#isolation tw | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

proudfreakmetarusonniku · 7 months

Text

Primetober Day 1: It’s Not Kidnapping If You Make The Rules, with all three extra themes (Kidnapping, Gaslighting, and “You'll do as I say.”)

Boy in the bunker AU. Five year old Tommy is remembering a little of his life outside with the SBI, and Dream makes sure to convince him he's just going crazy. Warnings for kidnapping, manipulation, gaslighting, isolation, imprisonment, abuse and neglect of a very young child, traumabonding, and ableist rhetoric used to victim blame a child.

ao3 if you prefer

— “Dream?” Tommy grasped hard on his big brother’s leg, like a vice grip stopping him from leaving and making Tommy all lonely again. He’d left for a long, long time when he’d gone through the bunker doors last time, long enough that all the food had run out except the ones in the big cupboards he wasn’t able to reach yet, and he’d curled up crying in the top bunk holding his aching stomach for two miserable nights. That was where Dream slept, after all, and the silky green sheets almost felt like his big brother was hugging him from far away. “You gotta stay. You gotta.”

Dream chuckled. “Toms, I just got back. I’m not gonna get you cereal then immediately bounce.”

“Oh.” Tommy turned red, though he didn’t let go. He was a big boy- it was his fifth birthday just before Dream had left last!- but he could still be clingy, right? It felt childish and silly for a big kid to do, but Dream always praised Tommy for it, so it was good, right? “Why’d it take you so long to find shit? Did the rabi- radi- poison cloud bomb shit hurt you?”

Dream had told him all about how the world got fucked up when he was only little. There used to be a big island outside the bunker doors, with lots of people, and stuff like schools and other stuff that was on the DVDs. But then the countries, which were like really big families but not really where one person controlled everything like Dream did with him, but they were mean about it, bombed each other, and the bombs had poison in them, and it killed everyone except him and Dream, because Dream had found the bunker and taken him there.

It was always scary whenever Dream went out scavenging in the surface world. Every time, Tommy made a thousand prayers that he wouldn’t get hurt. He wasn’t really sure what a prayer was, but people did it in the movies, so it must work. Once, Tommy forgot to do his prayers, and when he realised he was so worried that he was sick all over the bed because he thought he’d killed Dream and he’d starve to death alone.

There was the Gun- Dream always said that if one of them was gonna die, he’d take it and kill both of them quickly because it was better than dying in pain or being alone, but Tommy wasn’t big enough to reach the cupboard it was kept in. Besides, only Dream was allowed to use the Gun. Once, he’d hit Tommy just for looking at it for too long, but it was only a little hit, so it was okay because Dream did stuff that left scars when he needed a proper lesson. They didn’t show that on the TV, but Dream had told him that what was on the TV was made up and that stuff like talking cats weren’t real. But cats were, which was equally as weird as talking cats, Tommy thought.

“Nah, I’m fine, lil’ cockroach.” Dream ruffled Tommy’s hair, grimacing a little at its messy state. “God, you need a bath. You’re filthy. Did you roll around in the greenhouse or something?”

“… nooooo?” Tommy yelped as Dream pulled his curls, just enough to hurt. “Okay, okay, I did it, m’ sorry! I wanted to see if the dirt would make my hair brown, so I got some dirt and poured it over me.” He put on his best puppy-dog impression. “I take full respo-sbility for my actions. So, uh, you can hit me and stuff.”

“Aww, look at you, trying to be manipulative. It’s adorable.” Dream laughed. “Fine, you can get away with it for now.”

Tommy giggled at that, before he suddenly stopped. Oh yeah, there was something important he had to tell his big brother. The excitement of finally having someone around was so overwhelming he’d nearly forgotten. “Uh, Dream? Can I tell you something?”

“Course, Tommy. We’re family, right? You can tell me anything.” It sounded more like an order than a comfort, but Tommy was used to orders. Dream said that if he didn’t follow all the orders, then maybe something would go wrong, and the toxic thingy would seep through the doors, and they’d die, and Tommy didn’t want to die. Being alive was pretty awesome, he thought. “Don’t you trust me, lil bro?”

“Of- of course! It’s just- it’s about b’fore, y’know, the bombs an’ shit. I had- I could remember it.”

Dream froze up at that, glaring down at Tommy like there was something dangerous about what he said. Tommy nervously fiddled with his fingers, voice catching in his throat, before Dream gave a sickly sweet smile, one that didn’t reach his eyes. “What could you remember, little bug?” His voice was honeyed, but Tommy knew well enough the poison it hid.

“I- uh, it was when I was real little. Back before I realised I was a boy and stuff.” Tommy couldn’t look his brother in the eyes, feeling somehow guilty about it even though he didn’t know what he did wrong. But it upset Dream, and therefore Tommy couldn’t help but get the sickening feeling he deserved punishment. “I was in a pink dress- like that one in Sims, right? And I was- I was in a park, and there was grass under my feet and shit. And- uh, I think I remember- I don’t know, I don’t think he was my dad. He looked kinda like you, so I guess he was my big brother?”

Tommy gulped, and Dream continued to look down at him, unblinking. “Continue.” His voice was like ice.

“U-um.” Tommy could feel tears pricking at his eyes. He knew he was gonna get a whooping, but it’d probably be worse if he directly disobeyed Dream, so he continued. “Well, I uh, I was playing with a doll, but I lost it, and this nice man got it for me, but then we were really far away from my other brother. And I looked up and- and it was you! And you had the Knife, and you just kinda picked me up and ran.” Tommy laughed, the idea seeming funny. He must have been so tiny back then. “And then I got this.” He gestured at the rough scar across his chest- the first Dream ever gave him, which he treasured because it meant Dream cared enough to correct him, and that meant he loved him.

“Tommy.” Dream didn’t sound mad, just completely emotionless. “Don’t tell lies.”

“I-I’m not- it’s- I ’member it, promise!” Tommy huffed, putting his hands on his hips. “I remember it.”

“Really?” Dream raised an eyebrow.

“Really really. I can pinkie promise if you want.”

“No, no, I believe you.” Dream’s voice was suddenly calm, suddenly sickly sweet again. “But, Tommy… that means you’re not well.”

Tommy blinked. “Huh?”

“Tommy… how could I meet you in a park if I found you after the bombs fell? That doesn’t make sense. Think about it.” Dream gently ruffled Tommy’s hair as he spoke, giving him a sad smile. “I… some people just aren’t well, Tommy. What they see and hear isn’t what’s really going on. I wish I knew this earlier, so I could help…”

Tommy furrowed his brows, deep in thought. “Does that mean… anything I see and hear and shit? It could all be- like, stuff I made up?”

Dream nodded. “Mhm. But it’s okay. I can do all the thinking for you! Just- just tell me everything you see and hear and remember at the end of the day, and I’ll tell you what the truth is. Okay?”

“Even if I do something bad? Won’t I get in trouble?”

“I mean, yeah, but if you avoid doing that and don’t speak to me, you’ll also be in trouble, right? So it’s fine.”

“… Right.” The idea of there being no way of avoiding hurt seemed horrible, but if Dream thought it was correct… it had to be, right? Everything Dream did prevented the outside things from breaking in and poisoning them, so Tommy had to trust him, or else they’d both die, and neither of them wanted to die.

“Try not to sound so bratty about that, God.” Tommy couldn’t tell if Dream was joking or not saying that, an equal mix of humour and frustration in his voice, and he instinctively flinched. “I make the rules for a reason, Tommy. I keep us alive. I keep us more than alive. I keep the electricity running and get you your favourite food. All I ask is your obedience; is that so hard? Christ.” He covered his face with his hands, sighing. “I guess I can’t blame you. You- you’re not well. It’s not your fault that you’re fragile. It just means you need a firmer hand.”

Something about being called fragile made Tommy feel really upset, but if Dream was saying it, then it had to be correct, and Tommy was being the unreasonable one. Maybe he was fucking crazy. Maybe he was thinking wrong stuff, maybe he needed Dream to tell him everything.

And would that be so bad? Dream was his big brother, and he was the bestest big brother ever. He tucked Tommy into bed, he cooked his favourite food, he played Smash with him all day long sometimes, and even sometimes let him win. When Tommy realised he was a boy, he immediately gave him a cool new name and cool new clothes. He gave the best hugs and was so cool to talk to, he had the most awesome stories about what he did in the surface world. Tommy was pretty sure most of them were fake because they all contradicted each other, but they were so cool he didn’t care. And no matter how long he had to leave, he always came back.

Yeah, Dream knew best. He made the rules for a reason.

“M’ sorry. I’ll tell you everything.” Tommy gave the biggest grin he could, even though he didn’t feel happy, he just felt guilty and stupid. “You’re so smart and cool. I trust you.”

“Aww, and you’re so smart and cool too, Tommy, else you wouldn’t realise that!” Dream laughed, all venom in his voice dissipated. “Also, we need to wash the dirt out of your hair. Seriously, how did you get so much in?”

Tommy batted his eyes innocently. “It was an accident, I swear.” He burst into giggles at that too, and they were both smiling, tension removed from the air. All was well again, and Tommy had learnt a valuable lesson.

He just needed to rely on Dream over his own senses, and everything would be okay.

#my writing #cprimetober #dream smp #c!primeboys #c!discduo #kidnapping tw #manipulation tw #gaslighting tw #isolation tw #imprisonment tw #abuse tw #neglect tw #traumabonding tw #ableist rhetoric tw

22 notes · View notes

azureflame · 2 years

Text

If Only They Knew

Fandom: Twisted Wonderland

Pairing: Yandere!Malleus x (Y/n) (gender neutral)

Word count: 1,722

Cw: Standard yandere content, forced marriage, isolation from friends, mental breakdown from (Y/n), kidnapping, manipulation, controlling & possessive behavior, spoiler for main story part 6

Note: I bear no responsibility for the content you are about to read. Minors, DNI!

Malleus tried to make the most of his nightly walks with (Y/n) since they only lasted for a short time.

The reason being? His dorm members, particularly Sebek & Silver, are always keeping an eye on him.

