#altno.9

[zeldaseyebrows]

Oh what a day to choose / Torn by the hours All that I say to you / Is like fuel to fire (x)

(Self-Sacrifice)

[concernedbrownbread]

Sacrifice

He didn’t actually think, the first time he jumped in front of Ladybug to save her.

He didn't really think the last time either.

Sacrifice is woven into Adrien's skin. It wasn't a poor sense of self worth, or him being suicidal. It was just him knowing what mattered, and what didn't.

As long as she was breathing, he was too.

(Plagg watched him, in the way only the Kwami of Destruction could, with the unending knowledge of a creature that knew Death, and was helpless to stop it.)

Words: 933

Character: Adrien Agreste

Rating: T

Warnings: Talks of death, Talks of human sacrifice, Adrien's terrible past, an ambiguous ending

Author's note: Self-sacrifice and Chat Noir are toxic besties, the prompt was too perfect to pass up. I hope this disjointed mess of scenes satisfies your angsty needs.

He didn’t actually think, the first time he jumped in front of Ladybug to save her.

She held him tight and whispered, “What were you thinking?” and he couldn’t really say, Well, I wasn’t. So he laughed it off instead.

There was something inherently wrong with that, he supposed. Plagg mentioned it, in between bites of cheese and caring in the strange, impassive way that only the Kwami of Destruction could care. He mentioned that there should be more thinking involved, when you give yourself up for a partner you barely know.

“What if she can’t bring you back?”

Adrien shrugged, completely unbothered, “I know she will.”

The unwavering faith scared Ladybug, but it made complete sense to him.

“You need to take care of yourself too, Chat,” Ladybug would always say, eyebrows drawn into a frown, “I don’t want to keep losing you.”

“I’m sorry,” he would always reply, “But someone needs to buy us time so you can figure out the Lucky Charm,” he would smile, all teeth, “You never fail me, My Lady. How can I fail you?”

Us. He always used us. We. Team. Together.

For as long as she’s breathing, he was too.

—

Sacrifice was woven into the very fabric of Adrien’s skin from the moment he could walk. Maybe even before then. He was a good boy, Mother assured him, and good boys would give up some of their free time to model for his Father’s brand new company. Offer up his social life in exchange for posing in front of a camera. Sacrifice some food to look fit.

He was grateful for it. When Mother passed away, he knew he needed to take care of Father before himself. When an Akuma attacked, he knew he had to set his homework aside.

When Ladybug was in danger, he knew where Chat Noir stood.

It wasn’t that Adrien had a low sense of self-worth or that he was suicidal. No, he just knew what was important to him, and what was not.

Father was important to him. His friends were important to him. Ladybug was important to him.

He was not.

—

In history class, they learned about human sacrifice in ancient cultures. A gruesome topic, censored for the sake of the children and glossed over for the sake of more academic subjects like agriculture and economy.

“Why would people do something like that?” Nino asked, disgusted and rightfully so.

Adrien kept his mouth shut, even as that night he dug deep into research. He felt empathetic, of course. It was a terrible thing, to kill your fellow human for the sake of a god you did not know.

But things always looked worse from the outside.

Adrien thought he might understand the appeal. There was something alluring about living - and dying - for something bigger than the world. Something comforting in knowing that your death meant more, that your death could be the reason why others live, that your death meant that you could be with your god. He knew they were wrong, but that didn’t stop him from understanding.

In these societies, sacrifice was celebrated. Not overlooked and underappreciated, not met with horror and hurt, not -

Plagg watched him with gleaming green eyes, otherworldly and contemplative.

“Am I crazy?” Adrien asked.

Breezily, Plagg replied, “Humans tend to be,” and then, as an afterthought, “I suppose now I know what I chose you.”

“You chose me? I thought Master Fu - “

Plagg laughed, a sharp sound, “Master Fu has as much say in choosing a Wielder and humans have in choosing when Death comes for them.”

Adrien shrugged, uncaring.

—

Adrien didn’t have a childhood dream. Or if he did, he couldn’t really remember.

Luka - Viperion, really - knew something he didn’t. Something from a different time, a different life.

“You can be whatever you want to be, Adrien,” Luka said, almost forceful.

“I’m not sure what I want,” Adrien admitted quietly, hand going to his chest where he could feel the pounding against his chest.

—

Ladybug was quiet, the night before their last Akuma. An uneasy quiet, one that she couldn’t shake off.

“I’m worried,” she admitted.

“Hi worried, I’m - “

“Chat.”

“Yes, that’s what I was about to say.”

She shook her head, serious. “I’m worried about you. You’re getting … reckless.”

I worry, and hadn’t Adrien heard that so many times by now. In Nino’s sideways looks and Chloe’s frequent texts and the Gorilla’s slow, deliberate signs.

“I am not,” Adrien pouted good naturedly, “I swear.”

Plagg sat at the back of his mind, a heavy presence tonight.

—

“You’re a good kit,” Plagg said, paw resting on his cheek, “She doesn’t deserve you. None of them do.”

Adrien rolled his eyes, “Okay, what’s gotten into you now?”

“Kwamis are helpless creatures,” Plagg said ambiguously. He came to Adrien, resting his forehead on the teen’s, “But you’re a good kit, Adrien. Don’t forget that.”

“Okay …?”

Plagg smiled, all lips and no teeth.

—

“I’m not sure what I want.”

“I’m sure it will come to you, with time,” Luka had smiled, that day, “We all grow out of our childhood dreams anyway. Listen to the music in your heart.”

But like his piano lessons, he knew that the tune he played was dictated by someone else. It always had been.

See, self-sacrifice was woven into Adrien’s skin. Since before he would walk.

—

The night before the last Akuma, Ladybug had been worried.

Adrien hadn’t been.

For as long as she was breathing, he was too.

—

He didn’t actually think, the last time he jumped in front of Ladybug to save her.

[drjezdzanyart]

Whumptober 2021, for the prompt self-sacrifice (altno.9)

[emmithar-blog]

What does day 23 look like?

It's another Alt Prompt! Let's hear it for a little self-sacrifice!

Memories

Summary: “Arthur,” the man wheezed, bloodied hand reaching out for his. Fingers entwined in his own, thick with sticky warmth, clutching to him tight. Those same fingers leaving impressions on his flesh he couldn't rightly forget.

“Why?”

“Instinct, I suppose. A father ain't...supposed to watch his son die,” Hosea wheezed between breaths.

“Ain't no one dying,” Arthur growled, his teeth clenched tight against the sickly feeling rising in his gut.

Tags: Major Character Death, Animal Attack, Blood Loss

[set-phasers-to-whump]

what partners do

prompt: self-sacrifice (alt no.9)

whumpee: illya kuryakin

fandom: the man from uncle

hi! this fic doesn’t have a lot of background, like idk where they are or what they’re doing or anything lmao. the only really important note is that this takes place early in their partnership, shortly after the end of the movie. this fic only involves illya and napoleon so they are on whatever mission this is as just a pair i guess. that’s all there is to know, hope you enjoy!

Napoleon slowly, carefully turns the doorknob. There’s a clicking sound and he doesn’t even have time to think oh shit before there’s six-and-a-half feet of Russian secret agent slamming into him. The deafening noise of an explosion follows a millisecond later, and Napoleon hits the ground hard. 

He wakes up a few seconds later coughing on smoke, and he rapidly realizes that he can’t quite breathe properly - there’s something pressing down on his chest, constricting his lungs. That’s extremely alarming, and he opens his eyes, which immediately begin to water in the dusty air. 

