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Title: Where the Animals Go (Take Off Your Skin in the Cannibal Glow)
Pairing: Gen, subject to change.
Rating: NC-17
Summary: For a long time, Frank sees his days in sound.
Author's Note: 1,006 words. Another little snippet of this weird House of Wolves!AU that seems to be developing in my head. There’s like, a plot and everything.
Disclaimer: Fictional. All of it. Don’t sue me.
Warnings: some horror themes, Gerard being creepy as fuck.
There is a manhunt and the long needles of torch light tearing through the plush fabric of darkness.
An escapee pants in the shadows, drooling blood and urgency and crouching in the humid shelter of the forest. He tries to settle into the foliage, snapping at little bugs and leaves that flick into the line of his vision and then startling like a rabbit as footsteps thunder around. The sound is roaring loud in gauged, ripped ears and when footsteps stagger near, he’s gone from his hiding place and a cut-off cry rings out through the dense trees to make way for a thick silence, punctuated by a muffled yelp and the short, strangled sounds of teeth ragging on material, flesh. Blood soaks into the forest floor and there’s a little, tinkling bell of laughter trapped somewhere between the clawing branches around him.
He jerks up, mouth and shirt tainted dark and wet, and trapped amongst the beams of white, there’s a slender figure with a jilted crown atop dirty hair and a grisly, crooked smile.
‘Frank,’ comes the soft drawl, and he feels his heckles prickle, uncertain. ‘Frankie, snookums.’
A timid explosion of laughter, smattered and sycophantic behind him; more people. Frank feels trapped, jerking back where he stands, stumbling on the body of the savaged cop. The man with the crown steps forward, hand outstretched, and he goes still. The air is thrumming and Frank’s nostrils flare, taking in every dent in the atmosphere. His eyes search the face; the arched brows and tilted chin. He’s small- small like Frank- but even dwarfed by the towering trees he’s an unmistakable presence, though whether intimidating or reassuring, Frank can’t tell.
‘Frankie...’ he murmurs again softly. Frank can make out white, sharp teeth and dark eyes, and happiness; unadulterated mania. The pale hand extended to him reeks of promise and something else sweet and coy, and it’s good. It smells of I can give you what you want.
‘I’ve come to set you freeee-eeeeeee...’
His mind races. Flashing, fractured images of running and screaming and red red red. His eyes flick from the outstretched hand to his left: escape.
There are no cops following him now, he realises. The woods are high with the stench of death. The king of nothing is not alone, but Frank is.
The stranger tips his head forward. His crown slips a little to flatten the jagged scruff of his hair against his forehead and there’s another little laugh. He doesn’t lower his hand, just flicks his wrist a little and slips his tongue between those teeth to wiggle the pink tip toward Frank, like a little boy teasing a catholic school girl. The torch beams beyond are still, but Frank smells movement in the other heart beats, four to be precise, the combined rhythm of their unseen pulse a steady, slow thrum. Backing music to a movie moment.
Frank swallows thick, opens his mouth. Behind his eyes, things slow to a crawl. He feels the man with the crown smile and settle his palm atop his hair. His fingers comb through firm and slow, and there’s that sweetness again in the air, intimate. In the darkness of his thoughts, Frank feels insatiable, raw hunger, and lets out a short breath.
‘C’mon, Frankie,’ he hears dimly, ‘I’ve got bones I need picking.’
For a long time, Frank sees his days in colour.
It’s blurs of screaming red and black and soft, blossoming violent hues of rest; blue of sleep and savage green of touch me don’t look at him. It’s the bright, firework amber of wind me up let me loose and the white hot I’ll tear the shit out of you bursts. The King of nothing’s touch becomes hazy, mellow gold, soothing and patient and endlessly indulgent, and Frank’s eyes see bars and stone walls and fingernails scraping chunks out of wooden floors, but his ears and his nose see only freedom. Blood lust and hunger sated and sex and security. A group in those five familiar heartbeats constantly humming inside Frank’s own veins.
Travelling together and hunting together and sleeping, eating, breathing together. A family. A dynasty.
A pack.
And it’s one day that the King reclines against the cool marble floors of the den, his hair spilling out against the white of the stone, and sings softly with Frank’s on the plain of his chest.
‘Ring around the rosy, a pocket full of posies...’
His eyes wander to the dark pool of red on the floor, the fresh twang of copper in the cold air. He smiles and trails circles on Frank’s bare shoulder with his free hand.
‘Ashes, to ashes, we all fall down... You’re so good at thiiiis, Frankie,’ he lilts, and he strokes his hair languidly as Frank’s back heaves, eyes wide and arms and hands splashed with fresh wetness. There’s a smear on the King’s cheek that Frank wants to make permanent, but he doesn’t, just lets those cool, thin fingers slide through his perspiration-damped hair and sighs when there’s a happy noise of content from above him. ‘Such a good boy.’
Frank allows himself a short noise of appreciation, and is dully aware of his master’s fingers rubbing pleasing circles into the skin hugging his jaw. His reaction elicits a little laugh, the noise disappointingly interrupted by abrupt footsteps.
‘Gerard...’
The King tips his head back a little and Frank resists the urge to snarl. The King’s brother, the willowy, angular one with fox-like features and an odd, sharp scent to him. Mikey, he calls him.
‘Yes, Mikes?’
‘We found them.’
There’s a long silence then. Frank is seeing the soft rose tint of anticipation rise in Gerard’s pale face. He doesn’t move, just favours his brother with a broad smile, and then looks down to where his fingers card continually through Frank’s hair and hums.
‘Frankie,’ he coos, and his thumb slips over to press at the peak of Frank’s rust-smeared cheek-bone gently, ‘I’m going to teach you how to play fetch.’
A/N: Mrooop. Concrit appreciated. Peace babies xo.
