#summerofwhump12

[equestrianwritingsstuff]

Summer of Whump #12: Rebirth

"Drink," came the voice. It was distant and Villain wondered if maybe he imagined it.

But then he felt the straw against his parched lips and opened them tentatively.

"Sip," came the voice again. It boomed in Villain's ears this time causing his head to light on fire. So, instead of obeying the voice, he refused, letting out a strangled groan. It sounded like a wounded animal.

"Fine." The straw was replaced with a smooth glass and Villain's head was titled backwards.

Water. It was water. It streamed down Villain chin, making the warm skin cool down in delight. It was so good, so good. Villain grappled at it, lazily bringing his hands up to take it away from the speaker. He began to gulp, only for the glass to be pulled away.

Villain let out a whimper and began to cry, small, hiccuping sobs that racked his rib cage. Tears spilled from his eyes with unforgivable speed.

"No, no," the voice was much clearer now as Villain slowly came out of his haze. "Don't cry, don't..."

That only made Villain cry harder. He felt like screaming like a toddler, anything to chase away the tangle of emotions he felt.

"Calm down." Villain recognized the voice as Hero and immediately began to panic. He jumped forwards, toppling off of whatever mountain held him. He landed on the ground with a pained thud.

"Get back up." This voice was different. Sweet and merciful. Villain's Sidekick.

He relaxed again. He was safe. Safe with Sidekick, but Hero's presence worried him.

Villain allowed himself to be laid back in bed. Finally, he opened his eyes. The light was blinding, but he pushed through it and focused on Sidekick's face.

"Mm," he whimpered and blindly reached for them. Anyone to comfort him.

Two days before, Villain was killed by Hero.

Yes, he was shot and killed by Hero.

For two days, he laid there, dead, not breathing and his body stiffening. For two days, only two days. After that, well, he didn't remember. He was alive.

He never asked. Even after he summoned the courage to look Hero in the eyes again. Even after he could walk again. It was a secret that was never let out and it would stay that way.

Because no one knew that Villain was inmortal. No one knew that everytime he died that he came back as another child, but this time it glitched and he was found on Hero's doorstep.

And no one even guessed at that possibility.

[sideblogformindtrash]

SUMMER OF WHUMP - DAY 12 - REBIRTH

@summer-of-whump  @whumpzone, @tears-and-lilies, @cupcakes-and-pain, @twistedcaretaker, @thingsthatgo-whump-inthenight, @pinkraindropsfell 

 cw: not much of a content warning for this, but talking about growing up on a shelter

Orfeu turned eighteen years old today. It was a day… Where everything would change.

He wasn’t sure what he was going to do from now on, as he folded his clothes and small belongings, putting them inside his backpack. But he would figure it out. He was glad he would finally be allowed to leave that place, even if it meant he had no plan from now onwards. Life would care for him.

He took one last look around. He had spent a lot of time in that room, just staring at the old concrete ceiling, full of cracks. There was never much to do. He was allowed to read, and the library was neat, but no music, and the only tv was on the shared spaces, and somehow, always ended up playing something boring. So he opted to stay alone and read, even if all there was were bland walls, and a tiny window that barely let enough light in. No one liked him there, anyway. Not the other kids, not the social workers.

He wouldn’t miss the place. 

He threw his backpack around his shoulder, and walked to the reception. Dave, his dumbass social worker, was waiting for him, finishing signing off paperwork. He kissed his hand and blew it for Dave, who stared at him worriedly as Orfeu danced out the front door, doing a little spin. 

They couldn’t fucking keep him anymore.

...Yet, Dave ran up to him, placing a hand on his shoulder. He turned, a bit agressively, waiting to hear some bullshit, but… He was caught off guard by how sad Dave looked.

"Listen kid… you have my number. If you ever need…"

...Orfeu frowned for a moment, then went back to his smile. He just… Always figured Dave would be more than glad to get rid of him. He was nothing but trouble for the man, anyway.

"...Thank you"

"Good luck, kid” ...Dave let him go. He nodded, starting to make his way. He had no plan… But there was something he wanted to do.

It was nice being outside. The streets were all decorated for halloween, with pumpkins and skeletons and cheap plastic monsters. It was fun to look at and… He felt at home. Halloween. He didn’t even need a costume, he was already a freak.

...It was a long walk, but he needed to avoid spending money, even if just on the bus. He hadn’t been able to get a job, people always looking weird at him, twisting their noses. His… troubled past didn’t help. So, he knew he might be without a roof over his head for a while. He would figure it out.

Well, it was a long walk, but he wasn’t being followed. He felt good. He felt free.

...Two hours later, and his name was officially Orfeu. Enoch was dead, and somewhere, in the woodlands graveyard, they would build a gravestone for him. For his deadname.

Fuck them.

Fuck them all.

He was someone else now, and he refused to live by their rules.

He was all alone… but truly, he had always been. This time, he was free, as well. 

And fuck: no one would ever take that away from him ever again. 

[spookyboywhump]

Death

Oh boy here we are. Here’s what I have to present for the @summer-of-whump day 12 prompt Death, aka, the prompt that made me want to take on this challenge. I feared I wouldn’t be done with it today but he we are, with that sweet sweet emotional whump

CW: Parental death, sibling death, child abuse, verbal abuse, suicidal ideation, brief mention of deadnaming, all of it is under a cut because Eli’s mom starts off mean right away

***

“You know, for a long time, we thought you were going to be stupid.”

Eli looked up from the paper he was working on, taking a moment to process what his mother had just said. She usually didn’t talk to him much when he came to visit, ever since Everett had stopped coming she’d gotten even colder towards him. He spent most of his time working on homework in between getting her anything he could and doing favors for her, especially with finals coming up fast. He put down his pencil, sitting up straighter in the chair he sat in beside her bed.

“Why… why do you say that…?”

“You didn’t talk when you were little. I don’t think you did until you were three or four, no matter what we tried. We started to think you would never learn.”

“I talked to Everett…” He didn’t have a lot of memories that far back, but he remembered babbling away to Everett, and going silent when his parents were around. According to his brother, his first word had been an attempt at saying his name, but it came out as “Ev’ett”. He shorted it to Ev to make it easier on Eli.

“That’s what he said too, but we never heard it. You didn’t start talking to us until just before your father left.” He resisted the urge to make a sad joke about driving him away.

“Oh… I don’t see how that could’ve meant I was stupid…” He muttered, looking down at his paper again.

“Clearly it didn’t. I was so relieved that you turned out smart. Your brother tried his best but he was never really good at school, not the way you are.”

“I… thanks…?” He wasn’t sure if it was exactly a compliment or not, it was always hard to tell with her.

“Speaking of your brother,” She said, and he tried to hide the pain on his face when she turned to look at him, “Have you heard from him…?” She asked, sounding hopeful, and it broke his heart.

“No, I’m sorry…” He said softly. She looked even more upset, and he felt sick with guilt. He knew what happened to Everett, of course he knew, he hadn’t been able to stop thinking about it since he’d heard the news, but he couldn’t bring himself to tell his mom the truth. He didn’t know what it would do to her, to hear that her favorite son was dead.

“I wish he were here…”

“I do too.” He wished that more than anybody else, he would’ve given anything to have Everett there. He felt like he needed him more than ever now that he was gone. He felt worse and worse when he looked at her, she looked sick and upset all the time, she was sick, and he couldn’t imagine what she must’ve been feeling, not knowing where Everett was. Eli had been wrestling with it ever since he found out, he didn’t know if it was better or worse to keep the truth to himself.

“He was always easier to talk to than you.” She said, a bitter edge to her voice that made his heart sink. He opened his mouth but didn’t have anything to say, his hand clenching into a fist. “I wish he were here. Whatever happened to him, it should’ve been you.” She said, giving him a look of pure disdain. “I’d trade you for him in a heartbeat.”

