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[markedprey]

#𝐃𝐄𝐀𝐓𝐇𝐋𝐀𝐂𝐄.    independent & private  𝐌𝐔𝐋𝐓𝐈 𝐌𝐄𝐃𝐈𝐀 𝐁𝐀𝐒𝐄𝐃 𝐌𝐔𝐋𝐓𝐈𝐌𝐔𝐒𝐄. blog will contain heavy topics such as  (  but not limited to  ):  murder, gore, cannibalism, stalking, obsessions, etc.  follow at your own discretion. 𝟐𝟎+ 𝑶𝑵𝑳𝒀.   —   as written by Grandpa  (  29,  they/them  ). est. april 2024. low activity.

[markedprey]

johnny coming home all soaked in blood for his lover to greet him with a kiss and help him clean up is just peak romance. bonus if they helped him do the killing so they are equally a mess but sharing a cute bloody moment of affection.

[markedprey]

predator animal falling in love with prey animal. You really love to see it.

[markedprey]

"That's it, die for me."

[markedprey]

Song Of The Day:

Me & The Devil - Soap & Skin

Riley Torres

[markedprey]

             It was dry dirt roads, that sweltering summer heat, the taste of copper on his tongue as fresh blood would dry, sticky as it clung to his neck and arms. Slowly but surely they were falling away, one by one, until only she remained. Not surprising, given how determined she was to fight- compared to the rest of them. In a way, she reminded him of his first victim- the one that started this whole mess. The girl with the love for flowers, Maria Flores, almost a spitting image of the girl he trailed after. How it felt almost the same, taking him back to that very night that started this whole ordeal. With luck, capturing her would finish it, once and for all.

             She proved herself thus far, fighting tooth and nail to escape her binds, free herself from the confines of the basement, and make it as far as the yard, so close to freedom it no doubt made her reckless. Clear to see, by the trail of blood she’d leave, her tracks small, but uneven, practically dragging her feet in desperation to get space between them, to keep going- get away from it all. How he wasn’t far off now, knowing that even if she thought herself free on the road, he’d simply find her, and drag her all the way back. No longer having the luxury of dying on her time, he’d play with her until he was done with her.

             It was all too clear when a victim would trail off to hide, seeing the way she veered from the straight path to freedom. How it usually went, hiding out in the tall grass, the sunflower fields, the nearby sheds for some way to hide from his line of sight. But there was no escaping this, not now, hence why his footsteps were slow, confident in the way he’d close the space between them. She was hiding nearby, he knew that now, her trail had gone cold, giving indication that she was trying to find a way around him. Game over now- but it wouldn’t be fun without twisting the knife in the wound, calling out to her, knowing she could hear.

             “Your little friends were easy compared to this, to think most of them could hardly even put up a fight- but you…” His voice trailed, a low rumble, lingering in his chest as he wandered through the run down shed, listening, waiting for any sign of her to peek her head from hiding. “Y’know you remind me of your little friend, the one that you all came looking for… what was her name? Maria? Y’know she put up a struggle like this but… they all end the same way… No one ever makes it out of here alive.” His laughter would fill the air, a sinister chuckle, loving nothing more than to play the sick mental game that would surely make her snap.

             Most would take off running, shout or scream, but what came next was a surprise even to him. He was quick, catching the sound of her scuffling feet, boxes toppling and a ragged, desperate scream. Half expecting fists to be thrown, it was much to his surprise to feel the sharp plunge of a weapon, tearing skin and carving deep into his flesh that left him suddenly alert- keen to his surroundings as the adrenaline would kick in. In a moment it was fight or flight, and when they chose fight, how he couldn’t help but get some twisted pleasure from the pain that was inflicted. “I knew you couldn’t resist- that’s it- try and kill me-!”

             His eyes were wild, the smile on his face so unsettling, given the situation at hand. Already blood began to pour from the open wound, his hand on her wrist, stopping her from trying to pierce the same spot, as if she was determined to hit his heart. With a violent shove he’d force her back, throwing her against the wall so he could pin her wrists to something solid, squeezing tight enough to bruise, to release her grip on that makeshift weapon of bone she found for herself. “Aren’t you clever- smarter, and faster than everyone else you brought here…” He could see how weak she was becoming though, that exhaustion in her eyes, she was on her last leg. Giving up, now knowing there was no way out of this. Why, despite the pain that lingered, blood pooling down his shirt, he couldn’t help but laugh, his head tilting to a side, studying her now that he had the chance of holding her close.

