#They're heavy enough to use as a weapon

[hypercubecats]

Page 5: The physics lesson continues…

Krita brush pack by @abluskittle

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[thebibliosphere]

Wait, is Jason in Gotham Knights body horror? Because it doesn't feel like his body even tho he's controlling it? (He died, he came back, it's not the same and never will be)

Or is it more analogous to puberty and feeling like you don't know anything about your body anymore?

Just having thoughts about that boy again

I think Jason in Gotham Knights is very much connected with his physical body. It's his biggest weapon, possibly more so than his guns, given his lasting connection to the Lazarus Pit and the power it gives him.

His backstory talks about building himself up to peak physical condition into the absolute unit he is now, and you can either see that as someone trying to reconnect with their physical self or someone vowing never to be small or weak again.

I tend to think of it as both. It's a reclamation of his physical form but also a transformation into something bigger and stronger that ensures he's the scariest, meanest-looking mother fucker in the room. Basically someone you can't underestimate as a threat.

(Try not to think too hard about the fact that he now largely resembles Bruce in stature, that he is now the group's heavy hitter, the most menacing and the most likely to strike fear into the heart of his opponents, and that Jason molded himself into the person he needed to be rescued by as a child. Don't do it. Do not. I am normal about this.)

But he obviously struggles with feeling present mentally sometimes.

You'll see him zoning out occasionally, touching the J-shaped scar on his face before violently shaking himself back into the present.

He has panic attacks while playing a dance video game with a coffin in it—a coffin his character becomes trapped in because he's not moving fast enough. (hello, trauma)

He's angry all the time and so relieved when Barbra expresses her own rage at something because, yes, finally, someone else is letting their emotions out instead of bottling it up (Dick).

His emails are littered with orders for self-help books, emails from his therapist moving his sessions around, and concerned messages from his friends (Roy comes to mind) saying if he needs to get out of Gotham, they'll make it happen.

Alfred holding him while he sobs over losing Bruce still breaks me every time. I have to pause the game and walk around my house until I feel normal again.

And then there's the cut scene where Dick asks, "Hey, remember that time we all [insert funny thing here]," and Jason admits, somewhat angrily, that no, he doesn't because Lazarus took entire swaths of memories from him and he hates how he can't connect with people the way he used to and he hates the way they all look at him (the way Dick is looking at him now) when he admits he doesn't remember something they clearly loved about the old him: the version of him who didn't have volatile mood swings or made people flinch when he did something as mundane as handle a kitchen knife -- the undead monster he came back as*.

The fact that Dick then contrives to recreate this memory so Jason can be included in a newer version of it -- while also giving him what is arguably a weapon -- fucks me up every time. Dick just yeets a kitchen knife at him, trusting that Jason will catch it, and then just steamrolls over Jason's rightful 'what the fuck' expression with "Hey, we're making food. Get dicing."

And Jason knows what they're all doing. He's aware of it, and he gets the teeniest, tiniest smile before smothering it out. Except he can't quite. He's still smiling as he chops the vegetables. And yes, they're all hopeless at cooking compared to him, and he knows he's going to end up taking over, but that's okay. Because this is for him. He gets to control it.

And that's how Jason gets to make a new memory, one where he is handed a weapon and gets to turn it into a genuine expression of nurturing and care.

Because he does care about them. He wouldn't conspire with Dick to bake Barbara's favorite childhood cookies if he didn't. He wouldn't try so hard to be gentle with Tim triggering the shit out of him while he's struggling with his grief. He just doesn't always know how to express it because he doesn't always know what he's feeling.

Is his anger valid? Or is this Lazarus Pit Rage? Is he being overly sensitive because of his trauma, or is everyone else underreacting because of their trauma? (Should he sign them all up for therapy, quite probably, yes.)

So, you could perhaps argue that Jason experiences body horror in the sense that he doesn't remember all the pieces of who he used to be. (Speaking as someone with severe memory loss from medical trauma, it's certainly a type of horror.) But I don't think it's because he's detached from it physically or doesn't feel in control of his body. I think it's his mind that worries him.

His body he can control. It's his mind that still sparks green sometimes.

---

*Re the scene with Tim when Tim calls the Talons monsters. "What about me? Do you think I'm a monster?"

No, they don't.

But Jason does. And it scares him shitless.

[loveisanimaginarydagger3000]

The Soldier Of Death (6)- Natasha

Natasha Romanoff X Super Soldier Reader 18+

Summary: Soldat Smerti. The Soldier of Death. You were the perfect weapon: loyal, obedient, and merciless, or so Hydra thought. What happens when these traits are put to the test? Your captivity in the Avenger's tower and the presence of a redhead makes you realise you didn't have to be a monster. The question was though; Did Hydra make you the monster or were you always one?

This fic will contains dark themes. Please read these warnings before starting any of these chapters: graphic descriptions of murder, violence, gore and torture, heavy angst, mental issues.

Please consider these warnings before reading

Word Count: 2k

General Masterlist | The Soldier Of Death Masterlist

Chapter Warning: Dark thoughts (that's going be in standard in every chapter)

—

Your fingers drummed a little impatiently against your knees, legs crossed as you sat on the floor waiting for her arrival. Your mind scolded you for the strange amount of emotion you were experiencing, the excitement you felt as your eyes were trained on the door, waiting eagerly for the head of red hair, the enticing green eyes to meet your own and that intoxicating smile to tug at her lips. You didn't understand the sudden infatuation with her, the thoughts confusing for you to try and figure out, leading you simply try and ignore them as there was a strange sense of peace when she entered the room, when she'd look at you as if you were a person, not a monster or some beast to tame. Maybe it was the respect she showed you, maybe it was the kindness she showed, you weren't sure, all you knew was that you enjoyed it, the feeling foreign to you.

She's trying to manipulate us. You're weak when it comes to her.

Berated the voice and you clenched your jaw at its incessant need to torment you, to drive you absolutely insane. Not only was it irritating, annoying, frustrating and so much more, it was tiring. It was tiring to keep it under control and away, exhausting to constantly fight your mind and ensuring it wouldn't lash out. You didn't want to hurt anyone, not any more.

Stop trying to be moral.

It groans in frustration with you, a scoff leaving you at the sheer audacity of them to be annoyed with you. You weren't the psychotic, bloodthirsty monster that wanted to kill everyone.

We're always going to be a monster, there's no point changing. They're going to try and change us, don't you see? We can't trust them.

You turn your head away once the reflection starts to move a little in the glass, refusing to acknowledge them and start a new infuriating conversation with them, having had enough of them entirely.

The vexation on your face quickly dissipates into embarrassment and shame when your eyes meet the striking, emerald green. Her body leans against the door frame, watching you with a quizzical but soft look, her arms that were crossed against her chest unwrapping from her body as she casually strolled up closer to the cell, empty handed. You furrowed your brows as she didn't carry the usual tray of food like she always did, tilting your head in curiosity as she sat cross legged opposite you, the only barrier being the glass of the cell.

Natasha. That was her name. She had told you her name a couple days ago after delivering your food, that strange and odd warm sensation bubbling inside you every time you thought of her.

Green continued to watch you as your eyes slowly travelled across her face, never having been this close for this long before. Your eyes flickered across her features, taking your time to note all the small little details down. The notable features such as her soft, plump lips, slightly defined cheekbones and sharp jawline were skimmed over, having looked at them many times, your eyes scanning over the small ridge in her nose, presumably having been broken badly before, the small scar hidden near her eyebrow and the one peeking from under her hair on her forehead, your eyes then settling on hers. Kindness and an indecipherable emotion swam in the pools of green, her watching you intently as you stared back at her, your eyes containing more life than they did when you first arrived in the cell around a week ago.

"I was wondering if we could have a little chat?" Her words unnerved you but her gentle tone that held hints of her Russian accent oddly soothed you, your gaze finally breaking away from the lingering look, flicking over to your reflection in the glass as they made a mocking sound.

I told you. They just want to trick us.

Your jaw clenched at the darkness, Natasha noticing the way your eyes moved away from her before getting annoyed, curious as to whether there was an alter ego version of yourself as she and Fury had discussed further another day.

"What do you want to talk about?" You asked and the action of you answering back made her smile a little. You had spoken to her a few times, most of it being to thank her for the food or answer a brief question she asked such as 'how are you holding up in there?'

"I just have a few questions, if that's ok?" she asks and it's cautious. She watches how your fingers seem to press harder against your leg, how your jaw clenches and posture becomes rigid, tense, the way your eyes lose the sense of life she was trying so hard to bring back.

Conflicted emotions resurface in your mind at her words. You had your loyalty to Hydra, part of you screamed, you were theirs. Their soldier, their weapon, their property. You didn't have the right to betray them like this, no matter what they did to you. They made you into the person you were, whether you hated it or not. If it wasn't for them, you would have died a long time ago.

Another part screamed that this was your chance to be free. This was it. Trust them and tell her all the twisted and dark things they had planned, they had you do. Join their team if they let you, try and do something good for once, like you had always wanted.

The other part screamed for you to remain silent. You didn't have a reason to trust them, to tell them everything. You could tell them everything and they'd do the exact same thing Hydra did. You would be the Avenger's puppet, just a different kind of weapon.

"You don't have to answer but...," she paused as if trying to phrase her words right, saying something she wouldn't normally say. "We want to stop Hydra and we want to help you. I know it may seem difficult to trust us, believe me, I understand what it's like, but if you want to help change, to help stop them, then it would be really useful if there was anything you could give us."

Your eyes meet hers, trying to read her and see if she was being honest, a hint of confusion seeping into your mind at her words of how she'd been in your position before. You hesitated, truly thinking about the options and the weight of her words before nodding subtly, not meeting her eyes and staring down at your fingers that were clean for once, not stained red.

"Are you the Soldat Smerti?" she asks and you can feel her gaze burning into your skin, how she watches you with an intensity.

The words send an unpleasant wave of nausea to wash through you, the words enough to evoke fear inside of you. You were. You were the Soldat but you never wanted to be. You didn't want to be the monster the agents told to scare prisoners, the merciless assassin who didn't care who they killed. You didn't want to cause the bloodshed but you did. It was always going to stain and taint your past, there was no escaping it.

You nod your head to answer her question, Natasha noting the despondency that seemed to take over your body, the way you seemed to drown in your thoughts.

"Did you want to be?" Your head slowly raises to meet her gaze at the question. No one had ever asked you that. No one had ever dared consider your perspective on the whole thing.

"No," your voice is barely above a whisper, cracking a little with the amount of emotion you said it with, the raw tone of your voice making Natasha's heart constrict a little.

"I assume they hurt you then?" she says, the sympathy in her voice making you feel nervous. It was all too good to be true. Why was she being so kind?

Stop telling her.

The voice grits out, the reflection banging on the glass of the cell to further emphasise their anger with you, your eyes closing to block them out. You need something to focus on, and the sound of a steady heart beat being picked up by your ears, your mind focusing on her to calm yourself.

When you open your eyes, she's waiting patiently to see if you would answer, your head nodding again as you don't want to voice your answer, her understanding why.

"Do you want to be free from them?" She asks, unfolding her legs and crossing them the other way as she adjusts her position to get more uncomfortable, unsure of how you manage to sit in the same position for so long without your legs becoming a little numb.

Yes. But we don't need you to help us.

The darkness answers, her unable to hear them though as you impassively stare at her for a moment, her brows furrowing at the sudden switch in demeanour. It seemed as if you just disappeared, completely dissociated from reality before a flicker of danger flashed in your eyes, fading just as quickly as it had appeared.

I told you, I will set us free. Stop answering her and listen to me.

"I can't," your tone hurt and sorrowful, Natasha's eyes watching you as you stare at her, trying to convey your conflicted state of mind.

"You can," she tries to reassure, "We can help you-"

"You can't," your tone is a little harsher this time, taking her aback. "They control me."

"How so?" she asks after a moment, letting the silence brew before speaking up.

You simply raise your finger to your head, pointing to your temple where faint scars could be seen, Natasha only now being able to notice them with how close you were.

"They put a monster inside of me," you say, voice wavering a little but you don't care at this point. You're too tired to be conflicted, to be confused. You just want to let go. "One that will never leave me," she can hear the pain in your voice and wants to move closer to you, to tell you that there's a way they can help you but she doesn't, she remains silent letting you speak.

