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lifesver · 5 months

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@johnnysslaughter said: [ run + reverse ] - for sender to run their fingers through receiver’s hair

there are moments, sometimes, that feel too safe. moments that he catches himself surrendering to, in some state of weightless exhaustion. moments that make him forget where he is. why he's here. with his head resting on johnny's chest, leland is placated in listening, sleepy-eyed, to his heartbeat. slow and consistent and real, a hypnotizing metronome — at harmony against an insistent tap-tap-tap, of rain pattering along the old tin roof. a rolling thunder shakes the clouds, somewhere far away. and johnny's fingers gently card through his hair, lulling him with the bizarrely tender motion. it was easy to forget — for just a fleeting moment — what these hands are capable of.

as he quietly follows the rise and fall of johnny’s breathing, he tries not to shift — or disturb where maria is resting her head on his arm. wouldn't dare move her, even as a sparking numbness threatened to put the whole limb to sleep. instead, he very-gingerly combs his free hand through her hair in turn, smoothing it away from her closed eyes. he finds a stray petal in the dark strands, and rumbles a silent laugh, as he carefully plucks it free. he promptly flicks it up at johnny — who has to swat it away from his nose, in the least-disruptive way possible — neither of them wanting to wake maria.

… there are moments — like this — sometimes, that feel too safe.

and yet, there's little to do but exist in them. to let the thoughts settle in and take root. an odd freedom, an odd emptiness, to having nowhere to be, no one to be. nothing to do around the property, either — since they wouldn't be hunting today, with how the grass would sink their shoes in the thick muck. they'd wait for it to pass, see if the storm had carried anything away outside. check on the animals in the barn.

and there are still plenty of days, where he wonders if he should hate this new-normal. if this is a betrayal of the self, of their friends, of the worst kind. he has the time, just now, to wonder if something in him had snapped, irreparably, to be letting these hands touch him gently. he wonders if he's losing himself in some inescapable way, and if there's even a choice.

— he supposes there is, always, a choice. after all, hadn't he grit his teeth through plenty, in his time trapped here? for himself, for maria's sake. had scraped and clawed, buried pride six-feet-deep. and earned affection from the blood spilled over his hands, from pushing himself up off the ground ad nauseum, for an ounce of johnny's approval. for the times when harshness turned to gentleness. to praise, to hand cradling his jaw, being told he was good. he'd done well, as johnny thumbed at the red spatter on his cheek. had come to accept the hand helping him up out of the dirt. had come to accepting johnny looking over bruises and cuts — with unusual care — to assure that their sparring hadn't left serious damage. sparring, which, as rough as it was between them, was still a laughably far cry from where it had begun.

he closes his eyes, sharply.

it's not perfect. he’s not even sure if it’s good. it's better, though, isn't it? than rotting in a cell. than being scared, every waking moment. than being angry, so angry it hurts to breathe, angry through the roots of his teeth. than fighting an impossible battle, chasing his own tail in circles, like a dog chained up in the yard.

he hums softly, leans cheek into johnny's touch, eyes skating up along the wooden rafters above. the touch, that proves he's real. that even if the newspapers said he was dead — he wasn't. he couldn't be. the two weights on either side of him remind him that he wasn't. and so often, it felt like their presences were the only things that felt concrete. like the only foothold he had left. shit, he could count on one hand, the people who knew leland mckinney was still alive. who knew maria flores was still alive. two forgotten things, footnotes in a newspaper clipping, about the strange disappearances in newt, texas. if even that. from what he could tell, even the very monster that had stolen them from their lives, seemed to have more sympathy for them than the paper did. or the police.

their friends?

he remembers how they had both cried, finding their pictures in the obituaries. two nails, two coffins. it was permission to grieve themselves. and whoever they could have been, if they had never come to this house.

sorry, johnny had said, once, about your friends. sorry, he means, that no one ever came looking again. that they were given up on. and hard as he searched for it — leland couldn't find any trace of joking in his voice. ( you hadn’t understood, then, why he suddenly cared enough to be kind. )

he also remembered wondering if it even mattered. if they would even still be their friends — knowing what he, and maria, had done to survive. he remembered when that dreadful question had bubbled up out of him in a choked sob, one night, just him and maria in their old cell. he remembered telling her he missed them. and the sky, too.

