#jojo headcanons

Anyways, I absolutely adore your work💕

La Squadra + Bucci Gang + Diavolo/Doppio NSFW preferences - Headcannons

A/N - I... I wanted to keep these short but I just kinda yapped a lil bit LMAOO I did keep it kinda short though <3 probably wayyy smuttier than you wanted but alas if y'all don't tell me for stuff like these I just vibe it HAHAHHA, thank you for the request anon! I hope you enjoy it! <3 I also opened it up from just the 3 you asked because I was just vibing what I think they'd like the most :3

♡ Smut Headcannons ♡ Word Count - 3200 .MINORS DNI.

Summary ᯓ★

╰┈➤ˎˊ˗ A few hubby Jotaro hcs I came up with !

- A few NSFW hcs towards the end

- Fem reader!

Jotaro who loves to go on and on about his research on small plankton to big whales while your head lies in his lap, eyes drifting off.

Jotaro loves to come behind his pretty wife, taking in the perfectly crafted scent he's known for years while she cooks dinner.

Jotaro who isn't a big fan of PDA, but if it's for you, he'll gently place his hands on your waist or snake his arm around your waist.

Jotaro, who freezes at night when you take all the covers to avoid waking you and ends up pulling you closer for extra warmth.

Jotaro, who was known for his stoic and nonchalant energy, melts a little when he sees his cute little wife hum to songs on the radio while you make breakfast, your apron twirling as you turn around.

Jotaro, who loves to please you, flicking his tongue up and down your clit, his large hands holding your thighs open as you squirm.

Jotaro loves to push his pretty wife's head into the pillow while he pounds in and out, whispering lovingly into your ear. His hand tangles between the locks of your hair, sweat dripping off his perfectly crafted abs. His black curls stick to his forehead as he lets out one final grunt before whispering, "I love you."

@dearjotaro

Bruno’s place is spacious and bright - lots of wide windows through which lights flows in freely, walls are painted a soft cream or ivory shade of white. His flat is tastefully furnished and cozy, but it’s kinda devoid of personality, you know? Feels more like a hotel room. Which is very understandable, considering that Bruno is out of town for many days at a time, or only coming home late at night to sleep and leaving at early hours of the morning - Buccellati barely gets to actually live there. He keeps buying plants but they still die because he forgets to water them. He definitely has a big and comfy couch where any of the guys is welcome to crash at at any given time.

Fugo had one main unbudging condition on which he refused to yield while looking for an apartment to rent out - a big bathroom. He absolutely cannot share a living space with anyone else for extended periods of time - crashing at a hotel room with one of the guys for a few days? Sure, no problem. For more than 5 days tho..? Not happening. He’s a pedant and kind of a perfectionist with mad OCD, every single object has a certain category in his head, and should be placed in space accordingly. Hair brushes should be in a top bathroom drawer to the left, while a hair dryer belongs in the right corner, and don’t you fucking dare wrapping its cord around the handle, it should be folded along the length of the hair dryer with it laying on top to not let the cord unfold. I think you get what I mean. Besides, he’s a total cleanliness freak - a sight of your hair in his shower drain can send him into hysterics, so think twice before moving in with him.

Mista’s flat is naaaasty - dirty clothes thrown everywhere - draped along the back of a kitchen chair, on the couch, on top of a washing machine, lying in a pile on the floor, dirty socks scattered around uuughhhaaaa. Nasty. Also he kinda gives off a vibe of person to have condoms stashed in every single room just in case. His apartment is well lived into and is pretty cozy once cleaned up tho - some trinkets here and there, photos of family and friends hanging on the walls, fluffy blankets and soft cushions on his bed and couch (he never makes his bed tho)

Leone kinda gives off a vibe of Rust in first season of The True Detective - his living space has no personality (it barely has furniture bruh) - a mattress laying straight on the floor, a tiny mirror in his bathroom, fridge, one chair and a table, books and records laying straight on the floor in neat stashes. That’s it. Walls bare of any sort of decorations, no plants, no carpets no nothing. No shit that dude is depressed, who wouldn’t be living like that??

Narancia rents out a tiiiny itty bitty flat and honestly? It’s way cleaner than one would’ve expected. His clothes are somehow neatly folded and lying on their designated places in his closet, the only plant cactus that he owns is watered regularly, no dirty socks or random trash scattered around. Yeah there’s a bit of dust laying here and there, a few dirty dishes stashed in the sink, but who doesn’t have it at home, yk? Well done orange boy!

Telling the Joestars you're pregnant

Word count - 5.7k

Characters: Jonathan, Joseph (Young), Joseph (SDC), Jotaro, Josuke, Giorno, Jolyne, Johnny, Gappy/Josuke (Part 8)

Jonathan Joestar

There’s golden light pouring in through the windows, warm against the old wood of the Joestar estate, and the whole world smells faintly like ink and tea. He’s in the study, fingers stained with ink, halfway through reading something ancient and dusty. He doesn’t look up right away when you enter, just smiles softly like he always does when he senses you’re near.

Then you speak.

“Jonathan… I need to tell you something.”

Something in your tone makes him freeze. Not visibly. But his shoulders go still, and his fingers tighten ever so slightly on the edge of the desk.

He turns to you.

Sees your face.

And he already knows.

He stands. Slowly. Reverently. Like you’ve just handed him a living fragment of the divine.

“…Are you certain?” he asks, voice low and steady, as if he’s afraid to shatter the moment by speaking too loud.

You nod.

That’s when it happens. The shift.

Jonathan Joestar - the gentleman, the fighter, the scholar, the man who’s stood against monsters without blinking - falls to his knees in front of you.

Not out of shock. Not out of fear. But with the grace of someone witnessing a miracle and choosing to honour it.

His large, callused hands reach for yours, then pause. Hovering. Always gentle. Always asking for permission.

When you lace your fingers with his, he lifts your joined hands and presses a kiss to your knuckles, then rests his forehead there for a long, still moment.

“I-” His voice cracks. Just barely. “I don’t deserve this. But I will spend the rest of my life trying to be worthy.”

You can feel his heartbeat thudding under his skin - fast and anxious and so full.

That night, he doesn’t sleep much.

Not out of fear. But because his mind is racing. He’s thinking about everything - cribs and lullabies and how to make sure the Joestar legacy is something his child will want to inherit. He gets up at least three times to check on you. Not in an overbearing way, just… quietly. To make sure you’re warm. Comfortable. Safe.

