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sondepoch · 4 years ago

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Rebellion

All Hail (Diavolo x Reader)

The current ruling class is brutal. Draconian. Tyrannical. Every demon who has sat the throne for the past ninety thousand years has brought nothing but hardship to the Devildom—something Diavolo and his father intend to remedy by seizing power as leaders of the Resistance. When Diavolo happens to come across the princess of the Devildom, he’s overjoyed. He sees you as an opportunity, a sign from a higher power that his cause is just; and he plans to use you as a pawn in his Rebellion. But life rarely goes as planned, especially in Hell. And when Diavolo realizes that he’s falling in love with you, things suddenly feel a lot more complicated than they used to be.

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MASTERLIST

You don't know that your life is going to end.

But from the moment you wake up, you know that something is wrong.

Call it a hunch, call it a guess. But as your two maids pull you out of bed to bathe and dress you, you're positive that something is off. That something is strange. That today is different, and not in a good way.

"Do you hear that sound?" You ask the maid tying your hair, closing your eyes as she works. There's a low hum that envelopes your hearing, like a swarm of bees that won't stop buzzing right outside your room.

Your maid pauses, halting her shuffling to focus on the silence, searching for any sounds that block it out.

The brief quietness that wraps around your room is a final moment of peace.

Then your door has been kicked open, revealing your knight standing in full armor, his helm donned and his sword unsheathed, and you bid farewell to tranquility—not knowing that it will be the last moments of serenity you will ever have.

"Sire!" You exclaim, turning around in shock. You open your mouth to reprimand him, to remind him that even if he is your knight of honor, he cannot barge into your chambers at random like this.

Before you can say a word, though, he's begun speaking. And once the words begin to start pouring out of his mouth, it's like they won't stop.

"Escape—we have to escape! Rebels have seized the west and central wings—we must leave! Now! They've scattered our forces, but a few of us remain in this section of the palace! I've ordered all the men within my unit to set up a defense by all the secret exits, but we must leave now, otherwise—"

Your mind goes blank. His words carry such weight that you can hardly process them.

Rebels? Your eyes widen. And they're in the palace?

"Sire, what about my—"

"Your parents have barricaded in the central wing. Their status remains unconfirmed."

Beneath his helm, your knight's lips are set in a thin line, the demon already making swift strides to wrap his fingers around your arm and yank you out of your seat.

"What are you two waiting for?" He practically shouts at your maids when the two of you are nearly out of your room. "Hurry!"

The urgency in his voice stirs you to action, and within seconds, the four of you have begun sprinting down the empty hall, the only sounds around you being that incessant hum from somewhere outside and the clattering of boots and heels as you collectively begin to escape.

"Sire—" You blurt, using one hand to bunch your dress up. "How—how did this happen? Or—or when? The rebels—it should have been impossible for them to sneak inside. Why weren't the knights guarding the palace?"

"The knights were guarding the palace," The demon responds grimly, jerking your elbow closer to him as he makes a turn, glancing back to confirm that your maids are still hot on your heels. "The rebels managed to enter the palace from inside. They must have had assistance from someone within the palace."

"Who would…"

Who would betray your parents? They've done more than enough to ensure that every civilian, palace worker, and knight in the nine circles of hell is terrified to the core of them and their power. You're not surprised that a rebel faction rose up—but the fact that they were able to get help from within the palace is confusing in more ways than one.

"I don't know, princess." Your knight glances at your with sympathetic eyes, pity laced into the irises you've grown so familiar with. "I am sorry."

"Do not be," You respond curtly, bunching the fabric of your dress tighter in your fist as you run. "There is nothing you could have done."

"Perhaps," The knight muses. "But there are things I can still do now—and it is my mission to see you to safety, princess."

The demon grins at you, flashing you the same broad, charming grin that you've grown used to seeing in these past few months. And for a moment, everything seems like it will be alright. Yes, the palace is currently being infiltrated by rebels and yes, you have no clue whether the rest of your family is safe or not. But as you remember this knight's pledge of honor to you, you know that as long as he is by your side, you're safe.

The thought would make you smile, if not for the fact that seconds later, the four of you turn the corner and run straight into rebels.

Your knight reacts before you do, fingers tensing around your arm with bruising force as he yanks you backward, placing your body behind him. He stands in front of you like a shield, his longsword drawn in his hand within seconds.

Your maids aren't so lucky.

They stop themselves from their sprint only when it's too late, their bodies staggering forward clumsily as they spot the rebels a moment after you.

A moment too long.

You reach a hand out to grab for them, but the knight holds you back, and their names leave your lips in a strangled gasp.

The rebels kill them so quickly, your maids don't even have time to scream before their bodies are falling to the floor, limp and bloodied.

"What—wait—" Your eyes widen with horror, and the knight tries to pull you behind him once more in an attempt to shield you from the sight; but you can't take your eyes off the women who have been with you from childhood. "You monsters!" You seethe, hot tears forming in your eyes as you glare at one of the rebel demons. "I would have—I would have given myself up in exchange for their lives—but—but—"

"We do not need you to give yourself up to us," A voice rings out, interrupting you smoothly.

Your eyes widen.

You know that voice. You've heard that voice. You've spoken with that voice.

"Try to escape as much as you wish, but your life will be in our hands before the day's end." Footsteps click against the stone floors, and a figure emerges in front of the band of rebels. A figure you recognize. "After all," The demon laughs, his tone just as cruel as you remember it. "The last time we met, you told me you wished that vengeance would be delivered to my enemy."

Green eyes meet yours, staring coldly down at you.

"And you, my princess, are the enemy of the people."

The teal-haired demon walks closer, a hand raised to signify that the other rebels ought to not attack. The yet is implied.

"You—you—" You shudder as he approaches, a rage engulfing your senses. "You bastard," You seethe, ignoring the fact that your language is wholly inappropriate for a lady of your standing. "You lied to me! You told me you were a—a—a butler! How does it feel, Sir? To know that you had to lie your way to where you're standing right now?"

The demon chuckles, but the sound is devoid of mirth. No, the laughter that rings forth is nothing but cruel, abrasive to the ear. "I did not lie to you, princess." The demon grins. "I am a butler, after all. I merely...left some details out."

The butler takes two more steps forward, but just as he's about to draw even nearer, your knight raises his longsword, pointing it straight at the demon's chest.

"Not a step closer," He warns, the edge in his voice more threatening than the glint of steel between his fingers.

"Of course," The butler says courteously, nodding his head.

He drops the hand that had been raised, the hand which had been signaling for the other rebels to remain on standby.

They attack the second his hand falls.

Your knight is prepared for them when they come, battling off the six swords with his own as you and the butler merely watch.

"I can fight," You try to explain when the knight pushes you back, never loosening his grip on your arm as he forces you behind him while single-handedly clashing his steel against the rebels'.

"You have no weapon," The knight hisses in response, smoothly disarming one knight. He pierces the demon's heart with his sword, the sound of his flesh tearing open making you flinch. The man cries in response, giving a shuddering gasp which chills you to the core, but your knight has no time to waste with him while five others are still active on the assault, and within moments, his longsword is withdrawn from the demon's body and is back to clinging against his opponents'.

You grit your teeth, hating how the only thing you can do is keep your footsteps in line with the knight's so that you don't trip him, knowing that you'll do nothing but worry him if you try to fight. But still, you keep a fist raised, entirely prepared to jump into the battle if you see your knight being overpowered.

"Impressive," The butler calls out when your knight slices the head off one demon and knocks another unconscious, turning the match into a three-on-one. "Have you ever thought about joining forces with the Resistance, young knight? Your strength may have gone unappreciated under the past tyrant rulers, but the new king will reward you well for your loyalty."

"I am loyal to my princess," Your knight spits in response, punctuating the sentence by killing another rebel and making a swipe for the butler. The green-eyed demon merely steps out of its way. "Your rebel faction means nothing to me."

The knight darts back, and you scamper out of his way so that he doesn't bump into you when he evades a hit from a heavy battle-ax, but the momentum of the movement was too much for the demon who attacked, and in the brief seconds where he is struggling to lift the weapon back off the ground, your knight has already darted in and delivered the fatal wound.

When the battle turns into a one-on-one, there's no question of the winner anymore.

You feel your heart begin to steady when the knight slays the last of the attacking rebels, the adrenaline of fearing for your life wearing off the moment you're no longer in immediate danger.

Yet the butler remains.

Your knight raises his longsword, circling around the demon cautiously, holding you behind his back the whole time as if he's waiting for the man to attack.

But the butler does nothing, maintaining his eerily calm smile as you both cross him in the hall.

Your knight takes a step back, still holding his longsword up. Then another. And another. He takes one more, and then his grip around your arm is even stronger, and the two of you are sprinting down the hall once more, leaving the butler behind as you run.

"That vile man was standing in front of one of the only secret exits in the east wing," Your knight grunts in explanation, gritting his teeth. "We'll have to go around the palace if we want to—"

"Wait!" You interrupt, something more important crossing your mind. You tug the demon backward. "My maids! Their bodies—we have to take them with us so we can give them a proper—"

"No one will be getting any burials today, princess." Your knight's expression darkens as he turns the corner. "Your maids aren't the only ones who ran into those rebels."

For a moment, the two of you pause in your sprint to study the hall in front of you. It's nearly a replica of the scene in your dream: a perfect picture of death. Bodies line the floor, their blood layering out a carpet of red over the stone. Arms are bent at awkward angles, legs are missing, and the entrails of a certain demon have spilled out next to him. Every demon who has died here has died so brutally that there will be no peace for them in the afterlife, their bodies mutilated beyond the point of return.

But for a second, it feels like every pair of dead, open eyes is staring straight at you.

You don't have any time to contemplate the notion, because before you can blink, your knight is tugging you through the sea of bodies without a care in the world.

You try not to cringe as you hear the squelching sound that the corpses make when the two of you trample over them. It takes all your efforts to keep your eyes up and not look down, not stare at the thing that your heel is sinking into which makes such a pitiful sound.

"Princess…" You hear someone breathe from behind you, inches from death but still seeking you out, but your knight has pulled you forward before you can even look back, telling you to keep your eyes off the ground.

You feel sick.

The feeling never leaves you, not when you and the knight start up a sprint once more and not when the ground is finally its usual grey color, with only the occasional palace worker brutalized every couple hundred feet. The queasiness stays with you all the way until you're nearly out of the east wing, after your knight has fought off another handful of rebels and when the two of you are close to another secret exit.

But you make the mistake of glancing inside a familiar room.

And then it's another feeling that's overwhelming your senses, and the nausea at seeing so many mutilated bodies fades when another sight enters your vision.

"Wait," You mumble, instantly slowing down.

"Princess?" The knight in front of you calls, tugging your arm. "We have to go, we don't have time to—"

"No!" You blurt, tugging the knight backward, going back to the room you just saw. It had to be your imagination, right? Could it be true?

Your knight protests the whole time as you practically drag him back to the throne room, squinting to see whether it was just a trick of the light or whether you actually saw what you think you did.

And sure enough, you were right the first time.

Red hair.

Your eyes soften, a familiar warmth settling inside your heart.

Amber eyes.

A careless smile breaks out on your face: the smile of a fool in love.

"Diavolo!" You practically sing as you step forward into the throne room, the knight behind you flinching when he sees that you've willingly entered into the same room as someone who certainly isn't a palace worker.

The redhead makes no motion to respond to you, his expression unreadable as you draw close.

"You're here," You say with so much love that it hurts, every inch of your body overwhelmed with the fact that your lover somehow managed to make it here to protect you.

It doesn't strike you as odd that Diavolo is sitting on your throne.

"We're saved," You whisper to the knight next to you. You can feel him instinctively relax when he sees the utterly relieved expression on your face, but the arm that grips you remains tense. "This is the man I told you about. The man I want to marry."

You turn away from your knight, addressing your lover.

A beaming smile lights up your face.

"You're here to save us, aren't you?" You ask, ready to cry tears of joy. You were so scared, so terrified that you were actually going to die. But Diavolo pulled through. He came here for you. To help you. To protect you.

To save you.

Something flashes in Diavolo's eyes. An unfamiliar emotion. It looks like guilt, but surely you misread it? He should be proud. He made it here on time. You're going to be okay, now.

And it's all thanks to Diavolo.

"Princess…" Your knight mumbles into your ear after Diavolo has been silent for a moment too long. "This is the man you have been leaving the palace to see?"

You nod, smiling sweetly.

Your knight stares down at you, eyes softening. A strange emotion swirls in his eyes as he sees the utterly trusting expression you regard your lover with, but you don't bother commenting on it as you continue to attempt escaping his tight grip around your arm so you can go forward and embrace Diavolo.

When the demon next speaks, you're confused.

"Princess, get behind me."

Your knight raises his sword to Diavolo, his eyes narrowed in pure hatred as he looks upon the man who sits on your throne.

"What? Sire, what are you doing? Diavolo isn't the enemy, he's—"

"Get behind me," Your knight repeats with such venom in his voice that you turn to Diavolo, expecting the man to say something—but your lover doesn't look at you. He keeps his gaze focused solely on the knight, lifting his own sword when he sees the demon draw close.

"W-wait," You blurt the second you see your knight move forward, beginning to circle Diavolo. "S-Sire, what are you doing? D-Diavolo, don't fight him—I know I never told you about who I really am, but—but—but this knight is on our side, and—"

"Princess," Your knight cuts you off, his expression fixed on Diavolo.

You don't respond to his word, too preoccupied with the sight of the two demons you trust most being poised to fight, both stanced for a duel which looks like it will end in death.

"This man..." Your knight glares, closing one eye as he raises his longsword.

"...Has lied to you."

Steel crosses with steel.

Your eyebrows furrow the moment the demons move, the moment you see how precise their swings are—and you dart forward, trying to step between their weapons until the knight pushes you away, practically shoving you behind him.

"Sire—Sire, stop! I am commanding you to stop! This is a misunderstanding, this is—"

"No, princess," Your knight scowls, dodging swiftly before thrusting his sword at Diavolo's stomach, though the redhead evades easily. "You have misunderstood."

"What are you…"

You flinch when the sound of metal clanging fills your ears, stepping back.

"This man has lied to you, princess." Your knight begins advancing, and the fury in his words is emphasized by every movement of the blade between his hands. "Who do you think he is? A farmer? A commoner? A merchant?" Your knight glares. "He is among the rebels. No, he must be their leader."

"What…?" You turn your eyes upon Diavolo, waiting for him to deny it. Waiting for him to step back and furrow his eyebrows cutely like he does whenever he doesn't know what you're talking about. Waiting for him to say something to prove your knight wrong, and prove that this is all just a big misunderstanding.

But he says nothing, only continuing to retreat as your knight's attacks grow more frenzied.

"How did it feel?" Your knight hisses, no longer addressing you but now solely focused on Diavolo. "Leading the princess on, tricking her into loving you, toying with her heart so that you could sit on her throne?"

Your knight swings his longsword with such strength that if Diavolo hadn't ducked, his torso would have been cut clean off.

"Diavolo," You whisper, hesitantly turning to him. He ignores you, but you see the way the muscles twitch in his neck when you speak. "Diavolo, please. Tell me...tell me it isn't true."

But for the first time, the demon you've come to love ignores you.

"Close the door, Barbatos," He commands. You nearly flinch at the inflection of his voice, because never before have you ever seen him speak with such authority—but then another thought breaks into your mind, and you shudder because he isn't just asking to have the door closed. He's asking to make it so that no one can disturb you.

Diavolo wants to kill your knight without any interruptions.

"Wait!" You shout, spinning around, hoping that the rebel behind you will be someone you can plead with. But when you glance back, the eyes that greet you are cold. Callous. Cruel.

Green.

You shiver as the butler from before smiles eerily at you, closing the door with a bang which seems to echo through the room, momentarily overpowering even the sounds of swordfighting from behind you.

How did he get here so fast?

