#and so much bloat and disconnection

[labec99]

I just really fucking hate having to deal with corporate software.

[iwaasfairy]

┌─ “ ! „ DECAY

tw. ddlg, noncon, daddy kink, dom & sub themes, forced threesome, patronization, manipulation, objectification, size kink wordcount. 4.4k

a/n. ♡ i wish i could have done more about this idea but i gave myself a bit of a word count limit for kinktober but don't be surprised if i end up writing more for this in the future jhydgusgfy i wanted to go more extreme but i was a bit bummed by the self imposed limitations kHdyugs iT IS What it is ily thank you for reading

miya atsumu x fem!reader x miya osamu

You’re pouting somethin’ fierce, and thick crocodile tears bead your lash line like diamonds.

Osamu’s not entirely sure when it started. If it started at all. Maybe things just happened to play out this way, and it was entirely coincidental, a whisper in the grander scheme of your relationship with his brother - all too small to mention. Maybe safer to say, he’s not sure when he started noticing it— but once he began, there was nothing to keep him from seeing it too vividly in every interaction.

You’ve been with Tsumu since your last year together in high school. Stuck with him through thick and thin, every busy month, each and every match and scandal and fallout - and Osamu’s nothing but grateful for that. You make him happy, Hell, even a blind man could see how the blond blossoms open when you’re around. Becoming a more grown, dependable version of himself. Some days Osamu blinks and it’s like his mirror image has far surpassed his own grounded maturity, leaving him behind in the dust. And it’s definitely you that brings that out in him - and he’s grateful.

But — he remembers the early days. More than maybe anyone else, Osamu remembers that it wasn’t always this way. You were definitely more soft and gentle than they were as teens, but you were no shrinking violet either. A decade ago, Atsumu would’ve been caught dead underestimating ya like he does with a glitter in his eye now. Like it’s a game the two of you are clued in on. Osamu’s eyes glide over the scene painted before him, sipping his beer from the couch.

“Aw, pet, you’ve gotta watch where yer goin’. C’mere, did that hurt?” Atsumu is knelt before you, cupping your face between two rough palms, as he kisses up and down your face. Your wobbly sniffles get hidden in his chest when he pulls you in, and rubs your back like you’re a toddler with a scraped knee. Your hands fist into his shirt before you take a deep breath, going up in his warmth. And his twin beams like he’s the happiest man on the planet, before going to pick you up with a bit too much practiced ease.

Osamu’s not against the pda. You’ve always been touchy, and Tsumu’s a clingy bastard at the best of times. “‘M so sorry, baby. Daddy almost walked straight over ya.” It’s more that he has a problem with. He looks away when Atsumu’s hands slide down to grip your ass and squeeze you extra close, looking down for another kiss that you give like it’s been practiced a hundred times. He’s not sure if the slight pout you have on is truly the pain though, or more the embarrassment he can see creep up your ears and cheeks.

“I’m sorry for getting in the way,” you whisper back, and by the time Osamu looks up Atsumu has made it back to the couch with a fresh beer, with you now positioned on his lap and wrapped around him like a baby koala. You don’t look over at him though, barely acknowledging the strange situation. Almost makes him feel like he’s the one that’s out of place, even though he came over on Atsumu’s request. Even though he was invited.

Samu takes another chug of his drink, before raising his brows, leaning in with an attempt to catch your eyes. “Yer not gonna have any? ‘S yer fridge we’re looting.” You only disconnect yourself from Atsumu’s chest to look at him with heat on your cheeks, perfectly treated hair shining as it falls along your shoulders.

“No, thank you. Atsum- uhm- d-daddy doesn’t let me have any unless we’re going out. It makes me get all bloated, so ‘s better I don’t.” Your long lashes flutter, before you smile again, but it doesn’t quite reach your eyes. “I appreciate you looking out for me, Samu.” There’s a beat of silence where his twin seems to give him a look -one he can’t really make out- where Atsumu puts his own beer aside to pull you closer by your hips and wrap his arms around you like you’re best molten to his front. “Hey,” you whisper then, and Atsumu looks up, “can I move? My knees hurt a little like this.”

“‘S that right? Ya wanna turn so you can look at Samu too?” His brilliant smile is almost bright enough to make him ignore the possessive hands that travel too far down when helping you turn, or the almost-subtle groan he lets out when you wiggle back onto his lap. Osamu stares off into the kitchen instead. “You wanna sit ‘n look at someone else ‘cause I won’t do anything. Is daddy not good ‘nough? Maybe I spoil ya a lil’ too rotten.”

“‘M not rotten~, I do like sitting in your lap,” you squeak out almost sadly, starting to leave little pecks all over Atsumu’s lips as if to shut him up. That would probably be good, Osamu thinks. He doesn’t want to consider the possibility that you’re actually tempering him, but it sure does seem like it. “I’m just tired.” And though your voice drops to an almost whisper, he’s too aware of your pouted, glossy lips to not hear every word. Your hands trail through his hair, sliding down his neck with each slow breath. “Just- Daddy, don’t be upset. I’m trying my best.”

You look almost pained to say it, not that his twin cares. “Please don’t get mad.” Anything else passes over Osamu’s head. He just places the empty bottle by his feet and tries to ignore the way you’re now draped onto Atsumu’s lap like you two will start dry humping any second.

“‘M not mad, pretty girl.” The blond grabs two handfuls of ass and rocks your waist against him, making you squeak, before he runs his tongue along his teeth with a noise. “I’m just thinkin’ that I don't want Samu ta see ya like this.”

You whimper when Atsumu’s mouth glides along your jaw and throat, falling back into the couch -crown brushing Osamu’s thigh- when his twin pushes and presses a few kisses down your throat and chest. “Alright, let’s go out.” Then he pulls back flushed, and gets you up along with him. “Before daddy ends up fucking that pretty pussy with a live audience.” He ushers you towards the door with a few pats on your butt. “Go an’ get yer shoes, I’ll tie yer laces for ya, little girl.”

“I- I can really do it myself, ‘s fine.”

It only makes Atsumu puff out his chest, and stare you down with a hungry stare. “Go on, baby. Yer little enough to need my help.” You don’t say anything, but there’s a tense breath of silence that covers the room before you look away with shame written all over your expression.

Osamu’s too speechless to do much but just stare at the side of his brother’s face, who barely shows any emotion other than enjoyment at all. Seriously. It’s not like you to let someone just walk all over you. Or at least, it wasn’t like you, as far as he was concerned. Things have clearly changed. He frowns. “Do ya really have ta talk about ‘er like that when I’m around, stupid Tsumu? Keep it in yer pants, wouldya?”

Instead of the normally snappy reply that he’d expect, the blond just shrugs, tugging at his waistband like the tightness is a little uncomfortable. “Can’t help it. She’s so fuckin’ cute whinin’ and crying out for me.” Brown irises find Osamu’s, and he smiles. “You’d feel the same if ya saw what she can do.” He pats his thighs when you come back from the hall, and holds out his hands. “Come ‘ere, little princess. Daddy’ll dress ya right up.”

+

Your frilly little implication of a dress is bunched around your hips as he lets you down from another bear hug, and puts on a slight pout. “I’ll be back soon, baby. They need an emergency setter for just an hour of practice. Maybe two.”

“It’s never just one hour.”

The overly whiny request only makes Atsumu glitter more, as his eyes flick down your body and his tongue is caught between his teeth. Truly, the guy has absolutely no decency. This was supposed to be a fun weekend away from work for the three of ya. Not that Atsumu seems bothered by that. After a few seconds he kisses your forehead though, letting you lean into his arms and looking ever so teenie tiny compared to your boyfriend -they’ve both filled out in both size and muscle since high school after all- and it becomes even more apparent when Tsumu squeezes you under his chin. “If ya need anything ya’ll ask Samu, alright? Just pretend he’s me.”

You bat your lashes at him, but let your grip on him slowly be peeled off. “... Okay. Can I have dinner while you’re gone?”

“Hm, sure.” The blond runs his fingers through his hair. “Daddy’s gonna miss ya. I’m not gonna be gone fer long.” Then he eyes him with a grin that Osamu kind of wants to slap off of his cheeks. “Thanks for ‘sittin ‘er.” He doesn’t reply with a smart remark about him treating you like a dog, and just gives a vague hum instead. With that he gives the brunet a quick wave, and gathers his phone and keys on his way to the door. You linger around the entrance a bit longer, before slowly returning to the dinner table with slightly heated cheeks. You tuck your knees to your chest when you sit and reach for one of the side dishes — and he can’t help but say it when the door falls into lock.

“So, what’s all that about?”

“Hm?” Your head drops to the side slightly as you put some pickled radish in your mouth and hum. “Mm, this ‘s really good, Samu! Can I have some?”

“Help yerself,” he nods, and also slides the plates you can’t reach closer. It’s not like he doesn’t understand it at all. You’ve got that sort of puppy-eyes look down, big and round and soft wherever you look, no matter who you’re talking to. It’s the kind of gentleness that calls for protection, and he’s not even the possessive type, but despite that the feeling of being needed sits on his chest and longs to come out. But still. He can’t help but think Atsumu’s overplaying his cards. “Seriously though. You know ya can tell my shitty brother no, right? I’ll straighten ‘em out for ya.”

The words seem to process for a moment, before you load some more food onto your utensils and swallow it with a little noise of thoughtfulness. “I- I don’t know. Atsumu says he likes being the provider. At first it was just little stuff he helped with, and I thought it was nice to be cared for.” You fumble a little with the chopsticks when a piece of fish is extra slippery, and smile when he helps you out and picks it up, carrying it towards your mouth. “You don’t know how long it’s been since I’ve fed myself instead of Tsumu doing it for me,” you softly mention. That’s weird, ain’t it? That’s definitely weird.

Still he’s carrying the food to your mouth, and be it instinct, or habit, you look too fuckin’ sweet waiting like a puppy for him to help out, big, doe-eyes and all.

You let the piece onto your tongue, before wrapping those pretty lips around and gratefully humming and — fuck. You don’t notice the way his brow ticks, but his stomach rolls with the realization. Instead of lingering too long on the implication that he might feel the same exact way as his twin, he lets you talk, after chewing for a while. “I just- I don’t like that he doesn’t ever take me seriously anymore. He thinks I can’t do anything by myself, even brushing my own teeth, or picking out clothes! It’s so- so frustrating-” you continue until you run out of air, and seem to suddenly realize who you’re talking to. “Oh, don’t tell Atsumu that. Please don’t tell him. He gets so upset and I don’t like it when he’s mad.”

Samu can’t help but just nod in agreement, not sure what else to say. He doesn’t think his brother would ever hurt ya. Then again, Samu also didn’t think his brother was much of a kink lifestyle sort of guy until the last few months— so clearly he doesn’t know everything anymore. And you seem… okay with it, right? He’s not sure, really. Would he even have the guts to tell Tsumu off if he was sure you weren’t? Instead of lingering on that uncomfortable possibility, he pivots. “Let’s watch somethin’? What do ya wanna see?”

Your eyes shimmer when they flick up, and you swallow before smiling. “Can I choose?” You wiggle in your seat. “Atsumu -w-well- daddy doesn’t let me watch scary stuff, but I’ve been dying to watch the Ring again.” You then lean into his space a little more, and he feels his heart skip a beat. “I assume I don’t have to snuggle up to you though? He did say to pretend you’re him but…” You wrap your thin sweater a little closer. “I’ll hold your hand? He can’t get mad that way.”

How can he say no when you’re staring at him with those fucken stars in your eyes? His fingers find yours on the table, and your hand feels way smaller and softer than his own work-worn ones. “Yeah, sure. But ya shouldn’t watch nothin’ ta give ya nightmares though…” The urge to pick you up and wrap you nice and safe in his embrace becomes stronger by the second, and his eyebrows furrow.

+

Atsumu is quick to descend on you in the safety of the separate room. His hands glide down your sides and hike up your shirt over your arms, before running his fingertips down the valley of your breasts. “Samu was nice to ya?”

“Mhm,” you bop your head a few times, shivering when the cooler air peaks your nipples and Tsumu brushes his thumb over them. “He was- r-really- ah daddy, that tickles.” Your voice trembles when he eyes you down, before letting his fingers trail down to your shorts instead. He motions your butt up and you lift yourself politely, letting him slide those down your legs too as he lifts one and starts placing kisses down your ankle up your leg. “You said we’d get ready for bed~”

“We are gettin’ ready,” his smile goes a little crooked when you bite your lip, “just curious ‘s all. Ya think Samu likes ya?” He lets you fall back onto the plush covers before walking into the ensuite and coming back with some skincare that he places unceremoniously onto the bedside table- and you frown. If your boyfriend asked you a few years ago, you’d assume he was just genuinely curious. About you getting along with his family, his twin, his other half. But now, there’s an agenda woven into the words. Always is.

“We get along well. Why?”

His lips jerk up, and with a simple shrug he continues. “He’s good too ya, ain’t he? An’ I’ve been thinking I want Samu to watch us some time.” You’re too shocked to say anything, but your mouth drops open. No.

No, it’s already embarrassing how he makes you whine and whimper like a pet for him when you’re alone. It’s embarrassing when he makes you call him daddy when there’s people around with no shame- like he gets off on it. But this- his hands find your face with a soaked cotton pad to start cleaning you with gentle motions, and you find your eyes starting to water. You hate that you’ve become this fragile little flower that can’t speak up when it matters. You’d like to think you’re still the same. But your lip wobbles too easily as Atsumu continues, and your voice cracks.

The mortification is too much to bear, it swallows you up whole. He couldn’t possibly make you. “I don’t want that.”

“What’s that?” he coos, eyelids hooded. He leans down to you more.

You push his hand away from your face and frown, but tears still spill over. You fucking hate being such a crybaby. “I don’t want Samu to watch us.” You still frown though, doing your best to blink away the waterworks. And instead of taking you seriously - of course - Tsumu tilts his head in that sort of understanding that you’re throwing a tantrum like a toddler might. But you’re serious. You mean it. His freshly washed hair falls over his brows, but his hands still find your shoulders to keep you in place below him.

“Aw, baby. Poor girl.” The soft rubbing of his thumb along your skin only makes you more shaky in that feeling, his eyes roaming your body before he pushes you back onto the bed and crawls onto it beside you, pulling you into his touch. It doesn’t escape you that you’re already naked and he’s still dressed, keeping you tight. “I didn’t mean to upset ya. Shhh, shhh, it’s okay.” You swallow, and push against his chest with a slight whimper - why can’t he take you seriously?

“I mean it, Atsumu.”

Before you can say anything else he pinches your cheek hard, and his dark brows lace together. “Don’t be rude.” The darkness fades quickly, but he still doesn’t show any intention of letting you go. In fact, because of his strength against you you’re only forced deeper into his embrace, head pressed to his warm chest. “Daddy’ll take care of you. Always do, don’t I?” You open your mouth to retort, but he interrupts again, and squishes your cheeks together before placing a few patient kisses onto your pouty lips. “Listen to daddy. It’ll be fine.”

It’s so frustrating.

You want to move. You want to remove yourself from the situation he’s putting you in, or put on some fucking clothes, and instead you’re being mocked by him. Once more you try to give him a push for some space, but because he barely feels it or pretends not to, you don’t make a dent. “Tsumu, I don’t want to have sex with your brother watching~” you end up crying out, feeling the tears well up again. “Get off of me.” You start wiggling, as his hand wraps around your wrist and forces it to wrap around his body, clamping your hands together behind his back as he rolls over and starts kissing the top of your head.

“Don’t cry, don’t cry. Everything’s gonna be okay.” You want him to leave you alone. “My sweet little girl. You don’t gotta fight me, ‘m not doin’ nothing. I’m here for ya.” His heartbeat is so steady against you that it makes you want to shove him and scream in his face to fuck off, but of course you don’t. You don’t scream. You don’t push, or fight, or make yourself clear. All you can do is cry into his shirt as his smell wraps around you and you struggle to make the waterworks stop.

“Let go~” you sniffle into his shirt, and shiver when his hands start sliding down to pull you back onto him, forcing his thick, strong thigh between your legs. Your straining muscles give up after a while of pushing back, and his embrace still stays.