The source of the pressure is immediately obvious - Illya is on top of him. Illya had tackled him to the ground and had presumably taken the brunt of the explosion and Napoleon would like to wonder why but he is too busy struggling to breathe. 

“Peril,” he says, his voice hoarse and breathless. “Peril. Can you please move?”

There’s no response. Illya doesn’t even stir. 

“Peril,” Napoleon says, more insistent. “Illya.”

Still nothing. Shit.

“Guess I’m moving you myself,” Napoleon mutters. It takes him a little while, but eventually he manages to roll Illya off of him, his body hitting the ground with a thud. As soon as they’re separated, Napoleon takes a wonderfully deep breath, coughs, and then sits up, turning to look at Illya. 

The other agent’s eyes are closed. His chest is rising and falling, a bit too shallowly, but consistently. His face is streaked with black and red and there are bits of shrapnel in his hair and on his clothes, both of which are singed. Most worrying is the large wet spot on his shirt - the black fabric hides the color of the spot, but Napoleon knows it must be blood. To confirm, he reaches out and touches it, nodding in solemn acceptance of the situation when his fingers come away red. 

He carefully lifts Illya’s shirt away from his body, the fabric sticking to the blood. There’s a large bloody gash underneath, but whatever shrapnel had created it is gone, surely knocked out of him in all the chaos. 

Napoleon moves on instinct, shrugging out of his suit jacket, which is already dusty and torn and beyond saving anyway. He presses it firmly into Illya’s wound, and he knows this is painful and hopes that the pain will serve to wake Illya up. 

But it doesn’t. He knows Illya’s breathing, and a quick press of his bloody fingers to the side of the other agent’s neck confirms that he is in fact alive. So why the hell won’t he wake up?

“Come on, Peril,” Napoleon says. “Wake up.” This sentence is punctuated by a fairly light slap to Illya’s cheek. There’s still no response. Despite himself, Napoleon feels a jolt of worry surge through him. 

“This isn’t funny. Wake up,” he demands, slapping Illya’s cheek hard enough to leave a red mark on his already battered skin. 

Napoleon feels bad about this for all of a second, at which point Illya’s eyes slowly flutter open. They’re glassy, and they wander about the room for a long moment before at last coming to rest on Napoleon. 

“Что -” Illya pauses and coughs, badly hiding his wince. After a second, he tries again. “Что...ты делаешь?” He raises a clumsy hand and taps Napoleon’s right hand, which is currently pressing his suit jacket into Illya’s wound in an attempt to slow the bleeding. 

“I’m trying to prevent you from bleeding to death because you decided to tackle me out of the way of an explosion,” Napoleon explains, his tone irritated but his words slow so Illya has time to process them. 

“Oh.”

“How are you feeling?”

Illya groans. He tries briefly to sit up and makes it perhaps a quarter of the way before sinking slowly back to the ground. “Not too bad.”

Napoleon fixes him with a look. “You want to try that again?”

“Fine. Hurts.”

“How’s your head?”

“Dizzy.”

“Anything feel broken?”

“No.”

“Are you bleeding anywhere else?”

Illya has to think for a moment on this question. Napoleon takes the time to look over what parts of Illya he can see. He comes to the conclusion that Illya isn’t seriously bleeding from anywhere else on his front side just as Illya says, “I am not.”

“Do you think you can walk?” He doesn’t see that there’s much of an alternative, regardless of Illya’s answer. They can’t stay here forever, and he (much as it pains him to admit) probably isn’t strong enough to fully carry Illya the entire mile back to their car. 

Fortunately, Illya’s answer is “yes,” though it’s not said with as much confidence as Napoleon would like. If nothing else, though, it’s a promise to try. 

Before they can think about moving, though, Napoleon needs to create a better bandage. Holding the jacket is working fine for the moment, but Napoleon imagines the two of them are going to need the use of both hands. So he takes off his white button-down, which is now more of a gray, and ties it by the sleeves around the jacket, pulling the knot tightly until Illya takes a sharp breath and whispers, “that’s enough, Cowboy.”

After this, the two of them manage to get Illya to his feet. It’s a slow process, full of cursing and stumbling, but by the time it’s over Illya’s standing up and the jacket is still being held firmly in place. Success, Napoleon thinks, and they begin to walk.

For the first few steps, Illya stubbornly pulls away from Napoleon, as though he thinks he’ll be able to walk on his own after going through a goddamn explosion. When he nearly falls for the fourth time in as many steps, Napoleon decides he’s had enough. He’s not risking Illya getting any more hurt just because he’s too stubborn and too macho-spy to admit that he needs help. 

He steps in closer to Illya and slides an arm behind his back, careful not to jostle his makeshift bandage. He expects Illya to pull away and insist that he’s fine, but instead, almost immediately, Illya leans into him. Without Napoleon even having to ask, Illya places an arm around his shoulders to further support himself. 

At this point, Napoleon’s taken on more than half of Illya’s weight, and when they take a step it’s clumsy and slow, but neither of them stumbles. They take another step, and another, and it’s a long way back to the car but they’re going to make it, Napoleon is certain of that. 

They walk without speaking, the only sounds being their own breathing, punctuated by the occasional cough (in Napoleon’s case) and the occasional poorly concealed noise of pain (in Illya’s case). They only speak once the car is finally in sight. 

“Thank you,” Illya says, his voice so quiet Napoleon’s half convinced he hasn’t actually said anything. “For helping.”

Napoleon shakes his head, trying to ignore the growing feeling that he can only describe as fondness. “Thank you,” he shoots back, “for tackling me out of the way of an explosion. That’s - it means a lot.”

“Is nothing,” Illya says, except that it isn’t. “This is what partners do, yes?” 

Napoleon’s pretty sure he is right about that. “Yeah,” he agrees. “It’s what partners do.”

thanks for reading! on a fun me note i am learning russian and consequently i am planning to use it more in my fics for this fandom bc why not. i am not at all good yet so if i mess something up i apologize. but yeah i think it’s fun to combine languages and also i think illya would probably first speak in his native language if he’s waking up confused and hurt, yknow? anyways i hope you enjoyed this fic, love you <3!!

[jaysworlds]

Whumptober 2021 Day Eighteen

One of them has to die. Grace doesn’t seem like the type to lie about something like that, and Bramble, at least, insists upon vouching for him, so here they are. One of them has to die.

They’ve been arguing about it for almost a week now. Over who gets to die and who gets to live.

Jen sort of knows it has to be him. He’s sort of known from the beginning, to be honest, but he just … hasn’t really participated in the argument. He doesn’t want to die.

He thinks Grace knows, too. He keeps catching them watching him while the others argue, though they tend to look away when he tries to catch their eye.

But he’s the only one who makes sense. None of the triplets will let it be any one of them. Reias won’t entertain the thought of it being Ozzy, though he’s offered, and so whenever he offers they offer, and then the other two shoot that idea down.

Grace won’t allow it to be Bramble. He’s her favourite, and Jen thinks there’s something going on between them, though he’s been polite enough not to pry.

Trix and Orsus have both suggested the other, but both of them are too important to the world to consider sacrificing, and having one without the other would throw the world out of balance.

Which just leaves Jen. None of them have suggested him, not yet. They barely seem to remember he’s here, half the time.

He wonders what they’d say if he volunteered. If any of them would say no, not you.