Another chill crawls down your spine as his empty, olive eyes peel back at your soul, and you turn around just to avoid the sight of him.

Of course, the two men fighting behind you are hardly easier to watch.

Your knight is completely unhinged, now. He throws insults left and right at Diavolo, using his sword to rain down attacks that come just as hard as his words, but your lover says nothing, solely preoccupied with pushing back.

"Vile." He seethes. "Wicked—you are pathetic. Your rebellion is unjust. The princess is a better ruler than you can ever hope to be." Your knight spits at Diavolo's feet. "You have no honor. A decent man would have at least charged the gates headfirst, rather than sneaking in from the inside like a coward—"

Your eyes widen in horror.

"Wait," You mumble, falling to your knees. "I—no—it can't—"

"Princess?" Your knight asks, pausing in his insults for the first time when he sees the way you practically crumple to the floor. His gaze shifts back and forth between you and Diavolo, desperately avoiding his opponent's attacks but unwilling to leave you be. "What is—" He grunts, ducking. "What is wrong?"

You take a shaky breath to steady yourself, tears filling your eyes.

But the guilt is overwhelming.

"I gave Diavolo entry to the Temple of the Grim Reaper, Sire." The knight's eyes widen at your words. "I let the rebels into the palace."

Your shoulders slump in shame as you realize the weight of your blunder. The fact that you single-handedly doomed every single person in this palace. That all those mutilated corpses outside are your doing, because if you had never given Diavolo free reign of the holy temple, he never found his way into the palace through the secret passage, and this rebel faction would have had no leverage.

It's your fault.

Your knight gazes at you in sympathy for a moment, his eyes taking on a softer shade as he doubtlessly tries to come up with something to say that will comfort you.

And then the weight of your burden abruptly increases, because that single second of hesitation is all Diavolo needs to deliver a deadly blow, and your knight drops to the ground.

"No!" You scream, scrambling forward. You don't care how pathetic you look, you don't care how unladylike you're being. You have enough death on your hands—you can't take any more. "No," You mumble, cradling your knight's head in your lap as Diavolo gazes down at you with unreadable eyes.

"I can…" Your knight trails off, glancing down at where Diavolo has sliced into his skin.

A single glance is all it takes to know that the wound is fatal.

"I can...fight…" He grunts, using the last of his strength to push you away, away from him and away from Diavolo, stabbing his sword into the ground to use it to crawl to his feet.

Diavolo makes no motion to stop him.

You glance around the room, desperately searching for a weapon—but your throne room has been stripped of its furnishings. There lies not even a rock you can throw to intervene with the fight, and you know better than to go against an opponent who has a sword without one of your own.

You cringe as the sound of metal meeting flesh fills your ears, already knowing that Diavolo isn't the one who was just injured.

"Cease this," You breathe shakily. "Diavolo, I will give myself to you, but please just spare—"

"I thought I told you we didn't need you to give yourself up?" A voice asks, sharp and irritated. The butler—Barbatos, as Diavolo called him—approaches you from behind, taking advantage of the fact that you're practically paralyzed in fear to stand right next to you. "Watch, princess. Diavolo is not the person who will kill this knight. It will be you."

You regard the demon's words with confusion. Confusion and horror, another shudder running up your spine when you feel how close Barbatos is to you; but then the weight of his words hits you, and you realize their meaning.

"I will not..." Your knight spits blood. It hardly does anything, given that he is now covered in red, but he does it all the same. "...stand down." He glances back at you, and his gaze is nearly as terrifying as Barbatos's, utterly horrifying to look at because of how his face is littered with cuts and he's drenched in blood—but you refuse to let yourself turn away. "I swore to you that as long as my blood runs warm," He trembles, taking a staggering step as he raises his sword. "Then...you shall be protected."

Diavolo strikes, clanging the sword out of his hand. It falls to the floor, too far for the knight to pick it back up.

"So, I must...I have to...survive...if not for my own sake...then for yours, princess…"

Your knight raises a fist, a final act of defiance that he knows is futile, but it's the only option he has left. You cringe internally, waiting for Diavolo to strike him down, to kill the final shield that guards your life—but the redhead is unmoving as your knight's gloved fist comes crashing down against his cheek, the punch falling upon his face without an ounce of resistance.

Isn't it sick that even now, you feel a twinge of sympathy for Diavolo?

You watch as your knight remains standing for a beat longer, raising a second fist to strike him again.

But one free punch is all Diavolo was willing to give him, and when your lover's sword cuts open your knight's neck, the demon doesn't even scream before he crumbles to the floor, dead as the bodies outside.

You don't look at Diavolo when he enters the room.

Your gaze is fixated on the floor, on a speck of dirt that you want to flick away but can't because of the way your wrists have been handcuffed to the ground.

"Leave us."

You raise your eyes, sneaking a peek at the two demons who stand behind Diavolo. One of them is Barbatos, but that's hardly surprising, given that out of all the rebels you'd crossed when you were dragged to this room in chains, Barbatos is the only one who never left Diavolo's side.

You squint in the darkness, lowering your head to get a better sight of the other demon, noting that something about him seems awfully familiar. Raising your head, you try to catch a glimpse of the demon's eyes and—

Oh.

It's the Victor.

Fighting for Diavolo's Rebellion, doubtlessly brought here by the redhead's victory last night.

The very thought fills you with anger.

"I trained you," You croak, the chains rattling from behind you when you and Diavolo are alone. "I trained you, and I fed you, and I healed you, and now you're turning that against me?"

Bitterness drips from your voice like blood off the sword hanging on Diavolo's side.

"I was good to you. I taught you, and I protected you, and I loved you—"

Your words are growing louder now, hysteria sinking into your voice as you fight back the tears.

"I loved you, and I kissed you, and I slept with you—" Your words break off, the tears now freely pouring down your face. You heave in a breath, but the cold air stings your lungs. "How could you, Diavolo? I thought—"

You choke back a sob.

"I thought you loved me."

You close your eyes, dropping your head to the ground so that Diavolo can't see the tears as they stream down your face.

The last thing you expect is for him to drop to his knees and wrap you in a hug.

"Don't touch me," You hiss, but you can't bring yourself to pull away from his arms.

"I'm sorry," He breathes into your ear, and it feels less like he's hugging you and more like he's clinging to you, desperate to hold on to your figure while he still can. "I'm so sorry."

"Sorry doesn't forgive killing my people," You retort, memories of every person who has died today flashing through your mind. "You and your rebels slaughtered my men. My women. My palace workers. My knights."

"Everyone was given the opportunity to come to our cause," Diavolo responds. "The ones who had been brainwashed by your parents stayed, but over ninety percent of the palace forces have joined the Resistance, and—"

"Brainwashed?" The word falls from your lips like it's poison, and you glare at Diavolo. "My parents never brainwashed—"

"Can you truly say that?" Diavolo asks, his voice sharp. The amber eyes you've grown to love are impossibly clear as they stare you down, and the raw confidence of his voice makes you hesitate.

Can you truly say that your family hasn't brainwashed their most loyal supporters? It certainly wouldn't be unusual, given all their other transgressions against the people. But still…

"I wouldn't have brainwashed anyone," You whisper.

"It doesn't matter what you would have done," Diavolo responds, reaching a hand to card through your hair. The gesture is so familiar and loving that you can't help but relax, despite the situation. Diavolo's next words are a stark reminder of the truth. "What matters is your parents. What they have already done. Their crimes against the people, and what the people are now going to do in retaliation."

You lower your head.

"You can't deny that your parents have been awful to the masses. It's not an opinion. Their tyranny is a fact. A rebellion was inevitable—the only people who have neglected to join the Resistance did so out of fear, and even they have turned to our side now that the fated day has come."

"But I was going to free everyone," You whisper. "I was going to change everything when my parents handed over the throne. Everything, Diavolo. I was going to give the people what they wanted."

The demon remains silent.

"If you—" You swallow, a surge of hope washing through your senses. "If you want to be king, Diavolo, I can make it happen. I know you're noble—your rebellion proves that. But—but if you truly loved me, then…"

You let your voice fade to a whisper, not bothering to finish a sentence that Diavolo already knows the answer to.

"I already told you that I want nothing more than to marry you," Diavolo whispers. "It would make me happier than anything in the world. But your life...cannot be spared."

"And why not?" You retort, passion burning in your eyes as you look up. The chains clatter against your wrist as you struggle forward, but you force yourself to twist your body into a position that enables you to look your lover in the eye. "I will be a good ruler. I know that. You know that."

"You will be a good ruler," Diavolo agrees. "But the people will forever live in fear under you."

You open your mouth to argue, but the redhead is speaking before you can.

"You are the daughter of the emperor and empress who killed millions. It wasn't just your parents who sucked the Devildom dry—it's been every single ruler in your family. Not only do the people not trust you, they can't trust you. You represent everyone that they have suffered abuse under, everything that—"

"But I'm not!" You argue, jerking your body forward. "I'm good! I was—I was going to take the throne, and I was going to change things! I was—I was—" Another wave of tears springs to your eyes, but this time you don't bother holding them back. "I was going to marry you, Diavolo. I was going to marry a commoner and break every precedent my ancestors have set! I was going to make the Devildom happy, and—and—"

You choke off to get ahold of yourself, taking deep breaths to calm yourself.

"I wanted to marry you. I want to marry you." You jerk your wrist from its chains, trying to reach up to caress Diavolo's face, but the shackles hold you back. "We could still get married," You whisper. "Just like you wanted to, yesterday—we could get married, and we could change the Devildom for eternity."

You lean your head forward, trying desperately to get him to see how genuine you are.

But the look in Diavolo's eyes is tinged with pity.

His mind is already made up.

"All you had to do was wait," You whisper. "Just a few more months, until the first snow came, and then you would have seen me rise to the throne. Everything would have changed. People would have been happy."

Diavolo remains quiet for a moment longer, but when he processes your words, a strange light settles in his eyes.

"The first...snow?" He mumbles, confused.

"Yes," You mumble, eyes downcast. "If you could have waited just a few more months, I was going to inherit the throne."

Diavolo studies you, amber eyes blurred in confusion. The look turns to skepticism, then confusion once more, until the oranges light up with understanding—before his expression darkens.

"Your parents were going to give you the throne."

You nod.

"On the first snow of this year."

Another nod.

Diavolo stares at you blankly, and then his expression twists into a grimace as he pulls away from you, abruptly leaning back.

"They knew," He mutters under his breath, more to himself than to you. "They knew that Rebellion was coming."

"What?" You try to weasel your way forward and see the look on Diavolo's face, but the darkness of the room makes it impossible. "Why would they stay in the palace if they knew—"

"They didn't."

Diavolo glares at the floor, his hand tensing into a fist.

"When we infiltrated the central wing, your parents were already dead." Diavolo drops his head. "It was a double suicide. Poison. They knew we were coming."

"What?" You ask. "No. No way. They wouldn't—they wouldn't kill themselves. Or—or if they did, they—they would have told me, so that—"

"So that what?" Diavolo snaps. "There's nowhere in the Devildom that is safe for any of you. No matter where you go, the masses will follow. You'll be lucky if you can get a quick death, but the public has been oppressed for too long to give any of you an easy out. It would be hell for any of you if you tried to escape. Death was the only way."

"You don't mean…"

Diavolo nods his head, the pitying look in his eyes returning.

"Your parents never planned for you to become Empress." The demon stares at his hands. "They probably just...wanted you to be a bit happier in your final months in the Devildom."

You jerk back abruptly, practically kicking Diavolo away until your back is flush against the wall you're chained to, trying to distance yourself from the demon, yourself from his words, yourself from the truth that is spilling out of his mouth.

"You're wrong," You whisper, closing your eyes. "My parents love me. They wouldn't lie to me. They—I was going to be Empress. They were going to make me Empress."

"We are demons of hell," Diavolo mumbles. "Demons of flame, demons of fire. Summer is our season. We celebrate the heat, not the cold." His eyes raise. "Tell me, have you ever heard of royalty being sworn in during the winter?"

"No," You say. "But I was going to be the first—"

"No," Diavolo cuts you off. "You were never going to be Empress."

You lean back, numb as Diavolo continues to stare at the ground, neither of you willing to move. The moment is delicate. So infinitely precious, as if a single word will shatter the silence. The tears that have been streaming down your cheeks finally stop, their tracks feeling cold as they dry on your face.

Neither of you seems to breathe.

"I came…" Diavolo coughs, clearing his voice when he realizes how shaky his words sound. "I came to fetch you." He refuses to meet your eyes. "The Resistance has full control of the palace, and all the remaining workers and knights have turned over to our side."

A weak laugh escapes from your lips.

The rebels won control of the palace the moment your parents committed suicide. With no hailing Emperor or Empress to bow to, the illusion of fear that had chained all the royal subjects to the palace dissipated. It's hardly any wonder that this rebellion has finished as quickly as it began.

"You're going to kill me," You mumble, almost feeling delirious. "No, no wait—I bet you're going to get rid of my soul as well, aren't you?"

The way Diavolo doesn't respond is an answer in itself.

You try not to think about the excruciating pain that accompanies the death of one's soul, forcing yourself away from a visualization of the agony you're about to go through.

"Your death will mark the beginning of a new era," Diavolo whispers. "The people will be happy. They will be free. Magic will be practiced on the streets, and the Devildom will finally ring with the sound of laughter once more."

"Yeah," You respond, already beginning to imagine it. "But did it ever occur to you that I wanted to see that future?"

Diavolo doesn't have anything to say to that. He remains silent for a long time, probably sorting out his guilt upon everything he's done to you and everything he's about to do to you, but you don't bother comforting him when you see how his eyes shine with regret.

In the end, he never responds to you.

The demon leans forward, reaching over your shoulder in a way that almost makes you think he's going to kiss you, but then you hear the sound of a lock, and the iron pipe that had bound your chains to the wall is dislodged, and you're somewhat free.

You jerk your wrists forward, momentarily considering an attack. But you know you're overpowered, with your ankles shackled to each other and your wrists bound behind your back.

You regret having ever trained Diavolo.

You want to regret having ever loved the man.

"Let's go," He mumbles, standing to his feet while he waits for you to do the same. He doesn't offer a hand to help you up, and you're grateful. You're not sure that you'd be able to take his help right now, not when he's about to kill you.

Neither of you looks at each other.

The walk through the palace is quick. Quicker than you'd like. You know these halls well, but it feels like Diavolo has truly studied them, because the path he leads you through is rigid.

You almost wish you could have had more time to appreciate the walk.

"I do love you," Diavolo mumbles when the two of you are in the hall that leads straight into the main entrance. You peek over his shoulder and see an array of unfamiliar faces, but you already know who they are.

The Resistance.

"If you had said yes to me yesterday, I really would have run away with you." Diavolo steps forward, brushing away the tearstains from your cheeks.

You hate how soothing you find the gesture.

"But you would have regretted it," You mumble in response, too familiar with Diavolo's code of honor to delude yourself into thinking anything else.

"Yes," He whispers. "I would have."

The two of you remain standing like that for a long time, Diavolo's hand lingering on your cheek while he stares down at you. But you can't bring yourself to meet his gaze. You stare at his chest, remembering the strong muscles there that you always thought would protect you from harm. The same muscles that are now pushing you into death's arms.

You think Diavolo is about to hug you one final time when he turns away, a hush settling over the entrance hall the moment the two of you trail inside.

Everyone looks at you.

You don't return any of their stares, though. The only eyes you are willing to meet are Diavolo's, and he never turns to face you again, avoiding your gaze entirely as he brings you to the palace door.

"It is time." He declares, his voice filled with an authority you're not used to hearing from him. "Begin."

Immediately, the gates creak open.

Your eyes widen as they do so, the low hum that you'd grown used to from this morning growing louder and nearly exploding when the doors open.

Your lips part as you see the obscene amount of barely restrained people, all shouting and jeering and screaming in a noise so deafening you're amazed that the stone castle walls were able to suppress them at all.

