ദ്ദി •⩊• ) I love having nothing to do at work (sometimes). Kinda wanna finish out the La Squadra gen HCs bc I hope to write more of em in the future and this helps set up my own rules for writing them. Anyways, hopefully yall enjoy :) Gyro I’m coming fOR Y—
Notes: suggestive themes (guys it’s Melone come on)
⟡˖ ࣪ Has always been the older friend in a group. This was in part because he lived in a small village before he wandered towards Naples and the population was quite low, that he often found himself babysitting at the behest of his parents’ friends.
⟡˖ ࣪ He used the pocket money he acquired from it to take the train and go to internet cafes.
⟡˖ ࣪ Sensitivity to red meat. Not quite an allergy but too much makes him feel ill.
⟡˖ ࣪ Bit more of a brand snob than other members of La Squadra. Clothes, cars, coffee, tech specifically. Ghiaccio is too though.
⟡˖ ࣪ They joined at roughly the same time. As their Stands developed with complementary range types, Risotto mentally paired them off and they frequently work together.
⟡˖ ࣪ Melone is older than Ghiaccio, but tries not to lord it over him. Tries. Unsuccessfully.
⟡˖ ࣪ When he can swing it, prefers to keep things lit by candle or oil lamp light. Too much light makes typing frustrating. And I could see him having a light sensitivity.
⟡˖ ࣪ Has dyed his own hair since he was fourteen. It’s why it’s so thin.
⟡˖ ࣪ If you can help him, he loves a scalp massage.
⟡˖ ࣪ Tongue piercing. It’s not in 95% of the time.
⟡˖ ࣪ Also one of the only tattooed members. He has a small peony on his ribs.
⟡˖ ࣪ Would and does go undercover as a woman (it can sometimes make scouting a host for Babyface easier…. Don’t think about it). He’ll dress androgynous at home as well; if you wear skirts, he may borrow a few. Mostly long, flowy ones. Comfortable to sit and type in for extended periods.
⟡˖ ࣪ Actually had and could keep a decent amount of friends before joining Passione, but he compulsively kept a record of what he knew about each of them: including things like address, blood type, etc.
⟡˖ ࣪ One of them discovered it and freaked out, breaking his laptop and telling the others; Melone’s friend group disappeared instantly.
⟡˖ ࣪ He doesn’t let it bother him now (and the others in La Squadra have their own habits, so they can’t critique him too much).
⟡˖ ࣪ Night owl. Would sleep until one in the afternoon and go to bed at five am ideally.
⟡˖ ࣪ Very good host. He’s had a few members of La Squadra come over to watch football a handful of times.
⟡˖ ࣪ Smiles when he’s angry. It’s bone chilling. Don’t piss him off (it’s pretty hard to anyway).
⟡˖ ࣪ Amateur pianist. His apartment came with an old, disheveled one that he occasionally puts a few lire into.
⟡˖ ࣪ Keeps tidy, no set routine but he’s presentable. Citrusy smelling soap. Illuso called it girly once and Melone asked him how he could know, since he doesn’t talk to any girls.
⟡˖ ࣪ Risotto had to staple both of their injuries.
⟡˖ ࣪ Does his best not to work on Sundays. It’s an old Catholic habit and Risotto is usually able to accommodate.
⟡˖ ࣪ Not necessarily an optimist, but dislikes gloomy people. He’s of the mind that there’s always another way out. You just have to re-analyze the circumstances.
⟡˖ ࣪ Anne Rice fan. (Iykyk.)
⟡˖ ࣪ Not actually a pervert, not nearly the degree his Stand insinuates. He’s only peripherally absorbed knowledge about fetishism and sexual dynamics; it’s always been more to have the knowledge than to participate in it himself.
⟡˖ ࣪ If you had a proclivity for one of these, he may not mind adopting the lifestyle. In fact, it’s an interesting opportunity for him to learn more about you through it.
⟡˖ ࣪ He doesn’t hard veer into sadism or masochism though.
⟡˖ ࣪ Gets along reasonably well with Prosciutto as they both have a bit of a nurturing side. Manifests differently though.
⟡˖ ࣪ Less paranoid about being seen out with you than Prosciutto or Risotto, largely because by virtue of his Stand he’s seen near a lot of women. If you’re a man or present masculine, it’s even easier.
⟡˖ ࣪ Interested in foreign movies. It’s part of what inspired him to learn a lot of languages.
⟡˖ ࣪ Favorite dessert is lime-mint sorbet. Likes cold foods in general.
⟡˖ ࣪ Handsy, he likes having something to squeeze or do with his fingers. Sometimes it’s pinching your cheek, other times rubbing your thighs, squeezing your waist.
⟡˖ ࣪ He’s not trying to get you riled up, honest.
⟡˖ ࣪ But he is a tease.
⟡˖ ࣪ He likes the clean scent of cotton drying on a line. It’s very domestic.
⟡˖ ࣪ Had a habit of biting his nails. The gloves help.
⟡˖ ࣪ Favorite places to kiss include your neck, knuckles, temple, and cheek. Mostly places he can feel your reaction.
⟡˖ ࣪ Best gift giver. Melone prides himself on it. Yes it’s in part because he has detailed profiles of you and all his comrades, but if it works, it works. The other members would argue otherwise: just don’t give them gifts then! (But they begrudgingly accept whatever he gives. It’s always too thoughtful not to.)
⟡˖ ࣪ Desperately wants to run away with you. Has no issues bringing it up either, whether you’re in the gang or out, gauging your interest, where you want to go. He’d go just about anywhere.
⟡˖ ࣪ Many nights spent speculating, weighing pros and cons. Teasing you about what he’ll do when it’s just you two.
⟡˖ ࣪ Whether you want to have kids or not, he wishes to go somewhere with wide fields, the smell of greenery on the breeze and glasses of wine poured for at least him, perhaps you, computer set to the side for a moment to take in life without seeking someone out.
⟡˖ ࣪ Peaceful. Still. Eyes set lovingly on you, for until you decide you’re done with him. He prays that day never comes.
can i please request fluffy headcaons/drabble, whichever format u prefer, for diego and/or gyro proposing to his s/o? fem or gn, both is cool!!
i love literally everything u write!!
°˖⋆𐚁⭒✮⭒℧ Gyro Zeppeli and Diego Brando x Gen Reader - Proposal HCs °˖⋆𐚁⭒✮⭒℧
ദ്ദി •⩊• ) ty ty!! I hope you enjoy :) Im really loving writing for P7, currently I’ve written the most for P5 or P6 buuuut I wanna get the numbers for SBR UPPPPP
Notes: mentions of death
.ᐟ𒁂𓄧༝ Diego Brando .ᐟ𒁂𓄧༝
𓆌 As much as I think he would make it a spectacle to humiliate you, it’s equally as likely that he would want it to be private.
𓆌 Both because he wishes to avoid increasing the rumors that he’ll poison you, and showing too much emotion— you or him— in a public space annoys him.
𓆌 Though the whispers aren’t unfounded. Especially if you have some form of inheritance behind you. A lingering anxiety that keeps you on edge, even if you adore him enough to not trouble him.
𓆌 If you’re by his side in the first place, you aren’t. Diego isn’t totally interested in doing the whole song and dance of killing his spouse (again. Allegedly), especially if you’re an attractive young thing who doesn’t get in his way. Or even better, shares his ambition.
𓆌 Acutely aware of the social expectations. And he would ask your parents’ permission first, though if they said no, it’s not for long before he’s able to change their minds.
𓆌 After all, he’s such an accomplished young man. So many wins, wealth, social prowess, contacts that make their way to the President of the United States. Even with his history, it’s undeniable he makes a fine husband.
𓆌 Puts much more thought into the ring than one may expect. It’s as much out of devotion as it is a manipulation tactic, on you and the gossipy populace. He wants it to be intentional, beautiful, expensive.
𓆌 A promise of what marriage to him is like, for the one he actually cares for.
𓆌 An immaculate square cut diamond set between two aqua-hued alexandrite on a gold band just thick enough to support the sizable stones, but not gaudy. He has an eye for what is fashionable (don’t let the jodhpurs fool you).
𓆌 Nerves of steel, or rather, he’s very confident. There’s little circumstance that would even ALLOW you to say no, but similarly to him bringing the idea up with your parents in general, he’s very sure that he could convince you if you did.
𓆌 Come on. He’s got goals, and the means to achieve them. Witty, intelligent, handsome, if he may say— and don’t forget how impressive Scary Monsters is.
𓆌 How could you deny someone like him?
𓆌 Beforehand he leaves breadcrumbs. Diego wants you to, at least a little bit, have an inkling of what he’s preparing. To indulge in your shock, nerves, or disgust at the prospect— and plan accordingly.
𓆌 He’s picking up a parcel at the jeweler’s. No, don’t mind the expensive name on it. Flowers that aren’t even in season are written on a receipt left carelessly on your coffee table. A bewildered tailor arrives, confused why you aren’t prepared to go into fitting your new custom suit/dress.
𓆌 You’ve made him so desperate. It’s time that you take responsibility, no?
Oceanic. The shade of the Caribbean at high noon, sparkling, each face of the gem reflects back and highlights every precise cut the jeweler made. And those were only accents: to say nothing of the massive diamond between them, shimmering, almost blinding in the afternoon sun.
Your eyes are locked on it. Practically crosseyed. Anything to avoid meeting the eyes of the man holding it out to you, on one knee.
His dwindling patience is evident in his quiet voice.
“My eyes are over here.”
