but the scab is gone

“Your Move” Masterlist

The nine times Simon and Baz prank each other and the one time they don’t

Chapter 1 in which Baz’s tea needs more salt.

Chapter 2 in which the game begins.

Chapter 3 in which Simon makes a somewhat dangerous assumption.

Chapter 4 in which Baz takes the Normal route.

Chapter 5 in which Simon makes a terrible mistake.

Chapter 6 in which Baz is a grump.

Chapter 7 in which Simon crosses several lines.

Chapter 8 in which Baz breaks several rules.

Chapter 9 in which Baz moves out of turn and Simon starts to trust him.

Chapter 10 in which Baz makes a risky move and Simon finally figures something out.

Epilogue in which Simon and Baz are definitely not getting up for breakfast today.

pilbobaggins  asked:

Oh! Soulmates prompt! Hannigram / tattoo or mark with what the other loves -- mostly bc I find the thought of Hannibal having a puppy soulmate mark hilarious -∠( ᐛ 」∠)_ (Or it could go the other way and Will is always ashamed / angry about the literal bloody horror show on his body until he finds Hannibal and is just like... of course he had to be a serial killer OF COURSE)

this is like… the opposite of the last prompt. light angst ahead!


When Hannibal is seven years old, a small puppy appears on his wrist. He shows it to his mother and she smiles.

“Look at that.” She traces one finger over the delicate lines. “Your soulmate was just born.”

Hannibal cups his wrist to his heart and prays that they are kind.

When Hannibal is eight years old his mother dies. His mother, and his father, and his sister. He decides then that nobody is kind, nobody at all. He takes a sharp rock and scrapes off the skin of his wrist until the puppy is gone. It scabs over, turns into a pale scar that fades over time. The mark does not come back.


When Will Graham is born, the word kind is scrawled in small, hesitant letters across his stomach. His parents take it as a sign of good fortune and show it to their family and friends.

“How lucky, to have a mark so early!”

Everyone coos and dotes over the beautiful baby and his fortunate mark. Will’s parents nod and smile.

When Will Graham is one year old, he wakes up in the middle of the night screaming.

His father rushes in to find his infant son writhing in his crib, clutching at his stomach. He lifts him out and tries to calm him, but Will won’t stop. His mother holds out her arms but Will just kicks and cries for hours, hands scrabbling at his midsection.

When, finally, Will exhausts himself, they pull his hands from where they were curled tight around his stomach.

Will’s father gasps. His mother begins to sob.

Kind has disappeared. In its place, another word, longer and far less charming.



When Hannibal is 46 years old, the puppy comes back. He ignores it.

The next day he meets Will Graham.

That night, another puppy appears. A week later, another. Then another, and another, and another. Within a month Hannibal has a litter of puppies, linked in a row that travels from the inside of his wrist and wraps all the way round to his elbow.

Hannibal examines his mark thoughtfully and smiles.


Will Graham gives up believing in soulmates fairly early on, much to the relief of his father. He’d hoped that his lack of faith might make the mark fade, but it never does. Over time, the characters became more elegant, slowly joining into a practiced cursive. The beauty of the lettering can’t stop the word from being ugly, though, and Will starts covering it with foundation just so he doesn’t have to look at it all the time. He gives up on relationships not longer after that, tired of explaining either the smears of make-up on his skin or the terrible word.

By the time Will Graham is 38 years old, he is very very tired of vengeance.

Then he meets Hannibal Lecter.

That night he goes home, and when he takes off his shirt to go to bed he catches a glimpse of his reflection and freezes in shock.

He turns slowly in the mirror and sees that his mark is gone. No, not gone. Replaced. One word, shorter and simpler and somehow even more terrifying.



“Can I ask you something, Doctor Lecter?”

“Anything, Will.”

“Do you have a soulmark?”

Doctor Lecter’s mouth purses and he tips his chin to the side. Will feels heat suffuse his cheeks.

“If I answer yes, will you ask to see it?”

Will swallows around the sudden thickness in his throat.

“I, uh, no… that would be rude.”

Hannibal crosses his legs at the knee and smooths one hand down his thigh.

“If I answer yes, will you let me show you?”

“If you want.”

“Then the answer is yes,” Hannibal says smoothly, “would you like to see?”

Will nods mutely.

Hannibal undoes the cufflink of one sleeves and gracefully rolls the sleeve up to his elbow, holding his arm up for Will to examine. Will’s heart begins to skitter in his chest.

“That’s… you’re… I…”

Hannibal leans forward in his chair.

“Come closer, Will.”

