Hello, I AM INLOVE WITH YOUR WRITINGS LIKE IT SO CUTEE AAAA and this is my first time asking for a request, I’m actually nervous…
Can I request any jjba characters x gnreader or femreader (your choice ^^) who is VERY insecure of their nose especially when they’re smiling, covering them and pinching their nose to make their nose smaller🥺🥺 I really like this one omg. I think that’s all🥺 I love you omg and once again love your writings! ^^
✿˚｡⋆ reader insecure about their nose ⋆｡˚✿
♡‧₊˚✦ Pairing ✦˚₊‧♡: gyro Zeppeli, Bruno bucciarati, josuke higashikata, Guido mista x gn reader
☾⚠︎warnings: bullying, insecurities but all in all fluff, very self insert I'm sorry gang
A/n: this is genuinely wonderful, I will say this is pathetically a self insert because I have a Roman nose and for the longest time I would push it upwards do the point now I have this visible line from how much I bump it up, I hated it but now I've learned to love myself , you are special , the features that don't look "good" to you are what makes you beautiful and amazing<3
Gyro Zeppeli.
The afternoon sun draped the dunes in gold, the kind of light that made everything look like a painting. You sat on the edge of a wooden crate, knees tucked together, watching Gyro tinker with his bike across the camp. He was humming a rough, tuneless sound his hat pushed back, hair catching the breeze.
You felt the smile creep up before you could stop it. A laugh was bubbling in your chest, something about the way he’d just cursed at a wrench in three languages.
But then the warmth hit your face. The way your cheeks pushed up.
Your hand flew up.
Fingers pinched the bridge first a nervous, habitual press. Then the tip, squeezing gently, trying to reshape, to make it smaller, less there. Your other hand came up to cover the lower half of your face, knuckles whitening as you held the smile in prison.
The laugh died in your throat.
You turned your head slightly, angling away, pretending to be fascinated by a loose thread on your sleeve.
Gyro didn't miss it.
The wrench clinked against metal as he set it down. The humming stopped. You heard his boots crunch on the sand slow, deliberate steps, the way he walked when he was putting together a puzzle in his head.
"Hey."
You flinched, dropping your hands into your lap like a child caught stealing. "Hey."
He didn't sit across from you. Instead, Gyro lowered himself right next to you on the crate, his thigh warm against yours, the smell of oil and leather and sun wrapping around you both.
"Was that a laugh I heard?" he asked, voice low, almost teasing. "Sounded like a good one."
You shrugged, picking at the thread. "It was nothing."
"It wasn't nothing." He tilted his head, trying to catch your eyes. You gave him your profile. "You were smiling. And then you weren't."
Your throat tightened.
This was the part you hated the explanation. The way you'd have to say it out loud, make it real, make someone see the flaw you'd been trying to hide since you were old enough to notice mirrors.
"It's my nose," you whispered.
He didn't say what about it? Didn't pretend not to understand. Gyro just waited.
Then, slowly, he reached up and removed his hat. Set it aside. Ran a hand through his hair the scarred side, the soft side, all of it.
"Can I show you something?" he asked.
You nodded, wary.
He took your hand the one you'd been covering your face with and pressed your palm flat against his own chest. Right over his heart.
"Feel that?"
"Yes."
"That's just a muscle pumping blood." He smiled slightly. "Ugly, if you think about it. Wet. Noisy."
You almost laughed.
"But when it beats faster," he continued, "because you walked into the room? That's not ugly. That's just true."
His free hand came up then, slow enough for you to pull away. You didn't. His calloused thumb brushed the bridge of your nose so gently, like he was handling something precious.
"You've been pinching this," he murmured, tracing the slight crease where your fingers always pressed. "Hiding this. But here's the thing I don't think you understand."
He leaned in, forehead nearly touching yours.
"When you smile your whole face changes. Your eyes get bright. Your cheeks lift. And your nose..." He let his thumb run down the center, feather-light. "It does exactly what it's supposed to do. It's part of you. And I like you."
Your breath hitched.
" it doesn't matter the way you think it does. It's not a flaw. It's just... a feature. Like the curve of a river. You don't wish the river had fewer bends. You just watch it move."
A tear slipped down your cheek. He caught it with the back of his hand.
"Can I see it?" he asked softly. "The smile you were hiding?"
You bit your lip. Your hands trembled in your lap. But Gyro was looking at you like you'd already given him the universe just by sitting there.
