#sbr x reader

The entire family had to help clean the house today, even though they all complained to no end about it, especially Gyro, who you had to bribe with the promise of making it up to him later. He had grinned like a fool at that and joked that you should be careful with those kinds of promises. That grin was quickly wiped off of his face, though, when you handed him a long list of what he was supposed to be doing today. Starting with his most hated activity: doing the dishes.

You were standing on a stepping stool, stretching your entire body to try and reach the top of the shelf you were currently in the process of dusting off. The task at hand was momentarily forgotten, though. Instead, your focus had been turned to the mysterious box shoved to the back, just out of reach. In moments like these you curse your short height— why couldn't you be just a few centimeters taller so you could reach that box. Your fingers were so close, grazing the cardboard but not reaching quite far enough to get a proper grip.

“I should just call papá, you clearly can't reach that far.”

Your oldest son, Vasco, called from where he was sweeping the floor next to you. Despite not being able to see his face with your back turned, the amusement was evident in his voice and the way it quivered slightly as he was clearly trying to hold back a laugh.

“Don't you dare! You know damn well that I will never hear the end of it if I have to ask him for help with this!”

“Nyo ho ho, what am I hearing about needing my help, tesoro?”

Speaking of the devil. There he was, as if he could sense that the topic of conversation was about him all the way from the kitchen where he was supposed to be cleaning and drying the dishes. With an exasperated sight, you turned around to see Gyro sauntering through the door, that stupid golden grin already stretched across his face.

When you look at your husband, you can't help the way your breath hitches and the way your cheeks warm with a blush. His golden hair, which he wore open and without the hat on his head, fell neatly over his broad shoulders and back. Today he was wearing a white dress shirt with the first few buttons left open and the sleeves rolled up to the elbows, exposing the tan skin of his chest and muscular forearms underneath — paired with some old pair of jeans and his signature belt.

“Nothing that should concern you, idiota. Besides, weren't you supposed to be doing the dishes? Last time I checked, they were in the kitchen and not here.” You quip back as you step down from the stepping stool to face him.

Your son couldn't help but chuckle at that, which earned him a sharp glare from Gyro.

“That’s EXACTLY what I came to talk to you about! I don't know where to put those fancy plates. You know which ones I'm talking about, the ones with those weird shapes.” He says, gesturing vague shapes into the air with his hands that were supposed to visualize the design on the plates.

“We've been married for TEN YEARS and you STILL don’t know how to properly tidy up the dishes!? Are you serious Gyro!?” Your eyebrows furrow in annoyance as you glare at him. Each word punctuated by your finger jamming into his chest. How hard could it be to remember where to put those damn plates? They've been in the same place for years now!

“Hey, in my defense they all sort of look the same! Besides, at least I'm not struggling to reach some box because I'm too short.” Grinning widely down at your glaring face he pulls you closer by the hand that was previously poking his chest accusingly.

“That's not- don't change the subject! It's not my fault that I'm short. You, however, SHOULD know where to put plates that have been in the same place for YEARS.” At your words he threw his head back, a hearty laugh cutting through the air that had you fighting to hold back a smile of your own. The sound melts away your annoyance little by little, your scowl now replaced with your own giggles as you hide your face into the crook of Gyro’s neck.

His large, calloused hands move to pull you against him by the waist, your hands splayed against his firm chest as he pulls you impossibly closer into his embrace. Like this you could smell his familiar scent, he smelled faintly of the citrus soap that he always used, a hint of sweat from training and taking care of the horses outside that morning, paired with something so distinctly Gyro. Inhaling deeply you sigh contently, savoring the feeling of being wrapped up in your husband's arms as he presses a soft kiss against your temple.

“Ewww, don't do that around me! Get a room or something.” His face contorts into a grimace as he says this, averting his eyes from the scene before him. It's not like your children weren't used to the frequent and open displays of affection between their parents, that didn't stop them however from acting bothered by it every time. This has never deterred Gyro before and it wasn't going to now — he had always been open and unashamed of his affection and wasn't afraid of showering the people he loved most with it.

The two of you couldn't help but laugh at that as you reluctantly separate from each other, only for Gyro to pull his son into a side-hug in your stead. Grinning widely and tightening his hold despite his son's squirming against his father's strong hold.