"I just want it to stop," you confess, the darkness mocking you for your weakness, shouting at you to give up control if you want it to truly stop.

Give. It. To. Me.

The room simmers in a silence, neither of you sure of what to say before Natasha eventually speaks up, her voice laced with sincerity.

"I'm sorry," she says and you can feel a lump forming in your throat. You want to cry, you want to scream, you just want to feel safe for once and right now, you weren't sure what you felt. It was too much, too overwhelming.

She was being too kind. This was what you wanted though. Why did it feel wrong? What was this strange feeling inside you? Why was she sorry? Why can't we keep it together?

"You never deserved that," she whispers, pushing her body off of the floor and looking down at your still sitting form.

What if you did deserve it?

"One last question before I go," she says, her sympathetic expression turning softer, "What's your real name?"

The question shocks you, brows furrowing as what was your name? You had only been called Soldat for as long as you could remember, your mind searching through the blurs of memories, the flashes of your past to find out the answer. At the look of concentration on your face, Natasha herself was surprised at your effort to answer the question, waiting patiently for you to see if you would remember.

You met her eyes with an uncertain look while you still thought hard, her opening her mouth to say something else when it came to you.

"Y/n," you said with a small, minute smile, the action making pride fill the redhead as that was the first time she had seen the corner of your lips tug upwards.

"Think about my offer Y/n," she says, a smile playing on her lips at the life that resurfaced in your eyes. "I'll see you later," after her final words, her body slips out of the doors, leaving you alone once again, the small smile still on your face.

[callsign-datura]

a/n: thought this shit up mid genshin session, grind mode pls ignore any mistakes

there are only two things ghost is willing to be patient or gentle with. one, you, and two, his weapons.

the same hands with which ghost cleans a rifle are the same hands he uses to hold your hips down as you squirm in his lap from the feeling of his cock pulsing inside you. he chastises you gently, peppering kisses along your jaw through the fabric of his mask. you smell so nice. he knows he smells like gunpowder and blood. but you, you kinky thing, can't seem to get enough of the feeling.

the care with which he cleans the carbon buildup on his rifle is the same care with which he fucks you. usually there isn't much to clean, usually he maintains a cleaning routine. but sometimes time gets away from him and he finds himself cleaning the weapons he uses the most. his squadmates get their subordinates to clean their weapons when they're working with another team-- something about superiority. most men find cleaning their weapons... annoying, tedious, a waste of time. him? he enjoys it. it helps him relax. maybe it's a coincidence that you help him relax as well.

calloused fingers work in and out of you slowly as he leans over your body. his other hand is planted on the bed beside your hip, russet eyes piercing into yours while he watches your expression. his body feels heavy with exhaustion but his hand is still slow and gentle, unhurried, fleeting tingles of electricity shooting through your body as his fingers curl upwards, searching along your inner walls for a moment before they stop suddenly. you're panting, chest heaving while you shift and turn beneath him, your hips arching against his touch and your head falling back against the pillow under your head. his gaze flickers over your face before down to your chest, then down to where his fingers are inside you. his thumb swings up and over before planting the pad against your clit, applying pressure slowly in swirling strokes as he rolls his pointer and middle into you. he teases you, grazing your g-spot just barely. you know he's smirking under that damn mask, and part of you wants to push it up to see whether or not his lips are quirked into a smirk. you imagine it through the haze of pleasure-- red-pink, thin lips flat other than a barely noticeable twitch of the left corner. the thought makes your heart thump, and you offer a strangled moan before you tilt your head forward and tuck your face into his shoulder.

a low chuckle leaves him, and he tilts his head, placing a chaste kiss to your forehead as he adjusts his intimidating figure above yours. his knees are planted in line with and between yours, though he makes no move to keep them from shaking. he finds it amusing, the way you squirm, so he allows you to continue.

he's going slow on purpose, and it's driving you fucking mad.

"ghost," you mumble, your voice meek and shaky as you lean closer to him. "need more."

he pauses. "really?" he responds, his voice low as he nuzzles his face into the side of your head. "thas' a shame," he murmurs, the smirk audible. "m'fingers are a bit sore. gonna have to take what you can get. ya know, beggars can't be choosers, n' all that..." you can feel him suppress a laugh. he pushes his fingers upwards swiftly to put direct pressure on your g-spot at the same time he adopts an up-down-up-down pattern over your clit with his thumb. your body jolts in response to the sudden change, and your head falls back as you moan out. you jolt once, then again when the pace doesn't slow. your shoulders draw together and you whine.

"mmh-- fuck. jus like that, ghost, please," you squeak, your voice coming out lewd in a way that would make satan blush. "nh-- feels so good..." you trail off, your hips bucking against his fingers as warmth blossoms over your insides. you can't focus on much more than his fingers, and the way he chuckles in your ear almost makes you cream on his digits. thankfully, you don't, but he must've sensed that you almost did, because his pace increases. his eyes are still boring into you, trailing over every feature of your body. your perky tits that rise and fall with your chest, your nipples hard against the fabric of the t-shirt you're wearing. his t-shirt, he realizes, and he clicks his tongue. chastising you once more, but not slowing down, he says, "stealin' my clothes again?" and you can't find it in you to say more than a lazy "m'sorry," your voice slurred by the pleasure of his fingers working into you. he's not rough, you find. his fingers move quickly enough into you that your thoughts fall apart and your body follows suit as you melt into his touch.

"tch. you're not sorry." he purrs, trying to sound like he's scolding you, but the affectionate undertone in his voice assures you that he isn't actually upset. not that you'd care.

or, rather, not that you could care. the coil in your stomach tightens to an unbearable level and he croons at you. "'f i make you cum, are you gon' start askin' for my clothes instead of stealin' em from me?" his words go through one ear and out the other as his fingers, long and thick, curl upwards into your g-spot. he twitches them against it, your cunt clenching around him and making a squelch that turns your face red. "uh-huh." you agree, but your voice lacks conviction.

"you sure?" he asks, leaning down and tilting your head with the hand that was holding himself up. your eyes flutter open and make contact with his, blinking away the blurriness as your mouth falls open in pleasure, a squeaking noise leaving your throat. he laughs quietly, shaking his head. "you don't sound very sure..." "i am!" you reassure, your hips lifting to chase more friction. he obliges, moving his fingers a bit faster at an angle that makes your legs turn to jelly. "i am, i am, i am," you repeat, your head falling to the side as he finally frees you. that hand finds purchase on your chest, squeezing your tit. his cock stirs in his pants at the sight of you, but he ignores it. he continues, and when your eyebrows knit so sweetly, he rubs your clit a bit faster, lulling you into your orgasm. your clit twitches and your walls clench on his fingers but that does not deter him. your moans become tense cries, and your hands grip his biceps and dig your nails into his flesh as your back arches. "cumming--" you cry, and he croons once more. "mmhm, that's it, pretty girl. lemme hear you. who's makin' you cum?" he asks, the low and husky timbre of it making you cum harder. warmth falls over your body and your eyes roll back. you feel like electricity is zapping you every time his thumb rolls over your clit.

"you are," you heave. "ghost-- fuck..." "no, babe... not quite. who's making you cum?" he reiterates, as if that would clear it up. the pleasure is gradually ebbing into oversensitivity. "not gonna stop till you say the right name," he purrs.

oh. you get it now.

"simon! ah, simon." you might as well be shrieking. your throat feels as if you have been for the past few hours, and maybe you have-- you can't remember. suddenly he pulls his fingers from your cunt, letting go of your tit as he sits back on his legs and eases you up into an embrace, your lazy body easily following his movements. he wraps an arm around your waist and looks at the cum coating his fingers. he chuckles again, wiping his fingers off on his leg. your eyes flutter shut and you let out a sigh, body slumping against his before he gently hoists you up and gets off the bed, going towards the bathroom. "was that good, sweet thing?" he asks, setting you on the bathroom counter as he pushes your legs apart before going to get a rag. your sleepy hum of agreement makes his heart warm. any other day he'd have fucked you after, but he gets pleasure from giving you pleasure... and besides, staying pent up until the next time he actually fucks you is better anyhow. maybe it's three things he's patient and gentle with-- his guns, you, and the aftercare he knows you need after you've been fucked dumb.

[jevilowo]

Headcanon:

How much the other Mercs can understand Pyro

Scout: Not at all. Won't even try. Literally will just pretend they're on about how cool he is. It drives Pyro insane.

Soldier: Almost every single interaction goes like "mph mph" "LITTLE TIMMY FELL DOWN THE WELL?!?". Soldier can understand them perfectly like once in a blue moon bc funny.

The Other Pyro: They understand each other perfectly and discuss my little pony lore together.

Demo: Understands them well enough but only when hes like the maximum level of drunk. The rest of the time he has to guess based on their tone and body language but how good he is at that depends on how sloshed or un-sloshed he is.

Heavy: The man struggles enough with with english when spoken normally, he's pretty useless at deciphering pyrospeak. He's definitely better at the body language and tone thing than Demo tho, due to having sisters and not being drunk.

Engie: A Sans Undertale situation where most people think he understands them perfectly but he's actually just godlike at reading tone and body language, and decent enough at deciphering the mumbling. I'm pretty sure this is somewhat canon, as the only time Engie has "understood" Pyro was when they made a "nuh-uh" sort of noise which is. Obvious.

Medic: Can't understand much beyond like Yes and No and MEDIC, and is pretty mediocre at tone and body language. Usually just gets Engie to translate. Considering getting Pyro to let him attach a mouth to the outside of the suit.

Sniper: Pretty shit at tone and body language, alright at deciphering the mumbles. One of my headcanons for him was he didn't talk for years as a small child (autism), so I can picture him teaching Pyro some basic Australian sign language.

Spy: He's a spy, and therefore pretty good at deciphering Pyrospeak and tone and body language. He's not as good as Engie, which drives him up the wall.

Miss Pauling: She hasn't really had the time to get used to Pyrospeak (busy), but I can see her getting pretty good at deciphering it over time. She'd probably learn sign language off Sniper too.

Administrator: She was somehow able to understand they wanted more weapons in Meat vs Match so she understands that much at least.

Saxton Hale: That weirdo barely understands Scout. He's probably convinced Pyro is actually just a really obscure species of wilddog that evolved to use flamethrowers.

Zhanna: Same as Heavy, but gains Soldier's ability to understand them occasionally over time.

[insipid-drivel]

Warhorses: Which horses are actually good candidates, anyway?

This post is in honor of @warrioreowynofrohan, who asked the question in the comments under my guide, "Horses: Since There Seems To Be A Knowledge Gap". Their question, "Given what you said about too much weight breaking a horse’s spine, how did that work with knights in plate armour?" is one I'm going to try to answer here, since the answer can be very nuanced depending on where and when you're talking about.

Also, while I was a stable hand for years as well as a rider, I never had the opportunity to directly learn more ancient styles of tacking, horse training, and combat, so I don't have any direct experience to draw from with regard to horses used for military purposes. I'm still gonna do my best here with what I know, and research what I don't.

As I've covered in the past, large horses (draft horses) make less-than-ideal warhorses, and so do carriage horses like the elegant and dramatic Friesians.

Let's begin by addressing this from the perspective of creative writing. For you writers and content creators out there, an essential part to the continuity of any historically-themed work you do involving horses will be depicting breeds of horses that didn't exist before a certain time in history. I'm going to approach this question from the stance of, "Medieval-type era warhorses". Horses were used in warfare as late was World War II, but actual horses you ride into battle with knights and archers and bannermen? We actually have to drop the subject of specific modern breeds altogether aside from using them for comparisons.

When discussing warhorses, various cultures have approached them differently. Some cultures will value a specific type of horse above all others, such as the Mongolian Steppe Horse or the American Mustang. Other cultures, which may be from biomes and territories where multiple types of horses are needed for different forms of warfare and tactics, value whichever horses can get their jobs done without their riders getting killed.

