GOLDEN BOY 🏵️

𝗧𝗘𝗡𝗗𝗘𝗥-𝗛𝗘𝗔𝗥𝗧𝗘𝗗,‎‎‎‎‎‎‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‎‏‏‎ ‎𝗗𝗘𝗦𝗣𝗜𝗧𝗘, 𝗗𝗘𝗦𝗣𝗜𝗧𝗘.

[lifesver]

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𝟶𝟷. 𝚒𝚗𝚍. 𝙻𝙴𝙻𝙰𝙽𝙳 𝙼𝙲𝙺𝙸𝙽𝙽𝙴𝚈 𝚘𝚏 𝙶𝚄𝙽. 𝙼𝙴𝙳𝙸𝙰'𝚂 𝚃𝙴𝚇𝙰𝚂 𝙲𝙷𝙰𝙸𝙽𝚂𝙰𝚆 𝙼𝙰𝚂𝚂𝙰𝙲𝚁𝙴 𝙶𝙰𝙼𝙴, 𝚠𝚒𝚕𝚍𝚕𝚢 𝚜𝚙𝚎𝚌𝚞𝚕𝚊𝚝𝚎𝚍 𝚘𝚗 𝚋𝚢 𝚔𝚎𝚕𝚜 𝟶𝟸. 𝚑𝚎𝚢 𝚐𝚞𝚢𝚜 𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚛𝚎'𝚜 𝚕𝚒𝚔𝚎 𝟷 𝚌𝚊𝚗𝚘𝚗 𝚙𝚊𝚛𝚊𝚐𝚛𝚊𝚙𝚑 𝚊𝚋𝚘𝚞𝚝 𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚐𝚞𝚢 𝚜𝚘 𝚒'𝚖 𝚓𝚞𝚜𝚝 𝚖𝚊𝚔𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚗𝚐𝚜 𝚞𝚙. 𝟶𝟹. 𝚙𝚕𝚎𝚊𝚜𝚎 𝚗𝚘 𝚙𝚎𝚛𝚜𝚘𝚗𝚊𝚕𝚜 / 𝚜𝚎𝚕𝚎𝚌𝚝𝚒𝚟𝚎. 𝚌𝚛𝚘𝚜𝚜𝚘𝚟𝚎𝚛 / 𝚘𝚌 / 𝚍𝚞𝚙𝚕𝚒𝚌𝚊𝚝𝚎 𝚏𝚛𝚒𝚎𝚗𝚍𝚕𝚢! 𝟶𝟺. 𝚑𝚘𝚛𝚛𝚘𝚛 𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚖𝚎𝚜 𝚕𝚒𝚔𝚎 𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚛𝚎 𝚊𝚛𝚎 𝚌𝚑𝚊𝚒𝚗𝚜𝚊𝚠𝚜 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚖𝚊𝚜𝚜𝚊𝚌𝚛𝚎𝚜 𝚊𝚛𝚎 𝚑𝚊𝚙𝚙𝚎𝚗𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝟶𝟻. 𝚌𝚊𝚛𝚛𝚍 / 𝚙𝚜𝚍 𝚌𝚛𝚎𝚍𝚒𝚝 / 𝚙𝚒𝚗𝚝𝚎𝚛𝚎𝚜𝚝 / 𝚒𝚌 𝚙𝚘𝚜𝚝𝚜 / 𝚙𝚛𝚘𝚖𝚙𝚝𝚜

『 𝐈 𝐏𝐑𝐎𝐌𝐈𝐒𝐄, 𝐈'𝐋𝐋 𝐊𝐈𝐋𝐋 𝐓𝐇𝐄𝐌 𝐅𝐎𝐑 𝐓𝐇𝐈𝐒! 』

STUDIES IN: subverting the ‘horror jock’ archetype, making sacrifices, ‘doing it scared’, dealing with trauma and the nonlinear healing process afterwards, finding your identity, and found family friendships. in some verses, i'll be exploring dark/sensitive topics surrounding psychological trauma/trauma response/toxic dynamics. highly headcanon based and constantly pretty canon-divergent bc gun. typically ends up dropping information i do not agree with (: i have been writing him since the tech test beta, so some of my headcanons are relics from before we received canon information.

