#chrumblr whump
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@chrumblr-whumblr day 3: carrying
wc: 410 | warnings: stab wound, a lot of swearing (like. A Lot), | characters: Tim Drake (pov), Jason Todd
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“Tim. Tim, wake the fuck up, dammit.”
Tim groaned as sounds and sensations slowly returned to his battered body. Sounds being Jason swearing at him and sensations being excruciating pain from the stab wound in his side. “Fuuuuuuck.”
“Fuck is right, little brother. What were you thinking, huh?” He opened his eyes to see Jason dividing his attention between putting pressure on the wound and glaring at him.
“I was thinking I’d destroy the Scarecrow’s latest supply of fear gas, but go off, I guess.” Tim decided it wasn’t worth it and closed his eyes again.
“Hey.” Jason’s hand moved to tilt Tim’s face up towards him. “No sleeping. Look at me.”
“Go away,” Tim mumbled.
“Fuck that. Open your eyes, Replacement.”
Now it was Tim’s turn to glare at him. “I’m not your fucking replacement-”
“Gotcha.” Jason grinned smugly down at him, and he scowled. If he’d had the energy, he would’ve kicked him. As it was, he thought he’d black out if he did.
Jason removed his hands after a moment, leaning back on his heels to study his handiwork. “It’ll do. Can you stand?”
“I have a hole in my torso the size of Atlanta,” Tim said flatly. “D’fuck do you think?”
“Just thought I’d ask. You know what a nice guy I am. Always asking permission, et cetera, et cetera.”
“You murder people.”
“Nicely.”
“Fuck you,” Tim grumbled, gripping Jason’s outstretched hand and pulling himself up. For a milisecond he was steady on his feet. Then white-hot pain shot through his side, and his knees buckled. Jason dove to catch him, and he let out a pitiful whine at the jolt.
“I gotcha, baby bird.”
“Ngh- Stop calling me that.”
“No. C’mere.” Jason bent, then scooped Tim up into his arms. He was barely able to bite back a cry of agony, curling into Jason instead and burying his face in his shoulder.
“Easy. I got you, kid.” This time, he didn’t protest. “I’ll get you back to Batsy in one piece, or my middle name isn’t Wonderful.”
“Your middle name is Peter.”
“Shhhhhhh.”
“Asshole.”
“Darling brother.”
Tim mumbled something indistinct in reply and held onto Jason tighter, wincing when he sped up.
“Hold on, Timmers. Almost there.” He almost didn’t hear it over the Gotham-typical sounds of yelling and things breaking, but Jason pulled him closer, and he let his head loll against his brother’s chest, listening to the steady tha-thump instead.
#swift creates#swift writes#Jason todd#red hood#tim drake#red robin#tim drake wayne#tim drake robin#CHRUMBLr whump#Chrumblr whump May#batfam#batfamily#Batboys#Tim drake whump#Whump#Dc#Batman#team red#this is scheduled im probably still asleep lol
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Chrumblr Whump Day 2: Kneeling
(Character is a Redwall OC. I am currently working on just snippets of character things since I can't imitate Jacques's style well enough for my own liking.)
Bell kept their head down as their captor paced around them, flicking her tail side to side.
“Well,” the hooded cat said eventually, coming around to stand in front of the small mouse. “This one will have to do.” She settled one large paw on Bell’s shoulder and looked down with glittering eyes. “So, what do you say, mouse?”
Bell opened their mouth, but their voice had deserted them. The terror was coursing through their veins. Where was Ruskin?
The figure laughed. “Aw, this one’s terrified,” she said to someone in the trees behind the small camp. She patted Bell roughly. The blow almost sent them tumbling backwards. She laughed at their attempt to keep their feet, and grabbed the front of their tunic. “I think that means you’re coming with us, now.”
Bell tried to pull away as she started pulling them along, breaking free of her strong grip suddenly and stumbling back. “No,” they tried to say, but the word died in their chest again. Helpless rage clouded their vision as they turned and ran—straight into another figure rising out of the darkness and tripping them with an extended spear pole. Bell curled, trembling, as the large squirrel stepped out of the darkness, looming over them.
“Looks like you picked up a feisty one, eh, Serena,” he sneered, kicking at Bell with a footpaw.
“Shut up,” the cat one snapped. She grabbed Bell by one arm and hauled them upright. The mouse went limp instinctively, hoping that Serena would drop them, but she held them upright until finally, Bell relented, and kept their feet under them.
In the darkness, a bird called. “We need to go,” the squirrel muttered. “Before this mouse’s friend comes back.”
Serena waved a paw. “I know, I know. Just a minute.” She stared down at Bell. “Kneel,” she said eventually.
Bell didn’t move. Ruskin had to be coming. He shouldn’t have been gone in the first place—they remembered falling asleep curled up against him. If they could delay—
“I said kneel.” Serena set a paw on Bell’s shoulder and forced them down. “Good mouse. Now, look at me.” She tipped Bell’s chin up with her other paw, forcing them to meet her glittering, dancing eyes. “You won’t resist me now, will you?” she asked.
Bell swallowed nervously. Their eyes darted to the side, and Serena hissed.
“Look at me, mouse.” Her voice hung in the air, sickly sweet. “Your friend won’t be coming back.”
They met her gaze again reluctantly. Their voice finally caught a foothold in their chest. “What did you do to him?” they whispered.
She laughed. “Nothing at all,” she said lightly. “But you know, sometimes young squirrels his age, they just… vanish.” Her eyes seemed to get bigger, and Bell found that they could not look away.
The paw was heavy on their shoulder, trapping them just as surely as the eyes. From where they were kneeling, there was nothing they could see, other than the cat and her cloak. Everything was massive, looming. The trees around seemed hushed. The cat seemed to be growing bigger, her eyes filling Bell’s vision, then their mind, until even the thought of running was pushed away.
