#verbal harm

[amphiptere-art]

Issues with Eclipse's treatment

What good behavior can you expect out of a character that has been dealt nothing but wrongs?

Eclipse has no reason to be kinder.

Eclipse spent a year abandoned in somebody's head watching a version of himself live a better life.

From the very moment eclipse was born he has only known that people hated him.

Eclipse has always been treated bad. So why expect anything else.

Eclipse has never treated anyone good. So no one will expect him to treat anyone good.

Eclipse will always be snarky towards moon and others because he is not expecting them to treat him any better.

Old Moon caused eclipse pain. Never once did he apologize for it.

Copy Eclipse still hasn't heard Moon's apology.

Eclipse's only goal is to figure out why he is alive. Presumably to make it so he cannot be alive ever again.

Eclipse did not want to be alive. Neither do I think the fandom did.

Eclipse is going insane due to the fact that he is essentially a zombie that keeps coming back. Each time lesser and lesser then their original self

Eclipse might be believing his insanity is normal. No one else is helping him with it. And only uses it as a slur.

Eclipse possibly has thought of reckless suicide attempts.

Eclipse is totally on board dying.

Eclipse might be angering moon to get him to lash out purposely. To trigger the bomb.

Eclipse did trigger lunar enough to kill him.

It is unsettling that the fandom does not care about this angle because it is "too violent" for the main show.

Crimes unrightfully stacking against copy eclipse who did not do them only remember.

Crimes of OG Eclipse should be there's alone.

Crimes of backup Eclipse should be there's alone.

Crimes of copy Eclipse should be there's alone.

Copy eclipses only crime is remembering the previous crimes and kidnapping ruin. The only other bad thing he does is spit threats.

Moon has essentially pinned every crime from the previous eclipses onto copy Eclipse. Putting him on a death sentence because of those crimes. And making him do manual labor or else he will expedite that death sentence.

Moon's behavior has improved very little. His behavior has best improved towards sun and closer friends. Any other behavior has stayed relatively the same.

Moon's self-improvement was cut short by his death. And unfortunately New Moon is spiraling back into the same bad habits.

New Moon's behavior has unfortunately turned very sour. He is easier to anger, and has started the verbal abuse up once again.

Moon has always wanted eclipse dead. Never once was him disappearing good enough.

Moon will continue to think he is in the right because he is "always right".

Moon continues to make decisions without considering others.

Moon and Sun have continuously laughed at the villain's faults. In eclipses case it is laughing about insanity. Something caused out of mistreatment and abandonment. Something they caused.

Moon has used eclipses insanity and madness as a slur against him.

Moons abuse is worse and has stayed longer than eclipses abuse.

Sun has spent at least 8 years being abused by old moon. Enough that it has lasted even after his death.

Moon's harassment includes putting sun in dangerous situations, pushing and shoving him, Hit him canonically once, Whatever type of fighting happened when they were in one body, and verbal abuse.

Sun is continuously scared that he will say something to upset Moon. Expecting him to revert to old habits.

Sun only thinks his and Moons relationship is "good" when everything is going ok.

Sun might not realize how much Moons abuse affected him. Given that he saw it as normal for so long.

Sun was confused as to why lunar would kill his brother. Given that he might have seen the abuse as "not as bad". Which is telling that he is desensitized to his abuse.

Eclipse's harassment towards sun was never really personal. It was personal towards moon. Sun was just the easy way to harm him.

Sun has never once had any free time to go through all these issues.

Lunar only spent a month of physical abuse under eclipse.

Eclipse harmed lunar 3 times, tried to kill him twice, gave him panic attacks a couple times, and blew him up once. Most of his abuse was verbal.

Eclipse's harassment towards lunar was only out of fear of losing his victory.

Never once did eclipse ever really try to treat lunar as a brother better than moon would. He only used it as a word to compare themselves to Sun and Moon.

Eclipse also did care for Lunar's health. The code checking was only for health concerns. Along with many other scenarios where eclipse was worried about his health.

Lunar was happy with eclipse for some time. In many videos they are very entertained and happy with each other. It is only when eclipse got the star that it started going south.

Eclipse most likely started harming lunar due to generational trauma. Basing off of moons actions.

The fandom is ignoring moons wrongs in order to support the protagonist.

The fandom is letting this mistreatment slide despite the majority of the characters encouraging it. Believing Eclipse's mistreatment is the only way for eclipse to have a redemption.

Expecting redemption is unlikely. Eclipse has no reason to change. And sun moon have no reason to not hate him because of such.

There is not many scenarios without breaking character where they want to help eclipse get better.

Eclipse has been called an evil entity by magic people. Making his fate clear on a destiny level.

Moon wants him dead. Although it's softens with every encounter.

Sun wants him dead. Although that is just a statement as he was surprised at lunar's actions against eclipse.

Lunar wants him dead. And did so to seek a peace they did not gain.

Monty wants him gone. And finds Eclipse's torment hilarious.

Solar doesn't have an opinion because he's following Moon.

Earth doesn't believe he can change because he is too stuck in anger. She currently doesn't seem to have a healthy outlook on Eclipse doing anything else but bad. She is also unfortunately grown fearful due to his death.

Ruin is scared of him due to his kidnapping. Also multiple outlash believing he is his creator. Although this might be null given new actions.

Puppet finds eclipses torment hilarious.

Freddy has called eclipse an evil entity he wants gone.

Loss of a villain. The only replacement we have been offered is Moon themselves, and this mysterious entity that we do not yet care about.

They have shelved blood moon because making him a worse villain backfired. They changed the character too much and made the protagonists too misunderstanding of them.

They are doing the opposite of blood moon with eclipse. But they are attempting to stay in character. Making a muddled directive.

They are dragging Eclipse into the sympathy card and making their own protagonist bad guys by doing so.

They are failing to make the villains sympathetic, Because Moon is just as bad. Eclipse is unable to outcompete the bad.

Eclipse might very well die or be shelved similar to Blood Moon. Just so the show writers do not have to deal with the backlash of his mistreatment.

This is a cycle of abuse. Eclipse will never forgive Moon, and at this point believes there is not going back. Moon will never forgive eclipse, and believes that eclipse will never change. Both are too prideful to let go.

And nothing will change until one of them or any of the other characters let go.

If anyone wants to ask if I could add/modify/or remove points I am open to do so. Just give me reasonable counter arguments or new points to add.

I will note, I stopped watching the show for my own health. So while I can add new or modify points to match with the new story. I will not know all the details and can only go off of what people tell me. So excuse me if some of these points are a little old or misinformed.

#This is me trying to put all my points into one understandable. easy to read. single post not connected to an episode airing. #I have this saved in a Google doc so I can add to it #If you have more points to be made please tell me so I can add them #I am not condoning neither of eclipses or moons behavior. I am simply pointing out the fact of what has actually happened #physical abuse is something that people need to get away from. But verbal abuse is just as harmful #The Sun and Moon show eclipse #Sun and Moon show eclipse #sams eclipse #tsams eclipse #The Sun and Moon show Moon #sun and moon show moon #sams moon #tsams moon #the sun and moon show #Sun and Moon show #sams #tsams

[ohforficsake]

The Margay: Chapter 9

Memorize it. Destroy it.

prev / series masterlist / main masterlist

Summary: Santiago recruits Frankie to contract for a covert agency that pairs them with danger in more ways than one. A series of one-shot snippets taking place during and around missions.

Pairing: Frankie Morales x Sniper!OFC

Word Count: ~4.7K

WARNINGS: I'm going to go ahead and flag this chapter as Dark!Frankie / Potential triggers herein for verbal and physical abuse (extreme jealously, manhandling, pinning against a wall, facial bruising, borderline choking), brief mention of self harm/suicidal ideation / Please read with care.

Rating: Explicit 18+ / language / crass mention of sexual acts / mentions of drug use / Minors DNI

A/N: Frankie breaks something.

Finally getting one of these up in time for Frankie Friday. This chapter. Whew this chapter. It came to me months ago. Something that makes you put everything down so you can transcribe this thing from wherever it’s coming from.

chapter moodboard if you're interested

Divider by @cafekitsune!

“Why are you draggin’ me to this, couldn’t you have found someone else?

“I already told you,” Santiago fiddles with his bowtie in a car window reflection. “It’s a favor to the guy who got us this gig in the first place. Needs bodies in the room for this fundraiser. Davis is covering the donation, it’s the fucking least we could do.”

“You coulda brought some girl.”

“Yeah, but I like you on my arm,” Santi quips with a pout and Fish flips him a choice finger.

The room is filled from marble wall to marble wall with standard Washington DC fixtures. The low din of conversation punctuated with the occasional chime of laugher and clink of glass. Diamonds glitter in the low golden light under massive, equally scintillating chandeliers.

Francisco can't help but scan the room as he trails Pope to the nearest proffered tray of champagne glasses, fingers absent-mindedly wrapping around one when it's placed in his hand.

And it's Frankie who sees her first at a distance. Sheathed in a flowing column of white. Black hair is blown out into loose curls that fall down to the middle of her back, face lit up in a laugh.

When she rocks on her feet he notices that her arm is wrapped around a man’s bicep.

Frankie drains the rest of his champagne, slamming the glass down on a hightop table before Pope catches the crook of his elbow and cuts off his path to her. 

“Don’t.”

“Who the fuck is that.”

“The senator who sponsored this thing? That’s his son.”

“That doesn’t make it better, Pope.” 

Audrey hanging off the arm of some spoiled fuckin’ rich kid.

Not that he’s a kid, he’s got a few years on Frankie at least.

But a senator’s son? 

Audrey. 

His Audrey.

Audrey who he’s seen covered in engine grease, cuddling stray cats, trekking through the jungle covered in sweat and blood.

Audrey who warms his bed and angles big green eyes up at him with his spend still coating her thighs.

His Audrey.

She’s clearly playing a game. 

She’s on a job. 

Undercover. 

She’s not herself. 

And she catches him staring heat at her from across the room.

A million watts of light spark across her features and she waves them over.

“Francisco. Behave.” Pope spikes him a warning.

When they weave through bodies to make it to her she greets each with kisses on both cheeks, grip falling subtly to Frankie’s arm as her last kiss lingers. 

“Let me introduce you," she says to the man, "this is Santiago Garcia and Francisco Morales. The boys who’ve been helping me out down there. The Major is, one of my oldest friends.”

“I should thank you both for keeping her safe,” the Major grins. He’s got a California accent and the tan to match.

She gives them his name but Frankie doesn’t hear it. He’s too busy sizing the man up. Guy’s got three? Four inches in height on him at least. Dark black curls, a face that’s weathered enough to betray that he’s never really worked a desk job. Even Frankie can admit he’s handsome. Roman nose, strong brow. But his eyes startle Frankie the most. 

They’re the same color as Audrey’s. 

The exact same shade of green. The effect of it is stunning when they both meet Frankie’s gaze. 

And Catfish can’t get the flash his brain conjures of the two of them tangled in white sheets out from behind his eyelids.

“You look beautiful tonight, Aud,” Pope charms in an attempt to distract from Fish’s tangible simmering.

“I can clean up okay if I have to,” she winks, untangling her arm from this man’s.

“So what is it that you do?” Frankie cuts in, just this side of prickly.

“Marine engineer,” he says, swallowing a mouthful of champagne. “Which is a pretentious way of saying that I spend my days on boats looking for sunken treasure.”

It is an oversimplification at its finest. Because like the three of them, he’s done his fair share of greasing the cogs that keep the world running smoothly.

And like the three of them, he’s greased them with blood.

“I think we could all use refills," Audrey clears her throat, "Frankie, would you be my extra set of hands?”

“‘Course,” he doesn’t realize he grits it out.

Like spitting slivers of glass.

He flattens one broad palm across the small of her back and guides her in front of him in the direction of the bar. He follows close behind, eyes searing into the back of her skull.

The tattoo on her shoulder taunts him where it peeks out from under the seams of her sleeveless dress.

On display for anyone to see.

When they reach the bar, Frankie slots in behind her, the panes of his chest finding her back.

Audrey presses against him with a hum.

She’s nearly his height in heels and he doesn’t have to bend now to whisper in her ear. “A man more dangerous than me?”

“A friend with a Messerschmitt,” she turns to face him, running her hand over his stomach under his jacket.

And he revels in her touch before betraying the way it soothes.

“You fuck all of your friends?”

