❀ hello my cuties, my name is Aline ˙𐃷˙ but you can call me luna I go by she/her!, im also arabian and speak 3 languages!
❀ I’m 18 years old, i study graphic design! and i do photography on the side!
❀ my favorite jojos part is 5/3! mista and bruno being my favss (˶˃⤙˂˶)
❀ INTP, Aquarius, funfact! i share the same bday as kira yoshikage mwaheheheh
My Blog and Rules (˶>⩊<˶)
I do not write for part 8 and 9 because I have yet to read them </3 I'm so sorry
atleast for now i only write for jojos!!! i write for all the parts but it seems many liked my writing when it comes to part7 (i am truly honored i love you guys so much)
I am willing to write for any character unless its these following characters: Cioccolata, Polpo, funny valentine (cant think of any anymore)ദ്ദി(˵ •̀ ᴗ - ˵ ) ✧
I will write for mental health and even physical as long as it's not too much gore or graphic because my anxiety can't handle that
If it's an extremely heavy topic like suicide I will not be writing it
⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘
i will NOT write smut or anything too suggestive when it comes to ESPECIALLY minor characters
when it comes to the adults i will mostly go with something suggestive but i won’t be writing smut (virgin ass)
anything offensive like racism/homophopia/misogyny/anything hateful towards a religion or a culture will be ignored and deleted. As well as things leading to suicide I would most likely ignore and delete
HIII u'r writing is so cool methinks!!, is it ok if I can request gyro and Johnny X a yao guang like reader? Very strong and regal but also super silly and playful? , I think itd be very cute 2 see them date or crush on a army general that just goofs off a lot and I ALSO LOVE THAT URE A HSR FAN :3
✿˚｡⋆ Yao guang like reader!! ⋆｡˚✿
♡‧₊˚✦ Pairing ✦˚₊‧♡: johnny joestar, gyro Zeppeli x fem reader
☾⚠︎warnings: For those who are not aware yao guang is a general in honkai star rail which is a gacha game and basically her whole thing is that she lit takes nothing seriously always joking always up to something though she does have powers who are extremely destructive to her !! She's so cute guys please play hsr
A/n: IEBJWKWKW HSR REQUEST GUYS PLEASEEE I WANT TO SEE MORE OD RHESE REQUESTS IM GONNA COMBUSTTT I LOBE YOU BRO I HOPE YOU ENJOY
Johnny Joestar.
He’s used to authority figures being rigid, corrupt, or intimidating. Then he sees you casually wipe out a threat with tactical brilliance and a literal flash of light, only to immediately turn around and trip over your own cape because you were distracted by a cool bug.
Johnny spends a lot of time just staring at you. He doesn’t know whether to respect you, fear you, or laugh at you.
When you direct that playful, teasing energy toward him, Johnny’s defense mechanisms go into overdrive.
He’ll pull his hat down and scowl, probably mutter something about you needing to focus on your job. But his ears will be bright red.
He deeply respects your strength. As someone who understands the weight of burden and determination, he sees the hidden sharpness behind your easygoing smiles. It makes him feel safe around you, even if he’d never admit it out loud.
Johnny becomes the ultimate straight man to your comedy. When you make a ridiculous joke in the middle of an important strategy meeting, Johnny will just sigh, rub his temples, and say, "Please tell me you have an actual plan, or if I need to start shooting." He secretly finds it incredibly endearing.
Even though you are a literal powerhouse who can command armies, Johnny is fiercely protective of your downtime.
If annoying officials or stress start dampening your cheerful spirit, he’s the first to shoot them a terrifying death glare to make them back off.
He loves the quiet moments when the "General" facade drops entirely. Just you resting your head on his lap while he adjusts his stirrups, sharing a rare genuine soft laugh
You want to slack off from your duties to invent a new, ridiculous hand-shake? Gyro is already practicing it. You want to tell a terrible joke? He’ll counter it with no hesitation
Gyro’s flirting is incredibly loud. He will absolutely use the Spin to do completely unnecessary, flashy tricks just to hear you laugh. He’ll strike dramatic poses on Valkyrie, flashing his teeth just for you.
Because you hold such a high, regal status, Gyro loves to playfully treat you like royalty but in a totally dramatic, theatrical way. He’ll bow deeply, kiss your hand, and call you "Your Excellency" with a massive, mischievous grin.
Gyro is so proud to be by your side. When you walk into a room looking majestic and commanding in your armor, he’s walking right next to you, chest puffed out, looking like the cat that got the cream.
The sheer amount of mischief you two get into is a nightmare for anyone administrative. You’re supposed to be reviewing battle tactics, but instead,
you and Gyro are using your divine foresight/tactical maps to plan a complex prank on Johnny.
For all his clowning around, Gyro has a massive heart and deep loyalty. He knows that being a General comes with immense pressure and a lot of ghosts.
When the playful energy fades and the weight of your title gets heavy, Gyro is incredibly gentle. He will hold you close, brush your hair back, and give you a safe space where you don’t have to be strong for anyone else.
hihihi!! i’m the sick anon that sent the request for johnny/gyro/soundman taking care of a sick reader ❤️❤️
firstly, thank you sososo much for doing my request!! soundman has been one of my sbr favs since i read the manga in like,,, 2019 and barely anyone in the fandom writes for him or sbr in general so thank you sm really!!
second, shoutout to the other sick anon that sent the same request around the same time as me LMAOOO we were both going through it 😭😭 i hope you’re doing better now other sick anon!!
BROO THIS IS SO LATE IM SO SORRY FOR REPLYING SO LATE AHH I APOLOGIZE HEKWJW I WAS RANDOMLY PICKING A REQUEST THIS MORNING AND SAW THISSS IM VERY SORRYYY I HOPE THAT YOU ARE WELL NOW ANS THAT I WOULD GIVE YOU GREAT FICS AGAIN FOR THEM BECAUSE I LOVE WRITING AS MUCH YOU GUYS LOVE READING THEMM IT MAKES ME VERY VERY HAPPY , I am very happy you loved my writing and I'm hoping for new requests when I do open MWAHHH also this is my cat yay!!
Hello!! Ive been reading a lot of your works lately and safe to say that i am SO addicted to whatever you write, they’re so fun to read and i’d honestly read about hundreds of them if it were honestly possible😭😭 now i also have a request, something i haven’t seen at all yet in any fic i could ever find, Could i request the Bucciaratti team and their S/O meeting their future kid?(approximately somewhere to 15 years old)
Heres the idea basically, their kid is a stand user and somehow was transferred from another timeline by an enemy stand, they basically try and help them out trying to bring them back to their timeline and aswell get to know things about them
Also if its not too much could you make Giorno’s kid inherit Joestar genes?👀 i feel like it would spice things lots more. Thank you so much!!
✿˚｡⋆ Their kid visiting from the future! ⋆｡˚✿
♡‧₊˚✦ Pairing ✦˚₊‧♡: Bucci gang x reader
Fun fact i almost posted this without adding fugo I completely forgot him...cough
Bruno Bucciarati.
The afternoon was quiet until a localized tear in space ripped open right above the dining table. Bruno was on his feet in a fraction of a second, Sticky Fingers manifesting at his side, ready to unzip the threat into pieces.
Instead, a tall, lanky teenager tumbled out of the rift, crashing hard onto the wooden table amidst a scattering of tea cups and paperwork.
The kid groaned, rubbing their head, completely unbothered by the five different Stands currently pointed at their chest. They blinked against the dim lighting, looked straight at Bruno’s frozen, defensive stance, and let out a massive sigh of relief. "Oh, thank god. Dad, you look so young. Did you seriously used to wear that lace undershirt every single day?"
Sticky Fingers vanished instantly. Bruno stood entirely paralyzed, his fingers twitching.
He looked at the kid’s eyes the exact shape and warmth of yours and then at the sharp line of the jaw that mirrored his own in the mirror every morning. The realization hit him like a physical blow to the chest, leaving him breathless.
Once the initial shock passes and the team confirms there are no immediate enemy Stand users lurking in the immediate vicinity, Bruno’s maternal and paternal instincts fuse into an impenetrable wall of protection.
He gently helps the teenager down from the table, his hands trembling slightly as he brushes dust off their shoulders. He doesn't care about the timeline anomalies or the paradoxes all he cares about is that his and your child is currently vulnerable in a dangerous past era.
