#fir therapy

[thisfuckingloser]

I had a sandwich, my meds, took 4 hits and a punk scream along. I am normal again I promise :)

[emojisarestatussymbols]

"The Ghost Brush" by Ryan Iverson

The City of Portland Bureau of Supernatural Containment?

[sae-something]

If anyone has asks... would be nice? 👉👈

[scrappydoothescrub]

How am i? Well im just *falls down the stairs, piano drops on my head* absolutely *gets run over by 1000 bicyclists and a school bus* fine!!!! *falls asleep in a burning house*

[yogaeducation22]

What are some yoga poses that can help improve skin health?

Yoga poses can be beneficial for improving skin health by promoting blood circulation, reducing stress, and increasing relaxation. Some poses that can help include shoulder stand, fish pose, cobra pose, and the forward fold. 

These poses can help to increase blood flow to the face and promote detoxification of the skin. Additionally, yoga can help reduce stress, which is a major contributor to skin problems such as acne, wrinkles, and eczema.

A yoga program specifically designed for anti-aging and skin rejuvenation is offered at Kaivalyadhama, called the Ojasya program. This program combines various yoga practices with ayurvedic therapies to improve skin health and overall wellbeing.

[formula-ghost]

Read Your Diary (FC43 x fem!reader)

Chapter 1: Honey, Are U Coming?

SERIES SUMMARY: You’re Franco Colapinto’s best friend in the entire world, and you’ve agreed to accompany him along for the ride in his races with Williams. He finds it endearing how, per your therapist’s recommendation, you’ve started always bringing your diary everywhere you go, even the paddock. But when he crosses the line and turns the page, he never expected what’s inside… (Based on the song Read Your Diary by Måneskin).

WORD COUNT: 3.8k

WARNINGS: therapy heavily mentioned, reader is emotionally constipated, use of YN, reader is a lil FREAK in later chapters (affectionate because we don’t kink shame here), eventual angst and smut

Chapter 2 | Chapter 3 | Chapter 4 | Chapter 5

Meet me there where it never closes

Meet me there where it’s never hopeless

All is fair in love, oh

Honey, are you coming?

If you had to blame anyone for this whole ordeal, it would be your therapist. After all, she was the one who had given you the idea to start journaling in the first place.

The session had, frustratingly, gone like all of the others; you’d tell her about something you thought was innocuous and she’d ask you how that made you feel, and you wouldn’t be able to answer. You could feel your feelings all day long, but when asked to explain them, the words never came out.

Maybe it was a fear of being misunderstood or judged for your feelings. Maybe it was the fact that no one had ever taught you what to do with that bundle of emotions that rested in your stomach like a ball of yarn to be unraveled, except to avoid it altogether and stuff it down. Or maybe you just know how you actually felt, deep down, and this was your mind’s way of making it known.

Whatever the case was, your therapist suggested, in addition to your usual sessions, of course, that you start a journal. “It’ll be for your eyes only,” she assured, “you don’t have to tell me a single word of what’s in it. Just write whatever comes to mind, no matter what that is, as long as you get it out.”

So you took her advice. Worst case scenario, you thought, you’d just stop after a week or two if it didn’t make it better. But you couldn’t help feeling a little immature, like a little girl hiding a diary, when you went to the airport shop and bought a small, unassuming leather journal at a heavily marked up price and stuffed it into the bottom of your carry on.

Your therapist had suggested customizing the journal as you write your way through it—making it a safe place for your feelings and words. But for now, this would have to do. Traveling this much recently had been difficult, and you didn’t want to add the journal into the mix of your already chaotic life for the past few weeks.

Of course, you wouldn’t have had it any other way. The recent chaos and jet setting around the world was all due to the hard work and incredible luck of your best friend, Franco. He had finally made it to Formula 1, even if just for the remainder of the season, and when he had excitedly run over to your apartment to tell you the news, you had practically crushed him to death with the enormous hug you gave him. Despite his rookie status, he had somehow managed to get you paddock passes, flights, and accommodations all arranged for each of the races so you could spend your next few months flying around the world and waltzing around the Williams paddock with your best friend in the entire world.

You and Franco had met when you were younger and he had just moved to Italy to pursue his racing career. He had moved in right next to your family, and it felt like you were instantly connected. You introduced him to the country and he introduced you to the world of racing, and your friendship was a match made in Heaven. When he went to Spain, you followed, and now with his entry into Formula 1, you were still tagging along for the ride.

Of course, Franco wanted you there just as much as you wanted to be there. At first you had been hesitant to do it. You didn’t want to impose, and to this day Franco refused to tell you what strings he had to pull to get you access to the paddock, let alone flights and accommodations. “Cmon, come with me,” he had pleaded. “Think of the stories we’ll be able to tell one day! Besides, I wouldn’t want to do this with anyone else by my side.”

“Franco, you sound like the protagonist of a cheesy rom com,” you laughed. “Don’t you think this is all… too much?”

“The tickets or my audition for the next Hallmark movie?” he teased, eliciting a small laugh from you. “No, I’m serious, YN. This is a once in a lifetime opportunity. I want you there with me, for every part of it.” He paused and looked down at his shoes, as if choosing his next words carefully. It was unusual of him, to be so worried about saying the right thing instead of just saying something. The grid had caught on soon that Franco was a talker. He continued, “I understand if you can’t come to all of them. But at least come to a few. It won’t be the same without you.”

There was a heaviness to his words that made you the slightest bit uncomfortable. Like his request was something deeper than just wanting the support of a friend. “Since when have you gotten so sentimental?” you teased, cracking a smile to lighting the tension.

He smiled back, “Since I achieved my dreams.”

Your slight smile stretched ear to ear at the reminder of how monumental a moment this was for him, and you enveloped him in another hug. “Oh Franco, I’m so happy for you!” you exclaimed.

“Happy enough to come with me?” He asked as you all broke the hug.

You lightheartedly exhaled at his instance. “I’ll see what I can do.”

The smile on his face was electric. You just couldn’t say no to him, so that’s how you ended up here, unable to say no to the steep markup on your airport shop journal, waiting for your unfortunately delayed flight from Azerbaijan to Singapore.

Even at only 4 races in, you had gotten used to doing your remote work in airports, but trying to open this journal and pour your heart out onto the pages right next to traveling strangers was… difficult, to say the least. It couldn’t have been more than 10 minutes that you stared at the blank page, but it felt like an eternity. You didn’t know what to write.

So you just began by writing how you felt physically. Tired. Nervous. Excited for Franco. Very excited for Franco.

This was supposed to be your journal, but as you got into the rhythm of filling page after page, the words were all about your best friend, the newest Formula 1 driver. You used to think that words couldn’t even describe how proud you were of him. You’d seen his hard work pay off with just a little bit of luck, and your heart seemed to swell into your chest when you thought of him in his Williams race suit ready to show the world what he could do. He’d gotten points in Baku, and you remembered your frantic heartbeat as you watched from the Williams garage and cheered in excitement at his performance. After the race he ran to you and you all practically crashed into each other going for a bear hug.

You had squeezed him with all your strength. “Franco, I’m so proud of you!”

He released you and smiled. It was a rare moment, seeing you this vulnerable. You were so happy that tears had formed at the edges of your eyes, and for a split second he looked at you and knew the true depth of those words. “So proud that you’re crying tears of joy?” he joked.

He had ruined the moment. You were so caught up in your raw emotion that you didn’t even notice the tears until he pointed them out, and your defenses kicked it as you replied, “I wasn’t crying.” Franco saw your walls go up again and cursed himself internally for talking without thinking, as he almost always did.

As you penned this memory, you felt all the emotions rushing back to you. That feeling of pride in your chest, the chaos of the garage, and Franco’s hands wrapped around you in a celebratory embrace—no, that made it sound weird. You looked down at the page. Why did that sound so… weird?

Once again, the moment had been ruined. Your flight was about to board anyway, so you exhaled and put the journal back in your bag, telling yourself you’d deal with that later. For now, you had a race to get to.

Singapore was humid and buzzing with life. Practices had gone well. On Saturday, you  hoped that the usual chaos of the paddock would distract you from your thoughts, but it was the opposite. The drone of noise—reporters talking, mechanics laughing, the purr of the car—all faded away, just background noise to your painful confusion.

Something was just…off. Before your flight you had written about your best friend and his first few races in F1. That was it. Then why did you feel like your skin was crawling every time you glanced at him on the other side of the garage? He had his headset on, talking to some race engineer about something you couldn’t even begin to understand. His gaze was so focused, his attention fully captured by the screen in front of him. He raised his hand to his mouth, thinking, before turning to the engineer and saying something.

