#but that doesn't have to be weight lifting

[aayakashii]

continuing the headcanon that @str8upjorkinit created with a few more houses, since some people asked for it (will post the other houses later I promise!)

Hotarubi and Mortkranken with a S/O that loves to carry them around (with pictures ?!)

Subaru

Turns into a tomato immediately

Apologizes for being carried as if you're not the one that decided to carry him in the first place!!!!

Tries SO hard to think of reasons why you should not be holding him like that, but his mind is just a blue screen at this point

Subaru tried the best he could not to entertain his little crush on you but you really went there and made it impossible 😔

He'll never say it (because he always thinks he's being inconvenient), but he loves when you carry him whenever he's anxious or overwhelmed

You're kinda like his personal weighted blanket and he loves it

Still apologizes constantly, even after you two have settled this into your routine... time to hold him even tighter to maybe squeeze the insecurities away!

Subaru when you first began holding him vs Subaru after getting KINDA used to you holding him

Haku

Oh he's sooooooo into this

It's a wonder you don't drop him at your feet when he starts flirting with you right away

AND your face is so close to his? He hit jackpot, baby!

Expect him laying his head on your shoulder and flirting shamelessly just to see you getting flustered

It's not like he's not affected though!

He has the wildest butterflies fluttering in his stomach when you hold him so tightly and so close, literally sweeping him off his feet

After a while, you get used to his teasing, so he just enjoys his time on your arms.

If he ends up taking his afternoon nap on your lap, you can't blame him 🫵‼️ you did put him in the moat comfortable place ever (your arms)

Haku while he's flirting with you vs Haku when he relaxes and naps in your arms

Zenji

HAS THE TIME OF HIS LIFE

In fact, speaking of Time of My Life, you know that old movie, Dirty Dancing? If you can lift Zenji, he Will be forcing you to do the whole choreography with him

and you WILL be taking Patrick Swayze's role because he wants to be the girl who's lifted

Obviously he's excited you can lift him since he's HUGE but in his mind he's just like....... of course you can lift him!!! It's YOU after all!!!

You literally can do anything in his mind. No wonder you're his second favorite person, only behind his little brother.

He feels like a little damsel in distress whenever you carry him in his arms and he loves it, even starts writing more stories with this theme since he's so inspired

Loves it so much that he kinda expects you to do it everyday

Sending thoughts and prayers for your back

Zenji when you showed him you could lift him vs you after the 1000th time he asked you to carry him

Yuri

CAPITAL H HORRIFIEDDDDDD

Yells "PUT ME DOWN, WORM" like a thousand times

The other students start asking for you to please just put him down so they can work in peace

Because he won't stop yelling and distracting everyone with how dramatic he is

You're having way too much fun though, seeing how he turns the deepest shade of red ever and stutters nonstop about you being insane

He will never not complain whenever you hold him in your arms, but, after a while, he kinda gets used to it

Says it's just a symptom of your derangement and that no medicine seems to fix it 😔 how tragic

To be honest, he kinda likes it a little bit... especially the way he can see your face and your smile from up close... but he'll never ever admit it to himself, much less to you

Yuri when you carried him for the first time vs Yuri after he resigned himself and accepted that you Will carry him no matter what

Jiro

10000% doesn't mind

He is, however, a bit surprised that you can actually lift him up (after a little bit of struggle since he's the biggest ghoul after all

He thinks it's a little bit funny how you made it a matter of honor to carry him without struggle (which you manage after a while)

Whenever you get spooked and he (sadistically) laughs at your reactions, he allows you to carry him as some sort of peace offering

Jiro used to resist being carried whenever he got sick. His habit of just enduring it by himself for as long as he could was a bit hard to break

Much to his surprise, however, being able to "relax" in your arms as you take him back to Mortkranken made his sudden bouts of sickness less harrowing

Still thinks it's a little bit amusing how silly you look so focused, carrying someone double your size. He can get used to it as well, though

Literally just Jiro. Jiro vibing as you carry him. He will always just be vibing.

[betweenstorms]

Hi hello, hope you're having a good day Stormy! Your writing is always so good sjdjsjd always makes my day when I have the chance to read em! Not sure if you take requests, so if you don't, you can always ignore this! But I have a pretty interesting prompt that might pique your interest 👀

We all know Simon doesn't show emotions easily, usually the people very close to him will spot out the minute details that give away how he's feeling. Small twitch of the lips, tense of shoulders, that kind of thing. But how about reader who is slightly different, in that they also don't show emotion that well, but it's because they forget to? Sounds confusing I know, but for me I forget my mouth exists and constantly forget to smile at people when greeting them. So for reader, the only way others know how they're feeling is with the tone of their voice.

Hope that isn't too confusing to understand! It's a very weird thing I have, and have not encountered anyone else who share this lmao

Anywayyy have a great rest of your day, and remember to hydrate and eat something! 🖤

- Biscuits 🌺

Hi Biscuits! 🌺 First of all, thank you so much for your kind words! I’m so sorry it took me this long to reply, but I’m excited to let you know that my interpretation of your idea is finally here! I hope you’ll enjoy it as much as I enjoyed exploring such a unique and fascinating prompt. I hope you’re having a wonderful day, and don’t forget to hydrate and eat something too! Thank you again for trusting me with your idea. 🖤

You didn’t need to look up to know the weather outside was a dreary shade of grey.

Strangely, it was always just grey here. Overcast skies that seemed to stretch endlessly over the joint military base somewhere in Germany, as though nature itself had resigned to a dull monotony. Not that it bothered you. Weather, much like people, had a way of projecting its moods that you’d long stopped trying to interpret. Clouds could loom ominously, sunlight could break free in radiant streaks, but it all felt the same to you.

Emotions were like that too.

Amorphous, indistinct, slipping through your grasp when you tried to name them. For as long as you could remember, you’d lacked the innate ability most people seemed to have, the quick flick of recognition when faced with a scowl, a smile, or a furrowed brow. You saw the movements of mouths and brows but couldn’t place what they were supposed to mean.

To you, the dance of expressions was no more than a series of movements, the subtle lift of lips or tilt of a head stripped of the weight they were meant to carry. And so, your own face reflected the only truth you understood. Your own face usually mirrored the neutrality of the weather, a blank slate that rarely shifted unless you consciously willed it to.

Price and Gaz were out on a recon mission, leaving Soap, Ghost and you on the foreign base. With no immediate orders other than to wait for their return, the three of you had the rare luxury of downtime. However, despite this, none of you strayed from your usual discipline. The day began at dawn, as always, with the shooting range, gym sessions, or reviewing intel as needed. The quiet efficiency of your routines spoke volumes about the kind of people you all were, professionals through and through. There were no shortcuts at this level, no slacking off. You were the best of the best after all.

Each of you carried that mantle in your own way.

Soap’s energy crackled like a live wire, his easy laughter and constant chatter an antidote to the grim seriousness of your world. Ghost, by contrast, was the anchor—silent, steadfast, a figure carved from stone. And you? You found yourself somewhere between them, detached yet watchful, a quiet observer tethered by a relentless need to prove yourself.

You liked working with Ghost in a way that was difficult to articulate, even to yourself. There was no camaraderie in the traditional sense, no banter or easy companionship, but strangely, there was something deeper, something unspoken.

Your lieutenant moved through the world with the same deliberate calm that you valued in yourself, his every action sharpened by precision and purpose. You respected him for that, his unrelenting dedication, the quiet strength he carried like a shield, and the way his presence seemed to command gravity itself, pulling the air taut whenever he entered a room. And somehow, Ghost felt like a reflection, as though the world had cut both of you from the same cloth. He, too, was a figure cloaked in neutrality, his mask hiding not just his face but the emotions that might lie beneath.