Eventually, Serena laughed a dainty, tinkling laugh. “There’s a good mouse,” she crooned softly. “Now, you’re coming with me.”
Bell nodded faintly, and in a daze, got to their feet, and followed the hooded cat through the woods, away from their camp.
#redwall#whump#chrumblr whump#do I need a better name for a cat villain than Serena. yes.#however this will do for now
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Chrumblr Whump Day 1: Blindfolding
(Character is my OC, Turtle. Some worldbuilding stuff is at play as well. Not fandom; this is for one of my projects.)
Turtle could tell that they weren’t fully in their proper mind as soon as they woke up. There was a fuzziness around the edges of their reason, every part of their body was somewhat lighter and floaty, and they couldn’t bring themself to be afraid of the faint pain threaded through their bones.
They tried to open their eyes, and realized there was a thick, scratchy cloth wrapped around their face. They tried to push it off, and found that their arms were bound behind their back.
“It’s awake,” a rough voice said from above them. “Get them up, and get going.”
Turtle scrunched up their nose, trying to displace the cloth. They should be panicking. They tried to make themself scared as they were pulled to their feet roughly, and as a second stranger hissed in their ear, “Don’t even try to run, monster,” as they were frogmarched roughly along.
Turtle wondered hazily what had happened; they must have flurred at least partly. How else would anyone know they were a monster? And why else would they feel this out of it.
“Been a while,” they mumbled.
“What was that?” They were shaken, roughly.
Turtle coughed a little. “Hm?”
Hands they couldn’t see suddenly pushed them to the ground, and held them pinned face down. They didn’t resist, and just lay there, trying to gather enough of their right mind to feel something.
The ground beneath me is rough dirt. Gravel. The air is cool. It’s still dry here. There’s a rock against my left hip. I’m not tripping over roots—or my own tongue. It smells dusty here. I can see—I can feel the cloth around my head, but I can’t see.
They were pulled up again shortly, and Turtle gritted their teeth against the pain in their shoulder. “Careful,” the voice taunted. “You might just trip and fall, blindfolded like that.”
“I didn’t—“ they started to say, before they could think, and their legs were swept out from under them by a quick blow to the shins. They yelped as they hit the ground.
“I said careful! What, did the bug get your brain as well?”
That hit something. Turtle felt tears stinging at the back of their eyes as they were pulled up and walked along. They sniffed, and tried to ignore the slight huff of laughter from their captor.
[tbc day 13]
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@chrumblr-whumblr Day Thirteen: Panic Attack
Still behind aah my perfectionism.
Fandom: Endeavour
Word count: 2,500ish
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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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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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Question:
What's chrumblr? I've heard the term a few times in the whump community, and there's even a whump event for it???
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.-- . .----. .-. . / --- -.- / -. --- - / - --- --. . - …. . .-. / -. --- - / … .- ..-. . / -… ..- - / --- -.- / .. / .-.. --- …- . / -.-- --- ..- / - --- --- / -.. .- -..
hi im obssessed with this
#its from the whump thread#and AHHHHHHH#in anyone wants context i will give it#chrumblr rp shenanigans
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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
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for the @chrumblr-whumblr Whump May challenge...
Day 5: "Forced To Obey" is done! (once again late SIGHH)
Fandom: Les Misérables
Whumpee: Enjolras (with unwilling whumper Grantaire)
Rating: Teen and up
Archive Warnings: Graphic Depictions of Violence
Summary:
“If you wish for the both of you to make it out alive… you will obey. Or else, he will die.”
Grantaire and Enjolras are kidnapped, and Grantaire is forced to hurt his leader and friend.
FINALLY FINISHED EDITING THIS!!! HOPE U GUYS ENJOY!!! (I hope y'all understand that forehead touching is my kriffing weakness).
#aster's writing journey#my writings#les mis#les miserables#enjolras#grantaire#les mis fanfic#les miserables fanfiction#chrumblr whumblr#enjoltaire#(i will say i ship them platonically but i think ppl won't mind this being in the tags)
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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.
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@chrumblr-whumblr day 6: tied to a chair
wc: 435 | warnings: kidnapped, does this technically count as torture child abuse or both, that trope where character is tied to a chair and being punched etc, blood, some swearing | characters: Damian Wayne (pov), Tim Drake
—
Damian pulled at the ropes around his wrists and wished they were handcuffs so he could dislocate his thumbs to get out of them. Or at least dodge the punch aimed at his head. But it landed, and his head snapped to the side, and he wished it even harder.
“Not so hard to clip the little birdie’s wings, now, is it, boys?” the lead henchman jeered, and his cronies laughed uproariously as Damian glared up at them, blood dripping from his mouth down his suit.
“If you wanted a Robin with wings, you should have gone after Red Robin instead. But then, none of you low-level thugs seem to have much intelligence at all.” They stopped laughing. Damian allowed himself to admit that pissing off a bunch of men much larger than himself, especially when he was tied to a chair with no backup present, had been a bad move.
The leader bent to push his face uncomfortably close to Damian’s. “I’m gonna make you eat those words, kid. Think you’re all high and mighty and better than us, runnin' around with the Bat. Yeah” — he looked back and gestured to one of the others — “I’m gonna make you eat those words real quick.” The thug left, then came back with a hefty length of pipe and handed it to him.
Ah. Fuck.
“You gotta learn, birdie, that if ya mouth off like that, you ain’t gonna have a mouth soon enough.” The leader paced languorously in front of him once or twice, then pulled back, and Damian squeezed his eyes shut, bracing for the impact of metal on flesh and bone-
There was no impact. Instead, there was the sound of blows landing, then multiple heavy thuds, and he opened his eyes to see Tim standing over the incapacitated thugs.
