Wounded Healer

@liara-pond

I want to be someone else or I’ll explode

1,111 posts

[It’s much easier said than done, if he’s being honest with the both of them. Because he doesn’t have near enough at his disposal to do what he likes, but he makes do with what’s at hand. Quincy traces his lips across her temple, along her jaw, down her throat, to where the skin is tender, and easy to bruise as he bites down. He doesn’t draw blood with these motions; only watches pleased as her skin swells red and blue and green in his wake. Like a reminder of where to revisit when he’s once more got the world in his hands, and the proper tools to make her bleed right.

Down, down until his lips are at her collar, and up again to meet her own. Kissing her with a deep, bruising kind of persuasion; working at the previous wound until it spill over crimson. Until his lips too are bleeding again. And it is not satisfying. It isn’t enough to make him feel like he’s got something good going.

But maybe this in and of itself is good — the intimacy he doesn’t afford anyone. Even if he can’t show her what he likes, he’s got her, and she isn’t fighting him on it. He wouldn’t want her if she did.

And he lifts his head again; gaze locked on hers. The look is soft, and run over with the same haze that clouds his thoughts.] What about what you like? [He asks, as if he isn’t seconds from asking her to help him find something useful, something sharp.]

I like you. [As if that is, at all what he's asking. As if he didn't know that already before coming here, waiting in her room like he always tends to do on days when there's nothing he can find to fill his time. No one he can find that he can talk to. At least, that's how she imagines it goes. It's how her days go when she sneaks into his room when no one is looking and buries herself in his bed, waiting for his day to come to an end. For him to come find her and challenge her into doing something so very stupid with him, because he knows just how to make her want to do things she didn't know she wanted to do do before. He's the only person she wants to talk to, anyway.

He knows that, she thinks. Knows the way she works herself around him and lets him just be. Intimidating, brooding, scary if she'd let him say it. But she wouldn't. Because she isn't scared. Even now with her words coming out barely in breaths and the way her lip aches, pulsing, bleeding and wanting to desperately to just have him touch her more.] I like this.

[She kisses him back, again, because she doesn't know what she likes yet. Doesn't know if it will be too much when he decides to cut her open. If he decides to cut her open. He's the scary one, but she's tugging at his lips like she might have initiated the whole thing to begin with.

She's never kissed someone with blood in their mouth before.] Come on, Quincy D. Scare me. [It's unsettling how much better it is.] I'll tell you if I like it.

[How is he meant to say no to that? Quincy’s eyes rake her gaze over and over, looking for flaws in the sentiment. He’s greeted by nothing but interest, startlingly clear.

And how is he meant to say no to that? To do what is best for her when she asks otherwise? He isn’t, he doesn’t think. So he doesn’t.] Yeah?

And if I want—

[It is not a kiss. It is nothing so sweet, though it is arguably as intimate, or as tender. It is simply teeth tugging flesh; biting down, down until the blood he seeks springs forth. And when he swipes it away with his tongue, it is only in the nature of the thing. Only because his own lip has not yet crusted over, and small smears of his own blood are left beneath her lips. Bits of him, in exchange for the taste of her.

And Quincy would have hesitated a month ago, a week ago, a moment ago, if she was not who she was. But then, they wouldn’t be here if she wasn’t who she is. She’d be a victim, or a stranger, and there would not be ground forged to walk in between on.

There is no one Liara could have been but herself to lead them here. Quincy smiles, pulling just away — until they’re no longer touching, but their breathing mingles. It’s pleasant, the closeness of it. But maybe he has bitten too hard, because the blood doesn’t stop after the initial beading. It runs the course of her lips and onto her chin. Runs a pretty and deep scarlet across her skin, and she is life, and he wants more.

Wants enough that he is tempted to chase it at its source. He doesn’t, just waits for her to indicate that this is alright. That he could draw more, if he chose too. Because he knows what she said, but he doesn’t know how well she meant it. How well she understands that he would cut lasting valleys into her flesh, and sew her together again, if she would let him.

