⤷ ゛summary : of course the first date you’re on you’re late. You really don’t mean to be!! It’s your eyeliner that you can’t get even… so, Death the Kid takes it upon himself to help you out.
⤷ ゛tags : fluff, fluff, fluff!. first date. reader wears makeup. aged up death the kid. gn!reader
⤷ ゛word count : 900 - 1k
⤷ ゛a/n : I’M BACK!! I have so many stories ideas but the thought of sitting down and writing has been a lot to me but imma try to not disappear like that!!
You were supposed to leave eight minutes ago.
You know this because you've checked the clock exactly eleven times, and each time it has confirmed the same terrible truth: you are late, your boyfriend is Death the Kid, and your left eye is winning.
Not in a good way. In the way where the wing of your eyeliner sweeps out in a flawless, effortless flick, the kind of line people write tutorials about, while your right eye looks like you drew it during an earthquake. On a train. Blindfolded.
"Okay," you mutter, leaning closer to the mirror, liner pen hovering. "One more pass. Just... even it out a little—"
The knock at your door is less a knock and more a declaration of war.
"You're late." Kid's voice, muffled through the wood, is doing that thing where it's trying very hard to be calm. "Seven minutes and forty seconds late, which is an asymmetrical amount of time, and if you could open the door before it becomes eight minutes exactly, I would consider it a personal kindness—"
"It's open!"
The door swings in and there he is: three white stripes, immaculate suit, expression already halfway through a lecture. "Do you have any idea what it does to a person, standing outside counting seconds that refuse to be divisible by—"
He stops.
You're sitting cross-legged on the edge of your bed, mirror in one hand, liner in the other, one eye pristine and the other a smudged tragedy. You watch, in real time, as every gear in his head grinds to a halt and switches tracks.
"...Your eyeliner," he says quietly.
"I know."
"The left wing is exquisite."
"I know."
"The right one looks like it lost a fight."
"I KNOW, Kid, that's why I'm late!"
For a moment, he just stands there in your doorway, and you brace yourself. This is it. This is the moment your boyfriend, the actual son of Death, should collapse onto your floor, wailing about garbage and asymmetry. You've heard the weeping many times before.
Instead, he crosses the room, plucks the liner pen from your fingers with the gravity of a surgeon accepting a scalpel, and sits down on the bed facing you.
"Hold still."
"...What?"
"You've been fighting this battle alone for, I assume, the better part of twenty minutes." He tilts your chin up with two fingers, turning your face gently toward the light. His gold eyes narrow, scanning your face like it's a blueprint. "That was your first mistake. Symmetry is not achieved through panic. It is achieved through patience, precision, and—"
"Being pathologically obsessed with it?"
"—expertise," he finishes, but the corner of his mouth twitches. "Close your eyes."
You swiftly do as he says as a soft smile graces your lips.
Because here's the thing nobody tells you about Death the Kid: for someone who can be reduced to tears by a crooked picture frame, his hands are unbelievably steady. The pen glides along your lash line in one smooth, unhurried stroke, his other hand cradling your jaw like you're something fragile and expensive. You can feel him breathing — slow, measured, the way he gets when he's shooting.
"You flick too fast at the end," he murmurs. "That's why the wing hooks. You have to commit to the angle before you begin the stroke, not during."
"Are you seriously coaching me on eyeliner right now?"
"I'm seriously coaching you on geometry. The eyeliner is incidental." A pause. "Also yes."
You crack your other eye open just enough to look at him. He's completely absorbed — brow furrowed, lips slightly parted, holding your face in his hands like the fate of the world depends on the trajectory of this wing. Maybe, for him, it kind of does.
"We're missing our reservation," you point out.
"We're not missing anything." He leans back, examines his work, leans in again to make a correction so small you're positive it's imaginary. "This is the date now."
"Sitting on my bed while you do my makeup."
"Sitting on your bed while I perfect your makeup." He switches to the other eye, thumb brushing your cheekbone, and his voice drops into something softer. "Besides, the restaurant has you for two hours. I have you right now, in good lighting, holding still, letting me fix this mess you made. Frankly, this is the best date I've ever planned."
"You didn't plan this."
"Fate planned it. I'm merely executing."
You laugh, and he makes a small scandalized noise — "Hold still, do you want to look like a Picasso?" But he's smiling too, you can hear it, and his hand steadies your jaw again with a tenderness that makes your chest go warm.
It takes him another fifteen minutes. Fifteen minutes of tiny corrections, of him pulling back to squint at you from three different angles, of "turn toward the lamp — no, my left," of his knee pressed against yours on the rumpled blankets. At some point you stop being impatient about it. At some point you realize you'd happily sit here all night, being fussed over by a boy who touches your face like it's the most important thing he'll do all day.
Finally, he sets the pen down. Takes your face in both hands. Turns it left. Turns it right, eyes practically shimmering.
"Perfect..." he breathes, with the reverence most people reserve for religious experiences. "Absolutely, flawlessly symmetrical. You are- you're balanced. Do you understand how rare that is? Eight out of eight. No, beyond that. You've transcended the scale."
"You did most of the work."
"I refined a masterpiece. There's a difference." And then, before you can tease him for it, he leans in and kisses you with a careful precision on your forehead before pulling back, looking immensely pleased with himself. "Equidistant from both wings. I checked."
You couldn't help but chuckle at his antics that, frankly, you should be used to by now. "You're ridiculous."
"I'm thorough." He laces his fingers through yours and settles back against your pillows, tugging you with him, dinner reservation officially dead and thoroughly unmourned. "Now. Sit still and let me admire my work. And next time you do your eyeliner-"
"Call you first?"
He kisses your temple. Left side. Then, deliberately, the right.
You had no idea the videos or photos that were inside that old camera, you found it on clean day on the top of your wardrobe, all dusted and scratched. When you plugged it in your laptop, your breath hitched for a second. There were at least one hundred photos and videos from when you were way younger than now. Gosh, from when you were a teen!
That version of you feels very far away, it doesn’t feel like you, even. Your hair is different, your body is different, your voice, the look on your eyes! It’s been a long time since you connected with your past self but you really believe that enough time has passed for you to be able to endure all the nostalgic feelings and reminiscences.
The first entry is a two minute long video where you are behind the camera, pointing it to Satoru and Suguru playfighting in front of the blackboard, Shoko is by the window rolling a cigarette as their laughs fill the room.
The video starts a little shaky, you were still figuring out how to hold the camera steady. You hear your own younger voice first, giggling behind the lens. “Guys, the teacher is gonna walk in any second!”
But Satoru is in the middle of a dramatic spin, his white hair messy as he tries to grab Suguru in a headlock. Suguru just laughs harder, ducking low and sweeping Satoru’s leg with one move. They tumble together onto the floor in front of the blackboard.
“Got ya, you idiot!” Suguru says, pinning Satoru down for a second.
You have to stop the video at that moment. It’s been years since you last heard his voice, even if it was lighter back then than in his last moments, it still stings your chest.
Satoru is cracking up so much his face is red, shoving at Suguru’s chest while trying to reverse the hold. “As if!”
Shoko smirks, her fingers carefully pinching the cigarette paper. “You two are so loud. Someone’s gonna report us again.”
Your younger self keeps the camera moving a bit, zooming in when Satoru finally flips Suguru over and they both end up on their backs, chests heaving from laughing so hard.
The camera shifts as you lower it a little. Suguru is the first to sit up, brushing the hair that fell out of his bun out of his face. He looks straight at the lens, then at you and gets up walking towards you. The picture gets a bit blurry as he fills the frame.
“C’mere,” he says gently. His hand reaches out like he’s guiding the camera, but really he’s reaching for you. The video ends with him leaning in, pressing a loud kiss to your cheek and Satoru gagging in the background.
You check the date of the video, you don’t even remember if you were dating at that time.