For a second, happiness returns to your heart when you see how they instinctively cheer when they see the palace door open—and you think that maybe Diavolo's words were a lie. That maybe, all the masses aren't against you. That maybe, you're not alone in this world, and all these people are here to protest Rebellion.

But then you hear some of the words that they shout and jeer.

And you realize the truth: it's Diavolo they are cheering for. It's cries of Rebellion that ring from their lips. It's hurrahs of the usurper king they scream, and it's the Resistance that they sing praises for.

Only a handful of people resort to throwing insults instead of shouting praise. But the ones who do are not opposing Diavolo.

No, every insult is thrown your way. It's you they loathe.

You, and no other.

The castle is lit aflame, the building burning before the fires conjured up by Diavolo's father.

It's purely symbolic. The burning of the palace is nothing more than another message to the masses: look, we have erased every memory of the tyrant rulers from our kingdom. But still, Diavolo can't help but think that it is one of the most beautiful things he has ever seen. The fire is so huge that it lights up the whole city, illuminating the Devildom which is so often shrouded in darkness.

Diavolo never knew stone could burn. Of course, his father's magic truly seems to know no bounds, so the demon was hardly surprised when all the Resistance members filed outside the palace before his father set it to flames, lifting his fist triumphantly while the masses roared in approval.

The prince glances at you from the corner of his eye, noting how you tremble when you see your home up in flames.

He wants to comfort you.

He wants to hold you.

He wants to love you.

Of course, the demon does nothing of the sort, having been reminded too many times by Barbatos and his father of his role here.

Bring her to the pyre, set it aflame, walk away.

And nothing else. Barbatos had been particularly adamant about that last part.

"Come," He whispers to you. There's no way that you were able to hear him—not with all the commoners pressed so close to the palace, screaming so loudly—but you move anyway, your chains jingling gently under the deafening jeers as Diavolo leads you to the pyre.

It has to be me, Diavolo remembers his father telling him as he gently lowers you to your knees, right before he begins to chain your shackles to the bolts of iron and metal that stick out of the ground. It's symbolic: the prince of the people setting fire to the princess of evil, the old being replaced by the new.

That doesn't stop Diavolo from hating every second.

The demon almost wishes that you would resist, that you would fight back and spit in his face, but you're nothing but compliant, your face already turned into an expression of mute acceptance. Worse yet is the fact that Diavolo remembers that your right wrist is stronger than your left, bolting it down with a touch of magic that you refuse to comment on, never meeting his eyes.

"You're going to die now," Diavolo mumbles, angling his head away from the public so that they can't see. He doesn't know why he says the words. He isn't even sure if you can hear him. But he refuses to move without telling you, as if it's the only mercy he can give. "I'm going to…"

"I know."

Diavolo will never understand how, but your voice hangs above the screams of the masses as they jeer at you, shouting insults. Your words are impossibly clear, maybe even clearer than the creative insults the crowd throws your way. He doesn't know if it's a blessing or a burden, because it forces him to listen to your next words.

Your final words.

"Take care of the Devildom for me, will you, Diavolo?"

You raise your eyes to look up at him, turning away from the mob watching and ignoring them altogether in favor of casting him one last look—and Diavolo hates that even now, you still have the interest of the people at heart. You may not forgive him for his methods, but you love the citizens of your nation.

Diavolo's nation.

"I will," Diavolo whispers in response. He's about to begin rambling, about to swear off another promise that will make you understand the truth of his words, the sincerity with which he speaks, but seconds later, his father is handing him a torch.

Your eyes flash with fear, the final sight Diavolo will ever see from you before you drop your gaze to your knees where they rest atop the pyre.

I'm sorry, he says, murmuring the words in his mind because he knows he doesn't deserve to apologize. He doesn't deserve to guilt you into accepting his apology. He doesn't deserve your forgiveness, and he doesn't deserve this kingdom which he has stolen from you.

But when the people see the stick in Diavolo's hand, the flame at the end burning with the telltale blackness of hellfire, they roar in support.

And Diavolo remembers why he is doing this.

For the people.

The demon steels himself, rising to his feet. He is not doing this for himself. He is not doing this for his father. He is not doing this for you. He is doing this for the people, and for the people, he will put on a show. For the people, he will give them the final taste of vengeance that they were deprived of the moment your parents committed suicide, give them what little sick satisfaction he can.

When he drops the stick of hellfire onto the pyre, he does it for the people.

But when Diavolo steps back, it's for his own sake.

Your screams begin instantly. The hellfire spreads faster than normal fire, faster than magic fire, faster than anything in the world as it rushes to every inch of the square pyre his father set up, and your body is burning instantly.

Diavolo tries to go further back, tries to put as much distance between you and that awful sound coming out of your mouth, but his father grabs his arm before he can withdraw any more.

"Watch," The demon hisses, fingernails digging into his skin. "You claimed to have loved her, so you will watch as you pay the price for our kingdom. It is the least we can do."

A shudder runs up Diavolo's spine when he sees the way your body writhes desperately atop to the flames, your skin slowly beginning to melt when faced with the scorching heat of hellfire.

Abruptly, Diavolo wishes that they could have used regular flames. Or simple magic. Because neither of those would hurt as much, neither of those would bring such horrifying sounds out of your mouth. But Diavolo knows that was never an option. Hellfire is the only way to truly end the life of anyone with royal blood flowing in their veins, the only way to not only burn their body but to set fire to their soul, scorching it so brilliantly that even the cycle of reincarnation is broken when the flames die out.

There will be nothing for you when this is over. The only escape is if the God in the Celestial Realm above takes pity on you, and Diavolo already knows that the ruler of heaven would rather see every demon in the Devildom burn in hellfire before he would ever take a demon into his land.

But that doesn't make the reality of the situation any less cruel.

Diavolo flinches when he realizes that your restraints are burning. That the chains which he bound to you are melting into your skin, an added burn that just exaggerates the pain.

The crowds scream with approval.

Their voices whoop with joy, all of them seeing you as an emblem of pure evil. When they watch you howl under the heat of the flames, it's your parents they imagine burning. Your parents, and your parents' parents, and every godforsaken ancestor in your family that has brought such misery to the Devildom—misery that you are paying back.

"Long live the king!" The crowd begins to shout, and Diavolo can't help but think that it's sick. Sick that they're paying tribute to his father, not even giving you the respect you deserve as you die for them.

A round of cheers raise up the moment your body has been reduced to nothing more than a pile of helplessly connected bones, but even then, you are still moving. There is still that awful screaming coming out of your mouth, a sound that sounds like it's Diavolo's name you are desperately trying to form the syllables to.

Please let her die soon, Diavolo prays. Please end this suffering.

He does not know who he is praying to, but his wishes are answered because in moments, even your bones have melted into the ground, prompting another wave of hurrahs to rise up from the crowd.

But your soul remains.

The ball of spirit fights viciously against the flame, your soul young and unready to give in to the merciless destruction of hellfire.

But Diavolo can see it flickering.

The commoners' chants begin rising, now starting to clash with each other as everyone is collectively shouting for some variation of a wish for your death, every single person urging your spirit onward in its agony, only Diavolo silently begging for your soul to miraculously remain whole, though he knows it's futile.

Diavolo can no longer hear your cries of pain.

The ball of light from within the black flames is flickering, fading.

"All hail the king!" The commoners shout, pressing forward as much as they can with Resistance members holding them back. "All hail the king, all hail the prince!"

Diavolo tunes them out, though. He's solely preoccupied with your soul, urging you onward in your desperate struggle against a force so much stronger than your own fragile spirit.

"All hail the king!"

Your soul disappears for a moment, but a beat later, it's back, still fighting.

"All hail the prince!"

A burst of light strengthens your spirit momentarily, but seconds later, you're back to flickering.

"All hail the Resistance!"

You're doing your best to hold your ground, Diavolo knows. Black flames overwhelm your spirit but you're fighting back, refusing to let go.

"All hail Rebellion!"

Please hold on, Diavolo wants to shout. Please hold on, and defeat the flames, and survive, and then maybe, just maybe, I can find your soul in your next life, and we—

Your soul flickers.

Once.

Twice.

And then never again.

A wave of cheers rise up from the public the moment they see that the flames of hellfire are pure black, not a single remnant of you to indicate that there was ever anything burning within, and Diavolo feels the breath catch in his throat, the air unwilling to go down as he waits for your soul to return. For your spirit to flicker once more, no matter how weak, to give him a final glimpse of hope.

But the flames remain black.

The masses go wild when they realize that you're gone. That not only is your life washed from this land but that your soul has been removed in the only way they know how, burned to ashes by hellfire. Their chants, cheers of hailing Diavolo and his father and Rebellion and the Resistance join into one, a seemingly never-ending cry of "All hail! All hail! All hail!"

The prince feels his father tense at the sight, instantly gripping Diavolo's hand and raising it high above his head for all to see the pose of victory between the father and son, the king and prince, the leader and defender.

"All hail! All hail!" They continue to shout, praising everything in those two lonely words of their chant: Diavolo, his father, the Resistance, Rebellion, and all of them for bearing the rule of tyrants for so many millennia.

Diavolo can hardly think over their screams because in his mind, the sound of your wails of agony continues to play out in his mind, and the look on his face is numb as he and his father step forward, and the crowd's chants grow impossibly louder.

The look on his father's face is filled with pride as their newly acquired kingdom screams for them, roaring in approval.

They continue to roar, their shouts getting louder and louder until each demon's voice has joined into a single chant that echoes through the land.

"All hail! All hail!

The sheer joy on their faces as they realize that they are finally free shakes Diavolo to the core, because he knows that it is an expression you always longed to see on the faces of your people. Pure happiness, relief, and elation at the realization that the oppression is over. That Rebellion has delivered its judgment, and they have emerged victorious.

"All hail! All hail!" They chant in unison, their voices and hearts beating as one, the whole nation at last brought together.

Diavolo wishes you could see it.

The crowd seems to sing with happiness as they continue to whoop and cheer, every word that spills from their mouth coated with joy so distinct that the demons seem to shine as they raise their fists in response to Diavolo's own.

It is a sight you would be proud of.

As the Devildom salutes its new leaders, unanimously approving of Diavolo and his father, the realm seems to shake as it breaks free from the reign of terror that had shackled it before, Diavolo swears that the sky brightens ever so slightly.

It is a sight you would have wanted to see, he knows.

And yet, it is a sight only possible because you are not here to see it.

MASTERLIST

01 | 02 | 03 | 04 | 05 | 06 | 07 | 08 | 09 | ✔

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philliamwrites · 4 years ago

Text

i could make you need me all the time (pt.2)

Fandom: Persona 5

Pairing: Akira/Akechi

Tags: #justice rank 8 spoilers, #slight angst, #persona 5 royal spoilers, #new semester spoilers

Words: 3.4k

Summary: Akechi is counting numbered days, preparing himself for the end. Akira being himself doesn't help.

Note: Part 2 | Inspired by ‘Make it Holy’ by The Staves.

i could make you need me all the time

Lavenza is not what Akechi has expected. Not that he’s expected anything specific in the first place, but a little child with golden eyes, staring at him with such an intense gaze that he is the one looking away first, is new. Akira being too prying for his own good is nothing new though. He stays after everyone leaves the nurse’s room, leaning against a white wall between two areca palms while watching Akechi on his quest to find band-aids he doesn’t even need.

Nothing and everything changed after Christmas Eve.

They aren’t fooling around in Save Rooms anymore. No one buys their ‘Forgot something and have to go back’-trick because no one leaves Akira and him alone for even a second. Akira thinks it’s rude. Akechi doesn’t really care. If possible, he doesn’t want to see him at all.

“My sports uniform looks good on you,” Akira says. There’s a slight tilt to his voice Akechi’s heart always responds to with a little jolt—the eradicated-the-enemy-fashionably-tilt, the-I’m-your-rival-don’t-get-too-cocky-tilt, the post-orgasm-satisfied-tilt. Where once adrenaline shot through his body, only electricity remains that paralyses him.

It’s the first time his body simply shuts down instead of running or fighting, effectively betraying him.

Avoiding Akira is like trying to run away from a bee while wearing cologne that smells of pansies. It isn’t too evident in Maruki’s palace. Any slip-up means potentionally risking all their lives, so Akira approaches him for obligations only. Healing, consultation, strategy. Akechi lets him, always catching him staring at his ass though.

Everything gets trickier when they’re in the real world. There’s only so long Akechi can hide in his cold one-room apartment, emptied by Shido’s henchmen at some point during his disappearance in December, before a phone call or message summons him to meet with the rest. He does want to defeat Maruki. He does not want to achieve it by pretending to be friends.

“If you have time to simply stand there, why not use it to plan our next infiltration?” Akechi asks without looking back, pretending that rummaging through the cupboards requires his whole attention. He’s a man on a mission, adamant that if he only ignores Akira long enough, he’ll just lose interest like a child growing bored with their toys.

He underestimates him.

Again.

“Morgana and the rest have that covered.” Footsteps draw closer. Akechi’s body tenses into one hard, solid muscle. “I’m here because there’s something we need to talk about.”

“Is that so?” Akechi closes a cabinet door with a loud bang, marching to the other side of the room. “Because I have nothing to say to you.”

There are million things he wants, maybe needs to say, but simply thinking about them closes Akechi’s throat off, choking him with this bitter taste of rotten glory and ruined dreams. He’d rather die than allow this weakness to take hold of him.

“Akechi.”

He ignores him, rummaging through a drawer that’s crammed full of snacks. No band-aids. He hates this place.

“Akechi.”

Dull pain throbs at the back of his head. He tells Robin Hood to make Loki stop, but silence in return reminds him that since the boiler room, Robin has been gone. It’s easy to forget that sometimes. It isn’t as easy falling asleep again after waking from a nightmare where he hears Robin’s atrocious screams still ringing in his head.

He tears through the next drawer, refusing to think about anything else except band-aids, band-aids, band-aids, what shitty nurse room doesn’t have band-aids—

“Goro.”

Akira is so close; he feels his warm breath on the back of his neck.

Fight, flight or stay to be devoured. Akechi barely turns his head, eyes creeping up slowly to Akira’s face. Being this close was never a problem before—Akechi has had enough time to count every single lash, black as spilt ink, cursing them curling like crescent moons and throwing long shadows over high, winged cheekbones he can draw with closed eyes on paper. This face is as familiar as his own. He’s seen it angry, laughing, frowning; wearing a wicked, cruel smile, contort in hot, all-consuming pleasure: slightly open mouth with pink, swollen lips, blushing, hot cheeks. Dead, empty eyes. Red, thick blood between slanted eyebrows.

In his nightmares, Akechi hears Robin’s scared screams in the boiler room, and sees Akira’s slack face slam on the prosecutor’s desk.

No. There really is nothing to say.

“Goro?” Akira’s voice is barely a whisper. “You’re shaking.”

If there is a time for his body to betray him, it isn’t now. Akechi turns away, his mission forgotten. Right now, he needs to get as far away from here as possible. Akechi never feared his mistakes to catch up to him some day, but Akira, alive and kicking Akira, proves him wrong over and over again. “If there’s nothing else, it’s time for me to go,” he says.

He shoves Akira out of his way, quickly pulling his hand back as if burnt by this simple touch. He manages to cross the room halfway before Akira’s voice makes him stop.

“Were you looking for this?”

He turns around. Akira is holding a partially opened package of band-aids, presenting them like bait to prey that doesn’t know any better. Akechi wants to bare his teeth.

“I’m not here to play games,” he hisses, stomping towards Akira who beelines towards him as well, approaching Akechi too fast. Two feet until they crash like stars and swallow everything. One foot until they collide like cars and explode into tiny, burning pieces. Before they set the room in flames, Akira halts.

“Good,” he says and takes Akechi’s wrist—far gentler than he’d expected or liked, and leads him to the sitting area near the door where he can see the exit so close and yet so far. “Because I’m not playing.”

Akechi clicks his tongue.

