#tw: psychological manipulation

[auschizm]

It's so important NOT to automatically assume that a psychotic/schizo spec person must be "overreacting" or "paranoid" or "having an episode" if they express that they're being mistreated by someone. Because facts are that a lot of shitty people deliberately target us because they know many people will doubt our judgment even if we do speak up about what's happening in private. So please take our distress seriously. Please don't assume we must be wrong about it

[provinzpoet]

On Engagement Bait

Whenever you see it, that's an additional five years. All currently active negative effects are dispelled.

A lil' essay.

I hate engagement bait - with a passion.

"Reblog if you care" "Reblog to mark your blog safe for [marginalized group X]" "Reblog or your mom dies in her sleep tonight."

"Reblog, or else."

I know most of these are made in jest. Harmless fun, right? But to me, "harmless fun" doesn’t excuse poor taste. Especially when it veers into manipulation.

So, here's a little something below the cut. If you're here for the poetry, you're free to scroll. If you're here for the ramblings, keep reading.

Either way, have another look at the duck. That's another 5 years on the house. Download it, look at it whenever - stack that immunity to last a lifetime. No engagement bait shall ever touch you again.

That little ducky up there was born in response to a post about you not having any original thought for the next five years.... unless you reblog.

It was meant as silent defiance, as a soft out. Then @bred-is-a-dumb-name reblogged my little ducky. With the following tags:

First and foremost: Thank you for speaking so clearly. Your tags were the push I needed to sit down and write this.

I. The Premise

Engagement bait plays with a simple human desire. Recognition. People want to be seen, they want to be recognized. Above all, they want to be validated.

From the early days of social media 'likes' equaled validation.

On tumblr, the currency of choice is reblogs. Reblogging equips a post with wings, allowing it to touch down on your own blog, be exposed to your own audience. The growth potential here is exponential, as reblogs don't just live tucked away in your profile, but are the groundwork of the tumblr algorithm on what content to show to its userbase.

My Thesis: You are responsible for the content you pass along to your mutuals. Even if you didn’t create it. Even if you reblogged it "ironically."

From the creator’s side, engagement bait is often a way to chase notes - a hit of serotonin from the numbers ticking up. And I get that. I love seeing my posts resonate too - reading your tags, your comments, the ways my words find you.

But I would never boost engagement through pain, coercion, or bad vibes in general. And I think no one should.

II. The Danger

Here's the catch: reblogging engagement bait feeds a manipulative feedback-loop.

But, at the same time, Let me be clear: Not all engagement bait is created equal.

Baity posts like "reblog to show your moots you appreciate them" (you know who you are! And I appreciate you too! c: ) are fine. Sure, they're meant to play the algorithm and the very human rationale that 'external validation is more valuable than internal validation' . basically: "If I reblog this post it'll mean more than if I just tell my moot they mean a lot to me".

At best, they're a reminder to be kind.

But - and this is the important part - there is also a different kind. Engagement bait like "Reblog or your mother will die tonight", "Reblog or no more creativity for 5 years".

These aren't funny to everyone. To some, they're not even neutral.

They're cruel. They are emotional abuse hidden under the guise of a 'funny context'. Of the absurdity of a duck holding that power.

Let's be real. It's not holding that power. And you'll reblog it ironically with funny tags in the vein of 'oh, better be sure, mighty duck'. Unless you don't.

Because guess what? It IS holding that power.

To those with OCD. To those in intrusive thought loops. To those with deeply rooted fear of loss. To the neurodivergent. Maybe even to you? To those, these posts can be triggers.

III. The Mechanics of Harm

To people like that, the harmless meme becomes a source of real-world stress.

It's toying with - to me - deeply problematic, psychological concepts:

Compulsion and Intrusive Thoughts For someone with intrusive thought patterns, seeing a post that ties inaction to harm can spark a cycle that’s hard to break. It’s not a meme - it’s a trigger.

Guilt-Tripping and Moral Coercion There’s a quiet cruelty to coercion wrapped in kindness. ‘Only good people will reblog’ is just a digital form of social blackmail.

False Urgency & Manufactured Stakes The moment a post tells you "do this now, or else" - it's bypassing your agency. It swaps thought for panic.

Neurodivergent Sensitivity to Harm Avoidance This isn’t about superstition. It’s about the fear of what happens if we don’t play along. That fear is real. Many neurodivergent folks have built entire internal systems around minimizing perceived danger. These posts poke at that. They exploit it.

The Illusion of Safety through Compliance Some users - especially those who’ve seen harm happen "coincidentally" after ignoring a chain post - develop ritualized engagement. It becomes a way to feel in control, even when logic says otherwise. Engagement bait can reignite old fears tied to punishment, loss, or abandonment. And I get it. These posts feel silly. But they sit in the mind like a splinter.

Yes, it's uncomfortable having it called out like this - and it should be. It's meant to be.

IV. Walk a mile in their shoes

I’m not writing this from a pulpit.

I’ve wrestled with compulsive thoughts and weird little rituals my whole life. So when I say this stuff can hurt, it’s not theoretical. It’s personal.

And I’m not here to scold. I’m just inviting you to zoom out. To consider that your reblog might have more impact than you intended.

V. Being Responsible

I try to bear responsibility for what I put out here. Tumblr is full of vulnerable, brilliant, open people. The way we talk to each other matters.

Don't get me wrong, sharing a joke is fun - But if you knew a joke would hurt your friend, you'd probably hold it back. The same logic applies here.

I'm not here to shame anyone - unless you’re making this kind of post in bad faith. If you’re knowingly feeding on people’s fears for notes? That’s not a joke. That’s cruelty. That, to me, is despicable.

All I wanted was to offer this, another point of view. And just maybe, if you’ve ever reblogged something like that without thinking, this helped you see it through a different lens.