After that are a bunch of pictures for a few nights out. You and Shoko getting ready together, the outfits were so different from what you wear right now. Satoru sitting on a couch, completely asleep with his glasses crooked. Some of them with you three together, probably Suguru taking the pictures. And then ten photos of a sequence of you and Suguru hugging very tightly and leaning for a quick peck on the lips. Your makeup was a disaster, he was sweaty and both of you were too drunk, but in the last picture (after the kiss) both of you looked incredibly joyous, just staring at each other in pure bliss.
The next video is shorter, about ninety seconds, but it hits you even harder. The timestamp said it was from a few months later, during spring.
You are behind the camera again, but the setting is softer. Just the two of you in the old dorm common room after everyone else had gone out. There’s no light outside, so it’s probably past midnight. Suguru is sitting on the worn couch wearing the oversized black hoodie that’s now lost in your wardrobe. His hair is down and he looks so relaxed.
“Hey, turn that off,” he says, lifting his arm trying to cover his face. You can hear you laughing behind the camera, a bright and shy sound you barely recognize anymore.
“No way. I want to remember this,” you answer.
The camera shakes a little as you walk closer. Suguru reaches out and grabs your free hand, tugging you gently until you tumble into his lap. The lens tilts wildly for a second before settling on his face. He is looking up at you like you are the only thing in the whole world that matters.
“Remember what, exactly?” Suguru teases, he looks unfairly good at his young age.
“You, duh.” You flick his forehead and he dramatically drops his head on the back of the couch.
He clicks his tongue. “Tsk, that’s stupid, I’m not going anywhere.” His fingers trace slow circles on your back and he pulls you closer until your forehead rests against his. For a moment the camera catches both of you like that, breathing the same air. “Kiss, please?”
You huff a laugh and tilt your head so he can kiss you slow and sweet, he sighs into your mouth and the camera dips as you relax in him. The video ends with Suguru laughing quietly, reaching up to turn the camera off himself. The last frame is his smiling face before the screen goes black.
Those days really had felt endless back then. Just you and Suguru, happy and tangled up in each other like nothing could ever pull you apart. Your fingers hovered over the trackpad, wanting to play it again but scared of how much it would hurt.
You spend the next ten minutes looking at all the pictures and videos. There are some you don’t even remember taking. There’s a short video of Satoru carrying the camera, running way too fast while you run away from him, photos of lazy afternoons in the classroom, blurry shots of all four of you crammed into a booth at that cheap ramen place. Each one pulled you deeper into that soft, aching nostalgia. Your younger smile looked so carefree, your eyes brighter, and Suguru was always looking at you like you hung the stars.
Some videos were quick and chaotic. Satoru trying to balance on Shoko’s shoulders and failing spectacularly. Others were quieter moments. You and Suguru sharing earphones on the rooftop, his head on your shoulder while the city hummed below. Every clip made your heart squeeze tighter. You wiped at your eyes more than once, smiling even as they stung.
Then you reached the last entry.
It was a video from the summer trip to the beach, at the very end of the folder. The thumbnail already made your breath catch: golden sand, blue waves, and Suguru’s face filling half the frame with his lovesick smile he only ever gave you.
You pressed play.
The camera is in Suguru’s hand this time, a little unsteady from the wind as he walks backward across the warm sand. His voice comes through first.
“Baby, look at you,” he says, zooming in gently. You see your younger self a few steps ahead, barefoot in a light sundress, hair blowing around your face as you laugh and try to shield your eyes from the sun. “God, you’re so pretty. How did I get this lucky?”
You watch yourself turn toward the camera, cheeks already flushed. “Sugu, stop filming me! The sun’s in my face,” you complain, but you’re smiling so wide it lights up the whole screen.
He chuckles. “Nope. Now you know how I feel. But look at you, you’re the most beautiful girl on this beach.”
You shake your head, warm in the cheeks from embarrassment all of a sudden.
He turns the camera slightly, showing Shoko and Satoru in the background, yelling and laughing as they spike a volleyball back and forth near the water. Satoru does some dramatic spin before hitting the ball and Shoko calls him an idiot loud enough for the mic to catch it.
But Suguru quickly turns the lens back to you. He walks closer, voice dropping softer. “I’m serious, babe. You’re so warm and bright and perfect.” His free hand reaches out and tucks a strand of hair behind your ear, thumb brushing your cheek. The camera shakes a little as he leans in.
He presses a slow kiss to your lips, then another to the tip of your nose, then one on your forehead like he always did.
“I love you,” he whispers against your skin, so quietly the waves kinda swallow it. “I’m gonna keep you forever, okay?”
The camera tilts as you kiss him back, both of you laughing into it. In the distance, Satoru’s loud “Get a room!” echoes, followed by Shoko’s snort, but neither of you cares. The video ends with Suguru pulling back just enough to smile at you through the lens, eyes full of promises and sunlight, before the screen fades to black.
You sat there in silence for a long time, the laptop glowing softly in your dark room. That was the last one. The very last moment captured.
Juneteenth is about Black people who were officially technically supposed to be freed from enslavement. Nobody else. Nothing else. It's not a POC day. It's not a "freedom for all" day. It's Black folk, Black culture, Black emancipation, SPECIFICALLY. Any other observation for Juneteenth is gentrification.
Your Juneteenth reminder that just because they made it a "national holiday," it's still not. It's for the celebration of Black Americans being freed from slavery, finally.
It's from Texas. We been welcoming other descendants of the enslaved. But we close the gate and draw the line with "everybody."
Bringing this back on Juneteenth because making Black observations a national holiday didn't and doesn't end racism and the nonblacks are more insufferable than they have been in my lifetime about Black American people and our things.
Happy Juneteenth to those whose lives would not be actively free without the day happening. See the rest of you tomorrow.
summary : cuddle headcannons with the stone ocean team
pairings : jolyne cujoh x gn!reader, ermes costello x gn!reader, f.f x gn!reader, weather report x gn!reader, narciso anasui x gn!reader
tags : fluff, established relationship, kinda proofread, domestic-ish??, MIGHT be ooc I'M SORRY I TRIED and i just hope I did MOST of them justice!!
word count : 1.3k
a/n : this was so fun and cute to write omg I love them lol sm 🥹 rewatching this part for the millionth time ALSO I WLL GET TO MY INBOX HOPEFULLY SUNDAY!! I've been so busy latelyy that I feel i haven't posted in WEEKS!! Please forgive me guys 💔💔(dividers by @diviniyae)
Jolyne Cujoh :
⊱ ۫ ׅ ✧ Jolyne loves being the big spoon, wrapping her arms around you tightly as if daring the universe to try taking you away. Her legs tangle with yours, and she’ll hook one thigh over your hip possessively and murmur, “You’re not going anywhere, got it?” while her fingers trace the lines of your Stand or old scars. It feels secure but intense where it feels you're being guarded by a wildcat.
⊱ ۫ ׅ ✧ Especially after a long day, she’s exhausted and surprisingly clingy, cherishing the time you both spend together. She’ll pull you down onto the bed quietly, resting her head on your chest so she can hear your heartbeat and make sure you're really, truly there with her in reality. Her loose hair tickles your neck, and she’ll simply just exist with you. And if you hold her close and stroke her hair? She's down for the count, snoring softly as she subconsciously cuddles into your chest more.
⊱ ۫ ׅ ✧ When she’s in a lighter mood, Jolyne turns cuddling into a wrestling match. She’ll pin you down, laughing, then suddenly go soft, nuzzling into your neck with surprising gentleness. She really doesn't care if you whine about the Florida heat being too much as you cuddle her. She'll honestly just cuddle closer LOL!! The funny thing is that she wakes up all sweaty and complain the whole morning about feeling disgusting.
⊱ ۫ ׅ ✧ All in all, if she trusts you enough that you can cuddle together? You won in life <3 because she doesn't let her guard down for just anybody. You're the most precious thing to her.
