#armor for protesters

[victusinveritas]

[queerbeverage]

It takes a great many courage to be kind. To make yourself soft. To start having emotions again, open the floodgates, open the bottles you kept them in all this time.

Violence is easy. Throwing a punch is easy. It's hard to be gentle. To be empathetic, to yourself first and to others.

I will never accept calling someone weak for being emotional, or expressing their deepest desires, giving words to their feelings. To me, that is the most courageous someone can be.

It came only after allowing myself to shed pieces of that armor, that hard shell i built in the face of great cruelty and rejection and violence, that i began to finally get to know myself. I still have to peel off pieces, still have some sticking on my skin that can't be removed for now, because they're stuck so deep in the skin. It's a process, but it is so worth it. You'll find yourself in that shell, maybe miserable and small and malnourished, but *you* nonetheless. You can always grow from there, trust me. It's hard and it sucks so bad but it's so so god damn fucking worth it to let go and venture out and meet friends and make memories as yourself, not as someone you are pretending to be.

Be kind to yourself. i love you.

[haledamage]

OKAY TROPES. (which have all flown out of my head now, of course)

Enemies to Lovers

Illness/Injury Inspired Confession of Feelings

Knight in Sour Armor

Enemies to Lovers

overall, I think a solid B! this is one of my all-time favorites when it's done right! also one of my favorites to write myself (Qora/Arcann, Marii/Tragen, Warden/Loghain), and I love sub-tropes like Rivals to Lovers and Enemies to Reluctant Allies (to Lovers) too :3 something-something someone seeing the darkest and worst parts of you and wanting you anyway, something-something baring your throat and trusting them not to rip it out, something-something vulnerability and sharing secrets with the person most able to destroy you with them however, when it's done badly, it's the wooooorst. if they don't respect each other as nemeses (reluctantly or otherwise), or there's a really gross power imbalance, it just makes my skin crawl 😬 if they're not equals then what! is the point!

Illness/Injury Inspired Confession of Feelings

A bonus points if the confession is made while delirious/barely conscious and they have some Miscommunication Angst about it for a while before figuring it out. like person A thinks B was too out of it to actually mean it/thought they were talking to someone else/doesn't remember saying it, and B thinks A isn't mentioning it because they don't feel the same and are trying to be nice about it. and then they talk it out and smooch about it or the silly version where B confesses to person C thinking they're A and now C has to plan Shenanigans to get A and B together also bonus points for "I'm dying and just want you to know how I feel before it's too late" and then they don't die and now the feelings are just. out there. and they have to live with that (and then they talk it out and smooch about it)

Knight in Sour Armor

A+++, not possible to put enough plusses I swear all of my favorite characters fall into this trope. Kurt, Casavir, Lann, Rupert Giles, Eliot Spencer, Orym, The Doctor (especially Nine imo), the list goes on and on it's also a trope that I didn't realize until literally just now that I assign to so many of my OCs. Etain, Vesiya, and Cait Cousland being the most so, but also Qora, Marii, Kai... Kira's really starting to lean into this too 🤔

[unabashedqueenfury]

Reign 2013-17/02-19

Torrance Coombs as Sebastien de Poitiers

[techmomma]

Idea for protestors: look into fencing gear. At least chest guards. You can get some cheap ones at walmart for about $25. You can easily put them on under your clothing and they'll protect you from a LOT of impacts, especially from sticks, rods, and cudgels (since they're designed to take direct impacts from the end of a metal sword, the second fastest object at the Olympics behind the bullet of a rifle). It's basically a thin cuirass you can slip on under your shirt and will still provide you with a lot of mobility.

I have not tested this idea myself, I just remember my time as a fencer and what an enormous help they were in preventing serious injury. Same goes for the helmet, but those are much more expensive (and will not protect from liquids, though goggles could help this).

Stay safe, and fuck the pigs.

[kamalkafir-blog]

Venezuela Upgrades Old Tanks and Armored Vehicles to Boost

Venezuela’s Army has finished fixing and upgrading dozens of old tanks and armored vehicles, according to the country’s Ministry of Defense. This work helps the Army keep its equipment working well, even though it faces money problems and cannot easily buy new vehicles. The Army first bought 78 Scorpion 90 tanks from a British company in 1989. These tanks are small, light, and fast, with a main…

[die-mitri]

Pretty sure the op of the Hamilton art is a terf and zionist

I looked at their blog and they definitely have some weird takes. I didn't scroll down super far but from what I could see, they're just very lukewarm about being pro-palestine. Which is super lame but not a crime.

As for the terf claim, I didn't really see anything abt that other than their bio. I know I "should" care, being trans and all but I tend not to vex myself over people whose opinions deny my personhood.

Idk what you expect me to do about it tho? Deleting my reblog doesn't help anyone, it's not like I'm giving them money, the post isn't about those things, etc. I hate both terfs and zionists to be sure but it's a lot more helpful to reblog Palestinian funds and such rather than try to maintain moral purity in regards to random reblogs of silly, non political art.

I'm not particularly concerned with making sure every single thing I reblog was originally posted by someone with all the "right" views on everything. It's a fruitless endeavor and it's completely useless to folks that need actual help :/

I understand if you're worried about whistleblowing but taking one look at my blog, it's fairly evident that I'm both pro-palestine and very transgender. So like. Breathe. If you're gonna give info but not your opinion on what I should do w the info, then like... What's the point?

While I disagree with their takes on the best way to protest and several other things, I'm certainly not one to throw the baby out w the bathwater and they do make a lovely point w this post... I feel it's applicable here.

[robertreich]

Trump signed a memo late yesterday ordering 2,000 members of the National Guard to be deployed in Los Angeles County after federal immigration agents in riot gear squared off with hundreds of protesters for a second consecutive day. Why is he doing it, and why now? Because Trump can’t stand to be humiliated — as he has been in the last two weeks. So what does Trump do when he’s humiliated? He deflects public attention. Like any bully, he tries to find another way to display his power — especially over people whom he doesn’t consider “his” people. He has despised California since the 2016 election when the state overwhelmingly voted against him. And what better Ground Zero for him to try out his police state than Los Angeles — a city teaming with immigrants, with Hollywood celebrities who demonize him, and wealthy moguls who despise him? Trump wants to escalate tensions. He wants protestors to respond with violence. Please do not give him this. Don’t fall into his trap. We cannot be silent in the face of Trump’s dictatorial move. But we must not succumb to violence. What is needed is peaceful civil disobedience. Americans locking arms to protect those who need protection. Americans sitting in the way of armored cars. Americans singing and chanting in the face of the Americans whom Trump is drafting into his handmade civil war. Americans who do not attempt to strike back, but who do what many of us did during the Civil Rights and anti-Vietnam War movements — peacefully but unambiguously reject tyranny. A humiliated Trump is the most dangerous Trump. But he will overreach. He already has. And this overreach will ultimately be his undoing. As long as we keep our heads. May we look back on this hellish time and feel proud of what we did. Be strong. Be safe. Hug your loved ones.

[succubusvalentine]

Knight!Simon Riley with a bratty princess reader. CW : Small mentions of violence, fingering, unprotected sex, hate sex(?), Edging, Begging.

Faulds - a piece of plate armor worn below a breastplate to protect the waist and hips.

Cigarettes - 'poor mans smokes', or cigarillos, were some of the first cigarettes made of discarded cigar butts (circa sixteenth century).

Knightage - list of knights.

⋅•⋅⊰∙∘☽༓☾∘∙⊱⋅•⋅

Simon Riley swore his life to the crown.

He had grown up in a world of violence, where problems were solved with fists, not words. By age twelve, Simons father had broken his nose four times. Leaving a scar and causing his nose to crook at an awkward angle.

He'd won the kingdom multiple battles, even a war in his early days.

Simon Riley was held in a high regard within the knightage, known for his ruthlessness and brutality in the world of war. Simon had quickly become a commander due to his history and loyalty to the crown.

So imagine his surprise when his Grand Cross, Sir John Price, informed him that he would be looking after you, the princess.

Simon protested heavily. He understood that you had recently had an assassination attempt against you, but he did not want to deal with you.

He'd heard the murmurs. That you were impossible to deal with. that you were an absolute brat. Believing you deserved anything and everything due to your birth status.

But he knew he couldn't go against the word of the Grand Cross.

Simons first day with you was hell on Earth. You were insufferable to be around. Always demanding things from Simon and making him carry things around the castle for you.

And after being your personal guard - and assistant - for over four months, he utterly despised you.

You'd get this whiny tone about you. Complain about doing anything and everything. This pouty look. By the Gods, Simon hated it all.

It all came to a head when you and Simon were at the winter solstice ball. You'd been annoying him all night, and when you said that you wanted another one of the knights to replace him? You were in for it.

Simon dragged you from the ballroom, not even making it to your chambers, but instead the empty library.

You'd never seen him so angry. The way he roared at you, his hot breath against your face.

Then you were spun and bent over a lounge chair. Your gown being lifted and panties being ripped off by Simons rough fingers. You don't see him tug off his gauntlet.

"What are you doing you big oaf-ah!" You gasped, two thick fingers filling you and pressing downwards. Causing your hips to jolt and press back against the pleasure.

It felt far better than anything you'd felt before. Biting your bottom lip in an attempt to silence your moans.

Simon had you hurtling towards the edge of bliss, but right as you began to tip over, he pulled his fingers out.

"What the fuck?!" You shouted in that familiar bratty voice that was honestly turning Simon on. Not annoying him like usual.

"You thought you'd come with the attitude you've been giving me Princess?" Simon growled, almost tearing the leather straps on his armour as he pulled off his faulds. Keeping the rest of his armour in tact.

Simon pulled his thick ruddy cock from his drawls, slicking himself up using the mess between your thighs and the remnants of it left on his fingers and palm.

He then pushed himself inside of you. Your hot cunt tightening as he bottomed out.

The moment he began thrusting, Your head fell forward as a moan tore from your throat. It felt incredible. Simon kept a good rhythm, quickly tilting your hips so that he would brush against your g spot with every thrust.

Your eyes rolled back as you began to tip over that edge, only for Simon to pull you back from it by slowing down to an excruciatingly slow pace.

You were about to protest, when Simon spoke. "Apologise."

"What?!"

"Apologise Princess, for acting like a fucking brat these past few months. If you do good enough, I might let you come" Simon growled.

You rolled your eyes, Clenching your fists for a moment. Believing Simon would give you what you wanted. You were the Princess, daughter of the crown he swore to protect and serve. Surely he would just give you what you wanted.

But no, Simon kept his snail like pace.

"Please" you murmur weakly.

"What was that?"

"I said please! 'm sorry for being a brat, okay?!" you almost shout, a small scream of pleasure coming from you as Simon gripped your hips tightly and began thrusting at that heavenly pace once more.

"Why are you such a brat, hm?"

"Because!" you whine, cheeks flushing in embarrassment. Simon beginning to slow his hips again. "Because I wanted your attention!" You gasp, squealing as Simon started to move faster and now rub your clit at the same time.

"Gonna come! Gonna come gonna come gonna come!" You cry out, Arching your back as you came, legs shaking.

Not long after, you felt Simon pull out and finish on your thighs and ass. Claiming you.

You felt like jello as Simon moved you to lie on the cool tile in front of the fireplace, the two of you out of breath.

"This isn't going to stop me from being a brat, you know" you murmured stubbornly, Simon chuckling as he pulled out a cigarette. Lighting it.

"Wasn't betting on it, Princess"

Not like he wanted you to stop, anyway.

⛧°. ⋆𓌹♰𓌺⋆. °⛧

Oh, oh, oh, Val did her research. Val made sure stuff is mostly historically accurate. VAL IS THE COOLEST.

(I'm Val if you couldn't tell).

[victusinveritas]

Nothing says fuck you quite like a sugarloaf helmet that looks Buhurt-rated and some pauldrons. Slap a slim mask under that and some ear muffs for LRADs and you'll be the Ned Kelly of your local protest. Keep in mind what got Ned was a lack of appropriate hip/leg protection, so make sure to see to that.

Hypothetically, of course, because wearing anything other than a shirt with your name and home address on it to a protest would be wrong, helmet wise, you could do worse than a reproduction French Adrian M15 according to some fairly legit nerds I know. Like any helmet, it does make you stand out a bit more unless everyone is wearing the same thing, but...it does protect your noggin. But...you've also got to probably wait for one to ship from somewhere in France or Michigan or somewhere. Anything is better than nothing, so a bike helmet, sure, great. Use what you have not what is perfect.

DO NOT use swimming goggles as a replacement for safety goggles. Swimming goggles can shatter differently and will just blind you worse or completely. Get safety goggles, don't be like Kelly, she didn't wear her goggles and now she doesn't need them.