Even with the lull in operations, you didn’t take the task force’s trust for granted. You had fought hard to earn your place here, shedding blood and sweat to prove yourself to Price and the rest of the team. The task force was a strange paradox—these were people you trusted implicitly with your life, but you knew almost nothing about them on a personal level. That was just how things worked. Bonds forged in war zones didn’t require knowledge of favorite foods or childhood dreams. Still, you couldn’t deny a small, nagging curiosity about the men you worked with—especially Soap and Ghost.

Both were enigmas in their own ways.

Soap, all charm and humor, seemed to wear his heart on his sleeve, yet you suspected there was more to him beneath the surface. Ghost, on the other hand, was a locked vault, his emotions buried under layers of stoicism and a mask that seemed to shield more than his face. 

You had been with the task force for four months now.

It had been an honor to receive Price’s invitation, and though you felt pride in your accomplishments, showing it outwardly had always been a challenge. Ever since childhood, you’d struggled with recognizing and expressing emotions.

Your family had always been understanding, brushing it off as an eccentric quirk, and you’d never sought a formal diagnosis. It wasn’t that you didn’t feel, far from it. You just didn’t show it in the usual ways. Smiling, frowning, or even appearing annoyed often felt like trying to mimic a foreign language without understanding the grammar.

As a child, you were always the odd one, the kid who stared too long, too intently, when other children laughed and cried. Your parents, to their credit, were patient. Your mother, warm and pragmatic, would gently remind you to smile when greeting your grandmother or reassure you when a relative’s frown went unnoticed. “They’re not cross, love,” she’d say, her hands light on your shoulders. “Just thinking. You’re fine.”

But the world wasn’t as kind as your family.

As you grew, the peculiarities of your face invited suspicion, sometimes ridicule. “Why don’t you ever smile?” teachers would ask, their tone suggesting you were withholding something from them, as though joy was a currency you refused to spend. Friends, when you had them, would mistake your silence for coldness, your neutrality for indifference. By the time you reached your teens, you’d grown used to the questions and assumptions, building an armor of pragmatism around yourself. What was the point in trying to explain something you didn’t fully understand?

Somehow, your body simply forgot the script.

You forgot to move your lips when greeting a loved one, forgot to furrow your brows when confusion took hold, forgot to cry when sadness settled heavy in your chest. It wasn’t that you didn’t feel. Feelings bloomed and churned within you like storms on a distant horizon, but they never found their way to the surface. You were a house with locked shutters, and though the light was on inside, it rarely spilled out to illuminate the exterior.

Oddly enough, this trait had become an asset in your line of work.

Pragmatic, objective, and unshaken by emotion, you excelled in high-pressure environments. It was this armor that had served you so well in the military and later in the SAS. Neutrality was an asset here—a foundation upon which precision, discipline, and logic could thrive. Emotions muddied decisions, and in your line of work, clarity was king. When the invitation to join Task Force 141 had come, you’d accepted with quiet pride, though you’d made no effort to show it. Your calm, measured responses made you reliable and efficient, qualities that had undoubtedly caught Price’s attention.

But outside of missions, it created a distance between you and the rest of the team. Building camaraderie required a kind of emotional fluency you didn’t naturally possess, and though you didn’t dwell on it much, it sometimes left you feeling a little isolated.

Four months in, you’d cemented your place among the team.

They trusted you on the battlefield, and that was enough. Personal bonds were optional here, weren’t they? You’d told yourself that many times, but the truth was harder to swallow, trust in war didn’t translate to understanding in peace. Soap’s boisterous banter, Gaz’s easy charm, and Ghost’s impassive stares all existed in a language you couldn’t quite speak.

This morning, however, was different.

Breakfast was normally a solitary affair, a brief respite from the day’s structured chaos. But today, Soap and Ghost had joined you in the mess hall, their presence sat heavy at your periphery. You sat across from them, meticulously working through your meal while Soap tapped his fingers on the table in a rhythm that suggested trouble. Neither of them was eating, and their idle presence felt vaguely unsettling.

It didn’t take long for your suspicion to be confirmed.

“Y’know,” Soap began, his voice lilting with mischief. “Been meanin’ to ask you somethin’, lass. How’s it possible to sit there, day in, day out, with a face that doesn't move? Like a bloody mannequin, you are.”

You raised a brow, a slight, subtle motion that could have meant anything, but didn’t stop eating. Soap took this as an invitation to continue.

“You don’t smile,” he declared, as though it were a groundbreaking revelation. “Or frown. Or even twitch your face half the time. How d’you do that, eh? Are you secretly a robot?”

“I’m not a robot,” you replied, your tone flat but perfectly even.

He leaned back, shaking his head with mock disbelief. “Could’ve fooled me. You’re like a statue, don’t even look annoyed when I’m talkin’ shite at you. Bet you couldn’t make a face to save your life.”

You paused, setting down your fork with deliberate precision.

“I can make faces,” you said coolly.

“Aye, then let’s have a wee go at it. Give us a smile, eh?” Soap’s lopsided grin widened, and he glanced at Ghost, who remained silent but was now clearly paying attention, his hazel eyes flicking toward you. You blinked at them, debating whether it was worth the effort to argue.

Instead, you attempted to comply.

The corners of your mouth lifted in what might have passed for a smile if not for the stiffness in the gesture. It felt awkward, like wearing someone else’s skin.

Soap slapped the table, his laugh booming across the hall. “Creepin’ Jesus, that’s tragic! Like watchin’ a bairn try to wink for the first time.”

“Better than watchin’ you try to think,” Ghost deadpanned, not missing a beat.

Undeterred, Soap straightened up. “All right, fine. Forget smilin’. Show us angry.”

You weren’t bothered by Soap’s teasing, not at all.

Sarcasm and banter weren’t your battlefield, and you didn’t need to win these small wars of wit. If anything, you found his energy oddly endearing, a welcome distraction in the quiet monotony of downtime. So you furrowed your brow and narrowed your eyes slightly, aiming for something approximating irritation. Soap burst into another peal of laughter, throwing his head back and letting it roll out uninhibited.

“Honestly, you’re hopeless,” he howled, tears of laughter glistening in his eyes.

Ghost sighed, setting his tablet down with deliberate care.

“Enough, Johnny.”

Soap held up his hands in mock surrender, his grin lingering like a spark refusing to fade, but your attention had already wandered, your gaze tracing their movements like studying a map of familiar terrain. Soap’s restless energy hummed, his gestures loose and unrestrained, a stark contrast to Ghost’s deliberate stillness, every shift of his body a calculation.

And then his hazel eyes met yours—sharp, unflinching, and so steady it rooted you in place. There was no hostility, no question, only a quiet intensity that made your pulse stutter, a strange, warm stirring low in your stomach that you didn’t dare acknowledge. His gaze held you captive for a beat too long, the air around you heavy, before he turned away, leaving behind a weight you didn’t fully understand but couldn’t quite shake.

“Doesn’t matter,” he said, his voice lower now, more measured. “Faces lie. It’s your voice that tells the truth.”

You blinked. “My voice?”

Ghost nodded, leaning back slightly. “You can hear it. If you listen proper. More honest than any forced smile could ever be.”

For a moment, you didn’t know what to say.

Compliments, if that’s what this was, were scarce in your world, as rare as sunlight piercing through storm clouds. From Ghost, they were practically unheard of. Yet his words lingered, carrying a weight that pressed gently against the walls of your chest. A quiet warmth began to unfurl there, blooming softly like a flame coaxed from dying embers, a mixture of gratitude and something unnamed, something that settled in the hollow spaces you hadn’t realized were waiting to be filled.