             “It’s a shame, all you had to do was mind your own. You really think you were gonna come out here and be a hero? You think your little friends should have stayed right where you were- but it doesn’t matter now…” He lowered himself, leaning in just enough so that their eyes were forced to meet. Unsettling, the way his eyes were so dark, so void of life, despite the smile that he wore. It was all one sick, twisted game of cat and mouse- and he just won the prize. “You’ll be stayin’ here, with me. Ain’t nobody comin’ for you- and nobody’s gonna find you. This little game of yours is over.”

Dry grass surrounded Ana, scratching at her exposed arms as she pressed herself into a secluded corner. She grit her teeth, forcing herself to take quiet, shallow breaths despite the pain from her wounds. Blood had streaked across her skin, it stained her clothes. Bruises bloomed across her hands, her wrist, her arms. Her muscles ached. Her head throbbed. She was hurt, exhausted, and yet by some sheer miracle adrenaline still flooded her veins. It dulled everything just enough to keep her standing. Kept the pain and the fear and the disgust at bay. Come on, Ana, you can do this. A self-assuring promise. She could do this. She had to do this. The escape was just within reach. She'd managed to evade the rest of them, was sparred the horrible fate at the end of a chainsaw, sparred the same terrible end the rest of her friends had succumbed to. She swallowed back bile at the thought of them, lifeless and mutilated, covered in lacerations if not completely dismembered altogether. Focus, Ana.

All she needed to do was make it past the gate, down the path winding up the house. She could make it to the road, someone would have to see her. Someone would have to hear her, someone, God, please. All she needed to do was make it past him, the only one that seemed know just where Ana had run off to. She figured it was the blood, droplets that alerted him to her tracks. Footsteps in the dry earth. He was all that stood between her and her escape, but by the sheer grace of God or whoever was listening to her, it seemed he lost her scent along the way. He knew she was close though, this was certain, but she figured he wouldn't spend too long searching one spot. He couldn't afford the time, what if she already made it out? What if she doubled back, some attempt to lose him? There were hundreds of different reasons he couldn't just stand around and hope he'd stumble across her by chance -

He spoke. And her entire body stilled, her breath halted. He knew she was around, hiding somewhere nearby like a rat on the farm, unaware of the traps being laid around it, baiting her out. He spoke of her friends, slaughtered by him and his family. She remembered them being tossed back down into that pit, thrown away as if they were garbage. Her jaw tensed, her fingers tightened around a sharped piece of bone - no, no, Ana. Don't fall for it. Don't-

He spoke of Maria, a girl he liked. Liked the way she ran, hunted down like an animal. How she died begging, crying out for help that never came. For a sister that never came.

Ana's feet moved before she could even bother to stop herself, any thoughts of remaining hidden shoved out of her mind and replaced with the all-consuming desire to kill the monster that taunted her. That hurt her friend. That killed her sister. Anger and hate twisted inside her, burned in her stomach and chest and under her skin. She charged from her hiding spot with a strangled shout caught between her teeth. He spun to face her. He wasn't quick enough. Not this time. Her arms swing down and the bone collides with his chest, punctures through flesh. She tears it out, as if preparing to strike again, rage and grief fueled attacks with no goal other than to leave him just and bloodied as her.

" Don't talk about my sister! Just- just die! "

@markedprey ;

[markedprey]

characters cleaning blood off their partner's face is just PEAK romance actually. bonus points if it's someone else's blood

[markedprey]

             @bloodybcrbie asked: " hold still. let me take care of you."                           inbox prompts : always accepting.

             It was instinct, that knee jerk reaction when it came to being hurt. That desire to recoil, to flinch away from any touch- always assuming the worst. To think he had been this way for so many years, tending to his own wounds, he’d forgotten what it was like to be loved at all. Then here she came, seemingly out of the blue one day, so unsuspecting, up until the body she tried to hide gave her away. Now to think this sick twisted game they played was something they didn’t have to do alone. Whoever she wanted, wherever she wanted, he would see to it that her little playthings were rightfully disposed of. When the men would get too out of hand at the bar, it was always he who would step in. When a victim would try to run, rest assured he was there to keep them in their place. 

             Yet all it took was a single slip up, a makeshift weapon or a swinging fist, and it would be enough for him to take it into his own hands. Usually it was the men, too drunk to have logic or reason, nor take no for an answer when she wouldn’t put up with their advances. Fights that he’d spill into the street, a back alley, riled up by flying fists and his hands around someone's throat. Every once in a while they’d get a hit in, a particularly rough right hook coming in contact with his face, a loud crack resonating through the empty back alleys as he’d take it upon himself to brandish a knife and finish the pathetic drunk off. The body would be disposed of later, but all that mattered was getting her home safe that night.

