I love your work and I was wondering if you could do the pillarmen and Jofoes with a really sweet s/o with pent up rage. Like one day she gets into a fight (ends up killing the other person) and needs to be pulled away to get her to stop beating up the corpse. I understand if you don't want to do this.
JOFOES MY LOVESSSS 🥹🥹🫶🫶🫶 Also I kinda added some creative liberties here, like making the reader a doormat, always accommodating to others needs over her own, until all that rage builds up and releases in a fight cuz hell yeah! 🥹
Also sorry I did use the same prompt for each of the jofoes… I fell sick with the stomach virus so I’m feeling a wee bit under the weather.. but it’s okay I’m still posting!! 😋
Tags: Female reader, mentions of blood, killing and trauma, hurt and comfort
- Dio was first drawn to how sweet and accommodating you are, the way you always listened and tried to help others even when they walked all over you.
- He immediately recognized that kind of self-sacrificing kindness as something he could use, but your quiet stubbornness and trauma-hardened core made you more than just another pawn to him.
- You became his “perfect” accessory in public: polite, gentle, the ideal noblewoman by his side, while he enjoyed knowing only he saw the cracks in your smile and the tension in your hands.
- He encouraged your dependence on him, subtly isolating you from others with “advice” about how people were unworthy of your trust, reinforcing the idea that only he truly understood you.
- Years of being used and discarded left you with a deep, simmering rage that you never allowed yourself to show, because kindness was the only way you knew to be “safe.”
- Dio noticed the way you’d go quiet when someone crossed a line, how your eyes hardened for a second before you forced a calm reaction, and it intrigued him more than any overt cruelty.
- He would deliberately provoke small situations - letting others take advantage of you in front of him - just to watch how far your patience could stretch before it snapped.
- In private, he told you that mercy was a weakness and that people like those who used you deserved whatever you wanted to do to them, planting the seed that your anger was justified and even righteous.
- The breaking point comes when someone who has been exploiting your sweetness for a long time finally pushes too far - maybe mocking your trauma, maybe threatening to expose something Dio wanted kept quiet.
- At first you respond like you always do: trying to stay composed, voice trembling but polite, until a single word or gesture hits that old wound and everything in you snaps at once.
- You attack them with terrifying ferocity, driven less by the present insult and more by every time you were used, dismissed, or humiliated, your body moving faster than your conscious thought.
- You don’t stop when they fall; you keep hitting them long after they’ve gone limp, fists, nails, maybe even whatever object you can grab, as if you can punish every abuser you ever had through this one body.
- Dio lets it go on longer than any sane person would, watching with a detached fascination as your carefully maintained “good girl” façade disintegrates into raw, animal rage.
- Only when he decides it’s enough - for practicality, not morality - does he step in, catching your wrist mid-swing, his grip iron-strong and cold against your blood-slicked skin.
- He pulls you back against his chest while the corpse lies ruined at your feet, quietly commanding you to stop, not out of concern for the victim but to keep you from exhausting or exposing yourself unnecessarily.
- There’s no disgust in his eyes; instead, there’s pride, amusement, and a glint of possessiveness, as if he’s just confirmed that the fragile doll on his arm hides a monster worthy of standing beside him.
- When you come down from the rage and horror finally hits you - shaking, crying, maybe trying to scrub the blood from your hands - Dio is calm, almost gentle, telling you they deserved it and that he’s proud you finally fought back.
- He reframes the entire event as a liberation, insisting that this was the “real” you and that the world should be grateful he’s the one who gets to see it, not the people who only ever wanted to use you.
- From then on he protects you ruthlessly, not from danger but from guilt and consequences: covering up the body, manipulating witnesses, and making sure no one can trace the crime back to you.
- In private, he teases you about how adorable you look when you’re angry, but his touch lingers a little longer on the scars and bruises that came from others, almost reverent, because your brokenness produced a brutality he finds beautiful.
- He is initially intrigued that someone so sweet and trusting can wield Hamon, a power meant to protect and heal, yet carry so much buried anger.
- Your history of being used and discarded by others only reinforces his contempt for humans and makes you feel uniquely “worthy” of his attention.
- He can tell you’re full of pent-up rage from the way your expression goes flat for a second before you force a gentle smile.
- You are, to him, a fascinating contradiction: a soft-hearted human with the potential to become a weapon sharp enough to cut through anything.
- When you talk about your trauma, you expect to be told you’re overreacting; instead, Kars calmly agrees that those who hurt you deserve whatever comes to them.
- He’s amused that you still try to be kind despite everything, but he also finds it wasteful; he thinks your anger is rational and underutilized.
- He subtly encourages you to embrace your negative emotions, telling you your Hamon burns hotter when your convictions are genuine.
- During training, he notices how your Hamon flares hardest when you’re remembering the times you were used, your energy crackling with barely restrained fury.
- The person you fight is someone who has been exploiting you for a long time - using your trust, manipulating your kindness, dismissing your pain when it’s inconvenient.
- At first you try the usual route: talking it out, apologizing when you shouldn’t, trying to de-escalate even as they twist your words against you.
- Then they say something unforgivable - mocking your trauma, calling you naive or pathetic, acting like your suffering was your fault.
- Your Hamon responds before you consciously decide anything, crackling along your skin as that final insult snaps the last thread of restraint.
- The first attack is almost instinctive: maybe a Hamon-infused punch, a palm strike to the chest, or grabbing them and discharging a surge of energy straight into their body.
- You feel their flesh vibrate and burn from the inside, their scream cutting off mid-breath as your Hamon tears through them with brutal efficiency.
- They collapse, body jerking and smoking, but your rage isn’t satisfied; you’re shaking, breathing hard, tears in your eyes as you step in again.
