#head empty no thoughts just good omens

[hansoeii]

stuck in the rain.

[bummlebean]

aziraphale and crowley

I love the phrase "they get along like a house on fire". It's perfect. You and me have perfect chemistry and it's setting off the carbon monoxide detectors. People are calling emergency services to get us to stop being so chummy. Someone died

[fangirlofallthefandoms]

Number one rule: this character lies

The Doctor 💪 Crowley

Being played by David Tennant

[rawbin-hsr]

Aventurine x Reader

You treat Aventurine with more respect than he deserves.

Read part 2 here !

Only barely proof-read, guaranteed to have lots of grammatical errors, English is not my first language and I am experimenting with my writing style <3

CW: smut, handjob (Aventurine receiving), dehumanisation (internal, thoughts Aventurine has of himself, referring to himself as a “monster”), feelings of inadequacy, hurt/very little comfort, crying, mentions of death, at some points this seems like dubcon because Aventurine speaks of feeling “dread”, but it’s NEVER intended to be read as him not wanting to receive touch from reader, it is meant to convey how little he thinks he deserves this. The smut is soft and gentle, but Aventurine’s internal thoughts definitely are not <3

Lmk if there’s anything else I should warn about !!

18+, minors will be blocked <3

Your touch is so kind. Soft and gentle, as if he is made of the finest porcelain, as if he is a fragile flower, as if he is delicate. It is cruel, he thinks, that he has made you think he is any less than a monster. It is cruel that he hasn’t pushed you away, when he knows he will devour you. It has become part of his nature.

But how can he push you away when you are so persistent? How can he push you away when you roll with his punches, when you go along with each and every one of his pushes and pulls? It is hard to keep you out when you insistently pry your way into what’s left of his soul, when you gaze upon the rotten corpse that he is and still claim him to be beautiful. He thinks you must be blind at best and naive at worst.

“You’re so pretty,” you whisper reverently, and though Aventurine knows his body is, he also knows that is not the part of him you’re referring to. Not when your hand rests on his chest, above the empty cavern where his heart is meant to be.

You kiss his neck and he shivers. There’s a pit in his stomach, knotting his insides with dread.

He should tell you to stop, should warn you that he’s deceiving you, that he’s not the person you think he is. Should show you that he is a wolf in sheep’s clothing, that he is a bad omen. But he can’t bring himself to. Not when being with you feels so good, not when he’s self-indulgent to a fault, and he can’t help himself with you. He is the worst mistake you could ever make, in part because he can’t even stop from letting you continue to make it.

His hands rest on the back of your neck, fingers tangled in your hair. It is unfair how good your touch feels, his back arching just from mere caresses upon his skin. You play him like he’s an instrument you’ve practiced for years, despite never having fucked him before. He digs his heels into your back as your hand wraps around his dick, and he whines into your shoulder when you lovingly stroke it.

“I love you,” you murmur as he pulls on your hair, as his nails dig into your skin, and he wants to cry. He will destroy you from the inside out, he knows, or maybe he will kill you before he gets the chance to. He can never keep the things he loves alive.

Your lips kiss his skin, and he moans brokenly as your thumb glides over the head of his cock, pushing down on the tip. His hips rock up to meet your hand, and he feels ashamed of how blatantly he allows himself to enjoy you, how blatantly he allows himself to use you. You deserve so much better, but you are the best thing that he has ever managed to get his bloodstained hands on, and so he can’t help himself. He wants you to remain unaware of how much better you could do. He wants you to stubbornly remain by his side even when he makes it hard for you to do so. He wants to bare every part of his being to you so you can see how little worth he is to you. He wants you to run from him before it’s too late.

But part of him knows he already has shown you himself, that you’ve seen who he is and you still love him. You must be stupid.

“Use me,” he begs you, wishing you’d do something with him to alleviate the guilt he feels, so it would at least be mutual. His hands cling to you, and he whimpers pathetically when you lean back to look down at him. “Use me, please. Please…”

And your eyes are so kind. Your eyes are so sweet and soft and human, and everything he is not.

“Shh,” you hush him, tenderly pressing a kiss to his lips. He sobs, feeling embarrassing tears fill his eyes as you press closer to him, the touch so caring and innocent yet so lewd as your hand tugs at him. “Just let me make you feel good, okay?”

And you do. You always keep true to your words, unlike him. It’s barely a minute later that his breath hitches and he keens, nearly wailing into your neck as he comes undone under your too loving hands. It’s obscene, and he feels filthy as his semen paints your hand and splatters on his lower stomach. He has soiled your perfect skin, has dirtied your perfect body. He hopes you will let go of him and wash yourself up, then leave him here, broken on the bed in the mess he’s created. That you will leave him to pick up the pieces of himself he has left. He is undeserving of you.

And yet he only feels your love swaddle him when his body relaxes, adoring praises and sweet words tumbling from your perfect lips as your perfect hands gently stroke his body, soothing him as if he is deserving. Your perfect body presses closer to him, no doubt getting his mess on your perfect abdomen as you almost lay yourself flat on him. You pepper perfect kisses all over his face, and he realises belatedly he’s crying. For the first time in ten years. Fat tears rolling down his cheeks, and he doesn’t know for what reason.

But you seem like you do know. You look so understanding, wiping his tears with an achingly kind, perhaps slightly sad smile, and you don’t ask him why.

“I’ve got you now, it’s okay,” you say instead. And you do, because you always keep true to your word.

And he is selfish, because he doesn’t stop you. He lets you clean him up, lets you kiss his tears away, lets you take care of him. Lets you climb into bed with him afterwards, unaware that you have brought the monster under your bed up into your loving arms. He hasn’t felt so much love since he was nine.

And he is selfish, because even though he can already feel his claws dig into your flesh as he holds you in return, he cannot bring himself to pull away. He can only hope he won’t dig in his heels when you eventually see reason and try to leave. He can only hope you will have the time to get away before he kills you.

---------------------------------------------------------

My inbox is open, feel free to send in asks or requests, I'd love to ramble about things <3

[floodflameschosen]

MEU ANJO 💕 may I please have “God, you feel so good.” — “Yeah,? Then shut up and keep going.” - with Matt? 🫣

hii, meu bem! you may have whatever you want, always, yes. i hope you like this hehe.

CW: unprotected sex, p in v, angry fucking, open ending.

🔞 bellow the cut, minors please dni.

You knew working for Matt was going to be hard.

When you got hired as his assistant for the next Bad Omens tour—helping him run FOH and tech—you were warned: he’s a perfectionist. He doesn’t let shit slide.

But you knew you were good at your job, so you thought you could handle it—him. You just didn’t expect him to be so fucking unbearable.

Every show, you nail it. Every cue, every background playback, always perfect. But every night, Matt still finds something to ride your ass about.

And tonight, you’re finally done taking it.

“You just don’t fucking listen!” He says, stepping into your space backstage, jabbing a finger at you.

The air between you feels charged—thick and heavy.

“I listen fine!” You spit back, slapping his finger away from your face. “Maybe you just can’t stand having someone who won't take your bossing around like a little dictator—”

“Oh, fuck off!” He cuts you off with a sarcastic, humorless laugh, shaking his head. “You just can't admit you’re sloppy on the job!”

The band members glance between you once, silently—and then immediately move to leave. As they walk away, you can hear Noah muttering, “Just fuck it out, for fuck’s sake” as they disappear around the corner, leaving you two to your disaster.

It happens fast.

All it takes is Matt grabbing your wrist—tight, dominating. You rip free, push at his chest, telling him to, “Get away from me, you fucking control freak!”

His teeth practically bare when he snaps next.

“You sure you wanna keep running that mouth, sweetheart?”

You don't really think before you speak. You’re angry—furious, in fact—and it makes you reckless.

“Try and make me shut it.”

The way he moves next almost scares you.

Matt’s hand wraps around your arm, tight enough to make sure you can't escape his hold this time, pulling you along with him as he marches down the hallway, dragging you toward the nearest empty room.

You don’t even have time to protest before he shoves you inside and then back against the door, his chest pressing against yours, pinning you in place. He reaches for the lock behind you, turning it in one smooth, angry motion, shutting you away from the rest of the venue.

“I’m so fucking sick of you,” he snarls—and then he’s on you.

His hands tear at your clothes like he can’t get them off fast enough, grabbing fistfuls of your shirt, yanking it over your head so fast the fabric burns against your skin.

Before you can even catch your breath or make sense of what's happening, Matt’s already popping the button on your jeans, wrenching the zipper down, and dragging them halfway off your hips with a roughness that makes you gasp.

You don’t just stand there and take it, though—you shove at him, grabbing the collar of his hoodie and pulling it so hard over his head he nearly stumbles.

“Fucking impatient, huh?” He grits out, voice dark with approval, but before you can say anything his hands are already back on you, shoving your jeans the rest of the way down, leaving you to step out of them.

You give back as good as you get—tugging at his belt, fumbling with the buckle and pulling on the leather until it clatters to the ground with a sharp metallic thud.

He curses low under his breath when your nails rake down his stomach, desperate, making their way down before you start clawing at the button of his jeans next.

You both nearly trip over the mess of clothing littering the floor, neither of you caring, too drunk on the anger, on the need burning between your bodies. Every movement is messy, greedy—not enough, never enough.

When he finally kicks his jeans off, he’s grabbing you again, pushing you back against the wall, and for a moment you just cling to each other, half-naked, breathing like you’ve been sprinting for your lives, devouring each other with your hands and mouths.

Matt hooks his fingers under your panties as you kiss—all teeth and tongue, messy, wet—and rips them off your body with a rough tug.

“Don’t need these.” His voice is dark, strained, the growl in his tone sending a shiver down your spine.

You gasp, thrilled by how quickly he’s unraveling, and you slide your nails down his chest in return, marking him with the needy hunger growing stronger inside you.

His breath catches, a low growl vibrating through his chest.

“God, you’re such a fucking handful,” he mutters, before using his knee to nudge your legs open. His fingers reach between them, sliding between your folds, easily finding how wet you already are for him.

He pauses, shuddering at the sensation, and a hoarse, amused laugh escapes his lips as he feels you tremble under his touch.

“Of course. Of course you’re fucking soaked for me, you dirty little brat.”

You can’t help the desperate whimper that escapes your lips, hips grinding against his hand as you lose yourself in the heat of the moment. His fingers curl against your clit, pressing down, teasing the throbbing nub.

“Matt—” you moan his name, and your fingers tremble as you tug his underwear down, feeling the heat of his body under your touch.

When the fabric slides down his legs, he steps out of it quickly, cock springing free and eyes darkening with something feral, watching you as you drink him in. He's breathing heavily, muscles flexing as he kicks the underwear away, now standing bare and so fucking perfect in front of you, his gaze never leaving yours.

Without warning, Matt moves again, lifting you effortlessly by the thighs. As you wrap them around his hips, he locks you in place and presses you hard against the wall.

He doesn’t give you time to catch your breath—no warning, no hesitation.

Matt drives into you in one swift thrust, pushing hard, his muscles flexing as he presses so deep inside you that it leaves you gasping for air. Every inch of him buries in, stretching you in the best way, his breath hot against your mouth as your foreheads meet, a deep groan escaping both of you.

You let out a broken cry as he begins to fuck into you right away, hard from the very start, using you to release the tension that’s been building up all these weeks.

“God, you feel so good,” he chokes against your mouth, already sounding so wrecked it makes something inside you coil tighter with heat.

“Yeah?” You claw at his back, panting your words out, breathless. “Then shut up and keep going.”

Matt does as he's told.

He pounds into you like he’s trying to wreck you, hips snapping with a punishing pace. Each thrust feels like it’s pushing deeper, filling you so completely—thick, hard. You can’t stop the way your body shudders in response, clenching around him as he drives into you, making you dizzy with the intensity.

The way he fills you up, every stroke, every inch, has you trembling, lost in how perfectly he fits inside, leaving you desperate for more. The air is thick with sex and the sound of skin meeting skin, both of you drowning in the overwhelming, raw need of it all.

One of his hands fists in your hair, yanking your head back so he can attach his mouth to your neck—kissing, biting, messy and desperate. You moan, the sensation of his teeth against your skin sending waves of pleasure straight to your core.

The other hand holds the leg around his waist in a gripping bruise, holding on tightly as he forces your body against the wall, his thrusts growing harder, faster.

“Fucking mouthy brat,” he growls against your ear, his voice rough. “Made for me. You were made to be fucked stupid by me.”

The words make your walls clench around him again, involuntarily, your body responding to every filthy insult. You can only moan, your hands desperately clutching at his shoulders, your nerves on fire from the sensation of him moving inside you.

His hand then slides up from your thigh, between your breasts, fingers wrapping around your throat, just enough pressure to make you gasp, your eyes locked with his as he fucks into you relentlessly.

“Gonna come for me, aren't you?” He growls. “Gonna soak my cock like the desperate little thing that you are.”

Your climax builds inside you, the pressure rising with every word, every thrust. You can feel it close to snapping, your body trembling with anticipation, your breath coming in frantic gasps.

And when another one of his filthy words hit your ears, something inside you finally does snap.

You cry out, your orgasm hitting you like a freight train��body shaking, clenching around him like a vice as he groans, his grip tightening around your throat with the overwhelming feeling.

Your nails tear at the skin on his shoulder blades as you come, and that’s all it takes for Matt to lose control, too.

He buries himself deep inside you with one last thrust, coming with a rough, broken groan. His breath huffs against your skin as he presses his face into the crook of your neck, his body shuddering, every tremor rippling through you. You’re both wrecked, clinging to each other, still pressed against the hard wall.

Neither of you moves for a moment—just breathing hard, trembling in the aftermath, holding on to the silence between gasps. His forehead drops to your shoulder, his arms still tight around you, his spent cock still buried inside, like he’s afraid you’ll slip away.

Eventually, he pulls back slightly, the hand previously around your neck now gently cradling your face as he looks at you, his gaze softening. His thumb brushes over your swollen lips, still catching his breath.

“Fuck…” he mutters, eyes dark and heavy.

You nod, heart still pounding inside your chest, the weight of everything settling in—the heat of his body against yours, the shared uncertainty of the moment, the delicious post-orgasm afterglow.

“Yeah,” you whisper, voice weak and head still spinning. “Fuck, indeed.”

You just crossed a line here, but you're not sure you ever want to come back from it.

[beanarie]

of course 3/3

1/3

2/3

entire fic on ao3

in which tommy finally admits he should maybe see a therapist.

thanks again to @mooshkat for the original concept

(tw: heart problems, hospitalization, self loathing)

~

Bobby is the next to show up.

"Hi," he says, disconcertingly tall as he stands over Tommy's bed with a small tupperware. "I figured you can't have anything we would normally bring for someone stuck here, but there's this recipe I liked after my heart attack. It's just chickpeas tossed with olive oil and a bit of curry powder."

"That's very thoughtful," Tommy says, touched and confused. He starts tucking in immediately. The food here could be worse, but he never has much appetite when he's unwell. Maybe eating something will make the nurses frown less often. They're very frowny in this unit. Makes sense, as they probably have the highest proportion of deaths in the building, but it's shit for patient morale.

Bobby's still standing, so Tommy tilts his head at the chair and continues eating.

"How are you feeling?" he asks, once Tommy has left the now half-empty container on his tray table.

"Fine? Tired, mostly." Which is probably for the best when the only change of scenery he gets is the regular trips to imaging. All the napping doesn't leave time to develop cabin fever. "You?"

"I'm good. A little concerned."

Shit. So he's just jumping right in. Tommy works on his breathing. "Oh?"

Bobby nods. "Buck is getting released in the next few hours. He'll probably be up here as soon as they hand over the discharge summary."

Tommy doesn't eye the monitors, but he has a brief fantasy about ripping the leads out and smashing everything on the ground. It's been a long time since he's felt this exposed for this long. "That's good."