the rainfall outside lashes the window harder, takes him out of the memory. and he instead muses on how the shack looks less like a second prison, these days. maria's touch, leland thinks. in the little weaved flower wreathes, tucked carefully into the wood, the carved birds on the windowsill. a not-dead plant, sitting next to the birds. the new furniture he had helped johnny build from the wood, the repaired dents in the roof. because — if they were going to be living up here now, they had insisted upon prettying it up a little. and probably most surprisingly — johnny had let them. grumbled in his usual sort of way, of course. but couldn't say no, to maria's doe eyes.

things were easier. less strained. the days pass them by, and leland thinks less and less about running. had all but pushed the idea from his mind. how long, since he had promised maria; just a little more of his trust, a little more freedom, a little longer, and we'll try again. we'll go home. i swear we'll go home one day.

… and maybe he should hate that admission of defeat. that snuffed-hope within himself, too. a cage was still a cage, even after you got used to it. and they were still bound to johnny, bound to each other. complacent, maybe. but not naïve.

still, there are no shackles and padlocks. they take walks in the forest. they practice fight in the field. they help with hanging laundry, and cooking. fixing fences and helping mrs. hewitt around her house. she had been kind to them since johnny had brought them around, treated them no differently from the family — for how very different they were. the quilts piled around them now, protecting them from the chill of the wind through the old wood, were handcrafted gifts by mrs. hewitt. from christmas, which he did not think he would live long enough to see come and go.

for better or for worse, he and maria — they both still lived, because of the man he had once wanted dead so desperately it hurt. the man he lets pet through his hair, now, while they listen to the storm outside. who feels like safety, somehow. and maybe it was maria’s quiet, tentative trust, that had begun to convince him of that, too. when he looks at johnny, now — edges nearly softened under the grey morning light — he can't help but wonder if they weren't the only ones, succumbing to some kind of slow-acting poison.

or if he was more fucked-up by this place than he thought. but kindness, real or imagined — it was better than none at all, wasn't it?

❝ johnny? ❞ leland peers up slightly from under his lashes, and johnny hums a low sound of acknowledgement, to show he’s heard. leland takes a moment, and he thinks of how to frame his question.

another quiet rumble, rolling thunder calls out in the distance. the rain, tap-tap-taps, and dapples the dull light, fragmenting across their bodies. and slowly, his eyes turn back to maria's face, how peaceful she looked. a half-smile, barely there, and bittersweet.

❝ ... you ever think about leaving here? starting somewhere new? ❞

you ever think about letting us go?

#hold on... don't worry... i have gentleness (but still kinda sad) within the dire.#oh kids... my poor kids #im like cw for this au i guess . every time #( ☆ ) ⸻ THE FILM WHICH YOU ARE ABOUT TO SEE... / ic.#johnnysslaughter #( ☆ ) ⸻ NO ONE SAVED YOU / verse.

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creatureshrieks · 1 month

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❝ you’re not what i thought you’d be like. ❞ ( the unknown ) @johnnysslaughter || Johnny & The Unknown || prompted.

A bone in its throat snaps, pops, as it bends its head at an awkward angle. It hangs there on broken neck, twisted in curiosity akin to a confused dog. Thought you'd be. Thought of me. It can feel his eyes, burrowing under its skin like a swarm of ants, piercing, biting, unraveling. It hates his gaze. Hates his thoughts. Thought you'd be. Thought you'd be. It can almost hear the voices now that speak of it, call it, that name it. Describe it. A broken man the victim of repeated torsion. His flesh that hangs loose, a bloodied, eyeless gaze. A mouth ever-stretched into a facsimile of a grin. It stumbles forward on mangled feet as it appraised this... human, yes, but no victim. Not yet, anyway. It knows he is different than the rest that run through his domain like vermin.

It assumes he would die like them all the same. Eventually.

" EveRYONe maKEs mISTAkeS... "

Garbled voices, too many that speak at once. It mimics a phrase it heard once in the past, a mother to her son. She made plenty of mistakes that day.