Ermes Costello :
⊱ ۫ ׅ ✧ Ermes prefers cuddling face to face with you almost all the time with your legs intertwined, her arm draped heavily over your hip or waist or stroking your cheek softly just admiring you. BUT she also loves letting you rest against her chest as she runs her fingers through your hair. She really isn't picky as long as she's near you.
⊱ ۫ ׅ ✧ She keeps Kiss ready nearby, sometimes using its ability to duplicate pillows for the sake that there maybe a pillow fight laterr 👀👀
⊱ ۫ ׅ ✧ Cuddling really is her safe space to process her grief. She might go quiet for long stretches, just holding you, then suddenly squeeze tighter and say, “You’re not going anywhere, got it?” There’s a healing quality to it. Overtime, she becomes more vulnerable, sharing hopes for life after everything. Because she learned the prison system before she let herself rely on someone else after loosing her family.
⊱ ۫ ׅ ✧ You really can't hide anything from her she can TELL based on your body language pretty easily sooo don't even try. On days you're frustrated, she’ll massage your shoulders, her calloused hands surprisingly skilled. If you’re anxious, she’ll wrap both arms and legs around you like a human weighted blanket.
⊱ ۫ ׅ ✧ Ermes loves seeing you rely on her and is touched you'd even do so, but, it really is another beast to really let herself let her guard down to be cared for. But as your relationship progresses, you really are her person... and she thanks you everyday, even if it's not verbally.
Foo Fighters (F.F.) :
⊱ ۫ ׅ ✧ F.F. loves pressing as much of herself against you as possible, almost like she’s trying to merge experiences. She’ll wrap her arms and legs around you completely, facing you directly, and studying your face up close... sometimes too close. She’ll mimic your breathing perfectly and adjust her temperature to whatever feels best for you: slightly cooler in summer, warmer in winter. It’s intense but soothing, like being hugged by a living blanket a bit too tightly. Overtime, you have to teach her to relax her muscles but she gets it eventually. She just wants you safe!!
⊱ ۫ ׅ ✧ While cuddling, her hands roam gently, tracing your pulse points and feeling your breathing. She asks questions constantly: “Why does your heart speed up here?” It’s endearing rather than invasive, really. And you always take the time to answer her questions thuroughly.
⊱ ۫ ׅ ✧ She'll definitely remember what you like while cuddling and file it away: like her patting your head, playing with your hair, etc., etc.. AND, she definitely sometimes subconsciously go back to her old ways of squeezing you to the point you can't breathe if she hears a disturbance outside (like a hyperaware cat ngl 😭). But once she is certain the threat is gone, she relaxes and acts like it didn't happen.
⊱ ۫ ׅ ✧ Sometimes you wake up and she's JUST not there. So, you walk over to the kitchen and see her downing water in the kitchen, the dingy light of the kitchen overhead catching her in the act. Since then, you tell her to just keep water on the nightstand.
⊱ ۫ ׅ ✧ Really, at rest, F.F. becomes incredibly still and quiet, just holding you with surprising strength. She really does thrive on the closeness, absorbing all the little things about you to keep in mind for later.
Weather Report :
⊱ ۫ ׅ ✧ He pulls you close with quiet authority, often sitting up with you in his lap, facing him so he can look into your eyes or simply letting you rest your head on his shoulder. His arms form a loose but secure circle, one hand gently carding through your hair. The air around you might subtly change for it to be warmer, with a faint pleasant breeze from his Stand. But as you both are winding down and maybe you have a rough time falling asleep, he forms a heavy rain cloud outside just to let the pitter-patter of the rain on the window lull you to sleep. He is also the type to stay awake JUST to make sure you fall asleep.
⊱ ۫ ׅ ✧ When he’s processing memories or heavy emotions, he holds you tightly, foreheads pressed together to truly ground him back in reality with his hands running gently up and down your back. His breathing syncs with yours, and he whispers rare, meaningful words that shock you for the briefest moment. It feels like the world outside ceases to exist.
⊱ ۫ ׅ ✧ Weather likes draping his coat or a blanket over both of you, creating a little cocoon. He’s the big spoon, tall frame enveloping you completely. Edge case: During heavy rain or storms, these cuddles become his anchor.
⊱ ۫ ׅ ✧ He wakes early but stays perfectly still so you can sleep longer if you're a late sleeper, one arm draped over you, fingers tracing lazy patterns on your skin. He is peaceful and devoted without asking really anything in return except your loyalty and love.
Narciso Anasui :
⊱ ۫ ׅ ✧ Anasui wraps around you like he’s afraid you’ll disappear, limbs everywhere, face buried in your neck or chest. He sighs dramatically about how perfect you feel and how he’d dismantle reality for you. His long hair tangles with yours. He also LOVES you lying on his chest so he can wrap both arms around you dramatically, one hand in your hair. He’ll also cradle you close like you’re the most precious thing in existence.
⊱ ۫ ׅ ✧ He insists on the coziest setup for someone as charming as you: mountains of blankets and pillows just so you can get your beauty rest. And once he starts talking, he WON'T shup up until you fall asleep to the sound of his voice. He'll murmur loving, slightly unhinged romantic declarations the entire time: “My love, even the universe’s rotation could not pull me from this embrace.”
⊱ ۫ ׅ ✧ If he hears about how bad your day was, he pulls you into an extra-tight cuddle session, murmuring possessive but sweet things as he thinks to himself how he'll sneak away at night to get them taken care of just for you and not wake you up. But dealing with someone who hurt his beloved really is a walk in the park to him, so, don't worry!! He'll have it taken care of by morning.
⊱ ۫ ׅ ✧ His love is all-or-nothing. Cuddling reinforces his devotion as he studies your micro-expressions and adjusts instantly and, like F.F, keeps it locked up in his mind to remember what you like and dislike. All and all, he really just wants to be your entire world in those moments of tranquility and his honored you trust him so much to fall asleep in his arms.
taking care of jotaro kujo's curly hair (˶>⩊<˶)
an extract of jotaro letting himself be soft and clingy with you
cw: none! just pure and heartwarming fluff, art by 0309Flip on twitter
You've been dating him for four years. Four whole years. You share an apartment, you travel together, you sleep together, he hugs you and allows himself to be vulnerable with you. And you never knew that your boyfriend, the man you see a future with, god, the man you want to marry... has the most beautiful and shiny dark curls.
He always wears them hidden in those ugly caps you don't really try to take them off at this point, it's like his head is glue to them. Maybe they are with all the hair gel he likes to wear. Jotaro only kept one single curls falling on his forehead, Superman style, and you thought that was just made because of the gel. You didn't expect all those beautiful curls all over his head.
"Jotaro," you call him that night, leaning on the bathroom sink while he was putting his pajamas on. "Come here."
He obeys at the moment, coming through the bathroom door shirtless and with his tartan pants. He looks at all the products you usually use for your own hair displayed on the sink and a water spray.
"Sit down," you say, letting him sit on the toilet lid, looking around at you and all the hair care products.
"What is this about?" Jotaro opens his legs so you can stay up between them.
"You're hiding things from me." You point your finger right in the middle of his chest making his eyebrows furrow in confusion.
"What..."
You tilt your head at him, smiling softly as your finger stays pressed against his chest. "You have curls, Jotaro. Real ones. Why didn't you ever tell me?"
He blinks once, then lets out a quiet sigh. "It's not a big deal. They get messy. I just gel them down."
"But they're beautiful," you whisper, stepping a little closer between his legs. Your hands rest gently on his shoulders, thumbs brushing over his warm skin. "Let me take care of them tonight. Please?"
Jotaro looks away for a second, jaw tight, but you know that expression. He's not mad, just a little embarrassed. He sighs again, deeper this time. "You're going to make a mess."
"I won't. I promise I'll be careful," you say, leaning in to press a ligth kiss to the corner of his mouth. "And if you hate it, you can put the cap back on right after. But I think you're going to like it."
