In honour of spooky season, and my old friend - constant anxiety ✨ haha. But in all seriousness, I'm back with another forum game! Yeah, sorry! It's me again.
This one's quite simple. The usual public forum rules apply - anything TW related under collapse tags, feel free to post as many times as you want in any style or format, etc. Have fun ☺️
So...
Your character is faced with their worst nightmare. What happens? How do they react?
I wish them all the best of luck.
This one's quite simple. The usual public forum rules apply - anything TW related under collapse tags, feel free to post as many times as you want in any style or format, etc. Have fun ☺️
So...
Your character is faced with their worst nightmare. What happens? How do they react?
I wish them all the best of luck.
can I join?
scarellett wrote:
can I join?
((Of course, open to all! Feel free to post as many times as you'd like, it's meant to be standalone stuff but folks can take it however they choose, if they want to interact!))
great
Lori and Cairo were watching Tv until the Lights was blinking on and off
Red is left striking someone although dealing no damage , this person a representation of the sun, behind her was an unconscious Shade Waker, she'd obviously fear for those closest too her, but she enjoys his presence the most
Honestly this all goes under a spoiler bc Daniel is a deeply gory character and also a freak.
Tws: gore, threats of violence, torture, unwanted surgery? It's scary and Daniel is a terrible angel
"Now, William, please expose the soleus muscle." The archangel spoke, above William’s head where he loomed just behind him. The terrible scratch of pen on paper was only drowned out by Brian's pleading.
"Will--please, please stop, I wanna go home--" She sobbed, the straining leather and metal groaning out. The vampire couldn't break these restraints. All three of them knew it. "Let's go home, please, let me out and we can go--"
Two more hands gripped William's shoulders, fingertips digging in so hard that William knew he'd bruise for days. Daniel kept writing. "William. The soleus muscle." There was an edge to Daniel’s chipper voice. A crackle in the air started up, fizzing and smelling like ozone.
The writing stopped, and one of Daniel’s hands cupped his throat, nails biting into dark skin.
William lowered the scalpel to Brian's calf and started to slice.
Tws: gore, threats of violence, torture, unwanted surgery? It's scary and Daniel is a terrible angel
"Now, William, please expose the soleus muscle." The archangel spoke, above William’s head where he loomed just behind him. The terrible scratch of pen on paper was only drowned out by Brian's pleading.
"Will--please, please stop, I wanna go home--" She sobbed, the straining leather and metal groaning out. The vampire couldn't break these restraints. All three of them knew it. "Let's go home, please, let me out and we can go--"
Two more hands gripped William's shoulders, fingertips digging in so hard that William knew he'd bruise for days. Daniel kept writing. "William. The soleus muscle." There was an edge to Daniel’s chipper voice. A crackle in the air started up, fizzing and smelling like ozone.
The writing stopped, and one of Daniel’s hands cupped his throat, nails biting into dark skin.
William lowered the scalpel to Brian's calf and started to slice.
CW: crime, substance abuse, body and medical horror ish, mental and emotional dx
And today and today and today
The pediatrician never called it asthma, because it wasn't really. Rainy's lungs were fine, his capillaries unbothered by histamic inflammation, his bronchial passage undiseased -- yet often enough in his school days Rainy could be found doubled over, breathless, like he'd had the ghost of himself knocked out through the holes where his primordial gills would have been, where the fishing hook would have snagged.
The little plastic aerosol dispenser couldn't rescue him from this, its tripwire taste of no utility, and there in the middle of the schoolhouse steps Rainy would crouch with his forehead in the cradle of his elbow, dizzy and jittery now and no closer to breath, certain of his encroaching suffocation.
Other doctors, later, tried to blame Rainy's teenaged nerves, said he was concealing an anxiety disorder, internalizing, hyperventilating himself like a fainting victorian. If their goal was to insult Rainy's body into acting right, the tactic proved true, and childhood asthma waned in the approach of Rainy's athletic adulthood.