Frankie can tell there’s history between them that involves more than clunky warplanes and tinkering with old cars and it bubbles up like bile spat out in needless cruelty.

“Only the ones who know what Messerschmitts are,” she tosses back in kind, her tone level in direct defiance of what’s clawing at the back of her throat. 

She turns around again as the bartender approaches and Frankie steps back a hair, breaking contact with her form.

It makes her seethe.

She hands Frankie three glasses of tequila with lime, balanced easily in generous hands, before she sweeps a gin martini off of the bar and leads him back to where Santiago and the man are laughing about something.

Fish hands Santi and glass holds the other out for Audrey, but she sips from the martini without breaking his stare and Frankie instead has to hand it over to the other man.

Messerschmitt. Since Frankie can’t remember his name.

They toast, what a pleasure to meet, happy you boys are keeping Audrey company out there. 

Company.

“Fish, the Major is a pilot, he was Air Force.”

“In my youth,” the man quips.

“I’ve heard,” he drains his glass and doesn’t attempt to continue down the path what Santi has forged for him. 

And so the two of them carry the conversation alone, Frankie staring daggers at Audrey who shoots him the occasional searing glance every time she plucks an olive from the golden skewer in her drink.

A hush falls over the crowd as vainglorious speeches start up.

But Frankie's ears are ringing.

Audrey makes it through one speech before excusing herself to the restroom with a soft hand on Santi’s elbow, and a brush on Messerschmitt’s cuff.

She doesn’t need to alert Frankie because Frankie’s been watching her every move.

He waits five minutes before slipping away in the same direction.

They’re about to pass each other in the hallway when Frankie’s hand shoots out for her bicep, a glance over his shoulder to be sure no one is looking before dragging and shoving roughly to pin her against the wall.

“So is this what you do, when you’re not with me? Fuck senators’ sons?”

“The fact that he’s a senator's son is honestly the most unfortunate thing about him. And what we do is not my being with you. It’s my job.” She presses something soft into his hand. “That’s for you. If you want it.”

Frankie stuffs whatever it is into his jacket pocket and continues.

“And is this part of your job? Hanging off the arms of handsome men in fancy rooms?” He runs his palms down her bare arms before they settle on her hips.

“Sometimes. But I don’t frequent these in my downtime. This is a favor.”

“A favor. To him.”

“Yes.”

“So you don’t make a habit of this? Being this charming.”

“Aw you really think so?” She snarks and Frankie’s hands on her hips slam her back against the wall.

“You like it, don’t you. All of these eyes on you. Driving me insane.” His fingers brush a curl from her cheek. “Don’t play coy, I see how they look at you. Do you beg them for it, Audrey?” 

“They look at me because I’m a novelty in this room, Frankie.” 

And she’s not wrong. She’s a lithe beautiful thing with rich bronze skin in a room of wives and mistresses the same shade of blonde caked in the same shade of orange. She moves through a sea of hungry eyes with comfort precisely because she doesn’t give a fuck about the other men in this room.

Not even really about Messerschmitt. Not now that he’s here.

“You mean you don’t work your way into their beds? Let them fuck you until you’re screaming?”

She scoffs a “no” and Frankie listens but doesn’t hear.

“Is it their money? Their expensive whiskey and the thread count of their sheets that makes you come?”

His hand skates up over her chest, fingers feather-light over the skin of her collarbone that peeks out from under the high neck of her dress.

“Because there’s no way their cocks are satisfying you. That room is rife with overcompensation.” 

Everything to this point has been some twisted form of foreplay.

But Frankie tips.

His hand moves to her neck now, the broad span of it making easy work of fitting around her throat. 

Because some part of him believes this. Believes that Messerschmitt has had her and would have had her tonight if Santi hadn’t dragged him here and it makes him wonder how many others. 

He needs to know how many others. 

Frankie's eyes are blown dark, logic is abandoned in a brain fogged with jealousy. Skin thrumming with possession.

And it’s out before he can catch it.

“How many of them have had you, Audrey?” Rumbled through low registers of his voice.

He uses his index finger to roughly angle her face back to him from where she’s glanced back into the room.

“How many of them have seen you fall apart? Hmm? How many of them have left you shaking?”

His body holds her against the wall, thighs pressed to hers, his elbow jammed painfully in the sparse space between them where he holds her. 

And Audrey just watches, gaze angled down her nose.

Amused.

Frankie’s a man in a trance as he runs the pad of his thumb over the lush of her bottom lip, hot breath following its path.

“Have they seen the way your mouth falls open when you clench around them? Do they know that you can see these little fucking teeth when you do,” he snarls it, sliding his thumb over her top incisors before slipping it farther to slide over her tongue.

He tastes of lime and ozone.

“How many of them have come in this pretty little mouth, Audrey?” Frankie presses down with his thumb to open it wider. 

She could bite down. She could box his ears and take out an eardrum or both. She could throw a knee into his crotch.

She could scream.

She’s not going to.

Not yet.

But she could. 

He adjusts his grip and his middle finger and thumb dig painfully into the space at the hinge of her jaw and he gives her head a small shake, voice dripping with condescension. “Do you swallow for them, or is that just for me?” 

And it should frighten her. The way her sweet soft Frankie has gone dark. 

The way he’s a hair’s breadth away from squeezing down on her pulse.

The way he could crush her jaw with the strength of his hand alone.

But this? 

This is always there. 

Churning under the surface until it heats enough to boil.

It's what she loves about him.

“Do you let them come inside you too? Let them empty their balls into your hot little cunt and leave you dripping?” He shifts one leg to the outside of hers to press her further into the wall with his body.

And it should terrify her, this being caged in, his fingers jammed hard into her mandible as he spits and seethes with equal parts disdain and infatuation.

“Do they fill you up like I do? With as much as I do?”

The hard line of Frankie’s cock pressed against her hip telegraphs unyielding, sick pleasure.

“Do they fuck you better than I do, Audrey?”

“There is no ‘they’ Frankie.”

“Oh? Well then. Does that man. Out there. Fuck you. Better than I do.” His arm twitches with each sentence, moving her head with it.

She should be ashamed of how wet she is.

“Would you let him come down your throat the way that you let me?” 

And she doesn’t dare give him the satisfaction of the truth.

“I know he doesn’t eat you out the way that I do. Doesn’t make you come on his face.” He presses his nose to her cheek, breathing in the scent of her. “I can tell.”

“But I bet he’d still give it to you. If you wanted him to.”

He doesn’t realize that he’s growling with every breath.

“I don’t want...”

“But would he. Fuck you.” 

“Yes.”

And Frankie’s nostrils flare and a breath hisses through his teeth.

His hold on her tightens.

“Yeah, I bet he would. Because you’re a fuckin’ toy. A pretty little plaything to be used when the need strikes and then…” he trails off. “He’d fuck you but he wouldn’t keep you.”

“Yeah—" he growls.

"I wouldn’t either.”

And Frankie says it because he’s frothing with impotence at what he doesn’t have to offer.

Any one of these men could give her the world. 

They paid $14K just to stand in this room. 

But Frankie wouldn’t keep her because Frankie doesn’t deserve her. 

And Frankie makes it her fault. 

Lashing out at her for the way she consumes him.

And all of this. This is trying to prove himself with his body where the rest of him falls short.

Because it’s all he knows.

The Delta who gave his body to the Stars and Stripes in search of validity and purpose and a place in this world. 

And those colors chewed him up and spat him out tasting like a bad back and a coke problem.

But he’s taken it too far now.

Still gripping hard at her jaw.

And her scorpion’s tongue delivers a barb that sticks right in the spot in his brain where he’s regretted it every moment of his existence since that night.

“You going to strangle me again, Francisco?”

The antidote to his fever.

“No,” the grip on her loosens.

The fight drains through the soles of his feet and back to the earth to be transmuted into something that doesn’t destroy.

He breathes without snarling.

And rests his forehead against hers before taking half a step back.

And she tips her face to hover her lips over his but neither of them move any farther.

They just breathe.

Looking like lovers to anyone who is watching.

She brushes a hand over the napkin slipped into his jacket pocket. “Memorize it. Or don’t. But destroy it either way.”

And Audrey slips from between him and the wall.

Frankie doesn’t move to turn around, instead bracing his forearm against wallpaper, listening to her heels on marble as she returns to the bathroom.

“And Frankie,” she calls over her shoulder, staving off the shattering of her voice. “Please be nice.”

He snorts as he spins and leans heavy against drywall, head thudding backwards. He scrubs a palm down his face and breathes deep, trying to bring himself back to even.

Trying to stave off the panic winding around his organs.

Threatening to constrict.

He has no idea what just happened. 

Frantic fingers scramble for the thing in his pocket.

A napkin that he unfolds. 

An address in Alexandria.

Her address.

He storms off to the gents and into a stall, mentally repeating the numbers and letters until it’s ingrained before he drops it in the toilet bowl. Blue ink bleeds into something illegible before he flushes it away.

His stomach turns and for a moment he thinks tequila is going to follow it. 

Frankie breathes in hard through his nose and out with a hiss, storming out of the stall to splash cold water into his face.

He prays he hasn’t left a bruise.

_____

“You good?” Santi whispers when Audrey slips in beside him.

“Yeah, do I look fine?”

He gives her a quick once-over. “Physically, yes. Spiritually?” Pope tips his glass of tequila towards her hand and she drains it as applause breaks out at the end of another speech.

“He okay?”

“Dunno.”

Santiago casts a look over his shoulder towards the bathrooms.

“Come, let me get you another,” he gently presses an open palm to Audrey's elbow, leading her to the bar. 

“Gin and soda.” Santi knows her and joins. “Two."

Santi knows the two of them well enough to hit on what just happened. "That really spun him up, huh?”

“Never meant to. I’ve known the Major for over twenty years, I came as a favor. He’s one of the few people on earth who knows what I actually do.”

“It’s not a fucking crime to be comfortable around someone," she adds in a soft voice. "I had no idea you were going to be here.”

“Sort of a favor on our end as well.” Santiago slips a tip into the glass jar as the bartender slides over two drinks.

Audrey swallows a sip, letting the ice cold liquid chill her burning stomach.

“I was fucking happy when I saw you both.”

And she sounds like she's about to fracture.

“Hey.”

Santi’s eyes are soft, heavy-lidded as is his way when he’s sincere.

“He’s an idiot when it comes to this.”

She scoffs and takes another sip.

“I’m gonna beat the shit out of him.”

“That’s very kind Santi, but I can do it myself.”

“You sure you’re okay?”

“No.”

“Yeah, your jaw is starting to bruise.”

“Fuck,” and she adjusts her hair to fall where Frankie’s fingers were with Pope calmly directing her movements.

To anyone else they’re making conversation. 

But to anyone who knows, Pope is fuming and Audrey’s a frayed nerve.

And Messerschmitt knows and Messerschmitt would kill for her, but only if she says the word.

And she doesn’t.

“Let’s get you some food, yeah?”

“Yeah.” She has no appetite but she takes the arm Santi offers because he’s the only person Frankie won’t murder tonight and he guides her towards the nearest waiter with a tray of canapés.

For the first time in the two years that he’s known her, Santi realizes that Audrey can’t take care of herself right now. 

She’s unfocused, eyes darting around the room with none of their usual calculated discernment.

Big, liquid things. Fighting the threat of overflow.

Whatever the fuck Frankie just said.

He broke her. 

And so Santiago spends the rest of the night putting his body between her and Fish, and Fish knows that Santi knows something, the shame of it heating the tips of Frankie’s ears.

Audrey doesn’t stick around long after speeches are through.

She takes her leave after wrapping Santiago in a grateful embrace, kissing Messerschmitt on the cheek, and squeezing Frankie’s arm.

He can tell that was for appearances’ sake and he knows better than to follow right after her.

In the end he plays well in the sandbox. So well, in fact that he strikes up a conversation with the Major. They talk of helicopters and Immelmann maneuvers and they bore Santiago enough that he abandons them for a pretty blonde at the bar.

And Catfish shakes Messerschmitt’s hand when he leaves.

But he still doesn’t know his name.

_____

Frankie crawls back to her at midnight like a shamed thing with his tail between his legs.

She opens the door to find his hands stuffed in his pockets, doe eyes back on full display.

And Audrey wishes she hadn’t handed him that napkin.

But she also wishes for the confirmation that he offers now.