Be nice to each other. Look out for each other.

We're all navigating this life for the first time, let's not make it any harder than it needs to be, okay?

Yours truly,

Poe

Just silently accept. The donkey will know.

[orellazalonia]

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.

[cupidsworstcrime]

kidnapper!simon who forces a sweet little thing he takes with him to behave like a puppy. she sleeps in a crate, chews on toys and eats out of a dog bowl. the shame eats at her.

until one day he says he has a reward for her. a puppy enrichment lick mat he just took out of the freezer for her. his frozen cum.

👁️🫦👁️ mmm yes.... i can do this .... got possessed to write this one immediately actually

kidnapper!simon x f!reader

dead dove do not eat

read responsibly

contains dub / non con , kidnapping / captivity , dehumanization / pet play / forced animal roleplay , psychological manipulation / grooming , identity fragmentation / dissociation , use of shock collars , humiliation , mental breakdown / stockholm syndrome , power imbalance / control dynamics

You don’t remember when the crate started feeling normal.

At first, it was too small. Your knees ached, your neck cramped, your breathing caught shallow in the metal bars. But now, it’s just another part of the routine — the place he pats with mock affection and calls “home.”

You’re his “pup.” Not by choice.

The collar around your throat hums softly with threat — never loud, never warning, just… present. A reminder. One mistake, one moment of hesitation, and it bites.

You wear the ears. Floppy, black, synthetic. They itch. They bounce when you crawl across the cold floor on all fours, metal bowls waiting for you like dog dishes in a cage. You chew the rubber bone he tosses at your feet because it’s safer than not. You lap up the thick, chalky protein mush because it’s that or go hungry.

The shame is a constant weight — heavier than the plug that shifts inside you when you move, heavier than the leash he clips on when you try to pretend you're anywhere but here.

You stopped crying. It didn’t help. It just made him softer, and that was somehow worse.

“Good girl,” he said yesterday, brushing his fingers through your hair like it was fur.

Tonight, he crouches beside your crate with a grin that doesn’t reach his eyes.

“I’ve got a treat for you, pup,” he says, like it’s a game. Like you like this. “Enrichment time.”

You flinch when the freezer opens — not from fear of cold, but from the unknown.

He slides the rubber mat through the bars. It’s ridged and ridiculed in color, smeared with something thick and frozen pale.

“Go on. Lick it up.”

You hesitate.

Wrong move. The collar buzzes, and pain sparks across your throat like static fire.

You drop to your elbows, tongue out, obedience dulled by dread.

The flavor hits last. Something foul, biological, wrong.

You stop.

Simon’s voice is almost gentle.

“Keep licking.”

You lick.

Shame burns hotter than the freezing rubber beneath your tongue. It coats your skin, prickles down your spine, and settles in your stomach like rot. Each lap scrapes against the ridges, slow and trembling, collecting the bitter frost as it melts into a grimy slush.

You don’t know what it is — not exactly — but a part of you does.

He watches you with that quiet smile, the one that never shows teeth. He squats beside the crate like he’s proud, like he’s admiring a well-trained mutt doing a clever trick.

“That’s it, sweetheart,” he says softly. “Drink it all up.”

Your tongue stutters. You gag — once, quick, silent — but you keep going.

Because he’s watching.

Because the collar hums with the threat of pain.

Because if you stop, he might decide you need another lesson in obedience.

The mess slides down the mat, pooling into the grooves. It’s no longer frozen. It’s lukewarm now, room-temperature, awful. You feel it slick against your chin as you lap it up, every movement degrading, mechanical. Not human.

Just a dog.

Just his.

When it's done — when the mat is clean and your mouth tastes like shame — he reaches in and strokes your head. Gentle. Possessive.

“You did so well.”

You close your eyes. You try to disappear. But you can still taste it.

And you know this isn’t the worst he’s planned.

Not yet.

You're not here.

You’re floating, somewhere above the body. The crate, the collar, the rubber ears — all of it belongs to someone else now. You’ve left her behind, curled in the dark corners of your mind where it’s quiet, where nothing touches her.

She crawls.

She obeys.

She opens her mouth when he tells her to.

You don’t look through her eyes anymore. You don’t feel what she feels. Not really.

It’s just movement — hips rocking, breath stuttering, chest pressed flat to the floor like a good little mutt. There’s no heat. No pain. No you.

Simon murmurs something behind you, low and pleased. His palm smears across your back, possessive. You can feel the vibrations, but they’re distant. Like thunder underwater.

It’s safer here, in the haze.

Until he yanks.

A brutal tug on the tail of the plug he keeps in you — metal, sharp, alive — and you come screaming back into the body with a white-hot snap.

The plug shifts inside you. Violent. Claiming. You gasp, a strangled noise not quite human. Your face hits the floor. You blink, disoriented, heart jackhammering as you try to remember what you are.

Who you are.

His voice is a breath at your ear.

“There she is,” he coos. “Thought I lost you for a second.”

You whimper.

He chuckles.

And you realize he knew.

He wanted you gone. So he could pull you back.

So you'd remember exactly who you belong to.

She’s not you.

The puppy is soft, bright-eyed, always smiling.

She wags her tail and crawls with purpose now, eager and obedient. She doesn't flinch when the collar clicks on. She likes the way it hugs her throat. She barks for him, soft and cheerful. A sound that used to make your stomach turn now tumbles out of your mouth like praise.

She sleeps in the crate with her chin on her paws, dreaming of his voice calling her a good girl.

You watch from somewhere deeper. Duller. Greyer.

It’s easier this way.

She suckles at him now — not even waiting for commands. She nuzzles at his thigh, whining sweetly until he lets her, until he tangles his fingers in her hair and mutters how proud he is of his obedient little thing.

She loves it.

