#all the way up to residential treatment

[vampirismadvocate]

Trying to explain to my mom who goes to therapy once a month for help with anxiety that breathing exercises do not counteract a complete breakdown for someone with bipolar disorder who’s also going Through It™️

[trippinsorrows]

ltye: unpretty

authors note: well, this got a lil heavier and definitely longer than i intended. though, i hope at least some of you enjoy it. ❤️

warnings: angst, smut, violence, brief scene of csa, and strong theme of mental health

words: 6.5k

song inspo: unpretty by tlc

masterlist

I wish I could tie you up in my shoes.

Make you feel unpretty too.

I was told I was beautiful,

but what does that mean to you?

-----

Solana is having a good day.

A good week, she'd even argue.

A bit surprising, though appreciated.

It's only been a few weeks since she completed residential treatment, and while she was most certainly trepidatious about transitioning to being back home full time, that concern has been unfounded.

It's been wonderful being back with her husband, friends, and sweet puppy. Even with visits, more than a few from her husband especially, while she was gone, it wasn't the same.

The swell of sadness that filled Solana every time she had to say goodbye, the bittersweet kiss Roman would place on her forehead when he had to leave in the wee early hours. It was hard. She wanted to see him, but that parting portion was rough, to say the least.

However, not exactly knowing how things would play out upon her return was something that gnawed at her, created a level of anxiety, though she's beyond grateful it ended up being unnecessary concern.

Being back has been phenomenal, and she wouldn't have it any other way.

Dropping her bag on one of the benches separating the set of lockers, Solana starts to pull out her water bottle and headphones. It's not a training day, but she'd decided to head over to the Warehouse and get a little session in, missing the adrenaline and strong feeling she receives from training and moving her body.

She goes to open the locker to deposit the rest of her items in said space when she hears conversation, laughter and footsteps.

Solana looks over to see two women dressed in similar workout apparel as her own, though their slim but curvy figures seem to fill said outfits out in a way that Solana's doesn't. They just fit better.

And look nicer.

Each with contrasting complexions, one a deep, rich chocolate, the other lighter, caramel in tone, though each equally stunning. They're talking among themselves when the one with a lighter complexion casts Solana a glance. She does a double take, looking Solana over from head to toe.

"You're Roman's new wife, right?"

At over six months of marriage, Solana isn't sure she'd still consider herself his "new wife," but she's also not one to be caught up on semantics, either.

"Yeah," she finally answers. "I'm Solana." She offers a small smile and then almost awkwardly offers her hand for a handshake. Both sets of women just stare at her extended hand with a hint of confusion and disinterest. Solana clears her throat, pulling her hand back, feeling a bit silly.

"That's pretty," the other one says. It feels insincere. The two turn their attention away from Solana to open their own lockers.

Solana pulls out her phone to find a playlist but also just wanting a distraction of sorts. The entire air of the locker room seems to have shifted and not in a good way.

"You're lucky, you know."

Solana looks up from her phone, surprised to see the lighter tone woman leaned back against the lockers.

Solana frowns. "I'm sorry?"

She snorts, shaking her head, looking over at her friend. "Of all the men I've slept with, Roman will always be number one on that list."

Shoulders slumped, small smile now dropped into a frown, Solana has a hard time responding. Doesn't know what to make of what was just said. "What?"

The woman sighs almost dreamily, looking at her friend. "Don't you agree?"

The other woman makes a sound. "You already know it." Solana's blood grows cold. "That man had me speaking in tongues every time."

Every time? Solana suddenly has a hard time staying present for the unexpected turn in conversation.

"Oh, you don't mind us saying that, right?" One of them asks in that same insincere tone from earlier. She then laughs and shrugs. "I mean, everyone knows how Roman was. That he only got married cause he needed an heir."

"How's that going by the way?"

"Chantel." A faux type of scolding voice, followed up with continued fake concern. "Ignore her, though you do seem….not exactly like his type, so I'm cur—"

"What is that supposed to mean?" Solana fully intended for her voice to come out significantly more assertive than it did. She sounds so small.

Another fake look of innocence. "I'm just saying, you're so…quiet and passive…and everyone knows Roman is anything but."

The other woman smirks eyeing Solana once more. "He fucks, and he fucks hard. Likes it rough."

"Kiesha," Chantel scolds, providing the name of the woman with the lighter complexion. "Stop. That's her husband. Of course she knows that already." She tilts her head to the side, twirling a piece of her hair. "Right?"

Solana swallows. The jovial disposition she had is all but depleted, replaced with a concoction of sadness, confusion, anger and a shit ton of insecurity.

"Just how he likes when you caress his balls when sucking him off."

"Kiesha!" Chantel laughs, her friend joining in, the two of them clearly getting off on this. On making Solana feel so small and insignificant. "No, I'm sorry, that's way too much."

It is. It absolutely is.

Overcome with emotion, and not wanting to cry in front of these two cruel women, Solana finds herself gathering her items, rushing out of the locker.

"Wait, don't leave," one of them calls after her, laughing once more when Solana is out of view of them, standing by the door. She goes to rip it open to leave but can't help but listen to their continued conversation.

"Oh my God, I can't believe Roman really settled with someone like her. She's so fucking sensitive. And those scars? Hello? Ever heard of plastic surgery?"

Snickering followed up with, "I know he liked his women thick, but that's not thick. She's just fat. Did you see her stomach?"

"Girl, I thought she was just bloated."

"Baby, I've seen bloated. That ain't it. Sis needs to hit that cardio 7x a week."

"I wonder if she ever feels heavy on top of him."

"You know she does. He probably had to up his workouts just to make sure her big ass don't smother him."

At that, Solana has more than enough, rushing out the locker room without another word.

My outsides look cool

My insides are blue

Every time I think I'm through

It's because of you

------------

Roman has a long, late day, which means he won't make it home until later than usual. Solana is immensely grateful for this one thing that would typically make her a little sad, a little lonely, bored, even.

But, that's not the case.

It's not the case, because having time away from him is necessary. It's necessary, because it gives her much needed time to think.

To overthink.

By the grace of some higher power, she's able to hold it together until she gets home, expertly playing off her premature departure from the Warehouse as the result of not feeling well. An excuse, thankfully, bought by Bautista.

But, the minute she's home, in the privacy of her master bathroom, that's when it all comes out. The tears. Sitting on the floor, back against the locked door, Solana cries into her knees.

She's worked so hard the past few weeks to build herself back up, to sound out the negative voices, to silent her inner demons. And, for the most part, she has. At no point does she ever consider harming herself or does she desire to harm herself, she just has a sudden, strong dislike for herself.

For her body.

And insecurity. So much insecurity. In her appearance. In her sex life.

Solana learned a long time ago about her husband's promiscuity, so that was of no surprise.

It's now the nature of that promiscuity, however, and how it vastly contrasts their sex life, that has her mind racing.

Not to mention the women. So beautiful. Their curves generous but attached to a nice, slim frame. Solana knows her breast and ass are big, but so is everything else about her figure. Slim thick is what she's sure those women would be categorized under.

Nothing about her is or ever has been slim.

It's a thought that brings about another set of tears.

Not only does she not fit the mold and standard for what Roman typically went for, the sex they have isn't even close to what pleases him.

Nothing about their intimacy has ever been rough or hard. He's always been so gentle with her, which is exactly what she needs, but it never crossed her mind as to if it's what he needs.

Has he been satisfying my needs and negating his own?

A terrible, heavy thought that only makes her feel worse.

Solana has only ever wanted to make her husband happy, the same way he's made her happy. She thought she did, or maybe she just wanted to believe it.

Believe that what she was doing was enough, but clearly, it isn't.

Solana tears through the growing lingerie collection she's compiled over the past few months, largely thanks to Naomi and Bayley's encouragement. A part of her wants to reach out to them, to ask for their advice. Even Melina and gang.

But, she doesn't. She can't. It's way too personal and between her and Roman.

Solana has to do this on her own.

Finally, she settles on a one piece from Savage X Fenty. A short skimpy dress with beautiful lacing on the bosom part and material that flows and conceals her stomach area.

It's a sexy yet modest and shows just enough but not too much, because while she knows Roman has already indicated he hadn't noticed her weight gain, she certainly has. And, she's definitely noticed it in her stomach.

So, until she can get some of the weight off, she'll just have to be a bit more mindful with how she dresses.

Dinner is easy to make, Solana opting for a less complex, less time consuming recipe, as she has to have Dulce taken care of, as well as her everything shower and her hair to complete before Roman gets home. And, she does.

She manages it all.

Has the foot hot on the plate and on their dining room table when he walks in the door. It's a bit rushed, Solana can acknowledge that much. Roman is really good with asking about how her day was, giving her the space to share. It's always appreciated but not necessary. Not tonight.

Tonight is about him and pleasing him.

So, when dinner is completed, Solana rushes to put away the leftovers and heads upstairs to get ready. She'd already cleaned the kitchen while waiting for him to get home, which ended up being a great decision.

Allotted her just the right amount of time.

Dulce sleeping peacefully in her bed in another room, Solana, dressed and nervously fiddling with her dress and hair, waits for Roman to finish in the shower.

She listens for the telltale signs. The sound of the water shutting off, the sink running, towels and dirty clothes being tossed into the hamper.

They all point to one thing.

Roman is barely out the door when she untangles her legs and moves to kneel on the bed. "Hey."

His warm brown eyes drink her in, Solana a bit self-conscious, holding in her stomach that can't even be seen through the short, opaque gown. "Hey…" He moves toward her, lifting his gaze from her body to her face. "Are you—"

She doesn't let him finish. Just grabs him by his shoulders once he's close enough and smashes her lips onto his. Assertive. She has to be assertive.

Roman naturally returns the kiss though eventually pulls back, looking down at her. "You alright?"

"Of course," she answers, not even really be paying attention to the question. "Just…just missed you, that's all." Not a lie. She always misses her husband when he's not around.

Solana grabs him by the back of the his head, pressing their lips together once more. Unlike most times, instead of his tongue entering her mouth first, she beats him to the chase.

Solana is grateful when he moves his hands to her waist, moving them so that he's laying on top of her. She's also appreciative of the way he starts to kiss her back with equal fervor and desire.

But, it's when one big hand moves under her dress, clearly eager to pull it off, she stops him.

"I—I wanna keep it on," she explains with a hint of stammering. Solana tries to play it off with an objectively weak excuse. "I've—I've been a bit cold all day."

Roman casts her a doubtful and confused expression. "Cold?"

Solana ignores him, grabbing his face and starting to kiss on his neck.

"Sol—"

Once again, he's ignored as Solana moves her hands to slide off her underwear, tossing them to the side as she switches their positions so she's on top straddling him. She goes back to kissing him, hard, borderline aggressive, body moving against his. A hand trails down his chest, going to grope him through his boxers.

"Baby, slow down," Roman breathes, though the erection in the palm of her hand would indicate he's right where she wants him.

"Why?" She questions, voice filled with innocence. And before he can actually answer, she's informing, "I—I wanna try something different tonight."

"Different?" He's frowning as she peppers kisses against his bearded face. "How?"

She licks her lips, looking him dead in his face. "I—I want you to fuck me from behind." At that, Roman's expression shifts once more to a perfect mixture of surprise and confusion. "Doggy style? That—that's what it's called, right?"

Roman is quiet at first, an unexpected, slightly discouraging response for something she hoped he'd be more excited about.

"Solana…."

She shakes her head, pulling him, once again repositioning them so they're both kneeling on the bed. Her back pressed against his solid front. "Come on," she urges, taking his big hands and bringing them to her breast. "This is what I want."

Right?

She has to ignore that question sitting in the back of her mind and instead focus on bringing one hand to the back of Roman's head, forcing it downward just enough to indicate she wants his mouth on her. Wants his kisses on the column of her neck.

Needs them.

"Please," she whimpers when Roman starts palming her chest, his thumb flickering over her hardened nipples. "Need you…"

Her words do something, Roman tugging on the thin strap of her gown, freeing her big breast from the loose confines, continuing to caress her, as her mouth falls ajar from the delicious sensations.

