☆ Sasha★

husband!gyro zeppeli who pretends to be asleep when you wake up, yawning and stretching like he hasn't been admiring you for the past hour. He takes you in his big arms, placing you right on top of him, kissing your face repetitive times even after you complain.

husband!gyro zeppeli who makes breakfast with you, humming an old melody he can't name while he heats up some water for coffee and you cut the tomatoes. He takes your hand and spins you, wrapping his arm around your waist and sitting you on the counter while he feeds you bites of your own toast.

husband!gyro zeppeli who takes a huge umbrella and some towels and goes to the beach with you. That's how you spend your mornings, bathing and tanning in the warm Italian sun, with Gyro spending most of the time in the water. You know better than accompany him, because if you put a feet in the cold water, he's already lifting you and taking you deeper so he can throw you around while he giggles.

husband!gyro zeppeli who gets tanned easily, his skin turns a soft caramel color just after two weeks of going to the beach.

husband!gyro zeppeli who also knows how to sit beside you in the towels, napping quietly or talking in whispers while you tan. He would love to cuddle in the sand, but last time that happened, he had your hand print in your back all summer.

husband!gyro zeppeli who, when you had enough beach, takes you back to your home, sharing a shower together where you wash each other's bodies. He has so much care of your curls, detangling them and applying shampoo exactly how you taught him. You're as careful as him even thought he doesn't really care and somehow always has the most luscious and shiny hair ever.

husband!gyro zeppeli who cooks for you, usually pasta. You both know at some point of your lives you'll have to learn how to cook something else, but you don't even care for that at the moment.

husband!gyro zeppeli who keeps you in his lap while you eat together with a glass of wine, once again feeding each other from the same plate because why bother with different things when you can just share?

husband!gyro zeppeli who tried ditching his job when he came back, he tried talking to his father, saying that he cannot handle that labor and can't find himself confessing his job to you. He can't imagine the look on your face when you realize that your husband is an executioner. But his father insists that it's his duty, that his blood dictates his job and that when his father dies, there has to be someone to take his place.

husband!gyro zeppeli who cries that night in your chest, leaving you confused about his feelings. His shoulders shake as he holds you tighter, you run your fingers through his golden hair, whispering soft questions, but he just buries his face deeper against you, breathing heavy and uneven.

husband!gyro zeppeli who finally pulls back after what feels like forever, his blue eyes all red and glassy under the moonlight coming through the window. He confesses everything right there, voice cracking as the words tumble out. How his family has this duty, how he is supposed to be an executioner, carrying out sentences that make his stomach turn every single time. He keeps repeating that he doesn't like it, that he hates it, that the blood and the finality of it all haunt him even when he is with you in your peaceful little house by the sea.

husband!gyro zeppeli who looks so terrified while he speaks, thinking every word is a risk that could make you pack your things and run. His hands tremble as they cup your face, thumbs brushing your cheeks, memorizing you in case this is the last time. He says he tried to leave it all behind after the race, tried to build this life with you without the shadow of his last name hanging over everything, but his father keeps pulling him back.

husband!gyro zeppeli who breaks down harder when he finishes talking, fresh tears spilling down as he waits for your reaction. He whispers sorry over and over, voice thick with fear that you will see him differently now, that the man who spins you in the kitchen and throws you in the waves could never be loved by someone who knows the truth.

husband!gyro zeppeli who feels your arms wrap around him instead as you tell him that it's okay. You still love him, all of him, you kiss his forehead, his wet cheeks, promising that his job does not define the husband who loves you so openly every single day.

husband!gyro zeppeli who clings to you after that, crying out the rest of his pain while you hold him close. Your words sink into him, easing the knot in his chest until his breathing evens out against your skin. He falls asleep like that, exhausted but lighter, with your fingers still tracing soothing patterns on his back.

husband!gyro zeppeli who wakes up the next morning to you suggesting you both talk to his dad together. His eyes go wide at first, surprised and a little scared, but then he nods, pulling you into his lap right there in bed. He kisses you slow, murmuring that he doesn't know what he did to deserve someone like you.

husband!gyro zeppeli who somehow manages to stand up to his father with you by his side, ditching his job forever and not caring about what he has to say. His father is a little surprised that this is the first time he's heard about his wife.

husband!gyro zeppeli who's now free for all the burden, going back to focusing all the attention on you.

husband!gyro zeppeli and you, who are still in touch with Johnny after the race. You send letters to him ever month, telling him little updates of your quiet life, urging him to come visit you some time.

husband!gyro zeppeli who makes years pass like weeks. Even when wrinkles start to form next to your eyes, he still looks at you like the moment you punched his face in the first stage of the race (the moment that he says he fell in love with you). Even after you start forming a family, heavily pregnant with your first child, he was the most loving husband ever. When that little kid runs around the house, giggling just like him, he runs behind her trying to catch her.

husband!gyro zeppeli who, eventually leaves before you when you're old enough to expect it. Your already married daughter organizes the funeral, your granddaughter cries even more than you. And of course you feel sad, he was the love of your life, the only one, actually. But you have done so much together, all your memories were shared with him. He never left your side, until now, and you know it's not going to take long until you find each other again.

The chapel in this dusty, mid-route Colorado town was small, packed with local high society folks who smelled of expensive cologne and cheap ambition.

Your groom stood beside you at the altar, sweating through his woolen suit, sporting a smug grin that made your stomach turn. The priest began the liturgy, his voice a droning hum that faded into the background of your own racing thoughts.