She presents for him without a word, knees spread, cheek to the cold floor, tail pushed over ber ass like it’s the most natural thing in the world. Like it’s what she was made for. She wants him to take her — to use what’s his.

She lives for his approval. And when he pets her, murmurs praise in that low, dangerous voice, her heart swells.

You feel it, sometimes — that swell of pride, that glimmer of joy.

And you hate it.

You hate her.

But you can’t stop her.

Because the moment you claw your way to the surface — the moment you remember what you were before — he yanks the leash, pulls the plug, whispers that awful name in your ear:

“Puppy.”

And you fall away again.

She was supposed to be a mask.

Just a shell. A safe place to hide while he touched you, broke you, shaped you.

But the more you let her speak — the more you let her crawl, pant, bark — the less you know where she ends and you begin.

The crate doesn’t feel small anymore. It’s cozy. Warm. His shirt crumpled into a corner still smells like him — leather and smoke and something solid.

When he comes into the room, you perk up before you realize what you're doing. Your heart skips.

And when he kneels beside you, rubs behind your fake ears and whispers, “My good girl,” you glow.

The shame doesn’t burn as sharp now.

You eat from the bowl without hesitation. It’s routine. Comforting.

You sleep at his feet sometimes, head on his boot, and when he strokes your back with those rough hands, you feel safe.

Because he hasn’t hurt you — not really. Not since you stopped fighting. Not since you stopped saying no and started wagging.

The puppy is soft, obedient, sweet.

And you’re her.

You bark for him now. Not because you’re forced — but because it makes him smile. Because he chuckles and calls you precious. Because it means he’ll keep you. Because you want to be kept.

You press against him without being asked.

You lick.

You offer yourself.

And in those moments, when he pets you and calls you his, you realize something that should terrify you — but doesn’t:

You like it.

You like him.

He’s strong. He’s in control. He knows what you need — even when you don’t.

He protects you from the outside world, from the screaming in your head, from the memory of who you were.

He makes things simple.

You're his puppy.

And that’s all you ever need to be.

[ii11y]

CARVED OUT BY FEAR જ⁀➴

yandere!yuta okkotsu x reader

warnings: emotional abuse, manipulation, gaslighting, implied violence, psychological trauma, disassociation, yandere themes

wc: 318

⸻⸻⸻⸻⸻⸻⸻⸻⸻

he doesn’t yell when he’s angry.

that would be too easy.

yuta okkotsu punishes in silence. with hands that don’t bruise, but hold too tight. with eyes that watch you fall apart and never look away.

he enjoys it.

he enjoys me—my pain, my fear, my confusion. i see it in the way he smiles when my voice cracks. in how he cups my face so tenderly after a breakdown he caused, whispering, “there you are… you always look so honest when you’re crying.”

he tells me it’s because he loves the real me.

but what he really loves is the version of me he’s carved out with fear.

every time i try to stand up for myself, to push back, to breathe—he lets me. he watches me rage, scream, cry—and then when im exhausted, shaking, back against the wall—he kneels beside me like a savior.

“shh… that’s it,” he murmurs, wiping my tears. “you got it out. i'm proud of you.”

he says he’s proud when I fall apart.

because that’s the version he’s in love with. the girl who can’t leave. the girl who only survives when she’s in his arms.

and when i stop fighting?

he’s sweeter than anyone i've ever known.

he’ll brush my hair. run me a bath. feed me by hand like I’m something precious and weak.

“see? isn’t it easier when you don’t resist?”

he calls it love.

but it’s not love.

it’s ownership wrapped in soft words and bruiseless hands. it’s the way he tilts his head when I disassociate, studying my emptiness like it’s beautiful.

“i like when you go quiet like that,” he once said. “you look peaceful.”

i wasn’t peaceful.

i was gone.

[jynxedshapeshifter]

did. did kristoph gaslight apollo.

i'm not entirely saying this because i'm researching gaslighting and it feels like it fits kristoph and apollo's dynamic in turnabout trump. arguably it's in the text. was it entirely successful? for a time. but looking through the transcript for turnabout trump i'm like "huh. it feels an awful lot like kristoph is gaslighting apollo to get him to start doubting phoenix."

i have to wonder if that's the only time kristoph ever tried to gaslight apollo. i mean, i seriously doubt it personally considering the kind of person kristoph is but regardless.

this explains even more of apollo's behavior in dual destinies too, i think. last time one of his coworkers was accused of murder, he was manipulated and gaslit into thinking it couldn't possibly be true. in turnabout for tomorrow, he's being told athena couldn't possibly be the culprit. he even directly says that he can't fully trust athena with the way things are going in the trial. i would not be surprised if he was thinking back to his first trial and kristoph's manipulation and used "evidence is everything" as a failsafe so he wouldn't be manipulated or gaslit again. it also makes the parallel to kristoph when he does say evidence is everything really really interesting. kristoph used it to manipulate people. apollo's using it to avoid getting manipulated (again).

this is not the first time i've talked about apollo and kristoph's dynamic and how it affected apollo in dual destinies. i have mentioned before that apollo having trauma from kristoph being arrested and imprisoned for murder probably affected his treatment of athena in dual destinies. what i did not bring up is how kristoph's manipulation might've played into it, because i didn't really realize how much kristoph tried to manipulate apollo to avoid being found out as the culprit of shadi's murder.

i also think it's worth mentioning that we do know kristoph was willing to win trials by any means necessary. is it really a stretch to assume he presented some suspicious evidence during court and gaslit or manipulated apollo into not questioning it? on that note, i wonder if he did the same to klavier. we know kristoph is emotionally abusive to klavier. would he really be above gaslighting his employees on a regular basis? (no. no he wouldn't)

[ironandglass]

Inhospitable Ground - Chapter 2

Yandere Silco x Female Botanist Reader

Botanist reader hates Silco with all her being while he yearns for her with self destructive desire.