             It’s how he ended up at her place, the corpse tucked away in the back of his truck for now. His shirt lingered with specks of blood, that which fell from his nose, past his lips, having dripped down his chin, a bloody nose and a split lip from where contact was made. Thankfully, it was the worst of it, and truth be told he’d forgotten about it for the most part. Alcohol and adrenaline still buzzed in his veins, and it wasn’t until she tried to help did he flinch as a well manicured nail reached up to touch the tender spot on his bottom lip. 

             “Damn-”

             He hadn’t realized just how bad it hurt, not until she was keen on helping him out. Attempting to see the damage done, when he’d been so accustomed to dealing with it on his own. Truthfully it was the last thing on his mind, her being the first priority. Taken off guard by her tenderness, his brow knit tightly with the internal struggle of trying to push away a loving hand, knowing there was no maliciousness, that she was genuine about the concern she held for him. Why, he would simply exhale, slowly through his nose as she’d try and examine him like a child that fell and bumped their head. He’d never had a lover so keen on helping, her full lips set to a focused purse as she turned to grab cloth from the sink to help. How he could imagine her as a housewife, that tender love and care, with the way she’d try and clean away the blood. He couldn’t help but smile, feeling the wound tear at the gesture, but hardly cared as she’d press the cloth harder to his bleeding skin, half muffling him as he tried to talk out the other side of his mouth.

             “What would I do without you sweetheart…” Hands moved to her waist, playing sliding around to her lower back to pull her in close, half tempted to kiss her with a copper mouth, teeth stained with his own blood as he chuckled. “ Y’know, one of these days I’ll get you a ring, mark my words…”

[markedprey]

“Just the tip” I say before burying my knife in you

[markedprey]

             He was amusing, to say the least. Like his own little pet, tied up like a wandering stray he’d try to tame and claim as his own. Yet with any stray came its ups and downs- where his once hot headed temper quelled, it was other complaints that would come to the forefront of their little living situation. Boredom, mainly, attempting to find means of entertainment any way he could. To think, how it started so simple- a request for a different radio station, turned up a bit higher, and then books- magazines- anything to help pass the time as he was chained to his bed. He couldn’t deny the fact that the requests were simple, and to think that’s how it all began. Simple items that were easy to grab, nothing necessarily out of his way, bit by bit, he didn’t seem to realize- or rather- really care that he was giving in to his requests. If anything, it was a means to find ground, opening the door to conversation- and eventually- to where they were now.

             Once he wouldn’t have dared to let him sit within proximity of him like this, brow raised, elbows propped on his knees as he sat on one of the nearby beds. From the room over, he could hear the radio playing, lyrics muffled through the wall as he’d sit and watch him for a while. At times, even he needed company, and when Leland would call out, try and converse, he found himself willing to sit and listen. All he was really learning about himself though, was how out of touch he was with music, movies, and everything else the average college kid was invested in. Detached from reality, in that sense, he couldn’t help but scoff at the comment. “Well, I guess you could say celebrities are the last thing on my mind. Not exactly all that pressed to find out what the hottest song on the radio is, or who sings it for that matter.” Still, it was endearing in a way, to see him get so worked up whenever he claimed to be oblivious. Almost offended, with his vast love for music, keen to teach him just about everything he seemed to know.

             Testing the waters of his comfort, his eyes would watch, studying him as he’d shift in the space, removing himself from the creaking bed, and instead, take space at the end of Leland’s. If anything, to see what he was talking about, trying to catch a glimpse of the pages as he’d thumb through them, his eyes flickering from the wrinkled pages, up to his eyes, taking in every little detail- the way his scars were healing, the way he was focused in, the small crease in his brow he’d get when he was thinking. There was more to the story, how he knew what he knew, a lingering sadness behind his dark eyes. A conversation for another time, maybe.

             “You know a hell of a lot more than I do, I’ll give you that. And I know you didn’t just learn all that from one magazine.”

             Still, he couldn’t help but be entertained at the notion of him taking the time to analyze him- like he really knew him. He’d given him the birthday his so-called-mother gave to him, but maybe, there was truth that lingered in his words. That maybe even that was built on a lie. The thought itself flickered through his mind, quick to toss it aside for another thought that was more predominant, in the forefront of his mind as he’d look the other over with an amused, crooked grin. “You seem real confident in that statement- so I gotta ask you then: what do you think I am?” A pause, as his eyes would flicker to his lips, before meeting his eyes once more, “What am I to you?” Curious, and teasing, more so than anything- but beneath it lay that flirtatious undertone that came so naturally, he couldn’t hide it.

             “Don’t tell me we aren’t 'compatible' now...”