#johnnysslaughter #THE UNKNOWN || ic #DO YOU COPY? || ask #//I love how johnny is like. Damn. What is that thing #VS everyone else that is like. oh GOD kill it NOW

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andeat · 2 months

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✉ ¹ , ... @johnnysslaughter / “ AREN'T WE IN A GOOD MOOD TODAY? ”

you drill him with a look. 'cause yeah — you are. nice of him to notice. a pull from your cigarette flits smoke from gritting teeth with an ashen fuck you flicked his way. that's all he's gonna get. the day johnny works your nerves is the day pigs fly. he can try to get under your skin 'til he's blue in the face, you couldn't care less. guess you're immune to the smug bullshit he tries to pull. (christ, you can just imagine his inflated ego from seeing that as a challenge). now you're squinting while studying him, waiting out a reaction to your silence.

#⫘⫘ ♯ [ 𝘐𝘕 𝘊𝘏𝘈𝘙𝘈𝘊𝘛𝘌𝘙 ‚ ] — *̲ 🩸 ◞ answered .#johnnysslaughter #i love boyfriends

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meatriarch · 3 months

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johnny's mother, it seemed, came and went at random, for varying lengths of time. it was often enough, however, that it allowed for them to roam around freely, get some much-needed fresh air.

it was more than welcomed — getting those hours, days at times, to leave the claustrophobic walls of the shack. there was only so much space to properly accommodate three people, as opposed to having been plenty of room for only johnny within its shell prior to him bringing them both upstairs from their cells in the basement.

for johnny to bring them over to the car port some days when he had a new one to tinker around with, to fix up or rip apart.

( she found herself curious at times, wanting to ask where he found so many, so often — stupid, really, considering gaze would undoubtedly pick out the dried blood along the sides, or soaked into seats; dented and cracked exterior with strands of hair stuck between jagged metal — no doubt the poor owner likely being beat and slammed into the thing by him. it was obvious, she'd tell herself, biting back pointless curiosity.

it could have been her own car, in this place, had things not gone differently than they had back in march. )

and, now? now she was perched up on table, safe from the glaring heat of the summer sun overhead, back against wall as eyes scanned across newspaper in hand. peering past the tops of headlines over at the two of them, quietly watching johnny leaned under open hood. at lee standing close by, passing tools back and forth from workbench when asked for them. otherwise, though, the two of them listened as johnny explained what he was doing, learning bits and pieces that he shared in between their banter, their shooting of glares ( though, not as hostile as they once were ) back and forth as they messed around with one another. drawing out a chuckle even, now and then.

a smile passes across her face at them both. strange, how things have changed in these couple weeks. it was . . . it was nice.

given their circumstances.

it was a weird sense of comfort with finding themselves settling into their new normal. from waking up in the shack, huddled in warmth under quilts made with care and a motherlike love — half-asleep eyes peering across the room at johnny's mattress, just barely making him out at times in the faint glow of early morning peeking past curtain beside him. of hearing him stir and wake, get himself up to his feet. feel his eyes linger down at them both, her head resting against lee's shoulder. to hearing johnnys' footfalls round past divider curtain into the other half of the shack. the sounds of him getting ready for the day stirring lee awake, and prompting her to get up, as well.

of them — some mornings — sitting at the table together, eating simple breakfast. johnny giving them both heads-up to how long he'd be gone for that day.

and maria catches herself, more and more lately, stealing glances at the clock. counting down the hours to when he'd return. thought at times crossed her mind, over the weeks since being brought up to shack — of settling into this new routine, this new normal, that she missed his presence when he left them there, alone, for hours.

maria appreciated these days, more than ever, with that in mind.

of being able to breathe. walk around. sometimes go up to the front garden, enjoy the flowers — pick some of them, cautiously, when johnny allowed it. to place into vases around the shack. brighten it up more. appreciated that she and lee were found to be trustworthy, now, to roam around the property on these days where nancy wasn't nearby. without fear of them running off — not that the thought of doing so had completely disappeared from either of their minds.

but . . . things weren't so bad anymore, were they?

when she looks on at them both, at the slow-building companionship it seems they've begun to foster with johnny, it slips her mind where they all started from. back in march, when johnny had taken her. in april, when lee had been the last of their friends on the property — when he had ensured the rest of them got away safely.

eyes focus, then, on leland.

selfless. what he did to make sure their friends got out, that ana got out. it was selfless. brave. stupid. done with so much love for them in spite of how little he had known any of them, really, by that point. maria truthfully wouldn't have blamed him in the slightest had he been more selfish, more self-preserving — he had little that he owed any of them, really. and yet? he pushed himself on the back-end of importance compared to them all, to make sure the rest of them lived.

he didn't deserve to be stuck here with her. and she'd be lying if she claimed not to feel guilty for what he felt he had to give up for everyones' sake.

