To Jojo with Love

A/N:

Here's my submission for the

2025 Literotica Geek Pride Story Event

!

I found out just 5 days before the submission deadline about this challenge, and more generally the notion of Literotica writing challenges. I got instantly inspired and spent the next 2 days writing in a craze. This piece is the result of that period of manic writing and editing.

I've written it as a heartfelt love letter to fandom culture; drawing heavily on my experiences watching anime, playing games, and going to conventions with friends. It's equal parts slow-burn romance and sweaty, chaotic cosplay energy. It makes references to Jojo's Bizarre Adventure (JJBA), although you don't need to have watched that to enjoy the story IMO!

This is a complete story, but I wouldn't rule out a sequel if enough of you scream into my comments section. Enjoy the ride! Mistakes included for flavor.

---------------

I've always loved going to Comic-Con.

Not just for the panels, or the merch hauls, or the chance to finally see if that one obscure fan artist brought Hollow Knight stickers again (they never do, and I never stop looking). Not even for the cosplay--though I've spent weeks sewing hidden zippers into pants just to avoid wardrobe malfunctions mid-pose.

No, it's the chaos. The beautiful, ridiculous chaos.

The way the air smells like wig glue, churros, and ambition. The way complete strangers call out your character's name like they've known you forever. The way a throwaway joke can turn into a running gag that lasts the whole weekend. The way time doesn't work inside convention centers--you look down and it's noon, you blink and it's 7PM and your badge is sweaty and your feet hate you.

It's home, in a weird way. Loud, messy, sweaty, overstimulating home. A space where you can geek out and put your inner freak on full display. Because everyone's doing it right there with you. You'll laugh. You'll cry. You'll go home with memories that might last a lifetime.

And sometimes, if you're really lucky?

You might just score something you didn't expect.

---

The first thing I noticed about him was the hair.

I'd been standing dutifully in line, holding Renee's spot while she fixed a wardrobe malfunction. The convention center swelled around me in waves of heat and color and sound. Distant music from the DJ booth. The crunch of gravel under cosplay boots. The buzz of air conditioning that never reached where it needed to. Everything layered in a kind of overstimulated hum that I loved.

"Hey, nice Caesar!" A passing Cloud yelled at me. I grinned, shooting finger guns back at him before the crowd pulled him away.

This year, I was once again repping my favorite anime: JoJo's Bizarre Adventure. I'd always adored the series' absurd mix of jacked-up men, convoluted powers, and sheer, unapologetic camp. It was pure chaos with muscles -- and it oozed exactly the kind of unrepentant gay energy I thrived on. After some deliberation, I'd chosen Caesar Zeppeli, the lovable, headband-wearing best boy from my favorite season (Part 2: Battle Tendency). I'd spent months perfecting the outfit. Now, standing in the crowd with my costume set just right, I felt damn proud of the result.

Around me, wigs swayed like banners. Foam swords bobbed above the crowd. Somebody dressed as Sailor Jupiter just high-fived Pyramid Head. Nearby, a Deadpool was doing the worm. I let my eyes just flow across the crowd, taking it all in. Savoring the magical, chaotic energy that always pervaded the first day of any convention.

That's when I saw him. Joseph Joestar in the flesh, or looking damn close. Chestnut hair had been spiked and styled into artful chaos that spilled off his head like a waterfall. Somehow he made it look effortless rather than try-hard. A green scarf fluttered behind him like it had a personality of its own. His ensemble - minimal, tasteful - hugged his athletic frame pleasantly.

His eyes landed on me--bright, warm--and his whole face lit up like he'd found a long-lost friend. "Hey! Didn't think there'd be a Caesar here." He strode up, boots thudding lightly against the concrete, flashing me an easy smile. His voice had a casual, confident lilt to it, even though he stood half-a-head shorter. "Love what you did with the headband."

"Thanks, man!" I grinned back, stomach flipping stupidly. I'd spared no effort in putting together this fit, and it felt amazing to be noticed. "I jerry-rigged a wire frame out of old hangers. Kinda dumb, but it worked--makes it float a little, like they're rippling with Hamon."

I gestured at my temple. The headband wobbled helpfully, like it was showing off. He leaned in slightly, eyes scanning the detail. Close enough that I could smell sunscreen and something clean, citrusy.

"You nailed it," he said. "The shape holds really well."

"Oh, yeah, I had to redo it like... four times. The first version looked like a deflated balloon animal." I chuckled, a little too loud. "Pretty sure I stabbed myself with wire. Twice."

