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Hello fellow sbr fan could do gyro x reader or Johnny x reader

And reader is also in race tbh what I wanna say why/how do they fall in love with reader

Hey Sharkie how you doing!! Your reblog the other day was hilarious ;) I wasn’t super sure what to write for this one but hope you still enjoy my love <3

How Gyro Zeppeli Fell in Love With You

Day 4 SBR Fanfic Week

The First Time He Noticed You (And Wished He Didn’t)

It was during the canyon ambush - three days after the second checkpoint, two days before the cliffside massacre that would cost six riders their lives.

You weren’t supposed to be there. No one else had taken that offshoot path. But you had. And when the dust and Stand-fire cleared, Gyro was left with a torn sleeve, blood in his mouth, and a clear memory of the way you stood - back to the wind, one eye swelling shut, your boot grinding down on the enemy’s wrist before they could flick their Stand to full range.

“Behind,” you said without turning.

Gyro ducked. Threw.

The ball hit clean.

When the echo faded, he stood there breathing hard, steel burning hot in his palm.

You didn’t ask for thanks. Just wiped your nose on your sleeve and said, “You’re welcome.”

He watched you walk away, your gait favoring your left side. A limp he hadn’t seen before.

Johnny asked, “Friend of yours?”

“Hell no,” Gyro muttered.

But he was watching you again by nightfall.

You Got Under His Skin

Gyro liked control.

He liked knowing the Spin worked. That his calculations were clean. That his principles - rotation, precision, purpose - protected him from chaos.

You didn’t like control. Not in the same way.

You rode like someone who knew the terrain would break your horse’s legs eventually, but wanted to outrun the ground anyway. You fought like someone who’d bitten a god once and liked the taste.

He hated that. And he hated that he respected it more.

It came to a head at a water stop in Kansas.

Your horse limped in. So did Johnny’s. The difference was, Johnny was in the dirt, and you were still upright.

“You’re going to get yourself killed,” Gyro said, arms crossed, the smell of sweat and blood sharp in the air.

You shrugged. “Better riders than me already have.”

“That supposed to be noble?”

“No,” you said. “It’s supposed to be true.”

He didn’t like that answer.

He didn’t like the way it echoed something he’d said to Johnny only hours earlier.

He didn’t like the way you looked at him - not for permission, not for approval.

Like an equal.

And maybe that was the problem.

You Asked the Wrong Question at Exactly the Right Time

After the battlefield.

After Gyro watched Johnny tremble beside a rusted cannon and whisper something about honor that he couldn’t say twice.

You sat down beside Gyro that night. No fire. No noise. Just the wind crawling through grass tall enough to cut your skin.

“I’ve been thinking,” you said, “about what we owe to the dead.”

He didn’t look at you.

But his grip tightened on the flask.

“If they’re gone,” you continued, “why do we carry them like they’re still watching?”

He didn’t answer. Didn’t move.

You said, “Or maybe we’re just pretending they are, because otherwise what we did doesn’t mean anything.”

And that?

That got him.

Because you were wrong. And you were right. And he hated how much you sounded like his own voice in the middle of the night when the whiskey ran out.

“You talk too much,” he muttered.

But he handed you the flask.

And didn’t take it back for a long time.

You Used the Spin (Poorly)

He was livid.

Not because you’d stolen a steel ball - that, he could live with.

Not because you nearly snapped your wrist - that, too, was recoverable.

But because you’d gotten close. Close enough that the vibration skittered through the bark of a tree. Close enough that the motion was almost right.

“Are you insane?” he snapped, grabbing the ball out of your hand. “This isn’t a trick. This is sacred. It’s not meant for-”

“People like me?” you offered.

He froze.

You were already pulling your glove off, wrist dark with bruising.

“I know,” you said. “But I had to try. He would’ve killed you.”

(He would’ve.)

Gyro didn’t speak for a long time.

When he finally did, it was quiet.

“You’re lucky you’re bad at it,” he said. “If you’d done it right, it might’ve broken you in worse ways.”

You didn’t ask what that meant.

And he didn’t explain.

But that night, while Johnny was asleep and you were wrapping your ribs in silence, Gyro tossed a steel ball at your feet.

“Try again,” he said.

You looked up.

His face was unreadable.

“But do it right this time.”

He Forgot to Be Afraid of You

That was the worst part.

It happened slow. The way all dangerous things do.

He started noticing when you weren’t at camp.

When your horse came back dry-lipped from the heat.

When you snapped your fingers twice before a fight, like you were waking something up inside you.

When you didn’t ask him what his coat insignia meant.

When you didn’t ask him why he stopped smiling after a kill.

When you gave Johnny your half-ration without making a point of it.

He forgot to be afraid of what it meant - to want someone around. To need someone who could gut a man and still ask if his water skin was full.

He forgot how fast fondness became fear.

Until it was too late.

The Moment It Shifted

He was wounded. Bad.

Gyro had taken the hit for Johnny. He didn’t regret that.

But when you found him, slumped against the canyon wall, ribs cracked, coughing blood -

You didn’t panic.

You didn’t scream.

You knelt beside him like you’d been there before and said:

“Do I need to break the steel ball to get you to lie still?”

He laughed. It hurt.

“Don’t touch the ball.”

“Then stop bleeding on my boots.”

He closed his eyes.

When he opened them again, your fingers were on his pulse. Your cheek smudged with someone else’s death. Your expression tight. Tender.

He wanted to say something.

Instead, he passed out.

And when he woke up, your coat was around his shoulders.

The Moment He Realised He Was in Love With You

It was cold.

One of those sudden storms that hits just west of Colorado - not enough to drown you, just enough to cut through your coat and make your joints ache.

Johnny was out cold. Nothing fatal - fever, maybe. Stand backlash. Gyro had seen it before.

You were hauling kindling into the wind, face set in that grim, stubborn line you wore when the world got hard and you refused to flinch.

Gyro was trying to start a fire with numb fingers and a flint that wouldn’t catch.

“Move,” you said, crouching beside him. “You’re gonna slice your hand open.”

“I’m fine.”

“You’re not.”

You lit the fire in two strikes. Like it meant nothing. Like you’d done it a hundred times before.

You probably had.

He stared at the flame. At the way your hands shook just a little when they dropped the match.

“You’re freezing,” he muttered.

You didn’t answer.

Just peeled off your gloves and reached into his pack without asking - pulled out the emergency blanket and wrapped it around Johnny first. Not yourself. Never yourself.

“Hey,” he said.

You didn’t look at him.

“Don’t,” you replied. “If you’re about to give me some chivalrous Zeppeli nonsense about not sacrificing myself, save it.”

He didn’t.

He just sat there, mouth tight, breath fogging between them.

You tucked the blanket tighter around Johnny, then sat back, knees pulled up, spine against the rocks.

Wind howled. You didn’t flinch.

And Gyro?

He looked at you like he’d never really seen you before.

And realised:

You’d been beside him every time the path cracked open.

You never asked him to carry you. Never made him explain the Spin. Never made him feel like he had to be the executioner or the comedian or the legend.

You let him be tired.

You let him be angry.

You let him be silent.

And you never asked for anything back.

He couldn’t remember the last time someone had done that.

He didn’t speak for a long time.

Just watched the fire cast shadows across your face.

You noticed eventually.

“What?” you asked.

He shook his head. Almost smiled.

“Just thinking.”

“Dangerous.”

“Yeah.”

A pause.

Then:

“I think I’m in love with you.”

You turned slowly.

The look on your face - calm, unreadable, real - was more terrifying than any Stand he’d ever faced.

“You sure?” you asked, voice quiet.

“No,” he said honestly. “But I feel it anyway.”

You didn’t kiss him.

Didn’t touch him.

Just said, “Okay.”

And leaned your shoulder against his.

The fire burned steady between you.

And Gyro Zeppeli - for the first time in a long time - let himself believe he might make it to the end of this race with something worth keeping.

Not just a victory.

Not just a name.

You.

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I have returned for more diego x vampire!reader hehee i luv how you write him :3

what if reader was already relatively clingy to him when they were kids but it increased tenfold with reader being a vampire? especially when reader tends to stay near him because he runs extra warm thanks to his stand? - 🦇

🦇 anon my love hii!! I'm so happy to see you again. This is such a cute request I hope you enjoy :3

Warmth like you – Diego Brando

Word Count - 3.5k | Day 3 SBR Fanfic Week

The sun hung low over the British countryside, casting elongated shadows across the sprawling farmland. The rhythmic clatter of hooves against the dirt path filled the air as you guided your horse alongside Diego’s. The two of you had spent countless hours traversing these trails, the landscape as familiar as the back of your hand.

Diego rode with his usual confidence, his posture straight, eyes fixed ahead. There was a time when you would chatter endlessly during these rides, filling the silence with stories and dreams. But today, a contemplative hush had settled between you.

“Diego,” you began, breaking the quiet, “do you ever think about leaving this place? Seeking something beyond these fields?”

He glanced at you, a flicker of surprise in his eyes. “Every day,” he admitted. “This farm… it’s a cage. I won’t be trapped here forever.”

You nodded, understanding his sentiment all too well. The farm had been both a home and a prison, a place of memories both cherished and painful. Your thoughts drifted to Diego’s mother, her unwavering strength, and the sacrifices she made.

“Your mother,” you said softly, “she believed in you. She saw your talent with horses, your potential. She wanted more for you.”

Diego’s jaw tightened, a shadow passing over his face. “She did,” he replied, his voice tinged with emotion. “And I won’t let her down.”

The path led you to a gentle hill overlooking the farm. From this vantage point, the entire estate sprawled before you, a patchwork of fields and pastures. The setting bathed everything in a golden hue, momentarily softening the hard edges of your reality.

You reached out, placing a hand on Diego’s arm. “Whatever path you choose, know that you’re not alone. I’ll support you, always.”

He turned to you, his gaze intense, searching. For a moment, the walls he’d built around himself seemed to waver. “Thank you,” he murmured. “That means more than you know.”

The two of you sat in companionable silence as the sun dipped below the horizon, the first stars beginning to twinkle in the twilight sky. The future was uncertain, the road ahead fraught with challenges. But in that moment, with the cool evening breeze and the steady presence of each other, there was a glimmer of hope.

As night enveloped the countryside, you both knew that change was on the horizon. The bonds forged in shared hardship would be tested, but the echoes of the past would always resonate, guiding you forward.

You always knew Diego would eventually leave the farm.

Not because he said so. He never had to. It was in the way he talked about horses - the way he looked at the track like it was a promise made just to him. The way he held the reins like they were a rope pulling him out of the muck you both called home.

And you? You never blamed him. How could you? It was his ticket out of this hellhole.

You just didn’t expect him to disappear so completely. Not after the two of you had been so close for so long.

No letters. No visits. No word.

And then, one afternoon, there he was.

London had been grey that day. Not unusually so - it was always grey, but this was the heavy sort of damp that settled in your clothes. You were leaving the grocer’s, arms full of soup tins and rationed bread, when the carriage clipped the curb too close and startled a man walking past.

You glanced up, annoyed, ready to huff something rude.

And you saw him.

Diego Brando. Real boots, real coat. Velvet collar. Cropped curls still untamed but neatly combed, like they’d been convinced to behave through sheer force of will. He didn’t see you. Or maybe he did, but didn’t flinch. Didn’t wave.

He was laughing at something the man beside him said - an older gentleman in a coat worth more than your entire flat. Diego’s smile was polite. Tight. The kind of expression you wore when you had to. But his posture was perfect, and he carried himself like he belonged to the road itself.

And just like that, he was gone. Around the corner and out of sight.

Your arms ached under the weight of the tins. You stood still for longer than made sense, the chill biting at your ankles, your breath clouding the air.

Then someone shoved past you and swore under their breath.

You blinked and kept walking, but you didn’t sleep that night.

Not really.

The next time you saw him, he was in the paper.

You were helping your neighbour patch a broken stair in the alley behind your building when she passed you a crumpled society page. Something to read while the wood glue dried, she said.

JOCKEY PRODIGY WEDS WIDOWED HEIRESS

FROM TRACK TO TITLE: THE RISE OF DIEGO BRANDO

There it was.

Big, bold headline. Column after column of praise. He was a racing star. A golden boy with the right smile at the right time. The kind of rags-to-riches story people gobbled up like meat after a fast.

And there was a photo.

Diego stood tall beside a woman old enough to be his grandmother - eyes watery, smile stretched. Her gloved hand rested delicately on his sleeve. He looked straight into the camera. Not beaming. Not shy. Just… composed.

You traced his face with your thumb, and the ink bled onto your skin.

You didn’t say anything when your neighbour asked what it was about.

You just folded the paper and tucked it under your coat.

And when you got home, you read every word.

Twice.

It wasn’t bitterness, not exactly.

You were happy for him.

Weren’t you?

He’d survived. He’d fought for something and carved his way to it with blood and grit and no one to catch him when he fell. He deserved the headlines. The horse. The house with more rooms than memories.

But it still stung. A little.

Because you remembered the boy who raced you bareback in the fields behind the barn. Who stole apples and swore they were for you, even though he’d eaten half already. Who taught you how to ride with nothing but a knot of rope and a mouth full of trouble.

You remembered falling asleep beside him once, curled near the stable fire, while your mothers hushed the wind outside and traded stories about boys who wouldn’t stop running.

And now he was in suits.

In columns.

Married to money.

You weren’t jealous. Not of the fortune. Not of the woman.

You just missed him.

The real him.

And you wondered - not for the first time - if he missed you too.

Even a little.

Months passed.

You found yourself in London again.

There was talk of a new race - something mad and wild across America. The Steel Ball Run. Diego’s name was already attached, printed bold beneath headlines that made your chest tighten.

So you wandered. Trying to keep busy. Trying not to think too hard.

You should’ve gone home earlier.

That was your first thought, sharp and stupid and far too late.

London’s streets always turned meaner after dark - sharper at the edges, slick with fog and the stink of coal smoke. But you’d walked them a hundred times before, confident in your own legs, your own wits. The wits Diego used to call you reckless for.

He wasn’t wrong.

But he’d also never been caught like this - alone, cornered and bleeding.

You staggered backward into the alley wall. Your boots skidded on slick stone, and your breath caught in your throat.

It wasn’t just the man in front of you that scared you.

It was his eyes.

Red. Unnatural.

And the smile that stretched across his face wasn’t hungry. It was… grateful.

Like he’d been looking for something exactly like you.

“Easy now,” he said, voice thick with malice but smudged by time. “I won’t take much.”

That was a lie.

You could feel it in your bones.

He wasn’t dressed like a street rat. His coat was clean. Boots polished. His skin was too pale, too still, like he was carved from the night itself.

And when he moved toward you, there was no sound. Not a footstep. Not a breath.

You lunged left.

But he was already there.

Your shoulder hit the wall. You cursed, twisted, tried to strike - but he caught your wrist mid-air, easily, like it cost him nothing.

“You’ve got fight,” he murmured. “They always taste better when they fight.”

You spat in his face.

He smiled wider.

Then the world tipped sideways.

You didn’t register the bite. Not at first.

Just the cold.

It started in your throat and spread down your chest, crawling through your limbs like frostbite. The edges of your vision bled grey. Your pulse - thundering a second ago -slowed to something shallow and wrong.

You heard your own heartbeat once.

Then again.

Then silence.

Your knees hit the cobblestones. You were distantly aware of his hands guiding you down like a lover might, gentle and awful.

“There now,” he murmured. “Let it in.”

You didn’t want to.

You didn’t know how.

Your breath caught in your throat like a sob.

And then -

Fire.

Not literal. Not from outside.