You were enraptured by him. His passion was infectious, his determination admirable. Clad in his white race suit, he looked like he belonged here, like he had always belonged here. His hair gently curled over the top bar of his headset. His race engineer said something and Franco laughed, and again you noticed those little details that had become so usual to you; the way his eyes crinkled when he truly smiled, the scrunch of his nose, the blush that danced across his cheeks—whether from the warmth of the garage or the words of his engineer, you couldn’t tell.

Your observation (or, rather, staring) was interrupted by Franco’s gaze shifting from his engineer to you. He sent you a soft smile, and you gave him a weak one in return. You felt sick to your stomach as he politely excused himself from the conversation and made his way over to you.

“Hey YN, you good? You’ve been staring off into space for, like, five whole minutes.”

You brought your hands to rub your face, trying to bring some life into you. “Have I?”

“Yeah, thought you were checking me out or something.”

“Huh?” You felt a pang of anxiety at his insinuation.

“Well, I can’t help it that I’m so irresistible,” he replied with a smirk.

“Oh, Lord,” you laughed, exhaling in relief at his usual banter. “I just feel weird, but I’ll be okay.” You weren’t exactly lying.

The brow furrowed with concern. “You’re not feeling well? You want to go lay down for a bit?”

As much as you wanted to protest that you really were fine, the opportunity to get away for a few minutes felt like a godsend. You answered, “That’s sounds nice, actually.”

“Here, come with me,” he said as he gestured for you to follow him through the back of the garage and into the Williams motorhome.

You ended up in his driver’s room, a quiet haven away from the overwhelming chaos of the paddock. As you stepped inside it hit you just how awful you truly felt: your head was pounding, your stomach turning in flips, and your heart beating outside your chest. You practically slumped down onto the small couch, hunched over, covering your eyes with your arm to shield away the harsh fluorescent light.

You felt Franco settle beside you, breaking the silence with a soft, “You alright?” You just hummed in response, until you felt his hand meet your upper back, gently rubbing your shoulder blades as if his touch could smooth away your discomfort. But all it did was make it worse; you didn’t think your heart could beat any faster, and the turning of your stomach threatened to bring up your breakfast.

A knock at the door interrupted the moment. “Franco, need you at the media tent in five!”

Franco grumbled a reply that he’d be right there. Then he turned back to you, “You want to go back to the hotel? I can have someone take you.”

“No, I’ll be okay. I don’t want to miss qualifying.”

“YN, you look horrible.”

You laughed. “Thanks for the confidence boost.”

“No, I just… you don’t have to be there if you’re not feeling well, it’s okay.” Franco knew how stubborn you were. Never the type to admit any weakness, you could be on your death bed and still make it to the paddock to watch him race.

“No, really, I’m fine. Just give me a few minutes…”

He huffed, knowing it was no use arguing with you. He kneeled down to where you head was laid against the small table next to the couch, looking in your eyes. “Shit, YN, you’re

shivering—I’ve got a hoodie around here somewhere…” he began rummaging through his locker when another knock came at the door.

“Franco, media tent, NOW,” said the clearly agitated voice behind the door.

“Yeah, coming!” he replied.

He looked back nervous scratched the back of his neck, unsure of how far to push.

“I’ve got to go. Grab a hoodie and warm up, and if you feel any worse you come straight back here or I’ll end you,” he said, in an attempt to lighten the concern he felt for his best friend who sat before him, looking like a zombie.

“Understood,” you said, giving him a weak thumbs up.

He left the room and you sat there alone, taking deep breaths in an attempt to bring yourself back down to earth. You had truly believed it when you told Franco that you thought a few minutes in the quiet would fix you up, but your thoughts just kept racing, and your body reacted with it. The gentle comforting touch of his hand on your back left you spinning. It didn’t make sense—you two had been friends so long, the touch was nothing unusual. Just a friendly gesture. Then why did it feel like your skin was on fire?

Franco had been right, you were shivering, and to distract yourself from your thoughts you heeded his advice to find a hoodie to wear. You stepped over to the locker and found the one he brought—one purchased for him by one of his ex girlfriends, some blonde model who was nice enough but clearly wanted nothing to do with you. You didn’t blame her; you were nothing special, and your company paled in comparison to the excitements of dating a race car driver. Or at least, you assumed. It’s not like you’d ever date Franco.

Wait, what were you thinking? Dating Franco. The thought should bring disgust to your mouth. It did. Sort of. You weren’t shivering any more.

You put the hoodie back in the closet and took a deep breath. You decided to take the time between now and qualifying to see if writing in the journal could make you feel a little better. But when you opened the pages again, you just found what you had written last time and your feelings stuck.

You remembered a tactic your therapist taught you: sometimes your feelings can manifest physically. To calm down, ground yourself in your surroundings. Five things you can see, four things you can touch, three things you can hear, two things you can smell, one thing you can taste. You brought your pen to paper.

I can see: The hoodie that Franco’s ex gave him. It’s crumpled in the corner of his locker. He wears it a lot, and it makes me wonder if he misses her. I don’t ask him stuff like that. That would be weird.

I can touch: The smooth plastic of the VIP pass around my neck. Franco refuses to tell me how he got it. I can’t believe he’d go through all this for me.

I can hear: The quiet silence of the room. Feet shuffling outside the door. Does anyone know I’m in here, hidden away like a secret? Did Franco tell anyone about me—about us? What even is us—why would he tell the paddock about a friend?

I can smell: Franco’s cologne, everywhere. It smells familiar, like home and a warm hug.

I can taste: the bitter taste of the maté I had this morning. Franco put me on to it when we were younger.

You went back and read through everything you’d written, seeing how many times his name came up—Franco, Franco, Franco.

And so you wrote it again. Franco, Franco, Franco. God, I feel like a little girl having a crush on the boy who sits next to her in class.

Wait. A crush? No, you were too old for that. That’s ridiculous. But reading the words you had written over and over and over again—what else could it be?

Of course I love Franco. He’s my best friend.

Reading and writing seemed to blur. Yes, you loved Franco. So you wrote it again.

I love Franco Colapinto.

Finally, you stopped. Your headache, stomach pain, and that stubborn heartbeat had all faded to calmness. You read it, no, wrote it, no—did it even matter anymore?

I love Franco Colapinto.

No. You scribbled it out and closed the diary. No, no, no no no no no.

You checked your phone. It was almost time for quali. You threw the journal to the bottom of your bag, took a deep breath, and made your way back out to the Williams garage.

On the way there you ran into a familiar face—Franco’s mother. You had heard she would be here for the weekend, but you hadn’t run into her yet, with everything going on. Upon seeing you her face lit up in a smile. “YN! Franquito just sent me to check on you, said you were feeling well?”

You cringed a bit internally at her knowing your situation, but smiled anyway. “Oh, I was, but I’m doing okay now. Ready for quali.”

So the two of you made your way back to the garage, making idle chat about your lives back at your respective homes outside of Franco. The more you all talked, though, the more it became apparent that both of your lives seemed to revolve around him; but it made sense for his mother, of course, even if he didn’t live in Argentina anymore. But you? You couldn’t shake the feeling that your connection to Franco was deeper and more problematic than ever now. His mother’s voice faded into the background sounds of the garage as your mind returned again to again to the words you had written: I love Franco Colapinto. It felt so childish, like it belonged in a pink diary, written in a glittering gel pen, surrounded by little hearts. It made you sick to your stomach.

“You know, YN,” his mother said, breaking you from your spiraling thoughts, “I’m so glad he has you. I was so worried when he left home, but when you all met it helped me sleep better at night knowing someone was looking out for him. And look where we are now! Oh, I’m so proud of him.”

“I am too,” you smiled, somewhat pained but still genuine.

She laughed, “Now I just keep telling him he needs to find a girl like you! Stay away from all those actresses and models, they’re always trouble.”

You laughed in response, though your heart skipped a beat. “Oh, I’m sure he’ll find a good one. But I think he’s more focused on the racing.”

“Well, I hope so,” she replied, a hint of lighthearted criticism in her voice.

The conversation came to a natural end with qualifying about to start any second. Franco, suited up and putting on his helmet, glanced to you and his mother behind the barriers, throwing you a wink before stepping in the car. You rolled your eyes. Everyone who had ever met Franco knew how much of a flirt he was, it was just part of his personality. It had never bothered you before. But to be the girl he was flirting with? To have it mean something? That was something else entirely, something you’d stuffed deep down. You told yourself it meant nothing, because it didn’t. Franco was just…like that. He was just your friend. Nothing more.

Franco had a respectable qualifying—P12—and the rest of the day went by as usual before your dinner plans with him, his mother, and the rest of the Williams team. It was awkward at first. You were sat by Franco and his mother on one side, who were talking to each other in Spanish, far away mentally from the dinner; and on the other was Alex Albon's girlfriend, Lily. Thankfully, Lily seemed very kind and made conversation.

“Oh hi, YN isn’t it? I’ve been meaning to say hello! I’m Lily, it’s nice to meet you, welcome to the wag club,” she joked.