@markedprey said: "you know everything about everything, don't you?"

leland raises a brow at him, disguises a laugh with a scoff. ❝ i kind of thought everyone knew who cher was — even out in the sticks. ❞ he flashes the cover of the magazine in johnny’s direction to show him cher, and then resumes what he was doing — reading the astrology section. the magazine he balances on his knee is one of a small selection johnny had brought down to him — after he’d claimed boredom enough times. staring at peeling green wallpaper all day and pacing the length of a chain in a windowless room would do that to your head, after a while. he was kind of surprised, when johnny had actually bothered to entertain his whims, though. probably just finally drove him up the fucking wall.

but lately, johnny’s been spending a bit more time down here. and leland found he didn’t totally hate the company — kind of looked forward to it, sometimes. caught himself recognizing the sound of johnny’s footsteps, and particular gait, down the tunnels. suspected something had snapped, when he caught himself hoping that johnny would hang around just a bit longer, to talk, before leaving him for the night. he guesses having exactly one human connection would also do that to your head. and leland would do damn near anything to get out of his own head.

anyway — leland had been reading out their horoscopes. from a few months ago, when this magazine was actually on shelves. he shrugs, tilting the open page toward johnny, so he could see the section he’s skimming; ❝ … i don’t really know that much about astrology stuff. i know a little bit, i guess? ❞ julie had once explained the basics of starsigns to him — that people believed things like your personality, and your romantic compatibility, were due to the date you were born. that kind of thing. not that he thought astrology was more than pseudo-science, but leland had found it interesting, anyway.

… but maybe johnny thought it sounded stupid? which he guesses he cares about, now. and for whatever reason, leland lands somewhere between elaborating and trying to play it off; ❝ — like. you don’t really seem like a virgo, is all. ❞ he clears his throat awkwardly, ❝ — according to what this says, or whatever. ❞

[markedprey]

             It was miscalculation on his behalf, a moment of overconfidence which led him to where he lay now. In a way, if she hadn’t come to check on him, it was his pride that would have left him in that tub to die, drowning in his own blood until someone would have found him. Somewhere, down in the back of his mind, he knew he didn’t deserve her kindness, knew that if anyone were to be more deserving of drowning him then and there, it was her. And the truth of the matter was: she could, and he’d do nothing to stop her. How could he? With what strength he had left. What was all the more astounding, was that she made no effort to try. Rather, offering a helping hand, to the man who deserved far worse a fate than this. 

             Once the tap water settled, it was the silence, and the dripping faucet that would fill the silence between them. The churning of water as he’d try and get into a comfortable position, hand never leaving hers, admiring the softness of her skin as thumb rode over the hills and valleys of her knuckles. A comforting gesture, and one of repetition that kept him grounded to the moment. Focusing on her answer, his hand hidden beneath the murky water felt for the wound, that nauseating feeling striking him as open nerves stung like knives when touched by his own fingers. 

             “God dammit-” 

             The wounds were always much worse, once the adrenaline began to fade. Most often they were surface level cuts and scrapes that could be mended on his own, but it was the depth of this one that left him uneasy. Never did he like to ask for help, never did he want to be seen as weak in anyone's eyes- especially hers. But he needed her, and for that, he was willing to put his pride aside, to give her a chance to lend aid where it was needed. “One of our little guests got lucky, let's just say. Me? Not so much- '' 

             Despite the exhaustion that began to sink into his bones, he knew he had to fight it. Releasing her hand, his grip moved to the porcelain lip of the tub, hoisting himself up to sit on its ledge. The water sloshed about, tinged with his blood as he turned, lifting his arm so she could see the jagged gash that ran the length of his stomach, down his hip- no doubt an attempt to gut him alive. “Our friend thought it’d be real clever to find something sharp enough to fight back- tried to, at least. Definitely left their mark…”

             His eyes would close then, a hand coming to rest over the wound, jaw clenched tight, attempting to breathe, keeping his voice calm and level as possible. “I’ve got a sewing kit- bathroom cupboard, over there.” His head would jab towards the direction of the sink, the storage beneath it specifically. “Didn’t want it to come to this… but I’m hurtin’ pretty bad.” A silent trust was put in her hands, but that was only if she was willing to help. “You think you could help me?”

as  nancy  steps  closer  to  the  bathtub,  it  becomes  apparent  that  johnny  is  in  much  worse  shape  than  she  thought.  even  without  seeing  the  injury,  she  knows  it  isn’t  good.  not  with  the  way  he’s  sinking  beneath  the  crimson  water,  the  weak  way  with  which  he  looks  at  her.  once  again,  there’s  a  small  voice  in  the  back  of  her  head  telling  her  just  to  leave  him  here.  let  him  die,  after  all  the  shit  he’s  put  her  through.  turn  around  and  walk  out  and  let  the  asshole  bleed  out  in  his  goddamn  tub.  it’d  be  a  poetic  end  —  the  man  who  has  killed  so  many,  injured  at  a  victim’s  hand  and  left  to  die  by  the  woman  he’d  wanted  to  love  him.