“Shush, little baby. I got ya, don’t worry yer pretty little head.”

“Daddy~” you whine softer this time, and don’t fight him when he nudges you face up to kiss him. He groans for a moment in what can only be satisfaction at winning the fight, before rolling over so you’re trapped under his heavy body, chest rising and falling against him. And as you try to stop crying, Atsumu has the nerve to rub your head like all of this isn’t his fault.

+

You can’t escape the heavy gaze anywhere you look. It’s suffocating. Not that you have much room to think about it between the way Tsumu’s taking up your space and forcing one of your legs over his shoulder so he can spread you open. It’s a brief reprieve from the prying eyes blocked by his broad back, but you know it will end. Because Tsumu didn’t just drag his twin here to know that someone’s watching. He wants to make a show of you. To show off the type of power he- oh. Your half-lidded eyes flutter open wider when his fingers spread open your slick and your pussy clenches around nothing.

And Atsumu grins. “Yer so quiet, baby. Are’ya shy?” You don’t answer that, instead trying to chase after his hand when he moves away, wrapping comparatively small hands around his wrist. You can feel the heat of Samu at the foot of the bed, uncomfortably perched onto it with his knee before he dips the mattress further, and your blinks get more rapid.

“Daddy… I- I don’t-”

“Hush,” he moves your other leg aside more, leaving you spread embarrassingly open before he dips his body and glides both hands under your ass, lifting you a few inches. His mouth descends without thinking, kisses and then tongue making you whimper as he eats you out. Not gently, but possessive, demanding licks that drag your split attention right back to him - only until Samu leans forward a little to get a better view. This is so fucking embarrassing. “Mh- Taste good, pretty thing.” Atsumu’s eyes have that same cocky, knowing look he always does when he gets you like this. You won’t do anything back, and he knows that. “Yer droolin’ all over my chin.”

You are. The slick’s coating his lips when he pulls back, trailing kisses up your thighs, before he slides two fingers inside your squelching pussy traitorously slow, and watches your face scrunch. He’s big. He always is, and knows it too, big hands, big thighs, chest, shoulders. Most of all, he’s fucked you enough times now to know that you can’t take him easily without prep, and even that is embarrassing. You could have gone a whole lifetime without having Osamu know that. Why did he even agree to this?

“Little brat,” Tsumu says after a few seconds, flicking your nipple painfully as he stares, clenching his jaw. “Don’t be rude. Samu came all the way out here to see ya, ‘n yer gonna lock up the whole time?” You swallow, and try to talk, but he instead curls his fingers inside your pussy and slides them deeper. Right where you can’t handle them, until you have no choice but to curl and wiggle away from him, mouth pulling open to moan.

“Ah, agh, daddy! Daddy, daddy.” Samu’s broad shouldered figure being barely dressed in a tank and boxers, along with Atsumu’s almost godly physique hanging over you is too much. You shut your eyes. “I can’t- f-focus.” You hold onto his arm as he fucks his fingers in and out of you for long enough that your entire body starts tingling, before he peels you off and turns you over. Rough hands hike you onto your knees, and your ass up in the air before his rough palm lands hard and sends a stinging heat through your legs. “Ow, ow~”

“That’s more like it. I know yer a noisy little bitch.” He rubs your lips up and down with his thumb a few more times, before you hear the sound of boxers being peeled off. “Now, what do ya say when daddy will give ya something ya want?”

He presses the hot head of his cock against you but doesn’t push in yet, and your poor pussy clenches around nothing as tears fill your eyes and you grip two fistfuls of pillow. You can’t say it. Not with Samu sitting right there, judging you both for- another sharp spank makes you shiver, and you whimper into the pillow. The sting aches until heat blooms under the damaged skin, and you unclench your teeth. “Please, daddy? Please fuck me.” You doubt you’re stretched enough to take him comfortably, even with the fingering and all the wetness coating your puffy pussy and the inside of your thighs. “Pretty please?”

There’s a few moments before his hand presses down on your back and his cock slides inside, and you do your best not to gasp too much feeling him force you open. It aches though, and you have to widen your knees to make room and— God it feels so good. You’re not sure whether to cry because of the feeling, or because you can’t stop yourself from moaning high pitched and whiny like a whore putting on her best performance. You really can’t help it. “Agh, ah- d-daddy, move, please.” The heavy weight of his cock bottoms out and he presses his heavy balls against you for a few seconds, before pulling out with a groan.

The motion pulls your entire body back, only stopped by his hand, like you’re some cocksleeve— and you cry harder. “Ah, ah, ugh— Atsumu,” you pout, and he pets your head.

“I’m right here, doll. Does that feel good?” You nod, and cling on, before opening your eyes to look at him with his thighs right next to your head and stroking his cock with an almost torturous pace. You whimper when being bottomed out into, and then your eyes shoot open. You can’t turn, but the low groan Samu lets out when you clench hard around him, says enough— and Tsumu laughs as he watches you panic and your bottom lip wobble, petting your head. Like this is all some big game, keeping you down under his hand while you shake your head.

“No, no- you said- you said he’d watch- agh, daddy! No, no no no, you promised! You promised.” You can’t stop yourself from moaning when he hits deep inside, fucking you much too well. Your mouth falls open as you try to stop the sound, but Tsumu’s touch only gets more demanding as his twin picks up the pace.

“Shhh, shhh, Samu likes ya so~ much. It’s just this one time. And then daddy’ll take good care of ya, promise.”

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[isalisewrites]

A Deep Dive into JKR's Terrible, Amateur Writing - Part One

Welcome to my new series, where I will prove to you, dear reader, that J.K. Rowling, author of the Harry Potter series and resident Twitter TERF, is actually a very, very poor writer.

And when I say 'poor writer,' I'm talking about her prose, her sentence structure, and her scenes. I am not going to discuss anything about the HP world nor the plots of the books.

This is all about the nitty gritty in the craft of writing itself.

Disclaimer for all readers: I'm going to sound very confident in my posts. I'm going to be working under the assumption that I'm a better writer than JKR. Because I am. My apologies if this rubs you the wrong way. You're just witnessing two and half decades of experience with the intensity from a neurodivergent who is hyperfocused on her special interest. I didn't just learn how to create stories; I learned the craft of writing to a minutia of details.

After years of being beaten down by others, I will no longer tolerate that.

I will be using my writing to compare with hers to make some of my points. Some of what I say in these posts could be considered stylistic choices. However, in my humble opinion, most of this is a difference of skill, which can be learned. Yes, everything I'm going to teach and cover in this series can be learned. There's no 'talent' here. You can learn how to become a better writer right here and now. You only have to understand the craft of writing and sentence structure to better improve your prose and scenes.

I don't have fame and money.

I don't need them to teach you how to write better than JKR.

You're free to disagree with my stances about this and about everything I cover, of course. But if you're a writer, you might gain some insight from this post and I sincerely hope you are enriched by my efforts in this. I spent quite a few hours on this post. Helping others become a better writer than JKR is one of the greatest contributions I can give to society.

Thus, take what resonates and leave what doesn't.

I have stated before: JKR's writing is bloated in the wrong places, underwritten in others, and the prose is poor. These problems show up in all of her HP books.

Buckle up, my writing friends. Grab a snack. Hydrate. Let's begin.

Class is in session.

In this post, we're going to dissect a page from HP4.

There's so much wrong with this page and the three pages of this scene overall. So much to go over. Bullet points I'll cover from this page:

Disconnected Dialogue Lines

The Great Sin of Adverbs

Too much fucking dialogue!

Wrong focus altogether in this scene

Out of POV writing

First point. This is a huge ongoing issue I see in all of the HP books. There are a lot of disconnected dialogue lines, which become confusing over time. This could be an issue of the publisher, but it's still a problem. In the middle of this page, we have:

Sirius hesitated. "I've been hearing some very strange things," he said slowly.

Wait, wait, wait. Who said this? Listen, I know. I know it's Sirius. However, this is an improper placement on the page and can become confusing because Harry also goes by he/him pronouns and he's also in this scene. While the dialogue here suggests Sirius is talking, it could easily be misinterpreted if there were other characters or if he said something that Harry could've just as easily said.

To make this dialogue more clear for the reader, it should go as follows:

Sirius hesitated. "I've been hearing some very strange things," he said slowly.

Second point. JKR is an adverb sinner, a criminal. Jail. "Do not pass go; do not collect $200." Arrest her for these blatant crimes, please, for the love of god.

Look, I love adverbs. They're great. Don't fucking listen to anyone who outright demonizes them (including your huffy, uppity literature professors). Adverbs are the seasonings of writing. You season your food; you also need to season your writing when the case asks for it.

However...

Adverbs should always be used sparingly when connected to dialogue tags. The setting in this scene is: Harry is in the Gryffindor Common Room at night crouched in front of the fireplace where Sirius is in the fire in a floo call. I read through the whole scene, though I've only shown one page here.

Harry says a line of dialogue 'slowly' three times and Sirius says a line of dialogue 'slowly' two times.

The same adverb 'slowly' is used FIVE FUCKING TIMES IN THREE PAGES.

I want to scream, not gonna lie here. Set this adverb on fire!

What does this adverb do for us in this conversation? What is so important that we have to be told that five lines of dialogue were said slowly? What do they contribute? Spoiler alert: nothing. What are their facial expressions? Harry is 14. He's exhausted since it's well after 1am or so and he's burdened with the new knowledge of dragons for the first task. He's kneeling in front of a very hot fireplace. There's fire fumes and smoke, potentially. Is he fidgeting? Is he yawning? Rubbing his eyes? Bouncing a leg? Is he picking at the carpet or rug?

Harry is a tired, burdened child.

Show me this!

Now I'm not saying that you can't use adverbs in your dialogue tags. There's a huge difference between "he said softly" and "he whispered." It's about balancing the moment when an adverb says just enough versus an adverb replacing well needed scene enrichment. Let's compare this with a section from my HP time travel fanfiction, Terrible, But Great, Chapter Thirty.

Dumbledore nodded at Monty, pocketing his wand. “Mr. Potter.” “Lo, Professor,” said Monty, pout gone, but still a watchful light in his gaze. “Is there a problem?” asked Dumbledore in a mild tone. Ice slipped in between Tom’s ribs, piercing his flesh. Monty tilted his head. “No, sir.” Oh, but Tom knew better. He could see through that innocent facade. The man could’ve been a Slytherin for how much he was cataloguing every little detail, from Tom’s appearance, to the content of the selected books, and to the supplies of ink, quill, and parchment scattered on the surface of the table. Tom masked the raw, whirling feelings in his chest with a well practiced blank, emotionless expression. He willed himself to hide.  “Nothing at all, sir,” said Tom lightly. “Young Mr. Potter was regaling me about his friendship with Miss Malfoy.” Monty glanced at Tom, brows furrowing. Those blue eyes were piercing, filled with suspicion. “Was he now?” Dumbledore said; though his tone was still without direct accusation, Tom could hear the hint of it. “Then, may I ask, why a silencing charm was necessary for such a benign conversation?” Tom wet his lips. His throat was dry. “I thought it wise to avoid disturbing others in the library.” “I am awfully loud,” said Monty with a sage nod. “Ah. A noble intent. However, it is not an appropriate use of magic in the library,” said Dumbledore, his gaze firm as it bore down on Tom. “Ten points from Slytherin. I think it’d be wise to take your studies to your common room, Mr. Riddle.” “Yes, sir,” whispered Tom.

I only used "said Tom lightly" once in this section to show Tom attempting to be unaffected by Dumbledore's interference. I did not dialogue dump information in giant chunks. I did utilized actions tags versus adverbs, like Monty tilting his head or Tom licking his lips. I suspect that if JKR had written this scene, she'd have used lines like:

"No, sir," said Monty curiously.

or

"I thought it wise to avoid disturbing others in the library," said Tom nervously.

The adverbs that JKR's uses add nothing to her scenes. They're just thrown into them without a thought. Did she even reread this scene after she wrote it? I cringe in agony if I use an uncommon word more than three or four times in an entire 4,000 to 7,000 word chapter, let alone the same adverb five times in three pages. Good grief.

There are two other adverbs used in this page, hastily and bitterly. Hastily does nothing for the scene and is connected to another issue, but I'll go over that in the end. However, bitterly is one of the adverbs I'd keep. It gives us a glimpse into Harry's feelings here. We need more of this, but we got nothing.

Thus, the overuse of adverbs in JKR's dialogue detracts and steals so much from the scene.

Third point: there's too much dialogue and no description whatsoever. Again, the adverbs are a pathetic attempt to give us something, but they're thrown in there without a damn forethought. We're missing the crackle of the fire and the smell of it. We're missing Sirius' facial expressions. We're missing Harry moving around on the floor, fidgeting, yawning, rubbing his eyes, feeling the heat of the fire, bouncing his legs, picking at the rug, something, anything, etc.

The dialogue is bloated with a terribly boring conversation. It's just endless dialogue with nothing else. No, it's awful. Welcome to the fourth bullet point. This scene focuses on the entirely wrong point. This scene is 100% a plot device and it's terribly done as well. It's three pages about Karkaroff being a Death Eater--oh no he might be trying to kill you, Harry, aaaaaa--and something about Bertha Jorkins being near Voldemort's last location. Meh. Who cares. Somebody has been trying to kill Harry in every book thus far. This isn't a new development, sweetie.

We been done know this, okay? Come on.

This is a stilted, unnatural conversation between Harry and Sirius. It's not realistic. It's not normal. Telling Harry about the Karkaroff's past is boring and does nothing for him. One line, maybe two, for Sirius to say, "Hey, keep an eye out for Karkaroff. He's an old Death Eater." Done. End of Karkaroff information. And cut Bertha Jorkins out altogether. I'm sorry, but why the hell are we talking about a dead woman to a 14 year old kid whose biggest problem at the moment is dealing with a jealous friend, school ostracization, and a giant fire breathing lizard???

These points are important to the plot, but they're not important to Harry.

The plot isn't important. No, it's not.

Harry is the POV character.

Harry is the single most important aspect in every scene and should be treated as such.

The plot should weave around Harry, slowly revealing itself to both Harry and the reader. Harry should not be the weaver of the plot. He should not be used in plot devices.

Do you know what part of the conversation was summarized in the prose between Harry and Sirius in a single paragraph versus the three pages about Karkaroff?

Harry talking about how no one believes him about not putting his name in the Goblet of Fire. About the school hating him. About Ron, about his betrayal and his jealousy. About Rita Skeeter. About seeing the dragons as the first task. These are all important to Harry. These all are causing pain to Harry's heart right now. Somebody give this child a hug, please.

We missed out on exploring Harry's feelings here. The author skips the MOST important part of the conversation, what could've been a deeply emotional, either positive or negative, conversation between Harry and Sirius.

Oh, this scene could've been so good. It could've been amazing. There are so many paths that could've been explored here, too.

We could've had a callous Sirius, who doesn't notice Harry's state of being, and just goes on and on about nothing of importance where Harry clams up. Or we've could've had a comforting Sirius, who attempts to give Harry some actual advice about his friendship with Ron. We could've seen Harry opening up in his body language, connecting with this parental figure in his life. We could've heard a story of Sirius' time as a kid at school with Harry's father and the marauders.

We were robbed of an important moment between Harry and Sirius.

Instead, the author puts the focus on the red herring 'foreshadowing' of Karkaroff. What a waste. She's trying to put suspicion on him, rather than Moody/Barty Crouch Jr., the real Death Eater in disguise. Again, who cares. It's not about them. It's about Harry and how his experiences are affecting him. It's about how he reacts to them.

This scene is a waste of time and paper. It's empty of emotion and movement/flow. It's just there for a set up and it's glaringly obvious during a second read of the book.

When I say, "The writing is bloated and underwritten at the same time." this is what I mean. We're focusing on the wrong things here.

Fifth point. JKR breaks the POV character with the following line:

"--and reading between the lines of that Skeeter woman's article last month, Moody was attacked the night before he started at Hogwarts. Yes, I know she says it was another false alarm," Sirius said hastily, seeing Harry about to speak, "but...