“Only I get to threaten my brother, shithead,” he snarled, aiming one last kick at the leader before turning and crouching to cut Damian’s ties. “Where are you hurt?”
“I am fine. A split lip does not qualify as an injury.”
“An injury’s an injury, Dami.” Tim wiped the drip of blood away with a gloved thumb, and winced just as Damian did. The ropes fell away, and he stood, feeling strangely reluctant to let go of Tim’s arm. They started to walk towards the exit.
“I wasn’t going to let him hurt you.” Tim’s voice was hushed, and he didn’t look at Damian as they stepped through the doorway. But Damian looked up at his older brother, stopped walking, and nodded.
“I know.”
Then Tim did turn to smile at him.
“Good.”
#swift creates#swift writes#damian wayne#robin#tim drake#red robin#tim drake wayne#tim drake robin#chrumblr whump#Chrumblr whump May#batfam#batfamily#Batboys#damian wayne whump#Whump#Dc#Batman#dc robin#damian wayne al ghul#damian al ghul
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Chrumblr Day 3: Carrying
(Characters are my OCs from a project I share with my partner. This is a rescue scene.)
Ghost held his baby boy close to his chest. Not baby, he reminded himself. But looking down at his son, all he could think of was the first time he had seen him, held him in his arms. He was tiny then, too thin, too weak. How was it that Mobius seemed so much smaller now, eight years later?
He stumbled as his foot caught a root, almost losing his grip on Mobius. He clutched him tighter to his chest, expecting to hear something, some sort of noise as he was jostled roughly in Ghost’s attempt to keep him close, but there was nothing. Mobius kept staring into space, head resting against Ghost’s shoulder, arms tucked in close to his body.
The branches hit painfully against Ghost’s bare back as the group of them ran from the house, from the soldiers that would be arriving back to investigate Vy’s gunshots. He gritted his teeth and tried to keep his eyes on Pari-Zarali as she led them through the forest, watching the blur of motion that she had turned into instead of looking down at his son. As much as he wanted to just stop and hold him—sixty days, it had been sixty days—they couldn’t afford to stop until they were out of danger.
He got into a rhythm as he got used to running on the uneven ground. One foot up. Lift. Over an obstacle. Push. Don’t look at Mobius. Other foot up. Lift. Push. Eyes ahead, hold him close. Repeating a count, almost hypnotic, as he ran.
Pari-Zarali slowed once she judged that they were far enough, and Ghost broke his rhythm to look down at Mobius.
His eyes were closed. Ghost could see a red, healing scar across his cheek, and knew if he took the time to look at where his son had been bleeding before they had started running, he would see a different kind of scar. Smooth, pale, uncanny, unnatural even, compared to scars that healed naturally.
Ghost tried to stop thinking about that. He had seen those scars all over his son’s body when he had been putting his shirt over him. He didn’t want to think about it. Didn’t want to think of how he’d failed—sixty days—and what they had been doing to him.
He rearranged Mobius so he was settled more comfortably against his chest. Despite how light he was, Ghost’s arms were getting tired. He knew Vy was looking at him—the angle of her head, the desperation—but he didn’t want to hand over their son just yet.
“It’s ok,” he whispered quietly into Mobius’s hair. “You’re gonna be ok.”
Mobius’s eyelids flickered, and for a moment, Ghost expected him to wake up, look up, and answer, to break this silent not-sleep and cry, scream, anything but this unresponsive limpness.
He kept walking until they stopped, and Vy took him. Her turn to carry their baby boy. Ghost’s arms were sore, heavy, but his heart was heavier. He had thought they would have their boy back once they found him. Now, he wasn’t so sure that they did.
#whump#stolen starling#chrumblr whump#there is probably something else I should tag this#minor whump#or something#'cause Bus is littol#idk
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@chrumblr-whumblr day five! Better late than never ig? The prompt was "forced to obey".
Fandom: Chrumblr RP
AU where Arrio is with the whump AU gang. AU-ception.
-
Arrio dodged as Peter rushed at him, barely making it out of the way before he could land a punch.
“Peter, snap out of it!” Arrio yelled, backing up to put space between them.
They were in fairly small room, windowless and completely made of cement, with one locked (he had checked) electric door and a camera in the top of each corner. Normally he would have taken out the cameras out with his fire, but he currently had more pressing matters. One in particular, that he needed to deal with.
“Peter, stop! It's me!” he exclaimed. “Not that I expect that to change anything," he added under his breath.
Peter glared at Arrio as he bore down on him, ducking under his extended elbow and throwing a leg out, knocking Arrio's feet out from under him.
Arrio rolled to the side before he could be pinned down, jumping back up to his feet and breathing heavily.
If Peter had been any normal person with fighting skills, they might have been evenly matched. But even without his webshooters, as he was now, he still had enhanced speed and strength. That, plus the fact that Arrio wanted to avoid injuring him if he could, and that Peter, in his current state, had no such qualms, Arrio wasn't quite sure how he was managing to hold his own. Or how much longer he could keep it up, for that matter.
“Peter, knock it off! Come on, I know you find my face punchable even under normal circumstances, but you need to stop! You can't let them control you! You're stronger than that!"
Peter didn't respond, just like he hadn't since he'd entered the room. His lack of snarky comments had been what tipped Arrio off to something being wrong even before Peter resorted to violence. The lack of verbal assault was almost more concerning than the physical attack.
Peter darted forward, pinning Arrio against the back wall, and Arrio kicked him in the stomach as old instincts kicked in, knowing he couldn't take much more of this.
He really wished they wouldn't.
