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dweemeister · 2 years ago

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All Quiet on the Western Front (2022, Germany)

As a film buff, I retain a preference to reading a book first before seeing its adaptation. But with how many movies I see in a year – sometimes not realizing that a movie is a literary adaptation before starting it – and given how many original source materials are out-of-print or little-read (let alone how slow a reader I am), this is often too difficult a proposition. I make an attempt, however possible, to learn about the themes of an adapted book I was not able to read before heading into a film write-up. Strict fidelity to the text is not a requirement; yet a film adaptation should adhere to the spirit of the text. Any significant changes to that requires the change be done with artistic intelligence and sensitivity. Especially when the adapted book in question is significant in a peoples’ or a nation’s consciousness. Published in 1929, All Quiet on the Western Front by Erich Maria Remarque is a landmark novel in anti-war literature and remains – for its depiction of World War I on the bodies and minds of the young men sent to fight it – an important part of modern Germany’s sociopolitical identity.

Lewis Milestone’s 1930 film adaptation at Universal with Lew Ayres was the first cinematic masterpiece following the introduction of synchronized sound and the era of the silent film. Now steps in Edward Berger’s German-language adaptation for Netflix, starring Felix Kammerer, in hopes of reminding viewers that Im Westen nichts Neues (roughly “Nothing New in the West”) is, despite its universal appeal, fundamentally a German story. Berger’s All Quiet is a stupendous technical masterpiece – harrowing visual and sound effects, overflowing with blood and mud. It is among the most technically accomplished war movies this side of Saving Private Ryan (1998). Along the way, Berger’s All Quiet tries for too much, and betrays the characterizations and the intent of Remarque’s novel. With some of its violent scenes shot too aesthetically pleasing alongside an offensive and disrespectful electronic score, 2022’s All Quiet casts the French civilians and soldiers as “the enemy” rather than fellow victims. It veers perilously close to fetishizing the violence within.

Before a brief synopsis, it seems appropriate to reproduce Remarque’s epigraph to All Quiet on the Western Front here:

This book is to be neither an accusation nor a confession, and least of all an adventure, for death is not an adventure to those who stand face to face with it. It will try simply to tell of a generation of men who, even though they may have escaped shells, were destroyed by the war.

It is 1917, and the Great War has been plodding along for three years. Along with his friends Ludwig Behm (Adrian Grünewald), Albert Kropp (Aaron Hilmer), and Franz Müller (Koritz Klaus), student Paul Bäumer (Kammerer) enlists in the Imperial German Army. They all receive uniforms that, unbeknownst to them, belonged to German soldiers killed in action. Skipping almost entirely over basic training, Paul and his friends deploy to the Western Front, on the French side of the Belgium/France border. There, they befriend Stanislaus “Kat” Katczinsky (Albrecht Schuch) and Tjaden Stackfleet (Edin Hasanovic), who are several years older and have been fighting since close to the war’s beginning. These young men muddle on in drenched trenches, freezing weather, and their comrades’ horrific deaths. Parallel to the plight of Paul and his fellow soldiers is German politician Matthias Erzberger (Daniel Brühl), who secretly travels by train to the Forest of Compiègne to negotiate with French General Ferdinand Foch (Thibault de Montalembert) an armistice.

Also featuring in this film are Devid Striesow as the so-villainous-he-must-be-a-moustache-twirler General Friedrichs, as well as Andreas Döhler and Sebastian Hülk as two German officers.

This All Quiet on the Western Front occasionally frames its violent scenes as too painterly, the combat infrequently choreographed too closely to action movies (e.g., 2017’s Dunkirk is sometimes more of a suspense movie than it is a war movie and Sam Mendes’ 1917 from 2019 is an aesthetic challenge and action movie first, war film second). The opening moments are a dolly shot that linger over a patchwork of corpses strewn about No Man’s Land, with the dull rattle of machine gun fire occasionally disturbing the soil. There is an almost gawking approach to how cinematographer James Friend hovers over the bodies. One character’s death is shrouded in a blinding angelic light – applying too picturesque a technique for a non-fantastical moment. Some exceptions to this voyeuristic, perhaps fetishistic approach to framing warfare appears, including the frightening emergence of French tanks through a cloud of gas. Berger succeeds in displaying war for all its brutality. The film’s sheen, however, comes off as too aggressive and its camerawork reflecting a Netflix-esque polish.

The most glaring misstep from the screenplay by Berger, Ian Stokell, and Lesley Paterson is to include any perspectives not involving Paul and his most immediate comrades. Depicting the insights of Erzberger, Foch, and the fictional General Friedrichs removes one of the central pillars of why All Quiet on the Western Front was such a revolutionary piece of literature. Remarque’s novel, at a time when “anti-war” narrative art was in its infancy, was one of the first war narratives that concentrated entirely on common soldiers – not the officers that commanded them or the politicians that guided them.

Before focusing on Paul and his friends, let us get the officers and politicians out of the way first. The insertion of the armistice negotiations and Gen. Friedrichs’ beliefs over politicians selling the Germany army out – more on this fiction shortly – stunts Paul and his friends’ respective character growths. And despite a decent performance from Brühl, these scenes (except for the final time the elite appear) play out repetitively: Erzberger pleads to Foch for a ceasefire, Foch demands a conditional surrender that will heavily punish Germany, and Erzberger mulls over the terms of surrender. This is all distracting from the common soldiers’ experiences, and provides as much cinematic or educational value as an amateur historical reenactment.

Berger’s stated justification for including these scenes – and letting them drag on too long in the film’s second half – is reasonable. Over the last decade, the actions of far right political groups in Germany have become more visible. These contemporary groups espouse the myths that some in 1920s and ‘30s Germany used to justify the nation’s actions leading up to World War II – all which monolithized and exploited German WWI trauma to serve repugnant purposes. The emotional imbalance of the Erzberger*/Foch scenes paints France and the Allies as an unforgiving “other”, as well as the war’s eventual “victors” (the Allies did prevail in WWI, but Remarque sees no winners in warfare). For a work never meant to be an accusation and written in between the World Wars, the proto-fascist Gen. Friedrichs spits out an early form of the stab-in-the-back conspiracy theory‡. His behavior and appearance, eerily reminiscent of Allied propaganda of Germans as “the Hun”, casts him as the film’s obvious villain. These decisions all provide Berger’s All Quiet with a juxtaposition of morality more appropriate in a WWII movie than one for the Great War.

Beyond the implications of historical morality, Berger, Stokell, and Paterson’s screenplay undermines, at almost every juncture, Remarque’s critiques of the nationalism that began World War I. The decision to have Paul and his friends join the military in 1917 rather than 1914 (as it is in the book) makes it more difficult to have Paul and his friends to have conversations about the nature and the origins of this war. Instead, the screenplay keeps such dialogue to a minimum. As a result, Berger relies on cinematographer James Friend (in his first motion picture of note) to show us close-ups of Paul’s face to reveal his thoughts. In his film debut, Felix Kammerer is doing all he can with his facial and physical acting, but after a certain point this take on Paul results in him being an empty vessel.

Indeed, in Remarque’s book, Paul Bäumer is very much a reactive rather than proactive character. But that does not mean he is without deep introspection, as he is in this 2022 adaptation. Rather than someone who slowly realizes the nationalistic folly of WWI (“We loved our country as much as they; we went courageously into every action; but also we distinguished the false from true, we had suddenly learned to see.”), muses on how wars begin, and is anything but resigned to war’s inevitability, Kammerer’s Paul emotes and says nothing about these aspects of the war. Any critique from nationalism comes not from Paul in this adaptation, but from Gen. Friedrichs’ cartoonishly villainous behavior and Paul’s teachers in the film’s opening minutes. Paul and his friends are no battlefield geniuses, nor are they intellectuals. But the monotony of war – in the absence and presence of violence – grants them knowledge no classroom can give, wisdom that no elder can impart.

Berger, Stokell, and Paterson have the gall to delete entirely arguably the most critical passage in the book: Paul’s return home after being granted time for rest and recreation. After a lengthy spell fighting in the trenches, Paul’s leave completes his development as a naïve and adventure-seeking student to a detached, disillusioned man. Nationalism manipulates his father and others – mostly older men – into believing the justness of the conflict, that serving one’s country in warfare is glorious.

By contrast, Lewis Milestone’s 1930 adaptation takes Paul’s reunion with his teacher a step further than the book. In that version, instead of a chance encounter at a parade ground, Paul visits his teacher during class, with his newest students a rapt audience. The scene that follows is not subtle. But in the context of Milestone’s adaptation, the film earns it. As Paul, Lew Ayres refuses to gift his former teacher the heroic narrative he requests – paraphrasing Horace, decrying nationalism, and simply stating: “We try not to be killed; sometimes we are. That’s all.” One figures these are the words, delivered in sullen fury, by WWI’s veterans. Berger’s adaptation again leans too heavily on Kammerer to relate any semblance of the above ideas. There is no analogue scene to juxtapose the behavioral and psychological differences between battlefront and homefront, no character or even a faraway figure for Paul to verbally challenge. Kammerer’s Paul does undergo a behavioral and cognitive shift by the conclusion of 2022’s All Quiet. Yet, his transformation is not nearly as dramatic as the narrative needs it to be. These failures all stem from a screenplay that might as well have been titled something else. It is damningly incurious about Paul and his friends.

Major movie studio film scores are moving in a particular direction: amelodic, electronic, experimental, metallic, and minimalistic. It seems, by how awards voting bodies and audiences are reacting to such music, what I am about to write paints me more of an outlier than ever.

Composer Volker Bertelmann (also known as his stage name Hauschka; 2016’s Lion) concocts an anachronistic score that includes all these elements. Devoid entirely of recognizable melody (droning strings), Bertelmann’s score has one repetitive three-note idea – I refuse to call this a motif, as it lacks any sense of development from its first to final appearances – that damages and dominates the movie. Inserted in strangely timed moments and meant to intensify dread, Bertelmann’s idea begins from the root note (B♭), up a minor third (D♭), then descends a minor sixth (F). Bertelmann plays these three notes fortissimo, with synthesizer mimicking blaring brass – trust me, you know the sound and you may know its worst practitioners. When recurring underneath the strings, the idea modulates. Memorable as it may be, this metallic sound is more appropriate for hyping young men before a battle or at a rave rather than suggesting dread. Even worse: this is disruptive music. There is a healthy balance to when music should or should not accompany the imagery onscreen. One should notice music in a movie, and it should empower – but not completely overshadow – the emotions and ideas in respect to a certain scene. Bertelmann’s interruptions appear mostly in calms before the proverbial storms. These are the moments the characters and the audience should collect themselves before the killing restarts. Thus, his three-note idea abuses and instantly overstays its welcome.

Is there a place for such colorless, obnoxious, and offensively manipulative music in film? Certainly. Just not in anything entitled All Quiet on the Western Front.

On its surface, a German-language film adaptation of All Quiet on the Western Front would restore a cultural and linguistic authenticity to Remarque’s text, one of the most important literary works in German history. To some extent, Berger succeeds. His All Quiet is a technical wonder, but its human interest is nil. Remarque’s prose is not the most accomplished, but his subjective descriptions of trench warfare and his characters’ philosophizing in moments of boredom and quiet were unlike anything almost any Western reader ever encountered. We, the readers, grow alongside Paul and his friends. In 1930, the viewers saw a small group of friends – Milestone’s adaptation is unique in that Paul does not truly emerge as the main character until halfway through the film – see their youth and optimism pummeled away with each shelling and charge. A humanity remains, but tenuously. Berger’s adaptation treads an easier path by inserting a reenactment of the armistice negotiations and expediting Paul’s characterization by immediately dismantling his inwardness and sense of hope.

As a document of a generation’s experiences, a critique of that era’s nationalism that led to the conflict, and a common soldier’s processing of the war’s origin and purpose, this is a poor adaptation of Remarque’s novel. It clears the hurdle in anti-war narratives by decrying warfare as ugly. Beyond this basic expectation, it accomplishes little else.

My rating: 6/10

* Erzberger was assassinated by the far-right terrorist organization Organisation Consul (OC) in 1921. The group was disbanded the year after, but its former members were absorbed into the Nazi Party’s Schutzstaffel (SS).

‡ This conspiracy theory was primarily associated with Jews, but the Nazis also extended it to the political elite that negotiated the surrender. And as if it weren’t obvious enough, one of our German characters is stabbed in the back in the film’s concluding minutes.

For more of my reviews tagged “My Movie Odyssey”, check out the tag of the same name on my blog.

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niqhtlord01 · 4 years ago

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Humans are weird: Merging multiple species into society

( Don’t forget to come see my on my new patreon and support me for early access to stories and personal story requests :D https://www.patreon.com/NiqhtLord )

Across the landing field the ground crews were in frantic motion. Landing pads that had been used as temporary supply dumps were cleared, refugees and civilians were moved up for transport off world, and for the first time in seven months the Galaxian base commander braided his face tentacles.

From his office overlooking the entire compound, Commander Zavar kept watch of the progress from the corner of his eye while his main focus was on the mirror in front of him. Carefully observing his reflection he intertwined the several dozen chest length tentacles that grew just beneath his jaw into elegant patterns.

He hadn’t bothered to for the last few months as the braiding of tentacles was meant to show a sign of respect. A Galaxian with unbraided tentacles was essentially stating that whomever they spoke with they held them in low regard. Zavar hadn’t braided them for some time as he felt no need to show signs of respect to anyone under his command.

It had been months since the landing base was established with the intent to use it as a jumping off point in new offensives. When Zavar had been given command he felt that he would be helping bring an end to this bloody conflict by maintaining such a crucial facility. Yet just as the offensive was about to begin their enemies decided to launch a massive counter offensive on an entirely different continent. In short order the manpower which had been set aside for the Galaxian offensive was pulled away to mount a rapid defense and halt this no enemy offensive.

One by one troop ships stopped coming to his base and requested materials became increasingly diverted to other theaters of the war until finally this once crucial launching point became nothing more than a gas station for passing supply ships.

He grimaced as he made a wrong twist while braiding remembering his degrading morale and the effect it had on those under him. The drive that had once fueled Zavar was sapped away by months of repetitive supply transfers and paperwork, and this soon turned to ever laxening of base discipline among the work crews. When Zavar’s second in command came to him with information that several of the crews had taken an abandoned storage building and had turned it into an entertainment club of sorts, all he did at the time was put on his military cap and take a walk over to it for a drink himself.

That had all changed last night when in the middle of darkness moon Zavar had received an offworld communication from central command. After weeks of careful negotiation the human government they had agreed to join the war effort on the Galaxian side. A substantial force of at least four of their divisions had already arrived in system and would be sending down a battalion of 500 soldiers to further secure and expand Zavar’s base.

Within moment of the calls end Zavar had ordered all of his crews to standby and began issuing orders with renewed fire. As Zavar finished braiding his tentacles and looked out across his base he saw all of the landing pads had been cleared, and with moments to spare.

A loud rumbling could be heard and Zavar could feel the room slowly vibrating as he looked to the clouded skies.

Breaching through the murky grey clouds that had covered the sky for weeks Zavar saw a human landing craft. It was a bulky black mass of metal with a design reminiscent of an overweight bird Zavar thought as it slowly descended towards the base. He was slightly disappointed in the lacking design aesthetics of the human craft, but he had remembered that these transports were designed for carrying large amounts of troops to safe areas rather than enemy held landings. Zavar watched it for a few moments more before leaving his office and making for the landing pads.

It was a short ride from his office to landing pad three were Zavar met his second in command already waiting with a small detachment of honor guard. He exited the vehicle just as the landing craft set down sending gusts of wind out from the engines as they slowly died down.

As Zavar took his place at the head of the honor guard the loading door of the transport popped open with a loud thud and began to lower.

He had heard stories of humans before, how they were great warriors of the highest caliber, that their reflexes were heightened to such a level in the heat of battle they could see an enemy from miles away, that they could lose limbs and heal after a period of time only to forge new ones and return for more combat; truly these beings would bring a swift end to this war.

The ramp finally touched the surface of the landing pad and Zavar could finally see inside of the transport. What he saw rather surprised him however…..

At the top of the ramp stood several ranks of human soldiers dressed in combat gear, but at the head of them was a uniformed Kliptec; their serpent body draped across the decking of the craft.

Zavar cast a side long glance at his second who looked as dumb founded as Zavar was feeling before looking back at the Kliptec. Their upper body was humanoid in shape, yet they bore more hallmarks of a reptile. Scaled skin, slit like eyes, sharpened fingers, and in place of feet was a roughly six foot long tail.

As the Kliptec slithered down the ramp towards Zavar and the front ranks of humans followed Zavar was greeted by further confusion. Mixed in with the humans soldiers Zavar noted several other species not native to the human worlds.

A Draxic casually stomped forward with the ranks appearing to carry some form of heavy weapon casually over their shoulder, a Flinchestet with a communication device glided across the decking as if its limbs could not be bothered to touch the floor, a Valmorian with a red cross painted across their helmet stood alongside a Combra whose face had been ritually scared for the coming battles; but most surprising of all was the towering figure at the very back of the transport.

A hive warrior drone draped in the uniform of humanity. It held no weapon between its claws but Zavar was positive it would have no need of such a device to rip through the lot of them. Some of the honor guard made let out whimper of fear and one even went so far as to start to bring their weapon to bear.

With only a look Zavar’s second command was at the guard’s side and snatched the weapon from his hands in a single motion.

“Be. Calm.” Those two words were all he said to the guard before returning to his place next to Zavar, the weapon he had taken from the guard clutched at his side.

His men looked at their commander with silent awe as they saw Zavar look unphased at the sudden turn of events. Instead of humanity’s reinforcements they appeared to have been given a cavalcade of species that had once fought against humanity. In truth Zavar was deeply concerned about this development, but the one thing keeping him from panicking was his observations of the actual human soldiers present.

Their eyes lacked a sense of fear one would normally experience when coming upon something, or someone, so unnatural to themselves. They were alert and disciplined which was all that Zavar needed to know to reassure him that things were as they should be.

The Kliptec finally slithered in front of Zavar and gave a crisp salute which Zavar returned with a bow of comradery.

“Lt. Colonel Reginal Seth of the 17th Engineer battalion.” the Kliptec said.

“Base Commander Zavar Hatsval,” Zavar replied as he motion to his second, “and my second Xixvil Nog, of the Galaxian expeditionary force.”

“I must admit,” Zavar began as the column of forces began marching past the trio, “when I heard we were getting human reinforcements I was not expecting this.”

Reginal’s sighed and rolled his eyes as if he had heard that same statement a thousand times before.

“Our military allows anyone to enlist so long as they were born within our borders.” he stated as he turned to see his soldiers march by to the storage facilities. “It is an efficient system to use every natural resource available to your advantage, so why limit to a single species military?”

“We do not ask others to fight in our stead.” Xixvil spoke as he watched several humans walk by.

“And how has that turned out for you here?” Reginal said as his serpent mouth twisted to a half grin. “Because from where I am it looks like we’re here to fight in your stead.”

Xixvil’s mouth dropped open in shock before morphing into one of anger while Reginal continued smirking. Zavar thought he was about to see his second lash out when the hive drone he had seen before marched over to them.