It ripped through your chest like something ancient and furious had cracked your ribs open and poured itself inside. Your vision flared red. Your body convulsed. You felt your own humanity rip loose, piece by piece.

And when you opened your mouth to scream, the sound came out wrong.

Too sharp.

Too loud.

Like something no longer entirely human.

He was gone when the pain faded.

Just gone.

As if he’d never been there.

Only the blood remained.

Yours. His. It didn’t matter anymore.

That night you didn’t die.

But you didn’t live either.

You stumbled home through alleyways and side streets, every inch of you wrong. Your skin prickled at the sound of gas lamps hissing. Your lungs burned in the presence of warm food. Your teeth ached - not from pain, but hunger.

Glancing in the puddles lit by moonlight, you didn’t look any stranger, just a bit roughed up.

But your reflection… didn’t sit right. Like it lagged behind your movements.

You didn’t sleep that night. Again.

You sat on the floor with your coat still on and stared at your hands until the light changed.

And when the hunger hit again - real and deep and gnawing -  you curled your fingers into your palms and bit down hard enough to draw blood.

It didn’t help.

You never told anyone what happened. Who would believe it? Your closest friend was certainly no longer around.

You packed your bags three days later.

Not because you had a plan, but because London no longer felt like home and it hadn’t for years. Diego Brando was somewhere across the ocean, riding through sun-drenched deserts and chewing up glory with every mile. 

He always said you were too soft to run with wolves. He hadn’t seen you now.

You signed up for the Steel Ball Run with hands that didn’t shake and a hunger that had nothing to do with winning.

You were coming home.

You smelled him before you saw him.

Not in the literal sense - your nose wasn’t that good, thank god - but in that uncanny, magnetic pull way. Like heat drawn to cold, like tension pulled toward its snapping point.

It had been years.

But there was no mistaking him.

The wide stretch of Dust Bowl terrain made him look bigger than you remembered. Broader, taller. Shoulders squared in that blue coat like it was stitched directly into his ego. His horse glinted under the sun - clean, powerful, perfectly tempered.

Just like him.

Diego Brando.

Jockey, aristocrat, (alleged) murderer. Arrogant son of a bitch.

Your childhood friend.

Your first heartbreak.

And, right now, the only person in this hell race you couldn’t ignore.

You stayed off the path. Watched from behind the ruins of an old checkpoint gate as he laughed at a nearby racer falling off his horse - that laugh still full of teeth, still practiced. He didn’t look like someone grieving the life he’d torn down. He looked like someone remaking it in his image.

But when he turned his head, just slightly, the smile cracked for half a second.

Eyes flicked to the side.

Sharp. Searching.

Like he’d felt something shift.

Like the wind had changed and brought your name with it.

You stepped out before you could second-guess it.

Boots crunching on dry earth.

No ceremony. No introduction.

Just you.

You didn’t speak.

Not at first.

You just stood a few feet away - closer than a stranger, not close enough for a friend.

And when Diego’s eyes finally locked on yours, something behind them went very, very still.

“…You.”

You raised an eyebrow. “You gonna say my name, or are we playing twenty questions?”

His mouth opened. Then closed.

Then - “What the fuck are you doing here?”

You offered a faint smile. “Nice to see you too.”

He stared.

Like you were a ghost.

(Which wasn’t entirely inaccurate.)

“I thought you were-”

“Home?” You shrugged. “I left.”

“For this?”

“For you.”

That got him.

Unfortunately, not in the romantic way - in the what the hell did you just say to me way.

He took a step closer, eyes narrowing. “Don’t screw with me. This isn’t some vacation. It’s not a back-alley pony ride. You’ll get torn apart out here. This is a cross-country race and the few lessons I taught you will not allow you to win that. I, however, do intend to win, and I can’t babysit you through this.”

You stepped in, just one pace - enough to make the air between you crackle.

“I can handle myself.”

He looked you over like he didn’t believe that. But his gaze lingered - not suspicious, not predatory.

Searching.

He noticed the change. Of course he did. The paleness. The stiffness. The slight tremor when sunlight hit your knuckles.

But he didn’t say anything.

Not yet.

Instead, he leaned just slightly into your space - the way only Diego Brando could, like he wanted to crowd you out without touching you.

“Didn’t think you had it in you,” he murmured.

“Guess you never really knew me.”

He scoffed. “I taught you how to ride.”

You smiled. “Yeah. And I remember every second of it.”

His eyes flicked down - to your mouth, your throat, your collarbone.

He didn’t mean to.

But he was close enough now that you could feel it: that heat.

It was radiating off him in waves. Not just body heat - something deeper. Stand energy, maybe. Or just… life.

And god, it made you dizzy.

You hadn’t been warm in weeks.

Not really.

He took a breath, like he was about to say something sharp - something Diego - but then he stopped.

Brows drew together.

His head tilted. Just a fraction.

“You’re cold,” he said.

It wasn’t a question.

You looked away. “So?”

“So it’s the middle of the fucking desert.”

“I like layers.”

“That’s not-”

You cut him off. “You gonna invite me to ride with you, or just stand there sweating?”

He stared a second longer.

Then he moved.

One sharp click of his tongue, and his horse stepped forward. He swung up into the saddle in a single, practiced motion, then offered you his hand like it was nothing.

No pomp. No explanation.

Just: Get up here.

You took it.

And when your palm slid into his - warm, calloused, familiar - it felt like the first breath after drowning.

Even if you didn’t need to breathe anymore.

Diego didn’t speak much the rest of the ride.

That was fine. You didn’t either.

There was too much to say, and too little you trusted yourself to spill.

The desert bled into dusk. The heat folded inward, sun dipping below a jagged ridge, casting long shadows over the trail. You rode beside him in companionable silence - not close, not touching, but near enough that you could feel the warmth rolling off his coat with every shift of his frame.

By the time you made camp, the stars were peeling into the sky and your hands were aching from the cold.

You tried not to let it show.

Diego was fussing with his saddlebag, digging out rations and fire-starting tools like he did this every night. Probably did. His movements were efficient. Sharp. Almost rehearsed.

Like everything in his life had to be. Like relaxing might invite collapse.

You crouched nearby, letting the quiet fold in around you, the distance between your knees and the fire measured down to the inch. Any closer and you might shake. Any further and you’d freeze.

He noticed.

Of course he noticed.

“You still don’t talk when you’re uncomfortable,” he muttered, breaking a twig across his knee. “Some things don’t change.”

You arched an eyebrow. “And you still talk too much when you’re trying not to ask something.”

That earned you a glance. Dry. Impressed. Maybe a little amused.

The fire caught - first a crackle, then a burst - bathing his cheekbones in orange light. He sat back with a grunt, letting the warmth curl over his boots, arms draped across his knees.

You hugged your own tighter.

“Why are your fingers stiff?” he asked, not looking at you.

You stared at the fire. “It’s cold.”

“It’s not.”

“Maybe not for you.”

That made him turn his head. Not fast. Not accusing. Just slow and curious - the way Diego looked at things he wasn’t sure how to name.

His eyes narrowed.

“I run hot,” he said, almost absentminded. “That’s why I don’t get chilled at night.”

You didn’t respond.

Didn’t need to.

Because his gaze shifted again - not up, but across. To your posture. Your pallor. Your jaw working just a little too hard to stop the tremble.

He tilted his head. Thoughtful.

“You’re freezing,” he said.

“No shit.”

“You’re not trying to fix it.”

“I’ve handled worse.”

He exhaled, sharp and frustrated. “You’re not proving anything by pretending you’re fine.”

“Old habits,” you said, trying to play it off with a shrug that came out too tight. “They die hard.”

He went quiet again.

Long enough that you thought maybe the subject had dropped.

Then-

“I remember,” he said, low, “when you used to cling to me in the winter. Swore I was the warmest thing you’d ever touched.”

Your breath hitched. Barely.

“That was before you left,” you muttered.

“I don’t think you’ve stopped.” A pause. “You’re just trying harder not to.”

You didn’t answer.

You couldn’t.

He shifted then, slow and deliberate, leaning back against a bedroll he hadn’t unrolled until now. His eyes flicked toward the spot beside him.

And that was all.

No invitation.

Just space.

Made for you.

You hesitated.

Your fingers were stiff. Your joints ached. The fire wasn’t doing enough. You could feel it deep in your bones - the chill that came not from weather, but from blood that didn’t pump the way it used to.

So you moved.

Not gracefully. Not shyly.

Just… moved.

You lay down beside him, careful and quiet. Close enough to feel the heat radiating off him like a furnace. His shoulder brushed yours. He didn’t flinch. Didn’t tease. Just exhaled - a low, steady breath.

You didn’t say thank you.

You didn’t have to.

A minute passed.

Then two.

Your hands began to thaw. Your breath smoothed.

And somewhere, in the firelit hush, Diego tilted his head - just slightly - and pressed his forehead to yours.

Not long.

Not heavy.

Just there.

Anchoring you.

His voice followed, low and rough, like it scraped its way up from somewhere soft:

“Next time, don’t make me say it.”

You swallowed.

“I won’t.”

And you didn’t move away.

Neither did he.

His hand eventually shifted. Found yours, barely brushing across your knuckles before settling close. Not holding. Not grabbing.

Just there.

You exhaled into the dark.

“I’m glad we found each other again.”

Diego didn’t answer immediately.

But his grip twitched. Like his body was saying it before his pride could stop it.

“You’re the only one in this whole damn race who actually sees me,” he said eventually. “And still stays.”

You turned your head, forehead still grazing his.

“Right back at you.”

The fire crackled. A coyote howled somewhere far in the distance.

But here, in the quiet curve of night and memory, you and Diego lay curled just close enough to count as something more than warmth. Something steady. Earned.

And in that breath between silence and sleep-

You thought maybe he smiled.

Just a little.

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An SBR request! Could we have Johnny bring around a reader with Keratosis Pilaris? Aka strawberry skin, they look similar to bug bites! Btw I absolutely love your writing, I’m falling for characters I hadn’t even paid full attention to before!

YOUR MIND - astounding. The things you’ve done for the Johnny Joestar community 🙏 I have KP myself and suddenly love it a lot more! I'm so glad you enjoy my writing my love, hope you enjoy this one too, it’s such a fun premise! <333

Strawberry skin – Johnny Joestar x Reader

Sexual themes | Word count - 1676 | Day 2 SBR fanfic Week

It hadn’t been a plan.

Not at first.

After the Steel Ball Run ended, after the winners were named and the dead were not, it turned out no one really knew what to do with themselves.

You hadn’t expected to survive, much less to have to figure out what came after. You’d ridden halfway across a continent for a reason that didn’t even make sense anymore. Salvation, maybe. Or spite. Some days it was hard to tell the difference.

But when it was over, your name wasn’t in the papers. There was no parade. No epilogue written in gold.

Just bruises, half-healed wounds you still didn’t like to talk about, and a quiet life with Johnny Joestar.

“You don’t have to go back,” he’d said, not quite looking at you.

“There’s room at the ranch. I could use the help.”

You knew what he meant. You both did. It wasn’t about chores. It wasn’t even about the room.

It was about not being alone.

He hadn’t wanted to ask. You hadn’t wanted to say yes.

But here you were.

Somewhere in the middle of nowhere you were living on Joestar land, sleeping in the old guest room, and pretending it wasn’t strange that your post-trauma coping strategy included shovelling horse shit and arguing about who made worse coffee.

You weren’t together-together. Not officially.

But there were looks. Drinks together. Moments that lasted too long and silences that said more than anyone was willing to put into words. Something had started in the desert, and it hadn’t stopped growing. Not yet.

The morning was already warm by the time you started on the stables.

The air smelled like leather, grass and dust, the kind that clung to your skin no matter how many times you washed. The sky stretched overhead in that cloudless, uncaring way that reminded you of your race days - only now, the only thing trying to kill you was hay fever.

You had your sleeves rolled up and your pants cuffed at the knee. Not for fashion. Just because it was hot, and the horses didn’t care what your legs looked like.

You were halfway through mucking the second stall when you heard the slow crunch of gravel behind you.

“You get bit up bad or somethin’?”

You turned.

Johnny was leaning against the fence, arms crossed, his expression unreadable in that classic Joestar way. He wasn’t wearing the hat today. His hair was tousled like he’d run a hand through it and then given up halfway. There was a glass of lemonade sweating in one hand and a twitch of amusement in the corner of his mouth.

He nodded toward your legs.

“Legs’re lookin’ a little rough.”

You blinked. Followed his gaze.

Right.

The keratosis. Strawberry skin.

The skin below your knees prickled under his stare. Pale, red-flecked, raised along the surface. The sun wasn’t helping.

You dropped the pitchfork, wiped your hands on your legs as if that would help, and shrugged like it didn’t matter.

“It’s not bug bites. I have a skin condition.”

Johnny didn’t answer. Just kept looking.

“Keratosis Pilaris,” you added, like it was a spell that might end the conversation. “It’s not contagious. Just… ugly.”

Still nothing. Just the breeze. Just him, watching.

You tried to brush it off with a laugh that didn’t quite land.

“You can say it’s gross. I’m used to it.”

Johnny tilted his head. Sipped his lemonade. And then, slowly:

“I wasn’t gonna say that.”

Pause.

“I was gonna say something worse.”

Your brow lifted. “Worse than gross?”

He stared at you for a beat too long. Then looked away, like he needed to physically reset himself to say it out loud.

“I’ve only ever told one person this before,” he muttered. “And that was Gyro. Which I regret every goddamn day.”

You blinked. “Okay…”

“I have a bug bite fetish.”

You froze.

“Excuse me?”

“It’s a thing,” Johnny said defensively. “A real thing. Don’t look at me like that.”

You were absolutely looking at him like that.

He kept talking. Too fast. Clearly spiralling.

“It’s not like - not in a weird way. Or not weirder than the stuff people are into now. It’s just - there’s something about it. The texture. The way it looks. And you’ve got that- look.”

You raised both eyebrows.

“Bug bite look?”

“Okay, that sounds worse out loud, I’m realising that now.”

You stared. For a long moment.

Then:

“You’re a fucking weirdo.”

Johnny grinned, all teeth.

“Takes one to move in with me.”

Your face burned hotter than the sun overhead. You rolled your eyes and went back to the pitchfork, jabbing it into the hay a little harder than necessary.

“You need therapy.”

“I had therapy. He quit when I started talking about corpses.”

“That’s not comforting.”

“Well, neither is watching you stomp around in barn muck and somehow making it hot.”

Your hands stilled on the pitchfork.

Then, slowly, you looked over your shoulder.

“You wanna touch it?”

You didn’t look at him. Just kept working the pitchfork like you hadn’t just flipped the entire balance of power in the barn. Straw and whatever-the-hell-else shifted under your boots while the silence behind you stretched dangerously.

“You serious?” Johnny said, a beat late and a little too casual to be real.

You didn’t answer right away. Just leaned on the handle like you had all day and zero intention of making this easy for him.

“Well,” you said slowly. “You’ve been staring at my legs like they owe you money.”

“I haven’t.”

“Johnny.”

“Okay but like - respectfully.”

You shot him a look over your shoulder. He was standing there, lemonade in hand, mouth slightly open like his brain had completely shut itself off from the rest of his body.

“You’re not exactly subtle.”

“I could be,” he offered. “But you just keep… existing. Like that.”

You gestured vaguely to the pitchfork, to the sweat, to the literal shit you were knee-deep in.

“Like what? Covered in dust and horse piss?”

“Like someone I absolutely should not be thinking about in this setting.”

“You need help.”

“I need to look - respectfully.”

“You are not looking respectfully.”

Johnny didn’t respond. Just sipped his lemonade in the world’s most suspicious silence.