Soap, visibly startled by the uncharacteristic remark, stared at Ghost as though he’d grown a second head. “Bloody hell, Lt.,” he muttered. “Didn’t know ye had a poetic streak.”

Your lieutenant paid him no mind, his focus already returning to the tablet in his hands, as if the moment had never existed. But you remained still, the weight of his words draping over you like a thick, unshakable cloak. Honest. The word lingered, unfamiliar yet strangely resonant, threading itself into the quiet spaces of your thoughts, where it settled with unexpected ease. Soap broke the moment with a playful nudge to your shoulder.

“Still, you could do with learnin’ a proper smile, eh? Just in case.”

Your eyes rolled, an instinctive motion this time, unbidden but oddly fitting. Soap’s laughter rippled through the room, bright and careless, but it barely registered, a distant echo against the steady hum of your thoughts. Ghost’s words lingered, heavy with meaning, a rare compliment that pressed itself into the quiet corners of your mind with a significance that eclipsed anything you’d ever known. Perhaps, you mused, letting the warmth of the moment settle over you, it wasn’t such a bad thing after all.

Maybe that was something you could finally understand.

[elegantgardenrunaway]

If it's with you

Curly (mouthwashing) x reader

A/N: AAAAAAH FINALLY I FINISHED IT. Sorry for the delay, to be honest it was quite challenging for me to write this one. I hope I did Curly good enough for you.

This is the second (and last) part of this. But if you want to keep with the fluff then I would recommend skipping this.

Warnings: Jimmy (ofc), violence, mild gore(?), death, no happy ending (sorry guys not really), very hinted about what happened with Anya, but not explicit.

And bad grammar, probably. Sorry, English is not my first language.

He wishes he had kept his mouth shut.

Just for a day or two more, so at least the decorations wouldn't have been put to waste.

Such a birthday celebration. They must have put a lot of effort into it and he had to go and ruin everything.

Their reactions are still burning in his mind, like burning coal scorching his brain; Anya's worried voice, Swansea sarcastic remarks, Daisuke’s silence, Jimmy's accusations, your blank expression looking at the plate while you gripped the fork with white knuckles. No matter what, they are always there.

He sighs heavily, he needs to get to work soon.

He doesn't know how he will face the others now.

Yet he doesn't move, doesn't even hear that someone has entered the lounge. He later hears the shuffle of the couch as someone sits besides. He doesn't bother to look up nor start a conversation, too drained to give an explanation or even a half joke to break the ice.

They stand up again. He thinks they are going to leave him alone.

Then he hears the radio being turned on, followed by the sound of music, banishing the silence in the air.

He turns up, surprised and confused, finding you walking back to him with a nervous smile on your face.

For some reason, he's relieved that you are not Jimmy.

I mean, he definitely wouldn't do something like this.

You took his hands, lightly pulling him up. His hands had brushed against yours more than one time, on accident that is, due to your jobs or as a playful row during game nights. Now he realizes how warm and comforting your hands are to the point he hardly notices that he went up on his own, following you.

“Do you like to dance, Captain?” Your voice takes him out of his trance.

He blinks “... What?”

“... Um… Do you… do you like to dance? We can dance if you want. It's still your birthday party and it shouldn't end like this. Please, at least one dance”

He looked at them, dance… Dance? In a moment like this?

“We still have work to do,” he said, trying to give an excuse to get out of this.

“To hell with work,” you responded as you guided him “Forget the work, the company, everything. Tomorrow we'll drown. Today? Today we dance”

… That doesn't sound so bad.

He looks at your eyes. They hold such determination even if you look nervous. Your hands, your hands were holding him, he felt grounded. He repeated your words in his mind:

Today we dance. Ha, he isn't very good at it. He doesn't dance a lot, never had the time in a work like this.

He didn't refuse your proposal, didn't have the heart to tell you no, but he warned you about his lack of skill on the dance floor.

You laughed, he didn't know whether to feel embarrassed or offended or both, but your later reassurance lifted a weight from his shoulders. Soon he's holding you in his arms, bodies close, his head resting on you as you sway with the melody. His body is relaxed and the worries about the future are temporarily forgotten from his mind.

You don't judge him nor think less of him. Instead, you go at his pace and encourage him to try something different, something new, even if he's not really good at it, he can still learn.

Especially if it's with you.

Time seemed to disappear for both of you. A song became two, became three, became four until you had to let each other go, you had to go back to work.

But he didn’t want to do that. He wished he could stay with you, just a little bit longer.

But when you accepted that the time was up, you agreed to meet again for your next class the following day in the morning before work.

He was the first one to arrive. Entering the lounge way before your agreement. The holographic screen still shows the night sky. He didn't sleep, he couldn't. His friend has been giving him the cold shoulder and the rest of his crew is still shaken up from the news. Even though you tried to hide it, he still noticed.

And then, there is him. With a good reference secured. Which is good, but then again he still needs to figure out what he wants to do once he steps down for good.

What was life before the Tulpar? Who was Curly before the captain?

“Good morning” you yawned, trying to fix your appearance and open your eyes a little bit more “I see you're early, how long have you been here?”

“Uh?” He quickly turned upon hearing you, looking at you for a few seconds with a mixture of guilt and gratitude, he knew you were giving up some of the few hours of sleep you had in favor of this and he appreciates that. If the coffee machine wasn't empty, he would've made some for you.

“Oh, no… I just arrived, you have nothing to worry about” he lied and walked to your side “Thank you for doing this”

“Uh, don't mention it” you mumbled, yawning once more.

“Can I offer you something? Well, anything that is not coffee that is…”

“Heh, I'm alright, don't worry about it. Shall we start?”

How fast can someone get interested in another person?

Not to say he didn't pay attention to you before. It's just that now he does it in a different way, another eyes, another heart.

Suddenly he sees your expression when you smile, the wrinkles on your face when you laugh at Daisuke's bad jokes or the sudden energy boost you get with him and Anya, ; the way you listen to Swansea's rants or roll your eyes at Jimmy. Which he doesn't really like.

For six days you had taught Curly the basics of dance.

For six mornings Curly had felt excitement of waiting for a new day. He wanted to learn about dancing, learn about you.

And then …

System Failure

System Failure

System Failure

"…"

He wished he wasn't so stupid. That he was a better man and stopped Jimmy, gave him a better punishment for his actions. But then again, his options weren't very promising, especially if it involved everyone's last pay.

But maybe he's just making excuses.

He wants to scream, to apologize, to Anya, to Swansea, Daisuke and you.

Maybe he wasn't the one who set up the ship towards the asteroid, but practically served the option for Jimmy in a silver plate. So it was the same, at least in his mind, as if he was the one in the seat.

It kills him, it kills him to be a prisoner in his own, decaying body that refused to die or at least that the other refused to let die. He now has to depend on Anya —as if things weren't nightmarish enough — to even breathe properly.

You started to help Anya a little bit after he got stabilized. Seeing how she was struggling with him, you wanted to relieve some of the burden from her shoulders. The first thing you did was try to give him his pills. He will never forget the look on your eyes, the shine of betrayal and uncertainty, you seemed to be observing a bizarre creature, a monster.

That made him feel he was burning all over again.

And despite that, you did it again. You continued to give him his pills and learn from Anya how to take care of him the best you could with the little equipment you had, the fearful and horrified expression you desperately tried to conceal for his sake turned to a resigned, yet kind one. You get used to the bandages, the smell of burned fresh he still emits and soon replace Anya on the duty of giving him his pills, giving the woman a little peace of mind.