Bobby puts his hands on the armrests of the chair. "Hen seems to think you don't want to see him, which is interesting since Buck is behaving like you're pretty much back together."

Keep him away. Do it so I don't have to see his face. "I- I'm-"

Bobby looks at him like he's a spooked horse. "I'm not just here for him, okay? I wanna help you get clarity on what you're actually looking for before it blows up in both your faces again."

It's such a brazen offer Tommy can't help but laugh. "You're welcome to try?"

Bobby smiles a little. "Kid's got a heart the size of Alaska, but--or maybe because of it--he's like the La Brea tar pits. Once you're in, that's all she wrote. It's fine, though, great even. If that's your choice."

Tommy tilts his head, reconciling this man with the friendly, new in town captain who had a veil behind his eyes. In the last eight years, everyone at the 118 figured out how to open a vein for each other, and here's Tommy. Out, flying, and only able to meet his own eyes in the mirror half the time. "What if I'm a bomb," he asks. "Or... whatever destroys tar."

"Is that how you want it to be?" Bobby presses gently.

Tommy rubs at the side of his neck. "I'd be a monster and an idiot if I said yes, wouldn't I?"

Bobby spreads his hands. "There's no relationship jail, Tommy. Doesn't matter to me if you're either or both those things. All I ask is that you keep it away from people I care about."

"No. It's-" Tommy shifts his gaze, his vision blurring. "It's not- That's not what I want. But it's not that easy, Bobby."

"Didn't say easy. Didn't even imply it." Bobby moves a box of tissues from the nightstand to the tray table. "You're no stranger to tackling something hard because you thought it would be worth the effort. Maybe give yourself a little credit."

There are oval-shaped bruises in a roughly circular pattern on Evan's forearm, resembling a school of fish. Those weren't there after the crash. Tommy flexes his right hand, which has been stiff and sore for no apparent reason. "I did that," he says.

"Yeah?" Evan frowns in confusion. "You were suffocating. It wasn't on purpose."

It can be an omen if Tommy lets it.

"Tommy?" Evan says.

Omens are stupid. "Hm?"

Evan fidgets with his free hand, pulling at the edge of his sling. "You said of course you love me, like it was easy. Like it was a given. People don't- haven't said it like that."

"How did they say it?"

"Like they were surprised. Like it was the last thing they could've expected."

"I knew it was a possibility the first time I kissed you," Tommy says, tired of choosing between truths.

He looks up. "You did?"

"Evan," Tommy sighs, "you're the fucking sun."

His beautiful eyes widen and get wet at the corners. "I didn't want the first time I said it to be when- when you were dying in my arms." A shadow passes over his features and Tommy's fingers curl, gathering a handful of his blanket. "I wanted- needed to believe that I'd get another chance. I love you, too, Tommy."

Tommy is so grateful this conversation is taking place today, when he's recovered enough to not cause an international incident every time he does anything more stressful than looking at the color green. The specter of the alarm still looms, but he's done okay so far. "I might not have heard you, if you had said it then." Tommy gestures at his chest. "The wheezing, it was very loud."

"You heard some things, though? It felt like you- you were reacting."

"Yes, Evan. You kept me going."

Evan beams. Tommy aches from the inside like someone sprinkled salt in his IV bag.

"I need," he warns, "so much therapy."

Evan shifts forward in his seat, grunting softly in pain. "I can get you some recommendations."

"Of course you can." Tommy smiles.

Evan is inches away, practically falling out of the chair. "Can I touch you?"

"Do you have the slightest idea how many medications I'm on right now?"

He ducks his head and laughs. "You know that's not what I meant."

"Oh, well, show me what you m-"

Evan lays his free hand lightly, ever so lightly, over Tommy's battered heart before leaning forward and pressing their foreheads together. "I'm so proud of you," he whispers. "I asked you not to run, and you stayed."

Right after the alarm goes off, Tommy pulls away just far enough to capture Evan's mouth with his own.

[starry-bi-sky]

*points at bruce and danny in 'late at night when the nightingale sings'* THESE TWO MFERS MEAN SO MUCH TO MEEEE

no thoughts head empty just these two socially inept fools finding family in one another. like yes you go you funky little death omens stole that one from a comment on the fic, so if you see this you know who you are, discover that family isn't only tied in blood.

bUT onto less mushy stuff: these two being shenaniganizers; tomfools. Bruce realized that Danny didn't actually know he was Bruce Wayne and instead of going "oh actually im bruce wayne" he went; "hrm... how long can i keep this going until he realizes...."

like. i think they deserve to be the sillies. just utter goobers the both of them. like, danny makes the wittiest side comments, dry quips, under his breath towards Bruce while they're out in public (Danny covering his face with a face mask) and Bruce is trying not to laugh. Meanwhile if Bruce makes one sly comment about someone to Danny, Danny's gonna collapse with laughter.

Bruce plays straightman in most of their bits, he has the best fucking poker face. But also I firmly believe he does actually enjoy Danny's puns. Look me in the eyes- look me in the eyes. Try and tell me that a man that willingly agrees to call a car "the batmobile" even after his eight year old ward grows up (thus negating the need to go along with his antics) doesn't enjoy a good, well-placed pun. Look me in the eyes and try to tell me that. That's right you can't.

He's gonna spit out a well-placed pun in the driest, most boring Batman Voice Ever one day while he's getting ready for patrol, and Danny's gonna fucking die of laughter. He's gonna lose his mind. Bruce is going to have a half-dead sickly teenager laughing his lungs out in the chair. That's a new core memory right there, every time Danny thinks about that he's gonna start giggling.

just!!! these two making each other laugh! That's so important to me. So so much. I nEED Danny to get Bruce to smile and laugh and I need Bruce to make Danny do the same. Danny's all snark and sass and Bruce is all deadpan and dry quips. Do you all see my vision.

[familiarscars]

Devil's Night | Bad Omens

adult content | minors do NOT interact.

One day I woke up and wanted to be chased to the sound of Milagre.

⋆ 𝐏𝐀𝐈𝐑𝐈𝐍𝐆. Bad Omens X Female!Reader.

⋆ 𝐒𝐘𝐍𝐎𝐏𝐒𝐈𝐒. It's devil's night and you've been invited to play. If you don't get caught by them, you win..

⋆ 𝐖𝐀𝐑𝐍𝐈𝐍𝐆(𝐒). Foul language, alcohol consumption, masked men, stalking, reverse harem, why choose, taking turns, explicit sex, fear games, submission.

It's okay to not agree with the characters' attitudes during the fic. It's good to remember that the story is fiction from the author's sick mind and of course they will make dubious decisions according to my fantasies. Nothing is done to be compared to reality.

Devil’s Night.

The first time she heard those words, thought it was just another excuse for parties and excess, but here, in Detroit, it’s different. People speak of this night as if it were a tradition, passed down from generation to generation, almost like a silent pact that no one dares to question.

Yes, it’s Halloween Eve, but it carries a taste of danger that goes beyond costumes and carved pumpkins. It’s not about trick-or-treating; it’s more like… a rite of passage, where each person lets their dark side surface, testing their own limits and those of others. And the entire city, somehow, agrees to turn a blind eye to what happens in the shadows.

In the alleys and empty hallways, you can feel something waiting, hidden between the walls and beneath the fog that stubbornly refuses to lift. The seniors, of course, love it. They create challenges, make absurd promises to the freshmen, as if they’re initiating them into some ancient secret. But it’s not a secret; it’s more like a warning.

I don’t know exactly who started it—maybe some group many years ago, looking for a way to release their frustrations, or perhaps the city already came with this curse built in. But, either way, everyone participates, whether in the role of the observers or those who get lost in the night.

You were about to leave home, dressed up for another Devil’s Night in Detroit. Your friends had invited you over to drink a little before heading to the Lions' party, the fraternity responsible for the highest concentration of players that night. At first, you were ready to turn down the invitation, wanting to go straight to the celebration and get it over with once and for all, but seeing the flyer advertising the Geordin’s pub attraction made you change your mind.

Bad Omens was the main act in an intimate show, and you felt a bit excited to know they were back in town. It had been a while since you last saw them—if you weren’t mistaken, on the last Devil’s Night.

"Don’t tell me you’re not even a little excited to see him again…" Ash nudged your ribs with a playful voice, snapping you out of your thoughts.

"They’ve grown so much since the last time I saw them, Ash. They definitely have no idea who I am."

"And what if I told you that’s not exactly true?" Ashley’s glittering eyes blinked behind her long lashes as if she had some valuable information. She rested her hands and phone under her chin while watching you finish getting ready in the mirror. "I messaged Steve; we chat sometimes, and when he told me he’d be in town, I didn’t fail to mention your name…"

"I can’t believe you did that!"

"I scored us four VIPs tonight thanks to my shamelessness. No need to thank me, babe!" Ash winked and blew a kiss at her own shoulder, ignoring when you rolled your eyes at her boldness.

You didn’t want to admit it, but a strange sensation was building up in your stomach, making you feel cold with every step you took out the door. According to your friends, you looked good enough to draw a crowd to your feet, and deep down, you hoped they were right.

Geordin’s was, as always, sweltering, packed, and filled with people dressed up in Halloween costumes. You were just in a short black dress and heavy makeup—this date was special, a night for vixens to leave their homes in their smallest outfits, best heels, and bold eyes to be, for one night, what they longed to be all year.

At the bar, you grabbed a drink and walked with your friends to the VIP area near the stage. With each minute closer to the performance, your stomach grew colder, while your friends chatted excitedly beside you, never quieting for a moment. It had been a long time since you last saw him, and you tried your best not to expect him to remember any fragment of the past Devil’s Night.

“Welcome to the show of bad omens, my friends,” said the recorded voice from the speakers, making the crowd go wild.

The lights went out, and your body froze in place as the intro to the first song began. His voice was still unmistakable and unique, pleasing to the ear, even live, weaving together with the guitar and drum solos as if they were one.

When you turned to the stage, Noah was gripping the microphone with his eyes closed, and you allowed yourself to take in the melody, singing along with all your heart as you remembered why this was your favorite band. At the end of the third song, he glanced over the crowd as if looking for something, seeming about to give up, until his eyes finally landed on you.

A jolt of electricity surged from your legs, coursing through your entire body. Noah gave a brief smile and bowed his head, waiting for the next song’s intro. You knew the setlist, and this wasn’t one of the songs played at previous shows. In fact, you recognized it instantly; it was your favorite track.

Careful What You Wish For hadn’t been played in recent shows, but he knew how much that song meant to you, and he’d included it in Detroit just to show that he did, indeed, remember you. Something damp threatened to pool in your tear ducts; this song reminded you of moments you’d rather forget, moments the band had made more bearable to face.

As the final song ended, the lights went out, and the guys left the stage to the applause of the crowd. Your heart was still racing from the mix of emotions caused not only by the show, but by the series of subtle glances he had thrown your way during the pauses between songs. You bit your lip gently, gripping your glass a bit tighter, wondering if it could be a sign.

But you quickly brushed off that foolish thought and shook your head, dismissing it.

You and your friends finally arrived at the fraternity party, and all of you, including yourself, were buzzing with excitement to start the real celebration. Everyone was in costume, music was blasting, the smell of marijuana filled the air, and alcohol was flowing freely.

It seemed like the perfect night.

“I wouldn’t recommend drinking too much,” Ash warned, pointing at your glass as you sipped the colorful drink through a straw. “The games start in a few minutes, and you won’t want to be throwing up during the hunt.”

You laughed, remembering what happened last year when you mixed a few drinks with cheesy snacks, resulting in a puddle of vomit that took you home before you even considered playing the traditional hunt.

Every year on Devil’s Night, the Lions held a hunt in the Shadow Woods. The game involved all the guests being released into the forest, blindly searching to capture as many targets as they could until they reached the other side. With no flashlights or any source of light, identifying anyone became nearly impossible as everyone wore masks to hide their faces.

A certain chill lingered in your stomach, and a tremor in your legs threatened to shake your confidence, but you preferred to think it was because of the drink, not the fear of who your potential hunter might be. Your mind raced through quick strategies to avoid being caught, though not knowing the Shadow Woods at night made it all the more difficult.

With your feet firm on the earthy ground, you were as ready as the other competitors. You looked around, feeling adrenaline pulse through your veins, filling your brain like a song made to build tension until reaching its peak. You felt ready for whatever the night had to offer.

The whistle blew.

Your legs pushed you forward, running as fast as you could, straining your vision to dodge trees and jump over branches. You listened closely to the sound of dry leaves and twigs that snapped underfoot as the predators ran. All of them were desperate, hungry in their hunt for prey. At the same time, it felt frightening; it was exhilarating enough to make you push for more speed.

Energized, you glanced over your shoulder now and then, trying to detect any approaching threat, but as you pressed on, you heard fewer footsteps. Breathless, you slowed down and marked the trees with your fingers as you continued to walk carefully.

Your steps froze in place when you suddenly heard heavy breathing. The footsteps behind you moved over the dry leaves, signaling that your hunter was approaching stealthily, like a snake. Slowly, you realized your feet didn’t obey the commands in your head—they wanted to keep running, but your body remained there, unmoving.

He knew there was no point in running. He knew you were lost. He knew you didn’t want to go anywhere.

“Good girl.” His voice whispered close to your ear, making you jump in shock. “You didn’t let anyone else catch you. You waited for us like a good girl.”

“She knew that no matter where she hid tonight, we’d find her.”

“We always find you…”

Through your peripheral vision, you counted all four of them, gathered in balaclavas, closing off any way out. Swallowing dryly, you felt your breathing falter as they each took a step closer, forming a claustrophobic barrier around you.

“Now you’re ours.” Noah’s voice echoed in your ear as you felt the fabric of his balaclava graze your cheek. “Once you lose the game, you become our prize.”

A brief jolt made you sit upright when you felt something wrapping around your wrists; he was tying your hands together with a rope. The remaining length of material was used to fasten another knot around your neck, this time slightly tighter.

In your mind, there was no room for doubt, because you remembered the main rule of Devil’s Night. You were free to make your desires real for one night.

Why not surrender to them?

Slowly, Noah pulled you along the length of the leash, and stumbling a little in your own steps, you followed him. He exuded a scent of sweat mixed with Savage cologne; his arms were exposed by the black tank top, and he wore cargo pants and boots. Each determined step he took made you tense up, fearing what was to come, and the walls in the form of men surrounding you added to your apprehension.

Your steps halted when the tall man pulling your collar from the front froze in place. The forest offered little light, and thanks to the moonlight filtering through the gaps in the trees, you could see the intricate tattoo designs on his back, partly covered by his tank top.

A breath, subtle but present, brushed your ears with warm breath from behind.

"How about a game?" Folio’s voice was so soft it seemed to dance at a unique frequency. "We’ll ask a question, and for each wrong answer, you lose a piece of clothing."

"A game is only interesting to me if both parties are involved. In that case, what do I get if I’m right?" You dared to respond, challenging him with a side glance.

"Don’t act as if you don’t like the idea of not being in control for a few hours…" Folio taunted, stepping closer with a deadly step. His body was too close this time. "All you desire is for the reins to be in someone else's hands, just for one night, someone who knows your dirty mind well enough so you don’t have to spell out what you need. Am I wrong?"

You weren’t afraid of anything and made a point to shake your head in defiance.

"Wrong answer."

"Not at all!" you contested without much conviction. Deep down, defying him and contradicting yourself with feigned reluctance was part of your game.

The cold wind touched your back just as one of their fingers slid the zipper of your dress down, exposing your bare skin. Slowly, you felt the fabric glide down your body, leaving a trail of goosebumps wherever it passed.

You shrank a little, feeling a hint of discomfort when you noticed several pairs of eyes observing your exposed form, but a tug on the leash immediately made you lift your chin.

"Don’t you dare lower your head, darling" another voice murmured as a finger traced along your chin, the wetness of a tongue brushing against the skin of your ear. "Not when you have a body like this. We can savor you without even touching. Consider yourself a goddess, displayed for adoration and worship."

