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set-phasers-to-whump · 3 years

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forgotten

prompt: forgotten (alt no.5)

whumpee: kurt wallander

fandom: young wallander

hey hi hello this is not so good and i apologize but i had to finish and submit a paper today which was a Lot of writing so this fic really did not want to get written lmao. anyways it is set in my usual post-s1 world with rask as the boss and kurt back as a detective. maybe you’ll like it? idk. (also the setup is there’s been some big fight which Kurt has gotten caught up in)

“You’re hurt.”

It’s a statement, not a question, and he’s not really sure what Rask means. He isn’t hurt, and he’s pretty sure he’d know if he was.

Except she reaches out a hand and touches his side and suddenly it does hurt, and he can’t quite stop himself from wincing, and Rask’s fingers come away bloody, and he finally looks down, and -

Shit. He’s hurt.

The black fabric of his t-shirt hides the blood well, but there’s a tear in it, through which he can see his skin, stained crimson. There’s quite a lot of blood. He feels a bit dizzy, but resolutely does not make any move to sit down.

“What happened?”

“I…have no idea.”

Rask gives him an unimpressed eyebrow raise, which is probably fair considering the fact that he’s most likely said this same thing before, lying. He isn’t lying now, though. He’d been in the thick of the fight, surrounded by dozens of other people, and it’s all kind of a blur. He recalls faces swarming in his field of view, the shouting, being pushed and slammed into and falling to the ground multiple times. Nowhere in there does he recall getting seriously injured.

“Honestly. I didn’t even know I’d been hurt until just now.”

Rask shakes her head, a little disbelievingly, but lets it go. She lifts up his shirt, and he sucks in a breath as the fabric peels away from his side.

“This…looks like a knife wound. It’s fairly shallow, but someone would have had to get at you pretty good. Does that help jog your memory?”

It should, probably, he thinks. He still doesn’t remember, though. He shakes his head, which makes him dizzy again.

“You’re going to the hospital.”

“You said it was a shallow wound!” Kurt protests, but he can hear the exhaustion and resignation in his own voice already, and knows this is a battle he’s going to lose. Still, he feels that he has to fight it. “I’ll be alright, just let me -“

“No,” Rask interrupts. “You’re going, and that’s final.”

He’d expected that, and simply says, “alright.”

Rask forces him to take a seat (he scowls at her, but is secretly incredibly relieved to get off of his feet), and she calls for an ambulance to pick him up. Kurt balks at this - he’s not that hurt, he’s still conscious and lucid and he’s already embarrassed, at being hurt, at not even remembering how it happened, but Rask is firm.

“I’d drive you myself, believe me. I’d like nothing more than to keep an eye on you and make sure you actually get the damn medical attention you need. Don’t know that I trust you to not run away the second you see an opportunity. But, as you may have noticed, we’re a bit swamped with the fight and I’ve already lost one of my detectives to a stab wound he doesn’t even remember getting. I can’t afford to take you myself, or have anyone else take you either. You’re just going to have to suck it up and ride in the damn ambulance.”

She’s got a point, Kurt has to admit. Still. He’s not happy about it. At least Rask is decent enough to let him walk out to meet the ambulance when it arrives (which hurts quite a lot and nearly makes him pass out, but is well worth it because there is no way in hell he’s leaving on anything other than his own two feet).

The paramedics are a little overbearing on the way to the hospital, and Kurt knows it’s their job, but they’re also incredibly annoying - he keeps insisting he has no idea what happened and they keep asking him if he remembers this detail or that and he doesn’t remember any of it at all and he kind of wants to yell at them to please just stop but he’s too tired.

Eventually they stop asking him questions, and soon afterwards they arrive at the hospital. The paramedics are firm about not letting Kurt walk in on his own, and again he wants to fight with them but is simply too tired. He lets them help him but does manage to find the energy to insist that they walk. It’s arms around shoulders and around waists and he can tell that the paramedics are a little bit exasperated with him but he needs this, even though with every step the world is getting blurrier and his head is spinning more and more and -

He passes out as soon as they step through the hospital doors.

thanks for reading! dw kurt is fine i just didn’t know how to end it and am not feeling hospital vibes at the moment. anyways i know this was short and not so good but maybe you enjoyed it, regardless thanks for giving it a read <3

#whumptober2021 #altno.5 #forgotten #fic #young wallander #fandom #kurt wallander #stabbed #this was a fun concept to play with though. like hidden injury and doesn't realize they've been injured rolled into one #might play with it some more at some point...we will see.

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theundercovermarvelfan · 2 years

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(Image Credit: Whumptober Challenge Tumblr)

@whumptober2021

Author’s Note: Just a heads up, I took some artistic liberties with Bucky’s childhood. According to MCU canon he is the oldest of four, but there are no other details given. So I had some fun playing in the sandbox ;)

Day Twenty-Five

Alternative Prompt #5

Forgotten

It was a sunny spring day in Louisiana, where Sam and Bucky could be found in the belly of the Wilson family boat. Sarah had been having some issues with it over the last week, so the two came down to visit and see if they could fix it.

