As I've Written

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

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

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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

Reader gets a short hair cut!

Wet paint prank!

Reader with burn scars

Gyro Zeppeli

reader meeting his father

reader insecure about their nose

Gyjo with Hispanic reader

Gyjo with Hispanic reader

Johnny Joestar

The Saint Keeps Nothing

Diego Brando

sensitive reader

Reader with physical touch as a love language

Going on a ride with dino!Diego

pocoloco

The Luckiest Man (oblivious reader)

Golden Wind

jealous reader with the buccii gang

Their kid visiting them from the future (mom reader)

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)

Rohan Kishibe

reader insecure about their nose

Stroke of goodluck!

unreadable pages (friends to lovers)

Jofoes

emotional reader

Enemies x enemies

Giving them silent treatment

A wild pronghorn antelope, skittish and notoriously fast, had wandered near the camp. Anyone else would have startled it, but you stood perfectly still your posture small and unthreatening.

You extended a hand, palm up, humming a low, repetitive melody a traditional lullaby your grandmother used to sing to calm restless spirits.

Johnny watched completely transfixed as the wild animal hesitated twitched its ears, and then took three delicate steps forward to press its wet nose directly into your palm.

A soft, breathless laugh escaped your lips, your shoulders finally relaxing.

"You're a miracle worker, you know that?" Johnny’s voice was quiet, stripped of its usual sharp edge.

You startled slightly, stepping back as the antelope bounded away into the shadows. Your cheeks flushed a warm dusty pink

and you pulled your woven shawl tighter around your shoulders, looking down at your moccasins. "I just... I could feel how thirsty she was. The land is dry this week. She was just looking for a safe place."

Johnny rolled closer, his blue eyes softening in a way they rarely did for anyone else. He reached out, his calloused hand gently wrapping around your wrist to pull you down to sit beside him.

The weight of the Steel Ball Run race, the gruesome battles, and his own dark determination usually left him tense as a coiled spring. But the moment you sank against his side, your gentle, grounding presence washed over him.

"Sometimes I think you're too good for this place," he muttered, resting his chin on your head. He tangled his fingers in your dark hair, feeling the intricate beads woven near your temples. "The world out here is cruel. But when I’m with you... it’s like the noise just stops."

You leaned into his chest, listening to the steady beat of his heart. "Then I'll keep it quiet for you," you whispered, your voice barely louder than the desert breeze. "As long as you need."

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

Gyro Zeppeli.

"Look, look! I tell you, it’s a masterpiece!"

Gyro was practically vibrating with excitement, sitting cross-legged by the campfire with his acoustic guitar resting on his knee.

He had spent the last two hours trying to cheer you up after a rough encounter at the latest race checkpoint, where a group of rowdy trackers had gotten far too loud sending you retreating into the safety of the tent trembling.

You peeked out from under the canvas, your large, expressive eyes wide with a mix of curiosity and lingering anxiety.

"Come on out," Gyro coaxed, his gold teeth flashing in the firelight, his usual bombastic swagger dialing down into something incredibly tender. "I wrote a new song. Just for you. No pizza, no mozzarella. Pure artistic genius."

Slowly hesitatingly, you crept out and sat beside him on the blanket. You still looked tiny, your hands tucked into the sleeves of your tunic.

Gyro immediately shifted closer, his large frame acting as a physical shield between you and the open, dark expanse of the plains.

He cleared his throat dramatically and began to strum a surprisingly sweet, lilting melody. Then, he began to sing a ridiculous, improvised song about a brave Native girl and a brilliant, handsome executioner who conquered the desert together. His vocals were over-the-top, complete with dramatic winks and hand gestures.

A tiny involuntary giggle escaped your lips. Then another. Within seconds you were burying your face in your hands, your shoulders shaking with quiet melodic laughter.

Gyro stopped strumming, a look of profound satisfaction settling over his face. He reached over, gently pulling your hands away from your face so he could look at you.

"There she is. I was worried those idiots at the town completely broke your spirit." His thumb stroked your cheek bone, his expression turning fierce.

"If anyone ever makes you feel that small again, you tell me. I’ll show them exactly how a Zeppeli handles garbage. Understand?"

You nodded softly, placing your small hand over his. "Thank you, Gyro. For the song... and for keeping me safe."

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

Diego Brando.

The scent of copper and rain hung heavy in the air. Diego was crouched in the shadow of a rock formation, his body halfway caught between human and reptile.

Fangs jutted from his jaw, and long, striped raptor scales coated his forearms. His breathing was heavy, his golden eyes slitted and paranoid, scanning the dark for any threat. The race was driving him mad, and the beast inside him wanted nothing but to tear something apart.

Then he heard the soft pat-pat of your footsteps approaching.

Diego let out a low warning hiss, his tail lashing against the dirt. Anyone else would have run for their life. But you didn’t run.

You stopped a few paces away, your heart hammering against your ribs, but your love for him overrode your natural instinct to hide.

You took a deep breath, grounding yourself in the ancestral earth beneath your feet. You knelt in the dirt completely defenseless, and held out your hands.

"Diego," you murmured, your voice a soothing, velvety balm. "It's me. You're safe. The race is paused for the night. No one is coming."

The raptor-man froze. He stared at you, searching your face for any sign of deceit, but found only pure, unadulterated devotion and tenderness.

Slowly, the tension began to bleed out of his hyper-alert muscles. He crawled forward on all fours, low to the ground, until his snout was inches from your face.

You didn't flinch. Instead, you reached up and gently placed your palms against the cool, rough scales of his cheeks.

You began to stroke them softly, whispering sweet words in your native tongue words of comfort, calling him a protector a king of the land.

Diego let out a sound that was half-purr, half-sigh, collapsing his heavy head entirely into your lap. His long tail wrapped securely around your waist, pulling you flush against him. As the scales slowly receded, leaving his smooth, blonde hair behind, he gripped your waist tightly.

"You're the only thing in this godforsaken country that belongs to me," Diego growled softly into your stomach, his voice rough but fiercely possessive. "And I will tear the throat out of anyone who tries to take you away."

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

Hot pants.

The rain was relentless, turning the trail into a thick, treacherous mud. Hot Pants had managed to find a small, abandoned hunter's cabin for the two of you to seek shelter in.