( such a decision, maria was certain, was something the others would not forget, not let go to waste. she was certain, hopeful, that it would be anytime soon — even after all this time of virtually radio-silence from anything past the boundaries of the familys' properties — that they'd finally be saved, finally return home, get to hug their mothers, their sisters, their friends again. )

running and getting out was always an option, even now, if chance presented itself, if they believed they could, maybe, successfully pull it off finally. however . . . as maria's eyes leave leland, cross over to johnny. where eyes meet briefly before he continues whatever-it-was he was doing with the engine, that creeping thought crawls back to the forefront,

that maybe it'd be better to just . . . stay. with him. with lee. here.

that things weren't so bad anymore. that she started to feel closer to johnny, even though they were both kept at arms length with most of himself. but, he was starting to smile little by little, laugh and joke around more. less canine, less threat. slowly, something more eased around them both. slowly, something else entirely — when smile crosses features, and she's reminded of that night at that bar all over again. how it sent butterflies fluttering about in her chest and brought a warmth to her skin, without fail, every time. how it did, just now, when eyes met once again and he flashed another her way before looking back at lee, smile twisting to scowl at the tease leland poses at him.

maria couldn't stop her laughter at the exchange. prompts leland to glance back at her, grinning and giving her a wink — playful, as always. more like himself, nowadays; more like how she remembered him, before everything happened.

their back-&-forth starts up once again, and her cheeks start to hurt at the grin across her own face at the both of them. this, voice murmurs in her mind, is so much better than what it was . . .

she lowers eyes back to the newspaper in hand, scanning up and down columns and deciding there was nothing else printed out on opened pages that caught her interest. and she turns to the next page — as their voices sound drown out into something akin to radio chatter — reading headline after headline, skimming and skipping over blocks of words one after the next. skips another page. and then another. and then another. and then anoth—

it catches the air in her throat when eyes fall upon it.

the world falls dead around her.

the soft chirps of nearby birds fall into silence. the rustling of the trees and bushes around the back yard lie dead — the wind seemingly at standstill. the dry heat of the texas summer turning every attempt at a breath, every attempt at harsh swallow, grate down along inside of throat — as if the skin lining inside was shredded and parched, sandpaper tongue scratching at the insides of her mouth. the heat was making it harder to breathe.

outside, her skin began to prick and blister and made her want to claw at her arms, get it to stop, get herself to feel something else. inside, in her chest, in her gut, in her veins, was like she was freezing. like she'd taken in gulps of air from down in the cold room and the foul rot of it was attempting to bring her insides into decay, as well.

everything else seemed to go silent. save for the loud THUMP of heartbeat in her ears, pace increasing until it was all but a droning of pressure in her ears.

confusion, then, finally made itself known to her.

why was this in here? how did they get this picture? crossed her mind, frantic, terrified, lost.

why am i looking at myself?

the flimsy newspaper crinkled in white-knuckled fists as maria stared down . . . at her own face, printed in black and white in the middle of the next page. it'd been so long since she's seen or heard a thing about herself in the news, not since that last broadcast — not since the searches for her had been called off. so, then, why—?

eyes scoured the page over, reading but hardly comprehending a thing printed among the dozens of other faces, before maria's stare falls on the headline on the top of the other page.

OBITUARIES.

the word repeats itself in her minds' voice. again. again. and again.

the world fell dead around her — and there she was. dead with it.

her gaze crawls back to her photo, and then down to the paragraphs written below it. a note was made, prior to anything sentimental, reciting to its reader how the young university of texas student, maria aurora flores, had been declared missing earlier in march. how despite weeks of continuous searching, no leads, no evidence, had ever been brought forward. and in an incredibly difficult situation, the flores family wished to declare her as DECEASED, to have the chance to mourn their loss, to give her and themselves a sense of closure after her investigation was classified an unsolved cold case.

how the additional paragraph below it spoke about her, as a kind, bright, warm young girl. how she loved photography. how she was cherished by those who knew her, how she loved those she cared—

droplets blew out patches of text at random, sent ink spreading and fading. a sound, questioning, came from somewhere to her left. drew her attention up from the paper. leland's figure, darker blues from his shirt, cleared and blurred and cleared again in her vision.