Carrying vs. Pulling:

Horses have been used in warfare since as far back as 4000 BC, but their first applications were more as chariot horses. Humans have been riding and working with horses since before we even had stirrups to more easily ride them with! As archaeologists and anthropologists make more discoveries, the more we learn that we humans have been working closely with horses since before we had specialized tools to ride them with. The very first warhorses pulled chariots or carts, which is much easier for a horse's anatomy to handle compared to carrying a heavy weight like an armored rider on their backs, which puts stress directly on their spines where they have very little supporting muscle for supporting a lot of heavy downward weight.

Warhorse Size Categories:

Really, any breed of horse can apply to a niche in warfare if it's needed enough. Even very small, delicate horses have had their place in the history of human combat! Before I continue, it's important to know that there's a unique unit of measuring a horse's height. Rather than measuring a horse's height in centimeters or inches, they're measured in units called "hands". A single "hand" = ~4 inches/10.16cm, and a horse's height is measured based upon the distance between the bottom of their hoof to the tallest part of their shoulders, just at the base of the back of their necks. We don't actually include neck length/head height in a horse's measurements with traditional measuring.

Another rule of thumb: The average horse cannot safely carry anything heavier than about 30% of their total body weight. This is a serious factor to take into mind when deciding on a type of or breed of horse for a mounted warrior of any kind: You need to factor in the OC's starting body weight, and then add on the weight of armor, weapons, and any armor the horse itself may wear along with the weight of its tack.

Light-Weight Horses:

A few examples of lightweight horse breeds whose ancestors have historically been used in combat are Arabians, Barber Horses, and the magnificent Akhal-Teke. Lightweight and delicately-boned horses like those are best applied for military maneuvers that require precision, speed, and endurance, and the rider themselves should specialize in some form of combat or reconnaissance that doesn't require them to wear heavy metal or laminated armors. Archers are good candidates for riding smaller horses, or lightly-armored swordsmen like an Ottoman Janissary.

Central-Asian and North African horses also benefit from having a higher tolerance for hot climates. They can absolutely suffer from heatstroke and cardiac arrest from being forced to run and work in extreme temperatures and should always be provided with the same protective measures in a heatwave as any other horse, but they have a little bit of an edge over horses descended from freezing and temperate climates.

Medium-Weight Horses:

Medium-weight horses started showing up in the archaeological record around about the Iron Age, where chariot warfare was becoming an increasingly utilized form of mobile combat, and people needed bigger, stronger horses capable of pulling heavier loads - such as a chariot with two passengers rather than just one. As cultures began to develop heavier-duty armors made of metals and laminated materials, it also became important to breed horses that were tall and stocky (muscular and with relatively short spines compared to their height), and therefore more capable of carrying riders in increasingly heavy armor. Medium-weight horses were also essential at the dawn of the gunpowder age when the cannon came into use in siege warfare for pulling the heavy, iron cannons into position.

Medium-weight horses are really where we see the beginnings of knights and other warrior classes on horseback come into the forefront of warfare. When you have a horse that's big and strong enough to carry heavier armor and heavier weapons along with a rider wielding them, you have a much deadlier force at your disposal. Strikes from a sword or spear from the back of a galloping horse basically results in a sword capable of cutting through enemy soldiers like a hot knife through butter.

Important Note: Traditionally, cavalrymen wield blunt swords when attacking from a charging horse's back. When a horse is charging at full speed, the sharpness of a blade becomes less important than the blade's ability to stay in one piece when it impacts hard armor and bone. A blunted edge basically turns a cavalryman's sword into a thin club that's better at holding up against smashing through multiple layers of armor and bone compared to a thinner, more delicate sharpened edge that can shatter from a high-speed impact.

Heavy-Weight Horses:

The direct ancestors of modern draft horses, such as the Shire Horse, only began to appear around about the beginning of the European Medieval Era, and were far and away not even close to the enormous sizes of the draft horses we have today. Any horse counts as a "Heavy-weight" classed horse if its weight exceeds 1500lbs/680kgs.

Heavy-weight horses were really more bred for pulling enormous weights rather than carrying knights. While yeah, there is some evidence that suggests that heavy-weight horses were used by heavily-armored knights, historians argue a lot about whether it was a rule or an exception (such as with Henry VIII, who continued to ride well after he had begun to weigh more than 350lbs/158kgs, and even went to war in France in his final years on horseback). Generally speaking, medium-weight horses tend to be the right balance of agile and strong for carrying someone that's going to actively be fighting. Heavy-weight horses were bred to be a lot more tolerant to the chaos and frightening stimulation of the sounds of battle, but medium-weighted horses generally tended to be more suited to moving efficiently through dense packs of soldiers and weaving around other horses.

Ponies:

While actually being the smallest class of warhorse, ponies were essential when it came to carrying cargo and working as pack-horses. In certain forms of terrain, such as mountains, large horses pulling big carts full of supplies or soldiers could often be extremely impractical. In situations where an army needed to move on foot and form a narrow line in order to travel, ponies were able to traverse much narrower and rougher terrain while carrying smaller loads to their destination, when heavier horses would struggle more under their own weight and dexterity.

Europe-Specific Terminologies:

If you're a writer reading this and writing a piece set in the European Medieval age, there are specific terms used for the different classes I listed of warhorses above that I'm gonna list:

Destriers: The Destrier was a universal term for the iconic knight-carrying, jousting horse. They were also sometimes referred to as "Great Horses" due to their reputations in combat settings. Destriers could have just about any appearance, but were rarely taller than 15.2 hands, or 62inches/157cm. They were capable of carrying heavily-armored knights (although knights in full plate mail rarely rode into battle and stayed on the horse the entire time - they tended to specialize at grouping up and killing a lot of footsoldiers swarming them at once and preventing breaks in defenses from being overwhelmed by an oncoming army; in the case of Edward the Black Prince, we have substantial evidence in the form of his surviving brigandine that a mounted soldier or knight was more likely to wear chainmail and brigandine with a tabard on their body with their arms, feet, and heads the most heavily armored in plate when they intended to fight on horseback, making them a little lighter and more maneuverable, but I may be waaay off base there because I'm thinking of more of Italian soldiers who used full plate and how they applied it in battle more than any other example) and wearing armor themselves.

Interestingly, the sex of a destrier was often chosen strategically. Stallions (horses that haven't been neutered) are more aggressive, and could both act as combatants on their own if their knight was dismounted or killed, but could give away an army's location if they were attempting to move stealthily. Stallions whinny and shriek a lot when they're horny or arguing with each other, which is most of the time.

Mares were often chosen by Muslim armies for being much less vocal, and therefore much more capable of stealth. Geldings (neutered males) were the preferred mounts of the Teutonic Knights, a Catholic military group, since they couldn't be stolen and used to breed more horses for the enemy army.

Coursers:

Coursers were the most common Medieval European warhorse. It's important to remember that in Medieval Europe, most armies were almost entirely comprised of common men - serfs subject to the will of their landlords, not far removed from slaves in many ways - who couldn't afford the highly-prized and expensive Destriers. Coursers were usually a bit lighter than Destriers, but were still strong enough to carry someone wearing armor. Coursers were also a little more utilitarian, because they were also sometimes used in hunting as well as warfare, so they had a valuable use outside of warfare that the owner could benefit from.

Rouncey:

A rouncey was an all-purpose horse that could be used for leisure and travel-riding as well as be trained for war. They were a lot more likely to be found on the farm of a serf or independent farmer of some kind, as they could fill a lot of different roles depending on what they were needed for. Their sizes weren't really important as much as their ability to get the job done.

It's also critical to remember that, when talking about warhorses, we're usually talking about eras long past. In general, thanks to resource availability and incredible advances in medicine, modern humans are significantly taller, and therefore heavier, than people from the European Medieval era and prior. While fatness was valued in many cultures for its suggestion of wealth, most working-class and serf-class people worked intensely physically-demanding daily lives just to maintain their own homes. They were a few inches shorter on average than we are today, had greater fluctuations in body fat distribution depending on how harsh or bountiful the harvest season had been and the season in which a war was taking place (the average person's weight would swing by 30lbs or more on average every year prior to the industrial era), and cavalry were usually chosen based upon skill in the saddle as well as physical size when considering the application of medium or heavy armor being placed on the horse's back and body.

[osakanone]

Crew attire cosplay?

Lately I've been thinking a lot about "what would separate mecha crew equipment from that of a tank crew, or a fighter crew": A lot of military surplus stuff is already really close to what we're going for, and I realized "Motorcycle boots look a lot more like mech pilot stuff than military boots do", which got me thinking what other odd equivalences exist.

The one which really surprised me was how famous mecha live action SF Gunhed used a wetsuit as a stand-in for "generic scifi bodysuit", and that it worked weirdly well, actually?

"Why not latex?"

Latex rips too easily in contact with straps and hard elements, overheats far, far too easily despite having the looks. Thin neoprene works. really well.

So I kept exploring.

One thing I did seriously debate is other than rappelling equipment, would a pilot need something like a rigid knee-brace for hard landings to protect the ACL when they disembark from the robot which is common with high impact parachute equipment.

Some varieties also include counter-weighted springs which make it harder for you to close your knee, but make lifting heavy things on your back and climb much much easier during the ascent phase.

That led me towards Deck Crew helmets, which meet the hood requirement, and of all things, chin wraps which are really unobstructive and you can eat and drink while wearing one pretty comfortably (I say this as someone currently stuck wearing one)

So what we're looking at here is the HGU-24 and HGU-25, often worn by deck crews because it gets along just fine with the famous MCU-2/P AKA "Millenium" mask famous with drone communities as they're designed to be worn together.

Its literally the exact same mask with a minor paint adjustment.

"What's the difference between a drone and a pilot?" "One wears AXENT and latex, the other wears HGU-25 and neoprene." "Anything else?" "Drones have less sex and do as they're told"

Its got the bash-plates you want for an ejector-seat, but it also has the padded foam you want for an impact element, and if it latches properly and the jaw mechanism is well made enough, you could probably include a hans mechanism attached to the jacket which locks into a socket in the pilot's seat to stop a pilot from breaking their neck in a collision.

What do you guys think?

Any suggestions? What I'm really curious about is what you think pilots would remove, customize or alter for practical or decorative purposes.

This is basically the result of roughly a year of casual research into pilot attire, outfits and looks.

The helm and the hood seem to be where the most manual cosplay stitching and 3D printing work is likely going to be required, with the wrap and helmhood.

Addendum:

I've not gone into waste management systems (UCL/FCL human-factors engineering stuff with internal and external recovery systems), since I'm looking at this mainly as an attainable costume or ensemble.

Edit:

I am learning some of you use aquatic mecha and find this unsatisfactory.

And you won't shut up about how the coolant mass flow rate lets you do really wild shit with your weapons my "land-loving" platform even can't dream of

While I am jealous by your sheer tonnage and the output of your reactors, I've got you covered.

Behold: Immersion suits.

They also make surprisingly good sleeping bags, even if you're on water.

They're literally designed to keep you alive if you're forced to abandon an oil platform, and are known to include a radio and even rations and a water filter.

[shanastoryteller]

Happy Birthday Shana!! Something from the Godnonsensical verse? Or anything Naruto! ty 💜

a continuation of 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8

They're gathered for the announcement of the final round of the chunin exams and her palms are sweaty in a way they never are in the middle of a fight. Sasuke is best, of course, but as long as it's any of their twelve - well, eleven, sorry Lee - then it'll be fine. If it's someone outside of them that's when things get tricky, especially when the only one of them available to move freely is the one that can't do jutsu. Maybe he can switch with Tenten? She's taijutsu heavy and although Lee doesn't favor weapons, he's plenty able to use them.

Genma has a scroll in front of him, the kages and their companions looking down at the gathered teams. Naruto still isn't sure what to make of Orochimaru.

Most of the team ups don't mean much to her, except taking people out of the running. Temari against Shikamaru, which is good. He's at a disadvantage against her but he's smart enough to make up for it. Sakura against Kankuro, which is less good, but they have a couple weeks. Kabuto against Tenten, which effectively wrecks his tentative plan, since he's way too observant to fool, even with Lee. Sasuke against Neji, which is fine, but sets her blood boiling. Kakashi couldn't even do this for her. Why does she even bother? Next time she'll know better than to waste her time asking her stupid ex-fiance for anything-

"Namikaze Naruto versus Sabaku no Gaara."

She looks up, mouth open. Her father's hands are clenched into fists and her mother is white with horror, probably frozen in place by it which is really for the best.

