KissmyJoJo's

The teddy bear hit Johnny square in the chest.It wasn’t even a hard throw—more of a fling, really—but Johnny still flinched back like it had been a bullet. The stuffed animal bounced off his ribs and landed face-down in the dirt between them, one stubby paw outstretched like it was trying to crawl away. Gyro stood rigid, his hands still half-curled from the throw, his lips pressed into a thin line beneath the smear of green lipstick.Johnny couldn’t look at him. Instead, he stared at the bear. It was the same stupid, ratty thing Gyro slept with every night, the one he’d named *Biscotto* for reasons Johnny never asked about. The stitching along its side had come loose months ago, and now a tuft of stuffing peeked out like a wisp of pale cloud.

“You,” Gyro said, voice tight, “are *impossible*.”Johnny swallowed. His fingers twitched against the arms of his wheelchair, but he didn’t move. Couldn’t. Gyro wasn't even finished.

The silence stretched between them like a frayed rope, taut and ready to snap. Johnny kept his eyes fixed on Biscotto’s limp form in the dirt, the bear’s single visible button eye staring back at him with an accusation he couldn’t quite place. Gyro’s breath came in sharp, controlled bursts—the kind he only used when he was trying not to scream.

"You *know* why I can’t just let you do this," Gyro finally said, each word measured, deliberate. His hands flexed at his sides, fingers curling and uncurling like he was physically holding back the rest of the sentence.

Johnny didn’t answer. He couldn’t. The words lodged in his throat, bitter and unspoken. It wasn’t about the bear. It wasn’t even about the argument—some stupid, petty clash over whether to cut through the canyon or take the longer route around. It was about the way Gyro’s voice cracked on the word *impossible*, like Johnny was some unsolvable equation he’d given up on deciphering.Gyro took a step forward, then another, until his boots scuffed against the dirt just inches from Johnny’s wheelchair. He crouched down, one knee pressing into the earth, and reached for Biscotto. His fingers brushed the bear’s matted fur, but he didn’t pick it up. Instead, he turned his hand, palm up, and left it there between them. An offering. A question.

Johnny’s chest ached. He wanted to smack that hand away. Wanted to curl into himself and disappear. Wanted, more than anything, to take it.

Johnny's fingers twitched again, hovering just above Gyro's open palm. The calluses there were familiar—ridged from reins and gun handles, the same ones that traced his ribs last night under the cover of their shared bedroll. Now they trembled, ever so slightly, in the space between them.Gyro exhaled through his nose.

"Look at me," he said, softer now. The anger had bled out of his voice, replaced by something worse: disappointment. Johnny would've taken another thrown bear over that tone.He lifted his gaze. Gyro's mouth was still set in that hard line, but his eyes—god, his eyes—were glassy in the low light. Like he was the one who'd been hit.

"You think I don't know?" Gyro said, thumb brushing the edge of his palm. "About the canyon? About what's waiting there?"Johnny's stomach dropped. Of course he knew. Gyro always knew. The trap wasn't even subtle—just a half-dozen bounty hunters with grudge-riddled brains and dollar signs in their eyes, camped out in the narrowest pass. Johnny had counted on Gyro being too distracted by the race's next checkpoint to notice the detour.Johnny couldn't even look at him now.If he did, something he'd regret would come out and maybe the shouting would start.Johnny’s breath hitched. Gyro’s thumb was still moving—just barely—against his own palm, a slow, absent stroke that felt like a confession. The canyon. The ambush. He’d known. Of course he’d known. Gyro’s eyes were too sharp, his instincts too honed, to miss something like that. Johnny had been counting on anger, on Gyro’s temper flaring hot and fast enough to drown out logic. But this? This quiet, aching understanding was worse."You were gonna walk right into it," Gyro murmured. His fingers flexed, then stilled. "Alone."Johnny’s jaw tightened. He couldn’t deny it. The plan had been simple: slip away before dawn, take the canyon route, draw the hunters off Gyro’s trail. He’d known the risks. Known, too, that Gyro would never let him do it if he found out. That was why Johnny hadn’t told him."You idiot," Gyro said, but the words lacked heat. His hand curled slightly, fingertips brushing Johnny’s knee—the highest point he could still feel. "You think I’d just let you—" He cut himself off, exhaling sharply through his nose. "Christo, Johnny. You really thought that would work?"Johnny’s fingers dug into the arms of his wheelchair. "Would’ve if you hadn’t noticed," he muttered.

