Chapter Text
In his defense, it was a damn ugly sign.
Did they expect their doomsday prophesying to be taken seriously when John was out there broadcasting what looked like a self-help DVD series and putting up his own spin on the Hollywood sign? It felt more like a particularly enthusiastic CrossFit gym than a church.
He knew it was petty and stupid as all hell, given that the cult had only just reached an uneasy truce with the Whitetails. Essentially conceding the parts of the county already cult occupied as Eden's Gate territory and agreeing that the cult could deal with its own members (and anyone stupid enough to try and infiltrate the PEG) as it saw fit. Rook had played a large role in that, arguing to Joseph that if the world was ending, perhaps those refusing to join him just didn’t deserve saving? The whole town had heard the good word, forget the sinners who didn’t believe.
Everyone tactfully chose to ignore that Rook was most definitely one of those sinners.
The Whitetails were still furious, plotting their rebellion against the new order and the Seeds still wanted to baptize all the townsfolk, but it had stopped the fighting for the moment.
And Rook was bored.
It’s not like he had moved out the bumfuck nowhere, Montana, expecting a life of excitement but this was less than nothing. Not that there wasn’t plenty of work to be done, but the Peggies spat at the sight of him and fellow Hope County residents largely viewed as a traitor to the resistance cause for negotiating peace instead of standing his ground and fighting.
So most of his days were spent like this, aimlessly flying around in his chopper, bored out of his skull. He had been flying around Holland Valley when he caught sight of the YES sign again. If it had been anyone else’s, he could’ve left well enough alone. John was different.
John had never stopped radioing him, even when the others lost interest in the wake of their apocalypse being a little less imminent. Rook wasn't a focal point anymore, no longer bringing hell with him or being a beacon of hope for the resistance. Back to just being a man.
Still, John radioed in almost every day. Usually a strange mixture of taunts about what a little toy soldier like him would do now that the sheriff wasn’t winding him up and entreaties to how wonderful his life could be if he just confessed his sins (and they were many) to John. Rook either ignored him or gave him explicit descriptions of where he could shove that dumb tattoo gun.
When John asked him why he hadn’t just stopped answering his radio, seeing as how John seemed to be the only one to come calling anymore, Rook didn’t have an answer. Rook didn’t have an answer for why he could never look away from that broadcast John played everywhere either, or why John’s eyes had never looked from him even once during that first fateful night in the church (it still feels like a dream sometimes, Joseph's placid gaze as Rook slipped the cuffs on, a hazy nightmare he never woke up from). Rook chose to name the drop in his stomach when John called resentment or fear. It was easier. One day the truce would end and Rook knew what side he’d be on.
In the meantime, riling up John seemed the best way to use his ample free time. Honestly, he hadn’t really meant to bring the whole thing down. He was only going to take a few potshots and wait for John to crackle in, but the old rush of destruction (wrath) flooded in and a few turned into many and - well, maybe if the Peggies diverted some time away from the bliss fields and into carpentry classes they’d have more stable monuments.
Suggesting as much to John after John’s threat radioed in was probably not the smartest thing Rook had ever done.
There was a pause and somehow John not talking was so, so, much more frightening than him rambling about atonement and baptism and skinning Rook alive. The usual. Making John speechless was an accomplishment, but he was more terrified than proud. Rook was about ready to call the Sheriff and tell him that he maybe, might’ve, sorta, started the Reaping again because he couldn’t abide by John’s aesthetic choices when the radio came alive with John’s voice.
“Deputy, it’s becoming clear to me that our usual methods of atonement will not suffice for one so stuck in their ways. I think I’ll have to see to you much more... personally.”
It should be funny. So perfectly enunciated, dep-yoo-tee, all crisp and sharp with fury. It really should be funny. Except Rook is shaking and hard and oh fuck, he wants it.
“Is that a promise, John?”
Just say yes.
He lands a few miles from the Seed Ranch and walks, careful to avoid the Peggies scattered around. The last thing he needs is to be accused of trying to assassinate the Herald. Again. He doesn’t even know how he’d explain it to the others - oh, well John offered a nice torture session because I broke his sign and I guess I’m into that, now?
He doesn’t even know what he’s walking into. John might just keep him there until he’s covered in blood and his signs are carved into him and Rook’s ready to join the flock. Except. No one could mistake the looks John gave him, the way his voice dropped when they talked. Violence or sex, either way, Rook’s blood is humming with the need for it. To see just what John will do if he gives himself over to the Baptist. A smaller part of him hopes that it’ll stop the screaming he hears every night, visions of cult members sobbing over their (loversbrothersfriends) before - pop, and then the next into his sights.
He wants to feel the unthinking rush of battle again, just adrenaline or pain or whatever John gives him as long as it means he can stop thinking.