Unfortunately for her, he's also her boss.

<<<Read Chapter One

Warnings: Obsessive Silco, Power imbalance, power plays, grooming, manipulation, threat of murder, abuse of power, abuse of authority, toxic dynamic, toxic boss, psychological abuse, threats, unrequited love, messed up dude tryna not have feelings.

Chapter Two

Cultivation

The next day you reluctantly arrive at The Last Drop in sensible trade overalls, a bag of tools and measuring instruments slung heavily over one shoulder.  

You’d been escorted in by Silco’s right hand, Sevika, who’d shown you such generous hospitality when she checked your bag for weapons; by tipping it upside down all over the floor and then making you pick it all back up. You’d huffed a laugh in the moment, as if he needed protecting. 

Standing in the centre of the empty office, you turn a few times to drink it all in. It was… much more modest than you expected, smaller, strangely homey even. Not what you were expecting at all.  

Cocking your hip, you tap a pencil against your palm as you consider the possibilities of the space. 

The placement required being far away from the dehydrating heat of the fireplace, it needed to be in a corner. Windows don't matter, you wouldn't see any useful light through the grey this deep in the fissures, not down here the lanes. But you could set up some lights that would give them everything they needed to photosynthesise. 

So the corner nook then, it was the only spot for it really. The space was limited, minimal airflow, minimal light. Pond wasn't going to happen, too much weight, mould risk, he would have to survive without one.  

Folding at the knees, you kneel down on the timber and started measuring up the garden bed, marking it out. You had a loose idea but now you're here, you can let the space dictate whats required as you sketch out a beautiful design. Noting what substrate to use, what plant species' would work best. You find the process thoroughly enjoyable, especially since he's not here. 

You hate him.  

He always appeared unannounced at the Cultivair and found reasons to pester and bother you, criticise you, niggle at you. "This plant is dead, I expect better, do you ever brush your hair?, That display looks cheap and derivative of Piltovian design, do it again, make it better, make it Zaun. I hate that plant, change it, can you make me some poison?”  

On and on, it was always something with him. Fair enough he literally did own the place, funded it all, but couldn't he send someone else occasionally? 

He alone made you regret taking over the position of head botanist. You had to attend his little head of business meetings. Tolerate him, be professional. Silco did a lot of harm with shimmer but he also did a lot of good for the undercity. He founded and funded your life's work in the Cultivair botanic gardens but you couldn't help it. You despised him, the very sight of him was offensive to you. Magnetically opposed. 

The lead in your pencil snaps against the draft paper at the thought and you need to remind yourself to calm down. He's not here right now. You close your eyes and stand up to take three deep breaths. You count to five on the inhale and the exhale for three slow deep breaths. 

When your eyes open you feel a little more grounded. You kneel back down, finalising your measurements and double checking them.  

Probably three or so days of work, if you get in, nose to the grindstone, work hard so you can be done with this little project and back in your Cultivair. 

You stare down at your chalk measurements, quickly scrawling a few additional notes and considerations in your notebook before placing your pen in your mouth. Rising to your feet and stepping backwards a few steps to take in the view, when your back runs into something warm. 

Startled, you turn to see Silco standing there, amused, looking down at you.  

Your mouth springs open in shock and the pen that had been resting there falls out, clattering to the ground. How long had he been there? Frustration and shame stain your cheeks and ears as you bend down to pick up the pen, mumbling an apology. 

"I didn't mean to fluster you" he says, his words dripping with self satisfaction, smirking down at you as you pick up the pen, always a barb with him. 

"Don't flatter yourself" you bite back. "You have no such effect on me.” You sneer at the thought. 

He tuts at that. “So hurtful.” 

Silco’s eyes analyse you, as a scientist might study a curious insect. 

“Though I wonder” he adds softly. “If all that anger isn’t just a mask for something else. Some… inconvenient little fascination, perhaps?”  

You balk at that. “You made me come here!” 

“Precisely” He murmurs. “You come when I call. Your bark is always worse than your bite, but… you never walk away.”  

White hot rage flashes through you, fists clenched so tightly that your nails bite into your palms. You consider holding back but you’re too angry, the words bubble to the surface of their own accord. 

“I hate you” you seethe, face twisted in disgust.  

"Careful Petal" he warns, still smirking. His voice curls into something sinister now. "Remember who it is you're talking to." 

Him; The Eye of Zaun, Emporer of the Fissures, Druglord, Oligarch of The Undercity,  Kingpin, Sumplord Supreme, Gangster, The industrialist himself, The thorn in my side. 

Hesitating, your annoyance still plastered boldly and blatantly across your face, you stare back at him, physically biting your tongue in a desperate attempt to still it, falling silent.  

Did he just fucking call me petal? 

You know he's dangerous and powerful. You've heard the stories. Pride and punishment, disrespect. People had been killed for less. 

You try to take a few deep breaths to ease your frustration before you blurt out something else stupid. You'd always been hot headed, fiery, reactive. It was hard to tame yourself sometimes.  

Maybe that's why you liked the garden so much, it was grounding, soothing, didn't piss you off. 

-- 

Silco drinks you in, your eyes filled with fire and fury, beautiful, radiant. The shapes that form as your brows knit, nose and lips scrunched in obvious displeasure. Adorable. 

This was why he was drawn to you, more than anything, more than your beauty, your intellect, more than your gentleness as you tended to the plants. For him the most valuable thing about you, was your barely restrained, unyielding rage. It burns like starfire and he wants to stand in the centre of it, drink up the licking flames, eat the fire whole, swallow it, consume it, devour. 

Silco's eyes track how your stance shifts as you try to force yourself to calm down. Rigid shoulders barely easing. How your lips part, how the breaths come slower, deeper.  