You raised an eyebrow. “You thinking about it?”

“I’m trying not to,” he said through gritted teeth. “I’m failing.”

You couldn’t help it - you grinned.

“It’s just skin, Joestar.”

“No. That’s like - fuckin’ - limited edition.”

You nearly dropped the pitchfork.

“Limited - what? Are you mad?!”

“I’m just saying!” he blurted, face pink. “You’ve got that… deluxe model skin!”

You wheezed.

“You are so goddamn weird.”

“You offered!” he reminded you, voice cracking halfway through the sentence like his vocal cords had just tried to file a protest.

You tilted your head, still grinning.

“So…?”

He stood there. Glass still in hand. Eyes firmly planted somewhere below your knees like they were trying to manifest a deeper meaning from your skin texture.

“I want to,” he admitted, and he sounded uncomfortably sincere about it.

“But?”

“I don’t wanna get slammed in the jaw while you’re holding that pitchfork.”

You stepped closer. Just enough for your foot to bump lightly against his boot.

“Then don’t be weird about it.”

“It’s already weird.”

“Okay, but like - don’t be gross about it.”

Johnny looked you dead in the eye.

“I make no promises.” 

Johnny looked like you’d handed him something delicate, forbidden, and weirdly exciting.

“I’m gonna… just - yeah,” he mumbled, reaching out like your shin was booby-trapped.

You didn’t move. You also didn’t help.

He finally touched it - just a light brush of fingers along the skin, slow and cautious, like you might retract your leg and kick him in the jaw at any moment.

“Huh,” he breathed.

You raised an eyebrow. “Huh?”

“It’s… soft,” he said, surprised like you were some kind of rare terrain.

“Wow. Crazy how skin works.”

“No, but like - textured. In a cool way.”

“You’re describing me like a countertop.”

His lips twitched.

“A countertop…” he repeated, like he was testing the flavour of the word.

Then he looked up at you, slow and unmistakably up to something.

“You’re giving me ideas.”

You pointed the pitchfork at his chest without missing a beat.

“Finish that thought and I’ll brain you with this.”

Johnny grinned. “You say that like it’s not still on the table.”

You groaned.

He was still touching your leg gently, like he was scared he’d be banned if he pressed too hard. You permitted it. Just for a second.

Then you stepped back, and his hand dropped like you’d unplugged him.

“Okay,” you said. “Enough leg fondling in the barn.”

“You’re cutting me off?”

“I’m cutting you off before you start talking about getting a second helping.”

Johnny squinted, obviously trying to think of something clever and failing miserably.

“I wasn’t gonna say that.”

“You were about to say something unholy. I could see it building.”

“I was gonna say ‘compliments to the chef,’ actually.”

“Jesus Christ,” you muttered, already turning away. “I am not letting you simp for my legs in a room full of hay and horse shit.”

“That’s fair,” he said, recovering instantly. “But just for the record, I was being so respectful.”

You gave him a flat look over your shoulder.

“You looked like you were about for my leg in marriage.”

“Was gonna ask real nice, too.”

“Save it.”

“So, not never,” he called after you. “Just… not while you’re holding a pitchfork?”

“That’s what I said.”

“Cool, cool, cool. Hypothetically, if I brought you a drink and washed my hands-”

“Johnny.”

“Okay! Just checking. Later, then.”

“-I’ll clean the countertop.”

You stopped in the doorway.

“Clean it with what, your drooling mouth?”

Johnny didn’t miss a beat.

“Good idea. I did call you a countertop, didn’t I?”

[peachbubbless]

About to make this little snippet we got of Diego my pfp on everything I swear to god

I will not be shutting up about this for the next year, thank you

[peachbubbless]

How are we feeling about the SBR anime announcement? I am so excited and I hope you all enjoy SBR fanfic week to celebrate this momentous occasion 🤠

Comfort – Diego Brando x Reader

Word count - 2.2k | Day 1 SBR Fanfic Week

The desert was quieter after dusk.

No hoofbeats. No shouting. Just wind carving lazy arcs through the dust and brush. You’d let the rest of the pack ride ahead earlier in the day intentionally, giving yourself the rare privilege of silence. Maybe it was a mistake, maybe not. Either way, the canyon had swallowed the road behind you and left nothing but red walls and shadow.

That was fine. You needed the space.

You were rounding a bend when you heard it. Not footsteps, not talking-

A curse.

Low, hoarse, bitten off halfway through like it hurt to say. You stopped, holding your breath. It came again. Faint, but close.

You followed it.

Just off the path, tucked between two slabs of rock, was a crouched figure. Blue coat. Blonde hair darkened with sweat. One knee braced against the earth, the other splayed out ungracefully. He was trying to wrap gauze around his side, one arm shaking from the effort.

And failing. Badly.

Diego Brando. Of course.

His head snapped up the second he sensed you - animal-sharp and defensive, but not surprised.

“You,” he growled. “Great. Fan-fucking-tastic.”

You blinked. “I’ll take that as a hello.”

He didn’t answer. Just hissed as the gauze slipped from his fingers again.

There was blood on his shirt. A lot of it. Dark, wet, and spreading.

You moved closer.

He bared his teeth. “Don’t.”

“You’re hurt.”

“I noticed.”

“Let me- ”

“I said, don’t.”

You stared at him.

He stared back.

Then, begrudgingly, like every word was dragged up from a place he didn’t want you to see:

“Fine. Don’t just stand there. You wanna stare or make yourself useful?” 

You heisted for a moment before crouching down beside him, not asking again.

And for once, Diego didn’t protest.

Not out loud, anyway.

You didn’t speak right away.

You just reached for the bandages he’d dropped and began rewrapping them, steady as your hands could manage. The wound was ugly - a jagged cut along his side, too clean for a scrape, too messy for precision. Something sharp got him. Or someone.

He watched you. Like a hawk might watch a storm - annoyed, curious, but unwilling to fly off just yet.

“You do this one blind?” you muttered, gesturing to the half-twisted gauze still clinging to his ribs. 

Diego huffed. “I wasn’t expecting company.” 

“You weren’t expecting to be bleeding out either, I take it?” 

A sharp glare.

“And do you always get this mouthy when someone tries to help you?”

“I don’t need help,” he snapped.

You roll your eyes dramatically. 

He flinched - not from you, but from his own movement - like the words cost him more energy than he had to spend. You ignored the bite in his tone, gently easing his coat off his shoulder to get a better look. Underneath, the wound was even angrier.

He didn’t stop you.

Didn’t stop looking at you either.

“I’m not doing this out of pity,” you said after a moment. “So relax.”

“Sure,” he muttered. “You just have a thing for rescuing wild animals, is that it?”

“I said relax, not get cocky.”

He scoffed under his breath.

Still, he leaned back just enough for you to work - his breathing ragged, muscles twitching under your fingers. The proximity was unavoidable now, the two of you pressed close under the shallow overhang of rock. His coat was tossed aside, his shirt pulled up, his pride hanging on by a thread.

You worked in silence for a while.

Then:

“You’re not gonna ask how it happened?” he said suddenly.

You glanced at him. “You’d tell me if you wanted me to know.”

Another pause. A twitch of his jaw.

“I don’t,” he said.

You nodded.

Finished tying off the bandage, not too tight.

His eyes lingered on your hands. He hadn’t moved since you started - hadn’t even insulted your technique. That was suspicious in itself.

“You’ve done this before,” he said.

You shrugged. “People bleed.”

“I meant for enemies.”

“Are we enemies?”

He didn’t answer.

His eyes drifted back to the canyon mouth, shadowed in the fading light. For a second, he looked like he might bolt. But he didn’t. Just exhaled slowly and leaned his head against the rock behind him.

The silence that followed was heavier than before.

When he spoke again, it was quieter.

“You shouldn’t be nice to me.”

You paused. “Why?”

“Because it won’t end the way you want it to.”

Your hands stilled, still resting lightly on his ribs. The bandage was done. You could’ve pulled away. You didn’t.

“Who said I wanted anything?”

He didn’t reply.

Didn’t look at you.

But the air shifted.

The sarcasm had drained out of him - not gone, but buried under something heavier. He was still Diego Brando, sharp-tongued and prickly to the end. But the edges had dulled. Just a little.

You let your voice drop.

“It’s not just the race for you, is it?” He blinked. “You run like there’s something chasing you. Or something you’re trying to outrun.”

The way he looked at you then - like he didn’t expect the question, like it scraped something raw inside him - told you everything you needed to know.

His mouth opened. Then closed. Then opened again.

And when the answer came, it didn’t sound like bravado.

It sounded like truth, hoarse and splintering.

For a while, you thought he might not answer.

Then:

“She worked on a farm.”

The words were flat. Disconnected.

You looked at him - Diego’s profile caught in the low red spill of sunset over the rock. He wasn’t looking at you. Just staring into the distance, as if seeing something you couldn’t.

“My mother,” he added, voice still tight. “She did whatever work she could find. Cleaning stables, feeding horses. We lived in the barn.”

He shifted slightly, wincing as the movement tugged at his bandaged side.

“She never complained. Always told me to hold my head high, no matter what.”

His gaze dropped to his hands, fingers curling slightly.

“There was a time when the landowner… he wanted more from her. When she refused, he made sure we suffered for it. Put holes in our bowls, so we couldn’t hold food or water.”

He took a slow breath, as if steadying himself.

“But my mother… she didn’t break. When mealtime came, she had the stew poured into her bare hands so I could eat.”

You felt your chest tighten.

“She stood there, hands burning, just so I wouldn’t go hungry.”

His voice grew quieter.

“She did this for weeks. The burns got worse. Infected.”

A pause.

“Tetanus,” he said bitterly. “That’s what took her. She was barely older than us now.”

The silence that followed was heavy, laden with the weight of memories and regrets.

“I was six.”

You swallowed, the enormity of his loss settling over you.

“She told me to use my skill with horses. To rise above. To become someone.”

His eyes finally met yours, a storm of determination and lingering pain.

“So I did. I became a jockey. I clawed my way up. Worked harder than anyone. Smiled when I had to. Bit my tongue when I didn’t.”

His jaw tightened.

“And I won. Over and over. But no matter how many times I crossed the finish line first, it wasn’t enough. I’m going to take everything. Every title, every ounce of glory, until they have no choice but to see me.”

“And then?”

He didn’t answer.

Maybe he didn’t know.

Or maybe the striving was the point - the relentless pursuit, the hunger that kept him moving forward.

You let the silence hang, respecting the rawness of his revelation.

Finally, Diego sighed - a sound that didn’t belong to him. Too weary. Too human.

“I didn’t ask for pity,” he said. “So don’t give me any.”

“I wasn’t planning on it.”

“Good.”

Another pause.

Then, quieter:

“…Thanks for staying.”

You didn’t smile. Didn’t offer empty words.

You just nodded once.

And stayed.

The silence that followed his confession didn’t echo.

It settled. Low and slow, like ash after a fire.

Diego sat stiff beside you, arms bandaged, shoulders drawn tight. His jaw worked like he was chewing on regret, or pride, or maybe both. For once, he wasn’t speaking - and for Diego Brando, that said more than any monologue ever could.

You gave him a moment.

Then another.

Then: “You should lie down.”

He didn’t even look at you. “I’m fine.”

“Sure thing. You’re shaking.”

“I said I’m fine.”

“You’re bleeding through your second bandage, and your face is paler than your ego is big.” You tilted your head. “Which, frankly, is impressive.”

He gave you a flat look. “Are you always this irritating?”

“Only when someone’s too stubborn to lie down before they faceplant into the fire.”

He exhaled through his nose. Sharp. But not angry. And he didn’t argue again.

“You’re impossible,” he muttered.

“And you’re exhausting.”

He didn’t deny it.

You grabbed the saddle blanket, shook it out, and laid it down by the fire - not close enough to coddle, but not far enough to ignore. No words. Just the firm press of fabric against dirt.

Then you looked over your shoulder. “Well?”

Diego stared at the blanket like it had personally offended him.

But then - with all the grace of a wounded predator - he moved. Each shift was stiff, deliberate, like he was pretending his muscles didn’t scream with every motion. He lowered himself onto the blanket with a grunt, clenched jaw, breath hissing between his teeth. Still proud. Still Diego.

You followed a second later, slow and measured, easing down beside him. Not touching. Just near.

He didn’t speak. Just lay there, eyes locked on the stars above, expression unreadable.

Then, voice rough: “Don’t make this something it’s not.”

You turned your head. “What exactly do you think this is?”

“This,” he snapped. “This Florence Nightingale bullshit. Like if I bleed loud enough someone’s gonna sing Kumbaya.”

“I’m not lighting a campfire or handing out marshmallows,” you said dryly. “You’re not that charming.”

He huffed. “Liar.”

You smiled, just a little. “Fine. Maybe a little charming.”

That got something. Not a laugh - too much effort - but a twitch at the corner of his mouth. Close enough.

“I’m not fussing,” you added. “I’m just ensuring you don’t die before I have the satisfaction of watching you lose.”

That got a snort. “And here I thought you cared.”

“Don’t push your luck.”

The fire snapped softly. Somewhere in the dark, a bird called once and then went silent again. You let yourself sink back a little, resting on your elbow, letting your coat sleeve brush his. Casual. Gentle.

He didn’t flinch.

He let out a long breath. Not tired. Not relaxed. Just… quiet.

You thought maybe he was about to drift off when he said, low and abrupt, “You’re warm.”

You blinked. “Come again?”

He didn’t look at you. “I said don’t be an idiot.”

You turned your head slowly. “That is not what you said.”

He closed his eyes, jaw twitching. “Must’ve been the blood loss.”

“Oh, so now you admit it.”

“Shut up,” he muttered.

But his voice didn’t have bite anymore. Just frayed edges. A little raw.

You let yourself lie back fully, spine against the blanket, shoulder against his. You didn’t press. But you didn’t shift away either. Close enough now that you could feel the heat between you - two stubborn bodies, bruised and warmed by the fire, pretending this wasn’t what it was.

His hand moved slightly. Rested near yours. Not touching. But closer than it had to be.

“If you breathe a word of this to anyone,” he mumbled, eyes still closed, “I will kill you.”

You smirked. “Naturally.”

“And I’m still going to win.”

You snorted. “Sure, Brando.”

“I’ll be the richest man in the world.”

You rolled your eyes. “Well, at least you’re dreaming small.”

He didn’t answer. Just exhaled again, a little softer this time. And when you shifted your weight just enough to let your knee brush his under the blanket, he didn’t move.

Didn’t curse you out.

Didn’t push you away.

He just stayed.

And maybe, after a minute, he leaned a little closer - shoulder to shoulder, weight shared, warmth pooled between you like a secret neither of you would admit come morning.

You didn’t say a word. You didn’t need to.

He didn’t answer. Just exhaled - not tired, not sharp, just… softer than before.

And almost imperceptibly, he leaned back, just a fraction. Enough to let your shoulders line up again. To let the space between you hold something still and steady and unspoken.

You didn’t call it comfort.

He wouldn’t let you.

But in the silence, in the shared heat and aching bones and guarded breath, it settled there anyway.

[peachbubbless]

Hiii!! I see you write for diego…… I feel like there’s a tooootal lack of fics for him and it makes me SO SAD!! If you’re not Diego-d out by now, could we maaaybe get a fluffy fic of Digeo Brando just kinda being vulnerable (whether thats physically or emotionally is up to you) and confiding in the reader—preferably ending in borderline cuddling? I’m a total sucker for some cavity-inducing, sweet hurt/comfort :,) Tysm!!

Also can I be 🦞 anon? Im 100% thinking I’m gonna stick around here for a bit!! (Hyperfixation who?)

