#young jolyne

[cinnbar-bun]

the jotaro munchies have HIT…. can i please request a pt.4 jotaro and some good domestic family fluff w smolyne…. i am so…. soft for her……

A/n: Okay so I'm going to cheat and combine like... the 4-5 requests I got of 4taro and Smolyne into one!!!

Domestic Family Fun Time (ft. Smolyne)

Summary: After recognizing he needs to be at home more, Jotaro is tasked with joining in on some of the activities you and Jolyne often partake in together!

Today's activities... slaying an evil monster and doing makeup.

Rating: SFW- pure fluff and comedy!

Word Count: ~1.4k

Notes: Reader is GN! but they do know/use makeup. Never specified if Jolyne is your biological/step daughter, and no mentions of Jolyne's mom- so feel free to imagine whatever you want! I imagine Jolyne as about ~5-6 here.

Taglist (if you'd like to be added, please fill out the form in the pinned or message me!): @gingernut1314 @adeadcreator @child-ofdust @starr-l1ghtt

Jotaro does his best to rectify some of his absence in the house since Jolyne was a newborn. He’s more present now and tries to support you and his daughter. 

Still, he’s the same stoic man, so don’t expect him to be so different now that he’s at home. He’ll be taking these duties very seriously, keeping an eye on the house, never taking a break, always work and- 

Oh who is he kidding? Even if he tries to look tough, Star Platinum is pretty much always exposing him. Star Platinum can’t help but reveal how happy and excited Jotaro gets at home with you two. 

Jotaro isn’t too used to dealing with Jolyne as she gets older, in the sense that she is becoming more active and starting to formulate her own thoughts. Still, he tries his best to work with his hyperactive daughter. 

Jolyne loves playing games and being physical. One of her favorite things to do with you is pretend to have to save you from a big monster while she is a super cool ‘fairy mermaid knight’. Normally, you two would play this by yourselves, but since Jotaro has been focused on being at home, he gets to witness these games. 

At first he stood off to the side and watched as Jolyne jumped off the couch and hit a large pillow covered with a blanket that served as one of the ‘minions’. He noticed how active you were in playing along and expressing with Jolyne, which he took note of for future reference. 

The next few times you played pretend, Jolyne beggggedddd Jotaro to please please please pretty please with a cherry on top play mermaid fairy knight with her. 

He wasn’t sure what his role was supposed to be, so he awkwardly asked, making her brainstorm. 

“Um… hm… well…” 

That is, until you had the brilliant idea to play the ‘evil villain’ and ‘kidnap’ Jotaro (put him inside the foldable pink castle playset). Jolyne was so excited to play along, and you began monologuing like a cheesy villain. 

“Now, young princess, I’ve kidnapped your father and placed him in this indestructible fortress where he can never leave! Mwahaha! Look at how terrified he is!” 

Jotaro just stands there, unsure of what to do, before you nudge his arm and gesture with your face for him to act along. He nods and then in the most bland tone ever- 

“Ah… I am… so scared. Please Jolyne. Save me.” 

You and Jolyne had to look away and stifle your laughter from that awful performance, but quickly got back into character. 

Jotaro uses Star Platinum to help Jolyne jump higher or make her feel like she is gliding for a bit. 

You hammed up the evil act while Jotaro would make the most monotone ‘screams’ as you ‘tortured’ him (tickling him or kissing him all over his face). Jolyne would yell back or gag playfully and then smack you with her fake weapon. 

Of course, you had to give a riveting performance and fake die dramatically before laying on the ground with a silly face, making Jolyne squeal happily and run up to Jotaro. 

“Thank you, Jolyne, for saving me. I’m in your debt.” 

Jolyne gets smug and talks about how of course she was going to save him, she’s his dad, and she’s gonna be a cool hero just like him!

Cue you nearly breaking character to sob and Jotaro mumbling a ‘good grief’ while tilting his hat down to hide the fact he also wants to break down at how cute Jolyne is. 