Bruno moves the kid to the kitchen. He makes them a plate of food, pouring juice, his eyes never leaving their face. He is hyper-attentive to every gesture.
When he notices the kid has a habit of tapping their fingers when they're nervous a trait they picked up directly from you a soft, incredibly tender smile breaks through his usual stoic composure.
Bruno subtly tries to ask about the future without breaking any cosmic rules, but the kid is too smart. They smile fondly, leaning back in their chair. "You're worrying too much, Papa. You always do. In my timeline, you still have that exact same look on your face whenever Mom/Dad goes out late for groceries."
Hearing that he successfully builds a life with you, that he survives the brutal mafia underworld to become a father who provides a peaceful Sunday-dinner life, fills Bruno with a profound sense of purpose. He will tear the city apart to find the Stand user who sent them here, ensuring their bright future remains intact.
Abbacchio was sitting in the darkest corner of the room, sipping a glass of wine, wanting absolutely nothing to do with the world. Without warning, the air in front of him began to ripple like water, emitting a low, distorted grinding sound.
Abbacchio’s eyes narrowed, his glass hitting the floor and shattering as Moody Blues manifested, its digital face flashing rapidly as it tried to process the temporal anomaly.
With a heavy thud, a teenager crashed through the rift, landing roughly on their hands and knees right at Abbacchio’s feet.
Moody Blues raised a massive, heavy fist, ready to crush the intruder into the floorboards. Abbacchio stepped forward, his face twisted into a terrifying, lethal glare. But the teenager didn't look up with fear. They slowly raised their head, pushed back their hair, and stared directly into Abbacchio’s eyes.
Abbacchio froze. The kid had your exact, unmistakable gaze the same color, the same intensity but the structure of their face, the sharp, stern set of their mouth, and the quiet, guarded way they held their shoulders was a mirror image of his own.
The teenager blinked, looking at the spilled wine, and let out a dry, low chuckle that sounded identity-theft levels of identical to Abbacchio’s own laugh. "Classic even 18 years ago, you were dropping your drinks, Dad."
Abbacchio’s initial defense mechanism is denial. He is a former cop and a hardened criminal he doesn't believe in miracles or happy accidents
He keeps Moody Blues active, forcing the Stand to replay the exact moment of the kid’s arrival over and over, searching for any sign of an illusion or a psychological trap designed by an enemy to break him. He glares at the teenager from across the room, his posture rigid and cold.
The teenager however, knows exactly how their father operates. They don't try to hug him or force a connection. Instead, they walk over to the record player in the corner, pick out an old, obscure jazz album Abbacchio secretly loves, and put it on. They sit on the couch, staring out the window with the exact same brooding expression Abbacchio wears every day.
"You don't have to look at me like I'm a ghost," the kid says quietly, their voice softening. "Mom/Dad told me you used to be a tough guy. But at home, you're the one who makes the coffee every morning and sits on the porch with them until the sun comes up."
The mention of a peaceful future with you a future where he isn't haunted by his past, where he is allowed to love and be loved, and where he raised a kid who isn't afraid of his darkness completely shatters Abbacchio’s defenses.
He doesn't say anything. He doesn't join the rest of the team's loud celebrations. But during the final confrontation with the enemy Stand user, Abbacchio fights with a terrifying, merciless ferocity. He ensures the path back to the future is completely cleared.
Before the kid steps through the portal, Abbacchio walks up to them, places a heavy, protective hand on their head for just a second, and murmurs, "Take care of your mother/father. I'll be there soon."
Mista was sitting at the kitchen table, meticulously cleaning his revolver, counting out his bullets. One, two, three... five, six. He was just about to load the cylinder when a bizarre, localized vortex opened right over his head. A heavy combat boot came crashing down first, landing squarely on the table, scattering his bullets everywhere.
"CHE CAZZO!" Mista yelled, falling backward off his chair, his gun raised and aimed at the intruder before he even hit the floor.
The teenager was sitting on the table, holding their ankle, groaning. Six small voices suddenly shrieked in absolute delight. The Sex Pistols instantly abandoned Mista, flying through the air and swarming around the teenager’s face, rubbing against their cheeks and squeaking happily. "They smell like boss and the pretty one!"
The teenager laughed, letting Number 3 sit on their shoulder. They looked down at Mista, who was still flat on his back, staring up with his jaw hanging open. "Hey, Dad. Glad to see your aim is still good. Now help me up, my leg is asleep."
The dynamic between Mista and the teenager is an absolute riot. They are practically cut from the same cloth.
Within two hours, Mista is showing them how to quick-draw, and the kid is showing off their own Stand which happens to be a localized luck-manipulation ability that perfectly complements Mista’s marksman skills. They spend the afternoon trading bad jokes and complaining about how strict Bruno is.
While they act like best friends, Mista’s deeper, incredibly protective nature shines through when things get serious. He stays glued to the kid’s side during the hunt for the enemy user, his hand always resting on his holster.
When the kid casually mentions how Mista still treats you like a emperor in the future how he leaves love notes around the kitchen and refuses to go on missions without kissing you goodbye
Mista rubs the back of his neck, grinning like a total fool. He ruffles the kid’s hair roughly. "Yeah? Well, of course I do. Your mom/dad is the best thing that ever happened to me. Now let's go kick this Stand user's ass so you can get back home."
Narancia was in the middle of blasting his music, dancing around the living room with a bag of chips, when a violent vacuum of air suddenly popped directly in front of him.
Aerosmith deployed automatically, its radar spinning wildly as a heavy object dropped from mid-air, landing squarely on top of Narancia. Both of them went down in a tangled heap of limbs, chips flying everywhere.
"WHAT THE HELL! ENEMY ATTACK!" Narancia shrieked, scrambling backward on his hands and knees, pointing a finger wildly at the intruder.
The teenager sat up, shaking crushed potato chips out of their hair, looking incredibly annoyed. They looked at Narancia, then at the scattered snacks, and let out a loud groan. "Are you serious? Even in the past, you're knocking over food? Mom/Dad told me you never changed!"
They reached into their pocket, pulling out a switchblade with a custom handle that matched Narancia’s exact design aesthetic, using it to absentmindedly clean their fingernails. Narancia froze, his eyes darting from the knife, to the kid's face, to the team running into the room.
Narancia cannot handle the concept of time travel, let alone the concept of himself as a parent. For the first thirty minutes, he keeps circling the kid like a suspicious dog, poking their shoulder and asking if they’re a shape-shifting Stand.
But the kid matches his energy perfectly getting offended, yelling back, and eventually summoning their own Stand, which looks like a stylized, upgraded version of Aerosmith’s mechanical aesthetic blended with your own Stand's properties.
Once the truth settles in, Narancia’s brain flips a switch. He goes from terrified to completely ecstatic. He starts bragging to Mista immediately, dragging the 15 year old around by the arm.
They end up sitting on the floor together, sharing a new bag of snacks, while the kid gives Narancia "future tips" (mostly about video games and music trends that won't exist for a decade).
Despite acting like a teenager himself, the moment the kid mentions that the enemy Stand user in the future actually made you cry out of worry before the kid was pulled into the portal, Narancia’s entire demeanor changes.
The goofy smile vanishes. His eyes go dark, and Aerosmith revs its engine so loudly the windows rattle. He becomes hyper aggressive about the tracking mission.
When it’s finally time for the kid to return to the portal, Narancia throws his arms around them, squeezing so tight the kid gasps for air. "Tell Mom/Dad I'm gonna protect you guys forever! Don't you dare forget how cool I am!"
Giorno was reviewing local territory maps when the temperature in the room spiked dramatically. A golden, shimmering distortion localized in the corner accompanied by a heavy, rhythmic heartbeat sound that resonated through the floorboards.
Gold Experience manifested instinctively, its fists raised. With a loud crack, the distortion imploded, and a teenager dropped onto the leather sofa.
The kid didn't cry or panic. Instead, they immediately rolled to their feet, landing in a flawlessly dramatic, sharp pose, one hand on their hip and the other pushing back a stray lock of hair. They looked around the room with an intense, unyielding gaze that made the rest of the team instantly uneasy.
Giorno’s breath caught in his throat. Gold Experience’s hand was still raised, but Giorno’s eyes were locked on the teenager’s shoulder. The collar of their jacket had shifted, revealing a distinct, purple, star-shaped birthmark.