Will feels uncomfortably like a fly caught in the web of a terribly charming spider. His fingers tremble as he reaches forward to touch one of the small dogs that cover Hannibal’s arm.

Then the word vengeance flashes in his mind in blood-red graffiti and he recoils.

“I have to go,” Will says, and stumbles out the room.


They don’t talk about it again.

The day that Hannibal cuts into Will’s soulmark, he feels the pain twice over. He clutches onto Hannibal’s arm, where he knows the mark is, and tries to breathe through the overwhelming hurt. Hannibal holds him tenderly, and Will decides in that moment that vengeance feels an awful lot like love.

When he wakes up in the hospital, they’ve stitched him up and his mark is gone, nothing but clean unblemished skin left behind.

When the plane takes off for Florence, Hannibal feels a stinging burn at his elbow. It starts to travel downward to his wrist and he clenches his teeth against the sensation. Bedelia looks up at him serenely from the seat beside him and he turns away.

Ten hours later, he unpeels his shirt from his skin, expecting to see emptiness, a blank slate.

Instead, there is one word, writ in large and bloody script and wrapped around the same stretch of skin where the puppies used to be.



Three and a half years later, as Hannibal Lecter and Will Graham fall from a cliff, their soulmarks change for one last time.

Neither of them know it, wrapped too tightly together to notice the sensation. But as they tumble through salt-drenched air, the same word forms across the same patch of skin directly above their hearts.


The ocean swallows their marks with them.

sansapotter  asked:

jon x sansa brown please :)

SOOO this kind of came out differently than I expected but I hope you like it!! And thank you for sending a prompt in <3 

+ colour au prompts + 

It’s a Monday morning when he stumbles into her coffee shop with a dark purpling bruise along his jawline and a white bandage covering the bridge of his nose. Sansa has seen a lot of strange people during the morning coffee rush – mostly disheveled and grumpy adults and occasionally the bleary-eyed student who hasn’t slept in twenty-four hours – but he’s certainly new. Sansa keeps him in her peripheral throughout the half hour he spends in her shop. She tries to tell herself it’s because he looks dodgy, but another part of her brain – the part that’s been single for over a year – traitorously tells her it’s because he’s got sinfully full lips.

She doesn’t expect to see him again after he drags himself back out into the world, but Thursday morning, he wanders back in. This time, the bruise is mottled with various shades of green and yellow. The bandage is gone from his nose but there’s a deep scabbed over gash across it. He still looks like shit, but better. Sansa is itching to ask him what happened when he comes up to the register and orders a large black coffee.

“Name?” she asks, pen poised over the coffee cup. He blinks back at her like he doesn’t understand her question and she has to refrain from laughing. “Your name. You do have one, don’t you?”

“Uh… my name,” he repeats slowly, but then his eyes widen in understanding. “Oh, it’s – uh, it’s Jon. Sorry,” he adds sheepishly, lifting his hand to rub at the back of his neck, but the action causes him to wince and he drops it by his side. Interesting, Sansa can’t help but note to herself.

She smiles softly, waves his apology off and writes Jon in her neatest cursive.

It’s really hard to get him out of her head. Sansa even dreams of curly black hair, deep grey eyes and those unfairly tantalising lips. Men who look like him should not have lips like that. It’s really cruel.

Jon is back again on Monday, and this time, his bottom lip is split and there’s ugly red bruising around his left eye. Add all of that with last week’s previous injuries and he looks utterly terrifying. People in the queue, who are normally so tired they can barely muster up the energy to trudge forward, give him a wide berth, like they’re afraid he might suddenly focus his fury on them. But he doesn’t look angry or violent. There’s a softness in his grey eyes and around the curve of his lips when he catches her eye and smiles. It makes Sansa refuse to believe it. She really shouldn’t be so quick to give a stranger the benefit of the doubt, especially not after sweet-talking Joffrey turned out to be such an arrogant, horrible wanker, but something about Jon is different.

When he reaches the register, Sansa gives him a slow once-over, which has him flushing from the neck to the tips of his ears. “How are you, Jon?” she asks, because she doesn’t know what else to say. She doesn’t want to tell him he looks like shit in case whatever’s happening is really bad nor does she want to outright ask him in case she’s wrong and he’s the bad thing that’s happening.

Jon looks surprised that she remembers his name and flushes even more. “I’m okay. Um, tired. How are you…” He squints at her nametag, which is a bit mangled from her accidentally throwing it in the washing machine a couple months earlier. “Sorsa?”