GENERAL PSA: the tcsm rpc is very small! and while i have dedicated writing partners that i have written and developed dynamics with over the last year, i will still happily write with and develop new dynamics with same-muses, as everyone brings something different to those characters. i also do not mind if you follow me as a duplicate! i am also someone who works full time, so writing is just a hobby that i get to when i have the time/brainpower. i try to be active on the dash but i tend to spend a lot of time on individual posts and can be very slow.

[lifesver]

i think im getting the writing itch again to work on some drafts. for now? post-shadowbringers trauma bunny leland

[lifesver]

yeah i made him a buny. yeah i dragged my friends into making our blorbos on xiv

[dogsm4w]

spending too much time in the basement is a detriment to what he's trying to do. what he's trying to achieve. undeniably, nothing has gone smoothly since his impulse decision to chase the girl in the field and bring her home. it was meant to be just her. just the wide-eyed girl who ventured a little too far from the path in hopes of chasing a bunny or some flowers and stupidly ended up right where he wanted her. he had no plan of what to do with her. no instinct outside of maim, murder, kill. but before any of that could've been sorted, the rest of her little friends had shown up and now he's still reaping the consequences of them all getting away. well, almost all. all save for one. one, that he's tucked away in the basement, clinging to the life that johnny won't let him end. fighting him out in the graveyard, cold waters rising above them, their blood mingling as they shared blow for blow, cut for cut, punch for punch - out there, johnny had wanted him dead. but here, brought away from the tombs and grave dirt, brought away from any chance of real salvation, here... he isn't allowed to die. not yet, anyway. maybe not ever.

it's almost two days before johnny can make it back down to see him again. a little longer than intended because nancy's keen eye has been a little too watchful and the old man has made demands of him that he obliges if only to buy himself the privacy and the time for this. this, here. him cracking open the door fully expecting the gnashing teeth and the snarling dog caught on a leash, maybe even gnawed through its own paw.

but that isn't the image that greets him.

that isn't the strong protective jock, ready to die for his friends.

he's a shadow of his former self.

a ghost.

another to add to the many that crawl and sift through the damp halls carved out in this basement. his body would look pretty propped up on the mattress that sits on the floor now, just out of reach of the tips of his toes. stained and springs exposed and hardly comfortable.

under the harsh yellows, the college boy is looking a little gaunt. dark shadows beneath dark eyes and his teeth chatter against his lips that look like they're raw from the cold, from neglect, from the passing of his own teeth as time cleaves chunks from his resolve. something awfully close to concern knits itself in a thin veil across johnny's jaw. what use is he if he's sick and frail and clinging to death now anyway?

his voice is rough. rough and barely there, strained, johnny nearly misses it, too. a sound absorbed into the walls of this little makeshift cell. the boy who was so bright and so big has already begun to deteriorate and there's equal parts amusement and discontent that tug at the center of johnny's chest because of this revelation.

"well shit," he finally speaks, not bothering to unfurl the furrow at his brow. "what i wanted to do was a lot more excitin' than this. buuuuut, since you asked so nicely," he moves from the doorway, the small room flooding with some more of that faint light, a wave of cold with her luring curls of air and bone chill following. with his boot, he wedges the door closed to prevent that air from touching leland. then, the distance between them is closed enough that johnny can wrap his arm around leland's body, fingers merciful against his bruised ribs and torn up back. he smells like meat left on the counter for a little too long, long enough that the flies would've been swarming him if it were warmer down here. long enough that maybe if he hadn't been strung up, the rats would've tried to feast on his soft flesh. johnny holds him firm, but tender, weight held in his curled arm so he can reach up with the other and cut loose the ropes that dig and feed on leland's wrists. crusted blood sits in the winding threads. he leverages leland's dead weight, holding him close to his own body while he cuts through them. a few seconds, maybe a minute at most. his warmth bleeding into leland's cold body. for a second, he swears he can feel the jackrabbit humming of leland's still beating heart against his own chest and the familiar pulse of electric current he's felt when this boy is close webs at the center of his chest.

defibrillator. proof of life. for who? he's not the one strung up and yet...

with his arms cut free, johnny doesn't haphazardly drop leland's body, though the thought occurs to him, he drops his knife instead. it doesn't make much more than a dull thud against the dirt floor. it frees his hand to allow him to wind that arm too around him. holding him close. feet on the floor now, but he's pressed against johnny. close enough that he can see the haze in his eyes and the beads of sweat indicating a fever that pool at his temples despite the frigid air. briefly, without warning or permission, he presses his lips to leland's forehead. checking his temperature. attempting to hold his focus through the apparent illness.