Then, the kid looked directly at him, a confident, slightly cocky smirk spreading across their face. "Well. You're definitely smaller than I expected, Pop. But the hair is exactly the same."
Giorno spends the first hour completely mesmerized. He has spent his life feeling disconnected from a true sense of family, yet here is a perfect, living amalgamation of himself, the person he loves most (you), and a strange ancient lineage he barely understands.
The teenager doesn't just have Giorno’s sharp, calculating analytical mind they possess a massive, vibrant personality. They are loud, fiercely passionate, and fiercely protective the pure, unfiltered Joestar gene running hot through their veins.
he sits opposite the teenager, steepling his fingers, his mind working at a million miles per hour.. When he finds out an enemy group targeted the kid just to get to him, Giorno’s expression turns ice-cold. The sheer, quiet malice radiating from him is enough to make Narancia back out of the room, but the teenager just laughs, entirely unfazed by their father's legendary intimidation.
The dynamic between them is beautiful. The kid is a bit of a handful, pacing the room and complaining about how slow the 2001 technology is, but their respect for Giorno is boundless.
During a quiet moment, while the team is out gathering intel, the kid sits next to him. "You know, you still keep their first trinket in your desk drawer at the estate. You look at it every time you have a hard day." Giorno looks away, a rare, genuine flush of color hitting his cheeks.
Knowing that his future self is completely, unapologetically devoted to you and that this magnificent, chaotic kid is the result of that love gives Giorno a quiet, unshakeable pride
Fugo was in the study, meticulously organizing a stack of translated texts, when a sudden, violent distortion shattered the quiet. The air grew dense, smelling heavily of sulfur and burning paper. Fugo leaped back almost ready to pounce
Before Fugo could launch an attack, a body tumbled through the localized rip in reality, crashing right onto his desk, sending inkwells and books flying. Fugo’s Stand lunged forward, but stopped dead in its tracks when the teenager raised a hand, manifesting a Stand barrier that perfectly deflected the ambient virus pressure.
The teenager sat up, wiping a streak of black ink from their cheek. They looked at the shattered inkwell, then up at Fugo's pale, terrified face. Instead of flinching away from the monster that was Purple Haze, the kid just sighed, a deeply exasperated, highly intellectual expression crossing their features. "Great. Ink on my favorite jacket. You owe me a new one, Dad. And please calm your Stand down, you know it always gets twitchy when you're stressed."
Fugo is internally losing his mind. His greatest fear has always been his own volatile nature the idea that he could hurt the people he cares about. Seeing a fifteen year old child who carries his blood stands before him is an overwhelming emotional shock.
He keeps his distance at first, his hands clenched tightly into fists behind his back, terrified that a lapse in his control might harm them.
The teenager, however, is incredibly perceptive. Inheriting both Fugo’s genius intellect and your grounding, empathetic nature, they immediately see right through his stiff posture.
They don't push him instead, they sit down and begin helping Fugo logically map out the enemy’s Stand parameters on a piece of paper. Watching the kid work through complex temporal equations with a calm, sharp focus makes Fugo’s heart ache with a mixture of intense pride and relief.
The breakthrough happens later in the evening. Fugo is quietly cleaning up the ruined study when the kid walks in and hands him a small, worn fountain pen from their pocket.
"You gave me this on my tenth birthday," the kid says softly. "You taught me how to write, and you never once lost your temper with me. You're a good dad, Fugo. Mom/Dad told me to remind you of that if you ever doubted it." The words hit Fugo like a tidal wave, breaking through years of self-loathing.
When the time comes to send them back, Fugo gently pats their shoulder, his eyes bright with unshed tears, finally believing that a peaceful future with you is actually possible.
if risotto used his power on me, would it make my anemia WORSE or would it improve my situation?
better yet, if i had metallica, would using it once just insta-kill me??? metallica vs my severe iron deficiency
I HATE TO BE THE BEARER OF BAD NEWS BUT HE WOULD DEFINITELY KILL YOU BY USING HIS STAND LMAOO
When Risotto uses Metallica, he manipulates the existing iron inside your body's tissues and bloodstream. He forces those iron molecules to clump together to physically construct sharp objects
MEANING HE IS LITERALLY STRIPPING YOU OF THE FEW IRON YOU HAVE IN YOUR BODY SO...LMAOO HE CANT ADD I THINK HE CAN ONLY TAKE
I don't wanna be all "erm acthually 🤓☝🏻" BUT METALLICA HAS NOTHING TO DO WITH THE BODIES HEMOGLOBIN
But maybe..if you use it on yourself I have a feeling you extract irons from the earth? And just idk make it into tablets or food LMAO I DONT KNOW HELP
To be fair never once have I seen those iron supplements to be of use or work my mother has to have them Injected into her arm and even still she has ASTRONOMICALLY low iron help
HIII omg I love your writing and I'm so happy rqs are open! Make sure to take loads of breaks and drink a bunch of water <3! anywho!! Is it alright if I could request a character like lady Gyokuyou from apothecary diaries?^^ I'm so fixated on the series and since the time period fits sbr the closest, it would be interesting to see your take on the main cast of SBR x consort reader! of course this seems like a subject that seems off but I assure you it's just a political deal on the readers family's end^^ nothing crazy! it would be cute to see johnny interact with someone so teasing and regal^^! Of course you can reject this or alter it to however you please 🙏
✿˚｡⋆ My Lady ⋆｡˚✿
♡‧₊˚✦ Pairing ✦˚₊‧♡: Johnny Joestar, Gyro Zeppeli x fem reader
☾⚠︎warnings: this is very very long, injuries , erm alot of hidden feelings cries , non sbr gyro I did executioner gyro x reader mwahehehe
A/n: google got sick of me because of how much I was looking up lore behind apothecary diaries HELP I wanted to do smth for Diego but I got lazy IM SORRY.
Johnny Joestar.
The letter arrives on rice paper so fine it shimmers like a pearl, sealed with vermilion wax stamped with a phoenix rather than an eagle. You read it twice by lamplight, your maids holding their breath.
By the grace of the Son of Heaven, the House shall present a daughter to the Inner Court as Consort-Jade, fourth rank, to foster harmonious relations between the Eastern Kingdom and the Western barbarians who currently squat upon imperial pastureland...
You set the paper down. Your fingers do not tremble. You have spent twelve years learning not to tremble.
"Prepare the jade hairpins," you say. " If I am to be a gift, I shall be an expensive one."
Your mother weeps but your father speaks of honor. You think of the apothecary manuals you have smuggled beneath your mattress, the poison antidotes you have committed to memory, the way you learned to smile at men three times your age until they felt clever and you felt nothing .
The Steel Ball Run is a circus. You have spent your life in gilded cages. this time though it moves
The tent they give you is absurd silk walls in a desert, a portable palace that makes the other racers' canvas hovels look like burial shrouds. You sit on your traveling throne, knees tucked beneath you, reading a medical text on Western anatomy when the first of them arrives.
He does not knock. He limps in, leaning on a wooden cane, and stops when he sees you.
Johnny Joestar is prettier than the reports suggested. Blond, fine boned, with eyes the color of winter sky over a frozen lake. He looks at your silk robes, your jade hairpins, your painted lips, and his expression shutters into something wary and exhausted.
"You're the political deal" he says. Not a question.
You close your book. You smile. It is the smile you give to men who think they are important.
"Consort Jade," you correct, in your accented English. "You may call me [Name]. Or 'Your Grace,' if you are feeling formal. Or 'the woman your government is bribing mine with,' if you are feeling honest. "
Johnny unexpectedly laughs a short, surprised bark that makes his shoulders hitch.
"Christ" he says. "You're not what I expected."
"Neither are you." You tilt your head, studying the cane, the way he shifts his weight.
Something flickers in his eyes.
"Gyro's looking for me" he says, but he doesn't move to leave.
"Then by all means, do not let me detain you." You open your book again, but you do not read. You watch him over the top of the page, and you see the moment he realizes you are watching. "Unless you would like some tea? I have a blend that strengthens the blood. You look pale , Mr. Joestar."
He opens his mouth. Closes it. You have seen this before men who expected a doll and found a mirror.
"I'll pass" he says, but his voice has gone softer.
"Another time, then." You turn a page you have not read. "I shall be here. I am always here. It is the nature of my position."
He leaves. You hear his cane tapping an irregular rhythm against the sand, and you smile into your sleeve, the way your nurse taught you when you were six and already learning that power in the Inner Court belonged to those who made others curious .
