peachbubbless

[peachbubbless]

Hello! May I request Magenta Magenta x mermaid reader? Like it'd be his third day underwater and suddenly a 10 feet tall mermaid swam up to him out of curiosity.

And if it's not too much for you to handle, could there be two versions where the reader saves him and the other version the reader was just checking him out and then leaves?

On the Third Day – Magenta magenta x Reader

Word Count - 3068

It was the third day.

Or at least, he thought it was. Maybe the fourth. Maybe it had only been a day and a half. Down here, numbers didn’t mean anything anymore. There was no sun to mark time. No shadows. Just darkness, and the kind of cold that didn’t sting anymore.

He thought at first that he might die quickly. That the ocean would crush him like a can. Or that he’d suffocate. Or that his heart would stop. But 20th Century Boy had already activated the moment he hit the water. And once it was active, it didn’t let go.

He should’ve died. Wanted to, maybe. Instead, he just sank.

He remembered the fall – the moment Wekapipo’s Spin connected, when everything tilted, when he lost control. His body hit the sea like dropped scrap iron. The impact knocked his breath away. The pressure folded him in. He’d tried to move, tried to swim, but the Spin shattered his control. His limbs refused to listen. There was no fight left, no grip to take back.

So 20th Century Boy took over.

And after that, there was no floating. No rising.

Only the long, slow fall.

He dropped like a bullet casing in water – sharp, silent and final. Like fate had loaded the chamber and pulled the trigger

The last flash of sunlight through the surface was still clear in his mind - a broken gold smear - then black. The only colour he’d seen since.

The seabed wasn’t smooth. It was jagged, uneven, a slow-spreading graveyard of driftwood and rusted things. His armour had sunk into the sand, half-buried now. Like the sea was trying to claim him piece by piece. Crabs had crawled over him at first. He could feel them. Barely. But they didn’t stay long.

Even they knew he didn’t belong.

He didn’t rot. He didn’t bleed. He didn’t move. Just sat there, his Stand gripping him in its iron hug, bones locked behind steel and flesh.

There were no voices. No fish. No light.

And yet, he was awake.

Somewhere between consciousness and catatonia, he drifted. Memory bled into memory. Was he still in the race? No, that was over. Valentine was dead. Or was he? Had Diego betrayed him?

It was hard to care now. The truth was that he existed, and that was all.

Still breathing - or not. But not dying. That would be too easy.

20th Century Boy never let him die.

It kept him invincible, as long as he didn’t move. A perfect defense. That was the trade-off. Don’t move, don’t die.

But what happens when you can’t move forever? He couldn’t blink. Couldn’t speak. Couldn’t scream. But his eyes were still open - still twitching, still dragging across the dark when he willed them to.

In a cruel way, it was almost funny. Magenta Magenta, immortal and indestructible, rotting alive at the bottom of the sea.

He imagined someone finding him like this. Ten years from now. Pulling him up with nets. Fishers screaming when they saw a perfectly preserved corpse. And then maybe he’d move. Maybe he’d break the Stand’s hold and kill them just to feel something again.

But there’d be no one. No fishers. No search parties. Just another failure swallowed by the landscape. Like all the others. 

At least the vultures couldn’t get to him down here.

He watched a jellyfish float past once - days ago, maybe. A long, translucent ghost drifting toward nothing. He envied it. At least it moved.

The harsh reality was that the ocean didn’t care about invincibility. It didn’t care about his Stand, or his enemies, or the things he’d done to make it this far.

The ocean was older than all of that.

All it wanted was silence. And weight.

And that was what he’d become.

But the silence broke with a ripple.

Not a current - those had passed by him before. Cold and slow, pushed by moon and tide. This was different. A low vibration. A hush in a place that was already silent.

The kind of stillness that followed something.

At first, he thought it was in his head. A shift in the pressure, maybe. Some part of his brain finally giving in. He’d heard stories about dying men seeing lights, hearing sounds. Maybe this was that. The final spark before insanity.

But the water around him had definitely changed. The pressure hadn’t just returned - it was moving, wrapping around him like something alive. For the first time in days, Magenta Magenta felt something brush against him that didn’t come from the ocean floor.

His eyes - still twitching, barely - strained through the darkness. Nothing. Then, just a blur. A shadow? No. Shadows didn’t glow.