Deep breath. Finally, you look at him.
Maybe you’d attempt a glare, if his expression hadn’t thrown you so much; that was it, the gems, of course they had to be the same color as his eyes. Eyes that were focused solely on you. Lips slightly parted, bronze hair curling around his ears and tumbling towards his shoulders.
Him. The ring was him, wrapped around your little finger.
“Are…. You really are?” Your throat is dry.
“What does it look like?” He mocks you.
“When did—you…” realization dawns on you and your cheeks heat up. “Of course. Oh…” you mutter, putting a hand to your forehead. “Oh my god.”
“Y/N.”
Before you can get a word in, Diego’s gaze softens; the words catch in your throat.
“Won’t you be mine?” He asks.
Your heart pounds. A bead of sweat rolls down your temple, and your mouth opens with your answer. Murmuring, only for him to hear.
“Yes.”
Satisfaction flickers in his expression. He presses his mouth to yours.
Eyelids fluttering shut in response, you let yourself relax against his soft lips. Diego’s hand slides to the back of your neck, fingertips ghosting over your pulse point; you shudder. He tastes of honey and black tea.
Swooning in his hold, on your lap, you feel him lift your hand, and slide the ring onto your ring finger.
It fits well. Too well.
You were his perfect little prize.
𖦹⋆｡𖦹°⭒˚｡⋆ Gyro Zeppeli 𖦹⋆｡𖦹°⭒˚｡⋆
𖦹 The first time the idea wanders into his head— “I want to marry them”— Gyro sort of jolts up.
𖦹 Whether sitting on his horse, laying back in front of the campfire, or sitting in a bar, it’s as though a fishing hook had snagged into the base of his neck and pulled him to attention.
𖦹 Because this isn’t the thing he can take casually. It really, really isn’t.
𖦹 One, he likely hasn’t introduced you to his parents yet (if they even know about you).
𖦹 Two, tying into that, he would be moving you from your home to his without question, sweeping you into a family legacy that is intent on continuing down the path of time. 𖦹 If you have the anatomy for it, kids will be expected. At the very least hinted at. A lot.
𖦹 That gets his mind straying, and he has to punch himself in the thigh.
𖦹 It would be a private affair, with Johnny as witness at most. He doesn’t mind, and occasionally enjoys drawing attention to himself; but that attention, he realizes, can negatively impact you.
𖦹 Whether it be your reputation, or your livelihood in general. Lowlifes and Corpse-seekers run in this godforsaken race and whether you’re spectator or fellow runner, making a grand show of it would put a target on your back. And as a Zeppeli in Rome, it would to.
𖦹 Though he claims it’s for lady Victory alone, making her bound to him to win at anything that he attempts, the gold ring inlet with small emeralds, diamonds and pearls that has been in the family for generations would look perfect around your finger.
𖦹 He can’t help but think about life with you: coming home to you tossing your arms around him, nights spent singing nonsense together, hearing those sweet words: “My husband, Gyro Zeppeli.”
𖦹 It keeps him up.
𖦹 Johnny wakes up at points in the night to see him staring out into the distance, maybe mumbling to himself.
𖦹 The weight upon the shoulders of a Zeppeli is greater than that of the average man. To continue the legacy of the Spin, to protect the history of the technique and perfect it, that was what he doomed you to. Ensnaring you in his own goals, goals that he strived for just as his father does— and he saw what kind of principles he came to adopt.
𖦹 The American isn’t helpful, snapping at him to make his mind up and go to bed.
𖦹 As he’s debating, you may notice he’s a bit distant. Quieter, doesn’t joke as much, or even meet your eyes. Like he’s scared to, because every time he accidentally makes eye contact with you, he turns away, a tint of red brightening the tan skin.
𖦹 But it finally comes to him when you laugh at a dry remark Johnny makes; your grin, the way you snark back at him and make him roll his eyes.
𖦹 The idea of someone else getting to see that in the morning and evening, of you laughing at anyone else, taking anyone else’s last name? It twists his stomach.
𖦹 He can’t see that happen. Damn it, he must follow his sympathetic heart once more.
𖦹 Gyro wouldn’t say it, but he’s desperately hoping you want the same as him. So few people he can stand to be around. You have to get what that means, right?
𖦹 He loves you too much. That with your permission, he can’t wait to make you a Zeppeli with him.
“You think a letter would make it to Italy by now? Shit, it wouldn’t make it ten miles.”
“That’s not what I’m saying.”
“So spit it out the—“
You stop dead in the middle of the argument. Not really an argument, but when Gyro was being so damn vague, it made you want to start one. Or at least, it did.
But any aggravation you feel dies down the second you catch his position.
Set down on one knee, hell, he might have dropped down the second you started pivoting to him. A sort of raw desperation on his face: the flickering oil lamp of the hotel room casting shadow along the carve of his jaw. It made him look all the more statuesque.
Bedecked with jewels, no less.
Even without the perfect lighting you can see the beautiful, deep green hue of the emerald, the mildly tarnished gold, and the soft white glow of pearls. On the inside, you can barely make out script.
But the ring’s age…. It couldn’t… your jaw drops.
“Gyro…?”
“If you’d let me finish!” He says through gritted teeth, mumbling something and shaking his head. Sighing, the man continues, slower, “I needed to know— don’t laugh— how much you cared for them to know about us long before I did this.”
He couldn’t be serious. You swear you feel yourself falling back and you stumble forward to compensate, sucking in a deep breath and looking at him again. There couldn’t be. Would he really do this before his family was aware of your relationship? He wouldn’t.
No, he absolutely is.
Your eyes well up. Blood rushes to your face, to see how damn serious he looks, and the bit of alarm in his eyes when he realizes you’re almost crying.
“Y/N—“
“It’s not—I’m not upset, Gyro,” you interrupt him. Reaching out your hand, you let it trail in his golden hair, down to his jaw. His eyes widen a fraction.
“The answer is yes.”
Relief seems to wash over him, as he takes your hand and, after pressing a kiss to your palm, slides the ring onto your finger.
A little snug. Just barely making it over your knucklebone, and you know that when your hand gets just a hair swollen it’ll be tight.
Oh well. You could address that later.
Now, you fall to your knees to embrace him too, pressing your head to the man’s chest as his own arms wrap around you too. One hand settles firmly on your left shoulder blade, the other on your waist. This close, you can hear how his pulse slowly steadies itself. He’s warm.
Gyro tucks his head on your shoulder.
“I can’t wait,” you whisper. “We have to win.”
He hums. “So you give in to my route, then.”
“I didn’t say that—“
“Mine is the shortest.”
“Hmm, wonder if you’ll say that in a differen—“ he squeezes your waist to cut you off and you laugh.
“Shut up. Want to get reminded why?”
“Shameless Zeppeli, shameless,” you tut, rubbing his side. But you can’t help but laugh again when he kisses your neck, his stubble tickling you, and he nuzzles in; in the tenderest tone you’d ever heard from him, he murmurs into your ear.
“A Zeppeli is shameless by nature, my love, and when you become one, you will understand.”
aaa im so happy u write for part 7 too!! If I may ask, could u write some hcs for Johnny, Gyro, and Diego’s type or what they look for in a partner?? Maybe with some yandere undertones??
°˖⋆𐚁⭒✮⭒℧ Diego Brando, Gyro Zeppeli, & Johnny Joestar x Reader — Just My Type °˖⋆𐚁⭒✮⭒℧
ദ്ദി •⩊• ) OOOOGH I LOVED WRITING THIS MAYBE TOO MUCH haha, Johnny was actually a big challenge for me but I love him smmmm and I’ve been wanting yandere
I included two sorts of types for both, Johnny’s aren’t maybe that different from each other but oh well :P
Notes: yandere themes (possessiveness, mentions of killing, unhealthy relationship dynamics)
𓆌 Perhaps I’m too HP x DB/JJ x DB pilled, but I can’t help but think he likes someone who isn’t interested in him at all. Or rather, someone who doesn’t bother him incessantly.
𓆌 You have your own interests, your own concerns that take up the majority of your time. Hobbies that consume you. A career that you adore. Studies that enrich you beyond the mind of the common man he so very loathes. Your lives only briefly intersect with him at the instance you come to the races.
𓆌 You’re not here for him even if he wins; the second he does, you depart without participating in the festivities, and while the pinprick-sized hole in the crowd is not noticeable to anyone else, he notices it immediately.
𓆌 Because Diego has seen you at the after parties. Social soirees. Even non racing events, he feels certain he’s caught glimpses of you abroad. But never talked to you. And as the social climber he is, if you attend these events, there must be SOMETHING to you.
𓆌 You might be there for someone else, or because you have to. But because you refuse to put yourself near him, often the guest of honor, he can’t help but want to torture you a little.
𓆌 If you’re the easily irritable sort, he easily irritates a lot of people. And he finds it funny. When you roll your eyes and tell him a mannequin has a better chance at laughing at one of his jokes than you, he’s unironically hooked.
𓆌 All the more if you’re actually a kind person. Helpful to your community, your small circle of friends, smiling through your own struggles. Don’t you think it’s a little pathetic?
𓆌 Or perhaps you’re nice, but also quiet simply because you don’t wish to be in the spotlight. Which to him, is even worse.
𓆌 How could you be happy helping the rotten masses, sinking with them even, when your pure gold heart could be on display for all to see? Married to him, no less?
𓆌 Diego refuses to compare you to his mother. But the parallels can’t be ignored sometimes.