Also, riot shields...are great against people without weapons, especially projectile weapons. If you are going to use a shield, keep in mind that you will be going up against things that can kill you (and might be designed to if lethal munitions are used), so you want something tough. Metal with a wood backing can be good but heavy. If you have the money and time (waiting two weeks for protests that are happening tomorrow isn't...going to help, so, yeah, good on you for planning ahead, now survive until you get the ideal thing, get a chunk of wood, slap some metal on it, us a trashcan lid backed up with wood, whatever you've got), get an actual fancy round metal shield with a nice strap and handle [linked to what that might look lie], probably around 21 inches at least if not a full on legionary shield kind of thing (big and square). Or things like this, straight Buhurt beauties. Get a bunch of those and you can just smack on through riot shields but...figure out what comes next when you do that sort of thing, because unless you are practicing close order shield drill (good job if you are) keeping shields facing one way will be difficult enough, keeping some deliberately facing different ways is...going to be harder. So, you probably want to use shields to hold a line rather than break through a line of riot cops. I got distracted. You can make a pretty good shield from a street sign (try not to take stop signs when you can).

Look at these beautiful shields from Euromaidan. Gorgeous. Rubber bullets will bounce right off that.

Use a fucking dumpster as a shield. Great. It'll be a bitch to move but you can also light it on fire (not that you would do anything to endanger the uniforms of those you are protesting against by risking smoke) and...well, then it won't be as good as a shield for that long (at least not one you want to push without gloves or poles) because it will be hot, but it will be On Fire. And that's always neat.

It would be a damn shame if you brought brush axes/ditch bank blades to gatherings if you want to bring something sharp at all.

[buckybarnes82]

We don’t argue!

Summary: Bucky overhears a conversation that makes him worried about your relationship. He acts out of emotion instead of logic.

“I’m just saying, if there are no fights, there is no romance! It’s just boring!” Yelena spoke firmly as she, Ava, and Walker sat in the back of the armored van.

Buckys ears perked up, he wasn’t trying to be nosy, not necessarily. However, that was the only conversation to be heard and now he was helplessly tuned in.

“What do you mean? I feel like it’s healthy not to argue! Not everything in life should be a struggle!” Ava rebutted, a smug smirk on her face.

“There needs to be a balance though, fire and ice!” Walker chimed in and Yelena nodded in agreement.

Bucky smiled to himself, thinking deeply about his relationship with you. The two of you had never argued, never bickered really. There were some slight side comments made here and there but it was never bigger than that.

“I feel like if you never argue you’re too comfortable! Where is the spice? Where is the passion?” Yelena clutched her chest dramatically making both Ava and Walker laugh loudly.

Bucky felt different after hearing that, shifting around in the driver's seat. He always felt safer being the one to drive because it meant he was the one in control. Plus, Alexei was chaotic and his driving made everyone else car-sick.

Alexei was sitting beside Bucky in the passenger seat, munching on a bag of chili-coated peanuts. He eyed Bucky from his peripheral vision, noticing he was now chewing nervously on his bottom lip. “Want snack? You hungry?” He shook the bag of peanuts toward Bucky.

“No, I’m fine,” he raised his fingers in protest against the steering wheel, letting out an annoyed sigh as he heard the conversation in the back continuing. Alexei shrugged and went back to looking out the window. He was ready to call it a night as his eyelids felt heavier.

When they got to the watchtower, Bucky was unloading the van with Yelena, and the rest of the team was upstairs making dinner. The two of them grabbed all of the sleeping bags and extra items they used for their weekend mission when Yelena felt Bucky's brooding hit an all-time high.

“Okay, big guy! What is the matter?” Yelena stood with her hand on her hip as Bucky pouted around her. “You look like someone flushed your fish.”

“Flushed my…? What? Nothing's wrong.” He rolled his eyes, throwing a bulky backpack over his shoulder.

“You started to drive like Alexei at the end there. We got home 20 minutes before the navigation system said, You’re not fooling me.” She slammed the back of the armored van shut and started to walk away when Bucky stopped in his tracks.

“Y/N and I just never really argue and now I’m worried.” He mumbled as Yelena kept walking, she heard him but had no plans of slowing down.

“Never?” She asked incredulously.

“Nope, never.” Bucky followed her as they took the elevator back to their floor, he stared at his scuffed boots as he waited for her to respond.

“Well, you haven’t exactly had an easy go at things. Maybe she is peacekeeping, and that’s not always a bad thing.” Yelena felt guilty for her words back in the van, knowing Bucky was going to harp on them for the next few days if not, weeks.

“But you said….” Bucky wasn’t able to finish before Yelena cut him off.

“I was just talking to pass time! Don’t take it so seriously! Y/N is nice girl!” Yelena shrugged before they went their separate ways and Bucky retreated to his bedroom, deciding to skip dinner tonight and go straight to bed instead.

————————

The next morning Bucky couldn’t shake the conversation that Yelena and he had and decided that he was going to try and start an argument with you. He knew it was silly, and that he’d come to regret it but he was desperate to know if you refrained from expressing your feelings to keep him comfortable.

Bucky picked his phone up from his nightstand, it was charging overnight and he was eager to hear your voice even if he was in his head at the moment. He called you, letting out a heavy sigh as the phone rang.

“Hey, handsome! I’m so glad you’re finally home. I missed you!” Your voice was soft, cheery, and everything he needed right now. He was however laser-focused on starting a fight and didn’t want to waste any time trying.

“Hey! Why didn’t you call me last night? I had sent you a message when we got back.” He tried his hardest to sound frustrated, straining his voice to sound raspier than usual.

“Oh! I assumed you wanted your sleep! You usually come home, eat, and sleep so I didn’t want to throw off your schedule, I’m sorry baby!” Your voice was caring, kind, and gentle as always. You were also 100% right, and he knew it.

“Right, right” he mumbled, trying to think of something additional to say to change the trajectory of the conversation.

“Are you alright?” You knew by the sound of his voice that he had something on his mind.

“No, I’m really….” He couldn’t believe he was doing this, Was he an overly emotional teenage girl? His emotions were suddenly heightened, and his head was spinning. “I’m actually really upset that you didn’t check in with me, it made me feel like you weren’t the least bit concerned.”

“Bucky? Baby? I’m always concerned about you! Where is this coming from?” He could hear the sudden tremble in your voice, making his stomach drop with guilt.

“Lately I just don’t feel so sure” he lied, he knew he was lying but he couldn’t stop himself, he wanted you to fight back, say something that would flip this conversation on its ass but instead you just started to profusely apologize.

“I’m so sorry honey! I never meant to make you feel like that. I always care, I love you. So much!” You sniffled and that’s when he knew he couldn’t continue the charade.

“Well, I gotta go.” he hung up the phone, turning it off before throwing it haphazardly on his bed and throwing his head back into his pillows in frustration.

Twenty minutes later he heard a sudden knock on his bedroom door, and outside of it stood a very irritated Yelena Belova.

“Barnes, open up or I’ll knock this damn door down!”

Bucky groaned as he got out of bed, unlocking his door and stepping aside to let Yelena in. He assumed she must have heard everything that had just gone on, and wanted to yell at him for it.

“Now, why in the hell would you do that?” She stood with her hand on her hip as Bucky sat back down on his bed. “Your girlfriend has been texting me nonstop for the last fifteen minutes asking me if something happened to you.” She scrolled through the numerous texts you had sent her for proof “I knew the conversation had gotten into your pea-sized brain but you really tried to start an argument with her?”

“What conversation?” Your voice trembled as both Bucky and Yelena hadn’t heard you enter the room. Bob stood beside you for a moment before going to hide in the corner in his favorite beanbag chair.

You had crumbs of mascara littered across your cheeks, your eyes were red like they had been freshly washed with soap and Bucky felt an immediate wave of guilt wash over him.

“Doll? Shouldn’t you be at work?” He wasn’t sure why he said that maybe it was a startled reaction to seeing you but Yelena turned to him “You wanted a fight, I think you’re going to get one.” She audibly scoffed as she stepped out of his room, shaking her head obviously as she stepped out of your way.

“That’s all you’re going to say to me? After you accused me of not caring about you?” You had the attention of all of his teammates, they had stopped in their tracks as they watched the dramatic sight unfold around them.

Bucky stepped toward you, he felt like the world’s worst person right now and he wanted to fix it immediately but as soon as he stepped toward you, you stepped back and further away.

“What is Yelena talking about? What conversation Bucky?” You had your arms folded, and now your sadness flickered to anger and Bucky could feel the heat radiating off of you.

“I don’t know…” he quietly mumbled as he looked around at his teammates who were all tuned into the drama.

You turned to Ava, Yelena, and Walker who were whispering to one another. “What the fuck is going on? Someone speak! Now!”

None of the team had ever seen you upset, for as long as you’d been around them they had known you to be shy, and reserved. Alexei laughed to himself knowing never to make a woman especially a woman who loves you angry, and Bucky had really done it now.

“Yelena said that people in relationships who never argue are boring, and I guess that got into his head. Which might I add is pretty easy to do, am I right?” Walker laughed obnoxiously, trying to ease the tension in the room.

“Uncalled for” you scoffed and rolled your eyes. “I’m mad at him right now but that was still a low blow even for you.”

Yelena and Ava mirrored wide-eyed expressions at one another as Walker took that as a sign to be quiet.

Bucky fought back a smile knowing how much Walker got under your skin, and even if you were pissed at him right now you’d still defend him. “Please? Come into my room and we can talk.” His eyes were pleading, and you knew he hated every second of this very emotional outburst happening in front of everyone.

You followed him into his room, sitting on his bed as he paced in front of you.

“Talk” your tone was rough, still obviously frustrated.

“Yelena suggested that maybe we didn’t argue because you were trying to peace keep, and it made me feel like maybe when things bother you, you don’t want to tell me. Maybe you think I can’t handle it? I just wanted to push the boundaries today and I shouldn’t have.” He had run his hand through his hair about ten times just getting all of that out to you, and now he was standing still like a statue waiting for you to respond.

“You’re right, you shouldn’t have. We don’t argue because you’ve never upset me until today. I thought we were good at communicating and then you said you felt like I didn’t care. Bucky, if anything I care too much!” Your voice cracked and Bucky felt like his heart did too.

“I’m sorry for what I said, honey. I swear I didn’t mean it. I know you care about me, and I never question that. I guess I just didn’t want you to think what we have is boring or think you couldn’t talk to me.” He sat down beside you, reaching for your hand cautiously.

You let out a chuckle, a small breathy one but Bucky still heard it. You grabbed his hand, setting it on your lap as your fingers intertwined. “You think, that I would ever consider you or our relationship as boring? I mean look where we are right now.”

“I mean, I don’t know. I don’t know why I let it bother me so much.” He nervously chuckled, feeling you ease up beside him. “I love you and I’m sorry for that, it was immature and I should’ve just talked to you. I never meant to make you cry, and I’m sorry for that too.”

You leaned over, kissing his cheek softly. “I love you too, and yeah next time just talk to me instead of being a teenage girl about it.” He knew you were teasing but his cheeks still grew warm with embarrassment.

“For what it’s worth, can I say something?” He was holding back a laugh, and you could tell by the way his lips were tightly pressed together.

“Just say it” you smiled knowing what was coming next just by the way he was looking at you.

“You’re sexy when you’re mad. It was doing something to me.” He knew that would make you smile, but wasn’t necessarily a lie either.

“You like that I put Walker in his place, don’t you?”

“Yeah, yeah I did” Bucky chuckled before leaning over taking your face in his cupped hands to passionately kiss your lips like a man starved.

“Good because if he keeps making jokes like that I’m going to put poison ivy in his suit” you mumbled between kisses.

“Ooooh- promise?” Bucky chuckled as the two of you flopped down on his bed to continue kissing, your legs wrapped around his.

[drewsephrry]

Love Island - Episode 12: After Midnight

pairings: rafe cameron x fem!redaer

words: 4.9k

warnings: cuss words, sexual innuendos

series masterlist

As the islanders begin splitting off after the results, Topper lingers at the firepit. Alyssa is still sitting there, arms crossed, lips tight, clearly fuming.

Topper strolls over and drops down beside her, draping an arm around her shoulders like nothing’s wrong. She instantly shrugs it off.

“What’s up, babe?” He asks, casual as ever.

“You’re actually asking me that?” She turns slowly, eyebrows raised.

“This about the rating?” He sighs, letting his arm fall away.

“No shit it’s about the rating.” She snaps. “Your heart rate went up the most for Sarah? Are you kidding me?”

“It’s not that serious.” He shrugs.

“It is serious, Topper.” She says, trying to keep her voice steady. “You were literally coupled up with her and now your heart's racing the most for her?”

