#not one person would notice I died before I rot so deep into the floorboards I’ll be scraped off

[bloody-peach]

@festens-oc-hangout Chester ficlet, don't worry, it fluffy.

The air was cool and the sky had started to turn from pink and sky blue to indigo as the sun finally set over the horizon. Peach always liked to be outside during this time, and especially loved to walk through the neighborhood at this time. It was always so calm and peaceful, really lets you clear your head of all the troubles of your life and just breathe. Peach always liked to stop by an empty plot of land not far from her apartment complex and sit under the large willow tree growing there. But tonight when she stopped by, she noticed someone was already there. It was a familiar blue spirit.

"Chester?"

He turned and had a look of surprise and confusion on his face as he asked, "Peach? What are you doing here?" "I like to walk by here. What are you doing here? Shouldn't you be back at the lab?" "I'm allowed to be here, abwischen." "I know that, but you rarely leave your lab. What makes this place so special?" He groaned and finally said, "This is where my house used to be." "Really? What happened to it?"

"Easy. I died."

Peach felt her stomach sink a bit. He continued, "I was trying out new flavors I made for my cigars. Turns out one of them came out poisonous and I died right on the spot. No one found my body, so it rotted into the floorboards. When they finally tore the place down, I just ended up here." "How come they never built on it?" "The ground has all kinds of deadly chemicals from years of experiments. You're fine as long as you don't dig too deep, but when all the dirt was dug up, all the chemical dust got into the air and into a few workers' lungs and they died, causing everyone to abandon the area and leave it as is. It's sort of a cursed place now, I guess." "So....you..were never buried?" "Obviously, dumbass. You can't exactly get buried when all the wood that has your remains in it were either burned, repurposed for other buildings, or just sent to a landfill to rot. Not like anyone would care to do it anyways. I kept to myself most of my life, and I was seen as a freak for it."

Peach felt real sad about all of that. No one cared about Chester enough to find his body and bury him. It wasn't fair to Peach, because, to her, he was an amazing person, but it seemed like only she could see that.

Then an idea was born.

"I...should head home. I told David I'd be back once it got really dark." "Alright. Night." "Night."

~A few days later~

As he walked down the familiar sidewalk towards his old home location, Chester started to wonder why he hadn't seen Peach for so long. He was actually starting to worry that something had happened as he reached the lot. Suddenly, his train of thought was broken by something he hadn't noticed before.

Right under the tree, there was a large pinkish-red stone standing there. But what was etched onto the stone got his attention. 'Chester Killmonger. A great man with a beautiful mind. 1901 - 1932'

"Guess there goes the surprise."

Chester turned and saw Peach holding a bouquet of flowers. "What the hell is this?" He asked. Peach responded, "When you told me you didn't have a grave, I got really sad, because there was no way for people to remember you. It was like you were just thrown away like trash, to be forgotten by everyone. I thought, 'that's not fair. He's a wonderful person, and he deserves to be remembered and respected like everyone else.' So I decided to make this little gravesite on the lot where you died. Getting the words etched on the stone was the hardest part, but luckily I found a guy to help." Chester just stood there, amazed that she put all this time and effort into something like this. Peach then knelt in front of the 'grave' and placed the flowers on the ground in front of it. It was then that Chester noticed the type of flowers they were. Forget-me-nots. His favorite. Peach then put her hands together, put her head down, and closed her eyes. Good god, she was even praying.

'Hey, God, or whoever is listening..'

Chester looked around, wondering where that voice was coming from. Then he recognized it as Peach's. Was...Was he hearing her prayer? How in the hell was that possible and why? He kept listening.

'I know I don't really talk to you that often. I'm sure you understand why. But I'd like to say a few things. Thank you for bringing Chester into my life. He's one of the greatest people I've ever met and I love him so much. I know that he's not in your hands, or anyone's right now, but if you can, please watch over him and keep him safe when I can't do that myself. I know he can be difficult at times, but I know deep down that he is a good man that's devoted to the things he cares about. So, do that, and if possible, when I die, either send me to where he's going, or have us reincarnated and meet up in another life. I want to stay with him always, so please do either if you can. Thank you. Amen.'

Chester just stood there, trying to register those words. "Peach..." She turned towards him as he asked, "Those words...Did you really mean all that?" Peach was confused but figured he was talking about her making the grave, so she smiled and said, "Of course I did." "Why...?" He was confused to why anyone would see him that way. He was always cruel and cold to everyone, so it was baffling to see someone say those kind words about him, let alone do something like this. Peach got up, walked to him, and kissed his ghostly cheek, saying, "I love you, Ches. That's why." It was then that Chester felt a slew of emotions welling up inside that were unfamiliar to him: joy, gratitude, confusion, annoyance, embarrassment, and...love? "I...I have to go." He vanished into thin air, teleporting himself back to his lab (he found out he could do that as a ghost early on), leaving Peach confused and alone.

Chester was working on some new chemical concoctions later that evening to get his mind off of today's events, but no matter what he did, they always came back. 'She didn't have to do that. Why the hell did she do that?' He couldn't believe someone would care about him enough to do something like that for him. But Peach did it. She did all that work just for him. To make him feel special, wanted, loved. And hearing that prayer..the prayer...

His vision started to blur and when he blinked, water would drip onto his desk. He looked up to see if the roof was leaking again, but no, it was still sealed and it wasn't raining today. He didn't know where the water came from until he saw his reflection in one of his beakers.

They were tears. He was crying.

He wiped his face with his sleeve, but they just kept coming. It was all too much. The emotions were breaking him apart, he had to give in. So he did. He put his head in his hands and just let the tears drip onto his desk in puddles, stifling sobs so no one could hear. A knock on the door broke his fit.

"Hey, Ches..? It's me. Are you okay? You left all of a sudden."

It was Peach. "C..Come in," Chester was able to say while regaining his composure. Peach opened the door and entered the room, her face full of concern. "Is everything ok, Ches? Did something happen? Are you alright?" "I'm fine, Peach. I just had some experiments to finish before the day was done." "You sure?" He said in an angrier voice, "Will you just leave me alone? Gott verdammt!" Peach backed off, saying, "Ok...I'll check on you again tomorrow. Good night. I love you." Those three words caused Chester to completely lose it and march up to her as she started to leave, grabbing her shoulders and turning her to face him. "Now you listen here, you little shit. I'm never going to leave you. Not in a relationship sense, not even in the metaphysical sense. If you die and go to heaven or hell, I'll find a way to get to you even if it kills me a thousand times over. If you end up reincarnated, I'll haunt you as a spirit or I'll reincarnate myself and find you. No matter what, you're stuck with me, so you better deal with it. Got it?!" Peach's eyes grew wide as he spoke and she said in a soft voice of astonishment, "Chester..." Chester's hands started to shake as his tough-guy facade was crumbling and his tears returned. "Why...? Why a brat like you..? You didn't have to--." With that, he hugged Peach tightly, his head over her shoulder as he stifled his sobs again. Peach could feel his tears soaking her shirt and she knew why he was crying. She held him and said, "It's alright, Ches. I wanted to do it because you deserve it. So, you're welcome." He buried his face into her neck, saying into her skin, "I love you...I love you..." "I love you too. And don't worry, I won't tell anyone about you crying." "I'll fucking bury you alive if you do."

~~~♡♡♡~~~

Bonus ending:

Chester: "Hey, how did you find out my favorite flower was the forget-me-not?

Peach: "Those were your favorite? I got them because of the name. Since I don't want you to be forgotten."

Chester: I swear to God, this girl is finding a way to kill my soul with diabetes.

~~~♡♡♡~~~

German Translation:

abwischen = asswipe

Gott verdammt = goddammit

[itstheendofthegoddamnworld]

Infected/Undead Boyfriend

Warning: some language and fluff.

Part 2  -  Part 3 (FINALE)

When It Rains, It Pours

It always rains in January-- or was it February? It didn't matter, it had been a long time since you remembered, and you didn't care. It wasn't a problem for you in fact: what was a problem for you was how you were going to get out of the city without being taken out first.

The city was swarming with infected since the beginning; when the world had gone to rot.

You had been attempting since day one to get out, but the military had been doing its damn best in containing the population through fear and control. They kept the those from coming in and from leaving, practically blocking you all in like cattle from the very start.

The military was eventually taken out, leaving their cells and high walls that were impossible to pass. And it wasn't just the living that had been out of control; the dead were rare but they were rising daily – it didn't matter how you died, they returned stronger and in larger herds; carving their way through the city with little care.

It had been three years since you had heard from your relatives: from your uncle and cousins who had been living outside of your city and had found a refuge to live in. They assured you a safe place to stay when you escaped, but you had last heard from them three months ago; the signal dying.

It was risky, but you needed supplies, and gaining them not just for yourself but for your radio was to help you get out quicker. You weren't going to rot alive inside these walls, no matter how few humans and dead remained.

The supplies were growing scarce, the food dwindling: your fears of starving to death seemed to be the worst way to go out, but you wanted to endure and live, but raiding shops for food was difficult.

The sky was gloomy and bleak when you had been caught by oncoming dead, their swarm had surprised you in the back of a building, where they had been twistedly been locked away for someone like you to run into on purpose.

The many corridors chasms seemed to get deeper and deeper the further you ran in, the less hope you had for getting out when you were certain you would be dead. It was only with a certain gap between the floors had given you a chance to get away only for the very weak floor you had been standing on to collapse beneath you, sweeping you with it to hit the very pit that welcomed you and not very much else.

Your head was pounding, a soaring ache in your sides from how you had fallen had gotten you whimpering and groaning in discomfort and fear: the darkening walls had been slicked so sinisterly that it was impossible to see what could be lurking within the shadows.

