( literally every part of this is alarming, including the prospect of being stitched together. including the prospect of healing, as if that's something that she needs to do. at absolute most, she's prepared to accept that as a metaphor, as shorthand for something complex that doesn't immediately require explanation, not as—as a thing that happens to her, in any real sense.
she doesn't immediately give him her okay. she stares up at him with an expression that seems uncomfortably divorced from everything happening below her chin, which is still...unpleasant. up close, it's more apparent that the blue colour comes from a glow about whatever it is she's oozing instead of blood, and though she's more night-light than flood-lamp it's enough to shadow her face oddly, doll-like and unhappy. )
That doesn't make any sense, ( she informs him, a thread of frustration in it that in her girlish voice sounds almost petulant. ) Please proceed.
it's ok half my icons are music video
she doesn't immediately give him her okay. she stares up at him with an expression that seems uncomfortably divorced from everything happening below her chin, which is still...unpleasant. up close, it's more apparent that the blue colour comes from a glow about whatever it is she's oozing instead of blood, and though she's more night-light than flood-lamp it's enough to shadow her face oddly, doll-like and unhappy. )
That doesn't make any sense, ( she informs him, a thread of frustration in it that in her girlish voice sounds almost petulant. ) Please proceed.
( in the absence of any better ideas. )