Inside, she was a whirlwind of stoic efficiency building a fire, checking the supplies, her expression locked in its usual severe, guilt-ridden frown.

She was so wrapped up in her own head, carrying the crushing weight of her past sins, that she barely noticed she was shivering.

But you noticed.

You approached her quietly, carrying a thick, dry wool blanket you had kept protected in your pack. Hot Pants didn't hear you until you were right beside her, gently draping the warmth over her shoulders.

She flinched, her hand instinctively flying to the Cream Starter at her hip before she realized it was just you. Her gaze softened though her brow remained furrowed. "I'm fine. You should use this for yourself."

"You're freezing," you said, your voice barely a whisper, yet holding a rare, stubborn firmness. You reached out, your trembling fingers gently taking her hand.

Your skin was warm, a sharp contrast to her icy fingers. "Please Hot Pants. Let me take care of you for a moment. You always take care of everyone else."

Hot Pants stared at you, her throat suddenly tight. She looked at your gentle features, tracing the beautiful, rich tone of your skin and the deep empathy radiating from your eyes.

You didn't know the horrific details of her past, yet you looked at her as if she were someone worthy of grace. Worthy of tenderness.

Slowly, the rigid posture she held like armor crumbled. She allowed you to guide her down to sit by the fire.

She didn't say a word, but as you sat beside her, she reached out and pulled you into the blanket with her, burying her face into the crook of your neck.

Your hands found her hair, gently untangling the damp strands. You didn't press her to speak. You just held her, offering her a sanctuary of absolute peace in a world that had given her none.

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

Mountain Tim.

The wind howling through the canyons was fierce, kicking up dust storms that made it impossible to see three feet ahead.

Mountain Tim had guided your horses into a narrow cavern, shielding you both from the worst of the gale.

Even inside, the howling wind and the cracking thunder outside had you completely on edge. You were huddled in the corner, your knees pulled to your chest, your hands trembling as you tried to block out the noise. Your anxiety was taking over, making your breathing shallow and panicked.

Tim noticed immediately. He didn't make a fuss, nor did he loud-talk you out of it. He simply tipped his cowboy hat back walked over and knelt down so he was at your eye level.

"Hey there, darlin'," he said, his voice a deep, slow, molasses-thick drawl that instantly cut through the panic in your brain. "Look at me. Just focus on my voice."

You lifted your head, your tear-brimming eyes meeting his steady, sky-blue ones.

Tim took off his heavy leather coat and wrapped it securely around your shoulders. It smelled of tobacco, leather, and rain a scent that had quickly become your ultimate comfort.

He then took your small, shaking hands into his large, calloused mitts, rubbing them gently to bring the warmth back.

"The storm's just the sky clearing its throat," Tim murmured, smiling softly, his mustache twitching.

"It's got a lot to say, but it can't touch you in here. I've spent twenty years tracking these canyons, and I know this rock is as sturdy as they come. And as long as I'm standing here, nothing is gettin' through that entrance."

He shifted so he was sitting right next to you, letting you lean your head against his broad shoulder. He began to tell you a slow meandering story about a comedy of errors during one of his old bounty hunts, his voice rhythmic and calming.

With every word he spoke, your heart rate slowed, your breathing matching the steady rise and fall of his chest.

You walked up to him, hands tucked behind your back, shifting your weight from side to side. "Hey, Johnny?"

He didn’t look up immediately, gently patting Slow Dancer’s leg before finally glancing at you, blue eyes squinting against the glare. "Yeah? What's up?"

"I have a question," you started, giving him a soft, expectant look. "Can I pet?"

Johnny blinked, his expression instantly softening into something almost proud. He looked over at Slow Dancer, who let out a soft huff. "Oh. Yeah, sure. Just be gentle around her ears, she’s a bit finicky today because of the heat. Start with her muzzle so she knows you're-"

Before he could finish the sentence, you took a step forward, completely bypassing the massive appaloosa horse.

Instead, you reached out and placed your hand right on top of Johnny’s head, right over his star patterned cap, and gently ruffled his hair.

Johnny froze entirely, The words died in his throat. His hands, still holding a hoof pick, hovered in mid air.

He stared straight ahead at your midsection, his jaw slightly slack, trying to process the physical sensation of a hand petting his hair like he was a prize winning retriever.

"Uh" Johnny choked out, his face rapidly turning the color of a ripe tomato. He didn't pull away mostly because he was too stunned to move but his hands began to twitch awkwardly. "What... what are you doing?"

"Petting" you said simply, giving his hair one last affectionate stroke before pulling your hand back.

"I thought you meant the horse!" Johnny hissed, his voice cracking slightly as he pulled his cap down over his burning face, though his eyes were still glued to you in utter bewilderment.

"Why would you phrase it like that?! You can't just walk up to a guy and ask to pet him! My heart almost stopped!"

Slow Dancer let out a loud snort, almost as if she were laughing at him. Johnny glared at the horse, then back at you, muttering under his breath about "weird city folks" while secretly fixing his hair so it perfectly aligned with where your hand just was.

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

Diego Brando.

Diego was leaning against a wooden fence, watching Silver Bullet graze. He had an apple in his hand, slicing off small pieces with a pocketknife and flipping them into his mouth with practiced, lethal precision. He looked dangerous, sharp, and entirely unapproachable.

You approached him anyway. "Diego."

He shifted his gaze to you, his reptilian-blue eyes tracking your movement coldly. "What?"

"Can I pet?"

Diego’s eyes flicked over to Silver Bullet, then back to you. A smug arrogant smirk tugged at the corner of his lips.

He figured you were just another person captivated by his equestrian prowess, trying to get close to his world.

"Fine" he sneered softly, slipping his knife away. "But keep it brief. Silver Bullet doesn't tolerate clumsy hands, and frankly, neither do I Don't make any sudden movements or he'll-"

You took a decisive step forward, reached up, and patted Diego right on his blue jockey cap.

When he didn't immediately strike you down, you slid your hand down slightly to scratch the back of his neck, right at the hairline.

Diego froze. The smug smirk vanished instantly. A low, involuntary sound almost like a sharp intake of breath, or a very faint, reptilian hiss escaped his throat.

His entire body went rigid, his pupils shrinking into tiny slits as his demeanor completely shattered into pure, unadulterated shock.

