Mar. 31st, 2007

fighting_mad: (artie - gerbil)
Plourr slept here last night, at the bar. It isn't a rare occurance for her and Rial to stay; it's a place away from the duties and the stresses, which is nice. What is less nice is the way that she's being suffocated. She worms her way out from under the covers -- and stares at the giant pillow in front of her. Then down at her furry paws. Then over at the man sleeping beside her who is decidedly not her husband.

Her (tiny, AHHH) stomach lurches, and decidedly not in the way that it has been for the past two months. Beady eyes wide, she flies across the wide plains of the covers and makes her way to the floor by way of the bedside table and several acrobatic hops. The room looks huge and forboding in its size, but it is unmistakably the one that she shares with Rial. Here are her boots, looming high above her, beside the bed, here are some familiar articles of clothing; Rial's hairtie is on the floor. She could jump through it as if it were a hoop. She yelps sharply, and that is not her voice. What the hell is this?! Her eyes swing back up to the enormous bed, and the enormous man in it, and, teeth set in determination, she tries to climb back up. But she took a few jumps to get down in the first place and she is forced to concede, after a few moments, that she won't be able to get up there and wake him up and demand to know what he has done to her, and with her husband.

Maybe someone downstairs will have answers. They will. Plourr will beat it out of them if she has t--

Oh. Right.

Fuck.

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Plourr Estillo

January 2017

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