As I've Written

I do not write for part 8 and 9 because I have yet to read them </3 I'm so sorry

atleast for now i only write for jojos!!! i write for all the parts but it seems many liked my writing when it comes to part7 (i am truly honored i love you guys so much) I am willing to write for any character unless its these following characters: Cioccolata, Polpo, funny valentine (cant think of any anymore)ദ്ദി(˵ •̀ ᴗ - ˵ ) ✧

I will write for mental health and even physical as long as it's not too much gore or graphic because my anxiety can't handle that

If it's an extremely heavy topic like suicide I will not be writing it

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i will NOT write smut or anything too suggestive when it comes to ESPECIALLY minor characters

when it comes to the adults i will mostly go with something suggestive but i won’t be writing smut (virgin ass)

anything offensive like racism/homophopia/misogyny/anything hateful towards a religion or a culture will be ignored and deleted. As well as things leading to suicide I would most likely ignore and delete

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masterlist!₍₍⚞(˶˃ ꒳ ˂˶)⚟⁾⁾

Steel Ball Run

Artist reader drawing them!

unreadable handwriting

reader struggling with PMS

getting caught during an intimate moment

flirty reader!

sleepy reader

Gyro and Johnny with an optimistic reader

animal loving reader

child free reader

reader who’s from the future part2!

diego and gyro with a shy s/o

baby fever

when their horses like you more

reader ragebaiting them

Clumsy reader

Spy reader pt2!

Easily injured reader!!

Married headcanons!!

Selfless reader

Cuddles!!

Seeing platonic sibling!reader after a long time

Horse girl reader! part2 (side characters)!

Stand user holding a grudge on reader!

Reader with amnesia

unbothered reader

vampire reader

Main cast as pick mes

Reader with low pain tolerance

overwhelmed reader

Calm reader who snaps after they get hurt

reader with a stand that heals with a kiss

left handed reader

Gyro Zeppeli

reader meeting his father

reader insecure about their nose

Johnny Joestar

The Saint Keeps Nothing

Diego Brando

sensitive reader

pocoloco

The Luckiest Man (oblivious reader)

Golden Wind

jealous reader with the buccii gang

Giorno Giovanna

reader with bad audio processing (platonic)

Pannacotta Fugo

general hcs (male reader)

wingman mista!

Bruno Bucciarati

reader insecure about their nose

Guido Mista

reader insecure about their nose

Stardust Crusaders

Mohammed Avdol

x nurse reader

baby fever!

dad hcs!

Jean Pierre Polnareff

first kiss hcs!

Diamond Is Unbreakable

Josuke Higashikata

Diamonds and Dust (enemies to lovers)

reader insecure about their nose

Rohan Kishibe

unreadable pages (friends to lovers)

Jofoes

emotional reader

He doesn't move away. He complains, he scowls, and he tells you you're being inefficient, but he never actually steps out of your reach.

His pride won't let him admit that the casual, unconditional warmth of your hand on his arm is something his touch starved soul has craved for years.

As he gets used to you, his inner dinosaur/predator instincts completely twist how he views your love language. It stops being "annoying" and starts being a claim.

If you’re sitting together by the campfire and you slide your hand into his, his fingers will lock around yours with a sudden, possessive grip. It’s tight almost a little too tight as if he’s making sure you can’t pull away.

He starts letting you play with his hair, though he’ll pretend he’s just letting you do it because he’s too tired to stop you.

In reality, the sensation of your fingers tracing his scalp completely melts his hyper-vigilant defenses. He might even let out a low, vibration like hum that sounds suspiciously like a purr.

Once Diego realizes that your touch is his safe haven, he becomes incredibly greedy about it. However, because he has an image to maintain, the dynamic shifts depending on who is watching.

He remains the cold, ambitious Diego Brando. But if he's stressed or angry during the race, he’ll seek you out, grab your wrist, and just hold it for a silent minute to ground himself. A brief press of his thumb against your pulse point is his version of a full embrace.

All bets are off. He turns into a massive heavy, clingy lizard. If you’re resting, he will practically drape himself over you head in your lap, arms wrapped around your waist, completely pinning you down. If you try to move, his grip tightens and he’ll growl a sleepy "Stay still."

The best part is when you are the one who needs comfort, Diego doesn't really do "words of affirmation" he'd rather bite his tongue than give a cheesy speech. Instead, he translates his care into your language.

He’ll pull you against his chest, tucking your head under his chin, and use his strong calloused hands to rub steady circles into your back.

