#tempist

Roy: *Whisper* You shut up! I’m trying to see my family!

Oliver: *Whisper* I’m your fam-!

Roy: …

Oliver: …

Roy: What?

Oliver: What?

Dinah: What.

Roy&Ollie: WHAT THE FUCK!?!?

Dinah: Both of you, back to your rooms, now!

Oliver: Run, Roy, Run!!

Roy: Don’t have to tell me twice!

———

Roy: So that’s how I got these bruises.

Dick&Garth: Stupid!! (Laughing)

Donna: Jeez, Roy.

“ you want me to make a list? ” he says, attempting to scratch just beyond the edges of a cluster on his cheek. it doesn’t take care of the ghost of an crawling itch beneath his skin, but it’s better than doing nothing. “ you’ve just been through a lot. it’s a shitty time. you didn’t get bit, but you dealt with everything else and it’s traumatizing. ”

the painkillers did not stretch far enough to cover him until his next dose, made worse that he’s run out of the really good stuff they gave him immediately post surgery. if there is any silver lining, he’s not quite as out of his skull.  

send a 🐛 for an insect i associate with your muse ; accepting

A  RUSH  OF  SALTLESS  WIND  ROARING  PAST  HIS  EARS and  the  stumbling sense  of  vertigo. it  feels  like  stepping  off  a  cliffside spearing  the  sky,  but  finnick does  not  fall.  he  resists the  way  only  a  creature of  the  vast  could—  his  mother  does  not  hunger for  her  child. on  the  wooden  pier  he  turns,  senses alerted  to  the  attempt  on  his  life,  the  brackish scent  of  sea  salt  permeating the  air  thickly. the  still  water  beneath  the  pier  begins to  churn  as  if  a  storm  stirs  overhead.  

it  takes  him  barely  a  second  to  find  his  attacker,  short  in  statute and  neck  wreathed in  a  thick  scarf,  and  like  a  predator  on  the  hunt  he  devours the  distance  between them.

quick  as  a  snake-strike  he  latches  on  to  the  stranger’s  thin  arm  and  yanks  him  close  to  his  chest. sea  green  eyes  are  knife sharp,  but  white  teeth  are  revealed  in  a  wolfish smile  he  is  unable  to  suppress.

THE UNLATCHING  OF  THE DOOR  is  a  ripple  through the  otherwise  still  night.  danny  has  been  awake  for  days  waiting for  mike  to  return,  to  slip  inside in  secrecy  only  to  leave  just  as  quiet,  maybe  never  to  come  back.  to  take  everything  he  knows  about  tim  down  with  him.

because  mike  knows  something  about  what  happened to  tim  and  desperation  has  eaten  holes  in  danny’s mind  like  moth  to  fabric. he  doesn’t  much  care  anymore what  he  has  to  do  to  get  the  information out  of  mike,  but  he  needs  it.  he  needs it  more  than  anything  in  the  world.

as  he  hears  the  door  click  back  into  place  behind  mike,  danny’s  feet  are  already pounding  across  the  house.  mike’s body  is  small  like  a  bird’s  between his  hands,  one  latched  to  either  shoulder. danny  doesn’t  hesitate, as  if  he  might  fly  away  given  a  split-second opening,  and  mike  slams  against the  wall.  a  picture  frame  crashes  to  the  ground next  to  them  and  cracks against  the  ground.

THE  COUCH  WAS  NOT  MEANT  TO  HOUSE  A  MAN  HIS  SIZE  LONG  TERM. his  spine  has  paid  for  it,  sleeping curled  up  on  mike’s  sofa  for  the  few  months he’s  been  here.  

the  instinct  to  protest  his  invitation  out  of  politeness, and  perhaps  a  flicker  of  shame  at how  badly  he  does  want  to  be  close  to  mike,  dies  on  his  tongue.  tim  is  tired, and  even  if  mike  is  only  being  kind,  he  needs  the  kindness.  his  feelings  have  nothing  to  do  with  it.

“  yeah.  ” he  says,  nodding as  he  rakes  back  dark  hair  from  his  face.  he  offers mike  a  smile, tinged  with  weariness. “  thanks.  ”

he  grabs  his  pillow  and  follows  mike  into  his  bedroom,  the  section  of  the  apartment he  has  had  reason  to  traverse  the  least.  it  feels  vaguely like  he  shouldn’t be  in  here,  like  he  is  invading mike’s  privacy.  regardless he  doesn’t  linger on  the  sensation and  instead  uncovers one  half  of  the  bed,  gingerly  slipping in.  he  can’t  help  the  small  contented sigh  that  eases  from  his  chest.

he  is  hyper-aware that  he  is  surrounded  by  mike’s  scent, mere  inches  from  his  sloped form.  he  is  careful  to  keep  to  his  half,  not  wanting to  intrude  on  his  space, but  it  is  frankly  ridiculous how  exciting  he  finds  their  closeness.  like  an  indulgent little  fantasy  coming to  realization.  god he’s  hopeless.

Someone once said symmetry is beauty - the more symmetrical, the more beautiful.  They would find their assertion challenged by Dr. Nielly’s appearance this dusk.  If she folded herself in half, she would match up perfectly - externally and internally.  Unfortunately, the latter, by nature, was not readily apparent but, she reasoned, every artist must have pieces just for their own self-satisfaction.

She came to a stop in front of the young man, scent of her god (alcohol and Sharpie) too much to resist. 

     Jᴜsᴛ ʟᴏᴏᴋɪɴɢ at the other guy makes him reconsider even opening his mouth. He might only reach to Miles' chest (not that unusual), but something about him makes him actually stop and think about what he's going to say. Which in itself says quite a lot, because he's never once thought about his words in his life. Kind of how he got to this point in his life, probably, what with the dark lines moving beneath his skins. (There's a joke here to be made about matching scars, but he swallows it for once in his life.)