He grinned--wide and open. Damn if he didn't have a killer smile. I could have stood there all day admiring it. Admiring him.

Up close, he looked good. Like, distractingly good. His tank top clung in all the right places--pecs, biceps, flat midriff peeking out under his hem. I couldn't help a little twinge of envy. It was said that muscles were the simplest fit to wear, and the hardest to acquire. I worked out, but I'd never quite gotten the definition to pull off a daring ensemble like that.

Abruptly I realised I was staring. Way to ruin the vibe, Kyle, I scolded myself mentally. I yanked my gaze back up just in time to meet his eyes again, hoping the heat in my cheeks wasn't showing. Fortunately, he didn't seem to have noticed.

"You're looking pretty good too!" I recovered.. "Uh-- sick work with the hair. Can't believe it's not a wig."

He laughed, scratching behind his ear. "Oh yeah. Au naturel, baby. Just, like, three months of no haircuts and a small mountain of wax. My scalp's probably ninety percent chemicals by now."

We shared a laugh. There was a brief silence, before he stuck out a hand. "Kyle," I said, clasping his forearm. "Dylan," he replied. I felt his fingers give me a brief squeeze before letting go.

"Dylan," I repeated, mostly to make sure I didn't forget it. "You, uh... come here often?"

"Not St. Louis, no. Usually I hit West Coast stuff--AX, Fanime, that kind of thing. First time flying out for this one."

"Oh, damn. Well... welcome to humidity hell," I said. "Hope you brought a water bottle and mosquito spray."

He grinned at me like a megawatt lamp. I felt a warm, fuzzy feeling rise up my spine. God, keep it in your pants Kyle! I bit my lip.

"Do you do Jojo a lot, or is this a one-time thing?" He asked.

"Not all the time, but I rotate through it pretty often. I did Kakyoin once. Regretted it immediately. Too many cherry jokes."

"Yeah, those live in my brain rent-free too." He grinned again. "Caesar's a good look on you, though. Clean lines. Strong posing. Love the arm bands."

I gave a shaky laugh and gestured vaguely at my hips. "Thanks. I had to learn how to sew a hidden zipper so the pants didn't split when I pose. Ask me how many I ruined before that."

"I'm scared to," he said, mock-serious.

"Three. And a half."

He burst out laughing again, and it was a good laugh--full-bodied, warm, unpretentious. The kind that made me want to keep trying to be funny just to hear it again.

---

"Oh em gee, that's so iconic!" We both turned as a delighted squeal erupted to the side. Nearby, a gaggle of Sailor Moon girls stood giggling. One of them--Sailor Venus, freckles and a long, flowing wig--broke formation and skipped up, flashing cute dimples. I could practically see the anime stars in her eyes.

"You guys look amazing together! Can I get a picture?"

I blinked, glancing briefly at Dylan. He just gave a casual shrug and a smile. "Let's do it."

I grinned back, maybe a little too widely. Then I dropped into a classic pose--one arm raised, fingers flared, chin tilted like I was posing for a manga cover. My headband wobbled dramatically.

Nailed it.

Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Dylan fall into step beside me, flexing just enough to make it obvious. His scarf swished theatrically. He arched one brow, lips curling into a devil-may-care smirk.

The photo clicked. Sailor Venus clapped her hands like we'd just made her entire weekend. "You guys are so hot together," she said, eyes twinkling as she sent it to us via AirDrop. "Like--canon-level energy. Ship it."

I laughed, now sure I was blushing. Looking over, I caught Dylan glancing at the photo on his phone, eyebrows raised slightly. "Looks good," he said, with heartfelt approval.

It really did look awesome. We'd posed perfectly -- a real-life Joseph Joestar and Caesar Zeppeli, broad and muscled. Standing shoulder to shoulder, looking pumped and ready to take on the world like the best bros they were. It would have been hella badass, if I hadn't broken into a stupid grin at the last moment like a total dork.

Oh well. I turned back to Dylan, beaming. "Mind if I post it on Instagram?"

"Not at all," he said, pulling out his phone as well. "What's your handle? I'll drop you a follow."

"Oh--uh. It's @cosplaykyle97," I said, trying not to overthink it. "It's kinda just my cosplay stuff. I don't really do the whole influencer thing."

He typed in something quickly, then squinted at his screen. "Damn," he said. "These are really good. You do your own photography?"

"Sometimes," I said, rubbing the back of my neck. "Mostly self-timer and panic. And, like... lots of editing." He followed me with a quick tap. The tiny heart on my screen lit up, and I tapped his profile pic, curious.