You talk to him, more often than not, you tell him about your day, the plans to have to ensure your survival, what would you do once you get back to earth, the ideas you have to get another job and one of two comments about redoing the dance lessons once he recovers from his injuries, though clarifying that it was only if he was interested. As if you would survive this.

For him, that was what was keeping him alive. He could only dream of that future you were telling him, the things you were telling yourself to give both of you hope, to desperately keep the shine in your eyes to keep shining.

Though that could only work for so long. Especially after you and the rest of the remaining crew discovered the contents of the cargo.

Mouthwash.

So that's what he was dedicating his own life for, the reason he was climbing ladders for…

He couldn't help but let out a pained chuckle, surprising you, making you look as if he just performed a miracle.

Well, he supposes that if is his suffering all it takes to impress you, then he'll gladly give it to you. Anything that could give you some hope.

Things started spiraling, you had told him and sometimes he could even hear it from his spot in the infirmary. How Swansea broke his sobriety after all these years, how Daisuke started to drink too, how Anya and you tried to keep the situation at float, but what he was most scared of was how Jimmy seemed to start to act more… aggressive. If that was even possible. He was more demanding, more prone to outburst and you and him had had rows more often.

He would be lying if he was afraid that he would do something to you. You, who still tries to hold some hope and share it with him. You are a balm that manages to soothe at least some of the despair that crushes his chest and the electric torture his own muscles give him.

He promises himself, that if you two get out of here alive and manages to at least become a somewhat functional living being, even if it meant having some kind of shitty prosthetics, even if he had to learn to walk again, he would take you to a nice place, get you some nice clothes and dance with you all night.

Yes, yes he would. And for that, he needs to keep himself alive. To take responsibility for what happened, to have a life with you.

Then suddenly, one day you came, with a look of shock. You didn't say too much that day, only a few words.

“I know... I-I know what he did”

And you didn't need to say anything else.

And you stopped talking to him for what felt like an eternity. It was a week and a half, but with the silence of the room and Anya and Jimmy being the only ones coming here, it was torture for him.

He never thought he would feel more relieved when you started talking to him again. He cried, it hurted, it hurted like hell. You shushed him gently.

But you never talked about the future again. Sometimes you still didn't talk at all, the shine in your eyes replaced by a resignation that gave him chills.

And then, everything fell apart the moment Anya locked herself in the nursery, asking if you could look after Daisuke to make sure he was doing okay, she could give him his medicines, assuring you that she was capable and that you didn't need to worry about it.

She didn't give him his medicines.

Instead, he was forced to witness how she twitched and withered on the floor until her body no longer moved.

He heard Daisuke's screams before he appeared from that vent. The young boy saw Anya, eyes glossy and horrified and tried to beg for her to talk, hoping that she was still somewhat alive, to tell him everything would be okay. And between guilty sobs, he mentioned Jimmy's name and that you were gravely injured too.

His heart stopped at that moment.

What happened to you? What did he do? Are you okay? Will you make it? Or is it too late for you too?

It couldn't be, it couldn't.

Then everything seemed to happen in a blur, he barely remembers what came next. Jimmy and Swansea were in the infirmary, the latter betaring the first one for his foolishness, for what he did to you and Daisuke. When they inevitably found nothing that would help them, they left. An hour or so later, Daisuke's screams echoed through the hall. The door was upon, but the position they were on didn't allow him to see much. But he did see how Swansea held the ax above Daisuke. Then, Daisuke's breathing stopped echoing in the halls, then Jimmy came and grabbed the gun….

The fucking gun that was under him all along.

The gun Anya hid because she was afraid of him. And he couldn't understand why at that time.

And now that he does, he can't help but laugh, as strong as his body allows him. He can't do anything anymore, he's fucking useless, he can't do a damn thing. He can't be a good captain, a good friend.

A fucking decent human being in general.

Then there came the struggling, the echo of the gunshots.

He knew he was next.

He thought he was next.

He wished he was next.

How? How could he not see the type of creature that it was Jimmy?

His crew, what once was his crew, their bodies, crudely slumped against the chairs around the table. A party, for the death and the damned, a judgment for the two sinners left in this godforsaken coffin.

Your body was on the left, next to Anya's corpse. The way blood seeped from your face told a horrifying story of your last moments on this world, at the mercy of the monster that now held him. How he wished he could have been there, to protect you, to protect all of them.

How he wished this was nothing but a nightmare, that he could wake up at any moment, go to the lounge and wait for you to appear in your groggy state, still having droll on your cheek and your uniform all messy. He would give you something to drink, maybe not coffee. The machine would always be empty.

But once again, his illusions were shattered with the piercing pain of the knife sawing his flesh.

He screamed, from the pain of his flesh being slayed and his bone being broken, from the sight of his crew rotting around a table, reduce as nothing put twisted puppets for Jimmy's entertainment, for the person he cherished and gave him a reason to keep going, the one who gave him a future, gave him bliss even if they were on the bottom of the deeps of hell and made him feel that his dreams were true, motionless in front of him, and he wasn't able to even say goodbye.

He wasn't even granted the mercy of death. The demon didn't allow it. His twisted conscience believed he could somehow redeem himself if he managed to keep him alive.

Even if it means feeding him his own leg.

Even if it means putting him in the last cryopod while the coward escaped by the least painful way.

He didn't even have the strength to curse him one last time.

As the cold ice burned his exposed flesh, he couldn't help but wonder if things could have been different somehow. If he had the strength to oppose Jimmy, to at the very least stop him from crashing the ship. Would it be different?

It probably doesn't matter anymore. Not when he is going to spend the next twenty years or so frozen in time. He doesn't want anyone to come, a captain must go down with the ship after all.

Death sounds better if you are waiting for him on the other side.

[fizz-pop-thwip]

Oh Steve and Bucky's physicality? Why yes, I will deep dive into that, only if you insist 🙂‍↕️

The serums lead them to where they are now obviously, and the serums are DIFFERENT. Steve's was refined, the og. Its not just a biological feat beyond most people's understanding but what Erskine created was an ART. Utterly refined, working and 'super soldier-ing' in the most efficient and effective ways possible. Steve obviously had the MOST physical change, something Hydras serum wouldn't have achieved even if Bucky was Steve's original size when he got it.

Steve is lean (Not truely lean but leanER then Bucky.) his serum had the power and engineering to rely on the SUPER half for most of his strength. Does he have the correct muscle mass to be able to lift a bus? No. But does he have the super strength to make up for that? Yes. If we can take ANYTHING away from this over a decade old fandom, Steve is shaped like a Dorito, broad shoulders and smaller waist and lean, powerful muscle.

Bucky on the other hand, his serum wasn't so well crafted. To catch up with Captain Americas strength, hydra had to rely more on muscle mass and real strength. Bucky is bigger, wider, more raw muscle, obviously still with super strength but just less, not as much to make up for less muscle. Bucky's more rectangular, he's less then half an inch shorter then Steve, if that, but everything else culminates and makes you THINK he would be taller, you know?

I believe in general Bucky's weight fluctuates much more than Steve's ever would, (With Steve's serum being how it was, I doubt MUCH change is happening to his body, point blank period.) maybe Bucky's skinner when he's first starting to heal. He has muscles, there's no changing that any time soon with the serum in him but hes not really eating properly and hes been so sick. He's just paler and feeling weaker overall. And later when he's more healed, less nightmares, less stress, he puts on a bit of weight. With him not being as active as an assassin might be and adopting better eating habits, he gets some tummy on him.