𓆌 The shame is part of what he seeks. Your innocent eyed embarrassment as he seeks you out at your hotel room at hours that spur gossip rags. Your hate tinged gaze even as he slides his hands down your skin in a way that sets it alight.
𓆌 There’s his selfish desire to break down a “bitch”; to see the horror in your face when he proposes marriage to your father, in a social setting so tense that refusal is out of the question.
𓆌 But he can’t hate if you hesitantly take his hand, allowing him to infiltrate your peaceful life. And if you allow him, he could treat you quite, quite well. He’s seen exactly how to not treat a woman; he can do the opposite.
𓆌 Diego needs to see the progression. The slow destruction of your inhibitions.
𓆌 Hateful, or anxious tears beading in the corners of your eyes when he slides the ring on.
𓆌 To see you melt in his presence, radiant as a god.
𓆌 The satisfaction of prey caught without a scratch on it.
𓆌 He wants you to keep your interests. They’ll keep you docile to an extent while he toys with you.
𓆌 No qualms about constructing an “accident” that would eliminate your parents, friends, comrades. When you meet his azure eyes, cold despite the hue, you know he wouldn’t hesitate. The best way to ensure their safety is to stay. Away.
𓆌 If you don’t want to touch him, that’s alright. He knows you’ll want his touch soon enough. Aren’t you curious?
𓆌 Whether you hate him or don’t, he’ll pin you in place, a butterfly on a board concealed deep within a mansion secured from ill gotten gains.
𖦹 Canonically a flirt to deter himself from having real feelings. Matching his energy is an easy way to catch his attention, but to maintain it, you need to push him further.
𖦹 You insist the man could learn a thing or two from slowing down. He scoffs; he’s running a goddamned race. What the hell are you saying?
𖦹 It’s an assignment. One he gave himself, for once. And you dare to correct him?
𖦹 You don’t know. But how couldn’t you come up and tease Zeppeli, flashy as he was? What made a man like him crack? You can’t help but be curious.
𖦹 Even if the curiosity is directed from far away, he senses it. Eyes like stars, twinkling in his direction.
𖦹 Perhaps you light up the room, the moment you arrive. Laughter, wide eyed stories, drinks poured with abandon. A greater sensation than him, even. Not that he’d get jealous over it, but he notices.
𖦹 Or rather, even in the dingiest bar off the beaten path, tucked into a corner, your silvery, solemn glow is unmistakable. Though customers drift by you, even when you talk to them, your eyes are somewhere far away.
𖦹 Gyro’s initial hesitance melts, realizing you were correct about how he must strategize the race. Or that every time you show up, he feels just a bit luckier.
𖦹 There’s a certain charm to your presence that seems to let others relax. Whether it’s from how you open yourself up like a book, or from calm, practiced attentiveness, you attract all types.
𖦹 If you’re the unlucky sort, he can’t help himself from being upset at the injustice.
𖦹 Gyro makes it a point to consult you, sweep you into his and Johnny’s plotting, to the latter’s chagrin. He’s a man who believes in omens; you didn’t just cross his path for no reason.
𖦹 Peppers in teases, flirting to gauge your reactions. Countering him with your own makes his heart race. Going warm in the face and shutting him down, redirecting the conversation— well, why aren’t you accepting it?
𖦹 Your smile, the first time he sees it, is a beacon in the distance. He’ll chase it until it’s his.
𖦹 He doesn’t seek to stifle your light, far from it. On the contrary, he knows he can brighten it. He knows it. Just let him.
𖦹 Wipes your tears. Takes your hand to drag you to the next stall. Traces the stitched mouth of a small teddy he gifts you. Desperate to use his hands for good. To see them create, not destroy.
𖦹 Your heart breaks for the smallest things. Whether it’s soaked into your personality or concealed behind a mask, it’s a weakness Gyro guiltily wishes to exploit. He wants to be a protector, for once. Unbound by someone else’s code.
𖦹 Cry for him. Clutch him when he comes back to you, body shaking— no one has done that in a minute.
𖦹 He’ll comfort you. Encircling you in his arms, his hold just a hair too tight, but you don’t even notice between the smell of his cologne, the tickle of his long hair, the low tenor of his voice as he recites a nonsense song. Prove that the tennis ball falls on his side.
𖦹 Let him take you away. America, Canada, back to his homeland, sending the Vatican in a spin when he wins. Your starlight guides him.
℧ Needy types bring up memories of the taste of alcohol, cheap nails scratching his arms, echoing screams and the smell of living bodies rotting. He may be able to tolerate it once you’re formally together, but he needs reassurance you aren’t shallow.
℧ Johnny does not trust easily; that isn’t to say that he isn’t intrigued by others. More so that he is blinded by his own needs, and his own great dislike of himself.
℧ Sympathy doesn’t pique his interest.
℧ Rather, you offer him a drink, polite as could be.
℧ He’s skeptical. Why are you talking to him? Eyeing you in his periphery, posture tense.
℧ Perhaps you saw him in a race or two. You heard of his fall from grace. An accomplished man, who still can’t break through. Don’t show him any of your pity until later.
℧ You’re someone who moves with the river of time; not letting the current manipulate you, as Johnny does, but uses it to propel you forward, clutching to rocks whenever you need to stop and reevaluate.
℧ Who loves what they love, without a second doubt.
℧ He needs to grow, you push, and he will find a way to fix himself. Or, rather, he doesn’t need to be fixed, you say playfully, but that he needs to learn how to maneuver the leftover parts.
℧ Perhaps you drift by, telling him softly that you’ve seen him race and wish him well. He’s been stagnant, hasn’t he? But there’s a multitude of new people to meet out there. You’d like to see him at another race— as a racer, or a spectator. That the world has not written its final word for Johnny Joestar.
℧ Johnny barks to leave him the hell alone. Mystic shit has no bearing on him. And neither would he let you.
℧ But upon meeting Gyro, his mind returns to you. How did you know..?
℧ From there on, he sees you in every instance, not only when you physically are there, just as with the golden ratio, the Spin; he hears your kind words in every breeze, the cries of the birds, a lowing buffalo on the path.
℧ Your eyes, sparkling with genuine pleasure when you see him again, disarm him. Genuine concern over him… Nicholas was the last one who—
℧ He wants to be hesitant. It makes the most sense. But you’re still there. Steady. Inquisitive, but never nosy.
℧ He has something to do, but… what if you could help?
℧ Hell, he latched onto Gyro. You came before that. He couldn’t let either of you go— but you, especially.
℧ Each of you lay out under the stars, after you ask to not go into the city, and he listens as you speak. Your goals, your needs: you have to find whatever it is that the world wants.
℧ And what about the bad? Johnny throws at you. Well, what could you do, besides adapt? Even if it was retribution for your past, you could only charge ahead.
℧ Johnny seeks out your self assuredness. If you waver, it’s with a desperate sort of anger that he affirms your strength and your intelligence.
℧ If even you aren’t stable, he can’t be.
℧ And it’s when he grows into his stability that he feels he can stand by you. And that he can keep you— the way he wants.
℧ Not particularly affectionate, he can’t help but need to loop his pinkie with yours wherever you go.
℧ Behind closed doors, his limbs entangled with yours, he watches as you sleep. Peaceful. Nose twitching, he can’t help but compare you to a kitten. His to cling to. To be his redemption.
℧ You’ll go with him, won’t you? His father may have attempted to reconnect with him, but he doesn’t need to live with him, or even continue living in America. The Spin moves him further. You yourself said life will carry you anywhere, and it can.
℧ Johnny can do the carrying now. Surely you each can figure it out.
℧ But don’t ever insinuate that you’ll find a path that doesn’t include him.
℧ He has the will to kill. Even his songbird, calling out in a warbling manner; he’d caged you, however invisibly, and your voice belongs to him.
⋆｡𖦹°⭒˚｡⋆ “Your Understanding is Limited.” Kars x Reader NSFW ⋆｡𖦹°⭒˚｡⋆
ദ്ദി •⩊• ) Y’all. It took me so long to get to this I’m almost at 200 followers AJSJDKDKDKRKRL
Thank you guys so much for following and entertaining my sillies. I genuinely have a blast with so many of my requests, and it is really helpful practice for other projects. Please enjoy pampering Kars :)
If anyone’s curious. This is the strap mentioned and I regret not buying it w my employee discount ;-;
Notes: pegging, coconut oil as lube (do not overuse it and check your toy material), anal fingering, Kars bottoms but he’s not really subbing, body worship, praise, cum eating, vibrator usage, sex toy descriptions.
Hypothermia maybe. A gunshot directly to the head? Something like that. What other methods of killing were there that were painless?
You wish you knew more off the top of your head. Or had the tools to do so. Anything to get out of this room, where the immortal being you had pledged complete and utter submission to stands, eyes on you in a mixture of exasperation and boredom, with your leather lace-up strap in his hands.
You blink at him. Then, without a moment’s hesitation, make a mad dash for the open door.
It slams. Just before you almost skid into it, you manage to twist your body so your shoulder crashes into it instead.
Damn. Hissing, you rub the potentially bruised muscle.
“Perhaps you were duller than I thought.”
Do you even dare? Chrissakes. The worst. Absolute worst thing he could have grabbed out of the box. And you swore it was in a bag, tucked in a suitcase, not there, how…?
Cringing at yourself, you tilt your head up.
He peers down his nose at you; red eyes sharp. Don’t panic. Don’t.
The Pillarman shakes his head.
You freeze. Every muscle in you tenses, ready to be vaporized on the spot. Hell.