"Solana," he breathes against her neck, one hand leaving the swell of her breast to tease at the material of her gown, scrunching it in his hands. She places her hand over his, expertly guiding it down to the space between her legs, a preferred placement away from her stomach. "Baby, we can have sex but not—not like that."

At that, she frowns, turning her head to look at him. "Why?" No time given is for an answer, as she's already shaking her head. "It's—it's fine. It's what I want."

Solana attempts to demonstrate her readiness by once again repositioning them.

Or, herself.

Solana moves to her hands and knees, looking back at her husband to see him continuing to look just as lost and torn as he's been since stepping out the bathroom. "Let's do it," she urges. Solana has completely ignored and bypassed the instant shift of her excitement to something heavier. The way that pit in her stomach deepened, as well as the heaviness in her chest. But, it all comes to a sick boiling point when she redirects her attention to the headboard before her and feels Roman's hand near her hips.

It all comes together, trigger a horrifying, devastating flashback.

A rough set of hands holding her own, much smaller and tinier, up against the headboard. The tips of her fingers bloodied from being dug into the walls she attempted to use as anchors while being dragged. A tremendous amount of pain, a pain she's never experienced coursing through her body, and the loud, heavy panting and groaning accompanying another set of hands on her hips. Clammy, sweaty, nubby nails digging into her flash.

"Please!" She screamed and cried, her throat practically raw from the mental and physical exertion. "Somebody please help me!"

"Solana."

It's like a slow transition. The way Solana is pulled back from such a darker, heavier period of her life. The way Roman's hands, gentle and comforting, are placed on her cheeks. His gaze, concerned and worried, focused solely on her. "Baby, you're safe. It's fine."

Two words.

Safe and fine seem to finalize the return, allowing her full recognition to settle. She's no longer on the bed, instead standing to the side of said, her husband directly in front of her.

What?

How did she....

She breaks away from him, eyes clenched shut, hands on either side of her head. "I'm good."

"Solana-"

"Really," she argues, opening her eyes. "I'm—I'm okay." His contrite gaze never leaves her, even as Solana moves back over to him. "I'm fine now."

"Baby…"

Her hands are on his chest, looking back towards the bed. "We can—"

He places his hands on her wrists, gently lowering her hands. "Solana, you're not fine."

"I am," she asserts. Never mind the tears starting to blur and burn her vision. "I—I can do this."

"Sol—"

"I just needed a minute—"

"Solana." Roman's voice is loud, traveling through the room, effectively cutting through her defenses. "Solana, baby, look at me." It takes a good minute, but she eventually does. His eyes soften instantly. "You're not fine."

Profound, truthful words.

She's, in fact, not fine.

"I'm—I'm sorry." It cracks, shattering to the floor despite the best of her efforts. Her voice is low and heavy. "I thought—I thought I could do it." She shakes her head, attempting to look down. "Why—why can't I do it?"

A loaded question with no simple answer. Just layered reasons.

And, he doesn't offer her one. Just continues to hold her as she cries silently into his chest.

They remain like that for a few, good minutes before he finally breaks the silence.

"Solana, I need you to talk to me. I need to know what's going on." Roman is a man always in control, always one with his head above water. But, even she can't deny how concerned he sounds. Scared, almost. "Are you…."

"No," she responds, pulling back, wiping at her eyes. "It's…it's not that."

Suicidal.

He's asking if she's feeling suicidal.

"I promise," she whispers, taking his hand and leading them back to the bed. Solana sits down, legs crossed, only remembering then that she'd discarded her underwear.

Something Roman didn't forget, as he subtly moves the blanket over her lap to cover her bottom half.

Her heart swells for a different reason.

She loves him so much.

"I—" She starts, playing with the material of her dress. "I went to the Warehouse today, and….and I ran into these two women that you….that you used to sleep with."

Solana looks up and hates to see the flash of guilt in his handsome face. He has nothing to feel guilty about.

"What did they say to you?" His eyes read guilt, but his tone is an expertly managed can of anger. He's angry at whatever was said, and it's obvious he knows something was said, which means she can't deny it.

Can't lie to him.

"Just…." She doesn't necessarily want to verbatim relay what was said. Just a general gist. "How you like to have sex. Your…your preferences."

With that uncomfortable disclosure, she doesn't look over at him. Keeps her head down.

And keeps talking.

"I'm not like that, Roman." Her voice cracks, the tears returning once more. "I don't look like them, and I don't—I don't know how to please you like they can." She sniffles, a single tear spilling over. "I thought—I thought I could, but—I can't."

A heartbreaking realization that even after months of hard, difficult work, some shackles of her past remain locked, forever tethering her to that violated little girl she just can't seem to fully set free.

"Solana." He repeats her name for what feels like the hundredth time tonight. Except, she won't make him wait, won't ignore him like she did the previous times. Solana looks up at him, seeing he's moved closer, close enough to touch her. And, he does.

Roman is gentle with how he cups her cheek, his thumb brushing away her tears. "Solana, I love you." There's something about the way he says it that tugs at her heart. Desperate, almost. Like, he's in need of her to know and understand this.

Because, he is.

"All I see is you, all I think about is you," he continues, displaying a level of vulnerability no one outside of the four walls of their bedroom could ever be privy to. "I love you in a manner that scares me sometimes, because it's something that completely consumes me in a way I'm not used to."

It's the perfect sentiment, because it's exactly how she feels about him. Roman consumes much more of her headspace than probably what's healthy, and Gail has hinted as such in a couple of sessions. Has brought up the term "codependent" once or twice regarding her relationship with Roman. It's not something she can really deny either.

Solana knows she can be very needy with him, that she is in fact dependent on him in many, many ways, but the truth is that she's gone so long feeling unloved, unwanted and even touch deprived that it's hard to see what's so wrong with that.

What's so wrong with loving him to the extent that she does.

With wanting him the way that she does.

It feels….it feels like she deserves it.

Like she deserves to have him.

"And as far as those bitches go." His tone switches to something harsher, a sense of hatred swimming in his eyes only to settle just enough to avoid making her feel like she's on the receiving end of any of that vitriol.

"I fucked them. All I ever did was just fuck them." Solana nearly winces at the disgust imbued in the set of words, 'fuck' and 'fucked.' Not even directed toward her, but it's enough to hurt even her feelings from an empathetic standpoint. And then he's back to being that considerate, tender man who gives her life meaning. "I make love to you. Every single time, because I love you. They meant nothing to me. I felt nothing for them." A vow. "I feel everything all at once for you."

Again, shared sentiments. She feels the same way. The exact same way.

Roman's hand moves down to the strap of her dress. He must have adjusted it at some point, or maybe she did. Somewhere in between her trying to be something she isn't and him yearning to remind her she's fine just the way she is. "And as far as looks…" His finger gently trails down her arm. "None of those bitches even come close to you in that department, Sol. In any department." Her eyes begin to flutter shut as he travels his finger down to under the swell of her heavy breast. "You are the single most beautiful woman I've ever fucking seen." Head lolled back, her breathing is slightly staggered as he starts kissing on her neck, transitioning to gently caressing her breast. "Just thinking about you and this perfect ass body you have drives me fucking insane, makes me hard as fuck…"

One hand moves to his muscular bicep. "Roman…." So breathy and whiny almost, Solana feeling a shift in her emotions and an all too familiar sensation between her legs with the way he's touching her right now.

"Let me make love to you," he implores, holding her by her hips, kissing down her chest. "Let me show you how much I love you."

It's the return of that pleading and desperation. His dire need and eagerness to do away with any and all doubt and insecurity on her end.

A request she won't deny him.

Solana grabs his face, their lips centimeters apart, her eyes never leaving his. "Yes."

A single word is all that's needed. The passion and fervor from earlier is fully returned but with a sense of normalcy and them. It's so them the way Roman manages to carefully guide her on her back, big hand both exploring her body and ridding them both of the irritating clothes that separate them.

It's so them in how he, even with his hardened member brushing against her wet, velvety lips, still stops and asks if she's sure. Always gaining her consent.

The way he receives that consent and gradually fills her, both of them clutching onto one another, moaning and moving in sync. The way he pistons in and out of her, the depth and angle bringing tears to her eyes for a new, much better, pleasurable reason.

The way her nails sink into his back, her mouth open and closing on his shoulder as he buries his face in the crook of her neck.

"Perfect," he breathes into her skin, Solana's ankles locking above his ass, tethering him close to her. "You're fucking perfect, sweetheart."

Continued and whispered words and statements of affirmations, his voice praising and worshiping her the same way his body does. Because there's an almost reverence in the way he makes loves to her, like each carnal thrust of himself into her is an imprint of all his love and devotion.

An unending, bottomless supply.

Solana cries out, her back arching off the bed as he switches angles, hitting and reaching that part of her. "Oh my God…"

"Tell me what you need, baby." His hand moves up and down the fat of her hip and the back of her thigh, his mouth returned to hers. "Tell me what to do, and I'll do it." Her eyes temporarily shut from the overwhelming nature of it all. "I'll do anything for you, Solana."

Words she knows. Sentiments and loyalty she already knows. Roman has done nothing but shown her time and time again how far he'll go for her. Even from the day he decided to take her as his wife, he's protected her. Warning Xavier and Wes not to hurt her.

Even before he ever loved her, he protected her. And that protection has only grown and metamorphosed into something so pure and beautiful.

And, that hasn't changed. Even with everything that's happened. With her attempt. With her regression with her mental health. It hasn't changed. He hasn't changed.

Their love hasn't changed.

Solana moves to push his hand away, her eyes opening and never leaving his as she rolls them over, switching positions so she's on top. A small hiss leaves her parted mouth from the transition. He suddenly feels significantly deeper in the best way possible.

She leans forward, hands moving up his chest as she starts to grind against him.

"You," she finally answers. "All I need is you."

It's all she'll ever need.

Roman's hand moves to her ass, squeezing and evoking a sensual, whiny moan. He tugs her down just enough to connect their lips in a passionate kiss, one that feels like the sealing of an oath and promise.

"You have me." His eyes shut, his forehead pressed against hers. "You'll always have me."

But if you can't look inside you

Find out who am I to

Be in the position

Tto make me feel so

Damn unpretty

----------

Locks and Lashes is one of the most popular salons in the city. A full service stop that provides hair styling and various beauty services. It comes only second on the list of best salons in the state, Bayley's company, Role Models, sitting comfortably in the number one spot for the past decade.

Locks and Lashes, often referred to as L&L, is owned by Chantel Davis and Kiesha Ford, two longtime best friends turned business partners. Known for impeccable taste and only offering the highest quality of services, it's only when getting to know the two of them, and when the camera aren't on, that one becomes privy to the fact that their undeniable outward beauty doesn't extent inward.

Vain, conceited, callous, they're the mean girls one believes get left behind in high school only to be found in the workplace.

But, alas, despite hideous personalities, the women have made names for themselves.

Have done quite well. Even preparing to launch and open their third location in less than 5 years.

Quite well indeed.

Salon bustling with a plethora of customers and many more to come, the day has barely started, the clock shy of striking noon when the bell above the door chimes, signifying the arrival of another guest.

Shyla, a pretty young college student working one of her two jobs, a necessary to afford her heft tuition, looks up with a rehearsed smile only for it to drop.

"What?" Confused and slightly nervous, she sees a man, a boulder of human, dressed in all black. He's with two other men, smaller than him but still formidable looking.

Shyla swallows. "H—Hi. Welcome—" She's cut off when the biggest man says something, finger against his ear before he holds the door open, allowing another patron to enter.

A woman, short in stature, dressed in a bodycon gray dress that hugs her generous curves. Her exposed arms reveal several scars, horizontal and thin, similar to slash marks. A gray Birkin bag is on her arm, along with a stack of Van Cleef, Louis Vuitton, Tiffany and Co, along with other designer brand bracelets on both wrists. Not to be outshined by a stunning wedding ring that's practically blinding.