"What the hell do you think you're doing?" Diego growled, though the threat was completely ruined by the fact that he hadn't pulled away, his body seemingly paralyzed by the sheer audacity of the action.

"I asked if I could pet," you reminded him gently.

Diego’s face flushed a sharp, angry crimson. He finally snapped out of it, swatting your hand away, though his grip on your wrist was surprisingly careful.

"I thought you meant the horse, you idiot!" he hissed, his teeth bared in a defensive, embarrassed snarl. "You don't just... handle me like an animal! I am Diego Brando! I am not a-"

He broke off, looking away quickly as he wiped the back of his neck where your hand had just been, his chest heaving slightly.

He muttered something furious under his breath about "disrespectful peasants" but for the rest of the day, his eyes kept darting back to your hands wondering if you were going to try it again.

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

Hot pants.

The campsite was quiet, save for the crackle of the dying fire. Hot Pants was seated on a log, meticulously cleaning her tack and checking the straps on her saddle.

She was as always a picture of intense focus rigid posture, sharp eyes, and an aura that practically screamed leave me alone.

You, however, ignored the warning signs and walked right up to her. "Hey, Hot Pants?"

She didn't stop wiping down the leather, only giving you a cool, sidelong glance from beneath her pink hood.

"If you're looking for Johnny or Gyro, they went to scout ahead. If you need something else, make it quick."

"Actually, I wanted to ask you something," you said, stepping a little closer. "Can I pet?"

Hot Pants paused her cloth. She looked over at her horse, resting quietly a few feet away, then back at you

A faint, almost imperceptible softening touched her features, replaced quickly by her usual stern expression. She let out a quiet sigh.

"I suppose" she murmured, turning back to her work. "She's had a long run today, so keep your movements slow. Don't startle her from behind. Just a few pats on the neck will do."

"Great, thanks," you said.

Instead of turning toward the horse, you took one final step toward Hot Pants. Before she could register your proximity

you reached out and placed your hand firmly on top of her head, right over the soft fabric of her pink hood. You gave her two neat, affectionate pats smoothing the fabric down.

Hot Pants went entirely structural. It was as if her spine had suddenly turned to solid marble.

The cloth slipped from her hand, falling into the dirt. Her eyes widened to the size of saucers, staring blankly at the horse saddle in front of her.

For a terrifying three seconds, she didn't even breathe. Her mind raced through a thousand worst case scenarios

"What..." Hot Pants started, her voice a strained, breathless whisper. She slowly looked up at you, her face rapidly flushing a deep, dramatic pink that perfectly matched her attire. "What are you doing? Move your hand."

You pulled your hand back, smiling innocently. "Just petting."

"I am not the horse!" she practically choked out, scrambling backward off the log so fast she nearly tripped over her own boots.

She clutched the front of her hood, pulling it down as far as it would go to hide the furious blush spreading down her neck. "Why would you why would anyone assume 'can I pet' applies to a human being?!"

"You said yes," you pointed out.

"To the animal! To the equine!" Hot Pants hissed, her usual cold composure completely shattered into panicked, embarrassed fluster. She looked around the camp frantically

as if praying Johnny and Gyro hadn't witnessed the utter undignified spectacle. She pointed a trembling, defensive finger at you. "Do not do that again. Ever. It is... highly inappropriate! And weird! Go pet a dog!"

She aggressively snatched her cleaning cloth out of the dirt and turned her back to you, scrubbing the saddle with ten times more force than necessary.

But beneath her hood, her ears were burning, and she couldn't stop the bizarre, fluttering confusion in her chest from a simple gentle touch she hadn't expected.

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

Mountain Tim.

The evening wind was blowing softly across the plains, and Mountain Tim was leaning casually against a wooden post, looking like a painting of the perfect cowboy.

He was lazily twirling a piece of rope around his fingers, his eyes fixed on the horizon, his signature Stetson hat tilted just low enough to look effortlessly cool.

You walked over, the grass crunching beneath your boots. He noticed you immediately, shifting his weight and offering you a warm, slow, incredibly charming smile.

"Evening" Tim murmured, his deep voice smooth as molasses. "Beautiful night out here, isn't it? Something I can help you with?"

"Yeah, actually" you said, stepping right into his personal space. "Can I pet?"

Tim’s smile widened just a fraction, a twinkle of amusement in his eyes.

He glanced over at his horse, Ghost Rider, who was tied up nearby. He figured you were just looking for a bit of comfort after a long day on the trail.

"Well now, you don't even have to ask," Tim said softly, tipping his hat up slightly with one finger. "Ghost Rider is a gentle soul. He likes a good scratch right behind the ears. Go on ahead, take your time."

"Thanks" you said.

You didn't look at Ghost Rider. You didn't even tilt your head toward the horse.

Instead, you reached up, completely bypassed the brim of Tim's Stetson, and placed your hand right on top of his head. Because of the hat, you ended up softly patting the crown of his cowboy hat, before sliding your hand down to gently ruffle the exposed hair at the back of his neck, giving him a few soft, affectionate strokes.

The rope in Tim's hands immediately went slack, slipping through his fingers and falling into the grass.

The smooth, charming cowboy completely evaporated. Tim froze, his eyes staring straight ahead, wide with absolute, unadulterated shock.

A bright, unmistakable crimson flush crept up from his collar, rushing all the way to the tips of his ears.

"I..." Tim choked out, his voice dropping its smooth cadence entirely and cracking on the vowel. He stood there, completely paralyzed by your hand in his hair, looking like a deer caught in the headlights of a train that hadn't even been invented yet.

"You're very soft," you remarked, pulling your hand back.

Tim clapped a hand over the back of his neck where your fingers had just been, his face burning hot.

He stumbled back half a step, completely losing his footing for a second before catching himself against the post. He looked at you, then at his horse, then back at you, his chest heaving as he tried to find his words.

"Ma'am uh, sir- friend-" Tim stuttered, his silver tongue completely failing him. He cleared his throat aggressively, trying to pull his cowboy composure back together like a man frantically gathering spilled playing cards. "I... I plum thought you meant the horse. A gentleman doesn't usually... folk don't just walk up and... and pet a lawman!"

"You said I didn't even have to ask," you reminded him with a grin.

Tim buried his face in his hands, letting out a long, defeated groan that sounded half like a laugh and half like pure embarrassment.