Somewhere above him, something shimmered. Pale. Violet. Gold. Not bright like sunlight – sun didn’t exist below. It was more like… bioluminescence. But not like the plankton he was familiar with. This glow had direction. Intention.

It moved too gracefully to be simply a fish. Too massive to be a trick of the water. Long, slow parabolae. A pulse of motion that made the silt rise from the floor in swirling clouds.

His heartbeat - muted and slow - ticked louder in his ears.

Something was watching him.

He didn’t know how he knew. There was no sound. No voice. But the sensation was precise. Like being traced with a fingertip. Something intelligent. Curious.

It didn’t feel like a Stand. Not exactly. Stand users had a kind of signature about them, a pulse he’d long learned to recognise. This was older. Wilder. Like something that didn’t belong to any of the laws he knew.

He felt like an intruder in his own death.

Another light flickered. Closer this time. Magenta tried to track it, eyes dragging left through effort alone.

It passed again.

Fins.

Long, pale, and trailing behind something huge.

The glow spilled over what looked like a tail. But not like any fish he’d seen. Too big. Too fast. Covered in scales that caught what little ambient light existed in this trench and warped it, like bending glass. 

Another pass.

This time, he caught the curve of a torso. Broad shoulders. Long arms. Hands.

Not a fish. Not a shark.

Something else.

Magenta Magenta would’ve cursed if his mouth could move. Maybe prayed, if he still remembered how.

Whatever it was, it wasn’t rushing toward him. It didn’t strike. It just circled. Spiralled downward in slow, deliberate coils.

It was studying him.

Each orbit came a little closer. And with each pass, the water pressed harder. Not crushing - but thick, as if the ocean itself was holding its breath.

His gaze locked upward.

Eyes.

Two of them. Pale, reflective. Massive. Watching.

He couldn’t make out the whole form yet, but he could feel it. Long. Dense. Moving with a grace that didn’t belong in this world.

Something sacred. Or cursed. Or both.

It hovered above him for a breathless moment.

Then it began to descend.

No fins flapping. No jerky movement. Just a smooth, endless glide downward through the black, trailing silver and violet light like a falling star.

Magenta Magenta forgot the cold.

For the first time in three days, he felt something.

Not fear.

Awe.

You drifted down like a spectre. Like the sea itself had formed a body and decided to look him in the eye.

And then you stopped - just inches above the seafloor.

He saw you for the first time clearly, not just in fragments and suggestion. His brain - dulled, crawling, slow - couldn’t make sense of it at first. You weren’t human. That was obvious. But you weren’t monstrous, either. 

The curve of your form was vaguely familiar: two arms, a torso, a head crowned in a slow wave of drifting hair. But it all extended longer, looser. Your limbs flowed like drifting ink. Your fingers were webbed and tipped with claws.

Your lower body was sleek and massive. A tail, yes, but not delicate or dainty. Built for crashing currents and lined with trailing fins that shimmered in impossible colours. Bioluminescent veins pulsed faintly beneath your scales, like stars trying to escape skin.

And your eyes - 

Massive. Unblinking. Pale as bone, ringed in something that wasn’t quite light. They didn’t shine. They reflected. Him. The ocean. The stand wrapped around his limbs like a coffin.

You tilted your head.

A slow, deliberate motion.

No fear. No hesitation. Just… curiosity.

You reached out with one hand.

He couldn’t move. Couldn’t flinch. But his thoughts sparked like electricity against wet wires. Was this how it ended? Was he finally interesting enough to be devoured?

But your claws didn’t sink. You didn’t strike.

You tapped.

Just once - one soft, echoing knock - on the curve of his helmet.

Like testing a seashell to see if a crab is inside.

You leaned in closer. 

“You’re not dead.”

It wasn’t a question. Just an observation. Calm. Perhaps bored even.

His eyes shifted as far as they could. Met yours. What else could he do?

He wanted to respond. His throat spasmed. His jaw twitched beneath the armour. But he was locked in place, still under the unrelenting hold of 20th Century Boy.

You tilted your head the other way, frowning faintly - though it was hard to tell if that was what it was. Your expression was as hard to read as deep-sea pressure.

“You shouldn’t be here,” you said.

“Many fall into these waters. None live. But you are not dead.”

That voice - it had weight. Not volume, but gravity. Ancient. Not human language, but meaning, pressed directly into him. Like instinct.

You blinked slowly. Your gills fluttered once. Then you reached out again - not to tap this time, but to touch.