But here Rainy is crouching again, breathless, first time in his adult life, sleet plucking a battle march drumroll across the stiff denim shoulders of his doubled jacket. His gills have been hooked, he is drowning. The bowing wooden porch stair creaks under his weight, cold wet soaking in through the knee of his khakis.
"Yeah," Sandusky sighs, gravel cigar gills scarred by a lifetime of hooks. "First wet scene makes a lot of rookies yertz."
Wet, meaning blooded. A dry crime scene is bloodless, and usually not any business of the homocide department anyways, vandalism or theft or abduction. "Im, not," Rainy wheezes, and swipes the afternoon's cold mist from behind his ear. "This isn't--"
Sandusky wheezes, and steps past Rainy down the stairs. "Well go ahead and don't contaminate our crime scene, then, makes no difference to me."
"Not a rookie," Rainy begs, voice tightening as the hook digs deeper. "Not first scene." He drags a breath in, and the cold reaches into his guts. "Asthma, maybe, allergy?"
"Ammonia in the air, from the lab I'd guess." Sandusky digs a wide hand under Rainy's elbow to get him upright, on his feet, away from the porch. "You're not a Mormon, are you?"
Rainy accepts the help, stumbles his way to the parked cruiser. His vision swims, his heart pounds, his ears rush and ring. He doesn't get the joke in Sandusky's question, and says, "No."
Sandusky snarls in a hard breath, collecting phlegm, and spits into the yard. "Always you church kids thinking you sneezed fentanyl, keel over cos the blood leaves your brain soon's a beaker kit says boo."
The weak chuckle jerks out of Rainy's chest, fish fighting the line. "No," he answers, voice gaining strength. "I'm -- I, I might have a phobia. Panic attacks."
Sandusky grunts, unimpressed, and idly thumbs through his notepad to leave Rainy some dignity to collect himself under. "Don't tell me; you sawr a spider."
The laugh Rainy chances this time is stronger, fishing line slack. "I didn't see anything. I think that's my phobia."
Rainy hadn't seen inside the house, even, but he had smelled it, smelled the blood and the panic and the chemical stains, smelled the beer soaked into the floorboards and the diaper heap behind the couch. Rainy saw the normalcy of the house, the cozy front garden and the empty dog shed, the three-wheeler beside the swing set, a cardboard egg carton listing drunkenly over the edge of a composting heap.
The dissonance between 'normal, fine' and 'terrible, doomed' was striking; it had struck Rainy down.
When Nathaniel 'Rainy' Monday was a kid, see, he didn't have asthma -- but was struck with a deep, tugging, drowning realization that despite how normal everything was in his day-to-day, that underneath all of modern society's comforts there was longing and pain and helplessness, crime scenes waiting behind shut doors. As a kid this fear was close and easy to find, in headlining legal atrocities and the very real nearness of poverty, in dry radio broadcasts about poisoned grocery recalls.
And the fear was in the eyes of his classmates, their hushed obedience, the terror that plays central to an institutionalized life, the claustrophobia of career day and the elephant in the gym assembly where they were all compelled to recite a religious pledge with their hands over their hearts, coerced into routine bloodpromise to a Nation that barely cared if they lived or died.
Rainy wasn't afraid of visceral misery, no, he was afraid of not knowing the source of visceral misery, of spinning his wheels to power a machine that only means to devour him, of climbing the stairs in the dark only to find the roof has gone and the moon is falling to earth and there's nothing he can do to fix it.
"I'm fine," Rainy assures over his sip of thermos coffee, and makes room on the trunk of the cruiser for Sandusky to lean. "Probably just the weather. Not used to this damp." He eyes Sandusky sidelong, accusatory. "You could do with a little more emoting, you know. Warn a bitch."
Sandusky shrugs, conceding. "It's why they match us up, young and old, these teams like this. You gotta learn how to not react."
The forensic team van squelches up the driveway, weather hazards in colorful strobe, and Rainy Monday can breathe again.
The little plastic aerosol dispenser couldn't rescue him from this, its tripwire taste of no utility, and there in the middle of the schoolhouse steps Rainy would crouch with his forehead in the cradle of his elbow, dizzy and jittery now and no closer to breath, certain of his encroaching suffocation.