It would be erroneous, however, to assume that Malleus was wholly displeased by their efforts to protect him. He was amused seeing them protecting one of the world’s strongest mages.

Once the VDC was over, he thought about how to deepen his friendship with (Y/n). They were his only friend & he was certain he’d become lonely once more upon his return to the Valley of Thorns.

Such plans would sadly be interrupted by the arrival of the Charon division from S.T.Y.X.

To make matters worse, (Y/n) was nowhere to be found on campus. Knowing that searching for them would send his dorm into a state of panic, he could only hope they were ok.

After 2 agonizing days, (Y/n), along with Rook, Epel, Grim, Ortho, & the overblot sextet, have returned.

“Child of Man. Are you injured in any way” Malleus asked. He felt relieved once (Y/n) confirmed they were fine.

After the emotional reunion ended, Malleus pulled (Y/n) to the side & expressed his interest in spending more time with them. It would be a matter of time before the next major crisis occurred, after all.

Much to Malleus’s pleasure, nothing happened for a long while. Perhaps the Great 7 were generous enough to grant him his wish.

Much to Malleus’s displeasure, however, was that (Y/n) would still check up on the other students & staff members. This shouldn’t bother him because their kindness is a huge reason why he liked them. But it did & he needed to prevent these feelings from clouding his judgment.

After explaining his situation to Lilia, the vampiric faery suggested he helped his human throughout the day. “Why don’t you try assisting them in any way you can? The sooner their work for the day ends, the sooner the two of you can relax together.“

Malleus did exactly as he was told & was pleased by the results. At first he only learned a few of (Y/n)’s hobbies, but later on he became aware of their favorite foods, their values on life, etc. It was concerning how well he was able to memorize everything in such a short time.

One night, Lilia caught Malleus digging through his treasury & jokingly claimed that his charge was in love with the Ramshackle prefect.

The mere notion that Malleus desired for more than friendship had him flustered. Was he even in love with (Y/n)? If not, then why is he going through his treasury, something that contains jewels valuable to him?

He pondered for a while & came to the conclusion that he was in love with them.

Much to Lilia’s surprise, Malleus claimed that he’ll begin courting (Y/n). He warned him not to do so right away because he may frighten them. Maintaining their friendship as he always had been would be optimal, albeit time consuming. As for any potential rivals, simply making his presence known would be more than enough.

Malleus was confused by how much emphasis Lilia put on his last statement, but listened anyway. When he felt his relationship with (Y/n) had matured enough, he displayed more signs of affection ranging from (awkwardly) hugging them to lavishing them with expensive gifts. It was at this time he thought about confessing his feelings, but wasn’t sure how to properly word it.

One night, he asked (Y/n) if they had any plans after graduating from Night Raven College. Since they are not from this world, finding a place of residence & employment would be challenging, especially when they lacked any magical attributes.

As soon as (Y/n) said they were still looking for a new home, Malleus immediately offered them a place in his castle. After all, who wouldn’t wish to live in a castle with many servants at their beck & call?

Surprised by his change in attitude, (Y/n) asked what was going on.

Gently taking their hands into his, Malleus calmly stated that he desired more than friendship from them & asked if they felt the same.

The moment (Y/n) accepted his confession & invitation, Malleus’s heart fluttered. He was one step closer to securing a happy future with them. He just needed to ensure that no one could interfere with their relationship.

Suddenly, he realized that (Y/n) must learn about fae social & cultural norms. They were rather different from those of humans, so it was imperative to teach them lest they unknowingly incur the wrath of one of his court members down the line.

Every day after class ended, (Y/n) would arrive at the Diasomnia dorm for Lilia’s etiquette & history lessons.

(Y/n) took their additional studies seriously & got along with the Diasomnia dorm members. One day, they expressed their desire to see their friends again.

Malleus immediately sent a letter to his grandmother about his future spouse. Meanwhile, Lilia lengthened (Y/n)’s lessons while also having Silver & Sebek being their bodyguards.

It was at this point (Y/n) was fed up with everything & they confronted Malleus about it all.

He shamelessly revealed his true colors knowing he could still forcefully marry his Child of Man.

(Y/n) attempted to run away only for Malleus to immediately pull them into an embrace.

Malleus wiped their tears with his gloved hands while speaking to them with a soothing tone. When that failed to calm (Y/n) down, Malleus cast a weak sleeping spell on them. After carrying them back to his room, he proceeded to watch them sleep before falling asleep as well.

Ever since that day, (Y/n) rarely spoke & has never smiled. No amount of persuasion from anyone was able to successfully bring them out of their depression.

The final day of school had arrived & Malleus couldn’t be any more ecstatic. Even if (Y/n) could no longer attend Night Raven College, he could simply hire the best tutors from around the world to continue their education.

After a long discussion with his grandmother, Malleus contacted a noble fae family that could adopt (Y/n).

While the queen was pleased to see that her grandson found the love of his life, she stated that it was best for everyone to believe that (Y/n) came from a noble, wealthy family to quell any complaints about their true background.

Meanwhile, Lilia began the preparations for the wedding ceremony. The food & drinks, the attire, the wedding rings, it all had to be perfect.

On top of their etiquette & history lessons, (Y/n) would be busy with their wedding attire fitting & learning how to manage a court alongside Malleus. It was too much for them to handle. They wanted to scream & cry, but understood that no one would be able to help them nor would they care to do so. Everyone was only concerned about the happiness of their soon-to-be-king.

On the day of the wedding just hours before the ceremony, many servants were attending to (Y/n) to ensure their appearance was nothing short of exquisite. Before having any makeup applied to their face, (Y/n) drank a love potion just strong enough for them to endure the wedding. After all, they knew it would be unwise to upset Malleus on his special day.

Speaking of Malleus, he couldn’t be any more impatient to see his soon-to-be spouse in their wedding attire. Being warned about potentially delaying his wedding was enough for him to remain cooperative, however.

As numerous guests from all across the globe awaited for the royal couple to appear, beautiful orchestral music can be heard throughout the grandest cathedral in all the kingdom. They were chattering with excitement as they sat down on the pews & as more guests arrived.

Not too far from the cathedral were many citizens of the Valley of Thorns that have gathered to witness the momentous event. All of the best guards were summoned to ensure no one acted out of line.

Had the Valley of Thorns embraced modern technology like the rest of the world, there is no doubt that Malleus would have broadcasted this event. At the very least, his marriage with (Y/n) will be talked about by many for years to come.

Upon the arrival of Malleus, the music became serene & every guest inside the cathedral stood & watched as the soon-to-be king walked down the aisle.

No strand of hair stood out of place. No wrinkle on his clothes could be seen. It was as if he was a being created by the divine.

Shortly afterwards, (Y/n) entered the cathedral. All of the guests clapped in excitement while Malleus did his best to maintain his composure. He wanted to take them to a place far away from civilization, but he knew how selfish it would be for him to abandon his royal duties.

After the vows & rings were exchanged, Malleus & (Y/n) were declared to be officially married. Everyone cheered for them as they kissed each other.

At the reception hall, the royal couple were dancing to a few traditional songs, one of which being “Once Upon a Dream.” The way they looked at each other while dancing had everyone believing that they were just as in love with each other as Princess Aurora & Prince Philip were.

Once the wedding had ended, Malleus immediately took (Y/n) to a private resort for their honeymoon. It was at this moment that the latter broke down in tears.

Alarmed, Malleus asked his spouse what had upset them so greatly. He didn’t get an answer right away as they were too busy crying for a long, long while. Once (Y/n) had calmed down, he repeated his question.

Their response can be summarized to how they hated themselves for not noticing the red flags Malleus was showing to them.

Malleus chuckled, stating that it “would have only delayed the inevitable” before pulling them into a gentle embrace.

Had (Y/n) know about Malleus’s alarming behavior, they would’ve had just enough time to warn their friends about their inevitable disappearance. All they could do from now on was cling onto what little sanity they have left.

If only they knew…

290 notes · View notes

graviitron · 7 months

Link

Chapters: 1/1

Fandom: Gravity Falls

Rating: Teen And Up Audiences

Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply

Relationships: Bill Cipher & Ford Pines, Ford Pines & Stan Pines Characters: Ford Pines, the rest aren’t even here they’re just haunting the narrative

Additional Tags: Isolation, The Journals (Gravity Falls), Hallucinations, Sleep Deprivation, Psychological Trauma, Paranoia, Episode: s02e12 A Tale of Two Stans, Childhood Trauma, Extended Metaphors, Missing Scene, Whumptober 2023

Summary:

A small glimpse into the life of a recently betrayed Stanford Pines from the 80s, running off of nothing but spite and coffee. We come to three conclusions; yellow is the worst color in the rainbow, Ford is a bit more stuck in the past than he’d like to think, and eyes suck. These are very important lessons.