“You figure it out yet?” Sam asked Bucky, who was crouched under the mechanism for the water pump.

“Not yet,” Bucky grumbled.

“You better hurry it up,” Sam said playfully. “Sarah wants this done today so she can get back to work tomorrow.”

“Has she always been this much of a tyrant?” Bucky asked with a laugh.

“Ever since we were kids,” Sam said with a chuckle. “Used to drive me crazy. Little girl just loved telling me what to do. Were any of your siblings like that?” Bucky didn’t answer as he reached under the mechanism, trying to reach something to adjust it. “You had siblings growing up, right?” Sam pressed.

“Uh…” Bucky hedged unsteadily as he worked. “Yeah.”

“How many was it?” Sam asked, trying to remember back to the Smithsonian display he had once read about Bucky’s history. “Two, three?”

There was an awkward pause, Bucky’s eyes determinedly down at the task at hand. “Yeah.”

Sam looked over at him, confused. “Yeah, what?”

“Yeah… two or three,” Bucky said flatly. “Can you hand me that screwdriver?”

Sam openly stared at Bucky, who was holding his hand out to his, but still refused to look at him. “You don’t remember?”

There was another long pause. Bucky was frozen in place, his hand still out for the screwdriver, but his eyes were distant. Then he sighed, dropping his hand as he stood up, worrying at his right palm with his left thumb.

“I’m a hundred and six years old, Sam,” he said, his voice sounding strangely detached. “Can’t remember everything. I’m going for a walk.” He pushed past Sam and headed back up the stairs to the deck.

For a moment, Sam didn’t move. Then he remembered himself as he hurried up the stairs after Bucky.

“Hey, hey wait,” Sam demanded as he caught up to him and grabbed his arm, bringing him to a stop. “I’m sorry. I thought… I thought your memories came back when you left Hydra?”

Bucky sighed heavily. “It’s… it’s very hit or miss,” he admitted, still not meeting Sam’s gaze. “A lot of the war came back. But not a lot from before that did. Just… random bits and pieces.”

“I didn’t know that,” Sam said, now feeling guilty for bringing it up.

Bucky shrugged one shoulder. “It doesn’t matter.”

“Yeah, it does,” Sam insisted.

Bucky finally looked up at him and met his gaze for the first time. Sam’s heart twisted at what he saw in that gaze. Bucky still looked so broken, but more than that… he looked lost. He pulled out of Sam’s grip and went over to sit on the edge of the boat. Sam carefully followed him, standing nearby.

“Once I escaped Hydra and started to get my free will back… some memories filtered back,” Bucky said. “I remembered Steve…but I remembered him as this short, skinny kid. And I had no idea why I remembered him like that. I had to go to the Smithsonian and read his story to begin to understand it. And then… and then I had to read my story.” Bucky threaded his figures together and leaned forward. “I memorized it. I would repeat it over and over in my head. For the longest time the words had only a vague familiarity. I think it was about a year before I could start to add any extra details to the words that I had read in that museum.”

“I had no idea you went through all that,” Sam admitted. “I’m sorry. That sounds like a nightmare.”

“I remember every single detail from every kill I did for Hydra,” Bucky went on, sounding empty. “I remember how every one of them died, I remember the looks on their faces, I remember every word they said as they begged me to spare them. But…” Bucky hands tightened on each other and his voice shook as he continued, “I don’t remember how many siblings I had. I don’t remember what color my mother’s hair was or what my father’s name was. I don’t remember if I had any hobbies or if I played any sports.”

“Hey,” Sam said gently as he sat next to Bucky and placed a hand on his shoulder. Bucky was trembling under his touch. “Just take it easy for a minute, okay? How about you tell me something you do remember?”

Bucky took in a shuddering breath. “I… I remember I had a sister,” he said, his voice small. “Her name was… Rebecca.” He paused, licking his lips. “And… I also had a brother.” He squinted. “I… I think his name started with a C…”

“Calvin, Christopher, Clint,” Sam guessed, hoping one might help jog Bucky’s memory. “Carl, Charlie, Clyde --”

Bucky’s eyes darted over to him as he perked up slightly. “Charlie.”

Sam smiled. “Yeah? Alright, so you had at least two siblings, Rebecca and Charlie.”

Bucky nodded, a ghost of a smile playing at his lips. “Steve used to help a lot. He would prompt a memory, bringing up something we did as kids and… I could usually get there eventually, if I thought about it enough.”

“Oh,” was all that Sam could say.

Sam knew that Bucky missed Steve something fierce. He knew that Steve had talked over his plans with Bucky and Bucky had given him his blessing… but it was still a painful loss for him. Steve was the only person that Bucky didn’t feel out of place with. And this new information just added another layer to that pain.

Sam kept one hand on Bucky’s shoulder as he took out his smartphone. Bucky didn’t seem to notice, apparently lost in thought. It took Sam several minutes of searching a secured archive, but he finally found what he was looking for.

“You had three siblings,” Sam said. Bucky whipped his head around to stare at Sam in surprise. “There was Rebecca and Charlie… and also Andrew.”

Bucky stared at him for a long time. And then a careful smile spread across his features. “We… called him Andy.”