Gyro’s laugh punched out of him—short, sharp, and entirely humorless. His hand closed around Johnny’s knee, grip firm enough to ground him. "You’re *bad* at lying," he said, voice dropping into something rough-edged and raw. "Always have been." His thumb pressed into the hollow of Johnny’s kneecap, right where the sensation faded to nothing. "You wanted me to notice."Johnny’s breath stuttered. The accusation hung between them, too close to the truth to dismiss. He *had* left clues—his saddle half-strapped, the map deliberately askew. Part of him had wanted Gyro to stop him. The other part, the stubborn, self-destructive part, had hoped he wouldn’t.Gyro’s fingers slid higher, tracing the inseam of Johnny’s pants with deliberate slowness. "You don’t get to decide what I can handle," he murmured. His touch lingered just above where Johnny’s feeling ended, a silent challenge. "Not like this."Johnny’s pulse thudded in his throat. He should shove Gyro’s hand away. Should spit some venomous retort about not needing a babysitter. Instead, he caught Gyro’s wrist—too tight, too desperate—and held on. "Then what *do* I get?" he asked, voice cracking. "Huh? Because I’m—" He bit down on the word *useless* before it could escape. Gyro hated when he said that.Gyro’s expression softened, just for a second. Then he leaned in, forehead pressing against Johnny’s, their breath mingling in the scant space between them. "You get *me*," he said, simple as that. "All of me. Even when you’re being a stubborn little shit." His free hand found Johnny’s chin, tilting it up until their eyes met. "Especially then."Johnny exhaled sharply through his nose—half a laugh, half a surrender—before his fingers finally unclenched from Gyro’s wrist. The imprint of his grip lingered on Gyro’s skin, pale crescents that would bloom into bruises by morning. Gyro didn’t seem to care. His thumb was still tracing slow, maddening circles just above Johnny’s knee, the calloused pad of it catching on the fabric every few passes."You’re an asshole," Johnny muttered, but the words lacked any real bite. He could feel Gyro’s grin against his temple, warm and unrepentant."Yeah," Gyro agreed easily, his breath stirring the fine hairs at Johnny’s nape. "But I’m *your* asshole."The bear—Biscotto—lay forgotten in the dirt between them, one ear flattened against the ground. Johnny couldn’t remember the last time Gyro had gone more than an hour without touching it, let alone left it discarded like this. The realization hit him like a kick to the ribs: Gyro had thrown it *first*, before the shouting, before the accusations. As if the bear had been the only thing standing between Gyro and whatever this was—the quiet, the closeness, the way Gyro’s fingers were now carding through Johnny’s hair like he was something precious.Johnny swallowed hard. "You shouldn’t have—" He gestured vaguely at the bear, its button eye still staring up at them with mute reproach.

"Cazzo, Johnny. Its my bear. Its getting thrown if i feel like it." And Johnny could feel the amusement against his neck.Johnny let out a shaky breath, his fingers curling into Gyro’s shirt like he was afraid the man would vanish if he loosened his grip. The fabric was warm from Gyro’s skin, rough with dust and sweat from the day’s ride. He could feel Gyro’s heartbeat through it—steady, unwavering, a rhythm Johnny had memorized in the dark when the nightmares got too loud.

Gyro’s hand slid from Johnny’s hair to cup the back of his neck, his thumb brushing the jut of Johnny’s jaw. "You’re *not* going into that canyon," he said, low and final.

Johnny’s throat tightened. "Then what—"

"We go around," Gyro interrupted, his voice firm but not unkind. "Together. Like we always do." His fingers flexed against Johnny’s skin, a silent *don’t argue with me on this*.Johnny wanted to. God, he wanted to. The canyon was the faster route, the smarter move—the one that would keep Gyro ahead in the race. But the words died on his tongue when Gyro’s other hand drifted down to his thigh, fingers pressing into the muscle just above where Johnny’s feeling ended. A reminder. A promise. Johnny didn't expect him to say something else, either.

"Cazzo,Johnny- you're such a brat...'.Gyro's voice broke on the last word, the forced amusement cracking like dried-out leather. Johnny felt it more than heard it—the way Gyro's chest hitched against him, the tremor in those calloused fingers still pressed to his jaw. He'd never seen Gyro like this. Not truly. Not the way his breath stuttered like a spooked horse, not the way his pulse jumped under Johnny's fingertips where they still clung to his shirt.Johnny opened his mouth—to snap back, to deflect, to do *something*—but Gyro's hand slid abruptly from his neck to cover it. His palm tasted like dirt and gunpowder."Don't," Gyro muttered, forehead still pressed to Johnny's temple. His lips barely moved. "Just—don't."The bear was still lying there. Biscotto. Face-down in the dirt like a fallen soldier. Johnny could see the loose stitching from here, the way the stuffing poked out like entrails. Gyro had sewn it back together twice already—once after a knife fight in Albuquerque, once when Johnny had accidentally kicked it off the bedroll in his sleep. Neither time had he let it stay damaged for more than an hour.Now it had been nearly twenty minutes.Gyro's boot nudged it by accident and it squeaked.

Loudly. Both of them jolted in surprise and turned to stare at it.