“I’ll have the ghouls fetch ice.”
“Huh?”
So shocked, you don’t even have the sense to cover your dropped jaw. Thankfully he isn’t looking there.
One finger traces the clean metal ring, brushes against the faux pebbled leather, and lets the full thing dangle. Last time you used it at least you had taken off whatever dildo you attached. If it had been attached, you’d have gone out the window instead.
Lord Kars exhales, and says, in a tone like a teacher who had to repeat a formula for the fifth time, “I believe I can intuit what this is intended for.”
You shut your mouth, finally. “Uh… yeah. I picked it up about a year ago.”
Without a word, he begins to examine it closer. Squinting, he remarks, in a quiet voice, “The structure must be quite supportive. More comfortable than rope.”
“I don’t think rope could hold a-- a dildo in place, my lord,” you say, bewilderment taking over your initial panic and you relax against the door, looking at the sex aid.
Well, he didn’t seem like he was about to kill you for having it. Which was good. Even if you didn’t have an immediate use for it, it seemed utterly wrong to have to toss out a nearly ninety-dollar item that you’d only just gotten the hang of at the time he came for you. The dildos in your toy chest too, you hadn’t gotten to experiment with all of them yet-- there were two smaller ones just under six inches, barely thicker than two fingers, really only meant for backdoor play, a pink, realistic seven incher, a nine-inch glittery purple one that was a bit smoother than the others, and a large, twelve inch realistically colored one, more novelty than anything.
After hearing two guys snicker about who the hell could take something like that, she had to be a whore, you’d grabbed it and the harness, and walked directly in front of them to the counter.
Their stunned silence when you slapped the silicone toy on the formica, watching it wiggle back and forth, almost made you and the pink haired girl behind the cash wrap burst into laughter.
“Wow, you made a good choice for the harness. This one’s my favorite, it handles the thirteen inch monster dildos really well, my boyfriend loooooves it,” she said, scanning it and holding it up, admiring the box. “And I love that brand for the dildo too, for the realistic ones it feels really close to the real thing. Suction cup also can cup a vibrator real well.”
“Oh, good to know. The last one we got, he said he couldn’t even feel it. I think I’ve been too nice to him, you know? Ten inches is nothing.”
You heard someone choke behind you and pressed your lips together to hide your grin.
“We have a twenty-inch tentacle one, if you’re interested.” She smiled at you, the silver piercing in her lip glittering as you desperately tried not to snort. Shoes squeaked behind you as the two men scuttled out of the store, the bell by the door jingling and finally giving you and her permission to cackle like harpies.
“Some handled the rope just fine. Though stone is much more steady than these,” your lord muses, holding the purple dildo and flicking his wrist just enough to let it bounce.
You bite the inside of your cheek to keep from laughing. Stone, huh? Did Pillarwomen have to worry about stones that weren’t safe for PH balances?
“So… you don’t want me to throw it out?” You cross your arms.
His gaze snaps to you, and you try to keep your face calm, even as your cheeks heats up.
“And why would you assume that?”
“Well…” you hesitate. But for god’s sake, why the hell would you assume that he was interested in it, given every other sexual experience you’d had with the man? And the fact that he was something like a demigod who was one hundred thousand years old?
“Our experiments… generally skew towards me being penetrated, if at all, my lord,” you reply. “And half the time it isn’t necessary.”
Kars inclines his head. His eyes glitter with what seems like pride, though he keeps his tone completely neutral as he says, “Pleasures of the flesh were unproductive. But I still engaged in them for a period, before they bored me.” The Pillarman gestures to the small black chest that you brought with you. “Impressive, that you should manage to indulge in them more than myself, given your lack of years.”
Roundabout way of calling you a whore.
“Now I wouldn’t say that, but the inventions of the modern day let you explore just a little bit more I believe, my lord,” you reply. Did ancient Hitachis exist? No way.
You lean towards him, smiling just a hair. “And I know I’ve certainly enjoyed using them. Even more so with you.”
“Mm.” he takes a step towards you.
Your heart pounds.
He takes a moment to observe: your raised eyebrows, tilted head, the mirth in your expression. Then, he does one of the most terrifying things he can do: smiles.
Fangs sharp, gleaming in the candlelight, his soft lips thinning in the action, curling cruelly. You try your best not to acknowledge the fluttering in your stomach.
“It is not necessary that the feeling is mutual,” he says softly, “But it pleases me to know it is. Little pet.”
Damn him. How could you compete with words like that?
“So.” Kars straightens, once again towering over you. In response, you press your foot against the door behind you and push yourself up.
“You had tasks you wanted to finish, did you not?” he asks.
You nod. Both of you had gotten distracted (well, he had distracted you, really. It was his fault.) from what you were supposed to be doing, which was deciding what in this room could be burned for warmth.
You’d stuck your things under the bed and in the wardrobe and promptly passed out without really looking at what was in your new residence, which, in this case, was a lot of old clothes and photobooks. Some luxury stuff that was fun to play dress-up by yourself in, or sell in town for extra cash. At this point, you could probably write a book on haggling with pawn shop owners.
“Once I finish in here, I wanted to prep some food for later in the week-- and then I wanted to test out the DVD player we found…” you say slowly, rubbing the sole of your slipper into the door. “Then laundry, yours at least.”
“The DVD player? Really?”
You frown at him. “There’s a massive collection here. We have enough fuel for the generators,” you argue.
He raises a brow. Saying, airily, “I don’t like them.”
As if that was absolute. How many times had he said he hated the unnecessary bulk of a stuffed animal and then taken one you had brought with you into his room to sleep with you both? You have to bite the inside of your cheek at the specific memory of him staring at a black cat plush in a store window when he tailed you into town. It was wise to shut up when you saw the same plush a few days later, in your room.
You suck in a deep breath. It’s not worth the argument, it really isn’t. So, instead, you raise your hands.
“You don’t have to watch them with me, that’s fine. I’ll watch them in my own time. But if there are any nature documentaries, I believe-- I believe, my lord,” you repeat, as he begins to open his mouth, eyes narrowing at you-- shit, better make it quick. “You would like to see animals up close like that. Especially anything in the tropics, I know the cold is not your preference.”
He sighs heavily. Doesn’t speak for a moment. Outside, you hear a bird cry.
“Very well. I’ll come for you once you’re finished.”
Probably best not to ask how he’ll know. Instead you just nod and hold out your hand for the strap, still loosely held in his right hand as if to not crease the leather.
“I can go ahead and put that away, my lord.”
He looks at it in his hand, then lets his eyes wander back over to you, slowly, like he forgot he was holding it.
Oh god. Was he really--
“Here.”
Dropping it into your open palm so readily that it almost tumbles to the floor, your nail catches on the ring. Sucking in a deep breath, you bow your head and slip past him towards the bed.
“Do not delay,” Kars demands, low.
Nodding, you tear open the black chest and toss in the harness, tucking in the corners. Behind you, the door creaks open and closes just as noisily.
After waiting about five seconds for him to walk down the hall, you exhale and curse him out in your head.
What in god’s name did he have in mind for tonight then?
The way he’d reacted to the strap, you expected him to take it, just like the rope a week or so before. Often, he would decide he wanted to invade your toy box (the one time you gave him an exasperated look, he threatened to use all of them on you in one go).
Sometimes annoying. But the annoyance melted the second he had you in his hands. For better or for worse.
After you painstakingly explained what whichever one he grabbed out did, with varying degrees of embarrassment, he would nod, and either push you along with fingers right behind your pulse point, or fireman carry you to his room, the thing he wanted to try out in his other hand.
You tuck the damn thing back under your bed. Stupid thing. Maybe you shouldn’t have brought it with you at all. Not like he needed it for--
Focus. Focus dammit. You slap your cheek and mutter to yourself, dragging out a heavy, dusty plastic-shelled suitcase that hopefully would have something you could sell.
Next thing you wanted to purchase was a solar powered portable battery bank, but the dinky little electronics store in town didn’t have it (delivery wasn’t exactly a thing when you were squatting).You should have enough money, but… if you had to go that far, why not make a day of it?
Might be difficult to convince your lord, but maybe a zoo could draw him. Mm, but would he complain about the imposition of human will on them? You wonder, unzipping the suitcase idly. Things you never thought you’d have to consider for a simple… date.
Sure, you’d call it that. Technically you were, well, something between a pet, servant, and lover, you guess.
Did the terminology matter too much? For some, maybe it would be a hang up. But you snort at the idea of calling the hundred-thousand year old vampire-thing your “boyfriend”.
You flip up the top of the suitcase. It’s crammed with swimsuits that are at least thirty years old.
Fuck. Well, you could also find a vintage seller in the city.
You shove it back under and stride off to look at the theatre room.
“Why does your washing machine have to be outside of the house? Aren’t you worried about leaves?” you mutter to yourself, heaving the wicker basket (because of course it couldn’t be something thin and easy to carry like plastic) up and pulling open the side door. A cool breeze sifts through the knit of your sweater, raising goosebumps. Cripes.
That was something you had to get used to: after having the convenience of a modern washing machine merely ten steps away in your apartment, people with far, far more money than you decided they wanted to both physically and mentally distance themselves as far as possible from the chore. How many places had you gone to where the appliances were in a separated shed, or that they were in the basement of three story houses? Too many, really.
Not to mention the damn castles that would have required hand washing if you did not, multiple times, insist on bringing a small countertop washer that would clean them just as well.