Sam smiled as he consulted his phone again. “You were born in 1917… Charlie was born in 1921, Rebecca was born in 1923 and Andy was born in… wow. 1932?”

Bucky laughed lightly. “We also called him the whoopsie baby.” His gaze got distant again, but this time it was more wistful than lost. “Charlie and I used to give Becca so much crap because she got her own room, even after the baby came. Used to call her Princess Becca. She hated it. One time she about knocked my front teeth out over it. She had a hell of a right hook.”

“Sounds a lot like my sister,” Sam said with a grin. He put his phone down so he could focus on Bucky. “You don’t have to pretend the past doesn’t exist anymore just ‘cause Steve left. I know I’m not as good as Steve, but you can always talk to me about things that you remember and even things you can’t remember. I can always try and track down some answers for you.” Bucky just nodded as he swallowed thickly. “Who you were as a kid is important,” Sam went on firmly. “It matters who you were before Hydra got a hold of you. Who you were is what makes you human.”

Bucky took in a sharp breath at that. He blinked rapidly and Sam could see that his eyes were suddenly bright with tears that he tried to hold back. He scrubbed his right hand over his face, trying to subtly rub at his eyes, but several tears still escaped.

Sam moved his hand from Bucky’s shoulder, winding it around his back. Bucky usually wasn’t one for any kind of physical contact, but to Sam’s surprise he leaned in to Sam’s one armed embrace. They stayed like that for a long time.

“It’s okay, Buck,” Sam assured him gently. “I got you.”

#whumptober2021 #no.25 #altno.5 #forgotten #avengers #tfatws #fic #sam wilson #falcon #bucky barnes #winter soldier #whump #fanfiction #the falcon and the winter soldier

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fletcherwilbury · 3 years

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Whumptober Day 1: Alt prompt 5: Forgotten

#whumptober #whumptober 2021 #whumptober day 1 #whumptober alt prompt 5 #forgotten #the beatles #the beatles fandom #the beatles fanfiction #george harrison #john lennon #ringo starr #paul mccartney #brian epstein #neil aspinall #mal evans #derek taylor #altno.5

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emmithar-blog · 2 years

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Onto day 26!

Another Alt Prompt for you. Today, we're looking at

Forgotten

Summary:

Arthur wasn't sure what hurt more; the understanding they hadn't ever cared, or the fact he'd allowed himself to believe that they might.

It was a type of hurt that burned, that left him unable to breathe, sucking in thin breaths that rattled his entire chest. A longing type of ache that only festered as he clutched to the thin possibility he was mistaken.

A pretty dream that they might still come.

That they might still care.

Tags: Emotional hurt, hurt/comfort

#whumptober2021 #altno.5 #Forgotten #red dead redemption 2 #fanfic #arthur morgan #dutch van der linde #hosea Matthews #emotional hurt #emotional hurt/comfort #young arthur morgan

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bedazzledxbard · 3 years

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Remember

Fandom: Critical Role (Vox Machina)

Whumptober 2021 Alternative Prompt: no.5 (forgotten)

Rated G

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lurkinglurkerwholurks · 5 years

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There was trouble in his veins. People in the old neighborhood used to say that about Willis. Trouble in his veins, as if that could explain why the man would ricochet from one fight to the next. They never said it while he was around, as far as Jason could tell, but they’d murmur it to each other or to his ma as they eyed the bin full of empty bottles or the bruises on Jason’s cheek.

As a kid, Jason had wondered what trouble felt like, or if you could feel it at all. Did Willis know his body was running on trouble? Did it feel like pop rocks sparking, or like ants crawling in a line? Maybe it felt like lightning, and that’s why Willis was always exploding.

Jason knew better now. Trouble didn’t feel like anything at all. By the time you were full of it, trouble was all you were, and you didn’t feel it any more than you did the blood flowing down someone else’s face.

Anger, though, anger was a drug. Anger was power. Anger when combined with a hunger for vengeance was a chemical reaction, exothermic, combustive. He’d come back to Gotham high on both and on the hunt for the biggest fix.

“Getting slow, old man!” he taunted and reveled when the Bat flinched.

Words, words had power like anger, like a knife in the spine. His words were bullets, and he spit them out with the honed precision of a sniper. They struck home every time, doing more damage than the actual weapons he had buried in his opponent’s flesh. He hadn’t gone seeking the Bat tonight, but an encounter was inevitable, and he welcomed it. Each clash was a new high, each drop of blood spilled like gold coins lining his pocket.

Jason let out a wild laugh as his fist flashed through the night. His knuckles connected, the blow reverberating up his arm, and the Bat staggered back. The idiot kept trying to talk, like Jason wanted to listen. Like there was anything he could say that would change what had happened.

And doggone it all if Jason weren’t winning. It was hitting the lottery in lightning strikes.

“What’s the matter, old man? Too good to kill? Because that’s the only way to stop me.” He was riding high, so high, his helmet dripping with rain like blood. The lightning flashed and he could feel it in his veins, a thrum of power, because he was invincible.

“Even then, it might not be enough,” Jason growled and took another swing. “Didn’t stick the first time, so you better make it good.”