- You keep channeling Hamon into every hit - bones cracking, skin blistering, their corpse twitching under the excess energy long after the life is gone.
- Even when it’s clear they’re dead, you can’t stop; you straddle their body, fists slamming down again and again with Hamon-laced strikes.
- Each blow is less about them and more about every person who ever used you, every time you swallowed your anger to stay “nice.”
- Your hands are burning, your arms ache, but you keep going, sobbing, as if you can finally punish the entire past through this one ruined body.
- The air smells like scorched flesh and ozone, your Hamon still buzzing violently around you, lighting up the scene in ugly flashes.
- Kars watches longer than anyone else ever would, eyes sharp, studying the way your Hamon responds to unfiltered emotion with something like pride.
- He only intervenes when he decides you’re going to injure yourself or waste energy on something no longer worth the effort.
- In an instant, he’s behind you, catching your wrist mid-swing with an effortless, unyielding grip that snuffs the next burst of Hamon.
- He yanks you back against him, pinning your arms with casual strength, murmuring in your ear in a calm, almost soothing tone: “Enough. You’ve reduced them to less than nothing.”
- As the adrenaline fades and you realize what you’ve done, the horror hits - your breathing stutters, your legs weaken, and the corpse suddenly looks real instead of symbolic.
- You might start apologizing, insisting you didn’t mean to go that far, that you’re not supposed to use Hamon like this, that you’re not a monster.
- Kars tilts your face away from the body, telling you that this was not a crime but a correction, that the weak and cruel simply met a fitting end.
- He refuses to let you label yourself as monstrous - instead, he calls your actions “honest” and “beautifully decisive,” framing it as the moment you stopped letting others break you.
- He effortlessly handles the aftermath - removing traces, destroying evidence, altering the environment - treating the cleanup like a mildly tedious chore.
- When guilt gnaws at you later, he speaks with cold certainty: your victim was insignificant, but your reaction proved your will to survive and your refusal to be used again.
- He becomes even more protective, not out of fear you’ll snap, but because he loves that the world still assumes you’re harmless while he has seen the blazing fury beneath.
- In private, he teases you softly about how intense you became, sometimes guiding your hands in training and saying things like, “Next time, use that rage on command, not only when someone breaks you,” with unmistakable pride.
- He’s struck by how sweet and respectful you are despite how much you’ve suffered, and he quietly considers that a kind of strength rather than weakness.
- He can sense the tension beneath your softness - the way your jaw tightens, your hands clench, and your eyes go distant when someone crosses your boundaries.
- Your history of being used and betrayed by humans makes him protective; he sees it as proof that your honor was never returned in kind.
- To him, you are both fragile and formidable: someone who feels deeply, yet endures more than most warriors he has met.
- When you tell him about your trauma, you half-expect to be told to “move on,” but Wamuu listens in steady silence and takes every word seriously.
- He never says you are overreacting; instead, he calls what happened to you disgraceful and unworthy of someone with your heart.
- He respects that you try not to hate, but he also reminds you that anger is not dishonor when directed at those who abused your trust.
- During Hamon training, he notices your energy flare violently whenever you remember those who used you, the air trembling with the force of your restrained rage.
- The person you fight is someone who has repeatedly taken advantage of your kindness - lying, manipulating, dismissing your feelings while pretending to care.
- At first, you follow your usual pattern: trying to reason, explaining calmly, apologizing even when you’ve done nothing wrong.
- They push further, trivializing your trauma, mocking you for being “too trusting,” maybe even laughing at how easily others used you.
- Something in you snaps; your Hamon flickers to life like a switch being thrown, your body moving before your mind catches up.
- The first lethal move is almost instinctual: a Hamon-charged strike to the chest, a palm to the throat, or a surge of energy through a grabbed limb.
- You feel their body convulse under your touch, Hamon ripping through their insides, making them scream and then abruptly fall silent.
- They drop, twitching and smoking, but your heart is pounding too hard, your vision too red for you to register that it’s already over.
- You step in again, channeling more Hamon into every hit, each impact sending another brutal shock through a body that can no longer fight back.
- You mount the corpse without thinking, fists and palms slamming down again and again, each one crackling with Hamon.
- Bones snap, flesh burns, and the smell of scorched tissue mixes with your own ragged breathing as you sob, scream, or go frighteningly silent.
- You’re not just striking them; you’re striking every memory of being used, every moment you stayed quiet instead of defending yourself.
- Even when the body is clearly lifeless, you can’t stop - your Hamon keeps surging, lighting your hands in harsh flashes as you keep beating what’s no longer there.
- Wamuu watches longer than any human could stomach, not out of cruelty, but because he’s honoring the extent of your pain and the power you’re finally unleashing.
- When he decides it has gone far enough - when your body begins to shake from exhaustion - he moves, wind swirling around him as he appears at your side.
- He catches your wrist mid-strike with unyielding but careful strength, his grip firm enough to halt your Hamon flow without hurting you.
- In one smooth motion, he pulls you back against him, wrapping an arm around your middle while the other pins your hands, his voice low and steady: “Enough. You will destroy yourself, not them.”
- As the adrenaline fades, the reality of what you’ve done hits you - the corpse looks hideously real, and your stomach churns with guilt and horror.
- You might start shaking, trying to pull away from him to stare at your hands, mumbling that you didn’t mean to, that you’re not supposed to use Hamon like this.
- Wamuu gently turns you away from the body, shielding your view with his own form, telling you your rage was born from wounds, not malice.
- He doesn’t call you a monster; he calls you a warrior pushed beyond your limit, and says the fault lies with those who drove you there.
- He takes responsibility for the aftermath without hesitation, treating the cleanup and concealment as his duty, not yours.