"i leave you down here for a few days and you go 'n get yourself sick. thought you could handle anythin' i throw at you?"

had he pushed too far? was he already broken? he clears his throat, chest tight again with the pinching sensation he has no name for, no root cause for. something only leland causes. like thorn pinpricks against his skin, a splinter he keeps thumbing over even when the skin gets raw.

he should let him die down here. alone and forgotten. he should.

but then what?

gently, johnny helps him down onto the mattress. laura-jean looked small sunken into that same mattress about a month before all this happened with leland and his little friends. she had begged for her life, too. had enough fight to keep johnny amused for all of two seconds and then he snapped her neck. her ribs were tender. the old man is annoying, but he sure knows his barbecue. callused fingertips slip beneath the tattered, bloodied shirt clinging to leland's wounds. fingers catching at the rungs of his ribs. he's thinner now. thinner than he had been when he was all muscle and all grit, throwing himself at johnny and hands and anyone who dared to look anywhere other than him.

"easy," he murmurs, settling onto his knees beside the mattress. "if you think you can just slip away and die like a pussy after all'a that fight you put up, you got another thing comin'," his tone is colored with play. with jest. with something near affectionate were it not laced in that same stale liquor on his tongue. johnny reaches then for leland's hands, his wounded wrists, and starts to rub circulation into them. he isn't gentle now, rough hands used to rough work, but he takes care to not rip open the raw wounds already there. he's deliberate about the pressure he applies, dragging and coaxing blood through leland's hands. and then his hands dip further, along his forearms. beyond his elbows, along his biceps. not unlike a sick dog, but this one he knows won't bite hard, even if he had the strength to do much more than lay there and take this. "how you feelin'?" johnny dips down closer, brushing hair from leland's brow, his skin feeling clammy to the touch. with that same hand, he rubs at the center of leland's chest. small, soothing circles, and then stops completely. he stops and lets the cold air settle between them again. all teeth when he asks, a mask of earnesty,

"you feelin' a bit warmer now? tell me what'cha need, leland."

[lifesver]

really? leland blinks owlishly. he isn’t sure he actually expects johnny to listen. a cold wave of gratefulness washes over him — in temporarily avoiding whatever torture his captor had in mind. in his fever-haze, he tracks johnny mostly through feeling — touch, and how the hair on the back of his neck stands up when the man is close. maybe leland doesn't breathe at all when he gets closer, when his arm encircles him to keep him steady. compared to the frigid air, johnny's body against his is like a furnace. relief shocks his system, and leland lets out held breath, finally — nearly a sigh — head lolling, exhausted, at johnny’s shoulder. he rests like that kind of helplessly, listening to the knife saw at the thick rope for what feels like forever — braces himself at the momentary pressure on his raw wrists. it’s agonizing, and he bites the cry down, teeth sunk hard into his tongue, subduing it to a low whimper against johnny’s shoulder.

when the rope finally gives, his bruised body doesn't dead-drop to the ground — like before. instead, he’s caught against johnny's much sturdier frame. vision spots like colourful fireworks — all leland can do is collapse like his strings have been cut. his brows knit and he makes a gentle questioning sound at the feeling of — what the fuck? did he kiss him? leland doesn't have much time — or space, to unpack that. or the way the man’s rough hands feels under his shirt. he sort of wants to throw up, thinking about it — but he’s not sure there’s much left in the way of stomach contents, right now.

leland frowns softly, wanting to argue. ❝ i can, ❞ last bit of stubbornness materializing in a protest. ❝ — plus. you didn't do that. cold did. and… s’gross in here. ❞ he points out with a small, shivery huff — as if it matters what takes credit for his state. the cold, disgusting cell, or johnny’s knife.