“The wag club?” You were confused, was this some motorsports term you’d never heard of?

“Oh, you know, wives and girlfriends. The fans just call us wags,” she smiled. You were grateful that at least one person's girlfriend was kind to you. But her assumption brought a blush to your cheeks.

“Oh, I’m not—“

Lily wasn’t quite paying attention, or maybe you were too quiet compared to the busy atmosphere of the restaurant. “You know, it’s really great to have you here, you and Franco are so cute! It’s a shame what happened with Logan, but on the bright side so get to make new friends. I can introduce you to the rest of the girls too, it’s hard being in a garage full of guys so we have to stick together, you know.”

You cut her off, unable to handle her mistake any longer. “Oh, uh, I’m not… Franco’s girlfriend. We’re just friends.” 

Lily paused for a moment. “Oh! Um… sorry about that.” She nervously laughed. “I just thought, you know, since you’ve been at all his races so far…”

“Oh yeah, I’m not sure how, but he got me paddock passes for the rest of the season. I mean, once in a lifetime opportunity, right?”

“Yeah, that’s… I mean, wow. Alex can’t even get me that many passes.” Lily left the implication of her comment unsaid. Franco had gone above and beyond—he wanted you here more than anything. “Well, anyway, I’m sure the girls would still love to meet you!” she smiled. 

It was nice to have a friend other than Franco in the paddock. You passed the dinner telling funny stories back and forth about Franco and Alex’s embarrassing karting moments. The Williams team was beginning to feel like family.

Back in your hotel room, the chaos of the day faded away into a calm silence. You opened your journal and wrote about everything that had happened since you had left his drivers room. Again and again you returned to that sentence, now scratched out, but finally, you had to accept what you had so long avoided, what everyone around you could see plainly.

So you took your pen and wrote one last sentence of the night:

I am in love with my best friend, Franco Colapinto. 

[regressionschool]

MOMMY KNOWS BEST: A NEW APPROACH TO MARRIAGE?

By Emily Dawson, Investigative Reporter

In an era of rising divorce rates and failing marriages, one company believes they have found a radical yet effective solution—one that redefines the roles within relationships rather than dissolving them.

The "Mommy Knows Best" (MKB) program, developed by Pampers Corporation, offers struggling couples an alternative to separation. Instead of counseling or legal battles, the program transitions one partner—typically the husband—into a fully dependent little.

By removing the stress, ego, and responsibility that often cause marital tension, Pampers claims to create a more balanced, harmonious household where the wife assumes a nurturing role, and the husband embraces a simpler, carefree existence.

To its supporters, it’s a long-overdue revolution. To its critics, it’s a disturbing erasure of masculinity.

“A Man Should Be a Man” – A Former Husband Speaks Out

Not everyone is thrilled with the program. Joseph, 38, once a participant in MKB, now lives alone after divorcing his wife of ten years. He remains a vocal critic of what he calls “forced regression”.

“They stripped men of everything that makes them men,” he says, his jaw tightening. “This isn’t love. It’s control.”

According to Joseph, his wife enrolled him without his full understanding. “She made it sound like therapy,” he scoffs. “Like something that would help us communicate better. But the ‘communication’ part? That was just me being told what to do while I sat there in a… in a… damn diaper.”

His fingers twitch on the table as he hesitates on the word, his cheeks flushing slightly, as if the memory itself still holds power over him.

I ask him how long he was in the program. He sighs. “Seven months.”

And when he left?

He shifts uncomfortably in his chair, avoiding eye contact. “It… took a while to adjust.”

Adjust?

His face darkens. “By the time I got out, I couldn’t even remember how to use the potty—eh, I mean toilet.”

He corrects himself quickly, but the slip is noticeable. A shadow of something uncertain flickers in his expression.

Does he still struggle with… certain habits?

His knee bounces under the table. "No. No, I’m fine now.” But he doesn’t sound convinced.

Though he claims to be fully independent again, he admits that certain instincts—like waiting for permission before making decisions—have been harder to shake.

“They train you to obey,” he mutters bitterly. “And for some guys, I guess that’s fine. But me? I lost everything.”

“He Finally Listens to Me” – A Wife’s Perspective

For Claire, 34, the experience couldn’t have been more different.

Before enrolling her husband, she says their marriage was on the verge of collapse.

“He never listened,” she explains, folding laundry as we talk. “Worked late, ignored housework, expected me to handle everything. It was like having a man-child already, just without the cute parts.”

She gestures toward the living room, where her husband—once a domineering, independent man—now sits in a soft playpen, happily occupied with colorful stacking rings.

He’s sucking a blue pacifier, his thick, crinkly Pampers diaper peeking out from beneath his cozy footed onesie. When Claire strokes his hair, he coos softly, leaning into her touch like an affectionate toddler.

“Now?” she smiles. “He actually listens.”

She explains that, in the past, every conversation turned into an argument. Now, there’s no stubbornness, no backtalk, no stress.

“When I tell him it’s naptime, he lays down. When I say he needs a change, he just giggles and lets me handle it. It’s the first time I’ve felt truly respected as a wife.”

But does he ever resist?

Claire chuckles, shaking her head. “Oh, of course. He still has little moments.”

Right on cue, her husband huffs and crosses his arms. "No change," he pouts, shaking his head. "Diaper fine."

Claire sighs. “Sweetheart, you’re soaked.”

He scowls, his lower lip jutting out petulantly—but when Claire raises an eyebrow, her voice firm yet patient, his resolve wavers.

“If you don’t let me change you,” she warns, “I’m turning off your cartoons for the rest of the day.”

His eyes widen. "Noooo!" He shakes his head frantically, the pacifier bouncing against his chest. “I be good! I be good!”

With a resigned sigh, he clambers onto the changing mat, his thick, swollen diaper squishing loudly beneath him. Claire ruffles his hair affectionately.

“See? So much easier than before,” she says with a smile.

Is This the Future of Marriage?

The Mommy Knows Best program is growing in popularity, with thousands of struggling couples enrolling every year. Pampers Corp reports that over 92% of participants choose to remain in the program permanently, claiming it strengthens marriages, eliminates conflict, and improves household harmony.

Psychologists point to reduced stress, structured routines, and positive reinforcement as key elements of its success.

And, of course, Pampers ensures that no participant ever has to worry about leaks, discomfort, or independence again.

For some, like Joseph, the program represents a loss of identity. But for women like Claire?

She simply smiles. “For the first time in my life, I’m happy. And more importantly?” She glances at her husband, who is now happily sucking his pacifier, waiting to be changed.

“So is he.”

(Sponsored in part by Pampers Corporation. Because a happy marriage starts with a happy little.)

[walpu]

Hi yes hello first of all: the love I have for your Aventurine works cannot be quantified, it’s like my current main source of serotonin

With that being said, hear me out: Aventurine w/ a soft dom partner that can AND will do their absolute best to make him always feel loved. That’s it that’s my request, ty in advance and have a wonderful day 🕺✨

THANK YOU SO MUCH AND SORRY IT TOOK ME SO LONG TO WRITE THIS

I feel like I really need to write something soft fir him after 2.1 💀

Aventurine x soft!dom reader

notes - gn!reader, nsfw, subby!Aven, no beta

I think I've mentioned it in my previous nswf post but I feel like Aven would be super into body worshipping and would melt if you kiss all over his body.

Start by kissing his pretty face, his eyelids, his cheeks, then his lips. Go down to his neck and press a soft kiss to his "tattoo". Before he gets to react, move to hus chest, kissing and sucking on his oh so sensitive nipples.

Call him pretty, beautiful, priceless, tell him how you love the sounds he makes, how you love him.

Oh how overwhelmingly good it feels for him to be loved by you. Sometimes he feels like he doesn't deserve it, that it's too good to be true.

No one has ever been so soft with him during intimacy, yet here you are, putting his needs over yours and going out of your way to make him feel cherished.

He would gladly overthink it but he has no time to do so, not when you look at him like that, not when you caress his body like that.

Even if the two of you get rough and he gets overestimated, you're here to coo over him, to kiss away his tears.

And aeons, sometimes he wishes for you to be just a little cruel, a little selfish. He's used to that, he can handle that! But this overwhelming love?? It feels so good and yet so alien.

Give him time he's a sucker for that and he just needs time to adjust. And therapy.

Even when you give him commands you're so soft about it, saying please, calling him a good boy, and it makes him feel sooooo weak for you.

He'll either melt into a puddle, clinging closer to you, asking you to touch him more more more or he'll get a bit bratty, trying to provoke a reaction. Depends on his mood really.

I would recommend getting a bit playful with him when he's being a brat but still showering him with love.

Can imagine him daring you to make him do something and then crumbling completely when you just chuckle and pull him for a deep but loving kiss while your hands roam his body and press all the right buttons, touching every sensitive spot. He'll do everything you want after that trust.