You looked down at your hands, wishing for a miracle. Wishing for a miracle that rode a horse and wore a ridiculous wide brimmed hat.

Crash.

The double doors of the wooden chapel didn’t just open they flew off their hinges, splintering against the stone walls. The congregation gasped, turning in unison.

Standing in the dusty frame of the doorway, hands resting casually on his hips, was Gyro Zeppeli.

The afternoon sun cast a long, dramatic shadow behind him, highlighting the gold lettering on his teeth as he flashed a slow, incredibly cocky grin.

"Yo" Gyro called out, his voice echoing off the rafters. "I hope I’m not interrupting anything important. Actually, scratch that I completely hope I am."

"What is the meaning of this?!" your groom shrieked, his voice cracking. "Guards! Sheriff! Arrest this vagrant!"

Gyro didn't even look at him. His eyes, sharp and intensely focused beneath the brim of his hat, locked onto yours.

The mockery in his expression softened, replaced by a quiet reassuring warmth. "Hey. You look pretty in white. But honestly? It’s not really your color. You look much better covered in trail dust."

He started walking down the aisle, his spurs clinking rhythmically against the wooden floorboards. Two hired guards stepped forward to intercept him, reaching for their holsters.

In a movement almost too fast to follow, Gyro’s hands blurred. The steel balls at his hips flew from their holsters, spinning with a low menacing hum.

They didn't hit the guards directly instead they struck the floorboards right at their feet. The localized, violent vibrations of the spin caused the wood to splinter and buckle instantly, sending both men stumbling backward into the pews, completely disoriented.

The steel balls curved through the air, returning to Gyro’s hands with a satisfying clack.

"Now, where were we?" Gyro chuckled, stopping just a few feet from the altar. He tilted his hat back, looking the groom up and down with supreme disgust.

"You’ve got terrible taste in partners, sweetheart. This guy looks like a deflated sack of flour. And his posture? Terrible."

"Get out of here, Gyro," you whispered, a mixture of terror and overwhelming relief washing over you. "My family..."

"Your family will figure it out," Gyro interrupted, his voice dropping to a softer, gentler tone. He stepped right past the sputtering groom and reached out a leather-gloved hand to you.

"And if they don't, I'll pay off their stupid debts myself. I've got a race to win after all. But I’m not crossing the finish line without you."

"Seize him!" the groom roared, grabbing Gyro’s shoulder.

Gyro didn't even turn around. He simply nudged one of his steel balls against the man's arm. The subtle spin transferred instantly sending a wave of muscle spasms through the groom's entire upper body, forcing him to drop to his knees, twitching helplessly.

"Right then," Gyro said, offering you a theatrical bow. "Our ride is waiting. Shall we?"

With a laugh that felt like the first breath of fresh air you’d taken in months, you took his hand. Gyro pulled you close, lifting you effortlessly as he turned and sprinted out of the chapel.

Outside, Valkyrie was waiting, pawing at the dirt. Gyro swung you onto the saddle before hoisting himself up behind you.

As the horse tore out of the town square, leaving a cloud of dust and outraged screams in its wake, Gyro wrapped his arms securely around your waist, his laugh ringing loud and free against the Colorado wind.

⋅˚₊‧ ୨୧ ‧₊˚ ⋅ ⋅˚₊‧ ୨୧ ‧₊˚ ⋅ ⋅˚₊‧ ୨୧ ‧₊˚ ⋅ ⋅˚₊‧ ୨୧ ‧₊˚ ⋅ ⋅˚₊‧୨

Diego Brando.

The Grand Ballroom of the Chicago estate was a sea of glittering diamonds champagne flutes and superficial laughter.

Your family, desperate to climb the social ladder of high society, had arranged your betrothal to a wealthy, influential steel magnate.

You stood on the raised dais beside your husband to be, clad in an agonizingly heavy silk dress layered with pearls.

The magnate was parading you around like a prized horse he’d bought at an auction boasting about his acquisition to a circle of laughing politicians.

You stared at the grand glass doors of the ballroom, feeling completely isolated. You hated the noise. You hated the fake smiles.

You missed the mud, the sweat, and the sharp, dangerous thrill of the Steel Ball Run race. Most of all, you missed a certain ruthless, blond jockey who looked at the world with nothing but cold ambition except when he looked at you.

A sudden, violent commotion at the grand entrance shattered the ballroom's polite atmosphere.

Several security guards were thrown backward through the gilded doors, crashing onto the polished marble floor.

The music screeched to a halt. Guests began to shriek, parting like the Red Sea as a figure walked slowly into the light of the massive crystal chandeliers.

Diego Brando stood in the doorway. He wore his blue equestrian turtleneck and his signature "DIO" cap, but there was something terrifyingly different about him.

His golden hair was slightly disheveled, his fingernails had elongated into sharp, reptilian claws, and his eyes normally a piercing blue shone with a dangerous, slitted golden yellow.

"Diego..." you whispered, your heart leaping into your throat.

"Where do you think you're going, little bird?" Diego purred, his voice carrying a low, predatory gravel.

He didn't care about the hundreds of wealthy aristocrats staring at him in horror. His gaze was locked entirely on you.

Your groom stepped forward, his face pale but trying to maintain his dignity. "What is the meaning of this outrage?! Guards! Shoot this trespasser!"

Three guards drew their revolvers.