Probably not. He’s not naïve enough to think Trix actually feels anything for him, despite their relationship, and the others tolerate him at best. They’d probably just be relieved for an end to the argument.

Still, he doesn’t want to say anything. He doesn’t want to die, even if it’s for the best. Even if it will save the others.

They’ve never done anything for him, why should he sacrifice himself to save them?

But they have, of course. They saved him, and against his better judgement he likes them, even if none of them return the sentiment. He’s just never had friends before. He’d like to help them, if he can.

He goes to Grace one night, when the others are arguing again. It’s sitting a little way away from them, singing to itself as it darns a shirt Jen is pretty certain belongs to Bramble, and it looks up as he comes over to sit beside it.

“Something on your mind?”

“It has to be me, doesn’t it?” he asks.

Grace hums, hir needle dipping in and out of the fabric. “No. It will be, though.”

“What happens if it’s not?”

“It will be.”

Ze knows better than he does, he knows that, but he doesn’t like it.

He tucks his legs up to his chest, resting his chin on his knees. “I don’t want to die.”

Grace just smiles. Sad, almost. “No one ever does.”

“Why do I have to?”

“You don’t.”

He gets it, or he thinks he does. In any case, he doesn’t think he’ll get any solid answers from zir. Zie rarely gives any of them any sort of straight answer. He doesn’t know if zie does it on purpose, or if it’s just in zir nature.

“Do I have to tell them?”

“No. You only have to die.”

“And that will break the loop?”

Grace nods, setting the sewing aside and pressing xyr hands together, pulling them apart again to reveal the shining golden threads that tangle between xyr fingers.

“The loop is here,” xe tells him, twisting the threads around xyr hands to show him a bundle of threads, tangled hopelessly in a loop. “With your death-”

Xe pulls the threads and they all snap, blackening and dropping off, leaving a single golden thread between xyr hands. “The loop resolves. The strings continue as they had.”

“Will the others remember me?”

“They will.”

Jen takes a steadying breath. “Will you help me?”

“Now?”

He nods. “Of course.”

The threads between xyr fingers vanish and xe stands, offering him a hand. He takes it, lets xem lead him away from the others and to the edge of the camp.

“I don’t know how to do this,” he admits, and Grace laughs sadly, reaching out to cup his cheek. Eir fingers tingle a little against his skin.

“Isn’t that why you asked my help?”

He nods, and ey pull eir hand away again. “Can you just…?”

He makes a snipping motion, and ey shakes eir head.

“No. Your death snaps the thread, I cannot snap the thread to kill you. It would leave you alive, but … changed, somewhat. An unpleasant life.”

“Right,” he says, trying to steel himself. “Do you have a … sword, then?”

“A dagger,” ey says, and produces it, offering it to him. “Bramble’s, but he won’t mind.”

Jen presses it back towards eir. “I … don’t think I can do it myself.”

Ey nods, like ey expected that. “Few can.”

“Will it hurt?”

Ey gives him a smile, soft and sad. “It always hurts.”

He’s always got the feeling Grace likes him more than the rest of them, and he’s getting it again now. Ve might be the only one who will actually miss him.

He takes a deep breath and closes his eyes. “Do it.”

It does hurt, but only for a moment. And then it’s over.

[davejolina]

cw// prop guns, definitely more fake blood, emotions

Day 30 | DIGGING YOUR GRAVE | major character death (also Alt prompt self-sacrifice)

'There was no second shots, but he immediately noticed the blood darkening Tseng’s suit and was beside him in a second. When he had been pushed, Tseng had jumped in the way, he noted. The blood from the wound was only spreading, and Rufus gently moved Tseng to look at him.

There was a crackle from the earpiece he wore- Reno and Rude had a hold of the man who had fired, from the shouts he could hear. But his main concern was the man currently bleeding out in his arms.'

-excerpt from Get Down (FFVII Fanfic) by @atwistedsamurai

Collab with @atwistedsamurai from their fic https://archiveofourown.org/works/34455028

Tseng @tizzie-lizzie

shot with help from @ questionableCos (Twt)

[softfeelingsandangstywriting]

Whumptober: Digging Your Grave

This was just his luck.

He didn’t regret doing what he did, but it had certainly ended badly.

They had gotten surrounded on a patrol. Normally, that wouldn’t have been something they were worried about, if fighting the ambush hadn’t been like fighting a hydra. If they took down one bot, two more would come in its place. They had ended up getting severely overwhelmed in the fight, unable to hold their own in the fight, much less watch each other’s shells.

It came down between letting his brothers stay and tear themselves apart, trying to stick together so that nobody would be lost, or letting himself fall victim to the ambush by faking finding an out and getting them to leave.

Obviously, the choice had been easy. He had yelled to them that there was an out to their left. The sign would collapse with enough effort and separate them, keeping the enemies in and them out.

Leonardo lied. He told them what the plan was and that he'd be right behind them, that he'd duck in right before the sign fell and join them behind the wreckage. They had believed him, too. Certainly with some hesitance, but he got them to leave.

And they hadn't expected a thing.

Or, well, maybe they had, but he didn't hear anything about it until they were safely inside. They were safe, and all he had to do was fight for his life.

But, he sent his backup away and was now surrounded by the remaining enemy forces, people who wanted to kill him. They tried their best, too. No matter how hard he fought, there were always more, always one rising up when another fell. He was nearly killed there.

He didn’t die, though, as much as he would have loved to have been killed in that fight. Instead, he woke up, wrapped up in thorny ropes and dangling by his ankles over a spike trap. Death would have been better. Cuts, big and small, stung as sharp edges from the rope cut deeper into his skin, but he couldn't really do anything about it. Struggling would just waste energy and he would injure himself. Even if he did manage to free himself from the bindings, he would most likely fall to his doom on the pointed metal below him.

However, if he stayed where he was, that would be giving up. He would die, slowly and… Well, maybe less than painfully.

Leonardo looked around, examining his surroundings. The building was horribly bland, with not much view besides a few cracks and holes in the ceiling to look outside. It was just concrete walls and, where the floor hadn’t been torn up for the trap beneath him, cement. He was hung in the middle of the room, too, so that he couldn’t really swing anywhere near one of the walls and try something from there.

They really hadn’t wanted him leaving, huh?

%%%

A couple hours passed. Maybe more, maybe less. He didn’t know. All he could see was the light of the sun every now and again, and that wasn’t even reliable. Leonardo had spent quite a bit of time struggling, planning, anything that would help get him out of the situation.

The strain on his ankles from being held up was doing him no good either. If- When- He got out, that would be something he’d have to deal with. Being held up by his ankles had to be straining his body and tearing through muscles.

(“If” was a bad word. “If” was pessimistic and it meant that you were giving up. He was not giving up, not so soon.)

Leonardo shivered as a draft blew in through the cracks in the walls. He was vaguely aware that it had gotten darker in the already dim building, the sky turning a darker and darker blue. Almost a full day had passed since he woke up as a captive. Another breeze came in, and with it, another round of freezing wind. It occurred to him, ever so suddenly, that that might be a bad thing. Instinct would kick in eventually, and then-

That might be a bad thing.

Heart jumping into his throat, he thrashed around, stings in multiple places turning into burns as blood trickled down his body in a steady stream. Pain would help him stay awake. He needed to stay awake. Maybe it would be a long and painful night, but he had gone longer without sleep, and he didn’t dare risk closing his eyes in his position for anything longer than a blink.

So… Yeah. Apparently it was really cold where he was, too. That was great. Absolutely perfect. Sleep deprived, hung up at God knows where, without any form of escape.

