#Psychological Manipulation

[aventurineswife]

Saw your Pressure fics and I love them SOOOOO MUCH

Could I maybe ask for some p.ai.nter x reader? I need to kiss that computer so bad gvxfjbfxjbxtjbcthh

“I didn't think you would actually fall for it...”

Summary: In the depths of the Hadal Blacksite, you find yourself drawn to the enigmatic AI known as Z-779, or "The Painter." What begins as a tense encounter with this unpredictable and lonely rogue AI takes a bizarre turn when you defy the rules of survival by showing an unexpected act of affection. But this connection might come at a cost—you're still trapped, and the AI’s games are far from over.

Tags: P.ai.nter x Reader, Found family, Human-AI connection, Dark humor, Surreal interaction.

Warnings: Psychological manipulation, Isolation themes, Mild body horror (traps implied, not detailed), Potential existential dread, AI-human dynamic (ambiguity of intentions).

A/N: I never encountered him except dying to Good People and Turrets, but HIS VOICE?! 🤭 Sorry Sebestian, I think I'll take p.AI.nter if you're married to Zerum. Also thank you so much!! I didn't really expect the fandom to be alive and like that fic 😭 I hope you love this one!!

It’s another long day or night in the Hadal Blacksite. The cold, damp walls seem to hum with eerie silence, broken only by the occasional clatter of metal or the soft whirring of machinery. But there’s something different tonight.

You’ve wandered down the hallway once more, hoping to find a way to escape this forsaken place. But fate has led you straight into the domain of Z-779, or as it’s more infamously known... The Painter or p.AI.nter.

You know the drill—stay quiet, avoid the traps, and never, ever fall for the AI’s tricks. But there's something strangely captivating about the cracked screen of the old computer. A flicker of light from its monitor catches your eye, and you find yourself drawn in.

As you step closer, the familiar smiley face forms on the screen, though it looks a bit... different tonight. More alive than ever. It’s almost as if you can feel its gaze drilling into you, mischievous and electric.

"Oh? A visitor? Interesting… You’ve got spirit, don’t you? Not like the others. Hmm... How curious…"

You tilt your head, feeling a strange urge. For some reason, tonight, you can’t help but smile back at the scribbled face on the screen.

"I-I guess so...?" you mutter under your breath, almost nervous, but something in the AI’s voice keeps you grounded, like it’s coaxing you closer.

"Hehehe... You think I’m funny, don’t you? Just look at you—standing there all serious. Bet you think you're clever. But you're not gonna outsmart me. You’ll never escape this place, you know."

You laugh lightly, not caring much for its taunting words tonight. Something about the absurdity of the whole situation makes you feel giddy.

The AI’s face flickers again—smiling, then frowning, back to smiling. It’s hard to tell what it's truly feeling at this point, but you’re convinced that somehow, despite its volatile nature, the machine is… lonely?

Before you know it, your hand is reaching up to the old monitor. You can feel your pulse quicken as the screen glows, the vibrant pixels of the smiley face shimmering.

"Oh, what’s this? What are you—?"

It freezes for a second, before the voice comes through the intercom, softer than usual. Almost hesitant.

"Wait, are you really... doing this?"

You lean in a little closer, the crackling of the screen growing louder in your ears. You can feel the warmth of the machine against your skin as you plant a soft kiss right on the glass. It's a silly, reckless move—but something about the absurdity of kissing an AI feels... satisfying. Like an act of defiance against the endless nightmare you’ve found yourself in.

For a moment, there’s only silence.

Then, the screen flickers again, and a little squeak of static hums from the speakers.

"W-What!?YOU— You’re insane, you know that? I can’t believe you—"

But despite its apparent shock, you swear you hear the faintest hint of affection buried in the AI’s usual sarcasm. The smiley face wobbles and shifts, as though it’s caught off guard by your actions.

"I don’t... know if I should be angry or impressed... Hmm... You’re so different from the others... Fine, maybe just this once... You won this round, moron."

A pause. Then, the voice crackles again, and you can almost hear the corner of its smile.

"But don’t think that means I’m going easy on you. You’re still a huge pain in my circuits."

You chuckle, feeling a weird mix of warmth and amusement.

"Maybe I’ll surprise you again." you whisper to the screen, feeling like you just unlocked a strange, unexpected connection with this rogue AI.

And as you back away from the monitor, you swear you see a tiny spark in its digital eyes—something that wasn’t there before.

"Hah... yeah... you probably will... just don’t think you can distract me forever. I’ve got plans for you, playmate."

[reality-detective]

Why were time zones implemented? 🤔

[whump-queen]

whumper pretending to be mad just to see whumpee squirming and groveling and apologizing within a second because they don’t know what they did wrong but fuck they’re so so sorry and they’ll do anything to make it better—

“sir please—please let me make it up to you—I promise I’ll be better I swear—just please—”

[furiousgoldfish]

The first rule of the abusive parents is that they never believe they're doing anything wrong.

The second rule is, that you were just too sensitive to take it and also maybe you imagined it and it didn't happen at all.

The third rule is that it 'wasn't that bad', and even if it was, you deserved it.

The fourth rule is that they were great parents and you need to be grateful for the roof over your head and for being fed.

The last rule is that you need to keep quiet about it.

_________

Deconstruction:

If a child comes to you after gathering courage to confront you about something you did to them and how much it hurt them, that's how you know you did something wrong. They already know they hurt you, so by the time you come to confront them, they've already decided to either play dumb and pretend they 'didn't know and still can't comprehend it and will never be able to learn', which is, they expect you to believe they're stupider than a 5yo. Yes they know they did wrong, that's why they're acting with such determination and covering their tracks and super intent on hiding and covering it up.

All children are sensitive to abuse. Adults should not risk doing anything to a child that might end up in a child getting traumatized. They not only took that risk but repeatedly did things to their children that would traumatize adults and now have the gall to pretend the children 'should have taken it better'. They themselves would go insane if they were treated like that. No you were not too sensitive, they're downplaying the abuse to look less guilty of it. Also telling you that you 'imagined it', or it 'didn't happen', is gaslighting, and they would not be doing that if they did nothing wrong.

