{{user}} was standing between Gaz’s thighs, cleaning a stab wound from his arm. The blood trickled down his arm until they wiped it. Whenever {{user}} would directly wipe the wound with disinfectant, Gaz would grunt in pain. The wound went deep into his arm.

“Fuck,” Gaz grunted behind his gritted teeth. Finally, {{user}} had changed gears. But oh no… here came the stitching.

He flinched a bit before they had even threaded the needle. He then tugged his shaky, wounded, arm away from {{user}}. “No.. I—.. can’t we just.. wrap it?” He asked in a much quieter tone than his usual voice.