eyes dropped again, to the top of the page. over a week and a half ago, the paper was dated.

they buried me. i'm alive and they buried me.

i'm still here. i'm still breathing, i'm still here why did they—?

funeral date had been two days ago.

her funeral.

footfalls drew closer, and eyes blink furiously, clearing vision a moment, as she slaps paper down on table and scoots herself off it. leland, concerned as he comes closer, tries to reach out, repeating her name again, asking what's wrong? what happened? maria feigns a smile in his direction — though hardly registering its him — hardly realizing just how much she's already crying, tears streaking down cheeks, as voice comes out, shaking, " i - i'm just, i'm going back inside, i - i'm okay— " and moves past him, not noticing johnny, too, has stopped what he was doing, moving away from the car closer to them. feet carrying her faster with every step, wanting to be out of the sun, wanting to be away from the heat, away from that photo, away from those defeated words below it, away from that fucking headline,

wanted to crawl into the deepest hole she could find and rot there—

the shack door shuddered when she slammed it shut behind her, not meaning to do so as forcefully. her lungs shuddered along with it as she gasped for air, shaked them in haggardly and drew them back out harsh. the shack was all but a blur as water welled over hazel. didn't know what to do with her hands, where to go, paced around open floor, paused every few steps to grip onto back of chair, or counters' edge, maria tried to ground herself. nothing worked. she couldn't breathe. suffocating. like she was buried alive — and all that paper did was confirm that she might as well have been.

i'm dead. on paper. to mama. to ana. to our friends. to abuela and abuelo. to my tias and tios. my cousins.

maria aurora flores was dead to the world outside of the crowded walls of this fucking shack.

i am dead. what now?

what was the point, now, in ever trying to get away from here? away from johnny? away from this shack and its confusing basement? away from the stench of blood and bodies permeating throughout it? there was always a homesickness in her gut, all this time, that had still made her hopeful that they'd be saved, that they'd get away, that they'd get to go home—

but where is home supposed to be, when those back there have reduced you to an empty box in the ground, name scrawled across cold, indifferent, uncaring slab of stone above it? when those who should have been searching and demanding for your safe return have . . . given up on you?

they gave up . . . didn't they . . .

the crunch of boots on dirt broke the whirlwind of heartbreak — betrayal — in her mind, and maria moves from counter and scurries off past curtain divider, back to the other half of the shack. trembling hands wiping harshly at cheeks, feeble attempt to hide the freefall of tears.

they don't care. they gave up.

the shack door opens, and the both of them trail inside, closing it shut behind them, careful. leland's voice calls out her name, but her attempt to call back, to reassure him, them, that she was fine gets caught in her throat. a pathetic whimper, some strangled sort of noise, comes out instead. and she clamps up, heat spreading across her face, as fingers frustratingly continue swiping under her eyes.

curtain slides across its bar and she's all-too-aware of pairs of eyes landing on her. leland says her name once again. waits a moment, to see if she'll respond. her chin, stiff yet quivering, tries to relax enough for her to do so but, once again, all she can manage is some kind of exasperated puff of air, something akin to a laugh cut short. there's a hesitation to him again, before voice breaks the silence, and he quietly tells her that they both looked at the paper, at what she saw, read—

her eyes close then. biting down on bottom lip. nearly cracked skin open. she swallows, hard, draws in a breath after, slowly, another swipe against her cheek.

and she turns her head, looking at him — spotting johnny behind him, by the curtain still, silently watching on — looking back at lee, a futile attempt to finally respond, as straight-faced as she could muster up, " they buried me . . . they gave up on me, " and her voice cracks, then, saying it aloud, like breathing life to it, it sinking in, " t - they buried me, i - i'm dead, lee, they really stopped looking for me— "

he moves to close distance between them. eyes stick on him wide and terrified and hurt, even as his features blur, even as his voice warps and muffles all over again, helpless in tone and softly, quietly spoken, as he moves his arms open for her, come here, i think you need a hug . . .

she didn't move away from him, this time. instead cracking voice stammers out, " th - they stopped, lee, they, they think i'm d - dead— i'm, but i'm here? i'm here, lee, aren't i? but th - they stopped— "

mama, ana, danny, connie, julie, sonny, her family — they all gave up on her, didn't they?