Your hand - larger than his - ran over the curve of his chest plate. The contact wasn’t warm. But it wasn’t cold, either. It was real.

You felt the armour. Tapped a seam. Scraped your claws against the grooves where barnacles were starting to take root. As if trying to puzzle out what exactly you were looking at.

He stared up at you. At your body casting shadows through the water. At your tail, slowly curling behind you like a serpent at rest.

He couldn’t breathe.

He didn’t need to.

For the first time since he’d fallen into the sea, he wasn’t thinking about death.

He was thinking: What are you?

But more than that - Why me?

You cocked your head again, a slight twitch of your jaw that might’ve been amusement.

And then your claws curled under his armour.

You were going to lift him.

ENDING 1 - RESCUE VERSION

You didn’t speak again.

There was no question. No warning.

You just moved.

The way currents move in the deepest trench, slow but impossibly strong. Like tectonic plates. Like fate.

Your claws slipped beneath the rusted edges of his armour, finding purchase between the plates. You were careful - uncannily careful - not to snap or crush. Like you knew what kind of thing you were touching.

Not flesh. Not machine. Something in-between.

You began to lift.

At first, it felt like nothing. A slow shift of balance. But then the sand gave way around his limbs in a sigh of silt. Grains drifted upward like smoke. For a moment, he imagined the seabed itself was reluctant - clinging to his body like a jealous lover.

Magenta Magenta’s vision swam. 20th Century Boy stayed active - still holding him still - but something was changing. His awareness flickered. The sense of pressure - once constant and crushing, was now dynamic and angry.

The ocean noticed he was being taken.

The water didn’t just resist, it pushed back.

Pressure surged around him like an animal roused from sleep. It slammed into his body from all sides, an invisible scream of weight. His armour creaked. Not cracking - but groaning. It didn’t want to rise. Neither did the sea.

But you didn’t care.

Your tail flexed once - an immense, sinuous motion - and the ocean parted.

You rose.

Not like a creature swimming. Not like a predator. You moved like a force. A presence with purpose. Like gravity had reversed, and the ocean was being peeled open around you.

The speed built slowly, then all at once. You spiralled upward in a controlled surge, dragging him in your wake. Your bioluminescence painted the water in streaks of gold and violet, lighting the black like a comet trail.

Magenta Magenta felt everything.

After days of silence, sensation returned with a vengeance.

The sudden change in pressure sent lightning through his nerves. His blood moved again. His lungs spasmed. His skin screamed. Pins and needles bloomed along every limb - fire under skin - and it took everything in him not to break. Not to shatter.

It was like coming back into a body that had already decided it was dead.

He couldn’t move. Couldn’t scream. But his thoughts blazed.

It hurts.

I’m alive.

No - don’t stop - don’t - 

The sea screamed past him, cold and furious. The trench disappeared below in a swirl of dark. Coral, bones, detritus - flashed past like a dream unravelling. Seaweed cracked against his legs. Something tugged at his foot, and for a horrible second he thought the ocean itself was trying to pull him back down.

And then - 

Light.

Faint, at first. Just a softening of the black. Then blue. Silver. Moonlight, bleeding through the surface.

He hadn’t seen light in three days. It hurt his eyes.

I forgot the sky looked like that.

He didn’t breathe - not yet. His lungs burned, like they were remembering what they were for.

You surged the last distance in one massive push. Your tail unfurled behind you, a long, elegant stroke of power. It cracked the surface tension like glass.

And then - 

The water shattered.

Magenta Magenta felt air on his face before he saw it. The wind screamed across his skin. Cold. Real. The sea burst upward with him, spray arcing around his body like wings made of foam. His body caught the moonlight - dull and crusted with salt - but it gleamed.

The sky above was endless. A mirror of the sea below. Too wide. Too open.

It was too much.

And still, you didn’t stop.

You carried him through the crest of the wave and across a jagged outcrop of stone rising from the water like a black tooth. Barnacles clung to the rock, sharp and white.

You placed him down like a piece of driftwood. No flourish. Just a firm, deliberate lowering of his body onto the stone. The armour hit the surface with a grinding scrape. A sound that was definitive.

The sea tried to suck him back, waves crashing at the base of the rock, but it couldn’t reach him.

You made sure of that.

Salt clung to his lips. His lungs seized.

It was violent. Painful. Wet and choking. A sound he hadn’t made in what felt like years. It dragged through him like gravel.

