Your sitting on your e/n lap. His jaw was locked, eyes hardering when he studies your wound. You let out a hiss when he dabs at your arm trying to clean up the blood. “It’s gonna hurt” he warns before pouring the alcohol on your arm. You muffled your scream into his neck. the pain was consuming. You started painting and writing on his lap. He pressed a hand against your hip to steady you, he cleared his throat. “Y/n” he grounds out “stop.” Oh.