leora-rambles

[leora-rambles]

Having a job means buying jojo figurines guilt free. Today is a joyous day.

[leora-rambles]

Discovering plot holes in your own fic gotta be one of the worst feelings in the world cause now my brain is overheating trying to come up with a bandaid for it… like do I address it or do I treat it like the middle child and ignore it

[leora-rambles]

Colour it Grey, Until I Forget you: Eternally Painted on my Mind (Scaramouche/Reader [Angst/Fluff/Multichapter])

aaughhhh Scaramouche is not immune to a 2 year long situationship breakup... Heavily based off of the Grent Perez song "Clementine" !!

Word count: 9.7k

Ao3 here!

A puppet weeps for the first time in centuries.

He isn’t crying without reason. He simply remembered how warm your touch felt on his chest, resting over where a heart should’ve been beating (whatever version of a heart his careless creator kept from him).

The puppet ignores the yells and worried cries of his name, opting to instead cement the memory of you in his last moments. 

Your words rang in his head, the ones you spoke to him that cloudy afternoon, where your heels dug into the sand while the ocean crept up the shore.

He hadn’t truly believed it when you said it then, the idea that it was possible for him to be human. As he stares at the glistening leaves of Irminsul, he realizes that you were right.

Never in his life had he done anything so stupid, so impulsive, so utterly driven by ‘human’ feelings—

To disappear, with the hopes that you will be happy once he’s gone.

~•~

Kaveh had to stifle a scream when he saw you hunched over on the dining room table, your hair a mess, and your eyes dazed. It’s clear his staggering footsteps made his presence known to you, because though your form never moved, you still spoke.

“Have you ever had a long dream where you had a baby and you watched it grow up?”

It takes the blond a minute to comprehend your question, and an additional twenty seconds to thank the Dendro archon that he didn’t spill his fresh coffee all over himself.

“… Huh?” He finally lets slip.

“Has that been researched? Families in dreams? Have you ever had it?” You’re still not looking at him, even when you clarify.

“No… why? What happened?”

Your roommate sits down in front of you, eyeing your disheveled robe and puffy face. ‘You mourning your dream family?’ He almost jokes, but swipes the idea away. ‘Inappropriate timing.’

You’re focusing on the steam rising from your cup. 

“I had a dream about having a boyfriend,” you sigh as you stretch your arms out in front of you, leaning back and tightening your lips in an awkward smile.

“Oh?” Kaveh stirs the coffee in his cup, laughing lightly. “Maybe being single is getting to you.” 

You nod your head from the left then to the right. “Probably, because two years passed in my dream.”

Just with that, he’s intrigued. You could tell from the way he leaned in closer, ignoring the sketchbook in front of him. You bring your hands up closer to yourself, as if grasping and pulling at toffee, “It felt so real, that when I held him in my arms, it was like I was really touching him.”

Kaveh’s looking at you with wide, fascinated eyes now. “What was he like?”

“Oh, uh—“

It takes a few moments for you to open your mouth, and a few seconds more after that for words to come out.

Your pause to his question clues Kaveh in as to why your eyes were so puffy. 

“It’s not that he was bad— well… I mean, he wasn’t good, either…” You’re silent again for a second. After some hesitation, you find your words. “He was complicated.”

You clasp your mug, tentatively rubbing your thumb where the handle meets the cup. “I don’t remember much about him, but…” There’s a faraway look in your eyes, the kind of look you see when you ask an old man about the person he keeps in his locket.

“He made me feel things that I’ve never felt before.”

Kaveh purses his lips in thought. Arms crossed, brows lifting and pulling as he mulls over your original question. ‘No, that’s never happened to me,’ He thinks to say, but he feels it’s too late to answer that now.

He finally responds after collecting his words. “Maybe going out more will help you find your dream boy. Staying a hermit forever won’t do you well.”

You shrug. “Maybe.”

There’s a tugging, swelling feeling in your chest. A forgotten toy, the rain that accompanied lightning, the remnants of flowers that have long since bloomed and withered— that’s all you can remember as you think back on that dream. You’re trying to remember how your dream even started, and questioning why it affected you so much.

Kaveh sees you jolt up after your head bobs down— something he notes as the first warning sign of falling asleep. He watches as you scramble to aid your grogginess by using the coffee in your hands. 

After you take a sip, you pause and sit silently, still pondering your thoughts. ‘ It doesn’t make sense.’

You’ve had vivid dreams before, super, super detailed ones, but this one still managed to blow all the other entries in your dream-diary out of the water.��

“There’s a festival out in the city— who knows, you might find him there.” Kaveh’s voice sounds distant as he speaks.

You rest your head on one hand, eyes closed as you try your best to respond. “Festival…” 

A subconscious smile makes its way onto your face. “Ah… like a… fair…”

You let the thought circle around in your head.

‘Fair.’

The word is friction to a matchstick.

It’s like the mug in your hand disappears, like your body has become weightless. Leaves fall on the table, with the partial sunlight blinding your squinting eyes. You’re only relieved of the inconvenience when a shadow blocks the intruding brightness away, like an eclipse.

His shoes grazed the concrete when he stepped closer to you.

“The one in the city. I know you have nothing better to do, so just come.” A finger flicked your forehead, snapping you out of your daze. His face was too pretty for his attitude to be so difficult.

“Is it so hard to say please?” You clicked your tongue as you peered up from your book, rubbing the buzzing spot on your forehead. “I thought you already went over manners with Nahida…” you mocked a pout.

He shook his head, holding a hand out for you to take. You let out an exaggerated sigh as you shut your book and push the cafe chair back tight to the table. You did eventually take his hand, appreciative of the way his porcelain fingertips remained cool even under the Sumeru heat.

The boy was nice enough to ignore your annoyed complaints along the way, going as far as to walk ahead as you two traveled the streets, towards the heart of the festivities.

“You’re not even that big on these types of things,” you pointed out as you tried to match his speed, figuring you’d rather be talking to his face, and not the back of his head.

“My dear teacher instructed me to go and ‘mingle with the locals’— I invited you because I know you’d rather be anywhere else. I can’t be the only killjoy around, after all.” 

You stopped walking, causing him to freeze as well. “It’s not that I don't like it, it’s just…” 

You were playing with your sleeves as you averted your eyes away from his own. “It’s only fun when you can spend on games or food, and…”

It took a good three seconds before you finished.

“I’ve been trying to save my mora for books.” 

It takes another three seconds of silence before mocking laughter fills the air.

Your pursed lips switched to a scowl at the boys cackle at your remark.

He crossed his arms, tilting his head, “Then don’t buy anything? Don’t tell me you need money at the fair to have fun.” 

Your scowl only deepened at his mockery. “Oh my, the ex-mobster with endless wealth wants to scold me about saving cash.” That wiped the smug smirk off his face in an instant.

It became your turn to walk ahead, leaving him following behind you.

The closer you two walked towards the stands, the more concentrated the amount of people became in the area. Afraid he’d be lost, you’d quickly glance back, only to see that he was inches away. 

Unlike you, he didn’t care about pleasantries, and would push through the crowd whenever he deemed that you were straying too far.

After escaping the near-endless sea of people, you two could only walk around calmly for a few minutes before you piped up.

“I’m already bored with just walking around.” 

The boy rolled his eyes at your whines once more. You were fanning yourself, desperate for shade after enduring the sun's rays for how long you two were walking around for.

“You know, after twenty of these, it really does lose its appeal.” Your complaints made him scoff, but he took them in stride.

“If you think a measly twenty is bad, try five hundred.”

You made a face he could only compare to disgust.

“And you’re still not sick of it?”

He shook his head. “Can’t get sick of it if all I did before was people-watch.” 

The boy stopped walking, leaving you paused beside him. You noticed the vendor selling toy boats and porcelain dolls catching his line of sight. 

“This is the second time I’ve actually done anything other than observe from the sidelines.”

You recalled the first time you went to a festival with him. You were the one to ask him to accompany you, and Nahida, ecstatic at the thought of the boy making a friend, kept pushing him to join. He didn’t have room to refuse, let alone be reluctant.

You two did nothing but waste mora on games trying to win prizes. Though nothing of lasting value was won, the boy still assured you he had a decent time (in his own misleading way).

“Enjoy it while it lasts. This is the final time I’ll let you bother me for this.”

You didn’t know then that it was the first time he had played at a festival stand, due to both his words and his attitude.

Your face dropped its neutral expression, dipping into a slight frown. ‘ Five hundred festivals, only two where he wasn’t a bystander?’ You thought to yourself.

The boy noticed your look of pity, and quickly changed tracks, trying to avoid basking in any more of your sympathy. 

“I’m getting tired, anyways. Let’s go lay down somewhere.”

He led the way, his hand grasping yours. The area he brought you to was far from the crowds, facing the ocean, hidden enough by the bushes surrounding it.

“Comfortable?” You asked as he strained his neck against the tree, his expression unpleasant.

“As comfortable as I can be.” You would’ve believed him had it not been for the click of the boy's tongue. It let you know it was thinly veiled sarcasm.

You shook your head at his tone, beckoning him closer. “Come here.”

The boy stared at your folded legs as you tapped them, a look of suspicion plastered on his face.

He crossed his arms and furrowed his brows. “What are you trying to do?” 

You rolled your eyes, sliding your body up so your bag acted more as a pillow than a bump irritating your lower back.

Another tap on your thigh.

“You can lay your head down on my lap, I’m not gonna bite you.” You almost missed the faint pink that dusted his cheeks as you offered.

“What ulterior motives do you have?”

“Ulterior motives— What, scared I’m gonna strangle you to death? If you don’t want to, I won’t force you.” It was your turn to cross your arms and frown.

The boy coughed and looked away.

“… Since you’ve already embarrassed yourself with the offer, I’ll kindly accept.” 

He moved to shift his position to do so, but not without complaining about you ‘Enjoying this more than you should’.

You felt him freeze for a moment after his head hit your thighs.

“What’s wrong?” You were worried he may have discovered something, anticipating a ‘there’s a caterpillar on your shoulder’ from him, which is why you responded in such a hasty manner.

“Nothing.”

Your long stare urged him to spill, but he swallowed his words.

“I told you, it’s nothing.”

You kept eye contact, watching as his look of annoyance shifted to mild fluster. You leaned down closer.

“This is the best time to tell me about your huge crush on me.”

The boy only scoffed in response, expression returning to irritation.

“You’re so delusional that it’s not even funny.”

You could tell that he was trying not to react to your teasing by the way his entire body went still the nth time that day, but that alone was enough for you to break the silence for his sake.

“You know your old name?” You began, twirling his hair again. “‘Destroyer of countries?’” You clarified, giving him space to correct you if you remembered it wrong.

“I do.” His normally sharp tone somehow grew sharper. “What about it?” He was cautious, already on the edge after your previous teasing.

You sighed, “Nothing.” Your pursed lips told the boy that it was the opposite. He stayed quiet to let you continue.

“It just seems a little… over the top, don’t you think? It’s kinda rude for the townspeople to call you such a thing,” you grumbled, pouting in such a way that made the boy snicker at your expression.

“I chose it myself .” You could tell he was amused by the way his canines showed as he spoke.

Stifling a smile, you inquired further. “Did you, now?”

You caressed your knuckles against his cheekbone. As always, his skin was smoother than glass. “What a mean name for such a cute face.”

His brows suddenly jolted downwards, his smirk morphing into a sneer at your teasing.

“You seem to forget that I’m not the same as you humans, with feelings so easily hurt, and shallow desires gratified by any measly pleasures.”

His tone was haughty during his rambling, but his voice suddenly dropped. “I’ve done away with those distractions a long time ago.”

You sat for a moment, bewildered and surprised at his sudden outburst.

It took a second for you to shake it off.

“That was a whole load of crap,” you chuckled, “You say all that, but you’re here enjoying the sun like the rest of us humans.”

You could tell your last comment dug under his skin, as he turned his head to the side, and refused to meet your eyes.

 “Quit bothering me while I’m trying to rest,” he huffed.

He focused solely on the beach and the waves running along the shoreline. You followed his gaze. 

From where you two sat, if you were to swim in a straight line, you would’ve arrived straight onto the dock belonging to the land of Electro.

“… Just to be clear,” you began, garnering his attention once more, “I like your name now .”

A content sigh from you as you leaned back further. “I hope you know that, —“

And it was on the very tip of your tongue, like the string of a balloon grazing your palm as it floated away. 

His name.

The loud bang echoes through the walls like the ringing of a gong.

First comes shock, a startled gasp that slips out of your throat as you compose yourself.

Second is the pain, evident from how hard your forehead pulses in complaint.

“… Are you alright?” Kaveh’s voice rings out.

Third is the realization. You hiss, pressing on the reddening spot on your forehead. 

