Call me Cressa / Hobbyist / Writer / she pronouns / a jjba fic dump / just your average jojo fan / random inspiration bursts / inconsistent updates / mostly reader-inserts / mostly angst and sad thoughts / did i mention inconsistent updates?
Anyway, in honor of the Part 6 announcement, I present a Jolyne oneshot with a gender-neutral reader. This is a short one since I made it at a moment’s notice, and I still have some stuff to do for college.
With that said, I hope you enjoy this little piece.
warning: minor spoilers about Part 6 and its characters
Ƹ̵̡Ӝ̵̨̄Ʒ*:.*:..*:...｡o○ ○o｡..:*..:*..:*Ƹ̵̡Ӝ̵̨̄Ʒ
Jolyne never expected to find normalcy amidst the chaos that is her life in prison.
Your hand held hers, fingers curled over its back and thumb caressing the skin. The quiet of Emporio's ghost room brought comfort and privacy, away from prying eyes and Anasui's relentless attempts to court Jolyne.
A muffled scream rang through the walls, followed by hushed voices and the sound of footsteps growing fainter by the second. Anasui would have to deal with it.
Jolyne looked at you—actually looked at you. Her eyes raked through the strands of your hair sticking to your face, half-lidded eyes gazing at your interlaced fingers, the lashes touching your cheeks, and the soft exhale from your parted lips that somehow drowned out the buzz in her mind. Her fingers twitched, wanting to brush your hair off your face, yet too afraid to do so lest it disrupted this moment. Jolyne wondered if this was reality or a dream, an illusion her mind conjured to cope with all her problems. She squeezed your hand, palms clammy and knuckles white, and that was all the reassurance she needed.
Lying down on the couch, faces inches apart and legs intertwined, Jolyne wished this was her life. No prison barring them from the world, no enemy Stands to worry about—just you and her this close to each other. She put an arm over your waist and brought you closer, chests brushing against each other and warmth dancing across each other's skin. You sighed, a smile curling your lips, as you buried your face in the crook of Jolyne's neck and stroked her hair with your free hand. Her breath hitched, heart stuttering at the gentle action, and pressed her cheek against your temple with a sigh of her own.
"You're scared, aren't you?"
Jolyne shuddered at the hot breath that swept across her skin, but she didn't ignore your question. Somehow, you always knew how she felt regardless of how well she hid her feelings. Jolyne curled around you; her legs hooking yours closer to hers and her arm pulling you flush against her body. The words remained at the tip of her tongue, unsure and fearful of your reaction. You leaned against Jolyne, not once letting go of her hand. The warmth of your touch and the soft brush of your fingers in her hair silently comforted and encouraged her.
"I am," Jolyne whispered, afraid to break the comforting silence if she spoke any louder. "But I think I can face anything with you around."
"You're so cheesy," you chuckled, pausing your ministrations. Jolyne felt your fingers bury themselves in her hair as a thoughtful hum left your lips, "and honest, too."
Jolyne felt you shift in her hold—her heart soared and her skin flushed with heat when you kissed her cheek, whispering against it with affection, "I guess that's why I fell for you."
You returned to place your forehead on her shoulder with another hum, one that spoke of many things you could never put into words. Jolyne was okay with that, because she couldn't even begin to tell you how much this moment meant to her. How much you meant to her.
As your fingers stroked her hair one more time before resting against the nape of her neck, Jolyne hugged you close to her as much as she could. She felt herself melt against you, against everything you are and could be, against the hands who held her heart with unbelievable care, against the one she could imagine her whole life with.
Jolyne would never wish for anything else in this world other than you.
This is the sequel to Weakness, the first Dio oneshot I posted here. Lord knows how long I had this thing in my files. I think it was 9 or 10 days? I had writer’s block and college had me in a chokehold, so I lost track of time. I was actually thinking about how I should end this for days now, and here we are. I rushed the ending, to be honest, so I still hope you guys enjoy it somehow.
warning: mentions of blood, minor swearing, huge spoilers for Part 3, another very long oneshot, and a lot of references to the oneshot preceding this
Note: I deliberately used Dio as his human side and DIO as the current one with the insane god complex.
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Dio Brando—no, DIO stood at the peak of humanity; transcending its mortal existence entirely. The moment he received his Stand from an old crone, the idea of anyone opposing the charismatic and powerful vampire was inconceivable. Foolish, even, in the eyes of his most loyal followers. The man couldn't care less for the corpses and blood that trailed after his every step nor for those who swore undying fealty with lips pressed to his shoes in a kiss of fear and reverence. Every word that rolled off his tongue is law and grace combined, akin to religious faith with its own avid believers and devotees. A mere touch is denied and unattainable, something that no one could even work hard for, unless it was to satiate his more carnal desires. If anything, men and women either feared or admired him. On more than one occasion, it was both. A god among men, they say.
So, why is one measly photograph enough to chill the blood in his veins and falter the confidence in his stride?
Enya watched her master with obvious curiosity. Her fingers gripped her cane tighter the longer DIO stared at the developed image. The old woman assumed that her lord, almighty and fearsome, stewed in cold rage. Never had she seen him cower from terror nor lose his composure. It was unimaginable. Enya discarded the notion and did not bother to ask questions. No one dares question him, after all.
His fingers curled, knuckles discreetly trembling from the force, and nearly crumpled the poor thing in his hand. To the untrained eye, his focus remained on the two prominent figures of Jotaro Kujo, a teenager donning a high school uniform with the addition of his unusual cap and a large chain hanging on the collar, and the latter's grandfather Joseph Joestar whose clothes resembled that of some human adventurer—Indiana Jones, was it? DIO didn't care to know and never will. He gave little thought to those men. Not even the two Stand users that left his ranks and became traitors once the Joestars took the implanted fleshbuds off their foreheads.