He drops begrudgingly into an armchair, folding one leg over the other and crossing his arms. Akira knees down in front of him, just a few inches away from his legs. It reminds Akechi of a similar image several months ago, only he was still acting for an audience that never cared about him in the first place, and Akira was wearing a tight, black latex cop uniform.

Only one of those things makes him want to go back to that time.

“Let me,” Akira says, holding out one hand to Akechi like a knight asking for allowance to kiss his maiden’s fair hand.

“I’m not a little kid,” Akechi hisses but it lacks its usual venom. Akira doesn’t pressure. Wordlessly, he waits, the inside of his palm lying open, vulnerable.

Akechi stares daggers at it, hoping it will simply disappear. When the result disappoints, he takes the easy route and slaps his hand in Akira’s. “Just hurry up.”

Akira hums. He’s inspecting Akechi’s hand, searching for the injury like a scientist looking for the answer of the afterlife. His hold is light like a feather, careful and hesitant, as if the universe granted him the honour to look after a priceless treasure that builds kingdoms and burns countries.

“Where do you need it?”

“I can do it on my own.”

“Oh, I don’t doubt your abilities.” Fumbling with the bandage, Akira pulls his eyebrows together in concentration, a little smile flirting with his lips. Akechi knows it, the everything-is-a-game-to-me-smile but this time stakes are too high for him to join. “But humour me. Now, where do I put it on?”

He glares at him. Seeing no way to win, he turns his hand, his palm fitting perfectly against Akira’s, showing the little, shallow cut on one finger.

Akira stares at it, very unimpressed. “Are you an actual child?”

Akechi pulls his hand away—too slow. Akira’s fingers latch around his wrist, holding him in place. “Wait, wait, I’m joking.”

“You’re not funny,” Akechi replies drily. He watches Akira put a bandage around his finger, smoothing it out with his thumb.

“This…” He digs his thumb slightly where the wound is, making it burn but Akechi doesn’t flinch. “… looks like a ring, doesn’t it?”

Akechi raises one eyebrow. “It doesn’t.”

“Like a wedding ring,” Akira continues as if he didn’t say anything. Akechi looks down at the band-aid around his ring finger. He feels too awake all of a sudden, yet extremely tired. Everything buzzes, from his head to his toes, and he can’t tell if it’s Maruki’s Actualized Happy World or Akira touching him or the fact that he should not be. He remains very still, like a corpse, and stares over Akira’s curly mop of hair at the mirror hanging at the opposite end of the room. Brown eyes stare back at him—unflinching, lifeless like the glassy eyes of a dead fish until he blinks and it’s just his normal, usual face.

“Don’t tell me you’re entertaining the absurd idea of marriage,” he mocks, a crooked smile cutting his mouth into two red lines. “What are you, a lonely housewife in her thirties?”

“What can I say, I’m a romantic at heart,” Akira answers. He isn’t smiling.

Akechi’s grin dies. “If you have time to think about something this foolish, then there will be no problem in securing the path to the treasure tomorrow, right?” His voice sounds weird to his own ears. He feels sick.

Finally, his hand is set free as Akira places it carefully on Akechi’s knee.

“You’re smart enough to figure out where I’m going with this conversation,” Akira says, rising to his feet. He seems a little absent minded, his eyes unfocused and thoughts far away from this room. “Think about my proposal.”

“Propo—” Akechi jumps to his feet, his ears buzzing with a swarm of angry bees. He’s so close to Akira, their chest almost touch. He smells it again: coffee, washing powder, sweat. No blood this time. It feels wrong. “I have no interest in entertaining this stupid idea.”

“Do you hate it because it’s a social construct and divorce is way too expensive,” Akira asks, his eyes snapping back to Akechi and focusing with too much determination in them on him. “Or is it the thought of living with someone that allows you to be vulnerable that scares you.”

I’m not scared of anything, Akechi wants to say. What comes out instead is, “Why did you ask if you know the answer already?”

“Because I want to hear it from you. I want to know what you want.”

What does Goro Akechi want? No one has asked him this before, so he’s taken aback a second, speechless. A lump grows in his throat, burning every time he swallows.

“I don’t want someone else to decide how I live my life,” he says eventually. Slowly, word for word so Akira understands that what makes Goro Akechi the person he is, is something he was never allowed to have in the first place and the crave for it now is like craving air underwater. “I don’t want to be someone’s puppet.”

Akira’s voice grows louder. “Then what do you want?”

Akechi’s body shudders with rage. I want to live.

He turns around, blinking furiously against the burning in his eyes. “We’re done talking. You can contact me if there are important things we need to discuss. That’s what I want.”

There is no answer, but he knows he’s got his point across. Some people take Akira’s silence for what it is, when sometimes it speaks louder than his words. Right now, he feels it like a solid pressure against his skin, leaving dents and reshaping his body and he’s afraid to turn around and look in the mirror again.

Marriage.

Marriage with Akira Kurusu of all people.

What an absolutely stupid, horrendous idea. What a horrifying dream and scary hope to plant into someone whose soil is home to maggots and vermin that only know the taste of blood. Akechi takes that seed and hides it somewhere deep, deep inside his chest where the dirt hasn’t reached; an almost forgotten place that still loves toy guns and collects Phoenix Ranger Featherman stickers to put them on his bento lunch box.

That is the only part of himself he wishes Akira could get to know before the end as well.

#philliamwrites #ao3 #fanfiction #persona 5 #p5 #persona 5 royal #p5r #shuake #goro akechi #akira kusuru #ren amamiya #perosna 5 joker #p5 joker

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cherryyharryy · 5 years ago

Text

Burning Words

Chapter Two: Lunch, Library, and Lady Liberty

WC: 7,400

Previous part

Songs for this chapter

The prickling scratch of my highlighter dragging across a strip of text reminds me of how naïve I really am. I hate the sound, hate how uneven the lime green line sits, jagged over the inked words, with a pool of color where the pen sat at the beginning of the sentence.

It’s raining outside, and rain in New York is not like rain anywhere else. It’s purposeful, like a painting, like it belongs here. The only difference is that nothing changes—not like back home. In Georgia, people would come out afterwards, drive ten miles to the nearest pit and screw their trucks through the mud. Kids would run outside and look for worms and slugs, puddles to jump in. Dogs would dig holes in the softened earth. But here, no one stops. No one bats an eye, not even the people who forget their umbrellas. I wish rain was still life changing.

I sigh, close my notes, and cap my highlighters. “Any ideas for lunch?”

Jessie dips her head back in thought. I see her lashes flutter and her lips pinch, but then she shrugs. “We could order pizza?” She’s sat cross-legged on a patchwork armchair, laptop balanced across her thighs with a pen teetering between her teeth. I have to tip my head over the back of my chair to see her, upside down. “I’ve got a coupon for that place down the street.”

“We always order pizza.”

“We could learn how to cook.”

I click my tongue. “Bingo.”

The far wall of the apartment has a generous sized window. The floor creaks like we’re torturing it every time we move across a room, the bathtub faucet leaks when it’s hot out, and I know more about my neighbors’ lives than I really need to. But the window....it’s like a movie. My chair sits beside it. I try to count raindrops but there are too many.

“Chinese?” I offer.

“You and your egg rolls.”

“They’re the only thing I want when I don’t really wanna eat. I didn’t eat breakfast. And I only had a handful of popcorn for dinner last night.”

I can see a park from here, and in the winter when the trees are bare, a neighboring tennis court. Flowers hang limply from their stems along the sidewalk. A cat scrambles across the road, sporadic, and suddenly I envy the lack of knowledge animals have, lack of responsibilities, sense of time, unspoken contracts. At times I wish I were a depressed cat soaked to the bone, thinking if I move quick enough I’ll escape the rain.

“What?” I miss half of what Jessie asks.

“How’s your class been?”

“Which one?”

Jessie pauses her movements to assert me with a knowing glare. “You know what class. How’s the British babe?”

“Ugh, Harry.”

“Harry,” she tests his name before I continue. A few students have called him by his name, but he’s quick to correct them, surely enjoying his authority.

“He’s most definitely not a babe. A jackass. And he’s been as jackass-y as ever.” I join Jessie when she starts to laugh. “He calls on me every chance he gets. And I swear it’s just to humiliate me.”

“Well at least he’s nice to look at.”

“That means nothing when he’s a jerk.”

“True.” Jessie shrugs. “What about Truman’s...it’s near campus?”

I loll my head back and narrow my gaze. They don’t have egg rolls. “Yeah that’s fine.”

“My treat.”

***

In Hungarian, there are two words for the color red. Piros and vörös, with different times to use them, and should be used accordingly. When I was a kid I got them wrong; called my mom’s hat vörös, and got a slap on the wrist by my grandmother.

I spent that evening hiding in my closet, using the sleeve of my Winnie the Pooh pajamas to soak up the cascade of tears. When my cousin found me, I begged him to explain what I’d done wrong.

“Piros is blood inside the body. Vörös is when it comes out.”

That’s all I was left with. And I never did understand the difference. For years now that night resurfaces in my brain, and I think, I’m older now, I’ll be able to get it.

But now, as I stand on the sidewalk, peering through the window of Jessie’s lunch choice, I’m swarmed with the overbearing realization that age has nothing to do with it.

Harry’s in a striped button down, a sea foam green that reminds me of how different candy felt when I was younger, and high-waisted navy blue pants that couldn’t decide between flaring out or forming to the shape of his legs. I watch him balance plates and glasses, stacking forks and knives, spoons and mugs, soiled napkins and empty Splenda packets. He shovels his tip into his pocket and then disappears out of view while someone else wipes down the table.

“We can go somewhere else.”

“No.” I drag in the humid air, freshly washed, and hold it in my lungs until my head starts to spin. “This is fine.”

“You sure?”

“Yeah. We’ll sit in the back. At Brigette’s table.”

I’m not sure if you can call Truman’s a restaurant. It isn’t fast food, fine dining, or even a bistro. It’s always dark. The chairs are pink and the tablecloths are green. There are flowers everywhere, I thought it was a flower shop and was sadly mistaken when I came in for the first time to buy Jessie a bundle of roses for her birthday. Strumming violins fill any silence between tables. It’s old but new, rooted woods, lamps from the 90’s, curtains from the 80’s, cooks from the 60’s and 70’s.

“Brigette’s not on today, but that table is available if you want it.”

Me and Jessie both blink at the hostess, unintelligible utterances coming out until we give up, give in, and sit ourselves down at the small tea table under the back window.

“I hope the rain doesn’t start again. I didn’t bring an umbrella.”

I hum, more preoccupied with trying to find a better distraction than my ripped cuticles.

“He’s up front,” Jessie assures, “I think I saw that guy I dated the summer after freshman year...Mack something or other...busing these tables. I’m sure he’ll wait on us.”

“Whitaker.”

“What?”

“His name was Mack Whitaker.”

“Yeah, him. It’ll be fine.” She shrugs like it’s nothing. I can’t imagine being her.

The place is busy, rightfully so on a bleak Saturday afternoon. The sun pokes through the clouds occasionally, carving streams of golden light across our table, Jessie’s face, and I assume mine as well. She compliments my eyes and I thank her, then proceed to detail a hundred abstract thoughts as to why she must pity me enough to lie. Someone—who isn’t Mack Whitaker—brings us each water and apologizes for the wait. They’re swamped, understaffed, and had barreled through a visit from the health department early this morning.

“Anthony’s pissed again,” Jessie mumbles, pursing her lips when I look up at her. I raise my brows so she’ll continue. “I missed his call the other night. But I was busy, so…” she shakes her head and scoffs a laugh.

“It’s sweet though, that he wants to talk to you everyday.”

“Yeah, I know,” she sighs.

“He’ll get over it,” I assure her. “He did the last time.”

“I just hope he’s over it before he comes up here.”

“Good afternoon, have you had a chance to look at the menu?” A girl from my class ends our conversation. She wears the same outfit as Harry. When she smiles I have to blink, her teeth whiter than heat, slightly crooked, and I imagine she overdoes the stinging gel against her gums to make up for it. It works. Her lips and cheeks look as if she’d became too friendly with strawberries; a character face, full and round, structured like magazine models with skin to match. I remember her from the previous year: pretty, even at eight in the morning. Boys like her, professors like her. Head of the Spanish club but I bet she can’t count past diez.

“Two turkey on ciabatta with tomato soup. No mayo on one. Diet Coke aaand…” Jessie raises her brows at me.

“My water is fine, thanks.”

“No mayo,” our server draws out the syllables while jotting down our order. ”Well my name’s Danielle, if you need anything just—” She points her pencil at me and squints, as if that clears my image and her memory. “You look familiar…” She hums to herself, taps the end of the pencil against her lips before her eyes light up. I gulp. “Oh! You’re in my class aren’t you? The early one on Monday and Wednesday!”

I nod. “Yeah, World Lit.”

“Yeah! How are you doing on your book report?”

“Um, good I guess. Haven’t gotten too far into it yet.”

“Yeah, it’s pretty stupid right? I heard it was the TA’s idea. I mean, I haven’t done a book report since high school.” She laughs and rolls her eyes. “So—oh! Speak of the devil.”

My face feels as though I’m being stung by a thousand bees. Harry sidles up beside Danielle and nods to each of us.

“Afternoon, ladies.” He’s holding a pitcher of ice water and flicks his gaze down to my glass.

I regret how much I drank when he fills it back up to the rim. I scrape my teeth against my tongue before I’m able to say anything. “Thank you.”

He nods, opens his mouth, but Danielle beats him to it.

“We were just discussing our class.”

My veins are filled with wax, dripping at a pace so unoriginal, hardening, crystallizing. I grab my cutlery wrapped in a mauve pink napkin to occupy my hands, twisting and prodding and jabbing.

“Yeah,” she continues when all he does is nod. “So what are we doing on Monday?”

“I have a surprise for you all, something I’ve been working on with Dr. Pierce—”

“Oh!” Danielle interrupts. “What is it?”

Harry raises his brows and laughs. “Well I can’t tell you, now can I? Won’t be a surprise.”

“Ohh, yes you can. We won’t say a word.”

Harry denies her once more. His eyes flicker down to me. “I’m sure you won’t. But you’ll have to wait for class to find out.”

“Oh my God! Your hand!”

I follow Jessie’s voice to see a small pool of blood decorating the table, my napkin having soaked up some, my skin a bit more. Red reflects in the sparkling silver of a fork and spoon, glistening on the blade of a knife I have carelessly sawed against the tip of my ring finger. I didn’t feel anything until I saw the cut, and now it stings.

“We have a first aid kit in the back.” I hear Harry say but I look to Jessie. “Here,” he pulls a handful of napkins from his apron and cups them around my finger. “Is this okay?”

I nod without looking at him. He tells me to come with him, and I oblige, weighing my evils as the entire room is now focused on our table and the girl bleeding out right before their eyes. As I walk with him, I selfishly hope I do lose enough to earn a transfusion, amputate my finger, something, anything, so I can leave. If I get to stay in the hospital, I won’t have to go to class Monday.

“Don’t worry!” Danielle whispers as she passes by us. “He’s great with his hands.”

I see vörös everywhere.

***

It burns. Really burns. But I’m thankful. It’s the only thing keeping me aware that I’m alive, that I can’t hide away, that I need to mark my movements as always. He rinses my finger under an ice cold water bottle he pulled from a tiny fridge below the staff’s sign-in computer. Someone yelled at him—Ralph. His name is on the bottle.

“This is cleaner than whatever comes out of the sink.”

He slips his foot around the leg of a metal chair and drags it over by the sink; the closet door it had held open falls shut. With a nod he tells me to sit. I say nothing, just watch him care for the small wound like my life really is dependent on it.

“Can I have your hand—er—can I see it? Your hand?” He rolls his lips in and clears his throat when I extend my arm to him. His touch is almost nonexistent. I barely feel his fingers splaying my hand flat and wide while he rinses the blood off. He uses a towel tucked into his waistband to dry me off, and then pops open the lid of the first aid kit.