The bear's squeak echoed between them—high-pitched, absurd—and for a heartbeat, neither moved. Then Gyro snorted, the sound muffled against Johnny's shoulder, and Johnny felt the laugh ripple through him before he heard it. Gyro's shoulders shook, his breath hot through the fabric of Johnny's shirt, and just like that, the tension shattered like glass.Johnny blinked. "The hell was that?" he muttered, staring at Biscotto's prone form. The bear hadn't made a sound in months—not since Gyro had accidentally sat on it outside Flagstaff.Gyro lifted his head, cheeks flushed and eyes bright with something dangerously close to amusement. "Spring in the stuffing," he said, voice thick with suppressed laughter. His thumb swiped at the corner of his eye. "Forgot I put it there."Johnny's eyebrows climbed. "You—what?""After Albuquerque," Gyro admitted, rubbing his nose with the back of his hand. The motion smeared dirt across his cheekbone. "Figured if anyone stepped on him again, at least he could fight back." He glanced at the bear, then back at Johnny, and the grin that spread across his face was so stupidly fond that Johnny's chest ached. "Didn't expect him to sound like a stepped-on duck."

Johnny smirked finally at the comparison.Gyro’s laughter sputtered into silence when Johnny suddenly shoved him back—not hard, just enough to create space between them. The sudden distance felt colder than the desert night. Johnny wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, Gyro’s taste lingering like a brand. "You’re a mess," he muttered, but there was no heat in it. Just exhaustion, and something softer beneath.

Gyro rocked back on his heels, gaze flicking between Johnny and the bear. His fingers twitched like he wanted to reach for one of them—maybe both—but he stayed still. "Yeah," he admitted, running a hand through his tangled hair. "Probably."The silence stretched, thick with everything unsaid. Johnny watched as Gyro’s fingers drummed restlessly against his thigh—a nervous habit Johnny had catalogued weeks ago, right alongside the way Gyro hummed off-key when he cleaned his guns. It meant he was thinking. Hard.

Finally, Gyro exhaled sharply through his nose and grabbed Biscotto by the scruff, shaking the dirt from its matted fur. The bear’s remaining button eye wobbled precariously. "Spring’s busted," he observed, poking at its belly. Another squeak, this one mangled and wet, like a dying bird. Gyro’s nose wrinkled. "Christo. That’s worse."Johnny couldn’t help it—he barked a laugh, sharp and unexpected. The sound startled them both. Gyro’s head snapped up, eyes wide, and for a heartbeat, Johnny thought he might *cry*. Instead, Gyro lobbed the bear at Johnny’s chest with surprising accuracy. It hit with a pathetic *whump*, spring squealing on impact.Johnny let his head fall back in a sharp laugh.

Softer this time. The kind Gyro liked.Johnny caught the bear reflexively, fingers sinking into the matted fur. Biscotto let out one last, pitiful squeak before falling silent, its busted spring finally giving up the ghost. He turned it over in his hands—the loose stitching, the missing eye, the way its head lolled to one side like a drunkard’s. It looked pathetic. It looked *loved*.

Gyro was watching him, elbows propped on his knees, dirt smeared across his cheek where he’d wiped his nose earlier. His green lipstick had smudged at the corner of his mouth, and Johnny had the sudden, absurd urge to fix it with his thumb.

"You’re staring," Gyro said, but there was no edge to it. Just quiet.Johnny swallowed. "You threw your bear."Gyro shrugged one shoulder, the motion too casual.

"It’s replaceable."Johnny scowled finally. "What does this thing have that i don't,huh?"Gyro blinked. Then his mouth curled into that stupid, lopsided grin Johnny hated—the one that made his stomach flip like a landed fish. "Springs," Gyro said, deadpan.Johnny threw the bear at his face.Gyro caught it one-handed, laughing as the broken squeaker gave a final, wheezing death rattle. He tucked Biscotto into the crook of his elbow, patting its head absently—the same way he’d soothe a spooked horse.

"You want me to put one in you too?" he asked, thumb brushing the bear’s remaining eye. "Might improve your personality."Johnny’s fingers twitched against his wheelchair. He should’ve been angry. Should’ve bitten back with something sharp enough to draw blood. Instead, he found himself staring at the way Gyro’s fingers carded through the bear’s fur—gentle now, like he hadn’t just hurled it across camp.

"You’re an idiot," Johnny muttered.

Hmph. He was a lot more cuddleable than that fuzzy monstrosity.

Gyro's grin softened at the edges as he glanced down at Biscotto, then back up at Johnny with an expression that made his chest feel too tight. "Yeah," he agreed easily, shifting closer until his knee bumped against Johnny's wheelchair. "But you're *my* idiot." The words landed somewhere between teasing and tenderness, the kind of contradiction Gyro specialized in. His free hand reached out, fingers brushing Johnny's wrist where it rested on the armrest—light enough to ignore, if Johnny wanted to.Johnny didn't pull away.Gyro's thumb traced the jut of Johnny's wrist bone, calloused skin catching on the delicate veins there.