"Lord have mercy," he muttered into his palms, his shoulders shaking. "You're gonna be the death of me on this trail. If Johnny or Gyro saw that, I'd never hear the end of it."

This time, you don't even make it back to camp. Johnny and Gyro are riding through a dusty, tense little mining town, scanning the crowds for hidden enemies. Instead they find you.

You are currently standing on top of a water tower, holding a pristine, heavy-duty leather gun holster and a custom-weighted stirrup strap, arguing with a guy who looks like a local sheriff.

Johnny Pulling Slow Dancer to a stop, looking up "Please tell me you didn't steal that."

You say shouting "Johnny! Look! I know your holster was getting frayed from the spin-friction. I asked the leatherworker for a new one, but he said he couldn't work because a local gang blocked the creek that powers his tanning wheel. So I went up the mountain to clear the rocks, but the rocks were too heavy, so I had to bribe a guy with a mule."

You took a deep breath "He wanted a rare bird feather for his hat first, so I climbed a pine tree, got the feather, cleared the creek, got your holster, and now the sheriff thinks I'm an accomplice to the creek-blocking because I was seen hanging out with the mule guy!"

he just rubs the bridge of his nose, exhaling a long, slow sigh that carries the weight of the entire universe.

He looks at the holster It’s perfect. It’s exactly what he needed. He looks back up at you, completely deadpan. "Get down from the water tower before the sheriff draws on you. We're leaving."

While Gyro is busy making fun of the "bird feather" part of the story, Johnny is secretly touched. You went through a multi-tiered, dangerous wilderness fetch quest just because you noticed his gear was wearing down. He’ll slide the new holster onto his belt, look away to hide a small smile, and mutter, "Next time... just ask me to help you clear the rocks."

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

Gyro Zeppeli.

You've been gone for eighteen hours. Johnny is calmly making coffee, while Gyro is pacing a trench into the dirt, ready to mount Valkyrie and track down whatever Stand user surely kidnapped you.

Suddenly, you emerge from the brush wearing a bizarre, incredibly ornate silk scarf and carrying a sack of high-grade, imported coffee beans

"Where in the name of the King were you?! We thought you were dead in a ditch, or worse, captured by the President's men!"

"Oh! Gyro, you mentioned your throat was dry yesterday, right? So I went to get some clean well water from that homestead back there. But the well pump was broken. The old lady said she needed a specific iron wrench to fix it, but the local blacksmith had gambled his tools away to a traveling snake-oil salesman.

"So I had to track down the salesman, agree to taste-test his 'miracle tonic' which tasted like battery acid, by the way and then juggle three of his bottles to win the wrench back. Once I fixed the well, she gave me these coffee beans, and then a passing silk merchant saw me juggling and traded me this scarf for my old one."

Gyro just stares at you. He blinks once. Twice. His brain is trying to calculate the sheer probability of that sequence happening in the middle of the Colorado wilderness.

He will absolutely take the coffee beans and immediately brag that his brewing method will make them taste better anyway, but he will never let you live down the absurdity of it.

He starts trying to "tether" you. He’ll literally hand you Valkyrie's reins or make you hold onto a spare steel ball just to keep you anchored. "If I look away and you start talking to a stray dog, I'm tying you to the saddle." He wouldn't, but he threatens it

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

Diego Brando.

If you vanish, his first instinct isn't worry; it's annoyance that his pace is being slowed down. But if your side quests start yielding high tier rewards? Diego’s hyper competitive brain immediately tries to weaponize your luck.

Diego doesn't wait for you. He keeps riding But because the universe dictates that all side quests eventually loop back to the main path, he rounds a rocky canyon bend and spots you.

You are currently riding a massive, premium breed stallion that looks significantly more expensive than Silver Bullet, holding a pristine pair of silver plated spurs, and casually chatting with a wealthy railroad tycoon.

Diego Pulling his horse up, eyes narrowing into dangerous slits "Where did you get that horse? And why are you holding silver spurs that belong in a museum?"

"Diego! Look! I know you wanted a smoother bit for Silver Bullet. I went to a trader, but he said his inventory was seized by a corrupt debt collector. So I snuck into the collector's camp to get the bit, but I accidentally woke up his guard dog.

"I fed the dog some dried meat I had, which apparently made the dog loyal to me, so it helped me dig up a buried chest the collector was hiding. The chest contained the deed to a local mine, which I just returned to this tycoon. He was so grateful he gave me this stallion and these silver spurs!"

Diego’s jaw drops slightly before his face instantly contorts into a sharp grin. His eyes practically turn into dollar signs.

He doesn't care about the logic or the danger you faced. He just sees the profit. He will immediately dismount Silver Bullet, walk over to you, and snatch the silver spurs right out of your hands to admire them.

Diego suddenly decides your disappearances are a brilliant asset. He leans down from his saddle, a dangerous charming smirk on his face. "Incredible. Tell me darling... if I drop you off near the next banking town for an hour, do you think you could manipulate the local economy enough to buy me a train?"

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

Hot pants.

She will genuinely stress herself out tracking you down, only to find you doing something completely mundane.

Hot Pants has spent three hours tracking your footprints through a dense forest, her hand gripped tightly around Cream Starter, ready to dissolve an attacker into meat-paste.

Instead, she finds you sitting in a clearing, calmly carving a small wooden whistle while a group of local children watch you in awe. Next to you is a basket of fresh, hard to find medicinal herbs.

Hot Pants stepping out of the brush, voice tight and furious "Do you have any idea what kind of danger you're in? I thought you were dead! Why did you leave the trail?!"

"HP wait! Look! You used the last of your disinfectant spray yesterday, right? I went to find these specific herbs to help you replenish it. But the monk at the nearby monastery who grows them wouldn't give them to me unless I helped him find his lost goat."

"The goat was trapped in a ravine, and I couldn't get it out alone, so I had to promise these village kids I'd carve them all custom whistles if they helped me haul the goat up with a vine rope. I'm almost done with the last whistle, I swear!"

She pinches the bridge of her nose beneath her hood, taking a deep steadying breath. She cannot comprehend how you navigated a monastery, a ravine, a goat, and a village syndicate of children in the span of an afternoon.

Johnny travels with limited supplies, so a partner who eats like a black hole should technically stress him out. Instead, he treats it like a puzzle. He keeps a meticulous mental inventory of the rations.