she  can’t  do  that,  though.  not  anymore.

hand  reaches  for  johnny's  extended  one,  soft  fingers  closing  around  calloused  ones  as  she  lowers  herself  onto  her  knees  next  to  him.  it  makes  her  chest  ache  in  some  unidentifiable  way,  seeing  johnny  like  this.  in  a  way,  nancy  thinks  he's  supposed  to  be  ...  indestructible.  maybe  it  is  because  of  all  the  times  she's  lashed  out  at  him,  only  for  him  to  act  like  nothing  happened,  like  the  blows  were  nothing  more  than  the  buzz  of  a  fly.  yet  now,  the  man  is  leaning  against  the  wall  of  the  tub,  pale  and  broken,  water  turned  crimson  around  him,  and  looking  up  at  her  with  one  of  the  softest  expressions  she  has  ever  seen  on  his  face.

“  how  bad  is  it?  ”  she  asks  softly,  reaching  over  with  her  free  hand  to  turn  off  the  tap.  attention  then  turns  back  to  johnny,  nance  watching  him  oh-so-closely.  “  can  you  tell  me  what  happened?  ”

she  is  simply  trying  to  keep  johnny  talking.  if  he  stays  talking  —  if  he  keeps  focusing  on  her  —  there  is  far  less  of  a  risk  of  him  sinking  beneath  the  water.  already,  nancy's  mind  is  running  over  all  the  things  she  might  need  to  patch  him  up  —  judging  from  the  amount  of  blood  she'd  seen,  it  is  almost  guaranteed  to  need  sewing  up.  the  thought  makes  her  stomach  turn,  but  despite  that,  she's  already  trying  to  think  about  where  a  sewing  kit  might  be  around  here.

[markedprey]

             It was a twisted sort of enjoyment that came with watching him squirm. As if he deserved it the most, for all the trouble he’d put them through. Where most were easy to wrangle back in, it always had to be the biggest that put up the worst fight. Why he was down here at all, why he’d made the effort to corner him– to save the rest of the family trouble. When someone like him fought too hard, it was often he that was sent to clean up the mess.

             And to think, most often he made things quick for his victims. Those who often kicked and screamed the loudest, the smallest- the weakest- being met with a swift, clean cut to the throat, or precise punctures straight through the back, the chest, knowing just where to strike and how easy it was to end their lives. It was a mercy killing, in comparison to what the other family members often liked to do. Play with their food, so to say, not caring about the quality of the cut, or the mess they’d make- but the fun they’d have during the chase, and the way the victim would fall, shredded to pieces most often. He could have been one of them, one of the lucky few that just accepted their fate, laid down to die- but instead he chose to fight.

             The tough one of the group, the one that believed he’d find a way out- that by some miracle he’d save the day, and all his friends would come home safe and sound. It was always men like him that had to be taught a lesson, had to learn the hard way that a happy ending for him and his little friends was never even an option. They were doomed from the start- from the moment that girl set foot on the property, and everything that led up to now. Maria Flores- she was the first victim, and one after another they all fell down, until there was no one left– but him. The same man that continued to spit venom in every word, not once a please, nor begging to ease the pain he’d inflicted. And to think, he should have been thanking him for what he did to his friends– mercy, in comparison to what he did- and would continue to do to him, for running that mouth of his.

             The air was still, yet tangible between them, his gaze unwavering, cold, and almost clinical, like watching an animal fight in a trap, calculating his next move, through a vacant, pitch black gaze. Yet his smile, it was something that never wavered, half cocked and worn by a man who was all too amused- but it never touched his eyes. Like he was used to wearing the mask, one of charm and good looks, but behind it all- a killer. His laughter was haunting, a low, rasping fit at a joke only he seemed to understand. Denial was such a funny thing, after all, the way disbelief would cloud the man’s mind, holding out hope that he’d spared his friends, that they might be tied up and saved for later just the same as him. Astounded at the optimism, how he couldn’t help but cock his head to a side, the blood once in his teeth, painting his lips, his breath forming between them in surprisingly slow exhales, calm and collected despite the violence that made his heart race.

             “Is it really that hard to believe? You weren’t there to save them, after all.” The blade would continue to play against his skin, even as he’d press into it, he was careful to pull it away. Deep enough to mark, but not enough to strike an artery to end it all. Instead the blade would move, almost intimately, painted with blood as he’d use it to paint his neck, his cheek, watching the streaks of tears mingle with fresh blood as he continued musing aloud. “At least, I’m guessin’ it’s you they were begging for. Leland, right? Least, that’s what I heard from that girl with the red hair…”

             It would be a painful reality, what he’d reveal to him next- but the proof he needed- a sick little reality check. What looked to be hardly more than a tattered piece of cloth, an old worn bandana he rolled between his fingertips. Snapped and frayed at one end, a knot still tied in it, where it might have once been worn as a headband. Bloody, and traces of fine hair still lingered, having pulled it fresh from the girl’s head as she’d tried to run and fight. Now this was all that was left of her, tossing it to the bloody floor in front of him.

