#altno. 13

[newbie-whumping]

Whumptober Alternative 13

Prompt: accidents

The news of the building collapsing on him takes longer to get to Kat than she realizes, but it hits her hard all the same. The instant she registers what Brooke just told her, she’s pale as her fur. “Is he okay? Please, please, Brooke, tell me he’s okay,” she pleads.

“He’s... Alive,” the human girl says, not meeting her gaze.

Kat exhales, not immediately processing the fact her best friend won’t make eye contact. “Good. Good.”

“Yeah.” 

There’s a long pause, then finally, Brooke continues quietly, “He’s paralyzed, though. Waist down. The doctors did what they could, but... I guess the magic of the daily incident caused the building to fall on him, and the magic got tangled up in his injury. ‘Accidents happen.’ Something like that.”

Kat processes that with less grace. “He... What? No, no, he can’t be paralyzed. He’s in track, he has that meet...”

Brooke exhales, putting her head in her arms. “Yeah. Yeah, he did. God.”

The two sit in silence for a while, just trying to process it on their own.

Finally, the human gets up. “I should probably get going. My mom will wonder what’s taking so long.”

“Yeah,” Kat says faintly. 

Brooke gives Kat a quick hug, then heads out. She has another friend to visit; hopefully she’ll make it to visiting hours.

[splat-dragon]

Just Breathe

They really had meant well.

Arthur had just been so… skinny. Years on the streets, and growing up with that horrible man, had shown. His skin had clung to his bones, and watching him move had been downright scary. 

So it was only natural they’d start feeding him. Force stew and meat down his throat, make him eat as much as he could. And he definitely wasn’t complaining; they weren’t the best cooks, not even close, but it was far better than the stale bread and scraps he’d been living off of for who knows how long. Keeping the three of them fed was an effort in itself, and they found themselves hunting far more than they’d ever done before. But it was worth it, if you asked them. The boy was still scared, and skittish, but feeding him was quickly earning his trust.

In those days, re-feeding syndrome wasn’t something that was known about. It happened, of course. But not often enough to draw attention, and could easily be attributed to the person’s circumstances. It would be another sixty years before it was truly studied, when prisoners taken out of concentration camps began to be killed in great numbers by well-meaning rescuers. But in the 1870’s, there was no way to truly track the amount of deaths from re-feeding and, even if there was, there was no reason for people like them to have any knowledge about it.

So it had been an accident, a well meaning one, but still one that had harmed him in the end.

It had happened on a night they’d been celebrating. They’d robbed a train earlier in the day, and made out like, well, bandits. So Hosea had gone into town and bought a great deal of food: stews and canned beans, chocolates and other treats. Canned peaches, which he had discovered were the boy’s favorite. He’d bought the boy a new tent, too, supposed to be better at keeping water out, as well as new blankets for his cot. Knowing that Dutch would sulk if he didn’t get anything as well, he’d bought the man a new pocketwatch.

The celebration had been fun. They’d watched as Arthur choked on his first beer, spluttering and wrinkling his nose. Wolfed down a can of baked beans before eating himself near sick on the chocolates Hosea kept offering him, and gulped down the can of peaches in one go.

So when he kept getting up to piss, they put it up to too many drinks, and one too many cans of peaches. And when he started to doze off where he sat next to the fire, they’d teased him about eating too much. Hosea—he’d been young, then, and Arthur hadn’t been half so heavy as he would be—had half carried him to his cot and tucked him in when he’d just flopped down on it, limp as a child’s doll.

And when he woke them up retching, they teased him again about eating too much. His eyes were glazed, and so they left a bucket beside his cot so he could go back to sleep. Dutch sat in the chair beside him, running his fingers through his hair, while Hosea went back to bed, planning on getting up early to go into town to follow up on some leads.

But he wouldn’t even have time to fall asleep before a screamed “HOSEA!” had him on his feet. He couldn’t remember ever hearing Dutch’s voice so panicked, so terrified, and he didn’t bother to put something on over his union suit, bolting barefoot for Arthur’s tent.

The man was standing over the boy, hands hovering over him as though afraid to touch him, as though he would shatter like fragile porcelain, eyes wild, so wide open that, even from the flap Hosea could make out the whites of his eyes. But Hosea didn’t even have to ask what was wrong, he could hear it himself.

