were still waiting on that devil x johnny fanfic miss sarah!

“You sure you’re allowed to be
here?” Johnny asks the Devil. It’s been a good few weeks since the bruises
faded but he can feel them suddenly, flaring into a string of sharp pains along
his jaw.

In the hard August sunlight,
there’s no hint of scales under the Devil’s skin. He looks like a man—a weak
chin, and pale as something grown in the dark. He’s leaned up against the side
of Johnny’s truck like he’s sunning himself. (Maybe he is. They say that in the
Garden, the Devil was a snake; Johnny wonders if he has fangs too.)

Johnny can feel him staring, even
through the mirrored sunglasses. “Why wouldn’t I be allowed?” the Devil asks,
as Johnny stops dead in front of him. Johnny’s palm is sweating, where he
clutches the handle of his fiddle case.

“Well, it’s holy ground, isn’t
it?”

The Devil scoffs. “Does the church
parking lot really count as holy ground?”

“As much as any graveyard.”

The Devil is watching him, behind
those mirrored shades of his. Johnny would stake his life on it. “Then what
business could you have here, Johnny?”

The sun is hot, and Johnny’s
shoulders ache—it’s been a while since he played so long, and the band had
barely taken any break between sets. It had been even hotter under the white
tent, every breath an inhale of warm coleslaw and human bodies sweating through
their Sunday finest. Johnny had only agreed to play the church social as a
favor to Nina, and he’d hated her more with every note of I Am The Man,
Thomas and Big Mama Brown, wishing he’d thought up some excuse instead, or
maybe just told Nina to fuck herself with a bow frog.

But the Devil is leaning up
against Johnny’s truck, and Johnny has the awful suspicion that if he mentions
all that, he might be offered another gift.

(The bruises along Johnny’s jaw
sing.)

“Why does any man get religion?”
Johnny says, and the Devil cocks his head curiously. Johnny grins. “Protection
against the wickedness and snares of the Devil.”

He has the pleasure of watching
the Devil throw back his head and laugh under the bright sky. The Devil’s got
hair the same white as ash, and a forked tongue; it’s strange to see him duck
his head back down, and wet his lower lip with it.

“You needn’t venture into His
country, Johnny,” the Devil says, and Johnny can hear the capitol letter there,
the specific Him. “If you wanted
something, you know I would have obliged.”