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words-with-wren · 4 months

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@chrumblr-whumblr Day Thirteen: Panic Attack

Still behind aah my perfectionism.

Fandom: Endeavour

Word count: 2,500ish

It had been a routine trip, just informing the wife of a man recently murdered and gathering a full picture of who he was. Nothing out of the ordinary. Until the house caught fire.

It put a stop to the discussion quite neatly. Bringing news of deceased loved ones was never a pleasant job, but ushering the recently widowed woman outside as her house burned down around her made matters decidedly less pleasant.

They stumbled out of the house just ahead of the flames, Morse’s arm around Mrs Heathers, Thursday hovering behind them. They stumbled out a few paces away from the house, where a small crowd of neighbours had already gathered. Morse hoped that meant the fire department was on the way.

He coughed, bending over and resting his hands on his knees to regain his breath. Then he came aware of Mrs Heathers, sobbing loudly. When he looked up, he made out Thursday gently restraining her as she turned back to the house.

“My babies!” she sobbed. “Let me go! Johnny! Sara!” Her shouts were broken and tearfulled and Thursday had his hands full stopping her running back into the inferno.

With a sickening sensation, Morse remembered the mess of children’s toys he had noticed in the sitting room. There were kids in there.

“Morse!” Thursday shouted, seeing the look on his face. “Fire’s on its way.”

“No time, sir,” Morse said. Before Thursday could protest further, he shrugged off his coat and rushed back towards the flaming house.

The fire had clearly started towards the back of the house, which meant the sitting room and stairs were still relatively undamaged. But he could feel the heat as soon as he burst through the front door, could feel the smoke in the air. Flames licked against the walls, steadily making their way towards the stairs.

He’d have to be fast then. He bounded up the stairs, trying to hold his breath to avoid inhaling any smoke. The house groaned around him and he felt a prickle of fear down his spine.

Upstairs was a narrow hallway, dim with smoke. Morse shoved down the first door he saw, opening it to an empty bathroom. He paused long enough to grab a towel, tying it around his mouth in an effort to filter his breathing.

The next room was the master, and sweat was beading along his forehead. The house groaned again and he felt something shift around him.

The next room was on fire--directly above the kitchen where he presumed the fire had started. Heat washed into his face as he opened the door, causing his eyes to water. He coughed, not getting quite enough air through the towel. It was a child’s room, but there was no sign of any kids.

Fighting down growing fear, he pulled the door shut and pushed open the door opposite it. A young girl, maybe five years old, was curled on the bed and Morse let out a long breath of relief.

Smoke billowed into the room and he could hear the fire roaring behind him. The girl was crying, and gave a small squeal of fear as she saw him. Morse wondered dimly how much of a state he looked.

“We have to go,” he said, forcing himself to keep his voice calm. Where was her brother? Mrs Heathers had mentioned two children.

No time to dwell on it now. Morse picked the girl up and she clung to his neck, burying her small face into his cheek.

For a second, he entertained the idea of searching deeper into the house to try and find the boy. Then he felt the whole house shudder and heard a loud, roaring crash. If he didn’t get out soon, he wasn’t sure if he’d be able to.

He ran, clutching the girl close to his body, skidding to a stop at the top of the stairs. Fire was licking at the walls now, beginning to inch towards the staircase. Morse took a deep breath, lungs tight, and turned so his back was towards the fire, one hand on the back of the girl’s head.

He scrambled downstairs as quickly as he could, the stairs groaning terrifyingly under him. The fire was hot, hot, hot, so hot that any sweat on his face was now evaporating instantly. His lungs were dry and raw, every breath felt the same, fabric on his face making him feel claustrophobic.

He’d made it to the second last stairs when the building groaned and the stairs collapsed. They crumbled from the top, throwing Morse off balance. He rolled, managing to land on his shoulder and protect the girl, then immediately rolled onto his front, to protect her further. Something slammed into him, between his shoulder blades, sending blinding white pain through him.

He couldn’t stay down though. The roaring of the fire was all around him, but he could see the front door. He staggered to his feet, fighting down coughs, and stumbled towards the door, girl a screaming deadweight in his arms.

Hands grabbed his shoulder and pulled him out as the house groaned behind him. For a moment, everything was a blur. The girl taken from his arms, violent coughing, ribs aching, a hand on his shoulder.

He was on his knees in the front garden, makeshift mask pulled away to let him beathe blessedly fresh, cool air. He coughed again, head spinning, and made out Thursday crouched over him.

“Alright?” Thursday asked, a barely notable waver in his voice. Morse nodded and coughed again, blinking away tears in his eyes. He wiped his face, hissing in pain as his shoulder moved, and staggered to his feet.

“There’s still the boy,” he said, voice hoarse and rough as he spoke. He coughed again, head spinning. In the distance, he could hear sirens.

The house was ablaze, fire licking from the windows. Part of the roof had caved in and Morse felt his chest tighten. The boy was still inside.

He stepped forward but Thursday grabbed his arm, gently pulling him back.

“You go back in there you’re liable to not come out,” he said forcefully. Morse shook his head and pulled his arm free. He was having trouble breathing. “Morse. You’re in no state to help anyone right now.”

A fire engine rounded the corner, pulling up to the small crowd, ambulance not far behind. Morse could make out Mrs Heathers, sobbing, clutching the girl he had rescued. He felt dizzy and suddenly wanted to sit down.

“He’s still in there, sir,” Morse said.

“Let the firemen handle that,” Thursday said, voice even and steady. “Best to get you checked over.”

Morse finally let himself be led away from the front garden as the firefighters disembarked from their vehicle. Thursday exchanged a few words rapid with one of them, and then Morse allowed himself to be led to the ambulance.

He felt a state, covered in ash and soot. Most of his burns were superficial, and the blow to his back just a bruise. He sat on the back of the ambulance, feeling strangely cold, oxygen mask held to his face.

It didn’t help fully--he still felt like it was impossible to breath.

Thursday hovered nearby, talking to the ambulance crew and occasional firefighter. For a moment, Morse just focused on breathing, on watching the firefighters steadily bring the blaze under control.

Then there was a shout, and Morse raised himself off the back of the ambulance, lowering his oxygen mask. A firefighter burst from the door, a small, limp, bundle in his arms. Morse felt his chest tighten, air squeezed out of his lungs. He felt cold, hands prickling, blood pounding in his ears.

The ambulance crew rushed towards the firefighter, but Morse couldn’t move. His hands were shaking and he shoved them into his trousers’ pockets. He had been too late. He had been too late.

He couldn’t breath. Smoke had curled its way into his lungs and he couldn’t breath. People were talking, shouting, Mrs Heathers sobbing loudly. The fire was roaring, roaring and the house collapsing and suddenly everything was just too loud.

He couldn't stay, couldn’t sit here. Restless panic bubbled in his chest and dread filled him. He couldn’t breath. A shaking gasp didn’t give him enough air and--you could die from smoke inhalation, right?

Die. Like that boy he hadn’t been able to save.

He shuddered, trying to gasp for breath, then turned and stumbled away, past the ambulance, around the fire engine. On the other side of the fire engine, he dropped to his knees, one hand pressed against the side of the vehicle.

He couldn’t breath. Everything was spinning, was distance and he had failed. He had failed he had failed he had failed. He hadn’t been able to save the boy it was too late and he had inhaled too much smoke and now he was dying and he hadn’t even been able to save the boy and--

“Morse!”

He had failed. His head was spinning, his hands were numb, his chest was tight, tight tight, he couldn’t breath. He had failed.

“Morse, can you hear me?”

Someone was calling his name and he blinked, eyes wet. His chest was so tight, pressing against his lungs and he wondered if this was what a heart attack felt like. He hadn’t been able to save someone. He had failed. A child. The poor mother. He had failed.

“Morse, look at me if you can. You’re alright.”

Dimly, he made out Thursday’s face, hovering in front of him. He gasped, but it wasn’t enough and he gasped again. He was breathing quickly, starved for air. The air was heavy, heavy as though with smoke. Smoke in his lungs. Failed. Failed Failed.

“Breath Morse. Can you hear me?”

He shuddered, taking another deep breath.

“That’s it, lad. Breath.”

Again, he shuddered, trying to focus on Thursday’s voice. The world was spinning around him and he still felt like he was dying but Thursday’s voice was soothing and familiar.

He breathed again, and this time it felt like he wasn’t fighting against a weight on his chest. Again and he could read the concern on Thursday’s face. Again, and he began to feel a little foolish, curled on the ground like a child.

“Alright?” Thursday asked. Morse took another deep breath, fighting back a gasping shudder, and coughed hard enough to bring tears to his eyes. He wasn’t sure he could answer that right now. Had he inhaled too much smoke? What had happened.

“The boy?” he managed to gasp out, feeling that tightness around his chest again at the thought. His breathing became shallow and quick and he felt dizzy.

