#better taste in people now though i think

[foolishaetherguardian]

“… and be sure to report any further unusual tectonic activity. Dismissed.” Bats finally finished the report. Why was he here? Right the first five minutes had been about the possibility of magic having been used. This really should have been an email he just ignored or left Zatanna to deal with. Bunny girl was better at feigning interest than he was after all. “John, Zatanna if you would both remain.”

Damn the brat. Why did the inter dimensional brat decide today to bug him? John knew he could pop up at literally any point in time like it was normal. It was revenge. For what offense he didn’t know. Or maybe he hadn’t even done it yet. Stupid fifth dimensional traveling.

“… stantine. CONSTANTINE.” “Bugger off.”

“John.”

Shit. Okay first names were bad with the cape. Like find a new existence and disappear off the face of the planet bad.

“Right sorry mate just, distracted.”

“The fact that an eldritch horror from who knows where was hanging off you like a scarf actually had some effect on you? You must be getting sentimental in your old age.”

“Love we both know that if it was weighing on me I wouldn’t be around to talk. You wouldn’t be either.” John had some respect for Zatanna. She was a good mage. Understood the proper importance of a cigarette and a blokes need to keep up appearances. Usually at least. “Got a cig?”

“Those will kill you someday.” The disapproval and sarcasm rolled off her tongue as smooth as the honeyed lies the lass would use with magic. John wanted to quip back but settled for a death glare as the big bad bat threatened to perfect his own death glare on him. Why did the bat have to be such a stickler? Rules rules rules. Rules don’t save lives when they shackle you from good. Damnit. Why were all the big dogs so damn… good?

“Hrm.”

Right the bat. The bat that right now probably wanted to string him up by his ankles and let the archdemons sort out how to cut him into nice even thirds if his damned rules didn’t stop him. Why did he have a cigarette?

“Uh bats?”

“Hrm.”

Just as loquacious as always that cape. Keep that thought inside. Definitely keep the thought inside. Especially as you take that stupidly expensive cigarette.

“Thanks. I could really…” The cig was hard. It was candy. The bat almost had an actual expression under the cowl, there was the slightest tightness of the lips. A smirk. He was smirking. ”You know what? Fuck you.” The fake cig crunched in his mouth. It actually tasted pretty good. Not that he was going to ever let anyone know that. “I’m going home. Hopefully to eat my leftovers. The brat isn’t a threat. If you want to know just ask the lass about the between or the Infinite. Or better yet go ask Grundy about The Protector.”

God he needed a drink. And a smoke. And maybe another drink. John was pretty sure that his food was gone too.

“How old is he?”

Dammit lass. Why did you always know just what to say? “14…. I think.” John replied stopping at the door to the stupid tech magic tubes that Supes had insisted on. “He’s some other world’s hero.”

The lass had to think on that one. Not every day you meet an alternate. “Is he… okay?”

“He’s doing alright. Insists his parents couldn’t understand though, so he always carries it alone. Protects people that way, or so he says.” John finally let himself laugh. It was a fitting description of most of the capes who worked with the league. And himself. If he was generous. Pity he couldn’t afford to be generous with himself anymore. “I’m just his fallback. And debit card.”

“It would do him some good to meet others. If you can invite him to the next picnic.”

John blinked slowly. Then turned. The Bat had a smile. A proper smile. Soft and understanding. How? The man was almost certainly just a mass inhuman muscle and brains with the bare minimum speech capability bundled into a bat suit. “I’ll make sure to offer it. But he’s still weird about his… abilities.”

“I’ll get him added to the budget.”

“Budget?” Now this was sounding promising. While the league did pay it wasn’t much more than rent for the closet he used to access the house.

“For young heroes or metas under league guidance. One of the points Bruce Wayne insisted on when he decided to find us officially. So they have a safe place.”

“I’m a safe place?” John’s incredulity was finally outweighing his paranoia. A hefty feat considering even he considered himself to be 90% paranoia by volume.

“Sure sounds like it mate.” Only the lass could say something so damning like it was a good thing.

“{Guess so}” Why did he understand the grunt? Are the grunts some secret dad cape speak? Why was he suddenly qualified for…. Nope. Nope. He’s going home. Sleep liquor and maybe a bit of tele. No he wasn’t tearing up. And no one could see his face to tell you otherwise.

Danny has met Constantine.

Constantine has a coat.

Danny regularly pops out of it to say hi or when Constantine calls him for something.

Nobody in the JL knew this, so when Danny popped right on out in the middle of a meeting.

Well.

[animeyanderelover]

The way of an aggressive yet very loving househusband

Tw: Yandere themes, obsession, possessive behavior, overprotective behavior, aggression but not in the way you may think, darling has periods, abduction, this is no poly relationship by the way

Can I just say that Bakugou and Barou are basically the same type of a Yandere almost down to the tee? A type which I have decided to call the aggressive househusband.

Think about it. Both are really intimidating and scary and I wouldn't hold it against you if you would be very scared of them the first time. You see how Bakugou constantly yells at people and glares at them with his red eyes. You see how Barou completely annihilates people on the field as if this was more than just a sport and notice how he towers over anyone who annoys him off whilst glaring at them with his red eyes.

So you when you are abducted you genuinely believe the worst is going to happen. That you'll be stuck with a violent and aggressive man obsessed with you who will physically harm you and beat you up.

Only for none of that to happen.

Obviously he isn't happy to see you being so scared of him. Yes, he isn't going to deny that he is maybe a tad bit scary but you're acting like he's going to undo his belt at any moment and give you a goddamn whipping.

However, despite him being quite offended that you would put him in the same category as a fucking abuser he knows that he has to give you his patience right now. Acting right into any stereotypes you have already out him into would only harm his reputation more.

He speaks quieter and tries to sound less harsh when he's talking to you. He bends down so that both of you are on the same height or he sits down somewhere so that he is actually looking up at you whilst you are looking down on him. He gives you your space. Yes, he still checks in on you because he is considerate and not fucking stupid but he doesn't invade your privacy.

His aggressive side resurfaces as soon as chores are involved but in a way you would have never expected. He is a bloody perfectionist and no matter how you clean your room, wipe the tables or vacuum-clean the floor, you somehow never do it right. There is always something that he has to criticise. There is a spot on the mirror left from when you brushed your teeth. You forgot to clean under that little gap of your wardrobe. You didn't fold your shirts right.

The list goes on.

He doesn't hit you though and yells at you that you never do stuff right and that you're useless. No, instead he guides you promptly to the bedroom, pushes you into the mattress and just bluntly tells you that you can just watch one of the 10+ Streaming Sides he pays for whilst he is going to properly clean the goddamn house. And whilst you are sitting in bed, slightly perplexed by what just happened, he is mopping the floor and mutters occasionally about how he can't believe that you can't even clean properly. That's fine though. He can do that for you.

He cooks for you. Every day. Without fail. He hates when you go out and eat some junk food. Sure, he is guilty of eating it once in a while too but it is different when it comes to you. You shouldn't enjoy greasy and unhealthy food unless it is his greasy and unhealthy food that he has prepared for you. Don't expect him to cook you that stuff every day though. He will cook nutritious and healthy food for you and you better eat what he serves or he will be very mad and grumble about it for the entire rest of the day.

You want to go an a diet? Don't even dare to attempt any bullshit diet a beauty influencer on Instagram, YouTube or other social platforms has recommended. He happens to know the one or other thing about a diet that is actually healthy and still tastes good.

You want to try a new dish? Write him down the groceries he needs and he's the next evening in the kitchen, all ingredients tidily placed in front of him as he reads the recipe through before he starts to prepare the dish.

If you want juice he is not buying the bottles but the fruits themselves and prepares fresh juice for you. If it's orange juice you want he just squeezes every last drop out with his bare fists before he serves it in a glass to you. He generally keeps a lot of fruits and vegetables in his fridge because he likes to prepare randomly a small bowl for you so that you consume your vitamins and minerals.

You, who has lived a humble life the first twenty-something years of your life, always look at price tags when something catches your eye and as soon as you notice a number far too high with what you're comfortable to spend you just turn around.

Case closed.

Or maybe not.

Because in the next moment your lover is dragging you into the store with him, grabs whatever it is that caught your eye and then asks you with a scowl on his face if there is anything else that you would like since the two of you are already in here. Do not let yourself be mislead by that scowl on his face. What he really means to say to you is "if there is anything else you want just fucking grab it because I have the money". Honestly, who do you think is he earning all his money for nowadays?

Taxes and all other paperwork is something he mainly does. You are free to help if you insist but be aware that he is most likely going to complain about something again because there is always something he can nag about.

You never have to worry about running out of pads or tampons because he always keeps those shelves filled. As soon as you're down one package a new one magically appears the next day. He's not one of those guys who feels embarrassed about buying this stuff for you. I mean, who is going to make fun of him? Most people are in general far too scared to comment about it when they see him standing in line with packages of pads in his basket.

He ensures that you have all your needed doctor appointments. A general health check. A visit at your gynaecologist. A visit at the dentist. All of that at least twice a year so that he can see it through that something is treated the moment it is spotted.

When you're sick he is the best person to take care of you. He doesn't judge you for your terrible mood, the coughs, the sneezes or other symptoms you may experience. However, he is going to bully the spoon of medicine in your mouth, is going to monitor you to see it through that you consume your tablet and will carry you right back to bed and wrap you up as soon as you attempt to do something when you should rest instead.

Scary dog privilege is real with him just as much as the saying "my girl can wear whatever the fuck she wants because I can fight". It doesn't matter at which time in which location you are at, absolutely no one is getting to you with him by your side.

As soon as he notices someone giving you a weird look or oogling at you suggestively? Then it's up to you to cling to his torso as he drags you with him, red eyes promising a burial. Luckily you manage to be a voice of reason and stop him from potentially committing a crime in public.

You realise that you have severely misjudged him. Apparently you really shouldn't judge a book by its cover.

[kwillow]

Mail time. Theo clearly isn't the best candidate to lecture people on "good manners" but that's not going to stop him.

