Whatever happened to true love? To fairytale romance? Where was that magical spark, those lingering kisses, the butterflies in your stomach, the fireworks in your heart? Where was the romance and the honesty in a forced love? And, above all else, how did you and Jungkook even find yourself being forced into an arranged marriage simply for publicity?
Word Count: 5,759
A/N: This is kinda long but, I mean, it kinda makes up for me not updating for a while (lol probably not i’m sorry (but i might be working on a new jungkook gang au so there’s that)
“Bloody hell, Peeves!” Ginny cried at the poltergeist, wiping her eyes as water poured down her face and soaked her clothes. The phantom cackled as he left the scene, leaving the youngest Weasley drenched in water in the middle of the corridor. She ran a hand through her stringy red hair, muttering profanities that would definitely shock her mother. Ginny’s fight with Dean had already put her in a bad mood, but Peeves throwing water onto her was the icing on the cake.
“You look lovely today, Weasley,” came the snide voice of Malfoy as he walked down the corridor, hands in his pockets and a smirk on his face as he looked her over. “It’s great to see that you know how to stay hygienic. I’m sure in that dump you call a house, it’s pretty difficult to keep clean, especially with Mudbloods running about inside.”
“Piss off, Malfoy,” Ginny retorted, wringing out her hair as she turned her back on him.
“My father says those who curse resort to disgusting language instead of using proper, intelligent words,” he informed happily, walking closer to her. Annoying the youngest Weasley was always so much fun.
Ginny whipped around, fuming as she glared at him. He was closer than he had been before, only a few steps away. She debated with herself, wondering if she should take a step forward and slap the smirk off of his face.
“I’m sure that’s what all of you pureblood Death Eaters think.”
His smug appearance faltered, and it seemed like the statement had slapped him harder than she could have.
“Shut your mouth, Mudblood lover,” Malfoy hissed, taking another step towards her. She tensed but didn’t break eye contact. She wasn’t going to let herself be intimidated by him.
“Don’t tell me what to do you prissy, spoiled little-”
His hand reached forward and grabbed her shoulder, tugging her forward, and his lips were pressed onto hers. His other hand cupped her cheek gently, giving her no choice but to give in to the (fantastic) kiss. Merlin, he had soft lips. She couldn’t stop herself from kissing back just as enthusiastically, her hands wrapping around his shoulders and tangling in his hair. They were pressed against each other, so close that her soaked shirt was dampening his.
Ginny was well aware that she should pull away from the kiss. She knew she was dating Dean Thomas, she knew they could be caught by anyone coming down the corridor, and she knew this was Draco freaking Malfoy, but she didn’t plan on breaking off the kiss anytime soon.
It’s not just the 336 voice mails, it’s the whatsapp messages too. And it’s the old texts: some of them short, others, the most recent, getting longer and longer.
It’s the handful of pictures he has in his phone; his life in Los Angeles, the last year (not even a complete blink in the life of an eternal being): Chloe at her desk doing paperwork, her brows furrowed in concentration
“How many bullets: two or three?” She asked.
“Three.” Came his reply as he played with the handcuffs.
Chloe, detective douche - no, Dan, and him on a crime scene, each looking in a different direction, but Lucifer sees how he was looking at Chloe. Ella had snapped that picture and sent it to him, with a three words caption: really, subtle, dude.
It’s only a handful of images, of soundbytes of data and it’s not supposed to be meaningful, it was never real after all.
It’s just plastic, silicon and pixels - and he can and should throw it all away.
Except that he can’t.
He can’t listen to her messages because he knows he will drive back to Los Angeles; he will be lured back to her because it might be a scheme, a long con - but what he feels is real.
He cannot delete the messages either – he has never been able to ignore Chloe, he can’t start now.
He drives away, that piece of plastic and silicon burning a hole in his breast pocket.
He still feel like breathing is a vastly underrated process when he spots the sign that he has entered Nevada. The cellphone vibrates again. He slows his Corvette to a stop: it’s dawning, it’s humid and he is tired.
He shoves the cellphone in the glove compartment of his car after he shrugs off his jacket.
Images: Chloe laughing during her night out with her - their - friends. He lets out a sigh.
If he is the devil and there is no escape from his Father’s plan then the City of Angels was definitely not the place for him.
He hears the cellphone vibrate again.
“Sorry,” He says.
He starts the car, he doesn’t even know whom he’s saying sorry to. He’s not keen on finding out.
He drives away and only stops when he feels he can’t breathe.
“Oh, hello Las Vegas!”
He’s the Devil. The devil doesn’t fall in love. Sin City is just his place.