#whumpcember2022 day13

[much-obliged-timothy]

Whumptober #13

Dragon Age - #13 - Fear of the Unknown

*

Anders sat on the windowsill, the pillow from his mother in his lap and his knees hugged to his chest. He trembled, despising the cold of this place. His mother always used to keep a fire going on cold nights and he’d often curl up and sleep in front of it. 

But there was no comfortable fire inside his new room. Just other children sleeping beneath thin blankets with no parents to soothe away their inevitable nightmares.

Anders looked towards the door that led out of the room and his trembling increased. This was only his first night here but he felt miserable, certain he’d wither away if he stayed in this awful place.

How could his father do this to him?

What was going to happen to him here?

That question, more than anything, sent a spike of fear right into his heart. His breathing hitched as it slowly worked its way around his mind.

Would they keep him in here for his whole life? Some of the mages he’d seen in here looked so much older than even his parents. If he was too dangerous for his own parents to love, would society ever accept him back out in it?

Did they intend to actually train him in how to use his magic, or would they try to suppress it? What kind of “training” would it even be? 

Some of the mages here looked so scared. Just what was Anders going to endure here?

He had not spoken a word since his home disappeared from view when they took him. He felt like he’d never speak again. He was afraid if he opened his mouth, he’d just scream and find himself unable to ever stop.

As those fears grew inside his chest, he pressed his face to his knees and squeezed his eyes shut against the tears gathering there. Tears had not stopped them from taking him away from the only home he had ever known. Why would they matter now?

He ran his fingers along the pillow in his lap and desperately missed his mother. He wanted her to hold him and stroke his hair and tell him it would be okay.

He was so, so scared.

He didn’t know what happened to mages when they were locked up like this. All the horrible possibilities were swirling around his mind, dragging him down into an ocean of terror. They could do whatever they wanted to here and there would be no one to protect Anders. 

He clenched his hands into fists, jerking them away from the pillow, afraid to taint the last remaining remnant of his mother he had with his magic. Why did he have to be born like this? He didn’t want to be a mage. He didn’t want to be locked up in this cold, solitary place.

Maker, what if they tortured him? What if they treated him with the same disdain his father had in the end? What if they took his pillow away from him and stood by to watch as he forgot everything he’d ever known?

He was crying now, silent sobs shaking his shoulders. He’d never felt so alone and helpless in his life. It felt like just yesterday that he was surrounded by friends and loving parents. 

He pressed his hands over his mouth to keep his sobs from slipping through. He had no idea what they would do to him if they caught him being weak like this. 

He had no idea what they would do to him here.

With terror in his heart, he cried harder and wished he’d wake up from the nightmare that had become his life.

[alexversenaberrie]

[sylvanfreckles]

13 Fear of the Unknown

Part 13 of Deck the Hells

Fandom: Critical Role Rating: T Warnings: none

Summary: Imogen fears what she may become, as her power seems to grow daily. She finds an unlikely confidante in Chetney, who knows what it's like to wonder if you're becoming a monster. (Read on AO3)

...

Ruidus hung in the sky, making its slow path across the sky of Exandria. On the deck of the Silver Sun, Imogen somehow felt closer to it than she’d ever been before, yet somehow father away from understanding anything about it. Every lead they pursued just led to more questions. More mysteries.

More powers.

She rested her forearms on the railing to look down at her hands, and at the marks zigzagging up her arms. It seemed like her power was growing a little more every day, but that wasn’t always a good thing, was it. Sometimes things grew and grew until they couldn’t control it anymore, and then they went bad or combusted…

Or murdered their friends.

That power she’d seen with Otohan was so seductive. Just a single blast leveling everything around her. And Imogen had that kind of power locked inside her?

How could she ever trust herself? How could anyone else?

She had to be careful. Imogen curled her hands into fists and nodded to herself. Control. That had to be the key. She had to maintain absolute, perfect control. Over herself, her powers, her emotions…all of it. That was the only way to be sure everyone would be safe.

No more summoning interplanar entities of lightning and wrath. No more calling down the power of Ruidus. No more Fey rocks, or mysterious powers, or voices in her dreams. She’d keep running, keep controlling, keep them all safe.

“Beautiful, ain’t it?”

“What?” Startled, Imogen snapped her head up to realize Chetney was standing next to her at the railing.

“The moon,” the gnome nodded. “I can see you’re out here admiring it.”

“Right, right…the moon,” Imogen scrubbed the dampness off her cheeks and stared up at the sky. “I love how…red it is.”

“Bullshit.”

“What?”

“Oh, please,” Chetney waved a hand toward the moon. “Anyone with half a brain can see you’re not out here to admire the scenery.”

Imogen shook her head and turned to leave. “Just leave me alone, Chet.”

“No can do!” he scuttled around to get in front of her, arms outstretched. “You’re up here by yourself, scowling at the moon, acting like someone broke the clockwork horse I made you.”

He suddenly looked horrified. “Did someone break your horse?”

She let out an undignified snort of laughter. “No, Chet, no one broke my horse.”

“Oh. Well, that’s good.”

“Uh-huh. Can I go now?”