Other doctors, later, tried to blame Rainy's teenaged nerves, said he was concealing an anxiety disorder, internalizing, hyperventilating himself like a fainting victorian. If their goal was to insult Rainy's body into acting right, the tactic proved true, and childhood asthma waned in the approach of Rainy's athletic adulthood.
But here Rainy is crouching again, breathless, first time in his adult life, sleet plucking a battle march drumroll across the stiff denim shoulders of his doubled jacket. His gills have been hooked, he is drowning. The bowing wooden porch stair creaks under his weight, cold wet soaking in through the knee of his khakis.
"Yeah," Sandusky sighs, gravel cigar gills scarred by a lifetime of hooks. "First wet scene makes a lot of rookies yertz."
Wet, meaning blooded. A dry crime scene is bloodless, and usually not any business of the homocide department anyways, vandalism or theft or abduction. "Im, not," Rainy wheezes, and swipes the afternoon's cold mist from behind his ear. "This isn't--"
Sandusky wheezes, and steps past Rainy down the stairs. "Well go ahead and don't contaminate our crime scene, then, makes no difference to me."
"Not a rookie," Rainy begs, voice tightening as the hook digs deeper. "Not first scene." He drags a breath in, and the cold reaches into his guts. "Asthma, maybe, allergy?"
"Ammonia in the air, from the lab I'd guess." Sandusky digs a wide hand under Rainy's elbow to get him upright, on his feet, away from the porch. "You're not a Mormon, are you?"
Rainy accepts the help, stumbles his way to the parked cruiser. His vision swims, his heart pounds, his ears rush and ring. He doesn't get the joke in Sandusky's question, and says, "No."
Sandusky snarls in a hard breath, collecting phlegm, and spits into the yard. "Always you church kids thinking you sneezed fentanyl, keel over cos the blood leaves your brain soon's a beaker kit says boo."
The weak chuckle jerks out of Rainy's chest, fish fighting the line. "No," he answers, voice gaining strength. "I'm -- I, I might have a phobia. Panic attacks."
Sandusky grunts, unimpressed, and idly thumbs through his notepad to leave Rainy some dignity to collect himself under. "Don't tell me; you sawr a spider."
The laugh Rainy chances this time is stronger, fishing line slack. "I didn't see anything. I think that's my phobia."
Rainy hadn't seen inside the house, even, but he had smelled it, smelled the blood and the panic and the chemical stains, smelled the beer soaked into the floorboards and the diaper heap behind the couch. Rainy saw the normalcy of the house, the cozy front garden and the empty dog shed, the three-wheeler beside the swing set, a cardboard egg carton listing drunkenly over the edge of a composting heap.
The dissonance between 'normal, fine' and 'terrible, doomed' was striking; it had struck Rainy down.
When Nathaniel 'Rainy' Monday was a kid, see, he didn't have asthma -- but was struck with a deep, tugging, drowning realization that despite how normal everything was in his day-to-day, that underneath all of modern society's comforts there was longing and pain and helplessness, crime scenes waiting behind shut doors. As a kid this fear was close and easy to find, in headlining legal atrocities and the very real nearness of poverty, in dry radio broadcasts about poisoned grocery recalls.
And the fear was in the eyes of his classmates, their hushed obedience, the terror that plays central to an institutionalized life, the claustrophobia of career day and the elephant in the gym assembly where they were all compelled to recite a religious pledge with their hands over their hearts, coerced into routine bloodpromise to a Nation that barely cared if they lived or died.
Rainy wasn't afraid of visceral misery, no, he was afraid of not knowing the source of visceral misery, of spinning his wheels to power a machine that only means to devour him, of climbing the stairs in the dark only to find the roof has gone and the moon is falling to earth and there's nothing he can do to fix it.
"I'm fine," Rainy assures over his sip of thermos coffee, and makes room on the trunk of the cruiser for Sandusky to lean. "Probably just the weather. Not used to this damp." He eyes Sandusky sidelong, accusatory. "You could do with a little more emoting, you know. Warn a bitch."