“Oh my God, grow up.” He groans, rolling his eyes.

“Grow up?” Her mouth drops open. “You’re unbelievable. You’re actually a piece of shit.”

“Excuse me?” He turns to face her fully now.

“You heard me.” Her arms stay crossed, like armor.

“Well, your heart didn’t go up for me either.” He snaps. “But you don’t see me throwing a tantrum or calling you names.”

“My heart didn’t spike for Ryan!” She protests. “It wasn’t like that!”

“The monitor doesn’t lie, Aly.” He says, shaking his head.

“It glitched or something, I don’t know.” She mutters. “I didn’t feel anything.”

“Okay, cool. I believe you. But I also don’t care if yours went up for me or not. So maybe calm down?”

She lets out a cold laugh and pushes herself to her feet.

“Whatever.” She mutters, walking off without another look.

Meanwhile, Rafe trails behind Y/N like a lost puppy as she walks into the kitchen, grabbing a bag of chips. She hops onto one of the stools, legs crossed, the hem of her skirt rising just slightly. Before she can open the bag, his chin settles on her shoulder and his arms snake around her waist, pulling her back against his chest like it’s instinct.

“Someone’s feeling clingy.” She teases, her voice soft but laced with amusement. He presses a slow kiss to her cheek. 

“Can’t help it. You look…” He exhales. “Dangerous.”

“You like my outfit?” She turns her head just enough to meet his eyes, a smirk tugging at her lips.

“I fucking love it.” He says without hesitation, his gaze roaming, hungrily, before he leans closer to her ear. “And I think you should keep it.”

Her brows lift slightly in surprise before she nods, matching his tone. 

“Yeah. Yeah…for research purposes.” She says. He grins and so does she, laughter slipping out between them as their tension melts into something warm. They open the chips and start snacking, watching the villa from their little bubble while couples curl up together across the yard.

“Okay, be honest, who was your favorite?” She asks.

“You-” “Besides me.” She interrupts him.

He whips his head toward her, faux-offended. 

“No one.”

“Oh, come on.” She nudges him. “You had to enjoy at least someone’s performance.”

“What about you?” He asks, suddenly tense. His arms tighten just slightly around her.

She hesitates. 

“I…I liked JJ’s.” She nods.

“What’d he do?” Rafe asks, his eyes narrowing. He’s relieved she didn’t say Ryan’s name, but also confused because he didn’t catch JJ’s performance.

“Just…some kisses. On my neck. But it was…nice.”

Rafe doesn’t respond right away. Instead, he leans in closer, brushing her hair away and pressing a lingering kiss to her neck. Then another. And then, he nips gently at the skin.

“Like this?” He murmurs.

“Ra-Ray…” Her breath catches.

He stills. 

“What was that?” He asks, the corner of his mouth lifting. “What’d you call me?”

“Ray.” She breathes out, a little laugh escaping. “I don’t know. It’s dumb.”

He shakes his head slowly, lips brushing just behind her ear. 

“I like it.” He says, voice lower now, raspier.

“Yeah?” She grins. “What about 'Rafey'?” She asks, teasingly.

He chuckles against her skin. 

“I like whatever you call me.” He replies. His mouth moves down to her shoulder, kissing her bare skin as her eyes flutter shut. Her hand finds his on her waist and squeezes it.

“So unfair we’re not sharing a bed tonight.” She whispers.

“Oh yeah?” He pulls back slightly, his grin full of mischief. “What would we be doing if we were?”

She rolls her eyes, laughing and gives him a playful shove. He laughs with her, but then grips her stool, turning her to face him fully. One hand anchors on her waist, the other gently plays with the lace hem of her skirt.

“So…” He starts carefully, his voice soft. “Did this challenge help? With the whole…Ryan thing?”

“Yeah. I think it did.” She exhales while Rafe watches her closely.

“Ryan’s a charming guy. And his performance was…good.” She admits. “But you were unforgettable.”

That gets a smile from him. 

“I was?” He says, brows raised.

“Don’t let it go to your head.”

But he’s already leaning in again, brushing his lips along her jaw, then down to her neck. One of his hands slowly slides up her thigh, possessive and gentle all at once.

“Does this mean…I’m forgiven?” He whispers. He tries to sound confident, but there’s a tightness in his chest, a vulnerability he doesn’t often let show.

“I…” She starts and he pulls back, needing to see her eyes. “I hope I don’t regret this.”

“Us?” He murmurs, before he gulps, his thumb brushing her cheek. 

“Forgiving you. Trusting you.” She replies. His gaze softens. He tucks a strand of hair behind her ear and presses his forehead against hers.

“You won’t.” He promises. “I won’t let you.”

Their lips meet in a kiss that’s gentle at first. Sweet and then deepens, slow and full of heat.

Confessional - Y/N: “I know I’m moving too fast after…everything. The…cheating scandal. The lies.” She admits, her voice low. “But he's done the work. He’s not just saying things, he’s trying. Really trying. For me. And I want to believe in him. I want to trust him again.” She nods to herself, lips pressing into a small, hopeful smile. 

Ryan lounges on the beanbags beside JJ, both of them nursing their drinks under the warm night air.

“Alright.” JJ starts, glancing over with a lazy grin. “Who was your favorite tonight?”

Ryan exhales, leaning his head back.

“Y/N.” He says without hesitation. “I don’t even know how to explain it, just the way she moved…I was locked in. Like, couldn’t look away.”

“Yeah, I saw that. You were locked in, alright.” JJ chuckles, giving him a knowing nod. 

Ryan laughs softly, then shifts the spotlight.

“What about you? Kiara raised your heart rate.” He wiggles his eyebrows. JJ goes quiet for a moment before replying.

“Can I be real with you?” He asks, looking down at his drink. Ryan nods immediately.

“I’ve felt something with her since day one. It’s not loud or obvious, but it’s there…a spark or whatever. And tonight, man, when she came over, when she made that move without even thinking twice? It caught me off guard. But, like, in a good way.”

Ryan tilts his head, interested.

“So talk to her.” He shrugs.

JJ sighs, rubbing a hand over his jaw.

“I don’t wanna hurt Abs. We just coupled up and honestly…it’s been good with her.”

“Talking to Kiara doesn’t have to mean anything. Could just be clearing the air. You’ll never know where she’s at unless you ask.” Ryan explains. JJ looks out across the yard, lost in thought for a second.

“Yeah…yeah, you’re probably right.” He murmurs, considering his options.

Around the villa, Cleo and Pope are curled up together on one of the couches, while Maddy and Kelce lounge on the daybed. By the pool, Alyssa and Abigail are deep in conversation.

The rest of the islanders are gathered in the kitchen with Y/N and Rafe, snacking and chatting as they debate who had the best costume. Amid the playful chaos, JJ leans toward Kiara, his voice low so only she can hear.

“Meet me on the terrace in five?” He murmurs, pulling back just as she gives a small nod, eyes dropping to her drink. Without drawing attention, JJ steps away from the counter.

“Yo, save me some of those chips. I’ll be right back.” He says casually, already heading toward the flower corridor. One of the boys calls something after him, but it gets lost in the buzz of conversation.

A few minutes pass, then Kiara quietly stands up from her seat.

“If you’ll excuse me.” She says, smoothing out her babydoll dress. “Gonna run to the restroom.”

Everyone barely looks up, absorbed in their own chats. She walks toward the villa, fingers twitching nervously at her sides.

Y/N notices and she gently taps Sarah’s hand, leaning closer.

“Hey, did you see that? Kie looked…kinda nervous, didn’t she?” She asks.

Sarah glances toward the villa and shrugs. 

“No? She seemed normal to me.” A pause. Then, a frown. “Why?”

Y/N hesitates, eyes flicking toward the corridor. 

“I think…I think she and JJ are meeting upstairs.”

Sarah raises an eyebrow, confused at first, until it clicks.

“Oh. You mean…they’re-Shit!”

Y/N looks out toward the pool, spotting Abigail still sitting there, unaware. Her voice softens.

“I just hope he doesn’t do something stupid and hurts Abi.” Y/N says and Sarah nods, concern settling in.

Upstairs on the terrace, JJ is already sitting on the couch when the door opens. He quickly lifts a hand to stop Kiara.

“Wait-duck down.” He whispers.

Kiara rolls her eyes but crouches anyway, slipping in the terrace and closing the door behind her. She makes her way over and sits beside him, still keeping low.

“Why are we sneaking around?” She whispers, glancing toward the railing.

“Because I wanna do something.” JJ says softly. “And if anyone sees…we’re both screwed.”

“Do what?” Kiara frowns.

Instead of answering, JJ gently cups her face and leans in. Her breath catches, eyes fluttering shut just as their lips meet in a soft, slow kiss. It’s quiet and hesitant, like neither of them wants to be the first to pull away.

When they do, both let out quiet laughs, slightly breathless.

“Well.” Kiara murmurs. “Guess we’re in trouble now.”

“I like trouble.” JJ grins.

The smile fades from her lips, replaced with something more serious. 

“So…what about Abigail?” She asks and JJ leans back with a sigh. 

“She’s great. Incredibly sweet, funny too. But…” He looks at Kiara, eyes steady. “There’s something here. With you. And I don’t wanna ignore that.”

“So what are you gonna say to her?” Kiara bites her lip.

“I’ll tell her the truth.” He says with a shrug. “Unless you don’t wanna see where this goes.”

“You know I do, Jayj. Why do you think I was doing all that downstairs?”

“Yeah, by the way…very hot.” JJ smirks.

Kiara lets out a laugh, shoving him playfully. 

“Shut up.” She says, laughing as she nudges him again, then the tension eases and the conversation between them starts to flow more easily.

Sarah and Y/N linger near the kitchen, with their pairs across from them, while Abigail chats and laughs with Ryan, now, across the villa.

“Should we tell her?” Sarah asks, glancing at Y/N.

“I...I don’t know.” Y/N shrugs, trying to sound casual but clearly conflicted. “If I were her, if the guy I’m coupled up with was upstairs alone with another girl, I’d wanna know.”

“But are we even sure they’re...you know?” Sarah raises a brow.

“They’ve been up there for, like, twenty minutes, Sar.” Y/N says pointedly.

Just then, Maddy joins them, sensing the shift in mood.

“Who are we talking about?” She asks, ready to gossip.

“Y/N thinks JJ and Kiara are doing something upstairs.” Sarah replies bluntly.

“Wait, ‘doing something’ as in…what?” Maddy blinks.

“We were all chatting and they suddenly excused themselves, walked off into the villa and haven’t come back since.” Y/N explains. “I don’t know, maybe I’m being paranoid or-or too suspicious because of everything that's happened, but why wouldn’t they just pull each other for a chat in front of everyone like normal?”

The girls exchange glances, all slowly nodding.

“No, that actually...makes sense.” Maddy admits, now eyeing Abigail from afar. “So, we tell her? Right?”

“We should.” Y/N nods.

“But shouldn’t JJ be the one to say something? Or Kiara?” Sarah counters. “We might just end up making it worse.”

They all hesitate. And right then, as if on cue, Abigail gets up, scanning the villa as she starts walking over.

“Hey.” She smiles warmly, approaching the kitchen. “Have you guys seen JJ?”

Y/N glances at the girls, suddenly tense.

“I think he went upstairs.” Rafe says casually, nodding toward the villa. 

Y/N’s eyes widen at him, while Abigail nods and turns toward the corridor of flowers, heading inside.

“Should we stop her? We should stop her, right? Right?” Maddy says quickly, nearly breathless. “This is so stressful.”

“I-” Y/N freezes, unsure.

“Abigail!” Sarah blurts out, startling herself and everyone else. Abigail jumps slightly, then laughs.

“Jesus, Sarah, you scared me!” She giggles, placing a hand on her chest.

“I-”

“You look hot as hell, Abs.” Maddy blurts. Y/N nods in agreement, a tense, forced smile on her face.

“Thank you! You all look stunning too.” Abigail beams.

Her sweet, bubbly energy makes it even harder to say what they need to say.

Y/N’s smile drops. 

“This is wrong. If I were you...I’d want to know.”

“Know what?” Abigail’s brows pinch slightly, smile faltering.

“We think-” Y/N starts.

“Y/N thinks.” Sarah quickly corrects, but Y/N shoots her a look.

“We think.” Y/N repeats, firm now. “JJ and Kiara snuck upstairs together.”

“Oh.” Abigail goes quiet, trying to process.

“They disappeared mid-convo, went inside and haven’t come back since...like twenty minutes ago.” Sarah adds.

“We don’t know exactly what’s going on.” Maddy says gently. “But...we figured you should know. Just in case.”

Abigail nods, her expression unreadable. 

“Thank you.” She says softly. “For telling me.”

The girls offer her small, sympathetic smiles.