Throughout the night, he thrashed and kicked, forcing the spikes on the ropes deeper into his skin so that the pain might keep him awake. It never lasted for long, of course, not unless the cuts were in a large quantity, but at least it helped a little. By the time the light filtering through the cracks had turned light blue, Leonardo was bleeding sluggishly from various places, breathing just a little harder from the workout he got trying to stay awake. He hadn’t needed the cuts, apparently. When he moved enough, pain shot through both his ankles, and he could almost safely assume that something in both of them was either strained or torn.

It was at that moment that he realized that this was going to be a very slow death if he stayed.

He couldn’t really afford to die, so.

Leonardo kept looking.

%%%

Well, it was settled. There really was no way out of the trap he put himself in. In hindsight, maybe he suicide mission wasn’t the greatest plan he’d had in a long time. Sure, he was a fool half the time, bleeding himself dry for others, but it wasn’t like he had another choice, right? He never had a choice. Sometimes it ended up like this, but if they had stayed where they were, all of them would have died or worse. Who would he be if he let that happen? Plans like this were his specialty. He always got back in the end, anyway.

The second day went about the same as the first. Bleeding, hurting, vain attempts at finding an escape route. Tired. When night came, the process of keeping himself awake went on, endless pain if it meant staying awake and, more importantly, alive.

%%%

The third day was the same as the others. Only, he was fading faster. Obviously, he knew he was going to die eventually, and it was probably going to be a young, untimely death, caused by being born into war. He just hadn’t thought that it would be like this. Maybe in battle, stabbed or shot or completely torn out of existence, even accidentally. Not strung up in a trap, or captured by an enemy. Terribly slow, dragging on and on. Agonizing, but only emotionally.

By the time he realized what was going on, Leonardo had completely ceased struggling unless he was trying to keep his eyes open. In its place came more silent plans that wouldn’t work, meaningless efforts to keep going and get out. He sucked in a shaky breath and swallowed until it stopped hurting. Conservation of his energy meant nothing at the moment.

After all, he wasn’t going to make it.

[voltron-for-ever]

🎃 Whumptober 2021 🎃

first | previous | next

No. 15 - FEED A COLD, STARVE A FEVER

delirium | fever dreams | bees

{Alt prompt - Self-sacrifice }

@whumptober2021

@whumptober-archive

⚠️ Read the tags for warnings ⚠️ ——————————————————

Lance - Keith don't do it ! We need you ! There has to be another way ... PLEASE !

It was too late, Keith was being dragged off to where they where about to sacrifice lance . Lance was still screaming for them to stop. Keith looked into lances eyes before letting a small tear roll down his cheek.

Keith- Lance I'm sorry, I have to do this you have a family that's waiting for you to come home. Tell Shiro I love him and that I'm sorry. Oh and one other thing, when you get back to earth will you burry me next to my dad ... please ....

Lance- I ... I

Keith- I need you to promise me ...

Lance- I ... I promise Keith ...

With that Keith closed his eyes as another tear rolls down his cheek. The planet's people wasted no time in killing Keith. Now Keith's lifeless body is laying in Keith's arms being clutched to his chest. Lance can't stop crying, loud sobs escaping his lips.

He walked into the main dec carrying a limp Keith in his arms. At first the paladins smile at lance until they see the bloodied, lifeless body of their friend cradled in his arms.

Shiro- W ... what the hell happened to him !?

Lance- He sacrificed himself for me, he thought that I had more to live for. I'm sorry Shiro ...

Shiro- I ... k.. Keith ....

Lance- He told me to tell you that he loves you and that he was sorry...

The paladins stood around his lifeless body and their hearts ache as tears stream down their faces. No one says a word...

[ Word count - 265 ]

[lurkinglurkerwholurks]

Bruce found his attention drifting toward the door. Not at the door, not exactly, since his attention would drift in the direction of the Manor’s front door, regardless of where he was, regardless of whether he could even see the door.

That morning he had woken groggy-headed and sore, hip still twinging from the fall and sudden stop. But for all the static in his head, Bruce had felt better than he had in a while. A side effect of going to bed before the sun for once, he supposed. The lemon and poppy seed muffins waiting on the kitchen counter had been a tacit reward from Alfred and one Bruce has indulged in with pleasure. He had curled up in the sunroom, a blanket thrown across his legs and a heating pack on his hip, a mug of coffee and two muffins balanced on the side table and case files spread about him on the chaise, interwoven with newspapers and other correspondence.

For Bruce, it counted as a lazy morning. The afternoon continued in much the same way. He attended to his stretches and standard workout, careful to work the hip but not overexert it. He saw to paperwork from Wayne Enterprises, analytics from the downstairs computer, and reports from the League.

He felt… not good, because good was out of his reach now, along with happy and content. But he felt like the day was one worth tolerating. Like some of the fog had lifted and he could look about himself without feeling like he was seeing down a long tunnel with no end in sight.

The jitters didn’t catch up with him until deep into the afternoon, and even once they arrived, Bruce was slow to notice. The case from the night before had tangled its fingers in his focus, drawing him in like the well-crafted puzzle that it was. It felt solvable now that he had slept and swept away the last lingering repercussions of the flu that had plagued him. Still, as deep as he was in his case files, Bruce still found his head lifting when feet passed the entrance to the sunroom. When the phone would ring, his attention would snag, lifted from the deep well where it had sunk to peer about in hopes of… something. He wasn’t sure what. But no matter how fully he lost himself to his work, Bruce found his attention swinging like a lodestone to the front door.

At dinner, the Manor was quiet. Bruce’s relationship with the silence of the Manor had taken a winding road throughout his life, but he had thought he had grown accustomed to the heavy, empty air. Yet as he worked in his study, as was his custom, he found his ears pricking to hear what wasn’t there.

It wasn’t until he was down in the Cave, cowl in hand and ready to depart, that Bruce fully resurfaced into awareness and said to Alfred, “It seems I’m flying solo tonight.”

“Yes, sir.” Alfred stood watching, hands clasped behind his back.

Bruce looked down and adjusted the cuffs of his gauntlets. “You said Robin checked in last night?”

He had already asked the same question this morning and received the same affirmation Alfred was giving him now. He had also come down and seen for himself the Robin costume neatly hung in its locker. It had been a dereliction of duty to leave the night’s clean-up to the boy, despite how sensible and prompted by need the choice had been. Guilt had hounded Bruce once he had awoken and perhaps that was what bothered him now. Guilt that he had taken his decrepit carcass back to the Manor to rest and had left a child to tote evidence to the commissioner, no matter the ease and relative safety of the task.

Robin is fine. He made it back. He’s fine.

Alfred confirmed this—again—with a nod. “I spoke to young Robin last night. He called up after depositing his costume and cycle. No injuries to report other than a scraped elbow and he was headed home to rest.”

Bruce tapped one finger against the cowl, then caught himself and frowned.

“He called this afternoon,” Alfred offered.

Bruce looked up.

“Homework,” was the short explanation given.

Oh. Tim often brought his homework over with him, preferring to work through the packets in the kitchen at Alfred’s elbow. Bruce had told him before to keep atop his studies and not let the mask interfere with his academics, so it was good he was taking that instruction to heart.

“You didn’t tell me he called.”

Alfred lifted one eyebrow. “You did not ask.”

That was an unmistakable rebuke and Bruce flinched from it. Shoving the cowl onto his head, he stalked to the Batmobile. “Don’t wait up.”