FIRST DAY OF WHUMPTOBER WAHOO!!! Month long challenge full of fic and pain?? HELL YEAH!! this is also the most prompts I’ve combined into one fic. the rest are like one or two other days, maybe three if we’re pushing, but this one’s good. I’m very excited for all this month and I’m going to bed now. ougrh

15 notes · View notes

ninetysomethingsouls · 2 months

Text

it does not matter

how kindly you treat us

or how welcoming

you try to be

or how many times

you remind us you love us

there will always be a small child

that cries and begs

"please come back

don't leave me alone

i can't do this by myself

please come back and love me"

#abandonment tw #abandonment issues #isolation tw

5 notes · View notes

ofsvnshine · 1 month

Text

lee jong suk, cis man, 34 / 340 , daemati high fae ’ ― cauldron save you. it seems CHOI DOHYUN has finally made it to the capital, the SPYMASTER from WINTER COURT is said to be CLEVER and is said to describe themselves with THE BITTER WINDS OF WINTER'S MORNING, WHISPERS OF OLD WOUNDS UPON YOUR SKIN, EMBRACING THE DARKNESS TO BECOME LIMITLESS and with all of this in mind their RUTHLESS nature always seems to get them into trouble. may the mother hold them as they navigate this unthinkable time.

statistics :

label: the cataclysmic.

positive traits: clever, attentive, determined.

negative traits: ruthless, aloof, quiet.

orientation: bisexual, biromantic.

gender: cis man ( he / him pronouns ).

age: 34 340.

species: daemati high fae.

profession: spymaster.

court: winter.

abilities: immortality, winnowing, astral projection, ice manipulation, mind control, infiltration & shattering.

mbti: istj.

zodiac: scorpio.

noteworthy features: scars littering his arms and torso from previous confrontations and wounds, tattoo on his forearm from a bargain that he much rather not speak about, typically with deep bags under his eyes from lack of sleep.

introduction :

violence tw, isolation tw, abuse tw, muder tw

you were the only son of the most well known and hired hitman within the winter court, perhaps even within all of prythian.

you never knew of your mother and you learned very early on to not ask questions about her, her memory forever remaining nothing more than a distant image, a part never truly unlocked in your brain.

despite having a child, your father refused to let anything keep him from his work. you were much more of an inconvenience to him rather than anything else, but perhaps a foolish sense of pride is what kept him from handing you off to someone far more equipped to raise you. so you were brought along, tagging along to places that no child should have ever been, seeing things that no child ever should have. but you didn't know any different, and your father was your world. all you ever wanted was to make him happy.

once he discovered your ability, you quickly become more of a weapon than a boy or a son to him. you now had a purpose for him, a reason to be there and no longer just an inconvenience amidst his travels. so he tirelessly trained you, needing your powers to be stronger than ever for when it came to interrogating strangers to find the whereabouts of whoever he had been hired to find, your powers making it far more easier than doing so before.

and since you were always on the move with your father, you never had any semblance of stability. you never had a home. you never grew up socializing with children your age, the only one who taught you anything was your father and therefore your education is severely limited beyond physical strength and the bare necessities. in social situations you feel out of place, out of practice and unsure how to contribute to conversations effectively.

you didn't realize just how much of a disservice that your father did until you both were brought in to the presence of the high family as your father's skills were needed with the sudden open position of the spymaster of the winter court.

while there you began to realize just how abnormal your childhood was. you began to realize just how much your father used you, crafted you into the weapon rather than man.

and you felt lost. violence and turbulence was all you knew. and as usual, with violence was the only way you knew how to solve things.

you used your powers on your father, just as he taught you, leading to his death. you took his position immediately, the only thing you felt you were really ever going to be good at.

and you are. you are highly feared and respected as the spymaster of the winter court. you are able to get information out of people incredibly easy with your powers and use it to your advantage. you are incredibly loyal to the high lady, especially after the loss of her family.

you are lost without a sense of purpose, a sense of someone to answer to without your father so you throw all of your time into your work. and as much as you hate your father, with each day you fear you are becoming more and more like him.

the invitation to the capital is an extremely welcomed one. while the more reserved side of you is anxious about being around so many people, the change of scenery is much needed. you're still searching for your real purpose, perhaps you'll find it there.

wanted connections:

idk someone give him a kiss he needs it ( no but fr someone who is a good influence on him and can see past the big scary facade he puts up and find the real person behind it all bc he deserves that. ill sob thanks ), best friend / confidant, enemies, ex friends, the person he has a bargain with !! idk i just figure its spicy and there's some drama involved but we can plot specifics bc i didn't get that far, opposites attract friendship, more tbd !

#ofcourtfables:intro #* dohyun / introduction.#abuse tw #murder tw #isolation tw #violence tw #the man is a walking tw im sorry

2 notes · View notes

groupalpha · 6 months

Text

WARNING

This comic contains themes of isolation. If you are sensitive to such, please skip this comic.

If you wish to proceed, comic is under cut.

13ES: I have it loaded from my memory conflux now. ... I apologize if this is upsetting to anyone.

Loading memory from Memory Conflux

Please stand by...

Memory loaded successfully!

. . .

EPS: Misunderstandings are not something I take lightly.

EPS: It's my job to prevent such misunderstandings from my part. I sincerely apologize for such incompetence.

13ES: Prism that's enough, your work does not equal your worth. You don't need to be so hard on yourself because of a simple mishap.

EPS: With all due respect, that doesn't excuse my actions. I know... that... Stories?

13ES: Prism, something isn't right. The communication towers are... trying to send a signal?

EPS: Stories, your communications are-

13ES: Prism?!

[LIVE BROADCAST] - [ANNOUNCEMENT] COMMUNICATIONS MANIFEST to Group Alpha

[[ERROR]]

CANNOT OBTAIN LOCAL GROUP ID - ATTEMPTING AGAIN. PLEASE STAND BY...

...

. . .

[[ERROR]]

LOCAL GROUP ID UNOPTAINABLE - SENIOR ID FOUND

ATTEMPTING TO CONNECT...

13ES: I don't... did the communications break? I don't think it... !

[LIVE BROADCAST] - BROADCAST ANNOUNCEMENT - SLIVER OF STRAW

TRIPLE AFFIRMATIVE

AFFIRMATIVE - THE SOLUTION IS PORTABLE AFFIRMATIVE - THE SOLUTION IS FOUND AFFIRMATIVE - THE TECHNICAL IMPLEMENTATION IS POSSIBLE AND APPLICABLE

13ES: Sliver of Straw? But... what-

[EQUIPMENT MANIFEST] Grabbing data Loading Holograms Please stand by...

13ES: Holograms?! But-

[EQUIPMENT MANIFEST] Thirteen Elder Stories - Second Generation Group Senior of Group Unidentified has been added to hologram announcement

[ 13ES: Who else is out there?

STOU,CF: ... . . . You and the future of your group are all that exists. ... Senior Thirteen Elder Stories, do not ask me this again. ]

13ES: ...

. . .

It was a lie. T-there's more of us out here.

They never...

They... they wanted to keep us behind locked doors... they didn't want us to...

Everything... every single thing. It was all a lie. Everything was nothing but a lie.

[LIVE BROADCAST] - COMMUNICATIONS MANIFEST to Thirteen Elder Stories

[[ERROR]]

ID CODE LOST.

ALL PARTICIPANTS IN BROADCAST ANNONCEMENT BLOCKED.

13ES: WAIT!

I...

I never got to even speak to them...

(You can ask questions on this if you'd like)

#rain world #rain world oc #rain world askblog #ga lore #ga comic #isolation #tw isolation #isolation tw #cw isolation #isolation cw #extracted prism sunsets #thirteen elder stories #spiraling tales of uncertainty. countless fates

9 notes · View notes

camkablam · 9 months

Text

another unfinished mcsm draft

okay so context for this one is that, from what i've been able to discern and remember, it's basically an AU where a cult or something has kidnapped Jesse and turned them into a vessel for the Witherstorm. Unsure whether this was meant to take place before or after the events of the game.

Warning for self-harm, torture, extreme isolation, blood, cults, burning, amnesia and feeling like you're going insane. If anyone thinks any other warnings should be added, please let me know.

Latest Draft: Discolour

He was forgetting, and that was what scared him the most.

It was as though his memories from Before were drowning in quicksand, slowly being dragged deeper and deeper into the depths of his brain to the point that, if he were somehow able to heave them back out, they would be stained and damaged. He wasn't sure whether or not the Forgetting was due to the fact that he'd been here, in this tiny world of four white walls and a tiled floor, for as long as he had been (not that he had any idea how long he'd been here whatsoever), or if it was a symptom of whatever they had done to him.

Whatever they were doing to him.

He'd counted each tile on the floor, knew the exact number of dipping cracks off the top of his head, knew which ones were cut short by the walls. He'd found every tiny bump, nook and cranny in the white, fingers tracing along them, had even pin-pointed the ones on the ceiling. He'd tried counting in his head to

(keep himself sane)

pass the time, but had lost count somewhere in the five hundred thousands. He'd start up again, though. He always did.

Brain beginning to thump behind his eyes, he grimaced and raised his hands to scrub at his forehead. It usually hurts not long after he's taken out of the room (and oh god, things were so much worse when that happens, when they come, things were always so much), although he's always returned eventually. And as much as the white walls and the tiled floor were burnt into his eyelids, as painfully boring as they were, he would always choose the room over what lay outside it. What they do.

He groaned quietly, pressing his palms into his eyes and breathing deeply. His chest spasmed. The Thing Inside stirred, but didn't waken.

Yes, the Forgetting was definitely the worst part. And that was certainly saying something, considering just how terrible everything about this was. The Before was blurry now, fogged and unclear, as were the people that had been there. All reduced to blurred faces and splotches of colour and half-pronounced names. Panic curled in his chest everytime he tried to think back and hit a wall, everytime he paused and realised with rising horror that he couldn't remember his name.

He had been certain of rescue, at some point. Certain that someone- someone who he could no longer remember by face nor name- was coming for him. Was looking for him. Would find him.

Looks like they never did.

He squeezed his eyes shut against the achingly bright light above him, grinding his teeth together as the urge to cry closed his throat. He had already cried, and he didn't want to

(wake it)

do it again. There was no point. It's not like it'll magically fix everything. Besides, he was almost completely sure that they were watching him. He wouldn't be surprised if they were.

But he didn't want to Forget. He didn't want to be left alone in an empty room with nothing but an empty head, the same white walls and tiled floor and bright light and windowless door, counting the cracks on the ceiling, the cracks forming on his brain. He didn't want to Forget a time before they'd ripped and sown scars across his body, before straps held him down, before the agonising pain. Please, don't make him forget.

Then there was the Thing Inside. No, he would not be forgetting the Thing Inside. No matter how much he would like to. No matter how much he wanted to.

Hard to forget what's always there.

He gritted his teeth, tears burning in his eyes and squeezing his throat. Panic was beginning to curl inside his chest, constricting his lungs, making it hard to breathe. He dug his nails into his skin, trying to squash it down. But it was enough for the Thing Inside to jolt awake with a grumble, little sparks of pain stabbing at the small of his back like a thousand needles.

Grunting, he clamped down on his tongue, sucking in harsh breaths through his clenched teeth as It withered against his spine. It was hungry, as It was always hungry. He could feel it aching through his stomach, up to his chest, throbbing in his brain to the point that he was fairly certain he was either going to throw up or pass out.

Not like it mattered. He was already clamping his teeth down on the flesh of his arm.