And then, like a scene out of a movie, two figures appear in the flower corridor. JJ’s blonde hair and Kiara’s purple dress are unmistakable as they walk back, laughing.

Abigail exhales. The girls watch her, bracing for a reaction.

But she simply smiles, calm and composed, playing it off like nothing happened.

Confessional - Sarah “We did the right thing…right? I mean…God, I think we did. It felt right. It had to be. Right?” She asks, her eyebrows furrowing.

The islanders begin to drift upstairs, ready to clean up and wind down for another night in the villa. In the makeup room, the girls go about their routines, changing into pajamas, wiping off makeup, wrapped in a silence that feels heavy and awkward.

“So…did y’all have fun tonight?” Cleo finally asks, trying to break the ice.

A few vague nods and low murmurs follow, no one really engaging. Cleo glances around, disappointed but trying not to show it, then turns back to her skincare.

Y/N notices the shift in her expression and pulls her shorts up over her hips, catching Cleo’s eye in the mirror.

“What about you, C baby?” She grins, testing out the new nickname.

Cleo chuckles, settling onto her stool with her legs crossed.

“It was fun.” She reveals, nodding. “Totally out of my comfort zone, but…yeah, kind of exhilarating?”

Y/N nods knowingly. 

“Dancing will do that to you. I’m glad you had fun. I bet you killed it out there, wish I’d seen you.”

“Oh no, it’s better you didn’t. You might’ve gone blind.” Cleo laughs and a few of the girls smile along, the mood lightening just a bit as they begin to head downstairs.

Y/N and Cleo trail behind the group, walking together.

“Hey.” Cleo says quietly. “Did something happen? Everyone seems...off.”

Y/N exhales. 

“You didn’t hear it from me, but…Kiara and JJ might have a thing.”

“Wait, what?” Cleo’s eyes widen and she claps a hand over her mouth. “Please tell me Abigail knows.”

“We told her.” Y/N assures her.

“‘We’?” Cleo narrows her eyes. “Who's ‘we’? What happened?”

“While everyone was out, JJ and Kiara came back here…just the two of them. For like twenty minutes. Me and Sarah saw and told Abi.”

Cleo stares at her, stunned. 

“Damn. Okay. Don’t worry. I won’t say a word. I’m not touching that mess.” She raises her hands in mock surrender and starts heading downstairs.

“Just…” She says, pausing halfway. “I didn’t do something wrong, did I?”

Y/N shakes her head quickly. 

“No, no, no, Cleo. Not at all. I promise, it’s not you. Everyone’s just dealing with their own stuff. You’re good, okay?”

Cleo nods, visibly relieved and the two continue on toward the bedroom together.

As Y/N walks through the hallway between the beds, heading to her own, a pair of arms wrap around her waist and lift her off the ground effortlessly. She giggles, immediately recognizing the touch.

“Rafe.” She says with a grin, confirming what her hands already knew.

He sets her down gently and presses a kiss to her cheek, just as Kelce hollers from across the room. They both laugh, stealing a look at each other.

“We holding hands tonight?” Rafe asks, his hands still resting lightly on her waist.

“I don’t know.” Y/N mumbles, rolling one shoulder. “My shoulder is still sore from last night. Plus…someone pinned my arms down earlier and they kinda hurt.”

“Sorry about that.” He smirks. His hands move up, rubbing her arms soothingly, then down to her wrists with a gentle touch. “I was a little too rough.” He murmurs.

“Don’t apologize.” She shakes her head, leaning in just slightly. “I liked it.”

Rafe lets out a quiet groan. 

“You can’t say that and expect me to stay sane all night. Especially when we’re not even sharing beds. That’s straight-up mental torture.”

She chuckles, stepping away toward her bed, but not before making sure she sways her hips, her shorts rising ever so slightly. His eyes track her like she’s magnetic.

“Torture, woman!” He groans louder.

Y/N climbs under the covers, sitting up against the headboard. From her spot, she watches Rafe still standing there, shirtless, black Calvin Klein boxers clinging just right, hands on either side of his hips, gaze locked on her and the low-cut tank she’s wearing.

“You gonna keep staring?” She teases, raising a brow.

“Absolutely.” He replies without shame, then finally sits on his own bed, facing her.

Just then, Ryan walks in and heads to the bed he shares with Y/N, giving her a friendly smile as he climbs in. She returns it with one of her own, placing a pillow between them as she settles. Rafe’s jaw ticks slightly before he looks back at her. 

“Okay!” Cleo suddenly shouts across the room. “Listen up, everyone. I get that tonight’s challenge made you all extremely horny, but please, keep your orgasms quiet.”

The room bursts into laughter, the tension breaking as everyone adjusts and settles in with their partners.

Most of them are cuddled up already, some girls wearing cute bralettes and shorter shorts tonight.

Still smiling, Y/N turns onto her side and extends her hand across the small space between her and Rafe. He follows her lead, lying down and lacing his fingers with hers.

“Yeah.” He groans. “My shoulder hurts too. Totally forgot.”

She laughs under her breath, but neither of them lets go.

The lights go out and soft goodnights echo through the villa.

Maddy and Kelce dive under the covers, giggling. Sarah and John B are wrapped up in each other, kissing, hands wandering. Cleo and Pope lie close, cuddling and sharing quiet kisses. JJ is spooning Abigail, who lies stiffly, clearly unsettled. Alyssa and Topper are on opposite sides of the bed, the tension thick. Kiara and Rafe might as well be on different planets. And Ryan and Y/N lie still, separated by a pillow, yet her hand is still in Rafe’s across the small gap between the beds.

Morning comes quickly. The bedroom lights flick on, triggering a chorus of groans and sleepy greetings from the islanders.

Y/N shifts to stretch, gently trying to free her hand from Rafe’s grip. He lets out a low protest and tightens his hold slightly, not quite ready to let go. She smiles, letting him keep it.

“Good morning.” She murmurs, voice thick with sleep. Rafe hums in response, eyes still closed.

Abigail is the first to move, stretching as she reaches for her water bottle and then quietly heading upstairs. Most of the couples remain tangled in duvets, too comfortable or too tired to bother getting up.

“Whose bra is this?” Kiara asks, holding up a lacy bralette with two fingers and a raised brow.

Sarah hides her face in John B’s chest. 

“That…might be my fault.” John B says, scratching the back of his head.

“You guys are gross.” Kiara makes a face and tosses it back toward them. 

“Oh, come on, they’re cute.” Maddy says. “Disgusting. But cute.”

Kiara rolls her eyes and climbs out of bed, heading for the bathroom. Ryan trails behind Topper and Pope toward the kitchen, water bottles in hand.

Y/N, still holding Rafe’s hand, finally sits up. She nudges the covers off him and leans over to crawl across the bed. His eyes flutter open just enough to catch the sight of her. His arms instinctively wrap around her waist as she giggles and presses a kiss to his cheek.

“Can you wake me up like this every morning?” He mumbles, sinking deeper into the pillow as her head settles into the crook of his neck.

“Deal.” She whispers back. His arms tighten around her, his fingers playing idly with the waistband of her shorts while her nails softly trace patterns on his chest.

For a moment, it’s like they’re the only two people in the villa.

“And they’re the cutest.” Maddy adds, cooing from her bed.

Rafe doesn’t resist the urge, he smacks Y/N’s ass with a loud pop, making her gasp in surprise.

“Okay, nope. I take it back. Also disgusting.” Maddy says as laughter ripples through the room.

Alyssa groans and gets out of bed, heading upstairs without a word.

“What’s her deal?” Cleo asks, furrowing her brows as she glances at Y/N.

“I don’t know. I can’t figure her out.” Y/N just shrugs. 

“She’s a bitch.” Rafe says casually.

“Don’t call her that.” Y/N replies, nudging him gently.

Rafe sighs and nods, pressing a soft kiss to her shoulder as his hand rubs slow circles into her back, retreating with her into their little bubble once again.

A little while later, with all the girls upstairs doing their hair and makeup for the day, a knock echoes from downstairs.

"Come in!" They call out in unison.

The door creaks open and Rafe and Kelce walk in, each holding a plate of breakfast and a drink. Y/N, focused on her mascara in the mirror, doesn’t notice until Rafe appears beside her.

“Hey.” He says softly.

She glances over and her eyes widen. 

“Oh my god, is that for me?”

Rafe nods, offering a tired smile as he sets down a plate with an omelette and fresh fruit. Without another word, he pulls her into a warm hug. She laughs and hugs him back, with her mascara wand still in hand.

“Thank you.” She says, beaming up at him.

He leans in and kisses her gently. 

“See you in a bit.” He says, in his deep voice.

With that, he heads out and Y/N watches him go for a second before looking down at the plate. Smiling to herself, she picks up a strawberry and takes a bite.

Meanwhile, Maddy and Kelce are still tangled in each other, kissing between bites of avocado toast.

“Okay, we need to get ready.” Cleo groans, shoving Kelce playfully. “You can kiss her later.”

The girls laugh as Kelce steals one last kiss from Maddy, then smirks and plants a quick one on Cleo’s cheek too.

“Ew!” Cleo wipes it off dramatically and the room erupts in laughter again, as Kelce walks out.

It’s another lazy afternoon in the villa. A few of the boys are tossing a ball by the pool, their laughter echoing off the water. Maddy’s slicing fruit with Cleo in the kitchen. Sarah is sleeping in one of the sunbeds, sunglasses slipping down her nose.

“She’s gonna get the worst sunburn.” Y/N says.

Rafe hums from where his head rests in her lap, her fingers tracing lazy circles over the buzz of his hair. He’s got his sunglasses on, but the smug little smirk tugging at his mouth gives him away.

Slowly, Alyssa approaches.

“Hey…Y/N, can we talk for a sec?” Her voice cuts through the quiet like a blade.

Rafe lifts his head just enough to glance at her over his shades, brow twitching. Y/N freezes, fingers pausing in his hair. She glances between him and Alyssa.

“Uh…yeah. Sure.”

“You want me to go?” Rafe asks, looking up at her.

“I don’t mind him.” Alyssa answers before she can and Rafe nearly rolls his eyes, before looking back at Y/N.

She gives a small, uncertain shrug and Rafe settles back again, but there’s tension in the way he does it now.

Alyssa perches on the edge of the daybed, water bottle in hand, eyes locked on Y/N.

“I just wanna know what your issue is with me.” Alyssa starts.

Rafe lifts his head again, slower this time, sunglasses sliding down his nose as he stares at her.

“Excuse me?” He says with a short laugh.

“Rafe…” Y/N places a hand on his arm gently, without looking away from Alyssa. “What do you mean?”

“You’ve been off with me for days. Cold. And don’t act like you don’t know what I’m talking about.” Alyssa presses. “I see the glances and giggles with Maddy or Sarah when I'm talking.”

Y/N blinks, thrown. 

“I…I didn’t realize I was doing that. If I made you feel that way, I’m sorry, that wasn’t-”

Rafe sits up fully now, pushing his sunglasses to the top of his head. A humorless laugh slips out.

“Yeah, no. I…I cannot sit there and let you say that to her when all you've done is being a calculated bitch.”

“Rafe-” Y/N starts, but he cuts her off.

“Don’t ‘Rafe’ me.” He looks at Y/N before turning back to Alyssa. “I’ve sat through enough of this. You came in here, acting like this place revolved around you. You picked me, knowing I was already getting close to her. And fine, let's say you went with your gut or whatever. But don’t act like you didn’t know what you were doing.”

Alyssa stiffens, but he’s not finished.

“After that, you had a full conversation with Y/N. You apologized to her. You befriended her. And then you turned around and started throwing around little digs, fake apologies during the kissing challenge. That 'Oops, sorry Y/N' crap. And the Heart Rate Challenge? You didn’t straddle me for the game, you did it to send a message.”

“You finished?” Alyssa asks sharply.

“Not quite.” Rafe fires back. “Want me to keep going?”

“Funny how she’s not the one saying any of this. She’s got a voice, doesn’t she?” Alyssa crosses her arms

A beat of silence. Heavy. Still.

Y/N stares at her hands for a second, then lifts her head.

“I haven’t said anything.” She starts, voice quiet but steady. “Because I didn’t want any drama. I thought maybe I was overthinking it.”

Her gaze locks on Alyssa’s.

“But it wasn’t. And eventually it stopped feeling like it was unintentional.”

Alyssa glances around like she’s looking for someone to back her up, but no one says a word.

“So yeah.” Y/N finishes. “I’ve been distant. Because I see you now.”

The silence that follows is thick, the villa holding its breath. Even the pool games have gone quiet.

Alyssa opens her mouth like she’s going to say something else, but nothing comes out. Her jaw clenches. She nods once, stiffly.