The door shuts behind you. Carefully, you balance the basket on your knee when you lock it and turn around-- almost slamming directly into a naked torso.
You yelp, the basket slipping off your leg. But you don’t hear it drop to the floor, and your arm is caught so you don’t slip back either. Oh god, don’t let it be…
“Please forgive me, my lord. Whatever punishment you deem—“
“Silence.”
Thank god. Funnily enough. Even if he’d still punish you, it wasn’t how Esidisi would want to. Still, your shoulders do curl in.
“Should it have been anyone else…” Kars continues, glancing at your wrist in his hand. It’s pathetic: he could loop around your wrist with merely his pinky and thumb. He slides his thumb down your forearm, and drops it. “Regardless. You’re finished, then?”
“Yes, my lord.”
“Very well. Come with me.”
Oh boy. You ensure the basket is secure on your hip, before you step up the stairs behind him. Bounding up them like him was out of the question, but you manage to not have to run too much to catch up as he starts down the hall, catching your breath. Lamps glow along the dark wallpaper, casting shadows on portraits of people you’d ever met.
“Did you have enough ingredients to cook?” Kars asks without looking back at you. You hum.
“Yep. I know it’ll be warmer later in the week, so I stacked some stuff that doesn’t need to be heated up. I can take them on a hike with you, my lord.”
Perhaps you’re hearing what you want to hear, but there’s an appreciative note in his voice as he speaks. “The seasons will become harsher on you again soon. Trails head up the mountain, and you will need that ski suit.”
“There’s a lot of backpacking gear in mine and Wamuu’s closets. If you desired to stay out for a few days, I wouldn’t be opposed to camping, my lord,” you add, stopping in front of the door. His hand pauses on the doorknob.
“Oh?”
“Perhaps when it’s warmer. But yes.” Now that you thought about it though, it would be better to not get bug bites. You tilt your head in thought. “Or… well, if you don’t mind carrying a generator, we could go whenever, my lord. You can’t double as a heater like humans would,” you joke lightly.
Kars looks at you carefully. Then, he leans down, and slants his mouth against yours.
Your heart flutters. Something dark, woody lingers on his lips, slightly chapped, a fang poking you. Briefly you taste copper, before his tongue flicks out; it’s a fight to not shiver as he runs the tip along your bottom lip, kissing you again and making your hand tremble on the hold of the wicker basket. His breath ghosts your cheek.
“We will pack in a minute,” he murmurs. Violet curls brush your cheek as he straightens, and turns the knob. “In the meantime, offer yourself to me once more.”
“As you desire,” you reply. Voice soft.
But he doesn’t command you to strip. Rather, as he pushes the door open, you follow his gaze to the bed.
Yeah, you really shouldn’t have brought that chest with you.
A long loop of rope akin to what they use to elevate a leg in a hospital hangs down from one of the hooks. Pillows are arranged in a way that would support a body right below it and next to one of those pillows is a small container of coconut oil, an insertable double-stim vibrator, and the leather harness, with the purple glittery dildo attached to it.
Somehow you manage to set down the wicker basket and walk, slowly, disbelievingly, to the assembly.
The dildo is freshly cleaned, so is the pink vibrator, its remote sitting next to it. You pick up the harness, jostle it a little to test the hold. It’s perfectly stiff. Well.
Your stomach squeezes. And yet, there’s a little flurry of excitement, as you look at him. His expression doesn’t shift.
“Are you… you’d like me to?” you ask. He inclines his head.
“I desire for you to please me, little one.”
“Please you? My lord, I swear,” your eyes glittering with excitement as you approach him, kneeling down and taking his hand to press to your lips. The coldness of his fingers makes it feel as though you’re kissing a statue.
“My lord, I will worship you.”
An idea pops into your head, and you let your fingers lightly trail on his leg as you stand, tracing the carved muscle of his thigh. Blue shadow only highlights the blood red of his irises as you let a hand hover at his hip. His loincloth begins to tent at the front.
It sends shivers through your body, recalling how he treated you in his pursuits, his experiments. Perhaps that’s all he regarded this as, as well, but still. To get to pleasure him so explicitly…
“May I undress you?” you whisper. He nods.
Hands deftly undo the knot, the belt keeping him decent, his swelling cock standing at attention the moment the fabric falls.
Your mouth waters at the sight. Carefully, you wrap your hand around the base. It’s just barely warmer than the rest of his body. You give an experimental stroke, and he sighs.
“Little one…”
“Please lay down, my lord.” It feels wrong to command him. But he obeys, and you feel warmth in your abdomen as you slowly strip, watching him as he lies back, arching his muscles over the pillows.
Of course he would figure out the optimal position of them, to support him just so, that when he raises his leg, the foot perfectly slips through the loop to hold him up. Every bit of him, beautiful. Yours to serve.
Your eyes are focused on him, as his own roam over you-- slowly pulling your sweater over your head, slipping out of your pants, and then your underwear. You pick up the vibrator.
“Did you want me to use this as well, my lord?”
“Should you prefer.”
“I want to focus on your satisfaction, though,” you protest. In response, he raises an eyebrow.
“Do you forget my words on the matter?”
Your ears get hot, and you shake your head. Though…
Mischief tilts the corners of your lips up. Aha. “I’ll use it when I want. But for now…”
You let a hand drift down to your folds, sighing as a finger brushes your clit. His eyes snap to your lower half as you trace a circle around the sensitive part of you, exactly how he does it.
The pleasure between your thighs grows. Arousal wettens your folds. You drag a finger between them, shuddering at the contrast between your cold hand and the warmth of your core. Then, you press your finger inside.
You sigh at the same time he inhales.
Watching you with eyes that darken the longer you delay, crooking your digit and making your hips buck into your own hand. So perfect. In the service of your lord, you hadn’t self pleasured in a while, but your body knew itself.
Your thumb presses against your clit as you stroke your inner walls, letting your breath come out in small pants as you prep yourself. Lord Kars’ brows furrow.
“Move along,” he half growls, letting his hand drift across his throbbing cock and fisting it-- you moan at the sight. Desperate, wasn’t he?
Your smile returns.
“Forgive me my lord. I’m getting too excited.”
With a wink, you withdraw your hand and pick up the little vibe, teasing the soft silicone end at your entrance. Slowly, carefully, you push it in and shudder as you clench around it. The perfect little piece in front nudges against your clit.
Carefully, you scoop up the harness, undo the lace on the back, just enough so that when you step into it, you can pull it tight. Even without practice you’re able to tie the bow; the friction of the base of the dildo pushing the vibe against your clit sends prickles down your spine.
In front of you, the dildo stands firm, and you look up at him.
One arm is positioned behind his head, to prop himself up, the other lazily stroking himself, as his non suspended leg bends up and exposes himself.
Your heart trills. One foot in front of the other, your eyes not leaving his, you approach the bed.
“Allow me.” murmuring, you kneel in front of him.
The lid to the coconut oil is already half unscrewed (damn impatient Pillarman), and you scoop a bit onto your fingers-- slick, lightly aromatic. In comparison to the dildo, you wouldn’t be able to stretch him much, but…
You level your look at him. “If it hurts, my lord, I will stop.”
“Get on with it.”
Despite his bark, you refuse to skimp on your prep. Hells sake, it had been a minute since you had done this either.
Exhaling, you trace around the tight ring of muscle with a lubricated finger, spreading the oil on.
He becomes deathly silent. You continue.
As you press your first finger in, you’re impressed at how tight he is. It made sense. You slowly push it in, stroking his insides the same way you did yourself, curling up towards where his prostate would be-- did he even have one? He certainly didn’t need to use the bathroom, absorbing nutrients how he did, but you scrape the anatomy questions from your mind and slowly push another finger in. He sighs.
“So beautiful, my lord,” you whisper. Your free hand lays against the back of his suspended thigh, the fingertips lightly tracing the skin. “You’re incredible.”
Kars doesn’t speak. Instead, you watch as his hand flexes, and tightens around his weeping dick. Excitement, and a tiny bit of smugness, curl in your gut.
A third finger. Finally, his breath hitches just a bit.
You thrust them gently inside of him, curling, sliding your fingers against him to feel every ridge. His back arches just a hair, and your other hand drifts down to his cock.
Kars, the ultimate lifeform to be, puts his gaze on you as you pump his cock with one hand, and stretch him with the other. In your hand, he twitches, his eyelids heavy with lust and his lips curled, trembling-- as if he wanted to moan, but was holding back. The idea makes you stroke him harder; the three fingers inside him go to the base. You’re rewarded with a hiss.
You do your best to keep the laughter out of your voice. Really, you aren’t laughing at him, but at how the whole thing feels… strangely blissful. Domestic in an odd way.
“I really am blessed, by you, my lord.”
Three was just about the thickness of the dildo, and you carefully withdraw your hand from him. Letting out a ragged breath, his hips relax, and you brush your thumb over the purplish head of his length. The air gets stuck in his throat.
“I’m about to begin,” you warn him in the same quiet voice you’ve kept. Reverent, really. You felt it in the weight of the air-- the tension.
This was your god, your god to be. How much he trusted you, to let you do this to him… your heart trembles as you slick up the dildo with the lubricant. After settling the tip against his entrance, you give him one more look.
His horn glimmers in the low light. Jewelry sparkles in his ears, on his head, curls spread like silk. Beautiful. He was as beautiful as when he came for you. And his expression, soft as it had ever been. You would even dare to call it adoring.
Taking a deep breath, you push inside him.
