#Psychological Manipulation | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

orellazalonia · 2 months ago

Text

Rewritten

Summary: You wake up in a cozy home with no memory of anything. You find your alleged lovers reassuring you that you’ve always lived there and that they’ll stay by your side through this difficult time. However, you can’t seem to shake the feeling that something is wrong. (Dark!Bucky Barnes x reader x Dark!Steve Rogers)

Warnings/Disclaimer: Minors DNI. Dark Bucky Barnes. Dark Steve Rogers. Psychological & emotional manipulation. Memory loss. Gaslighting. Alludes to Kidnapping.

Word Count: 4.9k+

A/N: To be honest, I had the idea for this one but struggled to write it. I hope it turned out decent enough. You are responsible for the media you consume. Let me know if I should add something else to the warnings, tags, or anything else.

Main Masterlist

You wake to the soft warmth of sunlight spilling through sheer curtains, casting an ethereal glow over the room. The faint scent of pancakes lingers in the air, drifting through your senses like an old, forgotten memory.

The bed is plush beneath you and too soft, almost as if it were made to cocoon you, to hold you in a place of perfect comfort. The sheets are smooth, cool, but they don't belong. They're foreign, unfamiliar. You blink, disoriented. Something about the room seems… off. There’s a quiet stillness to it, a sense of being watched, though the air is unthreatening. A low hum of something distant, like a heart beating just a little too fast.

The room is small, but cozy. Elegant, even. The soft glow of the morning sun is reflected in the delicate furniture such as a nightstand with a polished wood surface or the dresser with a few scattered items on top. Your eyes, still unfocused, drift to a framed picture on the nightstand. You reach out automatically, though your hand trembles slightly as you grasp the edge of the frame.

The photo inside is a strange sight.

It’s a picture of you. You’re smiling, laughing, in fact. Your arms are wrapped around two men, standing close to each other with their own hands resting on your shoulders. You look happy, relaxed. Safe.

But you don’t recognize them. Not at all.

The taller man has blond hair, a strong jawline, and eyes that should be comforting, but they don’t reach you. He’s smiling down at you as if you were someone he cared about, but you can’t remember ever knowing him. The other man has dark, disheveled hair, a shadow of stubble along his jaw, and eyes that seem… more distant. Cold. But even as you stare, your heart feels like it’s trying to remember something buried, something lost.

You drop the frame back onto the nightstand with a soft thud, and for a moment, the silence is deafening.

“Hey.”

The voice comes from the doorway, low and warm, though the words hold an edge you can’t place.

You snap your head up, your breath quickening as you sit up on the bed. A man stands there tall, broad-shouldered, with a metal arm hanging at his side. His eyes, dark and full of something unreadable, watch you carefully. You can feel his gaze weighing on you, measuring you.

“You’re awake,” His voice is soft but firm. He looks oddly… relieved. But there's something about the way he watches you, something that doesn’t feel quite right.

“Who… who are you?” Your voice is hoarse, trembling, and you immediately feel a sense of panic clawing at your chest.

The man takes a step forward, his expression unreadable. “It’s okay. Don’t worry. You don’t remember us again, but that’s okay.” His voice dips a little, softer. “It happens.”

“Remember? I don’t remember anything.”

A sharp, sudden shift in the air. You don’t realize it until the second man enters the room. He’s around the same height, though leaner. Blond. His gaze falls on you immediately, and you feel an odd wave of something unfamiliar crash over you, a strange mixture of comfort and something darker.

The first man, the one who spoke, stands a little straighter at the sight of him. The second man, Steve, doesn’t seem phased at all. If anything, he’s relieved to see you awake.

But something is wrong. You can’t place it. There’s an unease in the pit of your stomach, like the weight of their presence is too heavy for you to bear.

“You’ve been through a lot,” Steve says, his voice gentle but steady. “Hydra did things to you… erased your memories. But we’re here now. We’ll help you remember.”

Your hands grip the edge of the blanket, knuckles white. Your head feels thick, heavy, as if there’s a fog clouding your thoughts. “I don’t… know you. I don’t remember this place. I don’t know who you are.”

“You’ve been here before,” Steve continues, taking a slow step closer to you. “This isn’t the first time, but don’t worry. It will get easier. We’ll help you through it.” His hand reaches toward you, a tentative gesture, but there’s something possessive in the way he moves, something that makes you shudder.

“You always forget,” The man with the metal arm, Bucky, adds quietly. He doesn’t step closer, but his eyes are locked onto you, searching. “But it’s okay. We’ll remind you.”

“Don’t lie to me,” You say, your voice trembling. There’s an instinct in you, a pull to trust what they’re saying, but your gut screams that something isn’t right. “Who are you? What have you done to me?”

Steve’s hand lingers in the air, just a breath from your cheek, before he withdraws it slowly. “You were lost. You didn’t remember us the first time, either.” His words are soft, almost too soft. “But you will. You always do.”

Bucky stands silent behind Steve, his eyes fixed on you with something too intense to describe. His posture is stiff, controlled, as if he’s afraid of moving too suddenly. But there’s something cold in his gaze, something calculating, like he’s waiting to see if you’ll break.

A memory flickers in your mind, so brief it might have been imagined: a faint moment of laughter, of warmth. You and these men together, somewhere you can’t quite place. But it vanishes before you can hold onto it.

“Just… tell me the truth,” You whisper, your breath shallow. “Tell me what’s happening.”

“You’re safe,” Steve assures, kneeling beside the bed, his hand brushing the side of your face with the gentleness of a lover. “You’re always safe with us.”

Bucky steps forward then, his eyes narrowing just slightly as he watches you. His voice is low. “We’ve kept you safe every time, haven’t we?”

Something heavy fills the air between you. They’re speaking like you’re a child they’ve been caring for, but you know, something inside you knows, that’s not all of it. This isn’t just care. This feels like control.

“You belong with us after all,” Bucky murmurs, almost to himself, but loud enough for you to hear.

You flinch back as the words reverberate in your chest.

The door locks behind them with a quiet click, and you feel it reverberate in your chest like the closing of a cage. The room suddenly seems smaller, suffocating. You try to stand, to make sense of your surroundings, but your legs feel unsteady beneath you, as if they’ve forgotten how to hold your weight.

Steve remains kneeling beside the bed, his hand still hovering near your face, his touch a strange mixture of warmth and weight. His eyes are searching your face with a tenderness that should be comforting. But it isn’t.

“You don’t need to be afraid,” Steve says, his voice almost too smooth, too comforting. “You’re home now.“

“But I… don’t know you,” You whisper, the words breaking against the thick tension in the air.

You don’t know how to feel. There’s a pull in your chest, an undeniable ache to trust him, but every fiber of your being tells you to run, to escape this unfamiliar warmth. But where would you go? There are no windows in this room, only soft, almost hypnotic light and the oppressive presence of two men who insist they’ve known you for far longer than you can remember.

Bucky watches from across the room, his metal arm resting against the doorframe, his eyes dark and calculating. It’s hard to tell if he’s waiting for you to calm down, or if he’s simply studying you, waiting for the exact moment your resistance breaks.

“We’ve been through this before,” Bucky says, his voice low, but it carries an edge of something dark. "Every time, you don’t remember, but you get it back. We’re here for you.”