He stays quiet for a moment, then grumbles under his breath. "Fine. Don't take too long."
You beam at him and reach for the spray bottle first, misting his hair gently until it's damp. He closes his eyes, letting you work, though every few minutes he makes a small comment.
"This feels weird," he mutters when you start scrunching the water out with a towel.
"Shh, it feels great," you answer softly, running your fingers through his curls to separate them. They're softer than you imagined, dark and springy, already starting to bounce back into shape.
You move through your routine carefully: a little leave-in conditioner, some curl cream smoothed in section by section, then a light gel to hold everything without making it crunchy. He sighs again when you twist a few pieces around your finger to encourage the definition.
"You're doing too much" he says, but there's a hint of a smile tugging at his lips now.
"Maybe i am," you reply, meeting his eyes for a second. "Because it's you."
The bathroom fills with the quiet sound of your hands working through his hair and the occasional soft comment from him. "That part's always the worst in the morning," he admits once, pointing to the back of his head where the curls usually flatten under his cap.
By the time you're done, you step back and grab the diffuser, gently drying everything until his hair looks full and alive. When you finally turn him toward the mirror, your breath catches.
His curls are perfect. Shiny, defined, falling in soft, dark spirals that frame his face just right. One piece still drops over his forehead like always, but now it looks intentional, romantic even. They catch the light with a healthy glow, bouncy and full of life.
Jotaro stares at his reflection for a long moment, he reaches up, touching one curl carefully scared to mess them up.
"See?" you say, wrapping your arms around him from behind. "They're gorgeous. You're gorgeous."
He lets out one last sigh, but this one sounds different, almost fond. His hand finds yours on his stomach and squeezes gently. "Maybe they're not so bad." He turns in your arms so he's facing you, leaning down to kiss your temple. "Thank you."
a/n: i love love love his curls I LOVE EM
a/n 2: do we like this new layout mmmm
sdc!joseph joestar's polka dots underwear ╱ this could be read as part one, mdni, more crack than smut, lots of flirting, implied age gap ꒰ ୭ ˚. ᵎᵎ
It’s late when he knocks in your hotel room, you told him while having dinner to come to your room half an hour after finishing. He knocks a few minutes late and when you open the door, he’s leaning in the doorframe, looks like he took a shower, his grey hair is brushed back and slightly wet.
“Hi,” he says, with one hand resting on his hip.
“Hi,” you say back.
He waits around half a second, looking you up and down. You’re wearing your simple pajamas, also freshly showered, he can smell the sweet soap you probably packed. He blushes a little even if he doesn’t want to.
“Can I come in?” Joseph asks, leaning a little to look you in the eyes.
“Ah, yes!” you nod, now fully opening the door and letting him enter the room.
He turns in his heels to watch you close the door and press your back to it, your hands clasped behind your back and a tiny smile creeping in your face. He loves how shy you get even after you asked him to play with your tits, even after you asked him to come to your room.
“You’re lucky you have a room all for yourself, I had to make an excuse for Avdol to stop asking me where I was going,” he mentions, now taking a few steps towards you.
“Well, it’d be weird sharing a room with any of you,” you say, scrunching your nose and making sure to remark the word so you provoke him. It’s so easy to provoke Joseph, and you take advantage of that, making him angry or bait him is your favorite hobby.
“Any?” he asks immediately, and that was exactly what you wanted. You nod, with the same smile becoming bigger. He’s now closer to you, if he extends his hand, he can easily grab your waist and pull you closer. “How weird would it be sharing a room, for example… with me?”
You fake-gasp, pressing your lips together. “So weird.”
“Huh. You know, I think you’re lying. You’d probably love sharing a room with me. I could keep you up all night with my stories and games. Or other things.” His voice is playful, smiling through the words
You bite your lip, trying not to laugh at how quickly he takes the bait. “Oh yeah? Like what, Joseph? The way you snore so loud the whole hotel would hear?”
He’s the one gasping now “I do not snore! You’re just jealous because I always win our little games. But if we shared a room, I bet I could teach you a few new tricks. You seem pretty eager to learn tonight.”
Your cheeks heat up, but you don’t pull away. Instead you look up at him through your lashes, keeping that teasing smile. “Maybe I am. But you’re the one who came running when I said to meet me here. What does that say about you, old man?”
Joseph chuckles and finally lets his hand settle on your waist, pulling you just a little away from the door. “Ouch. You really know how to hit below the belt. But fine, keep calling me that if it makes you feel better. We both know you don’t mind the grey hair one bit.” His thumb traces slow circles over the fabric of your pajamas, right where your hip meets your waist. “You’re the one who asked me to come, at the end.”
You shiver a little at his touch, but you push back with a smirk. “I just wanted some company that wasn’t Polnareff talking about his hair for the hundredth time. You were the least annoying option.”
“Liar,” he whispers, his face inches from yours now. His free hand comes up to rest on the door beside your head, caging you in gently. “You could’ve picked anyone, but you picked me.”
Your heart races faster, but you keep the game going, poking his chest lightly. “Maybe I just wanted to see if you’d actually show up.”
“I showed up, didn’t I?” He grins, that always makes your stomach flip. “Freshly showered and everything. Do I smell nice?” He tilts his head, offering his neck like an invitation.
You lean in just enough to catch the clean scent mixed with his usual warmth, then pull back with a nod. “Not bad. For an old man.”
He laughs again, but this time he tugs you closer until your bodies are almost pressed together. His eyes drop to your lips for a second before meeting your gaze again.
“Alright, then. Guess I’ll play with my pecs on my own,” he sighs, pouting and looking to the side, waiting for your reaction.
You quickly grab him by the shirt when he tries to pull away. “No,” you tell him, pulling him down so you’re face to face. “You told me they’re mine to play.”
Joseph’s pout melts into a big grin, his eyes lighting up like you just handed him the best present ever. “That’s what I thought,” he whispers, voice all warm and rough. He cups your cheek with one big hand, thumb brushing over your skin so gently it makes your stomach flutter. “You’re so damn cute when you get all bossy like that, y’know?”
Your heart skips hard at the words. Before you can even think of a comeback, you push up on your toes and kiss him. It starts soft, just lips pressing together, but Joseph makes this little surprised sound that turns into a happy hum and he kisses you back right away, one arm wrapping around your waist.
The next thing you know, he’s lifting you up like you weigh nothing. You let out a tiny squeak against his mouth as your feet leave the floor. He carries you across the room, still kissing you, and drops down onto the bed with you on top of him. Your knees sink into the mattress on either side of his hips and you brace your hands on his chest, laughing breathlessly into the kiss.
“Show off,” you tease when you finally pull back for air.
“Can’t help it. Gotta impress my favorite girl.” His hands settle on your thighs, squeezing lightly.
You sit up a little straighter, feeling bold with him under you like this. Your fingers find the buttons of his shirt and start undoing them one by one, revealing his hard chest inch by inch. Joseph watches you the whole time, his cocky smile never leaving his face, but you can feel his heartbeat picking up under your palms.
When you tug the shirt open all the way and reach for his waistband, he lifts his hips to help you. You slide his pants down and freeze for a second when you see what he’s wearing underneath.
Light pink underwear. With little polka dots.
You burst out laughing, covering your mouth with both hands as you stare. “Joseph! Oh my god, are those...?”
He groans, throwing an arm over his eyes, but you can see the embarrassed grin peeking out. “They were clean! And comfortable! Don’t laugh, you brat.”
“I’m sorry, I can’t, they’re so cute!” You’re giggling so hard your shoulders shake, leaning forward until your forehead rests on his chest. The pink polka dots are honestly adorable on him, and the fact that big, strong Joseph Joestar is wearing them right now is too much.