Gently, he slid his hand from your chin to reach your cold-stiffened nipples, slow circular movements warming your thighs as Jolly’s voice stimulated you, his hands exploring your body without any rush.

They wanted you to surrender.

Indeed, you were already theirs.

For just one night, you belonged to them.

In front of you, Noah watched you with a tilted head, as if watching an intimate moment of pleasure was amusing to him. He wrapped the excess of the leash around his hands until it tightened, lifting your neck up toward him.

In one last visceral glance, Noah pressed his lips against yours.

A fierce kiss, charged with desire pent up since the last visit, filling every corner of your mouth, leaving you wanting for absolutely nothing. Between breaths, you let out a contained, low moan as those hands moved from your chest down to your hips.

His fingers, when they found your entrance, sent a current of electricity through the rest of your body. Jolly was warm and soft as a rose petal, he tortured you with the slowness of his synchronized movements on your clitoris and during the kiss you held Noah's lips between your teeth gasping a heavy moan.

Noah smiled, feeling how his body twitched in his friend's hands, he released his lips and dragged them down his face, allowing his moan to reverberate through his ears more clearly.

Just when you were about to give signs that you were going to collapse under Jolly's fingers they suddenly stopped. You panted and wanted to show that you were disappointed, but you didn't have time, Noah pulled you by the collar and turned you so that you were facing away from him. A quick scream escaped your lips at the surprise of the impact of your hips against his, you felt his bulge harden and let out some air through your nose.

A soft hand ran its thumb over her face, a caress similar to the one she felt on her ass as Noah explored her. At the same time they used their thumbs, Noah lifted your dress until you were completely exposed to prepare you, he dipped his fingers in your wetness and seemed to delight in it. Their eyes were fixed on the man before them, gently brushing strands of hair away from his face and lifting his chin.

“Good girl, good girl.” he whispered, sliding his thumb into your mouth, without breaking eye contact, you sucked his finger slowly until you reached the tip.

You watched as Folio grunted and finished sliding his cock into his free hand and bringing it closer to your face, passing it across your lips slowly. You moaned from containing the desire to take him in at once, and from having Noah playing with his head at your entrance in rotating movements. Little by little you relaxed and used your tongue to greet him and a smile formed on your lips when you saw him sigh once again.

Folio grabbed your hair with a little force and demonstrating that the provocation had made him lose his mind, he shoved his dick into your mouth at the same time as Noah entered you. Your screams were silenced by Folio's cock, you used your tongue to drool all over the compliment and without the help of your hands that were trapped you covered his head with the roof of your mouth. As you sucked him, you felt Noah bump his hips against yours in strong thrusts, pulling the collar from your neck each time he penetrated and stopped with his rigid member inside you.

Your legs shook from the force he used, you pressed him against the walls of your pussy and heard him mutter yet another curse due to the lack of space. Her head didn't stop for a single second, going down and up, sucking Folio's cock while he helped her with his hand in her hair.

With each of Noah's thrusts, you felt Folio's cock tear into your throat and you dedicated yourself to not leaving a single space without the contact of your tongue. He pressed your head down more and you enjoyed the taste of the skin trying to contain the entire volume. Noah grew harder and harder inside you and in an explosion of sensations for a few seconds your legs seemed to float.

This was the effect of the devil’s night.

It allowed you to fulfill even your darkest fantasy.

For one night.

[twentyfivemiceinatrenchcoat]

THERE WAS NO PLACE IN NATURE WE COULD MEET ; SUGURU GETO

synopsis; on a late night out, you run into your ex of ten years. unfairly handsome, charming as ever — first in line for an overdue execution. you don’t know what geto wants from you, and you’re not sure you want to find out.

word count; 3.3k

contents; suguru geto/reader, gn!reader, geto-typical angst, exes to [redacted], lots of longing, geto is kind of a cunt but also disgustingly charming, reader is understandably upset, biblical imagery (i just think he’s so serpent coded), curse user geto is his own warning tbh

a/n; i wanted this to be a drabble so bad but it ended up just a little too long for me to get away w it so … :’3 yeah. i hate suguru geto (said w affection)

the moon is out.

in the shadows of the street corner you find yourself in, curled up comfortably on the sidewalk, it’s a welcome distraction. something to look at, in the midst of your loneliness; the evanescent glow of the moon doing nothing but illuminating your solitude.

a solitude soon to be broken. shattered into pieces, battered and bruised beyond recognition— jagged shards littering the asphalt.

digging into the soles of your shoes.

”hey.”

for a second, you think you must be dreaming.

the figure obscuring the light of the lamp post in front of you is familiar. too familiar, a little too dear for your liking. as you grasp your shitty cup ramen, seeking the warmth seeping through the polystyrene — all you can do is stare. blinking dumbly, drowsily.

geto looks something like a bad omen.

sharp facial features, even sharper eyes. so dark they almost shift from an amber-tainted cedar into an obsidian black — two abysses, staring into your soul, beckoning you closer. they were always enchanting, but now you think they look almost hypnotizing. not at all in a good way. dark hair frames his face, cascading down his back, longer than you remember it being. and he’s wearing robes.

still has those fucked up bangs, though. of all the things to keep.

the gears of your mind turn, endlessly, untangling the mess of thoughts inside your brain. ensuring you that no, you are not hallucinating, and no, you didn’t fall into a deep slumber somewhere between the moment you exited the convenience store and sat down by one of tokyo’s empty street corners. this is real. a reality you can’t comprehend, can’t even begin to process.

what stands in front of you is a ghost. but ghosts don’t exist, can’t be seen, can’t touch the living.

(so how is he able to haunt you like this?)

what eventually jolts you out of your silent stupor is not the questioning tilt of his head, nor the suffocating sensation of your heart crawling up your throat, but the feeling of soft fur against your leg. the stray cat you met further down the street meows at you, sweetly, trying to get your attention. you think she must be asking for more grilled fish.

so, completely ignoring the apparition in front of you, you turn to reach for the little plastic bag you bought as a midnight snack — digging out a bit of fish for the kitty to enjoy. she seems happy, settling down by your feet. purring softly.

geto watches, eerily silent. 

(maybe he’s upset that you’re ruining his dramatic entrance. you hope so.)

finally, you have no choice but to look at him. a lump forms in the back of your throat, clogging up a little more for every second spent falling into the trap he’s laid out for you, trailing over his moonlit features with your tired gaze.

mouth full of noodles, staring holes into his attire, you narrow your eyes. suddenly disgruntled.

his lips quirk up. ”something the matter?” he asks, and you can’t even begin to describe how much you hate his voice. how devastatingly deep it is, during the late hours of the night, even deeper than it was back in high school. 

slurping up the soggy noodles, you lean back a little, licking some broth off your lips. finally meeting those abyssal eyes. 

”… i was gonna say those robes look like shit on you,” comes an exhale, weary, ”but you actually kinda pull them off. that’s…” 

a beat. you struggle to find the right word. 

”annoying.”

geto’s lips curl up, smoothly, and you find a hint of familiar amusement in the vague crinkle of his eyes. barely visible crows’ feet. then he’s moving — plopping down right beside you, robes fluttering with the breeze.

”well, thank you.” he hums; crossing his legs.

the silence that festers around you is odd. not quite suffocating, nor especially fragile. definitely not comforting. it’s familiar, yet different, and it hurts a bit more than it should. but you choose to look at him, out of the corner of your eye, and he looks right back at you. still smiling that eerie smile.

when your eyes settle on the particular cloth wrapped around his torso, you just barely manage to bite back a taunting chuckle.

”a gojo-kesa, huh?” you grin, and geto doesn’t flinch. he doesn’t miss the meaningful glint in your eyes, either. ”you miss him that much?”

”just a coincidence,” is all he answers. smiling, but you think it looks a little stiff.

your grin widens, for a second, before settling back down. a sad transition. you let it go. 

”whatever you say, geto.”

at that, he visibly reacts. barely noticeable, but it’s there — a twitch of his lithe fingers, an unknown something that flickers through the scope of his iris. when he looks at you, a neutral smile is playing at his lips. 

”ah. i take it we’re not on first name basis anymore, then?” he asks, casually, hiding a tinge of something mildly displeased.

a shrug. you pick at what’s left of your ramen with your chopsticks, a little too nauseous to enjoy it. ”call me what you want. i just don’t see suguru when i look at you, y’know?” leaning forward, you begin to pet the kitty by your feet. ”he was sweeter.”

geto smiles. almost a grin, but not quite there. a chuckle spills out from his lips, and something about it irritates you. ”was he?”

”yeah,” you nod. without hesitation. a summer-stained memory blooms behind your eyelids, but you try not to look at it. all you catch is a glimpse of cherry blossoms. ”you just seem bitter.” 

the grin that finds its way onto your lips is self-deprecating. a shadow falls over your face.

”guess we’re in the same boat, huh?”

a hum buzzes in his throat. he casts a meaningful glance towards your hand, scratching behind the cat’s ear. ”oh, i don’t know about that.” his smile grows with the drawl. ”.. you seem just as sweet as always.”

to your grave annoyance, you can’t control the way your face changes at his words. a twitch of your lips gives away your discontentment, and something sour settles on the tip of your tongue.

(your blood begins to boil, beneath your skin.)

geto sighs, suddenly, filling the tense silence between you — a little theatrical. ”ah, but that’s a shame.” he turns to you, soft pout playing at his lips. ”i was hoping i could hear you call me suguru again…”

”— i was hoping you’d come back.”

a beat.

somewhere outside your vision, a crow takes flight into the night sky. swallowed by darkness, melting into that sea of black. no longer perceivable, by you or the world.

”but you never did,” the polystyrene of the plastic cup crinkles beneath your fingers. your eyes look dull. ”so what the fuck do you want, exactly?”

…

”i heard.” geto rests his jaw on the heel of his palm, gazing at you with those piercing eyes. like he’s trying to see inside your brain. ”… about your decision.”

”ah,” a grin splits across the curve of your lips, showing off the white of your teeth. ”of course. that’s what this is about, huh?”

with groggy movements, you throw away your nearly-empty cup of noodles, haphazardly aiming towards a trash can across the street. it bounces off the steel cover, landing on the ground with a soft thud. leftover broth spilling out across the pavement. geto doesn’t bother to hide his amusement, lips twitching upwards before he sends a curse to eat it from the asphalt.

you furrow your brows in embarrassed annoyance.

a moment passes, and something in you knows that he’s waiting. it’s like you can practically sense it, like it’s etched into your bones. the same way you always knew exactly when he would begin to get impatient during your nightly convenience store runs back in high school — after you had spent about ten solid minutes struggling to decide what kind of chips you wanted. 

”what can i say?” you lean back, palms against rough concrete, breathing in the midnight air. ”you inspired me.”

geto tilts his head. smiling. always, always smiling. he smiled at you the day before he massacred that village, too. ”oh?”

with a deep breath, cool air courses through your body. burning your lungs. ”i realized being a sorcerer is completely fucking meaningless,” you exhale through your nose. ”and that trying to change that fact is even more meaningless.” 

a wicked, rueful grin rests on your lips. ”so i left.”

geto doesn’t say anything. you continue, voice dripping with venom.

”i’m a civilian now,” you purr, mocking, a sardonic coo on your tongue. ”does that bother you? feel like killing me?”

…

his smile looks a little off, now. tilted in a direction you don’t want to recognize. you don’t care to examine it further, don’t care to figure out if it might look just a little bit sad, because that’d only hurt more.

so you look away.

a click of his tongue. then he speaks, with that honeyed voice, raspy and husky. almost a groan. ”well, i can’t say i approve.”

he’s looking at you. sharp eyes digging into your skin, dissecting you, a million words he expects you to grasp from that look alone.

”you’re better than them,” he states, matter-of-factly, and you try not to squirm when his eyes trail over your features. ”worlds better.” his voice sounds almost motherly, a twisted concern that makes you cower a little. like he’s scolding you. a crease between his brows.

”i don’t like the thought of you surrounded by these animals.”

a huff pushes past your lips, but it sounds shakier than you’d like it to. you hope he just chalks it up to the chill of the air. then again, when has he ever made anything easy for you?

”what, you got a problem with cats now?” you reach for the little furball licking grilled fish off the concrete, picking it up. cradling it close. ”gonna go on a cat-killing spree?”

an amused exhale. geto narrows his eyes. ”funny,” he hums, but his eyes say you know what i mean.

it takes you a moment to regain control over your breathing. there’s still something tense in your shoulders, and your heart still feels a little like it might jump out of your throat and crawl into his lap. the stray cat slips from your grasp, moving towards geto, curiously sniffing at his robes. he looks at it with no ill intent, and it puts you at ease.

”well, i appreciate the concern, buddy,” you pat his back, trying not to flinch at the contact. trying to appear relaxed. ”but frankly, i don’t give a shit. i actually like my job, unlike literally every single sorcerer on planet earth.”

geto stills.

”.. buddy?” he echoes, ignoring every other bitter word you just graced him with. for some reason, he actually seems visibly bothered. ”i’m buddy now?”

you click your tongue. muttering, tiredly. a little exasperated. ”.. what else would you be?”

and then he smiles, again. only this time, it looks oddly genuine. the same as you remember, framed by cherry blossoms and the fizzle of youth.

his movements are smooth. like he’s completely unguarded, like this situation doesn’t bother him in the slightest. elegant, in the way he leans back, palms on the concrete to support his weight. keeping eye contact with you, all the while.

when he speaks, his voice has a sweet tinge to it. nostalgic, maybe. wistful. if you hear a touch of longing, you choose to ignore it.

”i seem to recall you calling me baby quite a lot,” he hums, and you stiffen. gritting your teeth. eyes darkening, but he continues. ”what else was there? angel, i think… it was sweet.”

then he’s leaning forward. scratching the cat under its chin, gently. ”ironic, though.”

an inhale. then, an exhale. they’re a little shaky, a little meek, but at least they make the lump in your throat feel less like it’s blocking your windpipe. air fills your lungs, but it tastes like nothing at all. 

something like sorrow simmers in your eyes. or maybe more like fatigue. god, you really want to cry.

(you wonder if he gets some sickening satisfaction out of seeing you like this, out of breaking you. maybe it just makes him feel rotten.

you don’t know what you’d prefer.)

”suguru,” you murmur, at last. voice dripping with exhaustion. defeated, the sigh that flows from your lips. ”why did you come here?”

…

”join me.”

the words spill out into the open air, slicing the silence in half. heavy. a request, not a question. against your better judgement, you turn your head to meet his gaze.

”we could use you,” he says, and there’s hope in those keen eyes. he maintains his distance, but for some reason you still feel like prey being sized up by a predator. like he’s weighing your value.

a chuckle slips from your lips, but there’s no humour to it. ”use me…” you echo, a tired murmur under your breath. ”you're just straight up admitting it, huh? that’s kind of refreshing.”

”that’s not what i meant.”

he inches closer. slowly, as if trying not to scare you. reaching out, to brush through your bangs, his fingertips ghosting over your skin. tangling them between your locks, inserting himself into your space. testing the waters. 

you don’t look at him, completely still. barely breathing. like a wounded animal.

”i want you there,” he says, and it comes out almost as a whisper. ”with us.”

unable to resist the temptation, you indulge in a single brief glance his way. his eyes look warm, and his lips look soft as they part.

”with me.” 

there’s a devotion to his voice when he continues, one he’s always had. one you thought you’d always be able to trust. ”i’ll create a world where you can be happy,” he vows. ”i swear it.”

a moment passes.

(you swallow thickly. it takes everything you have not to burst into tears. when you remember how he brushed you off, back then, it gets a little easier. when you remember all the skipped meals.)

”.. like you give a damn.”

geto smiles. you loathe how soft it looks, how similar it is to the one suguru always had. when you used to eat your ramen too quickly and started choking on it, and he brought a palm to your upper back, patting it gently. he’d chuckle, and tell you to slow down, and the softness of his smile would almost be enough to distract you from the amusement in his eyes. 