“He’s alright, for now,” Thursday said. “Was tucked away in the corner of the dining room. Bit burnt up, but the ambulance folk think no real harm done.”

Morse let out a long breath, staring at the cobbles beneath his knees. The tightness in his chest loosened a little and he shut his eyes, taking in another deep breath.

“Come on, up you get,” Thursday said. Morse blinked his eyes open, seeing the older man holding a hand out to help him to his feet. “Lets get some more oxygen in you.”

He didn’t answer, allowing Thursday to pull him up. He still felt dizzy, a little disoriented, a little filled with dread. The boy was alive though.

Thursday hovered like a worried mother hen as they returned to the ambulance, and made sure to hand Morse the oxygen mask. He sat heavily back on the edge of the ambulance, feeling dizzy and cold and exhausted.

The oxygen forced through the mask was sweet and fresh and loosened the tightness even more. He took a few deep breaths, then shivered violently. Thursday must had noticed, because he shrugged his coat off and gently laid it over Morse’s shoulders.

The weight was comforting and grounded Morse fully, bringing him back out of the strange, spiraling panic. He wrapped a hand around the edge of the coat and pulled it closer.

Now that he was more settled and the tightening pressure of his panic had faded, he felt more than a little foolish. They were on a scene, lives were at stake, and he had run off to hide like a scared child.

“Sorry sir,” he said, not able to meet Thursday’s eyes, staring at the ground below. “I’m not sure what-”

“Nothing to be sorry for,” Thursday said evenly. “You just had a bit of a turn, is all. You saved that girl, and that’s more than anyone would have asked of you.”

Morse nodded, not having the strength to respond. He felt exhausted, like he’d run a mile, and suddenly wanted nothing more than to be home listening to music with a glass of whiskey.

“Fireman’s not sure what exactly started the fire,” Thursday mused. “But he doesn’t think it was an accident.”

That broke through Morse’s exhaustion and he looked up with curiosity.

“Arson?” he asked. Thursday nodded, a contemplative expression on his face. Morse felt suddenly grateful, glad the Inspector wasn’t treating him any differently, despite his panic and embarrassing performance. “Think it’s related to Heathers’ murder?”

“Off the husband then burn the house down while the whole family is still inside,” Thursday mused. “Possibly. No motive though.”

Morse nodded, frowning, trying to work through what he knew of the case. His brain was sluggish, exhausted, and his frown deepened to one of frustration.

A patrol car pulled up, uniformed officers arriving to help make sense of the scene. Morse knew he should get up and start helping, but right now he was enjoying just sitting, the pressure of the coat around his shoulders comforting.

Thursday gestured one of the Uniforms over and exchanged a few words. Morse didn’t pay them any attention, still running the case through his slow mind. Why would would someone want to kill a man, then burn down his home? Or was he jumping to conclusions and the two cases were unrelated? And why do it when Morse and Thursday were inside? Had that been intentional?

“Morse.” Thursday’s voice pulled him out of his thoughts and he looked up to see Thursday standing beside the officer--Davies, Morse remembered dimly. “I’ll finish up here, Davies will take you home.” Morse opened his mouth to protest, but Thursday raised a hand to forestall him. “Its either that or the hospital, and we both know that won’t happen.” He fixed Morse with a long stare and Morse dropped his gaze.

“I can help sir,” he said.

“I’m sure you can. But you look dead on your feet, and a good kip and a freshen up will do you a world of good. If I could convince you to take tomorrow off I would, but sending you home early will have to do.”

Morse didn’t look up, feeling as though he should protest more. There was a case to solve, people’s lives ruined here. But he was too exhausted to properly protest, and going home to a shower and a drink and Wagnar sounded heavily right now.

He looked up and nodded, and Thursday returned the nod and Morse hoped that was enough to convey his gratitude.

Then reluctantly, he slipped off the back of the ambulance, relinquishing the coat back into Thursday’s hands and followed Davies home.

#wren writes #chrumblr whumblr challenge #endeavour #itv endeavour #endeavour fanfiction #endeavour morse #fred thursday #whump fic #whump #panic attack #burning building #this one was fun once i FINALLY got into it

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catkin-morgs-kookaburralover · 5 months

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day four: watching while loved ones are hurt

a Vaniah story. word count 1,431.

After the incident with the tranquillising a week ago, Maria had become positively foolhardy. She talked back to Jim, who seemed to enjoy it, and had put on an air of bravado that fooled precisely nobody. It surprised and frankly worried Vaniah. She had been nervous: now she was hard. Training was making her hard.

But it was making him hard too. His instinctive reaction to thinking about his family now was a faint tinge of disgust; they were not only sheltered but weak. It took another moment before he reminded himself that they were not weak but had different strengths. He was becoming superior.

He was also gradually losing sight of the honest reasons he had signed up for this career in the first place. He was scarcely aware that that was happening: only when he lay awake at night, wishing he could sleep and finding no rest. Usually, though, he was too tired to lie awake, and slept dreamlessly.

Today there was nothing happening until after lunch should have come and gone. At that time he had not eaten for nearly twenty-four hours, as dinner had been off the menu. Was Jim planning to starve them all? It probably should have bothered him more than it did. He was learning to take life as it came; the fear was dying slowly, leaving him an emotionless shell.

Somehow that didn’t bother him as much as it ought.

The siren went when the day was coming towards evening; everyone moved with alacrity to the meeting hall, glad to have something more than hanging about to do. Vaniah found his place next to Mordecai, and looked attentively to the front, where Jim was standing as usual.

“Form into pairs,” said Jim coolly. Vaniah turned swiftly to Mordecai, who nodded and put his arm through Vaniah’s elbow. “Line up in your pairs.”

This feels like primary school, thought Vaniah. Like children.

He was unsurprised to see the first pair ordered off to a different room, and gradually each pair was sent to one of the several smaller rooms nearby. He waited without thought or fear. He had learned to stop helplessly panicking. In this his training was becoming useful. Presently they reached the front of the line, then were sent into another small room: the one in which, weeks ago, he had been medically tested. The same doctor was waiting there, masked and gowned.

“Who wants to be chosen for this test?” he said.

Vaniah hesitated, and because he hesitated Mordecai spoke.

“I’ll do it.”

The doctor turned, left the room and came back with two chairs. He tied Mordecai, passive and unresisting, to one, then Vaniah to the other. They stared at one another. Vaniah was commencing to worry.

“Remember you chose this,” said the doctor, and slapped Mordecai hard across the face. His head was flung backwards by the impact, and the chair rocked. He uttered a startled yell.

Vaniah moved. He was securely bound, but he threw his weight against his restraints and moved the chair forward a couple of inches. “Don’t hurt him!” he said sharply. “Hurt me instead!”

Mordecai looked dazed. He blinked, then shook his head vaguely and winced.

The doctor slapped him again. This time Mordecai kept his eyes closed.

“Don’t you hear me? I want to be chosen. Don’t hurt him.” Again Vaniah threw his weight against the ropes, and this time a knot gave. “Don’t—!”

As he got his arm free the doctor punched Mordecai, closed fist and hard. Mordecai’s head hung limp.

“You’re hurting a defenceless man!” exclaimed Vaniah violently, wrenching his arm free and reaching out to grab the other’s lab coat. “What are you, a coward? Can’t you let him free to fight, at least? This is senseless!”

All his anger did nothing; the doctor glanced at him emotionlessly. “You chose to let him be hurt.”

“I did not! I just—I hesitated. For one second. Let him go and hurt me instead. He doesn’t deserve this.”

“And you do?”

“Yes,” said Vaniah without hesitation. “More than Mordecai does.”

The doctor got a bucket of water and flung it in Mordecai’s face. The boy groaned.

“Your choices led to this,” said the doctor calmly. They made eye contact. “It’s your fault.”

“You’re lying,” said Vaniah, without conviction. “It’s not my fault.”

“I wouldn’t be hurting him except for you. This is your own fault. Your choice.”

“Hurt me instead.” He wrenched at his bonds again, unsuccessfully. “Damn it! Don’t hurt Mordecai!”

The doctor took a lighter from his pocket and flicked it on, holding it up. “I wonder how this will feel?” he said in a conversational tone.

Vaniah, shaking, tried to reach for it. He would gladly suffer the burn if he could prevent it from being applied to Mordecai, who was still barely conscious.

“You coward,” he seethed. “Hurting an innocent man—!”

“Innocent? None of us are innocent. Why are you trying to protect him? What’s he ever done for you?”

“Basic human decency! And he, this friend of mine—”

“None of you should have friends. Just for that—” And he held the lighter against the back of Mordecai’s hand. Mordecai flinched violently, but the doctor gripped his wrist.

“Stop!” Vaniah jerked his chair forward several inches. He didn’t care that he was crying. “Stop it! Stop hurting him! Why are you doing this?”