He makes sure to make her favorite dinner after- pizza rolls.

Another thing she manages to whisk you into doing is makeup. Jolyne loves to try it on and even put it on you. Sure, you end up looking like a brightly colored clown at the end, but it’s quite fun. 

Jolyne loves how colorful and sparkly she looks by the end of it when you finish her makeup. 

One day, though, while Jotaro is watching a documentary on dolphins, Jolyne comes up to him with her makeup kit and asks (read: says) to do his makeup. Jotaro is unsure at the suggestion- he’s never even worn makeup before- and seeing you walk behind her with lime green and purple eyeshadow and red lipstick makes him nearly second guess if he should do it. 

But one look at Jolyne’s face (which is done up in very pretty blue makeup thanks to you) and he sighs and accepts his fate, promptly closing his eyes and pausing the documentary. 

You join in with Jolyne and help her apply the makeup, properly showing where everything should go. 

“Ah, see, we have to apply the foundation here like this-” “Damn, dad, you’re pale!” “Jolyne-!” 

Jotaro knows this is going to be a mess but he’s finding it admittedly hilarious how serious you and Jolyne are taking this. Star Platinum is smiling widely at the both of you and eagerly pointing at different products as you two apply them.

“Hm, which color should we choose, Jolyne?” “Ah… I think dad should get green! No, wait, black!” “Black, huh? A bold choice, dear.” 

Everything goes pretty smoothly until he comes upon perhaps the worst torture known to man. 

Doing his eyelashes and eyeliner. Before you can even apply the eyelash curler to him, he opens his eyes and gasps. Hell no. That is NOT going anywhere near him. 

“Jotaro! It’s safe, I promise!” “The fact you need to clarify that it’s ‘safe’ tells me it isn’t.” “Stop being a baby and just close your eyes.” 

He relents after a bit of arguing, only to feel his heart stop when you bring the eyeliner out. 

“You are not putting a pencil in my eyes.” “It’s not in your eyes, it’s around-” “No.” 

Jotaro swears this is supposed to actually be a torture device. There’s no way that people around the world willingly put this stuff on. He cannot keep looking up without blinking a million times as you try to put the eyeliner on. 

“Stay still!” “Don’t put a pencil in my eyes then!” 

Jotaro honestly would rather fight Dio again than bother putting on eyeliner again. 

Finally, you finish and he releases the breath he held in… until you bring out mascara. 

Kill him. Please. This man is so damn twitchy with it and ends up getting the mascara around his eyelids. 

“You messed it up, dad!” “Sorry, Jolyne. Good grief, the things you two make me do.” 

After all that pain, Jolyne volunteers to do his lips. She grabs one of her lip balms and once Jotaro tastes it, he grimaces and gags. 

“What is that?!” “Coca-Cola! The Fanta one tastes the best, but you can’t have it because it’s my favorite.” 

Finally, it’s time for him to see the results of you and Jolyne’s silly game. 

“Wow… green lipstick… I didn’t even know they made that…” “Right? So what do you think, dad?” 

“I think I look like a zombie…” 

You laugh and press a kiss to Jotaro’s cheek. “A very handsome zombie.” 

He sighs and shakes his head before grabbing the two of you to pull you into a hug. 

“Thank you. Now how do I take this off of me?” 

Jolyne screams that he can’t because he looks so cute and she needs to commemorate it. She runs to her room and gets the old digital camera he got her then demanding the two of you pose in your ‘beautiful’ makeup. 

“Come on! Say cheese!” 

The three of you have a small photoshoot with it, which you ended up having printed at the store later. The photo with you smiling and hugging Jotaro while he has a tiny smile is proudly displayed in the house. In her teens, years later, Jolyne gets embarrassed by it and often hides it when her friends are over, asking you throw it out or something. She still secretly loves the memories of it so she wouldn’t actually want you to do that. 