Steve ADORES it, goes crazy for it but he goes crazy for Bucky always so maybe that doesn't say much. He just loves how healthy it makes him look, how it represents his progress in a way.

I think Steve also just naturally forgets he's technically the taller one. They're practically the same height really anyway but Steve carries himself differently around Bucky, not to mention their history. The natural feeling is just that he's smaller and that results in a lot of accidental knocking heads.

Anyway this is my copium for the evening, goodnight😴

[lostintransist]

More on you hating getting frustrated with the guys when they care for you. Apologies for any spelling errors I'm on mobile and fighting a migraine.

Gender neutral reader.

Find Simon and John here.

Nikto: Every piece of him had tuned into caring for you. If you could catch him doing it you would ask him to stop. Okay maybe not stop but slow down. Nikto learned early into sharing space with you that you could wield a wooden spoon as well as any grandmother and weren't cowed by any of his hard stares.

The first time he tried to coax you from the kitchen so he could finish cooking for you hadn't gone well.

"Andre if you touch me one more time with the intention of moving me from my task I might stab you." You hadn't even turned from the counter where you chopped carrots.

He glared at you, arguing with the parts of him he didn't dare name. He worried that by naming them they would stay.

Toss her into bed and tie her there the snarling voice rippled across the internal atmosphere.

Nikto would never tie you down, he doubted he could when with consent. The remembrance of restraints brought gooseflesh to any of his body not cemented with scar tissue.

"Glaring at me won't change the fact I'm going to continue to care for myself and you."

How the hell did you always know?

Turning your head and seeing him you turn fully and lightly place your hands on his hips, one place he has agreed you can touch without permission. Your voice holds the lilt of a laugh that soothes him when you speak again.

"Your stares hold weight my love." Lifting one hand you hover over his cheek until he nods. Holding him as if he is a precious treasure you continue. "If I let you care for me like this how long until paranoid Nikto doesn't let me out the front door?"

Nikto opened his mouth to argue the point but the single lift of your brow stops him. You did have a point.

"Go back to making my life easier in ways that make me question what changed love and leave me to my cooking."

Nikto acquiesced to your ask, slightly annoyed that he had been found out. He dropped a kiss to your waiting lips before slipping from the kitchen.

Kyle: The drive home from the hardware store has a decidedly different feel than the drive there.

"What's on your mind Kyle?" You question as you crane your neck to ensure you were safe to pull out of the parking lot.

"I'm upset with you."

Always pragmatic your lover is. Your face screws up as you think over the past few days of his leave. No fights, good intimate times, and a general lull into happiness give you no clues as to why he is angry now.

"Care to share with the class?" You glance at him as you drive catching nothing more than his broody nose scrunch.

"Why did you let the employee help you but not me?"

That would never have crossed your mind as to a reason to be upset.

"Why did I let the person being paid to haul heavy things move the stones for me instead of my boyfriend who can't hurt himself while on leave?"

"Dammit that is not what I am saying and you know it," Kyle snaps at you.

Focused on driving as you are the only response you can give is the tightneing of your fingers on the steering wheel.

"Kyle I am going to ask you to stop yelling at me. I don't understand why you are upset and I don't like the volume you are choosing. We can discuss this or you can let it go." The calm tone you chose carries an undercurrent of your stress.

He takes three deep breaths as you merge onto the freeway. You wouldn't have a chance to look at him now. Good. Maybe this dicussion could end before you got home and everything would settle back into the normal joy of having him home.

"You fight me on who gets to pay for dinner," he lifts a finger in your peripherals.

Cutting in before he can continue you defend yourself, "I work hard and like splitting the bill or taking turns."

The flat stare of his eyes has you curling your shoulder into your neck to hide from his gaze.

"You don't like gifts except on your birthday and Christmas," he rushes ahead before you can interject again. "You never let me help around the house when I am home. Yes, except for the garbage because you hate the garbage. If I were to pay for a spa day for you I bet I would get yelled at for wasting my money."

"I wouldn't yell at you until after..." you mutter to yourself.

"The point is that you refuse to let me be apart of this relationship and I'm hurt by it. Why won't you let me love you? It makes me think you don't want me."

That statement shook you. It rattled out a deep thought from your brain, one that you and your therapist had been digging to find.

Tears sprang to your eyes as the realization rocked through you. If you let him in you worried that Kyle would leave. If you let him start to take care of you he would abandon you like everyone did. The instant you learned to lean he would disappear as if he had never been.

Blinking to stay focused on the road you took the next closest exit.

"I'm having a revelation, I can talk about this once I can pull over."

Kyle slides a hand onto your thigh, squeezing lightly as you tense your muscles under his touch. The first parking lot you found is where you parked and the sobbing overtook you. It took a long time for you to breathe past the tumult of emotions you had uncovered. He holds you as well as the car allows until you can sit up, back muscles pulling sharply. Damn getting old was hard on a body.

"I...uh...I realized my brain says I can't lean on you, or let you do anything for me because if you do then you will disappear like everyone else has on me."

Kyle looks shattered.

"Baby..."

You rush to reassure him.

"It's not you, and I know," you point to your forehead, "You wouldn't... that if you didn't come home it has nothing to do with me. But me, little me," you point to the lowest point on the back of your head "they don't know that yet. I will email my therapist when I get home and we will start working on it."

Gripping his hand in one of yours you pepper it with kisses.

"I'm so sorry I made you feel so bad. I want you. I want you so badly it aches to breathe sometimes. I need a bit of time to work on this, can you do me a favor?"

Kyle looks at you, tears rimming his eyes.

"Anything."

"Can you tell me when letting you do something for me would help you feel loved?" The sentence sounded weird but you needed to know he would tell you when you were getting to far into your own head about things.

Kissing the tip of your nose Kyle rested his forehead against yours.

"I would do everything for you if you would let me. But can we start here? Will you let me drive us home?" He whispers the words to you.

Your mind violently rejects the idea, some deep piece of you rebelling at the thought.

"Yeah. I think that can be a place we start."

A/N: Oooh I liked these ones! LMK if you would like to see any more of these.

HC Masterlist | Masterlist

[ddreamywitch]

Chapter Seven - Take Me to Church

knight!benjicot x princess!reader

Word count: 3.5k

Song: Take Me to Church - Hozier

a/n: Benji pov fans (me) RISE UPP!!

Benji's mind is spinning in circles like never before.

What has he done?

Why has he done it?

He looks at you, your cheeks an intense shade of cherry-red and he wants to throw up a little bit.

How could he do this to you? How could he have done this to you?

You are so soft and innocent, you are to be wed, you are the king's daughter. 

His uncle must be right. He is a man barely in charge of his instincts. 

"Would you stop looking at me like that," you say.

He clears his throat and steps back. "Apologies," he mumbles. Then he takes another, precautionary step back, because he feels the closeness is only making things worse. 

There is an arm's length distance between the two of you now and you are looking at him very confused. 

Maybe he should jump off the tower. 

You hum an unsure sound, a question of what to do now. 

Benji clears his throat again. "Apologies, princess, I should not have been so..."

"So un-knightly?" you offer to finish his sentence. 

He nods. Now you look a bit hurt and he wishes he could turn back time. 

Ser Benjicot of House Blackwood was certainly no stranger to a woman's touch but this is certainly new territory to him. This is a woman far above him. He had never had affiliations with somebody like this. In all honesty, he had never even spoken to a noble woman that outranked him for longer than a fleeting moment before he had met her. 

None of this would have happened if he hadn't threatened to kill the entirety of the Bracken clan during their meetings to make peace. 

A statement he still feels is justified given how those depraved heathens act. 

"Benji, would you please say anything," you plead.