— 🦞

Hiii 🦞anon! You are so right, there’s way too little Diego content and it pains me. If you've ever heard of the quote "be the change you want to see in the world," that is genuinely why I decided to start writing - to give my fav characters (Diego included) the fics they deserve, and thats hilarious :')

How are you feeling about the anime announcement? 👀 My autism has gone into overdrive I am so excited! Sorry for keeping this one hostage until SBR week but I hope it was worth the wait and a good way to celebrate the news!

Comfort - Diego x Reader

Please keep in touch I'd love to see you around!! <3

[peachbubbless]

Steel Ball Run got announced you will not be hearing the end of this from me gang 🤠😭🩷

I’ll publish the first SBR Fanfic Week Fic later today!

I’m sooo excited!!!!

[peachbubbless]

nothing scarier than being a fan of a fic and then becoming mutuals with the author. like hi shakespeare. big fan of your fake dating au

[peachbubbless]

can i request the joestar family discovering there s/o is pregnant (reverse for Joleen)

Telling the Joestars you're pregnant

Word count - 5.7k

Characters: Jonathan, Joseph (Young), Joseph (SDC), Jotaro, Josuke, Giorno, Jolyne, Johnny, Gappy/Josuke (Part 8)

Jonathan Joestar

There’s golden light pouring in through the windows, warm against the old wood of the Joestar estate, and the whole world smells faintly like ink and tea. He’s in the study, fingers stained with ink, halfway through reading something ancient and dusty. He doesn’t look up right away when you enter, just smiles softly like he always does when he senses you’re near.

Then you speak.

“Jonathan… I need to tell you something.”

Something in your tone makes him freeze. Not visibly. But his shoulders go still, and his fingers tighten ever so slightly on the edge of the desk.

He turns to you.

Sees your face.

And he already knows.

He stands. Slowly. Reverently. Like you’ve just handed him a living fragment of the divine.

“…Are you certain?” he asks, voice low and steady, as if he’s afraid to shatter the moment by speaking too loud.

You nod.

That’s when it happens. The shift.

Jonathan Joestar - the gentleman, the fighter, the scholar, the man who’s stood against monsters without blinking - falls to his knees in front of you.

Not out of shock. Not out of fear. But with the grace of someone witnessing a miracle and choosing to honour it.

His large, callused hands reach for yours, then pause. Hovering. Always gentle. Always asking for permission.

When you lace your fingers with his, he lifts your joined hands and presses a kiss to your knuckles, then rests his forehead there for a long, still moment.

“I-” His voice cracks. Just barely. “I don’t deserve this. But I will spend the rest of my life trying to be worthy.”

You can feel his heartbeat thudding under his skin - fast and anxious and so full.

That night, he doesn’t sleep much.

Not out of fear. But because his mind is racing. He’s thinking about everything - cribs and lullabies and how to make sure the Joestar legacy is something his child will want to inherit. He gets up at least three times to check on you. Not in an overbearing way, just… quietly. To make sure you’re warm. Comfortable. Safe.

“They’ll need a protector,” he murmurs, watching you sleep. “Someone who knows what it means to stand for something. I’ll teach them that.”

In the following weeks:

He reads every book on pregnancy and parenting he can find: medical, spiritual, emotional, and even outdated alchemical nonsense just in case. You catch him taking notes at one point.

He starts writing letters. To the baby. For the future. In case he’s ever gone. Because deep down, Jonathan Joestar has always known that fate doesn’t play fair.

He talks to your belly every night. His voice is soft, his stories endless. Sometimes about adventures, sometimes about his hopes. He sings, too (badly) but with so much heart you want to cry.

When you’re nauseous, he’s beside you. Holding your hair, soothing your back. Whispering, “You’re the strongest person I’ve ever known.”

When you cry over nothing (and you will), he doesn’t tell you to calm down. He holds you. Kisses your forehead. Let’s you vent or sob or curse the world.

And when you’re asleep - curled into his chest, breath slow and even - he doesn’t move.

He just watches you.

One hand resting gently over your stomach, the other brushing your hair from your face like he’s afraid to wake a dream.

He’s smiling. Not his usual polite smile, but something smaller. Softer. Like joy made quiet.

“I wonder if they’ll have your smile,” he whispers. “I hope they do.”

He leans in, voice barely audible, like he’s telling a secret to the stars.

“You’re already so loved. You don’t even know. But we love you. I love you. Every piece of you. Always will.”

Then he presses the gentlest kiss to your forehead. And one more to where his child sleeps beneath your skin.

“I’ll be here,” he promises, voice warm as candlelight. “Every step. Every moment. I’ll be here.”

And when he finally closes his eyes - arms wrapped around his whole world - Jonathan Joestar sleeps with a smile.

Joseph Joestar (Young)

It’s late when you tell him.

Not dramatic. Not romantic. Just you, in the kitchen, standing barefoot by the sink with a glass of water and a knot in your stomach. He’s rambling about something - some prank he pulled on Caesar, something involving a dress and two bottles of tequila - and he’s so full of noise and motion it makes the silence between your words feel like a chasm.

“I’m pregnant.”

The world stops.

Literally. It’s like the air skips a beat. Joseph freezes mid-step, mid-story, hands halfway to gesturing some ridiculous reenactment.

“……You’re what now?”

His voice cracks at the end. You can see his brain grinding like it’s buffering at 2%. His eyes dart down to your stomach, back to your face, and then he does the worst thing imaginable.

He laughs.

Loud. Nervous. Completely out of pocket. Like he’s waiting for you to break character and yell “Just kidding!” like it’s all part of a bit.

But your face doesn’t change.

The laughter dies.

“Wait. Wait, wait, wait - seriously?”

You nod. Quiet. No tricks. No backup punchline. Just the truth.

Joseph Joestar has fought Nazis, Pillar Men, and literal abominations.

Nothing prepares him for this.

He sits down. Hard. Kitchen chair creaks under him. He runs both hands through his hair, muttering “Oh my god” like a prayer or a death sentence. Then again, louder:

“Oh my god, I did that?? I did that?!”

You’re half a second away from leaving when he jolts upright.

“Wait - no, not like that! Not - shit! I didn’t mean it in a bad way, I just - holy shit, I’m gonna be a dad?! ME?!”

He’s spiralling. Hands flailing. Pacing now.

“Okay, okay, we can do this. I mean- I can… I can barely keep a cactus alive, but this is fine. This is fine! Babies are just loud potatoes for the first couple months, right?”

You stare at him.

He stops pacing.

“…Okay, I’ll read some books.”

That night, he’s lying flat on the bed, staring at the ceiling, arms flung wide like he’s trying to take up all the space his thoughts are spilling into.

You’re not sure if he’s asleep until he says - quiet, raw:

“I don’t know if I’m ready.”

It’s the first real thing he’s said all night.

You shift, curling beside him. He flinches when you rest your hand over his chest - like he’s worried you’re going to take it back, take everything back.

“I’m scared,” he says. “I joke when I’m scared. You know that.”

You do. Of course you do.

He turns to you then. Really turns. No mask. No grin. Just those stormy, wild eyes full of fear and wonder and more love than he knows how to hold in one body.

“But I want this. I want you. I want…” He swallows. “I wanna be there. For everything.”

He reaches out. Presses a shaky hand to your side.

“…I’m not gonna run. I promise.”

In the following weeks:

He tells everyone. Immediately. The mailman knows. Speedwagon knows. Caesar hears it through a window and nearly drops his espresso.

He becomes insanely protective. You so much as sneeze and he’s fussing over you.

Reads exactly half of a parenting book before getting distracted.

Invents “prenatal Hamon sessions” that are 90% fake science and 10% sincere attempts to “boost the baby’s Hamon potential.”

Leaves you notes on the fridge like: “Good morning, gorgeous + also the adorable parasitic lifeform inside you.”

Says things like “It’ll probably be huge like me. Sorry in advance.”

He’s dramatic. He’s terrified. He’s not perfect.

But he loves you so hard it radiates off him in waves.

And every time he stares at you, like you hung the stars and then casually told him you built a second solar system, he means it when he says:

“I’m gonna be the best dad this kid doesn’t know they need yet. Just wait.”

Joseph Joestar (SDC) 

You don’t even get the whole sentence out before he chokes on his drink.

You were aiming for casual, maybe “Hey, I’ve got some news” or “So, funny thing about my doctor’s appointment…”

Instead, what comes out is a very dry, “Joseph… I’m pregnant.”

And then it’s like you detonated a bomb made entirely of “WHAT?!”

He coughs. Flails. Nearly knocks over the table. There’s peach iced tea on the floor and lemon slices stuck to his shirt and he’s already halfway to standing like he’s about to physically square up with the concept of your pregnancy.

“YOU’RE WHAT?!?”

You blink. “Pregnant.”

“I-” He gestures at you, then himself, then vaguely at the air like he’s trying to solve an invisible equation. “You – me – how-?!”

You fold your arms. “You know how.”

He opens his mouth. Closes it. Points a finger. Drops it. Then finally sits down like his legs gave out.

“…You’re serious?”

You nod.

He leans back, hand over his heart like he’s just been hit by a Hamon beam.

“Oh my God. I still got it.”

You stare. “That’s what you’re leading with?”

He grins, roguish and infuriating. “C’mon, sweetheart. Sixty-two and still got it? You’ve gotta admit that’s kind of hot.”

You reach for a pillow to throw at him. He narrowly dodges it, laughing until it dissolves into something quieter and a little softer.

He looks at you again. Really looks.

“You’re sure?” he asks. Not doubting - just… hoping it’s real.

You nod. “I’m sure.”

And Joseph Joestar - smartass, war vet, drama king - sits very still for a second too long.

Then says, too fast:

“Okay. Okay, okay, we can make this work. I mean, we have experience… even if it was years ago. Holy turned out fine, right?”

He’s up again, already pacing.

“Do we need to move? We should move. Tokyo’s stressful. Do babies get stressed? Do I get stressed?!”

You say his name once, twice.

Then, finally, he stops in front of you. A little winded. A little wide-eyed.

A lot in love.

“I’m scared,” he admits.

Your breath catches.

“I’m scared I’ll screw it up again. That I’ll miss things. That I’ll be too old, or too busy, or too Joestar to get it right.”

You reach out.

He takes your hand like it’s the only thing tethering him to the moment.

“…But I want this,” he says, quieter. “God, do I want this.”

And then, classic Joseph, he ruins the emotional tension by immediately announcing:

“We’re gonna need to hide this from Jotaro. I can already feel the judgment.”

In the following weeks:

Absolutely uses the pregnancy as an excuse for more affection. “You’re carrying the next Joestar! You get foot rubs. That’s in the rules.”

Comes up with terrible baby names every day. 

Can’t decide between things so just buys everything.

Tries to convince you the baby might inherit a Stand in utero and brings out tarot cards to test your belly.

Jotaro finds him talking to your stomach and immediately walks out without comment.

Buys a ridiculous number of books, reads zero. Claims he’s going to “wing it with style.”

Has one night of complete meltdown where he panics about being older, about making mistakes and you hold him while he spirals, until he falls asleep muttering, “I’ll be there. I swear it.”

He’s dramatic. He’s inappropriate. But he shows up. He loves fiercely, makes mistakes loudly, and keeps coming back. He may not always get it right but he’s never going to stop trying.

And when he holds your hand, when he presses his palm to your stomach like he’s making a pact with the future, he whispers-

“I’m gonna love the hell out of this kid. You better believe it.”

Jotaro Kujo 

You tell him the way you have to.

Not dramatic. Not poetic. Just… plain truth.

You don’t plan it. There’s no romantic setup. No flowers. No “World’s Best Dad” mug waiting on the kitchen table.

It’s late, the lights are low, and Jotaro’s halfway through reviewing marine data, glasses perched low on his nose, a pencil tucked behind his ear. The room smells like coffee and salt air. He’s quiet. Focused. Calm.

And then you say it.

“Jotaro… I’m pregnant.”

His hand stills over the paper.

A long, thick silence settles between you. Not awkward. Not cold. Just heavy. Full of something that doesn’t have a name yet.

He doesn’t look up. Doesn’t move. You wonder if he heard you.

Then-

“…Are you sure?”

His voice is low. Level. But not unfeeling.

You nod. “Yeah. I’ve taken three tests.”

He finally looks at you.

And you’ve never seen that look before.

Not fear. Not joy. Not even shock. Just… stillness. Like he’s caught between the version of his life he’d planned - and the one you just gave him.

His jaw tightens. His eyes search yours. And then, softly:

“…Okay.”

It’s not dismissive.

It’s not distant.

It’s a promise.

He stands up. Walks over to you.

His hands hover for a second, then settle on your shoulders - warm and steady. The space between you closes.

You expect more questions. More reaction.

What you get is his forehead against yours. Steady.

Just that. No words.

Just breath. Contact. Connection.

Later that night, you find him on the balcony, lit by starlight, staring up at the sky like it’s suddenly got answers. His coat is draped over your shoulders—left there without a word.

You sit beside him. Don’t press.

Eventually, he says:

“I don’t know what kind of father I’ll be.”

You rest your head on his shoulder.

“I think you’ll be better than you think.”

And the silence that follows feels like belief settling in.

He doesn’t look at you but he squeezes your hand. Hard.

In the following weeks:

He doesn’t talk about it much. Doesn’t announce it. But you catch him pausing longer in the baby aisle at stores quietly reading labels.

Buys parenting books. Science-based ones. Annotates them like marine biology research and cross-references sources. 

Rewrites his entire schedule. Late nights out? Gone. Conference travel? Postponed. Patrol shifts? Shortened. He doesn’t say why. No one dares ask.

Every time you so much as wince, he’s there. Doesn’t say “Are you okay?” - just is there. A hand on your back. A glass of water. A calm, firm “sit down.”

Keeps a medical file for you thicker than his thesis. Tracks vitamins. Memorises everything. Subtly corrects the doctor once.

Starts researching the safest bassinets and strollers like it’s his final Stand battle. Refuses to settle for anything with fewer than five-star reviews.

You wake up from a nap once to find his hand resting over your belly. Not moving. Not even fully touching. Just there.

You pretend to be asleep. Because if he’s letting himself have this moment, you won’t take it from him.

One night, he hears you talking to the baby - and later, when he thinks you’re not listening, you hear him murmur: “You’re safe. I promise.”

He never screams. Never breaks.

But you feel it. Every day.

The way he walks a little slower now when you’re by his side.

The way his gloved hand hovers before finding yours.

The way he says, in the dark, half-asleep:

“If anything ever tries to hurt them… I’ll stop the world.”

And you know he means it.

He’s not loud.

He’s not flashy.

But he’s already a father in every way that counts.

Josuke Higashikata 

You don’t mean for it to come out the way it does.

You’re not sure how you meant to say it, honestly. Maybe with a little more prep. A lead-in. Some grounding. Not while he’s halfway through trying to microwave his supper, still in his uniform undershirt, badge clipped to the counter, and humming along to the Morioh radio jingle like the most chaotic domestic golden retriever known to man.

But you’re watching him - hair a little tousled, sleeves rolled up, gold chain catching the light - and your brain just… says it.

“I’m pregnant.”

He doesn’t even turn around at first.

Just kind of nods like you said something casual. Nice weather today or the mail came.

Then he freezes.

Real slow.

Turns.

Stares.

“…You’re what now.”

You swallow. “Pregnant.”

His face goes through all five stages of grief in under two seconds. Denial. Confusion. Visibly questioning his own fertility.

“Like - baby pregnant?!”

“Yes, Josuke. That’s… how pregnancy works.”