Jotaro still has some ways to go when it comes to playing and taking care of Jolyne, but he’s slowly getting there. He’s happy he chose to make more of an effort and that you gave him another chance to prove himself. He can’t imagine another life than the one he has now. 

And… he can’t imagine feeling safer and more content than he is now, especially seeing you and Jolyne laughing over the photos you all just took.

[beeorioslol]

very self indulgent daddy daughter time

[cosmicvaca]

Modern au Jotaro Kujo. He is a PhD candidate in marine biology. His ex-wife, Marina, has the opportunity to work at an Antarctic research base for two years. Jotaro encourages her to go for it despite her not wanting to leave their daughter, knowing it is her dream to do research in the Arctic, saying that he can take care of Jolyne on his own. He also has to deal with falling in love with a snarky and guarded redhead artist.

Polnareff | Kakyoin | Avdol | Jotaro | Joseph | Duwang Gang

[ohowthemightyhavefallen]

jolyne and weather!!

[literalite]

second half of the six eleven sims challenge

these were all requests from dogcrew, can't remember who asked for what but we have dick grayson (nightwing) from dc, jolyne cujoh from jjba, cleo de nile from monster high, ukitake from bleach, dean winchester from supernatural, and kendra young from buffy

[kimoradoesart]

Jo Jo bizarre adventure sketch’s I’ve done!

Commissions open

[jjba-smash-or-pass]

I like your blog, but I think you are going WAY too far with the ‘no underage characters’ thing. Just because a wiki page run by unpaid fans calls someone a ‘young man’???? huh? my grandma calls me young man and im 24 does that make me too young to have sex? we’re missing terunosuke for this

I’m just trying to use my better judgment as best as I can. The wiki is run by a lot of people, and not just one person, so they’d all have to come to a consensus. Plus, according to the wiki, you’d be listed as a man, not a young man. Bucciarati is 20 and listed as a man, while Jolyne is 19 and listed as a young woman. I think the cutoff is when a character finally exits their teens. That being said, Kakyoin is also described as a young man, so the cutoff is really too close for me to feel safe in including Terunosuke. If you want to make a blog that includes the characters I omitted, then you can do that, but I’m not including him

[epicswagdivorceguy1]

i love found families in fiction but i hate when people will assign characters as having a parent/child relationship when in the source material they are literally referred to as being like siblings. especially when the 'parent' character isn't even a decade older than the 'child' character??

[samirahmed125]

From the rubble, our children make the Palestinian Dabke, which revives our heritage and connects us to our land. I used to make it with my friends at school from Gaza. I appeal to you with a broken heart. I am a young man who is threatened with having my legs amputated. Please donate so that I can undergo the 5 operations quickly. With your donation, you are able to give me hope, even if it is only 5 dollars. You are able to revive the spirit within me. Your donation also encourages many to donate, and with your participation, everyone participates. He takes the initiative to do good from you. Please donate and share 🥺🥺🥺🥺🥺🙏 Please, I don't want to remain helpless. I want to go back to walking, running, and practicing my hobbies. I play football and practice dabke with my friends, just like I used to do at parties and at school. Please give me life and help me with my treatment. Please donate and share. Please, do not stop and do not be silent. Help me. You are strong and capable of doing this, even if it costs $5😢😢😢

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[r3starttt]

BEHAVE

PAIRING: Caitlyn Kiramman x reader

SUMMARY: Being her controversial young girlfriend but she's sooo mean about it.

CW: Mean Caitlyn. fingering and public sex if u squint. A mix of Cait act 1 and after act 3 because that eye patch makes her so hot.

A/N: this was a headcanon but it's too long so, enjoy(? also I apologize because this is very self indulgent and maybe it doesn't feel like it's Caitlyn at all but who cares!