Peter made a grab for Arrio's throat, but before he could make contact, Arrio took Peter's wrist in his hand and bit. His teeth sank into Peter's hand and his opponent yelped, making his first sound since he'd entered the room, as the disgusting taste of blood filled Arrio's mouth, almost making him gag.
Peter smashed his other fist against the side of Arrio's head, but he only bit down harder, scratching at Peter's face and neck and any other exposed skin he could get his hands on as he was hit again and again.
Peter quickly seemed to realize that his current tactic wasn't working, and instead grabbed a handful of Arrio's hair, slamming his head back against the wall. Arrio locked his jaw against the exploding pain as his brain rattled and the room started spinning. But as his head connected with the cement again and again, he let go, falling limp. But Peter wasn't done yet. He continued the motion, over and over, as Arrio choked out a strangled cry of pain.
"Peter," he begged, voice raspy and broken.
Peter still didn't give any sign that he'd heard him, but without warning, he let go, allowing Arrio to fall to the floor, dazed and in pain, unmoving. Then Peter stood up and walked to the opposite corner, where he promptly crumpled to the floor like a puppet whose strings had been cut.
The door opened, and the two men who'd brought him to the room walked in, grinning from ear to ear.
“Oh, excellent performance, you two!” one exclaimed with a little clap. “That last bit where you panicked and went feral? Absolutely wonderful! I don't know why we didn't do this sooner!”
“What did you do to him?” Arrio growled, watching Peter's limp form out of the corner of his eye, and the second man shook his head sadly. “I think next time we might have to use him instead of his friend. Looks like he still hasn't learned his lesson.”
The first man nodded in agreement.
“I'm afraid so. He needs to see how lucky he was to be on the receiving end. So ungrateful.” He rolled his sleeves up, stepping forward. “Oh well. Time to get him back to the others. I'm sure they're worried.”
The two walked up and picked Arrio up by his arms, dragging him out the door and through the halls, and aside from a pitiful attempt to shove them off at first, he didn't fight. He allowed himself to be brought back to the room that held the others as the world spun, not even attempting to get his legs under him. Even if he could, he doubted they'd hold his weight once the men let go.
They brought him back to the room and dragged him to the back corner before releasing him, and he collapsed with a grunt. Then they left, leaving him alone with the others.
"Arrio!" Nia gasped, as she and Dick appeared at his side, Raoul just behind them.
He tried to speak, but the words came out all jumbled together.
"Easy, kid, it's okay. Take your time."
"They got Peter," he slurred, careful to make his words more intelligible. "They got Peter."
Raoul's eyes widened as Dick gently helped Arrio sit up. He pulled his knees up to his chest as the room spun, and he leaned heavily against Dick to keep from falling over again. Dick wrapped an arm around his shoulders, careful not to hurt him any more than he already was.
"Where is he? And what did they do to you?" he asked, his gentle tone not hiding the horror in his voice.
"It wasn't them." Then he shook his head, but immediately stopped when the murderous pain made him regret it. "I mean, it was. But they made Peter. They made us fight. They were controlling him. And they didn't need wires." He hugged himself, and Dick squeezed his shoulders tighter as he shuddered. "He wasn't Peter. It was like he wasn't even in there." He buried his face in his arms, knowing he was acting like a little kid and not caring.
Dick winced.
"We'll get him back, Arrio. We'll find a way."
Arrio didn't respond, just leaned against him even more. Dick turned toward him a little and put a careful hand to his face, lifting it to get a better view.
"You bite your tongue?" he asked, seeing the blood crusted around the edges of Arrio's mouth.
"No, I- I bit him. He had me pinned and I didn't know what to do, he's faster and stronger and my instincts just kind of- took over." His voice wavered, and his eyes burned as he held back tears.
"Hey, it's okay."
"I- I was scared. I've fought Peter more than once and I've never been scared of him. But realizing that he wasn't holding back, it- I don't know, I didn't know what to do. He could have killed me. I couldn't stop him."
Dick didn't know what to do except wrap his other arm around Arrio as well, drawing him into a firm hug. He wasn't sure what he expected, but he was almost surprised when Arrio not only didn't protest, but leaned into him completely.
"I'm sorry," Dick said quietly. "I'm so sorry."
Nia moved to sit on Arrio's other side and wormed her way under his arm, and she thought she heard a watery laugh from him, but it just as easily could have been a sob. Raoul sat next to Dick, putting a hand on his shoulder, and the group stayed like that for a while, until they heard a noise outside the room. They all stiffened as the heavy door swung open, and there stood the three men, and... Peter.
"Aww, isn't this an adorable scene! Enjoy your little reunion, everyone!" one of them exclaimed cheerfully, before pushing Peter inside and closing the door.
Arrio immediately shrugged Dick's arms off of him and shoved himself to his feet, using Dick's shoulder as support as his head screamed murder and the ground swayed beneath him. He tried to raise his fists, but had to put one back on Dick to steady himself.
"Arrio," Dick warned quietly, but Arrio wasn't sure even he knew what he was warning against.
But Peter just raised his hands slightly, and Arrio could see that they were shaking.
"It- it's just me this time. They- They're not- y'know. I swear. It's just me."
Arrio wasn't sure what to do, but Nia slowly got up and walked over to Peter, wrapping him in a hug. He froze for a moment before returning the gesture, sagging a bit before Nia pulled away and took his hand, leading him to the back wall. The middle, not the corner Dick and Arrio were in. Arrio was grateful.
Dick softly took Arrio's wrist and pulled him back down to the floor, and he didn't resist. He sank back down to the floor beside him, but didn't relax, even when Dick put his arm back around him.
"Hey. It's okay," Dick breathed to him, so lightly the others wouldn't be able to hear, and Arrio realized he was shaking.
"Sorry," he muttered.