He opens his mouth. Closes it. Points at your stomach. Points at himself. Points back at your stomach. And then:

“Oh my god.”

He takes a step back like the concept physically hit him. His brain is racing - you can see it. There are so many thoughts colliding in his skull that nothing is coming out of his mouth except-

“Do you need water?! A chair?! A chair and water?! What if you pass out?! What if I pass out?! Okuyasu’s gonna pass out when he hears!!”

You sit him down. He’s flailing. Verbally. Emotionally. 

“I - shit, okay, no - this is good! I’m not saying it’s not good! It’s just like… wow! That’s a person. Inside you. That we made. That’s not important. I just - whoa.”

He rubs his face with both hands. Still wearing his patrol belt like that’s going to help.

You wait.

Then, quietly:

“…You’re sure?”

You nod.

And the second he sees that, the panic fizzles.

He exhales hard. Eyes wide. Heart full.

“…I’m gonna be a dad.”

He says it like he’s trying the word on. It fits. Too big right now. A little terrifying. But… right.

He grins. Big, shaky, earnest.

Then completely breaks down into happy tears two minutes later while hugging you. Still smells faintly like coffee and traffic stops.

“I’m sorry,” he chokes, wiping his face on the back of his wrist. “I don’t even know why I’m crying. I’m just - shit, you’re so cool. You’re so cool and you’re pregnant and you still wanna be with me?! Like, this is my kid too? Really?!”

You kiss his forehead. “I’m very sure.”

In the following weeks:

Buys so many toys for the baby.

Googles “how to be a good dad” while Okuyasu hovers behind him eating chips and yelling, “DUDE! DUDE! You gotta teach it how to fight!”

Starts keeping a second notepad in his patrol car - one for ticket logs, one for baby name ideas and “things I wanna teach them someday.”

Tells every coworker in the precinct that he’s going to be a dad. Every single one. Including his supervisor. Multiple times.

Panics over every little sound you make. Slight groan? Crazy diamond is ready.

Spends literal hours talking to your stomach. Tells them about the arcade. How to dodge punches. Who to trust. Which diners in Morioh are the best (Tonio’s).

Is lowkey insecure. He tries to hide it, but one night you catch him sitting at the foot of the bed, whispering, “I’m not my dad. I swear I’ll try harder than he did.”

Rohan finds out and starts sketching a crazy one-shot called “The Hair Heir”. Josuke prepares to torch his house. 

His mom is THRILLED. Starts crocheting blankets within minutes.

Josuke insists on building the crib himself. It’s crooked. He cries. “I can’t even fix it with Crazy Diamond.”

He’s not ready. God, he’s not ready.

But he shows up. Every day.

Pompadour perfectly styled. Badge on his belt. Lunch packed with too many snacks. Ready to protect Morioh with one hand… and hold your hand with the other.

And when he looks at you?

It’s not just love. It’s awe. It’s joy. It’s you’re my whole world now and I’m gonna be the best dad in this town.

“…You know,” he says one night, curled around you in bed, voice soft and full of wonder, “if they’re anything like you… they’re gonna be amazing.”

You smile into his chest. “They’re gonna be half you, too.”

And he just pulls you tighter.

“I hope they get your laugh,” he mumbles.

You tell him they probably will.

And if they get his heart?

They’ll be just fine.

Giorno Giovanna 

You don’t say it like it’s a confession. You say it like you’re handing him a mission briefing. 

Something final. Important. Irrevocable.

“Giorno… I’m pregnant.”

The words hang in the air between you, quiet and clean.

He doesn’t speak at first.

He just stops what he’s doing, his pen frozen mid-signature over a document marked for Passione territory logistics, and lifts his eyes to meet yours.

Still, calculating, but never cold. 

“…How long have you known?”

You answer. Calmly. He listens. Silently. Then finally, he sets the pen down. He crosses the room in three slow, even steps.

You brace for anything.

He’s the boss of Passione.

You’ve seen how he handles problems.

People kneel before him.

But you think of Trish.

The way she was stolen, pursued, nearly carved up just for being her father’s daughter.

And the man who let it happen wore the same crown Giorno wears now.

But this time?

He doesn’t turn away.

He doesn’t calculate risk.

He reaches for your hand like it means something, like you mean something.

His fingers wrap around yours.

Steady, warm and real.

And when he speaks, it’s not just certainty. It’s something softer.

“…I see.”

A beat. Then gentler:

“Thank you for telling me.”

And it makes your chest ache.

That night, he doesn’t sleep.

You wake once to find him on the balcony, overlooking the city, suit jacket off, shirt sleeves rolled. The moon turns his hair to molten white, his eyes sharp in the dark.

He doesn’t hear you at first.

Then says, “The world isn’t kind. I’ve worked every day to change that.”

He turns to you.

“But I have a new reason to succeed and I won’t stop until this city is safe for our child.”

In the following weeks:

A quiet shift rolls through Passione. Nobody speaks of it, but things change. Layers of extra security around you. Routes rerouted. Meetings relocated.

Your doctor receives an anonymous “gift” of new equipment, better staff, and the silent understanding that any failure will be unacceptable.

Giorno never says the word “Papa” out loud, not at first. But he makes space for the role in his world: time in his schedule, protection in his plans, softness in the places no one sees.

Gold Experience becomes hyper-responsive to your state. Once, when you stumbled, it moved faster than either of you - Giorno caught you, and Gold Experience stabilised the ground beneath your feet with vines.

He builds a nursery hidden within his villa, soundproofed, sunlight filtered. Quiet. Secure. Untouchable.

At night, he begins speaking to the child - not with soft lullabies, but with truth. “The world will challenge you,” he says to your stomach. “But you will not face it alone.”

Giorno doesn’t fall apart.

He doesn’t shout. Or cry. Or spiral.

He recalculates.

He reorganizes.

He adapts.

Because to Giorno Giovanna, being a father is not just a title.

It’s a new kind of mission.

And just like he swore to defeat Diavolo and end suffering from the inside-

He swears now, in quiet moments between breath and heartbeat:

“No harm will come to you. Not while I’m still breathing.”

And you believe him.

Because this is Giorno Giovanna.

And when he decides to protect something?

The world shifts to let him do it.

Jolyne Cujoh

She tells you while walking.

Just blurts it out while crossing the living room, pulling on a hoodie, tying her hair back with fast, restless fingers like she’s trying to keep her hands busy so they don’t do something else, something stupid, like shake.

“I’m pregnant.”

No buildup.

No soft lighting or pastel sweaters.

Just: “I’m pregnant.” Said like a dare.

You blink. “What?”

She stops. Doesn’t turn around. Just lets the silence hang there for a few seconds too long.

“…I said I’m pregnant.”

When you don’t respond right away, she does turn - arms folded, jaw tight. There’s a flicker of something in her eyes: not anger, not quite. Bracing. For judgment. For abandonment. For anything but support.

You step closer, slow. “Are you okay?”

That catches her off guard.

“What? Yeah. I’m fine.” “Well - no, I’m throwing up like every morning and I’m pretty sure my boobs are trying to murder me, but other than that - yeah. Totally peachy.”

You almost smile. She notices and scowls.

“Don’t look at me like that.”

“Like what?”

“Like I’m gonna cry. I’m not.”

“…Okay.” She pauses. Then: “…I might.”

You sit down. She doesn’t follow.

“I didn’t plan this,” she says. “And I’m not gonna pretend I’m one of those people who always wanted to be a mom or whatever. I didn’t.”

You nod. You wait.

“But it’s here now. And I’ve been thinking about it. A lot. And…”

She stops.

She breathes.

“…I wanna try. I wanna do better than what I got.”

You stand. Take her hand. Her grip is tight - like she’s afraid if she lets go, the ground will open up and swallow her whole.

You don’t say much.

You don’t have to.

And when you finally pull her into a hug, she sinks into it like her body’s been waiting for permission.

In the following weeks:

Jolyne insists on doing everything herself. Carrying groceries? Climbing ladders? Lifting furniture? You have to beg her to sit down.

Refuses to read parenting blogs. “They all sound like they were written by rich suburban yoga weirdos. That’s not my style.”

Starts researching genetic Stand inheritance like a college thesis. “If this kid ends up with a string-based power, I need to prepare for that. I didn’t inherit my dad’s but it’s possible”

Keeps pretending she’s fine, then collapses onto the couch with a heating pad and a bowl of mac and cheese. “Don’t say anything. Just let me die for twenty minutes.”

When the nausea gets bad, she talks to the baby like it’s an annoying roommate. “You better come out cool, or I swear I’ll put you back.”

You catch her late at night, hand over her stomach, eyes unfocused. She’s whispering something soft. You don’t interrupt.

Tells her dad eventually. Pretends not to care what he thinks. But she doesn’t stop pacing until he says:

“You’ll be a great mother. Just like your mom was.”

Keeps your sonogram photo tucked in the back of her phone case. Pretends it’s no big deal.

Jolyne doesn’t change overnight.

She’s still fiery. Still loud. Still the girl who’d punch someone for looking at you wrong and then complain about how sore her knuckles are.

But there’s something gentler in the way she carries herself now.

Not softer.

Just… stronger. In a different way.

And when she curls up next to you at night, one hand resting on her stomach, she murmurs into your shoulder:

“I don’t know what I’m doing.”

You press a kiss to her temple. “Neither do I.”

She breathes.

“…We’ll figure it out, though.”

And you believe her.

Because if there’s one thing Jolyne Cujoh knows how to do - it’s fight for what matters.

Johnny Joestar

You don’t plan how to tell him.

Because how do you prepare someone who’s survived what Johnny has?

You can’t soften this kind of truth.

So you just… say it.

He’s out on the porch when you find him. Hat tilted low, boots kicked up on the rail, something unreadable in his face as he watches the sky go gold over the horizon. There’s a calm to him lately - not peace, but the kind of stillness you get after years of running.

You sit beside him.

He doesn’t look at you, just shifts slightly to make room.

“Johnny,” you say, carefully. “I’m pregnant.”

He doesn’t react.

Not visibly.

Just lowers his boots to the porch floor with a quiet thunk.

His eyes are still on the sky.

“…Say that again?”

“I’m pregnant.”

Silence. Long and full of gravity.

His hand curls against his knee, knuckles pale. Then-

“…Huh.”

You wait.

He finally turns his head, slowly. There’s no panic in his expression, but it’s not blank either. It’s focused. Serious. Like he’s just been handed a question he doesn’t know the answer to yet.

“You’re sure?”

You nod.

He breathes out through his nose, slow and controlled.

And then he says, very quietly:

“Okay.”

You’re not sure what you expected. He doesn’t touch you. Doesn’t flinch. Just sits with it. Like he’s testing the weight of this new future in his hands and deciding whether or not it’ll crush him.

He leans back against the wall. His gaze drops to the floorboards.

“I thought I wasn’t the kind of person who get this,” he says after a minute. “Family. Future. Normal stuff.”

You don’t interrupt.

“I’ve spent so much of my life trying to outrun who I was. And then trying to prove I’d changed. And now this…”

He finally looks at you.

There’s no fear in his eyes.

Just something raw.

“…I want to get it right.”

In the weeks that follow:

Johnny doesn’t tell anyone right away. Not because he’s hiding it—but because he’s keeping it close. Letting it be real before letting it be public.

He starts making lists. Quietly. Supplies. Books. Things to fix around the ranch.

You catch him once, in the barn, practicing how to hold a newborn with an empty feed sack. 

He builds the crib himself. Doesn’t ask for help. It’s a little crooked, but steady.

When you feel sick, he doesn’t panic. He just gets up, makes tea, rubs your back, and mutters, “Alright, kid. Go easy on ‘em.”

Once tells a horse, very seriously, “You’re not the baby anymore,” before giving it a carrot anyway.

Starts whittling random shapes out of spare wood and leaving them on the windowsill “for luck.” One ends up looking vaguely like a baby with a cowboy hat. He pretends it doesn’t.

You catch him dancing in the kitchen with his shirt halfway unbuttoned, holding the laundry basket like it’s a toddler. He doesn’t stop when you walk in, just gives you a lopsided grin and keeps going.

It’s not easy for Johnny to be hopeful.

It never has been.

But he shows up. Every day. Even the hard ones.

And one night, as you’re getting ready for bed, he slips a hand to your stomach and just… stays there. Not saying anything. Just holding on.

Eventually, he murmurs:

“I think I can do this.”

And you believe him.

Because underneath everything - the anger, the hurt, the things he’s done and the things he’s lost - Johnny Joestar is someone who fights to move forward.

And now, he has someone new to carry with him.

Josuke Higashikata (Part 8) 

You don’t think it’ll be a big moment. You don’t plan to say it while he’s rinsing off a bunch of fancy grapes in the kitchen sink, humming that off-key little tune he picked up from TV commercials, sleeves rolled up and face slightly flushed from the sun.

But you do. You say it.

“Josuke… I’m pregnant.”

He looks up, blink-blink, fingers still tangled in the grape stems. His shoulders go rigid, like someone just hit a switch in his spine. He blinks again. His lips part - like he’s going to say something. And then?

“…Hold on.”

He very calmly puts the grapes back into the bowl.

Wipes his hands on the dish towel.

And turns to face you, dead serious.

“You’re being serious?”

You nod. “Completely.”

“…You’re sure?”

“Yeah.”

He stares at you for a second longer, then turns around and walks directly into the edge of the kitchen counter.

“Okay – ow - okay,” he mutters, putting a hand on his hip like that’ll help. “Okay.”

He doesn’t freak out. Not exactly. But you can see it in his eyes: the math scrambling to finish itself, the swirl of how? and what now? and am I ready for this?

And then:

“…I thought you were gonna tell me you smashed a plate or something.”

You snort. “Nope.”

“I mean. This is… kind of better.”

“Kind of?”

He rubs the back of his neck, flustered but smiling. That weird, soft, sheepish smile he gives you when he’s trying really hard to look cool and emotionally balanced.

Then he says it - quietly:

“I’ve never really thought about stuff like this before. I was so occupied with my past I never really looked forward.”

You don’t say anything. You just take his hand, and he squeezes it like he’s trying to ground himself in you.

In the following weeks:

Starts carrying a little notepad with reminders like “prenatal vitamins,” “don’t let them carry heavy stuff,” and “ask what a onesie is.”

You catch him reading a baby book with a totally blank expression. “What the hell is a swaddle? Is that a Stand?”

Asks you at least five times, dead serious, “Do you think it’ll have four balls, too?”

Asks Yasuho for help picking out baby-safe shampoo. She immediately starts crying. He panics.

Draws a “baby Stand” design and shows it to you like it’s a science fair project. It’s weirdly cool. 

Touches your stomach like it’s the most delicate thing he’s ever seen. Doesn’t always say anything. Just… rests his palm there.

Mutters, “I’m gonna protect you,” half to you, half to the baby. Says it again when he thinks you’re asleep.

Gappy is still a bit fuzzy about who he used to be.

But he knows who he wants to be now.

He wants to be steady. Safe. Someone who shows up. Someone who figures it out, even if he stumbles.

And when he looks at you now - your fingers linked, your breath slow, the weight of a new life between you - he says softly:

“…This is real, right?”

You nod.

He exhales.

“Then I’m not going anywhere.”

