right arm injured

You don’t own me part 10

Originally posted by iwantyoursexybaek


“Jealousy is a delicate topic, am I right?” His voice was soft as you felt his lips close to your ear.

“I don’t know what you are talking about. I’m not jealous!”, you snapped. You were annoyed over you own childish behaviour. What could possibly be more indicating that you are jealous then saying you aren’t?!

Word count: 1837

Warnings: A little angst and slight mentions of domestic violence.

Author’s note: Mainly fluff :D Feel free to tell me your opinion and enjoy :)

♥♥♥ @httpwyf @vicassa @byunbunniess @i-am-a-death-dealer @jookyunhoe @byunshim @galaxy99love @holymolydrrad @imbaekhyunstrash @shesdreaminginoverdose @princess-ellaxo @baekmuffin @dont-hyuck @mynameissoonyoung-callmesoon ♥♥♥

part 1 || part 2 || part 3 || part 4 || part 5 || part 6 || part 7 || part 8 || part 9


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Pretty Eyes

Summary: What if Sherlock met someone and every time he tried to deduce something from them, no matter how hard he tried, he was wrong?

Characters: Sherlock, Reader, John

Pairing: Sherlock x Reader (could easily be seen as romantic or platonic, it’s up to you)

Warnings: fluff, frustrated Sherlock

Word Count: 1,021

Fandom: Sherlock

A/N: For @sdavid09‘s What If challenge. Also, funny thing, the very last part actually happened to me in a way. This guy (that I may or may not like) was talking to me and said that he could guess what I was thinking because he’d been watching a lot of Sherlock episodes lately. I responded the exact same way the reader responded to Sherlock. XD Just thought that was funny. 

Originally posted by bethereinagiphy

Reader’s POV

     You were hanging out in your best friend, Greg Lestrade’s, office at Scotland Yard when a tall man with striking blue eyes and a slightly shorter man with just as blue eyes stormed in. He kept ranting about a case for about ten minutes before he noticed you weren’t Greg.

     “What’s Greg’s girlfriend doing in his office?” I cocked my head, about to speak until he began talking again. “How did I know that? You’re sitting in his office, clearly extremely comfortable which indicates you and him have a close relationship. I’m assuming your his girlfriend because you’re not wearing a ring on your finger to indicate marriage but you are playing with a promise ring which would indicate a romantic relationship. So where’s Greg?”

     “First off, I’m not Greggy’s girlfriend, I’m his best friend. The promise ring is from an ex-girlfriend of mine. I’m waiting in Greg’s office for him to get off work so he can take me to meet a friend of his who buys old promise rings and such for good money. And I have no idea where Greg is. Why don’t you join me for a cuppa tea?” The tall man who had called you Greg’s girlfriend scrunched his eyes, apparently surprised that he was wrong, while the other man looked like he was holding back laughter.

     “Um, yes, that would be fine. I’m Sherlock by the way, this is John.” You turned back to the desk, having to bend over to reach a bag of tea that had fallen to the other side. 

     “Stop staring at my ass, both of you.” You turned around, grabbing a cup of tea for John and one for Sherlock, handing each to them.

     “I wasn’t- How did you-” You laughed as John spoke while they both blushed furiously.

     “You both were and I know it because my ass looks great in these jeans and you’d have to be completely distracted or disgusted to not look at it. It was an educated guess that just happened to be right. I usually am.” 

     “You are correct in one thing, your ass does look amazing in those jeans Lefty.” You cocked your eye brow at Sherlock’s nickname for you.

     “Where did you get that nickname from?” He smiled arrogantly and damn could you think of a few ways you wanted to wipe that smug smile right off his face.

     “You favored your left hand slightly in everything you have done since we entered the room, therefore you are left-handed, hence Lefty.” You laughed, causing him to scrunch his eyes again, an adorable confused look on his face.

     “I’m ambidextrous. I favor my left hand because the nerves in my right arm got injured in a shoot out a few years back and never regained full feeling.” At that moment, Greg walked in and you were spared explaining the shoot out.

     “Hey (Y/N), you mind asking your girlfriend to go with you to sell that ring? It’s getting pretty busy here, I don’t think I can get off until really late.” You watched as his gaze never left the papers in his hand, not even realizing that Sherlock and John were sitting in his office.

