#fought

[synvelesow]

the holy trinity of daan apologists

[whumpslist]

Whumptober 2023 no.8 'Outnumbered'

Revolution episode 1.01

Miles (Billy Burke) is attacked and waaaaay outnumbered.

@whumptober @whumptober-archive

[deadlifts-and-deadlines]

My Stelara injection is today and I don’t feel like total shit. I wouldn’t even say I feel like partial shit; I’m just fatigued. But this is amazing! I feel… normal.

[set-phasers-to-whump]

glass

prompt: glass shard

whumpee: gereon rath

fandom: babylon berlin

hello here's a little fic for today :) it's gereon/charlotte, perhaps sometime during or very soon after s4. hope you like!

Gereon holds his own in the fight for several minutes, out of sheer determination if nothing else. But he can’t last forever, not against a man much larger and much more trained in fighting than himself. 

As he starts to tire out, his opponent only seems to grow more powerful. His punches hit with more force and Gereon is finding it harder and harder to hit back. 

They’re getting steadily closer to a wall, and Gereon thinks maybe he can use this to his advantage. Push the other man into the bricks, stun him. 

Instead, he’s suddenly grabbed by the collar and pulled forwards, and then his head is being forced through a closed window. 

The heavy impact of his skull with glass and wood, the sound of shattering, the immediate throbbing pain, the blood trickling down his face, the feeling of glass shards embedded into his skin - all of this combines into one sensation, oppressive and deadening. 

He’s pulled backwards, chin scraping on jagged edges, and then he hits the floor with force. He can only lie there and watch as his attacker walks away. 

He lies flat on his back on the cold ground for quite some time, breathing heavily. His head hurts. His face and neck are sticky with blood and his skin is stinging from the cuts. 

He needs to get out of here. 

He staggers to his feet, horribly lightheaded and for a second on the edge of unconsciousness. He waits, standing stock-still, until the feeling fades. 

His journey home is slow and painful. He’s exhausted and achy from the fight, in addition to the pain in his head and on his face. He wants nothing more than to sleep. 

Of course, he cannot exactly sleep with a face full of glass. He opens the door to his apartment and resigns himself to an eternity spent pulling shards from his skin. 

His apartment is not empty. For the most brief of moments, he freezes by the door, afraid of an intruder, but then he hears Charlotte’s voice and relaxes. 

“Hi, Gereon!”

She emerges from the bedroom smiling, but her face quickly falls and she hurries to his side. 

“What happened?”

Gereon shrugs. “There was a fight. I lost.”

“With what? A window?”

“More or less.”

“Come here.”

He follows her into the bedroom and sits on the bed when she tells him to. She produces a pair of tweezers from somewhere - he’s pretty sure they aren’t his - and then sits beside him, gently touching his chin so that he turns to face her. 

She pulls the glass shards away one by one, placing them into a bowl. They’re tiny, but each one stings terribly when she pulls it free from his skin. 

When the job is finally finished, Charlotte wipes the blood off of his face and then tugs a comb through his hair, dislodging still more pieces of glass. Some of them fall onto the bed, and afterwards they both spend quite a long time making sure they gather up all the loose bits. 

This done, Gereon strips off his torn and dirty suit and discards it into the corner, to be dealt with in the morning. He scarcely even looks down at himself, already painfully aware of the bruises that must be forming. 

Charlotte does look, though. He feels her gaze on him, almost overwhelming in its intensity. 

“Does it hurt very much?” she asks, as they both slip beneath the covers. 

“It’s not so bad,” he replies. Yes, the cuts still sting and his whole body is sore and his head is throbbing insistently, but it could have been worse. He could have bled a lot more. 

“I’m glad you’re alright,” Charlotte whispers against his shoulder. She’s curled herself around him quite protectively, her hands cool against the ache in his chest. “Even if it wasn’t so bad.”

“Thank you,” Gereon whispers in return. “For being here.”

He can feel her smile as she presses a kiss to the back of his neck. 

“You’re welcome.” 

thanks for reading!! hope you have a good evening or whenever <3

[peculiary]

Infinity Countdown: Black Widow June 20, 2018

[ohnoidontexist]

[postcard-from-the-past]

House of the "Last Cartridge" in Bazeilles, last stronghold of the French soldiers who fought against the Bavarian troops "until their last cartridge" in this inn during the 1870 Battle of Sedan, Champagne region of eastern France

French vintage postcard, mailed in 1909 to Paris

[dylanisdazed]

List one—56 & 66, please

56: How many people have you fist fought?