It stood easily twice as high as a Galaxian and three times as high as the human soldiers around it. Its collection of eyes were constantly darting around randomly as if trying to observe everything at once while it hovered over the trio. It slowly opened its mouth to reveal rows of sharpened teeth as it surprised Zavar once again.

“Dro…..go…..where?”

In all of his life in the Galaxian military he had never heard of a hive drone capable of speech. In the past the Galaxian’s had fought several wars with the Hive and at every encounter the drone warrior caste was found to be near mindless killing machines without a queen’s control. To hear one speak in a language he could understand, let alone in broken sentences was enough to end the careers of several Galaxian biologists.

“Report to Sgt Morris, Dro.” Reginal said as if the tower beast of flesh and chitin before him was just another average soldier.

The drone’s eyes stopped twitching for a moment as if concentrating before continuing “Morris…..yes…find…Morris….going….now…sir.” It tilted a blade like appendage which took a moment for Zavar to realize it was saluting Reginal which the Kliptec swiftly returned.

“Carry on Dro.”

With that the drone shambled off after the majority of humans who had left the landing zone leaving only a few behind to begin unloading the battalion’s equipment. Reginal turned to them and handed them a data pad. “Once our gear is unloaded we will begin expanding the landing fields by three additional pads. After that we’ll start reinforcing the outer perimeter walls and compound infrastructure.”

Zavar took the data pad and began going over the details while Xixvil continued to watch Dro walk away.

“I do not mean to be rude, but why did you call that drone “Dro”?” Xixvil asked once the drone was far enough away.

Reginal shrugged, an oddly human gesture for such an alien being, before answering “That’s his name; Dro Harris.”

“It was my understanding that hive drones lacked the capacity to develop individuality.” Xixvil continued as he watched the drone in the distance stop in front of a humanoid looking figure before following them into a storage bay.

“Normally they aren’t able to, but humans have this strange ability to impart personalities into beings should they stay around them long enough.”

Both Zavar and Xixvil looked at Reginal dumbfounded.

“Are you serious?” they asked, to which Reginal simply nodded.

“One of his parents fought in the human hive wars and took an egg back as a trophy. Turns out it hatched and they decided to raise him as their son.”

“I can’t imagine humans reacted well to a hive drone in their midst.”

To their surprised Reginal shook his head. “From what he’s told me he used to be a successful actor before he enlisted; he was popular in fast food commercials.”

“Now I know you are making things up.” Zavar cut in, unable to believe what he was hearing.

“Humans do weird things like this all the time,” Reginal said, “they act distant at first but once they warm up to you the majority of them will welcome you with open arms and treat you like kin.”

He stretched out his arms so Zavar and Xixvil could get a good look at him.

“People assume humans are barbaric isolationist xenophiles, and while it is true there are some of them out there they do not make up the entirety of humanity.”

“There are humans that will sit down with complete strangers and within an hour be closer than brothers with them, humans that will drop everything to come help you even when there is no benefit to themselves, humans that will check up on you just to see if you are alright.”

“It’s weird but at times it’s almost as if humanity has been sick of just knowing only humans and will throw themselves at anything different just so they can experience something new, something exotic and exciting.”

Reginal looked at the two Galaxians as they took in what he had to say and shook his head. He gave a quick salute and then slithered after his men as the heavy equipment began rolling off the transport leaving the Galaxians in the dust.

#HUMANS ARE WEIRD #humans are insane #humans are space orcs #humans are space oddities #scifi #story

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cryhardanddanceharder · 3 years ago

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TOG immortals x Of Monster and Men songs

Album 1: My head is an animal

1. Dirty Paws: I feel this song gives so many Andy's vibes. Fetus Andy, before being immortal. There's something mystical and old in this song, just like Andy. She became the best fighter of her tribe, she quyckly overcome her older sisters and her mom started to see her as a threat. "The dragonfly it ran away, but it came back with a story to say". Andy ran away after being killed by her own people, but she came back to regain her place and show everyone she is still alive. "She ran down the forest". Mood! Very aesthetic of Andy. "The bees had declared a war". Of course, her mother wouldn't give her tribe to her without a fight. "But she and her furry friends took down the queen bee and her men, and that's how the story goes, the story of the beast with those four dirty paws". Andy won, but she probably felt like a beast for going against her own mother and her people. There's heartbreak in the betrayal, on having her first death done by her mother's orders.

2. King and Lionheart: this is a Joe and Nicky song. "Taking over this town, they should worry. But these problems aside I think I taught you well, that we won't run" Okay, this is them in the cruzades era. Listen, that's them just after they finally fall in love. "We're here to stay" They were in different sides of a war, but once they realised they are immortal and once they fall in love they decide to stay there, still fighting for their people. "We're still the same" Yes, they are immortal and in love, but they are still their own person. Joe is muslim and Nicky is catholic. "Howling ghosts they reappear, in mountains that are stacked with fear, but you're a king and I'm a lionheart" the ghosts are their religions and their stories with them, it's a topic that is always going to reappear between them because is part of who they are. But still, they love each other. "And as the world comes to an end I'll be here to hold your hand" just them and their pure love prevailing.

3. Numb bears: this is a Joe song. I feel this song is about when he left his home to go to the crusades. "Can't remember when it was dark or the sun coming up. Far across the ocean alone, while numb bears at home". The joerney is long and he can't keep the tracks of the days, and once he is in Jerusalen to keep track of the time it becomes worst. "Said I could never get there" His family probably believe that it didn't make sense to go fight a war long away from their home, believe that he wouldn't get there. They think Joe is only a merchant, just like everyone in his family. He is not a soldier. But Joe gets to Jerusalen and fight a war he believed in. "While numb bears at home said I could never get there, but I'm already there. Already there" this could be also a metaphor about the muslims. Catholics thought they would never get to Jerusalen and fight the war. But they did. And in some way they were already there, before the war, because it was their land first.

4. Sloom: this is a Nile song. I feel it could be about her relationship with her father. "The books that I keep by my bags are full of your stories" She keeps her father's books/diaries, those who he wrote while he was in the navy. She takes them with her when she decides to enlist herself. "A little dream of mine, a little nightmare of yours", She knows that her dream about following his steps would be a nightmare to him. He wouldn't want her to be a soldier, he would want her to choose any other profession where she could be safe, but not the one he did. "To be asked to take this plunge, to forgive and forget, and be the better man", This is about forgiving his father from for dying. She feels the responsability to be better than him. Her mind tells her: forgive him, but don't die, don't abandon your mom and brother like he did. "And I'll meet your eyes for the very first time, for the very last" Still Nile thinks she probably is going to die like him, in action. And when that happens, she will see him again. "So love me mother, and love me father, and love my brother as well" Nile loves her family so much, and just want to be loved in return by them, despite their choices and mistakes.

5. Little talks: this is a Booker song. This is about him and her wife. How the truth about his immortality changed their relationship. "And some days I can't even dress myself" "It's killing me to see you this way". How Booker saw her grow old, but he didin't, he stayed the same. "There's an old voice in my head that's holding me back" She stopped talking to him about the things that matters, because she started to see him like a different person. Part of herself resented him for his immortality. "Well, tell her that I miss our little talks", Booker missed her. They were still together, but they were not. They couldn't talk anymore like they used to. Something in their trust broke, because for her wife his immortality changed him. "Soon it will all be over, and buried with our past" She will die, and he will not :( "We used to play outside when we were young and full of life and full of love" They were happily in love once, before he was immortal, before he went to war. "You're gone, gone, gone away, I watched you disappear. All that's left is a ghost of you" Booker was with her until she died :( "I'll see you when I fall asleep", that's the only way that he gets to keep her, in his memories and his dreams.

6. From Finner: this could be Andy/Lykon/Quỳnh song, but also a Andy/Quỳnh/Joe/Nicky song. There is something chill about this song. I feel like is them, just relaxing and being themselves. "And we are far from home, but we're so happy. Far from home, all alone, but we're so happy" They are all far from their homes, they had leave them behind. They are all alone, because there is no one else like them. But somewhere along the way, their concept of home changed. They are happy to be far from what is it supposed to be their home. The whole world is their home now, as long they have each other. They are the safe place to always come back to. Home is not where they came from, is where they are. Family is not only their blood ancestors, they are their own family because they love each other. "Keep your heads held high".

7. Six weeks: this is a Quỳnh song. Is about how she handled immortality at the beginning. "We fall to the ground" and "We crawl on the ground" are perfect quotes to express how she was feeling. She felt like everything she did was a effort and no matter how hard she tried she felt down again. "Alone, I fight these animals. Alone, until I get home" Quỳnh feels alone and she feels like she has to fight against all the pain immortality brings on her. The animals are her dark thoughst, her anxiety, her grief, her mental health. And Quỳnh wans to go home, but her home as she has known it doesn't exist anymore, nor the poeple she had loved. "A wolf, wolf and I, We share the same cold meal. I float on, float on down. We ride, we ride, we ride, we ride it all out" The wolf meaning her worst moment, when she finally gives up and put herself in the middle of a dessert. She rather be there, in the middle of nowhere, alone, dying constantly... that having to keep dealing with the pain of living an immortal life sorrounded by mortal people. "Coming back, I'm coming back. She follows me into the woods, takes me home" Andy follows her into the woods dessert, founds her and takes her back to the world. Now Quỳnh knows she is not alone, there are more immortal people after all.

8. Love Love Love: this is an andromaquynh sad song. Is about Andy and her guilt. "Well, maybe I'm a crook for stealing your heart away. And maybe I'm a crook for not caring for it" This is Andy's pain when she thinks about Quỳnh in the bottom of the ocean, waiting to be recued by her. She feels guilty for had given Quỳnh the hope that she could be capable to save her from anything. "'Cause you love, love, love, when you know I can't love you" Andy feels like Quỳnh stills love her, but she can't, she can't love her the way she wants because Quỳnh is not there, she can't because she is the one who left her in her prision and stopped looking for her, because Quỳnh deserves to be loved by someone who wouldn't give up. Andy wishes she couldn't love her cause it hurts too much. "So I think it's best we both forget before we dwell on it, the way you held me so tight, all through the night" Andy wishes she could forget Quỳnh and Quỳnh could forget her, because maybe, if they both forget about how much they love each other, being apart wouldn't hurt so much. Andy hopes the few minutes that Quỳnh gets to have alive under the ocean she doesn't remember her, because if she does and everytime she wakes comes alive realises that Andy still didn't save her, that would be too heartbreaking.

9. Your Bones: this is a Lykon song. Is about how Andy and Quỳnh said goodbye to him. "In the spring we made a boat, out of feathers, out of bones" They made a boat and put Lykon's body on it. "We set fire to our homes". They set the boat on fire. Home, they are each others home. And Lykon was like a home to them. I feel that ritual could be something old or folk. Maybe Lykon's people used to that as a way to grief the people who died in battles. "Hold on to what we are, hold on to your heart" This is the first time that Andy and Quỳnh lost someone as them, an immortal. They weren't supposed to die. So they hurt and they rage. But at the end of the they, they have to hold on to each other to move on and keep living. "Said goodbye to you my friend, as the fire spread. All that's left are your bones, that will soon sink like stones" The only way to move on is to say goodbye to him. This is so sad :( But they hold on, they keep him in their hearts.

10. Lake House: this a song about Andy and her boys. Is about their safehouses they have around the world and what it means for them when they are together in one of them, reunited for a job, but still feeling like a family. "I miss the comfort of this house" They miss the safehouses and their time together when they are apart. They miss each other, because when they are together they are happy. "Can you chase the fire away?" This is part of how their relationship is, they help each other to chase the "fire" away. Fire meaning the things that hurts and haunts them, the things that holds them back and don't let them live in peace. Fire meaning the disasters of the world. No matter how much fire there is and how bad it gets, they keep fighting against it, they keep fighting to make things better. "In the fall, we sleep all day" The fall meaning the missions and sleep the breakes they take from them. They need to take care of themselves too, so sometimes they stop doing missions and take time to heal. Like at de beggining of the movie, they were on a break. But fall ends at some point, and they have to go back to do things. They give each other time to heal, but then they are back doing what they do. They have to remind each other that doing things is part of being okay too.

11. Yellow Light: this is an andromaquynh song. "I'm looking for a place to start and everything feels so different now" This is when Quỳnh is finally out of the ocean. When she goes back to the world, everything is different. 500 years is a long time and everything is new to her. "Just grab a hold of my hand, I will lead you through this wonderland" This is what Andy offers when they are reunited. She still loves Quỳnh, so she will hold on to her and never let her go again. Andy will guide her in her descovery of this new world if she lets her. "But sharks are swimmin' in the sea, just follow my yellow light and ignore all those big warning signs" They are in love, but there still obstacles in the way. There's pain and trauma to deal with. There's Andy's mortality and Quỳnh's ptsd. "The earth is shaking and I see a light, the light is blinding my eyes, as the soft walls eat us alive" I'm gonna take this is as a kind of a happy ending. Even thought there's pain, trauma, anxiety, fights and dark thoughts; there's still light, there's still hope. That's their love. They gave into their love once again. They let their soft walls love eats them. Bye darkness and hatred, hello forgiveness and bright yellow light of love that blinds them.

BT. Mountain Sound: this is a happy song about Andy, Lykon and Quỳnh adventures together. "I heard them calling in the distance, so I packed my things and ran far away from all the trouble I had caused with my two hands" Yes, they are a chaotic trio. I imagine them causing troubles along the way and having to go away before things can get worse. Quỳnh did you just stole the wife of the Sir X of this village? Andy did you just killed that man because you didn't like the way he tame the horses? Lykon did you steal that honey from the market? "Hold your horses now, we sleep until the sun goes down. Through the woods we ran, deep into the mountain sound" Horses!! Andy loves horses aksjdalksd. That's how they travel, horses with them all the time please, Andy needs them to be happy. Lykon likes walking better and Quỳnh is secretly a little jealous of the horses because Andy gives them too much attention. "And as I looked around, I began to notice that we were nothing like the rest" Of course they are not like the rest, they are immortal! They found each other and they are their own little family, traveling around the world together.

BT. Slow and Steady: this is an angsty Andy song. "I am all alone" Yes, she was alone for like 3000 or 4000 years. That's so long!! So much loneliness and pain! :( I think most of the fandom forget this and don't realise how much she must have suffer in her alone time "I spend my night dancing with my own shadow", I can totally imagine Andy dancing alone, in the middle of nowhere, lot of times. "I'm letting go, but I've never felt better, passing by all the monsters in my head" She had to learn to let go and move on so many times, she had lost so many people that she loved along the way. Her mental health is constantly a challenge. Her anxiety, her depression, her fears about time concepts and love. She feels alone and misunderstood. No one knows that she will keep living and outrunning generation after generation, and she will keep testifying how societies destroy themselves and others. "And I move slow and steady, but I feel like a waterfall. I move slow and steady, past the ones that I used to know. And I'm never ready, 'cause I know, I know, I know that time won't let me show what I want to show" I feel these are the best words to describe her and they hit so deep in the worst way. Andy is old and tired, in every sense you can be tired: emotionally, physically, mentally... but she just keeps living.

#andromache the scythian #quynh #lykon #yusuf al kaysani #nicolo di genova #sebastian le livre #nile freeman #immortal family #the old guard #tog x omam music #of monster and men

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blackswaneuroparedux · 4 years ago

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How will the legend of the age of trees Feel, when the last tree falls in England? When the concrete spreads and the town conquers The country’s heart; when contraceptive Tarmac’s laid where farm has faded, Tramline flows where slept a hamlet, And shop-fronts, blazing without a stop from Dover to Wrath, have glazed us over? Simplest tales will then bewilder The questioning children, “What was a chestnut? Say what it means to climb a Beanstalk, Tell me, grandfather, what an elm is. What was Autumn? They never taught us.” Then, told by teachers how once from mould Came growing creatures of lower nature Able to live and die, though neither Beast nor man, and around them wreathing Excellent clothing, breathing sunlight— Half understanding, their ill-acquainted Fancy will tint their wonder-paintings Trees as men walking, wood-romances Of goblins stalking in silky green, Of milk-sheen froth upon the lace of hawthorn’s Collar, pallor in the face of birchgirl. So shall a homeless time, though dimly Catch from afar (for soul is watchfull) A sight of tree-delighted Eden.

- C.S. Lewis, The Future of Forestry

In his poem “The Future of Forestry,” C. S. Lewis outlines his poetic lamentation over the erosion of the environment.

C.S. Lewis recognises that the destruction of nature is very much an urgent matter. His attitude towards the environment would also be reflected in themes throughout his Chronicles of Narnia series, where being a defender of the forest is an indicator of a character being on Aslan’s side.

How did C.S. Lewis come to this view of the importance of Christians looking after God’s creation rather than dominating it. How did Lewis get so green?

The answer lies in the destruction and decimation of World War One. For C.S. Lewis and his friend, JRR Tolkein, World War One produced, in essence, an environmental holocaust.

This aspect of the conflict left a deep impression on both Christian authors and Oxford dons. Having personally experienced the awful prodigy of modern industry and technology - both men fought bravely in the trenches in France - they enlisted nature itself as a protagonist in their epic stories of good vs. evil.

Even before the war, Tolkien and Lewis had come to resent the encroachment of industrial life into rural England. Tolkien lamented "the tragedy and despair of all machinery laid bare," meaning the modern attempt to enhance our control over the world around us, regardless of the consequences.

In "The Lord of the Rings," Saruman the wizard "has a mind for metal and wheels; and he does not care for growing things, except as far as they serve him for the moment." The hateful realm of Mordor is sustained by its black engines and factories.

Likewise, Lewis viewed respect for nature as intrinsic to human happiness. In "The Chronicles of Narnia," his series of books for children, the various animals play a central role in the story. The smallest of creatures -- such as a mouse named Reepicheep -- display the greatest of human virtues. As biographer Alister McGrath observes: "Lewis' portrayal of animal characters in Narnia is partly a protest against shallow assertions of humanity's right to do what it pleases with nature."

The experience of war deepened this sensibility.

Both men enlisted as officers in the British Expeditionary Force and saw intense fighting at the front. Lewis was injured by mortar fire - the shell killed his sergeant standing a few yards away - and was shipped back to England to recover. "My memories of the last war," he wrote, "haunted my dreams for years." Tolkien survived the ferocious Battle of the Somme, but contracted trench fever and was taken out of harm's way. In the horror of the Somme he was given a vision of Mordor: the "dead grasses and rotting weeds" and "a land defiled, diseased beyond healing." As Tolkien acknowledged years later, the Dead Marshes "owe something to Northern France after the Battle of the Somme."

The two great authors met at Oxford in 1926, where they discovered a mutual love for mythology and English literature. Tolkien, a devoted Catholic, helped convert Lewis to Christianity. Lewis persuaded Tolkien to pursue his story about hobbits and Middle-earth.

Their influence on each other's literary imagination was subtle, yet profound. In the climactic scenes in both of their epic works - stories framed by a great war - nature itself is caught up in the conflict.In Lewis' "Prince Caspian," the character Trufflehunter explains to Caspian that it will be difficult to wake the spirits of the trees in the battle against Miraz, the unlawful King of Narnia. "We have no power over them. Since the Humans came into the land, felling forests and defiling streams, the Dryads and Naiads have sunk into deep sleep." Yet the war cannot be won without their help, and Aslan, the great Lion, summons them to join the battle: the "woods on the move."