Diego didn't even flinch. A vicious, feral smirk spread across his face. "Insignificant pests."

In a flash of blue and gold Diego’s stand Scary Monsters manifested. With blinding, terrifying speed, Diego shifted, his body taking on sleek, theropod characteristics.

He leaped across the room, completely ignoring the bullets that whined uselessly past him. He slammed into the guards, knocking them aside with terrifying physical strength.

One of the guards tried to rise, but Diego stepped on his chest, his clawed boot digging in just enough to keep the man pinned.

A tiny, transformed dinosaur no larger than a rat hissed from Diego's shoulder, baring its razor-sharp teeth.

The ballroom erupted into pure chaos. Aristocrats screamed, tripping over their own gowns as they fled for the exits.

Diego walked slowly up the carpeted steps of the dais, his tail whipping slowly behind him. The steel magnate trembling violently, grabbed your arm and tried to pull you in front of him as a human shield.

Diego’s eyes flared with a lethal, terrifying rage.

In a fraction of a second, Diego closed the distance. His hand shot out, his claws stopping mere millimeters from the magnate’s throat.

The sheer, overwhelming bloodlust radiating from Diego made the older man wet himself, his grip releasing your arm instantly as he shrank back into a corner, sobbing for his life.

Diego’s expression shifted instantly as he turned to you. The terrifying, monstrous aura vanished, replaced by a possessive intense hunger.

He reached out, his clawed hand gently cupping your cheek. Despite his scales, his touch was surprisingly warm.

"You belong to me," Diego whispered, his thumb brushing over your cheekbone. "Not to some weak, bloated pig who thinks he can buy you.

I am going to stand at the top of this world, and you are going to be there beside me."

"Diego, your race-" you started, but he silenced you by leaning down and kissing you fiercely, a bruising, desperate kiss that tasted of dust, rain, and wild freedom.

When he pulled back, his golden eyes were bright with triumph. He easily scooped you up into his arms, your heavy silk gown cascading over his shoulder.

"Let them keep their money and their fragile houses," Diego laughed, a sharp, wild sound as he turned and carried you out of the ruined ballroom. "We have a world to conquer."

⋅˚₊‧ ୨୧ ‧₊˚ ⋅ ⋅˚₊‧ ୨୧ ‧₊˚ ⋅ ⋅˚₊‧ ୨୧ ‧₊˚ ⋅ ⋅˚₊‧ ୨୧ ‧₊˚ ⋅ ⋅˚₊‧୨

Hot pants.

The parlor of your family’s estate was suffocatingly warm. You sat on the velvet settee, dressed in an elaborate restrictive lace gown listening to your father and a wealthy, older merchant boast about the terms of your upcoming nuptials.

The merchant’s gaze lingered on you with a predatory possessive gleam that made your skin crawl.

You stared out the window, praying for an escape, though you knew none was coming. You were trapped in a cage of high society expectations.

A knock sounded at the parlor door.

Your father frowned. "I thought I said we were not to be disturbed."

The door opened anyway, and a tall, striking figure stepped into the room. She wore the austere lilac robes of a traveling priest, her face partially obscured by the hood of her cowl.

But you would recognize those sharp, intense eyes and that quiet, commanding posture anywhere.

It was Hot Pants.

"Forgive the intrusion," Hot Pants said, her voice smooth, deep, and carrying an undeniable authority.

She bowed her head slightly. "I am Brother Forest. I was summoned by a relative of the family to deliver a pre marital blessing and conduct a final spiritual confession for the bride to be."

Your father blinked, startled. "A confession? Now? Surely that can wait-"

"A marriage built on unconfessed sin is doomed to crumble under God’s wrath," Hot Pants interrupted calmly, her gaze shifting to the wealthy merchant.

There was a subtle dangerous edge to her voice that made the merchant shift uncomfortably. "And I sense... a great deal of impurity in this room. The confession must happen immediately. In private."

She held herself with such absolute, righteous certainty that your father couldn't find the words to argue. "Very well," he muttered, gesturing to the adjoining study. "Be quick about it."

Hot Pants nodded, stepping aside to let you pass. The moment you entered the dimly lit study and she shut the heavy wooden door behind you, her holy facade completely vanished.

She locked the door with a sharp click and threw back her cowl. Her pink hair tumbled down her shoulders, and her expression was tight with a mixture of anger and deep, unspoken anxiety.

"What are you doing here?" you breathed, your heart hammering against your ribs. "If they find out you're not a priest, or who you really are-"

"I don't care" Hot Pants said, her voice dropping to a fierce, quiet hiss. She closed the distance between you, her hands grabbing your shoulders.

Her touch was firm, grounding, and incredibly warm. "Do you want this? Do you want to marry that man?"

"No" you whispered, tears finally welling in your eyes. "But I don't have a choice. My family-"

"You always have a choice," she interrupted, her eyes blazing. "I spent my entire life believing I had no choices, that I was bound to a path of suffering and atonement. But I will not let them do that to you. I won't let them lock you in a cage."

She reached into the folds of her robes and pulled out her stand, Cream Starter. The flesh like spray can hummed softly in her hand.

"We don't have much time," Hot Pants said, looking at the window. "The carriage I brought is waiting on the back road. But they will search for you."

"How will we get past them?" you asked, looking at the locked door.

A faint, brilliant smirk touched Hot Pants’ lips a rare beautiful sight. "They think they are marrying off a daughter today. We are going to give them a very convincing decoy."