“Ouch…”

Kaveh tuts as he shakes his head. “That’s definitely gonna bruise…” He makes a show of tapping his own forehead. “The Traveler’s gonna think I’ve been bullying you, or something.”

You squint. “Traveler..?”

“Hello? You had ‘totally top secret’ information you wanted to discuss with them, didn’t you?”

It takes you a second to think, and when the lightbulb finally fizzes with light, you gasp. 

“Ah! Yes. I completely forgot.” You rub your forehead, looking down at the table yet again. It’s a good thing you didn’t fall face first into the mug…

Kaveh takes a sip of coffee. “Are you sure you’re gonna be okay?”

A deep long sigh, ending off with a half-laugh, half-groan. You tilt your empty mug, looking at Kaveh with a weary smile.

“Yes, I just need another cup.”

~•~

The wind cuts through a forest, stealing whatever insignificant thing it catches in its hands. A porcelain doll shivers as the air rushes past and carries him along.

He doesn’t know where he is. Or who he is. 

A form built out of nothing. Empty. No bones or skin or mechanical joints. Just a mass of memories.

Floating. He feels like he’s floating. Not the way a paper airplane cuts through the sky, but the way a petal drifts along the ocean, following wherever the current takes it. 

Where do the ink stains on parchment go when you burn the page? When you scream in a field, where does the echo disappear to? At what point is it really gone?

How do you fully rid the world of an existence?

The living have their physical breathing bodies, senses forever stimulated by their environment, and they have the consciousness to know that they are alive. The dead have remnants of themselves, whether it’s their bones hugged by the soil, or their ash enveloped by an urn. 

Those who have simply vanished, ceased to exist— ‘never been’, where do they go? 

Wherever that is, that’s where he is, and where he isn’t.

It’s not void. It’s not the thoughtless grey space, or gorey fiery hell he heard people claim the afterlife to be. He doesn’t know if he’s even in an afterlife— if he’s anything at all.

He’s surrounded by light and clouds, and though it’s bright, it’s not burning. It’s the same kind of brightness that welcomes you in any Fontaine store.

Electricity jogs his memory. Little sparks of thought, flashes of colour that let him know he’s still there in that liminal space. 

Every blink of vibrancy reminds him of when he wasn’t trapped in whatever limbo he was in now. When he was both sentient and physical. Betrayed, ridiculed, feared, loved. 

Funnily enough, the memories of being loved were the worst of it all. The problem is that he not only experienced, but indulged in love, and recalling its warmth made his yearning for any feeling familiar to it stronger than ever.

He’s glad for the memories as much as he loathes them. The images flashing in his eyes are the only thing left that are keeping him tied to his new reality.

When he was left to fend for himself, lost his only friend, ripped at the joints and put back together like some refurbished ragdoll.

When he saw you sobbing at the dining room table, mourning the death of an old friend. 

It reminded him of his own pitiful self a lifetime ago.

He remembers the pang of sorrow that hit his chest when he saw you hunched over and covering your face. He closes his eyes.

Nothing reaches out towards nothing.

The crashing rain accompanied by the booming cracks of thunder couldn’t hide the sound of your footsteps. Not from the porcelain boy's ears, at least.

He sat on the table beside the window, elbow propped up and carrying his head in his palm. He was recounting the events that transpired earlier that day, when the weather was nicer, and you were the opposite.

Despite knowing you were just metres away from him, he held onto his resolve to continue staring out at the pooling Sumeru sidewalks, watching as the rain droplets raced and collected at the bottom of the window pane.

The thick air of guilt hung in the air like morning fog. He could sense you approaching closer.  

“Earlier… today,” you started with a weak voice, “I didn’t mean to…” He could hear you struggling to continue without revealing the quivering in your words.

Your voice was quiet from the trembling of your lips. “I’m really sorry. I’m just stressed right now with everything going on, and, I…” You had to pause, to relieve the feeling of your throat closing up.

You knelt on the floor, facing the side of his body.

“I didn’t mean to act like that towards you.” 

Despite your attempts at reconciliation, the boy did nothing but remain silent and sedentary.

His non-response urged you to reach out for him. 

“Please talk to me.” 

His skin felt like ice compared to yours, which were burning with shame. Your fingers intertwined with his, fitting perfectly within the joints and gaps of his hands. He ignored you.

Only when you squeezed his hand did he finally respond.

“You let one bad event shift your entire personality.” 

His voice was muffled by the hand he rested his chin on.

“You’re more emotional than I thought.”

The boy felt your body tense from the way your hand had twitched.

“I don’t even know why you’re acting like this,” he said, finally turning to look you in the face.

“Do you know how privileged she was to live to that age?”

His eyes were dark as he stared down at you.

“You’re mourning the death of a successful life.” He slipped his hand away from yours. 

“That’s a feat not many accomplish. Do you know that?”

You shook your head, pressing your lips into a frown. “Stop it,” you uttered. The boy only tilted his head in mock confusion.

“Oh, but I’m talking to you, aren’t I?” He leaned in closer. ”Isn’t this what you wanted?” His words were dripping with venom.

You clenched your eyes shut. Stray tears slipped out as you closed them.

“Don’t get all quiet now.” His touch was gentle and light as he carried your face in his hand.

He ran the pad of his thumb just below the tips of your bottom lashes, swiping away the tracks left by the falling droplets. 

You shook your head again. “I don’t deserve this,” you muttered.

“You’re right.” His thumb made another swipe at one of your stray tears. “But this is life.”

Though your face was inches from his, he felt invisible to your gaze. Your eyes looked as if they were staring past him.

“If you can’t get ahold of your emotions, then—“

The crisp sound of a slap resonated throughout the room.

There’s always a brief pause after a loud noise. The first firework, a gunshot, an explosion. A moment of silence that is eventually followed by more sound. It’s a gap left for realization.

He stared at the stinging area on his wrist, then into your eyes. He thought he heard blood running through his system until he realized that it was your breathing.

He felt chills run down his spine when you finally spoke.

The boy remembered the heaving breath that escaped your lips. The words you spoke that he felt etched into his mind, like the scar that lightning leaves on an old oak tree.

“I wish I never met you.”

It’s that memory that sends the most jolts of electricity through his system, colouring the most vibrant of paint splashes in his eyes. Just your voice sends the movement of clockwork into motion.

Along came the tag that left you more in hisses than it did in happiness. Whenever he made you angry, upset, disappointed into tears, he would stand and stare blankly as you cursed his name.

Scaramouche.

~•~

If your aching head didn’t dampen your morning, then your grumbling stomach sure did. You had to constantly switch which hand was holding your notebook due to your palms' sudden dampness, which you attributed to the unexpected stress on your body.

You were kicking yourself for not eating breakfast at home, wondering why you decided to pump your stomach full of caffeine in place of a meal. You started off with blaming lack of sleep for your lethargy, and then went after hunger next for your mood. When nausea crept into the mix, you found something else to blame.

‘It’s catching up to me…’

You were not a heavy drinker, and your tolerance showed that. There were more times than you could count where you sat slouched on the floor, promising to never drink again because of the morning that followed.

Though that being said, you stopped drinking for fun ever since you joined the workforce. Your reasons to indulge simply developed, and you only ever drank if there was a celebration, or a loss.

The thought sticks to your mind as you rub your temples. Why were you drinking last night? 

There was no celebration, so you checked that off. There was a loss, yes, but you drank for that a week ago. To drink for that reason again seemed excessive.

Were you even drinking?

Your train of thought is disturbed from another sound of complaint from your stomach, which somehow led to your head throbbing as well.

As if the God of Luck pitied your predicament, the  welcome bell of a nearby cafe catches your attention. 

You’re pleased to see that the area is less crowded than usual, which you attribute to it being the first day of the fair, and most people are spending their hard earned mora at the stands instead of the regular spots.

After ordering and sitting down, you begin to unpack your dream, not caring to be clean with your handwriting. You almost didn’t notice the server plopping your meal in front of you because of how immersed you were with writing.

‘He was nice to me when I came back to the house drunk, and he took care of me.’ You finish scribbling down.

Usually, you would remember a dream from end to beginning, sometimes forgetting the beginning altogether. It didn’t come back to you in a solid timeline, rather playing in parts as you went on with your day. Today's entry was the only exception.

You could remember everything that happened as if it were a movie you rewatched a million times. Writing it down only solidified your memory of it, and despite still working on the middle section of the entry, you anticipated the end of your dream.

The very last thing you could recall was running to a house that wasn’t yours, and finding it empty.

~•~

Scaramouche thinks it’s a dream as he sails weightlessly through the sky. He travels through the wind with aimless intent, and that’s when he realizes that the memories are fleeting, escaping his grasp.

Anxiety courses through his core, regret and bitterness sinking into his eyes. He doesn’t want to die. He doesn’t want the memories to divulge into darkness. He doesn’t want to be gone.

So why did he do this?

Scaramouche experiences the same fear he felt when he was sent away by his creator.

He racks his mind, trying to remember what caused him to go down this route— erased from the world, desperately trying to cling onto what little identity he could hang onto.

Scaramouche was not the type to get himself into these types of situations. So why was he here?

He remembered silently watching as you stuffed all the clothes you owned into a little brown suitcase.

Scaramouche’s arms were crossed, his body relaxed and leaning on the doorframe while your hands were a buzz of frantic movement, grabbing and rearranging to make everything fit inside the bag. He noticed that some of your clothes were still in the drawer— clothes that he had bought you.

“All this over one bad fight?” His tone was bored, almost emotionless. 

You didn’t grace him with a response, only kept shoving your belongings into the case. You reached for the bedside table, gathering little trinkets until you picked up a particular one, scrutinised it with your touch, then tossed it back onto the table, shoving the rest of the items into the little crevices in your baggage.

You struggled to fold the suitcase, and struggled even more to zip it close. Scaramouche walked closer to see what item you’d neglected on the table.

He shook his head upon seeing it. “Wow,” he half scoffed, half laughed, “This is another level of petty.” Scaramouche picked up the keychain he bought for you. A colourful toy boat.

He tried to toss it into your suitcase, but you, as if anticipating his actions, caught the miniature before it could land with your things, and threw it off to the side. Scaramouche clicked his tongue at your stubborn silence, picking the trinket back up.

“What do you want me to say? I’ve already apologized for what happened two days ago, if that’s what you’re still mad about,” he sighed as he knelt beside you on the floor, offering no help while you continued to pinch the edges of the zipper teeth together, trying to close it despite the case being jam packed.

When you did manage to squeeze it enough to zip it closed, you promptly stood up, and began rolling your suitcase out with you.

“Why are you ignoring me?” He trailed behind you.

You released a heavy sigh, dropping your hand from the suitcase's handle. You were halfway to the door.

“Because you turn every conversation into an argument, and I want to leave without high blood pressure,” your response was pointed, frustrated, but a response nonetheless. It was all Scaramouche wanted. You’d deprived him of your voice for 2 nights and 2 days.

“Oh, I turn every conversation into an argument. I’m the one who overreacts.” He could tell he was making you angry, with the way you only turned your head to the side, but ultimately kept your back to him.

“What did I just say?” You sighed again, bringing your hand up to massage the side of your temples, trying to soothe the rush of blood running to your face.

Scaramouche had a habit of making it seem like his issues were your own, make it seem like both of you needed to fix something. 

He couldn’t stand, even for a moment, being the only imperfect one. 

You turned your head and began walking again.

He knew it was wrong of him to do. He knew it made you miserable, but he would never let himself be in a position where he felt less than you. 

Scaramouche continued pushing, trying to find any psychological loophole to keep you longer. He knew he could convince you to stay— he just needed time. “You’re putting the blame on me, when this is on both of us.”

He needed to cement that both of you were equal in being imperfect, because his imperfection got him abandoned. 

You stopped in your tracks, just at the door frame. “You’re right. This is on both of us.” You spoke like it was a revelation.

It dawned on Scaramouche as you turned your body to face him that it was the first time in 2 days and 2 nights that you looked him in the eyes 

“Now what?” You asked.

He fell silent.

“It’s both our faults that this relationship is failing. Now what?” 

Scaramouche found it difficult to reply. “Now you can unpack and think about what you’re doing,” he hissed, “We can live through this the same way we lived through the other hundred fights.”

Your arms crossed.

“So you want to stay together?” Your question made him bite back an insult— something along the lines of ‘Obviously, dumbass.’ He settled for a firm “I do.” 

A look of utter confusion and tiredness fell on your face. “But why?”

Scaramouche had to bite back another instinctive quip. “Because there’s no point in leaving each other,” he answered. Scaramouche wasn’t used to being so truthful with his thoughts during such a heated moment.

“But there is!” Your sudden exclamation made his eyes widen for a fraction of a second. “We argue more than we talk, it’s pretty clear that we’re not happy with each other—“

Scaramouche had to interrupt you, annoyed—no, taking offence at your assumption. 