“Because of you. I heard you the other day, talking to Maria. I hear everything you say.” He removed the lighter, let Mordecai’s hand drop to his lap again. It looked charred; Vaniah didn’t want to look too closely. “You see, I’m being completely serious that this is your fault. None of the others are being hurt.”

Vaniah closed his eyes. He wasn’t quite sure enough that the man was lying to shake the guilt. It was his fault. It was. If only he hadn’t— Mordecai groaned again. The doctor was prodding the burn, and saying in a mild, childlike tone, “That’s interesting.”

“What’s your name?” asked Vaniah.

He had a purpose, but the man looked at him with raised eyebrows and said gently, “Why are you worrying about my name when your friend is injured and you can’t tend to him and it’s all your fault?”

Vaniah closed his eyes. Then he opened them and said coldly, “I want to know your name so that once I’m out of this cursed place I can come and hunt you down and kill you.”

“And how would you do that?”

“I will find out where you live. I will watch you as you go in and out every day of your life. I will find out who you love and who you hate, and I will protect the ones you hate from your wrath. Then I will follow you, one day on your way to work, and I will kill you with a thousand cuts, slowly, and I will enjoy your death screams. You will die only after begging for death for a long time. It will not be pretty. But you will never know when your doom is about to come upon you until it is coming. You will fear me for every day of the rest of your miserable existence. I can strike whenever I like. You know I am strong, and I am growing stronger. Fear me.”

He thought the doctor had gone a little pale. But the man rallied and said, “You are in my power.”

“For now,” said Vaniah: and smiled. “Only for now.”

“Because you said that,” was the calm response, “your friend, or the person you called your friend, is going to hurt more. Do you think Mordecai will forgive you, Vaniah?”

“Mordecai is very forgiving,” he said coldly. “I know that he will forgive me.”

“Even for this?” The doctor leaned down, gripped Mordecai’s chin hard and said, “Mordecai!” When the boy stirred, mumbling incoherently, he continued: “This is Vaniah’s fault, you understand?” Mordecai blinked and eventually nodded.

“Vaniah’s fault,” repeated the doctor, and hit him again. Vaniah clenched his fists and tried to get out of his binding again. Again he failed.

“How can you?” he asked. “You’re a monster.”

“We’re all monsters here. You will be one too, if you aren’t already.”

“I swear I never shall.”

“Oh, but you’ve changed already. You’re a different man to when you came in. Some things can never be undone.”

The words hit home like he had been struck. “I am not and never will be a monster.”

The doctor smiled; slowly, broadly, cruelly. “That’s what every monster thinks.”

#vaniah #whump #the last sentence is ever so much better when you consider what he becomes #also friendly reminder that this is not a one shot this is part of a continuous story #if you're curious about the previous day's try looking at the tag whump and or go to chrumblr-whumblr and find it

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beas-whump-blog · 5 months

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@chrumblr-whumblr day 3! The prompt is "carrying".

Fandom: Epic (2013)

Ronin flew through the boggan base at speeds that would have impressed even Nod. Every so often he came across a boggan or two that spotted him quick enough to try and fight, but they posed no challenge. Or maybe they did. He was so focused on his mission, it was all a blur.

He hated Wrathwood.

He was heading for the lowest level of the enemy's stronghold, knowing that's where he'd find what he was looking for. It was a trap, he was certain, and he was walking right into it. He had to. Mandrake had gone too far this time.

Ronin finally jumped off his shimmering mount as he reached the lowermost level, not waiting for the bird to land before leaping to the ground.

“Nod,” he hissed, making his way down the long tunnel, peering into cells made of metal and rotting tree roots. “Nod, where are you?”

He was in such a hurry he almost missed the slight gleam of green armor in one corner of a cell, and a person-shaped lump in the other. He pulled out an arrow and used it to saw away at the weakest root he could find.

Crude, but effective.

He shoved the two pieces of root out of his way and rushed to the back of the cell, kneeling before a familiar figure.

“Nod,” he whispered, rolling him gently onto his back. “Nod, wake up. We have to go.”

The boy groaned softly, not opening his eyes.

“…Dad?” he mumbled, and Ronin almost smiled, brushing the boy's matted hair out of his eyes and wincing at the blue and purple bruises that marred his face.

“Not quite. Come on, we need to get out of here.”

Nod’s eyes cracked open, seemingly struggling to focus on the man before him.

“…Ronin? What are you doing here?”

“Saving your sorry self, what does it look like?”

Nod shook his head as he gained some clarity.

“No, you don't get it. You can't be here, Ronin, it's a trap. Mandrake doesn't care about me, he wants you!”

Ronin just looked at him.

“Are you done?”

“Ronin, I'm serious! You have to believe me, you-” he stopped as he understood Ronin's unfazed expression. “You knew.”

“I didn't earn the rank of Commander by being an idiot, Nod.”

“No, just by being cozy with the queen,” he retorted. “But then… why are you here?”

“See, that's why you quit the leafmen. You have no concept of anybody caring for anyone other than themselves. Well guess what kid, I lost your father in this hellhole and I'm not about to lose you.”

Nod was silent for a moment, then grinned slightly.

“Man, I knew you were getting old, but seriously? Ronin, what happened? You're getting emotional! I think it may be time you considered retirement.”

“You’re just asking to be left behind, aren't you?”

“Alright, sorry! Touchy subject, I see.”

Ronin shook his head.

“If you weren't as injured as you are, I'd smack you all the way to Moonhaven.”

“And if you weren't as old and weak as you are, I might actually bother to try and stop you.”

“Can you walk?” Ronin asked, electing to ignore that last comment.

“Hm? Yeah, yeah, I can walk. Just gimme a sec.” He tried to sit up and winced with a shout of pain.

“Oh, you can walk, can you?” Ronin couldn't resist asking.

Nod glared.

“I'll manage.”

“And waste time getting out of here? I don't think so.”

Ronin slid his arms under Nod’s back and knees and got to his feet, stumbling slightly.

“Hey, careful!” Nod exclaimed painfully. “I can do it, put me down!”

“No time,” Ronin said curtly, carrying him out. “What have you been eating, pebbles?” he asked when Nod turned out to be much heavier than he'd expected.

“You're hilarious, old man,” Nod said through gritted teeth, trying not to cry out in pain.

Ronin placed the boy on the back of his hummingbird, and he slumped forward as he climbed on behind him.

“Y’know… I didn't think you were coming,” Nod admitted as they took off.

“We're leafmen, Nod, we look out for each other. Not that you ever took that lesson to heart.”

“You don't get to use that anyway. I quit, remember?”

Ronin nodded.

“Fine, then how about you and me? We look out for each other.”

Nod was quiet, then nodded.

“I think I can work with that.”

#if you're wondering about my inconsistent formatting im only using a readmore if i reach 1k #or maybe 850-900 #i haven't decided yet #ive also decided to start adding the fandom #im editing it into the others as well but it won't show up in the rbs #chrumblr whumblr 2024 #bea writes

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esters-notepad · 4 months

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One thing I like about using Johnny Cash songs for inspiration: it gives me an excuse to dig deep into very American cliches. Like this story. Communist infiltrations? Secret military bases? Brainwashed soldiers, thinking themselves patriotic, but only awaiting the right key word to start furthering the Red agenda? Yes, it's really cheesy. But it was fun to write!

Day nine @chrumblr-whumblr: mind control

Johnny Cash song: 25 minutes to go

Warning. 25 minutes until self-destruct. Please evacuate.

What? What did I...? Did I do that?

Warning. 24 minutes until self-destruct. Please evacuate.

My hands... they still look like my hands. Why did I turn the key for the self-destruct?

Warning. 23 minutes until self-destruct. Please evacuate.

Edwards is shaking my shoulder: "What the hell, Harvey? What was that?" I just shake my head, but my brain doesn't clear. "Come on, Harvey, turn it off!" Edwards shouts. Of course. Turn it off. How simple. Why didn't I think of that? Turn it off. Turn the key back. Why aren't my hands moving?

Warning. 22 minutes until self-destruct. Please evacuate.

Edwards swears loudly and pushes me away. Then, suddenly, a loud bang. Edwards lies on the floor in a growing puddle of blood. Carter has drawn his pistol. Carter shot Edwards? Why?

Warning. 21 minutes until self-destruct. Please evacuate.

Nothing makes sense any more. The control room is so empty. Where is everyone? Where is Captain Miller? Lieutenant Robertson? Where's the Colonel? Somebody come and save me! I... I don't think I can save myself. And it's definitely too late for Edwards.

Warning. 20 minutes until self-destruct. The self-destruct process can no longer be aborted. Please evacuate.

Somebody is coming down the corridor. Two technicians. Jordan and Brown. Carter shoots at them, and they shoot back. I should shoot Carter in the back, now that he's facing away from me. I should... Damn, my hands won't move again. What is wrong with me? And where is everybody? Out to lunch, or what?