When your trembling hands came to touch at your head, there was a slick pool of something falling into your sight, like water heavily, it dampened the front of your face to make you look as if you were wearing a crimson mask.

There was a scuffle of shoes, a groan of the floorboards as something lurched within the dimness that came from the right side of you, and in your short time to respond or react and with your blinded sight that was washing over your vision quickly, you had clumsily pulled out your knife just as you saw the figure stumble out from behind a fallen cabinet.

You reacted loudly, grunting and swinging as you defended yourself pitifully, the figure had kicked the knife out of your hand almost too precisely, the clatter of it hitting the concrete ground brought your attention that you had no case of surviving.

The figure loomed over you momentarily: your bleeding head made it difficult to see when you were trying to stay focused and alert, your head was drubbing with thrums that came every passing second, screaming for rest, with your hands still scrambling before you finally whimpered before you had collapsed fully; your fall not as hard as you had predicted.

There had been light pouring through the small opening when you had come back around: the slow movements that came from not too far to you made you aware that you had been taken out by someone; someone had dragged your unconscious body out from that dreaded Hell.

There was a tentative hand at your forehead, feeling at your temperature, before their touch came to lift individually each eyelid, earning a low groan from you each time. You were alive – for now.

Your eyes had adjusted to the brightness that shouldn't have been coming so early in the day—no not during this month, it always rained. You pondered, your eyes had fallen on the figure beside you, momentarily stunned before your body had kicked yourself free from their grasp, and for you found yourself falling back against the iron wall.

When your unsteady eyes had fallen over their silhouette, you would've been certain that they had been dead. There could've been something human over their shape and how they stayed squat in the same position from nurturing you prior, but you couldn't lay why their appearance didn't look right.

Maybe it was their skin: it was milky and ashen, their hands were darkened and reddened around the knuckles and fingernails and you had assumed they had been wearing gloves, but their nails were peeling and uneven, wild to the fault.

Their—he – you were unsure how to describe them at first, they had masculine features, but you didn't know whether to describe this person in front of you as a human or the glimmer of an apparition.

Your eyes wandered past his wan face, his dark hair was chin-length, thrown messily up with strands that had fallen out and hanging over his deep-set eyes. His eyes—oh, God – the eyes were maybe the most human thing. They held more than just the husk of a shell of a human once. They were alive and conscious even when they had looked so unresponsive from afar.

He observed you carefully, his body language told you that he wasn't like any other infected creature you had dealt with in the many years since the outbreak, he was nothing like them- no, he was still aware of everything going on around him as if he was not one of them at all.

You didn't realise that the two of you had been staring at one another for quite some time, neither one speaking nor reacting in any way, but he watched, being aware of what you did or how you moved, making sure you didn't do anything that would harm him; his angular features told you so.

"Holy fucking shit, how—I-" Your words were stiff in your mouth, like hardened honey everything had solidified in your throat, leaving you just as lifeless as the infected. He had remained in his spot, rigid and hesitant in your language, but he didn't seem reluctant, as, from his jacket pocket, he was pulling something out, some granola bars and a can of dried beans.

He slowly slid them across the hardware floor, the can hit the sole of your sneaker, the granola bars he held up as a peace offering for you to take, all whilst you stared at him in what you could describe as disbelief.

"I- Where'd you find these?" You picked up the can and gave it a gentle rattle; they seemed decent still. He pointed to behind you, and from your view from behind, you never noticed that the two of you were secluded in an area that had a high spot that allowed you to onlook the entire city. It was nothing perfect, but you could tell that he had done a lot in keeping the area cut off with the desks and chairs barred up against the doors. From here, you could even see the deserted block you had been staying in for the last few weeks.

When you had turned back to him, he was standing, now a little closer to you, his hand outstretched with the food. "You got this for me?" You asked, warily taking it from his grip before stuffing the items into your pockets. You could get back to your place before the day ended if you were lucky; with hopes of finally finalising what you needed finishing.

He nodded, and you understood that there was now something of him conscious that was still alive and living: he was infected but not as dead as you had assumed.

"I need to get out of here, I need to get back to my place before it gets too dark." You found it troubling to think of the right words and whether he would say yes. "Will you help me get out of here?"

He didn't have much on him, but he had grabbed at your backpack and handed it to you, and already you knew his silent gestures was him saying yes. It was all that was needed to get you out quicker.

You and your... your new friend had left and travelled east through the stilled avenues and lonely desolate streets, the infected man lingering not too far behind you but close around if you needed help.

When you finally arrived in your place it was eerily tranquil, the sky had reached a calming picture of calmness over the horizon from your barricaded window, the dim light flooding through as you threw your bag to the couch you had been sleeping on; the half-dead, half-living man remaining close by in your closed doorway.

You made your way to your stationed radio, finalising the parts of bolts and wires that you finally had with you, twisting, tinkering and pushing buttons you had to learn in knowing, before finally turning on the HAM radio to be greeted with distorted and unruly squeaks and shrieks of the channels.

Behind you, the undead man grunted, covering his ears, a haunting cry that came from him threw you off as you looked back on him, quickly quieting the sound as you turned through the signals quicker, quieting the static.

"Come on, this gotta work." You gritted your teeth, trying again and again, "Hello? Is anyone out there? Are there any survivors?" You repeated the questions, nothing but your own voice ringing out and dying along with the signal.

Your eyebrows furrowed, slapping the side of the radio, your cheeks burning. "No! Come on! I have everything for it to fucking work, why isn't it working?" You let out your pent up feelings on the old thing, shoving it away as if the sight of it would make you feel better. It didn't.

An unexpected hand came to rest on the back of your shoulder, your body stiffening with your head twisting to look up from your kneeling spot, the male behind you. From his close-up, you could see his face so clearly, the skin had broken into a state of decay: with veins protruding along his round cheeks.

His eyes weren't as dark now that you saw them so closely, they were brown, and a lovely shade too. His eyes had broken blood vessels in his sclera but there was clearly still something so sympathetic that was in the surface.

So alive, but he's trapped in a dying body.

It startled you for a moment when his hand gingerly came to hesitate inches from your face. You didn't back away, inquisitive rather than cautious as to what he was going to do, his eyes looking back and forth over your face before he reached forth, the back of his ashen fingers collecting a just-to-fall teardrop from the corner of your eye.

"Oh, thanks." Your body came to wipe at the unwanted tears, looking away from him momentarily as you looked around your small haven. 

"You can uh, I don't know if you wanna stay for a bit?" You suggested to him, watching in your peripheral that he had moved away, and had gone to move towards your window, looking out. You stood yourself, looking to him finally before going to the bathroom, shutting the door and deciding to have a shower to calm down.

When you had finally emerged out, it was now dark finally, and your stomach hadn't settled, the need to eat was making you not think properly. That had to be the real reason. You found the male in the small spot on the wide windowsill, his head and body slouched, eyes shut as he peacefully slept.

Rummaging in your bag had woken him from however long he had been sleeping for, his eyes blinked in and out as they finally landed on you, and you came over to sit opposite him on the sill, watching the empty world outside.

“Want one?" You held one of the granola bars out to him, but he had shaken his head. He doesn't eat, but does he eat... humans?

You chewed nonchalantly on the brittle bar, the dryness was unbearable but it was still decent to eat regardless of how stale it had been. When you had finished your bar, he was still looking at you, as if reading you as best as he could. Not many people do that, but he isn't exactly... normal.

"How long have you been here for?" You asked once the granola was out of your teeth, and the male beside you gave a sign with his darkened fingers as he held them up for you to see. Three. "Three years?" You asked and he had nodded.

"How did... how did you turn?" Your voice was oddly quiet when you had asked him, uncertain.

He didn't seem so sure by your question and how to answer it, but he gave a short answer by the gesture that you could only guess was what he meant. Bitten. "But you didn't... you're not like them. The infected."

His face had given a small smile since your meeting, and it made you wonder how his laugh would sound. You could only hope you would see him smile again. It quickly fell from his face as if it had never been there, to begin with. No. He shook his head. "That's good," you reassured with relief, "you did scare me when I fell through the ceiling."

He gave a silent laugh, his eyes vivid. Sorry. He gestured, his motions tender when his hand came to rest on your knee, squeezing softly. The act itself didn't disgust you nor did you pull away, the mere feel of a person's touch was soothing.

The two of you spoke as best as you could (he found communicating hard and he didn't speak) and by the time early morning had come, you had found yourself lying on the sofa with his folded up jacket beneath your head as a pillow, with no sign of him at all.

You felt a bit gutted that he had left before you had a chance to see him leave; maybe he didn't want to hurt you or risk getting him harmed. You told yourself, but when you heard the soft twisting of your doorknob being opened, you kicked into overdrive, your knife in hand as you hid along the wall so you weren't seen.

You had lunged forward before the person had seen you, your wrist had been caught before you could harm them, those brown eyes were widened and fearful of the situation, but his grip had lessened, as if ready if you wanted to plunge your knife into his colourless flesh.

"I'm sorry," You pulled away quickly, putting your knife away as you led him inside and shut the door, "I didn't know it was you."

Sorry. He had gestured sheepishly, handing you the bag that he had over his shoulder. You took it from him as you opened it up, pulling out the many items he had found. Your eyes were wide, a closed-mouth smile had lit up on your face. "Where'd you find all this?"

He didn't answer you, to begin with, but he had guided you, pointing out towards the cluster of shops that weren't too far from you. How he managed to find all this secret food was amazing, and you didn't know how he did it. "You didn't have to do this for me, you know." You said in an inquisitive tone.