And then he gasped for air. It hurt. But it was real.

He stared at the sky.

His vision blurred with salt. Not tears. He wasn’t crying. Just - his eyes didn’t know how to handle this much space anymore.

And you… were still there.

Hovering in the shallows, your huge form still half-submerged. The moon caught on the curves of your body. Your eyes were fixed on him, unreadable. Expressionless.

Your claws skimmed the surface.

Magenta Magenta forced sound out of his throat. A breathy, rusted mockery of speech:

“…Thought angels had wings.”

A beat.

You blinked.

“I’m not an angel,” you said, voice flat as glass.

“You just didn’t belong there.”

There was no smile. No warmth. But no cruelty, either.

You simply watched. Head tilted, gills pulsing once.

And then - 

Your tail rose. Cut through the water in a single, fluid motion.

With a whisper of foam and light, you vanished.

Gone.

Back beneath the surface. No splash. No trace.

Only the sea remained.

Magenta Magenta stared after you, breathing like he’d forgotten how. Skin still dripping. Muscles twitching. The silence settled again - familiar, but different now.

This wasn’t the silence of death.

This was the silence of something that had witnessed.

He didn’t know how long he lay there. He didn’t care.

He wasn’t dead. But he hadn’t been saved, either. Not really.

He’d just been seen.

And the sea had let him go.

ALTERNATE ENDING – NO RESCUE

You hovered above him.

Still. Quiet. Your form lit the water in soft, shivering bands of light - violet, gold, the faintest edge of green.

Magenta Magenta felt the shift in pressure again, but you didn’t rise with him. You didn’t move at all.

Instead, you watched him.

Your eyes - huge, pale, animal and human all at once - studied him like an artifact. Not with pity. Not with disgust. Just… interest. Detached. Focused.

Your claws tapped against his armoured head again. A small, almost playful motion.

You tilted your head.

“You’re not dead,” your voice echoed inside his skull. Not curious anymore - observant.

“But you’re not alive, either.”

He couldn’t answer. His body still wasn’t his. But his thoughts screamed into the void of his own silence:

Say something. Do something. Help me.

But you didn’t.

Your fingers traced the curve of his armour, feeling the seams, the salt-encrusted edges. Your tail shifted behind you, keeping you suspended like a creature caught between breathing and floating.

You looked at him the way someone might look at a knife frozen in ice - useless, but strangely beautiful.

“You don’t belong here,” you murmured.

Then you drifted back.

Not fast. Not slow. Just… away.

You circled once. A lazy arc around his body. Your glow faded slightly as you passed behind him, then returned as you came back into view.

For a moment, he thought - hoped - that you would reach for him again.

But instead, you looked into his eyes.

And you blinked. Just once.

Then turned.

And vanished into the dark.

No burst of speed. No elegant ascent. Just a flick of your tail, and then nothing.

The water stilled.

The light disappeared.

And Magenta Magenta was alone again.

[peachbubbless]

hiii <3 if you feel like it, can i pretty please get a scenario of part 6 jotaro with a girl that's too young for him (around early 20s) that also happens to be a friend of jolyne? she shows interest and tries being flirtatious but very carefully cause it's her friend's dad after all, but he picks on it and can't help but get in the game, he also feels very bad and pathetic internally and thinks about him being like his grandpa because of the situation, idk i just want to hear his inner turmoil and him cursing at himself for getting carried away and driven by lust or whatever it is teehee

-🍓

Stacy's Dad - Jotaro (6) x Reader

Word Count : 2136

The day started like most good things did - with Jolyne Cujoh slamming your car door and declaring, “We’re skipping class today, and I don’t care what your GPA says about it.”

You raised an eyebrow. “You gonna pay my tuition when I fail?”

“Absolutely not,” she said. “But I will split a milkshake with you and let you pick the playlist.”

It wasn’t a fair trade, and she knew it.

But you caved anyway.

Because Jolyne was that kind of friend - loud, unpredictable, equal parts chaos and loyalty. The kind of girl who would threaten your ex at 2am with a baseball bat and then help you rewrite your entire essay twenty minutes before it was due.

So you ditched.

No regrets.

Two hours later, the two of you were sprawled in a booth at a half-abandoned diner on the edge of Port St. Lucie, sharing fries and leaning into the sticky warmth of Florida afternoon.