[peachbubbless]

Your Hot Pants fanfiction has been so good oh my gosh- You're cranking out chapters so fast too (´TωT`) Please be sure you're taking care of and pacing yourself throughout all the writing though! ♡ Especially if you plan to do a week for SBR! Still very excited and happy to see your work on my feed and do look forward to it all (*>∀<*)

🌻 anon

Awwwww thank you so much, 🌻anon! That seriously means the world to me! Every time you pop up in my inbox, you seriously make my day. I’m so glad you’re enjoying the Hot Pants fanfiction <33333 It’s such a niche premise I honestly wasn’t sure if anyone would read it, but I’m really happy you’re enjoying it! I promise I’ll pace myself and keep things balanced! ♡

[peachbubbless]

Blessed are the Damned - Hot Pants x Reader

Chapter 4 - Beef Between Racers

Word count: 1683

The desert hadn’t ended, but it had changed.

The red rock and endless sand had given way to something stranger - dense trees, shaded paths, and the kind of oppressive quiet that made your skin itch. No birdsong. No hoofbeats but your own. Just the distant creak of bark and the occasional snap of something moving where you weren’t looking.

It didn’t feel like you were being watched.

It felt like you were being measured.

You hadn’t seen another rider in two days. Which was probably for the best, given the state of your leg. It had stopped bleeding. A thin line of skin had knitted itself over the worst of it, a testament to whatever godless miracle the pink-armoured bastard had done with his Stand. You’d pressed the wound that night, tested its integrity like a bitter little science experiment. It held.

You didn’t know what to do with that.

You didn’t know what to do with him, either.

Hot Pants. Clearly not his real name. You’d turned it over in your head until it lost all meaning. It wasn’t just the cauterising. It wasn’t the total lack of bedside manner, or the fact that he’d quoted some weird philosophical nonsense while spraying a strange creamy substance against your flesh. It was the stillness. The eerie, messianic calm, like he was halfway through an exorcism and still deciding whether you were the demon. The kind to make you shudder.

You hadn’t looked back after riding off.

But you’d thought about it.

Way too much.

Now, alone, surrounded by trees so dense they could’ve swallowed the sun, you were beginning to regret your earlier confidence. The forest felt wrong. You were no stranger to strange - after all, you were currently participating in a cross-continental death race - but this was something else.

You tugged at the reins, guiding your horse (still grumpy and totally still smarter than you) down a narrow slope shaded by overgrowth. The shadows here were long and shifting, and you had the creeping sense you’d passed the same gnarled tree three times already. Your canteen rattled empty against your side. Your compass needle kept spinning in erratic little hiccups, like it couldn’t decide which way was north or whether north was even still an option.

You sighed and muttered to yourself. “This is fine. Totally fine. Definitely not a cursed forest. Definitely not a Stand ability. Definitely not about to be skinned alive by a time-looping forest cryptid.”

Your horse flicked its ears back at you, unimpressed.

“Don’t judge me. You’ve been weird since Utah.”

The silence answered.

You were just about to dismount and check your map (again) when a smell hit you unexpectedly -  warm and entirely too domestic for your current surroundings.

Meat. Cooking meat.

The scent curled under your nose like a cartoon trap, cutting clean through the heavy air. Not just meat - beef. You knew the smell. Not from canned rations or jerky strips, but fresh. Seared. Seasoned. 

Your stomach, which had been sulking in quiet protest for the last several miles, gave an actual lurch.

You hesitated.

Logic told you to be cautious. Logic reminded you that nothing in this race came free, that if something smelled good, it probably came with a price tag in blood.

But you were hungry.

And so, against your better judgment, you followed the scent.

It took only a few minutes of weaving through the trees before you spotted it - smoke curling gently into the sky, light flickering behind a thick stand of pines.

You dismounted, stepped carefully, and crouched low as you neared the edge of the clearing.

What you saw almost made you laugh.

Two men sat around a makeshift firepit, one with wild blond curls and a cocky lean, the other pale and sharp-eyed, legs crossed as he stabbed a chunk of beef with a too-clean fork. Johnny Joestar and Gyro Zeppeli. They were passing a canteen back and forth, both completely relaxed.

They looked like they were picnicking.

You stared.

You were just about to stand and announce yourself when something else stepped into view. Something pink.

You froze.

No mistaking that.

Even from here, you could see the flash of armour, the gleam of something unwavering and unbothered. He’d arrived at their campfire like a judgment, and from the look on his face, it wasn’t a kind one.

You ducked behind the trees, heart hammering, and watched it unfold.

Hot Pants stepped forward.

Gyro - clearly mouthy, probably dangerous - said something about sharing. You couldn’t hear the exact words. But you didn’t need to.

Hot Pants didn’t reply.

Instead, he attacked.

His Stand lashed out in a pale, wet arc - an utterly revolting spray that landed with sickening precision across both men’s arms and faces. Gyro screamed. Johnny scrambled. The meat hit the dirt.

You blinked.

“Oh,” you whispered. “We’re doing that today.”

Behind you, your horse snorted.

You hadn’t planned on running into him again. Certainly not like this. But now, crouched behind a tree with a front-row seat to divine judgment, you had a decision to make.

Ride away?

Walk in?

Pretend you were just lost and ask for directions while everyone was still covered in God knows what?

…Yeah. No. You were going to need at least five more minutes to figure this one out.

Because apparently today’s menu was beef.

And Hot Pants was not sharing.

You crouched in silence, caught somewhere between second-hand embarrassment and awe, as Johnny Joestar tried to peel what looked like a layer of human skin off his hands.

“Okay!” Gyro shouted, waving a jerky-slicked hand. “Okay! We may have made an honest mistake. No need for hellfire!”

Hot Pants did not reply.

He stood in front of them like judgment carved from stone, coat swaying slightly with the breeze, arms crossed like he’d expected this stupidity from the moment he woke up this morning. Like punishing meat thieves was a core part of his race strategy.

Johnny spat something on the ground - probably beef residue. “We didn’t know it was your cow!”

“You ate it.”

“We were hungry!”

“I arranged for that cow to be placed here. I spent money.”

“I’m paralysed! He’s Italian!”

Hot Pants, to his credit, didn’t flinch.

You, meanwhile, clapped a hand over your mouth to stop from snorting.

This was absurd.

And also - hilarious.

You weren’t proud of it, but there was something deeply satisfying about watching two top-ten contenders in the Steel Ball Run race get thoroughly smacked down for what amounted to a mid-forest cookout. You could’ve left them to it. Let the argument play out. Slipped back into the shadows and disappeared like a good little stray.

But then Gyro said something that made your stomach flip.

“Look, we’re sorry, alright? If we’d known this was a sacred cow, blessed by the god of weird pink vigilantes, we’d have left it alone.”

And that was it.

You stood up.

Loudly.

Hot Pants didn’t react. But the two idiots by the fire turned like they’d just been caught raiding the Vatican.

“Oh, good,” you said dryly, stepping into the clearing. “I was worried I might’ve hallucinated all that.”

Johnny squinted at you, still covered in what looked like flesh goop. “Who the hell are you?”

“I’d ask the same, but I’m too distracted by the fact that you’re wearing practically part of someone’s face.”

“It’s not a face,” Gyro snapped. “It’s - look, it’s complicated.”

You gave him a long, unimpressed look.

Then you turned to Hot Pants.

“You.”

Finally, he moved - just slightly, tilting his head. You couldn’t see his full expression, but you felt the weight of it.

“…You’re alive,” he said.

“Oh, don’t sound so surprised,” you shot back. “You did cauterise my leg with that weird flesh shit without asking, but sure. Credit where it’s due.”

Johnny looked between you, then back at Hot Pants. “You know them?”

You and Hot Pants answered at the same time.

“No.”

“Yes.”

A beat of silence.

You pointed accusingly. “You healed me!”

“I cauterised your wound.”

“Same thing!”

“It isn’t.”

Gyro slowly raised a hand. “So. Uh. I’m getting the vibe that this is not a good time to ask if anyone brought dessert.”

You gave him a deadpan look. “You’re lucky he didn’t flay your face and serve it too.”

Johnny turned to Hot Pants, wiping another smear of Cream Starter off his jaw. “Can you please take this stuff off now?”

Hot Pants stared.

Then, with the same lack of fanfare he’d arrived with, he raised a hand and reabsorbed the goop like it had never been there.

You made a mental note: Do not piss off the meat magician.

Johnny muttered something about Stand users and divine punishment and started scraping beef off his saddlebag.

Gyro dusted himself off, shaking remnants of meat product from his sleeves. “Alright. So… we’re not friends. That much is clear.”

Hot Pants remained still.

“You didn’t kill the cow,” he said flatly. “But you still ate what wasn’t yours.”

Johnny grumbled, rubbing his face. “Not like it had your name on it.”

“It did,” Hot Pants said. “Just not in words you understand.”

Gyro opened his mouth to argue, thought better of it, and muttered something bitter in Neapolitan under his breath.

You took a cautious step forward. “So… that’s it?”

Hot Pants looked at you for the briefest second. His gaze flicked down to your healed leg, then back up. Still impassive. Still unreadable.

Then he turned.

And walked away.

No threat. No warning. No name.

Just silence.

You all stood there for a beat.

“…Well,” Gyro finally muttered. “That was uncomfortable.”

Johnny shook out his sleeves. “Let’s just get out of here.”

“Gladly,” you said, glancing once in the direction Hot Pants had gone. “This whole forest gives me the creeps.”

None of you noticed the path behind you.

How it looked just a little too familiar.

[peachbubbless]

Blessed are the Damned - Hot Pants x Reader

Chapter 3 - Saviour

Word count: 855

You opened your mouth.

To question.

To argue.

To ask who the hell this was - 

-but he was already moving.

A hand gripped your jaw - not cruel, but with a force that brooked no resistance. You barely had time to react before something was shoved between your teeth: a worn scrap of leather. A glove. The tang of sweat and old steel filled your mouth.

Then you saw the device.

Bulky. Chrome. Strapped to his arm like a relic from some forgotten war. A nozzle glinted at the end, aimed unerringly at your wound.

You thrashed instinctively. Tried to push away. “Wait -”

Too late.

The trigger hissed. Pain bloomed.

It didn’t just burn, it invaded, crawled under your skin like it had a purpose and spreading across the gash with unnatural speed. You screamed through clenched teeth, the sound swallowed by leather and dust. Your limbs bucked. He held you down.

Your vision flooded with stars.

Every nerve lit up in protest, your shoulder convulsing as the cream burrowed in, sealing muscle and vein with surgical efficiency. You’d been wounded before. Patched up in backrooms, stitched on the trail.

Nothing had ever felt like this.

And nothing had ever hurt like this.

When he finally stepped back, the world reeled sideways. The leather dropped from your mouth, wet with spit. You curled in on yourself, gasping like you’d been gutted.

“You - what the fuck - was that?!”

No answer.

He was already re-strapping the device to his belt with the same reverence a priest might offer the Eucharist. His face didn’t soften. Didn’t acknowledge your shaking hands, the pain still rolling through you in nauseating waves.

Only when he finally spoke did his voice break the air like a scripture written in stone:

“If your right hand causes you to sin, cut it off. It is better to enter heaven maimed than hell whole.”

You blinked. Breathless. Dust in your mouth. “What the fuck is wrong with you?”

Still no change.

Still no kindness.

He just adjusted his hat, gaze unreadable beneath the shadow of the brim, and turned as if the encounter was over. As if healing you, saving you, was nothing more than obligation. Ritual. A box to be checked before the next sermon.

“You’re welcome, by the way.” 

“Of course. A man saves your life, and somehow still manages to do it without an ounce of delicacy. Typical.”

He mounted his horse.

And then: “You shouldn’t have been here.”

The words weren’t cruel. They were cold. Final. A judgment passed without malice, without emotion.

Just truth, in his eyes.

And then he was gone.

Dust trailed in his wake, pale against the horizon. The only sign he’d ever been there was the slow, dull throb of your half-healed wound and the chemical sting still clinging to your skin.

You stared after him.

And for a long time, you didn’t know what to feel.

Saved. Hurt. Humbled. Furious.

You’d heard of Hot Pants before – he was doing pretty well in the rankings.

Now, he was a miracle.

And a God damn lunatic.

You spit in the sand, wiped the sweat from your brow, and muttered to no one:

“Next time, I’ll take the quicksand.”

But your fingers lingered at the edge of your wound - testing the place where muscle had been mended by something you couldn’t name. Something that wasn’t his. 

Whatever Cream Starter was, whatever he was, left a mark.

You didn’t remember standing up. Didn’t remember when the bleeding stopped.

You only knew the sand under your boots looked wrong - too red, too dark. Like it had soaked something sacred and turned it sour.

Your leg was no longer screaming, but it still throbbed like something was trying to crawl out of the bone. The skin was sticky. Raw. Covered in that weird… paste? Foam? It wasn’t bandaged but sealed. Sealed and stinging.

And he was gone.

Like a fever dream. No name. No warning. Just silence.

You touched your thigh carefully, like it might bite you and felt your breath hitch. Not because it hurt (though it did), but because it felt real. The whole thing had happened. You hadn’t made him up. Weirdo.

Your fingers trembled.

You sat. Not gracefully. More like gravity just won.

The air stank of blood and heat. Flies circled the wreckage behind you - a broken trap, split wide open, the steel twisted like ribbon. Your coat was torn. Your mouth was dry. And somewhere in the distance, your horse was probably losing her mind (and totally judging you).

Good. Someone should be.

You scrubbed a hand down your face. It came away gritty, tacky with sweat and soot and something creamy-smelling that made your stomach lurch.

“What the fuck,” you muttered.

And then again, because it didn’t feel real the first time:

“What the fuck just happened to me?”

You tilted your head back and stared up at the sky, as if God was going to lean down and explain it.

Nothing.

Just heat.

And the sound of your pulse, soft and unsure, in your ears.

Chapter 4 >

[peachbubbless]

Blessed are the Damned - Hot Pants x Reader

Chapter 2 - Valley in the Dust

Word count: 1409

The desert was a slow hunter.

It didn’t pounce. It just waited, and waited, and let the sun do the rest.

You were learning that the hard way.

You hadn’t seen another rider in hours. Not even tracks. The wind erased everything here and scrubbed it clean. Like nothing had ever been and nothing ever would be.

Your lips were split and stinging. The scarf pressed tight against your face, sticky with sweat and grit. You sipped your water sparingly and the horizon hadn’t shown a single shimmer of relief since morning.

Mercy moved with the steady rhythm of someone who was too stubborn to stop.

Which was good. Because you were definitely starting to feel like stopping.

Not forever. Just for a second. Just to rest.

The sun was too much. It pressed down from above, glaring like a god that didn’t blink. Every step felt heavier. Every breath felt earned.

You didn’t know how far you’d veered from the main trail. You weren’t even sure if there was a main trail anymore. Just an idea you’d been chasing since sunrise.

And then, Mercy stopped.

You blinked, dazed. Patted her neck. “What is it?”

She snorted. Ears flicked back. One hoof pawed the sand, slow and deliberate.

A warning.

You scanned the horizon. Nothing.

Just the endless red-gold spread of dunes and salt-cracked rock.

But Mercy didn’t move.

You swung down from the saddle, knees buckling slightly. The ground tilted under you for a second before righting itself. You walked ahead, boots crunching over stone and grit.

Ten paces.

Fifteen.

Then the earth opened up.

It wasn’t a pit. It wasn’t a chasm. It was nothing dramatic.

It was worse.

It was the kind of wrong that didn’t look wrong until it was too late.

The sand under your boot shifted, just a little. A whisper of motion. Then the crust gave way.

You shouted and then you were falling.

It wasn’t a long drop. Maybe six feet. Maybe less.

But it fucking hurt.

You hit the bottom hard. Sand poured in after you, burying your legs, scraping up your arms. You tried to move but something caught - sharp and sudden. Metal. Coiled wire. A trap?

Panic rose. Your heart thudded in your ears. You kicked, twisted and clawed your way up until you could just barely brace yourself against the wall. The side of the pit was soft, crumbling, fingers leaving streaks where they slipped.