He shook his head, making sure you kept hold of the can as he kept his hand around yours. It's yours. His eyes told you for a fact that he wanted you to have it, and you couldn't turn that away.

You spent the next few days hidden away in your shelter, with enough food that could keep you going, whilst your new friend had been there to go in and out and find necessary things and food if you needed it.

He had been gone like most of the mornings by the time you had woken up, the only thing that you had from him was his jacket, and the smell of rainfall was comforting when you smelt the leather. You had sat up and stretched your bones, finding something small that had fallen from his pocket.

Picking it up, you recognised it as a driver's license, the faded words and photo had caught your interest, your eyes peering back to the door as you had looked over the photo ID tentatively. The face had been oddly familiar to you, their facial features were fuller and healthier, a chiselled jaw and those eyes you could only describe as lifelike.

Your eyes drifted to the name found just below the picture, the name you didn't think you would find:

RYAN CHEN

You had just about heard the front door twist slowly open once more, the adrenaline was quick to make you panic, quickly throwing the ID card underneath his jacket, before slipping into the bathroom before he entered the room.

You had another shower and had opened the door to see him sat on the couch, staring off into space as if he was deep in thought. He didn’t seem to even sense you there. Your hands were shaking when you finally called to him after staring. “Ryan.”

You didn’t think he would react to the name being said aloud, but his head turned so quickly to look back on you, you feared he had gotten whiplash. It wasn’t long before he was standing in front of you, his eyes were so blown with fear that you could feel it radiate it off of him. A hand came to cradle the side of your face with a tenderness that it had made you flinch. “Is that your name?” You questioned softly.

He seemed to be fighting two sides in his mind, but it was more than an astounded you when he said, “Yes.” His voice was a soft timbre, mixed with hoarseness that almost made you back up from him in awe. “You can talk?” Your voice was gravelly, leaning into his touch against the side of your face.

“Sometimes,” he drawled thoughtfully, “it’s… been a while.”

The more you looked up at him, the more you saw the features that looked similar to what he had looked like on his ID, he was still there, and now, Ryan had an identity that hadn't been lost forever.

“Did you hide your ID from me? Or… did you want me to find it?”

“I wasn’t sure. It had been a long time since I had identified as him.” He said with a gentle doubt. “But I wanted you to know.” “You saved me that day,” you leant into the musky scent of his clothes, breathing in deeply. He had been oddly warmer than you had expected, “why?”

“I don’t remember when I last saw a living being, but you were brave and living.” He leant his forehead against yours. “I wanted to know what it felt like… to live again.”

“You’re more than that, Ryan,” you intertwined your fingers with his other hand, the grasp as affectionate as each other’s words. “you’re still to me very much alive.” His face came inches to your before his lips touched almost hesitantly against yours, the tenderness that you had expected when he pulled you in, as if he was trying to pull something from you that you didn’t know you held.

His lips were chapped yet welcoming, and you kissed him like he was the warmth you needed when you had been lonely for all those years, the loneliness you felt from missing another as you pulled him closer to you, both afraid of the other disappearing like a hallucination.

“Stay with me, as long as you can.” You promised him sweetly, running your fingers through his dark locks. Ryan smiled broadly, his smile seemed crooked but it was the sweetest sight to look at. “I won’t be going anywhere.” He pulled you close to his chest tautly. “Not without you.”

-

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[ren-c-leyn]

Friday Night Fights Story: Revenge

 Decided to do this again since I had fun the last time. This is a short story for @promptsforthestrugglingauthor‘s Friday Night Fights writing event. I wrote this story using this week’s prompt is here, as well as these 1,2 other prompts from their vast collection.

 Okay, a warning before you jump into this one: this is a story of revenge. It both mentions deaths in passing and actually has a murder in it. It’s a little more descriptive than my usual glossing right over it, but it’s not overly graphic.

 It started years ago: when the queen died without announcing an heir. No one knows what happened, and frankly, I doubt anyone cares. Not truly. Not for the right reasons. Heaven’s mercy, I don’t even care about what happened, only the fallout of it.

 Nobles of all stripes set their sights on her throne. They all wanted to rule, even the ones who pretended to bow their heads. Of course, it couldn’t be settled civilly, no. No one gets power like that without a cost.

 Unfortunately, the one who paid for the throne with the blood of the people and the other nobles is, frankly, a tyrant.

 We risked everything to rise, to stand against him, and were destroyed. I watched in horror as my ancestral home was burned to the ground, my own parents forced to stay inside. And I swore to do more than get him off the throne: I swore to take his head.

 Many other nobles and merchant families rallied to my quiet calls, the whispers I sent out in the dead of night. But traitors came, and good people died. Now, now there’s only two of us left. Two desperate people searching to relieve the throne from the weight of the king’s sins.

 I knew something was amiss as I sat across from my last partner in this conspiracy. He fidgeted through the plan, practically squirmed at each point. Then, when the potential fall out of it all hit him, he stiffened up like a damned corpse left out in the winter snow.

 “You ask too much.”

 “Only what is needed.”

 “And if this fails too? What happens when it comes crashing down on our heads, hm? What will you do then? What shall I do then? What of my family? My daughters?”

 I sat silently, staring back at him. An icy chill ran through my chest. His family? What of my family? What of all I sacrificed to face this monster openly? Coward. The word echoed in my mind as I stared him down from across the table. One left, I silently corrected myself.

 “Isn’t it the price we all paid?”

 In the thick of the following silence, he ripped himself up and out of the worn out chair.

 “That’s it! I’m giving up and I’m just done.” He strode toward the door, only turning back for a moment. “What, no protest? You’re not going to give some grand speech to convince me otherwise?”

 “With you gone, there’s no one in my way. By all means, don’t let me hold you back. I’ll make sure the next ruler is aware of your cowardice in due time.”

 He lingered there at the door, face uncertain. His body swayed back and forth, deciding. Eventually, a sigh escaped him.

 “You ask too much,” he echoed in a defeated tone.

 “Then leave, for you won’t have much to lose, soon.”

 His face danced between hardened anger and fresh anxiety before just melting into exhaustion.

 “You believe this has a chance? An honest chance?”

 “As much of one as we’ve ever had, and if it fails, well, is that any worse than how we’re living now?”

 He mulled the words over before sighing again.

 “I... I’ll make the arrangements.” He turned to face me fully, his face turning stony and hard. “But don’t fail. By the gods, I don’t care what you have to do, but don’t fail.”

 I gave him a tight-lipped smile.

 “Who do you think you’re talking to? Now, unless you have another dramatic outburst to make, I suggest you move quickly. Time is of the essence.”

 He gave me a curt, half bow, the tattered clothes of his disguise wrinkling and swaying as he did his best drunken stagger out of the rotting shack, singing off key in a shrill and irritating voice.

 I leaned back in my seat and folded my hands, listening to the familiar way the floorboards creaked underneath. We would do ourselves what we had failed to do with armies and laws. I shook my head. No. Not we. I. I would do it. I would avenge my family, my house, my honor, my queen....

 Three nights passed, and the package arrived at the tavern I had been hiding out in. I pulled out the finery, the mask, the invitation, and the note.

 ~ Don’t fail.

 I snorted and threw the parchment back down. Who did he think I was? A coward? An amateur? I didn’t survive this long by making mistakes.

 I began the slow, tedious process of fitting myself into the clothing. The silks and velvet felt foreign to me now. It had been so long, so very long, since they had last touched my skin. The lace suddenly itched. The jewels and gold felt heavy around my neck. I looked in the mirror and felt ill. It was like staring at a twisted ghost of my former self. A ghost of the person who burned away that day.

 I pulled the mask on, dispelling the image. Maybe one day I could look at my reflection with pride one day. Not tonight, though, not tonight.

 I scooped up the invitation and the most important item of the night before setting out, careful to avoid the paths prying eyes would linger around. The Baron, for all of his cowardice, did know how to follow a plan. The carriage was right where he had promised, driver and all.

 I climbed into the back seat and the horses whisked us away to the grand ball. A beautiful and exciting event for an even more thrilling one.

 Getting in was no trouble for me. I showed the invitation and was announced under a false name. When asked whom I was, I merely tossed out a name of one of the advisors and moved on.

 There was a thick feeling of nostalgia as I waded through the crowds of fancy dresses and elegant suits. The flashes of jewels, the soft music of the band playing in the back of the ballroom. Servants floated around in their best uniforms, passing out drinks and treats as nobles talked business, events, vied for favor and power with each other. It was such a strange world compared to the dark alleys and cramped, ale-scented basements I had been living in for years now.

 But this was not a place for me to linger nor a time for reminiscing. No. Not while the job was left unfinished.

 I swept through the room, a drink in hand, searching for him. It took some time, slipping in and out of conversations, and a dance with a random minor lord before I finally saw him. Just at the end of the dance, as we were both bowing to each other, I spied him from across the room; golden candlelight softened his features, and his eyes just nearly looked kind. Human. But only nearly. I reached for the knife strapped to my thigh.

 The dress was styled perfectly. No one would see me pulling out the blade from the slit underneath the fluff and ruffles. I doubted anyone would even notice the gesture. No. Not until the blood was spilling.

 I excused myself from my former dance partner and waded back into the crowd, eyes locked on him. The king’s laughter began to filter through, slowly rising above the talking and the music as I grew closer. He didn’t know. The fool didn’t even suspect that I, that death, was so near. And it made me angry.

 I didn’t know why, but it made me so angry that it felt like ice was in my chest and my blood was catching on fire. The knife handle in my hand was likely the only thing keeping me from outwardly showing my rage; betraying my contempt, my bloodlust.

 Before my mind had finished processing where I was, I was standing before him. His attention focused on me, and I bowed before him.