Warning. 19 minutes until self-destruct. Please evacuate.

Jordan and Brown have fallen and aren't getting up. Carter holsters his pistol again and strolls towards me. "Well done, Comrade Harvey", he says. I'm not a Red! I... "Maybe I should introduce myself," Carter continues. " Major Mikhail Ivanovich Kartashov, of the GRU. Thank you for your assistance. I could not have done this alone. As a token of my government's gratitude, I won't shoot you." He whips a pair of handcuffs from his pocket and chains me to a pipe by the wall. "I'll even leave you the choice whether you shoot yourself, or wait for the base to explode." That's right. My pistol is still in its holster. I should draw it. I should shoot Carter. Kartashov. I should shoot him. Why don't I?

Warning. 18 minutes until self-destruct. Please evacuate.

I can't shoot him. I can't strike him. I can't even spit in his face. I curse him internally. He stands up and says: "I believe it's time to evacuate. Farewell, Comrade Harvey. You were the best candidate I ever worked with." Candidate? I've been brainwashed? That... that would explain things. That would explain a lot. Maybe everything. Carter...shov is gone. I need to get out, as well. I have to warn them that he isn't Michael Carter from Iowa, but Mikhail Kartashov from the USSR. I have to get my hand loose.

Warning. 13 minutes until self-destruct. Please evacuate.

It's hopeless. The pipe won't budge. I can't break the handcuffs. Maybe if I shoot my hand off... but no, I'd bleed out before I even got close to the evacuation shaft. I'm trapped down here. Can I pray, or did those damn Reds take that away from me, too? Dear Jesus, help! Please catch Kartashov. Please let him die when the base explodes, or let the others figure out he's an impostor, or something. Please don't let him hurt this country further.

Warning. 12 minutes until self-destruct. Please evacuate.

Please forgive me for what I've done. I didn't mean to... no, sorry. Help me take responsibility. My hands turned the key. Forgive me. Please take care of my wife after I'm gone. God, I'm cold! I don't really want to die. Please help me to meet death as a man.

Warning. 11 minutes until self-destruct. Please evacuate.

I wonder when the Reds got to me. I wasn't even in Korea. Did they... do they have brainwashing facilities here? In America? God help us! I never thought they could have infiltrated us that far. It's chilling to think of.

Warning. 10 minutes until self-destruct. Please evacuate.

This base is probably not the only one. This might be the start of a bigger offensive. Maybe even the start of World War Three. Everything going according to their plan, just like it did here. And I can't do anything about it. Jesus! You have to help us. Please stop those godless Communists from taking over the world!

Warning. 9 minutes until self-destruct. Please evacuate.

I have to get out of here. I have to warn them. About Kartashov. About all the rest. Somebody let me out! If I could at least reach the telephone... Maybe I could drag it closer, somehow? I have to get the word out!

Warning. 8 minutes until self-destruct. Please evacuate.

I can't. There's no way. Forget about it. It's hopeless. I guess the Reds win this round.

Warning. 5 minutes until self-destruct. Please evacuate.

As if anybody could get out of here in five minutes... Alice, my dear. I'm so sorry to leave you like this.

Warning. 4 minutes until self-destruct. Please evacuate.

I have to get out! Cut me loose! Damn handcuffs! Damn pipe! Damn that Kartashov!

Warning. 3 minutes until self-destruct. Please evacuate.

I'll never see Alice's face again. Or the sky. Or the mountains. I'll die down here. It's really happening. I'll be dead soon.

Warning. 2 minutes until self-destruct. Please evacuate.

I guess it's for the best. I did betray the whole base, after all. Even if I'd somehow gotten out, they would have condemned me to death for what I did.

Warning. 1 minute until self-destruct. Please evacuate.

I wonder if I'll see the explosion coming, like in the movies? Or if it just... ends? I wish things had been different. Jesus, forgive me. Jesus, help me. Our Father who art in Heaven, hallowed be Thy

#tw swearing #tw death #chrumblr-whumblr #mind control #25 minutes to go #ester writes

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chrumblr-whumblr · 5 months

Text

Announcing the Chrumblr Whump Challenge for May!

You don't have to be in any way affiliated with chrumblr to participate (or even know what it is)! This is just to set this challenge apart from the many other whump challenges doubtless happening during any given month.

Please reblog this post to share it! We'd love to see what you create. Once you post your masterpieces, just tag this blog (@chrumblr-whumblr), and we'll reblog your post. If you're concerned your post has slipped through the cracks, feel free to ping again or send in an ask (the askbox will open up presently).

If you don't like any day's prompt, or simply want to do more prompts, feel free to substitute the alternative prompts at any point. If you have any questions, don't hesitate to ping this blog, and give it a follow so you can see and contribute to the sweet sweet whump.

NSFW responses will be reblogged with the tag #nsfw. I reserve the rights to tag anything I consider NSFW under that tag.

Below the cut is the prompts in plain language.

Daily Prompt List

Blindfolding

Kneeling

Carrying

Watching while loved one is hurt

Forced to obey

Tied to a chair

Blame/guilt

Blood covered hands

Mind control

Whipping

On the run

Manipulation

Panic attack

Traumatic touch aversion

Memory loss

Begging

Touch starved

Shaking hands

Asphyxiation

Came back wrong

Exhaustion

Gagged

Concussion

Drowning

Stabbing

Wiping away tears

Hiding it

Scars

Infection

Shaking voice

Humiliation

Alternative Prompt List

Secret caretaking

Shouting

Abandoned

Misunderstanding

Betrayal

Stress position

Hypothermia

Altered mental state

Kidnapped

No anaesthetic

#whump #whump prompt #whump community #whumpblr #whump blog

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swift-creates · 4 months

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@chrumblr-whumblr day 11: on the run

wc: 1217 | warnings: sprained ankle, being chased and shot at by battle droids, mention of burn injury | characters: Peter Parker (pov), Arrio Mckay, Dick Grayson

the boys get isekai'd into the clone wars tee hee chrumblr rp girlies <3 @ablatheringblatherskite @youjustfeelthemforever @choasuqeen

“You’re gonna have to run faster than that, man,” Peter panted, and Arrio glared back at him. “I am running at the same speed you are!” “Both of you, save your breath.” Dick’s reproof came through gritted teeth; they looked back in unison to see him trip and almost fall, but then he caught himself and kept going, onward through the jungle at a limping run. Peter and Arrio swapped a glance, shut up and kept running.

Moonlight glowed brighter through a hole in the trees ahead, and Peter expected to burst out into a clearing. But then his spider-sense flared, and he grabbed Arrio just in time to keep him from going over the cliff that suddenly loomed below them. “That was clo-” Unable to stop himself, Dick slammed into them, and for a moment they teetered at the edge, about to go over, before Dick grabbed his grapple gun, Peter shot a web to the nearest tree, and they pulled themselves away from the precipice. All three stumbled back towards the tree line, and Dick leaned against the trunk of one, grimacing.

“Are you okay?” “I’d be better if the others were here. And if my ankle was in perfect working condition,” he replied glumly, reaching down to rub it. Arrio growled in frustration. “I knew we shouldn’t have asked those things for directions. The one time I do stop to do that, and we get shot at and chased through the jungle.” “You knew? I was the one who said maybe we shouldn’t ask the evil looking robots if they knew which way our friends were!” “And I was the one who overrode you.” “Oh, please, like your vote alone is enough to override me.” “It was two to one! That’s what outvote means, Peter.” “Yeah, but-” “Boys.” Arrio and Peter swapped a glance, shut up and turned to see Dick frowning at them. “This isn’t helping.

“We’re stranded in a strange jungle with no one around for miles except for those robots. I get that you were right, Peter, but you were still outvoted. And Arrio, you weren’t the only one who voted against him. It was the majority opinion and we went with that, so” — he pinched the bridge of his nose with his other hand — “can we please stop arguing now and get a move on before the robots catch up?”

Peter and Arrio looked from him to each other, then nodded.

“Yeah.” “Okay.” “Good.”

The word was barely out of his mouth before they heard the a modulated voice coming from behind them. “Freeze, Republic dogs!” The trio looked from each other to the lone robot and back.

Peter crossed his arms, tilting his head. “I have no idea what you’re talking about, but we’re not any of those things. Which we tried to tell you when we asked for directions-” The robot kept its gun trained on them as the leaves and branches rustled, and the others in its squad emerged from the trees.

“I don’t think they care, Peter.” Arrio’s posture was tense; he moved furtively in front of Dick, his ring starting to glow like the embers of a fire. “I got that much.” He was about to start backing away from the robots when his spider-sense went off again, and he pushed Arrio to the ground. “DUCK!” “Open fire!” The robots started to shoot red lasers at them, and Peter had to pivot midair to avoid all of the bolts, catching a glimpse of Dick twisting into a somersault. He lunged to the side as the onslaught continued, webbing up one of the robots and swinging it around to crash into the others. They went down in a clatter of metal, and Peter yelled, "STRIKE!"