The Bat had a hand raised, as if Jason could be stopped, as if he could be placated. Ol’ B, so self-righteous down to his marrow, so passive, so convinced there was a way this could end without a new grave. A hand couldn’t stop a gun. He, of all people, had to know that.

A sound swelled in the base of Jason’s throat, ready to release into a howl or a laugh, he didn’t know which. He would find out with the crack of the gun.

Jason didn’t see the shadow split from the others until it was on him. He turned just in time to get a forearm between him and it, which did little to save him. It was like being attacked by a cat in hurricane form. The blows came from every angle, rapid jabs that sent him reeling.

It was less of a fight and more of a one-sided beating. His attacker swirled like a ghost, enveloping him, battering him, impossible to catch. The gun went off once, firing with a roar of thunder, before being swept from his hand. The shadow howled louder than the storm, potent and furious.

Jason went down, helmet cracking against the asphalt. The Bat was shouting, and Jason thought it was at him until the blows stopped. The shadow crouched over him, a knee grinding into his vertebrae. He groaned through gritted teeth. A hand splayed against his visor and pulled his head back until his neck strained and spots danced in front of his eyes.

Out of the corner of his vision, he saw a symbol, no more than a silhouette rimmed with a thin line of gold.

Babs? Not Babs. Barbara Gordon was gone, locked in her tower, and her Batgirl was the black of night and the purple of royalty and the yellow of a full harvest moon, not–

The shadow hissed, the noise rattling from behind the mouthless mask. The hairs on Jason’ arms rose, trilling with the brief but unshakeable certainty that Batgirl had been transformed into a Ringwraith.

“Batgirl.” That was the Bat again, leaning crumpled and bleeding against the far brick wall, voice nearly firm like he didn’t have a dagger sticking in him up to the hilt.

The shadow, the force, the Batgirl hissed again, so low it was nearly a growl. Its—her?—fingers tightened across his visor, and Jason could swear he could feel the pressure in his skull. She bent low, until the blank void of her mask hovered next to the audio sensor on the right side of his helmet.

“Mine.” The sounds were unlinked, clicking together like beads on a loose chain, all the more menacing for their clumsiness. Mmm ahy NNNNN.

Hidden behind his mask, Jason flinched as she leaned in even closer, the animal part of his brain braced for the mask to suck inward to reveal nothing but a bottomless void or some other horror.

“Mine,” she said again, then, muscles tightening as if preparing for a mighty feat, a horror of sounds that slowly solidified into “Family.”

How? How had the Bat managed to leash a demon? Jason choked back a hysterical laugh only to grunt as she drove his head into the ground and hissed the two words again.

Crude but effective. He got the message. This creature, this black-garbed nightmare, had claimed herself a Bat. She was Cerberus guarding Hades and would rip him apart if he hurt what was under her protection.

The Bat didn’t kill. That was the whole problem. He didn’t kill and everyone knew it, but for the first time Jason found himself wondering about those in the Bat’s orbit. The pressure on his back increased and he wheezed futilely.

And then it was gone. The new Batgirl was on the other side of the alley now, bending her shoulder to lift the Bat to his feet. The Bat was a behemoth next to her, looming and contorting to fit across the span of her arms. She looked tiny, but the presence of her filled the entire space.

They were both preoccupied, limbs tangled with support or bleeding from injuries. Jason could have rushed them then, pushed himself off the ground and charged in one fatalistic explosion. Instead he lay where he had been left, bitter, beaten, broken, trouble leaking out to stain the earth.

———

Trouble had a feeling after all. It felt like vomit cresting at the back of the throat. It felt like the crunch of broken bones in a busted hand. It felt like a tilt-a-whirl he couldn’t get off. Every time he leapt for the edge, desperate to hurl himself to safety, to stillness, inertia dragged him back in.

Trouble felt like sitting in the dark on cracked kitchen tile, knowing he had screwed up for the last time.

He had tried so hard, and that was what hurt. Failing when you didn’t really try was inevitable, fated, accepted. But he had tried and he’d still blown it. What was the point? What did it matter if he tried and still screwed up? If he was nothing but trouble, what was the point of being anything else?

But he wanted. He wanted to have so much more, to be so much more. And he’d failed.

Jason screamed and slammed his fist back against the cupboards he was sitting against. Then again. And again. The broken bones in his hand shrieked in protest. It was what he deserved.

Can’t just keep your big mouth shut, always running your fat mouth, stupid, worthless, always in the way, you stupid brat, shut up, keep quiet, shut that big mouth before I shut it for you—

It had been a long time since Willis had come howling out of the dark, but he was harder to escape when he was all Jason saw in the mirror.

The little room glittered in the dark. Broken glass on the floor caught moonlight and set the night shimmering. A constant stream of tears blurred Jason’s vision, capturing that same light and turning his sight silver amid the black.

He didn’t notice her come in until she was standing before him, soft-booted feet deliberately scuffing against the spray of glass.