The woman walks forward, lifting her expensive Gucci glasses off her face. Up close, Shyla can make out the faintest hint of another scar over her right eye, though it's well concealed under her beat face.

Shyla hasn't the slightest clue who this woman is, but easily, she's someone the young Marketing major envies.

Greatly.

"Hi," she introduces, her voice sounding exactly how Shyla anticipated given her small stature. "Are Chantel and Kiesha here?"

It's not until the woman gives an expectant look that Shyla realizes she's staring. An embarrassing thing, for sure. Granted, it's pretty hard not to gawk at this woman who is clearly someone important considering her entire outfit has to easily total at about half a million dollars along with the fact that she's flanked by literal bodyguards.

"Uhhh…." Shyla has to blink and shake her head to reorient herself. "I'm sorry, do—do you have a meeting or…." Shyla can't recall either of the owners mentioning any sort of plans for today. Not to mention, most of their business meetings take place elsewhere.

Never the salon.

The woman slides off her glasses and places them in her bag before answering casually. "I'm here to return a favor."

Shyla frowns.

A favor?

Shyla doesn't have time to consider such a strange response, because next thing she knows the fire alarms are going off. She's half expecting the sprinklers to activate right away as well, but no such thing.

"Fire! Everybody out!" The large man shouts as customers begin to panic, flocking out in droves. Everyone except for the woman and the other two guards, one of which, Shyla realizes, is holding a bat.

"What—"

"Go," the woman orders, placing her bag on the counter while looking past Shyla. "This doesn't concern you."

Turning around, Shyla realizes the woman is looking at Kiesha and Chantel who have come out of their offices in the back of the salon.

"What the hell is going on!" Kiesha shouts at the same time the woman moves forward, blocking their trying to leave or, at least, see what's happening.

"Not you two."

Once again, Shyla is prevented from questioning further when the large man approaches her.

He looks at her, voice surprisingly kind. "Get out of here, kid."

Shyla looks between the stranger, her bosses, and the large men who are either intent on no good—or something worse—and for the first time, in a long time, she chooses herself.

She leaves.

Standing in front of the two women who triggered her in a way she hasn't experienced in a while is a conflicting thing for Solana. She feels a hint of confusion, some satisfaction, and a hell of a lot of anger.

The alarms suddenly stop beeping, the silence briefly interrupted by the sound of the door shutting, signifying the departure of the last innocent.

Good

Solana has no intention on causing any harm to anyone who doesn't deserve it.

Including the kind, unassuming receptionist who couldn't have been older than 22.

Solana makes a note to make sure, after this is all said and done, she's set up with another job.

Maybe Bayley can take her on.

Chantel looks at Solana, recognition dawning. "You're…you're—"

"Exactly," Solana interrupts, moving to walk past them but not out of hearing distance. She looks around, taking in the opulent design. The luxury of it all. One things certain, they have a nice place.

Or, had.

Kiesha, however, seems less shocked and more pissed. "What the fuck do you think you're doing here?"

Solana ignores her, noticing the bar in the middle of the salon, wines stacked and practically full. She walks over, grabbing one, reading Domaine de la Romanée-Conti Grand Cru. Solana makes a face, lifting the bottle, "this looks expensive." And before either can respond, Solana pitches it against the nearest wall, red liquid dripping and staining the white, marble walls.

Both women shout with shock and fury. "You crazy b—"

"Finish that sentence, and I'll make sure the next thing to splatter like that bottle will be the both of you."

A small smile falls on Solana's face as the two women look toward the front door where another has entered.

Roman stands tall, dressed in all black, black shirt, dark jeans, black shoes. Even expensive black shades that he pulls up, revealing an equally dark menacing gaze that would make even her cower. But, she knows better.

Knows why he's so pissed.

Solana walks over to her husband, and the minute she's close enough, he tugs her against his chest, crashing his lips onto hers. For a second, Solana forgets they have an audience. The way he kisses her is all-consuming and captivating, trapping her in a world where it's just the two of them.

A place she loves to be.

A requirement for oxygen is the only reason for them separating, Solana certain her lips are nice and swollen. Roman looks down at her with that look. That look that lets her know exactly what awaits her when they get home.

He chuckles, running his thumb across her bottom lip, one hand planted firmly on her ass. Roman then looks over at the now seething Chantel and Kiesha. "If it was up to me, I'd fuck her right here in front of you and make the both of you bitches watch."

A blush rises up Solana's face. She certainly wasn't expecting him to say that. Just like she most definitely could never get with something like that.

Even this is a bit much for her, though well deserved.

Solana pulls away, taking the bat from one of the guards as she moves over to the register area. One look between it and them, a small smile on her face as she swings it down, breaking it instantly with one effective hit.

"You see," Roman starts as Solana smashes another register. "My wife told me what you said to her, that you upset her." Solana transitions to the shelves filled with hair products, bashing them in. "And when you upset my wife, you upset me." The other two guards, minus Bautista, also starting to destroy and vandalize the salon.

"And, it's never a good fucking idea to upset me." Roman finishes in an eerily calm voice, as Chantel starts stammering and stumbling.

"R—Roman, we didn't—" She's cut off and on the ground, Kiesha gasping to see Solana behind them, having taken the bat to the back of her friend and business partner.

"Only I can call him Roman," Solana asserts, ignoring the sound of Chantel whining and crying on the floor. "You two call him The Tribal Chief."

Kiesha swallows, watching Solana move back over to the wine shelf, throwing, tossing and smashing bottle after bottle.

"Please—" One of them cries, Solana isn't sure who, too caught up in the high and sweet taste of revenge. She's not a vindictive person, not even a violent person, but she is someone who's tired of letting people walk all over her.

Letting people hurt her.

No more.

"This is our life's work," Chantel moans, still on the ground, tears spilling down her face.

"You think I give a shit about that?" Roman sneers, doing his best to maintain his anger, focusing on his pride as his fine ass wife regains her voice and power. "That I ever gave a shit about either of you?"

It's the real issue here. The one Roman is not afraid or uncomfortable with calling out. They're upset they got cut off and are jealous of Solana, thus taking it out on her.

Big mistake.

Kiesha sniffles. "My—my Tribal Chief—"

"Be quiet," Solana mutters, walking past the two women, intentionally shoving Kiesha along the way. Looking around, Solana can't tell where the chaos starts and ends.

The place is all completely destroyed.

"You have two other locations," Solana reminds, tossing the bat to the side. All of that swinging took a lot out of her. She's tired, not to mention her chest is sore. A strange thing but also not considering her breast have been on the sensitive side lately.

Weird.

"They did," Roman corrects. Solana looks over at him, partially confused, but he keeps his gaze on the distraught women, coldly informing, "they're both currently being burned down to the fucking ground."

Chills form up and down Solana's arms. Roman didn't tell her about that part of the plan, though she can't lie and say she feels bad for them.

She doesn't.

Not at all.

Grabbing her purse off the counter, Solana bends down in front of them both, seeing how Chantel attempt to scurry backwards. Head tilted, the wife of the Tribal Chief asks in the calmest voice. "How's that for quiet and passive?"

Not wanting or needing a response, she straightens back up and walks toward Roman who initially takes her hand. The guards are all gathered, Bautista holding the door open. The door that's glass is entirely shattered.

Along with the front windows.

"By the way." Solana pulls out her Cartier sunglasses, sliding them over her eyes. Looking back at them, Roman's hand now placed comfortably on her ass, Solana smirks, "he loves when I'm on top."

[noirsdoll]

just a quick drabble abt reader picking up prison!jimmy from jail!

(for context this is an au where he went to jail for what he did to anya. cw for mentioned rape/abuse and smoking)

His hair could do with a trim.

Jimmy’s thrown it into a bun that’s more of a limp knot than anything— jagged strands frame his constant grimace and splotchy stick-and-pokes peek out from under his collar. 

He put on muscle, it surprises you. The man’s only ever been a deadbeat to you, you’re shocked his eyes even had the strength to look at a barbell. The fat jokes you brainstormed on the way here promptly die on your tongue. 

There’s a nasty split in his lip and a bruise frames his cheekbone like crappy blush. He's wearing the same leather jacket that he had on when he got arrested, it's gray on the shoulders from water damage. Ratty jeans and even rattier sneakers— at least he’s not sagging. 

The automated slammer doors roll shut behind him with a beep. He shoves his hands in his pockets, rocking back and forth on his feet and pretending like you’re not the only one standing here to pick him up. 

“Over here, sweetie.” You snap your fingers at him like you’re calling a dog with a toy in its mouth. “Hurry up— I’m double-parked.”

You turn without checking if he’s following you— Orpheus has nothing on you. His grunt of annoyance confirms there is a cat in your box. 

You pop your gum, rounding the hood to the driver’s seat. The keychains on your keys jingle as you unlock your car. It’s one more accident from falling apart, your wheel’s missing its horn and the entire radio unit’s been stolen. 

Spitting the gum onto the pavement, you slide in front of the wheel. Jimmy stands awkwardly outside the shotgun door— it’s still locked because you think it’s funny that he gets so annoyed when it is. 

Your shiny pumps stomp down on the gas and you pull out onto the street, clearly speeding along the barren road. Jimmy stares out the window with his arms crossed, giving you the silent treatment you expected. You watch the plains melt into shitty residential areas and the street lanes get more crowded. At a red light, you light one of your many cigarettes of the day. 

After a moment, he reaches for your cigarette like a greedy toddler, you swat his hand away without a glance. With the cigarette tucked firmly between your lips, you complete a two-handed turn onto your driveway. 

Jimmy kicks over one of your lawn gnomes on your way to the door— for looking at him funny, you guess. You pay it no mind.

“Your room’s exactly how you left it,” you say, tossing your keys by the door.

When he doesn't answer, you turn to face him. “What, so you’re just not gonna say anything to me now?”

“You could’ve paid my bail,” he says quietly, malice tinting his voice.

“You could’ve not gotten arrested.” You lean on the kitchen counter and light a fresh cigarette as soon as the current one fizzles out. “God, Jimmy, do something with your life, why don’t you?”

He stands there on the other side of the room, staring at the ground, silent. The way he gets when you’re right and have talked him into a corner. You’re angry now, continuing the tirade.

“Two years, Jimmy. Christ—,”  You run a frustrated hand through your hair. “Do you expect people to always just clean up after you?”

“I didn’t ask you to wait.”

“But you wanted me to, right?”

He snorts. “You act like you know me.”

“I clearly don’t! You got that girl pregnant, Jim. That poor fucking girl, God, I— I can’t believe you.”

His eyebrows twitch in surprise. “She got pregnant?”

You nod. “She kept the baby. The kid’s sixteen months old.”

“Oh, and you two are friends now?” Jimmy asks cooly.

“The least I could do was help out after what you did.” You scoff. ”Why’d you even do it in the first place? Am I not enough for you?”

Jimmy half-rolls his eyes. “Did I ever say that?”

You can’t believe this is the man you waited for all this time. “Don’t you feel ashamed? Remorseful? Anything?”

“I was fucking drunk, okay? I don’t wanna talk about this again—”

Your eyes go wide in shock. “Being drunk doesn’t make you stick your dick in the first pussy you see! It doesn’t make you strangle a girl half to death!” You bury your face in your hands, tears swimming in your vision. “God, Jim. Fuck. Fuck!”

Jimmy walks closer, draping his arms around you. “Don’t… cry, please.” It’s said with as much empathy as he can garner— a net total of zero.

“I shouldn’t be here right now. I fucking shouldn’t.” You look up at him with glossy eyes. Your cigarette blazes out in your limp hand, all but forgotten. 

Your hand cups his face, running your thumb over his prickly stubble, catching on his fresh shaving nicks. He tried to shave for you today. He tried.

You look away. “I fucking hate you. I hate you.”

“I know.”

[kirlicues]

Rockwell Drive | Sims 2 Residential Lot Download

The Rockwell Drive house features quoining accents to give interest to the large swaths of red brick. It's built on a 3x3 lot and has 3 bedrooms and 3 baths.