“Cute? I’ll show you cute,” he growls playfully. He flips you over suddenly, careful but quick, so now he’s hovering above you. His grey hair falls a little messily over his forehead as he grins down at you. “Keep laughing and I might have to punish you. Starting with these pajamas of yours.”
You bite your lip, still smiling up at him, your hands sliding up his bare sides. “Promise?”
Joseph leans down and kisses you again, slower this time, the laughter fading into something warmer and heavier between you two. His fingers toy with the hem of your top as he whispers against your lips, “You’re gonna be the death of me, sweetheart. But what a way to go.”
Hear me out here...Kakyoin x reader who learns about his love of cherries and starts wearing cherry stuff for him like perfume, chapstick, shampoo, etc, and they progressively get more obvious about it until Kak notices. Can be pure fluff or suggestive fluff 👀 either works lol
OHHH MY GOD YOU’RE A GENIUS!! I’M HEARING YOU OUT LOUD AND CLEAR!! (dividers by : @dividers-are-us)
“Cheri, cheri lady…”
word count : 1.5k
The hotel lounge in this quiet Indian city felt like a pocket of peace after days filled with tension and Stand battles. The Crusaders were scattered around the main lobby: Jotaro sat brooding in the corner, his hat pulled low as he observed the rising sun; Joseph and Avdol hovered over a map, strategizing their route to the next location; and Polnareff dramatically complained about the lack of good wine while lounging on one of the lobby's chairs. Meanwhile, you sat on the couch beside Kakyoin, close enough that your knees brushed against each other whenever either of you shifted.
He had a small white bowl balanced on his lap, filled with dark, glossy cherries that he must have bought from a street vendor earlier. You watched, fascinated, as he picked one up with careful fingers, turned it slowly as if admiring its color, and then placed it between his lips. The soft pop as it burst created a warm flutter in your chest. Juice glistened faintly at the corner of his mouth before he caught it with his tongue.
“You really love those,” you said, your voice soft so only he could hear.
Kakyoin’s emerald eyes flicked to you with a soft gaze. A small, genuine smile curved his lips—the kind he rarely gave the whole group. “They’re my favorite. Always have been. The sweetness hits first, then that perfect tartness underneath. The way the skin gives, and the juice fills your mouth… It’s simple, but it feels like home. I used to eat them on the roof back in Japan when I needed to think.” He offered the bowl to you without hesitation. “Try one?”
You took a cherry, the cool skin smooth against your fingertips. As you bit into it, the bright flavor burst across your tongue. You filed the moment away carefully—Kakyoin loves cherries—and the quiet way he shared them with you made your heart squeeze.
That night, lying awake in your narrow hotel bed, the idea took root. You wanted to do something for him. Something small and secret at first. Something that said, "I see you" without needing words.
---
The next afternoon, you slipped out with Polnareff under the excuse of “snacks and fresh air.” The Frenchman dragged you through three markets before you found what you wanted: a tiny tube of cherry-flavored lip balm tucked between rows of cheap cosmetics. It smelled sweet and artificial in the best way, like summer and candy that was guaranteed to catch the boy's attention. You bought it without overthinking and later applied it in the bathroom mirror, rubbing your lips together until they shone faintly.
That evening, the group played cards around a low table. You sat beside Kakyoin again. Every time you smiled or laughed at one of Joseph’s wild stories, you felt him notice the balm catching the light, even if it was a quick, almost shy glance; you cherished it before he looked back at his cards with a faint dusting of pink across his cheeks, acting as if nothing out of the ordinary had happened. He didn’t say anything. But you noticed the way his fingers tightened slightly on his cards.
Progress, you told yourself. It's something.
---
Two days later, you found cherry-scented shampoo in a small pharmacy near the hotel. The scent was richer—actual fruit, not just candy—mixed with something almond-soft. You used it that night, working it through your hair until the whole bathroom smelled like a cherry orchard. You left your hair damp, the strands cool against your neck, and joined Kakyoin in the lounge where he was sketching in a small notebook.
He looked up when you sat beside him. You leaned in to see the drawing—hair dangling just so he could smell the waft of the sweet scent, something new.
“Your hair smells incredible,” he murmured, his voice low and thoughtful. “Like cherries... did you change your shampoo?”
Your pulse jumped. “Yeah. Just something new I found. Do you… like it?” You questioned him innocently as you twirled a piece of your hair around your finger.
He turned his head, green eyes soft and a little surprised. A gentle smile touched his mouth. “Very much. It suits you. Makes me feel... relaxed.” His fingers twitched like he wanted to reach out and touch a strand, but he stopped himself, cheeks pink. “Sorry. That was forward.”
You shook your head, smiling. “I don’t mind.”
He kept stealing glances at you for the rest of the evening.
---
You got bolder after that.
The cherry body mist came next. Something light, not overpowering, but unmistakable when you leaned close. You sprayed it on your wrists and the hollow of your throat before dinner one night. Kakyoin sat across from you at the long table. Conversation flowed around the group, but his eyes kept drifting to you. During a lull, he leaned forward slightly, nostrils flaring.
“That scent again,” he said quietly, just for you. “Cherries. It’s… everywhere on you tonight.” His voice had dropped an octave, almost wondering. “It’s nice. It's really nice.”
You met his gaze and held it. “I'm glad you like it.”
He looked away at first, but the small, private smile stayed on his lips.
The next morning, you added the obvious touch: a tiny cherry-shaped hair clip you’d found in a souvenir stall. You pinned it near your temple, the glossy red plastic catching the light. When you walked into the lounge with a fresh bowl of cherries you’d bought specifically for him, Kakyoin actually stared for a second.
Polnareff noticed first, of course. “Mon dieu, you smell like dessert! And that clip—adorable! Are you trying to seduce someone?”
You laughed it off, but Kakyoin’s gaze lingered on the clip, then on your mouth where you’d reapplied the balm, then on the bowl you set in front of him.
“You brought these for me?” he asked softly.
You shrugged, trying to sound casual even as your heart hammered. “Figured you might want some. And… I like seeing you happy.”
His expression melted—something tender and a little overwhelmed - crossed his face. He picked up a cherry, but his eyes stayed on you.
---
That afternoon, the others scattered—Jotaro to overlook the city on the balcony, Joseph and Avdol arguing about maps, Polnareff chasing some poor waiter for coffee. You and Kakyoin ended up alone in the lounge again. You sat on the couch, close enough that your thighs touched. You pulled out the lip balm, twisted it up slowly, and applied it while you talked about the next leg of the journey—your voice steady even though your hands trembled a little.
Kakyoin watched the motion of the balm across your lips like it was art. When you capped it and set it down, he spoke, voice quiet and careful.
“You’ve been doing this on purpose, haven’t you?”
Your breath caught. “Doing what?”
“The chapstick. The shampoo. The perfume. The...clip.” He gestured gently at all of you. “The cherries everywhere. I noticed days ago. I just didn’t want to assume, I-" He cleared his throat. "It was just too consistent to be a coincidence.” His green eyes searched yours, soft but intense. “Did you do all of it because of me?”
You swallowed. The truth felt huge in your chest. “Yeah. I heard you talking about how much you love them. I wanted to… I don’t know. Make you smile. Make you feel seen. Every time I put something on, I thought about you. I guess I got a little carried away...”
Silence stretched for one heartbeat, then two. Then Kakyoin let out a soft, disbelieving laugh—warm and a little shaky. He reached for your hand, lacing his fingers through yours. His palm was warm, thumb brushing over your knuckles.
“You did all that… for me?” His voice cracked with quiet wonder. “No one’s ever paid that much attention to something so small about me. It’s…” He shook his head, smiling so softly it made your throat tight. “It’s the kindest thing anyone’s done for me in a long time.”
You squeezed his hand. “You’re easy to pay attention to, Kakyoin.”
His name on your lips made his breath hitch. He leaned in slowly, giving you every chance to pull away. You didn’t. His free hand came up to cup your cheek, thumb brushing just beneath your eye.