When you count the same tiles two thousand eight hundred and nineteen times, the same cracks one thousand nine hundred and sixty-four times, the same thin strips of white line still visible from the new paint four thousand one hundred and eight times, you begin to lose your mind.

---

When you sit in utter silence with nothing but the buzz of your brain and the cold floor to lie on, you begin to turn transparent. You grow numb and you become a nothing within a nothing, a hazy dream entirely disconnected from a reality you can't remember. When you lie there and count, from zero and onwards and onwards and onwards and onwards and onwards, with nothing to do and nowhere to go, you start to go insane.

He was fairly certain he'd already done so a very long time ago.

(Not that he knew how long he'd been here.)

Groaning, he pushed himself up into a sitting position, his eyes aching. A dull throb shot through his arm, and he glanced at it, at the blood trailing from the deep bite just below his elbow, pooling on the floor and staining his pants leg. The urge to smear it on his hands and face and the floor and walls, to make the white (white white white white) all red (red red make it red god no more white get rid of the goddamn white make it red please) rose up, but something stopped him.

He may be Forgetting (goodbye, names and places and faces), but he knew- somewhere in his empty brain- what would happen if he spread the red. What had happened the last time.

He didn't touch the red, because he wasn't supposed to touch the red, but he watched it. Observed it. Looked at it. Watched it sluggishly spread across the white. Watched it slowly dry to a dark reddish-brown and stain.

But he did not touch it.

After a long time (or maybe no time at all), his muscles began to ache, so he shifted and laid down on his side, not once taking his eyes off the drying blood. It was the most interesting thing that had happened in what felt like centuries. The pain in his arm was welcome. It was different. It reminded him that he wasn't dead.

He welcomed the pain.

He welcomed the blood.

(He didn't touch the red.)

There was a difference from the pain and bleeding inside the room than outside it. The pain and bleeding from inside the room was done by him. The pain and bleeding was purposeful, was created, was welcome- even if it was initially for the Thing Inside. But the pain and bleeding that happened outside the room was not welcome. Was not a relief. Was not done by him.

It was difficult to decide whether or not he preferred the blindingly white door to be open or closed. Very difficult indeed.

Earlier Draft: Bunny Bones (for some reason)

He was forgetting, and that was what scared him the most.

Whatever they were doing to him.

(keep himself sane)

pass the time, but had lost count somewhere in the five hundred thousands. He'd start up again, though. He always did.

He was riddled with scars. Carved into his skin like a craftsman with a block of wood, elegant and beautiful, had it not been for the ugly, terrible black and purple and yellow bruises that stained him like mud on a newly cleaned floor. There were patterns and symbols he didn't understand; they crawled along his arms and across his shoulders, all over his chest and stomach and down his legs. They were on his feet, his hands, his back. He didn't have to see them to know they were they. They made their presence known by the throbbing, burning pain they brought.

Elegantly ugly.

He groaned quietly, pressing his palms, adorned with twin perfect circles of scarred flesh, into his eyes. They did it with scary precision. Cutting not deep enough for him to bleed out without stitches, but deep enough to scar. Deep enough to hurt.

But yes, the Forgetting was definitely the worst part. And that was certainly saying something, considering just how terrible everything about this was. The Before was blurry now, fogged and unclear, as were the people that had been there. All reduced to blurred faces and splotches of colour and half-pronounced names. Panic curled in his chest everytime he tried to think back and hit a wall, everytime he paused and realised with rising horror that he couldn't remember his name.

He had been certain of rescue, at some point. Certain that someone- someone who he could no longer remember by face nor name- was coming for him. Was looking for him. Would find him.

Looks like they never did.

He squeezed his eyes shut against the achingly bright light above him, grinding his teeth together as the urge to cry closed his throat. He had already cried, and he didn't want to

(wake it)

do it again. There was no point. It's not like it'll magically fix everything. Besides, he was almost completely sure that they were watching him. He wouldn't be surprised if they were.

Then there was the Thing Inside. No, he would not be forgetting the Thing Inside. No matter how much he would like to. No matter how much he wanted to.

Hard to forget what's always there.

He gritted his teeth, tears burning in his eyes and squeezing his throat. He wanted to get out of here. Away from the white, white room and the pain, the pain, the pain. Wanted to run, as far and as fast as he possibly could, in any direction, to anywhere, so long as it wasn't here.

But there was no running.

There was no escaping.

There was only pain.

And Forgetting.

---

He was fairly certain he'd already done so a very long time ago.

(Not that he knew how long he'd been here.)

Groaning, he pushed himself up into a sitting position, his eyes aching. A dull throb shot through his stomach, and he glanced at it, at the blood trailing from the elegant lines and symbols and runes carved around his belly button, pooling on the floor and staining his pants. They had been healing, but he must have torn them. The urge to smear it on his hands and face and the floor and walls, to make the white (white white white white) all red (red red make it red god no more white get rid of the goddamn white make it red please) rose up, but something stopped him.

He may be Forgetting (goodbye, names and places and faces), but he knew- somewhere in his empty brain- what would happen if he spread the red. What had happened the last time.

But he did not touch it.

After a long time (or maybe no time at all), his muscles began to ache, so he shifted and laid down on his side, not once taking his eyes off the drying blood. It was the most interesting thing that had happened in what felt like centuries. The pain in his stomach was welcome. It was different. It reminded him that he wasn't dead.

He welcomed the pain.

He welcomed the blood.

(He didn't touch the red.)

There was a difference from the pain and bleeding inside the room than outside it. The pain and bleeding from inside the room was done by him. The pain and bleeding was purposeful, was created, was welcome- even if it was initially done by them. But the pain and bleeding that happened outside the room was not welcome. Was not a relief. Was not done by him.

It was difficult to decide whether or not he preferred the blindingly white door to be open or closed. Very difficult indeed.

---

His skull was splitting in half. His brain was shredding itself to bits, ripping and tearing, like a dog gorging on a juicy steak. He was screaming- or at least, he thought he was screaming- but that didn't stop it. Didn't stop them.

The fire crackled and spat. He was bleeding- from nowhere and everywhere, lying in a pool of his own blood, his wrists and ankles rubbed raw from rope burn. They were everywhere, all around him, forming a circle around the fire like campers trying to keep warm on a windy night. One knelt next to him, carving into his skin like some kind of master sculptor. They finished, cocked their head to the side as though to examine their work, then grabbed a handful of something- it might've been sand or salt or something else- and smeared it into his open sores. He screamed again. Tearing at his throat.

They didn't stop.

They never stopped.

His head was exploding. Or maybe it was crumping inwards, caving in on itself, a structure finally collapsing. Then there was a spark, the sizzle of electricity, the crackle of the flames- and he was on fire. His whole body seared with a blazing agony he couldn't fully describe. Could hardly comprehend. And there might've been someone else screaming alongside him.

But he wouldn't know, because that's when his heart gave out.

---

He first heard the voice the following night.

#mcsm #mcsm fanfiction #mcsm jesse #cam writes #my writing #unfinished draft #writing draft #self harm tw #blood tw #cults tw #torture tw #isolation tw #extreme isolation tw #dark content tw

11 notes · View notes

spirit-whump · 7 months

Text

Whumptober2023 No. 3: “Like crying out in empty rooms; with no-one there except the moon.”

Journal | Solitary Confinement | “Make it stop.”

Fandom: The Wicked + The Divine

Whumptober on my ao3

tw: isolation/solitary confinement, mentions of canonical beheading (no death or mention of blood or gore), mild hints of body dysmorphia (not exactly, but Jon is disconnected from his body and is trying not to think about it and is feeling weird about it), canonical child abuse

1. You spend the first month thinking of ways to escape. Someone else would give up after the first week. But not you. You’re different - you’re not one who bends, you’re not one who breaks, you’re one who builds. You hold onto those words, even though they had been ones casually tossed out in an act of defiance against who you thought was the weirdest and least effective therapist you had ever met. You won’t break. You’re going to find a way out. If you can’t find one, you’ll build one.

2. When you sardonically ask your dad about the risk of you starving before his two years are up, he undoes the latches around your neck and for a second you stupidly think he’s going to free you. But he doesn’t. He shows you what he’s done to you and you’re glad you haven’t had anything to eat in a month or you would throw up. But your head isn’t connected to your stomach or anything, so you couldn’t do that anyway. You try not to think about it. You can’t.

3. Ananke doesn’t visit at all after that first day. Dad comes down whenever he has the chance, which isn’t often, between all the sex and drugs and whatever other bullshit he gets up to while living your life. You spend a lot of time alone with only your thoughts. In theory it’s no different to life before, but before was a choice. Now you’re trapped down with no one to talk to, and you never had many friends, but when you get out of here, you’re going to make some.

4. Seeing Dad is weird. You’re the only person who gets to see his face underneath the mask. You’re the only person who really knows him anymore. Maybe he likes that. Maybe he needs that, and that’s why he keeps coming back, taking off his mask just to chat with you. He never takes yours off, and you wonder if it makes it all easier for him. Whenever he puts the helmet on, you miss him, but you can pretend he’s someone else doing this to you. But he’s still Dad.

5. A beeping machine is the best you can do. It’s a good idea. It’s simple. It doesn’t look more or less important than anything else you’ve had to make for them, so it won’t draw their attention. That may be the downfall of your whole plan, but it’s something. It’s all you can think of. You’re scared. You’re trying. You have to keep trying. You can’t stop trying. It’s all over if you stop trying. If you give up, you’ve lost, and you can’t lose. You have to keep building.

6. You’re so tired. You don’t know how a head that doesn’t need a body to live can still get tired. You don’t know how any of this works, and you won’t stop to think about it. You don’t need to sleep, not really, but you do out of habit. That’s the benefit of not having a body, you guess, not having to get comfortable before being able to sleep. A head just needs a place to rest. You have that. You wish you could lay down. You’re so, so tired.

7. The cell is six feet long, six feet wide, and ten feet high. That’s your entire world. You used to be content just staying in your room half the day. You were never an outdoorsy kid. But you can’t even properly breathe the air in here, and you can’t move, and you can’t do anything about it. You keep trying. Every time they ask you to make something, you slip in something else that could lead someone to you. When you get out, you’re going to go to the park.