"You really thought I wouldn't notice?" he murmured, voice dropping into something private. "All those *clues* you left?" His fingers slid higher, skating over the ridge of Johnny's knuckles. "Half-packed saddlebags. The map folded wrong." A pause. "The way you kept looking at me last night like you were memorizing something."Johnny's breath hitched. He *had*. In the flickering firelight, Gyro's profile had looked carved from gold—all sharp angles and unshaven edges—and Johnny had stared like a man counting down to an execution.

Gyro's fingers tightened around his. "You're shit at goodbyes," he said, quieter now.Johnny wasn't saying goodbye, though. Maybe it was just a statement,then.Johnny's fingers curled instinctively around Gyro's, their calluses catching against each other like flint on steel.

"Wasn't saying goodbye," he muttered, but the words tasted like a lie even to him. He'd packed light—just enough to last him through the canyon, not enough to slow him down—and hadn't planned on coming back. Not in one piece, anyway.Gyro's thumb pressed into the hollow of Johnny's palm, slow and deliberate. "Liar," he said, but there was no accusation in it. Just fact. His other hand still cradled Biscotto against his chest, the bear's remaining eye glinting in the firelight like a silent witness.Johnny looked away first, his gaze landing on the canyon's silhouette in the distance—jagged and dark against the horizon. The bounty hunters would be there by now, tucked into the narrowest pass like ticks in a dog's ear. He could almost smell the gunpowder from here. "You should've let me go," he said finally, voice rough.Gyro's grip tightened. "And you should've known better." He shifted closer, his knee knocking against Johnny's wheelchair again—a deliberate nudge, like he was reminding them both that Johnny wasn't going anywhere. Biscotto's limp form sagged between them, its broken spring silent for once.Johnny exhaled sharply through his nose.

"They're after *you*, Gyro. Not me." The words came out sharper than he'd intended, edged with something too close to fear.What he wanted to say was that he was useless anyways, might as well be a distraction.

Gyro's hand stilled against Johnny's, fingers tightening just shy of painful. "They're after both of us," he corrected, voice low. "You think I don't know what they call you? *Cripple*? *Deadweight*?" The words landed like punches, each one making Johnny flinch. Gyro's thumb pressed harder into Johnny's palm, as if he could push the truth straight through skin.

"They see you and think *easy target*." His laugh was bitter, sharp. "Fucking idiots."Johnny's jaw clenched. He wanted to argue—wanted to spit back that Gyro didn't know shit—but the memory of their last run-in with bounty hunters silenced him. The way one had looked at Johnny's wheelchair and smirked, like he was already counting the reward. The way Gyro had put a bullet between his eyes before the man could finish his sentence.

Gyro exhaled through his nose, shoulders slumping. "Johnny," he said, softer now. "Look at me."

When Johnny didn't, Gyro tugged his chin up with two fingers, forcing their eyes to meet. His green eyes were too bright, too close. "You're not *distraction*," he said, as if plucking the word straight from Johnny's skull. "You're *mine*." The possessiveness in his voice should've made Johnny bristle. Instead, warmth pooled low in his belly.

Biscotto chose that moment to slip from Gyro's grip, tumbling into Johnny's lap with a deflated squeak. They both stared at it—the way its head lolled against Johnny's thigh, the stuffing spilling from its side like an open wound. Gyro's mouth twitched.

"See?" he murmured, thumb brushing Johnny's bottom lip. "Even he agrees with me."Johnny swatted his hand away, but there was no force behind it. "You're insufferable," he muttered, picking at the bear's loose stitching. The thread came apart easily under his nails, revealing more of the cheap stuffing beneath.

"And your bear's a wreck. Like you."

Gyro plucked Biscotto from Johnny's lap with exaggerated care, turning the bear over in his hands like a surgeon assessing a patient. "Wreck, huh?"

He hooked a finger into the torn seam, pulling it wider with a rip that made Johnny wince. The stuffing bulged out like cotton guts. "Guess I'll have to fix him again."

Johnny watched as Gyro dug into his coat pocket—always crammed full of useless junk—and produced a needle and thread. The needle was bent at a forty-degree angle, the thread frayed at one end. Gyro licked the end like it was spaghetti before threading it, his tongue poking out in concentration.

"You're disgusting," Johnny said, but his fingers twitched toward the bear anyway.

Gyro grinned without looking up, his teeth catching the firelight. "You love it." He stabbed the needle into Biscotto's side with more force than necessary, dragging the thread through with a rough yank. The stitches were uneven, puckering the fabric like a bad scar. Johnny could've done better—had done better, once, when Gyro was feverish after a bullet graze and couldn't hold the needle steady.