He’s a man who handles change with immediate suspicion, and his mind instantly tries to deduce the why behind it. Did you get it caught in something? Was there an accident?

When you sit down across from him, brushing a hand through the short boyish strands, he finally speaks up, his voice low and blunt.

"What happened to your hair? Did someone touch you?"

There’s a sharp defensive edge to his tone, a sudden tension in his shoulders like he’s ready to reach for his nails.

When you laugh and tell him you just wanted a change that it’s easier to manage out here in the dust the tension drains out of him, replaced by a slight, almost embarrassed frown.

He reaches out, his calloused fingers hesitating for a fraction of a second before gently brushing against the freshly cropped hair at the nape of your neck. His touch is surprisingly soft compared to his usual rough demeanor.

He runs his thumb along the clean edge of the cut, feeling the prickle of the short strands. A faint, rare smirk tugs at the corner of his lips.

"It makes you look meaner," he mutters, though there’s a genuine warmth in his eyes. "Less like someone a thief would try their luck with. I like it. Out here, looking sharp is better than looking delicate anyway."

For the rest of the night, you catch him looking over at you whenever he thinks you aren't paying attention, his gaze lingering on the sharp line of your new silhouette against the firelight.

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

Gyro Zeppeli.

The moment you step into view, his jaw drops so low you’d think his gold teeth were about to fall out. He lets out a dramatic gasp, clapping his hands to his cheeks, running around you in a full circle to inspect the damage or rather, the masterpiece from every single angle.

"What in the world?! Where did it all go?!" he bellows, though his eyes are sparkling with absolute excitement and amusement.

Once the initial shock wears off, Gyro is completely captivated. He can't keep his hands to himself.

He lunges forward, grinning from ear to ear, and immediately buries his fingers into the short, boyish layers, ruffling them up completely to see how much volume it has.

"Look at this! You look like a totally different person! It’s like a sleek little helmet," he laughs, teasing you, but his compliments are rapid fire and fiercely enthusiastic. He thinks it looks incredibly stylish, sharp, and bold exactly the kind of daring move he respects.

He’ll spend the next hour playing with it, trying to see if he can style it into ridiculous spikes or smooth it down, completely fascinated by how different the texture is.

Gyro will strut around, confidently declaring that you two look like the most striking, fashionable duo to ever cross the continent.

If you feel even a little self-conscious about losing your length, Gyro will cup your face in both of his hands, look you dead in the eye and give you a lecture about how badass you are

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

Diego Brando.

Diego isn’t the type to shower you with flowery compliments, but his reaction is perhaps the most telling because of how intently he watches you. When he sees the cut, he doesn't say anything immediately.

He just stops whatever he’s doing, his sharp eyes locking onto yours. He studies the way your jawline is now exposed, the way your neck is vulnerable but framed by the sharp lines of the hair.

He walks up to you, and stops inches from your space. He reaches out not to touch your hair, but to trace his thumb lightly along your jawline, his gaze roaming over your face with a new sense of intensity. "It’s... nice" he says eventually, a smirk playing on his lips. "It suits you."

For Diego, He finds the short hair alluring in a way that feels forbidden and sleek like a polished blade.

He won’t gush over it, but for the rest of the day, you’ll notice he’s staying closer to you than usual, his eyes following you with a possessive satisfied gleam. He thinks you look sharper, more capable, and frankly, he can’t take his eyes off you.

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

Hot Pants.

Hot Pants stops dead in her tracks, her usual stern, composed expression faltering into one of genuine bewilderment.

Because she spent so much of her life hiding her own identity and maintaining a specific appearance under her hood, seeing you make such a drastic, public choice with your hair feels profound to her.

She blinks, her eyes scanning the neat, short lines of the pixie cut, trying to reconcile this sharp, boyish version of you with the one she saw just hours ago.

"You... you cut it all off," she says softly, her voice carrying a mix of awe and a rare touch of vulnerability. She steps closer, her eyes tracing the way the short hair frames your face, making your features look incredibly defined and striking.

She reaches out, her hand stopping just short of your cheek before she allows herself to gently tuck a nonexistent strand behind your ear, her fingers brushing the closely cropped side instead.

A soft, incredibly rare smile touches her lips, smoothing away the usual tension in her face. "It's beautiful," she admits, her voice dropping to a gentle whisper meant only for you.