“You’re gonna owe me a syllabus recap,” you said, popping a fry into your mouth.

Jolyne rolled her eyes. “Please. You take better notes than the professor.”

You smirked. “Still. I’m risking my academic career for your bullshit.”

“That’s why I like you.”

That earned her a kick under the table. Gentle. Familiar.

Jolyne laughed – loud, sharp and full of sunshine. She had a way of filling every room she entered, and for some reason, she’d decided early on that you were worth dragging along with her.

You’d been best friends since freshman year.

And now? You were pretty sure you’d follow her into hell if she asked nicely enough.

“Anyway,” she said, snagging the last fry, “you’re coming over tonight.”

You blinked. “Am I?”

“Yes. You still haven’t helped me reorganise my CDs, and the guest bathroom light is haunted again.”

“You mean flickering.”

“Haunted.”

You shrugged. “I’m in.”

“Good.”

There was no real plan. There never was. But that was the thing about Jolyne - being around her felt like being caught in a riptide that somehow always carried you somewhere fun.

And it wasn’t like you had anywhere better to be.

That evening found you barefoot on her bedroom floor, hair tied up, sorting through a mess of CD cases while Jolyne argued with her stereo in the background.

“Why does this keep defaulting to track eight?” she muttered.

“Because it hates you.”

She flipped it off. “Back me up, will you?”

You threw a CD at her, which she caught with a grin.

“You’re lucky I love you,” she said.

“I know.”

The house was quiet aside from your voices and the low hum of the ceiling fan. Jolyne’s room looked like it always did - cozy, chaotic, a hundred tiny pieces of her scattered across the space: torn concert posters, neon nail polish bottles, a Polaroid taped to the mirror that caught the two of you mid-laugh on a beach trip last year.

It felt like home.

She threw herself back on the bed with a groan. “I swear, the world’s out to get me lately.”

You stretched out beside her, both of you half-overlapping like cats in the sun.

“What happened now?” you asked.

“Life,” she said dramatically. “Boys. College. My dad being weird again.”

You paused at that.

Jolyne talked about her dad sometimes, but rarely in detail. Just vague mentions - gone a lot, emotionally distant, too many secrets. You didn’t pry. She’d tell you more if she ever wanted to.

But you knew the wounds were real.

So you offered her your pinky finger in solidarity. No words. Just the old middle-school pact you always used when things got heavy.

She linked hers without hesitation.

“Thanks,” she said softly.

“Always.”

You fell asleep on her couch that night, warm and safe, her spare blanket tangled around your waist.

And you didn’t know it yet, but the next morning?

You were going to bump into someone in that hallway kitchen that would change everything.

Not with a bang.

Just a glance.

A pause.

A recognition.

But you didn’t know that yet.

You were still dreaming of sunburned beaches and Jolyne’s dumb jokes.

Still safe.

For now.

The kitchen light flickered once, then held steady. You padded in, yawning, still half-wrapped in Jolyne’s fleece throw, the sleeves of someone’s old, oversized jacket swallowing your hands. 

Someone’s.

You realized who just a second too late.

Jotaro Kujo stood at the counter.

One hand on a coffee mug, the other braced on the edge of the sink, like he needed the structure. He hadn’t shaved yet. His coat was thrown over the chair. The sleeves of his black long-sleeve were pushed to the elbows. His hair was damp.

Which meant he’d showered.

Which meant he was freshly irritated by the fact that you were standing there, blinking at him with pillow lines on your cheek.

He glanced over his shoulder.

Paused.

And in that pause, something shifted.

Recognition, yes. That part was expected.

But something else moved behind his eyes – slow and reluctant.

You weren’t a child anymore.

And that, apparently, was a problem. 

“…You’re up,” he said finally. Not quite gruff. Just… trying.

“Sorry,” you said. “Didn’t mean to invade sacred morning dad rituals.”

He blinked once. Almost a smile. Almost.

You moved toward the counter, slower now, the reality of what you were wearing catching up with you. The hoodie hung low over your shorts. You didn’t dare tug it. That would acknowledge it.

“Want coffee?” he asked, eyes already on the second mug.

You nodded. “Please.”

He poured without comment. Passed it to you carefully - two fingers on the base of the mug, never quite touching yours. And still, somehow, it sparked.

The tension wasn’t loud.

It wasn’t flirting.

Not exactly.

It was something quieter. Heavier.

A breath held too long.