 “Your Majesty, it is an honor to meet you again,” I spoke far more tenderly and calmly than I knew myself capable of.

 “It is a pleasure to see you again....” his voice trailed off as he attempted to place me, to recall my name.

 The smile that came to my lips was the first genuine smile to grace my face in years. I spoke quietly, a near whisper, as I reintroduced myself.

 “Wolfstone. Quinn Wolfstone.”

 Just was the recognition and shock registered in his eyes, my knife came out of its hiding place and flew across his throat. A sea of crimson flew out, staining the deep cobalt blue of his fine clothes an even darker red. He collapsed onto the white floor, the sea of red slowly ebbing further and further out as he choked and gargled.

 I stood over him, the knife already back in its place. Still, the blood on my mask and dress would be a dead giveaway. Suppose I should have asked the Baron to send me a red one, but it did not matter now.

 The nobles and servants were screaming as the guards started to rush for me. I ran out, shoving through the crowd until the minor lord whom had danced with me earlier in the evening caught me by the arm, pulling me around to look him in the eye.

“What…what have you done?” he asked, voice dripping with horror.

“What needed to be done. And I won’t apologize for it,” replied with resolution and steel before ripping my arm out of his grasp and continuing my flight out of the palace as the alarm was sounded.

 From somewhere behind me, I could hear that distant cry, the one I had been waiting to hear since my life went up in flames.

 “The king is dead! The king is dead!”

~

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[the-cult-of-russo]

Push and Pull (Part 8)

Pairing: Matt Murdock x OC

Warnings: cursing, Canon description of violence, murder and blood.

-----------

Daphne liked to think she was a pretty good PI. The investigation part of it she seemed to be great at. She'd gotten herself a reputation for it. But her people skills still needed some work, Foggy hadn't been wrong about that one. And it was times like this where she doubted herself with her job and wondered how she even got hired in the first place. She was running around her apartment, shimmying into her jeans and tugging a grey long sleeve tee over her head. She'd woken up at 10am to see 5 missed calls from Mr Lee. The client she forgot even existed the past few days. After snooping in his son’s house and coming to the conclusion something was off, other than him fucking his own father’s wife, she forgot to move the meeting up to warn him. With everything Matt and Italian related and then Foggy turning up trying to be friends, she'd forgotten about the old man. 

Their original meeting had been the day before and obviously she hadn't turned up. Now she was stuffing all her picture evidence in her backpack before flying out her door. She felt bad that she'd kept him waiting, especially when she had a bad feeling about his son. She was even considering waving the fee of her investigation for being such a shitty person and forgetting about him. Her hair was shoved up into a messy bun perched high on her head and she didn't have time to dwell on it as she flagged down a cab. Before long she was being dropped off outside a fancy looking house. She made him pull over a few houses down, always being a little precautious and protecting her clients confidentiality. 

"Could you wait for me?" She asked, grabbing the bills from her jeans pocket and passing it to him. With a grunt and nod as a reply, she got out and walked to the house owned by Mr Lee. 

It was a large modern looking house and looked far more expensive than anything she'd ever hope to own. But when she got to the front door she noticed it was open slightly and she got an ice cold feeling of dread slip down her spine.

"Mr Lee?" She called out hesitantly. There was no answer but something in her gut was firing alarm bells off left and right in her brain. With a shaky breath she pushed open the door with a creak. It was quiet, eerily so, as she stepped into a grand looking foyer. She glanced to her left, an archway that led to what looked to be some kind of office and library. She made her way over calling his name again with no answer. As soon as she stepped foot inside the office, her blood ran cold. There crumpled in a heap on the floor was Mr Lee. Very dead and very much covered in a ridiculous amount of blood.

She'd been in a lot of situations but she hadn't ever seen a dead body before. The amount of blood made bile rise in her throat and panic seized her limbs. She knew something was off about this and she could have warned him. He was dead because of her and the guilt hit her like a tonne of bricks. A sudden creak of the floorboards behind her had her whipping around, coming face to face with Mr Lee's son, Keiran. He was covered in his father's blood, looking rumpled and crazed with a sinister grin. A glint drew her eyes to his right hand to see the knife he'd used on his own father glaring back at her. He took a step towards her and she took one back. She didn't know if she'd be able to get out of this one and her heart was beating so fast she was surprised it didn't implode.

"What do we have here? The PI, I presume? How unfortunate that you came," his voice was smooth, no faltering or anything betraying what he had done. That scared her more than anything.

"What do you want?" She bit out, edging to the side a little. Maybe if she could buy some time she'd be able to make a dash for it. 

"Well you see, we have a problem. I know you've been snooping around. Daddy dearest told me before… well, you know," he smirked cruelly at her. Her eyes flit to the lifeless body on the floor and her throat tightened. Mr Lee was a good man. He didn't deserve this. She should have warned him.

"If I let you go, you have a lot of evidence that puts me in a bad situation. So you can see what my issue is here, right? I mean, I can't let you go," he laughed and it was the sound of a crazy person. She knew there would be no reasoning with him. 

He moved quicker than she expected and she ducked, dodging him. But then his large hand grabbed a fistful of the back of her shirt and threw her into the wall. She cried out in pain and suddenly he was standing right in front of her, his knife pointing at her. He still wore the creepy smile painted on his lips and she tried to appear confident despite her trembling hands.

"Where's your phone?" He demanded. She clenched her jaw, eyes glancing between his maniac face and the large knife pointed at her. She hated how it reminded her of what happened with the Russians and how much that had messed her up.

"My front left pocket," she replied reluctantly. She had no choice but to play along until she could try and figure a way out of this. She cringed as he stuffed his hand in her pocket, invading her personal space. He looked at it, then her, and with a smirk he dropped it into a glass of water on the desk with a plop. 

"You really should've minded your own business," he mused softly, still seemingly not perturbed by anything about the whole thing. He took a step back, twirling the knife carelessly as he did. Once his eyes went to look back to his kill, no doubt to admire it, she made a mad dash for the door. He was on her in seconds though. It was a flurry of movements as she tried to dodge his advances and it left slices on both her arms from trying to protect herself. They weren't deep and she tried to ignore them. She kicked his knee, and he went down but on his way he swiped wide and caught her stomach on the side. She cried out as the pain ripped through her. That one hurt like a bitch and would definitely need stitches. If she even got out of this. She lost track of the milder slices he got in as she tried to fight him off with graceless punches and kicks. She wasn't a trained fighter but she was ferocious when she needed to be. 

She managed to disarm him and the knife clattered to the floor. But it only seemed to make him angier as he tackled her to the floor. He was much heavier than her and his large hands wrapped around her delicate throat making her gasp for air. She bucked wildly trying to free herself but he just gripped harder. She wanted to tell him he was a monster for what he'd done. That she hoped he'd rot in hell. But no words came out with her desperate choking gasps as he strangled her. Her right hand darted to the side, desperately trying to find something, anything, to help her. Something cold and hard brushed against her fingertips and she tried to reach it. Her vision was spotting now and she wouldn't have much longer. The blood loss wasn't helping either. But she refused to die by this asshole's hands. 

She managed to grab what felt like a statue and hit him over the head with it. He fell off her, out cold. She scrambled to sit up, big heaving gasps of air filling her now burning lungs. Her bloodied fingers touched her throat gingerly and she winced. She stood on shaky feet, the mix of blood loss and being strangled had her disoriented and dizzy. She shot him a fleeting look and he was still breathing, just knocked out. She couldn't work out if she was disappointed or not. The shock set in then and she looked at Mr Lee. His end would have been brutal and this asshole no doubt dragged it out. It was all her fault. She could have stopped it. A stifled sob left her lips as she stumbled out of the house. Calling the cops didn't even pass her mind just then, she didn’t have a phone anymore anyway. She needed to get help before she died from blood loss. Then this struggle would have been for nothing. She made her way uneasily to the cab and got in.

"Holy shit, lady! You need to get to the hospital!" The cab driver exclaimed as he glanced at her. She was bleeding from the numerous cuts to her arms and bleeding profusely from the big gash on her lower belly.

"No hospitals. Just drive," she rasped with a broken voice. She didn't know where to go really but there was only one person in mind and he owed her anyway. It was still morning but it was Saturday so she just hoped that he wasn't busy. She rattled off Matt’s address before leaning heavily against the window as her breathing got more shallow. She only knew his address because she'd bothered Brett for it not long ago. He and Foggy knew where she lived, she felt like it was only fair. 

The cab driver refused to take any more money after dropping her off. He'd offered to help her inside but she waved him away. The stairs were hard to manage in the state she was in. Spots danced in her vision and she was losing more and more blood by the minute. She was in a state of shock completely now. Both physical and emotional shock. Her chest was heaving with broken sobs and not for her own injuries. She leaned heavily against the wall, no doubt leaving a trail of blood behind her but she was in no state to even consider that. She was lucky no one saw the state she was in as she made her way to the door she was after.

Before she had a chance to raise her weak hand to knock, it swung open anyway. If she was in her right mind she'd consider how weird it was to see Matt in sweats and a vest for once with nothing obscuring his face.

"Daphne? Jesus christ, what happened?" He sounded a mix of shock and panic but she didn't reply in words. Just the strangled sound of a sob she was trying to keep to herself. She swayed on her feet and he was quick to wrap an arm around her, leading her to his sofa. He carefully sat her down and disappeared from her vision for a moment. Everything sounded like it was underwater and she kept getting flashes of Mr Lee's dead body. She didn't realise her whole body was shaking.

The feel of two large hands on either side of her face made her jump, wide startled eyes glancing at the face in front of her.