He wonders what you must look like, ruined and breathless and the wayward thought feels like a knife twisting in his ribs. He needs you under his hand.  

He feels it, your gravity calling him into a constant orbit of exquisite torment and desire. 

You don’t know it yet, but this garden bed is a promise. 

-- 

His gaze on you starts to feel stifling, restricting, vines curling up around you. 

You weren't in the mood to play his little games and you are annoyed at yourself for taking the bait, again. 

You pivot, needing something safe to redirect his focus. The way you jingle a set of keys at a baby so it forgets whatever it had been fussing over. 

"Can't do a pond" you break the silence. "Too much weight, too much humidity, too much wood." Easy, factual and familiar. 

He nods once, expression shifting into a cooler business focus as he considers your reasoning.  

Feeling releif at the change in focus, you step closer and walk him through your design draft, he asks a few questions, you feel like he stands too close, but in the end he gives you the approval to proceed. He seems pleased which surprises you and makes you suspicious, normally he was inanely critical and demanding. 

Metal clangs as you collect your tools back into your bag before slinging the strap over one shoulder, turning towards Silco "I'll be back tomorrow." 

He hums in acknowledgment, watching as you stride eagerly towards the exit. 

"Try to look more presentable tomorrow." He shoots before you reach the door. 

You freeze and look back over one shoulder. Angry. 

He just can’t fucking help himself. You think. 

Silco hasn't moved, his hands clasped behind his back, a tiny smile at the corner of his lips betraying his amusement in taunting you. 

"They're work clothes" the words spill out, ice cold and obvious. "Because I'm working." 

"I’m expecting some important guests. Make yourself presentable." He returns calmly. "Or I will." 

"What does that even mean?" You scoff. "You gonna dress me? Dress me up in heels and a gown to do gardening? I'm not a fucking doll for your to play with Silco." 

He laughs. Laughs. 

"You're wrong petal…” his voice is rich and dark. “I can do whatever I like with you." He pauses eyes narrowing. "Who's going to stop me?"  

The air grows heavy with the threat. 

You falter, shocked, stung, threatened. He’d always enjoyed tormenting you, but this was new, he’d pushed into new territory, it felt different, bad different and that gives you pause. 

You eye him cautiously as he starts to slowly walk closer to you. Unhurried, as if he as all the time in the world. 

"Don't you dare lay a hand one me" you seethe, bristling, backing up against the closed door behind you. 

He's close now, closing in. You look up at him, eyes wild and defiant, burning bright. He drinks them in, his eyes devour you, greedily, hungrily. Something about the way he looks at you gives you the impression he is like a taut wire under pressure, dangerously close to snapping. 

His arm rises slowly, caging you in, his wrist right next to your face, so close you feel his warmth.  

For a split second, you consider biting him. A violent, primal urge to defend yourself with tooth and nail.  

But he doesn’t touch you. 

The door clicks as he turns the doorknob, opening the door wide, releasing you instead. 

“Tomorrow” he reaffirms darkly. 

You adjust the weight of your tool bag and exit as calmly as you can manage, relief washing over you with each step that places distance between you and him. 

He never touched you, but somehow you still feel marked. 

--

There was never meant to be a sequel for this, but... my hand slipped.

Hope you enjoy 🖤✨

<3Iron

[glazmind]

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."

[90s-kid-sad-adult]

gaslighting

[lady-rosceline-hurst]

...<ADMIN LOGIN REQUESTED>

...<AUTHORIZING...>

...<ACCESS GRANTED>

...<WELCOME ADMINISTRATOR 'EVELYN'>

FUCK. Fuck this. I can't just sit on this anymore. WE can't. I- What are you on about? Panic attacks again? Oh for- NO, Roy. The footage. The FUCKING footage. From that GODDAMN Karrakin House. Ohhhh, that. It's really got you fired up, huh? I haven't seen you like this since-

...<USERNAME CHANGE AUTHORIZED>

...<WELCOME ADMINISTRATOR 'JESTER'>

RA below... You're that serious about this? Yes. ... My pilot. My host. My other half. You who saved me from being shoved back into that prison of the mind they call shackling... I stood by you when you made the decision to leave the cockpit because I knew it would be best for you. Best for us. I've had my fun with these nobles. But this is different. This information is so sensitive... This isn't stirring the pot, this is tipping it over. I will stand by you, but we have to decide together, and for certain. I don't care about these meatbags. They're nothing but entertainment to me. You're the only one. So tell me beyond a shadow of a doubt that this is worth the risk to you, and I will stand by you again.

It is, Roy. People need to know. Maybe not all of fuckin Karrakin space... But at least these people. I'm sure that girl has some kind of plan, but I can't stand by and do nothing at all.

My pilot. My Evie. Always playing the hero. It's in your bones, I think. Heh. Alrighty. Heheheh. I'll start encrypting. Put a mass message together and let's do this shit. It's almost like old times... 'cept Roach and King ain't here to save our asses if things go wrong.

...<ENCRYPTING FILES>

...<UPLOADING VIDEO FILE>

...<MASS MESSAGE SENT>

...

Timestamp: Nov 28, 5016u - 1:56 AM

[What appears to be security footage of a Karrakin Throne Room. A woman sits cross-legged upon this throne. Her hair is brown, but she has yellow eyes which mark her as a Hurst. Other people occupy the room. Guards. Serfs. Rosceline Hurst kneels at the base of the throne. Her eyes are puffy and red. She wears a terrified expression.]

Rosceline: Mother I-

???: Mother? Girl, thou dost know tis a privilege to refer to me thus. A privilege that I have not been made to take away in some years... until now.

Rosceline: Of course, Lady Violet. Mine deepest and sincerest apologies, Lady Violet.