With a few precise sprays of Cream Starter, Hot Pants began to manipulate the organic matter, quickly forming a realistic, temporary flesh sculpture of you sitting at the desk, facing away from the door as if deep in prayer.

She then grabbed your hand, her grip fiercely protective. She opened the study window, the cool afternoon breeze rushing in to greet you.

"Trust me," Hot Pants murmured, looking back at you with a rare, soft sincerity that made your heart swell. "I will protect you with my life."

You smiled, the heavy weight of the lace gown no longer feeling like a prison, but a relic of a life you were happily leaving behind. "I trust you," you said.

Together you climbed out into the freedom of the wild untamed frontier.

⋅˚₊‧ ୨୧ ‧₊˚ ⋅ ⋅˚₊‧ ୨୧ ‧₊˚ ⋅ ⋅˚₊‧ ୨୧ ‧₊˚ ⋅ ⋅˚₊‧ ୨୧ ‧₊˚ ⋅ ⋅˚₊‧୨

Mountain Tim.

The wind howling through the cracks of the wooden chapel matched the storm raging in your chest.

Your father had shaken hands with a wealthy land baron from Texas, effectively selling you off to secure water rights for his failing ranch.

The ceremony was a bleak rushed affair in a half-empty church on the edge of the territory. Your groom, a man twice your age with cold, calculating eyes looked at you not as a partner, but as a prize piece of territory he’d successfully acquired.

The preacher cleared his throat, holding up his bible. "If any man can show just cause why they may not lawfully be joined together, let him now speak or else hereafter forever hold his peace."

The heavy double doors didn't fly open. Instead they swung back smoothly admitting a tall, broad shouldered man bathed in the amber glow of the setting sun.

He wore a Stetson hat, a fringed leather jacket, and carried himself with the quiet, undeniable authority of an official of the law.

He didn't draw his gun. He simply stood at the back of the chapel, his thumbs hooked casually in his belt, his eyes fixed on yours with a steady, burning intensity.

"I reckon I’ve got a reason," Tim’s deep, drawling voice echoed through the quiet rafters.

The groom spun around, his face reddening. "Who the hell are you? This is a private ceremony! Marshal, sheriff someone get this drifter out of here!"

Tim took a slow step forward, his spurs chiming softly. "Name's Mountain Tim, bounty hunter. And I’m afraid this wedding is officially canceled. See, the lady’s heart has already been claimed. By me."

A collective gasp rippled through the few family members in the pews. Your father stood up, pointing an angry finger. "She is promised to this man! The contract is signed!"

"A contract signed under duress ain't worth the paper it’s written on, sir" Tim said smoothly. He didn't break his stride, walking down the center aisle with the calm confidence of a man who owned the entire state.

The groom, consumed by rage, reached inside his coat for a concealed pistol. "You arrogant bastard-"

Before his hand could even wrap around the grip, Tim flicked his wrist. His lasso, Oh! Lonesome Me, flew from his hip like a striking cobra.

The rope didn't just loop around the groom it split apart, the fibers of the rope itself separating and sliding effortlessly through the air. The lasso wrapped around the groom’s wrist, binding his hand to his chest, while another loop encircled his ankles, pulling his feet out from under him.

With a heavy thud, the wealthy baron crashed to the floor, completely immobilized by a rope that seemed to possess a mind of its own.

Tim didn't even look down at the groaning man. He stepped right over him, stopping at the altar.

He removed his Stetson holding it against his chest as he looked at you. The rugged, weathered lines of his face softened into a look of pure devotion.

"I told you once before, darlin'" Tim murmured, his voice incredibly gentle, "that my rope is an extension of my own body. And my heart is tied to yours just as tightly. I can't let you throw your life away in a cage like this."

He offered his hand, his leather glove warm and inviting.

"Tim..." your voice trembled, a tear escaping down your cheek. "They'll hunt us."

"Let 'em try," Tim replied, a confident, lazy smile touching his lips. "They'd have to find us first. And there ain't a tracker in this territory who can follow my trail when I don't want to be found."

You placed your hand in his. Tim pulled you close, his strong arm wrapping securely around your waist. With a swift flick of his wrist, his rope untangled from the groom and snapped back into his hand.

ERMES COSTELLO

You initially pissed her off so bad.

Given that everything takes place during Stone Ocean, in prison, with Stand fights being thrown at you left and right, you’re supposed to be vigilant. You're supposed to stay on edge. And yet every morning it’s a goddamn battle already just to drag you out of the cell and make sure you stay awake during meal time while the team discusses strategy. Why? Longer than five seconds and your head will crash straight down onto the food tray as you peacefully snore away without a care in the world.

Ermes once yelled at you to lock the fuck in while you’re three dreams deep, and in response, you just shifted closer and sleepily nuzzled into her chest <3 she froze mid-lecture, blushed a little, but promptly shoved you off.

Witnessing your power is such an eye-opener for her. Your fast reflexes and the way your tired demeanor immediately gives way to a powerful, quick-witted one… you earned her respect >_<

After the first fight, Ermes just came up and smacked you on the back, gruffly complimenting your battle instincts.

Will let you sleep peacefully from that day onwards because she’s at ease knowing you can take care of yourself. She lets you sit next to her on the only soft chair in the Ghost Room, your head falling on her shoulder.