You find him three days later at the medical tent, arguing with a physician about his catheter. You stand in the doorway, your veil drawn, and listen to Johnny's voice rise with a particular desperation you recognize the sound of a man who has been stripped of dignity so often he hoards what remains like dragon's gold.
"I can do it myself-"
"Mr. Joestar, the risk of infection-"
"I've been managing for years"
You step inside. The physician sees your robes, your rank, and falls silent.
Johnny sees you and flushes a violent, lovely red that climbs from his collar to his hairline.
"Your Grace," the physician stammers. "This is not-"
"Leave us." You do not raise your voice. You have never needed to. "I have some training in medicine. I will assist Mr. Joestar."
The man flees. Johnny stares at you with something between horror and fascination.
"You can't-this isn't.." He grips the sheets so hard his knuckles whiten. "You don't get to see this."
You cross the tent. You move the way you were trained gliding, soundless, silk whispering like a secret. You stop before him and hold out your hand.
"Give me the catheter bag."
"Absolutely not. "
"Mr. Joestar." You soften your voice, the way you do when you want a man to believe you are fragile. It is a lie, but a useful one.
"I have changed the linens of emperors. I have held the hands of concubines dying of blood poisoning because their lovers were careless. I have seen the human body in every state of indignity, and I have learned that dignity is not something the body possesses it is something the spirit claims."
You meet his eyes. "You are not indignity. You are a man who walks when he was told he would not.."
He is breathing hard. You see the war in him the pride and the terror
"I don't trust you" he whispers.
"Good." You smile. "Trust is expensive. I prefer interest. "
He hands you the bag.
You do not flinch. You perform the task with the efficiency of a trained soldier, and when you finish, you meet his eyes and say, "There all done"
Johnny laughs, shaky and raw. "You're scary"
"Yes." You wash your hands in the basin. "I am also bored. The race does not start for two days, and I have finished my books. Entertain me , Mr. Joestar. Tell me why a man with your... limitations... would choose a contest designed to break the body"
He looks at you for a long moment. Then he gestures to the cot beside him, and you sit close enough to smell the dust on his clothes, the faint medicinal scent of his skin.
You adjust your sleeve, revealing the faintest scar on your wrist a burn from a branding iron, a reminder of your first year in the Inner Court, when you learned that beauty without power was just prey
"You're not what I expected," he says again.
"You keep saying that." You do not pull away. "Perhaps you should adjust your expectations."
The first stage is chaos and you watch from a silk pavilion, your fan tapping against your lips, as Johnny and Gyro tear across the sand on their horses. Johnny is different in motion fierce, his body moving with the horse in a way that suggests he has become the animal, compensating for what his legs cannot do with what his arms and core can.
He comes to you that night, limping worse than usual, his hands blistered from the reins. You have hot water and bandages ready. You do not ask how you knew he would come. You simply knew
"You were magnificent," you say, pressing a cloth to his palm.
"I came in fourth." He is watching your hands on his, his voice rough.
"You rode like a man who has made peace with his body." You wrap the bandage, your fingers deft. "That is more magnificent than winning."
He is silent for a long moment. "Why are you kind to me?"
You finish the wrapping. You look up. His eyes are very close, very lost
"Because you do not expect it," you say.
"And because you are the only man in this camp who has not asked me to kneel."
Something changes in his face. He reaches up, slowly, giving you time to pull away, and touches your cheek. His thumb traces your cheekbone, the corner of your mouth.
"I should," he says.
"Then be entitled." You lean into his touch, just slightly, just enough to make him shiver. "But be entitled to me ,not to my submission. There is a difference."
He kisses you. It is clumsy, desperate, his hand trembling on your face. You do not deepen it. You let him have this this one moment of asking instead of taking and when he pulls back, his eyes are wide and terrified.
"I'm sorry," he breathes. "I shouldn't have-"
You press a finger to his lips. "You asked with your eyes for three days. I am not a woman who misses such things." You stand, smoothing your robes. "Sleep, Johnny... Tomorrow you race again. And I shall be watching."
You leave him flushed and breathless. You do not sleep that night. You sit in your tent, touching your lips, and you feel the crack in your own armor widening.
This is dangerous this is foolish You are a consort, a political tool, a bird in a cage.
But for the first time in years, the cage feels like it has a door.
....
The second stage nearly kills him.
You are there at the finish line, your veil thrown back, your hair coming loose from its pins, and you see the blood before you see him. Gyro is carrying him, half-dragging him from his horse, and Johnny's leg is a mess of sand and torn fabric and red .
You move. You do not remember deciding to move. You are simply there, pushing through the crowd, your silk robes gathering dust and blood, and you are kneeling in the dirt beside him with your medical kit already open.
"Your Grace-" Gyro starts.
"Silence." You do not look up. You are cutting fabric, assessing damage, your hands moving with precision. "It is a deep laceration, not arterial. He has lost blood but not enough to kill him. Yet." You meet Johnny's eyes. He is grey, shaking, but he is looking at you with something like wonder . "This will hurt. Scream if you must. I have heard worse."
He does not scream. He bites his lip until it bleeds, his hand finding yours and gripping with crushing force, and you clean and stitch and bandage while the race officials shout and the crowd murmurs and the world spins on without you.
When you finish, you are covered in his blood. You do not care.
"You should not have run," you say, your voice sharp with fear you will not name.
"I had to" he whispers.
"You didn't ." You are shaking now, your composure cracking. "You could have withdrawn. You could have lived ."
"Without the heart" He stops. Looks at you. Really looks. "Without the heart, I'm not whole. And if I'm not whole, I'm not...I'm not enough for..."
He does not finish. You understand anyway.
You lean down. You kiss his forehead, his temple, the corner of his mouth. It is not the kiss of a consort. It is the kiss of a woman who has decided that some cages are worth escaping.
"You are enough," you say against his skin. "You have always been enough. The heart is a myth. This-" you press your hand to his chest, feeling the frantic beat beneath "this is real. This is yours . Do not trade it for a story."
He catches your hand. He holds it to his heart. He does not speak, but his eyes are wet, and you see the boy he was, the man he is, the possibility of the man he could become.
"I don't know how to stop," he admits.
"Then don't stop." You smooth his hair, your fingers trembling. "Just... let me run beside you. Not behind you. Not as your consort. As..."
"As what?"
You smile "As someone who finds you interesting ," you say. "That is rarer than love, Johnny Joestar , Love is common and Interest is precious ."
He laughs, wet and broken. "You're still scary."
"And you are still magnificent." You stand, your knees stiff from the dirt. "Rest. I will ensure no one disturbs you. And when you wake, I shall be here. I am always here. But now... now it is by choice."
You return to your tent. You wash the blood from your hands. You look in your mirror and see a woman with loose hair and smudged makeup and a smile that does not belong to a consort.
You do not fix your hair.
Tomorrow, you will be regal again. Divine and distant
But tonight, you allow yourself to be real and alive
And somewhere in the dark, a man with a broken body and a stubborn heart dreams of jade hairpins and bloodstained silk, and for the first time in years, he does not dream of walking.
The marriage contract arrives on the day of your twentieth birthday, delivered by a messanger whose smile does not reach his eyes.
You read it by lamplight, your fingers tracing the vermilion seal of the House of Zeppeli, and you feel the familiar cold settle in your chest the sensation of being handled, of becoming currency once more.
Gyro Zeppeli, Royal Executioner of the Kingdom of Naples, second son, bearer of the Golden Spin, to be joined in matrimonial alliance with [Name], Consort-Jade of the Eastern Imperial Court, to secure trade routes and mutual...
You stop reading. You know the rest. You have read a hundred such contracts. You are silk, he is steel, and together you are supposed to weave something strong enough to hold two kingdoms together.
Your maids weep. Your tutor bows her head and whispers about duty. You sit in your chambers, surrounded by jade and silk and the faint scent of the poison garden you tend in secret, and you think: At least an executioner understands death. That is more than can be said for most husbands.
The wedding takes place in the neutral territory of the Venetian Republic, a gilded palace straddling East and West where the architecture is confused and the wine is excellent. You arrive in a palanquin of midnight blue, your face painted in the twelve layers of the imperial bridal mask, your hair pinned with so many jade ornaments that your neck aches.
You do not see him until the ceremony.