Tolkien's humanoid trees, the Ents, are among the most memorable figures in fantasy. Led by Treebeard, the oldest living creature in Middle-earth, the Ents were created as guardians of the forest. Earlier wars had decimated the land, forcing the Ents to confine themselves to Fangorn Forest, where they hoped to avoid the War of the Ring. But Sauron's advance compels them to abandon their moral neutrality. "A thing is about to happen which has not happened since the Elder Days," explains Gandalf. "The Ents are going to wake up and find that they are strong."

At the start of the 20th century, when Tolkien and Lewis began their Oxford careers, enthusiasm over "the conquest of nature" was at a fever pitch in the industrialized West. The fever raged with horrific fury during the Great War.

In the Christian imagination of these authors, the assault on nature carried spiritual significance: Man's sins against nature will not go unpunished, and nature will take its revenge.

Contemporary Christians have always had an ambivalent if not hostile attitude to tackling environmental issues such as climate change, carbon emissions or other green issues like clean air and drinking water. This is particularly so in America where scientific illiteracy as well as a distrust in science in general is a particular feature of some Christian churches, especially amongst the so-called white evangelical churches. Science has become a punching bag in the so called Culture Wars in the US between left and right when it shouldn’t be. Thankfully this attitude is only prevalent in America and generally not shared by many church denominations and movements outside of America, especially in Europe, Africa and Asia.

A biblical worldview means accepting the fact that the earth is loved by God and humans have a responsibility to care for it. We have a responsibility to not strip the land of vegetation and to allow the earth to have what it needs to be fertile and productive. That’s not liberal environmentalism, that’s Bible. If man-made climate change is true (and it is), Christians ought to be the most outspoken and supportive of change, because they believe that God has tasked us all with caring for this planet in such a way that it thrives.

Such Christians recognise the need to be good stewards of God’s creation, especially nature. In this Lewis and Tolkein provided an early and important voice to ecological good stewardship and best illustrate the aesthetic intensity of Christian green and environmental consciousness and ultimately a call to action.

**C.S. Lewis looking out from his college rooms, Magdalen College, Oxford. Photo by Arthur Strong, 1947.

#CS lewis #lewis #quote #forest #woods #countryside #environment #green #urbanisation #christianity #religion #ecology #climate change

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goldencuffs · 4 years ago

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fake dating au part two

Whenever Laurent was overwhelmed, or feeling the kind of loneliness even a good cock couldn’t cure, he would sneak off into the library in the north wing of the Palace, where most of his mother’s official portraits were displayed.

Laurent loved all of them; Hennike was smiling in every single one, blonde hair curled perfectly, and teeth a stunning white. The colouring of her gowns and crowns were so bright, even painted, they seemed to shine in the dullest light. Laurent didn’t really know her; she had died three days after giving birth to him, but he had watched so many interviews and home videos of her, he felt like he had. She had been beautiful, well spoken, and everyone had been shocked when she had fallen for Al, because she had been betrothed to someone else.

Laurent liked coming down here to talk to her. It helped to have her listen to his dramatic tirades. He had started doing it when he was thirteen, when Auguste had enlisted in military training and left him alone, but had stopped a few months later, when Al caught him, his face ashen as he’d watched his youngest son babble to his dead wife.

After that, Laurent made sure to only come down in the dead of night, when he was absolutely desperate.

Which was clearly now; Laurent’s head had been spinning since the dinner at Heston’s. Even dessert hadn’t cheered him up — Heston, the absolute cretin, had served only four options of dessert and not a single one had chocolate in them. Not even one! It was like people intentionally went out of their way to put Laurent in a foul mood. Laurent had already drafted a wordy letter about Heston’s appalling lack of class and hosting abilities on the way home, and he was going to send it to the local tabloid first thing in the morning.

Laurent paced around the library, addressing his favourite portrait of his mother. It was her wedding portrait, and he loved all the detailing in it. The blush pink flowers in her bouquet matched her lipstick and her blush, and the tiara she was wearing had 588 diamonds in it. It was called The Laurent Tiara, and when Laurent had found out it had been Hennike’s favourite crown, he’d cried into his pillowcase for an embarrassingly long time.

“If I tell Al the truth now, he’ll kill me,” Laurent wailed at an appropriately low volume; he was very considerate of the sleeping guards when he threw his tantrums. “Or worse — get me married! Oh god, he’ll set me up with that idiot Torveld and I’ll have to spend the rest of my life hearing about his coin collection. Who even uses cash anymore? And what exactly is the point of having money if you can’t use it? And has Al even considered the aesthetics of our coupling? How are we supposed to wear matching outfits if Torveld looks rubbish in Egyptian blue and azure? Hello! Those are my signature colours!” Laurent sunk down on the lumpy sofa and buried his head in his hands. “Maybe death really is the better option.” He looked up at Hennike’s green eyes. “Is heaven overrated? Where would you personally place it on a scale of one to ten?”

She didn’t answer him, obviously. It was no use, anyway; Laurent was definitely not getting into heaven.

Laurent woke up irritated and unrested, and not for his usual, fun reasons. He hadn’t come up with any sort of solution to his dilemma and he had had a very strange dream where Damianos punched him while Al watched on. Then the scene had changed, and Laurent was on stage accepting his tenth Oscar for Best Actor, even though he had yet to star in any films.

“I’m thinking of becoming an actor,” Laurent told Al later that night during dinner.

Al’s eyes narrowed and his mouth became a sharp line. “What?”

“I mean, I have the looks, obviously. And really, how hard is acting anyway? Clearly you don’t even need to be very good at it to star in a movie — look at Channing Tatum. I’m sorry, but it’s very obvious his height was the only thing that got him into Hollywood, and even then it’s not that impressive.”

Al put down his knife and fork. “Can we —” He sounded very strained, “have a normal conversation for once.”

Laurent considered this. “I don’t think we’ve had enough conversations to statistically find out what constitutes a normal one,” he said. Al went red, so he continued, “So you don’t think acting is for me? Shall I try directing then? Or maybe —” He sat up excitedly in his chair. “I could write movies! I have so many ideas! Why, for instance, has no one considered a gay version of The Princess Bride? What would that even be called? The Prince Groom? Ugh, no, that’s terrible. Oh, who am I kidding — with my face and my body I have no choice but to be on camera. Otherwise, it’d be such a waste.”

The vein in Al’s forehead was throbbing. If he had been wearing his crown, it would have gone unnoticed, but like this, it was rather unflattering.

Al said, “Laurent,” in a sombre tone. “I really hope you’re joking.”

“About The Prince Groom? Kind of. But the acting thing — would it really be that bad?”

“You are a prince,” Al said, teeth clenched. “If it is the glam and glitz you want, you have more than enough here.”

Laurent, uncomfortably, thought of his room, the only place in the Palace that was truly his, devoid completely of personal artefacts. He swallowed. “Yes, well.” He tried a smile. “Maybe I should borrow another crown from the royal archives. I don’t think I’ve worn one with emeralds yet.”

Al resumed eating. “Speaking of crowns,” he said, completely glossing over Laurent’s last statement. “I’d like you to wear the Crown of Naos when King Damianos arrives.”

Laurent’s mouth dropped open. “As if! Al, the gold colouring on that completely washes me out! Not to mention the fact that that thing weighs like, five kilograms!”

Al’s nostrils flared at the word Al. He said, “The crown is a gift from Damianos’ great great grandfather to yours. It will be an appropriate and symbolic gesture if you wear it.”

“But why can’t you wear it? Or Auguste?”

“I am not the one having an affair with the King of Akielos,” said Al.

Oh, right. Laurent had forgotten about that. But what was the point? It wasn’t as though Damianos would recognise the gesture. If anything, he might think of it as inappropriate.

Instead he said, “Well, gee, Al, I didn’t peg you as a romantic.” Laurent fluttered his lashes a little.

Al pushed away his plate. “I’m done, thank you.” A servant immediately came to clear away his food.

Al left the dining hall, his shoulders tight. Laurent wished Auguste would hurry back home already.

In the morning, on the way back from the stables, Jord said, “Looks like your wish came true.”

Laurent stopped dead. “Oh my god — is Pierre-Alexis Dumas here? Is he finally going to collab with me?”

“Who’s Pierre-Alexis Dumas?” said Jord.

Laurent whirled on him. “Watch your fucking mouth.”

“Sorry.” Jord said, not sounding the slightest bit sorry. The audacity! “But look.” He pointed past Laurent, to the front of the Palace.

Laurent looked. There was a nondescript black limousine parked on the long, gravel pathway. Laurent would have dismissed it, if he didn’t spot sight of Jeurre, Auguste’s chauffeur, leant up against one of the doors, smoking.

Laurent gasped. He passed on his bridle to Jord, who fumbled to catch it, and ran inside.

Auguste and Al were in the plate room. Al was sitting on the large, velvet throne, a glass of whiskey in his hand. It wasn’t even noon! And he was baring his teeth in that weird way — smiling, as he called it.

Auguste was standing in front of him, hands behind his back. He had gotten very tan, and his hair was much darker, a strange golden colour that made the blue-green of his eyes more appealing.

They both turned when Laurent entered. Al’s mouth was already drooping at the sight of him, but Laurent only had eyes for his brother, whom he hadn’t seen in eight whole months.

Laurent wanted to hug him, which surprised even himself. Laurent was not a hugger. He wasn’t much of a toucher, either, unless it involved getting laid.

Auguste gave him a nod. He sometimes acted so much like Al, it disgusted Laurent; the only difference was that Auguste’s eyes were always kind.

Laurent peered at him closely, shocked. “What have you done to yourself? Are you having a mid-life crisis? Should we call Paschal for a yearly psych evaluation?”

Auguste laughed. “It’s a moustache, Laurent. It’s very fashionable in Kempt, you know.”

“It’s horrendous!” Laurent cried. He stared at the thick hair above Auguste’s top lip in horror. “Right. I’m officially ruling Kempt out as a holiday destination this summer if all the men are growing that.”

Al’s eyebrows furrowed. “I like it. It’s very refined.”

“Oh god, now we have to get rid of it,” said Laurent, which made Al frown and Auguste laugh. Auguste squeezed Laurent’s shoulder. He was always mindful of Laurent’s boundaries. “I think you’ve grown taller.”

“I haven’t,” Laurent said. He showed off his riding boots. “See? It’s three inches of heel.”

“Very impractical,” Al said under his breath, which was not a very Kingly thing to do.

Auguste was still smiling. “I like it. It matches the piping of your coat.”

“Yes, exactly!” Laurent was so happy in that moment, he leant forward and hugged Auguste. It was very short, but Auguste looked so pleased afterwards, Laurent wished he had prolonged it.

“Did you get me anything?” he asked, to cover the embarrassment following his sudden burst of affection.

Auguste raised an eyebrow. “I’m hurt, Laurent. You’re not going to ask me about my classes or my rather excellent Anthropology professor?”

Laurent scrunched up his face. “Are you stalling because you didn’t get me anything?”

Auguste smiled. “There’s about fifty boxes of Grand Cru chocolate in your bedroom.”

Laurent’s sound of ecstasy was too loud; Al spilled some of his whiskey onto his pants. Auguste clapped him on the back in commiseration.

As the servants laid out a small meal — roses of smoked salmon on cucumber slices, macaroons, thin slices of cured meat and cheese, crunchy shrimp salad on crusty rolls, grapes and strawberries and mango and pineapple, individual strawberry shortcakes, that kind of thing — Auguste said, “Father tells me you’re having an affair with the King of Akielos.” He said it casually enough, but Laurent could see he wasn’t thrilled about the idea.

Laurent swallowed his last bite of sandwich and placed a hand on his heart. “Al! You should know better than to gossip, shame on you!”

Al just sighed, a long, suffering sound, and Auguste glared openly at him. “I thought you promised to stop disrespecting Father like that.”

Laurent’s stomach pooled with an uncomfortable tightness. Being told off by Auguste somehow was always worse than being told off by Al.

“Fine,” Laurent said shortly. He said to Al: “Oh dearest Father, Papa, Your Majesty, light of my life, the man who impregnated Queen Hennike, so I, your glorious creation, could be born to bring some joy to this bleak, bleak world: stop gossiping immediately.”

There was a very long pause. Then Auguste laughed. “You are such a shit.”

Al sighed again. “He’s becoming more and more insolent by the day.”

“Thank you so much,” Laurent said, wiping away an imaginary tear.

Auguste barked another laugh. Al sipped more whiskey; a very good sign. Laurent was going to take advantage of this; he wanted a new watch.

Auguste continued his questioning a few minutes later. “So. You and the King — it’s true?”

Laurent flapped a hand. “Oh, you know how it is. He saw those pictures of me from Aimeric’s birthday party where I wore those silk shorts that were just long enough to be tasteful and the poor darling had absolutely no choice but to slide into my DMs and woo me.”

“What’s a DM?” asked Al, and if the question had come from anyone else, Laurent would have found it adorable. He probably would have tweeted it as well.

“Texting,” Auguste said. He seemed contemplative. “Aimeric’s birthday — from last September? It’s been a bit more than a year.”

“Yes,” said Laurent. He tried to say it as wistfully as possible. “He bought me a Ferrarri.”

“Really?” Auguste sounded impressed. “The 1954?”

Laurent grinned. “Do you want to drive it?”

“Fuck yeah,” Auguste said, then quickly cleared his throat and looked at their father. “I mean, yes. Perhaps later in the afternoon.”

Al shook his head, but he didn’t say anything for the rest of the meal. Well, he didn’t say anything to Laurent. He really was in a good mood.

Having Auguste back had Laurent so distracted it wasn’t until a few days later that he realised how frantically the staff were cleaning the floors and walls and painting frames.

In fact, he became so relaxed doing less than nothing all day, since Al was too busy doing this and that, or fawning over Auguste, he didn’t comprehend why the chefs needed fifty boars delivered fresh on Friday morning, until Al told him before their weekly Council, “I want you to wear your red high neck blouse tomorrow.”

“Why?” Laurent asked, checking for any fine lines in the shine of the armour of one of the propped knights in the hallway.

“It is the colour of the Akielos banner. I am trying to seem as diplomatic as possible.”

Laurent went very, very still. With dawning horror, he said, “The — Damianos is coming tomorrow?”

Al’s expression turned thunderous. “Do not waste my time asking stupid questions, Laurent. You know how much I despise it.”

Laurent’s eyes widened. “Oh no,” he said quietly, real fear settling into his bones. Damianos was going to murder him tomorrow. He would need to get a facial tonight, to ensure he was the most beautiful corpse the human eye had seen. And then something much more horrific occurred to him. “Wait! I can’t wear the red high neck with the Crown of Naos! Those colours completely clash!”

Al seemed to age a few centuries in a blink of an eye. With a shake of his head, he walked into the Chambers, leaving Laurent alone in the hallway.

Laurent frowned. One of these days, he was going to be the one storming out. It was only fair.

Things only got worse.

Laurent’s last minute facial broke him out, so he threatened to sue and smashed one of their stupid reclining chairs.

Laurent had honestly thought that was going to be the worst of it; the pimple along his jawline was easy to cover up once he got the local dermatologist to inject something in it.

But on the morning of Damianos’ arrival, Laurent was in a terrible mood. He hadn’t slept at all, worried about his pimple, his horrible outfit, and the fact that a man who was the size of a small house — Google said Damianos was 6’6”, but he was definitely way more, no arguments — was going to viciously kill him.

“Hurry up,” Laurent snapped at the servant dressing him, who had been pulling too sharply at his laces for the last six minutes.

“Yes, Your Highness,” he answered meekly, and continued fumbling about.

When a few more minutes passed, Laurent looked down at him. “Okay, seriously, this is ridiculous. You usually get me dressed in ten minutes or less. What is the problem?”

“I —” The servant looked like he was on the verge of tears. “Your Highness, the laces — I can’t do them up. It’s uh — it’s too tight.”

“What do you mean?” Laurent asked, narrowing his eyes. “This fit perfectly a month ago.”

“Yes, well —” And his eyes slid over to the bed, where an empty, open box of chocolates was stacked against many other empty boxes of chocolate.

Laurent saw red.

It took three guards and then Jord and Lazar to keep Laurent restrained enough to not kill him. In the end, he yelled until his throat was hoarse and the servant broke down, running out the room with his face covered in tears.

Afterwards, Laurent attempted to do up the laces himself, because he was not fat, and he definitely had not gained weight; he was svelte and sexy and desirable.

In the end, he could only do his trousers up, and only just. If he let out a particularly deep exhale… well, breathing was overrated anyway, Laurent had always thought so.

“Oh, forget it!” Laurent howled, miserable and on the verge of tears himself. “I look ridiculous.”

“No, you don’t, Your Highness,” Jord assured quickly. Too quickly.

Laurent glanced at himself in the mirror. His ass was practically suffocated in these trousers — and that was his best feature! He ran a hand down it forlornly. “It’s too tight.”

Jord’s eyes followed his hand with avid interest. He was drooling.

“Could be tighter,” said Lazar, leaning against the bedpost.

Laurent flung himself on the bed. “No it couldn’t. I need to lose about three kilograms in the next —” He checked the clock, “half an hour. Oh god. Just tell Al I died. It’ll make his day, go on.”

“Orgasms help with weight loss,” said Lazar. “I could fuck your face.”

Laurent sniffed “Don’t be so stupid.” He looked at the clock again. “Obviously, riding you will help me lose more calories. Both of you get on the bed, quick.”

Laurent did not lose three kilograms in half an hour. As enjoyable as the sex had been, it had only made him tired and anxious.

Jord suggested that Laurent should just let the laces at the back trail, and cover it up with a coat, even though it was far too hot in the year to wear one. Laurent obliged anyway, knowing how difficult Al would be if he showed up wearing undiplomatic colours. He changed his trousers into a different pair, making sure it had an elastic waistband to stretch accommodatingly.

When the crown was placed on his head, he staggered a little. It really was unnecessarily heavy. His great great grandfather must have had a head the size of a watermelon.

Laurent walked unsteadily down the hall, towards the Palace steps where Auguste and Al were already waiting. His insides became so twisted with the thought of seeing Damianos, he had to make a detour and hide behind a tapestry to have a panic, but only a little one.

Outside, the sun was blazing. Auguste clapped him on the back in greeting, and Laurent winced, the material of his blouse sticking to his armpits. Al’s lips curled at his outfit, but Laurent couldn’t care. He hoped he looked beautiful enough — just enough — so Damianos would reconsider his murder. At the very least, Laurent hoped nothing happened to his face.

“Alright?” said Auguste. “You’re sweating.”

“Shut up,” said Laurent, mortified. He was a prince; he did not sweat.

Auguste’s response was cut off by the sound of the gates opening and rolling tires on gravel. Laurent’s heart was in his ears; he swallowed, but it made him feel more sick.

The sleek, black car was parked in the driveway. Several seconds later, Damianos stepped out, tall and handsome.

Laurent whimpered. It was one thing to see photos of Damianos on the internet, walking briskly down the street or shaking hands with Al, and it was another thing entirely to see him in the flesh as he walked down their driveway.

He was so tall. And he was built like a tree; all thick arms and chest and thighs. Laurent had such a weakness for thighs, they were really the best part of a man’s body, how they framed the groin and the cock and —

Laurent realised, suddenly, that he had not prepared at all for how he was going to greet Damianos.