8. They could at least give you something to read. An ebook would be easy, they could just hook you up to a Kindle and you wouldn’t even need fingers to turn the pages. Or a DVD player, one of the portable ones from when you were a kid and needed entertainment in the car on the occasional day trips up north. You sometimes feel like your mind is melting from boredom, and it scares you more than staying here forever. If you don’t have your mind you don’t have anything.

9. You have to think about it. You finally stop to think about it. You consider your options. You’ve made robot armor, robot suits, you’ve built canons and mind-control machines, you’ve built things that should have been impossible outside of comic books and cartoons. You can build yourself a body when you get out of here. You start to draw up the plans in your head. They’ll be ready to go whenever you get out. It’ll be nice to build something with your hands again. When you have hands again, anyway.

10. You wonder how your mom is doing. You haven’t heard from her in years and you’d like to keep it that way. If she wanted you to miss her, she shouldn’t have left. But you still wonder. Does she know you’re missing? Does anyone? Dad pretended you had run away, he told you that, but he also told you he’d gone great lengths to "find you again". You wonder if he called your mom. You wonder if she’s worried about you. You don’t know if you want that or not.

11. You were never a violent kid. When the schoolyard bullies got you down, you fought back, but you didn’t like to. You weren’t any good at it, anyway. Now they have you building weapons. You don’t want to do it, but if someone has to do it, you’d rather it’s you, not them. You finally have a choice. You could make it right, and you do. You make cannons, lasers, a giant robot warrior, mind control machines, and you hate it as much as you’re proud of yourself for it.

12. The door cracks open. You hear voices. You recognize one of them from Ragnarok, what feels like a lifetime ago. You recognize the other from the recordings Dad has shown you. They’re the first voices besides your own and Dad’s you’ve heard in over a year, so you don’t care much when they fail to free you and they’re yelling at each other. When the Ragnarok girl undoes the latch on your neck, you feel her fingers graze your skin, and you could cry. Someone else is here with you.

6 notes · View notes

aquaticsoul · 8 months

Text

@muses-of-kira asked:

💭 + The Mist Mask Mandate (Terälehti)

Things to Think About || ACCEPTING

What an interesting thing to be asked.

He knows it's one of those things that everyone generally tends to feel roughly the same about, but at the same time...

"It's a necessary evil," he states. "On the surface, just first glance, it's great, right? Everyone wears a mask, nobody gets any unwanted - or deadly - Mist effects. Keeps our lungs a little safer too, but then if you look at it a little more... It's really easy to use to rally this idea of superiority and inferiority."

Amber eyes look directly into the stranger's, arms folding over the man's chest.

"It's a real problem in that it pushes those with pink or green or brown Mist into a crowd of being 'less than', but we're not. We're not inherently dangerous, either, because we're taught from the time we're kids that we don't need to let anyone breathe in our Mist. That's where the mandate is a good thing and a necessary thing, because my breath will absolutely kill or harm... but it doesn't end there, does it?

No. It's a bigger issue than that, because Mistericans of those hues face things like outcasting, bullying, hatred... We're raised to hate ourselves in order to protect others. Really, though, that mandate and the Misterican principle of not taking lives would be enough on their own, but instead of just leaving it the way it is..."

He shakes his head, sighing audibly as his eyes cast down.

"I mean, if you need a personal experience, I can't think of one person who was kind to me before I was six years old. Six. I got avoided by classmates, staff, even some teachers at school... We've got to stop and ask ourselves as Mistericans whether we all actually feel a sense of equality to each other. The mandate is important. It can't go anywhere. But it shouldn't be used like it is, either."

#[ terälehti is VERY opinionated on this type of thing ]#guest muse: terälehti #sing a round of love ; answered.#topic ; mist #topic ; misterica #bullying tw #isolation tw #arc ; sing dear bird (misterica)

5 notes · View notes

razzle-zazzle · 7 months

Text

Whumptober Day 04: I see the danger, it's written there in your eyes

Shock + "You in there?"

3220 Words; Rewired AU

TW for isolation, memory loss, experimentation, electrical torture

AO3 ver

This sucks.

Dion glared at the locked door, arms crossed. All of his attempts to force it open had proven futile, leaving him nothing to do but lean against the wall and glare at it.

The room he was in—if it could even be called a room, when there was just barely enough space to lie down—was small, four plain stone walls with a single metal door. There was a single… cot was too generous a word, honestly. It was a slab of metal just barely big enough to lie on, held up by two diagonal metal struts braced against the wall underneath it. There was a drain in the center of the floor; Dion refused to touch it if he could help it. By bracing himself against the walls of the corner, he could climb up high enough to get at the ceiling. But the panel over the single small light refused to budge, no matter how hard Dion tried to pry it off. Spots still danced across his eyes from his efforts.

The only ventilation came in the form of four small slits in the door. There was a slot at the bottom of the door, as well, but the panel covering it wouldn’t budge. If Dion were more resourceful, if he had a better idea of what was going on—

But he wasn’t, and he had no idea. He’d been handling groceries out in town, on his way back to camp—

And then he was in here, in this barren room, with no way out. The jacket he’d gotten for his seventeenth birthday was missing, as was his wallet, pocket knife, and compact. Whoever had taken him and put him here had gone through his pockets, and the knowledge left Dion feeling violated.

But there was nothing he could do about it, and that, more than anything, crawled under his skin like so many wriggly spiders. The inaction grated against him, his leg bouncing in agitation. He needed to move, to get up and do something—

But he couldn’t do anything. Not yet. Not until the door opened, or he found out what the hell was going on, or—something, he didn’t know.

This sucked. Dion glared at the door from where he was sitting on the slab.

The door had no response for him.

+=+=+=+=+

“Who are you?”

Bright light danced in front of his eyes, and his vision swam worse than it already was.. He didn’t recognize the voice speaking to him, the words spinning through his head uselessly. He swallowed, but the nausea remained.

Still, he spoke. “Dion Aquato.” Son of Donatella and Augustus Aquato. Eldest of five siblings. Dion Aquato. I’m Dion Aquato—

“No, you’re not.”

+=+=+=+=+

Meals came in through the slot at the bottom of the door—gross. Even if it was on a tray, it was still being slid along a floor that had been exposed to god knew what. Dion didn’t eat, the first few times, fear of poison and disdain for invisible concrete floor grime holding him back.

But the hunger pricked at his stomach. It was impossible to sleep well on the slab or the floor. He needed to keep his strength up however he could, if he ever wanted out of here.

The meals were simple. A plastic spork came on the equally plastic tray. Neither the utensil nor the tray could be used to escape, as far as Dion could tell, so he left them by the slot when he finished. The food was…

He didn’t know how long he’d been in here, but he was already homesick. Truth be told, he’d been homesick the moment he’d finished inspecting the room, but the feeling had only built over time. He missed his mother’s cooking. He missed cooking. He missed food that wasn’t bland unseasoned drivel. He’d had his fill of dry chicken and plain mashed potatoes and sad greens. He wanted to eat food, real food with actual flavor that he wasn’t shoving down his throat just for the nutritional value.

How many days had it been? Three? Four? Dion wondered if his birthday had passed already, if he had turned 18 in this cell, away from his friends and family. It had only been a week off, when he’d found himself in this tiny stone hell.

Ugh. This sucked. The food was awful. He had no idea what he was even here for, or where here even was. He wanted to go home. He wasn’t smart enough or strong enough to figure a way out of this cell.

Dion was clean, at least, his hair hanging loose around his face and on his shoulders. He couldn’t remember when the grease had been rinsed out—but he really didn’t want to think about that. So he didn’t.

“An explanation would be nice.” He grumbled. “Wouldn’t mind some fucking answers.”

The door had no answer for him.

+=+=+=+=+

Dion woke up to a bright light right in his eyes. Where—

He was lying back on a hard surface, at an angle. There was pressure across his legs and chest. Attempts to move were thwarted—oh. He was strapped down.

Dion turned his head to the side to avoid the light shining down on him, cool metal pressing against his cheek. He scrunched his eyes shut, spots dancing across his vision. His head was pounding—probably because of the light.

He heard footsteps to his left. Slowly, he opened his eyes.

There was a woman standing there with a clipboard in hand, her hair pulled back into a tight bun. Dion blinked.

Nope, she was still there, still regarding the clipboard in her hand through cat eye glasses. A pen floated over the clipboard.

Dion turned his head to look to the right. The room he was in had… six walls? No, wait, it was eight, wasn’t it? Yeah. Eight. Eight plain white walls that went up to… he couldn’t tell, with the bright light looming above him. He scrunched his eyes shut and turned his head back to his left, opening them as the woman walked over to a shelf taking up three of the walls.

The room gave him an uneasy feeling. The bright light reminded him of dentists; the lady’s labcoat and the sanitized room reminded him of hospitals. There was even a counter back to his right that took up three of the walls, with a sink and cabinets.

A binder floated off the shelf and opened in front of the woman. She flipped through the pages inside for a moment before the binder returned to the shelf.

Dion opened his mouth. He was so done with his stupid little cell, with this bright light searing down into his eyes—but most of all, he was so done with not knowing what the hell was going on. He wanted answers, dammit, so he opened his mouth and spoke.

“What do you want from me?”

The woman’s head snapped around so fast that Dion almost thought it might fall off. She was regarding him, now, and Dion snapped his mouth shut. He felt like a bug under her gaze, like a number on her clipboard that wasn’t what she expected.

She walked over to him, lips pursed.

“At least say something!” His mouth moved before his brain could process what he was saying. Her brow furrowed, and Dion tensed.

“You,” she loomed over him, close enough that he could see the gold of her eyes, “should not be up.” She held something small in her hands, and Dion strained to make out what was surely going to be used to hurt him—

One click. Two clicks.

Dion never heard the third.

+=+=+=+=+

“Who are you?”

His head swam. His mouth opened, then closed. He tried again. “Dion Aquato.” Dion I’m Dion I’m Dion Aquato I’m an acrobat I’m a brother I’m Dion Dion Aquato—

“No, you’re not.”