He didn’t say anything at first, stunned into silence, frozen in place as her words sunk in.

It should’ve been you.

You should be dead, not him.

She’s right.

He stood up abruptly, grabbing his things and furiously shoving them into his backpack. He was shaking, a wave of anger washing over him.

“Fine.” He said, hardly even in control of what he said. “I don’t need to be here then.” He slung his backpack over his shoulder, not even looking at her as he left. She was calling his name- not his name, it had been changed for two years now and she still didn’t bother, which only made him angrier. She didn’t sound apologetic, just irritated, which drove him away quicker, storming out of the room and leaving the hospital.

He was shaking with anger as he waited at the bus stop, he couldn’t remember the last time she’d pissed him off this much. It likely wasn’t even that long ago, but this seemed to have finally crossed a line, being the worst thing she’d said to him thus far. He couldn’t brush it off, the words felt like a weight on his shoulders, It should’ve been you.

The bus ride home was a blur, lost in his own miserable thoughts. He was getting more and more upset the longer he dwelled on it, and by the time he got home he was slamming the front door behind him, doing the same when he walked into his bedroom, throwing his backpack on his bed so hard it smacked against the wall. At least he didn’t have anything valuable in there.

He dropped onto his desk chair, taking his phone from his pocket. A part of him still desperately hoped he’d check it and see Everett’s name pop up, but of course there wasn’t anything. He dropped his phone onto the desk and tested his elbows on it, burying his face in his hands. For once he was so mad he couldn’t even cry, which was extremely rare for him. He just sat there, trembling, trying and failing to calm down.

She’s right. She’s right. It’s should’ve been me, I shouldn’t be here, I don’t fucking deserve to be here.

After some time he grabbed his backpack, pulling out half finished papers and a textbook, trying to distract himself. It wasn’t helping as much as he wanted, but it was still better than nothing. He just needed time to calm down, he knew that. He got mad at his mom all the time, but after a day or two he’d be over it, or at least, too tired to care anymore, and then he’d be able to go back, and the cycle would repeat.

He knew it wasn’t his best work as he did it, but at least it was mind numbing enough he finally stopped shaking. He took a quick break from it after a few hours, wandering around the small apartment, searching through the kitchen for something to eat. He didn’t find anything, and he tried to tell himself he wasn’t hungry anyway, eventually returning to his room.

The words didn’t leave the back of his mind but as the hours passed he grew more and more numb to them, filing them away with the rest of the hurtful things she’d said to him. Disappointment, unwanted, annoying, needy, “Should’ve been you”. He could imagine how angry Everett would’ve been to hear that, he would’ve comforted him, he would’ve spoken to their mother about it. It wouldn’t have fixed anything, but at least he cared.

Eli considered himself an atheist, but he found himself wondering if there was some sort of afterlife the way some people talked about it, about loved ones watching over you. He wondered if such a thing existed, and if it did, if Everett had heard that. He almost hoped not, he didn’t need to be worrying over Eli anymore. There wasn’t anything he could do now anyway.

It was late that night, he was only still awake because he knew trying to go to bed would make everything come back, make him feel even worse. At some point his phone rang, causing him to jump, startled by the sound. Nobody ever called him but Everett and their mom, he didn’t recognize the number immediately but he answered anyway with a hesitant, “H-hello…?”

Whatever he was expecting to hear, it wasn’t what the person told him. In fact he seemed to only pick up on the important parts, everything else drowned out by the pounding of his own heart.

”She’s not doing well”... “Should come say goodbye”... “best to do so as soon as possible…”

He wanted to say that was impossible. She was fine when he left that afternoon, there was no way her condition could’ve gotten that bad that quickly. No, it wasn’t impossible, there had been a scare before, but that’s all it was, just a scare, something she recovered from. Surely she’d recover from this too, right? She’d recover and they would go back to having a tense relationship. A part of him felt tempted to go though, just in case.

“Whatever happened to him, it should’ve been you.”

“I can’t.” He blurted out. He didn’t have a reason for it, while he was typically good at lying he was at a complete loss here. “I can’t.” He repeated, and without waiting for them to respond, he hung up, sitting there as silence settled over him. He was shaking again, he realized, and he set his phone down on the desk, taking a slow, shuddering breath.

He couldn’t do it right now. He knew he couldn’t see her without breaking down completely, without snapping and starting a fight. Quite honestly though, he didn’t want to see her anyway. He usually minimized the things she said to him, brushed them off and told himself they weren’t that bad but this was bad. She didn’t know what happened to Everett, she couldn’t have known what she was saying, but still, when she said the words “it should’ve been you” all he heard was “you should be dead.”

He knew that she was right. He agreed completely. But that didn’t make it easier on him, and that didn’t make him anymore inclined to see her in what may be her final moments.

He stayed right there all night, sitting cross legged in his desk chair, tense and angry and upset. The sun was rising and he was still sitting there, knowing he should be at the hospital, knowing he should be more worried than he actually was.

It was exactly 7:32 a.m. when his phone rang again. He was numb when he answered it, and deep down he already knew what he was going to hear.

”I’m so sorry”... “We did everything we could”... “She’s passed away.”

***

It seemed as if he had shut down, because the reality of her death didn’t hit him until months later. By that point he’d started working, moved into a new, nicer apartment, he didn’t have to rely on his father anymore which meant they never spoke.

I’m completely alone.

He was laying in bed, staring up blankly at his ceiling. He still hasn’t unpacked most of his things, the room was filled with boxes. He really only had his bed and his desk, his clothes, and his important stuffed animals. His apartment was silent, the walls were thicker in this building so he couldn’t hear every little thing going on around him.

I don’t have any family. Any friends. Just myself.

He clutched his shark close in one arm, and the other hand tightly gripped his blanket. Tears welled up in his eyes, all the pain and grief he’d bottled up since Everett’s death finally overflowing.

I’m all alone.

My family is dead.

It should’ve been me.

[whumping-to-conclusions]

Summer of Whump #12: Rebirth

CW: Panic attack, some blood, scars, amnesia

Pyotr gasped to life, back arching, hands digging into fresh loam, nostrils flaring as they filled with the scent of winter. Bare trees stretched towards the endless sky that spread above him, a cold slate of frosted glass.

Pyotr sat for a moment, breath huffing out in clouds of mist. Where was he?

And more importantly―who was he?

His mind was as blank as the sky that arched overhead. He knew his name―Pyotr. He could think in coherent words. But… that was it. He didn’t even know what language he was thinking in. As hard as he struggled, he could not dredge up a single memory from the depths of his brain. It made his head ache. He looked down at himself. He was wearing dark trousers, a pair of scuffed boots, and a thick fur coat over a torn, white shirt splattered with dried blood. His hands were covered in blood as well. With a feeling of growing dread, he tore open the shirt.

Pyotr’s breath caught in his chest. A long, dark scar marked his torso. Twisted and thick, it extended from his clavicle to just above his navel, a dark rope of purplish tissue. A wound like that should have killed him. Someone had split him open like a rotten log, and someone had sewn him back together. And I have no idea who.

Sudden panic rose in his chest like a guttering wave and his breath wheezed out in panicked gasps. His heart started pounding. The world tilted dangerously.

He sat there for god knows how long, struggling to control his breathing, struggling to stay conscious. At some point in this terrified haze, Pyotr felt something cold land on his shoulder. He looked up, only to catch a flake in his eye.

Once his vision cleared he could see that snow was falling all around him, thick and fast. A cold wind gusted through the grove.

Pyotr shivered, and a wave of exhaustion threatened to overwhelm him. His eyelids felt thick and heavy. For a moment he considered laying down and going to sleep in the snow, never to wake up. No one was here. He doubted anyone would miss him.

