jason’s books and bringing them to Tim’s place. Jason suggests the places should be converted into something useful for the neighborhood, such as libraries or a community center of sorts, so Tim starts working on what needs to be done by WE to make that reality. Tim also makes sure Bruce pretends not to know Jason is using a lot of money illegally acquired to getting himself new hideouts.

They dance around the topic a lot and nothing is really said until Steph brings it up. Steph, whose mother returned days ago. Steph, that definitely doesn’t want Jason to leave, because apparently she suddenly has a new favorite ex-Robin. Steph, that is currently eating homemade waffles in Tim’s kitchen, even though Tim is 83% sure she didn’t sleep over last night.

“Why doesn’t Jason just moves in?” she asks.

When neither boy replies immediately, she continues:

“I mean, it’s more practical, isn’t it? Tim’s place is already secure, he has a hero hideout downstairs and you two already work together all the damn time. Tim’s office can be converted into a room for Jason, because, let’s face it, I spend most of my free time here and Tim never uses it. I once saw him take his laptop with him to the bathroom and then return to the kitchen table instead of using the office. We wouldn’t even have to take the shelves, because Jason would fill them.”

They exchange a look. 

“You know, she’s right,” Tim says. He shrugs like it’s no big deal, really.

He isn’t nervous at all while Jason stands there, his expression unreadable. It’s not like he enjoys way too much having his brother around and got way too comfortable with having a roommate and a half (if you count Steph) on the past weeks. Tim doesn’t care, he’s cool like that.

“I mean. I guess having you as a roommate beats living alone,” Jason finally says.

Tim fails to hide his grin. “We can start working in turning the office into a room this weekend.”

Jason smiles back and messes his hair. 

Tim’s first theory is that Steph wants Jason off the couch so she has an official place to sleep, because apparently Jason’s cooking is that good.

His second theory is that she noticed how happy Tim is to finally share a house with family. The Wayne Manor had been home for a while, sure, but despite Alfred’s best efforts the place wasn’t the coziest. It wasn’t the same as sharing an apartment with a brother, bickering about sharing chores and openly discussing their night jobs before shifting the conversation to a video game they want to buy. Sharing actual meals and making sure one another wouldn’t end up dead in a ditch.

Tim decides to stick with his first theory, after all it’s easier for Steph to make Red Twins jokes if Jason and Tim are under the same roof. 

 Even without new gossip, the idea of vigilante brothers is too interesting for the general public to let go. Tim and Jason start acting mostly in the shadows and having no interaction with civilians at all and they’re still the topic of Gotham’s variety shows and online discussions from time to time.

Because they don’t slip again, Bruce has yet to bring up the subject with Tim, but the mystery remains. Who listened to all those conversations and how? Tim keeps expecting the other shoe to drop, to get a message demanding ransom for their secret identities, something,  anything , but nothing happens. Nothing freaking happens and he’s never been this frustrated.

That is, until, it happens. The ultimate betrayal. 

Dick’s next visit coincides with the time Cass is over for the week. Because Bruce is secretly a sap in the wrongest way, he suggests they all go patrolling together. Such great family time. 

Despite their initial protests, they must all be the same kind of freak, because they all agree. They split up soon to cover more ground, but keep their comms on so it still feels they’re all in a big menacing group. 

Red Robin is somewhere near the crime alley when Nightwing announces he noticed some of Two Face’s goons getting into a building. He checks his wrist pad for their locations and notices Nightwing isn’t that far from where he is. The next closest person is Red Hood.

“I’ll take care of it,” Nightwing says over the comms.

“Negative. Two Face himself might be there,” Batman intervenes. “Wait for backup. The Red Twins--” And he stops himself as though realizing what he’s saying.

“Batman!?” Red Robin gasps in a betrayed voice. 

Nightwing is already having a laughter fit over the comms almost drowning the sound of Bruce’s disappointed sigh.

“I’m sorry, Red,” his father says and he even forgets to use Batman’s scary voice. “Nightwing and Batgirl have been saying it so much that-”

“Save it,” Hood groans. “And stop laughing, Jerkwing!”

The worst part is knowing that, even if he solves the mystery, the Red Twins thing is probably going to follow him to his untimely death. 

 Tim all but lost hope when he gets an email from Barbara. “To my favorite Red Twin” says the subject. He groans, but opens the email, because one does not simply ignore a message from Oracle. Then he almost drops his phone. 

Attached there is a grainy picture of a young woman talking to Vicki Vale. The image had certainly been enhanced digitally as it’s probably from a shitty security camera, but you can still see the woman’s face clear as day. She looks like she’s handing Vicki something, her shoulders tense and her expression wary. The body of the message is, most likely, the woman’s personal info. Her name is Lisa Harris. She is 27 years old. She lives somewhat close to Jason’s territory. And, most importantly, Babs added to the end of the message:

The picture is from the night before the Red Twins article ;) Vicki didn’t talk to anyone other than her coworkers and our pal Lisa on that night.

Jason comes out of his room when Tim trips on the coffee table in his hurry to stand. “What’s up?”

Tim hands him the phone. Jason’s eyes grow wide. “I don’t care about subtlety. We’re both going after this chick.”

“Agreed.”

“Should we wait for Steph? She’s gonna be mad that we went when she’s in class.”

“Jason, Steph doesn’t live here.”

“Doesn’t she, though?”

“We’re not waiting for Steph. She’s not involved.”

“Aight, but when she’s bitching I’m gonna say I remembered her and you said no.”

 They leave their bikes behind first for stealth sake, but mostly because the place they’re going isn’t that far from their place. Tim shivers at the thought of someone so dangerous living near him. He wonders what kind of information Lisa might have gathered and for how long she’d been watching them. Is she a new enemy? Perhaps a member of the league?

The shitty building she lives in doesn’t suggest that. It’s just another grimy Gotham apartment complex that didn’t age well. The place they’re looking for doesn’t have a balcony, only a useless fire escape so rusty it would probably crumble under any sign of flames. It’s a perfect hiding spot, because nothing suggests a villain lives there. It’s just a building, home to many underpaid bachelors, nothing too suspicious about it.

Red Robin reminds Hood of that before they nod to each other and split. Jason goes into the building with a ton of confidence, for such a big guy trying to go unnoticed. Tim uses his grapple to reach the right window, not trusting that fire escape for even a second. 

The window is open and he finds himself looking at a place not that different from the one Jason lived before moving in with Tim. Mismatched furniture of the living suggests whoever lives there didn’t have money for fancy decor or that they don’t mind how the place looks. However, something about the place looks… well, lived in. It doesn’t look like a criminal temporary hideout, but rather someone’s place.

As he hesitates, a woman walks in. The woman of the picture, Lisa Harris. Her long blonde hair had been tied in a knot on top of her head and she’s getting ready for bed, if her oversized T-shirt and pajama pants say anything. She’s holding a bowl of cereal.

She reminds him of Steph and that causes him to hesitate for a second. What if this girl is innocent? Their evidence is circumstantial. Maybe she just happened to talk to Vicki Vale at the wrong time.

That hesitation costs him dearly. The woman appears to feel his eyes burning the back of her head. She glances at the window and their gazes meet.

Crap. 

Lisa inhales sharply and drops her cereal bowl. Before he can reassure her of anything, she’s bolting for the door. He pats himself in the back for his backup plan, because just as she opens the door she runs right into Red Hood’s chest. Lisa stumbles backwards, her expression horrified.

“Knock knock?” Hood quips.

She lets out a squeak and guilt makes Tim wince. Once again he opens his mouth to tell her they’re not here to hurt her when she… vanishes. 

She simply disappears right in front of their eyes.

“Shit, she’s a meta,” Hood hisses. 

Red Robin’s thoughts fly a thousand miles per hour, finally making the conexions he stupidly missed for so long. Of  freaking course.  He was so used to dealing with a bunch of idiots in colorful costumes and assassins and whatnot he hadn’t taken in consideration that ninjas aren’t the only exceptional enemies they face. And if his theory is correct. 

“She’s still here,” he says. “If I’m right, she can turn invisible. That’s how she’s been listening to private conversations.”

A soft gasp follows his statement and Hood is moving almost as fast as Red Robin’s insights. An invisible woman is still solid and her clumsy footsteps are still audible, so on the moment that follows Jason seems to embrace air. 

“No!” She cries out, flashing in and out of sight for a few seconds.

“Careful,” Red Robin warns.

Hood is wearing his helmet, but Tim knows him well enough to know his brother is glaring at him as if saying  duh?  

Lisa tries to stomp on Hood’s feet, she squirms and grunts, but he doesn't budge. Apparently invisibility is her only power and she looks terrified.

“It’s okay!” Red Robin hurries to say. “We’re not going to hurt you!”

She turns her frantic gaze to him. Her brown eyes suddenly become watery. 

Shit.

“Hood, let her go,” Red Robin says. 

“Seriously?”

“Yes. You’re not going to try to escape again, are you, Lisa? We just want to ask a few questions.”

He wishes they had waited for Steph.

Lisa hesitates, paralysed, but slowly nods. Her eyes never leave Red Robin once their gazes met, not even to check whether Hood is going to let her go or not.

“Hood,” he calls again. 

Groaning something about being too trusting, Jason lets her go. He is gentle about it, too, making sure to let her feet touch the floor carefully instead of simply dropping her. Regardless, as soon as she’s left to stand on her own legs, her knees give in and she drops on the floor. At that, Tim can tell even Jason is hiding guilt behind his helmet.

He shakes his head to regain focus and crouches in front of the woman. If at this point they just apologize and leave, they’ll have traumatizes this poor woman for nothing.

“Lisa Harris,” he starts. “That’s your name, right?”

She trembles when he says her name and that should have been the first red flag. He blames it on the stressful situation and moves on.

“I’m sorry for startling you,” he says. He keeps his expression empty, even if he again can tell Jason is cringing at the understatement. “No one here is going to hurt you. We just want some answers. Is that alright?”

Her hands are balled tightly on her lap as though she’s making a lot of effort not to move them - perhaps to punch them, defend herself? But again she doesn’t look prone to start a fight.

“You’re him,” she whispers, her voice heavy with… something. It almost sounds like affection. “You’re really the Red Robin. In my room.”

That  red flag is harder to ignore. He is about to check for other shock symptoms when Hood calls.

“Hmm… Red? Are you seeing that?”

He follows his brother’s gaze… and his chin drops. On the wall opposite to the door hangs a giant corkboard. On the corkboard, held by black and red tacks there are dozens of Red Robin pictures. Some blurry, some taken from so far that you can barely be sure it’s really Red Robin or not, the infamous picture of the thumb war (demon horns had been disturbingly scribbled on Jason on that one) and… He doesn’t have words. 

“You’re my hero!” Lisa claims.

“Is he? I couldn’t tell,” Hood says.

Red Robin punches his knee, which is all he can reach from where he is, and turns his attention to the woman in front of him.

“Lisa, for how long have you been following me?”

“Since you saved me,” she says. “Well… Hm. You didn’t save me. But you stopped a heist at the Central Bank a couple of months ago and I was there. I could've died without you.”

Aw, crap on a stick.

“Do you… do you know who I am?”

“You’re Red Robin,” she repeats.

“He’s asking about his identity behind the mask.”

The way she glares at Jason doesn’t suggest she had been shaking in fear moments ago. “He’s Red Robin,” she insists. “I don’t need anything else.”

“If you don’t know… how do you have so many…” Hood gestures vaguely at her creepy corkboard.

“I did detective work,” she says and glances at Red Robin as if expecting a pat on the back. “I noticed you always go on patrol on mondays, wednesdays, fridays and saturdays. Then if I wandered around long enough… It was just a matter of hard work and bit of luck, really.”

Damn. Now that Tim thinks about it, the one time he went on patrol spontaneously was also the night Vicki Vale found him by coincidence rather than magically knowing what happened. 

“Fuuuuck,” Hood groans. “I told B patrol schedule was a dumb idea!” Then, in a deep growly voice, “ It’s a matter of efficiency Hood, don’t be paranoid. Who’s paranoid now, Batloser?”

“Not the time, Hood.”

“Right. Proceed.”

Red Robin sighs. “Why did you sell my pictures to Vicki Vale?”

At that, Lisa looks suddenly ashamed. “I.. I’m sorry. I thought… I thought you were  involved  with  him  and I panicked. I thought… I thought seeing what it would do to your reputation would make you see that he’s not good enough for you.”

“Rude.”

“Hood.”

“What? She is.”

“I was trying to learn more about him, you know? I was. When I found out he was your brother, I realized you had no option, right? Family is family. I even told the news again to clean your record.”

So he had a stalker. A stalker concerned about his love life, no less, that’s… great. Just great. Of all the scenarios he considered they’d have to face, this is not one of them. Before he decides what to do, however, Lisa speaks up again. 

“You sound so… nice.”

Tim stares at her in confusion, unsure whether to thank her or not. Regardless, she didn’t sound like she was complimenting him.

“I mean… aren’t I supposed to be?”

“No! I mean… you’re… you’re dark and brooding and serious and you don’t waste time with civilians unless forced…” She frowns and Tim figures she’s thinking about the night with the strippers. “You’re… the night.”

Jason snorts. Tim punches his knee again. “Lisa, I’m pretty sure you’re thinking of Batman, not me.”

Her expression twists in such fury both vigilantes prepare to restrain her, but instead of directing her anger at them, Lisa scoffs.

“Don’t  get me started on Batman! All that crap about being mysterious and working alone? Then he joins the freaking Justice League? Just… Batman, in the middle of a bunch of rainbow wearing clowns. And then… all those freaking kids. Why does he have so many kids?”

“Lady, we ask ourselves that everyday,” Tim admits.

Lisa is wearing the same expression Krystal had when Red Robin denied his relationship with Hood.

“I’m sorry, Lisa, I’m grateful that you admire me, but you can’t keep following me like this.”

Her eyes teary again, Lisa swallows dry. “Clearly, if you’re  sorry  about it.”

They can’t exactly take her to Arkham for taking pictures. Tim feels less bad about the whole thing when the woman stands and starts telling them in a  very loud voice  to get the hell out of her house.

“Fine,” Jason says, heading to the corkboard. “But I’m taking this.”

“Take it,” she shouts. “I don’t need it anymore. You’re  just like Batman!”

And that’s how Red Hood and Red Robin find themselves standing in the middle of a dusty hallway, Hood with a conspiracy board under his arm. 

Well, that happened. 

 In the end, Steph  was  furious about them going to the stalker’s house by themselves, but there was not a lot she could do except doodle on every picture of the stalker board. 

There must be something very wrong with their sense of humor, because their text group becomes a mess of jokes about the stalker Robin being stalked. At that Tim has no problem exercising Jason’s lessons in holding grudges and refuses to help them with any of their cases unless they stop it. The thing is that all of them find the whole thing hilarious.

All of them except Duke.

“Give it a while,” Tim tells him. “You’re the most recent acquisition to the family. In due time your idea of funny will be just as warped as ours.”

“Hm. When was the last time you slept, Timmy?” Duke asks.

“Tuesday.”

“Today is Tuesday.”

“Hahahaha yeah.”

“... Jaaaaasooon! Come over here! Tim is going into The Ring territory! Do something about it!”

Bruce doesn’t find it funny either. He isn’t happy that there’s a deranged meta he didn’t know about, but Tim thinks that was the least surprising part of the whole ordeal. He reckons a lot of metas doesn’t want to be a hero or a villain, they’re just regular people that live regular lives and happened to win in the metagene lottery. 

Or… well. In Lisa’s case, not so regular.

And that’s why upon hearing the story for the first time, Bruce  completely freaks out. He starts considering possibilities from scaring the woman as Batman - “That’s a terrible idea, dad, you heard she likes that shit,” says Dick over facetime - or having her arrested - “Father, having bad taste in men is hardly a crime. She has yet to do anything to harm Timothy” Damian helpfully reminds him - and finally to fill out a restraining order - “For who, Karen?” Jason snaps. “Red Robin? Or you want to walk into that nut job and tell her she’s not allowed near Tim Drake-Wayne?”

Long story short, it’s chaos. Tim has had enough of a crazy night, so he sits back near the training area of the cave and sips the tea Alfred made him. Bruce is doing Tim’s stressed out circuit, pacing back and forth around the cave while his children follow him - Damian is holding the phone higher than his head so Dick can talk to Bruce at eye level - and they try to talk him out of doing anything stupid.

Most of them, anyway. It looks like Duke is definitely looking into the possibility of a restraining order.

Cass detaches herself from the mess and heads towards Tim. She looks calm, as Cass always does, and some of that calm transfers to him. When she takes a seat by his side, he smiles at her.

“Okay?” she asks. 

Tim shrugs. “Weirded out, mostly. I’ll be fine.”

She points at her then signs Tim’s house as a question. She’s asking him if he wants her to come over.

While Cass is one hell of a bodyguard, Tim thinks of Steph, who’s most definitely playing with his video games back at home, and of Jason, whose schedule mostly matches Tim’s, hence he is, more often than not, at one shout of distance. Tim can’t think of any place that feels safer than his home right now.

“I’m fine. Jay and Steph are taking care of me. I’ll just have to be twice as careful during patrol,” he says.

Cass nods, satisfied. She gives him a forehead kiss and leans against his side. The two of them watch their family yell at each other for the next ten minutes, matching serene smiles on their faces.

 Bruce settles for keeping Lisa under occasional watch. 

Barbara stalks her online and finds that Lisa has left a Red Robin fanclub (Tim did not know those existed) and closed all of her threads on the Red Robin subreddit (Tim knew about those, but kept his distance), making it seem that learning that Red Robin is just a polite-ish kid really killed her love. 

Bruce says he’ll keep tabs on her because he know she’s a meta, it’s not like he’s being overprotective, he totally knows Tim can take care of himself, really. 

Other than that, Bruce is way too happy about Jason’s new living arrangement. He even  almost smiles. 

 Tim… is fine. The whole thing is creepy, for sure, but he finds out that his siblings making so many jokes about it makes it easier to handle. Yay for their unhealthy coping mechanisms. 

He doesn’t think he will ever be okay with media, though. It’s annoying enough that he has to deal with reporters as Tim Drake-Wayne, he definitely doesn’t need the attention as Red Robin. 

Luckily for him, his siblings help him with that too. One time he’s wrapping a gang bust with Nightwing when a reporter comes running towards them, begging for a few answers. Red Robin cringes inwardly realizing there are no close buildings to use his grapple, but before he can say anything, Nightwing squeezes his shoulder. 

“Go, Timmy. I’ve got this.”

Tim smile. “Thanks, Dick.”

And he leaves the silent and swift way only a Bat can do. 

 Things are great. As great as they can be in Gotham, at least. Tim wakes up at 9am - an early time for a vigilante, but he got at least 5 hours of sleep, so that’s something - and heads to the kitchen. He finds Steph (who still swears she doesn’t live with them) and Jason bickering over pancakes they’re making. Smiling to himself, Tim mumbles a good morning and starts washing the dirty dishes from last night.

The peaceful morning is interrupted by Steph’s phone buzzing. She use a paper towel to clean her hands before checking it and…

“Uh… Timbers?” she calls.

He freezes, the pan he’s washing suddenly forgotten. “What now?”

Steph is trembling with contained laughter when she hands him the phone. Duke just sent her a link to a news article. Tim clicks and finds himself staring at the headline RIVALRY BETWEEN HEROES? followed by a clear picture of Nightwing and a blurry shot of Red Robin.

The article follows:

After dealing with an infamous gang of contrabandists that operated near Gotham’s harbor, Nightwing and Red Robin went their separate ways without much courtesy. Despite the short collab, it appears that Red Robin didn’t appreciate Nighwing’s help, his farewell words being a sarcastic “thanks” followed by calling Bludhaven’s hero a “dick”.

Tim raises his eyes to the other two. Steph is hiding her face into the crook of Jason’s neck, her shoulders still trembling a bit. Having read the article over Steph’s shoulder, Jason is biting his lip.

Tim deadpans: “This is the funniest shit that ever happened to me.”

The three of them explode in laughter and they cackle for a good minute, until the three of them are breathless and their cheeks hurt.

“I-I want to print that and frame it,” Steph manages between giggles. “Let’s hang it on the living room.”

“Good… ahaha… Good work, Timbers,” Jason says, smiling wide. “For that, you can have extra pancakes.”

Tim is still grinning when he goes back to his dish duty. Maybe being under the media attention isn't so bad after all.

#batfam #red robin #tim drake #jason todd #red hood #stephanie brown #red bros #poteto writing #lmao here take this

[wahtdahel-blog]

Why Women Have Higher Rates of PTSD Than Men Sexual trauma is particularly toxic to mental health.

The topic of women and sexual trauma has certainly been in the news lately, provoking a great deal of emotion and outrage. Much trauma research focuses on male combat veterans, yet women actually have double the rate of Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder (PTSD) as men! While combat veterans have high rates of PTSD and suicide and deserve our attention, so do women sexual assault and abuse survivors.  This article will review the symptoms of PTSD, its prevalence in women and men and factors that may contribute to sex differences in PTSD risk, including the types of traumas that women experience, differences in brain processing, coping, and societal reactions.

What are the symptoms of post-traumatic stress disorder?

To be diagnosed with PTSD, a survivor needs to have the following symptoms present for at least 1 month and severe enough to interfere with day to day functioning:

Re-experiencing symptoms. These involve reacting as if the trauma is still present, including having nightmares, flashbacks, or frightening thoughts (1 needed)

Avoidance symptoms. These are attempts to avoid being reminded of the trauma, such as staying away from people, places, or things that are similar to aspects of the trauma, or avoiding and shutting out thoughts and feelings related to the trauma (1 needed)

Arousal and reactivity symptoms. These are signs of excess anxiety or anger and physiological arousal, including having angry outbursts, feeling “on edge,” being hyper-vigilant for threat, or having difficulty sleeping (2 needed)

Cognition and mood symptoms. These are negative thoughts, feelings, or judgments relating to the event or memory impairments and include feeling excessive guilt, blaming yourself unreasonably, having difficulty remembering aspects of the event, seeing yourself or the world negatively, or not finding interest or pleasure in regular activities (2 needed).