"You look so clean, so striking." Hot Pants appreciates the practicality of it, sure, but on a deeper level, she admires the sheer confidence it took for you to just lop it all off.

When you make a careless sarcastic joke about your new look just to brush it off, Johnny won't laugh. He won't look away either. He’ll look you dead in the eye his expression intense and entirely devoid of pity because he knows pity is a poison that makes you feel small.

He notices how you position yourself at the campfire, keeping your unmarred side toward the light, or how you touch your face when you think he’s sleeping.

It aches in a way he’ll never openly admit, seeing you carry the same internal weight he handles every single day.

He’ll wait until the two of you are completely alone, away from the horses and Gyro’s loud presence. Rolling his chair closer or dragging himself up onto the bedroll next to you, he’ll reach out.

His rough, calloused hands don't hesitate they deliberately find the edge of the fresh, tight scar tissue on your jaw. His touch isn't tentative, which is exactly what you need it’s firm and grounding.

"You think you're slick, huh? Acting like it doesn't bother you," he’ll mutter, his voice dropping to a low gritty rasp that shakes just a little with sheer honesty.

"Stop putting on a show for me. I don't give a damn about what the fire did to your skin. Look at me. I've been dragged through hell, paralyzed, and spit on, and so have you."

He took a deep breath before continuing "You survived... you're still breathing, and you're still the only person in this miserable world I give a shit about. If you're terrified, look at me and be terrified. But don't you ever think you're anything less than incredible to look at. I'm not going anywhere."

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

Gyro Zeppeli.

Gyro handles a lot of things with humor, a flash of his golden teeth and a laugh, but when it comes to your safety, the facade drops instantly.

He saw the fire, he heard the fight, and he knows down to his bones how close he came to losing you out there in the dirt. When you swagger around the camp making light of the burns, he’ll cross his arms, lean against a crate, and give you a sharp, evaluating look.

He knows pride he knows you're acting tough so the rest of the world doesn't see you bleed internally. But it kills him that you feel you have to keep that defensive wall up when it’s just the two of you.

He understands the vanity of a handsome man, but he understands the soul of a doctor much better. To Gyro, those scars aren't a disfigurement.

Gyro will wait until nightfall, when the air turns freezing and he can reasonably corner you under the guise of applying soothing medicinal salves to your healing skin.

He’s surprisingly gentle for a man who hurls heavy steel balls for a living. As his fingers carefully smooth the cool ointment over the rough, raised texture of the burns, his usual smugness is completely gone replaced by an earnest heavy sincerity.

"Hey quit moving. Look at Gyro." He’ll gently tilt your chin up with two fingers, forcing your eyes to meet his.

"You don't gotta play the tough guy with me, alright? If you're mad about it, be mad. If you're scared I'm gonna wake up and find you ugly, then you're a total idiot."

Tears well up in your eyes as he continues "You fought like a demon and you walked out of the fire standing on your own two feet To me? That just means you've got the kind of grit most people could only dream of. I don't love you for pristine skin, I love you for you and you're stuck with me, scars and all, so stop trying to hide from my eyes."

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

Diego Brando.

He evaluates people based on their strength and their utility, and when you survived a fight that should have put you in the ground, you didn't drop in his estimation your value skyrocketed.

Though he notices the tiniest shifts in your behavior. He sees the subtle tension in your shoulders when he steps into your blind spot, and the way you subtly turn your face away when the midday sun hits you directly, despite the arrogant, sharp tongued comments you throw around to everyone else.

He knows exactly what it’s like to feel vulnerable and turn that vulnerability into venom or pride. He recognizes your nonchalance because it’s the exact same armor he wears every single day of his life.

Diego won't be overly soft or sentimental that's simply not his nature but his actions will be fiercely, overwhelmingly possessive. He will pull you directly into his personal space, crowding you against his chest until you have no choice but to face him.

His hands will lock onto your wrists or his clawed thumb will firmly trace the rough line of a scar on your cheek, his eyes slitting slightly with a raw, intense focus that burns right through your act.

"You're a fool if you think a few burns change a damn thing about how I look at you," he’ll hiss, his voice sharp but dripping with absolute certainty.

"The rest of the world is blind, but I see exactly what you are, You kept your life, you took their best shot, and you're still standing by my side. Do you think I care about flawless skin? I care about power, and I care about who walks through the fire with me. You're still mine, and you're still the prettiest, most dangerous thing in this desert. Don't let me catch you hiding your face from me again, or I'll make you look at me until it sticks."