she couldn't say what his expression read. everything was lost, now, around her. the world was dead. and she along with it. and she all but collapsed herself against him. all but fractured pieces of herself — when floodgates finally broke apart and sobs hit her like the wind had been knocked out of her. all but trembling, shaking body, hands covering face, hiding into herself. lee caught her as she collapsed against him, and carefully, gently, got them both on the ground, someplace stable for her, arms around her. attempting to be of some sort of comfort, as best as he could.

she could barely speak, between the sobs, the heaving, the gasps for air. she felt small, in his arms, as he held her close, tried to soothe her, tried to reassure her. held her there, for what seemed like hours. pulling her closer, rubbing palm against her shoulder, back, murmured down at her, from time to time, between all the outpour — her heart felt fractured, shattered, with pieces tossed about carelessly in all directions. all by those she believed would have gone to the ends of the world to find her, bring her home—

home . . .

minutes ached by slowly as her cries and trembling slowly started to ease, as it started to feel easier to breathe, at last. his shirt against her face was soaked through, uncomfortable to be pressed against cold, tear-wet fabric. maria lifts her face a little from him, skin flushed from sobbing, from his warmth against her cheeks.

home . . . the word crosses her mind once again, and she finds herself, quietly, murmuring to him, hoarse and cracked still, " i - i don't have a h - home anymore . . . do i— " she feels him stiffen when she asks, uncertain, of how to respond. maria's gaze, exhausted, lost, hurt, peers past lee's shoulder, across at johnny, still standing by the curtain, silent as ever, watching them both. she couldn't make out his face, either. however, as eyes fixated at his blurred figure, hazy features, silently voice whispers in her head,

maybe . . . this is home, now?

maybe, he can be home, too, now—

johnny fades into a blur once again, and maria feels the prickling start again along nose, in her eyes. looks away from him, then, and buries herself back into lee, into the last bit of home she has left, now.

@lifesver : “Come here, I think you need a hug.”

#cw for like...death talk sad vibes nosy situations iykyk-#[ ♡ ] ── * maria f. / 𝘪𝘤.#lifesver #johnnysslaughter #[ 𝘷𝘦𝘳𝘴𝘦. ] ── * no one saved you.#hi hello good noons sorry for behaving in a way heres some sad nosy vibes :) hope you enjoy sorry lee for the Sad <3 #tagging lamb ofc for nosy situations <3 #death mention cw #funeral mention cw

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pumpkinstabs · 5 months

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Yes, maybe it is too early in their nonofficial relationship for Michael to already be this obsessed, but he has never been normal in any sense of the word. Of course he is already greatly attached and of course he decides to follow Johnny when the man leaves the farmhouse to go into town. Michael follows him directly into the seedy little bar he goes into, keeping his distance because he doesn't want Johnny to actually see him. He attempts to hide away into a corner as best he can with his massive size, sipping on a Sprite he stole off of a distracted drunk. @johnnysslaughter

#johnnysslaughter #MODERN VERSE.

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poiscnbane · 4 months

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yeah, i get called that a lot.

"If it walks like a duck and talks like a duck..." Sissy smirked, her hands slowly grinding the flowers away in the mortar. "Maybe they're onto somethin', Duckweed. Maybe you're all looks and no brains."

#( answered ).#johnnysslaughter #( queued ).

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meatriarchived · 5 months

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it's a yearly tradition, something that happens once a year for the both of them. fresh dinner put onto the table, fresh meat done to perfection, sweet and warm cookies for their dessert. a yearly tradition where luda & johnny celebrated their birthdays together -- beside tommy, who helped them both with the small set up. it isn't much, but there is also a little gift box sat in luda's spot, waiting for her to open. a recent victim had a wad of cash for johnny to pick at -- & upon roaming the town, there was a small necklace that reminded him of her. silver, with a small heart locket, that he's already put two photos of family inside of (making sure to leave nancy out of it, knowing how much the two bickered & argued ). it isn't much by any means, but it was a little something. he waits for the woman to return to the table, glancing between her & the gift. ❛ happy birthday, aunt luda, ❜ his drawl is sweet, he's smiling wide, boyish, like the little boy he once was, always so excited to celebrate with her. he points to the small gift box. ❛ ain't much, but i got y' somethin' ... i hope y' like it. saw it & thought of ya, aunt luda. ❜ | @johnnysslaughter

the hewitt home, on most days of the year, lay silent, with most of its rooms without occupants, its yards and gardens empty save for the lush green leaves of vegetables growing in spite of the texas heat.