Kakashi is nowhere to be found, which she'd thought had seemed strange considering he's a proctor, but now makes a lot of sense.

[shwaesar]

More Caesar x Reader HCs

Still SFW but gets suggestive near the end (I'm working up to it ok I'm nervous)

You give him so many conflicting emotions and he never quite manages to come to peace with them. But he comes to peace with not coming to peace with them, if that makes sense.

He knows what he is and takes unapologetic pride in it. He's an ape. A creature forged by nature and nurture, a wild animal at his core, regardless of intelligence. Nothing can change that about him, and that's fine. He doesn't particularly want to change it.

But to love a human being feels almost like a rejection of all that. An ape can't love a human the way another human can. A human can't love an ape the way another ape can. So in a sense, you're both having to redefine your very selves just to try and make it work. To give each other what you want and need, while also adhering to your own wants and needs.

It takes a lot of time and patience to figure it all out, but you get there eventually. Or at least as close to there as you can get.

That thought still lingers in the back of his mind that he's not human enough for you, but on the rare occasion he lets those thoughts known, you're always quick to reassure him that you don't love a human. You love an ape.

'Love' is admittedly used in a nuanced way between the two of you. Love for humans means one thing, love for apes means another. But for you and Caesar, love means to choose one another, despite your many differences.

Maurice is honestly a life saver to have helping you both, educating you about ape romance and reassuring Caesar that his efforts in human romance are-..... well, it's the thought that counts.

He has no idea what he's doing but every now and then he'll pull something off that really cements his devotion to you. After all, he doesn't love an ape. He loves a human.

Flowers end up being his go-to gift, at least when he can get his hands on some. The forest is full of them if you know where to look, and he'll painstakingly pick the 'best' and bind the stems with twine before delivering them to you.

And you keep them in an old soda can filled with water, and about once every few weeks you'll have new ones to decorate your living space with, and Caesar can tell how happy it makes you so he keeps doing it and its honestly precious.

Gift-giving turns out to be a courtship ritual humans and apes have in common! But here's the thing-for humans, gifts are about sentimentality. For apes, they're about practicality.

Every now and then Caesar will bring you an 'ape' gift between more 'human' ones.

Once you've started eating more with the community and he doesn't have to bring you designated meals anymore, he starts surprising you with full on carcasses when he returns from a hunt. A testament to his ability to provide for you, at least in his mind.

They get progressively bigger too. Starts with a few hares. Then a boar. Then a stag.

He delivers you a fucking bear he found hibernating in the winter months, and you get a brilliant fur pelt out of it. Being able to keep you warm makes him swell with pride like nothing else, even if you can't help but feel a little bad for the bear.

You also receive a stone dagger after it's clear their usual weapons are too big and heavy for you. It's carved a bit clumsily, but the edge is sharp and there's a patch of rabbit skin wrapped around the handle to make gripping more comfortable. He feels a lot more confident in your ability to protect yourself once you have it, and seeing you use it is another thing that's makes his chest puff out proudly, because he has made sure you're safe, even when he's not around.

Of coarse, most of the time he is around.

And oh boy, when danger comes he is ready. Doesn't matter if it's a wild animal, another ape, another human- he will fuck a bitch up if they pose a threat to you.

The first time it happens is honestly a little scary. You run into a boar while foraging and it does not look happy, and neither does Caesar.

Blocks off your body with his own, fur standing on end, snarling and hooting aggressively at the creature to try and scare it off. His mind is racing with primal instinct the entire time- he has to protect his mate, has to be ready to go for the kill if it charges at you, he can't let his human get hurt-

It's also the first time you get a good look at his chompers, his lips pulled back to show them off in warning, and it suddenly strikes you how easily those teeth could be used against your own delicate flesh if he so desired, how effortlessly he could maul you, bite your fingers off one by one, rip out your throat-

Let's face it though, it definitely awakens something in you.

When the encounters over he has a nasty cut on his thigh from its tusks, and you get him home to treat the wound as quickly as possible. He's apologising the whole time for loosing his usual self control, for potentially frightening you. But then you tell him it suits him, and lord have mercy, once he processes it, you've awakened something in him too.

But that's a conversation for another post uwu

FOREHEAD KISSES

EXPECT THEM OFTEN

Even before anything's official, it's a gesture of trust and familiarity between the two of you. But when you're his mate, the romantic side of it is delved into more deeply.

Cupping each other's faces to hold the position of your temples touching, intense eye contact, deep breaths. It's a kind of intimacy that really burrows deep into you. Without words, he's able to tell you; I'm here. I've got you.

Human kisses are a bit trickier. He's familiar with the concept, he's seen humans kiss, but ape mouths are a lot bigger than ours and have a lot of different things to work around in order to really kiss something.

He's content to just receive them initially. Your lips are so soft and warm and feel so wonderful pressing against the corner of his own, or to his cheek, or to his open palm. Getting such a human form of affection from you carries almost a level of sanctity for him. Only you have ever kissed him. Only you will ever kiss him.

He'll take it to his grave, but he practices on the back of his hand sometimes so he can eventually return the favour.

Until then, the closest you get is him pressing his closed muzzle to your skin and just... inhaling your scent,

He tells you humans have a distinct smell, but individual humans have their own, more specific smell. When you ask what yours is like, he admittedly has to take a moment to think about it.

"You smell.... like home."

Sweet, right? WRONG. He just doesn't want to admit that he's been subtly making you smell more like him. Gotta make sure his territory is clearly his, after all.

AND SPEAKING OF MARKING TERRITORY

Biting.

He doesnt dare try it at first, too aware of the risks. Human skin is much too thin and sensitive for him to indulge in such a a way, no, he just can't bring himself to potentially do you serious harm, regardless of how badly he wants to.

You'd have to be the one to initiate a conversation about it. You can tell he's restraining himself here and there, from the low growls that slip out when he's embracing you, and with how his tongue drags across his canines, it's not hard to tell what he's holding back in regards to.

So you ask him to bite you. If it's a request, he won't worry that you're just trying to appease him.

He'd still cautious, mind you.

"Are you... sure?"

He says it while all but salivating, eyes dilated as he subconsciously scans your body for a good place.

"Don't want.... to hurt you. It will hurt. You... know that."

With just a little more insistence, he all but pounces at the opportunity.

Apes bite each other affectionately quite a bit, little nips here and there, harder ones usually reserved between mates. It holds meaning for them, displaying trust in the other person. You trusting him like that? He's never been more in love with you than he is in that moment.

He goes for the space between your neck and shoulder, carefully avoiding any major arteries. You feel his breath there first, as he does his usual snuffing and growling.

Then his teeth sink into you. Slowly, his broad tongue pressing into the flesh between them.

And the sound you make-

He pulls back abruptly, releasing you with a hoot of distress and grasping your upper arms to look over the mark left behind. Panic jolts through every fibre of his being, he thinks he seriously fucked up. Apes don't vocalise like that-it must be in pain, yes-you're in too much pain-he should never have-....

....

Oh.

....

Oh.

[howtofightwrite]

How good would a whip be as a weapon? I'm not interested in it being a lethal weapon but more of it being a weapon that can defend someone long enough to get away or at least disarm or disable someone. I don't see a lot of people or character or referrals on how to use it and that's probably because it's not good enough?

Not great. The whip, like the goad and cattle-prod, aren't really designed for use as weapons. They're designed to control animals. (...and, yes, that does sometimes include humans, but again, in a non-combat, control role.) Part of the problem with the whip is, it's not much use against someone wearing armor. Or, even, heavy clothing.

Now, whips do have a legitimate military history as discipline tools, but that's very different from trying to take them onto the battlefield.

The reason reason you'll still see characters using whips, when you've probably never even heard of a goad, is because the whip is visually dynamic. It looks cool. You don't see Indiana Jones using a whip because it's the best choice of weapon, you see him using one because it stands out, and as a result, it has become iconic. It's delivering a specific vibe.

At the same time, the goad is just a pointy stick.

Whip disarms are a neat trick. And, very doable in a controlled environment. However, successfully disarming someone who's actively trying to kill you is going to be a bit more challenging, and also raises the question, “If you're putting this much effort and attention into taking away someone's weapon, shouldn't you be spending that effort and attention taking their life instead?”

This is probably little thought experiment about combat disarms. There's no point in disarming a corpse. So, why not just skip the middle step and go straight to the corpse-making? A question that Indiana Jones famously answered when, instead of dueling a sword master, simply pulled out his .455 Smith & Wesson and dropped the guy. (The real reason was that Harrison Ford was ill from food poisoning, and in no condition to shoot a prolonged fight sequence. So instead we accidentally got a character defining moment of pragmatism.)

To be clear, if it seems that I'm a bit negative on the subject, I do think the whip is a neat weapon. It's visually dynamic. It's loaded with symbolism. I think it's fantastic in a fictional context. It's just not practical.

There are fantastical versions of the whip that are better options. William Gibson's use of monowire comes to mind as an immediate example. Where the whip itself is created from a monomolecular carbon fiber, and can, as a result, cut through basically anything it strikes. Similarly, I still have serious reservations about the Lightwhip from Star Wars' old Expanded Universe, but it would carve through anything pretty effectively (including the wielder.)

Even in those cases, the whip is a weapon you choose for the aesthetic, more than the practicality.

-Starke

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[heartfullofleeches]

do you ever just feel like an old man browsing tumblr because youre so behind? liek everyone was fixtated on puppyboy reader and fast food reader and ALL the readers and i wasnt and now im fixtated on fast food reader while everyones now fixtated on lacey and lucy T_T

If u want to could u do a scenario where fast food reader gets kidnapped? Make it as short as u want i just wanna read smth fromyou lol

Bound and unable to move - you lay motionless on the dirty floor of some unmarked van; counting the blood splatters on the ceiling to pass the time. 32, 33, 34 - wow, these guys are really serious. Being kidnapped by hardened criminals would've gotten you a win on the bingo card of all the fucked things happen to you on the job - if you hadn't already been kidnapped twice this week. It just had to be a Friday too. Your boss will use this little encounter to drag you back in for the weekend due to "concerns for your safety" or whatever other bullshit they make up to keep you on duty. Speaking of staff - why haven't they saved you yet?

"They're too loud. Shut them up."

You're about seventy percent sure these guys aren't telepathic... It's when one of the crooks tells you they aren't that you come to the conclusion that you've been talking out loud this whole time. A faint riiip sounds from the passenger seat as the one sitting in it stands, duct tape in hand. You plant your feet against the wall, pushing yourself upright as they approach.

"Before you do this - just know the only reason you all are still alive is probably because my coworkers are placing rock paper scissors to see who gets to keep your spines. You'll honestly be lucky if you die here."

The kidnappers eyes narrow behind their mask. As their foot draws back, static coming from the radio stops them from bring it down on your chest. They turn as the driver findles with the radio as the static crackles and pops from its speakers, bashing his fist against the dashboard.

"Why won't this fucking thing turn off!"

A familiar voice overlaps with the static.

"Over come with guilt for their wrongdoings, the driver takes the gun from the glove compartment and places it against his temple - pulling the trigger. The employee closes their eyes, and keeps them closed until they are free"

Your eyes clamp shut right as the driver reaches for the glove compartment. They catch a glimpse of the man placing the gun against the side of his head - a loud bang causing you to squeeze them tighter. Chaos erupts soon after - as if there wasn't enough already. Before the surviving crooks had time to process what just happened, the entire van quakes with the reverberating boom of something large hitting it from outside. The back door is torn from its hinges, cold air seeping through like blood from a fresh wound. You hear the kidnappers raise their guns and voices in defense, weapons tumbling to the floor as as sharp metal scrapes along the walls of the van. A wet snout presses against your cheek - heavy tongue licking the sweat from your damp skin.

"I'm okay, Lambchop. The ropes are a little tight, but I'm unharmed otherwise. Please go easy on them."

The mascot snorts in response. At least you tired. Two pairs of hands pick you up off the floor of the van and drags you out as the first scream tears through the bitter night. You feel weightless as they carry you back inside and sit you down in a booth. One set of hands checks your face, hands and every exposed inch of skin for bruises or scratches. The others gentle cup your cheeks.