”my love.”

you flinch. breath drawing back at the base of your throat, heart screeching to a halt, and some part of you emerges; the shy, sweet kid you used to be. hanging on to his every world. like he was your sun, your guiding light. back when that purr of my love had you blushing furiously— not choking back a string of curses.

it’s sudden, and you can’t react the way you want to. you want to kill him for calling you that. for thinking he has any right to call you his, anymore.

but that sweet, naive, innocent little kid still exists. even if you want to pretend otherwise. it’s there, somewhere, that part of you — peeking out from behind the curtain. and it stops you from saying anything that might hurt him.

(it’s so hard to hate him when he calls you that.)

if geto notices your inner turmoil — he must — then he doesn’t mention it. you don’t say anything, but you hope the amused, harsh exhale you partake in is signal enough for him to cut it off. now.

yet he continues. there’s love in his voice when he speaks, barely contained. if he’s trying not to hurt you he’s doing an awful job.

”… i never stopped thinking of you,” he whispers, so low you almost miss it. ”not once. i left for you, not just for myself.”

and, despite every part of your being resisting it, a sweetness settles on your tongue. so sweet it’s sickening; the thought that maybe he’s telling the truth, maybe he really has been thinking of you. maybe you’re more to him than just a means to meet an end, or a memory yet to be buried.

geto looks at the moon. bathed in moonlight, he looks a little like a god. like something reverent. his voice is honeyed. low, like a secret.

”this world doesn't deserve you.”

silence.

a subtle anger trickles through your veins, a kind of fury, subdued, carefully tucked away. sparking to life inside the depths of your eyes when you look at him. bitter, given everything. but your voice still comes out sounding something like a plea.

”and you think you do?”

another smile. this time, it looks a little sad. remorseful, maybe. ”… let me prove myself.”

his touch burns. the pads of his fingers against your cold skin, cupping your cheek. slithering down to grasp your hand. and you’re pliant, unable to react. just sitting with that aching hollow feeling in your chest.

”i wasn’t worthy, back then,” he hums, bringing your hand to his lips. ”but now…”

a kiss to your knuckle. featherlight. reverent. you try not to shiver, but when he says your name, dragging each syllable out, like they belong on his tongue —

a chill runs down your spine.

when he speaks, you feel his warm breath on your skin. it’s dizzying. ”i’m not the same suguru you once knew,” he admits, a forlorn look in his eyes. and devotion, frighteningly sincere. ”unlike him — i’ll never let you go.”

what a twisted desire. he wants to take you with him, drag you down to hell. the suguru you knew wouldn’t put you through that. but maybe you’re even more twisted, for wishing he had; for wishing he had taken you with him, ten years ago, instead of leaving without a single goodbye.

geto’s voice is soft. coaxing, like he's handling a frightened mouse. join me, he whispers, and you think of eve. when you look at his mouth you think you see serpents’ teeth behind his lips.

(you're almost sure he notices it. and you're almost sure his smile widens, lips curling up, as if preparing to open his maw and swallow you whole.)

a sickening sense of resignation roots itself somewhere in your gut. 

you pull your hand away, and he lets you. the loss of warmth hits you like a freight train, but you aren’t sure you could think clearly with his skin on yours. when you part your lips to speak, only air comes out, just barely forming a sentence. like there are no more words to say. like the world stopped spinning around you both a lifetime ago.

”i don't love you.”

…

for just a second, his smile falters. 

”no?” he hums, and you wish it didn’t hurt so bad to see him hurt. his eyes carry a kind of patience, something gentle. ”it’s fine… these things take time.”

a bitter chuckle. ”like you’d know anything about waiting,” you spit, and it comes out sounding venomous. a phantom ache sprouts in the spot where his lips touched your skin.

geto closes his eyes.

”you don't need to love me,” he says, finally. kind. you hate that he still sounds so kind. so understanding, like nothing you do could be wrong in his eyes. ”as long as you're beside me, that's enough.” 

he turns to look at you, and his smile looks very real, for a moment. impossibly fond. ”i have two daughters. i’ve told them about you,” he smiles. ”my family… you’d like them. i know they’d like you.”

dark clouds cover the moon, suddenly, and a shadow falls across you both. illuminated only by the streetlight. in the distance, you hear a car whooshing by.

”don’t stay at the bottom,” he beckons, and your name slips from his lips again. soft, his tongue bending around the vowels. coaxing. stirring your heartstrings like a puppeteer.

then he’s standing up, dusting off his robes, large hands smoothing down the fabric. turning around, towering over you; obscuring everything else. all you see is him, under the glow of the lamp post. a halo of artificial light.

”come. let me show you the world we can create.”

he gives you a sweet smile, two abysses gazing into you. the promise of something twisted, new, forbidden. you think of red skin and yellow flesh; the bite of sin.

and for a second, you see it. the world. a world where laughter comes from the bottom of your gut, and the trees are always ripe for picking, red apples hanging from the branches like glowing rubies. a world where sweetened fruit never give way to rot.

paradise.

geto stretches a hand out towards you. fingers unfurling, one by one, like a blooming camellia. close, right there in front of you, so close that you’re tempted to take his hand in yours, let him carry you away. burn everything else to the ground. 

(you think of the serpent. you think of god.

only one of them banished eve.)

”so,” he smiles. ”what do you say?”

[berrystainedsue]

28th january fic rec!

this is kind of a december/january mash up

Just Coordinates (288K) by HachimansKitsune

Harry loved his fans. He liked to interact with them every night, so he didn’t think teasing the fans trying to sneak out of one of his MSG shows early would change his life. But it did. The closer Harry and Louis grew, the more secrets they shared. They knew Alpha/beta relationships rarely worked out. But the more time that passed, the more drawn to each other they became. There was an intensity there that neither of them could deny.

What happens when they take a chance on there being more than friendship between them, only to find that fate is a fickle bitch, with a wicked sense of humor…

And she’s just decided that Harry and Louis are her new favorite playthings. OR Famous Harry meets Famous Louis and they fall in love, but it takes a bit for them to realize that they have.

✧⋄⋆⋅⋆⋄✧⋄⋆⋅⋆⋄✧⋄⋆⋅⋆⋄✧⋄⋆⋅⋆⋄✧

Can't get you off my mind (I won't even try) (51K) by starryhaze | @starryhaze28

“Can we do the thing again?” Harry asks and Louis cocks his head to the side questioningly.

“What thing?” He asks softly as Harry puts his empty plate to the side to pull his legs to his chest.

“The happy thoughts thing,” he mumbles, resting his chin on his legs. He’s scared Louis doesn’t even know what he means, and feels embarrassed that he brought it up in the first place.

“Of course.” Louis nods with a soft smile, putting his own plate to the side and Harry breathes out a sigh of relief.

✩₊˚.⋆☾⋆⁺₊✧

Or the one where everything is just a little too much for Harry until he meets his new neighbour, Louis. An alpha with blue eyes and a soft smile, who always seems to know exactly what Harry needs.

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I Guess I'll Surrender (28K) by therogueskimo | @bravetemptation

A lad’s Christmas holiday provides the perfect opportunity for Louis and Harry to prank their friends.

They decide to fake date.

Feelings kind of get in the way.

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Falling Into You - Full Version (48K) by dbeaux

As a dom and owner of Stockholm Syndrome, Louis takes pride in providing a safe place for people to scene. After a bad breakup, he's not looking for a sub, isn't sure he wants a full time sub again.

University student and curious sub Harry needs a full time dom but hasn't found anyone willing to take him on so he spends as much time at Stockholm Syndrome as he can, pairing up with various doms willing to take him on for an evening.

When their worlds collide, can they find what they need in each other?

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Iris (197K) by TheFoolontheHill

Boy, does your life change when you realize that you've developed feelings for one of your closest friends! Harry wasn't sure if his feelings towards Louis were due to attraction or infatuation. Whatever the case may be, Harry has been through a lot in life and Louis just wants to be a good friend. They grow together and learn together but, little do they know, they need each other more than they could ever imagine.

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these bad omens (I look right through them) (82K) by likelarry

How on earth does someone his parents' age look so damn hot? All of their other friends look... bland and boring.

But Louis, fucking hell. He's something out of Harry's wettest fucking dreams.

Where Louis is Harry's parents' friend and teaches at Harry's university. Harry can't resist getting a taste.

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when the time is right (194K) by refusethyname | @gonebylouist

“Do you live in the cabin by yourself?” Louis then decided to ask.

“I do, well sort of, I have a cat.”

“A cat?” Louis then asked and Harry nodded happily.

“She’s a precious thing, but she always leaves me for this one customer who is staying at one of the cabins. His name is Tomlin-something, I can’t really recall,” Harry said, causing Louis to chuckle this time. The singer shook his head at Harry’s comment and smiled brightly at him. Harry was truly something else and Louis’ heart fluttered.

“He sounds like an absolute arse if he steals your cat,” Louis chuckled and Harry shook his head at that.

“On the contrary, he is extremely thoughtful, didn’t even mind it too much when I spilled my hot tea over him, how is your stomach by the way?” Harry then asked.

“If this is your way of trying to get me to undress again,” Louis joked and Harry’s cheeks grew bright red. The younger man started stammering some incoherent things and quickly averted his gaze, which Louis thought was absolutely adorable.

Or the cabin fic where falling in love underneath the northern lights only leads to heartbreak.

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Lover’s Spit (2K) by Let_Us_Be_Weird

Harry and Louis party at Berghain

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is this flying or falling (55K) by HoldingOnToChaos | @holdingontochaos

Harry Styles is a recently divorced omega who has been planning his lavish solo trip to Tahiti for six months. The trip is to treat himself on the one-year anniversary of his divorce from his long and horrible marriage. Unfortunately, he can’t seem to escape the annoyingly persistent and wildly handsome alpha named Louis.

Louis Tomlinson is a workaholic who was forced into taking annual leave by his boss. He doesn’t love the idea of leaving work for so long so he gets drunk and buys a trip to Tahiti on a whim. When he meets the gorgeous omega, Harry, he finds a purpose for this trip after all.

-- OR the one where Harry and Louis both go on a trip to Tahiti and meet on the plane

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Grace, Too (50K) by taggiecb | @taggiecb

Louis Tomlinson is a dairy farmer on a tiny farm in eastern Canada. His wife of nearly thirty years has left him and his children are all grown up and out of the house. Louis needs help running his business but has no idea where to even start looking. Luckily for him his children know just the man for the job.

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to be loved (and to be in love) (20K) by BlueNeptuune | @blueneptuune

After a few years trying to make it on his own, Harry is forced to return home due to his worsening conditions. He expects the experience to be nothing short of humiliating, but it turns out kindness is lingering in the strangest of places -- you just have to be brave enough to ask for help.

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baby we could be enough (i'll make this feel like home) (52K) by orphan_account

“Did you clean the table?” Harry asks Louis once Rose is done speaking, now occupied with trying to see if she can reach over and touch Harry’s hair from where she’s sat. At Louis’ nod, Harry frowns. “You didn’t have to do that. You’re my guests here, I could’ve dealt with it later.”

Louis just smiles easily, though, adjusting Rose on his lap so that she’s facing Harry better. She manages to tug on a loose wave of hair, and she makes a noise of triumph that both Louis and Harry smile at.

“I don’t mind,” Louis murmurs to Harry, even though he’s looking at Rose. “This one here seemed very excited to talk to you.”

And, okay. Harry can’t help but think of how domestic this feels, all of a sudden.

[harry is a photographer who's trying to find his place. louis is a single father with a smile that feels like home.]

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The Devil and the Deep Blue Sea (109K) by kingsofeverything | @kingsofeverything

Louis’ life is steady and calm, moored by his marriage, and tied to his hometown, but after a chance encounter with another man, it’ll never be the same.

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🍭 a lollipop for you if you made it this far!

stat time!

1,546,382 words read (22% more than last month)

22 fics read (-44% less than last month)

18 authors (-46% less than last month)

[chocourse]

𝐋𝐎𝐕𝐄 𝐁𝐈𝐓𝐄𝐒 (𝓁𝒾𝓀𝑒 𝓈𝓃𝒶𝓀𝑒𝓈 𝒹𝑜)

➶ poly! ineffable husbands x angel! fem!reader ｡˚ °

-ˏ` ✎﹏ The Egyptians built one of the seven wonders of the world, the Greeks discovered philosophy, but make-up was invented by a desperate angel during the construction of the Tower of Babel, when people spoke the same language and wanted to settle in a city after the great flood. That angel was you. And you really needed the make-up when the first bite happened.

➴ genre: fluff, polyamory, falling in love

: ̗̀➛ warnings: references to christian religion & lore, fashion and make-up lore, love bites/hickeys, mentions of snake poison, corruption i think

⌨ :: 2.2K words ♡ ︵ . .

⁀➷ special thanks to @honeytwo for helping me translate this into english, correcting my grammar and other mistakes. thank you for everything! °♡̷•.

⁀➷ a/n: Hi, dears! I am happy that I took the time to publish this story here after Ao3. I wrote it in January when I watched Good Omens and was looking for comfort after bawling my eyes out. Alright, that's all I wanted to say. Go and enjoy your unique history with the ineffable husbands! <3

➳ good omens masterlist

A FAIRLY LONG TIME AGO

As much as possible, you wanted to blend in with the people. You were too attracted by their nature to spend the rest of your time until Armageddon up there, among snow-white washed columns, in empty halls where nothing really interesting happens. You can deliver the reports even if you’re living on Earth and watching the humans work, you reassured yourself.

You've enjoyed watching the mortals ant-like, feverishly at work, creating wonders like the Tower of Babel.

“Upon my word, what a masterly job,” said Aziraphale, when the tower was already very high.

Aziraphale agreed with you about your intentions on earth, and you used to talk about the exciting things people can do and how exciting it will be to learn about their work and future generations.

When you were particularly engrossed in reciting your predictions, and explaining them to each other with sparkling eyes, Crowley would just roll his eyes and do it with relish, as if it was his natural reaction to your enthusiasm. He decided he'd rather be with the two of you instead of in the company of damned souls and stake-ridden demons when there was no one to tempt and lead into sin. It wasn't boring at all, especially with the fairs they held back then, the intoxicating people, the musical instruments, the delicious food. 

His favorite events were the celebrations. When the men working on the tower would take a break from work and gather in town to drink and sing. They fanned his fire, his desire to do something underhanded. Not evil, just something genuinely bad. Like what he did to the apples and Eve at the tree.

He thought deeply about the ways in which he could make others sin. That's when he heard you laugh. You were amazed at what Aziraphale had said. You sipped flushedly into your alcohol jar. You weren't wearing your halo or spreading your wings, but you looked just like an angel. Beautiful, ethereal, uncorrupted, even when you were indulging in human pleasures and getting drunk at an easy pace.

Bingo.

Crowley smiled, his eyes gleaming under his black sunglasses. He headed towards you.

“Did you try everything?” he asked.

“The dates are heavenly ,” Aziraphale agreed, putting another piece in his mouth. “You must try one, Crowley.”

“I will,” the demon promised. “Later. But first, I'm going to taste something that's inviting to my imagination…”

His fingers brushed over your shoulder. His fingertips touched your sensitive skin, then...

“Ow !" you squeaked in surprise as he sank his canines into the exposed skin of your neck. 

When an angel wants to fit in with humans, she can't walk around with a snake-bitten neck like she's fine. So you tried to use a miracle to make it disappear, but as it turns out, miracles don't work on demonic bites, which is kind of unfair, but part of the Incomprehensible Plan, so you had to resort to some other method, without blaming the Almighty for creating the demon bite the way it is.

You used paint to cover it up. It was the first make-up experiment in history. Cleopatra will use your method in dark red, but it will be a long time before then, your injury will heal and heal many times over.