Sandusky shrugs, conceding. "It's why they match us up, young and old, these teams like this. You gotta learn how to not react."
The forensic team van squelches up the driveway, weather hazards in colorful strobe, and Rainy Monday can breathe again.
[Certainly not inspired by The Magnus Archives 😉 Jack is an avatar of the Lonely confirmed. Any MAG fans I'm thinking of that one scene at the end of "I Guess You Had to Be There"
No real TWs. Jacky is tame, mainly. Although possibly for unreality, brief mention of death, just generally... yeah. Loneliness. I want to expand on this piece but probably not in a forum game ]
No real TWs. Jacky is tame, mainly. Although possibly for unreality, brief mention of death, just generally... yeah. Loneliness. I want to expand on this piece but probably not in a forum game ]
I'm Mr. Lonely
Image made with Nightcafe
---
He'd wandered for miles, and there'd been nothing. It wasn't quite a void - the towering monoliths either side of him, glinting sporadic metallic, made sure of that. But everything was grey, in one way or another.
Stormy skies.
Image made with Nightcafe
---
He'd wandered for miles, and there'd been nothing. It wasn't quite a void - the towering monoliths either side of him, glinting sporadic metallic, made sure of that. But everything was grey, in one way or another.
Stormy skies.
Blank.
Monochrome.
Empty.
Dull concrete. Murky puddles.
Ghost town didn't do it justice.
At first, Jack had flitted from street to street, crying out as loud as his feeble attempts at shouting would let him. As though he'd disturb the crowds of people that clearly swarmed the streets.
Right.
Sometimes, he wondered even about his own judgement.
Not only were there no crowds - there was no anyone. Even when he strained for a solitary voice, or threw out his proverbial feelers for any inkling of life; anything with emotions.
Silence.
That had been when the dread had first set in. The crashing realisation that he was completely and utterly alone. How, he couldn't quite say. But the horrible and insidious voice in the back of his mind crooned that it was because he deserved it.
Had it been rejection? He knew the feeling well. It didn't lessen the sting; the frantic, animal fear of abandonment. But he was familiar with it, like a tattered and cruel guard dog that lived on high alert by default.
He'd felt the acrid tang of panic on the back of his tongue, first. Then, his throat tightened; his breath quickened. Long-fingered hands drew up to clutch two spindly arms in a self-hug.
"There's really nobody?"
His voice sounded tinny and pathetic in the vast space. The wind snarled dismissively down alleyways and roared it's displeasure at the vacant shopfronts.
What would I do, came the sudden and engulfing thought, if I died here? Who'd find me? Would anyone look?
Eventually, perhaps. He wouldn't do his friends that disservice. But not soon enough, and not here. That was for sure. Wherever here was.
No - he'd rot.
He'd never had a problem with cities before, but that was before he found himself here. They were meant to be vibrant hubs, clamouring with life; this was a graveyard. He'd never set foot in one again - if he ever got out of this one.
This stupid, soulless city. The awful, empty buildings. Watching him with vacant, mirrored eyes and sneering. He'd kick the windows through, if only it wasn't such a horrid thing to do.
Ugly, smelly, dirty place. He hated every single bit of it!
He'd walked long enough for every step to ache. Cramp ripped through his sides with each breath. Still, he trudged on - what else was there, apart from a dim hope of seeing somebody? Getting dimmer by the moment, too, as the sun began to sink below the horizon.
Even then, though, Jack spoke. To the weeds pushing through cracks in the pavement, the rude and lazily impassive sky, and even his own, frightened inner child.
It wasn't about anything specifically important. Recollections, mainly.
The old woman at the checkout who'd said he had an honest smile; the barista that had passed over his cup with a wink; the child that he'd noticed one evening, mid-tussle with their family dog in the patchy remains of sunlight.
Good things.
The last reflections on a humanity that Jack now wasn't sure he'd see again.
The tears on his cheeks almost went unnoticed until they lapped at his chin. He scrubbed at his face with a sleeve, hesitating before uncovering his eyes, like a child on their birthday. And, when he did-
Nothing.