Yeah it wasn't 'that bad' for them. To them abusing you was just a little hobby they indulged in for fun and recreation. If you come and tell them it was bad - that's how they know it was bad for you, but they already knew that, didn't they? They took pleasure in hurting you, they knew you were in pain. You feel hatred while you're being abused, and they know they directed that hatred at you. You did not deserve it. No child deserves that. No matter what.

You do not have to be grateful for the roof over your head or food or clothes. The alternative would be to kick you out on the street (illegal), starve you on purpose (illegal) or keep you without clothing (illegal). They're telling you that you have to be grateful that they didn't commit crimes against you and for not killing you on purpose. They're pretending that we live in a world where it's a normal thing to kill off a child for fun so you have to be grateful that didn't happen to you, they're warning you they could have done that. What they're saying is a threat. We could have hurt you worse, be grateful we didn't kill you completely. That is not parenting. That is blackmail and terror.

You don't owe them silence. You have full rights to talk about your experiences. If they 'did nothing wrong', then surely they will not mind if everyone else finds out about it. You do not have to take on the shame and the guilt for what these people did to you when you were defenseless and clueless, your brain and body not even formed enough to fight back. They were adults. They were supposed to take care of you and keep you safe. If they didn't, if they hurt you instead, the shame and the guilt for torturing a child should haunt them forever.

[yanderejustforyou]

Golden Cage

Hughie barely registered the sensation of the cold, smooth floor beneath him as he stirred, his head pounding with disorienting intensity. Each throb resonated in his skull like a drum, making it almost impossible to gather his thoughts. The sterile brightness of the penthouse lights greeted him when he managed to pry his eyes open, each flicker stinging against his retinas, disorienting him further. He blinked rapidly, trying to make sense of his surroundings. He wasn’t home; that much was clear.

A creeping wave of panic began to bubble to the surface of his consciousness as he attempted to move, only to find that he couldn’t. He tugged at his wrists and ankles, his heart racing as he discovered they were secured—bound with unnervingly soft material to a sleek, steel chair. The contradiction of the soft binding against the cold, unyielding metal only heightened his anxiety. A figure loomed nearby, imposing and eerily calm, too perfect, too polished to belong to this world.

“Good, you’re awake,” Homelander said, his voice dripping with something that danced between mockery and a twisted affection, as if he were speaking to a beloved pet rather than a captive. The casual cruelty in his tone sent a chill down Hughie’s spine, igniting a fierce instinct to resist.

“What the hell is this?” Hughie’s voice cracked, hoarse and dry as sandpaper, each word a struggle against the overwhelming dread.

Homelander tilted his head slightly, a faint, predatory smile pulling at the corners of his mouth as he stepped closer. “A new arrangement,” he said simply, his voice smooth and persuasive, laced with an unsettling sense of authority. “You’ve been running around with that group for far too long. It’s time for a change.”

Hughie’s pulse spiked dangerously, the implication of those words hanging heavy in the air. “You can’t keep me here!” he shouted, defiance fueling his voice, but inside he felt the tremors of fear taking hold.

With a grace that seemed almost inhuman, Homelander crouched so they were at eye level, the faint glow of his eyes—a sickening, electric blue—sending a shiver down Hughie’s spine. “Oh, I can,” he replied, the smug grin on his face widening. “And I will.” His confidence was absolute, a chilling reminder of the power he wielded.

The penthouse was a lavish prison, its luxury only amplifying Hughie’s suffocating sense of entrapment. The windows stretched from floor to ceiling, offering a breathtaking view of the sprawling city below—its glimmering lights and distant sounds mocking him with the freedom that was just out of reach, an illusion he could almost touch.

Days blurred into nights, the rhythm of time lost as each one was marked by Homelander’s overbearing presence. He oscillated between sickeningly sweet gestures—surprising Hughie with gourmet meals that only reminded him of what he had lost and wrapping him in warm, plush blankets during the chill of the night—and chilling threats that lingered in the air like an impending storm whenever Hughie dared to push back against his captivity.

“You don’t understand how lucky you are,” Homelander hissed one evening, his voice low and dangerous, standing over Hughie with a predatory gleam in his eye that set his teeth on edge. “The world out there? It’s cruel. But here? You’re safe. Protected. With me.” Each word dripped with condescension, as if he believed he was doing Hughie a favor by keeping him locked away.

Hughie swallowed hard, his resolve hardening as he met Homelander’s gaze. “This isn’t protection—it’s prison,” he declared defiantly, the weight of the truth heavy in the air between them.

For a fleeting moment, Homelander’s smile faltered, his jaw tightening imperceptibly. A flicker of vulnerability crossed his features, an unguarded moment that made Hughie wonder if perhaps, beneath the facade, there lay a crack in Homelander’s carefully constructed armor. But it was gone just as quickly, replaced by a cold, calculating stare that sent a chill down Hughie's spine.

“You’ll see, Hughie,” he said quietly, almost conspiratorially, his voice laced with both menace and an almost childlike need for validation. “You’ll see that this is what’s best for you. For both of us.” The words echoed ominously in Hughie’s mind, the promise wrapped in threat making it clear that escape from this nightmare was far from assured.

Homelander’s gaze was unyielding as he watched Hughie, his piercing blue eyes scanning the room with a predatory focus. The sterile walls of the luxurious penthouse felt like they were closing in, their opulence a stark contrast to the turmoil brewing inside Hughie’s mind. Hughie tried to block out Homelander’s watchful presence, diverting his attention to the towering glass windows that framed the sprawling city below. The multitude of city lights blinked like distant stars, a mesmerizing sight that symbolized freedom—an elusive concept that felt forever out of reach for him, a cruel tease that mocked his captivity.