Also using this as a header for more LORE RAMBLES: THEO EDITION, because again I have more interesting asks about Theo than I can answer with drawings -- so REAMS OF WORDS it is!

Questions and answers under the cut...

Well, Theo isn’t terribly fond of the guy. He’s never met him, of course, but from his research into Old Kingdom history, he thinks of Ambroys as a conceited, shallow, disloyal, cowardly liar – and he’s not exactly wrong, ha.

If they met in the past, when Ambroys was his cocky, younger self, I think Ambroys would take advantage of Theo’s poor social skills and unpopularity by bullying him for some cheap points with other people who would find amusement in that. Ambroys wouldn’t have much use for him otherwise. Theo would spend far more time seething about Ambroys and plans for his revenge on that POMPOUS POPINJAY than Ambroys would spend thinking about Theo at all.

If they met in modern times – well that’s something we’ll address eventually, but Theo and Ambroys would not get along much better. Present-day Ambroys does not like mages one bit. Also, he is quite used to being literally worshipped. A little hater like Theo would not be looked upon kindly.

Thank you!! Now you too are present in a lore dump!

Theo is indeed a fan of the performing arts, and art in general (though he is, predictably, very particular in his tastes). Opera and such was performed during Ambroys’ time, and much of it was likely lost during the apocalyptic era between the time of the Old Kingdoms and the modern day, but I imagine some scant examples of the genre (and traditional plays by the likes of Furry Shakespeare, because Shakespeare is one of those people who just exists in every universe no matter how bizarre) would still survive into the Theo’s time.

Theo’s hometown of Northcrest would be too small and rural to have a real theatre, so experiencing “proper” performances would be rare treats for him, when he followed his mother on business excursions to the rich districts of Ironfrost. I love that you picked up on the fact that he would want his own private box, haha. He wants to observe, not be observed!

You’re right that musicals would probably still be in their vaudeville and burlesque era, and Theo would find them to be distasteful, vulgar pap suited only for the soft, feeble minds of the unwashed masses, not a refined intellectual like himself. (Which is funny because I think a real-world modern-day Theo would like musicals because in some ways, he is a theater kid without the charisma or confidence to actually perform.) While his mother did not enjoy theatre to the same extent he did (her tastes were more in feats of choreographry and human/anthro excellence like ballet), they would bitch about the decline of society together if they saw a poster for one of those terrible, gaudy cabaret catastrophes. In general, Theo hates anything modern and likes anything old-fashioned, and that shifts according to the decade he lives in. An Amaranthine Theo would hate swing music, but a real-world modern-day Theo would like it. Embarrassing!

Also, he will memorize and quote his favorite soliloquies at people for the faintest of reasons. Don’t test him.

No, I don’t think Hyden has strong enough arms or a sturdy enough back to lift an entire person, even one as little as Theo. Hyden might be large but he’s not as powerful as his height and bulk make him look. I think even Theo is more physically adept than Hyden is (and that’s not saying much).

Also, while he would learn to tolerate it from someone like Hyden (in the same way your cat might begrudgingly tolerate you grabbing their little feet), Theo does not like being picked up by people. I can speak from experience than when you’re a short person, people love to pick you up randomly to establish dominance and it’s not a very dignified experience. Theo has a hard enough time being taken seriously even without being lugged about like a wheezing sack of flour.

Theo would be the first to inform you he is not the person to consult on romantic matters. At the same time, he would still give his advice: stop being a fatuous little fool and turn your efforts to matters of greater importance, like work or supporting your family or collecting every edition of your favorite encyclopedia or hitting your head against a wall. All would be better ways to spend your energy.

(I think you’re alluding to a person with a crush on him – God knows why such a person would exist in his universe – asking him for romantic advice, but I feel compelled to specify that the message he’d give a man seeking instructions on how to deal with a lady would be akin to “GET A JOB. STAY AWAY FROM HER���)

(Or maybe you mean someone Theo has a crush on? Well, the answer would be the same. Theo isn't duplicitous enough or proud enough to try to swindle someone towards viewing him as a romantic prospect. But he sure wouldn't suggest they get with someone else. NO ONE IS ALLOWED TO BE IN LOVE. STOP IT, HE SAYS.)

Yes, those are self-inflicted injuries. He’s had a compulsion to bite and scratch himself ever since he was a kid. Sometimes as a punishment, sometimes as a ritual to quell distressing thoughts, sometimes out of the need to replace distressing sensations and events that are out of his control with one that is in his control, no matter how painful.

He does not particularly value his body nor its integrity. However, he is aware the scars are alarming, and finds them somewhat embarrassing reminders of his flaws in self-regulation. He deals with both the sight of the scars and the urge to harm by wearing his gloves, which is something he started doing in his late teens – they cover the marks and help redirect him by replacing the sensation of flesh with fabric when he goes to bite down.

On your question about Theo’s body-image: no, he does not care for how he looks. He likes that his eyes are grey (like mother’s) and that his fur is monochrome (like mother’s), and if pressed he might say the eyebrows aren’t bad, except for the parts where he’s pulled the hair out of them, but that’s it. He hates that he’s not just short but dwarfish, he does not like his heavy-set build, he would not choose to be born a rat, he despises his face, his teeth repulse him, he at least can make peace with the fact that he can’t grow facial hair because he’d never want a mustache like his father’s but it’s still somewhat emasculating, and on and on and on with the insecurities. He definitely feels physically inferior to other males. Your average man is not only much, much taller than him (and the world is cruel to a short king), but stronger and more classically virile as well. But he makes the best of that by dismissing those physical qualities as consolation prizes afforded to males who are obviously inferior to him intellectually, morally, and spiritually. He doesn’t care for brutes, but he doesn’t highly value machismo anyway… He thinks of himself as a gentleman whose best qualities reside in his mind and actions. A man who is reedy and petite but smarter or more charismatic than him is much more threatening to his ego than the bulkiest bruiser. (However, he will still try to fight both for dominance, either physically or verbally, and probably lose.)

Theo is highly offended and disgusted by nudity, both other’s and his own. Even states of mild undress are distressing to him, hence why he looks away when buttoning Hyden’s shirt. He’s willing to stomach some discomfort when it comes to helping a loved one, but only if it’s strictly necessary. He would pointedly not look and scold someone, even someone he was more comfortable with, if they were “too underdressed,” and freak out if they came into his vicinity in the nude. I think it would take years of gradual desensitization to lessen his negative reactions to nudity. It’s not just him being fussy, it borders on a phobia.

(Haha this shows how long I sit on asks before I get around to answering them SORRY...!!!!)

I don’t talk about it a lot because while the character’s sexual orientations do inform their lives and development, romance and sex are not usually at the top of my priority list when it comes to my stories… but I’ve alluded and mentioned directly that Theo is “canonically” bisexual (always feels weird to say “canon” about my imaginary friends, ha). But he is in denial/in the closet about it. Of course, he wouldn’t be aware of the concept of “bisexuality”, nor would that exact label exist in his world, so it’s not like he would identify that way even if he wasn’t repressing hardcore.

He is revolted by sex and intimacy, but that’s more due to his psychological baggage, his perception of his parent’s relationship and his cultural mores than something necessarily inborn or inherent to him.

(Hyden is actually Also Straight, possibly even straighter than Ambroys if we’re measuring by “creator’s admittance that character may be bi-curious one day.” I have a track record.)

Only if it’s karmic in some way, involving a person or persons he’s already predisposed to hating. Granted, dying of one’s own stupidity would be a form of justice in his eyes, but there’s limitations to that. Hearing about, say, an incident like Nutty Putty cave would not be amusing even though he would argue it’s the cave explorer’s “own fault” for going in there because it was such a gruesome and prolonged end, far outweighing the punishment Theo would find fair for such hubris. Of course, if the same cave explorer bullied him in prep school, then yes, it would be hilarious.

I don’t have a character named Herbert, so I am assuming you mean Theo here, from context. :’D

I’d like to draw Theo practicing his fencing some day! It’s on The List along with, er, fifty other drawings, ha. There’s just so much I need to make and so little time…

But besides that, Theo is not a particularly sporty guy. He doesn’t tend to enjoy competitive sports, either participating or watching. Physically he’s just not suited to them, and his schoolboy days did not endear him to them.

He does enjoy taking walks and admiring picturesque landscapes. He also hunted with his mother. One of the duties of the Norths is (or was, before he started shirking all his duties to focus entirely on his madness quest) to eliminate monstrous predators lurking on the outskirts of their territory before they could terrorize the mundane locals. Mages can sense magic, and thus are more capable of tracking down and felling corrupt magical beasts than your average person. Also, sometimes one wants a pheasant for dinner on special occasions. So, he grew up learning to hunt, and he’s decent with a rifle. He doesn’t go out to do much anymore, though. His mother’s death and subsequent self-imposed isolation exacerbated his already present issues with social phobia and paranoia, so he doesn’t feel safe outside his house. Someone could see him out there, and Something could happen. (He isn’t sure what exactly, but surely nothing good.)

During the course of Amaranthine’s story he is, of course, forced to go outside again and travel, so he’ll rediscover his hobby of killing animals again. …Good for him. I suppose.

(This is in reference to the tags I put on my post of Theo's romance meme: #ok one piece of commentary: brain problems + highly repressed upbringing = where i put theo on the kinky slider. it had to be there #you should think less '50 shades' and more '50 year old guys waxing poetic about quicksand scenes in old adventure films' for that one #he's not a quicksand guy. but that's the vibe.)

Hahaha, I appreciate your curiosity, but I’m not sure if it’s a terrific idea to share Theo’s “quicksand” equivalents. Alas, I don’t want to encourage the perception that my characters exist to be romantic or sexual wish-fulfillment, instead of the dysfunctional little narrative fidget toys they are, by going too in-depth too often on their hypothetical sex lives. Also, I get my (un)fair share of fetish-mining asks, and if I mention certain kinks, the senders of those asks might think they can wheedle that kind of smut art from me, which… is not the case, even if I did like the things Theo is partial to. Frankly, I don’t have time to draw smut art when I have so many comics of my characters angsting at each other that I ought to be drawing instead!!!