So I took an edible tonight and i'm 2 whiskeys deep and I totally thought it said, "How many people have you fisted?" and then I re-read it and I thought it said, "How many people have you thought about fisting?" and then I finally saw the real question.

Um, I know I have a persona but I don't really believe in or enjoy violence (LOL) at all and I'm like the chillest dood so I've never fought or hit anyone. 😎

66: Do you have a friend of the opposite sex who you can act your complete self around?

I doooo! Dang, no one has ever asked me about my female friends lol. I'd say my best female friends are Megan, Asha, Veronica & Ashley

[sensitivesublime]

[whumpy-gems]

I swear Kamen rider saber is the whumpiest Kamen rider I’ve watched yet.

But I’m not complaining! Cause this is beautiful 😍

[weeblmaodotcom]

If Accel Fought Garou , Meme by Weeblmao.com

[whumpslist]

Magnum P.I. episode 5.03 “Number One With A Bullet”

Characters: Gordon Katsumoto, portrayed by Tim Kang

Type of whumps: fought against an armed man, cut and stabbed, grimacing and collapsed to the ground, in hospital with stitches on his forearm, grimacing and sighing, arm into a sling, manifestly avoided from his former collegues, scratching his head in frustration, threatened by mob gangster, sighing, pointing out of his bloody shirt (plus bonus: Rick’s brief whump)

Enjoy the slow motion...

(thank you @vikujir for your input ;)

[lordgodjehovahsway]

Judges 12: The Ephraimites Accuses Jephthah Of Betraying Them

1 The Ephraimite forces were called out, and they crossed over to Zaphon. They said to Jephthah, “Why did you go to fight the Ammonites without calling us to go with you? We’re going to burn down your house over your head.”

2 Jephthah answered, “I and my people were engaged in a great struggle with the Ammonites, and although I called, you didn’t save me out of their hands. 

3 When I saw that you wouldn’t help, I took my life in my hands and crossed over to fight the Ammonites, and the Lord gave me the victory over them. Now why have you come up today to fight me?”

4 Jephthah then called together the men of Gilead and fought against Ephraim. The Gileadites struck them down because the Ephraimites had said, “You Gileadites are renegades from Ephraim and Manasseh.” 

5 The Gileadites captured the fords of the Jordan leading to Ephraim, and whenever a survivor of Ephraim said, “Let me cross over,” the men of Gilead asked him, “Are you an Ephraimite?” If he replied, “No,” 

6 they said, “All right, say ‘Shibboleth.’” If he said, “Sibboleth,” because he could not pronounce the word correctly, they seized him and killed him at the fords of the Jordan. Forty-two thousand Ephraimites were killed at that time.

7 Jephthah led Israel six years. Then Jephthah the Gileadite died and was buried in a town in Gilead.

Ibzan, Elon and Abdon

8 After him, Ibzan of Bethlehem led Israel. 

9 He had thirty sons and thirty daughters. He gave his daughters away in marriage to those outside his clan, and for his sons he brought in thirty young women as wives from outside his clan. Ibzan led Israel seven years. 

10 Then Ibzan died and was buried in Bethlehem.

11 After him, Elon the Zebulunite led Israel ten years. 

12 Then Elon died and was buried in Aijalon in the land of Zebulun.

13 After him, Abdon son of Hillel, from Pirathon, led Israel. 

14 He had forty sons and thirty grandsons, who rode on seventy donkeys. He led Israel eight years. 

15 Then Abdon son of Hillel died and was buried at Pirathon in Ephraim, in the hill country of the Amalekites.

[set-phasers-to-whump]

bleeding

prompt: bleeding

whumpee: sakari nurmi

fandom: karppi

hi here's a fic for a different fandom for once! hope you enjoy it :)

He’s walking to Karppi’s apartment because his engine is acting up and he hadn’t wanted to ask anyone for a ride. It’s a nice evening, chilly and clear. The sky is dark and the streets are nearly empty. The walk is not short but he doesn’t mind. He thinks. About the case, about Karppi. About his plans for tomorrow. About nothing in particular. 

It’s really pretty enjoyable, actually.

And then comes the man with the knife. 