It also has beautiful garden spaces, as well as a pool because swimming to gain body skill is so much more fun than running on the treadmill for 10 hours. Let's take a short tour and I'll tell you more about how this lot came about because you have nothing better to do with your time. Jump to the bottom of this post if you want to download it into your game. 😊

Here's what the backyard looks like:

Several years BC (before children) I found it entertaining to set up a household of Sims (Sims 1 was the only game out at the time) and just watch them interact without interfering. It was quite funny, until the kitchen caught on fire, and then it wasn't. 😧 I hate letting my sims have bad experiences, especially when I could intervene and stop them (now if only that could be the case with real life kids as they grow up)!

I decided to try this again with the Sims 2, but armed with several hacks that make the characters a little smarter when it comes to fires and a little more motivated to go to work (further reducing the chance of fires). It was much more successful and other than the sims hogging the computer (until I removed it) didn't give me near as many grey hairs. 😂

This was the house that that family lived in.

Back then it looked a bit different, but it's been freshly remodeled inside, and given some colorful wall treatments to make up for the seas of red brick on the exterior. Please feel free to redecorate it to fit your sim family's needs though.

Here's what the floor plan looks like:

1st Floor: Clockwise from bottom left: garage, sin room, downstairs family room, stairwell, kitchen, dining room, living room, entry, bathroom, and laundry room.

2nd Floor: Clockwise from bottom left: kids bedroom 1, kids bedroom 2, laundry room, upstairs family room, master bedroom, bathroom, walk-in closet, hall way, and kids bathroom.

Rockwell Drive: MF | SFS

All EPs and SPs are required.

*I highly recommend that you have the PerfectPlants mod from TwoJeffs*

I’ve run this home through the Lot Compressor so any random references to sims that aren’t there should be removed. I have also run this lot through the Lot Cleaner to remove any bits of buggy code. This lot comes with a shiny custom thumbnail so it has even more curb appeal in your Lots and Houses bin! 😄

This home has only 2 pieces of CC, which you may already have in your game. These can easily be replaced or omitted if you don’t want them though.

CC List (Included): -Maxis Match Wall Cabinets by CTNutmegger at ModtheSims -Functional Washer and Dryer by mustluvcats at ModtheSims

CC Not included: -Maxis Match Chimney recolors from Mod The Sims (I'm not sure which one I used at the moment so grab them both if you don't already have them!) -Lost & Found BENNO Coffee table from the Ikea Stuff Pack

I ALWAYS recommend using the Sims 2 Pack Clean installer to install lot files.

Want to improve the look of your game, or grab some "Lost & Found" Maxis objects? Check out this post.

[vigilskept]

gnashing my teeth thinking about how veilguard talks about the gods only as a joke when they could've gone somewhere truly crazy.... you're so right.

Yeah... you get it. It's just such a missed opportunity!

I don't even mind the jokey tone they use a lot of the time, because we all joke about things we struggle to understand/cope with.

Except Veilguard refuses to let you even try to broach the subject beyond that surface level. In fact, when it does let you engage with it at all, it manages to make things even less nuanced!

I'm just going to talk about Bellara's quest here since it's the most directly linked with the elven gods, and it's already a lot. Fundamentally, her companion quest is asking us two things:

Should elves be blamed for the actions of the Evanuris?

Should they preserve any of their past at all?

The first one is absurd to even begin with. It's not even a good or interesting take on the (very christian!) question: "Are we responsible for the sins of our ancestors?"

The Evanuris are not the ancestors of modern elves. Dalish religion implies that modern elves descend from those who the rebels never freed from slavery to the Evanuris.

This setup is already awful without looking at any of the parallels Bioware has (intentionally) drawn between the elves of Thedas and Jewish/Indigenous people. I have to put the rest of this under the cut because I genuinely don't think it can be shortened without making it sound flippant. In the context of the coding of the elves, the theological/social implications of all of this are so much worse.

TLDR: the indigenous/jewish coding of the elves makes bioware's treatment of elven religion in veilguard thoughtless at best, cruel at worst. they did not have to write themselves into this corner. there was a way of handling this lore reveal without the implication of elven religion (again, jewish/indigenous coded) being obsolete

So, the religion of the Dalish was part of their enslavement. It's the belief they were forced into by the cruel gods they are still devoted to. That's already pretty bad. How could it get worse, you might wonder?

Whether Bioware deviated from their initial inspirations for the elves or not, the implications for these lore reveals in light of those parallels are particularly cruel. Those two core questions in Bellara's quest? Yeah. Those have both been levied against the oppressed groups that Bioware chose to draw inspiration from. Both historically and presently. To justify atrocities against them.

And to be clear, Bioware does not deviate from or subvert the usual indigeous and jewish-coding of the elves in their writing here. If anything, they end up actively endorsing a very significant element of antisemitic and anti-indigenous sentiment.

Indigenous-Coding

Advocates of colonisation have always justified it by arguing they were 'saving' groups of people who were stuck in the past. They had been ‘left in the dark’ through ignorance of Christianity. In the more secular sense, this was framed as Europeans having journeyed through history to reach enlightenment, while the rest of the world was still in an ‘uncivilized’ state.

Christianity and progress had to be brought to these people to save their souls and bring them into the future with everyone else. Their Gods? There were only two possible ways to frame those. Either they were not real at all, or they were evil. Either way, they were obsolete.

In the Americas, these arguments were still used when corralling indigenous children into residential schools or tearing them from communities through the adoption system. Governments pushed the idea that they had to be forced to assimilate because they were 'backward' in their practices and beliefs.

In the settler-colonial state Canada, where Bioware is based, it's still common enough to hear people justify all of this as having been done "for their own good." Even those who admit that the ways colonization was perpetuated were cruel will still try to defend it by telling you, "it was bad, but their ancestors weren't saints either."

Sounding painfully familiar yet? A little uncomfortable in the context of Bellara's questline?

Jewish-Coding

Since the dawn of Christian Church, Jewish people have had a very fraught place in Christian theology. Christianity claims that that the coming of the messiah in the person of Jesus Christ makes the religion of Judaism obsolete. Christians believed the obvious answer to this problem was that Jewish people should convert.

When many did not, they were labeled as ignorant, obstinate, stuck in the past. They were so focused on their history that they couldn't see the truth which had been revealed in the present. There’s a significant legacy of this idea in Christian artwork with depictions of Synagoga blindfolded next to the clear eyed Ecclesia. You still hear echoes of this sentiment in antisemitic language today.

As for the nature of the Jewish God... there is some deviation here. For some Christians, He is God the Father, and He is good. For others — and this idea has been around from early Christianity till now — He is the Creator of the material world, but He is evil.

There are innumerable variations of Christian gnosticism that probably wouldn't be productive to get into on a Dragon Age Blog. What I need to underline here though, is that the idea of the Old Testament God as the devil/the demiurge/fundamentally evil, has been used to justify atrocity towards Jewish people for over a thousand years.

Should elves be blamed then? For the sundering of the Titans? For the Veil? For the Blight? For the evils of this world, created by their Gods?

Implications for Veilguard

Not only is religion in Dragon Age: The Veilguard often devoid of nuance or ignored outright, when the game does engage with it at all, it does so in a way that quite literally draws on these incredibly harmful antisemitic and anti-indigenous sentiments that have been (and still are) used to perpetuate real harm.

To be clear, I don't think the writing here intends to endorse the idea that elves should be blamed for any of what's going on. Bellara's anxieties are being projected onto her people as a whole while she grapples with what this all means for her, I get that. In fact, you could be generous and read some of this as a critique of this particular kind of anti-indigenous/jewish bigotry.

However, I don't think that absolves the writers of any of the implications they've created by confirming that the elven pantheon did exist and was canonically evil.

Elements of Dalish/elven culture might be preserved after all this, but the conclusion the game railroads you into is that their religion is obsolete. Just like Judaism. Just like the many Indigenous religions around the world. Except in Dragon Age: The Veilguard, it’s no longer just the bigotry of outsiders claiming that to be the case. It’s now the objective truth of the setting.

Going forward, the elves of Thedas can keep their culture, but they can’t practice their religion. If they continued to practice, they would be framed the way the Venatori are: evil and stuck in the past. This really can’t be overstated: this is the exact rhetoric that has justified centuries of violence and oppression of Jewish and Indigenous people. This rhetoric is still around and still weaponized.

It’s so cruel to create an in world ‘lineage’ that draws so heavily from their cultures and histories, then validate the rhetoric that has been used to hurt them. At best, it’s thoughtless. But as a company based in a settler-colonial state, this is something they should’ve put thought into, given that they chose to code their elves and Jewish and Indigenous. That was their responsibility, actually.

What gets me about all this is that they actually didn't need to force that conclusion at all. They could have kept the Evanuris as cruel tyrants without demonising the Creators and their worship at the same time.

The Evanuris weren't always Gods. They weren't even always rulers.

In Trespasser, when asked how they became Gods, Solas tells Lavellan that they did so slowly. That it started with a war. That fear bred a desire for simplicity. For right and wrong. For chains of command. That generals became respected elders, then kings, and finally gods.

Veilguard confirms all of this. The addition it makes is that before all this, the first elves were spirits who made their bodies out of the Titans. This all occurred over the course of thousands of years.

None of this needs to be retconned in order to allow for a respectful yet nuanced portrayal of religion!

TLDR pt2: bioware, u could’ve avoided literally ALL of this by making the evanuris part of a priestly class who seized power after the war with the titans. it wouldn’t even have undermined ur lore! u could’ve kept dalish religion alive! u could’ve implied complex political dynamics for your ancient elves without even having to write it! why didn’t you even try?

Trying to Fix This Mess

Say the elves took their bodies from the Titans and settled the lands of Thedas. Say the Titans even allowed this for a time. The dwarves were made from their own bodies after all.

Yet the elves didn't have the same connection with the Titans as the dwarves did. They had no stone-sense, so they couldn't understand the Titans' song.

Generations down the line, some of them took too much from the Titans. More than they were willing to give. That was when the Titans lashed out, making the earth tremble so that all the elves had built crumbled beneath them.

And what if the firstborn among the elves had taken up priesthood to guide the younger ones. They were closer to spirits than the elves that were born into this world, and so the younger ones looked to them for guidance. Maybe they were the ones who were trusted to reach out to the more powerful of the spirits who chosen stay in the Fade, their old kin who preferred to keep their distance from the physical world to preserve the essence of what they were. The spirits of Justice, of Benevolence, of Craft. Those who the elven people paid homage to, and trusted to preserve them in turn.

So when everything seemed to fall apart, the elves turned to their Keepers, their priests, and asked of them what they ought to do. How could they make the earth stop shaking? What would they have to do to be at peace again?

Whatever the spirits themselves may have responded, many of the Keepers (among them the Evanuris) took up arms and chose war. They saw it could be won so they fought, sundering Titans from their dreams and stilling the land.

And yet there was no peace.

Some Keepers sought to hold on to their power as generals, and wanted to wage war on new shores to keep it. Some Keepers thought they had already gone too far, claiming they had acted without the guidance of the spirits who hadn't wanted war.

These Keepers could've caused chaos and endless bloodshed, so the Evanuris formed their alliance to suppress the others. Likely, they thought they were doing so for the benefit of all the elven people. More war meant more death, and it was needless now that the land was still. And even if what they did to the Titans was wrong, it was done and they could not fix it. Better to silence those who meant to stir up fear among the people.

The Evanuris fought until they were the last faction left, naming the few holdouts the Forgotten Ones. They were praised for bringing peace to Elvhenan, and trusting in their guidance their people crowned them as rulers.

Yet some dissent always remained. None of them were infallible. They were no longer spirits, they hadn't been for thousands of years. They were now more accustomed to command than to priesthood after all that war. They had drawn on the power they had stolen from the Titans to gain the advantage over their enemies, and the corruption of the Blight was starting creep in, ever-so-slowly.