And it wouldn’t be pleasant for her, but he would love every second of it. Every second until the tears started. Until he was forced to face that there was no middle-ground between the two. That to want that, was to hurt her, inevitably.

Quincy has never wanted to hurt her. He cares far too much for that.]

If I want more than you should ever give?

[It's almost dizzying, almost too much the way he strikes without warning. As if she ddn't already know what was to come. But it is so. much. different. to actually feel him tugging at her lips. Breaking through the skin with tinges of something that she can't place. Something she's seen on him, felt in warmth of his hands or the pressure of his lips against her neck, making way in the moments before he bares teeth and truly takes something from her. But it's never been like this.

And how is it possible that she's let it linger this long, with her teeth piecing simple holes in his skin and kissing away the wound when she begins to feel bad for having hurt him. For tasting something that's meant to stay locked underneath his flesh. When he is like this. When his lips move to hers like he might kiss her. Like he might be firm, in the way that he always, always fucking is, but gentle.

It isn't gentle and it isn't calm and nothing about her feels remotely self-conscious for the breathy noise that comes spilling from her throat. His teeth, his words, his tongue running along the length of her lip like he could soak up the blood and take it in as his own. It's too much. It's not enough. It's so much better than she thought.] You won't. I'll want it. I will. I'll --

[She's breathy -- dizzy, here in the aftermath of what she knows to really be quiet before the storm. It's a preview. A starter course for intimacy so very much deeper than this runs. And there's blood running down her chin, spilling onto her shirt.

She remembers the taste of his. Feels it lingering on her tongue, mingling with her own in a way that feels more taboo than she imagined. Her tongue runs across her lips, tracing the line he left with his.] Show me what you like, Q. Please.

[And he would, he very much would. But she’s provoking him now, in her own way. Testing the waters. While it’s not quite permission, not a solid ‘yes’, he doesn’t hesitate in moving. He won’t hurt her. He quite solidly refuses. It doesn’t mean that he can’t shift beside her on the bed, turn her beneath his hands until he’s got her pinned to the mattress; that wicked smirk only growing playfully.

This is not a place they haven’t been before. It’s the only fact that keeps him from doubting the gesture as a whole. That it is really playing, despite how the notion of her asking him to make her bleed has other less platonic effects on his thoughts.

This is not a place they haven’t been before, and when he presses his lips softly to her forehead, he only feels affectionate warmth.]

I don’t think you’d know what you were getting into if you did. [He hums. Not condescendingly. It isn’t though he thinks she wouldn’t grasp the concept as a whole; just who she is asking, and what exactly she would be asking for.

It’s not like he’s hearing her ask for a paper cut, and he thinks she knows that.] How much would you want to bleed anyways? I mean how much blood would be too much? Are you asking me to bite you, or are you asking me to cut you open? You’ve got to be specific with these things, remember? I’m the big bad wolf, you’re just not scared.

[Liara is, for lack of better words and for lack of articulation to turn her thoughts into something worth saying out loud, because she is so very distracted by this, completely enamored with the way that he is right now. She shouldn't be. Shouldn't revel in the way his hands move her and hold her down, the way it feels to be stuck beneath his grasp, even with his lips humming quiet thoughts against her forehead. Like a sign of protection. Like someone so tender and careful about how he touches her, holding her down and whisking worlds together in a way that he's always known how. That only he has ever really known how.

If he doesn't notice the way her chest moves with breaths harder to reel in and keep in her lungs, it might be a godsend. Or a missed opportunity, for him, seeing her so unbelievably taken with his candor. Like she always seems to be, but different, somehow. Just so slightly different.

And the way he says it, her not knowing what she'd gotten into, makes her want to know so much more than she had only moments before. Like laying here, naive and ignorant to his tendencies is the worst thing she could be, in this moment. She doesn't know. Has no idea, though is probably more intimate with the way his mood can switch into something sinister more quickly than most. Still. He doesn't want to kill her. He told her as much.