“They’ll need a protector,” he murmurs, watching you sleep. “Someone who knows what it means to stand for something. I’ll teach them that.”

In the following weeks:

He reads every book on pregnancy and parenting he can find: medical, spiritual, emotional, and even outdated alchemical nonsense just in case. You catch him taking notes at one point.

He starts writing letters. To the baby. For the future. In case he’s ever gone. Because deep down, Jonathan Joestar has always known that fate doesn’t play fair.

He talks to your belly every night. His voice is soft, his stories endless. Sometimes about adventures, sometimes about his hopes. He sings, too (badly) but with so much heart you want to cry.

When you’re nauseous, he’s beside you. Holding your hair, soothing your back. Whispering, “You’re the strongest person I’ve ever known.”

When you cry over nothing (and you will), he doesn’t tell you to calm down. He holds you. Kisses your forehead. Let’s you vent or sob or curse the world.

And when you’re asleep - curled into his chest, breath slow and even - he doesn’t move.

He just watches you.

One hand resting gently over your stomach, the other brushing your hair from your face like he’s afraid to wake a dream.

He’s smiling. Not his usual polite smile, but something smaller. Softer. Like joy made quiet.

“I wonder if they’ll have your smile,” he whispers. “I hope they do.”

He leans in, voice barely audible, like he’s telling a secret to the stars.

“You’re already so loved. You don’t even know. But we love you. I love you. Every piece of you. Always will.”

Then he presses the gentlest kiss to your forehead. And one more to where his child sleeps beneath your skin.

“I’ll be here,” he promises, voice warm as candlelight. “Every step. Every moment. I’ll be here.”

And when he finally closes his eyes - arms wrapped around his whole world - Jonathan Joestar sleeps with a smile.

Joseph Joestar (Young)

It’s late when you tell him.

Not dramatic. Not romantic. Just you, in the kitchen, standing barefoot by the sink with a glass of water and a knot in your stomach. He’s rambling about something - some prank he pulled on Caesar, something involving a dress and two bottles of tequila - and he’s so full of noise and motion it makes the silence between your words feel like a chasm.

“I’m pregnant.”

The world stops.

Literally. It’s like the air skips a beat. Joseph freezes mid-step, mid-story, hands halfway to gesturing some ridiculous reenactment.

“……You’re what now?”

His voice cracks at the end. You can see his brain grinding like it’s buffering at 2%. His eyes dart down to your stomach, back to your face, and then he does the worst thing imaginable.

He laughs.

Loud. Nervous. Completely out of pocket. Like he’s waiting for you to break character and yell “Just kidding!” like it’s all part of a bit.

But your face doesn’t change.

The laughter dies.

“Wait. Wait, wait, wait - seriously?”

You nod. Quiet. No tricks. No backup punchline. Just the truth.

Joseph Joestar has fought Nazis, Pillar Men, and literal abominations.

Nothing prepares him for this.

He sits down. Hard. Kitchen chair creaks under him. He runs both hands through his hair, muttering “Oh my god” like a prayer or a death sentence. Then again, louder:

“Oh my god, I did that?? I did that?!”

You’re half a second away from leaving when he jolts upright.

“Wait - no, not like that! Not - shit! I didn’t mean it in a bad way, I just - holy shit, I’m gonna be a dad?! ME?!”

He’s spiralling. Hands flailing. Pacing now.

“Okay, okay, we can do this. I mean- I can… I can barely keep a cactus alive, but this is fine. This is fine! Babies are just loud potatoes for the first couple months, right?”

You stare at him.

He stops pacing.

“…Okay, I’ll read some books.”

That night, he’s lying flat on the bed, staring at the ceiling, arms flung wide like he’s trying to take up all the space his thoughts are spilling into.

You’re not sure if he’s asleep until he says - quiet, raw:

“I don’t know if I’m ready.”

It’s the first real thing he’s said all night.

You shift, curling beside him. He flinches when you rest your hand over his chest - like he’s worried you’re going to take it back, take everything back.

“I’m scared,” he says. “I joke when I’m scared. You know that.”

You do. Of course you do.

He turns to you then. Really turns. No mask. No grin. Just those stormy, wild eyes full of fear and wonder and more love than he knows how to hold in one body.

“But I want this. I want you. I want…” He swallows. “I wanna be there. For everything.”

He reaches out. Presses a shaky hand to your side.

“…I’m not gonna run. I promise.”

In the following weeks:

He tells everyone. Immediately. The mailman knows. Speedwagon knows. Caesar hears it through a window and nearly drops his espresso.

He becomes insanely protective. You so much as sneeze and he’s fussing over you.

Reads exactly half of a parenting book before getting distracted.

Invents “prenatal Hamon sessions” that are 90% fake science and 10% sincere attempts to “boost the baby’s Hamon potential.”

Leaves you notes on the fridge like: “Good morning, gorgeous + also the adorable parasitic lifeform inside you.”

Says things like “It’ll probably be huge like me. Sorry in advance.”

He’s dramatic. He’s terrified. He’s not perfect.

But he loves you so hard it radiates off him in waves.

And every time he stares at you, like you hung the stars and then casually told him you built a second solar system, he means it when he says:

“I’m gonna be the best dad this kid doesn’t know they need yet. Just wait.”

Joseph Joestar (SDC) 

You don’t even get the whole sentence out before he chokes on his drink.

You were aiming for casual, maybe “Hey, I’ve got some news” or “So, funny thing about my doctor’s appointment…”

Instead, what comes out is a very dry, “Joseph… I’m pregnant.”

And then it’s like you detonated a bomb made entirely of “WHAT?!”

He coughs. Flails. Nearly knocks over the table. There’s peach iced tea on the floor and lemon slices stuck to his shirt and he’s already halfway to standing like he’s about to physically square up with the concept of your pregnancy.

“YOU’RE WHAT?!?”

You blink. “Pregnant.”

“I-” He gestures at you, then himself, then vaguely at the air like he’s trying to solve an invisible equation. “You – me – how-?!”

You fold your arms. “You know how.”

He opens his mouth. Closes it. Points a finger. Drops it. Then finally sits down like his legs gave out.

“…You’re serious?”

You nod.

He leans back, hand over his heart like he’s just been hit by a Hamon beam.

“Oh my God. I still got it.”