Maybe some of the people, unhappy with their rule, started to voice the thought that was expressed by their rival Keepers once more: that the Evanuris had grown distant from the spirits. That Elgar'nan didn't serve Justice anymore. That Mythal had strayed from Benevolence.

So Evanuris took the mantle of godhood for themselves. It was only for peace and stability.

It would be too dangerous if anyone could claim they were deviating from the will of the spirits, so they would claim they were those great spirits. Elgar'nan was Justice, Mythal was Benevolence. They would use their rule only for the benefit of the people, not abuse their power.

And there you go. None of what I've written above can't be neatly incorporated into the existing lore of Veilguard. It leaves the elves of Thedas precisely where they started in Dragon Age: Origins. Distant from their ancient Gods, trying to pick up the pieces of their forgotten past.

[dwellingandthinking]

'They can't put mentally ill people in camps and force them to work that would never happen in the US'.

Look into the Troubled Teen Industry. All of it- their 'wellness retreats', their 'therapeutic boarding schools', their 'camps'. There are thousands if not millions of people - children, but some are even kept past their 18th birthdays- in this country and many others who are being forced to do manual labor and endure psychological and physical torture for crimes as small as smoking a joint or not listening to their parents. Children have *died* in these places from neglect, improper restraint, and worse. And those who survive struggle with trauma, not being believed about their experiences, and all the baggage that comes with that.

The most common kids who end up in TTI facilities are foster or adopted youth, LGBTQ+ teenagers coming from conservative families (Conversion therapy- which is still legal in many states- is often offered by these TTI facilities even if that isn't their primary listed function), and teenagers with mental illness or who struggle to maintain grades in school. Many of these children have unidentified learning disabilities or have been misdiagnosed in some way.

Their parents are preyed on by 'counselors' or 'professionals' claiming this beautiful wellness retreat in the woods will make your kids feel better and give them the tools to be productive members of society. They're offered glossy pamphlets full of smiling children and beautiful campuses. They're told their kids will do activities like 'horse therapy' or 'nature appreciation', maybe they're even encouraged to talk to a parent whose kid is currently in the program and hear about how much more peaceful their lives have become with their problem child off 'getting the help they need'.

Calls and communication out of these facilities are tightly monitored. Children lose privileges if they speak badly about the program, their parents are told their kids will lie about the treatment and try to manipulate them to come home early. These kids are forced to perform manual labor in the form of animal care, fence building, hole digging, and much much more. They are publicly humiliated and punished for misbehavior, subjected to unapproved 'therapy' techniques, and often physically and sexually abused by staff. These facilities come up with any excuse to get parents to keep their kids in the program longer, they lie about children misbehaving and recommend more time. It is one of the most evil and predatory industries that exists and while some individual programs have been shut down or exposed, there has been no large-scale effort to stop this problem. And there's a reason why. Many of the people running these places are in politicians' pockets, have influence in high circles and cut their buddies in on the profits or even send a few kids to work on their land to 'learn responsibility'. It's trafficking, torture, and enslavement.

The framework for what we're scared of already exists. The *facilities* for it already exist- ranches, boarding schools, campuses, residential treatment facilities. All they have to do is change a few laws around and use some fancy language and suddenly instead of a mandatory 72-hour hold after a suicide attempt or something similar you have to go to a 'wellness retreat' instead. Get caught with weed in an illegal state? Mandatory 'rehab' at a forest facility or some shit. And people will not leave these places because they won't have parents waiting on the other side wondering where all their money is going.

You think it can't happen because you aren't paying attention to what already *is* happening. Wake up. Fight back. Now.

[dreamingkatie]

Therapy 5

Part 4 is here. Look, buds, if you're not into micromanagement and food control and junk, this is where the story veers into your ick territory.

“What have you eaten today, Kate?” Sean says. He leans back in his chair and crosses one leg over the other. His pants are dark gray today. 

I hate him. I swallow.

“Mexican for lunch. I went out with some work friends.” 

“But what did you eat?” he asks, smiling.

“Chips and salsa. A taco. Rice, not all of it.”

“Are you feeling ok about eating?” he asks.

“Mostly, yes.”

He gestures for me to continue.

“I skip some meals. I’m binging sometimes. It’s not great. It’s not the worst it’s ever been.”

“Do you think it’s time for more treatment around that?”

“Oh, no. I’m alright,” I say.

“I’ve looked at a residential treatment facility. It’s in Charlotte, so not too far,” he says.

“I really don’t think it’s time for that. My weight is healthy,” I stammer. “I’m stable. All the meds…”

He folds his hands on the desk and leans forward. I look at his shoes, his striped socks. 

“Your med compliance is much better, absolutely. But you seem depressed. Your weight is – and I don’t want to overstep my bounds here – but if anything, Kate, your weight may be a little too healthy.” 

“That’s… I guess that’s true, but, I mean, the quarantine.” I try to smile but my eyes fill with tears.

“Ah,” he says, “The perfect excuse for not taking care of yourself at all.”

I stare at him. 

“I…”

“Let’s talk a little more about your purging, if you’re comfortable with that, Kate.”

“Okay, yeah. I haven’t done that in a long time, though. It’s such a miserable thing.”

“I’m sure that it is. Did your professor have you keep a food diary, or was it less formal?”

“Less formal. Sometimes I’d jot down notes, counting calories, but I wasn’t great at keeping up with that,” I say. “I remember most of what I eat.”

“I’d like you to start a daily diary,” he says. “I’ve consulted with a colleague and intermittent fasting might be the way to go.”

“Oh.”

“Clearer mind. Hard boundaries.”

“But…”

“I’m emailing you the app now,” he says, and he opens his laptop. “Sending login and password information. You enter everything, as and after you eat. Not at the end of the day. Not as an afterthought. Everything, as it’s happening. I’d like to monitor this in real time.”

“Oh, um, wait,” I say, “You’re accessing the account?”

He looks up, his head tilted. His forehead creases. 

“What would be the point of doing the diary if you have no accountability?” he asks.

“Well, I--”

“One eating window from noon until six. No calorie limit there. We’ll reassess on Thursday, and every week thereafter.”

“I’m not sure I understand,” I mumble.

“I think that you do understand, Kate,” he says, standing. “When we look back at the last ten years, when do we see stability? When do we see growth? Or something approximating happiness?”

“I don’t know,” I say, “I don’t know.”

“You do. And you’re going to do the food diary, precisely and accurately, and you’ll be here right on time in two days.”

The tears that have threatened for an hour spill over, finally. My hands are trembling, and I pull on the hem of my sweatshirt. 

“It’s ok to cry,” he says. “Why don’t you take the afternoon off, and you can go home, get your app all set up, and you can cry.”

I sob.

“Kate?”

“Yes, Sean. I will.”

“It’s 6:30. Window to eat is over,” he says. He holds out his hands and helps me up, his hands smoothing over my shoulders, squeezing. 

“But…”

“Nothing else today. Ok, sweetheart? No, look at me. Ok?”

“Ok.”

“Wonderful,” he says. He pulls a handkerchief from his pocket and runs it over my face carefully, sopping up tears. Leading me to the door, he whispers low and close.

“No food. No scrolling. Maybe a book and some rest. And Kate – hang on, hang on. Let’s get your baseline weight before you go.” 

[oscar-wilde-thing]

Four years ago I sat in a psychiatrist's office. I was explaining why a certain Cognitive Behavioral Therapy technique felt impossible.

"If I don't think I know how a social interaction is going to work out, if I don't know the pattern, I can't do it."

The Dr nodded, and we moved on.

A few sessions later, she said she didn't think she could work with me anymore.

Great, I thought to myself. I'm being dumped by my therapist.

"I don't think I can work with you, because I think you're autistic."

I literally felt my world shift underneath me.

She explained more, about social interactions, about hyper sensitivity, about pattern recognition and anxiety and early-life academic achievement. I did end up stopping treatment with her, I don't really remember why. But I held that suggestion in my head.

The end of 2019 was rocky- working retail around the holidays is its own special hell, and my grandmother died in December of that year.

Then 2020 happened. COVID and isolation and protests and my workplace unionizing. Through all of that I was reading, and watching videos, and researching. About how autism and neurodivergency presents differently in girls and AFAB people. How the research is incredibly outdated and mostly focused on white, middle class boys. How getting a diagnosis as an adult, let alone an AFAB adult, is a fight.

I kept trucking along, learning new ways to cope. Figuring out that sometimes what I had thought were anxiety attacks was actually sensory overload. That my penchant for spreadsheets and what I called my "encyclopedic nerd brain" were probably hyper fixations.

It took 4 years.

4 years, 8 more mental health professionals, a mental breakdown, a month in residential mental health care, and 5 more months in acute daily mental health care, but today, at 12:55PM, I was officially diagnosed with Autism.

I'm sitting here at my desk weeping because I'm both so happy and so angry. Happy that there's a reason I feel the way I feel, that there's a reason why the world seems so harsh, that there's a reason why I sometimes physically can't talk and a reason why certain foods and sounds and textures make me want to crawl out of my skin. But I'm also so angry that it took 26 years for anyone to see. That it took another 4 years for me to get any answers. That there are countless other little girls and adult AFABS like me out there who feel like they're doing everything they're supposed to but not getting what the world tells them they should be getting.

My life has changed. Or maybe it hasn't changed. Maybe a door has opened that had never been seen before.

I'm not sure how to wrap this up.

I just know that learning more about myself is rarely a bad thing. And now that I know this big piece of who I am, I'll be able to go forward and learn more ways to exist in this world as an autistic person.

[falloutnewnobody]

lost this post twice because tumblr mobile ui hates me but yeah daniil dankovsky ed headcanons because i saw something that made me think of it earlier and now i cant stop thinking about it. (also the highest honor i can bestow on my blorbos is my specific brand of bulimia so yeah)

obligatory eating disorder and suicide mention trigger warning. i try to avoid triggering shit but this is also an eating disorder hc post. there's gonna be descriptions of thought processes and mentions of behaviors.

daniil dankovsky strikes me as a classic case of "undiagnosed autistic, perfectionist, mentally ill tween/teen who feels like they have no control over their life and develops AN (anorexia nervosa) as a means to cope," (i can also see him having a lot of health mortality anxiety in the vein of "if i dont eat perfect i'm going to die before i can cure death,") His parents forced him into treatment because he was like. yk. dying and shit. which was traumatizing as hell because treatment, especially forced treatment on an autistic person is like that 70% of the time.

Then he just kinda spends the next few decades caught up in the "liminal space of wanting to relapse in full again but doesnt have the resources or mental ability to -> relapse -> quasi recovery -> liminal space cycle," his first relapse was AN -> BN (bulimia nervosa) and he's been on and off that bulimia grind a la The Liminal Space Cycle ever since.

I give him bulimia not just to project but also because i like the idea of him kicking himself for having a "lesser" ed. (a common ed thought is the heierarchy of eds, where some are considered "better," than others)

He's extremely high functioning, excpecially during his liminal space and quasi recovery periods in large part due to his abuse of substances to combat some of the more glaring side effects and medical knowledge making him the king of harm reduction. Even when he gets bad, he's scarily good at hiding his ed (gloves to hide russel's sign. multilayered clothing, smoking to hide the smell. i have more specific examples but dont want to give tips yk) until it reaches critical mass and he's lost the ability to do his work, which along with external support from colleuges and people who look up to him, kicks him into quasi recovery.

i think he was knee deep into a relapse when he went on his steppe vacation due to the stress of probably losing Thanatica (and also autistic burnout, a bunch of other mental health and substance abuse issues hitting critical mass after so long of not really adressing them them). He did binge then purge once during the twelve days (in a "if i eat a large quantity of my meager rations now i wont binge and purge them later -> oh shit oh fuck whoever couldve forseen this kinda way). and simoltaneuosly freaked the fuck out and felt a little reassured because that was all the food he could afford and this his chances of starving to death shot up dramatically.