Surprising herself, she giggles at his poor attempt. “It’s Sansa. But close. Large black?”

He nods with a small smile.

When Jon shows up the following Monday with even more injuries, Sansa decides she needs to do something subtle because she’s positive he’s not the type of guy to get into bar brawls on the weekends for the hell of it. If he fights someone, there has to be a good, honourable reason for it. But in a distant part of her brain, she can hear her older brother chiding her for being so trusting of a man she barely knows, except Sansa does know him. After last Monday, he came in every day of that week, sometimes in the mornings and sometimes in the afternoons, but he would always spend time just talking to her. He’s courteous and sweet, a little bit awkward and kind of horrible with women, but it’s endearing rather than annoying. There’s no way someone like Jon could ever be the instigator of a fight unless provoked.

Jon returns again the next afternoon sporting his new injury – a slight limp – and Sansa asks Jeyne to cover for her as she grabs him by the forearm and drags him into the staff room. She sits him down and starts speaking without preamble.

“I need to know if I should be worried about you or if I should be worried about me.” When he only blinks back at her dumbly, Sansa sighs in frustration. “Jon, I know you don’t really know me very well but if something bad is happening, I can… I don’t know. I can help you.”

He inclines his head as if to study her, a mixture of bemusement and fondness on his face, and it kind of unsettles Sansa because she doesn’t really know how to handle that. No one’s ever looked at her like that before, not even Joffrey, and it’s hard to process that it’s coming from this virtual stranger.

“You’re worried about me?” Jon questions, but when she answers his question with a scowl, he chuckles softly. “Sorry. I guess I look a bit worrying, don’t I?”

“You could say that,” she deadpans, eyes roving over his injuries pointedly.

Jon laughs. “Okay, so this is going to be really anticlimactic for you but I’m apart of an amateur fighting ring.”


“That was definitely not on my list.”

“What list?” he asks, smiling more broadly now, the amusement even more pronounced in those grey eyes.

Sansa huffs. “I might’ve made a list of all the possible reasons why you could be getting so frequently injured.”

Jon laughs and the sound is bright and warm, which has the effect of making Sansa smile in return in spite of the reddening of her cheeks and her sudden need to run away. She instead opts for a subject change. “So you’re in a fight club?”

“No,” he responds instantly, rolling his eyes slightly. “A fight club is just some asinine way for emotionally repressed guys to get their rocks off.”

Sansa can’t help the smirk unfurling on her lips because this is clearly a sore subject for him. “Okay, so what’s the difference?”

“I’m sponsored by a bar and I fight on the weekends for some extra cash,” Jon answers her. “It’s – yeah, it’s not ideal and you’re not the first person to come to me about it, but my mum died when I was seventeen and I needed the money.”

“Wait, you’ve been doing this since you were seventeen? Is that – that doesn’t sound legal, Jon!”

He shrugs as nonchalantly as he can. “So maybe I fibbed a bit about my age. I’m twenty-two now and I’ve only got a semester left of my degree so it’ll be over soon.”

She frowns slightly and reaches over to touch his hand. “That’s terrible. This shouldn’t be something you have to do just to afford university.”

“It’s okay, Sansa,” Jon says, curling his hand over hers. “I’m pretty good.” He cracks a half-smile. “You should see the other guys.”

She’s about to tell him off for the really poor joke when Jeyne pokes her head through the door. “Hate to break up the socially inept flirting you two do but Sans, I need you back out there. I’m dying.”

Both Sansa and Jon flush from head to toe. He’s the first to reach the door after Jeyne disappears and Sansa is right behind him. But before she can slip through, Jon puts his hand out to block her in. “Um, you should – if you want that is, come see me this weekend?”

Sansa scrunches up her nose in distaste. “I don’t know if I want to see you get beaten up, Jon.”

His face falls for a moment and he removes his hand from the door frame. “Yeah, of course. That’s… That’s normal.” He gives her a faint smile and leaves her standing there for a few more seconds before she’s racing up to catch up to him.

“But I’ll go,” she quickly assures him. “Only the once, okay? I need to make sure you’re telling the truth after all.”

Jon beams back at her and she considers going to every single match he has just to make him this happy – which she realises is an absurd thing to want for a man she hardly knows.

“Great. I’ll text you the details!”

And that’s how Jeyne and her find themselves standing in a smelly gym with loud, intimidating looking men and women, who are shouting and laughing boisterously. The stench of alcohol is everywhere and Sansa links her arm through Jeyne’s just to feel safer. “This is a bad idea,” she whispers. “This is a really bad idea. I don’t even know him.”