It is normal to experience some of these symptoms right after an event like a rape or a serious  car accident, but if symptoms last for more than a month then you may have PTSD and should seek mental health evaluation and treatment. Sometimes PTSD symptoms can be triggered months or years after the actual event.

What are the rates of PTSD in women and men?

The lifetime prevalence of PTSD is 5-6% in men and 10-12% in women.   This means that women have almost double the rate of PTSD as men. Women’s PTSD also tends to last longer (4 years versus 1 year on average). Women are more at risk for chronic PTSD than men. What factors could account for this difference?

Do women experience more traumas than men?

One suggestion for the higher rate of PTSD is that women experience more traumatic events than men. In fact research shows the opposite is true. Women report about a third less traumas than men. This means women are at higher risk of PTSD  even though they experience fewer traumatic life events than men on average. This is surprising and suggests there may be something about the type of trauma or women's reactivity that puts them at higher risk.

Do types of trauma differ between women and men?

Research shows that men and women do indeed experience different traumas.

Men are more likely to experience:

combat trauma

accidents

natural disasters

disasters caused by humans.

Women experience more incidents of:

sexual abuse

domestic violence

sexual assault

Sexual traumas are prevalent and particularly toxic to mental health!  Sexual abuse typically begins at a young age, when the brain is still growing, leading to a lasting impact on emotion regulation and fear response.  About one out of every 6 women has experienced attempted or completed sexual assault or rape in her lifetime. Victims of sexual trauma are more likely to be diagnosed with PTSD than victims of nonsexual trauma. While you might be able to stay away from combat, there is a psychological and relationship cost to staying away from sexual activity or being a reluctant participant (in the context of a committed relationship).

The #metoo movement has highlighted the fact that women in many different career settings experience high rates of ongoing sexual harassment by bosses and colleagues. These experiences of exploitation, besides acting as chronic stressors, may trigger emotions associated with past trauma in women who have been raped and abused. Similarly, events in the news, especially those involving unfair treatment or sexual exploitation of women can trigger strong reactions in the many women who have experienced sexual abuse or assault.

What makes sexual trauma so traumatic?

When I see survivors of sexual trauma in my practice, they often exhibit high levels of fear and vigilance, shame, and self-blame.  Sexual traumas carry a stigma and make women feel ashamed even when there is no valid reason to feel this way. Lawyers representing perpetrators often attack the victim's character, lifestyle, and reputation in attempts to get their clients acquitted. Many women who have been traumatized turn to alcohol or drugs to block out feelings associated with the trauma and thereby make themselves vulnerable to further sexual exploitation or coercion. They may report body hatred or dissatisfaction or exhibit eating disorders. Many victims of sexual trauma have trust issues, which can get in the way of healthy relationships as an adult. Some may isolate themselves or become avoidant of romantic relationships.

Women abused as children or teens report feeling too scared or ashamed to tell an adult. Some are not believed or told to “get over it.’  It is difficult to describe the level of violation and loss of sense of a healthy self that sexual abuse and sexual assault can cause to women and men. This is compounded when our society responds with dismissal, minimization, or disbelief.

What other factors might account for the different rates of PTSD?

Women are more susceptible than men to other types of mental health issues like anxiety disorders or depression. These may be the result of sexual assault or abuse, but can also be caused by other factors like genetic vulnerability to depression or high anxious temperament.  However, societal attitudes, gender roles, and income inequalities also affect mental health and mood. Women earn less than men for the same jobs. Many women work in jobs or live in households where they have less power and control over their lives than men. This is especially the case in traditional cultures. Professor Norris and her colleagues studied gender differences in PTSD across cultures and found that the increased risk of PTSD symptoms  in women was magnified in more traditional cultures.

Do men and women have different brain responses to trauma?

Although more research needs to be done, it is possible that women’s brains react differently to fear-arousing or threatening stimuli than men’s brains. In experimental studies, women showed more activation of the right amygdala, right rostral anterior cingulate cortex (ACC) and dorsal ACC than men when they were exposed to fearful stimuli.  The right side of the brain is associated with emotionality in general and negative emotions in particular. These same brain areas are involved in the stress response and also in mind-body awareness and emotional reactivity. Another study using physiological measures showed that women acquired fear more easily than men when exposed to fearful stimuli.

Do men and women cope with stress differently?

Men and women may cope differently with stress. There is some evidence that women are more likely than men to exhibit a “tend and befriend” response to stress. They may react to stress by crying for help, turning to others for social support, or care-taking. Men show more angry and avoidant or problem-solving responses when they are stressed. Because women’s responses are more linked to their social network and availability of support, they may be more vulnerable to PTSD symptoms when they feel lonely or rejected or when social support is not available.

Women tend to show more of an emotional and ruminative response to stress, whereas men are more likely to engage in problem-solving. Ruminating about your stressors can make their impact worse if it stops you from taking action, or if the situation is not controllable. In general, women seem to report stronger emotional reactions to major life events (like death or divorce). Women are also more affected by stressors impacting people close to them, like their parents, friends, partners or children. These coping factors may contribute to women’s higher rate of PTSD, but more research needs to be done. Women who have been raped or sexually assaulted are also likely to blame themselves more and see themselves more negatively, which can exacerbate their reactions to the trauma.

Summary

Research shows that women have higher rates of PTSD than men despite a lower rate of trauma experience. Women’s greater exposure to sexual trauma, sexual coercion, and intimate partner violence plays a role, as well as biological, environmental, and coping factors. When families, social groups, government bodies, news media, or organizations disbelieve, disrespect, or minimize girls' and women's experiences of sexual trauma, this can cause a great deal of harm to mental health.

[boogiewrites]

Choking On Sapphires 82

Characters: Alfie Solomons x Genevieve (OFC)

Title & Song: When the Levee Breaks

Summary: Alfie returns to work. He begins to deal with the aftermath of what happened and tries to gain control of an uncontrollable situation.

Warnings/Tags: Language. References to assault and violence. PTSD. Suffering/Physical Pain. Fluff. Grumpy Alfie. Business Alfie. 

Click on my icon then go to my Mobile Masterlist in my bio for my other works and chapters. (Had to do this since Tumblr killed links, sorry.) Please like, comment and reblog if you enjoyed it! It helps out us writers A LOT!

The clack and clash of work within the well ran warehouse beneath the quaint Jewish bakery was running at high proficiency with its boss stalking about the place again. His freshly cobbled shoes, which he refused to replace, much to Genevieve’s annoyance, squeak with the hard fresh leather and nails against the hard floor. Despite being polished, they were covered with dirt and dust just like the rest of him, as was necessary for working in a rum house. He enjoyed the work again, as much as one could enjoy ordering around mostly boys he thought would have trouble pissing in a pot by themselves. But it did get him out of the house. More importantly, it got him away from the abstract and currently unsolvable problems that lie there waiting for him as soon as he left the structure that running his business gave him.

He’d adapted well, in his opinion, to the problems that lie in that big ornate bed at home. He didn’t work nights if it could be helped, he was home for dinner every day and took the Shabbat off, giving him extra time to be with Genevieve. He didn’t like coming back home to problems he couldn’t solve with a shout of his orders, but that was the life they were dealing with. He’d at least been able to put up a strong front at work, perhaps a bit more stone-fisted with his men than he had been previous to Genevieve’s abduction. But he felt like he had control at his dingy warehouse with its strong smells he carried home in his clothes every day. He felt like he had a place that fit when he was working, his problems solved by either agile fingers or mind with a raise of his voice or arms to put forth the labor and intellect to solve them. He didn’t have to think about how powerless he was when it came to the throw of a dice that was Genevieve’s health and mind while he worked. And although he did make most of his money on being a betting man, he’d always prefer horses over the indifferent will of the miraculous mess that was the human body.

He told himself he did it because he wanted to take better care of himself in the face of Genevieve’s decline of health, taking breaks outside to escape the fumes and flames inside his alcove of a workspace. The reality was that Aggie and Claire had beaten him into submission on him eating a full lunch and getting some sun every day. Aggie would know by his mood and his lack of stealth when it came to snacking in the kitchen if he failed to follow her suggestions. But of course, Alfie had found another way to use this forced time to his advantage. As was his way.

“There lads, go on wif ya.” He grunts after handing coins to the scrappy youth's he’d been meeting with on his breaks. Little sets of unassuming eyes and ears around the city, needing the money and having the time and invaluable ability to seem invisible to most, he utilized them for his work. They gave him all the things they’d seen and heard that could interest him. For a few sweets and pounds the information they gave was worth its weight in gold. He watches their worn shoes become even more so on his orders as they shuffle across the dirty brick pathways away from the canal and the work buildings.

“Next appointment is soon sir.” Ollie reminds him, taking Alfie's eyes from the long distance stare they were set in thoughtfully as the kids disappeared around the corner.

“Right.” He huffs out, a hand that smelled awful and felt much the same with its grit from both stress and work rubbing across his face as he scratches his beard in thought. “Put down visitin’ the families in the diary soon, yeah? Seems a few of the children have come down wif some fuckin awful fing that’s killed one of 'em already.” He says without the emotion behind it that it would warrant from any normal person.

“Yes, sir.” Ollie notes in his mind as he follows after his employer, back down the corridors to his office. Despite Ollie being taller, he very much felt small and like Alfie was carving the way back for him as his shoulders swayed and bow legs stalked with a stance that unquestionably told anyone who looked his way, “Don’t fuck with me.”

“So what ‘ave I got before I head out?” He asks with no fondness to the statement, selves rolled up his bulky and gingery hair covered forearms. His hands, as always highly bejeweled, Genevieve’s gifts among them, slap together and rub to commence the last parts of his work day, the tattooed crowns being the least of the signals from him that he was, in fact, the boss in this space.

“We have the meetings with the little birds.”

Alfie scoffs and scoots up his worn leather chair to his large wooden desk, covered in patches of dust and paperwork with a posture perfect back for a moment. “Not so little now eh?” He muses. “In stature or count.” He states with pursed lips and high brows full of amusement for his observation.

The project of little birds had started years ago. Now men, just like the lads he’d paid earlier were now, he had groomed these young men into spies for him in various fields. He had them for the Jewish community, various pubs and shops and corners in every class of neighborhood and at least one in each of the so-called gangster's posse’s, minus one for the boy who had been with Horne. He’d murdered him where he stood in his office the day he came back to work. In hindsight, perhaps it was a bit harsh, but it certainly sent the other boys into high gear to not have the same fate as him. Alfie felt much more in charge of his emotions from what had happened now, but as always, his sort of life would keep finding ways to make him question himself.

“I have the report here, sir. One will be in shortly with his to close off the group.”

“Why’s he late wif it?”

“Not late, only delayed from the nature of his subject. He hosts at the high tea shops in the West End.”

“Ah. Right.” Alfie nods, a twitch of whiskers over chapped full lips that sat in a tight line as he read over his tiny golden framed glasses. The reports with their code words and aliases couldn’t be read any more clearly by Alfie. It all spelled trouble. The word was out about him being behind the pillaging of Horne’s buildings. Word had spread of the less powerful Birmingham Gypsy brothers helping these acts to transpire as well. But it was known Genevieve was counted among them, being the head Shelby’s godmother to his children and that.

Sabini was annoyed by their appearance in London, but planned nothing in retort. In his words, it was reported that Horne, the bloody American, had it fucking coming. This was a general consensus it seemed, no one fond of any Americans moving in on business since the blowup years ago with the American-Italians. Not even Sabini had been safe in that fight. Americans were seen as cowboys, wildcards not to be trusted and looked down upon for their boisterous nature and inclination to assume their importance. The general consensus was fuck the Americans. At least Alfie had something in common with these men. One less in their line of work meant more for them, and with prohibition still enforced, that opened up a piece of the market to make some money in Horne’s absence. Alfie jots down notes with a hard brow to look farther into taking on Horne’s business loose ends. Beyond the professional, it seemed the consensus on Alfie and his reaction to Horne was a mixed one. Some thinking it an overreaction, some, like Sabini seeing it as earned and flex of power. Whether they thought him mad or powerful, he didn’t much care, but the signs all pointed to him being feared for it and that was precisely where Alfie wanted to stand with these men.

Onto the other subject of his almost betrothed, Genevieve, the news was not as pleasant but he had expected worse. Whispers of taking over her businesses, seeing her as weak now we’re starting to appear. Inevitable, Alfie knew but it certainly didn’t help smooth the lines in his forehead as much as it deepened them. No plans so far, it was still too soon to tell and he had done a fairly decent job as far as these papers told him of keeping her state a secret.

But the young man in front of him quickly put that ease to bed.

“The talk is that she’s gone soft. That’s she’s lame and traumatized. Forgive me for saying these things sir, they are not from my mouth.”

Alfie nods, a hand waving to dismiss the apology as his chin rests in his other hand to hurry on the boy.

“Her lack of appearance has caused much chat among the ladies as she wasn’t known for canceling or not being seen before. They know the donations are still going through, but she hasn’t been teaching or going to meetings or cooking at the children’s home. The more extreme of the rumors are, and forgive me again sir, are that she’s been sent to bedlam, pregnant with another man’s child, gone completely mad and being locked in her home and that she’s on drugs now. She’ll wander 'round the estate naked and talk to imaginary people. Most think you’ll leave her soon.” He concludes with a heavy gulp, his mouth dry from the man staring him down across the desk.

How was he going to head this off? How do you kill rumors that have a grain of truth? He knew she couldn’t go out in public yet, it’d be a long time still for that. She was currently dazed at best, mumbling to herself as she wandered the house with his cane. Her body was healing, she could walk with only a limp now. But her mind, that was another subject entirely. He didn’t know what was her, what was medication and what was trauma in that soft head of hers. It was too soon for answers and he needed them. Needed to squash out this weakness that was growing among them. But how could he show she was fine when she very much was not.

“That all?” He finally gruffs out.

“Yes, sir.”

“Good lad.” He says with a nod, his w'ords tense and his jaw tight. “Well, she isn’t lame or in an asylum someplace. She’s at home healing. Doctors orders to stay home and keep calm until she’s all better. So snuff out any other stories, eh? She’s fine, I’m fine. We are together, she isn’t pregnant. Paint a peachy fuckin portrait, yeah?”

“Of course sir.” He agrees enthusiastically.

“Good work. Keep it up and there may be more pay in your future.” He promises with only a slight lie in the words.

With a bow and thanks he exists and Alfie put his stained fingertips to his scabbed forehead and sighs. “Posh fuckin cunts. No lives. Only love to titter stories like fuckin' little girls in school to each other. Fuckin' gossips. Fuckin’...’ell.” He shakes his head and takes a deep breath. “They ain’t so much worried 'bout me, but her. Which is right fuckin' daft of 'em.” He speaks with an exasperated breath and a sweeping display of his hands. “News weren’t half fuckin' bad 'til those fuckers had to go and run their fat fuckin', cock suckin' mouths.” He huffs, brow low as he slumps into his chair.

“Awful that they’re speaking of Miss Durand in such a way. After all she’s done for them and the children.” Ollie responds with a sigh.

“Fuckin' what mate?” Alfie challenges with a sharp twist of his head his way. “Ya fuckin' soft? Ya sweet on her are ya Ollie?” Alfie's voice didn’t hold enough tease for Ollie to not tense up and stutter.

“No! No sir she’s always been a giving woman to those less fortunate and people speaking ill of her with no proof is upsetting. Not surprising at all! But still unfortunate.”

“Yeah,” Alfie drops the knee jerk flare of anger he’d been brewing up. Ollie hadn't done anything wrong. He just wanted to lash out. “The problem is, some of that is just tittle-tattle, right? But what if they did have a way to know fings?” Alfies natural inclination to be suspicious and paranoid was only being fueled by the oddly specific gossip in some instances.

“As in someone at home?” Ollie replies surprised, knowing Alfie had personally interrogated every staff member after Gen was gone. He’s assaulted a few and had found none guilty. The ruling was that someone had snuck in and posed as staff and given her the drink and then slipped out. Not having someone to burn at the stake really hadn’t helped Alfie out at the time. So Ollie was highly curious as to who would be giving information as he knew most of the staff owed Gen a great deal themselves. He knew them as loyal and grateful, but as Alfie liked to remind him from time to time, what the fuck did he know?

———

While Alfie was out gathering his information, Genevieve was at home doing entirely the opposite. The morphine made her mind a mess, but as was the nature of it, she certainly didn’t know it to be so.

Her walks in the garden, one arm held by either Aggie or Claire as they steadied her, seeing her eyes so far away despite being open and focusing on things. She spoke of children often, like they were there. No one knew what she was referring to. Claire and Aggie had their suspicions as to the cause of this hallucination or delusion, which one they were not sure yet, but neither said it aloud. It hurt them too much to speak of and they knew they shouldn’t break Gen's heart by trying to tell her otherwise. Another screaming fit, something like a child would throw wasn’t what they wanted to experience again.

Gen's reality was far different. She was on leisurely strolls in a dreamy garden. Her cheeky and precocious children hiding from her amongst the flowers and hedges. She didn’t see them all the time, or even often, but she did hear them. Calls for mama and papa, little auburn haired cherubs dashing in the corners of her eyes. She didn’t even know their names or faces but something about the thought of them made things not hurt as badly and it was easy to want to stay in the drug-induced stupor where everything was golden and nothing hurt. The reality was too much still, too painful, too much. So she stayed.

The warm, dizzy halo of morphine was only broken when the pain would break through. This was when the glow in her vision would fade and she would be reminded of how she was, in fact, broken. The physical pain acted as a gateway for the mental, for she recalled how she received the injuries and the memories would start to follow. With a wince, her caregivers knew she was coming down, it was time to rest. Her soft and bruised face was set to something besides indifference as her brow would furrow and her jaw would once again tighten with the stress that her current state brought upon her.

In these moments they would see a wounded Genevieve peek through the veil. Her eyes still dilated but the life backlit them in those hours she was lucid. Once she was herself for some brief moments they would ask her about her hallucinations and dreams, as they were both not decreasing in intensity. Any look at the bags under Alfie's eyes from being woken up by her fighting and struggling, mumbling awful reminders through the night next to him would tell the story of how she really felt whether she was willing or able to herself. Awake, the memories didn’t haunt her as heavily as they did in her sleep. With her brain desperately trying to mend itself, it kept trying to heal the parts that were broken and so it brought the memories of her time held hostage forward, inaccessible to her during her waking hours. The only comfort Alfie found in it was telling himself she was just dreaming, not reliving the trauma. But deep down he knew better. He’d been there himself. At this juncture, his body was growing weary and his spirit wasn’t far behind. The process of healing yourself was one thing, watching another attempt it was a whole other beast he had no interest in taming. And yet he found himself sleeping with it in his bed every night. A reminder of his worries and stress and failure that he could find no refuge from.

————

Alfie shoved his feet into the house shoes that greeted him at the door by the hands of maids. Taking his coat, offering him tea, he still wasn’t used to the treatment and he was starting to think he never would be.

“No, no, love.” he gruffs a young maid away with a brush of his hand. “Where’s Agatha? I’d like to know how Genevieve is before I see her.” he sighs, twisting his body and hearing the pops and cracks of age and strain, both accumulating far too rapidly for his liking.

“I’m here, Alfie.” Aggie’s tired feet shuffle around the corner, always wiping her hands on her apron when she appeared. “She’s in her room. Haven’t heard a peep from her in some time now. Which is an improvement. Short time and she’ll take her medicine again. Thought you might some time with her while she was lucid before she took it again.”

“Is she lucid?” he asks with a raised brow.

“She’s been up and around and with the usual exception of the few hours of her medicine and the strange talking, she’s been doing quite well today.” she gives an optimistic nod.

Alfie nods, a large exhalation stretching the muscles of his chest at the good news. He had been fully expecting nothing good after the gossip he’d had to mull over today. Perhaps there could be a light growing at the end of this dark tunnel for them both. “Good.” he responds, thumbing his nose with no other showing of his relief, his face sat hard and preoccupied as it had been since he’d gone back to work.

He saunters his way down the great hall to Genevieve’s wing of the house. As he does so, he sees a maid dart out of the phone room, kept near the entryway into the kitchens and back halls.

“Oi!” he shouts, her posture straightening and eyes growing wide before she turns to him. “What ya fuckin’ up to in there?” he demands with no politeness, a ringed finger pointing towards the room.

“Callin’ me sista sir.” she answers with a nod, not meeting his eyes. He couldn’t tell if it was from orders or to avoid his direct glare.

“What ya callin’ on work hours for?” he gruffs out with a rise of his chin.

“She’s only home for a short while between jobs, sir.”

“Where’s she live?”

“London, sir.”

“Where’s about?” he gives her rapid questions to read her honesty.

“Clerkenwell, sir.” she keeps her head down and hands together in front of her.

“Hmph. I ‘on’t know you do I? You’re new, yeah? Did I let you in?”

“No sir, I was brought in from another home a fortnight ago when my previous employer passed away.”

“Who was that?”

“Mrs. Hilda Gold from Kentish Town, sir.”

“Mmph.” a rub of his chin, wheels turning at knowing who her former employer was, knowing she was Jewish, but also acutely aware that she was a huge gossip. “I did not know she had passed.”

“I stayed on to clear out the estate then Agatha took me on.”

“Fine fuckin’ timin’ you showed up, eh?”

She doesn’t respond, not certain how to.

“Well get the fuck on... wait, what’s ya name?”

“Dorothy.” she says mid-turn, freezing at the man’s request.

“Well, then Dottie get back to work. No callin’ until after tea, yeah?” he oders with strong squared shoulders and a curt nod.

“Yes, sir. My apologies, sir.” she sputters out fast before disappearing into the nearest corridor.

He sticks his neck out as he passes to find her already gone, chewing the inside of his lip as he continues on with his paranoia as he travels towards Gen’s room.

Genevieve sits so eerily still, tense and afraid to make a move as she stares at the door in the dimly lit room. It’d been left that way to allow her to sleep but as it had been since she’d started getting up and moving around, coming to herself a tiny bit more every day, if she was left in the dark alone she could never sleep unless the medicine forced her to.