His gallery was a mix of cosplay, fashion, and lifestyle shots--minimalist fits, candid hallway selfies, soft lighting and sharper jawlines than should legally be allowed. A shot of him as Howl caught my eye and made my lungs glitch. God help me, he was effortlessly photogenic. One of those people who looked like they just belonged in front of a camera. I guess some people just had natural talent. My fingers hovered, then tapped follow.

"Cool," he said, smiling. "Now you can see all the embarrassing reels I refuse to delete."

"I look forward to judging them harshly," I replied, mock-serious.

He chuckled. "Please do. I need someone to keep me humble."

The crowd shifted around us. A gang of Deadpools walked by doing the Macarena. Somewhere off in the distance, someone shouted "IT'S MORBIN TIME."

We both turned, laughing. Dylan gestured toward the direction they came from. "Wanna check out the artist alley? I was headed that way anyway." His voice sounded casual, hopeful.

I chewed the inside of my mouth. Technically, I'd promised to save Renee's spot in the queue. I glanced back at the bathrooms, longing, annoyed. When was she going to be done?

Dylan must have sensed my hesitation, because his eyes softened a little. "Sorry, are you with someone? I didn't realise." He trailed off, awkward.

"Oh - no, you're all good!" I hastened to correct him. "Just need to text a friend." Whipping out my phone, I dashed out a quick apology to Renee, adding a monkey-covering-eyes emoji at the end. Really, it was her own damn fault it took her forever to get changed. She'd probably forgive me if I bought her something nice. Probably.

"There - done." I looked back up at Dylan, giving him a reassuring grin. "The artist's alley sounds great." The smile he sent back at me made my day.

"Great. I could use another pair of eyes to stop me from buying way too many prints."

"Oh... I don't think I'm going to be of any help there."

Laughing in unison, we set off together.

---

The artist's corner was packed--loud, chaotic, glorious. The air reeked of vinyl, printer ink, and too many people whose deodorant had lost the battle. Booths lined the rows like a glitterbombed maze, each one overflowing with stickers, posters, enamel pins, fanbooks, zines--everything loud and colorful and painfully irresistible.

I practically vibrated.

It took every ounce of willpower not to sprint directly toward the Hollow Knight table and yeet my wallet at them. I'd been saving for weeks. Skipping takeout. Avoiding merch drops online. This? This was my moment.

"Okay," I said, eyes darting like I was tracking targets in a JRPG. "I need to prioritize. Enamel pins first. Then stickers. Then prints. Wait--unless there's foil prints. Shit."

Dylan chuckled beside me. "You have a plan?"

"No," I said brightly. "I have instincts."

We wove into the first aisle, and I was instantly lost in it. Every table felt like a shrine to some part of my soul I'd forgotten existed. Magical girl horror. Zelda tarot decks. A Metroid-themed enamel pin shaped like a peach. I reached for everything like a starving man.

Well, maybe not everything. I stopped short when I saw a thirst trap Joseph print--poster-sized, hyper-stylized, tank top hiked just enough to reveal a suspiciously oiled six-pack and an aggressively low-slung waistband. The entire background was pink sparkles and dramatic roses. Turning to Dylan, I pointed, grinning.

"No chance in hell," I declared. "That's not even subtle. That's, like, hentai-adjacent. Look at the hand placement."

Dylan squinted. "Is that... glitter around his crotch?"

"Yes. Yes, it is."

We both cracked up. The artist behind the booth looked up with a smirk, more amused than offended. "Don't judge," she said sweetly. "You know he'd do it."

"She's not wrong," Dylan said thoughtfully, nudging me as we walked away. "I might have a new headcanon." I chuckled warmly at that.

I moved like a pinball after that, bouncing from table to table, picking up keychains, stickers, tiny zines with shimmery covers. I felt myself grinning nonstop, fingers twitching to touch everything. It was like dopamine with a price tag.

Dylan trailed beside me, not rushed, not distracted--just there. Sometimes he'd lean in to look. Sometimes he'd ask a quiet question. But mostly, he let me whirl around the booths like a human firework, watching me with this amused little smile I pretended not to notice. I decided I'd let him enjoy his silent mirth. Even if it was only because of how much I loved seeing his smile.

At one point, Dylan's footsteps paused. I'd just snagged a stack of Hollow Knight prints -- beautiful, melancholic -- and added them to my already teetering basket. I glanced up, to see him looking me over. Contemplative. A little intense.

"What?" I said. "I like Hollow Knight."

"Sorry." He laughed softly, expression lightening. "Just... you weren't kidding about being a big spender."