She can’t really see her as her eyes are focused on the people around them but she hears the exasperation in Jeyne’s voice and she can guess that her best friend is rolling her eyes. “Uhuh, but pining after him and worrying about him is also a really bad idea.”

“I wasn’t –”

“Yeah, okay, Sans,” Jeyne chuckles a bit sardonically. “You two were practically just making heart eyes at each other over the counter for three weeks straight. Please don’t insult my above average intelligence.”

Sansa snorts and bumps her hip against Jeyne’s. “Your ego is unbecoming.”

“Piss off.”

The familiar bickering allows Sansa to forget for awhile where she is and why she’s actually here, but abruptly, a tinny voice cuts across the conversation, announcing the match will start in ten minutes. Sansa grips Jeyne even tighter as they near the front, staring at the weird metallic cage built around the boxing ring.

“Uh, that’s not normal, is it?”

“I thought you said he was a boxer.”

“He said he was a fighter but… cage fighting?”

A burly man beside her whose copper hair could give hers a run for its money laughs loudly. “It’s MMA fighting, ladies.”

“What is that?” Jeyne says with a mixture of apprehension and annoyance.

“Mixed martial arts,” he answers, still smiling in amusement, but then his smile changes and she thinks he’s trying to look charming. “So if you don’t know what this is, what are two lovely girls such as yourselves doing here?”

“Hey mate, back off,” Jeyne says with a scowl. “I’m taken.” She isn’t. “And this one here’s future baby daddy is one of those MMA fighters.”

The man stares squarely at Sansa with such focus it really begins to unnerve her, but then just like before, he bursts out into a booming laugh. “Does that mean you’re Jon’s little coffee shop girl?”

“I wouldn’t call myself little,” she says, bristling; although she realises a little belatedly that she doesn’t correct the man on his mistake that she’s somehow involved with Jon.

“My apologies,” he says, but he doesn’t sound apologetic at all. “I’m Tormund,” he continues, thrusting out a hand for her to shake, which she does with some wariness. “I’m his trainer. That prick hasn’t stopped talking about you for weeks now. Bloody pathetic, honestly, but I can see why.”

“Oh my god, right?” Jeyne exclaims, suddenly forgetting her previous irritation with this man. “She’s been the same way! You’re lucky though. You haven’t had to watch them flirt. It’s like watching a cat trying to swim.”

Tormund laughs again but her glare cuts him off quite quickly.

“Both of you shut it or I swear –”

Her threat is rudely interrupted when the tinny voice returns, announcing the arrival of the two contenders. There’s a sudden increase in jeers and shouts. It’s a lot to take in, and a part of her wonders what on earth she’s doing here. Sansa is a good girl. She works at a coffee shop so her parents don’t have to pay for her accommodation and living costs. She’s in her final year of Primary Education because she adores children. Her last two boyfriends were straight-laced boys from well-to-do families. She doesn’t do things like this.

But a small voice reminds her that both her exes also cheated on her so maybe straight-laced and well-to-do shouldn’t be categories she bases her next boyfriend on. Maybe a boy from the wrong side of the tracks, who fights in a cage to put himself through school, is exactly what she should be looking for.

Pushing down the nerves fluttering in her stomach, Sansa cranes her neck to watch as Jon is escorted into the ring. His upper torso is bare and it makes her mouth go dry. She’s only ever seen him in hoodies. She knew he must have had a nice body considering how well his broad shoulders strained against his clothes, but to see it on display in front of her is quite frankly exhilarating in a way she’d never tell Jeyne about.

“Is your boy going to win?” Jeyne asks Tormund with a sceptical raise of her brow, voicing the question that’s been bouncing around in Sansa’s head all week. “Because that other dude looks like he could lift a car without breaking a sweat.”

She turns her head to catch sight of Jon’s opponent and her mouth gapes at the sheer size of him. Oh god, he’s going to die, she instantly thinks, and a sudden wave of panic and nausea sweeps through her body.

“Don’t be so quick to judge. He may look big but they are in the same weight class for a reason,” Tormund answers, smirking. This is basically gibberish to her because she doesn’t know what a weight class is, but when he adds, “Jon’s got moves,” Sansa is determined to believe him.

Twenty minutes into the fight and Jon’s moves have gotten him knocked square in the face and another one in the stomach. He’s bleeding from his forehead, but his eyes are focused. It’s surreal to see this side of him. She may have only known him for a couple of weeks, but the Jon she met is sweet, shy and endearingly awkward. This Jon is anything but awkward. His movements are precise, lithe and calculated. Where the other man has size and power, Jon has speed and brains. He doesn’t just aim his punches anywhere. He knows exactly where he wants to hit, delivers it at the most opportune moment and capitalises quickly at the moment of contact. It’s the most riveting thing Sansa’s ever watched – and she’s been to the West End multiple times.