“Don’t speak for me as if you know how I think.”

And in a moment of losing to exhaustion, hands up in defeat, you finally bursted. It was the stick that broke the camel’s back.

“Okay then!” You exclaimed, “ I’m not happy.”

The energy from his annoyance dissipated, slowly melting into confusion. As the seconds passed and your words sank in, he felt all the confidence in his body draining. Whatever petty remark he would’ve thought of saying never left him, not even having a chance to grow.

You looked away to the side, and rubbed your temples with your pointer and thumb again.

“… You aren’t?” His quiet voice finally broke through the silence. He didn’t know if you laughed or scoffed at his question.

“You have to be joking,” you muttered beneath your breath, now massaging the bridge of your nose.

“How could you possibly think that I…” You began, only to pause after moving your hand away from your face. He could see you stop and rethink your words after you met his gaze, only then witnessing the tense look in his stare. Scaramouche is not stupid. He could finish your sentence for you, even if you would deny it.

Bits of your anger seemed to die with every second, and it showed in the way your look of frustration morphed into one of pity, like you’d let slip a secret he wasn’t supposed to know.

“… How long have you felt this way?” Scaramouche didn’t care that his expression showed all the betrayal he was feeling, he just needed to find a way to convince you to stay somehow, no matter the cost.

You turned around, facing the outside once more. He wished you would look back at him.

After a pause that made the silence all the more overbearing, you spoke. Your tone was weak, no longer filled with anger or spite. Just pure defeat. Your sentiment wasn’t directed towards him at all, sounding more like a slow realization to yourself— the realization that two years of emotional sacrifices still landed you in limbo. 

“I can’t remember.”

Scaramouche felt a burning wave sting his eyes. He couldn’t tell if the sound of your disappointment was pointed towards him, or yourself. He was trying to speak up again, gather his pride after being left crestfallen. 

“What can I do to fix this?” Scaramouche asked after doing his best to compose himself. His voice was fragile with his emotions exposed, so unlike the Scaramouche you were familiar with. 

There was a beat of silence where he swore his body ran colder than the ice in Snezhnaya. He didn’t care that his voice gave away all the anxiety and hurt he was really feeling, he only cared that you would see how affected he’d be if you stepped out of the door. 

A whisper of your name, a deep breath to compose himself, and a shaky plea. “… Say something.” 

It was a gentle sound, the door shutting. It was not how he would’ve left. If he were the one leaving, he would’ve slammed the door so hard that pictures fell from their places, and the echo would be imprinted onto the walls. But you were not the same as him, petty and vengeful. It was a polite thud, as polite as the way you introduced yourself to him.

Scaramouche clenched his fist. The forgotten wooden toy in his palm splintered at the pressure. He couldn’t feel it at all.

For the first few days since you left him, he was bitter. For a while, he cursed every twinkling set of eyes that ever passed him on the sidewalk. 

He was seething, because it was so easy to swear and damn everyone else that had betrayed him, but this was you .

The person that wiped his tears and stood up to his anger, didn’t revere nor look down on him, just saw him as he was.

The person that taught him that he could be human.

Scaramouche didn’t realize how often he’d be reminded of you— from the scent of a vendor he would pass by, to a laugh out in the plaza that sounded just so familiar that it caused his ears to perk up. Like air, you were everywhere, yet you were nowhere to be found.

Everyday he was losing his mind, and it was all your fault.

It would only be a week from when you left him that he finally stopped thinking of ways to win you back— Incidentally, the same day he found out about Irminsul, and the day he shook hands with the Traveler.

‘In this world, is it possible to change the past?’

He was pleased to see that his mere hunch was correct. All that was left then was the confirmation to go through with it.

At that point, there was no reason to hold onto himself, after his last life line cut itself free from his grasp.

When he ignored the Travelers' calls and yells, felt his skin and bones shatter into a million glistening shards as he vanished from sight, he could only think of one thing— that the pain he caused you would be erased from existence.

“I wish I never met you.”

As those words rang in his mind, he imagined a world where you were living peacefully. No Scaramouche, no Balladeer, no puppet born and forced to play a role— ‘destroyer of countries’. A world where you were happy.

Can a nonexistent thing cry? 

The answer should be ‘no’, but there’s no other explanation for the warmth his fingertips feel dripping down his eyes. 

Scaramouche can only think of the beach.

“That poor little boat,” he whispered to himself during one of your strolls around the shore. It seemed like he didn’t realize he said it out loud until you tilted your head at his comment.

You followed his eyesight, a toy boat scuffed up and jammed into the sand. Had it not been for its jarringly bright colours you wouldn’t have noticed it at all.

“Hm? You’re feeling sorry for a piece of wood?” 

He didn’t respond, only kept walking. It wasn’t too difficult to catch up with him.

“Did you know that humans are one of the only creatures to feel bad for inanimate objects?”

He thought you were joking at first. “Is that so?” Scaramouche replied in a sarcastic tone (one that you shrugged off and ignored).

“Well, yeah. Most animals don’t really get sentimental— they know somewhat that if something isn’t alive, it doesn’t feel pain or anything.

As long as it doesn’t look like an animal too, they don’t care how busted down or how shattered it is.” 

He watched as you began rolling your pant legs up.

“Humans, on the other hand,” you slipped out of your sandals and trekked through the wet sand, “Humans will feel sorry for anything if they see that it’s been abandoned...” 

You picked the boat up, revealing its chipping paint and splintered base. “Or broken.”

His breath caught in his throat as he watched you run it through the water to wash all the sand off of its partially broken body.

You placed the toy on a nearby rock, displaying its fading colours proudly. “Even if it’s just a little toy boat.”

It was that fateful day, that autumn afternoon, a memory he held close and replayed in his mind whenever he was far from you. 

You wiped your hand on your undershirt after tenderly cleaning the sand off of the toy.

“… You— You sound like a nutcase. It’s just trash.” He internally cringed at the way his voice stuttered, losing the only mask he could use to hide his fluster towards your actions.

You rolled your eyes and grinned at his jab. 

“Whatever.” 

You pressed your fingers just above his chest, over where a heartbeat would’ve resided. Should’ve resided.

“That was proof of humanity, Kunikuzushi .” 

Your words rang in his ears like a pleasant melody, though your smile was teasing. 

His pale cheeks deepened in colour, and he felt so warm.

He doesn’t believe that his heart is in the hands of the electro archon, he believes that his heart was standing there on the beach, right there in front of him.

Each step you took, his pulse. Every time you grinned at him and intertwined your fingers together, his circulation. You made him feel things he shouldn’t have felt as a porcelain puppet— yet the goosebumps, the pleasant buzz of excitement in his bones, and the heat always rushing to his face— it all made sense to him.

For once in his five hundred years of living, Scaramouche felt like he was made for something else.

That’s why when you turned around and began walking away, he followed you so closely.

He’s regretting his choices with every millisecond that passes. He’s lived through a lifetime within the blink of an eye, yet it’s your visage walking away that burns itself into his mind. You were a vivid burst in his eyes. Stained glass in the sunlight, the adrenaline that courses through a body after taking flight.

Scaramouche once swore to himself that he would find a way to intertwine your souls together— mix your colours with his own so that you could never leave him. ‘ Proof of my devotion to you,’ he’d said. The very thought of doing that now, to turn back and run to you, haunts him. 

He’d already maimed you so many times in this lifetime— to do it again and again, infinity times infinity, was a degree of selfishness that even he deems cruel. 

At his core, he’s selfish. Scaramouche had been selfish all his life— and his greed for your company throughout the course of your time together did nothing but prove that fact.

Scaramouche only hopes that this plan would somehow outweigh all the hurt he caused you. Make right of everything he did wrong, let him bear the suffering he brought in the first place.

But he’s scared. The white light blinding him does nothing to quell his fears, and he knows that it will just be a step forward to end it all.

Scaramouche almost turns away out of pure instinct. 

He only resists when he sees the silhouette of your back disappearing into the light. By the time he tried pulling his outstretched arm away, it was already too late.

He has never felt such pain before.

His hand finally crumbled into ashes when the white fire reached his shoulders and his chest. As he floats away, feels his consciousness and body separate, he faces the daunting fact that he doesn’t want to disappear, and he doesn't want to let what he had left of you go.

Scaramouche tries to shove what memories he had of you back into his soul as they escape him. 

‘Let me keep this,’ he begs. ‘ Take everything else but this.’ He tries to bargain with any god that might’ve been listening.

But he already resolved to grant you what you asked for. And so, Scaramouche ceased to exist.

~•~

“What the fuck.”

Still air, silence. Paimon swore she could’ve heard a pin drop. She looked at the Traveler, who’s expression held nothing but bewilderment and shock.

“You gotta be joking…” They let out an annoyed laugh, clenched fingers running through their blond hair.

When parchment is burnt, the ashes stay. When someone screams in a field, the sound remains traveling around the globe, infinitely getting quieter, and quieter, and quieter, yet never truly disappearing.

When a puppet is erased from the world’s memory, the Traveler remembers.

“This guy…” They bite their nails. They should’ve expected this once they caught wind of the break up. 

“Done,” Scaramouche had said. The Traveler quirked a brow at his carefree attitude and nonchalant tone. Nahida warned them about his shifting moods— ‘Breakups are never easy,’ she explained, but this was drastic. And the way his wide smile didn’t match his eyes made the boy look deranged in a way that freaked the Traveler out.

They only processed his words when he disappeared from their sight.

“What are you doing?!”

They didn’t even bother hearing him out when he responded, too focused on trying to find the source of where his voice was coming from so they could smack some sense into him.

“Hold on! Aren’t you overreacting a little bit? There’s plenty of fish in the sea, and—“

They felt the ground shake. 

“And you’re being really impulsive right now! Come on, give it at least a year— f-five months! Even just two months—“

And then it was silent. All that remained was Paimon’s gaping mouth mirroring their own.

Paimon’s voice quirking up shook the Traveler out of their thoughts.

“Traveler, is it just Paimon, or did the Balladeer look like he was about to cry before he left?”

Despite the stress they were going through, the Traveler did recall seeing the boy's eyes well up for that split second before he vanished.

It’s hard for the Traveler to focus the morning after their good friend (a strong word for a ‘former-tormentor-turned-colleague’) decided to basically remove himself from the narrative. Having to catch Paimon up the morning after she lost her memories of the Balladeer also drained whatever energy they had reserved for the day.

It seems the Traveler’s mood is affecting yours as well, as you sat motionless while staring off into space.

“Uhm… are you okay? Paimon’s been trying to get your attention for the last six minutes…” She waves a hand in front of your face. 

You shake your head, straightening your back in surprise. “Sorry, I had a rocky sleep last night. I had a weird dream.”

Paimon claps her hands, ever excited for a story. “Well, let’s hear about it! It’s clearly bothering you.”

“It was way too much…” You try to refuse, but the duo’s expectant looks urge you to spill anyways.

“Basically, I lived through an entire relationship in the dream. I felt months go by— like, the dream only ended when we broke up.”

“Broke up?” Paimon repeats. The Traveler's head perks up at the trigger word, and they only fully look at you after Paimon’s echo. The Traveler’s eyes don’t show their excitement, because they’re not excited by this at all.

“Well, I didn’t wake up exactly when I broke up with him. A few days passed, and then I tried to go back to his house to talk to him, but…” 

The Traveler doesn’t hear the last part of your rambles, their ears ringing and going back to those two deadly words. The black hole of dread deepens in their stomach, no matter how much they try to shake the underlying feeling away. ‘Broke up. ’

“What was he like?” The Traveler breaks their silence after a considerable amount of time staying quiet. 

You begin to fidget with the back of your pen as you speak.

“Total wild card. I’d say he was mean if it weren’t for the times he was nice— when he was sweet, he could be really sweet.” There’s a smile on your face as you stare at the half-filled page of your journal.

Your wistful look turns into an uncomfortable grimace as you continue, “But when he was mean, I’d compare him to a monster. Super complicated guy.”

The Traveler closes their eyes while repressing a strong frown. 

Oh, great Anemo archon. 

“… Do you remember what this boy looked like?” The Traveler asks, reluctant and unwilling. They have an inkling suspicion that they already know what this dream-boy looks like.

You pipe up quicker than you had before, “Beautiful— I mean, I feel like he was beautiful. I’ve pretty much forgotten how most of his face looks after I woke up. All I remember are sharp eyes, like a cat.” 

Paimon glances at the Traveler, who in turn sneaks a reciprocating look. ‘ That could be anyone,’ The Traveler blinks. ‘I don’t know...’ Paimon blinks back.

A snap of your fingers interrupts their silent conversation. “Oh, and he had a blunt bowl cut.”

The Traveler wants to die. 