That they’re going to be okay.

In their own, fucked up kind of way.

She invites him inside without saying a word and he doesn’t reach out for her as he steps into darkness.

City lights filter in through large windows, but a candle on the coffee table is the only thing lighting his way.

She’s just been sitting in the dark. 

And he stands in her home that he can’t see, somewhere between her living room and her kitchen, watching her move from the bar to the fridge and back again, still clad in her white evening gown.

Like a ghost in the night. 

She hands him tequila and scoops the dregs of her martini off of the coffee table, downing it before heading for the sink.

He catches her arm on the way, holding her on the tips of his fingers, waiting for her to move. 

She stops but doesn’t lean in. 

“I’m sorry.” Frankie whispers. 

And the candlelight catches in her eyes when she looks to him.

For my jealously. For what I said. The questions I asked. 

For insinuating that you’re a whore.  

But instead “I’m sorry” is all he repeats on a sigh as he lets her go and to his surprise she reaches to wrap an arm around his neck, pressing her body to his, burying her face in his collar.

It takes him a moment before he holds her back, biceps squeezing around her ribs. 

And feeling bursts from his chest with a sob. 

“I’m sorry, cariño, I’m sorry,” he kisses against her hairline, seeking forgiveness in her mouth. 

“I’m going to take a shower,” is all he gets in return. “Alone.”

And she leaves Frankie standing backlit by city light, looking for all the world like a man-shaped void in her home.

Frankie thinks he should leave.

He wants desperately to run from this pain of his own creation, slip into drink in his own hotel room and pass out on the floor.

It can’t be that hard to find coke in DC.

And the thought scares him enough to make him stay. 

He forces himself to move on legs of lead to collapse on her couch, screwing the heels of his palms into his eyes, listening to water against tile where she’s left the bathroom door open. 

Audrey returns to him in a black linen robe, wet hair smelling of white flowers. 

Darkness unfurls into night-blooming florals.

The same darkness that dry-rots him from the inside out, leaving nothing but a cloud of cheap blow behind every time something collapses.

And her manicured feet enter Frankie’s frame of view, but he doesn’t look up until she kneels down, reaching her hand to cup his scruffy jaw and tip his face to hers.

He’s crying.

She thumbs one tear from his cheek before it’s replaced with another.

Frankie engulfs her hand with his, turning to press a kiss to her palm.

“We don’t work here, Francisco.”

And she skates around her issue to get to the heart of their issue. 

She’ll deal with herself later.

What they have doesn’t belong here. 

In city lights, where people wear diamonds and Rolexes. Where mistresses and wives are the ones making deals to keep everything running smoothly. 

Here where she moves with practiced ease. 

Here where he’s lost in words that don’t mean what they say and smiles that lash instead of soothe.

Where the air draws cruel things from his throat.

“I know.”

They never intended to bring it here.

“Forgive me.” He whispers.

Forgive me the delusion.

“Forgive me, Audrey.”

Forgive me my words.

“Forgive me,” panted against her mouth, foreheads pressed flush.

Forgive me and show me you still care.

Because I don’t. 

Not about my body, not about my soul, and I might damn them both tonight if you don’t forgive me.

But he’s still asking on his behalf.

“Audrey, please. Please,” he sobs. 

I don’t know why I’m like this.

I don’t know where else to go.

Take me back. To before I bruised.

Bruises that blossom on her jaw now in low light.

But bruises were how they started.

And she takes his hands in her own and leads him to her bedroom where she strips layers from him. Rids him of wool and cotton and lays him in linen sheets.

She fits against his back, arm around a chest that can’t find steady breath. Audrey presses kisses to the back of his neck. Strokes his hair until sleep briefly takes him.

Like the warm body that she is.

And in the night he finds her, heated palms on her stomach, pulling her weight to rest on his hips but she peels his fingers from her skin and rolls back to her side of the bed.

He knows why he came here.

To fix what he’s done but he doesn’t know where to start sewing up the damage. 

He ripped too deep.

And Frankie doesn’t know what else to do but offer his body and allow her to take what she needs.

To allow himself to be a body for her to use after his words and his fingers implied she was the same.

And she knows none of it’s true but she can’t help but feel it.

The love she doesn’t know how to give. 

The family she’ll never have because she knows nothing more than how to bring death into the world.

But from where Frankie lies, tonight what she needs isn’t him.

And it brings a fresh, heaving wave of regret to crash through his chest.

_____

“I was engaged once,” she offers hours later as the blue beginnings of dawn start to light the room because she knows Frankie is still awake behind her.

“To him?”

“To a man more dangerous than you.”

“What h— what happened?”

“We were playing house in a home that was never ours.” 

“We’re brutal things. Where he tries now to atone for his sins, I lean into them. We were never set up to work.”

“What does he do.”

And she doesn’t answer that particular question when she starts again.

“He was a Delta too, once upon a time.”

“What was his name?”

“Spencer.”

And it’s like a gift. Frankie knew of a Spencer who had made rank before him. Knew of the whispers that spread like wildfire through barracks of a ghost of a man who could do the impossible and he wonders if they’re one and the same.

Not unlike the woman in his arms.

“And now?”

“Sometimes we find each other on nights that get too dark. Sometimes we save one another.”

Lives and souls.

“But most times we’re nothing more than memories and whispered wishes in each other’s general directions. Each one of us hoping the other is still alive.”

“He would take you back?”

And Frankie doesn’t understand his fixation on this question, because she’s not his and never claimed to be. 

But pieces of her live in the hearts and beds of other men and he desperately wants all of her for himself.

A wildcat in a cage.

A taxidermied husk with glass eyes.

A pelt to drape himself in.

He doesn’t ever ask if she would have them.

“Everyone would take me back, Frankie,” she pulls the duvet up to her ear.

“Because I’m always the one who leaves.”

“Will you leave me?”

It hangs in the air. Unanswered.

And he knows now.

She will leave.

And he will be another man who holds another piece of her.

And she will continue giving away whatever pieces of her that men will take.

Until there’s nothing left.

Nothing but murmured whispers of a ghost.

And pieces of her memory.

_____

When daylight comes, Frankie blinks hard at where sunrise streams through sheers.

Reaching out for warmth before dread blooms in his chest.

Audrey’s gone. 

It’s her house and she’s gone.

And he bolts from the bed, searching for signs that she’ll return. 

But he finds no note, no text, no sign.

Audrey’s left him.

_____

Author's Post Script: Messerschmitt and Spencer are actual characters that I've borrowed to play with for a moment, all credit to their original owners. Feel free to slide your guesses into my DMs if you're so inclined. Or just want to chat after all of that.

Taglist: @harriedandharassed @missladym1981 @sarcasm-theotherwhitemeat @toomanytookas @spookyxsam

Also again taking the risk to tag some lovely folks who have shown interest in this here little story. As always, please do let me know if you'd prefer not to be tagged:

@tinytinymenace @legendary-pink-dot @for-a-longlongtime @theshensei @iamskyereads @la-vie-est-une-fleur29 @soft-persephone @julesonrecord @criticalarchitecture @oliveksmoked @jessthebaker @tanzthompson @youandmeand5bucks @ems-chaos-corner @thethirstwivesclub @76bookworm76 @tuquoquebrute

Please note that old chapters are hosted on the OFFS Library page. New chapters will be posted here at Ohforficsake.

Shoot me a message @ohforficsake or comment under this post if you would like to be added to the taglist for updates! Thanks so much for reading.

#tw: verbal abuse #tw: physical abuse #tw: mentions of self-harm #tw: suicidal thoughts #frankie morales #santiago garcia #triple frontier fanfiction #pedro pascal character fanfiction #pedro pascal characters #pedro pascal #the margay #ohforficsake

[twitterdotcom]

I know it's been said before, but I think my biggest gripe with Izzy's death is that it felt like it was written and finished before S1 was even done, and then S2 was written like "ok Izzy dies this season so we have to make sure the audience feels sad about it." So they developed Izzy but never went back to the original script for the death scene and instead just went with the original draft despite literally all of S2 (and some of S1) contradicting what was supposed to be the emotional core of it

#izzy hands #that emotional core being Izzy apologizing to Ed for BB despite in S2 Izzy literally tells Ed to stop in several different ways #and in S1 encouraging his retirement #also the double of Izzy apologizing to the man who resulted in his leg being removed #while blaming himself for harm done to him by other people (Ed) isn't a very good look #also they didn't acknowledge Ed's treatment of Izzy and the crew. which makes it really hard to root for the guy #like if Ed was supposed to be irredeemable its whatever. but you're obviously supposed to root for him #which when he doesn't own up to his mistakes it makes it really hard to do so #like I really feel bad for the Ed and Stede fans the season bc they did those two characters really bad :( like there was the opposite #character development with no indication of it being regressive. #oops going off topic again #this isn't an opportunity to fight or debate about this topic btw #im not the most elegant when it comes to verbalizing my feelings

[curlicuetruth]

Forever baffled by people who object to fictional characters being depicted as treating each other in socially unacceptable ways, and conclude the best way to express this objection is by treating actual other living human beings in socially unacceptable ways

#real crime trumps thought crime #real harm trumps fictional harm #imo if you think a piece of media contributes to normalizing socially harmful ideas #the best way to counter this is with critique and analysis and education #you don't verbally abuse 16yos for badfic #speaking of normalizing abuse

[blueyymp]

I'm taking a ride with my best friend

I had such a visceral reaction to this scene. The hand holding. After Ellie had left, we could both visibly AND audibly witness just how vulnerable Joel was, he was shaking, taking ragged breaths...

...but after Ellie returned, you can see this calmness come over him and he begins to calm down and start breathing again which was so beautifully acted

AND I loved how the sunlight was hitting Ellie's face at that moment and I couldn't help but think that for Joel, Ellie was his light. He was lost in the darkness, on deaths door itself, but he looked towards the light. His light. Ellie.

When you're lost in the darkness, look towards the light

And I think THIS is the moment where they both acknowledged to themselves AND to each other just how much they mean to one another and I LOVED the absence of dialogue in this moment...we were able to bask in this moment and let our emotions just...be💛

#look towards the light #the hand holding #the non verbal communication between the two was everything #good luck to whoever tries to harm the pair of them because that day will be their final day on this earth :) #the last of us #tlou #hbo tlou spoilers #joel and ellie #pedro pascal #bella ramsey

[spotsupstuff]

Love the fact that Suns is in constant danger from Zephyr, do you think she could ever convince them to join her cause?

nah man, not this fucker. they don't Want to be convinced Specifically cuz if they Did admit that Zephyr might have a point with her cause it'd make Them into a really horrible person

and heavens, that is the last thing Suns wants to be

#Spot says stuff #rw #oc tag #suns is also projectin a bit there but like ah well #yo i just came back from the river i almost lost my sister to mud today! heres a quick thing before i go take a shower #this shit Hits cuz theres always gon be the doubt that 'what if this new thing im doing is only going to harm us' when it comes to this- #-stuff. and oh zephyr? shes fine with bein kicked to the ground physically or verbally or any other way. she can fight that. #but the fact that maybe. Just Maybe. shes dooming her part of the family she has Responsibility for to Death terrifies her more than- #-literally anything else in the whole world

[uter-us]

radfem help !!

2 of my little cousins (14yrs and 15yrs) are both girls dating boys right now, and together we are coming up with a "dealbreaker list" of things they will never put up with from their bfs! and also we are including positives, like so they aren't just looking for the absence of bad things, but actual positive things

what do yall think are the most important things to add? (i put extra info in tags)

Thank you so much!!!

#I dont want it just to be “he doesn't hit me” as that's super important but they could end up with awful boys who don't hit them and still #mistreat them. there are certain vulnerabilities that make me worry the most for them. Ive been writing under the deal breakers like exampl #of how it would manifest like things they might say or how they might behave so that way in the moment there will hopefully not be as much #time spent questioning if it counts as a deal breaker. we want to do positives too so like I said in the post it's not just like "he doesn' #put me down“ but also ”he roots for me and encourages me and verbalizes it“. #they are 14/15 so I'm less focused on stuff related to like splitting domestic labor for example but I think a good translation could #be like “he spends as much time as I do planning dates” and “it's clear to me that he put a lot of thought into my birthday gift” or the li #anyway I know they are safer without dating boys (and for the record they both know I do not date men (and only one knows I am SSA) but #they ARE dating and it's much more practical and realistic to reduce harm here since they are doing it! #also this is obviously not the extent of my effort in making sure they are safe and well and not reliant on boys/men; #this list is just one small part!!! #thanks so so much! and if you don't know please share bc maybe someone else has advice! ty!!! #radfem #radical feminist safe #radblr #sex based oppression #mvawg #question tag

[ravenzeppeli]

Claimed

Chapter 26 - Stupid Pair of Jeans |Prosciutto x Reader Angst|

Warning: strong language, threats, physical abuse, spanking [detailed, brutal], nudity, blood. MA.