"Hmm, can't." It comes out sounding as though he's swallowing his own bile, which is also what is happening. Oh god in heaven above, what had he done. 

You pick up the discarded tiara and per instinct he averts his eyes, as if his tongue hadn't just been stuck in your throat mere minutes ago. 

They were going to execute him for this. And you would be shunned.

Who even is ‘they’? Nobody knows. 

"Nobody can ever find out," he says.

You snort as you sort your ridiculous feathered monstrosity of a tiara out on your head. "I wasn't about to tell the town-crier, Benjicot, I am not slow."

No, that is right you are not. Why had you even kissed him? Or had he kissed you?

"My god, all those stories about you impaling people and yet you stand before a woman quivering."

He meets your eyes and it feels like a punch to his stomach, right where he is the most vulnerable, but he doesn't understand why he feels that way.

"I'm sorry."

You seem mad. "I will go to my chambers now. Will Ser Corrigan take the night's watch?"

Ser Corrigan? What an odd face to think about at this moment. A weathered, old man, such a harsh contrast to whom he is looking at now, with your soft edges and your softer lips and those eyes that are looking at him with much intensity. 

"I believe yes." 

You nod and lift your dress, decidedly making your way down the stairs again. 

He remains where he is, incapable of moving even as he listens to your steps get quieter. 

Why, why, why can he never ever think before he acts? 

His feet drag across the floor, heavy with the weight of his decisions as he follows you down into the heart of the castle. 

He catches up with you just as you're about to slam the door into his face. 

Per instinct his hand shoots out, just for it to be squashed. 

You gasp in horror, which is so tooth-achingly sweet that it makes his veins burn. 

Ser Corrigan is standing by the door and glances back and forth between the two of you.

"My god, Ser Benjicot," you scold and open the door a little wider. 

There's a twitch in your fingertips and he'd like to think that it's because you want to reach for him, even if it's only to see if he's injured.

Which he isn't. "It's fine, I will just bruise."

You pout, in that angry way you tend to, clearly not satisfied with his answer. 

"Step inside, I wish to have a word for you."

Ser Corriggan harrumphs. You both look at him confused. In fact you look a little bit like you are realising just now that he is also present for this exchange. 

"Princess, I am certain that the Lord of the house will soon arrive to question your early departure from dinner," he reminds you. 

Benji wishes that ugly toad would fall down a flight of stairs. The Cathcart toad. He doesn't have an issue with Corrigan. Except, perhaps, for the fact that he is here and talking when he feels the very deep-rooted need to explain himself to you. 

You sigh. "Would you please send him away when he comes? I am in no mood to be infantilized by an overgrown boy."

Ser Corrigan nods. but there is doubt etched into the lines of his face. 

Benji wants to say something to him but he has no time to, your fingers are forceful in the leather plates on his forearm. 

Tamsyn looks terrified. 

Benji is painfully aware that she is terrified of him. He misses Marion. Not that he knew her well, but she didn't look like she may hurl the moment he laid eyes on her, the way that this girl is.

"You are excused," you tell her and he's glad but yet there is an inkling of nervosity in his chest, scratching at the walls of his insides. 

You grab his hand, twist and turn it. He tries to not let it bother him. "It doesn't hurt," he says.

One thumb presses into the back of it. "Does this hurt?"

The wince is stopped in his throat but he can't hide his facial expression betrays him.

"Why in the world would you do that? The door cannot be locked anyway," you scold and drop his hand.

You cross the room, a glimmering green flurry of layers. 

He stands there, like some sort of unwanted fixture until you return from your vanity with a tiny vial and a long white piece of fabric, the function of which he cannot identify until it is ripped by your wrathful hand. 

"Is that your veil?", he asks. You don't answer.

Instead you grab his hand and leave a generous trail of your oil across his knuckles. "It's arnica, lavender and rosemary. This is supposed to be your good hand, you cannot ruin yourself so carelessly."

"You are being theatrical," he tells you and regrets it when your face goes sour like spoiled milk.

"Am I? Am I being dramatic? The only reason you are still here is your ability to kill quicker than you think." 

It hurts him where you want it to hurt him. "Why are you so enraged?"

With a poking finger you guide him to the bed. "Sit," you order. If he wasn't already on thin ice, he'd make a joke about how commandeering you can be.

It reminds him of when you had set his nose, except then you had cowered down to be at eye level with him. You don't do that now and with a lot less gentleness you wrap up his hand. 

Entirely unnecessary, but he feels he should let you or else you might actually break a finger of his. Or two. 

"You know what I meant." It becomes a question as it rolls off his tongue. 

"You didn't even say anything to be misunderstood, Lord Benjicot Blackwood." 

His name is an insult, by the way it drips with venom. 

"I must have, because why else would you be trying to strangle my wrist."

Your touch loosens in an instant. 

"Well, if you must know, I would have hoped for something more than watching you nearly throw up into the courtyard right after shoving your tongue into places where into places where it isn't supposed to be."

It is hard to not grin but social complexities aren't entirely lost on him. 

"My apologies."

"Not accepted," you mumble through gritted teeth and finish up the bandages. "Find some herbs for me and I might consider accepting."

He nods as he looks up at you, praying that you don't notice that you're still holding his hand.

Your face is stern, a look so unnatural on you, he wants to wipe it off. 

"I will find herbs," he promises and unthinkingly, maybe unknowingly, he isn't certain, his thumb swipes a circle across your knuckles.

Knuckles that have never hurt, knuckles free of scars, softer than his hands have ever been.

You wince and pull your hand out of his grasp and he thinks he's overstayed his welcome but you sit down next to him. 

"Benji."

"Witch."

You scoff. Fingertips begin twisting the rings on your fingers. 

"You know I cannot be careless about this. I cannot go forth and pretend it didn't happen."

He wraps his hand around yours again. "I know."

"Now you must tell me what your intentions are."

Benji halts and looks at you confused. You roll your eyes. 

"That is how one courts a lady," you explain further. 

"Ahh." Now he cannot hide the grin. "I cannot court you, you know this."

"You can court me in secret."

He chuckles, a low rumble in his chest. "My intentions are pure-hearted little witch."

"I highly doubt it. You are a rake. And also you are nicknamed 'Bloody Ben' which is just ridiculous if you ask me. And even further you constantly look like you've just buried a body, to the point that even Marion feared you." You throw your free hand up in exasperation. "Marion!"

His hand is beginning to hurt now that the adrenaline has ebbed down a bit. "I'm not so bad, you know. I didn't rat you out. I didn't even complain when you drooled onto my pants the other night."

Every single time he sees you flush his heart grows so far he swears his ribs are digging into it. 

Suddenly, he can't remember why he was so terrified earlier. 

"I promise I will try to not be careless. And I will attempt to look less...bloody?"

You shake your head. "I don't want you to change. You're alright as you are. I am more so concerned with your ability to handle secrecy."

"I am an excellent keeper of secrets."

"You don't wear a mask." 

He frowns at you. "What? Are we at a masquerade ball?"

"No, I mean you wear your emotions on your face. It's your greatest flaw. I don't know how this can be, I don't imagine you do this when you fight people."

Benji had never thought about this. But then again, there are many things he hadn't thought about before he met you. There's a lot of things he never thought about before today. 

There's a weird thing between the two of you now. It looms over you as you squeeze his hand and when you drop your head against his shoulder. He isn't courting you.

You are to be married. 

He's kissed you, feverishly, with all-consuming passion and he can't go back and he doesn't want to but he can't go ahead either. 

He's stuck. Once again. Though it is starting to feel less like he's stuck as your knight. 