- When you’re alone, he lets you shake, cry, or go numb in his arms, holding you as if you might shatter, speaking quietly about honor, pain, and the right to defend yourself.
- He encourages you to train so your rage can become controlled strength rather than something that only erupts when you break.
- From then on, he is even more protective - placing himself between you and anyone who might use you again, not just as a shield, but as someone who has seen the fury you carry and respects it instead of fearing it.
- He’s drawn to how sweet, patient, and trusting you are despite everything you’ve gone through, and it genuinely fascinates him that you still want to believe in people.
- He notices every tiny sign of your pent-up rage - the way your smile falters, your hands tremble, your gaze goes distant when someone crosses a line.
- Your history of being used and discarded makes him both furious and entertained; furious because anyone would dare treat what’s his that way, entertained because he knows that kind of pressure always explodes.
- He adores the dissonance: you, the kind-hearted Hamon user, and the simmering storm in your chest that no one else takes seriously until it’s far too late.
- When you vent about your trauma, you expect to be told to calm down or forgive; instead, Esidisi gets heated on your behalf, pacing, ranting, calling your abusers worms.
- He tells you outright that your anger is justified, that you have every right to hate the people who used you, and he never downplays what you feel.
- He loves seeing your Hamon flare when you’re emotional - little sparks in your eyes, warmth in your hands, the air buzzing when you’re upset.
- In training, he teases you about how much stronger your Hamon feels when you stop pretending everything is fine, coaxing you to stop apologizing for being angry.
- The person you fight is someone who’s repeatedly taken advantage of you: guilt-tripping you, twisting your kindness into a leash, and making you feel crazy when you protest.
- At first you follow the same script you always do: trying to talk calmly, explain your feelings, make peace even when you’re the one who was hurt.
- Then they go too far - mocking your trauma, calling you stupid for trusting people, acting like you deserved to be used because you were “too soft.”
- That’s the moment something inside you finally breaks; your Hamon flickers alive on instinct, your body moving before your mind can catch up.
- The first lethal move is almost automatic: a Hamon-infused punch to the chest, a grab to the throat, or a surge of energy through whatever part of them you’re holding.
- You feel their body jerk under your hands, Hamon ripping through nerves and flesh, burning from the inside out as they scream and then go limp.
- They fall, twitching and smoking, but your heart is pounding in your ears, and all you can see is every person who ever used you superimposed on their face.
- You slam your hands down again, channeling raw, unstable Hamon into every strike, each burst sending another cruel shock through a body that’s already dead or close to it.
- Even after their life is clearly gone, you keep going - straddling the corpse, fists and palms crashing down with uncontrolled Hamon, bones cracking and skin blistering.
- You’re sobbing, screaming, or horribly silent as your energy burns and tears them apart, as if you can finally make every past abuser feel what you felt.
- Blood, the smell of scorched flesh, and the hiss of your Hamon fill the air - your hands hurt, your throat hurts, but you can’t stop.
- At that point, you’re not even aware it’s a corpse - you’re just hitting, over and over, trying to erase years of hurt in a single, violent moment.
- Esidisi watches longer than anyone “normal” would, eyes bright with a mix of concern, pride, and his own twisted excitement at seeing you snap.
- When he finally decides you’re going to hurt yourself - or that there’s nothing left worth hitting - he strides over, heat radiating off him in a warning.
- He catches your wrist mid-swing, his grip scorching but controlled, snuffing out your next burst of Hamon with a force that makes your whole arm jolt.
- In one smooth motion, he drags you back against his chest, pinning your arms with ease while you thrash, his voice rough but oddly soothing: “That’s enough. You’ll tear yourself apart.”
- As the adrenaline dies down, reality slams into you - you see the ruined body, the burns, the blood on your hands, and nausea and horror flood your chest.
- You might start to babble apologies, insisting you didn’t mean to kill them, that Hamon isn’t supposed to be used like this, that you’re a horrible person.
- Esidisi turns your face away from the corpse, thumb wiping at your tears or blood, scolding you - not for the killing, but for daring to call yourself horrible.
- He tells you they deserved it, that weak, cruel creatures like them are the real problem, and that what you did was simply your heart finally refusing to be trampled.
- He handles the aftermath with alarming efficiency - melting, burning, destroying evidence - almost cheerful about cleaning up your mess because it proves you need him.
- When guilt keeps you up at night, he talks you through it with unexpected intensity, insisting that your rage was born from pain, not malice, and that you were cornered for too long.
- He becomes more protective and possessive than ever, not just because he cares, but because he loves that beneath your gentle exterior is a force violent enough to kill.
- In private, he teases you about how terrifying you were, calling you his “little inferno,” and tells you that next time someone dares to use you, you won’t have to break - you can choose to burn them on purpose.
- He is drawn to how sweet and calm you are, how you approach even a being like him without immediate fear or hatred.
- He observes, quietly, that people exploit your kindness - taking from you, dismissing your pain - and he files that away as evidence of human ugliness.
- He notices the tension beneath your softness: the way your eyes go blank for a second when someone crosses a line, the way your hands curl just out of sight.
- To him, you are an anomaly: a human who offers trust after being used, yet carries a pressure inside like a coiled spring.
- When you talk about your trauma, you expect to be talked down; instead, Santana just listens, eyes half-lidded, body still, absorbing every detail.
- He doesn’t say “you’re overreacting”; he simply states, in his flat way, that those who used you are “weak things” who survive by clinging to stronger hosts.
- Around him, your Hamon feels strangely sharper, because you don’t have to pretend everything is fine; the energy flares when you let yourself be honest.
- He watches the way your Hamon spikes with your emotions, silently memorizing how your breathing, voice, and posture shift as your anger rises.