Arrio's face popped into his view as the other boy pushed himself up off the ground. "Strike? Where?!" "Bowling. Not our friend," Peter explained tersely as he shoved him back down. "Stop shoving me!" "Then stop getting in the path of those lasers!" "Boys! Can we-" They both watched as Dick flipped again to avoid a crimson bolt, stumbling as he landed on his bad foot, and Peter felt the heat of one on his face when it zipped by. His gaze followed it like the world had turned to slow-mo, and his stomach gripped in a tight vice as he watched it thud into Dick's shoulder, and the vigilante went down.

"Dick!" Their voices rose in a single cry, and Arrio and Peter shared a look and nod, then turned to glare at the robots. Arrio's fire shed a warm yellow-white glow on the scene as he threw fireballs at their enemies and Peter flung them at each other and the ground. Some of the robots wailed as they flew off the cliff, voices fading the further they disappeared into shadow.

Peter whirled to web two of them together, and his webs flew through Arrio's fire on the way, lighting up and binding the robots to the flames and each other. "Whoa. Not what I intended, but we'll take it." Arrio shrugged in agreement, and they dispatched the last few metal soldiers together. Only when they all lay sparking on the ground did the duo turn and rush to their friend's side. Peter supported Dick as he moved to sit up, hand pressed to his arm.

"Nnh. Great job, guys." "Are you okay?" He nodded, but the pained set of his jaw told a different story, as did the bloody, burnt flesh of his shoulder. "I'll be fine. We should get a move on, before any more of them show up." He stood and winced as he tested his bad ankle. “You shouldn’t walk on that,” Peter told him anxiously. “It might make the sprain worse.” “I don’t think we have much of a choice.” His face was grim, and he nodded towards the dim lights of a settlement in the distance. “If we can get there, we might be able to get some help that won’t shoot at us. I’ll survive,” he added at both Peter’s and Arrio’s worried looks. “It’s our best option,” Arrio admitted, and Peter nodded reluctantly. “Outvoted again.” He put a hand on his forehead dramatically.

Dick broke into a grin at that. “Well, maybe one of these days you’ll have a good idea.” “I had a good idea! Don’t talk to the evil robots.” “…A good idea that everyone shares.” His smile softened the blow of his words, and he limped towards the lights, the first few step out of thousands it would take to get there.

“Yeah, Peter. Maybe someday I’ll even agree with you.” Arrio smirked as he followed. “You wish you could agree with me.” “You wish you could get Dick to agree with you.” “You wish you had superstrength.” “You wish you could make fire butterflies.” “You wish you could shoot webs.” “You wish you could-” “Boys.” They looked forward to see Dick turn back to them with a playfully resigned sigh. “I’m glad you two are getting along better, but I really hope you’re not planning to do this the whole trip. Because we have a long way to go.”

Peter and Arrio looked at each other and grinned. “No promises,” they chimed in unison.

#swift creates #swift writes #Peter Parker #arrio mckay #Marvel #Jupiter men #Chrumblr RP #The amazing spiderman #Chrumblr RP shenanigans #chrumblr whump #star wars #whump #chrumblr whump may #chrumblr whumblr #dick grayson #the clone wars #nightwing #dc #batman

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fanficrocks · 4 months

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A friend in need.

An Inspector Morse fan fic. Also on AO3.

@chrumblr-whumblr - written for May whump prompt list (#26. Wiping away tears)

----------------------------

A callout at 7 pm on a Saturday! While callouts at outlandish hours were no rarity for a detective sergeant in the Thames Valley CID, this took the cake in Robbie Lewis’ mind. Too early to hand off to the night shift, but late enough to ensure their Saturday evening (and to be honest, their entire weekend) was shot. No wonder Val and the kids had shared venomous glares when the phone rang.

Ten minutes later, his irritation had given way to concern when he could not raise his governor DCI Morse on the phone. Unable to wait any longer, he decided to drive over to Morse’s house and pick him up en route to the crime scene, which of course had to be at the other end of town. After asking the desk sergeant to continue trying Morse’s number, he set off hoping the DCI would be waiting for him when he got there.

To his surprise, Morse’s house was dark and the Jaguar nowhere to be seen. Could Morse have forgotten that they were on call? That was very unlike the man whose mind truly resembled a steel trap far more than anything more mundanely human. And reasons aside, just where was he? Lewis rapidly ran through a mental list of places was likely to visit on a weekend evening… With no operatic performances or even major choir recitals scheduled, it was a very short list - a handful of local pubs, the residence of Dr Max Debryn, and that of Morse’s sister Joyce. And the second was easily eliminated as the ME had received the same callout and would have informed the desk sergeant had Morse been with him.

It took Lewis some 20 minutes to get to Joyce’s house, having stopped at 3 pubs along the way to check if Morse was at any of those. Pulling up outside the neat semi, he was relieved to see the red Jaguar parked in front of the house although his guv’s familiar figure was nowhere to be seen against the brightly lit, uncurtained windows. Perhaps Morse was deeper inside the house.

His relief evaporated though when there was no answer to his ring at the doorbell, nor to his repeated knocking and calling. Was the man unwell? Or had he been attacked by a burglar and was lying unconscious somewhere?

Finding that the front door yielded when he turned the knob, he stopped only to grab a golf umbrella from the hall hatstand as an impromptu weapon before rushing in and continuing to call out to Morse. Despite the continued silence, his instincts insisted that the house was not empty… it just did not have the physical and emotional stillness characteristic of dwellings entirely devoid of human presence.

Calming himself sufficiently to search methodically, he went deeper into the house, eliminating one downstairs room after another before doing the same with the first floor. He was running out of options for places to search as he walked back down the stairs, when he noticed a faint line of light in the wall opposite the foot of the stairwell. Closer inspection revealed a tight-fitting door covered entirely in the same wallpaper as the rest of the wall, rendering it practically invisible unless one knew it was there, or unless the light was angled just right to shine on the latch.

Listening silently at the door, he realised there were vague, muffled sounds emanating from the other side. Locating the latch, he quietly opened the door, glad that it did not squeak, and stepped onto the top landing of a flight of stairs leading into the basement level. Silently descending the stairs, he found himself in a study-cum-playroom, now littered with packing boxes, tape, and mostly cleared shelves of books and music. Amidst this chaos, sat Morse - cross-legged on the floor with a partially filled box beside him, head buried in his hands as his shoulders shook with half-suppressed sobs.

Shock combined with a feeling of having trespassed unforgivably held Lewis silent for a minute. But he was constitutionally incapable of walking away from a fellow human being in such distress, least of all one he had worked with for half a dozen years now, and had come to not just respect, but also developed an affection for - at least as far as that curmudgeon allowed.

Quickly crossing the floor, he knelt down beside Morse and gently placed a hand on his guv’s shoulder. There was no response for a moment before he felt the older man stiffen slightly. Half expecting his hand to be pushed away, he nonetheless stayed where he was and waited, letting the single point of physical contact do the talking for him. After what felt like an eternity but was likely no longer than two or three minutes, Morse raised his head. Gazing into those tear-drenched blue eyes, Lewis felt suckerpunched. Whatever could have hit his guv so hard?

“Sir…”

“They left this behind - all of Marilyn’s photos as a baby and a little girl. Moved away to Australia and left this with all the other stuff needing sorting. As though they have already forgotten her.”

The rights and wrongs of Morse’s conclusions could wait, thought Lewis. The more important thing now was to coax him out of the basement if possible. The man was shaking as much from cold as emotion, and would do better in a warmer spot.

Taking heart from Morse’s uncharacteristic docility, he tightened the hand on his guv’s shoulder until it was unmistakably a supportive squeeze, then gently wiped away the overflowing tears from the luminous blue eyes. As he saw awareness return to those eyes, he pressed his handkerchief into Morse’s hand, and with a final squeeze of his shoulder, stood up and moved away a little.

Thinking to give Morse a little privacy to recover his composure, he started leafing through the books left in the bookcase, sorting them into neat piles by topic. Until he chanced upon further photo albums mixed among the books. His job required him to regularly nose into the private lives of murder victims in the quest for justice, but this - now - felt unforgivable. Joyce and her family were victims, but they no longer needed justice now; they needed their privacy protected so they could come to terms with the tragedy of Marilyn’s suicide and rebuild their lives.

Gathering the albums in one arm, he turned back towards Morse. His guv looked a little more composed, but no less wretched; and Robbie was not sure how he could broach the callout they were supposed to be answering any moment now. Just then, Morse turned back to the album he had placed at the top of the box he had been packing, and picked it up again.

