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. ]
( kromer undoubtedly refuses to remain still, only her movements grow sluggish, then jerky as don quixote stabs at her insides— she half-shrieks, half-laughs as she swings around the tea party, body slamming against walls and chairs as she stumbles this way, that way. the bile inside of her sloshes higher and higher, blood mixing with it in a smell worse than before, and slowly
slowly, slowly, slowly,
in a way that must be tens of minutes despite it feeling like hours of stabbing, stabbing, stabbing,
kromer retches blood, wings shuddering, and her maw slides open with the undigested portion of its meal, with the blood and guts pulled from their place in her insides. the sick acidic smell of bile washes out with it, sticky and green—it burns the grass around her as quickly as it had bodies, staining the ground dark brown, and kromer herself looks pale, weary.
her swipe at don quixote is slow, without force or direction— her body is shuddering, and tears stream down her face. )
[ it takes all of don's focus not to let her stomach join the rest of kromer's on the grass, adrenaline aiding in her crawl away from the other as she pulls herself from the entanglement of blood and bile, of guts torn loose. the pitchfork feels glued to her hand and it might just be, really--
the sound of kromer draws her attention back and don stares at the pained weeping form of a monstrous woman who never knows when to quit. who would gladly, gleefully in her search for the person she's after tear down and destroy all before her. every part of her wants to leave kromer to die, to rot in her own pain until death takes her. she'd deserve it. she'd deserve it for the half-alive state she had displayed effie in to them.
but they are not the same.
don raises the pitchfork up and drives it down into kromer's head, drags it up and does it again, and again, and again, 'til at last there's no sound, no movement, no shuddering last attempts at an attack, and don leaves it in at the last swing down, breathing heavy with exertion as she finally, finally falls back.
she waits for the consequence.
the consequence does not come.
the sun has set. the night is coming. don drags in an inhale, lifting a shaking hand, and hopes the rest of the month is as fun as this was.
she has to find someone to tend to the burning on her hands and face. someplace to change and wash her clothes. she can't go home like this. it can wait, just a bit, as painful as the acid it, as electrifying as the battle was. eventually she'll text someone, eventually. ]
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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. ]
cw: canon-typical gore
slowly, slowly, slowly,
in a way that must be tens of minutes despite it feeling like hours of stabbing, stabbing, stabbing,
kromer retches blood, wings shuddering, and her maw slides open with the undigested portion of its meal, with the blood and guts pulled from their place in her insides. the sick acidic smell of bile washes out with it, sticky and green—it burns the grass around her as quickly as it had bodies, staining the ground dark brown, and kromer herself looks pale, weary.
her swipe at don quixote is slow, without force or direction— her body is shuddering, and tears stream down her face. )
G...ghkk... Ghkkkkkh...
cw lightly extensive head trauma
the sound of kromer draws her attention back and don stares at the pained weeping form of a monstrous woman who never knows when to quit. who would gladly, gleefully in her search for the person she's after tear down and destroy all before her. every part of her wants to leave kromer to die, to rot in her own pain until death takes her. she'd deserve it. she'd deserve it for the half-alive state she had displayed effie in to them.
but they are not the same.
don raises the pitchfork up and drives it down into kromer's head, drags it up and does it again, and again, and again, 'til at last there's no sound, no movement, no shuddering last attempts at an attack, and don leaves it in at the last swing down, breathing heavy with exertion as she finally, finally falls back.
she waits for the consequence.
the consequence does not come.
the sun has set. the night is coming. don drags in an inhale, lifting a shaking hand, and hopes the rest of the month is as fun as this was.
she has to find someone to tend to the burning on her hands and face. someplace to change and wash her clothes. she can't go home like this. it can wait, just a bit, as painful as the acid it, as electrifying as the battle was. eventually she'll text someone, eventually. ]