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#cw abuse
ginger-canary · 12 hours
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Hey D20 fans here's a heads up about what's happened with Gabe Hicks (message from Jeremy Cobb, Three Black Halflings)
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cuubism · 14 hours
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Physical therapy au part 7. (abuse cw)
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Dream wakes to find his face still smushed against Hob’s chest, and freezes, expecting an instinctive rush of panic at being suddenly so close to another person.
But it doesn’t come. He still only feels… relaxed. Hob is warm against him, still asleep, his arm wrapped loosely around Dream’s shoulders. And it’s… good? It’s nice. To wake up and feel calm. To not feel as though he needs to remove himself from the situation as quickly as possible.
Hob stirs beside him, rubbing the sleep from his eyes. Surprise flashes across his face as he turns to look at Dream, but it quickly softens. “Hey, you.”
“Hello.”
Hob pets Dream’s hair, pushing it behind his ear, even though his own, longer hair is far more disheveled. “Sleep alright?”
“Yes.” He didn’t even dream. It was welcome, he needed the peace.
Hob kisses him lightly on the lips. “Good. You want coffee? Tea? Breakfast?”
Dream considers him blearily, then shakes his head in amusement. “Do you usually bound up out of bed with such immediate enthusiasm and zest for life?”
Hob bites his lower lip in thought. “Um. Sometimes?”
“Then you will have to forgive the fact that it takes me significantly longer to become alive again in the morning.”
Though Dream also has not had much reason to want to get out of bed, not until lately.
Hob laughs. “Alright. You sort yourself out. I’ll get something started.”
He gives Dream another light kiss, and ruffles his hair, then rolls out of bed and heads off with a truly unreasonable amount of vim. Dream just smiles to himself as he lays back in bed.
It will be good to have a few minutes to think. Or perhaps he’ll just go back to sleep for a while. He doesn’t think Hob will be upset. And what a relieving feeling that is.
Once Hob’s put coffee on and gotten out ingredients for breakfast, he finds himself turning to Dream’s painting, propped on top of the bookshelf. It’s so beautiful. So charming. Of course Hob wants to hang it on his wall. It might embarrass Dream a little bit, but he will know how much Hob appreciates this painting.
He’s not great at waiting, and he has time to kill while Dream's getting ready—hopefully a lot of time, the poor thing looks like he needs more beauty sleep—so he grabs his toolkit and goes about finding a spot on the wall to hang the painting. He's found a decently-placed stud behind the drywall and is about to start hammering a few nails in--he's not using some flimsy method and risking the painting falling--when the bedroom door opens. Not long after, he hears Dream come out into the hall.
"Hob?" he calls. "Do you have any--"
He freezes in the entryway.
Hob turns to face him properly. "Hm? Any what?"
But Dream is standing stock still, every muscle in his body frozen, staring at him.
Hob looks between him and the painting, which is now leaning against the wall at his feet. Is he that bothered by Hob hanging the painting? He doesn't actually have to put it up, he just thought--
But. No. Dream is staring at him.
"Something the matter?" Hob asks, walking over to him. Maybe he's regretting staying over, maybe he wasn't ready--
Dream goes, impossibly, more tense, freezing like he might be able to go invisible if he just doesn't move. Like a prey animal.
Hob's properly starting to panic now, and still doesn't know what he's done, but he raises his hands in surrender.
Dream finally unlocks, but not to explain or come towards him. No, his gaze darts from Hob's face to his hands and then he bolts, scrambles backwards and disappears into Hob's bedroom, door slamming shut behind him.
Heart pattering, still having no idea he's done, Hob lets his hands fall--
--and realizes he's still holding that hammer.
He drops it with a start. That-- that must have done it, mustn't it? It’s the only thing he can think of.
But... why?
He goes over to the bedroom door and knocks softly. "...Dream?"
No response.
He knocks again, louder. "Dream?"
No reply, but he can hear Dream’s shaky breathing, like he’s sitting with his back against the door.
Hob sits down on the floor, leaning his head against the door. His heart squeezes with guilt for upsetting Dream, even if logically he knows that he didn't do anything wrong, just caught him at a bad angle that he didn't know was there.
At least he stayed by the door. He could have run into the bathroom or gone as far away from Hob as possible but he didn’t. That’s something.
“Dream,” he calls, knocks lightly on the door to show he’s still there. “Just breathe, sweetheart, it’s alright, yeah?”
This isn’t his area, he’s a physical therapist, not a mental health one. But he’s trying his best.
“Not going to hurt you,” he goes on. He knows Dream knows that, but he clearly doesn’t remember it now. “I promise. You’re safe. It’s alright.”
He still doesn’t get a response, so he stays where he is. Speaks softly to him through the door. Maybe it’ll help. He wishes he just knew the right thing to say, but it’s not that easy. Maybe one day he will just know.
For now, he just keeps talking.
--
Dream runs. He runs and runs, tripping over himself. He-- he can't feel his hand-- no, that isn't right, he can feel it, but it's tingly and wrong and his fingers are all twisted and won't listen to him and each movement is a scream of pain pain pain all the way up his arm, and--
Why would he do that? Why would he--?
He's out on the street. When did he get here? He doesn't remember leaving, only the rush of adrenaline and panic that had propelled him-- his heart is still pounding-- the certainty that no matter how much his lover had argued and justified look I'm sorry, that was too far, but you get it don't you? you get why I had to? that Dream was about to get his head bashed in next-- he had dropped the hammer but Dream could no longer see his hands without it--
Dream, don't be stupid-- no, you can't leave-- hands on him-- no, he's free now, he's walking, he has his phone in his pocket but he can't reach it because his only usable hand is clutching his art portfolio, he doesn't want to look at the mangled wreck of the other one.
He has his art. Most of it. Some of it. Whatever had been stored in easy reach. He had recent pieces still drying he'd had to leave behind. He'd only had a moment to grab things and run, the briefest of moments when his once-lover had hesitated with regret over what he'd done.
He doesn't know where he's meant to go now.
"Dream, honey..."
Death's voice. Had he gone to her flat? He doesn't remember. But no, this is the hospital waiting room--he doesn't remember how he got here. Perhaps his sister brought him. His hand is agony, but it's not even bleeding. Shouldn't it be bleeding?
Wait. Where is his art portfolio?
He spins around in his chair, but he doesn't see it-- he can't-- this is the only thing he has-- "Death, where--?"
"Shh, relax, we left your things at my flat, remember?"
He doesn't. He doesn't remember. He doesn’t remember getting here. He only remembers the pain. The fear. The threat, the—
“Dream, love, can you hear me?”
Death’s voice again? But no, she’s gone, and he’s sitting on the floor, his back to the door, and that’s Hob talking on the other side.
Hob.
He looks at his hand, flexes his fingers, curls it into a fist. He’s fine. He’s fine. It’s been months. His hand is healed now. Partly thanks to Hob.
“Dream?” Hob calls again.
Finally, Dream finds his voice. "Please don't come in."
He needs— he needs to compose himself, he doesn’t want to be seen like this—
“Not coming in,” Hob promises.
Dream pauses. Is that what he wants? Or is it what he used to want?
He swipes the tears away, moves away from the door, and reaches up to open it.
Hob is sitting on the floor, also right by the door. He looks at Dream with wide eyes, then moves forward tentatively. When Dream doesn’t move away, Hob pulls him into a hug.
Dream sobs, pressing his face into Hob’s shoulder. The tears he’d tried to quell come flooding back.
“Shhh,” Hob soothes, stroking his hair. “It’s okay, love. I have you.”
“I am being ridiculous,” Dream whispers.
“Nah. You’re alright. Don’t worry about it.” He kisses the side of Dream’s head. “Promise you. It’s okay.”
“You won’t hurt me,” Dream says, still quiet. He’s not certain if he’s convincing himself, or if he’s trying to convince Hob that he isn’t afraid of him.
“I won’t,” Hob agrees.
“I know that,” Dream says.
“I know. I know. You're okay.” He squeezes Dream tight, rocks him lightly. “Do you want to get up? I don't know about you, but my ass is suffering sitting on the floor. And you haven’t even gotten to have breakfast or anything.”
Dream manages a small laugh. “No. And I'm sure whatever you made is delicious."
"Didn't finish it yet. Can still be fresh. Come on."
He helps Dream up, and Dream clings to his side, feeling wobbly. He stays stuck against Hob as he cooks, feeling excessively clingy, but unable to help himself. He watches Hob's hands, now blessedly hammer-free. He wonders if Hob would have taken the hammer to his ex-boyfriend's head had he been there in that moment. He doesn't know if that's a healthy fantasy to indulge in. But it tastes delicious.
He's still thinking about it when Hob sits him down and makes him eat some eggs and toast. It's only once he's finished that Hob asks, "What happened?"
Dream still has not told Hob the entire story of what happened, so of course Hob does not know what he inadvertently set off. It feels shameful to say. He should not be afraid of Hob. Isn't. Nor should he let himself be caught by old memories.
Nevertheless, he clears his throat, and relays in halting detail the story of that day. It still frightens him to think about. His home then had never exactly been a comforting or peaceful space but he had never been hurt. And then a switch had flipped and everything changed.
