patch you up

[triarchic]

 Patch You Upshipping meme

Let's hope you're not squeamish. Even if you are, you're going to have to power through it, because your crush, significant other, lover, or fellow practitioner in romantic tension has been battered and bruised. The degree of severity, from a minor scrape to a life-threatening injury, can vary, as can the reason - they may even be hurt because of you. If that's the case, you have all the more reason to tend to their wounds with your own two hands.

No one can take care of them like you can.

Bust out the bandages, even if they don't want you to worry over them or can't believe that anyone would. Though it's not your intention, if you're genre savvy, you may know that your best Florence Nightingale may be the final push if you're not together-together.

That's assuming if you both don't pass out from botched first aide before any of that happens. Don't forget that a kiss to make it better is critical!

• Comment with your character, preferences, and the role you'd like to play - the injured or the attending. Also, would you like a pre-established relationship? One just on the cusp of becoming realized? Etc?
• Reply to others.
• Thread.

Comments

[tougher]

[Fiona gives him a long look, which does a less than excellent job of arguing the point. Yes, he's good looking -- he's already gotten her to admit that once, she's not going to do it twice.

And yes, he's also a pain in the ass -- but so is everyone she associates with, so it doesn't really refute the point he hasn't explicitly stated.]

I'm not really looking for a golden ticket.

[Its a partial lie, but the topic is uncomfortable enough that her pokerface isn't as straight as it could be. She avoids looking up and instead focuses on his fingers, like she's waiting for him to finish.]

[triarchic]

[ He doesn't hesitate in calling her out, but his tone isn't accusatory, either. He states the word as if it's a simple fact: ]

Lie.

[ He keeps his eyes trained on hers for as long as she bothers to look at him, and then continues watching her when she looks away, fingers working slowly. ]

You're after some kind of golden ticket, taking a beating for the witches like you did. Besides. They've made everyone want it, at some point or another.

[tougher]

You are not my golden ticket.

[There's a little voice in the back of her head arguing with her. He's one of Evelyn's. He very well could be her golden ticket, just as much as Rhys could maybe even more than Rhys if he was on Evelyn's good side. The difference there being that she knew Rhys and at least trusted him enough not to take advantage of the situation, and to protect her assets at the end of the day.

Most of the time. She never really trusted anyone fully outside of Sasha (not after Felix had betrayed them), but it was more than she could say for most.

Worst of all is that she still can't deny the point about the witches. They all want the golden ticket at the end of the day.]

[triarchic]

Whether I am or aren't is entirely up to you.

[ He talks about it like it's just straight business, as if there's no pleasure to be mixed in. There is pleasure, of course, but that's not the angle that'll work on her. She's too practical for that.

Really, he just wants her because she's a tough one to crack, and that's always appealed to him. He genuinely likes her on some level, though, or at least respects her. Smart head on her shoulders. She reminds him of one of his team. ]

I do a lot of dirty work for her, you know.

[tougher]

[Fiona tries again to pull her wrist back out of reflex. She knows what he's trying to do, and she really wishes he wasn't so good at it. Resisting temptation has never been a strong point of her's even if she had a level head on her shoulders most of the time.

But pulling makes her want to vomit with pain, so she finally allows silver eyes to flick upward in order to continue giving him the most impressive glance of indifference the world has ever seen.]

And I'm sure you're proud to wear that badge.

[triarchic]

[ Easily, as he shrugs slightly: ]

What can I say? I take pride in everything I do. My job, my body. Fucking people. What's the point in doing something if you don't do it right?

[ His blue eyes meet hers, and he's smiling wolfishly. He watches her for a few seconds, hands completely still during that time... and then he looks back down at the bandages, reaching for a bandage clip to secure his handiwork. He keeps the hold on her wrist, even though he's done. ]

Relax. How's it feel?

[tougher]

You'll never convince me that you're proud of everything you've done in life. That's not how humans work.

[She doesn't take her eyes off of him when he looks away, though its not an entirely conscious fixation. As Fiona often does, she's rotating through outcomes in the back of her mind -- though the wrist is the worst of the damage, she's pretty beat up in general. Even if she wanted to start a fight (she kind of does), she'd lose in a matter of seconds and her dignity isn't worth just a few seconds of amusement.

The question distracts her and pulls her eyes back down to her wrist. She tries to rotate it, but the bandages keep her from moving it much -- thankfully. Her eyelids draw just a bit because whether she wants to admit it or not, he helped her and managed to do a good job in the process.]

Better.

[There's just a second of silence before she decides to extend the olive branch herself for once.]

Thanks.