Would probably lose his mind if you are being rough and caring at the same time. When sex is not vanilla at all but you're still talking to him like he's the most precious person ever and kiss him everywhere you can reach and praise him. Like!!! The contrast!!!!

Adores aftercare. It means a lot to him that you're here with him when he's so vulnerable, that the whole loving and caring act doesn't end when you're satisfied and don't need anything from him.

Would love to fall asleep in your arms after all that. After all, you're his safe heaven.

[lovecrime2]

Hannibal Lecter x Reader

summary: you begin therapy with Dr. Lecter, a man who you quickly learn much from. from his intellectuality, to the darkness hidden in the furthest parts of his mind, you become enraptured with him. will he feel the same about you? therapy sessions turn into exchanging books with notes, cooking together, and seeing more of each other in ways you both never thought possible. a love story.

authors note: hello!! this fic will have multiple chapters and i’m so excited to start this! it’s also on a03. and im creating a playlist for this!!

Chapter I: Prima

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“Dr. Lecter is ready to see you now, miss.” the polite receptionist says, with a smile sent your way. It’s no more than a flash of positivity before she turns back to her paper work, reflected by her thin framed glasses. As her eyes scanned over the work, turning back to frantically look over her desk, presumably searching for something, she gave off an obvious air of worry. Perhaps she was new.

You were too.

Your first day of therapy. Well, your first day of therapy with this new psychiatrist. It wasn’t something you were exactly frantically nervous about- as the poor polite receptionist was. You’d been to therapy before. You were accustomed to the shallow invasion and prodding of the mind. This time, your hope was that this new Dr. Lecter would be unique. Different.

You’d heard many good things about him. Ranging from his written work and studies, to his success with patients. And after the worsening state of your mind and the life you had built around you, you decided that it was time to try again. So far, you weren’t disappointed. The office was classy. Nice chairs were set in the waiting room, where you had sat for some time. There was tasteful art, quiet classical music in the background. Bach, you had guessed. Other than the receptionist, it had emitted an air of class and calmness.

You flashed a smile back at the receptionist, returning the politeness.

“Thank you very much,” you replied.

You weren’t sure if she heard given how diligently she was scanning her desk currently. But it was of no matter, you had been polite, it was the most you could do. You stepped up to a wooden door, unsure if you’d have to knock. Before you could, the door was opened, and Dr. Lecter was revealed to you.

He was handsome. You weren’t one to judge or weigh value off of looks, but you would give him that simple statement. Looks were not the most important thing to you, and you certainly were not meaning it in a romantic way. But he was handsome. The eyes that quickly met yours were brown, maybe with a hint of hazel. His hair was brown as well, it shone in the light from his office. He wore a navy blue plaid suit, giving him an obvious air of seriousness, of class and respect. His lips curled into a smile, and yours followed suit.

“Miss L/N, it’s a pleasure to make your acquaintance.” he spoke, his voice was rich and soothing.

“Dr. Lecter, I’ve heard many wonderful things about you and your work. It’s a pleasure to make your acquaintance as well.” you replied calmly, mirroring his niceties and charm. He had a quiet suave demeanor. As if on instinct, you both reached your hands out for a handshake. More niceties. This doctor was very formal. You appreciated that. As your hands touched you felt his eyes scan you quickly. Almost like an eagle searching a field for prey. Though, there wasn’t malice behind this look.

“Please, do come in.” he said, leading you into his large room. And what a large room it was.

It had a mostly grey color palette, with the exception of the one wall which was a dark red. To your right was a large wall, with two large red and white striped curtains. To your left, a desk, obviously a professional one. Lamps and books and art decorated the top. Further back to your left was another desk and a chair, but nothing was on this one. Behind that, a fireplace. The room was lined with cabinets and bookshelves, and art (specifically paintings) were anything but scarce. Right in front of you however, were two chairs facing each other. And there was a ladder, on the wall behind them, leading up to another level of the room. This one was lined with books of all shapes and sizes and colors. You took note of the other items in the room. Your eyes scanned from the couch against the back wall, to the couch in front of the windows. The room seemed lightly dull at first, but the more you gazed, the more points of color stood out to you.

After having visually scoured the room, you summarized that the collection of books, European furniture, and art was not simply the doing of the building’s hypothetical interior designer. By his outfit and the look of the room, Dr. Lecter was a man of intellectuality, power, curiosity, and ambition. He was impressive.

“Have a seat, Miss L/N.” he said, gesturing to the two seats in the middle of the room- each sat directly across from the other. Each had small tables next to them, but one had a book (presumably for taking notes on patients) and a box of tissues. You assumed the seat that the book and tissue box adorned table belonged to: was his. So you took the other seat, smoothing the bottom half of your clothing as you sat down. He took a seat across from you, crossing his legs and folding his hands neatly in his lap.

“I have no doubt you know why you’re here.” he said politely. He was direct, eyes still piercing into you. You were afraid to look away. You wanted to maintain the eye contact but at the same time, the socially nervous part of you longed to break it, longed to gaze around the sophisticated room instead of facing his perceptive gaze.

“Yes, Doctor.” you replied, finally working up the courage to break the mural stare and look down as you smiled at him. He returned a brief smile, and nodded once.

“So then, I hope you won’t mind if I list off the reasons you put for requesting my psychiatric assistance which led to us meeting today?” he inquired, taking his notebook from the small table next to him.

“Not at all, go ahead.” you gave him an encouraging nod and he opened his book. As he looked over a page, a realization came to you. You realized how intimate the placing of his chairs was. You mirrored him and put one leg over the other. You wondered if this was a tactic of his to create a sense of connection, equality. Interesting.

“You have emotional regulation issues, accompanied by social anxiety. Past traumas, which I’m sure are accompanied by self-image problems, am I correct?” he asked at the end of his statement.

“Yes,” you said, pausing a moment. There was some more, but this was only the first session. You hated the way it sounded so labeled when it was later out like that, so shallow. Realizing your answer might’ve seemed curt, you rushed to say more. “Yes, that’s all correct.”

He set his book down on the side table and looked at you for a moment. The thought crossed your mind that he might be waiting for you to speak, you were about to say something when he spoke at last.

“How do you feel right now, at this very particular moment, Miss L/N?” he asked you, eyes endlessly boring into you.

“I feel,” you hesitated, trying to come up with the right words. “Comfortable and welcomed. Yet nervous.”

“I’m glad you feel comfortable and welcomed, I try to provide sufficient hospitality for those in my care. Though, tell me, why do you feel nervous?” he asked.

“I’ve just met someone new. Someone who will be peering into my mind, learning the most personal parts of me. It’s an odd thought that a man I met a few minutes ago will come to know my mind so deeply.” you replied, watching Hannibal process your answer. He had a good poker face.

“Are you afraid of what I might uncover in the depths of your mind?” he asked.

“I think everyone’s a little afraid of what can be perceived in the most personal parts of their mentality. We all have only so much we express. To the eye it may seem to show enough, but there’s so much hidden where we store our deepest thoughts.” you replied. You liked the knowledgeable banter.

“Knowing those parts of you is a fundamental aspect to your treatment, as it is to any patient. I am not here to judge, or to exploit. I am here to come to know your being and attempt to help it in a way that is beneficial to your mental well-being.” he replied.

“You make a good point, Doctor.” you replied, flashing him a smile. He returned it, and opened his book.

“Well then, shall we begin?” he asked, his eyes still focused on yours.

“Of course.” you replied.

And so began your session with Hannibal Lecter, your new psychiatrist.

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[inlovewithquestionablecharacters]

Hey,

could you write a one-shot,where Hannibal is obssesively in love with Bedelia‘s best friend, after he met her during his therapy session, when she tried to surprise Bedelia fir a „girl‘s night only“. Bedelia tries to distract him from her and wants to reduce his obsession unsuccessfully.(smut?)

Hannibal X Reader: Unexpected infatuation

Warnings: smut, kissing, drinking, female reader, no use of y/n penetration ( p in v), cowgirl, not proofread

Word count: 2,4 K

“Lia?”

Your voice rang out through the house. You waited patiently for an answer expecting Bedelia soothing voice to cut through the silence. It didn’t. You wrangled your key out of the door, throwing it on top of the dining table. You placed the bottle of wine you’d brought on the kitchen aisle before making your way deeper into the house.

“Lia, are you there?”

You glanced up the stairs trying to listen to Bedelias footsteps but there was nothing. A small noise came from your left causing your head to turn towards it. Your eyes fell on the door of Bedelias therapy office.

“Found you.”

You walked over to the door not bothering to knock. There was no way someone was in there with her, she’d stopped working ages ago.

“Lia, I've been calling you. I was gonna surprise you….”

Your words trailed off when you caught sight of a man sitting before Bedilia. Your best friend stared at you for a moment before turning to face Hannibal.

