the sudden pressure, the darkness and sticky wetness of familiar acid chewing through her clothes, her skin; don quixote is only lucky, really, that she'd taken care to pull her company jacket on whenever she sought to patrol the park here, given its more resistant nature. she presses against the walls and keeps her mouth shut tight, closing her eyes to keep the fumes from getting to them more than need be as she grasps for the pitchfork lost inside and finally
finally finding it, hands enclosing around the wood as acid ebbs at it.
it's different than just being melted alongside the others in battle. she's alone and it's all around her, the thrum of a living body surrounding her (squelching, pounding, moving as kromer undoubtedly refuses to remain still), and don inhales very slowly, nose and throat burning as the acidic fumes pull inside in the same breath, then exhales as she pushes the pitchfork with more force into the innards that grind against each other.
stab, stab, stab. like sinclair in his rage, with every strength left to him as he sought vengeance on the n corp inquisitors that had finished off his town.
at least it keeps her mind off the pain, teeth grinding as she works the fork in and through the walls, stabbing, scrapping, she'll damn well claw her way out of she's got to. ]
cw: vore, claustrophobia, digestion
the sudden pressure, the darkness and sticky wetness of familiar acid chewing through her clothes, her skin; don quixote is only lucky, really, that she'd taken care to pull her company jacket on whenever she sought to patrol the park here, given its more resistant nature. she presses against the walls and keeps her mouth shut tight, closing her eyes to keep the fumes from getting to them more than need be as she grasps for the pitchfork lost inside and finally
finally finding it, hands enclosing around the wood as acid ebbs at it.
it's different than just being melted alongside the others in battle. she's alone and it's all around her, the thrum of a living body surrounding her (squelching, pounding, moving as kromer undoubtedly refuses to remain still), and don inhales very slowly, nose and throat burning as the acidic fumes pull inside in the same breath, then exhales as she pushes the pitchfork with more force into the innards that grind against each other.
stab, stab, stab. like sinclair in his rage, with every strength left to him as he sought vengeance on the n corp inquisitors that had finished off his town.
at least it keeps her mind off the pain, teeth grinding as she works the fork in and through the walls, stabbing, scrapping, she'll damn well claw her way out of she's got to. ]