You sipped your coffee, watching him over the rim. “Jolyne said you used to study marine biology. I pictured more whales, less judgmental staring.”

That almost got him.

Almost.

He looked away, jaw ticking.

Inside?

He was drowning.

“I’m not judging,” he said finally.

You raised an eyebrow. “Could’ve fooled me.”

His fingers tightened around the mug.

“You should be more careful how you joke,” he muttered.

“Oh?” You tilted your head, innocent. “Why’s that?”

His voice dropped. “Because I might start taking you seriously.”

You blinked once.

Twice.

But he was already turning back to the sink, shoulders rigid, expression blank.

Like he hadn’t said it.

Like he didn’t mean it.

But he did.

And you knew it.

And so did he.

Idiot. Stupid. Stupid. Fucking idiot. Should’ve just left it alone. Now she knows. Now she’s going to freak out. Now she’s going to— 

But you didn’t panic.

You just stepped forward, slow, calm, and set your mug down beside his. Not close enough to brush, but close enough to be a choice.

And when he finally looked at you again, you smiled.

And he didn’t breathe for a second.

Didn’t move.

Didn’t speak.

Because that?

That was worse than a joke.

That was something undeniably real.

Jolyne had a weird way of showing affection.

Sometimes it was a sarcastic punch to the arm. Sometimes it was demanding you help her bleach her roots at 2 a.m. And sometimes, like today, it was dragging you to the aquarium just because she wanted to “laugh at the octopus that looked like her ex.”

You didn’t question it. She’s been your best friend for years. And she’s also Jotaro Kujo’s daughter, and some deranged part of your brain kept hoping proximity to her might mean a tiny little bit more proximity to him.

(You weren’t proud of that part.)

“Can’t believe I used to think seahorses were romantic,” she muttered, face pressed to the tank. “They’re just clingy little freaks with big eyes.”

You squinted at the glass. “Kind of like you.”

She grinned. “Exactly.”

You drifted through the exhibits, half-listening to her rant about a girl from juvie who cheated at Go Fish and the “inherent queerness of deep-sea jellyfish.” It was normal. Easy. You didn’t have many normal friendships anymore. You tried not to think about why.

It was only when you got back to the house that things tilted sideways again.

Jolyne yanked the door open and tossed her keys into the bowl. “I’m hitting the shower. Don’t eat my leftover pasta or I’ll kill you.”

You saluted. “No promises.”

You wandered into the kitchen, still scrolling your phone - until you heard it.

A throat clear.

Not Jolyne’s.

You looked up.

And there he was.

Jotaro. 

Again.

He stood by the sink, hands braced on either side like he’d been there for a while. Maybe waiting. Maybe just existing the only way he knew how - quiet, rigid, locked behind his own thoughts.

He was wearing a plain black t-shirt, sleeves hugging his arms, collar loose. No coat. No hat. Damp hair pushed back like he’d run a towel through it and given up halfway. There was a mug in front of him, steam curling faintly from the rim.

You froze mid-step.

He didn’t.

“Didn’t know you were home,” you said, voice a little too casual.

“Just got in.”

He didn’t look at you at first. Just kept staring down at the mug like it might reveal the secrets of the universe if he glared hard enough.

You moved to the counter anyway, letting your hip bump against the edge. “Jolyne’s in the shower, you want me to call her?”

A pause.

Then he glanced over, eyes sharp under the weight of silence. “She said you two went to the aquarium.”

You nodded. “She went on a huge rant about sea creatures.”

That earned a twitch at the corner of his mouth. Barely there. But you counted it.

“She said dolphins are her favourite,” you added. “Said they were cute but lowkey evil.”

“…Sounds about right.”

You watched him over the edge of the fridge door as you pulled out a bottle of water. He wasn’t doing anything suspicious. Wasn’t saying anything dangerous.

And yet.

The air felt like glass stretched too thin.

“So,” you said, trying to keep your tone light, “how was your day, Doctor Kujo?”

He gave you a look that could’ve flattened a city block. “I haven’t been called that in years.”

“That’s a shame. Sounds hot.”

Silence.

You took a sip.

His hand tightened slightly on the ceramic. Not much. Just enough.

“…You should be careful,” he said finally.

You tilted your head. “Why?”

“That kind of talk. It’s reckless.”

“Or maybe it’s just honest.”

He didn’t move. Didn’t blink.