The tent was filled with a horrible wheezing, each breath choked off and gasping. His hands were weakly clutching at the chest of his union suit, and his mouth hung open, whining with each panicked breath. Hosea hurried into the tent, ignoring Dutch, he could ask what had happened later—

when he did, the man would tell him, shaking violently, eyes haunted, that Arthur had jolted awake, eyes dazed and confused. Before Dutch could do anything, his eyes had rolled back and he’d begun to convulse weakly, thrashing rapidly on the bed, and Dutch had frozen, he’d admit with a choked sob, unable to get the image out of his head, unable to do anything but watch until the convulsions ended—

murmuring “It’s okay, Arthur, it’s okay son, I’ve got you,” as he sat on the bed, cradling the boy carefully. His heart broke at the way Arthur looked at him, blue eyes glassy with fear, pleading, and Hosea carefully guided his head back to rest in his lap, arching his neck, “It’s alright, son, just breathe.” He ghosted his fingers along his throat, beginning to say, trying to keep his own panic out of his voice, “In, one, two, three,” he did the same, “Out, two, three,”

the boy whimpered, gasping desperately, throat squeaking as he tried to do as he was told, “‘sea,” he pleaded, and Hosea, stroked his fingers through his hair, stooping down to press his lips to his forehead,

“I’ve got you, son, I’ve got you,” he crooned, looking up at Dutch for a moment; the man looked even more panicked than before, and he feared he’d have to talk him through breathing, too.

But Arthur was only becoming more and more breathless. His lips were taking on a horrific blue tinge, and alarm was thrumming through Hosea’s veins. He carefully man-handled the smaller boy, moving to lean him against his chest, allowing his head to loll back against his shoulder despite the urge to support it. His breathing eased up some, the wheezing not quite so bad, and Hosea began to murmur in his ear, “Calm down, son, you have to calm down. I’ve got you, I’ve got you. You have to breathe, breathe with me. Do you feel my chest? Breathe with me. Iiiin, two, three, four, five. Ouuut, two, three, four, five.”

He exaggerated his breathing, seeing Arthur move with the rise and fall of his own chest. The boy struggled, whimpering as he fumbled for each breath, Hosea bringing up his hand to stroke comfortingly between his ribs. To his relief, the blue tinge was beginning to leave his lips, and his breathing was becoming just that little bit easier. “That’s it, son, you’ve got it. You’ve got it, you’re doing so good, son. I knew you could do it.” He brought his other hand up to run it through the boy’s hair, beginning to count out loud again.

Arthur looked up at him, eyes wide, gasping “‘sea,” pleadingly, and Hosea smiled apologetically as he carefully guided his head back to his shoulder, arching his neck back.

“Iiin, two, three, four, ooout, two, three, four,” he hummed, losing count of how many times, occasionally murmuring praise or comfort when it looked like the boy was beginning to panic again. Dutch kept leaning forward, looking as though he wanted to help, but clearly lost, having no idea what he could do. So he simply hovered, watching them, hands trembling and his own breathing too fast.

Finally, after who knows how long, the boy slumped against him, turning his head to hide his face in Hosea’s neck. The older man still wasn’t too happy with his breathing, he was still breathless, panting, but he wasn’t struggling as he’d been before, wasn’t wheezing or panicking. His hand came up to fumble at Hosea’s chest, weakly clinging to the threadbare fabric of his union suit, trying to ground him. Hosea began to rock him, murmuring “It’s okay, Arthur, you’re okay, you did so good, I’ve got you,”

The cot dipped, and he raised his eyes to see Dutch, sitting close at Arthur’s side, wrapping his arms around them both, “We’ve got you son.” He still looked half out of his mind but, seeing Arthur able to breathe now, even if he was still panting, still breathless as he gasped “Hosea, Duuutch,” over and over, trying to ground himself even as they rocked him, stroking his hair, murmuring soothingly.

In the end, Arthur would be incredibly lucky. He would be weak for just over a week, confused and groggy and vomiting. Hosea would ride into town, and the doctor would give them a medicine to stop convulsions, to induce sleep and to stop vomiting. But he would come out of it a few pounds lighter, and relatively unscathed. They all managed to connect his sickness with eating so much, and never let him eat like that again—and they didn’t, either.

But he didn’t die, wasn’t permanently affected. He didn’t develop arrhythmia or heart failure, didn’t fall into a coma or develop paralysis.

It was all just an unfortunate, well meaning, accident.

