#Psychological Manipulation

[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—”

[i-am-trans-gwender]

I need advice

I'm 19 years old and I need to escape my transphobic parents. A friend wants me to live with him, but there have been issues stopping this.

I have no car, and even if he drove me there, my parents would know where I went.

Even if they didn't find me, my parents control my bank account, medical care, and phone (luckily they can't put the Verizon Smart Family app on my computer.)

They also use my autism as a reason to prevent me from leaving. They claim I can't legally leave because of this. I've heard some people say that it sounds like BS but I don't know.

I need to transition, but I can't do that while I'm stuck with my parents. I'm willing to do almost anything to leave them.

[soulsevaporate]

“The individual in his rationality is determined by the rationality of capital which he encounters as a force of nature, which he experiences daily and which therefore must appear to him as rational through and through. His protest against this life-destroying force can therefore only be a protest of feeling or emotion. But since ‘reason’ rules, these emotional outbursts of the individual are rationalised and ‘disappear’ into stomach pains, gall stones, circulatory problems, kidney stones, cramps of all kinds, into impotence, head colds, toothaches, skin diseases, back aches, migraines, asthma, car and workplace accidents, depression, and so forth – or feelings mushroom in interpersonal relationships (emotional plague), in flat affects (‘serious’ people), in psychosis etc.”

Socialists Patient’s Collective, Heidelberg, 1972

[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.

[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

[balkanradfem]

If you’re a woman, and you find yourself assuming, planning, or putting effort into something with certain expectations, and then when you get to the point where your expectations should be fulfilled, suddenly you realize none of it is how you imagined, and you start feeling small, foolish, over-optimistic, presumptive, stupid or embarrassed, I want you to know that there’s a huge chance that it’s not your fault, and the situation was, in fact, orchestrated this way.

M*n will orchestrate situations where they give women certain assumptions and expectations, then turn the situation nowhere in that direction. They do it so they would get exactly what they want out of the situation, while giving away nothing but false hope, false expectations, and encouraging false assumptions. You did not have a false assumption because there’s something wrong with you! You were not stupid or over-indulged! It’s been set up for you to feel exactly that way, otherwise you would never indulge, you’d never put effort, hope, energy, expectations or positive assumptions there.

Not only m*n orchestrate simple situations like this (like putting women on the spot where they’re expected to deliver subservience, obedience, forgiveness, their time and company, physical intimacy), but they orchestrate entire institutions and way of life this way. They develop marketing schemes out of that manipulation. They start and keep up relationships by keeping women’s assumptions always positive. They even go as far as to criticize, slander and demonize women whose expectations are anything but the most positive, optimistic and humanizing for them.

Women are supposed to assume every guy is the nice guy, even when walking into the hands of a rapist or a predator. Women are supposed to believe marriage with m*n is a place where they’ll be loved and taken care of, even when there’s a way higher chance of ending up in domestic servitude, or worse, domestic violence and life danger. We’re set up to find ourselves in situations where we either deliver whatever is expected of us, or we’re considered selfish, cruel, evil, leading someone on, and ‘making all other women look bad’. It’s not fair! It’s not fair to keep managing our expectations to remain optimistic, while already planning what to extract from us, all the while holding the card of calling us a slur or becoming violent the second we break the illusion.

When you’re safe to, you should get to call it out. It’s okay to say: “This is not what I was led to believe. This is not why I did all of those things. This is not what you’ve been saying to me all this time. This is not what I was told to expect. This is not what I agreed upon. This is not the expectation you’ve given me and you know it. This is not what I said yes to. You should have told me the truth earlier. You shouldn’t have led me on to believe this is what was about to happen. You shouldn’t have assumed I would keep being polite while you lie to me about what we’re doing here. I’m not partaking in this. You’ve wasted my time.”

If you do this, instead of assuming you’re just silly or naive, in most scenarios you will be completely correct. It’s not naive, foolish, or presumptive to have optimistic expectations, or to believe that people are telling you the truth, that you’re not being led on every time someone gives you positive expectations out of them. But people who would exploit that in you? They deserve to lose everything they hoped to gain by taking advantage of you.

[the-healing-mindset]

Having experienced each of these to the point of not being able to recognize them in adulthood is not a good experience or feeling. No, not everyone you come across will try to do this to you, but it's a good thing to be skilled in recognizing when it is happening.

Source: Facebook

[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.

[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.

[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.”

[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]

[icypantherwrites]

Fic Update: Worth(less), Chapter Two

On their journey to Earth, Voltron stops at a planet for supplies and finds that its inhabitants are not only incredibly generous but powerful and would make strong allies in their upcoming fight. In order to secure the alliance, the king assigns a member of his council to observe each Paladin and judge their worth.

Lance is delighted to find out his evaluator is the king’s own son, Prince Barin, who is a formidable fighter, pilot, and he’s determined to prove himself worthy and make Voltron proud, especially following the horrible game show experience with Bob.

Except Lance discovers that the prince isn’t interested in evaluating his worth as a Paladin; he's just interested in his body. And for the sake of the universe… Lance knows what he has to do.

“Therefore, it is imperative that our next two quintants together go smoothly,” Barin continued, “so I may give a positive evaluation of yourself. Do you understand?” “Absolutely,” Lance bobbed his head. Barin’s fangs peeked with his smile. “Excellent. Then our first order of business...” He leaned forward, smile growing. “Kiss me.”

Chapter two snippet: “Your offer is most generous,” Allura said, “and I believe I can safely speak for all of Voltron’s members when we say such is most welcome and we gratefully accept your invitation in all of its parts.”