Alfie braces himself for nothing good, even though the state of her wasn’t poorly today. With a slow opening of the door, one that unintentionally made poor Genevieve's heart nearly beat out of her chest, he finally shows himself, eyes direct to hers as he sees her sitting up in bed.

He observes her eyes fluttering and her posture slump at the sight of him. At first, he couldn’t believe his feelings were a bit hurt by it. Then she reaches out to him with a face that actually showed something besides neutrality, sleepy eyes and barely parted lips that were pleading for him to come closer.

“‘Ello, love.” he greets, moving over to the bed and taking her hands, kissing her knuckles as he sat next to her on the edge. “You’re looking much better this afternoon.” he praises, a hand to her cheek as he watches her eyes close and her lean into his touch. A lump of fondness erupts in his gut, something he admittedly hadn’t felt since he’d gone back to work and had to compartmentalize his feelings to deal with them. He suddenly felt guilty as her hand covered his, such a tender gesture as she kissed his palm.

Unknown to him, she was flooded with a euphoric relief at his appearance. With her emotions still nowhere near stable, she begins to cry.

“Oh, pet, come now. No reason for all that.” he shushes, wiping the tears away. “What’s wrong?” he asks, picking up the pen and pad next to the bed and with shaky hands, she scribbles away.

“Be quiet for a moment and listen.” it reads, Alfie’s brow furrows, starting to question the optimism of Aggie.

“What are you on about?” he replies and Gen puts her fingers to his lips. The look in her eyes tells him she’s serious. He does as instructed and waits, eyes moving about the room, not sure what he should be listening for.

He watches her raise and her head turn to the door and stare. Much like a frightened deer.

“I don’t hear nuffin’, Gen.” he pats her arm to comfort her.

She huffs out her nose and pursed her lips. “When you’re here I don’t hear them.” She writes, her eyes back again to the door.

A pang of guilt sits heavy in his stomach at her words. “Hear who love?” He asks softly.

“Footsteps.” She communicates, her eyes scanning the bed in front of her with a clear confusion behind them.

“There are people out in the hall all day.” He says with no condescension.

She shakes her head and sighs. “Not in my wing.” How could she explain the fear the sound sent through her. They weren’t just any footsteps, they were Horne’s footsteps. She knew it made no sense. She knew he was dead, but it didn’t stop it from sending her right back to that cold and pitch black room where she was kept, waiting for him to come back and fearing what would come with him.

Alfie sees the very real concern in her eyes. He has a theory as to why she’s afraid but he’s hesitant to ask. “Does anything else make them go away?” He questions, raises her chin up to face him.

She considers it a minute. She didn’t feel afraid with Alfie there for obvious reasons, but what else took it away. “Sleep?”

“Well of course love.” He gives her a soft chuckle and kisses her forehead. “But having me here helps, yeah?”

She nods slowly, a fast one still sending her into the spins.

“Then let me help.” He suggests gently, crawling into bed with her and pulling her to his chest. “This help?”

She nods again, still feeling nervous as she rests her head to his chest. She could focus on him now, hear him breathe, feel it as well.

“Does being in the dark bring them on?” He proposes, fingers stroking her hair, his face bent towards her.

She considers it a moment, slow blinking eyes he was happy to see wheels turning behind. She gives a tap to his chest to indicate yes.

“And only when you’re alone?” He reiterates.

Another gentle tap.

He decides to get to the point, as is his nature, no matter how abrasive it might be. “When you were taken from me…” he begins. He feels her tense against him. “We’re you kept alone in the dark?”

He hears a small whimper from her, her hands now in fists.

“S’all right love. It’s over now. It can’t hurt you anymore.” He coos.

She shuts her eyes, burying her face in his chest.

“And could you hear them outside the door?”

She agrees again, a little whimper of a sound as she pushed her face into him.

He braces her, feeling her breathing grow shaky and uneven, seeing it was painfully obvious she was having trouble with dealing with the memories. Still, he persisted. “Is that what you’re hearing now? When I’m not here?”

A sob moves her upper body and she whines, fingers grabbing at his shirt, smelling still of rum from work.

“There, there, love.” he whispers, putting his mouth to her hair. “Your Alfie’s got ya innit he?” he soothes, smoothing her hair and rubbing her back. “Just memories. They can’t hurt you now. It’ll get better with time, pet.” he laments, feeling her cry in his arms. The pain from the extended panic still alive and well in her chest when she thought about her time held captive. He could feel her skin run hot beneath his hands, the only sounds he’d heard from her since she’d been back were mumbled with pain. He stares at the door as she wears herself out. Holding her like a babe in his arms, face set to an unpleasant detachment. She had so much farther to go before she could venture out. The mention of what happened and she’d fall to pieces. Not to mention she couldn’t speak yet. He was starting to wonder if it was more from physical injury or a mental one at this point.

He did feel sympathetic, empathetic even to her current state, but that harsh bit of him that pulled him through his own dark times tells him she needs to do better, to move forward. He feels impatient, knowing what those on the outside were saying. Normally he would tell any of those posh tossers to piss off with their opinions but now Genevieve was the victim of their rumors and he didn’t want her to lose the place she’d gained in society because of this. He wanted to keep things as well maintained as he could for her, and that meant taking on the stress that would normally be carried by her slight shoulders. Luckily for both of them, he was a tough old bastard who could deal with a bit of posh, West End babble easy enough. But he was more worried about what Genevieve would feel, think and more importantly do when she found out what they were saying. He had so many voices to worry about now. His own in his head, the ones in Genevieve's as well, however many there were now. He was used to listening to people talk about him, and he dealt with it in his own way But now he had to worry about what they were saying about someone else, and not just his people, not only slurs and the like, but a woman he loved. He closes his eyes, pushing his cheek against her head as he knows this will end no time soon.

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[beauvoyr]

Lazy People’s Club for the Sleepy and Tired | 18 & 19

flowering | 18 & 19

Pairings: Noctis/Reader Genre: Friendship/Romance/Friends-to-Lovers Tags: Fluff, Humor, Eventual Romance, Slow Burn, Abuse, Torture, asphyxiation, no beta we die like men, pre-Omen trailer route, pre-demon Noctis Chapter Rating: M Crossposted on: ao3 Summary: Rules to join the Lazy People’s Club for the Sleepy and Tired: 1) One must love sleep. Sleep is love. Sleep is life. 2) One must be tired. Physically or emotionally, both are acceptable. 3) One must love video games. Halfhearted interest in video games will result in immediate termination of membership. Fortunately, Noctis falls into all three categories.

CHAPTER SUMMARY: What kind of friend is he anyway? The shittiest, lowest kind. The kind that’d fuck your mouth with your head to the wall, that’s what. The kind that’d press his fingers over your ribs like a pianist over his keys, memorising the erotic way you shudder under him. The kind that wants to substitute your pillows just so you’d hold him instead. Exactly the shittiest, most fucked up kind of friend.

XVIII flowering: gluing eggshells together

loud voices are never good omen. byron favours speaking in soft tones with underlying firmness that warns those unprepared never to challenge him. shouting marks an unworthy man and it is a level he strives not to stoop for as long as he lives.

in this house of statues, he knows nobody speaks to you. save for the outsiders, your lecturers, the manservants mute themselves in your presence should they encounter you. your commands are acknowledged by way of a bent waist, head lowered, mouth stitched shut. hearing voices carried from your room right into the hallway is a phenomenon that has byron picking up his speed twofold, careful enough to balance the tray of tea and tidbits as he marches into your room, nary a knock.

“twenty, and that’s final.”

unless your room had transformed into a haggling hypermarket overnight, it sounded like an unfair deal coming from quintus. truly a rare sight to see father and daughter gathered in the same space, byron takes a moment to pencil the details in his mind. you, besieged, behind your desk with your fingers woven through your hair, shutting your eyes, shutting out the world. quintus, machiavellian, a proud figure in the heart of your room, unsmiling, uncaring. it has byron stepping aside when quintus gathers himself after seizing victory in one of the many wars he fought for lucis, even if it’s a war he waged with his very own daughter.

locking the door behind him, byron deposits your teatime tray and strides to your desk. you’ve curled in on yourself, legs drawn to your chest, all balled up on your chair. a hatchling truly unprepared for the world beyond the fragile shield of your eggshell. the pathetic sight makes byron drop on his knees before you, gloved hands unraveling the knot of your legs to be placed on the floor once more. “milady, what’s wrong?”

“everything.”

he doesn’t need to see your face to hear the tears in your voice. “everything, milady?” he tries again, softer, resting his hands on your twitchy thighs. “what did your father want from you? twenty of what?”

“not twenty of what.” your head shakes, arms that are shielding your face gradually dropping to unveil a face full of forlorn, reddening eyes brimming with unshed tears. “twenty, byron, twenty.” you stop, sucking in a deep breath, trying to pull your legs to your chest once more—only, byron has his hands on you and he fights your desperation to curl in on yourself again. “—let me go, byron—“

“not until you tell me twenty of what, milady,” he breathes, tone going softer than before, barely lined in warning. “now, tell me: twenty of what.”

you could’ve kicked him, planted a foot in his face if you struggled hard enough. break his teeth, break his nose, break everything for all you care. but you don’t. all you do is to look at him, helpless, hair mussed up, broken, choking low in your throat, lost, tired of fighting your frustration. “twenty,” you cry out, voice cracking, and byron’s fingers dig into your thighs at your next words: “father’s marrying me off at twenty.”

IT HAD ALWAYS BEEN THE same routine in any council meeting. Councilmen and women alike, dressed in their regal uniforms, discussing Lucian politics in this chamber. Sunlight streams from high above the paneled walls, bringing light to the ebony carvings on crystal chandelier. Fire from two elaborate torches lent feeble warmth in this air-conditioned place, not that Ignis minds it. Even in his waistcoat, he barely feels the cold. Ballpoint skittering across feint-ruled paper in an elaborate script Noctis had long deciphered under his tutelage, Ignis pens in points from today’s discussion for his charge’s digestion.

Hands clenched, Quintus’ jaw barely rocks with each heavy blow of his word. “We cannot dismiss the fact that each day brings us closer to Niflheim’s machinations.”

Gentle-faced Estelle, Countess of Cimlain, is never known to raise her voice in the presence of the king. But her voice is clear as her stand on the matter. “We’ve discussed this time and time again, Andronicus: We will not reinstate the military. There is no need for them in this world, as Lucis is taking a peaceful stand against the war.”

—heated discussion, Ignis amends his initial monologue, pen skittering faster to keep up with the exchange of dialogue.

“My dear Cimlain, you say it’s peaceful only because you get to sleep soundly on your bed each night, blissfully unaware of the wars our Glaives wage against the Imperials,” Quintus remarks with barely a twitch of his wispy brows, knowing his words brought forth a round of shifty eyes hiding their guilt. “Believe me, if His Majesty permits my presence on the battlefield, I would have done the job myself.”

King Regis holds up an authoritative hand to silence any retorts from red-cheeked Estelle, regarding Quintus with the apathy of one whose ear had been plugged with this debate for many years. “Your place is not the battlefield, Andronicus,” he reminds him. “Your health takes precedence above all else. It’s best you spend your years waging your wars behind a desk instead.”

“Marshal Leonis commandeers the Crownsguard and Captain Drautos, the Kingsglaive.” Quintus nods the king’s way like a sleepy man nodding off at a boring meeting, entirely disregarding what he said. “Your Majesty, I’m not asking for much. I merely want to reestablish a small fraction of militia, starting with conscripting our young Insomnians to join the fray. The great Solheim was not built in a day, and I’m not expecting much from these men,” his hands wave about, eyes drifting from one face to another, taking in their expressions, “but give it time and it will surely flourish.”

Lukas clicks his tongue, earning an eyeful from Quintus. He is not known for his kindness, and it shows in his words. “We can all see that you are hungering for the power your family has lost, Andronicus.” His moustache bristles. “We do not condone Niflheim for their cruelty, yet it seems you are keen on letting Lucis tread the same path. You will be the downfall of our kingdom, mark my words.”

Ignis stops penning at that point, knowing the downwards spiral of the meeting has just begun.

“It truly isn’t a fruitful meeting without our friend Lukas resorting to ad hominem,” unsmiling Quintus says, ignoring the verbal lunge for his heart. “Because I care more about the result of our meeting, I choose to disregard the useless nonsense you spewed, and instead, focus on how to solve the problem we face.” Without much pomp, he turns away from the fuming man, facing a weary Regis. “Majesty—“

And he stops. Eyes screwing shut. A thumb on his temple. Pained.

A fresh wave of murmurs spreads through the chamber behind a hand to the lips. Ignis would’ve leapt to his feet if this occurrence was the first of its kind, but he’s lost count of it as the years trickled by. Headaches, dizzy spells, migraines, standard signs of a man overworking past his limits, past his age ordained. For all the cruelty Quintus inflicted upon you, he is but a mortal in the end. A helpless old man even in the face of the reaper himself. Capping his pen, Ignis quietly observes as Quintus’ forehead is slick with a sheen of sweat, soundlessly battling his agony. And, ever friendless, nobody moves to aid him through his personal war.

King Regis, the benevolent man he is, leans forward in urgency, settling a steadying hand on Quintus’ shoulder. “Dizzy again?” he asks to a soundless Quintus, who neither nods nor shakes his head at the question, eyes still shut. But King Regis knows. He holds up another hand to the rest of the Council, marking the end to the meeting.

As Ignis sweeps his belongings into his briefcase with the rest of the apathetic crowd thinning out, he hears faint murmurs from the king himself.

“What did the doctor say?”

AT THE END OF YOUR third rep of push-ups, the subtle burn in your upper arms whines for you to stop. Not the awful kind of burn, but the kind of burn where it feelssatisfying. Sweating enough to fill buckets for rainy days, the bridge of your nose slick in perspiration, shirt plastered to your back. Even the slightest twist has your muscles aching, crying for mercy. Gladio’s ruthless, that’s for sure, clocking in enough counts for you to pass out if you aren’t thoroughly prepared with your warm-ups. It hurts when he manhandles you just as easily, demonstrating his raw strength and power over you, a reminder that it took him years to get to where he is now: A Shield to Noctis.

But the ache lancing through is real. All sharp edges, knives cutting your nerves. This ache isn’t anything like your innards you eviscerated, this ache comes from an entirely different reason altogether. It reminds you that you’re very much alive, living and breathing with Gladio stretching you to your toes, big hands on your shoulders to put you in place, to put up with the pain you agreed. Your throat scratches with all the sounds you make, from tiny squeaks to big yelps, pushed past your limits with Gladio’s amber eyes promising you that this is just the beginning of what he started.

“C’mon, ass up,” he swatted your back one time, just because he caught you drooping unsteadily in your planking. The sheer difference in size between you and him meant that one: He swatted you and it hurt, and two: It had enough strength to collapse your elbows and introduce your face to the hardwood.

Of course, Gladio remedied it with a hastily barked apology, bear paws wrapping around your hips to hoist you up once more, and he might have left a handprint Byron pointed out before your shower. But you liked it. Liked how each session ends with your lungs wheezing and your knees bruising, liked how Gladio cards his hands through your damp hair like a proud brother, always encouraging your every move—liked how he praised you even if it’s for the pettiest of things.

Good job for holding out longer than ten minutes.

Good job for those five extra stretches.

Good job for not puking.

Good job, lil’ lady.

You distinctly remembered making a face at that. “Little lady?”

“Yeah, ‘cause you’re one,” he supplied helpfully, looking like it was the most natural nickname ever. At your persistent staring, Gladio stops practicing his broadsword swings and shrugs, lips twitching. “What’s a man gotta do to get your real name? Just T. Andronicus or that Quintus Guy’s Daughter or Quintus’ Whatever ain't gonna cut it down the years.”

“How about Kaliva?” you proposed, sounding hopeful. “That’s pretty close too.”

The look Gladio threw you was an answer enough, returning to his sword swings once more. “Yeah, no. No name, no change.”

Well, at least you tried. If anything, it’s a lukewarm reassurance to hear him inadvertently confirming he hadn’t snuck his nose into all six of your private envelopes signed in your name.

The heavy double doors creak open, effectively bringing you out of your musings on your behemoth of a trainer. Gladio had run out earlier, babbling something about picking up someone and instructed you to stay put as he threw on a jacket and left. In the middle of your cool down stretches, you couldn’t help but to crane your head over your shoulder to spy on your new visitor. Is it Nyx again? The cheeky Glaive liked to pop in and out of his rounds, smirking at how you panted through your regimen. On days he felt gracious, he’d share tips on how to maximize your core muscles, and on not-so helpful days, he’d cross his legs at the ankles, leaning against the wall and chuckling at your wilting planking.

Your jaw almost unhinged when Gladio steps in, bringing with him a man the size of a boulder. Distinctly aged, his salt-coloured hair and shaved jawline is reminiscent of an obelisk in a museum. All regal poise, spine straight. Age is something he wears handsomely, despite the hardened finish of his eyes. Your gaze trails over the soft leather and gilded trims on his robes, memorizing the regal way he holds himself. Despite the difference in his ensemble, this is a variation of a getup you’ve seen father wore before.

He is man you certainly shouldn’t mess with.

Pulling yourself to your feet, you fold your hands over your thighs, bowing deeply. Manners first. “Good evening, sir.”

“At ease, young Andronicus,” the man commands, and you know you’re right if he’s the one calling you that. He comes to a stop with Gladio hovering closely by, eyes raking you from head to toe. You must’ve appeared disheveled, sweaty, awful for a first impression, but he says nothing of it. “I’ve heard of you from my son. Received your papers, in fact.”

So this is what Gladio talked about, the trial by fire. Realising the severity of the situation, you allow yourself absolutely no chance of being mistaken as a diminutive doll all shy and reserved, for he is part of the Royal Council. And men in the Royal Council surely must be statues in serving the king. You should do well to reflect your part too. “I’m glad you did, Sir Clarus. Gladio did mention that I should be expecting a visit from you sometime in the future.”

A curious light shines from within his granite grey eyes, a hand thoughtfully placed on his chin. He seemed to have not heard you at all. “…I must say, I wasn’t expecting to meet the controversial child of the Andronicus like this. Your existence had been a rumour, all this while.”

For you, it brings only the tritest of smiles. “Are you surprised, sir?” you say, all too aware of how he quirks a brow at your impudence. “I know how my father had repeatedly discredited me, just because I’m female. He has no plans to allow me to lead the House, but be rest assured I will.”

“Bear in mind, there is a fine line between confidence and arrogance. Confidence will take you to places beyond your imagination, but arrogance will only serve to narrow your vision,” Clarus warns, making neither distinct disproval nor approval at your proclamation. “I mean no offense, of course. From a simple glance, I can see nothing of Quintus in you. But your words cut just as sharp as his.” He pauses, seeking your eyes in a resolute stare, a predator staring down a prey. “You aspire to best your father and become the next Andronicus serving His Highness Prince Noctis, yes?”

Hearing Noctis’ name from Clarus’ lips brings back that same nausea from before, nausea blooming in your heart. He’s testing you, you realize. “Yes sir. And I won’t stop until I will be the next in line to serve His Highness. That has been my dream from the start.”

At this, Gladio makes a face, eyebrows perched high on his forehead.

Clarus, presumably used to his son and some of the many odd faces he’s artfully mastered through the years, chooses to ignore it. Though his movements are minute, each action is calculated, never an absent gesture. Eyes travel from Gladio to you, from Gladio’s stanch silence, to your squared shoulders. He is summing you up, finding you a place in his mind. A temporary residence, where you can easily fall if you failed his trust.

“I expect to see you during the Prince’s Coronation Ceremony when he is finally the 114th King of Lucis,” he finally says, allowing himself the slightest quirk of lips. Then, his choice of word sharpens with the slant of his frown. “Whatever it is that you are trying to do, you best avoid your father’s eyes. You and I both know how shrewd he can be at times. Sometimes the best course of action in war is to retreat and reorganize your strategy.”

Of course he would know, wouldn’t he?

Clarus Amicitia must’ve sat at the table over a dozen of times stomaching father’s arguments and refuting them in councils. Father assaults him verbally, and Clarus deflects them as the steely Shield of King Regis. Judging from the way he speaks of father, he doesn’t seem to regard him highly, though he refrains from voicing out such thoughts in concrete. Fortunately though, Clarus seems like a sound man who doesn’t pass his judgment from father to you in the very same way. And you’re thankful for small mercies like this, thankful that he doesn’t reject you for your father’s mistakes.

“Thank you, sir,” you incline your head in a respectful bow, one he accepts with a nod of his own. “Your advice is well-heeded.”

Clarus doesn’t smile at you. He doesn’t need to smile when his words carried his sincerity. After all, a smile can be easily faked; one that father had taught you over and over and over again. He bids his farewell, turning away. “I wish you the best of luck in your endeavors, young Andronicus. We will cross paths again, soon enough.” Gladio follows him to the door, but Clarus only lifts a hand to stop him. “No need to see me out, son. Who do you think owned this training room before you?”

To his credit, Gladio only crosses his arms as his father left with little flourish, seeing himself to the exit without waiting for a farewell. As the doors clicked shut, you can’t say you’re surprised when Gladio attacks your hair with his hand—one that left you batting his arm in desperation as he musses up your already scruffy hair, limp from sweat.

“Look at you, being all adult with my old man around,” he grunts, though there’s no malice in his teasing. “Good job for not pissing your pants talking to him.”

Clarus is intimidating, yes, but the random encounter isn’t all too bad. At least he genuinely offered you some advice instead of putting you down. You chalked it off to being lucky, since Gladio’s a nice man and his dad, however terrifying he may be, should be a reasonably nice man as well. “Your dad’s cool—but kinda scary,” you admit, bringing his barking laugh rounding your statement. “Just…don’t tell him that, okay? It’d totally ruin all the front I put up just now.”

“Depends on your next answer,” is all Gladio answers, amber eyes winking in mirth. “Think you can drop down and give me five reps of push-ups?”