But something on his wrist caught his attention. Pyotr pushed back his sleeve. A sharp black tattoo of an eye marked his pale skin. Looking at it, his head started to pound, like it reminded him of a memory that wasn’t there. He strained his mind, trying to recall. But he didn’t even know what he was searching for. This tattoo held answers, he was sure of it― answers to where he’d come from, to why he was sitting here in this cold, empty grove with a scar in his belly. If only he could find out what it meant....

There was only one way to do that. And it certainly didn’t involve laying down to die in this forest.

Pyotr struggled to his feet. His knees rebelled, and it took him a few tries to stand. His whole body felt strange, like it had been pulled apart and then sewn together again none too carefully. Like he had been remade―reborn. Maybe he could find out what that meant, too.

Pyotr started to walk through the woods. He slipped and stumbled as he went, once gashing his calf on a rock and leaving a trail of fresh, ruby-bright blood in the snow. As he limped onward, something bright caught his eye―a warm golden light wedged between the trees. He could just make out the edges of a cottage, nestled cozily in a clearing a few hundred feet away. Smoke rose up through the trees from a working chimney.

Pyotr picked up his pace. Soon he’d be warm. Soon he could sleep. How wonderful it sounded to have a belly full of hot stew and plum brandy, to sink into a thick mattress covered in quilts woven by someone’s babushka.

When he was a dozen yards from the house, his limbs started to feel weak. That wave of panic rose up again in his chest, seeking to engulf him. He wasn’t going to make it.

Pyotr fell to his knees a few feet from the door. No… He was so close. His body couldn’t give up on him now. But his vision was darkening, and there was absolutely nothing he could do about it.

Then the door creaked open. A thick bar of golden light fell over Pyotr, blocked slightly by a hazy figure standing in the doorway. He could not make out their features, but Pyotr heard a soft voice speak comforting words to him that he could not understand, and he knew that he was saved.

Pyotr’s eyes rolled up in his head and he sank into the dark.

[hale-13]

Caliber

By Hale13

For the Summer of Whump Day 12 - Death

Peter grew up like most American kids running active shooter drills thinking (hoping) it would never happen to him.

Words: 2338, Chapters: 1/1 (Complete), Language: English

Fandoms: Spider-Man (Tom Holland Movies)

Rating: Teen

Relationships: Peter Parker & Tony Stark

Characters: Peter Parker, Ned Leeds, Michelle Jones, Tony Stark, Various Midtown Students and Faculty

TW: TW: Gun Violence, Blood, Major Character Injury, Possible MCD (if you choose to interpret it that way)

Read on AO3 or below the line break.

Growing up, Peter spent his early childhood in lower level genetics labs with his parents. Part of this was simply because they worked some weird hours at OsCorp but the other part was definitely because they recognized his intelligence and talent early and would give him easy experiments to run while they worked. Safe? Eh, maybe not but Peter had fun.

Well, until they died that is.

After that Peter would spend his time in the hospital daycare or nurse’s break room or sitting at Ben’s desk in the bullpen at the precinct where he worked. Daycare and babysitters were expensive and Peter was having a little separation anxiety from becoming an orphan at six. Peter accredits this formative time in his life to why he has a healthy respect of first responders, why he goes out every night in spandex to help his neighborhood (even if the cops hate him).

After the funeral, after May and Ben went back to work and started taking Peter with them, Ben sat Peter down to go over basic gun safety with him. He can remember that initial conversation pretty vividly: Ben had sat Peter down on the couch and had pulled out his unloaded side arm and the small safe he stored it in. He told Peter just how dangerous weapons could be in untrained hands, how Peter could easily hurt himself or others if he ever touched it, how Ben would always have it locked up but, on the off chance it wasn’t, Peter was to never touch it.

Peter had readily agreed and had steered clear of Ben’s belt and the gun safe next to his side of the bed his whole childhood.

The officers that Ben worked with were, for the most part, super nice to Peter and always took time out of their days to talk to him, bring him snacks and (attempt) to help him with his homework and Peter grew to be the most comfortable in the loud bullpen or the adjacent break room. The summer before he started his freshman year at Midtown, Ben and some of the other officers had given Peter a crash course in gun safety – how to clean, care and shoot a weapon – and it only took one trip to dash Peter’s dreams of working in law enforcement; he never wanted to handle a gun again.

Holding his uncle’s body as he bled out a few months later from the massive hole left in his back by the .45 caliber handgun only solidified that decision.

Luckily, in his tenure as Spider-Man, Peter tended to run into more sub-Ultron and Chitauri fare than the classic handguns and rifles he was familiar with which suited him just fine. When he did come across a run of the mill mugger or rapist who was using a pistol or something similar, Peter took great pleasure in using his super strength to rip it into tiny pieces – destroyed beyond repair and off the streets for good.

This had resulted in some unfortunate bullet grazes and full-on holes in his body that had prompted his helicopter mentor (under the order of Aunt May of course) to force him through another gun safety lecture, complete with a practical portion where Colonel Rhodes assisted in teaching Peter how to properly disarm and disassemble a variety of different sidearms. It was definitely cool to spend time with Actual War Machine but Peter rushed through it as quickly and throughly as possible. He never wanted to have the easy comfort with weapons that Mr. Stark and Colonel Rhodes had – he preferred non-lethal disarmament when patrolling.

All this said – Peter probably had more experience and knowledge with various weapons (human and otherwise) than he had any right to.

All of this experience, all of his time as Spider-Man, everything he had been through did nothing to help keep him calm and collected when his principal came over the intercom while Peter was in gym class to announce a code red shelter in place order. Like most high schoolers in America, Peter had gone through numerous school safety drills so he, in theory, knew what to do in a emergency.

In practice? Not so much.

Coach Wilson had looked just as pale and stunned as the class but had recovered quickly enough to rush the doors. A few other students had also started moving to gather some of the wrestling mats to roll in front of the doors once Coach Wilson had gotten them closed and locked.

He, unfortunately, wasn’t quick enough.

Brian Anderson, a sophomore Peter recognized from the debate team, forced the door open, brandishing the small revolver in a shaky hand. His face was pale, eyes red rimmed with tears with such a desolate look it made Peter’s own heart clench in sympathy despite his rapid heart-rate.

“Back up,” he whispered, using the gun to gesture for the coach to step away and the man obliged; holding his hands up in surrender and slowly backing away from the door. Some of Peter’s classmates, including Ned who, for once, wasn’t right at Peter’s side in class but across the room from him, had started to cry. Michelle, looking stony faced but terrified underneath it all, was trying to shush Betty Brant who was in the middle of a full blown panic attack and trying not to draw attention to herself.

“Okay,” Coach Wilson said, motioning the class members closest to him to back up with one raised hand, his eyes never leaving the weapon. “You’re calling the shots here Brian.”

Brian sniffled, fresh tears spilling over his eyes and hand trembling as he surveyed the room, eventually moving the barrel to point at Mark Conley, one of Flash’s friends and a notorious online bully. Both boys had gone nearly ghost white and the class seemed to be holding its collective breath.

“Sorry Ben,” Peter thought. “Sorry Mr. Stark.”

“Brian,” he called out, voice sounding much more steady than he predicted it would since he was just Peter Parker right now and not Spider-Man. “You don’t want to do this man.”

“Don’t tell me what to do!” Brian spit out, anger over-ruling all of his other feelings and his eyes landing on Peter. “You don’t know what I want to do!”

“I promise you don’t want to do this,” Peter said calmly. “I know what they’re like. You think they treat me any better than you? You’ll regret this if you do it.”

Brian snorted out a dry laugh, not looking like he found anything remotely funny. “Then you should want me to do this.” He said, cherry picking Peter’s words.