You stare. “That’s what you’re leading with?”

He grins, roguish and infuriating. “C’mon, sweetheart. Sixty-two and still got it? You’ve gotta admit that’s kind of hot.”

You reach for a pillow to throw at him. He narrowly dodges it, laughing until it dissolves into something quieter and a little softer.

He looks at you again. Really looks.

“You’re sure?” he asks. Not doubting - just… hoping it’s real.

You nod. “I’m sure.”

And Joseph Joestar - smartass, war vet, drama king - sits very still for a second too long.

Then says, too fast:

“Okay. Okay, okay, we can make this work. I mean, we have experience… even if it was years ago. Holy turned out fine, right?”

He’s up again, already pacing.

“Do we need to move? We should move. Tokyo’s stressful. Do babies get stressed? Do I get stressed?!”

You say his name once, twice.

Then, finally, he stops in front of you. A little winded. A little wide-eyed.

A lot in love.

“I’m scared,” he admits.

Your breath catches.

“I’m scared I’ll screw it up again. That I’ll miss things. That I’ll be too old, or too busy, or too Joestar to get it right.”

You reach out.

He takes your hand like it’s the only thing tethering him to the moment.

“…But I want this,” he says, quieter. “God, do I want this.”

And then, classic Joseph, he ruins the emotional tension by immediately announcing:

“We’re gonna need to hide this from Jotaro. I can already feel the judgment.”

In the following weeks:

Absolutely uses the pregnancy as an excuse for more affection. “You’re carrying the next Joestar! You get foot rubs. That’s in the rules.”

Comes up with terrible baby names every day. 

Can’t decide between things so just buys everything.

Tries to convince you the baby might inherit a Stand in utero and brings out tarot cards to test your belly.

Jotaro finds him talking to your stomach and immediately walks out without comment.

Buys a ridiculous number of books, reads zero. Claims he’s going to “wing it with style.”

Has one night of complete meltdown where he panics about being older, about making mistakes and you hold him while he spirals, until he falls asleep muttering, “I’ll be there. I swear it.”

He’s dramatic. He’s inappropriate. But he shows up. He loves fiercely, makes mistakes loudly, and keeps coming back. He may not always get it right but he’s never going to stop trying.

And when he holds your hand, when he presses his palm to your stomach like he’s making a pact with the future, he whispers-

“I’m gonna love the hell out of this kid. You better believe it.”

Jotaro Kujo 

You tell him the way you have to.

Not dramatic. Not poetic. Just… plain truth.

You don’t plan it. There’s no romantic setup. No flowers. No “World’s Best Dad” mug waiting on the kitchen table.

It’s late, the lights are low, and Jotaro’s halfway through reviewing marine data, glasses perched low on his nose, a pencil tucked behind his ear. The room smells like coffee and salt air. He’s quiet. Focused. Calm.

And then you say it.

“Jotaro… I’m pregnant.”

His hand stills over the paper.

A long, thick silence settles between you. Not awkward. Not cold. Just heavy. Full of something that doesn’t have a name yet.

He doesn’t look up. Doesn’t move. You wonder if he heard you.

Then-

“…Are you sure?”

His voice is low. Level. But not unfeeling.

You nod. “Yeah. I’ve taken three tests.”

He finally looks at you.

And you’ve never seen that look before.

Not fear. Not joy. Not even shock. Just… stillness. Like he’s caught between the version of his life he’d planned - and the one you just gave him.

His jaw tightens. His eyes search yours. And then, softly:

“…Okay.”

It’s not dismissive.

It’s not distant.

It’s a promise.

He stands up. Walks over to you.

His hands hover for a second, then settle on your shoulders - warm and steady. The space between you closes.

You expect more questions. More reaction.

What you get is his forehead against yours. Steady.

Just that. No words.

Just breath. Contact. Connection.

Later that night, you find him on the balcony, lit by starlight, staring up at the sky like it’s suddenly got answers. His coat is draped over your shoulders—left there without a word.

You sit beside him. Don’t press.

Eventually, he says:

“I don’t know what kind of father I’ll be.”

You rest your head on his shoulder.

“I think you’ll be better than you think.”

And the silence that follows feels like belief settling in.

He doesn’t look at you but he squeezes your hand. Hard.

In the following weeks:

He doesn’t talk about it much. Doesn’t announce it. But you catch him pausing longer in the baby aisle at stores quietly reading labels.

Buys parenting books. Science-based ones. Annotates them like marine biology research and cross-references sources. 

Rewrites his entire schedule. Late nights out? Gone. Conference travel? Postponed. Patrol shifts? Shortened. He doesn’t say why. No one dares ask.

Every time you so much as wince, he’s there. Doesn’t say “Are you okay?” - just is there. A hand on your back. A glass of water. A calm, firm “sit down.”

Keeps a medical file for you thicker than his thesis. Tracks vitamins. Memorises everything. Subtly corrects the doctor once.

Starts researching the safest bassinets and strollers like it’s his final Stand battle. Refuses to settle for anything with fewer than five-star reviews.

You wake up from a nap once to find his hand resting over your belly. Not moving. Not even fully touching. Just there.

You pretend to be asleep. Because if he’s letting himself have this moment, you won’t take it from him.

One night, he hears you talking to the baby - and later, when he thinks you’re not listening, you hear him murmur: “You’re safe. I promise.”

He never screams. Never breaks.

But you feel it. Every day.

The way he walks a little slower now when you’re by his side.

The way his gloved hand hovers before finding yours.

The way he says, in the dark, half-asleep:

“If anything ever tries to hurt them… I’ll stop the world.”

And you know he means it.

He’s not loud.

He’s not flashy.

But he’s already a father in every way that counts.

Josuke Higashikata 

You don’t mean for it to come out the way it does.

You’re not sure how you meant to say it, honestly. Maybe with a little more prep. A lead-in. Some grounding. Not while he’s halfway through trying to microwave his supper, still in his uniform undershirt, badge clipped to the counter, and humming along to the Morioh radio jingle like the most chaotic domestic golden retriever known to man.

But you’re watching him - hair a little tousled, sleeves rolled up, gold chain catching the light - and your brain just… says it.

“I’m pregnant.”

He doesn’t even turn around at first.

Just kind of nods like you said something casual. Nice weather today or the mail came.

Then he freezes.

Real slow.

Turns.

Stares.