Try as you might, you definitely did a poor job of hiding your grimace. Gladio definitely saw that, arms crossed over his chest with a huff, awaiting your reply. The short little break you took barely did anything for your muscles, but if Gladio wants it done, you suppose you could try—even if you fail halfway. With a sigh, you head to the training mat. “I guess…I can try. Just—don’t chew me out if I can’t finish it, please?”

Gladio only pats your back good-naturedly, following you as you drop down on the mat and shifting into position. “That’s more like it, at least you’re givin’ it a shot.”

You only barely resist the urge to roll your eyes at him. “Sometimes, I wish I don't.”

twenty and married, a fate worse than death. father trampled over your dreams once again, never caring if you had anything to say about it. a maid had shown up on your doorstep, one who refuses to meet your eyes as she mutedly dropped flimsy files on your desk, curtsying before she left. your treacherous fingers flipped through one of the dossiers, taking in the sight of a formal report with a passport photo stapled in the right hand corner. each file contained different pictures, different names, different information, yet they all bear the same trait: a man.

the knowledge sees your hand trembling, whether out of grief or rage, you aren’t certain.

this is father’s final slap to you: a choice you have to make, that is to select your own husband.

you make quick work of these dossiers, glancing through the eligible bachelors father had undoubtedly handpicked. they fall nothing short of a standard arranged marriage’s prerequisites: groomed handsomely, unparalleled intelligence, of acceptable height and weight and build, shortlisting their many talents and hobbies, detailing their age, current workplace, and their slew of achievements like trophies on a shelf. some wear their dark hair slicked back; others opted for a loosely trimmed touch, falling over their foreheads. some wore glasses, sharpening their overall appearance; others had eyes the sparkling colour of sea foams.

aether, flavian, icarus, scientia, xander.

proud men from distinguished families whom father saw fit to tame you.

you stomp out the urge to introduce these files to your fireplace, throwing them aside to be perused no longer. instead, you remove yourself from your desk, making your way to the television and switching it on. anything to get your mind off those things, off the thought of marriage, off the sight of men who’d hold you down and snatch the name of the andronicus for themselves. furiously flipping through the channels, past gossip talk shows, past cliché soap operas of poor girl meets young ceo and falls hopelessly in love, past music videos and blaring rock music, finally settling on crown broadcasting channel.

the newscaster, a peppy blonde in subdued makeup, prattles off three words per second as she’s already well underway a story. “—tigious day as prince noctis lucis caelum celebrates his sixteenth birthday in style at the caelum via. attending his birthday celebration is his majesty king regis—“

the scene transitions from the newsroom into a panning shot of a rooftop ceremony, all crisp glass and smooth silks hanging off the banisters, all bearing the royal crest of the lucis. it cuts into a voiceless shot of prince noctis interacting with guests, an aristocratic teenager clad in a bespoke suit of fine lines, receiving each and every hand with a smart shake or two. his bangs haven’t quite grown out yet, tapering in stunted spikes over his alabaster skin, and his deep blue eyes are too narrowed, too tensed to be enjoying this birthday celebration, but the imperfect image imprints itself in your mind all the same.

he isn’t ugly, no. he’s easily the most beautiful person you’ve ever seen, even if you are only going by the unfairly monochromatic pictures in the newspaper. yet, there’s something about his profile that strikes a chord in your heart.

he looks tired. he looks like he’s been run haggard for his own birthday. he looks like he’d rather be anywhere else than here. and he looks sad. but why is he sad, when he’s the prince and princes have everything they want in the world, and then some?

at sixteen, he looks like he’s suffering.

at sixteen, you are suffering.

sixteen and suffering. how awful. novels always made a big deal of being sixteen and how it marks the start of boyfriends and casual romances and a little fumbling in the sheets, but prince noctis doesn’t even look like he has the time to comb his hair. snatching the remote to switch off the TV with a click, you hold your face in your hands as you try to breathe. legs to your chest, toes curling into the cushion.

breathe in. breathe out.

here is the man you’ve been shaping your life after, but he doesn’t even know you exist.

how will he know, when you’ll be married at twenty?

NIGHT HAS LONG FALLEN OVER the city, shading skyscrapers in shadows. In your little chamber, you make yourself a thick mug of hot chocolate, sipping on the artificial sweetness to replenish your brain juice. After each training session, Gladio would always bring you back to your room, making sure you’re safely tucked inside your little box and messing up your after-shower hair. And, following his standard end-of-the-day statement, he’d always recite, “Same time tomorrow, lil’ lady,” before he retreats with a wave. It’s rather comforting to know he’s got your back if anything happens, though you don’t really know what to do with that knowledge for now.

Glossing over the documents in your Moogle Drive, you take another sip of your drink. A great many of the documents never made full sense to you, often containing jargons too complicated for you to understand lest you’re a scientist of Niflheim. Some seemed to be subject test reports on their monsters tubed in Fodina Caestino. Others aren’t any better, just full of codes and never a legible word. Unless you contracted external henchmen, say an underworldly character to decode this gibberish, you’re never going to get anywhere far. But the risks are high with these shady fellows, for their loyalty lies in those with deeper pockets.

It’s either that or those who have them on knifepoint all the time, you think to yourself, eyeing the scattered documents in your Drive.

With no new information coming from Byron, you’re still stuck trudging your way through these nightmarish creatures. Of course, he is never to be blamed for the shortage of information coming your way. This two-man show of yours suffered a great many shortcomings. Money is never an issue to you, thankfully, since father never trespassed into your bank accounts to see how you spent your allowances. While having enough money to silence a cop is undeniably handy, it isn’t the best currency to scout for the best talents in gathering information for something as dodgy as Niflheim.

Because, really, who wants to get involved with the Andronicus and Niflheim?

Even the hardiest of assassins would run ten kilometers northwards if they heard that.

The reputation surrounding the House of Andronicus is something much like a hardened stalagmite; built upon blood dripping over its foundation, culminating in a sharp peak in the end, sharp enough to rend flesh. These men weren’t written into history as paragons of Lucis. You know what they do: Exact justice all in the faith of keeping the kingdom safe, even if it sullied their hands. There are no grey areas in here: Everything is either white or black. White, for upholding the commandment and maintaining public safety; black, just to hide the bloodstains that inevitably come along with it. Kill whenever required, extort whenever needed, reconstruct the law whenever they saw fit. Your father is a man of sins from the very beginning, and there is no denying that you have left reddened footprints of your own too.

The sooner you unravel what the empire is building, the easier it’ll be for the prince in the long run.

And you know exactly what you have to do.

With a yawn, you chance a glance at your desktop clock. 10.26 p.m., already past the bedtime Gladio designated for your optimum rest. Sensing a well-rested night’s sleep already beyond salvation, you resign yourself to the usual standard of falling asleep on your worktable, dragging yourself to your cupboard, where your stacks of pillows await. You randomly select the one at the top, sinking in your chair once more, propping the pillow on your thighs. Hugging it like this as you sloughed your work is so comforting, especially with your nose pressed into the cotton and—

—oh.

You sit up abruptly, staring at your pillow.

It’s a different scent from the usual. Not worn cotton drained from sunshine, no. Something more of fancy soaps and chamberlain-laundered clothes, and a little bit of something else. You gingerly nosed your pillow again, marveling in the different smell. It’s something you’re familiar with, but it’s just different Familiar but different. How confusing. You smelled this before, not on your body, not on your bed, not on your clothes, but on someone. Someone whose clothes smelled exactly like this, coming into contact with your pillow. Someone lying on your comforters, someone sharing your sleep.

Noctis.

It’s his scent.

The nausea associated with his name comes back in full force; warmth washing over your cheeks, churning your tummy. He’d always smelled nice, you know that, but you never expected the scent from his clothes would transfer on your pillow. It’s a nice scent, clean with underlying notes of—you don’t know, himself, maybe? Whatever it is, and as creepy as it sounds like, the knowledge only serves to make you tighten your hold on the pillow, burying your face in it.

You’re okay to me, he said.

He saw you as an okay person, even when you stammered out your thoughts, tongue tripping, breath hitching in the night. How desperately you want to wield a whip. It's okay to him. How desperately you don’t want to be like your father. It's okay to him. How desperately you want to atone for your sins. It’s okay to him. How desperately you want and it’s still okay to him.

Teeth already littering bites on your lower lip, chin on the pillow, you hold it closer to your heart. Close, closer until each curve yields around your frame, holding you tight in return. If you think hard enough, you could recall how the flame danced from the tips of his fingers all the way to his palm. How scarlet melts into his skin and a clumsy smile on his lips, thoughtful enough to notice you’re cold all over. He listens, he stays, he encourages, he is everything you don’t deserve because you're a liar and a murderer and you’re sitting on a throne of bones with their skeletons shackling your ankles.

What if he leaves you when he knows how dirty you’ve become?

You should tell him what you are.

No. You shouldn’t tell him.

If he leaves now, he’ll destroy you. You’ve gone too far with wanting this time, farther than wanting mother and her musical memories. All the years you built around him, carefully constructing a castle around your prince, it’ll all crumble once he’s gone. All the months you spent with him, all for naught. No more trading texts in King’s Knight co-ops, no more sleepy afternoons slumbering together. He is the very foundation of your core, and you know that well enough not to let him leave. Because once he leaves, he’ll never come back for you.

Curling in on yourself, you hug the pillow tighter, inhaling deeply.

For now, it’s okay like this. It’s okay. It’ll be okay.

That’s what you’ve been telling yourself all this while, haven’t you?

You’ll be okay as long as he’s with you, as long as he stays.

He can’t leave. He won’t leave. He will never ever get the chance to leave.

A solitary beep shakes your phone awake, the screen lit by a notification. Your shoulders twitch at the sound, casting a discreet glance at the King’s Knight message box adorning the front. On any other normal day it’d be a promotional message from the developers, trying to entice players with limited-time events and bundle sets. This time around, things had been different these past few months. A text that’s not from the developers only meant one thing.

Slowly shaking yourself out of your stupor, you log into the game with a frown.

TO: THE ARCHITECT FROM: NOCTGAR SUBJECT: [none] MESSAGE: quick favour: what’s your number?

You blink owlishly, slowly digesting his message. That’s odd. Your number? What does he need it for? Silently praying it isn’t for anything urgent, you press in your reply.

TO: NOCTGAR FROM: THE ARCHITECT SUBJECT: Sorry. MESSAGE: Of course, here is my number.

After double-checking the digits, you hit send.

Some paranoid part of your mind yells at you to stay up for his next message—what if it’s something urgent after all? If he got caught up in some unsavoury part of the town and needed rescuing? No—that’s silly, firstly the prince is more than capable to fend for himself, and secondly, Ignis would be on his speed dial for emergencies. Which begs the question once more: What’d he need your number for? You rock back and forth nervously in your chair, staring at the message with your heart racing and debating whether or not to send another message to Noctis—only to have your screen blurring out into a call. With your phone hooked up to your computer, you could very well see that it’s not an ordinary call with your phone to your ear; it’s a video call linked through Moogle Ring.

Before you manage to listen to some rational part of your head counseling you to reject the call, your itchy fingers scramble for the bright green button. Your desktop pixels out into a dimmer, blurrier image with an all-too familiar voice echoing, “Hey.”

Somewhere in the background, a little bit off to the right, a spot of yellow chirps. “Woah—hey! Hey hey hey!”

It takes a moment for the connection to stabilize and iron out all pixilation, but once it does, you’re treated to a lovely sight: Noctis and Prompto, two heads at two different ends, the prince to your left, and the blond to your right. They’re both hunched over a table, books spread haphazard, looking equally exhausted with faint dark accents under their eyes. You try to ignore how your heart lurches a little when Noctis meets your eyes, but you can’t deny a corner of your lips quirking upwards. It makes you hide your face in the pillow, breathing softly.

It smells like him here, right where you are.

Ah. You shouldn’t like it this much, but you do.

“Hey guys,” you finally work up the courage to summon a little wave, though you still hide part of your face behind the pillow. “Uh.” This is something new, something you haven’t done before. What should you say during video calls? They’re not physically here, but the prince is here, staring right at you. Best to get down to business, just so you don’t have to hide your face behind this pillow. “I—well—why’d you guys call? Did something happen?”

“Nah, figured you’d be busy,” Noctis waves you off, the pen in his hand drawing abstract patterns in the air, “’cause you’re always busy.”

“Yeah, when are you not busy anyway?” Prompto chuckles good-naturedly, leaning forward. His voice echoes through what seems to be a living room, though you’re not sure where they are. Noctis’ apartment, maybe? “We both kinda have to stay up for tonight to get rid of this pesky assignment due tomorrow,” he stops to heave a theatrical sigh, “so do you wanna stay up too? Y’know, just the three of us, the Midnight Trio?”

Noctis makes an amused noise in the back of his throat, throwing the blond a half-grin. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“She doesn’t sleep—and you and me, buddy, we both aren’t gonna get any sleep tonight.” Prompto shrugs, snatching a canned drink off-camera, taking a swig out of it. “Makes sense, yeah?”

Hearing their typical banter between each other stirs a bit of laughter in you, and the sound has them turning to you with questioning eyes. Noctis still wears that half-grin as he studies you, though you don’t know if it’s still for Prompto, or. Well. For you. Thinking about it has your nausea bubbling like a pot on the stove, so you duck your head and try not to mind the warmth seizing your cheeks, your neck.

Surely you could stay up a little and keep them company as they battle their avalanche of assignments. Give them a bit of a pointer here and there, a silly banter to keep the mood light, easy, less sleepy. And you could certainly use the opportunity to look through the documents you put off earlier as they suffer through their paper, making good use of your time. Already knowing what’s your answer when you’ve started making excuses for yourself, you lick your dry lips and muster a nod at the expectant duo.

“Makes a whole load of sense to me,” you agree, making Prompto hoot and fist-pump the air. “Gimme a sec, okay? I’ll just go and make myself some coffee real quick.”

“Be sure to make a whole jug of ‘em,” Prompto’s voice follows you as you deposit the pillow on your chair, ushering yourself to your kitchenette. “’cuz we’re partying all night tonight, woohoo!”

You hear Noctis snorting Prompto’s way, the sound of a pen clattering on the table echoing loudly through your room. “Party tonight, funeral tomorrow if we don’t finish this up, yeah?”

“Talk about a mood killer, Noct, sheesh. Okay, okay, let’s focus on getting this stupid intro out of the way first. Where’d you stop?”

“At the index.”

“…dude, you didn’t even start yet?”

You know you’re laughing again because the sulk is dead obvious in Prompto’s voice, reaching for a canister of coffee Byron tucked somewhere in the cupboard overhead. Standing here like this, boiling some water and preparing coffee—a whole jug of it, as per Prompto’s helpful advice, you can’t help but to smile as you liberally doused the dark concoction in creamers and sugars.

Friends are beautiful: They make you forgo your sleep, just to keep them company.

XIX flowering: the heart of a king

YOU LOVE HIM.

He knows you do.

He flicks a gaze where you stand in a blue wave of sylleblossoms, your hand outstretched, balancing a dragonfly on your fingertips. Your expression is soft, glassy, your hair floating almost ethereally in the breeze. The mesmeric melancholy on your face draws him in, closer and closer until three stalks separate you and him. In this field, you are a free soul, bounding through crests of blossoms with the paper petals kissing your calves. Watching you wade through this sea of flowers, clutching a fistful of stalks with limpid heads of sylles, a smile on your face.

He reaches for you, fingers chasing after your shadows.

Only, the breeze whips around you, around him, scattering petals to the skies, thwarting him.

Between the snatches of blues, you cradle the blossoms to your breasts, eyes cut to sultry halves. There’s something hypnotic in the way the corners of your lips lift; you know he’s there, he knows you’re making a show out of it. Hands bring the sylleblossoms to veil your face, wispy blues hiding the pale pink of your lips. Eyes lidded low, coy. The sight is just enough to whisk warm flares in his belly and he is acutely aware of his intense need to cradle your cheek in his palm, thumbing your eyelids, just to taste the flower on your lips.

The first step he takes has him crushing a sylle under his foot. The earth is cool and moist beneath him, and the broken blossom dies between his toes. He doesn’t stop; he crushes a second one. Leaving behind a swathe of devastation, injuring the sylleblossoms with his every step, but he stops at nothing until he paves a road of death to you.

Here you stand before him, cradling the sylles when it should be him in your arms. He doesn’t want that.

His hand curls into your wrist tight enough to break your hold on the blossoms, scattering them in the little space between you and him. No, there shouldn’t be any space separating you two anymore. He doesn’t want that either. He wants you under him, so he tucks an arm around your midriff and pushes you to the ground, breaking your fall. He’s draped over you, falling in all the right nooks and crannies of your body as if you’re made for him, fitting him in all the ways he wants you to. On this bed of blossoms, hair fanning your face, you twist your head aside, teeth catching on your bottom lip.

Noctis. So good to me.

Hearing his name colours his vision in red.

All at once, your palm rests in his, with his tongue running over your little digits. These are the hands that feed him. These are the hands that love him. These are the hands that make him live. Each swipe of his tongue is reverent, worshipping your existence. He’s mesmerized with the way you tip your head back, the way you’re whimpering Noctis Noctis Noctis in fragments from your lips, the red in his eyes running over the reds on your cheeks. Your quiet little sounds are hungry with want, and he makes sure to return your show with his own as he licks a wet stripe from the heel of your palm to the tip of your index, nipping oh-so gently at the end.

Noctis, I want.

He knows you want. He wants too.

He sucks on your ring finger, getting a reaction more vocal than before, relishing in how hot you’ve become under him. Like a fevered flush leaving you delirious, all eager, all needy, all for him. You’re his. All his. And all that is his should be marked. His teeth circle the base of your finger and sink deep into your flesh, hard enough to leave imprints. You whine—Gods, a high-pitched noise that goes straight to the burning pit low in his belly, but you don’t resist because you love it, you love the pain, you love whatever it is he does to you. He releases you with a wet pop, licking his lips, leaning back just to admire the art he made.

A ring of teeth marks, just for you.

Noctis, I.

He loves you. You know he does.

Noctis knows, even when he disentangles himself from his sheets, that his throat is tight and he feels sick, but he too knows he’s just a man left on his knees, waiting for your hands to crown his hair.

MOST OF THE TIME, the prince is too busy to show up to practice sessions with Gladio. You kind of get that, since the final semester always hits the hardest. His little video call days ago proved how much him and Prompto were suffering, cramming as many words as they can in a single Word document before rolling the pencil to decide who’s proofreading the entire mumbo-jumbo. It’s a little bit sad too, you realized with a sip of your coffee at 3.48 a.m., that Noctis might be dying from caffeine overdose when he cracks open yet another can of energy drink to prep himself since he lost the roll.

As their senior—well, kind of senior, albeit clearly majoring differently from their course—you kindly shouldered the burden of proofreading instead. You’ve never heard Prompto bawling in relief and hailing you as their newfound savior, though it’s a little bit exaggerated and embarrassing to be regarded in such saintly light. Noctis only slurs a quiet thanks before he drops on his textbooks, sleep-heavy eyes just waiting to be laid to rest.

Quickly rectifying whatever jargon they misused, formatting the assignment for improved readability, and redoing their appalling citations from a scratch, it was only past five that you could resend the document for them to print and staple alongside other assortments. The call ended anticlimactically with a Prompto passing out on the couch and a sluggish Noctis yawning out another thanks, hand absently scratching his neck.

Poor boys. Suffering is part and parcel of university life, and nobody graduates without losing some part of their sanity. Or a huge chunk of hair, whichever comes first.

“Come on, milady, pull yourself together.”

Right now though, there are more pressing matters in hand. You squint at the whip, willing it to go away. “Uh. Trying.” It doesn’t budge an inch. “Trying.”

Byron is as unimpressed as ever. “Well then, try harder.” His gloved hands gesture at the entirety of the languid weapon all curled up on the hardwood, its segmented handle braided in leather, and the notched tail of blades resembling the jagged edges of a human spine. “Surely if the rest of the Crownsguard and Kingsglaive could do it, you can’t afford to disappoint them.”

You could only frown at the whip. That’s easy for him to say since he’s not the one trying to work the prince’s magic. “Trying harder.” The accursed whip still doesn’t budge, stubborn bastard. “Yeah—still trying, in case you haven't noticed.”

“Unless you’re trying to scare the whip with your glaring, whatever it is you’re trying, it’s not working at all.” At this point, even Byron looks like he’d rather do it himself had Noctis blessed him with magic—much like how he grows exasperated every time you do something either too slow or too imperfect for his liking. “Come now milady, remember what Nyx told you? Electricity. Magic is like electricity. Even Gladio demonstrated how he kept that trunk of a sword—surely that electric magic had something to do with the disappearance, like shorting the metal into molecules or something.” His expression falls for a split second. “Well. What was it that he said again?”

He’s not doing a very good job at lecturing you if he can’t even remember what Gladio said in the first place, and you’re pretty sure that’s not how physics and chemistry work at the same time. You sigh, rolling your shoulders in an attempt to work out a grand strategy in your ticking head. “He said to visualize a room, like you’re trying to put something in it. And taking it out is like removing the stuff,” you condense the whole speech, finding that it makes lesser sense the more you think about it. “I dunno, Byron. His Highness said it’s kind of like a room too. A weapon room, I guess?”

“I believe the word you’re looking for is armoury,” he supplies, murky eyes settling uncomfortably on you. It’s one of those expressions that says he’s disappointed in you, but he’s willing to see this out until the very bitter end. “Let’s try again from the top: Put your hand on the handle and reach out to the magic. Let it beckon you.”

Byron, coaching you on magic? When he knows nothing of it? Unbelievable. Yet his face is clean from laughter, not a twitch of an eyebrow whatsoever, and if you didn’t know any better, he could actually pass as some legit magic instructor from Harry Potter. On days Gladio can’t train you personally, he enlists Byron’s help in watching over you—codename for babysitting, really, though you don’t appreciate getting hawked like this. You’d rather have Gladio punishing you with ten push-ups for your ineptitude than getting served by Byron’s tongue.

Biting the inside of your mouth, you almost wrap your hand around the handle—until your phone beeps inside your pocket, and then you find yourself wrapping your hand around the device instead.