"Just breathe, you're gonna be okay," Matt soothed. She blinked at him wondering why he sounded so far away. Why did she feel like her body was floating? She kept zoning in and out, only picking up on Matt muttering curse words and murmuring to her that she was safe.

"I need to take this off to help. Is that okay?" He asked softly like he was scared to spook her. She blinked at him dumbly before nodding. He was careful in removing her shirt and she could feel his unseeing eyes surveying the damage. He seemed to settle on the deep gash on her lower left side of her stomach. 

"I need to stitch this, lay down for me," he instructed with a sigh. She tried to lay down but winced. Her whole body was hurting in one way or another. She felt like a train had run her over. He eased her on her back and she stared at the ceiling as she went in and out of it. Everything was so fuzzy and her ears were ringing. She was already in so much pain that it didn't even faze her when he cleaned her wound and started on stitching it.

"Was it the Italians?" He bit out. She just about registered the angry tick in his jaw when she looked at him. Her eyes squeezed shut as she shook her head and inhaled a shaky breath. She felt her lower lip tremble when she thought of Mr Lee. Matt seemed to register she wasn't up for answering questions yet and he continued to fix her up and clean her wounds. When he was done, he helped her back into her sliced up shirt and sat her up. 

"Can… can I use your phone?" She rasped. Her voice was raw and she cleared her throat a little. He nodded tensely, passing over his cell phone. Her hands were trembling though and she felt a wave of hopelessness at not even managing a simple task. She actually found herself relieved when Matt’s large hand rested over hers before delicately taking the phone back.

"Who do you need to call?" He asked softly.

"Brett," she replied simply. She needed to tell him what happened and she hoped the asshole would still be there so they could arrest him.

She heard the beeping as Matt dialled and then held it to her ear. Brett picked up after a few rings.

"Murdock, everything alright?" He asked, no doubt since the call was coming from Matt’s phone.

"Brett, it's Daphne," she hated how bad her voice sounded from the abuse it took. The shock was wearing off and now she was left with guilt that weighed far too heavy on her and complete hopelessness. 

"Daphne, what's wrong?" He asked, concerned. It didn't take a genius to figure out something was wrong with how her voice sounded. She quickly rattled off the address to Mr Lee's house to him.

"He's a client of mine. His son was sleeping with his wife. I had a meeting with him today and… he's dead. His son killed him. I think for the insurance money. I have pictures of the evidence I found about the life insurance and cheating," she stated unemotionally. She was starting to shut down, to keep herself together by a thread. 

"And you're sure the son was the one that killed him?" Brett asked, unsure. Ever the cop.

"He attacked me when I turned up, so yeah I'm sure. You need to be careful. He's got a big knife and he's fucking insane," she bit out. She noticed Matt clenching and unclenching his other fist as she spoke.

"Oh shit. Are you at the hospital?" Brett asked. She heard him calling to some of the other cops, telling them to roll out. 

"No but I'm getting fixed up. I'll come by tomorrow and give a statement. Drop off what I have," she replied monotonously. 

"Alright. Your evidence might be what we need to nail this guy. We'll head out now and keep you updated," Brett said firmly.

"Okay. My phone's broke, should still be at the house. Asshole put it in a glass of water so I couldn't call the cops," she huffed.

"Alright, you with Murdock?" He asked, the sound of a car door shutting on his end of the phone. She couldn't really deny it since she was using his phone.

"Yeah," she said softly.

"Alright. I'll call him when I got news. Be safe, Daphne," with that he hung up and Matt moved the phone from her.

She felt a swirl of emotions surging inside of her after stuffing them down for the phone call. She could feel herself about to snap and she wished she was somewhere alone where she could cry and deal with this in private. She wasn't so lucky.

"Daphne…" Matt said softly. Her breathing hitched, lower lip wobbling a little as she glared at her boots that were splattered with blood.

"This is my fault," she whispered brokenly. 

"No, it's not," he insisted, scooting closer to her from where he was perched on the coffee table.

"Yes it is! You don't get it! I knew. I fucking knew something was wrong, Matt. I checked out this guy's apartment days ago and when I saw the life insurance stuff… I had a bad feeling and I was gonna warn Mr Lee. But I've been so wrapped up in so much bullshit lately that I forgot about him. I forgot he even existed! What kind of person does that?! If I warned him he'd still be alive right now!" she was boarding on hysterical the more she spoke.

 Her chest constricted making her feel like she couldn't breathe. When Matt’s large hands took her own she clung to them like they were the only thing keeping her from floating away.

"You said yourself, this guy's insane. Even if you warned Mr Lee, this guy would find a way. There's nothing you could have done. But what you can do is help put him behind bars. You've got evidence and he attacked you. Use this to get justice for Mr Lee," he murmured patiently. She tried to let his words calm her a little. She knew he was mostly right. Even if she told Mr Lee it was only a matter of time before it happened anyway. And she learnt from her interactions that Mr Lee loved his son despite knowing he was screwing his wife behind his back. She was sure he either wouldn't have believed her or chose to be in denial anyway. But it still hurt her. Knowing she hadn't done enough. 

She sniffled, still gripping his hands as she tried to calm herself down. When she glanced at his face, his unseeing eyes were on her face, a patient and sympathetic look on it.

"Trust me, I know about guilt. Any time someone I let get away hurts someone else, it kills me inside. But one day you have to realise you can't change the past. The what ifs only hurt you," he sighed. She wondered what it must be like for him. Experiencing this kind of guilt all the time. She didn't know how he coped. She took her hands back, wiping the tears that had stained her face.

"Sorry. I'm just… being dramatic," she snorted mirthlessly. 

"No, you're not. You've been through something traumatic, you have every right to feel the way you do. But I want you to know that it's not your fault," he implored. She nodded, inhaling a deep breath to help ground her. She really hadn't expected today to go the way it did. 

With the shock wearing off, the pain was really setting in followed by a large helping of exhaustion. 

"I should uh… probably head home," she yawned with a wince. He just quirked a brow at her from where he sat.

"You can stay here and rest. Just try and sleep most of it off and tomorrow you can talk to Brett," he left no room for argument and it reminded her very much of when he turned up to her apartment with a gunshot wound. 

"Guess we're even now," she smirked weakly. He chuckled with a shake of his head. 

"Let's not make it a habit," he grinned. He stood up and took the first aid kit with him. It wasn't even lunch time yet but she knew she should heed his advice. She'd been through a lot and she needed to rest to help heal. She lay back down carefully, hoping to just have a short nap for a while. As she started dozing off she felt a light blanket being delicately placed on top of her. Her pain started to fade into nothing as she slipped off to sleep.

[friendlyunclej]

A King’s Depravity

Prologue

     My citizen’s have never respected me. I worked as a carpenter, sharing my desire to compete for the crown with those who hired me to fix their homes or refurbish their shops. They all scoffed at the possibility of a “mediocre handyman” being intelligent enough to become king. As I climbed the ranks in the competition, they then accused me of cheating, saying that a man who could “barely replace floorboards” shouldn’t have made it out of the preliminary rounds. When my competition began to drop out of the proceedings, my fellow citizens then accused me of bribery, claiming that a man who they barely paid would have the funds to pay off people. Soon after, some of my toughest competitors would mysteriously disappear after facing me and, just as before, the other citizens accused me of foul play. They weren’t wrong, but I made certain that any proof of such accusations would never be found. When I did become king, I made sure that those who accused me of such devious activities had their suspicions confirmed as I left them in the sewers to rot like the others.      The previous king died the night after I won the crown. I, at least, gave King Sigfried a proper burial. He was, after all, the only person who never questioned my intentions. On the other hand, the queen he left behind would prove herself to be more curious than useful. She joined him in the ground not too long after. Officially, it was due to espionage from visiting officials from another city on the continent. That truth was better for the citizens, anyway.