Patrol was quiet. Tim wasn’t chatty like Dick or full of sly asides like… but he was good about asking questions. He wanted to know and understand, and he had a knack for intuiting when Bruce needed to be pushed outside his own head. There was none of that tonight.

Bruce flew the skies alone and tried to convince himself that it was better this way. That he had missed the silence, the contemplation, the freedom of not having to watch out for the well-being of a partner. He tried.

Patrol ended early, the night not full enough to support a full deck of stalling. Bruce went to bed, for once unbruised and without dangling loose ends. He found it hard to sleep.

Morning dawned. Bruce woke. He worked out. His leg was back to normal with only the slightest lingering ache. There were no muffins, but there were scones, and Bruce avoided the small covered plate that was set aside with three extra scones. The pastries were still there long into the afternoon, after all the school buses had flung out across Gotham and began reeling back in to release their drivers.

Tim did not appear.

And that was good, wasn’t it? Bruce didn’t want or need a Robin, especially not a clumsy, bright-eyed kid from the neighborhood. The other… the other Robins, they had forced their way into this life by the strength of their own need. Robin was something they needed. Robin wasn’t even something Tim wanted. He had said so, to Bruce’s face even. What he wanted was to take care of Bruce, and wasn’t that just the most backward thing? He was a child. He had no business being on the streets, no business wearing the mask, no business trying to make Bruce’s health and well-being his burden to carry.

Bruce had tried to chase him off, as much as Alfred’s watchful eye and his own yawning need would let him. So it was good that, finally, he seemed to be succeeding.

That was what Bruce told himself, at least.

He told himself that through another silent dinner where he tapped his pen against the desk to mask the lack of chatter in the kitchen. He told himself that as he suited up, alone yet again, and drove off into the night. He told himself as he turned to point out movement to watchful eyes that weren’t there or slip a sprinkle of gummy bears into a hand that wasn’t outstretched.

Bruce had thought himself silent on patrol, an unwelcoming sphinx. Turned out he talked more than even he realized, if one could base it on the number of words he choked back that night, stillborn and unheard.

The night almost ended the same as the one before. Bruce eased into the seat of the Batmobile with a sigh and charted the course for home.

Somehow he ended up perched outside Tim Drake’s window instead.

To be clear, Bruce knew this was a bad idea. In fact, it was a Bad Idea, as Tim himself would type it. There was no reason for Batman to be skulking outside the home of Jack and Janet Drake, never mind that their car was gone. No, scratch that, them being gone made it worse, because it meant he, a grown man of possibly cryptic status but a grown man nevertheless, was hiding outside the window of a teenage boy.

A Bad Idea.

Especially since Tim was fine. He had spoken to Alfred yesterday, he was staying home and living life like a normal kid, he was fine. So why couldn’t Bruce turn off the strobing alarm in the back of his brain?

The light was on in Tim’s bathroom. A dead kid couldn’t turn on a bathroom light or make the water run. He was fine.

Still, Bruce waited for him to come out. He just wanted to see that the boy was fine. His patience was rewarded a few minutes later when Tim emerged from the bathroom.

Bruce was inside the room in a breath.

Tim looked up at him from the floor, mouth agape, his shriek of surprise still echoing.

“What happened?” Bruce demanded.

“Why are you in my room?!” Tim stammered, one hand pressed to his chest like a grandmother with a heart condition.

Bruce narrowed his lenses and stared accusingly at the misshapen ice packs duct taped to Tim’s right shoulder.

Tim’s eyes, on the other hand, widened. “Is there something wrong? Is it Agent A? Is he okay?”

Bruce held out a hand to help Tim to his feet even as he assured, “Agent A is fine.”

“Okay. Okay, good,” Tim breathed. A pause. “Then we’re back to why are you in my room?”

Bruce didn’t reply. It was a tactic that worked well with criminals, the stony silence.

Little boys, too, it turned out. Tim rested his other hand atop the ice-packed shoulder, jaw working as he turned away. “It’s nothing. I’m fine.”

He turned his back to Bruce and rummaged with one hand through a dresser drawer to pull out a pajama shirt. He was standing with bare feet and a bare torso, the knobs of his spine visible and shadowed in the dim light of the room. Tim always looked small, but he looked smaller now, bent and lumpy with the added ice packs.

Bruce bit back a sigh. “Come here. Let me see.”

It wasn’t that Tim always did as he was told. If that were the case, he never would have stepped foot in the Manor to begin with. But he wasn’t usually defiant for no reason, which was why Bruce was surprised when, instead of coming toward him, Tim took a step back.

Surprised and alarmed.

“Timothy.” Bruce had been speaking as himself since entering the room, his voice pitched quietly so as not to disturb the Drakes. But now he spoke as Batman, his command unyielding.

Tim slunk forward.

Bruce reached for him, then paused, sighed, and pulled a batarang from his belt.

Really, Tim? Duct tape?

Bruce could just picture Tim getting himself into a scrape at school or on an escapade of his own and then trying to patch himself up without his parents noticing. Heaven save him from the conceits of teen boys.

He had Tim sit, then carefully cut through the layers of tape to peel off the ice packs. Bruce tried to get Tim to tell him what he would find before he reached the skin, but the boy sat with his face blank and jaw clenched.

Bruce pulled away the last layer and held his breath as he surveyed the damage. It hadn’t been the mounds of ice packs that were misshapen but the shoulder underneath. The joint was swollen and clearly misaligned, the skin over it bulbous and mottled a dark, ugly purple. Bruce reached out to ghost his fingertips over the joint, but Tim hissed and pulled away.

“This isn’t recent.” Bruce could hear his own voice from far away, as cold and unyielding as the Gotham harbor in winter.

“It i—“ Tim began, but Bruce cut him off.

“This is from the other night.”

Tim hadn’t injured himself at school or in some reckless misadventure. He had hurt himself with Bruce. Bruce had hurt him.

“You hid this from me.”

Bruce, dizzy with lingering illness and exhaustion, had nearly fallen to his death that night, and Tim had lassoed him with a line around his leg. The move had saved Bruce but also strained his hip and sent him home, leaving Tim to finish the night alone. Bruce had let him finish the night alone, had extended trust he had thought earned, had taken Tim at his word that he hadn’t injured himself saving Bruce.

“You lied to me.”

Tim stiffened further and stared off at the far corner of the room.

“You broke the rule. The one rule I had for you, and you broke it.”

Two days. Two full days of lying and hiding.

“What did you think was going to happen?” Bruce demanded, temper mounting when he received no response. “Did you think I wouldn’t notice? Did you think your shoulder would magically pop back into place? That you could close your eyes and wish this away?”

Bruce was aflame. Tim would have crossed Gotham with that shoulder. Bruce knew he did, because Commissioner Gordon had confirmed that Robin had stopped by with the bag of evidence, and the Robin suit still hung in the Cave. What if something had happened? What if a criminal had cornered him, some two-bit thug with a gun and a vendetta against masks, or someone even worse?

“How could you be so stupid?” Bruce seethed, voice still low but as venomous as a snakebite. “You lied to me. You lied to A. You certainly lied to your parents. What kind of ridiculously transparent story did you make up for them? If they work out what’s going on, that’s it. For you, for me, for all of this.”

One irate parent. That’s all it took. One slip-up for Jack Drake to put the pieces together, for Janet Drake to see something she shouldn’t. They would link Tim to Robin, Robin to Batman, Batman to Bruce. His life’s work, his mission, his life, gone. And all because Tim decided to act like the silly child he was.