If he notices your energy flagging, he’ll silently pass over his own portion of dried meat. He won’t make a big romantic speech about it he’ll just grumble, "Eat it before Gyro tries to turn it into a weird soup. You look like you're about to crash."

He secretly finds it comforting to watch you eat heartily in a world where everything is constantly being stripped away from him, seeing you well-fed and satisfied is a grounding anchor.

Johnny’s Stand tusk, relies on precise lethal focus. Your fighting style is the exact opposite. The first time an assassin ambushes the camp and tackles you to the ground, Johnny panics and tries to aim a nail shot.

Before he can fire, he hears a sickening crunch followed by a blood-curdling shriek. He watches, stunned, as you pull back with a mouth covered in the enemy's blood, having just clamped onto their jaw with terrifying force.

Johnny slowly lowers his hand a dark incredibly impressed smirk spreading across his face. From that day on, if someone gets too close to Johnny's disabled legs in a melee brawl, you become his ultimate line of defense. He knows anyone who steps into your radius is risking a missing chunk of flesh.

Johnny is incredibly respectful of physical differences. He’s completely unfazed by the sharpness of your teeth.

If you’re resting together by the fire, he might reach up, his thumb gently tracing the line of your jaw or brushing against a sharp canine.

He likes the weight of your head resting on his lap knowing that this dangerous, sharp-toothed predator is completely docile and safe around him brings a rare sense of peace to his incredibly turbulent mind.

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

Gyro Zeppeli.

Gyro is the absolute hype-man for your teeth. This man wears bright gold grills he thinks unique dental anatomy is the peak of human expression. Combined with his medical background, he treats your teeth like a natural wonder.

Cookouts at camp become a theatrical performance. Gyro loves to cook, and having a reader who eats massive quantities with absolute gusto is a chef's dream.

He will literally hunt extra game just to try out new seasoning combinations on you. If he cooks a tough piece of meat that Johnny can barely chew, Gyro will proudly present it to you.

Watching your sharp teeth slice through thick cartilage and actual bone like it’s butter makes him burst into ecstatic laughter.

"Johnny, They crunched right through the marrow! Truly, a magnificent jaw structure!"

When a fight breaks out and you end up latching your teeth onto an enemy's face, shaking them like a guard dog, Gyro is literally cheering from his saddle.

He treats it like a spectator sport. After the battle, while you're wiping the blood away, he’ll eagerly march over to inspect the damage you left on the enemy.

Gyro has zero fear. He will happily cup your face, leaning in so close your noses touch, completely ignoring the fact that you could bite his nose off. He loves making you laugh just to see the double row of sharp teeth gleam in the sunlight.

He’ll even offer to polish them for you or check your alignment, treat you to special imported tooth powders, and constantly joke about getting you a matching set of gold plates to accent your fangs.

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

Diego Brando.

You and Diego are, without a doubt, the most terrifying duo on the entire steel ball run track. Diego already looks at the world through the cold, calculating lens of an apex predator.

The moment he realizes you have the teeth and appetite of a shark he almosttt claims you as an equal

Diego’s relationship with food is already weird because of Scary Monsters the man literally eats pebbles to grind up food in his stomach. So seeing you inhale massive pounds of raw or rare meat makes him feel an intense primitive kinship. Hunting trips become a bonding activity.

You two will slip away from the main trail, track down a deer, and Diego will happily let you take the prime cuts. There’s a fiercely protective understanding between you the rest of the world can starve, but the two of you will always eat like royalty.

When Diego transforms into his hybrid dinosaur form, his fighting style is all claws and fangs. Seeing you match his energy by tearing into an enemy’s shoulder or biting someone right across the face during a close quarters ambush makes his prehistoric blood pump.

You don't need a Stand you have a lethal weapon built right into your skull. After a brutal fight, you two will literally stand over the defeated enemy, breathing heavily, both of you covered in blood with bared teeth.

Diego will wrap a clawed arm around your waist, pulling you against his chest with a low, possessive hiss. He respects strength above all else, and your bite proves you’re a survivor.

Diego’s affection is intense and a bit feral. He likes to match his sharp teeth against yours, leaning in for rough, bruising kisses where your sharp edges catch against each other.

He likes to nip at your jawline and throat, marking you as his, completely unbothered if you bite him back hard enough to draw blood.

In fact, if you nip at his face or neck in a playful (or heated) moment, it only rouses his predator instincts more. He loves knowing that your dangerous mouth chooses to be gentle when it touches his skin.

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

Hot pants.

She wants to be a civilized holy officer of the church, but your wild nature constantly forces her to face the brutal reality of survival.

Hot Pants will sit across the campfire, watching you devour your fourth plate of food, and just sigh a deeply exhausted sigh.

She’ll mutter a quiet prayer about the sin of gluttony, but her hands are already reaching into her pack to pull out extra bread and dried fruit to slide across the log to you.

She tries to act annoyed by your massive appetite, but in reality, she’s deeply observant. She notices exactly how many calories you burn and makes sure the camp never runs out of sustenance for you, viewing your hunger as a physical necessity she is responsible for maintaining.

Hot Pants is a pragmatist. Her Stand turns flesh into sprayable meat, so she’s no stranger to the gory mechanics of the human body.

The first time she sees you resort to biting someone’s face off in a desperate grapple, she initially looks horrified, crossing herself. "Have you no civility?!" But when she sees how quickly it completely incapacitates a dangerous Stand user, her mindset shifts.

She realizes your teeth are a gift of survival. If you get injured or chip a tooth on someone's armor, she will immediately rush to your side, using Cream Starter to perfectly reconstruct and reinforce the enamel, scolding you the entire time.

"Be more careful! Do you think God gave you those jaws just to break them on iron? Target the soft tissue next time!"

Hot Pants is incredibly guarded, but your sharp teeth offer a strange form of comfort to her. Because you look a little dangerous and wild, she feels less pressure to be the perfect, pristine person she pretends to be.

When it's just the two of you in the quiet hours of the night, she’ll let her guard down. She might gently trace the line of your sharp teeth with a gloved finger, marveling at how something so lethal can be so quiet and calm beside her.

"Carina, he didn't give you a discount because he's your soulmate. He gave you a discount because the coupon was expiring. Please eat your lunch."