             “She was easy to catch, mind you- slippery at first but with those locks but, once she had nowhere to run, she hardly put up a fight. Screamed your name, right? But don’t worry– wasn’t for long.” He’d twist the knife in the wound, break him down until he had no choice but face the facts. “Your little friends aren’t comin’ back. So how I see it is- you accept that fact, and behave, or you’ll end up just like the rest of them. Would be a waste, mind you, seeing how good you are at handling yourself- so I’d think twice, before you try anything you might regret. I'd start by asking for mercy instead, and we'll see where we go from there...”

staring down into a growing puddle of his own blood, leland has the singular, dim thought;

you must have really pissed him off, for him to be doing this to you.

jaw tenses as the killer's blade traces by his lips, as though the man was admiring his handiwork — the mess he'd made of leland's face. the cuts and blooming bruises felt indiscernible to one another — even to the pressure of johnny's knife. he thinks something must be broken, or torn, with how his shoulder burns. he’d lost count of how many times the man’s boot had struck him, when he'd finally gotten leland cornered. in the ribs, in the stomach, across the jaw, relentlessly. he’d slipped into unconsciousness a few times — quick, momentary respite, like a faulty flashbulb going off — only for it to continue. only to be dragged back to the surface of a bright, raw agony. he’s never experienced such un-particular pain — the likes of one deep, aching pulse across his body. he’s never wanted so badly to curl in on himself.

but leland wishes he hadn’t asked what he'd asked. because the man only grins, too many teeth. grinning, razor sharp — speckled in your blood.

— shame really. she was real pretty.

it's like a gut punch, and he's suddenly reeling again. he registers what’s been said, in white-hot clarity. the knife is back down by his throat, now. and the anger flash-fires across leland's eyes, he can feel it in the roots of his teeth. and he wants, more than anything, for this man to drop dead. he wants him to shut up. stop talking. he can't take anymore. he wants to be out from under the predatory intensity of a serial killer's gaze. for this to be over. he wants to scream. because somewhere, in the back of his mind, maybe he knew. maybe he knew it all along, when they first started on this roadtrip. he just didn’t want to admit it. he wanted to find her, so badly. he wanted to help ana. leland drags in a harsh, brittle breath.

❝ you’re lying, ❞ he whispers. he was just trying to fuck with you. they couldn’t all be dead. they aren’t. they — he has to be lying. he has to be, because your last words to them were so meaningless. because it wasn’t supposed to happen like this. because you were supposed to find maria. you were supposed to go home. all of you.

leland makes a noise, close to a laugh, close to a rattle. a bit hysterical. it shakes against broken ribs, hurts like hell. he presses closer, just to scowl hellfire up at johnny — even as the knife draws new blood against his bruised throat. the prey animal wiring in his brain maybe, finally, too fried to fear the inevitable; what the hell are you waiting for?

❝ you’re fucking lying,❞ leland challenges, more fiercely — but the pang of desperation across his face betrays him enough. they couldn’t be dead. how could he know that? they're not. get up. you have to get the fuck up. they can’t be dead. you promised you’d protect them. you saw them. they were finding a way out of here. you saw them — ( was it your fault? was this all your fault? )

expression falls, searching over johnny’s face, like it would reveal something that made sense. but there was nothing. leland's mouth forms stilted sentences, now, independently of what little rational thought he had left; ❝ just. let them go. do — whatever you want. just let them go. please.❞ as if he really had anything to bargain with. as if his life mattered any more than the other dead animals in this basement, to someone like him. denial tastes like acid in his throat, and he can feel his resolve slipping, slipping, cracking apart. watercolour-red cuts sharply down the grime on his cheeks, and it's so fucking cold.

there it was. fear, new, fresh. it starts levelling buildings, overpowering everything else. he is afraid, to die. and he felt cut open, he felt like all raw nerves in the frigid air. he felt like every string had snapped, and its wake, there was an empty, misty dread that settled. now he has you. now he's going to do god-knows-what to you. and then get rid of the evidence. leland had caught a look at some of the bodies strewn about this basement. he could see the plastic wrapping on the ones lining this freezer, their fogged-up faces, their empty eyes. that'll be you. you don't get a choice in this. and your mother, and your family, and no-one, will ever know what had happened to you — all of this. for nothing. for it to end here. for looking for your friend, when no one else would. for failing to protect them. maybe it is your fault. maybe it’s all your fucking fault —

leland finally goes quiet, for a long time. he drops his eyes to the floor, sick to his stomach. ❝ if you hurt them,❞ he says, softly, ❝ … i’ll fucking kill you. i swear to god. if it’s the last thing i do. i'll kill you. ❞