“May I?” he whispered.
You nodded.
The first kiss was gentle—almost reverent. His lips were soft, tasting faintly of the cherries he’d been eating earlier. Then the cherry balm on your mouth transferred, sweet and bright, and he made a small, surprised sound against you. The kiss deepened, slow and exploring, his hand sliding to the back of your neck, fingers threading into your cherry-scented hair.
He pulled back just enough to rest his forehead against yours, breathing a little faster. “You taste like cherries too,” he murmured, voice low and rough with affection. “I think I’m ruined for any other flavor.”
You laughed softly, dizzy with relief and want. “Good. That was the plan.”
He smiled back before pulling you into his chest as you smiled against his skin, already planning the next cherry-scented surprise.
YOU HAVE A DATE ˚. ᵎᵎ with med student!gyro zeppeli (,,>ヮ<,,)
Words from our Hostess: Congratulations! You've been selected for our Host Club. After reading your application, we decided that your best pairing for you might be Gyro Zeppeli
med student!gyro zeppeli x linguistics student!reader ╱ he distracts you while you're studying because he thinks you're too stressed!
cw: mdni, ass and pussy eating, squirting, gyro is gross
You would’ve thought that your boyfriend who’s on his third year of Medicine would be the one stressed over his exams and projects, you really thought you could have cute study dates where he explains you the muscles or whatever he studies and you could explain him all the metaphors and literary resources in the poem you have to analyze.
And most of the time, it is like that. But today? Gyro is feeling bored, and when he’s bored, he gets needy. Needy for you, obviously.
You’re lying on your stomach in your bed, reading through a book you have to finish for tomorrow’s class. You're immersed in it, you’ve been reading it for the past hour and a half while Gyro flips through his notes, not really reading or paying attention to them.
He groans and gets up from your desk. First he just sits by your side, twirling your curls and trying to get your attention. When that doesn’t work, he sighs loudly and flops on the bed, right on top of you and resting his head on your lower back.
“Babeeuhhhh,” he pouts, sinking his head in the small of your back and breathing you in.
“Mm,”
“Pay attention to me, please,” he asks, pinching your sides to make you wiggle.
“Not now, love, I’m busy.” You keep reading the pages, you only have about fifty pages left.
Gyro lets out another dramatic sigh, but instead of giving up he slides lower down your body. His hands move to your hips then lower, palms pressing over the curve of your ass. He starts kneading the soft flesh slowly.
“You’re so stressed, baby,” he mumbles, a little whiny. “I can feel it in your body. You need to relax. Let me help you relax.”
You roll your eyes even though he can’t see it, turning another page. “Gyro, I really can’t right now. I have to finish this.”
His fingers dig in a little deeper, massaging in firm circles while he presses his cheek against one of your cheeks, nuzzling there, his breath is warm through the thin fabric of your shorts.
“Please?” he asks again, softer this time. “Can I entertain myself down here? I won’t bother you too much. I promise.”
You pause, glancing back at him over your shoulder. His eyes are half-lidded, a lazy needy look on his face that always gets to you. “I haven’t showered all day, Gyro. I’m probably sweaty.”
That only makes his grin widen. He turns his head and presses a slow kiss right where his cheek had been, lips brushing over the material.
“Even better,” he whispers.
He squeezes your ass again, waiting for your answer, clearly hoping you’ll just let him bury his face there and do what he wants while you keep reading. His fingers hook lightly at the waistband of your shorts, not pulling them down yet, but definitely testing.
“Fine, but don’t do anything weird,” you tell him and immediately he’s getting rid of your shorts and panties all at once.
He breathes in the warm and musky scent of your bare pussy, there’s even a glow of sweat in the crease where your ass meets your thigh, he buries his face there, licking a long stripe and making you giggle.
“Fuck… you smell so good,” he mumbles against your skin. He spreads your cheeks with both hands and spits directly on your pussy, watching it drip down over your hole before he dives in.
His tongue is messy from the start. He licks broad and wet from your clit all the way up to your ass, dragging spit and your own slick everywhere. He doesn’t care about being neat, Gyro eats you like he’s starving, groaning loud and shameless into your cunt while his tongue pushes inside you, fucking in and out in sloppy strokes. Juices coat his chin instantly. Every time he pulls back to breathe, strings of spit and your wetness connect his lips to your pussy.
“G-Gyro…” you try to keep your voice steady, eyes still on the book, but it’s getting harder.
He just moans louder, completely lost in it. “You taste so fuckin’ good, baby. I love how wet you get for me.” He spits on your ass again, then licks over your tight hole in filthy circles, pushing the tip of his tongue inside while two fingers sink into your pussy. The wet sounds are obscene, he’s making a complete mess, drooling and slurping like he can’t get enough.
He switches between your holes without shame, burying his face deeper, nose pressed against you as he drinks up everything leaking out. His cheeks and chin are shiny, slick running down his neck. You can tell he adores it by the way he whimpers and hums against your skin, your pussy and ass are the best things he’s ever tasted.
“God, I’m such a mess for you,” he pants, voice hoarse. He spits again, letting it drip down your folds before sucking your clit into his mouth, tongue flicking fast while his fingers curl inside you. “I could stay here all night. Just let me drink you, please. You’re so fucking yummy.”
He’s grinding his hips against the mattress slowly, clearly hard and desperate, but too focused on devouring you to do anything about it. His hands knead your ass the whole time, spreading you wider so he can lick deeper, messier, until your thighs and the sheets underneath are soaked with his spit and your juices.
You bite your lip, fingers tightening on the pages of your book as another wet sound fills the room. “F-fuck, Gyro you’re going too hah fast!”
You try to warn him, although that’s exactly what he wants. He can feel you fluttering inside and he knows the coil on your belly is about to break.
“Mm, c’mon baby, you know I want it,” he says before pressing his face deeper into you, tongue reaching your clit and flicking it fast as he uses his lips to play with your folds.
Your thighs start to tremble, hips pushing back against his face without you meaning to. The book slips from your fingers a little as your breathing gets ragged. Gyro notices and doubles down, moaning louder into you, drinking every drop like he can’t get enough. “A-ah, Gyro please mmmph!”
Your whole body tenses, you cum with a sharp gasp, it’s almost too much. You squirt hard, warm wetness gushing out over his tongue and fingers. Gyro doesn’t pull away. He presses in closer, greedily making sure nothing gets wasted.
“Ooooh shit… yes, baby,” he mumbles against your pulsing pussy, he keeps his mouth open, letting your squirt coat his tongue and drip down his chin while he fingers you through it. “Fuck, you’re so hot when you squirt like that.”
He drinks it all down, groaning happily as more of it spills over his face and onto the bed. His cheeks are flushed, hair messy and he looks completely wrecked. But he’s still licking you gently now, savoring every last drop. You’re left panting, legs shaky, the book completely forgotten beside you. Gyro presses one last sloppy kiss to your pussy before resting his cheek on your ass again, breathing you in with a satisfied little hum.
“See? Told you that you needed to relax,” he whispers, clearly proud of the mess he made of you.
YOU HAVE A DATE ˚. ᵎᵎ with frat boy!roy harper (,,>ヮ<,,)
Words from our Hostess: Congratulations! You've been selected for our Host Club. After reading your application, we decided that your best pairing for you might be Roy Harper. We prepared a little cute scenario of you and him dating
frat boy!roy harper x criminology student!reader ╱ the vice president of the frat stops going to parties... to study with his girlfriend?
art by zestynestyyy on x
Roy Harper was a dickhead, he knows it, he’s accepted it and he’s trying to do better. You were the main reason for that, the sweet and smart girl who was his partner for a project during one semester. After all those months together, of you rejecting him, making fun of him and making him realize how stupid he was… Roy Harper fell in love. With you, despite your wishes. And sadly, you kinda liked him too.