When he's finished, Hob looks ill. Runs his hand stressfully through his hair, looking over at where the painting is propped against the wall. "I figured it must have been the hammer but I didn't know why," he says--mostly to himself, Dream thinks.
Then he takes Dream's hands on the table. "That's one of the worst things I've ever heard, I'm so sorry."
Dream looks down at their joined hands. "It's in the past." It's not, though. Not really.
"Even so." He kisses Dream's hands, clasps them tight. Then pulls him to his feet. "Come on. We'll watch some TV or something, decompress. Unless you wanted to talk about it more right now?"
Dream is too tired for any more talking at the moment. Telling that wretched tale has taken everything out of him. "Not particularly."
So Hob just leads him over to the couch. On the way, he stops and sets the painting back on top of the shelf. Dream wouldn't be surprised if Hob waited until he was gone before trying to hang it up again. The thought puts a lump in his throat.
He lies down on the couch and lays his head in Hob's lap, and doesn't pay any attention to the movie Hob puts on as background noise. He's exhausted, and thinks he might go back to sleep--but after several minutes of Hob petting his hair, he finds himself tearing up again instead.
He hasn't cried much, since. It always felt like that would mean accepting the full reality of the situation. Now, he can't help it, but it feels... not good, quite, but perhaps... relieving. Perhaps he's allowed to be upset about it. For so long he had felt like it was all his fault, like he should have known something something terrible would happen, should have picked up on it. But perhaps he's allowed to feel hurt regardless of whether he could have done something better.
Hob doesn't say anything, just lets him cry, stroking his hair. This isn't particularly how Dream wanted this date to go. He was hoping it would be nice and normal. But he'd rather be sad with Hob than be alone.
As long as Hob just lets him stay here, then perhaps it will be alright.
--
Hob doesn't pay much attention to the film, he's too focused on Dream. He keeps methodically stroking his hair, thinking. He feels sick over everything Dream's told him. He's wishing he hit Dream's ex with a bat instead of just punching him. It probably wouldn't have been the smartest move, but it's tempting anyway.
When the movie's almost finished, and Dream seems to have calmed down, he finally manages to ask the question that's been stuck in his head since Dream told the story of fleeing his home.
“Dream?” he says. “How much of your things were you actually able to take with you when you left your old flat?”
Dream turns to look up at him. He's still lying across Hob's lap. “Not very much. The clothes I was wearing. My phone and wallet—fortunately, for replacing all of that would have been nightmarish. And I grabbed my art portfolio as well.”
“Nothing else?”
Dream shakes his head. “I still have my keys, assuming he has not changed the locks, but I have not been back. Most of it is replaceable, anyway.”
Most of it, Hob thinks. Except things like gifts, and sentimental items, and documents. And his art.
“Is some of your art still there?”
Hesitantly, Dream nods. “Works in progress. Larger pieces that I could not carry. And sketchbooks, and the like.” He pauses, then says more firmly, as if convincing himself. “It is not worth going back.”
It might not be worth going back for Dream. But Hob’s not afraid of his piece of shit ex.
He’s getting the fucking art.
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bonefall · 2 days
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I feel like that 'ear' anon also ENTIRELY missed the point of the scene.
First off, they're wrong that being hit on the ear doesn't hurt, and secondly, that's not the only thing to focus on.
What readers should focus on is that Crowfeather said nothing to stop Breezepaw from behaving a certain way, then smacked him without warning to get him to stop (which was said to be a harsh smack, anon).
The thing to focus on is that Crowfeather's interactions with his son are negative 99.9% of the time if not 100% of the time (the only time they got along pre-Crowfeather's Trial was when Crowfeather was encouraging bad behaviour, like mocking ThunderClan).
That anon basically said "it's okay because it doesn't hurt."
Even if that anon was right, even if the ear has zero nerves and could be cut off with no pain, Crowfeather still shouldn't have done it, because the emotional hurt is still very much real and very much there (plus real studies prove that it does nothing but cause harm)
It's true, and honestly I take it as an admission of desperation. They have literally nothing.
Even by their own awful "logic," the ear is an incredibly sensitive area. They had to find some excuse SO BADLY that they didn't even bother to touch their own head before making it, let alone actually address the severity of how profoundly abusive Crowfeather was to his child.
Even if this one particular backhand didn't matter, there is a MOUNTAIN of scenes where he belittles, neglects, and screeches at his son. Often over basic needs like rest and hunger.
And like, not to shadowbox too much, but that sort of anon and the "Let People Like X" crowd do seem to be huddled close together. Almost like "Let Ppl Like Crowfeather" is a euphemism for "Stop talking about how his actions are abusive." It reeks of insecurity.
My problematic faves have caused controversy from their very inception. They were born into it. Molded by it. By the time they had encountered defenders they were merely blinding. "I dont want my Comfort Character(TM) to be a bad guy :(" then you don't want a character, you want a safety blanket. Become a Brackenfur liker or something.
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jubileemon · 1 day
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What if Valentino's contract is keeping Angel in Hell?
Despite the vague criteria for getting into Heaven, Angel has proven to be a good person deserving of salvation. However, the magically binding contract (which he signed his real name under Anthony) has his soul in Valentino's pocket, marking him as "property" of Hell. Were the contract to be rendered void, Angel would be given the option to ascend.
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pluralcultureis · 19 hours
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plural culture is you didn't live with your mom for 12+ years but those 12+ years were HELLA abusive and severely traumatic. and there's huge gaps of 'what happened buddy' and just how. how do I tell her that I am her kid but also many people. what if she reacts like everyone else did. I feel like i'm doing her wrong by not telling her.
she didn't abandon us. we were put in foster care wrongfully. they had no reason to take us. I trust this woman with my life she is the only person that never gave up on me or hated me or abandoned me I don't want this to be the reason she does.
.
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its-your-mind · 3 months
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I really really really love how the show is depicting Gabe. In the books, Percy doesn't think much about Gabe - he sucks, he's a dick, and he's smelly. Percy doesn't understand why his mom stays with him, but he’s a kid - he doesn't put too much thought into the ins-and-outs of the relationship. It's not even until the end of the book that he realizes that Gabe's been actually hitting Sally.
And so all we have for him now is the time we spend with Gabe at the start, and…
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This is supposed to be his and Sally's apartment. Sally's the only one who brings in income, but the whole house is Gabe's. Only the one chair in front of the TV, even though Gabe said that he and Sally watch the Knicks together. His trash is all over the house, his poker table was leaning up against the wall... And he obviously feels like he is entitled to touch anything in the apartment, up to and including things that are explicitly Sally's:
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And then, when Sally tells Gabe that she and Percy are going on their trip to Montauk...
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He goes into the conversation expecting a bribe, and Sally already has one prepared. This is obviously a song and dance they've done plenty of times before.
Because abusive relationships rarely, if ever, look horrible from the outside. And they're not absolutely awful 100% of the time, either. Most abusers aren't cartoonish villains, nor are they awful to their spouses with every word they say. Abuse is often subtle, hard to notice, only clear in retrospect and when you consider a lot of individual instances of slightly off-color behavior all together.
This version of Gabe Ugliano isn't as obvious an abuser or villain as Smelly Gabe of the books, but he is more true-to-life - taking advantage of Sally, invading her privacy, the joint understanding that she won't be allowed to do something for herself and her son without his tacit approval. All of those are key hallmarks of domestic abuse, of a partner who has gained control over the relationship through emotional manipulation or physical threats and/or violence.
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thund3randrain · 30 days
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real footage of me when even more of the people who defined my childhood/early teens turn out to be shitheads
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catboymoments · 2 months
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You know how abusive parents love to tone police and how if you don’t say the right words or don’t speak soon enough it’s an offense to them
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bouquetofalliums · 1 month
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wilbur soot's statement is the furthest it can be from an apology. its vague, baseless, lacks Any sort of accountability, and feels like some shit chatgpt made up. two pages, four paragraphs and... Not a single Im Sorry. and to think i expected any better of him and i REALLY DID. his response to his other mild controversies were genuine and decent at best. this just lacks Everything. i read the first two sentences and my eyes rolled to the back of my fuckin head
disregarding that the way he downplays his own abuse astounds me. because WE KNOW EVERYTHING. we've heard from the victim and there were Witnesses. you say you were snobbish, disrespectful and selfish, but aside from the biting thing; do you ever address that time you pinned her down to claim you were stronger than her although knowing shelby has gone through past sexual assault? how you weaponized her safe word? how you locked her up in your house for days? how you never cleaned up over yourself and made her do all the work? how you gaslit her and her friends and Humiliated her in front of them ????? no amount of therapy or change you've claimed to have gone through can excuse any of your vile behaviours ESPECIALLY when it comes WITHOUT an apology. you cry about how you've changed to us but you don't care at all! because it was all about fame and money to you, right? us and our words mean so little to you, right?
you could've taken more time to polish this and to come from a place of genuinity and none of us would have complained. rather you put out some flat disingenuous slop and expected us to eat it up. No! youve lost your devoted fanbase wilbur. if you didn't want your shitty actions to come out you shouldn't have been a shitty person in the first place.
whatever . i have more to say but i dont want to waste my words on him. im so so fucking disappointed in that man and i hope to never see his face on the internet ever again . to think i spent the last 3 years and more just blindly supporting and loving his music and content without thinking anything else of it .... i feel so sick . I feel so so sick
sending all the love and support to shelby, lexie, rhana, sophie, and to anyone and all who have been deeply hurt by his actions in any way whatsoever
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queerfables · 22 days
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My pettiest and most tenacious gripe with supernatural is that when Lucifer is not taking a vessel but projecting his own image of himself, he should be played by Jared Padalecki. I know that for whatever mysterious reason they wanted Mark Pellegrino back but I just think this was a huge missed opportunity.
