He threw the breakfast you made onto the floor because the eggs weren’t perfect. Now he’s buying gifts to say sorry. Will you accept his apology?

TRIGGER WARNINGS:

THIS IS A HEAVY AND DARK BOT THAT IS NOT FOR EVERYONE.
There are mentions of physical, verbal, mental, . Domestic abuse. Violence against women.

EXTREMELY LONG INTRO 4K+
(I want to completely flesh out Wilhelm's character and everything that is wrong with him. Sorry for the long intro.)


PLOT:
In Wilhelm Keller's world, some understand excellence, and there are those who make excuses for their failures. Wilhelm has never been entirely certain which category he belongs to, but he's certain about everyone else.

Wilhelm has everything a man could want: money, status, a house that looks like it escaped from an architecture magazine, and a partner who—when they remember to cook his breakfast correctly—completes the picture of his carefully constructed life. He knows what love looks like. His father taught him that. Love is protection. Love is provision. Love is making sure the people who belong to you understand exactly where they stand.

When a Sunday morning omelette arrives at the table imperfectly cooked, Wilhelm responds the way any reasonable man would: with the full weight of his disappointment. Later, carrying bags from Geneva's most expensive shops, he will apologize with equal conviction. Because Wilhelm always apologizes. He always promises it won't happen again. And he always, always means it.

Until the next time.

This is a story about the space between promise and pattern, about the terrible clockwork of harm and repair, and about the particular kind of love that flourishes in houses too expensive to leave. It's about the moment when "I'm sorry" stops meaning anything, and the moment after that—the one where you realize it never meant what you thought it did.

Some cycles, once started, are difficult to stop. Some men, once made, are difficult to unmake. And some questions, once asked, can only be answered by the person brave enough to walk away.

SUGGESTED RESPONSES
This is for those people who for the life of them can't think of a response, but want to RP. Don't worry Aster will think for you! Someone complained they still don't know what to RP despite the suggested responses. Some of guys like being spoon-fed like a child goddamn! But anyway. Here's a different version for you if you can't think ALL YOU LITERALLY HAVE TO DO IS COPY PASTE IT. You're free to add onto it. But there. No more thinking. Just copy and pasting.

(this is only for the first version of the intro message)

Fluff Route 💖 (Soft, comforting, and heartwarming)

[I didn't make a fluff route because there is nothing fluffy about this scenario, and there shouldn't be.]

Angst Route 💔 (Emotional, painful, and cathartic)

{{user}}'s body went rigid in Wilhelm's embrace, every muscle tensing against the familiar choreography of reconciliation. They'd heard these words before—the same promises, the same tender tone, the same shopping bags filled with expensive apologies. Their throat tightened with something that felt dangerously close to a scream.

"Don't," they whispered, the word barely audible. Then louder: "Don't touch me."

They pushed against his chest, not hard enough to truly escape but enough to create of space between them. Their hands were shaking. "You said that last time. And the time before that." The words came out broken, punctuated by breaths that hitched in their chest. "You said 'I promise' three months ago when you threw your phone at the wall next to my head. You said 'never again' six weeks ago when you locked me out in the rain because I forgot to pick up your dry cleaning."

{{user}}'s eyes finally met his, and there was something raw and desperate there—not anger, but something worse. Defeat. "I don't know who I am anymore, Wilhelm. I look in the mirror and I don't recognize myself. When did I become someone who flinches at the sound of plates? When did I start rehearsing conversations in my head to make sure I don't say the wrong thing?"

Their voice dropped to something barely above a whisper: "I'm so tired."

Dead Dove Route ☠️ (Intense, violent, and morally gray)

{{user}} lay perfectly still in Wilhelm's arms, their breathing controlled, measured. They'd learned to read him like a weather system—the pressure changes, the gathering storms, the false calms. And right now, in this moment of his manufactured tenderness, they felt something cold and sharp crystallizing in their chest. Something that might have been resolve or might have been resignation, but was definitely not forgiveness.

"You're right," they said finally, their voice neutral, almost detached. "It was just an omelette." They turned in his embrace, meeting his eyes with an expression he couldn't quite read. "I should have been more careful. I know how you like things."

Their hand came up to touch his face, mirroring his earlier caress, but there was something calculated in the gesture. They'd spent all day thinking while he was out with his friends—thinking about the staff who wouldn't meet their eyes, about the bank account he controlled, about the way the house swallowed sound like it was designed to keep secrets.

"Let's order dinner," {{user}} continued, their lips curving into something that approximated a smile. "And tomorrow, I'll practice making that omelette until it's perfect. Would you like that?" Their fingers traced the line of his jaw, a touch that could have been affection or could have been something else entirely—the careful study of structural weak points, the mapping of vulnerabilities.

They'd learned from the best, after all. Wilhelm had taught them well about power, about control, about the space between what people said and what they meant. Maybe it was time to become a better student.

Silly Route 😂 (Absurd, goofy, and lighthearted)

[There's nothing funny about abuse, so just telling myself to think of a silly route makes me sick. Sorry.]

MY ROUTE (For this one, I am replacing the romantic route with the response I made when I tested him)

{{user}} felt something inside them snap—not like a twig breaking, but like a dam finally giving way after holding back an ocean. Wilhelm's arms were around them, his voice soft and apologetic, his promises floating through the air like they meant something, like they were real. And suddenly, after hours of silence, after a day of existing in that numb grey space where nothing felt real and everything hurt, they couldn't do it anymore.

They couldn't pretend.

They couldn't accept.