There's only so much that falls beneath that level.] You could show me.

[It's not smart, letting the man with blood on his hands teach her just how far the rabbit hole goes. But then, when has she ever claimed to favor safety over thrill? She is in bed with a murderer.] I'm asking... whatever you like. [And admission:] This is new. I'm new. Teach me.

No.

[It’s a rush to hear her say it; something that pulls him back forward — back into life. And she’s there, soft, warm beside him, asking him to make her bleed. It’s something not quite right, not quite true. Like there’s a chance she could really be asking that, but then, why would she?

And the answer is obvious. It comes in the bruises he’s left around bite marks on her flesh. Comes in the taste of her blood — he remembers, more than slightly. Comes in her touch, and taste, and smell.

It’s oh so obvious. And Q is not one to turn her down.

He smirks when he turns his gaze to meet hers; a half-quirked sort of thing. It’s lopsided and warm in a way he only regards her. A reasonable precursor to how he raises his hand to rest at her jaw; moves his thumb to trail the plush skin of her lower lip.]

But, tell me, do you really want that? [He asks in a tone that is teasing, but somewhat quietly lets her in on the jackpot of fun facts she’s accidentally reached.

The way he sees it, he’s a serial killer. She has to know that he likes to make people bleed. He’s made her bleed before. But there’s a difference between responding to a challenge, and being asked. A big one. One he’ll play on to his grave. And he’s fairly certain Liara doesn’t understand how pleasant blood can be. How pleasant he can make it.

Quincy presses his forehead to hers, and chuckles softly.]

You weirdo. [Like the sentiment wouldn’t reflect him as well.]

[She's surprised, more than anything. Shocked out of her comfort zone in such a delicate way that she hardly even notices that it's happening. He's done this before. Or, at least, versions of his, with his hands wrapped around her throat or his teeth pulling at her skin just harsh enough that it leaves reminders that he's been there for days to come after.

But those were all so very prompted. So challenged, in a way that she'd had to play like the schoolyard bully and tell him she didn't think he could do any of it, if only to make him try. Because she's Liara, so very open and warm and welcoming to the bits of discomfort that she can bring on herself, if it feels at all like a rush. Like excitement boiling in the thick of her veins and heating her up.

And on the other end of that spectrum, he is so very much Quincy. Who does what he wants, if not sometimes allowing himself to be prompted by her prods and pokes. What she would like to have done. It should be no secret why, but it is, she guesses. It doesn't keep her from holding her breath the second his skin touches her lips.

She doesn't feel like she's prompted this. And yet, here it is.] You think I don't? [She's still. Doe-eyed. Cautious in the way she forms her words. But smirking. And still so very enthralled.] Shouldn't be a surprise to you that a weirdo is into weird things, Quincy D. You'd know.

[The water tastes too soft going down the back of his throat. And it isn’t exactly like he expects it to scrape the skin raw — his words do that well enough for him — but it feels almost like silk. Feels too very unreal as he swallows; soft and light. The world is a pale opal around him, and the ambiance of other patients is drown away until he doesn’t hear it anymore. It’s just him and the glass of water. Him and his thoughts. Him and the lip he chews nearly raw between his teeth. Quincy only stops at the taste of his own blood.

And he knows the therapists will ask him about it later, when they run out of dead ends to reach. When they tire of asking about death, and being; they settle much lighter on bleeding. On how to hurt himself and others. On whether or not pain is even effective anymore. The answer is that it isn’t. But the answer they look for is more in the range of ‘I have made myself impenetrable’, and even he isn’t so grand as to think himself so.

He’s not concrete, he’s just not glass either. Quincy holds his own, and at the end of the day, bleeds in ways he knows gods don’t.

There is nothing for him in it, to kill the ever-present hollow.]