“…You’re what now.”

You swallow. “Pregnant.”

His face goes through all five stages of grief in under two seconds. Denial. Confusion. Visibly questioning his own fertility.

“Like - baby pregnant?!”

“Yes, Josuke. That’s… how pregnancy works.”

He opens his mouth. Closes it. Points at your stomach. Points at himself. Points back at your stomach. And then:

“Oh my god.”

He takes a step back like the concept physically hit him. His brain is racing - you can see it. There are so many thoughts colliding in his skull that nothing is coming out of his mouth except-

“Do you need water?! A chair?! A chair and water?! What if you pass out?! What if I pass out?! Okuyasu’s gonna pass out when he hears!!”

You sit him down. He’s flailing. Verbally. Emotionally. 

“I - shit, okay, no - this is good! I’m not saying it’s not good! It’s just like… wow! That’s a person. Inside you. That we made. That’s not important. I just - whoa.”

He rubs his face with both hands. Still wearing his patrol belt like that’s going to help.

You wait.

Then, quietly:

“…You’re sure?”

You nod.

And the second he sees that, the panic fizzles.

He exhales hard. Eyes wide. Heart full.

“…I’m gonna be a dad.”

He says it like he’s trying the word on. It fits. Too big right now. A little terrifying. But… right.

He grins. Big, shaky, earnest.

Then completely breaks down into happy tears two minutes later while hugging you. Still smells faintly like coffee and traffic stops.

“I’m sorry,” he chokes, wiping his face on the back of his wrist. “I don’t even know why I’m crying. I’m just - shit, you’re so cool. You’re so cool and you’re pregnant and you still wanna be with me?! Like, this is my kid too? Really?!”

You kiss his forehead. “I’m very sure.”

In the following weeks:

Buys so many toys for the baby.

Googles “how to be a good dad” while Okuyasu hovers behind him eating chips and yelling, “DUDE! DUDE! You gotta teach it how to fight!”

Starts keeping a second notepad in his patrol car - one for ticket logs, one for baby name ideas and “things I wanna teach them someday.”

Tells every coworker in the precinct that he’s going to be a dad. Every single one. Including his supervisor. Multiple times.

Panics over every little sound you make. Slight groan? Crazy diamond is ready.

Spends literal hours talking to your stomach. Tells them about the arcade. How to dodge punches. Who to trust. Which diners in Morioh are the best (Tonio’s).

Is lowkey insecure. He tries to hide it, but one night you catch him sitting at the foot of the bed, whispering, “I’m not my dad. I swear I’ll try harder than he did.”

Rohan finds out and starts sketching a crazy one-shot called “The Hair Heir”. Josuke prepares to torch his house. 

His mom is THRILLED. Starts crocheting blankets within minutes.

Josuke insists on building the crib himself. It’s crooked. He cries. “I can’t even fix it with Crazy Diamond.”

He’s not ready. God, he’s not ready.

But he shows up. Every day.

Pompadour perfectly styled. Badge on his belt. Lunch packed with too many snacks. Ready to protect Morioh with one hand… and hold your hand with the other.

And when he looks at you?

It’s not just love. It’s awe. It’s joy. It’s you’re my whole world now and I’m gonna be the best dad in this town.

“…You know,” he says one night, curled around you in bed, voice soft and full of wonder, “if they’re anything like you… they’re gonna be amazing.”

You smile into his chest. “They’re gonna be half you, too.”

And he just pulls you tighter.

“I hope they get your laugh,” he mumbles.

You tell him they probably will.

And if they get his heart?

They’ll be just fine.

Giorno Giovanna 

You don’t say it like it’s a confession. You say it like you’re handing him a mission briefing. 

Something final. Important. Irrevocable.

“Giorno… I’m pregnant.”

The words hang in the air between you, quiet and clean.

He doesn’t speak at first.

He just stops what he’s doing, his pen frozen mid-signature over a document marked for Passione territory logistics, and lifts his eyes to meet yours.

Still, calculating, but never cold. 

“…How long have you known?”

You answer. Calmly. He listens. Silently. Then finally, he sets the pen down. He crosses the room in three slow, even steps.

You brace for anything.

He’s the boss of Passione.

You’ve seen how he handles problems.

People kneel before him.

But you think of Trish.

The way she was stolen, pursued, nearly carved up just for being her father’s daughter.

And the man who let it happen wore the same crown Giorno wears now.

But this time?

He doesn’t turn away.

He doesn’t calculate risk.

He reaches for your hand like it means something, like you mean something.

His fingers wrap around yours.

Steady, warm and real.

And when he speaks, it’s not just certainty. It’s something softer.

“…I see.”

A beat. Then gentler:

“Thank you for telling me.”

And it makes your chest ache.

That night, he doesn’t sleep.

You wake once to find him on the balcony, overlooking the city, suit jacket off, shirt sleeves rolled. The moon turns his hair to molten white, his eyes sharp in the dark.

He doesn’t hear you at first.

Then says, “The world isn’t kind. I’ve worked every day to change that.”

He turns to you.

“But I have a new reason to succeed and I won’t stop until this city is safe for our child.”

In the following weeks:

A quiet shift rolls through Passione. Nobody speaks of it, but things change. Layers of extra security around you. Routes rerouted. Meetings relocated.

Your doctor receives an anonymous “gift” of new equipment, better staff, and the silent understanding that any failure will be unacceptable.

Giorno never says the word “Papa” out loud, not at first. But he makes space for the role in his world: time in his schedule, protection in his plans, softness in the places no one sees.

Gold Experience becomes hyper-responsive to your state. Once, when you stumbled, it moved faster than either of you - Giorno caught you, and Gold Experience stabilised the ground beneath your feet with vines.

He builds a nursery hidden within his villa, soundproofed, sunlight filtered. Quiet. Secure. Untouchable.

At night, he begins speaking to the child - not with soft lullabies, but with truth. “The world will challenge you,” he says to your stomach. “But you will not face it alone.”

Giorno doesn’t fall apart.

He doesn’t shout. Or cry. Or spiral.

He recalculates.

He reorganizes.

He adapts.

Because to Giorno Giovanna, being a father is not just a title.

It’s a new kind of mission.

And just like he swore to defeat Diavolo and end suffering from the inside-

He swears now, in quiet moments between breath and heartbeat:

“No harm will come to you. Not while I’m still breathing.”