“No, you don’t,” Chetney waved his arms at her and ushered her back toward the railing. “Now, you’re gonna sit right there and talk to me.”

“Why would I do that?” she demanded, folding her arms. “What on earth makes you think I need a pep-talk from you, of all people?”

“Because I know what it’s like to think you’re becoming a monster.”

That punched the wind out of her sails, and her knees buckled. She managed to grab the railing enough to cushion her descent to the deck, so she wound up sitting instead of sprawled. “How could you…?”

“Know? It’s written all over your face. Every time you learn something new about yourself there’s this hint of fear, like you’re gonna turn bad, like Otohan.”

“But what if I am like her?” she held her arms out, where the purple-red markings had spread even further. “What if this is the proof? What if it takes over me, and I snap and I just kill you all?”

“That’s not gonna happen.”

“But it could!”

“It could. But it won’t.”

She shook her head and pulled her knees up to her chest to rest her forehead against them. “I don’t understand how you have so much faith in me.”

Chetney scooted closer and laid a hand on her arm. “Remember Bassurus? When Otohan had us cornered?”

She tried to laugh, but it came out as a sob. “When she killed Fearne and Orym, and-and Laudna?”

“Yes, then.” Chetney’s voice was uncharacteristically gentle as he slid closer to move his hand to her shoulder. “You levelled an entire city block.”

“I know,” she nearly shouted. She whipped her head up to glare at him, but he didn’t flinch. “I was there, Chetney! I did that!”

“And you didn’t hurt us.”

Imogen dropped her head back to her knees, her anger deflating. “That was probably an accident.”

“I don’t think it was. I never did.”

She sniffed back a tear and turned her head so she could look at him. He smiled and pulled a tiny wooden rocking horse out of his pocket. It was brown with a yellow mane, and he’d carved a tiny heart in its flank.

“You’re not a monster, Imogen,” he said quietly, setting the rocking horse on her knee.

“But what if I’m just like her?” she asked, her voice little louder than a whisper.

“Who, Otohan?” Chetney blew a raspberry. “Not gonna happen.”

“Chet.”

“And if it did, so what? You could be her, but good!”

Imogen wiped her eyes, carefully picking up the tiny rocking horse. He’d even put little lightning bolt details on the rockers. “You think so?”

“Sure! Besides, at least you’re not turning into that fucking slug mother under Jrusar.” He shuddered, and Imogen made a face at the memory. “Or you could be turning into a rock, like Ashton.”

“Yeah, what the fuck is up with that?” she interjected. “What’d he say about being human once?”

“Who knows!” Chetney flung his hands up. “My point is, of all the things you might be turning into, I don’t think any of them is a monster.”

She rested her head against the railing and stared at him for a moment. “Not even if I summon another one of those lightning creatures that fucked with your head?”

“That was so cool.”

“But it hurt you!”

“It was worth it!” he scrambled up close to her, right in her face. “Can you do that any time?”

She jerked back, knocking her head on the railing. “Well, I’d have to be ready for it, but I suppose…”

“That’s so cool! What was it like? Did it talk to you? Did it do what you want?”

Imogen hesitated. Well, if she was being honest with herself, it wasn’t like anyone else had really asked, and it might be kind of nice to talk about it with someone who was actually excited. “Well, for a second there it kinda felt like I was there between planes, you know? And I could just reach out and open a doorway for something else to step through…”

[sanitatemsss]

Whumpcember 2022 Day 13

@whumpcember

Fandom: marvel, clint centric

Warnings: none (please let me know if you think anything needs to be tagged)

Prompt: Day 13 - fear of the unknown

[rain-candles-jazz]

whumpcember day 13: fear of the unknown tw: domestic abuse

Deego sat in his bathroom, holding a thick rag to his head.  He took it off too look at it, frowning when it was soaking with fresh blood.  Deego glanced out the door to the phone on the wall and wondered if he should head to the hospital... if the cut was still bleeding this badly, perhaps it would need stitches...

A drop of blood landed on his arm, and Deego hastily refolded the rag and placed it back over the wound.

He thought about going to the hospital, having to explain that he'd gotten hit in the head by a broken wine glass thrown by his demented mother...  He shook his head to himself.  They would ask too many questions, try to take him away her, or worse - take her away from him.  She hadn't meant to hurt him... she was just sick - he remembered her tender hugs when he was younger and vowed to himself, once again, that no one would take her way from him.

He would take care of his own injury.  Deego stood up and fell sideways against the wall.  The dizziness subsided after a minute or two.  Deego wondered if he had gotten a concussion as well, or if the blood loss was simply getting to him. Once somewhat stable on his feet, he leaned over the bathroom sink and opened the cabinet behind the mirror.  He dug out an almost empty bottle of peroxide and a box of band-aids.

After dabbing peroxide on the still bleeding wound, making him suck air through his teeth at the stinging pain adding to the dull throb, Deego fingered through the bandages, until he happened upon a pair of butterfly bandages, seemingly included as a sample.