Anyway, complaining over. But I do know what Theo’s “interests” are, and don’t worry, they are suitably cringe. I find amusement in giving embarrassing proclivities to all my favorite characters, even if it will never come up in their stories. It keeps them humble.

The Theo befriending scenarios are becoming more elaborate…!

Magic can’t really do that in Amaranthine (it’s more limited than a lot of people think)! But even if you could, I think Theo might realize something was off eventually. Granted, he is blind to a lot of manipulation when he trusts someone, and for his own stupid reasons he trusts Hyden, so that alone would provide cover for some time. Being nice to him in Hyden’s guise might even fulfill some boyhood dreams of his, so that helps too. Still, I don’t think anyone but Hyden could manage to act like Hyden forever.

Theo abhors liars, manipulators, and traitors (I know, this is very funny considering I just talked about how Theo likes Hyden – again, Theo is not a great judge of character). While he would be mortified at his own gullibility, it’s not like he’d spare you any judgment for being the one to take advantage of his hospitality in the first place.

So, in attempting to befriend him, you would have 1) caused harm to someone he has charged himself with protecting by kidnapping Hyden, 2) committed the sin of deceiving him and 3) wounded his ego by exposing a huge vulnerability in his psychological armor. These are not crimes he is likely to excuse. Among Theo’s many faults are his capacity for spite and appetite for disproportionate vengeance. In other words, he would want to hurt you very, very badly.

Anyway, in summation, this is not a great way to try and win Theo’s affection. If befriending something hostile is what you’re after, I’d recommend purchasing a pet cobra or something, it would be more rewarding and less difficult to manage.

Ooh, this is another one of those “it depends” sort of questions… an Amaranthine Theo is completely unsuited for parenthood because he is just totally off his rocker and devoted to an impossible, nature-impugning, corruptive madness quest, so there’s not really much space left in his brain for any of the tasks involved in parenting.

Also, how well and in what way he would approach parenting would depend on if he has a partner and who they are, if the kid is biological (and therefore an extension of the North line) or adopted (and therefore might be spared some of those expectations), and what the kid or kids are like.

But, I’ll try to speak generally. He does put an importance on family so he would not be neglectful. In fact, I think he’d tend towards being smothering, way too over-protective. He would have high expectations for their academic career (despite flopping in his own) and would be upset if his children didn’t share his interest in intellectual pursuits. He lacks a lot of knowledge about life, and so he wouldn’t be able to pass that on to his children, despite desiring that they be self-sufficient and capable. He would try and keep them from being romantically involved until they could marry, which he wouldn’t think would be difficult considering how he himself is, but I think he would be disappointed and frustrated by the fact that most people (and therefore probably his kids) aren’t so averse to macking on other teenagers in their school days. His tendency towards being neurotic and temperamental would be an issue, and I think even if he tried to control his explosive tendencies around his children, they’d still pick up on it and be afraid of his moods. I think, with his immature development, he would have a lot of difficulty not descending to a teenager’s level of petty sniping if his teenage child did what teenagers do and started challenging him.

So… this is not painting a rosy picture. Don’t get me wrong, he’d try his best, and he would aim to be a good, supportive, and loving parent, but the man has issues. He wouldn’t be perfect. He might not even be good. He is Theo, after all.

Speaking of parenthood, let's get into some...

Family Matters

NO, they did not like each other. Their passive-aggression is as genuine as it is petty. They were the most divorced people to still technically be married.

Love was never in the cards for these two. The marriage was purely strategic, and all parties were aware of that. Leonard would have liked to have his wife love him, if only because it would be much more pleasant and convenient for him, but it wasn’t a requirement. He could seek love elsewhere if need be. He was always an opportunistic fellow that way.

Jo never held fondness for Leonard, either before or after their engagement. The marriage was at the behest of her father, and Jo had always put her duties to her family line above whatever selfish wants she might have had. She was willing to tolerate Leonard, which is about the best you could expect from her. However, he tried her patience too often to maintain even that level of camaraderie.

Leonard liked how Jo looked, and he liked the idea he had of her personality. Because Jo was deferential to her father, he assumed she would be similarly deferential to him. Hahaha. Not so. After her father passed, she inherited the Barony and thus, in her mind, the right to dictate the use of her family’s assets, the alliances she would forge with her noble connections, and the future of her estate. All her plans conflicted sharply with Leonard’s ideas of what he was going to do with the North’s influence, and he thought himself the keeper of their assets by patriarchal right. They clashed often and they both were too proud, power-hungry, and conniving to reconcile.

Leonard stayed because giving up the marriage would be giving up his avenue to social power. If he wanted to appear like he held the reins to potential allies and business connections, he had to stay in the manor, stay in Northcrest, and keep that ring on his finger. But he did take a very “I just live here” attitude to his home life. Jo stayed because her family’s long-held values maintained that it was her duty to do so, and to falter in her duties would be a permanent black stain on her good name. Also, it proved her superiority to the clearly weak-willed, dissolute Leonard, and that was an ego boost she wouldn’t pass up.

AHAHAH. THEO PEGGED FOR INBRED.

Yes, well, as you intuited, the Norths are one of those inbred noble families, like those you mentioned.

They’re a mage bloodline, and in the old days, mage nobility was a separate form of titled aristocracy from mundane nobility. Legitimate heirs had to have magical ability. If a mundane Viscount produced a mundane child, that was the end of the line of inheritance. Hence, noble mages in the Old Kingdoms only married other mages, to try to ensure their offspring could inherit their titles. While not all practiced inbreeding, it was a practice some families employed to try to “enhance” the magical ability and purity of their line, or just keep their wealth and power within their family (the Hyden family is another infamous example).

However, most magical lineages were wiped out during the fall of the Old Kingdoms, and those that survived were scattered to remote areas of the continent. Very few mages still exist, and the North family is one of the only lineages to survive “intact” to the modern day. They cling to their family’s history and their magical bloodline as their source of power and would never risk a union with a mundane. Like many other old traditions best left in the past, the Norths clung to the old ways, marrying within their line, inbreeding like an endangered species (which I suppose you could argue they were).

Of course, as the North’s numbers declined, the marriages shifted from pairing distant relatives to being cousin-cousin pairs. That level of consanguinity isn’t great for your offspring’s health or fertility, as it turns out, and further diminished their numbers (and options) until it came time for Jocosa to make their dying lineage limp along for another generation. By the time she was of age, there were no branches on the family tree left to harvest a husband from. Thus, the Norths needed to go further afield of the stagnant gene pool they’d been festering in.

Because of that, Theo is arguably a bit less inbred than previous generations of his family. The damage was already done, though. The fruits of the North’s unfortunate marriage practices have garnered them a deserved reputation for weak bodies, sick minds and dying young, and so far, Theo is two-for-three. We’ll see if he gets the triple.

Related to the above: if you haven’t realized already, the Norths are fucking freaks. Especially in the modern day of Amaranthine, caring about matching species in a marriage is seen as hyper-traditionalist, bizarre and absurdly impractical. But, well, the Norths are all those things. Jocosa’s parents were a stoat-stoat pair, their parents were stoat-stoat, and so on up the family tree, with maybe some rare exceptions where you might find a few polecats or minks scattered about in amongst the other long pointy-faced carnivores. Jocosa’s parents really would have preferred to have another mustelid marriage rather than wed their daughter to a rat.

But, that was a preference, and magical ability was a necessity. When Jocosa needed to marry, there were no other magical stoats, weasels, or even an otter for them to choose from.

That’s when an opportunistic young rat caught wind that there was a beautiful noble girl in need of a husband, just when he needed a rise in social station. Leonard was reasonably wealthy, and more importantly charming, quick-witted, and not afraid of lying his ass off to close a deal. He befriended Jocosa’s father and was able to delicately pick his way around or find loopholes in the Norths’ strict rules for marriage. Importantly for the Norths, Leonard had magical ability, albeit extremely weakly. You might say he was a sparkler while Jocosa was a flamethrower (in this analogy, in his prime, Hyden was an atomic bomb). Not ideal, but Leonard had enough magic to count as a mage for heir-producing purposes. Ultimately, Jocosa’s parents saw Leonard as the best option in a bad situation, rat or no. Preferable to dying out altogether, at least.

...

AND ON THAT, UH, HAPPY NOTE: thanks for reading and thank you all as always for sending questions about my little guy and being interested in him, even with all his slimy, weird, unpleasant foibles and flaws!