[keeroo92]

Protector

Submission for @whumptober2019 day 4, Human Shield! Also included are the alternate prompts 13 (Breathless) and 15 (Field Medicine) featuring Nero/Kyrie.

Warnings for gore and descriptions of injury.

Word count - 748

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Nero’s scaled hand held hers in an iron grip, tugging her through the maze of Fortuna’s streets. He moved so quickly she could barely breathe, gasping for air at every turn. There was no other option, not with the horde slaying without discrimination on every side.

“Faster, Kyrie! Come on!”

Terrified eyes met his determined blue and she managed a nod, forcing her legs to pump with yet more speed. They were approaching fifth street, the edge of downtown. Only a few more blocks, she could make it.

She had to.

Chattering proboscis rattled through the smoke-laden air and the first licking flames began their consumption of a nearby shop. Glass littered the courtyard and car alarms echoed against the stone buildings. The screams of those unfortunate enough to be caught had thankfully grown less frequent as they fled the epicenter of the attack.

It was a Tuesday.

A sudden thrumming overhead broke her scattered thoughts as a flock of winged demons descended from on high. The glow of Nero’s arm brightened as they approached and he cursed as they formed a circle around them; a trap. They hissed and Kyrie smelled the acrid tang of acid as they prepared to attack with hive-like unity.

Nero tackled her to the ground in a painfully rushed motion. Cobblestone pressed against her spine as he laid himself over her, protecting her with his own flesh as the acid spewed forth from a dozen grotesque mouths. He howled in agony but didn’t budge, taking every drop.

“Nero!” she cried, tears sliding down her temples.

His sizzling flesh smelled like charred brisket. He was trembling over her, jaw tight enough to crack his molars. This couldn’t be happening; she couldn’t accept it. No way. He was too strong to die like this, facedown in a street.

Not like this! Please, not like this!

The rain of acid stopped, the demons capacity mercifully short. An enraged growl rumbled through the chest above her and blue eyes flashed in fury.

“Stay down,” he commanded.

Kyrie closed her eyes as the ring of steel and the rustle of leather signaled his attack. A roar of defiance mixed with screeches of pain; a sickening wet crunch followed quickly by the acrid stench of demon blood. She felt something wet and warm puddle around her shoulder and flinched.

More clicks and clangs, a series of sharp squelches. Nero’s snarls.

And then, silence.

She didn’t dare breathe, in case it somehow broke the spell. A click of metal on stone and heavy panting were the only things she hard aside from a soft brush of wind.

“Kyrie… it’s okay.”

Dark eyelashes damp with terror lifted from her cheekbones as she opened her eyes, her wide pupils shooting straight to his face. Blood dotted his forehead, streaks of it in his pale hair as he kneeled, resting his weight on Red Queen.

She was by his side in an instant. His back was a mess of melted leather and bubbling flesh, burns covering his shoulder blades. Her heart clenched at the sight.

He must be in so much pain.

Muscles in her throat bobbed as she swallowed her own fear and steeled her frayed nerves. Delicate fingers gathered the hem of her shirt and tugged, adrenaline-fueled strength allowing her to rip the fabric with ease. Portions were soaked in demonic gristle, but it would do for now.

“Here, let me…”

There wasn’t much time; the area was too dangerous to linger long. She dabbed at the remaining acid and cringed when Nero flinched away from her touch. Her free hand went to his shoulder for a soft squeeze and he managed a pained smile. It was enough to ease the tightness in her chest.

“Thanks,” he murmured.

She hummed and refocused on his back, intent on doing everything in her power to help ease his pain. After what he’d endured, he needed it. How he kept his body from in place, shielding her from the attack…

He would have died for me.

It broke her heart. To imagine a life without Nero in it made her tremble. They weren’t even safe yet; it could still happen. She might still lose him.

“We should keep moving,” she said. “Can you keep going?”

Resolve tightened his features and he met her eyes with flames dancing in his own. The glow of his scaled arm cast strange shadows over his face as he nodded, grunting as he rose to his feet.

“Absolutely.”

[whumpster-in-a-dumpster]

Whumptober Day 13 - Alt 13 ‘Breathless’

Characters: OC: Ren, Sylar

Fandom: Heroes

So I wasn’t sure what to write for today, then I had a look through the alternative prompts and remembered one of those whumpy daydream scenes that we all seem to come up with when our minds wander from a few years ago 😈 The character is a female OC, Ren, whose power is unfortunately quite concentration-based, which makes things quite difficult when you have second degree burns to ~20% of your torso. She’s managed to get into a fight with our favourite serial killer/psychopath. Lucky her. 

