Two things...
1) Should I be worried at how much a simple grilled ham and cheese sandwich can make me feel so much better?
2) Fic. snip-it for you because, frankly... my muses are busted:
Oliver runs his fingers over bruises, over angry purples and yellows as the colors settle into the empty spaces between Flint’s ribs like wet ink. He watches as the Chaser’s breathing becomes shallow, air puffing out in quick sharp pants whenever Oliver presses too hard, pushes too much. He doesn’t know how to fix it. And not just physically, because fuck if it was only that simple. That easy to just whisper a charm or a spell or some other shit that could take all of the pain away only Oliver isn’t a healer, no matter how hard he tries to be sometimes.
“Marcus,” the name leaves his lips almost in a hiss. Almost a pained sound like Oliver can feel it, all of it. Like the pain is jumping from Flint’s side and radiating up the Keeper’s fingers tips. Osmosis or something and he closes his eyes, concentrates on the too too warm feeling of Flint’s skin under his hand. He thinks of ice and winter and any other fucking cold thing he can think of because it has to be better than doing nothing.
At least he tells himself.
Flint doesn’t move. His breathing is shallow and his eyes are fixed straight ahead on the wall. No tell. No emotion save for the sharp ticks of pain that radiate sporadically through is body. Make him tick and twitch and twist away, hold is breath and slam his eyes shut until the title wave passes by.
2) Fic. snip-it for you because, frankly... my muses are busted:
Oliver runs his fingers over bruises, over angry purples and yellows as the colors settle into the empty spaces between Flint’s ribs like wet ink. He watches as the Chaser’s breathing becomes shallow, air puffing out in quick sharp pants whenever Oliver presses too hard, pushes too much. He doesn’t know how to fix it. And not just physically, because fuck if it was only that simple. That easy to just whisper a charm or a spell or some other shit that could take all of the pain away only Oliver isn’t a healer, no matter how hard he tries to be sometimes.
“Marcus,” the name leaves his lips almost in a hiss. Almost a pained sound like Oliver can feel it, all of it. Like the pain is jumping from Flint’s side and radiating up the Keeper’s fingers tips. Osmosis or something and he closes his eyes, concentrates on the too too warm feeling of Flint’s skin under his hand. He thinks of ice and winter and any other fucking cold thing he can think of because it has to be better than doing nothing.
At least he tells himself.
Flint doesn’t move. His breathing is shallow and his eyes are fixed straight ahead on the wall. No tell. No emotion save for the sharp ticks of pain that radiate sporadically through is body. Make him tick and twitch and twist away, hold is breath and slam his eyes shut until the title wave passes by.