Byron only raises a slim eyebrow in disproval. He doesn’t say anything about your newfound addiction. He knows a vain effort when he sees one.

Ever since Noctis asked for your number, exchanging text messages on King’s Knight moved to an appropriate channel, one that actually sees you using your phone for proper communication. Texting is the only way for you to reach him, not to mention it’s the easiest method too. You trade texts with him on a daily basis now, reminding him to wake up earlier on Mondays and Wednesdays, keeping him company through lectures that are drier than Leiden landscapes, and snorting through late night video calls with caffeine-fuelled Prompto while they battle through three stacks of project papers.

This time, things aren’t any different as you give a cursory glance through the message.

busy?

Judging from the eyebrow permanently raised on Byron’s forehead, you toss him an apologetic smile, thumbs automatically keying in a reply.

Trying to make my whip disappear. Not working. Send help.

Another beep brings another message from the prince. It has Byron’s other eyebrow joining its friend up there, forming a bridge. You wince, hastily getting your job done, readying to banish your phone far far far away where you can’t reach it.

lol good luck

Meanie. Gonna head back to practice now, Byron’s grilling me with his eyes.

wait.

You take a moment to mouth Byron’s way, prince said wait, and the look he gives you aptly sums up whatever he thinks of Noctis in these three months. Still, he doesn’t stop you other than to mimic an unapologetically texting schoolgirl, sassing you by flipping his braid from his shoulder, one that has you rolling your eyes and turning back to Noctis’ message.

wait. you busy this weekend?

You look up from nosing your phone, resting your elbows on your knees, wearing the deepest frown that Niflheim surely couldn’t even pull from you. “Am I busy this weekend, Byron?”

“Please don’t tell me he’s asking you out,” he deadpans. You shrug, clearly having no idea what this is about, and he makes the most distressed sound ever in the back of his throat, the kind that sounds like it belongs on the wildlife channel. “Six help me. He’s going to ask you out.”

Is he? Somehow, that particular thought has you wetting your lips contemplatively, thinking of a reply witty enough to best Byron. Nothing comes. All you’re left with is Byron’s judgmental staring, complete with his arms squared across his chest, and the prince’s message on your phone. Neither of that solves your question, so you readily assume your weekend is free from disturbances, free enough for you to enjoy your time together with Noctis if he does ask you out.

Should be. Why?

specs’s birthday is coming up and i wanna get him something. come with me.

Ignis’ birthday is coming up?

You perk up, offering your phone to your babysitter, who’s already well underway dissecting every single sentence Noctis sent to you. “He said Ignis’ birthday is coming up. We need to get him something special.”

“Doesn’t change the fact that he’s still asking you out,” says Byron, already lifting your phone and examining the messages in different angles of light as though it’d unveil some sort of secret subtext inked in lemon juice. “But yes, I must confess, I’m rather fond of my alter-ego. Go ahead and ask the prince if he’s throwing a birthday party for the man. I imagine he’d rather like the thought, since it doesn’t look like the Prince appreciates him much.”

Ignis is Byron’s alter-ego? What a disturbing notion. Still, you don’t get the chance to pursue the conversation with your phone handed back to you, so your steady thumbs press in Byron’s demands.

Sure. By the way, are you throwing a party for Ignis?

nah, but prom wants that party tho lol

Relaying the message to Byron has him wearing the ghastliest disproval on his face, eyes blown wide and mouth twisting in obvious displeasure. “What? No birthday party for the poor man?” he spits out, clearly baffled with what Noctis is planning. “Hand me that phone, milady, I must correct this problem right away. And no,” he cuts you off the moment you’re fighting to keep your phone from him and failing, “you won’t stop me from throwing a party for him.”

Unsure of what to expect from this dramatic turn of conversation, you hang by the sidelines as Byron presses your phone to his ear. His fingers tap a methodical melody on the hardwood, impatiently waiting for the prince to pick up. Once your butler gets into this mode, not a single soul succeeds in telling him otherwise—Gods know you tried and died. And you’re not about to sacrifice yourself again like some martyr because you’ve seen the things Byron is capable of.

The moment Noctis picks up—or so you assumed, Byron opens his mouth, only to shut it with a click.

You nervously wet your throat with a gulp. Oh boy.

Seconds later, Byron’s eyebrows are hiking his forehead with an air of utter disgust. “Don’t use that deep sexy tone on me, young man, it’s obviously not going to sweep me off my feet,” he starts, clicking his tongue in disdain. You somewhat wonder what qualifies as a ‘deep sexy tone’ coming from Noctis, though the question remains unanswered when Byron tuts. “No. I’m not sorry for disappointing you, I’m not her. Now, enough with this pointless prattle, I’ve come to make my demands.”

More chatter coming from Noctis has you pitching your ears for any stray sounds.

Verdict: None.

“I hear you’re not throwing Ignis a birthday party,” he says, examining his fingernails, running a thumb over them. “As a manservant who clearly understands what it feels like to be unappreciated,” he eyeballs you, to which you launch a well-timed kick on his knee, one he counters with a warning smack to your ankle, “I’d like to remind you that Ignis Scientia is a fine man who probably does it all for you while you sit around and stuff yourself silly. Therefore, he more than deserves a party for his birthday.”

Another hum of silence, and Byron narrows his eyes at your phone.

Your stomach roils at the sudden stress.

“As far as I’m concerned, there is no royal decree preventing me from having his number,” he sighs, long and weary. “If it bothers you so much – oh, this is getting silly, we only exchange recipes and cleaning tips. Dull manservant stuffs a prince like you shouldn’t be concerned with. Nobody likes a jealous boyfriend, Noctis, you best keep that in mind for your next relationship.”

This is a disaster.

You know you can’t do anything but to internally cheer the prince to weather it through.

“Mhmm. Mhmm. Yes, thank you for getting back on track,” Byron lazily drawls. To you, he nods Noctis’ way and mouths kids these days as you submit a mental email to the Astrals to ask what you’ve done to deserve this nightmare. Probably a whole bunch of things starting with murder, that’s for sure. “Ah, all right, 7th February? Lovely date for a lovely man like him. 3.00 p.m.? Your apartment? And where exactly is your – huh, all right, settle down please, don’t shout. Do text milady the address later on.”

At this point, you wonder if you can attune the entire floor to Noctis’ armoury just so it’d suck you away from this place.

Byron, fortunately, doesn’t seem to notice your dead-eyed resignation to your fate. “See? That wasn’t so bad, you and I manage to have a civil conversation after all—oh,” he stops, lowering your phone to examine your blackened screen, amused. “He hung up on me. The nerve.”

You bury your face in your hands, rubbing your throbbing temples while you’re at it. It could’ve gone much worse, so you’re thankful for small mercies. At least Byron didn’t go completely off-tangent like a grandma next door. “Uh…on the bright side, I guess we now know Ignis’ birthday’s on 7th,” you murmur dryly. “Now we can get to work planning a party for him. Good job, Byron.”

“We? Did I hear that right?” he echoes, dusting his hands on his thighs, getting up from the floor. You crane your head to scrutinise the odd curve settling in the corner of his lips, and he returns it with excessive flair to the sweep of his bow, rising partway to shoot you a salute. “No, not we, milady, only me. You, on the other hand, have a whip to attune. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have some shopping to be done.”

And he’s off, strutting towards the exit in a sashay that belongs on a catwalk runway.

You can’t help but to slump against the wall, defeated. “That’s so unfair,” you whine, causing your butler to throw his head back with a laugh that echoes through the training hall, a hand on the doorknob. “How come you get to go shopping and I don’t?”

“Oh, milady,” he turns on his heels, wearing a smile both deceptive and insincere in nature, “you have a date to prepare this Saturday, am I right? I can’t simply commit the sin of letting you wear last season’s fashion statements. I’ll be sure to find something suitable for your little outing. Floral patterns are all the rage these days.”

You’re definitely not buying that snide smile of his. “That’s just some fancy excuse ‘cause you just wanna go shopping, don’t you?”

Byron’s only answer is another heavy laugh, full with mirth. “I’ll text Nyx to replace me in light of this unexpected circumstance.” With a little cheery wave, scarlet eyes glittering beneath his bangs, he heaves the doors shut. “Goodbye, milady!”

Wood meets wood with a bang, silence goes sssssss from the air-conditioning, and you’re all alone with this whip. So much for a butler, goodbye indeed.

PALE SUNLIGHT FILTERS THROUGH cotton curtain, mellow rays diffusing in his dim room. Phone tossed aside, on the edge of his bed. His sheets smell like dried sweat, the air stagnant. It’s probably past eleven and he should be up for a replacement class slotted during lunch break, but all he does is to cover his face with his hand, eyes scrunched shut. At the backs of his eyelids you stand, hugging sylleblossoms the same way you hug a pillow.

The longer he looks at the love slackening your habitual indifference, the more he wants to brush his knuckles over your lips. The smaller the smiles gracing your face, the more he wants to kiss you to make it widen. The harder you fight back with whines too wanton and heart too giddy, the more he wants to pin you in place how one pins a butterfly to a corkboard.

It’s sick.

He’s sick.

A million and one questions harried his thoughts; how did it start, when did this happen, what should he do, but all he does is to kick off the sheets tangling his ankles, palm digging in the depression of his eyeball.

His cock had been straining heavy and full against his abdomen and it’s an ache he can rid in seconds with a few rapid strokes—Gods, that’s how fucked up he’s gone, but the thought of delving his hands in his pants, to desecrate his image of you—it’s something he can’t do. It’s disgusting. He’s disgusting. Prince Noctis pining over a girl in his disgusting desperation, venting out his frustration only in his dreams. Tabloids would salivate over the scandalous headlines, plastering it in bold all across Insomnia.

He wants to claw it all out, everything, starting from his careless curiosity of The Ghost in the Citadel, all the way to the weak curl of your spine as you mouth thank youfor the scant few words he uttered under the stars. Restart fresh from a scratch, forgoing all the hellos and goodnights and fencing you from a distance, keeping this on a professional level Ignis would approve. He’ll ascend as the 114th King of Lucis, reforming his father’s council into one of his own, one with his best friends and comrades—Ignis, Prompto, and Gladio—installed in their rightful positions.

And you, whatever it is you want to do, he’ll set you free.

No longer bound to the Andronicus and their antediluvian rules, you’re free to roam the lands after throwing a dart to the globe. Quintus will never set his hands on you, he’ll make sure of that, he’ll promise. It’s the least he can do, out of the many things you did for him.

Still, why does the thought raise an urge to retch? Jealousy, that is an ugly emotion he hasn’t felt in the years following his dad’s retreat. A primal urge to keep you with him, never with anyone else. Nobody separates you and him, nobody takes you away from him, nobody leaves him alone anymore. He hates it, hates how weak he feels when he sets his thoughts straight—but what can he do when it’s what he wants? You gave him whatever he needed no matter how meagre you had; you acknowledge his strengths and never once ridiculed him, you embraced his weaknesses and offered your shoulder instead.

He wants it all.

Wants all the time you spent on him, wants all the laughs you gave him, wants all the smiles you left him, wants your eyes fixed on him forever.

He craves you, that’s what it is.

Tossing on his mattress with a groan, Noctis rubs a hand over his clothed cock in an attempt to will it away. He’s so fucking hard since he woke up, it’s starting to hurt real bad. A damp spot’s already on the front of his sweatpants and he’s sticky all over. He needs to rub one out, that’s the best remedy to cure any stubborn erection, coming like it’ll purge him of his sins on any other day. On his bed or on the shower walls, whichever’s the closest release he can get.

Or maybe on your lips as you smile your glassy-eyed smile, his hand around your neck, painting your tongue in streaks of white.

Fuck, his cock twitches at the thought of debauching you in your whole. He’s venturing into the dangerous territory where reality blurs behind his fantasies, burning down all the bridges he’s crossed just to get to your side. His toes curl in the sheets when a hand subconsciously grabs his cock, already rutting into the callused roughness of his palm. It hurts, still dry for him to ride it out like this, but he’s too far gone to even give a shit where he’s heading even if it’s headlong into destruction.

His cockhead’s beading at the slit, angry red and peeking from the hem of his elastic, and the waft of cool air brushing over his over-sensitized skin has him biting his lip to keep it down. Fuck, he hasn’t even locked the door in case Ignis walks in, but fuck, you like littering bites on your bottom lip, don’t you? He’s learnt how you seem to chew on your lip when you’re thinking—it only makes him want to yank your mouth to his just so he’d introduce you to his teeth.

The slight slick from his precum makes things easier but not necessarily less brutal with the wild pace he’s set, thumbing at the head and smearing it all over his cock for makeshift lube. He grunts into his pillow, bangs in his eyes, that familiar coil taut and ready to burst in his belly. He’s fucked up in the head from your smile, he’s fucked up in the head for your mouth, he’s fucked up for you. There’s no turning back from being friends when he’s already shoving his cock down your throat in his foggy mind, hand holding the back of your head and letting you choke around his mouthful of cock and cum.

Oh, fuck, his hand is a poor substitute for your throat convulsing weakly around his leaking length, but he’s got nothing else than the you living in his head, making sweet little sounds like you worship his cock the same way you worship his existence. Noctis bites into his pillow with a groan when he pulls out of your messy mouth, rubbing his saliva-slick cock on your hot and wet tongue, savouring the way you wait on your knees for him to come all over you. He grits his teeth when the indulgent thought is one that shamefully tips him over the edge, snapping the tight coil in his belly and spurting warmth over his torso.

He’s done it now.

Fuck.

No turning back.

Coming down from the euphoric high of release has him panting harshly through his mouth, gulping in oxygen fast enough to replace the vacancy in his lungs. Cum cooling on his sweaty skin, fatigue settling in his muscles. The unmistakable scent intermingling with his stale bedroom air. Vision blurring, head heavy. Once he salvages the lasts of his thoughts before his illusions took over, the aftermath of his actions has Noctis reeling backwards in three parts shame and one part anger. Shame on him for succumbing to primal reactions when he defiles you into a slave of his, angry with himself for thinking about you in that way. His fingers are sticky when he stretches them to the ceiling, examining them with hooded eyes.

He knows.

He knows he’s officially gone off the rails when he first saw you sleeping without a care in the world, vulnerable, pure, weak on your white sheets.

He’s just prolonging the inevitable, isn’t he?

Swallowing the pathetic sounds he nearly makes, Noctis swipes his dirty hand clean on the sheets and twists to his side, curling up. Ridding the evidence rids him none of his guilt. The heat of his skin abates, but the throb of his heart doesn’t. Class is starting soon and he needs to pack up all his textbooks to sit through Modern Managerial for two hours and a half on an empty stomach unless he whips up some oatmeal to replace Ignis’ hearty breakfasts but all he wants to do is to call in sick and pass it off for some over-exhaustion from burning himself through a whole damn month just to cover up the fact that he jerked off to some lewd thoughts of his friend.

Scratch that. You’re not his friend. He doesn’t deserve to call himself your friend.

What kind of friend is he anyway? The shittiest, lowest kind. The kind that’d fuck your mouth with your head to the wall, that’s what. The kind that’d press his fingers over your ribs like a pianist over his keys, memorising the erotic way you shudder under him. The kind that wants to substitute your pillows just so you’d hold him instead. Exactly the shittiest, most fucked up kind of friend.

Swallowing his dry throat, Noctis tips his head on his flattened pillow and stares at the ceiling.

He needs to get his shit together, and fast.

Fast enough before he does something he can’t undo.

WEEKEND COMES WITHOUT MUCH FANFARE, putting Byron in a mood too good to be true. He hums, he bobs his head to some catchy pop tunes he Moogled on your computer, he even does a little backwards walk on the mopped marble. You find it cute that he’s jittery like he’s the one with a full weekend when you’re the one who stepped out of the shower smelling like crushed sugar, towelling your damp hair absently, ready to go out for the week.

As you plug in the hairdryer and blasted hot dry air, raking fingers through your locks to detangle knots, Byron sneaks into your room to stare at your reflection in the vanity. “You do realise this is a date, right?” he crosses his arms over his chest, eyes narrowing. “As in, not the friendly sort of date. A date date.”

“I wouldn’t call it a date,” you retort mulishly, angling the hairdryer from the drying tips and steadily working it up the length of your hair. “We’re both going out to get Ignis his birthday present.” At Byron’s pensive staring, you find it appropriate to bolster your argument with more defense. “You’re really overthinking things, Byron. Stop that. It doesn’t matter anyway, not with the way things are.”

Given the time, Byron’s persistence rivals a cockroach; it’s no wonder the two won’t get along before Byron winds up cutting the critter into two. He all but rummages through your closet, withdrawing purchases from days earlier that are still packaged in paper bags. “But you’re alone with him. It’s a date.” He makes it a point to stare in your eyes, nodding solemnly. “Your very first date, mind you.”

Technically, it’s not your first date, is it? If you follow his judgment on the matter, this makes it your third date. With your hair sufficiently dried, you switch off the device and set it aside, dropping on the vanity’s velvet stool. “He might bring Prompto along,” you offer, carefully putting your thoughts together. “Because, y’know, the more the merrier. Prompto probably didn’t have the time to put together a present for Ignis too, since they were all chasing deadlines these past few days.”

Emotionally-challenged Byron casually cocks a brow. “Then it’s a threesome.”

You give Byron a look. “Am I going to get one of those birds and bees lecture from you again? I’m not sure I wanna relive that trauma right now.”

“Milady, you need to realise that you’re at that age where men will find you incredibly ravishing.” He sighs, introducing his palm to his forehead. You make a face at the word because who even uses ravishing at this day and age anyway? “I saw that, don’t make that face at me, young lady,” he warns, clicking his tongue. “I was once twenty, all right? I know what boys think when they see a pretty lady walking down the streets.”

“Then make me unpretty.” You shrug, sorting through your comb and clips stowed in the drawer, deciding between a bejewelled claw and a fuss-free ribbon. “That solves all issues, doesn’t it?”

Byron sighs for what seems to be the umpteenth time in ten minutes, resting his head against the cupboard like he gave up on life. Or on you. Both sounds tempting. “It’s hard to devalue a work of art like you, milady. Even if I wrap you in last season’s Dior, you are still Mona Lisa hanging in the Royal Lucis Museum.”

“And what’s wrong with last season’s Dior again?” you roll your eyes at his dramatization, combing sections through your hair and scrutinizing your reflection, wondering what’s the best way to go about looking casual but not too casual—somewhere in between? Like you’re trying to look presentable, but not trying too hard. “It’s not a date, trust me.”

“You’d be very surprised at how fast this entire thing is turning into a cliché,” he points out, shuffling through flimsy chiffons in Hermes and pairing it up with some stiff pleated skirt from LV. He recoils at his disastrous matchmaking, sets down the two items, and picks through a bagful of Comme des Garçons instead. “Girl says it’s not a date, boy thinks it’s a date, they both go out together, and somewhere along the way,” he wrinkles his nose, “girl falls for boy, they kiss by the sunset, and go home to make out. Awful cliché, don’t let your romance suffer through the same predictable path. I’d rate your movie 1.5 out of 10 if that’s the case.”

You try your very best to remember why he’s your butler again. Right, some sort of contracted family deal from ages back, probably dating all the way to Solheim. “Just—can we drop this topic? I’m just hanging out with him, we both like the same things, and I’m expected to serve under his council somewhere in the future. Don’t set us up.”

Byron examines a floral YSL piece printed in pastels, holding it up to the sunlight. “Milady, he looks at you like a constipated man finding an empty stall in the public washroom. You’re the love of his life, the one he needs, in case you don’t understand my analogy.”

You do—just that it’s probably not the best one he’s come up with. “Uh. Doesn’t sound like a compliment, but I totally appreciate the sentiment all the same. Very Byronesque, as expected.”

Byron finds it appropriate to ignore you. “Noctis does seem like an awkward young prince who has little to no experience in love, given his sheltered circumstances. He’s like you—except, he’s the prince. So it’s understandable why he latches on to you the moment you show signs of accepting him for who he is. You and him are two halves of a moon, completing one another.” He holds up a plain sundress scalloped in sheer lace, thin straps crisscrossing down the back, and nods at the satisfactory shift of your expression. Then he kneels to sift through Manolo, trying to pop some colour on his overall co-ord for the day. “He’s a classic textbook fool on falling in love—trust me, I’m a man, I know what I’m talking about.”

You open your mouth to retort—only, your mouth is dry.

His ruddy eyes dart from the strappy wedges to your brooding face in a split second, turning back to his task once more. The corners of his lips are upturned, smug. It’s an answer enough. “What about you, milady? What do you think of him?”

Your nails cut crimson crescents in your palm.

Ignis’ birthday is next week. It’ll mark a full four-month friendship with Noctis, toeing the start of a fifth month in the making.

Four months passed since he showed up demanding your name, eating through your cereal and playing through King’s Knight with a Revenant weapon. He introduced you to the personification of a chocobo who photographs loads of things as he worked through part-times in hopes of saving enough for a Lokton. His Shield, on the other hand, puts you through the wringer by adding punishing reps to your regimen, gruff voice calling you lil’ lady. And his Advisor is a piece of work amiable enough to carry a conversation, yet distant enough to remain an enigma skirting your life.

What was it like without the prince?

Listening through mother’s tracks on your computer, Debussy making itself a home in your heart. Talking to the walls, talking to the books, talking to Byron, talking to yourself in front of the mirror. Mother’s hands never left your neck, her glossy fingernails raking your skin in welts. Insomnia is your pretty glass globe and Niflheim wants to shake it in its hands, stirring snowstorms in its wake. It was cold. It was lonely. You were cold and lonely.

Then Noctis came along and you forgot what it felt like to sleep alone.

You know what it is. You always do.

“I like him.”

And Byron’s smile turns bitter. “I know.”

You like him, you know you do. How can you not like the person who defended your rights against father, who wanted you like you wanted him? You purse your lips, turning away. “But you know how we are—you know how I am. He doesn’t know anything about me, about us, about mother, about father. I can’t possibly tell him—“

“Milady, does he need to know?” he interjects, sitting on his haunches. At your wordless silence, eyes uncertain, Byron clears his throat and tries again. “What I’m trying to say is, I’m certain King Regis remains unaware of what exactly the Andronici do. We may be nobles, but we are tied deeply to the underworld. The police, the mobs, the gangs, the yakuza—they are all under the Andronicus’ thumb. If His Majesty knows what your father, your grandfather, your great-grandfather, and the rest of your ancestors had done to keep Insomnia safe, I’m sure he’ll have a hard time trying to convict Quintus of anything without crippling everything.”