TAGLIST: @lewd-alien @greysontheidiot @jolyne @sapphic-ovaries @tlouloser @prwttiestbunny @visobsession @thesevi0lentdelights @lvlymicha @stickycherritart @patronagrona @halle5s @usuck @thalchmy @lovelyy-moonlight @fakevalentine

* first post of the year!!!! ahhhh praying I can write so much more

* PART TWO

"Do you truly believe I wouldn’t notice?" Caitlyn’s voice brushed against your ear, a velvet whisper laced with reproach as her hands rested on your shoulders. She guided you through the sea of silk gowns and tailored suits, her touch light yet insistent. The weight of her name—Kiramman—still carried its unyielding responsibilities. These endless soirées, gilded in pretension, were as much a part of her world as the air she breathed.

You hummed in acknowledgment, your brow furrowing as the opulent liquor in your glass shimmered with each step. The crystal caught the golden glow of chandeliers, creating ripples of light that danced with the cadence of your movements.

"I distinctly recall telling you not to speak to her," Caitlyn said, her voice low but firm, a melody of restrained fury and high-society decorum. And there it was—why she was upset. Her words, precise as a scalpel, made the realization cut deeper.

Jealousy. It wasn’t the first time.

She was a woman molded by singularity, the only child of a family whose legacy loomed large. Years of hard work and calculated poise had shaped her, yet even Caitlyn Kiramman wasn’t immune to the corrosive sting of possessiveness. She had drawn comfort from women, and in doing so, learned too much about how easily temptation could unravel the strongest resolves. She knew what could happen when the wrong hands reached for what they desired.

"And I didn’t," you replied, your tone measured but pointed as you placed emphasis on the pronoun. "She spoke to me."

But you knew the defense was weak, the excuse thin. It wasn’t about who initiated the conversation—it was about the way you let it linger, the playful barbs you traded in defiance of Caitlyn’s clear wishes.

"Look at me."

She halted, steering you into a quiet corner where the hallway stood mostly empty save for the occasional passing silhouette. Her grip shifted to your chin, blue-painted nails biting just enough to demand your attention. Tilting your face upward, her single piercing eye—framed by the violet eyepatch that gleamed under the estate’s polished lighting—locked onto yours.

"That woman," Caitlyn said, her tone laced with hate, "will go to any lengths to provoke me. She is petty, immature, and cannot tolerate the fact that I chose you." The emphasis on you was punctuated with a fleeting brush of her thumb along your cheek.

"And why is that?" you countered, tilting your head slightly, an air of defiance laced in your words. You knew the unspoken truths hidden in her gaze, the ghosts of her past lovers lingering in her quiet. You weren’t the first to occupy her bed, but you intended to be the last. Still, the question hung in the air, daring her to acknowledge the vulnerability that simmered beneath her jealousy.

Her posture shifted, the tension momentarily releasing as she let go of your face, her hands finding yours. "Behave," she murmured, her voice carrying a polished warn. "You’re not some foolish girl in need of coddling , are you? Didn’t you insist I treat you like a grown woman and not—what was it?—a 'sweet indulgence,' like those other girls you claim I once entertained?"

Sharp, clever, and unrelenting , Caitlyn always knew how to turn the blade back on you, her wit as honed as the rifle she wielded with such precision.

"I’m merely observing," you replied with a shrug, feigning indifference though the sting of her words lingered. "You seem awfully afraid of some women. Almost as though you know them too well."

Her laugh was soft, almost a scoff, but her grip on your waist tightened. Caitlyn wasn’t one to retreat. Instead, she seized the moment, her free hand taking your glass and setting it on a side table near the staircase alongside her own. Without a word, she led you upward.

The quiet intimacy of the stairwell was a stark contrast to the party below. The golden light softened as you ascended, and with each step, the air between you grew heavier, thick with the unsaid.

Your heels echoed against the polished marble, mirroring hers as you followed her onto one of the estate’s many balconies. Caitlyn left the balcony door ajar, the muffled hum of the soirée seeping through like a distant murmur.

Her lips grazed the delicate curve of your neck, warm and insistent. "Do you know what I used to do?" she murmured, her voice low-- confessional. Her hands found your waist, steadying you as though she feared you might falter under the weight of her words.