You could feel it again - that thing you weren’t supposed to feel. Like standing too close to a fire that hadn’t been lit. No flames, just heat. Threat and possibility.

And for once, you didn’t want to douse it.

“Do you ever wish things were different?” you asked quietly. “Less chaos. More… ordinary. Teaching, labs, something simple.”

He blinked slowly, eyes dark. “Normal isn’t a word I’d use for my life.”

You shrugged with a small smile. “Well, I guess the situation we’re in right now is a little… unique. Fun, though.”

The silence between you stretched - soft, unsettled, but not uncomfortable.

His jaw clenched, and for a moment, you saw the weight he carried. Then, barely above a whisper, he said, “You shouldn’t get too close.”

This time, you held his gaze without flinching.

“You’re worth the risk.”

He looked at you then. Fully. Not past you. Not through you.

At you.

And god, you felt it.

That pull.

Like the pause before thunder.

Like the exact moment you realize the tide’s not going out - it’s coming in fast.

But before either of you could say something real, the bathroom door opened with a sharp creak and the sound of wet feet slapping tile.

“Okay, if one of you didn’t leave me a clean towel, I swear to god -”

Jotaro turned back to his mug. Mask on. Shoulders stiff.

You turned toward the fridge again, just in time for Jolyne to appear in a blur of wet hair and irritation.

She blinked at the sight of you both.

Paused.

“…You two weren’t, like, about to fight or anything, were you?”

“Definitely not,” you said.

Jotaro grunted something vaguely negative and took a sip of his coffee like it was going to absolve him of sin.

Jolyne shrugged, unconvinced, and padded off toward her room.

And just like that - whatever moment might have happened - was gone.

Still there. 

But gone.

You didn’t say goodnight to him when you left the kitchen.

You didn’t have to.

Because when you passed him, close enough to feel the heat off his arm - 

He didn’t move.

And you didn’t stop.

But god, you both wanted to.

Notes: Edited up one of my wips from a while ago 👀 Hopefully you enjoy it! I initially wrote another few thousand words second half for this but I'm not sure how I feel about that bit so we shall seeeee

This is the second jjba DILF oneshot I've done now I feel like I have to do Jobin next to complete the trifecta lol

Final note: It feels really good to be back writing. I'll definitely try to get some more done. I have one more old wip that I can hopefully edit and publish very soon ;)

These notes are too damn long but I haven't posted anything in so long I just want to yap to you guys... but as always, lots of love, hopefully I post again very soon xoxoxoxox

[peachbubbless]

Hi gang I’m back 🌈

I’ve finally finished my degree and it feels so good to be free! I haven’t got my results or anything but I have hopefully passed so it’s fic time 😎

It feels weird to be writing again, but I’ve been working on a couple of my wips and I’m very slowly getting back into it

I’ll hopefully have more time now to get through some requests and what not :)

Love you guyssss <3

[peachbubbless]

Missed You Worse – Diego Brando x Reader

Word count - 965

The town was dust and memory.

It wasn't on your map. It barely even counted as a town - just a few buildings clustered like they’d stopped to catch their breath and never got up again. The saloon was empty. The general store boarded shut. Only the inn clung to life, its crooked sign groaning on rusted hinges.

You might have kept going, if not for the horse. He’d limped the last half-mile, favouring his left foreleg like it had finally had enough. You dismounted slow, whispered thanks to him under your breath, and led him towards the stable.

The stablehand barely looked up. He took the reins without a word and nodded towards the inn. You didn’t ask questions. There wasn’t much point.

The inn’s door creaked as you pushed it open. Inside was dim - warm, at least - but the air smelled of wood smoke and old sweat. The front desk was manned by a man who looked like he’d been carved from the same wood as the floorboards. He handed you a key.

“Second floor. Third on the left. Don’t drink the water.”

Charming.

You took the stairs, boots scuffing softly. The key was heavy in your palm, the kind that turned with effort. The room was what you expected: bed, basin, dust, and the kind of silence that scraped.

You let your bag slump to the floor. Sat on the bed. Pressed your hands to your face. You hadn’t even taken your boots off when you heard the voice.

“Bloody hell.”

Your head snapped up.

Diego Brando stood in the doorway across the hall, shirt unbuttoned, coat slung over one shoulder like he couldn’t decide if he was staying or leaving. His expression froze halfway between disbelief and exasperation.