“Cool. Thanks for the clarity.” She stands, flip-flops smacking against the deck as she walks away.

Rafe exhales, leaning back again slowly. Y/N watches her go, then drops her gaze to her lap.

“You okay?” He asks, voice softer now.

“Yeah. I think I am.” She nods.

“I shouldn’t have jumped in like that.” He says after a moment. “I know you didn’t need me to, but I couldn’t just sit there and let her flip this on you.”

Y/N leans into him, her head resting against his side.

“Thanks for backing me up.” She murmurs.

“Always.” He says, hand settling gently on her shoulder.

Suddenly, a phone chimes and everyone freezes before scrambling to check their screens.

“Someone wake Sarah up!” Maddy shouts from the kitchen.

Y/N hurries over to the sunbed and gently shakes Sarah’s shoulder. She stirs with a groan, stretching lazily before blinking up at her.

“Hi, pretty.” She mumbles, voice still thick with sleep. Y/N can't help but laugh. 

“Hey. Check your phone, sleepyhead.” 

Sarah frowns in confusion, reaching for her phone and squinting at the screen as she rubs her eyes. Then her jaw drops.

“Holy shit.” She whispers, sitting up fast. “I got a text!”

The villa erupts in laughter and excitement.

“Just read it already!” JJ shouts.

Sarah clears her throat dramatically before reading aloud.

“Islanders, tonight there will be a recoupling. The girls will have all the power and will decide who they want to couple up with. #whorunstheworld #newbedbuddies.”

Squeals and cheers explode through the villa. Y/N glances over at the daybed where Rafe is lounging, that familiar smug grin on his face.

She can’t help but beam.

Finally, they’ll be back in the same bed again.

to be continued...

taglist: @cherrygirlfriend @judesgfirl @slickdickwitchbitchh @leather-n-velvet @alinavalentine @littlelamy @ts1mp0ne @starkeyslibrary @rafecameronsfavourite @rafesbuzzcutseason @lolharrystylesissexy @k4yr14 @drewslefttoe @angielvsnick @malibuhearts @sabrina-carpenter-stan-account @harryweeniee @imawhoreforu @fastlovela @jjmaybankmylovee @nemesyaaa @drewsnr1slut @laniirackssss @oconnrs @cornliastreett @pvyden @swagmoneydrew @lerclec @rafecameronxxx @totalswag @xoxosblogsblog @julesbog @st8rkey @lewispool @silkylovey @heartlesslies @akobx @vdotcom @runawayrafetrain @stvrkeysgal @heartzshiftamy @xilatrxvmp @rafesgreasycurtainbangs @maybankslover @cameronsbabydoll @veesgrapejuice @magicalyoura1 @bennywattsgf

[sha-n-dowbannedlol]

Phainon — Meant to Be Yours

cw: royal knight!phainon au, fem!princess!reader, violence but not very detailed, usual shan stuff lol

went into amphoreus not caring about anyone, went out loving the cute golden retriever man. also, i've been hyperfixated on epic the musical lately, so i may or may not have been inspired by odysseus in the ithaca saga for some parts here lol

In the whispering winds of fate, it was always said karma had a way of catching up with you—silent, inevitable, like shadow hot on your heels. In a world that spins in circles, our deeds reverberate and circle back, a reminder that what goes around comes around.

So, it was never a surprise, not really, when your father—the king, draped in the shadows of corruption and tyranny—was torn from his throne in a storm of blood and fury, undone by the very hands he once crushed beneath his own. The storm of revolution, fueled by the flames of injustice and the cries of the downtrodden, descended upon the castle walls like a vengeful deity, casting the king from his lofty throne into the harsh reality of his own making.

In the unforgiving tides of change, the pendulum of justice swung without regard for innocence or guilt, and revolution—in all its fury—can easily blind you with its smoke. You never stood by your father’s cruelty; every protest smothered beneath his iron will, your voice swallowed beneath the weight of his crown. Yet, to the eyes of the enraged masses, you bore his blood, wore his sins like a second skin.

And so, you too, must burn.

But he wouldn't let them.

Your escape dissolved into a blur in your mind; Screams tearing through the air, a sea of crimson rage, and his hand gripping yours like a lifeline. In the other, his sword sang death, striking down anyone who dared raise a hand against his liege. His white hair caught the glow of the mobs' torches, almost golden in their flickering light. His blue eyes, usually so gentle, were now steel-cold with purpose. His once-pristine armor streaked with blood, icy to the touch, but his hand... his hand wrapped around yours is....

Warm.

Then, it hit you all at once.

The sudden, jarring shift from chaos to stillness.

One moment, the world was fire and fury—voices raised in furious chants, torches blazing, the glint of sharpened weapons amidst the mob.

The next, silence.

Heavy, almost sacred. The kind that presses into your ears like cotton, makes your breath sound too loud. The forest wrapped around you like a blanket soaked in earth and rain, grounding and unreal all at once.

And then—him.

A pair of blue eyes, wide and searching, locked onto you. Worry etched into every line of his face. Not just concern, something more akin to fear. Like he'd just watched you disappear, and wasn’t sure if you were really back.

"Your Highness?" Phainon’s voice breaks the quiet, low and cautious, like he’s afraid even the sound might shatter you. He doesn't move closer, just watches, eyes flicking over the slight tremble in your hands, the way your breath stutters like your body hasn’t quite remembered how to breathe in peace.

You’re pale, shaken, and at the sound of his voice, as quiet as it was, you finally look at him. No longer through him, but at him.

He takes a cautious step forward, each movement measured like he’s approaching a wounded creature, because in some ways, he is. You’re already so close to unraveling, and the last thing he wants is to be the thing that pushes you over the edge.

There was no point in asking how you were. It was written all over you; in the tight set of your shoulders, the haunted glaze still clinging to your eyes, the way you swayed slightly, like your legs weren’t entirely convinced they could keep holding you up.

So instead, he does what Phainon always does—chooses gentleness.

"May I carry you?" he asks quietly, his voice a breath softer than the rustle of the leaves around you. He doesn't reach for you, doesn't presume. He has never touched you without your explicit permission. That’s just who Phainon is. Always waiting, always asking.

Always yours, for as long as you'll have him.

"We need to find shelter for the night," he adds, glancing around the thick trees, the canopy swallowing what little light remains. "We’ll be safer here than anywhere else in the kingdom.”

You don’t say anything—just stare at him, eyes wide and unreadable, like you're still somewhere between this moment and the last. But then, slowly, your head moves in a small, almost imperceptible nod.

It’s enough.

Phainon hesitates for just a breath longer, searching your face one last time for any sign of protest. When he finds none, he steps closer and carefully lifts you into his arms. You don’t resist. You don’t flinch. You just let him. He holds you like you’re made of glass and memory, something fragile, something precious. Like a wounded creature he’s afraid to hurt more than the world already has. His arms are steady, though. Warm. Grounding.

"With my honor as a knight," he murmurs, barely above a whisper, his breath brushing against your hair, "I’ll protect you."

And with that promise hanging between you, he carries you deeper into the woods, away from the flames, the shouting, the wreckage of a day that nearly stole everything. Searching for somewhere—anywhere—you can finally rest.

You didn’t know how long he walked, only that the rhythm of his footsteps and the steady rise and fall of his breathing lulled you into a kind of daze. Time slipped sideways, minutes, hours, you couldn't say. You barely registered the way his arms tensed, his body instinctively bracing at the distant sound of hooves pounding against earth.

But you did notice when he began to lower you, gently, beneath the rough arch of a shallow cave. The cool stone met your back, and suddenly the thought of him letting go was unbearable. Your hands clung to the fabric of his cloak, your fingers trembling, eyes searching his like they could stop him from leaving.

He paused. Saw the silent plea in your gaze.

"Stay here," he whispered, his voice warm and low, as if it could wrap around you like a second cloak. His eyes held yours—steady, unwavering, like they always had. "I’ll be back."

Phainon stepped out of the cave, his movements measured, deliberate, planting himself firmly between the riders and the one thing he would not let them take, the shadows of the cave behind him concealing you. There was no fear in his eyes, only steel. A cold, quiet confidence etched into every line of his face.

"I’d like to believe no good men would pursue the royal heir to do her harm," he said, voice calm, almost conversational.

The riders stared him down, eyes narrowing, hands tightening around the hilts of their weapons. Their silence said everything, fury simmered behind their eyes—righteous, bitter. The kind that doesn’t listen. They were revolutionaries, that much was clear.

The one at the front swung down from his saddle, his boots hit the earth with a thud, knuckles bone-white, clutching around his weapon. 

"Step aside," he commanded. "The princess has to pay for her father’s crimes."

Phainon didn’t move.

"She’s done nothing wrong," he said quietly, the edge in his voice sharp enough to cut. "You’d punish a girl for her father’s sins?"

One of the other riders let out a bitter laugh. Disgust curled his lip.

"Not her mistake? That bastard’s blood runs in her veins. She is part of the throne. And you.." he spat, full of scorn. "What has become of you, Phainon? Some fallen knight guarding the tyrant’s daughter? You’d betray us? Turn your sword against your own people?"

Phainon didn’t blink.

"If protecting the innocent is treason," he said, "then yes, I'll proudly be a traitor."

His hand tightened around the hilt of his sword.

"Kill her father. Burn the palace to ash. Do what you will, if that’s what your justice demands... but you will not lay a hand on her."

Silence followed. Heavy. Suffocating. The forest itself seemed to still, the only sound the restless whisper of leaves caught in the wind.

The riders didn’t respond, but they didn’t have to. Their expressions spoke volumes—feral and cold, eyes flicking between each other, weighing the cost of moving forward.

Because they knew who he was.

Phainon. The perfect warrior. The man whose blade had never faltered.

And here he stood, sword unsheathed not for the king or the palace…

But for the fallen princess.

"This is how you defend your people, knight?!"

The rider at the front steps forward, fury distorting his features into something near feral. His eyes burned with a hate that had nothing to do with justice.

"You’d betray us, betray your oath, betray this kingdom, and the country you swore to protect… for some pampered little princess?!"

Something in Phainon’s expression shifts. The air grows colder around him, the atmosphere dense with a sudden, cutting stillness. Gone is the composed mask he always wears; what replaces it is anger, sharp and honed like the edge of his blade. His gaze narrowed, sharpened into something unforgiving.

"Don’t you dare pretend this is for the country’s sake," he said, voice low and laced with venom. "You’re not here for justice. You’re here for blood. You’re no different than the king you claim to hate."

The words land like a slap. The other riders stiffened, anger radiating off them in pulsing waves, but it was their leader who reacted first. 

"Don’t you dare compare us to that bastard. We’re trying to fix what he ruined. We’re trying to build something better." His sneer deepens, lips curling in disgust.

Phainon took a step forward, slow and deliberate, never breaking eye contact.

"I don’t care what you're trying to do," he said, voice quiet, but sharp enough to cut. "Do what you must. Raise your banners. Burn the city. I don’t care..."

"...But you will not harm my liege."

The leader lets out a laugh, dry and mocking, tinged with disbelief.

"Your liege?" he spat. "She’s the tyrant’s spawn. And you, great knight? You've been reduced to a loyal lapdog, clinging to a dead order."

Phainon’s grip on his sword tightened, knuckles paling, the cold in his eyes enough to send out a warning for the rider to seize his comments.

"Watch your mouth," he says darkly. "I don’t care what your grievances are with her father. She is not him. And I will not let her suffer for his sins."

"She’s his heir," The leader snarled. "She’ll turn out just the same. She’ll sit on the same throne, make the same decisions, spill the same blood… And a traitor like you will be right there at her feet, worshiping her like a good little mutt."

"You don’t know a thing about her." Phainon snaps, "She’s nothing like her father. She’s been silenced, like a doll on display, dressed up and paraded around as a symbol. If you think she’ll become a tyrant, you’re blind."

"Gods, don't tell me you've fallen for her?" The leader’s expression twisted, ugly and mocking.  "You really think she gives a damn about you?"

"Of course not," Phainon replies swiftly, flatly. "That doesn't matter."

The leader just laughs again, louder this time, leaning into the sound like it shields him from the weight of Phainon’s glare. His smirk grows wide, sharp, vicious.

"Then why, oh why, are you risking your life for her, hmm?" The leader’s voice drips with mockery, his posture relaxed, his amusement dripping into every word that slips past his lips.

"What do you get for defending the princess? Her favor? A smile, perhaps? Or something better…" He grins, teeth flashing. "Like her body?"

Something snaps.

In a blink, Phainon closes the distance—no hesitation, no warning. One hand fisting the leader’s collar, the other drawing his sword with a metallic hiss. He slams the man hard against the nearest tree, bark cracking under the force, the blade pressed to the vulnerable skin of his throat.