You were stuck.

Properly stuck.

And you were alone.

No shade. No sound. Just wind and the distant snort of your horse still waiting above, out of reach.

You lay back, gasping, staring up at the sky. The heat pulsed behind your eyes. Your whole side throbbed. You could taste blood and dust. The grit stuck to the inside of your mouth like penance.

You didn’t know how long you stayed like that.

Minutes. Maybe more.

Long enough for the fear to settle in.

Not the dramatic kind. Not the scream-until-your-lungs-burn kind.

The quiet kind.

The kind that settled low and cold, even in the heat. The kind that whispered: You might not get out of this one.

You dragged your sleeve over your mouth. Sat up again. Assessed.

Nothing broken. Probably. Just bruised. Scraped. You’d landed badly, but not fatally.

If this was someone’s trap, they hadn’t returned to check it. Which meant either they were far away, or they didn’t care what they caught.

Neither option was good.

You gritted your teeth and tried to stand.

Pain flared up your leg. You hissed. Not broken. Not broken. Just caught. Just twisted.

You could get out. You had to.

You reached for the edge again, fingers digging deep. Sand spilled under your grip. The wall collapsed in tiny avalanches. You slipped again, fell back hard, cursed louder this time.

The desert didn’t answer.

You were so tired of this.

So tired of chasing things that didn’t want to be found. Of burning under a sun that didn’t care if you made it. Of bleeding for a dream you hadn’t been able to name in years.

You didn’t even know why you were here anymore.

Except you did.

You were still chasing something. Still punishing yourself. Still believing, on some broken level, that maybe if you went far enough, bled deep enough, someone would answer.

But the desert didn’t deal in answers.

Only tests.

Only silence.

You let your head fall back against the stone.

And waited.

Just a little longer.

Someone would come.

Wouldn’t they?

The air was heavier underground.

You didn’t think that was possible - heat was supposed to rise, but down here it clung to you, damp and close and pressing in on all sides. Like you weren’t just buried, like you were being smothered.

You’d stopped bleeding fast, which was probably a bad sign. Everything below your knee had gone hot and numb. There was a throbbing behind your eyes that didn’t feel like adrenaline anymore.

The kind of pain that meant damage.

Permanent, maybe.

Your mouth was dry. The kind of dry that peeled lips and cracked tongues. You’d never known just how fast thirst could come until now. It felt unfair, like the desert was mocking you.

You tried again to stand. Your leg buckled.

No surprise there.

You swore under your breath and twisted around, clawing for anything in reach. A root. A ledge. A miracle.

The sand shifted beneath you again – treacherous and unpredictable. One wrong move and it could bury you another few feet down.

That’s when the buzzing started.

Not bees. Not insects.

It was pressure.

A hum in your skull. Not sound exactly, but something worse.

Stand energy.

You weren’t alone.

Your heart kicked. You pressed yourself against the wall, dirt caking your nails, eyes darting over the rim of the pit above.

Nothing moved.

But the air felt wrong.

Like a Stand was flickering just out of phase. Like something was circling, waiting.

You’d been tracked before - by racers, bounty hunters, worse - but this was different.

This felt personal.

You reached again for your belt. No weapons. No water. No way out.

This was it.

This was how you went out - not in a blaze of glory, not in the name of God or vengeance or anything that might’ve meant something. Just a hole in the earth and the ache in your bones and the last dregs of pride keeping you from calling for help.

The buzz grew louder.

You shut your eyes.

If it came for you now, you’d fight with your fists.

And when that failed?

You’d die pissed.

A small comfort.

You exhaled shakily, sand gritting between your teeth. Your fingers were trembling. Not from fear, you told yourself, but from the heat, the thirst, the exhaustion that crawled over your back like an old friend.

One more try. One more lunge for the edge.

You reached -

- and your body folded instead. Collapsed like it had given up before your brain did.

This time, you didn’t get up right away.

You laid there, chest heaving, temple pressed to the sand.

And finally-

Finally-

The footsteps returned.

Quieter now.

Intentional.

Not Stand movement. Not anything you recognized.

But real.

Close.

You looked up, squinting through sweat and dirt, just in time to see a silhouette blot out the sun.

A figure. Coat catching the wind.

You didn’t breathe.

They didn’t speak.

They simply stood at the edge, staring down like they were weighing something unseen.

Judging.

Then-

They dropped.

Not fell - jumped. Like it was nothing.

Boots hit the sand beside you with an indifferent crunch. A coat hem flicked past your nose. And before you could react, the person crouched beside you.

A face came into view. Angular. Distant. Eyes like a chapel window: cold and unfeeling, but too polished not to look holy.

Their expression didn’t shift.

No shock. No horror.

Just assessment.

A gloved hand reached forward. Two fingers pressed lightly to your jaw. Tipped your face sideways like you were cattle in a market stall.

You tried to speak, but your tongue didn’t cooperate.

Then they moved to your leg.

The wound.

You barely saw it, but you felt the tension in their stance – tight and disapproving. Like your injury was offensive. Like it was your fault for bleeding wrong.

“Bite down.”

reminder that I’m still accepting Steel Ball Run requests in preparation for SBR week April 12th <3

Chapter 3 >

[peachbubbless]

Steel Ball Run Fanfic Week - April 12th

Requests open

Hi guys! I'm sure you've heard the speculations about the SBR anime being announced on April 12th, and to celebrate I'd like to do a week of daily SBR fics from April 12th! And if it somehow doesn't get announced, we can all cry together and console ourselves with some fanfics.

So if anyone has any SBR requests, my inbox is open ;)

I'll still be taking / working on my non-SBR requests but I wanted to do something fun to celebrate (or potentially mourn) Part 7 <3

Everyone is encouraged to join!

SBR Fanfic week has started!

Jojo nation we won with the SBR announcement 🤠

See my masterlist for all the fics ;)

Let’s celebrate nyo ho!

[peachbubbless]

Hello, how are you? Well, I wanted to request a Joseph Joestar (Stardust Crusaders) x female reader (a few years younger than him, Maybe about 40 years difference? Well no hahaha?)where she joins him to defeat Dio after losing a fight with one of them. That she starts flirting with Joseph about her liking for older men, I don't know if it's understood, I hope so hahaha, well I hope you can do it and if not, no problem, thanks!!

Omggg anon are you trying to create another Josuke situation?? 🙈 Hope you enjoy it, it's another long one!

Silver fox - Joseph x Reader

Word count : 3086 / Reader is written with they/them

The air over the Nile shimmered with heat.

Sunlight pooled like molten gold across the sandstone banks, and even the shadows were sweating. Egypt stretched out before them but the Crusaders weren’t looking at the horizon.

They were looking at you.

“Another one,” Jotaro muttered, the brim of his hat tipping low over his eyes. His voice was flat, unimpressed. “Great.”

You stood across the riverbed, surrounded by rustling palm trees and a menacing glint in your eye. Dio’s command still echoed somewhere deep in your brain, soft as a psalm, firm as a vice.

Kill the Joestars.

A slow smile curled your lips.

“Which one of you is the Joestar?”

Joseph stepped forward, half-curious, half-annoyed. “Who’s asking?”

You didn’t answer. Your stand erupted behind you, a boom of light and violence. It twisted the air around you like a mirage made flesh.

Avdol stepped between you. “Get ready.”

You didn’t give them the chance.

Your stand surged forward. Sand exploded underfoot as your power cracked the earth open, rushing at Joseph first. Kill the Joestars.

He sidestepped at the last second with an agility that shouldn’t have belonged to someone with silver hair, gritting his teeth as your stand slashed across his coat instead of his ribs. “Shit, they’re fast!”

Polnareff moved to flank you, Silver Chariot gleaming in the sun. He grinned. “I like their style, daring.”

“You won’t like the dismemberment,” you muttered, and flicked your fingers. Your stand spun in a tight arc, cutting upward with enough force to split metal.

Jotaro caught it mid-strike, or rather Star Platinum did. The impact cracked the air like thunder. For a heartbeat, no one moved.

You slid back, snarling. The flesh bud pulsed amidst your hair. Your heart thudded in beat with it, sick and hot.

Kakyoin’s voice cut through the dust. “That movement - they’re definitely being controlled.”

Joseph wiped the sweat off his brow. “Yeah. I’ve seen that look before.”

You charged again.

The world blurred. Fists, steel, sound. Your stand met theirs in a flurry of vicious strikes, movement honed not by training but by sheer force of will. You weren’t fighting smart. You were fighting hard. Messy. Ferocious. And entirely too reckless.

You were going to kill them, or die trying. That was the order. That was the plan.

And then Jotaro punched you in the face.

Hard.

You slammed into the sand and everything tilted sideways. You tasted blood. Your stand flickered, shuddered, and faded. You didn’t pass out, not right away. You heard them talking somewhere far off.

“There’s a flesh bud in their hair,” Kakyoin said grimly.

“I can get it,” Jotaro replied, voice low. “Same as last time.”

“They might not survive it.”

“They’re not going to survive if we leave it in,” Joseph snapped.

Something cold and sharp pressed at your temple. You tried to move but strong hands pinned you down.

And then - nothing.

You woke up with a headache the size of Egypt and a throat like sandpaper.

Everything hurt. Your skull throbbed like it had been used to test blunt weapons, and your limbs felt boneless, too heavy and too empty all at once. For a few blessed seconds, you didn’t know where you were or why your body felt like it had been disassembled and put back together wrong.

Then the memories hit.

The fight. The sun. The voices.

Your stomach turned.

You jolted upright with a gasp and immediately groaned as the world spun.

“Oh good,” came a voice. “Sleeping Beauty’s awake.”

You blinked the blur out of your vision. The guy sitting next to you was huge, tanned, and wearing sunglasses indoors like a goddamn rockstar. His hair was silver, his smile was cocky, and he was crouched low with his arms resting over his knees like he was waiting to offer you a job you couldn’t refuse.

Joseph Joestar.

Of course.

You opened your mouth. Closed it. Swallowed. “Did I… kill anyone?”

“Nope,” he said cheerfully. “You tried though.”

You squinted at him. “Why didn’t you kill me?”

He spread his hands like it was obvious. “Because I’m a benevolent man. And my grandson here punched you really hard.”

Ah, right. The hat kid. Fist like a freight train.

You sank back onto the sand with a groan. “Tell your grandson he hits like a-”

“He knows,” Joseph said dryly. “Believe me.”

There was a pause.

You lifted your hand to your temple, felt the faint trace of something there. Something missing. “The thing in my head.”

“Gone,” he said. “Flesh bud. Nasty business. Almost took your brain with it on the way out.”

You didn’t answer. Didn’t know how to. He didn’t press.

Instead, he stood up, stretched with a theatrical crack of his spine, and added, “You’re lucky. Another hour or two with that thing, and you wouldn’t be you anymore.”

You stared at the ceiling. “Who said I was ‘me’ to begin with.”

Joseph chuckled. “Touché.”

Another voice piped up from the corner.

“Should we be trusting them?” That one sounded French. And skeptical.

You craned your neck. Yep. There he was. Couldn’t miss that hair.

“Bonjour to you too,” you muttered. “I liked you better when I was trying to kill you.”

“I liked you better unconscious,” he shot back.

Joseph raised a hand. “Alright, alright. Let’s keep it civil. They’re not an enemy anymore.”

“You don’t know that,” the French one snapped.

“They could’ve exploded,” another voice added.

Oh good. Now the whole gang was here.

You looked up to find five faces staring down at you.

You gave a raspy little laugh. “Wow. You guys really are the weirdest boy band I’ve ever seen.”

Joseph beamed. “Thank you!”

“Not a compliment,” you muttered, trying to sit up again. “Where the hell are we?”

“Camp,” said the school uniform. “For now.”

“‘Camp,’” you echoed, “like… sleeping on the ground, bugs everywhere camp?”

“We’re not exactly staying at the Ritz,” said the one with the tarot.

You let your head fall back. “Cool. So I went from assassin to mosquito bait.”

“You also nearly impaled Joseph through the ribs,” said Frenchie.

“Did I?” You blinked at Joseph. “That was you?”

He gave you a lazy wink. “Don’t worry. You missed.”

You coughed. “Shame.”

A pause.

Then Joseph clapped his hands. “Well, glad we’re all feeling chummy. You can rest for another hour, maybe two. After that, we’re moving.”

“Moving where?”

“To kill the vampire who put a flesh bud in your brain,” Jotaro said flatly from the doorway.

You met his eyes. Cold. Sharp. Familiar.

“Oh,” you said, dry as the dust around you. “So just the usual Tuesday, then.”

He didn’t smile.

But Joseph did.

And that, against all odds, was your introduction to the Stardust Crusaders.

You had sand in your mouth. Again.

Waking up was slow, messy and reluctant. Like your body couldn’t quite commit to the idea of consciousness. You’d been in a state of half-dozing for what felt like hours, drifting in and out with the wind scraping against the tent and the murmurs of voices outside.

By the time you sat up fully, your hair was a mess, your spine a question mark, and your entire soul aching with the knowledge that you’d been made to look extremely uncool in front of some very attractive strangers.

“You’re up,” said a voice behind you.

You turned painfully and squinted at the silhouette by the tent flap.

Joseph Joestar, this time without the sunglasses. The light behind him was doing strange things to his hair, like he’d just walked off the set of a rom-com.

He was holding a metal mug and tossed it toward you.

“I’d say drink up, but you might want to rinse the sand out first,” he said, grinning.

You glared at him over the rim. “You’re enjoying this.”

“Oh, tremendously.”

You didn’t say thank you, but you drank it anyway.

The inside of the tent was bare - just blankets, packs, and what looked like an extremely weathered tarot deck lying on the floor. The air smelled like leather and old dust, and the wind outside kept pulling intently at the edges of the canvas.

Joseph crouched by the entrance, forearms resting casually across his knees.

“So,” he said, casually conversational, “still feel like murdering us?”

You wiped your mouth on the back of your hand. “Not unless someone starts talking about fate again.”

“Noted.” He nodded, mock-serious. “We’ll keep the philosophical nonsense to a minimum.”

Another pause.

“You’re handling it better than I expected.”

“Expected me to cry?”

“Or scream. Or try to throttle Jotaro. That one happens more than you’d think.”

You leaned back, wincing slightly. “I think the attempted murder quota’s been filled for the week.”

Outside, someone laughed. You caught a glimpse of the others - Polnareff doing lunges, Kakyoin sitting on a rock, and Jotaro pretending they didn’t exist.

The whole squad gave off strong field trip energy.

You sighed. “Is this what I signed up for?”

Joseph’s smile widened. “You haven’t signed anything yet.”

You looked at him. Really looked. There was a scar across his cheek. Dust on his sleeves. Calluses on his fingers. He was older than the rest of them. Not just in age, he carried himself differently. Like he knew exactly how bad things could get and still got up every morning to punch fate in the mouth.

“Do you really think you can beat him?” you asked quietly.

Joseph didn’t ask who you meant.

He just leaned back on his heels and said, “We have to.”

No bravado. No wink. Just that.

The tent flap opened. Avdol poked his head in.

“They’re awake?”

“Very much so,” Joseph said. “And only slightly homicidal.”

You raised your mug in a toast. “Progress.”

Avdol gave a noncommittal grunt and disappeared again.

Joseph pushed himself to his feet with a dramatic groan and offered you a hand. “Come on. You’re not gonna win the next fight from inside a tent.”

You stared at his hand.

Then took it.

His grip was warm, firm, steady and annoyingly confident.

As he helped you up, you muttered, “If I collapse in front of everyone, I’m haunting you.”