What caught his attention was the face of a woman who seemed to be in her early twenties. She stood next to Jotaro with her arms crossed and her gaze focused on the horizon. The grim smile and the hardened resolve in her eyes made her look more alive in the photo than what DIO wanted. The tension in her expression contradicted the ease in her posture, marked by her lax shoulders and dainty fingers paused midway from drumming against her arm. She brought unwanted memories of blood and weakness, ones he thought he buried long ago after a century of isolation.
It was you. The same eyes, nose, lips, skin, hair—even the damn way you held yourself. The glaring similarities between the woman in his memories and the woman engraved in the film rattled him to the core. DIO never believed in the supernatural before he became one himself. Although, he thought that reincarnation was an idiotic concept born from those who cannot accept that death and the afterlife were the end of all things. Yet, there you are; a painful reminder of his former humanity. The turmoil that wrapped itself around his mind added to the phantom throb of his heart from when he was still human.
His glare intensified, easing his grip on the spirit photograph. DIO doesn't want to alarm Enya nor any of his underlings. He loathed appearing weak and undignified; giving them an opportunity to ambush him should he let his guard down.
The photo fluttered next to a broken camera, smashed to pieces with a chop of his hand, on the table with a huff from the imposing man. Moonlight spilled through the windows and bathed him in its luminescence; his shadow swallowed by the darkened areas of the room where the light would never reach. The fury burned bright in his eyes, yet Enya noticed something else—an emotion indecipherable and foreign. She never had the chance to mull about it, because DIO turned on his heel and walked towards the stairs with an unnatural grace and elegance in his gait.
“It seems that fate is upon us,” he told no one in particular; his smooth, honeyed voice carried across the expanse of the lobby. "I shall retire to my room for the night. Do not disturb me."
DIO didn't need to say any more. The underlying threat in his words told Enya everything. If anything, this decision served to confuse the witch doctor more. Her master always ridiculed the Joestars, either with a scoff or a mocking laugh, in their quest every time he checked their progress to send in the next Stand user. Tonight, he barely uttered an insult nor a snide comment. She wordlessly watched him disappear around the bend, then sighed.
"Oh, Lord Dio… What troubles you so?"
The heavy thud of a closed door echoed in DIO's ears; magnified by the lifeless expanse of his room. His feet absent-mindedly led himself to sit on one of the armchairs across a small table where a golden goblet accompanied a bottle of wine. With a practiced motion, his fingers curled around the stem of the goblet as he poured himself a drink with his other hand. His vacant gaze remained on the red liquor flowing into his cup; lost in memories and possibilities that tortured him for a century.
DIO never did forgive himself for allowing you to die.
He had his chance. He could have turned you into a vampire like himself when he held you in that castle. He could have given you an opportunity to live life with him; his abiding presence a gift to compensate for the time he left you after he gained immortality. He could have given you unimaginable freedom—to see civilization evolve and change before your eyes, to live in a time where you two would be the only constants in the world. DIO could have taken you with him during that lonesome century to be beside him when the coffin was opened. He could see the silent admiration in your gaze if you were to travel the world with him as he searched for a way to attain Heaven. Knowing that you had never traveled outside of London, DIO would have gladly taken you to anywhere you wanted and wished. You could have been the one sitting across from him at this very moment. He could imagine a thick tome in your hands and the curious gleam in your eyes as you carefully flipped pages, as if they would break under the slightest pressure of your touch. You had never held a book before since girls were rarely educated then, and DIO was certain you would have loved to read.
If it wasn't for the fact that he respected your dying wish, DIO could have lived the rest of his life with you.
The bottom of the bottle harshly slammed against the wooden surface. Hairline cracks crept across the glass bottle due to his vice grip, knuckles turning pale from the force. His jaw clenched, teeth gnashed and bared, as he brought the rim of the goblet to his lips. Your disappointed frown flashed across his mind; the faint memory of your hands gently taking away the bottle from his grasp consumed his senses. DIO could feel your fingers brush against his wrist as you pulled him to the spare room in your house; the one which once belonged to your parents. The slur in his voice was painfully obvious, yet you never pried for the reasons that caused him to drink so much. That soft smile still graced your features, even when you faced his alcohol-induced outbursts of rage and annoyance. It burned itself into his mind even after all these years. DIO brought the untouched wine back to the table as fingers buried themselves in his hair.
He couldn't even bring himself to drink away his thoughts of you.
"Useless," he muttered, tipping his head back against the cushion. He closed his eyes with a grunt. A thunderous roar shook the floors of the castle as he slaughtered zombies who dared laid their greedy hands on your corpse. Blood—your blood—smeared his skin, stains that still haunted him for eternity, and it was everywhere. His hands desperately reached for you, your dead body clutched by that damnable blond who accompanied Jonathan, as he fell from the balcony—
"I, DIO, being pathetic and weak?" He spat, feeling pinpricks of pain blossoming in his clenched fists. "Forget your humanity. Forget Dio Brando. Forget her."
DIO found himself spending the remnants of the night wallowing in memories of you, until the light of dawn peeked through his curtains.
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Your smile greeted him the following night.
In the solace of his room, DIO traced a sharp nail against the photo that held your beaming expression: eyes alight with laughter and lips pulled into that godforsaken smile. Your fingers brushed your mouth, paused in the middle of hiding the aforementioned smile behind your hand. You shared the same name as her. Two cameras lie broken on the table along with a photo—disregarded and forgotten—of the Joestar group riding camels through the Saudi Arabian desert. He didn’t care for the others laughing beside you.
What mattered was the bitter throb of his heart that shouldn’t even be possible for someone who claimed to have triumphed over his humanity.
"Dio!" He could hear your scandalized gasp ring clear in the country air. A hand covered the smile on your lips as you laughed out loud, brushing off the strands of hair that stuck to your face. Water soaked the cuffs of your sleeves and your collar, but you didn’t mind. “I can’t believe you did that!”
Neither did Dio, but there he was: water from the nearby stream trickling down his fingers and a smug smirk stretching from one ear to another. He huffed, shaking the water off his hands, “You forget that I’m not some stuck-up aristocrat who can’t have fun.”