"Keep your tongue in check." Phainon’s voice is barely a voice at all, more like a growl ripped from deep in his chest. "Don’t you dare speak of her like that. Not another word. Do you hear me?"

But the leader only grins wider, unshaken even with a blade to his throat. In fact, he seems to revel in it.

"You protect a woman who’d throw you to the wolves the moment it served her," he spits out, eyes gleaming with cruel amusement. "You think you matter to her? You’re nothing. Just a pawn she’ll sacrifice to save herself."

"I’m not protecting just any woman." Phainon sneers, a rare sight for the kind knight. "I protect my liege. I don’t give a damn if she values my life or not. That’s not the point. You speak of things you don’t understand."

He presses the sword harder against the man’s throat, but still, the man smiles.

"You've been blinded," The man hisses, smirking like a man with nothing left to lose. "She doesn’t care about anything but herself. Just like her father. A pampered, selfish princess."

He leans forward just enough for his words to feel like poison he’s trying to inject right into Phainon’s veins. 

"And you? You’ve doomed yourself for her. She’ll stab you in the back the second her life’s on the line. Mark my words."

Phainon doesn’t flinch. 

"You don’t know her."

Phainon's words are quiet. More breath than voice, like a warning carried in the wind. He presses the blade closer. The tip bites skin. A thin bead of crimson wells up where the blade meets the skin of the leader’s throat.

"And I’ll cut down every last fool who dares to speak of her that way."

And then… he does.

One swift motion. 

Clean. 

Precise.

The forest falls silent.

The only sound is the soft thump of a body hitting the leaves crumpled on the ground.

A moment later, the man’s head rolls across the ground, eyes wide with the last expression he ever wore; that twisted smile, frozen in time.

None of them move.

Phainon stands over the body, sword slick with crimson, breath slow and steady.

No triumph. 

No rage.

Just duty.

The other riders could only stare, stunned into silence, eyes darting between their leader’s lifeless, decapitated body and the knight who stood above it. Phainon remained still, breath heavy, blade lowered but still slick with blood. 

"You… y-you killed him…" one of them whispered, the words cracking with disbelief.

Phainon didn’t even blink. 

"I did."

His words hung in the air.

The riders exchanged nervous glances, shifting in place. One man’s hand trembled as it hovered near his blade. Another backed toward the horses.

"You’re a murderer," one of them dared to say.

Phainon’s head turned slowly in the speaker’s direction, his eyes sharp and full of disdain.

"I am a knight."

He took a single step forward, slow, steady, like he had all the time in the world.

"And you..." He swept his gaze across them.

Chaos nearly erupted. One man lunged for their fallen leader’s sword. Another tried to mount a horse that reared up and shrieked in fear. Hooves thundered against the forest floor, the horses stamping nervously, catching the scent of blood. The rest froze in place, unsure whether to fight or flee.

Still, Phainon didn’t move. He simply watched. Detached. Unbothered. Like he was watching children flail through a game they didn’t understand.

Then, he spoke again. Calm, quiet, and chilling.

"None of you are going anywhere."

The words cut through the rising noise like a blade. And just like that, everything stopped. Horses snorted, pawing the ground nervously. The riders froze mid-movement, caught between instinct and dread. No one moved. No one dared breathe.

"Y-you… you’re going to kill us too? Just like him?" One of them, voice trembling, forced himself to speak.

Phainon’s eyes flicked to the corpse at his feet, then slowly back to the man.

"It’s nothing personal."

His voice was calm. Too calm.

"But as long as any of you breathe, my liege remains in danger."

Another step forward.

The air grew heavier. 

"We’re falling back," someone said quickly, hands half-raised, as if they could bargain their way out. "Our leader’s gone… we won’t hurt Her Highness anymore,"

But it was already too late.

Phainon gave no reply because the time for words had ended.

The forest was filled with the sound of quick, brutal justice. Thuds of bodies hitting the earth, gasps cut short, steel slicing through flesh. Phainon moved like death made flesh—silent, unstoppable, precise.

When it was over, the woods were quiet again.

Only he remained standing.

Him and the horses.

Phainon stood among the fallen, sword in hand, his breath steady once more. He wiped the blood from his blade on the tunic of one of the fallen men, then he turned back toward the cave, toward the only person who mattered.

Back to his liege.

You didn't say anything when his gloved hand appeared in your vision again. You didn’t flinch at the crimson streaks staining his armor, didn’t ask about the blood still clinging to his sleeve. You didn’t have to. The stench of iron lingered in the air, faint but unmistakable. And still, he looked at you with utmost gentleness.

"Let’s keep going, Your Highness," he said, voice soft and warm again, like it hadn’t just spoken death into existence. He smiled, gentle and careful, as if that alone could soothe the storm in your heart, your mind.

And of course, you took his hand.

Neither of you spoke as he guided you deeper into the forest, looking for somewhere to stay the night. His grip is steady, his pace measured. The silence between you was no longer heavy, just there. Present. Like a companion rather than a burden. The first time the silence was broken was when the trees thinned and a clearing revealed itself, a meadow bathed in moonlight. Not ideal for rest, but safe enough for a fire. The tree line was distant enough not to catch if the flames rose too high.

Phainon didn’t hesitate.

He swiftly went to work, gathering timber and stacking firewood, his movements practiced, and you watched confusedly as somehow, someway, he coaxed a spark into a flicker, then into a steady flame—a pleasant warmth against the biting cold of the night, casting a golden light against his blood-slicked armor and you tried not to look too closely.

He turned toward you, eyes softening again.

"Please," he said gently, gesturing toward a nearby rock. "Have a seat, Your Highness."

The rock was jagged, uninviting, but it was better than the ground. And somehow, the offer didn’t feel like an order. It felt like kindness, one born out of genuine concern.

You sat.

Phainon got down on his knees before you, slow and deliberate, the firelight casting golden shadows across his face, his eyes meeting yours, those bright, steady blues searching for something, asking without words. For what, you weren't sure, but you trusted him enough to give him a small nod.

As you did, he reached for the hem of your dress, lifting it just enough to expose your feet, still in those heels. He handled them like something sacred, fingers brushing delicately over the worn straps as he undid the fastenings around your ankles. Then, the shoes slipped off with barely a sound.

A quiet sigh escaped him as he took in the damage: raw, red skin and blisters blooming along your soles. His expression twisted into something pained, like it physically hurt him to look.

"You should’ve told me," he murmured, the words barely louder than the crackle of the fire. His brow furrowed, soft and earnest, looking at you akin to a puppy kicked by its owner. "I would’ve carried you."

"It’s fine, really." You shook your head gently, trying for a smile that didn’t quite reach your eyes. "You've already done enough. I didn’t want to ask more of you."

"It's my duty to care for the princess."

"And I'm no longer one."

"You'll always be a princess."

You pause at his response, glancing to meet his eyes as he met yours with unwavering devotion, no hesitation in his voice, no doubt in his features.

"For as long as I live," He added, "You'll always be a princess to me."

The silence that followed was heavy, not uncomfortable, but weighty, like something unsaid hung in the air between you. You had to look away, unable to hold the intensity of his stare, you let your gaze drift back to the fire, its flickering light dancing across the clearing like it, too, was trying to avoid the weight between you.

Behind the veil of quiet, you heard the soft clatter of metal as Phainon shed his armor. Piece by piece, it hit the ground with dull thuds, leaving him in the worn fabric beneath. Then came the rip of cloth, sharp in the still night, and you realized he was tearing his shirt.

He didn’t say a word.

Just reached for your feet again, gently cradling them in his hands as he wrapped the makeshift bandages around the blistered skin, his touch impossibly careful.

"Phainon." You said his name softly, as he continued his current task.

"Why didn't you join them? Why didn't you kill me?"

That made his hands still.

His gaze flicked up to your face, searching. He was quiet for a beat, before responding.

"Killing you is never an option." Was his simple, yet blunt response. "I could never do such a thing to you."

You frowned, unable to make sense of it.

"But… of all people, you have the most reason in the kingdom to drive your sword through my chest," you murmured, "The only thing standing between you and your freedom is me. You don’t have to do this. Any of this."

There's the slightest hint of a sad smile on his face, chuckling softly at your words, but there's no humor in the sound.

"I don't 'have' to do anything, princess. I choose to protect you of my own free will." His eyes softened.

"But your oath-" You opened your mouth to protest, to remind him of his oath, of duty, of his supposed loyalty to the people.

"Was to you." He cut you off, quiet but firm. "Not to the King. Not to the throne, not the palace or its people."

He paused, voice dropping to something barely above a whisper.

"My oath has always been to you."

You paused at his words, trying to make sense of them. His loyalty… his devotion... it didn’t make sense. Not in a world that had taken so much from both of you.

"You’re the son of my father’s personal knight. From the moment you were born, you were shackled to me." Your voice softened further. "Our births are only months apart. That wasn’t a coincidence."

Phainon didn’t interrupt. He let you speak, his hands still and steady at your ankle.

"You were forced to train and to be my shadow since we were children, don't you ever wish to be free?"

"Forced?" he repeated softly with a smile, almost amused. "I’ve never been forced to do anything, princess."

"But you were." You looked at him fully now, your brows furrowed. "Just like your father before you. And his before him... and if the system hadn’t been dismantled… your children would’ve been bound to mine. The cycle would’ve never ended."

There was a long beat before he spoke again.

"My family never regretted our duty. We’ve protected every heir of your bloodline with our lives," he said, his voice quiet but sure. "And I’ll do the same for you."

Then something in him shifted. His features softened, the faintest of smiles tugging at the corners of his mouth—gentle, knowing.

"But... you’re wrong about one thing." He looked at you with a strange tenderness in his eyes.

You blinked, caught off-guard by the warmth in his voice. He didn’t look away. Didn’t even blink.

"My children...." he said slowly, voice laced with something unreadable, "...won’t be doing the same for yours."

"What do you mean?"

But all you got in return was that smile. That quiet, secret-laced smile, like he was tucking something important behind his tongue. He gave your ankle a gentle squeeze. Comforting. Familiar.

"You’ll understand later," he murmured, voice almost lulling.

"Don’t push yourself, Your Highness," he said softly, skillfully shifting the topic. "We’ve got a long journey ahead tomorrow."

He stood, gathered the remnants of his torn shirt, and moved to tend the fire again, like he hadn’t just shaken your world with a few quiet words.

"I'll try..." you murmured, your voice tinged with hesitation, your eyes fixed on his back as he knelt by the fire, tending to the flames with care, keeping it alive to somehow keep the coldness of the night at bay.

"Thank you... for everything."

Phainon glanced over his shoulder at you. Your weariness was plain on your face, carved into the way your body sagged slightly under the weight of the day.

“There’s nothing to thank me for.” His tone was quiet, like it always was, but beneath it was a quiet warmth that never seemed to leave whenever he spoke to you. “Get some sleep, princess.”

You didn’t protest again.

Despite the jagged rock beneath you, despite the ache in your limbs and the open sky above, it didn’t take long for sleep to claim you. The day had wrung you dry—body, heart, and mind—and the sound of the crackling fire, the distant rustle of trees, and Phainon’s steady presence nearby became the lullaby that finally allowed your guard to fall.

It wasn't until your breathing had evened out, deep in sleep, that Phainon stood up from the fire. The flickering glow cast long shadows across the clearing as he moved, silent as a ghost, towards you. He crouched beside you, eyes tracing your features like he was memorizing every curve, every eyelash. His fingers reached out, brushing a few strands of hair from your face with a gentleness that didn’t match the crimson stains still dried against his skin.

"My kids being the knights of yours?" He muses, a quiet laugh curling at the edge of his lips. "Don't be ridiculous... my kids wouldn't be doing the same for yours..."

"Because my kids will be yours too, princess."

His expression stayed soft, but there was something darker flickering beneath it—a quiet hunger, possession cloaked in tenderness. His hand moved again, hooking a single lock of your hair around his finger, bringing it close to his face. He breathed in, eyes fluttering shut for a moment, as though the scent alone grounded him, drawing it in like a man savoring something he believed— no, he knew belonged to him.

“Yours,” he whispered, “You hear me?”

The wind rustled gently through the trees, carrying his words into the night, where they vanished like smoke with no one else to hear them but himself. He stayed like that for a moment, eyes locked on your sleeping face, watching the faint shifts of your breath, the flutter of your lashes. You looked peaceful. Vulnerable.

"I'm sorry for what happened, princess. But you understand, don't you?" He questions you quietly, as if you could hear him, still making sure his voice is quiet, so as to not wake you.

"Your father was a tyrant, a dictator..." He murmurs, his fingers moving to caress your cheek, watching as you stirred faintly under his touch, but did not wake, "He was going to marry you off to someone else."