Harry is the POV character. Sirius 'seeing Harry about to speak' should NOT be occurring in the prose whatsoever. To fix this with the bare minimum of effort for this poorly written dialogue line:

"--and reading between the lines of that Skeeter woman's article last month, Moody was attacked the night before he started at Hogwarts--" Harry opened his mouth to interject, but Sirius said hastily, "Yes, I know she says it was another false alarm, but..."

I wouldn't write these lines like this, by the way. I just don't want to rewrite this. It's a poor paragraph overall, but this is an example of returning the POV back to Harry. Sirius isn't 'seeing' anything anymore. Harry is doing an action and Sirius reacts to his action.

Breaking POV is a rule that can be occasionally broken, but should be done so with intent and purpose. I'm pretty confident when I say that JKR probably had no idea that this was a mistake on her part in the prose.

All right then.

We have come to an end of Part One in this series. We have dissected a single page and a single scene in JKR's Harry Potter and the Goblet of Fire. The page in question is 333 should you wish to look it up and study the scene yourself.

More to follow because I have lots of pages to go over. This will definitely be series, ah dear.

And so, please do the world the greatest of favors and write better than J.K. Rowling. I promise, it's not that hard once you see the differences.

Until next time.

Isa

[bellysoupset]

"Are you drunk?" Bella asked with a chuckle, raising her eyes from her laptop as Luke stumbled into the living room of their tiny house and pressed his forehead to the open front door.

He hiccupped, raised a hand and then pinched his fingers in a little-bit manner.

Bell snorted, "I don't know if I believe you, Lucas," she looked back at the screen, considering if she should continue her online RPG game or tap out. He had been gone for most of the night and she missed him, but it also felt like a bit of an asshole move-

A loud burp interrupted her thought process and Bella jumped on the couch, startled. She looked up in time to see her husband folding in half, a hand open on his chest and rubbing in circles as he tried to work up another burp.

"Christ, Luke," she laughed, " at least let me hang up the discord call first," Bella typed a quick sorry guys gtg. keep going w/o me and disconnected her headphones, closing her laptop without bothering to shut it down.

In the thirty seconds it took her to do it, Luke had kicked the front door shut and was leaning against it with a hand pressed to his stomach, but a lazy smile stretched on his face, green eyes dark and hazy thanks to the alcohol, his cheeks tinted red.

"Stop giving me those bedroom eyes, Atwood," Bella shook her head fondly, putting away her laptop, "you're looking a little green around the gills."

"Uhhhm, you're no fun," Luke sighed, crossing the distance to the couch and tackling himself over her, pining Bella down. She let out a squeal, squirming under his body, in order to hug him with her arms and legs.

"Yeah yeah yeah," she rolled her eyes fondly and Luke pressed his forehead to her chin and blew out a small burp under his breath, "how did you even manage to get drunk? I thought it was going to be just you and Leo?"

"It was just us," Lucas nodded and his belly, pressed to Bella's thigh thanks to their weird arrangement on the couch, let out a gurgle that she could feel, "then Spence-" he interrupted himself to burp, whole body tensing as the rush of air was expelled, before collapsing back down, "Spencer and Mikey, from the team, showed up so..."

"They goaded you, captain?" Bella teased him lightly, pressing her lips to his temple and causing Luke to let out a groan, his voice muffled by her chest.

"Nooo..."

"No? Please, Lucas, I know you," she scratched his back up and down, "can't have them know former team captain extraordinaire was and still is a lightweight."

"You're so mean to me," Luke whined, letting out another brassy belch and groaning as his belly gurgled in response, "I don't feel good, its all... Yeah, its not good," he pulled back with a frown, moving from the hug in order to sit up and promptly pressing a fist to his mouth to muffle a disgustingly loud burp, which turned wet towards the ending and had him gulping down.

"Luke?" Bella moved up, getting on her knees on the cushions and pushing his dark hair back, "baby?"

"I'm so burpy..." Lucas sighed, letting his head lean back. A gurgly sound went from his belly to his throat, but the burp fizzled out, "I feel gross."

"It's the beer," Bella settled against his side, reaching for her husband's jeans and undoing his fly, giving his belly more space. He was bloated as hell, taut stomach barely going in as she pushed her cold fingers against it, "relax and let me rub it for you..."

"Mmm'kay," he mumbled, spreading out his legs and immediately letting out a huge burp as Bella pressed the heel of her hand against the side of his tummy, starting to rub it. He chuckled at the end of the sudden burp, rubbing his chest, "sorry, wow- Sorry."

Bella only snorted, moving to rest her legs on top of his and continuing the belly rub, "you'd think by now you'd realize that beer always messes with you, Lu..."

"Ugh," he gulped down, turning his head and blowing out a low, breathy burp, "I know, I know... But we were having so much fun..."

She rolled her eyes, drumming her fingers lightly against his bloated stomach and hearing the thump-thump it made, clearly filled with air, "how were the guys, anyway?"

"They're doing great," Lucas shrugged, smiling, "Mikey is running a veterinarian clinic and Spencer works for a bank, don't ask me what he does but he seemed happy."

She grinned, "did Leo tell them about the wedding?"

Lucas nodded, then moved Bell's hand to his lower belly and groaned as she pressed on it, "Leo was always everyone's favorite, I think he'll end up inviting most of the te-" he interrupted himself with another harsh, loud wet burp and grimaced, smacking his lips, "team... Ugh, hold on, baby-" he pushed Bella's hands away from his stomach and wrapped an arm around it, squeezing and bringing up an sequence of burps, each one wetter than the previous one.

Bella raised her eyebrows, planting a hand on his back and rubbing it up and down as he leaned forward, "those don't sound good, baby..."

"Just... Full," he cupped his mouth as another belch slipped up, sounding all frothy, "fuck..." Luke fell back against the couch with a sigh, "that helped a little..."

"Wanna head to bed?" Bella petted the hair on his nape, the dark chocolate waves that ended into swooping c's, blushing as he turned his head and kissed the inside of her wrist, nodding, "okay, up you go-" her voice strained as he jumped up and tried to pull him with.

Lucas smiled at the fact, before grabbing her arm and allowing her to pull him up, groaning when the movement caused his overly full belly to slosh, "oh gross... Hold on a sec-" he braced against the couch's arm and Bella took a step back.

"Please don't puke on the carp-"

A loud, huge burp answered her, then Luke let out a heavy sigh, "oof, needed that!" his voice was suddenly much cheery, making her laugh.

"Probably a record for you," she wrapped an arm behind his back, pulling him closer and walking them to the bedroom, "feeling better?"

"Not queasy anymore," he nodded, throwing an arm around her shoulders and hugging Bella closer.

[mackenzielovee]

parenthood part twenty: intemperance

a/n: ahhh , this is a long one! but it's a good one (hopefully). happy sunday and i hope you guys have a wonderful week ahead. reblogs are appreciated, as is feedback! thank you! xoxo

warnings: swearing, verbal arguments, complicated family dynamics, alcoholism, vomiting, mentions of pregnancy, birth control, vasectomy, allusion to smut

ambivalence masterlist , parenthood masterlist

     You’re completely still in front of the bathroom mirror as you stare at yourself, listing off the symptoms in your head and connecting the potential dots. 

The nausea. The tender breasts. The bloating. The alert on your phone telling you that your period is five days late. 

Your life plays out before your eyes as you anxiously plan out what another pregnancy means for everyone. Not just you, who already feels defeated and drained at the thought of having to go through another nine months. It also means a baby, a million sleepless nights, and another adjustment to your house. Your family. It changes everything, and it wasn’t anything you planned on. 

Rafe knocks on the bathroom door and you shove the unused pregnancy test back into your vanity, spinning around and giving him a fake smile as he enters. 

“Sorry, forgot my belt,” he tells you, looking handsome as ever as he gets ready for his boys night with Kelce and Topper. 

“You’re fine,” you promise him, “You look handsome.”

He smiles as he buckles his belt, “Thanks, baby.”

You accept his kiss when he offers it, and without another word, he escapes back out to watch the kids. You take one final look at the mirror, then at the drawer concealing your pregnancy test, and walk out behind him.     

     “I can handle it.”

It’s your fifth time saying that statement to Topper, and yet, he still seems hesitant. He clutches Eleanor tightly, as if the thought of separating from her is going to physically rip her from him. You glance over at Rafe, who shakes his head at you. 

“I know you can, I just hate leaving her,” Topper mumbles, his eyes never leaving his daughter. 

“I get that, man, but Y/N’s got this,” Rafe promises him, “A night of no spit-up is exactly what you need.”

Topper, who has spent the last two weeks moving into the guest house while also taking care of Eleanor, truly does need a night out. Kelce and Rafe volunteered the idea of drinks at the Club, and with Maddie out of town, Noah and Julian are with Maddie’s parents. You promised to watch Eleanor so Topper could go, and while he initially agreed, he seems unable to separate. 

“Alright,” Topper declares, stepping toward you, “But, don’t forget that she cries if you take away her pink giraffe. And, she gets fussy around seven, but if you give her the purple pacifier—”

“Topper,” you groan, “I have two. I know. Now, go. Have fun.”

“Fine,” he grumbles, gazing longingly at Eleanor. 

“Alright, kiddos, come give Daddy hugs,” you call over your shoulder. 

Josie hops right up and sprints over to Rafe, who lifts her up with no challenge whatsoever. 

“Wanna bring ice cream home?” Josie grins mischievously.

“Maybe,” Rafe whispers, “Only if you’re good for Mom, okay?”

“Okay, Daddy,” she nods. 

“Alright. I love you, princess.”

“Love you, too,” she replies, hugging him tightly before he sets her down. 

Connor hurries over to Rafe, who kneels and hugs him right away. You smile at the sight, loving their relationship. That smile drops when you think about whether or not adding another would be good for Connor’s sensitivity; what if he can’t understand? What if it’s too much for him, or he feels too disconnected from you or Rafe?

“Be good,” Rafe whispers to him, “Keep an eye on your sister.”

“I will,” Connor promises, “Love you.”

“I love you, too,” Rafe smiles. 

“Uncle Top, you have to give hugs and kisses, too,” Josie demands, holding her arms up in expectation of being picked up. 

“Yes ma’am,” Topper laughs, grabbing her and lifting her up. 

She squeals when he kisses her cheeks repeatedly, then squeezes her tight. Eleanor stirs in your arms, so you rock her back and forth to try and relax her. 

“Best behavior,” Josie lectures Topper.

He chuckles, “I promise, baby. Be good to Ellie, okay?”

“Okay,” she nods. 

Topper kisses Josie once more, then sets her down. Connor steps over and gives Topper a hug, and the kids follow you to the door to wave goodbye to the men. Rafe wraps a gentle arm around you on the porch, then presses his lips to your temple. 

“Call me if you need anything,” he lectures, “I’ll come right home.”

“I’ll be fine,” you promise him, “Have fun with them. Don’t worry about me.”

Rafe steps away, but shakes his head as he starts walking backward down the sidewalk, “I always worry about you, baby. Love me?”

“I love you,” you smile. 

“I love you, too.”

“I love you, three,” Topper calls, “Thanks again, Y/N.”

“Have fun,” you yell, waving as they climb into Topper’s car. 

Once the boys are gone, you corral the kids back inside. Josie, who obsesses over Eleanor, immediately wants to play, while Connor goes back to his puzzle. 

     The evening plays out as successfully as you could’ve hoped, and you’re almost sad when Josie falls asleep beside Eleanor, who is resting soundly in the pack ‘n play you’d set up just for her. 

Connor comes over and crawls up on the couch, not even asking before he sits down in your lap. You welcome it and give him a smile, watching as he returns it. 

“Mama?” he asks, his voice quiet. 

“Yeah?”

“Is Aunt Sarah coming home for Christmas?”

You comb through his hair as you stare into his deep eyes, pursing your lips as you debate how to answer his question. The truth is, you have no idea. You haven't reached out to Sarah after what she’d had to say about you last time she was home, and no part of you wants to. You just hate that it has to impact the kids. 

“I’m not sure, handsome,” you reply softly, “You miss her?”

He nods, “Yeah.”

“I’m sorry,” you whisper, leaning down to kiss the top of his head. 

“It’s okay. At least we have baby Ellie.”

You smile, grateful for his big heart, and pull him tighter against you. It doesn’t take long for Connor to fall asleep, with you not far behind him. The worrying combined with babysitting — practicing for when you have to handle three, you try not to think — has exhausted you.

     While you’d never meant to doze off, you also never thought you’d be waking up to someone banging on the front door. Your eyes open in a panic, and you gently remove Connor from your lap before standing up. The uneven banging continues, and you know Rafe and the boys would never do that because of the kids. 

Hesitantly, you stand, hurrying to the foyer out of desperation for the sound to stop. You’re thankful Eleanor hasn’t started crying yet, but you’re sure she will if you don’t stop it. Glancing out the window, you grow frustrated when you realize that it’s Scott on your porch. He’s unbalanced, leaning on the door as he pounds on it. 

Without another second wasted, you swing open the door to stop him. He tumbles forward, having been leaning all his weight on the door, and you have to reach out and grab him so he doesn’t fall to the floor. 

“Oh, shit,” he mutters to himself, then laughs, “Whoops.”

You shut your eyes as Scott grips your hands, steadying himself before standing up straight. You can smell the alcohol on his breath, the shitty bar on his clothes, the cigarette smoke in his hair. 

“Scott—”

“Lost my keys,” he tells you, slurring his words, “Couldn’t get the door open without my keys. Why are you holding my hands?”

You frown, “You’re drunk.”

He shakes his head, but the movement causes him to feel unsteady again, and he stumbles once more. You groan as you attempt to keep him upright, ignoring him when he starts to laugh at himself again. 

“I am not,” he replies, “Just had a few. But I am not a lightweight.”

“You’ve got to be kidding me,” you mutter to yourself, then shake your head, “Scott, the kids are asleep.”

He chuckles, “I’m not gonna wake ‘em.”

You roll your eyes and debate what to do, trying to remember if the guest room is prepared for anyone to use. Deciding that it has to be, that you have no choice, you sigh. 

“Alright, let’s just get you upstairs,” you say, pulling him toward you. 

“No, wait,” he says, yanking his hands away from you, “Fuck, I lost my phone. I have to call her.”

You don’t bother asking who — given that you already know. You quickly figure out that Scott has done something to ruin his relationship with Mae, which has caused an apparent relapse in his drinking. 

He’d been keeping himself under control for a few months now, and you’d been proud of him. Now, he’s taking three steps back. 

“You can call her in the morning. Please, I don’t want you to wake—”

He attempts to side-step you, resulting in him stumbling, tripping over his own feet, and falling down on the floor. His hands fly out to try and brace himself, but the noise his body makes when he hits the hard wood is loud enough to wake even the best of sleepers. 

You cover your face with your hands as Eleanor starts to cry in the living room, knowing she will also awaken both Josie and Connor. 

“Shit,” Scott mumbles to himself, “You should really put a carpet here.”

He makes no motion to get up from where he lays in the middle of the foyer, and you don’t try to get him up. You take a deep breath and exhale slowly, trying to calm yourself. 

“Mommy?”

You turn around and find Josie standing in the middle of the entryway, her tired eyes moving between you and her uncle. 

“Josie! Hey, baby!” Scott cheers from the floor. 

Confused, Josie looks back up at you. When she doesn’t find any source of direction, given that you feel completely frozen, she starts over to the two of you. 

Instead of allowing her to step any closer, you move over and pick her up. Quickly, you turn her away, running a hand up and down her back to calm her. 

“Let’s go take care of baby Ellie,” you say, giving her a smile, “Will you help me?”

“Sure, Mommy,” she replies, although you don’t miss the way she looks over her shoulder to steal another glance at Scott. 

Connor is awake and standing over the pack ‘n play that Eleanor occupies when you get into the living room. You set Josie down and walk over to him, giving him a smile and a soft ‘thanks’ when he points down to the baby. 

“Is Uncle Scott okay?” Connor asks, glancing heavily toward the foyer. 

You swallow, “He’ll be just fine.”

He nods and watches as you grab Eleanor out, cradling her in your arms as you attempt to coax her back to sleep. You can hear Scott groan and yell for you from his place on the floor, but you pretend not to hear it. 

