Tw: Manipulation, gentle dom, psychological control, power play, brainwashing, stalking, smut idk
You think you're in charge.
He lets you speak first during arguments, lets you set the pace when you go out together. You even think it was your idea to move in. It makes you feel strong, clever and independent.
He watches you with soft eyes, nodding attentively, even when you're wrong. "Of course, baby. Whatever you say," he murmurs, kissing the crown of your head like you're his delicate little pet.
But behind that sweet, sleepy smile is a mind ten moves ahead. He suggested your favorite brand of shampoo before you even told him you liked it. He always texts just as you're thinking of him and when you bring up something private from weeks ago, he's already taken care of it.
You joke about him being psychic. He laughs along. You don’t know he’s reading your messages. Or that your friends don’t text you back because he made sure they wouldn’t.
You pace the apartment one night, annoyed about something— some minor thing he “forgot” and he just leans on the doorframe, amused. Watching you vent, eyes shining like you’re the cutest thing he’s ever seen.
"I don't know why you're smiling" you snap.
"I just love seeing you like this." he says warmly. "So full of passion. It’s... adorable." You think you've won when he apologizes. When he lets you sleep on the couch and tucks a blanket over you gently, as if you're punishing him.
But he never minds losing battles. Because you never notice he's already won the war. He has your passwords, your schedule, your routine memorized.
He made you dependent, gently. A new job near his place. Friends who slowly faded. A social circle that always included him— always revolved around him.
And when you cry in his arms, convinced that he's the only one who truly understands you, he strokes your back and whispers, "I’m just lucky to have you." He means it.
You really believe this is your idea.
And he’ll never take that illusion away. Because chains are lighter when you don’t even know you’re wearing them.
You're laughing over iced coffees with your friend at a café one afternoon. He sits a few tables away, pretending to scroll through his phone, letting you have your space. Like the "trusting" boyfriend he is.
Your friend raises a brow. “So… everything’s still good with you two?”
You grin, leaning in like you're about to share a juicy secret.
“Good? Please. I’ve trained him.” You laugh, tossing your hair back. “He’s so soft for me. I tell him to jump, and he’s already mid-air. He does whatever i ask him to do.” You grin feeling proud and holding your head up high.
Your friend chuckles. “Damn. What’s your secret?”
You sip your drink with a smug smile. “Simple. I don’t let him control the narrative. I set the rules. Like, even in bed? He thinks he’s taking the lead, but he’s only doing what I let him. I’m totally in charge.” (Yeah right, totally)
Across the café, his fingers still on his phone, but his eyes—those sharp, amused eyes—lift to you. He doesn't call this stalking, he's just keeping an eye on you.. without your permission or notice.
He's watching. He hears every word and he smiles. Just that quiet, indulgent smirk, like he’s listening to a child playing pretend. Like he's watching you flit around in a pretty little cage you decorated yourself, flexing about it to your friend.
Big enough to feel like freedom, padded in soft illusions. A cage with your name on the door, because you wrote it there and forgot it was his idea.
He loves when you say things like this. Loves how passionately you believe them. That you think you tamed him. That you think you made him this way. That you're in "control".
He watches you giggle with your friend and leans back in his chair, one arm draped lazily over the backrest.
Later that night, when you’re straddling him, teasing, whispering filthy things with that same cocky grin, he lets you take what you think you want. Lets you ride out your fantasy. He grips your hips just enough to make you feel powerful, while guiding every movement without you realizing.
Even if you're on top of him, he's the one moving your hips up and down. You just take it like he's helping you ride him, nothing more. He grips your neck and pulls your face closer to his, kissing you while you're moaning and whimpering.
"Look at you..being so good for me" He says while squeezing your neck gently. "Are your legs getting tired darling?"
"N...no.." You lift your hips up and down on his cock, panting softly. "I..I can keep going.." You struggle as pleasure takes over your body.
"Mm..I can see that." He rocks his hips up towards you to meet your thrusts. You throw your head back as he moves faster, trying to keep yourself in control and biting your lip hard to not scream. He puts both his hands on your hips, ramming you on him and coaxing you smoothly.
"You wanted this, I'm just helping you.. still following what you told me, love, nothing more."