its living room barren, save for the creak of floorboard by the idle rocking of a chair, sat upon in the late afternoon hours leading into nightfall. or the sound of radio or old television playing muffled and quiet in the room next door, accompanied by the mutters of one other soul in the home.

save for one in particular every year.

where sure enough early in the day, there's a knock on the side kitchen door, and johnny steps in, lugging in armful of preparations for the day, sweet child-like grin across his face as he greets her and sets down what he's brought to bring her into a hug.

( she, of course, had to brush off flour from his shirt - making cookie dough is rarely a clean feat to accomplish. )

with his arrival - as he has done every year since he was young, once they discovered their birthdays' were so close together - the hewitt home livened up considerably. thomas emerged from the basement door upon hearing johnny's voice carry throughout the home, to lend a hand where needed, to greet his cousin, and to sneak bits of cookie dough, as he always has, when his mama wasn't looking.

( it was always nice, seeing the two of them mess around. luda was fond of the fact that thomas had warmed so easily to the sawyer boys and to sissy when they all were younger, and that it stayed strong even after all these years had gone by. )

the hours ticked on, getting dinner prepped, cooked and finished, getting table set nicely ( the boys' had sent her out of the kitchen for a moment to do so; to make it look real nice for when she returned ) before thomas stepped out to fetch her again. and as she came round the table, to her usual seat, luda looks down at johnny and returns the smile, and can't help but to give his cheek a gentle grandmotherly pinch and pat of his shoulder, "why thank you very much, sweet boy, and a happy early birthday to you, too." she smiles more at him before easing down into her seat, scooting in as he motions to the little box laid out in front of her.

she gives him a look over the top of her spectacles, "oh, sweet boy, you didn't have to go on 'n buy somethin', not with how hard you gotta work." his arm gets a light tap of her palm, playful disapproval on her face, but as she brings the little box in her hands, she tells him a thank you, and opens it carefully, to not drop it or whatever may be inside.

and her features soften upon seeing the little heart-shaped locket inside, and she cautiously takes it out of the box, smile growing more across her face.

"i don't believe i ever told a soul..." she looks to him briefly as she opens it, and sees the photos tucked neatly on either side of the locket - of the family ( at least, nearly all of them ) secure inside its silver frames.

"my mother, jeanine - she had one of these, here. a locket. beautiful, but gold i believe. always did tell me she was goin' to pass it to me, lost it sometime. and after charlie was born," another glance at him, noting the immediate scowl that crosses his face at the mention; she smiles and chuckles at him, reassuring him with another tap to his arm that she won't bring him up again, "how many times i had asked charlton for one. never did..."

as she talks, she holds the necklace in hand, gently passing fingertips along the soft silver heart, unclasping the chain and immediately, she puts it on around neck - as if saying, it's about time. fixing it to make sure it sits just right.

luda stands herself back up out of her seat a bit, to lean over and rest a kiss to johnny's temple, and to give him a warm hug, "i adore it, johnny, thank you," and as she pulls away again, she stops to gently cup his cheeks, "you are too smart for your own darn good, sweet boy, knowin' all too well what i may fancy. somethin' many years late, but, i will treasure it dearly. thank you."

#[ lmh ] ── * 𝐀𝐍𝐒𝐖𝐄𝐑𝐄𝐃. { luda. }#johnnysslaughter #lamb ya'll have no idea that the locket has been a long-standing hc of mine for her for years so when this came thru i near cried for her-#this was so sweet and cute and i loved it :')))#she simply adores him so much.... hes so feral any other time but hes such a Softie with our mom luda and its so sweet how they bonded #over their birthdays being so close together ;w;#also its funny. i dont have to add any fucking Dire ass tags/warnings to a reply wow what is this sorcery- FKSADB #except yknow........#hoyt jumpscare /

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ossacruenta · 8 months

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@johnnysslaughter commented ❛ aren’t we in a good mood today? ❜ ( trickster )

Hmn, another one in this place -- reminds him a bit of the Cannibal. Same sort of energy. Not something that is off putting but just screams American. As long as he does not get annoying like that group of teenagers, he will play nicely. . . for now.