Cass. She hadn’t been Batgirl in ages, hadn’t been that snarling, uncanny creature for even longer. She was Cass, Cassandra, the princess. His sister, maybe. But Jason had never forgotten her promise, and she’d never become less of a threat. She was the one who scared him, out of all of them. Shiva born, League raised, Bat trained, and loyal down to the cell.

She had warned him. Jason knew now that she wouldn’t kill him. More than any of the others, she aligned herself closest with Bruce’s morality. But Jason also knew death wasn’t necessarily the only or even the worst consequence one could offer.

Mine, she had said. Family. Hurt what was hers and she would make him suffer.

He didn’t care. He’d earned it. He didn’t know when to shut up, always took the fight a step too far. If he’d just kept his mouth shut, just kept his head, if he hadn’t kept picking and goading and challenging, maybe the night wouldn’t have gone so far south. That he had broken his fist on a wall in his own apartment, instead of in the Cave on Bruce’s face, meant nothing. There were consequences worse than death and there were words worse than a blow.

Cass hadn’t moved. She was backlit by the window, her face cast into shadow, but he could feel her gaze running over him.

“I know, okay?” Jason moaned, voice bitter and deep like coffee grounds in a garbage disposal. “I screwed up.”

He passed his hand—the unbroken one—over his eyes. He thought about apologizing, but rejected that idea almost immediately. Cass wasn’t the one he needed to apologize to. His apologies were too well-worn to be worth much anyways.

She still hadn’t moved.

“Well?” Jason demanded. “What are you waiting for?”

He flung his arms wide. “Get on with it already.”

Whatever it was, he could take it. Might even make him feel better, to see some of the guilt bleed away.

She shuffled forward, feet carefully pushing glass shards aside to make a path. When she reached Jason’s side, she crouched, and he watched her through still-watering eyes. He wouldn’t flinched. He never flinched when he knew a blow was coming.

Still, it was a near thing when Cass reached out and took his broken hand in hers. She studied it, turning it this way and that, prodding the shattered little bones with soft, deft touches. Then she lifted her hand and flicked him once, hard, on the cheek. Jason startled.

“You hurt my family,” Cass snarled.

He knew. He knew, he knew, he—

Her fingers turned against his cheek and wiped at the tears.

“Hurt my family, “ she repeated.

Jason stared.

Cass lowered herself out of the crouch and sat hip to knee with Jason. She cradled his broken hand in hers.

“Mine.” The word was no louder than the rain had been, but it was steady and sure. “You hurt my family, brother. Don’t.”

Cass tipped her head and rested her cheek against his shoulder. She stayed while he wept.

#batfic #my fic #jason todd #red hood #cassandra cain #batgirl #black bat #whumptober #whumptober2019 #altno.5 #fistfight #referenced child abuse #referenced domestic abuse #angst #hurt/comfort #jason todd needs a hug #Casandra Cain is the best #crying

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romeoandjulietyouwish · 5 years

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Whumptober Alt Prompt 5 - Fist Fight

Read on ao3 I’m sorry for the formatting, idk what’s going on. if any of you know how to fix it please hmu

Summary: Harley shows up at Peter’s school and gets in a fight.

In his defense, Peter didn’t know Harley was enrolled in Midtown. Neither Mr. Stark nor Harley himself told him about it. So you can imagine his surprise when Harley saunters into school on Monday morning, his shit-eating grin brighter than the sun.

“Hey, darlin’,” Harley says as he comes up to Peter’s locker, leaning against the ones next to it.

Peter freezes, “What the hell are you doing here?”

“I go here, goose,” Harley says, he checks his watch, “as of three hours ago.”

“Harley-”

“What do you have first block?” Harley cuts in. “I have PreCalc.” Harley chuffs, “But I’m guessing you took that class..what? Freshman year?”

“Eighth grade,” Peter corrects under his breath.

“You’re too smart for your own good, darlin’.” Harley reaches out to brush away Peter’s hair. But Peter swats his hand away with eyes full of fear. He quickly looks over his shoulder. “Darlin’?” Harley asks, voice thick with concern.

“Don’t call me that here,” Peter hisses. “Please, Harley.” He lowers his voice, “If anyone hears that...”

Harley frowns, “Peter?”

“They’ll kill me,” he whispers. “Please,” he begs. Peter’s eyes plead with Harley to understand.

Harley nods, “Okay.” His eyes soften as he looks at Peter’s worried face. But before Harley can say anything else, Peter ducks his head and swings his backpack over his shoulder, walking quickly awake from Harley. Harley sighs and leans back against the lockers. What the hell is going on?

Someone taps Harley’s shoulder. He turns around to see MJ behind him. “It’s not you,” she says without preamble. “He’s scared.”

“Of what?”

She rolls her eyes, “He really didn’t tell you?” Harley shakes his head. MJ points at someone across the hallway. A boy their age, talking and laughing loudly with a group of friends surrounding him. “His name is Flash Thompson and he’s been torturing Peter since middle school.”

MJ grabs his arm when Harley starts walking menacingly towards Flash, “MJ...”

“Don’t.” She says, glaring at him. “Go to class.”

So Harley does. But he doesn’t pay attention to any of the lessons. He can’t get the image of how Peter looked at him. Harley never wants to see Peter that afraid of someone. Ever.