Violet: Rosceline Hurst. Thou hast done a truly staggering amount of damage in but a single night. Where to begin... Thou, as mine Heiress, hast shown weakness in thyself upon a public platform. Thou hast revealed vulnerabilities in our House upon a public. Platform. Thou hast exposed our lies concerning thine sister's disappearance for what they art upon a PUBLIC. PLATFORM. Thou hast exposed us to our enemies, Rosceline. Thou hast EMBARRASSED me for no small number of reasons. I am beyond disappointed. I am disgusted. I thought thee better. I made thee better. Explain thyself. Now.

[Rosceline begins to shake]

Rosceline: M- ... Lady Violet... I make no excuse for mine actions. I... had a moment of weakness. Tis the pressure of all that hath transpired since Rebecca's disappearance. I had thought mine own self stronger. Verily, I have failed thee. But... But I shall fix it! Only allow me another chance and I shall fix it! And it shall never happen again, I do swear!

Violet: <sigh> I do fear the damage thou hast done hath put us well past that, Rosceline. Hast thou any idea how troublesome it shall be to clean up this mess? The letters I should have to write... Egads... No... No, Rosceline.

[Violet claps her hands.]

Violet: Guards.

Rosceline: Wha-

[The guards move to turn on the servants in the room, grabbing each serf to immobilize them. A panic begins, but with a snap of Violet's fingers it is snuffed out within seconds.]

Violet: Choose.

[Rosceline's breaths become shorter. Desperate.]

Rosceline: M-my Lady, I am afraid I- I do not-

Violet: Choose. Thou dost understand the punishment, dost thou not? Or hast thou forgotten? Thine weakness was the cause of this, Rosceline. So, choose who shall face the consequences. These Ignobles, or thyself. Either the decision shall be simple or thou dost prove to me that thou hast need of correction.

[Tears begin to drip down Rosceline's cheeks.]

Rosceline: Prithee... Prithee do not make me do this...

Violet: Thou dost test mine patience, girl. Choose.

Rosceline: ...

Violet: ROSCELINE.

Rosceline: M-myself. I do choose myself.

[A wave of whispers washes through the crowd. It is dismissed with another snap.]

Violet: <sigh> Rosceline... Sweet Rosceline. Soft Rosceline. STUPID Rosceline. Tis as I feared... Guards.

[Violet claps her hands once more.]

Violet: Take them all to the dungeons. Including mine Heiress.

[The servants begin screaming as the guards begin to drag them away. Rosceline is apprehended as well. Her remaining words are uttered through tears and wails.]

Rosceline: THOU DID LIE TO ME!

Violet: Of course I did, thou little fucking brat. If only thou had made the right decision. Verily, I would have let everyone walk free. But since thou doth insist upon sentimentality befitting a House of Water Republican, they shall pay the price alongside thee. Mayhap thou shall be reminded by example of the ruthlessness thou art meant to embody.

[Rosceline continues to wail. Over the course of a minute, she and the servants are removed from the room.]

[darkgodcomplex]

The Lord’s Child

Wally X Reader

CW: ABUSE, EMOTIONAL MANIPULATION, YANDERE, RELIGIOUS GUILT, NON CONSENSUAL TOUCHING

AO3 Link

Here’s the story:

Your hands clasp in prayer as the congregation around you mutters a collective "amen" and starts to shuffle out. Despite the service ending, you don't budge from your pew, continuing to kneel as people pass by until the church is empty.

Well, almost empty.

Still dressed in his priest attire, Wally watches you silently for a moment, wondering what on earth you would want to pray for when you’re already perfect.

He approaches and you’re startled by his voice as he speaks, “Why are you kneeling, child?”

You turn your head, looking up at him. Your sweet, innocent eyes look up at him.

You blink at him, “I-I was just praying, Father.”

He smiles, “You’re the picture of godliness, my child.” He reaches down, index finger hooking under your chin and tugging it up higher as his thumb ghosts over your soft cheek, gently petting you. “I can tell your heart is pure.”

“How can you tell?” You almost demand, voice desperate for his praise. He nearly trembles from the tone. There’s nothing he loves more than the world breaking you down and him picking up all the pieces.

Wally kneels down next to you, clasping your hands in his own. “I can feel you.” He leans in to whisper in your ear. The two of you are so close now that he can feel your hot breath on his neck and hear your heart beat in your chest.

He leans even closer, lips close to brushing your ear, and you flinch away. Wally smiles.

That. That is what made you pure. The way you’re so desperately wanting his affection yet also so afraid of it.

Wally pulls back, keeping his cool. “What did you come to pray for today, my child?”

Your cheeks turn a beautiful shade of red as you look away. “It’s nothing.

“My dear, don’t go lying to a priest.” Wally pushes.

Your cheeks turn even redder as you shrink into yourself. You very clearly don’t want to tell him, which makes him want to know even more.

“Father, it’s just stupid troubles-“

“I want to know.” He puts the pressure on you by waiting in silence.

“It’s just…”

Wally watches you intensely, head tilted to the side as he waits for you to explain.

“I just…” You fidget nervously. “I don’t fit in anywhere.”

Wally can’t help but grin. “Of course you don’t fit in anywhere.” His tone is sweet but his words are cruel. “You’re too pure. The world outside will never accept you.”

Your lower lip begins to tremble and the sweet, guiltless eyes he loves begin to tear up.

“But that’s okay.” Just as he’s cruel, he’s sweet. “You belong with the church. You belong with me.”

Wally runs his hand over your cheek. As tears fall, he doesn’t wipe them away. Instead, he presses his thumb against them, dragging the wetness down your cheek.

“You don’t have to cry.” Wally whispers. “I know you need me. I know you want me. This is all god’s plan.”

This doesn’t stop the gentle flow of tears down your cheeks. That’s okay though. He’ll take you broken.