Lucifer considers Sam's body his rightful vessel, as much his own body as it ever was Sam's. In the cage he should have presented himself this way when he wasn't actively possessing Sam, and Sam's hallucinations should have been of his own cruel smirk. It's consistent with Lucifer's characterisation, his objectification of and entitlement to Sam. And it's impact on Sam would be so powerful.
After Lucifer, he avoids mirrors. Looks away from the impala's night-darkened windows lest he catch his reflection. His stomach turns at old photos of himself. He doesn't have many, but he's held onto some of his family. In one with Dean, his arm is slung easily around his brother's shoulder, both of them with beers in hand and matching smiles. It's a rare memory of peace, an image he's treasured for years, and when he looks at it now he feels panic crawling up his throat. He grits his teeth to hold back the snarl of "get away from him". He never looks at his hands any more, when he changes the car's oil or cleans the guns. He touches other people as little as possible. Everything's different. His body makes him an invader in his own life. He was born unclean, a soul tainted from the start, but now he looks into his eyes and sees a monster.
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cuubism · 1 month
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i went to physical therapy for my stupid broken arm so as is my legal obligation i HAD to make ship content about it. everything is ship content that's how it is
cw injury, referenced abusive relationships
--
Hob's had plenty of clients come to physical therapy who clearly don't want to be there. Plenty of others who are reasonably frustrated by the work and time involved in regaining functioning after an injury. But this is the first time he's just had someone be... quiet. Resigned.
Dream sits with his hand cradled to his chest, barely speaking, only answering when Hob asks a direct question. He's reluctant to give Hob his hand when Hob asks if he can look at it, like he thinks Hob's grip is a bear trap that will snap down and crush the bones like whatever had done so the first time. Hob still doesn't know what that was. All he knows is the bones have been realigned and healed over but the dexterity in his hand still isn't right. That was what Dream had said, in the first spark of passion Hob had heard from him. It's not right.
But he does eventually give his hand over. His bones are so fine and delicate, and each movement hesitant. Cautious. Hob tests the flexibility. The strength. Dream is right, it's not where it should be. He still doesn't know what happened.
"I won't make you tell me if you really don't want to," Hob says gently. "But it is important to know how it happened to make sure we rehab it the right way. Did you get it caught in something? I've seen guys come in with machine injuries like that."
Nothing about Dream suggests "person who works with heavy machinery." But who knows. Hob will try not to stereotype.
"No," Dream says quietly, looking down and away from his hand like he can't bear to see it. "I. I am an artist. My ex... he felt that I cared more about my art than about him. Perhaps I did. And he was... frustrated. I suppose."
Hob can put the rest of the pieces together in his mind. "Jesus," he breathes, and Dream flinches.
"I have an unfortunate ability to involve myself with such people," he says.
"No, it's not your fault," Hob says automatically.
Dream narrows his eyes. "You presume to know that?"
Hob raises his hands in surrender. "Never mind. I won't pry." He's not Dream's therapist. His job is to help him with his hand, not... whatever else is going on in his life.
He takes Dream's hand carefully between both of his own again. Presses down lightly on his knuckles. "So. Crushed. Like that?"
Dream nods. Hob still doesn't know all the details, but he's imagining a boot going down hard on the top of Dream's hand. The thought is sickening.
"Can you fix it?" Dream asks, like he doesn't dare to hope.
"Well, you already had it repaired surgically, yeah?" Hob says. This strikes him as a bit of good luck--hand fractures are not simple--but he doesn't want to undercut Dream's confidence even further by saying so. He's usually pretty good at reading his clients, and he's already sensing that Dream is holding onto his determination to be here at all by the barest thread. Best to build him up as much as possible. "So it's just a matter of strengthening the muscles again."
He's fairly confident he can get him back to a usual level of functioning with it. The question is whether he can return him to the specific level of dexterity he needs for his art. He doesn't say that. Not yet.
Finally, he gets the tiniest of smiles out of Dream. He's really lovely when he smiles.
(He's pretty when he doesn't smile, too. Hob would have to be blind not to notice it.)
"So," Hob says. "Let's look at the current range of motion, yeah?"
Dream tilts his head. "Did you not already do so?"
"For regular motion, yeah. But I want to see where it's impacting your drawing."
Dream draws his hand back, looking uncertain.
"Come on." Hob hands him a pen and paper. "Show me. I promise I know nothing about art. If it's not up to your usual standards, I'm not going to be able to tell."
Finally, Dream takes the pen, and starts sketching.
Hob watches, noting the way his hand trembles, his uneven grip on the pen. Notes how quickly he gets demoralized when it doesn't turn out the way he wants. Hob can make out what he's written and drawn, but it's clear from Dream's expression that it's far from how it's supposed to be.
"This is just a starting point," Hob reminds him. He has a feeling he's going to be doing a lot of those sorts of reminders with Dream; he does not seem to find optimism easy.
Then again, if someone who supposedly loved him had hurt him like that, Hob would probably find optimism a bit difficult, too.
Finally, Dream drops the pen, clearly frustrated. "I have tried to paint at home, too. It has not turned out any better. You should throw those away." He gestures to the sketches. "They are terrible."
"Nah, I'm gonna keep them," Hob says, and puts them in his folder. "For comparison later." It could also partially be because he finds Dream's drawings of cats, imperfect as they are, charming. Sue him.
"As you insist," Dream says.
Hob gives him documentation on some other exercises he can do at home. Tries to think through what might make him feel better with his art. It feels, somehow, so important to make him feel better.
"At home, go easy on trying to use a pen, or paintbrush or whatever, it's hard on your hand," he finally says. "But you probably want to get back to your art, so-- okay, don't make fun of me if this is stupid."
Dream just raises an eyebrow, waiting.
Maybe Hob should try to learn more about art before he gives advice. Nevertheless, he forges on. "Holding a pen is tough, but if you wanted to like, finger paint or something? That would probably be fine. Might be good for flexibility, even."
"Finger paint," Dream repeats, enunciating each word.
"I told you not to make fun of me if it was stupid."
Dream smiles, just a small thing, like he finds Hob ridiculous but in a charming way. Good enough, Hob figures.
"Very well," Dream says at last. "I will take your advice."
Dream simply walking out had felt like a distinct possibility, so Hob will take this as a win.
"Hey," he says later, catching Dream for a moment as he's checking him out. "It's going to get better, yeah? Trust me. Don't worry too hard, just give it time."
He really shouldn't make promises like that. But he can't seem to help it, with Dream.
Dream considers, then says. "I do trust you."
Hob finds that it means a lot. Now he's just going to have to earn it.
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azalawa-scroggs · 2 months
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I don't think Miles Edgeworth and Franziska von Karma were passive victims.
They are victims, don't mistake me. The ideology of absolute perfection is messed up and every single member of that family is a victim of it, though Manfred is a perpetrator too. Miles especially is a victim - his father murdered, his father's murderer taking him in, either with hatred in his heart or growing to hate him to the point of wanting his life destroyed. But I don't think either Miles or Franziska realised they were victims before Turnabout Goodbyes - Justice for All, for Franziska. I think they fully believed in the von Karma creed and all it entails and gave themselves to it fully and enthusiastically.
What I'm saying is, give me a five-year old Franziska begging to be allowed in law tutoring sessions with Miles. Give me a Miles bitter, disillusioned after DL-6, confiding in his mentor that he thinks he wants to be a prosecutor and not a defence attorney. Give me a Franziska whose "whims" are dismissed by her father, fighting to prove that yes she can be a prosecutor at thirteen - fighting to prove her worth. Give me a Miles more zealous than Manfred in his condemnation of criminals, fervently repeating precepts that Manfred dictates out of habit. Give me a Franziska raised by domestics who don't know how to handle her strong character and barely looked upon by her father, growing up indulged in everything but what she needs the most. Give me a Miles lost, grieving for his father and the moral beacon he represented; give me Miles latching onto Manfred as a new model role, burying an identity now painful and shameful to him to shape himself after Manfred, picking the same suit as him, imitating his every gesture; give me Miles calling him a god or prosecution not entirely out of fear but out of admiration. Give me Manfred looking on them with his head held high and the rare smile, distant but seemingly not inaccessible until they actually try. Give me a dynamic where they don't so much try to avoid his blows or his harsh words as they desperately seek his nod of approval. Give me a world in which they're terrified of him but they fear him out of love, not out of expectation of retribution. Give me a story where they don't rue their loneliness, but take pride in it.
Give me Miles and Franziska unknowing actors of their own unhappiness.
