#sublimated patch

[the-patchesuniverse]

Sublimated Patch

[stormofdefiance]

I wanted to share some wee thoughts about Ratio’s E6 art & why I believe it is a symbolic parallel to Michelangelo’s David. This speaks to both Ratio’s humanist beliefs and possible future plot points.

Ratio’s E6 is Vincit Omnia Veritas or Truth Conquers All. I’ve heard it claimed (although I have no idea if it’s explicitly stated anywhere?) that the character’s E6 art represents them at their innermost core, an honest and deeply vulnerable shard of themselves. Evoking David here is an interesting choice; the biblical figure who, using nothing but a stone and sling, took down the tyrannical Goliath. The parallel is perhaps as simple as this: Ratio views himself - and by extension the truth - as the underdog, someone never accepted into the Genius society, forever to be kept from Nous and THEIR gaze, but nonetheless will, in the end, prove himself the final victor. Truth will topple the seemingly unconquerable, whatever that might be.

But I also think Michelangelo’s David is a specifically interesting parallel to draw on from a historical perspective. Ratio is pretty much the textbook definition of a renaissance man - he is a philosopher, a scholar, interested in medicine and science and the vast array of human achievement. He speaks in Latin (the language of education during the renaissance in Europe that allowed the transmission of information without having to rely on translation) while heavily styling himself on Ancient Greek symbols and drawing from Greek philosophy (often seen at the time as more ‘sophisticated’ and interested in ‘wisdom’ than the contemporary ‘militaristic’ Romans).

Michelangelo’s David was the first colossal marble statue to be carved since antiquity, and it came to be a symbol of the renaissance itself. This is interesting to me for Ratio and what I believe are his humanist beliefs. Humanism was an ideal that propagated during the renaissance that championed the belief that man had beauty, dignity and worth that deserved as much respect and adoration as any deity. Keep in mind this philosophy was emerging following the Middle Ages and at a time where religious institutions across Europe held exorbitant and sometimes absolute power. David as a statue is an ode to the sublime beauty of the human body, completely unashamed and uninhibited in his gigantic nakedness (Doctor! You’re huge!) retaliating against the idea that prominent idea at the time that man’s body is inherently sinful. The humanists sought to recenter humanity, and David became a symbol of man’s independence against the seemingly unconquerable might of the Church.

Consider how Ratio centres humanity in his Simulated Universe project, how he values every life, how interested he is in constant self-improvement. How this symbol - of not just the renaissance but of the re-centring of humanity itself - becomes an echo of an effigy fixed in the centre of his soul.

Ratio has never - as far as I’m aware? - stated or hinted at any desire to overthrow the Aeons or even disparage or rubbish them, but it is clear to me that he believes in the strength man can draw on despite them, through sheer force of intelligence and clever planning and fiercely independent thought, the weak can ultimately overcome, or at least stand shoulder to shoulder with, the strong. Perhaps this will become a more pertinent plot point in the future - who knows? - but this was fun to chew through nonetheless 🫶

[kingscooterthe8th]

I FINALLY FINISHED IY AGTER SO MHCH HARD LABOR

kinda shitty paint job but i don’t really care cus it still looks good in MY eyes

[mlpmoviemerch]

New My Little Pony: Pony Life Rainbow Dash Sublimated Embroidery Iron On Patch

New My Little Pony: Pony Life Rainbow Dash Sublimated Embroidery Iron On Patch available here: https://amzn.to/3RXnNSA

Details below:

For Rainbow Dash My Little Pony Patch Blue Unicorn Sublimated Embroidery Iron On 

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Perfect gift for any My Little Pony fan!

Features a Rainbow Dash sublimated embroidery Iron On patch.

Brand: MAHOGANY HIPPIE

Character: Rainbow Dash

Color: Multicolor

Inspired by My Little Pony: Pony Life

[houseofwolvess]

finally chopped the sleeves off this bad boy and it's SO much better than it was when it had sleeves

[hellothisisangle]

Im so sorry if this has been asked already but I’m very curious to see Caelum in game, if you don’t mind sharing. Do you use any mods to add to his appearance or do you go with vanilla models and face?

Here’s the visual mods I had in my manager:

Vempren’s other heads, Toarie’s New Character Creation Presets, Vessnelle’s Hairs, Tav’s Hairpack, Horns of Faerun, Faces of Faerun, Half-tiefs, Faces of Faerun, EotB Extra, ASTRL Sublime Slintones

I think I specifically did not put earrings on him in game because I didn’t have any gold ones? I’m downloading patch 7 now so I can’t determine exactly what options I used, and the update is probably going to break all the mods anyways 😔

(the top of Astarion’s hair poking out from behind the shoulder lol)

Edit: I was able to launch and go to the magic mirror to check: toarie’s Kai head, ASTRL beautiful death 46 skin tone, demonic blue 2 eyes, Vessnelle hair12, ascended pillars horns

[nekovmancer]

Broken porcelain

pairing: Ramattra x f!reader  prompt: sexual tension when tending to someone's wound from this list warnings: semi-nsfw, mentions of blood, injuries, semi-nudity, swearing, reader being a bit masochist etc etc word count: 2272 a/n: backstreet's back, alright! and finally. 😎 I’ve been a bitch with a big B for Ramattra over the past couple months, and of course I had to write a piece on that robot guy. He gives me… feels I can’t explain. So, for all my fellow robot fuckers, hope you enjoy reading this as much as I’ve enjoyed writing! Feedback is always appreciated and please please please send an ask, a chat, anything so we can talk about this big guy and more fanfiction prompts. 😭 also on ao3!

Who would ever say to be a human amongst killing machines would, impressively, be a dreadly task? Or deadly, you would remark to yourself after a long walk of dragging your wounded body through the corridors from the training field to Ramattra’s personal workshop. At least, those new assassin omnics would perform their duties impeccably, you could tell from the way they cut through your skin without a single issue.

The wound was still covered under the thin layer of the tank top you have on, the white fabric damp of crimson blood denouncing something went terribly wrong, not to mention the pained expression contorting your face. 

As soon as he eyes your state, if Ramattra could bring a worried expression to the surface of his faceplate, he would, a mirror to the torment running through his systems. He was an engineer, not a human healer, but you needed him to act more as such in the present moment if you’re both willing for you to stay alive, which you indeed were. 

Growing impatient, not to mention the pain reaching under your skin, you adjust yourself slowly on top of his workbench, holding your side to prevent any further damage. Your fingers get moist with blood, and that has your lips twitching. “Can you fix me or not?” 

“That depends on your meaning of fixing,” he states, a stoic demeanor on the outside despite feeling quite the opposite inside. Feeling. Something he didn’t think to be inclined to, at least not when those diverged from the violence he was shaped to perform as a being… and yet, here they are, as foreign to him as the surgical aspects of flesh and bone. “I can’t weld you, obviously. At least, not as a first resource,” his slight humor brings a faint smirk to your lips, slowly shaking your head in a quiet response. In a lighter tone, Ramattra proceeds, and now it’s definitely a command. “I would like to have a closer look.”

Quietness follows, not as fast as the warmth spreading from your neck to the tip of your ears. To say you hadn’t considered you’d need to remove your shirt was unnecessary, in front of him of all people, ‘cause you’d rather overcome your own fear of blood if a second thought had you aware of the chances before. But as the old saying remarked: if you are in hell already, just go and sit on the goddamn devil’s lap.