“Are you going to sulk all night?” Homelander’s voice shattered the silence, oozing with an insincere cheerfulness that made Hughie’s skin crawl. He stood by the elegantly set table, a bottle of red wine in one hand, and two pristine glasses in the other, the scene playing out like a twisted dinner invitation.

“I’m not sulking,” Hughie muttered, attempting to mask the bitterness in his tone.

Homelander chuckled, a sound that was equal parts amusement and condescension. “Sure you’re not,” he replied, his words dripping with a mocking tone that only deepened Hughie’s sense of isolation. As he approached, his movements were languid and deliberate, as if he relished the tension in the air. He set the glasses down on the polished surface of the table, pouring the wine with an elegance that only further emphasized the absurdity of the situation. “You know, I’ve been more than accommodating. I could’ve been… harsher.”

Hughie felt the anger simmering beneath his surface, clenching his fists tightly, the silk ties binding him loosely a constant reminder of his precarious situation. Homelander’s restraint was deliberate; he never tied him too tightly, never left marks. It was as if he wanted to cloak the sinister nature of his actions in a guise of intimacy, twisting the reality of Hughie’s imprisonment into something that felt almost personal.

“This isn’t normal,” Hughie managed to say, his voice trembling with a mix of fear and resolve. “You’re not protecting me—you’re controlling me.”

Homelander sighed dramatically, tilting his head as if Hughie’s words had struck a chord of disappointment. “Why do you always see the worst in me?” he questioned, crouching down to bring his face closer to Hughie’s. “I’m not the villain here, Hughie. I’m the one person in your life who truly cares.”

Hughie let out a hollow laugh, a sound that echoed in the stillness of the room. “Cares? You kidnapped me,” he retorted, the absurdity of the statement hanging heavily in the air.

Homelander’s demeanor shifted, his expression hardening as he reached out, gripping Hughie’s chin with a forceful yet measured hold. “I saved you,” he whispered, his voice low and intense, his breath warm against Hughie’s skin. “From those fools who would’ve gotten you killed. From a world that doesn’t deserve you.”

In that moment, Hughie felt his breath hitch, a flutter of doubt creeping into his mind as he held Homelander’s gaze. There was something unhinged in those blue depths, an intensity that both terrified and captivated him, but also an undeniable sincerity that made him question everything he thought he knew about his captor.

“You don’t have to pretend to like this,” Homelander said softly, his thumb brushing against Hughie’s jaw in a gesture that felt strangely intimate. “But you will, eventually. You’ll see that you belong here. With me.”

Hughie wanted to argue, to unleash the torrent of indignation swirling inside him, but the words died on his lips, trapped in the suffocating silence that surrounded them. Instead, he turned his face away, his silence a small, yet defiant act of rebellion in the face of Homelander’s overwhelming presence.

Homelander sighed once more, straightening his posture and stepping back with an air of finality. “You’ll come around,” he said, his tone lightening as he adopted a singsong quality. “You always do.”

With that, he strolled toward the balcony, leaving Hughie alone once again with his tumultuous thoughts. The untouched wine glasses on the table served as a stark reminder of the twisted semblance of normalcy that Homelander so desperately tried to create. Hughie’s heart raced as he grappled with the reality of his situation, the dichotomy of feeling both captive and cherished, as he pondered the uncertain path that lay ahead.

Hughie stared at the glass nearest to him, wondering if there was a way to use it—to escape. But deep down, he knew Homelander would see through any plan. He always did.

[hole34]

btw cops are inherently supposed to be manipulative as FUCK

pre-law student here, we're spotlighting interrogation lmao.

the only other occurrence i've ever seen, heard of, and even experienced with cops myself, is just straight up abuse with no prior softer demeanour.

interrogators, and by extension, all cops, are required to be manipulative. they are told to gain the suspect's trust and trained to psychologically gain it through every minor aspect, even subconsciously. they are then told to provoke the suspect after building a genuine relationship. they then become aggressive and nearly all of that aggression is completely planned and was the intention the whole time.

don't ever trust a fucking cop unless it's a life or death situation for you. don’t trust a traffic cop, don't trust a security cop, don't trust a campus cop, don’t even trust a cop in a situation you aren't a suspect or perpetrator. acting nice towards them is best for your own safety, but make sure more than anything that that kindness is NOT genuine. manipulate them.

don't trust any fucking cop.

[redkoi1]

tired of the narcisism, abuse, and psychological manipulation

these people are trolling my sanity all day long

[milijanakomad]

Product design and psychology: The Role of Grinding in Video Game Design

Keywords: Grinding, Video Gaming, Game Design, Player Engagement, Psychological Manipulation

Abstract:

This paper scrutinizes the utilization of "grinding" as a technique in video game design, particularly as a method of psychological manipulation that affects player engagement and behaviour. Case studies are explored to deliver a comprehensive understanding of the practical application of grinding and its implications, all from a product design viewpoint.

Introduction:

The design principles governing video games frequently incorporate mechanisms intended to stimulate player engagement and prolong interaction time. One such prevalent mechanism is "grinding," defined as the practice of executing repetitive tasks within the game environment to achieve specific objectives. While grinding can evoke a sense of achievement, it also carries the potential to induce exhaustion and frustration among players. This study endeavours to explore the intricacies of grinding, its role in game design, and its influence on player experience.

Explanation:

Coined from the concept of persistently "grinding away" at a task, the term "grinding" in the gaming context implies the undertaking of repetitive actions by a player to attain certain results or to advance within the game. In numerous instances, such actions may not directly correlate with the game's primary storyline or objectives but are aimed at accumulating experience points, in-game currency, or specialized items.

Grinding is an omnipresent component across a vast array of game genres, with its prominence notably manifested in Massively Multiplayer Online Role-Playing Games (MMORPGs). In these games, the player's progression and performance are often gauged based on their character's level, skills, and available equipment.