You feel too many emotions to know how to handle all of them right now. Sure, Scott didn’t know you were watching the baby tonight. And, yes, you’re glad he came to you instead of passing out on the side of the road or in an unsafe situation. But for him to come here and pound on the door, drunk out of his mind, when he knows you have children? Who are both asleep at this hour? It makes you feel angry. Then, you switch to relieved, knowing he’s safe. Then, you decide you’re anxious, because you can’t take care of four people right now. 

Your heart sinks when your mind tells you to call Rafe. You don’t want to — you want to handle it, to let him have his fun and keep Topper’s mind off of all the stress, but you know he will be sad if he comes home to you when you’re overwhelmed and upset and didn’t feel as if he would be of help.

Eleanor falls back to sleep relatively easily, which you’re thankful for. Connor sits down on the couch and Josie follows him, where she ultimately falls asleep with her head in his lap. You kiss Connor’s cheek, then grab your phone from the coffee table. It lights up right then with a new text from Rafe, one that has you letting out a breath of relief. 

How’s everything? Can’t stop thinking about you. 

You smile at the text, and for a brief moment, you want to suck it up. Then, Scott groans once again, and you drop your gaze back to the keyboard, staring at each individual letter as you prepare to let your husband down. 

Can you come home?

Your thumb hovers over the send button for what feels like forever, and the second you press it, a shot of anxiety shoots through you. Even though you know he will with no hesitation, you hate having to ask. You hate being a potential burden. 

He’s typing almost as soon as your test delivers to his screen. 

Of course, baby. Is it urgent or just miss me?

You smile despite the situation, typing back quickly. 

Not urgent but necessary. Scott showed up and woke up the kids. He’s drunk. 

Rafe’s response is quick yet again. 

Be home as soon as I can. Hang tight.

You let out a breath of relief, because you know he’s coming. Connor’s eyes are closed when you look over at him, so you feel comfortable stepping away from the kids to check on Scott. He’s sitting up now; his back is resting against the wall and his head is tipped back, like he’s prepared to sleep there. 

“Scott,” you say softly, inching toward him. 

His eyes open when he hears you, “Y/N, thank God. I’m gonna throw up.”

The mere mention of the action has your stomach turning. You swallow down the impulse, then reach for him. 

“Let’s get you to the bathroom, then,” you try.

“Can’t,” he replies, “Your house is spinning.”

He starts to slide down the wall on his right side, but you don’t try to stop him. Instead, you watch as he collapses, unable to pick himself back up. He lets out a low groan as you turn on your heel, walking into the kitchen and getting an old grocery bag from the pantry for Scott to throw up in if need be. 

Your hand meets your stomach before you leave the kitchen, and you catch yourself hoping that the pregnancy test shows a negative. Your heart sinks at the thought, at the blatant denial of wanting another child. 

With another breath — because breathing seems to be all you can do — you walk back out to Scott and toss the plastic bag in his lap. You stare at him for a moment, and just as he turns his head to the side, you check your phone to find an empty lock screen. 

The sound of Scott relieving his stomach of the alcohol he’d consumed draws you right out of your phone, just in time for you to notice that he doesn’t even bother using the bag you’d given him. 

Your hardwood floors are ruined, you think. 

“Scott—” you groan, but his sound is louder. It’s a mix between a sob and a grunt, but it all sounds sad to you. 

“Fuck,” Scott swears, “Fuckin’ Mae. Why do I have to love her?”

You don’t reply, still too upset about the floor and him, and the kids, and the potential baby growing inside of you.

Scott’s eyes follow you as you step into the living room, checking on the kids. They’re all still sound asleep, which you’re relieved for. 

“I know why,” he continues, “‘Cause she worked her magic on me. I’ll be in love with her forever. Wanna have babies with her. Y/N, should I have babies with Mae?”

You’re not sure if it’s your own anxiety projecting off of you, but when you look at your brother, and the state he’s in, you cross your arms defensively over your chest. 

“No.”

His eyebrows furrow, and the expression that crosses his face borders on anger. You simply shrug, not defending or retracting your answer. 

“Whatever,” Scott mutters, “Sorry I’m not as perfect as you.”

Your chest rises as you take in a steady, deep breath, trying your best not to react to that statement. Just as you open your mouth to speak, to try and defend yourself, you see the headlights on the car bringing your husband home as they reflect off the wall. Without a word to Scott, you walk over to the front door and open it just in time to see Rafe hopping out of his Uber. 

You step out onto the porch, then down onto the sidewalk to get to him faster. His eyes never leave you as he approaches, scanning you for any potential physical issues as he opens his arms. 

“Hey, sweetheart, you okay?” he asks you, his voice soft from the sympathy and alcohol coursing through his veins. 

Tears well up in your eyes the second his familiar scent hits your nose. Between the kids, your anxiety about being pregnant, and Scott, you feel as if the world is crashing down on you. Before you can suck it up, and instead, blaming it on hormones, you accidentally let out a sob into his chest. 

Rafe’s grip tightens around you and he squeezes — not too tight, but tight enough that you feel him trying to put the broken pieces back together. 

“Talk to me,” he whispers into your hair, “I’m right here. I’m sorry I left. Tell me what’s going on in your head.”

“It’s too much, Rafe,” you mumble, trying your best to calm yourself. 

“Okay, hey,” he coaxes you, pulling back and tipping your chin up so you’re looking directly at him, “Look at me. I’ll fix all of it. Just tell me the first thing you want me to handle.”

You pout, because of course he wants to swoop in and save the day. He always does, even if he doesn’t know it. 

“No, I’m sorry,” you say, wiping your eyes, “I didn’t mean to—”

“Don’t you dare apologize to me,” he says, earning a small smile from you. 

You nod in understanding, then sigh, “Scott’s in the middle of our foyer on the floor. He won’t get up, and he was just being kind of rude to me. He woke up all three kids and everything.”

Rafe listens, nodding his head and waiting for you to finish telling him about it. Then, he wraps your hand in his and nods his head toward the house. 

“I’ll handle it. Come on.”

You follow him up the stairs to the porch, a certain peacefulness washing over you just due to Rafe’s presence. 

“We just need to get him upstairs,” you say quietly.

Rafe doesn’t respond to you; instead, he guides you inside the house and releases you so you can close the front door. You watch as he walks over to Scott, who is still laying on his side and pressed against the wall. Rafe glances at the now stained hardwood floor and turns his nose up, but doesn’t say anything. 

He doesn’t bother to hesitate for even one second. He touches his shoe to Scott’s chest and nudges him — not roughly, but not exactly gentle, either. 

“Get up, Scott,” Rafe says loudly, “Don’t make me force you up.”

Scott groans, his eyes glued shut, “Go away.”

Rafe chuckles, but it sounds sarcastic and unforgiving. You draw back, knowing how this will end. Without word or warning, Rafe kneels down in front of Scott. Your brother’s eyes are still closed, so he doesn’t see how Rafe reaches around him and then grabs a fistful of the back collar of Scott’s tee shirt. 

Rafe pulls him upright, eliciting a gasp from Scott’s lips. You watch Scott struggle to get his bearings, but you say nothing. 

“Dude, what the fuck?” Scott exclaims, trying to brush Rafe off. 

“Yeah, what the fuck,” Rafe repeats, “My kids are in this house. My wife is in this house. You think you can pass out on the floor in front of them?”

“Get off me,” Scott demands, but his words are still slurred and his actions are weighed down by the alcohol in his veins. 

“No.”

“Cameron, I’m gonna—” Scott warns, covering his mouth with his hand. 

Rafe rolls his eyes and starts forward, dragging Scott along toward the bathroom. He yanks him inside and closes the door, leaving you out in the living room with the three kids. Not sure of what else you should do, you quickly clean up Scott’s mess, then pick up Connor from his place on the couch and carry him upstairs to his bed. You come back down and do the same with Josie. Both of them are too far asleep to wake up as you do this, which you’re thankful for. 

On your way back downstairs from Josie’s room, you find Rafe pulling Scott up the stairs. Scott refuses to lift his feet, reacting only when Rafe tugs on his shirt again. 

“Come on, Scott, stop fucking around,” Rafe demands. 

“I can’t—” Scott slurs, seeming that after he’s spilled his guts in your downstairs bathroom, he’s too tired to even climb the stairs, “Fuck— I can’t.”

“I’m not carrying you, so you don’t have a choice,” Rafe snaps back. 

“Rafe,” you say quietly, hurrying down the stairs to meet them both. 

Scott looks up at you when you set your hand on his arm, and you can see relief through his tired, drunk eyes. 

“Y/N,” Scott whispers, immediately growing emotional, “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. I’m fucked up, I’m so fucked up—”

“Stop,” you demand quietly, letting him fall onto you in a hug, “It’s okay. Let’s just get you upstairs and you can sleep it off. Work with me, okay?”

He nods against you, and with the help of both you and Rafe, Scott makes it all the way up the stairs. You both guide him into the guest room, where he immediately collapses onto the bed without pulling the sheets back. 

Rafe swears under his breath and shakes his head as he stares, while you move forward and untie Scott’s boots. When he starts to snore, you move his head onto the pillow and grab a spare blanket from the closet, then lay it over him. 

“Come on, sweetheart,” Rafe coaxes you gently. 

You stare at your brother for another few seconds, desperately wishing you could change things for him. You wonder what this means — will he apologize and then go back to the same behavior? Is he sick? Would you be a bitch to bring up AA meetings and programs that will help him stay sober? Does he even want to stay sober?

You follow Rafe down the stairs silently. He crosses the living room and checks on Eleanor, who is still sleeping soundly. 

“Topper’s gonna have to crash on the couch,” Rafe says to you, “He and Kelce stayed behind. I didn’t want them to see Scott like that.”

“Thank you,” you whisper. 

His eyes linger on you for far too long, watching you squirm under his gaze. He steps toward you and opens his arms, watching as you practically collapse into him.

“Are you okay?” he asks.

You nod, “Yeah.”

“You sure?”

Choosing not to answer that, you opt to change the subject instead. 

“I’m sorry about tonight. I just—”

“Don’t,” he says gently, “I would’ve been overwhelmed, too.”

“Thank you,” you repeat, needing for him to affirm that you’d done the right thing. 

He squeezes you tighter and lets you cuddle into him for as long as you need to, not making any attempt to move or anything. 

The room falls silent as he holds you. Your mind buzzes with questions, plans, and doubts as you press yourself further into Rafe, as if he can fix this, too. You wonder if you should sneak off and take the test now, or if you should wait until the morning. Above all else, you want to tell him. You want him to know, and you want him to be there when you find out. 

“Rafe,” you say, feeling him shift as he looks down at you. 

“Yeah?”

You swallow, “I have to tell you something.”

He nods his head as you pull back, looking up into his eyes. He doesn’t seem drunk in any capacity. Not even tipsy. You briefly wonder how much he drank tonight, if anything at all. 

“Okay, what is it?”

You take a deep breath, the words leaving your lips right as you hear Topper at the front door, sticking his key in the lock and twisting it open. 

“I think I might be pregnant.”

Rafe’s expression falls to shock as he stares at you, as if assessing your seriousness. His jaw is slack and his eyes are wide, but Topper enters the house and walks through the foyer before either of you can say another word. 

“Hey,” Topper says casually, “How’d she do?”

You turn away from Rafe and give Topper a smile, watching as he leans over the pack ‘n play and smiles at Eleanor. 

“She did great,” you promise him, “Um, Scott showed and kinda woke her up, but I got back to sleep pretty easily. He’s crashing upstairs, so the couch is all yours.”

He nods, “Sounds good to me. Thanks for letting us sleep here.”

“Yeah, of course—”

You stop speaking when Rafe’s hands fall from your waist, and he excuses himself to your bedroom without a word to either of you. Topper shrugs at the action and walks over to the couch, where he pulls out his phone as he gets comfortable. 

You give Eleanor another quick check before whispering a ‘goodnight’ to Topper. Your anxiousness skyrockets as you walk toward your bedroom, not knowing how Rafe will react. You’re sure he’ll make you take the test, but you’re not sure what he wants the result to be. 

When you enter your bedroom, Rafe is seated on the edge of your bed. His lips are parted and his eyes are glazed over as he comprehends what you’ve told him. He doesn’t look up when you enter; he doesn’t even seem to notice until you’re standing in front of him. 

“Did you—” he starts, then stops and looks up at you, “Did you take a test?”

His voice is weak, hoarse, and you’re not used to it. He watches as you shake your head. 

“No. I was going to, but I got nervous.”

He nods in understanding, but doesn’t speak. You’re now standing directly in front of him, but he hasn’t reached for you the way he always does. 

You’re not sure what to say, and apparently, he isn’t either. His eyes are still wide, and you can see his mind going a mile a minute trying to make it all make sense. Desperate for him to vocalize those thoughts, you speak.

“Rafe,” you say softly, “I need you to say something.”

He sucks in a deep breath through his nose, then exhales through his lips. You chew on your bottom lip roughly, but relax a bit when he reaches forward and places his hands on your hips. 

“Do you have a test here?”

You stare at him for a moment, having expected a little more comfort from him. 

“Yes.”

He nods, “A few of them? Sometimes they can be wrong.”

You furrow your brows, unsure of what that means he’s thinking. You swallow and shake your head, struggling to find your voice. 

“I have three. One of them is old, though.”

He nods again, but he seems deep in thought. As if at his mercy, you stand and wait for a response, letting out a breath you didn’t realize you were holding when he squeezes your hip. 

“Okay,” he says slowly, “Let’s go take one.”

He moves to stand, to drop his hands from your hips, but you stop him quickly. 

“Wait,” you blurt, setting your hands on his shoulders, “I just— I’m freaked out, Rafe. You’re not saying anything.”

“What do you want me to say?”

You shake your head, “I don’t know. Something.”

“Okay,” he repeats, squeezing your hip again, “How about this? I love you. And I would like to know if we’re having another baby before I start worrying about if this is what you want, because you look like you’d rather set a match to our house than be pregnant right now.”

You attempt to draw back at his words, but his grip on your hips keeps you completely in place. You stare, wondering what exactly it is about your demeanor that is telling him how you feel without having to verbalize it. 

“I’m scared,” you admit quietly, “We haven’t— I mean, you and me, we didn’t say—”

“I know, baby,” he nods, “Let’s get our answer before we talk about anything else, okay?”

As he takes in your concerned expression, his hands trail up your body slowly. He cups your cheeks in his palms and gives you a reassuring smile — one that seems to calm the deepest anxieties roaming around your chest. 

“Okay,” you agree. 

Rafe nods and leans forward, pressing a firm kiss to your forehead before he takes your hands and leads you to the bathroom. He watches patiently and silently as you retrieve one of the pregnancy tests from the drawer of your vanity, then gives you an encouraging nod and smile before you step over to the toilet. 

He’s seated on the floor of your bathroom when you return with the test, which you promptly set down on the counter. His back is leaned up against the bathtub and he’s anxiously picking at his nails, but when he sees you, he stops and gives you a sympathetic, closed-mouth smile. 

“You don’t want to be pregnant, do you?” he asks, phrasing it in a way that tells you he already knows the answer. 

With a sigh, you sit down on the floor beside him, not surprised at all when he pulls your legs across his lap. 

“Am I horrible if I say I don’t?” you ask quietly. 

He shakes his head, “No. I don’t think that’s horrible at all. In fact, I think that’s very reasonable.”

“What do you want?”

“Easy,” he replies, his hands stroking up and down your bare legs, “I want whatever is best for this family. I want dinners at the table and scrounging up cash to pay babysitters and an empty fridge telling me that my kids’ stomachs are full. I’d do the whole baby thing again in a heartbeat, if it’s what you want. But, I know it’s not, and that’s completely okay.”

“Rafe,” you pout, but he shakes his head. 

“You’re the one who does all the work, so you’re the one who makes the call. Whatever it says, we have options.”

You smile through your emotions and tug him closer, resting your head on his shoulder as he moves to kiss the top of your head. Although you still feel anxious about the result of the test, you no longer feel as if the task is insurmountable. 