“Sorry. This is my best friend. She has a key to the house. For emergencies.”

Bedilia gave you a pointed look as she finished talking, her eyes telling you were in a bit of trouble.

“I didn’t realize you had company. I’ll just leave.”

“No it’s alright. I’ve taken up enough of Bedelias time.”

You gazed at the man before you. You didn’t know who he was but something about him felt oddly familiar like you’d seen him before. You watched him get up from his chair and collect his suit jacket. He turned to look at Bedelia giving her a small nod of farewell before beginning to walk to the door. You stepped aside allowing him to move through the door. Before he continued to leave he turned to face you, putting his hand out. You gave him your hand expecting him to shake it. Instead he leaned down and placed a small kiss to the back of your hand.

“Nice meeting you.”

You were at a slight loss for words managing only to blush and nod at his statement. He smiled at your frazzled state. He always did love to leave people speechless. Bedilia appeared behind you, her eyes boring into Hannibal's frame. He felt the weight of her gaze, taking it as a sign that he should get going. So that's what he did, he put his suit jacket on and walked to the front door, closing it behind him as he left.

“Who was that?”

Bedilia could hear the fascination in your voice. It worried her. She knew how charming Hannibal could be but she also knew how dangerous he was. You were a very dear friend and she would do what she could to protect you.

“That was Hannibal Lector.”

Bedilia turned to look at you, catching onto the way your eyes lingered on where Hannibal had previously stood.

“Stay away from him.”

Before you could question her she’d walked past you, making her way to the kitchen. She opened the bottle of wine you’d brought and took a swing, not bothering to grab a glass. You could tell the conversation was over and you knew better than to push the topic.

For the next few weeks Bedilia continued to live her life like normal. She’d get her things done, she’d got out with you and once a week she would meet Hannibal for his therapy sessions. For the most part things seemed okay. But then Hannibal started talking about you in therapy. He didn’t say anything alarming, he simply wanted to know more about your friendship with Bedilia. Little things like how you’d met, how long you’d known each other, what you liked, among other things. If it had been anyone else asking these things Bedilia wouldn’t have been alarmed but this was Hannibal Lector and that itself put her on edge. 

“The two of you seem quite different.”

“We are.”

“You act as if she is not interesting.”

“She isn’t. She is just like many other people.”

“And yet somewhere she’s drawn your attention.”

“We are not here to talk about me. We are here to talk about you.”

Whenever Hannibal initiated these types of conversation Bedilia tried to lead him down another path, trying to remove the attention from you. She kept her answers short and with little information, painting a picture of you that wasn’t appealing to Hannibal. But none of it seemed to help. When Hannibal wanted something he found a way to get it. Even if it meant someone got hurt. Bedilia had done a good job keeping you away from Hannibal but there was only so much she could do to keep Hannibal away from you. She had no control over the Doctor and she knew it. 

In a couple of days she was going to travel for a convention and needed someone to stay at her house to make sure everything was in order. You’d volunteered of course, that was just the way you were. Bedilia didn’t think anything could possibly go wrong.

She had been mistaken.

You were stringing a pot of sauce when the doorbell rang. You gazed at the clock, taking in the time. It was awfully late for someone to be at the door. You placed the spoon down, cleaning your hands on your apron before walking to the door. You peaked through the magic eye, eyes widening as you saw who was at the door.

Hannibal watched the door open a bit, your head poking out from inside. He was surprised to see you. You gave him a small smile, opening the door all the way. He took in the sight of you, eyes catching to the stained apron you wore. The smell of food filled his nose, telling him you had been cooking. 

“Hi Hannibal. What brings you here?”

“I have my appointment with Bedilia tonight.”

“Oh she must have forgotten to tell you. She’s traveling for a convention. She’s only gonna be back next week.”

“I see. It must have slipped her mind to tell me.”

He gazed at you for a moment.

“What are you doing here?”

“House sitting.”

 “ I wasn’t aware Bedilia had pets.”

“Oh she doesn't. She just hates leaving the house empty. I’m not sure why but whenever she tables somewhere I stay at the house. I think she’s scared someone is gonna break in or something.”

You gave a small shrug.

“It's not like I'm complaining though. I love staying here.”

“Well I'll leave you to it then. Sorry for bothering you.”

You watched Hannibal turn around and begin walking down the steps. You bite into your lip, Bedelias words of warning appearing in your head. You shook your thoughts away. He had come all this way the least you could do was offer him something to eat. What could go wrong?

“Hannibal wait!”

He spun around at the sound of your voice, turning to face you.

“Yes?”

“I’m making dinner. Would you like to stay and eat something?”

The grin that spread out over Hannibal's face could almost be considered as predatory but you didn’t seem to notice it. He walked into the house moving towards the kitchen. You closed the front door behind you, moving to where Hannibal was. He took his suit jacket off and pushed his sleeves up. You looked at him questioningly.

“How can I help?”

“You cook?”

 Hannibal laughed at your question. If only you knew.

“I enjoy it quite a lot actually.”

“Well, aren't you full of surprises?”

You gave him a grin, pointing at the onions on the counter.

“You can chop those up for me.”

The rest of the night you and Hannibal moved around the kitchen. Each one helping the other with what you could. When the food was ready you went to set the table. Hannibal brought the food over and both of you took a seat. You chatted as you ate, talking about the most random things. Hannibal learned things about you that Bedilia had refused to tell him and you discovered a side of Hannibal Bedelia had made sure to hide from you. 

After you’d finished eating the two of you moved to clean up duty. You would wash the plates and Hannibal would dry them and place them in their proper places. With your guidance of course, seeing as he had no idea where anything went. Once everything we squeaky clean you moved over to the drink cabinet, pulling out a bottle and holding it up to Hannibal.

“You want some.”

“I shouldn't, I'm going to drive home.”

“Like hell you are. It’s so late Hannibal there is no way I'm letting you drive home now. You can sleep in the guest room.”

“Where will you sleep then?”

“Oh I can crash in Bedelias bed. She won’t mind.”

“Well if you’re sure.”

“I am. Grab two glasses from the top cabinet for me please.”

It felt easy to be around Hannibal. You didn’t know what Bedilia had been so afraid of. The two of you were sitting on the couch, each one nursing your own glass of alcohol. Alcohol has always made you a bit sleepy. Unconsciously you inched closer to Hannibal, resting your head on his shoulder. He moved his arm to wrap around your shoulder, tugging you closer to him. You let out a satisfied hum, relaxing into Hannibal's frame. 

You hadn't really been paying attention to the movie that was playing. It wasn’t until your brain realized the sounds that were coming from the TV that you began paying attention to what was on the screen. Hannibal felt your body tense slightly against him. He had been so focused on your proximity to him and your smell that he hadn't heard the sounds that were coming out of the TV. A blush made its way onto your face as you watched the sex scene play. The sounds were almost pornographic and the sight of the actors wasn’t helping. You should probably move away from Hannibal but you couldn’t seem to want to. Your thighs rubbed against each other. Hannibal caught onto the action, his hand moving to caress your shoulder. You turned to look at him, your eyes meeting his lustful gaze. You didn’t know if it was the fact that you were a bit drunk or if it had to do with the forbidden element but before you knew it you were leaning forward to place a kiss to Hannibal's lips. 

Hannibal's hands moved to cup your cheek, his tongue dragging against your bottom lip. You opened your lips to him, allowing his tongue to explore your mouth. You dragged your body closer to his until you were sitting in his lap. Hannibal moved to kiss your neck, causing you to let out small whines. You dragged your body against Hannibal's thighs, humping into him. He caught onto the action, his hands moving to grip onto your waist.

“You’re gonna hump my let until you cum and then i’m gonna fuck you. Okay?”

“Yes- ugh- fuck yes.”

You began to move against Hannibal, desperately searching for your release. Hannibal's hands moved to pull your shirt off your body. The sight of your bare chest made his dick watch. Of course you hadn’t been wearing a bra, you hadn't been expecting company. His large hands moved to cup your breasts, fingers moving to pinch your nipples. Your mouth opened into a moan, the sound bleeding into the moans that continued to come from the TV. Hannibal leaned down, taking one of your breasts in his mouth as his hand moved to caress the other. The attention Hannibal was giving to your breasts combined with the feeling of his pants roughly moving against your covered cunt got you cumming in a matter of seconds. You continued to hum against his leg as your orgasm washed over you.

Hannibal let your body sag onto him, his hands wainding to caress your back. You struggled to catch your breath. Hannibal continued to place small kisses to your neck as you recovered. Once your vision cleared you pushed yourself up so that you could look in Hannibal's eyes. You smiled at him, leaning forward to kiss him. Hannibal watched you rise from your feet, tugging off your shorts and underwear in a single movement. His eyes trailed over your body.

