☾° Compelled. ⌜ d. swing. ⌟

☾° › fourteen.

DeVanté DeGrate.

We sat on the bank of the Mississippi, me laid back on the blanket she brought with my eyes closed, trying to find relaxation in my tumultuous mind, and her rustling through old pages. The air was thick and muggy, but the vibrancy of the city was charged by the sound of saxophones and piano keys. New Orleans was the most. intriguing place I had ever called home, it was no wonder I always found my way back to the big easy. We were suppose to be enjoying Cedric and Jojo's band's set, but halfway through it Zena complained that the marijuana smoke was too much and she'd rather watch the moon reflect off the river.  

"Demitri..." She demanded my attention.

"Z, I'm not gon' tell you too many more times to stop callin' me another niggas name." I grumbled without so much as opening one eye to acknowledge her.

"I'm not. I'm calling you by your name," she said, leaning closer with that mischievous smile she always had when she was pushing buttons. "And it's honestly way more attractive than DeVanté. I wish I could force you to like it."

I chuckled, shaking my head. "Why don't you open your little witchy book and put a spell on me? Or whatever the fuck it is y'all do."

Her eyes narrowed playfully as she reached for the book on the table, flipping it open with an exaggerated flourish. "It's a grimoire. A GRIMMMM-OIRE," she said, drawing out the word like she was schooling me, making sure I felt every syllable. "And as soon as I figure out how to turn you into a frog, I swear..."

I smirk. "So you can kiss me and turn me into a prince?"

She rolled her eyes, pushing my shoulder with a laugh. "As if, boy. I'd take you straight to the nearest swamp and drop you off without a second thought."

I raised my hands in mock surrender, still grinning. "Cold-blooded, huh? You'd just leave me out there croaking."

"Damn right," she said, crossing her arms with a satisfied smirk. "Now, be quiet before I actually make good on that threat."

"Yeah, aight." I responded with a chuckle; knowing she would be begging me for a kiss sooner or later. The conflicted femme had been sweet and sour for weeks, claiming that she couldn't be with me, but then calling me over because her pillows didn't smell like me anymore. Thankfully for her, one of the first spells she learned was how to trap me out of her thoughts; I could no longer read her mind, and that was the only reason I was subjected to her attitude of confusion.

She had been pouring over that book more than her own schoolwork, to the point where I'd joke she was planning to drop out and ride a broomstick full-time. As much as I hated the thought of her learning enough magic to control me, it was kinda cute watching her get so lost in it. Sometimes, I'd find her knocked out, head resting on the pages, completely engrossed before sleep claimed her. I even started helping her pronounce the Latin words. That dead language had a rhythm to it, so beautiful that I mourned it every time I thought about how it faded from use.

I was lost in thought when she suddenly looked up from the book. Her eyes were wide, curious, full of that fire she got when her mind was on something.

"What have you done?" she asked, her voice soft but laced with intensity.

I raised an eyebrow, finally sitting up since she clearly wasn't about to let be rest without an interrogation. "What are you askin' me?"