Proceeding a thick swallow, you do as you’re told, diverting your eyes to a corner to avoid examining the cut yourself, or to avert them from Ramattra’s, anything and everything were an excuse in such a situation. It hurt just enough to be something you knew you couldn't handle alone, and considering how sharp that assassin’s knives were… fuck’s sake, what a weak fool you were.

On the other hand, at the sight of your almost bare torso, Ramattra felt inexplicably tense. The wound itself was not too deep to reach anything vital, but would need a patch up indeed in order to heal properly. Yet, his sight wasn’t restrained to that minor part of your skin, and that’s when tension was found. Maybe the vocabulary wasn’t a perfect fit, ‘cause that jolt of electricity running through his circuits was something else, something as sublime as the curve of your hips, and the way you shallow breaths of anticipation had your body quivering, despite an enormous strength to keep it still. He could hardly find beauty in human beings, and let’s not even mention himself, but that was a whole different scenario… warm, with a hint of degradation he couldn’t ignore, and something that could only be named as akin to desire. 

The silence was killing you now, almost making you forget the very pain which brought you there in the first place. “Will we be helding any funerals?” you risk, in the same light humor he used with you before. At least, if you didn’t consider the shaking tone in each syllable you’d pronounced. You thought Ramattra couldn’t  never understand your concerns fully, even if he invested all his force to: if the worst happened, he could be reconstructed, you were there for it after all. But as a human, it’s not like you have a respawn chance anytime. That’s why, aside the anxiety turning your stomach into a knot, you needed him to act. 

“You speak as if it's more severe than it is in fact,” he muses, tilting his head as the scanners on his optics do the rest of the work, searching for the right proceeding in a shared data file, where he was hoping to get anything from an omnic model whose initial propose, contrasting his, was to heal, not to kill. “No funerals, you have my word. The pain may be harsh, but the wound itself is of little harm in the bigger picture. You’re safe,” the addition of the last sentence has you sighing in relief, and a pinch of pain reaches you once more, but it’s bearable. Ramattra made you feel protected, or better, cared for. The warm feeling is enough to soothe your anxiety, dissipating the chill air in the workshop for a little while before rushing up to your cheeks as you’re reminded you’re still half naked in front of him. 

“Lay,” he commands, and your breath gets caught in your throat in the act. Only if your mouth were open, your heart would surely jump out if it during one of its chaotic heartbeats, contrasting the steady tone on Ramattra’s voicebox, echoing those words without a single trace of malice. But when they hit you, they sounded profane, leaving a delicate trace of forbidden to the tip of your tongue. 

You curse your mind as you lay down, a shiver erupting from the contact of warm skin to the cold metal of his workbench’s surface. Fuck, he’s your commander, superior office or whatever goes between you both, your boss to be short. Thing is he saw a purpose for you and spared your life long ago, and that purpose goddamn sure didn’t imply any… deeper contact than the occasional intellectual help you provided, with efficient (and smaller) hands and a cunning mind. After all, no Ravager was made to indulge in such a thing as intimacy, the very same thought cursing through Ramattra’s systems right now. He wasn’t built for delicacy, a single gentle touch for his standards would be brutal enough to leave you bruised for days, and how he would lament to see such perfect skin ruined by his own hands… unbearable to even think of it without feeling a strange sensation housing between his metallic limbs, pushing further inside in search of a bloody beating heart among the cold hardware. 

It wasn’t the first time he felt unsure in his existence, but that was a whole new thing. To think one like him was able to possess a spirit tender enough to be mesmerized by such a fragile thing as you touched him not physically, but deeper than it could ever be… how thrilling it was, but insufficient to make him search for its source on his internal data to completely erase it. No, never. He was actually holding into it with every fiber of his soul, curious to see which path it would lead him through. A bit embarrassing, at first impression, like the sight of you would burn his optics until they melt.

After all these years working along, was it there all the time? Within him, within you? He would search for it later, revisiting each time you shared each other's company in his memory, to see where a quiet admiration turned into this. 

After gathering the resources to fix you, ensuring everything was sterilized, he turned to sight over your form once more. Ramattra could sense the rapid heartbeat against your chest controlling your breath motions, the rising and falling of your chest following along, where he caught a peek of your nipples drawing a small circle under the fabric of your top, the last barrier between him and your fully exposed torso. Thankfully, unlike any human, his faceplate didn't betray any of his thoughts. They’re guarded within his systems, safe in his memory and imprinted there forever. Nothing could ever make him forget of you, nor time, nor enemies, nor… fuck, the injury. 

“It would feel better if you were asleep,” he commences, carefully. You’re already scared for it seems, and it’s not on his wishes to make it worse. “Instead, I will ask you to bite on this,” the discarded cloth of your tank top is brought to your lips, and your heart could have stopped right there. Instead, avoiding the disbelief, you silently obey. “Try not to move. I shall be slow.”

A nod follows, and you gather your best to not whine, or flinch, or sob too much when his hands begin to work, stitching the wound close. Whatever sounds leaving your mouth are muffled, and the pain is great. But erotic. And, fuck, you should be loosing your mind by this point. How could your brain process such agony in a pleasurable way? You’d be blaming the omnic in charge of patching you up, for sure. It was him, after all, all about him. 

Ramattra was enormous, and the effort he put in each precise movement didn’t go unnoticed. He could have discarded you, blamed you for your mistakes, assigned anyone else to deal with this bullshit, but there he was: the infamous Null Sector leader, treating you as a precious porcelain tea-cup, once broken, now being patched in threads of gold, despite the gold being metaphorical. It was a form of art, wasn’t it? You’ve read of it somewhere, once. If so, right now, you’re his masterpiece.

To say he’s being delicate is a statement. Ramattra is afraid he could shatter you again, worse than they did with you before. The responsible for it would be severely corrected, later of course. The pads on his fingertips could never be soft as your skin feels under them, and an eagerness to venture further brings a shiver of electricity through his spine. Should he ever be thinking of it in your state? In fact, was it reasonable to have you consuming his memory like this, injured or not? What could be a groan echoes from his voicebox, and within a few long minutes, it was done. 

Your jaw clenches to the minimum effort of raising your torso, sitting on his workbench once more as a small discomfort to the newly sewn cut emerges. Covered in bandages, you can’t see his work, but there’s no blood and the pain is moderate, so you trust with your eyes closed it’s perfectly fine. Your shirt is sitting by your side, bloodied and wet from your own saliva, but you don’t mention reaching for it. 

Blinking, your eyes search for him, meeting the stoic faceplate turned to you. Silence lingers as you both stare at each other, considering every single thought that coursed through your minds during the late couple of hours. Was it genuine? Absolutely. Would you voice them? No, surely not. Tension is still there, so palpable you could touch it, and shattering it would come with a price. 