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

Hot pants.

When she looks at your new burns, she doesn't see a flaw really all she sees is a bloody price of survival in a godforsaken country. She is incredibly perceptive, and she immediately notices how your confident bravado-filled tone doesn't match the sudden rigid stillness in your spine when she gets close to your injured side.

She knows you are terrified of being seen as broken ruined, or unattractive by the one person whose opinion actually holds weight in your life.

Hot Pants will use Cream Starter to spray over the rawest, most agonizing edges of the burns to ease your physical pain, but she will purposely leave your natural healing process intact where it counts, respecting the reality of your body's survival.

Her touch might seem clinical at first a classic defense mechanism to mask how deeply it affects her to see you hurt but it quickly softens. When the medicine is applied, she will step in close, gently pressing her forehead against yours to shut out the rest of the world.

"Stop pretending for the others, and stop pretending for me," she’ll whisper, her voice tight with a rare, suppressed emotion.

"You survived a horror that would have broken lesser people, and you did it because you are strong. These marks... they are not a shame. They are proof of your resolve to stay alive. I do not look at you and see ugliness.. I see the only person out here I trust with my life and my heart."

When you look right through him and walk out of the room, he laughs it off. He genuinely thinks you’re throwing a childish tantrum and that you’ll come crawling back when you need something.

It hits him a day later when he walks into the room, speaks directly to you, and you don't even blink. You pour your tea read your book, and pass right by him as if he’s a ghost.

This absolute lack of acknowledgment drives his ego into a wall. Dio craves your reaction. If you aren't acknowledging him, his power over you doesn't exist.

He will transition from smug superiority to quiet, simmering fury. He’ll block your path, lean down into your space, and hiss out demands for you to look at him.

If you still maintain eye contact with the wall behind him, you will see a rare flicker of genuine panic in his eyes before he resorts to angry, forced "favors" to buy his way back into your awareness.

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

Kars.

He can be incredibly condescending without even trying, treating your human emotions as trivial, fleeting things. If he offends you deeply with his casual disregard for your feelings, he won't understand it at first.

He expects you to adapt to him, not the other way around. If you want to sit in silence fine. He has centuries of patience.

But Kars is also intensely observant, and he quickly notices the shift. You aren't just quiet you have completely removed him from your routine.

You don't look at him when he enters the room. You don't answer his questions. If he reaches for something, you hand it over without looking at his face, as if reacting to a minor inconvenience rather than a person.

For a being who demands reverence and holds himself above all else, being treated like a piece of mundane furniture is a profound insult.

He will try to test your resolve using his sheer physical presence to loom over you, or subtly shifting things in your environment to force a reaction.

When that fails, his pride takes a massive hit. He won't apologize directly, but he will abruptly change his demeanor, bringing you rare items or silently sitting next to you, waiting for even a single glance to confirm he exists to you again.

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

Kira yoshikage.

Kira just wants a quiet life, but he also has a specific, rigid idea of how his domestic life should look. If he snaps at you because you disrupted his routine or didn't meet his exacting standards, he expects a quiet compliance afterward.

When you stop speaking to him, he initially thinks, “Perfect...Quiet.” He goes about his evening routine, making tea and reading the paper in absolute peace.

By day two, the peace becomes suffocating. Kira is a creature of hyper-awareness and paranoia. When you make breakfast only for yourself, clear your dishes, and leave his untouched without a single word or angry glance, his anxiety spikes. You aren't acknowledging his presence and his voice, or his movements.

The silence starts to feel like a threat. Kira thrives on predictability, and your complete emotional erasure of him is entirely unpredictable. He starts to wonder if you know something, or if you're planning to leave him.

He will try to restore order by overcompensating. He’ll meticulously clean the house, cook your favorite meal, and set it down in front of you, sitting across the table and watching your face with intense, wide eyed anxiety, waiting for you to say literally anything to break the tension.

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

Diavolo / Vinegar Doppio.

If Doppio is the one who said something hurtful likely during a stressed, chaotic moment and you give him the silent treatment, he completely falls apart.

He will follow you around like a devastated puppy, ringing his "phone" frantically to get your attention tearing up because he genuinely can't handle the thought that you've erased him. He will apologize a thousand times over until you finally look at him.

If the Boss is fronting and he dismisses you with cold, ruthless cruelty, your silence initially satisfies his need for isolation.