Lovers kissed each other, yes? Laurent didn’t think he could do that without being punched but god, would Al think it was weird if he didn’t at least attempt to kiss Damianos? Maybe he could pretend to suddenly be shy, too coy to look into Damianos’ eyes in front of everyone — yes, yes that sounded perfect.

Damianos came up the stairs, smile wide and straight. His teeth were amazing. Were they fake? Laurent didn’t think so; he ran his tongue over his own, nervous, heart still thumping in his ears.

He greeted Al first. Laurent’s head was spinning. What if Al said something? What if Auguste did? What if Damianos said something that alluded to the fact that this was technically, the first time he and Laurent would be speaking to another?

And then Laurent couldn’t think of anything else, because Damianos was standing right in front of him.

He reached out, one large, dark hand to shake Laurent’s. Laurent staggered forward, into his chest, and closed his eyes.

When he opened his eyes again, Laurent saw the most beautiful angel.

“Wow, you’re hot.” Laurent poked a very hard, very strong bicep. “Heaven’s pretty cool.” He was dead, obviously, because people this good looking didn’t exist in the mortal world.

“You’re not dead, Laurent. Can you sit up?”

Laurent thought about it. He wasn’t dead? That was good news. But he felt like he was dead because he couldn’t move his body at all.

“Here, can you follow my finger?”

“Hmm.” Laurent said and stared unblinkingly at what he assumed was a finger. It was quite blurry.

“I think he’s concussed.”

Laurent giggled. The stranger’s accent made it sound like he had said cock-cussed. It made Laurent want to suck cock.

He said, “If I’m not dead, I’d like to be. Jord, get me my blue Prada scarf. I want to be buried in it. Lazar, get your gun out.”

“He doesn’t seem concussed.” That was Al. The compulsion to die was suddenly much stronger.

“We should take him to the hospital,” the hot angel said. Laurent was in love.

He said as much: “I really love you,” he told the blurry figure. Then he rolled over onto his side and threw up.

#captive prince #im going to see if its worth posting on tumblr and ao3 dont mind me #fake dating au #damen x laurent #my writing #my fic #queue

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handlewcaare · 4 years ago

Text

art by: kajuhz

The concept of Justice was a profit.

Oftentimes would Beaut replay the scene in his head. Not the ones in which he would portray the handsome knight or the chivalrous prince, but of his own savior; he who was bestowed a graceful light atop of his crown. His physique but a mountain compared to Beaut’s shuddering frame, cowardly under what he assumed to be his final hour.

“It’s fine now.”

The baritone resounded as divine as cathedral bells. A voluminous tone that held no wry contempt of what monster curled in front of him. There was no rehearsed spiel of what justice was, but it left Beaut to determine his own interpretation of it in his stunned awe.

Many would have called justice a caped Crusader, many would have called it a quivering hand that held the knife they used to impale their abuser, many would have called it the rope that suspended the guillotine’s blade. In the end, it was but a trophy to be won over the carcasses of villains Beaut would periodically encounter.

Justice was as fine as wine in his perception. It was the promise of dictating who would be fit to surpass him in the top of the A-Class threshold, it was the champagne dinners he would hold at every New Years or the awards he would win in for a role he partook when the hours were slow. It was not a gruesome lifestyle, outside of what brutality he enacted upon his villains, but it was profitable.

Until it came along.

It coming in the form of a walking cadaver draped in an old beige coat that was rancid with nicotine and whatever disease it caught this week. It’s shoulders were hunched and it never enacted in a spatting match reserved between Tatsumaki and Metal Bat. Rather, it kept to itself and only periodically placed its input in a phantasmic and haunting tone. Ironically, it ran a detective agency down in F-city and was quite renowned for its capabilities. However, what irritated him most was not because it’s regeneration, not in truth anyways.

“Why wasn’t I notified about his recruitment?”

It was often that the H.A. would negate Beaut about new recruits, especially one whom had made headlines about his week-long war with a conflagrant dullahan Griffin. Though, the sole purpose of his presence at the threshold of A-Class was to prevent lesser men to weasel their way without proving their worth. He knew that Kamikaze’s disciples attempted to do so numerous times with their false valor.

“Well, he has a high amount of endurance,” Sitch clarified. The portly man hastily patted his temple with a handkerchief. Without a doubt, Amai knew how to intensify the ambiance with but the sneer of his tawny glare. “Not just that, but I don’t think he’s human—“

When veins bloomed at the nape of the idol’s neck, Sitch hastily continued, “our intern, Iwaizawa, tried to recruit him the first time and his wounds healed while he refused. Poor man was horrified when his arm just fell off and grew another one.”

Regeneration was nothing of a unique feat, but it was one in which Amai specialized in. Clean cuts to his appendages often wrought nonchalance when he secured it back on. The muscle fibers would make haste to keep his tendons and bone secure. The carbon of his skin would shatter into a spiderweb fracture, but it would never quake under the pressure. Yet, he could only find offense that they would insinuate his was not just as good—if not, better.

“And like I can’t?” He could probably do so while performing a live concert.

“He survived numerous injuries; burns, teeth, claws—the whole nine yards—he didn’t stop walking either.”

If there was anything Amai was, he could be rational at times. His lip nearly turned stiff with a grimace, though the aspect of someone possessing a similar ability than him was enough to curdle his stomach. It was a hideous, warped perception of himself that he faced; the Beaut he was prior to his body enduring so much stress that it became a diamond. Who gave this thing the audacity to be the very thing he couldn’t withstand?

He felt his blood curdle in private rage, though he knew better than to lash out at someone who could potentially hinder his reputation. Tabloids would shrill about his monstrous temper and equate him to nothing but another Terrible hero; a spoiled brat who should have been proud of the golden spoon in his mouth.

He would have told them his spoon was spray painted, but that was too worthy of a risk.

“I want to interview him,” Amai said as he briskly stood up from his seat and collected his pristine coat, his voice stiff to bottle up his frustration. “If he’s abnormal, I want to make sure he doesn’t have ill-intentions.”

“I... highly doubt he would,” the reluctance to correct Amai was prevelant, as he was the reason they were even able to make a fortune off the expense of strong heroes with exaggerated sob stories. “He refused to enlist initially.”

“Maybe that’s what he wants you to think.” Something evoked the creature to come back, be it that someone fed it on their porch or gave it a promise didn’t matter. It was worthy of an investigative welcome.

——————————

Hounding after the cryptic amidst F-City was hardly an issue. What with the newest talk circulating the nicknamed ‘deadman detective agency’ and tourists seizing photo opportunities, Amai could only wonder what made it worthy for the city to nestle the gemstone close to its chest.

Was it being a little hole in the wall? Was it the fact that it held some nostalgia to the Griffin’s demise? He didn’t particularly care either way, other than it lived in an absolute shithole. The windows were makeshift plastered with wood and duct tape.

Not an environment he would imagine himself being in, but it was better than visiting Puri Puri Prisoner.

Knocking on the door only fueled his muted irritation. What he was greeted with was a pallid being, one who barely looked passable for an anemic. Along its lips balanced an unlit cigarette and his gaze flickered briefly to the branching sutures underneath its clavicles. The aroma it carried however was rancid, vile nicotine and ink seemed to manifest itself through the partially opened maw of the door.

For a moment, Amai brought a knuckle to clog one of his nostrils discreetly, “hello,” his Hollywood smile couldn’t have been anymore amiable than it was. His smiling equanimity easily masquerading his suppressed resentment, “I wanted to say congratulations on passing your Heroes Entrance exam.”

One could weigh the loss of interest along the creature’s stern countenance, “usually, I am involved in the recruitment process. However, I was a bit busy and I missed my opportunity to get to ask you a few questions.

“My name is Handsome Kaimen Amai Mask,” he informed as he extended a hand for the cryptid to take, “you can just call me Amai Mask.”

It was glacial, the way the detective’s hand clasped his. There was not a semblance of rough, course callouses or warmth to radiate under the skin. He shuddered under the grasp that could only be best described as rigormortis. What it lacked in conversational pieces, it compensated for in its uncanny valley of humility. He supposed not all monsters slammed their doors in people’s faces.

“It’s nice to meet you, Amai Mask,” it’s phantasmic murmur was reserved to the spirit that haunted its shell; a conch that knew too many secrets. When Amai withdrew, he felt the itching need to investigate whether he was as humble as he appeared to be. If he truly did do investigative work for the good of others and not himself.

“I would like to talk to you privately,” he said, “after all, your thoughts are very important to hear.” They weren’t, not even the H.A. Could deny that blatant fact.

The reluctance in It’s pause was also uncanny (he could never fathom why there was always a hint of hesitation with him), however the carcass gradually complied by opening the barely stable door wholly open. “Leave your shoes by the door, if you don’t mind?”

He could feel his gums bleed under his clenched teeth, only releasing them when he cheerily complied. “Not at all.”

————————————————

The office was illuminated by a single bulb. It’s jewelry but the rotating fans above and a single chain within length to pull. The interior wasn’t much in the way of impression, as half of it was hastily constructed.

Tarp laid sprawled over one side of the office, only being held down by a jar of plaster for the jagged trauma across the masonries. If that wasn’t enough of an indication there was a skirmish, the creature’s desk was haphazardly concocted with duct tape and splintered wood. The remnants of burnt petals remained prominent under the sprawled files of evidence.

Along one (partially) unblemished wall was the map of F-City’s tri-state area. Polaroids pinned to each segment as they caressed scrawled notes pertaining to specific cases. Few even had a red string connected to one another.

“You really are a detective, huh?” The idol mused as he gingerly laid his coat atop of one of the chair cushions—the one that wasn’t nearly as collapsible as the other—before he sat down, “I assumed it was just part of the aesthetic.”

“Old habits die hard,” the walking cadaver remarked. The way it settled into the seat in front of Amai reminded him of something of an old soul. Its sigh fluttered when it leaned back, “though, I can’t say I’ve done much investigation work nowadays.”

“It’s a nice hobby to have,” he didn’t want to stay too past his curfew however, especially if this reanimated corpse wouldn’t want to talk shop. Fortune came in toast master’s, “what are your thoughts on the exam? Was it too difficult?”

“Do you want my honest answer or the one you want to hear?” It asked as it flicked the lighter to ignite the end of It’s cigarette. The sizzle of tobacco and paper evoked a hint of irritation that Amai’s vocal chords were not taken into consideration.

“Preferably both,” it was unbearable the way it implored. If it was an attempt to get on his good side, it was certainly a poor one.

An eventual drag from Zombieman’s cigarette accented his robust quip, “it was stupidly easy,” he said, “though I dunno why you have questions about traffic safety.”

It was a typical query, aside from the essay questions many heroes skimmed past with a few haphazard answers. The idol simply crossed his knee over his leg, “we had a lower rank lose his lisence,” he elucidated, “ironically, he passed the exam with flying colors.”

Whether he spoke too much or there was too much perception in that thing’s brain, it raised a brow, “and why isn’t he in S-Class if he’s lower rank?”

“He’s simply not strong enough to surpass me,” he was rather pathetic in all honesty. Save for his valiant speeches and his ability to look for lesser people, the C-Rank gatekeeper wasn’t much to write home about. “If I’m being honest with you, very few people manage to get into S-Class.”

At that moment, Amai knew it wasn’t the same as the others; there was no petulant demand for higher paychecks or an un breakable instrument. It was a blind gamble he didn’t anticipate for something that looked like it could find more entertainment staring blankly ahead.

“—and you’re telling me that a ten year old is physically stronger than an adult man?” The Zombieman didn’t bother to suppress his snarl this time. His lip curled underneath the plumb of smoke, “that’s bullshit.”

“No, but he’s not physically stronger than me,” Amai clarified once more. It wasn’t in the matter of everyone else, but of whether he deemed them worthy to surpass him in rank. He felt his brow twitch when the rancid odor of nicotine whisped as dangerous as a threat. Fortunately, his furor could only bubble a laugh, “What, would you prefer us to hire podcasters to try and placate a rampaging bull from killing civilians?”

“I dunno,” the horrible cardboard cutout of a detective said as its russet glare punctured through Amai’s tawny ones, “you seem to like the sound of your own voice pretty well.”

The hospitable charade melted from the heat of his aggrevation. Hot wax of a pristine neighbor dribbled off the exposed veins along his nape and down his chest, “excuse me?”

“In one of your interviews,” oh, it knew him already, “you said that justice isn’t something wholly to a hero, that everyone has their part somehow,” it never once deviated its intrusion to the far corridors of Amai’s glare. It was dauntless, especially when it knew that his neck and shoulders began to grow slightly larger. Yet, it talked as passive as it would in front of a criminal; as if it had the right to accuse him of anything.

“Here you are, however, saying that someone needs to be beyond average in order to be adequate for saving people. Be it that they’re a kid with a high IQ, an angry jock or a chaotic pixie,” the detective paused as it obstinately clenched it’s cold hand around the partially finished cigarette. The fire snuffed out without a protesting burn to it’s skin, “makes me wonder what you’re hiding if you’re only letting ‘strange’ people in.”

Should Amai be allowed to be Beaut once more, he would have never been accepted in. Beneath the masquerade of a teen girl’s fantasy was a hulking, grotesque beast who could only watch the rose petals wilt from the outside. It was as if this thing, this abomination, was aware of that. As he abruptly stood from his seat, he felt his gloved hands clench at their sides.

“If you want to be kicked out from the S-Class, I can make it happen,” the threat did nothing to provoke the pathetic punching bag out of his seat. Rather, it only prompted him to scoff a scalding hand to rub more salt into Amai’s wound, “my regeneration can best your’s. If you really want a satisfying exam, I am more than happy to oblige.”

Eventually, the mild irritation that highlighted the creature’s glare subsided for a slight revelation. What one would have envisioned to be a skirmish only halted midway when it stated something of a reflection to his dare.

“You’re projecting.”

What?

The incredulous look that stained his handsome features only prompted the thing to resume casually, “you’re projecting. You didn’t come here for a warm welcome; mentioning strength, the regeneration, what justice means.

“if I join a pop idol group, that just about ticks off all your boxes, doesn’t it?”

Being relevant was what rusted justice. In an instant, Amai seized ahold of It’s neck, its skin nothing but cold rubber under the pads of his fingertips. There was not a pulse to drum, not even when the harbinger of beautiful reckoning sneered. His eyes wide as they attempted to search wildly for a semblance of absent fear.

What he didn’t comprehend was that there was a barrel nestled close to his sternum in the same movement. Just as he would try his hand on how effective this monster’s regeneration was, he snapped out of his blind haze when there was a subtle knock to rap along the office door.

“Mr. Zombieman?” The voice was small, a little too petite to be a woman’s, “it’s me, Dr. Hajime, can I come in?”

It was a gamble neither wanted to try their hand in. For one that it would have gotten Hajime involved and the other was that it was a sure fire way to have Amai Mask’s reputation be tarnished. What reality of him being the harbinger of rightful justice would have dispersed by his own lack of control. He would have been no better than the monsters he hunted.

As the two reluctantly withdrew, the detective made no attempt to mouth “get out” at the sneering idol.

When prohibited to enter, Child Emperor’s eyes bloomed in awe when he discovered Amai Mask simply retrieving his coat from the chair, “oh-!” The boy squeaked, his shoulders jolted and there was a tighter hold along the tiny trey of chocolate cake, “I’m sorry, is this a bad time?”

“Not at all,” the detective said. Had Amai not known better, he would have assumed it could actually smile, “what’s the cake for?”

“I just thought we should celebrate you getting in and all!”

“Oh, you didn’t have to do that.”

He didn’t stay to listen to their futile conversation.

—————————————

Relevance rusted Justice.

As Amai skulked away to leave the two be, he could only glower at how the creature allowed Child Emperor to join him. His lip turned stiff at the revelation that there was hardly any private celebration he would have. It was never homely, but a grandiose party with strangers who didn’t know him by Beaut.

He’s a stupid kid.

No, Dr. Hajime is actually quite brilliant. It was his counterpart, his pseudo-father figure that was the idiot. To insinuate that he would even bother projecting his envy on the likes of some insolent vigilante was something worthy to laugh at.

When he meandered home into his mansion, there was no one other than himself to occupy the space; no one with a cake or to press a kiss along his cheek in greeting. His phone would blow up with useless messages and notifications from strangers, but it wasn’t warm. It was as cold as the handshake he had.

He didn’t bother to change out of his clothes when he went to bed.

#one punch man #opm #what kendall writes.#character study #Amai mask #Zombieman #Zombieman OPM #handsome kaimen amai mask #child emperor #not really an origins HC #but I wanted to do something a little different #it won’t lemme link Kajuhz #>:/

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littlemisssquiggles · 4 years ago

Note

I think oscar should get a suit that has something like a jet pack on it that use

gravity dust and and could help him fly and jump faster ,they had oscar training with jnr and team fnky it be cool if neon had show

oscar how to roller blade ,it would help him keep up when the other are running a head of him ,it all so be cool if he had a long

range weapon that shorts out magic an dust like a staff or a lantern staff that shoots fire and magic

…Uhh I’m not so sure about the jet pack anon-chan ^^); While a jet pack powered by gravity dust does sound like an awesome concept for a type of battle equipment, I’m not so sure about it suiting Oscar. At least in my opinion. However I do dig the concept of Oscar upgrading the Long Memory and incorporating gravity dust (and perhaps other types of dust) into its upgraded design.

I think it could actually be really fitting if the Long Memory went through another transformation with Oscar.

When we first glimpsed this ancient weapon, it appeared as a mystical staff wielded by the great and powerful Ozma as a physical conduit through which he conjured and manipulated his own magical abilities as opposed to using it freehand like other magi from his era, inclusive of Salem.

The next time we saw the Long Memory changed was during Ozma’s lifetime with Henkle (a.k.a Dadpin 2.0) and it was this Wizard of Light who altered the design of the weapon into its more familiar cane form which Ozma had retained for several other lifetimes including Ozpin’s.

That being said, I would’ve loved to have seen the Long Memory change again with Oscar. I’d like to think that the appearance of the Long Memory is significant of important periods in the Ozma lineage. Ozma’s time with Henkle marked the period where he not only overcame his grief and depression over his past with Salem as a failed demi god of Remnant but it also marked the point when Ozma started learning to coexist and live in harmony with the men he was paired with---becoming a part of them as opposed to him completely taking over as we saw him do in his first reincarnated life with Diggs.

Bottom-line, what I’m mainly trying to say is that I feel as if Oscar will be another significant life for Ozma. Even now I still really, really like my Pinehead headcanon of Oscar being the true reincarnation of Ozma as the embodiment of his original form reborn in Modern Remnant, thus representing the last life for him to live to finally put an end to the cycle of rebirth. But even if that doesn’t come to pass in the canon, I’d still like to see the overall look of the Long Memory change with Oscar.

Who knows? Imagine if…the Long Memory is broken or destroyed forcing Oscar no choice but to rebuild it, changing the mystical staffs form to something that more represents who he is as a person. And perhaps this is where Oscar can embellish the new Long Memory with his own set of ‘tricks’ inclusive of dust upgrades. Maybe Oscar could even enlist the help of his closest confidant and true rose Ruby to aid him with the change to the Long Memory considering that Ruby did build her own weapon from scratch.