In any case, Crowley grinned as he watched you walk around for weeks, neck covered in paint. He was very pleased with himself, and you often caught him looking at you with his yellow snake eyes, grinning like he was planning to do it again.

When God confused the tongues of men, you were grateful to Him. 

Now, you could send the demon to Hell in countless languages.

IN THE 16TH CENTURY

Garbo.

Garbos everywhere.

Lace, frills, colours, fancy fabrics. You were very fond of the English Renaissance under Queen Elizabeth I. Mainly because of the full turtlenecks, which usually covered your neck magnificently. You could even forgive the low-cut dresses and corsets - although when silk scarves came along, looking back, the wide turtlenecks you once wore would have looked like clown costumes.

It was further satisfying to know that Crowley hated rules by default, let alone about fashion. He really despised the Sumptuary Laws, and cursed that he hadn't invented them, because they were truly demonic. In contrast, Aziraphale, who always put a lot of effort into his appearance, was fine with the expected attire, and always looked elegant with a pleasant smile. 

Sometimes, though, his smile faltered when his turtleneck grazed the bite marks on his neck. You stroked his upper arm sympathetically at such times, and yet: neither of you told Crowley to stop what he was doing on your necks.

You had no problem with early medieval times. The tight, plain dresses were simple and, importantly, the neck was not visible, only the back of the hands and the face, and after marriage, the hair - not that you married, it was just the fashion among married women. On the other hand, the pale ideal of the early Middle Ages, when women had blood drained to make them white as doves, was disappointing. Then came arsenical powders, the cause of many women's deaths. At the time, you were ashamed of inventing make-up, and so women wanted to tamper with their natural beauty with all sorts of talc fads. You have to suffer to be beautiful, they said, and they didn't realize that there was no need for any suffering because they were beautiful from creation.

Your determination was only further strengthened when it was discovered that Elizabeth I died of blood poisoning from using white lead on her face. And you thought the sixteenth century would bring radical changes…

Actually, there has been a radical change, but not in make-up.

Crowley invented the suction mark, which didn't swell up like a snake venom-infused wound and came in a variety of colours depending on how much time Crowley put into creating them. They made him feel like an artist, so he liked to tinker with them. He'd been paying devoted attention to your necks for a very long time, so you're actually used to it, it's become a tradition. 

In fact, you both kind of loved it.

IN THE 19TH CENTURY

The rice powder is made from natural ingredients. We're finally back here, you peacefully acknowledged at every social gathering. Usually you only powdered the back of your neck, but richly. The fashions of the 1800s called for ruffles, corsets, a relatively modest neckline, no turtlenecks or neck-covering. But a thorough, ornate make-up look was something every self-respecting woman had to create, and because you only covered your neck, you were often the victim of gossip.

When Aziraphale opened his bookshop and held a small gathering to celebrate with champagne, snacks and a ball, the ladies whispered a great deal about you, hiding behind their fans. They sized up your clothes, your make-up, yourself. They guessed how much of a goer you must be. It made them angry that even though you don't wear normal makeup, men still seek your company because you're witty and good, not jealous like them.

Crowley was annoyed by the women who belittled you, the men who complimented you, the fact that you had been hiding the fact that you were his for centuries. Just like Aziraphale, only he didn't seem as desperate as you to cover his marks. Although his top hat usually shaded them well, where it was appropriate to remove the headgear, nothing covered them.

Aziraphale looked at Crowley more and more often as if he knew perfectly well what the marks meant, just as he knew that Crowley was a cruel, unrelenting demon and would not say it.

When Crowley asked you to stop covering your neck, he was actually saying it. With his eyes shining mysteriously in the moonlight through the window, when Crowley took off his glasses and all the guests had gone, leaving only the three of you and the empty glasses and the crumbs. 

Tenderness and love. This is what his words would have tasted like if you had eaten them.

It was the same way Aziraphale looked at you when you caught him gazing at you, silent and dreamy, or when you simply spoke to him enthusiastically about something that interested and excited you as people once did when the Tower of Babel was raised, and he listened patiently, as if he had nothing better to do.

When you said all right to Crowley with a smile, that meant you loved him, too. 

Them, too.

NOWADAYS

“Um, are you–” Gabriel furrows his eyebrows and tries to decipher you with a polite smile. “What is this?”

You're wearing the purest white, as befits a visit to Heaven. Obviously Gabriel would not object to that. He wears mostly white, with a faint hint of blue. What he can't make out is the fluffy white scarf wrapped tightly around your neck, right up to your nose. You stand before him like a polar bear with a neck brace. Or an almost completely covered, ethereal mummy. 

Or maybe a spool of toilet paper. 

You pull the material slightly in front of your mouth to answer. 

“I'm cold,” you report with a blush.

“It must be exciting.” Gabriel admits that you've probably spent too much time on Earth, among humans, and its somewhat dulled your angelic senses. He clears his throat. “Well, we can get down to business then, let's not waste each other's precious time.”

You nod. He is absolutely right.

In the empty, snow-white-plastered heavenly hall, a table, a folder and a pen with wings - not a bijou, strictly used for official signatures - appear. Sighing, you take a comfortable seat, and as you take the pen, you give thanks that now women can wear comfortable and practical pants too. 

And, you add with even deeper satisfaction, great scarves.

...

Ignoring the closed sign, you rip open the door and burst into the bookshop.

“Sorry, but we’re closed– Oh, it's you.” Aziraphale smiles a greeting, then notices the upset on your face. “What happened, darling?”

“It was embarrassing to show myself like this in front of Gabriel,” you reply as you begin to unravel the fuzzy covering around your neck.

Aziraphale pats your upper arm piteously, presses a kiss to your temple and promises to bring you a mug of hot chocolate to help you relax.

Long time ago you promised Crowley you wouldn't cover his marks, but when you meet your angelic bosses, it's a different story. If they find out what's between you and him, they'll make hell in heaven. That doesn't impress Crowley, especially not today. Before you left, he had so covered your neck with his special love marks that a simple scarf wouldn't have been enough to cover it. Especially since he's recently returned to biting.

You'll find him on the sofa at the back of the shop. He's got a real proud smile that makes you want to throw a scarf at him. You throw the scarf at him. He catches it easily.

"You little..." you grit your teeth.

“Idiot? Shit? Asshole? The lowest of demons? Bitter of your eternal life?” He's playing with the scarf. He doesn't look up, doesn't admire the colorful patchwork he's created on your neck. Even better. If he would do it, throwing a scarf at him would not be enough.

"Lovely sweet creature," you say in a voice dripping with sarcasm.

“Bleh.” Crowley scowls. “That's a thousand times worse than you swearing.”

“I know. That's why I do it.” You sit down in the armchair furthest away from him and continue to stare at him harshly.

He sighs.

“My love, you're too beautiful with my marks on your neck. I cannot help it. And every man should know those are mine. Even the angels up there.”

Except Aziraphale. He already knows full well that if the blobs on your skin were to be exhibited as paintings, the artist's name would clearly be Crowley.

And you know what these marks are called these days, and that makes you happy. You ask, a little more lightly, if he knows. Crowley shakes his head.

“Love bites,” you tell him.

“It's only natural that they call it that. I invented it, and for thousands of years you and Aziraphale have been the only ones to get it. What else could it be?” Crowley gets up, comes over to you and squats down in front of you, taking your hand in his. He’s not wearing his sunglasses. His eyes are vivid, the sky glowing yellow behind the black sliver of the moon. "It's not something I give as punishment or temptation. It is exactly what it is called. Humans are smart enough to give it such a good name.”

“Well, well, you're praising the humans.” Aziraphale arrives balancing a tray on the low coffee table next to his open book and a stack of newspapers.

“Have you heard what my creations are called?”

“I don’t think so.”

The demon tells him. The angel blushes and starts passing out mugs. Crowley admires him, then turns to you.

“Will you sit with me?”

Luckily for him, you're not overly resentful. You nod, and you’d be lying if you said you weren't warmed by the sight of his smile and his hand reaching out for yours. You end up on the soft couch, his arm around your shoulders, your hot chocolate in your hand.

And love bites on your neck.

[blackdollette]

"ALL CIRCUITS ARE BUSY!" ᝰ r. cameron

♬.ᐟ now playing: dealer. - lana del rey

synopsis: after his go-to dealer cuts him off, rafe is forced into the hands of a hot little woman who shouldn't even know the first thing about selling hard drugs...

⊹₊⋆ pairing: rafe x drug-dealer!female!reader

⊹₊⋆ word count: 3.0k

⊹₊⋆ contents: cocaine nd shit (obvi), drugs, mentioned violence, lotssss of sexual tension, rafe gets held at gunpoint, reader is lowk a baddie, (not proofread!)

it had to be a joke, right? a cruel trick played by the universe just to mess with his head. it had to be nothing but a funny little stunt just to pull at rafe’s leg. well, he didn’t think it was funny in the slightest.

“...gotta be fuckin’ kidding me…” rafe muttered sourly under his breath, leaning back against the cold wall of the bricked alley he had been instructed to go to. had he known that this was where he’d find himself as a result of his crippling addiction, he wouldn’t even have thought about snorting that first line all those years ago in the first place.

by this point, he was practically fueled by cocaine. no doubt about it. and as he had found out the hard way, an addiction to anything had a way of making anyone screw up every aspect of their life just to get that quick fix. not only that, but rafe had tried to justify the fact that he had done what he did. as if there was anything he could’ve said to make putting a gun to his dealer’s head seem okay.

it had happened just last week. he had dropped by barry’s place as usual with nothing but his cashless pockets and a pistol tucked in the waist of his dark denim. it started off just fine. typical, in fact. cheap small talk, a little (un)friendly banter, the usual. but the second barry pulled out that little bag of yayo, something about rafe’s switch clicked and turned him into a demon gone mad.

he thought he would win. he truly did. he saw what could only be fear flicker across barry’s smug expression. he could’ve sworn it was fear, and that was exactly why he didn’t stop right there and think about what the hell he was doing. 

one thing lead to another and before he knew it, rafe was trudging out of the trailer with two black eyes, a broken nose, and absolutely no chance of ever getting in the same vicinity with his drug dealer again. you might as well have chopped his dick off and forced him to eat it. it would hurt just the same.

but despite that, rafe hadn’t left barry’s place empty handed. he didn’t have anything close to that fine powder he wished to get a whiff of, but what he did have was a thin slip of crumpled paper with some digits scratched on it. 927-5555. it was a phone number. any other self-respecting bastard would have turned around and burned the number without thinking twice. but naturally, with a mind foggier than his tear-filled vision, he called it. and no omen in the world could have prepared him for what he heard when the receiver picked up. 

he should have hung up the second he heard your voice. any female that claimed to have the good stuff he so desperately needed was sure as hell not to be trusted. and yet, he couldn’t find it within himself to hang up the phone and block the number. the bastard had listened to you, and intently too. you had instructed him to meet you at a certain place at a certain time on a certain day. he don’t know what compelled him to listen to a word that you said, and he couldn’t believe that he was actually here, waiting for your arrival.

his eyes remained glued to the luminescent clock on his phone. Friday, 11:02pm.

“...c’mon, c’mon… where the fuck are you…” he found himself becoming more restless by the second. you were two minutes late. barry was never late. but then again, he never had to meet up with barry in sketchy alleyways behind run down stripclubs. you were already breaking the typical theme that had taken years to get used to.

as if on queue, the alleyway lit up with car lights as a vehicle drove by. it was a small, almost pathetic looking car with a black exterior and a sleek sparkly varnish. 

rafe’s head snapped up the second he heard the sound of a car door opening and shutting, followed by dainty clicks against the dark sidewalk leading into the alley. your approaching silhouette was all he could make out amidst the dark backdrop.

“...about goddamn time.” somehow, his mood sours further when you finally do arrive. he remains in the dark corner, making you come all the way over to him. like hell he would meet you halfway. there was a certain level of respect he knew he had to treat the typical dealer with. one that he had learned about the hard way. one that he most definitely was not going to bother using with you. 

one you reached him, he got a good look at you. a real good look. you looked more like a filthy rich ex-stripper than anything. lips glossed and glistening in the dim, practically non-existent moonlight that shone about you. hair, nails, and clothing done as if you were on your way to a sugar-daddy meet or a “fashion show gone wild”. and… oh, god, was that a miniskirt. 

rafe wanted to laugh in your face. and he would’ve had the expanding knot tightening itself in his gut been absent. this had to be a joke. barry had given him a fake number to get back at him, and he had walked right into the bait like a rat in a mousetrap. damn him and his addiction for making him so malleable.

“oh, great…” his sour grumble was inaudible, but didn’t go unheard by you. nothing ever slipped past your radar, especially not the country club’s notoriously relevant “rafe cameron”. he was sick in the head to say the least and downright screwed to be completely honest. guys like him were just up your alley, and you would be lying if you said you weren’t excited to see how this little exchange played out.

a wide smile spread across your perfect lips. you extended your manicured hand out to him, barely a foot in between you as you looked up at him. “cameron, right? ra-fé cameron?”

you were already pissing him off and you hadn’t even been here 10 seconds yet. your warm vanilla scent cut through the metallic aroma of the alley, wrapping around him like a nimble vine. you were too close to him, too much shorter than him for him to take you seriously, and your bullshit pronunciation of his name was the cherry on top. he bit back a groan, shoving his hands in the deep pockets of his jacket, leaving your welcoming handshake hanging.

“it’s rafe, okay? and for fucks sake, what the hell took you so long, huh?”

his rudeness took you for a slight lap, despite all you had heard of him prior regarding exactly that. a slight crack formed in your cordial facade, but you were all too familiar with men just like this. he didn’t know what the hell he was getting into with you. you decided to keep up the act for a little longer.

you pulled your dark, designer sunglasses off of your face, revealing your deep, wide eyes to him.

what a fucking joke. you looked fresh out of highschool. nobody in the drug business could possibly have a face that looked so… innocent. a deep grumble emerged from his throat as he got a worse feeling about this whole deal. you were the type of bitch he’d meet up with for a cheap fuck, not the substance that his life practically depended on. barry had definitely set him up, just to mess with him. figures.

he pinched the bridge of his nose, sealing his eyes shut with a shaky breath as he tried his best to make his words more palatable.

“listen, i ain’t here for small talk or a tea party or any of that bullshit, you hear, bitch? you’re just supposed to give me my shit and get the hell outta here, a’ight? so shut up and do your job, princess.”

you felt the tranquil expression on your face falter yet again as the man in front of you kept on spewing out venom like it was second nature. you were beginning to understand why he didn’t have any other dealer’s numbers in his phone. it would take the calmness of a monk to deal with this one.

you nod meekly, zipping open your purse which designer’s label matched your sunglasses. you dig into it and grabbed the very thing you were looking for: a little baggie full to the brim with cocaine, placed inside a petite mesh, sparkly pink drawstring pouch. presentability was a huge deal for you, which was exactly why you were such a bigger hit than your male counterparts.

you plaster a gentle little smile onto your face, looking up at the blonde’s chiseled face and getting the perfect view of his sculpted jaw. barry had called the man pretty boy for a reason. “i assume this is what you’re after?”

rafe’s eyes widened as you pulled out the goods. well, shit. you could’ve fooled him into thinking that you had popped out of a child’s dollhouse anyday. he didn’t think you actually dealt the stuff he was looked for. this wasn’t like any other deal he had performed with a man his exact size. no, you were a woman. one who likely couldn’t fight to save her life and would believe any little bargain or negotiation he proposed when it came to payment. this deal was suddenly beginning to look up for him. 

with a shit-eating grin suddenly lighting up his hardened expression, he reaches out to snatch the baggie from you, to which you reflexively pull it out of his grasp. his “cheerful” demeanor sizzles away in the blink of an eyes. 

“aren’t you forgetting something, cameron? what, you think i give this stuff out for charity?” you drawl out smoothly, a mocking edge lacing your tone. he doesn’t miss it, and it strokes him in the worst way.