You watch the scene before you unfold with a hand over your mouth to stifle your giggles. For how worried Gyro had been when you were pregnant with your first child, once your son had grown older, Gyro had quickly shown that he could balance being fun and easygoing with being strict when he needed to be. Since your husband's family was quiet large, your own little family had quickly grown as well. Vasco, your first born son who's real name only you, Gyro and the boy himself know — Caio, Angelica, Ireneo and your youngest daughter Lucrezia. All your children are all relatively close in age, courtesy of Gyro having been barely able to keep his hands off of you.

Of course the first thing that Gyro insists on teaching them as soon as they're able to - is the spin. You had been initially against it, but seeing how much training together every day served as a great bonding activity convinced you eventually. Besides, since they would all learn the medical knowledge passed down from the Zeppeli family, learning the spin was practically essential.

By now Vasco had managed to free himself from his father's embrace and ran off somewhere — presumably to find one of his siblings, leaving you and Gyro alone. You were both still smiling when you look at each other, he looked slightly disheveled from the short scuffle, maybe a little too out of breath but you weren't going to comment on it. He looked far too happy for you to ruin his fun.

"So, what did I hear about you needing my help?" The shit-eating grin that accompanies the question makes you groan and look off to the side — anywhere other than towards his face. Of course Gyro would be the one to break the atmosphere of the moment, after you were willing to spare him no less. With the prospect of finally satisfying your own gnawing curiosity, you decided that your pride could take the damage from having to ask for help.

"I might need your help reaching that cardboard box on top of that shelve." You vaguely gesture towards the direction of the shelve as you say this, still avoiding to look at him so you didn't have to see that smug look that was without a doubt on his face by now.

Surprisingly, Gyro didn't say another word. Taking a peek from out of the corner of your eye, you saw him effortlessly lift the box into his arms and set it on top of the coffee table nearby. When he began lifting the lid you went over to join him, bending slightly at the waist to be able to see better.

When you got a look at what was inside, you couldn't help but let out a delighted gasp, there were a bunch of old photographs scattered along the inside of the box along with your old pocket camera. You took a few of them into your hands and began inspecting them — from the dates carefully written on the back, it looked like they were from the time of the Steel Ball Run race.

Back then you had brought your pocket camera and a few rolls of film along to the race. You had wanted to document as much of the journey as you could and the new invention of a camera so small it could fit into a bag just fine, was perfect for the job. Luckily you were able to get your hands on one and used it throughout your journey, taking pictures of the scenery, your companions and really anything that seemed important enough to commemorate on photo.

After the race you had taken all the rolls of film to be developed and after that you must have forgotten about them with everything else going on at the time. They must have been shoved into this very box and left to be looked at later on top of that shelve.

"I totally forgot these existed! Look, this one is from that time when your hat fell into the river." You say, holding up the photo for Gyro too see. The photo in question showed a very upset Gyro as he was kneeling beside a river, holding his sopping wet hat in his hands. Next to him was Johnny, hunched over in his saddle from how much he was laughing.

It happend while the three of you were crossing a river, Gyro was too busy telling one of his terrible jokes to notice a low hanging branch — before he could even get to the punch-line of the joke, the hat was already knocked off of his head and swimming down the river. Luckily the river's current wasn't too strong so he was able to get it back before it went too far down the stream. That day, Gyro had to ride around with a wet hat, while you and Johnny teased him relentlessly about the whole ordeal.

"You took a photo of that?! Bella, you wound me! Why would you take advantage of me in my moment of weakness?!" One of his hands was feigning a dramatic faint, while the other was clutched over his heart as if he had been physically wounded.

"How could I not, look at that pout on your face! When an opportunity like that presents itself, you just have to take it!" You say, smiling widely at his antics.

At that Gyro let himself fall back against the couch as if pretending to be shot, now with both hands against his heart and sighing dramatically.

"I can't believe this! How could my own wife betray me like this! Oh, the tragedy!"

"You know what, maybe I will even frame it."

A/N: thank you for reading!

so fun fact, I realized about halfway through writing this that I had no idea if cameras small enough to fit in a bag existed back then. so I went down a whole rabbit hole about cameras and turns out in 1895 the Kodak Pocket Camera that was small enough to fit in a coat pocket was invented.

meaning this is entirely historically inaccurate, but for the sake of this fic let's just pretend that it was already invented 5 years earlier :3

“‘M gonna beat the shit outta you,” you hiss.