“But I don’t,” Peter told him, edging closer to the other boy, making sure to put his body in front of Mark as he moved closer. “Do you know how my uncle died?” Brian, eyes locked with Peter’s, shook his head nearly imperceptibly. “He was shot by some guy robbing a bodega. He bled out in my arms before emergency services could arrive.” Peter said bluntly, doing the best to ignore how his heart clenched and his eyes burned.

The barrel of Brian’s gun dipped down to point more toward the floor and Peter took a few cautious steps forward, stopping when he was only about five feet away. “They won’t stop,” Brian whispered, the tears flowing heavier but his finger still in place over the trigger. “It just keeps getting worse and I can’t take it. I can’t do this anymore!”

“I know,” Peter said, voice soft, dropping his hands down to rest loosely at his sides. He really wishes he had his web-shooters, secret identity be damned. He was never taking them off again, no matter what May tried to tell him about work/life balance. “I know what its like and it sucks but they aren’t worth throwing your whole life away. It’s not worth hurting all the innocent people you’ll hurt. You don’t want to do that to your friends and family.”

“I don’t have any friends!” Brian said loudly, raising the gun back up to point at Peter but Peter didn’t move from his relaxed position even though he felt his heart speed up to a gallop. He faced possible injury and death at least once a week but that was always as Spider-Man… never as Peter Parker.

“I’m your friend,” Peter told him, a little desperate but honest. “I don’t want anything bad to happen to you.” Brian gasped and let the pistol drop to his side in a loose grip. “Just hand me the gun Brian okay? And then we can talk about it, I won’t let anything bad happen to you.”

Brian sniffed and rubbed his free hand over his face to wipe away the tears rolling down his cheeks. “Do you promise?”

“I promise,” Peter confirmed, holding out his hand. Brian nodded and lifted his hand to pass Peter the gun when everything went wrong. Betty, who had been hyperventilating through the entire exchange, finally passed out. MJ tried to catch her but the two of them hit the floor with a echoing bang that startled the whole class. Brian, gun lifted and finger still on the trigger, flinched and jerked to aim back at Mark, shooting.

Everything happened in slow motion for Peter and he grimaced at what he was about to do, saying mental apologies and throwing his body in the path of the bullet, jerking back at the feeling of it hitting him in the chest.

His breath knocked out and his consciousness already becoming more nebulous from the pain that was blooming in his lungs, Peter stumbled forward to yank the gun from Brian’s limp grasp, deftly unloading it with the last of his strength and with shaking hands before throwing the rounds to the opposite side of the gym; collapsing at the other boys feet.

“Oh god,” Brian whispered in horror. “Oh god Peter. I’m sorry! I’m so sorry!” He tried to bend down next to Peter but was swiftly tackled by Abe and Jason where he was wrestled onto his front with them restraining his hands without a fight beyond his gulping sobs.

“You’re alright Parker,” Coach Wilson said soothingly as he rolled Peter onto his back and used his own hastily shed jacket to apply pressure to the steadily bleeding hole in Peter’s chest, causing him to grunt and squeeze his eyes shut in pain. “Thompson! Call 911 and tell them we have the shooter and we need emergency services in the gym. Conley run up to the office and tell Morita what happened!” Both boys jumped into action but Peter ignored it in favor of unsteadily pulling his own phone out of his pocket and sliding it to Ned who had joined the group along with a pale and teary Michelle.

“Call Tony,” Peter coughed out, blood staining his lips and leaked down the side of his face. “No hospital.”

Ned, shaking and crying worse than Peter had ever seen fumbled the phone with numb hands before giving up and pressing the panic button on the side of the phone. Feeling relieved that his mentor was on the way, Peter let his tired eyes close only to rip them open at the flick on his nose.

“It’s not nap time Tiger,” MJ told him, forcing a smile that didn’t reach her eyes. “Don’t want to get detention again.”

“I think…” Peter gasped out, his lungs aching with the strain. “Think this… get me… a permanent… ‘get out of detention’… free card.”

Michelle ran soft fingers through his hair, helping him relax his clenching muscles. He could tell that Ned was on the phone and speaking in rapid, broken sentences. He could kind of hear the sirens approaching, the sound of the building evacuating, crying students. But nothing mattered as much as Michelle. “You just couldn’t help yourself huh?”

“You know… me,” Peter grunted, trying for a grin that didn’t show the tacky blood he was sure was staining his teeth. “No guts… no glory.”

“God you’re a disaster,” MJ said with a watery laugh, a single tear escaping to race down her cheek. Peter wanted nothing more than to reach out and wipe it away but his arms were made of lead.

Before Peter could work up the energy to respond, the doors of the gym were blown off the hinges by repulsers as Tony rushed the room, suited up in his full armor and clearly panicked. “Peter!” He shouted as he stumbled out of the suit, falling to his knees next to Peter and hastily began applying his prototype nanotech bandage to the hole in Peter’s chest before rolling him on his side to repeat the process with his back.

Peter gagged at the change in position, his eyesight fading out to a pinprick of light and his hearing glitching out. The voices around him became ever more harried but Peter couldn’t make out what they were trying to say – all he knew was he was really tired. More tired than he had ever been maybe. Surely no one would mind if he took a little nap?

“Stay with me buddy,” he heard Mr. Stark say as cold, hard arms gripped under his back and knees, lifting him and causing him to nearly black out again. “Just a quick little flight to the Tower Petey,” Tony said, voice wavering and not its usual strong timbre. “Just hang with me for a few more minutes and then you can nap okay kiddo?”

“Tired,” Peter gasped out, chest seizing. “I’m sorry.”

“Don’t apologize!” Tony ordered, frantic and yelling over the wind buffeting them. When had they started flying? “Just stay awake.”

“Love May,” Peter whispered, his vision a kaleidoscope of shapes and colors that were rapidly fading. “Love you.”

“Peter!” Tony sounded so far away, Peter thought as his eyes closed against the colors and shapes and lights that were making him feel dizzy and sick.

Just a little nap.

No one would notice.

[cyhyr]

Summer of Whump Day 12: Death

Fandom: Naruto

Rating: T

Pairing: Hatake Kakashi/Umino Iruka, pre-relationship.

WC: ~1560

Warnings: Graphic Depictions of Violence; attempted murder staged as suicide

Notes: GDV warning is conservative.

A/N: What are Motives, anyway. I just want to hurt these boys, who cares about Reasons. Also like, I am literally incapable of killing my whumpees BUT I will get them very. very close. And make everyone think they're dead.

~

Kakashi does everything he can to keep himself steady as he runs on the water, leading the charge into Water territory. The ANBU team following him keep their distance; all except Tenzō, who keeps pace just behind Kakashi’s shoulder.

“We’ll save him, senpai.”

The landmark mentioned in the ransom note is in view as Tenzō says this. Kakashi puts on a burst of speed.

Mist has had Iruka for a fortnight. Maybe they’ll get him back, but gods, in what condition?

~

“Number One reported Konoha shinobi closing in. The Copy-nin leads them.”

Iruka tries to hold back his wince, but this group has been nothing but honest about their intentions since he arrived in their camp. Spend the weeks they had with him making him wish he were dead, and then, when Konoha finally sends a retrieval team, granting that wish. For days, Iruka has held out hope that he could survive this. Now, his life has a definite endpoint.

Less than an hour.

“Perfect,” their boss says. He looks back at Iruka, along with the rest of the group; their toothy grins send chills down his spine. Iruka hasn’t caught any of their names. They’ve been careful to call each other by numbers, and the numbers seem to change from day to day; this one, though, the one with long, straight, white hair and teeth like a shark, was always boss.