[triarchic]

[ Proud of everything he's ever done in his life? Maybe not, but he's certainly not been regretful about anything. They gave him a commendation for one of the worst things he's ever done, after all, and he certainly didn't feel any remorse or regret over that. A strange sort of pride, really. But he's not going to get into an argument over any of it. He's already aware that a lot of people balk at the idea that he could be proud of something so despicable, and having to justify it to people is one of the last things he'd want to waste time doing. Working for I&I isn't something to be proud of, either, but he is.

Better to focus on her rare display of gratitude. He shrugs the apology off, lets go of her wrist and retrieves her empty glass and his, nodding in the direction of the ensuite. ]

You look a fucking mess. There's towels in the bathroom. Get yourself cleaned up. If you can't do it, bring a wet towel here and I'll do it for you.

[ He's putting the decision in her hands, moving off to pour the both of them another drink. ]

[tougher]

[Fiona glares very slightly in his direction. You don't just tell a woman they look like a fucking mess, even if its true. But he's right, and she can see it even when she's actively avoiding looking at herself in a mirror.

So after just a moment of stubborn hesitation, she stands without argument and disappears into the bathroom. She won't be taking his offer of help, as expected. He doesn't need to fuss over her any more.

That said, she doesn't emerge quickly and the water is left running for too long. But what does he care? They're not paying the water bill. In actuality, she's sat on the edge of the bath slowly scrubbing crusted blood away from her arms, side, and face. One wet towel is left to rest at her bruised hip that she had obviously fallen on.

Warm, clean water is one thing Fiona will never complain about when it comes to the work they're made to do. She does, however, wish she had taken the drink before she had peeled her clothes out of her various wounds.]

[triarchic]

[ When he's done pouring the drinks and setting them down on the vanity by the first aid kit, he makes his way over to his dresser, pulling out a lesser-worn shirt. Due to the height difference between them, nothing more than a shirt's really required to cover everything -- offering her a pair of his pants would be pure mockery.

And so he opens the bathroom door just a fraction to slide the shirt in where she can get to it, leaving her to her privacy -- see? He has a sense of fucking privacy -- before he returns to the vanity. He leans a hip against it, sipping idly at his drink as he waits for her. He'll give her five minutes, he decides, before he checks up on her if she isn't out by then. It's really not his fucking responsibility if she drowns in the bathtub or something, but that's not likely to go down well with the witches.

Christ, he was fucking sleepy, but. Had been sleepy before, even if he hadn't been able to get to sleep. He was exhausted. ]

[tougher]

[The one favor that Eros has done for her is made her a little more expectant to privacy invasions. It's why she doesn't immediately balk when she hears the door open, aside from a small and curious glance. She manages the barest smirk at the gesture, but she doesn't reappear quite in the restraint of five minutes.

She'll meet him as he reaches for the door, clad in shirt with her hair sticking messily to her head under the ratty hat she's far too attached to. The make up on her face has been washed off, which really only leaves the bruises that much more visible.

But their collision at the door only pulls an amused scoff from her, and Fiona holds her hand out expectantly for her drink.]

How sweet.

[triarchic]

[ Sweet. That would've pulled a look of disdain from him if it had been under different circumstances, but seeing as it's Fiona he simply stares impassively before stepping back to let her out, seemingly unfazed by their little collision. He pretends she didn't even say the word. ]

Drink's by the first aid kit.

[ Toreth eyes the shirt on her for a few seconds. It's practically like a dress, but that's what happens when you're about 6'4" -- your clothes become fucking pyjamas on people. ]

You don't look that bad. [ He's referring to her injuries. Now that all the excess blood -- not her blood -- has been cleaned away, she looks a lot better off, even if the bruises have become more pronounced. ]

[tougher]

I told you it wasn't bad.

[She carries even the ugliest of the bruises like they aren't even there, focused instead on heading straight for the drink. The length of the shirt, that bothers her just a bit. It's not flattering, and Fiona happens to pride herself on her mismatched fashion statements.

Hence the hat.

She had been hoping to get a rise out of him with the comment, but she isn't overly disappointed that he manages to resist any glares in her direction. the drink is scooped up and she even manages to offer him a pleased grin when she tips it to her lips.]

Not a fan of bloodsport, huh? Seems to be a common ailment.

[triarchic]

Oh, believe me. I'm a fan of bloodsport. In the right context.

[ He's no stranger to rough sex, after all, and Christ, he's had an encounter with a fucking vampire here who thought it'd be a good time to drain him of a little blood.

Getting the shit kicked out of, though? No, he can't say he likes the aesthetic of that too much. Too messy. He might enjoy it for a flicker of a second under very specific circumstances, but then everything would be wrong because there was no going back from something like that, no--

He takes a sip from his own glass, still holding it in his hands as he turns with her, keeping an eye. ]

Guess you must like it rough.