"Y/n, open your eyes."

"I physically can't until you untie me."

Your chest becomes lighter as the ropes fall off you. The first sight you see as you reopen your eyes is the janitor pocketing their pocket knife and the concern in the succubus' gaze as she removes her hands from your face. The Janitor is the first to speak.

"Are you okay?"

You rub at the rings around your wrist. "Probably would've had my chest caved in if the Storyteller didn't bail me out, but I'm okay now."

The janitor's hands tighten into fists. The succubus' eyes dark so deeply they turn near black, but she hides her anger behind a sweet smile.

"Well since you're okay we'd better it going. I'm sure the ball pit hands can help you relax better than you could."

"Where are you two heading?"

The janitor speaks up for her. "We're going back outside. I need to get my spines before Lambchop completely turns their bodies into paste."

[lovelyyandereaddictionpoint]

Hello! I read your "Third Enoshima" works, and I've gotta say that I absolutely loved them! If it isn't much trouble, would you mind writing something with a Third Enoshima!Reader who is constantly comparing themselves with their sisters?

They're still going agaisnt their plain of causing despair of course, but they can't help but feel a bit insecure of not having such a fit and strong figure like Mukuro or how they don't even get close to having such a nice and clear skin like Junko as they wash their face with a bar of handsoap. They refuse to join dinners and constantly push themselves to the extreme to try and please the other student, it goes from simple, yet harmful, things like wearing clothes they are clearly uncomfortable wearing to doing some heavy physical training without having eating anything since they woke up. Is it detrimental to their health? Yes! Will they stop? ...probably not...definitely not.

I wonder how their classmates or even their sisters would react or what comments they'd make towards Reader's behavior! (If they don't already have their ears ringing by the end of Ishimaru's lecture, lol.

(Sorry if this is written badly, English is not my first language!)

Comparison  | Yandere Danganronpa with Third Enoshima Reader

It’s a phase that usually comes when you’re a preteen

But it’s not hard if it stretches further

They both are so amazing – despair aside

They’re able to excel in their alternative ultimates just fine

Using their skills to further their agenda

All while still having the time to dote on you

It’s easy to compare 

Is it because they are insane that they’re so talented

Or is it just the genes you happened to miss out on

Whatever it is it haunts you and it’ll eventually slip out

Whether with a snide comment or a nervous questioning

They notice awfully quick

“Dawww Baby-bird wants to be just like us! Then quit yer whining and follow me!”

Junko sees it as a compliment and an invitation to put you in despairing situations

Of course, you may not know your life isn’t in danger with her but she’ll let you believe it

Constantly goading you to be like her

She’ll dress you like her, get a wig if she has to 

Before Mukuro pulls you away seeing that this isn’t working 

“(Y/n) you are perfect in your special way! If you’d like to do what I do I’d be happy to teach you!”

Taking you to shooting ranges and destroying you in paintball or airsoft

Just shows the distance between you two even better

She’ll try and get you to try wielding more simple weapons

Dazzling you with her speedy knife skills

Unfortunately though, instead of cheering you on she ends up just gushing over you

“Aaa~you look so cute with your little bulletproof vest. M-maybe I should have you wear my helmet~!”

“Mukuro I don’t think this is–”

“J-j-just a few more pictures! Aaa~ I can’t wait to wear this after you.”

They aren’t much help in the end 

Both just letting you slink off 

Your sisters aren’t exactly emotionally available enough to coach you through it 

But there are…some intentions

If it lasts all the way until you get your ‘tailored’ classes at Hope’s Peak 

there are very few who actually notice what you mean when you vaguely comment about what you’re missing

 “(Y/n) you seem to be especially hurt about your features, why is that?”

Celestia won’t beat around the bush

She wants to know who put this silly notion in your head

She needs to know if she needs to kill them

Knowing it’s your sisters makes her hesitate

You’d be upset about it right

But she’s going to bluntly tell you what your strengths because clearly your too dumb to see it 

“I’m going to list all your admirable traits clearly. So listen closely.” 

Nekomaru oddly enough pays enough attention to you and works his hardest to understand what those comments you make are all about

“IF YOU WANT TO GET THOSE THINGS IN YOUR LIFE WE’RE GOING TO GET THOSE THINGS YOU HEAR ME!”

“What are you talking about!”

His goal is to coach you on the areas you feel like you are lacking

Even if he doesn’t know about that particular area

So he takes the extra time he’s forced+ into spend with you to praise you for the little things.

“YEAH!!!!THAT SEEMED LIKE A SUCCESSFUL NUMBER 2 ONLY YOU COULD PULL OFF!”

“Nekomaru! I went number 1 and it’s not that big a deal!”

��YEAH IT IS! IT’S BECAUSE YOU DID IT! BECAUSE YOUR THE BEST HUMAN IN THE WOOOORLD!”

He honestly has no other idea how to get across his affection

Not without ruining his image as the ultimate team manager

He also invites you to train with him and Akane if only to see you use your cute muscles in person

And to find your weaknesses so he can be your savior

Despite his boisterous persona his encouragement and praise is honestly kind of helpful

Someone else who’s really helpful is someone who relates

“(Y/n)...for a long time I’ve pretended to be someone I’m not. Settling to just compare myself to the people I wish I could be. But now I’ve changed and I’ve decided to work on making myself more like them in my own way! I-if you want w-w-we can do it together? The….training I mean….yeah.”

Chihiro knows the feeling and if you take him up on his offer he’s thrilled

More time to plant new tracking devices

Even better with the preplaced cameras

Taking your insecurities and turning them into things you’re working on helps a lot with self-esteem

Giving you a lot more pride when you do compare and notice changes

It’s not perfect but it’s helping you

And it’s surely going to bring you and Chihiro closer

Maybe even close enough that you’ll come into his room

Your sisters will be happy…in their own way that you’re happy

But if you notice they start putting more urgency into their plan for despair

It may have something to do with the amount of time and smiling you’ve done with others in Hope’s Peak

“I can’t wait to show those neets the truest extent of despair! It’s going to be euphoric!”

“KillthemallKillthemallKillthemallKillthemallKillthemallKillthe-.”

“Patience, despair is coming Piggie! You know what just to give them a taste maybe we’ll make sure (Y/n)’s got to take a couple of sick days! I can’t wait to watch it eat at them when they don’t respond to their messages!”

[whateversawesome]

About Twiyor, Damianya and Chapter 96

Let me start by saying that, I like both stories and that both ships are great precisely because they're so different:

Twiyor is a relationships between two adults. Is it developing slowly? Yes, of course. The slow-pacing of the relationship is what makes it so real. Here's why:

Entering a relationship as an adult, and I mean any kind of relationship (romantic, friendship, or even work relationship) can be tricky. Why? Well, adults have more experience, they've seen and gone through more things, the carry psychological issues, and, in some cases (like Twilight's) trauma. All this makes it difficult to open up and trust people. Twight's character arch is precisely about trust and vulnerability and that's one of the issues that pushes the story forward.

So, even though I would love to see Twiyor kiss like in many fics, this will take time. Maybe it's not as obvious because there's not a lot of physical contact between them (yet 😏), but there's definitely progress in their relationship (more on that here and here).

The development of their relationship is so beautiful! Can you see it too? On one side, we have a man who lost everything and thinks of himself only as a tool for peace slowly regaining his humanity through love. On the other hand, we have an innocent woman turned into a weapon, who is slowly realizing she's much more than that, and getting to know herself while falling in love. Come on!!! You don't want to miss that!

Even though it may take a while to get there, I think it's one of those things worth the wait.

Now Damianya in my opinion is about innocence and the development of a deep friendship.

Talking specifically about chapter 96, to me, it makes sense that Anya's secret slipped out. I don't think she consciously decided to tell Damian. I believe it just kind of slipped out because:

1.It's easier for kids to trust other kids and open up.

2. This is the second time Damian guessed her secret.

3. They are kindred spirits; they both were "abandoned" children (Anya while she was in the orphanage, Damian by his family) and they both seek the approval and love of their father.

4. She often uses her abilities in front of Damian and he pays enough attention to her to realize something is off.

Let me ask you something: have you ever been forced to keep a secret?

Keeping a secret is a heavy burden, isn't it? Can you imagine a 5 year old carrying that kind of burden for so long? It doesn't help that Anya was returned to the orphanage by several different families. It's implied in the story that Anya used her telepathic abilities and the other families considered her too strange too keep her. This is the reason why Anya has kept quiet: she doesn't want to be abandoned again.

Still, it must be hard for her to carry that and to feel that people wouldn't accept her exactly for who she is if they knew about her secret. So, I'm happy she was able to tell someone. In some ways, her arch is similar to Twilight's: Anya is also learning it's okay for people to see her real self and trust they will still love her. I hope that in the future, Anya learns that she can trust her parents too and I think trusting someone else is a big step into that direction.

I know it will also take some time, but I can't wait for both stories (and all the stories) in sxf to merge into one. It'll be a very exciting time or everyone when that happens.

[espionn]

SkyWing tribe sheet!

my computer always fucks up colors in export for some reason and its really obvious with these guys :( i promise they're more saturated my computer just sucks

anyway i really liked doing these guys, skywings are fun and i think they have a lot of potential. enjoy!

Physical Appearance + Traits:

-SkyWings, as their name suggests, are dragons made for the wind and sky. They are better fliers than any other tribe, with enormous wings and several birdlike features. Some can fly for more than a day without landing, and even when they aren’t flying they make their homes at the peaks of mountains, with the entire world beneath them.

-They are quite large, taller than any other tribe, with long necks, long tails, and regal figures. They don’t have any obviously deadly weapons, but they have no clear weaknesses either; they are generally successful dragons.

-Their coloration consists of almost entirely warm colors, specifically red and orange. Yellows and golds are sometimes seen too, and more uncommonly, purples and browns. Their colors are bold and striking; they are one of the few Pyrrhian tribes that has no need for camouflage. 

-Young dragonets are hatched with a coating of feathers, particularly on their wings, necks and tails. Most dragons simply shed their feathers as they grow; some, though, carry a few into adulthood, usually lining their wings or making a thin ruff around their necks. These feathers are often even brighter than their scales.

-SkyWing horns are a mark of pride, and they continue to grow for as long as they live, meaning some of the oldest SkyWings have horns that resemble enormous and heavy antlers. Sometimes their horns are decorated with wires strung with jewels.

-SkyWing fire is the hottest and most powerful fire any tribe can produce. At its hottest it scorches through bone, and it can be used with accuracy from a long distance. It is their main weapon in combat, and quite a devastating one if their opponents don’t know how to properly fight it. They also use it for a number of other things, though. (More on this in the “society and culture” section.)

-Their wings are stronger than those of most tribes, allowing them to temporarily use them for balance rather than their front legs. This lets them hold and work on things more easily. (This headcanon belongs to @sidyashchiy-na-plakhe!! i saw your post and really liked it, hope you dont mind me adopting it)

-Not dissimilar to SandWings, they have darker streaks near their eyes to help with the glare of the sun when they’re flying, often facing the horizon directly.

Life Cycle:

-SkyWings are hatched in clutches between one and five, although four and five are a bit less common than one through three. SkyWing parents are not involved much with their dragonets. By tradition, they lay eggs in nests high in the mountain peaks, and return occasionally with food once they hatch. The rare unlucky SkyWing newborn may be snatched up by a large bird, but they’re big enough that it isn’t usually an issue. They are also hatched with disproportionately massive wings, big enough to make the fall less likely to be lethal if they fall before they learn to fly.

-Once the dragonets are large enough, though, or once they get hungry enough to search for their own food, they will leave the nest, often simply jumping out and letting the wind carry them, learning to properly fly quite quickly. Once parents notice that the nest is empty, they simply stop bringing food. They will never know who their dragonets are, but SkyWing superstition says all dragonets will eventually make their way to the kingdom, where they will be made a part of the tribe. And, truthfully, they almost always do.

-This practice, which some tribes find strange or even barbaric, is seen by Skywings as an important part of their life and tradition. Each of them took the same journey, and so did the generation before them, so they have faith that it will continue to work out well. It’s in their nature to leave their nest and find the kingdom, and it doesn’t result in enough casualties for them to try to halt the tradition. The only dragons this practice does not apply to is the royal family, for the sake of tracking bloodlines.