A small blush color your cheeks red, and you finally manage to break eye contact with a hint of timidity. Too much to ask of you for a little time of strong, contrasting emotions, still tickling under your skin as the adrenaline begins to sparse. Clearing your throat, you’re the first to speak. “I apologize,” it begins as simple as it, almost ending the sentence there as your eyes don’t dare to move from your lap and you choose carefully what to say, and what to keep to yourself. Ramattra may have performed a solid progress towards emotions, but you feared he would fail to comprehend the turmoil in yours. “It wasn’t strict of your concern, nor a matter you should care for as you did, and I-”

“I had to,” he cut you off, sternly. Now that you’re safe, his worries tend to other subjects, still resonating over you. Was he too obvious, despite his best efforts? Couldn’t be, and yet he wished fervently for you to point it out, verbalizing what he was too afraid to: he wanted to keep you close, and safe, more than he ever did. “Whatever happens to you is my business, especially if it's a menace to your well being,” Ramattra takes a step closer, his fingers aching to reach for your face, and soothe that sorry expression out of it. Instead, he keeps them to his sides, clenching them a fist. “So don’t apologize for it. It wasn’t your fault, in the first place, and yet I’ll ask you to be careful and not wander over the training field whenever a new IA is being tested.”

A short nod follows a faint smile. His words were gentle, not explicitly voicing what he meant in between the lines, but you knew it nonetheless. Ramattra cared for you, more than you could have thought, and enough to satisfy your heart. “I don’t even know how to begin thanking you.”

“Dressing will do,” a chuckle reverberated in his metallic rib cage, and if his words alone wouldn’t catch you yet, it would be enough to make your face red as a cherry for, somehow, you were able to sense a trace of malice in Ramattra. “Rest now, human. I shall meet you when the day is done.”

[soliloquy-dawn]

i need some atonement!AU on my tl!! any updates?👀🩷

Hiiii darling.

32k into the first draft, and we're close to the fountain scene! Fucking in the library planned for right after. They have such busy schedules.

I'm gonna use this opportunity to show off the stunning moodpboard that @alienoresimagines made and sent to me BEFORE THEY EVEN READ THIS SNIPPET. Witchcraft, I swear. How did they know? How?

cw: underage, but they're both seventeen and in love. Bucky has impure thoughts. Can't help it, poor chap.

Reconciled with his doomed fate, he lay in waiting, and did not dare to touch. 

What he did do, was suffer unimaginable torture at Buck’s hands. The summer before they both turned seventeen, the torments he was subjected to became more sublime and traitorous. On the hottest days, they would lounge on patches of stubby, yellowing grass, behind a stretch of shrubbery and rose bushes that hid them from prying eyes. Buck would nudge himself closer, burrowing under Bucky’s stretched arm, claiming his bicep as a pillow. His shirt would be damp with sweat and nearly see-through, clinging to his ribcage and the pink swell of his nipples. His hair would coil above his nape in ways that drove Bucky to a state of fumbling incoherence; they spoke to him, those sticky clumps of spun gold, begging to be uncoiled, then patted dry or licked clean. And the worst of it all, Buck’s scantily clad and slender thighs would splay open, and press firmly against Bucky’s leg. At regular intervals, Buck would knock their knees together and rubbed his bare calf against him, and John had to disguise his grunts and moans with an obnoxious cough or an improvised grumble about the weather. 

The whole affair had the guise of a meaningless, casual thing; nothing more than an afternoon of leisure enjoyed between friends. While Buck read his novels, humming contently while flipping to the next page, the immortal toothpick jutting out from between his plush lips, all Bucky could think of was flipping him to the side, pulling his shorts down enough to reveal the pink, flushed skin hiding beneath, and rutting against the swell of his ass until he came all over the soft flesh of his inner thighs. 

[hollyhomburg]

Before I Leave You (Pt.64)

(Sneek Peek)(Omegaverse au, Mafia au, Bts x Reader)

Summary: “Take your time, it’s not like I’m dying over here or anything.” “Shut up Jimin you are not going to die.”

Tags: Angst, Blood, Gore, Maiming, violent acts described perpetrated by loved ones, near death experiences, near death experiences, No one dies, Jimin does not die, Hurt with just a little comfort.

W/c: 7.0k

A/N: I'm sorry that this chapter will be a little shorter than usual after such a long weight but i literally could not finish the second half of it in time. i've been going through a rough patch™ which is why recently the updates have been 3 weeks apart instead of just 2 like usual. idk when that will change, this might just be the new reality for me 😭 when i tell you the end of this chapter has a fucking twist to it that i love, you're not prepared!

Previous part - Masterlist - First part

~-~

Chapter 64 Sneak Peak: Pawn and King

The fog covers everything like a balmy damp shadow, the snow going straight to sublimation. Pockets of old streetlamp lights punctuate the darkness. But through it there are husks of metal rising like soldiers. The sky orange behind them from the distant lights of the city,

Jin’s car is there. Hobi spots it. Its blue paint stands out through the overlap of grey brush as his headlights roll over it. And then further in the darkness maybe 50 feet away, Jimin's car. Shiny and black like the husk of an insect.

You're about a mile away from where they must be doing demolition. A singular crane and floodlights shine, casting everything, the river, and this building into a grey-slanted light.

You pull around in the yard in front of the largest and most intact building. You leave the keys in it. Tumbling out the second it glides to a stop.

“Stay here.” You say, but Hobi gets out anyway. He hasn’t noticed the gun tucked into your waistband until now. It makes his pulse tick higher when you take it out. He stares at it.

"Hobi," he looks up at your face, and you flick the safety off. "Sink or swim?"

His hand finds yours. "Swim."

You shake your head like you're angry with yourself, not him. squeezing it once then letting it go. You don’t waste another second arguing. "Stay behind me."

You head off following the disturbed dust, Hobi trailing behind. Ducking from pocket of light to pocket of light.

He always wondered what happened to the gun you’d pointed at him that night you’d run away. That train ticket that still burns a hole in his pocket, a distraction maybe. He's spent the last few months fixating on it- and you of course too. Too fixated to notice the small things that he sees plainly right now. There are facts here that Hobi has not noticed.

The way you hold the gun is not practiced; and why should it be the only one who knows how to handle guns in the pack is Jimin? But the way you walk; completely silent as you transfer your weight from one foot to the other, is heartbreakingly familiar. Hobi knows how and why you've learned to move quietly.

It's almost a dance; the way you glide across the floor. The gun is an extension of your arms, like a dancer's ballet fingers. Spreading and flaying like a wing. Pinky to trigger and index finger along the barrel.

Hobi had always assumed that it belonged to Jimin. Hobi had almost forgotten about it. It was almost 6 months ago now, wasn’t it? there are some things that you never forget, and trauma makes his bones quiet. He's not as good at walking silently as you are- but if the crunch of his red Converse against the gravel bothers you, you do not have a tell.

Hobi feels like he should have asked more questions about it at the time, but now he just bites his lip and stays quiet. You'd promised. You'll tell him in time. Hobi trusts you.

That's the worst thing, isn't it? That Hobi trusts you. You've known he shouldn't since you picked up Jin's call.

Jimin is easy to find if only because he’s sitting in one of those puddles of light, leaning up against one of the containers on the ground floor. Alone. You let out a quiet whimper when you see him. You and Hobi pause in the doorway and Your hand on the gun goes slack

“Minnie!” you forget the gun and run to him, tucking it back into your waistband and falling to your knees at his side. Fingers finding water-dark fabric. Not water- blood.