     “First off, you are a horrible best friend, I told you me and her broke up two months ago. Second off, I forgive you for being a horrible best friend if you can take a night off soon so we can binge watch rom coms on Netflix. Third off, you have guests look up from the police reports.” He glanced up, giving you a small smile at your playful tone before glancing over at the men seated in the office.

     “Oh good, Sherlock, you’re here. Tell me what you think about this case.” Greg handed Sherlock the papers, only for him to pass them off to John, his gaze returning to you.

     “How am I always wrong with you? I’m never wrong.” You smiled enjoying that the mystery that exuded from your personality stumped even the great Sherlock Holmes.

     “How about, I give you three tries to get something right, and if you get one of them right, we’ll assume that it was just a fluke and you can go back to being an arrogant asshole? Sound good cutie?” He simply nodded, before closing his eyes, a look of thought shadowing his face.

     “You’re gay. Lestrade said you had a girlfriend.”

     “Wrong. I’m bi. Next guess.” He narrowed his eyes, apparently the thought having never crossed his mind.

     “The shoot out that injured your right arm was the result of a wrong-time wrong-place thing. You’re an innocent girl.”

     “Wrong again. My ex-boyfriend was abusive and I got tired of it one day so I pulled a gun on him. He just happened to also have a gun on him. And I’m far from innocent, Lestrade can attest to that. Last try.” You glanced out of the corner of your eye to see Greg nodding furiously in agreement. Both him and John seemed to be slightly awestruck at the situation unfolding in front of them.

     “You are trying to impress someone here at the station, hence the mascara and smudge-proof lipstick.” You smiled, almost feeling bad for him since he probably was right most of the time.

     “Wrong again. I like wearing makeup because I think I look even sexier with it than without.” He looked shell-shocked at the idea that he was wrong, and had been wrong every time he tried to deduce something about you.

     “Can I have one more try?” You smirked seeing the laughter dancing behind his eyes. He was having just as much fun as you were with this.

     “Tell me what I’m thinking about, I promise it has to do with something in the immediate vicinity.” 

     “You’re wondering how in the world I can solve Scotland Yard’s most difficult cases yet not be able to deduce a single thing about you.”

     “Nope. I was thinking about how pretty your eyes are.” He groaned and you laughed, reveling in the fact that you could stump the World’s Greatest Detective just by existing.

Step Right Up

I really miss these two.

When he arrives, Bruce gives a cursory knock. Two sharp taps, against the tasteful, ultra-modern dark wood door. Then he lets himself in.

“Tim.” He half-says, half-calls. An almost-question. He closes the door behind himself, shrugs out of his coat.

And he hears, muffled from the bedroom, voice low, “In here.”

Unsurprised by his presence, then. 

Bruce puts his overfull bag of food on the kitchen counter, heading up the half-staircase toward the master bedroom. This time, he doesn’t knock.

“You know you wasted a trip,” says Tim, from the bed. He’s faced away from the door, laying on his side. He’s shirtless, blanket drawn up to his ribs. “Because I’m not getting up. Literally, not at all. Like. If my building is on fire, I will embrace it as my time.” 

“Let’s hope it doesn’t come to that,” murmurs Bruce, absently. Because getting closer, Bruce can see the bloodstained towel Tim’s lying on, the mottled blue-black-purple bruising down one side of his back. He draws the covers back, down past Tim’s hips, says, “Barbara caught some footage of you last night. Said you weren’t looking so hot.”

“Jealousy,” Tim says effortfully, shifting to glower at Bruce one-eyed. “Is an ugly thing, B. You can tell her I said that.”

Bruce just hmms, hardly listening. He’s focussed instead on the bruise-patterns, murmurs “You need a hospital?” following the line of the contusion down Tim’s side–

and Tim slaps his hand away from the waistband of his novelty boxer shorts, says “Not even going to buy me dinner, first? How gauche.”

Bruce rubs his knuckles. “I did buy dinner,” he says. Huffs. “It’s in the kitchen.” And, “Are you going to let me–?”

How did you not open with that?” Tim says, trying to prop himself up. “Do you just not get how people work?”

Bruce touches his hand to Tim’s bare shoulder, says, “I’ll bring it here.”

“I’m also parched,” Tim calls after him. “If you wondered.”

“Okay, Tim,” he calls back. The corner of his mouth lifting.