The sound he makes, gods you wish you could feel it as he lets out a low, breathy rumble, the first few inches sliding in with little resistance. You take a moment, rubbing small circles on the inside of his thigh, cooing softly.
“So, so magnificent, my lord. I want you to relax for me.”
After a second, you let the dildo sink in further, pushing your hips forward. Inch by inch, he takes it. Chest rising and falling steadily.
You feel his abdomen, the muscles tightening before going loose. As you bottom out, the little nub of the vibrator brushes your clit, and you shiver.
For a few moments you allow him to get used to it. How long had it even been since he had done this? Though it went in easily… you wrap your hand around the base of his cock and stroke him, as he lets out a soft sigh.
“May I move?”
“Yes.” He answers so quickly you bite your cheek to stop from smiling.
And slowly, you pull your hips back and push back into him.
With each roll of your hips, he twitches, his breath low and even. You keep your pace slow, letting him feel every little faux vein and the curve of the head against the sensitive inner walls. The stretching and lubricant have done their job, as you push in and out, the cold metal ring nearly touching the soft flesh of his backside with every move.
Your other hand you keep on his throbbing length, sliding a bit of oil down it before pressing your thumb against his frenum. Kars doesn’t moan, not loudly, but his breathing grows heavy. One hand is fisted into the covers, the other in a fist next to his head. His eyes hooded, intensely set on you, snapping down to your hand, then back to where the purple dildo stretches him. Soft, slick sounds come from where your hips meet his ass.
Even without it on, the pressure of the vibrator inside you, and the way it rubs against your clit behind the dildo make you moan softly.
“Harder,” he demands, a rough voice that you obey without thinking. You snap your hips forward, and Kars lets out a low sound, gritting and baring his sharp teeth as you thrust into him.
His cock warms in your hand, hard. The sheets slip under you. Sweat beads at your hips. You put your other hand on his hipbone to steady you, gripping in a little and letting your nails dig in.
The Pillarman groans, loud, rumbling. Thunder-like. Gods, you rarely heard him make that sound, and it was absolutely delicious to hear it coming from what you were doing to him. That he enjoyed it so deeply.
He was so, so damn perfect. Affection swells in your chest. You push the dildo in deeper, and his fist twitches. The bed squeaks as you move, joining your mingled sounds of gratification.
By your foot, you feel the soft plastic of the vibrator remote. Mindless from lust you swipe it up and press the start.
Vibrations jolt your hips forward. Fuck. The buzzing against your clit must carry somewhat into the dildo because Kars hisses the same time that you moan.
The soft silicone rubbing against your g-spot, your hips speed up, desperate, pumping his cock: you needed him to cum. You wanted him to teeter over the edge, see that ecstasy on his face. His eyes squeeze shut, jaw clenched, as his dick pulses against your hand. The vibrator speeds up, your clit throbbing against it, and you feel that tightness in your lower gut curl more and more.
You choke it out. “My lord-- I--”
And he cuts you off, practically roaring as his dick twitches one last time in your hand, and thick white cum spills over the tip and down your fingers, warm, cooling quickly, the veins pulsing. His whole body shakes.
That, and the sound spur your own orgasm, eyes rolling back as you still your hips against his and clench around the silicone toy. Your pussy throbs. The pressure of the dildo firmly keeping the exterior tip of the vibrator right against your clit makes you shake, unable to escape the sensations as you cum; tingles dance down your spine, across your sweaty skin.
There’s a thin sheen of it on your lord as well, you realize, in your haze, making him glow under the light of the candles. The vibe shuts off.
You bring the hand that was on his length to your mouth and lick his release off your fingers. The Pillarman exhales.
Slowly, you pull your hips back, letting the head of the dildo pop free, and sit back on your feet, letting your clean hand gently rub his massive thigh. So lovely. Your god.
“Have I pleased you, my lord?” you ask, in a shaky voice. He lets out a bark of a laugh that almost makes you jump.
“Pleased me… indeed.” He looks at you with eyes still foggy with lust, his hair somehow more wild than usual. His chest heaves just a little. Lips plump, swollen a little where he bit them. You want to kiss them. “It has been many millennia. You reminded me why I stopped…”
Your stomach sours. Stopped? Were you that bad? You shuffle back on your feet. Embarrassment making you squirm. Well, it was his fault you were out of practice too, by any means. He--
He cups your chin, and forces you to look in his eyes.
They’re burning. Hotter than Esidisi’s blood, the smoldering coals that linger from his desire, a single bead of sweat trickling down the side of his temple. You swallow.
“Should I have continued to indulge, I would lose sight of my mission, for the high.”
Your cheeks grow hot. Well.
“It was my honor. And I did… really enjoy it, my lord,” you admit, reaching back to unlace the corset back of the strap. Shimmying out of it on your knees, you gently pull the vibrator from your cunt and shudder as it squeezes.
“And, I will continue to service you, in any way you desire,” you say, a bit quieter this time. His finger trails your jaw.
“I look forward to testing you again, dearest.” Kars leans down for a swift brush of his lips against yours. “Now.”
You roll your shoulders. “Let’s run a bath, yeah? I can--”
“Already done.”
Of course. Hopefully it wasn’t cold. You exhale as you slide off the bed, the larger man following behind you as you go to the bathroom.
“Thank you. Then, was there anything else you required, my lord?”
“I told you. We need to pack for our venture in the mountains.”
You sigh. “I need quite a bit more food, then, my lord,” you point out. The bath is still steaming, thankfully. “I only made dinners, not anything for breakfast. We’re out of breakfast food.”
“I’ll send the ghouls out while we pack,” he replies simply. “We leave tomorrow.”
There’s no point in arguing. So much for the city trip-- at least for now.
“Yes, my lord,” you reply.
A hand takes yours.
You glance up-- just in time for your face to warm when he kisses the back of your palm.
“I look forward to our trip,” he murmurs.
Damn his charm. You can’t help but smile, squeezing his hand just a bit. It steadies you as you slip into the tub, him stepping in behind you, and you lean back against his broad chest as the hot water envelops you both, the smell of mint filling the air, your private oasis where you didn’t need to be anything else but in love, however strange it looked to those on the outside.
GYRO ZEPPELI X HATIAN FEM READER HEADCANONS AHHAAUSHHSHAHHY😍👅👅👅😍👅🥺🥺🥺
please 🙏🥺 Afro latinas need their attention bro
𖦹⋆｡𖦹°⭒˚｡⋆ Gyro Zeppeli x Haitian Fem Reader 𖦹⋆｡𖦹°⭒˚｡⋆
ദ്ദി •⩊• ) Initially as well, I said I wouldn’t do specific nationalities or demographics for characters— but I took a long hard look at myself like. Bro. You’re already doing the research for the fictional characters get over yourself. It also just takes more time!
I hope I did your request justice, and if there are any stereotypes, or items I’ve misrepresented, don’t hesitate to DM me. Please enjoy! Xx
𖦹 What he senses first is the constant motion of your soul; the wind in the palms, the waves clutching the shore, currents of conversation moving along the constant cycle of the day by day. Not unlike the incessant move of the Spin.
𖦹 The first glimpse of you comes as he spurs towards the finish line of the first stage. A beauty draped in pale blue (given the high-fashion style of the alternate universe, I’m imagining reader in pieces from Stella Jean and stylized karabelas). You meet his eyes as you cheer for him.
𖦹 He’s curious. The way you carry yourself. Regal, and also playful in a way that can be like looking in a mirror. Deeply storied.
𖦹 As another bearing legacy on his shoulders, he seeks the parallel.
𖦹 And while he’s had his fair share of fans, he can’t help but be drawn to you. Were you someone from the Vatican? Was that the presence he felt?
𖦹 The way you navigate the crowds after every win— he can surmise you’ve been to a few races, know the etiquette. But he should know better than to ask Johnny.
“Gyro, I’m not paying attention to the crowds. Who the hell do you take me for?”
𖦹 You have to push him to a degree, to get anywhere. The more and more you appear in his periphery, perhaps sneaking him gifts of sweets or spare cash for the trading posts, the more he can’t help but begrudgingly wonder if you’re sent by the goddess of victory. If you have a braid or twist style to your hair, he can’t help but compare it to the depictions of the goddesses from home.
“Do you have a moment?”
Slowly you turn your gaze away from your drink, trailing a finger around the rim of the glass. The man asking is essentially a brass bust, tanned and toned with emerald eyes set above sharp cheekbones. Even his clothes are in jewel tones. Not a single subtle one among all of the racers, was there?
You tilt your head. “Who’s asking, stranger?” You ask, and take another sip of your drink. Soft piano plays in the other side of the room, chatter cracking into high pitched laughter at random tables. At any city along the route of the race, you would find crowds hoping for a glance of a jockey, but this dusty, peeling-wallpapered bar wasn’t particularly crowded. You’d suspected these would be the more likely spots the serious racers would show up— the man in front of you included. It was worth it even if it meant getting some annoying smells and sights from the more unsavory types.
“Now, you can’t call me that.” The line in someone else’s mouth may sound flirty, but from his it’s calm, almost accusatory. His eyes shimmer, dark, just as the ocean miles from shore. You match him, looking at him levelly as he slides into the seat next to you, and he narrows his eyes.
“Do you gift all strangers this much? Sounds like you could go broke pretty easily,” he says. He’s smiling, but still not particularly mirthful. You shrug.
“Getting jealous?”
“Tch.” He narrows his eyes. Still smiling. Those gold veneers twinkling in the honey light.
“What are you after?” He finally asks.