He secretly keeps a mental blacklist of every local who gives you the bare minimum of attention, just in case they try to take advantage of your sweet nature.

Bruno is used to people admiring him, but when you look at him with those classic, wide, starry eyes, he actually blushes. He freezes for a second, realizing your romantic radar has locked onto him.

He doesn't dismiss you. Instead, his protective instincts kick into overdrive. He treats your feelings with absolute respect, but he’ll use it as an excuse to spoil you properly.

If you're going to treat him like a prince, he's going to ensure you actually get treated like royalty in return. Expect formal dates, hand-kissing, and an incredibly smug Capo.

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

Leone Abbachio.

An aggressive, vocal groan of pure annoyance. He will literally walk out of the room if you start sighing over a romantic daydream.

Abbacchio has zero tolerance for delusions. He’s the most cynical man in Italy, so watching you swoon because the grocery clerk handed you a receipt with eye contact makes him lose his mind. He’ll call you an idiot, tell you to grow up, and roll his eyes so hard he sees his own brain.

"He didn't 'brush his hand against yours on purpose,' you clumsy brat, you dropped your wallet. Stop smiling like a lunatic."

He grumpily remembers exactly how you take your coffee and shoves it into your hands without a word.

His reaction is total, absolute denial. When you gasp, clutch the warm mug to your chest, and look at him like he just saved your life, he will scoff and look away.

He’ll try to be meaner to scare the crush out of you, but it won't work which only makes you like his "brooding soul" even more. Eventually, he cracks.

The first time he catches you daydreaming about him, he’ll grab you by the chin, look down at you with a heavy smirk, and growl "If you're going to obsess over me, at least do it to my face."

He completely ruins your expectation of a gentle romance by being intensely possessive.

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

Guido mista.

Half-teasing, half-concerned, and entirely invested in the drama.

Mista actually enjoys the entertainment value at first. He’ll listen to your rants and laugh, but the second you start talking about changing your life for a person you met four minutes ago, he panics. He starts calculating the bad luck of your choices.

"Wait wait, wait. You're in love with him because he has nice shoes? What if he's a serial killer? What if he has four siblings? Don't do it, it's a curse!"

He shares his last slice of pizza with you or protects you from the rain with his jacket.

When he finds out you like him, He boasts about it instantly, but internally, his heart does a backflip. Mista loves affection, so having a hopeless romantic worship the ground he walks on is a massive ego boost.

He leans into it completely. He'll start doing cheesy, old-school romantic gestures just to see your dramatic reactions.

He’ll buy you single roses, wink at you across the room, and brag to the rest of the gang. "See? They know quality when they see it!" He becomes the ultimate attentive, doting boyfriend, matching your high energy with his own.

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

Narancia Ghirga.

Narancia doesn’t get it. He takes everything literally, so if you say you’re "dying of a broken heart" because a cute girl didn't text back, he will genuinely think you need a hospital.

Once he realizes you're just being dramatic, he'll join in on the facepalming, mostly because he copies Mista.

"Wait, so you're crying because they didn't look at you today? But yesterday you were crying because they did look at you! I don't get it!"

He clumsily but fiercely defends your honor against some local jerks, or shares his favorite cassette tape with you so you can listen together.

Brain short-circuit. When you suddenly look at him with big, teary, starry eyes, clutch his hands, and tell him he’s your knight in shining armor, his face turns as red as a tomato. He starts shouting and waving his arms around to hide how hard his heart is beating.

Narancia has no idea how to handle a crush, let alone a hopeless romantic one. He’ll act incredibly boastful in front of Mista "Yeah, that's right, they think I'm cool!"

but the second he's alone with you, he becomes a shy, stuttering mess. He’ll start buying you weird little gifts like cool rocks, keychains, or candy, and he will stubbornly walk you everywhere to "protect" you.

You basically become his absolute favorite person, and he will aggressively compete with your imaginary crushes to keep your eyes on him.

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

Pannacotta fugo.

A vein visibly throbbing on his forehead. Intense, suppressed irritation.

Fugo values logic and intellect, so your completely irrational emotional spikes drive him up the wall. He will aggressively deconstruct your crushes with cold, hard facts, using a tone that sounds like he's grading a failing exam paper.

"You are projecting a tragic poetic backstory onto a man who is literally just smoking a cigarette on a street corner. Go read a book and fix your standards."

He spends three hours patiently tutoring you or helping you fix a mistake without losing his temper once.

Absolute panic when he knows about your crush on him fugo thinks he’s a monster who doesn't deserve love, so when you look at him like he hung the moon, it completely derails his brain. He will stutter, turn bright red, and look around the room for an escape route.

Once he realizes your crush is real and not a passing whim, he softens completely. He becomes incredibly clumsy around you, suddenly very conscious of his manners and his temper.

He’ll write you letters or buy you small, thoughtful gifts because he's too flustered to say the words out loud. You effectively tame his inner beast just by being a soft, love-struck mess.

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

Giorno Giovanna.

Giorno is incredibly observant. While the rest of the gang is loudly groaning, Giorno just watches your dramatic swooning like he’s studying a fascinating new species.

He finds your endless optimism almost refreshing in their grim line of work, but he will step in with cold, unwavering reality when your "love at first sight" blinded you to an obvious red flag.

"It is admirable that you see the beauty in everyone, but that man was trying to pickpocket you, not hold your hand. I have taken your wallet back for you."

He uses Gold Experience to turn a mundane object into a beautiful, blooming flower right in front of you, or handles a dangerous situation with his usual calm, untouchable grace.

Giorno is usually impossible to read, but when you look at him like he’s a literal god walking among mortals, his elegant composure cracks just a tiny bit. His eyes widen, and a rare, genuine flush hits his cheeks. He isn't used to someone looking past his ambition and power to just fall in love with him.

Giorno takes your feelings incredibly seriously. He won't play games or tease you. Instead he leans into his natural chivalry.

He will smoothly step into the role of the perfect, classic romantic hero you’ve always dreamed of. He will walk you through rose gardens, hold your hand in public with absolute confidence, and treat you with a level of reverence that makes the rest of the gang gag.

It looked like a window, but instead of the bustling Pakistani streets, it showed a room he didn’t recognize. And sitting in that room, staring directly back at him with wide disbelieving eyes, was you.