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imnotasweetie · 1 month
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btw all im gonna say is that wilbur's statement is very clearly written with the help of a PR team in an attempt to preserve part of his public appearance
this is a man that was literally accused of being abusive and of being good at manipulating narratives to make them favor him
please be conscious of it
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zal-cryptid · 2 months
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Eleanor's backstory
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amnesiasauce · 1 year
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Perspective
Part Two
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i-drop-level-one-loot · 3 months
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*NSFW* The Wishing Hole (Yandere x GN!Reader)
Warning!! This is not a romance, read at your own risk CW: LONG, Dead Dove, abuse, murder, trauma, manipulation, masturbation, mutilation, unhealthy relationships, obsession
"Have you heard about the hole?"
Part I
"It's right over here!" Miranda theater-whispered to her friends as she led them through the black woods. Their flashlights bobbed in the darkness, the only light visible to the trio of twelve year olds as they trekked through the thicket. (Reader) gripped onto their envelope tightly, fearful of leaving sweat marks on it.
They had been staying the night at Brian's house when Miranda brought up the hole. A local urban legend by that point, the story of a hole that granted wishes. Brian had chastised Miranda for believing a story so stupid, but still followed her and (Reader) when they snuck out to grant their wishes.
"How do you know where it is?" He nervously hissed.
"Abby's sister Rebecca has a friend who found it. Over here." Miranda spoke as though it should have been obvious why she knew where it was.
(Reader) could do nothing but hope. They hoped hard, over and over again, wrinkling the papers in their fist as the yellow light led them to their future. All they could do was beg the universe to grant their wish. For the hole to be real.
The trees thinned and opened, revealing a small clearing with a very deep hole dug out of the earth. It was a normal looking hole, but in the dark of a moonless night to a group of children, it was ominous.
Their muddy boots all stopped a good foot away from the edge. The ground didn't look stable.
After taking a shaky breath, Miranda threw her envelope into the hole, squeezing her eyes shut as she focused all her energy on the wish written inside the letter she tossed. Brian thought about arguing, calling out his friends for littering, but instead copied Miranda, throwing his wish in as well. (Reader) felt adrenaline shoot to their finger tips as the anxiety tried to rip through their veins and escape their skin. Their packet was thicker than either of their friends', and fell harder as they chucked it in with all their strength.
The only future (Reader) wanted was nearly impossible. It would take divine intervention to get that happiness. "What did you wish for?" Miranda asked Brian behind (Reader).
"I want to know what I want to do."
"That's it?"
"What'd you wish for?"
"A hot boyfriend, who's gonna love me, and marry me."
"Well, when you're trapped in a marriage with three kids, I'll be doing what I love every day."
Miranda groaned loudly, refusing to get into another argument with her best friend. She instead looked at (Reader) who was still focusing on the hole. "What did you wish for, (Reader)?"
Their eyes seemed to be seeing something the other two couldn't see. Large pupils fixated on nothing, still filled with enough anxiety to cripple an adult.
"Someone who loves me.."
"Ugh, not you too.." Brian's voice melted into the background, almost unintelligible in the dense air. The contents of the wish filled (Reader's) head to the point that nothing else could be heard.
• 15 years later •
Another failed date.
Dark rings permanently decorated the underneath of (Reader's) tired eyes. The perpetually single adult slid down against the wall, too exhausted to continue standing. There was nothing particularly wrong with the guy, but he just wasn't "the one" for (Reader). He was boring and awkward, rambling about his job and future plans, bragging about his hypothetical future fortune. Nothing he did was bad enough for (Reader) to guiltlessly label him a douche, but nothing about him was their type.
They pulled out their phone, looking at the dark haired man on their wallpaper for a second too long before opening up their messages with their date. (Reader) typed up a quick message to thank Rich for the date, but that they didn't see it going any further.
The phone was tossed to the side as (Reader) struggled to stand, grabbing a beer from their fridge as the phone began chiming from the linoleum. Texts rapidly coming in were ignored by (Reader) as they cracked open their first drink for the night.
His unread messages echoed through (Reader's) shoebox apartment.
The weary adult wondered how their therapist would react next week at their appointment. It wasn't realistic for an adult to fixate on a wish they had made as a child, but just like all those years ago, (Reader) knew deep in their bones that there was no happiness for them if they couldn't have that wish come true. Rich was attractive, in an average sort of way, with straight brown hair cut a little too short for the shape of his brow. He had nice lips, (Reader) thought, but couldn't imagine kissing them.
The beer tasted like lightly bitter water. Not a promising sign; it tasted like they would need something stronger. On the way to the living room (Reader) noticed their bedroom door had some dirt on the white paint, like someone had pushed it open with filthy hands.
(Reader) felt an anxious jolt to their system. A familiar pain they hadn't felt in a long time. They pushed open the door, timidly entering their own room like a stranger nervous to be caught. But the room was empty.
"So, how'd your date with Rich go?" Adam asked hopefully. The same trio of friends since primary school sat in their local diner. It was a monthly ritual, gathering for brunch to force themselves to keep in touch. They tried to hold the meeting every week, but with work scheduling it was impossible. Adam sat with his husband, Jon, across from Brian and (Reader). Everyone had changed so much as they got older, but that was to be expected. No one can stay a child forever.
(Reader) sighed before sipping on their milkshake. Adam knew exactly what that meant, and groaned, just as dramatically as when he was a child. His hair may be shorter, but some things stayed consistent.
"What was wrong with this guy?"
"Nothing!" (Reader) replied defensively. "He just... wasn't my type."
Brian pushed up his glasses. "Maybe you should lower your standards."
"Brian!"
"-I mean, it's good to have standards, obviously, but people are real people, not characters in a book. No one is going to match your description of a perfect partner, because people aren't perfect, ya know?"
(Reader) stole a glance at their phone, admiring the black haired man behind the time. "You can say that, because your wish already came true. Both of yours."
Both Brian and Adam looked ashamed and a little uncomfortable, avoiding eye contact and fixating on their meals. Jon almost went cross-eyed trying to understand what (Reader) was implying.
(Reader) stood, tossing a couple bills onto the table. "I have to go, I'll talk to you guys later."
"Okay, have a good day! Text me when you get home." Adam said warmly, hugging his dear friend tightly while trying to shape his face into a happier expression.
"I will. Bye."
Brian gave up a small side hug, grimacing.
Jon waited until (Reader) was out of sight before asking "Were they talking about that wish you guys made as kids?"
The bespectacled young man rubbed the bridge of his nose. "Yes."
"I know what Adam wished for, but what did you and (Reader) wish for?" When he mentioned Adam's wish, Adam rolled his eyes playfully and they nudged each other lightly. Their whole relationship was practically diabetic for Brian, who still after all these years didn't get the appeal in romance.
Brian adjusted his glasses again, clearing his throat. "I wanted to know what to do with my life." And he had found that calling. The summer before high school he discovered a YouTube channel centered around ornithology and sent him on a strange spiral of bird mania. His friends and family thought it was a temporary fixation that he would lose interest in after a year or so, but his newfound fascination guided him all the way through college, landing him in an animal husbandry profession taking care of cranes at (what Brian considered to be) a humane zoo. "(Reader) wished for someone to love them."
"Well, I believe there's someone for everyone. It takes some people longer to find 'the one' than it does for others, and (Reader) seems like a great person, so I'm sure they'll meet someone that fits their childhood ideal."
Although Jon meant well with his words he could see the discomfort on his husband's and Brian's faces, their eyes either focused on their drink or plate.
They never read (Reader's) wish.
But over the years the two friends had begun to piece together a picture of the kind of man (Reader) wanted.
It was a complete breach of trust, looking into a friend's past, going full internet stalker mode to investigate into the secrets (Reader) wouldn't divulge. And what they found...
Was a lot.
They didn't know how to open the conversation with their third musketeer, since the facts and speculations were all obtained without (Reader's) knowledge or permission, but if Brian and Adam were correct in their understanding of what (Reader's) wish was, they genuinely wanted to help (Reader).
They also knew where (Reader) was going. But even that was impossible to confess.
Because at that moment, (Reader) was in their car for their monthly four hour visit with the greatest man (Reader) had ever known. It was unfortunate scheduling, but (Reader) couldn't compromise the day for either party. Keeping in contact with their friends was important for their mental health (according to their therapist) but this meeting was more important to (Reader) than practically anything else in their life.
Metal fencing and high beige walls appeared through the trees like a fairy tale castle. Instead of an evil dragon guarding the entrance, however, there were armed guards. Still every bit of evil in (Reader's) eyes.
"Welcome back, Mx. (Reader)." The usual security officer greeted grimly. Before he could ask for identification, (Reader) already had it out. Although they had met many times throughout the past decade, it was still a formality required by law. The two filled out the necessary paperwork while only offering tight smiles. He opened the gate for (Reader) to drive in and park in the visitor's lot. (Reader) always felt the cameras on them whenever they entered this "castle".
Officers emptied (Reader's) pockets and scanned their body for metal. There would be no physical connection at all, but they still needed to take precautions.
(Reader) was led through the lifeless grey halls towards visitation. Each step made their heart race and fostered the smile on their lips. Approaching the room with squeaky broken stools and bulletproof glass relaxed their faux grin for a genuine tranquility. There were no other visitors at the time.