But Diavolo is deeply paranoid. When your silence turns into a complete lack of acknowledgment ignoring his commands, looking through his shadow he doesn't see a tantrum he sees a security risk. He thinks your lack of reaction means you are plotting against him or that you no longer fear him.

He will become intensely aggressive, cornering you with King Crimson active just to demand an answer. But if he realizes it’s purely because you are hurt and done with his attitude, a strange suffocating silence will settle over him. He doesn't know how to handle someone who simply decides he doesn't matter.

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

Enrico Pucci.

If he says something deeply insensitive perhaps prioritizing his grand vision or his devotion to DIO over your well-being he delivers it with a calm, righteous certainty.

You don't argue you don't get angry. You just look at him, close your book, and leave the room. He assumes you are meditating on his words.

He realizes his mistake when he tries to engage you in your usual theological or daily discussions. You don't even turn your head.

When he speaks, you don't acknowledge the sound. It's as if a heavy unbreakable vow of silence has been placed between you, but only for him.

Pucci counts prime numbers to calm his anxiety, and your silence will have him counting into the thousands. He relies heavily on a sense of moral and emotional order.

Being treated as if he is entirely absent from the world as if his presence carries no weight rattles his core. He will follow you into the courtyard, his composure slipping as he tries to reason with you, his voice losing its calm, priestly cadence and becoming strained.

He will eventually resort to sitting quietly near you holding his rosary, waiting for the heavy air to clear, deeply unsettled by the void you’ve created.

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

Diego Brando.

Diego is a feral creature at heart, used to fighting tooth and nail for every scrap of respect and attention he can get. If he snaps at you in a fit of bitter, defensive arrogance saying something sharp and venomous to protect his own pride he expects a fight. He wants you to yell back so he can justify his anger.

But you don't even look insulted. Your face just goes entirely blank, and you walk right past him like he’s a stranger on the street. Diego actually scoffs thinking you're just pathetic.

Then a few hours pass. He comes back into the room, tosses his coat down, and makes a sarcastic comment.

Nothing...You don't look up from what you're doing. He walks right into your line of sight, and your eyes literally adjust to focus on the object behind him.

This absolutely wrecks his internal wiring. Diego’s entire childhood was defined by being treated like dirt, like he didn't exist, like he was nothing to the world. Having the person he actually cares about treat him like a ghost triggers a raw, deeply buried insecurity.

He won't stay quiet for long. He’ll slam his hand down on the table right in front of you, his tail lashing if he’s leaning into his hybrid form, his golden eyes blown wide and furious.

"Stop it," he’ll hiss, his voice cracking slightly with a mix of rage and genuine panic. "Look at me. I'm right here. Say something, damn you!"

If you keep it up, you’ll see the sharp, dangerous predator melt away into something incredibly strained. He’ll grab your wrists not hard enough to hurt, but enough to force a physical connection and press his forehead against yours or drop his head into your lap, his claws digging lightly into your clothes

You look up with watery eyes. "Gyro... just sit. I don't want to talk about it yet."

"Fine, fine, I am a generous man." He swings his leg over and plops down with max flair, spreading his legs out and leaning back, completely making himself at home.

You deliver the line

“This bench is freshly painted…”

Gyro squints at you for two seconds. Then, the realization hits his brain. He springs up like a startled cat, screaming high-pitched He twists around to look at his backside.

There are bright, thick streaks of wet paint smeared directly across his leather chaps and the seat of his pants.

He starts hopping around in circles, trying to look at his own ass. "MY PANTS! DO YOU KNOW HOW MUCH THESE COST?! YOU FIEND! YOU DEMON!!"

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

Diego Brando.

Diego does care that his favorite person is looking pathetic, because it reflects poorly on him. He saunters over, hands in his pockets, looking down his nose at you.

"Why are you making that face? You look ridiculous... Did someone offend you? Tell me who it was so I can go ruin their life."

You pat the spot next to you, looking entirely hopeless. "Just sit please."

He scoffs, muttering about how needy you are, but he still sits down, crossing one leg over the other with an aristocratic arrogant posture.

“This bench is freshly painted…”

Diego’s eyes turn into literal reptile slits. He shifts, hearing the distinct, sticky shhhhhk sound of fabric pulling away from wet lacquer. He stands up immediately.

The back of his expensive, tight riding trousers is absolutely plastered in paint. his jaw drops, and he bares his teeth at you.

"You... you wretched creature! I am going to bite you! I am going to tear this bench to pieces and then I am going to throw the pieces at you! Don't laugh! STOP LAUGHING!"

