corner258
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Healy didn’t have a body count. He wasn’t Jack the Ripper… or Amelia’s mother. But that’s not to say he was a saint. Blueface was dead because of him, and John Boy would have been too if Holly hadn’t stepped in.
This may be the one and only time Healy would ever break that promise. It was almost half past ten by now, and most neighbors would be asleep. If he acted quickly, none of them would hear the gunshot or Johnson scream. It had to be quick, despite how badly Healy wanted to slow down and make that fucker suffer.
Johnson’s hand- probably sweaty, clammy- had found a new home on March’s ankle, where his slacks had ridden up, where his knees were bent.
Squeeze. Settle. Squeeze. Settle. Thumb-rubbing back and forth.
“Holly,” Healy whispered, rounding the counter. “Get the gun.”
__________Or: Healy is jealous of March's cop friend and does something about it.
Bookmarked by corner258
10 Jun 2026
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But back to the issue at hand: how in pluperfect hell did he get Jackson Healy into the sack?? Jackson Healy. Jackson “Brass Knuckles, Skull Crackin’, Baseball Bat To the Back, Wrestle A Shotgun From a Lunatic In A Diner” Healy.
Point, March.
Just because.
Bookmarked by corner258
10 Jun 2026
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It started, as it often did, with a missing girl.
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Bookmarked by corner258
10 Jun 2026
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a night without holly means a chance to get loud.
Bookmarked by corner258
10 Jun 2026
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“Why're you always in such a rush?” Jackson murmurs against Holland’s mouth, stubble scratching against moustache. Up this close, Holland goes a little cross-eyed trying to keep Jackson’s gaze. "Let me take care of you."
Bookmarked by corner258
10 Jun 2026