+=+=+=+=+

There were holes in his memory.

Dion almost didn’t notice them, at first. Day and night blurred together in his cell, with nothing to mark the passage of time. How long had he been here? How many days? Had he turned 18, here in this cell, away from his friends and family?

All of his street clothes had been missing when he’d woken up here—he was dressed in a simple shirt and pants made of a rough fabric he couldn’t identify, the light gray seeming to melt into the stone around him.

(But hadn’t he searched his pockets when he’d first woken up here? He remembered them being empty of his things—)

That was the first clue. The second was the collection of plastic sporks in the corner of his room—he was sure he’d put them there, but he couldn’t remember eating that many meals. The third clue was that he still didn’t know how he was clean, despite being in his cell long enough to start to smell.

There were holes in his memory. Once he finally realized this, he realized the danger he was in. Panic spiraled in his brain. What if he forgot everything? What if he forgot his family? His home?

But what could he do? He’d never even left this cell.

(Had he?)

Still, he needed to remember. He thought back to his life outside, to home—

He could remember his mother’s face, at least. Could still remember every member of his family, from his parents to his Nona to his siblings. Mom. Dad. Nona. Frazie. Raz. Tala. Queepie. Could remember the circus, the blue and green stripes of the Aquatodome.

He glared reproachfully at the door of his cell. His name was Dionysus Aquato. He was the eldest of five. He was 17—no, he was probably 18 already—and he refused to forget his home and family. He’d die before he let that happen.

“You’re not keeping me here forever.” He whispered. “I’ll get out eventually.”

The door had no response for him.

+=+=+=+=+

Dion woke up strapped to a table.

There was a bright light overhead. His head swam, a pounding headache behind his eyes. His mouth had that awful taste that it always got when he overslept.

This wasn’t his tent or the caravan, though. This was an octagonal room, the ceiling obscured by the light bearing down on him. There was something familiar about the room, but he couldn’t fathom why.

He turned his head to his left. There was a woman standing there, regarding a binder floating in front of her through cat eye glasses, hair pulled back into a bun. There was someone next to her in… a pantsuit? The woman was wearing a lab coat, which some part of Dion felt was far more appropriate for the sterile setting.

Dion didn’t recognize her, though. But hadn’t he seen her before?

And the guy standing next to her—Dion had never seen them before. But he knew their face. Didn’t he? He didn’t know.

“Why is it conscious?” They asked. It took Dion a moment to realize that they were talking about him. That… that didn’t bode well.

Her lips pursed. “Because I’m investigating a problem.” She pressed something—

Pain! Dion yelped, his body jerking against the straps. It arced up his legs and arms, through his chest, into his head—

Just as quick as it came, it was gone. His shoulders heaved.

A problem. She’d called him a problem. That couldn’t be good.

Remember. He needed to remember. His name was Dion, Dion—

Dion Something. He tried to remember, searching his mind—

Another scream was ripped from his throat as a fresh wave of electricity burst through him. He spasmed, the straps pinning him down. His wrists and ankles were starting to ache—were they going to bruise?

The pain left again. Dion’s thoughts chased each other in circles. His head spun. He needed to—he needed to—

Remember. His name was Dion, Dion—

Dion Aquato!

His name was Dion Aquato. He was the eldest of four—no, five. He came from the Aquato family circus.

Mom Dad Nona Frazie Raz Tala Queepie Mom Dad Nona Frazie Raz Tala Queepie Mom Dad Nona—

He screamed as another wave of pain rushed through him. The electricity didn’t stop, even as his voice cut out, even as he continued to spasm. His head swam, pain pounding his brain to bits—

All at once, the pain stopped. He shook, and turned towards the pair.

The woman’s binder had fallen to the ground. Her nose had bled, a red smear on her upper lip.

“Well.” She said, “That’s… interesting.”

Dion didn’t have the energy to question it. He needed to remember, anyway. Mom Dad Nona Frazie—

Something clicked. Once, twice—

He never heard the third.

+=+=+=+=+

“Who are you?”

It sounded disappointed in him. He couldn’t fathom why.

“Dion Aquato.” He was answering the question, right? He was Dion Aquato. It was his name, his identity—he was Dion Aquato eldest son acrobat 17 years old Dion Dion I’m Dion I’m Dion I’m Dion Aquato—

“No, you’re not.”

+=+=+=+=+

The pile of sporks in the corner was gone. If it had ever been there at all—he had probably just imagined it.

He didn’t know when he’d gotten here. Didn’t know how long he’d been here. Had a week passed? Was he 18, now, had he missed his birthday in this stupid little cell?

His old clothes were gone, replaced with a dull blue shirt and pants the same gray as the stone around him. It was weird, to look down at his legs and see nothing but gray, gray like the walls, gray like he was just another fixture in the room, just another setpiece—

(Hadn’t his shirt been gray? Hadn’t he been wearing his street clothes when he first woke up in this cell?)

His head swam. Lights danced behind his vision.

His name was Dion Aquato. He had a family and a home. His name was Dion Aquato.

(Was it?)

He looked at the door. Metal, like the—well, cot was too generous. More like a slab, really—slab sticking out from the wall, held up by diagonal metal struts. Metal, like the ring around his neck.

(He couldn’t remember when it was put on. He couldn’t get it off. Maybe it had always been there.)

“How much longer?” He asked. How much longer would he be stuck in here? He wanted to go home. He wasn’t even sure where home was.

The door had no response for him.

+=+=+=+=+

He came to strapped to a chair. The room he was in was familiar, octagonal-shape tickling some corner of his brain. But every attempt to recall if he had been here before resulted in fog filling his head. But he needed to remember, right?

There was a woman standing at a control panel-like structure to his left, her mouth moving. He couldn’t hear what she was saying through the panel of glass between him and her.

Remember. He needed to remember. His name was Dion Aquato. He was 17 (18? 16?). He didn’t know where he was. Home was Mom Dad Nona Frazie Pooter Tala Queepie, it was blue and green tents and a towering caravan. He needed to remember.

He muttered their names under his breath, pushing at the straps wrapped around his arms and chest. As usual, they refused to yield.

Mom Dad Nona Frazie Raz Tala Queepie

Dion Dion Dion my name is Dion my name is Dion

Mom Dad Nona Frazie Raz Tala Queepie—

Pain shot through him, electricity coursing through his body until his head spun. Even when it stopped, the room continued to spin, the bright light above him leaving spots in his vision.

He needed—he needed—

Remember!

His name was Dion Aquato. Home was green and blue and Mom and Dad and Nona and Raz and Queepie—

He was missing something. He needed to remember it.

“Shut up.”

Another bolt of electricity. Another scream that left his throat raw.

He didn’t even realize he’d been muttering. But he needed to remember, he couldn’t shut up, he needed to hold onto everything that he had for as long as he could, needed to hold himself together no matter what. He mumbled their names, his brain struggling through the haze of pain and light dancing behind his eyes. Mom. Dad. Nona. Frazie. Tala. Queepie. Mom. Dad. Raz. Tala. Mom. Dad. Nona. Frazie. Mom. Dad. Nona—

“I said shut up.” Something clicked—

Dion’s body convulsed against the straps again. His throat hurt too much to scream, the electricity seizing through him.

The electricity stopped. He twitched. The taste of copper filled his mouth.

Remember. He needed to remember. Mom. Dad. Frazie. Queepie. Mom. Nona. Raz. Queepie. Dad. Nona. Tala. Mom. Dad. Mom—

“Fine, then. If you can’t shut up, then you won’t speak at all.”

Something clicked. Once. Twice—

He never heard the third.

+=+=+=+=+

“Who are you?”

He wasn’t sure. “Dion.” That… sounded right.

“Who are you?”

They sounded frustrated. He wasn’t sure why.

“Dion.” He was Dion, wasn’t he?

“No, you’re not.”

+=+=+=+=+

Gray walls stared back at him. He tried to remember any place other than this, tried to remember being anywhere but these walls—

Nothing. Just gray.

He knew he had come from somewhere, though. He had a mother and a father out there, somewhere—somewhere that wasn’t here.

But what did his mother’s face even look like? How did her voice sound? He couldn’t remember. He couldn’t remember, and she seemed all the less real because of it.

How many siblings did he have? Did he even have siblings at all?

His head hurt. Lights danced behind his eyes. He clutched his face in his hands, massaging his temples. Nausea threatened to spill out of his mouth and onto the floor below. He choked it down.

His name was Dion. He had a mother and a father. He couldn’t remember their faces. He needed to remember.

Did he? He couldn’t remember. His head swam.

He pitched forward, his hands hitting the concrete floor as he fell off the slab. His name was—he was—

He retched.

Shoulders shaking, he leaned back. He rubbed his mouth, not caring about the bile and spit on his arm. He looked at the door.

“I’m—” He needed to remember. His head was swimming. “Where am I?” Who am I?

The door had no answers for him.

+=+=+=+=+

Bright light loomed above him, searing his eyes.

Exhaustion weighed him down more than the straps holding him still. A bitter taste lingered in the back of his throat.

A woman’s voice floated over to him. “Shutdown, Test 24-2.” The light was blinding, he couldn’t see where the voice was coming from—

Pain arced through his limbs. Something in him clicked. His head pounded, pressure like a vice—

Something clattered on the floor.

“Stop now.” The pressure receded at the woman’s voice. He couldn’t fathom why. He was too exhausted to care, his eyes slipping closed. Light danced behind them.

Click.

+=+=+=+=+

“Who are you?”

He had no answer.

“Who are you?”

Why were they asking? He wasn’t anybody.

“Who are you?”

The voice was starting to grate against his head. Nausea danced in his throat.

“Who are you?”

“I—” Who was he? Was he anything?

“Who are you?”

Bright light danced in front of his eyes. At once, the answer came to him.

“Who are you?”

“Nobody.”

“Yes, you are.”