Or…maybe, just maybe---as a much cooler possibility, what if… the Long Memory does get destroyed and rather than rebuild it, Oscar instead choses to ditch the cane and start wielding his magic more freehand so that his fighting style resembles something akin to sorcerers from Marvel’s Doctor Strange or rather alchemists from the Fullmetal Alchemists.

Picture…Oscar performingfeats of magic with just his bare hands. I think that would be neat and it would definitely set him apart from Ozma, Ozpin and the other Wizards who’ve mostly used the cane. We saw an example of Oscar doing this in the V7 finale episode where he conjured his magical bubble shield without wielding the cane. So if Oscar can perform magic without the Long Memory then let that be his preferred style of combat.

Then again, this is just me tossing out more ideas for the table of possibilities.

On another note, I think Neon showing Oscar how to rollerblade is a cute idea for a fanart. While I doubt it would be practical for Oscar to use that in his fighting style (since, much like the jetpack idea, it doesn’t really fit his more magical little prince/ wizard-y aesthetic that the show’s got going for him), it is cute as an idea for recreation. Like picture RWBY and JNPR 2.0 hanging out with FNKY in cooler times with the FNKI crowd taking them out rollerblading for fun.

Neon did make a comment back in V3 about trying rollerblading since according to her, it’s super fun. Sure she was just saying that to antagonize Yang however I do think it’d be a cute idea for like a fanfic or fan-comic or piece of fanart where FNKI takes our heroes rollerblading and happy fun time shenanigans ensue X3

Not sure if this actually answers you anon-chan but I hope it does since it’s how I see it XD

~LittleMissSquiggles (2020)

#squiggles answers: rwby #oscar pine #rwby theories #rwby volume 8 theories #Anon-ninja #squiggles answers

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robbyrobinson · 4 years ago

Text

CTHULHU MYTHOS X OWL HOUSE: GODS AWAKEN (XVIII)

Helicopters hovered over the city at a slight distance from the onslaught of the raging fires. Buildings were reduced to rubble from the relentless attacks of the metallic armor. At roughly four o’clock, the National Guard was ordered to fend off the assaults.

Tanks and heavy-armed trucks arrived amongst the crowds of panicking people and parked in front of them. The general emerged from one of the trucks to observe the scene. His thick fingers curled as he gestured to his men to take their shields. They formed a long line and drew their shields sharply. They glued their feet to the ground to tighten their grips.

The suits of armor wheezed and stumbled along in their sluggish pace. Black ooze leaked through the cracks of the metallic plates. Deathly drones of pain bellowed from deep within them, an unearthly sing song tune. With the general’s approval, one of the tanks directed its gun at the metal suits and fired.

“Alright, men, look alive,” the general announced.

A thick smoke obscured the suits of armor from the National Guard’s eye. Without warning, a red tow truck was tossed in their direction.

“Take cover!” he yelled.

The tow truck rammed into the soldiers, destroying the blockade on impact. The suits attacked the soldiers with violent kicks and thrashing. Soldiers were picked up and tossed into buildings like sacks of potatoes. Many soldiers brandished their knives and were able to strike a few blows on them, but they were largely overpowered and mauled. The crowds of civilians dispersed to escape the madness but were also caught in the onslaught.

“Yes, I have just received word that the blockade the National Guard attempted has failed.” The anchorwoman from before looked down, befuddled. “There had been an announcement by the mayor that he is issuing an evacuation of the city.”

Luz and Amity ran out of the workshop with Hypnos following slowly behind. “Never get old like me, kids; your fragile bones will bend and tear out of their sockets.”

“Where did these armor suits come from?” Luz asked aloud “and who sent them?”

“Must have been Lord Belos,” Amity noted, “just a hunch given the...futuristic aesthetic.”

“You do have that book hidden away, right human?” Hypnos asked.

In Luz’s hand, she held a bag. The bag appeared small on the outside, but it was vastly larger on the inside capable of holding an infinite number of items. The Necronomicon was snuggly tucked away in that pocket dimension. The back of the book was laced with papers that had the fire glyphs on them so that when the opportunity presents itself, Luz would activate the glyphs and it would set the book ablaze.

“I sense that they must be here for that book in your possession,” Hypnos said.

“We have to get back to the Isles, then,” Amity said. She looked at the frail old man. “Do you have a portal to the Isles in your workshop?”

Hypnos crossed his arms. “An infinite number of portals. Don’t even begin to assume that your world is impenetrable from me.”

Luz firmly gripped the bag. “We can’t go back now.”

Amity’s head swerved back almost falling off. “Why not?”

“We can’t let Emperor Belos’ army level this city. And besides, what if Belos had laid a trap for us when we got back?”

“Well, that could may as well be true, but-”

“And what could you possibly do anyway?” Hypnos interrupted, “Amity doesn’t have her witch body so she cannot do magic without her bile sac, and Luz, magic is scarce in the Earth realm; you cannot even use those glyphs here, can you?”

Luz kicked her foot in dejection. “That is true, I admit.”

“The only suggestion I have is to allow yourself to be captured.”

“Wha?” Amity shouted.

“Sh...sh...” Hypnos held his bony finger in front of his mouth. “If you truly care about these civilians, then perhaps offering yourselves up will be a temporary fix to avoid further harm.”

Luz and Amity looked at each other for a considerably long time, dread being the most prevalent emotion they were feeling. They heard the sound of screaming coming from the civilians being cornered by the armored fiends. Amity saw the determination in Luz’s eyes, the same determination she saw back when she properly met her at the witch convention. Luz was a lot of things: reckless, stupid...very, very stupid...well, she could take it a step further and call her an idiot who also was rather intolerable once her mind became fixed on the subject at the time. But she was also very compassionate and considerate. It was this reason, or a combination of all the aforementioned reasons, that Amity couldn’t help but love her.

“If that is what it takes to stop Belos, then I guess we can do it,” Luz said at last.

She took the horn and handed it to Hypnos. “Will you take this back to the Boiling Isles for us?”

Hypnos nodded. “I will, darling; besides, from what I am sensing, King and the others are at Belos’ kingdom as we speak.”

As he turned to head back into the store, Luz stopped him again. “Could I ask something else of you?”

“What is it, child?”

“Could we have the jar with the shoggoth inside it?”

“My, whatever for?”

“It’s just that I feel we might need it once we get back to the Isles,” Luz explained.

Hypnos sighs. “Kids these days.”

Odalia was levitating in the air with the staff in her hand. She watched the armors dismantle cars and tossing scraps of metal onto the mass of panicking people. A wicked smirk was on her face. For so long she had reviled humans, something every witch in the Boiling Isles was drilled into believing by the Emperor. It brought a little bit of warmness in her petrified heart that pumped the blood of her bloodline. After waiting a few minutes for her targets to come out of hiding, she was slowly becoming bored.

She scanned the surroundings and saw a row of six people running in the same direction. She pointed the staff towards the group and began to charge the staff. A red, all-consuming glow illuminated from the gem before a huge, red wave of energy bolted from it. It sliced into the concrete, creating a large, continuous array of cracks. Underneath the concrete, an earthquake shuffled the chunk of the road the six people were stranded on. Powerless, Odalia floated over to the civilians, intimidating them with her staff.

“Where do you think you’re going?”

A portly man took a knee, holding his hands to shield his face. “Please, ma’am, spare us!”

Odalia scoffed at the man. “A spineless rat; unsurprising of you lowly human scum.”

She shot a red ball towards him to force him to step back. Once he did, he was cowering with the others stranded. Odalia eyed each of them, uncertain of what to do at the moment to them. “You may not move until I figure out what to do with you miserable creatures.”

“Please don’t kill us!” a red-haired woman yelled incessantly.

“I won’t,” Odalia said in false assurance, “as long as you do what I say.”

“Mrs. Blight, you better stop what you’re doing at once!”

Odalia turned around and saw two young women standing under the disheveled road. “Ah, you’re the famous Luz Noceda I have been hearing an awful lot about?”

“How do you know it’s us?” Luz asked. “I look nothing like the wanted picture I have back in the Isles.”

Odalia laughed. “Essential salts, human. There exists a deeper magic one that is incomprehensible to lowly people as you.”

Amity stepped in front of Luz giving her mother a hateful stare. “Mom, why are you laying this attack on Luz’s home?”

“Our emperor Belos had granted me entry into the Emperor’s Coven.”

Amity’s eyes widened behind her glasses. “Impossible; that goes against the entire method of enlisting witches to join the coven. And I thought you...”

Odalia tilted her staff. “Regardless of how I got myself into this lavish position, Emperor Belos entrusted me with carrying out his will; the Day of Unity has begun!”

Luz stepped closer. “Mrs. Blight, I mean no disrespect because you are my good friend’s mother, but can’t you see that Belos wishes to destroy this world?”

Odalia scoffed. “Who cares about this meaningless world when through my master we can make new ones?”

Amity clenches her fists. “You are willing to sell what dignity you have left to some maniac?”

“How dare you speak of Emperor Belos in such disdain!?” She looked at Luz with enough intensity, fire could have danced in them. “What other blasphemous things have you been telling her?”

Odalia levitated down the chunk of road and tapped Luz with the staff. Amity pried it off Luz’s shoulder. “Enough of that!”

“Why do you care so much for this rat?” Odalia growled “why would you throw away your future by betraying the will of our master all for this miserable planet?”

“All my life, I allowed you to control my life; you made me end my friendship with Willow for your own convenience. You forced me to be friends with Boscha when I hated her. I became some cruel, despicable jerk who only cared about trampling the competition. But...Luz is different. She...liked me for me. Not because I was some upper-class witch; not because I was a Blight. She started off being a nuisance.”

Luz turned her eyes down. Amity saw this and pat her shoulder. They looked at each other for a long time as if they were having a mental conversation. Luz nodded and backed away.

“But...she helped me that one time when Otabin became a huge monster and nearly destroyed the library; she helped me to face my personal fear; she made me realize how wrong I was to kick Willow out of my life because of some threat you and my Dad made. I realize now that my desires of getting enlisted into the Emperor’s Coven was truly not what I wanted.”

Odalia raised her eyebrow. “Oh? And why is that?”

“You were the one that really wanted to be a part of the Emperor’s Coven, weren’t you?”

Odalia leaned back, stammering. “What? No, it was always-”

“You failed several times with snagging a spot on the coven, so when you had me, you decided to mold me into wanting that when it was really for you, didn’t you?”

Odalia scratched her chin for a moment. Another psychotic smirk formed on her lips. “I guess there is no real reason to deny it now; that may as well be the case, but look at you, really.”

Luz was back to being incensed by what Odalia was implying. “No daughter of mine would ever go out of their way to try to overthrow an empire; why can’t you be more like your siblings?”

Odalia snapped her fingers to direct the black knight suit to her side. He still had Edric in its colossal hands. It took some time for the two girls to digest what they were seeing, but when it hit them, it did so like a ton of bricks. Amity held the palms of her hands against her mouth to stifle a scream. Edric looked worse than he was initially; now it appeared that his skin was barely holding onto his bones. He was cut down from his initial bodyweight now reminding Amity of the fragility of a butterfly. Edric wheezed but it hurt him immensely like pins were being jabbed into him.

“Mom...what...what have you done to him?” Amity asked demandingly.

“Just necessary sacrifices for the future of the Isles,” Odalia stated plainly.

The cold, disconnected way Odalia exposed her sins unsettled the two. They had thought they could reason with her without being provoked into fighting her (especially because of their magic being gone due to their new bodies), but all bets were off in that moment.

Amity made a grab for the staff and grappled with it. “What are you little miscreant doing now!?”

“I am going to break that staff in two to deprive you of whatever pleasure you derive from it!”

The two family members continued to grabble for the staff when Luz saw the six people still stuck. She looked around for some way to get up there. Sweat beat down the two females’ foreheads the more they struck at each other. Her mother was a lot of things, but she could not deny that she was skilled in her craft. Amity clamped her teeth on her mother’s right arm spurring her into screaming. When she shrieked, she unwittingly cast a red ball of destructive power towards a building and it shattered all the glass in the building and destroyed the foundation.

A nerve pulsated against Odalia’s forehead. “Enough of this!”

She smacked Amity across the street causing her to hit a light post. She darted her eyes and saw Luz trying to find a way to get to the captives. Odalia sat down on the staff and made an upward flying motion. The dark magic inside the staff activated and shot Odalia skyward. The six were roughly forty feet from the ground and in danger of falling from the height.

The captives were once again washed in fear. She scanned them over. Besides the fat man and the red-haired girl, there was a short, bearded man without any hint of hair on his head and an orange shirt and blue jeans. Another one was an elderly woman with two kids to her side. Since they looked like her, Odalia could infer that they must have been the woman’s grandchildren. A boy and a girl. Odalia smiled again and flew closer towards the woman. She clung onto the sides of the kids’ arms. She was five feet tall as opposing Odalia’s height at 6 ft 1 in, but she was stout for her age.

“Don’t you even think of harming my grandkids, ya witch!”

“Why thank you,” Odalia said, “they always said that the older you are, the wiser you get.”

She grabbed the old woman’s shoulders and pitched her aside. The two siblings tried to run, but the older woman was quicker. She seized both of them by the arm and flew back down with the staff. Both of the children were sobbing loudly, mucus dripping from their noses. Odalia presented the two children before a concerned Luz.

“What are you thinking of doing with those kids!?”

“A little game; I am sure that you know why I am here?”

Luz nodded.

Odalia firmly propped the tip of the staff under the chin of the young boy who was no more than eight. Luz’s eyes widened. There was no way that Odalia would do what she thought.

“I will give you till the count of three to hand over the Necronomicon to me in orderly fashion, or I will use the unholy power of the Outer God to tear this cockroach’s head clean off.”

“Odalia, ma’am, please,” Luz begged, “this is madness!”

“I am already on 2 right now, human,” Odalia announced, “use your time wisely.”

Odalia activated the magic within the gem and it glowed again. The boy’s tears rolled down his cheeks and underneath his tilted neck. Odalia kept her eyes locked onto the human girl while still holding a praying mantis-like grip on her victim.

Luz scrambled with her bag and opened it. Amity awoke from her unconsciousness to see Luz retrieving the Necronomicon. They both shared a look of equal concern and the mutual understanding. Luz breathed heavily and slipped the evil book from the deepest compartments of the bag. She then placed the Necronomicon on the ground and slid it towards the mad woman.

“There; now let them both go.”

Odalia lifted her hands allowing the sobbing boy to wrestle his way out of her grip. He met up with his sister and, without much prompt, they darted away to find their grandmother. Odalia grabbed the book and held it with both of her hands.

“Wise choice, human.”

Odalia placed two fingers into her mouth to whistle. And it is with that, the armor suits stopped their senseless rampages and turned to look at their leader. They wheezed and continually broke apart piece by piece only to try to reassemble themselves. Luz covered her ears when she heard the screaming that the armor suits were making. But their screaming was done completely inside of their minds. Hundreds, maybe thousands of shrieks of burning, electric misery was ringing in their spiritual eardrums. All the screams came together to form one unison of endless suffering in a cataclysmic symphony.

Each scream was like rusted nails scratching against an endless array of chalkboards. A piercing, sharp pain to obliterate one’s eardrums. Whatever these suits of armor were, they were conceived through an insidious ritual and are desperate for the sweet release of death.

“Luz? What is it?”

Luz found herself sprawling on the ground with Amity to her side. Unlike her human friend, Amity heard screaming, but it was not of the visceral variety. But Luz felt her mind becoming undone, or, worse yet, melting and pooling out her ears. Odalia walked towards her amused.

“It’s an odd thing, really. With that kind of response, I assume that you personally knew those witches whose souls were welded to make the armor?”

Luz looked up; her eyes bloodshot. “What?”

Before she could inquire of the Blight family matriarch further, she and Amity were spirited away by the suits of armor and ushered into a portal.

#the owl house #owl house #fanfiction #cthulhu mythos #cthulhu #mythos #amity blight #blight family #luz noceda #owlhouse

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milja-svartur · 5 years ago

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LFRP - Milja Svartur

She's in that femme fatale territory; A captive slave who's been recently liberated and has acquired a taste for blood in the process. Very familiar with being objectified in the past, Milja now utilizes this to her advantage to exact vengeance/catharsis. Having been swept up into the throes of a traveling caravan known as "The Hiraeth Haj" early on, she had been initiated into a life of crime practically from the moment she left the Wood.

Presently on the payroll for Reign Enterprises, Milja is a self trained healer who picked up on a great deal of Astromancy during her years with the Hiraeth Haj, and is surprisingly adept with maiming as much as she is with mending. Reputed to be very sweet, pleasant, and polite, direct interactions may reveal there's a lil somethin'-somethin' off. While often flirtatious, she can occasionally seem naive about the world around her, and has been described as "unhinged"

"You've been kind enough to take me under-wing, but I am afraid I do not have a singular answer-- I desire to help as much as hurt, heal as much as maim-- but I am selective in both. I can don a smile amidst a house on fire with the best of 'em. Should you demand it, I could stroke an ego as well as a cock; But even I have my limits, and I can say with certainty that is far exceeding them."

The Basics ––– –

Name: Milja Svartur. City name: “Cherry Blossom”

Age: 33

Birthday: 4th Sun of the 5th Astral Moon

Race: Viera, Veena

Gender: Cis Female

Sexuality: Heterosexual

Marital Status: Withheld

Server: Balmung

Alignment: True Neutral, though may occasionally present as Chaotic Neutral.

Physical Appearance ––– –

Hair: Glossy bone white interspersed with a deep mauve-pink

Eyes: Dilute amaranthine, like Althyk Lavender

Height: 5 fulms, 8 ilms

Build: Bodacious: lean with ample feminine curves

Distinguishing Marks: She wears a collection of faded scars like souvenirs. They riddle her body, though are not terribly noticeable without looking closely. While she has no permanent tattoos, Milja is often marked with elaborate henna patterns on her hands.

Common Accessories: She typically wears any variation of gold collar, of which she has a perpetually growing collection of. While not an accessory, she favors wearing dark make-up and accentuates it with gilt and gold dust powders.

Personal ––– –

Profession: Employee of Reign Enterprises: Seduce and Destroy most of the time, but eye candy for the rest of it. Escort for hire.

Hobbies: Writing haikus, indulging in various cultural events, all sorts of entertainment, singing, gathering herbs, gutting men like fish, baking, eating at various establishments, and working with her hands.

Languages: Eorzean Common, fluent in body language.

Residence: A small apartment in the Mist, though she’s at home enough out in nature.

Birthplace: Othard, Skatay Range

Fears: Disappointing those she values the opinion of, ever finding herself in captivity again, one-sided relationships, being useless or insignificant, Leeches, and to a lesser extent, Crocs.

Relationships ––– -

Spouse: None

Children: None

Parents: Kaja (Mother), Styr (Father)

Siblings: None (at least none that she is aware of.)

Traits ––– -

* Bold your character’s answer.

Extroverted / In Between / Introverted

Disorganized / In Between / Organized

Close Minded / In Between / Open Minded

Calm / In Between / Anxious

Disagreeable / In Between / Agreeable

Cautious / In Between / Reckless

Patient / In Between / Impatient

Outspoken / In Between / Reserved

Leader / In Between / Follower

Empathetic / In Between / Apathetic

Optimistic / In Between / Pessimistic

Traditional / In Between / Modern

Hard-working / In Between / Lazy

Cultured / In Between / Uncultured

Loyal / In Between / Disloyal

Faithful / In Between / Unfaithful

Additional Information ––– –

Smoking: No, thank you.