He stands at the altar in Western formal dress a high collared coat the color of fresh blood, gold embroidery tracing the shape of steel balls across his chest, a hat that would be ridiculous if he were not so still. He is not smiling.
He is simply waiting , his hands clasped before him, his eyes fixed on the space between your feet.
You are struck first, by his hands. They are large, scarred, the knuckles swollen from years of gripping steel. Executioner's hands. You know them well you have seen them on the physicians who tend the dying in the Inner Court, on the poisoners who test their mixtures, on the women who have learned that mercy sometimes wears the face of a quick end.
Then he looks up.
His eyes are the color of aged whiskey, warm and sharp and unexpectedly sad. He looks at your painted face, your silk robes, your jade crown, and you see the moment he recognizes you not as a person, but as a mirror.
Another soul dressed in duty, carrying a weight that has nothing to do with the body and everything to do with the spirit .
The priest speaks in three languages. You do not listen. You watch your husband's face, and you see him watching yours, and you understand with a clarity that makes your breath catch He is as afraid as I am.
When the vows are spoken, his voice is steady but quiet not the theatrical boom you expected from a man who spins steel for a living, but something more honest.
You speak your vows in your own language, then in his, the words foreign on your tongue but somehow right .
"You may seal the union," the priest says.
Gyro steps forward. He does not kiss you Western custom you realize, would have him do so, but he hesitates, his eyes asking a question you did not expect to be asked. You tilt your head, just slightly, just enough.
He presses his lips to your forehead. His mouth is warm, dry trembling slightly against your painted skin. It is not a lover's kiss. It is a pledge
a promise made without words, and you feel it in your bones like the first note of a song you do not yet know the words to.
The wedding chamber is a suite of rooms that straddles both cultures an Eastern sleeping platform draped in silk, a Western canopied bed with velvet curtains, a shared sitting room where a tea service sits beside a decanter of wine.
Your maids have prepared you in the Eastern fashion, stripping away the twelve layers of paint until only three remain, brushing out your hair until it falls like a dark river down your back, dressing you in sleeping robes of crimson silk that signal fertility and luck.
You sit on the Eastern platform, your hands folded, your heart a steady drum against your ribs. You have been trained for this.
You have been trained for everything. But training does not prepare you for the moment when the door opens and your husband enters, his formal coat discarded, his shirt unlaced at the throat, his hat ridiculous still perched on his head.
He stops when he sees you. His hand goes to the brim of his hat, a nervous gesture, and he removes it slowly, revealing hair the color of dark honey, flattened and slightly sweaty from the long ceremony.
"You are..." He stops. Swallows. "You are very beautiful, Consort Jade."
You do not correct him. You have not given him permission to use your name. That is a gift you do not give lightly.
"You are very formal, Executioner Zeppeli," you reply. "I had heard you were a man of... performance."
Something flickers in his eyes. A ghost of the grin you saw in the portraits, the theatrical flourish that made him famous in the Western courts. But it does not reach his mouth.
Instead, he crosses to the Western bed and sits on the edge, his shoulders slumping in a way that suggests exhaustion rather than relaxation.
"I am formal," he says, "because I do not know how to be otherwise with you. Performance requires an audience. You are not an audience." He looks at you, and his expression is so open it makes your chest ache. "You are my wife. That is... that is different."
You study him. You have spent years learning to read men, to find the weakness beneath the armor, the fear beneath the pride.
This man is not armored. He is exposed , sitting on a strange bed in a strange country, his hands clasped between his knees, his executioner's hands that have ended lives now trembling in the face of a marriage bed.
"You have killed many men," you say. It is not a question.
"Yes." He does not flinch.
"Do you remember them?"
He is silent for a long moment. "Yes. All of them. Their faces , Their last words and The weight of their heads in the basket." He looks at his hands. "I am told that good executioners do not remember. That we are instruments, not men. But I remember. I choose to remember. It is the only honor I can give them."
You feel something shift in your chest a recognition, a kinship
You too, carry the weight of lives. You too, have chosen to remember rather than forget.
You meet his eyes. "We are not so different, Executioner Zeppeli. We are both servants of death, dressed in the livery of our respective courts."
He stares at you. Slowly, he rises. He crosses the room. He kneels before you on the Eastern platform, his knees pressing into the silk cushions, his head bowed until it is level with your heart.
"I did not know" he whispers. "I was told you were a consort a political gift. A beautiful decoration." He looks up, and his eyes are wet, vulnerable in a way that makes your breath catch. "No one told me you were a woman who understood."
You reach out. You touch his hair soft, slightly damp, nothing like the steel he spins and you feel him shudder beneath your fingers, not with desire but with relief , the relief of a man who has been alone with his burden for too long.
"We are married," you say. "We are bound. But I will not ask of you what you cannot give, and I will not give what I do not choose to give. We are strangers, Executioner Zeppeli. But we are strangers who carry the same weight. Perhaps that is enough to begin with."
He turns his face into your palm. He presses a kiss to the center of it, his lips warm and trembling against your skin.
"Gyro" he says. "My name is Gyro. Please. I cannot bear to be 'Executioner' in your mouth. Not tonight. Not with you."
You feel the name on your tongue. Gyro... Foreign,all his
"Gyro," you say, and you feel him shudder again, this time with something like joy. "I am [Name]. Not Consort-Jade. Just... [Name]."
"[Name]" he repeats, and your name in his mouth, with his accent, sounds like a prayer. "My wife. My... my partner in death."
You laugh. You did not expect to laugh. The sound surprises you both, light and startled in the heavy room.
"That is a terrible vow," you say.
"It is the only one I have." He looks up at you, and for the first time, you see the ghost of the grin the real one, not the performance, small and lopsided and achingly sincere. "May I sit beside you, May I... may I just be near you, tonight? I do not ask for more. I do not know how to ask for more. But I am tired of being alone with my dead. I would like to be... I would like to be with someone. Even if we are strangers."
You shift on the platform. You make room. He climbs up beside you, his movements careful, respectful, and you sit side by side in the crimson silk, your shoulders almost touching, your hands resting on your knees, and you breathe together in the strange room that is neither East nor West.
"Tell me about the spin," you say. "The Golden Spin I have heard it is more than a weapon."
He looks at you, surprised. Then he reaches into his pocket and withdraws two steel balls, small enough to hide in a palm, heavy enough to kill. He holds them up, and they catch the lamplight, spinning slowly, catching the air.
"It is a philosophy," he says, his voice taking on a rhythm you suspect is rehearsed but no less sincere for it. "The Golden Rectangle. Perfect proportion Balance. Everything in nature follows it shells, flowers, the curve of..." He stops. Looks at you. "I was going to say something improper. I am trying not to be improper."
"The curve of a woman's fan?" you suggest, and he laughs, startled, delighted.
"You know my lines!"
"I know men," you say. "I know the lines they use to fill silence. I would rather have the silence, Gyro or the truth."
He stops spinning the balls. He holds them still in his palm, and you see the calluses, the scars, the history written in his skin.
"The truth," he says, "is that I am terrified. I am twenty-four years old and I have killed forty-three men and I have never slept beside a woman without payment. I have never woken beside someone who knew my name. I have never..." He stops. His throat works. "I have never been seen . Not as a man. Only as an instrument. And you you look at me and you see the dead with me. You carry your own. And I do not know what to do with that. I do not know how to be husband to a woman who needs nothing from me."
You turn to face him. You take his hand the one without the steel balls and you interlace your fingers with his. His hand is warm
"I need something," you say. "I need you to be honest. I need you to stop acting when we are alone. I need you to let me see the man beneath the executioner, and I need you to let me show you the woman beneath the consort."
You squeeze his hand. "I do not need your protection, Gyro. I need your presence. I need to know that when I wake in the night, trembling from a dream of poison, there will be someone beside me who understands why I tremble. I need to know that when you wake from a dream of heads in baskets, I can hold your hand and you will not be ashamed."
He is crying. You did not expect that. The tears track silently down his face, and he does not wipe them away, and you love him a little for that for the honesty of his grief.
"I will try" he whispers. "I will try to be what you need I do not know if I can. But I will try."
"That is enough," you say. "That is more than enough."
You sit together until the lamps burn low. You talk about your gardens, about his training, about the dead you carry and the lives you have saved. You do not touch beyond your joined hands.
You do not kiss. You do not consummate the marriage that the priests and the politicians demand.