“Your husband is amazing,” her friend whispers, awe in her voice.

Sansa rolls her eyes, even though there’s a small proud smile on her lips. “He’s not my husband. But yeah, yeah he’s great.”

Jeyne snorts, and thankfully, doesn’t say anything else, leaving her to watch the fight without interruption.

They’re nearing the end of the last round, which, Tormund explains, means that the judges will decide on the winner. She doesn’t know how that works either because how can anyone tell who’s winning at this point? They both seem fairly matched; although Sansa completely thinks Jon is the better fighter. He’s graceful and makes it look like a real sport, whereas the other man makes it look like a bar brawl.

Suddenly, Jon spins and delivers a kick to the man’s head, knocking him backwards onto the ground, where he swiftly begins to drive forward with punch after punch. The referee finally has to pull Jon away from the man, and then everyone’s screaming and trying to push forward.

“Wait, what just happened!” Sansa yells to Tormund, who is one of those people trying to get forward.

He looks back at Sansa, eyes taking her in as if for the first time and then his hand is around her wrist, pulling her with him. “Your boyfriend just won, Coffee Shop Girl. You should go say hi.”

Sansa doesn’t get a chance to protest or even process what’s happening until Tormund is shouting to someone and she’s being dragged up onto the stage. Jon is getting cleaned up, but when he catches sight of her, he instantly jumps to his feet and sways rather violently from the sudden movement. Sansa races forward to catch him.

“Don’t move,” she chides, frowning at his goofy grin. “Are you concussed? Why are you looking at me like that?”

Jon steps back from her grasps with that strange smile still on his face. “You actually came.”

“I told you I would,” she says, rolling her eyes, but her heart is beating a mile a minute. She doesn’t even know how someone could have this much of an effect on her. “Seriously, Jon, are you okay?”

“And you’re worried about me,” he continues on, his smile growing wider and wider.

“Of course I’m worried! I saw you get punched in the head!” she half-shouts at him because now she’s a little frustrated and he’s being really, really irritating.

That wipes the smile instantly from his face as his hands go to her shoulders. “Sansa, I am fine, you know? This isn’t really the worst that’s ever happened to me in the ring. I’m okay.”

“Yeah, well,” she shrugs. “You don’t look okay.” She gestures to his forehead where the blood’s dried.

The smile he offers her now is more hesitant and shy and it reminds her of the Jon she knows from the coffee shop. “I’m sorry. I’m just really glad you came. I know you didn’t want to and this is probably not your scene but… it means a lot to me.”

“It’s not,” Sansa agrees, smiling. “But you were amazing tonight.”

“Thanks,” he says, cheeks flushed.

“But Jon?” she presses on, swallowing the fear lodged inside her throat. “This is the last time I’m coming to one of these.” His face falls and she can’t help laughing softly. “Next time, just ask me out on a normal date, okay? Less bloody.”

The relief on his face makes her heart swell with so much warmth and affection for this man.

“Okay, next time, a normal date. I promise.”

Sansa’s cheeks are aching from smiling so much, but she doesn’t care. This, right here with Jon, is perfect. Even with the crowd still screaming behind them; even with Jon bloodied and bruised and sweaty. Nothing matters but the fact that Jon is the first man to ever make her feel like she’s the only thing of actual importance in his world. It might not be true, but it feels true.

“What?” Jon asks, chuckling. “You’re the one staring at me this time.”

Instead of answering, Sansa throws her arms around his neck and presses her lips firmly against his. He easily reciprocates by matching her movements and sliding his hands around her waist, gripping tight to her hips. When she scrapes her teeth against his lower lip, she feels him groan into her mouth, tugging her tightly until every part of her body is pressed into his. Sansa doesn’t quite know how long they stand there, but they both instantly jump apart as someone clears their throat pointedly at them.

“As happy as I am that you two figured things out,” Jeyne begins. “Your husband’s trainer keeps hitting on me and if he doesn’t stop, I’m going to kill him and I don’t think Jon would want that.”

He stares at her best friend for a long moment. “Husband?”

“Ugh,” Sansa groans. “Don’t encourage her.”