-By the time they are entered into the wider kingdom, dragonets usually know how to hunt and avoid danger, so all tribe life offers them is the ability to meet other dragons and find work. There isn’t much of an education system in place, with the exception of mentorships for some careers, such as metalworking, and military training. If they take part in work for the kingdom, they’ll have societal benefits and a secure place in the tribe, and most end up in that position eventually. But there are always a few SkyWings who simply live on the outskirts, uninterested in the larger tribe.

-They don’t form many close relationships, being fairly solitary dragons as soon as they leave their siblings. They do not very often form genuine romantic relationships, but marriage is fairly common simply as a formality or political maneuver. Royals in particular almost always get married, though they don’t usually form natural bonds with their spouses. The only responsibilities parents have is bringing food to their nest until the dragonets abandon it.

Culture and Society:

-SkyWings are proud and solitary; these things combined have given them a reputation of being rude, aloof and uncharismatic. They are powerful fighters and fliers, but their strength is not in diplomacy. Their kingdom norms, though, which allow every dragon to simply utilize for the tribe whatever talents they may have, at their own leisure and for whatever profit might be available to them, suits them well and has made for an uncomplicated but successful society. (This is excluding a few periods such as the reign of Queen Scarlet, who reshaped the tribe into something more dictatorial.)

-They are generally quite matriarchal; every tribe has a queen, but SkyWings tend to have a more overall unbalanced system. Females are a bit larger than males and are usually in higher positions of command.

-Fire is extremely important to SkyWing culture - it produces light, warmth, and without it they would be much less deadly in combat. It has its place in almost every tradition and is used in almost every career path. 

-They are the most superstitious tribe in some ways, their lives dictated heavily by tradition and spirituality. The way dragonets are raised is one example; there are countless others, including funeral rites that involve burning, gladiator fights performed for glory, a general belief of night marking bad luck, and others. 

-Continuing on this note, SkyWings - though most would never admit it aloud - are almost universally afraid of the dark. The caves and caverns in which they live are always warm and well-lit, via torches lit by their own fire, and they are almost exclusively out by day. They worship the sun and daytime, believing it to chase away the shadows in its glory. NightWings, for similar reasons, tend to be unnerving to them.

-And to elaborate on gladiator fights: The arena near the palace was originally constructed for SkyWings to prove their prowess by fighting other SkyWings and completing various challenges. During these fights they would wear a special set of ceremonial armor, which they could then keep if they succeeded. (Scarlet, of course, transformed this arena into a convenient way to execute prisoners, and later Queen Ruby reinvented it completely by erecting a hospital where it had once stood.)

-In general, SkyWings are one of the only tribes to wear armor, and the only tribe that has used it for entire armies during war. A particular emphasis is placed on wing armor that allows for comfortable flight while still protecting the wing membranes, as a flightless SkyWing is considered as good as dead by its tribe.

-Jewelry almost always involves precious stones, particularly rubies, diamonds and citrine. It’s very common to have these jewels embedded in scales; some royals have done this with such excess that they appear to have crystals growing out of them.

Diet: Carnivorous. They eat birds, mountain goats, deer, and occasionally fish, rodents or whatever else they can catch. Sometimes raw, sometimes scorched. They don’t typically make full and elaborate meals like other tribes; the only common seasoning they use is salt. Other than the rare use of herbs for flavoring, they eat no plants at all.

[outofconcheol]

Exit West (LMH x F!Reader)

pairing: Minho x f!reader (afab)

genres/au/rating: angst, smut, some fluff, post-apocalyptic au (based on the Netflix series Sweet Home), 18+

summary: Even when the world is plunged into its darkest hour, you find the faintest light in Minho.

warnings: heavy angst, lots of mentions of blood and injuries (i tried to make it as non-graphic as possible), minor character deaths, weapons, panic attack (again not graphic), it's heavily implied OC struggles with agoraphobia and PTSD, brief infidelity, Minho and reader do get into verbal arguments (they're a little toxic lol), Minho is a true loverboy, ambiguous but hopeful ending, smut warnings: kissing, fingering (f rec), unprotected sex, brief nipple play

word count: 6.3k

a/n: i'm so sorry that this took so long, google docs decided to be a jerk and delete a huge chunk of this while i was working on it (I apologize in advance for the poorly written angst)! It is based on the world of Sweet Home but honestly you don't need to have watched the show or read the webtoon to follow along. the title is from the book by Mohsin Hamid. I hope you enjoy! <;3

The sharp wire of the metal fence cuts into Minho’s palms, digging into his mottled skin, and he braces himself for the jump. Leaping over, Minho lands silently on his feet, skills honed from many years of observing his cats take the same leap from couches or counters. But none of that existed anymore.

His eyes remain sharp, taking in the cover of woods around him, and he remembers that while the trees helped him stay hidden, they hid the monsters from his sight as well. No sooner than he’s managed to calm down the ever-present racing of his heart, he’s swinging the door to the bunker open, closing it quietly behind him.

Wincing, he examines the cuts on his palms, tinged with dirty specks of rust. He wasn’t sure how much longer he could keep doing this, knowing the small supply of rubbing alcohol he’d managed to collect over the past few months was now down to the last bottle. And there was no more to be found.

The small bit of sunlight that streams in through the barely-qualifying window illuminates your sleeping figure nestled amongst a pile of dirty blankets, and Minho almost hesitates to disturb you like this. You look so peaceful like this, a stark contrast to the emptiness that fills your eyes when you wake, the pain of living through two starkly different lifetimes contained in their depths. He knows his eyes hold the same.

“___,” he shakes you awake gently, watching you stir. The gashes that mar your face have begun to scab over, leaving ugly scars in their wake.

“I brought dinner.”

That gets you to jolt up, rubbing sleepily at your eyes. 

“Are you okay? Anything hurt?” You shake your head, a small frown on your face when you see the fresh red marks that litter his palms. He has the feeling you’re lying to him again, but he doesn’t push it. A lot went unspoken between you two.

Minho wordlessly hands you over a full sleeve of crackers, your eyes lighting up. You chomp down eagerly on one, before pausing, holding it out to him.

“I already ate,” he lies, knowing he didn’t want you to sacrifice any kind of meal for his sake. He’d eat the less full sleeve when you fell back asleep.

Moments of silence pass between you, the soft sounds of your eating lulling Minho’s tired eyes to fall, becoming heavy with sleep. He rests his head on his knees, fighting back the shiver that night brought with it. 

A deafening roar breaks through the stillness, and you freeze, dropping the crackers to the ground. Minho is by your side in an instant, hand tentatively reaching out towards your shoulder. But he never closes the gap.

“Ten seconds,” you croak out, so softly that Minho thinks he might not have heard you. “If the distance that sounds travel is 343 metres per second, then ten seconds means it’s far enough away from us.”

The ghost of a smile twitches at Minho’s lips, and he wants to praise your sharp skills, considering he’d only ever been a pabo, but you’ve turned around and fallen asleep again, your back to him. 

Minho settles into the blankets across from you, watching you for a few minutes before his body is weighed down by the exhaustion of the day, knowing the exact same thing waited tomorrow. The end of the world was more boring than he’d expected it to be.

It hadn’t always been this way. The chaos had naturally broken through the quiet, starting one night when a fire broke out in his apartment complex. Amidst the screams and sounds of windows shattering, Minho’s only concern had been the cats, scooping them up, taking special care to cover their ears from the blaring alarms. But all of it hadn’t made a difference anyway.

He thought it was his neighbour at the end of the hallway. Or at least, it looked like him. He’d always had some sort of disdain for the man - in Minho’s eyes he talked too much. Always interrupting him during his morning mail runs to brag about his latest conquests when it came to dating. It was a sore spot for Minho, especially considering his own romantic interests were so singular, something he didn’t want to get into whenever his neighbor cornered him.

But the vain man who talked Minho’s ear off about sleeping with as many women as possible was nowhere to be found, lithe limbs transforming into ropes that broke through the ceiling. Heading straight for Minho.

Somewhere in the chaos, Minho briefly had time to register that whatever was in front of him was no longer human. And so, he did the only thing he could do. Run.

The floor slipped underneath him, hurtling Minho to the ground, the cat carrier thrown open next to him. Soonie, Doongi, and Dori are nowhere to be found. His palms claw against the tile, trying and failing to lift himself up, eyes widening when he sees the red that coats his palms.

“Please,” Minho croaks, attempting to break through to the human underneath the monster. “Don’t do this.”

There’s a brief flash, a spindly arm reaching out for Minho’s face, and he ducks. The sound of shattering glass follows, the grotesque body flinging itself out the window. Minho heaves, hot tears leaking from his face as he remains curled in the fetal position, arms braced over his head. When his breath returns to him, he looks over at the empty carrier and lets out a sob. Slowly, his eyes turn to the shattered window. 

Blood lines its jagged edges, dripping to join the mess on the floor. Peering downwards, Minho sees the mangled body of the thing (he refused to acknowledge it had been his neighbor) that had attacked him, unmoving. 

He had to get out of there.

…

The knock at the door startles you. It’d been days since you’d locked yourself away from the chaos, days since you’d heard a sound. But the screams would never leave your head. 

You’ve been huddled up in the same corner since it all started, exactly ten feet away from the door. Close enough to act quickly in case someone (or something) came knocking, but far enough away to duck into one of the rooms of your apartment for safety. 

However, the splitting pain in your ankle prevents you from doing either. The bruises are turning a nasty shade of yellow, mixing with the unsightly violet from before. You’re pretty sure it’s broken, your bookcase toppling over onto it the day this had all started.

The knock startles you again. It’s soft, gentler than the ramming you’d expected if a monster were to come knocking. But still, you could never be too safe. 

“Churu,” a soft voice whispers through the darkness, and you freeze. There was only one person in the world who’d know that word, and come knocking at your door.

Your palms burn as you drag yourself against the floor, taking extra care to make as little sound as possible. Fighting the urge to curse when the door creaks, you brace yourself against it, peering through the peephole. 

The banged-up face of Lee Minho greets you on the other end, and you nearly sob with relief. Swinging the door open, you take him in at the threshold, peering at you with a strange gaze. You’d often joked to Minho that his eyes resembled his cats’, curiosity mixed with having seen too much contained in their depths. But it seemed especially true today, his lip split open and face haggard while he clutched a baseball bat in his hand.

You know the first thing he’s going to ask before it even leaves his mouth.

“Are you hurt?” he huffs out, watching you collapse against the door frame.

“Junho is gone.” You watch Minho’s entire figure tense up when his best friend’s name comes off your lips, his grip around the bat tightening.

“I-, I tried to talk to him, but there was a weird sound on my phone that kept breaking us up, and then I heard him scream, and then…”

You collapse against Minho in a fit of sobs, forced to recount those awful last moments when you’d heard your boyfriend die over a phone call, the chilling screech of something that wasn’t human cutting off his screams for help. And you were trapped halfway across the city, crumpled on the floor, unable to do anything to help him.

Minho’s arms wrap around you, supporting your weight, and he’s moving you both over the threshold, taking care to shut the door softly behind him. You don’t know how many minutes you spend wailing against his chest, the sight of another human forcing you to confront the horror you’d dealt with in the past few days, but eventually, the pain in your ankle makes itself known again, and you slide to the floor.

Minho rests his head against the door frame, his own eyes red-rimmed, and you watch his face contort, trying to hold back the tears from falling.

“I’m sorry,” you blurt out, watching Minho’s gaze snap to yours. 

“What for?” he croaks. “It wasn’t your fault.”

“I’m so scared, Minho,” your eyes fill with tears. “I thought that no one would come for me, that I’d be alone here, and that I’d…”

You choke, unable to finish the sentence, and you watch Minho straighten next to you. The warmth of his hand wrapping around your waist startles you, watching his lithe body contort as he helps you up off the floor, taking special care not to put weight on your ankle.

“You’re with me now. I won’t let anything happen to you.”

There’s a furrow in Minho’s brow when he hears your request, lips tightening into a thin line while his throat bobs.

“Absolutely not.”

The decision is final, resolute, stubborn — Minho’s arms are crossed over each other, and he stares down at your figure among the blankets, eyeing the makeshift splint currently tied around your ankle.