But when you finally lie down, side by side on the Eastern platform, your crimson silk pooling around you like blood, you feel his hand find yours in the dark, and you hold on, and you sleep without dreams for the first time in years.
Months later, You spend the mornings in the garden. He shows you the nightshade, the foxglove, the careful records he keeps of each plant's potency. You show him the Eastern methods how to extract the essence, how to blend it with wine or tea, how to read the signs of the body to know the right dose.
You work side by side, your shoulders brushing, your hands occasionally touching as you pass tools or point out leaves, and you feel a peace you have not known since childhood.
At noon, he brings you to the center of the garden, where a single tree stands a lemon tree, heavy with fruit, its leaves bright green against the autumn sky.
"This is not a poison," he says, picking a lemon and handing it to you. "This is... this is life. I planted it when I became executioner. I told myself that for every death I caused, I would cause a life. I would grow something. I would balance the scales."
You hold the lemon. It is warm from the sun, fragrant You press it to your nose and inhale, and the scent is so sharp, so clean, that your eyes burn.
"Balance" you say. "That is what we are, isn't it? Silk and steel. East and West. Death and life. We are the balance the world needs but does not want."
He takes your hand. He leads you to the lemon tree, and you sit together in its shade, your backs against the trunk, your fingers intertwined, and you eat the lemon in sections sour
"I am falling in love with you," he says quietly, not looking at you. "I know it is too soon. I know we are strangers still. I know the marriage was arranged, and you did not choose me, and I have no right to ask.."
"I am falling in love with you too," you say.
He turns. His eyes are wide, hopeful .
"Are you? Truly?"
"Truly." You lean your head on his shoulder. "I did not expect it. I did not want it. I thought I would perform my duty, bear my children, and die in silk and secrets. But you..." You pause, searching for words. "You are the first person who has seen me. The first person who has not asked me to be less than I am. The first person who has looked at my poisons and called them mercy."
He turns his head. He presses a kiss to your hair, your temple, the corner of your eye.
"I see you," he whispers. "I see all of you. And I love you. I love you for all of it. I love you because of it, not despite it."
You turn your face to his. You kiss him, and the lemon is still on your tongue, sour and sweet, and his hands come up to cradle your face, and you feel the rightness of it, the balance , the golden proportion of two souls finally finding their match.
"Take me to bed," you whisper against his mouth. "As lovers. As two people who choose each other."
He stands. He lifts you in his arms his executioner's arms, strong from years of swinging steel, gentle from years of holding the dying
and he carries you from the garden of death to the chamber of life, and you let him, because you trust him, because you love him, because you have finally found the door to your cage and he is holding it open.
There comes a few months during the cold winter days your father gets extremely ill due to some sort of Poison you are ready to head back to your court, only for gyro to offer leaving everything behind to come with you
You return to Naples in spring.
The Emperor lives. The alliance is stronger than ever, forged not in politics but in shared survival You walk through the palace gates hand in hand with Gyro, and you go immediately to the garden the garden where your love began.
The lemon tree is blooming. White flowers scent the air, and beneath the branches, Gyro kneels, and you kneel beside him, and you press your foreheads together in the Eastern fashion, your hands clasped, your hearts beating in time.
"I resigned" he says. "Officially. I am no longer the Royal Executioner."
You pull back. You stare at him. "Gyro... your position. Your family. Your-"
"I am free" he says, and his smile is the real one, small and lopsided and radiant . "Free to be your husband. Free to grow lemons. Free to teach the spin to anyone who wants to learn, not just to those who need to die." He reaches into his pockets to give you a sort of look alike to a steel ball but smaller less dangerous
"I made this for you," he says "For your garden. For your hand. It is not a weapon. It is a... a tool. A toy. Something to spin when you are anxious, when you remember the court, when you need to feel the balance."
You take it. It is warm from his pocket, smooth, perfect. You spin it in your palm, feeling the weight and balance
"I love you" you say. The words come easily now naturally
"I love you too," he says. "I will love you forever. I will choose you, again and again, every day. I will be your husband, your friend, your ally, your partner in death and life and everything between."
You kiss him beneath the lemon tree, surrounded by poisons and possibilities, and you feel the cage door swing wide, and you step through it together, into the garden of beginnings, where the spin never stops and the love never ends.
Hii!! Anon from the jealous s/o request here just wanted to say it was perfect omg 😭😭 hp part was my favorite🥪❤️ I love the way you write thank you so so much 🤍🤍
AWWEE URNEKWJW IM SO HAPPY U LIKES IT DUDE CRIESS, ur so awesomeness thank you for requesting that I enjoyed writing it alot!! Looking forward to more in da future 🩷🩷🩷
I was pondering if u could possibly write abt a johnny, gyro, and Diego (separate) with a s/o who has super duper luscious, vibrant colored hair and they’re just like “how is your hair like that..” YKYK 🧐. Like if the reader had some of the most beautiful hair in the entire world and it was some pretty pastel pink color and it was all natural (youngho alert)
OKAY THANK YOUUU -🦭
✿˚｡⋆ reader with colored hair! ⋆｡˚✿
♡‧₊˚✦ Pairing ✦˚₊‧♡: Johnny Joestar, Gyro Zeppeli, Diego Brando x gn
A/n: as someone with BRIGHT purple hair this is genuinely so cool HEHEJEJE giggles
Johnny Joestar.
Johnny is someone who has seen a lot of luxury in his life. When he first notices your hair glowing with a rich, vibrant pastel hue that looks like it belongs in a high end painting rather than a dusty trail he genuinely thinks you’re playing a trick on him.
He spends the first few weeks convinced you must be carrying around some incredibly rare, expensive foreign dye. He keeps waiting for the color to bleed out when it rains or fade under the harsh desert sun. When it doesn't? He’s utterly baffled.
You’re sitting by the campfire, brushing it out after a long day of riding. The firelight catches the pastel tones, making it look almost ethereal. Johnny’s just staring, chin resting on his hand.
"Alright, I’ve gotta ask. What kind of miracle soap are you using out here? We’re eating beans out of a tin and sleeping on rocks, but your hair looks like it belongs to a nobleman’s prized canvas. Is it... natural?"
He becomes incredibly protective of it. Johnny won't admit it, but watching your hair catch the wind while you ride ahead of him is one of his favorite views.
He loves the texture, too. If you lean against his legs while he’s sitting down, his fingers will unconsciously find their way into your locks, twisting the vibrant strands around his fingers. He treats it like a rare, delicate prize that only he gets to touch.
Gyro is a man of style, flamboyance, and appreciation for the finer things in life, The moment he met you, your hair probably took up 90% of his brain space. He is absolutely obsessed with it and treats it like a literal world wonder.
Gyro has zero chill. He will actively stop what he’s doing just to admire a specific angle of your hair in the sunlight. "Nonno... look at that! The way the color catches the morning light! It’s like a sunset caught in a silk net!" He definitely writes a terrible, catchy song about it on the spot
He asks a million questions. He wants to know if your ancestors were fairies, if your mother craved exotic fruits while pregnant with you, When you assure him it’s just your natural hair, he takes it as a personal point of pride.
Gyro is your personal stylist now, whether you asked for it or not. He loves braiding it. He’ll sit behind you for an hour, carefully weaving your luscious pastel strands, making sure not to pull too hard, and then decorating the braids with random pretty wildflowers he found along the path.
He will literally pick fights with anyone who stares at you for too long, yelling, "Yeah, look all you want, but don't get too close! Perfection like this isn't for common eyes!"
Diego is a creature governed by instinct, ambition, and a sharp eye for worth. To him, everything has a value..
Diego doesn't ask right away, you just catch him staring at you with those piercing, reptilian eyes. He watches the way the sun reflects off the unique color. Because he grew up in harsh poverty, he associates beautiful, well-kept things with high status but your hair is completely natural, and that blows his mind.
He’ll wait until you’re alone, slipping up behind you with that quiet, blurring speed of his. He’ll reach out, taking a thick strand of your vibrant hair between his gloved fingers, tilting his head.
"It doesn't smell like chemicals. It doesn't fade in the sun. How is it like this? A genetic fluke? You look like an exotic bird trapped in a desert of gray dirt. It’s entirely wasted on a place like this... but it suits you."
Once he accepts that your gorgeous hair is just a part of who you are, he becomes deeply possessive of it. He likes to bury his face in it when you two are alone, inhaling the scent of it, letting the soft, vibrant strands cover his vision.