“True,” you hummed, wiping your hands on your skirt. “Then again, it has been a while since we spent time together like this.”
You lifted your apron to wipe off the water on your face when a handkerchief softly rubbed against your cheek. Dio, who was surprised at his own gentle ministrations, continued to dab the water off as if it was routine; his thumb ghosting your heated skin through the thin cloth. The scarlet flush blooming across your cheeks and tinting your ears made his smirk widen, if that was possible. You sputtered your gratitude, yet adamantly tried to evade the touch of his handkerchief as you held your apron in an iron grip. Dio could only laugh at your expense, his heart thundering and his own cheeks the slightest bit warm.
A resounding crash stole him away from the memory. The bright, blue sky and its cotton-wisp clouds faded from view; the bleak, ornate walls of his room in their place. The light of the sun was replaced with streaks of moonlight slipping through the cracks of his curtains and cascading down the floor. It was only then did DIO realize the crinkled edge of the photograph in his hand, the glittering shards scattered on the ground, and the wine that dripped from the wall to pool around the fragments of what once was a glass bottle. The quiet of the room was broken by three, quick knocks and a voice asking the man of his condition with an unmistakable, underlying tone of concern. DIO recognized the voice to be one of his most loyal subordinates, Vanilla Ice.
“What happened? Is something the matter, Lord Dio?”
A low growl rumbled in his chest. DIO closed his eyes, stopping time and pocketing your photo in one fluid motion. The World picked up one of the broken cameras and threw it out the window while the vampire stood over the Joestar photograph as if nothing happened. Images of you from his memories and your reincarnation occupied his thoughts; your photo burning a hole in his pant pocket. When time resumed, DIO swiped the photo off the table and thrusted the memories of his past to the darkest recesses of his mind.
DIO would leave you be for now if it meant he could take you back by his side in the end.
“Nothing that concerns you, Vanilla Ice. Come in, I have new orders for Enya.”
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She’s not you. She will never be you.
But you want her to be, DIO’s traitorous subconscious whispered. This is ridiculous. The man has never even met your reincarnation. He never spent time with you in this life, barely even a ghost of a conversation between you two, yet he longs for your company more than anything. His rational thoughts and sentiments warred against each other, vying for his final decision on what to do with you. The moment DIO saw you, bleeding and bruised on the stairs below, his heart bled and his shoulders nearly hunched from the pain. His rational side of the argument was silenced and shackled by the chains of past memories that bound him to you. He ached to take you into his arms and whisper reassurances in your ears, that he will give you all the comfort and security he could never give you before.
He couldn’t. Not with Polnareff leaning into your touch; his arm slung over your shoulders and head dangerously close to yours. Not with his blood simmering under his skin and his nails piercing through his palm, blood slowly seeping through the fingers of his clenched fist. The fight in your eyes hid the intense worry for your wounded comrade—maybe even lover, DIO bitterly mused—as you pressed your side flush against the silver-haired man’s battered, stumbling body. You looked at DIO as if he was the gum stuck on the sole of your shoe; as if he was the vilest, most putrid thing that ever graced the Earth. The tension and anger twisted your expression into a scowl, brows furrowed and lips dipped into that all-too familiar frown.
DIO had so many questions to ask you; so many memories to share in the vain hope that you would sympathize with him and join him. One look in your eyes, the same indiscernible emotion flickering to life when you tended to his bruises before he was adopted by George Joestar, and DIO knew he would lose this battle with you just like all those years ago. He could feel your fingers wrapped around his arm again; the cold cloth pressed to his bruised cheek; the soft smile he hated and adored at the same time. White hot rage bubbled and coursed through his veins. His jaw clenched and his nails dug deeper into the scarred flesh of his palms, drops of blood dripping towards the floor. His heart pounded against his chest as if desperate to flee into your embrace.
“In your fucking dreams,” you spat, scowl deepening and shifting your hold on Polnareff. “I’d sooner die than join you.”
Phantom daggers planted themselves into DIO’s heart, violently thrashing in its cage, as the image of you in his memories clashed against your battle-worn figure. Remnants of your smile adorned your lips followed by the laughter that echoed in his ears; the teasing lilt reserved solely for Dio. Your eyes glowed with life, brimming with joy and love that he realized too late. Your outstretched hand implored him to take it; to cool the swell of his bruises and wipe the blood off his wounds; to run across the fields once more before he had to return to his studies; to spend another day with you in Victorian London before he found that stone mask. Then there was you of the present, breathing ragged and gaze lit with spite and abhorrence for everything DIO is. You struggled to carry Polnareff’s weight from how much you leaned on him. Blood matted your hair and a long scratch marred your cheek. He noticed your leg wobble, threatening to let you and the other man pathetically fall to the floor. Your hands gripped Polnareff closer to you, whether this was an intended or subconscious action was beyond DIO.
He still yearned for you, despite all of this.
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His pained screams disrupted the once peaceful night of Cairo, Egypt.
“What?!” DIO felt the cracks viciously trail from his leg to his head, split in half similar to how Jonathan caught him off-guard on that fateful day. Humiliation, shame, disbelief, and a storm of emotions raged in his heart; eyes wide and lips parted from the turbulence wracking his body. Jotaro watched, heated glare shadowed under the brim of his hat, as DIO’s screams reached the heavens. The stars joined in the spectacle, mockingly bright under the torturous pain and suffering of the once invincible vampire.
“I-Impossible!” DIO warbled, choking and gurgling from the blood pooling in his mouth. “I… am DIO! I… am...”
Something in his gut coiled; whispers of his mind urged him to look in the direction of the harbinger of his demise. His gape drifted from the stars to Jotaro, but his attention was not on the high school delinquent. At least ten feet away from the two, you leaned on the railing of the bridge with trembling legs. One of your hands clutched the wound on your left side; a wound DIO inflicted himself. He clearly remembered the triumph and glee that dulled his senses; the swing of the stop sign that would bring the Joestar bloodline to an end; the surprise shifting into panic when you jumped in front of Jotaro with the intent to protect him. In his haste, DIO flicked his wrist and grazed your side with the edge of the stop sign.