I’ve been relegated to biking on the trainer barefoot…
No socks, no shoes, no soaking, no sun. This means very early morning walks in pants and the one pair of sandals that don’t sit in the wrong place on my foot. The tattoo is a lot of scabs at this point, and it’ll be a couple of weeks until I can wear socks I’m guessing, or see the sun. Workouts will all be indoors. I’m grateful that I have a lovely cycle, a trainer, and a new gel seat cover so that special area doesn’t hurt….I haven’t been biking over the past year so I’ll have to build tolerance back up. 25 minutes this afternoon, with minimal numbness.

The ‘no soaking’ rule eliminates kayaking for a couple more weeks (or until the scabs are gone). Friends of mine are out on the water paddling just north of Deception Pass today. I really wanted to go but it’s 85° out with full sun, I can’t wear my wetsuit due to the no soaking rule, and my dry suit is black…. I’d roast. 😕

Look at the bay! 7am and smooth as glass! On our walk, Grace and I watched seals, bunnies, and a pair of Great Blue Herons flying in tandem, perfectly reflected in the waters below them. One of the pair is on top of the post out in the bay in this photo. Graceful birds. This would have been a perfect morning for a silent, meditative paddle on the bay.

Burned Pt. 2 [M]

Genre: Smut/angst

Pairing: Jimin x Reader

Triggers: drinking, sex, a lot of swearing 

Word Count: 5.2k

A/N: This is unedited so please excuse any mistakes I maybe have made, I’ll revise it soon. I almost had a heart attack writing this, so please leave your feedback

Part 1 Part 2 Part 3

It had been two weeks since you had slept with Jimin. It had been two weeks since you had pulled your brother Taehyung off of his best friend of years. It was then that you found out that you were just a piece in Jimin’s fucked up game. Using you to get his not so-ex-girlfriend back for cheating on him. It had been two weeks and the carpet burns on your knees were finally starting to heal. The scabs were long gone and all that was left was pink flesh, new skin, probably symbolizing that you were okay now. Except no matter how many times you showered, you couldn’t get the memory of his touch off you. And that’s what you hated most.

He only tried contacting you once. You had just started working as an intern at the hospital when he showed up. You cursed your stupid brother for probably telling Jimin where you worked. As soon as you saw him you ran behind a patient’s curtain. The person lying in the hospital bed looked at you like you needed treatment as you peeked your head between the nylon fabric. He was at the nurse’s desk, probably asking where you were. Jimin was clearly not satisfied with her answer as he turned around and stormed out. That was the last time you saw him.

A loud banging ripped you from your thoughts. Someone was pounded on your front door and by the sound of it was probably going to put their fist through it. Ripples of panic flooded through you as you tip-toed to the door. Peering into the peephole you saw that is was Tae. “I know you’re in there Y/N. I can hear you breathing through your mouth”

Keep reading



Batman’s other Robin (Part two!)

  Danny’s anxiety had been eating away at him all week, whether that was due to the recent geometry test that had yet to be graded or the meeting he had with Batman in just 6 hours, he wasn’t sure. It was probably the meeting, who wouldn’t be nervous when Batman had asked to personally see you. He had already prepared the note saying he was at tucks, and had made sure Tucker was spending time with Sam and his parents thought he was with them, and all of the other little things.
He had even packed a sling pack with water, snacks and cash. Hell he had made note cards over things the internet had gotten wrong about himself.Except the halfa status, that was only revealed on accident or in extreme emergencies. Like Dan sized emergencies. Hecate help them all if that ever happened again. 
(Time skip. All Danny does in between in fly and be anxious, dont worry)
Phantom got there half an hour early, but Batman was already at the meeting point. Didn’t this guy have anything else to do, like make sure the city wouldn’t blow up at any given moment? Lunch plans with someone? Family? Apparently not, because he stepped out of the shadows with Robin (Dick Grayson) trailing him. From the steely but ever so slightly nervous aura Batman gave off, he could only guess Robin was there to provide a sense of sameness to the dead teen.

