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@lifesver
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! 』
just think that viera leland is trans bc viera are so genderfluid right from when they're little kids so..................
anyway here he is again <3
i post and everyone gets mad at me-
was just thinking about like... how leland's injuries in most main verses (with basement brawl occurring) would affect him. like ik he got concussed pretty bad and that can give you vertigo for a few weeks and maybe even in bouts of dizziness and headaches across your life permanently... think he has some short and long term memory issues as well at times bc. head trauma. also know he fucked up his shoulder from trying to knock down one of the big guys/getting tossed around. prob dislocated. does stop him from playing football in school and pursuing athletics in general. possible nerve damage in his hands from a,... cattle grid incident in some verses. definitely bruised/fractured ribs and a busted nose. and ofc all his scarring, which is quite literally all over his body and face. and then i think about how like. in the bad evil not good verses none of that heals the most optimally bc he's left in a basement and i just,
I've been following you for awhile and I still can't get over how much I love love LOVE the way you write Leland!!!!!!!!! I thank you for your service in keeping our boy alive and feeding me such beautiful art and out of this world writing!!! I just finished reading your newest post and I'm rolling around having a medical emergency because it's so awesome how you write and describe characters and their emotions!!! I'm liddoly fan girling rn you are single handily keeping me sane during camp!
(small question unrelated to tcsm or Leland at all but I know you have a Jake park account and are still into dbd so would you ever consider a Renato Lyra account??)
omg this is so kind of you ;o; thank you so much for saying that and for taking the time to send a message! i love leland lots and i'm glad my interpretation resonates + i'm glad to help haha and as for your question, i do have a jake blog! though i haven't been on it in some time. i'm not so much into dbd these days and my muse for writing characters tends to be pretty specific unfortunately. though i do love renato! hope you have a great day <3!
@lifesver says, leland feels himself flinch painfully when the shack door swings on its hinges again. he's where johnny left him crumpled; back pressed to the wall of the shack, broken arm cradled close to him. the moment johnny's boots cross the floor toward him, leland tenses like a live wire, bristling; "don't--" it's less of a demand, and more of a bark from a cornered, frightened dog. more of a plea. "... don't. touch me." leland turns his stinging eyes away from johnny, bitter. stubborn. anywhere else. at the dirty floorboards. he's prepared for it to get worse. it always does. "i-i'm not sorry," he whispers, low, guarded. as fierce as he can with tears in his eyes. as if it even matters. he's not sorry, for taking his first real shot at escape. he can't be sorry for trying. because for a moment, clearing the property line-- he felt like he could actually take something back. like he could really do it. get free of this man. save himself. but he was so stupid to think it wouldn't end like this, again.
"you will be," he snaps back immediately, the shack feeling claustrophobic and small in the wake of johnny's temper. it creaks and groans in attempt to house his anger, but achieves only making itself small. backed into a corner. like his leland. his leland. his fucking prize that he almost lost. had leland gone to someone else's house for help, he could've slipped between johnny's fingers. panic had cinched in johnny's chest when he realized he was gone. not entertaining bullshit with bubba. not listening to sissy drone on. gone. and the sensation was an unfamiliar one. an unsettling one. one he rubs at even now, now that it's been replaced with the cold familiarity of violence and control. johnny doesn't heed leland's barked plea, but instead grabs hold of his elbow, hard. hard enough to bruise and fuck he hopes it does. blossoming purple and dark blue and revealing the mottled hold he has and always will have over him.
he grabs him by his good elbow and drags him away from the wall, graceless and cruel in the way he throws him onto the couch. it, too, groans. two seconds of drawn out, weighted silence go by. silence that he has to break or he'll snap leland's other arm. silence he has to end before he does something worse. with his back to him, he inhales. it does nothing to soothe the racing of his heart or the pounding in his ears. it does nothing to settle the itch in his hands. finally, johnny moves again, to grab an opened pack of gauze form above the sink. ( it's clean, no dishes, no bits of food, no calcium build up on the faucet. it's clean. leland's handiwork. and that realization sends him turning on heel again. ) "i give and i give and you still try to run. i thought you were smarter now. i thought we were over your li'l bullshit fantasies."
you can't leave.
briskly, he kicks at leland's foot to give himself space to kneel before him. "where'd you think you were gonna go anyway, huh? home? home where? what home? no one fuckin' wants you. no one's lookin' for you." the chuckle that pulls from him lacks humor and there is no light that touches his eyes. home. home is a funny little concept. an idealistic little fantasy people paint so they can have some sense of belonging in the world. the sorts of people that haven't known what it's like to exist outside of the american dream. he hates it. he hates them. he hates him. and when he looks up at leland now, palm extended out, he does little to hide that very sentiment. it's etched into the way his lip curls and the way his nostrils flare in annoyance. it colors itself in the roughness of his voice. still, he holds his hand out. still, he seeks to tend to his injury. "give me your fuckin' arm. now. i gotta set the bone if you wanna ever use it again."