“How can they forget so soon? Move on so easily like she… just wasn’t?”

“Why do you think that, Sir?”

“What else can I think when they left this album behind? The one with all her photos as a baby and a little girl? Shouldn’t this have been the one thing they would keep close?”

“It could have been an oversight, Sir. After everything they have been through over the last few months, I would not expect them to be fully organised, would you?”

“What do you mean?”

“I was looking through the bookcase… I hope you don’t consider it an intrusion… just trying to give you some space. Anyway, there are several other albums left here - see.”

As Morse took the proffered albums and started flipping through them, Lewis took a better look around the room and the partially packed boxes. Sure enough, the one Morse had been working on before his emotions got the better of him was labelled “Ship to Joyce in Australia” while others were labelled “library donation”, “charity shop”, and “discard”. Seeing that many of the latter boxes were full, Lewis started closing them up ready to tape down and sorting them into neat stacks. A deep sigh had him turning back towards Morse a few minutes later.

“You are right, Lewis. They must have been even more disturbed than I had thought. These albums - they include photographs from their engagement and wedding, and both of Joyce’s pregnancies. They would not have left those behind… not if they were in a normal frame of mind, I suppose.”

“Losing a child… well, that is every parent’s worst nightmare, isn’t it? Against every law of nature. Can’t expect normal after that.”

“A parent’s worst nightmare. Is that how you see it, Lewis?”

“Dunno how it can be anything else. Every time we come across a case involving kids, all I can think of is that in another world, it could have been my lass or lad.”

“And do you hug them when you get home after such cases?”

“Always. And I hope they will continue to let me.”

Morse stacked the albums neatly - the one he had been looking at, and the others Lewis had handed him - before placing them in the box he had been packing and starting to tape it down. As he snapped off the last of the tape and stuck it down neatly, he sensed Lewis come around to stand next to him. Before he could stoop to move the now sealed box, the younger man reached for it.

“Allow me, Sir. Can’t have you throwing your back out, not with this callout we need to get to as soon as we can.”

“Don’t fuss, Lewis!”

But as they turned off the light and closed the basement door, then locked up preparatory to leaving, Morse briefly placed a hand on his long-suffering sergeant’s shoulder in silent thanks. He then led the way to the Jaguar, instructing Lewis to leave his car and brief him as they drove together to the crime scene.

#fanfics #fanfiction #inspector morse #itv endeavour #endeavour morse #robbie lewis #emotional hurt/comfort

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ablatheringblatherskite · 5 months

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for the @chrumblr-whumblr Whump May challenge...

Day 4: "Watching While Loved One Is Hurt" is done! (late AGAIN smh)

Fandom: The Phantom of the Opera

Whumpee: Raoul and Philippe de Chagny

Rating: Teen and up

Archive Warnings: Graphic Depictions of Violence

Summary:

Philippe and Raoul are captured. Their captors try to force Philippe into a deal he does not want to make, and do everything they can to make him agree—by hurting his little brother right in front of him.

FINALLY. I TOOK WAY TOO LONG FINISHING THIS?!?! WUDHWJHDJWJD

Anyway I've really been wanting to write something with Philippe and Raoul, and I FINALLY did it!! And they are NOT okay JWHDHWJHDWHHDHS. Anyway I have no idea if I got Philippe accurately especially since he wasn't in the book much, but I hope y'all like it anyway!!

#chrumblr whumblr #my writings #aster's writing journey #poto #phantom of the opera #the phantom of the opera #poto book #raoul de chagny #philippe de chagny

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choasuqeen · 5 months

Text

may the odds (chrumblr whumblr day 4)

Trixi was up first, blinking. She looked around quickly, shaking Nia. “We’re back. In the box.”

The other girl woke with a start, grabbing Trixi and pulling herself up. “No. Why?”

“I don’t know.”

She watched Nia walk around quickly, looking for something, anything, different. It was the same 6 foot box, the same blood on the floor, the same stupid light. She knew it was fruitless, Nia did too, but she tried anyway. Just to do something. Just to not feel helpless. Because if she was helpless then she couldn’t protect Nia and if she got hurt then she failed her job. If she couldn’t protect them then what happened to their parents would- she glared at her head. Shut up.

Nia turned back to her, panic in her eyes, and Trixi steeled herself.

“What do we do?”

“First, we rest. I know you’re hurting.”

“It’s not as bad as-”

“Shut up. Sit.” She got a glare for her troubles, but Nia came and tucked herself under her arm. “We’re going to be ok. Take a breath.” She breathed with her, kissing the top of her head softly. “I’m here, and we’ll get out. Can you see where Maddox is?”

“No its- being weird again.”

She sighs. “How so?”

“It keeps moving too fast. Like he's jumping from one side of the world to the other. Why’d you choose him anyway?”

“He’s the only name I could remember.” She rolls her eyes. Nia goes quiet, and she does too, closing her eyes against the memories. She could protect them, they’d be ok.

A few minutes later she shoots them open again. Matt’s in front of her, walking through a door that disappears as soon as he’s through it. She curses, waking Nia. “How did you get here?”

He stops short. “Trixi? Where have you been? Nia’s with you, right?”

“I am.” Nia’s voice is soft, and he can hear her tapping. He never thought it would be a good thing to hear it again.

“We’re stuck.”

“How?”

Venatrix takes a deep breath, and sighs. “I don’t know. We’re in a concrete box. It’s small, with no windows or doors. I don’t remember how I got here, I just showed up. I’m pretty sure it’s the same for Nia.”

Nia nods, then says softly “Yeah, and your legs were cut up. She doesn’t know how that happened either.”

He was silent for a long moment, and then asked quietly “Cut up?”

Trixi looks at Nia, and she nods, hugging her. “Her calves were…cut across. The right one was almost gone. I stitched them up, with a medkit we were-” she pauses, thinking of the right word. “- given. They look like they’re healing much faster than normal though. How long have you been looking for us?”

“You’ve been gone for about three hours, Venatrix for two. Are you two ok?” His nose twitches as he sits down to their level, voice softer now.

“I think we are.” She looks at Trixi, who nods again. “As ok as we can be. We had to run earlier, there were spikes chasing us, but now we’re st- here again.”

He nods. “How long has it felt?”

Nia takes a stuttered breath, and it was Trixi’s turn. “For me, about two days. Nia, about three.”

He nods again, and they all go silent again.

“How did you get here?” Trixi repeats

“I walked through a door, while looking for you.”

NIa looked up, blinking. “The rooms bigger”

“What?” All three of them were up, looking at the, yes, now larger room, three chairs sitting around it.

“Go sit please!” The voice was back.

Matt looks confused, and Nia speaks quickly ”Rooms bigger, there's three chairs in a line to one wall.”

“No.” Trixi’s voice came, steely and angry.

“Oh? Why not?”

“We don’t need to. Let. Us. Out.”

“Sit!”

“No.”

“Now.” The voice sounded angry too now.

“No.”

Nia shrieked beside her, holding her arm. Blood was dripping from it, adding to the pile on the floor.

“Now.”

Trixi clenched her jaw, but let Nia lead her to a chair. Matt sat in another, and Nia went to sit in the last, eyes wide.

A THWIP and there were restraints around them. Nia screamed, Trixi cursed, Matt grunted.

“Right then! One of you will fight, the other two can stay.”

“Fight what?” Matt's voice was steady.

Both girls looked at each other, matching the others' panic. They were stuck. Helpless. And they knew what Matt would do.

“Whatever comes out that door!” In front of them, now, was a small wooden door. “Who wants to go?”

“I will.” And there it was. The other shoe. Trixi took a breath, and repeated, “I will.”

Nia’s eyes were wide, looking from one to the other.

“No, Venatrix.”

“Why not.” There was fire in her voice.

“You’ve suffered enough.”

“I can take it. I can fight, and you know it.”

“That doesn’t mean you should. You’re at a disadvantage.”

“So are you.”

He took a breath. “I won’t let you. It’s your job to protect Nia, it’s mine to make sure you can. You can’t protect her if you get much more hurt than this.”

“So you’re expecting to get hurt, and you still won’t let me?”

“Yes.”

“No. It’s my job to protect Nia, so let me.”

“You can, by staying safe.”

“You think this,” She looked around, “is safe?”

“Trixi.” It was soft, but even that single word got both their attention. “Let him.”

“No.” She swallowed hard, but shook her head. “I can’t.”

“Please?”

“I’m sorry.”

“Well! Looks like we’ll have to do something else then.” She was back again. All three looked up instinctively, knowing there was nothing there.

“You two- '' The bonds unlatched on Venatrix and Matt’s chairs, “-fight each other. Whoever wins can pick who fights next.”

“Fine,” Trixi bit out. Matt just nodded. They both stood, walking to opposite edges of the room. Nia pulled her knees up, trying to breathe. She couldn’t shift and she hated it.