He once thought fate favored him. That the decision to cut off his head and to take Jonathan’s body was fate allowing him to live another century. That your absence was a weakness that fate had nipped in the bud for him; that your reborn soul was another chance fate had given him to atone for his mistakes. So, why? Why would fate pit you against him, to relive that cursed night when Dio had taken your life in front of his very eyes? Were you fated to ally with the Joestars and die for them? Another corpse among the others that followed the wake of the Joestar lineage, all just to defeat him?
DIO couldn’t kill you, as much as he despised the sentiment.
A fool. He is and always will be a fool when it comes to you. Dio will always want you in each lifetime, and it pained DIO to admit it in his final moments. His heart lurched and lodged itself in his throat; the fire in his blood scorching his skin and insides. His hand reached out to you, just like before, but you’re not dying this time. He knew that, if the afterlife actually existed, he will never be able to join you. DIO saw your eyes widen as you took a step back, farther from his grasp. Another bloodcurdling scream rang in the night; dying gurgles heard only by the two people who brought him to his death.
This is actually the prequel to my last Kakyoin oneshot, since my friend wanted to know how the hell Kakyoin fell in love with the reader. I already had the idea, but the exposition in the last oneshot was so damn long that I had to cut it out there. Time for the moment he actually fell for yall.
warning: swearing, mentions of blood, and a really long oneshot again; not much aside from jealousy, animosity, and a flirty polnareff
─── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ───
When Kakyoin Noriaki first met you, blood stained the tips of your fingers and smeared itself on your palms.
His lavender gape met your concerned gaze, irises gleaming despite the shadows from the curtain of hair framing your face. He felt the slightest pressure on his head; palms cupped his head as the gentle grip of your fingers tethered him to reality. He noted that your thighs supported the back of his head and his neck. The feeling of another hand holding his cheek alarmed him, and it must have shown because you dug the pads of your fingers in his temple. The concerned look in your eyes disappeared. It was replaced by a hardened glare accompanied by the subtle purse of your lips.
“Don’t move,” you hissed, the slightest venom dripping off your tone, “Or you’ll die.”
Kakyoin returned your glare with the same animosity. He felt the hand on his cheek tighten its grip. His eyes darted to look at the other person perched beside him: Kujo Jotaro. The moment Kakyoin’s eyes trailed across Jotaro’s outstretched arm, he felt an uncomfortable, prickling sensation in the junction where his hair parted. Memories of his previous fight with Jotaro ran through his mind. The humiliation and shame crawled over and settled itself into his skin akin to the wintry cold in the absence of a coat. His blood boiled as his hands curled into fists, fingernails nearly drawing blood from his palm. A growl ripped past his lips, parting to give the stoic teenager a piece of his mind, when your fingers dug themselves deeper into his temples. Strangely enough, the soft sensation soothed his nerves and silenced the words dancing on the tip of his tongue.
One look at your narrowed eyes and he knew he would lose more than his pride. The crescents of your eyes resembled the cold, sharp steel of a scimitar. Kakyoin couldn’t remember a time where he had seen that look on a woman. He had always been on the receiving end of a smile or a giggle from the women he briefly interacted with. This, a menacing glare from a girl nearly his age, was a first for him.
Kakyoin remained quiet, but his glare fixated itself on Jotaro. The high school student in question focused on removing the fleshbud despite the ruckus behind him. Once the fleshbud was out and Star Platinum ripped out its tendrils from Jotaro’s arm, the latter glanced at his classmate. You sighed, letting go of Kakyoin’s head and tilting your head back in relief. His grandfather made short work of the fleshbud, then Jotaro stood up to look at the disgruntled girl still cradling the head of a stranger.
“You’re going to give me a damn heart attack from that stunt, Kujo,” you grumbled, the annoyed furrow of your brows softening into a placid expression. He didn’t miss the way you carefully lifted Kakyoin’s head from your thighs and replaced it with a pillow. The burgundy-haired student looked at you from the corner of his eyes before darting back to look at Jotaro. As if some premonition dawned on him, Jotaro frowned and tilted the brim of his hat down with a sigh.
“Good grief…”
For the next week, Kakyoin never made conversation with you. Well, any attempt at a pleasant one was shot down with your brief replies and short quips. You two exchanged civil conversation, but nothing more than that. Your stoicism around him unnerved him. When he saw your face light up with laughter from Joseph’s tales of his youth, the curiosity in your smile as Avdol engrossed you in another conversation and the occasional, teasing lilt of your voice around Jotaro, Kakyoin felt that he wanted to learn more about you. He wanted to know more about the girl who distanced herself from him, yet treated him with nothing but gentle kindness the moment Jotaro took out the fleshbud. The girl who bore a cold, harsh glare for those who ticked her off, but held a feather-light touch to everything she held as if afraid it would break in her hands.
You were an enigma that enraptured him without logical reason.
Too bad you wouldn’t give him the time of the day. Not after Kakyoin found out that he had held you hostage once the nurse lost consciousness and Jotaro had hit the wall from an Emerald Splash. It was also the moment, when his arm choked you and pressed your back against his chest, that you had kicked him in the groin. The hardened heel of your shoe, courtesy of your Stand, intensified the pain—and this gave Jotaro the chance to punch the living daylights out of him.
Kakyoin winced, crossing his legs under the table. He found himself looking at you again, dismissing Polnareff’s advances with a laugh. The lights from the hotel restaurant shone in your eyes, shimmering and bright, as your grin reached your ears. The Frenchman wiggled his eyebrows, draping an arm on the head of your chair and leaning too close to you for Kakyoin’s comfort. You snorted and placed a hand on his chest to push him away, which earned a boisterous laugh from Polnareff. Kakyoin’s fingers would have made a hole in his pants from how tight he had gripped his leg.