What had he really expected? There had to be someone, eventually.
There had to be.
But something sad and innate in him already knew that that was a lie. It was the same part that told him that this was a punishment.
No. Not punishment.
Retribution.
He'd tried his best. Of course he had. That's all anyone could do. But it hadn't been enough - it very rarely was, sadly. So he'd find someone - or he'd be found first. One or the other had to happen, eventually.
If it didn't... well.
That was a thought Jack couldn't bear thinking about.
Ghost town didn't do it justice.
At first, Jack had flitted from street to street, crying out as loud as his feeble attempts at shouting would let him. As though he'd disturb the crowds of people that clearly swarmed the streets.
Right.
Sometimes, he wondered even about his own judgement.
Not only were there no crowds - there was no anyone. Even when he strained for a solitary voice, or threw out his proverbial feelers for any inkling of life; anything with emotions.
Silence.
That had been when the dread had first set in. The crashing realisation that he was completely and utterly alone. How, he couldn't quite say. But the horrible and insidious voice in the back of his mind crooned that it was because he deserved it.
Had it been rejection? He knew the feeling well. It didn't lessen the sting; the frantic, animal fear of abandonment. But he was familiar with it, like a tattered and cruel guard dog that lived on high alert by default.
He'd felt the acrid tang of panic on the back of his tongue, first. Then, his throat tightened; his breath quickened. Long-fingered hands drew up to clutch two spindly arms in a self-hug.
"There's really nobody?"
His voice sounded tinny and pathetic in the vast space. The wind snarled dismissively down alleyways and roared it's displeasure at the vacant shopfronts.
What would I do, came the sudden and engulfing thought, if I died here? Who'd find me? Would anyone look?
Eventually, perhaps. He wouldn't do his friends that disservice. But not soon enough, and not here. That was for sure. Wherever here was.
No - he'd rot.
He'd never had a problem with cities before, but that was before he found himself here. They were meant to be vibrant hubs, clamouring with life; this was a graveyard. He'd never set foot in one again - if he ever got out of this one.
This stupid, soulless city. The awful, empty buildings. Watching him with vacant, mirrored eyes and sneering. He'd kick the windows through, if only it wasn't such a horrid thing to do.
Ugly, smelly, dirty place. He hated every single bit of it!
He'd walked long enough for every step to ache. Cramp ripped through his sides with each breath. Still, he trudged on - what else was there, apart from a dim hope of seeing somebody? Getting dimmer by the moment, too, as the sun began to sink below the horizon.
Even then, though, Jack spoke. To the weeds pushing through cracks in the pavement, the rude and lazily impassive sky, and even his own, frightened inner child.
It wasn't about anything specifically important. Recollections, mainly.
The old woman at the checkout who'd said he had an honest smile; the barista that had passed over his cup with a wink; the child that he'd noticed one evening, mid-tussle with their family dog in the patchy remains of sunlight.
Good things.
The last reflections on a humanity that Jack now wasn't sure he'd see again.
The tears on his cheeks almost went unnoticed until they lapped at his chin. He scrubbed at his face with a sleeve, hesitating before uncovering his eyes, like a child on their birthday. And, when he did-
Nothing.
What had he really expected? There had to be someone, eventually.
There had to be.
But something sad and innate in him already knew that that was a lie. It was the same part that told him that this was a punishment.
No. Not punishment.
Retribution.
He'd tried his best. Of course he had. That's all anyone could do. But it hadn't been enough - it very rarely was, sadly. So he'd find someone - or he'd be found first. One or the other had to happen, eventually.
If it didn't... well.
That was a thought Jack couldn't bear thinking about.
[Another one?! Yeah. It's kind of... tangentially... related? I dunno. Some ghost city is tormenting my lads, I guess. Or, in the MAG theme - here's The Eye! Anyway, the most important bit: this one will be darker! Not too much cuz it's public, mind you. But...
TW for themes/mentions of: abuse (the VERY BAREST hint of s**ual abuse), trauma, cheating in relationships/affairs, errr... just be cautious I guess? Not sure if it's anything else specific.