“Thank God,” Pidge muttered below her breath and Lance ducked his head to hide his smile as he’d had a feeling Pidge would have rioted had Allura thought to move directly into heavy alliance talks and based on Romelle’s sigh and Hunk’s soft moan of relief she may have had company.

“Most excellent,” King Taron smiled at them. “I shall have my head of house Marla—” and as he spoke an alien of a different species than Lance had yet seen — short and squat with almost badger-like features although she was bipedal — stood forward from where Lance could she had been sitting — practically invisible, and he had a feeling that was on purpose — in a chair also up on the dais, but further back from the king’s throne.

In fact….

Lance squinted his eyes.

He could faintly make out a second throne — slightly smaller and less detailed — sitting empty to the right of the king’s and there were several chairs — and he thought movement — where Marla had just stood up.

Was…

Was that the council back there? Watching them and concealed (partly) with the refraction technology?

Read it here

[knoepfl]

Baptism in blood

Characters:

• Junie Mae: A young woman discovering her dark side and embracing the thrill of violence under Nubbins’ guidance.

• Nubbins Sawyer: A dangerous, unhinged mentor who revels in chaos and carnage.

• The Hitchhiker: A young man who becomes the unfortunate target of Junie and Nubbins' first hunt together.

Trigger Warnings:

• Graphic violence

• Blood and gore

• Murder

• Psychological manipulation

• Themes of madness

Masterlist

-> Nubbins Masterlist <-

HAVE FUN

The night was suffocating, thick with humidity and silence, as if the land itself was holding its breath. The moon hung low in the sky, casting pale light over the twisted trees and broken-down vehicles that littered the backroads. Junie Mae crouched low behind a rusted car frame, her heart pounding in her chest like a war drum. Next to her, Nubbins Sawyer grinned that wide, unsettling grin, his eyes sparkling with manic excitement.

In his hands, he clutched his prized hunting knife, the one he always carried, the edge glinting under the moonlight. "You ready, Junie?" he whispered, practically vibrating with anticipation. Junie exhaled slowly, the nerves in her stomach twisting like knots. She wasn’t sure if she was ready, but something inside her—something wild and untethered—pushed her forward. She wasn’t the scared, lost girl she used to be. Not anymore. Nubbins had taken her under his wing, shown her the thrill of chaos and carnage. Tonight would be her first real hunt. Their hunt. "Yeah," she whispered back, her lips curling into a grin that almost mirrored his. "Let’s get 'em."

Their target was a man—a lone hitchhiker who had wandered too close to Sawyer territory. He was young, probably no older than twenty-five, with a backpack slung over one shoulder. Oblivious to the pair lurking in the shadows, he stumbled along the dirt road, humming some off-tune melody to himself. Junie felt her pulse quicken as she watched him, her fingers tightening around the handle of the wrench she’d scavenged from the garage. This was it.

The moment Nubbins had told her about—the moment she would stop being prey and become the hunter. Nubbins nudged her gently, his grin stretching wider. "Remember what I said," he whispered. "You gotta feel it. Let it take over. No holdin' back." Junie nodded, her breath hitching as adrenaline surged through her veins. They moved silently, like animals stalking prey, creeping closer with every step. Nubbins giggled under his breath, the sound barely audible but electric in the tension of the night. When they were close enough to smell the hitchhiker’s sweat, Nubbins gave her a quick look, his eyes sparkling with encouragement.

"Now," he hissed. Junie shot forward, the wrench raised high above her head. The man barely had time to turn before she brought it down with all her strength. It connected with a sickening *crack*, and the hitchhiker crumpled to the ground, groaning in confusion and pain. Nubbins pounced like a feral animal, his knife slashing in quick, deliberate strikes. Blood sprayed across the dirt, painting the night in streaks of crimson. The hitchhiker gurgled, his screams caught in his throat as Nubbins carved into him with disturbing precision. Junie stood frozen for a moment, her heart hammering against her ribs.

Then, something inside her clicked—a switch flipping, a dam breaking. A grin spread across her face, wild and feral, and she swung the wrench again, and again, the sound of metal on flesh becoming a brutal rhythm. Nubbins howled with laughter, his blood-streaked face glowing with pride. "That's it, Junie! That’s it!" Together, they tore into their victim, two souls tangled in madness and exhilaration. Every swing of the wrench, every slash of the knife, felt like liberation—like shedding the skin of their old selves and stepping into something new, something untamed and beautiful. When it was over, the hitchhiker lay still, a broken, bloodied heap on the ground. Junie’s chest heaved with effort, her hands slick with blood. She looked down at their work, then at Nubbins, and felt a strange warmth blossom in her chest. "You did it," Nubbins whispered, his grin softer now but no less proud. He wiped his knife on his sleeve and gave her a playful nudge. "Told ya you'd feel it."

Junie let out a shaky laugh, her adrenaline fading into something darker, more satisfying. "That was... somethin’ else." Nubbins beamed at her, his eyes full of a twisted kind of affection. "You were perfect, Junie. Just perfect." For a moment, the world felt like it belonged to them alone—two misfits bound together by blood and shared madness. They stood side by side in the quiet night, their hands stained and hearts racing, knowing that this was only the beginning. There would be more hunts, more kills. But this one—this first, messy triumph—was theirs. And in that moment, they were unstoppable.

Author's Note:Thank you for reading Baptism in Blood! I love creating twisted, thrilling stories, and I'm always open to requests or suggestions for new ideas. If there’s something you'd like to see next, feel free to reach out!

[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.