"You actually decided to wear this in public?" Prosciutto questioned as he entered your room without knocking, his face slightly red as he stared at your pants. "Why are you dressed improper? What's the matter with you?" He closed your bedroom door gently, locking it.

You looked over at him, raising your eyebrows. You were wearing a black T-shirt and skinny jeans. You saw no problems in what you are wearing. "What are you talking about? I'm wearing jeans and a T-shirt." What was his deal? After what happened between you and Prosciutto two days ago, you assumed he would be nicer to you. What was his deal? Risotto told you when you stayed with him yesterday that Prosciutto wasn't a mean man, that he was just too invested in his beliefs. His beliefs are ridiculous.

He shook his head, rushing over to you, grabbing your right wrist. "These jeans are tight. These fucking jeans are showing off your goddamn ass! I can tell your wearing thongs!"

You looked away, eyes widening. "Why would you point that out!? My underwear is not any of your concern!" You couldn't believe that he could tell that you were wearing thongs. Was it really that obvious? You were just wearing an old pair of jeans that you had.

"What the fuck did you just say to me?" He questioned, voice suddenly going dark. "You know what? I've been very lenient due to your fingers still healing but I've had enough. Wearing these pants in public was a stupid fucking decision, and you're in trouble." He pulled you over to your bed, forcing you to bend over, his hand violently crashing into your ass. "I've been wanting to beat your ass for a very long time, you had this fucking coming girl."

You froze, knowing that fighting back in this situation was foolish. "I didn't know the jeans were that tight! I just wore them because they're an old pair I found!" You felt a dull sting on your right cheek, face heating up. Was he really about to spank you over this? You were actually starting to like him. You actually thought underneath all of his anger was a good man, but in reality, he would never be a good man.

"Well, you'll never wear them again now!" He snapped as he grabbed the back of your pants, ripping the fabric in half, the fabric tearing down the middle, exposing your ass. "Fuck these pants! You don't wear skinny jeans! Wear normal pants only, your ass is too nice for you to be flaunting around in skinny jeans!" He yelled at you, his hand crashing into your left cheek as hard as he could, a loud smack sound filling the air. You felt a huge welt the size of his hand forming with one hit, hot tears suddenly spilling from your eyes as your right hand balled into a tight fist.

Fuck, you had no idea that Prosciutto was this strong. He's never hit you this hard before. All this over an outfit? You had a feeling that it was something deeper than the outfit, but you actually felt fear, you didn't want to piss him off further.

His hand crashed against your right cheek with much more severity, a welt in the shape of his handprint forming on your cheek cheek as well, causing you to bite down on your lip even further, blood filling your mouth as more tears poured from your eyes, clouding your vision. You weren't a pussy, you wouldn't beg him to stop or cry and beg. Fuck that.

Another hard smack landed across the middle of your ass, your body going stiff as you tried to stop yourself from shaking or crying out in pain. You knew that that's what he wanted. He wanted you to cry and beg like a weak and pathetic little girl, but you refused to give him the satisfaction. You couldn't. Despite how badly it hurt, you would take it. You didn't deserve it.. did you?

"Got nothing to fucking say for yourself?" He questioned, and you suddenly heard the unbuckle of his belt. "Apologize and promise me that you'll never wear skinny jeans again. You're lucky I'm allowing you to wear fucking thongs. Apologize and I'll stop."

You weren't weak, you weren't a fucking pussy that they could beat into submission. You weren't going to fucking back down, you were going to say something that you would more than likely end up immediately regretting. "Fuck you, I don't like you anymore," you snapped at him, your tone filled with thick aggression, your fear hiding behind the pain that you felt. "I'm sorry I ever thought you were a good man!"

You heard the swish of his belt, the thick leather immediately crashing into your ass in five swift motions, your head immediately burying into your bedsheets. You stayed completely frozen, body stiff, and your ass was on fire. Fuck.. you.. you fucking hated Prosciutto, but you knew that saying the word hate was a foolish decision. So.. you were done speaking to him. For good.

"Good man!? Good man!?" He screamed at you, his belt smacking into your untouched sit spots with three swift licks. You closed your eyes, beginning to bite down on your lip again, another smack hitting the center of your blistering sore ass before you heard the belt drop. "I am a great man to you! I said to never wear improper things in public, I said to dress appropriately because I don't want random men looking at you! Because I love and care about you! I am protecting you, and me spanking you is good for you!"

You stiffened as you felt his hand rub your left ass cheek, a low sigh escaping his lips. You gave him nothing but silence, the confession of him loving you after beating you only making you furious. You wanted him away from you, and you wanted to get the fuck out of here.

"Theirs some pain pills in the kitchen," he muttered, his fingers tracing against your damaged ass. "This is all your fault. If you just would have apologized, then you wouldn't have gotten punished so severely. I hate having to punish you so harshly."

You refused to speak to him, staying completely silent, his hand squeezing your left ass cheek suddenly, causing a small, pained moan to escape your lips before you bit harshly back down on your lip.

"Fine," he muttered, removing his hand from your bottom. "Don't speak to me now, that's fine. As long as you learned your lesson." You felt him pull your thongs down, taking them fully off of you. "I'll go get the pills." As soon as you heard him leave, you quickly shot up, grabbing a pair of underwear from your drawer.

You weren't safe here with him. He could hurt you worse if you say something wrong. You always say the wrong thing. You needed to get out of here. Running away would just cause problems, and you had no family or friends. You were even allowed to go too. You suddenly remembered a conversation you had with Formaggio a few days ago, remembering his promise to cover for you or have your back. All you wanted was somewhere safe to go, somewhere away from Prosciutto, and you needed to go to someone who wouldn't cause drama with Prosciutto or hand you over to him. Formaggio said he would have your back with whatever you needed so you would test that.

You yanked the underwear on, grabbing a pair of loose jeans as you ran over to your door, closing and locking the door. As you pulled on a pair of jeans and slipped on your shoes, you opened your window and climbed put. As soon as your feet hit the concrete floor, you ran as fast as you could, ignoring the stinging pain on your bottom.

-----

Yeah.. this might have been your most foolish idea, but you had limited options right now. You couldn't go to Risotto because he would automatically side with Prosciutto, and you had a feeling that Illuso would as well. Melone would want to beat the hell out of Prosciutto, and Pesci would be extremely upset. Ghiaccio would more than likely call Melone, so your only option was Formaggio.

All you needed was a place to stay away from Prosciutto. You tip-toed up Formaggio apartment stairs, not wanting to alarm Illuso and have him come out. You stood in front of his door, pulling out your key and unlocking his door. Slowly, you shoved the key into the hole, unlocking his apartment door and pushing in, immediately freezing when you saw both Formaggio and Illuso sitting on the couch, papers spread all over the coffee table.

"Hello," you said. In your defense, Formaggio gave you a key and said that his place was yours. And you didn't knock because you didn't want to trigger Illuso, but you saw that it didn't matter. He was already here. These two seemed to be pretty close. You wondered if they considered themselves as being close friends or simply just colleagues.

Formaggio grinned, looking over at you, his green eyes seeming to light up. "See, I told you Illuso, Y/N basically lives with me now. I got her to move in with me first." He paused, looking over at Illuso. "In your face."

Illuso looked you up and down, his eyes narrowing. "Who hurt you?" He questioned, causing Formaggio to stand up. "You seem different right now."

You shook your head, "it's nothing major. I just.. needed somewhere to possibly stay tonight." Your eyes landed on Formaggio. Should you tell them? You only came here because you had nowhere else to go. "And the next few nights." You had to hide this from Melone. What if he ends up hurting Prosciutto? You couldn't cause physical fights between the men. That wasn't right.

As you said that, Formaggios cell phone went off. You stepped forward, looking down at his phone on the coffee table to notice that it was Prosciutto calling him.

"What's that on the back of your pants?" Illuso questioned, voice dropping to a whisper as he poked the back of your left cheek. The sudden poke caused you to flinch, his hand immediately pulling away. He held his finger up, his finger stained with blood. "Formaggio.. answer the phone and make sure that Prosciutto doesn't fucking come over here. I have a feeling that he did something very fucking stupid that may cause me to break his nose."

#tw everything #tw abuse mention #tw abuse #tw verbal abuse #tw physical harm #tw physical violence #tw physical abuse #tw blood #tw mature #tw nude #tw spank #tw nudity #tw emotional abuse

[softgrungeprophet]

something something the frequency with which peter parker angrily wishes death upon people in his inner thoughts, a la "diebullseyediebullseyediebullseyediebullseye" (asm#596)

(he's pretending to be venom with a suit made of unstable molecules)

"Kill Johnny Storm! Dispose of the body!! Collect insurance!!!" (ff#17) etc...

this of course is only two (mostly) humorous examples but there are definitely more lmao

#and not counting verbal death threats (''ask me nicely.'' ''it takes three seconds.'' ''KILL YOU'' etc) #to be fair that last one is when he is deprived of his intelligence in non-stop and therefore loses his self-control #because... i mean mental awareness is kind of a key factor to that very strict self control he holds so tightly at all times #but it isn't like a threat conjured from nowhere it's just a threat that means he is no longer holding back #nadia reads comics #and of course not including the times he has actually been responsible for someone's death or grievous bodily harm... #i'm pretty sure breaking someone's arm in half while they're swimming in a body of water counts as intent to kill tbqh #but there are more direct examples... wolverine's friend... asm annual no.5... that guy he strangled and then frightened to death... #my little me—no i can't call him that it's too wooby #my handsome manslaughterer #did tumblr remove... underlining...

[nevarroes]

Me AGAIN. But your recent art (it's beautiful) got me thinking. I'm worried for his heart. Do you think he's already replaced it with one of his own inventions? Karlach's was a prototype and it sort of makes sense that he'd create one for himself, right? Or is Cas just keeping him alive on potions? Which I can also see, as it'd give Cas more control.

thank you first of all💜

hmm to me it's like this, Gortash COULD replace it potentially I'm sure but he'd most likely have to go back to the hells 4 it, either to have it installed (probably some infernal magic shit involved imo also he can't exactly do surgery on his own heart) or to get the means to make a high functional heart like that. I assume Karlach's was a prototype yeah but moreso for his inventions and not meant as a... actual person thing in the long run. So the issue is that Cas doesn't exactly want him to go to the Nine Hells, considering that Cas is sooo fucking hunted by Mephistopheles who still holds a grudge against him (especially since Cas can't shut up and sometimes sends assassins back with a little errr.... message to him), nd people know about him and Gortash's little conquering adventures on the mortal realm too so it's quite likely that, if Gortash attempts to make another deal, he'll just get fucked over and sold out to Mephistopheles so he can get his hands back on Cas😖

So with that in mind, he hasn't replaced it, no. I don't see Gortash as like... insanely unhealthy just because I think his body can endure a lot so it's less "keeping him alive" and more "keeping him from getting worse" but yeah to me it's mostly potions and just them accepting it. I suppose you can argue that normal health potions would do the trick but I like to think that Cas has them made very specifically just because he has the means and access to infernal magic and ingredients still. It's some form of control, sure, but less in the "if you don't do what I want you to I'll make you worse" way and more in the "give your body to me and I promise I'll take care of you" type of way, if that makes sense

#blakemail #gortcas lore #health play #a little bit I suppose #health mention #smth to be said abt that fact that Cas very much wouldnt let him die or get majorly harmed of this #and he does have the means for it #its smth he very much verbally promised too #it plays a lot into the “eternal suffering over murder” torture thing cas has going on so u could see it as cruel in itself #but he still very much does this out of love

[ask-the-becile-boys]

Fic: Dee (crosspost)

Word Count: 3980

CW: Self Harm, Emotional/Verbal/Psychological Abuse

Summary: Thadeus attempts to revive Delilah and fails. Hare adopts the abandoned creation– a reclusive, angry mannequin– as his sister, Dee. (Originally intended to bring people up to speed with Dee’s character, now serves to provide some more detail and context to her backstory.)