Also this is very much a rough first draft WIP so, like, it's not great. Sorry
]
TW for themes/mentions of: abuse (the VERY BAREST hint of s**ual abuse), trauma, cheating in relationships/affairs, errr... just be cautious I guess? Not sure if it's anything else specific.
Also this is very much a rough first draft WIP so, like, it's not great. Sorry
]ah man, sorry Sol
---
The roads heaved with throngs of people, surging and retreating like the ragged gasp of a chest. It was crushing - not enough room to move, nevermind breathe easy - and even our self-proclaimed socialite was having some trouble.
Self-proclaimed socialite if anybody asked, that was. But, while nobody did? Then - Sol hated people, and he damn well hated this.
It had gotten to the point where it was impossible to pick out any particular words, leaving the chatter around him sounding more like the drone of wasps. A heavy thrum that drilled straight into his head, leaving him unconsciously pulling away from those that brushed past him. And that was all but impossible to avoid, leaving a feeling of ghostly handprints on him that was impossible to wipe away. It was enough to make him shudder.
Adding to that, the faces looked familiar enough not to be able to avoid seeing. He couldn't place them; when he tried, it gave that bizarre feeling of being in a dream. But that couldn't be the case, could it? He was no less bloody tired than usual; something that served to make a foul mood even moreso.
So, overall? Not his best day.
How long had he been walking? Where was he going? Ruminating on the thoughts made uncomfortable static burst inside his mind. Painful enough for even him to balk. He would, he reasoned, get there eventually. He'd like to do so with as little discomfort as possible.
Oh, the damn stupid things he did.
He was still brooding on this when there came the next level of worse - magnanimous, really, for the world to keep doing these things for free. The hand on his back caused him to whip round on his heel instantly, with the expression of a man who's smelt something foul.
The person standing before him looked familiar.
"I'm sorry," they said. He couldn't place their voice. Before he could reply, they added in a sotto whisper that somehow carried over the crowds, "I've heard."
"What?" Sol furrowed his brow. Stepping back wasn't an option; when he tried, the mass of bodies surged forwards.
like one living beast
He shook the idea off. It was impossible to tug his gaze away from the pair of dark eyes before him.
"I heard what happened," and the not-quite-stranger's voice was soft with the sour pity that burned in those two, watchful voids. "I heard-"
And around them fell dead silence. The next words rung out enough to make him flinch. "That she left."
Dozens - hundreds - impossibly more- pairs of eyes turned their way. They had the eager vacuousness of a murder of crows.
"What? I don't know what you're-" it was a gallant effort, but his voice stayed strong only until he clocked on. That look? It wasn't vacuousness at all.
It was a look of knowing, infuriatingly smug.
"You've gotten really good at saying that," and this voice was at his ear somehow, dripping with sweetness that made his throat tighten.
"I don't know what you're talking about." That's right. Anger as armour. The only way to get through these things.
"Do you remember," and these three words were said with enough familiar poison to finally solder his lips shut, "that evening? You know which one. When you came home and-"
The whispers arond them had turned into murmurs. Titters. Seemed like his name was on everyone's lips. Not just his name, either.
Oh, no. No, no, no.
"Be quiet," to his horror, it came out weakly.
"You found them in bed, didn't you? Entwined together. You weren't even surprised, were you? And that night, when-"
"Stop it-"
More scattered laughter.
"you woke up, and she was right there in front of you. You asked-"
"Stop--"
"what she was doing, didn't you? And she put her hand here, so you couldn't move," with a jolt of horror, Sol realised that fingers had crept up towards his adam's apple. The scratch of long (fake- always fake- she bit them-) nails at his throat-
"Shut up!"
It was the roar of a wounded lion, and came along with a few more choice words not often heard from his mouth.
I'm supposed to be the one in control, now!
Instinct led him to swing, but his punch connected with nothing at all. Instead, another ripple of silvery laughter split through the amassed bodies. It held a strange, prim mockery; filled him with a helpless rage that he remembered all too well, and one that immediately sunk its jaws in.