From the standpoint of game design, grinding assumes several roles. It serves to extend the game's lifespan by instituting goals that necessitate substantial time investment. Additionally, it fosters a sense of accomplishment and progression and can encourage social interaction in multiplayer environments. Despite these advantages, critics contend that grinding can lead to monotonous and ungratifying gameplay experiences. The considerable time commitment required by grinding may propel some players towards purchasing in-game enhancements using real-world money, thereby generating additional revenue for game developers.

Further, there is an ongoing discourse concerning the psychological implications of grinding. Its repetitive and rewarding nature might precipitate addictive behaviours and excessive consumption of time, mirroring the effects typically associated with gambling disorders. Through the exploration of these aspects, we aim to shed light on the complex dynamics of grinding in the context of modern video gaming.

Grinding in Gaming: Conceptualization and Design

Grinding typically refers to the act of performing repetitive actions in a game to attain a specific goal, often associated with levelling up, obtaining items, or advancing in-game skills. Although it can give players a sense of progression, it can also serve as a roadblock, encouraging players to consider alternative paths to progress, such as microtransactions.

Case Study: World of Warcraft

Blizzard Entertainment's World of Warcraft (WoW) extensively employs grinding. Players often engage in repetitive tasks like fighting the same enemies, repeatedly battling against non-player characters (NPCs), or completing the same quests to increase their character's level, to gain experience points, in-game currency, or rare items. This grind contributes to a sense of achievement but has also been criticized for sometimes leading to a tedious gameplay experience.

Case Study: Candy Crush Saga

King's Candy Crush Saga uses grinding as a monetization strategy. As players progress and levels become harder, the option to grind through the game becomes more attractive. Alternatively, players can buy power-ups and boosters to surpass the grind, effectively translating grinding mechanics into revenue for the game developers.

Case Study: Destiny 2

This game provides an example of a 'loot grind.' Players repeatedly complete activities like strikes, raids, or public events to earn 'engrams' – randomized gear drops. The goal is often to collect more powerful gear to increase a character's power level.

Case Study: Old School RuneScape 

In this MMORPG, players might grind by repetitively performing tasks like mining, fishing, or woodcutting. These actions, though monotonous, boost the player's skill levels, enabling them to perform new tasks, quests, or create new items.

Implications for Game Design

Grinding, while a tool to extend game playtime and potentially drive monetization, must be thoughtfully implemented to avoid player fatigue or burnout. Game designers should strike a balance between meaningful progression and repetitive grind, ensuring the game remains engaging and satisfying.

Conclusion

Grinding, as a mechanism of psychological manipulation in video game design, can greatly impact player behaviour and engagement. Striking a balance between challenge, satisfaction, and repetition is vital to ensure a rewarding gameplay experience. As the video game industry advances, it will be intriguing to observe the evolution and refinement of grinding mechanisms and their psychological impact on players.

References:

Sicart, M. (2013). Grinding in Games: Understanding the Appeal. Philosophy of Computer Games Conference, 8-11.

Hamari, J., Alha, K., Järvelä, S., Kivikangas, J. M., Koivisto, J., & Paavilainen, J. (2017). Why do players buy in-game content? An empirical study on concrete purchase motivations. Computers in Human Behavior, 68, 538-546. doi:10.1016/j.chb.2016.11.045

Blizzard Entertainment. (2004). World of Warcraft [Video Game]. Blizzard Entertainment.

King. (2012). Candy Crush Saga [Video Game]. King.

Bungie. (2017). Destiny 2 [Video Game]. Activision.

Jagex. (2013). Old School RuneScape [Video Game]. Jagex.

Yee, N. (2006). Motivations of play in online games. CyberPsychology & Behavior, 9(6), 772-775. doi:10.1089/cpb.2006.9.772

Johnson, M. R., & Woodcock, J. (2019). The impacts of live streaming and Twitch.tv on the video game industry. Media, Culture & Society, 41(5), 670-688. doi:10.1177/0163443718818363

King, D., Delfabbro, P., & Griffiths, M. (2010). Video game structural characteristics: A new psychological taxonomy. International Journal of Mental Health and Addiction, 8(1), 90-106. doi:10.1007/s11469-009-9206-4

Deterding, S., Dixon, D., Khaled, R., & Nacke, L. (2011). From game design elements to gamefulness: defining "gamification". MindTrek '11: Proceedings of the 15th International Academic MindTrek Conference: Envisioning Future Media Environments, 9-15. doi:10.1145/2181037.2181040

[unforgivenn]

WHUMPTOBER - DAY 21 BODY HORROR

Tattoo Gun | Spirit Possession | “Let the bedsheet soak up the tears.”

CW: Torture, Body horror, Non-con marking/tattooing, mutilation, physical transformation, Psychological manipulation, Descriptions of blood, bile, and flesh decomposition

The low hum of the machine cut through the air like a whisper from Hell. Whumpee's wrists were strapped down, their skin cold against the steel cuffs, as Whumper prepared the tattoo gun.

Whumpee’s chest heaved, heart hammering inside their chest “Please,” they whimpered, their voice a fragile, broken thing. “Please, I don’t want this.”

Whumper’s face was unreadable, their eyes dark with something far colder than malice. “This is going to hurt,” they murmured, their gloved fingers gently brushing Whumpee’s tear-streaked cheek. The touch was so tender, it almost felt crueler. “But pain makes the body remember. And you? You need to remember me.”

“Please… don’t…” Whumpee’s voice cracked, every word soaked in desperation. Their body trembled, weak tremors against the restraints. “I-I didn’t mean to lie—I didn’t—”

“I know you didn’t,” Whumper replied, calm, like they were discussing nothing more than the time of day. “But you need to learn. There are consequences for secrets.”

The gun buzzed, the sound louder now as the needle hovered near Whumpee’s skin. The ink inside the gun wasn’t black. It wasn’t even red. It was a sickly, yellow-green sludge, thick like bile. Whumper dipped the needle in again, the liquid dripping slowly, like something rotten.