It calms his sharper more feral instincts. If anyone else stares a second too long at your hair in a crowd, Diego will give them a look sharp enough to cut glass.
hiii just wanted to pop in and say that i love your writing and your works!!! every single silly banner photo on your posts makes me giggle, i love them so much :D
DUDE ILYSMM THIS IS SO SWEET MWAHHH, ur so cute thank you sosososo MUCHIEE <33
I LOVE EM SO MUCH TOO LMAOO , I spend more time looking for them rather than actual writing HELPP
If it helps, when I read part 8 (specifically on mangadex) almost every chapter had a reminder of the previous events + the family tree with updated information to help you out. It’s a little tricky but jojolion is interesting! Trust! Jojolands is also very fun, it’s very heist-y in like a spy kids kind of way. It’s the most similar to part 6 I feel
- 🥧
ZIMILAR TO PART 6? YEAH IM DEFINITELY READING IT WHIEKWKW THAYS SO COOL FINALS END NEXT WEEK I WILL DEFINITELY BE READING YAYAYAYA THIIS IS AWESOME THEN MAYBE I'LL START WRITING FOR THEM 🩷
Is it appropriate to say that picture of Josuke made me very joyous⁄(⁄ ⁄•⁄-⁄•⁄ ⁄)⁄
LMAOO NOT AT ALL THE PERSON WHO REQUESTED IS PROBABLY THE NUMBER 1 JOSUKE FAN SHE HAS LIKE EVERYTHING FOR HIM HAHAHA, idk I see josuke as a lil kid even tho I wrote him aged up it's like NO HE'S STILL A BABY 💔💔
HEY TWINSIES...,I see the request is open...so..what I want to request is,can you make an au or anything I can read with my eyes and toes,SOO the story idea is like,y/n is Rohan sibling..sister..or you can make it anypov!,and y/n move to morioh after we graduate from a literal college at the same age as josuke,UHH YOU CAN PUT ANY REASON WHY WE GRADUTE COLLEGE/UNI,and after we move to morioh we low-key bump into the pompadour steak hair talk guy after getting an art supply for Rohan cuz he's stressing over his manga...(Better than hanging it with teenagers),and we apologize to him he said it's okay,then after that day we or y/n and josuke start hanging out..of course with okuyasu as the third wheel,after a few days or weeks or month..we both like each other and that ALMOST or probably gave Rohan HEART attack because ain't no WAY his sibling have a crush on the weird pompadour guy who burnt his house down,the rest of the story is free for your liking..you can make them both,(y/n and josuke) get together or get married or have child or live happily ever after,(basically stranger to lover trope),this is so bizarre and what a golden experience , I'm feeling ticklish
A Stroke of Good Luck
♡‧₊˚✦ Pairing ✦˚₊‧♡: josuke higashikata x fem reader
☾⚠︎ warnings: I made reader an artist woops
Graduating from a prestigious, hyper-accelerated university fine arts program at twenty-one years old was supposed to be the launchpad for a peaceful career.
The real triumph, however, was surviving the suffocating standards of an older brother like Rohan Kishibe.
Rohan was a genius, yes, but he was also a perfectionist who viewed the world as a canvas meant solely for his interpretation. After a grueling final semester of thesis reviews and gallery showcases, an invitation to move into Rohan’s newly rebuilt Morioh estate felt like a decent chance to decompress and work on independent studio pieces.
"Rohan, you need to breathe," a sigh echoed through the minimalist hallway as Rohan’s studio door was flung open with dramatic force.
Rohan stood on the threshold, his hairband slightly crooked, holding a ruined G-pen like a weapon of war.
"llHow can I breathe when the local art supplier delivered the wrong pigment density for my midnight-black ink? It’s absorbing the light all wrong! If I use this, the shading on the antagonist's cape will look like cheap charcoal! I need the imported premium pigment from the boutique shop down the block. Now!"
"I'm going, I'm going. Just don't destroy the furniture while I'm out." Taking his heavy designer wallet from the desk, a quick exit was made into the bright, warm Morioh afternoon before he could find a way to critique the composition of the hallway shoes.
The air was thick with the scent of summer and sea salt. The errand was a success the incredibly specific, absurdly expensive ink Rohan was throwing a tantrum over was secured, along with a few extra packs of high-quality multimedia sketchpads.
Leaving the boutique, with a massive brown paper bag packed to the brim with glass ink bottles, delicate pen nibs, and heavy paper blocked all peripheral vision.
"Okay, just a few more blocks," a muttered reminder cut through the quiet street. "If I drop this, Rohan will actually use his Stand to rewrite my fears to include 'ink stains.'"
A sharp, hasty turn was taken around the corner by the local convenience store.
BOOM.
It was like walking face-first into a moving brick wall. The impact sent a shockwave through the paper bag, and gravity took over. Time seemed to slow down as glass ink bottles tumbled toward the concrete.
"Whoa! Watch out!"
Before a hard landing could happen, a massive, incredibly strong hand caught a forearm, stabilizing the balance instantly.
At the exact same fraction of a second, a pink, muscular, glowing entity materialized out of thin air. With lightning speed and impossible precision, it caught every single falling ink bottle, pen, and sketchpad before they could even graze the pavement.
A blink, a rub of the eyes, and the glowing entity vanished as quickly as it appeared, leaving a tall stranger holding the perfectly intact art supplies.
"Ah! Oh my god, I am so, so sorry!" a frantic apology poured out. "I couldn't see over the bag, I should have been looking where I was going-"
"Hey, hey, it’s totally cool! No harm done, see?"
Looking up, the breath caught. Standing there was a tall, remarkably broad-shouldered man
He had a ridiculously handsome face, soft blue eyes, and a warm, easygoing smile that immediately melted away the panic.
"Are you alright? Didn't twist an ankle or anything, did ya?" he asked, extending a hand. His grip was warm and firm. "Wow... you have incredible reflexes. I thought for sure those glass bottles were goners."
"Let's just say I'm good at fixing things before they completely break," he said with a playful wink, handing the perfectly packed bag back. "I'm Josuke. Josuke Higashikata. I don't think I've seen you around Morioh before."
"I just moved in today," came the reply, brushing off a stray bit of dust. "I'm Rohan Kishibe's younger sibling."
The moment the name Kishibe left the air, Josuke’s entire demeanor shifted. His eyes widened, and he took a half-step back, a look of comical disbelief washing over his face.
"Wait. Kishibe? As in... Rohan Kishibe? The guy who wears designer clothes just to sit at a drawing desk...?"
A loud, genuine laugh broke through the tension. "Yup. That’s the tyrant. You know him?"
Josuke rubbed the back of his neck, a nervous, slightly guilty grin appearing on his face. "Uh... yeah. You could say we've had a few... heated disagreements. Man, I can't believe a nice person is related to that crazy mangaka."
"Hey, I can be plenty weird too," a playful retort shot back. "Anyway, I better get this ink back before Rohan starts eating his drawing paper out of sheer anxiety. It was really nice to meet you, Josuke."
"Likewise," Josuke said, his smile softening into something genuinely sweet as he watched the departure. "See you around!"
...
Morioh was a small town, paths crossed constantly. A few days after the initial meeting, a quiet afternoon sketching at a local outdoor cafe was interrupted by a loud voice booming across the patio.
"OI! JOSUKE! Look, it’s that cool person you keep talking about!"
Looking up, Josuke was walking over, looking incredibly flushed, accompanied by a guy with two distinctive scars running down his face and a fiercely enthusiastic expression.
"Okuyasu, shut up!" Josuke hissed, elbowing his friend in the ribs hard enough to make him wheeze. He turned around, instantly smoothing down his jacket. "Hey! Mind if we sit down?"
"Not at all," a smile welcomed them, closing the sketchbook.
That afternoon turned into the first of many. Josuke and Okuyasu were a package deal, and the dynamic was incredibly refreshing. Okuyasu was loud, and had a heart of gold.
"Wait, wait, wait," Okuyasu sputtered one day, his mouth full of a spicy pasta dish from Chef Tonio's restaurant. He swallowed hard, tears of pure joy streaming down his face from how good the food was. "How do you have a degree already. Bro, I'm barely surviving my classes! How do you even do that?!"
"Lots of studying, and a complete lack of a social life," a laugh answered, taking a sip of iced tea.