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

Hot pants.

Hot Pants is originally just walking past, but she catches sight of you looking like your entire world has ended. She stops, sighs deeply under her breath, and walks over.

She keeps her arms crossed, looking down at you with a stern but genuinely concerned expression. "What is wrong with you? Get up out of the dirt, you look pitiful Has something happened?"

You look up at her, your lower lip trembling perfectly. "Hot Pants... can you just sit with me for a minute? I really don't want to be alone right now."

She hesitates. She glances around, clearly thinking she has better things to do, but your pathetic expression wins.

She sighs again, muttering a quick prayer under her breath for patience, and sits down right next to you, keeping her posture perfectly straight and dignified.

"This bench is freshly painted..." Your voice barely above a whisper

Hot Pants doesn't move. She doesn't scream. But you can physically see the exact moment her soul leaves her body.

She slowly turns her head to look at you, her face completely pale. She shifts her weight forward and hears that horrific sticky tacky peeeeel of wet paint tearing away from fabric.

Her hand immediately flies to her hip, grabbing the Cream Starter.

She points it directly at your face, her hand literally shaking with pure rage.

"I am going to spray flesh over your mouth so you can never speak another lie again," she whispers, her eyes wide and terrifyingly calm.

"Do you have any idea how hard it is to get pigment out of this fabric? In the middle of a desert?! Stand up. Stand up right now so I can wipe it off on your clothes."

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

Mountain Tim.

Tim handles this with the absolute utmost gentlemanly grace which makes the payoff so much funnier. He stops his horse, and walks over with a soft, sympathetic click of his tongue.

He takes off his cowboy hat, holding it against his chest as he looks down at you. "Now, what's got a pretty thing like you looking like the whole world just collapsed? Come on tell Tim."

You look away, holding back "tears." "Can you just sit down next to me for a minute?"

"Of course. Anything you need." He sits down adjusting his holster and leaning in close to offer a shoulder to cry on.

"This bench is freshly painted…”

Tim blinks... He just slowly stands back up, reaches around, and touches the back of his jeans. His fingers come away coated in bright wet paint.

He looks at his hand, looks at the bench, and then looks at you. He lets out a long, slow, defeated sigh, putting his hat back on his head and tilting the brim down to hide his face.

To make matters worse, Silver Bullet is completely out of commission for the day, currently resting by the paddock after a grueling run.

You let out a frustrated sigh, running a hand through your hair. You had your heart set on a quiet sunset ride but it looks like you're thoroughly grounded.

"If you keep glaring at that beast, it might actually start to fear you."

The smooth drawling voice makes you look up. Diego is leaning against the wooden fence, his arms crossed over his chest.

His piercing blue eyes track your frustration with a look that hovers somewhere between amusement and genuine curiosity.

"They won't budge," you complain, gesturing to your stubborn mount. "And Silver Bullet is resting. I just wanted a quick ride before it gets completely dark."

Diego doesn't answer right away. He looks at you, then at the vast open horizon, and lets out a soft, thoughtful hum.

Without a word, he steps away from the fence and walks a few paces into the open grass.

Suddenly a strange crackling energy shifts the air around him. Right before your eyes, his human form begins to distort and expand.

Deep, vibrant shades of cerulean and turquoise blue ripple across his skin, hardening into sleek, predatory scales. Rows of sharp, pale spikes erupt along the crest of his head and down his spine. Within seconds, the brilliant, terrifying form of Scary Monsters stands before you.

The massive dinosaur shakes his head, a low, rumbling vibration rattling through his chest. But instead of the wild, aggressive predator he usually is in battle, his movements are deliberate and surprisingly calm.

He steps closer, lowering his massive frame until his stomach nearly brushes the grass. He tilts his large head, flashing a glance at his broad, scaled back, and then looks at you.

It's a silent invitation.

You blink in surprise. "Diego? Are you sure?"

He responds with a soft, guttural chuff, nudging your shoulder gently with the blunt side of his snout.

Laughing softly at the sheer absurdity and thrill of the moment, you step forward. Without the stirrups of a saddle climbing up is a bit of a scramble, but Diego remains completely motionless, bracing his weight so you don't slip. You settle onto the sturdy dip of his back, right behind his shoulders, hooking your legs comfortably.

The moment you're secure, Diego rises. The shift in height is incredible you’re sitting much higher than you ever would on a horse.

He takes a tentative, testing step, ensuring your balance is locked in and then he breaks into a slow, easy trot across the open field.