[akuma-tenshi]

finished closing night!! boy do i have some thoughts. and now that i've gathered them, i'm about to make my autism your problem. spoilers below.

the first part of the event wasn't awful imo, it felt like character building and just helping establish the dynamic. i know some people weren't fond of it but given that i was never really that invested in hullabaloo before this and didn't know every little detail of these characters, it was nice to get some character establishment and figure out how they all are as people. i am also a fan of slowburn character-focused horror, so that may just be a personal taste thing lmao

bryce papenbrook does a good job as mike, even though there are definitely points where he sounds exactly like nagito (namely the scene where he's shouting at margaretha in the foyer). he has a very particular way of speaking / voicing characters that make it immediately clear it's him. however, i do think he fits mike well and he definitely lays off the nagito-ness in the second part.

the rest of the cast was excellent as well. while there was a Choice made with murro's voice (he sounds WAY younger than he's supposed to be, which is off-putting and takes me out every time he speaks), it's very clear everyone knows their characters well and they all do a good job keeping their mannerisms and vocalisations unique and fitting to each role. aside from some awkward lines (which i attribute more to stilted writing than to the va's themselves), the voice acting is absolutely a highlight.

margaretha's trauma with sergi is portrayed very well imo. bear in mind i have not suffered the same abuse as her, so i can't say how accurate or good it is, but it feels like it displays that it was a terrible thing while also being respectful and avoiding being exploitative. the added layer that everyone else (except joker) liked sergi and was unaware of the abuse adds a lot.

in general, i think mike and margaretha are incredibly well-written here. i think ne could've absolutely gone the route of popular fan interpretations and completely demonised margaretha while making mike a perfect angel, and they would've gotten a lot of praise for it. but they stuck to their guns and made them both very flawed yet understandable people, and that just makes everything feel that much more real, at least to me. they're such different people with opposing goals, and their friction really comes through. everyone else is very well done (shoutout to me a couple of hours ago calling joker cute for some godforsaken reason i can't remember) and i love all of their characterisations, but mike and margie really are the standouts here.

i do wish there was a bigger payoff for margaretha using euphoria so frequently. i know it's implied to have been involved in violetta's death, and i appreciate the connection to game 5, but i wish there was a little bit more there. it's not a huge gripe though, so i won't harp on it for long.

the pacing at the start of the second part had me extremely worried; things felt like they were dragging along and being padded out for the sake of being padded out, and i was not having fun with it. fortunately, this issue was remedied about halfway through, and once things got going, i started really enjoying myself. the pacing of the first half of part two is my biggest gripe with this story.

i was noticing a lot of similarities between hullabaloo and fool's gold: hunter forms of popular survivors being announced and used as a major part of marketing for an update to the idv story. with the aforementioned pacing issues, i was really worried that hullabaloo's reveal would shape up to be similar to fg's: a kinda cool cutscene and a lame chase sequence at the very end of a long, boring storyline. however, despite hullabaloo having a much smaller part in this story than fg did in aom, appearing only briefly in the fire at the very end, i still think it's a better incorporation of the character than what they did with norton. better to have it be quick and intimidating than just kinda tedious.

every death in this (aside from joker's) felt very purposeful and well-done. violetta's death was heartbreaking. the change in animation towards the end, followed by the single sound of her machinery giving out after the screen went black, was beautiful, and hey, at least she died happy. margaretha's death pulled at a very specific and very major love i have in storytelling, that being a character choosing to die free rather than live in captivity, and the payoff of all the underwater scenes where she swims towards sergi finally coming through when she chooses to sink away from him had me losing my mind. i genuinely did not expect mike's death to be a straight-up suicide; like i said, i'm not completely caught up on hullabaloo lore, so maybe other people saw this coming, but the fact that he truly could not live with the truth about hullabaloo is such a heartwrenching yet satisfying end to his character. like i said, joker's is the only death that doesn't totally stand out, but i like that they let you put the pieces together yourself.

the chase sequence with joker was unintimidating and a little lame, and honestly it felt somewhat forced, just a way to get his hunter form in there bc they realised "oh shit right this guy's like. a hunter isn't he." i do like that they gave him back his chainsaw though; very nice little callback to the betas.

the animation of the hullabaloo fire was absolutely gorgeous and the ending had me in shambles. for a while afterwards i felt similar to how i felt after finishing end roll: drained and flat but in a good way, like a ton of adrenaline had just released from my body after some intense event.

all in all, i really enjoyed it. i can't say if i like it more than aom, but that may be the frederick bias coming through, so i'm going to choose not to rank them and just say hey. banger event. well worth the hype even with its hiccups and flaws. i always say this, but idv has some genuinely talented people in its writers' room, and i can't wait to see what they come out with next.

[sun-archeron]

Vi can't handle change

In arc 1 she complains that everyone around her changed, and asks Cait not to, and then not even 15 minutes later Cait changes, and Vi finds it very upsetting. But not only that, she also seems perturbed when Isha comes into the scene and Jinx's whole demeanor changes, her bravado giving way to fear for the kid. In season one, when she finds Sevika she angrily calls her a traitor, and after her operation with Jayce kills a kid and Jayce backs out, Vi gets angry at him. When she reunites with Ekko she's confrontational till the point when she can tell he still has the same morals she knew him to have, and that compensates for the change in personality. When she meets Warwick she's immediately hostile, even though she knows it's Vander, and she only stops because Jinx is sounding more like the Powder she knew. And the whole fandom noticed how she was at her happiest in the whole show when she got her family back.

I used to find Vi the most uninteresting character on the show, and only now realised it's because she haven't changed. From episode one of season one, to episode 6 of season 2, she's still the same person. Everybody talks about how Jinx's trauma stunted her mental growth, but the same goes for Vi. She was taken out of society at a young age, and although she probably went through horrible things in prison, all of it only confirmed the world views that she already had. As bad as they are, days in prison are all the same, even if the rotation of prisoners and guards changes, their behaviors stay predictable, and routines there never change. Vi remained static for over a decade, and not only was everything different when she got out but she also got out at a time of various intense changes; she barely had time to absorb what to her was the new status quo and it immediately changed again. She expected to get out and go back to her life as it was, like a movie that was paused and all she had to do was hit the play button and pick up from where she left off.

Meanwhile, everyone else changed. The how and why don't matter because it is inevitable. Even if nothing bad ever happened, all these characters would still change, because that's just how life is. We grow and we see the world, and our opinions and tastes and habits all change, and things and people around us change as well, so we react to that by changing again. Vi didn't learn that because she grew up in the one place that stays the same while the world moves on.

If Arcane were a more optimistic show i'd say it would end showing Vi as our one true hero, who through all the trials and tribulations remained true to her character and beliefs, the whole hero's journey thing. But I don't think it's going there. She is definetly going to have a significant change; whether it's for the better or for the worse I don't know. (Going off of LoL lore, she loses her memory and becomes an enforcer, but Arcane already changed so much lore, and that feels like such a disappointing note to finish her character arc on, I doubt they're gonna do it exactly like that

[totopopopo]

genuinely not quite sure why i am so deeply uncomfortable when it comes to telling ppl abt my personal/romantic life. like i want them to know but i also don’t like admitting to anyone out loud that i have emotions, feelings, and/or relations resembling anything beyond superficial interest. i mean jesus. how cringe. they should just intuit it all psychically or something so they can know without me ever having to bring it up myself

[benevolenterrancy]

hi! I recently came across your tgcf fics, and I wanted to say you’re a phenomenal creator. the recovery series fic and the gloves fic and just all of them. thank you for your content and great attention to detail.

do you have any thoughts/hcs on FXMQ and Xie Lian you’d be willing to share? within the original story or the universes of your fics!

Thank you so much, I'm glad you're enjoying them! (ﾉ*^▽^*)ﾉ.｡:*☆

hmm, random thoughts about the FXMQ... a silly headcanon: Feng Xin has very much been hoisted by his own petard by heckling Mu Qing! That is to say, he'll harass Mu Qing relentlessly about something stupid only to be confronted with a similar situation and realise that there's absolutely NO way he can act in anyway similar to Mu Qing or he'll never hear the end of it.

(For example, he has tolerated some truly atrocious divine statues in the past because he's heckled Mu Qing so much about how picky he is with his divine statues that there's no WAY he can say ANYTHING without seeing that smug bastard's face in his head so he just has to bite his tongue and tolerate some unspeakably ugly statues.)

Mu Qing doesn't generally suffer from similar overthinking (he'll just prepare to kick FX's ass if he dares to say anything about it) except for things more directly related to himself. I think he genuinely finds sewing/embroidery/etc rather relaxing work but he'd rather die than have anyone ever see him do it because he's made such a big deal about not doing that sort of "servant" work anymore.

(He actually really enjoyed stitching Ruoye back together because it gave him the perfect excuse -- he's returning a favour!! and Xie Lian is hopeless!! of course he had to!! -- and he secretly considered using white thread to embroider some invisible little designs just because he doesn't quite want to stop... only he knew he'd get caught if he messed with Xie Lian's spiritual device like that and gave up the idea)

[spacespore]

HI TUMBLRR it’s me

[ereborne]

Song of the Day: December 6

"Your Body Is A Weapon" by the Wombats

[keeps-ache]

standing here in my star-patterned bathrobe holding a stylus while inscribing something onto my computer. it's wizard time baby

[astralmarionette]

im currently writing an atsugawa (I hate the name shin soukoku or whatever I'm sorry but I'm actually not. also I cannot pronounce soukoku {this is the real reason I don't use soukoku}) and I don't even ship it lmaoo

[genderfluid-druid]

dropping thoughts like laundry into the aromanticism washing machine and watching them spin. taking little notes in a fancy journal titled "greyro??" and crossing them out, but then going back and scribbling an addendum. holding up an extravagant glass beaker full of a cool bubbling potion and peering at it through safety glasses that say "mind the amatonormativity!"

[conceptuma]

YURI BLAST!!!!!!!!!!!!!

[werecreature-addicted]

going to underground fighting rings not to place bets or to drown your sorrows in cheap booze and blood sport but because the werewolf who fights in the cage matches is so. fucking. hot. You're no better than a sad man in love with a stripper. but you come back every week, you sneak in after dark and stand in the jeering crowd looking up at the hulking monster and watch him fight. Sometimes you hope he'll look down and see you, most nights you're too embarrassed to show your face.

There's something about watching that werewolf tear into the other opponents that sets your blood on fire, the blood, the sweat, the way his lips curl back in a snarl when you're close enough to the cage you can hear him pant and growl, every punch he throws makes your knees weak. It's better than porn. you almost never make it through the entire match. Not when he's the one fighting at least. You watch the werewolf punch the other guy so hard he's lifted off the ground and your brain goes fuzzy picturing those big hands lifting you up by the hips, pinning you against the cold metal grate of the cage that surrounded the fighting ring, you picture him forcing your thighs apart with those scared hands of his and drop you down on his cock.

You push your way out of the crowd and to the dingy bathroom. You can't help it. You really can't. you lock yourself in one of the stalls and touch yourself, fingers quick and messy just trying to be quiet as you picture The fighter breaking your nose and licking up the blood. choking you with his big hands while he mounted you from behind on the dirty floor of the ring. One time you'd seen him bite another opponent and now the thought of him biting you like that, sinking those sharp teeth into the side of your neck or into your thigh was the only thing that could get you off. You thought about it now, feverishly touching yourself with one hand, the other covering your mouth, still, little whimpers of pleasure escape you.