[It's not like Liara is surprised to see Quincy in her room when she opens the door. That much she's used to, even if it usually comes in the middle of the night, when she's trying to sleep but he can't, so he overs over her like freaking batman or something until she wakes up, throws a pillow at him, calls him creepy, etc. And, eventually, asks him to lay with her. Because it's easier to talk to him when he's on her level. Easier to be in general when he's hanging around. But saying that out loud isn't something she especially plans on doing.

And she's tired today -- long talks in group therapy because she's still technically bouncing around from doctor to doctor since Thom ran off with her weed and her dignity. Tired enough that she doesn't bother saying anything to him at all until she's already bounced herself onto the bed and laid her head back to keep it from aching.

It's not until she's already laid out next to him that his lip, trickling the smallest bit of blood, is noticeable. Which, in all honesty, wakes her up better than a cup of coffee could. She sits up, quirking a brow at him.] Like, did we decide to come bleed in Liara's room today? Was that on the schedule, 'cause I think I missed it, and if I did, you'll have to do me a favor and get me started since you're ahead of me. [She gestures to his slightly swollen lip.] Clearly.

[It’s hard for him not to react. Hard not to counter quickly, and impulsively. But that would mean that she had won, and he’s not in the business of letting that happen. Not today. So he doesn’t pull back when she nips at him. Doesn’t even bat an eye at the way his own blood clings to his cheek after it’s departure from her lips.

He directs it all away, to some part of his mind that can process it without emotional response.

He’s got his own cards to play, after all.

Cards that come in the form of calloused fingertips, and teeth. Quincy props the book between the fingers of his one hand; using his spare hand to trace her hip along the hem of her shirt. It takes only seconds for him to find where the shirt ends, and skin begins. Even less time for him to start tracing her flesh instead. He’s careful to keep his fingers low; only just beneath where her shirt ought to fall. Only lightly pressing into the flesh he finds there.

Quincy’s breathing is still even against her neck, and it’s the only response he allows.]

[The game feels more competitive now than it had before. His challenge to her actions, falling to the wayside for something more mutual: testing, teasing, taunting. He doesn't even say words -- doesn't react or move or give notice to the red on his neck, his cheek, her lips.

And when he touches her he must know that it's unfair. That she could draw blood from him and play her big finale move, and know that he's only getting started. That he's just warming up.

So when she nudges her head against his, she isn't sure if it's a statement or a request. To look at her, whether she's asking or not. It certainly, however, isn't a reaction. And if she had a book to bury her nose in, she might take solace not having her hands feel so empty. So she uses them the only way she knows she can: tracing lines of the red from his wound outward onto his neck, bringing the free one up to run through the hair on his scalp. Little things.

He's winning, she thinks, for the moment. But she stays still, holding her ground.]

[His last chance, which he very pointedly ruins. Quincy is quick to pull the book up behind her back; pressing his nose into the crook of her neck to read over her shoulder. And it should be obvious that the proximity is only just that — a method by which to read — as the only thing that changes about the contact is the rate at which his breath fans across her skin.

No bite, like they often threaten each other with. No words mouthed into her flesh; tenderly, just to tease her.

Nothing, and yet it is a warning all the same. A silent, less than ominous one.

A challenge. A dare.]

[His uneven breathing against the skin of her neck is many things. Distracting being in the forefront of words she might choose to say, but doesn't. And while it may slow down the process, his playing the game as well, it only adds fuel to the flame of her end-goal. After all, Quincy is the one who has her trapped now. It would be a challenge to move even if she tried.

And in retaliation, she finds the thin spread of skin beneath his jaw with her lips, the feeling of his pulse thudding against them. She does nothing at first, taunting him quickly with gentle tugs against the flesh, nibbles with her teeth. And then, there's his familiar taste breaking through onto her tongue. But she doesn't pull away immediately like before, instead opting to pull against the wound as if he weren't producing enough blood.

Her lips are gone from his neck and as she pulls back so that she can see his profile again, and once again his skin is beneath her lips, pressing a crimson stain across his cheek.]

[The look he shoots her as he lifts his book over her is one meant to convey that she’s being ridiculous.