“oh, that’s fuckin’ rich. c’mon. you’re supposed to be a dealer, aren’t you? or what, you just playin’ dress up and think this shit’s a joke? just gimme my shit and let me go on my way.” his goes to grab it again. this time, you stick out your hand to stop his right there, his slight lung forward causing your nail to poke right into his chest. the cutting sharpness of it stops him right on the spot. 

your strands of patience were snapping away quickly. you so badly wanted to give him a taste of the aftermath of what happened when you messed around in a matter like this, the punishment that barry had only giving him a waft of. “i’m glad you’re so eager. that means we’re almost done here. c’mon. you know the price. cough it up.”

you hold out your empty palm in front of him, gazing up at his face impatiently as he began to rub the back of his neck like a schoolboy under duress. this transaction would have been over several minutes ago had he made it simple, but you knew exactly what you were getting into meeting up with the kook. and your withering glare made his hardened disposition seem to crumble even faster than it already was.

“l-look, i don’t have any cash on me right now, alright? i got some shit goin’ on right now and don’t got any green. but i just need two days, a week tops. you’ll get your goddamn money, okay?” this time he does succeed in grabbing the bag of coke. he begins to walk away, biting his lip to fight back the grin taunting to reveal itself. like hell he would pay you back, and he was damn certain that you’d throw a hissy fit tonight and forget about it by sunrise. it was too easy. he was almost glad that barry had dumped his ass and redirected him to you. almost.

but his fleeting sense of confidence diminished in a fraction of a session as he felt it. the gun he had kept at the back of his jeans had be swiped swiftly from the waistband and cocked quicker than he could process. he froze on the spot as you spoke again, your tone carrying none of the hospitality that it had previously held.

“bringing toys like this to a drug deal, huh, rafe? that ain’t the smartest choice, don’t ya think? didn’t barry teach you what happens when you fuck around with the wrong people in these parts?”

before he can respond or even think about making a run for it, his blood runs cold as he feels the tip of the gun press right into his back, the metallic coldness of it practically burning through his flesh. 

“...turn around real slowly for me, rafe… put your hands up and face me.” you instruct flatly, the detached element of your tone telling him that you disobeying you would be an early funeral for him. he swallowed thickly, being forced to rebuild his indifferent demeanor as he slowly turned back around and faced you, hands in the air with the bag of coke clutched tightly in his right hand.

you hop to pluck it out of his grasp, the tip of the pistol not leaving his stomach for a second. rafe couldn’t take his gaze off of you, blue eyes wide as saucers as his heart began to race in his chest. it wasn’t solely from fear. there was something else simmering beneath the surface that made his breathing shallow and palms clammy. he didn’t want to know what it was.

“you done messing around, pretty boy? ready to get serious? or should i end things right here and let the alley cats deal with whatever’s left once i’m done with you?”

rafe swears his blood has frozen over. what the hell had he gotten himself into now? this meeting spot was far from typical, being several miles away from the nearest neighbourhood and twice as far from figure eight. if he died tonight, it would surely take days if not weeks for anyone to find out. 

in a moment of desperation, rafe ignores the sickening feeling dominating his system and huffs out a forced laugh. “h-hey, c’mon now. let’s just, uh—fuck… can we just, y’know, bury the hatchet and forget about all this shit? y-you can keep your little fairy dust and we can split ways and never have to see eachother again. how’s that sound, dollface?”

he feels his security melt away with each second you have that suffocating glare locked on him. god, he had never felt his body tremble like this in his life. not even barry knew how to screw him up this badly, and you hadn’t even laid a finger on him yet.

“nice try, cameron. i drove all the out here to meet your pretentious looking ass when i could’ve been out getting laid tonight.” you spit out, his eyes locked on the way your lips moved. “if you don’t want the coke, fine by me. but you’re paying for my time one way or another.”

you take a small step toward him until your bodies are practically touching. despite the size difference, rafe feels smaller than ever. a feeling that he wanted to crush up and burn. his eyes narrow, mirroring your gaze as he fights back the itching urge to place a hand on your hip. 

“like hell i’m paying you. you’ve already got my fuckin’ pistol.” he drawls lowly, looking at you right back in the eye as if silently daring you to pull the trigger. he was challenging death.

“oh, yeah? consider this interest.” you hold up the gun and shake it. “a little extra token for wasting my time. i’m still gonna need that green, rafey… you know, i’d really hate to have to get rid of a guy this cute…”

your tone drops in volume, your stance no longer belligerent as you slowly bring the pistol below it belt, pressing it over the unmistakable bulge that pressed against the dark blue denim.

“y-you know what, fuck it. you’re right. just give me a sec…” rafe says frantically, digging into his back pocket as all sorts of feelings start shooting through his gut. getting his dick blown off by the hottest woman he’d ever laid eyes on seemed… tempting. just for the thrill of it. but at the same time, the nagging conscience inside of him told him that it would be safer to play his cards smartly. like there was something about you that could land him six-feet-under with just a snap of those manicured fingers.

he whipped out a thick wad of cash, all hundred dollar bills. that liar. but you weren’t surprised at all. a tiny grin tugged at your lips as you snatched the cash from him. when you stuffed the wad into your bra, rafe nearly choked on his spit and hoped you couldn’t hear him murmuring lowly under his breath. how in the hell was he supposed to get your image out of his head now?

“pleasure doin’ business with you, pretty boy. you ever need anything, you know who to call.” your eyelashes flutter sardonically as you saunter away from the man, leaving his pockets and hands empty. but truly, he’s never felt less empty. he stood there like an idiot, mouth slightly agape and eyes wide as he watched you slide back into your little car, putting your keys into the ignition and zooming off. 

so he was going home empty handed after all, which he never thought he would be doing with that stupid grin stuck on his face.

[sabine-smitten-obviously]

Good Omens - January reads part #1- fanfics recs 🤓🩷

Follow along for short summaries each month about the books i read🩷

I only read finished stories and rarely one-shots. You will find no WIPs in here. Also you will only find happy or at least hopeful endings here - i couldn´t handle anything else.

Also i try to find every author here on tumblr to link-to, but sadly some times i am out of luck. If you happen to know them, please tell them, write to me in the comments or DM me and i will update the post!

Ratings in ()

Multichapter Fanfics

1] Sky Clear Blue (E) by @klikandtuna

Human Au. It is the year 1804 and Azekiel is running a bookshop, but this folly is about to end, as he is obliged to marry the daughter of a pastor. Meanwhile in the year 2024 Crowley lives in a flat above a deserted shop. He can still read "A.Z. Fell, purveyor of the books" and is fascinated by it. And so sometimes he sneaks down in the empty place, until one day he finds a small handmade angel under the floorboards. And isnt it just a coincidence that Crowley likes to fiddle with a machine for timetravelling? 😉

It doesn't say in the tags but it feels a bit like a Dr. Who Crossover in the first chapters. This is a longfic of 749 pages that will decorate your mind. Brace yourself for some big emotions and quite a stretch of at least umcomfortable feelings and questions. Be brave, you will be rewarded. 🩷 Do make sure you read to the end!

One of the many most touching sentences: " He lives in the lilac wood of his own imagination, and he lives there all alone." 🦄

And incredibly there is also a song to one of the chapters, its a lullaby Azekiel sings for Crowley.

2] The two that got away (T) by @caedmonfaith

Aziraphale is alone at the pub, when a tall lanky ginger walks in - also alone. They start talking and decide to meet again there. But then the world goes crazy and lockdown starts. Years later, Crowley still thinks of the "angel", neither knowing his name, phone number or any further details. When Nina tries to set him up for a blind date, he stubbornly refuses. Good thing, that Nina and Maggie don´t let him get away with it. 😉

A sweet little christmas-story you can read every time of the year. I just love @caedmonfaith, you can seriously read everything from them and will always be in safe hands! 🩷

3] What are you doing on New Years Eve (T) by @thebookshoparoundthecorner

It is 1806, when Crowley and Aziraphale happen to be meet by chance on New Years Eve. The fic takes us through the years and tells about other New Years, including the ones after the end of S2. 🍀

4] Against all expectations (E) by @sixbynine

A/B/O & regency aera: Aziraphale/she/her is an Omega to be presented for marriage, but she has the least interest in finding a husband. So she sneaks away from the ball, but while trying to climb off the balcony, a strange Gentleman and Alpha even helps her to gather her dress and braid her hair.

A tale of unconventional thoughts and gender questioning, that had me googling for victorian paperweights and you"ll never guess why. 🤭

5] The trouble with beeing a demon (E) by @verdantvulpus

This fic is basically the answer to the question: if there are 2 Crowleys and 2 Aziraphales - how many different possibilities are there for them to enjoy themselves in bed (and also other places)? 🌶️🌶️🌶️ Felt Plot : Smut - Ratio = 1 : 9

Lovely quote: " There isn't a me that doesn't love Aziraphale."

6] The Grindr Logo Doesn´t Even have a 'G' in it (E) by @indieninja92

Set after S1, Aziraphale and Crowley are free to explore their friendship - or is it more? In the meantime Aziraphale is stumbling upon a fascinating but anonymous creature on Grindr for having online fun. 🌶️🌶️

I read this fic a while ago and while i was sick now, i listened to it in a great audiobook-adaption from @podfixx! Superhot no matter if you listen or read it, the shower-scene will live in my head rent-free forever.

Oneshots

7] Trust me (T) by @beet-feet

Set after S2, Crowley cant handle his broken heart and seeks a final solution... 😔

Mind the tags, but as always - a hopefull ending.

8] Keepsake (E) by @naromoreau

AU, Crowley is a fairy that likes to tease Aziraphale, who is a centaur. Well, that can't go without punishment any longer ... 🌶🌶🌶

Art by @golswia !

9] Christmas Traditions and all that (T) by @captainblou

Crowley wakes on christmas morning - alone. But only, because Aziraphale has a surprise for him. 🎅😉

Lovely quote: "If Aziraphale wasn't the first thing he'd see, and touch, and smell in the morning, then it wasn't worth waking up at all."

10] Animal Instinct (G) by @captainblou

Crowley returns to the bookshop after a day in hell and desperately needs to unwind. Though this time must have been especially awful, because when the angel returns with tea, Crowley is - gone?

Yes, i have subscribed to this author and so this is why you sometimes get more than 1 rec for her 😁

11] A little help from a fiend (E) by @mimsynims

Human AU - although not really. Aziraphale sumons a demon because he is in need of ... assistance. I can´t tell you more without spoiling it. You´ll never guess what kind of "payment" the demon is willing to accept. 😉 Had me downloading the follow-up multichapter-fic!

12] Submitted for your consideration (E) by @zehwulf

Crowley hires a professional dom - but when he opens the door and takes the other man in, he doubts this will ever work. Well - it will. Better than expected. 😁🌶️

Go ahead - spoil yourself, love yourself - and don´t forget your love for the authors, too! 🤗

[icecream4starscream]

[ Starscream (The Movie) fic ]

After seeing the "Bumblebee" movie, I'm toying with the idea of writing an Ao3 "Starscream: the Movie" fic where Starscream gets awoken early (and alone) in 1942 WWII Germany and disguises himself as an Messerschmitt Me 262 (one of the first jet engine planes. Used for combat in 1944, but test flights were happening in 1941). He spends nights scrambling for half-decent fuel while trying to maintain a low profile as he tries figuring out where the rest of the Deceptions are.

Luftwaffe dog-fighters start seeing him as an omen of good luck since he always attacks the RAF bombers, some believing the ghost of the Red Baron is flying (the main body of the plane is red), and begin referring to the empty plane as "Geist" [Ghost in German]. In truth Starscream's stripping RAF bombers fuel tanks mid-air under cover of darkness because it's the easiest way to get a ton of fuel while leaving behind little to no trace of what he actually is. He picks a German plane because at the time the [$-Villains of WWII-$] were winning so he just picks the winning side, he doesn't know or care about the details (i mean, it ain't HIS war).

That would be the initial setup anyway...

I mean, just imagine this plane in Starscream colors. TELL ME that wouldn't be a cool concept.

EDIT: I just found this epic recording of the plane in action along with the recording of the guy being stunned. Just thought I'd add it here.

And here's a clip from the movie "Red Tails" (2012) that shows just how their superior speed made these things a nightmare.

Just imagine Starscream pullin' up on a fleet of bombers in this form and doing his thing.

2ND EDIT:

So apparently there exists a Bay-verse Starscream figure that transforms into the Red Baron plane from WWI and I'm just scratching my head wondering how Micheal Bay managed to bungle a premise THIS good.

(Tbf, I can't really see Starscream as a propeller aircraft, he's supposed to be the fastest flyer so he should naturally have jets).

3rd EDIT:

Welp...guess it was only a matter of time before my pathetic aft posted this brainrot of mine:

Starscream (The Movie)

[azen13]

The General's Garden - Chapter One: Spring

CW: Yandere Themes, Stalking

Description: You're just a simple gardener working on improving General Jing Yuan's little garden. Little do you know that the General thinks of you as so much more.

Pairing: Yandere!Jing Yuan x GN!Reader

⋆⁺₊⋆ ☾⋆⁺₊⋆

It is a mild spring morning when you first meet General Jing Yuan face to face.

You find him smiling between rows of hedges, posture relaxed and eyes glinting with a hint of curiosity. Months ago, when you had first been hired to help care for and improve the General’s private garden, you had only met one of Jing Yuan’s subordinates. They were quick to tell you that the General, despite his lazy attitude, was meticulous and observant. There wouldn’t be much room for error in tending to the gardens just outside of his home.

So, when you see the General practically appear out of thin air like a ghost, you can’t help but be a little surprised. No matter. Jing Yuan is quick to apologize for frightening you and reassures you that his visit is no bad omen. “I simply wish to enjoy a quiet morning amidst this beautiful scenery,” the man says, lifting a hand to gesture to lines of trellises and flowers. “You have done quite the commendable job taking care of this little garden,” he adds, the corners of his mouth upturned in what can only be described as the barest hints of a smirk; there is no malice in his expression, however. Only curiosity.

“Thank you, General,” you automatically begin, genuinely touched by the flattery.

Jing Yuan is quick to stop you, though, amusement lingering in his expression. “Please, call me Jing Yuan,” he says. “I’ll leave you to care for the flowers in peace,” he adds after a moment, turning away, and walking out of the garden, back in the house. 

A peace blankets the gardens as you prune back bushes with a pair of hedge shears, and think about the General. Lazy. Meticulous. Relaxed. Observant. Through it all, though, he seems…lonely. Your home is a small affair, a simple studio apartment with low rent. You can hardly imagine what it must be like to walk through silent hallways every morning, passing closed door after closed door, empty room after empty room. 

You brush the thought aside. You still have so many more shrubs and hedges to cut back, and after that in the far corner of the garden, the rose bushes need your attention. You recently planted them in the General’s garden several months ago, and this summer and fall would be their first time blooming. 

As you walk off to your next job, battling monstrously misshapen plants in need of some shaping with your pruning, the shadows shift. But unlike the slow, tranquil motions shadows normally move in Jing Yuan’s garden, this shadow moves fast and with an almost calculative nature.

⋆⁺₊⋆ ☾⋆⁺₊⋆

Several days later, you see Jing Yuan again. This time though, he doesn’t appear out of thin air. Instead, you see him as you walk towards a small terrace walled in on three sides by trellises covered in an assortment of plants. Wisteria blankets the roof of the small patio, with ivy and clematis flowers winding themselves on the three walls. In the center of it all rests Jing Yuan, still smiling that small, gentle smile, sitting at a wooden table. In front of him is a single cup of tea, its subtle aroma spreading through the area.

“Good morning, Y/N,” Jing Yuan greets you, “I hope I am not intruding upon your duties.”

You shake your head and wipe your hands on your overalls, dirty from soil and mud and all sorts of other things. “Not at all, General. In fact-” Jing Yuan interrupts you politely. “Again, please call me Jing Yuan. There is no need for formalities with me.” Despite his kind expression and polite tone, there is something behind his words, the weight of a command dressed up to look like a request. After all, Jing Yuan is the General of the Xianzhou Luofu. His very words carry weight that rumble like earth like thunder and split the sky like lightning.