In Need of Warmth

     As king of the City of Tyriok, I’ve spent the past few decades caring for people who would rather see me dead. I believed that they would finally respect me once I had become their ruler, but it didn’t matter. I expanded the city’s control to half of the Verdant Green, including the nearby town of C’Moira, yet the citizens didn’t understand the importance of expansion. I kept Draturi City and its Elven leaders from encroaching on our beliefs, keeping their control out of our walls. They claimed to offer good tidings, such as silk and gems, for our cooperation. I saw through their deceit, though, and made the correct decision for this city, much to the ire of my constituents. Not a single High Elven heel will ever set foot in my city while I’m still alive, even if my new queen works against me.      I had gone nearly a decade before I had a proper queen by my side after the previous one found her way to an early grave. There was one interim queen after King Sigfried’s queen perished, but she proved herself unfit for the job and soon vacated the crown. For the years that followed, a number of women piqued my interest, but none proved themselves a proper ruler. To obtain the crown in Tyriok, one must compete against others vying for the position in many competitions of intelligence. For years after my coming to power, no one attempted to replace the previous queen, undoubtedly discouraged due to the fear caused by rumors about what happened to the previous ones. Out of desperation, I sought future rulers at the local orphanage. It was their that I met my future queen.       The queen I have now, a woman by the name of Beatrice, is the only thing in this entire city that I’ve been able to stomach. She’s intelligent and easy on the eyes. When I first met her years ago, she was the most cunning in the building.  She was far too young to actually obtain the crown at that point, but she showed enough promise and prose that I knew she must be my queen when she came of age. I opened my library to her, leaving her with proper teachers far superior to the ones in care of the orphanage. As the years continued, her promise grew but so did my hesitation. She had grown wise beyond her years and, I must admit, swiftly surpassed me in intellect. It worried me even further once I considered the company she kept.      There were two boys she always spent her time with, Sebastian and Freud. They weren’t “born” orphans, like Beatrice was. They had the great misfortune of actually having a relatively happy number of years with loving parents before being left as orphans. Their parents were emissaries for Tyriok City, whom I would often send out to parley with C’Moira and other nearby towns. They were loyal citizens when I first came to power. Well, they were loyal to the city more than they were to me. Many times I would send them to C’Moira to demand tax and recompense for being allowed to operate as a separate entity from my city in our territory. Every time, they would return with compromises and counsel meetings to speak in the town’s favor. They were proper emissaries whom I trusted, but their good hearts clouded their judgement. They served the city well so I saved their children from sharing their fate, but I had to prevent them from poisoning the city any further once I found out that they were trying to find favor with Draturi. It broke their hearts to leave their children at the orphanage. I didn’t pay the children of traitors any mind until it was obvious that the older son, Sebastian, was far too familiar with Beatrice.      They grew up together, so I should have known that they would take a shine to each other. However, what’s an orphan to a king? After all, I could have Sebastian and his slow brother, Freud, fed to a Gelatinous Cube at a moment’s notice if I so desired. The only reason why I never did was because I knew that it would dishearten Beatrice. But once Sebastian showed interest in becoming a knight for the city, I made sure to encourage him towards a life self-sacrifice in the hopes of him dying a “hero’s death”. Unfortunately, he proved more competent in battle than I had anticipated as he joined the ranks. He even showed himself to be a man of the people, reminiscent of his parents. If he wasn’t my queen’s best friend, I would have had him sent on a mission to never return years ago. Sadly, I was lovesick when Beatrice became my queen. It had been nearly a decade and a half until she became my better half but she proved far worth the wait.      Even in my ailing years, she more than proved herself capable without me. My age swiftly deteriorated only a few years after she became my queen, but she took care of the entire city as both ruler and expecting mother. Those first few years were nearly a dream for me, but the child’s birth soon proved it to be a nightmare instead.      I should have known that making the man she grew up with, Sebastian, our most trusted bodyguard was too kind. I, King Garland, the ruler of Tyriok who brought the city to its shining stature that it is today, was proven to be nothing more than a cuckold when their daughter was born. I should have known that the man she truly held affection for, the man who truly had her heart long before she stole mine, was working behind my back since the very beginning. From the moment that child was born, I had a constant reminder of how asinine and foolish I truly was. In retaliation, I sought ways to ensure that Sebastian’s life would be a worse Hell than he was already damned for. It took a number of years until I could send him off. However, as much as I wanted to give him a similar fate to his parents, I knew that Queen Beatrice wouldn’t leave the disappearance of her lover alone.       When his contract was up for renewal, I found the strength to attend the signing myself. My queen pleaded for me to return him to her side, and I looked him in the eyes as I stripped him of his status and pension. I knew that his parents were a deep scar in his heart, having been old enough to remember the pain of them leaving unlike his younger brother. So when my whore queen begged me to leave him something to live off of, I chuckled at the only property I offered him. I told her that I would take him there myself the next day.      Allowing him to keep his armor and possessions, I brought Sebastian on to my favorite cart on the way to his new home. He tried to ask me why he had been fired, but we stayed in silence as we made our way to the bar.

     As we approached the lower end of the city, I asked, “Do you remember anything about your parents, Sebastian?”

     Caught off guard, the fool took a deep sigh before replying, “No, I was too young when they left me and my brother at the orphanage. The only parent I know is Miss Frau.”

     “Come now, Sebastian,” I insisted, knowing he was lying, “We both know that you were plenty old enough to remember the sting of them leaving.”

     I hear the wood of his chest carrying his belongings creak as his grip tightens in annoyance before saying, “My king, I can assure you-”

     “You can assure me of what? My new status of ‘Cuckold’,” I say, angrily gripping my walking cane, “I believe your daughter is assurance enough, thank you.”

     I watch as he fills with rage, like a geyser nearly bursting through the earth, before he calms leans forward to say, “My liege, she is your daughter. You must believe me.”

     Laughing aloud, Sebastian slumps back into his seat as I retort, “Really? My daughter? That is what you and my queen would have me believe but we both know the truth. To be frank, the entire city knows the truth. You’re lucky I don’t have her tossed out into the ocean.”

     Upon hearing that, I see the geyser burst from stone as he drops his crate and nearly lunges at me. One of my guards pulls his sword and places it against Sebastian’s throat, forcing him to retake his seat.

     “Thank you, Roland,” I remark with a grin, as Sebastian forces himself to calm down, “Now, we should be at your new home soon.”

     “If you harm Olivia or Bea, I will hang you from the guard towers,” Sebastian spits, trying to intimidate me.

     Wiping a drop of spittle from my eye, I reply, “Don’t worry. They’ll be safe in their homes, just as you will be in yours.”

     The cart comes to a halt as we arrive outside of the only bar in the entire city, the same one his parents ran before they disappeared. I handed him the deed and watched his face go white as he read the names of his deceased parents. I soaked in the sight like warm rays of sunlight after a night of rain.

     “If you’re ever seen on castle grounds again, I’ve given the guards orders to kill you on sight,” I tell him, as I step out of the cart with my cane.

     As Roland tosses his possessions out of the cart, Sebastian just stares daggers at me as he replies, “You know that none of the guards will listen to that.”

     “Oh, I know and I’m betting on it. That means that they’ll capture you, instead,” I spout, a weak smile forming on my face, “Which means further use of the tools under the western guard tower. You remember those, don’t you?”

     Sebastian didn’t respond. He simply placed the deed in his cracked chest of belongings and snatched the keys from my hand. I bid him one last farewell before my cart left to return me to my home. Proud with myself, I feel the last bit of warmth from the sun hit my face just before the clouds steal it from me.

Epilogue

     In the weeks that followed, I did my best to ensure that my rule would continue in my absence. For the initial years of my queen’s daughter’s life, I was constantly there to take care of her. I tried to teach her as much as possible, but it’s difficult to implant anything useful in a toddler’s mind. I left the child to be dealt with for a different time. Aside from that, I left my control of the city to my Tribunal instead, just before I locked myself away. My health had deteriorated so swiftly that I was no longer fit to be seen by the public so I instead set a plan in motion to ensure that however my health would turn, I wouldn’t be leaving so indefinitely.      As I was helped up the many tower steps to my room, I looked to the new hire who was helping me. He was a dragonborn of black scales, no older than the age of twenty-two. He attempted to tell me his name, but I simply shooed him away as I told him to fetch me my council. I had to specify that I meant my Tribunal so that the idiot wouldn’t bring me the queen. After a few moments, Roland, Yaromir, and Valentia arrived in my room.

     “So, do you remember what I need?” I ask, resting on my bed.

     Cutting and eating an apple, Roland replies, “Honestly, all I remember is being told to kill Sebastian if we find him close enough to the castle. Everything else fell on deaf ears.”

     Valentia pulled out a small piece of parchment as she recited, “The heart of a newt, the eyes of a recently deceased child, poison oak leaves, a large cast iron urn, incense infused with nightshade, and poison derived from the blood of an Elf. Anything else, Garland?”

     Smiling as I turn to Valentia, I say, “Well, at least one of you have proven that Doppelgangers are worth keeping around.”

     Returning my smile with a wink, Valentia is nudged by Yaromir before he says, “Flirting aside, we need to better know who we’re contacting in Draturi. A name would better help us know who is the actual target.”

     “My contact in the city is not a target. They are a contact. Repeat it back to me,” I demand as I turn to stare at them.

     Giving a disgruntled sigh, Yaromir corrects himself by saying, “Your ‘contact’ in Draturi would be easier to locate if we had a name to go with the portrait you provided us.”

     “The portrait is enough, I assure you.”

     “Really? Because they all look the same to me,” Roland mocks, his body transforming into the person from the portrait I provided them, “I mean, honestly, can you at least tell us if it’s a man or a woman?”

     Valentia snorts, “He’s clearly a man. Look at the jawline.”

     “No, she’s a woman,” Yaromir bickers, motioning with his fingers, “Can you not see the more feminine cheekbones?”

     As they continue to bicker amongst each other, I angrily close my eyes before shouting, “It doesn’t fucking matter what gender my contact is. What matters is what I need them for. You do remember what I need them for, correct?”

     “Yeah, we do,” they reply in unison.

     “And you understand that if you don’t find them soon enough, I won’t be able to pay you what I promised you, correct?”

     “Yeah, we understand,” they echo again.

     “Good, now, before you all leave, show me the disguises you’ve chosen so that I make sure nothing is too jarring.”

     As I say so, the three of them transform before me. There clothes skin and hair all writhing into themselves. Their flesh turning a soft blue and their eyes becoming a pale yellow with no pupils before morphing into proper disguises. Valentia chose a more buxom female form with sharper features and long, dagger-like ear. Yaromir transformed into a shorter male Elven form with a stronger jaw than he usually preferred. Roland, much to my surprise, presented a more Wood Elven form with a gentle smile. I nodded in approval of their disguises as they returned to their normal visage.

     “Good,” I sigh, “Very good. Now, as for the last bit of business before you leave, I simply need you to tell some guards to bring my old personal throne into the room.”

     With a dumbfounded glare, Roland says, “ ‘Throne’ as in your toilet or...”

     Valentia rolls her eyes as she says, “No, you fool. His actual throne.”

     They continued to trade insults until I grew too tired to listen, shouting, “Yes, my actual throne! The stone one that I’ve always sat in. Take your bickering out of my tower and get it all done posthaste!”