When Harley sits down beside Peter at lunch, he makes sure to leave space between them. Peter seems to appreciate it by the way he gives Harley a thankful smile. MJ and Ned start talking about something that Harley can’t bother to pay attention to.

“Are you okay?” Harley asks Peter under his breath.

Peter shakes his head, “We’ll talk about this later. At home.”

“Peter-”

“Harley.” Peter says in a way that says ‘don’t test me’. So Harley leaves him alone. Is Harley worried? Yes. Absolutely. Can he do anything about it? Not while Peter is watching or MJ for that matter.

Once the last bell rings, Peter ducks his head and walks as fast as possible out of the classroom and to his locker. He hasn’t seen Harley since lunch and in the back of his mind, he’s worried. Will Harley be mad at him?

“Hey, fag!” Flash shouts from across the hallway. Peter does his best to ignore him, his heart thumping heavy in his chest. He shoves his stuff into his backpack and closes his locker. But before he can turn around, he is being slammed against the lockers, Flash holding him tightly by his arms. Flash’s face is morphed into an angry smirk, eyes narrowed at Peter. “Look at me when I’m talking to you freak!”

“I-I’m sorry,” Peter says. All he needs to do it get Flash off of him and then get the hell out of the building.

“You better be,” Flash spits.

“Get your hands off him.” Someone says from out of Peter’s view. Harley. Peter curses himself, he should have known Harley would try to protect him. That stupid idiot. “I said,” Harley’s his voice rough and dangerous, “get your hands off him.”

Before Peter can register what’s happening, Flash is being ripped away from him. Harley holds Flash tightly by the shoulder and punches him square in the face. The crowd in the hallway gasps as the sicking crunch Flash’s nose makes as it breaks. Flash growls under his breath and jumps at Harley, striking him across the cheek.

“Harley!” Peter shouts. He runs toward his boyfriend, dragging him back by his arms and shoulders as he lunges at Flash again. “Please, leave him alone. Let’s go.” To his relief Harley allows Peter to drag him out of the school and into Happy’s waiting car.

“What the hell happened to you two?” Happy asks, clearly alarmed.

“Please just drive, Happy,” Peter asks. Happy does, but not before casting a worried glance back at the two boys.

“Are you okay?” Harley asks Peter. Harley’s hands run over Peter’s arms searching for injuries. “Did he hurt you?”

Peter shakes his head, “I’m fine. You’re not.” Peter reaches up and gently touches Harley’s cheek, a bruise already blooming. Harley leans into the soft touch. “Why did you do that?”

Harley smirks, kisses the palm of Peter’s hand, and says, “He was hurting you, darlin’. I couldn’t let him do that.”

“I’m Spiderman, you idiot. I would have been okay.”

“Doesn’t make it okay to hurt you.” Harley takes Peter’s hand and kisses it again. “Besides, was defending your honor.”

Peter rolls his eyes, “My hero.” He rests his head on Harley’s shoulder.

“I hope you know we’re talking to Stark about Flash bullying you,” Harley says calmly.

Peter smirks, “Then I hope you know that we’re telling Mr. Stark that you punched someone on your first day.”

Harley groans, “You’re lucky I love you.”

#whumptober 2019 #whumptober #marvel whumptober #altno.5 #peter parker #tony stark #spiderman #iron man #irondad #spiderson #irondad fic #spiderson fic #harley/peter #parkner #parley #parkner fic #parkner whumptober

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bigfan-fanfic · 4 years

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Alt 5. Fist Fight - Talon x Cassandra Pentaghast

Trigger warning for people saying awful things about Cassandra.

“Well, she’s not exactly my type, but I suppose if she wants to go around sharing every ox’s bed, she’s welcome to.” the man chuckled, nursing a pint of ale in the Herald’s Rest. An ex-Templar, talking with others of his ilk.

“Ah, come on. You’re saying you wouldn’t bed the Seeker? A strong woman like that?”

“Seeker Cassandra? Why, she’s practically a man herself! I’d sooner bed a greased nug than her!”

Talon’s fists tightened so hard his knuckles turned white. He hated the men talking. About his lady love. As if she were some kind of piece of meat they could order from the butcher.

“Shut up!” Talon growled, turning. He slammed his fists on the men’s table, extinguishing the flames leaping down his arms. He wouldn’t waste spells on these scoundrels. Wouldn’t risk it. “Shut up.”

“Heh, it’s the dirty ox who landed in the Seeker’s sheets. Well? Is she good in the sack, or is she more like a man down there, eh?”

Talon didn’t waste another thought. He cocked his fist back and slammed it forward into the man’s face. He felt a nose fracturing beneath his fingers and grinned viciously as the man went sailing. And then, of course, his companions entered the fray.

There was a whirl of fists and kicks, even biting thrown about. Talon felt murderous, he wanted them to suffer for even thinking such things about Lady Cassandra, but there were a lot of them. He suffered a nice set of black eyes, a cut lip, a bleeding bite to his forearm, and a chipped horn before Cabot got some of the other patrons to help break up the fight.