“Sooo… you’re dead right”, Robin ever so eloquently says. Batman is about to give him the Batglare when he is interrupted by Phantom, “Yeah, kind of? I think? the ghost thing is weird to me too. Um, I made some flashcards about the things the internet is wrong about.” He awkwardly hands them to the pair. Batman reads them with a face that could almost be impressed. “This clears up quite a bit, thank you.” Phantom has a ghost of a smile after that comment and begins to over explain everything from why he made the cards, to recent mishaps. Everything except Fenton and his living allies. Once his rambling is over, Batsy has very few questions left, but they were the questions he had been hoping to ask last as they were, well, quite insensitive and would probably do nothing but provoke the kid. Might as well rip the band aid off while the scab was almost gone. “That clears up a lot of the questions I had, thank you. The rest may be a bit insensitive or provoking, so I apologize in advance but I need these answered. ” Phantom hesitanted briefly but steeled his nerves and nodded, putting on a face of determination and eyes that told Batman he had probably seen worse. “Alright, well to start, I happen to be experienced in altered realities-” Phantoms expression betrayed himself on this particular topic. “-and need to know that he could never happen again.”, putting emphasis on he in order to suggest Dan. “Never. I have a ghostly friend who will interfere before that even has a possibility of happening. As well as several ways to end myself in case it does. He will never, ever exists in our reality.”, said Phantom with a grave seriousness previously thought impossible to anyone who wasn’t in the league. It was at this point that Danny’s phone rang from the bottom of his sling, it was Tucker, calling to see how the meeting had gone. “Hey Tech 1, the meetings not over yet, call back again in a few hours. Also feed your fish for me, Midnight and Aves are too pretty to starve.” Phantom spoke using the code language for ‘Hack the Batcomputer later, I need to see if they know shit about me’ and hung up. “Who is tech 1?” Robin asked cautiously. “He is the techno geek in town and one of the only people who actually likes me there.” He said with a snort to convey sarcasm and hopefully inconspicuousity.

anonymous asked:

Ahhhhhhhhhhhh absolutely no pressure but please write a part 2!!!!!!! The priest AU is killing meeeeee I love it

HELLO ANON, turns out this got WAY longer than I meant, and there is now a part 3,which is going to be the NSFW part. uh, pretty much a lot. sorry in advance, again. So, here is: The Gang Gets Exorcised, Part 2

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12.01 coda

It’s going to take them too long to cross the Kansas state border, even with Dean gunning it down the roadways. The Impala creaks a little when they hit a bump; the glass littered on her dashboard klinks and jingles. Castiel carefully brushes some of it into his palm and sprinkles it out the broken window into the wind. His matted hair ruffles half-heartedly in the breeze.

Dean keeps twisting in his seat to look back at his mom, curled up in the corner averting his eyes, and tries to start about a hundred different sentences before Mary ends up falling asleep again and he’s missed his chance. He sighs, and carefully clicks the radio dial.

He and Castiel don’t make eye contact. Cas wheezes a little bit through his nose when he exhales.

“Man, she really did a number on you,” Dean murmurs.

Castiel squints at him then, he can feel it. “You’re one to talk,” he grumbles.

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anonymous asked:

How soon after top surgery (double incision) can you go swimming? Even if I have to wear a rash vest to protect my chest

You will need to wait until all your scabs have gone and your incisions and nipples have healed and sealed over.  There may be bacteria present in the water, even if it is chlorinated, which you do not want entering into any parts which have not yet healed completely.  When this happens will vary from person to person, but is likely to be at least 6–8 weeks, although can be longer.  You should also follow your surgeon’s advice, including when it comes to exercising.

If you’re intending on swimming outside then you also need to make sure that you keep your scars protected from the sun.  It’s generally advised to keep your scars out of the sun for at least a year, so it’s worth investing in some very strong waterproof suncream (such as designed for surfers) and keeping a top on where possible.

~ Alex

Plead the Fifth

Anon asked: Hey! I love your guys writing!Could you do a SUPER angsty deanxreader where they get in a fight and dean hits the reader when hes mad then doesn’t want to be alone with her after cause he doesnt want to hurt her again *angst* and end in fluff? Plz :)

A/n: Hey, sorry this is taking so long to post. Hopefully I’ll get a few more requests posted. Anyways, hope you like. Feedback is welcome. :) xox

Author: Emily

Pairing: Dean x Reader

Warnings: Abuse, angst, language

Summary: You’ve got a mouth on you, and it’s a problem. You don’t know when enough is enough, and Dean doesn’t know how to keep his anger at bay; doesn’t know how to turn away and stop. 

Words n/a

“What do you expect me to do, Dean?” You growl furiously as you stop away from the crime scene. Another man was killed by this creature, and you were tired of going with Dean’s plan to lure the creature out. You don’t know what it is yet, but Sam is back at the hotel doing as much research as he can. You and Dean were out trying to figure it out via evidence, but no avail.

Finally, Dean got tired of you doubting his plan and told you to just go sit while he does it himself. You refused.

“Just stop doubting this! I’d rather be safe than sorry, you know. I’d rather have a pile of dead bodies leading us closer than have someone I actually fucking know being buried six feet under, Y/n.” Dean snaps, too angry with you to open the door of the Impala that was parked behind the hospital all the vics were at.