"What kind of Stand is this?!" Polnareff yelled, immediately summoning Silver Chariot. The rapier flashed, but it passed clean through the window striking nothing but air.

"Wait, don't stab me!" you blurted out, dropping your phone.

Polnareff froze. His Stand dissolved back into light. He leaned closer to the mirror, his signature flat-top hair practically brushing the glass. "You... you can see me? You speak French? No, wait, your lips aren't matching the words, but I hear you perfectly..."

"I'm reading subtitles," you said honestly it sounded kinda dumbfounded still trying to process the fact that a fictional French anime man was shouting at you from your laptop screen. "Polnareff, listen to me. I'm not a Stand user. I’m from... well, another universe. To me your whole life is a story. A manga...sorta.. comic? An anime."

Polnareff’s brows furrowed. He crossed his arms, looking deeply skeptical. "A story? Moi? Capable, dashing Jean-Pierre Polnareff, a mere drawing?" He scoffed, but then a thought struck him, and his expression instantly shifted into a smug, blinding grin. "Wait. If I am in a story... am I the main character? The hero who slays Dio and saves the world?"

"Uh, technically Jotaro is the main character," you mumbled.

His face fell dramatically. "Jotaro?! That moody teenager? Phooey! The audience must have terrible taste." He leaned against the sink, flashing a suave, devastating smile through the portal. "But surely, I am the most popular? The most handsome? The one the readers fall desperately in love with?"

You couldn't help but laugh, the initial shock fading into amusement. "Yeah, Polnareff. You're a fan favorite. People love you."

"Ah, I knew it!" He kissed his own knuckles, his ego swelling to maximum capacity. "The universe recognizes true style! So, my lovely viewer from beyond the veil... what brings you to my bathroom?"

...

The portal didn't disappear. It became a recurring, chaotic feature of Polnareff's journey. Whenever he found a private moment usually in a bathroom, much to his chagrin and your endless amusement the glowing window would open.

What started as a bizarre anomaly quickly became his secret weapon, and your favorite part of the day.

"Listen to me carefully," you told him a few days later, leaning close to your screen. "When you get to Egypt, look out for a blind man named N'Doul. His Stand uses water. Do not let Iggy wander off."

"A blind man? Water? Got it," Polnareff muttered, scribbling furiously on a piece of hotel stationery. He paused, looking up at you with soft, surprisingly warm eyes. "You know, you are like a gorgeous guardian angel. A little creepy that you watch me while I sleep, but I can overlook it for a face like yours."

"I don't watch you sleep!" you flustered, turning bright red. "The anime cuts to commercials!"

"Pity" he cooed, winking. "You are missing a spectacular show, chérie."

But your most important piece of advice came after the devastating battle with J. Geil and Hol Horse. Polnareff was sitting on the floor of a dingy bathroom, his head in his hands, weeping bitterly over the loss of Avdol.

"Polnareff," you whispered, your heart aching as you reached out, your fingers pressing against the cold glass of your screen, mirroring where his shoulder would be. "Jean-Pierre, look at me."

He raised his tear-stained face. "I killed him," he choked out. "It was my arrogance..."

"He's not dead," you said firmly.

Polnareff stopped breathing. "What?"

"Avdol is alive," you promised him. "The bullet only grazed his skull. He’s recovering in secret. Joseph and Jotaro know, but they’re keeping it from you so Hol Horse doesn't find out. I shouldn't be telling you this, it messes up the timeline, but... I can't watch you cry like this."

Polnareff stared at you, a breathless, beautiful mix of shock and overwhelming relief washing over his face. He threw his hands against the portal, his palms lining up perfectly with yours. "Alive... oh, thank God. Merci, my beautiful star. I swear, when this is all over, I will find a way into your world and kiss you properly."

....

The final battle came and went. Through the portal, you watched him mourn Iggy, Kakyoin, and the real loss of Avdol. You were there when he stood on the docks, saying goodbye to Jotaro and Joseph.

That night, in his quiet hotel room, the portal opened one last time. It was flickering violently, the edges fraying like static.

"It's closing, isn't it?" Polnareff asked quietly. The cocky, larger than life Frenchman was replaced by a man who looked incredibly tired, carrying the weight of a survivor.

"Yeah," you choked out, tears blurring your vision. "The part is over. The credits are rolling."

Polnareff walked up to the window. He didn't flirt, he didn't brag. He just looked at you with profound, genuine affection. "You saved my life, you know. More than once. And you kept me sane in the darkest hours. I don't care if I am just lines on paper to your world. What I feel for you is real."

He pressed his lips to the glass.

"Goodbye, mon amour," he whispered.

The portal snapped shut. The screen went black.

You sat in your room for a long time, crying over a ghost in a story.

"Wait, What?!"

Twelve years later though in your universe, about ten minutes of clicking through a streaming menu.

You sat up fast in bed, a sudden realization hitting you like a freight train. Golden Wind....Italy 2001.

"Oh shit, Part 5!" you screamed, practically slamming your fingers onto your keyboard. You bypassed the entire Passione storyline, aggressively skipping through episodes until you reached the Colosseum.

Suddenly, your room started to vibrate. The familiar, long-dormant crackle of reality splitting echoed through your bedroom. A massive, jagged purple tear ripped open in mid-air.

On the other side, sitting in a wheelchair in the shadows of the Roman Colosseum, was an older, scarred, but unmistakably familiar man.

"Polnareff!" you shrieked.

Polnareff gasped, his one good eye widening in absolute shock as he looked up at the floating window. "No... it cannot be. You? After all these years?!" A massive, radiant grin broke through his weathered face. "Ha! I knew you'd come back for me! Did you miss my handsome face? I've aged like a fine wine, non?"

"Polnareff, there's no time!" you panicked, leaning halfway out of your bed. "Listen to me very carefully. A guy named Diavolo is coming up the stairs right now. Do not fight him normally! And most importantly-"

"Ah, do not worry, my love, I have a plan! I have the Arrow, and if worst comes to worst, Silver Chariot will-"

"Polnareff, you're going to turn into a turtle!"

The cocky smile vanished instantly. He blinked. "...Excuse me?"

"Your Stand is going to switch everyone's souls, and your soul is going to get trapped in a ghost room inside a turtle!" you yelled desperately. "You're going to spend the rest of your life as a reptile, Jean-Pierre!"