And you believe him.

Because this is Giorno Giovanna.

And when he decides to protect something?

The world shifts to let him do it.

Jolyne Cujoh

She tells you while walking.

Just blurts it out while crossing the living room, pulling on a hoodie, tying her hair back with fast, restless fingers like she’s trying to keep her hands busy so they don’t do something else, something stupid, like shake.

“I’m pregnant.”

No buildup.

No soft lighting or pastel sweaters.

Just: “I’m pregnant.” Said like a dare.

You blink. “What?”

She stops. Doesn’t turn around. Just lets the silence hang there for a few seconds too long.

“…I said I’m pregnant.”

When you don’t respond right away, she does turn - arms folded, jaw tight. There’s a flicker of something in her eyes: not anger, not quite. Bracing. For judgment. For abandonment. For anything but support.

You step closer, slow. “Are you okay?”

That catches her off guard.

“What? Yeah. I’m fine.” “Well - no, I’m throwing up like every morning and I’m pretty sure my boobs are trying to murder me, but other than that - yeah. Totally peachy.”

You almost smile. She notices and scowls.

“Don’t look at me like that.”

“Like what?”

“Like I’m gonna cry. I’m not.”

“…Okay.” She pauses. Then: “…I might.”

You sit down. She doesn’t follow.

“I didn’t plan this,” she says. “And I’m not gonna pretend I’m one of those people who always wanted to be a mom or whatever. I didn’t.”

You nod. You wait.

“But it’s here now. And I’ve been thinking about it. A lot. And…”

She stops.

She breathes.

“…I wanna try. I wanna do better than what I got.”

You stand. Take her hand. Her grip is tight - like she’s afraid if she lets go, the ground will open up and swallow her whole.

You don’t say much.

You don’t have to.

And when you finally pull her into a hug, she sinks into it like her body’s been waiting for permission.

In the following weeks:

Jolyne insists on doing everything herself. Carrying groceries? Climbing ladders? Lifting furniture? You have to beg her to sit down.

Refuses to read parenting blogs. “They all sound like they were written by rich suburban yoga weirdos. That’s not my style.”

Starts researching genetic Stand inheritance like a college thesis. “If this kid ends up with a string-based power, I need to prepare for that. I didn’t inherit my dad’s but it’s possible”

Keeps pretending she’s fine, then collapses onto the couch with a heating pad and a bowl of mac and cheese. “Don’t say anything. Just let me die for twenty minutes.”

When the nausea gets bad, she talks to the baby like it’s an annoying roommate. “You better come out cool, or I swear I’ll put you back.”

You catch her late at night, hand over her stomach, eyes unfocused. She’s whispering something soft. You don’t interrupt.

Tells her dad eventually. Pretends not to care what he thinks. But she doesn’t stop pacing until he says:

“You’ll be a great mother. Just like your mom was.”

Keeps your sonogram photo tucked in the back of her phone case. Pretends it’s no big deal.

Jolyne doesn’t change overnight.

She’s still fiery. Still loud. Still the girl who’d punch someone for looking at you wrong and then complain about how sore her knuckles are.

But there’s something gentler in the way she carries herself now.

Not softer.

Just… stronger. In a different way.

And when she curls up next to you at night, one hand resting on her stomach, she murmurs into your shoulder:

“I don’t know what I’m doing.”

You press a kiss to her temple. “Neither do I.”

She breathes.

“…We’ll figure it out, though.”

And you believe her.

Because if there’s one thing Jolyne Cujoh knows how to do - it’s fight for what matters.

Johnny Joestar

You don’t plan how to tell him.

Because how do you prepare someone who’s survived what Johnny has?

You can’t soften this kind of truth.

So you just… say it.

He’s out on the porch when you find him. Hat tilted low, boots kicked up on the rail, something unreadable in his face as he watches the sky go gold over the horizon. There’s a calm to him lately - not peace, but the kind of stillness you get after years of running.

You sit beside him.

He doesn’t look at you, just shifts slightly to make room.

“Johnny,” you say, carefully. “I’m pregnant.”

He doesn’t react.

Not visibly.

Just lowers his boots to the porch floor with a quiet thunk.

His eyes are still on the sky.

“…Say that again?”

“I’m pregnant.”

Silence. Long and full of gravity.

His hand curls against his knee, knuckles pale. Then-

“…Huh.”

You wait.

He finally turns his head, slowly. There’s no panic in his expression, but it’s not blank either. It’s focused. Serious. Like he’s just been handed a question he doesn’t know the answer to yet.

“You’re sure?”

You nod.

He breathes out through his nose, slow and controlled.

And then he says, very quietly:

“Okay.”

You’re not sure what you expected. He doesn’t touch you. Doesn’t flinch. Just sits with it. Like he’s testing the weight of this new future in his hands and deciding whether or not it’ll crush him.

He leans back against the wall. His gaze drops to the floorboards.

“I thought I wasn’t the kind of person who get this,” he says after a minute. “Family. Future. Normal stuff.”

You don’t interrupt.

“I’ve spent so much of my life trying to outrun who I was. And then trying to prove I’d changed. And now this…”

He finally looks at you.

There’s no fear in his eyes.

Just something raw.

“…I want to get it right.”

In the weeks that follow:

Johnny doesn’t tell anyone right away. Not because he’s hiding it—but because he’s keeping it close. Letting it be real before letting it be public.

He starts making lists. Quietly. Supplies. Books. Things to fix around the ranch.

You catch him once, in the barn, practicing how to hold a newborn with an empty feed sack. 

He builds the crib himself. Doesn’t ask for help. It’s a little crooked, but steady.

When you feel sick, he doesn’t panic. He just gets up, makes tea, rubs your back, and mutters, “Alright, kid. Go easy on ‘em.”

Once tells a horse, very seriously, “You’re not the baby anymore,” before giving it a carrot anyway.

Starts whittling random shapes out of spare wood and leaving them on the windowsill “for luck.” One ends up looking vaguely like a baby with a cowboy hat. He pretends it doesn’t.

You catch him dancing in the kitchen with his shirt halfway unbuttoned, holding the laundry basket like it’s a toddler. He doesn’t stop when you walk in, just gives you a lopsided grin and keeps going.

It’s not easy for Johnny to be hopeful.

It never has been.

But he shows up. Every day. Even the hard ones.