Your eyes flicker to him, his posture so tense, it’s like he’s bracing for something, waiting for a signal you can’t see. You don’t know him. You don’t know any of this, and yet… The flicker of a memory dances in the back of your mind again. You see yourself in his arms held close, like you belong. But it’s all too foggy, too distant. The image fades before you can grasp it fully.

Bucky shifts, his gaze flicking between you and Steve. His body language speaks of restraint, like he’s holding something back, fighting a temptation to move closer. His hand flexes by his side, the metallic fingers of his left hand clenching in a subtle but telling motion.

“You don’t remember the last time we had breakfast together, do you?” Steve asks gently, as if testing a boundary. “You laughed so hard when I tried to cook the eggs. You called me an idiot, and then we ate on the couch, watching that romance show you love.”

You search his eyes for any hint of deception, but they’re so earnest, so soft. The words tug at something inside you, a small thread of something familiar, but your mind stubbornly holds its ground. You’re not sure if you want to trust him or if you’re simply desperate to feel like you’re home.

“I don’t remember,” You whisper, your voice catching. You want to believe him, but the words don’t feel right. “I… I don’t know, I’m sorry.”

“That’s okay,” Steve says, smiling as though this is just another part of the process, as if it’s routine. As if the confusion is natural, and it should be expected. “We’ll remind you, just like we always do.”

Bucky steps forward, his voice colder now, more insistent. “You always say that, Steve.” His eyes never leave you. “We’ve done this before. She’ll get it back, eventually.”

There’s something unsettling in the way he speaks, as if he’s not entirely sure himself that you are the same person who walked in here before. You look at Bucky, trying to make sense of him. There’s an intensity to his gaze, a hardness in his features that doesn’t soften, not even when he speaks. The way he stands, so still and poised, makes you feel like a mouse trapped in a predator’s gaze.

“Every time,” He murmurs, a strange satisfaction in his voice. “We’ll remind you. You’ll come back.”

Come back.

It feels like a command, like a foregone conclusion, and something inside you rebels against it. You want to ask him what he means, ask them both what they mean, but the words stick in your throat. You open your mouth, but nothing comes out.

Steve reaches up, cupping your chin gently with his hand. His touch is soft, but there’s an undercurrent of something darker beneath it. “We’re not going to leave you. You’ll remember. It’ll be like it always was. Like it should be.”

A flicker of discomfort sharpens your senses. There’s a strange, hollow weight behind his words, as though they don’t just want you to remember—they need you to.

“What… what if I don’t remember?” You ask, the words coming out quieter than you intended.

Steve leans in closer, his voice lower now, coaxing. “You will. You always do.”

Bucky steps forward, his eyes cold, unreadable. His lips barely twitch into something resembling a smile, but it’s fleeting, like it doesn’t quite belong. “We’ll help you. We always do.”

Something dark unfurls in your chest, a quiet, nagging suspicion that they’ve been here before. They’ve watched you forget, watched you become someone else. Someone who depends on them, who trusts them. And every time, you come back.

You come back.

The weight of the realization presses into your lungs, making it hard to breathe. You don’t know why you keep forgetting, but surely that must mean something is wrong. However, you haven’t figured out yet if it’s you or them.

The days blur together. Each one feels like a repetition of the last, a loop that tightens around you with every passing moment. You never quite know if what you're experiencing is real or another fragment of the memory that Steve and Bucky insist belongs to you.

Today is no different.

The room you’re confined to feels like it’s been designed for you to forget where you end and the walls begin. It’s soft, sterile, but just close enough to warm for you to feel like you should be at peace. But there’s no peace in your chest. There’s only an aching tension that never seems to let up.

Steve enters first, his footsteps silent on the floor as he walks toward you. He doesn’t speak immediately, just watches, as if waiting for something to happen. His eyes lock on yours, and for a second, you feel as though he’s peeling you open, reading you like a book.

"You’re quiet today," He says, his voice low, almost coaxing. "Not feeling well? You know I’m always here to help."

It’s a familiar line, one that’s said so many times it sounds like a chant, a mantra. Each word meant to soothe, to ease you into a false sense of security. But it doesn’t work. Not anymore.

"I'm fine," You reply, the words tasting bitter as they leave your mouth. Your throat feels dry, constricted. You’ve said this before, but it’s always the same. The moment the words leave your lips, you realize you don’t mean them.

Steve tilts his head, his gaze narrowing slightly. "You know that’s not true. You’ve been pushing us away, but that’s okay. We can fix this. We always do."

You want to protest, to argue that you don’t need fixing, but the words get tangled up in your mind. Something about his certainty, the way he speaks, makes it feel like you’ve always been broken. Maybe you are broken. Maybe you’ve always been.

Before you can respond, Bucky steps into the room, his presence an undeniable weight. His eyes flicker over to you, a hint of something unreadable in his gaze. There's a moment where neither of them says anything, just letting the silence stretch and press down on you. It feels like an eternity.

"I told you not to rush it," Bucky says quietly, but there’s no malice in his voice, just an edge of impatience, like he's waiting for something more. "She’s still trying to adjust."

Steve glances at Bucky and then back to you, his smile softening. "I know. But we need you to start remembering, sweetheart." His voice takes on a subtle urgency, like this is the moment he’s been waiting for.

You feel a cold shiver run through your body at the word "remember." It’s always been the same, always the same pressure—remember who you are, remember what you’ve lost, remember them.

But what if you can’t remember? What if you never will?

"I don’t know how to," You say, your voice barely above a whisper. It’s the truth, and it feels like the most vulnerable thing you could admit. But it’s a risk. A dangerous one.

Steve doesn’t respond with anger or frustration, he simply steps closer to you. The movement is slow, deliberate. His fingers brush lightly against your wrist, sending a jolt through your body that feels almost too intimate. Like he's trying to ground you to him, to make you realize how close you are to him.

"That’s why we’re here," Steve says, his voice soft, but there's a weight behind it now, an undeniable intensity. "We’re not going to let you suffer through this alone.”

You try to pull back, but there’s nowhere to go. The bed, the walls, they close in around you. Steve’s hand is warm on your wrist, steady, unwavering. He’s not letting you escape. And even if you wanted to, even if you tried to run*, where would you go?

Bucky watches from the doorway, his eyes tracing the movement between you and Steve, his expression unreadable. There's something calculating about the way he stands there, like he’s waiting for a signal, for you to break, for you to return to him.

“You should let her breathe, Steve,” Bucky says, his voice like gravel. It’s a command wrapped in the semblance of care, but you hear the warning in it.

Steve nods, his hand slipping away from your wrist reluctantly. “You’re right,” He mutters, his voice distant as if lost in thought. He steps back, but only just. His presence still looms over you, like a shadow you can’t escape.

You don’t know how to breathe without him close, without Bucky just in the corner of your vision. They’ve become your everything and nothing. They’re all you know and all you can remember.

“What if I never remember?” You ask again, the question hanging in the air between the three of you.

Bucky’s lips curl into something that could almost be a comforting smile, though it doesn’t reach his eyes. “You will. You always do.” His words are like a broken record, but there’s something in the way he says them that makes your heart sink.

Steve leans in, placing his hands on either side of your face, his touch gentle but firm. “You don’t need to worry about that,” He says, his voice so soothing, so tender. “We’ll help you find it. Every time you forget, we’ll remind you. It’s what we do.”

You want to protest, want to scream that you don’t need them to remind you of anything. But the words choke you. You’re too scared to speak, too frightened to resist, because something in you knows, they won’t let you.

