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nochi_sanI'm going to get back into the swing of writing if it kills me, so I'm using a randomizer on a bunch of fandoms and the prompt table from ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png)
100fandoms to get some drabbles going.
Title: Scratch
Fandom: Critical Role (campaign 2)
Prompt: #76, Scratch
Words: 282
They’re talking about Trent again. Trent has made himself a necessary conversation topic, which is just another thing Caleb hates him for. He’d have been perfectly happy to never hear the man’s name again, let alone have it fall from his friends’ lips over and over. But they’re talking about Trent, and Caleb’s arm itches.
He rubs at the outside of his coat, trying to resist the urge to worm his hand under the fabric and scratch in earnest. He’ll only tear the skin open, bloody the scars again. That’s what happens every time he gives into the urge, the phantom sensation of being ripped open and stitched back together. More blood, more pain. Itching as the scabs heal. An endless cycle.
Someone says his name. He looks up; the others are looking at him. Asking if he’s alright. His hand drops from his sleeve. Fine, he says. He’s lying, but if they can tell they don’t react, aside from a suspicious glance from Beau and an understanding, patient one from Caduceus that almost makes him angry. At least Beau’s suspicion is warranted. He deserves that. But he neither deserves nor wants Caduceus’ patience, his pity. He wants Trent dead. He wants him to live and suffer for his crimes. He never wants to hear or say his name again. He wants to scream what he did from the rooftops. He simultaneously wants it struck from the annals of history and painted on every wall as a sign, a warning, never again.
He wants his arm to stop itching.
He slides his fingers under the very edge of his sleeve and scratches lightly at his wrist. A tiny concession, to placate the greater demands. It will have to suffice, for now.
100fandoms to get some drabbles going. Title: Scratch
Fandom: Critical Role (campaign 2)
Prompt: #76, Scratch
Words: 282
They’re talking about Trent again. Trent has made himself a necessary conversation topic, which is just another thing Caleb hates him for. He’d have been perfectly happy to never hear the man’s name again, let alone have it fall from his friends’ lips over and over. But they’re talking about Trent, and Caleb’s arm itches.
He rubs at the outside of his coat, trying to resist the urge to worm his hand under the fabric and scratch in earnest. He’ll only tear the skin open, bloody the scars again. That’s what happens every time he gives into the urge, the phantom sensation of being ripped open and stitched back together. More blood, more pain. Itching as the scabs heal. An endless cycle.
Someone says his name. He looks up; the others are looking at him. Asking if he’s alright. His hand drops from his sleeve. Fine, he says. He’s lying, but if they can tell they don’t react, aside from a suspicious glance from Beau and an understanding, patient one from Caduceus that almost makes him angry. At least Beau’s suspicion is warranted. He deserves that. But he neither deserves nor wants Caduceus’ patience, his pity. He wants Trent dead. He wants him to live and suffer for his crimes. He never wants to hear or say his name again. He wants to scream what he did from the rooftops. He simultaneously wants it struck from the annals of history and painted on every wall as a sign, a warning, never again.
He wants his arm to stop itching.
He slides his fingers under the very edge of his sleeve and scratches lightly at his wrist. A tiny concession, to placate the greater demands. It will have to suffice, for now.