The ride is surprisingly smooth. Unlike the rhythmic bouncing of a horse, Diego’s movements are a fluid powerful glide. The wind catches your face, carrying the scent of wild grass and evening dew, and a massive grin spreads across your face.

As the initial rush of the speed settles into a comfortable steady pace you find your attention drifting down to the creature beneath you. It’s rare that you get to see him like this up close without the chaos of a fight or the threat of danger.

Slowly, hesitantly, you reach a hand out. You gently press your palm against the side of his neck. The scales are warm from the sun, surprisingly sleek and fitted together like a perfectly designed suit of armor.

Sensing your touch, Diego’s pace slows even further, dropping into a gentle walk so you can relax.

You trace the beautiful, shifting gradients of his skin deep midnight blues blending seamlessly into bright striking turquoise. Your fingers trail upward, brushing against the base of the spikes lining his head.

They look menacing, but as your fingertips lightly graze the smooth, calcified ridges, Diego lets out a low, vibrating purr that rumbles right through your seat. His eyes half-close in contentment.

"You're actually really beautiful like this," you murmur, leaning down slightly.

Diego’s large, reptilian ears twitch. He doesn't look back, but his long, powerful tail begins to sway in a slow, rhythmic arc behind him.

Your eyes follow the movement, catching the bold, stylized letters of his name patterned perfectly across the swaying muscle. It’s such a bizarre uniquely him feature that you can't help but chuckle softly.

Emboldened by how docile he is, you slide your hand down toward his shoulder, marveling at the sheer density of his muscle structure.

You look down at his front limbs, watching his formidable, razor-sharp claws flex slightly as they grip the turf with every step. They look capable of tearing through iron, yet right now, he's carrying you as if you were made of glass.

Diego stops walking entirely, turning his massive head around to look at you. His slitted, golden eyes are soft, lacking any of their usual sharp edge.

You offer him a warm smile, sliding your hand up to gently stroke the side of his snout, avoiding the sharp rows of teeth peeking from his jawline. He leans his heavy head into your palm, a soft exhale of warm air escaping his nostrils.

He rolls a little closer, his dark eyes wide under his knit cap, genuinely trying to figure out if you fell out of bed mid-sleep and just gave up halfway through.

"Hey," he whispers, his voice deadpan but laced with genuine concern. "Are you alive? Please tell me you didn't break your neck."

He waits a moment. You let out a soft, upside-down puff of air. Johnny sighs, a deep weary sound that carries the weight of the entire cross country race.

He rests his elbows on the armrests of his chair, props his chin in his hands, and just watches you. The sheer absurdity of it begins to irritate him in that petty Johnny way.

The blood is clearly rushing to your head your face is a little flushed, and your arms are just limply hanging toward the floor like a pair of dropped ropes. Johnny reaches out and lightly tugs a strand of your hair just to see if gravity is the only thing keeping you tethered to the earth.

When you wake up You blink, your vision entirely inverted, and the first thing you see is Johnny’s upside-down face staring at you from his chair, looking incredibly judgmental.

He doesn't even say good morning. He just lets out a slow breath and says, "If I had your spine, I would respect it. I would treat it with dignity.. Do you need me to pull you back up?"

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

Gyro Zeppeli.

He freezes. His hand stays glued to the doorframe, his golden teeth flashing as his mouth falls slightly open. He takes a slow, exaggerated step forward, the spurs on his boots clinking softly

"What in the name of the Saint...?" he whispers, tilting his head so far to the side his hair brushes his shoulder.

He circles the bed like a hawk. Gyro is a man of anatomy, he knows muscles, he knows exactly where tension hides in the human body.

And looking at you right now is giving him a migraine. He reaches out, hesitantly hovering a hand over your knee, before gently poking it with the tip of his finger. You just let out a soft, whistling breath and dig your face deeper into your knees.

Gyro throws his hands up in utter bewilderment. He can’t comprehend how your lower back isn't screaming. He leaves the room, only to return two minutes later with a ridiculous assortment of pillows he scavenged.

He begins carefully wedging them into the gaps of your folded body one under your lower back, one between your ankles, and a rolled up blanket under your neck treating you like a fragile piece of cargo he needs to pack for a long carriage ride.

When you finally wake up, you’re met with his face just inches from yours, squinting through his green-tinted goggles. "Oh, the creature stirs," he scoffs, though there's a fond grin hiding under his mustache.