there's something manic in johnny's movements. whip-tight in the line of his shoulders. a pacing animal. an awful kind of unhinged leland isn’t used to seeing. even when johnny was mad as hell before. even when he was hunting leland down the night his friends escaped — it had never looked like this. where unnerving calm slips out of place in the working of johnny’s jaw. where a sense of control has to be reclaimed in an iron grip on the leash. like for just a minute, he had really panicked — or something. not exactly vulnerability — because johnny was never that — but something else. it’s splitting his scowl like a bolt of lightning.
leland’s used to the stomping and the slamming of doors, cabinets — the angry gait of a man close to putting his fist through the nearest wall. he knows, because it's close enough to the kind of anger his father carries. and his father's father. cecil mckinney when he was drinking. cecil mckinney after a bad day. giving him a black eye and a chin up, and telling him to lie about how it happened at school the next morning.
this is worse. a thousand times worse.
johnny's right in front of him, now. above him. talking at him. berating him for daring to run. leland's glare clings stubbornly, bitterly, to a place behind him, where the wood wall swirls like a melting face. everything else feels loud, but distorted. leland doesn't want to listen. can hardly focus on anything but the radiating pain from his arm.
obviously, johnny’s not interested in letting him commiserate in peace. pained noise startled out of him when a harsh grip closes around his good elbow — the one johnny didn’t break — and he's none too gentle with yanking leland up and away from the wall. forces him to stumble to his feet, carried by a rough momentum and deposited awkwardly on the dirty couch. barely catching himself with a grunt against the cushions.
❝ fuck you. ❞ leland hisses at him. pointless, token protest. his teeth bare slightly in a grimace.
he won’t admit it, but he’s more mad at himself. stupid. he was so stupid.
why the fuck did you try? why didn’t you keep running? why did you stop? breathless and wide-eyed, begging desperately for help at a neighbour's doorstep. he thought they'd help. thought they'd call someone. an older woman with a kind face and round spectacles had answered the door. ushered him into her narrow front hallway like a fretting, cooing auntie. leland had apologized for tracking mud on her floor. as she was milling around her kitchen, she told leland her husband was a police officer — that she didn’t have a phone, but that he’d be home shortly, if leland would just wait patiently.
he should have never trusted those people — should never have trusted anyone in this god-forsaken town. he just wanted to go home, wanted it too badly. he probably would have trusted anyone — would have done fucking anything just to get away from johnny, and this fucking shack.
what he wants doesn't matter here, though.
already halfway back the wrong way when leland realized he was trapped in the back of that cop car. that the man was driving him straight back to the property.
that no one had ever meant to help him.
leland kicked at the doors and the plastic guard and the seats until he was exhausted, panicked like a wild animal. leland begged him. begged the officer to turn around. to listen — he can’t go back there. he’d do anything not to go back there. just turn around, please —
he’s gonna kill me.
and when they pulled into the long driveway to the house, johnny was already waiting there outside, expression dark and unreadable. and leland had done what he could to make himself small — forced back into the opposite window to make some futile distance. there wasn’t anywhere to go.
he remembers being forced to leave the police car of his own volition. to be walked back to the hands of his captor with his shoulders trembling. shame and terror twisting him up inside so bad he thought he might vomit on his shoes. the tense, shared words between johnny and the cop are a pounding blur in his memory, indiscernible under the blood roaring in his ears. they talk over his head like he’s not there.
then there was the twisted prelude of affection — a calm before the storm where johnny’s expression flickered, and leland, dazed, almost thought he might get off without punishment. where johnny thanked the officer for returning leland to where he belonged. was disturbingly silent the entire march back to the shack. but the very moment the door shut, johnny caught him in a violent grip by the shoulder. leland mostly remembers the sickening twist-snap, his own scream blanked out under white noise.
johnny didn’t kill him for running. but leland guesses he thought about it.
look at what you made me do, he said — sort of like cecil mckinney would say — about a glass shattered on the linoleum floor — direct result of throwing leland’s mother against the kitchen cabinets. like it was her fault. he usually said sorry, afterwards, like clockwork. but she was the one left to sweep up the glass.
anyway — johnny's saying something else, now, probably because he likes the sound of his own voice. but leland's head is ringing and his voice sounds fuzzy. far away. leland wishes he was. wishes he could be someone else. be anywhere else. wishes he could fucking disappear.
but he can’t. this is hell.
leland takes in a harsh, shuddering breath. he doesn’t want to look at his arm. he doesn’t want to think about how he might never get a chance like that, again. that was it. he got past the fences, the traps, the cattle grid. and then he screwed it all up. just like before. he’d be lucky if he didn’t get thrown back down into the basement again.