Quite an easy duty, with a princess like this. 

There's a bang on the door and the two of you jolt apart in an instant. He misses your hair tickling his jaw instantly. 

"Your highness," Lord Cathcart sneers through the door. 

"Wanker," Benji mumbles beneath his breath. 

"What?" You yell out.

"Come out. I wish to speak with you."

You get up but Benji is faster once more, cracking open the door the tiniest bit. "The princess has retired for the night. You may speak with her on the morrow, my good Lord."

The slimy man pries his hands into the small opening. Fortunately he has no real strength compared to Benjicot, who stops the thing from moving as far as an inch. "You forget yourself, bloody Ben. This is my castle."

At this, Benji opens the door far enough to push himself through and Erik away. The fool stumbles. 

He can't say it's not amusing to him. 

"And these are the chambers of a woman. You have no right to them. Only the king does."

He pauses and does a dramatic look around the hallway. 

"And as far as I am able to tell he is not here."

Eric sputters and reddens. Not like you do, but in an angry entirely off-putting manner, that almost makes Benji want to giggle. 

"You rest assured Blackwood boy, your days as a knight are counted."

Benji shrugs. "The Brackens will surely be happy to have me as their neighbour once more."

Lord Cathcart scoffs. "You'll be lucky to get out alive." 

And as if he hadn't heard a word just spoken he heads to the door, where you are standing. 

You look a bit dishevelled and Benji is a bit proud but he can't think on it too long, as Erik towers over you with the last shred of authority he can conjure up. "You will be my wife. I offered to go about this smoothly, but you went ahead and disrespected me. You will be my wife and then you will have no choice but to obey. I shall see to that."

Benji doesn't need to say anything this time. Ser Corrigan steps between your figures and clears his throat. "The princess is not to be spoken to in such a manner. I think it best we all rest tonight and tomorrow there will be a new day to set things right."

Erik Cathcart is not one bit pleased but he realises he has not much choice and so he yields and scurries off like the little weasel that he is. 

The sight of him makes Benji want to ram his head into a wall. 

The king is a fool for sending his daughter into the arms of this man, for removing her from the castle, for running the entire kingdom into the ground like nobody in his ancestry before him had ever managed.

One could only hope that a fallen woman like Lady Cathcart is worth this much trouble. 

Hell, Benji wouldn't ever care about the societal standing of a woman but he has never let last night's fuck influence today's mood in his life.

He looks to you and then back at Ser Corrigan, who has become very hawk-eyed all the sudden. 

"I think it's for the best if I retire to my bed as well," he says and you nod in acceptance, though he can't help but notice the smidge of disappointment in your eyes. 

His feet guide him to the yard and then the stables where a young man bows to him in panic. 

He remembers that this is Bracken affiliated ground. God knows what cruel tales have been told of his fights. They all likely think him to be a man with no honour. 

Benji wants to and saddle a horse, desperate to clear his mind, when his gaze flickers out the door and falls on the church. 

He hesitates for a moment, debating his choices, when he decides that it can’t hurt to pay the confessional a visit. 

It’s a small church, not very decorated. The one at the capital has huge stained windows and your dresses tend to look quite…pretty in that lighting. That is also about the only thing he could fathom to like about being inside that place.

He’s never been religious, nowhere near as much as he likely should be. 

The thought of a god looming over his head has never made him anything but uncomfortable. 

He finds it unsettling that he might be judged by an omniscient creature. He also finds that religious people are often liars. 

And yet, there he stands, in the hallway, staring at the altar. 

He’s not even sure how confessions even work anymore. 

The priest floats into the room at the other end of it, the same one as from the dinner. He’s such an odd looking person. 

“Ah. I thought you might appear here, son,” he says, his voice echoing. 

Benji scrunches his nose a little. “Did you now, father?” He takes a few tentative steps forward. “I’d like to confess something.”

The priest nods and points towards the confessional. For a third time, he contemplates his choices but he decides that he’s no coward and takes a seat on his side of the booth. 

“In the name of the Father and of the Son and of the Holy Spirit. Amen.”

There’s a beat of silence until Benji remembers what to do. “Amen,” he says after clearing his throat. “Bless me Father for I have sinned, it has been…I don’t remember, since my last confession.” 

Here goes. What’s there to lose? Maybe his mind, Benji thinks to himself. 

“I have corrupted somebody.”

The priest doesn’t speak. 

Benji clears his throat again. This feels violently tense. He’s not sure it should be. 

“I suppose my sin is cardinal. Sin of Lust.”

The priest’s gown makes a ruffling sound. “Ah. It is a common one.”

“This one has pretty high stakes involved, I assure you, father.” He is fairly certain that being sarcastic with a clergyman in a confessional booth is not something you’re supposed to do. But what’s it matter? He doubts a quick trip here could save his soul anyway. 

“Perhaps I should go.”

“No. Stay. Tell me what troubles you, son. Only God can help through all.”

Benji sighs and rakes a hand through his hair. “Well, I have kissed a girl. She is promised to another and I have put her virtue at risk.”

He glances over, through the barred hole in the wall and distantly makes out the side profile of the priest. “Did you force her hand?”

“No. I have killed men but I do have some dignity.”

“Well, then the girl is also guilty of a sin. But it is normal. God has made us flawed creatures. It is the way our lives go. You made the good choice, coming here. Pray the litany of Mary Magdalene three times, son.” 

He doesn’t enjoy the fact that the priest keeps calling him son. That should be reserved for one person only. He wipes his hands clean on his pants, clean of nothing in particular. He gets up to leave.

“Wait,” the priest commands. “I must warn you.”

Benji frowns. “Of what?”

The priest’s voice drops to a whisper. “There is treachery afoot in the house of Cathcart. Other houses too. I do not know the extent of it.” The priest’s gown rustles. “You must worry. You must watch yourself.” There’s a pause. “And you must write to the heir to the throne.”

Benjicot stares at him now. “What?”

“You think the Lord to be a fool and in many ways he is. But he is part of a grand scheme. I cannot tell you more.”

Benji hurries out of the booth around to the other side. “What the fuck are you blabbing about?”

“This is a house of God,” the priest reprimands at his cursing. “And I will not. I mustn’t endanger you. You need to be alive and well to serve the princess, do you not?”

“Is that a threat, old man?” 

The priest shakes his head. “I am helping you. Write to the prince. Tell him to tread carefully.” 

He points towards the entry. “This betrothal is a curse.”

He has to suppress the urge to point the dagger in his pocket against the man’s neck and get more out of him. But he remembers you and your words. He does not know how to handle the web of conspiracies that are spun around the nobility. He does not know how to solve them without laying hands and even then that would rarely diminish the problem. 

Benji steps back and considers the priest. “Well, then. Three litanies.”

With that he hurries out of the church. On the morrow he shall tell you. For now, he falls into his bed, mind continuously spinning around your kiss. When sleep comes for him, you leave with his thoughts and enter again through his dreams. 

taglist:

@dancingbaek

@jhepolie 

@knight-of-flowerss

@majoso12

@rebeccawinters 

@poppyflower-22

@nixtape-foryou

@accidentpronedork

@xlittlefiend

@vqmpyrecult

@chainsawsangel

@esposadomd

@juhdoche 

[panpanghost]

part 7 of this, (is the name corrupted king taken?)

_"Monkey king!" MK yelled ruining outside to get The sage,

_"What's wrong kid? Where's Macaque?" Why was he in the house?

_"He's inside, he passed out." Wukong's heartbeat jumped as he rushed inside the house to see Macaque passed out on his bed. He looked worse than when he left him. How did he loose weight in just a few hours?