Hobi stays there, his pulse thudding through his ears, an odd sort of peace to him as he takes in the details. The blood that pools dark on the dusty floor, bubbling. Jimin’s half covered with dust himself. Something wooden and red in his lap. The little bit of blood that’s dripped down his shoulder gathering there. There is a dragged-through patch of dirt a few feet away, more blood, a puddle of it. Jin is nowhere to be found.

Minnie’s eyelashes flutter. “Alpha-” you say. Almost sobbing in relief that he's alive. Alive you can handle. Alive you can work with. You bend down, getting your hand on his cheek.

“Hey pup” he murmurs, he laughs a little, half delirious with pain. He flinches like making the sound hurts him. “You came to the party" he coughs, "did you bring Tae?”

You pull back to look at him. “Tae?”

Jimin grins, eyes fluttering closed, pretty face tipped up against the light. His lips have blood on him- and it looks like a disturbing imitation of Tae’s lipstick. The shadows she leaves on your mouth, on his.

“Yeah- wanna tell her I love her. Wanna tell her that I’m sorry. Could you-" jimin's coughs overtake him, and fresh blood drips down the tips of his fingers, finding home in the soil below.

"Could you tell her for me?”

Coming Saturday December 9th at 5pm EST (Time Zone Adjustments Below)

[katyspersonal]

In today's SoTE progress: ARRRGHHH I am SO goddamn angry!!!! Gfhghmjm But also I am thinking about Messmer and Marika a LOT now.

1) So, I was getting mentally prepared for going to battle Messmer, and decided to visit just one last piece of fort associated with his location!

^ This shield was dropped by a Black Knight Garrew that acted like a boss but was no harder than a regular enemy. He was using a Crucible aspect that gave him chameleon's shooting tongue to attack with and I hoped he'd drop it instead hfhghgj I'm gonna assume it was somewhere in the game and I just missed it for a dumb reason :pensive:

^ A valid reference in case if anyone will want to draw/write certain grim scenes in detail or something like that

2) There was also a fairly well-hidden secret that I felt proud of discovering, but it was just a stronger version of the talisman that makes arrows stronger! And not only I don't use bows, but also it didn't even give lore! Goddamn it Fromsoft reward me with INFORMATION for my explorer's interest!!

3) Okayyyy sooo :/ I was soooo ready to get my ass kicked by Messmer that I kinda dreaded it, but needed to get this over with! Alas, DLC should end sooner or later...

And at first, I did get my ass kicked, sure. But..... ...not only he switched to the second phase halfway through his health bar and not after it was fully reduced like I expected.. but also I adopted OBNOXIOUSLY fast. :/ :/ :/ It didn't take me EVEN 15 MINUTES to fully adapt to him and just get closer and closer with every try. And!! I did kill him? Like are you JOKING. Are you KIDDING me. That was IT? It took me several days and tormenting @fantomette22 for useless tries to finally defeat Rellana, I had to try many strategies and be extremely smart and inventive with her!! I thought if she was so strong, Messmer would have been even WORSE, and yet I am just sitting here like:

Dude yeah no SHIT you needed Rellana to protect you :/ Guess I was not impressed by 18 inches of Messmer the Impaler 😔😔😔

4) Okay but I DID like his voice acting a lot hfhgv I was just sitting there like "stop sounding sexy you dunce, I already decided that I'm going to dislike you!" XD /j

5) His final words were "Mother... Marika... A curse... upon thee..." and.. hell if I know whether he cursed us or her. I am assuming he cursed her since switching to calling your parent by name instead is a kind of strong sentiment. Like defying them their status over you sort of. Besides all the statues of her in Shadow Realm but one being headless. So... yes, interesting.

6) It was not patched out btw! :>

7) Okay actually when I was about to beat Messmer's ass for good I've accidentally found the summon sign for Hornsent NPC! I was not seeing it during the fight, just happened to run into it, and if Igon taught me anything is that such summons are a good idea because they progress the questline. Maybe. So, he gave a dialogue after Messmer was defeated:

"We meet again I see, comrade-in-arms. Upon his end, did you see Messmer's face? Twas sublime - a very tangle of snakes! To think he dared to call us savages. When he himself was most base of all.

To say the least, I am to you indebted. Yet unquenched remains my thirst for revenge. The death of Messmer was merely the start. Now comes the piper to collect from Marika, her offspring, and all the Erdtree's denizens... In vengeance for the flames, my blade I wield... If Miquella's redemption soothes the ache... that throbs within, demanding blessed vengeance... Then I wish not to be by him redeemed."

Sigh... I just can tell that the guy will have to turn on us sooner or later. Honestly, rejection of anything that could help/heal/etc the pain that demands revenge is such a... real reaction? He is a very real character. He straight up doesn't want to stop even after achieving his objective and himself, ironically, fell for the path of punishing every associate including innocent people whose only sin is being "born in this culture". He became like Marika in this regards!

Honestly, this is a very good writing moment! Second favourite after Miyazaki's jab at horrors of believing in "sacred mission" in Crusader's Insignia! (I like the character even more now for very real negative character development, but I just can TELL we'll have to kill him gfhhgg)

8) .... ah, right, I forgot this post about Messmer

Again: hatred like what? Hatred coming from Abyss Serpent? His hatred for Marika? Hatred for all divested of her grace? Hatred for himself? Is this many things? Fromsoft spare me I am too autistic to read hfggjhgjgb

9) This is actually sweet:

So, the snakes were friends all along, and I suppose the counterparts/antagonists to the "evil" serpent within him!

10) *points at this like in the meme* Hey I remember that this bit was mistranslated! XD

It actually says that he did that for his mother's sake, and not by her wish! It makes even more sense with the following sentence, as if HE really wished for no single mfer to look weird at her. No, as if he INSISTED to accept all blame and hatred. Considering he curses her in his dying breath, after all (or at least calls her name which is a bad sign from a child), there must have been such a long build-up of unhealthy relationship between them to it...

He not only wished to keep her away from all fear and hatred that follows, and fulfill her vengeful desires, but also basically said to use him like a punching bag. But if she feared the curse within him in the end, then SHE is to blame that he gave up on any and all hope to be pure, good and loved. Like.. whose fault do you guys think it IS that his self-image centered entirely on being fear and dread, as well as someone to hate? I have an impression that he did want to take the blame and excile for her sake, but also resented that she actually accepted his request to use him. Like.. maybe he didn't even realize that what he, subconsciously, wanted was for her to refuse. I might be speaking from too much personal experience, but sending such mixed signals (requesting something with expectation that the person will refuse) is a sign of bad parenting at least, abuse at most. And knowing Marika's horrid parenting skills... yeeeeah.

Again, really good writing. They are saying so much with so little, as always. Glad that Mister Miyazaki keeps the mark with his stories only being readable if you have at least one PTSD ggbhjghbb

11) I have a bad guess that they did not elaborate on what exactly Abyss Serpent is, otherwise @val-of-the-north would've already spoilered me because we love worldbuilding xd

But seeing how Marika Had a Moment about Giants' Fire all because it's capable of burning the Erdtree, the reason is probably similar. She I with Fire like Gwyn is with darkness: it can end her era, maybe end herself, so it is terrifying.