It started small, one Friday night you were buried in your criminology notes, highlighter in hand, when your phone buzzed. Roy’s name popped up with a simple text: “Hey. You busy? I’m outside your dorm with snacks if you want company.”
You peeked out the window and there he was, leaning against the brick wall in his usual hoodie, a plastic bag dangling from his fingers.
When you let him in, he kicked off his sneakers and flopped onto your bed without even asking. “I brought those sour gummies you like,” he said, pulling them out like treasure. “And those weird healthy chips because I know you’re on your ‘fuel the brain’ kick.”
You raised an eyebrow, sitting at your desk. “No party tonight?”
He shrugged, cheeks going a little pink as he watched you. “Nah. I’d rather be here bugging you while you study serial killers or whatever. The conversation is better.”
That made you smile despite yourself. Roy had always been loud and reckless before, the guy who showed up to class hungover and still managed to charm half the room. But lately? He showed up at the library during your late-night sessions with coffee exactly how you liked it. He sat through your rants about criminal psychology without interrupting, even asked questions that proved he was actually listening.
One evening you caught him staring at you again while you explained the difference between organized and disorganized offenders. His chin rested in his hand, green eyes soft making your stomach flip.
“What?” you asked, trying not to laugh.
“Nothing,” he said. “You’re really fucking smart. It’s hot. I think my brain short-circuits every time you talk like that.”
You threw a pen at him and he caught it easily, grinning like an idiot. He didn’t care when his old frat buddies started texting him, asking where the hell he’d been. Whipped, one of them called him when they spotted you two at a campus café. Roy just pulled you closer by the waist and kissed the top of your head.
“Let them talk,” he whispered against your hair. “I’m exactly where I wanna be.”
And he meant it. The obsession was quiet but constant. He remembered the way you liked your hoodies oversized and stole one from his closet just so you could wear it during study dates. He showed up to your criminology club meetings even though he had no clue about half the topics, just to sit in the back and watch you light up when you presented.
Late at night, when your eyes got tired from reading case files, he’d tug you into his lap on the tiny dorm couch. “Take a break, babe,” he’d whisper, arms wrapping around, his fingers would trace little patterns on your arm while you leaned into his chest, breathing in the faint smell of his cologne.
“You’re turning into a total sap,” you teased one night, tilting your head up to look at him.
Roy just smiled, it reached his eyes and made them crinkle at the corners. “For you. I don’t care if the whole campus thinks I’m pathetic. I probably am. But you make me want to be better. Someone who deserves to sit here with the smartest girl on campus.”
Your heart did that annoying fluttery thing it always did around him now. You reached up and brushed his red hair back from his forehead. “You’re doing okay, Harper.”
He pressed a soft kiss to your temple, then another to your cheek, taking his time memorizing every inch of you. “Mhm, I’m not going anywhere. Frat parties can suck it. I’ve got everything I need right here.”
a/n: this is so cheesy oh my god. @bat1nsignia my queen and my baby, i hope you liked this<33 this was such a cutieful thing to write i can't i can't i'm dying of cuteness
HIII i suggested the fic “waiting, waiting” and i saw u just published it and i just wanna say its absolutely perfect!!!! i cried and i loved it!!! thank you so much!!!!!!
OMG THIS IS SO SWEET TYSM!! I really appreciate it cause, ngl... I was a little misty while writing it too 🥹 in almost all of my fanfics, I just want the characters in my fandoms to just live happily ever after... SIGHHHH. BUT, the request you sent in I just couldn't say no to!!
heyo! love the stuff you've been putting out so far!!! idk if this req is gonna be too much so if it is pls ignore <3
could we get stardust crusaders with a reader who worries that they won't come back? like, they take way longer than expected fighting off a stand user and when they get back reader breaks down bc they thought he died? again so sorry if that's too angsty or too much, just ignore if u don't wanna do it but otherwise thank you!!!
(ps you can have creative control over whether it's more romantic or platonic lol i don't mind either way ^^)
awww, yes ofc!! I love me a little angst, good for the soul LOL!! This was kinda leaning more toward romantic btww (sorry about it being a BIT late!! Working my way through my inbox) dividers by : @uzmacchiato
“Waiting, waiting…”
pairings : jotaro kujo x gn!reader, joseph joestar x gn!reader, muhammad avdol x gn!reader, noriaki kakyoin x gn!reader, jean pierre polnareff x gn!reader
word count : 2.3k, in all
Jotaro Kujo:
The journey through Egypt had already turned your nerves into live wires. Every night you waited in whatever dingy hotel or safe-house the group could find, counting the minutes until Jotaro’s broad shoulders filled the doorway again. He never said much before leaving, only a simple: “I’ll be back.” But the way his fingers would brush your shoulder, the way Star Platinum’s faint purple glow would flicker protectively around you both for half a second, told you everything he wouldn’t voice.
Tonight, the clock on the wall had already passed the three-hour mark. The fight against the Stand user was supposed to be quick; Jotaro had scouted the bastard himself and muttered it was “nothing special.” But the sun had set, the desert wind howled against the shutters, and the silence in the room grew teeth. You paced until your legs ached, then sat on the edge of the bed clutching the brim of his cap—the one he’d left behind as a reminder he'd come back cause he never strayed far from it. Nonetheless, your mind kept replaying the worst: Star Platinum’s fists cracking against something stronger, Jotaro’s body crumpling in the sand, that low “good grief…” fading into nothing. You’d already lost count of how many times you’d whispered “Come back, you idiot” into the empty air.
When the door finally slammed open, Jotaro stood there covered in dust and blood that definitely wasn’t all his. His school jacket hung in tatters, one eye swollen shut, but he was breathing. You didn’t even register the others calling his name from the hallway. The sob tore out of you like something physical—raw, ugly, days of swallowed terror finally breaking free. Your knees buckled; you hit the floor before he could cross the room.
“Jotaro— I thought— you were gone— I thought you died out there and I’d never—” The words dissolved into heaving cries. Strong arms wrapped around you instantly, Star Platinum’s larger form flickering behind him like a second, gentler shadow. Jotaro didn’t shush you. He just lowered himself to the floor, pulled you into his lap, and let you bury your face in his ruined shirt. One big hand stroked your hair in the same steady rhythm he used when he was trying to calm Star Platinum after a brutal fight.
“I’m here,” he said, voice rough and low, the same tone he used when he told you he loved you for the first time—quiet, certain, impossible to argue with. “Took longer because the bastard kept regenerating. Should’ve ended it faster. Won’t happen again.” He pressed his forehead to yours, letting you feel his heartbeat, steady despite the bruises. “Stop crying, I'm here... you’re gonna make me worry next.”
You laughed through the tears, clinging harder. He stayed on the floor with you until your breathing evened out, his hand rubbing soothing circles on your back. Jotaro might never be the type to promise “I’ll always come back,” but the way he held you that night said it louder than any words ever could.
Joseph Joestar:
Joseph treated danger as if it were an old friend, one that burst into the room with a raucous laugh and an unpredictable energy. He thrived in chaos, embracing it with an infectious exuberance that left those around him on edge yet captivated. With a playful ruffle of your hair and his signature, almost goofy grin, he would bellow, “Don’t worry, I’ve survived worse than some two-bit Stand user!” The words tumbled from his lips with a bravado that was both reassuring and reckless, as he sauntered away, his Hermit Purple swirling around his arm like vibrant, living vines, pulsating with energy and promise.
You wanted to take his words to heart, to find solace in his overconfidence. But a gnawing doubt lingered in the back of your mind. He was in his late 60s, and each time he ventured off into the unknown, you couldn’t shake the feeling that time was running out—not just for him, but for you as well. “I’m still in my prime!” he would insist with a wink, but every moment he spent away from your side felt like another thread pulled from the fabric of your own life, weaving in the cruel passage of time.