They place both elbows on the table, and bury their forehead in their palms. There is no one else in Sumeru that it could be but—

“And you’re sure you only ever dreamt this last night?” Paimon covers for the Traveler, trying to help by asking the final nail-in-the-coffin question herself.

Your bright smile is as deceiving as a marshmallow that doesn’t know that it’s hiding a bullet.

“Definitely!”

The Traveler could barely hide the groan of misery bubbling in their throat.

They try not to show more of the displeasure already on their face as they recount yesterday's events.

“Are you okay?” You lean closer to them.

“Yeah, I’m good. Just got a headache.”

They drop a hand and balance their chin on the one planted on the table. Maybe this is okay.

Sure , it may be bad that Scaramouche deleted himself… but is it worth making a big fuss over? Yeah, they haven’t approached Nahida about what to do next yet , but they could probably let it slide. 

Maybe it’s for the better. Maybe it’s meant to be this way. Scaramouche is far from stupid. Maybe he knew that this was the best outcome for the both of you.

As they brood in their thoughts, you take the silence as permission to continue scribbling in your notebook.

The Traveler side eyes Paimon as you’re submerged with scratching your thoughts down. They then nudge their floating companion, who takes the hint and coughs to grab your attention.

“What have you been scribbling about?”

“This is my dream diary.” You’re shy as you close the book. “It’s almost the afternoon, and I’m only just about finished with today's entry.”

“Can we read what you’ve been writing so far?”

“… Swear you won’t judge my writing?”

They both nod. You hand your notebook over.

Me and dream boy got into a fight, and then I told him that we should breakup. He looked really sad and it made me sad, and then he said something. I really wanted to hug him and apologize because he looked so sad but I left and shut the door. 

The Traveler keeps their promise by only commenting on how vivid the dream was. Paimon keeps her end of the deal by keeping her mouth shut. 

“It’s clear he’s occupying your mind,” the Traveler exclaims after thinking about what a pain in the ass it will be to try and fix this mess. 

You purse your lips. “… It’s really crazy, but I never felt that way before.”

Looking down at the table, you fidget with your pen again as you confess your thoughts to the blond. “You know, up until now, I never really understood the hype around love and relationships. I was always content with being alone.”

A familiar silhouette catches the Traveler’s eyes from behind you. It’s difficult to pay attention to you when the wide brim of the figure’s hat keeps bobbing up and down with each step he takes. 

“But after waking up… I don’t know, I just felt kind of… lonely? I’m not trying to whine, but I guess after getting a taste of what it might be like, it feels like I’m missing out.”

They try to focus on your words, but the clueless, almost juvenile way the boy wanders around the bookstand makes him look like child lost in a farmers market.

The Traveler notes that his attitude was timid. Far from normal.

“Ah, shoot, sorry, we originally met up for the information I was supposed to tell you, right?” Your apology snaps the Traveler out of their scrutiny.

They find it hard to steer gears after that. Paimon catches the Traveler’s stern eyes staring the figure down, and connects the pieces together.

“Right.”

The Traveler is still thinking about the boy even after you leave. Only after they hunt the figure down are they able to confirm that their suspicion was fact.

As they lay on their shared bed, staring up at the ceiling tiredly, it’s all the Traveler can think about.

“Paimon, I really thought this would be easy,” they mutter. Paimon groggily agrees. 

“Uh-huh.”

“When Nahida told me about it, I thought ‘finally, I can rest’.” 

“I hear you.”

“I thought I’d just take the guy out for ice cream, you know. Maybe get him to learn a new hobby. Take him fishing. Would’ve been an easy request. I didn’t think he’d do all this.”

The Traveler looks over as they rest their head over their crossed arms. Their companion is fast asleep.

~•~

The vendor smiles when he sees a familiar silhouette pop by for the second time that week. 

“Back so soon? You were here just yesterday!”

The newcomer was a welcome one, not only for his mora, but for his pleasant conversation. The vendor couldn’t help but smile as he watched the boy sheepishly scratch his cheek.

“Ah… I can’t help it. Last volume ended on a cliffhanger,” the boy confesses. The vendor's eyebrows raised in surprise.

“You’re already caught up?!”

The boy looks down at the concrete before nodding. 

The old vendor laughs after overcoming his brief astonishment, displaying the aforementioned text on his table, “Well, just buy the last few novels all together. That way you won’t have to keep coming back every time you finish a book.”

The Wanderer gulps at the offer, very visibly tempted, but restraint ultimately saves his skin (and mora).

“I won’t be able to work if I do that, I’ll be too enamoured reading,” the Wanderer explains. His attention shifts when he hears a high pitched call from behind him.

“Wanderer, you’re here again! Are you on your break?” The chattier part of the duo pipes up. The Wanderer nods his head, picking up a novel he was eyeing.

“Ah, yes. I was just thinking of buying a new book,” he responds. The Traveler looks at the cover. ‘A romance,’ they think to themselves. Paimon elbows their shoulder after catching sight of the novel.

“Paimon sure is hungry…” She floats to the side aimlessly, slouching for dramatic effect. The Wanderer takes the bait.

“Oh yeah. We should eat, hey?” He thinks back on when he had his last meal. Breakfast. No good. The Wanderer turns back to the vendor to finish up.

“I’ll just get this one.” He slides the mora over to the man, thanking him before turning back to the two. 

“I guess I’ll accompany you until my break ends,” he smiles. Paimon leads the way, making a line straight to the cafe just adjacent to the book stand.

She flies closer to him, peeking over at the novel once more. “What are you doing here reading books, anyways? It’s the second day of the festival!”

“Doesn’t seem like much fun,” he sighs. “Not much to do other than people watch, going alone and all.” The three sit at a table, the Wanderer caving to Paimon’s grabby hands towards his novel. She studies the front, only to gasp when she finally reads the back.

“Wait a minute, Paimon’s read this story before!” She squeals in excitement, gesturing wildly as the other two stare at her with curiosity. 

“So, this knight really really loves this princess, but she hits her head, and at the end of everyday, she basically forgets everything that happened, so it’s like she’s stuck in a loop! So the knight… hey, are you listening?” 

The Traveler nods before looking over at the boy beside them, who was facing away from their floating companion.

“Who is that?” He asks. Instantly, the two know who he’s talking about.

Your hand scribbles away on a piece of parchment, occasionally resting the end of the pen on your lips. The action brought a flush of pink to the Wanderers cheeks, his own lips parted in admiration.

“Oh, that’s…” The Traveler starts, but fails to finish.

Both the Traveler and Paimon look troubled, not exactly having planned out what they’d tell him. 

“We don’t know… we can ask around, after.” They offer a small smile. “Sorry Paimon, you were saying?” The Traveler tries to refocus the conversation, a way to buy time to formulate a plan of some sort.

Minutes of Paimon’s yapping pass, and the Wanderer still can’t stop staring at you. 

He wonders why he’s so drawn to your image, why he could feel your fingertips trace over his collarbones. Simply looking at you spread warmth over where a heavy beat should’ve thumped against his rib cage.

As far as he knows, you’re a stranger he’s never spoken a word to. So how come, no matter how many times he checks and makes sure it’s in his head, does he feel a pulse in his neck whenever he glances over at you?

You shut your book and stand up, pushing your chair back in and grabbing your bag from the seat beside you. 

The Wanderer stands up as well, causing his companions beside him to follow suit.

As if a string had wrapped around his waist and was pulling him closer, his body subconsciously steps towards your direction.

The Traveler grabs the boy's shoulder before he could get closer.

“Your break has ended,” they state in a flat tone.

The boy looks at the cafe clock, a hint of betrayal on his features as he silently laments the time passing so quickly.

“Oh…” He’s still looking at you, even when he turns his body to face the other two. "... Yeah. I should get back, then.”

The Wanderer makes a move to step away and leave, but the hand resting on his shoulder stays planted on. He shoots the Traveler a quizzical look.

“No.” The Traveler replies.

The Wanderer glances at Paimon, who in turn averts her gaze from his own. He’s beginning to worry. “… Huh?”

The Traveler ushers the boy with them, unfortunately (in his case) the opposite direction of where you’re headed.

“I need to talk to you about something.” The urgency in the Traveler’s voice causes a spike of worry in the Wanderer’s mind. He’s wearing a confused look, his eyebrows tilting upwards as he looks around nervously. “… What’s wrong?” He whispers to the two beside him. 

Paimon has never seen anyone look this concerned before. She frowns before looking down in guilt. 

‘Poor guy ,’ Paimon thinks to herself. ‘ Innocent, innocent Wanderer.’

She lifts her head and meets the Traveler’s face, who bears the same guilt-ridden expression.

They both lock eyes, and then nod in newfound determination.

Paimon will make sure that they apologize to the boy later.

[leora-rambles]

STEEL BALL RUN ANIME ANNOUNCED

[leora-rambles]

Yandere Albedo (draft/snippet)

WARNINGS: Yandere content, major character death, unhealthy dynamics, mentions of harm to reader, violence.

First genshin fic of this account and it’s a draft and it’s yandere!! Ahh !!!!

This is 100% inspired by the song Kill Bill by SZA, specifically referencing Doja Cat’s rap in the intro. I wrote this back when it was released, but got busy with university stuffs.

I just want to post this because if I don’t, I never will !!!!!

And Diluc is here too.

Please don’t read if you’re uncomfortable with the warnings above! Thank you.

His ears twitch at the sound of footsteps, familiar and light. Albedo’s surprised he can even hear it over the sound of his heart beat banging against his ribcage, his breathing racing as he thinks of you.

He’s trying to keep his body as still as he can, but his arms begin to go numb in their position— up beside his head, quivering at the sight of Diluc’s knife.

Albedo can easily run away. He definitely can. The path towards the door was clear, and he’s sure the redhead won’t chase him despite his ungentlemanly behaviour.

Yet he stays. It’d been weeks since he last saw you, and he’s so close to finally seeing a glimpse of you again.

Even though he hates you, wishes he could make you feel the same misery you put him through, he still can’t help the fact that you are the first thing that ever put colour on the blank canvas that was his life.

Closer. He can hear you walking closer.

Albedo reminds himself to blink.

He can see Diluc mentally weigh the consequences of leaving his spot at the doorway to keep you back, as the closer your footsteps become, the angrier Diluc looks. More desperate.

Each thump of Albedo’s heartbeat matches up with the pit-pat of your footsteps.

Diluc bites the inside of his cheek when he hears you call from behind him, his body tensing, yet his eyes never leaving the blond.

“Love?”

Albedo’s mouth gapes open at the pet name.

He heard the endearment a thousand times before, and now’s the first time since what felt like a million years ago that he hears it again.

And it wasn’t for him.

“Are you coming back to bed soon?” You yawn, emerging from the stairs. Diluc’s arm shoots up to prevent you from proceeding any further.

Taking a peak from above Diluc’s shoulder, you lock eyes with the intruder on the receiving end of his ire.

A frantic gasp leaves you at the sight. In that moment, it feels like the God of time forced a clocks hands still.

Albedo feels as if his organs were just scooped out. Like a crisp piece of paper sliced his chest open, and his ribs and his blood and every single bit of manufactured tissue inside of him poured out onto the floor in front of his feet.

Warmth drips down his face the same way it escaped his system when you left him. Albedo feels the urge to wrap his hands around your neck— hold, grip, squeeze, take your peace the same way you took his.

There’s only one question running through his mind as his composure falls, as he sucks in a hiccuped breath.

Why did you do this to me?

His teeth are clenched, his hand raised as in his palm begins to form a geode. Though his vision is blurring by the millisecond, the jumble of colours he sees through his tears are all he needs in order to aim.

Diluc notices Albedo’s position, panic rising up in his throat as the puzzle pieces finally fall into place.

“Get down—!”

The moment for Diluc to turn and lunge to shove your frozen form to the ground kills off valuable time to flee.

As you fall, the sudden bright spark burns your retinas. Even with your eyes shut tight, the brilliant white pierces through, leaving only Diluc’s form as a shadow in your eyelids. There’s a sharp ‘pop’ that accompanies the light, so loud that the ringing afterwards causes your head to spin.

Your fiancé’s body is still for a moments breath above you before he collapses onto the ground like a limp mannequin.

Albedo studies the deep red that pools around Diluc’s still body.

You’re sat on the floor, lifting your upper body up on your forearms as you think back on Diluc’s last words.

Looking up at the blond, you find that you can’t strangle the quivering of your voice. Fear. The complete opposite of the tone you had used when you shattered his soul into a million little pieces.

“That shot wasn’t for him,” you mutter, more to yourself than to him.

Albedo looks away from the redheads corpse to meet your eyes. Butterflies leap in his stomach, fluttering with every millisecond that you stare up at him.

You wonder if Diluc had done the right thing by leaving you alive with this man. At least in death, you wouldn’t have to witness the mix of hatred and obsession swimming in his arctic eyes.