At the same time, she was trying to love her children, at least at first. She created this eye for Messmer and created a lot of Divine Blessings to ease his burdens in the past. Then there were Omen Twins that she yet named with her initials and at least Godfrey and Godwyn were seeing them, although horned creatures would be her worst nightmare. I feel like the pipeline from this to "children become kings or lords or else you'll only be worthy of sacrifices" + "unwanted bastard in Mausoleum" was a long one. She tried to love even the children that were either a walking hazard or walking PTSD, but failing to overcome fear before Messmer set her down the spiral. God, I can see all of her snapping if Messmer asked too many questions, accidentally acting hostile if he tried to be physically affectionate unable to conceal her fear fast enough... She would not be the type to try again with anyone after casting him aside in the end, but, she would take the passive position of "kids, prove me that you deserve my love because ME putting in effort won't avail anything, apparently". The guilt but one that made a quitter rather than a better person.

12) Also *points like in the meme again*

Yeah, every forge type of the dungeon in Shadow Realm has throwing weapons!!! He adapted!

__________

So yeah this post gotten EMOTIONAL ALL OF A SUDDEN when I expected it to be short. Damn, the girls didn't lie, he IS an interesting character!

[boiledbirdy]

BRAD FUCKIN WAYNEEE

headcannons i have abt this sweet himbo fratboy

This man is the largest in the family, like 6’6 and built like a non-green hulk. He can easily pick up and fireman carry Bruce and Jason

Is the guy in a frat party to sit with girls and hear about them bitch about periods and now carries a little pack with him everywhere that has a few tampons, pads, hand-warmers (for on the go heating pads), and Tylenol and Advil

Where does he keep this stuff and the random assortment of weird things he has, you ask? He wears a fanny-pack

read it and weep y’all he wears fanny-packs, usually the cool way over his shoulder, but mostly around his waist since he carries a backpack almost 25/8

He drives a beater truck (just an old car whose been through like three accidents and is still going strong) specifically a 1991 dodge D250 truck with a scratched up white paint job where there are dents, scratches, and a few patches of off white paint on dents that was sorta DIY-ed

his keys 🔑 have a weird ass mesh of keychains on it like: Ally flag keychain and a flag keychain for every single label a person has come out to him with, also a keychain from every museum, tourist spot he’s ever been, also a beer and bottle opener he’s a frat boy duhhh, he has a little bracelet that is made of sparkles and purple beads that steph gave to him but it was too small so he put it on his keys, a collage logo keychain, a keychain from his local gym and one with rugby on it etc

the keychains and keys are never ending

HE PLAYS RUGBY, argue with the wall.

getting a bachelors and masters in sports medicine

he makes sure to give Duke, Damian, Cass, Steph, and Tim copies of his keys first (the rest of the fam too they just get priority)

A) because they are the kids, and he wants them to know that he has an open bed any time

B) cause he’s the sibling to not get mad if they are intoxicated in any form and will cover for them

This next one is so important to me

He takes Tim to his first midnight showing of the Rocky Horror Picture Show, same with Damian

He pretty much eats at the Wayne mansion every night but sleeps at his apartment

Shows Damian some good rock’n roll ex Red Hot Chili Peppers, Sublime, Ramones, The Clash, Oingo Boingo, Ghost, Blonde, Foo-Fighters (i can make a playlist if wanted)

Just will sit and have a beer with Jason and sit in silence or talk about weird things that happened today

Steph and him have study sessions together

He will watch any ballet practice Cass wants him to see and he never misses a competition or performance

he sends Tim stupid skateboard tricks and fails videos (tiktok or insta reels) daily and then once a month they take Brad’s truck to a park and Brad sits on a ramp and cheers Tim on like its the Super Bowl

Watches Dick’s dog when he’s away from home and they both watch Barbie movies together

He gardens at Alfred’s request, yes he sucks but this man cannot not say no to the tidbits of Alfred’s life story he learns

Can kick back like 4 kegs of beer with no fucking consequences, he has a liver of steel thanks to Brucie Wayne

He’a the high guy in the bathtub at frat-parties and will give shitty or good life advice its 50/50 honestly

Does stupid white people fraternity things that would kill a normal person but he just is quirkily busting it down and Death just cannot vibe with him

makes (and i cannot stress this enough) the best and i mean best, (Alfred and Ma Kent can’t win in this one) brownies. Whether they are edibles or not they are the best.

has done the Tide-Pod challenge and survived

He is the Frat God of Gotham

Him and Duke are like the best duo

They blast Rock and Rap so that all five cars in every direction can hear it

Duke has the habit of putting weird ass bumper stickers on Brad’s desk and bed frame (at his apartment, they Do Not fuck with Alfred) Brad smiles fondly every time he finds a new one

Brad = Mark, ya know the tiktok sound

Him and Harper simp over women 🙏 together

In his fanny-pack, truck, and various rooms he has stim toys/do-hickeys bins or sections

bc he has Nerodivergent siblings and he was just trying

he asked kinda rude blunt questions, he didn’t know anything and he kinda (really) sucks at subtlety and reading a room but he was just trying to understand

He will take Damian to amusement parks and zoos pretty much bi-weekly

The girls can put on a horrible outfit and makeup and he will think he looks fabulous and no one will ever tell him that he’s sporting fashion and makeup crimes

has a small hidden bookcase of Wings of Fire, Warrior cats, Land of Stories, etc.. cause Damian is embarrassed to admit he actually likes reading them

Watches the trashiest brain rotting tv shows like Dance moms or keeping up with the Kardashians

Goes to any march or parade his siblings or friends are going to so: A) he can be that decked out ally tank of a man passing out water bottles and granola bars B) so if the police are back on their BS he can protecc atacc and throw that tear gas bacc

*Sniff 🤧* I have something I need all of you to know, I say this with a heavy heart *holding back tears 😥* Brad is a former highlighter kid— *single tear falls*

This fucking himbo stud-muffin has slept with, kissed, crushed on, and went on dates with men, but still doesn’t realize that he’s Bisexual

his favorite flavor ice cream is pistachio and carmel

KNOWS NOTHING and i mean nothing about zodiac signs

Has been caught in the middle of Gotham Rouge and does not understand what the fuck is happening

He either Teddy Bear fratboy golden retriever energies them to friendship or friendly acquaintance or annoys them to the high hells of mosquito bites on your butt

^I can expand if wanted

His phone you ask?

Screen cracked like rice crispys

apps more disorganized than the random shit drawer in someone’s house

he has a model 6S and will not upgrade or replace it to save his life.

he has an otterbox case and we all know it, no more denial

Okay thats my time yall see ya

[notallbloodmages]

Going to start offering sublimation commissions soon! If you have a project right now that you'd like to discuss, send me a message via my contact page at threadmancer.com!

[Image is a zoom-in of two hands holding shot glasses clinking together in a toast. The art being zoomed in is by @tealevision, commissioned by me and used with license]

[b1rds3ye]

Of Dreams and Legends

In the middle of the night you have a heart to heart with the legendary Gromsko. You learn what inspires him to keep fighting, and somehow, that includes you.