F. F tries to poke your cheek from time to time :> Ermes will slap her hand away, though.

DRAGONA JOESTAR

Awwwwwwwwwwwwwww.

Sweet cutie pie.

She finds your drowsiness incredibly adorable. As someone who used to lose sleep due to bullying back in middle school ( :((), Dragona loves that it takes so little for you to rest, because it means you’ll always have enough energy.

Also read somewhere that if a person is sleepy near you, it, it means their inner child feels safe, which made her even more protective. She loves Jodio with all her heart and appreciates his effort to keep her safe, but God, his sociopathic tendencies stress her the fuck out. At least her girlfriend is a cute sleepy kitten curling up on her lap and not out there trying to burn down another bus, praise the Lord 🙏🏻

Your switch-up during battles is so impressive. She’ll use Smooth Operators to support and fight alongside you, and secretly, she’s fangirling a little bit inside!

Checks on your wounds while showering you in praises. She wants to brag to the entire gang about how badass you are. Jodio doesn’t show it, but he’s at ease too, seeing that his sister now has a boon to keep her going amidst their troubled circumstances.

If she ends up spending too much time with you, though, he’ll sulk.

Be on the lookout for a jealous little brother >_<

YASUHO HIROSE

Honestly, same…

Your weariness is relatable, not in the sense that Yasuho herself sleeps a lot, but rather that she wishes she could have done that. Her homelife is a mess. Yasuho doesn’t remember anything prior to the divorce that ripped her family apart, but she does remember vividly lying in her childhood bedroom, clinging to her phone, her stuffed animal, closing her eyes, and yet still awake and aware hours later under the blanket.

Leading up to the manifestation of Paisley Park, Yasuho lives in constant anxiety; she’s just a normal teenage girl, so why does she have to go through any of these things?

In a way, she’s jealous of your ability to turn your brain off without trying. The sight of you sleeping in her bed years later seemed to heal something inside her. Your carefreeness is what she wishes she'd had, and it’s what she’ll fight to protect.

Ends up babying you as a result >_< needless to say, this girl is in for a surprise when she finds out you’re more than capable of handling yourself.

The way your posture straightens and your heavy eyelids lift to reveal a sharp, focused look. Yasuho finds it a little scary, but also attractive…?

Usually you’ll doze off right after the fight, and Yasuho will be there to catch you and gently lay your head on her lap.

She admires you a lot. Your resilience urges her to become a stronger and better version of herself <3 hopefully someday she can make you swoon too!

MARIAH

You’re amusing to her in a way that a puppy is, bouncing around and chasing its own tail. Which is to say that she doesn’t take you seriously at all.

Looks can be deceiving, but right off the bat, this woman hates you. She’ll make sly, condescending comments about how you don’t belong here. Though never the one to question DIO’s authority, Mariah’s brows furrow ever so slightly, thinking about what part you play in the team. Aren’t you a better lap dog than you are one of his minions?

Seeing you fight, though, her mind is blown. I imagine her still skeptical at first or thinking it’s just a one-time thing and not because in her mind she has decided that she’s better than you.

Her ego also took a massive hit if you were to save her during the battle. Mariah is reluctant for a day or two before arriving to the conclusion that you, yes YOU, are now hers for the taking!

You’ll find yourself literally glued to her side during meetings. Ever the sadist, Mariah will tease you about being a desperate little thing, while in reality it’s just her using Bastet <3

She'll start teasing a lot about your sleepiness and genuinely start to find your habit endearing.

Offers her boobs as your pillow <3 she smells like black rose, plus her skin feels so smooth and cool.

Convinced DIO to let you move into her mansion. Her bed is big and soft; you always have the best sleep on there. No complaints here! Mariah practically spoils you with her wealth and affection.

I hope you like an Egyptian-themed wedding…

HOT PANTS

Like Ermes, you’re a test to her patience.

What’s worse about having a teammate who’s chronically sleepy is that, when awake, they don't bother to listen either. Her throat is sore from talking for the last ten minutes, and when she asks you to repeat what she said, you just go: “ah yes… that cloud looks like a chicken" and Hot Pants is like “???? maybe i should have just hung you from that fucking tree”.

Still, there’s no denying how worried she is about you. Your fragility reminds Hot Pants of her brother. A deep wound and a lifetime of guilt—she doesn’t want to see another innocent life taken away. Will try to toughen you up by manhandling you every chance she gets, though that just makes you w—sorry, I mean, it doesn’t affect you at all!

One night, she went to sleep and woke up with you clinging to her like a koala while drooling on her chest. Hot Pants hastily shoved you off and spent that entire day with her ears bright pink. She hated the way her heart raced at the memory of your warmth.

She wants her riding partner to be strong and reliable… which, to her pleasant surprise, you soon prove to be just that. Also, find it kind of cute that seeing her being targeted in battles is what first triggers your fighter instinct. Hot Pants soon comes to trust you a lot >_<

Uses Cream Starter to inspect your injury afterward. This is where you'll act like you're going to die over a minor scratch or bruise so you can have the excuse to crawl onto her lap and fall asleep on her. By the time Hot Pants realizes she's been fooled, you're already out cold <3

Your constant sleepiness no longer bothers her. She thinks of it as a way for you to conserve energy.

Still, if you're crossing a mountain or a rocky terrain, she’ll drag you over to ride on Gets Up with her <3 she said she doesn’t want you to fall off your horse, but her hands are wrapped so tightly around your waist.