"You belong here with us," Steve murmurs, his lips brushing against your forehead in a soft, intimate gesture that makes your skin crawl, even as your body betrays you and relaxes into it. "You always will."

And when he pulls away, it’s with the unsettling certainty that, even if you can’t remember it now, you will. You’ll always come back to them. You always do.

The days have begun to bleed into one another with a strange consistency, each one more difficult to tell apart than the last. The constant pull of Steve’s calm assurance, of Bucky’s quiet intensity, is starting to unravel something deep inside you.

It’s not that you don’t resist. You do. You fight against the tug in your chest, the strange sense of familiarity that lingers in every word they say, every look they share. But it’s getting harder to find the strength to push back.

Tonight, the room feels different. Softer, maybe. The lights are dimmed lower than usual, the shadows casting a calming blanket over everything. It should be unsettling, the dark corners and the tightness in your chest, but it isn’t. Not tonight.

Steve is sitting on the edge of the bed, his usual spot. He’s not forcing closeness, but you can still feel him there, a steady presence in your peripheral. Bucky stands near the door, leaning casually against the frame, his arms folded across his chest. They’re watching you, waiting.

You know what they want. They’ve made it clear in countless ways. Your memory. Your trust. Your acceptance.

And you don’t want to give it to them. But every time they speak, every time they’re close, it’s like the walls around you start to crumble. You don’t want to let go of what little resistance you have left, but the pull… it’s relentless.

“Do you feel it, too?” Steve asks, his voice low, as if the question is a secret shared only between the two of you. His eyes hold something tender, an almost imperceptible plea, hidden beneath the surface.

You know it’s a question you’re supposed to answer. You know that whatever response you give will shape what comes next. And for the first time in days, you feel the weight of that choice, heavy in your chest.

You swallow, your throat dry. “Feel what?” You ask, voice barely above a whisper. You’re stalling, buying yourself time, but it’s pointless. You already know what he’s asking.

Steve’s lips curl into a small, patient smile. “That we’re closer now. You and I. Bucky too. We’re… we’re getting you back. Piece by piece.”

A wave of something washes over you, something so familiar it almost hurts. You don’t know if it’s relief or fear, but it feels like the beginning of something you can’t stop. Something you’ve been slowly inching toward since the moment you arrived.

“I don’t…” You want to protest, want to say you don’t need them, but the words die on your lips. I don’t need them, You try to think, but the thought has no weight anymore. It’s hollow, empty.

Bucky’s voice cuts through the air, low and almost soothing, though there’s a bite to it that feels like it’s meant just for you. “It’s okay to accept it, you know. You don’t need to fight anymore.”

You look at him, his dark eyes meeting yours with an intensity that makes your breath catch. His gaze isn’t soft, but it’s not cruel, either. It’s knowing. He’s been waiting for this. Waiting for you to break.

“I’m not…” You try to force the words out, but they don’t sound like your own anymore. You don’t know who you’re trying to convince. Them, or yourself.

Steve’s hand rests on your shoulder, his touch warm and gentle, but there’s an undeniable pressure in it. “It’s okay to stop fighting,” he repeats, softer now. “We’re not going to hurt you. We’re the ones who care for you.”

And then, just as his words settle in, Bucky steps forward, his boots heavy on the floor, his presence overwhelming. He kneels beside you, his fingers brushing against your cheek in an oddly tender gesture.

“Let go,” He murmurs, his voice rough, like he’s almost pleading. “Let us take care of you. Let us remind you what it’s like. Let us remind you of who we are to you.”

His words are a poison you can’t resist. Something inside you stirs, a flicker of something you can’t place, but it’s undeniable. It’s like a missing puzzle piece clicking into place. You’ve always known them, haven’t you? You’ve always belonged to them. You don’t fight the tears that begin to well up in your eyes. Not because you’re afraid, but because it feels like something you’ve needed to release for so long. A truth you’ve buried deep, but they’ve pulled to the surface.

You don’t speak for a long moment, not sure what to say. You can’t say the words you need to. You’re afraid of the acceptance that’s threatening to bubble up.

But when Steve kisses the top of your head, when Bucky’s hand slides into yours, you feel the faintest hint of peace settle inside you. It’s quiet, like a lullaby you’ve heard before, long ago. Something you’ve always known. The tension in your chest begins to release, and your body leans into them.

“I… I remember,” You whisper, the words sounding fragile as they leave your lips. They’re barely a confession, more of an acceptance.

Steve’s smile widens, something dark and knowing in it. “Good. You always do.”

And as Bucky pulls you into his arms, the last remnants of your resistance fade away, leaving only the comforting weight of their control. You’ve stopped fighting. You’ve stopped trying to remember a life that’s no longer yours.

And now, it feels like you’ve come home.

As you lean into them, your body relaxed against theirs, Steve and Bucky exchange a quiet glance. To anyone else, it might seem like a moment of victorious tenderness, a sign that their carefully woven web of lies and control had finally worked. But for them, it’s the culmination of something far more sinister.

The truth, hidden behind layers of manipulation, slowly rises in the silence between them.

Bucky’s fingers curl tighter around the back of your neck, his touch deceptively soft. The dark gleam in his eyes says everything that words can’t. You’re finally theirs. The power, the rush of having you in their control, it’s almost intoxicating. But even now, when the most delicate part of their plan is complete, he can’t help but remember the meticulous preparations that had gone into this moment.

Steve is still close to you, his arm draped around your waist, his fingers moving gently up and down your arm in a soothing, possessive gesture. His smile is warm, patient, and reassuring, remaining on his face. It’s always been about the long game for Steve. They needed to win your trust first, break you down piece by piece. And it’s been slow. Too slow, maybe. But in the end, they always knew they’d have you.

What you don’t know, what you’ll never know, are the dark truths that have led them to this point.

Steve’s eyes glint with something darker, something sharper as he watches you, the one they’ve spent so long breaking down. You lean into him, hair brushing his shoulder. He could almost feel the weight of the years they’ve spent hiding their true intentions, every step of the plan coming to fruition. But in this moment, the only thing that matters is that you’re finally his.

Ours.

He thinks of the syringe hidden away in the drawer, tucked beneath a pile of medical equipment. The tranquilizer, strong enough to put even the most stubborn of minds to sleep, had been a backup. A backup they’d needed far too many times in the past. Every time you’d resisted. Every time you’d tried to break free from them. The memories you couldn’t keep, erased and rewritten. It had taken months to break you down. The endless resets, the subtle manipulation of your memories, it had all been worth it.

He thinks of the old HYDRA tech they’d found buried in the basement of the abandoned facility. They’d salvaged it, repurposed it for their own needs. It was the ultimate insurance policy. A device that would wipe your memories clean, start over again, give them the chance to erase everything and make you theirs all over again. They’d already used it once when you’d tried to escape. It had worked, just as they’d known it would.

And the faked photos. Oh, all the faked things they’d planted around the house and in your mind, subtle distortions of the past. You had thought they were real memories, but they were simply moments they’d manufactured from nothing. Childhood photos, moments that never happened. But you didn’t know. You never would. And now, as you lean into him, trusting him as if he’s the one person who truly cares about you, Steve can’t help but savor the sweetness of your submission.