So you tried.
A small smile first.
He didn't look away.
"No," he said, but not harsh. Gentle. "Stay with me."
He took both your hands and held them in his lap, anchoring them.
The smile broke through real this time, wobbly and wet and full of years of hiding.
Gyro's face softened into something so tender it hurt. He lifted your joined hands and pressed a kiss to your knuckles.
"There," he said quietly. "That's the one I've been waiting for."
And under the gold of the dunes, with his hands wrapped around yours and no mirror in sight, you let yourself believe him. Just for a minute.
Just for now.
But a minute was a start.
⋅˚₊‧ ୨୧ ‧₊˚ ⋅ ⋅˚₊‧ ୨୧ ‧₊˚ ⋅ ⋅˚₊‧ ୨୧ ‧₊˚ ⋅ ⋅˚₊‧ ୨୧ ‧₊˚ ⋅ ⋅˚₊‧୨
Bruno Bucciarati.
The kitchen was warm with the smell of rosemary and something simmering low on the stove. Evening light filtered through the window above the sink, catching the edges of the wine glasses you'd set out, the worn wood of the table, the silver of Bruno's hair where he stood by the counter.
He was telling you a story something about Fugo and a library book, a spilled inkwell, a very unfortunate librarian. His hands moved when he talked. They always did. Measured, elegant, even when describing chaos.
You were chopping vegetables. Or trying to.
The knife slipped once, twice, because you kept glancing up at him. At the way his lips curved. At the rare looseness in his shoulders.
Then he said the punchline something absurd about the librarian mistaking the ink for a very expensive cologne and you laughed.
The familiar cramp of embarrassment tightening your chest.
Your hand moved before you could think.
Fingers pinched the bridge hard as if you could squeeze it back into something smaller, something less noticeable. Your other hand came up to cover your mouth, knuckles pressing against your lips, muffling the last of the laugh into a choked hum.
You turned toward the cutting board. Away from him.
The knife clinked against the wood. You stared at the half-chopped onions, the uneven slices, anything but Bruno's face.
The kitchen fell quiet.
Not the comfortable quiet from before.
You heard him set down the wooden spoon. Heard the soft click of the stove being turned off.
Then his footsteps
he leaned against the counter across from you, arms crossed loosely over his chest, and waited.
You hated how patient he was.
"The onions are fine," he said quietly. "You don't have to keep cutting them."
Your jaw tightened. "I know."
A pause. Then, softer"What happened just now?"
You shook your head. Pressed your fingers harder against your nose, a nervous habit you'd had since you were twelve, standing in front of a bathroom mirror, crying because a classmate had asked what's wrong with your face when you laugh?
"Nothing."
Bruno didn't call you a liar. He just uncrossed his arms and reached over slowly, and gently pulled your hand away from your nose.
You resisted for a second. Then let him.
He held your hand in both of his. Warm. Dry. His thumb tracing small circles on your knuckles.
"I've watched you do that before," he said. "Cover yourself.." His dark eyes held yours. "I've never asked why. I thought maybe you'd tell me when you were ready."
Your throat burned.
"It's my nose," you whispered. "When I smile... it changes. Gets wider. I hate it. I hate the way it looks. So I try to-" You gestured vaguely at your face. "Make it smaller.. I've done it for so long I don't even think about it anymore. I just do it."
Bruno listened like he always did
When you finished, he lifted your hand and pressed it flat against his own cheek the sharp angle of his jaw, the cool skin, the faint roughness of stubble.
"This face has killed men," he said calmly. "This face has given orders that ended lives. It's not a gentle face. And yet you look at it like it's something worth holding."
Your breath caught.
He turned his head and kissed your palm. Once.
"I look at your face the same way," he said. "Not because it's perfect. Because it's yours. And when you smile I don't see a nose. I don't see features. I see you.. And there is nothing in this world more beautiful to me than that."
A tear slipped down your cheek. You didn't wipe it away. Couldn't, with your hand still pressed to his face.
He reached up with his free hand and touched your nose. Not the bridge the tip. The part you always tried to shrink. His fingertip rested there like a question.
"I'll wait," he said. "However long you need. But I want you to know something."
"What?"
"When you're ready if you're ever ready I'll be here. And I won't look away."
The kitchen was warm. The stew bubbled softly on the stove. And something in your chest cracked open just a little
You took a breath.
And in the golden light of the fading evening, with his hand in yours and no mirror in sight, you didn't feel beautiful.