In all of the endings (termite, utopian, and humble) he hits rock bottom and grabs a jackhammer. like, he's still lost the thenatica and was massively traumatized by *gestures vaugley at the events of pathologic classic hd and the pathologic 3 demo.

like i know we dont really get a good picture as to what happens to him post-canon (though we know he returns to the capitol for at least some time according to the patho 3 demo) but i honestly think he gets pathologic-5150'd (realistically by serafima or someone from the town who came to the capitol as a witness for the sand plauge disaster) and spends some time in residential treatment, something he's initially against because he thinks himself too capable with too many responsibilites but comes around to it, realizing that he definetly wouldve killed himself if not for it.

I think he returns to the town, or in the case of the utopian ending, the new town on the other side of the river, mostly because there's nothing left for him in the capitol and his fractured psyche needs something different. i like to think he fully recovers someday and develops a half-decent support network but with him you never know.

[torukmaktoskxawng]

run away with me

Pairing: Nor/Sarentu!Reader

Warnings: Spoilers for Avatar Frontiers of Pandora, fluff, angst, mentions of brainwashing and residential school trauma

Taglist: @mooniequeen

A/N: No one has requested me to write for AFoP so I decided to take matters into my own hands *cracks knuckles* Let's get to work.

This is basically my rendition of the cutscene you see when playing the game, after the title card. I made it lean more toward the angsty, romance play that we were robbed of when the game finally came out XD Enjoy!

Part 2

When So'lek told you that Nor had left Resistance HQ to have some time to think, you knew you needed to seek him out.

Using your new abilities and talents to track him down, it didn't shock you when you found Nor on one of the highest cliffs near the base of their new home. You remember he made a comment earlier about how there were more colors on Pandora than he remembered and how he had no names for them. You suspected he'd be all the way out here, admiring those colors and maybe trying to invent new names for them.

He didn't react when you approached the small fire he made, likely expecting you to come find him. He turned to face you with lowered ears and a forlorn look in his eyes, "What must our ancestors think of us? Do you think they pity us? Sad to see what we've become?"

"We're still Sarentu."

"Teylan barely speaks our tongue, but then... he always preferred human words."

"Alma says we all need time to adjust."

"Alma is not Na'vi." He growled lowly, turning away to kneel down in front of the fire.

You weren't deterred by his attitude, knowing Nor better than you sometimes knew yourself. He felt things stronger than most. He was passionate about what or how he felt and he wasn't afraid to admit it, hence why he didn't shy away when he proudly proclaimed his feelings toward you. It was years ago now, just the night before Alma snuck you and your friends into cryosleep to wait out the war. All that time you could've been with Nor... lost to cryosleep.

Nor felt the same loss as well, and that is why he wasn't wasting any more time. When neither of you are out on missions, you're with each other, safe at HQ, making up for lost time. Your relationship is technically still new and can easily be chalked up to young love, but Nor didn't see it that way. He claimed that was the way only Sky People saw it, but not the Na'vi. He wanted to do this right, and in his mind, the only right way was the Na'vi way.

So he asked So'lek for advice, on standard Na'vi customs and what the older man might know about the Sarentu ways to court someone. Nor was determined and straightforward about what he wanted to make sure you only got the best treatment. The Na'vi treatment, something that you deserved to have when you were younger but it was taken from you.

That's what you loved about him, growing up beside him. He reminded you so much of your sister at times with their shared determination as kids, though you refused to continue making that comparison after she died... afraid that if Nor acted too much like Aha'ri, then he would die just like her. You couldn't bear to lose him, too, not after everything Mercer and TAP have done to you.

Even now, as you two stood on top of that cliff, you were afraid of losing him, either to death or to life, should life and fate decide to tear you two apart. You wished you could vocalize your fear to him, but you were never as brave or as straightforward as Nor. You were grateful he had approached you about his feelings first, or else neither of you would've ever known.

Although you were not one with words, you were one with actions, and even Nor knew that you communicated with deeds.

Walking up to him, you slide your hand over his shoulder, and while he doesn't say a word, trapped with the demons in his head, he places his own hand on top of yours, a gesture of gratitude. He was thankful for your comfort, knowing that your way of communicating stems from being touch-starved and you would rather voice your thoughts through your actions instead of just saying them because, to you, that means so much more.

You keep your hand on his shoulder, the warmth of his palm bleeding into your skin while you look up and over the cliffside, admiring the scenery with a sad tone in your voice, "Why did the RDA come back?"

"They wanted more of Pandora," he responds with defeat, "They always do."

"Then we'll need to fight," you express with determination, squeezing his shoulder, "Aha'ri would have wanted us to fight."

You try to pull away, but Nor is suddenly too fast. He grasps your hand, gently, and you pause in your movement. He stands to his full height to gaze into your eyes, trying to relay what he's thinking without saying a word. But he wasn't like you. He wasn't good at sharing his thoughts through actions. He was better at it by talking, so that is what he did.

"Or we could run," he suggests and is quick to continue when the expression on your face falls, "Leave this place. Find somewhere else to call home."

"We've talked about this, Nor," you sigh tiredly, recalling not long ago when you, him, Ri'nela and Teylan were all sitting around a fire as Nor suggested they could all run away together. You express the same thing you said back then, too, "Alma brought us here for a reason. She believes in us."

He snarls, though there isn't much heat behind it, "Alma just wants to control us."

Not even you believed what he was saying, lowering your voice to a comforting whisper, "Alma is not Mercer. She actually cares about us as People."

"She left us."

"She thought we were gone."

He steps closer until he's nearly pressed against your chest, his hands sliding up to gently grasp both sides of your face, entwined in your hair. His voice wavered, desperate eyes staring back into yours, "If it were me instead of her, I would've clawed through the rubble of TAP, and I would've looked forever. Un... until I knew for sure if I lost you or not."

You wanted to be touched by the statement, your heart fluttering in your chest while Nor could no doubt feel your heartbeat, pumping through his hands as they rested near both sides of your neck. You shake your head slightly, "That is different. What Alma feels for us is not the same as... as what you feel for me. For all of us."

He shivered, almost proud that you managed to admit your confidence in his feelings toward you. He leans his forehead against yours, breathing in the same air as you while he matches the intimate moment with a whisper, "Exactly. I can't trust Alma with my family. I can only trust myself or you to take care of the four of us, to ensure we stick together."

You wet your lips when they felt dry, deciding to play into his dream for a little bit, "Suppose we did run away... where would we go?"

'Wherever we want! All of us,' he wanted to say the same thing he told Teylan down by the campfire, but he says it differently with you, "Anywhere, far away from here."

"Just the four of us?"

"The four of us," he confirms with a nod, thinking that he had you convinced, "We'll start our own clan. We'll renew the Sarentu."

"And what will happen when the war eventually finds us?"

Your question drives Nor to freeze, and so you continue, "Either Mercer, RDA, or TAP, it won't matter. They'll find us. You know they will."

He unfroze finally, huffing with determination, "Then we will fight."

"But if we fight now, and we win, then we can leave and we will never have to worry about the Sky People again," your hands moved until they were wrapped around Nor's waist, a bold move to match his own, his fingers still wrapped up in the hair on the back of your neck,

"We would never have to keep running or look over our shoulders ever again," you continue, "If we can end this sooner than later, I will go with you. I'll go wherever you want. But... But I can't leave now knowing what the Sky People are capable of. I can't leave knowing that there would be another child out there whose clan was wiped out and I wasn't brave enough to stop it from happening. I would never forgive myself."

Your words stun him into silence, and the intensity of his gaze causes you to feel shy and embarrassed, lowering your head to avoid him until his hands pause your movement. He gently uses his thumbs to push your chin to tilt back up, and when your eyes meet, he pauses for a moment, his intense eyes scanning your expression before his lips twitch up into a small, fond smile, "Heh."

"What?" You tilt your head, hesitant but smiling as well.

"Nothing. It's just... Aha'ri would be proud of you."

He says it so confidently that you know you believe him, and his words make your heart swell with pride and grief, missing your sister. Nor leans back and digs in the pocket of his pants, "I have something for you."

"What is it?"

He provides a carved stone, bearing the mark you both have on your face to signify your long-lost clan, "It's something to remind you of me, whenever you leave HQ and I cannot follow you. It's also a promise."

"What promise?"

"That if I ever leave, it will only be when you are ready to come with me," he leans back into your space, pressing your foreheads together once more as he closes his eyes, taking in your scent, "This time, my love, I go wherever you go."

You clutch the stone in your hand, wanting the carved mark to brand into your skin as you close your eyes as well. You already plan to tie Nor's stone into the songcord So'lek had given you, and you hope that in time, the songcord will grow, and there will be many more milestones to signify. Milestones that you hope that Nor and your friends will share with you, as Sarentu and as your family.

MASTERLIST

REQUESTS

RULES

TAGLISTS

[void-my-warranty]

johnny is gonna wish he had a bush for me to destroy with my mind control powers instead of him…

reader is much nicer than i am and maybe more mature given that she let him go and hasn’t bothered him much? i, on the other hand, am unable to let anything in life go no matter how small and cannot STAND when people ignore me or are upset with me

so because some of my natural talents are being super annoying and incredibly stubborn, i would simply have followed him out the door when he first left… because wdym it’s time for you to go? get your ass back inside you don’t even have a snow scraper???!!! i WILL lay down in front of your car until you tell me what your problem is. this IS the hill i’m choosing to die on.

OR if he had indeed been able to get past me and left, i would switch gears. i’m gonna try the boombox trick from old cheesy romance movies, but instead of a love song i’m gonna blast bagpipe noises through the speakers until he comes out and talks to me. or i can just go the old fashioned way and yell his name in front of his apartment until he literally cannot ignore me any more - PERSISTENCE IS KEY! simon would most definitely not be happy with me 🙃

in all seriousness, and because i know myself pretty well, i would not be able to leave him alone, even when he said he was done with the physical intimacy part of our relationship. i’m not saying i would ignore his wishes outright and disrespect boundaries willy nilly, but i would have something to say about this craziness for sure. i didn’t do years of therapy and residential treatment just to forget all of the emotional intelligence and communication skills i was forced to learn.

i would do my darnedest to get him to talk to me, about anything in general. i wouldn’t be able to handle him pulling away. in all honesty, i would probably end up driving him away for good as a result of my efforts to get him to come back…

but it’s more fun to imagine me playing the bagpipes horribly for hours on end in front of his apartment rather than consider what might actually happen in real life as a result of the flaws that i possess :))))))))))))))

hope that answers ur question bestie!

Thank you! This is excellent because I’m such a Johnny it’s nearly impossible for me to think of actions of someone who’s not that.

Gonna try to write some of this even if it kills me. (Makes me mildly uncomfortable)

[trippinsorrows]

ltye: sleepless nights

authors notes: been sitting on this lil thing for about a month or two now, cause it didn't feel long enough to post tbh. it takes place while solana is away at residential treatment. after she meets fetu but before she comes home.

warnings: fluff, light angst, and some light suggestive content

words: 1.5k

masterlist

It’s stupid.

A silly fucking thing for a man who has no tolerance for things of the sort.

Ridiculous to even think, and yet he’s thinking it. 

Thinking of actually doing it.

Roman sighs and turns his head to the digital clock on the nightstand.

2AM. 

Of course. 

The fucking witching hour. A period of time that, for him, can occur at any point during the night.

And since Solana has been away receiving treatment, an occurrence that happens damn near every night.

It’s not since she’s been gone that Roman has realized just how beneficial she is for his sleep. How much better he sleeps when he has her soft body tucked into his side and how awful it is when the space beside him is cold and vacant. 

Dulce’s slightly louder than necessary breathing brings Roman to scoot over on Solana’s side of the bed to see her curled into a ball, slumbering peacefully without a care in the world. He won’t call it jealous. Just something of the sort.

Granted, Roman is also well aware of the fact that Dulce woke up several times in the middle of the night during the first week of Solana’s absence. She moved around in her bed, walked around the room, even sat and waited by the door.

Solana. 

She was looking for Solana. 

