The Price of Realism
Summary: Obsessed with realism but lacking experience, Rohan uses Heaven’s Door on Josuke to study the involuntary mechanics of tickling on himself for his manga.
Lee! Rohan Kishibe
Ler! Josuke Higashikata
A/N: My debut fic! This acc has been collecting dust for literal ages lol. I mostly just used it to watch non-tickle stuff but I finally decided to give writing a shot. Hope you guys enjoy
Rohan Kishibe sat at his desk, hunched in a posture entirely unbecoming of a man of his extreme precision. His pen hovered indecisively over the paper, sketched a single stroke, and stopped again.
This wouldn't do.
On the panel before him, a character was trapped in a fit of helpless laughter. Their limbs tense, mouth open wide and body seized by something as foolish as joy. Vines wound around the figure's sides, ribs, and neck, forcing a reaction that should have been uncontrollable. And yet, something was wrong.
Not anatomically, not compositionally, not even in pacing. No, the issue was far more offensive than it might seem to the naked eye. The character who was supposed to have an uncontrollable reaction looked…pleasant.
The laughter the mangaka had drawn seemed too willing. There was a lightness to it, a hint that the character was enjoying themselves.
Rohan clicked his tongue sharply. "Ridiculous." He reached out, grabbing the paper and tore the page out in one swift motion, and tossed it onto the pile of other failures.
Tickling, if depicted accurately was not joy. It was an invasion. The body betraying itself, reacting in a manner completely devoid of dignity or control.
And yet, whenever Rohan tried to capture it, the paper lacked the violent resistance and desperate thrashing that should have distorted the page. His characters pulled away too politely, struggled too neatly, as if their bodies were following some unspoken etiquette rather than surrendering to a chaotic, involuntary impulse. The tension, the sharp edge of panic. It just wasn't there.
The truth was, Rohan Kishibe simply had no frame of reference. No one had ever actually tried to tickle him. Even as a child, he was far too prickly for that kind of play. On the rare occasion someone could reach for his neck. But it was just a brief, physical punctuation to verbal teasing. A fleeting scribble of fingers he'd swat away instantly.
Neither his grandmother nor his parents had ever pushed past his aloof exterior. Even Reimi, for all her warmth, hadn't subjected him to that particular brand of chaos, and the neighborhood boys wouldn't have dared.
Under normal circumstances, this wouldn't be a problem. Rohan didn't need personal experience for every sensation he illustrated. Observation, research, and logical deduction were usually enough.
But this required precision. Rohan wanted his manga to be as realistic as possible, so he couldn't simply ignore such a flaw. He couldn't allow the page to lie about the body's betrayal, that exact moment when control shatters and something primal and unbidden breaks free.
Which, by a frustrating stroke of luck, created a problem. Rohan Kishibe could not use his Stand on himself. Trying to do so would be like trying to tickle yourself, which, as we're all perfectly aware, is nearly impossible.
A lesser individual might've given up at this point. But Rohan? Rohan was not a lesser individual. Naturally, he simply adjusted his approach.
His pen tapped once against the desk, a small, thoughtful punctuation. An external subject, then. Someone physically capable. Sufficiently durable and most importantly, someone unlikely to grasp the full significance of what was being asked of them…
–––
And the matter was settled.
Exactly fifteen minutes after the decision was made, the 'key' to Rohan's dilemma was already walking up the path to his house, completely unaware of the role he was about to play.
Rohan watched from his window, tracking the obnoxious bounce of that signature, ridiculous hairstyle of Josuke's. He sat at his desk, fingers drumming in a restless beat. What am I even doing? a rare flicker of hesitation crossing his mind. Is this really worth it? I'm not going to end up regretting this, am I?
There was a knock at the door. Rohan did not answer.
Then the door creaked open. "Uhh…hey, Rohan-sensei?" Josuke Higashikata stepped inside, glancing around. "You said me to come over, so I did, but you didn't really explain the reason why—"
"Heaven’s Door!"
In the blink of an eye, half of Josuke's face burst into pages that fluttered open, revealing every minute detail of his life. He immediately lost his consciousness. His eyes rolled back, his legs gave way, sending him crashing hard against the nearby wall before sliding down, completely limp. In an instant, his form began to unravel. His face, arms, and torso burst into a mess of rustling pages, laying his entire being bare and defenseless.
"Don't be frightened." Rohan’s chair creaked in the silence of the room as he stood up from there. "I won't hurt you. Quite the opposite, in fact. You'll be the one 'hurting' me. Though, discomfort would sound more appropriate in this case." Rohan said, kneeling before Josuke's motionless body. He took out his pen and gripped one of the pages firmly. And his hand moved with swift, decisive strokes.