Johnny reached out, snagging the bear by its remaining ear. "Give it here."

Gyro relinquished Biscotto with a smirk, watching as Johnny smoothed out the bear’s lopsided stitches with fingers that shook less than he’d ever admit. The firelight caught the silver of the needle, the thread pulled taut between Johnny’s teeth as he bit off the excess with a sharp jerk of his head.

"Still better than your sewing," Johnny muttered, tossing the bear back into Gyro’s lap.

Gyro caught it one-handed, thumb brushing the freshly repaired seam. "Yeah?" He leaned in, close enough that Johnny could count the flecks of gold in his green eyes. "Then why’re your hands shaking?"

Johnny’s breath hitched. Gyro’s knee pressed against his wheelchair again—warm, solid, there—as if he could anchor Johnny with touch alone.

"Cold," Johnny lied.

Johnny's hands didn't stop shaking. The needle slipped from his grip, embedding itself in the dirt between Gyro's boots with a muted thunk.

Gyro didn't comment. Just watched him with that infuriating patience, fingers idly kneading Biscotto's newly repaired belly. The firelight carved shadows under his cheekbones, made the smear of green lipstick at the corner of his mouth look like a bruise.

Johnny clenched his fists. "Stop staring."

"I'm not." Gyro's thumb kept moving—slow, rhythmic circles against the bear's patched side. Like he was soothing it. Like Johnny was the one who needed soothing.

The silence stretched between them, broken only by the crackle of dying embers. Somewhere in the distance, a coyote yipped. Johnny counted the spaces between Gyro's breaths—too steady, too controlled. The man was fucking waiting. For what -?

The answer came when Gyro leaned forward, slow as a sunrise, and pressed his forehead against Johnny’s. His breath smelled like cheap whiskey and cheaper tobacco, warm against Johnny’s mouth. "You’re thinking too loud," he murmured, lips brushing Johnny’s with each word.

Johnny’s pulse jumped—traitorous, obvious. "Fuck off," he muttered, but didn’t pull away.

Gyro chuckled, the sound vibrating between them. His free hand found Johnny’s knee, fingers tracing the inseam of his pants with deliberate slowness. "Make me."

Johnny should’ve shoved him. Should’ve bitten back with something sharp enough to draw blood. Instead, his fingers curled into Gyro’s shirt again, fabric crumpling in his grip. "You’re a bastard," he said, voice rough.

I completely support the entire Lgbtqia+ community...So I will write for Girl x girl,boy x boy... pretty much anything.

Exceptions of bodily fluids that include bodily waste

Excessive gore or someone that enjoys getting hurt to a mutilation level.

So please specify when you're asking for a fic.

My Requests are Officially open (have been for a while)

(Within reason. I won't do a story if I don't feel comfortable with writing something like that.

Me,the one who reads smut and dark romance.)

For your requests, please be specific!

I don't want to disappoint you because I interpreted it wrong.

So be specific like if you like want it as a ship or just platonic.

I am autistic and I don't take subtle hints very well 😅

Plus:Kinks I will write for:Light Bdsm.

Bondage (No oversadism)

No ageplay please,that makes it uncomfortable for me even if it's not sexual.

Cross dressing

Fetishism

Sensory play (temperature,etc)

Role playing

Foreplay

Uniforms (be specific)

Lingerie use

(No piss play. At all.)

No child romance unless you are making the other party also a child. Like a child Kakyoin x child reader romance would be cute.

Those are what I really know of...So if you bring up something not on the list,tell me what it is,and be specific as to what you want I'm not fully used to writing smut.

Reading it?

Yes.But basically I set the boundaries.

Part One: 🎩🗡️

Jonathan

Speedwagon

Bruford

Erina. (And Zeppeli isn't on the list,not because I hate him...I just have a thing against that type of mustache. It reminds me of someone in my past that hurt me)

Part Two: 🧣🫧 🏃‍♂️

Joseph

Caesar

Stroheim (unfortunately...)

Lisa Lisa

Smokey (shout-out to my man Smokey!Also I used to think he was like twelve until I looked it up...)

Santana (I prefer manga translation, Santviento)

Wamuu

Straizo

Suzie Q

Part Three: 🧛🥀Kakyoin (😭)

Hol Horse

Old Joseph Avdol

Iggy (eventually,for me)

N'doul

(Not Jotaro. Well I used to dislike him because of how he acts. Now that I'm older I actually kinda like him)

Part Four: 🙌💣🪮Josuke

Rohan

Reimi

(I don't hate Okuyasu,he's the best sweetheart... but he's not top spot for me. Mainly because I know what his dad looks like.But yes,he's on the list for sure. I want to give him a hug 🫂)

Keicho Nijimura

Akira Otoishi

Mikitaka (👽)

Tomoko (scary mom energy. Yes please.)