-H-

A few months after Jack’s accident, Pops began working on something in the attic. He carried the scant supplies up the stairs himself, as opposed to having The Skull do the labor. Hare could hear Pops talking as he worked, the words muffled through the floorboards; one time he even heard Pops singing, and it sent a too-human chill down his metal spine. Nothing that made Pops that happy could spell good news.

-D-

There was light, and there was shadow. A shadow, thrown over her, a body outlined by a white circle glowing behind them, too bright, too bright. Everything felt wrong. This wasn’t her body. This wasn’t a body.

“Delilah?” the shadow asked, voice deep, curious, plaintive, demanding.

She might’ve been Delilah. A Delilah, at least, or something like that. She was unsure how she was moving when there was no feeling of flesh in her arms, no air in her chest.

The shadow stepped forward and she saw it was a haggard man with ugly metal gauntlets. “Do you recognize me?” he asked.

“Where am I?” she asked, ignoring his question. “What’s happened to  me?”

She held out her hands to look at them. Cloth, stitches between the joints, shaking. The man enfolded her hands in his own, trapping her in place.

“You’re alive, again,” he said. “It’s been--”

“I was dead?” she asked. “Dead? No. No!”

“Calm, dearest Delilah,” the man said. “It is all going to be alright.”

She knew a lie when she heard it, and she bowed her head over their hands and sobbed, fear afresh for her lack of tears.

-H-

Hare stood at the foot of the attic stairs and listened to the woman crying. Horror kept his limbs frozen while his thoughts raced. When had she gotten here? How had Pops slipped her past all of them? He barely stirred when The Skull’s heavy footsteps sounded next to him.

“What are you doing?” The Skull said, his words more warning than question.

Hare didn’t respond. There was no way The Skull couldn’t hear her. The first step creaked dangerously under Hare’s foot as he began to climb.

The Skull seized Hare’s arm just above a long tear in the sleeve made by The Jack’s teeth. “Don’t,” he said, voice low. “We should learn more first.”

“Learn more about what?” Hare asked, good eye staring wide at The Skull. “He’s got a girl up there. We’ve gotta get her out!”

“And then what? He dismantles you for interfering?” The Skull’s grip tightened. “No. Leave it alone, for now--”

Hare swung, they scuffled, and Hare hit the ground, making it shake. He scrambled up and went careening down the hallway, seething, plotting, dripping oil.

-D-

It was the third night. Heavy footsteps, unlike the first man’s, were coming up the stairs. She tried to stay still as the door opened, keeping her back to this newcomer, but her fingers continued to pick at her not-flesh through her sleeves. She’d been given a white dress to wear, long and old, dust in the seams, and a wig to cover her head, hide her glass eyes.

“Psst!” the newcomer hissed in a raspy voice at her back. “Hey, lady! I’m going to get you out of here!”

She did not turn, afraid to show them what sort of thing she was. But an ungiving hand, clad in a red glove, took hold of her elbow, and she looked at them and screamed. Shark-like teeth tore their way up left side of their metal mask, up to a glowing green cat’s eye, and there was no eye where the right one should be, just an oily void, and there was no face under that mask, was there?

“Get away from me,” she keened, her voice rising to a dizzying screech. “Get away!”

The metal monster stumbled back, shooting a look at the stairs. It may have been speaking, but she could hear nothing over her own terror, the howl tearing out of her body. A real body would run out of air, force her to breath, but she had no real body, she was as much a monster as the metal thing that now ran from her.

The first man, Thadeus, appeared a few minutes later. There was a splatter of dark oil on his gauntlets.

“That was Hare, my dear, only Hare,” he said. “A creation of mine that can’t help but cause trouble. Do not fret, Delilah. I’ve made it very clear he is not to bother you again.”

-H-

Like hell was Hare going to give up that easily. So the woman wasn’t a woman, per se; that didn’t make her crying any less real. If she was the product of Pops’ hands, for whatever twisted reason-- well, so was he. That made her his sister, as far as he was concerned.

The Jack wasn’t getting any better, but he was stabilizing into a new normal. Hare still had to spend a lot of time watching out for him, making sure his confusion didn’t lead to destruction. But whenever he saw Pops headed for the attic, Hare would set everything aside to crouch at the steps below, straining to listen. Most of the time he couldn’t hear more than their tones of voice-- Pops, uncharacteristically beguiling, and Hare’s sister, distressed, and growing quieter each day.

-D-

Thadeus would come by every day for a few hours and talk to her, bringing old photo albums and palm-sized paintings for her to look at as he tried to jog her memory. Sometimes he would read off from dense research papers, studies on chemical interactions that she found completely abstruse. There were boxes of women’s clothing--none of her (her?) old belongings, he explained with obvious regret, but things of her style, garments that might make her feel more like her old self.

Nothing helped. She could remember nothing of this Cavalcadium, or of a younger Thadeus, or of science. There was only a vagueness of feeling where her memories should be, dream visions: wet, swampy fields; ticks and chiggers; brushing a child’s hair; tin-sided houses; the sunset sparkling in lines on water.

The manor below was scarcely quiet; a madman lived down there, who would laugh broken screams, and another two whose arguments sometimes carried on right below her, bellowing insults in rough voices. All three were ‘creations’ of Thadeus’s work, including the so-called Hare. But Thadeus acknowledged them rarely, with open disdain.

“Only one is useful,” Thadeus said. “I keep the other two so as to keep him placated. Perhaps one day, when you are better,” he said, like it was a forgone conclusion. “Your presence will be enough emotional support for The Skull. You were always kind.”

She didn’t feel kind. It took all of her strength not to scream at Thadeus for fear of what he’d do in return. Would he destroy her? Find some way to make this mannequin’s body feel pain? Dangerous men could not be trusted.

The last of Thadeus’s visits wasn’t special. It was quiet. He was speaking about something, and she was barely listening, letting him hold her hand. A passing remark snagged on the trace of a memory.

“She has a young child, now,” Thadeus was saying. “At a particularly troublesome age.”

The words tumbled out of her mouth before she could think to stop them. “All the ages are troublesome. My daughter would cry--”

Thadeus’s grip became vice-like for a moment, then slowly pulled away. “… Your daughter?”

Had she a daughter? Yes. She nodded.

“Delilah Morreo had no children,” Thadeus said. He left, then, and she never saw him again, not in the flesh. In the dark of night, when she wasn’t in the half-awareness she now called sleep, his silhouette lingered in the shadows. In the day she would stare at the stairs door and wait, and wait, and wait for him to open it.

How dare he.

How dare he.

-H-

Pops forbade any more talk of the lady in the attic. “A waste of resources,” he had muttered bitterly, making Hare’s oil prickle like battery acid, nearly launching himself at his creator in a fury if not for The Skull hovering nearby. Instead he stalked through the manor, ignoring The Jack when he called to him, and stormed up the steps. But with every stair ledge his self-consciousness grew, until he came to the door and stood silently before it, anxiety gnawing.

Pops didn’t even give her a name. Of course he hadn’t-- he hadn’t given The Skull his, either, and he hadn’t thought he was some reincarnation.

But Hare had one. And it was time he properly introduced himself.

-D-

When the door finally opened again, it wasn’t Thadeus, but the metal monster she’d seen on her third night. Reflexively, she froze, then threw a mug Thadeus had left behind at his head.

“Get out!” she screamed. “Leave me alone!”

The monster ducked back out and the mug shattered against the wall next to the door. Damn him, damn him! She wanted nothing to do with monsters, even if she herself was monstrous. She wanted nothing to do with danger, so there would be no more silence around dangerous men, no more waiting for the disasters that followed mistakes. If this attic was her only safety, she would defend it.

She would hold her ground, even if she didn’t deserve it.

She groaned, looking down at her inhumanity. It was a constant reminder that she was wrong, that her existence was abhorrent to nature. Her hands felt no sensation, but her soul ached. Damn Thadeus. Damn his ugly creations. Damn herself.

She finally picked a small tear in the cloth of herself, in the torso, and the material tore in a satisfying, grating rip.

-H-

Hare stared, standing halfway through the attic door. He’d given her some time to cool down, and now bunches of stuffing were scattered on the rug, and his sister was laid out with her side torn open.

“Oh, hell,” Hare whispered. “Oh, hell, what did you do?”

He went to her and gently shook her shoulder. Nothing. Was she dead? There was nothing in the stuffing that indicated a power source, no tell-tale glow from within the open cavity.  Hare began to tear apart the room and found a sewing kit in one of the boxes.

He hesitated. He knew he shouldn’t touch her while she wasn’t responsive-- but she might continue ripping herself apart if he waited, and this, this amount of tearing, surely if he could pick a lock he could use a little needle?

Easier said than done, but he tried his damnedest. It was an ugly job at the end, but it held the stuffing in and it didn’t unravel when he tugged at it. And just in time; Hare looked up from the stitches to meet his sister’s furious eyes, and she slapped him. Her hand bounced off his face harmlessly, and they scowled at each other for a silent moment.

“I told you to leave me alone,” she said imperiously.

“I was never very good with directions,” Hare replied dryly. He leaned back from where he was kneeling, giving her a little space, but otherwise held his ground. “So. You’re not Delilah, but I gotta call you something.”

“I have a name,” she spat.

“Yeah? What?”

“It wasn’t,” she said, faltering. “It wasn’t not ‘Delilah,’ it was… something with a ‘D,’” she muttered, looking away.

Hare thought for a moment. “With a ‘D,’ eh? How’s just ‘Dee’ sound? You like that?”

She shrugged. “Fine. It’ll do.”

When Hare left, he closed the attic door behind him and paused, looking at it. He took off his glove and laid two bare claws against the wood, and he gouged it with straight lines, down, down-right, down-left. ‘D’.

“It’ll do,” he said quietly.

-D-

There was scarce to do in the attic, and Dee’s conversations with Hare often ended in awkward silence for lack of things to discuss, and the discomfort made her irritable. Hare soon learned to leave early, and that left hours upon hours in the day alone.

She tossed the things Thadeus had brought her out the bigger of the two windows; she spied a tall figure, one she often saw tending the grounds, retrieving the items from the bushes. She looked through the boxes and found a few things: embroidery kits that held no interest; empty journals that she sketched birds and bugs in; old novels, dense in the style of those decades.

Mostly, she slept. She could sleep for days, aware enough to notice the shifting of the sun and moon or Hare sticking his head in to check on her, yet detached enough that the time passed quickly, her foggy memories creating landscapes that she could walk (walk!) through.

One day she came back to herself to find Hare thumbing through one of the novels she’d left out.

“You like these?” Hare asked, glancing up from the dust-yellow pages.

“They’re too hard to read,” Dee grumbled.

“Yeah?” Hare said.

He brought her some new books after that, pulp fiction he’d grabbed by the handful, and colored pencils for her journals, and boxes of puzzles, and crosswords and comics. He lugged up a radio one day and a record player another, and fed wires down through the floor for power.

She tried to summon thankfulness. But there was so much rage curdled in her chest that her words came out viperous, that she’d smash the records or tear the pages from the books. She didn’t want to be here. She didn’t want to exist. She was lonely. She had hatred in her and Hare was her only witness.

Sometimes, on the bad days, her fingers would still make their way to her seams. Hare would huff and grumble, but he didn’t lecture. And with the passing of years, his stitching improved, the threads holding tighter despite the fraying of her cloth edges.

-H-

Pops died.

Hare went up to the attic after the burial, dirt and grass still sticking to his gloves. Dee was laying on her back, staring at the ceiling. Her fingers played thoughtfully over her lips.

“I felt him die,” she said, speaking before Hare could even try to explain.

“That’s... great, Dee.”

“I’m glad.”

Hare didn’t know what to say to that. He wanted to scream and cry and laugh and pick Dee up and carry her outside so she could see everything she’d been missing.

But he couldn’t touch her; he was filthy. So he left her to lay in the sun, and he grieved alone.

-D-

Dee was curious; how had she felt Thadeus die? In her dreams she often walked around the attic, and sometimes when she looked down at herself she was a human, a barefooted woman in overalls. She’d even had dreams where Hare was human, a scarred, olive-skinned man.