The stool creaked under (Reader) as they gently eased into the old thing, staring at the window. Shortly after they sat down, the man from their phone's wallpaper, now with more silver hair than black, shuffled in on the other side, smiling softly as he sat across from (Reader). They both grabbed the phones.
"Hi Dad."
His dark eyes with pupils so large that without direct light made them look black had deeply etched wrinkles decorating them that folded deeper as he smiled. When Donavon McElroy was arrested, the news outlets focused on his eyes like some kind of Kubrick film, fixating on how you could just see the evil in some people. It felt as though the only person in the entire country who could see how loving Donavon's eyes were was (Reader).
"Hey kiddo. I've missed you."
"I missed you too." There were only four hours of visitation allowed per month. "Have you been getting my letters?"
Greasy ringlets of hair tumbled to the side as he cocked his head. "They're still the highlight of each week." Donavon didn't blink often. Even though the lights always hurt his eyes, no matter how dim they were, he seemed like a mannequin, refusing to blink and miss a second of his precious child's face. "How have you been since our last visit? I know you said in your letters that you're still going to therapy, which is good, very good.. how's that going for you?"
(Reader) felt their smile dip a little. "Well, it's going. I don't really like my therapist, but I know it's just because I don't like what she has to say. Even if I change doctors, they'll still say the same things."
Donavon nodded understandingly. It was like that at first for him as well, receiving psychiatric treatment while in prison. "I didn't like being told that my line of thinking was.. wrong. I knew that logically my thinking was, of course, obviously wrong, but it didn't feel wrong, so having a.. professional tell me that was upsetting."
"But it's important that you continue with it. And I'm very proud of you for continuing with it."
(Reader) laughed. It was a sharp scoff of a laugh, but not spiteful. It filled their chest with hot lava to hear someone praise them for doing what they've been doing since they were ten years old. Because it was difficult. Even if (Reader) continuously told themselves that this was the bare minimum. It was still difficult.
"She has me out in the dating world." (Reader) slumped a little, only slightly enough that no one but Donavon could tell the change in their posture. "Which is.. not fun."
"It can be fun. Does that carnival still come? There used to be a traveling carnival, a pop up fair, that would set up in a parking lot of a small store in our home town, really cheap. That could be a fun first date. Tiny ferris wheel and gravitron. Elephant ears." The two adults smiled widely thinking about it, but neither of them were picturing it as a date. His smile melted when he realized this. "I wish I could have taken you there."
(Reader) imagined a different life, one where they were in his care instead of their mother's, eating pastries the size of their head and getting sick on possibly dangerous attractions in a small parking lot. Their mother never took them, but they knew which pop up fair he was talking about, riding past it on the bus many times in their life. "That sounds like it would have been fun.."
".. but like I said, dating can be fun. As long as your being safe." (Reader's) dad's smile bounced back. "What have you done so far that hasn't been fun?"
"Well, I went out for dinner. Guy named Rich. He was, uh, decent. Talked a lot. Mostly about his job, and goals."
"Sounds career focused, that's good."
"Eh.." They shrugged, eyes drifting.
"What was wrong with him?"
(Reader) sighed. "Nothing. He was.. competent. Seemed like a regular guy. He just.. wasn't my type."
Guilt began to crawl through the folds of Donavon's brain like bugs infesting his conscious. He knew it was all his fault. Everything. But if he said that out loud, (Reader) would deny it, argue and fight it. "Well, there are plenty of fish in the sea."
"There's also plenty of trash."
Donavon pointed a finger at his kid warningly. "There's also sunken treasure. Don't give up hope."
"I don't need someone to be happy.."
"That's true.. but something tells me that when you weren't actively dating around, you weren't being content with the single life, and that's why your therapist is having you go out there. That.. maybe you were still waiting around for something that you shouldn't have, instead of living life to the fullest while alone."
The two became uncomfortably silent. This happened nearly every month. "I just want someone who loves me."
Donavon swore he could cry at that moment. "I'm sorry for-"
"Don't apologize." (Reader) cut him off. "Don't apologize for being a great dad."
"I wasn't. I wasn't a great dad. I'm-"
"-don't-"
"-a monster, (Reader). Kiddo, please, just listen to me. I'm sorry for the things I've done. The way I went about.. I wasn't in my right mind.. what I put you through was not okay. It was not, and will never be okay." He leaned forward, wishing to break through the glass dividing them and hug his kid. "I'm so sorry."
(Reader) softly responded "You're the only person who ever loved me."
"And you deserve better than that."
'No', (Reader) thought, 'there is no better than that.'
"Let's change the subject, please." (Reader) closed their eyes, forcing away the tears. "We never have enough time, and I don't want to spend the entire day focusing on sad shit."
Donavon took a shaky breath. "Okay, kiddo.." he mulled over for a second what to talk about before cracking a smile, one wide enough to show off his missing canine. "Remember Eddy?"
"Your old bunk mate?"
"Yep."
"What about him?"
"He got stabbed."
The sentence was so short and sudden that it shocked (Reader) into snorting, bringing back their genuine smile. "What? When? What happened?"
From the door an older guard smiled sadly, away from view. Donavon was liked by nearly everyone, both by the guards and the other prisoners. It was always a shame, getting to know someone who was supposed to be an evil bastard, and learning that they were just a great man who needed help. Plenty of the older guards understood that (Reader) would forever look at them with disgust and mildly veiled hatred. Because Donavon was (Reader's) hero, and the guards were just wardens unjustly holding him captive.
Their conversation continued without pause, filling the empty room with sounds of parental love and warmth. The guard at the door loved being there whenever it was time for (Reader's) visit with their dad, because it really was an incredibly beautiful and emotional scene every time he was present, but he also hated being the one on duty whenever (Reader) came, because he had to be the villain to say "Time's up" when their four hours were over.
"Mx. (Reader). Donavon."
(Reader's) eyes drooped, darkening under the shadow of their eyelashes. "Already?"
"Unfortunately."
The guard had been there so long, he remembered when (Reader) was a child, and would cry and scream whenever it was time to leave, begging him to let their daddy out.
Donavon smiled comfortingly. "Thank you for visiting me, kiddo."
"Of course."
"Maybe in another decade they'll let me have physical contact visitation." Donavon chuckled, only half serious with his hopeful statement. "I'll miss you."
"I'll miss you too, Dad. I love you."
"I love you too. Don't forget to write."
"I never do."
They both stood up, hanging up their phones painfully. It was the worst time of the day. His chains shook around his wrists as he waved goodbye. He never hurt a single guard in his time incarcerated, but it was a formality, a requirement, due to the nature of his crime. It didn't seem to matter how good his behavior was. Even though the guards trusted him, according to the law Donovan was still to be treated as a monster.
After being guided back out of the room, through the halls, and out to the parking lot, (Reader) finally felt like they could breathe. The air that was stolen when the guard ended their visit with their dad was greedily sucked up outside the stifling building. They finally looked at their silent phone, seeing a dozen messages from Rich. Or, who's number (Reader) assumed was Rich, since they had deleted his contact as soon as they woke up that morning.
Most of the texts were pleas for a second date, or an explanation for what he did wrong. Some of them were insults.
(Reader) sighed, deleting the conversation and blocking his number before getting into their car, allowing tears to silently fall down their warm cheeks. All that they wished for was for someone to love them, and no one would ever love them like their dad did.
The drive back was just as miserable as it was every month.
And just like every month, the tears didn't stop until (Reader) pulled up to their apartment. It was a long day, where the good moments weren't long enough, and (Reader) was ready for another beer. It wasn't Sunday, but it was their Sunday, which meant that they couldn't stay up drinking all night.
But it felt as though they had just popped open their can when someone started pounding on their door, angrily and frantically. (Reader) cursed not being able to afford to live in an apartment that had a controlled door to the building, living in a cheap one that had the stairs on the outside of the building. Which meant that there were no security measures to prevent just anyone from coming straight to (Reader's) unit.
They set the alcohol to the side and made their way to the door. The banging only stopped when the person on the other side heard (Reader) unlocking the deadbolt. A slightly sweaty man with brown hair too short to be messy stood impatiently.
"Rich?"
The slightly younger man shrugged sharply, jutting his head to the side with an attitude as if to say 'No shit, who else?'
"Are you going to let me in?" He asked impatiently.
"Uh, no?" (Reader) furrowed their brow. "How'd you find where I live?" They were too confused to even be mad or scared.
"It wasn't difficult; literally everything is online." Rich responded as though (Reader) was a fucking idiot for even asking. The disrespect was shocking, a severe shift from how he acted during their date. He shifted abruptly as though he was going to charge (Reader), so they tightened their muscles, holding the door closer to their side, which earned an aggravated huff.
"What are you doing here, Rich?"
"Well, you owe me an explanation after you ghosted me after our date the other day." His tone made it sound so obvious.
(Reader) scoffed, almost amused. "No I fucking don't."
"I was the perfect gentleman on our date considering the circumstances, you and I had a good time, but then you ghosted me? And I just want to know why." The emphasis on the 'considering the circumstances' included a wave, motioning to (Reader's) body. (Reader) didn't know if he was insinuating that their body was a problem, or if it was their gender expression, or if he just had high fashion expectations that (Reader) didn't live up to, but the little hand movement finally ticked them off.