Tim had shrunk down in on himself, chin tucked under like a little boy. Tears shone in his eyes, gleaming in the caught light from the bathroom. Bruce didn’t care. He shoved down the pang of regret in his chest, because better upset than dead. That was what he saw, a vision worse than Batman’s identity plastered across every newspaper in the country. He saw Tim dead, discarded like garbage and bleeding out in some filthy back alley because he caught the attention of the wrong person and couldn’t fight back.

Tim mumbled something unintelligible.

“What?” Bruce snapped.

Tim visibly jumped, then swallowed hard. “They’re not going to find out.”

That they didn’t already know was a miracle unto itself. Just like a teenager, to think he could keep something like this hidden forever. There were always consequences. Always.

Bruce scoffed, loudly, derisively.

“You don’t think they’ll notice the Hunchback of Notre Dame hobbling through their living room? How you’ve managed to keep this hidden this long—“

“They’re not home.” Tim kept his head low, his gaze on the wood flooring between his feet. “They won’t... be back until next Friday. Probably.”

His voice was trembling. No, not trembling. Shaking. There was water rising in his throat, threatening to drown the words, but the words themselves stuttered and shook. A speech impediment, Bruce recalled from Tim’s stolen medical records. A mild one, worked out of him before he reached middle school, but one that could still appear in times of stress.

For all the dangers they had been through as Batman and Robin, Bruce has never heard it before.

And beneath the stammer, the words themselves were slowly settling.

Bruce looked to the bedroom door, remembering the dark windows, the empty driveway, the stillness of the house.

“I thought I could... pop it back in. Like the... movies,” Tim explained, voice barely above a whisper.

Bruce’s jaw tightened, imagining Tim trying to push his own dislocated shoulder into place. He would fail and it would be for the best. A success done by an amateur could cause untold damage. But a failure would have been… painful.

“It didn’t work.” Tim ground the heel of his thumb into the base joint of his other hand, pushing and crushing and grinding with a nervous intensity. “The internet said if I... iced it and elevated it, it could pop in on its own.”

He licked his lips, gaze still on the floor. “I was going to go to urgent care tomorrow. Tell them I fell off my skateboard.”

Except for all of it, it wasn’t a bad plan. Bruce could still feel his heart throbbing in the base of his throat. It was his turn to turn away, to run a hand over his mouth to stop the things he wanted to say.

He didn’t know what to do with the seething well of fire in his chest. He kept seeing Tim dead, but with someone else’s face. He wanted to yell, truly yell now that he knew the house was empty, but what right had he? Tim wasn’t his son. Wasn’t his responsibility. The lying and the hiding, those could be dealt with, but wasn’t the punishment for those to cut ties? If Tim’s place as Robin was earned by necessity of Batman needing a Robin, didn’t it stand to reason that Batman needed a Robin he could trust?

Bruce dragged a weary hand down his face and only just bit back a sigh before turning around to face Tim again.

Small. He was so small.

Again the fire roared. Tim had parents, living, breathing parents, so why weren’t they here? Their son ran wild in Gotham’s streets and they knew nothing. He broke himself in service to Bruce, and they weren’t even here to rain down the hellfire that Bruce deserved. How could they have a son and not be here to care for him?

If Tim were Bruce’s—

No.

Bruce took a breath, held it, and forced it out as he wrenched his mind back to the problems in need of solving. There was a child with an injured shoulder. There was an empty house and absent parents. There was the issue of the lies, the concealment, and the broken trust. There were tears on Tim’s face.

One problem at a time.

Bruce cast about for the first solution and found it in a discarded hoodie wadded up in a chair. He shook it out, then pulled it over Tim’s head.

“Pull your good arm through,” Bruce instructed. “Leave the other inside and use the hem for support. Then put on your shoes.”

Tim did as he was told, even as he sniffed and asked, “Where am I going?”

Not “we,” Bruce noticed. At least he wasn’t wholly unaware of the potential consequences to come.

“To the clinic. You need an x-ray.”

Leslie would still be up. She would be able to verify how much damage Tim had wrought by delaying. He could put on a domino in the car, and Bruce could use the ride to consider whether he would ever be allowed to wear one again.

Tim mumbled something as he followed Bruce down the stairs. It could have been an excuse. It could have been an apology. It could have been any number of things.

Bruce pretended not to hear.

[gummi-stories]

Day Eleven: Hiding, Alt Prompt

Day Eleven: Hiding, Alt Prompt

Or

Magnus rarely dabbled in shadowhunter business, but the one time he decided to stick his nose in, he discovers something horrifying

Or

Magnus saves winged Alec from his lifetime of abuse

@whumptober2019 ‘s prompt list!!

Shadowhunter business was a rare occurrence for the high warlock of Brooklyn, the only exception being when the job had a hefty price tag attached to it.

Magnus had been surprised when the head of the New York institute, Robert Lightwood, had reached out to him. The institute had lost a very powerful artifact and couldn’t find it, they enlisted in Magnus’ help to get it back.

Robert had been very vague on what Magnus was looking for, all he had gotten out of the shadowhunter was something to track the artifact with and Robert telling him “you’ll know the artifact when you see it”

An old and run down hotel was not where Magnus was expecting to be led to via tracking, but if what he was looking for was here, he’d find it.

“I’ll know when I see it… not ominous at all” Magnus huffed to himself as he began to make his way inside the crumbling building. The hotel looked to be long abandoned, confusing Magnus more to how the artifact could be in a place that looked like barely anyone had touched in what looked to be years.

“It’s not your job to wonder why, it's your job to get whatever the shadowhunters need back and claim the reward,” Magnus thought to himself as he did a scan of the lobby, turning up nothing.

The elevators would be nothing but a pile of rusting metal, the stairs it was.

The second floor wasn’t much better than the first, many rooms lined up down the hallway had all turned up empty, only the third floor was left.

Magnus stopped short two stairs below the top floor, seeing something resting on the top stair. With a gentle hand, Magnus picked up what looked like a large crow feather; what was even more concerning was the blood that coated the bottom of it and a trail of blood leading away from the stairs.

The warlock dipped his finger into the blood, rubbing it between two pads of his fingers in an attempt to figure out what type of blood it was.

“Nephilim blood… this is just getting more and more confusing” Magnus thought to himself as his eyes followed the trail of blood. It was far too fresh to be from any of the shadowhunters from the institute, Robert said they had lost the artifact a week ago.

Magic at the ready, Magnus slowly followed the blood up the rest of the stairs and down the hallway.

“If anyone is in here, I highly suggest you don’t jump out at me, I have magic” Magnus shouted, continuing to follow the blood. The sound of some thumping made Magnus freeze, he wasn’t alone.

“Who are you? Show yourself!” Magnus demanded, only to be met with silence, whatever this thing was, it was either going for the element of surprise or didn’t want to be seen.

Cautiously Magnus continued down the hallway, no longer following the blood but going towards where the sound resonated from, one of the empty hotel rooms. Blasting the door open,

Magnus burst in hoping to catch whoever was in there by surprise, but the room was empty.

The doors that led out to the balcony were boarded shut, it couldn’t have gone that way. The only place remaining was the room’s small wardrobe, someone could easily hide in there.

Without hesitating Magnus walked over to the wardrobe and quickly swung the door open, ready to fire his magic in case whatever was in there jumped out at him, but nothing came.