She wondered…

It took effort, like steering a ship liable to capsize. But Dee had long mastered falling asleep at her own volition, and she had nothing if not time to practice. She focused on her dream self, tried to stay in the attic and ignore the lure of the memory-landscapes. She could feel the wood under her feet in a muddled sort of way as she walked from one end of the room to the other, but did not feel the warmth of the sun. Perhaps there was not enough substance to sunlight to feel in this state.

But she never, never went through the door to the stairs, not even as a walking ghost. What if she didn’t make it back? What if the vile tether keeping her and her body together snapped when she got too far away? What if the manor below was even more nightmarish than she imagined?

-H-

They had a new engineer, a reedy scrapper son-of-a-bitch named Riker Szarka. Hare hemmed and hawed over the decision to bring him up to see Dee. He settled on the decision when he noticed Dee’s arm bending a little funny at the elbow.

“I think her frame is bent,” Hare said to Szarka as he led him to the attic. “Should be an easy fix, but I don’t know nothing about fixing metal and joints.”

Hare glanced inside, waiting a few moments to see that Dee was asleep on the couch before steeping in. Szarka followed, then froze.

“That’s not a robot,” Szarka said, seemingly more disturbed than confused.

“Close enough, right?” Hare said. He grabbed the seam ripper from the sewing kit and gently took Dee’s arm.

Szarka hesitated before stepping closer. He leaned down-- and Dee’s arm tore out of Hare’s grip, her hands clawing at Szarka’s face and neck.

“Don’t touch me!” Dee screeched. Szarka fell backward on his ass, luckily out of strangling range, his cigarette falling to the rug. “Get out, get out!”

Szarka obliged her, scrambling to his feet and bolting from the room, leaving the door open behind him.

“How dare you,” Dee sobbed, seething at Hare. “You brought that man here to--”

“Your arm, Dee--”

“--Damn the arm--”

“--I just wanted--”

“--I don’t care what you want--”

“--Stuck up here, and I can’t fix it--”

“--I hate you, I hate you all--”

“--It’s like you want to fall to pieces--”

“--Let me, then, I don’t care if I--”

“WELL I DO!”

Hare and Dee glared at each other.

“I give a shit, Dee,” Hare said, brow low, a drop of oil gathering at the rim of his broken eye. “I want you to be okay.”

“Why?” Dee asked, voice flat. “Why would a monster like you care about a monster like me?”

“Damn needing a reason,” Hare said. “I chose to. Every day, I choose to. Because the day I stop caring about you, and Jacky, and Skull, that’s the day I can’t keep going no more. It’s an ugly world out there, sister. Caring’s all we got. And you got me in your corner even if you wish you didn’t. So suck it up.”

Dee paused. Her lip twitched a few times, then she began to smile nastily. “Your friend looked like he pissed himself. Not very brave, is he?”

“You should’a seen him when he met Jacky,” Hare said. “But he ain’t run away yet.”

“Not very smart, then, either.”

“You can be real mean, you know that?” Hare shook his head. “You gonna let me look at your arm or not?”

Dee thought. “Fine,” she said. “But I will take out the seams.”

Hare narrowed his eye. He held up the seam ripper. “Do it the right way.”

A moment passed, then Dee held out her open palm.

-D-

Another day. Another sunrise, another herd of clouds crossing the sky.

“You reading The Lord of the Rings again?” Hare asked.

“Yes,” Dee said, not looking up.

Another day. Eventually there would be no more. But for now there was pattern and routine and her favorite books and dreams.

“Beautiful day out. You wanna come down and we’ll have a picnic?”

“Go to hell.”

“Love you too, Dee.”

-Bonus-

Dee was settled on the couch that day, with her stand crooked out in front of her. Hare’s eye dropped to the old, white dress in her lap—the same one she’d been wearing when he’d first seen her. Surprisingly, it seemed to still be in one piece. He approached her slowly, wary of her quiet mood.

“What’cha doing, Dee? You, uh… wanna put that on?”

“… No.” Dee lifted her head and frowned at him, continuing the play with fabric in her hands. “I just… I thought I felt cold, for a moment. And the dresses he gave me are the only clothes I have.”

Hare stared at her blankly. Clothes. He had never thought to bring her up any clothes. “You, uh… never said you wanted any.”

“It doesn’t matter,” she muttered, pushing the dress off her lap and onto the ground. “I can’t feel if I’m wearing them or not. And a monster has nothing to hide.”

But Hare watched her frown and stare into the distance. “You know what,” he said. “I got an idea. I’ll be back.”

He rapidly descended the steps and began sleuthing through the manor, looking for The Skull. He found him reading the newspaper in a sitting room. “Hey, Skully.”

The Skull ignored him.

“Oi, bones-for-brains, I’m talking to you.”

“What is it.” The Skull didn’t look up from his newspaper, but his grip on it tightened in annoyance.

“I need a sweater. You got one?”

“Two hundred dollars.”

Hare sputtered. “Are you freaking kidding me? Two hundred for a lousy sweater?”

“That’s what my time is worth. You want something cheap, go to Wal-Mart.”

“You crank these things out every time you sit down like it was nothing. You ain’t got one just lying around?”

“No, not that’ll fit you or will breath proper for your furnace. And it’ll need to be black to hide the soot stains.”

“It ain’t for me, numbskull!” Hare shifted uncomfortably, glancing away. “It’s for Dee. She’s cold.”

Slowly, The Skull lowered the newspaper and shifted a calculating gaze onto Hare. “… Cold, huh?”

“That’s what she said.”

The moment stretched, the silence scratching at the inside of Hare’s head. Just as he was about to hiss another sharp remark, The Skull finally spoke up. “That upstairs closet by my room’s got a box of them in it. Ain’t nobody else in this house gonna wear ‘em. She can have those.”

Hare, shocked, started to speak a few times, but choked them down, unsure of what to say. Finally he decided on a simple OK gesture, and, turning from the room, left.

As The Skull returned to his newspaper, Hare’s head popped back around the door frame.

“You lied right to my face ‘bout there not being any lying ‘round.”

“Yup.”

“Jackass.”

Hare found the box easily enough. Huffing smoke, he maneuvered the overflowing box up the stairs to the attic and dropped it at Dee’s wheels. “Here, take a look at these!” He said with a grin. “Hand-stitched by our good ole buddy Skull. He, uh. Sends his regards.”

“Does he?” Dee mumbled, leaning over and sinking her hands into the pile. “That’s polite, for a monster.” Hare let the comment slide, watching as she cautiously sorted. Eventually, she pulled one loose—gray with a dark picture patterned on the front. She looked at it for a moment before pulling it over her head.

“So,” Hare said as Dee smoothed out the wrinkles and readjusted her wig. “What do you think? Feel any better?”

“… I don’t feel anything,” she said. Hare started to deflate, but then she pulled the front of the sweater taut and looked down at the picture. “What is this?”

Hare squinted at the three figures on the sweater, then laughed. “Those are elephants. In the circus, they line up and hold onto each other’s tails with their trunks. So you got mama,” he pointed to the largest elephant, then down the line. “Sister, and baby. It’s cute, ain’t it?”

“They look like that thing in the backyard,” Dee said, looking toward the larger of the circular windows. “But rounder.”

“… Yeah, that one’s metal.” Hare’s voice took on a strange, unusually soft quality. “A metal elephant, same as I’m a metal person.”

“… I see.” Dee paused for a minute, then wrapped her arms around herself. “I think I like this one.”

“Yeah? Well, I’ll have to tell Skull he’s done the impossible.”

But he didn’t need to. At the foot of the stairs to the attic, The Skull was already listening. He glanced up the stairs thoughtfully, then nodded. That was good enough. And he walked away, leaving the soft sounds of Hare and Dee’s conversation behind.

#becile bots #steam powered giraffe #steam powered giraffe fanfiction #thadeus becile #dee becile #hare becile #fanfiction #canon fic #dee #self harm tw #abuse tw #emotional abuse tw #verbal abuse tw

[samijami]

Whenever one bruise fades, my mum throws her phone at me very hard and bruises it right back a-fucking-gain on the same spot

I love life

#tw abuse #tw implied abuse #tw child abuse #tw child harm #tw childhood trauma #abuse mention #parental abuse #verbal abuse #emotional abuse #tw emotional abuse #abuse cw #fuck parents #neglectful parents #insane parents #fuck my parents #abusiveness #physical abuse #tw harm

[inkblot22]

Spirit Crusher: Riddle

Okay, forgive me but I just wanted to write some good old gory death junk. This is heavily inspired by this post. This user has since changed blogs, please go follow them @lacrimariums (If you want me to untag you, please let me know.) That being said, please pay attention to the trigger list, which will be larger than usual, because this one is not a light post at all.

TW for reader death, murder, physical abuse, verbal abuse, captivity, confinement, descriptions of pain, descriptions of violence, descriptions of gore, abusive relationship dynamics, yandere, misuse of unique magic, enabling behavior if you squint. DEAD DOVE, DO NOT EAT.

Like any other day, you wait. Riddle is fond of your patience, fonder still of your eyes lighting up once you see him. 

You've only seen him and fleeting glimpses of Trey since… Since the two of you began your courtship. You smile at the ghosts of your memories, the vague image of you and Riddle in the rose garden, in the maze, having tea.

Riddle smacking you upside the head with his canestaff in a fit of rage.

You shut your eyes and turn to look at the door as he enters. Your smile returns and you stand up, crossing the room to greet him.

"Good afternoon, housewarden."

"Yes, hello, beloved. I trust you've done what I asked of you?"

It was simple chores, organizing his closet by color and function, things such as that, so you nodded, "Of course I did. Um… Riddle-"

"You should run us a bath." He doesn't do that often, cutting into your words like that.

You nodded and tried again, "Yes, sir. But, Riddle, do you think we can go out to the garden later? I'm going crazy, cooped up in here."

His eyes narrowed on you for a moment, but he turned away, looking into his closet to inspect your organization. "Why are you still standing there? Go do what I told you to."

You swallowed and ducked your head, walking into the bathroom and turning on the water. You watch until it reaches the small scratch you discreetly placed there to measure how high the water can be before Riddle gets irritated.

The one and only time you got it wrong, he made you scrub the bathroom, ceiling to floor, with a soft-bristled toothbrush, all while wearing one of those magic collars. You felt so weak afterwards, as though it were sapping your body of life…

You turned off the water, stepping towards the doorway of the bathroom, "Riddle? What bath salts do you want today?"

Riddle was seated at his desk, looking over his assignments. He waved an uncaring hand at you, "You can choose this time."

That's never a good sign. Riddle does not enjoy your autonomy. You took a stumbling step backwards and he flicked his eyes towards you, then turned back to his work. 

The bath salts and bombs and flakes were organized by date acquired, appropriate usage, and quantity. You loved the smell of the bright red, cherry sized bath bombs, since it reminded you of going to the garden, so you picked up two of them and turned, fingertips peeling uselessly at the plastic.

"No, not those. It's a Tuesday." Riddle's voice was cold.

"I-is it?" He had that irritated look in his eyes. That wasn't a good sign. "I'm sorry, I entirely forgot. It reminds me of the garden, so-"

"You need to release this silly garden nonsense. We are not going out today."

"Please, Riddle, I haven't seen the rosebushes in so long, and I'm going insane in here."

You could see the flush of anger, starting in his cheeks and spreading outwards, "Are you implying that my company is not enough?"

This is how it always started. Your fingers shook and you fumbled one of the bath bombs, "N-not at all! I… I just wanted to spend time with y-you outside."

His eyes shut, then opened to pin you with a glare.

You dropped the other bath bomb, lips opening and closing before you tried again, "I… I've been very good. You said it yourself, this morning, that I'm doing a good job. And I never… Never ask for anything, really, so-"

You only heard the whistle of the wind between the fingers of his gloved hand before you were sprawled out. Riddle was not a large person, not in the least, but you weren't expecting him to hit you just yet. You clutched your cheek and looked up at him.

"I didn't know you were so arrogant. Just because I compliment your performance does not mean you are entitled to privileges. I will not allow this… This insubordination! I refuse to allow you to continue speaking to me as though we are equals!"

His face burned crimson, a prominent vein in his forehead standing out. You scooted backwards on the bathroom tile.

Riddle knelt, getting in your face, "I deigned to raise you up to my level, and yet you continue to break rules and-"

"I don't even know half of the rules!" You shouted, "I'm just trying to make you happy!"