“I will continuously tickle Rohan Kishibe until I am ordered to stop,” he wrote.
Rohan’s gaze lingered on the line for a half-second longer. He tightened his grip on the pen. "...This is strictly for reference purposes." He withdrew the pen. Josuke’s pages snapped shut, and his eyes slowly began to flutter open.
–––
Josuke's hands were relentless, his fingers digging into Rohan's ribs and pinching at his sides with a precision that was as clinical as it was agonizing. Rohan twisted violently. His body was constantly coiling and recoiling like a spring as he tried to put any distance between himself and those searching, nimble fingers. "W-wait, wait! W-will- huff will you slow down for a moment..!" He gasped, his voice cracking on the edge. He was backing away, his heels scuffing the floor until his back hit the surface of the wall, but the assault didn't waver. There was no mercy in Josuke's blank expression. The command was absolute, and the 'subject' was merely following the script Rohan had written himself.
The struggle grew more physical as Josuke's subconscious took the most efficient path to fulfill the order. In a sudden and rough movement, Josuke's foot swept behind Rohan's, knocking his right leg into his left and sending the mangaka sliding helplessly down the wall. Before Rohan could even process the floor hitting his tailbone, Josuke was over him, straddling his knees and pinning both of Rohan's wrists firmly above his head with one hand.
Rohan's head was spinning, his breath hitching in short, jagged bursts as the tickling got even worse against his pinned, defenseless ribs. "J-Josuke! Hold ohon a dahamn moment!— I order yohou to s-sstaHAA— AhaHAha!!" he shrieked, the command dying in a throat-tightening spasm of laughter.
In a desperate, adrenaline-fueled reflex, Rohan summoned his Stand to forcibly rewrite the situation. Heaven's Door manifested in a flash of gold and white, reaching out to peel back Josuke's pages once more but it never reached him. To Rohan's horror, Crazy Diamond had manifested instinctively to protect its user, its massive hands catching Heaven's Door by the wrists. Since only a Stand can touch another Stand, the impact was direct. With a terrifying, subconscious cruelty, Crazy Diamond's thick fingers began to mimic Josuke's movements, fluttering against Heaven's Door's sides. The sensation mirrored perfectly onto Rohan. His eyes widened in genuine shock as the dual assault sent his nervous system into a total meltdown. It was one thing to be handled by Josuke's quick fingers, but the ghostly, pressurized touch of Crazy Diamond against his Stand's ribs was an entirely different level of violation.
Rohan's reaction grew instantly wilder, his body arching off the wall in a desperate, frantic bridge. He thrashed against the floor, his weakened wrists straining and tugging uselessly against Josuke’s iron grip. The refined mangaka was gone, replaced by a mess of breathless giggles and hysteria. His sides cramped and his cheeks burned from the forced, painful grin, every shriek of laughter making it impossible to catch his breath.
"O-OH MY—JoHOsuke! StA- AHAA—!" He let out a sharp, hysterical shriek as Crazy Diamond’s fingers shifted focus, digging its thumbs relentlessly against Heaven's Door's hips. The sensation the transmitted onto Rohan, sending a fresh jolt through his nerves that made his head fall backwards and his legs kick out frantically behind Josuke’s back.
His sides were a mess of exhausting, high-pitched chuckling that he couldn't stop. As the dual-layered attack on his ribs and hips showed no sign of slowing down.
–––
The transition was abrupt. One moment the room was filled with the frantic noise of Rohan’s hysterics, and the next, silence crashed down like a weight.
Heaven’s Door was suddenly free, its wrists no longer pinned by Crazy Diamond’s massive grip. In the center of the room, Josuke stood blinking, his expression vacant as his face remained split open with the pages of Heaven's Door. On the pristine white surface of his cheek, fresh ink spelled out the command:
“I will forget everything that happened over the past hour”
"Rohan-sensei...?" Josuke finally muttered, his voice thick with confusion. He rubbed his eyes, looking around the studio as if he'd just woken up from a dream. The last thing he remembered was the final bell ringing at school and the long walk home alone. Now, he was suddenly straddling a flushed, panting mangaka on the floor, both their Stands still hovering in the air behind them.
Josuke scrambled back as he realized the position they were in. "Wait, what—did I... did something happen?"
Rohan did not answer. He remained slumped against the wall, his chest heaving as he tried to reclaim his breath. His hair was a mess and his clothes were hopelessly rumpled, but he stayed silent, offering no explanation for the chaos or the lingering, dull ache in his sides. He simply watched Josuke with a quiet, hollow intensity, the 'truth' he had sought now safely locked away in his mind, even if he was too exhausted to pick up a pen.