“I’m a spectator who has a favorite. I don’t think that’s so unique.” You cluck your tongue at him and smile. The ice hits your teeth as you finish your drink— the stuffiness in here, plus others’ curious eyes drawing towards you and your much more recognizable conversation partner, are definitely dulling the mood. But you can’t help the fluttering in your heart as you stand to leave.
He doesn’t move. In response, you take out a fountain pen and a scrap of paper from a journal and scribble down something
“I’d like to learn more about you. I’m not asking for more than your time, but I know it is precious… Ou ka fè bourik janbe dlo ou pa ka fè l bwè dlo,” you murmur to yourself, without really thinking about the idiom coming out in Creole, not English.
“This is my hotel. And where I’m headed.”
Gyro’s eyes scan the scrap of paper, and they flicker in recognition; the same hotel him and Johnny were going to station at. How… convenient.
“See you, Gyro Zeppeli.” You give him one last smile, and depart before he can say one more thing. The door closes louder when you leave than it has for anyone else.
He crumples the paper in his hand. After a moment, contemplating the sweating glass on the table, he gets up and strides after you— completely oblivious to the crowd creeping behind him, only thinking: what the hell did you just say?
𖦹 He’s heard a great variety of languages in his profession and his country, but Creole eludes him. If you speak it fluently, he appreciates the rhythm of it, different than anything he’s heard before.
𖦹 If not, he still loves a good pun or idiom. Stores them for when someone really ticks him off.
𖦹 Gyro is a tease the better you know him; he isn't going to give up the ghost so easily. But he can be drawn to those with sincere, honest hearts, whether vibrant and sociable or withdrawn and thoughtful (like Johnny).
𖦹 The first time he tells you an idea of his that half sounds like a joke, you aren’t sure whether to laugh in his face, or make him continue his bit. Or just stare at him, shake your head and mutter to yourself. W ap voye flè.
𖦹 But it’s a sign of trust. Entertain him a little, or else he’s liable to shrink back into his impassive, executioner demeanor.
𖦹 You meet for a drink, a chat when he finishes each leg— he asks about your past, your favorite musicians, food. He may not know any of them, but it gives him all the time to sit back and listen; which he’s pretty good at. (How much of it he takes to heart, his father would argue it’s less than one would think but he’s much less interesting than you.)
𖦹 I hope you like singing or humming, at least, because he wants to hear your favorite songs— and the record player doesn’t exist yet.
𖦹 Perhaps you luck out and find a restaurant along the way that not only makes decent food, but finally has some musicians in it that don’t only know how to play the dinky little organ that proliferates the West.
𖦹 Guitar, drums. Songs that veer from protecting pretty little farmlands to justice and strength, creating an independence that belongs to you alone on ivory coasts and in green mountains. Gyro likes a lot of these hymns.
𖦹 If you’re a dancer, please dance with him; he isn’t one able to stand still, and when he hears music and he’s in a relatively safe space, he gets the temptation.
𖦹 Great gossiper, shit talker. You lean into each other, laughing as he points out all of the details of the bar. You correct him on any clothes, symbols you notice that are specific references.
𖦹 Not necessarily chivalrous. Appreciates your strength, if you can stand up for yourself, but has no issues smiling at a particularly annoying stranger, one hand on the cold steel at his side.
𖦹 Even if you don’t regularly cook, if you promise to make him something if he wins a stage, he does put a tiny bit more pep in his step.
𖦹 Beans and rice are a staple of both Haitian cuisine and the diet of the trail. So he may needle you to make something heartier for his reward) like soup joumou (though if you would prefer to save it for when he wins the whole thing, he understands— it’s an important dish) or pain patate.
𖦹 Speaking of the trail diet, sneak him some epis if you could: the flavor base is a welcome change from the standard barbecue one of the fare they typically make. And any recipes he can make? He’s going crazy for. God he needs flavor…. (Johnny has a bit more of an American palate and I’d posit his sense of taste is somewhat dulled due to depression.)
𖦹 It’s not the same as his home meals, but different in a comforting way. A reminder of that beyond the trail.
𖦹 If you eat something he makes, in a hotel room kitchen with limited ingredients, he will still give you the full history of it— so feel free to do the same.
𖦹 Gyro would attempt to aid in caring for your hair— if you let him. But he’ll still attempt to learn how, in the future he doesn’t allow himself to think of, that you might ask him to wash it, or assist in any braids/pomades/treatments.
𖦹 Would adore, if you wore hair charms, anything with his colors: violet and emerald, as vibrant as him. Subtle too.
𖦹 Remind him to put on some kind of sun protection. Yes he tans well, he’s Italian, but he will burn.
𖦹 Prefers to completely encircle you in his arms, one around your waist and the other around your shoulders: completely shielded. If he could do it forever, he would.
𖦹Lots of cheek kisses. He greets you the European way.
𖦹But also lots of passionate embraces behind closed doors. Just… don’t let others see him like this.
𖦹 Gyro still wouldn’t let you onto his horse: lady Victory takes priority of course. Yet he knows she truly is with him, carrying you along his path, a promise to return to the sea, to a home where he may rest his hands.
-
Ou ka fè bourik janbe dlo ou pa ka fè l bwè dlo - lit “you can make a donkey cross the water, but you can’t make him drink it”. virtually the same as “lead a horse to water but can’t make it drink”.
W ap voye flè. - lit “speaking flowers”, speaking nonsense.
hiii hello ! wanted to say i love your kira characterization a lot, and also just like your writing in general!! mainly got here through your post about the protective jofoes ^^
i’m fairly new to requesting writing so i guess anything for kira lol? my apologies for the vagueness haha ^^;
Notes: OMG TYY! I love kira so much haha I'm glad he was in character! I was brainstorming for this and got this cute idea, I hope you enjoy!
Kira prefers you don't walk alone, he insists that he must at least follow you half way through destination and part ways. In his rational mind he explains its for the front of a dutiful lover who cares about his other half, yet there's something underneath it all he doesn't bother dissecting.
(the way the warmth leaves his palm when you part ways, it makes him feel. he doesn't know how to describe it.)
in that same routine of his perfectly managed, something was off, it felt like a presence. Kira sent out killerQueen, only for the thing haunting him to make itself known: a cat. it was looking fairly interested in his stand too.
he tries to turn a blind eye, to walk his path like normal but it was persistent. like his own shadow; it creeps behind through every step, until he got to his shared house. the feline was attempting to enter but he quickly closed the door behind him, but by the time the hinge clicked it was already inside.
Kira didn’t care if a cat or two barge in his house his problem was with what will happen you, if you have allergies he wasn’t aware of it will will be a problem. yet somehow when he tries to bribe it with food outside your footwear click closer by and now Kira need to explain why is there a cat here.
if your scared of cats? he’ll try to rush the it out(even faster than before), if your allergic yet want its affection? he would chastised it.
“get inside instead and look from afar.”
if your are begging to adopt it? he might cave if you bring a good argument.
“it must go to the vet first, then we’ll see from there.”
though he wouldn't mind taking care of it, it does offer a quite cozy environment he can't deny.
Request are open, praise be! There was so much characters to ask for headcannons for its hard to make a choice. But going with Stone Ocean character - what about HC for Miu Miu? General one and/or for relationship with reader that is her subordinate/assitant/right hand guard? May be romantic or platonic, whatever you prefer more. And either way thank you for your work like always! ❤️
ദ്ദി •⩊• ) Hallooo! Hope you enjoy :) tbh I could see her wanting to separate work from pleasure, but if she did date her subordinate she might get a liiiiittle bit of a power high. I would clock her as someone who wants to relax in a relationship and be pampered but is so used to being in charge it’s impossible.
She was also so hard to find gifs for ;-;
ꗃꄗ Military brat, or perhaps was in it herself. Her ability to strategize belies some degree of training, or at the very least, her proximity to discipline.
ꗃꄗ No one religious dresses like that (yeah yeah Pucci’s robes are not accurate but they’re close enough) so I wouldn’t assume she grew up in the church, but she has respect for authority. Authority justifies the latent sadistic tendencies that she’s always had to fight.
ꗃꄗ As a child, then, MiuMiu was very obedient. A bit of a tattletale. It made her lonely, to a degree: she was sharp, so she had some other brainiac friends.
ꗃꄗ Her mom gave her the MiuMiu nickname because her birthmarks on her brows looked like the spots above a cat’s eyes.
ꗃꄗ Tutored as a high schooler and college student. As she got older she was able to get along better with others, and her natural leadership made her attractive to professors.
ꗃꄗ Very, very good at swimming.
ꗃꄗ Her hair is genuinely always two taps from breaking off, brittle as hell.
ꗃꄗ The styling, bleaching blond, gives her the fun teased blond look but god it is expensive to upkeep and she is not going to the salon every time. If you offer to help, she will give very, very explicit directions.
ꗃꄗ Files her nails in the break room. It grosses some of the other guards out.
ꗃꄗ Adds all of the embroidery/designs to her outfits herself, learned rudimentary sewing as a part of her upbringing but picked up on some fun things during the DIY craze of the mid 00s.
ꗃꄗ She’s timed her face and hair routine. It’s never more than two minutes quicker or longer than an hour and forty minutes.
ꗃꄗ But I don’t see MiuMiu demanding her partner be as flamboyant as her. If anything, if you’re more relaxed about your appearance it makes her shine all the more (she’s a bit vain).
ꗃꄗ Verrerry much wants to be cutesy and relaxed as a girlfriend, but sometimes can’t help but want to schedule all the dates.