He words it as though he’s putting a finger on your lips just so you won’t tell anyone who ate the last cookie.

But Byron never minces his meaning.

Taking a deep breath, you mutter, “So…you’re saying I should continue keeping this whole thing a secret until my death.”

It isn’t a question. It’s a statement met with Byron’s approving nod. He brings the dress and the sandals together with him, dropping them in a hapless heap by your feet. Always reverent, always your dog, he kneels with his hands resting on your knees, tipping his chin to admire you like he always does.

“Ignorance is bliss, or so they say,” he chuckles low, warm breath fanning over your cheeks. Just like this, his fingers card through your hair, tucking stray locks behind your ear, thumbing your cheekbone. Sunlight brings out the blood in his pale irises, thick lashes curtained partway. “Milady, I do want to see you happy. I truly do. But these past few months have taught me that I can’t make you happy the way he does. If your happiness lies with Noctis, so be it, I’ll continue fighting to keep the smile you learnt from him.”

Happiness is subjective.

Happiness is when you hold a brand new video game in your hands, waiting to be played. Happiness is when King’s Knight gets patched with a new update, and you’d roll over in bed as you scuffled through the stages. Happiness is when Byron drops by with a new book, babbling about his latest reading recommendation and how you should read it too. Happiness is when mother sits at the piano, her elegant fingers pressing the ivory keys to produce a hymn only the Astrals could’ve bestowed, her eyes closed, eyelashes fluttering. Happiness is when King Regis’ letter finally came, freeing you from the shackles within.

And happiness is when you are here with him.

With Noctis.

Byron’s sincerity brings tears to your eyes, but they don’t fall down your cheeks—they never do anymore, ever since you eviscerated your innards to rid your feelings. Yet, his reverence tightens your throat, seizes your voice. You choke up.

He only runs his fingers over your wet eyelashes, grazing against your unshed tears. You draw his head to your chest, scrunching your eyes shut at the feel of his cheek resting on your collarbones. Hunching over like this, all balled up with Byron by your side again, you are aware of how insignificant you are without him. On your own, you would’ve slit your wrists in the tub, letting clear waters run red, letting the Andronicus end with you.

Byron gathers you in his arms, rubbing loose circles between your shoulder blades. His words are a soothing thrum against your neck, breathing in the lush scent of soap on your skin. “In the end, we are no better than your father. We are liars. We lie to keep those around us safe. That is what the Andronici do: We lie. We kill. And we lie again.”

You know. Aren’t you always lying? Aren’t you always killing people to get what you want? Human lives are the currency in your game, and you make it a point to have as much as you can before time runs out.

This is how it goes: You will amass a mountain of bodies by the time Noctis appoints you as his military strategist, and he will never know the things he does not need to know. Insomnia thrives under his reign, while you are every death sentence signed in blood. As he goes to bed each night, you will do a routine maintenance to sweep unnecessary dusts from stirring unneeded curiosity. For every dispute raised in the council, you will have already threaded your orders through the ranks, starting from the police, to the gangsters, to the yakuza, to the mob and the men. Those crossing your path will be carefully scissored out of the picture by way of Byron or their suddencooperation out of the plea of a beloved, whichever method most convenient at the moment of need. Decoys are magnificent, what more framing those complicit to the cause; suspect a foul play, and an execution is the remedy to all.

And this is how you will maintain your ecosystem, keeping a manicured garden free from weeds and pests.

Resting your cheek against Byron’s hair, idle fingers curling his ponytail between each digit, you clear your throat, fighting to keep your voice from cracking.

“You know, when I was young, I really liked reading all those fairytale books mother bought for me,” you confess, stewing in the indulgent thoughts of mother and her boozy smile, gifting you books to make up for the world father denied. Byron makes a quiet noise at your throat, and you give a small laugh at your foolishness fifteen years ago, holding him tight. “Thought I’d be one of those princesses when I grow up, wearing dresses and tiaras for my whole life. I was so wrong. Look at me now. What kind of fairytale princess am I?”

You don’t blame Byron for huffing under his breath, probably amused at your childishness.

Then his hand rubbing your back stills, lips burning words on your skin.

“Oh milady…you’re never a fairytale princess to begin with. You’ve always been the monster.”

[tbc.]

NOTES:

Hi, are there people still reading this fic and waiting for updates?

LPC updates long overdue? DON’T WORRY I GOT YOUR BACK! WITH TWO CHAPTERS BACK TO BACK! TLDR of my current life can be read here if you’re wondering, but all woeful life shenanigans aside, woah plot. And keeping secrets are no good but we’re only starting! Slow burn! Friends to lovers! Angst! And the next chapter is a plot-filled interlude of fun dates, car rides, and a certain creepy old man!

With this, we’re finally coming to an end with the FLOWERING arc, thanks for sticking around this far! Everyone’s support and heart-warming words on Tumblr didn’t fail to keep the passion going for writing LPC, and I really appreciate everyone’s enthusiasm and consistent check-ups on the next update! Again, I’m truly sorry for the one-year break, but I hope everyone enjoyed both chapters!

We’ve made it through BLOOMING, and we also made it through FLOWERING. Now, let’s welcome the next instalment, DECAYING. And you all know what that means… ( ͡° ͜ʖ ͡°)

PREVIEW: [20] Nonchalantly picking out a petal streaked in rich pinks fading in whites, Noctis drops it into your outstretched hands. You crane your neck to reward his gift with a smile, and it’s all that he needs, really. He’s good at pretending, isn’t he? He’s been pretending he’s got his life together all these years, so he’s sure he can pretend to be your friend just a little while longer.

[21] Byron’s eyes are the colour of rust-eaten iron flaking gold over the years, corroded by the light. There is a disturbing twist to his lips. Caressing your cheek, he’s whispering go back to sleep too loudly and all you can tell him is wait byron i’m scared please stay voicelessly when your limbs don’t move and you can’t move and it’s dark, it’s too dark, but why can you see the line of his smile shifting into a smirk and—

[22] “…is it okay if you stay for the night?” you ask, the curl of your fingers tightening as if it’s a manacle chaining him where he should be.

[23] Sure, Noctis could disentangle your limbs from his and keep this memory all to himself, but he’s done lying to himself, he’s done pretending this is going nowhere when he wants it to go somewhere—anywhere, as long as it’s with you.

[24] Home. A word he lost when mom left and dad ran. A word he found in you once more when he realises his home exists in a person, not a place. Byron throws his gaze to the slice of sky above, counting the days when he’ll see you again. Home.

[25] Noctis feels his jaw grow tight at the aloofness of the answer. No, Ignis doesn’t understand at all. Ignis won’t ever understand this. How could he understand when he hasn’t suffered through a crippling loneliness only Noctis had felt? Through gritted teeth, he grinds out, “You don’t get it. I don’t want her to go too.”

[26] Noctis knows that much when Regis furrows his brows, understanding dawning in his eyes. “So we finally meet,” says Regis, exhaling the words like a laborious process, “young daughter of the Andronicus.”

[27] “And you, Highness? Will you still rally under her banner even if you know she slit her mother’s throat at sixteen?”

[28] Tossing a look over his shoulder, his eyes are alight with mischief. “Well, what’re you waiting for? For me to bathe you too? Aren’t you too old for that?"

Lord have mercy on me, because each chapter’s close to 10k words. RIP in pieces myself for having to edit through almost 80k of words. There’s a mixture of drama and so much fluff it’s so fluffy I could die from the fluff. (The fluff is just there as a distraction to hide the fact that this is DECAYING we’re talking about and there’s bound to be angst everywhere.)

Hope you guys enjoyed the updates on LPC, My Friend, Mr Noctgar, and My Little Sister ☆ Can’t Be This Cute! Looking forward to hear from everyone again; thoughts and comments are always lovely to hear!

#noctis x reader #noctis/reader #Noctis Lucis Caelum #final fantasy xv fanfic #final fantasy xv #ffxv #lazy people #fanfic #whew this chapter is so long because everything's crammed into one chapter #hope yall enjoyed the double release

[lilyliveredlittlerichboy]

just like men don't see how women are oppressed (because they are men), women don't see how men are oppressed (because they are not men).

(disclaimer: im white and can't talk on the experiences of non-white people anywhere - this is heavily based on my observations in white people and white-majority societies & also quite generalising.)

women have been making a lot of noise about their oppression in recent years, which was and is super needed in order to make sure women get equal access to opportunities, they get to make their own choices about reproductive (or any) healthcare, they can be safer in the streets and in the home and all that.

men... aren't... making that kind of noise.

i think it's for a lot of reasons.

first, current systems of oppression do actually benefit men, at least white/cishet/abled men, in a lot of obvious ways. they get to be policymakers and they get to have their career without having to fend off questions about children. they get to be taken seriously when they say things (at least about things that are considered a "man's job": a white man's opinions on politics and work and football is always gonna carry more weight than anyone else's. it's a different story if a man tries to say things on childrearing or emotional things or "women's" things, cus that's seen as emasculating. unless they're a conservative talking about abortion or whatever ykno)

second, because we as a patriarchal society place enormous emphasis on "men's" things and consider them more important, it works out as a net positive, at least on the surface, for men.

third, men don't have a culture of talking to each other about the things that affect them deeply. they maybe bring it up with their wives or gfs, if at all, but it's hard to highlight systemic issues if most of the people affected, (as well as most other people as well,) don't see it as an issue.

fourth, men are raised not to ask for help or call something a problem they can't solve. men especially are raised to not take help or advice from those society tells them are "lesser", ie women and marginalised genders.

fifth, there is a huge amount of women and people of other genders who are very keen to dismiss the idea that men are struggling too, actually, out of hand without giving it any more thought than that.

--

it's taken me an awfully long time to see that this kind of society, with its emphasis on (what it perceives as) male values, doesn't actually serve men very well, either.

(I used to scapegoat men a lot as well. It was... not helpful, not for me and not for making a difference to society. Cathartic, at times. But like most things that are cathartic, it comes with a lot of its own problems in its wake.)

Of course us non-men see them doing well, by all measures that seem to matter, certainly better than their non-male counterparts.

But it's actually a problem of the measures we use for success.

Do they have a job? Do they earn lots of money? Are they doing worthwhile and important things? Are they successful?

Are they happy? Are they connected? Are they free to be who they want to be? Do they have avenues to air their problems and collaboratively work on a solution? Do they feel good about themselves?

For many men, the answers to the first set of questions will be Yes, but then the second set of questions is a lot more tricky.

In fact, I'd argue that the fact that the 1st set of questions matters more in our society, than the 2nd set of questions, is both a misogynistic symptom of patriarchal capitalism, and also harms men A LOT.

The sentences,

Patriarchy harms women, and women need help to stop being harmed,

Patriarchy harms men, and men need help to stop being harmed,

can and should coexist. You can and should hold both of these ideas as equally valid in your head. Feminism can and should work to free men from their chains as well.

After all, we wanna make society a safer and better place for all, right? One can't be free until all are free, and all that.

Men can't see the oppression faced by women, cus their experience is vastly different.

Women can't see the oppression faced by men, cus their experience is vastly different.

Female solidarity and networking and mutual support is so baked into our culture, we can't imagine what it is like without it.

Male achievement and power and privilege is so baked into our culture, men can't imagine what it's like not to have it.

Women get valued based on what they look like,

Men get valued based on what they do.

There are plenty of women who would like to not be looked at so much, but have their achievements recognised.

There are plenty of men who would like to not be defined solely by their work or success, but would like to be told they're pretty once in a while.

These types of oppression are not equal, and they are not the same. That's the whole point of this post. Women and non-men are gonna really struggle to understand how not being called pretty could possibly be oppressive. Just like men don't understand why women can't just take a compliment.

Dying of thirst vs drowning. We're all dying if we don't get what we need.

#reblog to recognise a woman's achievement and tell a man he's pretty #like to charge reblog to cast #cw terfs #just putting this here cus it's relevant #pls be nice to men and tell them they're pretty #i truly think telling men they're beautiful can help with breaking down barriers #unironically #all of these cultural norms are just that though. cultural #men and women and other sexes/genders are not so different!! #literally just a little tweak of development and hormones #we have more in common than we don't #oppression is one thing that all/most humans have in common in some ways #the way we're oppressed manifests wildly differently #and that's because of society. not individual men or chromosomes or whatever #society. it's all society #until we learn to approach others with compassion #(all others!! not just people you like) #society will not change #sigh

[briangroth27]

The Shape of Water Review

The Shape of Water is an enchanting 1960s-set fairy tale told very well; a powerful, expertly-made work of art about the marginalized in our society. Director Guillermo del Toro got outstanding performances out of his stars while capturing the style and feel of the era perfectly, then used the time period to comment on today’s social issues through a story about the downtrodden rallying together against the establishment to preserve life and love.

Full Spoilers…

Sally Hawkins brilliantly conveyed character and emotion entirely through her expressions and sign language as Elisa Espostio (Sally Hawkins), a mute cleaning lady at a top-secret government laboratory who falls in love with an amphibian man (Doug Jones) captured in Latin America. It’s great to see a mute lead character and even better that the film doesn’t allow it hold her back at all, despite what those in power might think of her capabilities. Conveying the romance with and genuine love for the Amphibian Man was mostly on Elisa’s shoulders and Hawkins absolutely sold every bit of it. A wonderful moment late in the film includes an unexpected musical sequence that perfectly illustrates the impact he has on her heart, showing love can transcend even the strangest of barriers. That said, I don’t think Elisa is fully human herself, but the product of an earlier romance between a human and a different aquatic cryptid: her mysterious “scars” and backstory of being found by a river felt like a classic superhero secret origin. If that’s the case and the Amphibian Man healed her gills instead of creating them, then their relationship not only fuels her voice, but allows her to discover her truest self.

I also liked the easy friendships Elisa shared with her coworker Zelda (Octavia Spencer) and next-door neighbor Giles (Richard Jenkins). It was a nice and all-too-rare touch that these platonic relationships were just as important to Elisa’s life as her burgeoning romance with the Amphibian Man. It was a relief to find Elisa living a fully-functioning life even while she was longing for romantic love. I loved Zelda’s reactions to the Amphibian Man and to updates about Elisa’s love life. In addition to comic relief, Zelda brought common sense to Elisa’s interest in the Amphibian Man, at first keeping her friend’s head level and later recognizing that risking her life and career to help Elisa save him was something they had to do, even though she was greatly concerned for her best friend’s safety. Zelda being so dismissed in her marriage and having her decisions undercut (even if it was to save her life) by her husband (Martin Roach) was a solid mirror to Elisa and the Amphibian Man’s more mutually respectful relationship and to Strickland’s (Michael Shannon) domineering, controlling marriage. While Zelda was a fully-formed character, it would’ve been nice if she had a subplot of some kind of her own, like Giles did. His failed advertising posters (and failed interest in a guy (Morgan Kelly) working at a not-so-great pie shop) gave the movie a glimpse of the world and society outside the lab that we didn’t get from many other characters. Then again, perhaps it’s the fact that Zelda and Elisa work together and Giles doesn’t that made his world feel bigger than hers. It may also be that his ability to pass as an “acceptable” member of society grants him the ability to travel a wider world than Zelda can, as exemplified by the Pie Guy kicking an African-American family out of the pie shop. Despite his long reach, the sadness and rejection encompassing so much of his world, be it from the Pie Guy or the ad agency he was trying to sell to, painted a haunting picture of the world inhabited by those who “proper” society ignored or—at best—used, and I hope the world Elisa gets to travel to at the end of the film is happier and more equal. Still, I liked that Giles had a sense of hope to him; even if the world was clearly weighing on him, he still believes in the possibility of “happily ever after.”

The make-up for the Amphibian Man was mind-blowing and the movie deserved the Best Costume Design Oscar for it, while Doug Jones did an amazing job of conveying emotion and a sympathetic nature under all those prosthetics. The biggest thing I would’ve liked to see more of in the movie was his backstory. Actual god or not, I wanted to know what he wanted (beyond freedom and to love Elisa), what he thought of the world of men, etc. Who were his followers in South America and what “primitive” rituals did they use to worship him? What did he give them in return? Did he even register that he was worshiped as a god, or do his thoughts transcend those labels? What was his thought process as he went from worshiped to imprisoned? I wish he could’ve communicated better to give us some grander idea of his opinion on things, because his actions made him seem torn between gentle emotions and instinct-driven outbursts, like killing one of Giles’ cats. Perhaps it would be an interesting comment on society if this “god” were really just a different sort of animal and the people who worshiped it had simply projected their need for a god onto him, but I’m almost always against “grounding” half-measures in stories like this (if you’re gonna go there, go there), so I interpreted him as truly a god and would’ve liked to know more. That said, having Elisa fall in love with someone so outlandish was a strong metaphor for how those in power at the time (and honestly, in the present as well) saw homosexual and interracial love.

Michael Shannon’s Colonel Richard Strickland was a great villain and I loved how his control-freak nature demanded everyone around him become subservient, much like the paranoid American government he works for and represents demanded conformity. This made him simultaneously threatening and weak, hiding behind a thin veneer of socially-acceptable power. I especially liked his reaction when he found out just how replaceable he could become if he didn’t find the Amphibian Man; his easy dismissal in the event of his failure also contrasted nicely with how Zelda was always willing to cover for Elisa, from rescuing the Amphibian Man to simply holding her place in line to ensure she clocked in on time. Clearly there’s no friendship, loyalty, or leeway among the conformists, only control or destruction. Watching him break down as many people around him as he could—even his wife (Lauren Lee Smith), forcing her to be quiet while he focused on what he wanted out of their sex life—was very uncomfortable, so it was great to see his frustrated reaction to his inability to intimidate or break Elisa and Zelda. Not allowing his wife to speak was a great contrast to the Amphibian Man, who helped Elisa to not just talk, but to sing. The whimsical, silver screen nature of their classic Hollywood dance sequence also contrasted perfectly with the rot just under the “idealized” surface of 1960s America that Strickland upheld. Though the dance sequence is pure fantasy, it’s the only place where “the good old days” were actually good.

Another aspect that perfectly utilized the era was Dimitri Mosenkov/Robert Hoffstetler (Michael Stuhlbarg), a Soviet spy embedded in the lab. Like the threat of the Other found in African-Americans, the gay community, and a sea god, the Red Scare epitomized America’s desperate drive to destroy what it couldn’t control or understand. As I’ve seen noted elsewhere, it was very cool that the film subverted expectations and had Mosenkov not only help Elisa save the Amphibian Man from vivisection at the hands of the Americans, but that he gave Elisa information on how to keep him alive once she’d extracted him. That he cared more about the Amphibian Man as a living thing than as a means to attain Soviet superiority by vivisecting it was great; I definitely expected him to try to give him to his spymasters, where the South American god would’ve met the same fate the American military planned for it. It’s certainly a powerful indictment of our government that this spy sent to undermine us had more humanity than our people, who are only concerned with being “the best” no matter what that does to their souls. The fact that Mosenkov literally had a secret identity is also a nice thematic tie to Giles’ closeted homosexuality, Elisa’s mysterious origins, and the hidden power and passion the oppressed in this time concealed from their conformity-demanding government.

Universal’s classic Creature from the Black Lagoon was an inspiration for this film, and The Shape of Water is an excellent sort of remake, touching on similar themes while updating them and making them relevant to a modern audience. It was very smart of del Toro to explore the limitations of social mores of 1962 by focusing on a cast made up of those without power back then (who are still facing under-representation and lack of power today). However, I would argue that while setting this in the past has the desired effect of getting the audience to let its guard down, it also allows the audience to distance themselves too much, letting us say “those problems have been solved” and never forcing us to inspect ourselves. Still, I absolutely loved the score and the entire 1960s aesthetic del Toro achieved! I could easily have seen this taking the Best Cinematography Oscar. 

The Shape of Water looks beautiful, has an excellent cast who are all on point, and has a very strong love story at the center of a powerful tale of those without power subverting the accepted system. I definitely recommend it!

 Check out more of my reviews, opinions, and original short stories here!

#the shape of water #sally hawkins #doug jones #amphibian man #creature from the black lagoon #octavia spencer #zelda #giles #elisa esposito #michael shannon #colonel strickland #richard jenkins #michael stuhlbarg #dimitri mosenkov #guillermo del toro

[loudlytransparenttrash]

Because I figure you're one of very few blogs to do genuine research and post actual results instead of being a twat, I decided to send this ask your way! Is there a psychological reasoning behind why minorities in the USA (unsure of how it looks in other countries) seem to commit more homicides/be more likely to get into drugs/participate in dogfighting/steal more/commit more crimes in general? I've always been curious but have a hard time with finding legitimate sources.

Hey! Thank you for your question, I appreciate it :) I’m far from an expert but I can only provide some facts and my own reasoning behind this issue, I’m happy for anyone to provide their input.

I think it all comes down to how you are raised, your environment, influences and circumstances. You look at the races (Asians, whites) with the highest percentages of a maintained nuclear family which boosts household income and reinforces positive influences and you find that their crime rate percentages are significantly lower than races (blacks, Hispanics) with the highest percentage of broken families and lower income. 

There are many studies that positively correlate poverty with non-violent and violent crime. This study found that poverty had a significant and direct effect on young people’s likelihood to engage in violence, even after accounting for the effects of a range of other factors known to influence violent behaviour such as poor family functionality, lack of attachment to school, substance misuse and impulsivity (which are all also rampant in black communities.) 

For a lot of young people from the most impoverished backgrounds, violence and crime empowers and is a means of attaining and sustaining status amongst peers. Willingness to use violence and commit crime therefore becomes a resource for the most dispossessed and this becomes a persistent feature throughout the teenage years. Without jobs, they use criminal behavior as currency. According to Pew Research Center data from 2013, black children are 27.3% of the black population but 38.4% of those living in poverty. US Census Bureau data from 2014 shows that while overall 18% of families in the US with children under 18 live in poverty, this number rises to 32.1% for black families. US Census Bureau data shows that over half of black children do not live with their biological fathers. 