_"What happened?" Wukong asked, feeling anger like lava under his skin. Who did this to him?

_"We were talking and then the crown started hurting him then he passed out," he hurt him "I didn't know what to do," you told him to stay away and he didn't, "but he told me not to get you so I've been waiting for you." He wants to get the crown off, "I've put him in bed and checked for fever," He's helping him escape, "I'm so happy you came earlier than you said..." He wants to take him away, forever! Get rid of the kid before he takes him away!

_"I told you to stay outside kid! why didn't you listen?!"

_"I-I'm sorry.. I just wanted to talk to him-"

_"And look what you've done!" Wukong caught the look on MK's face and it made something in his heart twist, but it wasn't enough to shake away his anger

*sigh* "Go home kid, I'll take care of him."

_"I can help-"

_"NO. You've done enough. Just go home."

_"..." MK tried to lift his head up but he couldn't, he just took a deep breath before heading outside, "Let me know if you need anything."

Wukong ignored MK leaving and focused on Macaque, he layed beside him and gently hugged him close to his chest.

What have I done, I'm sorry my moon, I shouldn't have left you, I'll never leave your side again.

Wukong kissed his head and inhaled deeply, taking in every drop of Macaque's scent. It managed to soothe him a little as he started giving Macaque his magic hoping it'll slow down the crown until he can stop it for good.

Do it. He's unconscious now. He wouldn't feel a thing.

The idea sparkled in the King's head. It's true. He was waiting for a proper time to bring it up but now is the perfect time.

Normally, Wukong wouldn't be able to give Macaque his eye or any other organ considering their magic is incompatible. Macaque's body would simply reject anything with his magic in it.

But now, that won't happen, the crown would simply absorb Wukong's magic and the eye would become a normal organ. He just needs to use some extra magic and make sure it heals into Macaque before the crown absorbs all his healing magic.

Yes. It could work. He won't feel a thing now. It won't hurt him.

Wukong slowly backed up from his moon and put his fingers on his eye. And just like that he started shoving his fingers around his eye.

He was in so much pain there was a moment where he wanted to stop but one though at the back of his head kept him going.

This is nothing compared to the pain you put him in, you deserve this, and he deserves better.

After a few minutes, Wukong held his eye in his hand, the one he so desperately need to give, he looked at it for a moment, how long did he dream of this moment, of a miracle, of one desperate apology.

He looked into his moon, uncomfortable and trying to hold on to life. Wukong didn't waste anymore time. It's now or never.

He got his fingers closer to his moon's face, he hesitated but immediately pushed that thought away,

_"I'm sorry my love." he whispered, and with a quick swift, he got the grey eye out. The one I blinded.

Macaque only gave a few groans of discomfort, but didn't get up. He didn't wake up. He can't feel it.

The fact that Macaque wasn't up eased the pain in Wukong's heart, he doesn't know what he would've done if his moon woke up crying and screaming.

Wukong carefully started putting his eye in Macaque's place, praying with every breath that this works. And just as he finished putting it inside, he placed his hand on the eye and took a deep breath.

This is the hard part, this is the part that would hurt the most.

He held his moon's head close to his chest and let a river of healing magic into him, then stopped when the eye was completely secured, at the same second he felt his love wake up, and before he knew it, his moon was up and screaming in pain,

_"PLEASE!! STOP!! IT HURTS!! PLEASE!" Wukong heard these begging screams as Macaque desperately tried to get away, his claws ripping through the yellow clothes on Wukong's body but not his skin, the crown had sucked out his energy and left him as weak as a baby that would be eaten by the wild if left alone.

It only took a minute before the crown finished its job and turned Wukong's eye, now Macaque's, into a normal one, it lost its magic and shifted back to how it originally was when he was born.

That minute felt like a decade for Wukong, in his head he kept apologising, but this time he didn't feel regret, he was actually happy it's finally over.

There was no way to know if it worked before his moon woke up. So for now, all he can do is take care of him until he wakes up. He'll give him a shower to clean up the blood, the sight of it on his love is making his stomach twist and his heart pinch. He also needs to keep giving his magic to the crown so it would leave his moon's alone.

I'll take care of you, my king.

(This was painful to write but I made it.)

[idiopathicsmile]

i am absolutely not making a new years' resolution to lift weights more but at the same time i guess there is no harm in just periodically dipping in to check: have we as a society yet solved what is in my mind the greatest problem with strength training, which is that it is incredibly boring? like, i know it is good for you. my dad is essentially chris traeger from parks and rec; believe me, i am very aware it is good for you. but god does my entire consciousness rebel at the notion of spending an entire half an hour just counting sets or whatever, multiple times a week, for the rest of my life.

[peterbwatsonparker]

spider-man is so funny because his upper bound of strength is however much he needs to hold out. he needs to throw cars around? hes got it. he needs to land a (small) plane because his aunt is on it? he's got it. he need to act as a support beam for the daily bugle so it doesn't collapse? somehow he's also got it.

someone asks him how much is his actual max bench press and he just goes ¯\_(ツ)_/¯

[becasbelt]

i think in terms of pacing and letting the show breathe a little more, arcane would have benefited from another season. however. for the sake of my heart, nerves, and mental stability i think i'm grateful they're leaving it at two lmao. i sincerely don't know if i would have survived another season getting my shit rocked like this.

[tucsonhorse]

We do! We need big sized playgrounds for adults to run and jump and goof around in!

I personally really enjoy lifting weights, when I pick up big heavy things I get a high like a runners high (which has never been something I actually got), but I have no judgement for other people not wanting to.

And what humans really need is just a lot of movement, no matter whether that's running, jumping, lifting, whatever. And playgrounds are perfect for that! Adults need more play, it's good for humans mentally as well as physically.

[sataninsparkles]

I don't understand why people seem to dislike "Girl Dinner" and "Girl Math" so much.

Like, it's not about girls being unable to take care of themselves or make smart financial decisions. Girl Math is literally just about how under the capitalism small purchases that add up to a large number don't feel as expensive as one large purchase. It's the same phenomenon as being willing to pay $10 for a product but not $8 + $2 shipping. Or spending cash feeling different from spending on a credit card.

Or like why a bunch of people just started talking about how being a bimbo is just quirky sexism.

Yes, women can achieve great things, and they can be smart. We all support women's rights. But we gotta support women's wrongs as well.

After being told that you have to be smart and strong and do everything a man can do or you're a bad feminist and you're setting the movement back fifty years, the ability to just be dumb and carefree feels like taking off a bra.

Yes, women can be smart. But they can be dumb too. We can be weak and dumb and that doesn't make us "bad feminists" or "quirky sexists". It makes us human. And shaming women for their freedom to enjoy their life however they want is counterproductive. Men get to be as dumb as they want without shame, so why is it that when women are the ones who are dumb, you get offended and try to shame them into acting the way you want them to?

We can't have equality until you guys stop shaming women for every little thing they do. We can't have equality if we don't support women's wrongs.

[uwudonoodle]

My apologies to anyone at the gym who's noticed me wearing the same workout clothes 3 days in a row. They don't make many affordable workout clothes for short fat girls, and I also don't have my own washer and dryer. I'm just doing my best to maintain my body.

[unproduciblesmackdown]

winnie & bagel

[lvebug]

btw andie was able to pass the firefighter physical exam because tommy got her really into sports so he wouldn't have to interrupt his own gym routine so as a teenager and young adult andie spends all her free time playing pickup games of baseball and basketball with fully grown adult firefighters

[beast-of-gluttony]

Why can't I just get paid to sit around and get fat? Why do I gotta go outside and work 😭 It's not fair!