"... Arrio?" Peter said softly, and Arrio tensed even more. "I- I'm sorry. I couldn't stop. I should have been able to, but I couldn't, and that's my fault, and I- I'm so sorry." He was crying now, and a lump grew in Arrio's throat as he listened. "I'm so sorry."
Arrio steeled himself. He wasn't Peter's biggest fan, but he also had to tell the truth. It wouldn't be fair to him to stay angry.
"... It's not your fault, Peter. You couldn't stop it. And it's not because you're weak, or a failure, it's because they're psychopathic control freaks hell-bent on making us suffer, and they've perfected the ways to do it. And that's not on you. It's on them, and only them. Okay?"
Peter just sniffed for a moment, apparently in shock, but eventually he nodded.
"Okay," he whispered. "Okay. I just- I'm so sorry. I'm so sorry."
Arrio swallowed the lump in his throat and almost nodded as well, before realizing that probably wouldn't go over well with his head injury.
"I know. Me too." He hugged himself again, hating how the taste of iron lingered in his mouth. "... How's your hand?"
"... It's fine. Nothing I don't deserve."
"Peter."
"Right. Sorry. It hurts, but I'll live.”
“... Sorry about that,” Arrio said. “I mean, not that I did it. But that I had to. That… I don't know, it must have sucked.”
He was surprised to hear Peter laugh.
“Yeah. Yeah, it did suck. Probably equally for both of us though, all things considered.”
“Yeah, fair enough,” Arrio agreed with a wry smile. “So… no hard feelings?”
He couldn't see Peter, but he could hear the smile on his face when he spoke.
“Yeah. We're good.”
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Chrumblr's May Whump Challenge: Day One--Blindfolding
Spent most of today dozing on the couch feeling bad, so we doing the Bare Minimum today lads. @chrumblr-whumblr
Fandom: Doctor Who (Second Doctor Era)
Word Count: 1,009
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“Dunnae touch me!”
Jamie pulled away from the hands in the dark, the unexpected touch setting him even more on edge than he already was. He’d been mostly left alone for the past while, along with his hands bound behind him and a piece of fabric pulled roughly over his eyes.
Whoever it was didn’t pay any attention to his initial reaction, hands grabbing his arm and hauling him to his feet. Jamie tried to tug away, but the grip was too tight.
He was shoved forward and had to stumbled to catch himself. His heart was beating quickly again, adrenaline immediately rushing through him. He’d almost relaxed, sitting against that cold rock wall for as long as he had. He’d almost had time to come up with a plan to escape.
But now he only had time to focus on keeping his footing. Someone hand a grip on his arm and a hand on his shoulder, pushing him forward over the uneven ground a little faster than was comfortable. Jamie almost tripped a few times, caught only by whoever his captor was.
“Where are you taking me?” he risked asking on what felt like a more stable part of the path. If this even was a path, it felt more like scrambling over a rockface. His knees were scraped almost raw, he could feel the blood rolling slowly down his legs.
“Quiet,” growled his captor and Jamie scowled. A response was cut off in favour of not falling face first again. Being unable to see was making navigating this terrain a lot harder; but he figured that was probably the point.
A sound caught his attention, a distant shout. He stopped abruptly, lifting his head and listening. It sounded like gunfire, and explosion? The Doctor?
The hand behind him shoved him forward and he had to focus on keeping his balance.
Surely there was some chance of escape. Maybe if he could see, he could figure out the best place to try and slip free. But no matter how much he shifted his head, he couldn’t loosen the blindfold.
“Quick! Hide!” Someone ahead was shouting and before Jamie could fully process, he was tugged sideways. Hands bound behind him, he practically fell into the person pulling him and he growled in frustration and anger.
“Watch it,” he snapped. A hand shoved his head down and he was pushed into some kind of ditch. A cave maybe?
He was pulled back and forced to knee, winching as he felt the rough fabric of his kilt on his raw knees. At least that was a little better than straight on the stones and dirt.
A gunshot sounded from nearby and Jamie jumped, heart beating quickly. Footsteps ran by, someone was shouting- was that--?
“Doc-” His shout was cut off by a hand across his face and he scowled, attempting to bite down but wasn’t able to get a proper grip. He was pulled back, pressed uncomfortably close to whoever was holding him.
But the movement and taking rapid shelter had loosened the ropes around his hand, and he focused his attention on wriggling his wrists. He shifted as carefully as he could, inching back just a bit to get close enough to start rubbing the ropes against a stone, part of the wall behind him.
The man beside him was breathing heavily, and Jamie could smell the body odor coming off him--a positively unpleasant scent. He tried to pull away, but the grip around his head was too tight.
His hands were getting free though.
The noise from outside was fading and Jamie felt a stab of fear; was he being left behind? The Doctor would never willingly do that, but it had been hours since he had been captured.
Finally the rope snapped and Jamie had full movement of his hands. He didn’t hesitate, shoving up with his legs and slamming his shoulder into the chin of the man holding him. He swing a fist immediately after, feeling the satisfying contact of flesh on flesh.
His captor let out a cry of surprise and stumbled back, loosening his grip. Jamie spat, trying to rid his mouth of the unpleasant taste of sweaty hand, and lunged forward, not bothering to remove his blindfold yet.
He managed to tackle his captor around his waist, bringing him to the ground. The sound of head hitting stone rang through the cave, and the man went limp. Jamie shifted backwards immediately, his back against the wall, and reached up to pull his blindfold down.
Two others in the cave, both rushing towards them. He had seconds to act.
“Doctor!” he shouted, hoping beyond hope that would be enough to bring his friend’s attention. Then without hesitating, he lunged towards the closest of the other men, tackling him around the waist.