[tougher]

[Fiona doesn't answer the unasked question directly. But she does have a bit of alcohol in her system, so rather than heading for the door and cutting the conversation short, she opts to settle on the edge of the bed.

The glass is already half empty. She likes to drink.]

It's what I'm used to.

[Maybe that's more believable now that she's returned to Lilith's Crossing all bloody, on top of the fact that her homework is a lawless backwater planet.]

[triarchic]

[ This time when he moves over to her, he picks the bottle of whisky up off the shelf and brings it with him, holding it by the neck. He offers it out to her questioningly when he's a few feet away, looking down at her from where he stands. ]

Being used to something and liking something are two extremely different things, you know.

[tougher]

[She's not even done with the glas and he's offering her the bottle. That said, Fiona doesn't hesitate to take it, a likely unsurprising development. It's almost reflex -- there's no pause of hesitation or politeness, she's simply reaching for it and aiming to wrap it under her arm.

Meanwhile, she has to crane her neck to look up at him once he gets close.]

Well...yeah. But like...you know, comfort levels and being familiar with--why are we talking about this again?

[Not quite drunk enough for a totally lose tongue. Maybe if she had some painkillers to combine it with, but the pain is unfortunately still ever-present in her wrist.]

[triarchic]

I don't know. Why are we talking about this?

[ He smiles, the look on his face far too charming and obviously practiced. It's the smile he uses on admins when he needs a favour, one that silently promises something more.

He takes the spot next to her on the bed, settling down gently onto the mattress. She can do what she wants with the bottle. It gets magically refilled by the maids here, anyway, and he doesn't plan on getting blackout drunk tonight. Doesn't like sleeping drunk, and doesn't like drinking too much whisky if he's not trying to drown some sort of temper. You have to work off the calories later. ]

Give me your hand. [ He nods to the one he's just bandaged, placing his glass on the floor by his feet. ]

[tougher]

Hey, you started it.

[She, on the other hand hugs the bottle a little closer and eyeballs his hand. She did owe him a bit of trust, since he had gone out of his way to repair the break, even if she didn't want to give him any extra IOUs.

But after a long moment, she pulls her hand out from the tanglement it had been hiding in and holds it out for him, fingers curled halfway in on reflex alone.]

What is it?

[triarchic]

[ His fingers encircle her wrist, and he runs an expert eye over it, judging for a moment where the best place to squeeze would be based on her injury. Somewhere where it would hurt, but wouldn't cause lasting damage or affect the break.

He doesn't tighten his grip or clamp down just yet, just holds her in place. If she pulls away and hurts herself, it's her own fault. ]

Would you really like it? If I hurt you.

[tougher]

Not--if you're hurting me just to hurt me.

[She stammers just a little, struggling not to trip over her own honesty on top of slow dawning understanding. Her heart rate that had calmed down in the bathroom elevates slightly.

Her opposite hand immediately comes to rest over his in preparation to defend herself.]

That's not how it works.

[She isn't coherent enough to consider that context in their current position likely wouldn't make a difference -- the witches had made extra certain of that. Fiona lets her jaw go a little tight in stubborn silence. He's playing with her.

--maybe. Maybe he isn't. But it's easier to think that he is.]

[triarchic]

[ He chuckles at the unspoken implication of her response, eyes bright as he watches her. He doesn't really react to her hand over his, only giving it a cursory glance before he goes right back to looking at her. Sure, she can struggle, but the damage will already have been done. He gets the headstart, if he chooses. ]

But you'd like it if I were hurting you and planning to fuck you. That's how it works, is it?

[tougher]

Yes--no--probably? Nnn I didn't say any of that.

[Fiona's discomfort starts to win over her pride, and the warmth that starts to spread from between her shoulders turns her cheeks red. She can feel desires shifting -- instead of desiring more alcohol, she wants a rise out of the man next to her. He's got an advantage, but since when had that ever stopped her?

If Toreth doesn't actively fight her attempts to drag her wrists and his hands to her mouth, she will try and bite the second they get close.]

[triarchic]

[ At the first feel of her wrists pulling upwards, Toreth clamps his fingers down on her injury, attempting to restrain her and keep her hands where they are.

He hadn't actually planned on hurting her, had just been toying, but here they are. She just had to push, didn't she? It's okay. He can improvise when he has to. ]

Keep. Fucking. Still.

[tougher]

[She's not expecting it to hurt like it does -- she had forgotten about the injury once the brace had managed to numb the pain. However, when the pressure catches up to her, she feels herself nearly pass out from the jolt of pain that vibrates up her entire arm.]

Shit--

[A bead of sweat forms at the side of her head, and her elbow relaxes her arm. She hums out her pain and swallows hard.]