"I would take them home," she began, her tone as smooth as the feel of her hands on your skin. Her fingers tightened ever so slightly, a possessive gesture had you folding already. "I would ask about their lives, their dreams... enough to slip beneath their guard."

Her lips traveled upward, brushing the corner of your jaw, then your cheek, before stopping just next to your ear. "And then," she continued, her voice a breath against your skin, "I would lean in, cup their necks, let my gaze linger on their lips... kiss them."

As the words left her mouth, she mirrored the act with you. Her fingers glided to the nape of your neck, holding you firm, her lips capturing yours with a deliberate fervor. The kiss was unhurried yet commanding, a declaration rather than a question.

"I would undo their clothes, piece by piece, savoring the soft of their skins." Her hands traveled down, tracing the contours of your frame with reverence until her fingers found the hem of your dress. Slowly, she gathered the fabric, the rustle of it rising in harmony with the quickening beat of your heart.

"I would caress their thighs," she continued, her voice dropping with promise. Her hand slid beneath the folds of your dress. She paused there, letting the silence be filled with the distant hum of the party behind you.

Her gaze met yours again, piercing. She pressed her knee in between your legs, her fingers making small circles over your clothed clit, feeling the fabric damp under her touch. A smile spread on her face, almost a mocking laugh escaping her as her forehead leaned closer to your own. "Yeah? feels good, doesn't it?" Her breath hovering over your lips before you nodded, opening your lips further to try and get a kiss she denied.

"I would love to feel how wet they got... listening those whimpers and the many obscenities spilling through such pretty lips." Her other hand went behind your waist, digging her fingers into you.

Your head tilted down as you got pressed into the railing. Worried that someone might see.

It wouldn't be new to them. Cailtyn had been caught endless times by those working for her or around her- and she couldn't care less. Making her girls go louder each time.

"I loved to hear how they pronounced my name in between gasps." Her wet lips pressed another kiss into your neck. Her hand guiding your hips to move against her leg as she slid her fingers up and down your covered slit.

You held behind onto the railing, using it to impulse your body as you wished against her fingers and her body and just enjoy yourself while using her. Your lips pressed too tightly to not let any sound out.

Your eyebrows furrowed to a point it hurt. Caitlyn made you mad, she knew how to put you in your place every single time.

"Be a good girl and let me hear you, love." She pressed herself closer to you again, her fingers busy with your wet. She had minutes that felt endless just rubbing at your clit over your clothes, providing you the friction of her knee against your cunt or her fingers over your hole- teasing to pull your panties aside and fuck you-- But that was it.

And maybe all of it had you falling for her one last time. Opening your lips to moan and whimper against her own. She wanted the show and if she asked so nicely why would you deny her?

But just as you felt like maybe there could be a way to convince her to fuck you like you wanted, she stopped. It was almost too abruptly it hurt.

"Go to the bathroom and compose yourself," Caitlyn instructed. Her grip tightened on your chin, tilting your face upward with a practiced ease that left little room to argument. The intensity in her eyes was an unspoken demand.

"I will not endure the embarrassment of your behavior tonight." The sharp edge of her accent making each syllable bite. Her fingers pressed into your cheeks, just enough to remind you of her control, her authority over this moment. "Your age is already... challenging for me. Do not make me regret this, love. Do you understand?"

You nodded, the motion awkward under the restraint of her hand. A wave of heat prickled at the corners of your eyes, tears threatening to spill, not from pain but from the raw sting of her words. Your voice came out small, broken, as though the very air had been stolen from your lungs.

"I'm sorry," you murmured an apology barely audible, stifled by the weight of her fingers against your face.

"Don't apologize," she snapped, the command as firm as it was cold. Her gaze bore into yours, cutting through your composure. "Just do as I ask. Prove to me that you're capable of being what I need you to be."