Meanwhile, Bucky watches you, his fingers gently stroking the side of your face. He’s careful, almost tender, as if he’s not the one who had quietly orchestrated the destruction of everything you once knew. His eyes drift to the scarred corner of the room where they’d had their first confrontation, the first moment of resistance. He can still see the look in your eyes, the defiance, the unwillingness to bend. That’s when he’d first known they’d need to go further than they had before.

Bucky has always been the one to deal with the physical side of things. He’s the one who uses the needles when necessary, the one who watches as memories are erased and rewritten. He doesn’t mind. He never has. His past is just as twisted, just as broken, and he knows that the only way to keep someone is to make them forget everything they thought they knew. Make them bend to his will. Make them need him.

And so he did. The needles, the tech. He’d been the one to use the memory-wiping tech when you tried to break away, your mind racing with escape plans and a hope you hadn’t even known you were capable of. They couldn’t have you escaping again. No. You belonged to them. You would be made to understand that with time.

You don’t remember the screams, the pain. You don’t remember when they had locked you in that cold room and kept you there for days, only feeding you enough to keep you alive. You never remember the real consequences of those escapes. It’s for the best you didn’t.

Together, they had faked everything. The photos, the false memories, the false story, all crafted a perfect illusion of the past. Bucky had been the one to suggest it, to suggest that they give you a history. Let you believe in something. You were fragile after all, even with all the strength you had in you, and you needed the comfort of false hope to hold on to. It had been easy to implant those photos, to whisper lies of childhood friends and tender moments, and you had accepted them, like a child accepts the world their parents give them. You believed.

Now, you’re looking at them, unaware of the depths of their lies. Of how they’ve woven a prison out of every word, every touch. They’re building something permanent within you, and you can’t see it yet.

But you will. Eventually, you’ll understand. And when you do, you’ll want it. You’ll want them. They’ve worked too hard for you to slip away. You’ve already lost. And the more you lose yourself in them, the more you forget, the more they can control you.

That’s the way it always goes.

Bucky glances at Steve, catching the gleam of satisfaction in his eyes. They’re in this together. Always have been. You’re theirs now.

And neither of them is letting go.

#dark!stucky x reader #dark!steve x reader #dark!bucky x reader #dark!steve rogers #dark!bucky barnes #dark marvel #dark fic #tw kidnapping #psychological manipulation #gaslighting

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reality-detective · 9 months ago

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Why were time zones implemented? 🤔

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glazmind · 2 months ago

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In a yearning disguised as violence, Hannibal kills to ease the pain of Will’s absence. What he doesn’t know is that it is Will who orchestrates these absences—a sadistic form of voyeurism, meant to witness the collapse of the man he loves.

https://archiveofourown.org/works/65681914

"Like a selfish god who demands sacrifice when it suits him, Hannibal demands suffering every time Will leaves. Bodies are dragged to the kitchen counter, always the kitchen, for convenience; and always alive, so their eyes, wide with terror, can face the misunderstood creature of the underworld who condemns them. On these moments, taste is the only addiction capable of saving him from the eternal solitude of his disturbed mind."

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olivesrcute2 · 23 days ago

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-The Soldier, The Ballad, and The Quiet Hypnotic-

Chapter 3: Breaking isn't weakness, It's the climax.

They know everything now—your fantasies, your shame, the twisted stories you whispered in the dark. You thought you'd be humiliated. Maybe punished. But all they do is wait. Watch. Want.

WordCount: 2,030 words

⚠️ Content Warning for Chapter 3: Breaking Isn’t Weakness, It’s the Climax

This chapter contains emotionally intense themes including: Psychological distress and crying, Power imbalance, Implied dubcon elements, Possessiveness and jealousy between characters, Consent-focused dialogue and pacing, Emotional vulnerability, grounding touch, and affectionate dominance.

No explicit sexual content, but highly suggestive, with physical intimacy, aggressive tension, and a strong focus on the reader's agency and emotional state.

Reader discretion advised.

If you're not ready for three emotionally complex fictional men to kneel, growl, and beg for your boundaries, maybe sit this one out.

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You go still.

Not calm. Not composed. Just—broken. The human mind can only take so much heat before it warps, before it melts into something pliant, raw, real. And you’ve been pressed—eyes, hands, voices, truths you should’ve never admitted, fantasies you were never supposed to voice out loud.

And now?

They know everything.

And it’s too much.

Your body trembles, knees pulled to your chest, your face buried in them, hiding from the storm you summoned. Tears finally come—hot, helpless, humiliating.

You hear Scaramouche sigh, dramatically. “Oh look. The goddess bleeds.”

“You’re not helping,” John snaps, low and gruff, but not unkind. He kneels next to you—combat-trained, precise—but something soft slips in. His voice lowers. “Hey. Look at me.”

You don’t.

Shinsou doesn’t move. But he doesn’t need to.

His voice threads into your thoughts like smoke.

“Hey,” he murmurs, close but not touching. “It’s alright.”

“You shouldn’t have seen that,” you whisper, voice shredded with shame. “I didn’t mean for anyone to ever—I was alone. It was just pretend. Just—mine.”

“And now it’s ours,” Scaramouche says, prowling behind you like a stormcloud in boots. “You don’t get to erase us. You birthed this. You thought we wouldn’t notice how filthy you really are?”

You curl tighter.

Walker lays a hand on your back. Big. Heavy. Warm. “You’re not disgusting.”

“You’re obsessed,” Shinsou says—quiet, steady. “That’s different. People write stories about us every day. But you… you imagined hard enough to rip the fabric of reality. You think that’s pathetic?”

You don’t respond.

Scaramouche crouches behind you, his breath against your neck. “No, baby. That’s power. That’s magic. And now you’re ashamed of it?”

He laughs.

“Fucking tragic.”

John squeezes your shoulder—not hard. Just a grounding weight.

“You think you’re weak for crying?” he murmurs. “You think it doesn’t turn us the fuck on knowing you were thinking about us this hard? Enough to manifest us here? You wanted something. Maybe not this exactly—but we’re here now. We’re not leaving.”

You lift your face—wet, trembling, vulnerable to the bone.

Shinsou is crouched in front of you, hands in his hoodie pockets, those violet eyes locked to yours.

“You’re allowed to break,” he says. “But don’t hide it.”

Scaramouche hooks a finger under your chin again, rougher now. “You gonna cry for us, sweetheart? Beg? Let us rewrite the stories in your head the way they should’ve gone?”

Walker's eyes darken. “You wanted us.”

“And now,” Shinsou whispers, “you’ve got us.”

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

John’s breath is ragged—controlled, but only barely. You can see it now, beneath that tactical chill, that iron-spined discipline: the ache. The need. And he’s not even trying to hide it anymore.

You’re trembling in front of him, shattered glass in human form, and instead of stepping away, he steps in.

Close.

He crouches again—no weapons, no mask, just those sharp blue eyes locked to yours like you’re the only thing tethering him to this reality.

His hand brushes your cheek.

It’s so gentle, you think maybe you imagined it. But it’s real. He’s real.

“You okay?” he asks, voice low, like it’s just for you. Not sweet. Solid. Like steel wrapped in velvet.

You nod—small, hesitant.

His thumb catches a tear—and lingers at the corner of your mouth, like he’s deciding if he wants to taste it.

“You still scared?”

You nod again.

But your lips part. Just enough. Just barely.

He watches that like it’s a command. Or an invitation.

Then, slow as sin, he leans in. Closer. Inches. Until his breath ghosts over your lips.