(And in no way should Angelo be on anyone's favorite character list.)

Part Five: 🐞 🤐 🗡️

Giorno

Bruno

Abbacchio

Fugo

Narancia

Mista

Risotto Nero

Squalo and Tiziano

Illuso

Melone

(I know,he's an... acquired taste)

Doppio (my pookie 🥺)

Prosciutto

Part Six: 🌨️ ⛪🔪Jolyne and Ermes

Weather Report

Anasui

Foo Fighters

Gwess.

(That version of Dio... 🤤)

Part Seven: 🐎🌀🇺🇸🦴

Gyro and Johnny

Sandman

Lucy Steel

Diego Brando

Hot Pants

Part Eight: 🫧🪨⚓ 🧩 Josuke8

Yasuho

Rai Mamezuka

Daiya Higashikata

(I don't know as many characters since I'm reading the manga for 7 8 and 9)

Part 9: 🌊 💎 🏝️🍍 Jodio

Dragona Joestar

Rohan. Again.(I know even less about this one.But from what I've read I love these so far.)

Anyways.

That's the end of my list 📜

I only made this because I'm bored and since my Requests are open, what characters I like writing about most.I'll take anyone, though.

1. The Midnight Strategy Sessions

While the rest of the team is crashed out, these two are often the last ones awake. It’s rarely about missions, though.

The Ritual: Bucciarati will find Fugo in the kitchen staring at a textbook or a map. Without a word, Bruno starts the espresso machine.

The Vibe: They don't always talk. Sometimes it’s just the comfort of another person in the room who understands that "rest" is a difficult concept. Fugo feels like he doesn't have to perform or hide his temper around Bruno; there’s a total lack of judgment.

2. The "Professor" Proxy

Bucciarati is the one who suggested Fugo tutor Narancia, not just for Narancia’s benefit, but for Fugo’s. (It did not work. Fugo stabbed Narancia with a fork once. But he will still attempt to explain the math to a teenager who probably isn't fully listening because Bruno asked him to.)

The Logic: Bruno noticed that when Fugo explains things, his focus shifts from his own internal frustrations to the task at hand.

The Result: Whenever Fugo gets particularly volatile, Bruno will casually drop a difficult math problem or a complex logistics sheet on the table. It’s his silent way of saying, "Redirect that energy into something constructive before you bite someone."

3. Wardrobe Malfunctions

We all know Bucciarati has a very specific, polished look, and Fugo... well, Fugo wears a suit with more holes than fabric. Bucciarati has definitely tried to buy Fugo a "solid" shirt at least three times. Fugo always graciously accepts it, puts it in his closet, and then shows up the next day in the Swiss-cheese suit (which is what Narancia and Mista call it behind Fugos back until Fugo found out) anyway.

The Compromise: Bruno eventually stopped trying to change the style and instead just makes sure Fugo’s "holey" suits are tailored from the highest quality Italian wool. If you're going to look chaotic, you're going to look expensive and chaotic.

4. The Unspoken Protector

Fugo is hyper-aware of how much weight Bucciarati carries for the team.

The Action: In social settings or meetings with other Capos, Fugo intentionally plays the "attack dog" role so Bucciarati doesn't have to. He makes himself look like the one you shouldn't mess with, allowing Bruno to maintain his reputation as the diplomatic, "fair" leader.

The Reward: Bucciarati knows exactly what Fugo is doing. He usually shows his gratitude with a hand on the shoulder and a specific look that says, “I saw that. Thank you.”

5. Shared Taste in High CultureThey are the only two members of the team who can sit through a full opera or a black-and-white film without complaining (we're looking at you, Narancia).

The Scene: They once spent an entire evening debating the merits of a specific philosopher while Mista and Narancia were in the background trying to see how many grapes they could fit in their mouths while Abbachio stared in supreme dissapointment.

The Bond: It’s a bit of "intellectual elitism" that they only share with each other to avoid sounding like snobs to the rest of the gang.

1. The "Silent Check-In"

Bucciarati is the only person who can tell Fugo is about to lose his temper before Fugo even realizes it. He doesn’t call him out or embarrass him; he simply places a hand on Fugo’s shoulder or asks him to help with a "specific task" in another room. It’s a silent signal that gives Fugo a graceful exit to breathe before things get messy.

2. Intellectual Respect

While the rest of the team might find Fugo’s intelligence intimidating or annoying, Bruno actually relies on it. He often brings Fugo along for negotiations not just as muscle, but as a second pair of eyes for the fine print.

The Routine: After a meeting, they’ll sit in a cafe, and Fugo will quietly dismantle every lie the person told while Bruno takes notes (even though Bruno could probably do that weird sweat licking thing...not a good thing to do in a meeting, though 😅).

Bruno treats him like a peer in these moments, which helps ground Fugo’s self-worth.