     Stopping their childish bickering for a moment, they all salute and bow to me before leaving my room. As they do, I struggle to my feet and shuffle over to a window. I pry it open as I stare out over my city from the top of a 300 foot tall tower. The rain is heavily falling, washing the streets. Unfortunately, there’s not enough rain to wash the stench of betrayal that covers my home. I look out to the fields and see Queen Beatrice sneaking out with her daughter in tow. They’re dressed in clothes reminiscent of the orphanage. I slam the window shut as I return to my room.

     “All I’ve ever been surround by is snakes,” I say to myself, “From the ones I’ve put in the ground to the ones still in the sky, all they’ve ever proven to be are conniving traitors. All they’ve ever done is use me like a rag then tossed me aside like a pitiful copper piece. Soon, however. Soon, they’ll be begging me for mercy again. They’ll all fear me again. As they all should. As everyone should.”

     I stare at my hand and feel a familiar warmth coalesce around my hand. I hold my eyes closed and breathe hot air into my hand. As I open them, I see a ghastly blue flame escape my mouth and form in my hand. I let the embers turn red and dance in my fingers before clutching my fist to extinguish it. I toss the window open with a new vigor as I stare out over the city bathed in flame and devils. I smile as the hallucination shows my whore queen and her affair hanging on pikes, burning on pyres as the rest of the citizens are running for their lives.

     A soft voice whispers, “And you will find yourself as the ruler of a new kingdom as long as your end of the bargain is kept.”

     Twisting around as fast as I can, I nearly twist my ankle only to find no one behind me. I feel a spark of fire in my heart fill me with determination, just before I fall unconscious to the floor.

[centipedall]

    The father had staggered into my office a few days earlier. He had told me that his three children and his wife had all taken ill, afflicted with some debilitating disease. The youngest had contracted it first, and it had quickly spread to the rest of the family. He was afraid that soon he would be infected and that no one would be able to care for one another. The man was sweating bullets and scratching at his armpits, neck, and groin. I asked him to stay with me for a check up, but he quickly refused and left. I spent the next two days trying to figure out just who he was and where he lived. On the third, I prepared my materials for a house call. On the fourth day, I went to the homestead.

    The homestead was a small farm located a good ways out of town, about a three hour walk and roughly half that by horse or wagon. It had been a hot, humid, July, and today was no exception. The month’s weather appeared to have taken its toll on the crops- a good deal of them were dead. I stopped my horse up near the house and dismounted it. I grabbed my various bags- one with general instruments, one with medicinal instruments, and one with surgical instruments- and walked up to the door. I knocked four times, with approximately two minutes between each series of knocks. After an additional three minutes, I loudly stated my name and purpose for visiting. No one answered. I decided that I would not have ridden out here for nothing, and so I tried the door handle and found it unlocked. I opened the door and was immediately struck by a putrid stench that would have knocked a lesser man off his feet.

    The house was decently sized, with a kitchen, a living space with a fireplace, a master bedroom, and a room for the children. A good deal of dust covered the floorboards and the furniture. Several rats scurried into the dark corners, alerted by my entrance. The entire house was hotter than outside, a wet kind of heat that enhanced the godawful smell. It was the smell of rotten food, almost, mixed with a distinct scent of pus and blood reminiscent of what I had encountered back during my military days with the Union. This was not going to be a good day.

    I called out once more, announcing my name and occupation. There was no answer, but for a wet wheezing that- ah. Interesting. The labored breathing seemed to emanate from the master bedroom and the childrens’ room. I went into the latter first- you should always put the safety of children above any adult. 

    The door was tough to open, but I managed to bash it open on my third attempt. I stumbled into the small bedroom and- by God. The smell was easily ten times what it had been in the main area of the house, but that was not what stunned me. Rather, it was the sight of the two children in the beds. Their silhouettes were no longer human- their bodies were marred by hundreds of swollen glands that had almost sealed them to their beds. The pus-filled things grew upon one another, creating something like a tower of abscesses that sprawled across the body. The growths were focused on the armpits, groin, and neck, but they had managed to cover a great distance. The child on the left suffered from these slightly more than the one on the right- the left boy had almost his entire face covered by blister-like nodules, but for one of his eyes. It stared at me with a combination of pain, fear, and hope. 

    After observing the buboes, I noticed the cause of the blood and rot smells. The children’s extremities had gangrene, and what was uncovered by the growths was black and shriveled, especially along the fingers and toes. As I walked into the room, rats scurried off of the bodies. They had congregated around the necrotized tissue. I could not bear to look at what they had done to these children. Instead, I kneeled by the leftmost boy and took out my least favorite instrument. I injected an overdose of morphine into his carotid artery and did the same to his sister on the right. Then I sat in the room with them until their breathing had stopped. 

    Once I had completed my duty, I went into the master bedroom. There was a single bed, with one- no, with two occupants. The disease had almost merged them together, but I managed to see a small shape laying on an adult body. I walked closer, and could see telltale signs of female physiology on the adult body. This was evidently the mother and the youngest son. The mother was less far gone than her two children- she was able to speak.

    “Mrs. Carolson, I presume. My name is George Waller. Your husband came to me four days ago to ask for my assistance in this matter.” I said.

    “Help me.” She wheezed. 

    “Ma’am, I am afraid that this is beyond the capacity to cure. I- I may have to-” I broke off, unsure of how to continue.

    “Did you- save them. My children.” 

    “I- yes. Don’t worry, they’re fine. The disease wasn’t as hard on them as it was on you.”

    She looked at me with tears in her eyes. “Do it. Please.”

    I did the same to her that I did to her sons. I turned to the youngest child that had grown onto her body like a mountain of abscesses. The child- it was already gone. This was quickly becoming the worst day of my life. I left the room and sat out on the back porch. There was a shed and four graves out there- children lost to tuberculosis, probably. I’m not sure how long I sat there- it was enough for the sun to set on me, for sure. It was then, in the middle of the night, that I saw a rustling in the shed. I remembered the father, and immediately went to open it. Maybe there was one person I could still save.

    I almost died the moment I tried to walk in. There was a massive hole in the ground, one that went deep enough that I could not see the bottom. I could still smell the rot, pus, and blood coming from out of it. I returned to my wagon, grabbed a lantern, and immediately began to descend into the darkness. 

    It was tough. I had already had a long day, and although the hole leveled into a slope after the first ten feet, it was still steep enough that I needed to watch my step. I walked down there for an hour at least, and as I did the tunnel walls became distinctly less earthy and more, uh, meaty. It smelled like the people had, and I made sure to keep my distance, but I believe that there were abscesses lining the walls. I could see bits and pieces of bone- nothing human, more like rodents and the occasional predator- although there were a few bison skulls embedded in the walls, too. 

    Eventually, I came to the end of the tunnel. It turned into a wide, circular space with a central stone dais. On that dais was the father. He was relatively healthy- there were a good deal of abscesses on him, but it was nothing intensive surgery couldn’t solve. I was so excited that I could save someone that I immediately walked towards him. He looked at me, and the terror in his eyes stopped me cold. 

    That saved my life, because if I had continued any further I would have walked right into one of the things that was scurrying about on the floor. It was quadrupedal, like a rodent, although it was much larger. If I had to estimate, the creature was about the size of the average dog. It also had a tail and a head, but that was where the similarities ended. Its skin resembled a doll’s, some kind of white porcelain plate. It was severely cracked, exposing flesh like that of a human’s, blistered red and leaking pus. The creature had a small, whiplike tail. It had forelimbs with opposable thumbs and prehensile feet. The animal had a porcelain face, like a pale woman covered in makeup. The face was vaguely humanoid in outline, but the painted patterns on it were wild, abstract, and bright. The eyeholes were crusted over by dried pus. It looked at me and opened its doll mouth, hissing in surprise. A wet, fleshy tube covered in abscesses waved at me. There were two ratlike buckteeth sticking out of the end of it. Some kind of yellow fluid oozed out of it. A similar fluid leaked from behind the creature- looking at one of the others, it appeared that they had a distended, slightly prolapsed anus. These things- I do not know why, but they reminded me of Rats. 

    I looked at the man on the dais, and saw that there were lines carved in the floor that lead to it. Pus leaked from his body, down through these lines. The lines led to massive pools of the pus, where the Rats lapped from. Again, the father motioned to me. The Rats noticed his movement and piled on him. Tubes licked at him and the abscesses progressed. Then the Rats looked back at me. I turned and ran. 

    I sprinted through the tunnels, hoping to escape the Rats. I could hear them behind me, scrabbling along the floor. My foot caught on something, and I almost fell. I stopped myself by pushing my hand into the wall, where it punctured with a wet squelch. My hand went in up to the elbow before it stopped. I pulled my hand out of the meaty wet wall and continued to run. Then I clambered up the hole and out of the tunnel.

    I listened for the Rats for about five minutes. Then I mounted my horse and rode away. The next day, I returned with my horse. We were laden with oil and matches. Once the house finished burning, I made sure that the hole to the tunnels was blocked. I went back to my office, where I wrote this letter. I believe that I have been infected by the disease- my armpits, groin, and neck all itch. I have felt a general malaise about me, interrupted by occasional chills. Finally, and perhaps most damningly, I have noticed the growth of pus-filled abscesses on my body. 

    Do not worry about the infectiousness of this letter- I have sterilized it properly. Please do not try to save me- I will likely be already dead. I have prepared an overdose for myself, and I will burn down my office. I have not been home since before the incident, so do not burn down my house. 

I ask that a Mr. John Downes take over medicine for this town until we have a new doctor, and that all of my remaining possessions be given to them. I ask for my body to be buried next to my wife and child, may they rest in peace. And although I have no right, I ask for a Christian burial. I may have previously expressed that I felt there was no God, but I now believe that to be the product of naivety and grief. This world is far larger than any man has dreamt of, I believe. I used to believe that man produced all the ills of the world- war, sin, and death were our own fault. I now understand that all of our science, all of our knowledge, it pales in comparison to what is truly out there. 

