#uncompleted

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If it meant that he'd make it out of this alive, Tim would do it again. In a heartbeat he would. If it means his little brother makes it to safety then that's all he cares about in the end, and he's trying, he's fighting so hard to keep the attention all on himself in order to give the younger enough of an opening to slip by. But Damian is throwing him a look, akin to one of reluctance that frustrates Tim more than anything because that's so unlike anything Damian. It's so non-Damian that Tim would question whether the kid was actually real or had somehow gotten cloned between here and the cave.

“I can help, Drake! There is no need for you to—” Damian’s protest dies on his tongue as Tim shoots him a look, “Now! Damian!” and Tim hates that he has to yell at him, after everything the last thing he wanted to do was leave off on a bad note, but he also couldn't afford to dance around with reassurances, especially when they might turn him into an even bigger liar than he already was at this point. Just when they'd finally started getting on better, just when they'd finally started acting like they didn't absolutely hate each other… Now this?

Tim’s attention is taken as he has to block a vicious swing aimed at his head, his forearm absorbing the impact before he then counters by pivoting on his foot with a swift strike from his staff. The blow connected, but there was no time to savor it as the group of individuals just kept coming, a relentless tide that pressed him further into a corner, each movement tightening the metaphorical noose around his throat while he swallowed dryly, holding them off as best he could.

Tim's focus only flickers with a cold panic, rising up his spine as he realized he’d lost sight of Damian.

In a desperate sweep of the room at the risk of getting caught off guard and taking on more damage, his eyes finally land on the spikey tufts of hair.

There!

Frozen at the top of the stairs, staring back with wide reluctant eyes stood the youngest Wayne.

Tim's brows knit together, and he wants to frown at the sight of the kid looking so torn because that was not an expression he'd seen the kid use. Ever. It only makes this moment that much more gut wrenching, a feeling he knows that Damian felt too as they locked eyes. For all that the kid was, hesitancy and Damian Wayne were never associated.

Tim smiles—Damian frowns. It's forced obviously, but he needs Damian to leave, to get a head start before they turn their attention to him next. That can't happen, Tim won't let it.

Tim knows if Damian stays any longer he'll witness yet another death, not that the boy was a stranger to the concept. But regardless of how Damian viewed himself or the league training he had, Tim will always see him as a child despite their differences and past conflicts—an innocent kid who got roped into this shit storm without a choice because he wasn't given the chance to have one.

For all that…. Tim knows if he doesn't make Damian leave now, then he'll join the fight and then they'll both go down together.

That is so far off from how he planned to let this play out.

“Just go, I'll catch up with you when I'm done here. You know where Nightwing set his coordinates,” Tim shouts over the loud clanging of weapons, grunting as he blocks several more hits and attempts to slice him in half. He nearly gets his head lobbed off in the process which in turn causes Damian to backpedal at the sight much to Tim's frustration. “Find him! I'll be right behind you.”

Damian holds his breath as he watches Tim slip out of yet another corner, narrowly avoiding being trapped. He's on the verge of protesting again, of insisting there’s a better way, but the look Tim shoots him stops the words in his throat. It sinks in his chest—cold and final—that this might be the last time he ever says anything to him. So he settles for a tight, clipped, “Don’t die. I don’t think Father could handle it.”

Tim doesn’t respond. Neither of them says anything more.

Damian slips out the back entrance. Even as the sounds of combat fade behind him, he refuses to dwell on the fact that Tim didn’t have a copy of the rendezvous plan—just a hastily scrawled grid of coordinates crumpled and shoved into Damian’s smaller hands.

He grits his teeth and forces himself forward.

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When you draw art for a contest but it's three months too late

Summary:

I was discussing about it with @firedrakegirl so if you want to blame someone blame her.(jk)

It's not complete yet, I don't know if I'll be completing it anytime soon if you want to read it go ahead!

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One afternoon a young man was cooking in his mother's kitchen when suddenly he heard a loud bang and the crushing of wood as the house seemed to shake.

Acting as fast as he could he grabbed onto his wheelchair and started to wheel himself out of the kitchen but as he reached the living room he noticed that the roof had caved in, something or someone had crashed through it.

Because lying among the broken plaster and wood was Tony Stark or Iron Man himself. Before the young wheelchair-bound man could try to approach the hero he heard something smash into the living room window.

Soon the air was filled with the sound of broken and crushed glass.

A huge six-to-seven-feet-two-armed alien had just busted through the front window. Landing in a crouch the alien snorted to themselves as they slowly stood up. They glared down at the hero and began to approach with a dark grin on their face.

The young man was scared but he wasn't about to allow a hero that he adored so much to be killed right in front of him.

He didn't care that he knew most likely he wouldn't be able to do anything, the shaking man grabbed ahold of his wheels and pushed himself in front of Iron Man.

Hands trembling he grabbed a hold of the frying pan that he had accidentally placed into his lap, the man pointed it up toward the alien and told the Beast in a fearful voice to not take one more step forward as he the young man would be forced to fight them instead.

The large two-armed alien laughed listening to this shaky displayed little human try to threaten him from his hunt.

As he bent down pushing the pan away slightly with one of his hands he whispered into the human's face *" ... And what exactly are you going to do to me?"*

The young man gritted his teeth and smiled up at the aliens oh so sweetly, he then brought back the pan and with all his might swung as hard as he possibly could smacking the alien upside its head and knocking it over.

With a large thunk, the alien was soon landing on the floor kicking up dust and who knows what else as he landed into the broken window and wood splinters cutting into the alien's skin slowly greenish-blue blood started to leak from below the alien and the beast did not get back up.

Before the young man could try to wheel himself forward and through the destruction, of glass and wood on the floor he heard a cough from behind him.

Feeling slightly scared he raised the pan back up and turned his body around only to see the Forgotten Tony Stark that had been lying on the ground had pushed himself up to look towards the young man that had just saved him.

"Huh." Tomura said his eyes wide in shock and realization. He wanted to scream, shout, yell, anything, but only a sigh left his throat. His back straightened, and his shoulders held high to cover up the pathetic emotions swirling inside of him.

At that moment, Tomura truly realized how many times he has been pushed aside, used like a doll, and thrown away once he was useless. But this time was different. There's no turning back from this point anymore. He already did everything he did, and that white-haired man who he thought loved him took over his body and trapped him inside his own mind.

"You lied to me, Sensei..." Tomura said softly. Tears built up in his eyes, threatening to fall. His posture relaxed and dropped. He clenched his teeth to push down his urge to howl and sob until he no longer could.