“Oi, Kakyoin.” The gruff voice addressing him was unmistakably Jotaro’s. “Are you alright? You’ve been staring for a while.”
Jotaro didn’t need to specify just who Kakyoin was staring at. The latter turned to him with a practiced smile, the intent glare gone without a trace. Although, his tense shoulders and the rapid drum of his fingers on his crossed leg caught Jotaro’s attention. The restless energy that oozed off Kakyoin was so obvious to him. He didn’t need to use Star Platinum to see the signs, as subtle as they may seem to others. A sigh slipped past his lips—he lost count after catching Kakyoin looking at you with longing and curiosity for who knows how many times.
Can someone give him a damn break from this mushy, one-sided pining?
“I’m fine. I was just lost in thought,” Kakyoin hummed. The brooding teenager didn’t buy his excuse. Jotaro sighed again and leaned back on his seat, the legs of the chair nearly tipping over from the additional weight.
“Rooftop.”
“I’m sorry?” Kakyoin blinked, unsure if he heard Jotaro right. Another disgruntled sigh came from Jotaro before he mentioned your name and repeated what he said. The ravenette hoped he didn’t have to repeat himself, but fate was against him the moment this century-old vampire bitch endangered his mother’s life.
“Rooftop. She goes there at night lately. It’s your best chance to talk to her.”
The wide eyes and the grateful smile that graced Kakyoin’s lips was enough for Jotaro, who wordlessly turned back to a conversation between Joseph and Avdol. Once night had fallen and he was sure you had gone to the roof, Kakyoin excused himself from his shared room with Jotaro and made his way to the elevator. He didn’t have to, since Jotaro was the one who gave him the push he needed.
The light tap of Kakyoin’s shoes echoed in his ears when he reached his destination. The Singapore night sky held the brightest stars it could offer, dotting the canvas with a picturesque view of constellations as far as the eye could see. A cold breeze swept past the burgundy-haired teenager and the girl who leaned on the railing by her elbows. The moon showered you in its glowing light, similar to a stage spotlight shining down upon the main actress. Your uniform skirt swayed with the wind as it playfully combed its fingers through your hair. A hand placed itself on your head and tucked the stray lock of hair behind your ear. Your lips were in a soft smile and, though Kakyoin could barely see it from where he was, he swore your eyes shimmered along with the stars.
He swallowed the lump that had formed in his throat and quietly stood beside you. He leaned on the railing with crossed arms as he looked up to gaze at the same moon and stars that bathed you in an ethereal glow. Kakyoin gripped the crook of his elbows; the tip of his shoe tapping on the ground. Since when did he get nervous around you?
“It’s a beautiful night, isn’t it?” Kakyoin almost cringed at the cheesy line, and he nearly flinched when you shot him a brief glance. After a few excruciating moments of awkward silence, you hummed and leaned on your elbow. Your palm cupped your cheek as your fingers pressed themselves against your temple. Kakyoin was briefly reminded of the time you cradled his head on your lap. The remnants of your tender touch gave him shivers, and his fingers twitched when he noticed strands of your hair fly across your face. He clenched his hand, a barely audible pop of his joints reaching his ears, as he quashed the urge to tuck your hair back in place.
“I’m sorry.”
The sudden apology made your eyes widen. You sharply turned your head to look at Kakyoin, whose gaze never strayed from the glittering night. His hair rustled in the wind, and he raised a hand to push his drooping curl off his face. Lavender eyes darted from his hair to the stars in quick succession, as if that stray lock never bothered him in the first place. He leaned closer, elbows digging into the metal rail and arm pressed against his front. If you didn’t know better, it looked as if he was going to be carried away by the celestial entities in all his poised grace and glory.
You shook your head, ignoring the thought, and asked with a bewildered, “For what?”
“I never got to apologize for, well…” Kakyoin trailed off with a slight cough behind his fist; craning his neck to give you a sheepish grin. “That time in the clinic. I couldn’t find the chance to without making it awkward.”
“Oh. I guess it’s too late for that.”
Kakyoin’s heart dropped, but the moment he saw your smile—the same, playful smile you’d give Jotaro—the butterflies erupted in his stomach and swarmed all of his senses. The world seemed to blur and mesh colors around you, accentuating the relaxed shrug of your shoulders and your chuckle dancing with the breeze. His heartbeat rang painfully loud in his ears, and he nearly missed what you said next.
“You’ve made things awkward already, but… I forgive you.” Your smile caused your cheeks to push upwards, shaping your eyes into familiar crescents. Kakyoin knew then and there that he had fallen into a hole he could never climb out of.
So, I actually made this female reader-insert for a friend who really l o v e s Kakyoin. It was initially a joke at first, but I went through with it, and voila! We have this long oneshot of Kakyoin being alive and healthy (like he should have been).
warning: swearing, canon divergence, brief mentions of character deaths, major spoilers for Parts 3 and 4, implied PTSD, and it’s just a really long oneshot.
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The faint smell of simmering salmon lingers in the air; aimlessly drifting around the small space of your kitchen. Popping sounds from the oil in your pan were accompanied by Kai Harada’s enthusiastic drawl from the living room. Streams of morning light spilled over the marble floor, forming a linear path from your kitchen to the dining table, as if the equivalent of a red carpet in a Hollywood premiere. Above you, a pair of lovebirds flitted about outside your window. Silent bird songs were shared between them as they flew around each other in a dance only they knew. The pair twittered and glided out of sight in the blink of an eye. Nothing out of the ordinary. It was a typical morning for you in Morioh, and you would never exchange it for anything else. A click echoed off the walls once you turned the stove off, although it doesn’t deter you from your routine.
You quickly slid the seared salmon off the pan and on to a clean plate before carrying it in one hand with both the spatula and the frying pan in the other. Kai Harada’s chipper tone continued to occupy the quiet of your home; allowing you to revel in the peace before your day-off ends. Placing the used utensils in the sink and the plated salmon on the table with a practiced motion, you prepared to sit down and enjoy your breakfast when an incessant ringing blared from the living room. You raised an eyebrow, turning to look at the wall clock hanging beside the exit of the dining room.