And although I have only thus far interacted with the most dismal, horrible parts of our existence, I hope with all of my heart that there is something equally beautiful, equally wonderful waiting out there for me. Where there are Rats, there must also be Lions, yes?

[deputysaint]

      i need to be told to stop playing new dawn. 

   ft: @sanctemony 

     john/deacon centered with some mentions of: joseph, jacob, faith, paul, rachel, hannah

        warnings: canon typical violence, character death(s), flowery smut, my tears

   it’s been a long time since deacon’s been in this situation, but he remembers the feeling of it, and knows what to do. even with his knees in the dirt, and his hands above his head, he has options. even with there being a gun pointed in his direction, he knows what he can do to get out of this. he can see that their grip is sloppy, finger on the trigger but too loosely to be a threat, and deacon knows if he needed to, he could get out of this. he could overpower the person hovering over him and take them down effortlessly and without really harming them. it’s all muscle memory, he’s done it hundreds of times before the collapse, and dozens of times since the arrival of the highwaymen.

 he knows he can do this. but he doesn’t. he sits and bides his time.

 there’s voices on the radio, the highwayman is swearing up a storm, a gleeful one, the busted lip he’s sporting doing nothing to prevent his excited report.

 he should be listening to the report, he knows he should be, but it’s boring things he’s heard before, and he doesn’t care. he catches his name in all the swearing and laughter, and then a slur he chooses not to acknowledge, and finally something about him being new eden’s guard dog.

 he bites back a grin.

 he’s not anyone’s dog. and he hasn’t been deacon saint in a very long time.

 movement catches his eye between the threats of don’t move and the twins are going to love this, and it takes all of his willpower not to track it with his eyes. he knows the man coming up on them, wearing a long jacket like nothing has changed in the world. deacon knows him well enough to know that he could probably kill the man above him easily even if noticed, but he also likes him well enough to not want to cause him that grief.

 john seed looks beautiful in everything, even his own blood, but deacon knows well enough that he’ll catch hell if jacob sees him with another split lip or bruised face, and that joseph’ll never forgive him if he brings john home with more scars than he’d left with. ( paul would forgive him, deacon knows that for a fact. paul was always forgiving, and would just sigh at the sight and ask who they’d pissed off that day. faith would probably laugh at them, curl her fingers in his and ask if they’d had fun. )

 some things changed in the new world, and some things didn’t.

 lacing his fingers together loosely atop his head, deacon chooses instead to smile up at his captor, all teeth and mirth and lacking any and all kindness he might have had before the collapse.

 he’s different now. still the same kind man who smiled at people, who believed in the good of the people of hope county before the bad. but he’s also more protective of them, and with the arrival of the highwaymen had come a strange, more dangerous side to him, something protective and ruthless and deadly.

 he thinks, despite what everyone said, that this part of him has always existed, it had lived in him long before he’d arrived in hope county, fresh and ready for his new job. he knows a part of him has always been unkind, but before he’d been better at smothering it.

 now, however, he has no reason to. his family needed him, the county needed him, and he would murder anyone who tried to threaten their safety.

 when john shoots out the man’s knee from behind, deacon is ready to launch himself at him, hands grabbing for the rifle and pushing it towards the sky as they fall.

 two pulses of gunfire. and then he’s dead, and john is laughing down at him, teeth too bright, hand held out.

 deacon takes his hand.

 -

 they hunt the highwaymen together.

 it’s not what joseph wants for his brother, for either of them, but he can’t stop them. he locks up new eden, forbids his flock from leaving except at night, under the cover of darkness and bliss-created fog, but he cannot stop john and deacon from doing as they please, just as he couldn’t stop jacob from taking his chosen, his wife and children, and setting up a separate settlement nearby.

 it’s the end of an era, the final act of brotherhood. they stand together, but apart, having chosen different lives for their family. joseph tends to his flock, his people, and jacob tends to his family, his people. faith stays with joseph, broken and a little mad, seemingly so small without her bliss. paul floats between settlements, alliance torn between two of his brothers, but unwilling to choose a side over the other and instead choosing to find a balance between the two.

 john and deacon wander. they hunt.

 they live.

 -

 it ends because of a mistake, a foolish moment of sentiment over sensibility.

 hannah’s gift, her final gift to deacon, gets caught on a branch as they’re running from highwaymen scouts. and deacon goes back to get it, ignoring john’s yells of warning and frustration.

 it’s the only thing he has of her left, of their unlikely friendship. and he won’t let it be lost.

 when he looks up after getting it, the scouts are too close, and shots ring in the night.

 there’s too much blood.

 -

  it’s been a while, but he’s been here too, with blood soaking his shirt and john leaning over him, trying to stop the flow with bandages and duct tape. but it’s never been like this, john has never looked down at him like that.

  they’re in a house, someone’s home, one of the few remaining buildings that had withstood the collapse. it looks familiar to deacon, like he’s been here before, searched it before, bled on this floor before, but he can’t tell when, or why, and honestly, he’s bled on a lot of floors before, nearly died in a lot of homes.

  he probably should have stopped with that shit seventeen fucking years ago. but he hadn’t.

  “john. john.” his hand feels like dead weight, like he’s been sleeping on it and it’s gone numb, and he nearly slaps john as he tries to cradle his face in his hand. “johnny.” he pleads quietly, and wide blue eyes flick up at that.

  there’s fear in them. deacon doesn’t understand why.

  “stop moving.” the statement is snapped out. a command. but there’s too much fear in his voice, and he’s shaking too much for deacon to stop trying to pet him, get his full attention.

  “you need to... to go.” it’s funny, because he thinks that when he hears the wet sound of something hitting the ground, he should be afraid. logic says he should, because that’s him bleeding through the shirt john has been pressing against the wound on his neck. but instead, he’s calm, so calm and peaceful.

  he’s dying, and he knows it. and he can’t help but feel free.

  “johnny,” he whispers the nickname, and this feels nothing like any other time he’s nearly died. everything is warm and cold at once, and he feels like he’s stepped into the bliss. “you have to go. the flare - they’re coming.”

  “i’m not leaving you.”

  i’m not leaving you.

  you’re not leaving me.

  you promised.

  everything is all muddled, but deacon can still read john like a book. and it’s not said, but he knows he’s thinking about the promise deacon has made, again and again and again. so many times over the many years they’ve been together.

  you’re never going to be alone.

  fuck. he closes his eyes, breathes out a sigh.

  “okay.” he smiles crookedly, and he knows it’s filled with blood. but when he opens his eyes, there’s blood, his blood, smeared up john’s cheek, and the former baptist is gazing down at him affectionately. “okay.”

  -

  john piles together all he can find, all the supplies they’ve been carrying. and all the things other people have left behind, or stored there during the collapse. there’s shotgun shells in a drawer, a gun taped to the underside of a desk, ethanol and bomb making materials stuffed under loose floorboards.

  john finds a familiar knife wedged between a stripped bed and the wall, but says nothing of it. just turns it over in his hands and stares for a long time. then smiles a bitter smile and heads back to deacon’s side.

  they make a plan. it’s suicidal.

  -

  deacon dies quietly, tucked against john’s chest.

  his last words are i love you.

  -

  less than half an hour later, one of the highwaymen lieutenants and his crew bust down the front door, and begins a room by room search of the home.

  they don’t recognize the smell of ethanol under the smell of wood rotting and blood.

  john smiles where he is, tucked in the dark, with deacon resting against him. he lights a road flare.

  the house erupts.

  -

  some seventeen years earlier

  deacon is over him, on him, in him and john’s disgusted with himself, even as he digs his fingernails in deep, even as deacon shifts and hits just right enough to cause him to gasp, his world to go briefly white.

  he hates him. he hates him so much.

  he hates that this isn’t about hate sex anymore, and that deacon’s long stopped letting john use him for frustration relief.

  he hates that deacon feels so good, and he hates that deacon can light his nerves on fire with just a touch or a look.

  he hates deacon’s soft whispers of god, you’re beautiful and fuck, fuck, john, i -

  he thinks he hates that deacon always cuts himself off before saying it the most.

  there’s a knife in his free hand, and he means to use it. he wants to go home, and it’s become obvious at this point that deacon’s morals will never let him join them, will never let the deputy join him.

 ��the fingers wrapped around the knife curl tighter, and move to raise it. above him, deacon doesn’t notice. his head is pressed to john’s throat, whispering sweet, nonsensical things there, pressing wet sloppy kisses to his skin, refusing to bite and make it hurt like john wants him so desperately to.

  he wants it to hurt. he doesn’t deserve this kindness and affection.

  he raises the knife the same time deacon raises his head to look at him.

  the world seems to stop. john freezes in place.

  but deacon, sweet deacon, his fucking saint, doesn’t see the knife, doesn’t look at anything but john’s face and there’s just so fucking much in his eyes that john doesn’t know what to do with. doesn’t deserve. doesn’t want.

  ( it’s a lie. he wants, he wants, he wants. )

  a warm mouth presses against his at the same time a hand brushes down across his ribs, uncaring of the scars that fingers catch on. the man’s other hand readjusts its grip on the underside of his thigh, pulling gently, so fucking gently. and then, the hand sliding down his body wraps around him, wet and warm, grip comfortably firm and tight.

  john chokes on a sob as his world whites out.

  the knife drops out of his hand, slides off the bed. wedges itself between the bed and the wall.

  deacon loves him, and it’s fucked up, but he thinks he loves him back.