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Ren came to face down in mud, the sense of falling still lingering in her mind. She drew a breath and cried out as a fierce, white-hot pain instantly seared to life across her chest, throbbing and burning like a brand with every tortured gasp. She couldn't breathe; in an effort to roll onto her back and open her lungs, she tried to push herself up on her arms. Her wet hands slipped on the grass, and looking down she saw her skin glistening with scarlet blood in the moonlight. Dark liquid trickled from long gashes on her wrists and forearms every time she put weight on them, but the pressure on her chest was building and she needed to move it. Slowly, agonisingly, she forced herself onto her elbows and pushed until gravity let her roll onto her back. Her clothing was soaked-through and heavy, her jeans sticking uncomfortably to her legs. Her left ankle was throbbing, but the pain paled in comparison to the burn that Sylar had inflicted.

Sylar. He must have fallen too, somewhere nearby. Perhaps he'd just left her to die?

Shifting her head as much as she could, Ren tried to look around. There were lines of conifer trees on all sides; they'd landed in the woods on the edge of the river. A line of broken branches leading upwards showed the path she'd fallen through. The water rushed by a few metres from her feet - Ren had landed on the edge of the mudbank, sinking a little into the soft silt, which was probably what had saved her. There was something lying in the stream, just clinging to the bank with its lower half still being tugged by the flow of water. The darkness obscured her vision, and she had to strain to see it, but eventually she made out the rough shape of arms and legs, one of which was twisted at an unnatural angle. A man, on his back. Sylar.

At first Ren thought - actually found herself hoping - that he was dead, but to her dismay he suddenly moved, groaning low in his throat. The sudden danger of her situation finally struck her, and Ren rolled onto her side and clawed upwards at the mud, trying to pull herself away. She managed to haul herself through a metre of agony before she felt a vice-like grip on her injured ankle, dragging her back down. She cried out in pain, fear giving her the strength to lift up her head and see Sylar, still about five metres away, arm extended and face tight with anger. He wasn’t touching her, but the telekinetic grip on her leg didn’t let up. He glared at her, then squinted in sudden recognition.

"You." He spoke with a kind of intrigued surprise, though his voice was slightly strained from his own injuries. "Aren't you supposed to be dead?"

Ren clenched her jaw and replied hoarsely, “Didn’t take.”

"Allow me to rectify that." Sylar pushed himself up on one arm, though it was clear the action caused him pain. There was no need for him to hold her in place any more - Ren couldn't even crawl, let alone run. He extended one finger like a surgical instrument, and Ren stared him down, determined not to make it easy for him, when a distant shout distracted them. A male voice off to their left was calling Ren's name, a voice that flooded Ren with a desperate relief to hear. It was quickly joined by another, one just as welcome, both shouting for her. Before the courage that hearing them had given her could desert her, she drew a ragged breath and screamed as loud as she could.

"DAD!" She yelled. "PETER!"

Sylar snarled in frustration as the voices increased in volume, moving their way. There wasn't time to take the girl before they would arrive, and as loathe as he was to admit it, he wasn't in any shape to fight Peter Petrelli again. Ren met his eyes and stared at him defiantly. He forced a smile.

"Some other time, perhaps." He said, then drew on a last reserve of strength and melted into water, sliding into the river and letting it carry him away.

Ren fell back into the mud, exhausted, every inch of her chest on fire. She could feel herself fading, and sank into it gratefully, thankful for the relief that unconsciousness would bring. Vaguely, she heard voices above her, loud, panicked, and then strong arms lifted her up and she remembered nothing more.

[newbie-whumping]

Whumptober Alternative 13

Prompt: Breathless

Kat races through Snowdin, the only thought in her mind that she doesn’t belong anywhere and she never has. Toriel - no, Gaster has only just proved that. Tears stream down her cheeks. She isn’t paying attention to where she is or where she’s going.

She only starts to slow down when she’s having trouble breathing from the exertion and tears combined. It leaves her breathless, struggling to take good breaths. Not that it matters; she doesn’t even recognize where she is in the maze that is Waterfall. No one will miss her. She knows that. 

So she finds someplace to lay down and recover, and then just stays there.