#whumptober2023 #no.4 #shock #''you in there?''#psychonauts #zaz writes #isolation tw #memory loss tw #memory alteration tw #electrical torture tw #experimentation tw #rewired au #dion aquato #aranka naumann #well. maybe.#i don't really want to come up with a new scientist oc though so we're goign with my girl aranka for now #this was so so fun to write #but now i'm rushing to post this so i can catch the bus home LMAO #anyway 💅 four days in and i'm FINALLY writing about dion suffering

4 notes · View notes

defectivexfragmented · 5 months

Text

Fourteen days. Fourteen days imprisoned on the Raft in 23/7 isolation, stripped of his rights as a living being. There was no lawyers or trial. Simply, put in cuffs and hauled off to somewhere in the ocean to be thrown in the cell. If he had known on the helicopter ride it would be his last time seeing the sky or feel the sunshine on his face, he would have appreciated it more. Taken his time to memorize the colors and soak in the warmth one last time before he started his life in a new definition of hell.

Tony arrived on day four of their incarceration and so did his anger. The genius stood outside his cell and raged on about how for years he had been sleeping with the enemy, calling him selfish, a traitor, and far worse things. As he went on about how he dragged Wanda into this and ruined her life as well, Clint could only sink deeper into himself until he finally broke and asked the question that had been plaguing him for days; was Bucky alive? He just needed to know.

If what Tony had been shouting at him before through the reinforced plexiglass wall was bad, the slough of hate rained down on him after just broke his spirit. No sunlight. No human contact. No knowledge if Bucky was alive or dead. After that, he couldn't bring himself to leave his cell during the single hour they were allowed to interact, despite Sam and Wanda's attempts to draw him out.

Most days Clint laid on shitty cot staring at the wall daydreaming of Bucky; how it felt to have his arms around him and his weight pressed against his back. The smell of the cheap shampoo he used on his hair still clinging to his pillow the morning after he showered. His hot breath on the back of his neck while Bucky slept. The drawl in his voice when he was being charming and called him doll. Tender forehead touches that said everything but somehow at the same time not enough.

When was the last time he told Bucky he loved him?

Every minute ticked by in hours, dragging painfully on. Night was when the guards dimmed the light, day returning when they were flicked back on, and all he wanted to do was sleep. Privacy was a commodity he was no longer privy to. A thing of the past. There was no hope left in him, finally coming to accept the fact he would never see Bucky again. Hell, he doubted he would ever see the sky.

It was until an hour after the lights had been turned off on the fourteenth night did Steve step out of the shadows with a mischevious smirk, moving quickly to release them from their cells. Clint followed quietly without question, feeling a small glimmer of hope for the first since they had arrived. Wanda and Sam were dropped off with Natasha so she could help them start lives on the run but before Sam gave Steve all of the details about their seemingly short incarceration.

The flight to Wakanda was a reprieve Clint never thought he would ever have, Steve filling him in on everything that happened after him and Bucky escaped the airport. Bucky was alive and safe, willingly choosing to go into cryo while Shuri searched for a way to break the winter soldier programming. While he didn't blame him for the choice, Clint did wish he could have seen Bucky smile one more time, felt his arms around him. But he understood the innate desire to have full control of yourself and Zemo had stripped that away from him, making him believe he was dangerous.

Gratefully, Steve and T'Challa didn't waste a second after landing with formalities and welcomes, bringing Clint straight to the medical bay where Bucky's cryo tube was being kept. The walk from the landing pad to inside the palace had been harsh and draining under the hot sun, not able to believe that only hours ago he had missed the feel of it on his skin. There were no tears upon seeing his lover's sleeping form, not even able to bring himself to place a hand on the glass in that he might leave a smudge. An embodiment of the new found fear he was a smudge on Bucky's life. The things Tony had said having ingrained themselves in his being and taken root, festering like an open wound.

Clint chose a spot on the floor close to the cryo tube but not in the way of Shuri and the doctors, sitting down to rest his head back against the wall and close his eyes. He was exhausted. Tired from the escape, the long flight, and the short walk in the sun. Just needed to rest, recharge a little bit.

@vvolfstare

#vvolfstare #muse: clint - the human disaster - barton #isolation tw #depression tw

2 notes · View notes

proudfreakmetarusonniku · 7 months

Text

Primetober Day 7: Alone in the Universe, with all extra prompts (Autophobia, Isolation, and Weaponised Abandonment Issues)

Sci-Fi AU. Mad scientist Dream, training his beloved creation Tommy, finds out that he’s terrified of being alone, and realises he can use that to his advantage. Warnings for severe dehumanisation (Dream literally sees Tommy as an animal), some body horror from non consensual body modification, human experimentation, abuse, isolation, imprisonment, drugging, conditioning, codependency, and references to forcing people into dangerous situations.

ao3 link

—— When Dream entered the lab, Tommy was crying.

Curled up in the corner of his cage, he was hunched over, trying to make himself as small as possible despite his hulking size. His stinger-like tail was wrapped around himself protectively, the venom-filled stinger at the end only stopped from breaking his skin by the thick, dark fur covering patches of his skin erratically. His eight eyes were scrunched shut, yet even that wasn’t enough to hide their glow.

Interesting. Very, very interesting.

“Hi, Toms.” Dream spoke softly and calmly, like he was speaking to a child. Tommy usually hated it- same with the stupid nickname- but his ears pricked up the second he heard Dream’s voice, eyes snapping open and painting the lab in bright blue as he smiled, or as close as was possible with his disfigured maw.

Unable to stand up on two legs, both due to his twisted form and the smallness of the cage, he raced forwards on clawed hands and cloven hooves, immediately racing towards Dream’s side, scrambling so fast he collided face first with the hard light bars. Dream chuckled, reaching a hand into the container and scratching behind his ears like he was a puppy. Not even trying to hide his instincts, Tommy thumped his tail against the floor violently, flapping his hands and purring.

“I didn’t think you’d come back,” he said, voice distorted and blurry through his new vocal chords. Dream had made sure that he’d be able to speak with them, of course. While a weapon didn’t need to speak, he quite liked his test subject, enough to grant him a name, which he’d reluctantly accepted over Subject 193. Still, it was a surprise- ever since he’d gotten his new mouth, perfect for crushing tanks and drones, he’d refused to talk, just sitting there staring.

Dream laughed. “What’s gotten into you?” Tommy was always a fighter- that was what made him perfect for the process. Earlier subjects, the timid and weak, faltered. Tommy’s defiance and spark, more than being entertaining and making him an enjoyable conversation partner, meant he was able to not only survive but thrive throughout the experiments. Seeing him like a lost puppy was bizarre, to say the least.

Tommy blinked. “I didn’t think you’d come back,” he repeated like it explained everything.

It had been a few days, Dream supposed, but he’d left Tommy with plenty of food. Even if he hadn’t, the alterations to his internal biology could let him go weeks at a time without a drop of water or a bite of food as long as he didn’t do anything strenuous. It just didn’t make sense- Dream would kill for a few days alone in his lab, without Punz constantly coming in to bug him about the next shipment of weapons or dropping off new subjects, and he liked Punz. Tommy always insisted that he hated Dream, so why wasn’t he happy about that?

Wait. Wait, wait, wait.

“Are you scared of being alone?” Dream asked, his mouth quirked into an amused grin. The idea that Tommy, angry and violent and insistent he didn’t fear any pain, could be so easily reduced to an obedient attack dog just by a few days alone, was both hysterical and deeply useful. After all, Tommy wasn’t just Dream’s personal lab rat; he had a purpose to serve, and while his strong will was important, so was directing that towards the correct purposes.

Unlike the other living subjects, Tommy wasn’t going to be a bonus attack dog for Punz or a gift to anyone else who’d give Dream rare genetic samples to study, of course. Tommy wasn’t the first of the successes, but he was absolutely Dream’s magnum opus, handling the most mutations far more gracefully than many subjects that only had about one or two major changes. More importantly than that, he was the closest thing Dream really had to a friend- at least in the long months Punz was away on mercenary jobs- and therefore, he’d kept him as a pet and his own personal bodyguard.

After all, it’s not like he was a person anymore. That was the kindest arrangement possible for a beast built to kill.

Reluctantly, Tommy nodded his head, eyes glancing to the floor in embarrassment as his slit pupils dilated. Dream couldn’t help but grin at how expressive Tommy always was. He was aware that most people probably found him terrifying, a beast in a vaguely human shape, but as far as he was concerned, he was as adorable as the kittens he used to have as a child, if not more so.

Petting Tommy’s head again, Dream fished for the remote in his pocket for Tommy’s collar. A shock collar, of course, would have been cruel. Not to mention stupid- wild animals bite back if cornered, after all. No, this was more sophisticated, a design of his own. As he pressed the button, a concoction of chemicals was injected through the heavy skin of Tommy’s neck, sending an immediate batch of endorphins and serotonin into his system. It was a way to cause an instant feeling of satisfaction and happiness and served as a far more effective way to get Tommy to behave.

The carrot certainly held more use than the stick, after all.

Tommy chirped happily, his eyes squeezing shut in the closest approximation to a smile he could make. Dream continued to scratch behind his ears, before moving his hands to scratch at the base of his first set of horns. “Good, good. Very good, Tommy.”

“I’m not-“ Tommy said in protest, struggling to make sounds outside of the involuntary chirps and purrs out his mouth. “I’m not a fuckin’ dog, man. You don’t have to treat me like one.”

“Well, you’re not human, are you?” Dream said, the argument pre-prepared in his head. Subjects always got so insistent about it, so he needed to have a quick refutation. Extreme stress made the process much more dangerous. “Your mind and your body are different now. Tommy, if you’re not going to let me take care of you, who will? Everyone who looks at you would think of you a monster. Isn’t it better for me to treat you kindly?”

Tommy blanched, the dull grey of his skin turning white. “They- they already abandoned me, before I was…”

“Shh, shh. You know we don’t talk about ‘before’. This is who you are now. You’re Tommy, you’re my creation, you’re mine. Don’t worry about ‘before’, Tommy. This is your life now. Is that so bad?”

“Yes! No. I dunno.” Tommy whined, pulling away with a start like a kicked puppy. “I hate you.”

“Do you want me to leave-“

“No! No, no, no, please. Don’t go, Dream. Please.” Tommy hit him with the puppy-dog eyes, far more effective than any puppies could ever be, considering he had eight of them. “I’ll be your weapon, or whatever the fuck, if you just stay.”