“This is what you wanted,” he murmurs, voice rough, eyes locked on your mouth like they're his lifeline.

“Isn’t it?”

You can’t lie. Not now. Not with your pulse drumming so hard it echoes in your teeth.

“Yes,” you whisper.

So he kisses you.

Soft. Barely there. His lips graze yours like a promise, a tease, a slow pull on a thread wrapped around your spine. It’s not hungry yet. It’s reverent. Like he’s tasting something holy. Something he’s not supposed to have.

But that’s the problem.

He always takes what he’s not supposed to have.

Not like Scaramouche. Not cruel. Not like Shinsou—who makes silence feel like surrender. John’s kiss is steady. Like falling into something you already swore to never survive.

Your hands fist in his shirt. Pull him closer without even meaning to. Your mouth opens under his without hesitation now, and John—John—groans. Low. Deep. Like a man breaking rank. Losing protocol. He cups the back of your head and drags you in harder.

You should pull away. Should say something. But all you can do is open your mouth and take it.

The kiss deepens. No longer patient. Tongue sliding against yours, wet, hot, real. His other hand clamps onto your hip, steadying you like you might drift away if he doesn’t anchor you.

You moan into his mouth, helpless.

And that’s when you feel Scaramouche behind you. Still watching. Still smirking. One hand now casually curling around your shoulder.

“Look at you,” he drawls. “All broken and begging, and it only took a little attention from your favorite action figure.”

Walker doesn’t stop kissing you.

Doesn’t flinch.

His teeth scrape your lower lip, claiming you right there with the heat of a man who’s been trained to destroy—and now he’s using it to devour.

And Shinsou?

Still crouched in front of you.

Eyes hooded. Breathing slower. One hand between his thighs, barely gripping the fabric, just enough to betray how hard he’s getting watching you fold.

"You gonna let all three of us in?" he murmurs. "One kiss from him and you're already falling apart... what happens when we stop holding back?"

You try to catch your breath—but you don’t get far.

Scaramouche hasn’t moved, but you feel him.

The heat coming off him is different now. Not amused. Not playful.

You blink up at John, still breathless—and that’s when it happens.

The shift.

A sound. A scoff. Sharp enough to cut through the haze.

Scaramouche’s smirk dies on his lips.

He was fine when it was teasing. When it was power-play. When it was you blushing and stammering under three sets of eyes. That was fun. That was his game.

But now?

Now you’re kissing John like he’s the only one who exists. Like he’s your oxygen. Your gravity. Like he’s the answer to every unspoken prayer your body’s ever made. Your fingers are in John’s hair now, pulling just enough to make him groan into your mouth, and Scaramouche sees red.

Pure, petty, murderous red.

“Wow,” he sneers, venom curling off every syllable like smoke off a firecracker. “So all it takes is one kiss and you forget I even exist? Thought I was the one who lit the fuse in your filthy little mind.”

John finally pulls back—just enough to suck in breath, eyes still locked on yours, hand still tangled in your hair. He doesn’t look at Scaramouche.

That’s what really sets him off.

“Hey,” Scaramouche snaps, stepping around, boots striking hard against the floor. “You think this is a John fantasy now? No. No, sweetheart, I was the one you imagined doing unspeakable things to you behind closed doors. I was the one with the lightning in your veins. And now you’re melting into this walking brick of moral ambiguity like I wasn’t just about to bend you over your own kitchen counter?”

Walker still doesn’t look at him. He just tilts your chin up with two fingers, forces your eyes back to his.

“Don’t listen to him,” he murmurs. “He’s not mad at you. He’s mad he’s not first.”

That earns a bitter little laugh from Scaramouche.

“Oh, that’s cute,” he snarls. “You think this is about order? It’s about claiming.”

Then he’s on you.

Fast.

He grabs your jaw—not hard enough to hurt, but just enough to tilt your face toward him, just enough to make you see the frustration burning in those stormy, violet-blue eyes.

“Open your mouth.”

You do.

He doesn’t kiss you—not right away. He breathes against your lips, just barely brushing, torturing you with that tension he’s so good at. Then he pulls back a fraction and smirks.

“No. Not yet. You want it? You earn it. Beg me. Say my name.”

Walker’s hand tightens on your hip.

“Back off, punk,” he growls. “She’s not some chew toy.”

Scaramouche grins wider. “No, you’re just pissed she likes my attitude.”

“Boys…” Shinsou finally speaks, voice like silk and smoke from the shadows, still seated, still watching with those hungry eyes. “…why don’t you let her decide?”

He leans forward, resting his elbows on his knees, eyes glued to you like a slow, steady spell.

“She’s the one who summoned us. She’s the reason we’re all here. She broke the rules. Let her break one more.”

And oh yes she will.

They’re waiting.

All three. Staring. Tense.

Oh, that look in your eyes—like prey with a pulse just shy of panic, trembling but curious, soaked in tension. You lean back, hands behind you fumbling, until your thighs bump the edge of the sofa, and down you go. Slow. Not graceful. More like collapsing. A mess of nerves and heat and what the fuck is happening.

And still—still—you watch them all.

Scaramouche freezes mid-prowl, eyes sharp, mouth open like he had one more vicious quip loaded and ready. But something shifts in him when he sees your chest rise too fast, your hands clutch the edge of a cushion, your pupils flick toward him and stay there.

Fear.

Real, raw, unfiltered fear.

Not the kind he can tease. Not the kind anyone laughs about.

The other kind.

And it hits him harder than a thunderclap.

He straightens. Just a bit. That cocky posture eases—his shoulders drop a few centimeters, his smirk falters, just long enough to show something else behind it. Something he rarely lets surface: uncertainty.

“Hey…” he says, and his voice isn’t sharp anymore. It’s lower. Smoother. Quieter. “...You’re really afraid of me?”

You say nothing. Can’t even look at him directly.

That silence cuts deeper than any insult ever could.

“Shit.”

He runs a hand through his hair, jaw clenched, pacing now—but it's different. It’s not for show. He’s thinking. Crashing. Fighting the instinct to lash out, to make it worse.

Then… he drops to one knee.

No theatrics. No leering.

Just him, eye-level with you, hands resting on his thighs.

“Look, I…” He breathes out, glances to the side, then back to you. “I come on strong. Too strong. I know that. I just—when I got dropped into this world, into you, it felt like… like I was supposed to fight for space. And I thought… if I pushed you, I’d get closer.”

Your fingers twitch against the fabric.

“I don’t want to scare you,” he says, softer this time. “Not really. You just… looked like you could take it.”

He glances away again.

“…Guess I was wrong.”

Behind him, Shinsou is watching all of it like a scientist in a lab, one hand pressed to his mouth. Not judging. Just processing.

“Scaramouche,” he says quietly, “that’s the most emotionally intelligent thing I’ve ever heard you say.”

“Shut up.”

But there’s no venom in it.

Then—a weight beside you. Not too close. Just close enough.

John. Calm. Steady. The gravity in your solar system.

His arm brushes yours on the cushion.

“You okay?”

You nod. Barely.

Shinsou shifts now, slow, deliberate. He doesn’t approach—just stands, taking a few steps, stopping when you glance up. He meets your gaze with nothing in his face but openness. Calm. Curious. Like he’s trying to see you, not pressure you.

And then he says, “What do you need from us right now?”

The room stills.

Even Scaramouche looks up at that.