[markedprey]

johnny icons part two

[markedprey]

             There were times, few and far between that he’d ever been scared in his life. Most came at a young age, faint and distant memories in a childhood he didn’t care to remember, lost in a blur as time would wash away any trace of his youth. The concept of fear was one he never had to dwell on, for one simple factor alone: It was he that most people would be scared of. The things he did, the way he was raised, there was little he had to worry about, believing that he was the worst thing out there. To think, how completely unaware he was, the thought of there being something worse than him in the world. Never thinking that he’d meet his match, let alone a man that could overpower him without so much as trying.

             Maybe this was what he deserved, to think that if there was a god, he was making him repay his wrongdoings of so many years through being with this man. A taste of his own medicine, filled with fear, pain, and the metallic taste of his own copper blood. Once catching victims of his own, to becoming one, beneath the man who was keen to put him in his place. How long had they been together now, he couldn’t say. Days turned to weeks, weeks to months, and eventually, he knew that he would never go home. The lines began to blur, what once was hatred shifted to something else entirely. Two sides of the same wicked coin, their hands dirtied with the blood of so many innocent lives. Rivalry turned to love, swallowing his pride for the sake of walking at his side, following his lead, doing everything he’d ask for the sake of keeping his life.

             Even then, there were nights like these, that feeling of fear would rear its ugly head again. To think he did it all for him, every time he’d seduce and play with one of their victims, he would be so quick to take it the wrong way. Jealousy, delusion, a part of him wasn’t really sure what went on in that head of his. All he knew was the look in his eyes when he was ready to kill someone- and those eyes were set, right on him. The very look that would leave him, frozen in place, trying to suppress the need to fight or flee as he loomed over him, reminding him just how small he was in contrast to the man he belonged to.

             He’d repeated the phrase, time and time again, three little words to keep him happy for so long. Genuine, despite the way they’d started off, his feelings grew and the words held truth- but even then it never seemed enough. His jaw would flex and tense beneath his touch, but he knew better than to look away. Looking away meant lying- and he knew better than to lie to the man that claimed to be his husband.

             “I was only doin’ it to help, darlin’. You know that-” the victims they’d slaughter, were all one in the same in his mind, coming and going like a blur, when it came to keeping him happy. “You know I only ever say those things, play with ‘em just to get ‘em to trust me- they don’t mean a thing to me…” Lips were left parted, feeling the pressure of his thumb, moving along his lips, tongue tracing over the pad of it as he invaded his mouth. “I promise you-” Teeth would graze then, the one means he had to fight back, biting at the digit as he tried to speak. “Yours, you hear me?”

             He moved then, taking a step in, rather than away, facing the beast of a man head on as a gesture of reassurance. Hands moved to his waist, and where fingers grazed over the hilt of his blade, he didn’t dare try to betray him. Instead fingers moved into his belt loops, giving a firm tug like the reins on a beast, attempting to guide him without words- wanting nothing more than to clean up the mess they’d made, the blood that lingered, still sticky on their skin from the victim they’d slain. “C’mon sweetheart, lemme show you-”

@markedprey said : "you're it, okay? i'm never gonna love anybody in the world like i love you."

the  words  are  meant  to  placate,  to  bring  him  back  from  the  edge.  eddie  would  be  a  fool  not  to  see  that  —  but  at  the  same  time,  they  do  the  opposite.  hands  ball  into  fists  at  his  sides,  and  despite  the  way  that  johnny  stands  there  looking  at  him,  the  urge  to  wrap  them  around  his  neck  is  almost  overwhelming.  logically,  he  knows  he  won’t  do  it  ;  eddie  cannot  lose  johnny,  cannot  let  him  go.  not  after  he’s  worked  so  fucking  hard  to  get  him  here  in  the  first  place.  but,  seeing  him  standing  there,  an  uncharacteristically  calm  expression  on  his  beautiful  face  (  or  is  it  fear  he  sees  there?  )  as  he  tries  to  talk  him  down,  eddie  wonders  if  it’s  all  worth  it.  the  words  seem  condescending,  yet  at  the  same  time,  genuine.  which  one  is  the  truth?  which  is  the  result  of  a  cracked  psyche,  twisting  and  deforming  intended  meanings,  and  which  one  is  reality?  he  can’t  tell  —  they’re  bleeding  together,  and  he  doesn’t  know  which  is  which  anymore.  not  right  now.

eddie  steps  forward,  large  frame  looming  over  johnny’s.  standing  this  close  to  him  makes  him  feel  insane.  it  makes  him  want  to  take  this  man  and  throw  him  down  on  the  bed  and  make  him  moan  his  name … but  the  urge  to  sink  his  knife  into  his  stomach  is  also  there,  flashing  behind  his  eyes.  both  involve  laying  johnny  sawyer  bare  before  him,  desperate  and  pleading.  the  two  acts  are  one  in  the  same,  interlocked  hand  in  hand.  two  sides  of  the  same  coin  —  just  like  them.