The tone of his voice is mocking in his reply.

“Was it?”

[leora-rambles]

To Have Loved and Lost: Thank you for the Food (Rohan Kishibe/Reader [Angst/Fluff/Multiple chapters]

Tonio Trussardi is in this one (Josuke eats Spaghetti)

Previous Chapter!

“I didn’t know about your hate for parties.”

“Now you do.”

You take a seat beside Rohan, careful not to nudge him as he sits on the cement. The house is obnoxiously loud, still annoying to hear even in the backyard.

“I just wanted to experience a party before graduation…” You admit, playing with your fingers as a droplet of shame swirls in your chest.

The pool glows blue, your only source of light in the darkness. Rohan seems to have no problem with the lack of lighting, sketching on his notepad with ease while you have to squint just to see your hands.

You take a deep breath, picking your next words carefully. “I’m sorry for dragging you into this.”

Rohan's hand stopped moving for a second. He seems to be deep in thought as he looks up from the page. You worry when he looks back down.

“Did I upset you?” You ask sadly, eyes straining in trying to search for any hint of annoyance on his face.

Your genuine tone makes the boy freeze for a moment. He responds after a second's consideration.

“… No. It was just overwhelming being in there with people constantly trying to be buddy-buddy with me.”

You nod at his reply, bringing your knees up to your chest, resting your chin on your crossed arms.

When your eyes adjust to the dark, you can finally see the sketch Rohan’s working on. It’s a sketch of the pool, his art style making it look like it’s the fountain of youth.

You lean in closer subconsciously, in awe of the boy's talent.

“You send out the manuscript yet?” The artist ignores the goosebumps on his arms as your warmth radiates onto him.

Rohan shakes his head, still focused on the drawing at hand. “I’ve yet to perfect it,” he huffs, shifting his sketchbook closer to you so you don’t have to strain your eyes.

“Mmh, you’re a perfectionist at heart. I read your draft over and over again thinking it was the final copy,” you reply, “I almost missed the bus to school because I slept late.”

His ears perk up at your confession. “… You liked it that much?”

You don’t know why he’s so shocked. He’s amazing, he knows he’s amazing.

“Duh. You don’t spend that much time on something you don’t like,” you laugh, pulling away and stretching your back. Your bare legs float on the dimly lit pool.

You put a finger on your chin, deep in thought about his manga. “I liked how distinguishable your characters are. They’re so unique, that just from their shadow or a piece of dialogue, I can tell who’s who.”

You nod to yourself. “I think that’s what kept me up— rereading and l choosing which character I should focus my attention on next.”

You don’t notice the growing blush on the other person's face as you continue your ramble.

Rohan shakes his head, swatting away any lingering thoughts he had after hearing you gush about his character's designs. He worked hard trying to make them all stand out without clashing. To hear that being appreciated—

A snap of your fingers makes him jolt in surprise. “Ooh, and the plot. You know, most manga I’ve read have a slow start, and that’s where a majority of the readers give up. Your story doesn’t have that issue at all,” you ramble on, clueless to the mini heart attack your crush— friend was suffering through beside you.

This went on for a few minutes, Rohan too flustered to stop your seemingly endless compliments. The worst part, the part he hated most, was how you failed to realize the effect you had on him.

His hands went clammy, his throat clogged up, the butterflies in his stomach were ramming against his ribcage now.

“And obviously, the artwork, too. The cover design is so eye catching that it—“

Your name falls from his lips, cutting your ramble short and earning your attention. Only then, do you realize that you’ve been gushing about his works, leaving him speechless till now.

You see the awestruck expression on his face, one that you mistake for him being weirded out.

Face flushing, you wave your hands sporadically while babbling, “I’m sorry! That must be really overwhelming to hear, I just got really excited and couldn’t—“

Rohan keeps his stern gaze on your moon-lit face, his voice gentle, but clear to your ears. He’ll admit, it was word vomit. He didn’t know what he was gonna say until it was out of his mouth, until he saw how your lips parted, and your eyebrows raised.

“I think I'm in love with you.”

Rohan can’t hide his scowl or his reddening cheeks with you laying on his chest, your hands locking his own from moving to cover his face. He settles to look away to the side in exasperation.

“You should’ve warned me, maybe then your precious sketchbook wouldn’t have suffered such a tragic fate…” He can tell you’re especially giddy the way your legs kick in the air, hitting the armrest of the couch as they drop.

“I didn’t know that you were foolish enough to jump into the pool after that.”

“Hey! I did not jump, my hand slipped from the edge.”

It had been two years since the day he looked at you in a new light at the carnival, and a year and a half since he accidentally confessed his love for you.

“And are we forgetting who jumped after me? Hm? Let’s not forget my knight in shining armour—”

“I should’ve let you sink to the bottom.”

You laugh, still triumphant, “I’ll never forget how you yelled, ‘Are you dense?! Why did you do that?!’”

Rohan covers his face in embarrassment at your mock voice acting of him, his hands finally released from yours.

“Alright— we wanna talk about embarrassing moments? What about that time you ran away after our fight?”

You roll your eyes, scoffing.

“Which fight, drama queen? You know you love picking fights.”

His face is sweaty, his usually neutral face flushed pink. You wonder if he ran here.

Your arms cross, eyebrows furrowing in anger. He gulps.

This was the first time you two had fought, also the first time he insulted you. It was petty to leave so suddenly, but one more second inside the home with his snarky remarks, and you would’ve lunged at him.

“I thought I told you to leave me alone,” you remind him coldly through the crack in the door.

He shakes his head, pursing his lips. You don’t think he’s ever looked this desperate before. “Come back.”

You bring a finger up to your chin, as if to think, but you know that he knows that your answer was clear. “No.”

“Why?” He questions, glaring at your friends’ furniture peeking from behind you. He bets that they don’t even have the silk pillowcases he has. Rohan cringes at the thought of you sleeping on the couch as opposed to a king sized bed.

“You’re mean, and you called me stupid.”

“I was only telling the truth.”

When you threaten to shut the door in his face, and he scrambles to find his words. “Alright, alright! I’m sorry!”

“For what?”

“For being mean, and ‘cruel’.” Rohan rolls his eyes, motioning air quotes with his fingers.

“And? What else?”

“And I’m sorry I ignored you when you brought me lunch.”

Your silence let him know to keep going.

“And I’m sorry I didn’t call you when I was on a business trip.”

This earns the door opening a centimetre wider.

“And I’m sorry for calling you stupid and overly emotional, even though you were—“

The door creaks, to which he scurries to change the direction of his words.

“EVEN THOUGH your reaction was valid and understandable. It’s my fault. And I’m sorry.”

You look off to the side, rubbing your arms now. “…I’m still mad at you.”

“I know. Come home. Please.”

Rohan breathes out a sigh of relief as you open the door fully.

You look behind you. Your clothes were still in the suitcase, anyways. Plus, you got the car.

Your furrowed brows let the boy know not to even attempt to open the car door for you. Chivalry could wait until your anger finally subsides.

He stares off into the road as he drives. Rohan's hand twitches on the arm rest. Slowly, he loops his pinkie finger with yours.

His eyes are laser focused on the road, too embarrassed to look at your face, too embarrassed to notice the way your lips quipped up slightly.

His face burns as he places his entire hand on yours. His heart beats violently in his ears, and there’s a dizziness consuming him from all the blood rushing to his head.

He holds in a gasp as you flip your hand over to hold onto his.

“I’m sorry for leaving so suddenly.”

You tell him, side eyeing his face. His focus doesn’t leave the road, but he doesn’t need to see your face to hear your sincerity.

“Mhm. You should be—“

You huff and make a move to let go of his grasp, but are stopped by Rohan's panicked hand scrambling to unite with yours again.

“I’m kidding.”

He rubs your knuckles with his thumb. “I was worried, you know.”

You watch him bite his bottom lip, almost missing the way he fought back a confession. “I couldn’t focus without knowing how you were doing.” The strained tone in his voice is buried, but after years of being with him, easy to hear.

“It was barely a few hours,” you mumble, sitting back in your chair, scratching your cheek with your free hand.

“I know but… the thought of you being away, and me not knowing how you’re feeling… I didn’t like it.”

“I thought you liked alone time?”

“Oh, I do. But not after we’ve fought. Not after we left each other like that.”

Rohan feels a pang of pain in his chest knowing he sent you over the edge, to the point where you needed to be a twenty minute jog away from him (a seven minute drive, turned three minutes if you speed) to cool off. Just a mere few hours away from you sent him into a spiral.

“…I thought that’d be the end of it. That you were leaving for good.” His eyes are downcast as he puts his pride aside and admits this.

“Hm.”

It’s quiet for the rest of the drive after that, save for the seabirds caws and singing from outside the car.

Rohan parks in front of Morioh-cho beach, the sun setting now that it’s later in the day colouring everything in a vibrant orange hue. Rohan remembers the Ferris wheel. He finally looks at you after a drive of avoiding eye contact.

You’re the first to break the silence.

“Even though you’re mean, and dramatic sometimes…” you start, drawing invisible doodles on the back of the artists’ hand.

Your finger jumps to his chest. “And obsessed with being right…” Circles around his heart, just light enough that you don’t feel it furiously ramming against his ribcage.

Then, your index makes a line up to his neck, finally tilting his chin so he’s looking into your eyes.

“I don’t plan on leaving.”

His hand twitches in yours. ‘You better keep that promise’ he thinks.

You keep eye contact, and though Rohan opens his mouth, nothing comes out. A grin makes its way onto your lips.

“What are you thinking about now?” You tease, dropping your hands back to your lap.

It’s Rohan's turn to cross his arms and pout, “That’s a big responsibility you know, spending the rest of your life with me.”

Your carefree smile makes his stomach do cartwheels.

“I don’t mind.”

He looks away, a tell tale sign he was making an expression he didn’t want you to see. He’s done this action many times, enough for you to know how to cause the reaction.

He only ever makes this face in response to two situations: you say something that leaves him flustered, or he’s left embarrassed about doing something nice for you.

After a beat of comfortable silence, he mutters out shyly,

“… Sure. Me neither.”

“What do you mean that’s embarrassing for me! You’re the one who ran for 20 minutes just because you were that desperate to see me.”

“No, what’s embarrassing is that you ran away over a petty little argument.”

“As if— what, so you were lying when you apologized?”

Rohan rolls his eyes.

“I wasn’t lying... but I can still say you were overreacting by driving away like that.” He pokes your cheek, taking amusement in the exaggerated frown you put on.

You lay your head on his chest and shut your eyes.

Rohan takes a moment to process it all. Just a few years ago, he would’ve overheated at the thought of extensive prolonged contact with you.

“… Even still…”

And now he’s laying on the couch with you on top of him while he strokes the back of your head.

“You kept your promise, at least,” he says, more to himself than to you.

You still respond despite your consciousness slowly slipping. “Obviously.”

His steady heartbeat lulls you to sleep.

Josuke felt a lot of emotions in an hour. Sad, happy, worried, sad again, and finally, confused.

And hungry.

“When you woke up, you were in the alleyway?” Half his focus is on the pitcher he’s balancing as he pours himself a glass of water. He’s glad Tonio’s restaurant is still open, it being his first and last resort for food.

“I’m trying to make sense of it all. So far, it seems like only stand users can see me…” You smile at Tonio, who returns the greeting as he places a plate of spaghetti in front of Josuke.

“But… this is good, isn’t it? Y-You can visit Rohan! And Tooru! And it’ll be like nothing happened.”

You fiddle with your fingers, looking down in a downcast way.

“That was one of the first things I thought of.”

If Josuke could kick himself, he would’ve done it in a heartbeat. Internally, he’s trying to remember if he tripped and hit his head to say such an obvious thing. He settles to gulp all his water down as a way to prevent saying anything more stupid.

You rub the back of your neck, sighing as you explained. “I was so happy that I ran back to the house the second I thought of it. I was gonna tell him that everything is okay, and that we can live normally again.”

You sniffle, then try to play it off as a nose twitch and a cough. “… Of course, the house was empty.”

“I thought it was a bad thing at first, but Rohan and Tooru leaving the house was the best outcome— I accepted it the longer I stayed there.” The defeat in your voice is clear, like you’ve mulled over the circumstances over and over, trying to think of any way a happy ending could be possible.

Desperate for a chance, only to be met with reality. Disappointment. “… I can’t just be like this forever… watch both of them grow up while I stay the same.”

You look out the window, gazing at the pebbled ground. Only Josuke’s shadow is caught from the bright lights inside. “If I’m here by the same rules as Reimi, once my killer is found… I’m not really meant to stay.”

“And by the chance that I don’t have to leave after justice is served, what then? What about Rohan and his career?” You tighten your lips, letting an exhale out your nose.