3. Language and Education

Even though they are in the mafia, Bruno hates that Fugo’s education was cut short.

The Arrangement: Bruno occasionally "assigns" Fugo books to read—classic literature or philosophy—and then asks for his "report" over dinner. It’s Bruno’s subtle way of making sure Fugo doesn't lose that part of himself to the violence of their lifestyle.

Shared habits:

Coffee Runs ☕: They are the only two who appreciate a quiet espresso. They’ll go to a cafe at 6:00 AM before Narancia and Mista wake up just to have twenty minutes of silence.

Cleaning 🧹: Both have a bit of a perfectionist streak. If the villa is a mess, you’ll find them wordlessly cleaning opposite ends of the kitchen, perfectly in sync.

Paperwork 📜: Fugo handles the math and the ledgers; Bruno handles the signatures and the people. They are the administrative backbone of the squad.

The Emotional Core: Fugo views Bruno as the person who saved his life, but Bruno views Fugo as someone who just needs a safe place to land. There’s a lot of unspoken gratitude there.

The Piano Connection: Fugo used to play piano (usually under high pressure). Once, after a particularly bad day, Bruno found an old upright piano in a community center and just sat there with Fugo for three hours while Fugo played through his frustration. Bruno didn't say a word; he just listened until the music stopped being "angry."

Hair Care Rituals: Fugo is surprisingly meticulous about his hair, but he can never get the back right. Bruno eventually noticed him struggling with a mirror and now it’s a weekly "meeting" where Bruno helps him trim the edges. It’s one of the few times Fugo is completely still and relaxed.

The "Study" Sanctuary: When the villa gets too loud (usually because Mista and Narancia are wrestling while Trish is muttering something about"boys" ), Fugo retreats to Bruno's office. He doesn't even talk to Bruno; he just sits in the corner chair because Bruno’s presence is the only thing that acts as a "noise canceller" for his brain.

The Umbrella Rule: Bruno always carries an extra umbrella. He knows Fugo hates the feeling of wet clothes (it triggers his temper), so the moment it starts drizzling, Bruno has it over Fugo’s head before Fugo can even start to scowl.

Quick-Fire Dynamic Facts

Cooking: Fugo is the only one Bruno trusts to help with a complex sauce. Everyone else messes up the measurements, but Fugo’s precision is perfect.

The Look: Bruno has a specific "Look" he gives Fugo when he sees him clinching his fists. It’s not a scolding look; it’s a “I’m right here, breathe with me” look. It works 99% of the time.

The Four-Button Fiasco;

The afternoon sun filtered through the blinds of the villa, casting long, barred shadows across the floorboards. It was a rare day of quiet—no missions, no looming threats, just the hum of the air conditioner and the rhythmic click-clack of plastic buttons.

Narancia was perched on the very edge of the sofa, leaning so far forward he was practically a permanent fixture of the rug.

His tongue poked out from the corner of his mouth as he gripped the controller like his life depended on it."Left, Mista! Go left! You're gonna hit the—!"

"I see it! I see it!" Mista yelled back, though he was leaning his entire body to the right as if that would help his character steer. "And don't say the 'F' word, Narancia! You're gonna jinx the whole run!"

"What, 'four'?" Narancia barked, eyes never leaving the screen. "You mean because there are four enemies on the screen? Or because you have four health points left?"

Mista let out a strangled yelp, his character taking a direct hit and blinking red. "Dammit! See? You're a walking curse! And don't say the f word!"

The Voice of Reason (Or Lack Thereof)

Fugo sat in the armchair adjacent to them, ostensibly trying to read a textbook on advanced trigonometry. However, his foot was tapping a sharp, agitated beat against the floor. He hadn’t turned a page in ten minutes."You’re both playing like absolute amateurs," Fugo muttered, his voice dangerously low.

"Oh, you think you're so smart?" Narancia countered, not looking back. "You wouldn't even get past the first boss. You’d probably try to use math to beat it."

Fugo’s book slammed shut with a crack that made Mista jump, nearly dropping his controller. "It’s a strategy game, Narancia! If you actually managed your resources instead of sprinting into every trap like a caffeinated squirrel, you wouldn’t be stuck on Level 2!"

"Well, maybe I like the traps!" Narancia yelled.

A Brief Moment of Silence

The screen flashed a giant, pixelated GAME OVER.

The silence that followed was heavy, broken only by the upbeat, mocking "Try Again!" music chirping from the speakers.

Mista wordlessly handed his controller to Fugo.

His expression was one of grim defeat. "Fine. Mr. Big Brain. You show us how it’s done. Just... try not to break the controller if you lose."

Fugo took the controller with a huff of indignation, adjusting his posture. He looked at the screen with the intensity of a surgeon performing an open-heart procedure. "Watch and learn. Narancia, you're Player Two. Just stay behind me and try not to exist too loudly."