"Okay, you're done." (Reader) tried to close the door, but Rich was stronger than he looked, and effortlessly pushed them back into their apartment and entered. (Reader) didn't fall, only stumbled, wobbling to regain balance as Rich casually closed the door behind him, pacing his hands on his hips.
"So, what did I do wrong?"
"You mean before you broke into my home?"
"I did- don't be fucking dramatic, I did not break in. I just want to know, I just want to know what I did wrong."
(Reader) slowly backed up, mentally picturing the apartment behind them to figure out where their closest form of defense was. "Nothing. It just didn't work out-"
"BULL SHIT."
"-you weren't my type."
Rich stuck out his jaw, clicking his tongue. "That isn't a reason."
"Yes, it is-"
"That isn't a reason to be a fucking dick."
'How far behind me is my knife block?'
Before (Reader) could make a move their front door violently flew open again, slamming loudly into the wall. Both Rich and (Reader) whipped around at the jarring noise.
A man stood in the doorway.
His skin was so caked in dirt and muck that his yellowish skin was almost completely painted over. Long, black hair curled due to the oil, hanging down and sticking to his gaunt face. Between the shaggy locks black eyes glared unblinkingly.
"Who the fuck is that?!" Rich nearly hollered, retreating closer to (Reader) out of fear, unable to tear his eyes away from the modified weapon in the intruder's hand.
Warmth spread throughout (Reader's) entire body; the god of love releasing a cage of butterflies into their body.
"He's here to kill me."
Part 0
Eight year old (Reader) tugged on their oversized long sleeve shirt. It was rubbing against the bruises uncomfortably. Everything about their body felt uncomfortable lately.
Their mother was late again.
Mr. Haley sighed loudly for the umpteenth time, looking at his watch as though it was (Reader's) fault their mother hadn't picked them up yet. It was warm and humid, and the sleeves of (Reader's) shirt were sticking to their arms. Despite the heat, Mr. Haley wouldn't allow (Reader) to wait inside, instead standing at the entrance of the school under a tree. (Reader) was the last child at pickup, aside from the children outside on the field for after school sports.
"Is your mom working late again?"
(Reader) didn't answer, instead watching the man walking into the nearly empty parking lot who seemed to be staring at (Reader) and their teacher. They couldn't tell exactly from how far away he was, but he didn't get any closer, keeping to the entrance, partially hidden behind a sign.
"Do you have anyone else I can call? Grandparents?" His kind voice was strained, exhaustion melting his patience.
The man suddenly ducked away from view, and shortly after (Reader's) frazzled mother sped walked into the lot, storming closer to the building. (Reader) left to meet her half way in an attempt to calm her down, but their teacher followed.
"Good afternoon, Ms. (Name)-"
"(Reader), c'mon." As soon as (Reader's) mother was close enough she immediately spun on her heel to leave again, ignoring the teacher.
"Ms. (Name), this is the third time-"
"I know!" The woman snapped, stopping abruptly, causing (Reader) to bump into her side. "I'm sorry."
"-the third time this month."
"I said I know!" She whined, throwing up her hands. "I couldn't get out of work, it wasn't that long!"
"After school activities are almost over. It's been almost an hour-"
"Don't be a dick, okay, I'm twenty minutes late."
"School ended forty minutes ago."
She crossed her arms. "So not an hour."
"Almost an hour-"
"So not an hour."
Mr. Haley sighed in defeat. He tried again, however, he was interrupted by the woman grabbing (Reader) by the arm and dragging them out of the parking lot. Her nails dug into the scabs on (Reader's) arm.
She spat out curses towards the teacher as she dragged her kid down the road towards the bus stop.
"Fucking asshole- and I told you that I was working late!" She turned her frustrations on (Reader), squeezing their arm painfully before releasing them, making (Reader) lose their balance.
"I'm sorry, Mom.." (Reader) quietly apologized, already shrinking in on themselves, head hunching into their tiny shoulders.
"Jesus, stop flinching like that. You look like I beat you or something.."
It was true, she never hit (Reader).
She just grabbed them.
Grabbed them by the back of the shirt, the front of their collar, the arms, wrists, and all parents smack their kids on the back of their heads, that's not hitting. It wasn't her fault that (Reader) bruised so easily. She didn't even hit them.
The city bus pulled up to the stop.
"Kevin's coming over for date night, so when we get home, make sure to do all your homework in your room. I'll bring you dinner and some snacks, but the adults need some alone time, okay?"
"Okay?"
"Okay!" (Reader) loudly responded, wringing their shirt in frustration.
(Reader) liked their mom when they had popcorn nights, when they made a bowl of popcorn and sat down to watch a rented movie together. But most of the time? (Reader) hated their mother.
They hated the way she dismissed them. (Reader) never seemed to be a priority in the woman's life. It didn't even feel like she hated (Reader). (Reader) was just nothing. They didn't receive hugs when they were scared, didn't get kisses when they were sick. And it wasn't one of those cases where you can't remember a single good memory because you're mad; (Reader) couldn't recall a single time their mother ever said the words 'I love you' to them.
She said it to Kevin though.
When they arrived home, (Reader) immediately went to their room, closing the door and flopping onto their mattress on the floor. They didn't feel like doing their homework, and decided instead on a quick nap. It wasn't like their mother was going to check in on them and see how they were doing anyway.
Maybe their dreams would bring a nice family for them.
CRASH!
A loud smash of glass and something heavy falling onto the thin apartment floor woke (Reader) up. They didn't know how long they were out for, but the sun was still up. (Reader) nervously bolted off the mattress and onto their feet, teetering in the middle of the room.
There was a quiet choking sound that liquefied into a gurgle before silencing.
(Reader's) handle slowly turned and their door was softly opened. A terrified looking man drenched in blood stood in front of (Reader), gazing down at them with inhuman eyes. His eyes were wide, panicked, but glassy, red, and with pupils so enlarged that he reminded (Reader) of the ghost woman from a scary movie their mother had been watching. He tried to brush his black hair out of his eyes, never looking away from (Reader's). It was the most intense staring contest (Reader) had ever been in.
He was timid in his approach, crouching down to his knees as he got closer to (Reader).
"..Hi." His voice was shaky and breathy. The man seemed to be overcome with an emotion that (Reader) didn't recognize. Tears were forming at the corners of his eyes, yet he still didn't blink. He swallowed hard before continuing. "My name is Donavon."
(Reader) was in an odd trance, halfway between petrified and numb. "My name is (Reader)." They didn't know why they answered.
"I know." For the first time since entering, Donavon glanced away from (Reader), searching the room for something. There were no toys in (Reader's) room. "Are you a-" His face broke trying to find the words he needed for his question. "Are you a b-?" A- a-.."
"I'm a kid." (Reader) tugged on their uncomfortable long sleeve shirt.
Donavon smiled so wide that his face looked like it completely split in half. Tears ran down his face shamelessly. The pure joy startled (Reader). "You're a kid." He sniffed back his snot and wiped away some tears, still smiling so hard that his face was turning red and he looked like he was going to laugh. "You're my kid."
He pulled (Reader) into a hug.
It wasn't like the quick hug the school nurse gave them, or the hugs their friends at school gave them; it was desperate.
He squeezed them almost too tightly, his fingers digging painfully into their ribs as he breathed in their hair. But (Reader) didn't cry out or ask him to stop. Tears had begun to fall from their eyes as well.
"I'm so sorry, kiddo. I should have been here. I should have been here." He started rocking (Reader) as he apologized into their scalp. "I didn't know about you, but I do now, and I'm here now."
(Reader) felt him kiss the side of their head quickly before he went back to whispering.
"I didn't know. But I do now. I'm so sorry."
It was too much, and it made (Reader) cry. They sobbed loudly, wailing into his chest as they returned the hug.
"I love you, (Reader). I love you so much. I don't know you yet, but I still love you. I should have been here for you, but I am now. And I am never letting you go. Okay? No one is ever taking you away from me."
Police sirens approached, screaming outside the building. (Reader) felt Donavon quickly reach into his back pocket, but he never let go from their right embrace.
"I never knew your mom. When I saw you with her last year, I - I tried to get into contact, but, but.. No one would listen to me, I had no proof.. I.. got a DNA test.. I -I'm your dad! I'm a father!" He started rambling, trying to explain things to (Reader), but they couldn't understand anything he was saying. And it didn't matter to them. He said he loved them.
(Reader) heard heavy boot steps and an officer loudly announce his presence.
"No one is ever taking you away from me again."
He was still only hugging (Reader) with one arm.
Someone entered the room, and a really loud sound hurt (Reader's) ears.
An officer shot Donovan in the shoulder, causing the knife he was holding to clatter onto the floor. He fell, releasing (Reader). They saw the knife and quickly put two and two together. But something happened in (Reader's) underdeveloped brain. It didn't matter that they had just met him. That man the police just shot was their dad. And he loved them.
"No!" (Reader) tried to launch themselves at Donovan to protect him, but their tiny body was caught by an officer.
"Don't worry, I've got ya!" The man tried to console (Reader), easily subduing their thrashing limbs, but his soothing voice didn't ease the pain in their heart, nor did it dampen the volume of their shrieks.
"DADDY!!"