- The person you fight is someone who’s been using you for a long time - guilt-tripping you, belittling your boundaries, blaming you whenever you finally protest.
- You start with your usual pattern: trying to talk it out, apologizing when you get loud, explaining yourself over and over to someone who isn’t listening.
- Then they cross a line: mocking your trauma, calling you stupid or pathetic for trusting people, maybe even laughing about the times others hurt you.
- Something in you snaps; your Hamon stirs like a reflex, heat and light rising through your veins before you even decide to attack.
- The first fatal move is almost unconscious: a Hamon-charged shove, a hand to their chest, a grip on their neck as you shout back at them.
- You feel your energy surge into them - bones vibrating, muscles seizing, their scream cut off as Hamon tears through their body from the inside.
- They collapse to the ground, twitching and smoking, but all you see is every time you swallowed your anger to stay “nice.”
- You step forward again, pouring more Hamon into every strike - each blow sending another brutal wave through a body that’s already past saving.
- Even once they’re dead, you don’t stop; you straddle the corpse and keep hitting, palms and fists cracking down, Hamon sparking and burning as it pours out of you.
- Flesh blisters, bones give way, the smell of scorched tissue mixes with your ragged breathing and broken sobs.
- You’re barely aware it’s a corpse - in your mind you’re finally punishing every time you were used, lied to, laughed at, dismissed.
- Your hands hurt, your arms shake, but you keep going, Hamon stuttering out in violent bursts as if your body refuses to let the rage go quietly.
- Santana watches longer than any human would, not out of cruelty, but because he’s studying you - the way your power behaves when you abandon restraint.
- When he decides you’re beginning to damage yourself more than the body, he moves, soundless and sudden, appearing at your side in an instant.
- One hand closes around your wrist mid-swing, absorbing or diffusing the Hamon with his own body as if it’s nothing, stopping your blow like it weighs no more than air.
- The other arm hooks around your waist and lifts you cleanly off the corpse, holding you against him while your legs kick or dangle, your energy still crackling uselessly.
- As the adrenaline crashes, the scene finally registers: the ruined body, the blood and burns, your own hands shaking violently.
- You choke on apologies - you “didn’t mean to,” Hamon “isn’t supposed to be used like this,” you “aren’t supposed to be like this.”
- Santana tilts your face away from the corpse with a gentle but inhumanly steady hand, his expression unreadable but gaze focused entirely on you.
- In his flat, quiet voice, he tells you the truth as he sees it: that the one who used you chose this fate, and that what broke in you was not goodness, but patience.
- He handles the aftermath with eerie calm - absorbing, dissolving, or otherwise disposing of the body and evidence using his own abilities, leaving almost nothing behind.
- When you shake or cry later, he doesn’t tell you to stop - he simply sits with you, sometimes pulling you into his lap or against his chest, one arm resting around you like a band of iron.
- He begins to take your environment more seriously, positioning himself - literally and figuratively - between you and anyone who might try to use you again.
- Quietly, he starts encouraging you to train: not to make you more violent, but to teach you how to direct that rage with precision, so it doesn’t have to explode and hurt you when someone finally pushes you too far.
- He adores that you’re sweet, trustworthy, and seemingly harmless, the kind of person everyone underestimates and leans on without ever giving back.
- He can read the tightness in your jaw, the way your eyes go flat for a heartbeat when someone crosses a boundary, and he recognizes that as dormant violence, not weakness.
- The fact that you rarely use your Stand fascinates him; it tells him you fear your own power more than you fear others, and he finds that deliciously ironic.
- To him, you’re the perfect contrast to his own theatrical cruelty: a quiet, gentle lover carrying a weapon and a fury no one expects.
- Your trauma comes from being used, guilt-tripped, manipulated, and discarded, so you learned to survive by being endlessly patient and agreeable.
- When you talk about it, you tend to minimize it - “It wasn’t that bad,” “They probably didn’t mean it” - but Dio hears the hatred you won’t admit.
- He never tells you to be the bigger person; he tells you that humans who feed on gentle hearts are nothing but livestock who got too bold.
- He knows your Stand is dangerous and that you hate using it, which only convinces him it’s perfectly suited for when your patience finally ends.
- The person you fight is someone who has been exploiting you for a long time: stealing from you, lying to you, playing victim whenever you try to set boundaries.
- You start the confrontation like you always do - trying to explain calmly, apologizing when your voice shakes, begging them to understand instead of attacking.
- They cross a line when they mock your trauma, twist it as proof you’re “dramatic,” or laugh about how easy it was to use you because you’re “too trusting.”
- That’s when your Stand reacts faster than your thoughts, answering the rage you’ve swallowed for years in a single, lethal surge.
- Your Stand manifests almost on instinct, the air around you warping or going razor‑sharp, its presence radiating a killing intent that shocks even you.
- Maybe it tears through their body in an instant, crushes their ribs, snaps their neck, or rips their soul out in a way only Stand users can perceive.
- The first strike is enough to kill them - or very nearly - but you’re too far gone to register that; the only thing you feel is that it still isn’t enough.
- You command your Stand again and again, each blow more vicious, each attack driven by the memory of every time you let someone hurt you because you were “too nice.”
- When they finally drop, your Stand doesn’t vanish; it looms over the corpse as you step in physically, fists flying, heel slamming down, knuckles splitting skin.
- You alternate between Stand attacks and your own bare hands, mauling the body long after the life is gone - bones cracking, flesh tearing, blood spraying your clothes.
- To you, it isn’t one person anymore; it’s a stand‑in for every betrayal, every “friend” who used you, every moment you swallowed your anger to keep the peace.
- Your Stand mirrors your frenzy, its aura flaring, strikes growing more erratic and brutal, until you’re both just punishing meat that can no longer fight back.