“Can you look?” you whisper to him after a few minutes, nodding to the test sitting on the counter. 

“Yeah,” he replies, “Ready?”

You nod, but don’t speak. He gives your leg a gentle squeeze, silently telling you to pull them back so he can stand. You do, and you watch as he takes a deep breath before stepping over and picking up the test. 

He stares at it for a long moment, too long, and you swear you can feel your heart racing in your chest. 

He clears his throat, and his voice is hoarse as he says, “It’s negative.”

You let out a breath — one that holds relief, guilt, and sadness — and finally let the tears fall from your eyes. Rafe stands still, clutching the test, and watches as you brush tears from your cheeks. 

“I should take another,” you say, “They’re not always accurate.”

“Yeah,” he agrees quietly. 

He hands you another test and watches as you escape, letting his eyes fall back onto the negative test. When you emerge a second time, Rafe’s now seated on the floor with the test in his hand, staring at it with zero expression. 

“Are you—” you start, setting the new test down to wait on it, “Are you okay?”

He nods, but his expression doesn’t change, “Yeah.”

Your heart sinks into your stomach as you watch him, unable to read his mind or know exactly what he’s thinking. 

“Are you mad that it’s negative?” you ask weakly. 

His laugh is incredulous, and before you even realize he’s crying, Rafe angrily swipes tears from his cheeks, as if he can't believe they’re there in the first place. 

“No,” he answers, “I’m not mad about anything. I just— I was thinking.”

You sit down beside him once more, but you don’t move to touch him. You let him shift his gaze from the test to you, where you smile sadly. 

“About a third kid?”

“About our two kids,” he corrects, “About our family. About the way we work around each other. Maybe I’m selfish, but I don’t want that to change. And, yeah, I’d welcome a third baby, but I’m also content with what we have. You know what I mean?”

You extend a hand, then another, and soon, you’re pulling your husband into your arms. He comes to you without hesitation; wrapping his arms around you as he brings his head to your chest. 

“Of course I do, Rafe,” you whisper to him, “You’re not selfish. Wanting what’s best for our children is not selfish.”

“You, too,” he says instantly, pulling back and looking up at you, “I want what’s best for you, too, sweetheart.”

You nod and lean down, pressing your lips to his without a second thought. You kiss him for a long minute, then pull back and look up at the counter. 

“My turn to look,” you say, earning a small laugh from him. 

Standing from his lap, you feel calmer as you approach the second test. Knowing that if you hesitate, you’ll stop, you pick it right up and look at it before you can talk yourself out of it. 

You stare at the word for a second too long, letting the adrenaline settle and the ringing in your ears come to a halt before turning back to Rafe. 

“Negative,” you say, letting out a last breath of relief. 

Rafe nods and gives you a small smile, one that tells you that he’s okay, he’s just sorting through things in his mind, and he just needs a moment. 

You toss the test into the trash can under your vanity, and when Rafe waves you over to sit with him one last time, you don’t even think about denying him. 

“So,” he says with a puff of his cheeks once you’re settled in his lap, “What should we do from here?”

You furrow your brows, “What do you mean?”

Rafe lets out a small chuckle and pulls you closer, taking his time raking over your features before he bothers to explain. 

“Well, our current method of birth control just scared the living shit out of you,” he explains, “So, what do you think we should do so that this doesn’t happen again?”

Your current method of birth control — or lack thereof — has always left a little room for error, but you know Rafe’s right. You don’t want to go on hoping that nothing will happen, because the both of you know all too well that things do, indeed, happen. 

“I don’t know,” you shrug, “I could make an appointment and talk about birth control.”

He frowns, “Those hormones mess you up.”

Shrugging again, you try to play it off, “Yeah, but only for a little while. My body will adjust.”

“Or,” he says softly, so softly that he earns your eyes on his, “I could just get a vasectomy.”

Your eyes widen immediately, “A vasectomy?”

“Yeah,” he laughs, “It would take care of everything. You don’t have to pump yourself full of hormones, I don’t have to wear a condom, and we don’t have to worry about being pregnant again. And, it’s reversible if you change your mind.”

“If I change my— Rafe.”

He laughs again, and it’s like the anxiety from the past few hours just melts away. There’s no pregnancy tests, no drunk brother upstairs, no single parent with a baby on your couch. It suddenly feels like just the two of you, in love after years, and tangled together on the floor of your bathroom. 

“I’m serious,” he presses, “It would solve all our problems, and you wouldn’t have to lift a finger.”

“But—” you stumble over your words, trying your best to digest his explanation and come up with a flaw, “Doesn’t that, like, hurt?”

He grins, “I don’t know, sweetheart. I can find out for you.”

“Rafe,” you repeat, eyes still wide. 

He chuckles and kisses your forehead, watching as your mind works in overdrive to figure this all out. 

“Just think about it. I think it’s our best option, but I can do some research on birth control if you’d prefer that route.”

You smile, “Thank you.”

“You’re welcome,” he replies, giving you a smile back, “Let’s take a shower and go to bed, okay?”

“Okay.”

Rafe offers his hands to you and helps you stand before moving to stand himself, then peels off his shirt. You do the same, and both of you toss the dirty clothes into your hamper at the same time. 

“I’ve gotta rest before I deal with your brother in the morning,” he mutters, “How do you wanna move forward with that?”

“Josie saw him, Rafe. I could see how confused she was. He can’t—” you shake your head, then look back up to him, “Not around our children.”

He nods in understanding, “I agree. I’ll handle it.”

You pout at him, staring as he unbuckles his belt and starts to remove his pants. He catches your eye and raises a brow, now standing in just his boxers. 

“You don’t have to handle everything, Mister I’ll get a vasectomy.”

Rafe laughs, “I know I don’t. We’ll do it together. Now, take your shorts off.”

You grin and do as you’re told, and when your shorts rest in the hamper with Rafe’s pants, he crosses the bathroom and wraps an arm around your waist, pulling you into him. You giggle and shake your head, watching as he silently questions what’s going on in your mind. 

“A vasectomy,” you repeat, still trying to wrap your head around it. 

He rolls his eyes playfully, “I’m gonna start the water.”

“Have you been thinking about doing that?” you question as he turns on the water. 

He smirks when he turns back to face you, and you already know what he’s going to insinuate. 

“There’s only one thing I’m thinking about doing right now,” he grins, “One person. So, could you get your mind off of the vasectomy and come take a shower with your husband?”

“I suppose,” you tease him, “But, what about—”

He smirks, “I’ll get a condom.”

You giggle and toss your underwear and bra into the hamper, then hurry into the shower. Rafe huffs audibly when he sees your undergarments in the laundry, having not stolen his glance like usual because he was busy riling through your vanity drawers to find a condom. 

“Tease,” he mutters, tossing his boxers right beside your panties before he hops in the shower with you. 

     You wake in the morning with Rafe’s chest pressed against your bare back, his hands tangled in your own, and a smile on your face that you swear you must’ve woken up with. Sunlight streams in through your white curtains, and for a moment, you can’t believe that you both managed to sleep in. That is, until you remember that Topper stayed over, and you’re sure he’s playing babysitter to the kids. 

“Rafe,” you whisper, bringing your tangled hands up to your lips and kissing his knuckles. 

“Hmm,” he hums sleepily. 

You smile, “Good morning.”

Although you can’t see him, you can hear the grin on his face. 

“Good morning, baby,” he rasps, “Might have to hire Top full time if it means I get mornings in bed with you again.”

You laugh, turning around in his arms and facing him. His blue eyes peel open slowly, and the grin on his face only grows when you return his blissful expression. 

“We should probably get out there,” you whisper. 

He groans, “But it’s so warm and quiet in here.”

As if to prove his point, he tugs you closer under your shared comforter, then begins to press kisses down your exposed neck and collarbone. 

“I know, but we have to be responsible parents,” you lecture him. 

He smirks against your skin, “Do we?”

“Yes.”

Rafe laughs and pulls back, nodding you in for a kiss without a word. You comply, and soon, you feel lost in him. 

It isn’t until his hands start to wander, until you feel as if you really could stay in bed with him all day if he asked you to, that you pull back. 

“Alright, fine,” he sighs, “Up you go, baby.”

You smile and sit up, stretching out while Rafe stands from the bed and crosses to the dresser. He slides a pair of boxers on, then grabs one of his shirts and tosses it over to you. Without even being asked, he then steps to your side of the dresser and tosses you a pair of shorts, already knowing you won’t want Scott and Topper to see you in his boxers. 

You dress and climb out of bed, following Rafe into the bathroom. The two of you brush your teeth while he pinches your hips, loving how you squeal and playfully swat him away. You make Rafe wait for you to use the restroom, and he cracks up when you cheer that you did, in fact, get your period overnight. 

The two of you are still giggling like teenagers as you walk out to the living room, finding Topper, Josie, Connor, and Eleanor together on the couch. Topper holds Eleanor in one arm and has the other around Josie, who is cuddled into his side. Connor sits beside his sister, and they all seem content watching TV.

“Morning,” Topper greets.

Rafe chuckles, “Morning, Top.”

“Hi, Daddy,” Josie chirps, “Hi, Mama.”

“Morning, princess,” Rafe replies, raising a brow when she makes no attempt to move from her current seat, “Can I get a hug?”

“I’m comfy,” she answers, cuddling deeper into Topper’s side and earning a laugh from her uncle. 

Connor chuckles at his sister, then gets up off the couch and walks over to you and Rafe. He watches his dad kneel before giving him a hug, then doing the same to you. 

“Hey, Mama,” Connor greets you. 

“Hi, baby.” you smile, “How’d you sleep?”

“Good. Think we could make pancakes for breakfast?”

“We definitely can,” you nod, “Has anyone seen Scott yet?”

Josie looks over, her eyes containing the same hesitance they held last night when she saw him on the floor of the foyer. 

“Is Uncle Scott gonna be weird again?” she asks. 

Rafe’s jaw clenches, and you don’t miss the sight out of the corner of your eye. You plaster a smile on and hold out your hand, signaling for Josie to come with you and Connor. 

“Let’s go start pancakes,” you say, “Top, wanna help?”

“Yeah, of course. Come on, Jo. You can teach Ellie how you like to decorate them.”

Josie smiles and nods happily, following Topper into the kitchen while you guide Connor in. Rafe, looking at you and communicating wordlessly, nods his head toward the stairs, telling you he’s going to deal with Scott. 

Climbing the stairs, Rafe doesn’t even have to think about what he’s going to say. The expression on his daughter's face, coupled with the fact that his wife felt the need to call him home last night, fuels him enough. 

When he reaches the door of his guest room, in his house, he knocks exactly one second before he opens the door. As he expected, Scott is sprawled across the mattress in only his underwear, having apparently stripped in the middle of the night. Rafe shakes his head before he pushes Scott, trying to wake him. 

“Scott, get up,” Rafe demands. 

Scott doesn’t budge. Rafe pushes on him again, watching as he shifts, turning completely on his side. 

With another push, Scott grunts, but Rafe doesn’t give up in the slightest. 

“Scott,” Rafe repeats, “Wake the fuck up.”

“Fuck off, Cameron,” Scott groans, burying his head in his pillow, “Just let me sleep it off.”

“No,” Rafe replies, “I’m not playing around. Sit up.”

“Go away.”

“Sit up.”

“Dude—”

“Sit up, Scott. Now.”

Scott grunts and groans, but when he turns to lay on his back, Rafe relaxes slightly. His hands meet his hips as Scott pushes himself up, resting his bare back against the headboard. 

“Fine,” he snaps, “What the fuck do you want?”

“What do I want?” Rafe questions, laughing incredulously, “I want you to get up and get out of my house. I’m serious. Get up, get dressed, and go. Don’t say anything to the kids, because they’ll ask you to stay. Get out.”

“Y/N’s letting you kick me out?” Scott questions in disbelief. 

“Letting me?” Rafe repeats him again, “Scott, my fucking children saw you drunk off your ass, practically passed out on the floor of our home. You threw up on my fucking floor. My wife had to call me to come home because she was taking care of your ass on top of three children. You crossed a line. You don’t even seem sorry about it.”

“Of course I’m sorry about it, you asshole,” Scott fires back, “I would never want the kids to see me like that. It won’t happen again.”

“You’ve already used that line on me,” Rafe snaps, “You said after Josie’s birthday party that it would never happen again. I don’t want this behavior around my kids. So, get up, and go get some help.”

“What, you want me to check myself into rehab?” Scott chuckles, but Rafe’s expression remains unchanged. 

“If it means you won’t be harming my family with your drinking, yes,” Rafe nods once. 

“Dude, be serious.”

“I am,” Rafe presses, “You were doing so well, man. But this little episode just shows everyone that you can’t control yourself. You’re impulsive and reckless and—”

“An alcoholic,” Scott finishes, narrowing his eyes at Rafe, “I’m not going to rehab.”

Rafe bends down and picks Scott’s jeans off the floor. Without missing a beat, he shrugs and tosses the pants at him, then takes a step toward the door. 

“Then you’re not watching my kids,” Rafe replies, “Now, go.”

Wide eyed, Scott opens his mouth to speak, but Rafe turns and exits the room. He makes it to the top of the stairs before Scott comes bursting out of the guest room with his jeans on, unbuttoned at the top and sagging on his hips because he doesn’t have his belt on. 

“Whoa, Rafe, you can’t just take the kids away from me,” Scott protests, stopping Rafe in his tracks. 

“My kids?” Rafe raises a brow. 

“I love them,” Scott replies, his voice heavy with emotion, “I love those kids and I would never do anything to jeopardize my relationship with them. You should fucking know that by now.”

“They both saw you, Scott!” Rafe exclaims, “They’re too young to understand it. Love has nothing to do with this—”

“Knock it off, Cameron. You’re taking all of Sarah’s bullshit out on me. You can’t keep banning people from seeing the kids—”

“They’re our kids!”

“Guys!” you yell from the bottom of the stairs, giving them wide, angry eyes, “Enough.”

“Y/N,” Scott says, sidestepping Rafe and hurrying down the stairs, a pleading look in his eye, “Please don’t take the kids from me. I messed up, okay, I know, but I’ll go to the AA meetings. I’ll get sober and everything. Just— please.”

You frown, looking between Scott and Rafe in an attempt to figure out how you should respond. Ultimately, you nod to your brother, but raise a pointed finger. 

“Do not make me regret this,” you whisper. 

He nods, “No, I promise.”

Before any of the three of you can say another word, Topper’s voice is heard in the doorway of the kitchen. 

“No, Jo, come on, let’s stay—”

Josie comes running around the corner and through the doorway, where she comes face to face with Scott. For a second, neither of them say anything. Then, Scott sinks to his knees and swallows roughly. 

“Josie, I am so, so sorry—”

She cuts him off by running over to him and diving into his arms, where Scott doesn’t waste a single second pulling her close. You watch as he embraces her, even noticing the tears that have welled up in his eyes.

“Uncle Top says you’re sick,” Josie tells him, “Want me to make you some soup?”

Scott laughs, but his emotion is evident, “No, thank you, lovebug. I am sick, but I’m gonna get better. For you and Connor.”

Josie pulls back and looks him in the eye, clearly taking his words to heart. You silently pray that he doesn’t let her down. 

“Promise?”

“I promise,” Scott replies.

Connor appears in the doorway then, standing behind Topper as you’re sure he was instructed to do when Topper told the kids to stay in the kitchen and let the three of you talk. Scott catches his eye and waves him over, watching as Connor hesitantly listens. 

“Hey, buddy,” Scott greets him, pulling him into a hug, “I’m sorry about last night. I made a mistake. Do you think you can forgive me?”

“Yeah,” Connor replies with a nod. 

Scott smiles, “Thank you. I love both of you so much.”

“Love you, too,” Connor answers. 

“Love you, Uncle Scott,” Josie chirps.

Scott hugs both kids at once, seemingly reluctant to pull back and let them go. 

Rafe, who still seems reluctant, keeps his arms crossed over his chest as he watches the interaction. 

Josie, always the first to bounce back, gives Scott a big smile as she starts to jump up and down. 

“Can you stay for breakfast? I can make you pancakes!” she offers. 