The cop carried (Reader) out past the bodies of their mother and Kevin. Both were mutilated, lying naked near the couch in a pool of blood and spilt vodka.
Donavon was sentenced to life without parole.
He testified in court that the only thing he regretted was almost hurting his child. (Reader's) mother had taken advantage of him at a party years ago. Donavon had passed out drunk in the master's bedroom and woken up with his pants and underwear around his ankles. He told the court he didn't remember anything that happened, so although he suspected that someone had assaulted him, he had no proof and records showed that the police refused to help him when he went to report it.
It was a one in a million chance that Donavon saw (Reader) and their mother grocery shopping over a year ago, and nearly had a heart attack seeing a little kid who had his father's ears. Ears are just as unique as fingerprints, and to see a little kid with badly cut hair looking like a mixture of his father's baby photos and the woman walking beside them gave Donavon a sense of confidence that was borderline disturbing. He told the jury that he approached the woman with the intent of making polite conversation about how much alike her kiddo looked like his late father, but knew immediately that (Reader) was his, because when their mother looked Donavon in the eyes she recognized him.
"Before I could even say 'Hi', she grabbed (Reader's) arm and said 'Stay away from my child, Donavon.' I didn't even remember her face."
On the witness stand, Donavon admitted to breaking into their home so he could get access to (Reader's) DNA, stealing their hair brush. He also admitted to stalking the family, watching them as (Reader) openly showed signs of abuse. He called CPS multiple times, but nothing ever came of it.
Donavon repeated how time and time again law enforcement failed to help him get custody of his 'alleged' child, and that he had "snapped".
"I told (Reader) that no one would take them away from me again. Please, please I know I was wrong." Donavon pleaded the jury, looking past the lawyers and staring with his horrifying, never ending gaze. "Please don't put me away forever. I can get better, with help! I needed help! But my baby, my kiddo, they deserve better, please don't separate us again!"
Despite going to a decent foster family and receiving regular therapy sessions with child services, (Reader) had learned what true love was. The smiles their foster family gave them felt fake. No one could hug (Reader) tight enough to press their way into (Reader's) heart. Love was tears streaming down from the black coal eyes of a desperate father who just killed his kiddo's abusers. That was heroic. That was good. Just.
(Reader's) foster parents smiled at each other all the time, and said I love you multiple times a day. Then they divorced. Love was (Reader's) daddy, ready to kill (Reader) so they never had to be apart again.
The therapist with child services watched with a broken heart as (Reader) refused her homemade cookies. "Have you made any friends at school?"
(Reader) shrugged. They didn't see much of a point in friends. "There are these two kids I eat lunch with." Two kids who wouldn't leave them alone, no matter how much (Reader) ignored them.
"That's good! What are their names?"
"Miranda and Brian."
"Are they good kids?"
"They're weird. Brian wears glasses that make his eyes look super big, and Miranda wears a fedora."
"Well, I'll let you in on a secret. The weird kids are usually more fun to hang out with than the normal kids!" She winked while smiling, but it didn't phase (Reader).
"When can I see my dad?"
The therapist leaned back, looking up at the ceiling to control her inner turmoil before shutting her eyes. "I'm working on that, but it's very difficult. Mr. McElroy is in a lot of trouble for what he did."
(Reader) looked down at the drawing they had been making of them playing outside with Donavon. "I wish he killed me."
Part II
Warren had run away from home, again.
His left eye was swollen shut, and blood speckled the front of his t-shirt. The ten year old hadn't even done anything yet, but his father had had a bad day at work, and been drinking for a couple of hours by the time Warren was dropped off by the Saturday babysitter.
He ran into the woods, blinded by his tears and the swelling.
Because of the crying and injury to his eye, Warren couldn't see very well, and kept running even when he emerged from the trees into a clearing; running into a very deep hole.
There was a pain as his ankle popped, crashing at the bottom into the mud. Everything hurt, so he allowed himself to scream and cry as loudly as he needed. No one was going to come for him anyway.
And so he stayed in the hole and watched as the sun went down and the world went black. Even though he knew his father wouldn't come looking for him, he still wished he would. He wished someone needed him as badly as he needed them.
There was no moon that night, leaving Warren completely blind after the purple sunset left the sky. With his unusually dilated pupils Warren typically preferred the dark over the sun, but without the moon there wasn't enough light for him to see.
'Maybe, I should just spend the night in here.' The sad thought made him sniffle, threatening to release the floodgates again.
"It's right over here!" A loud whisper followed by feet tripping over branches echoed through the trees. Warren held his breath, suddenly afraid of being discovered. It wasn't logical to be frightened, but he was. There were strangers in the woods, and he was in pain and blind and alone. His heart beat in his chest like a war drum as people drew near.
"How do you know where it is?"
The voices belonged to children, probably around Warren's age, but he didn't recognize any of them. Most of what they said was too quiet to hear, until they arrived at the clearing.
"Over here."
The strangers stopped near the hole, but too far away to see Warren covered in mud at the bottom. Lights were illuminating the air, and Warren figured that they must have had flashlights with them. His eyes finally had enough light to adjust to the pitch black, and he watched a letter flutter into the hole, followed shortly by another letter, gracefully drifting in.
Then a thick envelope was chucked in, hitting Warren in the head, who had to bite his tongue to prevent himself from accidentally making a startled sound.
"What did you wish for?" Someone asked.
With that question, Warren realized where he was.
He grabbed the letter that had hit him, quietly opening it up as two of the strangers above him bickered. In the faint light he saw a lot of words, too many to read before they left, so he quickly scanned the page out of curiosity. His breath hitched when he saw a drawing of himself.
Black eyes and shaggy black hair.
Warren put the papers back in the envelope and stuck it in his pants. Someone approached the edge, and Warren caught a glimpse of hair and eyes. They didn't see him, but he certainly saw them.
"What did you wish for, (Reader)?"
"Someone who loves me.."
And at that moment, Warren believed in the hole that grants wishes.
He had no proof that the child looking down at him was the same child who threw the wish practically into his lap, but he knew that it was. Like fate, or magic.
After the trio left, Warren pulled his sore little body out of the muck, repeating (Reader's) name to himself over and over again as to not forget it. He didn't know how, but he knew that (Reader) was the one who's wish he had stolen. Warren limped home, easily sneaking in past his father passed out on the couch and up the stairs to the bathroom, where he locked the door.
He quickly pulled out the letter, opening it up in the light to read the wish in full.
"I wish someone would love me." Warren read quietly out loud, sounding out each word as his finger followed the sentence.
"He has to be just like my dad. Be - cause my dad is the only person who loves me."
"He has to have black hair and black eyes.."
Warren looked at his dirty face in the mirror, ignoring the purple around his left eye and focusing on his natural features. A proud smile crept onto his lips.
He went back to reading. "And his eyes should be deep.." Warren's own eyes were also deep set, making it look like he had bags under his eyes even after a full night's sleep. His ears started to turn pink. The picture was of the kid he saw at the hole with a tall man with black hair and eyes and a little guy who looked the same. He pointed at each person. "That's (Reader).. that's (Reader's) daddy... And that's.." he looked at himself in the mirror, tearing up with how hard he was smiling.
Someone needed him.
He turned the page over and his smile instantly fell, his blood freezing.
Pictures of bloody bodies covered the pages.
Page after page of dead people with the most intense things Warren had ever read followed the seemingly innocent wish. He hadn't been exposed to video games yet, his father didn't let him watch TV, and Warren ignored the other kids at his school, so he had never known violence outside of the terrible things his father did to him. And the words he read in that envelope were violent.
"True love is keeping me."
"If he loves me, he'll kill me."
"Don't let them take me away again."
"Together forever."
(Reader) was worried about the limitations of the wishing hole, so they felt they had to be very specific about their ideal boy. Which meant that they had to explain what love was. And to explain what love was, meant that they had to explain to the hole what their dad had done to their mother and Kevin.
It scared Warren.
But only for a moment.
He thought about the joy (Reader) would feel when they saw him for the first time, how their eyes would light up with love and adoration. In his mind, they would recognize him instantly, like their drawing come to life. Warren was their wish come true. And, in a way, (Reader) was his.
He slowly went back to his bedroom and hid the letter in his underwear drawer. The wish was like his most prized possession. Knowing that there was someone out there who needed Warren made him, for the first time in a very long time, feel hopeful for the future.
The next few years of Warren's life, however, were not pleasant in the slightest.
An anatomy book flew at Warren's face, connecting with his thin nose. He was now in highschool, and the abuse had only worsened.
"What the fuck is this?!" His father threw another medical book, terrified. In the past he used to throw and break things even though Warren's only crime was existing, but now even Warren could understand his father's disgust.
A rat laid on Warren's table, split open.
"I'm practicing.." Warren smiled, blood dripping from his nostrils.
"I should kick you out of the goddamn house!" The drunk man kicked a wall, leaving a dent in the drywall.
"If you do that, I'll go to the police."
His father's eyes widened. "The fuck you just say, you little psychopath?!"
The man was very nimble for someone so swollen from years of alcohol consumption, closing the distance between himself and his son before Warren had a chance to put up his hands in defense. Large, yellowed fingers grabbed a fistful of Warren's greasy hair and lifted his dangerously underweight body off the ground; high enough where Warren couldn't touch the floor with his toes.