the tone he takes isn't that surprising to leland — johnny has the luxury of thinking of this as some kind of sick game. meanwhile, this was leland's fucking life, now. one he had thought would be over weeks earlier than this. he’d even wanted it to be over, a few times. but johnny hadn't let him have that. not even when he'd asked. in more pain than he’d ever been in in his life, sobbing and pleading for it to be over — leland felt ashamed of that, now. there’s a dizzy stab of anger, too — as if he hasn’t survived this hell this long. it's not fair — now, there’s no fighting back if he wanted to. he's dying, right? he needs help — more help than a few stitches. this room is wasting him away, and maybe soon he’ll really be dead — swallowed and digested by this house like countless others. whether johnny wanted it or not. fuck him, leland thinks. he shouldn't get what he wants.

but — truthfully, he feels like he might crack and fall to pieces, being held so gently. he hates that it feels kind of nice — being touched at all. he hates how he feels like crying. he hates how he wants to curl up in a ball, once johnny lowers them to the filthy mattress. but he doesn't fight it. leland relaxes unconsciously, shoulders slumping and head drooping. wanting to sink into a puddle, now that he’s not straining to keep himself upright. he gives no thought to struggling now that he’s free. he just gives a little sniffle, blinking dazedly up at johnny. ❝ th — thank you, johnny. ❞ it's more of a mumble, gravelly and brittle. as polite as he can manage, hoping the man doesn’t suddenly change his mind.

hearing his own name is kind of strange. johnny doesn't use it much. calls him anything else — mostly demeaning stuff. leland doesn’t like how it makes him feel to hear it now. sickly warm and stomach-curdling. he’s tried to humanize himself to johnny before — but he doesn’t expect gentleness here. johnny’s hands are expectedly rough, but he doesn't seem like he's looking to cause any unnecessary pain — this time. leland hisses through his teeth; the angry, deep wounds around his wrists aching and pulsing as blood is forced through them by the man’s ministrations. that hurts, too, but everything does, so leland doesn't complain. it’s just — when he looks down, his hands look about as bad as he guessed they would. wrong. discoloured. he grimaces as he tries to flex his fingers. after a minute, he has to look away, eyes stinging and throat tight.

❝ y-yeah. ❞ he lies, trying not to shiver. not while this man's hands are on him. not while he feels his heart stuttering to life in his chest. waking up, after barely beating down here in the freezing cold. leland’s brows furrow together in confusion, like he doesn't understand the second part of what’s been said. he doesn't, really. can’t comprehend this being anything other than another sick trick. another way to humiliate him, somehow. he hesitates, wary. teeth worrying at cracked bottom lip. ❝ … why are you being n-nice? ❞ he accuses, earnestly. when he looks at johnny's grinning teeth, some sinking part of him knows that's not what this is at all. but right now, he can't bring himself to care.

what more does he have to lose, anyway?

suddenly, johnny’s hands retreat, and leland feels a spike of racing, unfamiliar desperation. it makes his chest squeeze. eyes flick up pleading and panicked. suddenly, the thought of johnny leaving out that door again gets him right around the throat. it makes him… scared — the feeling foreign and suffocating. the returning cold has him taking in a sharp, pained breath;

❝ i... ❞ he whispers, raw with shame. ❝ could you stay here a little longer? ❞ i don't want to die alone.

[lifesver]

is it finally time to give our characters different last names...

[lifesver]

he's so baby

[lifesver]

this picrew was cute so theres me and the son

[lifesver]