But you felt seen.
And that, for now, was enough.
⋅˚₊‧ ୨୧ ‧₊˚ ⋅ ⋅˚₊‧ ୨୧ ‧₊˚ ⋅ ⋅˚₊‧ ୨୧ ‧₊˚ ⋅ ⋅˚₊‧ ୨୧ ‧₊˚ ⋅ ⋅˚₊‧୨
Josuke higashikata.
The afternoon was lazy and golden. You were sprawled on Josuke's bedroom floor, back against his bed frame, while he sat cross-legged in front of you. His school jacket was tossed somewhere across the room. His pompadour was somehow still perfect despite the humidity. A manga was open in his lap, but he hadn't turned a page in twenty minutes.
He was looking at you
The way he did when he thought you weren't paying attention.
But you were paying attention. You were always paying attention to the weight of someone's gaze. Where it landed. How long it stayed.
Your hand drifted up.
Fingers found your nose. Pinched the bridge. Pressed.. The familiar ritual.
Josuke's head tilted.
"Hey," he said. "What're you doing?"
You dropped your hand too fast, Guilty almost "Nothing."
"That wasn't nothing." He set the manga aside carefully, which meant he was taking this seriously. Josuke wasn't careful about much. "You keep touching your nose. You've done it like four times since I started counting."
Your stomach dropped. "You were counting?"
"I wasn't trying to.." He scooted closer, knees almost touching yours. "You do it a lot, actually. When we're watching movies. When we're eating. When you think I'm not looking."
Heat crawled up your neck. "It's nothing really. Just a habit."
Josuke's eyes narrowed.
"Does it hurt?" he asked.
"No."
"Is it itchy?"
"No."
"Then why do you keep squishing it?"
You let out a breath.. He wasn't going to let this go. Josuke never let things go once he'd decided they mattered.
"Because I don't like it," you said quietly. "My nose. I never have."
He blinked. Like you'd just said something in a foreign language.
"Are you serious?" he said.
Something in your chest cracked. "Why would I joke about this?"
"I'm not-" He ran a hand over his pompadour, frustrated. "I'm not saying you're joking. I'm saying I don't get it. You hate your nose? This nose?" He reached out and tapped the tip of it gentle, playful, so unexpectedly tender that you froze. "This nose that scrunches up when you drink something sour? This nose that goes pink in the cold? This nose that you buried in my shoulder for an hour last week when you were tired and didn't want to admit it?"
Your throat tightened.
"That nose," he continued, "has been right in front of my face for months. And I've never once looked at it and thought wrong. I've looked at it and thought cute. I've looked at it and thought I want to kiss that. I've looked at it and thought-"
He stopped. A flush crept up his neck.
"What?" you whispered.
He looked away, ears going red. "I've looked at it and thought that's the nose attached to the person I'm crazy about. Okay? There. I said it."
The room felt very small. Very warm.
"You're crazy about me?" you asked.
"You're focusing on the wrong part." He grabbed your hand the one you'd been pinching with and held it between both of his. His palms were warm. Calloused from punching. Gentle in a way that always surprised you. "Look. I don't know who told you your nose was a problem. But they were wrong. And honestly? They probably sucked. People who point out stuff like that always suck."
You blinked. "That's... surprisingly insightful."
"Don't sound so surprised." He grinned, but it softened quickly. "I'm not good with words. You know that. I can't say pretty stuff like in those romance manga Okuyasu's always borrowing. But I know what I feel."
He leaned in. Forehead nearly touching yours.
"I feel like every part of you is just you. And I like you. All of you. Even the parts you're trying to pinch away."
Your eyes burned. "Josuke..."
"I'm serious." He pulled back just enough to look at you. His gaze dropped to your nose. Then back to your eyes.
He released your hand and cupped your face instead, both palms warm against your cheeks. His thumbs brushed the corners of your eyes. "There. That's better."
After a moment, he grinned again the real one, the bright one, the one that made your chest ache.
"So," he said. "You wanna order takeout and watch that stupid action movie you like? And maybe not pinch your nose even once?"
You swallowed. "Maybe not even once."
"Good." He squeezed your cheeks gently, then let go, already reaching for his phone. "Because I'll be watching. And I'll call you out every single time."
"You wouldn't."
"Try me."