Deego looked in the mirror.  His eyes were dim and tired, with dark circles ringed under them.  His hair seemed mussed and ill-kept...  And now there was a gash on his temple, ringed in red from the peroxide, and it was already developing some impressive swelling... And it was still dripping the odd drop of blood into the sink basin.

While looking in the mirror to line up the bandages, Deego placed both of them, trying to pull the two sections of skin back together as much as possible.

Once finished, he looked at his face again.  He still looked tired and hurt.  Deego sighed at his reflection and walked unsteadily out of the bathroom.  All he could think of now, was heading to bed.  At least he wouldn't feel the pain in his sleep.

[ex0rin]

Whumpcember 2022 - Day 13

@whumpcember Day 13: Fear of the unknown Winter Soldier - 945 words character study, blink and you'll miss it winterbones, hunger pangs, broken bone, emotional whump

gif by me!

The Soldier stumbles away from the riverbank, confused and disoriented - he doesn’t remember where he’s supposed to go after the mission, he doesn’t know where his Handler is and the earpiece he’d had shorted out, sparking annoyingly against the inside of his ear when he’d hit the water – 

He’s never failed a mission like this before. 

The Director will be upset with him - words about being a gift to mankind, about changing the world, about finally bringing freedom and order rattle around in his head along with the memory of blue eyes – 

He shakes his head free of that second thought, letting the comfort of his core programming take over again. 

The way to The Chair is lined with blue and red lights and far too many people with weapons drawn and readied - he calculates his ability to get back inside without being noticed as a low enough percent that he knows not to risk it; the likelihood that his Handler or The Director are currently inside is equally low. 

His feet lead him unthinkingly to the last place he’d seen The Director, before The Chair and the quickburn of fire whiting out his thoughts (blue eyes again, always blue eyes) - the lights inside of the large house are out but that’s familiar and safe and at least there isn’t movement behind the huge panes of glass that have always felt like more of a risk to The Director than necessary. 

The Soldier knows the way inside. 

He removes his gun, placing it down against the wooden tabletop and sits with his back to the corner as he’s been trained - his gun is loaded and the safety is off in case The Director or his Handler requires it; he’s not sure how they’ll punish him for the failed mission, but the gun will make it easier. 

He waits. 

And waits. 

And waits. 

At some point his stomach growls, churning around on itself - he doesn’t remember the last time he’s had nutrition, intravenous or in a protein shake made by his Handler, but it must have been before The Chair. 

He ignores it. 

The day shifts to night and back to day. 

The Soldier’s eyes feel dry, red around the edges from the smoke earlier - his eyelids are heavy but he can’t sleep, not without the command from The Director or his Handler. 

He considers that this might be punishment. 

His arm hurts, throbbing at the elbow from where the man (blue eyes, blue eyes, blue eyes) broke it back - he can feel the way it stitches back together and focuses on that pain instead of the uncomfortable feeling in his stomach and the way he keeps swaying in his chair, struggling to stay conscious. 

The Director had tested him for this before - keeping him awake for days with no nutrition just to see how it would affect his body; at twelve days they’d started a rotation of the other Agents to watch him at all times, at fifteen his Handler had come in to check all of his vitals (fingers through his hair, tucking it behind his ear, such a good boy whispered against his temple) before leaving again. 

It hasn’t been nearly that long this time, but it feels wrong.

It’s night again when he hears the first of the cars pull up outside - the sound is bad, not the same as before, heavy wheels along the gravel outside; The Soldier’s body goes tense and suddenly awake, buzzing with the quick release of adrenaline. 

He stands on trembling legs and reaches for his gun again, holding it down at his side as he slips from the kitchen and back outside - he pushes himself into the shadows near the kitchen window and waits, ready to protect The Director if he returns. 

There are boots inside The Director’s home, several sets - all loud and angry sounding. 

The Soldier doesn’t catch all of their conversations as they tear through drawers, closets and cabinets but he does hear enough – 

They say Hydra has fallen.

They say The Director is dead. 

His chest feels hollowed out as the information settles inside of him; there’s a low buzzing at the back of his skull and his flesh hand trembles at near his thigh hard enough that his sidearm clatters against it’s holster - he tightens his fingers around the grip and holds his breath, having made too much noise already. 

He doesn’t know how long he stands outside, waiting for the men inside to leave while struggling to process the words; he needs to verify them, he needs to return to his Handler and –

Is his Handler dead?

That thought is sudden, violent, it gets lodged in his throat and makes him tremble more - full body shivering, dry eyes strangely damp and he stumbles away from the wall without thinking –

“Movement outside,” says a voice from behind the windows. 

The Soldier blinks back the wetness beneath his eyes and makes for the trees along the outside of The Director’s property - he knows this place better than the men inside and is not worried about them finding him before he gets… back… to… 

Where does he go now?

His breath comes faster, more adrenaline spikes through his body; it overrides the empty ache in his stomach, the dull throbbing pain in his arm as everything catches up with him all at once. 

The Soldier is alone. 

He doesn’t know what to do, where to go, who he can trust - there must have been failsafes for this but those would have been given to his Handler; he’s just a weapon, to be used and maintained and then returned to storage and now…

What now?