❝ if i didn't try... i could never forgive myself. ❞ he rasps, dully, stinging eyes still firmly to the wall. he doesn't bother to lie. johnny somehow always knew. and anyway, every answer was going to be the wrong one, right now. ❝ … i get it. i heard you. i'm not going anywhere anymore. i know. ❞ his eyes blink rapidly, trying to mitigate hot tears from spilling. it’s all humiliating enough already. he bites his tongue, the inside of his cheek, before he compulsively chokes up an apology. part of him knows it’s what johnny’s waiting for, and there’s a voice in leland’s mind that tells him maybe he should — maybe you shouldn’t piss him off worse. maybe you should just say sorry.
leland turns his head just a fraction, belatedly, to watch johnny bang around some shelves in the kitchen. he comes back with a roll of gauze in his hands, and leland stares at him critically, back pressing into the couch further. flinches back slightly when johnny gets too close.
i want to go home, comes the whisper that never vocalizes. he'd never dare say that out loud, though. he'd just get mocked for it. maybe he does a bad job hiding it on his face — because johnny seems to pinpoint and prey on his fear anyway. teeth sunk deep into his weakest places.
what home? johnny asks him, twisting the knife.
leland steels himself against the bleed of grief, bristling again; ❝ anywhere's better than here, ❞ he shoots back, eyes flashing up at johnny. the last fading glint of rebellion left in him. anyone’s better than you. ❝ you're— you just... ❞ — but his voice falters, hiccups weakly before he can find words that would change anything. he feels pathetic; tears angry where they slip free down bruised cheek. his temples pulse. he wants to shut up before he says something he'll regret. god, he wants to stop crying.
home. the home with his mama waiting, his sisters. his friends. his room and his bed. home to the life he’d left behind, that night he thought he’d die in a flooding graveyard. worst part is that he's starting to think johnny's right. that no one’s looking for him. if they were, he would have been found by now, right? there's another, worse thought, too; even if he could escape, would they still be waiting for him — or had they already given up?
was he not like maria? was he not worth the search? a loss they had to cut, in the end?
that’s not fair. they didn’t ask you to throw your life away for them.
he knows, he knows, deep down, that the thoughts are irrational — but he allows himself the selfishness, this once. lets himself grieve and self-pity. it’s not like anyone else feels sorry for him.
it's all his own fault, anyway.
maybe he could save himself if he was good for anything but taking a hit.
the way johnny looks at him now — icy and disgusted — makes him feel like he's never been more alone. more abandoned. more filthy and unwanted. like those people that gave him right back to johnny made him feel alone. the woman had called him lucky. lucky, honey. you could have had it a whole lot worse. leland's mind reels in vague downhill panic; he could put you back down in a dark cell. let you freeze or starve. he could kill you. he could take anything he wants. he could hurt you worse than this. he can always hurt you worse than this —
rip you apart. eat you alive. his head fills with images of flayed red corpses in the basement, and johnny’s cold room cutting table. the rotting stink of human beings murdered and left and forgotten. nameless down here, and never coming home. that could be him. and no one would ever know.
when johnny said if he didn’t get out of that fucking car, he'd be the last thing leland would ever see — he believed him. the very same threat keeps him where he is now, still as cornered prey while he gets reprimanded like he’s an unruly pet.
is he lucky? should he be grateful to be alive? he doesn’t know, anymore.
leland holds his defiant stare as long as he can, and a charged moment passes between them — amounting in the same game they always play. the game leland always loses. loses — relenting under the violence of johnny’s stare. under the fear of his arm never being allowed to heal right.
still deeply hesitant, he slowly moves his broken arm away from his chest. not quite offering it, but johnny could easily reach it now. again, he surrenders, with a heavy breath through his nose. ❝ ... have you even done this before? ❞ he accuses softly, eyes wary but defeated. it’s not like he has a choice.
CHARACTER ASSOCIATIONS.
animal: bluejay, bluebird, golden retriever, stag.
color: blues, all kinds. navy, powder, baby, sky, pale. black and gold. also warm oranges and browns. in some verses, bright red.
month: march and june-july. clear sunny days and new starts and blooming flowers.
song: wouldn’t it be nice by the beach boys but literally he has like so many playlists….
number: 11. he let his little sister pick his football jersey number and she prob picked her age at the time fgsgfd.
day or night: morning and daytime. he likes the dawn because it’s quiet and pretty and he’s often up early-ish for practice or class or going for a run.
plant: roses, marigolds, forget-me-nots.
smell: worn brown leather jacket smell, flannel, a light cologne probably nothing too strong but he smells nice.
season: spring and early summer.
food: grilled cheese from his childhood. comfort food.
astrological sign: pisces.
element: air, water, light.
drink: probably isn't too particular about beers but will order smth like a whiskey and coke at the bar. he also likes a good iced tea i think.
grabs this from scout and scampers away
was just thinking the normal amount about leland not coming home or coming home to the grave plot his family gave him after thinking he was dead or missing forever…….
i think im getting the writing itch again to work on some drafts. for now? post-shadowbringers trauma bunny leland
yeah i made him a buny. yeah i dragged my friends into making our blorbos on xiv
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."
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.
is it finally time to give our characters different last names...
he's so baby
this picrew was cute so theres me and the son
@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? ❞
u guys make me want to crack open the multimuse so i can put everyone over there and yap
i truly used to be such a prompt writer but lately i crave the threads