“Alright,” you sigh a little, feeling awkward about referring to Jing Yuan–the most powerful man on the Xianzhou Luofu and your employer–by his real name and not his official title, “I’ll do my best.” Jing Yuan, to your surprise, almost seems pleased, though his constant placid expression still remains set in stone. “I just wanted to say that I hope I’m not intruding upon you,” you explain, walking a few paces a way, and grabbing a spade, along with a pair of gloves. “Not at all,” Jing Yuan answers, the cadence in his words a little quicker, though it’s almost unnoticeable that you wonder if you’re hearing things. “In fact, I was hoping to invite you to take a break with me and come sit down with me,” he says, gesturing to the other chair with its own cup of tea in front of it.

Although you don’t enjoy not doing your duties, you don’t want to offend Jing Yuan by declining his offer, so you nod. “Alright, but only for a few minutes.” Jing Yuan smiles and nods, picking up his cup and taking a sip of tea. From the color and aroma, you mentally note what tea the General seems to be drinking: oolong. But when you sit down and pick your own cup up, you’re met with a surprise.

A cup of chamomile tea rests in your hands.

When you go to sip it, another surprise: it’s quite sweet, the way you take your tea.

The sweetness lingers on your tongue while unease lingers in your heart. From across the table, Jing Yuan’s eyes are perceptive, his eyes almost leonine. But their gaze is not wild. Instead, they are watching intently, waiting for your reaction. His trademark smile, as you’ve come to know it, rests upon his lips.

“I hope the tea is to your liking,” he says quietly, taking a sip of his own cup again, before finally setting the cup down. When you nod, your mind still racing both at breakneck speeds and moving in slow motion, a pleased look seems to cross his eyes. “I wish to know, what pushed you to be a gardener?” He asks.

The question snaps you out of your reverie. It’s a question that has been directed to you many times, by family and friends alike. Your response has not changed in decades, so you shrug and say, “I like plants.” There’s a moment of silence as Jing Yuan processes this, before a soft chuckle escapes his lips. 

“I suppose that’s as good of a reason as any,” he muses, his gaze far off. After a moment, it refocuses light concentrated light through a prism, the golden glow in his eyes seemingly brighter. You wonder briefly what things those untarnished pools of molten gold have seen, what murky shadows lie in their depths. But you know that you cannot even fathom to understand what this man has seen, nor what machinations make their movements in his mind, choosing decisions and actions. 

Silence returns with its chilling breath, sending goosebumps shivering across your skin. You have a bad feeling. A horrible feeling, really, but you cannot point it out amongst a crowd of reasons, you cannot provide any evidence for what caused it, and you didn’t sleep well last night, so do you really feel horrible? It’s just a bad feeling. Perhaps you should have gotten more sleep, or eaten a heartier breakfast.

Jing Yuan brings you back from your thoughts again, keeping your attention on him. “I was thinking,” he begins, “about giving you a raise. Your work is…” his voice trails off again, eyes boring into your skull, pounding on your head, as though he wishes to card through each of your neurons to understand what makes them fire. And you know he could do it. “Beautiful,” he decides.

You feel a pleasant surprise settle in your bones, shaking off the ominous feeling. “That’s very generous of you, thank you,” you murmur, sipping at your tea again. Sweetness courses down your throat. 

The rest of the conversation flows like a calm river, all easy small talk and quiet conversation. Jing Yuan asks you some questions, and you ask some of your own. The unease settles itself away into the shadows of your soul, waiting for a moment to strike again. After a while, Jing Yuan says he has to leave to go to the Seat of Divine Foresight for work, and you bid him well, returning to work.

⋆⁺₊⋆ ☾⋆⁺₊⋆

That night, you check your phone to find a massive sum of credits in your bank account. You have to pinch yourself to see if you’re dreaming. You’re not.

Outside of your window, almost unnoticeable, two golden eyes glint in the dim moonlight like stars. 

You catch more doves with seeds than stones, after all.

[tickettride]

Bad omen

𓂃 ࣪˖ ִֶָ𐀔

pairing is johnny davis x wife!reader

in which you know something’s wrong when Johnny doesn’t come home one night. Instinct tells you the Kid has something to do with it—you just don’t know how deep it goes. Based on Johnny's last scene, except for some details.

word count: 5,7k

warnings: complete angst, blood, violence, mentions of death, hospital, hopefully no big mistakes

A/N: : I knew I wanted to write something about Johnny’s last scene ever since I rewatched the movie. Something angsty? Absolutely. And then I fell upon one of my favorite x-files scenes in which Scully is filled with both sorrow and rage, thinking that her man is going to die. It helped me so much. That’s how I’d have reacted in front of the kid. Or at least what I’d have thought. It took me weeks to write something I really liked, and even longer to finish it. Sorry if it feels rushed!

based on the same universe as one of my previous fics

“I thought he’d eat with us,” Joan repeated for the third time, her doe eyes dropping to her empty plate. 

Instead of sighing into the silence like you’d done for the past hours, you kissed the top of her head and faked a smile against her soft hair. Your mother used to do the same. With a big smile on her lips, you could never tell how bad it really was. 

"Daddy's been real busy lately. Probably caught up with some papers or somethin'."

“He said he’d take us to the movies,” Lynn added, chewing on the rest of her food. 

What could you even tell them? Johnny had made lots of promises lately. None of them had seen the light of the day, drowned by his worries about the club, about Benny, about the young ones wanting to join. It was a miracle he’d kissed you goodbye that morning.

“I know, honey.”

Scraping your chair back, you took your plate to the sink and started running the hot water to wash it up. Joan came up behind you and handed hers, always first to finish. 

“You’ll read to us?” 

“I will,” you assured her, though you couldn’t see yourself tucking them in when you had no fucking idea where Johnny had gone. They’d ask for their daddy at least ten times before accepting to close their eyes. “Go get a book.”

Joan happily walked away while Lynn ate in comfortable silence, her feet dangling as she hummed something. The driveway was empty, just like it had been five minutes ago. 

You’d promised him a fine meal and a nice night in to make up for the long shifts you’d taken at work these past few weeks, sweet words along with a swift kiss on his temple. The girls had let out a scream that had your heart stop beating for a second, only to realize they were just playing hide-and-seek and laughing hysterically. And Johnny had grunted in response, his eyes on the newspapers spread on the table. You’d thought he’d got the message then, but maybe that distant agreement had meant ‘whatever you say’. 

Your face shrouded in disappointment as something resembling anger bubbled in your chest. 

So much for trying. The girls had asked about him ever since they came back from school, and you were running low on answers. 

Minutes later, the book was finished—you read the last chapter twice—the girls were changed into their pajamas, and you lectured them for being rude to each other. Sweet words were exchanged, the girls wished each other good night, and you closed their bedroom door with a rock lodged in your throat. He would never have left without telling you. Johnny was a man who liked his peace; he didn’t have Benny’s reckless spirit.

At least, that’s what you told yourself. 

The thoughts were torturing and endless as you swept the last shirt from the pile of clean clothes on the bed, catching a whiff of his smell as you took it to the closet for a hanger. Another look was thrown out the window as you carried the empty basket, swallowing the negative images. 

For the first time in months, you’d taken an entire day off and he wasn’t even there. Maybe he was at the club, getting his third round of drinks fetched by Cal or someone else while you were there, getting yourself sick over him. Maybe he was out there bleeding to death. 

With a sigh, you halted in your steps. 

Stop it. He’s just late. 

Yet, the late afternoon bled into the night, the time passing to a soundtrack of light rain and enthusiastic actors on TV, and the distinctive sound of keys jingling never echoed. Rising to stretch out your stiff limbs, your gaze dropped on the framed photo on the cabinet. Your parents had taken the same photograph thirty years ago. The dress was the same. The looks were just as sincere. On your wedding day, Johnny had promised it would never end–his hand on your hip meant so. 

Angry with yourself, with him, with the club, you pushed a strand of hair out of your face and grabbed the phone receiver, hesitating a second before dialing your sister. Faster than any other babysitter, she walked through your door with concern edged over her soft features, already knowing. 

“He left?”

“No,” you said coolly, tired of repeating yourself. “He’s just out somewhere and that’s unusual.”

Your sister looked tired, maybe more tired than you. Still, she picked up on her babysitting habits and plopped down where you’d been sitting a few seconds before, turning the volume up. 

“Is that Paul Newman?”

You barely glanced at the screen, too focused on checking that you got anything you needed. Your keys, some cash just in case. A quick trip to the bar to make sure he was okay, and you’d be back. 

“Mmh, yeah. Might be.”

“He looks fine.”

“The girls are sleepin’,” you ignored her, not in the mood to gossip about men's looks when yours was missing. “Tell them I’ll be back soon if they ever wake up, and… put them back to bed.”

“Sure. No problem.”

Letting out another sigh, you kissed the top of her head and thanked her before gently slamming the door behind yourself. 

The chilly hair nipped at your skin, begging you to turn around and slip on a jacket or a pair of pants to cover your legs. Instead, you slid into the passenger seat and hovered the key near the ignition for a second. Another fuck it slipped past your lips and the car roared to life. After all, he could be at the hospital for all you knew, and you wouldn’t know until the next day. Better safe than sorry. 

The roads were empty and familiar, and it didn’t take long for you to find a parking spot in front of the Hi-Hat Club. Smoke lingered in the air, like halos above the men’s heads. The air inside was filled with smoke too and the flickering light of the neons greeted you like it did any other night. Yet, you could practically hear everyone’s breath halting as you crossed the room towards the bar, where one of the guys you didn’t quite recognize lingered, his eyes trained on you. Like everyone else. There was something odd in the air, a bad omen. 

Your name didn’t seem to ring a bell with the man wiping glasses. A newbie, you guessed. It felt ridiculous to be offended by this, but you couldn't help feeling it nonetheless. Everyone knew you were Johnny’s wife. Wasn’t that obvious? 

Though the club was close to making you scrap your hair, it was a family you’d come to accept years ago. You’d been there at the very beginning, back when it was nothing but a project in Johnny’s mind. Now his mind was plagued with fears and anger, and your face was one of a distant relative he once knew. 

“It doesn’t matter,” you sighed exasperatedly, resting your sweaty palms on the bar. “D’you know where he is?”

“Johnny? Haven’t seen him today. He ain’t gonna show up here again anytime soon, if you wanna know.”

Through his casual British tone, you could tell it was some sort of secret he’d been dying to share. And you were human after all, so curiosity piqued and your narrowed eyes focused on him. 

“Why’s that?”

Next to you, a loud manly roar of laughter erupted, close to shaking the walls. It pissed you off even more that you didn’t even know who those young guys were. Johnny would never have let them in. No, the club wasn’t a daycare, he’d said once. Those young ones had different views on the matters at hand, and they’d ruin the spirit with their ideas. 

“Gonna shut his mouth myself,” the one in the middle snickered, nursing a drink while the others around laughed. 

You couldn’t help but glare in pure disgust. Or maybe that thing you felt was pity. Surely the kid wasn’t older than twenty or twenty one. Already dreaming of violence like this was the one thing that would get him to the top. Or the gun showing out of his jeans. 

“What happened with him?” you turned back to the man standing behind the bar, twisting your wedding ring around your finger. 

He busied himself with pouring two glasses of some amber liquid, the thick grayish locks covering his forehead hiding his frown. “Doesn’t like the change. But it’s gonna happen, whether he wants it or not.”

Nodding solemnly, you looked over at the table where you’d first met. Now, two men and a girl who looked barely legal occupied it, unaware of the history beneath their feet. 

You swallowed another rock in your throat, willing yourself to stay strong until you found your husband. Then, you could lash out at him and make him feel sorry. 

Beside you, the group rose to their feet, downing the last of their beer in a single gulp, letting it drown their already drunken minds. As they passed, they shot daggers at your back. You didn’t bother to care.

“I need to find him,” your voice wavered, but your confidence remained. “It’s urgent.”

“We all do, love.”

Out of desperation and frustration, your palms hit the bar. The thud had everyone's head turned to your direction, judging you or recalling you from that time you’d smacked a man’s cheek for groping you. The rumors that you were mad and unstable had only hurt the first week. 

The thud had also reached the group that lingered behind the door, their cigarettes in mouth. Only one of them wasn’t smoking. The leader, you’d guessed. His eyes fixed on you, cautiously watching. 

“His two little girls are worried sick about him,” you said lowly, a cold edge to your tone. “I’m not goin’ home until I’ve found him. So, please, call someone who might know ‘cause I’m not movin'.”

Instead of telling you to fuck off, the man stared at you. “He didn’t lie ‘bout you.”

“What did he say?”

“That you’re a fierce one.”

A desperate sigh left your mouth, joined by a desperate expression you hoped would make him spill more secrets. It was time you’d stop thinking you could intimidate men. Pushing them away was easier than getting answers.

“I don’t give a damn about bein’ fierce. I wanna know where my husband is.”

The man looked over your shoulder for a second, thinking to himself before he put his attention back on you. “I think he was meetin’ with the lads over there. A fist or knives meeting, y’know.”

With a quick nod of his chin, he indicated the small group behind the door. You followed the direction, instantly meeting that young man’s eyes. His gaze didn’t waver at first; no, he looked at you as though he was considering something, and it seemed to leave his brain at the same time as he trailed behind his friends. That same boyish expression on his face had replaced the doubt. 

“I’ve never seen ‘em before.”

“Me either. They’re just kids who want more than what they have.”

The nod you gave him was small, defeated. Now Johnny’s stories made sense, and you could put a face on the nickname he’d given. The Kid. The death of me. He’d had tears in his eyes telling you Benny was gone. It’s only exhaustion. The same kid with a gun. Dreaming of violence. Gonna shut his mouth myself. The death of me.

You had to find him. 

“Where they meetin’?” 

“Either the place in front of Brucie’s or behind that bar downtown. The one with the blue lights.”

The blue lights. You’d been there once with Kathie. You looked over your shoulder again before some sixth sense warned you. 

You dashed to the door where you stopped short, your fists clenched. Every cell in your body filled with desperation as you watched the young ones ride away, and you ran toward Johnny's car, your breath coming in shallow pants as you reached for the car keys in your handbag. You nearly drove into a pole while turning around, but it didn’t matter. You made it to Brucie’s empty house in record time, where there should have been dozens of bikes lined up or a few cars waiting, engines idling, their drivers watching to see who’d hit first. Who’d shoot first. But no one was there.

“Fuck!” you yelled into the silence, hitting the wheel as you sped up. 

It didn’t take long to reach the bar with the blue lights. You remembered Kathie telling you it was a meetup spot for junkies, but you’d always brushed it off with a laugh. Now, squinting through the windshield, you saw what she meant. You’d been too blinded by foolish love to notice just how dangerous it looked from the outside.

Fear choked you, but nowhere near as much as spotting what was on the other side of the building. Behind the familiar cars you often saw through your window, Johnny had his back to you. His leather jacket hugged his shoulders tightly. You couldn’t tell which shirt he’d put on. The red one, maybe. All you saw was the metal glinting in his hand–that damn knuckle duster. 

Corky and Wahoo stood there, the smoke of their cigarette flying above their heads. Others talked among themselves, as the show hadn’t begun yet. 

Your seatbelt was unclipped as Johnny started walking in that kid’s direction, fumbling with something in his hands. A cigarette, too. Then he slid his knife out of his back pocket with his usual confidence. Oblivious to the bullet awaiting him. Although the thought that the young man would only threaten him to get what he wanted had crossed your mind, you knew the outcome would be bloodier, if not deadlier. His look had faded into a deathly quiet upon you, because he’d realized you were Johnny’s wife. That wouldn’t stop him, though. 