Stop wondering if maybe he’d been on the wrong side, after all. (God won't let you take me. And He hadn't, had He?)
Rook’s invites himself in when he reaches the ranch, which is pointedly free of guards. He wonders what excuse John used to get the property to himself.
He’s a few steps in when a familiar voice calls to him from above. “Ah, Deputy. I see you still haven’t learned any manners.”
Rook has to resist the urge to roll his eyes. John is as dramatic as ever, leaning against the upper railing with a carefully smug grin that does nothing to disguise the manic excitement in his eyes. Rook knows this is his last chance. Get out before he’s a trophy above the mantle. Pretend his heart is pounding from fear and not a heady mixture of excitement and lust.
Then again, no one’s ever accused Rook of making reasonable choices.
“I gotta say, I liked this place better when we were running it. Is there something in Joseph’s book that says yall’s places always gotta look so damn creepy? And gaudy! I didn’t even know something could be bot-“
“Feeling nervous, deputy? I recall you had much less to say a few weeks ago. Or were you too busy stealing my property and murdering our flock?”
“You’re one to talk about stealing, John. Besides, ain’t you supposed to avoid judging? Lest ye be judged and all that?”
John was slowly making his towards Rook, with his so obviously practiced catlike prowl. John knew he was scary, knew he was attractive, liked inciting that mix of both. Rook hated well it worked.
“I wear my sin openly. I don’t hide it and let it fester. You can be free of their weight, deputy. Just let me in.”
John finished his sentence in Rook’s ear, one hand trailing down Rook’s, pointedly but oh so casually stopping to rest on the hem, fingers just barely curling beneath.
“I don’t know if that’s the kind of ‘letting in’ Joseph expects you to use with us sinners - is this a regular thing for you, Johnny? Find the prettiest heretics and fuck ‘em? Do you make the flock confess their lust while you get har-“
It took Rook a second to process why he no longer looking at John and why his cheek was on fire. Then he realized: John had backhanded him. Split his lip, from the warm dribble he could feel running down his chin. All those damn rings. In the second it took to understand, Rook’s cock went from interested to leaking and he couldn’t stop the desperate moan from escaping him.
John had taken a step back and Rook watched in real time as John's face went from blank rage to confusion to realization and smug delight.
“Oh. Oh, my, deputy. If you wanted that, there was no need to be so crude. You wouldn't be the first to beg me for more... atonement.”
John’s smile was all teeth and Rook wanted them sunk in his neck, in his thighs. John raised his hand again and Rook automatically flinched but John just snorted and ran a finger up the blood trail down Rook’s chin. He risked a glance down to find that John was clearly enjoying this as well, a conspicuous bulge in his dress pants.
“Like what you see, Wrath?”
Rook opened his mouth to make a point about Pride and Lust, to see how far he could push John, how much he could make John hurt him until he broke and none of this mattered anymore. John must've seen it in his eyes because as soon as Rook had opened his mouth John shoved two fingers as deep as he could. Rook gagged from the sudden invasion to the back of his throat and the metallic tang of his own blood flooding his mouth.
“Ah ah ah, deputy. You made the mess. You just couldn’t shut up. Now clean it up.” John’s voice had turned into a snarl as he spoke, and Rook gagged again as John pulled his fingers out halfway just to thrust even deeper, pushing at Rook’s gag reflex.
Rook clasped John’s hand with both of his own, one on either side. He held eye contact as John let him manipulate his hand, let Rook use it to fuck his mouth open and tease his throat. John looked downright predatory and Rook could only imagine the picture he was making. His bloody lips parted around John’s long fingers, eyes watering from gagging, and flushed with arousal.
“Enough.”
Rook let John pull his fingers out with a pop, grimacing but not pulling away when John wiped the excess drool off on Rook’s cheek. Told himself he shuddered with disgust and not delight at the extra bit of humiliation.
John smiled like he knew what Rook was thinking and patted Rook on the other cheek with a smirk.
“Good boy.”
Rook briefly wished he had bitten him while he had the chance. Rook watched, a little dazed, as John turned on his heel and stalked over to a chair. His back still to Rook, he worked that ridiculous belt off and Rook felt his throat dry up as John folded it over in the familiar strap shape of many nights Rook had spent with playmates before.
John turned and sat down, legs splayed wide and confident.
“Come here little Wrath, let’s talk about my sign and your penance for breaking it.”
Rook knew this was dangerous. John wasn’t his playmate. Sure as hell wasn't his friend. John was The Baptist. John flayed people.
The sheriff might be willing to pretend like none of that happened, call it mass hysteria and a rumor mill and whatever else kept the Seeds happy and the Reaping distant, but Rook had seen the scars. Seen the skin stapled on the walls of John’s bunker. Knew he cruel and vicious the man really was.
Rook pushed himself off the wall, wiped the blood and slobber of his mouth, and went to get his atonement.