He has steady hands. The blade is shiny beneath the flickering streetlights. His voice is cold and demanding. Give me your wallet. 

The knife is pointed at his throat, an inch or two of space between his skin and the blade. 

He reaches for his wallet, then steps backward and grabs the man’s wrist in one fluid motion. 

The guy is quick. He jerks his hand, wrenching free of Sakari’s grip and slicing his palm in the process. 

“You should have just given it to me.”

“You’re fucking crazy.”

“Maybe.”

He ducks the first punch, just barely. He feels the fist brush across the top of his head. 

He doesn’t want to fight. But he doesn’t want to give up, either. 

He fights. 

He does know what he’s doing. Even without a weapon, he’s capable of holding his own. He dodges and blocks and strikes back fast and hard. 

He gets caught on the cheek. He feels himself start to bleed. He needs to get the knife away from this guy. 

He can’t. He makes a grab for it and instead feels its point dig into his left forearm. The pain is hot and damp. The knife twists slightly as it’s pulled out of his skin. 

He shouts, putting as much power as he can behind what is fundamentally a noise of pain, and launches himself back at his attacker. 

He punches the man in the jaw and hears it as his head snaps backward. He kicks at his ankles and for a second the man stumbles.

Sakari moves in, but just like that the guy regains his balance and then there’s an elbow slamming into his face and there’s a sort of crunching noise and pain explodes in the center of everything. His nose is bleeding. He can taste the blood already, hot and sharp at the back of his throat. His eyes are watering and he blinks as hard as he can but still he can’t quite see. 

There’s a hand in his pocket. He steps backwards, punches half-blindly. 

It connects. He feels rather than sees the impact. The hand retracts. 

The fight continues. 

He stops caring about the knife. He doesn’t think the guy wants to kill him, anyway. He gets closer, hits harder. He gets cut more, too, but they’re small and shallow injuries. 

He lands a punch to the side of the man’s head. The impact makes his knuckles hurt and it feels solid. 

The man stumbles. He takes a step forward, knife outstretched, glistening with blood - with Sakari’s blood. 

He collapses to his knees. Sakari stands over him, panting, bleeding. He should do something. His mind is frozen, blank. He does nothing. 

The guy stumbles to his feet. They lock eyes. Sakari braces himself for another round of fighting. 

The other man turns around and walks away. 

Sakari watches him leave. 

--

He’s exhausted. 

He’s standing there beneath the still-flickering streetlight and it hasn’t gotten much darker because it hasn’t gotten much later even though it feels like it has been hours since he left home. 

There’s blood on the ground. And on his hands. There are rips in his sweater and the material around them is sticky with blood. The stab wound in his arm throbs. So does his nose. He can feel the blood dripping down his face. 

He almost sits down right there, just to rest for a moment. But he knows he needs to move. He won’t fall asleep on the sidewalk, but he very well might if he sits. 

Karppi’s building is not far. He can see it in the distance. Many of the windows have lights shining from inside. He can’t see her window. Surely the light is on behind it, too. 

He should call her. Tell her he’s sorry he’s going to be late. 

He grabs his phone from his pocket. The screen is cracked. He has five minutes before he’s supposed to be at her place. And usually he arrives five minutes early. 

He presses call. 

“Hello?”

“Karppi, hey. I’m running late. I’ll be there in fifteen minutes.” He thinks about offering to grab food as an apology, but he doesn’t want to make his journey any longer. 

“What’s wrong with you? You sound sick.”

“I’m fine.” He can hear it in his voice, now. Whether the change is from his injured nose or from the blood in his mouth, he can’t tell. Probably it’s from both. 

“Fine. See you soon.” 

“Bye.”

He knows that she knows he’s lying. He doesn’t know how he’s going to explain this to her. Maybe he should stop somewhere and clean himself up in the bathroom. 

But he doesn’t want to. People will stare at him and maybe offer their help, which is the last thing he wants. He’ll just go to Karppi’s and apologize for being late and then wash himself up and then they can get to work on the case. 

It’ll be fine. 

--

“So, I see you’re not fine,” is the first thing Karppi says to him when she opens the door. “What happened to you?”

He steps inside and doesn’t quite look at her. 

“I got in a fight.”

“A knife fight?”

“He had a knife.”

“And why are you not at the hospital?”

“It’s just some scratches.”