Trickster muses, twirling one of the neon colored blades before glancing to the new face, "And you're not?" How could he not be in a good mood? "Not a fan of killing or can't handle being in the presence of a star?~ I'd be impressed if it was the former, considering you don't look like one of those survivors." Of course. . . none of these animals seem to know good music.

#johnnysslaughter #❝ 𝓣𝓱𝓮 𝒶𝓃𝓈𝓌𝑒𝓇𝓈 sought out ❞ ✧ answered #❝ 𝓐 𝓇𝑒𝒶𝓁 show stopper ❞ ✧ trickster ic #(gd arrogant man)

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lifesver · 7 months

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@johnnysslaughter said: [ 𝐩𝐢𝐧𝐧𝐞𝐝 ] : sender pins the receiver against a wall out of sheer rage.

okay. let's avoid getting stabbed again. leland catches johnny's wrist just in time ― strains white-knuckled to keep the red-point of the blade from plunging into his shoulder. twisting his grip in a swift motion, he forces johnny to drop the knife ― and it clatters to the floor a few feet away. leland can still see the wicked shard of ribcage protruding from the man's shoulder. it had hardly slowed him down.

and johnny is far from unthreatening, even without that skinning knife. something like an animal. something that wanted to rip into you with bare hands and gnashing teeth. he lunges like an animal, throws off leland's center of balance. he can feel every muscle quake with the impact, teeth clacking together painfully as the back of his head strikes the wall behind him. open wounds in his back flare with hot-cold pain, drag a hiss from his teeth. he doesn't let go. hands drop to grapple at johnny's arms, his shirt, anywhere he could reach, or throw a punch.

of course, there was some kind of sick pride, in seeing those wild, dark eyes flash back at him angry ― really fucking angry, this time. good. fucking good. terrifying, too. like a storm system rolling in on all sides. you had ― for just a moment, stopped being some small prey animal he could bat between his claws. for just a moment in this hellish exchange, you had made him feel what you felt. leland gives a ragged, scathing laugh in his face. ❝ what? ❞ he rasps, low and exhausted, ❝ you not having fun anymore? you sick. fuck. ❞

he gets punched for that. a snake-strike with heavy-handed precision. the back of his head hits the wall a second time, and the sound of the impact isn't nice. fist-to-nose-to-wall. crack. a third time. blood spatters sideways. motherfucker hits hard. jaw numbs. there's a pulse in his bruising face, now. blood spills freely down over his lips, vision stinging and blurring around that scarred snarl. leland's hold loosens for just a second, and he swings a dizzy, clumsy elbow at johnny, who catches forearm in a bruising grip easily ― slams it into the wall next to his head. that hurts too, hits the wrong spot and draws a yelp.

leland spits in his face, tries to sweep johnny's leg out from under him with a kick. he gets a boot in the shin, and his other wrist pinned for that ― and johnny's mouth twists into a bleeding, wolfish grin, now. both of their blood in stark spatters on his face. turns his stomach, makes leland writhe and gasp curses in the man's hold. chest heaves, face burns, eyes smouldering something hateful at johnny. christ. he wishes he could crack that too-many-teeth smile off the fucker's face. he wishes he didn't feel like prey, again. knows he doesn't have johnny outmatched in muscle, or size. only thing he could bank on, was that he was sure as shit quicker.

well, what's one more count of head trauma, after all?

he drags breath in, out. yeah, okay.

❝ fuck you. ❞

fuck this. fuck being prey. something wound up tight snaps its teeth, comes apart full of shrapnel. with a low growl, leland lurches at johnny ― nails him with a headbutt, as hard as he possibly can. not frozen like a deer in the headlights anymore. not waiting for the storm to run him down first. fuck this. fuck being scared.

voice ricochets staccato, violent, in the narrow hallway; ❝ that all you got, motherfucker!? ❞

#me when i look at the discussion at hand and then back at this thing i was picking away at #call that guys being dudes #bro... we are sworn enemies... it's ok to pin me to a wall -#johnnysslaughter #violence cw #( ☆ ) ⸻ CH. 1 / verse.#( ☆ ) ⸻ THE FILM WHICH YOU ARE ABOUT TO SEE... / ic.

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