The poverty rate for black families with intact marriages drops to 10.8% but rises dramatically in the cases of unmarried single parents. 31.2% of single fathers with children under 18 are impoverished, as are 46.1% of single mothers with children under 18. This has resulted in the black children living in poverty outnumbering white children living in poverty, in spite of white children outnumbering black children by three to one.

Unmarried black mothers with children under 18 are the most impoverished demographic in American society, and they are the most common type of family structure in black communities. So the next factor to consider is the subculture many of these young people are inculcated into. It should be no surprise that large numbers of delinquent, impoverished young men with poor education and lacking in fatherly role models would find acceptance within criminal gangs.

Somewhere along the way, a cadre of young black men and women began glorifying violence, misogyny and thuggery, accepting incarceration as inevitable, resigning themselves to lives on the margins of mainstream society. They created a thug culture that has been commodified, celebrated in music and movies, intellectualized in literature, sold to poor adolescents in wretched neighborhoods as well as affluent teenagers in upscale communities.

But the violence isn’t just playacting, it’s not just teenagers trying on a rebellious facade. Young adults, many of them men, most of them black are living this widely accepted thug culture which leads them directly into confrontations with police, they get arrested, they go to prison, they die on the streets. This isn’t racism against blacks, these are decisions and consequences made by blacks. 

In 2012 it was estimated that there were 30,000 gangs operating within the United States with over 800,000 members. Blacks make up over 35% of these gangs, while whites make up less than 12%. So it’s no surprise that at just a fraction of the population, black people account for most of the arrests for murder (51.3%), robbery (55.9%) and gambling (58.9%). They are also significantly above the average in several other categories: weapons crimes (40.7%), prostitution and commercialised vice (41.8%) and aggravated assault (33.1%). In 2013, a black was six times more likely than a non-black to commit murder, and 12 times more likely to murder someone of another race than to be murdered by someone of another race. Also in 2013, of the approximately 660,000 crimes of interracial violence that involved blacks and whites, blacks were the perpetrators 85 percent of the time. This meant a black person was 27 times more likely to attack a white person than vice versa. These are all common gang activities and are without a doubt raising the resulting statistics for black crime. 

A common criticism of these figures is that they are based on arrests by police officers who may be disproportionately targeting black neighbourhoods due to racial bias or profiling. However, these statistics seem to be corroborated by the National Crime Victimisation Surveys performed by the Department of Justice. The NCVS data is collected by a random survey of 90,000 households to back up these statistics.

Homicides by victim and perpetrator are often presented as percentages of the perpetrator and victim’s race by manipulative left-wing activists and the media, which gives a chart that shows 82% of whites kill other whites while 90% of blacks kill other blacks so it’s no big deal, there’s not much difference.

However this obfuscates the severity of the problem by making the number of murders look spread evenly between both racial categories. When displaying the number of murders brings the issue of disproportionate violence committed by black people into focus by per million of the victim’s population, it shows 52% of blacks kill other blacks while just 10% of whites kill other whites. So when someone says “black lives don’t matter to Black Lives Matter”, this is what they mean.

The fact is, young black men commit more crimes (far more) - than other racial demographics. Why though? Well it seems they are much more likely to come from an unstable, impoverished single-parent matriarchal household. They are more likely than young white men to lack a strong male role model. They are much more likely to seek acceptance in gang culture, leading to the acquisition of a criminal record, reducing employment prospects and putting the individual into a downward spiral of poverty which further incentivises criminal behaviour as a source of income.

In saying that, I’m not an expert, I don’t have a bulletproof explanation for the psychological reasoning behind their crime rates. One thing I can be sure of though is that talking about factors such as family, influences, lifestyle, life decisions provides a much more solid and logical explanation than blaming a racist white supremacy conspiring against the entire black race.

For many black men I can admit the deck has been stacked against them from their earliest days. They suffer from many societal handicaps that are beyond their control that directly affect their cognitive abilities and emotional wellbeing and find themselves with reduced options from social stigma attached not to racism but much of black culture which normalizes delinquency and glorifies criminal behavior. I am of course not talking about all black people, this question and my answer is only relating to criminals.

It’s very convenient to self-validate by inventing excuses for one’s own poor choices to project the responsibility for them on to mythical concepts like “white supremacy”, and dismiss other successful, educated black people who want to resolve issues in the black community as “Uncle Toms”. Not only does it allow one to place the blame on an entity that can never refuse it, but it also allows one to ignore inconvenient facts regarding the inconsistency of this white supremacy and its apparent concern with the welfare and social advancement of black people.

The good news about all of this is that it is completely within the power of black people to solve the problems plaguing the black community. The first, and in my opinion most important, step is to start taking accountability and begin the process of rebuilding the nuclear family to the standards of white and especially Asian families. I mean, it’s no wonder Asians are the most successful people in the country. This will provide emotional and financial stability to black children and their parents, it will provide incentives for parents to achieve and set a good example for their children to follow and it will require black parents to take personal responsibility for themselves and their children. Subsequently, in time, this will improve the reputation of these communities through the improved moral character they will display and I’d be quite certain the black crime rate will reduce dramatically.

#myreplies #blm1

[thechasefiles]

The Chase Files Daily Newscap 5/8/2018

Good Morning #realdreamchasers! Here is The Chase Files Daily News Cap for Tuesday 8th May 2018. Remember that you can read full articles via subscribing to Nation News Government Information Services (BGIS).

MIA NOT FIT! – Minister of Finance Chris Sinckler last night depicted Opposition Leader Mia Mottley as an abysmal career failure and warned Barbadians of the dangers of entrusting the reins of Government into her hands. Speaking at the launch of the Democratic Labour Party’s 2018 general election campaign at Waterford, St Michael, Sinckler advised voters not to be fooled by a politician for whom perception and impressions were more important than facts. He said that if Barbadians had to plot the coordinates of Mottley’s 20-plus years as a politician, the facts of her tenure would speak for themselves. Sinckler said in her quest for political power Mottley was now making impossible promises to Barbadians. He dismissed as “absolute rubbish” Mottley’s promise to raise non-contributory pensions from $75 to $225 every fortnight. He said such a move would collapse the National Insurance Scheme. He explained that Government currently spent $23 million annually on non-contributory pensions and Mottley’s plan would mean a $300 to $400 million burden on an already struggling economy. In explaining the potential impact of Mottley’s pledge, Sinckler said non-contributory and contributory pensions were linked and if non-contributory pensions were raised, contributory pensions would also have to be raised. Sinckler stated that along with the pension promise, Mottley was also promising Barbadians to return Value Added Tax to 15 per cent and to get rid of the National Social Responsibility Levy. “Barbadians need to keep Mia Mottley as far away from Bay Street as humanly possible,” Sinckler advised. He said the BLP leader had failed with Edutech as Minister of Education, and had failed as Attorney General and Deputy Prime Minister with respect to both Her Majesty’s Prisons at Glendairy, St Michael and Dodds, St Philip. He said Mottley had failed when then Prime Minister Owen Arthur placed her in charge of the 2007 Cricket World Cup. “And you would want to take a whole country – Barbados  – and give to Mia Mottley . . . to do what with?” Sinckler charged that the late evangelist Gordon Matthews who had interacted professionally with inmates at Glendairy Prison had warned Mottley of the likelihood of insurrection at that institution and she did nothing. He added Barbadians were now saddled with an annual $30 million debt to repay for the construction of the Dodds facility because of her negligence. The incumbent representative for St Michael North West said during the 2007 World Cup, Mottley oversaw a situation where taxpayers spent significantly to charter a plane from India to Barbados which never came. He noted the island spent a great deal of money on a ship that was to bring persons to Barbados for the World Cup but sailed into local waters without passengers. Sinckler charged that rather than take advice on the building of a new cricket oval at a price tag of $40 million, the Cabinet of the day of which Mottley was a member, rebuilt Kensington Oval at a cost $150 million. He said Mottley’s trail continued to the new Supreme Court complex on Whitepark Road, St Michael, which was built and subsequently occupied without industrial cleaning being done and that had now led to environmental issues. “He who comes to equity must come with clean hands and Mottley cannot present clean hands, clean clothes, clean face, clean nothing, when it comes to governance in Barbados because her management, her governance, her thoughts, her deeds, have all been short and come short of the glory of God in Barbados. That is an unmatchable fact,” Sinckler said, adding that Barbadians had to determine the quality of leader they wanted. He explained that leadership was about trust and values and noted the Democratic Labour Party had a leader in Freundel Stuart who all of Barbados could trust.(BT)

MIA: MY BACK IS BROAD – "My back is broad." That was Opposition Leader Mia Mottley's simple response moments ago when asked about the collective tongue lashing she had received from the Democratic Labour Party's campaign launch Sunday night. Just after completing her nomination process at the St Matthews Primary School, the Barbados Labour Party leader said she was in no way surprised by the attack on her character by the Dems. "I am not worried about it. I will stay focused on the job at hand. The truth is that the Democratic Labour Party has not been attracting a lot of people to their meetings and they are doing this to bring a level of excitement to their campaign. But I will not be distracted. I will stay focused for the Barbadian people," she told reporters before leaving the school. Mottley, who arrived with an entourage of around 100 supporters, said she had found extreme gratification over the last 48 hours, based on the traction from the party's campaign lift-off Saturday evening at Weymouth, and another meeting held in Wildey last night.  She said the party would reach another level when their manifesto is launched Thursday.  (DN)

STUART DEFENDS LAST NIGHT’S DLP ASSAULT ON MOTTLEY – Prime Minister Freundel Stuart today dismissed any suggestions that last night’s Democratic Labour Party (DLP) campaign launch was focused too much on Opposition Barbados Labour Party (BLP) leader Mia Mottley. “We were in the constituency of the Leader of the Opposition last night and we were there for a very good reason, and she had to be the focus of last night’s meeting,” Stuart said, adding that “we’re not going to be there every night so she will not be the focus of the campaign every night, although I’m sure she will come in for mention as we move around the country because she is campaigning to be the next Prime Minister of Barbados”. He was reacting to widespread concerns raised on social media that last night’s launch amounted to nothing more than a sustained onslaught on the BLP leader with little to no account given by the party of its stewardship over the past ten years. However, following his nomination at the Graydon Sealy Secondary School, the Prime Minister, who had himself charged that Mottley was approaching the office of Prime Minister with a sense of entitlement, while he felt passionately that leadership had absolutely nothing to do with bloodlines, pointed out that “we have until the night of the 23rd [of May] to tell the people of Barbados what we plan to do about solving their problems, and of course we’ve been at this for the last ten years”. Stuart also dismissed suggestions that the DLP’s 2018 campaign was low-key saying the party intended to start its poster distribution in earnest shortly. However, he said, “we do not regard an election campaign as a parade of shirts and posters . . . . The issues in this campaign are not going to be about how many posters you have up on poles or how many people have on this or that colour shirt. “There are some critical issues that have to be discussed about the future of Barbados, and that is where the focus of the Democratic Labour Party is.” Turning his attention to the BLP, he warned that the main Opposition was now at risk of being regarded as stale because it had been campaigning since the first month of the year. “I am aware that we’ve been having posters around since January in this constituency as in so many others, so far as our adversaries are concerned. Voters now find themselves in a position where they have to choose between the faded candidate and the fresh one because posters were out so long,” said Stuart, who arrived by car, hugged and greeted supporters today in contrasting style to his main challenger Kirk Humphrey, who made a grand entrance in the company of several t-shirt clad BLP supporters.  (BT)

MIA: I CAN TAKE MY LICKS – After coming in for a severe tongue-lashing from several Democratic Labour Party DLP) candidates last night, Opposition Barbados Labour Party (BLP) Leader Mia Mottley today made it clear that her back was broad enough to take her “lashes”. However, as she filed in her nomination papers today at the St Matthew’s Primary School, a very confident looking Mottley told reporters that she would not be sidetracked by the DLP, while stating that her focus was to hold the Freundel Stuart led administration accountable to the people of Barbados. “If you have no record to run on, that is the kind of thing that will cause you to feel that you can excite your base. The Democratic Labour Party has not been getting people to their meetings, they have no way of exciting their base and quite frankly if that is what they think will do it for the people of Barbados for them, so be it, they are big men and women. “I know it reflects more on them than me, and therefore I stand focused and remain ready to deliver the promises to the people that we know can be delivered to make a difference in people’s lives. And if taking lashes from them is what it is going to take to get rid of the DLP, measure the back,” she said, to loud cheers and chants of “Mia! Mia” from the large group of supporters who accompanied her to the nomination centre. It was on Sunday night that Mottley came in for approximately six hours of political attack from candidates of the incumbent DLP as they officially kicked off their campaign for the May 24 general election in Mottley’s St Michael North East constituency. Most vicious among her critics was Minister of Social Care Steve Blackett who suggested that there was nothing special about Mottley, who he described as an “imposter”, while suggesting that she was “shallow as Brandons Beach at low tide” and was yet to clearly articulate her views to Barbadians on domestic violence and other social issues. He also poked fun at her appearance comparing her to the vindictive character Madea, created and portrayed by the American film director Tyler Perry. While accusing her of all manner of political failures, Minister of Finance Chris Sinckler also joined in the onslaught during which he dismissed Mottley’s economic recovery plan for Barbados, which includes pay increases for public servants, a repeal of the National Social Responsibility Levy, a hike in old age pensions and the restoration of free tertiary education at the University of the West Indies as financially unsound. He also warned that the BLP’s pension plan could cause the National Insurance Scheme to collapse. Sinckler however suggested that the BLP leader was getting funding from African billionaire Benedict Peters and he sought to make a link with Boko Haram, the militant organization based on northeastern Nigeria. However, asked to respond to the allegations today, following her nomination at the St Matthew’s Primary School, Mottley said it was a mere distraction, which she was not about to entertain. “I am not going to be distracted in this campaign by any such thing. The reality is that this campaign is not about who I met with. This campaign is about what the Government is doing,” Mottley asserted. “Have they told you what they are doing? Have they told you where they have gotten their money from? Have they told you why they haven’t spent the money on collecting garbage, buying buses and doing the other things for people, or have they told you why they have approved the adjustments down at the Town Planning for [Rock Hard] Cement next to a flour factory? What did we use to kill rats with when we were children?” she asked. In response to a claim by Prime Minister Freundel Stuart that she was approaching the office of Prime Minister with a sense of entitlement, while he felt passionately that leadership had absolutely nothing to do with bloodlines, Mottley said anyone who believed that should “come and meet me”. “But as I told you, I am not going to be distracted. Come and meet me. Bajans know me. Bajans are not now hearing about me,” she added. Stressing that she would remain focused on a number of crises facing the country, Mottley, who will be launching her manifesto on Thursday, said the country had been “hurled from crisis to crisis”, insisting that the issues affecting Barbadians from all walks of life should be the focus of the campaign. Mottley’s main opponent, DLP candidate for St Michael North East Patrick Todd, who also shared in the attack on Sunday night, warned that “politics is no Sunday school”, as he made no apologies for his party’s attack on the Opposition leader. In fact, with 17 days to do before D-day, Todd suggested that discussing the leadership of the BLP was far from over. “We can expect that all participants in this democratic process will be leaving no stone unturned to present their case. So the Democratic Labour Party makes no apologies in engaging in frank discussion with the electorate to encourage one and all to reflect deeply on the implications of making a mistake and electing the wrong persons to chart their destiny over the next five years,” said Todd, who expressed confidence in booting out Mottley as MP for St Michael North East constituency. Todd said he had been getting positive feedback from constituents as he worked “night and day” in his canvassing, adding that residents were especially pleased with the level of commitment and enthusiasm that he brought to the table. Referring to his opponent as the “outgoing Member of Parliament [MP]”, Todd said Mottley had over 20 years to prove her worth in the constituency “but the verdict is that she has been found guilty of not really addressing the immediate concerns of the constituents in a timely manner”. “She is not a first time MP. She served for over 20 years and time is up. The people have given her more than ample opportunity to prove herself and you just have to look at what is the current state of play in the constituency,” he said, while stating that he was “not hearing any great enthusiasm in terms of the residents’ level of satisfaction in the quality of representation of the outgoing MP”. Also seeking to unseat Mottley in St Michael North East and filing nomination papers today was newcomer from Solutions Barbados Kemar Stuart.  (BT)

36 WOMEN IN THE RUNNING – A record 132 people will be going after the 30 seats in Parliament on May 24. This was the unofficial count following yesterday’s Nomination Day for the upcoming General Election, which will also be contested by a record 36 female candidates. The numbers were a significant increase over the 68 candidates in both the February 2013 and January 2008 general elections. Up to late last night, officials of the Electoral and Boundaries Commission (EBC) could not give the official tally from yesterday’s process, which went from 10 a.m. until 3 p.m. for the actual presentation and verification of nomination papers. But what was clear was that both the major parties, the incumbent Democratic Labour Party (DLP) and the Barbados Labour Party, had each filed a full slate of 30 candidates. The Bees brought out placard-waving supporters adorned in red, while for the Dems it was a more subdued affair, even though in many instances its candidates had their band of supporters. For newcomers Solutions Barbados, it would only be missing the poll in St Michael North West and St Peter, while the United Progressive Party was able to field 23 candidates. On this occasion, voters will also have a choice of a number of minor parties on the ballot. In four ridings, there will be six candidates facing off – St Michael North, St James Central, City of Bridgetown and St John – while a number of Independent candidates are in the mix, with Natalie Harewood in The City capturing much attention. Randall Rouse, who has unsuccessfully contested the St Joseph seat under the banner of the DLP and the now defunct National Democratic Party, is trying once again, this time as an Independent, while Dr Leroy McClean, a long-standing DLP stalwart, is also running as an Independent in St John. Yesterday’s filing of papers went without any major incident, although some candidates experienced a few hiccups, ranging from forgetting their receipts to discovering that some of their intended backers were not registered in the constituency. But these minor matters were quickly rectified as candidates found the required number of official backers, while returning officers and election clerks were accommodating. In Christ Church South, there was some mystery surrounding well known social activist Aaron “Buddy” Larrier, who turned up at the centre in Maxwell. He indicated he would be entering the race and was leaving to go and get his official backers. Up to press time, it was unclear whether he ever made it back to complete the process.  (DN)

LASHLEY FORGETS HIS RECEIPT – It might have been a case of Nomination Day jitters for Christ Church West Central incumbent Stephen Lashley, who turned up at the Deighton Griffith School just after 1 p.m. for his nomination, only to realize he had forgotten his receipt. However, after a rush to his Haggatt Hall, St Michael office, a relieved Lashley returned with the vital document. “All I had to do was to retrieve the very critical receipt which I had in another folder,” a smiling Lashley told the media. “But I retrieved it and got it to the centre.” After completing the process he said he was quite confident heading into the May 24 general election. “I feel quite confident. This is my third election . . . and I am very confident I will be retaining this seat because the support is there.” Kenneth Lewis of Solutions Barbados was the first candidate to start the process rolling, arriving just after 10 a.m. Despite being a first-timer, Lewis said he was unfazed. “Today was a very smooth process . . . and I am happy. I have no kind of fear right now and it is now the official first step going forward now and I am here to do my best for the constituency,” he said. Barbados Labour Party candidate Adrian Medic Forde was in a party mood after completing the nomination process. With his theme song blazing from the speakers on a truck, Forde was joined by several supporters decked in red shirts in a ‘mini cavalcade’ from the school to Silver Hill. “Democracy is going to be at its best when May 24th comes because the people will finally have a voice in this country, something that was fought for in the thirsty 30’s and that enfranchisement must not be taken for granted,” he said. While she admitted to having jitters, Ria Riley of the United Progressive Party said she was up to the task at hand. “I feel good . . . . Of course I have some jitters, but I know at the end of the day I have a job to do and I have a team behind me which is backing me 100 per cent so I am very confident in my duties,” Riley said. (BT)

KELLMAN FORCED TO RESUBMIT NOMINATION PAPERS – Despite having contested five previous general elections, the Democratic Labour Party (DLP) incumbent in St Lucy Denis Kellman somehow failed to get it right today during the nomination process. Kellman had to return to the nomination centre at the Darryl Jordan Secondary School just after midday to resubmit his papers after an error was made this morning. However, he took it all in stride and quickly put it behind him, concentrating instead on trying to retain the seat. “I am very confident based on my track record. All these problems that have been highlighted in the constituency, I have been able to deal with them. I have dealt with the roads, I’ve dealt with the housing, agriculture and renewable energy,” he told Barbados TODAY. Kellman is one of five candidates vying for the seat in the May 24 general election, with Barbados Labour Party (BLP) candidate Peter Phillips, Wayne Griffith the United Progressive Party, Solutions Barbados’ Reverend John Carter and Richard Roachford of Barbados Integrity Movement all securing their nomination today. Phillips has lost to Kellman twice before, first in 2008 when he went down by 1,411 votes before closing the gap to just 422 votes in 2013. Kellman said that was an aberration and he expects to reverse those losses come May 24. “I’m not worried about him because I understood the reason why that occurred. The world had gone into an economic slump and there are certain things the people were looking for that they did not see. It was more a bit of frustration, so now I don’t see anything at this point to be worried about,” he said. However, Phillips was equally confident of unseating one of the island’s longest serving parliamentarians.