@dogsm4w said: "say it again, like you believe the shit comin' outta your mouth," johnny says, amusement caught in his lazy drawl. it's too early still to make any sort of move that matters. hours until the sun goes down. hours until the sun has faded leaving only warm pavement behind. hours he gets to leisurely spend with leland until he cuts him loose to find a mark of his own. leland, who he has perched in his lap all pretty right now, johnny's attention doesn't divert much from the curve of his jaw or the look in his eyes. even when the air conditioner to their left hums in mild protest to the heat in the room. stained curtains catch in the try hard rush of air and from just outside, he can hear laughter. other tenants of this particular motel. the hole in the wall sort that truckers utilize straight off the road. the kind you bring side pieces to so they can add to the collection of stains on the rough sheets and dented beds. two rooms down, he swears there's a drug deal in the works. no one cares. no one lingers here long enough to make an impact. a sea of faces that come and go in a little dirt-filled town off the main highway. a feeding ground. a hunter's paradise. the place he's brought leland. tonight, someone else will lay sprawled out on the bed. and if leland makes him proud, they'll be bleeding out before midnight even hits. johnny continues, his thumb stroking a deliberate gentle line across leland's adam's apple and up below his chin. he tilts his head up, directs him to look at him. "guy asks you what you're doin' in a place like this." the dive bar just a hop, skip, jump away from this motel. like the owners knew what kind of bargain they'd get setting up shop near the flickering neon reds where people chase all sorts of highs. johnny leans in, tip of his nose grazing the apple of leland's cheek. his free hand seeks anchor at leland's hip, fingers pressing in an echoing mirror to the bruises he knows rest just beneath the fabric of his clothes. mine. mine. mine. "deep breath, keep your cool," he instructs. "what're you gonna say to him? he's needy 'n hungry 'n can't keep his hands off you. keep him interested. keep him talkin'."

he’d argue it's pretty hard to concentrate, when there's a thumb pressed close to his pulse. a warm palm that rests comfortably against the side of his neck — not aggressively, but present. a reminder, and a promise. it makes leland’s brain feel fuzzy on the edges. it's always kind of intense, when he watches him like this. johnny can probably feel every subtle hitch in his breath, and leland focuses on the weight of his hands. in a weird way, they steady him, when his thoughts threaten to spin out in a panic again.

lips part with the beginnings of a protest — and then purse. instead, leland sighs a little impatiently. throat humming against johnny's palm. ❝ it works on them. ❞ he retorts, with a small roll of his eyes. another test. tonight will be a test, too.

all things considered, this isn't the worst motel room they've stayed in. it’s a million times better than the shack. but they all feel like a shade of the same thing. sweat and skin, stained sheets, slightly yellow wallpaper. he perches in johnny’s lap on the room’s uncomfortable bed, and in the dull lamplight, he thinks he hears a fly zap itself on the bulb. again and again, zzt, zzt, zzt. in the sticky afternoon, the drone of the air conditioner threatens to lull him into a vague trance, and he thinks of the hundreds of nameless people that must have passed through here before them.

leland imagines they’re the same transient types he’s seen at the dusty bars and near-dead truck stops around here. part of him liked to wonder where they were headed, after they left this speck on the map in the rearview. if maybe at the end of their long travel through the silent nothingness, there's home. if maybe there's someone waiting for them, where the road gets eaten up by the horizon. for leland, it's been getting harder and harder to imagine much beyond all of this. the rigid borders he sees everywhere, encircling him on all sides. he knows he can’t ever go where they go — there's probably a million places he'll never get to see, now. and he couldn’t go home, even if he was free to. that was the bad choice he made, in a long line of bad choices. and he was bad, too. bad like the man staring back at him in the dim, sickly orange light.

but anyway. it's not the worst motel room. he's at least pretty sure no one's died in it, yet. that was going to change, if johnny had anything to say about it.

leland huffs softly, eyes still low where fingertips trace a scar on johnny’s collarbone. a pause; ❝ ... you’re not gonna leave me alone again, right? ❞ he accuses, trying not to sound like he’s whining. because — he should be able to handle it, right? he shouldn't need johnny to rescue him. leland frowns a little at himself, knuckles curling anxiously against johnny’s chest ❝ what if i can't do it? what if i mess up... ❞ he murmurs, worry bleeding through despite his best effort. really, he doesn’t want to do any of this. he never wants to do this, he wants to stay here — but it’s not like he has a choice.

he doesn't want to mess up again. like that first time.

of course, he hadn't been prepared for it, when the burly trucker type of all people scooted a seat closer to him at the bar. must have thought he was easy prey or something, looking out of place and nervous like he did. leaned in even closer and slurred drunkly that he was pretty, like a girl. leland didn’t know what to say to that — everything he’d rehearsed had flitted completely out of his brain. but he remembers the man's mouth tasted like cheap beer when they kissed in the hallway, the man crowding him into a wall, pushy and overwhelming. gross breath hot against his cheek, and leland trying desperately to remember what he was supposed to do. it felt dirty. the man’s hands were blue-collar calloused, and he wasn't as nice to leland when they were alone.