“‘Mangaka convinced his fiancé is a ghost’… the public will make him a laughingstock.”

“He… he's not the type to care for strangers’ opinions of him,” Josuke replies. You turn from the window to look him in the eyes directly.

“But what about the opinion of his own son?”

Your rebuttal lets Josuke know just how hard you pondered at that house.

“Just because Rohan can see me doesn’t mean Tooru can.”

Images of family photos with a missing space visualize in your mind. An argument between the two most important people in your life, with your existence as the main fuel for fighting. How do you explain that to someone? ‘One of your parents is a ghost, but you’re the only one in the know who can’t see them.’ You wouldn’t blame Tooru for thinking his dad was pulling a cruel, long joke on him.

You shrug. “It’s just trouble. Me being here.”

“… He’ll be crushed if he sees you again and you have to leave,” Josuke says out loud, though he meant to keep it to himself.

You nod. “Right. Which is why…”

Your hands are folded in your lap, voice strong and firm.

“I’d like for you to keep this a secret from Rohan.”

The teen frowns as he rests his cheek on his palm, his other hand twisting the spaghetti on his fork. A question popping up in his head causes him to shoot up. “… Where will you stay? Staying with Reimi is no good— you’re not used to the alleyway rules the way she is.”

You look off to the side. “There are many abandoned houses in Morioh-Cho. I’ll find one that’s good to sleep in. It’s not like I need—-“

Your stomach rumbling causes you to pause. “—… food….” You tighten your lips, and hide your face in your hands.

“I shouldn’t have died on an empty stomach.”

Josuke shakes his head. “Man, you can’t predict things like that.” He feels guilty sitting in front of a meal while you sit there trying to conceal your hunger.

He’s still twisting the spaghetti on the fork, procrastinating putting it in his mouth. “How do you know that you don’t need to eat?”

“W-Well, I haven’t tried yet, but it’s not like I can go to a store and pick something up…” You’re avoiding eye contact with his food.

A sandwich is plopped down in front of you, sitting atop a garnished plate and dipping sauces.

Tonio smiles down at you. “Worry not. As a chef, it is my sole responsibility to make sure that every customer that enters my restaurant is fed.”

The middle of your brows lift in gratitude and sadness. “Tonio, I’m really thankful, but I—“ Your hand waves through the plate as you try to pick it up.

“No, no, pick the food up. That’s why I made you a sandwich instead of something that requires utensils.”

You gulp, hands shaking as they reach for the plate. Tonio nods his head toward the sandwich.

Josuke watches with intensity, hands going clammy, completely forgetting his own plate.

You’re expecting to be disappointed, until the tips of your fingers make contact with the bread.

“No— no way!” You pick it up, inspecting the entire thing with a slack jaw. One tentative bite leads to three more, all mouthfuls leaving you craving to keep eating until the plate is left with nothing but crumbs.

Tonio smiles as you chew, his hand resting over the middle of his chest, above his heart.

“Many cultures offer food to the dead. As long as it’s offered to you, you should be able to take it,” he explains, moving to refill Josuke’s water.

“Everything in this sandwich is supposed to help with rejuvenation. How do you feel?” Tonio tilts his head.

“I feel so refreshed!” You squeal out, feeling your mood improve with every second.

“I’ve never been happier to eat a sandwich. You’re amazing, Tonio.” To this, he laughs, and pats the back of your chair.

The chef makes his way back to the kitchen, leaving you and Josuke alone to talk about your arrangement.

“I guess I can eat! Though, now my plan for finding an abandoned house is a no-go.” Your voice is cheerful despite having to shift gears to find a place to stay. Josuke assumes it’s because of the food.

‘It must’ve been difficult wandering alone like that.’

He can feel his eyes burning, the bleeding heart he is.

‘All alone, no one to see you, let alone talk to you.’

Josuke blinks away the tears slowly welling up, and shakes his head to compose himself. “I can ask Jotaro and Mr. Joestar if they can provide a hotel room for the time being. Would that work?”

He watches you nod and hum in agreement, mouth full of bread and vegetables. Your eyes are closed in a state of pure bliss as you savour the taste.

A shocked noise leaves you. You plop your sandwich down and cover your mouth with your hands.

“I’m sorry! I don’t mean to be rude, I just missed eating so much, and—“ You finally look at the teen, who’s taken a handkerchief to his teary eyes. You’re left gawking as he wipes his eyes with his sleeves as more tears cascade down his cheeks.

“Josuke?! What’s wrong?!”

He waves a hand, shaking his head. The longer he attempts to compose himself, the more he breaks down into sobs.

He somehow makes something out through hiccups and wails.

“I'm so happy that you’re happy!”

In your panic, you try to grab a fistful of tissues from the table. You remember your predicament as your hand slips past the objects.

“Don’t cry into your spaghetti, Josuke, it’s alright!” You settle on waving your hands out in front of him, a clear attempt at comfort.

It would’ve been a bizarre thing for an outsider to see. A teenage boy with a loud hairstyle, crying hysterically at a table alone.

The drivers buzzing past the restaurant window probably had that same thought before continuing on with their night, unknowing of the story behind exactly why this random highschooler was sobbing so loudly, shrugging as they recounted the stories to their families, or kept it to themselves.

Late in the evening, where it would’ve been a mundane night for you as well. The lights only would’ve been turned off because it was time for you to get ready for bed, and the news would have remained a drowsy channel you put on to fight the silence of your home, rather than a channel covering the details of your death.

When you were an invisible wanderer roaming your street, you saw the way life continued on for the sleepy town. People passed by the mansion as if nothing happened, their busy personal lives seemingly leaving them no time to point and stare at the police tape and barricaded doors of your home.

Everybody else moved on from the shocking murder at the Mangaka’s house. The world will keep spinning. The statement is as cold and heartless, as it is true.

It’s water under the bridge.

Rohan pushes the door open when he hears the agreeing beep of the hotel lock. He has to give his eyes a few seconds to adjust to the dim light of his room before taking his shoes off and walking in.

Tossing his hotel key onto the table, he barely notices the crinkle of tin foil reflecting light from the moon. There’s a note placed on top of it, the paper warm from what’s beneath.

‘From the Higashikata family.’ The lovely cursive lets the artist know that it was not the son of the family who wrote it.

There’s more written on the back of the card, but Rohan is too tired to strain his eyes (and his heart) further. He’s drained from the day.

The Braciole sitting beneath the tinfoil also lets the artist know where the sender visited to procure the dish.

He picks up a slice, and pops it into his mouth. The flavour exploding onto his tongue is a temporary comfort.

Despite all the confusion, pain, or change that people will continue having to overcome, one fact will remain the same no matter the circumstance:

Tonio’s food is delicious.

[leora-rambles]

Getting back into writing bc I don’t want to let the title “Scaramouche crashes out after one semi-failed situationship” go to waste

[leora-rambles]

Hey everyone! It’s Leora, formerly RohanIsBestBoy.

Went under an account name and aesthetic change because I’d like to make this blog multifandom instead of mainly JoJo’s ^^ I have stuff from Genshin, Honkai Star Rail, and more JoJo fics currently in the works. Please look forward to it!

Thank you!

[leora-rambles]

i just fixed the formatting of most of my fics i am SO sorry yall had to go through whatever that was,,,

[leora-rambles]

The Road I Have Traveled On: Pigtailed Bastard (La Squadra/Reader [Multiple Chapters])

so basically. 

Previous chapter!

You barely miss an array of glass shards in your path.

“Luce? Luce!” Worry claws at your throat and lungs, adrenaline high as you crawl towards your brother.

You two hadn’t made it far from the mob chasing after you. In just a few minutes, they would surely catch up and capture you both.

“They’re gonna catch us if you keep this up! Come on!”

You cry, shaking his stiff shoulders. You don’t know if the wetness running down your cheeks are tears or sweat.

Luce doesn’t budge, even when you let out a frustrated sob and your back complains as you pull him further into the alleyway.

“Why do you always do this?! You always have to make things hell for me!” You can't help the bitter words from spilling out your mouth.

You frantically brush hair away from his eyes, wiping the sweat on his forehead. “Get up! We need to…!”

A crimson streak follows your fingertips.

You freeze.

With blurry eyes, you inspect your shaking hands, noticing just how much more of that crimson colour there was.

The red that had soaked through your brother's coat bleeds into your own clothes and skin.

“Luce?”

You hear your heart thump once. Then twice. Then a third time. And then it was the thundering footsteps of the men catching up to you both.

“I found them!”

You don’t resist when they grab your arms and pull you away. You don’t thrash. You don’t scream.

You just watch.

He’d save you now, wouldn’t he? He had spent the last bit of his life doing so. Actually, now that you think about it, you’ve lived most of your life cowering in fear behind your brother.

Surely right now, he’d save you. Like the million times he did before.

He doesn’t budge.

It wasn’t the lack of breathing that settled it for you. It wasn’t the way his limbs remained limp on the concrete. It was the way his eyes glazed over. How as they stared up, they did so emptily and towards the sky.

You don’t know why it took you so long to process the  gunshot that caused you two to falter. He was running with you just a few minutes ago, but now he’s dead on the concrete.

“They’re not fighting back.”

“Good shot, we hit the brother.”

What did you two do to deserve this? You lived your life trying to be the best you can be. You were a good person. You never hurt anyone, you haven't even committed any crimes- so why were you being punished this way? Why were they doing this?

“What do we do with him?“

“Leave him. if the police don’t get to him first, the rats will.”

As if you were staring into a mirror, your eyes reflect that very same hollowness. With deep regret, you wish that it was you who had taken the bullet instead.

—

“What?”

“Yep, that’s what happened. He hates you a lot.”

“Just for a little toilet joke? His panties are still in a knot over that?”

“I guess so.”

Illuso scoffs, blowing away a stray piece of hair falling into his eyes, relaxing deeper into the plush sofa. Melone subconsciously fixes his posture.

You had become a hot topic ever since you left the base on a hit with Prosciutto. Melone mainly brought you up because, well, he found you fascinating, and (like a crazed fanboy) wanted to babble on about you.

He was midway his seventh retelling of your assassination with him, recounting every little delicate detail of your conversation with the victim when a distinct phrase caused Illuso's ears to perk up. Unfortunately, Melone's babbling included the part where you called a certain someone a certain thing.

“I mean,” Melone starts, laying his ankle on his knee as he speaks, “His stand only works if you invoke intense emotion in someone, so him using you was the best way to get the target to succumb.”

“Yeah, sure, that’s true, but Leche has a gun does he not?“ Illuso scowls. “Would you not shit yourself if you had a gun pointed at your face?”

The petty man disliked pettiness against himself. When he heard Melones retelling of events (nickname of him highlighted), he was furious. How dare you think you can insult him in front of a target and not repent? You think you can call him a Pigtailed bastard with no consequences ?

Melone shrugs. “They probably feel the same way about Formaggio— haven’t said anything about him yet, though.”

“Oh, so if I do something, they get all pissy, but if it’s Formaggio, they’re completely fine? That seriously annoys me.”

‘What a pain in the ass,’  Illuso thinks. ‘ If he’s that appalled over a little joke, then this job isn’t for him.’

“I hate sensitive people like that,” Illuso spits.

He thinks of a way to ruin your week. What would a secretive, aloof, and easily offended man-baby be pissed off at?

Illuso seriously racks his brain— much more than he did on some of the hits he’d been assigned to. His shoes tap on the floor as he plays with a lock of his hair.

When the idea flickers in his head like a light bulb, he kicks himself for not thinking about it earlier. Illuso has to fight back the shit-eating grin crawling onto his face. He knows exactly what a secretive, aloof, and easily offended man-baby would get pissed off at.

“Hey, you know Leche has a twin, right?”

Illuso recalls the spot where you hid away all your passports, documents, and most exciting, birth certificates. ‘So typical,’ he nearly snickered out loud as he tucked the paper beneath your mattress. ‘You truly are a rookie.’

“Twin?” Melone’s ears seemingly perk up.

“Yup, and seems like they got the better half, they're actually pretty cute.”

Illuso knows of the others’ nature. He knows that even the tiniest seed of interest would soon grow into a giant oak, a curiosity he knows Melone can’t control.

“… Tell me more.”

And he does. He talks about how in comparison to you, your sibling shone like the sun. Where you were shabby and awkward, they were graceful with every move.

The longer he spoke, the more intrigued the other became. They almost didn’t notice Risotto at the door.

“Illuso, Melone.” His deep voice instantly catches their attention. “Prosciutto’s been shot.”

The two on the couch instantly sit up. To any of the men in the assassination squad, a sentence with Prosciutto’s name and any form of injury to it was simply a fairytale.

The last Melone heard of Prosciutto being hurt on a job was 5 years ago. Illuso had never heard of such a thing, and therefore didn’t think it was possible.