Pairing: Sobiesław “Gromsko” Kościuszko x GN!Reader

Genre: Fluff, Confessions, Friends to Lovers

Word Count: 3.1k

Warning: My interpretation of Gromsko’s character, Reader doesn’t know Polish

A/N: Something about Gromsko’s voicelines and bio just makes him seem like an old heroic story in the making to me, so I wrote about it a lil 😌

The air held a chill tonight, lightly nipping at the exposed skin on your neck and face. Zipping up your jumper you laid with your back against the cold surface to look up to the skies. It probably would be for the best that you head back inside, but it wasn’t every night the sky would be this clear. To admire the sublime in the stars as they twinkled down at you. These days they are known as nothing more than gargantuan balls of gas, the unwanted remains of the universe, but how could one not romanticise the sight above you? Up in the expansive skies, every battle paled in comparison. These mundane balls of gas have been unchanging for millenia, the skies you are looking up now, how many others are admiring it? Not just tonight but in the years of yore. Battle armour, weaponry, nation borders and all would have changed, yet when all was done and dusted, you would all be looking up at the same skies.

A bang and a foreign curse had you jolting out of your reverie. Gaze upside down, you shot a glare at who was intruding, only to relax at the welcome sight of a familiar face.

“Sobiesław?”

“Serduszko, you do not make it easy to find you,” he grunted, grabbing his leg to manually get it over the railing.

“I just wanted to admire the night skies.”

“On the roof of our base?”

You shrugged. Sobiesław walked towards you, each footstep heavy against the roof panels, sending reverberations that vibrated rhythmically against your back with a pleasant hum.

He stood beside you, feet by your knees as he followed your gaze to the skies. Hands as fists on his waist, he made a startled noise before turning to you again.

“Did you not wish to be found? I will return to the others, alone time can be good for a soldier.”

“No, no. You’re always welcome,” you grinned.

Sobiesław’s face always held a slight scowl, it was intimidating until you realised it was unintentional. He says it was because he has spent years surrounded by skurwysyny (a word he has refused to translate for you but given how freely he says it to the enemy, you got the gist of it). Still, despite his natural frown, it softens at your words.

“It is hard to see but there is a star formation, named after a Polish king.”

You offer an inquisitive tilt of the head at his comment, wordlessly inviting him as you shift to the side to make space for him. He situated himself down beside you with a grunt of effort and you were lost for words as he adjusted to get himself comfortable against the rough texture of the roof. Sobiesław wasn’t the tallest nor the most imposing of soldiers in your company, but he managed to become a member of SpecGru for a reason. His frame was broad and sturdy, the breathing image of the quintessential soldier, postered on walls as propaganda to rouse even the most reluctant to action. His form emanated a comforting and welcome heat that soothed the bite of the night air. All of a sudden you felt rather sleepy.

Sobiesław raised an arm, pointing at the night sky. Even under his clothes you could see the curves of his muscles stretch out the wrinkles of his sleeve. The boulder that was his shoulder leading to the chain of muscle that was his bicep, linking to his forearm that was slightly flexed with the angle of his hand. Even his finger, relaxedly pointed to a dark patch in the sky, seemed determined.

“It is hard to see, but it should be there.”

Sobiesław pulls himself closer to you so that you can follow his directed hand better, a move that made you far too conscious that you were with him, alone and isolated from the rest of the company. And with the slight quirk of his lip, you were sure he was aware too.

“Scutum Sobiescianum, Shield of Sobieski. A Polish king who defended Vienna from the Turks. This was centuries ago, but I still feel great pride when I hear such an achievement.”

You stay quiet as you squint, trying to look into the supposed darkness to find this supposed constellation of defence. After some investigating you let out a sigh of defeat. You dropped your head onto the roof, creating a light thud. Sobiesław let out a hearty chuckle, turning his body so he can reach over with his far arm, offering you a sympathetic pat on the shoulder. You responded with a pout, his sheer strength meant that your body shook slightly with each pat.

“Do not worry, you do not have to see it, just know it is there,” Sobiesław reassured, giving your shoulder an extra squeeze before retreating his arm. “Aiding as a shield for allies is honourable, even if he was only abiding by a treaty.”

“You’ve always liked your history, haven’t you?”

“Greatly. Learning about the victories of the past is motivating.”

You’re not surprised. Sobiesław was not an old man and he didn’t carry himself as such, but he conducted himself in a way you have not seen in anyone else, especially on the battlefield. In combat, a soldier is selfish out of the primal need for survival. One follows orders because that’s the best chance they have of keeping their head attached to their shoulders. To deny themselves the responsibility of atrocities committed, even complacency and teamwork is just a desperate act of self-preservation, one that everyone is guilty of and can not condemn.

But Sobiesław was different. He never seemed to fight for himself. On missions, even under the glare of his signature glasses, he was always looking past the objective, over the horizon and to something greater. No matter how long he spent on foreign soil, he left the stamp of his motherland under his boots as he marched onward. Whenever you fell in battle, body unrecognisable in a coating of blood that you’re not sure is yours or the enemy’s, he is there to pick you up. Not only literally but spiritually as he rouses you to keep fighting with words of encouragement that strike the cords of your heart. Words that you swore were taken from an ancient scripture with how they unleash reservoirs of energy lost deep in your soul. His words were loud and panicked, but not once is it out of concern for his own well-being, or how the mission or his military career could be jeopardised if anything else goes wrong. In those moments, he was fighting and breathing for you.

“Did it motivate you to enlist?”

“Yes. It motivated me before I realised.”

You frowned at his odd answer.

“How so?”

“I had a dream,” he stated, nostalgia warming his voice. He pulled his head in, craning his neck at an odd angle to speak to you quietly, like he was giving you the secrets of the universe. With a wave of the hand he ushers you in and you entertain him.

“When I was little, I always dreamt of a hussar before I even knew what they were. I think it was fate, a sign from above for me to enlist.”

You stare at him in disbelief.

“There was actually a painting of a hussar in the living room of my babcia… I don’t tell anyone that last bit, it is more fun that way.”

You failed miserably at stifling a laugh, in return he smiles as he pulls away. Even with the extra tidbit of information, his motivations still felt almost fable-like, like a myth in the making.

“I can see it,” you giggled, lifting your arms up in the air as you gestured animatedly. “The old wives will be talking about the legendary Gromsko. The quintessential soldier, called to action by the restless spirit of an old warrior in his dreams. He becomes the inspiration for all the future generations. The story of the chosen one who saves the world!”

“I tell you too much,” Sobiesław groans.

“They should make a movie out of you.”

“I am too boring.”

“You’re too humble.”

Sobiesław laughed, but you did not. Leaving the sight of the stars - you had still been half-heartedly trying to distinguish the shield of a king from the darkness - you fully turned to him. You ignored the dull throb of your arm now squished between your body weight and the roof, far too distracted by how close you were to him now that the two of you were facing each other.

“Truly. Even without the dreams I think you’re an inspiration.”

You didn’t realise how sentimental you sounded until you released your words into the air. You consequently chewed at your lips, forcefully sealing them. Your voice didn’t have to fight against the midnight breeze, instead your words settled comfortably in the small space between the two of you, warm and festering in the silence.

Sobiesław was unresponsive, eyebrows far more furrowed than usual. Feigning your embarrassment as getting comfortable against the ceiling, you dipped your head down to avoid seeing his reaction.

“Do you still have that dream?” You asked hurriedly.

“... No.”

It wasn’t everyday you heard Sobiesław hesitate. He had a gruff voice that was quick to speak his mind. It was so honest that his thoughts were often unfiltered in Polish and accompanied with colourful curses to add some extra honesty. There was even the odd, throaty, unintelligible sound as his mouth worked quicker than his mind. But here he was, strategising his next words to you.