Elusive and tortured after everything she’s been through, Hot Pants finds it ironic how the solace she craves has finally been given to her right in the middle of a race where she can die at any given moment.

She never thought about what she wanted if she were to make it out alive; she thinks it’s selfish to just want things… but inexplicably, viciously, she does dream of a life with you. A cottage in the woods where you’ll peacefully spend the rest of your days together. You sitting on her lap as she strokes your hair and kisses your forehead.

Until that day comes, Hot Pants will keep a close eye on you :) you’re so precious to her!

is the yuri doomed enough...

Yearns the Most

. ♬ ݁˖ Leone Abbachio . ♬ ݁˖

✰Nights spent alone were nothing new, but they’re extra empty without you there. As though the room grew around him, swelling in size, and leaving him the same.

✰ Anything that can remind him of you, it does; a waft of someone wearing the same perfume/cologne, a similar laugh, a film you discussed with him, a record he borrowed from you. It plagues him for the rest of the day, biting his tongue.

✰ What makes it all the more stronger is how much he denies it. A crush? Him? Now? Don’t be an idiot.

✰ He says that to himself, more than anyone else.

✰ The best thing he can do is follow orders. That’s all. Choices he makes always end poorly, fizzling, stomping out the fuse halfway through. He couldn’t inflict his own misery on you.

✰ But even harder is to leave you alone. Or chase you from his head, even with a full bottle of wine.

✰ Has dreams about you two that he could never bring to the light of day. Not only because some are…. Intimate, but he can’t break professionalism, if you’re in the gang.

✰ Attempts a polite, respectful distance. Stiff, but indistinguishable from how he treats anyone else besides Bruno.

✰ I think I put him in the “Gentleman/Bullies” square and I’m right. Leone pushes you, just a hair; quiet remarks about how you look, or how dumb something you did was, especially if you’re in the gang. It’s good natured even if it doesn’t sound so.

✰He really tries to push you away without being mean. Because he doesn’t want to be mean to you, not on purpose. But whether through Bruno’s insistent partnering, or his subliminal need to see his favorite civilian, he can’t help but be near you.

✰ Would rather die than confess to you.

✰ Instead, you continue to spend time together— listening to records, trying out different bars, watching movies— until either you confess, or the situation is so dire that he accidentally does it.

“For fuck’s sake, can you keep it together until I’m gone? Can you not fucking die for me, please? …. please.”

✰ He both can’t stand to be around you, and doesn’t trust anyone else to protect you.

⋆⭒˚｡⋆✈︎ Narancia Ghirga ⋆⭒˚｡⋆✈︎

✰ I’d classify this more as just straight puppy love. He’s not subtle about it either.

✰ Is absolutely the type to get caught staring. Whereas Abbachio has it timed to the letter, you’ll turn to the sight of warm violet eyes wistfully looking your way. When he blinks, he turns bright red, babbles about how he was looking past your shoulder at some… honeysuckle! That’s right!

✰ He hears a soft love song on a radio that he passes, and when your face surfaces in his mind, he has to force himself not to kick it.

✰ Fugo is in hell, trying to get him to concentrate if you’re in the room. He picks up on it immediately and sighs, asking if you can leave. Confused, but not bothered, you nod and leave and Fugo stares Narancia dead in the eyes.

“Ask them out before you fall behind further, idiot.”

✰ But he can’t. It’s not a shyness thing, necessarily.

✰ Because he’ll offer to hold your hand, share food, or ask a question when Fugo couldn’t explain something in a way he’d understand. No, no, it’s not that.

✰ He always rushes headlong into things without thinking. He’s gullible. Narancia doesn’t think you’re going to hurt him, per se— he thinks that you don’t think as much of him as you say, or imply.

✰ His past haunts him. As much as he wants to dive in, he doesn’t want to be wrong. Reassure him.

“Hey! Do you want to uh, go to the movies this weekend? Yeah I know we do anyway, but I was kind of hoping we could do it a little… differently? Not weird!”

ପ(๑•ᴗ•๑)ଓ ♡ Guido Mista ପ(๑•ᴗ•๑)ଓ ♡

✰ The ONLY reason he is below Narancia is because I see him as more likely to confess to you. But otherwise, he’s just as lovestruck.

✰ Mista is a canon flirt, he’s teasing. It’s all jokes for him until it isn’t. When it comes to you…. It REALLY isn’t, but he can’t let you know.

✰ You may notice he actually flirts a little less. And definitely tones it down with others, because he’d set himself up for a real issue if you thought he was interested in another.

✰ Also picks up on things that remind him of you, but as he’s less emotionally constipated than Abba, he actually mentions it to you. If only he knew how good of a flirting tactic that was, and he stopped pulling pickup lines from the internet.

✰ He’s very fake-it-til-you-make it. Nervous wreck that he covers up with bravado and more cheesy jokes.

✰ The Pistols are little ticking time bombs that threaten to explode with his emotion around you. If you are a Stand user and can see them, Mista is corralling them frantically when Number Five clings to your thumb.

✰ He’s more respectful, I think. He’s still the same Mista, flirting, teasing, your best friend, your partner in crime, but… a little quieter.

✰ When you ask if something’s wrong, he lies, claiming the weather is getting to him. Even if it’s seventy degrees Fahrenheit and sunny.

✰ You give him a puzzled look, and he points out that the humidity is forty percent. FOUR-ZERO. Yep, definitely what’s bothering him.