He digs around Tim’s kitchen for a minute, grabbing a Gatorade and two bottles of spring water from the refrigerator, a couple clean dish towels and two plates. 

“While you’re in a fetching sort of mood,” Tim says, when he comes back. Stepping over the melted icepack on the floor by the bed. “You want to help me with a shirt?” He’s managed to sit up, propped up against his pillows. He’s got streaks of dried blood on his right arm, from a thick laceration that’s been sloppily glued shut. He’s pointing left-handed to a t-shirt tossed over his drawers. 

Bruce sets the drinks on Tim’s bedside table, the plates and towels and food on the end of the bed. And he hands Tim the shirt– it says Much, much? which Bruce doesn’t get–and watches him pull it over his head and good arm. 

Bruce steps forward, kneeling his weight on the bed by Tim, and helps manually pull his injured arm through the sleeve, opting to ignore Tim’s short hiss of pain.

And Tim, curling up again instantly, juts his chin toward the dish-towels, says, “I appreciate the gesture, B, but my sheets are clearly done for.”

Bruce just sighs, sits at Tim’s feet. He cracks the top off the Gatorade for Tim, and gets one of the water bottles for himself. Then he starts unpacking the Chinese food. He says, “I forgot what you liked, so I ordered a little of everything.”

Tim grins, pearly white and sincere, says “My favourite.” And he says, “Bypass the plates?”

“If you want,” Bruce says, opening one of the containers. Peanut beef. He passes it over to Tim, says belatedly, “You want a fork?” but Tim– Tim’s ambidextrous, more competent than anyone he knows, even pale with blood-loss and exhaustion, even with his right arm wedged against his injured side.

And he smiles like he knows what Bruce is thinking, clicks his chopsticks together left-handed. Says, “I got this, B.” 

They start to eat in silence then, Tim occasionally pointing at another dish for Bruce to pass over, trading containers a few times. 

Partway through the lo mein, Tim pauses, dropping his chopsticks. Then he rummages one handed in his bedside drawer, coming up with a bottle of Tylenol. He shakes out four and downs them, along with a third of the Gatorade, makes a point of ignoring Bruce’s raised eyebrows. 

Then, through a mouthful of food, he says “How come you’re here?”

“Existentially?” Bruce says, chasing around a wonton in the bottom of his container. “Or–?”

Or, what did you do with Damian? He out front in the car, or did Alfred draw the short straw?”

Bruce gives him a look, part warning, part amusement. Says, “Damian is hanging out with Dick tonight. Something about a school project, apparently, but I’m sure it’s an excuse to play video games and spar. Alfred’s got a date.”

“Vivian, right? They’ve been seeing a lot of each other,” Tim says, and “That’s too spicy for you.”

Bruce nods, putting the container back down. “Alfred talks to you about his dates?”

“Not in detail,” Tim says, rolling his eyes. “I know he likes her, and I ran into them at Le Bouchon a couple weeks ago. Nice lady.”

“She is,” Bruce agrees. Though, “It goes on much longer and I’m going to have to do a background check.”

“Like you haven’t already,” Tim snorts. Dragging over the egg rolls. 

“Well of course I’ve done a cursory background check,” Bruce tells him. “I mean an in-depth one. Digging deep.”

Tim just smiles at that, against his chopsticks. Doesn’t make the obvious joke that Dick or Jason would have done, about showing his love in strange “and not-at-all obsessive ways, don’t worry about it, B”. And Bruce is grateful.

“So,” Bruce says, finally. “You going to tell me what happened last night?”

“Didn’t plan to,” Tim says lightly. And, “But hey, at least I know you remember where I live.”

Bruce’s hand stutters, chopsticks fumbling, dropping a greasy piece of beef onto his Givenchy pullover. And he says– “Tim–”

The boy shakes his head, lips turning up. Says, “Sorry, that wasn’t fair. Forget I said that last bit.”

Bruce clears his throat, says, “So the ribs and the arm, obviously. Are you hurt anywhere else?”

“I’m good,” Tim says. Meeting his eyes now. 

“You really should have stitched your arm,” Bruce tells him critically. Eyeing the flaky, cracking trails of dark blood that reach past Tim’s sleeve and into the curl of his elbow.