Talon ran a hand through his blond hair before marching off in anger. What was he going to do now? How would he explain his injuries to Shokrakar when she returned? Damn it all.

“What. Happened?” Cassandra snapped, looking at him in shock. He had forgotten that she trained right outside the tavern. “Who hurt you?”

“I, uh... kind of got in a brawl.”

“A tavern brawl?” she asked, a note of disapproval creeping into her voice. “Why? That isn’t like you.”

Talon considered lying, but he knew she would hate that. Besides, she would see through it. “There were these men in there. They were... saying things about you. I know it’s not my place, and that you don’t need me to defend your honor, but I just... I couldn’t let them keep saying those things without -”

He trailed off as she stepped forward, her chest against his, a fire in her eyes. He was afraid she might try to hit him, but instead she grabbed his shirt collar and pulled him down, smashing her lips to his.

“Words are words, and I care not about the opinions of fools.” Cassandra whispered. “I care only about you. And if what they say about me bothers you, then come find me, and we can deal with it together. Yes?”

“Absolutely, my lady.” Talon murmured, pressing his forehead to hers. “Especially if it saves my poor face from a beating.”

Cassandra chuckled. “Let us see if Solas will assist you. And then I can reward you for being such a chivalrous knight.”

“Are you teasing me? It feels like you’re teasing me.”

“I never tease. Just ask Varric.” she winked, before pulling Talon along with her.

#whumptober2019 #altno.5 #my writing #my ocs #dragon age #talon #talon/cassandra #cassandra pentaghast

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geminihurt · 5 years

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Whumptober Alternative 5 - Fist Fight

#prison break #3x07 #michael scofield #wentworth miller #whumpedit #fight #collapse #punch #whump #whumptober2019 #altno.5 #fist fight

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sxpaiscia · 5 years

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Whumptober day 2: explosion

Whumptober day 3: fist fight

Rvb modern au ~ donut getting hurt during a run and Sarge beating down Felix to show him to respect a ODST veteran.

#whumptober 2019 #whumptober2019 #No. 2 #Altno.5 #Fist fight #Explosion #Blood #Rvb #Redvsblue #sarge rvb #franklin delano donut #My art #I'm already lagging behind lmao

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more-magpiie · 5 years

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fist fight

Shadow isn’t entirely sure how they got here, because he’s kinda drunk and now also possibly concussed, but when punches get thrown he’s good at acting on instinct. Sweeney’s pretty drunk too. They’d been fraying each other’s nerves all evening, and now they’re fighting - stupid and messy - out the front of a dive bar. He’d been doing pretty well up until this point, getting sharp hits into Sweeney’s ribs that made him grunt, but then a heavy fist had landed against his temple and the whole world had shifted. He lifted his arms in front of him to take the blows for a minute, trying to reorient himself. All he can hear is the ringing in his ears and panting, though whether it’s him or Sweeney, he doesn’t know.

Sweeney’s ribs flare with pain every time he breathes and he can feel blood on his face, but when Shadow turns defensive he takes his chance, pushes forward, keeps the hits coming. Shadow’s staggering backwards and behind his raised hands Sweeney can see the sweat on his forehead and a cut above one eyebrow, and his eyes are cloudy. He jumps in surprise when his back hits the wall. Sweeney freezes, keeps his hands up, swallows hard, and Shadow reluctantly moves to drop his arms.

The taller man moves fast and Shadow flinches, bracing for another strike, but instead Sweeney’s hand is on the back of his neck and their lips are pressing together. They kiss like they fight, angry and dirty, and now Shadow’s head is properly spinning. He’s dizzy and his fucking skull feels bruised, and his blood is pounding in his veins and his tongue is so desperate against the other man’s. "Fuck," Sweeney mutters after he breaks their kiss, turning his head but not stepping back. Shadow can hear his heavy breathing, see his chest rise and fall, can practically feel the heat radiating off him, and he feels like his head’s gonna explode. "Asshole," he breathes out, and Sweeney laughs shortly. He says something in Irish, then turns and walks away, lighting a cigarette as he strides out into the night.

#whumptober2019 #altno.5 #fist fight #madmoon #american gods #fanfiction

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aelaer · 5 years

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Whumptober: Alt #5 - Fist Fight

I couldn't think of anything for "Don't Move" that didn't immediately turn into a comedy, so an alternate it is.

I thought I was gonna use a different alternate for today, but I'm not content with how that piece is going and I don't have time before tonight ends (and I really have to go to bed so I'm awake in time for the panel tomorrow). So I cranked out this itty-bitty piece instead in like, 30 minutes. I don’t include research time to double-check my neuroscience in that number :P

Fandom: Still with Doctor Strange in the MCU

12: Alt #5: Fist Fight

In hindsight, trying to punch one of the thugs demanding his wristwatch with his damaged hand was one of the more stupid things Stephen had done recently.

It truly was an instinctive reaction; he was not one to tolerate bullies and he had enough height and weight to him that he could handle himself in a fight. His instinctive plan was to punch the one in front of him and immediately dart past him until he got back to the more crowded streets.