"Man, that's insane," Okuyasu said, looking over with utter reverence. Then, he leaned over the table, entirely lacking any concept of a whisper, and nudged Josuke. "Hey Josuke. They're a genius. And super nice. Why are they hanging out with a couple of dorks like us? You better shoot your shot."
"OKUYASU! I WILL BURY YOU!" Josuke yelled, his face turning an aggressive shade of crimson. He looked over frantically. "Don't listen to him! He took a blow to the head during a Stand battle last week and hasn't been the same since!"
A chuckle followed the outburst. "It's fine, Josuke. I actually really like hanging out with you guys.."
Josuke’s eyes softened, a gentle, protective look taking over his features. "Well... we're glad to have you around. Morioh’s a lot brighter lately."
As the weeks bled into a month, the trio became inseparable. But gradually, the dynamic shifted. Okuyasu, bless his soul, realized he was pulling Olympic level third wheel duty. He started conveniently "remembering chores" or "having to help his dad" whenever a walk down the street happened, leaving the two young adults alone.
And without the noise of Okuyasu's loud commentary, a quiet, electric tension began to grow between two people who were once complete strangers.
....
The afternoon had been spent helping Josuke detail his favorite car, and he had insisted on walking all the way back to the Kishibe estate.
The sun was setting, painting the Morioh sky in deep shades of violet and brilliant orange. Sitting side-by-side on the wooden porch, the house upstairs was completely silent. Rohan had been awake for three straight days finishing a massive story arc, and he had finally crashed into a deep, comatose-like sleep.
Josuke was unusually quiet. He kept tracing the gold peace sign on his collar, his usual cool, confident demeanor replaced by an adorable, restless nervousness.
"Hey" he finally spoke up, his voice lower and softer than usual.
"Yeah, Josuke?" Turning to look at him, the twilight caught the sharp angles of his jawline.
"I've been thinking a lot lately," he started, rubbing the back of his neck. "About when we first met. When I ran into you and almost smashed all that ink. I thought you were just gonna curse me out or call me a punk like most people do. But you didn't. You laughed."
A steady, heavy rhythm started hammering away in the chest.
"And the more I hang out with you, the more I realize I've never met anyone like you," he continued, turning his body to face the porch fully.
He reached out, his large warm hand gently covering the one resting on the wooden deck. His eyes were incredibly intense, filled with an earnest, vulnerable emotion. "You're brilliant, you're funny, and you're the best part of my day. I don't want to just be the guy who walks you home anymore. I want to be your boyfriend. If... if you'll have me."
A massive, radiant smile broke across the face. "Josuke, I've been waiting for you to say that for three weeks. Of course I want you to be my boyfriend."
Josuke’s eyes lit up with absolute, pure joy. He let out a breathless, relieved laugh. "Yeah? Seriously? Man, you have no idea how scared I was-"
"Shut up and kiss me, Higashikata," a soft tease cut him off.
He grinned, leaning in. His hand moved to gently cup a cheek, his thumb brushing against skin. Eyes closed, leaning closer, lips just millimeters apart, feeling the warmth of his breath
The front door slowly clicked open behind you.
You and Josuke froze blinking, and slowly turned your heads. Standing in the doorway was Rohan. He was holding a freshly poured cup of green tea, wearing his silk bathrobe, looking completely exhausted from his drawing marathon.
He took one long look at Josuke’s hand on your face. He looked at your leaned-in posture. He looked back at Josuke's towering pompadour.
Time stood still. For a solid ten seconds, nobody moved. The only sound was a cricket chirping somewhere in the bushes.
Slowly the color slowly drained from his face until he was a ghostly shade of pale. His left eye developed a tiny, uncontrollable twitch.
"Rohan?" you ventured cautiously. "We can explain-"
Rohan didn't even let you finish. He slowly looked down at his cup of green tea, looked back up at the two of you, and let out a flat, entirely soulless laugh.
"Ah. I see," Rohan said, his voice completely monotone and devoid of all human emotion. "The sleep deprivation has finally caused a permanent psychotic break. I am hallucinating a reality where my highly educated, brilliantly talented younger sibling is romantically involved with a man whose hairstyle resembles a poorly rendered piece of steak... The human mind truly fractures in creative ways."
"Hey! It's not a hallucination, and leave my hair out of this!" Josuke barked, though he looked more confused than angry at Rohan's bizarre lack of yelling.
Rohan entirely ignored him, staring blankly into the middle distance. "I am going to go back upstairs. I am going to lie down. And when I wake up, reality will have corrected itself."
With the stiff, mechanical movements of a haunted Victorian doll, Rohan turned around, stepped back into the house, and quietly shut the door. A second later, you heard the faint sound of him locking himself in his studio.
Josuke blinked, turning back to you. "Did... did he just completely shut down?"
you laughed, rubbing your temples. "He's in absolute denial. But hey... where were we?"
Josuke grinned, the tension breaking instantly as he pulled you back close. "Right here."
....
Whenever Josuke came over, Rohan would simply look right through him as if he were a ghost, politely asking you why the "temperature in the living room had suddenly dropped." Eventually, he had to accept reality when Josuke literally helped him move a massive, heavy oak flat-file cabinet into his studio. Rohan had sniffed, handed Josuke a single, incredibly expensive fountain pen, and muttered, "Don't think this means I like your style, Higashikata."
Years flew by, like pages turning in a beautifully illustrated manga. The stranger you ran into on a random Tuesday afternoon became the love of your life.
On a bright, gorgeous summer day, you and Josuke stood at the altar. The wedding was a magnificent. Okuyasu was the best man, and he cried so loudly during the vows that the priest had to pause twice so he could blow his nose.
Rohan sat in the very front row. He wore a pristine, custom tailored white suit, his arms crossed. When it came time for the wedding gifts, Rohan marched up and slammed a massive, heavy, leather-bound book onto the table.
"It's a custom short story manga of your life," Rohan sniffed haughtily, looking at you before glaring at Josuke. "Consider it compensation for having to marry into a family with no artistic value."
Josuke opened the manga, and a loud laugh busted out of him. You leaned over to look. Rohan had beautifully, flawlessly drawn your entire love story but in every single panel, Josuke's hair was meticulously drawn as a literal, perfectly marbled T-bone steak, complete with a little bone sticking out of the top.
"Hey, this is actually really well drawn!" Josuke laughed, shaking his head. "Thanks, Rohan. I know you love me deep down."
"I would rather swallow my own pen nibs," Rohan shot back, turning on his heel and walking away, though you could see the faint, proud smile tugging at the corner of his lips.
It’s been a while since I’ve been on Tumblr 😭😭 I missed ur work sm!! School have been SOOO exhausting lately, but hey my year is over !! I just need to make it till my final exam (which is in less than a month) AND IM FINALLY FREEEUHHHHH and btw I got a 52% on my French pre-exam lol… I’ll do better on the real one trust…Bro this year went so fast omfg I will miss it so much it was so funny pls hold me back (wait actually dont)
And also how the fuckity fuck did I miss ur open requests bro y’all greeds SICKENS me 🤬🤬🤬 it’s ok ig I’ll wait till it’s open again hehe
Anyway take good care of urself pooks 🫶🏽
POOKIE HIII I MISSED YOU SO MUCHIEE, IM SO HAPPY YOU ARE SAFE AND HEALTHYY
DUDE ITS ALWAYS THE HARDEST AT THE END HONESTLY ITS LIKE YOU HAVE TO PUSH URSELF LIKE YALA WE WILL FINISH SOON BUT UR SO TIREDDDD
And I know for a fact you'll do amazing on the actual exam!! JUST BC I SAID SO AND WE NEED TO NUKE FRANCE.
IM SOREY ABOUT MY REQUESTS BEING CLOSED BUT LIKE DUDE IT TOOK 4 DAYS TO HAVE 40 NEW REQUEST OH MY SHIZZLESS I'M NOT COMPLAINING AT ALL I LOBE YOU ALL SOSOSOS MUCH BUT DAMNNN
ALSO INSHALLAH I WILL FINISH UNI NEXT WEEK SO I CAN START POSTING MY OFTEN I JUST NEED TO PUSH THROUGH AHJJ
I LOBE YOU SO MUCH POOKIE ANS IM SO HAPPY YOU ENJOYED THIS YEAR BECAUSE YOU DESERVE IT AND MOREE
hopefully next year treats you with even more kindness MWAHH 🩷🩷