"Surely, you understand why I urged people and started the revolution, don't you?"

His fingers trail lightly down your cheek, pausing at your lips, his breath hitching ever so slightly as his thumb grazes over the soft curve of your mouth. He exhales shakily, as though even this contact is almost too much.

"The only reason I was born was to be yours,” he whispers, a quiet conviction in his tone. “And thus, you, in turn, have always been mine. Law of equivalent exchange.”

His voice is low, fond, but there’s an undercurrent of something far heavier—something dangerous—coiling just beneath. He inhales sharply, as if steadying himself, and glances away from your lips like a sinner resisting temptation.

"That old man never should’ve tried to interfere," he adds, almost as an afterthought, his jaw tensing like the memory alone is enough to reignite his fury—the same fury that led to your father's downfall.

His finger lingers against your lips, then shifts, trailing down to hover just over your abdomen, his eyes now fixed there, unblinking. The soft rise and fall of your breathing beneath the fabric of your dress seems to hold him captive.

"Once all of this dies down.." he murmurs, more to himself than to you, "I’ll take you somewhere quiet. Somewhere no one knows your name. A little house, tucked away from the world… where you’ll be safe. And then—"

His breath hitches again, this time heavier, filled with desire.

"Then I’ll give you my children. As many as you want."

His gaze darkens as it lingers on your stomach, and his lashes lower as he exhales through his nose, eyes fluttering closed like he can already see the future blooming there. His future. Your future. Your shared future.

"I’ve waited my whole life," he breathes, almost dreamlike. "And now you look at me like I’m your savior...."

There’s a pause, still heavy, and then his eyes open again, trained solely on your face. His expression softens at the sight of your sleeping features.

"It’s only a matter of time," he says softly. "Just a few more years... or months, if I’m lucky."

His thumb traces the corner of your mouth again, delicate and adoring.

"Right, princess?"

A soft chuckle escapes him, warm and hushed and laced with something that doesn’t quite sound sane.

"You don't need the palace, the crown, the throne.... I'm already here. I am all that you need." He murmurs, fully believing his own words.

"You're mine." He breathes out, a silent declaration with only the stars above as his witness.

"You will be mine."

-

prequel!

[emthimofnight]

A Sonic and the Black Knight version of Stellar—Lady Archfedd, daughter of King Arthur!

Some lore:

Came to be when King Arthur and Sir Lancelot unknowingly laid together upon a fairy mound, resulting in the fey gifting (or perhaps cursing) the King with a changeling child. Despite Lancelot's protests, Arthur accepted the infant as his heir.

Lancelot is half fey himself in this AU, and thus has a wide knowledge of fey culture and behavior (the fairies in this AU look a lot like Black Arms aliens from canon).

Despite his initial reservations, Lancelot does eventually grow to see Archfedd as his daughter.

Due to Arthur and Lancelot's relationship being secret, in public Archfedd is simply known as the King's daughter.

Archfedd learns of her fey heritage in her teens.

A skilled swordswoman, her fighting style is like that of a dancer, slashing out with twin blades.

Her swords are dubbed Efeilliaid Eira—the Snow Twins. Said to almost shine blue in the midst of combat.

Being of fey heritage, her armor had to be specially crafted as to not harm her. Pure, precious metals such as gold, silver, and cold iron all burn her skin.

Despite being trained in combat by each of the knights of the round table, it is rare she actually gets to fight alongside them.

Alt fey form appearance:

[seelestia]

✧ the gambler and his knight.

aventurine can't stand having his outfit exposed to the elements nor to the rude hands of clients that won't cooperate – luckily for him, he has you to take care of it all. { aventurine with a bodyguard!reader. }

⎯ fluff & angst. 2.9k wc. headcanons w/ some written scenes. the plot is vv subtle but it's there a.k.a aventurine simps for you (jokingly) but you both end up catching feelings (not jokingly). mentions of violence, death & russian roulette. pre-penacony timeline. a self-indulgent piece to celebrate this blog's 2nd anniv! ★

★ 〜 masterlist.

© seelestia on tumblr, june 2024. please do not repost, plagiarize, translate, use for AI-related purposes or claim as your own.

aventurine who graciously welcomes you under his employment with a game. just a little something to ease your nerves and get you used to his ways. you look at him with such incredulity as if he just fell and hit his head silly. he pays no mind to this – finds it to be amusing a great deal, actually. keep it up, newcomer!

“heads or tails?” he asks, flipping a coin in the air and catching it seamlessly. a routine for him, you would've figured from the sight. “that's. . . an odd way of saying hello,” you point out but your tone bears no hint of protest. he notices that.

“i've heard that one before,” aventurine tilts his head with a smile, nonchalant. “so what's your guess?”

“tails,” you reply without any delay. it's a mindless answer; getting it wrong this way would prove to bear less disappointment compared to putting actual thought in it. “heads for me then,” he whistles.

aventurine opens his palm. it's heads. you frown as if to suspect foul play—but you don't because you know about his notoriously good luck—and your new boss chuckles, almost placatingly.

“looks like i win,” he grins without a care in the world at all. “aren't you starving? let's fetch ourselves a meal, friend.”

a loss rewarded with a prize? you blink. with grace so in contrast to the whiplash you feel, aventurine walks past you with a trail of expensive perfume in his wake. obviously, he expects you to follow and you do after a moment's reluctance.

(this guy is more confusing than the stellaron.)

aventurine who grows quite fond of seeing you acquiesce to his wishes, whether serious or trivial. could you ward off those reporters? could you pour him a drink? could you play a game of poker with him? could you join him for lunch? you're always so professional that he starts to find some mirth in pushing your buttons (never too much). unlucky for you, he does it to be affectionate and lucky for him, you always say yes even if you roll your eyes every single time.

aventurine who trusts you with his credit card. . . to a worrying degree. when asked if he's sure about this, he just waves it off and says it'll be safer in your hands. seriously, this card has been in your possession longer than it's ever been in his. sometimes, he does ask for it back – only to drop some 200k credits to your account. “a tip for doing a good job,” he'd wink casually while you're flabbergasted beyond belief.

aventurine who finds it extremely attractive whenever you step in to protect him from harm. dealing with uncooperative clients is a day in his life, yet some are so brutish they resort to getting physical – but he has you to make sure their hands stay off him. a gun in his direction? knocked off before the trigger even has a chance to get pulled. reaching out to grab him by the collar? they're already on the ground, your foot threateningly pressed on their back as a warning. what a dashing sight – and thanks to you, his pristine outfit has been saved more times than he could count at this point.

aventurine who likes to call you his “knight in shining armor” teasingly. awh, you don't like it? he thinks you're more than deserving of that title with the way you always swoop in to get him out of trouble. if the thousands of credits he gives you aren't enough yet, won't a cute title suffice? “it sounds corny,” you tell him with a grimace—and maybe, yes—but he just chirps coyly, “dunno. i think it's fitting.”

aventurine who makes it his responsibility to check on you after a rough mission. credits are no problem, he'd even reserve the most expensive private doctor in the cosmos if that means you'll recover faster. sadly, he has little to no medical skills – so the most he can offer you is bandages. sure, you can take a bullet to the stomach and handle a punch or two, that's your job, but what about tiny scratches? . . .don't tell him you're about to reject his kind offer.

“what's your favorite color?” he queries, somewhat out of the blue considering the situation where he is helping you tend to a minor cut on your finger. you raise an eyebrow, “why do you wanna know?” as he gently plasters a plain-colored bandage on your skin (which he's only been granted permission to after minutes of begging you to let him do it).

“for the bandages,” aventurine answers. he finds no need to hide his intentions as he runs a thumb over the bandage, softly as to not hurt you, to keep its position secure. “so that the next time you ask, i'll have some in your favorite color for sure.”

“how. . . thoughtful of you,” you snort, amused.

(briefly, he resists the urge to ask if he can place a kiss on your cut for 'luck'. but if he does, you might have his head. so, he'll try another time.)

aventurine who slowly begins to find a sense of comfort in your company. maybe, it's the way you scoff at his quips with a smile or the way you always tell him to be careful. maybe, it's the way you take him seriously or the way you stay by his side—is your job description the only reason why?—or maybe, he's just pathetic and reeks of so much loneliness you feel sympathetic. he can't tell, but he hopes the luxuries he has can persuade you to stay just a little longer. even if you don't actually care. (you do.)

aventurine who notices how anxiety brims in your gaze when you watch him gamble at the table – with a sum too high to be considered sane and sometimes, his own life. he can see it all; how your hands shake as if you want to reach out, how your lips tremble as if you want to tell him to stop. but this is what he's made for, is it not? he'll survive one way or another. . . until fate decides the bill for all his past good fortune is finally due. and when the time comes, he'll be ready for it. (will you?)

a game of russian roulette.

it always starts with thrills only to end with carnage spilled all over the table. luck is the only thing worth praying for at that point and oh, is luck not the dearest friend aventurine ever had? hence the reason why he always agrees, not with a yes but with a “why not?”.

you're there as his protector, yet utterly condemned to the role of a witness as soon as aventurine nods along to that darned game. panic rushes through your veins as the gun is passed around so relaxedly, so easily with laughter all around. aventurine's next in line, you realize grimly. the next decision that comes after is spontaneous, so different from your usual calculated nature – you drag him out of the casino in a frenzy before the weapon even lands in his hand. in your head, there is no other thought louder than: he could've died.

“a shame i didn't get to the fun part,” you hear him hum from behind you, too disturbingly calm for your liking. the bustling noises inside the establishment have all but faded into the background. “that was close, hm?” he laughs, a sound you would've found endearing if this was another occasion. any occasion that doesn't involve teetering dangerously on the precipice of death.

you stop in your tracks and aventurine, behind you, naturally follows. your silence is something he first takes note of and the way your hand shakes as it holds his is the second. you still haven't let go. what's going through your mind? he calls out your name softly, perplexed at your lack of explanation.

“. . .why did you say yes?” you respond with a bitter question. “you could've died. you almost died,” you try to hold back a shout – yet, your words are spat in such a fusillade he feels a seed of guilt starting to bloom inside his lifeless heart. he discards it in favor of putting on a frivolous smile.

“oh, relax,” he lets out a chuckle, one that sounds so ignorant of the taut tension in the air. “it's just some russian roulette. why so serious?” he shrugs as if to physically brush off any seriousness clinging to his figure. his remark gives off the assumption that every single hint of your worry has flown over his head.

“it is serious. . .” you bite your bottom lip. he sneers in return, “yeah? since when?” as if to challenge you to give an actual answer. his life is full of risks, to say otherwise would be a lie. “you're sweet for worrying but you don't actually care about me that much, do you?” he snickers to himself. like the thought of your caring about him can't possibly be true, like it's all just a terrible joke.

but he's the only one laughing.

aventurine falls quiet and finally, genuinely meets your gaze for the first time that night. he doesn't like what he sees. your lips are downturned, unamused and saddened—you do care, a realization that has been left unsaid—and all remainders of levity in him are replaced by immediate dread. it only now registers that the anger, concern, frustration on your face are for him; they're the unavoidable consequences from caring about him.

(his eyes widen. no, no, no.)

“c'mon, you—” he covers it up with a carefree smile, as feigned as it came. he shoves his hand in one of his pockets. it's shaking. “. . .worry too much. you've seen me play a handful of games before. i've never lost a wager, remember?”

you don't look convinced at all. in fact, you look as if you've arrived at the brink of seething. “and if you do? for once in your life, you lose?” you prod him for more. for something, for anything – perhaps, for a promise that he won't do it again.

(but you know aventurine, you know there would be no such promise.)

“then i lose,” he says, final and resigned. “there's really nothing else to it,” he tries to offer you another smile but it didn't quite reach his eyes. “hey. at least, you'll be there to witness my spectacular fall, right? it'll be a show to remember.”

he nearly doesn't manage to keep up the façade. it's already as precarious as it can be. you don't reply to him this time – instead, you let go of his hand to wipe at your cheeks. his gaze trails after your fingers and it freezes upon seeing the pearly tears falling free from your eyes.

aventurine has never seen you cry before. you're always so stone-faced, so hard to break that he recalls almost cheering when he heard you laugh for the first time. that was when you finally won a round of poker against him. a pity, he would've reminisced about the memory more. . . if only the matter of losing and winning a game isn't as serious as it is now.

“don't say that,” you mutter, harshly wiping away at the incessant tears pouring from your eyes more than you'd ever allow them to. some make their way into your mouth, they taste just as bitter as your current frustration. does he truly value his life so little? you can't fathom it, you can't fathom him at all.

but there is one thing you were certain of, at the very least: “you hired me to protect you,” you shake your head unrelentingly, “so i'll do it. until you throw me away, i won't let you die.”

you've stopped crying then. aventurine feels remorse; the tears that you shed because of him are starting to dry. the selfish part of him wants to reach out and brush them away with his thumb – but would you let him? would this lead you further down the rabbit hole that is him? in the end, he decides against it.