Solana

Her name boosts his previous horrible idea back to the surface, an idea he wishes would just go away but something that seems to nag him. 

It’s inconsiderate as fuck. Just because he’s up at almost 3am in the morning doesn’t mean that she is.  

Which is why he shouldn’t even be thinking about doing what he wants to do. Even as he grabs his phone. Even as lifting it from the nightstand causes the screen to light up, revealing her smiling face. 

Even as he unlocks that phone and is met with another photo of her on his home screen, as he navigates his way to her contact and hits the call button. He hates it. Hates that he’s really doing this and decides that he can’t be such a selfish bastard.

Roman is seconds away from ripping the phone from his ear and smashing the red button and—

“—hello?”

Fuck.

Regrets. So many fucking regrets. “Hey.” What a stupid thing to say. 

Solana makes a sound on the other end followed up with a quiet, “are you okay?” 

Hearing her say more than one word help Roman clue into the fact that her voice is much softer than usual, quieter than typical, drowsy almost. 

Again, fuck.

“Shit, you were sleep, weren’t you?” Of course, she fucking was. As are most people at such an ungodly hour.

He can practically hear her small smile on the other end of the phone. “It’s okay.” No, it’s not. He’s a selfish piece of shit, especially given the fact that he knows she also struggles with sleeping. “You can’t sleep, can you?”

Not at all. “Something like that,” he grumbles. “I’m sorry. Go back to sleep.”

“No.” Her objection is firmer and louder than the attributes of her previous statement. “I’m up now and—”

“Because I woke you up.”

“Talking to you is better than sleep, Roman….”

He gets quiet at that, partially disagreeing, mostly wondering if there’s something more to the statement.

“Have you been having them again?” He doesn’t need to specify what they is. She already knows. 

There’s a moment of hesitation. “Something like that.” Her voice is thick and right away, it makes him wonder if she was in the midst of one when he called. 

“Do you want me to come?” There’s no type of thought that comes with the offer, just an intrinsic, organic thing that only feels natural.

Again, that small, non-visible smile. “Ro, it’s almost 3 o’ clock in the morning.”

“And? Not like I’m doing anything else.” Because it’s bad enough he woke her up. The least he can do is make that worth something. 

“It’s not safe for you to be on the road this time of night.”

There’s so much irony in that one sentence. An infinite amount. “Driving in the middle of the night is probably the safest thing I’ll ever do in my life, Sol.”

Truly.

Honestly.

Roman can practically picture the frown on her face. “I don’t want you doing that just for me. It’s not necessary.”

“Anything you want is necessary, Solana.” It is. Always has been. Always will be. He looks over at the side of the bed where Dulce continues to sleep peacefully. “I’ll only be gone a few hours. I’ll have one of the guards take Dulce out if she wakes up before I get back.”

Hesitation on the other end. “You….you said you don’t care about the rules….right?”

Clearly. Obviously. Especially given the fact that he’s climbing out of bed, readying to drive an hour away just to see his wife, who’s currently staying in an inpatient facility. Fuck the rules. “Not at all.”

A sigh followed by what sounds like shuffling of blankets. She’s either rolled onto her back or side. “Could you….could you do something for me then?” 

An easy answer. “You know I’d do anything for you, Sol.” Anything at all. “Name it.”

Another delay that precedes a nervous request. “Can….can you bring her?”

Of all the things he expected his wife to ask, that definitely wasn't included in the list of possibilities.. “Dulce?” 

Roman moves over to the dresser and pulls out some basketball shorts, as Solana explains. “I miss you, but....I miss her, too. And, I haven’t seen her in a few weeks.”

He nods, glancing at the puppy. All things considered, she’s well behaved. She only really barks when she’s hungry, needs to go outside, or sees a random gnat that she believes to be a threat. 

He’s pretty confident he can bring her in without her causing a scene. Not that he really cares, either way. No one will be stupid enough to try to say anything to him. Of that, he’s sure. 

“Okay.”

Solana gasps. “You’ll do it?”

“Of course.” Roman knows how attached Solana is to Dulce, and vice versa. It’d be good for both if they could see and interact with each other.

And, he gets to see his wife.

Everybody wins. 

“And……bring her bed, too.” 

Roman pauses at that, chuckling while sliding on his shorts and moving over to his closet to grab a hoodie. “How long you planning for us to stay?”

“What time do you have to leave?”

“Whenever you want me to.”

She’s the one chuckling this time. “I never want ya’ll to leave.”

Roman stills for a minute. Another mutual sentiment. “I know.” His eyes settle on another of his hoodies, one he recalls her wearing once, as she’s taken up a strong liking to wearing his clothes around the house.. He pulls it off the hanger to bring to her. A thing of comfort, potentially. 

For when he’s not there. 

“I’ll bring it,” he agrees.

“Thank you.” She sounds immensely grateful before her voice slips into something almost unsure. “It’s just….she….she’ll probably go back to sleep and since….since you’re here and….we haven’t….it’s just been…...”

Roman catches on relatively easily, hence him reminding her with all the boldness. “You want me to fuck you, don’t you, baby?”

“Roman!”

He smiles to himself, imagining how red her cheeks must be. Even with all her progress regarding their sex life, talking about it still seems to make her uneasy. 

Roman chuckles, pointing out, “You didn’t answer the question.” 

A quiet, whispered answers. “Yes.”

Roman makes a sound, deciding to up the ante. “Can you do me a favor then, sweet girl?”

More shifting on the other end. “Roman…..”

“Take off your underwear,” he instructs. “I want you ready for me.”

Another unexpected answer that nearly has him dropping the phone. “I’m not—I’m not wearing any.” 

Fuck. 

Roman has known his wife to sleep in a variety of items, starting with unnecessarily baggy clothes to normal pajamas, progressing into skimpy pajamas, and landing into mostly just one of his shirts with no bra but still underwear. So, he’s at a bit of a loss as to why she’s so underdressed.

And then she moves into a stammered, flustered explanation. “I—before I fell asleep, I was feeling…you know….”

He does know. He knows exactly what she was feeling.

Roman has to control and contain himself as he finds his grip on the phone tightening, much like the hardening growing in his boxers. “Did you think of me?”

It’s a fucking miracle this man doesn’t right come right then and there when she answers so breathlessly, “I always think of you when I touch myself.” His eyes shut and dick twitches in his boxers. “Just….just like you told me to.”

It’s a tremendous amount of will that has Roman able to resist the burning urge to walk Solana through phone sex, partially because he’s not sure if she’s ready for that. Mostly because that’s not enough for him. 

He physically needs her.

Roman’s jaw tenses as he grounds out, “I’m on my way.” 

Ain’t nobody getting no sleep tonight. 

[angryschnauzer]

January 11th 2024

Yeah its been a while since i updated. I haven't had the energy to if i'm honest, but here we go.

Hubby had his brain surgery end of November '23. The tumour they took out was a nasty one, somewhere between the size of a golf ball and a kiwi fruit. The wound has healed well with little to no side affects apart from some double vision, but he was checked out for that and it is a common after affect of brain trauma and was remedied with an eyepatch for a few weeks.

We met with the Neuro Oncology team at Royal Marsden Hospital in London. They are one of the best (if not the best) cancer treatment centres in the whole country, and we worked through a treatment plan.

Just before Christmas hubby was also cleared to have shoulder reconstructive surgery (he broke his shoulder bone in the original seizures back at the end of October '23). There was a really small window of time between it being enough time after the brain surgery that he could go back under general anaesthetic, but also enough time to mostly heal before he started Radiotherapy and Chemo, so just 5 days before Christmas hubby was in and out of our local hospital in a single day to have that surgery.

Christmas was a quiet and subdued affair. I also herniated a disk in my back the day Hubby had surgery (i was clearing the deep freeze out ready for grocery delivery), so it meant both he and I were dosed up to our eyeballs on strong painkillers for most of the holiday, and Little Dude spent the majority of the break either playing video games or building his new lego sets.

Two days before Christmas i also had to have emergency dental work (i had been grinding my teeth and had previously cracked a tooth) and whilst i was in the dentists office some utter idiot crashed into my car. That was the last thing i needed but i simply handed it all over to my insurance company (who are aware of my husbands situation) and they arranged a hire vehicle and sorted repairs.

Onto the start of 2024. This is the first week of Radiotherapy and Chemo for Hubby. He is getting very tired and fatigued already from the Radiotherapy, but thankfully no nausea from the chemo as yet, but that could change over time. He is scheduled for a full schedule of 6 weeks of this dual treatment, where we are having to visit Royal Marsden every day Mon - Fri for the six weeks, and then he also takes the chemo 7 days a week for the six weeks.

He'll then have 4 to 6 weeks 'off' treatment for his body to relax and recuperate, but will have scans and MRI's during that time to gauge what further treatment will be, but its likely to be just chemo but a stronger dose, but no radiotherapy. The chemo is to be 3 weeks off one week on, so a 4 weekly cycle.

The one thing we have discovered isn't done is prognosis's. When we first got to Royal Marsden we were shocked as they started talking about years, and explained that although it was a really nasty tumour, it was found very early and whilst it was still relatively small for its kind. They've discussed things like 'this years treatment plan then we'll look at next years', and also for a while Hubby was being considered for a clinical trial which candidates who have prognosis's of 12 months+ are only considered for. In the end he didn't meet the criteria (his cholesterol was too high). The Macmillian Nurses also have been talking to us about Mobility Car assistance schemes where you can get govt assistance financially and get an adapted vehicle on a 2 year rolling lease. All these timings are reassuring in one way, but worrying in another - we have no idea what the future holds and it really does cement in stone that our time is limited and could end any moment, and makes it very difficult to make any long term plans. You don't realise how much of your life is preplanned until you end up in this situation and aren't sure if you can book your kid onto the school residential trip in 5 months time.

Should anyone want the mundane daily day-to-day life updates you can follow me on my personal instagram @simone_with_an_e its generally a load of utter boring bollocks, but i try to keep it updated daily with updates when i can as its a lot easier to do 1 short paragraph than a big update.

For me my mental health is a little better now that i've had time to process Hubby's diagnosis and that he is getting treatment. There are still days or hours when i fall apart, and it could be something as simple as listening to a song on the radio as i drive back from dropping Little Dude at school and i realise the song would be lovely at his funeral. I end up having to pull over and have a cry whilst switching the radio off. I'm loosing weight and aging quickly, my hair is turning grey from stress and i realised i've aged about 15 years in the last 3 from stress. My appetite comes and goes, and things like red meat now turn my stomach and i can't digest it. But i also haven't drunk alcohol since the day before Hubby had his seizure back in October. I feel like i need to stay 'alert' in case i need to rush him to the hospital for something. I don't miss it as such, but I miss the ability to fully relax. Its hard to describe but i feel like at the moment i've lost myself and am just functioning to care for those around me, going through the motions as such.

Anyway, this has been a long update. I do still lurk here, you may see me pop up in notifications liking something, but at the moment i don't feel its right to start putting fandom stuff back on here yet. I do hope to get back to writing at some point. I miss it and the unfinished stories plague my mind as i have such lovely plans for story arc's and really want to finish them.

