Grantaire is being stalked by Slenderman, but unfortunately whenever he tries to tell someone or starts to panic, they think he's simply drunk and not making sense. Can be shippy if Filler wants (E/R preferred) or just general.
Grantaire twisted his numb body, saliva flying from dry mouth, eyes wild with fright, attempting to glance at his pursuer. He ran with a haphazard stride, boots clumsily finding placement upon uneven pavement, arms oscillating in flailing motions as if grasping for the air, body heavy with drunkenness and mind drenched in alcohol. His breath caught in his throat, wheezing from panting tongue in poisoned clouds, outlined in the crisp air of Paris. An icy sensation rattled down his spine, his body shivering and shaking with terror, heartbeat thundering in his ears, sweat drenching slovenly curls and trickling down his neck. His blurred vision swam in indistinguishable colours, a high shrieking, screaming coursed throughout his skull, piercing and shuddering throughout his being.
The cynic scrambled about the corner, thrusting his back against callous brick, ribs heaving beneath ripped clothing, veins bursting against the delicate skin of his throat. His jaw was tilted upwards, eyes pressed shut, each gasping breath violently shaking and rattling his torso, choking up thick mucus, blood filling his mouth with an acidic taste. He collapsed there, heaving and spluttering, suddenly heavy head resting upon pronounced clavicle, arms limply crossed, draped upon bony knees. Sobs began to wreck his being, shaking, uneven gulps doubling with the liquid that had begun to seep from the corners of his eyes, collecting and dripping from his jaw. The tears were scalding hot, pouring into his mouth as he widened his gape, attempting to inhale more deeply, blood dripping from his thin, split lips. Grantaire reached up with a cold hand and rubbed at his nose, eyelids cautiously parting, throwing fear-riddled glances down the alley's length, sniffling miserably. His hammering heart clawed at his fluctuating ribs, desperately attempting to flee from the lurking danger, muffled by irregular wheezes and gulping bawls.
A gas-lamp burned beside him, soft light illuminating Grantaire's rumpled figure, casting a golden outline upon his heaving frame. Paris had been plunged into darkness, his world shattering around him in a moonless night, leaving only himself and gas-lamp, stranded, with It. The drunkard pulled in his weary legs into a weak hug, attempting to curl away from his tragic reality. The gasps began to stifle, panting breaths evening slightly. His baggy shirt was still clinging to his skin, sodden with sweat and tears, splattered blood soaking into the damp fabric. His mottled waistcoat was unbuttoned, heavy coat shrouding his hunched shoulders and exhausted arms, the tails rumpled behind him. Even his darkish breeches were somewhat waterlogged, splashes from mud-filled puddles, trodden in during his escape, had left dank patches up to his knees, oversized boots rubbing painfully at his sore feet. His body swayed with disdained toxins, mind clouded with the indulged fumes of brandy and the smog of opium, yet refined fear had broken through the haze and was now visible in his streaming eyes and quivering jaw.
The creature, the horrific humanoid monster, formed now in his mind. It had been a fleeting glance, a flash from the corner of his eye evolving into the stalking, blank-faced gentleman that haunted his drink-induced nightmares, awaking in an icy sweat, eyes wide and broad shoulders trembling. He was standing stock-still against a wall, arms limp by his sides legs a shoulder-breadth apart. Who could mistake the towering stature of the man, his slender form, disproportionately-elongated arms and skeletal hunched appearance, bone-white in colour? He was clad in a stereotypical jet-black waistcoat, shirt, and fall-fronted attire, complete with an ashen cravat. Yet, his face, for the creature was decidedly male, was blank. Cheekbones, brow and jaw remained intact, the contours of his face present, but the feature's non-existent. A lack of mouth, a silent scream, no ears nor nasal remnants, dead, senseless to the world, no eyes, yet he was always watching. Although, that was still the penultimate reasoning to the creature's monstrosity. Not his stature, nor his blank visage, but the twisting coiling mass of tentacle-like appendages that framed his being, a trio of snaking members lining each shoulder blade, breaking the stalker's constant cloak of shadow.
No matter how fast nor far Grantaire had scampered throughout the streets of Paris, he was always there. In every fleeting glance, a look thrown over the shoulder, he had moved in the blink of an eye, transfiguration from alley to porch, from roof to street, forever observant, tentacles billowing about his presence, stance unchanged. Grantaire's vision had blurred, his senses numbed and body brought to a fragile and weak state, caving with unfiltered terror. And for what? A glance. A simple slip of his tired optics, eye to metaphorical eye with the monstrous man, sealing the damnation of his soul. And now the cynic lay, shuddering with fear, driven to the brink of insanity, or beyond, by the twisted creature.
A hand found placement upon Grantaire's shaking shoulder, long, bony fingers gripping at the thick fabric of his coat. The cynic felt his form fill with searing pain, suddenly thrusting back against the coarse wall, blood pooling in his stomach, a fiery sensation taking residence beneath his hide, boiling his from the inside. The urging pain forced his eyes upwards, vision blurring with a growing, heavy smog, the lost shriek filling his ears once more. The scorching agony forced his jaw upwards, a blank visage staring into his own, all sensation flooding from him in a burst of release. From the corner of his darkening vision, he saw tentacles, dancing and swirling against the soft, dying light of the lamp.