Her lips hovered dangerously close to yours, her breath warm, intimate, yet void of comfort. "Show me you're worth it-" She paused to make it clear, it was a warn if not a threat. "And never, ever speak to her again. Not a word, not a glance. Or it's over. Is that clear?"

There was no room for negotiation, no softness to temper her gaze. Her words were final. Like anything else around her, it was an unspoken contract you had no choice but to sign.

[comrademango]

URGENT HELP NEEDED

Yousef (@youseffamilys-blog) and his family still have not raised enough for Majd's surgery ($2000) and medicine ($100), and now they received evacuation orders from the IOF. Please continue supporting this young family.

CHUFFED HERE

verification: #406 (the ButterflyEffect verified fundraisers list)

Currently with $4,979 raised out of the $50,000 goal. The short -term goal is $6,175. $1,236 still needed.

tagging for reach, please share or help out in any way

@murderbot @acehimbo @fancy-strawberry-beard @thatsonehellofabird @butchmagicalboi @rhubarbspring @amvs4palestine @a-shade-of-blue @galactic-mermaid @thegreatdemonzhuyan @lonniemachin @monstermashpotato @raatwitch @crapscicle @tortiefrancis @deathlonging @colombogramme @nevert-the-guy @fromjannah @classyeyeballs @autisticmudkip @fading-event-608 @trans-leek-cookie @moomoobug @bixlasagna @guldaastan @anarchenby @arboret-art @mayonaisalspray @dykesbat @riding-with-the-wild-hunt @mahoushojoe @deepspaceboytoy @isuggestforcefem @backfliips @xenodile @jolyne-best-jojo @lordzannis @corpsenurse @dirhwangdaseul @vettedfundraiser @gabajoofs @rhythmlessgay

[beeorioslol]

great uncle goatsuke

[99nazmy]

Our lives have become in these tents that do not protect us from the heat of summer or the cold of winter.

Hello my friend, please help. We do not have money to buy food and drink. I have young children who do not know the taste of sleep because of the bitter cold caused by the rain. We do not have shelter. Our services are torn. Donate to me, even if it is a little. I ask you to help, my friend 🙏🙏😭 ✅️Vetted by @gazavetters, my number verified on the list is ( #380 )✅️💔

@qattdraws @queenofthebeast @queenbeaver69 @queervulturecreature00 @jackiedaytona @jaygarrick256 @jo-evo24 @jackiedaytona @sd @sf @sdraiativiciniconicuoriarresi @jasontodddiedonmybirthday @jolyne-best-jojo @jpegfantasy @cv @cvlnmafia @xch3rryb0mb @cxx-x @bnmxfld @bnmsexonthebeach @mkbye @nhlbruins-blog @qseeda @ashwantsafreepalestine @aggiejr @sdraiativiciniconicuoriarresi @gholdic @jhnmyr @gffa @gazavetters @gazikacmislaflar @gazaboovintage @palestbaby @pale-grunge-dark @plannedparenthood @manar-ahmed-hany @mar64ds @mortalityplays @marcuspierce @ui-marrentinha @zone0neko @zxcvbnmlove @zhouxiangs @bookslegosnotherstuff @bbluberrys @cheezbot @calamitywoman @adesejar @hottestcelebrities @estrellasrojas

[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.”

[scarymonsters-andsupercreeps]

I wanted to draw Jotaro and Jolyne at one of those dad and daughter dances they have for young girls! Look how snazzy they are!

[acehimbo]

[VD: Abdul clearing the rubble made of his collapsed home's walls and roof with his hands, as his young son watches. ]

GazaVetters #47

2 year old Ibrahim has been sick for some time. Lack of treatment has given him kidney damage.

Please don't forget about Gaza. My friend @mohmad2 is beside himself. He's already lost a son, his father, and his brother. He cannot lose Ibrahim.

@northgazaupdates2

Please help if you can and boost this. Ibrahim's condition has worsened and the treatment cost is only increasing.

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