Iruka’s wrists are torn up with rope burn, tied as they are against his lower back. Another length of rope leads from a meter-high post to a crude leather collar, tagged and sealed around his neck. If his hands were free, he could undo the seal on the collar with ease; without the tags around his neck, he could have fought back enough to eventually free his hands. Together, Iruka couldn’t rig a way out of the situation. The rope from the collar gives him enough slack to lay down if he needs to rest, but the Mist nin have never untied his wrists after the first time they made that mistake.

There had been seven of them, originally. Iruka is proud of the fact that there’s only five, a fortnight later; sealed and bound, they hadn’t thought he would be a threat.

Now, though, with minutes ticking down, Iruka had to find some other way to get out.

The Boss towers over him, and commands over his shoulder, “Tanto.” He holds out his hand while one of the lackeys (Three, today; yesterday, he was One—there doesn’t seem to be a pattern Iruka can figure out) places a sheathed tanto into his palm.

Iruka swallows his fear and speaks through it. “So, what? After all this, you’re just going to stab me? That’s how you grant the great wish of death for your captives?”

“Oh, this isn’t for you,” the Boss says. He makes a show of unsheathing the tanto, letting it gleam in the light from the gas lamps. Shrugging, nonchalant, he continues, “Well, I suppose in a way, it is. But really, it’s for Hatake.”

Iruka says nothing, waiting for the rest of the monologue.

“Boss, how’re we gonna get him to do it? It’s not like—”

“Shut up, Two.” The boss steps closer to Iruka, goes on one knee so they’re the same height, and says, “Listen, you can either do this yourself, or we can do it for you and stage it.”

Iruka shakes his head slowly. “I don’t—”

“You’ve been denying it the whole time, but we know you and Hatake are involved.” He sneers, “Lovers, even.”

“We’re not.” The denial comes quick and easy because it’s true. They hadn’t… Kakashi hasn’t even asked him out yet. They’re still dancing around each other, flirting and testing the waters.

“Yeah, yeah,” the Boss waves him off. “So anyway. Hatake’s father committed seppuku. Imagine what it’ll do to him to see his lover gone the same way.” He casually swings the tanto toward Iruka’s neck, then drags it over his chest and down to his navel.

“It will destroy him,” Iruka whispers, knowing that the Boss wants a response and finding himself incapable of keeping the horror inside.

“And the greatest weapon Konohagakure has ever cultivated will snap,” the Boss snapped the fingers on his free hand for emphasis, “just like that. Moving in and stealing the secrets and remaining strengths of Konoha will be a breeze with Hatake off the roster.”

“I won’t help you do this,” Iruka shakes his head. “Stage it all you want, but I will not go along quietly.”

"Suit yourself," the boss says, and slides the tanto into Iruka's belly, holding his shoulder with the other hand.

Iruka gasps, grunts; blood works its way up his throat and he coughs it out into the Boss’s neck. His arms tense behind him like he could fight back if only—but then the bastard drags the tanto up through organs and tissue to settle just underneath his ribcage.

He cries out. Blood stains his lap and the collar bites into his neck as he tries to lean forward and curl around the wound. Number Four cuts the bonds on his wrists and safely disarms the tags, pocketing them.

They leave the collar on him, but untie it from the post.

The Boss takes his hands and places one below the guard of the tanto, the other he lets Iruka cup around the blade. The wound is so large.

His pulse is fluttering behind his eyes.

They let him fall to the side, clutching the tanto. They cheer as they run away, regarding each other with a job well done.

I have to hold on, Iruka thinks, desperate to stay awake while blood loss and his weakening blood pressure pull him down into death. If nothing else, Kakashi needs to know I didn’t do this to myself…

~

As per instructions, the team plus Kakashi waits by the landmark for ten minutes. The second the tenth minute passes, Kakashi is on the move again, following his nose to the overwhelming smell of blood he’s praying isn’t Iruka’s. Tenzō is beside him again, and he knows he’s worrying the team but he can’t—

“Senpai, wait. Let me go first.”

“No.”

Kakashi pushes through the door they’ve found, and the smell punches him and makes him tense. But across the room is a post, and between him and it is a large table, and just at the edge of the table he can see a pair of bare feet tucked together.

He vaults the table and is beside Iruka’s body before he realizes it. And gods, did Iruka know he fell in the same position as Sakumo or was it staged to—

“...Ka..ka—?”

“MEDIC!”

The ANBU medic flashes to them, immediately beginning their mystical palm jutsu. The green light fills the space, and Kakashi lets himself relax just a bit.

He shifts so he’s at Iruka’s head, sees an ugly brown leather collar tight on his neck, and gently pulls on the buckle so he can slip it off. Iruka sighs when it’s gone; Kakashi throws it across the room, satisfied with the thunk it makes when it hits the opposite wall.

“Kakashi-san,” the medic, Otter, calls for him, “I can stabilize him, but we need to get back to Konoha with haste. He’ll need surgery to prevent long-term damage.”

“Then we move,” Kakashi says.

“I need to remove the tanto and heal that as much as possible first,” they continue.

“Also, we have the additional orders to remove the threat that took Iruka-sensei in the first place,” Rat says. He continues, “Cat and I can do that while you and Otter take care of the sensei.”

“That sounds—”

“There’s five of ‘em left,” Iruka grits.

Kakashi hushes him, putting a hand on his cheek. “Please, sensei, save your strength. Otter can fix you, but not if you keep making a bigger mess for them.”

“I—”

Iruka passes out and doesn’t finish. Kakashi leans in and listens, but his pulse is fluttering and he’s still breathing, so he sighs and sits back.

He looks up at Tenzō, who clearly doesn’t want to leave him, and says, “Your team, your call, Cat. Just keep Iruka from dying for now and I’ll follow you.”

Tenzō nods. He addresses the team, “Rat and I will pursue. Otter and Kakashi will begin the trek back to Konoha, with the priority of keeping Iruka-sensei alive and getting back as soon as possible.”

There are nods of agreement, and then the team breaks in half.

~

Hours later, they’re out of Water country and Kakashi is holding Iruka against his chest in front of the banked fire. Otter is resting across the way, having spent much of their chakra between travel and healing today.

Iruka stirs. Kakashi holds him tighter, and when Iruka murmurs, “Water,” he’s quick to uncap his canteen and press it gently to Iruka’s lips.

“I thought I’d lost you,” Kakashi breathes against Iruka’s temple.

Iruka finishes the mouthful of water. “I couldn’t let them—they wanted you to believe that I…”

“For a moment, I almost did.” Kakashi pulls Iruka ever closer. “You wouldn’t, though.”

“Never,” Iruka murmurs. He’s on his way back to unconsciousness. He rests his temple on Kakashi’s collarbone, presses his nose into Kakashi’s neck, and says, “Won’t ever hurt you. ‘Specially not like that.”

[tears-and-lilies]

@summer-of-whump​

Day 12: death/rebirth

It’s the year of the civil war, right after the battle between Loui and Mirifen. Feyros and his uncle Tymos, the Keeper of the City, discuss matters.

CW: mention of parental death, grief, forced to hide emotions

[uniasus]

While technically a very delayed day 12 for summer of whump, the ‘reliving your death’ part turned into something much bigger.

BBC Merlin, Mordred POV. Read here or the whole 2K on Ao3.

-----

Mordred remembered it all. They all do, obviously, even if the memories didn’t kick back into place until they all sat around the new round table. He could tell by how the other knights – could he even call himself a knight? - shot him shy glances.  

The worse was the small looks Leon or Guinevere gave him. Every time their eyes slide his way Mordred remembered locking eyes with Arthur and sliding his sword through the king's gut. Arthur had been too stunned to see him he hadn't brought up his sword to defend. And Mordred, too stunned at actually running his old liege lord through, had similarly put up no defense with Arthur returned the favor.  