He was already grinning
⋅˚₊‧ ୨୧ ‧₊˚ ⋅ ⋅˚₊‧ ୨୧ ‧₊˚ ⋅ ⋅˚₊‧ ୨୧ ‧₊˚ ⋅ ⋅˚₊‧ ୨୧ ‧₊˚ ⋅ ⋅˚₊‧୨
Guido mista.
The safehouse was cramped, the way all Passione safehouses were. A couch that smelled like old leather. A coffee table covered in gun magazines and empty pistachio shells. A window that faced a brick wall.
You were sitting on the floor, back against the couch, knees drawn up to your chest. Mista was sprawled on the couch above you, one arm dangling over the edge, the other resting on his stomach. The TV was on some crappy game show neither of you was watching.
His fingers were playing with your hair. Lazily. The way he did when he was comfortable.
You should have been comfortable too.
But your hand kept drifting up.
Pinch the bridge. Press the sides. Squeeze. Hoping, always hoping, that this time would be different. That this time your fingers would reshape cartilage like clay
Mista's hand stopped moving in your hair.
"You okay down there?" he asked.
"Fine."
"Liar."
You didn't answer. Your fingers pressed harder against your nose.
He shifted on the couch. You heard the leather creak. Felt him lean over the edge, his face appearing upside down in your peripheral vision.
"What's with the face-squishing?" he said. "You've been doing that for like ten minutes."
"I haven't."
"Babe.." He reached down and poked your cheek. "Talk to me."
You pulled your hand away from your face and tucked it under your thigh.
"It's nothing."
"It's not nothing. You're not a 'nothing' kind of person." He swung his legs over the edge of the couch and slid down to the floor beside you. "Come on. Spill."
You stared at the TV. The game show host was laughing at something. You hated his smile.
"I don't like my nose," you said quietly.
Mista went very still.
"What?"
Silence.
Then Mista said
"That's the stupidest thing I've ever heard."
You flinched.
He must have seen it, because his hand shot out and grabbed your wrist not hard, but firm..
"No, wait. That came out wrong. I didn't mean you're stupid. I mean the situation is stupid. The fact that you've been walking around thinking something's wrong with your nose is insane to me. Like, actually insane."
You tried to pull your wrist back. He didn't let go.
"Mista
"Hold on. Let me finish." He turned to face you fully, knees bumping yours. His other hand came up and tapped his own nose. "See this?"
"Your nose?"
"Yeah. My nose been broken three times. Three. First time was a fight when I was fifteen. Second time was a job gone wrong. Third time was-" He paused, frowned. "Actually, the third time was me walking through a glass door.."
Despite everything, you almost smiled.
"Point is," he continued, "my nose is a mess. It's got a bump here." He traced it. "And it's slightly crooked here. And when I breathe too hard, one nostril whistles. It's embarrassing."
"That's not-"
"But here's the thing." He grabbed your hand the one you'd been hiding and pressed your palm flat against his nose. "Feel that? That's a nose that's been through some shit. And I don't hate it. Because it's mine. It's the one I was born with. The one that's been on my face for every good thing that's ever happened to me."
He held your hand there. His eyes were dark and serious in a way they rarely were.
He pulled your hand away from his face and, before you could react, pressed your fingers against your own nose. Gentle. Almost reverent.
Your throat tightened. "Mista..."
"I've been with you for months," he said quietly. "And I've never once looked at your nose and thought anything other than that's part of their face and I like their face."
A tear slipped down. He wiped it with his thumb.
"Hey," he said. "No tears. Unless they're happy tears. Are those happy tears?"
"I don't know," you whispered.
"Then I'm gonna assume they are." He grinned lopsided warm, and so Mista. "Now. Can I kiss you? Or are you gonna start squishing your nose again if I do?"
You laughed. Wet and wobbly. "I don't know that either."
"Then we'll find out." He cupped your face in both hands big hands, warm hands, hands that had held guns and thrown punches and touched you like you were made of something precious. "Eyes on me."
You looked at him.
He leaned in and kissed the tip of your nose
Then he pulled back and raised an eyebrow. "How was that? Did you want to squish it?"
Your hand twitched. Old habit. But you shoved it under your thigh.
"No," you said. "I didn't."
"Good." He grinned. "Because I'm gonna do that a lot. Like, a lot a lot. You've been warned."
He pulled you against his chest, arms wrapping around you like a cage made of warmth and stubbornness. His chin rested on top of your head.
"You're okay," he murmured into your hair. "You're more than okay. And I'm gonna keep saying it until you believe me."
You pressed your face into his chest