“This is just an antiseptic...don’t think it should burn.” He smooths a small bit of opaque gel over the ridiculously tiny split in my skin. “I think the head and the hand...always an extreme amount of blood. When I was a kid, my sister’s cat scratched me, right under my left eyebrow. It felt like someone poured water down my face. Mum thought I was goin’ to die.” He folds a purple band-aid over my finger, frowning when it’s not smooth so he starts again. “There. Are you alright? Did I hurt you?”

“No,” I whisper.

“Good. Okay. Um, well I guess I’d better get back.” His hand lingers on the bandage, running his thumb over it one last time, and then he finally pulls away.

“Yeah.” I’m shaky when I stand, and curse myself when I almost trip over the chair when I turn to leave. I pause to speak over my shoulder. “Thanks.”

“No problem.”

The walk back is long, and I have to fight the urge to look and see what he’s doing. I don’t hear the chair scraping against the floor or Ralph complaining about his water. I’m thankful I threw on my good jeans this morning.

Jessie is bouncing in her seat when I return—the table beside ours. “Is it bad? It was a lot of blood! Are you okay?”

“I’m fine. It was really small. The cut I mean.” I look down at my bandage like it’s a secret. “Where’s my stuff?”

“They’re replacing it all,” she waves off. “Are you okay?”

“Yeah, it throbs a little bit—”

“No, not that! I mean him. Did he say anything to you? Was he mean? Because I’ll go back there if you need me to.”

“No—no, sit down, would you.” I hold back a laugh; she doesn’t need the encouragement. “He was nice.”

“Good. I tried to follow you but the manager came out and asked me what happened. We get our meal free, by the way.”

“Well then I guess this was worth it.”

Our food comes quickly, served by the manager herself.

“Why aren’t you eating?”

I stir my soup. I can see the reflection of my eyes in the red pool, and I watch myself blink once before rippling my image away. “M’not that hungry.”

Jessie leans over the table and lowers her voice. “What happened?”

“What?”

“With Harry, in the back.”

“No, nothing.” I sigh and slump back into my chair. “I’m just tired. And I have a lot of work to do. That stupid report. And I have a quiz in another class on Tuesday. I’m fine. And he—”

“How are we doing? Is there anything I can get you guys?” Danielle looks prettier each time I see her. I shake my head while Jessie answers, keeping my focus on my untouched food. “Did Harry take care of you?”

It’s a good thing I wasn’t eating or else I would have choked. “Uh, yeah. He did.”

“I knew he would. He’s a sweet one.”

“Mhm.”

How easy it would be, to tell her my name. Tell her that her teeth are too white and her shirt is too tight. I could tell her that Harry’s sister’s cat scratched him when he was a kid and that’s where that tiny little scar above his eye is from. Did you know that Danielle? Or were you too preoccupied with what his hands were doing?

“Alright, well just holler for me if you need anything!”

I ignore her but she doesn’t seem to notice, waltzing off. Harry’s counting menus when she approaches him at the front. I think I hear her call him an angel, but I know I see him smile. I tell Jessie I want to leave. If I’m going to throw up it’s going to be in my bathroom with my best friend holding my hair back.

***

I've had the Arctic Monkeys stuck in my head all morning. Every clink of the spoon against my bowl of cheerios, every step I took rushing to school because I decided to spend my time in the shower crying, every yawn from everyone stumbling into class.

And I'll be yours until the stars fall from the sky,

Yours, until the rivers all run dry.

It’s five past eight. Dr. Pierce stands towards the corner, pointing at paperwork another professor is showing him. Each time a student cracks the door open they smile and hurry to their desk like they’ve won something. Freshmen. He told us twice that he doesn’t care if we’re late, it’s our grade not his, which I appreciate. My pen taps across my notebook.

And I'll be yours until the sun no longer shines,

Yours, until the poets run out of rhyme

In other words, until the end of time

He is late, however. I try to refuse my need to look up at the door each time it opens. I want to dismiss the anxiety of waiting for him.

I'm gonna stay right here by your side,

Do my best to keep you satisfied

Nothin' in the world could drive me away

'Cause every day, you'll hear me say

“Sorry, sorry,” Harry apologizes, bustling through the door. He did his best to fix the upturned collar of his rose pink button-down, subtly, albeit he fails miserably when a smudge of maroon is revealed. “I uh,” he clears his throat, “had some things to take care of. Got carried away.” He directs his excuse towards our professor, scrambling to pull out today’s materials from his bag.

Dr. Pierce bids the professor goodbye and welcomes Harry, offering him time to gather himself which he does rather quickly. His lips are pressed together until he’s the center of attention, scanning the room as he always does, finalizing on me and I swear his eyes glisten.

“So, uh, today we’ll be—”

“So sorry I’m late.” Danielle hurries through the door and takes her seat at the front.

“Right, um, welcome.” Harry’s gaze is trained on the paper in his hands. His brows furrow and he clears his throat before continuing. “As I was saying, we’re doing something a tad different today. Dr. Pierce and I have been talking, and we decided to break up our usual routine And with your reports due soon, offer you all a little added support. So we’ll be heading to the library where you all can work, ask questions, get mine or Dr. Pierce’s advice—whatever you need to finish the final touches before you hand anything in.”

Most everyone appears pleased with this news, proceeding to sling their bags over their shoulders and get out of their chairs.

“Hold on, hold on,” Dr. Pierce interjects the flow. “You must work on your report and your report only. This isn’t a free-for-all. And I don’t want to hear that you’ve finished it, because I can guarantee that there’s room for improvement from each of you.”

Danielle is the first to make it to the front. She passes Harry on her way to the door and straightens his collar. His face matches the rose colored stain she thumbs over and I think about how if I veer off and go home, no one will notice.

And I'll be yours until two and two is three,

Yours, until the mountains crumble to the sea

In other words, until eternity

Baby, I'm yours

***

Our library is something out of a medieval storybook. Rich, haunted woods and six tier windows where dust sparkles through the light pushing in. You can lose aged pennies against the floor and get lost behind dusty shelves if you want to. There are microfilms, typewriters, and a spirit machine downstairs and two velvet couches on the second floor.

I spent the majority of my first semester here, back when Jessie brought a different boy home every Friday night. I’ve missed the smell, the quiet, the disturbed alteration of reality inside its doors. But when I look around at my class tossing their bags on tables and hollering for Dr. Pierce or Harry’s attention, I’m not sure if I’ll make plans to come back.

Ms. Bortnick, the head librarian, is a stout woman who barely sees over the front desk, but somehow always knows when I’ve come in. When it’s raining, she knows the shake of my umbrella from everyone else’s. And when it’s spring, she knows my sneezes from everyone else’s. She is like a grandmother, only she’d never had kids, so not quite so in that you can’t get away with stuff. She has a bad eye and one good kidney, and sometimes she mixes these two things up, but I gave up on correcting her long ago. That’s how long I’ve been here.

She is Ukrainian and her accent is thick and aged, much like her mind. “Hello nyuszi,” she says before I’m fully inside. It’s bunny in Hungarian. A nickname from my mom, who tells everyone because she thinks it’s cute. Everyone, including the tiny librarian during the campus tour we took forever and a day ago.

“Hi Ms. Bortnick,” I say, lagging, like I’m embarrassed, because I am.

She just waves with a big grandmother-like smile that makes you miss home.

I take a seat at a small table, behind a section of Virginia Woolf. Most of the voices die down, the clicks of keyboards taking their place, and I pull out the research I’ve started for my report. The Tropic of Cancer, slightly tattered and worn, lay open beside my notebook, and my laptop sits adjacent.

“You coming along well?”

Shit. I jump, my ears ringing. “I’m fine.”

Harry nods and paces behind me to look over my shoulder. The air below his body weighs down against my back, so suffocating and harnessing that I’m sure I feel the waves and vibrations his heart emits. I try to swallow but my tongue gets in the way. I should’ve stayed home.

“I actually did an analysis on Henry Miller a couple years ago. If you wanna pick my brain, you’re more than welcome to.”

“Oh uh, thanks.”

His voice is grumbly, like rocks turning over beneath tires. Yet smooth, like washing sand off your body. I’m perplexed for a moment, at how these two things meet together so well, but that’s always the case with people. Like how Ms. Bortnick can’t remember anyone’s actual name, but sews that wound up with a pet name she picks out just for you.

“Yeah, I think I might even have an essay on my laptop. You can look over it if you’d like,” he says.

“Thank you, but I think I’m fine with what I have.”

“Well if you need anything, just let me know.”

I nod. My eyes blink once he steps away, and it takes me a moment to remember where I am and what I am doing. I’m a bit separated from most of the class, at one of the outlying tables apart from the student section where Harry ambles around everyone. Whenever he bends over to look at someone’s work, the muscles beneath his shirt ripple and contract. I can see his shoulder blades from here, and I’m failing to recall a time when the definition of someone’s spine has ever called for my attention.

I shake my head, naïvely expecting that to clear my mind. Google is pulled up on my laptop, but instead of searching for The Tropic of Cancer, I press the keys in Harry’s name.

The first couple links that pop up are social media accounts. I avoid these and move on to the next option, a link going back to our school. It takes me to his name under the directory, nothing more than a profile picture and his credentials.

Harry Styles

Received his Bachelor of Arts in English Literature at New York University in 2016. He completed a one year internship at the Ann Rittenberg Literary Agency Inc. in New York in 2017, and in 2018, spent a year abroad in France and Italy studying classic literature surrounding the 16th, 17th, and 18th centuries. He is currently working on his graduate degree, assisted professional teaching placement, and his thesis on the cultivation of the Renaissance era in regards to English literature.

I read over everything three times. That’s how long it takes me to grasp it all. He’s accomplished more in three years of his life than I have in my entire existence. It’s weird, being in my twenties and already feeding off the desire of wanting to be young again. It’s not fair how some people are prone to achievements and winning, while the rest of us are left to scramble around, years later to piece together a life that offers a sliver of satisfaction.

I close the window and ineptly click on one of his social media accounts, and for some reason my stomach twists. There’s a picture of him on twitter, from this weekend. He’s at Truman’s with his arm around Danielle, a smile on his face, and a caption thanking her for getting him his job. They’re both pretty; perfect for each other really. The only thing I can think of being thankful for in this moment is that I was not included in their picture. No one needs to see that comparison; I provide myself with enough pity to feed an army.

And maybe it’s stupid, but I navigate to Danielle’s account. There’s a weird fraction in the self-loathing lifestyle, like my brain needs a reminder of where I stand in this world. It keeps me in check, I believe. I cannot imagine thinking I look good, only to be reminded that I don’t in fact, look anything close to good. That’s a big fall to take, and I prefer to spend my time at the bottom. I’ve earned my place here.

I zoom in to every picture. Have you ever compared your wrist to someone? Or the space where your neck meets your shoulders? She has a big, red birthmark on her hip, but she makes it look necessary. And I’m sure Harry probably likes it. And I’m sure she’s told him how she’s no longer ashamed of it, and she’s not afraid to wear bikinis because she doesn’t care what people think. And she probably thinks that’s what makes her different and that’s the story she tells, how she overcame insecurity and loves her body now. And she would probably tell me that I just need to learn how to accept my flaws and learn to love them and then I’ll finally be happy like her. But that’s stupid, even stupider then me scrolling through her account to find some awkward picture, maybe one where her nose and lips are less perfect and I can start saving up for surgery too. Because if I looked like her, I’d have no problem being happy. I’d post pictures on the beach, and find a boyfriend, and not feel like a pathetic loser who’s done nothing with her life.

“Are you writing your report on Danielle?”

I lurch with stiff bones, and now I can’t remember if I’ve had this headache all day or if Dr. Pierce’s voice triggered it. Shamefully, I close the browser. “No, I’m sorry.” I hope that’s enough, because it’s all I can afford to give right now. Maybe if he knew I was seconds away from crying he’ll leave me alone.

“Get back to work please.”

Just make it ‘til you get home. You can cry there. Not here. Not here. Not here.

***

I tediously lower my body so that the water pulses right below my chin. My knees are covered, but only if I remain motionless, or the water will break against my skin and then my knee caps will appear suddenly. I inch my feet further across the acrylic until they are hidden once again.

There is a window extending from the floor beside the tub all the way up, over my head so I have a view of the street below as well as the sky, and it’s always quite a contrast. If the street is busy, then the sky is not. But then if the sky has a heavy to-do list, then it’s the road below me that becomes shallow, except when rain is falling in a race to its demise against the concrete.

I suck in a breath that’s full of my shampoo and bodywash and the rose oil I dropped in twenty minutes ago. I can taste it in my lungs, so before it becomes too much, I push against my heels, my knees forming mountains as they break the surface and my head becomes consumed a moment later. The pressure is light, just enough; I’m more aware that I’m living than I did when oxygen was flowing through my lungs. I count to ten and then release the burn as I crash upwards. It’s a bit dramatic and cinema worthy, but there’s no one watching; even the city-goers are too far below me to care that I live here.

“Is my phone in there?”

I drag my eyes open and sure enough, Jessie’s phone sits on the counter. “Come in!”

“Oh thank God, thought I left it at that party.” She picks her clothes from last night off the floor and throws them in the hamper. “You’re up early.”

“Couldn’t sleep.”

“And why’s that?”

I shrug, but she doesn’t see me, now straightening up the mess she made of her toiletries, her back to me while she shoves everything into her drawer.

“Just one of those nights I guess.”

She peaks over her shoulder and hums. “You have a lot of those.” She turns fully, looking at me like she is a mother. I rack my brain for an excuse but I can’t find one. If I did, I would’ve tried it out on myself years ago. “Y’know I’m here to talk. I’m your best friend...that’s part of my job.”

I smile at the water, but turn away when I see my reflection. “I’m fine. Just getting used to the semester.”

She lets the defeat show on her face, and I’m glad I know how to mask mine. “Alright then. Well just text me if you need me. I’m always here for you.” Her voice is soft and patient and I feel guilty for lying to her. “I’m late for cello practice.”

“I’ll be fine. Gonna enjoy my day off.”

“And actually enjoy it! No studying, no flash cards!” She laughs when I roll my eyes. “I mean it. Go to the park, eat a pint of ice cream, masturbate, please, anything outside of those notebooks of yours!”

“I’ll add those to the list,” I laugh. “I’m probably just gonna stay home and relax. Watch Uptown Girls or something. Eat cookie dough.”

“And—”

“And masturbate I know.”

She kisses my head and grabs her phone, heading out the door, her voice fading as she leaves. “You can tell me all about it later.”

The tile is cold beneath my feet, and slick with warning as I pull the plug on the drain and take a moment to scan the world outside. The sun is in attendance today, some of its beams make their way into the bathroom and have crawled across the floor all morning. I decide to stand there, on the beams to warm my toes slightly. It’s probably more in my head, the warmth, but I’ll take it either way. The tiles are black and white, a classic checkerboard, and I gave up on choosing a color to step on not long after we moved in.

The mirror is foggy and I work fast to wash my face and brush my teeth, keeping my towel tight around myself until the last possible second, trading it’s warmth for a sweater and jeans. I slip into my shoes. I haven’t read much for leisure, and pick up my copy of Anne Frank: The Diary of a Young Girl from my bookshelf before I leave. I’ve lost count of how many times I’ve read it, but each time never fails to reward me with something I didn’t catch the last time.

***

There’s a park within walking distance from my apartment. I like to go there in the rain sometimes, under my green umbrella, and read literary magazines with a thermos of coffee Jessie made me. I look like the adult that I’m supposed to be. I don’t think anyone ever notices, which isn’t much different then the expectations I lay out for myself the night before.

Today, however, I am not walking to the park. I am taking a train to the park. The park—Central Park. And it’s not raining and I forgot to bring coffee, but I need today. I need to do something for myself. Something outside my comfort zone. That’s how you become a better person, right?