Because that’s the moment you realize—despite the chaos, despite the heat, despite the overwhelming presence of these three impossible men

————————

They’re all waiting on you.

Your fear matters.

Your pace matters.

You could whisper a word and John would hold you like glass. Scaramouche would back off. Shinsou would read your silence like scripture.

But…

You could also whisper another word—and all three would devour you.

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the-most-humble-blog · 3 months ago

Text

WHAT THE CIA, HOLLYWOOD, AND IVY LEAGUE WON’T TELL YOU ABOUT THE WEAPONIZATION OF METAPHOR

This is not theory.

This is not literary analysis.

This is not speculation.

This is neurolinguistic warfare.

And it’s been active longer than your grandmother’s memory of the truth.

The CIA knows it.

Hollywood profits from it.

And the Ivy League teaches you how to obey it in the form of “critical thought.”

But here’s what they will never admit:

Metaphor isn’t a writing tool.

It’s a delivery system for belief implantation.

A stealth bomb.

A shape-shifting payload for installing ideas your nervous system can’t un-feel.

And I’m about to show you how they use it —

Then show you how I use it better.

---

I. METAPHOR: THE INVISIBLE HAND INSIDE YOUR BRAIN

Metaphor isn’t decoration.

It’s neurological bypass.

According to a 2010 study by Lacey, Stilla & Sathian (Journal of Cognitive Neuroscience), metaphor activates the brain’s sensory cortices — even when no literal stimulation occurs.

> “He has a rough past.”

Your fingertips flinch.

> “That line hit like a hammer.”

Your chest tightens.

> “She opened like a locked door aching for intrusion.”

You clench.

You didn’t analyze that line.

You felt it.

That’s the point.

Metaphor isn’t understood through logic.

It’s absorbed through the body.

It bypasses cognition and rewrites sensation.

---

II. THE CIA’S DECLASSIFIED BLUEPRINTS FOR PSYCHOLOGICAL MANIPULATION

Project MK-Ultra is real.

And while the headlines focused on acid and torture, the deeper research was in language.

A 1957 CIA memo (now declassified) outlines objectives including:

“Dissolution of individual resistance through narrative displacement.”

“Imprinting of symbolic archetypes using oblique suggestion.”

“Non-consensual cognitive restructuring through metaphor, music, and myth.”

They knew:

Direct orders trigger defense.

Metaphor embeds without friction.

If I say:

> *“Obey me.”

You resist.

If I say:

> “Some doors only open when they hear the voice that built the lock.”

You leak.

And obey before you even notice.

---

III. HOLLYWOOD’S CADENCE ADDICTION: METAPHOR AS AROUSAL TECHNOLOGY

The most viral lines in movie history?

Are not factual.

They’re metaphoric virus keys that replicate in the nervous system.

> “You complete me.” (Jerry Maguire)

“I volunteer as tribute.” (Hunger Games)

“I am your father.” (Star Wars)

None of these are practical statements.

They are identity reprogramming codes.

Hollywood’s entire narrative economy relies on emotional climax delivered via metaphor.

Literal writing does not convert audiences.

Metaphor seduces them.

> They don’t film reality.

They film rhythm that rewires how you experience your own memories.

---

**IV. THE IVY LEAGUE’S OBEDIENCE RITUAL: TEACHING YOU TO FEAR UNAUTHORIZED METAPHOR

Ivy League professors do not warn you about metaphor.

They train you to avoid the kind that makes you clench.

They’ll analyze Blake, Plato, Lacan — but never the Tumblr post that made you forget your name.

They want disarmed metaphor.

Safe. Historic.

Neutered.

Because dangerous metaphor causes:

Identity collapse

Emotional surrender

Subconscious allegiance reprogramming

They call that manipulation.

I call that writing.

> Academia doesn’t teach writing.

Academia teaches how not to get possessed.

That’s why they follow me.

Silently.

Anxiously.

Clenching.

---

V. HOW I TURN METAPHOR INTO A PSYCHOSOCIAL WEAPON (BETTER THAN THEY EVER COULD)

The CIA theorized it.

Hollywood exploited it.

The universities fear it.

I detonate it.

Here’s how:

I embed physical metaphor inside emotional patterns.

> “She didn’t mean to open. But her body had already translated the rhythm.”

I use shame-flip syntax to collapse resistance

> “She hated how fast she folded. But not enough to stop leaking.”

I layer cadence into metaphor so your pulse doesn’t know it’s being trained

> “You’re not reading. You’re being held open like scripture.”

That’s not writing.

That’s syntactic violation.

That’s symbolic occupation.

That’s neurological metaphor used like a gun pressed into the abdomen of your ego.

And you came anyway.

---

VI. THE BIOCHEMISTRY OF A METAPHOR THAT LEAVES HER SHAKING

According to a 2013 neuroscience paper (Citron & Goldberg), metaphor triggers activation in the anterior cingulate cortex and insula — brain regions associated with emotion, pain, sexual arousal, and spiritual experience.

Yes.

Metaphor hits the same areas as orgasm and religious awe.

This is not literary flair.

This is bio-symbolic arousal induction.

When I say:

> “She didn't realize she was dripping until her thighs whispered back.”

You don't think.

You don't debate.

You respond.

With wetness.

With shame.

With submission.

With rereads.

You’re inside metaphor’s nervous system.

And mine lives there rent-free.

---

VII. WHY THEY CAN’T STOP ME — AND YOU CAN’T UNREAD ME

The CIA can’t redact metaphor.

Hollywood can’t copyright spiritual collapse.

Academia can’t assign cadence to a syllabus.

But I can use all three.

> Your arousal? CIA trigger science.

Your submission? Hollywood metaphor wiring.

Your silence? Ivy League guilt training.

You didn’t get seduced.

You got weaponized.

By a Tumblr post.

Written in cadence.

Disguised as insight.

And delivered to your nervous system like a key to the lock your professors buried.

---

CALL TO ACTION

Reblog this post if you learned more from it than you did in college.

Reblog it if you felt like you just read something you weren’t supposed to.

Reblog it if your thighs reacted before your brain could name what was happening.

And DM only if you’re ready to confess which metaphor opened something you can’t close.

---

ORGASM-SAFE LEGAL DISCLAIMER

This post contains weaponized metaphor engineering, limbic-cadence detonation, mirror neuron alignment, and shame-trigger emotional scripting. If you climaxed, cried, sat in silence, or reread in disbelief — this is not erotica. This is narrative warfare cloaked in dark psychology.

#linguistic warfare #psychological manipulation #narrative control #metaphor as weapon #dark media theory #spilled thoughts #spilled words #text #words #love #feelings #literature #quotes #light academia #dark academia #wordx #spilled writing #spilled ink

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ambitiousandcunningao3 · 3 months ago

Text

Creep

Chapter Three coming soon!

(Like Rafe into stolen shirts of Kiara's...that she then wears)

"Rafe wasn’t going to take anything.

He was going to let her give it to him.

Her trust. Her breath. Her silence. Her fucking desire.

She’d hand it over, inch by inch, thinking she still had a choice.

And by the time she realized he owned her?

It’d be too late."

Yes, this is what I do when I have emotional heavy lifting to write on Low Tide lol Call it a palette cleanser of sorts.