“I’m feeling absolutely great. It has been a long journey and I am quietly confident,” he told Barbados TODAY as he showed up at the school flanked by supporters in a celebratory mood. As he made his way to the nomination centre loud cheers erupted from students and some members of the ancillary staff. “The response from the people of St Lucy has been beyond my imagination at this point in time. I would have worked really hard and interactive for the last five year in 2013. I am very comfortable and confident,” the BLP candidate said. The remaining candidates all projected an air of confidence, with each stressing that voters in the constituency had made it clear they wanted a change, and each presenting himself as the best person to effect that change. However, Kellman said despite the competition for the seat he has held since 1994, he intended to run a clean campaign. “I have 40 churches in St. Lucy so I have to respect those churches. I have to worry about the campaign in St Lucy and I can assure you that over the years I have always dealt with issues and I will continue to deal with the issues that will improve the lives of people. “You don’t need to worry about a dirty campaign coming from my side, if there is a dirty campaign then it has to be the others. I do not know how to deal with that type of campaign,” he said.   (BT)

SNAG SLOWS HENNIS – United Progressive Party candidate for St Philip South Bruce Hennis was first out the gates at the Rices Pavilion to get the nomination process under way. He arrived just before 11 with a party of seven. Hennis hit a minor snag returned to the Rices Pavilion to inform returning officer Deryck Springer he would be exercising his right not to have an election agent. His was able to complete his process.  (DN)

WE’RE NOT DEAD! – The Democratic Labour Party (DLP) is promising to ramp up its general election campaign now that the nomination process is out of the way. Minister of Agriculture Dr David Estwick today said the DLP had been taking its time before turning up the volume because it wished to be in compliance with the law. “It is after this nomination event that we are going to be able to act within the laws of Barbados. We therefore would be able to function with posters and billboards and that type of activity. I have heard the statements before that it is custom and practice to put up posters before nomination day but you are not a candidate before nomination day. So therefore it should not be up there. That is the law,” Estwick told reporters after completing his nomination at Princess Margaret School this afternoon as his party’s candidate for St Philip West. Estwick, who along with proposer Brenda Reid and seconder Cleopatra Doughty submitted the requisite documents to Returning Officer Pauline Morgan and Election Clerk Roger Padmore, said lawmakers had a duty to ensure that they were always in step with the law. “We are lawmakers so we can’t be law breakers too. So now that we have gone through that we will be going full flight as of tonight. The full machinery of the Democratic Labour Party machine will be seen. There are persons out there saying that the DLP is very quiet but we are not in Westbury cemetery, we knew exactly what we were doing and we wanted to do it within the confines of the law,” he stressed. Estwick said he was confident of retaining the seat he has held since 2003, sweeping aside in the process, challengers John King of the Barbados Labour Party and Leighton Greenidge of Solutions Barbados. Greenidge, who showed up an hour before the scheduled 10 a.m. start of nomination, was proposed by Anne Sealy and seconded by Derrick Carrington, with Frankie Best and Edwin Beckles. He told reporters he was undaunted by the prospects facing the man nicknamed Pit Bull due to his political aggression. “I feel pretty good about our chances because our policies and our message is far superior to everybody else’s,” Greenidge said. “Barbadians realize that dramatic change is needed to get the country back on track. Over the next few days it would be all about campaigning to make sure that everybody knows who we are,” he added. Meantime, King, who turned up for nomination at 11 a.m., along with proposer Vede De Bellotte and seconder Tonya Sargeant, was equally confident about his chances of toppling the three-term incumbent. “The plan now is to get out there and keep pounding the pavement. As a new candidate we have a lot of work to do going down to Election Day but I know it is going to pay off and St Philip West will finally get the representation that it deserves,” King said.  (BT)

FIVE DOWN TO CONTEST ST PHILIP SOUTH SEAT – Solutions Barbados candidate Ronald Lorde and Bajan Free Party's John Wayne Scantlebury arrived at the Rices Pavillion within minutes of each other today to be nominated to contest the seat for St Philip South. Lorde, who was accompanied by four supporters, was sitting before returning officer Deryck Springer when Scantlebury and his four-member contingent arrived. Both candidates have high hopes of reaping success in the May 24 General Election. Five of the expected six candidates completed the process: Indar Weir of the Barbados Labour Party, Democratic Labour Party incumbent Adriel Brathwaite and United Progressive Party’s Bruce Hennis. Charleston Taylor, who was scheduled for 10:30 a.m., never arrived. (DN)

SCANTLEBURY: BEES, DEMS MUST GO – It is time for the Barbados Labour Party and the Democratic Labour Party to be dissolved. So said independent candidate for St Peter Lynroy Scantlebury after he had finished his nomination process at the Roland Edwards Primary School today.  “I personally believe that this should be the end of the DLP and BLP. St Peter has been neglected for the last 32 years and I don’t think either one of these two governments have realised what they have done to the citizens.  “If the constituents are serious about doing something to better themselves the time is now. They can’t wait another five years,” he said.  Scantlebury who was surrounded by his wife, father and siblings who came out to support him said today was their opportunity to make a change. He mentioned that if elected he would love to provide better roads, as well as systems which would ensure the elderly and differently abled were comfortable as well as educated.  An issue which he also held dear was that of unemployment among youth in the parish of St Peter.  “We are looking at youth development strategies for entrepreneurship. We have lots of young women and men here in St Peter who are currently unemployed and are on the roads on a daily basis,” he said.  He also listed health care as a priority stating that he would be looking at making the Maurice Byer Polyclinic a 24-hour medical facility. Other candidates contesting the St Peter constituency are Colin Jordan from the BLP, and Dave Cumberbatch from the DLP.  (DN)

UPP LOOKING TO NEW ERA OF POLITICS – The United Progressive Party has released a statement following today’s nomination process. 

Below is the full text of the release: 

“Today marks the beginning of something different, something exciting, and something that will have a profound impact on the future of our country.  The United Progressive Party has had twenty-three members duly nominated as candidates to contest the May 24 General Elections.  We are running in this election for the purpose of providing a voice for change from the status quo. The people of Barbados cried out from the depths of their frustration and despair that they are tired of switching from one major party to the next every few election cycles but seeing no real change. Labour party politics has failed us; previous politicians have failed us; the levels of corruption are rising, our productive sectors are contracting, and our debt levels are unacceptable. The UPP’s message is simple, let us build the best possible Barbados. To this end we will focus on:

• Investment in STEAM industries to build capacity and increase our revenue;

• Leverage technology to improve governance and commerce

• Reform our justice system to endure access to justice for every Barbadian

• Empower communities so they can have a real voice in decisions that affect them

• Revitalise the City of Bridgetown as our financial and cultural centre 

• Improve social services

This is the first that the UPP will be contesting an election although some of our members have participated before. The official campaign website is: UPPBarbados.org We encourage people to go to the website and see our philosophy, manifestos and candidates.”  (DN)

UPP SHARES ITS VISION FOR ST MICHAEL SOUTH – United Progressive Party candidate for St Michael South Sandra Corbin wants to place information technology and production centres in the constituency and is confident things can start soon after elections. She shared this vision with the media today after emerging from the Graydon Sealy Secondary School nomination centre where she was nominated as a candidate after an early hiccup when the first-time politician was unable to locate the legally required proposer and seconder to make her candidacy valid. “I am sure that the UPP will make a brilliant impact and will surprise everyone,” she nonetheless asserted. Corbin said that she will be aided in making a reality of her vision through, “contacts that I have overseas”. Corbin plans, “to create an area in St Michael South which is going to be a technological hub”. “I have identified the premises which we will use. The project is called Silicon Beach, and it is a technological centre whereby youth can develop apps . . . and they will be able to even put their cultural industries products online for sale”. Additionally, the UPP candidate said, “I’ve also identified a building . . . that we will be able to put plant and equipment there for people that have Barbadian products to be able to produce their products in one spot. It also will help them with marketing and so on”.  (BT)

THREE CHALLENGE TOPPIN FOR ST MICHAEL NORTH – Nomination day at the Eden Lodge Primary School in the St Michael North constituency was dotted with excitement and jubilation today as candidates contesting the May 24 general election filed their nomination papers. While United Progressive Party (UPP) candidate Maria Phillips and People’s Democratic Congress (PDC) candidate Mark Adamson had just the required number of nominees and witnesses to complete the approximately half-an-hour process, it was the Democratic Labour Party (DLP) and Barbados Labour Party (BLP) candidates, who came with their crowds of supporters. Scores of people dressed in red turned up at the location minutes ahead of the BLP incumbent Ronald Toppin’s 11:15 arrival. Toppin, who is contesting his seventh general election, was greeted with loud cheers, hugs and kisses from party faithful. Following his nomination, the incumbent told reporters he had mixed emotions going into the election, including a “tinge” of nervousness and excitement. However, he said he was pleased with the response from supporters today, adding that his plan for the constituency was to “continue to do what I am doing, just with a bit more intensity”. A cautiously confident Toppin said he would ensure no stone was left unturned as he continued to garner support from his constituents. He pointed out that despite being the sitting MP, his requests for help in his constituency had gone “unnoticed” over the years by the DLP administration. “Your request just falls on deaf ears and I guess that is the price you pay for having a red constituency in a DLP Government,” he said. First time contender Kim Tudor, who had dozens of supporters accompanying her to file her nomination papers just after 1:30 p.m., told Barbados TODAY she was feeling excited.  (BT)

HINDS READY TO WORK IN COMMUNITY – All known candidates for the St Thomas constituency have now completed the nominated process at Lester Vaughan Secondary School. Democratic Labour Party candidate Dr Rolerick Hinds finished the process around 12:45 p.m. He arrived with a small group of supporters including St James South candidate Donville Inniss and St James North candidate Harry Husbands.  Hinds’ candidacy was proposed by Earlyne Walrond and seconded by Avion Jordan. Agent Mitchell Holder and campaign manager Winston Gibbs acted as witnesses. Hinds said street lights, play areas, a dedicated “food area” and a revamped Rock Hall Freedom Village were among his plans. Earlier in the day, St Thomas incumbent Cynthia Forde of the Barbados Labour Party and first-timer Susan Corbin of Solutions Barbados were officially nominated.  (DN)

FORMER HOUSE SPEAKER SAYS HE HAS NO THOUGHTS OF LOSING – Incumbent Member of Parliament for St Michael West Michael Carrington is confident that on May 24 he will once again get the nod from the people of that urban constituency to represent them in Parliament. Carrington was joined by a modest entourage of placard bearing, yellow and blue t-shirt clad Democratic Labour Party (DLP) supporters today, as he arrived at the St Leonard’s Boys’ school to complete his nomination exercise. “I expect it will be three straight [terms],” he later said, while suggesting that his incumbent DLP had done a lot with very few resources. “We have done very well with very little in my view. In St Michael West we have a record obviously and we have made some headway with roads. We have made headway with housing and we are also uplifting communities,” he added. When asked by reporters if he would consider retiring on election night if he loses his seat, the outgoing Speaker of the House of Assembly said that thought had not even crossed his mind. “That has not crossed my mind but if you want me to go further, it will decide if Joe’s party continues or Mia Mottley’s continues,” he said in reference to his main political opponent Bishop Joseph Atherley of the Opposition Barbados Labour Party (BLP) who appeared confident today as he entered the Richmond Gap institution with a crowd of BLP supporters, decked out in red t-shirts and armed with placards. “I was very confident in 2013 and if it is possible I am absolutely very much more confident in 2018,” Atherley told reporters, while suggesting that the BLP was well prepared and ready to take the country’s reins. “What is different is that we have a 2018 team that is very well prepared and ready to serve. The people of Barbados have given the Dems [DLP] a chance again in 2013. We have had a culture in Barbados of giving a party at least two terms and so they did not take the opportunity in 2013 to remove them and now in the last five years they have seen that these guys are never going to be ready to do the job and they are ready to make a change and certainly they are ready to make the change in St Michael North West,” he said. Meanwhile former DLP candidate Patsie Nurse, who is now contesting the May 24 election under a United Progressive Party banner, also fancies her chances. “I feel good. I feel great. It is not the first time, but I am ready. I know that I can get in there and get the votes. I am confident enough. I am getting good support from the constituency of St Michael West,” she said.  (BT)

PILGRIM NOT BOTHERED BY MCCLEAN’S CHALLENGE – Democratic Labour Party (DLP) candidate for St John George Pilgrim is dismissing a bid by fellow party member Leroy McClean for the traditionally safe DLP seat. Pilgrim, who this morning was nominated by Gloria Boxill and seconded by Robin Greenidge, with Claire Padmore and Randolph Bascombe as witnesses, is facing an unexpected challenge from McClean, over whom he was chosen as the DLP’s replacement for the outgoing Mara Thompson, who has represented the constituency since January 2011, following the death of her husband, then Prime Minister David Thompson, in 2010. A confident Pilgrim told reporters this morning he was focused on his own race and was not about to be distracted by what others were doing. “My dad once told me that what a man worries about is what worries a man. My focus in St John is not on those who are opposing me, my focus is on meeting the needs of the people of St John,” Pilgrim said. McClean announced last Friday that he would contest the DLP stronghold as an independent, although he told Barbados TODAY he would remain a member of the DLP and did not intend to relinquish his membership. Downplaying the development this morning Pilgrim, the DLP’s general secretary, said he was no stranger to opposition, arguing that it was par for the course when vying for leadership positions. “Like any other activity one can expect opposition. When I ran for game’s captain I had opposition, when I ran for my church council and when I ran for general secretary I had opposition. In the 100-metre race there are eight lanes and because this is a race to see who would be the Member of Parliament for St John there must be contestants and I am part of that race,” he stressed. Also in the race for St John are Charles Griffith of the Barbados Labour Party (BLP), the United Progressive Party’s  Hudson Griffith, who ran on a BLP ticket in 2010 and 2013, and Cherone Martindale of Solutions Barbados, all of whom were nominated today.    The DLP has held the St John seat since 1958 when Errol Barrow – who would later become the island’s first Prime Minister – won 50 per cent of the votes in a by election on May 21, 1958 over Owen Allder of the BLP and independent candidate John Chenery. The DLP’s Mara Thompson did even better when she contested the 2011 by election, sweeping through with 89 per cent on the votes, before holding on to the seat with a comfortable 79 per cent in 2013. However, she recently announced she was bowing out of active politics with Pilgrim subsequently hand picked by the DLP hierarchy as her replacement. (BT)

SOLUTIONS BARBADOS PLEDGES TO ERASE DEFICIT – Solutions Barbados’ St Michael South candidate Paul Gibson said today that his party will take the island out of a budgetary deficit within the first year of his party taking government. Gibson gave this assurance to the media moments after registering his nomination at the Graydon Sealy Secondary School that will enable him to lead the party’s charge for the parliamentary constituency seat. “We would have in the first year of leading this country a surplus,” he said, adding, “then we will work on lowering that heavy debt that was given to us by both the Barbados Labour Party (BLP) and the Democratic Labour Party (DLP)”. Gibson contended that debt arose because Barbadians ten years ago ‘dislodged’ the BLP from office because of mismanagement ‘leaving $9.5 billion in expenses’. But he said things did not get better because “at that time the Democratic Labour Party was very popular and they racked up $9 billion in debt”. He said, “this is of great concern to Solutions Barbados,” but conceded that with a likely Barbados Labour Party victory at the poll, the country could find itself back in debt. “Unfortunately, they don’t know how to manage the economy. They don’t know how to lower that debt. What the Barbados Labour party is good at is borrowing money and spending it. “It takes no special intelligence to spend borrowed money, but they don’t have the solutions to fix Barbados.” Gibson said that those solutions are to be found on his party’s website. (BT)

ALLEYNE-WORRELL HOPING TO EFFECT CHANGE FOR THE BETTER – Class was in session as usual at West Terrace Primary School in the St. James South constituency, seemingly almost in oblivion of the major national event that took place today, nomination day, for the May 24 general election. But while Jacqueline Alleyne-Worrell of Solutions Barbados, the first candidate to hand in her paper was completing the process, break was called, and scores of curious children converged on the classroom where the activities were taking place. They were eager to find out why police community officer constable 1987 Roger Williams was standing outside the school and why reporters and cameras were at the ready. The candidate arrived at 9:53 a.m. accompanied by four supporters including her proposer Linda Webster and seconder Dr. Ronald Webster who said she did not have an agent. And exactly at 10:00 a.m. as returning officer Charles Phillips read the notice officially declaring the polling station open, Alleyne-Worrell and her team proceeded to make official her bid to rest the seat from incumbent Donville Inniss of the Democratic Labour Party (DLP). Emerging from the room 25 minutes later Alleyne-Worrell told reporters that she was “excited” about her prospects. She highlighted as her reason for entering the race being “deeply concerned about what has transpired over the years in the country and was here to effect change for the better.” Alleyne-Worrell noted that constituents have made “huge investments in St James South and they want to be sure they did not lose them due to the faults in the way the economy was being run.” Alleyne-Worrell said that even if she wins the seat but Solutions Barbados does not secure the government she will still be a voice for the people of constituency St. James South. (DN)

I’M IN EXCELLENT HEALTH, SAYS LOWE – Far from “ailing and dying”, the Democratic Labour Party (DLP) representative for Christ Church East Dr Denis Lowe is insisting he is in “excellent” health. Lowe made the declaration today at the St Christopher Primary School, just moments after completing the nomination process for the May 24 general election. While he walked with a visible limp, Lowe, who was flanked by the DLP’s campaign manager Robert Bobby Morris, told the media he was willing to serve his constituents for as long as his services were required. “I had a very serious fall that resulted in serious damage to my knee. I had to go through two surgeries on my left knee and it is unrealistic to believe you can just jump back up and run around as you would wish to. “I am on the mend and other than my knee my health is very good . . . so the report is that my health is excellent and the prognosis for my knee is very, very good. As a matter of fact, I am way ahead of the process because the external wound is completely healed and it is just some soreness in the joint I am working through,” he revealed. However, his Barbados Labour Party (BLP) rival Wilfred Abrahams, who lost to Lowe by 768 votes in 2013, was confident of a different outcome this time round.    Accompanied by his parents and his wife, Natalie, a self-assured Abrahams said he was eager to “get down to business”. “I feel wonderful. It’s good to get the formal part out of the way. It’s been a long campaign and this is the last official thing we have to do. Now it’s down to the work to secure the victory,” the BLP hopeful, who was mobbed by party supporters, said shortly after leaving the school. “I know what it felt like in 2013, but this is an entirely different situation. I just want to get in, get the whole election pass and get down to doing the work of the people as the parliamentary representative for Christ Church East.” Abrahams vowed to run a clean campaign, stating he did not intend to “kick a sick man while he was down”. Meantime, the United Progressive Party’s candidate Victor Knight said his chances were as good as any. The first-time candidate said: “No votes have been counted and the returning officer hasn’t declared anyone the incumbent as yet. Until that day, then we will see.” The fourth candidate vying for the seat is Anne Marie Weatherhead of Solutions Barbados who said she was looking forward to the election, describing it as one the “biggest and most exciting elections that we have ever seen”. She said she hoped voters would not only look at candidates, but also at policies. (BT)

FIRST WIFI GAZEBO IN SILVER SANDS – After years of waiting, Silver Sands, Christ Church finally has a gazebo of its own. National Conservation Commission (NCC) general manager Keith Neblett and Minister of the Environment Dr Denis Lowe recently unveiled the island’s first WiFi-equipped gazebo at the popular South Coast beach. “This is the first and right now we are working to ensure that 16 others will have free WiFi,” Neblett told those gathered at the official opening ceremony. “What we want to do is to try to get the Barbadian public to come to these parts . . . and they can have full use,” he added. Neblett said the WiFi step was done with the help of Digicel. Lowe said the gazebo would also be outfitted in short dispatch with solar panels, which would power most of the electricity needs of the park. He added the Ministry of Energy agreed to install solar lights along the driveway of the park.   (DN)

PUBLIC SERVICE DECLINE A CONCERN – Former Central Bank governor Dr DeLisle Worrell says the quality of Barbados’ Public Service has “declined alarmingly” and the problem needs to be fixed. In his May economic letter, the veteran economist said the island first needed to “institute a functioning system of reporting by every Government agency, department, ministry or state corporation”. He said regular reporting would not only “have an immediate effect on transparency and public appreciation of Government’s budgetary limitations”, but could also “kickstart a more comprehensive programme of public sector renewal”. “The reporting should be done at two levels: annually, published reports to inform the Parliament and the people of Barbados on their stewardship; and monthly, to the Treasury, for every entity that receives financial support from the Government budget,” Worrell recommended. “The annual reports of all entities should be released to the public within three months of the end of their financial year, without fail.” He added: “Timely publication of the annual report should be a key performance indicator for permanent secretaries, heads of departments and agencies, and CEOs of state-funded corporations. This straightforward measure would have an immediate effect on transparency and public appreciation of Government’s budgetary limitations.” He also advised the authorities to implement an internal layer of reporting to the Accountant General, who headed the Treasury. “Every quarter the Accountant General authorises expenditure for that quarter only, for all spending approved by Parliament. The quarterly allocations are made with a view to ensuring that spending is kept within the budgetary limit,” Worrell noted.  (DN)

RESLIFE 11-PLUS GIFTS FOR ST LAWRENCE PRIMARY – Class Four Students of the St Lawrence Primary School are better prepared to take on the Barbados Secondary Schools Entrance Examination (BSSEE) thanks to Resolution Life Assurance Company Ltd (ResLife).

The Worthing, Christ Church-based insurance company today presented 25 Class Four students of the nearby primary school with 11-Plus Exam Kits containing among other things, essentials for the big day tomorrow. Thousands of primary school students across the island will write the BSEE, the results of which will determine which public secondary school they will attend. In her comments to students chief executive officer of ResLife  Cheryl Senhouse reminded the students that while importance is to be given to the Common Entrance Exam and the results they achieved in this test, it was a stepping stone with many more achievements in life to come. Senhouse urged the 18 girls and seven boys not to be daunted by fear of the BSSEE. “We at Resolution Life Assurance want you students of St Lawrence Primary to walk with confidence tomorrow - with conviction, with belief, with faith, with certainty, with trust and with assurance that you will do your very best,” she stressed. Meanwhile, Principal of St Lawrence Primary Andrea Cheltenham thanked ResLife for the gesture, noting that the gifts to the children were timely and welcomed.  Class Four teachers Suzanne Browne and Danisha Herbert-Dyall said the students were prepared for the examination and they expected them to perform well.  (DN)

For daily or breaking news reports follow us on Instagram, Tumblr, Twitter & Facebook. That’s all for today folks. There are 237 days left in the year. Shalom! #thechasefilesdailynewscap #thechasefiles  #dailynewscapsbythechasefiles