Scott chuckles and looks back at Rafe, who had previously told him that he couldn’t stay to eat. Rafe gives Scott one single head nod, which Scott takes as a win. 

“I’d love to stay for breakfast, lovebug. We can put a thousand chocolate chips in our pancakes, how’s that sound?”

“Amazing!” Josie exclaims, “Let’s go!”

“Alright,” Scott grins, “Come on, Little Cam.”

He scoops up Josie and then reaches out for Connor’s hand, taking both kids into the kitchen. Topper looks between you and Rafe, all three of you communicating wordlessly. Then, he does the one thing that he knows will make you feel better. 

“Wanna hold Ellie for a bit, Cameron?”

Rafe breaks immediately and smiles, “Sure.”

Cradling baby Ellie, Rafe nods his head for you to follow him into the kitchen, where both of you watch your kids cook breakfast with their uncles. Scott makes coffee and passes it out, then wastes no time conspiring with Josie to smuggle more chocolate chips into the pancake batter every time Topper and Connor turn their backs. 

Rafe turns to you after a few minutes, keeping his eyes down. 

“Do you think I was too hard on him?”

You glance over at Scott, who is too busy spraying whipped cream into Josie’s mouth to care about your conversation. 

“Whatever you said, it worked,” you admit, “He seemed serious.”

“I think that’s part of the disease,” Rafe says quietly, his frown evident, “He thinks he can get himself under control. Until something stressful comes up, and he turns back to it.”

You nod in understanding and look at your brother once more, wishing that smile could stay on his face forever. 

“Day by day,” you sigh, “Let’s just take it easy for now. We’ll handle things as they come.”

“Alright. I’m fine with that. But, he slips up again, I’m gonna get your dad involved,” Rafe presses, watching you nod, “And I won’t apologize for it, either.”

“That’s fair.”

Rafe leans over and kisses your temple, then offers you a turn holding Eleanor. As you take her into your arms, you smile, then kiss her tiny forehead. She grins, and the sight makes you smile. 

“Vasectomy, huh?” Rafe whispers, teasing you. 

“Ha ha,” you reply. 

He laughs and pulls you into his chest, careful of the baby. When breakfast is served, complete with more chocolate chips and whipped cream than you could ever imagine, you just smile, because even though you know things are messy, there’s still so much love at your dining room table. That’s all you could have ever hoped for, and you smile because you get to do it all with him.

*i no longer use a tag list. follow @mackupdates for updates! <3 thank you for reading!

[mylevisdontfitanymore]

Hey!!! I don't know if you would rather think about this scenario with Andy Barber/Ransom Drysdale/TJ Hammond or with Steve/Bucky/Natasha or something, but I've been thinking A LOT about these two posts on your blog: https://www.tumblr.com/mylevisdontfitanymore/716510995743490048/i-dont-know-if-this-is-weird-a-really-strange?source=share and https://www.tumblr.com/mylevisdontfitanymore/710911602870894592?source=share and I can't stop thinking about one of the trio going out and secretly getting one of them stuffed and drunk by putting more food on their plate when they aren't looking or distracting them while they refill their glasses with stronger and stronger alcohol and egging them into drinking or eating competitions and seeing just how far they can go with it until they are sloppy drunk and stuffed full and waddling and stumbling and their fellows get to enjoy the fruits of their labour

1st linked post

2nd linked post

Ooooh my god, if we're talking Andy/Ransom/TJ, then you ABSOLUTELY need to read the asks that Dumbling (@achubbydumpling) has done!

Andy Barber/Ransome Drysdale/TJ Hammond (chubby Andy)

Andy Barber/Ransome Drysdale/TJ Hammond (Andy beer bloat)

Food-drunk dad bod Andy and his accent

The premise of this idea, though… with multiple people getting one person stuffed and/or drunk without their knowledge… it would definitely happen with Andy and Ransom corrupting sweet TJ 🥴 It has to. Like, TJ-baby is just so overwhelmed to have the attention of two very, very attractive, very big men that he doesn’t notice how his plate and glass are never empty whenever they’re around 🫣🥵

Unbeta'd Andy/Ransom/TJ belly kink under the cut... warning for alcohol consumption, intox kink, dub-con elements (because TJ ends up drunk), stuffing, etc.

TJ’s used to going to big, lavish parties - his parents drag him to them all the time - but when he’s at those parties, he’s not allowed to talk to men in any sort of… suspicious… manner. He has to be on his best behavior. Smiling and laughing appropriately while he blows smoke up whoever’s political ass for his Dad’s sake.

Here, at this party with people just slightly over his age - rather than people decades his senior, grey and wrinkly in creased suits, talking about the “current” state of things that they’ve been disconnected from for years - it doesn’t matter if there are men looking at him obviously. Hotly. It doesn’t matter if there are men grabbing his arms or leaning in close to whisper in his ear, making him giggle and blush, hiding his flushed cheeks with his hands. It doesn’t matter if there are men shoulder to shoulder with him, pressing into him, blocking him in like bookends or bodyguards in the best way.

Here, nothing matters other than letting these two slightly older, definitely bigger men flirt with him. The two men (one of them strikingly shaven with pale skin and high cheekbones, the other bearded with darker hair) sometimes seem like they’re fighting over him. Fighting to woo him. It’s funny and disarming, too. Yet, sometimes, they seem to work together perfectly. TJ can’t figure it out. It’s making his head spin. The attention. Their specific attention.

He doesn’t feel like he needs to worry, though, even if he can’t figure out what they’re doing (or who they are). He feels… if he’s honest, he feels high. He doesn’t feel high, like, an empty and hollow high. An escape he needs an escape from. The norm for him. Instead, he feels hazy and warm and good with these two men. High.

Does he even remember their names? The men?

Does that matter?

TJ just wants to keep their attention on him. It feels good, after all. Does he need their names to do that? They seem to be interested in him regardless of if he’s talking or not. He’s not talking much, they’re talking - they’re whispering in his ears, skimming their large, warm hands over his sides and down his back, one of them (or maybe both?) keeps grabbing his ass, and they keep handing him party favors.

Really, it feels so good to be surrounded and flirted with that… TJ just takes everything the men hand him, docile as a kitten.

Everything Andy and Ransom hand him.

TJ swears it all tastes better than normal. (Is he high? Is that why it tastes so good? Is that why his mouth is watering so much?) Plates of finger food from the spread in the shiny, expansive kitchen. Appetizers that are passed around by waitstaff on trays. Handfuls of set-out chocolate and nuts from small, fancy dishes on end tables. Little bites of things that wouldn’t fill TJ up so much if there weren’t unending waves of them from both of the men. Then, all these half-full flukes of alcohol don’t taste like alcohol. They’re bubbly and sweet and would get anyone drunk easily, even if they were paying attention. TJ isn’t paying any attention. Every time he finishes his drink or his portion of easy, yummy snack food it’s promptly taken and replaced before he even realizes it.

It’s magical.

TJ has always had puppy fat. He’s got a baby face and a soft layer over his belly - he’s never been able to get abs, no matter how much his drug habits repress his appetite - but no one would be able to tell right now. Any of that extra softness that he carries all the time has been completely stretched out, overridden by the bulge of his stuffed belly. Carbonated alcohol. Finger foods. Appetizers. Alcohol. Pieces of chocolate. Alcohol. Rich dessert. More dessert. Another appetizer. Even more carbonated alcohol. A handful of nuts fed to him by Andy’s big, gentle yet demanding hands. A whole fluke of champagne poured down his throat by Ransom. They make TJ dizzy and weak at the knees even though they’ve pressed TJ against a wall. The party buzzes around them. TJ sways in place - they’re not going to let him go anywhere, though, so he doesn’t worry about his inability to stand on his own.

It’s easy to see why TJ isn’t soft now... but he feels soft, all over. High. Spacey. Soft.

Oof.

It’s hard to breathe.

He’s got a fucking pot belly after all the snacks and drinks. Indulgence is being used to pacify him. He’s easy and sweet by nature, but now… God. The men don’t even need spoons to eat him up. He’s melting. They’re going to lick him up no problem.

TJ looks so round. His stomach is bloated, completely taut. Like a drum. His poor belly button is stretched, made wider, and more shallow than normal. His skin aches, thudding in time with his heart. He’s blushing red - his face from being so overtly, aggressively chased by two of the most attractive men he’s ever seen in real life, but his belly, too. Under his clothes, where their hands keep sneaking, his skin is turning red from the stretch, from the rush of blood, his body trying to both get aroused through the slurry of alcohol slowing him down and through the mountain of food inside him, working so hard to try and figure out what to do with the excess.

Yet… TJ doesn’t notice.

His nice shirt is creaking at the seams, the buttons this close to bursting open, it’s never had to deal with excess like this, but he can’t hear it over the smooth rumble of Ransom’s voice and the rough gravel of Andy’s. One of them grabs his hip and TJ whimpers, melting like butter in their hands, his mouth naturally falling open so they can shove whatever they want into it. TJ just wants to be full. He's desperate.

Another mouthful and TJ moans out loud, drunker than shit on everything. Alcohol, of course, but attention and food, too. He doesn’t know what way is up or down, and he doesn’t care. He doesn’t care when the men’s hands are all over him again, purring at him, sweetly praising him for having more and for liking it. TJ doesn’t even question if he actually likes it or not. He does. He likes it so much. He’s aching, throbbing, and stretched to his limit, his belly bulging out in front of him as though he’s swallowed a fucking watermelon whole, and he’s so heavy. He feels slow and hot and good. He feels like he wants them to keep touching him. He feels hungry. Hungry for them to do more than teasingly touch, caress, and feed him. Hungry for food.

“More?” TJ just barely manages to moan between gulps of alcohol, the flow dictated by Ransom, tipping not a fluke this time, but a whole fucking bottle back into his mouth.

Where did he even find such a big bottle of liquor?

Andy’s hands are against his belly, roughly shaping and caressing the ball-like shape of him. Andy chuckles, “more?”

TJ shivers but nods anyway, feeling some of the alcohol he’s chugging drip down his chin and dribble onto his chest, staining his shirt.

Andy growls, grabbing and shaking his belly until TJ starts to slide down the wall, being groped in such a way leaves tight, aching pleasure coursing through him. It leaves him unable to hold himself up, dragged down by the weight of what they’ve done to him. They don’t bother to hold him up this time. This time, TJ slouches all the way to the floor. They stop feeding him alcohol. And with his head thrown back against the wall, squinting up at them, TJ pouts at them. His belly is in his lap, straining, and he misses them already. He’s heavy, but he wants them all over him, heavier. He’s full, but he has the sudden urge to give in and give in and give in until he bursts. Bursts out of his shirt, the buttons and seams popping open, and bursts, coming by their hands or untouched, he doesn’t care.

“Mooore,” TJ verifies, moaning, uncaring who at the party hears him, gluttonous and dumb.

The men exchange a glance, Ransom licking his lips as Andy bites his own. Then, at once, synchronized, they lean down to grab him and pull him up by the wrists. They don’t care enough to brace TJ or his belly before they move him, so, his gut sloshes and wobbles with the sudden movement, exemplifying his fucking waddle.

TJ stumbles out of the party, held up only by these two big men. One of them whispers in his ear, and the other bites marks into his neck as TJ's head lulls back, totally out of it. Conversely, TJ's belly protrudes in front of him.

Round.

Full.

TJ doesn’t ask where they’re taking him. He doesn’t care. Anywhere. He just wants more.

My favorite type of sandwich 🥴🥴

[buriedabove]

❯ SONG CHALLENGE. Share at least 5 songs that you associate with or remind you of your muse.

BURIED ABOVE GROUND,  GILES COREY There’s a devil on my back  (  …  )  I’ve been wailing like a child  /  At the bottom of a well  /  I’ve been pacing like a man  /  In a prison cell  /  I get buried above the ground

If I were to choose a theme song for him,  that would be it.  The stagnancy causing the impression that he’s barely making any progress and the overall feeling of numbness are elements I keep accentuating in his characterisation  &  what always strikes me the most in this song is the last line about being buried above the ground.  He isn’t yet dead,  officially,  but he feels like he’s already used up his time on earth and now he’s nothing but a walking corpse,  stuck in his vicious cycles and crying out for help when nobody is listening.

OBSESSIONS,  MARINA People are staring,  time ticker-quicking,  skin is on fire  (  …  )  We’ve got obsessions  /  I wanna erase every nasty thought  /  That bugs me every day of every week  (  …  )  You never told me what it was that made you strong  /  And what it was that made you weak

Leon’s got a terrible tendency for doing things obsessively,  especially when it comes to picking apart the past.  Although he wouldn’t admit it openly,  he is concerned with how other people view him and he doesn’t hold himself in the highest regard once he’s starting to think about it more than a healthy amount.  He always feels like someone is watching his every single move  &  judging him for each twitch and quiver.  His mind usually is occupied by rumination far from positive,  and he obsessively tries to oust it,  but to no avail.  While he’s hung up on memories,  rarely does he make the bold move to open up to someone about how his experiences shaped him.

BULLET PROOF…  I WISH I WAS,  RADIOHEAD Every day,  every hour  /  Wish that I...  was bulletproof  (  …  )  You have turned me into this  /  Just wish that it  /  Was bulletproof  (  …  )  So,  pay me money and take a shot  /  Lead,  fill the hole in me

Despite standing tall against all odds and taking on the struggles thrown his way with a brave face,  it’s mostly an act.  Not indestructible nor unbreakable,  though he wishes he could be.  Only so much he can put his body through,  only so much he can put his psyche through.  But he no longer feels like a person;  he’s losing the grip on who he really is.  They made him into this,  that toy soldier taking every hit  &  shot fired.  With how disconnected he is from himself,  he doesn’t care what happens to him and how it may affect him.  He’s not his own person anymore,  they made him sign his life away.

GRAVEYARD WHISTLING,  NOTHING BUT THIEVES No one’s getting younger  /  Would you like a souvenir?  (  …  )  ‘Cause if you don't believe  /  Then you know,  then you know,  it can never do you harm  /  If you don’t believe  /  It can’t hurt you

I consider that one more fitting for older Leon,  who happens to be looking back at his life from a slightly different perspective.  Perhaps less regret and resentment is clouding his vision for once,  so he can finally take the examination of conscience in his stride.  The factor of faith also comes into the picture.  He doesn’t have a god he prays to and doubts the force majeure.  Because if he shoves it aside  &  makes himself a nonbeliever,  then it means it cannot touch him.  And if death were to come,  he shouldn’t fear it…  because it can’t hurt him.

SPECIAL CASES,  MASSIVE ATTACK The deadliest of sin is pride  /  Make you feel like you're always right  /  But there are always two sides  (  …  )  Take a look around the world  /  You see such mad things happening  /  There are few good men  /  Thank your lucky stars that he's one of them

Merely because he doesn’t necessarily respect himself,  it doesn’t mean that his ego can’t get bloated.  He hates being proved wrong  &  hubris he often indulges in.  At times,  it can be dangerous to have his common sense gone blurred and hazy due to unadulterated pride.  Still,  he remains appalled by the state of everything surrounding him and even though the havoc and desolation can sometimes strike him with utter powerlessness,  the flame urging him to keep fighting for the cause hasn’t been completely stubbed out.

TAGGED: @valour-bound ( thank you a lot! ) TAGGING: @prosopagn0sis, @lickbatteries, @heavenprotect, @untodeath ( for luis? ), @sp1ed, @lasraichean, @wintersdecay & whoever else wants to do it!

[bandofchimeras]

thinking about NPD acceptance/positivity tonight. i still feel uneasy with identifying too hard with personality disorders but here's a thought:

a road block to healing mental & emotional wounding is often inability to accept due to toxic shame, that goes to the core of a person. like a huge part of NPD and other personality disorders is believing "I am X" and "X is evil/wrong/inhuman" and the logical conclusion "I am inherently evil/wrong/inhuman." therefore overinvesting in crafting an image of the self that becomes bloated and obscures actual self awareness. maintaining this image is exhausting and often impossible. especially when it is linked to moral obsessions. nothing is more disconnecting with other human beings than having intense internal pressure to maintain a delusional image of the self as good/perfect.

some folks end up "solving" this issue by inverting it and being fully honest about their shame-based image instead. it's a kind of relief, but it doesn't actually allow you to connect with people. it's Bojack Horseman. he leads with how much of a POS he is, and guess what? self fulfilling prophecy.

he's a bit more tolerable than Mr. Peanutbutter in that show but still - both characters miss out on the full truth of their humanity. Or dog-manity? horsemanity?