Drugs: Hard pass.

Alcohol: Will indulge socially, exclusively in the presence of those trusted. Finds excessive drinkers to be weak in character.

Historic Information ––– –

Milja was a child of the Wood in a Veena tribe which settled high in the Skatay Range during the Garlean occupation of Dalmasca. Being a very traditional tribe, rather than be exiled and bring shame to her kin, she voluntarily elected to leave and go out into the world to experience other places, people, and cultures at 25 years old. Within the first few months she was swept up into the throes of a traveling caravan in Othard by a Roegadyn named Ous, lured with sweet promises he could hardly deliver on. Essentially Ous and his lackeys were land pirate con-men, gamblers, slavers; Criminals who were known in various circles between The Far East and Eorzea as "The Hiraeth Haj".

What began as a consensual relationship was revealed to be something else shortly after embarking on her journey, and young Milja was essentially held captive, circumscribed to a life not her own and hid away from the world under less than pleasant circumstances. At 33 (recent/present), the particular caravan she was associating with was targeted by Reign Enterprises, which Milja believed had been employed to deal with the travelers by some organization or another, surely miffed by one of their many transgressions. During this exchange, the vardo where Milja resided went up in flames, and she was extracted by Dravitus, head of Reign Enterprises, where she has been employed since. As for the circumstances surrounding the events of her liberation; Very little information is known, save for the hushed rumors which circulated upon her enlistment into Reign Enterprises and have since settled down.

Find more information, art, and aesthetics - https://milja-svartur.tumblr.com/

RP Hooks ––– –

Viera Proud: While she may no longer have as close ties to the Wood as she once held, and is contented with the life she leads now, Milja occasionally pines for the culture and kin she has voluntarily left behind. She is interested in other Viera and the circumstances which surrounded their departure (or continued connection) to the Wood.

Seduce & Destroy: Comfortable in her own skin, Milja tastefully flaunts what she has and will utilize feminine wiles as a means to an end. As an employee of Reign Enterprises, she engages in less than decent exchanges (up to a point) to advance initiatives as they may benefit her employer, but she will also engage in more recreational exchanges.

Teacher’s Pet: Opportunities to bring new (illicit) business and forge connections with other criminal contacts for Reign Enterprises brings Milja the biggest rush. Looking for business opportunities? Share your pitch. She’s more than happy to lend a long, fluffy ear, and perhaps even a hand.

Unwitting Savior: Milja is, by nature, empathetic and nurturing. She is also subtly sadistic, which results in a taut dichotomy that primes her to fill the role of someone’s errant heroine. Your character is in a tight place? Being abused or taken advantage of? Is subjected to the whims of a badguy™? Call Miss Milja-- service with a sadist’s smile.

Bad Girl with a Good Heart: While she may engage in criminal activity, enjoy brutalizing, dress like a high class harlot, and is capricious as they come, she is is loyal to the core. Milja is a good ol’ fashioned ride or die lady (you heard it right, underneath what very little clothing she wears, she is, in fact, a proper lady) who looks out for those she cares for while operating under her own set of conditions: doing bad things for the right reasons.

OOC/Contact Information ––– –

I am happy to entertain walk-up RP in game, but can also be found on discord (Poufkin#5707) or through tumblr: https://milja-svartur.tumblr.com/!

Veteran RPer who is new to the FF scene. How I have avoided this inevitable fate for as long as I have is beyond me.

Multi-para RP preferred... occasionally slow. I am sorry!

EST time zone, usually available after 8PM or on weekends. Also work full time. Also am a grad school student. 😬

Really friendly, kinda shy, derpy, and harmless. Please don’t hesitate to reach out!

#milja svartur #viera #vieraffxiv #lfrp #crystal lfrp #balmung #balmung rp #oc roleplay #roleplay #ffxiv roleplay #balmung lfrp

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mensrazorreviews-blog · 4 years ago

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The best mens razor

I’m fanatical about shaving and razors, both professionally and personally. I wrote Wirecutter’s original shaving guide, which appeared in 2015. And I’ve covered the shaving industry since the late 1980s.1 I’ve tried and loved shaving with everything from straight razors and old-school double edges to disposables to electric razors.

One thing I’ve learned about shaving is that every face is different. My personal recommendations mean little. Individual variables include skin sensitivity, ethnicity, hair growth rates, beard thickness and growth direction, and age (yours and your blades). So we enlisted a diverse crew of testers, including people of Hispanic, African American, South Asian, Southeast Asian, and European descent, with various levels of beard growth, coarseness, and shaving frequency. The panel spent several months with our final group of test razors. We backed this up with research, looking , studies that looked at what makes certain blade and razor technologies work, and specific info about Who this is for

There are lots of ways to get rid of a beard, and if you’re happy with your current method, stick with it. Here we are focusing on cartridge-based razor systems containing between three and six blades. This encompasses the vast majority of razor and blade choices you’ll find at retail stores, including most of Gillette’s offerings; the razors sold by shave subscription plans like Dollar Shave Club and Harry’s; as well as the house brands sold at most chain stores.

We made this choice because we believe that most folks want to shave quickly, efficiently, and with the lowest possibility of nicks and cuts

As mentioned above, most cartridge razors have between three and six blades. But how many blades do you need? In a study funded and conducted by Gillette and published in the British (PDF), Gillette discussed the process it calls the “hysteresis effect.” The term, borrowed from physics, means the action of multiple blades against your skin and hair; the first blade pulls the hair, and subsequent blades continue pulling and cutting the pulled hairs, theoretically resulting in a closer shave. In the study, Gillette’s researchers note: “Hair mobility can be exploited to provide a measurable improvement in closeness, and this has formed the basis for multi-blade razor strategies for many years.”

But there’s a caveat, the paper says. Blades have to be the proper thickness. They have to be spaced properly, so that they clear debris and prevent skin from bulging into the spaces between blades. Those two attributes can work against each other, and closely spaced blades can clog more easily, especially if you have coarse or close-growing hair—which is why five blade razors can be problematic for some and work magnificently for others.

If you have the time, or if you appreciate ritual and aesthetics, you should consider trying an old-school safety razor with a double-edged blade. These hefty, steel cutting tools and their ultrasharp, economical blades have a welcome learning curve and sit at the center of a shaving culture that turns the experience into something beyond a quick removal of facial hair. Old-school shavers reading this story are likely already outraged by our decision not to condemn cartridge shaving and fully embrace double-edged razors. We understand and profoundly apologize. If you’re interested in that kind of experience, turn to a website

On the other end of the spectrum, we’ve decided to eliminate disposable razors from our testing pool. In our 2015 guide, we wondered when disposable razor manufacturers would offer razor recycling in the US, as they’d begun to do overseas. We decided to eliminate disposables because no such programs had emerged, but just as I filed this story, Gillette announced that it was starting a nationwide razor recycling program that looks truly commendable: It will accept, either by mail or at drop-off points, all brands of razors, disposable or otherwise, and all packaging, for recycling. It's still less wasteful and more energy-efficient to use a reusable handle than to ship and recycle a disposable one, but that may lead us to return disposable razors to a future guide.

What about electric razors? They’re a perennial gift, are great for travelers or folks who want a quick shave anywhere, are more convenient than a traditional blade because they don’t require foam or gel, and are less likely to nick you. But they need power, are comparatively bulky, and at $200 a pop, they exceed the cost of two years of weekly blade replacements with the Mach3.

For travelers, or people who prize convenience

For this guide, we narrowed our testing pool down to cartridge razor systems—multi-blade units where you buy the handle once, then refill it with disposable cartridges. In recent years, shave subscription plans have given Gillette and Schick some competition. Dollar Shave Club—which rebrands razors made by Korean personal care giant Dorco—and Harry’s, which imports blades from a factory it owns in Germany—are the best known plans, and they’ve led Gillette and other razor makers to offer similar programs and even cut prices on their own cartridges. At the same time, the

We primarily looked at razors with refills that run around $2 a cartridge, which we think is a fair price for most shavers—but a bargain is only a bargain if you get a good shave for your money, and two bucks can buy a good shave, but it can also buy a horrendous one. We compiled a list of the most important features of a good razor:

Comfort during and after use: This means that the razor feels good on your face—it glides well, cutting without pulling or tugging. If the razor has a lubricating strip, it shouldn’t turn into a slippery mess. Modern multi-blade razors rarely nick or cut, so any razor that consistently did was eliminated. And shavers should continue to feel comfortable after shaving, without redness, irritation, or ingrown hairs.

A handle that works: A handle should have a good grip—any razor that slipped when wet during our testing was instantly disqualified. A razor handle should maneuver around the contours of your face without you having to twist and angle it too much, and we believe a heavier handle is better, since it offers more control.

Multiple blades: is certainly enough to get the job done, and . But we’ve done enough testing to believe that you get a quicker, smoother shave from three-blade razors. Some people will do better with five blades—but these more densely packed blades can clog more easily, and no matter how many blades are in the razor, it has to rinse well.

Closeness: Shaving enthusiasts look for a “BBS” shave—“baby’s butt smooth.” Having changed a lot of diapers in my day, I can tell you that that’s a somewhat spurious attribute, but we looked for a close shave without cuts and irritation.

While we considered blade durability, it ended up not being a deciding factor because it varies substantially from person to person. How long a blade lasts depends on your particular hair and shaving cadence: If you have very coarse whiskers, you’re going to wear out blades more quickly. Gillette claims its blades last up to a month, where Dollar Shave Club pushes subscribers to change blades weekly.

I personally purchased and tried more than 30 different cartridge systems, ranging from double-blade systems up to Dorco’s seven-bladed beast. It was fairly easy to eliminate some: cheaper store brands that, for example, used quick-rusting carbon steel blades, rather than stainless. Shaving with store-brand razors is generally a pretty poor experience, and I’m confident that your face will detect the difference pretty rapidly.

#mens razor

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exosmuttytalk · 4 years ago

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Exo’s DO MV hairstyle rating: a comprehensive list

What is Love, 2012.

Probably the longuest DO’s hair ever been. Surprisingly, I don’t mind it. For some reason, the demarcation between the super long and super short hairs isn’t that stark. I like that. It looks super dated, tho.

Final rating: 5/10 KS

History, 2012.

A different version of the previous hairstyle but leaving the waves aside. I like it because it seems more achievable in his (probably) pin straight hair. Looks soft and fluffy :D

Final rating: 6/10 KS

Mama, 2012

Eh, no. He looks like a fluffy rhyno. What are those spikes on the sideburns? I bet all that fringe hair without gel to hold it flings straight into his eyes.

Final rating: 2/10 KS

Wolf, 2013

Let’s agree that everybody looked horrendous in Wolf. Like ma boy here who could be strutting the best catwalks in Syberia but the moment he stopped walking he’d freeze to death because he’s not wearing a coat. He looks like a fluffy mushroom and I wouldn’t eat one of those.

Final rating: 0/10 KS (Shame)

Growl, 2013

This must have been the “wildest” color KS’s ever wore, right? I don’t really know about this one. I can appreciate the attempt to change the color, as it’s very obvious he’s not one to experiment much with that sort of stuff. So A for effort. Now, that fringe is all messed up. When his hair falls down naturally without being gelled up he probably has strands sticking out in different directions and all different lengths.

Also, the more I stare at this picture, the more I can sense Uncanny Valley creeping from my toes up and I don’t like that.

Final rating: 3/10 KS

Miracles in December, 2013

Here KS has what in my language is called a bowl cut. I don’t even know if that’s the term in English and I don’t really feel like looking it up.

Either way, from what I’ve seen in the Korean media I’ve had access to is that this hairstyle seems to be super common among teens and young adults. That surprised me because where I am it’s a hairstyle reserved to little kids.

I understand the appeal, tho. He looks soft and cuddly despite having been ghosted. He’s not menacing (because you can’t see his brows). Makes you want to give him hot cocoa and bundle him up inside a big, soft, fluffy white blanket.

Final Rating: 8/10 KS

Overdose, 2014

So baaaad... I mean so gooooooooood.

I really like this one. It’s longer, but it’s longer in an unniform manner. Also, this looks like he’s woken up in the morning with each strand of hair in a different possition. He’s then washed his face and making sure he’s wetting his hair as well. He’s us’ed a comb to make a very precise parting but then hasn’t combed through the rest of the hair, so now that’s getting dry, all the strands are starting to stick up again.

That’s very relatable.

Final rating: 8/10 KS

Call me Baby, 2015

This is one of KS’s best looks and I will die on this hill.

It’s rather short. Blunt. Structured. Has a little flair but the flair is not too long that it sticks into his eyes. The color is natural and dark but has subtle golden and redish highlights. Looks very effortless. NOICE.

Also, filled in, strong eyebrows.

Final rating: 9.5/10 KS (Because there’s always room for improvement)

Love me Right, 2015

Ohh, yes. This is the second main contender to the first position, Again, to me this looks effortless, which is exactly the type of lifestyle I can see KS having. Chill, easy, no fuss, manageable. I woke up like this and I think I last brushed my hair two days ago. A natural man.

I love the styling too.

Bonus Chanyeol happily vibing in the brackground.

Final rating: 9,5/10 KS

Sing for you, 2015

KS is barely visible in this MV. You know he’s there; you can feel him looming ominously around the borders of every scene. You can hear his voice. But you can’t really see him. The natural darkness of a B&W video shot in a supposed snowstorm grants a shadow for him to disguise himself into.

That’s the reason why I’ve had to take those screenshots directly on the mv and why we can barely see his hair. But we can imagine. Looks shot and functional. Not so short and functional as it’s military counterpart. Seems like it would be nice to stroke it. It’s not flashy or attention grabbing. Discreet, but with a little room to play, represented as the spikiness of the fringe area.

Imma give this one a lower rating because I feel there’s another hairstyle that unites all those characteristics and that both KS and I like better.

Final rating: 8/10 KS

Lucky one, 2016

This is just a shorter version of the Sing for you supposed hairstyle. It’s alright. Although it’s a little bit lazy, I feel it fits the aesthetic of the video quite well. Clean and neat. I like how his perplexed expression during the beginning of this mirrors my own façade so well every time I rewatch this MV.

Final rating: 7/10 KS

Monster, 2016

The styling of the hair may be the exact same as in Lucky One, but I don’t really care. My eyes dart directly to the bruise on his cheeks and the scar on his eyebrow. The holes and burns on his clothes. There’s something really special in a rugged man for me.

Final rating: 8.5/10 KS

Lotto, 2016

This is a problem, because there’s two main stylings of which I hate the first one and really like the second one. In the first one, they obviously wanted him to look like he actually jumps into the cages with the roosters and physically trains them on fight. The second one looks pretty standard, soft and floofy. It’s shiny too and it looks healthy. Also I like the pirate like clothes styling here.

I’m conflicted.

Final rating: 4/10 KS

Dancing King, 2016

He doesn’t have a lot of screen time in this MV. Most of the time, he’s either on rehearsals or performing. He wears a lot of caps. I never really understand the purpose of a cap if you’re not out in the sun (or scaping fans and papparazzi). Seems easy to knock off accidentally, a gust of wind could suddenly come by and snatch it off your head. You are going to make it all sweaty because all that dancing and then you’re gonna have to stick it into the washing machine. Can you put a cap on the washing machine? Does it lose its shape or smth?

I digress. The cap is, despite all the previous reticence, one of the few accessories he seems to wear irl. So Imma going to give him a good rating for realism and for giving us a little more BTS content.

Final rating: 7/10 KS

Coming over, 2016

It was impossible to find still of the video but he wore the same styling as in this card, We have to set things straight. 2016 was a hell of a year. They released six different MVs, one of them a collaboration and one of them in japanese. There’s just not enough time for drastic hair changes. Hair doesn’t grow that fast. And it’s easier to leave the more lowkey members in a simple style so you have more time for the not that lowkey members. I get it. Imma a bit bored but I get it.

Final rating: 6.5/10 KS

Kokobop, 2017

Yeeeeees, the change we’d all been waiting for. Aaaaand I hate it. I dislike that his hair matches his jacket. I dislike the fact that even his eyebrows look color coordinated. If it wasn’t for the blue shirt, he’d look as if he had been passed through a sepia filter. Not into it.

Final rating: 3.5/10 KS.

Power, 2017

I love this whole look. Almost everybody’s looks, in fact. It seems like it was a very fun video shooting. We hadn’t seen a KS smile since love me right. He looks so young and playful, so boyish.

There’s not much to say about the hair. It’s all carelessly hidden under a crownless cap? and some other accessories, but we can appreciate he’s gone back to his natural color. Praise the stylist noonas.

Final rating: 7.5/10

Universe, 2017

Ahhh, my white whale in the shape of a head. You were short and fleeting, but at least there’s a MV and a whole film to remember you.

I love bald KS. I definitely don’t appreciate Eggsoo, but what’s not to love about a shaved head? Especially, his bald head. He’s extremelly symmetric and looks so uniform all around. It probably feels like a stroking a very dense but soft brush. He’s said himself he like this hairstyle. It’s strong. Durable. Reliable. Pragmatic. Still, soft, aesthetically pleasing. All KS really is.

I also love the lighting and the clothe styling in this MV, it’s like a honey and caramel wet dream.

Final rating: 9,5/10 KS

Electric Kiss, 2018

There’s not much to say about this either because it’s not easily visible. Looke like he has his sides shaven. The top is definitely longer but not a lot. Unceremoniously passes.

Final rating: 6/10 KS

Tempo, 2018

I think he looks specially good in tempo. Boyish but not too much. Longer hair, which is a change. The worst part is that he doesn’t have a lot of parts and even less screen time. I love how his lipstick matches the background.

Final rating: 7.5/10 KS

Love Shot, 2018

I love this. Men driving are a kink for me. Black hair, yes. Aviator jacket, yes. Strands of hair loosely framing your face, yes. You usual stoic expression, yes.

Final rating: 7.5/10

His final MV pre-enlistment was a success. Let’s hope for more good looks when he returns.

#exo #DO #do kyungsoo #exo hair #do hair #exo hairstyle

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whatwashernameagain · 6 years ago

Text

Keep him safe - Chapter 25

You can read the previous Chapters here: Ch 1, Ch 5, Ch 10, Ch 15, Ch 20, Previous Chapter, Ao3 Link, Lo’s, Pat’s and Virgil’s aesthetics, Fantasy AU You are Magical, I’m dying to be with you

Pairings: Logan/Patton, Roman/Virgil

Words: 8.095

Warnings: violence marked with ///////////////////////, sexual abuse marked with +++++++, blood, insults, self-hate, bad expectations of relationships, mentioned unhealthy weight loss, body insecurity

Summary: Detective Logan Sanders and his best friend and dorky partner Roman Prince have made a dear friend in the lovely pattisier Patton. Logan however feels a lot more than friendship for the sweet man, even though he knows he cannot possibly have him. Their routine is broken abruptly when Logan finds bruises on Patton’s fair skin and slender wrists he could hardly have received from his costumary clumsiness. Meanwhile his partner Roman has his own demon to fight, which comes in the form of a little delinquent who seemed to have been pulled into a street gang quite against his will. Roman is determined to help the strange young man. It would be so much easier though if he just stopped hissing at him!