“I stopped having that dream when I joined SpecGru.”

You blinked, almost fully flinching away from him in a knee-jerk reaction.

“Ah…”

You couldn’t help but shrink into yourself, drawing your knees close to your vitals. While you did not regret joining SpecGru, you knew for a fact it was not for the faint of heart. What made waking up at base easier was the people there, with a certain Polish man heartily hollering good morning to you on the daily at 6am sharp with a voice that consequently woke up the rest of the barracks. The fact he never failed to give you a pat on the back, still having the energy to look optimistically to the next day even with the losses of a mission gone south. Even on quiet nights like these, while few and far between, you would be able to catch a glimpse of the man under the near brutish exterior. Behind the mythos and acts of altruism was a human with their own selfish needs and doubts. A sensitive man who related to you and brought you comfort when the darkness of battle bled over to your consciousness.

You had only hoped you could have done the same for him.

“I take it SpecGru didn’t meet expectations?”

You couldn’t stop the waver in your voice.

“Huh? No, it exceeded them, Serduszko.”

He turned away, back flat on the roof. Once again he looks to the cosmos, honing in on something beyond your comprehension.

“I am not done yet. I still wish to see the glory of Poland, but I want my own happiness.”

“Naturally,” you nod. Out of all the soldiers you knew, no one deserved a happy ending more than him. One where the monster is slain, peace is restored, and the hero lives happily ever after.

“I dream of returning home, I will bring my friends of new to the land of old.”

You offered a light hum of approval. It was such a simple wish, but wasn’t that the case for all heroes? To wish for something so mundane but to naturally bring greatness? Even when their dreams are supposedly selfish, their innate kindness brings glory to the good and delivers swift justice to those necessary.

“You are there,” Sobiesław murmured. Like a dream you question if he even spoke, voice so airy it blended with the rush of the breeze against your ears. Even the coarse edges of his voice become one with the low tones emanating from a nearby ventilation unit.

“You are in all of my dreams.”

Sobiesław is not looking at you, attention still trained on the stars, perhaps waiting for one to shoot across the sky. To make a wish, any little bit of aid to make a dream come true and you’re tempted to try and shoot one down for him with a rifle. Anything for him. Perhaps it was possible to fight selflessly, to bring another’s dream to fruition. Was there such a thing as staying alive for someone else? To spend your missions ensuring you return to base not for your own self, but so Sobiesław will have someone to bring home? But you can not guarantee your own life. You refused to make empty promises - Sobiesław absolutely hates them - so instead, you only offer your flimsy honesty.

“I think that dream is doable.”

“You are the hardest part about it.”

“What?”

You sat up immediately. You shot a light-hearted glare but your heart genuinely felt a pang at the sadness invading Sobiesław’s voice. How his nose twitches, trying to prevent a frown from settling on his face.

“But I’m right here!” You brought both hands to hammer at your chest, nailing in your point. “I better not be kicked out of SpecGru anytime soon. I’d love to be one of the friends you bring back home-”

“Ha!”

Sobiesław lets out a singular laugh, all air escaping his lungs to create a foreign sound that is as bitter as it is loud. You were sure he frightened a couple birds in a nearby tree who decided to migrate early from the disruption. You hoped none of the operators went to bed early else they would have had a nasty wake up call as his voice travelled in all directions, invading any of the open windows in the base.

When the echoes of his laugh settled to the ground, it dragged the warmth in the air with it. A sombre coldness came tenfold, you started to wrap your arms around your form, entering a foetal position as you looked at Sobiesław.

“It is my fault,” his confession comes out in a low groan, bringing up a hand to rub at his face. In between rubs he lets out a few quiet curses, words strained. When he is done, he still isn’t looking at you.

“I do not want to bring you back to Poland as just a friend.”

He dared to look at you and the light in his eyes snatched the air out of your lungs. Even under furrowed eyebrows his pupils were blown wide, taking you in as if you were the stars themselves. All seeing, all knowing. Even though you thought nothing special of yourself he turns to you with reverence as if you were the one who could make all his dreams come true.

You bring your gaze up to the sky, in hopes that the infinite expanse of the universe could do anything for your pounding heart. But they did little to settle your heart or your hasty breaths. The stars above really weren’t anything of wonder, were they? A shooting star is only a meteor, a large rock that will disintegrate in due time. The heroes of the past were often only average joes that were in the right place at the right time. Dreams were only the remnants of memories and experiences being fired off by neurons, to be forgotten in the void once one wakes up.

And yet you couldn’t help but romanticise it all the same.

It wouldn’t hurt, would it? Just like how Sobiesław keeps prancing around the base telling everyone his childhood dreams of a hussar were “fate”, couldn’t you make this fate too? Magical, like a prophecy. A promise that could survive any time or mission, that holds strong even against fate itself. The tale of Sobiesław’s recurring dreams that guide him to glory and consequently to you. A legend of your own.

“Then don’t,” you whispered.

“Take me to Poland as your lover.”

You didn’t think Sobiesław could look at you anymore in awe than before, but tonight was full of surprises. A heavy pause stills the air as he takes just a moment too long to understand your words. You couldn’t help but smile at how his face contorted with shock and confusion, he probably didn’t expect you to reciprocate so suddenly. But just like him, you had been dreaming of a scenario like this.

“You always have such good ideas,” Sobiesław chuckled. His boyish grin is roughened by his ragged features, but it doesn’t make it any less endearing. Pure and genuine, it had been a long time since you had seen such an expression on him. Sitting up, he reaches over to slide you across to him and again you find yourself ogling his impressive musculature. The fibres of his body swelling and flexing, his every move seemed to embody the strength of a hundred warriors. Such power and potential devoted to little old you as Sobiesław pulls you flush to his own body.

He’s like an overgrown heater, his body warmth emanating even through the thick wool of his jumper. Warm as though he was the very campfire that soldiers lit up for peace and respite at the end of a day of bloodshed. But not as warm as the lips that pressed against yours when you tilted your head to look up at him. His lips were a little chapped, the remnants of his celebratory vodka adding a crisp tang to the kiss. His actions driven by sheer passion, an arm now circling your shoulder blades and pulling you impossibly tight to him. You were trapped in his embrace, whole body entranced by his. All that was on your mind was the feeling of his being surrounding you. His calloused hands gripped onto you with a pleasant burn. Even as you struggled to breathe through your nose, your senses were filled with his cologne spiked with the smell of gunpowder and wilderness.

He let out a disapproving huff as you reluctantly pull away from him for some air, but Sobiesław still looks ever the victorious soldier.

“You make me indulge too much, Serduszko,” he exhaled.

You pressed your cheek into the fabric of his jumper, breaking into a fond smile as you cuddle into him.

“You know, you’ve never told me what that meant.”

Sobiesław took a moment to pull his head back far enough to plant a kiss on your forehead.

“It means ‘sweetheart’,” he replied smugly.

You froze.

“You mean, you called me that on missions? When we were talking to our contractors? Our direct superiors?!”

“Uh… Good thing no one else speaks Polish here, yes?”

With a joyous laugh like his, you can’t bring yourself to be angry.