We don’t have subways back home. There isn’t much of anything back home other than high school football games, car washes, and stray cats that everyone feeds. The first time I rode the train I cried. Jessie told me that it was okay, and that’s why I did it the next time, and the time after that. I’m not going to cry today, though. I am not going to get overwhelmed and worry about when to get on and when to get off and who’s looking at me and how I wouldn’t be able to help anyone if they get mugged or how if I trip and fall on the platform, I’ll start praying for death.

Light flashes at a rhythm I’m unfamiliar with, but I manage to keep my focus on my book. It shakes in my hands but I keep reading. I’m not really reading, in its true form, that is. I’ve marked this book up so much I could use it as confetti, and those are the parts I’m reading. The parts that meant something to me at each stage of my life: I used a green pen at age eleven, red sharpie at fifteen, blue highlighter at twenty, and ripped sticky notes at twenty-three. It’s less of a commitment this way, but when the screeching travels up my spine and I can smell something other than people when I’m back on solid ground, I wipe my cheeks and they’re dry.

When I lie in bed at night and think over the many sins and shortcomings attributed to me, I get so confused by it all that I either laugh or cry: it depends on what sort of mood I am in. Then I fall asleep with a stupid feeling of wishing to be different from what I am or from what I want to be; perhaps to behave differently from the way I want to behave.

I have a plan in place. One that I didn’t feel comfortable telling Jessie even though I know she’d be supportive. That’s the conundrum; having a best friend who loves you so much they want to fix you. She would have tagged along today, asked me how I’m feeling a million times and try to rationalize everything. She’d tell me all the ways I can be happy. But she can’t do that. No one should be allowed to, really. Because if you say can then there also has to be the option of can’t. And if people had the choice to pick what state their mind was in every day, I wouldn’t be strolling around parts of New York I’ve never been in, trying to scrounge up some off-handed version of self-love.

I bought a bath bomb and candles, stopped at a stationary store to pick up pens and notebooks that I don’t need, another Beatles t-shirt and chocolate. A farmer’s market was selling fresh fruit and I bought a tomato and ate the whole thing right there. I don’t care that it’s cheap retail therapy. It’s blocking out school and certain people and my age and my lack of success as an adult. And maybe it’s not working, but it’s New York—there’s distractions everywhere. And that’s exactly what I’m doing today.

***

Liberty Island. That’s where the Statue of Liberty is. I am stupid for thinking Staten Island, but in my defense, that’s where everyone outside of New York thinks it is. When I moved here I wanted to see it. It was going to be this defining moment that solidified me in my new home, this incredible rebirth that validated me leaving my parents. I was going to buy cheap postcards and send them to my mom and I’d say See, I’m here and I’m happy. This was the right choice. I fit in. Please stop crying. At least I didn’t think it was Ellis Island.

I’m on the right ferry heading towards the right island. Soon, I really see her and I start crying. She’s green but she’s not green, and she’s copper but also not really. She’s this woman and that’s fucking cool, except I know had she not been a gift, she would have been a man. There is someone with a microphone talking about her but the wind burns my ears so I pull up google on my phone.

The Babylonian Ishtar, Imperial Rome’s goddess Libertas was Papal Rome’s “Mother of the Harlots and abominations of the earth” and the template for America’s Statue of Liberty.

I paid to visit the pedestal but not the crown. I don’t trust my body to climb twenty stories. I don’t wanna know what I’ll think about that high up. I saved up and bought a reservation and now that I’m here, I wish I’d brought Jessie along. I wish I had more people to choose from to bring along because this isn’t Jessie’s thing. But that was the idea, after all, to keep this day to myself, venture out, mark something off a bucket list I haven’t started yet. Distractions, distractions, distractions.

My bags are heavy and it’s hot, but I manage to read a lot of plaques and stroll around intentionally. I do, at certain moments, feel a sort of liberation with myself. Kind of like the first time you go out driving on your own. It’s scary, and a part of you still wishes your mom was behind the wheel, but that kind of being alone is freedom. It’s not the car or the license, it’s the option to be fully by yourself at any time.

And I can’t help but wonder, compare, really, myself to the woman who I’m wandering around below her dress. She does lonely well. She does it right. All by herself she stands, a beacon, a purified symbol. And this is where I’m at, apparently, scrutinizing my abilities at making loneliness look mature and comparing myself to a statue.

Truly, this is my day.

I take pictures of everything around me and it must be the sea air, because I do contemplate asking this dad of four kids to take one of me. I push that out of my head rather quickly. I switch the filter to black and white and angle my phone to get a photo overlooking the harbor once I’m back outside, but stop right in my tracks, when a familiar face is in the frame.

“Oh my God! I can’t believe you’re here! What a small world!”

Dozens of names swim around my head, and my courtesy smile eases into a real one once one of them starts flashing, matching this person’s face before I make a fool of myself.

“Devon, hey, s’been a while.”

“I know, God,” she shakes her head in disbelief, “high school feels like a century ago.”

She looks the same, only like a new version. Not exactly older or more mature, but like she stopped experimenting with makeup and her acne finally calmed down. All of her features sit on top of her face, warm, eyes just as piercing as when we were seventeen. She was always cute and that quality has followed her over the years.

“So what are you doing?” she asks and I squint because of the wind, imagining her words rearranging in the breeze into something easier to answer.

“Um, just sightseeing.”

“Well I figured that,” she laughs. “I mean, your life, what’s up?”

I know my face looks resistant. Everyone pulls the same look when your stuck explaining something that is going to automatically lower the standard in which the other person sees you: nearly closed eyes, barred upper teeth while your top lip pulls up in thought, sucking in a short breath before speaking, stiff neck and chest.

“I uh, well I’m still in school,” I nod along and loosen my volume to sound like I’m happy. “And uh, working.”

“Oh are you working on your masters?”

“No just um, maybe one day, but not right now.”

“Okay.” It is that ‘okay’. The you-are-turning-pathetic-right-before-my-eyes Okay. She smiles anyway. “I’m thinking of going back next year to get my doctorate.” She shrugs. “So do you live here, or…”

“Yeah, yeah, I got a scholarship—”

“Oh well that’s good!”

“Uh huh.”

“We’re just visiting. Trying to hit all the hot spots though.”

“We?”

“Me and my fiancé. She’s—” she cranes her neck and points to somewhere behind her, “on a work call at the moment. Y’know it’s beautiful here, I wonder if we could have the wedding right here,” she laughs.

“Yeah that would be something.”

“So, are you seeing anyone?”

“Not at the moment.”

She gasps like she’s discovered something and points at the air between us. “Wait, weren’t you dating that guy, the uh, really smart one who graduated early? God, what was his name, Mark or Matt?”

“No that uh, that wasn’t me.”

“I could’ve sworn it was,” she laughs.

“Nope.”

“Aw, bless your heart, well you’ll find someone. The city’s big!”

I am done with this conversation. I force a smile and excuse myself, heading off in the opposite direction so if any tears fall she won’t see, and keep to myself until it’s really cloudy and mist pricks my skin. Not soon enough, we’re boarding the ferry again.

I wave to Lady Liberty and imagine her waving back when we leave. If I squint, it kind of does. Whether she’s saying goodbye or good luck, I don’t know.

***

Dinner is one of those meals that either means everything or nothing. Tonight it means nothing. I walk past Truman’s, slowly. Harry isn’t in there and I stop right outside the plated glass window, now decorated with orange and yellow leaves, and try to figure out if I would’ve gone in had he been there. A band is setting up along the back wall and that’s where I see Danielle. She’s got a tray of drinks that each member takes. When she spins around she’s smiling and she smiles as she walks towards the hostess’ podium and she smiles when she squeezes the hand of some guy that comes up and she smiles when she sees me.

I wave because what else am I supposed to do. If I flip her off, she might strangle me with her extensions, or tell Harry that I was a bitch, or spit in my food the next time I come in. I wait till she’s distracted, and then I leave. I stop at a food truck and stuff my face with a taco. Nothing.

Back down the street, back on the train, back to my apartment.

“I didn’t cry this time.”

Jessie glances up from sliding the bow across the strings, the last note stinging the air. She looks so small next to the instrument.

“On the train. I didn’t cry.”

****************************************************************************************

Next Chapter

Let me know what you think!

Thank you to my wonderful beta readers @aileenacoustic and @bathrobesinparadise!!!!!!!!!

#ta!harry #burning words #harry styles #harry styles writing

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beerecordings · 6 years ago

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I Know You

(Part 1 l Previous l Next)

Part 5 of My Brother’s Keeper. (I guess I shouldn’t link to the other parts, but you can check “bee writes” or hit me up and I’ll send you the links. I don’t think this is showing up in tag anyway, but it doesn’t matter cause you’re here, my friend!)

Hey, cutting tw on this one, okay? It’s just a couple sentences but please be safe.

Anti did everything in his power to make Dapper his own, took him away before he could ever meet his brothers, but some part of Jameson knows them. That’s what he thinks, anyway. He’s always wondered, hoped, begged, dreamed. Dreamed vivid of salvation.

Jameson Jackson has always dreamed vividly.

The first time his blue eyes ever slid shut, he was standing in a kitchen with a rotting pumpkin at his feet and a man in front of him.

“I know you,” Jameson had said. “I know you.”

And Jack had looked back, but he hadn't said anything. His eyes were ringed in black circles and his mouth was tired. He held up his hands to sign, but Jameson woke up before he could say anything.

Anti had been the one to knock him out, and when he woke up, he apologized. “It was an accident,” he said, smiling too wide. “I thought you were like the others. I thought you were Jack's.”

“I am,” said Jameson, without knowing why.

Anti retaught him.

In the first weeks of his existence, Dapper dreamed of pumpkins in black and white, speech slides and black candles, his own eyes smiling at the camera, and then of Anti, an interruption who fills his mouth and his eyes with ink and tar, a virus swarming through his blood, and it hurts, but at least there's someone there.

One night he dreamt of a boy with a baseball cap crying, distressed, grieving, worn. He was clutching the side of his head like he was holding back blood.

“Oh, little brother,” he'd wailed, clutching his heart. “Oh, Jamie, I'm so fucking sorry. Where was I? Where were you? Already gone.”

“I'm right here!” Dapper had said. He felt sorry for him without knowing why. “Who's Jamie? What's the matter? I'm with my brother.”

But the boy didn't seem to speak his language.

Eventually Dapper stopped dreaming of anything other than pain, pain raw and constant, suffocating both his sleep and his waking hours. Often Anti laughed at him, starved him, spat venom and fury into his trembling heart. Some days Jameson even liked it. It made it all the better when Anti showed him kindness or affection, like when you stick your frozen fingers in a fire and rejoice at the heat. And anyway he deserved it. He was such a bad puppet.

Anti taught him how to carve. They started with pumpkins and moved on to bodies. Sometimes they mock-fought, and Anti would strike him and cut him and beat him, to teach him to do better next time. Dapper wiped blood and tears off his face and swore with shaking hands that he would try his best, that he would be better, that he would be enough.

He dreamt of holding dead birds in his hands, and eating things that filled his mouth with copper, and of his brother killing him while he lay still and complacent beneath him. One night he dreamt about taking matters into his own hands.

“What are you doing?” asked the man in his dream. He had a white mask and lots of fine green hair, and he was watching Dapper from the other side of a mirror.

“Cutting,” Dapper said. “I'm tired.”

“You're hurting yourself.”

“Pain's not so bad,” Dapper answered, watching his blood run onto the bathroom floor. “Anyway, it's better to die than to keep disappointing him.”

“That's stupid,” said the boy in the mirror, tossing a cape over his shoulder and grimacing. “Don't do that. You can't die yet. What if I need your help?”

“Who are you?” Dapper asked.

The man in the cat mask scoffed and rolled his shining blue eyes. “You don't even know who you are, little one,” he replied curtly. “And I wish you'd hurry up and figure it out. Now put the knife down, Jameson Jackson, and don't pick it up again.”

Dapper woke up from that dream confused. It took him weeks to stop thinking about it. He never cuts again.

On rare nights he'd dream of happiness.

“That's my brother,” said a man in a red hood, pointing at a picture frame with a big grin on his face. Dapper had never seen anyone smile like that. Earnest and joyful and raw. “And my other brother, and my other brother, and my other brother, and his kids.”

Dapper couldn't see the photo inside. It was blurred and glitching, and he took it to mean that Anti was in his dreams now too. Anti was everywhere.

“Hey, don't look so sad,” said the man in the hoodie, taking hold of his hand and looking him right in the eyes. “Are you alright? What's the matter, buddy?”

“I don't know,” he said, pausing to rub at his face. “I think something went wrong somewhere.”

“Oh, no! What went wrong?”

Dapper's eyes filled up with tears. “Don't know,” he signed. “Don't know.”

The man smiled at him and leaned in close, taking Dapper's hand in his own. “Listen,” he said. “I'll tell you something that becomes true when you believe it. Are you ready?”

“Yes,” said Dapper, clutching his hand as tightly as he could. “I'm ready.”

“Life gets better,” said Jackie, smiling at him with a love deeper than the beating of a heart. “I promise, I promise, I promise – life gets better.”

Dapper learned the word “compassion” and woke up in a devastation. He'd sobbed that whole day without knowing why. Anti sedated him too heavily and he couldn't get up for two days afterwards, his chest stuttering, his body unresponsive, and his heart broken clean in half.

Dapper's older now. He's lost track of how old exactly. Months at least. He's more lost than ever. Whenever his big brother is near, love and affection fill Dapper up like a fire, so intense it hurts his ribs and makes his eyes burn. “I love you,” he signs, every time he gets the chance. “I love you, I love you, I'll be a good puppet. I'll be good, Anti, I promise, I'm sorry.”

But in his dreams his head is clearer, his eyes are open, and he says other things.

He says “stop.” He says “no.” He says “I hate you. I'm not yours. I'm not yours and I don't want to be here anymore. You took me away from them. You took me away from them. You took me away.”

Then he wakes up shaking, and swears to himself that he will never, never say those words out loud, and convinces himself that he loves Anti, so, so much, until he closes his eyes again and the illusion rots away like a heart that's been left in the fridge too long.

He feels like he's being destroyed.

After the police come, Anti makes them leave the house where they had been staying for months. They walk for a long time, until they make it to a train, and a city, and a small motel where Anti used a hack credit card to get Dapper a room and check him in as unlisted.

“I've got to go out,” he tells Dapper, tugging at the itchy scarf he's been wearing all day. “Stay here. If you aren't asleep when I return, you'll be in trouble. Alright?”

“Yes.”

“Yes?”

“Yes, Anti.”

Dapper sleeps.

And Henrik's hands are softer than Anti's.

It's the first thing Dapper notices. The doctor is wiping at his cheek with a wet washcloth.

“You really shouldn't be walking around covered in blood,” he lectures. His face is clean and bright. His eyes are warm. Dapper stares at him like he's never seen a human being in his life.

“There,” Henrik adds, swiping the last stain off his chin. “All clean, yes?”

Dapper frowns and holds out his hands. They're bloody too. He's ashamed.

“Sorry,” he says, feeling tears prick his eyes. “I'm sorry.”

“Oh, little one, do not be sorry. It's not your fault. Okay? Not your fault.”

He reaches out to take his hands and gentle, gentle, washes the blood away.

“Better?” asks Henrik.

The sky has never been so blue or so heavy with healthy fat clouds and the smell of flowers and trees and summertime. Jameson has always dreamed vividly. Of sun and snow and wind and rain. Of mirrors and blood. Of his brothers.

“Yes,” says Jameson, though his hands shake with an emotion too powerful for him to name. “That's better.”

“Jameson,” says Henrik's mouth, but his accent is gone and Jamie doesn't think it's really him speaking. He thinks it's Mr. Jack. “Find yourself.”

Jameson wakes up alone. The motel clock ticks quiet by his ear. The air conditioning rumbles beside him. It's too dark for him to see his own hands, but car lights cut through the window every now and then. He's crying.

