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an ounce of prevention
May. 30th, 2023 01:11 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
deepwound[ It's been a while since this happened. Not Frank traipsing through the woods because he's got too much adrenaline surging through his veins for anyone's good, a dark lick of shadow whispering in his ear that he can't throw off. No chance in fucking hell he's heading back to Ormond while he's like this, all riled up and shaky, excess frenzy still burning through him even though the trial's put in the dirt, survivors chased down, stabbed, hung on hooks to get the goddamn spider to finally shut the fuck up. No, that happens pretty regularly. Frank's not one of those idiots who thinks if he plays all nice with the survivors in trial, it'll be doing anyone favors. The trial's one thing.
This, stumbling over a body in the dark of the woods, is another. And this body in particular. He hasn't had to deal with this shit in a while, and he'd liked it that way. He'd liked not having to go hunt down fucking Quentin Smith after trials anymore. Not since their little... whatever the fuck the whole kissing and watching his back and giving a shit is. Nowadays, he could usually find Quentin waiting for him, even if just to open his mouth and bitch.
He catches himself with a hand against a tree, and scowls at the groan coming from near his feet. Yeah, not a dead body. Just fucking Quentin Smith curled up in the leaf cover, jacket pulled mostly over his head. Not even the faintest trace of a camp fire or blanket or anything resembling goddamn common sense or self preservation to be found, out in the dark for any unsavory character to stumble over and nearly brain themselves. What a fucking asshole.
Frank stares. Yeah, Smith sure looks the worse for wear. All the blood's been wiped clean away. The vicious gashes along his back, his shoulders, his throat, from shoulder to sternum, jagged from the rusty edge of Frank's knife, all healed on up like they'd never been torn into Quentin's skin. There's no trace of the hamstringing — friendly, just like Quentin'd asked for — from when he'd left Smith on the ground, bleeding out from the knife wound to the chest. But Quentin's still and pale — downright sallow, where the hoodie's slipping off his face. The smear of dirt over Quentin's cheek can't hide how gaunt he is or the shadows under his eyes. Shit, and he'd been looking a little less like death warmed over the past couple weeks.]
You fucker. I know you had a real bad time, but why the hell are you out here?
[ He nudges at Quentin with the toe of his boot. Gentle, but he's not sorry about being the one giving Quentin a bad time. Sure, the bad time involved being messily eviscerated and forced to lie there, listening to his friends screaming as they got strung up on hooks, but that's nothing personal.
Okay, maybe it was a little personal. Maybe, just maybe, Frank had listened the last time Quentin said he'd rather have his guts ripped out than be offered up to the goddamn spider. ]
This, stumbling over a body in the dark of the woods, is another. And this body in particular. He hasn't had to deal with this shit in a while, and he'd liked it that way. He'd liked not having to go hunt down fucking Quentin Smith after trials anymore. Not since their little... whatever the fuck the whole kissing and watching his back and giving a shit is. Nowadays, he could usually find Quentin waiting for him, even if just to open his mouth and bitch.
He catches himself with a hand against a tree, and scowls at the groan coming from near his feet. Yeah, not a dead body. Just fucking Quentin Smith curled up in the leaf cover, jacket pulled mostly over his head. Not even the faintest trace of a camp fire or blanket or anything resembling goddamn common sense or self preservation to be found, out in the dark for any unsavory character to stumble over and nearly brain themselves. What a fucking asshole.
Frank stares. Yeah, Smith sure looks the worse for wear. All the blood's been wiped clean away. The vicious gashes along his back, his shoulders, his throat, from shoulder to sternum, jagged from the rusty edge of Frank's knife, all healed on up like they'd never been torn into Quentin's skin. There's no trace of the hamstringing — friendly, just like Quentin'd asked for — from when he'd left Smith on the ground, bleeding out from the knife wound to the chest. But Quentin's still and pale — downright sallow, where the hoodie's slipping off his face. The smear of dirt over Quentin's cheek can't hide how gaunt he is or the shadows under his eyes. Shit, and he'd been looking a little less like death warmed over the past couple weeks.]
You fucker. I know you had a real bad time, but why the hell are you out here?
[ He nudges at Quentin with the toe of his boot. Gentle, but he's not sorry about being the one giving Quentin a bad time. Sure, the bad time involved being messily eviscerated and forced to lie there, listening to his friends screaming as they got strung up on hooks, but that's nothing personal.
Okay, maybe it was a little personal. Maybe, just maybe, Frank had listened the last time Quentin said he'd rather have his guts ripped out than be offered up to the goddamn spider. ]