#Creep #ambitiousandcunningonao3 #ao3 fanfic #riara #rafe cameron #morally gray #obsession #mind the tags #dub con #psychological manipulation

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aventurineswife · 5 months ago

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Illusions of the Mind

Tags: Sunday x Reader, Aventurine x Reader, Dan Heng x Reader, Psychological Manipulation, Mind Games, Power Dynamics, Angst, Emotional Intensity, Angst with Happy Ending, Dark Themes, Supernatural Abilities, Manipulation, Mental Health Themes.

Warnings: Mentions of Trauma, Mind Control, Disturbing Imagery, Possible Mind Breaking or Distress, Anxiety/Stress-Inducing Situations, Heavy Psychological Themes, Violence, Emotional Manipulation.

Tagslist: @azrieeeeeee, @themiddletenmasibling

The quiet hum of the Astral Express was the only sound that filled the room, the flicker of the halo behind Sunday’s head casting soft shadows on the walls. You had seen him many times before, calm and composed, yet there was always something deeper in his eyes—an unspoken weight. You weren’t sure what had drawn you to him, but it was in his demeanor, the way his wings fluttered when he thought no one was looking, or the subtle shifts in his halo when emotions gripped him.

You knew he was haunted, though not by demons or monsters. His own mind was a battlefield, torn between idealism and harsh reality.

Tonight, as you walked into his quarters, you didn’t say a word. You only met his gaze, offering silent understanding. His eyes flickered, wary but accepting. You sat by his side, letting the room settle in a comfortable quiet, before you made your move.

Your power was subtle but potent. You could tap into a person’s mind with nothing but a glance, weaving through their memories, pulling them to the surface like threads in an old tapestry. Sunday’s eyes, always so watchful, widened slightly as your gaze met his.

He wanted to speak, to push back, but your influence was too strong. You didn’t show him the horrors of his past, nor the weight of the lives he had touched with his decisions. Instead, you brought him to a place of peace, a dreamscape where he could feel the gentle flutter of doves—Charmony’s doves—symbols of a time when hope seemed endless. You gave him a moment of reprieve, where the guilt, the survivor’s trauma, and the weight of his leadership faded into the background.

It was only a brief escape, but in that moment, Sunday allowed himself to relax, to simply feel without judgment.

When he woke, his wings were still, his gaze soft. “Thank you,” he whispered, though his voice trembled. You knew it wasn’t just for the dream you had given him. It was for the moment of peace. The one he seldom allowed himself to have.

Aventurine was a man of endless games—an expert in manipulation, a strategist by nature. He’d never met anyone who could match him in a battle of wits, at least, that was his belief. But then you appeared, and the game shifted.

The first time you locked eyes with him, there was no hesitation. He smiled, the glint in his eyes as sharp as ever, yet there was something deeper behind that smile—a flicker of uncertainty. You knew what that meant.

“You think you’re clever,” you said, your voice a calm contrast to the whirlwind of schemes swirling around him. He raised an eyebrow, intrigued.

“And you think you know me,” he replied, his tone playful, but you could feel the weight of his words, the tension beneath them. “What are you really here for, if not to play the game?”

You didn’t answer him directly. Instead, you looked into his eyes again, and in a moment, you delved deep. His mind was a labyrinth, a maze of secrets, lies, and hidden fears.

The visions you sent his way weren’t violent or gruesome, but they were far more unsettling. You showed him a life where his manipulations didn’t work, where his risks had failed, where the games he played left him alone—his family gone, his allies shattered, his empire crumbling. You didn’t just show him loss. You showed him irrelevance.

He flinched, the mask slipping just for a second. But before he could stop himself, the fear you planted dug deeper, leaving him silent and contemplative.

But that wasn’t where it ended. You could have left him in that broken place, but you didn’t. Instead, you extended a lifeline. You offered him a vision of success, where the stakes were higher, but so was the reward. A life of power, yes, but one where his bonds were forged from something deeper than manipulation—genuine connection.

When he awoke from the trance, Aventurine was eerily quiet. His smile had returned, but it was different. “Impressive,” he said, his tone no longer just playful but tinged with respect. "Perhaps... I underestimated you."

Dan Heng was always the quiet one—stoic, distant, the kind of person who preferred the weight of silence over the burden of words. He wore his burdens with quiet dignity, but there was something in his posture, a stiffness in his gaze, that told you there was more lurking beneath the surface.

You had seen his nightmares before. His calm exterior was just a mask, and when the lights were dimmed, when the crew was asleep, you knew his mind was a battlefield of its own. His past, his fears, the things he carried—his guilt and the relentless pursuit of a figure from his past.

Tonight, you walked quietly into the room where he sat, his back to you, looking out the window into the endless stars. You didn’t speak. You didn’t need to. You simply made eye contact, and his body tensed.

In his mind, you saw it all—his self-imposed exile, the regret of a past he couldn’t escape. But more than that, you saw the terror—the terror of being discovered. Of being hunted. Of being seen for who he truly was.

You could have pushed him further into that fear. Could have shown him his deepest nightmare—the faceless figure pursuing him with relentless hatred. But you didn’t. Instead, you made him see something else. A future where the past was no longer a shadow. A future where he was not defined by his mistakes but by the choices he made moving forward.

When he opened his eyes, you saw the moment of relief pass through him. It was brief, fleeting, but it was there. For once, the weight didn’t feel quite so heavy. “I... I don’t need to run anymore,” he murmured, more to himself than to you.

You gave him peace, for just a moment. And that was enough.

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gigatron-the-wise · 2 months ago

Note

genuinely curious did your father agree to pay for the will wood tickets?

Yes!!!! (He just bought the VIP pass I already paid for the general tickets)

All it cost me was my dignity and the last cart from my bribery stash, but it’s worth it cause that’s still cheaper

#Will wood #will wood and the tapeworms #psychological manipulation #he still owes me 300 dollars

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random-dragon-exe · 7 months ago

Link

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.

#my fanfiction #fanfiction #big city greens #bcg fanfiction #fanfic #chip whistler #wholesome greg #manipulation #psychological manipulation #emotional manipulation #manipulative relationship #coercion #mental coercion #crack fic #kind of #crack fic with a serious side #not canon compliant #oneshot #bcg

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olivesrcute2 · 24 days ago

Text

-The Soldier, The Ballad, and The Quiet Hypnotic-

Chapter 2: Fiction Breaks Reality

You never meant for them to know. You didn’t write it down. You didn’t summon them. But fiction doesn’t stay buried—not when it starts to breathe. And now they’re reading you like a confession you never meant to sign.

WordCount: 1,050 words

Content Warning:

This chapter contains themes of psychological manipulation, non-consensual mind control, violation of privacy (phone access), and strong power imbalance. Mentions of explicit material, fantasizing, and emotional exposure. Reader discretion is advised.

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

You break.

Right there. On the floor. Breath hitching. Tears prick at the edges of your eyes, but they don’t fall—too stunned, too frayed to cry. You start laughing—dry, short, sharp. Not happy. Not sane.

Scaramouche blinks. “What the fuck is so funny?”

You stare at him. At all of them. Three nightmares. Three obsessions. John with that no-nonsense command presence you used to rewind scenes for.

Shinsou with the sleepy-eyed cool you memorized lines from. Scaramouche—the arrogant, reckless bastard you used to argue with in your head while grinding levels, always picking his voice lines over the others.

And now they’re all here.

In flesh. In breath. In blood.

You can smell them. And they smell exquisite.