“  you  know,  ”  he  snarls,  shaking  his  head  slowly,  “  you’re  a  wicked  thing,  johnny.  ”  a  slut,  a  whore.  something  worthy  of  being  crushed  beneath  his  heel.  the  thought  isn’t  a  comfortable  one  ;  johnny  is  perfect.  he’s  the  one  that  eddie  has  been  looking  for,  the  one  he’s  wanted  for  so  long  —  he  isn’t  like  the  others,  the  unworthy  ones.  that  thought  is  the  one  thing  that  his  hand  moving  away  from  the  knife  tucked  into  his  waistband.  instead,  he  reaches  out,  hand  coming  to  roughly grip  johnny’s  chin. 

thumb  strokes  along  his  bottom  lip,  eddie’s  expression  shifting  from  one  of  unbridled  rage  to  something  more  unsettlingly  calm.  “  promise  me,  ”  he  murmurs,  calloused  digit  pushing  its  way  into  johnny’s  mouth.  “  tell  me  you’re  mine  and  only  mine.  ”

[markedprey]

@markedprey sent : Hands come to settle on his waist, feeling the strength of his core as his fingers would hook into his belt loops, closing what little space lingered between them as he met his gaze with a grin. "You did so good out there tonight... Real talented with that knife of yours..."

johnny  closes  the  gap  between  them,  and  eddie  cannot  help  the  smile  that  tugs  at  his  lips.  once  upon  a  time,  this  would  not  have  happened  willingly.  johnny  would  fight  and  resist  ;  he  would  deny  the  love  that  was  so  freely  offered  to  him.  now,  things  are  different.  his  bride  is  here  and  offers  herself  up  like  a  good  wife  should.  it  may  have  taken  time  and  a  bit  of  coaxing,  but  it  was  all  worth  it  in  the  end,  just  as  eddie  had  known  it  would  be  from  the  moment  he  first  laid  eyes  on  him. 

the  offered  compliments  do  wonders  for  his  ego  as  well.  johnny  knows  how  to  play  him,  knows  how  to  keep  his  husband  wrapped  around  his  finger  ...  and  eddie  is  not  an  idiot.  he  hears  it,  the  tone  in  which  the  other  speaks  ;  he  sees  the  wicked  grin  on  his  face,  feels  the  hands  on  his  body.  it  does  not  take  much  to  figure  out  where  this  is  going  (  and  he  would  be  a  fool  to  refuse  his  bride's  advances  ). 

“  why,  thank  you  very  much.  ”  his  own  arms  move  to  wrap  around  johnny's  frame,  holding  him  in  place  there  against  him.  there  is  no  escape,  not  tonight.  large  hands  slip  inside  the  back  pockets  of  his  jeans  ;  an  awfully  forward  gesture,  one  unbefitting  of  a  gentleman,  but  ...  the  time  for  propriety  has  passed,  has  it  not?  “  i  would  so  hate  for  you  to  be  left  unsatisfied,  after  all.  ”

despite  the  tone  of  casualness  he  speaks  in,  the  underlying  meaning  is  more  than  obvious.  the  larger  man  leans  down,  lips  brushing  against  johnny's  jawline  as  he  murmurs,  “  and  what  would  you  say  if  i  were  to  suggest  that  i  spend  the  rest  of  tonight  showing  you  some  of  the  other  talents  of  mine  that  you're  so  fond  of?  ” 

the  words  are  low  and  gravelly,  eddie  punctuating  the  question  by  squeezing  johnny's  ass  through  his  jeans.  as  always,  the  urge  to  take  him  and  lay  him  down  on  their  bed,  to  fill  him  up  and  make  him  scream  his  name,  is  ever  present  —  but  eddie  is  a  gentleman,  first  and  foremost.  and,  after  all,  johnny's  been  so  well-behaved  lately.  he  deserves  to  get  to  call  the  shots  tonight.    “  i  promise  i'll  make  it  good  for  you,  my  darling.  anything  you  want  from  me,  i  will  give  you.  ”