You need to be more careful, more people are coming in and out of the bathroom, the fight must be over. someone's going to get pissed that you're taking so long soon. You're surprised when a half-hard cock pokes through the glory hole an inch in front of your face. You jump. In all your time masturbating in this shit-hole bathroom, you'd never noticed the hole in the side of the stall wall.

You stare at the cock for a second, hand still in between your legs. it's too big to be human, and the half-swollen knot throbbing at the base makes you think of your fighter, your werewolf.

"I know you're in there, i can fucking smell you, just like i can smell you getting horny in the crowd, fucking surprised you don't leave a puddle on the floor slut." he snarls and bangs on the side of the stall.

"Go on take what you want, suck this dirty cock you've been drooling over," You lean in and smell him, it's almost enough to make you cum right there. You should do what he wants, blow him like a good whore, but you are so so bad at denying yourself. Instead, you run your tongue over his balls, whimpering at the taste, you're drunk off of the musk of him, and the low groan he lets out is almost enough to make you cum right there. Eventually, though you move your mouth up, kissing and licking his shaft, and take the tip of the werewolf's cock into your mouth. He wastes no time thrusting into you, fucking your face. You let him, really it's the least you can do for the champion.

[itneverendshere]

LOVED YOU AT YOUR WORST - r.c series - SEVEN

pairings: ex!sweethearts; rafe x thornton!reader; rafe x sofia. chapter warnings: mentions of pregnancy, abortion, alcohol, drug consumption.

MASTERLIST

You never spent much time on The Cut, unless you were being dragged by duty, mostly charity events for the local populations, fundraisers for their schools usually.

You always showed up in something tasteful but subtly expensive—pearls, understated Louboutin heels, and a blazer that whispered wealth without screaming it. 

Your mother taught you that.

Now, you sat in Poguelandia, doing god knows what.

The name alone sounded like some bad beach-themed party game. But you kept the snark to yourself—mostly. Sarah swore to you this was her new "thing," her big redemption arc, and who were you to judge? It wasn’t where you pictured spending any afternoon, yet there you were.

Pregnant. On The Cut. Drinking—well, holding—a very flat ginger ale out of a plastic cup.

You smoothed your dress for the hundredth time, light linen in a neutral tone that looked effortless but cost more than most people’s rent, while pretending not to notice Pope and Cleo staring like you were a rare bird that had wandered into the wrong habitat. 

Were they always this... intense? Did people on this side of the island not know how to look away when someone made eye contact? Your mother’s voice echoed in your head. They’re not staring at you, dear; they’re staring at themselves in relation to you. 

Whatever that meant. 

To their credit, they weren’t mean about it. Just... curious, as if you’d wandered in from a wildlife documentary called Kooks in the Wild.

You moved your weight around in your seat, hyper-aware of every grain of sand sticking to your hérmes sandals. Every time you shifted, you felt the grains grinding between the straps and your skin.

Should’ve worn the espadrilles, you thought ruefully, but even then, this wasn’t the world’s most glamorous venue. Sarah had begged you to stop by, though, and you owed her. It was also good for you to leave the house instead of being cupped up inside all alone.

“Okay, seriously, what’s with the staring? Do I have something on my face? Is my makeup smudged? Be honest.”

Cleo snorted. “No, you’re fine, princess. We’re just surprised to see you.”

You were still holding your sad little plastic cup. “Just thought I’d participate in—whatever this is.” You gestured vaguely at the mismatched chairs and string lights that looked like they’d been stolen from someone’s backyard wedding. “Community service?”

It was supposed to come off as witty. You weren’t sure it did.

Pope choked on his drink—sweet tea? soda?—and Cleo chuckled outright. “You’re funny,” she said, and for a moment, you weren’t sure if she meant it.

“Thanks?” It came out like a question, and you wanted to die just a little bit inside.

Pope grinned, leaning forward with a chip in his hand. “You don’t seem like the kind of person who hangs out in The Cut, that’s all.”

You blinked, feigning shock. “You don’t think I spend my weekends in—what is this, a glorified surf shack? I’m crushed.”

Cleo laughed again, which—fine—made you feel a little better.

“Nah, it’s just... you’re different up close. Not like, scary kook different. Just human. Y’know?”

“Great. That’s exactly what I was going for today.”

Pope gestured to the bar. “You want a snack? Chips? Cookies? We have...three options.”

You straightened, eyes narrowing like a hawk zeroing in on prey.

Food. Your stomach growled loudly, as if it had been cued by a stage director. “What kind of cookies?”

He blinked, not expecting you to care. “Uh... chocolate chip? Maybe oatmeal raisin?”

“And the chips?” You pressed, leaning forward now.

“Salt and vinegar,” Cleo piped up, eyeing you curiously. “Barbecue too, I think. Why?”

“Okay, shit, great.” You clapped your hands together decisively. “I’ll have all of it. All the chips, both kinds of cookies. Do you have anything else? Pretzels? Popcorn? Random condiments? I’m not picky.”

Cleo stared at you, her mouth slightly open. “Everything?”

“Yes, everything. Is that a problem?”

She blinked, her eyes darting to Pope like he had an explanation. He shrugged helplessly.

“Woman” she muttered under her breath. “Did you not eat for a week, or...?”

The salt and vinegar chips were divine, borderline transcendent, as you shoved another handful into your mouth. The truth was, you weren’t just hungry—you were still terrified. Every bite, every easy conversation with other people that weren’t Sarah, was a game of jenga to you. One wrong move, one offhand comment, and your secret could be out in the open.

Six more days until this would all be... over. Until the secret growing inside you—the one you’d barely admitted to yourself most mornings—would be gone.

The past three days had been the best you’d felt in ages, cravings and all, thanks to Sarah. She’d slept over, stayed up late talking with you, making you laugh, distracting you from the endless pit what-ifs and why-mes.

It was the longest you’d gone without crying in three months. The longest you’d lived without feeling like you could suffocate at any given moment. With her help, it had been easier to forget—to pretend that things were still okay.

But Sarah wasn’t there, she’d left earlier with John B, something about helping him with a tour.

“You good, princess?” Cleo’s voice cut through your thoughts.

You blinked at her, realizing you’d been crushing the chip bag in your hands like a stress ball. “What? Yeah, I’m fine.”

“You look like you’re about to fight that bag of chips,” Pope said, grinning.

You forced a laugh, leaning back and tossing the bag onto the table. “No fighting. Just... intense snacking."

You reached for the chocolate chip cookies he had offered earlier, focusing on the sweetness, the comfort of food that tasted good for once. Sweet, crumbly, safe. If only the rest of you life felt like that.

Pope and Cleo knew something was up, they all did, probably.

Sarah had been glued to your side, and it wasn’t exactly subtle.

Her sudden move to “stay over” at your place had obviously raised eyebrows, especially since you two hadn’t had a proper conversation in months before all this. And there was the beach clean-up, Kie and JJ had been there when you felt ill, and while you’d been too disoriented to keep up with the cover story once Rafe drove you away, Sarah had stepped in later to handle it.

Heat exhaustion. Overworked. Totally fine.

Still, to your relief, neither Pope nor Cleo seemed inclined to pry, perhaps it was pity, or maybe they were just decent enough to let you keep the little shred of privacy you had left. Either way, you were grateful.

“So,” Pope said, leaning back on his elbows and flashing you an easy grin, “How are you finding our place? I mean, other than our fine selection of snacks.”

You swallowed a bite of cookie, forcing a smile. “It’s...charming. Rustic. A real je ne sais quoi vibe.” You waved your hand vaguely, trying to mimic the way your mother used to describe terrible restaurants we’d never go back to.

Cleo snorted. “Yeah, that’s one way to put it.”

“It’s cute,” You offered, looking around, “I can tell you guys put your heart into it.”

Pope smirked, lifting a brow. "That's nice of you to say."

You gave a small shrug, feigning nonchalance, but you meant it.

For all the mismatched chairs and questionable decoration, there was something undeniably warm about the place. You weren't used to that—spaces filled with love instead of decorators and florists, it wasn’t bad. Just different.

“I mean it,” you said, brushing crumbs from your lap. “It’s very authentic. ‘Pogue Chic’ or something.”

Cleo laughed, loud and genuine, her grin lighting up her face. “Pogue Chic?"

Pope chimed in, “Hey, don’t knock it. We’re trendsetters. Ahead of its time.”

You smiled, but your mind was already falling back to the sand clinging to your dress and the ginger ale that tasted like disappointment. You’d never say it out loud, but you admired them, that ability to make joy out of scraps. It was something you didn’t quite know how to do. Not yet, anyway.

Cleo leaned forward, her elbows resting on the makeshift table. “So, are we going to see you around more? Or is this just a one-time royal visit?”

You hesitated, twirling the rim of your cup between your fingers. “I don’t know. Maybe. If Sarah keeps dragging me here, I guess I don’t have a choice.”

“You always have a choice.”

You didn't know if it was the way he said it, the tone he used, or just your hormones fucking you up, but suddenly there were tears in your eye sockets. You blinked rapidly, tilting your head back slightly and praying that the tears stayed put.

These kids, all of them, sitting here like they hadn’t spent their lives scraping by, like they hadn’t been hurt or abandoned or let down a hundred times over by people they loved and trusted. Yet somehow, they were still full of hope, full of life.

You envied that.

You wished you could bottle it, whatever it was that kept them laughing and fighting and welcoming someone like you—a result of privilege and mistakes and heartbreak—into their home. It was humbling in a way that made your chest hurt.

“Does that mean I can choose to order better snacks next time? Maybe some sparkling water? Flat ginger ale is a crime against humanity.”

Cleo snorted, still not fooled by your deflection, but she let it slide.

“Good luck with that, princess. Our snack budget’s about three bucks and whatever we can steal from Kie’s pantry.”

Pope chuckled, tossing a chip in his mouth. “And you’re welcome to contribute if you’re so concerned about the menu.”

It surprised you, how easy it was to talk to them.