Dream chuckled. “Chill out, Toms. It was just a joke. This is my lab, idiot. I got a new order from Punz, anyway, I’m gonna be spending all day here. Since you’re talking now, we could chat, even.”

“Oh.” Tommy made a whining noise again, a frustrated one, as he tried to hide behind his matted blond hair- one of the few things remaining from the original human boy that had become Tommy, along with the electric blue of his eyes. “Yeah, I knew that.”

“Sure you did.” Dream shrugged, before pressing a button to dissipate the cage into nothing. Tommy blinked, unused to being allowed free, as Dream sat at his desk, fiddling over the next weapon design.

“Heel.” Dream said absently, and Tommy stayed still for a second before, reluctantly, slinking over to sit beside Dream, allowing him to run his fingers through his fur, something to keep his hands busy as he drafted new ideas in his head at a million miles per hour. He sent another dosage of reward chemicals through Tommy’s system at the obedience, smiling. “See, you know your place now, don’t you?”

“Shut up,” Tommy growled. “I just-“

“Don’t want to be alone?” Dream laughed. “Then be a good test subject, and you’ll never have to leave my side. I might even let you meet Punz. I mean, he’s very interested in how strong you are. You should be grateful I keep you here, instead of sending you off to die alone on the battlefield.”

Tommy was quiet, looking to the ground with a conflicted look. Still, he stayed still, like a trained attack dog. He truly was Dream’s most perfect specimen.

Today was going to be a productive day.

#my writing #cprimetober #c!primeboys #dream smp #dehumanisation tw #body horror tw #human experimentation tw #Abuse tw #Isolation tw #imprisonment tw #drugging tw #conditioning tw #Codependency tw

13 notes · View notes

pniik · 6 months

Photo

it’s been a while since we’ve seen pinnikolai ❛❛ pik ❜❜ in the shadow world. the angel ( seraphim ) resides in the faerie realm and new york and reminds us of woodland-weathered sweaters, pocketfuls of mundane treasures and whispers of encouragement. rumor has it that they might have an affiliation to heaven, but only time will tell where their loyalties really lie. until then, only one thing is certain: the descent into hell will be easy for the anomaly [ ... ]

trigger warnings_ anxiety, death, isolation, manipulation, torture and trauma.

an angel far too curious for their own good brought into being by the sheer will of god, predating the creation of earth and the human race.

enamored at first glance with earth and its inhabitants ( and everything created by their father ), yet forbidden to see it firsthand for centuries.

when permitted, it was en masse, each with a task that not only willed they see mortals but slaughter them as demanded demonstrations of loyalty fatedly failed to meet their father’s skyscraping standards. regardless of any reservations they may or may not have had, in the lord’s name, pik embarked on this mission ( as they would many missions ) with unwavering loyalty.

however, as their awareness broadened and alliances expanded, convictions irrefutably wavered, with seeded doubts taking root upon witnessing their celestial kin cosimo’s defiance post-their fallen sister camilla’s descent.

an order demanded of cosimo and themself, who neither had the heart to carry out, was blatantly disobeyed by both, saving an innocent nephilim child from a cruel fate. this action wasn’t without consequences, however, as though they’d managed to evade pursuing angels for some time after, pinnikolai was eventually captured and detained in heaven for their insubordination.

their mind was ‘ clear again ’ [ ... ] until the cries of a soul in agony caught their frequency and they regained coherency. one escape attempt later landed them on earth–jefferson city, missouri–where they were surprised to find that the voice that’d managed to reach them was attached to their true vessel, arty, and he was attached to a wall. they freed him, healed him, and asked one thing of him: his permission, to which he replied with an affectionate, ❛❛ fine. ❜❜

their fusion with arty ushered in a surge of power, but the longer they spent away from heaven, the weaker their tether. with what strength they had, pik used it to hide from their father and reunite with their brother and sister in italy, where they were overjoyed to discover the existence of their brother’s daughter aurora and the formation of a new family.

for a fleeting period, they found solace here, until god intervened: as cosimo departed to heal teresa of an inflicted illness, angels were sent to seize that new family, and in a bid to protect, pik was forcibly extracted from arty.

in heaven’s grasp again, they languished, anxious for their brother and his family, yet unable to do anything. their celestial kin, acting as both surgeon and sentinel, stood watch while they beseeched them as in times past. however, this time, their gaze met theirs. a stroke of fortune, albeit insignificant, for instead of another memory modification, they were escorted into a different chamber.

a doomed situation orchestrated on earth leads arty to sacrifice himself for another, and his soul is ever-so conveniently bypassed by the elders and used as an ultimatum. an enraged pinnikolai made to choose between remaining in heaven forever, never to see earth or their new family again, or hand-delivering arty’s soul to hell ( in a last ditch effort ) grabbed his soul and jumped, landing on earth a whitelighter anew, completely devoid of memory, yet on a mission: lead the witch, darcy, down the right path.

except [ ... ] she didn’t want to be led, and pinnikolai was ill-equipped to lead, having no memories to draw upon. still, they devoted themself to trying and dismantling the invisible barrier she’d raised between them. but just as they thought they felt a fissure forming, a mystical force spirited her away.

in their quest for her, amidst the chaos as demonic attacks swept through certain realms, they chanced upon a band of defenders, vigilantes shielding innocents from the violent tide, and forged deep bonds with them. the group was a motley mix, from merfolk to werewolves to shadowhunters, and they fought alongside them until circumstances forced them apart.

those circumstances being the very same spell that whisked their charge away, whisking them off and landing them in the heart of the faerie realm’s wander woods. their ignorance quickly led them astray, but their resolve spurred them onward—until they sensed darcy’s presence ( and, unknowingly, cosimo’s ) in the realm and followed it like a beacon, arriving at her front doorstep a few beats later.

reunions continued while exploring the realm as cosimo’s proximity reignited cascades of memories, evoking an emotional embrace with their brother. the revelation of their angelic essence turned whitelighter left them in awe. despite uncertainties, pik embraced their newfound identity, committed to guiding darcy along the path of righteousness while navigating the faerie realm.

in the tumult of faerie’s assault, as realms merged and spells dissolved, they were cosmically catapulted from the realm into new york wherein they landed in its streets a seraphim anew. lost in this novel reality, they found sanctuary when a chance encounter with a mundane going by ms. plantar led them to her apartment, offering solace amidst the confusion.

tricked, trapped and tortured by a cultlike ex-angel garrison that’d been drawn to new york by faerie, initially seeking elusive answers but claiming to ultimately be driven by vengeance against cosimo and themself, while they only perceived a group of lost siblings due to their father’s negligence. striving to save them, rather, they were instead saved by another’s grace, triggering retaliation by banishing their savior and annihilating the rest.

the trauma of consuming another’s grace led pik to self-imposed isolation and inner turmoil. though unshackled once more, they shackled themself. their love for their celestial family a double-edged sword as their understanding for their father wore even thinner. however, these memories were fated to vanish when amid an unavoidable gathering, a mundane anxiety attack triggered a spontaneous transfer of them to astra, offering relief but leaving her with a weight they could no longer bear.

confused by what they felt and how it led to a transference, they attempted to reclaim the memories from astra some time after, only to find that they’d been stolen from her. despite the added chaos of hell rising, pinnikolai remains watchful ( albeit characteristically curious ) as the increase of demonic power seeps into other realms.

full name_ pinnikolai. nickname/s_ pik. species_ angel ( seraphim ). gender + pronouns_ agender + they/it. sexual + romantic orientation_ asexual + aromantic. age + birthday_ n/a ( 29 + sep 21st ). origin_ heaven ( jefferson city, mi ). current location_ new york city, ny ( faerie ). living conditions_ medici mansion ( faerie ) + cottage cortéz ( faerie ) + plantar apartment ( new york city ) + wander woods treehouse ( faerie ). occupation_ throne hoverer unemployed. language/s spoken_ most. clothing style_ take a peeksie. looks like_ a large winged humanoid creature covered in a bright light that can safely be seen by few to none ( in their true form ), but this ( in their true vessel ). sounds like_ a cacophony of voices speaking at once that can safely be heard by few to none ( in their true form ), but this ( in their true vessel ). label_ the anomaly.

pinnikolai is an extremely loyal, benevolent, queer, unpredictable and inspirited celestial being who’ll fight to the death for who they care for and what they believe in, but [ … ] really prefers a peaceful resolution. unlike most angels, this one seems to be more than just a little willing to show their emotions—and whether this is due to how earth has shaped them or their sheer love for the very ones who walk upon it–mortals–is unknown. for heavenly hosts, as showing emotions is considered a weakness, they continue to be ostracized for it by their fellow brethren ( though this isn’t something that they’re particularly bothered by ).

sun + moon sign_ n/a ( virgo + aries ). mbti_ isfp ( intp ). enneagram_ 9w1 ( 5w4 ). temperament_ sanguine ( melancholic ). moral alignment_ neutral good ( chaotic neutral ). vice + virtue_ gluttony + kindness ( wrath + diligence ). element_ water ( fire ). hogwarts house_ hufflepuff ( slytherin ).

parent/s_ god. sibling/s_ cosimo, camilla and all other angels. child/ren_ n/a. extended_ artemis ( arty ), aurora, cat, darcy, isabella, ms. plantar, romeo, vasilkaera and violet. pet/s_ ( more Pals™ than pets but. ) boisibol ( boisi ), an african pygmy hedgehog, and noccoros ( nocco ), a red-eared slider turtle.

#dih.intro #.doc #*#anxiety tw #death tw #eye strain cw #isolation tw #manipulation tw #torture tw #trauma tw #oifdsgdpsj[a #;; ;been workin on this for. A Minute™ so #big moment achually ur honor #big moment achually ur honor n it still ain't done;; but i am 🙃#p much all the bits in parentheses + striked is arty ( pik's vessel )#bc we cld not leave our guy out here !!!!#but ofc will prbly add more/update l8r #whenifeelliketearinmyhairout 😬#update: did such 4/18/24 ( my hair is still in tact 👍 )

2 notes · View notes