"Wait, what?!" Polnareff squawked, his voice cracking exactly the way it used to in 1989. "A turtle?! Why a turtle?! Why not a lion, or an eagle, or-"

"Just don't let him break the Arrow!"

Before he could respond, the heavy doors of the Colosseum rattled. Diavolo had arrived. Polnareff looked back at the door, then back at you, panic and confusion sweating through his brow. "A turtle?! Mon Dieu, I hate Italy!"

....

The battle played out exactly as destiny demanded. Silver Chariot was pierced by the Arrow. The light went blindingly white Requiem was born.

A Requiem Stand grants the user exactly what their soul desires most in the moment of crisis. Polnareff desperately wanted to keep the Arrow away from Diavolo, to protect the future.

But deep down, in the subconscious recesses of his fading soul, he harbored one other, fiercely desperate wish. To finally touch the person who had guided him through the dark.

As Chariot Requiem walked aimlessly through the streets of Rome, putting the city to sleep and swapping their souls, the cosmic tear in your bedroom expanded.

The physical form of Silver Chariot Requiem didn't just walk in Rome. A shadowy, silent silhouette of the Stand materialized right in the center of your bedroom. It didn't attack. It didn't move. It just stood there, holding the Arrow, acting as a massive, permanent anchor between your reality and his.

Through the massive, now-unbreakable portal in your wall, you looked down at the Coco Jumbo turtle sitting on the Colosseum floor.

The turtle looked up, its tiny eyes blinking at the massive window connecting a high-tech bedroom to ancient Rome.

A spectral, ghostly projection of Polnareff's 1989 self floated up from the turtle, looking around your room in absolute awe. He looked at your desk, your posters, and finally at you.

He loves the sound of your accent and will completely butcher Spanish words on purpose just to see you roll your eyes and correct him.

Johnny is usually the quietest, his soft slow Kentucky drawl cutting through Gyro’s noise. He has that classic, mumbled Southern way of speaking where words just bleed into each other Jeet yet?" instead of "Did you eat yet?"

He finds comfort in how rhythmic your Spanish English is, often just leaning his head against your shoulder and listening to you vent.

The real fun begins when the tension spikes whether it's a heated argument about who ate the last of the rations or a session created purely to tease one another

When Johnny gets genuinely angry or deeply embarrassed, his southern drawl turns into pure gibberish.

The vowels stretch out, the consonants completely vanish, and he starts using hyper-specific Southern slang. He'll get red in the face and definitely start pointing fingers

You immediately default to Spanish when you're startled or annoyed. The moment Johnny starts slurring his words in a rage, you drop the English entirely with a fast pace, dropping your 's' sounds, and gesturing just as wildly as Gyro.

Gyro sits in the middle, looking back and forth between a bright red, incomprehensible cowboy and a fiercely gesturing hispanic, and just starts shouting in aggressive Italian because he feels left out. "Johnny, speak like a person! And you... cara, parsing your words, please!”

Despite the loud arguments, the blend of your backgrounds creates the warmest, most unique comfort.

Gyro calls you “splendore” or “amore,” his voice dropping into that smooth, rolling Italian tone that melts you.

Johnny when he's sleepy and his accent is at its softest, calls you “darlin’” or “sweetheart,” the words sounding like warm honey. You balance them out with “mi amor” or “papi” which absolutely sends Johnny into a blushing, stuttering spiral where his accent breaks entirely.

But somewhere along the line, the data collection turns into genuine fascination. He begins to find your stubborn determination... admirable.

You notice his attacks become less lethal and far more precise. He stops trying to blow you to pieces and instead uses Killer Queen to corner you, to test your reflexes, and to force you into close proximity.

While you are bleeding and breathing heavily, staring at him with pure hatred, Kira is calmly adjusting his tie, completely mesmerized by the fierce light in your eyes.

He starts leaving "gifts" that only you would recognize as his a specific brand of coffee left on your desk, or a pristine handkerchief dropped at a crime scene you were investigating.

When you confront him, spitting fury and promising to put him behind bars or under the dirt, he merely offers a quiet chilling smile.

He doesn't want to kill you anymore. He wants to break your will until you willingly fit into his quiet, twisted domestic fantasy. The fact that you want him dead only makes the prospect of conquering you sweeter.

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

Diavolo & Vinegar Doppio.

Having two souls attached to you is a nightmare, especially when both are obsessed with you for completely different reasons.

Doppio handles the "enemies" with confusion. When you fight him, he genuinely cries or throws tantrums, not understand why you can't just stop trying to ruin the Boss's plans.

He’ll corner you in an alley, gripping your shoulders with terrifying strength, begging you to just surrender so he doesn't have to hurt you. He has a delusion that if you just stop fighting, you could be his partner.

He’ll wipe blood from your face with a trembling hand, utterly heartbroken that you look at him with disgust.

Diavolo is absolutely infuriated by his own weakness. He views his growing fixation on you as a disease, a flaw in his perfect fate.

He uses Epitaph constantly during your encounters not just to predict your attacks, but to hoard glimpses of your future expressions. When King Crimson strikes it’s always to disarm or incapacitate you, never the fatal blow he deals to everyone else.

While you are pouring every ounce of your soul into tearing down Passione's supply lines and hunting the Boss down, Diavolo is watching from the shadows, consumed by a possessive rage.

He despises that a mere mortal has disrupted his anonymity, but he is entirely addicted to the thrill of being the sole focus of your righteous fury.

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

Enrico pucci.

Pucci treats your intense, violent opposition as the ultimate test of his faith. He convinces himself that his obsession with you is strictly spiritual that God has chosen him to correct your wayward soul and save you from your own ignorance.

He convinces himself that if he can just make you understand the grandeur of "Heaven," you will stop fighting him.

Your confrontations with Pucci are highly psychological. While you are trying to smash his skull or destroy Dio's diary, Pucci is dodging with fluid grace, using the moments of physical deadlock to speak to you.

He’ll catch your fists, leaning in so close you can hear his steady breathing, and recite prime numbers or philosophical queries searching your eyes for a flicker of compliance.

The more you reject his ideology, the more desperate he becomes. He begins to use his Stand abilities to isolate you from your allies, not to kill you, but to keep you all to himself.

He starts dreaming of the "New World" not just as a utopia for humanity, but as a sanctuary where you will finally be stripped of your hostility.