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

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.

Johnny won't give you toxic positivity. If you're having a terrible, high pain day during Stage 3 or 4, he’ll just look at you with those intense, empathetic eyes and say, "I know it sucks. Don't force a smile for me."

He is incredibly observant of how you sit in the saddle. If he notices you shifting your weight to one side to compensate for the curve, he’ll call a halt. He’ll help you adjust your stirrups or suggest a different padding arrangement for your saddle.

There’s a quiet comfort in camp at night. While Gyro is goofing off, you and Johnny are usually the ones sitting by the fire, leaning against crates, just sharing a silent understanding of what it means to keep pushing forward when your bones are screaming at you.

After a grueling, bumpy trek through the wilderness, the moment you finally dismount, your lower back completely locks up, forcing a sharp gasp from your lips.

Before you can even reach for a tree to steady yourself, Johnny has wheeled his chair over, caught your hand, and gently pulled you down to sit right on the grass next to him.

He doesn't say a word, but his thumb begins tracing soothing rhythmic circles across the back of your knuckles, grounding you through the throb.

Lean your head against his shoulder, and you'll feel him rest his cheek against your hair, letting his steady, quiet breathing act as an anchor until the worst of the spasm finally passes.

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

Gyro Zeppeli.

As a trained physician and a master of the Spin, Gyro’s approach is a mix of medical concern, bizarre anatomical theories, and genuine care. The moment you mention your scoliosis, his doctor brain flips on even if he tries to play it cool

Gyro will absolutely try to use the Spin to help you. He’ll apply a very gentle, localized vibration from a Steel Ball to the muscles surrounding your spine.

It won't cure the curve, but it will force the locked up, spasming muscles on your overcompensated side to completely release. It’s temporary relief, but it feels like a miracle after eight hours on a horse.

He becomes your self-appointed physical therapist. Every morning before mounting up, and every night before unrolling the sleeping bags, Gyro will make you do specific stretches. If you try to skip them because you're tired, he'll badger you until you comply. "Hey! Your spine is shaped like a river path! Do the twists or you'll be walking like a crab by Stage 6!"

Gyro will actively scout for the softest moss, the smoothest dirt, or extra blankets to pad your sleeping area. He’ll complain the whole time about you being "high maintenance," but he’ll hand you a perfectly cushioned spot regardless

The moment camp is set, Gyro practically drags you over to a plush pile of blankets he spent twenty minutes meticulously shaking out.

As you lie face down, he sits cross-legged beside you, his calloused but surprisingly warm hands gently finding the tight, aching muscles bunching up along your curve.

He starts kneading the tension away with a gentle, expert pressure, all while rambling in a soft, dramatic voice about a brand-new song, Between the deeply soothing heat of his hands and the ridiculous, muffled giggles he coaxes out of you, the heavy ache in your back melts into a warm, comfortable blur.

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

Diego Brando.

Diego’s initial reaction might seem a bit detached, as he's laser focused on winning, but as the stages progress and your endurance is tested, his respect for you skyrockets. He views survival and pushing through physical limitation as the ultimate sign of strength.

Diego isn't going to give you a massage or sentimental speeches, but his actions speak volumes. If he’s riding with you, he will subtly alter the pace.

If he notices your posture stiffening or your breathing getting shallow from pain, he’ll suddenly decide he wants to stop and check Silver Bullet’s hooves, giving you a chance to dismount and stretch without having to ask.

When you’re venting about your spine, Diego will just give a small, sharp smirk. "The straightest trees are the first ones cut down for lumber.. Let it ache, just make sure you use that spite to outride the rest of these fools."

If you two are close enough and the pain is genuinely blinding during a rough terrain segment (like the Rocky Mountains), Diego might use a minor application of his Stand abilities.

He can alter your perception of pain or temporarily harden the muscles along your back to act like a natural, rigid brace, giving you the physical stamina to get through the roughest miles of the stage.

Late at night, when the desert chill sets in and makes your spine feel extra stiff and brittle, Diego quietly migrates over to your side of the fire without a word.

He doesn't ask permission, he just sits directly behind you, pulling you back until your aching spine is resting flush against his chest.

Because of his hybrid nature, his body heat is practically radioactive, acting like a living, breathing heating pad wrapped entirely around you.