And one night, as you’re getting ready for bed, he slips a hand to your stomach and just… stays there. Not saying anything. Just holding on.

Eventually, he murmurs:

“I think I can do this.”

And you believe him.

Because underneath everything - the anger, the hurt, the things he’s done and the things he’s lost - Johnny Joestar is someone who fights to move forward.

And now, he has someone new to carry with him.

Josuke Higashikata (Part 8) 

You don’t think it’ll be a big moment. You don’t plan to say it while he’s rinsing off a bunch of fancy grapes in the kitchen sink, humming that off-key little tune he picked up from TV commercials, sleeves rolled up and face slightly flushed from the sun.

But you do. You say it.

“Josuke… I’m pregnant.”

He looks up, blink-blink, fingers still tangled in the grape stems. His shoulders go rigid, like someone just hit a switch in his spine. He blinks again. His lips part - like he’s going to say something. And then?

“…Hold on.”

He very calmly puts the grapes back into the bowl.

Wipes his hands on the dish towel.

And turns to face you, dead serious.

“You’re being serious?”

You nod. “Completely.”

“…You’re sure?”

“Yeah.”

He stares at you for a second longer, then turns around and walks directly into the edge of the kitchen counter.

“Okay – ow - okay,” he mutters, putting a hand on his hip like that’ll help. “Okay.”

He doesn’t freak out. Not exactly. But you can see it in his eyes: the math scrambling to finish itself, the swirl of how? and what now? and am I ready for this?

And then:

“…I thought you were gonna tell me you smashed a plate or something.”

You snort. “Nope.”

“I mean. This is… kind of better.”

“Kind of?”

He rubs the back of his neck, flustered but smiling. That weird, soft, sheepish smile he gives you when he’s trying really hard to look cool and emotionally balanced.

Then he says it - quietly:

“I’ve never really thought about stuff like this before. I was so occupied with my past I never really looked forward.”

You don’t say anything. You just take his hand, and he squeezes it like he’s trying to ground himself in you.

In the following weeks:

Starts carrying a little notepad with reminders like “prenatal vitamins,” “don’t let them carry heavy stuff,” and “ask what a onesie is.”

You catch him reading a baby book with a totally blank expression. “What the hell is a swaddle? Is that a Stand?”

Asks you at least five times, dead serious, “Do you think it’ll have four balls, too?”

Asks Yasuho for help picking out baby-safe shampoo. She immediately starts crying. He panics.

Draws a “baby Stand” design and shows it to you like it’s a science fair project. It’s weirdly cool. 

Touches your stomach like it’s the most delicate thing he’s ever seen. Doesn’t always say anything. Just… rests his palm there.

Mutters, “I’m gonna protect you,” half to you, half to the baby. Says it again when he thinks you’re asleep.

Gappy is still a bit fuzzy about who he used to be.

But he knows who he wants to be now.

He wants to be steady. Safe. Someone who shows up. Someone who figures it out, even if he stumbles.

And when he looks at you now - your fingers linked, your breath slow, the weight of a new life between you - he says softly:

“…This is real, right?”

You nod.

He exhales.

Please, could you write HC's Funny Valentine x Reader but reader as Bolsonaro (yes, the ex Brazil president. Any pronoun, but preference for feminine pronouns please :3 )? I'm very curious to know what the dynamic between the two would be like.

LMFAO I have no words to describe how creative I found this request, I laughed so much omfg 🥀 ofc I'll do it lol

Funny Valentine X Bolsonaro!Reader

jojos reactions finding out the reader likes to make portraits of them but is always too scared/embarassed to show them? (*´-`)

thank you so much if you do 🥐

NO need to be worried!! I love seeing how creative others are! ʕ•ᴥ•ʔ I just had to put this request in two parts, since i have no self control when it comes to writing :')

Part 2 <-

Jonathan:

He found you under an oak tree, pencil in hand as your (E/c) eyes skimmed the area, it wasn’t an unusual spot for you to be. For as long as he’s known you, you’ve been attached to your small sketchbook, “(Y/n)! There you are, I’ve been looking for you!” He called out as you perked up. 

“Oh, hello Jonathan! I was wondering where you were” He neared as you placed down your sketchbook, your smile growing as he began telling you about his past few days. His rambles never seemed to cease, not until you both noticed the sun meeting the horizon. 

“Ah, I must get home soon before the sun sets, I’ll see you later than Jonathan!” You said before gathering your art supplies, giving Jonathan a sweet kiss on his cheek, You were quite the distance away as Jonathan realised that you had left your sketchbook.

“(Y/n) you’ve left your sketchbook...” he called out as he watched as your figure became microscopic, he glanced back at the small book. 

Should he take a short glance? No, no a true gentleman shouldn’t, yet the small book seemed to be calling his name as he grabbed a small stick. With each centimeter he took, he held his breath, at least until he was startled by a familiar malicious blonde.

“Oh and what is this? A journal?” The blonde English man snatched the small book as Jonathan gasped “Dio! Place that down, That’s (Y/n)’s, you mustn't glance through it!” Jonathan neared the blonde as he mimicked his step-brother.

“Blah Blah, aren’t you at all curious about the contacts it may hold?” Dio asked as he waved the book around, Jonathan was conflicted for a moment, of course he was curious especially since you kept it so close, away from his eyes.

However nothing was worth losing your trust, “No, I am not.” The blonde glanced at his step-brother before scoffing “Well I am, now let’s see what she’s been hiding!” the blonde devil smiled wickedly as he flipped through the pages, all while Jonathan attempted to snatch the book back.

Though the two stopped their small game as Dio gave a baffled expression “There’s nothing in here, just your neanderthal face.” the blonde forcefully showed the shocked navy haired boy.

Truth be told, Dio was right, with each page a variation of him was there. Sketched with such precision it seemed as if it was a photograph, he felt a soft bang in his heart as he took the book from Dio; who was rambling about god knows what.

Joseph:

You and that damned sketch book. No matter where you were or what you were up to, he was expected to see you hand in hand with your black sketch book. You carried it as if it was a treasured relic, even when he was training under Lisa Lisa rigorous test.

“Hey, what is it about that book you always have to have it with you?” he asked, leaning into your personal space. Slamming the book closed as he glanced from your now shut book to your face, he could see a glimmer.