“. . .i'm sorry,” he sighs instead, raking a hand through his messy blond hair. whatever it is he is apologizing for, he doesn't have a clue either. he lets his eyes slip shut. he can't bear to look at you, can't bear to look at his pitiful reflection in your eyes.

(he's not worth caring about, can't you see? he dances hand in hand with death – there is no need to subject yourself to being a spectator.)

the two of you then part ways that night with shallow pleasantries on your tongues. no inside jokes, no evident yearning for the other to stay, no more than an awkward exchange of “i'll see you tomorrow.”

on his way 'home', regret and relief clash to form something inexplicably hollow inside kakavasha's chest. he wanted to wipe away your tears—what a regret—but if he did, they would've burned on his skin and became another mark to haunt him—what a relief he didn't. and frankly, if destiny is about to reap his debt, he'd rather go with no regrets at all.

whether those regrets include you? he doesn't have an answer just yet.

(the name at the bottom of his contract with fate is signed as kakavasha. but you wouldn't recognize that name. not as him, at least.)

aventurine whose eyes can't flutter close at night ever since thoughts of you fill his mind more than they already do before. you care for him, you want him to live—all his fault, he allowed himself to get too close—but these realizations are rooted in too deep and refuse to leave. what to do, what to do, what to do?

it isn't supposed to turn out like this.

what he and you have is meant to be transactional; he'd be spared from unnecessary scuffles and you'd be compensated with monetary payment. he means to keep it superficially fun; for him to tease you with jests—so you'd stay and save him from the deafening silence in his head—and for you to dismiss him with that adorably annoyed look on your face. just some silly banter, that's it.

so then, since when are there rounds of poker where he'd coo over your frown when you lost? or the sound of your lecturing after he secretly got you a high-end item? or meals shared together where you'd bicker over the bill? or bandages in your favorite color kept inside his bedside table? since when do you start to care? . . .since when does he start to care?

think of something else.

kakavasha tosses and turns in his bed, but the soft pillows and blanket do nothing to quell these bothers of his. are feelings always this complicated? he places a hand over his eyes, tired and exhausted, and stares at the ceiling as if it could provide him with an answer.

but there's no use.

in a moment void of logical thinking, he reaches for his phone and hovers a finger over your name in his contacts. he is usually good friends with bad ideas – but not this time, he sets his phone down and lets out a frustrated sigh that only his expensive pillows are there to hear.

(for gaiathra's sake, he hasn't even told you his real name yet.)

aventurine who becomes awfully distant the next time he sees you. you accompany him to meetings with clients per usual, but it's different. . . he talks to you succinctly, not verbosely with that trademark grin of his. his face is bereft of the things you grow to like seeing on him. a sincere smile instead of one just for show, for example. but even that's difficult to ask for since he only speaks to fill the silence with empty chatter. he doesn't look you in the eyes either; you feel a pang of hurt, you've always loved his eyes.

aventurine who discards all thoughts of you as soon as he steps inside pier point to be assigned a project. a conclave between the stonehearts is a matter of top confidentiality and you, dutifully, are ordered to wait for him outside the office. though, he'll admit; your absence by his side actually does leave a gaping void—such hypocrisy, really—but at least, those pesky voices in his head know how to shut up when it comes to work.

“penacony. . . is diamond finally ready to do something about it?”

aventurine rests his left hand on the small of his back, fiddling with the clubs-shaped detailing on the fabric there. it looks like an act of idleness from afar, but anyone observant enough would know it's a way to subdue whatever nerves he wishes to hide.

he waits for the person in front of him, gazing at the purplish-red sky of pier point at sunset, to speak. for their next words shall mark the start of his next journey in fate's course.

aventurine who hesitates to let you come to penacony with him at first. but it'd be poor reasoning not to, since some might have a bone to pick with him as the corporation's representative. . . and he knows you'll protest to come with anyway. fine then, situationship discomfiture be damned – not even a second after he steps out of the meeting, his neon eyes finally meet yours. “so, how does a trip to penacony sound?” he announces with a confident smile. you blink, noticing how his lips are wobbling at the sides. you don't say no, however. (if only the two of you know what sort of ride you're getting yourselves into.)

— thanks for reading! reblogs with comments are most appreciated. why don't we all sob over this man like it's a cryfest ♡

[hatsbuckets]

Thinking about how price would do his best to be professional and stoic all the time, because of the mission... until he comes undone one day with the 141's affectionate little teammate...

Pairings: Price x Reader | TF141 x Reader (if you squint) Short Vers: Cutesy. Comfort. Flirty reader takin care of an injured Price. Literally just wanted to do something cute. WC: ~1700 Oops my hand slipped. Warnings: Canon typical violence-ish: severe leg injury, mention of blood

Price was used to you doting on the team—flirty comments tossed like grenades to break tension, soft kisses planted on cheeks when you thought they needed it most. It had become routine, a part of how you all coped with the relentless grind of the job. The boys, of course, lapped it up.

Soap practically thrived on it, leaning into your affection like a cat demanding more. “Oh, c’mon, give us another,” he’d tease, tapping his cheek with an exaggerated pout until you obliged, laughing at his antics. “Knew you couldn’t resist me, lass,” he’d quip, grinning ear to ear, his cheek still tingling from your touch.

Gaz was subtler about it, but the half-laugh, half-blush that lit up his face whenever you kissed his temple was all the evidence anyone needed. “You spoil us too much,” he’d say, shaking his head, though the warmth in his eyes betrayed how much he appreciated it. He’d never ask outright, but you noticed how he conveniently ended up in your orbit on the harder days.

And there was Ghost—well, Ghost didn’t protest. Not much, anyway. He’d stiffen slightly the first time you planted a quick kiss on the edge of his mask, murmuring something soft and teasing. You’d almost expected him to recoil or bark out a gruff warning, but instead, he’d let out a low huff, half-exasperated, half-resigned. Over time, the stiffness faded, and while he never sought your attention, he also never shied away from it. If anything, you started to catch the faintest shift in his body language, a subtle leaning toward you in those quiet, fleeting moments.

But Price? He was different. He kept his distance, the line between Captain and teammate drawn so firmly it might as well have been carved into stone. It wasn’t that he didn’t notice your affection—oh, he noticed. He saw the way Soap brightened under your banter, the way Gaz carried himself a little lighter after one of your quick, casual pecks. And he saw the way your touch had a way of pulling Ghost out of whatever dark corners he sometimes disappeared into.

He noticed it all, but he made damn sure none of it ever landed on him. Not because he didn’t want it, no—that was the real problem. He wasn’t sure he’d survive it. The idea of your warmth, your care, directed at him, even for a second? That was a vulnerability he couldn’t afford, not as your Captain.

So, when you flirted with him—and you did—he kept his reactions drawn. A grumble of “Focus,” if you were getting particularly cheeky. A muttered “Bloody hell,” paired with an eye roll when you’d wink in his direction with a half-lewd quip at his expense. He deflected it like incoming fire, always quick to push the moment away before it had a chance to stick. Never a crack in that armor. Not once.

Until he came back hurt.

The mission had gone sideways in a way that none of you could’ve predicted. A clean extraction turned into a chaotic firefight, and when the dust finally settled, Price had made damn sure every single one of his team made it out alive. But it wasn’t without cost.

The explosion had been too close, the deafening roar of it still echoing in his mind like an endless drumbeat. The searing heat and shrapnel tore through his leg before he even had a chance to register the pain. All he knew in the moment was the desperate need to keep you all moving, to ensure you made it to the evac point. His body screamed louder than the orders from his mouth.

By the time they reached the chopper, Price could barely stand. Blood soaked through his tactical pants, pooling beneath him as Soap and Ghost half-dragged, half-carried him aboard. His face was pale and tight with pain, his gruff voice reduced to sharp, pained grunts as the medics worked to stabilize him mid-flight.

You had been silent, and the team's usual banter was replaced with a heavy tension as you watched your Captain struggle to bite back a groan as medics worked. Despite their efforts, he wasn't conscious for long after you assured him you were all aboard and headed home. Soap had tried to lighten the mood, cracking a joke about how “the old man finally took a hit,” but it fell flat.

...

Price spent the first few days back on base confined to the medbay, his leg immobilized in a brace, stitches holding together what could barely be called a clean wound. The painkillers dulled the physical ache, but they did little for the simmering frustration underneath. He hated being sidelined, hated seeing the team tiptoe around him when you all visited--and you all visited frequently.

When they finally cleared him to return to his quarters, it was with strict orders to rest and lean on crutches—not that he’d been given much choice. Every step was a battle. Price had always been the one they could lean on when things went to hell. Now, he couldn’t even make it to the door without bracing himself against the walls.

He tried to keep up appearances, but the cracks were showing. The little things betrayed him—his jaw tightening when the pain flared, the way his hand trembled just slightly when he gripped his crutch too hard. And he hated it. Hated being stuck in his quarters, hated the helplessness that clawed at him every time he had to ask for something.

What he hated most, though, was how much he craved the comfort you offered. The way you lingered longer than the others, always making sure he was settled before you left. The softness in your voice when you asked if he needed anything, the gentle brush of your fingers against his arm when you adjusted a pillow or passed him his crutch. You were flirty all the time, sure, but this? This was care, raw and concerned. It was too much and not enough all at once, a lifeline he didn’t know how to reach for without breaking apart entirely.

You didn’t leave him much room to protest your hovering. It started small—a cup of coffee placed on his desk before he even thought to ask, the exact way he liked it. Then came the meals, arriving like clockwork, despite his grumbled insistence that he wasn’t helpless. You ignored the way his eyebrows knitted in irritation when you lingered, adjusting pillows or tugging the throw blanket over his lap when he’d shifted just a little too much and winced for it.

It wasn’t just the tasks, though. It was the quiet way you stayed, your presence filling the space. You didn’t push him to talk, didn’t pry, but you were there. And as much as Price told himself he didn’t need the comfort, as many times as he'd sent you away and to quit your worrying, he’d started to look for it—catching himself glancing at the door, wondering when you’d come back, feeling the silence more acutely when you weren’t around.

...

It was after one of those moments, late in the evening when the base was quiet. The day had dragged on longer than usual, and the ache in his leg had worsened, grinding at his patience. He didn’t ask for help as you guided him to the couch in his quarters, but he didn’t push you away, either. You’d taken one of the crutches and leaned it against the wall, leaving him with no option but to let you take the lead.

“Sit back, Captain,” you said softly, adjusting the cushions behind him. The teasing lilt in your voice was still there, but it was subdued, quiet earnestness that had started to unnerve him. “Relax a little.”

He grunted in response, settling back with a wince as you straightened the blanket over his lap. You stepped back, looking him over like you were assessing his comfort, and he swore he saw something flicker in your expression—hesitation, maybe. Or something deeper.

“That everything, Cap?” you asked, your voice low, softer than usual. The teasing note was still there, but it was almost... careful.

He sighed, leaning his head back against the cushions, moving his toes on his propped-up leg, his weariness in his words. “Yeah. That’s everything.”

But you didn’t leave. You stood there for a second, watching him like you wanted to say something else. Then, without a word, you stepped closer, leaning over him. Price froze, his breath catching as you bent slightly, your lips brushing against his forehead. It wasn’t the first time you’d done it, but something about this moment—the softness, the lingering touch—made his chest tighten.

“Get some rest, John,” you murmured, the way you said his name feeling like a balm he didn’t know he needed.

As you straightened, your hand brushed his, and before he could think better of it, his fingers closed around your wrist. You stilled, your eyes meeting his, wide and questioning. For a moment, the air shifted, warming yet frozen.

Price didn’t know what drove him—the exhaustion, the pain, or the quiet, gnawing need he’d buried for so long. Maybe it was all of it. But before he could stop himself, he tugged you forward, slow but deliberate, his other hand rising to cradle the side of your face.

His lips met yours. The kiss was soft, almost tentative at first, but there was no mistaking the weight behind it. Gratitude, relief, and something—something raw and unyielding—poured into that single moment. He kissed you like a man letting himself feel for the first time in years, and when he finally pulled back, his cheeks were flushed beneath his beard, his breaths uneven.

“Should’ve done that ages ago,” he muttered, his voice low and rough, tinged with something that sounded suspiciously like regret.

You blinked at him, stunned, your lips still parted as if the words hadn’t quite reached you yet. Then, slowly, a grin broke across your face, soft and teasing. “What changed?”

He let out a dry chuckle, shaking his head as he leaned back against the cushions. “You. You wore me down, love.”

And just like that, his walls crumbled.