Huddled up in the corner of the closet was what Magnus could only assume was an angel. Dark wings were curled around a pale figure in an attempt to protect themselves.

“Who… who are you?” Magnus said quietly. The angel’s shaking wings pulled back slightly, revealing hazel eyes that stared fearfully up at Magnus. Now that the angel’s wings where out of the way, Magnus could see runes littering his topless form as well as bruises, scars and many other various injuries he didn’t want to think about

“Please… please don’t take me back” Magnus' eyes widened as the angel’s soft and broken voice met his ears.

The artifact

This angel was the ‘artifact’ that Robert Lightwood was looking for.

Bile rose in Magnus’ throat at the thought of this boy being treated as nothing but an object. He was also a shadowhunter with the dark runes all over his body, but to Magnus’ knowledge shadowhunters weren’t supposed to have wings.

“I know he sent you but… please… I can’t go back… I can’t live like that anymore” The angel’s voice quivered as he spoke, still huddled in the corner attempting to make himself as small as possible.

“I won’t… what is your name?” Magnus crouched down in an attempt to seem less of a threat to the man

“Alec”

“As in short of Alexander?” Alec nodded and Magnus gave him a small reassuring smile

“I’m Magnus Bane, the High Warlock of Brooklyn. Why did you run away from the institute?” Magnus could already guess what the answer was going to be, but he wanted to make sure.

“I’m nothing but a weapon to them, a tool to be used and then locked away until they need me again” Alec muttered, pulling nervously at one of his larger feathers.

“No one deserves to live like that. You’re a person Alec and I promise you that they’ll never lay a finger on you again” Magnus said firmly

“But when you go back and I’m not with you… they won’t stop looking for me, I won’t ever be safe from him” Alec seemed to shudder at the thought of Robert making Magnus even more furious.

“No one will touch you as long as you’re with me. Do you trust me, Alexander?” Magnus held out a hand to Alec. The angel looked between Magnus’ offered hand and his face, there was still some anxiety in his eyes as he considered his options.

“Yes” Alec grabbed Magnus’ outstretched hand, making the warlock smile

“Then let's get you someplace safe”

Guess who's like 8 prompts behind, this dumbass right here XD

[cottonwoolsocks]

Hiding Spot

AO3 | Masterlist

@whumptober2019 - prompts: 18 (muffled scream), alt 8 ("Stay quiet."), alt 9 (hiding).

Summary: Patton chooses a hiding spot. Logan chooses the same one. Virgil is exasperated. Roman makes an entrance, but not in the way you'd expect.

Word Count: 592

Genre: Fluff

Characters: Patton, Logan, Roman, Virgil.

Relationships: platonic LAMP

Warnings: none

If I need to tag anything else, let me know!

———

“Stay quiet.”

Patton’s words were muffled by the hand he'd moulded firmly over his mouth; Logan sat opposite him, legs crossed and smiling quietly. A giggle escaped and Logan shushed him with wide eyes, but it was hard to remain stoic when Pat was so intent on finding humour.

They had been sitting in here for the best part of ten minutes, but it was comfortable and spacious so they didn't mind. The question that came to mind by this point was ‘had Virgil given up on finding them or was he just looking somewhere else?’, by which point your two options were either:

      a) Escape your hiding spot, risking discovery but with the added benefit of knowing you won't be stuck under a dusty dresser for the next half an hour for no purpose, or

     b) Remain hidden, but live with the risk of not being seen again for the next 5 years.

For the moment, Patton and Logan were content enough waiting, especially as it was somewhat uncommon for them to end up in the same spot. Logan tended to choose either elaborately selected, impossible-to-find places that would guarantee his victory, or the closest corner he could find that would allow him to wait in relative comfort. Patton was more of a crouch-sneakily-in-a-heap-of-teddies sort of a guy. It seemed Roman’s closet had fulfilled both sets of requirements.

Patton had looked like he was about to say something else, but just as he released his hand from over his mouth footsteps sounded in the hallway.

They shared a glance, and Patton looked away first, stifling his giggles lest he gives them both away.

The footsteps paused. The bedroom door creaked subtly as it swung open. Gentle footsteps drew nearer.

Silence.

And then everything happened very fast.

The door burst open, light flooding as Patton giggled and Logan smiled, offering a wave and a measured, “Congratulations” to Virgil for finding them.

A “Congratulations” that was lost as Roman came tumbling down from the heavens with an almighty screech, bowling Virgil over and sending them both crashing to the ground.

If a muffled scream could be heard from somewhere under the mass that was Roman, it certainly wasn't Virgil.

Patton darted forward, helping heave away Roman and free Virgil from underneath, who looked like he couldn't decide whether to be confused, angry, or painfully amused.

“Geez, Princey, couldn't've warned a guy that you were gonna launch yourself from the closet like an oversized gremlin?”

Roman cleared his throat, rubbing the back of his head and averting his gaze. “You're the one who opened the door I was leaning against!”

Virgil rolled his eyes, about to offer a retort before Patton cut in.

“Hold on a second, Ro, you were up there the whole time?”

Shrugging, Roman cast around for something, before bending down to pick up his phone which had bounced several feet away. “Yeah? It's comfy.” He flipped over the device in his hand, eyes absorbing the shattered screen with dismay. “Oh, come on.”

“Karma,” Virgil stated with finality, taking Logan’s offered hand and begrudgingly getting to his feet. “Can't say you didn't have it coming.”

“Yeah, yeah. Still not my fault, though.”

“At least nobody was injured!” put in Patton, just as the top half of the closet where Roman had been sitting caved in on itself, sending a resounding CRASH throughout the household and wafting a large dust cloud into the air.

Logan coughed, fanning dust away from his mouth in the stretching silence.

“Well, this is certainly not ideal.”

[the-writing-mill]

Whumptober Day 06 - Hiding

Izuku’s laying in bed after dinner, stomach heavy, limbs heavy. He’s so tired, physically. But his brain is refusing to turn off.

Another villain attack. He can’t… seem to avoid them.

He’s tried other routes to school. Different leave times. Any variation he puts in just means he gets a few days before something happens again.

And he can’t stand the idea of only going to school. Of giving up going outside, as tempting as it is sometimes, after Eraserhead’s glared at him again or Mic coddles him again.

Coddles him like a cockatoo.

Izuku giggles at the word play image.

But he still doesn’t actually want to stay inside. Outside has so many cool things.

Heroes, parks, hero merch, Kacchan and his friends, heroes.

He still isn’t allowed to use the computer for more than four hours, which isn’t enough to replace all of that.

Plus, after getting to watch heroes live so many times, it’s much better than through a screen.

The only thing worse is when he’s too close. Caught up in the action. And he’s just a little kid, not a hero yet. So instead of watching, he has to hide.

But how long would that actually help for?

Today, the villain had been pushed back near his hiding spot. If she had dodged left instead of right…

Would he have survived?

His hiding place was too close this time, too flimsy. Why had he thought that being between two pallets of carboard boxes would be enough?

Ducking into the nearest spot clearly isn’t going to work at some point.

Maybe if he did hiding drills? Like fire drills?

Well, maybe not drills, that would be weird. But they also went over multiple evacuation routes and talked about general rules before doing drills…

Rule one, look for options, but be quick.

Rule two, don’t hide somewhere the villain will try to use.

Wait, no. That needs an extra rule. No. Not rule. Step.

Step one, look for options, but be quick.

Step two, figure out the villains’ quirk, adjust options.