When you collapse against his chest, breathless, he strokes your hair and murmurs, “You’re incredible. You did so well for me baby..”
He’s proud of you for playing the role of top so well. You drift off to sleep, curling in his arms, limbs tangled and lips parted in exhaustion, he watches you like a predator watching a bunny, trusting him so easily.
He feels like he's giving you freedom, letting you do and act how you want. Not out of mercy. Just to see how long you’ll run before you realize you're still in his jaws.
He plans to capture you completely. Soon enough. No need to rush, this is the thing with bunnies, it's necessary to be patient them. They get frightened so easily. It's better to lure them out and make them vulnerable first, to fully enjoy breaking them once they trust you.
You start watching for it.
The patterns. You begin to notice how you rarely choose your own meals anymore— how he always “suggests” something he knows you’ll enjoy before the waiter even arrives, so by the time the question is asked, it doesn’t feel like a choice at all.
You see how he’ll never forbid you from going out, but always gently encourages you to stay — offering small reasons, subtle guilt, the ghost of sadness in his smile that makes you feel selfish when you pull away.
“You’re free, love,” he always says. “I’d never want to trap or.. suffocate you.”
And yet, every decision you make feels like one he would’ve made anyway. Every deviation from his preferences tastes like disobedience.
Every act of defiance feels like betrayal.
One night, you bring it up while curled beside him on the couch, half-wrapped in a blanket, his hand absently stroking your hair.
The words spill out like a joke, too soft to be a challenge, too careful to sound like doubt. “Do you ever… want to force me to do things?”
You feel the air shift. His hand stills for a moment on your hair before continuing its gentle rhythm, and when he speaks, it’s in the same soothing voice he uses when you're trembling from nightmares.
“Force you?” he repeats, as though the idea is foreign — absurd.
You nod slowly. “You’re stronger than me. You could, if you wanted. I mean… you could pick me up and carry me anywhere. Make me do anything you want..” (Dont give him ideas 😟)
He says nothing at first. Then, without a word, he pulls away slightly, just enough to look down at you. Assessing.
“Yes,” he says at last. “I could.”
The admission hangs in the air between you like smoke. He shifts, and in one smooth motion, he brings you into his lap—not roughly, not with force, but with the kind of strength that doesn’t ask for permission because it doesn’t need to.
His hands settle on your hips, grounding you, holding you still. You feel the strength in his fingers–the unspoken potential for violence resting just beneath the surface.
You squeeze your thighs together feeling flustered at the sudden shift, even if he looks like he could snap you in two. You didn't want to like this at all, uhm, you don't! Ofcourse you don't, you couldn't, you're supposed to be in control here.
“I could drag you wherever I want,” he murmurs, pressing his lips softly to your jaw. “I could make you scream for me, cry, beg. I could break you down and build you back up in my image, and you know what, baby?”
His voice drops to a whisper, so tender it almost sounds like affection.
“You’d still thank me for it.” You tremble — not from fear, not exactly. Something elsw. A bone-deep understanding that the only reason you’re safe is because he allows you to be.
“Maybe I wouldn't be too forceful” he continues, brushing your hair behind your ear. “Because I don’t need to force you. That’s the beauty of it. I guide. I coax. I offer… suggestions.”
He smiles, and it’s not cruel— not overtly. But it’s dangerous, the kind of smile you’d see on a predator who doesn’t need to chase because it already knows its prey has nowhere to run.
“I let you feel powerful,” he whispers, pressing a kiss to your temple. “Because I love watching you think you’re free.”
It slams into you like cold water, like the final piece of a puzzle you didn’t realize you’d been building. All the little choices you thought were yours.
The friends who drifted away. The routines that shifted. The diet changes, the wardrobe tweaks, the hobbies you abandoned and the ones you picked up— all of them traceable, in hindsight, to him.
You look into his eyes and realize he never needed to cage you because he built the world around you so carefully, so sweetly, that you decorated your own cage— and thanked him for making it.
Now, he just smiles as he holds you gently in his arms, stroking your head and back like you’re his precious pet.
Because the cruelest part of all is that he doesn’t need to be cruel.
(May this love find me, ughh intelligent ppl goddamn)