“Nia?” She looked up at Matt’s voice.

“Don’t watch.”

She looked at Trixi, who nodded, and she put her head down, tapping.

Venatrix circled, slowly. She knew Matt could hear her, but she hoped Nia’s tapping would help with that some. Her legs burned already, but she ignored that too. She had no knives, but she didn’t think he knew that.

She had circled long enough. She rushed at him, kicking once, twice. He dodged, swerving left. Coming behind her, he grabbed her arm and twisted.

“Give up Venatrix, before you get yourself hurt.”

“No.” She twisted into it, hooking her leg around his and pulling, gritting back her scream. Slipping out, she punched at his stomach.

“You don’t even have your knives.”

“Doesn’t matter.” He punched at her, and she dodged, falling to the floor.

She scrambled to get back up before he could get to her, circling again.

He ran, stepping twice before kicking her in the side. She hit the wall, grunting.

“I don’t want to hurt you.”

“I don’t care.” Running at him, she slipt, falling. Behind them, Nia yelped.

Her head was forced back, another band across the front of it, holding her in place.

“NIA” Venatrix rolled to the side, running toward her.

“Stop.”

They all froze, waiting.

“Go closer, and I hurt her again. Keep fighting. She can watch.”

“Let her go.”

“Keep fighting.”

“Let. Her. Go.”

“Do you think she wants to be cut on her arms or her legs?”

A step. “LET HER GO.”

Nia screams as a second cut shows up below the first one.

“NIA”

“What is happening?”

“She’s-” she chews on the words, before spitting out, “She’s making Nia watch. Us fight. And I can’t go near her. Or she’ll- she’ll cut her. Let her go YOU STUPID-”

Matt runs to Trixi, pulling her back by her hair. “Give it up, now.”

“No.” Grabbing his hand, she pulls them both forward, twisting so he hits the wall.

Nia gasps behind them, calling out.

Her legs burn, she can feel every nerve screaming at her. She wants to scream herself.

She shoved off him, pulling back. He follows, rushing her, and she rolls to the side, panting.

“Venatrix.”

“No.”

She kicks twice, again, and he stumbles.

“MATT”

“Vena-”

“No.”

He needs to find a way out of this without hurting her. Nia would never forgive him, he’d never forgive himself, if she got seriously hurt fighting him. She punches, and he grabs her arm. Pulling her with him, he presses her against the wall.

Nia’s trying not to close her eyes, she doesn’t want to see this, but she’s stuck and she’s scared and they’re fighting and they’re fighting.

“Give it up.”

“NO.”

He twists her arm, and she growls, shifting to fox, and back again, before circling. Matt can hear her footsteps, going in front, behind, and- he runs. Venatrix dodges, and Matt grabs Nia’s head, holding her.

“Give it up.”

“You. Wouldn’t. Dare.”

He leans forward, tapping play along. Slinging a hand around her neck, he repeats, “Give it up.”

Venatrix takes a breath. “No.”

He squeezes, just enough to tell Nia what he’s doing, and she starts coughing. “Give it up. Please.”

Trixi takes half a step forward, and Nia shakes her head, eyes wide. “Please don’t.”

“Remember what she did earlier.” His voice is different. It’s threatening, and he hates it.

Nia’s tapping gets faster as Venatrix reaches for knives that aren’t there, hesitating. “Let her go.”

“Sit down, and I will.” Nia looks up at her, pleading, and she goes, slowly, to her chair. And sits.

He pulls away immediately, sighing. The restraints are back on her, he can hear Nia’s tapping and Venatrix’s short, angered breaths. But they’re safe, and that's all that matters.

#chrumblr whumblr #chrumblr rp shenanigans #i dont think theres any tw here?#uh yeah fun #heheheheh

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c4ts4ndstuff · 5 months

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Chrumblr's May Whump Challenge! Day one: Blindfolding

@chrumblr-whumblr

I'm posting this a little later than I wanted, but I did it! This is a scene for an original work of mine. It's a fantasy, and I think it should make sense without context (I hope lol)

Wordcount: 579

Melody stumbled as the guard yanked on the length of chain that bound her hands together.

"Hurry up." He barked, and Melody clamped her mouth shut before she could retort back. Illusion magic was tricky on the best of days, and with how rushed Pandala had been when she placed the spell to make her look like Tristan in the first place, Melody doubted she had been able to disguise her voice alongside her appearance.

She followed the guards through hallway after hallway. The castle had been like a second home to her growing up. With each nook and cranny they went by, Melody could practically see the games she and her friends had played. Laughter had echoed down the halls as they played tag. That suit of armor had once been an excellent spot for hide and seek. The candle stand on her left was still dented from when Tristan had bowled it over in his excitement over something.

Now the halls just felt empty and cold.

Melody wished she could have seen Tristan one last time. That she could have seen him standing tall, with his father's crown resting proudly on his head.

The fact that the crown, once worn by such a kind, gentle, and strong man, now rested on Kapral's traitorous head made her sick to her stomach.

Over the clinking of the chains, Melody began to hear the murmur of a crowd up ahead.

The guard pulled her outside, and she squinted from the blinding sunlight. The guards surrounding her didn't give her time to adjust, instead forcing her up on stage in front of a massive crowd.

The sight of a chopping block, along with a man in black garb holding an axe, made Melody feel lightheaded. This was it. It was really happening.

"Today my friends, we gather to witness the end of the old, shortsighted, Esludal line!" Melody looked up,, and saw Kapral standing on the castle's balcony as he addressed his followers.

"We will no longer be held back by their fear of progress. No longer will we be forced to cower, instead we will grab the future with both hands!"

Melody stood frozen as Kapral continued on, spouting lie after lie as he worked the crowd up, until they looked almost ready to barge onto the stage and kill her themselves.

She wouldn't give them the satisfaction of her fear. Especially not when they thought she was Tristan. She dedicated her whole focus to appearing calm, and aloof. They will not use this against him, she thought, determined.

Finally, Kapral made the motion, and Melody's world went dark as a nearby guard blindfolded her. The cloth dug into her skin, and she could feel a headache begin to form.

Her heart thudded in her chest, like it was desperate to get a lifetime's worth of beats in her last few moments.

Tears welled up in her eyes, before soaking into the blindfold, as she was pushed down, her neck brushing the wooden block.

Her family won't know what happened to her. She wasn't able to save her baby cousin. She never told Tristan how she felt about him.

Despite it all, Melody couldn't bring herself to regret her actions.

Tristan will live, she thought to herself. He has to live. He will make sure to save her baby cousin, he will force Kapral to his knees and take back the crown.

Even if she doesn't live to see it.

#op #fic #my writing #it was nice to work on this story again

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words-with-wren · 5 months

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@chrumblr-whumblr day three: Carrying

Fandom: Endeavour. Four and a half years and I am BACK I missed these boys even though they break my heart <3 kinda bad but all of these are. Barely any editing OR even proof reading I'm ready 20 minutes late and posting from my phone woopsies

Word count: 2,170

It was raining. Morse hunched in his coat, squinting bitterly up at the water coming through the trees. The sun hadn’t even started lighting up the area, and the whole morning had an air of misery about it.

“Morning, Matey.” Strange’s greeting was altogether far too cheerful for the early hour of the morning and Morse turned his glare onto the other man. Dimly, he found himself for the first time a little envious of the uniform Strange sported--the hat and coat looked altogether far more suited for the weather than Morse’s own clothing.

Morse just nodded in response, risking a hand from the safety of his pocket to wipe wet hair out of his face.

“You really think we’re going to find something in this?” Jakes joined the two of them, an unlit cigarette between his fingers, looking positively damp. He was holding a torch in his other hand, the light illuminating the falling rain in a narrow beam. Morse found some small vindication that the sargent looked about as miserable as he felt.

His vindication disappeared a moment later when Jakes flashed the light of the torch directly into his eyes for a split second. Morse squinted abruptly, blinking at the momentary blindness. He decided he wasn’t in the mood for a fight and assumed that was an accident.

“If there is anything, we should start looking soon,” Morse muttered. He hunched his shoulders, trying to find some comfort in his soaking coat and staring at a single point while waiting for his eyes to readjust. “The rain’ll wash it away soon.”

“If it hasn’t already,” Jakes muttered. He put the unlit cigarette between his teeth. It sagged disappointingly, wet through. Deserved.

“The doctor said it’d be a knife, ‘bout so large.” Strange held up his hands as he was speaking, indicating a length about five centimetres long. Morse nodded, turning his attention to the woods.

The chances were low that the murder weapon was still in the woods where the body had been found, but DeBryn had said there had been some kind of struggle, and likely not all of the blood found splattered across the scene was the victim’s.

It was possible the weapon was still lying somewhere in the woods. Morse was of the opinion that their efforts could be better spent chasing other leads, but orders were orders and now here he was, standing soaked in the rain.