Excitement flashed upon his features as he watched you stand, and he subconsciously licked his lips in anticipation.

“Bring it.”

He doesn't have to tell you twice, rounding the table to loom over Johnny. Looking up at you from his leaned back posture, your tense expression may as well have reflected on the excited glint in his eyes. You squinted at him, before you harshly grabbed the lapels of his borrowed coat. Almost throwing yourself with it, you forced him off and onto the ground, chair squealing as it was skid aside by association.

Johnny's back met the wood with an "oof," before he scrambled, forcing himself up with his palms down behind him. He managed a knee before the two of you, even for a moment as he made quick distance, "Woah, woah hey!" he exclaimed as you started to kick him while he's down. Your heel met the top of his shin and he staggered more, though you didn't quite anticipate his lunge forward to barrel you down with him.

Having met the ground shoulder-first, you seethed as Johnny made his way onto his own feet. He bobbed away from an upward swing, only to grab one of your wrists to further close the distance. The move pulled you to your knees, eyes level with the man's boxers; unfortunate for him, you chose to use his grip to aid you further, forcing his gut to kneeing distance, instead, on the way of getting your feet under you.

As he doubled over, you sent a left hook into his side, then the uppercut to the sternum, sending him backward little by little. With one last shove, the nearby shelves rattle with the force of Johnny hitting the wall.

Darting forward to better grab and pin the jockey's hands beside him, it takes embarrassingly long to register it all, his hot breath fanning your own face, the heavy rise and fall of both your chests, the bulge that presses against your hips..

You couldn't help the grin that spreads across your face.

With the slightest shift, you move your thigh against it, allowing him the power to grind on you. Then, unwisely, one of his hands is dropped from your grip, your fingers etched along sweating skin, teasing beneath an old jacket's lapel to spread across Johnny's shoulders, barely easing the ache brought on by hard work and battle that wrings through your grip. The coat slips off on one side, revealing more of the jockey to you. In response, your hand moved back downward to selfishly palm at one of his pectorals, relishing in the soft muscle beneath your fingers. With focus, you could feel the fluttering of his heartbeat, a pace asynchronous to the shift of his hips over your tensed thigh.

Johnny's freed hand had been slung over your shoulder, where he set a tight grip to keep you close. "Hey," he huffed, and your eyes darted back up to meet his own, "get the hell over'ere," the jockey said with a helpful tug towards him.

For once, you let him guide you, tilting your head before your lips clashed with his own. As the two of you moved against each other, a space deep within you sighed. His teeth scraped over your bottom lip, you released his other hand to cup his cheek, and you felt, then saw as he pulled back, a pleased smile on his stupid face. His hips stilled, and the arm over your shoulder migrated down into a firmer hold.

You couldn't ask why he stopped before the answer came to you, her words a dull thud to your ears, and her name? Your beloved answer's name was the floor.

It happened too quick, you blinked and Johnny was getting to his knees above you, your hips bracketed between his legs. All he had to keep him balanced was the one hand planted beside your head, while he went to slowly unbutton your own jacket.

Reaching upward, what the Joestar took to be you palming his face turned out to be a slap, which, to be fair to him, is quite similarly related to the other.

Johnny cursed under his breath, "The hell was that for?"

"You're fumblin' too much," you lied, before unfastening the small buttons of your coat with much nimbler of fingers, "It's embarrassing just watchin' you."

He sighs as though your comment pissed him off, but his eyes were glued to your slowly revealed form, and he simply couldn't be bothered to imbue snark into his voice as he replied, "Would you rather I put m'self to 'better use' fer you?"

Your eyes met him once more, if only for a moment, before shrugging, "Your words, not mine," as you fully, though not fast enough in your opinion, parted the jacket to him.

Hardly bothering to wait for clarification, his hand trailed down the contours of your body, paused just a moment before your bush, looked back up to you to catch your nod, then merrily carried on. his fingers slid down between your labia, before his thumb moved back upward to push against your emerging clit. You couldn't help the shudders as he circled over and around that spot, pressing firm as his middle and ring massaged your folds.

"Sweet mother Mary, you're wet," Johnny uttered quite unhelpfully, and curse it, your face would pair well with poppies as you watched him drag those same fingers down his tongue.

You swallowed hard, and the jockey would have fully reached down to continue his ministrations, should you not have panicked. Quick, you double fisted him by the hair just to headbutt him without thinking.