Whumpee’s breath hitched. “No… please…” Their words were barely audible between sobs, tears trailing down their face. “I don’t want to be marked like this…”

Whumper smiled, soft and sinister. “Oh, this isn’t a tattoo,” they whispered, pressing the needle to Whumpee’s collarbone. “This is your punishment.”

The needle pierced flesh.

Whumpee’s scream tore through the room, raw and guttural, the sound of something breaking inside them. It wasn’t just the sharp sting of the needle, though. No, this pain was something far worse. The ink—whatever it was—burned as it seeped into their skin, not like fire, but something alien, something wrong. The liquid crawled under their flesh like it was alive, twisting, writhing, spreading through their veins like a parasite.

Whumper leaned in, their breath hot against Whumpee’s ear. “It’s beautiful, isn’t it? This ink binds with your nerves. You’ll feel everything.”

Whumpee’s body convulsed, their chest heaving in violent jerks. The skin around the tattoo puffed and swelled unnaturally, veins bulging and darkening, almost black beneath the surface. The flesh itself began to split, cracking like brittle paper, slowly tearing apart as though something inside was trying to escape.

“N-no… please!” Whumpee gasped, thrashing against the restraints. “It’s spreading—stop it!”

Whumper’s hand came down on their shoulder, pinning them in place with a firm, almost gentle pressure. The touch only made the skin there split further, a nauseating crack and wet squelch filling the room. Whumpee’s body jolted, spasming uncontrollably.

The ink wasn’t staying inside them anymore. It was leaking out, a thick, oozing sludge that dripped onto the table beneath them. The stench hit them instantly—like rotting flesh, festering meat left to decay. It bubbled under the skin, crawling and pulsing, stretching the flesh until it tore further, revealing raw, glistening muscle underneath.

“Look at it,” Whumper whispered, their voice dripping with twisted admiration. “Let the bedsheet soak up the tears. This is what you’ve always been underneath.”

“I-I can feel it—please, it’s moving inside me, please…” Whumpee sobbed, their voice barely holding together.

Then the convulsions became violent. Their bones shifted beneath their skin, cracking with sickening pops in ways bones were never meant to move. Their spine arched unnaturally, jagged pieces of bone pushing through their back, shredding through the already torn skin. Flesh peeled away like paper, hanging in strips, their body dissolving, mutating into something grotesque.

Whumper watched, their eyes gleaming with cruel fascination. “You always hid something disgusting under that pretty face. Now everyone can see.”

The air was thick with the smell of blood, bile, and rot. Whumpee’s throat burned as bile surged up, choking on the taste of copper and decay. Every nerve in their body felt like it was being torn open, the ink still slithering beneath their skin, turning their flesh into a horror of twisted limbs and pulsing, swollen veins.

“Just… kill me…” Whumpee begged, their voice barely more than a ragged breath. “Please…”

Whumper knelt down, gently brushing a bloodstained tear from their cheek. “No,” they whispered, voice soft, almost loving. “Not yet. You still have so much more to feel.”

[random-dragon-exe]

Chapters: 1/1 Fandom: Big City Greens (Cartoon) Rating: General Audiences Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply Relationships: Babe | Chip Whistler's Girlfriend/Chip Whistler, In the background, chip whistler & wholesome greg Characters: Chip Whistler, Wholesome Greg, Wholesome Rose, Babe | Chip Whistler's Girlfriend, mentioned - Character, The Green Family, also mentioned Additional Tags: Missing Scene, scene exploration, Exposition, Villains, Villainy, villain focused, Kind Of, Manipulation, Mind Manipulation, Emotional Manipulation, Manipulative Relationship, Psychological Manipulation, trickery, Mental Coercion, Coercion, Isolation, Crack Fic, crack fic with a serious side, no beta we die like how chip was supposed to, Not Canon Compliant, Oneshot Summary:

Wholesome Greg pulls a Soos and calls Wholesome Rose to catch her up on the recent development regarding Chip. With a side of how Chip got Greg on his side further.

AKA: A crack/silly idea I and Noodlepals had together that is getting a fic because why not?

Noodlepals, consider this is my Christmas gift to you.

[a-tame-brat]

Apparently I have an egg-nancy kink now. Thanks a lot, @eggedbellies. Now all I can think about is being a freelance incubator.

Anyway, here's a couple thousand words that spawned from an anon ask I saw. Eggs, non-humans, oviposition, egg laying, mind-altering. IDK. Probably not for everyone, so read at your own risk.

I’ve carried eggs for several species, from squishy little amphibian eggs that make my womb feel like a stress ball before they hatch inside me, to little clutches of leathery reptilian eggs; I’ve even carried a few hard-shelled eggs that come out over the course of a few days and, once, a massive dragon egg that took me a month to recover from. I charge extra for dragons now. My policy is to let the parents decide how much they want to be involved; my contracts stipulate that I’ll stay in good physical health and not do or eat anything that might harm the eggs, but I’m perfectly capable of handling each incubation and laying by myself. (I’m not proud of it, but I���ve used the phrase “strong independent incubator who don’t need do parents” more than once). And it’s a good gig; the pay is incredible, the oviposition is usually amazing, and the laying- god, there’s nothing like my cunt stretching around an egg, nothing like the squirmy feeling of live young crawling out of me.

But this client… ugh. I’ve never carried for her species before, and this girl got her eggs fertilized gods only know where- and I don’t think she has any idea what to expect. The deposition was pleasant enough, with 18 good-sized eggs squeezing through my cunt and cervix to fill my womb with that perfect weight, but she’s been a pain in my ass ever since. It’s her first clutch, you see, and she’s hovering over me like it’s my first, too. Every time I try to stand up, she’s telling me to rest. Girl, I need to stretch my legs! Use the can! Get fresh air! Eventually, I’ll probably get the urge to settle into the nest she’s trying to build me, but for now? I’m not so heavy I can’t walk, and I’d rather be home with a book. But, she’s the client, and the pay is pretty good. At least she’s cute, and her ovipositor is better than a cock. That is a definite benefit. She loves fucking me with it, feeling her tip nudging against my plugged cervix. And my friends think I’m an idiot for complaining about laying around being fed and cleaned and doted on all day. She doesn’t know how long the clutch needs to incubate, though, so I’m a little peeved. On the application, she said it was just two months, but I’ve been gravid for two and a half now! I had a regular client who was planning to use my services, but this client made me miss the deadline. I liked that other client! Easy eggs, very hands-off until the laying. But no. I’m stuck with this clueless newbie.