“Leche betrayed us.” Illuso says, more of a statement than a question. He feels blood rushing up to his chest in anger. No wonder he didn’t like you. Come to think of it, he always had a gut feeling about you—

“No. He’s the one that called.” Risotto’s out the door, leaving Illuso confused, and admittedly a bit crestfallen.

The brunette looks back at Melone, who seems just as bewildered.

“Is Prosciutto still conscious?” Risotto finally speaks after a period of silence at the other end of the line.

“Yes, but uh— he’s a bit delirious right now. I’m afraid if my Stand intervenes anymore, he’ll bleed out and I won’t know." You hope he can't tell from your tone that you're about to vomit right now from the sheer amount of anxiety you're facing, or that you're bluffing well enough to pass it off.

“The targets, what happened to them?”

“I took them down. They’re a few metres away from us in the alleyway.”

“Give the phone to Prosciutto,” the man orders.

Your hands shake as you do so, brain wracking up all the ways that Prosciutto could seriously throw you under the train right now. You hope he's in a kind mood, despite the bullet in his side.

There’s a deep heavy breathing on the other line, a small indication to Risotto of who was on the phone.

“Prosciutto,” Risotto’s voice lowered, if that was even possible, “How are you feeling?”

“I’m doing fine. This is nothing." From the way he struggled to keep his eyes open, it was something.

“How did you even—“ Risotto shuts his mouth before finishing, trying to think of why one of his best men would get injured on such a considerably easy hit.

“Is your new revolver giving you any trouble?”

“I don’t—“ Prosciutto’s mouth opens before he can truly think of an answer. Then he pauses. Though he’s not in the right state of mind, he still manages to understand the question.

You don’t seem interested in the conversation, keeping your sights on the side of his stomach where the bullet hit.

He looks to his right, where the targets lay dead. “I don't think it is. It worked well. It didn’t fail on me.”

Risotto lets out a sigh, relieving his chest of the black hole about to form from how long he’d been holding his breath.

“Alright. We’re on the way.”

You tilt your head once you hear the click from his phone, “… that’s a pistol.”

Prosciutto ignores you, still silently suffering from the injury. You shrug your shoulders, continuing your handiwork on his wound.

“… if you don’t know the names of your guns, you don’t have to be embarrassed by it. I’m willing to teach you—“ “I can take care of my own injuries.” He interjects coldly, though fatigue still sticks to his voice

“You also don’t have to be embarrassed of others helping you,” you sigh, making a point by tying the bandage around his waist a little tighter than you probably should’ve, “ Especially when they’re your comrades .”

Prosciutto clicks his tongue, snatching the roll away from you. “Your bandages are sloppy,” he complains, fixing his own injury up himself.

Truth be told, he just didn’t like the way you were inspecting his wound with such tenacity. How your fingers treated him as if he was made of glass.

No matter how much he tried to scrub the scene away from his head, he couldn’t forget the way you looked at him when the gunshot sounded. How fear filled your eyes.

Everyone reacts that way to a gunshot, yes, but the way your lips quivered and eyes widened made an impact on him.

Were you that afraid of him being hurt? He figured you would’ve looked happy, considering that all he’s given you during the past few days was hell.

Why weren’t you laughing in his face? Why did you fix him up with such careful hands? He tightens his lips as he tries to come up with a way to somehow make it up to you.

‘ Thank you’ simply wasn’t in his vocabulary when it comes to newbies.

He looks at your bloodied state, your knees dusted from their place scratching against the ground and your eyes sunken. You’re still standing despite getting your ass fairly beat by the opponents.

Minutes pass, and you can tell there’s something hanging in the air that is longing to be said.

“You didn't disappoint me.” He finally grunts, noting how your eyes seemed to light up at his sudden confession.

He bites the inside of his cheek when you smile to yourself.

“I’m glad,” you dust off your suit-jacket, clasping your hands together afterwards.

“And uh,” you clear your throat, awkwardly shifting on the balls of your feet, “Thank you for not passing out on me. I don’t think I could’ve handled that well.”

He scoffs at the gratitude, “I can’t just give up in the middle of a hit.”

Prosciutto says that, and yet his eyes seemed to brighten. You don’t bring it up, knowing he’d deny the claim until hell freezes over. “I guess so."

“Leche, Prosciutto.”

Your heads perk up at the voice. Risotto alerts the two of you, his silhouette brooding from the remaining sunlight behind him. Melone and (your favourite) Illuso follow him, like ducklings to their mother.

“Illuso, help Leche carry Prosciutto to the car.”

“Tch, wouldn’t it be better if Melone were the one to do this? It would help him gain some muscle…”

“Don’t make it seem like I’m not doing any work. I have to inform the client that the targets are done with— also that we need cleanup.”

Illuso rolls his eyes, clearly holding back a complaint as he stands beside the slightly-delirious Prosciutto.

“Good on you for not letting him die out here.” You let one side of your mouth perk up at his words as you hold Prosciutto’s arm around your neck. Illuso mirrors your actions.

“Seeing how much of a pussy you are, it was surprising when I heard you didn’t abandon him,” Illuso adds before lifting his side of the blond.

Your smile drops.

He really can’t compliment others without having to ruin it huh?

You let it go for now. Half because you don’t feel like arguing, and half because you have an idea on why your teammates' performance was… less than stellar today.

“I’m not going to sit here and watch you nap as if I’m your grandmother! You’re on a hit, act like it!” You remember him whipping your head with a rolled up newspaper.

You groaned, glaring at the blonde. “Is it my fault that Risotto sets these schedules up badly? He expects me at 6 am, and yet he—“ you felt a hand grip your mouth closed. Prosciutto was glaring daggers into you.

“Quit your ungrateful bitching. You’re lucky he let you in the team despite your stupidity and incompetence.”

You sensed murderous intent in the air. You knew if you tested him even the slightest bit more, he’d actually kill you. If he really wanted to, he could have ended you right then and there.

He let go of your jaw, and you let out a breath you didn’t know you were holding. In a panic, Your Stand secreted a chemical to calm Prosciutto down without him noticing.

Throughout the whole day, he’d complain of headaches and bouts of sudden dizziness. You cringe, realizing how it only began once you asked When She Cries to save your ass from his lectures (and possibly the pistol you knew he kept hidden away in his pocket.

Had he been untouched by your stand, you’re sure he would have been able to dodge the bullet.

“… It was the bare minimum to treat him. It’s what a good partner does,” you smile as you reply, eyeing the way Risotto nods his head in approval.

They don’t need to know about your Stand’s interference. Not now. Not ever.

[leora-rambles]

Please countinue the road I traveled on pls pls I fucking love it so much

Also is the mc a girl or guy or nonbinary I’m confused 😗

Omg hello anon

I cant even promise a date on when the next chapter will be posted,, all I can say is MAYBE it will come soon,,, maybe,,,, who knows (not me) (like,,, It’s definitely written!! It’s definitely words!! I am just a little silly and I have to read it 1000 times before posting)

When I wrote the first chapters of “The Road I Have Traveled on”, I imagined it with a fem reader in mind. Later on, as I thought more about it, I was like “🤨… some people who read my fanfics aren’t fem… 🤔,” so then I went back and I edited the pronouns to be gender neutral. So to answer your question, yes.

[leora-rambles]

here are my contributions for the “Now That’s What I Call Bizarre!” JJBA album cover zine! 

the first one is a redraw of the “Band On The Run” album cover with la squadra, and the second is my charm design ^^ thank you to anyone who supported the zine!

[leora-rambles]

Got Away by Some Mistake (Noriaki Kakyoin/Reader [Angst])

breakdances softly

MAJOR SPOILER WARNING FOR STARDUST CRUSADERS

You sighed, balancing the cigarette on your lips carefully as you looked down from the balcony of your hotel room. The screen door behind you creaked, garnering your attention. 

Kakyoin slipped through the glass doors, adjusting the scarf that circled around his neck like a snake.

“I’m smoking. It might take a while for the smell to leave,” you warned, knowing the others' distaste for the scent.

He brushes down his uniform before responding.

“It’s fine.”

There was a pleasant, quiet hiss when you pressed the stick against the ashtray, distinguishing the light flame. 

You reached towards you, cracking your shoulders. Mid stretch, the boy beside you spoke up.

“Are you scared?” Kakyoin asked, sitting on the chair just to the right of you. 

You instantly knew what (more so, who) he’s talking about, having been the main topic for the past few days now.

Deep breath in, deep breath out . You scratched the back of your neck. “… It doesn’t matter if we’re afraid or not, we have to face DIO’s bitch ass either way.”

Kakyoin noticed the way your hands shook. How when you sighed, there was a tremor in the middle. 

Most importantly, he noticed the way you didn’t answer his question.

“You are afraid.” He crossed his arms.

You gave the boy a glare. 

“Hey. You alright?”

“Huh?”

Jotaro sits in front of you, tapping the pen on the café table. “I asked how you and your partner are doing.”

His words shake you out of your daze fully. “Oh, we’re doing well. He just got promoted recently.” You’re not invested in this conversation, it’s abundantly clear to Jotaro. 

He twirls the pen in his hand before scratching in his notebook. You finally look up from your drink before opening your mouth. “Did you check in with Polnareff too?”

Jotaro grows quiet at that. He swallows before answering. “No, I couldn’t get a hold of him.”

You nod, sipping your drink silently.

“Coffee?” Jotaro questions. You nod again, confused. 

“You hate coffee,” he recalls, remembering back in his mother’s home where you insulted his grandfather's taste in hot drinks.

Your lips grow into a tight line, almost a smile, but not quite. “I grew used to it. My husband loves it. He practically lives on it.”

Jotaro looks like he’s pondering on your words.

“Ah, that’s right.”

“You’re engaged now, aren’t you?” Jotaro musters up the best smile he can, which is a tight line curving slightly upwards. You appreciate him trying so hard to show his support. 

You nod in response, looking down at your hands, the shining silver band on your ring finger gleaming up at you. 

“Congratulations on you and Noriaki.“ 

The name causes your small smile to falter. Your eyebrows lift in thought.

There’s a brief pause where you just fiddle with the ring.

You speak up after contemplating it’s importance. Your husband and Jotaro were bound to meet in the future. Correcting him would probably be the best thing to do.

“Tenmei.”

There’s silence after your interjection. He stares at you, confused. You repeat yourself.

“His name. It’s Tenmei.”

Jotaros eyes widen when he realizes the heaviness of his mistake. His lips tighten into a straight line.

”I’m sorry. I must’ve misread his name on your email.” 

“It’s fine.”

‘I made the same mistake in college, too,’ you thought of saying, but figured it wasn’t needed.

Silence once more. The type you hate. The type you used to desperately fill up with sound, but now just lay in. The conversation was bound to be like this. Two very quiet people, quietly keeping to themselves. 

“You didn’t change too much over the years. Just your style.” You find your words, pointing out how the other seemed to age backwards.

“You’re much more patient now, too.” You add.

Jotaro nods. “I would say the opposite for you. You’ve changed a lot since I last saw you,” he adjusts the brim of his hat, lowering his gaze.

“Since Cairo.”

Your jaw clenches at the word. You gulp, eyes narrowing.

Jotaro doesn’t know if he’s glad that you’re so different now. He doesn’t know if he prefers you acting as if nothing happened, or if he prefers you breaking down and sobbing the moment you touch alcohol. 

It’s a bitter taste in his mouth when he reminisces on the nights he sneaked whiskey into your room. 

You kept a straight face in the beginning, but with each empty glass refilled, that’s when you’d begin to break.

He listened to each one of your rants, frowning when you would cry about how it should’ve been you, how you can’t go a day without thinking about him.

It took two seconds to kill Kakyoin, but it’ll take you a lifetime to heal from the loss.

“Do you think he felt alone at the end?”

That very sentence kept him awake on more nights than he’d like to admit.

“Listen,” Jotaro lowers his hat. “If you need support, anything at all…” 

You finish the sentence for him. “The Speedwagon Foundation can help provide it. I know, thank you, Jotaro.” It’s hard to forget when you’re constantly being reminded. 

You want to ask Jotaro so much more, but you fear you don’t have the time to. How's your daughter? What have you been doing lately? How's Mr Joestar?

Does what happened in Cairo haunt you all these years later?

Do you still mourn for the ones we lost?

Your phone buzzes, signalling a text message to you. Jotaro frowns as he reads the name flashing on the screen. ‘What a cruel reminder,’ Jotaro thinks as he looks at you in pity, though you can’t see it.

When you finish the last of your coffee, you begin to pack your bag. “I have to leave— I’ll see you around, Jotaro.” 

The both of you stand up. You make a move to hug him, which he, to your pleasant surprise, reciprocates.

Jotaro donned the best smile he could, the first genuine smile you’ve seen on him in a while.

He pulls down his hat, trying to hide the way his eyes beamed, “Let’s talk again another time.”