“Minho, please.” It comes out as a whine, years building in your eyes from the frustration of being trapped in the bunker for months on end. 

“I said no.”

Minho had dragged the two of you to safety not long after he’d found you, stealthily dodging the strange creatures that had begun to pop up on the city landscape. There was little in common between them besides their monstrous appearances, but Junho’s screams lingered in the back of your mind, causing you to wake up every night in a cold sweat for the first few weeks.

The tiny bunker became your new home, and Minho your roommate, forced together by circumstances beyond your control. You’d snapped at him when he brought up the idea of leaving, wanting to search for food and supplies outside. 

Unfortunately, your ankle made the final decision for you — Minho would have to be the sacrificial lamb, risking his life for you both. It filled you with an immeasurable amount of guilt, knowing he put himself in danger every day to provide for you both. But it also made you angry, the listlessness that had begun to brew inside you only becoming stronger when you felt more and more useless every time he’d come back with food and medicine for you and nothing for himself. 

Regret cut through you like a searing knife. Who was Minho to do all these things? He’d been Junho’s best friend, not yours. The relationship between you two had been cordial at best, Minho barely managing to string more than five words together every time he was around you. It always seemed to you like Minho stood at the other end of a vast abyss, impossible for you to reach in any way. Admittedly, you’d been no help in closing the chasm, even since you’d both escaped together, the pain in your ankle lulling you to sleep as soon as you swallowed the meds he brought every day. 

Your eyes flit to Minho across the bunker, holed up into the corner. You watch his hands rummage around in his pocket, pulling out a switchblade. The shiny metal gleams in the rays of the sun, Minho’s fingers enclosing around a lock of his messy, overgrown hair—

“STOP!” The switchblade clatters to the floor at the sound of your voice, Minho’s lips parting in surprise. A deep flush creeps across your neck, wondering what had prompted you to interrupt him in the moment. His eyes study you with a curious glint, a thousand questions hidden in them.

“You’ll dull the knife,” you manage to get out, amazed at the calmness in your voice despite your heart racing at a million miles an hour. “What if we need it?”

Minho’s lips twist up into a smirk, and you wonder if he can see through your thinly veiled excuse. If he does, he doesn’t say anything, throwing a baseball cap over the shaggy strands, smiling when they fall into his eyes. 

“Fine,” he acquiesces. “You can come along. But any sign of trouble and you have to leave me and get back here, okay?”

“What do you mean, leave you? You’re coming back with me, of course.”

“___.”

“Minho.”

You push yourself off the ground with your palms, hobbling over to Minho’s side. 

“Thank you,” you whisper softly to him, and Minho rubs at the back of his neck sheepishly, before the door to the bunker creaks open once more, this time the two of you stepping out into the sun together. 

. . . 

Sweat pools on Minho’s shirt, the sun beating down on the two of you while you make your way through the woods, eventually finding yourselves in a vast field. You’re slower than he is, trailing behind him while you skip on your partially healed ankle, but Minho finds he doesn’t mind.

In fact, he thinks he must look like a fool, the huge smile that threatens to take over his face creeping up every few minutes. Somehow, it feels different now, having you here with him. The sun’s rays feel less ruthless, and there’s the faint rustling of a breeze through the meadow. It's almost like he’s on an adventure, and not caught in an endless struggle for survival. He’s filled with the hope that maybe the two of you can come out of this alive. Together.

Pushing through the blades of grass, Minho pauses when he hears a small thud behind him, followed by the faint sound of wheezing. Turning on his heels, his heart turns to ice when he sees you, knees curled to your chest, the faint sheen of sweat lingering on your skin. 

“Shit!” Minho curses into thin air, crouching onto the dirt next to you. “Stay with me ___!”

His arm swings out to steady you, but recoils at the last second, not wanting to startle you. Guilt eats away at his chest when he realizes this is all his fault. He’d been the one to agree to let you go outside. Realization dawns on him that there’d been a reason you stayed in the bunker the entire time, his mind flashing back to the days you must have spent alone in your apartment, full of pain, wondering if anyone would show up.

Minho panics, looking around the field for something, anything that could help hold you over until this passes, when a thought crosses his mind.

“Do you want to hear about the time I tried to walk my cats?” He babbles out, cheeks hot at the silly interruption. It works though, your face jolts up, the trance finally broken. Your eyes are red-rimmed, hair dampened with sweat, snot running down your nose. Minho thinks you’ve never looked more beautiful.

“It was in a field just like this, I brought them out here with their harnesses,” he continues, the smile growing on his face when he sees the stream of tears that run down your cheeks dry up.

“It was a disaster. I thought Doongie ran away for sure, and Soonie just laid down in the grass on his belly, refusing to get up. Dori was the only one who took to it,” he reminsces fondly, a half-sob, half-chuckle escaping him at the memory, trying to soothe the hollow ache in his heart when he thinks of them.

“I wish I’d met them,” you reply softly, your hand resting on Minho’s shoulder.

“It was my fault,” Minho spits out bitterly. “Junho was over all the time, I could have introduced you. They would have really liked you I think.”

Just like I do.

“I hope we find them,” your voice is quiet, but there’s a resoluteness to it that surprises Minho. “They have to be out there somewhere, waiting for you.”

That strange feeling of hope bubbles up in Minho’s chest again, and he helps you up, fighting the burning in his cheeks when your hand remains clasped in his, the two of you hobbling through the field.

Half an hour later, and you’re stopped outside the remains of what looked to be a convenience store, completely ransacked. Minho ignores the emptiness he feels when he lets go of your hand to peer inside, his heart dropping at the bare shelves.

Behind him, a twig snaps, your sharp gasp echoing amidst the silence. The gleam of the switchblade is apparent in seconds, Minho pulling it out of his pocket.

The woman is whimpering, her gauzy white dress in tatters. His eyes trail to her hands, the discoloured nails offset by the glint of a fancy diamond ring, and for a moment, he could almost believe she’d just walked out of the church, beaming from the happiest day of her life.

But her eyes say differently. Hollow pools of black, nothing behind them. She’s one of them.

“___, run.” Minho commands, not even turning to look behind him. He hopes you’re gone already, hopes you won’t have to stick around to see this dark side of him, the one that was used to doing battle with monsters every time he left the safety of your little bunker.

But you’re not gone. Your hand wraps around his, lifting it up to study the switchblade in his hand. He looks into your eyes, full of fear but also sadness at the sight in front of you, and he wonders if you see yourself in her. What things could have been with Junho.

“I don’t think she’s going to hurt us,” you wrestle Minho’s blanched fingers off the blade. “We should just go.”

You pocket the knife, Minho’s jaw tensing at the thought of leaving the woman behind, unsure of the potential harm she could cause. He opens his mouth to protest, but realizes you’ve already begun to walk away, your slumped figure visible against the setting sun. You’re crying again.

The woman wails harder when she sees the two of you go, her cries echoing into the silent night.

It’s cold tonight in the bunker. 

You shiver among the pile of blankets, watching your breath turn into mist in the frosty air. Teeth chattering, you look over to Minho. His pile of blankets is even more sparse than your own, and you catch sight of his own trembling figure. 

It’s cold, your voice echoes in the back of your mind, your feet dragging across the floor, the blankets dragging behind you. 

It’s cold, it echoes again, Minho stirring when you lay by his side, throwing the extra blankets over the two of you. His eyes go wide with shock when he sees your face across his in the darkness, studying the way your hair falls messily in your face, the rapid rising of your chest with every breath. 

It’s cold, it repeats a final time, your lips surging forward to meet Minho’s, a strange noise escaping his throat before one of his arms comes up to wrap around you, his other palm steadying him against the floor. It’s cold and Minho is warm, the heat from his body burning through you when his tongue traces your lips, before slipping inside, a low whine escaping your throat. 

You break away from him, flushed and shivering, but no longer cold. Minho’s hot breath fans against your cheeks, his thumb resting tentatively at the curve of your jaw.

“Touch me please,” you beg him, and his grip around your waist tightens, hands tracing circles on your side. His lips find yours again, thumbs slipping underneath the hem of your shirt, resting against the curve of your hips. You burrow your face into Minho’s neck, leaving featherlight kisses against his jaw, heat rising in your chest when you hear Minho hold his breath. Breaking away, you meet his gaze, the tips of his ears turning red. 

“Anything,” he whispers against your lips. “I’ll do anything for you.”

Sparks crackle in the air between you, the once stagnant air in the bunker becoming filled with frantic energy, you slipping a leg over to straddle Minho, him fumbling with the buttons to your clothes, pushing aside just enough to feel how wet you are. The fingers of his other hand trace under your shirt again, climbing up your stomach, thumbs brushing against the underside of your breasts before he tugs at your nipples. 

Sighing, your hips move against Minho’s hardness, pushing aside the worn fabric of Minho’s flannel to press kisses to his collarbones, his thumb working on your clit. Your back arches when he presses another finger inside, and the familiar burn of your orgasm begins to rise, building in your stomach.

“Let go for me,” Minho groans, and the deep growl in his voice has you hurtling over the edge, trembling as you fall apart on top of him. The two of you exchange shallow breaths, Minho’s fingers still buried inside you, and you feel your core begin to clench around them, whining from the oversensitivity.

“Please, please, can I fuck you?” Minho whispers, desperation in his tone. You nod, head spinning with everything that had happened, and you reach back under his sweats, fishing his cock out from underneath them.

He pushes into you slowly, groaning when he feels your walls widening to accommodate him. The two of you stay there for a few moments, catching your breath before you tell him it’s okay to move. His hips snap lazily against yours, fucking you slowly and deeply, soft pants and the sound of your wetness reverberating through the bunker.

You rock against him gently, and you reach for his hands, his warm fingertips slipping through your own easily, limbs tangling together in desperation. 

“You’re perfect god, you’re perfect, I love you, I love you so much,”  he slurs the words, the confession ringing in your ears, soft groans accompanied by the speeding up of his thrusts before he spills inside you. 

Lifting you off of him, his arms reach around your body to press you against him, his lips ghosting your forehead, and you feel the wet trail of tears on his cheeks. Eventually, his breathing slows, soft snores telling you he’s fallen asleep, but you remain restless for the rest of the night.

The headache hits Minho like a freight train in the morning, as he stares up at the rust-covered ceiling. There’s a faint chill in the air, one that became even more pronounced when he woke up and you weren’t by his side, and he wonders for a second if he’d imagined it all, from the softness of your lips to the way the words he’d been wanting to say, waiting years to say spilled out of his throat, every kiss and laugh you shared with Junho burned into his memory. And all he did was look on, hopeless in his desperation. Until everything changed last night.

A loud clang startles him, and he jumps up, watching you throw a heavy sack containing the supplies he’d stockpiled against the walls of the bunker, your back turned to him. He lifts himself off his feet, padding softly behind you, his arm reaching out for you.

“Don’t touch me,” you hiss, words clipped and venomous, and you keep rearranging, completely ignorant to the way Minho stands there, unable to formulate a response, his tongue feeling as though it’s weighed down with lead. 

Rage lights up inside him as he watches you move around him, the silence making his heart freeze over, and he decides that he can’t take it anymore. It’s been months with you acting this way, cold and distant, refusing to let Minho in. Before, he’d been able to write off your happiness with Junho as an excuse, as a reason why he couldn’t let himself get close to you. But Junho was long gone.

“We’re not doing this,” he spins you around to face him. “You don’t get to walk away from me like that.”

You push against Minho’s chest with all the might you can muster, and he staggers back. The look in your eyes makes you seem like a wounded animal, ready to pounce.

“Why’d you say it?” Another push, the words leaving you in a broken sob. “Why’d you do that?”

You bat against Minho’s chest until he can no longer take it, grabbing both of your hands with one of his, pinning you against the wall.

“Because it’s true,” he breathes, looking past you through the window outside, unable to meet your eyes. “I love you ____. I’ve loved you this entire time, even when you were with Junho. And I hate myself for it.”

He lets go of your arms, stepping back, his shoulders beginning to shake with the force of his own sobs. 

“Why do you think I stayed? Why do you think I put myself in danger every day to make sure that you had medicine for your ankle, food to fill your stomach? Why do you think I go out there and kill every single monster I run into, because I need to make it back here, to be with you again?”