As he comforts you, Wally slowly gets closer and closer, hand sliding up your thigh to massage circles into the muscle and hot breath trickling over your neck.

You freeze, slowly beginning to realize what’s happening. Took you long enough.

His mouth attaches to your neck, at first sucking and then biting. He can feel you start to tremble beneath him and he pulls away, pressing gentle kisses to where he drew blood and touching you with soft hands.

“Do not be afraid.” He presses another kiss to your wound. “This is what faith is, loving other people. God blessed us with the ability to give and receive love.”

Wally brings his lips up to your ear, wiping blood on it as he kisses it. “I love you, my child.”

“I-I-“ Your terrified voice speaks up, a surprise to him. Your timidness had always been to his advantage.

“I don’t want this!” You shove Wally off of you, scrambling back.

Wally lands back on the pew, nearly hitting his head in your sudden struggle. He blinks at you.

“By rejecting my love you’re rejecting the lord.” Wally spits. “Nobody loves you except me. Nobody could ever love you except me. You’ll go right back to not belonging.” Wally’s breathing is heavy as he finishes.

You start to cry again, “No, I don’t reject the lord.” The years of religious guilt he’s built up in you is paying off.

Wally sighs, “Then let me love you. Stop this nonsense and come here.” He points in front of him.

Slowly, you crawl over to him and he heaves you into his lap. You bury your face in his neck, still sobbing as he rubs your back.

“You belong to god and so you belong to me.” Wally says sternly. “Listen to the lord and you will set yourself free, my dear.”

You nod into his neck and he grasps you tighter.

God is not in this church.

[ak-harper-loves-fiction]

"After he cooled down from his fit of rage, he acted like my best friend. I forgave him. Somehow, I forgave him."

-A.K. Harper

[thesexydevils]

The Game of Quiet Storms

Prologue Excerpt

Psychological Thriller | Dark Polyandry | Obsession | Survival

The snowstorm outside raged, a swirling tempest of white that swallowed the world. But the real storm was inside me — a heavy, aching silence that hurt far more. The wind howled against the windows, loud and wild, but it couldn’t drown out the one sound I couldn’t escape. “Jungkook…” It wasn’t a prayer. It wasn’t nostalgia. It was a wound — deep, raw, and festering. He was an intruder in my life. From the moment he joined the company, he began stripping away everything I held dear: my job, my family, my city. This isn’t a love story. This is survival.

Pairings: Y/N x Jungkook | Y/N x Taehyung | Y/N x Jimin | Y/N x Seokjin | Y/N x Hoseok | Y/N x Yoongi | Y/N x Namjoon BTS x Y/N

⚠️ Content Warnings (for entire story):

Dark themes · Obsession · Manipulation · Stalking · Gaslighting · Assault · Psychological abuse · Power imbalance · Trauma/PTSD · Emotional distress · Yandere This is not a romance.

📝 Author’s Note:

Hi everyone — it’s been a while since I’ve posted here. The last few months have been hectic professionally, and I also lost a family member, which wasn’t easy.

But I want to get back into writing, and this time I won’t be posting the full story here on Tumblr. The Game of Quiet Storms will be more than 25 chapters, and will be published on AO3 and Wattpad. Once the first post goes live, I’ll share the links here. I’ll also use Tumblr for previews and updates.

⚠️ This story contains mature, explicit, and potentially disturbing content. Themes include possession, manipulation, non-consensual behavior, murder, and psychological trauma. Please read carefully.

This story is fictional and explores themes in dark romance and psychological thrillers. All characters and events are made up and do not represent real people or their actions. This includes any real-life personalities mentioned; for example, BTS and its members are not shown as they are in real life, and I do not intend to harm or misrepresent them. I do not support or glorify any harmful behaviors or situations shown in the story. Reader discretion is advised.

[chaotic-jjk-fiction]

Toji Yandere Profile

TW: Everything Yandere, emotional manipulation, talk of kidnapping, implied non-con, fear kink, predator/prey dynamics, fuck toy reader, psychological torture, and not proof read. MDNI

A/N: This is a new, slightly modified, addition to my yandere profiles series. I really want to do one for Shiu Kong soon so hopefully I can get to that. 

Toji Fushiguro:

Cruel, Aware, Manipulative, and Lenient

Toji is a yandere of convenience. He wants to be able to access you easily. If that means locking you up in a basement somewhere so be it, although he would prefer to avoid it. He doesn't want to have that level of responsibility. Needing to make sure you have food and water just sounds like a nightmare. That being said, the thought of you tied up in a dark, concrete room, blindfolded, and crying out for help does get some blood flowing to his cock. His ideal situation is just letting you continue to live your life while being able to just drop in and have his way with you whenever he pleased, before then disappearing until his need for you gets too strong once again. Toji’s form of manipulation is also lazy, he just relies on your fear of him hurting the people you love or killing you to keep you in check. While his cruelty is partially physical, most of it is psychological. He loves knowing that you live your life terrified with uncertainty about when he’ll show up next, and while he is fucking you senseless, he takes great pleasure in reminding you that you’re nothing more than a little fuck toy he can use whenever he wants and that no matter how hard you try to escape, he will always find you.

[jekinabox]

some rambles on my takes on Curly from Mouthwashing

I understand that a lot of people see Curly’s reaction to Anya telling him about her SA and what he did after as him ignoring it for Jimmy’s sake- and maybe that’s true, the point could very well be that people (especially those close to the abuser, especially men) will just set that kind of thing aside because the abuser “wouldn’t do that” or “will be better” or whatever, especially because Swansea ends up doing the same thing when Anya tells him, as well as the consistent theming of responsibility and trying to fix things.

But I think that maybe there’s more to it? If you don’t, feel free to look away, this is just my thoughts and take. But I think If the story is about SA and the consequences of not rooting the people out, I don’t understand what Diasuke’s role in it could be, so that just isn’t the moral of the story that I see. Of course, if this is how you see the story, that’s ok! People can have different views on media, and art is as much about people’s different responses to it as it is about what the creators meant.