it didn’t go like it was supposed to. it's practically ingrained in his skull — how the man pushed him down to his knees hard on the sticky bathroom tile, before leland could even remember to go for the switchblade in his pocket. suddenly he could barely react, suddenly he wanted to disappear into the floor. wanted johnny to come save him. but he was nowhere. it was worse, knowing he wasn’t strong anymore — not like he was all those months ago. muscle worn down a bit from weeks wasting away in a damp basement. and it came as a cold reminder, when the man caught his wrists easily, as he tried to scramble away from him — and leland could swear he'd started crying, at that point. could swear he was about to throw up from being so scared. so wildly out of his depth in a situation johnny insisted he was ready for. he wasn't ready. he's not ready now. if he thinks about it too long, he'll be fucking sick.

that guy was his first real mark. that guy ended up dead in a blood-spattered bathroom stall. because johnny was late. and leland had to sink or swim.

maybe it's bad to say, but — it was probably better guys like that died, though— instead of the girls johnny liked to point out at the start of the night. the ones he urged him to go up to. said they would be easier. leland knew what he meant by that, and hated it. hated him. it wasn't supposed to be easy. any of it. so leland doesn't ever think about choosing girls, when johnny forces him to choose. tells himself what he does to cruel men is somehow less horrible. like ones leland could tell wanted to shove into him with their hands and hurt him. after all, what did it matter to them? they were only passing through, right?

they usually reminded him of johnny. rough like him. mean like him.

for once, knelt over the body he'd riddled in panicked stab wounds on the bathroom floor, he felt wildly, sharply, in control of something. like some sick part of him was exactly what johnny wanted him to be, in that moment. was there any way to admit that somewhere past the numbness, and past the cold horror — it had felt kind of good? without sounding fucking insane? that it felt good when johnny kissed the blood off his mouth and praised him for what he’d done? no — he thinks. no amount of trying to justify it made any of what they’re doing here more right. even if his targets are lowlife nobody scumbags. even if men like that hurt people, too.

truth is — he's still the way worse monster, here. closer to the kind johnny is than any of these men could ever be. and that’s why he deserves this.

johnny’s hand on his hip squeezes like a prompt, and leland's focus narrows to where fingers press to tender bruise. a familiar blooming ache. leland’s still quiet for a stubborn moment, before his lips press into a thin line of irritation. ❝ fine, ❞ he relents, exasperated, lowering his eyes. shifts uncomfortably, feeling his cheeks burn as he hesitates to find the right story to string together. tries to make himself someone a little more convincing than his plain old self.

❝ i'm, uh... ❞ his mouth feels dry, his face hot under johnny’s relentless attention. deep breath. he tries to release the tight feeling in his chest, and ends up just feeling a little nauseous. leland tries to soften his gaze, trailing a slow deliberate look along the sharp cut of johnny’s jaw, up to meet his eyes. ❝ ... not really from around here. ❞ leland tilts his head, and what he hopes is an easy smile curls on his lips. don't try too hard. don’t overthink it. ❝ ’m trying to get to california, actually. looking for a ride. ❞ he drapes his arms around johnny's neck lightly, wiggling just a little more flush. fingers playing with the hair at johnny's nape. this kind of thing usually works on him. leland’s eyes narrow slightly, going for playful; ❝ why? do i look out of place? ❞

[lifesver]

u guys make me want to crack open the multimuse so i can put everyone over there and yap

[lifesver]

i truly used to be such a prompt writer but lately i crave the threads

[lifesver]

it's leland's birthday (:

[outshur]

@lifesver: HOLY SHIT, ARE YOU OKAY?

miles touches his fingers gingerly to the back of his head, winces when they come away wet. that hick had hit him hard. he'd been admittedly off-assignment, more interested in the missing persons reports coming out of the neighboring muerto county than the water pipe restoration he'd been sent to texas to cover. that's not great... means they won't start looking for him until he misses his deadline on saturday, and when they do, they'll start in childress county. likely won't even draw the connection to the sawyers and newt until much later, especially considering that miles has all his notes about the disappearances on him. fuck, he's an idiot. he'd gotten cocky, broken onto the sawyers' property at night after receiving a tip-off in the right direction. just to look around, maybe take a few photos -- unlike the townspeople, they'd been strangely resistant to any phone calls from journalists, despite the amount of times people had gone missing in their area.