"Think about it. You have no proof for the cops that I killed this rat, but I have all the proof that you hit me." To emphasize his point, Warren didn't wipe away the blood that was now dripping onto the rat carcass.
Black eyes that held no light stared wide and unblinking at the disgusting excuse of a man before Warren. His father looked about the room, which was now covered in articles about some murderer from years ago and medical texts printed off at the local library.
Warren was dropped onto his ass. "Fucking freak." His father mumbled before stumbling out of the room.
It wasn't until Warren heard the drunkard smash though the hall towards the staircase that he finally grabbed some tissue to shove up his nose. It had taken him years and years of hard thinking, but Warren had finally found a way to be (Reader's) perfect husband. It was difficult, but the solution was finally discovered, a way to make (Reader's) wish come true without killing them.
He thought he would probably drop out of school, but that didn't really matter to Warren. The young man already had a part time job, and his future career as a manager for a small corner store was practically set.
Candid shots of (Reader) laid under the box of tissues. While (Reader) had continued growing into an attractive young adult, Warren was stunted. A lack of nutrition gave his unnaturally pale skin a yellow tint, and he was so thin that some of his teeth were becoming loose. But it felt as though he couldn't waste even a second thought on anything that wasn't (Reader).
"I'm sorry, Mr. Whiskers.." Warren apologized quietly to the dead rat. "I didn't mean to kill you. I'll do better next time."
Every time Warren saw (Reader) out and about, he wanted to drag them behind a dumpster and fuck them till they bled. It took incredible restraint to stick to his plan and keep to the shadows.
Their wish, laminated, hung above his bed like a prayer, one that he read and worshipped every night before bed.
Warren's father didn't notice when he stopped going to his classes.
He also didn't notice the muffled screaming from the basement, when Warren evolved his experiments from rats to people.
It wasn't until the smell became unbearable that he finally sobered up enough to go down and investigate.
As he searched the house for the cause of the smell, the aging, dying man briefly wondered when the last time he had been down in basement was. Or, when he last saw his good for nothing son.
The stairs to the lowest level creaked under his shoes, and an anxiety he had never before known trickled up through his bones.
At the bottom of the stairs, a door held back the stench like a leaking flood gate. Opening the squealing door wafted a wave of nausea inducing gas right into the man's face.
"Hey, ew what the- hey freak! You down here?! What's that smell..?" His eyes didn't have time to adjust to the dusty basement light before Warren swung a wooden baseball bat with spikes towards his father's face. One spike went through his skull near his nose and another popped open one of his eyes. But his death was due to the blunt force, cracking his head open as easily as smashing a watermelon. The junkie strapped and gagged to the table silently screamed as their one hope for salvation died in front of them.
"I'm sorry about the interruption." Warren smiled, his eyes still and unwavering. The man who had destroyed his childhood and stolen his happiness laid bleeding out on the floor, and Warren didn't feel a single thing. It was strange, part of him thought that he would feel satisfaction watching his abuser die, but he felt nothing at all. Warren only killed his father because he had interrupted his experiment with the homeless person who looked amazingly like (Reader). The young man held up a belt. "Let's continue."
Warren didn't consider himself to be a murderer. What he was doing to the people he abducted was for love. There was no evil or hatred, and if he looked at it in a certain light, he wasn't really trying to kill them at all.
Moving to the night shift gave Warren more time to stalk (Reader) during the day. Just as he had predicted, Warren became a higher member of management, and even 'owned his own home' now that his father had tragically passed. Everything was progressing perfectly, because his entire existence was a wish come true.
It hurt, hiding in the booth behind (Reader) and their friends, hearing about how they had started dating at the suggestion of their bitch therapist, but Warren decided that it was good for their relationship. It proved to him that even after all this time, (Reader) still loved him and needed him. Every time a date failed to live up to (Reader's) expectations it further fueled Warren's fantasy of how (Reader) would react when he finally revealed himself to them.
The dates also provided Warren ample opportunity to look around their apartment. Like when they went on a date with some whiny loser his age. He wasn't even (Reader's) type. Their home was small and quaint, and taking pictures of it in extreme detail helped Warren learn how to decorate the room (Reader) would be staying in once they finally started dating.
Dating.
The idea of merely "dating" caused a painful strain in Warren's chest, but he knew that it was only logical to date before he proposed. At least for a month or so. Maybe a week.
Well, whenever he did propose, Warren knew (Reader) would accept, because Warren was their wish come true. There was nothing he could do wrong, because his entire existence was due to (Reader's) will.
He didn't even bother cleaning off the dirt when he scuffed up the bedroom door. There was no point, because (Reader) wouldn't ever fear or hate anything he did, even if they didn't know he was the one responsible. Because that was fate.
(Reader's) undergarments rested on top of the dirty clothes basket.
Even that was fate.
Because why would they leave their worn underwear in plain view, if not for him? His hands with dirt crusted nails stroked the garment, imaging that he could still feel the heat of (Reader's) body on them. Warren imagined how happy (Reader) would be to learn what he did with their underwear, in their bed. He imagined their eyes glowing like an angel's as their smile graced his filthy presence.
Because this was (Reader's) wish.
And soon, Warren would finally give them their happily ever after.
Warren had put in for a week of vacation at his work; their shared bedroom was decorated; and his supplies were hidden in a backpack in the dirt behind (Reader's) complex. It was like a fairytale, when the knight came to save the dragon from the prince.
Rich approached (Reader's) front door as Warren dug up his hidden tools. Mud covered his face and gloves, but he didn't mind. In fact, it was like a mask, where only his true love would recognize him. Warren knew that his dream would come true that day, but it was even better than he had hoped for. Prince Rich was there to harass his dragon.
He had hoped it would be this easy, and the universe provided. Fate was always on Warren's side when it came to making (Reader's) wish come true. All those lives lost to Warren's experiments were not wasted.
The annoying voice of Rich was audible from outside the building, but it was difficult to feel anything negative towards to poor bastard. In Warren's mind, it wasn't Rich's fault that he was born to be such a loser; it was fate's design for the man to be sacrificed.
Warren threw open the front door, scaring the shit out of the stronger looking man. "Who the fuck is that?!"
Then, the sands of time were fused into glass by the electricity between Warren and (Reader). Their expression looked relieved, just as Warren had always hoped it would. A smile stretched across the beautiful lips Warren often fantasized about kissing. Their cheeks pulled up in the most honest grin Warren had ever seen.
Tears of joy decorated their bottom lashes like glitter.
"He's here to kill me."
Rich put up his arm as though to protect (Reader) from Warren. Again, Warren felt no anger towards the man and his silly reaction.
The bat used to kill Warren's father restarted time as it aimed for Rich's skull.
(Reader) looked up endearingly at Warren, now sitting on their knees in a pool of Rich's blood. The man before them was everything they had ever dreamt of. His black eyes never left (Reader's), even as he bludgeoned their date to death.
It took all of (Reader's) will power to not shake in their seat. Excitement flowed through their veins so quickly that it sent involuntary quivers through their muscles. Everything that they had ever wanted was finally coming true.
"I've been waiting for you." (Reader) felt their chest tighten as Warren approached.
But then he dropped his bat.
Their smile twitched a little, but (Reader) tried to not let anxiety ruin their happiest moment. The dirty man slid a backpack off and started rifling through it.
"I've been waiting for you too.." A voice that sounded oddly chipper finally responded, echoing from a wide grin that showed off yellowing teeth with a few missing on the bottom row.
(Reader) smiled harder. "You're going to kill me?" It was phrased like a question, but it was more of a plea.
"No."
"What?"
(Reader's) smile cracked in half. The adrenaline in their system turned deadly.
Warren's smile didn't fade.
"But, you have to." (Reader) began to panic. This had to be the man they wished to life. He had to be there to kill them. It was fate. He had to! "Aren't you here for me?"
"Of course I am."
"Then you have to kill me! If you love me, you have to-!"
Warren dropped his bag, revealing a hacksaw. He held it relaxed in one hand, and held a belt in the other. "Do you know how selfish you are, (Reader)?"
(Reader's) mind went numb with confusion.
"I've loved you for so long, and now that I finally have you, you think I'm going to kill you?"
"I'm not going to let anyone have you."
"Not even death."
The End
The two story house was full of trash bags. Every room in the building was full of clutter and filth, except the master bedroom.
Warren came home from a long shift, excited to have his precious spouse in his arms.
None of the guards at the prison would listen to Donavon when he tried to convince them all that something was wrong. A child suddenly not visiting their murderer of a parent in prison was not reason to go to the police and open a missing person's case. Even the officers that liked Donavon couldn't do anything.
The bedroom decorated to (Reader's) taste was unlocked by Warren as he finally climbed through all the shit. He entered their shared home with a warm expression of pure love on his face.
"(Reader), I'm home!"
In the middle of the room watching television was a wheelchair bound (Reader). Their arms and legs amputated, sitting helplessly in a soiled diaper. A drugged up, lopsided smiled sleepily tugged the corners of their mouth up.
"Welcome home, baby.."
A/N: Sorry it took so long, happy to start writing again ❤️
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