It’s also meant to tell her that it’s not enough, which he proves by propping his book atop her chest. It’s a strange position, but they’ve literally been in stranger. Besides, he can’t really put it directly on her face, and her stomach is too far away.

The point is not so much the locational placement of the book, but the fact that she is below it.]

That's not very polite. [Her mouth says the words, her eyes implying how little polite matters in the circumstances. In most circumstances that they find themselves in.

So when she starts to move, it's a slow reaction that moves knocks the poor book that never asked for this sort of abuse away from her, until she's writhed her way upward, sitting directly between Quincy and his reading apparatus. And she meets her stare with his eyes, a look that states her presence. That shows what an obstacle she can be.

And with a thumb running gently across the vulnerable skin of his neck.] Last chance, Quincy D.

[He feels the wrapper bounce off the top of his nose; his entire expression scrunching around the contact for a moment. It’s ridiculous, but it’s amusing. Cute, even. And he shakes himself of the disruption it causes with a slight grin on his lips.]

I’m afraid you’ll have to try harder than that, Butterfingers.

[Quincy turns his attention back to the book, actually picking up words and descriptions this time.

It’s getting easier, steadily, to ignore her. But that of course is countered by the other things he finds himself steadily wanting to do to her.]

[And there it is: the verbal confirmation of what really didn't need to be said out loud in the first place. Try harder. Do more. She might have been being kind with her book kicking and wrapper throwing before, leaving room for the possibility that he could enjoy his book while she taunts and teases him. But now.

Liara sits up from where she lays, coming up so that the weight of her body is placed on her knees. She turns so that her back is facing him. And then, she lets go, falling backward into his lap without much warning.

The next part, however, is a warning, as she bares her teeth at him from where she lays, telling him of things to come if he doesn't give in.]

[Quincy simply makes a face at her. Something to suggest that while he wouldn’t be against the idea, he’s too preoccupied to really respond.

It’s amusing how immediately she takes the challenge. How well it all is issued.

Quincy’s eyes simply scan the page of his book over again. He’s not really reading the words so much as he is simply seeing them. They do not jump up off the page at him, or draw his attention like they had before her arrival.

Her annoyance will be fun to watch. But Quincy had not anticipated actually losing interest in all but her.]

[It occurs to Liara that the possibility exists of him genuinely wanting to be alone -- to have her and her nonsense go away for twenty minutes while he enjoys the tale of whatever pretentious protagonist is overcoming whatever internal obstacle. Though, when she thinks on Quincy D, she doesn't picture the stereotypical hero. Something of an ant-hero maybe.

She isn't familiar with the book in his hand, but the idea of there being a someone quiet and unwilling to be what a world thinks a person should be is appealing to her. For him to be reading.

Nonetheless, she ignores her own musings and takes out a piece of gum, chewing on the blue strip while balling the silver wrapping up and tossing it into his face.] Sorry. Butterfingers.

The former. [But that’s all the response he gives. The smirk resting lightly atop his lips is the only sign he’s even issuing a challenge.

But Quincy knows that she will see it. That she’ll take it for what it is. It is a good book, after all. Not the best he’s ever read, but not the worst either.]

[Her eyes narrow at him almost threateningly. And she knows that the threat will be swept under the rug, because the smile that cuffs itself to the corner of his lips is challenge enough; it's asking for the threat.

And who has she ever been to turn down a challenge? Especially between the two of them. Her elbow drops from his shoulder, knocking his arm so that the book slips in the process.]

I mean, I guess I'll leave you to it, then. No point in bothering you if you're this busy. You don't mind if I chill though, right? [And she turns and leans herself back against the armrest of the couch, draping her legs across his lap, kicking the book around in the process.]

[Quincy’s been reading for nearly an hour by the time that Liara walks in. He hardly has to look up to know that it’s her; her presence is so familiar now. However, even if he had to, he’d hardly spare her a glance today. He wants to see how far he has to push her before she cracks. How long she can handle the minimum response from him.]