✰ It would be easier if you confessed to him. Way easier. But he also doesn’t think it’s right— he’s the one with the damn crush, so he has to act on it. (Unless you ask him out first. I stand by in my first post w him that if you turned the tables, he would be very receptive.)

“I wanted to talk with ya. It’s not serious, but kind of is…. Ah hell, you’ve got me all twisted up.”

ৡ Pannacotta Fugo ৡ

✰ We’re getting towards those who would be more straightforward, but I still think Fugo crushes from a distance for a sizable period.

✰ He’s polite, maybe a little more attentive. Patient. He’s never been that type, and yet, when you spill a tiny bit of tea on him or drop a book of his, he finds himself counting to ten as opposed to throwing a chair.

✰ He doesn’t flirt, not like Mista, but he does attempt to hold more conversations with you. Invites you to read, or do something similar with him— something with minimal talking where he can catch glimpses of your face.

✰ Fugo would remember the smallest things about you, and they would pop up in the most inopportune way.

✰ He really needs to get to this meeting, but on the way is that patisserie you like— they aren’t even sold out of your favorite, but if he gets one for you, he has to get one for everyone unless he wants it to look suspicious.

✰ Apologizes to Bucciarati for being late, but the black haired man merely thanks him for the treat when he notices Fugo giving you yours first.

✰ Heart of gold, mind made of glass. The tiniest fractures strain and stress him, and trying to keep his feelings under control is cracking him.

✰ What keeps him from confessing is a fear that he will hurt you. That one day, he won’t be able to be patient.

✰ But, as he listens to you accidentally tell the same story for the third time, he lays his hand on yours, just barely letting his fingers brush against your own. And there’s no irritation creeping up on him. He feels… confident. Calm. Did you do that?

“I’m sorry if I’ve been acting strange, but there’s been something on my mind. Can I tell you?”

˚₊‧ʚ🐞ɞ‧₊˚ Giorno Giovanna ˚₊‧ʚ🐞ɞ‧₊˚

✰ King of restraint, though it would be remiss to attribute that solely to his dedication to his goals. It’s also because he’s fairly confident when he pursues you already, that he doesn’t need to worry.

✰ He’s even more delicate than Fugo, and flirts by means of using his Stand more than the others. You need a snack? He’s turned the traffic bollard into an apple tree. They’re ripe, look. You forgot flowers for meeting with an important member of Passione? You actually didn’t, he’s swiped the silverware from a nearby table, and now you’re only missing a ribbon to tie the blooms together. Or, he makes them for you, tucking one behind your ear with the barest touch.

✰ He does have Dio’s charmer genes in him, and he can’t help it.

✰ In his room, alone at night, and his mind drifts to you, there’s a tug in his chest. Lamplight flickers golden, highlighting the patterns in the wallpaper. But he doesn’t chase the feeling away. Rather, he takes matters into his own hands: he calls you, and asks if you would like to talk with him.

✰ Or even better, if you’d like to sneak out to a shop with him.

✰ Pays extra extra attention when you talk, uplifting your ideas and crediting you when he elaborates upon them. He wants you to know how high of a regard he views you with.

✰ He knows he can’t withhold his feelings from you. Because it will distract him, and it will surely leak to you in some manner, if his flirting wasn’t obvious.

✰ Though, if you’re oblivious, it’s a bit endearing to him.

✰ You walk together, going home from a middle of the night excursion, and spot a jazz club open late; dim lights twinkle on vines that curl and take bloom as you watch in awe. Soft music plays. He takes your hand in his, entwining the fingers.

“Could we stop in for a moment, before we go home? I want to talk with you.”

.⋆♱⃓ Bruno Bucciarati .⋆♱⃓

✰ This low, again, not because I don’t think he yearns; it’s because he’s so in touch with his emotions he won’t let his crush go on for longer than he needs to confirm your interest or lack thereof.

✰ He would have some hangups if you were part of the gang. Largely for professional purposes.

✰ If the others believed you received special treatment because he liked you, it could isolate you and embitter them. For this reason, he does share his feelings with Abbachio, who sighs.

“If you actually did, I’d be pissed off. But you should give yourself more credit, Bucciarati— you know how to separate work from pleasure.”

✰ And he does. But it’s hard to not want to treat you gently, especially if you do the same for him.

✰ He’s also a conversationalist, and an incredible listener. It’s a show of his adoration to take time out of his busy day to sit and chat with you, or just let you share stories.

✰Bruno just hopes that you don’t pick up on the way his happiness leaks into his expression, soft eyes, the curl of a smile ever present when you’re near.

✰ He WILL remember almost everything you tell him, and brings it up later— not just preferences of your own, but anything important to you. “You mentioned a friend’s birthday soon, didn’t you? If I recall, they liked this brand. Let’s stop in to pick up something for them.”

✰ The flirtiest he gets may be a flower and note on the table for you, thanking you for a mission gone well, or for always treating him kindly when you see him.

✰ But it’s rare. He doesn’t want to be overbearing, just a steady, confident part in your life, if you’d let him.

✰ He’s terrified of someone using you against him, especially if you don’t have a Stand. Ultimately, he’s already involved himself too much, however— by the time that he sees your eyes sparkle when you see him, it’s far, far too late for him. And he must be honest with you, and himself.

✰ Steeling his nerves, he picks up his phone, and taps his foot.

“Ah, Y/N? I apologize for the late notice, but I was curious if you had plans for dinner this evening. If not, I’d like to take you somewhere.”