- Dio lets it go on longer than any sane observer would, leaning back in the shadows, watching with a mixture of pride, arousal, and clinical interest.
- He steps in not when the victim dies, but when your body begins to shake from exertion and your Stand’s movements become sloppy from emotional overload.
- Time seems to stop - whether he actually stops time or just moves impossibly fast - and suddenly his hand is around your wrist mid‑swing, your Stand halted by The World or by his overwhelming presence.
- He yanks you back against his chest, pinning your arms and forcing your Stand to withdraw under his dominating will, his voice cold and smooth at your ear: “Enough. You’ll ruin yourself, not them.”
- As the frenzy leaves you, the horror hits: you see what’s left of the body, feel the blood drying on your skin, and your stomach twists with guilt and self‑disgust.
- You might stammer that you didn’t mean to go that far, that you’re not supposed to use your Stand like this, that you’re a monster.
- Dio turns your face away from the corpse, fingers digging into your chin just enough to ground you, eyes burning into yours as he tells you that monsters are weak things who pretend to be kind - while you are simply honest.
- He reframes everything as inevitability: they chose to use you, they chose to provoke you, and your Stand simply passed sentence when your heart had finally had enough.
- He manages the cleanup effortlessly, using his power, influence, and other Stand users to erase evidence and manipulate witnesses until the incident is nothing but a rumor.
- When guilt keeps you awake, he sprawls with you in his bed or on his throne, letting you tremble against him while he whispers that your rage is proof you won’t be livestock anymore.
- He becomes even more possessive - less because he fears you losing control, more because he’s tasted what you can do and refuses to let anyone else push you to that point.
- In private, he teases you about that side of you, calling you his “quiet little executioner,” and starts encouraging you to train with your Stand - not to make you cruel, but so that next time, you don’t have to break to be deadly.
- He’s drawn to how sweet, polite, and reliable you are, the kind of person coworkers and acquaintances lean on and then forget about.
- He immediately recognizes that people use you because you’re trustworthy and accommodating, and he quietly resents them for disturbing the “peace” of your life.
- He notices the flashes in your eyes when someone crosses a line, the way your smile freezes for a second before you smooth it over.
- To him, you’re a perfect mirror: a person who wants a quiet life but carries something lethal beneath their calm exterior.
- Your trauma comes from being used and manipulated by people who twisted your kindness against you, leaving you afraid of saying no or setting boundaries.
- When you talk about it, you downplay everything, calling it “no big deal,” but Kira hears every tiny shift in your tone and files each offense away.
- He knows about your Stand and how dangerous it really is, and he finds it very telling that you almost never use it unless you’re cornered.
- He never tells you to be forgiving - instead, he insists that people who repeatedly disturb your peace are “ill-mannered trash” that shouldn’t remain in your orbit.
- The person you fight is someone who’s been exploiting you for a long time - borrowing money, dumping emotional baggage on you, twisting your words whenever you protest.
- You start the confrontation like always: trying to stay calm, explaining how they hurt you, apologizing when your voice gets shaky, begging them to understand.
- Then they mock your trauma or call you pathetic for being “so sensitive,” acting like you should be grateful they even “put up” with you.
- That last comment hits every raw nerve at once, and your Stand stirs before you consciously decide to use it, answering a rage that’s been building for years.
- Your Stand appears in a snap - sharp, efficient, predatory in a way that doesn’t match your usual softness - and locks onto the target.
- Maybe it detonates them from the inside, shreds them with a single precise blow, or severs something vital in an instant; either way, the first hit is effectively fatal.
- They barely have time to scream before their body breaks, but in your head it’s still not enough, because the pain they caused you wasn’t quick or clean.
- You keep ordering your Stand to hit them again, to crush, tear, or erase, each command fueled by another memory of being used and humiliated.
- Once they go down, your Stand doesn’t retreat - it lingers over the body, and you move in physically too, fists slamming into what’s left.
- You’re hitting a corpse - bone cracking under your knuckles, flesh already ruined by your Stand - but to you, it’s every abuser at once.
- Your Stand mirrors your frenzy, striking again and again, turning the body into something unrecognizable while you sob, scream, or go frighteningly silent.
- You don’t register the moment life leaves them; all you know is that you’re finally not swallowing your rage, and it feels like you can’t stop or you’ll fall apart.
- Kira lets it go on longer than any “normal” boyfriend would, watching with a stillness that hides a dark, genuine fascination.
- He steps in when your breathing starts to hitch and your movements get sloppy - when you’re about to hurt yourself more than the ruined body.
- One moment you’re mid‑swing, the next his hand is wrapped around your wrist, fingers firm but precise, freezing your Stand and your body at once.
- He pulls you back against his chest, pinning your arms with calm, practiced strength, his voice low and controlled in your ear: “That’s enough. You’ll injure yourself.”
- As the adrenaline drains, you finally see what’s left of them: the mangled body, the blood on your hands, your Stand looming like proof of what you’ve done.
- Panic hits - you start apologizing, insisting you didn’t mean to go that far, that you’re not supposed to use your Stand like this, that you’re a terrible person.
- Kira turns your face away from the mess, thumb gently wiping at your cheek, eyes soft but unreadable as he tells you they brought this on themselves.
- He frames it as inevitability: someone who repeatedly abuses your trust is choosing to risk your breaking point, and your Stand merely delivered the outcome.
- He handles the cleanup with chilling efficiency - using his own methods and planning to erase every trace, every witness, every connection.
- When guilt keeps you shaking, he sits with you in his neat, quiet space, holding your hand or letting you lean into him while insisting you’re not a monster, just someone pushed too far.