“Who calls at seven in the morning?” You grumbled. The chair legs loudly scraped against the floor, which went unnoticed by your soured countenance. You turned the radio off and answered the cordless telephone in one fluid motion. Anyone could see the annoyance in your face: lips pulled down in a scowl and eyebrows furrowed in confusion. Now that your morning was interrupted, you might as well drop the pleasantries for whoever had the audacity to call at seven in the damn morning.
“Hello?”
You almost dropped the phone when a deep, familiar voice uttered your name without the slightest hint of emotion. “It’s been a while.”
At this point, your eyebrows shot to your forehead. You gripped the device to your ear with both hands, trying to ground yourself to reality from the unexpected call. “A while? It’s been almost six years since I last saw you, Jotaro!”
Whether he acknowledged the intermingled shock and irritation in your tone or not, you never knew. He dismissed it with one statement, saying it as if it was another day in the life of Kujo Jotaro, “I’m coming to Morioh. I heard you moved there about two years ago, so I decided to make a call.”
“How did you even get this number?” You grunted, and you swear you could almost hear the deadpan in his voice when he answered.
“The Speedwagon Foundation gave it to me.”
Your hand found itself massaging your temple and running through your hair in vexation. If his grandfather wasn’t someone you respected and regarded like your own father, you would have half the mind to kick Jotaro’s ass for using his connections to find your telephone number after all these years. This man…
Before you could even scold the aforementioned adult, he continued, “Meet me in the town center at 8 sharp. It’s urgent.”
What he said next froze you in place, bones rattling and blood chilling at the truth that slapped itself in your face.
“The old man found someone suspicious in Morioh with his Hermit Purple—and he’s an infamous murderer.”
What followed after was bizarre enough already: Jotaro visiting an uncle in Morioh—Higashikata Josuke, Joseph Joestar’s illegitimate child from before that horrible trip to Egypt; Stand users appearing in every nook and cranny of the once uneventful town; the revelation of another bow and arrow that allow Stands to awaken; all that and more that you possibly can’t digest in mere minutes.
Oh, and you forgot to mention that you are on the hunt for a serial murderer hiding in your town for the past 15 years. Fun.
At the moment, you sat in front of the café that unanimously became your meeting place with the crew. It was the weekend, and you took this time to come early to collect your thoughts. The cup in your hand began to lose its warmth as the steam slowly dissipated in the spring air. Passersby either rushed to work with their briefcases and work bags or languidly spent the morning to visit the mall—maybe the park, too. Voices served as muddled background noise, along with the occasional clink of silverware from other tables in the café. The hustle and bustle of the crowd used to annoy you, yet you currently welcome it with open arms. It became your only source of normalcy from all the weird things happening around town.
You closed your eyes, and the image of a certain, blonde vampire loomed in the darkness. Subconsciously gripping the cup tighter, you took a sip of your coffee in an attempt to soothe your nerves. The memory of the first time you heard that wretched monster’s name after ten years resurfaced in your mind. Josuke had successfully trapped Angelo in the rock when you and Jotaro approached. One look at the marine biologist beside you, and you knew he never recovered from that trip. You couldn’t imagine the nightmares that plagued him in his sleep nor the terror crawling on his skin every time he heard that name. The man was the one who fought DIO personally, after all.
You? You had been knocked out by the hulking vampire and lived to tell the tale because Jotaro diverted his attention away from you. There was another reason for that, but you couldn’t dwell on it at the moment. It was pathetic, but you were eternally grateful to Jotaro because of that.
Speaking of Jotaro, a few days ago, he mentioned that another Stand user would help with the search for Sugimoto Reimi’s murderer. The moment you asked for details, he only provided a vague answer that still haunted you to this day.
“It’s someone you and I know pretty well. Someone from that trip.”
You could only count the people who were on the trip with one hand. With your fist on the table, you put one finger up as you whispered the name to yourself.
“Polnareff.” The wind brought his name to your ears with a feather-like touch. The warmth in your heart was a stark contrast to the chill on your skin, but still, you regarded the Frenchman with a fond gleam in your eyes. From what you could remember, the loud and energetic man helped with the search for the bows and arrows that caused all this trouble in the first place. However, he was stationed in Europe. You haven’t heard from him since then; neither did Jotaro. You could only hope he was safe and unharmed, wherever he was.
“It can’t be him,” you concluded. You ruled out Joseph, too. The aged real estate mogul was already staying in the Morioh Grand Hotel with Jotaro as well as a baby whose Stand allows her to turn herself and others invisible. That was another story for another day. Closing your eyes again, you put up another finger as you uttered, “Avdol.”
Gone, you bitterly thought. The sharp inhale you took was crisp and clear to your ears. You put up another finger with one word, “Iggy.”
Your stomach churned, heart plummeting into a hollow pit. It suddenly felt difficult to swallow, which made you take a quick gulp of your cold coffee. The beverage did nothing to help. The tears pricking in the corners of your eyes threatened to fall, which frustrated you enough. Crying in public, where people can openly witness your vulnerability? Not happening.
With a small huff, you opened your purse to rummage for your handkerchief. That was, until a pristine handkerchief presented itself to you right under your nose. Startled, you were about to question the odd timing when a light, eloquent voice teased you.
“I wasn’t expecting myself to comfort a damsel in distress when we meet again after all these years.”
Your shoulders tensed, hands trembling from their perch on your purse. Your gaze slowly lifted themselves from the inside of your purse to lavender-hued irises gleaming with mischief. His gentle yet teasing gaze settled themselves on your own stunned daze; the polite smile shifted to a smirk you knew all too well. It was the smirk he always bore when he was going to poke fun at you during that 50-day journey. You never thought the once aggravating gesture would comfort you now. Then again, you’ve come to appreciate anything outside this murderer-hunting business.
You gingerly took the offered fabric with a watery smile. “In your dreams, cherry boy.”