Of what exactly? He wasn’t sure “Oh what was that Miss Lisa Lisa, you need me?” You questioned, pretending to hear her voice before bidding Joseph goodbye. Leaving him puzzled and intrigued as you slipped away from him, sketch book in hand. 

Despite his numerous requests and pleas for a simple glimpse of the pages of your sketchbook, you never caved in “For the last time Joseph, no.” much like a whiny child, he clung onto you as you waited patiently “Please, please, please (Y/n)! I promise to do whatever you want!”

You had to give him credit, his commitment to this was astounding “Will you leave that poor soul alone? you're like a whiny brat.” Caesar asked as he seemed to be more annoyed than anything, though Joseph ignored the harsh blonde “Please, I’ll even do your chores!?” Caesar suddenly pulled the brunette off you as you lightly laughed.

“You hardly even do your chores Jojo, So I don’t think you’ll hold up your end of the deal. Speaking of chores, I have to go see if Miss Lisa Lisa needs help with the laundry. Bye bye jojo~” you bid farewell to Caesar as well.

Though not before catching a glimpse of Joseph being more dramatic, expanding his arm as you began leaving. Hearing Caesar’s lecture before feeling a harsh momentum crashing onto your lower legs, causing you to let go of your book and stumble onto the ground.

Complete horror plastered on your face as Joseph reached down to your spilled pages, slamming your head onto the floor as you heard rustles of pages. You hadn’t even bothered to lift it up as you heard some playful gasps, “I never knew you loved to sketch me! Man these are really good and detailed, Say why don’t I pose for you on your next one~” 

Jotaro:

A pair of (E/c) eyes. That's what he first made eye contact with as they turned away once again, At first it did startle him, not that he showed it, but soon after he had gotten used to them staring at him at such odd times before they moved onto something else. 

No matter where, no matter the time, he could always count on the pair of (E/c) eyes to sneak glimpses of him. “So, What are you drawing now (Y/n)?” Kakyoin asked as he glanced at the page briefly before stepping back.

“Nothing too interesting, just some plants and fabrics” you said as the red-head boy gave a knowing glance before pointing at the paper “Try to narrow this part more, otherwise it’ll look like their constipated” 

Laughing you hardly noticed a curious set of blue eyes attempting to sneak a glance of the paper. Though with no such luck as (Y/n) shut the book softly.

You both were shoulder to shoulder as the car continued on the desert land, with the senior Joestar rambling about who knows what and Polnareff trying to get the attention of Avdol.

Your fingers smudged with the charcoal, gently enough to create a soft grey. You had listened to Kakyoin's advice and narrowed the familiar pair of eyes.

This had to be one of your better portraits of Jotaro, not that the others were hideous, this particular one seemed to catch his essence better.

You hadn’t even realized the pair of blue eyes watching your every move, not until you began to shut the book. When he gently held it open, your (E/c) eyes widened as he glanced down.

“Looks good.”

Josuke:

“What do you think he’s saying to em’?” Okuyasu asked as he lowered his binoculars “Like I care about what he’s saying, look at how he’s invading their personal space!?” Josuke practically screeched.

Not far from the famed manga artist's home, Josuke and Okuyasu were hiding in the bushes as Rohan pointed something out once again.

Ever since school had ended for the summer break, you had been in the presence of Rohan. Sometimes posing for him in exchange for some art lessons “That bastard is gonna pay for touching her face!”

He clenched his fist dramatically as Okuyasu nodded along “Let’s go beat him up!” Right as the pompadour boy was about to reject his friend's offer he watched as Rohan passed the (H/c) haired girl her sketchbook back.

Something not even he had laid eyes on, a surge of jealousy inflicted upon him. Glancing up from the manga artist (Y/n) saw her beloved boyfriend walking up to the two in a menacing manner “Oh hey Josuke, I thought we were meeting at Tonio’s later.?”

“Yeah we are but not before I teach this bastard a lesson on social distance” His face was filled with anger as he neared the two, though not before an explanation from the terrified manga artist.

“What are you talking about you idiot? I was teaching her how to draw facial expressions?!?” Rohan screeched towards the end as Josuke’s stand emerged.

The manga artist ripped the sketchbook from her hands before opening it, showing the array of portraits of the pompadour boy. Josuke quickly stopped his stand as he looked upon the pages, all while (Y/n) stood in embarrassment.

a/n: writing this as of the time where we all think acca howler is the big baddie for part 9. i hope this ages like wine. also i hope its obvious how much i like to make fun of toru. pls laugh 💔.

Dio Brando (Pre-Vampire)

- hyperaware of his cleanliness, carrying lotions and sanitizers because he doesn't want to seen as "low class"

- cat person, he'll stop in his tracks if there's a cat and would give it a small pet. on the same note, he thinks dogs are disgusting.

- allergic to peaches. he doesn't wanna talk about it, it's not important it's not like peaches are in everything smh

- very literate. he reads in his free time when he's not making jonathan's life miserable. he likes to use big words.

- his favorite season is winter.

- talented in caligraphy, can only write in caligraphy tbh

- hates the taste of coffee, prefers tea more than anything

- actually really enjoys rugby and playing sports, if he can excel at something then it excites him when the attention is on him.

- he's so pretty when he cries (which is rare) but he does it if it means he'll get something his way. yes he can cry on demand.

- expert in reading body language, that's why he can manipulate everyone so well.

Kars

- since he's a god, i'm gonna assume he doesn't need to eat anything to maintain himself alive but he has a soft spot for human food despite hating humans

- he would enjoy classic rock music if he knew how to function a radio

- actually kinda likes animals. because they're so weak and useless, he almost feels bad for them.

- he can grow his hair whenever he pleases, purposely likes it long as it makes him appear divine.

- if you were able to piqued his interest as a human, he'll take you under his wing and have you sit somewhere looking all pretty

- has farted once while laughing and he nearly wiped out a whole town because of it

- a control freak. he hates the unpredictability.

- contrary to popular belief (or maybe not), he's very patient. doesnt act impulsively to his emotions.

- unironically smells good. he doesn't do anything to maintain this almost naturally sweet odor that he has.

- obsession with beauty, either on himself or on the material things. if something isn't beautiful then there's not worth in paying attention to it. right?

Dio (Post-Vampire)

- doesn't know how to drive a car

- loves chocolate. rich, dark chocolate. canonically jonathan loved chocolate and since he's using his body, he gets those urges to just munch on some chocolate.