The shadow side and the basic fundamentals goodness of being a Being on this Earth, in everyone. In fact life is simply complicated and good/bad a somewhat arbitrary, community defined distinction.

So what does that have to do with NPD?

Well, honesty is a good first policy. But the intense self focus of the disorder, is disabling, and can lead to hurtful actions due to lack of awareness or understanding. I don't see personality disorders as value neutral due to the fact they are disturbances in the balance of human relationship. It's not the pwNPD's fault, but the way they've learned to exist causes issues. It just does. I don't think it's positive although many narcissistic people have positive traits still. They simply tend to be incapable or struggle to do the simple relational repair work of apology, sincerity and investment in others well-being. These are skills that can be learned, as the core wound of toxic shame is also addressed. It is possible to crawl out of the prison of your own mind into the sunlight.

But it is really, really hard work. And that's where personality disorder acceptance or at least just "lots of people are fucked up and it's possible for them to still learn and grow" as a movement is important.

I believe personality disorders need the same destigmatization as, for example, meth and crack. Not because yay they're great! or because everyone will and Should recover or else be deemed Inhuman and Irrdeemable, but because everyone deserves to be seen in their full humanity, and have access to what it takes to recover, even if in the end they can't beat the habit.

Because narcissism is a deep, wormy habit. For most of us, a survival habit gone awry. And for some of us, autistic people especially, we might never be able to survive without focusing a lot on ourselves and getting called narcissistic for it.

A friend talked with me about my inability to show up for them recently. I kept coming back to my intent and they told me this was hurtful too because regardless I still impacted them. And the old habit of anger and denial and splitting came up to the surface. But under it I felt a inkling of empathy, like really being able to sit and imagine what their pain felt like. That inkling gets shoved down because it brings up pain with it - pain of toxic shame and guilt, of frustration that I feel at my absolute limit and can't live up to expectations, anger with myself, fear of those selfish parts of me that don't actually give a fuck.

It challenged me to be honest.

Addicts say you know you're in trouble when you realize you have stopped caring.

So with these personality coping traits, it is similar. I'm losing my battle when I stop caring about others. And I can't care about others without caring for myself enough to at least not be in empathy burnout.

I would really like to be a person who carries extensive knowledge of machinery or plants or languages or myths or even just my friends and community. To give myself over to that and feel how good it is to let go of self image and be in passionate mutual relationship with life. Instead of cramped anxious and stuck within myself like a tangled labyrinth. Or my only area of expertise being psychology I have learned to save myself.

However at this point in life habits are setting in. I know the old cracks and quirks of my traumagenic beliefs like "reaching out to people is a nuisance" or "if I do not pretend to be perfect some terrible thing will happen" or "being liked is more important than anything" they're very well worn. but I am not sure they can be beat until I am secure enough to let go a bit, and get into some deep therapy or creative work.

it's very annoying to be run on old programming and feel unable to do anything concrete about it yet.

So yes, personality disorder neutrality is helpful. Recovery is a life long process. It upset me a lot when I first read that in a forum somewhere. I wanted so badly to be fixed and have this horrible fear and shame in my soul removed. But it's a long dirty process that you have to learn to enjoy or at least feel deeply. just like addiction recovery. Stigma only cements people in their shame and keeps them isolated.

Those are my thoughts for now. And Yes, I've been reading Gabor Mate's In the Realm of Hungry Ghosts .

[ed-recovery-affirmations]

Hey! Uh, I've been struggling with ED since my childhood, and I think I have it somewhat under control at this point (I'm 22), but the thoughts tend to get a lot worse real fast when I notice any kind of change happening to my body and/or when I'm stressed and/or feel disconnected from my body. Either I've put on some weight lately or I'm just bloated due to being stressed to hell and back and getting very little sleep in the past week (both due to a death in the family), the reason doesn't really matter because all my brain sees is that my cheekbones aren't as prominent as usual and my body doesn't seem as petite.

I keep thinking that if I have a square figure (I don't know if it's true, but in my mind whenever I put on weight it all goes to my waist and nowhere else and makes me look like a square instead of a hour glass), I can no longer wear feminine clothes and that they will look awful on me and everyone will laugh at me.

I was also raised with the idea that my body is one of the few things I have going for me and that there is a "right" way for a body to be, and that "correct" way is 90-60-90 proportions, so when I feel like I'm getting more squarish I also start thinking "Nobody will ever love me if they see me naked like this. They will think 'Oh. That looked way more ok dressed up. I don't want a rectangle for a partner, a woman is supposed to have killer curves and a thigh gap and be skinny with a completely flat stomach. What IS that? I'm out.' and they'll leave me and they'll tell everyone and then everyone will laugh at me whenever I go outside."

I think that my problems also tend to get worse when someone shows interest in me? Last year I had to break up with a guy because I relapsed when we started dating and it got worse and worse the longer our relationship lasted. When I am alone and nobody expects to see my body and I don't have to look at my body, I think it's generally better. But I am starting to date again now and I thought it would be fine because they also struggle with ED, so I thought that I wouldn't worry as much because I'd know that they know what it's like and I wouldn't feel like I have to perform some sort of ultra-skinny ultra-hourglass standard, but I guess that is not true. Because along with everything above I very much do feel like I need to be ultra-skinny and ultra-hourglass for them and am terrified of them possibly wanting to see me naked, especially so because as I said I have noticed a minor change in my body and now I'm convinced it's a huge change and a bad one. I haven't told them about any of this tho because I know that it's a deranged thing to think.

I'm honestly not sure about what I need/want from you. I guess any kind of affirmation or advice would be nice. And I'm sorry that this got so long.

Hi, anon, that's quite a vent you have there! I can tell you've been struggling with this stuff for quite some time. While I am choosing to answer this ask, I would like to put a gentle reminder not to put specific numbers, like weights, body measurements, calorie counts etc in posts as this can sometimes be triggering to others.

So my advice to you may be hard to follow, because of course you're going to want to body-check yourself if your body size has been seen as your best accomplishment, but constant body-checking is a compulsive behavior common in restrictive EDs. I would recommend you refrain from weighing yourself, and only look in the mirror as much as you need to brush your teeth, wash your face, check hair, makeup, clothes etc. If you catch yourself scrutinizing your appearance for weight changes, try to catch yourself. Ask yourself what you need to do in order to redirect to a healthier line of thinking. You identify that you have been taught to see your greatest worth in your body. Perhaps you could take this time to affirm to yourself your worth in other areas, or engage in an activity away from mirrors that helps you connect with yourself. That way you can be reconnected with a sense of your true worth. Don't be discouraged if it's hard at first, these things take time.

You especially need to practice giving yourself grace at times like these, when you are highly stressed out. Bodies change in life and that is a natural phenomenon, not a moral failing. Bodies are especially prone to change during these times of high stress. But you are a living human being who's recently had a loss in the family. You deserve gentleness and time to grieve, not pressure to make your body stay palatable during hard times.

Maybe it could be a good idea to step back from the idea of dating for a bit of time while you reconnect with yourself and your sense of worth. It's hard, I know, but I hope that one day you are able to find someone who you trust enough that you can have honest conversations about this, ideally prior to any bedroom activities. Someone you can talk to about what you need to feel worthy and desired by them. Someone will put effort into doing what you need them to do. There are so many people with different bodies in this world, some single, some in relationships, some in queerplatonic partnerships, but so many different people are finding out ways they can be loved in their bodies, and I hope you can be one of them. It will take time and practice and setbacks, so stay patient with yourself.

I also hope that you one day are able to build such confidence and respect for yourself that you would loudly kick anyone out of your bedroom who dared to tell you they disliked something about your body.

It's true, you can't always trust the influences around you to give you a healthy perspective on your worth outside your body shape. It sounds like that's something you've experienced in your life. Not everybody is going to be a positive influence, so it's up to you to be your own primary positive influence and look within yourself for points of personal worth when you start hear people bringing up your body.

Oh, and I recommend you keep writing. Sometimes it just helps to get it all out, and even gets some stuff processed in your head!

[sholiofic]

Helloo I love your fics a crap ton and was inspired to start writing again after a couple years bcs of your fics and how great they were. The one I’m working on at the moment is a bit of a monster in terms of length and complexity but I would reAlly prefer if it wasn’t. I find that I get bogged down by detail a lot and have trouble streamlining the plot. Do you have any tips for resolving main plots/conflicts and sort of trimming the fat, so to speak? Once again, excellent fics, keep up the good work, thank so much

Hello! I'm so delighted and flattered that my fics inspired you to write. I hope you keep it up!! <3333

Honestly, I don't know if I'm the best person to ask for helpful advice because I have this problem too. 😂 But here are some things that are helpful for me:

Subplots can always come out and be their own fics. So can individual events (like, say, if you have a whole digression with someone getting a fever right after they broke their leg, you could just take out the fever and let it be its own fever-fic so it can grow and expand and not be taking over this one where it doesn't really fit). Sometimes when I'm really struggling with a fic that feels floppy and bloated, or like the different subplots are disconnected from each other, it's actually that it needs to have some parts of it taken out and made into their own story or incorporated into other ideas that I have. This is also psychologically easier than simply cutting them, because if you feel that it's this fic or the delete key, then you don't want to cut out things you genuinely like - but if you're only cutting them to put them somewhere else, it's easier.

Aftermath can also be its own fic. One thing I struggle with often is that simple ideas just get epic at the end, but actually, as long as the main plot is tied up, you can just cut it off at some kind of punchy ending, take all those bits of aftermath and dump them into a fic where the aftermath is the entire story.

It's also helpful to go back and look at why you wanted to write this fic in the first place. If it's a specific emotionally punchy scene, an image, a casefic idea, etc - then this can help you see where you might have gone off track and started writing a story that isn't really the story you wanted to tell. Then you can cut out the parts that aren't getting you to the part you really wanted to write (perhaps saving them for something else in the future).

You don't have to know the end when you start (although it helps, but tbh I often don't), buuuut if you are starting to flounder, that's a good time to stop and decide what the ending is going to be, and then start gearing the rest of it towards that ending. If, say, you've decided now that you've thought about it that this is all headed toward a dramatic confrontation at the Eiffel Tower, and they've gone off on a side trip to Mozambique, can you just have the Mozambique thing happen in Paris so they're already where they need to be and you don't need to spend extra time getting them there?

Oh! That reminds me of a useful trick, which is making sure (within reason) that you don't have characters do the same thing twice when they only need to do it once. Going to and from locations is a particular source of dragging down your plot. Basically - you have a character do a thing at their apartment, and then they have to go somewhere else for more Plot Stuff to happen, but then they need to pack for their upcoming trip (or deal with a Plot Thing that's at the apartment, or whatever), so you realize they have to go back to their apartment and do that. You can actually cut a *lot* of plot deadweight by minimizing scene changes, within reason, of course, but it feels tighter and more streamlined if you have the character do everything they need to do, or have everything happen to them that needs to happen, while they're already in the location, rather than going back to it later. This also applies to similar scenes of other types - like, if you're going to have two knife fights, can you combine them into just one knife fight that does everything the two separate scenes needed to do?

I hope you come back and see this, anon, and I also hope it helps! Good luck with your writing. :)

[lets-talk-spirituality]

Let’s talk about: Solar Plexus Chakra!

Your own sunshine center, the solar plexus (which is an anatomical body part as well), is located at the top of your stomach and moves circularly. It is the third chakra and rules areas such as self esteem, confidence, social life, happiness and joy! It is represented by the color yellow!

The chakras act like Maslow’s hierarchy. Just an observation!

How did my Solar Plexus get blocked?

The solar plexus can become blocked for a multitude of reasons, such as unresolved trauma (impacts confidence & self esteem) mental health issues (impacts happiness). The solar plexus is right above the sacral chakra which powers creativity, birthing of ideas, and sex drive and below the heart chakra. If you don’t release or you repress your natural creativity or sexuality, it can lead to blockages in the Solar Plexus chakra which is why you may feel low self esteem, or less joyful. Humans are meant to create and when this is blocked it can lead to profound sadness and disconnection from the self.

How can I tell if the Solar Plexus is blocked?

Usually you will know you have a blocked solar plexus if you struggle with your self esteem and confidence. You may also notice a blockage if you lack confidence in your creative pursuits or creations and you feel grief over how you feel about yourself. It shows an issue in energy flow between the sacral and heart chakras.

This imbalance can manifest as anxiety (feeling stress in your stomach), digestive issues (can also be a sign of anxiety), disordered eating, stomach bugs or food poisoning, stomach pain, bloating, cramping, food allergies and sudden intolerances, or stomach ulcers.

Disclaimer: You should seek medical advice if you’re struggling with any of the above issues. Because while I believe energy blockages are the root cause for the disease, just healing the energy blockage doesn’t always heal the physical damage caused by years of imbalanced energy. I’m not a medical doctor so I really suggest you take advantage of incarnating in modern times where access to healthcare is the best it’s been in human history! No need to suffer while you work on healing your energy. Medicine can only help you rebalance.

How to heal my Solar Plexus?

- rub the top of your stomach circularly, as if you were soothing yourself and while doing this, say nice things to yourself, tell your body thank you and how much you love it for all it does for you everyday.

- get out in the sun! Give your sunshine center some sunshine!

- wear yellow! Eat yellow foods and find more ways to integrate yellow into your life.

- meditate while listening to solar plexus healing music or even self confidence subliminals while your sleep.

- positive affirmations! Use positive affirmations to retrain your brain to think kindly. It also helps empower the voice that says fuck off when that internal critic shows up and says shit like, why would anyone care about what you created? And this new voice says because my perspective is unique and valuable. Feed that voice and starve the other.

- do things you enjoy more! If you’re like me and don’t know what you enjoy. Start exploring new things and saying yes to yourself. Want to learn how to make pasta? Do it!

- trust your gut! Yeah intuition is felt here, so heal your intuition, by trusting yourself.

- self care! Do things to make yourself feel good. Paint your nails or take a nice long bath, go for a walk, ways that make you feel loved by yourself.