His smirk softens to a smile at the familiar nickname, bringing forth memories from that abrupt, harsh journey to high school years spent together in their youth. Noriaki Kakyoin didn’t change much from your teenage years: the same effortless grace and poise in his every move, the lavender eyes that shone with either mischief or exasperation, the faint scars running down both eyes, and that certain lilt in his voice that emphasized his eloquence. The man even kept that stray lock of hair from his otherwise neat haircut. You noted that he grew a bit taller and his shoulders broadened just a tad more. Certain angles of his face became more defined through age: his cheekbones and jawline the most prominent features of his chiseled face. There’s a certain softness in the entirety of his appearance which no one could exactly put the right words to.
Kakyoin sported a beige coat with a white scarf wrapped around his neck and shoulders. Brown gloves adorned his hands. It was something you noticed when he took off those ridiculous shades he wore from that time in Cairo. You snorted, dabbing the tears off as quick as you can, before you returned the handkerchief to him once he sat down across from you.
“You still kept those godforsaken shades?”
“Of course,” Kakyoin answered, your name rolling off his tongue with another teasing tone. As if it hadn’t been over five years since you lost contact with each other. “They’re useful to keep other people from asking about the scars. That, and they keep the sun out of my eyes.”
He shot you another smile, one that spoke more for the situation than any words you two could ever exchange. Your fingers tapped the zipper of your purse as you hid your hands from his view; heart thundering and cursing yourself for the immediate affection that took hold of you. The familiar safety and comfort his presence brought you clicked into place, reminiscent of finally finding that last piece in a jigsaw puzzle lost to time.
He still makes you feel this way. Even after all those years you two have been apart, plans for the future diverging your paths. It may be a welcome feeling for you, but you are certainly never letting this man know about it. Who knows, he may already have a significant other. You are not going to be a damn homewrecker; you know that much.
You love him too much for that.
“How did you find me?” You questioned, after calling the waiter and taking Kakyoin’s order of course. The latter hummed, drumming his fingers on the table with his free hand cupping his cheek in thought.
“Jotaro told me,” he replied after some time, words carefully picked and articulated. “I was planning to surprise you on your doorstep, but the lights were off in your house. I had to call Jotaro to ask about the places you could have left to.”
“Let me guess: Jotaro also told you about my home address?” You sighed, breath causing tiny ripples on the coffee touching your lips. It seriously bothered you how the stoic man could find information through long-established connections in his family just like that. You didn’t dare voice this concern. It was convenient for investigations and searches, so you left it at that.
Kakyoin chuckled at the expense of your exasperation. Before anything else could be said, one of the staff brought his strawberry shortcake and espresso to the table. He gave his polite thanks with a curt nod of his head; his fingers already taking hold of his coffee with a firm yet delicate grasp. You averted your gaze, afraid he’d catch the smallest hint of your admiration towards him. Silent curses and admonishment for yourself rang clear in your mind as the auburn-haired man continued to engage you in casual conversation.
Kayoin Noriaki was the reason you had been unconscious for the rest of that battle in Cairo. Your Stand, A Winter’s Tale, had the ability to harden and reinforce certain parts of living and non-living organisms for a short amount of time at the cost of the user’s own energy and body, making you fragile due to the gradual softness of the reflected body part. Experiments and practice have allowed you to find compensations for this: reinforcing makeshift shields on the spot, hardening soft objects that can be used as weapons, exercising control on chosen points of hardening and reinforcement, and the like. Even a damn paper tube from a tissue roll could be used as a weapon due to your Stand. It was mostly useless aside from support and defense, and it leaves you utterly vulnerable to enemies.
The immense relief you felt when you had the foresight to harden and reinforce Kakyoin’s entire body as he faced DIO to reveal the latter’s Stand ability was something words failed to describe. Joseph had to support you by the shoulders because your legs softened to the point where you couldn’t stand properly. You even made sure you didn’t harden his joints to give the illusion that Kakyoin was open to any attack. The latter had flown back from the force, but was unharmed all the same. The fury and shock on DIO’s face afterwards was something you’ll never forget. That split second Jotaro appeared after you and Joseph had fallen from the roof was nothing short of a miracle.
Now Kakyoin was sitting in front of you, ten years after that nightmare, and working as an elementary school teacher. Something you knew because you two had talked about your plans for the future at some point in the Saudi Arabian desert, where the shimmering stars and the midnight sky were your only company aside from the sleeping members of your party.
“How are the kids treating you?”
“They’re all loud and energetic, something you’d expect from kids,” Kakyoin grinned and took a languid sip from his cup. “If I could handle Polnareff before, then teaching and handling elementary students is nothing different.”
You almost choked on your own coffee at the quip. Kakyoin added, as if he hadn’t made a jab at the absent Frenchman, “I took a leave to come here when Jotaro called for help. How are you these days?”
“Oh, nothing much,” you hummed, returning the nearly empty cup to its saucer with a thoughtful look. “The hospital staff are kind enough, with a few exceptions of course.”
At this, Kakyoin hid an amused grin behind his cup. You continued, “Being a nurse in Morioh has its perks: a reasonable amount of day-offs and you’re still getting paid. I get to go home to spend some time alone after work, and it’s absolute bliss.”
“Alone?” Kakyoin quirked an eyebrow, bringing his own cup back to its saucer. The strawberry shortcake still sat whole on the plate, long forgotten in the conversation. “You’re not seeing someone lately?”
The embarrassed flush that bloomed across your face told him everything. You attempted to hide it by faking a cough into your handkerchief and avoided his gaze. Who wouldn’t be embarrassed, when Jotaro got married and had a child of his own in his early twenties? Fucking Kujo Jotaro, the one that seemed the least likely to settle down this early, has a family of his own already while you, a 27-year-old woman, were still single with records of failed dates following after college.
“No,” you awkwardly confirmed his thoughts. “I don’t. I… I’d rather not go into details about that.”