texas is a stand your ground state, last time miles checked, but he's pretty sure that just gives them the legal right to shoot him, not to hit him over the head with god knows what and lock him in a fucking basement.

an...occupied fucking basement, clearly. he forces himself into a sitting position, his head throbbing. takes in his surroundings, and the concerned look on the face of the teen next to him. a fellow captive. so i was right about them, after all. how incredibly comforting.

"how long was i out for?" miles demands. he'd left on a wednesday night, but it was unlikely anyone would even think of looking for him until the weekend. he tries, unsuccessfully, to moderate the harshness in his voice. "do you know what day it is?"

[lifesver]

leland perks up immediately, expression breaking into a pale relief. he scramble-shuffles closer awkwardly with his bound wrists;

❝ oh my god. ❞ voice comes out a disused rasp; ❝ i thought you were... ❞ dead. the nausea still sits low in his stomach. seeing the man finally stir, he felt somewhere between hopeful and dreading. maybe those people thought the man would be out longer, too — it didn't look like they bothered tying him up.

in retrospect, are you okay probably sounded like a dumb question — but it seemed messed up not to at least ask.

the man reacts pretty understandably, all things considered. but it makes leland's head ring a little at the sudden volume. ❝ ... h-hey man, you should take it easy. ❞ leland tries, wincing. his own open wounds flaring as he adjusts. rope-bitten wrists chafe as he raises hands in a small, placating gesture, trying to follow the man's sharp questioning; ❝ i— i dunno, they just threw you in here. maybe... a couple hours ago? is that... good... or bad? ❞ he trails off, uncertain.

what day? he didn't even know what time it was. ❝ i— no. sorry. i'm sorry. ❞ leland's shoulders drop, apologetic. if he was smarter, maybe he would have kept track. it can't have been that long, but drifting in and out of consciousness wasn't helping with his sense of time down here.

he squints at the man — at least tries to, in the dust-speckled light. ❝ what's your name? i'm leland, ❞ a beat, ❝ um, mckinney. ❞ it's not a comforting thought, but at least if this guy got out of here, maybe he'd be able to tell the police leland's name. and then they could tell his mother. some stupid part of him even wanted to ask if anyone was looking for them. if by some miracle, the police were on their way. ultimately, leland just nods vaguely toward the ceiling; ❝ those people — they grabbed me and my friends at our campsite. ❞ leland's frown is thin, apprehensive. but he’s hopeful, too. ❝ there's... there's a lot of them. but... we could help each other, right? ❞

[crazysodomite]

small talk? it was quite big to me. i love you

[hauntedcartridges]

weeping angel 🥀

[lifesver]

i really do just put on my leland playlist for a pick me up in the morning

[lifesver]

leland's playlist be like 'that's what he wants u to think he's into'

[lifesver]

@dogsm4w said: "hey, pretty boy. ya miss me?" and he's all teeth as he leans in, whiskey on his breath. blood beneath his nails. his grin looking sharper if only because of the flickering light from above, the rest of his features are cast in jagged shadows. brown eyes somehow darker, blown wide pupils, he shrugs out of his leather jacket, throwing it aside without a second thought. the tip of a knife, old and reliable, gleams as he brings it out from where it usually sits tucked at his back. / sets this here and it can be at any point.... early on in basement or like maybe right when he's brought up to the shack. whatever speaks to you (:

this hurts.

leland's shoulders ache and cramp from the prolonged strain of being strung up like carved meat. he can only guess it's on purpose, that his toes barely touch the dirt floor. that sheer exhaustion forces his dead weight onto his wrists when he can't keep himself up. no matter how he twists and struggles — nothing helps. fresh wounds flare on his back. the now filthy shirt he'd come here in clings painfully to his skin. he can't feel his fingers when he flexes them, trying to coax blood back into them.