The next thirty minutes were a masterclass in tactical precision. Fugo played with a cold, calculated fury, clearing rooms with surgical efficiency. Narancia, surprisingly, fell into a rhythm, covering Fugo’s blind spots with reckless but effective attacks.

Fugo: "Wait for the cycle... now! Strike!"Narancia: "Got 'em! Look at that combo! We're actually winning!"

Mista: (Watching from the floor while eating snacks) "You guys are at...the- (he cut himself off, lowering his voice) ...the bad number. Just saying."

Fugo’s eye twitched at the mention of the number, but he stayed focused. They reached the final boss—a towering, multi-headed beast.

"Narancia, use your special! Now!" Fugo shouted.

"I'm trying! The button is sticking!"

"Press it harder!"

"If I press it any harder, it's gonna come out the back of the controller!"

In a flurry of frantic button-mashing and shared shouting, the boss finally dissolved into a shower of golden pixels.

A massive "VICTORY" banner stretched across the screen.Narancia dropped his controller and tackled Fugo into the side of the armchair, cheering at the top of his lungs. Fugo looked ready to snap for a second, his face flushing red at the sudden contact, but as Mista joined in, throwing a handful of popcorn in the air like confetti, the tension broke.

Fugo let out a short, sharp laugh, shoving Narancia’s head away. "Pathetic. We still missed three of the secret items."

"Whatever, we won!" Narancia grinned, flopping back onto the floor. "Same time tomorrow? I bet we can beat the speed-run record."

Fugo reopened his textbook, though a small, rare smirk played on his lips. "Only if Mista stays ten feet away from the console. I'm not risking the 'four' jinx twice."

"Hey! Watch it with that number!" Mista protested, but he was already reaching for the controller to start the next round.

(yes,I enjoyed writing that!

Well-it wasn't really his problem-or fault,anyways...the easily excitable rubber boy was always sneaking in to hold Law in his sleep.

Although even if Luffy wasn't sleep-walking,he'd come anyways,saying his Torao was "lonely" or "cold",both terrible excuses for the simple fact that Mugiwara-ya was touch starved,almost as much as Trafalgar himself.

But unfortunately for our grumpy captain...Luffy didn't often leave him alone...surprisingly enough for Law,he kind of missed Luffy,who wasn't there for once,having gone to pester Sanji,who immediately knew something was off when he went to go check on Law.

From within the slightly open cabin,muffled sobs could be heard,Law himself tossing and turning in his sleep...this was unusual since Luffy was usually there to wake Law from his nightmares,but that idiot,Sanji remembered,had gone to stuff his face.

Worried,Sanji hesitantly stepped in,hoping Trafalgar didn't shout at him. Law seemed to be muttering something, when Sanji stepped closer,he caught "C-Cora-san....pl-please come back" Law sobbed again,flipping over to face Sanji. "I need you...pl-please come back" muttered Law,more quietly this time.

A chill ran up Sanji's spine.

His compatriot had nightmares of his past as well-Luffy had never told him this information...and Sanji felt compelled to help his grumpy friend while Luffy was off pigging out.

Sanji shook Law for a moment, hoping he wasn't about to have his heart forcefully removed as he did so.

Nothing happened, Law's familiar tired gaze finally meeting Sanji's when he sat up with a start "Sanji-ya...what are you doing here? And where's Mugiwara-ya?"

Sanji sighed and told him the truth, rolling his own bluish grey eyes as he slowly removed his hand from Law's shoulder.

"Tch...how predictable. " sneered Law half-heartedly,laying back with a soft thump and staring at the shadowy ceiling.

Sanji hesitated for a moment before reaching to take Law's tattooed hand and stroking the A for a while "I'm guessing this Cora-san was important to you." He murmured,seating himself on the edge of Law's bed ,still holding the latter's hand,who surprisingly didn't pull away,protest,or remove any of Sanji's limbs.

Sanji could tell his friend was thinking of whether or not he should tell the cook the truth, the only sound that could be heard was the waves lapping against the ship as well as a brewing storm somewhere above before Law finally spoke in a low,almost whispery tone.

"Cora-san was like a father to me....he died to save my life even though I tried to kill him."

Sanji blinked in surprise,his fingers brushing softly against Law's knuckles as the latter spoke yet again "I had a disease....he stole from his brother to save my life...that's how I got Ope Ope no mi...and why I want that feathery pink bastard dead."

Law cut himself off,looking away from Sanji, as if afraid to see his expression. It was completely silent in the room, even the waves had quieted as if eager to hear what Sanji would say in response.

The cook was deep in thought by now before slipping his shoes off and pulling Law to lay on top of him "I can stay here, if you want...you're not the only one who gets nightmares about their childhood."

Sanji didn't elaborate and Law didn't ask,merely snaking his arms around Sanji's waist and his head on the cooks chest.