“Okay.” She sounds tired. But she doesn’t push. 

“Come on, then,” Karppi says, gesturing towards the bathroom. “Try not to get blood on the floor.”

He follows her, grateful that his nose is no longer bleeding. 

“Sit down.” 

He sinks onto the closed lid of the toilet and sniffs. It sends a wave of pain through his whole face. 

Sakari watches as Karppi opens a cabinet and rifles through it, pulling out various bandages and other assorted first-aid items. 

“Take off your shirt,” she says, when the counter is fairly covered in items he mostly thinks are unnecessary. 

He pulls his sweater off over his head. The blood on his skin makes it stick. It hurts to peel it away. 

“And your other shirt.”

He removes the tee shirt he’d had on beneath the sweater. It, too, sticks in places. 

He’s left with only his skin, now. He looks down at himself for the first time. 

There are several small cuts scattered across his torso and arms. There is the single deep wound on his left forearm and two cuts across his right hand. Everything is bloody. It all hurts. Looking at it makes it hurt worse. 

He looks at her, instead. 

She dampens a washcloth with disinfectant and he holds out his right hand to take it. 

She doesn’t give him the cloth. Instead, she lightly grabs hold of his hand and cleans the blood away from the cuts. It stings but it’s not so bad. He blinks to stop the reflexive tears in his eyes. 

She keeps going, cleaning the blood away from every cut and scrape that mars his skin. She’s surprisingly gentle and moves with surety. He supposes she’s had plenty of practice with Emil and Henna. In contrast, he has not been cared for like this in nearly twenty years. It’s strange. He doesn’t know whether to like it or not. 

Karppi does his face last. There is only one cut, but he knows the bottom half of his face must be covered in blood from his nose. 

She holds his face still and wipes the blood away. Her hand brushes against his nose and he draws in a sharp breath, pulling away. 

“I don’t think it’s broken,” she says. “It’s not crooked.”

He nods slowly. It hurts, anyway, even if it isn’t broken. 

She keeps going with the washcloth, her touch now very light but still painful. He’s grateful when she finally pulls away, the washcloth stained red in her hands. 

She grabs a beat-up box of bandages and a tube of antibiotic cream from the counter. “I’ll only bandage the big ones,” she says. 

The antibiotic, though, goes on every cut, no matter how small. He flinches away from it at first, her fingers on his bare skin. The cream is cold and it stings. Everything stings.

Karppi shakes a few bandages into her palm and spends a second staring at him before she begins applying them. They are all different sizes and clearly originally came from different boxes. Some of them are waterproof. Several have cartoon characters on them. 

She saves the deep wound for last. “You might want to get stitches for this,” she says. “Your choice.”

He nods. Maybe he’ll go to the doctor tomorrow. For now, he’s content with the gauze she tapes over it.

“Do you want medicine?”

He shakes his head. He’ll be fine. 

“Water, then?”

His mouth still tastes like blood. “Please.”

“Come on.”

She gives him a hand and he stands up. The exhaustion returns in full force. He follows her slowly out of the bathroom and to the couch, where she tells him to sit and wait. He does so gladly. The couch is soft and comfortable beneath him. 

Karppi returns after a second with a glass of water. She hands it to him and sits down beside him, putting her feet up on the table. 

The glass is heavy in his hands and it hurts to hold in either one. He drinks the water quickly, swirling it around in his mouth until the taste of blood is gone. 

“Do you want to watch a movie?”

He turns his head slowly to look at her. “The case,” he says. 

“Can you focus?”

“No,” he admits. 

“Movie then. Emil is at a sleepover and Henna’s at the cinema. We can watch anything.”

“You pick.”

Karppi sighs but reaches for the remote. Sakari blinks heavily and stares at the screen while she looks for a movie. 

He falls asleep, his head pillowed on her shoulder, before the opening credits play. 

thanks for reading! i have never called him sakari throughout a whole fic but i feel like since it's from his pov it makes more sense....like maybe /i/ am not on a first name basis with him but /he/ is with himself yknow? anyway hope you enjoyed, love ya!

[kvtnisseverdeen]

Where is the International protection the Palestinian people is entitled to when the occupying power violates international law and harms those it is obliged to protect. Aren't Palestinians lives worth saving?

-Riyad Mansour (Palestinian representative to the UN)

[ohnoidontexist]