“I don't know how,” he signs, sobbing. “I don't know how. I need you to help me. I can't get free on my own. I can't ever get free on my own. Please, please, please – Please, brothers, help me!”

Two miles away, Anti wanders in Henrik's body. Cameras follow him. People watch. The signals in the air taste like warm static, and he draws all of it in, until he is connected to the grid of a whole city and his eyes burn and bleed with the power.

He pulls off his scarf and lets Henrik's throat open at the nearest police station, staring into the camera beside the door.

“He cries for you,” says Anti, in a voice like a knife sliding out of its sheath. “He cries for you, big brother, like the moon cries for the ocean. I think you'd better come and save him, old friend. I think you'd better come visit.”

#bee writes #my brother's keeper #my brother's keeper part 5 #jameson jackson #antisepticeye #jackieboyman #schneeplestein #jacksepticeye #cutting tw

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happybeeme0514 · 7 years ago

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Irreversible Ch. 7

Eden POV

Chapter 7- Novus

Zyglavis stares at the ceiling for a while, his eyes moving every now and then, watching the dust mites float about in the air. I open my mouth to say something, but think better of it. Best not to startle him.

A plan shot down when my fingers twitch against his hand.

Zyglavis’ lips pull back from his teeth, revealing his new fangs, as air swirls up his throat and out his mouth in a low, menacing sound like a swarm of bees. Before the sound comes out, his muscles bunch and arch, his hand ripping out of mine as he flips off his back to the other side of his bed, crouched defensively, his hair swirling gracefully around his shoulders and back as he glares at me.

A sixteenth of a second passed.

I hold my hands up.

“I’m sorry,” I whisper gently. “I know it’s disorienting. I didn’t mean to startle you.”

Zyglavis’ eyes, now a bright, blazing scarlet red, dart around the room, searching for a threat, but find none, and slowly, he straightens out of his defensive crouch, his expression still rigid.

I slowly pull myself to my feet, keeping my face a mask of calm.

“You’re okay,” I tell him softly. “Everything’s okay now.”

He stares at me for a long time, then looks around the quiet room. One can’t tell that, up until just one day ago, this room was basically a hospice. Everything is gone. No more IVs, no anxious gods, no syringes filled with venom…it’s just a normal bedroom now. He turns his eyes back to me.

“They’re safe?”

His eyes widen at the sound of his own voice, ringing, the sound as soft and smooth as velvet. I smile.

“Yes. They’re all safe. They’re down on Earth right now.”

Once I tell him that, Zyglavis visibly relaxes and nods, that simple motion as fluid as water. I approach him calmly, and placidly offer my hand to him.

He eyes it for a moment, hesitant, but reaches his hand out, brushing his fingers against mine. His skin, no longer hot like an open flame or soft like cotton, brushes against mine, the feeling going beyond skin. It sinks down to my bones and charges through my bones, twirling down my spine and around the pit of my stomach, singing desire. I swallow thickly.

Lightly pulling on his hand, I take him to the mirror by the armoire a few feet from the doors leading to the hall so he can see himself. At first, he looks confused.

His eyes flicker down to me for a moment, then back up to his own reflection, his confused expression shifting to one of awe, his eyes widening the slightest bit like he’s surprised at the face looking back at him.

But that’s no shock, at least, not to me.

He’s the most beautiful being I’ve ever seen. His skin, no longer grey as the shadow of death, is white like freshly fallen snow, his lips just a hint of the color pink, his entire face healthy and perfected. The deep, nearly black circles that had once lined his eyes are all but gone. His dark, purplish black hair is loose down his back, shiny and vibrant, soft like silk.

His arms and legs are much more toned now, muscular under the clothing he’s wearing, and fluid even though he’s standing perfectly still. My eyes trail down toward his chest, visible to me through the thin fabric of the white button-up shirt he’s wearing. I can see visibly defined pecs and abs.

My teeth come down in the inside of my lip.

However, what Zyglavis seems to be focused on, is his eyes.

As the light of the sun hits them, they seem to glow even brighter, glinting like rubies.

“And the eyes?” He murmurs, purposely avoiding the word ‘my’. My hand twitches, wanting to take his hand, but instead I curl my fingers into my palm.

“They’ll turn grey again in several months, once the remaining blood cells in your body die.”

He turns away from his reflection, looking down at me, his expression suddenly changing, looking irate. I frown.

“Diefropos.”

“Oh…Zyglavis, let’s not worry about that now—”

“No. He’s surely realized that he can’t kill me now. There’s no telling what he’ll do. He could turn to the other gods…” He trails off, and a look of sheer panic flickers in his eyes. “Or you.”

This time when I feel the need to comfort him, I allow my body to do so, reaching my hands out. I take his face into my palms, taking a step closer to him.

“Shh. He more likely than not doesn’t know what happened. He’s probably disoriented and confused, and will need some time to think. And we will need time to come up with a strategy on how to deal with him, okay, you can’t just rip him apart, no matter how badly you want to.” Zyglavis stares down at me, clearly unhappy with me. I feel the corners of my mouth turn up. “And before all of that, you need to get your thirst under control.”

Those words are all it takes to completely distract him. His expression changes, a look of discomfort taking his features as a hand moves to his throat.

“You ready for your first hunt?”

…

In the weeks between meeting Zyglavis and this day, early winter has set in in the Northern Hemisphere on Earth. The bears are in hibernation, but wolves and lynxes aren’t.

I teach Zyglavis how to expand his senses, how to pick through the insignificant sounds of the wilderness, and with his new instincts, it doesn’t take long for him to get the hang of it.

He caught the scent of a lynx about three miles from where we started, and now, he stalks the beast as it circles around its own prey.

I kneel on the shale rock beside him, carefully watching him study his prey.

The lynx’s jowls are pulled back from his teeth, snarling at the cowering elk, his tail twitching periodically.

Zyglavis turns his head to look at me, his eyes wild, but still hesitant. I nod once in encouragement. Once he sees it’s okay for him to attack, any and all hesitation disappears from him. His head jerks back to the lynx, his lips parted, and he slowly recoils back, ready to lunge.

However, right as he’s about to bound from the small overhang we’re on, a sound reaches my ears—the crunching of shoes, followed by loud, raucous laughter. Humans.

The second I make the realization, a snarl escapes Zyglavis’ lips, and he shifts his target to the humans to the west, bounding left and away from me.

“Zyglavis, no!” I scream.

I understand how compulsory it is, especially to a novus. There’s nothing more promising to a thirsty vampire than the call of human blood, even with potential prey right in front of you. Point three seconds after he takes off after the humans, I take off after him, yelling for him again.

Zyglavis is stronger than me—one stride of his equals three of mine—but I’m smaller and more agile. I come up on him quickly, my plan being to try and get in front of him, cut him off, make him realize what he’s doing.

But in the next second, I see a flurry of snow fly up into the air as Zyglavis whirls around, his body stopping for a split second as he turns on me. His body crouches, then springs, a feral snarl escaping his lips.

Our bodies slam together, the sound as loud as cracking thunder, sending us both flying several yards backward. We roll several times before he throws me onto my back, holding me down by my neck with crushing force and baring his fangs at me in warning.

Disoriented, my mind flips some switch that puts my body in submissive mode. I lay obediently still under him, my hands resting by my head. I don’t want to fight against him. The fact that I at least distracted him from hunting humans is enough.

His eyes, clouded with thirst, begin to clear when he realizes who he has pinned down by her neck. His hand loosens and I draw in a breath, even though I don’t need to breathe. His expression shifts dramatically, changing to one of horror.

“Eden…” He breathes. “I…I’m so…”

I cover his lips with my fingertips.

“We need to get you out of here.” I tell him softly.

…

“I attacked you,”

Zyglavis doesn’t even entertain the idea of hunting after that. After we got him away from the humans, he just grumbles to himself, darting away from me and climbing trees to get away from me any time I try to get near him.

“Zyglavis, it was your natural reaction,” I say for umpteenth time, looking up into a tall pine tree where he sulks, visibly seething. “You thought I was going to try and steal your hunt.”

“I was going to kill you.” He spits the word ‘kill’ as if it tastes disgusting on his tongue.

“But you didn’t.” I point out.

“That’s not the point!”

Zyglavis’ hand whips out, slamming into the top of the tree; it comes crashing down to the ground a few feet away from me.

“Zyglavis. Will you at least come down here and finish hunting?”

“What if I catch their scent again?”

“We ran nearly twenty miles away from them, and it’s been…forty-five minutes. I don’t think they’re around anymore.”

“Well what if I catch another human’s scent?”

I sigh.

“Zyglavis, it was my fault. I didn’t realize we had been so close to a trail. But that’s all a part of learning, right? At first you don’t succeed, try again. Try again, Zyglavis.”

He’s quiet for a moment, then jumps down silently, his back to me.

He lifts his face and takes a deep breath, taking a little longer than last time to catch a scent—most likely hesitant in case he were to catch a human’s scent.

But then he ghosts north, me following silently behind him, this time nearly a mile behind him.

A few miles away, a herd of elk drink lazily at a river, seven male, three female. I hover in the background as Zyglavis wastes no time taking down one of the males, causing the entire herd to scatter in all directions.

He holds the animal down by its head, his full lips parting, a silvery substance dripping from one of his fangs. Quick as lightning, those fangs sink into the elk’s thick neck, a thin line of blood squirting from it.

There’s something oddly sensual about watching Zyglavis hunt. Watching him take down animals twice his size, animals that normally are on top of the food chain. Easily held down by just one of his hands. After the second elk, he gained more confidence and began hunting with less restraint, which was when he found a lynx.

He actually snarled back at it when it screamed at him.

When he pulls away from the now drained cat and turns his bright eyes to me, a thin ribbon of red drips from his chin, making my stomach throb with desire.

He’s just so impossibly sexy…

He licks his lips, dyed a deep red, and moves a thumb to wipe the stray blood from his chin as he slowly pulls himself to his feet. I move a hand to my stomach.

“Well?” I say, not surprised to find myself breathless. “That wasn’t so hard, was it?”

Zyglavis looks down at me, his answering smirk bewitching.

“Not at all,” He seems to have completely forgotten of his rage toward himself as he reaches out and tilts my chin up with his index finger. “But next time, let’s start off away from the trail.”

#zyglavis #star crossed myth #star crossed myth fan fiction #otome game #voltage inc #voltage fanfic #fanfic

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gallivantingheart · 7 years ago

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Lyrical Hearts (Part 4)

Synopsis: Post-What Can I Do/I Loved You/When You Love Someone Saga. Young K - Brian - Younghyun - whatever you wanted to call him - was known for being unknown. At least until you caught him and his band practicing late one afternoon. This is the narrative of your soft, tentative beginnings with the gruff bassist.

Pairing: Young K/Brian/Younghyun x fem!Reader

Genre: Romance. General? Acquaintance-to Friends-to Lovers?

Word Count: 1641

Listening Recommendations: Day6 - Now (From Immortal Songs 2) & Day6 - I’m Serious

A/N: We’re getting to good stuff, I swear! Next chapter solves some stuff, hopefully.

The Beginning || Part 3

If you're feeling poetic, you might think, what's in a name? Sure, most people call him Brian - it's what he'd introduced himself as first day of school. Younghyun Kang, but Brian's easier. Who knew one word, nine letters, would cause such a reaction?

"So, what's it supposed to mean?" You say to Somi and Dani on the bus ride over to yours. "A name is only a little part of who you are. Surely it can't mean that much, especially coming out of my mouth."

"Well, at least you know why he looks at you the way he does." Somi says airily.

The three of you had nabbed a trio of seats right by the back door, Somi in the middle. She's snacking on her biscuits she made in food tech., doing her best to hide them from the bus drivers' line of sight. The slightest whiff of food consumption could get her kicked off - school kid and all - and you know all too well the pains of having to walk to your place. Still, you're a bit smug about it. Dani thought he didn't like you.

Now, Dani isn't always so negative. She's known you for years and the only way to ground you at all is to try and get you to think of the worst. Try, being key here. She's just gotten good at it since fifth grade.

You shake your head, plunging your hand into the clear plastic bag sat carefully in Somi's lap. "I just...I don't get it. I don't get him. He's been nothing but confusing. Have boys always been like this?"

Valentine's Day rears its' love struck and rather ugly head on Wednesday. There is romance and heartbreak thick in the air. You can tell that Dowoon is gearing up on Monday for the day, a little on edge and a bit more quiet than usual. You remember that to most of the girls in class, the drummer is an intelligent, sweet and soft-spoken boy, holding the right amount of light and mystery to lure in young, hormonal high school girls in droves. The same mystery Younghyun couldn't seem to balance - not that he minded at all. Since October, the enigmatic pair had gotten closer, the bassist discreetly watching after Dowoon and sometimes giving him an out from the fawning fans. It was clear that Young K cared, in his own frigid way.

The girls on the bus that morning - particularly Haebin, a short and slender girl with heavy bangs - are babbling and gushing about their gifts to their admirees (Mainly Dowoon). What would his reaction be to their homemade chocolate or cool pen? Would this year be the year it changed? You groan loudly, partly at their antics, partly at the delay announced over the bus's radio - burst water main. You turn your music up.

Due to the mild delay, the girls don't get much of a chance to shower Dowoon with their objects of affection. You see his shoulders relax and white grip on his phone fade as the bell rings.

Lunch break turns into a shrill, pink hell. The moment the bell rings and the teacher slopes out the room, there is a blizzard of movement from all corners of the room. Girls scrambling to pull out their presents and drop them in front of him first. He's patted and cooed at like a sweet kitten yet swarmed like he's aggravated a hive of bees. Gifts, wrapped wonderfully and of varying functionality are landed on his desk. Your jaw drops, sending a horrified look Young K's way. Is this what everyone sees when they think of high school girls, you think. The mild delinquent's sharp voice and oddly soft hands aren't enough to protect his friend like usual. Dowoon is sliding his headphones in, patient but helpless sight glancing you through the masses.

He can't live like that - it has to be inhumane; surely there is a law against it somewhere. You take a look around the class, trying to think of an idea that can help. Donghae is laughing as he heads out to the hall. Hopefully no one would recognise it...

You scribble his number on a scrap of paper and pull out of our seat. "I got Dowoon's number!"

The squeals fall silent, an eerie stillness rippling throughout the horde of females. Together they turn, latching onto the note thrust like a flaming torch above your head. As they rush your place in a deafening battle cry, you see Dowoon slither out the door. He throws you a pitying, thankful smile.

Sorry. Thanks. He mouths.

You can barely muster a grimace as you push and pull, trying to distract for long enough. There is shriek (which you realise a second later is your own) and a yank to your tie, another at the end of your hair. Crazy, all of them are crazy, you chant in your mind. Somi is too stunned to even consider assisting, Dani too petite to do much.

You miss Younghyun's proud smirk, hidden behind a phone screen.

[Unknown] Received 4:27pm Thanks for today. Hopefully I can pay you back somehow, soon. Y.D.

Your "heroic" act doesn't go unnoticed the next day, Jae howling with laughter as he reenacts it the only way he can with all those limbs. Once in a while, young K will smirk, repeating a line. He likes to do that you find, if something amuses him and you think the habit is just as funny.

"Valiant effort." Younghyun says dryly by the window baring the hallway.

"I'm surprised you even made it out alive. Those girls were...wahh." Wonpil adds, shaking his head.

He fluffs at his fringe before aiming his intent toward the monotone keys. It's so easy for him to get lost in the melodies that he weaves with his fingers. Even you can see how the world fades around him and you're not even doing anything.

"Yeah, not unscathed though. Banged my hip against my desk a few times." You thrust out your forearm under Sungjin's nose. "And do you see that, hmm? That's someone's fingers - their actual hand! I had no idea until yesterday how easily I could bruise."

Poor Dowoon looks a little guilty and you lunge out to swiftly remedy it. It wasn't his fault that he was so nice as to draw in all the girls. If you were a bit less in the clouds or nose to the ground you might have jumped on the bandwagon too.