[strobbylemonade]

explaining why this is poor design: new on left (light mode) and old on right (dark mode)

having tag thumbnails is quite ineffective when all tags have the same thumbnail

i don't know about other people but i personally prefer not to search by tag? i usually search by keyword because it gives me more varied content in my search. strange choice to prioritise tagging but lmk what other people think

"217 recent... 63K..." yeah this is sooo optimised for different browser sizes

when have follower counts for tags ever been important information that we need to know while navigating to a tag? on the website where "follower counts don't matter"??? this is useless information; i used to primarily use instagram, it was also useless there and mainly used to double check i didn't misspell anything.

the leading and vertical margins/padding are bad; not only makes the title and subtitles feel disconnected, but also makes it harder for your brain to distinguish between sections.

making everything larger makes it more cramped, and again, removes the spatial distinction between where one entry ends and the next one begins

props for making stuff more distinguishable for colourblind users and also easier to read from further away though. although uh some other website has done it better and... well... we'll get to that later

before we do, i had a search of what other people thought and stole this screenshot from @helpimstuckinafandom (ryuji image to stop the screenie from taking up too much space)

this is somehow WORSE - it's so cramped on the left side with so much empty space on the right, making it feel bloated and empty at the same time, the text in the different sections don't line up (they didn't used to either, i know), the enlarging of the icons reduces the negative space that was already lacking with my update, and somehow the bolded text of the search suggestions makes it feel even emptier compared to the cramped "tags" area. the good thing? less unnecessary information, like no tag follower counts, and no icons for recent searches.

alright. moving on, i sure do wonder where they got this idea for larger and bolder font choices from OH WAIT (roland image to stop it from being so damn large)

oh wait this actually looks pretty good though. so why does twitter's layout work? same reason why tumblr's old one was, frankly, pretty ugly but worked:

SPACING VS CLUTTER

there's no images for the tags / searches because there doesn't need to be! there's no information about follower counts because again, it's not important! notice their width is almost the same as tumblr's, but it still feels better because the content is smaller and the spacing appropriately allows your brain to digest things into smaller chunks.

it's also completely legible and comfortable to read no matter your browser size!!!!!!!!!!!! which tumblr fails to do! even when display names reach their character limits (see: PearlescentMoon) it's still completely legible and not confusing.

ok so if twitter's so good why do i hate it looking more like twitter? simple: brand identity. tumblr removing the stuff that makes it look like tumblr, is in fact, bad. having thick weighted, rounded fonts is not inherently bad. it's what twitter looks like, it's what apple looks like - they have a certain brand identity of legibility, professionalism, and cleanliness that they need to uphold. which is great. microsoft is straight edges and geometric shapes - utilitarian, functional, professional.

what i'm trying to say is this: if you want to keep branding tumblr as the stupid clown funny gay people ancient hellsite, then revel in the aesthetic. in the blatant html-ness of it all, it's unique, you can't get it anywhere else (you can but not on a site as popular). YES make it more accessible, YES make it more welcoming and easy to pick up and use for new users. you don't have to strip it of it's individuality to do so.

i was going to end it here but right before i hit post, i realised tumblr has a tumblr-looking, well spaced, organised and aesthetically pleasing suggestion-based navigation system already - right under the search bar. anyways. that's all. goodbye

[an-sceal]

I got a haircut the other day, which was awesome. I've spent the past 48 hours looking at a stranger in the mirror when I pass one. I don't ever have a firm picture or solid understanding of "that is me in my body" when I look at myself anyway, just a vaguely recognized set of individual features (my ear with the elf point, my nose that is either too big or okay depending on the day, but is always the same shape, my eyebrows that are psychotic, my tattoo that is art.) Now my hair is short but still too long, which I will fix when I get home.

Before the haircut I was having a third or fourth day of feeling like nothing I was doing with or for my body was sitting correctly. Nausea from meds that are supposed to help my autoimmune disease, and bloating from meds that are supposed to help my stomach deal with the meds that help the arthritis, and fatigue from... everything? Anything? Breathing? (Possibly breathing, because allergens, and thus inflammation triggers, are high.) Clothes and hair and posture and voice were all clashing in this thing that contains me but doesn't fit. And I have had this body for many decades now, minus a part here or there, so I am very used to not feeling at home in it. Not feeling like my body is any sort of representation of who I am, or even a reliably identifiable placeholder for the spaces marked "ME".

It took me over 40 years to figure out that I wasn't a failure as a girl, as a woman, as a "female", even after I knew there were options well beyond the two I'd been given, or the notion of others thought I understood. Part of that was down to assuming I wasn't *____* enough to count. I didn't know what, but I knew I didn't hate my body, so I couldn't be trans, or even not-a-woman in some other way. Sometimes I clung to that as a defense, firm in reminding myself that I didn't, so I wasn't. Sometimes it just was, existing, a fact like my body, which is obvious to everyone else but a mystery to me at the best of times. In my mind, even though I've rarely felt at peace or in sync with "woman", I'd never had a moment where I explicitly felt that I wasn't a woman, much less one where I hated the idea. How would I have hated something that people told me I was, when I literally need to rely on the vague shape of myself and the labels people I trust have given me just to find myself in a mirror?

I was pretty clear for a long time on how I'd never felt any sort of gender dysphoria. Quite the opposite-- the things I held on to, got familiar with like the extra bump of my ear or the round tip of my nose, were all times I'd felt the MOST grounded and at home in this alien ecosystem I keep my consciousness in. Times I felt GOOD about how my hair fell or my clothes sat or my insides settled into my outsides. No dysphoria for me, no, no! Euphoria!

And that’s true! I have felt gender euphoria, lots of it, and bodily euphoria as I have moments where I'm seated and perfect inside my little squishy home. It never occurred to me that those opposite times, when I would have given ANYTHING to step outside my horrible hovel of a skin prison, might be... not how everyone feels. I'm not talking about self-harm or suicidal ideation-- the escape only counts if the me I know and am is intact when I emerge. I'm talking days where every part of me I recognized felt so disconnected and WRONG in relation to who I believed my body made me that I couldn't find any response but intense anxiety and eventual dissociation to cope with it.

I am not drift-compatible with my own body.

[thatwillnotagewell]

Hi, so it occurred to me recently that no one will directly teach you how to maintain hearing aids. And that sucks! So, buckle up kids, I’ve been wearing these hunks of junks for 15 years and I only really figured out how one does this last year.

I’ve only ever used behind the ear, so I’m going to break down the different types I have used.

Regular care

First things first, if you have custom earmolds, you should be getting new ones every six months from infancy until you’re about 6. Your audiologist should walk you through this. After that it’s about once a year or as needed. If you have an earmold that fits well, save it! Having a spare can make stressful situations much more manageable.

If you regularly (more than once every few months) have issues with wax buildup, you need to do something to clean your ears regularly. I’d suggest something like what I described under the “blockage in your ear canal” section.

Types of hearing aids

High powered hearing aids tend to be bulkier and use a hollow plastic tube. Hearing aids are complicated and it’s important to know what you can change at home.

Receivers in canal hearing aids tend to be much smaller and have wires instead of tubes. They generally have a lot less parts you can change, which makes them a lot harder to mess up and a lot harder to troubleshoot.

Specific trouble shooting (tubes)

If the hearing aid sounds *quieter* than normal, but there’s no distortion or muffling, change the battery. Make sure you turn (both of) your hearing aid(s) completely off and replace the battery.

If the hearing aid sounds *muffled* and the quality changes depending on your head placement, something is probably clogged.

It could be

A clog or bubble in the tube. Either disconnect the tube and run lukewarm water through (use a rubber air blower/ duster to thoroughly dry it before reconnecting it) or run a string through the tube. You can do both if you’re worried about whether you got it.

Blockage in your ear canal. You can use a ball pump to spray warm or lukewarm water into your bare ear. You should see chunks dislodge. You do have to learn how to angle it so you hit the ear drum. Don’t stick the tip in too far. If it hurts, stop doing that thing. There’s also ear softeners that will typically contain hydrogen peroxide. You can just buy a bottle of hydrogen peroxide and use that. You fill up the lid, pour it in your ear and leave it until it stops bubbling. Then you use a ball pump to gently rinse it out. Repeat as needed and then dry.

If the hearing aid sounds *muffled*, but it does not change based on your position, you likely have a bloated filter. Hearing aids will have a hook that screws onto the body of the hearing aid. They’re transparent or opaque. They have a small white ball just past where the hook screws onto the hearing aid. You should be able to see a small way around this ball. If you cannot, it is bloated and you need to change the hook. If you don’t have new hooks, you can fish the filter out, but that can be difficult.

If you are having *feedback* (particularly after certain sounds or words) you need to check your mic covers. Not all hearing aids have this, so if yours doesn’t, skip this. On older hearing aids, you’ll see a soft, black/ gray oval. You have to peel this up with fine point tools, correctly line up a replacement from a sticker sheet, and make sure it sticks. It’s a pain.

If you are having *feedback* generally, make sure you replace your tubes. If they have a hole or are improperly sized, they can generate feedback. Your tube should generally sit just inside the ear mold, with the metal or plastic plate (I don’t know what to call this? It’s a little thing that sticks out?) just below where the tube exits the top of the ear mold. Then, the tube should fit around the hook so the earmold stays on your ear without sitting too far forward or back. I know that’s vague, but you just have to figure out what works for you. Sorry. Also make sure your earmolds fit.

Specific trouble shooting (wires)

Change the filter on the bottom of the ear mold. Sure, you can take it out and leave it in a dry space if it turns off and refuses to turn back on, but there’s really only one part you can change. And that’s one filter. Oticons are brilliant when they work. When they don’t, get uncomfortably familiar with your audiologist.

When to go to the audiologist

I mean, you should go regularly. But for specific issues, generally I’d say:

If your problem is persistent and didn’t change after you’ve replaced every part you are safely equipped to

If your hearing aid is still too quiet after fresh batteries

Sounds are causing you pain

You are quickly overstimulated

A feature you need is not working/ is not enabled

Anything else you do not know how to address at home

When you go to the audiologist, make sure you have a list of specific symptoms, when (or in what situations) they occurred, and what outcome you would like to see from the audiologist.

This could go like (my real example):

I am overwhelmed when I hear high frequency noises. It puts me on the verge of tears to hear someone crinkle a chip bag or scoop ice. Is there a way for me to reduce the volume on high frequencies?

If you know a sign language, please make sure you request an interpreter when you make the appointment. It does very by country/ region whether they are required to provide you with one. However, in the United States, you should be provided with one under Title III of the Americans with Disabilities Act.

Tools

A lot of hearing aids will come with this stuff, but just in case, here’s some of the stuff I was talking about.

Household items will absolutely do the job, but hearing aid kits like this make it easier to regularly clean them.

(Disclaimer that I haven’t used any of these. They just VERY closely resemble what I use on a daily basis.)

Conclusion

Hearing aids are weird! It’s hard to know what to do with them. I hope this helped.

[pangolinheart]

FFXIVWrite 2023 DAY 22 - FULSOME

Eulmore is home to many horrors: some big, some small. Sometimes it's the little ones that stick with you.

Rating: Teen Genre: Angst, horror Characters: Z'rhiki Irhi (Warrior of Light), minor Eulmoran NPCs Word Count: 874 Content Warnings: Mentions of character death

It was the third time she had vomited since coming to the First.

The first time had been shortly after her arrival. The trip had left her dizzy and disoriented, and the ocean of vivid purple surrounding her had not helped to settle her stomach. She had been overzealous in her attempts to right herself and had paid the price for it.

The second time had been in the aftermath of Tesleen’s horrific death. Even among all of the awful things she had witnessed in her role as the Warrior of Light, that had easily been one of the worst. She doubted she would ever forget the way Tesleen’s body had convulsed as the corruption seized it, or her agonizing screams when the transformation overtook her. She was thankful that she had long ago learned to disconnect the parts of her that were capable of terror or anguish or disgust in times of crisis, at least for Alisaie’s sake. She had managed to keep her head while shepherding her stricken friend and the blank-faced Halric back into the safety of the camp. She had maintained her composure long enough to settle them both the best she could, and deliver the grim news to the other carers of the Inn at Journey’s head. Then, she had quietly excused herself to empty the contents of her stomach behind a stack of crates.

Compared to that, the trigger this time had been almost mundane. She couldn’t say for sure what about it had made her insides churn so violently, but the outcome had been the same.

Eulmore itself was a deeply unsettling place. Despite, or perhaps in part because of, its reputation as a bastion of pleasure and plenty, it had become obvious that the city played host to its own share of horrors before they had even made it past the gates. It was less a paradise and more a bloated corpse. It was a fulsome banquet that had been left to rot. Though the sight of it could certainly prove tempting to hungry passersby, closer inspection would reveal only moldering fruit and maggot-eaten meat. It was a feast that could only be enjoyed by those willing to eat in the dark, or those simply too starved to care.

It wasn’t just the excess, the exploitation, and the total disregard for the lives of others that chewed on her nerves, however. While those things were terrible enough in their own right, they were nothing that couldn’t be found in Ul’dah or Ishgard, if one bothered to look. What disturbed her about the citizens of Eulmore was just how happy they all seemed about it – the free and the bonded alike.

That, she decided, was what had churned her stomach about her conversation with the poor auri songstress and her employer: the giddy way they had talked about the girl’s “ascension”. They could call it whatever they pleased, what they were discussing was feeding her to a sineater. And they both seemed so damned pleased about it. It tore at her how thankful the woman had been for the grisly death sentence she had been handed. Rhiki didn’t know whether the “ascension” process involved becoming a sineater or simply a meal for one, but she had seen both and would wish neither on anyone, not even this Lord Vauthry she had heard so much about.

Tears stung at the corners of her eyes as she wiped the remaining traces of vomit from her lips. She had no doubt they both believed what had been said. It would almost be easier to think that the doomed musician was being deceived by a capricious lord who merely wanted to be rid of her, but the free Eulmoran to whom she had been bonded had sounded so sincere, going so far as to even bring up with fond anticipation his own ultimate fate. She couldn’t help but imagine the young woman excitedly presenting herself for execution, believing that she was being blessed right up until the pain started to seep through her. Would she feel confusion? Betrayal? Anger? She would almost certainly feel fear, the poor thing.

She doubled over again.

She wished she could run after them, grab the songstress’ arm and dash as fast as she could out of the city, back to the Crystarium, but she knew that she would never make it down the stairs, let alone through the gates. Eulmore still commanded a sizeable guard, after all, and she knew the girl would fight her every step of the way.

And what of her employer? Would he be allowed to live in blissful ignorance until his own ascension was upon him? Would there come a day when he realized the terrible fate he has inflicted on his cherished songbird? The type of death he had unknowingly sent her to? If he did, she didn’t envy him that. He may have been a feckless, morally bankrupt noble, but even still... She could only imagine the ways that would torment him until his own dying day.

She breathed deeply. In and out. In and out. When she felt confident she wouldn’t be reliving any more of her past meals, she straightened up. She had to find Alphinaud.

[sharkuccino]

Bayonetta 3. Oh Bayonetta 3. There’s so much to say that it all gets mucked up, but I’ll attempt to sort it out anyway.

I’ve heard a lot of arguments that Bayo 1 and 2′s stories are just as bad, and while the stories probably aren’t that great, in my opinion, they are both leaps and bounds better than 3 because they at least provide context for everything that happens in them. In 1, we know why Father Balder wants the eyes. We know the boss deaths are leading to something because each one praises Jubileus. We can even infer, unless we’re outright told (it’s been awhile; I’m a little hazy) that little Cereza has been yoinked from the past by Balder. In 2, it’s explained who Loptr is, why he wants the eyes, and why he sought to get rid of Loki. We’re told why the old war happened as it all connects back to 1. Some found this connection forced and unsatisfying, but, hey, at least they tried to make it work.

What are we told in 3? We’re never told why Sigurd wants to reshape the world or how he created the homonculi. The fae’s sudden involvement and Luka being one is never explained. There’s no context clues that Viola is involved with Bayonetta accept for characters saying she looks familiar, but honestly, where?

The biggest complaint I’ve seen is with the Bayonetta x Luka pairing which okay sure, but that’s far from the game’s biggest issue. I know it’s disappointing after all the Bayo x Jeanne official art, but I mean she’s bi anyway. It’s not outlandish for her to end up with a man; however, considering this Bayo is heavily inferred to be the little Cereza from 1, it is a bit weird to see her end up with Luka since he acted as her babysitter in the first game. Different Luka, sure, but it’s weird all the same.

And as cool as that little scene with Bayo 1 and 2 was near the end, I’m not sure how I feel about them being treated as separate entities considering how closely linked their stories are. They feel like the same person to me. In Bayo 1, since she lacked her memories, Bayonetta fought for herself and for her own reasons, but due to the story’s events, in 2, she has found her strength in fighting for others. It almost feels wrong to disconnect that.

Speaking of feeling like a person, Viola. Oh, Viola. She went from “serious character who just watched her close comrades die” to “clumsy comic relief who only sometimes remembers she was introduced as serious.” I mean don’t let me accuse Bayo characters of having depth, but since they were trying to do something more serious with this story, this was sort of the perfect chance to introduce a meaningful character with a touching arc.  I’ve seen others mention the theme  of individuality throughout her character song and design. Ignore the serious tone of the game for a sec (or maybe not). Her arc could have been about not needing to live up to anyone or their legacy and proving herself through her own means. Instead we get her yelling about being Viola the whole game only to end up using Bayonetta’s name at the end. It’s unfitting. It’s unsatisfying. It’s a waste.

It really does feel like they saw all their cancelled or scrapped games and ideas and said, “let’s just shove it in here.” The kaiju battles look cool, but they are slow and clunky and kill the pacing. They tried to copy DMC5 without actually looking into what made that game so satisfying. Somehow the game feels bloated and underdone at the same time. And as a last call for Bayonetta, it’s kind of insulting.