Of all the towns in all the miles - 

He blinked. “It’s you.”

You blinked back. “Still got eyes, then.”

He scoffed. Leaned against the frame. “What, did you follow me?”

You stared. “You think too highly of yourself.”

His mouth twitched. A smile, almost. “Says the one catching up to me in the middle of bloody nowhere.”

“Coincidence.”

“Coincidence my arse.”

You folded your arms. “What’re you doing here, Brando?”

He shrugged. “Got tired of people.”

You quirked an eyebrow. “That must’ve been exhausting. Carrying all that ego around.”

He smirked now, full tilt. “God, I forgot how irritating you are.”

You tilted your head. “No, you didn’t. You remember every second.”

Silence. Taut as thread. His gaze flicked to your mouth, then back up like he hadn’t. Like it hadn’t mattered.

He stepped back. “I’ve got whiskey.”

You leaned against your doorframe. “And?”

He gave you that look - the one that meant he was done pretending not to care. “And if you’re coming in, do it before I change my mind.”

His room looked lived in. Not messy, just... occupied. There was a worn coat over the chair, boots by the hearth, a half-empty bottle on the table beside a glass he hadn’t finished.

He handed you the glass without asking. You took it. Sat on the bed.

He sat across from you, legs stretched, body slouched in the kind of comfort that looked too natural for someone like him.

“Thought you were in New York,” he said.

You sipped. “Was. Didn’t stick.”

He watched you. “Still chasing ghosts?”

You looked at him. “Still running from yours?”

He didn’t answer.

The whiskey burned. The silence didn’t.

Two glasses later, you were laughing.

“I swear, she thought the horse was talking.”

Diego choked. “Talking? What did she think it said?”

You grinned. “Something stupid. I don’t know. She screamed, dropped the carrots, ran like hell.”

He wiped his eye with the back of his hand, breathless. “I hate you.”

“You don’t.”

His voice was quiet. “No. I don’t.”

You looked at him. Really looked. He was tanned. Thinner. Older, in the way tired people get - creased at the edges, wary around the eyes. But he was still Diego. Still sharp. Still impossible.

Your knee brushed his. You didn’t move it.

He didn’t either.

“Why’d you leave?” he asked.

You hesitated. “Didn’t feel like waiting to be forgotten.”

He looked down. “I wasn’t going to forget you.”

“You did.”

“No.” He met your gaze. “I just didn’t know how to find you.”

You stared. “Liar.”

“Fine.” He leaned in, elbows on knees. “I was afraid you’d hate what I’d become.”

You snorted. “Oh, I do.”

He grinned. “Still here though.”

You held his gaze. “Yeah. Still here.”

He shifted. Moved closer. His shoulder touched yours. You let it.

“I missed you,” he said, like it hurt.

You nodded. “I missed you worse.”

He turned his head. Your noses nearly touched.

“You going to kiss me?” you asked.

“Do you want me to?”

You didn’t answer.

You didn’t have to.

When it happened, it was slow. No rush. No heat. Just the kind of kiss that made you forget where your skin ended and his began. He tasted like whiskey and stubbornness. You bit his lip. He gasped. You smiled.

Later, when your back hit the mattress and he followed, you didn’t say anything. Neither did he. There was no need. His hands were steady. Yours were not.

“Still cold?” he asked, half into your neck.

“Always.”

He curled around you. “I run hot.”

“Show-off.”

He chuckled. “Shut up.”

You did. For once.

Morning came pale and quiet. You woke to his arm over your waist, your breath in sync.

“Still not dead,” he murmured.

You yawned. “Try harder.”

He pressed a kiss to your shoulder.

You closed your eyes again.

Notes: Sorry I've been gone for so long gang, I'm finishing up my degree and unfortunately, writing a dissertation isn't as fun as writing fanfic so I've had to hit pause. I'll be done within a month though so I will be back to the fanfic grind soon, trust. I hope you enjoyed this quick lil fic for now <3

[peachbubbless]

You will make more Diego content...

💀💀💀💀 This made me laugh so much you dragged me out of hiatus lol

I’m currently in the trenches finishing my degree so I haven’t had much time to write but I had to do a quick one for you because I miss it so much ❤️

Missed You Worse - Diego x Reader

I’ll be finished soon tho, Diego nation we will rise again soon 🙌

[peachbubbless]

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.

[peachbubbless]

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.

[peachbubbless]

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 >