"Listen to me carefully. If you try to stand up right now, your spine is going to snap like dry kindling. Unfold yourself in stages. I’m making coffee."

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

Diego Brando.

he is no stranger to contorting his body, crouching on all fours, or balancing on narrow ledges. He knows weird positions. But those positions always serve a purpose hunting, stalking, or staying low to the ground.

You’re asleep on your stomach, but your hips are twisted at a violent 90-degree angle, one leg is hooked over the top of the headboard, and your arms are tucked underneath your chest like a resting hen.

Diego steps into the room soundlessly, his boots making no noise on the floor. He stops, his sharp eyes narrowing as he tracks the bizarre silhouette you’re making under the blankets.

He walks over to the side of the bed, leaning over you with his hands resting on his knees, his face mere inches from yours. He’s sniffing the air slightly, his inner dinosaur trying to decode if this is a display of dominance, a mating ritual, or if you’ve just completely lost your mind.

"What a ridiculous creature," he murmurs, though there’s a distinct undertone of fascination in his voice.

He extends a hand, his fingers tracing the sharp angle of your hip where it’s twisted. Diego doesn't find it concerning he finds it amusingly stupid. If he's in a particularly cat like, territorial mood, he decides that since you’ve taken up the bed in the most inefficient way possible, he will simply optimize the remaining space.

Without waking you, he carefully climbs onto the bed, shifting his weight until he can lie down directly in the empty curve of your twisted waist. He molds his body to your awkward angles, completely unbothered by the lack of space, effectively trapping you in your own self-made trap.

When you wake up You try to untangle your leg from the headboard, only to realize you can't move because Diego has completely pinned your torso down. He’s propped up on one elbow, looking down at you with a smug, razor-sharp smirk, his tail lazily thumping against the mattress under the covers

"Oh, are you waking up? Pity. I was just getting used to the leverage your ribcage was providing. Next time, if you're going to twist yourself into a knot, at least leave room for my coat."

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

Hot Pants.

She sleeps like a soldier back straight, hands crossed over her chest, ready to leap into action at the slightest sound.

You are face down on the bed, but your hips are twisted at a ninety-degree angle. One of your legs is hiked up so high your knee is practically touching your armpit, and your arms are tucked underneath your stomach like a squashed bird. To Hot Pants, you don't look asleep you look like the victim of a horse-trampling accident.

She stops a few feet from the bed, her pink cowl shadowing her face as her eyes go wide. She doesn't say a word at first.

She just stares, her hand instinctively resting on the hip where she keeps her Stand, genuinely wondering if an enemy Stand user attacked you in the night and twisted your limbs to torture you.

"What... what did you do to yourself?" she whispers, her voice a mix of profound horror and deep irritation.

She approaches the bed with stiff cautious steps. She bends down, peering closely at your face to check if you’re Grimacing in pain.

Nope, you’re drooling slightly onto the sheet, snoring softly, looking completely at peace while your lower vertebrae are crying out for mercy.

Hot Pants pinches the bridge of her nose, letting out a long heavy sigh. she cannot leave you like this. If you wake up with a pinched nerve or a throwing out back, you’re going to slow down the journey, and she doesn't have time for that.

She reaches out, her strong, calloused hands gripping your hiked up ankle. "Get up," she grumbles, though she doesn't actually shake you hard enough to wake you.

Instead, she tries to manually rearrange you like a mannequin. She pulls your leg down to straighten it, but as soon as she lets go, your body naturally springs right back into its weird pretzel shape.

She tries again, this time trying to roll your hips back into alignment. You let out a disgruntled, sleepy whine and swat weakly at her hand, digging your face deeper into the mattress.

Hot Pants completely loses her patience. She steps back, crossing her arms tightly over her chest, glaring down at you as if your lack of posture is a personal insult to her and the Vatican.

"Fine..Ruin your spine," she snaps under her breath, though her voice is hushed so she doesn't actually shock you awake.

"When we have to ride for ten hours tomorrow and you can't even sit in your saddle without weeping, do not look to me for sympathy."

Despite her harsh words, she doesn't leave. She storms over to the window, pulling the curtains shut so the morning sun won't hit your face, and sits in a nearby chair.

She pulls out her gear to clean it, but every few minutes, her eyes flick back over to your tangled body, her mouth twitching in sheer bafflement.

When you finally wake up hours later, groaning and clutching your stiff neck, you find her sitting across from you, looking entirely unamused.