On paper, you had nothing in common. They were younger, grew up in a completely different world, and you were used to the polished conversations of country club luncheons and charity galas. 

Here, things were different.

They didn’t seem to care if you stumbled over your words, if your jokes were awkward or if you occasionally sounded like a walking trust fund catalog. They didn’t care about your last name, your family’s money, or any other things that had weighed you down for years.

That was disarming.

You’d spent your entire life around people who mirrored your upbringing—kids who summered in the Hamptons or Barbados, adults who measured their worth in stock portfolios and vacation homes. Now, you were here, in this cobbled-together haven with salt-stained cushions, sitting with people who’d grown up struggling for things you took for granted.

You thought it would feel more awkward or forced, but it didn’t.

It was easy.

Pope sat on the counter, gesturing with a half-eaten chip. “Serious question. How do you even survive on Figure Eight? Do they hand you iced lattes and designer handbags when you’re born, or do you have to work your way up to that?”

You raised a brow, smirking. “Oh, absolutely. The moment you’re born, they issue you a monogrammed diaper bag and a gold-plated pacifier. It’s very exclusive.”

Cleo nearly choked on her drink. “See, this is why we can’t take you seriously.”

Your phone buzzed on the table, lighting up with your cousins name, interrupting the fun. You sighed, rolling your eyes before picking it up. “Yes, Top?”

Topper’s slightly whiny tone spilled into your ear. “Can you believe Mom’s threatening to rent out the beach house for the summer? Actual strangers, staying there. What’s next? Turning it into a hostel?”

“Tragic,” you deadpanned, resting your chin in your hand. “Truly, a devastating blow for humanity.”

Pope fake-coughed, mumbling “white rich privilege problems,” while Cleo mouthed, “Hostel!” and shook her head, laughing silently.

“I know. Anyway, I’m coming over later.”

“Where’s your invitation?”

You heard him scoffing, “I’m family, I don’t need one.”

You pinched the bridge of your nose, feeling the beginnings of a headache. “Top, you can’t just announce you’re coming over. I might have plans.”

“Yeah, and I’m your family, so those plans now include me,” Topper said, sounding entirely too pleased with himself. “Besides, I’ll bring food.”

Across from you, Pope was already gagging dramatically, holding his stomach as if the mere sound of Topper’s voice made him physically ill. 

“I don’t know if—”

“See you at noon,” he interrupted. “Later!”

The call ended before you could even argue, and you set your phone down with a resigned sigh. 

“Looks like I’m hosting a one-man Topper pity party,” you said, crossing your arms and slumping back in your chair.

Pope clutched his chest. “Will you survive?”

You only left once the sun dipped lower into the horizon, you gathered your things promising Sarah you’d drive safely and talk to her tomorrow.

Cleo, Pope and John B were mid-argument about the best way to fix something in the shack. You felt lighter than you had in weeks.

With a few more quips exchanged and goodbyes said, you walked back to your car. That night, the ache in your chest wasn’t completly unbearable. You weren’t okay, but you weren’t drowning, either.

You’d been terrified of this afternoon all day, worried you’d stick out like a sore thumb or say the wrong thing.

But the Pogues hadn’t cared about your awkwardness, your polished self, or even the giant invisible cloud you carried everywhere these days. They let you just be.

The drive home was quiet, but this time you even hummed along to a song on the radio, which was strange because you couldn’t remember the last time you cared about music or even turning on that thing. When you pulled into the driveway and stepped into your house, it didn’t feel as cold and empty as it did last week.

You set your bag down on the entryway table and kick off your sandals, the floors cool beneath your feet. Heading to the kitchen, you decided to see if there was anything decent for tonight’s impromptu early dinner with Topper. The fridge greeted you with a sad bag of lettuce, half a bottle of sparkling water, and a single container of leftover pasta you weren’t sure was still edible.

“Great,” you muttered, closing the door and moving to the pantry.

The situation there wasn’t much better. Sarah’s latest health-kick contributions—a bag of chia seeds and some organic trail mix—laughed at you from the top shelf. You frowned, pushing them aside to reveal a dusty box of crackers and a jar of Nutella.

“Guess we’re going shopping tomorrow,” you murmured, grabbing the crackers and Nutella to snack on now.

You placed them on the counter and glanced around. The sink held a few dishes from earlier —a couple of coffee mugs, a bowl, a plate.

You sighed, rolling up your sleeves, might as well get this out of the way.

Normally, you’d have had someone else to take care of this—stocking the pantry, cleaning the dishes, even deciding on the menu for your lunches. But lately, you’d been scaling back. You hadn’t let anyone go, of course. You could never do that; the staff had been with your family for years, and many of them felt more like extended family than employees. Still, you’d quietly rearranged their schedules, giving them more time off.

They didn’t question it—probably thought it was some new phase, another eccentricity of a bored, privileged young woman.

Truth was, you liked doing these things.

Focusing on something small, tangible, gave your brain a break from drilling itself into a million dark corners. Folding laundry, washing dishes, even the routine of chopping vegetables—it kept your hands busy and your thoughts manageable enough. It wasn’t that you’d suddenly become a domestic goddess or anything. Most of the time, you’d forget to pick up groceries or burn whatever you tried to cook.

It wasn’t about being good at it. It was about doing something.

You looked around the kitchen, noting the little imperfections you wouldn’t have noticed before. A small water stain on the counter from where your glass had sat too long, the scuff marks on the cabinets where your chair scraped when you leaned back. They weren’t problems to be fixed—they were just signs of life.

And right now at that very moment, life felt…okay.

The house didn’t seem as cold or empty when you were doing things for yourself, even if it was mundane work. You finish up wiping down the counters, glance at the time—definitely cutting it close—and head toward the dining room to tidy up a bit.

Topper was not the type to notice if the place is spotless, but you always liked things to look... presentable, yourself included.

You heard the doorbell ring in the distance, he was early as usual, probably checking his watch just to make sure he wasn't a second late.

"Of course he’s early," you muttered to yourself, a little smirk pulling at your lips.

You walked towards the front door, ready to greet him, but when you opened it, your eyes immediately locked onto the large takeout bag in his hand. It smelled... amazing.

Topper grinned at you, an exaggerated flourish as he held up the bag.

“Guess what I brought?”

“You brought... Korean chicken wings? Really?”

“Hell yeah, I did!” He stepped inside, completely ignoring any formalities and heading straight toward the kitchen, “They just opened.”

He placed the bag on the counter with the confidence of a man who knew he’s just won “Best Dinner Host” without even trying. You peeked inside, the crispy wings drenched in a glossy, sweet-spicy sauce that looked downright delicious.

Topper laughed and took a seat, pulling out the wings, not even bothering with plates. “You’re welcome.”

You rolled your eyes but sat next to him, picking up a wing, the heat of it still making your fingers tingle. The crispy exterior cracked open with a satisfying crunch as you bit into it. It was everything you'd hoped for—tangy, spicy, perfectly cooked. You nearly moaned in pleasure, not even caring that your cousin was watching you with that cocky grin on his face.

“You look like you’ve seen the light,” He teased, leaning back in his chair as he grabbed a wing of his own.

“I mean,” you said, savoring another bite, “this might make up for you barging in uninvited.”

“Barging?” He clutched his chest dramatically, mock offense radiating from every inch of him. “I'm saving you from a night of sad dinners, and this is the thanks I get?”

You gave him a pointed look, but the corner of your mouth tugged upward despite yourself.

“Fine. Thank you, Topper. You’re the hero of the day. Happy now?”

“Ecstatic,” he said, grinning as he reached for another wing. “What’s new? Still slumming it with my ex and the Pogues?”

“First of all,” you said, wiping your fingers on a napkin, “slumming it implies I’m suffering, which I’m not. And second, Sarah’s not a pogue. She’s pogue-adjacent.”

“Pogue-adjacent?” He snorted. “You’ve been spending too much time over there.”

“Like you’re one to talk,” you shot back. “You basically live at Kildare Brewing these days. That’s like, one pogue away from full assimilation.”

He opened his mouth to argue but then stopped, realizing you had a point. “Okay, fair. But only because they have good beer."

You hesitated for a moment, unsure if you should even bring it up, but curiosity got the better of you. You hadn’t heard about her in a while, and you knew by experience, that was never a good thing.

“So... Ruthie,” you started, watching him over the rim of your glass as you took a sip.

Topper paused mid-chew, looking up at you like he wasn’t sure he wanted to have this conversation. “What about her?”

“I mean, you two are still together, aren’t you?”

He wiped his hands on a napkin. “We’re… not talking right now.”

You tried not to look pleased, but a rush of vindication bloomed in your chest. You'd grown to hate her, plain and simple. Her recent proximity to your cousin had always baffled you. He wasn’t perfect, but surely, he could do better. 

“I’m surprised.”

“Yeah, well,” he muttered, reaching for another wing. But then he stopped, like whatever he was thinking was messing with his head.

“What happened?” You asked, trying to sound more curious, concerned, than nosy.

You weren’t sure if he’d tell you, but the look on his face made it clear something big had gone down.

He hesitated, debating whether to answer. Finally, he sighed. “She... started a rumor about you.”

Your head jerked back in surprise. “About me?”

“Yeah,” he grimaced like he’d swallowed something sour. “She said you passed out at the beach cleanup and decided to spread some bullshit about you doing drugs.”

You just stared at him. “She what?”

You weren’t sure why you were so surprised.

You knew what she was capable better than anyone, especially when she was bored out of her mind.

“I didn’t believe it,” he added quickly, his tone defensive, as if that made it better. “I told her to shut the fuck up about it, but you know how she is. She thought it was funny.”

“Funny?” Your voice was sharp now, “She thought it was funny to spread lies about me? About drugs? What the fuck?”

“Yeah, it’s so messed up. That’s why I’m not talking to her. I told her if she couldn’t act like a fucking decent human being, we were done.”

You blinked, stunned.

You weren’t sure what shocked you more—the fact that Ruthie had stooped so low or that Topper had finally stood up to her. You shook your head, biting back another nasty comment about how awful she was. You’d been saying it for months, and he hadn’t listened.