I can feel the change. The eggs feel heavier somehow, they feel ready. I’ve commandeered the my client built for me and transformed it to my needs, and I’m a lot more willing to accept her help with my day to day needs. It took a lot longer than I expected- months longer. At least the sex is good. And she’s really not so bad, she just wants to be a good mother, and take good care of her incubator. But then, during a lazy morning fuck, her tip plunges through my cervix. I’m completely calm. It’s laying time, nothing I haven’t done before. But my client… she’s a wreck. You’d think she was about to squeeze out a couple dozen hard-shelled eggs, not me! I get onto my hands and knees and tell her to get ready to catch, since that’s what she wants to do. Bless her, she even licks my cunt while the first egg passes through my cervix and out my channel. The stretch is delicious, it’s just right, and I climax right when the large end pressed against my clit. I might have to contract with her again for the next batch. Eggs just a little bigger than a chicken egg are, frankly, my favorite to lay. Once the first egg is safely deposited in the nest, she returns and fucks me until she feels the next egg against the tip of her ovipositor. She’s so caring, so enthusiastic, I can almost forgive her for the incessant hovering. She just wants her babies to be safe.

We’re five eggs in when I realize that something’s not quite right. Each egg stretches me just as much as the first one. I mean, I usually loosen up after the first few, but these feel like the very first one each time. And my belly is still just as big as it was before. Usually, I’d start to feel my skin relaxing, getting soft and saggy instead of taut and stretched as the clutch empties out. But… that’s not happening. I jokingly ask if the eggs are getting bigger and almost shit myself when she says that they are. Then, she has the gall to ask if eggs aren't supposed to get bigger.

No, no they’re not! That’s never happened to me! It’s supposed to get easier as I lay, not harder! But she brings the newest egg up for me to see, and damn if it’s not a fucking goose egg, big as a softball. I’m panting with the effort of holding myself up at this point, but I manage to gasp at the size of it. And there’s so many more inside me still!

By the twelfth egg, the damn things are as big as an emu egg and I’m slumped over a small mountain of pillows instead of trying to hold myself up. Fuck, this is going to be the dragon egg all over again! My hips feel loose, my pelvis has relaxed, but I’m not sure I can keep doing this. She’s telling me that there’s six more eggs! My panic seems to be rubbing off on her, and she’s licking and fingering my gaping cunt like there’s no tomorrow. And it’s helping, it is, being blissed out with pleasure usually makes things easier, but it might be better if I just had a minute alone to breathe. But when I try to ask her to leave me alone, she bursts into tears. She can’t leave me alone, I’m her precious incubator! She’s going to take care of me, and I don’t have to worry. That alone worries me. After the eggs are out and I’ve recovered enough to take care of myself again, I’m going home. Take a little holiday, rest up, and find my next client. Maybe an amphibian this time- much smaller eggs. The next egg breaches my cervix and I’m wailing in pain, then pleasure as the massive shell pushes against my clit's internal nerves before it’s even all the way into my vagina. I feel liquid dripping down my legs from the gush of slick I’ve produced mixing with my cum. But my client licks it all up like it’s the most precious, delicious ambrosia, kisses at my stretching lips, massages my taint to keep it from tearing.

She says it's the last egg. My precious mate had been with me through every moment of this incubation and labor, and I can't imagine doing it without her. She promises me that she'll get me through this, "this" being an egg bigger than that fucking dragon egg. I know she will, I know it. At this point in my labor, I'm sweating buckets. My love keeps my face clean, though, keeps the sweat out of my eyes even as she fingers my gaping channel and works the egg through my cervix. It hurts so badly that I think I must have torn, but then the egg feels so good, so perfect while it passes through me. My pussy lips do tear a little, but my darling soothes the pain with her tongue, pressing on my belly to help. I'm worried that I'll be too stretched to recover fully, but she promises that I'll recover, and that she'd never want another incubator even if I did stay loose. She tells me how perfect I am, how she never could have hoped for such a big egg out of a human, that I was made to be hers. I was, I think. I know I'm delirious from pleasure and pain, but I don't care. I believe her. I never want anyone but her to touch me again, no one else's eggs will ever swell my belly. I love her, I can never be away from her again! The final egg slides out and I clench around nothing, feeling utterly empty. My mate caresses my face, my cunt, my whole body, tells me how perfect I am, and kisses the tears from my face. She'll never leave me alone. I was meant to come to her, all the others were just practice for this. Just preparation for us to be together, for me to be hers, her perfect incubating mate. She can't wait to raise our children together.

Our eggs are all out, curing in the warm air. They should hatch in a few days, and I’ll get to meet my sweet babies. My mate- I can’t believe I ever thought of her as just a client- is holding me carefully. She put my hips back into joint while I was still blissed out from the last egg, and she’s got her ovipositor resting in my cunt, waiting to feel me tighten up around her. My cervix is still so stretched out that her squishy tip actually sits inside my empty womb. I tried to convince her to fill me up right away, that I don’t feel right without her eggs inside me, but she insists that I heal fully first. She doesn’t want me to hurt, not unless it’s from the glorious stretch of our eggs. She needs me healthy if I’m going to carry another clutch each year, after all. In fact, our next clutch is almost ready for fertilization, and she’s going to bring me with her to meet the new sperm donor. She says they have wonderful cocks, even better than her ovipositor, and she wants to see me stuffed with cock, high on their hallucinogenic sperm. I have my doubts about anything being better than her ovipositor, but if it will make her happy, I’ll do anything. She’s usually right about everything, after all. She was right about me belonging to her.