ꗃꄗ Either way, having a regular date night weekly/biweekly both reassures her and keeps her from working overtime.
ꗃꄗ Which she does a lot. But if you work it with her, she’ll eventually notice how exhausted she is and lets up.
ꗃꄗ Had a septum piercing at one point but she didn’t want it to interfere with her job applications, so she bought a retainer first and slowly just phased out of wearing it.
ꗃꄗ Maintained the habit of scrunching her nose and pushing out her lip to play with it (no I’m not saying that just because I do it)
ꗃꄗ She has a cat tattoo on her ribs (recalls the irl MiuMiu SS 2010 collection).
ꗃꄗ Cheek kisser, big peck-giver. She has her lipstick brand perfected though and rarely smears it.
ꗃꄗ Prefers lighter foods. She takes on bulk easily and needs to be light on her feet for her profession (plus, proximity to the ocean) so she really enjoys fresh fish.
ꗃꄗ Makes her own acrylics. She can’t do any really complicated designs, but she’ll add jewels and such to them.
ꗃꄗ If you like them, she would absolutely do them for you.
ꗃꄗ Spa date. Duh.
ꗃꄗ Actually, full pampering day dates in general. When she does go to the salon, it’s a full day affair: brunch either made at home perfectly or at your favorite spot, then the spa for full facials, hair, and nails, then lunch and shopping. End the day curled up together on the couch, watching reruns or cheesy comedies.
ꗃꄗ Never cheats at poker. Somehow retains a positive win-loss record.
ꗃꄗ Doesn’t read a ton, but she does enjoy political science books. And the occasional crime novel.
ꗃꄗ Goes back and forth on being a cuddler but she secretly does want to be held. Her whole life she has to be the big strong bad bitch: sometimes that’s exhausting.
ꗃꄗ Doesn’t sleep longer than six hours unless she’s actually been run ragged. It’s difficult for her to relax without outside intervention.
ꗃꄗ Loves going to consignment stores near the rich people houses on the coast. She’s found a lot of unique pieces this way.
ꗃꄗ MiuMiu is confident in herself, and she needs someone who understands her strength. But in the wee hours, when a glass of wine spills into truthtelling, she needs to hear your soft voice say you love her as you rub small, reassuring circles on her back.
Can i have headcanons of how the bucci gang would react if you gave them a bowl of buldak (specifically carbonara because why not) i was thinking of the clickhole video where bakers watch their loaves get turned to breadbowls when deciding it had to be carbonara.
I might request more headcanons of making them try things or making these guys partake in dumb challenges can i be 🦹♂️
ദ്ദി •⩊• ) I don’t usually write crack fic (what I’d classify this as) but omfg I was dying thinking of Fugo threatening to bring out Purple Haze if you do this to him again ajsjdkdnir
This was also a good break between more research heavy requests haha. Thank you for requesting!
˚₊‧ʚ🐞ɞ‧₊˚ Giorno Giovanna ˚₊‧ʚ🐞ɞ‧₊˚
✰ You’re literally giving this man PTSD flashbacks btw
✰ He isn’t super familiar with the brand, but he’s intimately familiar with the taste of instant noodles. His mom left them around when he was a tyke and since it didn’t require cooking, it was a very easy way to get nutrition. He’s eaten instant noodles for thirteen days straight at one point and the sight of them hardens something in him. Doesn’t help that a lot of it is chicken flavored.
✰ He just kind of stares at it, then looks at you with a tired face. He didn’t really accept to do it, but after his first refusal was ignored— pissing him off, but he doesn’t want to be an ass to you— he relents. Despite how everyone else protests, I actually think he would be the most likely to flat out not do it and this would be a real fight.
“Is this… your idea of a joke?”
✰ Sighs, doesn’t eat more than a few bites, enough to get the flavor profile. Medium end of the spice tolerance spectrum, goes pink but by cutting it with a limonata, he has few issues.
✰ Throws it away, gives you a restrained pat on the hand.
“Thank you for sharing. It’s not necessary.”
ৡ Pannacotta Fugo ৡ
✰ Absolutely offended, doesn’t even want to touch it. Snaps at you if you push it too hard to just quit it, no he doesn’t like invoking his posh upbringing but he will do it to avoid having to consume this.
✰ It’s not because he’s a baby when it comes to spice. I’d wager he’s actually on the higher end of tolerance but he doesn’t care, he has his palate perfected and it skews towards his motherland. (He literally went into a restaurant even when broke… yeah he’s not getting a corner store special).
✰ Only does it when you, Narancia, and Mista goad him about it collectively and Giorno acquiesces that. It’s not the WORST food in the world.
✰ Finally snaps, almost preps the noodles wrong in his rush to get it done. Half of them are raw-ish. (Tbh, I don’t see him as a poor chef in general, but he’s so flustered by now he wouldn’t really be thinking.)
✰ Eyeing the pinkish-orange sauce and sighing, he takes a bite.
✰ And he doesn’t HATE it. But he refuses to entertain it again (at least in front of you).
✰ Tips of his ears get red, but he doesn’t cough or anything.
“Happy? Don’t ask me for anything again.”
✰ Your stash of the noodles may inexplicably shrink.
. ♬ ݁˖ Leone Abbachio . ♬ ݁˖
(^How he’s looking at you)
✰ Laughs in your face. Like actually. Yeah he’s demeaned himself to a particular level, but this? No fucking shot.
✰ If you look a little upset, his heart twinges but he rolls his eyes and tells you he’s been down the junk food path before and isn’t interested. He doesn’t elect to tell you that it was mostly stale bread and pastries that he dragged home from bakeries’ castoffs in between binges before he met Bucciarati.
✰ You’d probably have to make it for yourself and casually offer him a noodle for him to be game, and in that case he’s likely to sigh and just do it so you don’t bring it up again.
✰ Low-mid spice tolerance. But he downs a sip of wine before he puts the ramen in his mouth, so it’s anyone’s guess how much he actually tastes. But his cheeks get red and he sniffs a few times before taking another sip. And another. Breathes out of his mouth.
✰ Making fun of him is your funeral. Death by silent treatment.
“Never again.”
ପ(๑•ᴗ•๑)ଓ ♡ Guido Mista ପ(๑•ᴗ•๑)ଓ ♡
✰ Morbidly, grossly curious. Yes, he has his dignity to think about. But really, how bad could it be?
✰ He likes regular carbonara. He enjoys meaty, savory things. Even stuff with a little spice. But the bright pink container is threatening in a weird, confusing way that he’s searching for bad omens for.
✰ Easily acquiesces to trying it, at least WAY more than Abbachio or Fugo.
✰ He still prefers the food of his native land, but he’ll adventure. Prepping the noodles, he gets a whiff of the spice and his stomach drops.
✰ But he can’t chicken out now. He can’t. He really can’t. You’re staring at him so eagerly he would be less of a man if he couldn’t follow through.
✰ Taking a deep breath, he takes a way bigger bite than he should.
✰ His cheeks get red, he tears up. But perseveres. After the mouthful is swallowed, he cuts it with water and gasps, cursing and laughing despite himself.
“Jeez… you don’t play around, huh?”
✰ Would probably finish the bowl just to eat it, but dies the whole time. Mix in some cheese and actual pancetta and he could eat it from time to time.
✰ Forbids the Pistols from getting near it. He doesn’t need to feel the aftermath.
⋆⭒˚｡⋆✈︎ Narancia Ghirga ⋆⭒˚｡⋆✈︎
✰ Canonically dislikes spicy food. This is not going to go well.
✰ Absolutely has eaten instant noodles; he has a bit of a childish palate, much to Fugo’s chagrin. But still prefers the heavier foods. Something fatty— real carbonara is pretty up there for him. The pink cup and little mascot are cute. He laughs at it, teasing it a little, until he notices all of the warnings.
“Are you trying to kill me?! No way!”
✰ Genuinely becomes an argument over how it’s a challenge, he doesn’t have to eat the whole thing. Looks up at you like a toddler who has broccoli set in front of him when you prep it.
✰ (You’re pretty sure that if he actually cooked it and smelled the spice, he wouldn’t. Because already you see his nose twitching.)
✰ You have to also do it. It’s only fair if you’re torturing him.
✰ Tapping your chopsticks in a grim little “cheers”, he bites into just about three noodles.
✰ Spits it out almost immediately. He barely even chews it to have to feel the burn against his tongue and snatches his orange juice from the table, chugging it. After, he’s hiccuping curses.
✰ Why would you do this to him?
.⋆♱⃓ Bruno Bucciarati .⋆♱⃓
✰ Politely declines until it’s clear that 1. you aren’t giving up and 2. the others have already done it and it’s very expected for him to suffer as well.
✰ I picture his spice tolerance as pretty standard, maybe a little higher— when he was new, a higher up forced him to eat a teaspoon of an imported Szechuan chili as a “be prepared for what you have to deal with” hazing. He did his best. It didn’t go great.
✰ Is also a little offended by the “carbonara” flavoring. No need to make it some weird fusion. He’d rather just have it be flavored like a regular spicy ramen (ie Shin Black) if he’s eating it at all.
✰ Frowns at it for a while. Puzzling. Wondering if it’s worth adding anything to it or if he just wants to be over and done with it.
✰ He downs a medium sized mouthful, and chews through it. His cheeks get warm, and his nose itches, but he swallows with a weird degree of dignity for how deeply unserious the whole thing is and then sets it to the side. He swallows a mouthful of ice water, exhales, and levels a strangely steely look at you.