No point in beating a dead horse now.

“It’s about time you saw what she’s really like. She’s really bad fuckin’ news, Top. Always has been.”

He gave a low grunt, leaning forward to rest his elbows on the counter. “Yeah. Took me long enough, huh?”

You didn’t answer, just raised an eyebrow and sipped your water.

“She’s always been weird about Sarah,” Topper muttered, almost to himself. “Even when we were together, she’d find these ways to dig at her. Like that one time at Midsummers—”

“—When she ‘accidentally’ spilled her drink on Sarah’s dress,” you finished, rolling your eyes. “Yeah, I remember. She’s always had this thing about trying to one-up her. Honestly, it’s so pathetic. But you never listen to me, so.”

“Okay, ouch.” He threw a crumpled napkin at you, which you easily dodged. “I listen to you sometimes.”

“Do you, though?” You gave him a pointed look.

“Yeah, I do!” Topper protested, though the whine in his voice made him sound more like the teenager he used to be, back when he’d follow you around during family holidays like a puppy. “Just… selectively.”

“Selective listening isn’t listening, dumbass. You’re just proving my point.”

He narrowed his eyes at you but didn’t answer, reaching for another wing instead. He took a bite, chewing dramatically, as if the exaggerated crunch would somehow end the conversation.

“Look, I’ve been saying for months that Ruthie’s bad news. Since she showed up at last year’s Christmas party wearing a dress identical to Sarah’s, just in a different color. You thought that was a coincidence?”

Topper groaned, dropping the wing. “Okay, fine, you’re right. Are you happy now? Can you stop rubbing it in?”

You grinned, propping your chin on your hand.

“Oh, I could. But what kind of older cousin would I be if I didn’t remind you how often you’re wrong?”

“You’re not that much older than me.”

You shrugged. “Old enough to know better than to date someone that awful.”

“Yeah, yeah, you’re a genius. I get it.” He looked over at you again, his gaze softer, this time, “But seriously, you’ve been off lately. If there’s something going on, you can tell me, y’know? We’re family, even if I don’t listen to you half the time,” he added with a small smile, though his eyes were searching, hoping you’d let him in.

It would be so easy to tell him the truth—that you were pregnant, scheduled for an abortion in six days, and drowning in uncertainty and dread.

But he was still Rafe’s best friend, and the risk of this ever reaching him was too high. Instead, you forced a lightness into your voice.

“Nothing I can’t handle. And right now, I desperately need the bathroom.”

He looked at you skeptically, not fooled for a second.

“You’re really okay?” he pressed, his voice dropping to a level that told you he wasn’t going to let this go easily, "I texted and called before, you didn't answer. Thought you were resting from the scare."

You’d been having such a calm, easy time with Sarah, you almost forgot about everything else. The thought of picking up the phone, letting all that anxiety and worry back in, just wasn’t appealing—so you’d ignored his calls, but not on purpose. You were doing him a favor.

You plastered on a smile and gave him a reassuring pat on the shoulder as you passed. “I promise, I’m fine. Just felt a little light-headed and needed some peace."

His eyes narrowed slightly, unconvinced. “That’s all?”

You forced a giggle, hoping it would sound more genuine than it felt. “Yes, Dr. Thornton. Just needed to eat more or drink water or whatever the fuck it is you’re always telling me to do.”

“Uh-huh,” he said, crossing his arms, watching you closely. “Because you’ve never just fainted before.”

“I guess there’s a first time for everything. Besides, don’t you think I’d tell you if something serious was wrong?”

It took everything to maintain eye contact, your stomach twisting at the lie. He was family, and you wanted to trust him, to let him help you. But you couldn’t. He hadn’t even told you about Rafe and Sofia until you found out by yourself. 

Topper tilted his head, considering you, then sighed and gave a reluctant nod. “Alright, fine.”

“Okay, if you’re done being weird,” You pushed back from the counter, grabbing your glass. “I gotta pee,” you announced casually, as if this was the most normal interjection in the world. The wings were good, but running away was tempting. And also, the pregnancy had made your bladder a ticking time bomb, and you really didn’t want to risk any accidents. “I’ll be back in a minute.”

You offered him one last smile, hoping it was convincing enough. He whined some sarcastic comment about your water consumption as you hurried away, but you barely heard him.

All you thought about was the blessed relief that awaited on the other side of that door.

You didn’t usually spend this much time with Top nowadays—your own tendency to avoid “close” family drama—but tonight had been oddly… nice.

Even if you wanted to wrap your hands around his neck half the time. Even if you hated lying to him. If he’d just pushed a little harder, maybe you would’ve folded, let it all spill right there in the kitchen.

Every time you thought you’d come to a decision, another doubt would take over you, leaving you back at square one. You knew what you wanted, so why was this so hard? 

Topper had looked at you with such genuine concern back there. The “if you need me, I’m here” sentiment was the same one you’d grown up with, the kind of care only a cousin, practically a sibling, could have.

This was hard.

When you came back into the kitchen after taking your sweet time in the bathroom you immediately noticed something was off.

Topper was by the counter, staring at the half-eaten pile of wings by the table like they’d personally offended him. He looked paler, too—almost like he’d seen a ghost.

“Uh…” You stopped mid-step, furrowing your brow. “What’s with the stupid face? Did the wings betray you or something?”

He jolted slightly, as if he hadn’t even heard you come in. “What? No. No, the wings are fine. Great. Amazing, even.”

“Okay…” You gave him a skeptical look, setting your glass down and crossing your arms. 

Topper laughed, but it was this oddly nervous, stilted sound. He glanced at his phone, tapping the screen for no real reason, then shoved it into his pocket.

“You know what, though? I totally forgot—I have something planned. Like, super important. In about… ten minutes.”

You stared at him, unimpressed. “You forgot you had plans? Sounds fake, but okay.”

“So unlike me!” He got up from his chair with such sudden energy that it made you take a step back. “Anyway, I should really get going. Don’t want to be late. Uh, thanks for… hanging out. And for, uh, letting me use your wings as a form of therapy. Yeah. Later!”

And with that, he was sprinting for the door.

“Topper!” you called after him, confused and mildly annoyed. “What the hell is going on? You’re acting fuckin’ weird!”

“Nope, not weird! Just busy!” he shot back over his shoulder, not even looking at you as he opened the door.

You didn’t have time to yell at him before he disappeared out the door, the sound of his Jeep starting up echoing from the driveway a moment later. You stood there bewildered, staring at the now-empty doorway.

Something was definitely up. He was many things—dramatic, stubborn, occasionally insufferable—but shifty wasn’t usually one of them.

You went back to the kitchen, glancing at the counter, ready to brush off his weird exit as just another of his dramatics, when your eyes landed on a random envelope— the one you’d been using to scribble down everything lately. 

Extra small grocery lists, reminders, and, unfortunately, the number for the abortion clinic.

Rafe’s fingers curled loosely around the tumbler of bourbon, eyes set on nothing in particular. The lunch rush was winding down, country club regulars filing out.

He’d been there for over an hour—first, the meeting, listening to those finance guys ramble on about numbers, projections, all that bullshit he usually liked to hear. 

He’d faked his interest well enough, but his mind had been miles away. Mostly thinking about you. And the company, of course, because that was his priority right now. Or, it should be.

The whole thing with you, three days ago, it was a slow-mind-burning headache he couldn’t ignore, even if he wanted to. And he had wanted to, tried to, in fact.

He took another slow sip, hardly tasting the bourbon. Across the room, Sofia was working between tables, balancing trays and forcing her best country club smile.

All he saw when he looked at her was you, it only made him force down another swallow, running his thumb over the rim of the glass, mind somewhere between the company projections and the mess he’d made of things with you. 

It was ridiculous that you were still in his head. He should be thinking about that deal, about locking down his place in the Cameron empire. 

Rafe pushed the glass aside, signaling for the check when something caught his ear—a conversation from a nearby table.

“Yeah, she actually passed out the other day. Pathetic.” The voice was loud, sneering.

A dude’s voice followed, fake sympathy dripping from his tone. “I heard she was a fuckin’ mess after the whole breakup.”

“Oh, totally.” A different girl laughed, high-pitched and cruel. “She’s probably on something. Can you blame her? I’d be desperate too if he dumped me.”

It didn’t take a fucking genius to know who they were talking about. Small town and all, of course, things got around, mostly turning into half-truths and petty rumors.

He stopped all his movements, jaw clenching. His fingers tightened around the edge of the table, the only thing keeping him from breaking something, preferably bones.

They were talking about you. 

About some made-up version of you, the fact that these spoiled, airheaded brats thought they could shit talk about you like that, rip you apart for fun just because you weren’t there to defend yourself made him sick.

He pushed his chair back and stood, crossing the room with long strides. He didn’t care about the eyes following him as he walked up to their table, the laughter stopping the moment they looked up and saw the look on his face.

“What did you just say?”

The girl who’d been laughing, a petite brunette with too much makeup and a self-satisfied smirk, blinked up at him, her smile faltering.

“Oh, Rafe! We didn’t see you there. We were just…joking around,” she stammered, trying to backpedal.

“Joking?” He laughed, the sound making them flinch. “That what you call it? Spreading some bullshit rumor because it’s all your pathetic little lives have to offer?”

The brunette’s face went red. “I mean, we all heard about it. I’m just saying what everyone’s already thinking—”

His fists clenched and his patience, already thin, snapped the second he heard the guy—one of those trust fund preps with an overdone tan and a too-tight polo—chime in.

“Oh, come on, dude,” the guy smirked, leaning back in his chair, feigning nonchalance. “It’s not like she’s worth all that trouble, is she?”

His entire body went rigid, and before he registered it, he was leaning down, letting them feel the weight of his glare.

“Say that shit again,” Rafe taunted him, something almost amused twisting at the edge of his mouth, daring him to keep talking. “I’d love to hear you repeat yourself.”

“Relax, man—”

He didn’t even let him finish, eyes narrowed, his voice dropping to a near whisper, more dangerous than shouting ever could be.