“Right then,” Jakes said, taking charge of the situation. A few other uniformed officers mingled around and it didn’t take long for a search to be organised, starting from where the body had been found that morning and steadily branching further out.

Morse found himself trudging through the wet forest, mud on the ground sticking uncomfortably at his boots, sweeping his torchlight over the muddy ground. At least he’d thought to pick up some wellys before heading out--his feet were about the only part of him not soaked through.

He scanned the ground as he went, hoping something would come up soon so they could all go and get warm and follow more useful branches of inquiry. The route he was following started drifting steadily downhill, and Morse had to withdraw his hand from his pocket to keep his balance, grabbing onto tree branches and trunks as he went, torch held tight in his other hand.

The mud was slippery and he almost lost his balance more than once, grabbing onto a tree to catch himself. His hair was back in his eyes and he wiped it out of his face again with frustration.

They wouldn’t even be able to get anything useful out of any evidence they found--a murder weapon would be one thing, but after this rain there was no way they’d be able to get any prints off it. This was all a useless waste of time.

Something flashed in the light his torch cast and he paused, one hand resting on a nearby tree trunk. He aimed the beam of the torch towards whatever it was, making out something sliver dangling from the branch of a tree. He stepped forward and suddenly a sharp pain bust through his foot.

He was on the ground before he realised what had happened, face pressed uncomfortably into cold mud. Pain flashed through his foot and he gasped, pushing himself up onto one hand.

Great, now he was wet and muddy. Not to mention his foot was throbbing in a concerning way. He shifted to sit but had to gasp out in pain, vision flashing white as he moved his foot.

He managed to catch himself before he fell back into the mud, but the world twisted and spun around him dizzyingly. HIs torch lay on the ground nearby, a beam of light illuminating the mud in an almost golden hue, sparkling dots of rain flashing through the light.

A root was jutting out of the mud just beside his feet and he glared at it--clearly the culprit that he’d missed in the wet and mud.

He managed to awkwardly shift into a sitting position and retrieve his torch, eyes watering with pain every time he moved his leg. Supporting himself with one hand, he glared at his foot as though that would make it stop hurting.

He wasn’t going to be able to walk on that he realised a moment later. With a groan, he started digging in his pockets with one hand, finally withdrawing the whistle Jakes had given him before they left the station.

He blew sharply on it, automatically blasting out three short bursts, three long, and another three short. Someone would be near enough to hear and come to his aid. While he waited, he turned his torchlight onto the silver thing, still caught in a tree. It looked like some kind of locket, sparkling in his torchlight, and he hoped that whatever picture was in it hadn’t been ruined by the rain. That could be an important clue.

“Morse?” Strange’s voice called from the trees a few paces away, and Morse could make out the flash of his torchlight.

“Over here,” he called. “Twisted my ankle.” His voice carried a note of bitterness as he spoke, trying not to think too hard about how this was going to take a few days to come right again.

Strange appeared through the trees a moment later, still looking positively dry. Morse, sitting propped up against a tree, his leg stretched in front of him, covered in mud and rain, glared up at him.

“You alright, matey?” Strange asked. Morse scowled.

“I will be. Just give me a hand up.” Strange moved towards him but Morse spoke again. “Wait, before you do.” He flashed his torch at the locket again. “I found that.”

“Of course you did,” Strange said good naturedly. He followed Morse’s torch beam and carefully tugged the locket off the branch it was stuck on. Tucking it safely into a pocket for later inspection, he turned his attention to Morse, in the process flashing the torchlight into his eyes.

He squinted, holding a hand up and Strange apologetically dropped the light.

“Sorry Matey,” he said, clicking the torch off and slipping it into another pocket. That unform coat really did have a number of pockets.

“You’re as bad as Jakes,” Morse grumbled. But it was noticeably lighter now, and the torches were beginning to not be needed. Morse kept his on regardless--he didn’t want Strange tripping on an invisible root and joining him on the ground.

“Up you get then,” Strange said, holding out a hand. Morse grabbed it with his free one, but the moment he tried to pull himself up, he jostled his leg and let out a scream of pain. He sagged back, eyes squeezed shut against the flash and steady throbbing coming from his ankle.

“I’m okay,” he said, waving away Strange’s anxious hovering. “Just let me catch my breath.”

“I don’t think you can walk on that,” Strange said. Morse just groaned in response. At least his boot was doing a better job at keeping his ankle tight than his usual shoes. Though taking it off was going to be a nightmare.

That was a later problem, now he had to figure out how to stand up so they could get out of this miserable forest and somewhere dry.

“Everything alright?” Jakes appeared through the bushes, the morning light strong enough to illuminate his pale face. Morse didn’t have the energy to glare up at him, his foot was hurting too much and his irritation at being seen in such a state by the sargent a secondary matter right now. “No time to be sitting down on the job, Morse.”

“He’s twisted his ankle,” Strange explained. Morse just nodded.

“Touch luck,” Jakes said. “Best be getting you to Casualty then.”

“I would if I could stand,” Morse muttered. He shut his eyes as another wave of pain flushed through his foot.

“I’ll carry you back,” Strange offered. Morse opened his eyes again, his pride battling for a moment with the pain emanating from his foot.

“Morse is a skinny blighter but I dunno if you can carry him yourself,” Jakes said, staring down at Morse with a critical eye. Then he flicked off his own torch and tucked it away--it was more than light enough to see by now--and moved to Morse’s side.

Before Morse could really process what was happening, he found himself wedged in between Jakes and Strange, one on either side of him. Both of them tucked an arm under him and their other behind his back and Morse found himself lifted between the two of them. He instinctively threw an arm over each of their necks to stop himself topping forward.

“Easy goes now,” Jakes muttered. Morse gritted his teeth as their movements jostled his foot, determined not to show any more pain.

It didn’t take long to get back to where the cars had packed on the edge of the forest. The rain had slowed to a steady drizzle, and Morse felt bone wearily exhausted. He was lowered to the ground and somehow managed to remain standing, leaning almost all of his weight on Strange and holding his foot up. Jakes ducked forward to open one of the cars.

“You finish up here,” he said to Strange. “I’ll get him to Casualty. And then home.”

Both of them fixed Morse with a long stare at that, but Morse just nodded. He was too exhausted to protest, and right now he wanted nothing more than to sleep off the pain.

They managed to manoeuvre him into the back seat of the car, where he could stretch his leg out over the seats and Morse only briefly blacked out for a second.

“Oh, here,” Strange said, fishing out the locket he had tucked away safely. “I’ll see you back at the nick,” he added to Jakes. Jakes nodded from the driver’s seat, a lit cigarette alright between his lips now he was out of the rain.

Jakes didn’t say anything as he pulled away from the forest, moving quickly along the road. Morse bit down a groan of pain as the movement of the car jostled his foot, but it faded to a bearable dull throbbing soon enough.

(He kept catching Jakes glancing in the rear mirror. There wasn’t anyone behind them, so he didn’t know why almost every time he looked up he made eye contact through the small glass.)

“What’s the locket?” Jakes asked, finally breaking the silence. Morse couldn’t help be a little grateful for the distraction.

He pulled it out, examining it closely. It had initials on it--F.C. The letters seem familiar to him, but he couldn’t quite place it yet. Carefully, he pried it open.

The image inside was of the victim--a young man named Joseph Ethans.

“It’s got Ethans in it,” Morse reported. He caught Jakes’ eye in the mirror again. “Doesn’t seem like something he’d own though.”

“A girlfriend’s?” Jakes asked. Morse frowned, biting down a hiss of pain as Jakes took a corner a little too sharply.

“F.C.,” he mused. Jakes made a questioning noise. “The initials on the locket.”

“That’s the girlfriend’s name, right?” Jakes said. “Felicity Clarke.”

“What’s her locket doing out in the woods then?” Morse asked, closing it again and tucking it safely into a pocket.

“Maybe he was going to give it to her?”

“I think we may need to question her a little more closely,” Morse said quietly. “DeBryn did say the killing wounds were weaker than one would expect from a grown man.”

“You think the girlfriend offed him?” Jakes asked.

“Maybe--aah!” He said the last as Jakes skipped a curb.

“Sorry,” Jakes said. “Almost there.”

“We’d better be,” Morse muttered. He shut his eyes, feeling strangely satisfied despite the throbbing ankle. Maybe the morning hadn’t been a complete waste of time after all.

The rain outside finally made way for a weak winter’s sun.

#wren writes #chrumblr whumblr challenge #carrying #endeavour #endeavour morse #endeavour fanfiction #GOSH i missed writing him #hopefully more coming soon hehe i have PLANS #anyway everyone say a big thank you to my laptop #she did a valliant job at Not Dying until id finished writing this and was about to post #round of applause please #i need to be better at feeding her

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