He grinned sideways. “So dramatic. You’ll fit right in.”

You gave him your most unimpressed glare. “You’re unbearable.”

“Better than unprepared,” he said, brushing the flap aside as sunlight spilled in.

And with that, you followed him out.

The fire was small, but it did the job.

Dinner was some unholy combination of canned beans and what Avdol claimed was “seasoned jerky,” though you were reasonably sure what it was. Polnareff had already made three separate complaints. Jotaro hadn’t spoken since the fire was lit. Kakyoin was poking at his food.

You, meanwhile, were just grateful you hadn’t been stabbed again yet.

Joseph Joestar sat across from you, legs folded loosely, hands moving easily as he talked about something - stand theory, maybe, or his travels in Italy. You weren’t really listening.

You were watching the way his sleeves were rolled up.

Which was fine. Totally fine. You were allowed to have eyes.

You took another bite of beans you didn’t taste.

“Something wrong with the food?” Joseph asked.

You blinked. “What?”

“You made a face.”

You did not, in fact, make a face. Probably.

“Just thinking,” you said vaguely, gesturing with your fork.

He tilted his head a little. Not quite smiling. “Dangerous.”

“Try it sometime.”

“Ooh,” Polnareff called out from somewhere behind you, “first banter of the night goes to the new kid!”

“I’m not a kid,” you corrected. Then, for Joseph’s benefit: “Lets go for ‘mysterious drifter.’”

He grinned, teeth flashing in the firelight. “You don’t seem like the mysterious type.”

“And you don’t act like the retired type,” you said with mock-sweetness. “You look it though.”

“Ouch,” Joseph said, dramatically placing a hand over his heart. “Direct hit.”

“You’ll live.”

“Can’t guarantee that,” he muttered, half under his breath, and the air shifted a little - not colder, but closer. Like you’d brushed against something raw and still healing.

You looked at him again. Really looked.

The lines at the corners of his eyes. The way his hands never quite stopped moving, even when he was still. That wild, brilliant recklessness.

You cleared your throat. “So.”

“So?”

“If I tragically die here tonight,” you said slowly, “can I at least pick the next meal?”

Joseph raised an eyebrow. “You planning on dying before breakfast?”

“Not if I can help it. But this-”you jabbed your fork at the mystery stew- “feels like a test of endurance.”

“Yeah,” Joseph said. “That’s kind of the theme.”

You held his gaze a second longer than necessary.

Then you looked away.

The conversation kept going - Polnareff telling some ridiculous story, Kakyoin chiming in, Avdol trying to bring the topic back to tactics.

But your focus kept slipping.

Back to the way Joseph’s voice roughened on certain words. The way his hair caught the firelight. The way he looked at you, sometimes, like he wasn’t quite sure what you were yet.

Something new. Something sharp.

You weren’t sure either.

Your shoulders had loosened. The fight had finally drained from your hands. And when your eyes met his across the fire, steady and unreadable, something shifted.

After breakfast - which was, as expected, an abomination - everyone split off to prep for travel. You found yourself helping Joseph sorting supplies, mostly because Polnareff had already wandered off to do God knows what and the rest of the crew had learned to leave Joseph to packing.

“Is there a reason this blanket is wrapped like this?” you asked, tightening the straps.

He huffed. “It’s a space-saving technique.”

“It’s a disaster.”

“You’re a disaster.”

“That’s not even a comeback.”

Joseph glanced over at you with a crooked grin. “You’re fun when you’re mouthy.”

You leaned in, voice sweet. “You haven’t seen me at my worst.”

His hands faltered slightly on the rope. You caught it. He knew you caught it.

You didn’t press. Just smiled to yourself and moved to the next bundle.

The sun rose higher. The crew grew restless. Somewhere behind you, Kakyoin and Jotaro were arguing over map directions. Avdol sat serenely in the shade.

You moved to the water flasks, giving them a shake. Nearly empty.

Joseph stood nearby, now elbow-deep in a saddlebag, swearing softly.

“Need help?” you offered.

“I need a drink,” he muttered.

You smirked. “That sounds like an invitation.”

That got him. He paused, turned, and gave you the kind of look that said: Careful.

But he didn’t say it.

Instead, he said, “You always this flirtatious, or is it just the heat?”

You tipped your head, mock-thoughtful. “I do have a type.”

“Oh yeah?” he asked, voice casual.

“Older men. Preferably ones with a tragic backstory and unresolved emotional trauma.”

He barked a laugh. “You’re terrible.”

“You’re my target demographic.”

Joseph groaned, running a hand down his face. “You’re going to get me in trouble.”

You leaned on the edge of the pack mule, watching him with deliberate ease. “Only if you’re interested.”

And then, just to twist the knife a little deeper, you winked.

Joseph Joestar, world-class Hamon user, veteran adventurer, and proud smartass… actually blushed.

It was subtle. Barely a flicker. But it was there.

“Alright,” he said, coughing into his hand. “That’s enough. Go bother Polnareff.”

“I’d rather bother you.”

“You are bothering me.”

You beamed. “Perfect.”

He turned away, muttering something under his breath, but his shoulders weren’t as tense. If anything, he looked like he was trying not to smile.

The others called out that it was time to move, and the pack began gathering again, brushing dust off clothes and readying mounts.

As you walked past Joseph, he caught your wrist, just briefly.

“Don’t get used to the teasing,” he said, voice low. “I’m a married man.”

You glanced down at his hand on yours.

“Relax,” you murmured. “I’m just here to fight Dio.”

Then you tugged free and kept walking - cool, casual and in control.

But you didn’t miss the way he watched you go.

By the time the group had mounted up and started heading toward the next town, the sun was a merciless glare in the sky and your earlier exchange with Joseph had cooled, at least on the surface.

Beneath that? Smoldering. Tension. Absolute scandal.

Unfortunately, Polnareff had eyes.

And a huge mouth.

He scurried beside Joseph, grinning like he’d just uncovered state secrets. “Soooooo…”

Joseph sighed. “So what.”

“What’s up with them?” Wink wink.

Joseph nearly fell off his horse. “Excuse me?!”

“They’re not hard to read, you know. All that smiling and hair twirling. You’re not exactly subtle either, gramps.”

“They’re not- I’m not- There’s nothing going on!”

From further back, Kakyoin calmly flipped a page in his book. “That’s not what your ears said earlier.”

“My what?”

“Your ears. They turn red when they talk to you.”

“I have sunburn!”

Avdol let out the kind of sigh that could wither crops.

You raised a hand and waved over your shoulder. “Miss me already?”

Polnareff gasped. “SEE?!”

Joseph groaned. “Stop. All of you. I’m a married man!”

“You say that,” Polnareff replied, “but you’ve got big midlife crisis energy.”

From the very back, where he’d been brooding, Jotaro finally spoke.

“Yare yare daze.”

Joseph stiffened. “Jotaro-”

“I think I don’t want to wake up in twenty years to some random teenager punching through walls and yelling Dora Dora at the furniture.”

Joseph froze. “What does that even mean?!”

Jotaro didn’t elaborate. Just gave him a long, withering look.

Avdol sighed. “You walked into that one.”

Polnareff wiped away a tear. “He really did.”

You finally glanced over your shoulder and smiled. “Do you think it’d have your eyes?”

Joseph groaned like he was seconds away from throwing himself off the saddle. “Don’t encourage them.”

You winked back at him.

He didn’t turn around, didn’t say anything else.

But he didn’t deny it either.

Instead, he let the silence settle, easy and unbothered, as the horses carried you forward beneath the burning sky.

The desert stretched out ahead - heat rising in slow, shimmering waves, hooves thudding in rhythm, and the sound of laughter trailing behind you like dust in the wind.

Whatever it was, it wasn’t anything.

But it wasn’t nothing, either.

[peachbubbless]

Thank you so much for writing my request aaaaaa-!! I was laughing and kicking my legs like a school girl reading it bahahsjaja (〃ﾉωﾉ) The witty banter, coupled with Diego struggling to maintain his egocentric and arrogant demeanor up, and quickly growing flustered having to begrudgingly put that beside him "for the sake of self preservation" is just so in character- There's so much I could say but not enough space aaaaa- But thank you once again!! ♡

-🌻anon

Thank you so muchhhhh 🥹❤️ I had such a blast writing this one, it's one of my faves (and there will be another Diego fic coming soon) ;) Feel free to request again any time!! ♡

[peachbubbless]

Thank you for letting me be 🌻 anon! I'll definitely be around! (* >ω<) I also can't resist sending in a request.. 👉👈 I was torn between Bruno, Jotaro and Diego..My heart had to go with Diego in the end. qwq May I request a sort of follow-up to Tail Flicks? Maybe where Diego finds himself seeking out Reader for warmth when the dessert drops to a frigid temperature at night? Thank you in advance! ♡

Heyyyy 🌻 anon, lovely to see you again. Hope you enjoy!

>Tail flicks

Cold Front - Diego Brando x Reader

The desert at night was a different kind of cruel.

Gone was the sun-baked hostility of the day, replaced by something quieter. More insidious. The heat bled out of the sand with every breath of wind, and the chill came creeping in like it had all the time in the world. A slow, merciless thing, whispering into your bones and settling deep beneath the skin.

You’d wrapped yourself in everything you owned - bedroll, coat, the long-sleeved shirt you hadn’t touched since Arizona - and still, it wasn’t enough. The wind cut through fabric like knives. Every gust stung.

The fire had burned down to embers. Just a faint red glow, pulsing low against the rocks like a dying heartbeat.

You were just starting to drift, muscles aching, brain fogged with fatigue, when you heard the steps.

Soft. Careful. Hesitating.

You didn’t need to look to know who it was.

He stopped just beside you. Didn’t speak at first.

Then, sharp and begrudging: “I know you’re not asleep.”

You opened one eye, slow and unimpressed. Diego Brando, coat buttoned to his throat, stood with his arms crossed like royalty forced to slum it. His tail flicked behind him in irritated little snaps, and the way he was holding his shoulders, tight and defensive, told you everything you needed to know.

You didn’t say anything. Just let your eyebrow rise.

“…It’s cold,” he said at last, like the words tasted wrong in his mouth.

You squinted up at him. “No shit.”

His eyes narrowed.

You let the silence sit between you like a dare.

Then he nodded, tight and stiff. “Your bedroll’s warmer than mine.”

You looked down at your bedroll, then at his, sprawled out in the dirt, abandoned like it had personally offended him.

“I have my own system,” you said simply.

Diego shifted on his feet. Jaw tense. His gaze flicked toward the fire. Then back at you.

And then, like it physically pained him, he asked, “Hypothetically, if I were to–”

You didn’t answer right away. You let the moment hang, watching the way he refused to meet your eyes, refused to finish his own sentence.

Finally, you tilted your head. “Only if you admit you liked the tail thing.”

He bristled immediately. “Absolutely not.”

“Then enjoy freezing to death. I hear lizards get real slow when they’re cold.”

His mouth twitched, like he wasn’t sure whether to be insulted or amused.

You lifted the corner of the blanket anyway.

He grumbled something obscene under his breath and dropped to the ground like a cat preparing to die of dignity loss. “Mutual survival,” he muttered. “That’s all.”

“Sure,” you said, adjusting the blanket over his shoulder. “This isn’t because you missed me or anything.”

He shot you a look that could’ve frozen the fire solid. “Don’t flatter yourself.”

You didn’t reply. Just scooted back an inch to make space. His body stayed stiff for a while, like even the act of lying next to you offended his evolutionary instincts. But gradually, little by little, he shifted closer. Not quite touching. But just close enough that you could feel the warmth radiating off him, steady and strangely human for someone who wasn’t always.

And then, the brush of his tail. Light. Barely there. Just a whisper across your ankle as it curled toward you.

You didn’t move. Didn’t reach for it.

Yet.

“You’re still shaking,” you said quietly.

“I told you,” he muttered, “it’s cold.”

“Sure thing. Not because you’re secretly touch-starved or anything?”

He scoffed. “Don’t project.”

You turned your head just enough to watch him in profile. His expression was unreadable - eyes half-lidded, jaw set - but his ears were pink at the tips.

“Come here,” you said, voice soft.

“I’m already here.”

“Closer, dumbass.”

He huffed. “You’re insufferable.”

And then he shifted, barely, but it was enough. Enough that you could feel his breath on your collarbone. Enough that his shoulder pressed lightly against yours, tension humming under the surface like a wire pulled taut.

Your fingers drifted toward his tail. Not touching. Hovering.

“You really need to get over this tail thing,” you murmured.

“It’s not - ” His voice cracked. “It’s not there for you to touch.”

“You’re the one wrapping it around my ankle.”

“That’s for stability.”

“Sure.”

A beat of silence passed.

Then, quietly, like it cost him - “Last time didn’t count.”

You smiled. “No?”

“I wasn’t expecting it.”

“And now?”

He looked at you. Briefly. Sharply.

Now you were expecting it.

And still, your fingers brushed along the edge of his tail, just once. Just enough to remind him that you could. That you were choosing to be gentle. 

He didn’t pull away.

“…It’s fine,” he said eventually. Barely above a whisper.

You didn’t push. Just let your hand rest nearby - not touching, but close enough that he’d feel it if he moved even slightly.

“I wasn’t planning on stopping,” you murmured.

He turned back toward the fire like it offended him. Typical.

Then his tail , slow and deliberate, looped again, this time curling loosely around your calf. Not possessive. Not needy. Just there.

You didn’t answer it.

Instead: “Missing your fan club already?”

“Please. They’d cry the second the wind ruined their hair.”

“High standards for someone currently wrapped in a blanket burrito.”

“I don’t let just anyone under the blanket,” he muttered, like he hadn’t thrown a silent tantrum just five minutes ago before crawling in like a cold-blooded drama queen.

“Right, forgot I should feel honoured.”

“You should,” he said smugly. “I’m excellent company.”

You gave him a side-eye that could shatter glass. “You’re freezing. You’re rude. You’re twitchy. And your tail keeps wrapping around me like it’s trying to cop a feel.”

“As I said, it’s for stability,” he said flatly.

“Oh yeah? You planning to roll into a cactus if you’re not latched onto my leg?”

He huffed. You stared at him but he stared straight ahead.

Eventually, you shook your head. “You know what? Fine. Enjoy your ‘stability.’ I hope it brings you and your reptile ego a lot of comfort.”

He didn’t rise to the bait. Just rolled his eyes and leaned back, muttering, “God, I just want five uninterrupted minutes without your voice ruining it.”

You opened your mouth. Closed it. Sputtered indignantly.

He smirked.

“God, you’re such a bastard.”

“And yet,” he said, voice smooth as the fire cracked low, “you’re not making me leave.”

His tail didn’t tighten. Didn’t press. It just stayed - a soft, unspoken curve around your leg, like he knew he could push, just a little, and you wouldn’t shove him away.

The silence stretched again. Not awkward. Just full of unsaid things.

You didn’t respond.

But you didn’t move either.

Eventually, the silence got heavy enough to settle. He didn’t shift away from your leg. If anything, he leaned in, just slightly, until his shoulder bumped yours again, warmer now, less calculated.

And at some point, the exhaustion caught up with both of you.

You felt it in the way his breathing evened out. In the way his tail gave one last lazy flick, then stilled, curling faintly against your calf like it had found something steady to anchor to.

You didn’t mean to fall asleep like that.

But when morning came, the fire long since gone cold, he was still beside you - head tipped toward your shoulder, breathing slow, hand resting close enough to graze yours.

And for once, he didn’t pull away first.

Reminder for all my Diego lovers that I’m still accepting Steel Ball Run requests in preparation for SBR Fanfic week April 12th <3