“You think it’s funny? Talking about someone who’s not even here to defend herself?”

The guy’s face paled, and Rafe swore he was seconds away from landing a punch, from wiping that smug grin off his face. Just as he prepared his fist, ready to make good on his threat, he felt a hand on his arm, a small, insistent tug. 

“Rafe,” a soft voice hissed. Sofia. He barely glanced at her, shrugging off her grip.

“Don’t,” he snapped, his voice sharp, dismissive.

He kept his eyes on the guy, who looked more uncomfortable by the second, squirming in his seat.

Sofia’s hand still hovering near his arm, cautious now. “Rafe, come on, this isn’t worth it. You’re better than this.”

She looked scared. Scared of him, scared of the situation. He wasn’t better than this.

He’d never been, and he’d been good enough at lying and pretending for her even to think that.

You would’ve known better.

Fuck, you wouldn’t have wasted time talking.

You would’ve yanked him back by his collar, shoved yourself between him and the guy, shot him that warning glare, daring him to keep pushing you so you’d have to drag him out by force. You always knew when he’d get like this, that edge in his voice, that look in his eye that told you he was seconds away from snapping. You knew better than anyone how to pull him back when he hit that switch.

But you’d never bothered with gentle.

Sofia’s eyes darted around the room, clearly embarrassed, maybe even afraid of drawing attention. He knew this wasn’t fair to her, that she hadn’t signed up for this part of him—the anger, the unpredictability. It wasn’t in his nature to stay silent, to ignore things and walk away. 

He could almost see it—feel it, like a familiar bruise under his skin. You’d shove him hard enough that he’d stumble back, half-pissed and half-shocked. You’d get in his face, not even close to scared, cutting through his spiral. “What the hell is wrong with you, Rafe? You wanna end up in jail over some loser? Grow up.”

If you’d been here, you wouldn’t have given him a choice. You’d have grabbed his arm and dragged him away, kept a grip on him until he’d snapped out of whatever dark place he’d dropped into. You’d push him until he finally let go, forced him to come down from that blinding fury and face the mess he’d just caused. It was the only way he’d ever been able to listen—when you pushed him to wake up, forced him to look at himself and see just how reckless, just how stupid he was about to be.

But Sofia? She had no idea. 

She thought saying “you’re better than this” was going to do anything, that with a light touch and some empty words, he’d suddenly be calm, reasonable, soft. 

But he’d never been that way, never with you, never with anyone.

She hadn’t done anything wrong; she’d just seen the version of him he’d wanted her to see. The version he’d put together, patched up and polished, all so he could convince himself he was something he wasn’t.

With her, it was easy to pretend. He could smooth his sharp edges, show her just enough of himself to keep her interested without letting her close enough to see the mess underneath.

He’d let her believe he was the kind of guy who could just calm down, let things slide. The kind of guy who’d listen. He’d wanted her to believe he was controlled, calm. Sofia’s softness had appealed to him, but now, it only highlighted the differences between them.

With you, he’d never had the luxury of pretending.

You’d seen through him from the start, never let him get away with putting on some act.

You hadn’t let him pretend to be better than he was, hadn’t let him off easy when he’d tried to brush things off or shut down. You knew every side of him, even the ones he’d rather ignore. You’d always known exactly who he was, who he wasn’t, and you’d never been afraid to remind him.

He didn’t want to let it go, didn’t want to give the guy an inch of leeway to think he’d won this. Rafe sighed and released his grip, his hand falling from the table as he finally stepped back. Sofia relaxed, giving him a relieved smile, but it only made him feel emptier. 

“You talk about her again and I’ll fucking kill you, you hear me?” 

The guy sputtered, looking down, embarrassed and shaken. He muttered something under his breath that sounded like an apology, but Rafe didn’t care enough to hear it.

Sofia’s hand was still on his tail when he left, and as soon as he walked out of earshot of the table, she followed him, crossing her arms. Her eyes narrowed with an expression he’d never seen from her —disbelief. 

“What was that?”

Everything.

Rafe didn’t speak. He was staring past her, back at the group, mind far from the confrontation and miles away with thoughts of you. She seemed to notice, her lips pressing together.

“I can’t believe you did that. You threatened to kill him, Rafe. Over what, a stupid rumor?”

A stupid rumor? She was making him feel like he was out of control, irrational—even though he couldn’t explain why this mattered so much.

“You wouldn’t get it. It’s not your problem.”

She flinched a little, her face falling, but to her credit, she didn’t look away. “You’re right. I don’t get it. Tell me.”

He wanted to believe that it could work with Sofia.

Nice girl, pretty too. She laughed at his jokes, and she didn’t call him out on his bullshit, because she didn’t even know that side of him existed. On paper, she was perfect. But she wasn't you.

He looked back at her, her worried eyes scanning his face.

It was frustrating—seeing the fear, feeling her judgment when she didn’t even know what she was judging.

To her, this was just some meaningless outburst, something he could turn on and off at will. This wasn’t her fault. He knew that. He hated how this wasn’t something he couldn't put into words, not in any way that would make sense to her.

“Forget it, alright?” his tone was harsher than he meant.

Sofia shook her head, clearly not willing to let it drop this time.

“Why would you get so worked up over something like this?"

To her, that’s all this was—just noise, harmless, inconsequential. 

She looked up at him expectantly, her brows furrowed in confusion, waiting for some reasonable answer.

And it pissed him off, how she kept waiting, expecting him to offer some calm, measured response when he didn’t even understand it himself.

Sofia’s eyes softened, but it only irritated him further.

“She’s nice,” Her words drifted out casually like she didn’t know she’d just cracked him open. “She defended me, last week, when I was serving brunch.”

He couldn’t stop the self-loathing.

You had always been that way—ready to defend anyone, even when you were the one hurting. Rafe winced, hating himself for it, hating that you could still be so good even after everything. He swallowed hard, keeping his expression blank.

“Did she?” he muttered, trying to sound indifferent.

“Yeah,” Sofia replied, watching his reaction with mild curiosity. “Guess I wouldn’t have expected that.”

Rafe’s jaw clenched, that familiar hurt in his chest.

His mind was already conjuring all the times you’d jumped in, backed people up, and called out anyone who crossed a line. Even when it came to people you barely knew.

It made him feel like the worst person in the world, knowing that you’d been there for Sofia of all people, that you’d shown her that same loyalty. It made him hate himself even more.

His phone buzzed, saving him from the inevitable conversation, his hand brushed the side of his face as he glanced down at the unknown number flashing across the screen. He didn’t hesitate, before swiping the answer button.

“Hello?”

“Mr. Cameron, this is Dr. Harris from the hospital,” the voice on the other end said. “We’ve been trying to reach Miss Thornton about the blood work results from her visit three days ago. Unfortunately, there’s been an issue with our system and a few patient’s data has been deleted, except for the emergency contact information.”

Rafe’s stomach dropped.

He was still your emergency contact, not by choice probably. The hospital was calling about your blood work.

Was something wrong?

His blood ran cold. “Is she okay? Did something happen?” The urgency in his tone made Sofia’s eyes widen again, her confusion growing.

“We’re concerned about a possible infection. We need to run more tests to rule it out, but the symptoms suggest it could be more complicated. We must check thoroughly to be sure.”

“An infection?”

“Yes, but it could be nothing serious. We just need her to come in as soon as possible for a follow-up,” Dr. Harris explained.

There was a pause as if he expected Rafe to say something reassuring or offer to pass on the message. 

Sofia’s brows knitted together as she watched him. “Rafe?” 

“I’ll tell her,” he said, the words cracked in his throat. The doctor thanked him and hung up.

He stared at the phone waiting for it to ring again with more news, a reassurance that this wasn’t as serious as it sounded. 

You probably hadn’t changed your emergency contact because it slipped your mind.

He couldn’t stand the idea that something could be wrong, and he was not the one you called when you needed someone. All he’d ever done was mess things up between you.

“What’s going on?”

How the fuck was he going to tell you when you'd blocked him everywhere?

He couldn’t call, couldn’t text, couldn’t even show up unannounced without risking the usual argument that would end with you screaming at him to get out, or worse, you looking at him with that unforgiving stare.

He knew you’d locked every door, bolted every window to keep him out, and he deserved it. 

“It’s nothing,” he said, the lie slipping out automatically. He could feel her studying him, waiting for another explanation he also didn’t have the patience to give.

Maybe Topper could help.

The irony wasn’t lost on him—he’d given your cousin the mission of checking in on you, playing the careful messenger while Rafe kept his distance. That was supposed to be him.

But the reality was you hated him now, hated him enough that Topper was a safer option and yet, the private information still landed on his lap. As if he still had the right to be in your orbit, let alone the person trusted with this kind of news.

It felt wrong.

He knew you were going to hate him even more for still having access to your private details. It wasn’t really his fault—the hospital called him. He should have hung up the moment the hospital mentioned your name, told them they had the wrong guy. But he didn’t. He listened. 

“If you need to go—” she started, trailing off when he didn’t answer. Her voice softened, tentative. “It’s about her, isn’t it?”

Rafe’s jaw ticked, and he looked away, out at the horizon where the sun was setting.  “Yeah,” he muttered, not bothering to lie this time.

His thumbs hovered over the keyboard. He typed something out, then deleted it, then typed again.

Finally, he just went with the simplest thing he could think of and hit send.

Can we meet up? Tannyhill in 30. I think I know what’s wrong.

He half-expected some lame excuse or joke from Topper. Instead, the text he got made the deep lines across his forehead make an appearance.

Shit, you do???

Did the fucker already know?

Did he suspect? Or was this just the kind of baited question someone asked when they thought they were the last to know something big?

He frowned, gripping the phone tighter.

If Topper did know, why hadn’t he said anything?

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[moinsbienquekaworu]

Hmmmm I love talking about fandom in ways that are kind of useless but fun for me personally. In other news I finally got the list finished for the Kylux reclist, it's 87 fics (including series that just count for one) long and I just need to add little comments before I can post it!