Take care all,

Schnauz

xxx

[librarycards]

asking this not as a gotcha, but genuinely for perspective, as i respect how much you've read and wrote about antipsychiatry. so, i was committed in a psych ward as a teen, and the help i received there inspired me to pursue becoming a pediatric psych np. there's a lot about the system that angered me, but the good nurses i met there had an impact on me. i've also had a rough time finding the right prescribers for meds as an adult, and i've considered working primarily in medication management- to be the attentive resource that i wish i had years ago. i see you've answered someone who aspired to be a therapist- but would my goal be more likely to hurt than help, in this system? i intend to be critical, and not spout shit like ODD as a legit diagnosis; rather, my main goal would be to recognize how a kid's home is affecting them, as having that safer space away from my own home helped me realize the context of why i was that way. but plenty of people claim to have the best intentions, and then become abusive once in these positions of power, so perspective would be very appreciated. thank you

hey anon - thanks for this message. i've answered similar ones a few times before (1) (2) (3), but here are a few thoughts:

honestly, most good/good-intentioned people don't last very long in highly abusive institutional environments. my current therapist started out in a residential ed treatment place, and left to start a private practice because she couldn't stomach the abuse she faced from her superiors, nor the abuse she was expected to inflict upon residents. i have disabled/Mad friends who have gone into social work and/or psych-focused medicine. i do not know of any who have stuck around in psych ward/other high-control settings. it's a painful, demoralizing job even for people without lived experience, never mind for those of us who have been through it as patients.

the ones that stay often harden. there are always exceptions - there were a couple of staff in each of the places i was that were truly special people, not because of the institution but in spite of it - but most of the staff i encountered, from psych nurses to house parents to psychiatrists to social workers - were sharp and cold. maybe you won't become this, but either way, you'll have to put up with it.

and that's the fundamental problem, imo. even if you preserve your own code of ethics, you will not only be structurally limited by the regulations and demands of wherever you work, but you will also be in an atmosphere at best apathetic and at worst actively hostile to the autonomy and well-being of patients as such. you will have to choose between standing by at times of injustice/violence, or risking your job. we both know what happens behind those locked doors.

at the same time: these units will not close if you choose not to work there. people will not stop needing medication management; kids will not stop needing support amid abusive family/home situations. at the same time, it is in practice extremely difficult to effect real change for kids experiencing abuse - hard to get kids out of abusive homes permanently, hard to find non-abusive foster families, impossible to effectively support traumatized young people in these times of transition given the piss poor systems we have.

whether you'd be "hurting more than helping," while a fair question, is beside the point. i'm not entirely sure it's possible for anyone within these institutional strictures to 'help' in a long term sense at all. BUT, you would certainly make peoples' lives/stays in the hospital less painful in the short-term, even if you're pulling your hair out with frustration at the intransigence and needless cruelty of your colleagues. while you're considering what to do in career terms, i think it's also worth considering leadership positions where you can be a safe, supportive adult for young people without the expectations of the institution - a scout leader, coach, theater director, etc. (these are also not mutually exclusive with actual careers ofc) if you wanted to focus on the medical space, patient advocacy is also an option.

overall, i don't want to uniformly tell you "don't ever go into that", because, as i said, the position will exist regardless and i would prefer Mad kids to have as much access to compassion as humanly possible in a profoundly cruel system. but i also want to make clear that the violence attendant to that system will not be escapable for you, nor will you be able to move through it without perpetuating some of your own. think carefully about what you're able to tolerate.

[sexybabystevie]

soft steve thought: anytime you cry he pushes up the sleeves of his sweater or jacket and brushes your tears away w them bc he’s an attentive cutie. one day you’re wearing one of his sweaters and you do the same thing for him and he’s like :o

okay so COINCIDENTALLY i think i had reader wipe away steve's tears in a similar manner in my hurt/comfort, steve-visits-max-in-the-hospital-post-s4 fix it fic that i wrote a while back, so if you wanna see this in more of a fic setting instead of just little steve thoughts, the fic can be found here! i totally recommend it, it was something i was really proud of writing a few months ago!!!

anyway, let's get into this one, which is SO super cute btw!!

even if you aren't the most emotional person, everyone cries for some reason or another, and no matter that reason, steve can always sense it. he sees the way you worry your bottom lip between your teeth, watches as your eyes grow distant, undoubtedly trying to hold yourself together - in hawkins, doesn't everyne have to be brave? it's practically a residential requirement at this rate.

so, after whatever is going on is over - only in the cases where it's life or death, otherwise you're steve's number one priority as his partner!! - steve harrington is the absolute first person to whisk you away to try and talk to you, or even to just let you cry for a while. he knows sometimes there's no benefit to talking through it, and he's more than okay with holding you and keeping you grounded while you do.

one thing about these moments is always the same, though, and it's that steve always, always, ALWAYS picks you up after. he uses the end of his sweater sleeves or jacket sleeves to wipe away your tears, sometimes silently, sometimes whispering little words of encouragement into the space between you.

"shh, it'll be okay," "you've got me now," "i'll take care it, promise," etc, etc.

if you end up crying about something a little less serious - something silly or from an excess of love - he'll give you a slightly worried smile, chuckling a little as he wipes them away instantly and shakes his head. "c'mon, baby, don't cry."

and, after all this treatment from him, when he finally decides he feels safe enough to open up to you - undeniably coming with a few tears at least - what else are you to do but the same thing he does to you? you take the end of your fuzzy sweater and gently wipe away at his eyes, and it's such a soft, intimate moment, combined with his realization that you care about him just as much as he cares about you, instantly makes him crack a smile. and although that definitely makes him cry a little harder, for different reasons now, you grow to learn that it's a certain way to cheer him up, to remind him of how much you pay attention and love him <3

[untitled5071]

Writing request where Lisa does get sent to a psych ward.

Thinking a little angsty there, huh? I hope you don't mind the direction I took it, I just couldn't resist. I hope you enjoy!

Tw: allusions to suicide

🪦🪦🪦🪦🪦🪦🪦🪦🪦

Lisa hadn’t spoken in a week and a half, and it was doubtful that she ever would again. 

The last words she had said had been desperate pleas for help, screamed at the top of her lungs in the hopes that someone, living or dead, would come to her rescue as she was dragged towards the transport van for Serenity Manor. But no such help came; her father had only watched her be dragged away with sad eyes, and her wicked stepmother was smirking, eyes flashing and victorious. Taffy was at cheer practice, and her absence meant the loss of Lisa’s last line of defense. 

It had all been Janet’s doing; after Lisa smashed the bathroom mirror, she had decided that enough was enough and pulled her influences in the hospital to get her admitted to the psych ward, citing incidents of Lisa being a dangerous, reclusive vandal and needing residential treatment. Lisa didn’t even have time to protest her case before the guards had pulled up to the front door immediately after she returned from her shift at Wayne’s, and she suddenly found herself being wrestled into the white vehicle for the whole nosy neighborhood to watch. 

And watch they did; the last thing she saw before the car doors closed on her was the sea of Brookview citizens, all staring with wide eyes and harsh whispers as the Swallows girl got taken away “like she should have from the beginning”. 

And then her world was dark, and it didn’t get much brighter when they arrived at the facility. 

She was silent through the entire registration and rooming process. Janet had clearly been chomping at the bit to get her out of the house so most of it had been done for her ahead of time, but she refused to speak as they handed her a new, dull grey set of linen clothes to change into, cut her nails so she couldn’t scratch herself, and fitted her with special socks, ones meant to keep her from falling or running away too fast. 

She knew, in some deep, long locked away corner of her mind that she should be fighting, be protesting, standing up against this, but the voice of outrage was drowned out by the tidal wave of hopelessness that swelled inside her and refused to subside, nearly drowning her as they led her down the hall by her arm. . 

Her room was a bland thing with whitewashed walls, bars on the windows and a bed too low to the ground to hurt herself on or with, and as the attendants closed the door for “lights out” oh her first night she hadn’t even bothered to make it to the stained mattress; she just sank down onto the floor where she was standing and cried soundlessly. 

The routine hadn’t deviated much from that in the coming days, nor would it for the foreseeable future. 

Though she got out of bed when they told her, she hardly woke up; she ate her tasteless food without blinking, she sat in the recreation areas during the several hours of unstructured time they were given and stared ahead, waiting for the attendants to usher her to the next bought of mindlessness. She didn’t chat with the other patients, she didn’t answer the nurse’s questions with anything more than a miniscule nod or head shake when asked about her basic needs. 

She had overheard Taffy call her a zombie once, on the phone with her friends a few months after she moved into Janet’s house. 

She was most of the way there. Only one thing left to do, but the facility had made it impossible to complete the last step. Damn them. 

Speaking of Taffy, she visited as often as she could. Janet wouldn’t set foot in the place, and her father had stopped by once before making a hasty exit once he realized his daughter was back to being mute, but Taffy cut school and snuck over every other day. She was a welcome pop of color against the drab landscape of Lisa’s mind, though she did notice the dark circles under her eyes and the occasional flinch when far-off doors slammed. 

Her voice was more subdued as she whispered to Lisa about how many arguments she was having with her mother for Lisa’s sake, trying to bring her home and apologizing for not being able to say goodbye. She brought Lisa things, when she could; the photo of her mother, a tape player that got confiscated immediately, and posters from her bedroom with the corners ripped, which told her what she already knew. 

She was being erased. Janet was tearing up her room and throwing out everything she still clung to from the Before times, and even if she made it out of this goddamned cell then she would have nowhere to go, no one to miss her since to them, she was already gone. 

She might as well have been, for all the good living was doing her. 

She only felt remotely like herself at night, when she was able to lay on her back with her arms crossed like she was laying in her coffin, and dream. She lost herself in the labyrinth of her mind, thinking of her mother and how sheltered she had felt in her arms, writing new poetry that now went a few shades darker than ‘pitch black, and of Bachelor’s and her favorite grave. 

She hoped he missed her. At least then someone would. 

It was on one of these nights when the storm started, flashes of green lighting up her peripheries as she counted the spaces in between thunderclaps like her mom had taught her to when she was five. She was imagining winged figures getting strikes and spares when her imaginings were interrupted by another peal of thunder, this one sounding dangerously close by. 

She pulled herself out of her imagings so she could watch the following bolt of lightning, and in doing so she ended up locking eyes with the figure looming above her, their face completely obscured by a massive pile of mud and roots. 

Thunder boomed, and the being leaned closer, reaching out a hand to her and groaning. 

The next flash of unnatural green lightning perfectly illuminated her horrified face, and the thunder drowned out the sound of her scream. 

🪦🪦🪦🪦🪦🪦🪦🪦🪦

Lisa’s eyes shot open and she lay in bed panting as sweat pooled under her bangs, seemingly unable to move. She was breathing so hard that she was afraid her lungs were going to expand out her chest, and it took her several minutes both to calm down and realize where she was. 

She was in her bedroom, her wax carvings still on the walls around her in poetic fragments, her dark comforter was tangled around her legs and the bright red numbers on her digital bedside clock read 2:47. 

Her breathing started to come easier as her eyes fluttered closed in relief; she was okay. Janet was dead, she hadn’t been admitted, she was still in her room, still with-

A gentle touch on her arm made her startle, and she opened her eyes to see the figure of a man looming over her, the same one from her nightmare and yet distinctly different. Despite herself, she tensed, her sleep and adrenaline-addled brain warning her of danger and telling her to run before the figure was retreating slightly, leaning over to the other end of the bed. Her lamp flickered on and in the soft yellow light she could see her corpse companion, his eyes wide and brow furrowed in concern. 

She looked at him in the light, saw Janet’s earring shining in his left ear and the green stitches on the wrist of the hand that was hovering between them, saw his dark eye circles, the pink floral nightgown she had given him and the worried dip of his mouth, and she sighed shakily, the pressure in her chest alleviating. 

He groaned at her, clearly trying to ask what was wrong and if she was okay, but his ability to speak still hadn’t returned to him. She understood him perfectly though, and she grabbed his hand and squeezed it while she ran her fingers through her hair. 

“It’s alright, I’m okay. Just a nightmare, that’s all. They haven’t been that realistic since my mom died. It just rattled me a bit, I guess.”

He hummed in sympathetic understanding, and his eyes flickered with uncertainty. She tilted her head at him as he took a breath, making a decision before reaching out with his other hand, eyebrows lifted in a way that clearly said, ‘May I?’

She nodded, her heart skipping a beat as he pulled her to him, running his hands up and down her back and arms as he rested his chin on her hair, her head tucked neatly into his chest. She took a deep breath and let it out slowly, the air hitching in her lungs as it escaped. Her undead partner began to hum quietly above her, the sound echoing around his empty chest, and she cuddled closer. 

She felt him squeeze her tighter in a comforting and protective way, and the last remnants of her fear melted away. 

How could she have ever been afraid of him?