Arthur might acknowledge the complicated situation that led them to Camlann, saw the path that led Morgana there, Mordred there, Arthur and all the knights, but it was Mordred that essentially prevented Arthur’s Golden Age. Worse, as Mordred watched Merlin serve them all lemonade, saw his flinch, learned that the other man had the same justification for violence as Mordred and  didn't  take it, Mordred knew he could have chosen not to wield that dragon-forged sword.  

Even knighted, he was still a child, wasn't he? Acting on impulses, putting his needs and wants first despite the oath he'd taken. Once, he had sat at Arthur's Round Table. Had been so proud to be among such renowned men. Now, he felt ashamed. Unworthy.  

Arthur sat tall in his seat, a man more understanding and compassionate than Mordred could ever be, completely unbothered by sharing a table with his killer.

And worse, behind him stood Merlin, Emrys, the man Mordred had wanted to impress above all others, the man who had faced the same trials and chose the opposite choice every single time.

I shouldn't be here,  Mordred ran a finger along the edge of this new, modern table. Yet, he didn't know where else to go.

Mordred stayed close to the group, but out of the way for the rest of the day. The new knight, or new to him would be a better term for Lancelot, and Mordred absorbed the stories the other told, completing each other's histories. In explaining Camlann to Lancelot and Elyan, Arthur made no effort to hide the fact that he died on Mordred's sword. But the king – ex-king? – glossed over the event and Leon took over, explaining how an aggressive Essetir had forced the druids into Camelot, Camelot's alliance with the druids, and the ensuing war that united Essetir and Camelot into a single kingdom.

Leon spoke of Merlin fighting with the knights, of marrying Guinevere, and Percival took up the tale of Merlin's kingship and how Camelot flowered.  

Guinevere, by that point, had disappeared, but Mordred could tell Arthur wished desperately to find her.  

Mordred, for his part, sat silently on the floor of the room and listened to what sounded like a truly Golden Age for Albion. A sorcerer-king. Magic helping the kingdom grow. Acceptance, or progress toward it.  

It wasn’t anything like the prophecies had led him to believe it would be like.  

It was better.  

He hated himself so much for having missed it and dreamed of how it could have been with the Once and Future King at the helm.

Mordred woke with the sun, the magic of the Earth waking in the light and stirring his own mind. He blinked, not understanding the ceiling above him before his memories caught up.  

Arthur’s knights, Mordred included, had risen again to aid with an unknown threat.  

Groaning, he sat up. His sleep hadn’t been peaceful between thoughts and dreams and the unfamiliar bed, but he was up and there was nothing for it. Might as well go outside and enjoy a bit of peace.  

Merlin’s house was larger, a castle in its own right, though it seemed to be made of less sturdy material. No stone here, but he appreciated the smoothness of the walls and floor.  

Downstairs, he wondered trying to find the door that opened to the garden with the table in it. Thankfully, the first floor was smaller than the second one. He found the strange clear door that let outside, but he found his attention caught by Merlin.  

He stood in the strange modern kitchen, leaning against the center island and looking out the window into the nearby woods. His fingers played with a coin and it was obvious he wasn’t thinking about what he was doing, yet items move through the kitchen guided by his magic.  

On the counter beside Merlin, a large bag of herbs was tipped into a small metal strainer. The strainer then gently inserted itself into the mouth of a teapot, which itself silently floated out of a cabinet to land on the center island.  

It was such an effortless use of magic, maintaining several spells at once, and Merlin – no, Emrys, he really was Emrys in this moment – didn't seem to know he was doing it. How had he looked in Camelot, as its sorcerer-king? Even as Mordred thought it, a stray sunbeam brushed Merlin’s brow through the window, making his skin glow to match the steady glow in his eyes.

Instantly, Mordred dropped to his knee. The desire was instinctual, automatic. Before him was a warlock in command of more power than anyone else would have, who ruled Camelot for forty years. This man, with his sharp face, wise eyes, and deep magic, could rule the world if he wanted. And because he didn’t, people had loved and trusted him.

“I’m sorry,” Mordred choked out.

Emrys started, turning to see Mordred kneeling on the floor, kitchen items frozen where they were. Mordred couldn’t see his face, eyes on the floor.

“What are you sorry for?”

“For killing your king.”

“Are you really sorry for that? Would you have done anything different that day?” Emrys’s voice was dry, flat.

Mordred cast his mind back and found the answer. Yet even as he did, he knew it wouldn’t make a difference. For him, the murder of Arthur had been days ago. For Emrys, over a thousand years had passed.  

Emrys seemed to think the same. He gave a deep sigh and Mordred looked up at him. He looked tired, worn. The pressure of figuring out what had called the knights back? The return of knights? The glances Arthur had sent his way all last night, watching Gwen and Emrys interact? Did he even sleep last night?

“You can stand, Mordred. You never did anything else in Camelot anyway, no need to change it. I was going to have tea outside. Join me?” As he said it, the magic in the room faded and the royal aura that had filled the kitchen drained away. Merlin physically moved around the space, pulling out mugs to place on a tray along with several other items. Mordred watched, the man before him now no more than a physician's assistant or servant preparing something for his master. It grated in a way seeing the same thing in Camelot never did.  

Probably because, Mordred thought, he now knew how high Merlin could climb.  

Mordred hurried to open the door to the back garden. Merlin nodded in thanks as he led the way, heading not to the large stone table he’d anchored his spell to but a small table surrounded by a bountiful herb garden. He took one chair, Mordred the other, and Mordred hurried to pour the tea before Merlin could. Merlin rolled his eyes, but let him.

“The answer is no, isn’t it?” Merlin asked, stirring honey in his mug.

“Yes. I... am sorry. I’m sorry I never got to see the Golden Age. I’m sorry things happened the way they did. But if I was thrust back to that day, I think I would still do it. I don’t... I don’t understand why you didn’t.”

“Didn’t do what?”

“Kill him yourself. Arthur killed Kara. And he killed someone you love too.”

Merlin stared into his tea, face blank. He’d been fairly easy to read in Camelot, but Mordred had also seen him pretend nothing was a miss more than once. His years as king must have given him a lot of opportunities to practice controlling his emotions and how to display them.  

“Arthur was involved in the death of several people I loved, but as I love him too and understood his choices, I couldn’t hurt him in return. I was made aware of the prophecies soon after my arrival to Camelot, and it didn’t take me long to learn how strong those prophecies are.”  

He sighed and locked eyes with Mordred. “I tried to stop several prophecies and failed each time. They can perhaps be delayed, but they will happen. I came to terms long ago that Camlann was supposed to happen, that nothing I could have done would have stopped that. You can’t apologize for that, Mordred. You would have always done it, whether you wanted to or not. Destiny is not something you can escape. Weirdly enough, that has given me a sense of comfort.”

"Because they said you’d see Arthur again,” Mordred guessed.  

“Yes. While it didn’t happen the way anyone expected, Arthur shepherded in the Golden Age. He had stopped prosecuting magic, he’d set Camelot on the path to accept it again. He had allies, shaped Gwen and Leon and me into who we needed to be. We built Camelot with Arthur in mind, always imagining what he would want, what he would say or do. And -” here Merlin winced, “I don’t think that Golden Age would have happened if Arthur had lived. There are things Gwen and I did he would have not.

“I’m not offering you forgiveness, Mordred, if that’s what you’re looking for. This morning. But I don’t think I can blame you either, any more than I blame Arthur for a number of things. Especially considering you’re here. You hate it.”

Mordred grimaced. He did hate it. Hated knowing what he missed, knowing that Arthur had thought highly of him up to the end, hated that he didn’t deserve any of what the two kings of Camelot offered yet desired all the same.  