"It's not your fault though, Dowoonie. They just think you're really great, and they're right. I don't know how you manage it, Younghyun."

He plucks at a chord, then crosses it out in his notes (still got your pen.) "I don't. But the kid needs help, so I do what I can. A thanks might be nice."

The phrase must come up a lot between them because all Dowoon does is roll his eyes and bare his scrunched smile, twirling his drumsticks in his nimble grasp.

You shrug on your blazer when you get out to the hallway, the windows of most classrooms open as they're cleaned out for the day. You jump at a particularly loud honk on the road and Wonpil giggles, his bag seeming too big for his gentle frame. Walking down the hall with the five of them can’t help but give you a vague feeling of warmth and familiarity, a little similar to the many nights spent sprawled out on Dani's cold floor with sugar running high in your systems. Jae walks next to you, his towering figure sways like a willow, shadowing you from the sunset.

"Okay, so Brian -"

"Young K!"

Jae rolls his eyes. "Yeah, Brian, saw my math marks the other day. Called me stupid!" He whirls, pointing a long finger behind him. "I'm older than you, you know! Respect your elders!"

"Shut up."

The bassist flicks some vaguely rude signal, which no one really bats an eye at. The elder of the two turns back to you, stuffing his hands in the pockets of his grey hoodie and pulling a face. You think back to the middle of last year when he got red paint all over his blazer, rendering it out of commission from then on out. Art class has never been the same.

"See what we had to put up with before you showed up? All the abuse! Anyway, so I'm stupid now. 62/100 - mum flipped. What did you get?"

You hang you head. "Yeah, not much better - 77. I'm so glad that mum knows about my thing for literature - I've never been good at numbers. She says as long as I marry someone who can do it, I'm smooth sailing."

You chuckle as Jae splutters into violent laughter, ricocheting off the walls as the sound races down the halls. Younghyun falls into step with you, ruffling his dark fringe.

"If you need help with math, I got 99/100." He says to you.

"Since when? And what about me?" Jae whines from your other side.

"Since none of your business. Jae, you have Soojung." Younghyun retorts simply.

It doesn't really explain much, seeing as you know for a fact that Jae and Soojung are in the same boat when it comes to the subject. So you laugh, curling your hand round the sleeve of your jacket to lightly whack your thigh. Grumbling some curses under his breath, Jae drops back to hassle Dowoon.

You don't speak of your surprise at Young K's marks. Nor of the faint confusion sitting in the back of your mind every moment he’s around. He just keeps shocking you, with no signs of stopping. You suppose you’ll just have to get used to it.

(you won't.)

#day6writersnet #day6 young k scenarios #day6 young k imagine #day6 imagines #day6 scenarios #day6 fic #day6 #day6 young k #written

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dontfeelbadimusuallyabouttodie · 5 years ago

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Promise You That

AN~ Wow I’ve learnt that I can’t ever write something under a 1000 words... this is so long! I’ve also learned that I would die for JJ Maybank so jot that down. I feel like I could potentially turn this into a series, but idk at the moment.

Word Count: 2802

Warnings: None, minor swearing

“You wanna get ready at my house?” Kie asks as she finishes wiping the counters at The Wreck.

I look up from the napkin that I’d been doodling on for the past hour waiting for her shift to be over.

Kie and I have been friends for a long time, our moms were best friends in college. Some say we were destined to be friends. My parents and I lived a few towns over but have a summer home that we always visit.

Tonight there’s a charity ball being thrown at the country club and both sets of parents demand our presence. Neither of us were too excited to be going but I needed to get back in my parents good graces and this was as good of time to start.

I’ve always been a good girl. I never snuck out, drank, always got good grades, I was my parents pride and joy. But recently I’ve started to wonder what it would be like to do things that I wanted to do, and not worry about what my parents thought.

I knew that Kie had friends on the other side of the island. She’s always told me stories of their adventures when we were younger, but until this summer, I wasn’t brave enough to go with her.

And man, was I missing out. The Pogues were so different from what I was used to. They were wild, they were fiercely protective of one another, and they knew how to let go and have a good time. Basically everything I had yet to experience.

Soon I started sneaking out to party with them, I was dancing with Pope on the boat, I drank way too much cheap alcohol at John B.’s house, I even took a few hits off of JJ’s joint. My parents are beyond pissed with me, saying that they don’t know who I’m becoming and if I don’t start shaping up they’ll send me to a reform school.

“Yeah that sounds good. I’ll grab my dress and stuff from my house and head over around 3?” Kie nods and gets back to work and I continue my drawing. We both hear the bell chime as the front door opens.

Out of the corner of my eye, I see Kie straighten as she greets whoever walked in.

“Oh here comes trouble.” Kie teases. I look up to see who she’s talking to. Three familiar boys walk towards us.

“I’m deeply offended, where is your manager?” John B. retorts back.

Kie gives him a sweet smile, “Not here.”

They continue to joke around and I tune it out because something way more interesting has caught my attention. JJ breaks away from the group and unsuspiciously comes over to my stool. My heart kicks up a few paces and I try not to show it. The man is beautiful, anyone who says they aren’t affected by JJ Maybank is a goddamned liar. Especially when he’s fitted in only worn cargo shorts.

“Hey,” Blue eyes trail over my skin and I swear I felt the heat of them.

“Hi, why are you all dressed up?” I try and fail to keep my eyes from roaming over the large expanse of bronzed skin.

JJ smiles and daringly drags a finger down my neck and over the thin strap of my tank. “Just got back from mowing your parents lawn.”

Not trusting myself to speak I hum my response. Another thing that I’ve been keeping from my parents- a thing that would most definitely get me sent to a reform school, is that I’m secretly seeing JJ.

No one knows, not even Kie. She would kill me, she’s nice enough to introduce me to her group of friends and I go and mack on one of them? Plus we’ve only been seeing each other for a few months, we want to keep it to ourselves before letting people in on it.

“Kie, I’m starving, can you steal us something from the back?” Whines John B. Kie sighs and folds her arms over her chest.

“You’re lucky no one else is here. Follow me.” She motions for the boys to follow her and they whoop and cheer as they make their way to the kitchen.

Once JJ and I are alone I let out a breath I didn’t know I was holding in.

“You look mighty pretty in that dress. Did you wear it for me?’ JJ carefully fingers the fringe of my dress. I recently found out that his favorite color is red so I had been finding ways to incorporate it into every outfit.

“Maybe.” He braces a hand on my knee, the contact makes me shiver. “So will I be seeing you tonight at the party?” I say offhandedly, playfully tugging on the loops of his shorts.

He drags a hand through his hair, “Maybe, Pope and I were supposed to work it but I might blow it off.”

I frown, disappointed that he might not see me in the dress. “You have to come! Who else am I supposed to flirt with there? And I want you to see me all pretty.” I pout.

JJ laughs, then turns serious again. “You look pretty every day. It’s not that I don’t want to see you in your dress. What I don’t want to see is all the Kooks touching and dancing with you.” JJ tries to act like it doesn’t bother him, but I know better.

“Who said I’d let them dance with me?” I murmur, looking him in the eyes.

“Ditch with me tonight. You can wear the dress and everything.” I laugh.

“If I wasn’t doing this to suck up to my parents, I would. But I’m trying to get back in their good graces. I’m still technically grounded because of the hickeys you gave me last week.” Giving him a withering look.

I get a slow smile in return. He’s so not sorry for giving me them. “I really didn’t think your mom would notice.”

“We’re in the middle of summer, JJ! What am I supposed to be wearing in North Carolina? A scarf?”

“How about this?” I start. I glance behind me to make sure that the guys are still in the kitchen. I slide my hands slowly up his sides, dragging my nails along his skin on the way down.

“You come tonight, I won’t dance or let any Kooks touch me, then after a couple of hours we ditch. Everyone wins.”

“What will we do afterwards?”

I pretend to think for a moment. “I’ll let you help me get out of the dress.”

If i didn’t have his full attention before I certainly had it now. His posture straightens and his face lights up like a child at Christmas.

“Oh?” He asks excitedly.

“It really is a two person job.”

“Tell me more about this dress.” JJ licks his lips as he listens to every word I say.

“Well it’s all of your favorite things wrapped into one. First of all, me.” I say cheekily.

“Off to a great start.”

I whisper softly,“Then it’s a deep red color, it’s tight, and I think this will be your favorite part, it’s got a very high slit.”

JJ’s eyes seemed to have glazed over, I don’t want to try and guess the fantasy he’s conjuring up.

He’s silent for a long time and I wait for him to say something. “God damn, woman.” He blows a long breath out through his nose.

“Does that mean you’ll come?” Feeling hopeful, I wiggle in my seat.

Not really looking happy about it but he nods. I give a soft cheer, I forget where we are and reach up to grab his face and kiss him.

Luckily I don’t get too far, the sounds of the gang reentering the dining room, forcing the two of us to put some distance between us.

“What are you guys doing out here?” John B asks as he and Pope sit down with their food.

“Nothing, did you get me anything?” JJ says as he steals off of Pope’s plate which starts a lighthearted argument.

I look around and Kie is giving me a weird look. “Well I gotta go, Kie I’ll be at your house later.” I wave everyone goodbye before driving home to pack.

A little later I head to Kie’s. I respectfully drop into the living room to say hello to her dad before climbing the stairs to Kie’s bedroom.

Getting ready with Kie was always a fun time. I’m slipping the thin straps of my dress over my shoulders. Kie curled my hair, so thankfully I didn’t have to. I’m smoothing the fabric down while looking at my reflection in the mirror. I had to admit, I looked good and I couldn’t wait for JJ to see me in it.

“Damn, girl. Where you been hiding all that?” Kie teases as she makes the finishing touches on her makeup. She chose a gorgeous white, strapless dress and styled her curly locks into a half up half down style.

I giggle, blushing at the compliment. “ Stop, oh my god.”

“Are you staying the night?”

I chew on my bottom lip, I need to ask her to cover for me so I can spend the night with JJ.

“Actually, I was hoping you’d do me a favor.”

Kie curiously raises an eyebrow and I continue, “If my parents ask, can you tell them I’m staying over here tonight?”

“Where will you really be?” It’s a fair question, but I don’t want to give her the answer.

Kie groans at my silence, “We’re keeping secrets from each other now?”

“No!” I quickly dismiss.

“Does this have anything to do with the hickeys you had last week?”

My eyes bulge, “You saw that?”

She quickly rolls her eyes, “Honey, the whole island saw. So who is it? Do I know them? Will they be here tonight?”

“Look I can’t really get into it, and I know I’m asking a lot from you but can you please just cover for me?” I beg.

After a moment that felt like hours, Kie nods. I sag with relief and haul her into a fierce hug, “Thank you, thank you!”

“She begrudgingly accepts the hug, “Yeah, yeah. But you're gonna eventually tell me everything!”

“Oh my god, I promise!”

We quickly finish up our last minute touches and hurry downstairs. The drive to the club was short, Kie’s dad offered to drive us. After handing the keys to the valet, he quickly disappeared.

Nerves worked through me like an angry swarm of bees. There was only one person I want to impress tonight. Questions and self doubt slowly crept into my mind when I see all the beautiful, expensive dresses that the Kooks were wearing. I stick to Kie the entire time, laugh when she laughs and try to make small conversation while I scan the room. The amount of times that I’ve been grabbed and almost dragged to the dance floor was absurd, no matter how nice of compliments they threw at me or how much wealth they tried to bribe me with, it wouldn’t work.

Just when I think that JJ ditched, I spot my familiar mop of blonde hair, slightly slicked back. We briefly catch each other's gazes and he gives me a subtle wink. The thrill that went through my body is almost embarrassing, since when did I get this excited over a guy?

I’m so lost in my thoughts that I don’t notice that JJ and Pope have walked up to Kie and I, until I hear Pope complain about his tie.

Once again I meet JJ’s intense blue eyes, “Champagne, ma’am?” I feel the lightest touch of his fingers on the small of my back.

I take a flute off of his tray, “Why thank you.”

“So, how’s your guys' night going? Hopefully better than ours?” Kie asks.

“Well, you know I love spending my Saturday night serving pretentious Kooks, god when is this thing over?” Pope whines.

To be honest, I couldn’t agree more. We chat for a few minutes longer before the boys have to move on. I’m sad to see them go, they’ve been the most stimulating conversation I’ve had all night. So many guys think flaunting how much money their dads’ make is somehow a turn on. These are the same types of guys who are shocked that when they do this, all the women they date and eventually marry, are money hungry.

I resist the urge to take my phone out of my clutch to check the time for the eighth time tonight. Just a few more hours, I chant in my head.

I quickly down the glass of champagne that JJ gave me and set it on a nearby table.

“Hello there gorgeous,” Topper walks up to me in a smart looking navy suit. I didn’t know much about him besides the fact that he was Sarah’s boyfriend and a Kook. Probably the worst Kook of all.

“Hello, Topper, where’s Sarah?” I ask, quickly bringing up his girlfriend in hopes that he’ll go off and search for her and leave me alone.

“She’s here somewhere, you know how women are, love to gossip.” Yep, he’s definitely the worst of them.

“Ah,” Is all I say, searching the crowd to find where Kie ran off too.

“So I was thinking that you should keep me company until she gets back? Maybe have a dance or two?” He suggests, flashing his white teeth. He wraps his hand around my arm, trying to get me out on the dance floor.

I would rather eat shit and die, I think to myself. I try and think of an excuse to get me out of this situation.

“Hey Top!” Someone calls out and he turns around to find the voice. Suddenly I’m yanked away from him and find myself hiding behind a large potted plant.

“JJ!” I quietly exclaim to my savior.

I’m so relieved to be saved that I hug him, not caring if anyone can see.

“Hey pretty girl, looked like you needed some help.” I nod.

“How can one person be so repulsive?” I genuinely ask.

“If I see one more person stare at your ass or put their hands on you, I’m gonna lose it.” And I could tell that he was dead serious.

Being this close to him and not kissing him would be a damn shame. It’s been days since I’ve last kissed him and everything in me is telling me that it’s the most important thing to do now.

With the heels I’m almost the perfect height to reach his lips. I place my hands on either side of his face, and after he realizes what my goal is, he places his hands around my hips. His lips feel exactly like I remember, soft, warm, and firm. If JJ was good at anything, it was kissing.

I wanted to stay in this moment all night, forget the party, forget the Kooks, everything. All that mattered was the man standing in front of me.

“You look damn good tonight.” He compliments once we find the strength to pull away.

I hum in response, soaking in his praise. “Yeah?”

“Yeah, almost dropped my tray when I saw the slit.” I bursted out laughing, quickly covering my mouth to muffle the sound.

JJ’s eyes sparkle with amusement, he lovingly swipes a piece of my hair that falls out of place. All JJ has ever done in the two months that we’ve been seeing each other, is treat me like a princess. He’s never pushed me to do anything that I wasn’t ready for, he listened to my problems, and he worked so hard to buy me things- much to my discretion. I know he doesn’t look at himself the way I do, he see a fucked up kid that can’t do anything right. Someone destined to repeat his dad’s awful cycle.

He’s loyal, funny, and a damn good human being. Sometimes I wish I could shake him and force him to see all the good that’s in him, but we’ll get there. I’ve made it my personal mission to make him see exactly what I do in him.

“Let’s go home.” I say, not wanting to go out there and pretend like I care about anything here.

“You sure?” He asks, even though I know he’s itching to get out of here too.

I nod, “Yeah, something tells me we can have way more fun on our own.” JJ smirks and wraps his arm around my waist, leading to the back entrance.

“Oh I can promise you that. I’ve still got to get you out of that dress.”

#outer banks #jj x reader #jj maybank x reader #jj maybank x you #outer banks x reader #obx x reader #jj maybank #outerbanks #outer banks imagine #imagine #imagines #x reader #reader insert #obx

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