This time the wait stretched past four hours. You sat by the window watching the moon rise over the dunes, fingers twisting the hem of the ridiculous Hawaiian shirt he’d bought you as a “souvenir from Cairo.” Every creak in the hallway made your heart leap, then crash. What if his overconfidence finally got him? What if a Stand ability bypassed his tricks and his body just… didn’t come back? By the time the door burst open, you were already crying, shoulders shaking so hard you could barely see him.
Joseph stood there panting, coat singed, Hermit Purple wrapped around a broken arm like a makeshift sling, but alive and grinning that same crooked grin. The moment he saw your face the grin vanished.
“Oh no— hey, hey, kiddo—” He crossed the room in three long strides and dropped to his knees, pulling you against his chest hard enough that you smelled smoke and old cologne and blood. “I’m sorry, I’m so sorry. The bastard kept copying my moves! Had to get creative—used a street lamp and some gum—long story—but I’m here, I’m right here.”
You broke completely, fists bunching in his shirt as you sobbed out every fear you’d bottled up since the journey began. Joseph rocked you like you were a child, murmuring half-English, half-Japanese nonsense the way he did when he was nervous. He pressed sloppy kisses to your temple, your hair, anywhere he could reach, his own voice cracking once or twice. “I promised your pretty face I’d come back every time, didn’t I? Old Joseph doesn’t break promises to you, does he?”
When you finally calmed enough to look at him, he was crying too—big, theatrical tears that somehow made you laugh through your own. He wiped your cheeks with his thumbs, then dramatically declared he was retiring from Stand battles forever (a lie you both knew). That night he kept you tucked against his side, Hermit Purple gently coiled around your wrist like a living promise: no matter how long it took, he would always find his way back to you.
Muhammad Avdol:
Avdol’s presence had always been your anchor—steady flames in the dark, offering quiet wisdom that made the impossible seem manageable. Before leaving, he would reassure you, saying, “The path is clear. I will return soon, my love. The last thing I'd want to do is worry you more." You believed him because it was easier to trust in his words than to imagine a world without his steady voice. In fact, anything was easier than that.
But the embers had long since gone cold. Hours that felt like years had crawled by. The fortune-teller’s cards you’d absent-mindedly shuffled lay scattered on the table, the last one showing The Tower—destruction, sudden change. Your chest felt like it was caving in. What if the flames had lied this time? What if Magician’s Red’s fire had finally met something it couldn’t burn away?
When the door opened, Avdol stepped in quietly, as always, but his usual grace was gone. His headscarf was unraveling, one side of his face blistered, long overcoat torn. He opened his mouth to speak—and you shattered. The sound that left you wasn’t even words, just pure, choking relief and terror all at once. You stumbled forward and collapsed against him, hands fisting in what remained of his cloak as sobs wracked your entire body.
Avdol's presence was immediate; the moment he saw your face, he surged forward with remarkable speed. In an instant, his powerful arms enveloped you, forming a protective barrier that felt secure and reassuring. The warmth of his strength surrounded you, making you feel safe from harm as he stood guard, steadfast and unwavering. He guided you to the bed without a word, sitting so you could curl into his lap. One hand stroked your back in slow, soothing circles while the other cradled the back of your head.
“My love,” he murmured, voice low and rough with exhaustion and guilt, “I am so sorry. The enemy’s Stand could extinguish fire itself. I had to be… creative. I never meant to make you wait this long.” He tilted your chin up, thumbs brushing away tears even as his own eyes glistened. “Feel my heartbeat...I am here. I will always fight to come back to the one who waits for me with such a brave, worried heart.”
He held you until the sobs turned to hiccups, then until they stopped entirely. Only then did his shoulders relax, kissing the top of your head and whispering promises in the language of flames only he could read. From that night on, he never left without leaving one of his tarot cards face-up on the pillow beside you—always The Lovers—so you would know, no matter how long the fight took, his heart was already walking back to you.
Noriaki Kakyoin:
Kakyoin was never reckless. He planned, he observed, he struck with surgical precision. That was what made the long silences bearable—you trusted his mind as much as you loved his quiet smiles and the way Hierophant Green would rest his hand on your head when he thought no one was looking. But trust had limits when the clock kept ticking, and the hotel room felt more like a tomb.
A full day passed with no word. You’d memorized every crack in the ceiling at this point. Every worst-case scenario played behind your eyes: Hierophant Green’s tentacles severed, Kakyoin’s body limp in the sand, those beautiful emerald eyes closed forever. When the door finally clicked open, you already rose from the dingy motel bed, trembling. Kakyoin stepped inside, hair askew, one arm hanging useless, blood streaking his uniform.
The breakdown hit like a freight train. You didn’t even make it two steps before your legs gave out and the tears came in violent, gasping waves. “I thought you were dead— I thought I’d never see you again— Kakyoin, you—”
He was across the room in an instant, dropping to his knees and pulling you into his chest with surprising strength for someone so injured. Hierophant Green coiled around both of you like a protective emerald cocoon to pull you even closer, with its tendrils gently stroking your back in time with Kakyoin’s heartbeat. He pressed his face into your hair, his voice shaking in a way you’d never heard before.
“I’m here. I’m right here. The Stand kept splitting—every time I destroyed one, two more appeared. I had to calculate every move perfectly or I wouldn’t have made it back to you.” His fingers trembled as they carded through your hair. “Please don’t cry like this… I can’t stand knowing I caused it.”
You clung to him, sobbing out every fear you’d carried since he first joined the Crusaders. Kakyoin listened without interrupting, only murmuring soft apologies and promises between your gasps. When the worst of it passed, he lifted your face and pressed the gentlest kiss to your quivering lips. “Next time I’ll leave a piece of me with you so you can be reminded I'll always be with you. I never want you to doubt it again.”
He refused to let the others treat his wounds until he’d held you through every last sob. Even injured, he was the one comforting you—because to Kakyoin, coming back to you was the only victory that truly mattered.
Jean Pierre Polnareff:
Polnareff’s departures were always theatrical: Silver Chariot flashing in the sunlight, a dramatic bow, a kiss blown your way with the promise “I will return more handsome than ever, mon amour!” He wore his heart on his sleeve, and you wore your worry like armor. But when hours stretched into the night and the ever flamboyant man still hadn’t returned, the armor cracked.
You waited on the balcony, desert wind whipping your clothes, replaying every time he’d laughed off danger for his sister’s memory, for the group, for you. What if this time his honor finally cost him everything? When the door banged open you spun around and the sight of him—silver armor dented, hair wild, blood on his cheek—ripped a broken cry from your throat.
You flew into his arms before he could even strike a pose. The sobs came immediately, violent and ugly and full of every nightmare you’d swallowed for months. “You idiot— you stupid, brave idiot— I thought you died— I thought I’d never hear you call me ‘mon amour’ again—”
Polnareff froze for half a second, then wrapped himself around you like Silver Chariot itself, lifting you clean off the floor and spinning you gently as if the motion could soothe the pain away. His voice cracked spectacularly. “Ma chérie, non— don’t cry, please don’t cry! I’m here, I’m alive, I’m yours!” He buried his face in your neck, tears of his own soaking your shoulder. “The Stand user was a coward who kept running—Silver Chariot had to chase him for miles! But I never stopped thinking of you. Never.”
He carried you to the bed, refusing to let go even for a second, Silver Chariot’s rapier gently laid across both your laps like a guardian. He peppered your face with frantic kisses, murmuring French endearments between every apology and promise. “I swear on my soul, I will always return to the one who loves me enough to cry like this. You are my greatest treasure.”
Polnareff stayed dramatic even in comfort—wiping your tears with the edge of his rough palm, declaring he would fight the entire desert if it meant never seeing you cry again. But beneath the theatrics was something raw and real: he held you until dawn, whispering that every victory was meaningless if he couldn’t come back to your arms. From then on, he always left a single red rose on your pillow before he went to fight—so you’d know his heart was already on its way home to you.