“There are no prophecies now though,” Merlin continued. “I have heard nothing spoken of since before Camlann, and crystals or pools that might give me a vision have not. Do you know what that means?”

Mordred shook his head.  

“It means Destiny is not guiding our actions. Your path might have been pre-ordained in Camelot, but they’re not in Britain. I will a hundred percent blame, judge, and punish you for things that happen from here on out."

“I understand, Emrys.”

“Good.”

“And Arthur?”

“What about him?”

“If Arthur was destined to die at Camlann, if he was never supposed to helm the Golden Age of his kingdom, never be a champion of magic, you can’t fully blame him for his actions then. But now that he knows things? Knows better? Are you going to hold him accountable?”

Merlin froze, mug an inch from his mouth, before setting it down on the table between them. “I’ll teach him, I suspect I won’t be the only one. But I’m not going to judge him until he makes a choice. I can’t hold him accountable for the past, Mordred. But yes, like you, his fresh start began yesterday.”

Mordred frowned, thinking of what he learned in Camelot, what he learned last night. “I can’t follow him, not like he used to. Maybe it was Destiny, maybe it wasn’t, but it still hurts. But Merlin, Emrys, knowing what you have done, knowing what you can do -”

“Arthur’s the Once and Future King, Mordred.”

“Are you sure?”

“It’s why he rose.”

His tone was final, but Mordred had never heard the actual words of the prophecy. Had Arthur risen because of Albion’s need? Or had something else triggered Merlin’s spell? Was the one who rose the Once and Future King, or was that title separate from Arthur’s destiny? Was now even the ‘future’ of the Once and Future King? Maybe in another five hundred years, Merlin would wear another crown.  

In his past life, Mordred had followed Arthur because of the hope he stood for, because he had Emrys at his back. In this life, why not follow Emrys himself? He had the track record Arthur lacked.

[morgana-greenleaf]

Summer of Whump Day 12: Death/rebirth

@summer-of-whump

Read on AO3 | Masterlist

His hands are slipping, numb from the cold, slick from sweat.

The bar waves in the air, back and forth. The man reaches towards him, hand extended, but he knows he won’t make it. He’s too far down, and the train is moving too fast, the wind roaring.

Any moment now, he’ll fall.

His skinny body is still too heavy; the bar snaps, and he falls, screaming.

Any moment now, he’d hit the ground and die, his body broken.

He’s turning, over and over, the wind whistling around him. He can’t help but reach for the train, a mere speck in the sky.

He hits the ground, his left arm crumpled beneath him, on the hard, sharp rocks.

He’s being dragged along the icy ground, his blood leaving a gleaming trail. His wounds are already starting to heal.

He’s in a bunker, deep in the ice, chained to a table. They fuse the metal to his flesh, embedding it deep within in. Peeling his skin back, burying it within. Connecting to the raw ends of his nerves.

You will be the new Fist of HYDRA.

[caspia-writes]

Summer of Whump #12 — Death

Summary: A man is faced with choosing life or death for tens of soldiers every day. Unfortunately, he doesn't have the god complex to go with it.

Content warnings: Corpses, death, alcohol mention

The shooting had died down. Finally. It was impossible to sleep with the cracks of rifles and screams of artillery, all louder than thunder. For the first time in seventy-something hours, Emil could almost close his eyes and let sleep take him. Compared to the racket that had assaulted his ears for the last three days, the buzzing of mosquitos and gentle drizzle of rain was a heavenly lullaby. He could almost feel his consciousness leaving him, his head lolling at the tug on his consciousness.

But for all the temptations, he could only almostsleep. No more shooting meant the medics would be going back for the patients who hadn’t been screaming in agony before, to see how many could be extracted from the mud and brought back. It was never total carnage; statistically speaking, someone might be able to help ten to twenty percent of late arrivals. The rest, however, would be dead or so close that not putting them in the morgue immediately was more a courtesy than anything.

Which was where Emil came in.

As much as anything, it seemed he was here to play the Valkyrie. The insanity of forcing the role of angels on a mere mortal seemed lost on his superiors. How Emil was supposed to know better than anyone else whose injuries were fatal and whose could be treated, he didn’t know. Or, anymore, particularly care. What Emil cared about these days was trying to forget the anguished stares of those deemed hopeless, their begging as he was forced to walk on in hopes of finding a more promising patient.

...He needed a drink.

No. Several drinks.

Then a hand on his shoulder pulled him back to the current situation. Desperate as he was, there was no alcohol to be had. More than that, it was time for him to get to work. One of the nurses, one of those young women who should’ve been back in Sachsen getting married or helping their mothers instead of watching men die by the dozens, looked to him, outside the tent, and then back to him.

“They’re here.” And there was nothing more for either of them to say.

Emil followed the nurse outside to be greeted with an orderly array of bodies. At least forty this time, and it seemed every second a new one was laid down. A good number of them, Emil wouldn’t have to think twice about. There wasn’t much to be done for a man missing half his brain, or those who were too pale to claim a single drop of blood to their veins. For now, he almost envied them. An eternity’s rest didn’t sound so bad after three days of only a few blinks. Not so much the ones still rolling in the mire and groaning—no one could envy them, even if they were the ones who still had a chance in any sense.

No matter who Emil envied or didn’t, there was no time for any such sentiment. Not if he intended to save any of them. And if he was going to have to live with the memories of the eyes of the ones he condemned, then by God he was going to try and save a few.

With a heavy sigh, Emil clasped his hands behind his back, strode along the lines, and began to read out his verdicts.

“Dead. Dead. Salvageable. Dead. Hopeless. Dead...”

[equestrianwritingsstuff]

Summer of Whump #12: Death

Warnings: character death

"Three alleyways done, two to go," Sidekick said, already thinking about the pizza that awaited their arrival at home.

Hero smiled, "Remember I told Teammate that we would do their's."

Sidekick sighed and kicked a rock. They were exhausted and just wanted to eat, but of course they had to follow Hero around like a puppy.

"Don't be a sore loser."

"Don't be so generous."

"What was that now?"

"Nothing."

Both walked in silence until Hero spontaneously grabbed Sidekick's shoulders and whisked them behind a dumpster.

"Hero-"

Hero quickly placed their hand over Sidekick's mouth to eliminate any speaking. Sidekick tried to resist, but Hero squeezed their arm. Taking that as a signal to stop, they allowed their body to relax into Hero's comforting grip.

"Supervillain," came a voice. Sidekick strained to see, but once again, Hero held them back.

"This is not well planned out. What if they die? I can't just let them do this and die." Sidekick recognized the voice as Villain's.

"If they truly respect you- and me, for that matter- they will willingly do it. And if you care anything about their self-worth then you will let them."

"Or we don't mention this to them."

"It has to get done somehow and unless you are willing-"

"To take their place? Of course."

Sidekick scowled underneath Hero's hand. The piggish bastards were going to sacrifice someone, they were sure of it.

But based on the context of the conversation, that someone was going to be willing to allow it to happen.

"Villain," Supervillain spoke in a low tone. "This is ignorance."

"At least it's not slaughter of the innocent," Villain retorted.

"You are way too righteous to be a villain, but too bad to be a hero. The world needs more people like you. I won't just throw away someone like you."

"But I won't throw away someone like Hero."

Hero stiffened and momentarily let go of their hold on Sidekick. It took a while, but finally the wheels clicked into place.

Supervillain wanted to kill Villain, but Villain was trying to save Hero.

Sidekick had to stifle a gasp. Never had they ever even assumed that Villain cared for humanity enough to allow themselves to be killed. Then again, it was Hero.

Hero suddenly tried to get up. Sidekick assumed the position, now, of keeping the other back. They placed a finger to their lips and gave a small "shh" noise.