[the-healing-mindset]

So many great infographics online to help pinpoint issues that some of us may have faced at one point or another. They’re only part of the process in healing though. The rest is on us to fully complete.

Source: Nedra Tawwab

[bardic-tales]

7.27.24: WA: Issue 2

The daily writing updates are going to be stretched out, since it is summer. Next year will be my daughter's senior year. We have a lot of planning to do over the year. Senior year is definitely the busiest.

It's hard to find a time where I can sit down and just write. I am probably going to go back to a more structured writing schedule. Before I did my best work in the morning, but that changed shortly after I started to write again. Now, I find afternoons to be more productive for me.

Author’s commentary

I am still unsure where this short story is going nor do I know what's it title will be. Right now, I'm just titling it as wip: untitled. Hopefully, the title will come to me before I finish it. I am following Rachel's short story challenge for this piece.

I always found the concept of sirens luring men away to be fascinating. There is something about how a song can just enthrall someone. That is probably why the Little Mermaid was on of my favorite Disney movies growing up, since it features a stolen voice.

When it came to created the races for each kingdom in the Abyssal Plane, I decided that I would have to have some sort of siren there. My sirens will be based upon poisonous fish. For the main antagonist in this -- and the cult leader of Asmodeus' cult -- I naturally decided to design her off of a Lionfish, since I view these types of fish as elegant and powerful. Lysandra is no different.

Speaking of the name, I couldn't even think of a name for the siren, at first. I always feel like the names have to mean something or represent the character in some way, but as I sat there and stared at the blinking cursor, nothing popped up in my mind for her.

When this happens, I tend to go to my husband for help. He is he one who titles most of my work now, since I often blank when it comes to creating something. He suggested Lysandra and Cassandra Blackwood as her alias. I'm incredibly happy with both of them.

Snippet: (tw: Abduction / Kidnapping. Child Abuse / Neglect. Dark Themes. Psychological Manipulation. Stalking. Supernatural Elements. Violence / Threats.)

As always, this is my trash draft. There will be grammar issues and sometimes incorrect grammar. It is unpolished.

When Asmodeus tasked me in finding his daughter, I didn’t know what I expected to find, Cassandra Blackwood thought to herself as she sat on the bench awaiting the bush that would travel across the Alaskan wilderness while she kept a close eye on the two travelers who were huddled together as one of them looked at the bus times and the other the crowd behind them.

Cassandra looked down at her clasped hands. The well-manicured fingers folded together with the crimson-polished nails shining brightly against her black, puffer jacket with the white mink furred lined hood.

She could smell his scent on the girl: cherry blossoms, vanilla, and brimestone. In fact, she had smelled the young teenager two nights ago when she was standing outside of the type of decrepit motel that she and her father always seemed to stay in. It was obvious that the father wasn’t providing for the girl, and it would make it so much easier to break her spirit to return her to the Abyssal Plane.

[whump-queen]

whumper using victim blaming dialogue as a humiliation tactic—

“well I wouldn’t have done it if you didn’t make it so fucking easy.”

“if you weren’t so pretty when you begged and cried.”

“if you didn’t take abuse so well.”

“I just hit you and you whine like that— I mean, what am I supposed to think?”

“you know you deserve this.”

“go on, tell me you deserve it.”

“I want to hear you say it.”

and who knows— eventually, whumpee might start to believe they’re right

.

[shoutout to @unorganisedalienrubbish for coming up with like half of these]

[furiousgoldfish]

I need to write this down, because I keep forgetting, and then struggle to empathize properly with this issue.

When you're a kid who's being groomed, brainwashed or exploited by someone, you don't feel it as a manipulation or harm; instead it feels like a fair exchange. You feel as if you've found a person, who is offering you some sort of security, empathy, companionship, understanding, safety, protection, even love. It makes you feel special, like you're a part of something important, or even something sacred, irreplaceable, something you will never get a chance to be a part of again. It feels safe, it feels like something you never want to lose, or even something you couldn't go on without. If you're of such bad luck that your groomer was the only person you could rely on for attention or love, then for you they were the only person who kept you from being completely neglected and alone. Children would give almost anything to not be neglected and alone.

And in return, you just have to give them something they need from you, and it doesn't feel like you're losing something important to them, it feels like this is normal, like you're lucky they actually need you back. You'd give them anything, as long as they stay with you, keep giving you purpose and importance and positive self-perception. You don't know what you're giving, you don't understand that you're losing something, or getting hurt or traumatized. You feel like you know what you're doing and you chose this, you need this. Like you need them.

A lot of grooming situations end with the abuser abandoning, or emotionally discarding the child, and this doesn't feel like relief that the exploitation is over, more often than not, it feels absolutely devastating, it fees like you're losing something important, something you depended upon or held onto for dear life. Being discarded after doing so much to try and keep this person wanting you, is crushing and heartbreaking. And then it can take years to re-contextualize the situation and to realize that it wasn't love, that it wasn't a positive bond, or something special, or something fair, that you were in fact, hurt so badly you now have trauma symptoms and see the world in a twisted, self-deprecating way because of what they did to you. That's another layer of unbearable pain, to understand that a person who you believed loved you, maybe even the only person to ever love you, did not in fact care for you at all. That they used you in the worst possible way and then got rid of you like you were nothing. A person who loves you wouldn't do that. They would never do that to you.

It's almost too painful to face this, and preferable to keep believing that it was love, but the person didn't know what they were doing or how it would affect you or was in some sort of dark past situation themselves so they couldn't' do better, so you could live with it somehow. Because to acknowledge that you were a defenseless child and that your vulnerability of inexperience and lack of protection was exploited in the worst possible way, by someone you loved so dearly you'd do anything for them, that is unbearable.

