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

[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.]

[triarchic]

[ As soon as he feels her arm relax, his grip loosens. Loosens enough that he's not hurting her, but he's still holding her to make a point. He's already made enough of a point, he thinks, showing that he doesn't really mind inflicting pain, just in case she didn't believe it before.

Wryly, in regards to her little attempt to -- he doesn't even know what she was attempting -- do whatever: ]

I thought you said you liked a little pain. Maybe you don't like it as much as you thought after all.

[tougher]

[He's trying to file her, she's certain of it. Unfortunately, its working. Fiona cranes her neck just a little like she is trying to hold herself back from replying. Her eyes drift shut, and she exhales a breath through her nose.]

You-- are such a pain in my ass.

[Tame, compared to what she had wanted to say. She leaves her wrist limp in his grip and stares upward with just the barest hint of disdain.]

Are you going to let go of me, or are you going to do something with it?

[She twists her wrist enough that she can wrist half-painted fingernails on Toreth's own wrist. If she plays coy, he doesn't get the satisfaction of a rise out of her, and that's totally worth it.

It distracts her from feeling itchy.]

[triarchic]

[ Big talk. It's a win-win situation for him, really, no matter which way it goes, and so he just grins. How far is she willing to go with this? He'l give her points for playing it extraordinarily cool.

His voice drops down, low and easy. ]

I'll do something with it if you ask me to.

[tougher]

[Not very far, judging by how she grumbles when he provides his answer. She won't beg for it -- she'll reinjure herself before it comes to that and she has a feeling that Toreth knows that.

Asshole.]

I don't think so.

[And regardless of how he chooses to retaliate, she will again lull her wrist up (or lean in whatever direction necessarily) to bite at his wrist in return.]

[triarchic]

[ This time when he feels her move he makes an attempt to let go of her, dropping his grip on her entirely. Her other hand -- the one she has over his -- isn't injured, so he doesn't hesitate to jerk his hand free and away from her, leaning back.

Christ, but she's like a feral animal, though. Was she trying to fucking bite him? He shoots her an incredulous, exasperated look, muscles tense in case she decides to try anything else. ]

Don't like being on the back foot, do you?

[tougher]

I would've thought you'd have figured that out by now.

[She seems pleased with his reaction, maybe just a touch more smug than she has any right to be. Considering her wrist is in a splint, she doesn't push her luck with pursuing him -- but judging by the way she shifts her weight onto her hip on the bed, she'd been thinking about it.

Whiskey will do that to a person.]

You've got a vast reserve of knowledge on me now, you know.

[More than anyone else did -- she's a little too buzzed to be mad about it right this second, but its a fact nonetheless.]

[triarchic]

[ He doesn't relax, even if his gaze remains cool, leveled at her. In fact, because she looks so smug, he decides to run his eyes over her body, almost pointedly. Up and down, resting for too long on the more provocative places before he bothers to answer her. ]

Does that make you uncomfortable? [ And then, as an aside: ] The shirt looks nice, by the way. Maybe you should hold onto it.