“You shouldn’t!” you scream at him. “What kind of life is this? Love should be the last thing on your mind right now, Minho! You should fucking worry about your own neck, and stop giving a damn about me!”

The words tear through you, because you know that if it weren’t for his love, you wouldn’t even be alive right now. And it hurts, hurts to think of how long he’s spent living like this, merely surviving, a wall of ice around his chest.

“You’re right, I shouldn’t. But I do. Do you know that these past few months, I’m the happiest I’ve ever been? What kind of fucked up logic is that? I have nothing, nothing in this world besides this stupid bunker and the clothes on my back, and it makes me want to sob with joy. Because I get you. I get a chance at life with you, after so many years of wishing for it, and knowing I could never have it.”

He falls onto the ground, tucking his head into his knees. 

“The universe gave me another chance,” he whispers softly.

Your blood turns to ice, and you crouch down next to him.

“What do you mean, another chance?”

He looks at you, and you finally see all the pain in his eyes come to the surface, everything that he’s kept bottled up inside.

“It should have been me,” he mutters, lost in his own head. “I told Junho about how I wanted to go up to you that night, how beautiful I thought you were, but before I could do anything, he was there. It ended up being him.”

Your head reels from his confession, and you think back to everything that’s happened through the years. All those memories you had with Junho, Minho lingering in the background, purposely keeping his distance. Memories that you could have had with him instead. Bile rises up in the back of your throat, and you back away.

“I can’t do this, Minho, not right now, I can’t–” 

“I know.” He’s at the door before you can stop him, one foot on the other side of the threshold. “Don’t worry about it.”

He leaves before you can even ask him to stay.

Minho knocks back another shot, stomach churning when he sees Junho approach the pretty brunette, chatting her up. She’s batting her eyelashes and giggling at him, and he knows he should be grateful that his best friend is helping him out, on a desperate mission to cure Minho’s singleness.

But all he can focus on is you in the corner, nervously watching your boyfriend flirt with another girl, and Minho wants to vomit when he sees your lip tremble, eyes glassy with tears. 

He’d driven himself nearly mad with the fantasies about what he’d do if he was in Junho’s position, how much better he could treat you. But at the end of the day, that’s all they were. Fantasies. You two were happy together, and he had no place in it.

Minho suddenly remembers the shiny ring that Junho had shown him last week, tucked away in the drawer of his dresser, and decides promptly that he needs to step outside, the stale air of the bar burning his nostrils.

There’s a faint breeze outside, and it calms him, rewiring his muddled senses enough for him to plop down on the curb. Minho heaves, the alcohol coming back up his throat, but he tries his best to breathe deeply, like his therapist had told him. The pity in her eyes when he’d explained his feelings for you lingers in the back of his mind. You were a vice he couldn’t quit.

A shadow looms next to him, and Minho looks over to see you standing on the curb next to him, studying him curiously.

“Not a fan of cheap vodka?” you chuckle, taking a seat next to him, and Minho internally curses when he feels your thighs brush. He was too drunk for this. 

“Just needed some air,” he tries to laugh it off too. “Gonna have a killer headache tomorrow.”

“She was pretty,” the statement startles him. He couldn’t give less of a damn about the girl Junho was talking to, but it seems that wasn’t the case for you.

“Not interested,” he grits out. Not when she’s not you.

“You know, dating isn’t all it’s cut out to be,” you sigh. “I mean, there are good times, don’t get me wrong, but the bad times feel a thousand times worse when you care about someone. Like seeing your boyfriend flirt with another girl right in front of you.”

There’s a bitter edge to your words, and Minho surprises you, reaching over to cup your cheek and tilt your head towards him.

“Junho is a fool,” the words come out in a slow, heavy breath.

“Happy birthday, Minho,” you whisper, a small smile on your face, and Minho leans in, lips searching for yours. The kiss is quick, a brief graze full of shy reluctance, but you’re surprised you don’t back away, dizzy when he retreats, and missing the feeling of his soft lips.

You lean your head on his shoulder, the two of you lingering on the curb for a few moments, before Junho’s loud voice echoes in the background, startling you apart from each other.

“Hey dipshits, the party’s inside,” he drawls, walking over to swoop you off your feet. Junho presses a peck to your cheek, wrapping his jacket around you, and your eyes roam around frantically, looking for any sign of Minho. But he’s already gone, the faint outline of his leather jacket the only thing you see before he disappears around the corner of the bar, vanishing into the night.

Minho stumbles through the forest, the pounding in his head only growing worse, the memory of the kiss you’d shared consuming his thoughts, splintered with snippets from the conversation with you. The one he’d been waiting so long to have.

The spell had been shattered, and Minho thinks he’s foolish to imagine that it could have lasted, the two of you playing house together, and he cursed the false hope he’d harboured for so long. It was a fucking apocalypse, you were desperate for release, and you’d never cared. Not like he did.

But then his mind flashes back to the kiss, and he doesn’t know what possessed him that night, or possessed you to return it. The moment was the single spark that kept the flickering flame of his love for you going, even now, when you’d basically banished him.

A sharp pain surges through him, and Minho staggers to the ground. He clutches the fabric of his shirt, lifting it up to see the ugly wound he’d been letting fester for weeks, a stray swipe from a monster he’d run into. It’s pulsating now, stabbing into his side, and he wants to kick himself. Why had he been so selfless?

Sometimes, he thinks loving you was the worst decision he’d ever made, the way it consumed him completely. He thinks that maybe if time could reverse, and he had a second chance, that he’d never do it, never lock eyes with you from across the party, your smile forever etched into his memory. But that was a lie. Minho knew he’d do it all again for as long as his heart continued to beat.

Minho feels something squelch on the ground below him, a metallic tang hitting the back of his throat. He swipes at it, crimson coating his fingers. Blood. His blood. He presses a tentative hand to his face, swiping at his leaking nose, but the bleeding won’t stop. There’s too much of it.

Minho screams when his spine cracks, the pain splitting through his entire body, and he feels his eyes roll back into his head. 

When he opens them again, the world is dark. And he runs.

. . .

Your lungs feel like they’re going to collapse, parched for air as you make your way through the forest, wobbling through the trees, looking for something, anything that could lead you to Minho. 

Your heartbeat echoes in your ears, accompanied by a ringing that hasn’t ceased since you left the bunker. The decision still made your stomach turn, afraid to confront the outside world without Minho by your side, but you had to find him. Had to let him know that you wouldn’t let him suffer anymore.

Mind lingering on a specific memory from Minho’s birthday, you realized there’d always been a strange undercurrent between you, even when Junho had been around. Despite how many times he drew away from you, you never let him escape completely. At first, you’d thought it was because he was Junho’s friend, but it all changed after that night outside the bar, your attraction to Minho settling in your chest like a lead weight.

You think back to the months you’d spent together, the world falling apart around you, and how Minho had become your entire world, the reason you’d continued to hope. How you’d fallen in love with every part of him, from the way he’d let you take the first share of food to the messy strands of his grown-out hair. 

The wind whips through your hair, the dense cover of trees thinning around you, and you stumble upon the meadow, a lone figure illuminated in the moonlight. You know it’s him.

“Minho!” you scream, watching as he stumbles across the field in response, trying to get away from you. “Minho!”

You scream until your voice runs hoarse, fighting through the pain in your ankle, and eventually, Minho draws closer and closer, collapsing in the middle of the field. His back is turned to you, and he ducks his head, avoiding your gaze.

You think he’ll run away when you approach him, but he remains lifeless, as still as a statue. Crouching down beside him, you lift his chin, turning his face up to you, a gasp caught in your throat at what you find.

There’s something wrong with his eyes. They shift from the dark brown irises you’d come to know to hollow pools of black. His face is smeared with blood, and his breathing is shallow.

“____, you have to go, I’m turning, it’s not safe, I’m not safe–,” Minho grabs your arm, looking at you with desperation in his eyes. His speech is garbled, but you can hear the gentle tone of his voice still trapped inside. He’s still Minho.

“How dare you tell me to run,” you hiss at him. “How dare you tell me to leave?”

“You don’t understand,” he growls, hands shaking in rage. “I’m a monster!”

Fear strikes you at the realization that something was very wrong with him, something neither you or him had ever been able to anticipate. But it’s overcome by a stronger, more profound emotion.

“I don’t care,” you take his face in your hands again. “I love you, Minho. I loved you through the world ending, and I’ll love you through this. Because your life is mine now, just like mine is yours. It’s our second chance. And we will do whatever it takes to survive.”

Minho clasps your hands in his, fingertips rubbing against your knuckles, and you smile when you notice that his eyes are normal again, no longer filled with darkness. Maybe there was a chance.

“We’ll head west,” Minho rests his forehead against yours, pressing a soft kiss to your temple. “I saw a hospital nearby. Maybe there are other survivors, people just like us.”

You nod, throwing your arms around him and burying your head into the crook of his neck. The two of you would exit west as soon as the sun rose, ready to start a new journey together.

Perhaps the life you shared was far from perfect but you realized that you’d clutched onto it as desperately as him, because he was the only thing you had. You were each other’s home.

a/n pt. 2: As always, any feedback or comments are much appreciated, but I appreciate you all anyway. Lots of love, Isi 💜

[bonny-kookoo]

PLEASE.

LO King Yoongi, what happens after the first kiss?

Please.

I know what you are

He must've tricked you. There's no way he needed any form of 'demonstration' at all- he seems very much aware of what he's got to do to make your head spin already.

He's giving you a short second to breathe after a second or two, face still close to yours as he watches you, face devoid of much emotion but eyes full of curiosity. "You really are so fragile." He almost mocks you, and you simply nod, admitting to it- and it earns you a reaction you've not yet witnessed before.

He chuckles, clearly amused.

"I am." You answer. "S-so maybe you should be a bit more.. gentle?" You ask, and he simply leans his head to the side a little bit, still up close to you, leaning halfway over you at this point.

"Am I not gentle right now?" He questions you. "Have I not been gentle with you the entire time since I've taken you as my partner?" He asks further, reaching out to tuck some hair behind your ear. "Physically you are no match for me. If I so desired, I could've taken whatever I wanted from you by force."

"But you wouldn't." You say, and at that, his lips turn into a slight smile.

"I indeed would never." He confirms. "Like I said; you are physically no match for me." The king repeats himself. "But you have something I want. And I am willing to... devote myself to you in order to get it."

"I.. what is that?" You wonder, not sure what he's talking about. You don't really have anything- you have no strength, you're not talented in anything particular, you're not outstanding at all compared to what he could have in any other Temian woman-

"Have you ever taken a life?"

The question cuts off your thoughts, like the needle on a record player falling off the disk, music stopping abruptly. You don't have to think for long before you shake your head- no, you've never killed someone.

"Have you ever wielded a weapon?" He questions further, and again, you deny that.

"I've.. cleaned them. But they're.. too heavy, and I'm not strong enough to ever be accepted as a knight anyways." You explain.

"That is what I crave." He offers you. "You are what I want to, but cannot ever be." Yoongi explains, and you realize suddenly what he's talking about.

The fact that he even considered surrendering. How it's known that he himself is a quiet king just so he doesn't put any interest on him to be challenged. How he is said to be always rather lenient when it comes to punishment, way less aggressive than the other kings or the kings before him.

Yoongi doesn't like violence.

"You can." You offer him, and his eyes narrow in question. "When.. you know. When it's just us, you can be what you want to be." You tell him. "I'll accept you as, you know, King and.. partner all the same, even if you're gentle and kind." You tell him, his eyes opening wider as he watches you with this distinctive look of curiosity again.

"The more I speak to you.. and get to know you.." He offers, leaning closer again. "The more glad I am that I have taken you in." The king explains to you. "As my partner, that is."

"I.. okay?" You say, shy from the close proximity.

"Maybe the fact that you were given to me by chance and not someone else.." He hums towards you. "..might just be fate. Don't you think?"

"M-maybe?" You stammer, his lips only a breath from yours.

"Maybe, huh." He chuckles. "I guess.. we will have to see how compatible we really are." The king smirks. "See if you will actually bloom."

"I- what?" You want to ask, but he just shuts you up with another kiss-

a gesture of affection he's clearly more than fond of.