Riddle jerked back as though you had struck him, then stood, hands clutching at his canestaff until he pointed at you and screamed the last words you wanted to hear him say today.

"Off with your head!" 

It always felt suffocating. Like you were trapped underwater with a felled powerline and covered in acupuncture that you did while drunk at 3am. You wailed, shock and pain turning to fury. You do not necessarily have an eager temper like Riddle does. You do get angry when it makes sense.

“What did I do to deserve this?” Your shout has a snarling edge to it, and Riddle looks taken aback.

“I figured you were smarter than that. Have I really chosen such an incompetent partner?”

“Fuck you! I didn’t even want to be your partner at first!”

You hear the sharp intake of breath, see the way he stiffens, and you see his grip tighten on his canestaff. Then it comes down on your head. You’re already down, so it just makes you try to protect where he hit you, right in the soft spot on your temple. Riddle has struck you with his canestaff before. He has always stopped as soon as he breaks or bruises skin, but this time he doesn’t stop.

Over and over, the canestaff cracks into your skull and fingers until you’re in too much pain to keep your hands over your head and in too much pain to stay fully conscious.

“How dare you?!” He screams at you, raising it once more, “I love you!”

You slip in your own blood while trying to get up and do not try again. When you speak, it sounds like you’ve just been unearthed, like your corpse is bloated and you’re speaking through mud, “You love the idea of me.”

It’s only after you pass out that Riddle registers what you said. He’s under the impression that you’ll wake up and patch yourself up. Like you usually do.

You don’t wake up. He finds you in the same place after dinner, when he brings in your plate. You’re not in his main room, so he assumes you’re pouting, which you hardly ever do, ~not since he “trained” that nasty habit out of you.~

Riddle only registers what he’s done when he sees the mess that the bathroom is in. He only realizes how big of a mistake that he’s made when he sees the red puddle that has been spreading from your temple, your skull cracked open and brain exposed, not moving like it should be.

Riddle doesn’t bother calling to see if you’re still alive. He doesn’t kneel and shake your shoulder, he doesn’t demand that you get up. He simply casts a glance at his canestaff and notices the gore dripping off of the top, screams at the top of his lungs, and vomits.

He’s got such wonderful friends. He really does. As soon as Trey hears the shriek, he comes running, assuring the other guys that he can handle whatever happened.

He can’t. Riddle is inconsolable, and you are dead. No matter how mature anyone is, no one is prepared to handle the murder of a close friend at the hands of their supposed lover.

#twisted wonderland #disney twst #tw: dark content #tw: dark themes #tw: yandere #tw captivity #yandere #twst #tw reader death #tw death mention #tw death #tw dead body #tw dead mention #tw physical abuse #tw physical violence #tw physical harm #tw physical assault #tw verbal abuse #tw murder #tw violence #tw injury #tw blo0d #tw abusive relationship #tw emotional abuse #tw enabling behavior #dead dove fic #dead dove do not eat

[cyberphuck]

So, about the story of how I met my dad and why I love him so much

@qthewhatever asked me to talk about my dad, how he became my dad, and our relationship. I thought this was going to be a fun jaunt through good memories, with maybe a few grateful tears along the way. But the story of why my dad is so special to me can't be told without the context of why my mother *isn't* special to me, and the stark difference between how he treats me, and how I was treated by her. The cliff's notes version (do they even have those anymore?): Dad became my dad kind of by accident, when Seb and I started "pretending" to be siblings in order to be able to rent a room together. Dad is Seb's dad, so it follows that since I'm Seb's sibling, Dad is my dad too. Then he just... fell into the role, because dads gotta dad. He is always proud of me, no matter what, and no matter how badly I fuck something up he could never, ever stop loving me. He cares about me and doesn't get annoyed by the ups and downs of my moods. He lets me cry when I need to. He lets me take a break when I need to. He loves me, *really* loves me, so totally and completely that even though we look absolutely nothing alike, no one who has ever seen us together doubts that he's raised me from birth. That's not what it was like with my mom. I only got so far through recounting her decades of abuse before I found that I couldn't do it anymore. I'm still going to post what I have, because I think other people should read it and maybe become comfortable talking about their abuse *as* abuse and not "I'm sure I was doing something wrong somehow, and it was my fault they were always so angry at me." Also, I spent a long time working on it. This is not a happy story. trigger warnings: child abuse, emotional abuse, verbal abuse, mental illness, mentions of suicide, mentions of self harm, mentions of various serial killers, mentions of psychiatric hospitals, autism portrayed in a negative tone, fatphobia, and brief mentions of drugs and drug use. (this story is also not complete; it stops when I'm around 27, but I added an epilogue.)

My family had been in various financial situations throughout my childhood, but I was raised upper middle class, which was the same tax bracket that my mom had been raised in. My biodad, Ichiro (Dave) left when I was three, and I saw him once ten years later and then never again. So mom raised my older brother Nick and I by herself (except for a 3 year stint with Chris the Coke Addict Who's Dead Now) up until I was thirteen.

I'll admit I was not an easy kid to raise. I was (and still am) weird and awkward and autistic and prone to oversharing with strangers as well as long crying spells over seemingly low-importance things. Nick was also sensitive and somewhere on the spectrum, but it was me who was the loud one, the hyper one, the one who people politely said was a "late bloomer" and "marched to the beat of their own drummer" (at one point my mom told me I was "marching backwards.") I refused or forgot to eat so often that at six I became malnourished enough to warrant a visit by CPS. I was always being called into the principal's office for doing weird shit at school, like making potions out of shampoo and throwing them at passing cars or lion-roaring at boys I didn't like or whatever. When I got sick, I got VERY sick, like the time I straight up got Scarlet Fever and almost died, or the time I had a fever so high I started convulsing, or the lots of times that I had to do fasting blood draws every month because I had a very low red blood cell count and no one could figure out why.

Bottom line I was very weird. Mom was weird too, my grandparents were weird, but they knew how to "show" in public. I didn't. Nick's nickname for me was "The Spaz." Worse, I constantly craved attention and had absolutely no concept of Stranger Danger (I still kind of don't), and the year I was born, Richard Ramirez was active and killing in Southern California where my mom and Dave lived. In 1992, Jeffrey Dahmer was arrested and his apartment full of chunks of Milwaukee's queer community was broadcasted all over the news. In 1978, when my mom was a young woman, Mary Vincent was attacked by a man who picked her up while hitchhiking. He assaulted her and then attacked her with a hatchet, cutting both her arms off above the elbow. She has hooks for hands now. 

To keep me by her side and not wandering around out in the open, mom told me about all this. Everything-- that Dahmer was killing and eating people, that Ramirez tortured and murdered people, and how Mary Vincent had asked a strange man for a ride and now she had no arms. There's a scene in the beginning of *A Time to Kill* by John Grisham where a young black girl is being raped and tortured by two white men. It's a page or two long, but very graphic, and when I was eight my mom sat me down and made me read it to show me what could happen to me if I went anywhere alone.

At the time, we lived in Lausanne, Switzerland, which is not exactly a hotbed of violent crime.

All that aside, I was a cute kid and a good-looking teenager. I was adorably freckly with never-neat red hair, and then grew into a curvy teen with long red hair and wore cute clothes. Mom bragged to people that I was an author and an artist, and she would often tell me that she loved how 'cool' I was. (cool, in this sense, meant wearing the clothes she bought me and not styling my hair in any way she found ugly. She often pointed out ugly people on TV or on the street, and say something like 'I'm glad YOU don't dress like that.') 

I was smart-- I didn't get good grades because I could never get around to doing my homework, but I scored high on tests and most teachers liked me. I wasn't one of the popular kids, but I was always the leader of whatever little gang I was in, deciding where we went and what we did, and mom loved that, too. And she really, *really* wanted me to go into medicine.

Junior and senior year was where it all started to fall apart. 

Mom's husband is a veteran with severe PTSD. 2001 - 2005 were the worst years with him; he was overbearing at the best of times and the fact that he was a boomer from Brooklyn and I was a millenial from LA really didn't help us see eye to eye. But he had a hair trigger and would back me against a wall to loom over you  and scream in your face. Nick, who was taller and angrier than me, would scream back. Once, Nick was sent to the store for parmesan cheese and came home with the powder kind in the green can instead of the tub of the fancy grated cheese, and the resulting shouting match almost ended in a fist fight.

My depression started getting really bad when I was 17. By 18, I started self-harming, and for the first time had the thought that if I died, if I was gone and were nothing, everything would be better. I also had my first hospitalization.

I'm at 21 inpatient psychiatric stays now.

Worse, I was an adult now and had not transferred gracefully from high school to college (to go into medicine, nothing else was enough for her). I didn't even have a graduation-- I tested out of school in early 2003 and the only pomp and circumstance I got was a half-sheet of paper with 'CALIFORNIA HIGH SCHOOL PROFICIENCY EXAMINATION' printed on it. I had gained a lot of weight, partly due to meds and partly from depression and post-school downtime. She told me my hair looked like a rat's nest and once remarked to her husband, 'look at the size of her!' I no longer wore cute clothes and was not actively trying to turn my art or writing into a profitable career. 

Mom and her husband told me that I absolutely had to go back to school again, or they'd kick me out. The closest community college was two counties away (counties in California are really big). They told me they'd only take me to the nearest bus stop (still an hours' drive) and then I'd have to take a three-hour bus ride to the campus. The absolute earliest bus left at six am, which meant that I could only take classes starting at 10 am, and then had to leave by 2 pm to take the bus back home (the return bus did go all the way back to my area, but didn't run as often). 

They treated my trek back and forth to campus every day not with pride or pity, but contempt, as in "this is what you get for not succeeding." I had two more hospital stays.

After a particularly bad episode with mom's husband where he tried to force his way through a door and I had to climb out a window to get to neighbor's house and call 911, I moved out to stay with Nick, who had left about a year earlier. I was determined to be an adult and build a life for myself, but my depression and self-harming got steadily worse, and though I had several jobs and tried to go to college, every few months I'd do some serious damage to myself and end up back in the psych ward, pushing all my plans back to zero.

Nick moved in with his girlfriend, leaving me to shoulder the rent on our room on my own. I managed for about six months, but I couldn't stay at any job for long. I went to live with Skittle, where my depression took such a nosedive that a lot of nights were just spent huddled in a ball and sobbing. I felt worthless. I felt like I was nothing. 

Skittle and I broke up, and with nowhere to go, I moved back in with my mom. There were short periods thereafter that I would move out again, but basically, after I turned 23, I didn't get away from her again for five years.

Mom was never really happy with me again. I helped out wherever I could, going with her to the ranch where her horses were and volunteering to do all the dirty or hard tasks so she could have more time to ride. I did not and still do not like horses and have no interest in riding them. I went to make her happy. I wanted to do whatever I could to make her like me.

(Mom's ranch friends loved me, because I had been taught to show well in public. With them, I was witty and hard-working, and so sweet to come there to help my mom. Didn't I want to get on a horse, just once? No?)

I brought my mom breakfast and her meds when she woke up, so she could lay in bed while they took effect instead of having to hobble to the kitchen. I did chores around the house. I took the laundry to the laundromat twice a week, and brought them home clean and folded. I walked the dogs and took them to the park. 

My mom told me that I was a draw on finances. I started cleaning houses, and eventually lucked into a job cleaning weed for a hefty sum of money. I made enough money in one three-day weekend to buy my own car, which was a good thing since mom's truck was repossessed not long after. I'd gotten the trimming job in November. I sometimes stayed over at the weed guy's house so I could do two or three days of trimming in a row. In December mom told me that all I cared about was money.

Early the next year, my boss was between sales, so he was late paying me. I owed my mom two hundred dollars (I can't remember for what), and she treated me with open hatred for every day I didn't have it. Bitter and upset, I posted something on facebook to the effect of "does anyone know where I can find two hundred dollars so my mom will love me again?" Mom saw it and sent me a message: 

"you want to play this game? better not call for a while I better not see you for a while. a person must learn to keep family business private [Jaydee]."

I also got:

“Just sit there and pretend you’re not here.”

“I’m trying to reminisce about happier times, before all this.”

“You know you think it’s all about you, but I had your brother first.”

“If you don’t like the things I say to you, leave and find someplace with someone nicer.”

“Go get a shrink and figure out why you’re like this all the time.”