- He becomes even more protective of your routine and environment, subtly steering you away from people who smell like trouble and cutting off anyone who might try to use you again.
- In private, he’s almost reverent about what he saw - your Stand, your rage, your refusal to be used anymore - and he starts encouraging you to understand your power better, so next time you don’t have to shatter to defend yourself.
- He is drawn to how sweet, quiet, and trustworthy you are, the ideal “invisible” partner who doesn’t draw attention and seems easy to overlook.
- He immediately recognizes that people have used and discarded you; rather than seeing that as weakness, he sees it as proof of how stupid and predictable others are.
- He notices the way your eyes harden for a second when someone hurts you, how your smile freezes before you force it back into place, and he files that away as hidden volatility.
- To him, you are a beautiful contradiction: the gentle lover at his side, and a potential weapon no one suspects until it’s too late.
- Your trauma comes from constantly being used - emotionally, financially, socially - until you learned to survive by being endlessly patient and agreeable.
- When you talk about it, you soften every detail, insisting it “wasn’t that bad,” but Diavolo hears the bitterness hidden between your words.
- He knows you have a deadly Stand that you rarely use, and your fear of it only convinces him it’s perfectly suited for when your patience finally runs out.
- He doesn’t tell you to forgive; he calmly states that people who repeatedly take advantage of you are liabilities that should be removed.
- The person you fight is someone who’s been exploiting you for a long time - lying, guilt-tripping, twisting your kindness into a leash they yank whenever it suits them.
- You start the argument the way you always do: trying to explain, trying to be fair, apologizing for being “too sensitive” even when they’re clearly in the wrong.
- They cross the line when they mock your trauma, call you pathetic for being so trusting, or sneer that you should have “known better” than to expect decency.
- That last sentence snaps something in you; your Stand responds faster than thought, emerging with a killing intent that has been building for years.
- Your Stand manifests suddenly, its presence heavy and lethal, startling even you with how sharp and ready it feels.
- Maybe it tears through their body in an instant, crushes their skull, crushes their heart, or destroys them in a way only Stand users can fully perceive - but the first blow is already fatal.
- They barely have time to realize what’s happening; one second they’re sneering, the next they’re broken, collapsing under the force of your Stand’s power.
- But to you, it doesn’t feel like enough - their one body cannot balance all the times you swallowed your anger just to keep the peace.
- Once they fall, you don’t stop; your Stand keeps striking, and you step in with your own fists, feet, whatever you can use to hurt what’s left.
- You’re aware, somewhere distant, that they’re already dead, but your body doesn’t care - every punch is for another memory of being used and humiliated.
- Your Stand mirrors your frenzy, hitting over and over, turning the corpse into something unrecognizable - bones shattering, blood splattering, flesh pulped.
- You’re sobbing, screaming, or terrifyingly silent as you beat the body, lost in a tunnel vision where this is the only way to make the past stop hurting.
- Diavolo lets it go on far longer than anyone sane would - watching from just out of reach, studying every movement with cold, analytical intensity.
- He only intervenes when your movements start to falter and your Stand’s blows grow sloppy - when you’re on the edge of hurting yourself more than the corpse.
- To you it feels like everything skips - one moment you’re mid-swing, the next his hand is clamped around your wrist, your Stand frozen as his overwhelming presence cuts straight through your rage.
- He pulls you back hard against his chest, pinning your arms and forcing your Stand to withdraw with a commandingly quiet tone: “That’s enough. You’ll destroy yourself.”
- As your Stand dissolves and adrenaline fades, you finally see the state of the body - the blood on your hands, the mess around you - and horror rushes in.
- You start to panic, insisting you didn’t mean to go that far, that you’re not supposed to use your Stand like that, that you must be a monster.
- Diavolo turns your face away from the corpse, fingers digging into your chin just enough to ground you, eyes cold but focused entirely on you.
- He tells you they chose this ending the moment they decided to use you - your Stand, he says, delivered judgment when your tolerance finally ran dry.
- He handles the aftermath with terrifying efficiency - erasing evidence, altering timelines and perceptions as needed, making the entire event vanish like it was never there.
- When guilt claws at you later, he holds you close in the dark, voice low as he insists that what you did does not make you weak or filthy - it proves you will not be prey anymore.
- He becomes even more protective and possessive, tightening control over who gets near you, not out of fear you’ll snap again, but because he won’t allow anyone to push you to that edge without his say.
- In private, he praises the power you showed, calling it the “truth” of your heart, and begins encouraging you to understand and train your Stand - not so you become cruel, but so you never have to break that badly to defend yourself again.
- He is immediately drawn to how sweet, patient, and trustworthy you are, the sort of person others lean on and quietly drain without ever really seeing.
- He quickly notices the fractures: the way your eyes go distant when someone disrespects you, how your shoulders tense before you force yourself to smile.
- Your history of being used and discarded fits neatly into his worldview about people’s selfishness and “fate,” and he interprets your survival as proof you are chosen.
- To him, you are both a cherished believer and a dangerous vessel - someone whose hurt, if directed, could become something holy in his mind.
- You have a deadly Stand, but you avoid using it; you’re scared of what it means about you and what you might do if you stop holding back.
- When you talk about your trauma, you soften the details, blame yourself, or excuse others, expecting to be told to forgive and move on.
- Pucci never tells you that. Instead, he speaks softly about how the world “used” you because you were destined to be more than what they wanted from you.
- He sees the way your aura shifts when you’re angry, how your self-control strains, and understands that if you ever break, your Stand will not show mercy.
- The person you fight is someone who has treated you like a resource for years - taking your time, your money, your emotional energy and then mocking you behind your back.
- You start as you always do: calm words, a shaky voice, trying to explain how they hurt you, apologizing just for raising the issue at all.