Johnny reeled back with a shocked shout, and with this opening you pushed yourself up to more fully grab the man. Fists collided, and you knew how the bruises may bloom upon your features by tomorrow. He tried to push you back down with a grab to the arm, but you just slipped out of your coat to throw on his head. A final tackle got the right momentum to slam the man down to meet his good friend, (that's right: the floor,) and with it, he slowly clawed your jacket off his face in the tired moments after.

You kept Johnny pinned beneath you, one hand trapped with your own. There was only his long coat between him and the cold wooden boards, and as the two of you took the time to catch your breath, his eyes are upon you in sheer wonder, smile askew across his features, "You know," he pants, free hand trailing down your face, thumb rested on your chin, "This ain't too bad, I could get used to all this."

"Oh, really?" You eased to properly sit atop him, rocking against him as you made yourself comfortable over his hips, "y'didn't strike me as a bottom," you joked, leaning just that little bit further closer.

Johnny's eyed widened to dinner plates as you guffawed toward his reddened face. Desperate as he could be to shake it, he swiped at one of your arms to knock your balance, sending the both of you back to your frenzy of limbs. Forcibly tumbled from your seat atop his lap, the yelp you let out is markedly undignified.

You refuse to gift him the upper hand, barely keeping your side to the ground when you turned, elbowed his ribs, and full body threw yourself back atop him. Johnny now laid backside up when you grabbed the Joestar by the back of his hair, and harshly tugged him toward you; the sudden keen that evaded him at the motion metaphorically made your own eyebrows raise.

"Gah— fuckin' dammit," Johnny spluttered, and he really thought he was doing something by reaching to grab you from behind him, but it was too darn easy to counter, should you shift your weight to hold him down beneath your thighs.

You felt so triumphant for a good minute before it dawned on you.

You can't fuck him like this. sat on top of his back, It's kind of hard to grind on someone's spine if they aren't a straight up skeleton.

Trying your damnedest to become the fastest thing alive, you fell back to move your grip to Johnny's hip and shoulder. Despite the risks, you turned him over to face you once more, and with this series of maneuvers was how you spelled your own demise.

Having finally learned from every past attempt, Johnny pinned both of your arms above your head. In a similar vein, he pushed one of you legs up, calf rested over his shoulder. With how he leaned above you, you were a reenactment of Mary queen of Scots' final letter, sealed just before her execution.

Although you had zero leverage to do so, you tried your hardest to rock yourself against him. Johnny took the hint, thank the stars, and matched your weak pace, grinding his clothed dick against your bare pussy. The motions aided in the growing heat in your core, though it left you horribly wanting. Steeled though your own shudders, you met him past lidded eyes and swallowed a hard lump within your throat.

"Johnny," you sighed, "if you don't hurry the fuck up, I'm goin' to leave you, so you got no one to tend to you but yerself. Are we clear on that?"

Even if your warning was through shaky breath, and you looked frankly silly beneath him, the Joestar heeded your words. With his free hand, his fingers darted back between your folds, teasing your entrance as he found your clit once more beneath his thumb.

Your keen is more than enough to encourage him, and after a few moments of stalling, his ring and middle finger dipped into your pussy, which barely stretched around the protrusion. The main factor that allowed him to take his sweet, sweet time was the consistent pressure against your clit, still rolling it as the first two fingers hilt you.

Look, maybe it had been a while, sue you, but it was getting increasingly difficult to keep quiet when Johnny curled his fingers inside you. And maybe you didn't expect him to know where the g-spot would be, but the way your mind skids over its own tracks leaves all that doubt in the dust. Slow and methodical like the rest of it, his index similarly makes it way in your cunt; and for a bit, the small part of you that is so sick of waiting quiets the hell down. As he moves, your moans practically drip out of you, your voice having grown hoarse as he plays with you.

Beside yourself, you plead, "Please,"

The bastard barely hums in acknowledgment, a little too pleased with himself.

You curse "Johnny, Johnny, please, you win. Just," your breath hitched, hips rolled against his hand when he pressed against your g-spot again, "please, jus' fuck me, already," your eyes rolled back, cursing him as your mind stuttered.

"Oh really, you sure?" he asked, laughter lined within his tone, "Why didn't you say so sooner, then?"