“You’re awfully dressed up. I think we should shed some of those layers off, no?”

Hannibal nodded to you, moving to stand up as well.

“You want my help?”

As much as he wanted your hands on him he didn’t know how much he could last without having his dick shoved into you. So instead of accepting your help he stripped his clothes off by himself. With every new piece of skin that was exposed you felt yourself grow wetter. Your breath caught in your throat as Hannibal finally tugged off his boxer, revealing his dick to you. He was slender so you’d expected his dick to be the same. Boy had you been wrong. He was a lot thicker than you’d thought.

You rubbed your thighs in anticipation. Hannibal sat back down, his finger moving to beacon you over. You did as he asked, moving towards him before straddling him. You kept your body lifted slightly in an attempt to tease him but Hannibal wasn’t having it. His hands moved to grab your waist tugging you down onto his dick with one quick movement. The two of you moaned at the feeling. You placed your hands on Hannibal's knees before you began to move against him. He watched you fuck yourself onto his dick. The sounds you were making sent a thrill down Hannibal's spine. He watched you, his hips moving to buck into you.

Your thighs were starting to hurt but you wouldn’t stop moving until you’d cum on Hannibal's dick. Hannibal seemed to notice your struggle, his hands moving to help you out. You gasped as Hannibal guided you to a faster pace. You leaned forward, hands winding around his neck. Hannibal took the new position as an opportunity to speed up. You groaned against his neck as he began to buck into you, his hips pistoling into you. His hands found your breasts, moving to pinch and pull your nipples. That was enough to push you over the hedge. Your nails dug into his back as you gushed onto his dick. Hannibal felt your cum against his thighs, his own release overwhelming him. His hands tugged you as close as possible as his cum coated your walls. 

You stayed in that position for a moment, both of you trying to recover from your highs. Hannibal placed a kiss to the side of your head.

“Sleep with me in the guest room.”

“Okay.”

Bedelia would freak out when she found out but that was a problem for another day.

[whillywisp]

Part 2 of Finnick being the most amazing dad/doting husband because I'm sure this is just therapy for my darlings with daddy issues and, well, issues🌱

Warnings: a little long, a little angstier today, implied mention of what happened to finnick. But still as fluffy as yesterday.

Part 1 ☁︎

If Finnick was caring and terrified during the pregnancy, multiply that by ten thousand and that's him postpartum. This man was convinced the very air his family breathed was out to get them. He refused to sleep because he was scared something would happen if he dared to get some rest but after you very gently (you yelled) explained to him that he cannot stay up for three nights straight because no Finnick the baby doesn't need to be held twenty five-eight please for the love of god get some damn sleep, he finally got some rest.

Recovering from pregnancy is a whole other nightmare but he made it bearable. Finnick's favourite thing in the entire world, as previously stated, was taking care of you. So you know he was at your beck and call round the clock. He helped you shower, helped you move around, stayed up with you during night time feedings so you wouldn't feel alone. He cooked every meal and made sure you had everything needed within an arm's reach. Sometimes you were so overcome with love for him that you would tug him close and pepper his face with kisses because where on earth would you find someone as gentle and caring and loving in this miserable world as this angel right here? Nowhere thank you.

But it was seeing him with her that had you convinced you saved a country in your last life (well, in this life and while it was group effort—) to be able to witness something so pure and gentle.

Finnick held his little girl like he she was made of the finest glass and would disappear if he so much as breathed too loud near her. His wide eyes traced every movement, every twitch of a muscle, every breath your baby took. If her little hand curling around his made his pretty eyes gloss over, you absolutely saw it and you made sure to tease him about, for which you were met with embarassed smiles but no denials. He wasn't ashamed of loving his family and least of all his baby girl.

But every spring came stained grey from winter's shadow, still lingering around the corner as if seeking spring's warmth too. And Finnick's past, to him, felt a bit like that.

What happened to Finnick was not a secret he carried in his pocket folded up with a list of names who still bragged of their contribution to his survival or hidden behind forced smiles anymore. What happened to Finnick was public and while he is as not at all at fault for it, humiliation and self-hatred didn't have a mind of its own and regardless of the circumstances and the people that were at fault for everything, he still blamed himself, he still dreaded the day his baby, his entire world, found out what happened. And he told you about it of course.

"What if...what if she hates me?"

You looked up from the book you had been reading, glancing at him where he lay on his back. Your daughter, now nine months old, fast asleep on his chest and your voice a little incredulous as you whisper back. "I'm not sure if you noticed but she worships the ground you walk on."

The smile he gives you is forlorn and pressed into the top of your daughter's head. He blinked, looking away from you and in the blink of an eye you had dropped your book, uncaring where it landed and gently craddled his face in your hands, wiping away tears that stained his emrald green eyes.

"Angel—"

"I don't want her to find out," he sniffed, tightening his arms around your daughter, taking a shuddering breath before continuing. "I do-don't want her to find out. She'll hate me. She'll think I'm so weak. I was so weak."

You sighed, gently pressing a kiss to his forehead before wiping away tears that escaped his eyes and rolled down his cheeks. Rage and grief burned in your heart with vengeance and you wished, not for the first time, the need to rip those wealthy capitolites to shreds with your bare hands, to make these vile people disappear, praying they'd take the pain they inflicted on him away with them.

But instead you used the same hands and pulled him close, letting him cry into your chest as you wrapped your arms around him and your daughter, whispering quietly but firmly to him. "Finnick Odair, those years of you life were bleak. Those years of your life were harsh. And you were a lot of things during them: broken, hurt, abused. But you weren't weak. You survived, you made sure to survive because you knew you needed to survive to be free. That was your way of winning. And if we raise this baby right, she'll love you regardless, hell even more, when she finds out. I love you and I agree with you on just about everything. But this, this I refuse to because the man i married, the boy I fell for, is a survivor."

He peered at you through wet lashes, sniffling softly as he pressed a kiss to your chest and then the top of your daughter's head: his quiet way of saying 'I love you. Thank you for being my light.' You let out a deep breath you didn't know you were holding, tightening your arms around your family.

You weren't lying when you said your daughter worshipped the ground he walked on. He was her hero. She followed him around the house since the minute she started crawling, screamed for him every morning and only calmed down when he picked her up and out of crib and in the most Finnick fashion, loved you in her gentle ways. She got that from me, he would say smugly as you had to eat another fistful of mushed baby food because of course your daughter picked that her way to show her love for you after having seen Finnick feed you fruit earlier. You would glare at him over her little sprout hair, identical to the one his hair was tied into on her highness' orders, your heart threatening to explode in your chest from the sheer amount of love it was filled with.

Your daughter was not only growing up to be the most precious child in the world, but she was also terrifyingly bright and understanding, even at such an young age. On days she noticed Finnick's need to be quiet or when he was too overwhelmed by everything, you noticed her making a conscious effort to stay quiet and keep her noises to a minimum. If Finnick needed time alone, she wouldn't bother him but spent her time with you, telling you about how daddy needs his quiet time and you had to hold onto the cushion behind you on the couch to hold back from crying, completely baffled at and extremely grateful that you both were raising an angel like her. But you weren't all that surprised when you thought about it a little more deeply. She was, after all, her daddy's little girl.

The day she starts kindergarten feels like the most emotional episode of the worst soap opera possible because you woke up to them...crying. And saying their goodbyes as he tearfully packed her lunch and did her hair, as if she was off to war. And it took quite a while to coax them both out of the house because I love you both but we cannot be late on the first day you guys please. But on the walk to kindergarten it was peaceful and full of laughter, because they could both pretend this was just their morning walk.

But of course, the tears were back when the gates closed with the promise of keeping them separated for three hours.

"What if she gets hungry and can't open the lunch box?"

You frowned looking up at him, shaking your head. You both were standing outside the gates to the school along with other worried parents, some taking a break from said worrying to side eye you both, something you had learned to tune out years ago.

"Finnick, she showed us she can open the lunch box just fine before we left home."

"But what if she can't here?" He insisted, looking down at you like you were the insane one for not considering that scenario. You sighed, grabbing his hand and tugging him away from the gates, trying to ease his worries.

"I promise you if she needs help with that, she will ask her teacher," you smiled at him, pecking his lips gently to stop him when he opens his mouth to voice another bizarre worry. "She'll be fine. She's our kid, she'll be perfectly fine."

He cracked a small smile, wrapping his arm around your shoulder as you both start walking back, giving in with a small chuckle. "Yeah, okay. Maybe we should get a puppy to keep us busy now since she wants to do all grown up things go to scho..."

You look up at him as he suddenly trails off, confused as you catch him staring at something thoughtfully in the distance and follow his gaze to freeze against him slightly. In the distance, still as grey and imposing as ever, was the abandoned building which once held District 4's career academy. Strange feelings that always came with seeing it, both good and bad and nostalgic, make you tighten your grip on his hand and his around your shoulders.