[Q's eyes don't even shift up to her as she walks past him. And, generally, to her is the first place they go. So, it's off-putting, and she strolls past him one more time just to see if he's genuinely missed her or it's an active choice to continue looking down. When his gaze stays locked, she grumpily plops herself down next to him, leaning an elbow on his shoulder and looking up at him.]

That a good book or have you decided that mouthy blondes aren't really your type?

[Immediately options flood his mind, and none of the verbal and forgivable type. It’s an army of bad suggestions, one after the other. He settles for shaking his head.]

I don’t think you want to invite that, dear.

[She leans in then, tossing the apple to the floor without care in a very characteristically Liara manner. And she knows it's not a good idea. When is it ever a good idea? But she says it anyway.]

What're you gonna do? Push me down and take my lunch money?

A crier, are you?

[And he’s endlessly amused. Far more amused than he ought to be, but hey, he enjoys tears most of the time. They’re satisfying in a way that few other things are.]

How about you bottle those tears for me? I think they’d be a nice romantic gift for Janine.

[It feels like a challenge even if it isn't one. And when she takes another bite of her apple, she's mulling over his words, and quietly cursing whoever Janine is in the process.

She swallows, and her lips are moving.] Well then, Janine will have a nice lovely present, if you can make me.

A nurse. [He rolls his eyes, more out of affection than actual exasperation.] Don’t worry, we’re not having a scandalous affair.

[And he almost laughs at that one. But he doesn’t. He thinks there’s something he’s heard about laughing at your own jokes, and he doesn’t.] The last thing I want to do is give myself more of a record, christ.

Oh yeah, 'cause you're totally all about not breaking rules. [The nod she gives suggests she might be one hundred percent serious. But the quirk of her brow suggests otherwise, and she thinks he might have known without the hint of expression anyway.]

Did she make you talk about your feelings, Q? Raise up all of those deep-seeded emotions that you just couldn't hold in any longer? [She pauses, leaning closer, with eyes wide.] Did you cry? Don't worry. You can tell me. Minimal judgement on the basis that I can't remember if I've ever cried in front of you, but chances are, I have. I'm a crier Quincy D.

Janine is downright joyful at this time of the morning.

[Quincy regards the nurse in question with narrowed eyes. It’s still too early in the morning for him to be plotting bodily harm, but then again. Is it ever really too early? He just doesn’t want pills shoved at him before he’s even had time to eat.]

Janine?

[And she eyes him with the same narrowed, suspicious look that comes from his eyes. Only hers is accompanied by the chewing movements of her jaw as she takes a bite of the apple in her hand. Either he's having hallucinations of one of his past victims, or Q's actually branched out and made friends. The latter doesn't seem likely.]

Should I be making contingency plans?

Seven? I can beat that.

[And he takes the phone from her hands, fingers hovering hesitantly over the screen. Cell phones, he’s mildly acquainted with. If his father hadn’t left, he might have had one in his teen years. Elliot had bought him one when he’d moved in, but Quincy never had anyone to call aside from Maudie. He’d turned the plan off and stuck to landlines when Elliot passed.

However as soon as he touches the screen the bird falls.

And yes, this might actually be challenging.]

[Scooting closer to him to watch seems like the only viable option, as she's sure he has the same set of false confidence that she did when she first nicked the phone and started playing. That was, arguably, one of the main catalysts for her coming to visit him with the game. Not that she hadn't already planned on stopping by just to see him. But, the idea of knocking his ego down just a little bit seemed like a good add-on to the experience. It must be a bit inflated recently, anyway.]

'I'm sorry, what was that? Can you repeat it for me? 'Cause it sounded like you said that you could beat seven. But that can't be right, because look. Right there. [Her fingers touch the screen of the phone, as if he doesn't already know what she's talking about.] Your fishbird is on the ground, Quincy D. Maybe we should call a doctor for it. Or a technician to fix the phone, since clearly it can't be your fault. I mean, you said you could beat seven.

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