- They cross the line when they belittle your trauma, call you pathetic for being “so sensitive,” or laugh about how easy it was to use you because you’re “too nice.”
- That’s when something gives way inside you - the years of swallowed rage finally line up behind one thought: they don’t get to do this to you anymore.
- Your Stand manifests almost on reflex, a presence you usually keep smothered suddenly standing between you and your abuser like a drawn blade.
- Its first strike is precise and devastating - crushing something vital, tearing through them, or erasing what keeps them alive in a way no normal person could see coming.
- They barely have time to register your Stand’s power; one heartbeat they’re sneering, the next they’re broken, falling in a way that feels shockingly final.
- But for you, one death isn’t enough to match the years of humiliation, doubt, and self‑blame they helped pile onto your back.
- When they hit the ground, your Stand doesn’t vanish; it hovers, ready to obey, as you step in physically and let your body speak.
- You hit them again and again - bare hands, feet, anything - while your Stand joins in, amplifying every blow so bones crack, flesh splits, and the body turns into something unrecognizable.
- You’re sobbing, screaming, or disturbingly quiet, pouring every “I forgave you,” every “It’s okay,” every time you swallowed your pain into each strike.
- You don’t distinguish between them and your past anymore; it’s all the same cruelty, and the corpse is the only thing in reach to punish.
- Pucci watches longer than anyone “normal” would, eyes intent, seeing not madness but revelation: you finally acting without self‑betrayal.
- He steps in only when your movements grow ragged and your Stand’s strikes start to look more like self‑harm than justice - when you’re close to shattering.
- One moment your fist and Stand are mid‑swing - the next, his hand is around your wrist, his presence cutting straight through the frenzy like a commandment.
- He pulls you back firmly against him, arms caging yours, voice low and even against your ear: “That’s enough. You’ve already judged them.”
- As the rage drains out, the scene comes into focus: blood, ruin, your Stand looming like proof of what you just did.
- Panic claws up your throat - you stammer that you didn’t mean to go that far, that you’re not supposed to use your Stand like this, that you’re a horrible person.
- Pucci turns your head away from the body, hand steady on your cheek, gaze full of a soft, unsettling certainty.
- He tells you that your reaction was not “evil,” but inevitable - that someone who chose to use you invited this end, and your Stand simply expressed the truth in your heart.
- He handles the aftermath calmly: planning what must disappear, who must “forget,” and how to fold this event neatly into the unseen flow of fate.
- When guilt haunts you, he is there - arms around you, voice threaded with conviction - as he insists that your rage is proof you are still alive, still capable of rejecting those who try to break you.
- He becomes more protective and possessive, seeing you as something precious and powerful that the world doesn’t deserve to touch carelessly again.
- In private, he speaks almost reverently about what he saw: your Stand, your fury, your refusal to be used anymore, and gently nudges you toward understanding your power instead of fearing it - so next time, you can choose your justice without destroying yourself in the process.
- He is immediately drawn to how sweet, polite, and reliable you are, the kind of person everyone leans on and quietly exploits without ever seeing your limits.
- He notes the way your smile freezes when someone crosses a boundary, how your eyes sharpen for a second before you swallow it down, and recognizes that as dormant violence, not weakness.
- Your history of being used and discarded slides perfectly into his worldview about unfairness and “sacrifice,” and he interprets your survival as proof that you deserve better “terms” from the world.
- To him, you’re ideal: a lover who craves a peaceful life, hiding a Stand and a rage powerful enough to enforce that peace when pushed.
- You have a deadly Stand, but you almost never use it; you’re afraid of what it says about you, and of what might happen if you stop holding back.
- When you talk about your trauma, you soften everything - “It wasn’t that bad,” “They were stressed,” “I should’ve known better” - expecting to be told to forgive and move on.
- Valentine doesn’t do that - he calmly calls those people opportunists, parasites, or “unworthy beneficiaries” of your kindness.
- He pays close attention to the way your aura shifts when you’re angry, how your restraint trembles, and understands that if you snap, your Stand will make it absolute.
- The person you fight is someone who’s used you for years - taking your time, emotional labor, even money, and then dismissing you when you need support.
- You start the argument like you always do: explaining, rationalizing, apologizing for being “too sensitive,” begging them to listen instead of lashing out.
- They cross the line when they mock your trauma or call you pathetic for being so trusting, maybe even implying that everything that happened to you was your own fault.
- That last insult lines up perfectly with every past hurt you swallowed, and something in you finally decides: they don’t get to walk away from this.
- Your Stand comes out almost on instinct, its presence heavy and precise - like a weapon that’s been waiting patiently for permission.
- Its first strike is surgical and catastrophic: maybe it warps space, tears through their body, crushes something vital, or erases them in a way only a Stand can.
- They barely have time to realize they’re in danger - one moment they’re sneering, the next they’re broken, falling in a way that feels irrevocably final.
- But to you, one clean death feels like mercy they never showed you, and mercy is the last thing you want to give them.
- Once they collapse, you don’t stop; your Stand hovers like a specter while you move in physically, hands colliding with what’s left of them.
- You punch, kick, maybe grab them by the clothes and slam them down again and again while your Stand adds its own blows - each hit turning bone to mush, flesh to indistinct ruin.
- You’re sobbing, screaming, or horribly silent, every strike echoing with years of “It’s fine,” “I understand,” “Don’t worry about me” that you forced out of your mouth.
- In your head, the body isn’t just them - it’s every user, every liar, every person who smiled and took and took and took.
- Valentine allows it to continue far longer than any ordinary partner would, watching with a cold, focused intensity that mixes concern with dark admiration.