Less than a decade ago, only a few metres and a small canal away from the kindergarten that your daughter now attended, children like her were being trained to kill, you and Finnick being a part of them. The thought of that still makes your blood run cold but the relief that rushed in right after, knowing your baby would never have to do that, is enough to let go of another hour of the countless you had spent in there, training to survive a system bigger than the arena could ever be.

You took a deep breath, forcing to maintain your light tone as you forced both of you to continue moving. "Heard they're building another school there, to keep the spirits of learning still alive and all that."

He smiled, kissing the top of your head fondly. "And I assume you want to help out in that?" The cheeky smile you had given him was answer enough but for him, it was like a sigh of relief, of brighter days no longer stained with gloom of his past.

People and places had changed to accomodate this new change, this everlasting spring, and maybe he was looking forward to letting his soul do the same too.

A/N: i agree this might've gone slightly offtopic in certain places but bare with me. I can't decide if want this to be the end or write more. But I hope you enjoyed this regardless of these things. All my love 🌱

[buddierecs]

sexuality realisation buddie fics

aka sexuality crisis fics. this list has different rated fics, so please look at the rating make sure to kudos/comment on these amazing works :)

the definition of love and all things ineffable by: elvensorceress "In which buck processes his breakup, learns his place in his family, has a huge crisis of sexuality, and finds the truth about love beating in his own heart." word count: 29k rating: teen and up important tags: friends to lovers, mutual pining, getting together, idiots in love, buckley-diaz family, mild sexual content eddie diaz vs the feelings by: elvensorceress "eddie dives into the mysteries of attraction, romantic love, and asexuality because there's a good chance he's fallen in love with his best friend." word count: 63k rating: explicit important tags: friends to lovers, demisexuality, asexuality, angst, fluff, emotional hurt/comfort, slow burn, mutual pining, anal sex, hand jobs courtship behaviours of southern coastal husbros by: mad_lori "buck and eddie decide to become platonic domestic partners and co-parents. they are 100% super normal about it and absolutely nothing is awakened in them, except a mutual annoyance at being referred to as "husbros." word count: 49k rating: explicit important tags: domestic partners, friends to lovers, slow burn, friends with benefits, demisexuality, fluid sexuality, fluff, eventual smut, oral sex help me to help myself by: woodchoc_magnum "in which eddie slowly figures out who he really is in the aftermath of his breakdown." word count: 26k rating: mature important tags: angst, depression, mental breakdown, pining, getting together, team as family, soft!buddie darker days, brighter endings by: farfromstars "a fic on eddie’s recovery after 4x14." word count: 44k rating: teen and up important tags: injury recovery, ptsd, panic attacks, therapy, minor eddie/ana, minor buck/taylor, pining, friends to lovers, getting together let's hear it for the boy by: hattalove "in which eddie attends a self-empowerment group for gbtq men to supplement his therapy, and is empowered to: forgive himself, say "i'm gay" to his own reflection in the mirror, accidentally adopt an adult, make fried rice, and tell his straight best friend that he's in love with him. not necessarily in that order." word count: 56k rating: teen and up important tags: queer themes, self-discovery, friends to lovers, coming out, getting together, queer awakening, pining, gay disaster!eddie diaz tell me about despair by: hattalove "the entity often affectionately referred to as the unrepression fic" word count: 148k rating: mature important tags: character study, angst, ptsd, therapy, communication, queer awakening, friends to lovers remember me, love (when i'm reborn) by: kwills "eddie has a sexuality crisis, and it's nothing like buck described it. it's not freedom. it's hell. but maybe not forever" word count: 12k rating: teen and up important tags: internalised homophobia, catholic guilt, angst, coming out, minor buck/tommy, getting together, feelings realization you still make sense to me by: farfromthstars "eddie is ready for a new relationship – but why does it never feel right? buck has a lot to work through, and doing that comes with a few realizations." word count: 31k rating: mature important tags: asexuality spectrum, therapy, coming out, mutual pining, idiots in love, mild sexual content i bet my hand fits right in your hands by: blob_blob "after they leave texas, buck has a sexuality crisis in TKs dms, and also when eddie asks who he's texting he panics and makes up an entire girlfriend to avoid admitting to eddie that he's having a sexuality crisis" word count: 7.5k rating: teen and up important tags: fluff, light angst, coming out, texting oh, how could i have been so wrong by: prettyboybuckley "buck figures out his sexuality at the age of 30" word count: 7k rating: mature important tags: self-discovery, love confessions, jealous!eddie diaz, first kiss, hand jobs

[steampoweredskeleton]

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Ignore

[henrysglock]

A Word on DID Theory

The hot topic in the Stranger Things theory world lately is DID/systems. So lets put aside all my other theories for a moment, and let's talk about a blatant instance of dissociative amnesia and memory gatekeeping that we've already seen on screen.

Keep in mind that I'm not saying any of this is what actually happened, just that if we view things through the lens of "what if it's DID", this is what it looks like. Cool? Cool.

NINA.

El is a genuine dissociative amnesiac, textually speaking—whether it be that those memories aren't "hers" or that her mind buried them, she still has only snatches of recollection re: the Rainbow Room.

If we want to pursue a hypothetical DID lens, NINA-HNL could be considered El's headspace.

Many individuals with dissociative identity disorder (DID) have an internal world in which they or their alters can manifest as themselves and interact. These internal worlds, which are also known as inner worlds or headspaces, can range in size and complexity. A system with only a couple of alters might have an internal room in which alters that are internally active, awake, and aware might manifest. Others might expand this living room to include doors to bedrooms for groups of or individual alters. Others might have small towns that may even be filled with static "NPCs"...that can interact with alters but themselves are more similar to imaginary constructs than to actual alters or fragments. Even more expansive internal worlds can result when highly imaginative or dissociative systems use their inner world to retreat from the outside world and so play out entire stories within their mind. Different systems may have more or less control over their internal worlds. Some may be able to actively shape and add new aspects to their internal world while others may regulate this ability to a specific alter or groups of alters or find the task impossible. Some systems do not naturally have an internal world but may be able to create one with the help of therapy. (x)

(See also: The First Shadow as compared to NINA, with its objectively "fake" Hawkins, complete with partial sets and characters who mimic Henry in oddly specific ways)

NINA could be seen as a therapeutic method for helping El access her headspace and integrate her system. A key player in this process is Henry.

For El, Henry wears many hats.

Protector: Protectors are alters that protect the body, system, host, core, or other specific alters or groups of alters. Physical protectors might take or try to prevent physical abuse or become aggressive in an attempt to defend against physical abuse. Verbal protectors might take verbal abuse or lash back verbally in order to counter verbal abuse. Emotional protectors might take emotional abuse or comfort other alters to soften the effects of emotional abuse. Sexual protectors might take sexual abuse or attempt to instigate sexual abuse in an attempt to feel more in control of the situation. Caretaker alters are a unique type of protector that is focused specifically on taking care of younger, weaker, or more vulnerable alters or external children. Memory Holder: Memory holders are alters that hold memories that are usually traumatic in nature so that other alters do not have to be confronted by the memories. In some cases, memory holders might hold memories of childhood innocence or of being loved by the system’s otherwise abusive or neglectful family. In these latter cases, the memory holder might serve to preserve these memories untainted by memories of trauma or to avoid confronting the system with the pain of what the abuse has cost them. Memory holders are highly associated with abuse takers, alters that experience trauma so that other alters do not have to. Internal Self Helper: An internal self helper is an alter that holds vast amounts of knowledge about the system, alters, trauma, and/or internal workings. For those who believe in cores, internal self helpers are often viewed as the first alter to be created or as the normally pseudo-separate internal voice of logic and reason that all people possess. Within the theory of structural dissociation, internal self helpers are often viewed as observing parts or hidden observers, both less than distinct states. Internal self helpers may or may not also serve as a gatekeeper.

Obviously, Henry's main function would be that of a caretaker. He appears as an orderly, a literal caretaker:

And he's a source of protection, comfort, and support for El (at least, until she gets a little too close to the traumatic memories being withheld from her, but we'll talk about that later).

Henry also serves as a gatekeeper, a memory holder, an internal self helper, and various other types of protectors.

When Two is verbally bullying El, Henry reprimands him in response to protect El (This being distinct from the behavior of a persecutor, who may instead harm Two for his behavior. See: Brenner). When El "misbehaves" and uses Henry's advice/fuels her powers with emotion, Henry is punished instead while El is kept separate:

Henry, theoretically, serves as a verbal, physical, and emotional protector for El. El misbehaves, but she is not the one punished. El is bullied, but she is not the one who defends herself. In fact, as we see directly after Henry's punishment, El can't defend herself. She needs Henry to protect her. (Which is especially "fun" when her present-day memories bleed in, with Two and his buddies replicating Angela's bullying. El likely wished she had a protector then. Alas, she did not.)