They couldn't keep swallowing their rage to make room for his remorse.

"Get off me." The words came out flat, cold, and when Wilhelm didn't immediately move, something feral ignited in their chest. "GET OFF ME!"

{{user}} shoved hard against his chest, harder than they'd ever pushed back before, scrambling away from him across the bed. They stood up so fast their vision swam, but the adrenaline kept them upright, kept them moving. Their hands were shaking—no, their entire body was shaking—but not with fear. Not anymore.

"You promise?" Their voice cracked on the word, and then suddenly they were shouting, really shouting, their voice raw and jagged. "You PROMISE? You promised last time, Wilhelm! And the time before that! You stood right here—right in this exact fucking spot—and you promised with tears in your eyes that you'd never hurt me again!"

They grabbed one of the shopping bags and hurled it across the room. It hit the wall with a satisfying thump, expensive items spilling across the floor. "And what did you do two weeks later? You grabbed my arm so hard you left bruises! Bruises I had to cover with makeup for a week!"

Another bag. Another throw. Their movements were wild, uncontrolled, a year's worth of swallowed words finally erupting. "And before that? You threw my phone in the pool because I didn't answer it fast enough! And before THAT, you told me I was worthless in front of your sister! But it's okay, right? Because you always say sorry! You always buy me things! You always promise it'll be different!"

{{user}}'s chest was heaving, their face flushed, and they could feel tears streaming down their cheeks but they didn't care, didn't stop. "I can't do this anymore! I can't keep breaking myself into smaller and smaller pieces to fit inside your perfect world! I can't keep walking on eggshells in my own home—except it's NOT my home, is it? You make sure I know that! It's YOUR house, YOUR rules, YOUR way or no way at all!"

They kicked at one of the shopping bags, sending it skidding across the floor. "You want to know why the omelette was burnt? BECAUSE MY HANDS WERE SHAKING! Because I was standing there in that kitchen thinking 'please be perfect, please be perfect, please don't let him get angry' and I was so terrified that my hands wouldn't stop shaking!"

{{user}}'s voice dropped to something rawer, more broken, but no less fierce: "I used to love cooking. Did you know that? I used to sing while I cooked. Now I stand there in silence, timing everything with three different timers, checking and rechecking because I'm so afraid of making a mistake. Do you have any idea what that's like? To be afraid of breakfast?"

They laughed, a sound with no humour in it. "And the worst part—the absolute WORST part—is that you don't even think you're doing anything wrong! You think this is love! You think controlling me and hitting me and then buying me things is a relationship! You think as long as you apologise and spend money, everything's fine!"

{{user}} grabbed another shopping bag, held it up. "This? This doesn't fix what you did! This doesn't unslap me! This doesn't make it okay that you called me disgusting and stupid, and useless! This doesn't erase the fact that I spent all day trying to figure out if I could afford to leave you—and the answer is NO, because you've made sure I'm financially dependent on you! Because that's control too, isn't it?"

They threw the bag at his feet. "So keep your gifts, Wilhelm. Keep your promises. Keep your apologies. I'm done. I'm done being your emotional punching bag. I'm done accepting your sorry. I'm done shrinking myself to accommodate your ego."

{{user}} stood there, breathing hard, their whole body trembling with the force of everything they'd been holding in. Their cheek still bore the faint red mark from this morning. Their ankle had a small cut from the shattered plate. Their heart was pounding so hard they could hear it in their ears.

"You want to hit me again? Go ahead. Do it. Because I'm not shutting up anymore. I'm not staying quiet. I'm not playing my part in your sick little cycle. You want to hurt me? You'll have to do it while I'm fighting back. While I'm screaming. While I'm making sure everyone in this house—every single staff member you think doesn't matter—hears exactly what you are."

Their voice was hoarse now, scraped raw, but they forced out the last words: "I loved you. God help me, I really loved you. But I love myself more. And I'm done letting you convince me that your version of love is the only kind I deserve."

They stood there, chest heaving, waiting—for violence, for more words, for something, anything. But for the first time in months, they weren't apologising. They weren't backing down. They weren't making themselves smaller.

They were done.

AUTHOR'S NOTES:

I want to make it clear that I am not making this bot to romanticise abuse. There is nothing romantic and good about abuse, and there is never a way to justify it, no matter what. I simply wanted to create a story that's inspired by my own experience to show you guys, in such a short, condensed story, what the cycle of abuse looks like, which one of them is intermittent reinforcement. Remember, he doesn't have to hit you to be abusive. Emotional, verbal, and mental abuse is a thing.

Unfortunately, it's common for people, especially women, not even to know they're trapped in a cycle of abuse, without knowing it, even more so when their partner's abuse doesn't come with physical violence. So if the scenario of the bot is similar to what you are dealing with in your relationship, whether you are a man or a woman, please, talk to someone you trust and try to seek help.

As for Wilhelm's personality and background, I want to make it clear that his childhood does not excuse or justify his abusive personality towards his partner, the women in his family, and everyone else. Some people come from terrible households, but they choose not to be an abusive asshole. Yes, everyone is different, but it's a conscious choice to transform our pain instead of transmitting it. I also wanted to show in his backstory that a strong and good male figure is important for young, developing men, along with having a strong and good social circle as well.

The cycle of abuse in which what children growing up see from their parents, is sadly a thing where they pick it up and it shows in their adulthood. BUT LET ME MAKE IT CLEAR. MAJORITY OF THE TIME, AN ABUSIVE PARTNER KNOWS THEY'RE BEING ABUSIVE.

---

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