free stitch

  • Rin: Makoto! You have to help me get Haru to the hospital! He says he doesn't need to go but there's blood everywhere.
  • Makoto: Oh my god! What happened?
  • Rin: We fell over and I bit his tongue and you know how sharp my teeth are-
  • Makoto: You bit his tongue? How did you manage that?
  • Rin: We...ah...well...that's not important right now! We have to get to the hospital! Right, Haru?
  • Haru: *With much difficulty and garbledness and blood spitting* We were kissing and it was magical.
2

Tw: Stitches?

John made his way back into the room; first aide kit in hand. He took a few paces towards (Y/N) and then motioned for her to take a seat on the counter. It was more of a habit than a conscious order; After years of living in the Assassin world, he was practically a pro at cleaning up battle wounds.

“Hat,“ John said, pointing towards her hat.

(Y/N) sighed, quickly taking it off and placing it on her lap.

John stepped closer, examining her eye under the light and pushing her hair back into a ponytail.

“Ouch!“ (Y/N) flinched away from John, giving him a bewildered look.

John frowned slightly, catching her chin in his hand, and shooting her a look of warning. 

“You’ve got some pretty bad swelling,” he said in a low voice, letting go of her face and pulling on a pair of hospital gloves. “What happened?”

“Let’s just say, I’m a bit… rusty,” (Y/N) let out a pained puff of air, squinting as John began to clean the debris from various places on her face.

Rusty, huh?” John laughed slightly, less amused than appalled, meeting her gaze with his own. “You look like you got hit by a tank.”

“Well, I guess you would know,” *(Y/N) japed. “You seem to be the expert on that… getting hit by motor vehicles, I mean.” 

John smirked to himself (a small, barely visible thing), ripping open a sterile package of suturing supplies, fishing out a curved needle and some thread.

“This is going to hurt a bit,” He said, searching (Y/N)’s eyes, silently asking permission to continue the process of closing her wounds. 

There was a sternly implied, “Stay still,” in his words. 

Yup,” (Y/N) nodded hesitantly, nibbling her lip, and bracing herself for more pain. “Do your thing, Papa John’s.

John frowned to himself upon hearing (Y/N) call him by one of the more bizarre nicknames the girl had given him over the years: Papa Johns.

(Y/N) let out an impish smile, in an attempt to distract herself;

Usually, John was gentle enough where she could barely feel him patching up her wounds… But, sometimes, especially with the nastier wounds, a hint of John’s naturally heavier touch would break through in the form of an overly brisk movement. So, of course, (Y/N) would flinch or jerk away in pain… and then John would scold her (more out of worry than genuine annoyance), and they would get pissy at each other for a bit, and eventually continue on with what they were previously doing. 

Somehow they’d both end up taking a deep breath, usually at the same time, and eventually wander back to bed where they would fall asleep next to each other, if not completely tangled up in one another.