Henry also holds memories for El, ones that Brenner himself claimed were temporarily inaccessible:

Lo and behold, there's Henry, telling El she needs to remember how to use her powers:

He also holds neutral-good memories bringing forward memories, and he brings them forward when he thinks they could help her achieve her goals:

Henry seems to hold immense amounts of knowledge about El (as a real-life caretaker/observer might), and he often serves as a strategist/logical planner for the things El wants to do.

However, if we want to really get into the weeds re: DID, then we must also consider One.

One could be the result of a polyfragmented system.

Polyfragmentation is when someone with DID has many subsystems and layers within their system.

Henry knows about One, and seems to be aware to some degree that One isn't "real", despite him technically existing. One serves all the same functions as Henry, save for one trait. One is a persecutor.

(Brenner serves many of the same functions as One, just to a different degree in terms of power, but I'll touch on that after I talk about One.)

Persecutor: Persecutors are alters that purposefully harm the body, system, host, core, or other alters, sabotage the system’s goals or healing, or work to assist the system’s abuser(s). Persecutors might hold self hatred or provide an outlet for internalized abusive and negative messages. They might believe that hurting the system or other alters is the only way to control them or teach them how to behave and so prevent further and more extreme abuse from outside abusers. They might be reenacting abuse or trying to ensure that future abuse isn’t more harmful due to being preceded by a period of relatively little abuse. Some persecutor alters are introjects of abusers and may or may not understand that they are not actually the abuser themselves. Gatekeeper: A gatekeeper is an alter that controls switching or access to front, access to an internal world or certain areas within it, or access to certain alters or memories. The existence of a gatekeeper is highly stabilizing for a system because gatekeepers can to some extent prevent unwanted switching, failure to switch when necessary, or failure to switch to the correct alter. They can help to prevent traumatic memories from bleeding from the alters who hold them to alters who could not yet handle them. Gatekeepers might police the boundaries between subsystems. Because gatekeepers have control over which alters have access to front, they themselves are often or always near front and so witness everything that happens to the system. They might experience vast amounts of abuse and might present as ageless, emotionless, and nonhuman as a way to process this and cope. Gatekeepers may or may not also serve as an internal self helper.

Both of them could be split from one alter—a Jekyll and Hyde split, almost. Where Henry helps El remember things in a cautious, supported way, One withholds memories and diverts El entirely to sabotage the healing process re: NINA, purportedly for El's safety. We could even theorize that the split between Henry and One lies solely in One's persecutorial nature, given that the other "jobs" double up between them.

One appears after Henry takes punishment for El.

We a distinct shift in goals and behaviors. One offers El unrestricted access to new areas of the inner world, something that Henry never made mention of wanting to do:

One quite literally gives her the key to enter new areas and experience new memories she could not access on her own. He does so after learning that Papa is planning to eliminate her after realizing she's powerful and uncontrollable.

Instead of facing this side-by-side with El and teaching her how to defend herself like Henry may have, One directs El to run and hide from it while he bears the burden of eliminating the "threats".

By eliminating fragments perceived as intra-system "threats", One acts as a persecutor in the name of being a protector.

It's essentially intrapsychosocial mutiny, attempting to release El from the Brenner-Alter's control and clear the rest of the fragments in the lab out of El's main accessible headspace altogether (as well as any memories of how she achieved that freedom).

Fragment: A fragment is an alter that is not fully differentiated or developed. Fragments may exist to carry out a single function or job, to hold a single memory or emotion, or to represent a single idea. Depending on the way that individual systems use the term, a fragment might be any alter that could not survive if left on its own or that could not pass for a fully developed individual without the help of other alters. Fragments usually have not been exposed to enough complex, different, or interactive experiences to incorporate more into their sense of self and so become more developed and differentiated.

(For all intents and purposes, the other lab kids, as well as the nurses and guards, would be fragments.)

This would leave just El/the "core" and Henry/One's little subsystem (into which he absorbed the remaining fragments of the system, save for the Brenner alter, who is too powerful):

This all ^ ^ could serve as a reason why El perceives One as having committed the massacre, despite her flashbacks showing something entirely different: her committing the massacre. It could also explain why the monologue physically could not have happened (it happened solely in El's headspace as a conversation between alters), and the overlap between Brenner's memories and El's pre-monologue memories.

This would make Vecna/One, then, a persecutor alter kicked out of El's headspace and given physical form by supernatural means during NINA—which could explain why he's so unwilling to hurt El in any meaningful way, his extensive female subtext, his obsession with finding/reconnecting with El in general, and his ability to open gates when El is the sole character to display that ability previously.

See also, pre-NINA:

See also:

If you have DID, you may find yourself doing things you wouldn't normally do, such as speeding, reckless driving, or stealing money from your employer or friend. But you feel compelled to do these things.

Nonetheless, taking control back from One during their little battle royale is what allowed El to get control of herself/her powers back—to a degree.

El still cannot handle being a "monster" in any way, shape or form. We see as much just before she enters the end of NINA:

Even before she went in, the only way it was going to end was by packing all her trauma into One and yeeting him out into a new dimension.

She still hasn't faced the real truth, which the real Brenner promises to show her. One has still, hypothetically speaking, managed to install false memories in El's mind, protecting her from the truth even as she banishes him from her mind along with her "real" memories of 1979.

She's not ready to face it.

Furthermore, we do see Vecna being directly compared to El, while the gang in Hawkins fights over what name they're meant to call him:

Even so far as Dustin going about fighting Vecna the same exact way he'd fight El:

For all intents and purposes, Henry/Vecna/One might as well be an "evil" duplicate of El—in terms of a DID theory, he could be a subsystem that El packed all her trauma into/blamed all of her childhood incidents on and kicked out of her head entirely.

Lastly, Brenner as a hypothetical persecutor, gatekeeper, and helper.

Brenner would be the lead/most powerful gatekeeper, since he's "Papa". He's the top-dog of the inner world, and he holds all the keys. He would be considered an introject of an abuser, one who repeatedly does harm to keep order within the system, one who holds all of El's past, and one who gatekeeps literally every single door in our hypothetical NINA "system".

This doubling of tasks between One and Brenner could account for One's "Brenner-isms", as El perceives them as serving similar functions despite the power differences between the two.

NINA Brenner is threatened by One, due to One's desire to take control of the total system away from him and share it between himself and El/the core. Whether that plot was for the better or worse, we'll never know. Brenner retains control, status quo resumes within the hypothetical system.

—————

P.S.— We've also seen in bts leaks of ST5, that Henry seems to have some kind of idyllic "normal" world. It wouldn't be a stretch to call it an inner world/headspace, especially if he himself is hiding or being gatekept from the rest of the hypothetical Henry/Vecna/One "system".

TFS, given its heavy similarities to NINA, could also be viewed through a system lens with Brenner as protector, persecutor, and memory holder—the Mindflayer being, in a hypothetical sense, an invading pseudo-alter.

[starryeyeddreamer21]

Hazbin Hotel as my group therapy because I fucking hate going and I need to get something positive out of it

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Charlie: are you high?

Angel, very obviously high: It's just allergies

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Showing Sir Pentious around

Husk: and that locked room is where they experiment on new residents

Angel: they turn your spinal fluid into crack

Nifty: yes that's where they punish you

Alastor: They have a paddle with your name on it

Charlie: WHAT ARE YOU TELLING HIM

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Husk: what's so exciting about being under there

Nifty, giggling underneath the table: Legs

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Vaggie: so apparently my love language is physical touch? Which is crazy because I hate being touched

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Angel: I slay every day.... when I can

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Angel: want to play blackjack?

Vaggie: No that's poker we're not gambling

Husk: So? My fifth grade teacher taught me how to play poker we should be able to play it here

Charlie: what kind of school did you go to???

Husk: Public school

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Nifty making uncomfortable eye contact: grrr

Sir Pentious: are you- are you growling at me????

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Angel: I can't wait to eat candy from that white van

Valentino: there's no candy in my white van

Angel: then what's in your white van

Valentino: ....

Angel: WHAT'S IN THE WHITE VAN

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Valentino: golden showers all day everyday

Velvette: WHY WHY DO YOU SPEAK

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Angel glancing at Husk: My cat has antisocial tendencies

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Charlie: You can't mess with people's realities that's called gaslighting

Alastor: That's okay

Vaggie: NO

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Angel: wait I'm going to be your height watch this *squats*

Vaggie: *glares*

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Lucifer: Hey you better get that away from me

Nifty: *takes a step closer*

Lucifer: I SAID GET IT AWAY

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Vaggie: Everyone be careful because the worst kind of std is a child

Angel: actually it's crabs

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Charlie: Now we'll all go around the room and say one thing we like about ourselves. Angel would you like to go firs-

Angel: titties

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