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bakerstreet2025-05-01 07:04 am
pippilongsockings) wrote in bakerstreet2025-05-01 07:04 am
Nursed back to health
 
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[ m/m 20+ either role! tl;dr shin is an esper. mindreading and other abilities within 400m. if your character has resistance to this lmk or if you prefer shin not do this at all lmk. it can be worked around since it's not always working for various reasons, esp in this situation if he's injured. oh and he's also an ex-assassin, in case your character might've known him through That life. more info/permissions, opt-in/out, etc on his journal. ]
Edited 2025-05-01 12:41 (UTC)
[Either/or. He's a pretty meticulous caretaker but also a workaholic. Being sick or injured is no reason not to get work done and he is a grumpy patient.]
It's late. It is far too late for Grier to still be up working, but this is something that, other the months Illario has gotten used to.
He returns from his work in the Western Approach, has the first proper wash in what feels like days, and is dressed and returning to their rooms to find the light still on.
Groer is indeed a workaholic. He also doesn't really like to delegate very much. Unfortunately, all of that is gping to start taking a toll. He already knows Grier burns the candle at both ends.
"Amore, when was the last time your stretched your legs? Or had a drink?" He asks, moving closer and attempting to read, upsided down, wjatever Grier has in front of him.
He returns from his work in the Western Approach, has the first proper wash in what feels like days, and is dressed and returning to their rooms to find the light still on.
Groer is indeed a workaholic. He also doesn't really like to delegate very much. Unfortunately, all of that is gping to start taking a toll. He already knows Grier burns the candle at both ends.
"Amore, when was the last time your stretched your legs? Or had a drink?" He asks, moving closer and attempting to read, upsided down, wjatever Grier has in front of him.
[Either/or, but he is pretty accident-prone.]
( either role! while she is immortal and can heal from fatal injuries, she's still not spared from fun afflictions such as blood loss or the flu. she is also very much the type to fuss over someone! )
( hey u 😘 buck and art are both prone to it, if you got a pref. open to whichever! )
[1940s Bucky: open to either role, TWS and beyond: the one nursed back to health. Preference for prose]
[ 25+ for shipping. either role is fine with me but both characters needing to rely on each other to some degree is even better. ]
( open to assumed cr, crosscanon/medium & ocs. more likely to be the nurse, but open to being the injured party. i can write a starter if you want to throw out a general idea or scenario! )
[i hope this is okay!! lmk if you'd like me to change it up
It starts with a word, like all fights usually do, along with the wrong kind of look, the careless bump of a hip, and then more words, louder and harsher. Words about prissy, privileged boys who take up more space than they should, sticking their noses in places where they don't belong. Words and words and words, Felix is full of them in return, always the wrong kind. Sometimes it gives him what he's looking for, more often it ends with a brief burst of adrenaline and then the sour, sticky feeling of regret.
Even though the night had started so well. With music, dancing, the camaraderie only a crowd can make him feel, and now -- this. Felix spilling out from the tail end of a fight, bloodied and breathing hard, trying to feel at least some kind of satisfied and coming up empty. he can hear the music start up again behind him, the crowd milling back to the dance floor now that it spat him out. it wasn't a party-breaking kind of fight after all, just a smart-mouthed idiot against three.
Felix pushes his way outside, then crouches some feet away from the door of the establishment, one hand pressed to his nose to stem the blood, the other feeling around for the cut on his forehead, the lump-shaped bruise. It hurts to speak -- he's pretty sure he has a split lip too -- but he manages it anyway, voice a little thick as he mutters,]
Fuck.
[whether that's to himself or to the figure he can recognize through the sheen of blood, it's hard to say. maybe both? It's hardly the first time he's been caught looking a mess, but he can't deny that the shame feels sharper now, specifically because it's Lucy Gray of all people standing there and looking at him, and not singing in that clear voice of hers while on the stage.
He fumbles for something else to say, something less idiotic to follow it up with, and musters a cough instead. the night really is going so well]
It starts with a word, like all fights usually do, along with the wrong kind of look, the careless bump of a hip, and then more words, louder and harsher. Words about prissy, privileged boys who take up more space than they should, sticking their noses in places where they don't belong. Words and words and words, Felix is full of them in return, always the wrong kind. Sometimes it gives him what he's looking for, more often it ends with a brief burst of adrenaline and then the sour, sticky feeling of regret.
Even though the night had started so well. With music, dancing, the camaraderie only a crowd can make him feel, and now -- this. Felix spilling out from the tail end of a fight, bloodied and breathing hard, trying to feel at least some kind of satisfied and coming up empty. he can hear the music start up again behind him, the crowd milling back to the dance floor now that it spat him out. it wasn't a party-breaking kind of fight after all, just a smart-mouthed idiot against three.
Felix pushes his way outside, then crouches some feet away from the door of the establishment, one hand pressed to his nose to stem the blood, the other feeling around for the cut on his forehead, the lump-shaped bruise. It hurts to speak -- he's pretty sure he has a split lip too -- but he manages it anyway, voice a little thick as he mutters,]
Fuck.
[whether that's to himself or to the figure he can recognize through the sheen of blood, it's hard to say. maybe both? It's hardly the first time he's been caught looking a mess, but he can't deny that the shame feels sharper now, specifically because it's Lucy Gray of all people standing there and looking at him, and not singing in that clear voice of hers while on the stage.
He fumbles for something else to say, something less idiotic to follow it up with, and musters a cough instead. the night really is going so well]
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