“None of us is going to get hurt! You’re just being too fucking shy about this. I’d rather not have any damn bodies at all but that’s exactly what you’re plan is doing. I told you we should’ve gone with mine.” You hissed, pacing. Your plan was simpler. You saw a pattern, one Dean did not. All the men being killed lived in the same trailer park once, and you thought it was something. No one else did. It pissed you off.

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An Olicity road trip fic in which Felicity gets a tattoo. 

Also on ao3

It’s not the first tattoo parlor that’s caught her eye. There’s one in almost every town they drive through and she’s been looking for the right one all month. When she saw the sign on the way into town last night she made note of it, and while Oliver showered this morning she checked into them. The Green Machine tattoo parlor has all their licenses in order and no rating lower than four stars (a little not-so-legal snooping tells her they haven’t hidden any bad reviews) and she feels confident in her choice. This is the place and today is the day.

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tfa trio aesthetics.

hux. red wine. black leather-bound books. gold embroidery. the smell of shoe polish; the dizziness, the burning in your throat that comes with breathing in too much of it. tailored suits. a headless statue, weathered by time. ballet dancers’ feet: pain for beauty’s sake. 

kylo. split lips, blood on teeth. blue bruises. bumpy spines. picking at a new scab. painting over chipped nail polish to hide where it’s gone wrong. bare feet. the taste of pomegranates, fresh and sweet, and their scarlet juice trailing down your wrist.

phasma. engine grease, sweat stains, eyeliner sharp enough to kill. heavy military boots: knee-high, black leather, polished to a shine. storm clouds, collecting in the distance, lined with silver by the sun. lipstick stains on whiskey glasses. heavy artillery.

rey. peeling sunburnt skin. a too-quick heartbeat. mud between the toes. the mouths of wolves: teeth and void. held hands and a shaking voice and the words i love you said for the first time. new foods. drumbeats. campfire smoke, drifting slowly towards you.

finn. autumn leaves: trees in full color, hanging heavy over a fork in a country road. a lion’s mane. cold beer, shared with good friends, and burning the breakfast you were trying to bring to your partner(s) in bed. red roses, purple nightshade, white lilies. golden crowns. 

poe. wind-tangled hair. smiling until your cheeks hurt; refusing to let that stop you. volume turned up high on the radio, singing to a song you don’t know. renaissance sculpture. a man on a stage lit by a single spotlight, hung from above. kiss-bruised lips. cool desert nights.

I spent today hiding from hurricanes.
I can feel your love for me slipping away,
it’s in the eyes.
They’ve clouded over and
the light’s gone out.

I’m picking scabs from the wounds you left,
so I always have these scars that won’t let me forget.
I am numb, but I feel too much.
I am a bag of organs and errors,
the shell of a man filled with guilt, shame and terror.
I have become the abyss.

I want to keep the bruises,
so I keep painting myself with punches,
and wear them like badges of dishonour.
Every day will be my own personal remembrance parade.
I remember the residue of you on my skin,
I loved the way you’d stain me.
You were,
you are,
so beautiful.
I just wanted to be beautiful too.

I would hand you the knife to dig the sin out of me.

But I’m still dead inside.
Haul up the anchor
and let me drift out to sea.
I need to be broken by the storm
to prove I’m still alive.

—  giraffevader - This is the storm that will finally break me

igottumbleryeah  asked:

Can you please write a fanfic about Sasuke saw Sakura's scar on her chest (because of him) for the first time? Thank you :3

AN: kickass prompt!!! btw, I won’t take new requests while narutofornepal runs. go request there if you can from seriously goddamn amazing writers and artists.

Their hands, as they kiss, have become braver. With each turn of the neck, each sigh of the mouth, they find more territory to map.

It is a balance, fueled with naked desire:

she finds the ridge of his spine; he explores the firm lines of her stomach. She graphs the tension between his shoulder blades; he plots the freckles that dust her collarbones.

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Have some cute Tyr pictures! So I have been keeping quiet about this but I discovered a week ago that Tyr had avian poxvirus. We also learned from the vet that he has small cataracts in each eye. Which are unrelated to the pox. Currently Tyr is fat and grumpy but he is doing very well at fighting off the virus. Only two new pox in a week and most have scabbed. The one on his tongue has gone away entirely. We should be able to hunt again in late December or January. I’m working closely with a falconer who has dealt with avian pox in one of her birds to make sure I’m doing everything right for Tyr. Currently just treating topically with betadine and feeding him up.