He rests his chin lazined on your shoulder, his strong arms looping loosely around your waist to anchor you against him, letting you completely slacken your muscles and drift off to sleep encased in absolute, golden warmth

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

Hot pants.

Hot Pants is someone who spends her entire life carrying a heavy weight, so the moment she notices you carrying a literal physical one in your spine, her maternal and spiritual instincts completely take over.

Hot Pants treats your chronic pain with absolute sanctity. When your back is acting up during Stages, she will quietly guide your horse away from the noise of the main pack.

She’ll sit you down on a log, stand behind you, and gently trace her fingers down your spine, She doesn't pity you instead, she speaks to you in a calm, grounding murmur, telling you how incredible it is that your body has adapted to carry you this far.

Cream Starter is an absolute godsend for your scoliosis. While it can't permanently alter your bone structure, Hot Pants uses it to create temporary, perfectly pressurized anatomical "splints" inside your muscle tissue.

If your lower back is spasming from a rough day in the saddle, she will spray a specialized layer over the overcompensated muscles. It acts like a living brace from the inside out, instantly taking the agonizing pressure off your spine.

On the trail, she keeps a strict eye on your posture. If she sees you slouching or leaning heavily to one side because of exhaustion, she will ride up right alongside you, match your horse's pace, and gently nudge your shoulder with her crop to remind you to sit up.

At night, she’s the one making sure you have the warmest spot near the fire, often trading her own bedroll accessories so your back doesn't have to stiffen up against the cold ground.

On a damp, freezing night when the chill makes your spine feel like brittle glass, Hot Pants notices you shivering and tightly curled into a ball, unable to find a comfortable position.

Without a word, she moves her bedroll right next to yours and pulls you back against her front, wrapping her arms securely around your waist.

She readies Cream Starter, letting a warm, soothing layer of spray settle over your lower back to lock in deep, therapeutic heat and mimic a tight, supportive embrace.

As the agonizing pressure finally melts off your curve, you let out a long, heavy sigh and slacken completely against her chest.

Johnny spends a lot of time just staring at you. He doesn’t know whether to respect you, fear you, or laugh at you.

When you direct that playful, teasing energy toward him, Johnny’s defense mechanisms go into overdrive.

He’ll pull his hat down and scowl, probably mutter something about you needing to focus on your job. But his ears will be bright red.

He deeply respects your strength. As someone who understands the weight of burden and determination, he sees the hidden sharpness behind your easygoing smiles. It makes him feel safe around you, even if he’d never admit it out loud.

Johnny becomes the ultimate straight man to your comedy. When you make a ridiculous joke in the middle of an important strategy meeting, Johnny will just sigh, rub his temples, and say, "Please tell me you have an actual plan, or if I need to start shooting." He secretly finds it incredibly endearing.

Even though you are a literal powerhouse who can command armies, Johnny is fiercely protective of your downtime.

If annoying officials or stress start dampening your cheerful spirit, he’s the first to shoot them a terrifying death glare to make them back off.

He loves the quiet moments when the "General" facade drops entirely. Just you resting your head on his lap while he adjusts his stirrups, sharing a rare genuine soft laugh

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

Gyro Zeppeli.

You want to slack off from your duties to invent a new, ridiculous hand-shake? Gyro is already practicing it. You want to tell a terrible joke? He’ll counter it with no hesitation

Gyro’s flirting is incredibly loud. He will absolutely use the Spin to do completely unnecessary, flashy tricks just to hear you laugh. He’ll strike dramatic poses on Valkyrie, flashing his teeth just for you.

Because you hold such a high, regal status, Gyro loves to playfully treat you like royalty but in a totally dramatic, theatrical way. He’ll bow deeply, kiss your hand, and call you "Your Excellency" with a massive, mischievous grin.

Gyro is so proud to be by your side. When you walk into a room looking majestic and commanding in your armor, he’s walking right next to you, chest puffed out, looking like the cat that got the cream.

The sheer amount of mischief you two get into is a nightmare for anyone administrative. You’re supposed to be reviewing battle tactics, but instead,

you and Gyro are using your divine foresight/tactical maps to plan a complex prank on Johnny.

For all his clowning around, Gyro has a massive heart and deep loyalty. He knows that being a General comes with immense pressure and a lot of ghosts.