Call of Duty Masterlist

[crimebird]

i put patches on someone's old Sublime shirt lollll

@powercool is funny & suggested the placements

[eclairfair98]

The swing doesn’t creak under his weight. It’s different from the little tyre Dad had strung up for him in the backyard when he was a kid. But in the ways that matter, it’s exactly the same.

Securing his grip on the chains, Pete takes a few steps back. And then, he lets go. Swings ahead, kicking the air. The white of his shoelaces almost glowing in the dark.

The height of the swing increases with every pump of his legs, a glorious breeze blowing against his damp brow. The rise in his body’s centre of mass making itself know in bubbly feeling floating in his belly.

It’s almost like one little swing is enough to turn-off something as big as gravity.

And maybe, gravity only exists as a manifestation of the loneliness of all the molecules and atoms and protons and neutrons and electrons that make up the Earth.

Of the loneliness experienced by all the living breathing people with burdens and disappointments and broken dreams that inhabit the planet.

“Pete… slow down. Please.”

The voice reaches out to him, but he can’t really hear it. Smooth syllables rounded out by the faint buzzing in his ears. ‘Cause somewhere in Pete’s head, all the sound has gone out.

And what is life? What does it even mean to be alive?

He closes his eyes against the cool wind buffeting his face, raises his legs as he reaches the topmost part of the arc of his swing. Takes in a breath that makes a gasping sound at the back of his throat.

Is it this?

The act of breathing in and breathing out.

Is inspiring oxygen and expiring carbon dioxide, pumping enough blood from his heart to his arteries and eventually, all of his visceral organs, enough to classify Pete as alive?

Maybe, it is.

If so, maybe he’s only as alive as an insentient tree, or a patch of symbiotic lichen growing on the bark of a tree. Or a non-flagellated bacteria that cannot move freely through its own immediate environment and lives out its brief, insignificant existence stuck in the same ultra-microscopic space that Nature deemed it appropriate to cage him in.

After all, what is he?

A universe of atoms. An atom in the universe.

There’s fresh wetness burning behind his eyelids, clumping his lashes, and Pete makes a valiant attempt to fight the stupid, overwhelming, all-encompassing need to cry, till he ends up crying a little, anyway. Staring up at a flock of stars scattered across the night sky. At the light that’s been traveling for hundreds and thousands of years to reach his tired eyes.

“Push me higher, Daddy, I want to fly!” he would implore. And his father’d always obliged. Instructing him to hold on tight, as the sky rushed up to welcome him with open arms.

The metal chains of the swing dig into his palms, but Pete doesn’t notice the discomfort, tightly closing his hands around the only thing tethering him to the ground.

Pumping his legs for the last time, Pete wonders whether he and his father are looking up at the same night sky, whether Dad sees the frozen lights twinkling against a backdrop of crushed, black velvet, and thinks about just how small he is in the grand scheme of things.

And in that sublime moment that seems to stretch on infinitely, Pete is flying.

After a while, he does slow down, spots Tom who’s now standing next to his swing, off to the side. His shoes skid against the sand as he comes to an abrupt stop. Little spots dancing in front of his eyes. Growing bigger and bigger. Taking on shapes and colors: starry-blues, fuchsia-pinks, firetruck-reds. Till his vision starts crumpling ‘round the edges.

Till strong hands grip his waist and his arm, deftly lower him into the swing, hold him securely till the colors fade away. Bleed into the night.

“I’ve got you,” Tom murmurs, warm hand moving up to cradle Pete’s tear-stained cheek. To caress his quivering chin with a calloused thumb.

This way they’re at eye level, and Pete can see his face clearly. Can smell his scent. Like a rain shower in the summertime after the grass has been cut.

“I really don’t know what this is, but I feel so scared, Tom… I feel so alone...”

Moonlight glances off Tom’s wedding ring, and Pete brushes his pinky against the cool metal. A minuscule movement that stills Tom’s hand. Turns it boneless in Pete’s grip.

“But you’re not alone, Pete. You don’t have to be scared, ‘cause I’m going to take care of you. You have me. You’ll always have me,” Tom whispers. And it feels as though he’s reciting a prayer, breathed into existence against the unsteady beat of Pete’s heart.

He runs his thumb along Tom’s knuckles, over the warmth seeping through his sun-kissed skin. Over the faint scars sloping over the smooth ridge.

Remembers how Tom got those scars. The bubblegum pink balloons that littered the varnished gym floor at prom. The fraying ends of the ribbon tying the corsage to his wrist. It’s rose petals picked away by his anxious fingers. The short-lived relief of getting away from the heat and the people and the noise. From all of the eyes on him, and all of the whispers. Of Annapolis admissions and impending engagements and the possibility of getting bonded before marriage. Of the fact that the Academy forbade Midshipmen from getting married. But didn’t stop them from bonding their omegas.

He remembers the sharp smell of unfamiliar alpha stinging his nose. The cold burn of calloused fingers on his neck. The yelp of distress punching it’s way out of his chest. The white-hot shock that flooded his insides when a senior he hardly recognized leaned in to deliberately scent him and remark: Kazansky’s got himself a sweet one, all right. But you don’t seem to like him very much, do you? Say, if you’re looking for someone better—

Remembers only being able to string together three weak words, nascent tears choking his voice: Let me go.

Remembers the blur of motion at the edges of his vision. Strangled sounds of a brief scuffle. Raw knuckles clenched into tight fists. A spot of blood staining the pressed-clean collar of Tom’s dress shirt. Quicksilver glinting in his steady blue eyes.

Unapologetic even in the face of detention and the threat of suspension.

The same eyes that are looking at him now: open and vulnerable and all the more steadier for it.

“Please, let me be there for you. Let me be good to you. Let me take care of you. Let me…”

Tom shuffles closer, touches the hem of his tee-shirt with shaky fingers. Smooths it down where it had ridden up, exposing a sliver of his pale abdomen.

“Okay,” he whispers.

Because Tom isn’t a liar. He would never lie. Not to Pete. Not to anyone.

Because Tom would never not be good to him.

Because Tom’s hands never shake, but they’re shaking now. As Pete cradles them in his own, brings them down to his still flat belly. Feels the press of them against his covered skin. The space between his breaths shortening, till he lets a little breath go.

Till he closes the distance between them, his mouth hot on Tom’s, the whole of him held between Tom’s shaky palms.

Because Tom feels like home.

Tom’s eyes widen, his next inhale coming in a little shorter, a little sharper. And Tom tugs him a little closer, curls his calloused fingers round the slope of his jaw, kisses Pete deeper. Something desperate in the hard press of his lips on Pete’s. Something heartbreakingly tender about it.

And Pete doesn’t know what to do with it. With the way his chest’s heaving like it’s being crushed under the weight of his ribs. With the way his lungs are bursting, ballooning up and taking his breath away.

And it feels so simple. So easy. Even though it really isn’t. The honesty of it. Of wanting to hold. Of wanting to be held. Of wanting to love and be loved.

But he leans into it. Fingers weaving softly in Tom’s thick hair, thumbs tracing the curve of his cheekbones.

Because, Tom is home.

[nerdykeppie]

Working on our first sublimated patches -- the Join or Die design has too many colors for embroidery, so... time to adapt. :D

These canvas patches are coming with us to Seattle Pride & will be on the shop afterwards!