Tim nudges Bruce’s knee with his toes, twice, three times. Something like an apology, or forgiveness. And he says, “Do I look like I’m bleeding to death? No? Then I nailed it.” 


learning to write with my left hand: one week of progress (left side is last week, right side is today)

reason for those who haven’t read my earlier posts: my right arm is injured from excessive drawing and needs some rest. figured it was a good opportunity to train my other hand.

act 1 | part 1

  It’s dark. The injured Norwegian tries his best to see, but it’s completely pitch black. He squirms - there’s ropes binding him to what feels like a chair. The bindings uncomfortably chafe against his injured right arm. His hair is mussed, fallen over into his face.

  And then a light comes on, all of a sudden, blinding him for a moment as his eyes adjust.

  The room is completely empty, but he feels as if there are others in the room with him. 

  An unfamiliar voice hisses threatening words from behind. He refuses to look and see who it is, not yet. The walls are a deep scarlet in color - painted, not bled on.

  Being in charge? Does he know about his plans? Was he there to witness that catastrophe that feels like it had only happened minutes ago?

  He glances over his shoulder for a split second. The stranger is wearing one of the uniforms from his little “Red Army” of his. But the logo is crossed out wherever it lays on the clothing. Brown hair and a green shirt… but it’s not his friend, no. He seems too old.

  Who is this?

  He decides to retort the words spoken to him.

  No response is uttered by the stranger. To think of it, this couldn’t possibly be Edd, even if time travel was a possibility. His voice sounds too different, even with a different accent. 

  But the real question remains in his mind.

                        [PROMPTS ARE OPEN.]

dude i couldnt even come back all in one piece

I was introduced with the idea of Davesprite coming back post-game missing his right arm to parallel his injured wing in the game a while back and it has stuck with me ever since. Of course he most likely would co-exist with Dave a bit awkwardly considering his self-deprecating attitude and initial struggle with ghost limb sensations but poor baby tries. I could write novels about his mental state jeez.

In the light of episode 8 I’ve got a little theory (which might just be me overthinking, but); Ironwood has a robotic arm (and possibly some robostuff in his head too), which I base on three things:

  1. He almost painstakingly moved his right shoulder when talking about hallucinating in fights and what it might lead to, which makes me think he has experienced something similar and his right arm got severely injured
  2. He always wears a glove on the right hand – maybe to hide the mechanics?
  3. He has a metal strip on his forehead in the right side – which could indicate that the incident not only affected his arm, but also his head in some way

- @fancydiscollama

arwenundomielofrivendell-deacti  asked:

Arwen sat in the corner and curled up in a ball, her right arm bleeding and injured. She looked away from Loki and cried a little.

What have I done? He thought. Had it been a fit of madness? His mind was blank, his recent memory only a blur. He reached a shaking hand towards the bleeding elf.

“Arwen….” her name chocked coming out. “Tell me….. tell me I didn’t do this to you….”


His Reason For Living

His Reason For Living

 (A/N): And here it is, @doginshoe! My part of payback~ *smirks* Hope you like it!

Warning: Heavy Violence, Major Character Death and Angst galore. Read at your own risk!

END smirked lazily as he threw his flame attacks at the Ice Devil Slayer before him almost effortlessly. This was too easy. He could unleash his full power in one swoop and take Fairy Tail out with one strike, but toying with his opponents was something END delighted in. First, he would weaken them until they had no power left, and then torture them until they were begging to be killed. That was always fun.

 END had to admit though; the Ice Devil Slayer was pretty strong. For a human, that is. He was bruised and beaten up already, but END could tell that he was still holding back his full power. That was fairly impressive.

 He had to fight back an amused laugh as the Ice Devil Slayer shouted and yelled at him to ‘snap out of it’. Snap out of what, exactly? Perhaps he was talking about END’s worthless host, Natsu Dragneel. The foolish slayer didn’t know that Natsu had taken END’s place, locked up for good in the confines of his soul. And good riddance, too.

 As he unleashed a breath attack at the Ice Devil Slayer, END’s eyes strayed to the rest of the Fairy Tail guild, who were watching the fight anxiously, ready to step in and fight if needed. One that particularly caught his eye was the blonde girl in tattered clothes, a sobbing cat cradled in her arms. END’s lips curled in a cruel smirk. He’d kill them. Kill them all. Make them suffer. Particularly that blonde girl who irritated him for reasons that were beyond him.

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