sender stitches up receiver's wound [ how about stomach ]
´ ✟ 、 ࣪ ˖ *͟ ░ ▌⤷ @m-11o, bloodied prompts, accepting
perhaps there is something monumentally wrong to be said, when one's soft belly has been flayed open for the entire world to see, and there is naught but numbness to be found behind her visage. red eyes glassed over and pointed down, pink-blonde lashes and lids crestfallen, entirely unphased by both the wound and the attention being given to it. rema is used to this. it has been her gruesome reality for as long as she could remember, a familiarity almost as intimate to the human body as learning to walk when once a small babe. (she was always doomed from the start. there was never a way back from this reality.) spillage of blood, ichor staining skin and clothing as if a pen had exploded in her pocket instead. ah, if only it were that simple ... if only it were that innocent. sometimes, however, inflicted wounds heal slower than others, when she is considerably more reckless in combat against the things that she's sworn her life to exterminating. albeit now dead by the exorcist's hand, a crucible had indeed sunk its vile little claws into her flesh; ripping and tearing, staining her precious wool crimson and promising to steal the light from her eyes ... but rema has always been stronger. always an apex, always pulling through somehow by the sheer willpower and spite of her human spirit. indomitable as ever. the pain reminds her that she is more than the church's bloodhound. reminds her of the humanity at her core.
she sits casually, hauntingly relaxed for such an otherwise fatal wound, peering beyond shades as she watches mello carefully place each stitch like a painter to canvas. " you're wasting that on me. " she speaks finally, tonality shockingly soft for a woman so intense as she. no bite, no acidity. it's more of an exhaustion seen in predatory creatures when the fight for their meal was more vigorous than expected. " hey — seriously, mello, i mean it. " gloved hand comes to rest atop his own, halting the progression of the needle already in skin, as shattered porcelain seemingly moulds itself back together like nothing ever happened to begin with. inch by inch, agonizing slow, but it happens nonetheless. although ... she does appreciate his efforts. she won't forget this, even if she doesn't outright say ' thank you '. " don't ask me to explain shit right now, okay ? just trust me. i'll be fine — eventually. "