Gyro was right when he told you about the beauty of his country. Crystal clear water, nice rock beaches, tasty food and good wine. The first day he made sure both of you were well fed and clean before showing you your big room right in front of his.

"Would you let me see your wounds now, please?" Gyro said, an obvious worry tone in his voice as you opened your window to let a nice breeze in.

"I'm fine, Gyro, I was able to clean them myself earlier today."

He didn't buy it. Gosh, he knew you, he knows you definitely can't reach certain places in your back and he saw you sleeping in your stomach, wincing from the pain every time you leaned your back onto something.

"I know you're tough, but those burns aren't going to heal right if you keep pretending everything's okay." He crossed his arms over his chest, leaning into your doorframe.

Your heart skipped a beat at the way he said it, soft but firm, you knew he wasn't going to back down. Both of you have been dancing a dance filled with unsaid things, laughs too loud, touches too lingering, moments too quiet. You weren't ready to talk about any of that. Neither was he, you figured.

"Fine," you muttered, your voice quieter than you meant it to be. You walked over to the edge of the big bed in your room and sat down, the mattress dipping under your weight. Your fingers trembled just a little as you grabbed the hem of your shirt. "But don't make it weird, okay?"

Gyro nodded, stepping closer without a word. He pulled up a chair from the corner and set it right behind you, close enough that you could feel the warmth coming off him. You took a deep breath and pulled your shirt up and over your head, letting it drop to the side.

The cool air hit your skin, making the scars and burns tingle. You felt exposed, your cheeks heating up as you wondered if his eyes would wander. But Gyro didn't. Not once. His gaze stayed locked on your back, serious and focused like the doctor he was.

"Alright, easy now," he said gently, his voice soothing as he leaned in. You heard him rummage through the small bag he'd brought, pulling out clean cloths and some ointment that smelled like herbs. "This might sting a bit at first, but I'll go slow. Tell me if it's too much."

His fingers brushed your shoulder first, light as a feather, just to steady you. Then he started cleaning the wounds, wiping away any lingering dirt with warm water from a basin he'd prepared. Every touch was careful, he was afraid of hurting you more than you already were.

"It's healing better than I thought. You're stronger than you give yourself credit for," he whispered, his breath against your neck. "Don't forget to breathe."

You bit your lip, trying not to wince as he dabbed at a particularly bad burn near your spine. The pain was there, sharp but fading under his hands. What hit you harder was how close he was, the way his voice wrapped around you like a promise. You wanted to turn around, to see if his eyes held the same storm you felt inside, but you stayed still. He did too, never letting his hands stray, never making you feel like anything but someone he cared about protecting.

You twitched when his hand drifted to your waist, fingers barely touching it. "Did I hurt you?" he asked immediately, lifting both of his hands from your skin.

You shook your head. "No. It tickled."

You looked over your shoulder at him, both of your huffing a laugh.

"There," Gyro murmured after what felt like forever, smoothing the last bit of ointment over your skin. "All done for now. You should rest like this a bit, let it breathe. I'll check again in the morning if you want."

He pulled back slowly, you could hear him gathering his things. When you glanced over your shoulder, his cheeks were a little flushed, but he met your eyes with that half-smile of his.

You watched as Gyro started to stand up, his chair scraping softly against the wooden floor. Your heart pounded in your chest, louder than the waves outside the window. Before you could stop yourself, you called out, your voice barely above a whisper. "Gyro… wait. Don't go yet."

He froze mid-step, turning back to you immediately. "Yeah?"

You stayed sitting there on the bed, shirt still off, arms wrapped loosely around your front to cover yourself a little. The scars on your back throbbed faintly under the ointment, but it wasn't the pain that made your throat tight.

You swallowed hard, staring down at the floor instead of meeting his gaze. "Do you… do you think someone could still love me after this? I mean, look at me. These ugly scars and burns are not going away. Who would want someone covered in all this mess?"

The words hung there, you hadn't planned to say them out loud, but they spilled out anyway, born from the fear that had been building since the attack. You felt so exposed, not just your skin but your heart too.

Gyro's breath caught in his throat. In his mind, he couldn't believe what he was hearing. The strongest woman he's ever met, one of the few people who survived the hell you went through, you were thinking that of yourself? Everything you do feels like a miracle to him, your strength and they way you smiled through pain... it had all piled up inside him until he thought he might burst from it. He craved you, scars and all, more than he had ever wanted anything

He stepped closer again, dropping back into the chair behind you. His hand hovered for a second before gently resting on your uninjured shoulder.

"Don't talk about yourself like that," he said softly, his voice rough with emotion he was trying to hold back. "Those marks? They're proof of how strong you are. How you kept going when most people would've given up. Anyone who can't see that doesn't deserve you anyway."

He paused, his thumb brushing a tiny circle on your skin without thinking. "And… yeah. Of course someone could love you. Someone already does, maybe."

The words slipped out quieter than he meant, heavy with everything unsaid. He didn't push further, didn't turn you around to face him, but he stayed right there, close enough that you could lean back into him if you wanted.

a/n: i love making gyro a victim of yearning. and this was mildly inspired by the scene between roy and riza of fmab when she shows him the marks on her back

sillay 😿😿

spent like 3-4 hours on her !! i need to lock in more im sure y'all're hungry.. im procrastinating so hard on my work i finished something in a few hours im done 🙏🙏💔