Notes: I have nothing to say for myself. My betas @ultimate-queen-of-fandoms2 and @hanramz-the-fander are the best, I love all of you, please take care of yourself! And check out the art at the end of the chapter!

Chapter 25

A thunderous crash following a whoop of joy penetrated the peacefulness of the isolated office. Both Logan and Captain Holt ignored the sound with the stoic determination of men used to the shenanigans of Jake Peralta and Roman Prince respectively.

The aforementioned detective had survived a near encounter with a stray bullet that had (barely) grazed his ‘beautiful face’ and had therefore immediately enlisted both Roman and Gina to throw him a party fit for the miracle of his survival and his general good looks and heroism. Roman had instantly thrown himself into organizing a play fit for the epic tale and had begun roping in officers too slow to escape his enthusiasm. The young man who had been swooning over him the last few days had been delegated to raiding the lost-and-found box for costumes. Logan estimated that their Captain would permit them another 48 minutes of frivolous displays before returning the precinct to its proper state of professionalism, barring a certain margin of error in case the fire extinguisher should make an appearance once again of course. Roman had been drawing up rather disturbing images of fog and explosions. Understandably, both men had therefore chosen to hide from the undignified behavior behind the safety of the closed office door.

“Would you care for an unsalted, assorted mixture of nuts, Nicodemus?” The Captain’s pleasantly monotonous voice inquired politely. The lack of emotion displayed by the other man was just to Logan’s liking today. A song being pitched and a shirt hitting the glass door with a ‘thud’ behind him were stoically ignored.

The therapy rat in question squeaked in affirmation, curiously standing on its hind-legs to pay attention to their conversation. The choice of respectively one almond, peanut, walnut, hazelnut and pistachio kernel were laid out before it in an orderly row. Nicodemus grabbed the hazelnut with his little paws, before giving a polite squeak.

“A very sensible choice.” Holt commended. “In my opinion, the pistachio kernel is such a purposelessly showy nut. It is certainly nut the most nutritious nut, despite its… gaudy coloring.”

Trying and failing not to show a small smile at the bad pun and the following association, Logan responded, “Indeed.” Nicodemus hopped around the laid out object of their observations and gave the Captain an unobtrusive tap on the hand like Roman had taught him before selecting a walnut.

“Your therapy rat displays quite pleasing manners.”

“He certainly does. I would expect nothing less from a distinguished pet such as him.” Another crash rattled the office, followed by a wailing complaint. “Unlike other… pets I have been told I have apparently acquired.” Logan grumbled, thinking back of Remy calling Roman his pet. Preposterous.

Meanwhile, Roman had scaled the makeshift stage and was narrating ‘The Incredible Story of the Heroic Survival of the Amazing Jake Peralta’, starring Jake Peralta as Detective Peralta, among other ‘volunteers’.

“Just as our dramatic hero believed the day to be saved, evil rose from the shadows beyond!” Roman cried, narrating the event that had caused his colleague to tragically wear a colorful band aid over his brow from his perch on four pushed together desks. He was a grand storyteller, lovely and captivating, making his audience wait with baited breath for the next part of his masterfully orchestrated play as he held his pose. And held his pose.

Annoyed, he cleared his throat, his voice becoming slightly high pitched. “Evil rose from the shadows beyond!”

A bag of chips rustled among the waiting detectives. Roman keened in annoyance, feeling his theatrical genius slighted. This would not do, he was aiming for a tale worthy of Broadway producers here! Renewing his pose with passion, he screeched, “EVIL ROSE!”

With a sigh, Logan rose from his chair in the safety of adult company. “Would you please excuse me, I believe I am missing my cue.” Putting on a preposterous bowler hat stolen from evidence with very little enthusiasm, he slunk into the bullpen.

“Prepare to die, fiend!” He growled while stiffly waving around a spotted umbrella for ‘dramaturgical reasons’, incredulously wondering why on earth he was doing this. Roman’s face lit up with happiness.

***

‘My evil plans, foiled again!’ - Tesla, who wrote lines like those?! Logan’s face still burned at the memory of the acting he’d allowed his partner to talk him into, and in front of his colleagues no less. The things he’d uttered, just to make the childish detective happy. He had clearly softened and he blamed his partner. There would be no dessert tonight! As he’d escaped the precinct, Roman had just prepared to orchestrate a grand sequel. Clearly, the time for a strategic retreat had come. Patton’s company ought to be the safer one.

Yet, despite having come to a mutual agreement to accept the young man’s situation and remain friends, Logan felt ill prepared to enter the Pat-isserie. They might have spoken and hugged at the hospital, however he still feared the influence of the baker’s relationship on their daily interactions. Would he even be able to ignore what he knew was going on in his private life, pretend everything was alright and engage in shallow conversation like he had before? His emotions felt too powerful to treat the situation casually. Despite his cool exterior, Logan was an intense man. He did not know how to love someone halfway. He liked to pretend Roman was the one who followed him around, the one who depended on him, but had his partner not resisted his demanding attempts at taking him in, he would have had Roman under his wing in his flat within the first few months of their tentative friendship. He still only grudgingly accepted the fact that the other returned to his own apartment occasionally. Additionally, the fact that he had - there was no other way to describe it – adopted the little troublemaker Virgil the moment the younger man had shown weakness and caved to his aggressive attempts at caring for him made the truth Logan had tried hard to hide painfully apparent. He needed people to care for. By some stroke of luck Roman and Virgil, even Patton, still believed he was the composed one looking after all of them, the one in control they needed to rely on, but in reality he needed them so badly he felt lost and empty without them. Not being allowed to channel all of that protective anger and loving feelings left Logan a precariously balanced mess, threatening to tip and spill all of those unused, unwanted feelings all over their fragile relationship, suffocating it. Patton didn’t want the things he had to give. If he couldn’t manage to hold himself together, keep his intense longing and protective feelings as well as his anger and helplessness at bay, he’d be turned away. He’d understand it, too. His nerves in his throat, the tall detective evaded a swarm of laughing children holding sticky cupcakes in both hands and stepped into the cafe.

Warmth seeped into Patton so suddenly, it left him feeling lightheaded. Or perhaps it was the fact that he hadn’t eaten all day. He really wanted to look his best from now on, Trevor was not fond of the weight he tended to gain around his hips, and had also been too nervous to get much past the dizzying mix of hope and insecurity in his stomach. So much had happened. Despite the changes he and Trevor had agreed upon following the shocking conclusions he’d come to, seeing Logan was as pleasant as it usually was. He’d slipped through the door and had held it open for a bunch of escaping little ones, allowing them to pass by under his arm, drawing attention to how tall he was. He looked as handsome as ever in his tailored, dark blue suit and silken tie, pale skin contrasting attractively with his raven hair. He’d even brought Nicodemus, which Patton always loved. There was a sort of pride and confidence about the detective whenever he was accompanied by his littlest friend, which Patton found too adorable. The realization of how much he wanted their friendship to work hit him hard. Logan had never been supposed to know. He hadn’t wanted him to be a threat, or for him to see Patton this way. He hadn’t wanted to seem weak.

With both men held back by their own insecurities, finding common ground was hard. Upon facing each other, neither appeared to know how to begin their conversation. Noticing the dark shadows under the detective’s eyes, Patton found he knew what he wanted, though. He and Trevor finally had a real chance at a happy ending after all those years of making each other miserable, why shouldn’t it be possible for him and Logan to find a way to make things work? He’d just need a place to start, and he knew exactly the right one. Feeling a keen sense of Déjà-vu, he silently stepped up to the taller man, being squeaked at by a cheerful, gray rat. Like the first time they’d met, Logan was hard to read at first, closed off and a little intimidating. Yet, like all those months ago, Patton could see beyond the facade. Offering a soft smile, he allowed the other a moment to prepare before raising on his tiptoes and carefully wrapping his arms around his friend. Their embrace was less sure than it had become in the course of their relationship, influenced by the insecurity of their opposing interests as a cop opposed to a victim unwilling to let him protect him. As a result, the detective’s body felt stiff under his hands at first, his jaw tense, his gaze closed off. Patton was patient though. He knew for once there was nothing to say. He curled close, bringing their bodies into close contact, leaning his cheek against his shoulder and letting his affection speak for itself. Wanting to help the other relax, he made himself soft and warm, melting against the long lines of his body like a cat. Like a strange reversal of their first proper hug, finally, Logan softened under him, his breath leaving him with his fear, his arms finally coming up to embrace him properly instead of awkwardly resting on his sides. He needed to be held more than he’d known. Patton’s own nerves quieted, leaving a soothing calmness behind. The rise and fall of the other man’s chest against his gave him something to focus on that made everything else cease existing. As always, the patissier and detective found common ground in each others arms.

Having greeted Virgil and left his beloved Nicodemus with a purring and rolling kitten upstairs to nap, the detective got comfortable on his usual spot, reviewing case notes in his notebook and surreptitiously watching his friends for any signs of distress. Considering the things he now knew, a lump up bitter fear rose in his throat whenever he had the chance to think about the things Patton had to face alone. He worried, all day, every day. Try as he might, the spiraling thoughts stuck with him from the moment he woke with a nauseous feeling in his stomach to the moment he fell asleep. It haunted his dreams and made him wake up in a pool of sweat. He could not help remembering the things he’d seen in his line of work, the reports and statements of women and men abused by their partners, scarred physically and emotionally. They overlapped with reality whenever he looked up to see Patton twirl around, smile at a child or coo at Virgil. He was so soft, so tender and beautiful and easy to hurt. He swallowed and returned his gaze to the paper, trying and always failing to forget.

A weight settled next to him, clad in lavender wool and trailing wisps of flour.

“Logan?” Patton asked softly, pulling at the sleeve of his soft sweater.

“Yes, Patton?”

“I can hear you thinking all the way over there, would you like...”

Flushing hotly, the detective cast his gaze down, mortified at being so obvious. “I apologize.” He hastily cut in, making the other fall silent. “And also for interrupting you. I did not mean to be disrespectful.”

The smaller man smiled, the expression once again softening his face, making him very pretty indeed. “Oh, it’s okay. I just don’t want you to worry! I know your smart head is coming up with so many ideas, so it’s best we just talk about it, don’t you think?” He asked reasonably, settling down comfortably next to his fretting friend. The way he curled up made him small enough to easily fit against the other man’s side, had he wanted to.

“I just want you to know that I had a really great chat with Emile, he is such a delight and so clever and helpful! And I realized how much had been going wrong with the two of us – I guess you knew a lot about that, being a detective and really smart and all – so we talked, Trevor and I, and he agreed to go to couple’s therapy with me, anything I wanted, really, he is truly trying, Logan. It’s wonderful how far he’s come and how much better we understand our mutual fears and problems now. I feel like I know him so much better than I did before, we are much closer now. He wants this to work as much as I do and I really believe it will, so – please don’t look so concerned, I don’t want you to be afraid for me. It’ll be okay, I promise! This time, all will be well.” He implored, his hazel eyes wide and trustful, filled with hope. It made something sharp twist in Logan’s chest, deep down were he harbored so much warmth. He attempted a smile, wanting to preserve Patton’s hope. He couldn’t bear to see him hurt.

“I’m pleasantly surprised by your partner’s willingness to accommodate your wishes.” He uttered diplomatically. Patton, perceptive as he was, was onto him though.

“Then… why do you look so tense? Is everything okay?” He asked anxiously, fear making his stomach feel queasy. Swallowing down all the things he wished to say but had no right to felt like making a rock settle in his stomach.

“Yes, certainly.”

A moment ticked by where the baker observed his friend, his brow furrowed. He seemed to come to a decision. Taking Logan’s calloused hand in his and making the poor man blush dreadfully with nerves and longing, he took his time to find the right words. Knowing the shyness of the detective, he kept his eyes cast down so not to make him feel exposed.

“I know I had to push you away a few times to, um, to get to the point where I wouldn’t have to be afraid for… you respect my wishes, though. I believe that, and I need that from you, but that doesn’t mean we shouldn’t be honest with each other. There has to be something good about everything being in the light now. I think we need to talk openly, so no fear and resentment is between us, and I trust you, Logan.” Finally looking up, he added quietly. “I want to hear what you think.”

The older man took a deep, fortifying breath, disarmed by the honest wish. Still, fear of overstepping and of hurting those hopeful feelings made him hesitant. He felt like a villain, uselessly destroying this belief that things could be better.

“I… don’t think it will work as you expect it to.”

Patton’s eyes widened, growing hurt and wet. As he almost unconsciously pulled his hand back into his lap, his posture changed immediately, making him seem smaller. Feeling his breath catch in his throat, Logan attempted to explain his position, to make it better somehow.

“Patton, I apologize for causing you distress. Since I am hardly an expert on relationships, you have no need to heed my authority. You must consider the things I have been confronted with in the course of my work. I may have grown cynical. I may be wrong.” It cut him to say those words he could not believe, but pushing his opinion on the other would only push him away. Steeling himself, he added his most vulnerable thought despite his fear of how much it might reveal about his feelings.

“And although I deeply admire your ability to trust in the best in any individual, I also do not believe somebody who hurt you deserves the privilege to be with you. You should be with someone who cherishes the right to be by your side. Someone who sees you as worthy of love and protection.”

Breathing out a sad sigh, Patton softened. “It’s hardly a privilege!” He chirped, trying hard to make light of the situation with humor. Logan didn’t take the bait though. His face remained serious and earnest.

“I believe it is.”

His seriousness made the patissier pause. He had no idea how to respond to the depth of emotion he felt behind the words. A twisting, aching sensation of longing came over him unbidden. This was not fair! They were doing better than they had in years, he could not ruin their chance with his stupid heart! He loved Trevor, he had no right to yearn to know what it might be like to be taken home and belong to a man who believed having him was a privilege. Why did it feel so possible right now when the chance was farther away than ever? For a wild moment, he imagined just reaching out and touching Logan’s face, touching him, and just giving himself over to what felt so real all of a sudden.

He was being ridiculous.

Logan was – he was unreachable, and not only because Patton had nothing to offer to him and was probably stupidly imagining impossible things. He’d made his choice long ago and had even recently renewed his promise. He’d be Trevor’s anchor, his protector and caregiver – his everything. The weigh was heavy, but he’d bear it.

Trying to take away his caring friend’s suffering, and to convey some of the hope he’d found, he promised, “This time it will work. Trust me.”

If only Logan could know how much progress he’d made in understanding their dynamic. How hard Trevor tried. So much had changed and for the first time in years, Patton dared to genuinely trust that things would be okay.

“I hope you are correct. I may not believe he deserves to be with you, but I could never want you to be hurt again.”

The detective never lowered his head or hunched his shoulders, but the tension and pain around his eyes and jaw was clear to see.

Logan’s selfless honesty almost broke Patton’s heart. He could see how much the man was torturing himself and he wanted nothing more than to ease his suffering. The detective clearly hated his relationship and hurt whenever Patton returned to Trevor. He’d seen it in the crushed looks, felt it in the worried and protective way he’d cradled him close. Yet he still let him go without a fuss, relinquishing his hold on him with obvious difficulty. He even wished him well. And Patton should be happy. He’d been so afraid of Logan, of his fury, his power, his ability to hurt and break and force Patton to comply with his wishes through the authority of his position. His terror had almost driven them apart for good. Now that the detective accepted his needs and supported his choices despite his pain and anger, he should feel nothing but relief. And yet, he was proving everything Trevor had said about him right. He was foolish and his heart was quick and stupid. Logan was giving him what he’d fought for. His freedom to make his own choices, the right to choose who to be with - and some part of Patton wished he hadn’t. Now that the older man had set him free, all unlikely chances, all unrealistic dreams of being with him had vanished. Before the patissier had made his choice clear to the detective, there had at least been some lingering hope that perhaps, Logan was pursuing him after all. His hugs had been an offer of safety. At times, his touches had felt like a slow seduction, caressing him with utter gentleness, holding him firmly enough to make him feel kept and protected. The way his deep voice had spoken his name had been filled with tenderness. He’d felt so valued.

His heart was heavy as he realized there was no going back. Logan was still here, still looking at him with this impossible softness, but he had stopped fighting him on his decision. A decision he could not back down from, Patton knew that. But at the same time, he deeply regretted the loss of the possible future Logan’s fierce demands and threats to Trevor had symbolized. While his wave of fury and his loss of control had terrified him, Patton knew they had been an offer of a way out, an offer at something new. Even a way to show his appreciation perhaps? Men fought for what they loved, didn’t they? Possibly, his aggression might have been a sign of a deeper interest? This sort of aggressiveness had always accompanied any relationship he’d known after all. Trevor was so unbalanced because he loved him so much and feared to lose him, wasn’t he? And Logan had been ready to tear down walls and break bones to grasp Patton and take him home, away from his boyfriend and the constant doubt and guilt.

And he knew, it would have broken them apart.

Patton could not live in another relationship where he feared control and violence, where his choices were taken from him and where people even got hurt for him. Trevor was different. He was his responsibility and he knew what to expect from him. He hadn’t been able to help it and he was making an effort now. Logan on the other hand was more than that. Had he refused Patton’s demands, he might have been able to tear him and Trevor apart and even take him with him – there would be no one else left to turn to after all, no place to go but where the older man led him, but their relationship would have been doomed from the start. He’d be restricted and intimidated and would live with the knowledge that his decisions would not be respected. Logan was better than that and Patton deeply, desperately needed him to stay that way. He knew, in his bones, that he needed Logan to remain as good and kind and strong as he was. Someone to trust and look up to. Someone who trusted Patton and respected him. His existence gave him strength. His heart broke at the realization finally truly sunk in. This meant he would never be with the man. He could not leave Trevor on his own volition – not now when they were fixing things – and Logan could not force him or tempt him away since Patton could never feel safe or respected with him if he did.

He swallowed hard, casting his gaze down. His eyes burned.

He was such a mess. Stupid, stupid Patton. He should be happy right now, not cry over impossible things. He’d gotten everything he’d wanted – Trevor, his friends, a hopeful future – and here he was, moping over something he was not going to get anyway. Logan was out of his reach and probably not interested in someone as untidy and disorganized and overly emotional as himself. He’d find a beautiful and successful doctor or lawyer and marry them and be free of all those issues. And Patton would be with Trevor and all would be well. Yes.

Nodding to convince himself, he bravely tried to bring his sunny smile back, brushing his curling hair back to give himself time to compose himself. He was ruining their perfectly wonderful afternoon with his moping!

“Thanks for worrying. I appreciate you being there.” As Patton whispered those words, his throat grew tight. He felt his affection so strongly all of a sudden, as if he’d never see the other man again. For a moment, he felt so terribly trapped and lonely, as if he was locking himself away from everything that mattered to him. There was a distance between them he became desperate to bridge lest he’d lose his chance. He just needed to be held, just for a moment. Unable to give fair warning this time, he threw himself into Logan’s arms, burrowing his face in his chest and simply holding on. The detective tensed in surprise, before bringing his arms up automatically. He was obviously confused and overwhelmed with the sudden intensity of the situation, judged by his stuttering breath, but he never disappointed Patton, pulling him close instead of speaking – perhaps because he was floundering about what to say – and pressing him against his chest just right. The slight patissier drew a shuddering breath, not understanding why he felt so desperately needy. He couldn’t be close enough. Appearing to feel his need on some level, Logan leaned back and allowed his friend to sprawl over his chest, half in his lap, until he couldn’t see anything but the darkness those arms enveloped him in, feel his warmth and breath and smell his cologne and soap. As he was held tightly and safely, slowly, the panicked feeling started so recede. The heavy weight of loss and sadness in his chest would not quite go away, but even so, Logan’s hold made it easier to gain strength, to remember the good things. He was not losing his friend, he was right here. How silly he was! And most importantly, he loved Trevor. He really, truly did. Held safely, it was not impossible to remember how his boyfriend looked when Patton had made him truly happy. The image of his smiling face, the eyes crinkling at the corners, the little laugh, it made his heart swell. His joy brought Patton so much pleasure, he wanted to see more of it. He wanted him to be happy and he wanted to be with him in good times again. He looked forward to it. With new strength, he pulled back, smiling unconsciously at the memory of Trevor’s face lit up with honest laughter.