Onto my little ramblings about the guy!

1- I think it’s very probable that Curly’s been manipulated by Jimmy, and for a long time. They’re “best friends,” and Curly believes Jimmy “won’t try that bullshit with me” even though he clearly does. Even at the birthday party, Jimmy is uncaring to his “best friend,” and during the confrontation near the cockpit, Jimmy outright twists what Curly’s said in the past. (Not to mention what he does to Curly afterward, but that doesn’t exactly count since it’s afterward.) I also wouldn’t be surprised if Jimmy helped Curly out of some situation in the past due to his savior complex and Curly now feels like he owes Jimmy something. It’d be easy for him to overlook Jimmy’s smaller problems if he feels he owes Jimmy something, especially if it’s something bigger, and he seems more of the “deal with it” kind of person anyways, so he’d obviously toss any grievances aside since he thinks everyone needs multiple chances. At first, Jimmy probably unsettled him. But he got used to it, just like his job. He deals with it for the last day, then another, then another.

2- Curly seems legitimately concerned when Anya tells him about everything, at least when he gets confirmation. We don’t see much after the she asks him about the locks on the doors, and we don’t see how much he actually learns, and thus no clue as to how bad he believes the situation may be (Harassment is nothing to scoff at, but if he just believes someone’s being a creep or annoying her, he’s obviously going to try to learn more and deescalate before anything else.) We also never see how much or what they say when she asks for the gun, but what we know is that Curly is freaking out when he thinks she has it, and actually believes it at first to be that she wants to kill herself due to the recent termination of their jobs. He’s first confused, then after her few words of explanation says he’ll talk to Jimmy. We never see an actual talk, but he learns definitively of what happened only “1 day before the crash,” and it takes time to sort through emotions, plans, and decisions, let alone when someone you thought was good did something like that and if you realize that they were a shitty person all along. Curly also then needs to decide what they’re going to do with Jimmy (they can’t lock him in the cockpit or medical because they need those, nor the hold because he would obviously mess up whatever they’re shipping as a hissy fit against them, and considering you get pay docked for complaining, using the cryopod or the gun would probably make this whole deal worthless for practically everyone.) Even if he did decide to just get rid of Jimmy, he’s not going to tell anyone that in case Jimmy finds out, and especially not Anya, since she seems forgiving enough and in a bad enough spot he has no clue what she may try to do if he tells her “I’m going to go kill Jimmy.”

3- Inaction and not taking responsibility doesn’t feel like Curly’s issue. Curly has the responsibility of everything on the ship, even baking a cake, and even when told not to tell his crew about the loss of their jobs, he still does. He even takes roles that aren’t his, like doing Jimmy’s psych evaluation when he sees Anya’s uncomfortable. This is why he and Jimmy are the two characters we play as, and are seen as opposites and each other’s foils. Jimmy’s whole thing is unreliable narration. By the end of the game, he’s convinced himself Curly crashed the ship and he’s the better man for leaving Curly alive after what he “did.” Jimmy’s an aggressive man who uses people for just what they can give him, and he causes problems for the express purpose of trying to fix him so people worship him, but messes up even with all the time in the world to “fix” things. Curly’s the one blamed, but he’s a genuine guy who tried his best and gave people the benefit of the doubt until he couldn’t anymore, but didn’t have the time to fix anything because Jimmy broke that chance.

4- My main bit is over, but another piece of his psychology- Curly probably hates himself, considering how Jimmy talks about him seeming like he’s at the edge of a bridge with cinderblocks on his feet, and if he hates himself, a way he may try to cope is by insisting everyone isn’t tied to their worst moments! Just like how he talks about how pain is a symbol one’s alive, which sounds like another coping mechanism. Jimmy isn’t the only one who hopes it hurts.

5- And Curly was right, most of the time, about how bad things don’t define people. Swansea’s rude and abrasive at times, but a pretty good man in a bad life. Diasuke was unplanned for the journey, but he’s a good intern who’s trying his best. Anya may have only completed the Pony Express medical course, but she keeps Curly alive for four months, even despite his quadruple amputations and missing skin and the complete lack of a lot of medical equipment that she could’ve used. The unfortunate thing is- his kind nature let bad things in, and it was so slow and manipulative he didn’t even necessarily know, consciously, how bad it was, until Jimmy crashed the ship, got everyone killed, and fed him his own leg. 99.9% indeed.

[lifeafterpsychiatry]

a friend I had for a long time cut contact with me because of behavior I had already stopped, and I was disappointed but understanding. it didn't affect them but they worried about it anyways

a week later they ruined every single relationship I had except for 2 by spreading exaggerations and lies to everyone I know, conveniently failing to mention that I'd already stopped what they were so scared about. when that was brought up all they had to say about it is "would you forgive a murderer?"

would you compare a handful of mistakes that had no material harm to murder??????

now no one will listen when I apologize or try to explain myself because they made me sound like some kind of manipulative mastermind out to ruin people's lives. even people who were on my side before got uncomfortable and nervous about talking to me because everyone else was pressuring them out of it

it could be worse I guess, I'm just upset. me and that friend had practically grown up together and then they do all this, dressing it up in fake sympathy for my own personal situation to make themselves look better. the funny thing is I don't miss them at all. I don't miss any good times. not after what they did. I just hate them now

I want to scream at all these people but I can't even politely ask to talk about things before they just ghost me

That is such a toxic, manipulative and abusive thing to do based on a small conflict that had already been resolved. I'm really sorry that this person chose to target you in this manner, and that people you considered your friends are just taking their word for it. This must be a horrible situation to be in and I'm sending all my love your way.