- you know how it's a common trope to depict vampires to drink wine. we know dio does like to drink wine, but it's because he can taste the subtle flavors and blood mixed in with the alcohol.

- has a sensitive nose, he can smell your scent from a mile away (your blood mostly but.. it sounds better if i said scent)

- doesn't sleep at all and isn't interested in it. sleep is the most vulnerable state any being could be in, he wants to keep his guard up.

- he does a cute thing with his nose where it scrunches up before he bursts out in a laugh

- really horny. sorry not sorry. his libido is high, why do you think he's got like a million kids with different women? (not exaggerating!!!!!)

- the type to walk in a store 5 minutes before it closes.

- has hissed once at vanilla ice because he pulled the blinds and the sunlight came in

- moonbathes. he likes to relish in the moonlight and seeing the stars. its peaceful...

Yoshigake Kira

- he's one of those people that just don't listen to music at all. in fact he can't stand it and turns the radio off if it bothers him too much.

- slow eater, he takes his time eating his food

- always orders the same thing for anything. he's a regular at a coffee place, gets the same drink at the exact same time and exact day of the week.

- sleeps with socks on smh

- and to add on to that, he sleeps on his back and his arms at his side like a brick wall.

- he hates pictures of himself. avoids cameras at all cost if he see's people out in public taking scenery photos. rejects and ignores if tourist ask him to take one.

- he has no hobbies. lies to his coworkers about it and answers something generic like golf.

- doesn't like children. they're unpredictable, noisy, and messy. he just doesn't understand.

- he doesn't like animals either, especially insects. has instincts of a cat and he'll catch a fly out the corner of his eyes with one swift hand motion and crush it under his palm.

- is fluent in english and french

Diavolo

- likes lollipops, even if it makes his teeth hurt.

- gets ragebaited so easily, he'll freak out if you do another one of those "will you still love me if i was a worm".

- actually very loyal! it's hard for him to trust people, no doubt that if he has trust in someone then he's gonna stick with them.

- pointy nails, he doesn't even file them down they just naturally grow like that.

- the type to cover his farts with a fake cough. it's a natural bodily process, its ok.

- can only sleep if its completely dark and silent. any distraction will make him rage. shhh the boss is asleep.

- is hyperaware of time. everything is dependent on time. everything has a time limit.

- snorts and spits out phlegm like a goober. i mean hey... he is a dad, he's gonna do dad things.

- actually cannot stand tight fitted clothes. he feels like its suffocating him.

- doesn't like eating alone. he wont talk to anyone but the presence would be nice.

Doppio

- is double jointed, its creepy seeing him bend his arms or legs backwards without any pain.

- has an oral fixation. probably the type to chew on pens or pencils.

- speaking of pencils, for some reason he gives off pencil shaving smells. either that or like worn out vanilla lotion.

- is left handed.

- purrs like a cat if he gets praised, not even to be cute he's just a frickin' weirdo.

- coughs and sneezes like a newborn baby. its gross and it goes everywhere and he gets snot covering the lower half of his face (i like being mean to him lmao).

- cannot handle people staring at him. he gets aggressive.

- telephone by lady gaga. DO NOT, i repeat, DO NOT play that around him. he's gonna break the radio and use the wires as a phone and accidentally electrocute himself.

- hates caramel. he doesn't like it sticking to his teeth.

- a bad habit of saying "eh.." after everything.

- likes the sunset.

Enrico Pucci

- shops at expensive stores (this is canon idc). belenciaga, versace, etc.

- does that thing where he licks his finger before turning the page of a book.

- has a hard time using his cellphone. needs to put on his glasses like a grandpa and figure things out slowly but gradually.

- gives out rosary's to people who he thinks needs them the most.

- his favorite music genre is smooth jazz. he frequents cafe's a lot for this reason.

- order's a cinnamon americano with cream on the top.

- he'll offer you his coat when it's cold but don't expect him to do it all the time.

- has those really corny bookmarks that say something like "not meow, im reading"

- a slow driver. he's going 10 under the speed limit. he doesn't care either, he prioritizes his own safety but doesn't realize he's caused 5 accidents behind him lmaooo

- hums to himself while he's doing a mundane task. he sounds pretty nice tbh.

Funny Valentine

- has a busy schedule but would take the time off to do something stupid like going to a store because a sale is happening or a new ice cream flavor at a parlor popped up.

- has good posture and is light on his feet. you can't hear his footsteps at all.

- got a sugar tooth. he craves for something sweet all the time.

- unironically would use slang to keep himself "hip" with the youth. but he uses them wrong all the time....

- likes to watch old hollywood movies from the 60s. they're his favorites.

- captain crunch is his favorite cereal.

- prefers dogs over cats.

- loves apple cider.

- has been to every disneyland/world that exists.

- when he stumbles over his feet, he does a cartwheel to play it off all cool.

Toru

- prefers earbuds over headphones. we know his big ahh head will leave a dent on his skull.

- pulls on a door that says push. its even funnier if he looks around and everyones just staring at him.

- likes a nice vanilla latte. it has to be iced too.

- would lowkey give off those performative male vibes. the tote bag. the feminist book. the iced matcha latte. and he talks about women having it hard and he wants to end period cramps.

- still has "in a relationship" status and refuses to remove it. just move on lil bro 😭✌️.

- drowns himself in axe body spray, thinking he smells really good but its just fumes at this point.

- thinks those jubilee videos on youtube are insightful and entertaining.

- his favorite type of weather is clear, sunny days.

- a chemistry nerd. and he's annoying about it too.

- he stares way too much that its creepy. like legit almost breathing down your neck.

Acca Howler

- likes listening to the radio, or sometimes a podcast about something stupid.

- he HAS balenciaga, he owns supreme, he owns rick owens stuff, he's got the moneyz for it.

- the type to flirt with retail employees, especially young women. always calls them "sweetheart".

- drinks scotch or some whiskey cocktail if he's feeling a little crazy.

- wears socks and sandals. and fanny packs. he looks like somebody's father.

- has a habit of guiding people with a hand on their lower back.

- claps really frickin' loudly. its obnoxious when he's at a concert, movie theater, hell at the plane where you can hear the rapture of his palms slapping together.

- manspreader. manspreads. man. spreads.

- pretends to check the time, even when he's not even wearing a watch.

- cooks a mean barbecue. the meat is tender and juicy... and thick...