“Thank you.” He mumbled, grateful to the befuddled detective for offering his care without asking questions about his strange moods. Spurred by his hopefully swelling heart, filled with so much love and expectations for a bright future, he leaned up and kissed his detective’s cheek sweetly.

Drawing back, a flash of reddish blond caught his gaze in the window.

///////////////////////

The image of the two of them burned him whenever he closed his eyes, he’d never felt pain like this before, like it cut into him like a physical thing, making him flinch and curl around his wounded chest. For some reason, his thoughts were stuck on a random detail, so small in comparison to the devastating picture that had hit him like a slap in the face - the height difference between them seemed to circle around in his brain, stuck like a splinter he kept picking at until the skin bled, tiny and insignificant, but impossible to ignore, setting his nerves on fire and infecting him with red hot agony. He was tall.

Taller than him.

He’d looked so tiny in his arms.

His hands looked so big on him.

Proprietary.

Patton slipped through the door into their apartment Trevor had fled into just as it was about to fall shut, out of breath, his face ashen with horror. He stumbled over the tidy row of shoes in his haste, tumbling against the wall clumsily. He’d followed Trevor home as fast as his legs would carry him, terror making his heart thunder and his breath come in short pants. Raising his hands in a placating gesture, he tried to speak – tried to lie.

Trevor wouldn’t hear it again. He cut him off, expecting to sound loud, angry – yet his own voice sounded nothing like he intended, it was a shock to him, small, shaking, begging.

“What was that?! Why did you tell me- I thought – you said you’d be with me – you promised you wouldn’t – and with him -” He gasped, quivering. He could see nothing but Patton in the tall man’s arms. He’d been as good looking as he’d feared, composed and elegant and so much – too much to hope to compete with – he’d always known Patton would find someone better, someone who didn’t lose control again and again and again no matter how hard he tried, and he’d tried, every time he’d hated himself. And the other - he was just like he’d imagined him, countless times, taking Patton away, his large hands on his boyfriend’s hips. A wave of despair overwhelmed him. How could he go on now? He couldn’t lose the only thing that mattered – the worst thing wasn’t the touch – the loss, though.

“Why did you make me think we could fix –“ He gasped, bis sight blurry. “You- you made me th-think I could be good enough, I t-tried so hard, I – I tried – I always try-” He screeched suddenly. He knew what he had been doing, he hadn’t wanted to hurt him, but his temper, his anger, he just felt so weak and overwhelmed, sometimes he just couldn’t- but Patton had made him believe, he’d been so ready to try everything – but even as he’d made him hope, Patton had already moved on. He hadn’t even let him show him. He’d chosen something better.

He’d been in his arms. He’d kissed him. He’d reassured Trevor, looked him in the eye and said he loved him and then he’d gone straight to him. Why had he made him hope? Why would he torture him like that – play him like that?! It was so cruel. Did he think – was this a joke to him?!

The thought hooked into his mind like a claw, piercing deep, drawing hot, gushing blood. The powerful, seething, crimson tide rose in Trevor’s chest, higher and mightier with every thought of his failure, his loss, the betrayal. Furious anger swallowed him up like a wave of boiling, lashing water. The detective, he’d been after his boyfriend from the start – Trevor had known it. He’d avoided the cafe unconsciously, had known it would take Patton from him, had known he’d meet someone, even though he’d promised – he was overwhelmed, helpless, furious, he’d made his promise to make everything well just the night before. He’d thought it meant the world. A renewal, a way to finally be healthy and happy. He was a weary, so brittle, he’d wanted to believe it so badly. Patton had looked so earnest. They’d kissed, touched – he’d believed things would be well, trusted him with his life, didn’t he know how much Trevor had given to him, how much he needed-

But Patton hadn’t cared.

The wave rose. He was untethered. He was pulled under.

Carefully, Patton approached him and he lunged, backhanded the whore right across the face. A cry echoed across the vast, empty room. The crash of a body hitting the floor fueled something primal in him. The door slammed shut and he was onto his prey, his tormentor – the man who’d promised him everything and had ripped it all apart. The man he couldn’t live without. The man that had hurt him so much, so much. He was losing his hold, he felt hot humiliation burn in his veins, sizzling desperation. He’d been made a fool, Patton had never wanted to fix them, he’d laughed at him with the detective – he’d never been good enough. Everything was falling apart, the pieces were slipping from his fingers, he was so helpless, being bashed and pulled by his own conflicting emotions, he couldn’t survive without him, his everything, his Patton - who felt like he was better, who’d gone behind his back after giving him hope, he had betrayed him-

He grabbed Patton by the shoulder – so thin under his brutal hand, yanked him up - his whimper made blood and adrenalin flood his head, high pitched, grating. He couldn’t bear to hear it, so loud, too much, he hated – he needed to silence him.

Unseeing fury drove his fist into his victim’s stomach, making him cough and retch. Patton fell to the floor hard, his knees buckling uselessly under him. It wasn’t enough. His fist was driven down on him again, beating, ripping, destroying.

He couldn’t breathe, black spots appeared before his vision. A fist to the side of his head smashed him down hard, making blackness consume him for a shocking moment. Blood spilled from his split lip. The pain in his skull almost split him in half – he was disoriented – he needed to tell him – but his tongue wouldn’t work – everything was spinning, fear choking him with his thunderous heartbeats, he tried to bring his arms up to shield himself but he couldn’t see, everything was blurring, where was Trevor?

A crash, shattering glass – so loud in his ringing ears it seemed to shake the apartment made him flinch. Something cut his raised arm like a whip, spilling sticky liquid over his skin, his throat closed up around the explanation, the apologies – he needed to – his mouth filled with blood, his stomach turned sharply-

Another slap cut his lip, a sharp pain traveled up his ankle, he choked up blood from where he’d cut the inside of his cheek on his teeth, how could he have let it come to this?! Trevor’s face was twisted with nothing but agony, red and raw like a gruesome mask, so very easy to recognize for Patton, who was so familiar with the pain, the guilt, the fear clawing up his spine, consuming him in a primal flash of terror.

His fists were shaking, his breath coming in uneven gasps. For a sudden moment, he was able to see through the haze of rage.

Patton’s small form lay crumbled on the floor, holding quivering hands up uselessly to protect himself. Blood dripped down his arm, his lip.

His voice shook. It was barely above a whisper. Pleading.

“Please, you promised.”

His narrow, bruised chest was heaving with the effort to breathe, his hazel eyes wide and terrified, bitter tears mixing with the blood running from his split lip. He sounded broken.

Worse. He did not sound surprised.

It was a punch in the gut. He had never believed Trevor could do it- his failure had always been expected. He was everything that gave Trevor strength, everything he had to hold onto, and he’d never trusted him in the first place. All he’d done was make him think there was a chance, make him hope, and then crush him with the knowledge of his pathetic deficiency.

The blood on Patton’s face made his heart thunder, making him pulse with anger hate failure, bright crimson, accusing him, he’d failed again, it made guilt and humiliation twist and intertwine with the rage, the feeling of defeat, of falling into a hole after waking up from his madness, seeing the effect of his loss of control, his babe, broken and ugly, smeared with blood, dragging himself up, looking at him with fear, forgiving him again, he always had to forgive him he couldn’t do it right, the water in the bathroom turning red as he washed the traces of Trevor’s failure off his body with shaking, cut hands. Trevor hated the detective for being so good, so smart and successful and unreachable, for being superior, too much to hope to compete with, he felt small and useless, insignificant and helpless and angry at him for making Patton turn from him, making him feel this way, for making him do this again – for failing again – he’d thought he’d controlled it now, he’d been strong, he’d protected his babe from himself and now he’d made him lose his hold, it was all in vane, he was nothing, and Patton had drawn this onto himself, why had he made him fail, why hadn’t he seen how hard he’d tried, he’d turned it around, he’d done better, HE’D FIXED IT and he still went back to this other who was better the whore he didn’t want him he hated Patton he hated HIMSELF.

He’d deserved this.

Half crazed, Trevor grabbed a brutal fist full of the patissier’s hair, yanking him up on his knees before him. He needed to regain control, assert his strength somehow, his anger drove him to grow hotter, wilder-

He’d asked for this.

+++++++

His trembling fingers fumbled with his belt, his fly, the smaller man cried out, his heart racing, frantically trying to pull away, ripping out bloody strands of hair.

No, please not again! Patton vividly remembered the only time Trevor had lost control to his anger so badly, still tasted bitterness on his tongue whenever he recalled the terrible night. It had been their worst one yet, he’d been so mad, forcing Patton onto his knees, spitting insults and self-loathing, prying his jaw open with ruthless hands. Patton had been paralyzed by horror, disbelieving of what was to come. He’d never thought Trevor would do something so terrible to him, he’d never – but he’d forced his cock into his mouth with one thrust, shoving Patton forward by the hand in his hair, making him take him all the way, way too far. Shock had frozen him for long, agonizing seconds, before his body had rebelled with revulsion and terror. He had scrambled against the unforgiving hold, unable to breathe, panic flooding him. Trevor had been mad with rage, brutally thrusting into him, calling him a slut, a whore, a monster, forcing his way into the smaller man’s throat, making his choke, making him retch. Bile had filled his mouth, lack of air making him thrash and cough, fighting to breathe, fighting for his very life. Trevor had only pulled back long enough to make him cough, gasp, before he’d yanked him back, twisting his hands in the weaker man’s hair, making him take it till he was finished. Once he’d come down his throat, he’d dropped Patton as if he were something rotten, disgusting and vile. As if Patton were dirty. He’d never forgotten the look. It still haunted him at odd moments, made him flush with shame and humiliation. He’d never stopped feeling it. As he’d lain on the cold tiles, bitter vomit and semen running down his chin and mixing with the blood in his mouth, right before he passed out in the dirt smeared over his face and chest, he’d felt like he deserved to be looked at this way.

Terrified, hot tears ran down his cheeks as Trevor yanked his face up by the fist twisted in his locks. He tried to plead, to beg. He couldn’t survive this again, he couldn’t.

“No, please, please I can’t, you promised, you said you’d never make me-”

“SHUT YOUR FUCKING MOUTH YOU LYING WHORE!”

Trevor screamed, shaking Patton so hard by the hair it made his teeth clash together painfully. The taller man heaved, tears falling onto the bloody face beneath him. His own was twisted into a reddened, horrid mask of fury and anguish. His mouth had turned into an ugly grimace, caught between a snarl and a sob. He managed to undo his fly, fumbled with his underwear-

++++++++

A crash echoed through the apartment like a gunshot, shockingly loud. It left both men deafened for a long, horrifying moment.

Blearily, Trevor looked up from the body at his feet. The realization came a few heartbeats too late. A fist crashed into his face with the force of a freight train, making him drop like a leaden weight.

It had been a gunshot.

The projectile had shattered the lock of their front-door, making it afford no protection against the kick that almost ripped it off its hinges. Only his extensive training had made the detective punch the attacker instead of shooting him on sight. Had he had time to process the picture he’d seen, he might have murdered the man in cold blood, leaving nothing but a shredded corpse. The moment he found Patton crumbling to the floor however, nothing else mattered to the detective. Flooded with a cold horror he had never experienced before, he sunk to the ground in front of him.

/////////////////

Patton.

Oh Patton.

His hands shook at the sight before him, his breath coming in a sob. Oh no.

He reached out, impossibly horrified-

Patton flinched, crying out and shielding himself. His ears were ringing, the shot had been so loud. It did not matter that no one was touching him, he was trapped, his heart raced so hard, it felt like it would give out, he choked on phantom touches, lightheaded and frozen. Knowing he could not fight, he could not get away, he curled up, hiding his face in his bleeding arms, waiting for whatever he’d be put through in blind terror.

He was so cold.

He did not know how long he lay there, quivering and crying, waiting for the violence he’d been so sure he’d never have to endure again, until finally, a sound cut through the blood rushing in his ears. A sob. Someone else was crying.

Looking up went against all of his hard learned instincts of making himself small and invisible.

He needed seconds to understand what he was seeing.

Logan was kneeling before him, tears streaming down his face. His clean, lovely hands were twisted tightly around each other, shaking as badly as Patton was. His eyes… there were no words to describe how shattered he looked. The patissier whimpered, strenuously drawing himself up.

“L-Logan?”

The detective tried to speak, his voice breaking. He had to start again, visibly fighting the urge to touch Patton, to envelop him in his arms and pick him up from the hard, white tiles smeared with blood.

Logan felt utterly helpless. Patton’s eyes were so wide, so hurt. Another sob threatened to break free from the confines of the detective’s chest. He felt half numb, half tortured. For a long moment, he could barely make sense of how terribly Patton had been treated. The sheer cruelty felt impossible.

He realized he did not know what to say.

Patton appeared disoriented, shock settling in and making his thin limbs quiver like leaves in the wind. He was so tense and tiny, his breaths coming in uneven gasps – but quiet, like he was trying hard not to be noticed. His strength seemed to leave him suddenly, threatening to make his arms give out and make him fall. Logan reached out on instinct to steady him. A frightened gasp and flinch made him freeze. He was too large, too close. The detective fumbled to find words he knew would fall short.

“Patton, I-I would never harm you. You are safe now.” The detective’s deep, unsteady voice pleaded with him to trust him. His hands were raised in a placating gesture, open and non-threatening, tears dripping down his chin. Patton could not look away for a long, fearful moment. Trevor’s hands had been balled into fists, veins and tendons staining against the bones, the skin broken at the knuckles. Terror flooded him once again, gripping him like a mouse pierced by an eagle’s claws. The patissier scooted back, his breath hitching. His right hand braced itself on broken glass, driving the shards into his palm. Logan’s eyes burned, horror and anguish flooding his voice.

“Wait, please – you don’t need to fear me! I am so sorry, I did not meant to frighten you, I only – I only want to help you.” He almost whimpered, feeling utterly helpless. “I would never touch you without your consent, I- I will stay right here, alright?”

Patton nodded, unconsciously drawing his wounded hand into his lap. It was full of glass shards cutting his soft skin. It hurt Logan to see it like nothing he’d ever felt before. Think, you useless fool, he berated himself. He wished Virgil and Roman were here.

“You are cold, may I get you a blanket?” He asked carefully, fearful of doing anything Patton couldn’t place. The detective did not like how long it took the baker to answer with another nod. He wondered if he even heard him. The urge to hold him became almost unbearable. Thankfully, he found a blanket draped over the back of the leather couch, stiff with how little it had been moved. He sank back on his knees before the injured creature.

“Patton, may I put this around your shoulders? Please?” Upon receiving another nod, he approached the other slowly, uselessly wishing he were less frightening, he were better at this, that he could just fix everything. Patton clenched his teeth as Logan leaned close to wrap the blanket around him like it was something he was forced to endure, as if a wild animal were about to tear into him if he moved too much. He was trapped by a man’s closeness and his memories.

“There you go, Patton. It will be alright. May I help warm you? I swear I will leave the moment you tell me to.” Logan attempted to assure him, having no idea whether his physical reassurance would help or make things worse. At this point, Patton’s nod felt less like agreement than learned behavior in traumatic situations. Logan didn’t know if he could trust it, didn’t know what to do, so he carefully, as slowly and gently as he was able, pulled the patissier against his side, hugging him loosely.

“I am so sorry.” He cried, his tears falling on bloody curls.

“It’s fine.” Patton mumbled hoarsely, breaking Logan’s heart. Yet the warmth and familiar hold seemed to thaw something in the younger victim. He started breathing more deeply, slowly leaning against the detective. He was coming back to him. And with it, the realization that this was all his fault. All of his blood, his cut skin and bruised body, Trevor had inflicted the pain he’d himself felt, because Patton had made him hope where there was none. Instead of cutting his losses, he had tried to make everything right that was broken so far past repair. He’d believed all of the promises as if he didn’t know better. He was so foolish, so stupid. Too stupid to fix them. Somehow, the worst thing was that just minutes ago, he’d told Logan to trust him. That things would be alright. He’d believed it. He was so ashamed.

Feeling tiny and ugly and so stupid, he sobbed, burying his face in Logan’s arms. He was here. He held on to him, rocking him gently and shielding him from the world. Patton found himself in his lap as he realized the cold had stopped seeping into him from the tiled floor. His hand was cradling his neck, his arm supporting his back, holding him entirely. Patton’s strength left him.

At least, as he sunk into the hold unresistingly, his frazzled nerves tortuously slowly realizing he was safe, the truth about Trevor started to sink in. He would never change.

It was over.

The thought triggered a pressing memory in his sluggish mind. Trevor? Icy fear came with it. He’d come to feel so safe in Logan’s arms, like his protection and Trevor’s threats could not exist in the same world, but they did. They were in the same room. He flinched, whimpering silently. Where-

Through tears and blood clouding his vision, he spotted a prone form crumbled on the ground behind the man holding him. He shrank back, shocked.

“Oh n-no Trevor- d-did you – is he...”

“No! Of course not, he will recover, I merely incapacitated him. I promise.” Logan assured him hastily, seeing terror of the effect of his violent intervention seep into the broken young man before him. “I am so sorry you had to see this, Patton.”

It seemed to be the last straw for the patissier. He was simply overwhelmed.

“Logan.” His voice broke on an unworded plea. Yet, the detective understood without having to be told.

“Please, let me take you home.” He whispered.

After a long moment, Patton nodded. As carefully as if he were cradling a newborn kitten, Logan bundled the injured young man into the blanket and lifted him into his arms. Glass crunched under his shoes as he carried him outside, hiding his tear stained face from the shocked neighbors finally daring to enter the hallway. Patton heard none of it. He pressed his face to Logan’s chest and closed his eyes.

ART:

@dweeborg created this gorgeous combination of Roman with stunning makeup and Virgil with his lovely hair, as well as a (shirtless, yum) picture of Virgil feeling good after his spa day.

How cute is Logan with Nicodemus on his shoulder?! Painted by @lienlovesshadowhunters

@doctorwhooian drew Roman being absolutely STUNNING in a crop-top and knee-high boots.

A personal favorite: @typical-torii gifted us with a drawing of RoRo having his locks combed to the side, looking bad-ass after a fight. He’s so fricking pretty like that!

A picture I absolutely LOVE – Roman glittering and lovely with a super cute man-bun giving Virgil inappropriate feelings, their expressions are just so utterly adorable and the raccoon in judging. Thanks a thousand times to @anxiously-chill

Next Chapter

#Keep him safe #Detective Logan #Detective Roman #baker Patton #delinquent Virgil #Prinxiety #Logicality

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