The Cry Of A Mockingbird ?Dio Brando X Reader?

?Nineteen?

“Oh, that’s just cruel,” You laughed, shaking your head. “But it’s better than a family man. When do you plan on doing it?”

“Well, I want you to accompany me, so after you can walk again,” He said. 

“I can walk,” You replied. “Slowly, but I can do it. As long as you don’t go sprinting around London, I should be able to keep up.”

“Are you positive?” He asked, glancing at your leg. 

“Absolutely sure,” You reassured, making your point clear as you stood up. “It’s not like I haven’t had injuries like this before, Brando. I’m not some sissy. I can handle pain pretty well.”

“If you say so,” He said, standing up as well. “I’ll let you have some time to get ready. It’s only five, but it will be dark soon. We’ll go out then,” He walked towards the door in the room you’d been staying in, and paused in the doorway. 

“What?” You questioned, watching as the corners of his lips turned up ever so slightly, hinting at a smile.

“Nothing,” He said, shaking his head. “I’ll be back in an hour,” And with that, he left the room, leaving you standing there while you stared at the door blankly. 

…

You turned the page to the book in your hands. You were sat in a plush chair, seated close by the fire in the room, feet tucked under you comfortably. Your hood pooled on your shoulders, hair framing your face as you quietly read through the pages. You had dressed fairly quickly and then found a small bookshelf in the corner of the room. You found the first book interesting and plucked it from its place before curling up in the chair. You had lost yourself within the words and failed to notice the door opening. 

“‘What I suffered in contemplating his happiness, pen cannot describe.’,” Dio’s voice startled you, making you snap your head to him as he walked around you and stood by the fire. “Do you fancy Mark Twain?”

“I fancy his writing yes,” You said, placing the mark in the book before closing it and gently set it on the table. 

“How are your feelings about ‘Roughing It’?” Dio asked. 

“I understand the struggles,” You replied, leaning back in the seat. “It’s a fair book,”

Dio then chuckles. “Then I won’t tell you how it ends,” He said, pushing off the wall. 

You frowned. “What’s that supposed to mean?” 

“Nothing, nothing. I just won’t spoil the ending,” He said. “Are you ready to go?”

“Yes, but what do you mean by that, Brando? Why did you say it as if something bad were to happen?” You said, standing up as you trailed after him. Dio chuckled. 

“I honestly didn’t take you as the type to indulge yourself into books,” He said, glancing over his shoulder at you. He slowed his pace a little as he noticed your walking was slower than normal. He’d have to remember not to walk so fast. 

“Because I grew up in the slums?” You asked. 

“I didn’t mean it like that,” Dio said. “You’re just more intelligent than most people who live there.”

“No, I get it,” You said, shaking your hand dismissively. “Lots of kids there don’t know how to read or write. I was taught by James. I learned how to count when I started making money, and I learned how to read and write when I was younger. I never went to school, but I learned. I got sick when I was young, and James would bring me books so I could read while I was in bed.”

“Sounds like you enjoy literature,” He said, making the corner of your lip upturn into a smirk. 

“‘Most men know what they hate; few what they love.’” 

“I don’t know that one,” He said, opening the front door. You paused in the door and glanced at him over your shoulder, halting the movements of pulling up your hood. 

“Charles Caleb Colton?” You said in disbelief. “You’ve never heard of him?”

“It doesn’t ring a bell,” Dio said, heading towards the stables to retrieve his horse. 

“Oh, he’s a wonderful author. I have one of his books, and I used to read his quotes in the papers every day,” You fawned over the thought of it. 

Dio glanced at you and grinned as you rambled on. Although he may never admit it to you, nor to anyone else, he liked you. The way your eyes shined as you explained one of his works to him; the way you used your hands to talk; the way you smiled as you talked; it was all pleasing. The sound of your voice was soothing to him, and he was very grateful that you had begun talking to him more and more each day. You were nothing like anyone he’s ever met. You were completely different and unpredictable. 

He liked it. 

וווו×

Credit to all original and awesome authors.

Works Cited:

Hardy, Thomas. (1880).  The Trumpet Major. Smith, Elder & Co.

Twain, Mark. (1872). Roughing It. Sun-Times Media Group.

Colton, Charles Caleb. (1820). Lacon: Or Many Things in Few Words, Addressed to Those who Think. Longman, Orme, Brown, Green, & Longmans.