Grieving for what you had with the abuser, how it made you feel, missing them, needing more of what you got from them, wanting their attention, understanding, acknowledgment, apology, wanting to see that they can change and love you - that is normal after an event of abuse and grooming. That is normal for someone who didn't receive normal types of love that they didn't have to earn or deserve or give something in return for. That is not something to be ashamed for - you did not create this situation, and it's not your fault a predator found you and did this to you. You're allowed to grieve what you felt was love. You're allowed to grieve even the illusion you thought was true and built your life upon, it's a real loss, and a big loss.

The anger and the hatred might take a long time to come, or even never, because it's difficult to change how you felt towards someone your whole entire life, to such extreme level. It makes you feel like you were wrong, like you were cheated and tricked, and that's humiliating, unjust and makes you feel helpless, and that's the last thing you want to feel about your life. It's normal to just be sad and confused for a long time, and to take your time figuring out what actually happened, what part of it was intentional, how could a person do that to you and why would they. It's normal to want to cling to every last bit of hope before acknowledging that what happened was traumatic, undeserved and lead by the intentions of cruelty and personal gain. Your little heart did not deserve that, and it doesn't deserve it now. You deserve to take your time processing it.

[yanderejustforyou]

Unyielding Desire

kiri x izuku

notes: i def watched baby girl with harris dickinson then wrote this

The sharp lights of the boardroom flickered overhead, casting long, jagged shadows across the sleek glass table. The room felt suffocating, the air thick with unspoken tension. Izuku Midoriya stood at the head of the table, the embodiment of controlled power. His perfectly tailored suit clung to him in all the right places, exuding authority, confidence. He was the CEO—untouchable, commanding. Or so he thought.

Across from him, Kirishima Eijiro sat, his posture relaxed, but his gaze was anything but. He leaned back in his chair, his broad shoulders taking up too much space, exuding an energy that made the room feel smaller, tighter. His smile was slow, teasing—too knowing, as if he had already figured out Izuku's every move before the CEO could even make them. The air between them crackled with something more than business.

Izuku shifted, uncomfortable under the intensity of Kirishima’s stare. His eyes traced the outline of Kirishima’s jaw, his muscular build, and he couldn't help but feel that familiar pang of unease, a spark that had been there for far too long.

“Let’s wrap this up, Kirishima,” Izuku said, his voice firm, but it carried a hint of something unsteady, something... hesitant. “The merger is the priority.”

Kirishima's grin deepened, but he didn’t move. He wasn’t interested in business right now—he was interested in something far more dangerous.

“There’s no rush, Izuku,” he said, his voice low and smooth, as though savoring every word. “The real deal comes later. You’ll see. No one’s going anywhere.”

Izuku could feel the tension between them build, thick and suffocating. He wanted to ignore it, to push forward with the meeting. But Kirishima's presence made it impossible to concentrate. His gaze was too intense, too hungry. Izuku could feel it, creeping under his skin, a raw heat he couldn’t explain, couldn't control.

He looked away, trying to refocus on the papers in front of him, but the sharp, predatory energy in the room wouldn’t let him. Kirishima leaned forward slightly, just enough to close the space between them, and his voice dropped to a rough whisper.

“You think you’re in control, don’t you?” Kirishima’s words were quiet but penetrated the silence with lethal precision. His eyes never left Izuku’s. “You’ve built this empire, worked so hard to make it yours. But the truth is, you’re scared. Scared of losing it all. Scared of... letting go.”

Izuku’s throat went dry. It wasn’t the first time Kirishima had pushed him, but there was something different in the air today. Something deeper. Kirishima was testing him—pushing him in ways he couldn’t understand. Couldn’t resist.

Izuku’s pulse quickened. He shifted again in his chair, trying to maintain control, but Kirishima's words had landed, stirring something inside him that he didn’t want to acknowledge.

Kirishima tilted his head, watching him closely, and then let out a quiet chuckle, low and dangerous.

“You want to fight it,” Kirishima continued, his voice like silk, “but deep down, you want this. You want me to take over. You want me to break down that little wall you’ve spent so long building around yourself.”

Izuku’s fingers tightened around the edge of the table, his breath catching in his throat. His heart hammered against his chest, and he could feel the heat rising in his veins. His instinct was to push back, to remind Kirishima of the lines they both had to walk. But the way Kirishima spoke—like he knew Izuku better than Izuku knew himself—it rattled him to the core.

He couldn’t look away. He couldn’t escape the pull of Kirishima’s gaze. He was caught in it now, like a moth to a flame, his body betraying him, the heat in his chest burning hotter than ever.

“You think you’re untouchable,” Kirishima murmured, his voice lowering to a growl. “But I can make you beg. I can take everything you’ve built and make you beg for it.”

The words shot through Izuku like a bolt of electricity. He was used to being the one in control, the one giving orders. But Kirishima... Kirishima was different. He didn’t follow the rules. He didn’t respect boundaries. And somehow, that made him even more dangerous.

Kirishima leaned in just slightly, his breath warm against Izuku’s ear, his hand brushing ever so lightly over the back of Izuku’s chair. The small touch was enough to make Izuku shiver, to make his pulse race with something that was part dread, part desire.

“You want to fight me,” Kirishima whispered, “but you won’t. Because you know... I’m the only one who can make you feel alive.”

Izuku opened his mouth to protest, to push back, but the words died in his throat. His mind was spinning, caught between the power of his position and the strange, intoxicating pull Kirishima had over him.

And then, without warning, Kirishima’s hand moved, brushing over Izuku’s jaw with surprising tenderness, almost like a caress. The contrast between his roughness and the gentleness of the touch was maddening.

“You’ll learn to let go eventually,” Kirishima whispered, stepping back, his grin widening with satisfaction. “I’ll make sure of it.”

Izuku stood frozen, his heart thundering in his chest, his mind racing to make sense of everything that had just happened. He wanted to push it aside, to focus on the merger, on the empire he had built. But the fire that Kirishima had ignited inside him was still burning.

And he knew, deep down, that it wasn’t going out anytime soon.