he lets out a low whine at nothing. but he tries not to cry, anymore. out of frustration, out of pain. out of something stupid. like loneliness. anyway, there's nothing to look at, in the dark. his unfocused gaze hangs on dust particles, and the faint slots of light through the cell door. his company is his own ragged breathing, and the rats in the walls. the occasional phantom sound from elsewhere in the basement.

it's just so cold. the rusted metal pipe above his head radiates a consistent chill, and sometimes it rattles — for hours. the basement air steals away any warmth he manages to generate. makes his skin prickle — like it's so cold he's burning up. feverish. his head feels hot. but he knows his teeth haven't stopped chattering. it felt a little like when he got sick as a kid, and his mom kept him home from school.

but, he's not home, now. and the only one that bothered to take care of him down here, sometimes, was that man with the horrible mask. and johnny — when he felt like it. the big guy communicated mostly by mumbling and gesturing, leland had noticed. and he had been weirdly gentle, when he had first stitched leland's wounds closed.

after johnny had thrown him in here barely alive. after the graveyard.

not that he seemed interested in letting leland die, either. at least, not yet. the more he started to understand about the man — his schedule, his habits, the sounds of his footfalls — the more insane leland felt.

mostly, johnny comes in here to hurt him. slices him up with that skinning knife, taunts him. sometimes he likes to use him as an ashtray for his cigarettes. usually leaves him something awful looking to eat. then, like today — sometimes forgets him altogether. like a chained up dog.

it's a cycle he's gotten used to, though. johnny disappears, and leland waits for him to bring the light back in.

leland doesn't know how long he's been gone, this time. a day, a couple hours. everything passed so slowly in this room. he feels worse than ever. weaker, sicker. god — he used to be strong enough to fight back. he used to have it in him to escape this fucking prison. and now he just waits here. for something. to be acknowledged, to be tormented and left alone again.

leland's thoughts list faintly; maybe he found another victim he liked torturing more than you. he doesn't know why the thought makes him sadder.

you'll die, soon, anyway. of starvation, or infection, or the cold, damp air seeping through the walls. your body will go quiet, and still. didn't you want that, at one point? didn't you want to —

— he startles as the door creak on its hinges. the dim bulb above comes on. flickers, flickers over his head. like the colour blurs dancing on the edges of his vision. room is washed in dim, nauseating yellow. leland barely lifts his head, squinting in the sudden sting of light, even as the scuffing of the man's boots grows nearer.

" hey, pretty boy. ya miss me? "

leland wants to grimace. but he doesn't bother to flinch when he feels johnny's hot breath against his cheek. when the man presses into his space smelling like dirt and blood and stale liquor. comes close like an animal nosing around roadkill. he feels like roadkill. and he wishes he had the strength to pull away. but he's so freezing. and he's so tired. and he doesn't want to play the part, today.

he doesn't want to be brave, anymore. he wants his mom. he wants a warm bed. he wants to sleep. what had fighting ever gotten him, anyway?

leland feels his eyes stinging, again. dried blood on cracked lips, and a failed vocalization is all that comes out of him, at first. his laboured breath puffs out in a weak vapour.

he tries again.

❝ what... are you gonna do, this time? ❞ there's a certain defeat in his rasp. a simultaneous deadening of his nerves, while his body trembles uncontrollably like the caught prey he is. pain-glazed eyes flutter, trying to track johnny’s features. catching on the scar, and the sharp cut of the shadows against his brow. there's a heat radiating from him that had been absent in this room before. something both menacing, and oddly comforting. warm. real, in the darkness. delirious, leland thinks he would take the cigarette ember against his skin, or a punch in the gut, now, just to have something save him from the cold.

it was moths, that gravitated to flames, right?

❝ please. ❞ he offers, thinly. a crack in his voice. a cough. unsure of what exactly he was begging for, this time. leland tries to lift his head slightly, feeling a wave of awful pin-prickles down his arms as he adjusts. his eyes want to squeeze closed again, the light hurts. but he forces himself to look up at the man properly. he swallows the lump in his throat.

❝ m - my arms. ❞ he tries to flex his hands, where they're bound tightly above his head, to elaborate. no doubt going a horrible bloodless colour where they lack circulation. ❝ can you. let me down? j - just for a little? ❞