Unfortunately every single one of his nociceptor fibers within his hand reminded him as to why he was in Nepal and bereft of everything he once had sans the one watch he kept in remembrance. It immediately sent the equivalent of "bad bad bad" to his neurotransmitters, outright crippling him in the key moment he had to escape.

A good smack from the man he punched, a kick from one of the others, and he was down on the ground. Stephen couldn't breathe; they were kicking his ribs, almost kicked his face, and he curled inward, arms about his head, to try and protect both in what feeble opposition he could give.

One of them grabbed his arm, his wrist, and he hissed in pain at the strain on his fragile hand. The weight of the watch disappeared and he felt something deep inside him break as the three began to run off.

Suddenly, the sound of another fight broke out. Stephen immediately lifted himself up and looked over to see a hooded man easily beating the three thugs that had cornered him, quickly knocking out two of them and letting the third run off. The stranger bent down and took his watch from the thief's hands.

Stephen got back to his feet and held his ground as the stranger approached him. He held out the watch, face up. It was cracked, broken.

Just like him.

As his shaking hand took it back, the man lowered his hood, revealing a dark-skinned man with prominent scars upon his forehead and deep, dark eyes that spoke of a life of many lessons learned. He said, "You're looking for Kamar-Taj?"

He stared at him, his desperation stark upon his haggard features, and the tiny flicker of hope that all but died within his heart began to slowly kindle anew.

(Screencap courtesy of movie-screencaps.com)

#whumptober2019 #altno.5 #fist fight #stephen strange #karl mordo #doctor strange #doctor strange fanfic #my writing #my fanfiction

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splat-dragon · 5 years

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@whumptober2019

Whumptober 2019, Alt. Prompt #5: "Fist Fight"

(sunrise, sunset, sunrise, sunset...) Is this the little girl i carried? Is this the little boy at play? I don't remember growing older, When did they?

When did she get to be a beauty? When did he grow to be so tall? Wasn't it yesterday when they were small?

When Hosea and Dutch had taken Arthur in, he had been fifteen, but he’d looked to be no older than twelve.

They’d thought he was lying when he’d said he was ‘around fifteen, I’m not sure.’ He couldn’t remember his birthday, but it had been around six years since his pa had been hanged and he’d moved out onto the street, and they had decided that he was fifteen and his birthday was the day he joined their little family.

They’d noticed him growing healthier.

His scrawny face had filled out, no longer skin on bone, his blue eyes more clear than before. But over the years he’d always seemed to still be the little boy, still short and scrawny, even as he helped them rob banks, steal from carriages and trains.

He was nineteen before they realized just how big he’d grown.

No one was quite sure how the brawl had started.

Maybe someone caught Dutch flirting with their wife, or Hosea got caught pick-pocketing. Or maybe Arthur sent a prostitute away just a bit too rudely. But one minute it had been nice and calm, and the next the saloon had exploded into chaos. A man had been swinging at Hosea, another at Arthur, and someone had been throwing a chair at Dutch. (“A chair Hosea, can you believe it?!” “Yes, Dutch, I can.”)

Arthur had been lost in the chaos, but the saloon had cleared out quickly, Hosea slamming the butt of his revolver into his opponent’s temple, and he couldn’t see what Arthur had done but his opponent laid still on the ground and, as Dutch’s grabbed him by the collar of his shirt and slammed him into the wall, he charged across the saloon, body thrumming with adrenaline.

“Arthur!” Hosea cried in panic as the boy, no, man, grabbed him by the back of his shirt and twisted, yanking him completely off of his feet and throwing him clear across the room.

“Arthur?” the pair gasped—when had he became able to do that. But the man was trying to get to his feet, and so Arthur lunged after him, dropping to his knees to straddle him, grabbing him by the collar of his shirt and slamming his fist, over and over, into his face with an awful crunch crunch crunch, shattering his nose, the man thrashing to try and free himself.

“You alright, Dutch?” Hosea asked, approaching the man who was trying to put himself back together, both of them keeping an eye on Arthur,

“I’m alright-Jesus!” he hissed at a particularly harsh blow, Hosea flinching.

The man twisted, braced his foot against Arthur’s stomach and kicked, sent him staggering back and onto his feet with a grunt. He hurried after him, lunging forward and striking Arthur in the face with a painful right-hook, sending him stumbling.

Dutch hissed, moving to intercept, but Hosea grabbed his shoulder and said “Dutch, wait.”

Arthur caught himself, using the momentum to surge forward, hitting the man so hard his head snapped back, stepping forward again and landing another blow, grabbing him by the collar of his shirt, effortlessly lifting him up and throwing him into the wall behind the bar, the bottles of liquor shattering so loudly they cringed. The man crashed to the ground and lay still.

Arthur stepped back, panting, before turning to look at Dutch, and for the first time in years they really saw him. He was well over two feet taller than he’d been when they’d taken him in, they’d be willing to bet, and as he approached Dutch realized they were just about eye to eye, and Hosea had to tilt his head back to meet his gaze. Arthur was incredibly broad, a shire where he’d been a scrawny arabian foal before, all thick muscle, no longer knobby-kneed.

When had he grown so tall?

When had he grown so strong?

When had their boy grown into a man?

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