They both went down and Jamie scrambled up as quickly as he could, straddling the man and slamming his fist into his face. He ducked a blow from behind him almost immediately, feeling the intoxicating thrill of a fight fuel him.
Satisfied the man on the ground was unconscious, he rolled of him, springing to a light crouch as he did. The last man hesitated, glancing between his two downed comrades, and Jamie.
“Come on then,” Jamie challenged. He couldn’t help but be disappointed when the other man turned tail and ran. “Coward!” he shouted after him.
But he didn’t get far. As he rushed towards the entrance of the small cave, a figure appeared.
“Oh my!” the Doctor called as the man rushed by him. “Don’t let him get away!” he shouted outside. Clearly he wasn’t alone.
Jamie let out a long breath at the sight of his friend, allowing himself to relax out of his fighting stance.
“Took your time,” he said, wiping a forearm across his forehead. He pulled at the fabric that had been used as a blindfold, still tied around his neck.
“You weren’t exactly easy to find,” the Doctor pointed out. “What have I said about wandering off?”
#wren writes#doctor who#classic doctor who#jamie mccrimmon#second doctor#whump#chrumblr whumblr challenge#blindfolded#GOSH my laptop is SLOW i need a new one ughugh
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Touch my heart
For @chrumblr-whumblr: May whump challenge #17 - Touch starved
Fandom: Lewis (ITV)
Length: ~3k words
Also posted to AO3
DI Robbie Lewis was clearing his desk on the evening of Good Friday in no great mood and with few plans for the weekend. Part of him was happy for his sergeant DS James Hathaway, a practising Catholic who would hopefully appreciate being able to attend the Easter service at church without worrying about a callout. For himself, Easter meant very little since his kids had grown too old for the egg hunt; and religion in general meant nothing at all since his wife’s tragic death some seven years ago. Indeed, the prospect of a full weekend off-rota held little appeal.
Just then, James returned to the office with the ballistics report they had been waiting for, the final nail in the coffin for the case they had cleared two days ago. As he added it to the file for CPS and brought the whole across to his boss, Robbie gave in to impulse.
“So, what are your plans for the weekend? Aside from church on Easter morning?”
“The band I play in - we have a gig in Reading tomorrow night for the local diocese. A bit different from what we normally play, so we are meeting for lunch and spending the afternoon rehearsing.”
“And Sunday, after church?”
“Nothing definite. Why?”
“Do you fancy takeaway at mine? There is a fine single malt calling our names, and you can break in the new sofa bed. Come a bit early if you like and we can watch more than one DVD from that boxset you brought last time.”
Despite the seemingly casual invitation, Robbie found himself holding his breath. It had been well over a month since James had joined him for a meal at his, and even their after-work pints had taken on a different flavour… almost as though he was showing up out of habit or duty, and not because he wanted to. Which was a puzzle, because they had settled into a nice pattern over the past couple of years - ever since the Phoenix case had rattled their equilibrium so badly.
Even worse in Robbie’s opinion, James seemed to have been distancing himself at work too. Not in a way that would be obvious to anyone else - their usual repartee in quip and counterquip continued unabated, and not even such sharp observers as Dr. Laura Hobson or DCS Innocent had noticed anything. But he had - the difference was subtle but definite, and he found himself missing all the causal touches that punctuated their days… a hand on the back to indicate who should go through a doorway first, a friendly bump of the shoulder when walking down a narrow pavement, or a touch on the forearm to quietly draw attention to a clue. James and he had never had much sense of personal space around each other except when seriously at odds; and despite the tensions during the Crevecoeur case during the winter, he thought they had hit their stride once again. If anything, James had grown closer and more trusting since then - particularly once Robbie had made it clear that he was not going to push for any explanations regarding James’ childhood when his father was employed on that estate. Or so it had seemed, until the changes of the last weeks.
To his surprise and relief, James looked happy - nay, delighted - at the invitation. His face broke into an all-too-rare sincere smile which seemed blinding in its intensity as he rushed to accept, with the stipulation that he would bring dessert. As they turned to walk in step down to the car park, Robbie felt something right itself despite the couple of feet of distance James continued to maintain between them. And found himself looking forward to the weekend after all.
~~~~~~~~~~
By Sunday afternoon, Robbie was basking in a pleasant sense of achievement - all the chores he had postponed for weeks as they had hit a string of complex cases were finally done, and he had taken advantage of the good weather to get a start on the little back garden that came with his flat. And he now had a pleasant evening to look forward to with his best mate. On the thought, he decided to text James to check what time he would be coming over, since they had not really decided what “early” meant. Text sent and cuppa in hand, he went back into the garden to continue planning what he would get to the next time he had a free day or two, and to wonder whether James might be game to join him.
Almost an hour later, there was no answer to his text, nor when he tried calling James. Robbie left messages on both his mobile and his home phone, and willed himself to wait a further half hour - maybe the lad was showering. But once his self-imposed interval had elapsed with no response from James, he could not wait any longer. Grabbing his car keys, he drove over to James’ flat, barely keeping within the posted speed limit on the thankfully empty roads. Once there, it was the work of a moment to check that James’ car was in its accustomed spot before letting himself in using the spare key he had been given a couple of years ago now.
Stepping into James’ apartment, Robbie was brought up short by the unaccustomed clutter visible from the hall. Not that he had been here all that often, but after four years of sharing an office with James, he knew that the other man was always neat and systematic in everything he did. And he would never have left his beloved Gibson lying on the floor in the hallway!
Increasingly worried about what he would find, Robbie walked further into the flat, calling out to James as he went. The silence that met him was distinctly unnerving, particularly as he knew that James should be at home. Until he entered the bedroom to find a fully clothed lanky frame collapsed on the bed, sweating and shivering simultaneously, while evidently too exhausted to have removed even his belt and shoes.