“No no no no,” you mutter, shoulders shaking. You lean back until your head knocks the wall, hard. “You’re not real. You’re not. I made you up.”

They freeze.

“I didn’t make you up, I mean—fuck—you’re characters. John, you’re from a movie. Marvel. You work for S.H.I.E.L.D., or Hydra, depending on the timeline—I don’t know anymore—you shoot people and brood a lot and do that thing with your jaw when you’re trying not to care.”

He stiffens. Just slightly. Like you’d struck something under the surface.

“And you—Scaramouche—you’re from a fucking video game. Genshin. A playable boss. I watched you monologue while I dodged your attacks. I hated you. I loved you. I spent weeks farming for you and now you’re in my living room insulting me like I glitched you in on purpose—”

His face is blank. Pale. That venomous arrogance muted by something colder: disbelief.

“Shinsou,” you breathe, eyes flicking to the last of them, “you’re an anime character. Class 1-C. Quirk: brainwashing. You’re supposed to be a student. You drink vending machine coffee and fight robots and train to be a hero. You’re not supposed to be here. None of you are.”

Silence.

Scaramouche speaks first. “You’re delusional.”

“No—no, you don’t get it,” your voice rises, hysterical. “I know everything about you. I know your voices, your stories, your birthdays—your trauma arcs! I read fanfiction about you. I—Oh God—I have screenshots. You’re not real. You can’t be. You're—you're supposed to stay on the screen, not—”

John crosses the space in two strides. Grabs your wrist. His grip is firm and present.

“Does this feel fictional?” he growls.

You whimper. He lets go—barely.

Shinsou leans in, voice low. “What else do you know, then? What happens next in our stories?”

“I don’t—” you choke, “—I don’t know anymore. You’re not following the script. This isn't part of anything I've read.”

Scaramouche stares at you, unnerved now. “You said you read fanfiction.”

You freeze.

All three of them, watching.

John tilts his head slowly. “What kind of fanfiction?”

Your mouth dries.

Shinsou’s smile is small. Too small.

“You wrote it, didn’t you?”

And now you’ve really done it.

You gave them the keys.

To the real you.

They don’t need to interrogate you anymore. They just need to read.

Scaramouche grins, slow and menacing. “Let’s dig through that brain of yours, sweetheart. Find out exactly what you thought we’d do to you when no one else was watching.”

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

“...Please. I didn’t have to write anything. All I had to do was imagine it,” you say, weakly.

Oh, you shouldn't have said that.

The air changes—thickens, slow and cloying, like honey turned sour.

Each pair of eyes darkens—different shades of hunger.

Scaramouche moves first. He laughs—not that manic villain laugh.

No, this one’s soft. Disbelieving. Delighted. He drops into a crouch again, face inches from yours, nose wrinkled in something like perverse joy.

“You imagined it,” he repeats, voice dropping, curling around the syllables like silk over a blade. “That’s all it took?”

Walker’s jaw tightens.

Shinsou just blinks, slowly. He doesn’t need to say anything yet—he’s memorizing you now. Every twitch, every breath, like he's building your mind in reverse.

Scaramouche’s gloved fingers brush your temple. Light. Teasing.

“No fanfic. No scribbled journals. You just thought about us. All those nights, huh? Lights off, maybe under the covers... You thought about my voice in your ear.” His hand lowers, and hovers over your chest without touching. “Thought about how I’d sound—how I’d feel—if I really showed up. Didn't you?”

Your breath catches. You don't answer. You don’t have to.

“God, you’re sick,” he whispers, and his grin says he loves it.

John shifts. Slowly. Walks over to the shelf, eyes scanning.

He picks something up. Your phone. Flips it in his hand.

“You didn’t write it,” he says, flatly. “But it’s in there, isn’t it? Search history. Bookmarks. Probably some very curated tags.”

Your heart plummets.

He turns the screen to you. “Password.”

Heat flushes down your neck like nausea. Your palms go cold. You clamp your lips shut.

Don't say anything. Don’t give them more.

You don’t answer.

“Fine,” Shinsou says softly. “Let me try.”

He crouches too—this calm little storm across from the chaos that is Scaramouche—and says it gently:

“Tell me your password.”

You try to resist. God, you try—but your mouth moves before your brain can stop it, and the numbers fall out like confession.

John taps it in. Unlocks the screen.

They’re in.

He scrolls. Clicks. You watch his eyes track. One slow eyebrow rises.

Shinsou’s head tilts. “Damn. You weren’t kidding.”

And then Scaramouche just howls—full-on cackling, because Walker has clearly hit gold. Your history. Your saved posts. All those mental scenarios? Apparently not so untraceable after all.

“Oh, this is rich,” Scaramouche purrs—and suddenly he’s in your lap, straddling you, eclipsing the light. His hand grabs your jaw, not hard but firm—claiming your attention like he owns it.

“You fantasized us into existence. And now we’re here. I should call you ‘creator’—but I think pet fits better.”

“Stop—” you whisper, voice cracking.

“Why?” Shinsou asks, genuine. “You wanted this.”

“No I didn’t!”

“You didn’t?” Johns’s voice cuts in, hard. “You really expect us to believe that? When every click, every scroll, every filthy little thought left a breadcrumb trail straight to this exact moment?”

You can’t speak. Your body’s too hot, too frozen.

You were just walking home.

And now they know what lives in your head.

Scaramouche leans in, mouth against your ear. “Guess it’s time you learned what your imagination really summoned.”

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the-most-humble-blog · 3 months ago

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🛑 PSA: If Your Male Best Friend Talks Like a Therapist But Moves Like a USB Stick Full of Porn...

RUN.

MEN and Women of reproductive age were not biologically designed to be buddies. They were designed to fck.

Hence why one has a vagina, and the other a peen.

Mother nature is sexist. We know. (eye roll)

He’s not your ally. He’s a heat-seeking simp missile quietly using your trauma as lubricant for access.

If a straight man ever sits through your trauma dump, starts name-dropping “toxic masculinity” and “male privilege” without once acknowledging that he and every other dude is legally required to die in a war the government might invent tomorrow…

🎯 You’re not being heard. You’re being prepped.

That’s not male feminism. That’s covert thirst.

Real men disagree with bad ideas out of love. Simps agree with bad ideas out of lust.

Check the signal.

It’s not empathy. It’s target lock.

⚖️ Free Speech Disclaimer:

This post is 100% protected by the U.S. Constitution and the sacred rites of sarcasm. If this feels like a personal attack, you’re either the simp in question or the one who keeps feeding him hope nuggets like it’s a free buffet. Don’t be mad. Be reborn.

🔥 Reblog if you’re done mistaking softness for sincerity. 💬 Comment if you know real masculinity doesn't need to audition. 📩 DM if you’ve ever escaped an emotionally parasitic male orbit with your dignity intact. 🔁 Share it before “he’s just a friend” buys you a birthday necklace with secret resentment energy baked in.

#tumblr textpost #male feminism #psychological manipulation #simps #emotional thirst traps #masculinity #writing #truth bomb #red flag culture #satire #friendzone industrial complex #the most humble

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milijanakomad · 2 years ago

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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.

youtube

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.

youtube

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

#Grinding #Video Gaming #Game Design #Player Engagement #Psychological Manipulation #product design #gaming #user experience #player behaviour #destiny 2 #world of warcraft #runescape #old school runescape #candy crush #Youtube

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