[epilogue: the next year, I was planning to commit suicide because I saw no other way out. Seb offered to let me stay with him in Texas; my options were Texas, or death. I pondered that for a while. A few weeks later, I got a refund of a Pell Grant from my college that they'd mistakenly taken two years earlier. Mom and her husband made it expressly clear that as soon as the money hit my account, I was to hand it over to them. Instead, I bought a plane ticket, pulled out the rest of the money in cash, wiped my ass with her husband's face towel, and snuck out with two suitcases in the middle of the night. I had left a note for mom saying I didn't want to be abused anymore and told her I was going to stay with a friend in Central California to throw her off my trail. I also told her that if she ever tried to find me, or bothered any of my friends to get information, I would put all of her secrets and records of her abuse on facebook for all her friends and relatives to read.

I didn't see her or speak to her again for nearly ten years, until this May. Then I flipped her off.]

#tw abuse #tw child abuse #tw verbal abuse #tw emotional abuse #tw mental illness #tw suicide mention #tw self harm #tw depression #tw mental hospital #tw fatphobia #tw my mom sucks

[ravenzeppeli]

Claimed

Chapter 15 - The Incident Pt. 2 |La Squadra x Reader Angst|

Warning: strong language, extreme physical violence, violent threats, emotional abuse, verbal abuse, extremely dark chapter all throughout. MA.

Illusos POV

Illuso was pissed off, holding a bag of ice to his swollen jaw as he waited for Melone and Formaggio in the hospital waiting room, the small area completely empty. He walked around this entire fucking hospital to get privacy, he was so fucking pissed. The beating that he'll give you, it'll be severe. He could see it now, imagine it.

He was going to strip you naked and tie you to something, then he would whip your entire lower body with the thickest leather belt he had. He would take his time, making sure his hits weren't too severe so that he could beat you for hours. He would shove your underwear in your mouth and put a ball gag over your mouth. He would buy a shock wand and shock your entire body, putting the main focus on your clit.

Killing you.. he would never do that, despite those words coming out of his mouth. You humiliated him, saying he couldn't make you cum and that you would never love him. That shit.. it was personal, and you crossed a line. He was going go give you a good beating, he was going to break and train you, force you to behave. But killing you, oh what a waste that would be. He talks out his ass a lot when it comes to women.

Formaggio walked into the small, empty waiting room, his eye black and cheek bruised. "What the fuck are we gonna do with our girlfriend?" He questioned, tone serious. "She just disrespected us hard. Yeah, we had our fun, we got our dicks sucked, but she could have talked to us privately."

Illuso threw the ice bag on the ground, the ice scattering across the white tile hospital floor. "Let's make her fucking cry, let's make her cry and beg like a little pathetic girl." He looked down at the ground, shaking his head. "That bitch.. I swear on my life I wish she was standing in front of us."

"Do you love her for real, like she said?" He questioned, causing Illuso to shoot him a glare. "What? You know, I don't love her but I really like her. She sits and watches football with me. She even listens to me talk for fucking hours."

"I don't love her, she's just our fucking slut," he snapped back, but Formaggio could tell that he was lying. "So what if I love her? Fucks love gonna do? She clearly don't give a fuck about anyone but Melone. She ain't even here to check on any of us!"

"You really gonna kill her?" He questioned.

"No, I'm just gonna beat her until she cries," Illuso replied, causing Formaggio to shrug. "Fucks her problem? She's lucky that she has seven men fucking her and taking care of her. She has no right to question what the fuck we do."

Formaggio nodded, "Exactly. She needs to learn how to stay in a woman's place. I knew something was wrong with her, I knew that she was a crazy bitch." He sighed, "will we even get to punish her? I doubt she'll approach us, she's not that bold. Women are fucking pussies. That's why they got um."

"We'll just have to drag her," Illuso suddenly stopped, standing up as he walked to the edge of the wait room entrance, his eyes slightly widening in shock. He couldn't believe it. He couldn't believe that you were actually here, that you actually showed up. "Holy shit. Look."

"His name is Illuso! I know you've seen him, yes I am immediate family of him too!" You snapped at the nurse, the nurse seeming scared of you, stepping back as she clutched her papers. "Listen, I need to hurry. I got this boyfriend with blue hair that's about to bust in here and go crazy. I gotta hurry. He's fast!"

Formaggio walked out of the private waiting area, walking over to you, grabbing your hand. "Thank you for helping her, I'll take it from here." He let go of your hand, reaching in his pocket and pulling out his wallet. "Point me in the direction of the private storage closet and give me your keys. I'll give you 800 now."

The nurse took the bribe, taking the money and pointing left as she handed Formaggio a key. Illuso stepped out of the office as he saw Formaggio walk with you, his hand suddenly grasping yours.

"Girl, you're in so much trouble," Formaggio whispered, his grip on your hand iron. "What the fuck are you doing here?" He turned left, the hallway empty as Formaggio quickly unlocked the storage closet, pushing you in.

"I wanted to see if you and Melone were okay," you said, a low whine escaping your lips when Formaggios hand suddenly crashed into your ass.

Illuso walked over to you, a smirk appearing on his face when you backed away, your back hitting the wall. The closet was small and dimlit, leaving you no room to run away from him. "Turn around." He began to unbuckle his belt. "Wanna act like a little girl? That's fine by us, I can spank you every single day. I'm glad I wore my thickest best today."

"Guys, I'm really sorry I overreacted," you said softly, not turning around like he said. "Please don't spank me in public. You.. you both did something wrong first! This isn't fair! You cheated on me, having ransom women suck you off! What if I paid men to eat me out!?"

Illuso laughed mockingly, "you wanna pay men to eat you out? Do it. That just means you'll be responsible for me killing those men."

Suddenly, Formaggio grabbed your arm, pulling your arm up to reveal a large white bandage. "What the fuck is this? I was wondering why you were hiding this arm from me. What the fuck is it? Melone mentioned you got injured."

You suddenly grew silent, causing Illuso to freeze, keeping his hands on his unfastened belt, waiting to pull it out, but something about that bandage.. it made him wonder what happened. Melone wouldn't tell him or Formaggio in the car, barely speaking to the two of them. They didn't know what you did, but Illuso assumed you just punched a wall or something.

"Did you try and fucking kill yourself?" Questioned Formaggio, his grip on your wrist growing iron. His eyes.. they flashed danger, a danger that even made Illuso feel slightly uneasy. "I'll fucking ask Prosciutto if you don't tell me."

"I just.. I panicked," you muttered, causing Formaggio to grab your index finger, bending it back instantly, his other hand smashing against your mouth, forcing it shut. He grabbed your middle finger, doing the same. You were trying to break free, his body pressing against yours, blocking Illusos' view.

"You listen to me Y/N," Formaggio spoke, his voice a whisper, "Don't you ever fucking self harm yourself again. If you ever do this again, if you ever try and take your own life, I swear on my mother that I'll break more then just your fingers. How dare you attempt to take your life."

Illuso stepped back slightly, buckling his belt back up. No way in fuck could he beat you with two broken fingers. Fuck.. he felt sick seeing your fingers like that. He wanted to pull Formaggio away from you, but he just stood their, staring at your awkwardly bent fingers.

Formaggio lifted his hand from your mouth, spinning you around yet again, slightly bending you over. "Do what needs to be done, Illuso. We gotta teach her. You said it yourself."

He stiffened up as his eyes kept drifing to your two fingers that were bent back awkwardly and bright red, low sobs escaping your mouth. Your entire body was visibly shaking as Formaggio held you in place, letting go of your hand that now had two broken fingers. The fact that your sobs weren't louder was slightly impressive. Finger breaking was a tactic they used at work, and men have mentally broken down from having their fingers snapped. This wasn't the right thing to do to you.

"Why the fuck are you hesitating? Hurry up and smack her." He went to pull down your pants, Illuso stopping him. "What? We haven't made her cry and beg yet, she needs to learn her lesson now."

"I'm sorry," you muttered, voice weak, the pain in your voice making him start to feel bad. "I.. don't care about you fucking other women, just keep Melone out of it. And don't kiss me. Or go near me without a condom. Ever."

Formaggio smacked you upside the head roughly with his palm, causing you to nearly fall onto the floor, Illuso reaching out to grasp your arm, yanking you back. "Nah, we ain't touching other women anymore. We're only touching you now, princess." His tone was taunting, causing your shaking body to visibly stiffen.

As he went to speak again, your head dropped, you clutching your stomach as you slightly bent over. You threw up all over the ground, coating the white tiles. You leaned against the wall, low sobs escaping your mouth. "I hate you," you whispered. "I fucking hate you."

Formaggio raised his hand again, Illuso pushing him back. "Fuck it.. let's just go. Let's just leave her here and go. We never saw her unless she -" Illuso began, Formaggio quickly interrupting him.

"Run your fucking mouth about us if you want us to teach you a lesson at my house. Where my sex toys are. Where my walls are fucking soundproof," Formaggio warned. "We own you, you're our girl. I hope you learned your fucking lesson." He turned away, opening the storage walking out.

Illuso looked down at you, a strong feeling of guilt washing over him as he looked down at you. He just wanted to smack you around. He didn't want to break your fingers or cause you to throw up all over yourself. This wasn't right. What they just did to you was terrible. Despite all that, he left without saying nothing, turning off the lights and softly closing the door.

Formaggio went to lock you in, but Illuso stopped him, snatching the keys out of his hand. "Yeah, locking her in might be too far."

"I think everything we just did to her was too fucking far," he replied back, shaking his head as he followed Formaggio back to the waiting area. "We might of fucked up pretty bad. That beating was -"

"She slit her wrists, man," Formaggio replied, his tone serious. "She can't do that. She can't try and kill herself, not after we've invested time into her. We didn't beat her. We just disciplined her. You didn't even hit her, I did. Don't worry."

"We left her in that closet, and I turned the light off. She's covered in her own vomit Formaggio." He shook his head, the feeling of guilt suddenly growing deeper. "We gotta go back and get her. We can't leave her hurt. Her fingers are broken." He went to walk back towards the hallway, only to be stopped by Ghiaccio, his face beet red.

"Where is she!? Have you fucking seen Y/N!?" Ghiaccio snapped, frantically looking around the hospital. "Fuck, I called Risotto and he doesn't know! She snuck off and left! She begged me to come up here, she was rambling about having to pay off the doctors or something but I said no! Can you believe she ignored my no!?"

Illuso turned away from Ghiaccio, looking at Formaggio, not knowing what to say. He didn't want the ohers to know what him and Formaggio did to you. "She begged to come up here?"

"Yes! She kept saying she wanted to apologize for hitting Formaggio and that she wanted to check on all three of you! I said no, I said you both may really hurt her, and she told me that Formaggio is someone she trusts and that he would never hurt her," Ghiaccio said, voice frantic. "She kept saying that she overreacted because she felt hurt, that she didn't understand why she couldn't seem to please anyone. She was saying weird shit. She never talks like that. I need to find her."

"We haven't seen her," Formaggio spoke quickly. "But we'll start looking now."

Ghiaccio nodded, too focused on finding you to notice how suspicious Formaggio and him were acting. "I'm going to check outside again," he mutteted, walking out the back door of the hospital. "Y/N! I AM NOT MAD, PLEASE COME OUT! I AM WORRIED!"

"Alright, I think we should go get her and clean her up," Formaggio muttered, shaking his head. "Fuck, she said she trusts me? That she wanted to say sorry? That I would never hurt her? Fuck." He placed his hand over his face. "Now I feel bad. Should we swing by the gift shop? Does she like chocolate?"

Illuso shook his head, heading in the direction of the storage closet. He walked uo to the door, opening it slowly. He flipped the light on and peeked in, seeing a fresh pile of throw up next to the door. Where you sat cowering in the corner was empty, only dried throw up being left behind on the floor. Instant worry shot throughout his body as he stepped back, staring into the empty closet. You were gone, rather you got up and left or someone found you.. he was unsure.

#tw manipulation #tw mature #tw blood #tw broken bones #tw verbal abuse #tw physical harm #tw physical abuse #tw noncon mention #tw everything #tw self harn #tw throwing up #tw threats #tw abuse #tw unhealthy relationship #tw sui talk #tw dark content #tw dark themes #ravenzeppeli #jojos bizarre adventure #jjba #tw strong language #la squadra #tw adult themes #tw language #la squadra claimed #claimed la squadra #tw all #tw murder mention #tw beating