With a startled exclamation, Robbie made his way to the bedside. It did not take long to realise what was wrong - James had obviously come down with the flu that had been making the rounds of the nick for the past couple of weeks, and between fever and incipient dehydration, was in no shape to respond to the phone or indeed even to Robbie’s voice. And knowing him as Robbie did, it was likely the daft sod had been feeling poorly for a few days and ignoring it. Deciding that the recriminations could wait until James was better, he set to work getting the younger man comfortably into bed before attempting to get some fluids and paracetamol into him.
As he struggled with an utterly uncoordinated and floppy six-foot-three-inch sergeant, Robbie remembered just why nurses have to be so strong. By the time he got James changed into his pyjamas (old track bottoms and a threadbare T-shirt that surely could not have survived from his Cambridge days?) and manoeuvred him properly into bed, it was evident that this was just the start of a long evening and night. The lad’s temperature seemed to be steadily climbing, and while not yet obviously uncooperative, he was not exactly easy to coax into doing the needful - not making any sense when he talked, but nonetheless managing to convey his displeasure in increasingly inventive mumbles. Fortunately, James still seemed to recognise his touch and responded well enough to that, even if he seemed to be trying to burrow into Robbie for comfort.
~~~~~~~~~~
Two hours later, Robbie realised he would have to call Innocent and request a sick day (or several) for James. While in no immediate danger or need of further medical attention, the lad was obviously unwell and would need time to recover. But the trickier thing would be to convince Innocent to give Robbie the next day off too… given how James was just now, there seemed to be no other option. He could barely go to the kitchen to fetch him something to drink, or to the bathroom to refresh the wet flannel to cool his brow, without triggering intense anxiety on James’ part. Indeed, he only seemed to calm down and rest if Robbie was holding his hand or stroking his hair… as though that touch was the only thing anchoring him.
Not wanting to disturb James, who seemed to have finally dropped off into a doze, Robbie decided to text Innocent and hope for the best. His guardian angels must have been working overtime, for she responded almost immediately and, albeit grudgingly, granted him a day off with the proviso that he be available should an emergency arise. With a sigh of relief, Robbie put away his phone and turned back to his awkward sod, gently freeing his left hand from the deathgrip James had on it in favour of replacing the wet flannel with his right. To his surprise, James brought his own hand up in a more coordinated movement than any he had essayed so far and pressed it over Robbie’s, as if to tighten the contact before relaxing back into sleep.
It was an hour before James woke up, seemingly more compos mentis this time, and uncomplainingly cooperative when Robbie encouraged him to drink some orange juice. After helping him to the bathroom and changing the damp sheets in the interim, Robbie got him resettled in bed with a fresh cold flannel and water within easy reach.
“Lad, will you be alright on your own for a little while? You don’t have much in the fridge by way of fluids, so I will make a quick visit to the shops.”
“Of course, Sir. And thank you! I don’t know how… you really didn’t need to… ”
“Give over, man! You are not just my sergeant, you are my mate. Now, seeing it is Easter Sunday, your local shop might be closed, so don’t get worried if I have to drive to the nearest supermarket and it takes a bit longer.”
Prophetic words, as it turned out. Not only were the small local shops closed, so was the nearest supermarket. By the time Robbie located one that was open and stocked up on the items he thought they would need, it was well over an hour since he had left James. He sent a brief text to explain, then hurried back as quickly as he could given the suddenly heavy traffic due to people returning from their Easter weekend trips.
Putting away the supplies he had bought, Robbie entered James’ bedroom carrying a tray bearing a bowl of hot chicken soup, some fresh bread, and further supplies of juice and paracetamol to see his sergeant trying to get out of bed and swaying in the process. Quickly putting the tray down on the dresser, he reached out to James, grasping his shoulders to steady him… only for James to turn into his body and cling desperately. Although wracked by fever and weakness, he was gripping Robbie as though for dear life. And no power on earth could stop him then from slipping his arms comfortingly around that shaking form.
“It’s alright, lad. I am here. What’s wrong?”
“You came back! You didn’t leave me!”
“Of course I came back, lad. I only went to get some supplies. Why did you think I wouldn’t?”
“Nobody does. All go away, never come back.”
“I am here, James. I won’t go away like that.”
“You did. When I lied to you. About Will and Feardocha and the others.”
“But I came back. I always do. As you know, lad.”
Somehow, that seemed to get through to James, who allowed himself to be settled back against the piled pillows and accepted the soup Robbie was offering. He did not seem to know what to do with it, though, and simply sat there with a troubled stare as the soup cooled. With a sigh, Robbie sat down at the edge of the bed and lightly cuffed him on the arm.
“The soup won’t drink itself, you know. Come on now, a few spoonfuls won’t hurt you. And the bread will settle your tummy - let you alternate ibuprofen with the paracetamol to break the fever sooner.”
“What about you?”
“I will have mine after you finish.”
“You won’t go away?”
“No, daft lad. I won’t go away. I will bring my dinner here and sit in the armchair to have it if the smell of food won’t bother you.”
Satisfied, James settled back and proceeded to eat. The soup and bread felt just right, as did Robbie’s solid presence by his side. A few minutes later, as he mopped up the last of the soup and accepted the tablets Robbie offered, he felt sufficiently restored to feel for the glasses on his bedside table and perch them on his nose before reaching for the book lying open there. A soft chuckle from Robbie made him look up then.
“What?”
“Only you would pick up a book with such small print when scarcely able to hold your head upright.”
“It’s just that I don’t want to fall asleep again right away. Not until I make sure you have eaten too.”
“That so? Why don’t we chat a bit then? So long as it won’t hurt your throat.”
“My throat is surprisingly clear, though I can’t say the same about my head. What do you want to talk about?”