- He steps in only when your movements start to falter and your Stand’s blows become frantic instead of precise - when you’re clearly at the edge of breaking yourself.
- To you, everything seems to jump: one moment your fist and Stand are mid‑swing, the next his gloved hand is clamped firmly around your wrist, his presence snapping you out of the frenzy.
- He pulls you back against him, pinning your arms with calm, practiced strength, voice low and immovable against your ear: “That’s enough. Any more would be wasteful - for you.”
- As your Stand dissolves and the rage ebbs, the scene finally hits you: the mangled body, the blood on your hands, the metallic smell in the air.
- Panic crashes in - you stammer that you didn’t mean to go that far, that you shouldn’t have used your Stand like that, that you must be a monster.
- Valentine turns your face away from the corpse, thumb steady at your cheek, gaze sharp but strangely gentle as he insists that monsters are those who repeatedly chose to hurt you.
- He reframes it as balance: they abused what you offered, they gambled with your breaking point, and your Stand simply delivered the overdue consequence.
- He handles the aftermath methodically: connections erased, stories rewritten, any trace of the confrontation folded neatly into a narrative only he understands.
- When guilt gnaws at you later, he holds you close in private, voice soft but absolute as he tells you that your rage is not proof of evil, but of a heart that finally refused to be exploited.
- He becomes even more protective and controlling of your environment - not just to shield you, but to ensure no one else gets close enough to push you like that again.
- In quiet moments, he speaks with a near-reverence about what he saw: your Stand, your fury, your refusal to be used, and he gently encourages you to learn your power instead of fearing it, so that next time you can choose how far you go instead of shattering.
- He loves that you’re sweet, helpful, and easy to underestimate, the kind of person everyone treats like background support.
- He clocked your trauma and history of being used almost instantly, and it amused him how you still try to believe the best in people.
- He notices the way your gaze goes blank for a second when someone crosses a line, that micro‑hesitation before you smile it off.
- To him, you’re perfect: a cute, “normal” girlfriend with a deadly Stand you hate using and a rage you don’t know what to do with.
- You rarely talk about your trauma unless he coaxes it out, and when you do, you downplay it, blaming yourself for trusting the wrong people.
- Toru never tells you to “forgive” - he shrugs and calls them pathetic, selfish, or not worth your time, validating your anger but in this lazy, offhand way.
- He knows your Stand is brutal, and he’s very interested in the fact that you’re scared of it - fear means you’ll only use it when you’re truly pushed.
- Sometimes he casually suggests that if people keep walking over you, “something bad” is bound to happen sooner or later, planting the idea in your head.
- The person you fight is someone who has been using you for a long time: taking your help, your time, your emotional energy, and then disappearing when you need anything.
- You start out like always, trying to be calm and fair, explaining how they hurt you, apologizing for sounding “dramatic” even when you’re just telling the truth.
- They cross the line when they mock your trauma or call you pathetic for being so trusting, acting like you deserved to be used because you “let it happen.”
- Every time you stayed quiet, every time you forgave, piles up in one instant, and your Stand answers before you can talk yourself down.
- Your Stand appears in a snap, its presence heavy and suffocating, the air around you feeling wrong as it locks onto them.
- The first attack is clean and catastrophic - warping space, crushing them, slicing through something vital, or erasing them in a way no normal eye can follow.
- They barely have a chance to react - one heartbeat they’re sneering, the next they’re broken, collapsing in a way your gut instantly recognizes as fatal.
- But it doesn’t feel like enough, not compared to everything they and people like them took from you, so you keep going.
- Even after they’ve clearly died, you don’t stop; your Stand lingers like a predator while you move in physically, grabbing their clothes, dragging, hitting.
- You beat the body - fists, kicks, maybe slamming them into the ground again and again - while your Stand repeats its own merciless strikes, turning the corpse into wreckage.
- You’re crying, screaming, or eerily silent as your anger finally has somewhere to go, every blow echoing with years of “It’s fine” and “Don’t worry about me.”
- You don’t really see them anymore - you see every memory of being used, laughed at, dismissed, and the corpse is the only thing you can reach to punish.
- Toru watches longer than anyone normal would, a little stunned, a little delighted, genuinely fascinated by how far you go once you snap.
- When your movements turn shaky and your Stand’s attacks grow sloppy - when you’re clearly close to hurting yourself - he finally steps in.
- One moment you and your Stand are mid‑swing, the next his arm is around your waist, hand clamped around your wrist, dragging you back with more strength than he usually shows.
- He pins your arms against his chest, murmuring into your ear in that soft, almost amused tone: “Hey, hey, that’s enough. You’ll hurt yourself, babe.”
- As the rage drains out, the reality hits - the ruined body, the blood on your hands, the metallic smell stinging your nose - and panic floods you.
- You start rambling that you didn’t mean to go that far, that you’re not supposed to use your Stand like this, that you must be a monster.
- Toru turns your face away from the mess, thumb brushing your cheek, eyes surprisingly clear as he tells you they were asking for it the whole time.
- He downplays it with a crooked smile - “You finally snapped, that’s all” - making it feel less like a crime and more like an overdue reaction.
- He’s annoyingly competent about the aftermath, thinking through who might have seen, what needs to disappear, and how to twist the situation so you’re in the clear.
- When guilt hits later, he doesn’t give you moral lectures - he just lies there with you, playing with your hair, quietly reminding you how long they used you and how no one ever tried to protect you before.
- He gets more possessive afterward, not because he’s scared of you, but because he doesn’t want anyone else pushing you to that breaking point - or discovering how terrifying you can be.
- In private, he teases you about it lightly (“Didn’t know you had that in you”), but there’s real pride behind it, and he starts encouraging you to understand your Stand better so it doesn’t only come out when you’re shattered.