But that wasn't why his breath had quickened. It wasn't why he could feel a squeezing in his chest.
No.
That was because they knew.
Everything, by the looks of it.
And they were making quite sure he knew that as they closed in around him.
---
The roads heaved with throngs of people, surging and retreating like the ragged gasp of a chest. It was crushing - not enough room to move, nevermind breathe easy - and even our self-proclaimed socialite was having some trouble.
Self-proclaimed socialite if anybody asked, that was. But, while nobody did? Then - Sol hated people, and he damn well hated this.
It had gotten to the point where it was impossible to pick out any particular words, leaving the chatter around him sounding more like the drone of wasps. A heavy thrum that drilled straight into his head, leaving him unconsciously pulling away from those that brushed past him. And that was all but impossible to avoid, leaving a feeling of ghostly handprints on him that was impossible to wipe away. It was enough to make him shudder.
Adding to that, the faces looked familiar enough not to be able to avoid seeing. He couldn't place them; when he tried, it gave that bizarre feeling of being in a dream. But that couldn't be the case, could it? He was no less bloody tired than usual; something that served to make a foul mood even moreso.
So, overall? Not his best day.
How long had he been walking? Where was he going? Ruminating on the thoughts made uncomfortable static burst inside his mind. Painful enough for even him to balk. He would, he reasoned, get there eventually. He'd like to do so with as little discomfort as possible.
Oh, the damn stupid things he did.
He was still brooding on this when there came the next level of worse - magnanimous, really, for the world to keep doing these things for free. The hand on his back caused him to whip round on his heel instantly, with the expression of a man who's smelt something foul.
The person standing before him looked familiar.
"I'm sorry," they said. He couldn't place their voice. Before he could reply, they added in a sotto whisper that somehow carried over the crowds, "I've heard."
"What?" Sol furrowed his brow. Stepping back wasn't an option; when he tried, the mass of bodies surged forwards.
like one living beast
He shook the idea off. It was impossible to tug his gaze away from the pair of dark eyes before him.
"I heard what happened," and the not-quite-stranger's voice was soft with the sour pity that burned in those two, watchful voids. "I heard-"
And around them fell dead silence. The next words rung out enough to make him flinch. "That she left."
Dozens - hundreds - impossibly more- pairs of eyes turned their way. They had the eager vacuousness of a murder of crows.
"What? I don't know what you're-" it was a gallant effort, but his voice stayed strong only until he clocked on. That look? It wasn't vacuousness at all.
It was a look of knowing, infuriatingly smug.
"You've gotten really good at saying that," and this voice was at his ear somehow, dripping with sweetness that made his throat tighten.
"I don't know what you're talking about." That's right. Anger as armour. The only way to get through these things.
"Do you remember," and these three words were said with enough familiar poison to finally solder his lips shut, "that evening? You know which one. When you came home and-"
The whispers arond them had turned into murmurs. Titters. Seemed like his name was on everyone's lips. Not just his name, either.
Oh, no. No, no, no.
"Be quiet," to his horror, it came out weakly.
"You found them in bed, didn't you? Entwined together. You weren't even surprised, were you? And that night, when-"
"Stop it-"
More scattered laughter.
"you woke up, and she was right there in front of you. You asked-"
"Stop--"
"what she was doing, didn't you? And she put her hand here, so you couldn't move," with a jolt of horror, Sol realised that fingers had crept up towards his adam's apple. The scratch of long (fake- always fake- she bit them-) nails at his throat-
"Shut up!"
It was the roar of a wounded lion, and came along with a few more choice words not often heard from his mouth.
I'm supposed to be the one in control, now!
Instinct led him to swing, but his punch connected with nothing at all. Instead, another ripple of silvery laughter split through the amassed bodies. It held a strange, prim mockery; filled him with a helpless rage that he remembered all too well, and one that immediately sunk its jaws in.
But that wasn't why his breath had quickened. It wasn't why he could feel a squeezing in his chest.
No.
That was because they knew.
Everything, by the looks of it.
And they were making quite sure he knew that as they closed in around him.
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