Your hands clenched the railings on the balcony, eyebrows furrowing down in anger when the red-head pointed his finger at you.

“Don’t think you’re better than me just because you think you can ‘read me like a book’,” you grumbled, looking away from the boy.

“Yeah, I’m afraid. So what?”

“What are you afraid of?” He continued pressing your buttons. You hated being looked down on— especially being babied.

You don’t know why he was being so insistent. “What’s it to you?”

“I’m just curious. You don’t have to tell me if you don’t want to.” You can hear the way he rolled his eyes at your stubbornness.

It takes you a moment, a long moment to open your mouth. You think back on how you want the group to see you. You don’t want them seeing a weakling, you want them to see someone tough, someone worthy of fighting alongside them.

Opening up to Kakyoin wouldn’t ruin that perception, right? He wouldn’t belittle you if you truly spoke your mind… right?

The words were caught in your throat, but he didn’t tell you to hurry. He just stood there, patiently waiting for your response.

“… Those guys from the Speedwagon foundation,” you began, garnering Kakyoin’s attention.

“I thought it wasn’t possible. I thought that the possibility of anyone near me being killed was too low to be real… but those guys…” He heard the way your voice shook, the same nervousness as a child speaking up for the first time.

“They died, just like that. In a split second, they were gone.”

You looked down, trying to hold back the trembling of your jaw. “I could end up like them any minute now if I’m not careful. If I make one wrong move—“

You shut your eyes. “I could be dead, and...”

Kakyoin saw your hands shake at the railing.

“I don’t wanna die.”

You cringed at the long pause he left you in. Did you reveal too much? Was it too late to take it all back? Surely he’ll begin looking down at you now—

Before you hurried to play it off as a joke, Kakyoin spoke up.

“You know you’re not alone, right?”

Night falls, and you try to scrub the conversation you had with Jotaro out of your memory. You were already successful with forgetting the dates, certain locations, faces, names, everything. Anything you could get rid of, you did.

Yet it’s not enough. The very mention of Cairo makes it hard for you to breathe. It causes your eyes to sting and your chest to ache.

Sleep doesn’t give you solace either. 

It breaks you when you reach out after another nightmare of Kakyoin, and grasp onto a body that’s not his. You breathe into a shoulder, one that you pretend belongs to the boy you loved in the past.

You don’t know if your husband sees the way you strain a smile whenever he looks at you. 

When he’d ask for your hand in marriage, you’d said yes because you genuinely believed that there was no one else other than Kakyoin who would love you, especially after how he basically tore your past self to shreds. 

Was it pity that drew him to you? What did he see in that empty shell of yours? Why did he grow so in love with you, even after Kakyoin basically took a part of you when he died?

Your husband is a patient man. He’s a good person, he’s gentlemanly, and he’s responsible. He’s kind, and your friends love that about him.

Yet you can’t help but feel like you’ve jammed him into your conscience, forced the space in your heart to accommodate his shape. 

You say it’s best they’re different from each other. It’s best that he is not a stand user, because he stays away from harm.

You’ve convinced yourself that it’s love that causes you to tighten your arms around him as he sits up to leave. You say it’s love that binds you to your bed in the dark, as if fearing that no one will come home later that night.

Sitting up, you turn your attention from your sleeping husband to the glass doors leading to the balcony.

The scratching of wood behind you catches you off guard. He smiles an awkward smile, the type you knew was his genuine one. “It’s awfully early.” The chuckle after his words put you at ease.

“I can’t get much sleep. It’s been hard since summer started,” you groan, exaggerating the way you slumped over your arm, causing the man to laugh.

He takes the seat beside you, “How was your meeting with your friend?”

“Jotaro? Ah. We just caught up. He has a daughter now, about two.”

“You should invite him over some time, given he’s not too busy.”

“I’ll see if he’s free soon.”

You hear the birds chirp, the sounds of cars zooming past interrupting their songs. It dawns on you how late it is, how when you fell asleep, your husband still wasn’t at home then. 

“Are… you not tired?” You ask, knowing it wasn’t the weekend yet, and this would surely mess up his sleep schedule.

“Well… I was at work all day, and you were already asleep when I came home, so… This is our only time together.” You grin at the bashfulness in his voice. “Alright,” you respond.

He hums, taking your hand in his. Even though you barely left the house, you kept your engagement ring on at all times.

His lithe fingers fiddle with the band around your ring finger, twisting the gem around clockwise until it comes back to the pad of his finger.

You lay your head against his shoulder. This way, he won’t have to see the tiredness in your eyes. The lack of emotion in your expression.

You feel his fingers intertwined with yours.

“You know, if you didn’t visit me every lunch during college, I would’ve thought that you didn’t like me.”

You let an amused breath out, “I was shyer then. I didn’t know how to express my feelings.”

It was college when you met him. His name was practically mocking you from the corner of the page you were editing, like a bloodstain on a porcelain white gown. You decided to seek him out, some depraved part of you genuinely thinking that he reincarnated and came back to you.

(No matter how many times you tried forgetting his name, it always came back to you in the cruelest of ways.)

Disappointed was an understatement.

When you asked him if he was Noriaki, he shook his head and corrected you. You felt your throat dry up at the embarrassment. You hurried to apologize, but he stopped you.

“It’s fine, people misread it all the time—“ he rubbed the back of his neck bashfully. He looked and acted nothing like Kakyoin. Didn’t have the same shade of red as his hair, nor the same wittiness. He dulled in comparison to the boy you loved. 

He held the same kindness, at least. Shy, but knew how to stand up for himself. If you tried hard enough, you could pretend that it was Kakyoin Noriaki you were visiting during lunch everyday, not Tenmei.

It got confusing as time passed. He asked you out for coffee, his excuse being that you two could go into depth about the subjects in class then. You accepted, finding the boys newfound confidence endearing. A few months of talking, he asked you out.

You accepted, though shocked at his sudden confession.

Now, with a different person in your life, you had to relearn how you felt love. It was no longer sarcastic banter and devious smirks. It was cheesecake and coffee, a ring and some new scarves. 

“Remember when I proposed to you?”

“Of course.”

He retells the story. How you two walked on the beach together after talking about some obscure thing he can’t remember anymore, how he was afraid he’d drop the ring into the sand and lose it.

“I thought I did something wrong, because you began to cry. Then you told me it was just the ocean that made you emotional,” he sighs, rubbing the veins on your wrist with his thumb.

“And… that was the first time I've ever seen you cry.”

You want to respond, to make an excuse, but you’re too tired to say anything. You just nod, a signal to him that you were listening.

He takes a deep breath in, “So I was thinking for the whole day about it. What must’ve happened to get you to cry like that? The person who got hit by a motorcycle and didn’t even shed a tear?” He’s smiling while joking around, but you know he’s concerned, genuinely curious about the reason.

You know the reason, despite trying so hard (and failing) to forget it. When Kakyoin hooked his pinkie with yours and smiled at you, the ocean was crashing against your calves. 

The swallows were flying above the both of you when you asked him why he was taking you out so late.

The faint evening breeze carried the scent of the ocean with it when he responded, “I had fun here when I first visited— I thought you might like it as well.”

When you realized you were in love with  Kakyoin, the sun was beginning to sink below the horizon.

The more you think about it, the more your heart aches. Your bottom lip quivers as you take a deep breath in. 

He brings his hand to your shoulder, holding you close to him. “I don’t want you to force yourself to open up to me. I want you to take all the time you need, but...”

You close your eyes, the burning of tears rushing to break the dam that is your eyelids stinging painfully.

“You know you’re not alone, right?”

His words render you silent. You open your mouth to speak, but nothing comes out. 

Slowly, you lift your head from his shoulder.

You could barely register what he was saying from how hard your heart was beating.

“If you're in need, the others and I will be there to assist you.” You nearly got whiplash from how fast you turned your head. He stood up, walking beside you.

Kakyoin met your eyes, the utmost confidence as he spoke, “We can all work together to overcome DIO. If you’re afraid, let me help you overcome that fear.”

You were speechless, mouth slightly agape at his words. Does he know what he’s talking about? Does he not realize the severity of things? 

“Kakyoin… aren’t you scared you’ll die too?” He had a blank expression on his face, unreadable.

“Dying away from others— dying alone,” you whispered, as if saying it too loudly would make it come true.

You wanted to vomit thinking about it. Your voice cracked when you asked, “Aren’t you afraid of that?”

You look at him, eyes watering and threatening to spill.

Don’t cry. You tell yourself. Not in front of him, don’t break his heart like this.

You close your eyes. He gets the memo, and wraps his arms around you. You'd give up the world and much more before refusing to reciprocate his hugs, but you frown knowing that had things been different— had Kakyoin lived— it wouldn’t be this way.

The three of you were just about to graduate highschool when it all started. Only two remained when the time actually came to. “He’s only 17!” You remember clutching Jotaro’s collars as you sobbed. “Kakyoin can’t be dead! He can’t!”

The one thing you regret most is not finding out that it was love sooner. Maybe then, you would have stopped him. Maybe then, you could have prevented Kakyoin’s death.

When you cry, your husband assumes it’s because of the summer when he professed his love to you. He doesn’t know about the blazing heat of Egypt, about the group picture tucked away in your wallet, about the way you loved Kakyoin Noriaki.

When you think of the seashore, you think of cherry red hair and a silver tongue. A playful glare that causes your stomach to flutter. Kakyoin was a witty comeback, and a reason to stay on that 50 day trip. His very existence was a magnetic force that pulled you toward him, like the moon to the earth. 

You miss yelling at the top of your lungs as you run on the sand, taking the boy down with you as you stumble into the water. You miss kissing his scarred eyelids as he drifted off to sleep, miss feeling his long arms wrap around your waist like your body was molded just for him, like you were born just to have his hands hold onto you.

“Tell me about your day, I like listening to you.” You miss hearing his equivalent of ‘I love you’.

When he died, did he know that you truly loved him back? Does he know that you’ve been losing your mind trying to fill the empty space that he used to occupy with replacements?

It’s been years, but you feel like you’re still waiting for him to come back.

The first thing you noticed when you awoke was that you’re in your bed, the space beside you empty. The alarm clock strikes 1 pm, about 4 hours after when your husband usually leaves for work.

You sit up, rubbing your eyes tiredly. The sun shines on your face, like lace draping over silk. You wonder if this will be another day spent doing nothing but lay in bed.

You look at the balcony, squinting your eyes and rubbing your forehead when the flurry of memories come tumbling back.

Dropping back down to your pillow, you reminisce on the past summers. You try to fight the sound of his voice infecting your brain. The way it echoes and causes the emptiness in your chest to hollow even further.

Your arm slumps over your eyes, covering your tears, but not being able to cover your soft sobs.

You feel like he’s still there, still on that balcony that summer day, still looking at you with his kind eyes, still holding your hand and leaning in.

“Now that I have Jotaro and you, I finally have people that truly understand me.” He shifted slightly, smiling towards the horizon.

The evening wind swam against your face, like a kiss from nature. There was a comfortable silence after his statement. Usually, you would try to fill the empty air with a joke, a jab, a quip, but you don’t. You didn’t feel like you had to.

Kakyoin opened his mouth again, his canines showing when he smiled lightly, “I’m not alone anymore.”

You don’t think he knows how much that means to you. You don’t think he ever will. 

Expectantly, he looked at you. 

Nervously, uncharacteristically, you were at a loss for words. You stressed to make a response, just so that he could stop looking at you and making your stomach do flips. Just so that you could stop the intense thumping against your rib cage.

Your eyes locked for a moment in time. Before you knew it, his hands had made their way onto the curve of your jaw. When he leaned in, your mind went blank.

Your lips crashed into each other in a desperate and yearning mess, like it was the last time you’d feel each other’s touch. It felt right to be with him. He felt right. 

The ache in your chest felt lighter, the mere feeling of Kakyoin against you enough to rid you of your anxiety for the future. You wanted this moment to last until you were sick of it, for it to last until the day you died.

In the distance, you could hear the crashes of water on the sand as the sunlight slowly began to dwindle. In the air, is the faint scent of smoke being swallowed up by the saltiness of the ocean.

[leora-rambles]

I’m back from the dead just to say this is the song that I am crying about today. The next week is reserved in my mind for this song only. Good night.

Taylor truly has done me in.

[leora-rambles]

Any Taylor Swift lyric can be made into a fic title,,, literally,,,

[leora-rambles]

just finished reading "the road I've traveled on" chapters and your writing is so good!!! can't wait for the next chapter <3

Ahhh thank you for reading :,) !! I have the outline of the whole story written out, so it shouldn’t be too long before I start working on the next chapter !

Thank you again for your support !! ❤️

[leora-rambles]

my brain moves it’s like fjskdosnm and im like yeah sure bud