NOT-MY-DRAWING-check-the-bottom-right

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More Inktober drawings… day 6 (bottom) and 7 (top). Had to skip a day cuz of my back, so had to do these digitally (better digitally than nothing, right?). Aaaanyway, this time I drew my characters…Jarrett, who’s probably observing all the girls which I drew previous days from his point of view…and Ash and Leia. She’ll use him as a pillow anytime. Previous days you can check here and here.

It’s so weird how different the styles look because I colored them so differently lmao. This is a sketch duuuuuuump.

Top right: Yuuri (Yuri on Ice) - This I posted previously, but he was on the same canvas, and I took the lipstick off of him… so here he is again!

Left: Yurio (Yuri on Ice) - This is from my 1920′s AU. I was watching Chicago and wanted to give him finger waves so fucking bad so… here it is! I’m sure I’ll draw more crossdressing Yurio from this AU lmao.

Bottom Right: Iwa-chan (Haikyuu) - I wanted to draw this beautiful boy in a snapback after looking at Amalasdraws works lol. Check her out! She’s ah-mazing!

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Inspired by the drawing, i think by Veronica (on my phone so i cant check, my apologies) a little drabble of what I’d like to see in episode 9.

The blood drips like red tears from the tip of her shaking knife. She stands poised on the balls of her feet looking from left to right and back again. The street is littered with the dead, both walker and not. In places you can no longer see the grey asphalt, just a river of blood black and red pooling around the still bodies.

Four lie at her feet splayed across each other and the bottom step outside of Rick’s house. The arms of one still reaching towards her boots in death. They are dead. Dead again. They are not moving. She glances down at them again for one last check to reassure herself, before resuming her vigil around her.

There are very few left now, she can see that. A couple of stragglers are being disposed of by Rosita down towards the wall, or what was left of the wall. People are stumbling from their homes, through the mess, checking for survivors both to save or despatch.

She should move, and yet somehow she can’t. She feels frozen, waiting for the next danger to come round the corner. Alert. Ready. Her heart is pounding out her ears and she’s panting like a dog. Sweat and blood trickle down her face and she has no interest in wiping at either. It’s a stance that echoes the one she held against Morgan, against the Wolf. It seems like only minutes ago. Yet it seems like she hasn’t moved from this position for hours, days. She flexes and stays alert.

Rounding the back of the houses with Aaron, Daryl helps put down a handful gathering round his garage door. Daryl nods him to go once they are down. Go find Eric, his nod says. Aaron nods silently in return and slips inside his garage, gun drawn.

He wonders what Aaron will find inside. He didn’t cross paths with Eric in the fight but with so many walkers, that didn’t mean anything. He silently prays that at this very moment they are embracing each other in joy. The way Rosita had greeted Abe, and the way he had seen Glenn and Maggie grab for each other when Glenn pulled her down from the look-out platform into his arms.

He clenched his teeth at the feelings that rose in him then. Rosita had told him what happened with Morgan, with the Wolves. It was a brief rushed conversation as soon as Rosita had finished kissing Abe hello. All Daryl had done was say her name. “Carol?” And she’d rushed out as much of the story as she could before his feet drove him to find her.

He hadn’t got far, blocked by the herd pushing in every direction. But he’d seen her; saw a flash of her silver hair as she ran down the street and out of sight. She was alone then. He had wanted to call for her but knew the sound likely wouldn’t reach her, and even if it did the distraction may cost her life. She was alive, that would have to suffice to give him the strength to slice through the herd.

He didn’t know where she was now, but he would find her. As he rounded the back of Jessie’s house he saw Tara looking through the debris for something. She looked up as his shadow passed the door and gave him a salute.

There were fewer bodies round he back, most had kept to the main street wandering in a deadly lap of the settlement. When he came to the back of their house, however, he saw the door was destroyed. Pushed off its hinges, it was fractured in places by burglars of a different kind.

He steps inside lightly and cautiously. The destruction is evident here too. Blood trails the walls and items are strewn across the floor amongst toppled stools and tables. He glances around the ground floor and finding it empty, carefully climbs the stairs. Here things are as they were. Judith’s cot empty but for a tattered bunny toy, Michonne’s room immaculate and peaceful, Carl and Rick’s messy but unharmed. They didn’t get this far. Still, he opens the door of each room, each bathroom, each closet and checks. No more surprises.

When he finds no residents or intruders he returns to the living room. The kitchen counter is covered in blood, and there are knives flung across the top. He swallows and tries not to wonder whose blood it is. A gust of wind flutters the curtain and he jumps at the movement, but there is nothing bar the shattered glass and the billowing material.

That’s when he sees her. As the curtain rises and falls it reveals her standing like a statue on the stairs.

He rushes forward onto the porch, and this time her name forms on his lips.

“Carol?”

She doesn’t move. Doesn’t flinch. Fear clutches his heart. What if it’s too late? What if it’s no longer her?

The wind is ruffling her white shirt that is blood-stained but not from any obvious injury.

“Carol?” He tries again and approaches from behind, slowly. This time he sees something, a twitch, a chill.

By now he’s at the top of steps, and this time he speaks softly.

“Carol…” He’s close enough now, if she had been turned his scent would be in her blood and she’d be reaching for him. But still she stands, with her knife in the air, ready to fight, walkers lying at her feet as though in worship.

He treads down the steps and puts a hand on her shoulder. She still doesn’t react. He can feel her trembling, feel the cold sweat soaking through her clothes and see it running down her neck. Her knife hand trembles more vigorously but doesn’t lower.

“Carol,” he repeats gently. “It’s over.”

She turns this time, but only her head. Her eyes meet his and he baulks at what he sees in them. Terror, rage, and grief in a tsunami of emotions. When she recognises him, surprise and disbelief is added to the maelstrom.

“It’s over,” he says again reassuringly into her eyes, and reaches past her to pull her knife arm down to her side.

As it lowers, it is as though a spring has broken and her solid stance collapses as she folds almost in two in front of him. He wraps his arms round her and pulls her down onto the steps in front of him. Her back flush against his chest, he traps her arms in his and her knife falls to the ground as she silently sobs.

His mind flashes back to the same position they held that day Sophia walked out of the barn. They have come so far since then and lost so much more, but they still have this. He can still offer her this, and more.

On that day his move was subconscious, his arm holding her back then holding her still as she raged only to be tossed aside angrily moments later as she broke free of his embrace. Not this time.

Now she leans back against him, readjusts her arms to place her hands on top of his, and holds him as he holds her.

He rocks them gently back and forth and places kisses on her hair and shoulder, the blood and sweat from her clothes mingling with his own.

She needed medical care, likely still concussed, but right now she needed this more. And right now, so did he.