Step three, hide.

…

That was quick.

Too quick. He’s missing something.

Eraserhead would know what he’s missing.

Maybe… too simple?

No, simple is good. Eraserhead told him that overthinking takes too long in emergencies.

But maybe… not detailed enough?

Oh.

He forgot principles and stuff. What makes somewhere an option?

Izuku thinks over places he had hidden before, hadn’t hidden, what worked and what almost didn’t.

Physically strong. No carboard boxes or flimsy playground sets if he could help it.

Out of sight. If he was hiding, it was because he was too close to get far enough to be safe. Being seen and becoming a target would just make him less safe. Being a hostage makes it so much harder for the heroes.

Nothing dangerous in the hiding place. There was the guy who Mic had to shout down that one time, and Izuku had almost fell down into a bunch of broken glass in an alley. Mic really hadn’t liked that hiding spot when he found out Izuku was there…

A possible escape path. He remembers a few instances where Eraserhead has made enough of a distraction that he could run to a safer hiding place, or even back to the police.

Plus that time an ice block had almost hit him and another kid. If Eraserhead hadn’t shouted, they wouldn’t have dodged. But they were only able to dodge because there was room. So something so small he couldn’t really move was probably a bad idea too…

That was… all so hard to get in one spot.

There really are very few good hiding spots for him. But he needs them. It’s not like he can stay safe behind police lines and watch the fights from there all the time.

If he could, he would. But he never seemed to have a choice in being too close to do anything but hide…

[lessattitudemorealtitude]

Chapter 6 posted! This chapter’s prompts are:

BTHB: Touch-Starved

Whumptober: Altno. 9 Hiding, Altno. 4 Dehydration

[randomlifeunit]

“Paralyzed”

Rating: Teen and up

Warnings: Terror and threats of violence

Part 3/?

Read in Ao3: click here

Sirens.

The sound of them grew louder in the dank, stale air surrounding Sean. He huddled in tense silence, trying futilely to stop the trembling shaking his frame, and waited. His brain was still frozen in fear. Reality felt warped as the anxiety left him unable to formulate a rational thought. Pain still frayed the ragged edges of his nerves, and the gathering darkness left him feeling safer, yet more vulnerable, as he was unable to see his surroundings clearly.

The sirens stopped. The silence seemed deafening as he strained to hear anything in the absence of sound.

Suddenly his heart jumped into his throat. Footsteps scurried, and distant, distorted voices called to one another. He put one hand over his ear, aching to block out the sounds, yet equally desperate to know what was coming.

The door swung open, sending a wave of panic crashing over him. Instinctively, he threw his hands over his face and curled into a ball, trying to make himself as small as possible.

For the space of a few heartbeats, the only sound he could hear was his own ragged breathing. Then, the beam of a flashlight swept over him, the light penetrating his closed eyelids, and he struggled to blot it out with shaking fingers.

A radio crackled to life, the sound alarmingly loud in the silence. “Scene clear, I’ve located the victim,” a female voice intoned. Then the speaker directed her voice towards him. “Sean Reynolds?” she called, expectantly.

He couldn’t look. Couldn’t answer. He could barely hear anything over the roar of his pulse in his ears.

Soft footfalls drew near him. Others, more distant, seemed to be heading closer. Radio communications chirped from somewhere outside.

Don’t move. Don’t move.

“It’s all right, I’m with the police. You’re safe now,” soothed the female voice, but Sean’s brain couldn’t absorb the words. A hand reached out to touch his arm, but he jerked away with a stifled scream. The hand quickly withdrew. “We’re going to get you out of here,” her voice called out to him gently.

Slowly it began to register in the recesses of his brain that he wasn’t feeling any fresh pain, and his breathing began to slow imperceptibly. No one was touching him; more importantly, no one was hurting him. Uncertainly, he opened one eye, then the other, peering out from behind his hands. A female police officer crouched in front of him, and footfalls echoed in the corridor. Two other officers, both male, appeared in the darkened doorway, shining flashlights left and right. The light momentarily blinded him. “Scene’s clear,” the woman called. “I’ve got the victim here, but he’s in pretty bad shape. Give me a hand.”

In a few moments, Sean felt himself being bodily lifted from his huddled position on the floor. His cramped and battered body protested violently, and he cried out. “Sorry,” one of the officers apologized. “Can you walk, sir?” he asked Sean.

He tried to put his full weight onto unsteady legs, but the world began to tilt at a crazy angle, and he broke out in a cold sweat. His stomach lurched, and he suddenly retched, feeling helplessly out of control. The spinning intensified, and everything went dark.

@whumptober2019

“Paralyzed” Master List

[splat-dragon]

Alt. Prompt #8: "Hiding" Alt. Prompt #9: "Stay Quiet"

“He-!” a hand grasped his upper arm, and pulled him aside.

He grunted, and twisted, grabbing for his gun, but a familiar voice hissed “Son, it’s me!” and he stilled, unable to help a wheeze as his back was slammed against a brick wall.

“Shh, Arthur,” the man murmured, and when Arthur opened his mouth to ask what the hell was going on he pressed his gloved hand over it, “Just stay quiet, they can’t see us.”

“Come on, Arthur, come on!”

“I’m coming!” Arthur snapped, firing a last couple of shots over his shoulder, grinning when a lawman’s horse reared, startled by a bullet that struck the dirt between its legs, and dumped its rider, before darting down the side street.

Their pockets were heavy, and if they survived they’d be well fed for weeks. But that damn shop-keeper’s assistant had snuck out when he’d seen them enter the building, figuring out what they were planning before they’d even entered the shop, and set the lawmen on them the moment they’d left the building.

He turned around, bolted down the side street, hearing the lawmen shouting “They went that way!” and cursed under his breath, wondering if it was worth firing anything shot, decided running was more important and kept going.

Shit, where had Dutch gone? The side street was short, and he could hear lawmen ahead of him; had Dutch been caught? Surely not, he would have heard him and the lawmen yelling, but which way had he gone?

“He-!” a hand grasped his upper arm, and pulled him aside. 

He grunted, and twisted, grabbing for his gun, but a familiar voice hissed “Son, it’s me!” and he stilled, unable to help a wheeze as his back was slammed against a brick wall, Dutch a thick line of heat against him.

“Shh, Arthur,” the man murmured, and when Arthur opened his mouth to ask what the hell was going on he pressed his gloved hand over it, “Just stay quiet, they can’t see us.” He dropped his forehead to Arthur’s as hoofbeats raced by, footsteps nearing their tiny little alleyway, flattening himself tighter against him, his dark clothing helping to obscure their shapes in the shadows. They were so close Arthur could hear his heart racing in his chest, thundering from the exertion of the chase.

The footsteps stilled in front of their alleyway, and the pair stilled, Dutch’s breath ghosting against his forehead (he was still taller than Arthur, if only just, and hell did he hate it), hand tightening around his mouth in warning, so tight on his jaw that he felt the joint creaking, and he reached up to dig his fingers into Dutch’s forearm as his eyes watered; the man breathed an apology, loosened his grip slightly, and Arthur took a deep breath, wishing he could yawn to work it out.

“They’re not down here!” the lawman finally said, and Dutch heaved a sigh of relief, stepping back and straightening his clothes as Arthur reached up to rub his jaw, scowling and regretting it immediately. 

“Come on Arthur,” Dutch muttered, sticking his head out of the alleyway and looking around, “We need to hurry before they come back,” without another word, he began to jog back the way they had come from.