“Nothing particular. You choose. Just no more flipping elves.”
That set James off laughing, though he had to stop soon enough as his exhausted body could handle only so much. Taking the laughter as a good sign, Robbie bore away the used tray and came back in with his sandwich and beer to settle down in the armchair after pulling it close enough for James to reach him if he so wanted. To his surprise, James took his hand unselfconsciously and initiated the conversation this time.
“I was really looking forward to our takeaway and DVD night, you know.”
“Glad to hear it. How about we do it once you are recovered?”
“You mean that?”
“Not in the habit of saying things I don’t mean! And I miss relaxing with you at the end of a case, or even just because. You do know that you are welcome any time, don’t you?”
James turned an interesting shade of pink at this, and nodded as a shy - almost incredulous - smile played around his lips. Robbie returned to his sandwich, wondering what new complications the daft lad’s overactive brain was cooking up now, and how he might need to handle them.
“I just wanted to say, Sir, I really appreciate it. The acceptance and friendship you extend to me… I have never… just, thank you.”
“As I said, James, I consider you a friend. My best mate, really. So you have nothing to thank me for. You would do as much if the situation was reversed.”
“Hmmm. Still, I have never had anyone to do this for me. It… takes a bit of getting used to.”
Robbie found himself swallowing around a sudden lump in his throat at this admission. Taking a moment to compose himself, for James would shut down immediately if his reaction had even the faintest whiff of pity, he looked up and met his friend’s eyes openly, allowing his understanding to colour his gaze.
“Sometimes, we get lucky with our families. Other times, it takes longer and we have to find our clan.”
“Was that why you moved so far from home?”
“No - I was one of the lucky ones. We were almost frighteningly poor when I was growing up, but there was plenty of love to go around. It was the miners strikes in ‘84 that drove me south… wasn’t easy being a copper when many among my family and mates were working in the mines. The tensions ran too high just then, so it made sense to move here closer to Val’s folks.”
“I didn’t realise. That must have been hard.”
“Aye, especially at first. But it got easier with time, like almost everything does. Now, how about a cuppa before you get some sleep? I saw you have some non-caf herbal teas. Ginger-lemon sound OK?.”
At James’ nod, he went into the kitchen to put the kettle on and clear away the detritus of dinner, such as it was, while waiting for the tea to steep. Re-entering the bedroom a few minutes later, he found James trying valiantly to keep his eyelids open and not slide down into a fully recumbent position. Realising the younger man’s struggle, Robbie sat down beside him and slipped a supportive arm beneath his shoulders while holding his other hand ready to steady the cup in case of need. James relaxed against his side as he slowly sipped the tea as though the simple act of raising and lowering the cup required all his concentration.
Tea drunk, he sank back against his pillows, still pressed against Robbie’s side as though loath to give up the contact. Once James was deeply asleep, Robbie settled him comfortably then rose to retreat to the armchair, only for a long-fingered hand to clutch his own tightly.
“Don’t go away.”
“I am not, lad. I will be right here - in the armchair.”
“No. Too far. Don’t go.”
“Alright. I am right here - you hold on to my hand.”
That seemed to do the trick as James drifted off again. Robbie sat there gently stroking the hand he was holding and hoping that would soothe the nervous twitches and jerks… it was as though James could not fully relax even in his sleep, and he wondered what else was in store until the fever broke properly.
Some indeterminate amount of time later, he looked up into James’ wide-open eyes. Their gaze was unfocused and for a moment, he was concerned that the lad was delirious, when he spoke in a dreamy tone.
“You are still here.”
“Course I am. Promised you, didn’t I?”
“And you always keep your promises.”
“I do. Or at least, I try my best to.”
“Something I need to learn from you. But I am doing better at it - I gave up touching you as my Lenten sacrifice, and I did not break that vow.”
“Why lad? Does it bother you when I touch you? You should have said… I guess I have been used to having someone around, and transferred that to you as we became friends.”
“Bother me? No, it is exactly the opposite.”
As James dropped back into sleep, a number of things suddenly made sense to Robbie. Lent - and in the spirit of sacrificing something important to him, James had determined to give up the casual touches the two of them so frequently shared. So that was the reason for the distance he had sensed between them over the past weeks. While it was a relief to know that he had not done anything to precipitate the distance, Robbie knew that when the right time came, he would need to talk to James about being sensible in his sacrifices. Life had taught him that being too alone could eat into a man’s soul, that we are not made to exist without human touch. That there is no shame in needing a caring presence and a warm hand to grasp.
But those were matters for another day when James was recovered and hopefully willing to talk to him. For now, it was enough that his presence and his touch were helping James, and that the lad trusted him enough to let him in thus far. What he truly wanted from their friendship - that was something to discuss later. But one thing Robbie was determined on… whatever it was, he would be there for James to the best of his ability and with his whole heart.
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The @chrumblr-whumblr whump so far:
Blindfolding
Kneeling
Carrying
Watching while loved ones are 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
Please note that this is a continuous story (titled "Creation Pending" as a whole) and thus if you click on a chapter other than the first couple it may not make much sense to you, though each chapter is more or less a single incident. As you might expect of me and of whump, there's a bunch of trigger warnings; it's fairly light so far on mental health issues, reasonable on gore and injuries, there's absolutely nothing sexual in any way, and there are lots of juicy emotions. Chapter fifteen, "Memory loss", has him experience mild hallucinations/reality disturbances. The later we get, the more suicidal he becomes; by chapter seventeen, "Touch starved", he's not in a good place, and is becoming an alcoholic.
I'll update this post as I add chapters, hopefully.
Please let me know if you want me to tag you when I post a new chapter!
Also note: it's posted on my AO3 as well, with exactly the same content except occasionally there are different author notes there or here.
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