Pairing: Gen, subject to change.
Rating: NC-17
Summary: For a long time, Frank sees his days in sound.
Author's Note: 1,006 words. Another little snippet of this weird House of Wolves!AU that seems to be developing in my head. There’s like, a plot and everything.
Disclaimer: Fictional. All of it. Don’t sue me.
Warnings: some horror themes, Gerard being creepy as fuck.
There is a manhunt and the long needles of torch light tearing through the plush fabric of darkness.
An escapee pants in the shadows, drooling blood and urgency and crouching in the humid shelter of the forest. He tries to settle into the foliage, snapping at little bugs and leaves that flick into the line of his vision and then startling like a rabbit as footsteps thunder around. The sound is roaring loud in gauged, ripped ears and when footsteps stagger near, he’s gone from his hiding place and a cut-off cry rings out through the dense trees to make way for a thick silence, punctuated by a muffled yelp and the short, strangled sounds of teeth ragging on material, flesh. Blood soaks into the forest floor and there’s a little, tinkling bell of laughter trapped somewhere between the clawing branches around him.
He jerks up, mouth and shirt tainted dark and wet, and trapped amongst the beams of white, there’s a slender figure with a jilted crown atop dirty hair and a grisly, crooked smile.
‘Frank,’ comes the soft drawl, and he feels his heckles prickle, uncertain. ‘Frankie, snookums.’
A timid explosion of laughter, smattered and sycophantic behind him; more people. Frank feels trapped, jerking back where he stands, stumbling on the body of the savaged cop. The man with the crown steps forward, hand outstretched, and he goes still. The air is thrumming and Frank’s nostrils flare, taking in every dent in the atmosphere. His eyes search the face; the arched brows and tilted chin. He’s small- small like Frank- but even dwarfed by the towering trees he’s an unmistakable presence, though whether intimidating or reassuring, Frank can’t tell.
‘Frankie...’ he murmurs again softly. Frank can make out white, sharp teeth and dark eyes, and happiness; unadulterated mania. The pale hand extended to him reeks of promise and something else sweet and coy, and it’s good. It smells of I can give you what you want.
‘I’ve come to set you freeee-eeeeeee...’
His mind races. Flashing, fractured images of running and screaming and red red red. His eyes flick from the outstretched hand to his left: escape.
There are no cops following him now, he realises. The woods are high with the stench of death. The king of nothing is not alone, but Frank is.
The stranger tips his head forward. His crown slips a little to flatten the jagged scruff of his hair against his forehead and there’s another little laugh. He doesn’t lower his hand, just flicks his wrist a little and slips his tongue between those teeth to wiggle the pink tip toward Frank, like a little boy teasing a catholic school girl. The torch beams beyond are still, but Frank smells movement in the other heart beats, four to be precise, the combined rhythm of their unseen pulse a steady, slow thrum. Backing music to a movie moment.
Frank swallows thick, opens his mouth. Behind his eyes, things slow to a crawl. He feels the man with the crown smile and settle his palm atop his hair. His fingers comb through firm and slow, and there’s that sweetness again in the air, intimate. In the darkness of his thoughts, Frank feels insatiable, raw hunger, and lets out a short breath.
‘C’mon, Frankie,’ he hears dimly, ‘I’ve got bones I need picking.’
For a long time, Frank sees his days in colour.
It’s blurs of screaming red and black and soft, blossoming violent hues of rest; blue of sleep and savage green of touch me don’t look at him. It’s the bright, firework amber of wind me up let me loose and the white hot I’ll tear the shit out of you bursts. The King of nothing’s touch becomes hazy, mellow gold, soothing and patient and endlessly indulgent, and Frank’s eyes see bars and stone walls and fingernails scraping chunks out of wooden floors, but his ears and his nose see only freedom. Blood lust and hunger sated and sex and security. A group in those five familiar heartbeats constantly humming inside Frank’s own veins.
Travelling together and hunting together and sleeping, eating, breathing together. A family. A dynasty.
A pack.
And it’s one day that the King reclines against the cool marble floors of the den, his hair spilling out against the white of the stone, and sings softly with Frank’s on the plain of his chest.
‘Ring around the rosy, a pocket full of posies...’
His eyes wander to the dark pool of red on the floor, the fresh twang of copper in the cold air. He smiles and trails circles on Frank’s bare shoulder with his free hand.
‘Ashes, to ashes, we all fall down... You’re so good at thiiiis, Frankie,’ he lilts, and he strokes his hair languidly as Frank’s back heaves, eyes wide and arms and hands splashed with fresh wetness. There’s a smear on the King’s cheek that Frank wants to make permanent, but he doesn’t, just lets those cool, thin fingers slide through his perspiration-damped hair and sighs when there’s a happy noise of content from above him. ‘Such a good boy.’
Frank allows himself a short noise of appreciation, and is dully aware of his master’s fingers rubbing pleasing circles into the skin hugging his jaw. His reaction elicits a little laugh, the noise disappointingly interrupted by abrupt footsteps.
‘Gerard...’
The King tips his head back a little and Frank resists the urge to snarl. The King’s brother, the willowy, angular one with fox-like features and an odd, sharp scent to him. Mikey, he calls him.
‘Yes, Mikes?’
‘We found them.’
There’s a long silence then. Frank is seeing the soft rose tint of anticipation rise in Gerard’s pale face. He doesn’t move, just favours his brother with a broad smile, and then looks down to where his fingers card continually through Frank’s hair and hums.
‘Frankie,’ he coos, and his thumb slips over to press at the peak of Frank’s rust-smeared cheek-bone gently, ‘I’m going to teach you how to play fetch.’
A/N: Mrooop. Concrit appreciated. Peace babies xo.
10 knocked me out | knock me out