Faster than you would've like, Johnny pulled his hand away, taking a second to look at the slick that coated his fingers. silently, he held that same hand right in front of your face, touching your lips.

With the hardest glare you could muster, you huffed, "I could kill you one day, you know."

Damn it all, he laughed, shoulders shaking in time with the sound.

"You like me far too much fer all that."

And you refused to acknowledge him with a verbal answer. Mouth parted, you closed your eyes and leaned toward him, preferring to taste yourself. It's sour on your tongue, almost salty, too when you closed your lips around him. Your tongue flattened against the underside, slowly curling along it as he dragged his hand out.

Johnny rose to stand, then offered his not spit-soaked hand to aid you to your feet. With only a nod towards the table as prompt, you migrated to sit atop its surface. It's as if you've grown too tired to bother retorting, replaced with the need to just get the hell on with it.

You watched him pull down his boxers, and decide that maybe you're actually glad to have let him take his time. Stepping up to the table, he planted his hands to either side of you, and you wrapped you arms around his shoulders in return as you kissed once more. Your thoughts draw within itself while your exchange of spit draws on; that is, until he brushed your arms off him, hand splayed across your chest as you were pushed down, back on much better varnished wood.

With a shift, Johnny lined his cock against your cunt, dragging it up and down your folds before he stilled at your entrance. One hand kept your hips in place, just barely off the table's edge as he slowly pushed in.

As soon as the tip breached, he was able to smoothly sink into you, moving one hand back to pin you down. In response, you folded your legs across Johnny's lower back, forcing him toward you. His dick brushed against your g-spot as he moved, having your thoughts falter once more. Then, finally, he hilts against you, groaning as he does.

The two of you still, rainfall that thrummed onto the tin roof overhead drowning out the rest of the world.

Too soon, yet not soon enough, Johnny pulls back, and you hastily reached up, incidentally grabbing him by the hair. With the tug down toward you, his hips stutter, and by god, he whimpered.

Urged on, he began to thrust into you, removing his arm from between you to just hold himself up, forearm on the tabletop beside you. Inwardly you cheer, tugging him down the rest to the way to lock lips with him.

While Johnny rocked into you, your own hips grinding against him as they met, your slow kiss became sloppy in their own right. You were practically feeding him your moans and whimpers, grip on his hair tensed when he stroked your g-spot, eyes rolled to the roof overhead. How you moved could hardly be described as "in tandem," in how you were by no means elegant, but the growing spark in your very core left zero room to care. His pace would gradually quicken, and iron struck magnesium with every thrust.

"Y'feel so good," Johnny would mumble against your lips, "so good for me, fuck," He shuddered again, your grip harsh on him from where your fingers thread close to his scalp, "yer perfect, so so good," yet more kindling, enough for the sparks to catch, yet more heat pooled in your core

Every once in a while, you'd bring yourself to shut him up, if only to get more of him, eating his words before he could speak. Your moans could easily take over the silence in his stead. Within your very soul, the heat of your core evaporates the last moisture of the foundational logs, fizzling and popping, it built further, its edges caught the kindling's blaze.

"Johnny, I'm—" Your words stopped in your throat, something bordering a whine having run through you. The fire kept on building, your eyes fluttered shut when your partner thrust in you just right, there, right there, everything kept on building, thoughts run in circles, seconds behind the words that fell out of the both of you, in circles as it all tipped, the pop of water boiled over, of a socket reentering its joint, of fireworks, your head at some point was thrown back, "Johnny, I'm— I'm gonna cum, m'gonna—"

"Do it, do it, you're so good, fuck, I— you're so good, do it, oh my god,"

Since when did you sound so broken?

Since when did—

It all caught on itself, wood crumbling down to charcoal. You curled against him, vision totally unfocused. You tugged against him hard, all you could hear was each other and the roar in your ears. He stuttered above you, and when did his face find the crook of your neck. You felt him come inside, you also felt your shoulders gradually relax.

Your breath took longer than you thought to even, and you could hear Johnny, break fanned across your neck.

The two of you slumped together, your hands migrated to his back.

Within the charcoal lie awaiting embers, searching for kindling of it own.

"I… How you feel about goin' again?" You swallowed the lump in your throat, "Like some water, 'fore suckin' your dick?"

"Y'know what," he relents, "maybe you will be the death of me," There's a laugh, then, as Johnny collected himself, "Jus' gimme five minutes."