I glanced down. My basket was a mess of fandom chaos--One Piece stickers stuck to my Jojo zine, tiny Persona buttons clinking against my Pokemon enamel pins.

"Okay, yeah, maybe I have a bit of a problem," I admitted. "But it's not my fault they make the merch so tasteful."

He looked at me like I was the punchline to a joke he hadn't told yet. It made me feel warm inside.

---

Regretfully, I soon decided I had to put the kibosh on my merch-hunting. My basket had gotten dangerously full, contents jostling with every step. I'd have to wait till I could stow my current haul back in Renee's car. Letting out a long breath, I slowed myself down to a more sedate pace, falling into close step behind Dylan.

Dylan, for his part, seemed content to window-shop. He didn't buy much, but he always stopped to compliment the artists. I watched one girl light up when he said her color choices reminded him of an old Ghibli palette. Another blushed brightly when he leafed through a Princess Mononoke zine, telling her the cover "felt like a dream he wanted to walk through."

As I trailed him, I couldn't help but take him in. The way he moved. The way he noticed things. The way he made everyone feel like they mattered. I felt like I couldn't look away. It didn't help that he was very easy on the eyes.

At one booth, he paused, flipping through a gritty, black-and-white zine of Lisa Lisa drawn in a noir-inspired style--trench coat, cigarette holder, heavy shadows.

"This is sick," he murmured. "It looks like a storyboard."

"Lisa Lisa always struck me as a badass," I agreed, stepping close to peer over his shoulder. I'd always thought the femme fatale of Jojo was a serious goth icon. "She's got badass mommy Bayonetta vibes. Like, she'd beat your ass and then steal your drink." That got a chuckle out of him.

He held the zine open between us, angling it so I could see. Our shoulders brushed. "Should I get it?" he asked.

"Dude," I said, "I'm literally the last person who'd talk you out of buying something."

He smiled--crooked, genuine. "Fair." He handed over the zine, and the man behind the counter bagged it with obvious delight, like Dylan had just made his day.

We'd been weaving through the artist booths for maybe twenty minutes when Dylan suddenly veered off toward a tiny table tucked between two louder, glossier displays. I almost didn't follow him--thought he was just dodging the crowd. But then I saw what he was looking at.

A small stack of zines and hand-drawn prints. The sign on the table said "Handmade. Mistakes included for flavor." The display was a little crooked. The art was scratchy, earnest, a little chaotic. It wasn't the kind of stuff I'd have gone for, but Dylan seemed deeply intrigued.

He gently fingered a Spirited Away print - Chihiro and Haku kissing under an umbrella. The anatomy was slightly off. The ink had bled a little in one corner. He smiled.

"I like this one," he said.

I looked over, surprised. "Yeah?" To me it just looked messy. A little amateurish. But it was clear Dylan saw something different.

"You can tell someone really loved what they were drawing."

I glanced down again, re-evaluating. He wasn't wrong. There was something about it--maybe the way the umbrella was too big, or the way Chihiro's face had been redrawn in softer pencil like the artist had changed their mind halfway through. If you looked carefully, you could see a story peeking out behind the awkward edges. Messy, amateurish, and bursting with character.

I hummed thoughtfully, watching him flip through the rest of the pile--slow, deliberate. He held up a stapled zine covered in little sparkly stickers. "This reminds me of stuff my friend used to make in college. We'd trade pages like Pokémon cards."

"You made zines?" I asked.

"Nah," he said, smiling faintly. "I just hoarded them."

He paid for two prints and a zine without blinking, tucking them carefully into his bag before we moved on. He didn't say anything more about it. But I found myself glancing at him a little differently as we walked. Like I'd gotten to see a side of him he didn't normally let out.

---

Several more times, people stopped to gawk at us--pointing, whispering, eyes wide with delighted recognition. A girl in a Dio shirt actually squealed. A passing Jolyne did a double take and threw us finger guns. With each one, I felt my confidence surge like a repeatable buff stacking in real time.

When a guy in a Kakyoin crop top looked at me like I'd descended from Mount Hamon itself, I gave a cheeky flex, forearms tight, headband tilted just so. "Show-off," Dylan murmured beside me. But I caught the smile he tried to hide. I shrugged, all fake innocence. "Just giving the people what they want."

I had just struck a final pose--one knee bent, arm flared outward, pure Caesar drama--for a pack of Jojo fans when they started chanting. "Caesar! Caesar! Caesar!" Like it was a WWE match and I was the headline fight. I laughed, flushed and a little overwhelmed in the best way--until my phone buzzed in my pocket. And again. And again.