"Well if that's your choice," Supervillain continued after a good moment. "Then put this into your vein."

"What is it?"

"Paralytic. This will hurt Villain, okay? I can't have you squirming around like a worm."

"Oh okay," Villain said. Sidekick could hear a slight whimper escape Hero's lips.

"Brilliant. Now, just sit down."

"Okay," Villain replied with a small sigh to their voice.

The next sound Sidekick heard was a phone ringing.

"Hey, Superhero," Supervillain voiced, slightly strained. "I-i have them."

Superhero? Sidekick leaned forward, trying to hear the reply. But they couldn't.

"No, no, not Hero, but Villain-"

A pause. Sidekick assumed that Superhero had interrupted Supervillain.

"I assure you that they will be a good candidate."

Hero shifted. Sidekick looked behind to see tears streaming down their friend's face. They brought their hand behind them and squeeze Hero's.

"Superhero. Come on. I know you wanted Hero dead and buried, but Villain... Villain's death will be the same outcome," Supervillain said, exasperated. Their new tone for some reason made Sidekick relax. Maybe it was because it was more like them, or maybe it was because Supervillain was really trying to get this to work.

So then Hero wouldn't die.

"I can't let this happen," Hero whispered and tried to get up, but Sidekick leaned all their weight into them.

"No," Sidekick growled.

"Really?" Came Supervillain's voice again. "Great, uh so just, uh, administer the poison? Yes? Awesome. Right to it!"

After five minutes, Sidekick heard sobbing. Quiet cries of grief as Supervillain laid over their dead friend.

"Villain," they murmured, so low that Sidekick had to strain to hear.

Hero squeezed Sidekick shoulders and finally they let them go.

Both heros solemnly walked over to the limp body and the huddled figure. Without any hesitation, Hero rushed over to Supervillain and wrapled their arms around their shoulders. Supervillain seemed to leaned to the embrace, all while cradling Villain's head.

Sidekick dragged themselves over and stood behind Hero.

There was Villain's face, tear-streamed and pale. Spit lathered on their blue lips along with blood. Sidekick gulped and crouched down, focusing on the still lips.

They were curled up in the tiniest smile.

[sideblogformindtrash]

SUMMER OF WHUMP - DAY 12 - DEATH

trials that dont really mean anything

It’s a sequel to this old drabble

@summer-of-whump  @whumpzone, @tears-and-lilies, @cupcakes-and-pain, @twistedcaretaker, @thingsthatgo-whump-inthenight, @pinkraindropsfell

CW: minor whumpee; public; cult abuse; religious abuse; institutional abuse; 

He could hear the priests discussing in the other room, deciding his punishments. He had been at the bone chamber for a day and a night now, with someone appearing just once, to slip him a piece of bread and a cup of water. 

It wasn't enough to soothe his throat, after crying for hours, but it helped a little.

Finally, he heard the heavy door opening and scrambled to his feet, cleaning his tears. 

"Come, Child. It's time to face judgement" he quietly nodded, his entire body shaking, each step like walking on daggers. 

God loves him. He loves God. He is faithful. God protects those who are just, those who speak his word. Have faith and it will all be okay.

He kept repeating that to himself. But his faith was shaken once he saw his father standing there, among the priests, with that same cold, distant gaze he always had reserved for him… he swallowed. He tried so much to please him, always, but… There was only disappointment. 

He only didn’t know if his father was disappointed in him… or on himself, for somehow, giving birth to the devil. Still, Orfeu was his spit image, the same black hair, green eyes, the same nose shape and ears. 

He knew what to do, now. He had been to that room more times that he’d like to admit. He forced his legs to move, walking to the center of the room, kneeling on the small wooden platform, head bowed in submission. The priests all surrounded him, and in the center of the room, a big cross. Jesus ruled over that courtroom...

From tha big, fucking metal cross, just like the one that had crushed Father John.

It took all he had not to vomit right there, as he curled up, holding it's stomach as it revolved. It looked like he was kneeling, so it should be fine.

"Welcome, child" a priest approached with the Bible "Do you swear, by Jesus name, to tell the truth and only the truth?"

He placed a shaky hand on the bible, trying to sound more confident than he felt, but probably failing. It didn’t matter. There would be no mercy just because he felt so lost, so… miserable.

"I swear"

"How do you declare yourself?"

"N-not… not guilty" he whimpered softly. It was an accident. He just happened to be there, that was all. Not that it mattered. They'd judge him, and if God decided he was guilty… then he was, even if he wasn't. God knew more.

"...Your version of events?"

He gulped. He had rehearsed this, but… but it was difficult. It was difficult to talk, to think. 

"He… he was… trying to put up some decorations. The ladder… fell and he… he tried to hold on the cross but it..  it was loose. I don't know how but… but it fell over him and… and…"

He couldn't. All those eyes were on him, including his father's. He said nothing, not even hi, just started to whisper around to the other priests, his eyes burning through Orfeu.

" What was he doing on the ladder? Shouldn't you be the one putting up the decorations? He was old, it was your responsibility-"

"With all the respect" Father Benedict intervened  "...You all knew Father John very well. Telling him he couldn't do something because of his age, was a certain way to get him to do it"

"...Still, Enoch should have attempted to stop him" Father Peter started 

"Enoch is a child" Father Benedict said "...He is just a child"

"A child kissed by the devil" ...this was his father saying, his stern, distant voice, that held… no trace of love for him, whatsoever. Father wished he had never been born.

"...But a child, nonetheless" Benedict kept "He couldn't have convinced John. Nor do I believe he intended to hurt him. He might be… a test from God to us, a lost lamb, but it's clear he has been trying to fix and atone for his sins, and i have seen progress"

A fierce debate started among the priests. Someone got up and took him to the hallway, away from the deliberation. It was the most tense ten minutes of his life. He gritted his teeth all along, hands closed on a fist, struggling to control his breathing.

Finally, he was taken back to the platform, every eye heavy on him, his father's mouth a steady Line of disgust. 

"...Not guilty" the priest declared, as he sighed in relief. 

Still, after that day…

Life became unbearable. 

The eyes on him became harsher, more cruel. His sins seemed to only get worse, no matter how much he tried to escape them. He was punished more often, taking to atone. They didn’t want to hear him, his confessions, his feelings. It didn’t matter. 

He was deemed innocent, and people still treated him like guilty.

It was on that unbearable, desperate spiral that he realized… maybe he didn't belong there. 

Maybe, he should leave.

He wouldn't be missed, either way. For all they cared… he was better off dead.

[fletcherwilbury]

Summer of Whump Day 12: Grief

Warning: This story deals with minor character death and death of a parent (mother)

[grizzlie70]

Isaac vs the Masters-SOW

this is a collab with @sapphirechao for @summer-of-whump 

day 12- death/rebirth

tw-implied death, blood loss, implied beatings, 

It was worth it. 

Subject 666 thought to himself, his body slowly getting weaker and weaker as he watches his own blood drain. They left him here after hours of beatings, they wanted to know where subj- Isaac could be but I couldn’t tell them. It's not like I would know either, I've spent my whole life here, from birth until now. His eyes felt so heavy and he felt colder than before. Did he get help? Did he escape? Am I going to be free? So many questions that won’t be answered. Wonder what it’s like out there? So tired. Am I going to get out? So very tired. 666 slowly curls into himself, he feels himself slowly fading into unconsciousness.

[blogger360ncislarules]

Chapters: 1/1 Fandom: Pearls Before Swine (Comics) Rating: General Audiences Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings Characters: Pig Additional Tags: summer of whump 2022, Canon-Typical Violence, Beating, Relationship Problems Summary:

Pig's latest sad attempt at having a girlfriend girlfriend once again leads to getting hurt.

@summer-of-whump