The cold in your veins froze to ice as your hand shot out to the handle, slamming the door open as you yelled our heart out. Not loud enough to be heard. Or maybe all of them were just too focused on the adrenaline to make out your familiar form in the shadows, crashing onto Corky’s back, whose arms held you back. Once again, you were the invisible mad woman, the unstable and now paranoid one. 

“Johnny!”

He had no time to turn around. The kid shot, and a dull thunk sounded as his body hit the ground. Numb. For a second, you were completely numb. 

The body you loved more than anything, the body who’d shielded you and loved you was reduced to nothing but a weight, a target. His daughters were sleeping, waiting for him to come home, and here he laid, unmoving. Dead. 

The scream that left your throat then was inhumane. 

Someone held your waist as you began thrashing wildly, yelling nonsense as your heart broke over and over again. Screaming so long and loud that your voice cracked, watching your husband’s sweet soul planning over his head. 

When you finally broke free from Corky’s grasp, you pounded back toward Johnny’s lifeless form, ignoring the eyes burning into your back as you ran harder than ever before. Your knees screamed in protest as you dropped to the floor, reaching for him. The ground scraped the skin beneath the rim of your dress, but the red staining your knees was nothing compared to the crimson spreading across his chest.

“No!”

His head was heavy as you held it up, your trembling thumbs on his cheeks as the feeling of helplessness began to take hold.

So heavy. But not one breath was coming out of his nose, and his blood kept pooling on the ground. 

“Oh, God–oh–what has he done?”

Another strangled cry escaped your throat as you yelled his name, hoping he would feel your presence and blink. When nothing happened and the world went on spinning, your heart seemed to crush in your chest. The eyes who only seemed to light up for you remained empty. 

“No… pleasepleaseplease,” you sobbed, unable to remember where you were supposed to check for his pulse. Your sister would have known. Instead, you pressed a hand over the red spot on his shirt, where the blood spurted over. “Don’t leave me. Don’t leave us yet.”

Your name was called somewhere in the distance, but you ignored it. The others were standing just behind, frozen, terrified all of this was real. Only one of them dropped to their knees beside you, yelling to get some help as he closed Johnny’s eyes with a gentle move. Shouts broke out behind you but your heartbeat drummed in your ears, swallowing the sounds.

You watched in horror his closed eyes, his fatal and decisive end. Just like that, he was slipping away from the world, from you. 

Cold fingers were placed on your shoulder. “We’ll take him t–”

A wave of pure panic swept over you as you realized that they’d take him away from you, forever. 

“No!” your raw voice echoed through the stillness, the kind of stubbornness that would have Johnny smirk at himself. “Don’t–no!”

Inhaling shakily, you looked at his tired face. You’d spent an hour studying him just a week before. But now wasn’t the time to get some rest. Not today. You’d spend the rest of your life making him coffee if you had to, but he couldn’t give in to his exhaustion. 

“He’s still there,” you whispered, voice trembling. “I know it.”

You tried to feel his pulse on his neck, but it was hard to feel a thing when your fingers trembled so much, buzzing over his chilled skin. Finally, you rightfully pressed your fingertips just below his jaw and leaned down to listen to his breathing, with your heart painfully clamoring in your chest. His had to beat the same. What would you even do without him? You stayed for a long moment, the sounds of your pain filling the silence as you stained his sweet face with his own blood. Cradling him, warming him. Panicking.

And eventually, a tiny, tiny huff of air brushed your cheek. 

You stilled. And felt it again. 

With that, a small cry of relief escaped you. 

“He’s breathin’!” You looked up from one man to the other—then realizing the other group had vanished. “He’s breathin’.”

From then, everything seemed to speed up. Hope reached their eyes again. Tears squirted into your frightened eyes, and you pressed a hand to your lips, staring down at his closed eyes. He had to live. He had to think about all the beautiful years awaiting you, with all the plans you’d made together. And you, you had to hold that ray of hope. 

“I’m not leavin’ you,” you promised in his ear, holding his face like you would hold a precious china. “I’m sorry I was so rude this morning. I’m so sorry. I love you so much.”

Though the tears continued streaming and drenching his cheek, you kept kissing his face, knowing he’d feel it somehow. 

“The girls are waitin’ for you.”

Your own words had you bursting into loud sobs again. Any other time, you would have felt ashamed for such extravagance in front of the men. But the pain and the fear were too loud to leave any place to reason, and those same men felt the same, deep down.

“We gotta take him to the hospital.”

Shaking your head, you looked up in panic and met Wahoo’s distressed eyes. 

“You can’t move him. You gotta–you gotta get a doctor here.”

“We’ve got no time to wait for a doctor. We have to take him there.”

His eyes were still shut tight. His chest barely moved. The blood kept spilling. If he stayed here, he’d lose too much blood. 

More convinced, you gave them a small nod and watched them pick him up, four of them carrying his body. All wanting to show how much he meant to them, and how much he’d given them. 

The gravel dug painfully into your thigh, but you couldn’t get up, not even with Wahoo’s words of encouragement. Even after blotting your eyes on your sleeve, the tears made their faces swim before you. 

“C’mon, we’ll go with him,” he told you, though it did little to make you move. 

“He can’t die.”

“He won’t if you’re there with him,” he promised, balancing you to your feet. “Trust me.”

The ride to the hospital passed in a blur. It seemed like you’d used all your tears until Corky pulled into the parking lot, carefully throwing you looks in the rearview mirror. Your crying resumed silently, watching as they took his body out of the car before you. 

The walk to the reception was just as hazy. Johnny was rushed inside by the same men who’d held him earlier and laid on a stretcher by a couple of nurses who asked you for his name and basic information. Your lips pressed a long kiss to his forehead, and your bottom lip quivered as they took him straight to another room, with words you didn’t understand and a tone that did nothing to soften your worries. 

They made you wait in a room much too small for the eight of you. At first, you were willing to wait hours until the doctor found you. The same one who’d saved Benny’s foot a lifetime ago. But the image of that kid’s face wouldn’t leave your mind. One man had almost destroyed your lives. He would have killed your daughters without an ounce of regret, but the rage inside him didn’t equal yours. The grief turned into a deep wrath, unmovable. 

Your faraway gaze fixed on Corky, who frowned up at you. “Give me your keys.” 

“I’m not givin’ you nothin’.”

Blinking slowly at him, you swallowed and sniffled hard, wiping your nose with the hem of your sleeve. “At least give me your jacket. I need some air.”

Hesitantly, under the gazes of the others, Corky slipped off his leather jacket and handed it out to you. You thanked him silently and refused when one of the men asked if you needed company. You just needed ten minutes. 

The clicking of your heels echoed on the hospital walls as you strode to the front door, not slowing down your pace. As you’d hoped, the keys were in the left pocket. 

You only realized how much the car smelled of smoke when you settled behind the wheel, with a slightly clearer mind and sharper feelings. Corky’s shouting barely reached you before you drove off back to the Hi-Hat Club.

As though knowing their leader was close to death, the bar was even more empty than before. The lights were dimmer, solemn, too. Still, you spotted the same figure wiping off the glasses—he’d waited for you. 

“Where does he live?”

Your bluntness seemed to set him off, as he looked at your eyes and ran a hand around the back of his neck. Words weren’t necessary. Just the truth.

The man spilled the address with a careful tone, his eyes sweeping over the bar across your shoulder. After making sure the kid wasn’t sitting in a corner, you nodded in thanks and went back to the car. You thought about your daughters during the whole ride. And finally, you stopped in that dark, concealed alleyway the man had told you about. The small knife Corky had left in the glove compartment, rusty but sharp, felt heavy on your hand, but it was nothing compared to the way Johnny’s head had felt. Because his held all the memories he had, and the knife might have only threatened a few people here and there. 

Occasionally a car dashed past, reminding you that the world hadn’t stopped behind. People were sleeping in the houses around, kissing their children goodnight. 

Emotion threatened to choke you, but you didn’t let it. Not here anyway, in a car that wasn’t even yours. The air was foul with stale tobacco smoke and spilled beer. And he was there, somewhere behind that door. 

You got out slowly.

“Jane?”

You spun around. 

The boy you’d been looking for stared back at you, and as he came close he saw that you were not, indeed, Jane. He recognized you instantly, though he only nodded slightly as a sign. His eyes looked just as empty. It seemed like he’d lost all his boyish cockiness to that bullet, and had acquired a somber air ever since. More grown up since his first kill. 

You didn’t scream, but tears ran down your face.

You took a step forward as he took one backward, and another, until his back pressed against the brick wall and he had nowhere to turn left. He glanced down at the knife and up at your face again, judging you. 

“I’m a good person, so I ain’t gonna kill you.”

As a response, he only nodded. You nodded back in agreement. Through a mist of rage, you saw him shoot over and over again. And Johnny’s body never moved. 

“You must think it’s gonna give you the right to do what you want with the club.” Your voice raised with each word, as cold as your husband’s face and as the blade in your tight grip. “But if Johnny dies because of what you’ve fuckin’ done, I’ll make sure you wish I’d stabbed you, you worthless piece of shit!”

He was silent, and at first you thought he was sulkily refusing to answer. But in fact he was just taking it in, perhaps even realizing what he’d done. None of that mattered anyway. The mad woman had screamed in the alleyway, and the young man had kept his mouth shut. 

The knife dropped to the floor with a sickening thud. 

“And if I ever, so help me God, see you lingerin’ around the club thinkin’ you have every right to just because your cock has grown last summer, I won’t hesitate. You hear me?”

He didn’t laugh, nor dismissed you like you’d half expected. The kid’s gaze fell on the street on his left, where the lights were on and the people oblivious. 

“You’re a sick bastard,” you muttered as you sniffled harshly, letting out a shaky breath as you walked back to the car. 

Somehow, you felt a part of the weight lifted off your shoulders. Now was time to pray like your mother had done for your father, with her hands joined together against the bed. 

Corky was waiting when you were back, sitting with his elbows on his knees. You didn’t bother parking carefully either, and slightly blamed yourself for having left his knife on the ground there. Did he consider it a precious item, or would he just yell at your stupidity? Standing in front of him, you ran a hand through your hair and blew out a long breath that he mirrored. He did neither of these things. He just eyed you warily as you opened the door and staggered to your feet. 

“Feelin’ better?”

With a quick nod, not wanting to let him know you’d threatened a young man like some psycho, you followed him in where the smell made your knees weaken. 

“He’s still in surgery?” you dared to ask as you passed a crying mother, tearing your eyes off of her. 

“They sent him to another room to rest.”

Another breath of relief left your lips. He was alive. Maybe not fine yet, but alive. 

You couldn’t see him yet. You stood from the chair every time a nurse rushed past the waiting room, but none of them came to bear you the good news. So you lingered as long as you dared, till your spin grew numb and your stomach growled, along with Corky, who stood so suddenly you thought something had happened. 

“Fuckin’ hungry waitin’ here.”

He left you with the others, two of them you sent home to their wives. It only left you here with Wahoo, whose eyes never left the wall ahead. He seemed to pray for a second. 

“You can go home too, you know. I won’t blame you if you do.”

“I’m stayin’,” was all he said. 

So you nodded tiredly. “Thank you.”

No one spoke until an hour later, when a tall and lanky man with a white blouse told you to follow him. Your heart threatened to burst out of your chest as your pace matched with his, upstairs, and to the first room on the right. 

"He was damn lucky," the doctor finally spoke, peeking his head through the cracked open door. "The bullet missed his heart by inches, and he's lost a lot of blood.” 

A quick nod told him you were listening, even though it hurt like hell to hear those words. 

Noticing your glass-eyed look, his tone softened. "You can see him now. Just don’t expect him to wake up anytime soon."

You thanked him, standing there as he vanished in the next room. Threatening a guy had made you feel so confident though shaky, so why were you almost backing up now? 

A young nurse walked past you, eyeing your dishevelled state and scrapped-up knees. After a minute or two, you finally walked in, where the dim hospital light spilled onto the bed. The rhythmic beep of the heart monitor filled the silence, steady but weak. Johnny was staring hauntingly at the ceiling. 

“Johnny?” 

The room seemed to spin around as you stared at him lying there, his head tilting limply towards you. He looked so pale. They’d even removed his shirt to have his torso wrapped in bandages, replacing your arms. A thin tube ran under his nose–and that was what finally jolted you from your frozen state.

At last you finally grew closer and stammered again in a choked voice, “Johnny? It’s me.”

When his eyes finally locked on yours, a loud breath escaped your mouth. He was alive, breathing. He still had that look in his eyes.

“You know where you are?” 

“Not at home. Can’t smell ya.”

You choked on a strangled noise, caught between grief and relief. “I’m here. I’m with you. You’re at the hospital, remember?”

He grunted his response, reaching for your hand, which you gave immediately as you perched on the edge of the mattress. Your eyes flooded again. 

He knew he’d die, didn’t he? He knew the club was the death of him, and he went through this alone. 

Softly, you couldn’t help but ask, “Did you know he was gonna shoot you?”

Johnny shook his head slightly. Unsure whether he was lying, you nodded anyway and rubbed his hand in absent motion, although they were slightly warmer than when he’d lay there, the blood pooling–

“Didn’t mean for it to be like this,” he said hoarsely, watching you as though he was afraid you didn’t believe him. 

Aware that the next conversation was going to be painful, you tightened your grip around his palm. For a moment you both concentrated on your joined hands. 

“You shouldn’t have been alone.”

“I wasn’t.”

“Not then. I mean… all the other times. I mean when it started, when you knew this was gonna happen.”

Johnny swallowed hard, the effort almost too much. “I didn’t want ya in it. Didn’t want ya carryin’ this.”

“I would’ve—”

Johnny’s fingers twitched, barely, like he wanted to hold on but didn’t have the strength. “Wouldn’t have changed nothin’.”

Your gaze fell on the bandages again. “I’ve never been so scared in my life. I swear, I saw you fallin’ down…” You shook your head, beseeching him with your eyes. “Please don't jeopardize your life like that again.”

“That won’t happen again. Hear me?”

Lifting your head, your chin quaking, you asked him to promise. The kid’s face flashed through your mind. Deep down, you doubted if he’d ever try something again. He was just a lost soul who probably lacked support. But Johnny? He loved riding too much. 

“Promise,” he breathed out. 

A sigh fell from your lips. “I couldn't stop lovin’ you even if they cut the heart out of my chest."

His free hand came to circle your waist as much as he could, the gesture tugging his IV cords and shifting the metal stand. His grip was weak, but the intent was clear. He needed to feel you there, close to him. So you leaned down to kiss his brow and lay carefully by his side, making sure you weren’t hurting him.

“Where the girls?” he asked, head tilted in your direction. 

“Home.” 

The tips of his fingers grazed your forearm, feeling your skin. “And your jacket?” 

“Home,” you said again. “I rushed out.”

“You’re cold.”

“You almost died.”

“Fair enough,” his raspy voice mumbled.

You made a small sound, your expression a mixture of regret and love, for you’d done nothing but worry for weeks and the relief still was nowhere in sight. The next days, if not weeks, would not ease your soul. Not until something was done about his involvement in the club. 

"I'm sorry I said that.”

“Nah,” he managed to kiss you somehow, gently. “Don’t have to apologize for nothin’.”

With a ragged breath, your lips were back on his. Even with your wet nose and your blotchy cheeks, you pressed your weight delicately into that single kiss, like it was the last you had to offer. Johnny slid his hand over your neck and stroked the skin, just how sorry he was. You were sorry too. After all, his dreams had turned into a nightmare. 

But you weren’t going anywhere. So you accepted that this was the best outcome and pushed aside the worst. You promised him you’d help him out of his dark spots, give him a new purpose. Maybe talk to Benny first. Take up riding freely. His life could be full of possibilities. 

You fell asleep there—which was selfish, beside the man who had nearly given his life for his own cause—and didn’t even stir when a nurse came in to check on him. Drifting somewhere between sleep and reality, you barely registered his voice saying he was better now.