If you hadn’t ducked your head and pretended to look for something in your purse, you would have noticed the soft smile on Kakyoin’s face and the fond gleam in his eyes. The lavender-eyed man noticed how you always had a knack for missing the obvious hints of his affection for you. He had always supported you during your high school and college years, even when you two attended different universities in Japan. He kept in contact as much as he could until his work consumed all his time and spared him nothing for you.
When Kakyoin tried to visit you in your apartment in the city, you were gone. He had no way to contact you, after realizing you don’t use the number in his contacts anymore. It had been five years since then. This was why he was ecstatic when Jotaro told him you had moved to Morioh in their first call since high school graduation.
Not even adulthood has saved you from this unfortunate habit. He seriously wondered how you always remained oblivious for someone who was observant. Then again, Jotaro was a prime example of being dense to romantic feelings despite being a perceptive individual himself.
Looking at you, that nervous smile playing on your lips as you changed the topic, Kakyoin found that nothing had changed about you from the last time he saw you. You were still the young teenager he met in high school, the young woman he fell in love with on that fateful journey to Egypt. You were still the same even after these past ten years. Affection and longing hit him full force the longer he watched you talk about Morioh and the people in it. His heart clenched at the thought of those five years when he lost his chance to be with you.
Now, he has all the time in the world to make it up to you.
So, one random morning, I was listening to a certain song for the first time. Once the lyrics sunk in, I just had this idea for a Dio and female reader-insert fic. Hope you enjoy it, even if I do hate the guy lmao.
warning: angst, implied child abandonment, mentions of blood and death, swearing, and minor spoilers for those who have not finished Part 1
Addendum: I actually forgot to mention that I based my interpretation of Dio's personality and thought process mostly from the Over Heaven light novel. It's a good read and it helps you understand his character better, so I say give it a shot
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"How many times has it been this week?"
Dio grunted, turning his cheek away from the girl in front of him. Your arms were crossed over your chest with a brow quirked in a silent question. He felt the bruise on his cheek sting and smart by the slightest brush of the wind. If anything, the painful sensation was intensified by your glare. His tongue flicked over the cut on his lip in a fruitless attempt to wipe off the blood. Your exasperated sigh reached his ears; nothing more than a whisper in the breeze.
"Come here, you stubborn mule." Before Dio knew it, you had grabbed his arm and dragged him away from the bustling streets of urban London. Passersby didn't spare a glance for the two teenagers dressed in soiled commoner clothes.
Dio, hoping to spare himself from the embarrassment of allowing a girl to drag him around, watched the crowd go about their mundane activities. Women gossiped with each other, hands covering their mouths to stifle scandalized gasps, while men languidly talked about adult matters—business and what other dull subjects they had in mind. His gaze drifted to the hollowed junction between a clothing shop frequented by aristocrats and an apothecary that had seen better days. The blond already sensed the death and neglect in the air before the sight made his skin crawl. He caught a glimpse of a man in tattered rags whose back hunched over, shoulders sagging from the weight of his head tucked towards his chest. His hand loosely held the neck of a bottle of booze, empty and hidden in the shadows. The hairs on the nape of Dio's neck stood on end, but a harsh tug from you brought him back to reality.
"We're almost there," you told him. You looked at him from the corner of your eye before focusing on the road ahead. Your hand, small and thin with a bony wrist, squeezed his arm before abruptly jostling through the crowd. The throng of people parted, cleaving a path towards the outskirts of the city. Dio scowled, directing his attention to the cobblestone path and ignoring the pain blossoming in the palm of his clenched fist. Murmurs from the socialites rang as clear as the church bells, but you paid no mind to it. Something about your indifference made his indignation and annoyance worsen; his blood dangerously close to boiling over what little patience he had. Another squeeze of his arm and a quick glance from you told him this was a losing battle, one he had never won before. With a scoff, Dio grudgingly remained silent and continued to let you drag him.
From how long Dio knew you and vice versa, he wouldn't be surprised if you somehow noticed his apprehension and discomfort. He never understood why you went out of your way to help him. The first time he met you, Dio had slapped your hand away when you tried to help him off the ground. He expected you to either cry or throw a tantrum, like all the other girls he observed from his time in the slums, but you didn't. Instead, you looked him in the eye with a glimmer of emotion Dio couldn't describe.
"Sod off. I'm helping you, and that's that." The look in your eyes remained even when you roughly pulled him up and dragged him back to your home to tend to his bruises and cuts. Now, here he was again, being dragged by you and your insufferable pity suffocating him. Its spindly fingers ghosted over his neck, which uncomfortably tickled his skin; sharp nails poking the soft flesh that one squeeze could puncture it. Every time your eyes met his, Dio could see the swirl of indiscernible feelings in your gaze, forlorn and soft, just like his deceased mother's. The one who died thinking about others on her deathbed and wishing his son to do the same. The woman who lost her life in return for compassion and kindness. You resembled his mother—the gentle grasp on his arm, the feather-light brush of fingers tucking a lock of his hair behind his ear, the small smile that crinkles the corners of her eyes, the warmth in them—to the point where he found it disgusting and wretched.
He hated it, everything about you, but why did he still keep you around?
The cold, trickling sensation that dripped down his cheek made him jump in his seat. A cough echoed in his ears, followed by a faint snort that told him someone refrained from laughing at him. The corners of your eyes wrinkled in mirth while you held a cold, wet rag to his bruised cheek. He must have looked comically bewildered because you stuffed a fist over your mouth to keep in your giggles. A frown tugged the corners of Dio’s lips as his brows furrowed.
“What are you laughing about?”
“Oh, nothing,” you hummed. Your free hand grabbed his to replace the other one holding the cold rag, “Hold still while I get some more ice from the ice box.”
With that, you left with your skirt swishing from the rush towards the kitchen. A grunt rang in the living space, courtesy of the blond begrudgingly holding the cool cloth to his bruise. Upon looking around, he noted that nothing much had changed from the last time he was here (which was around a week). Moth-eaten curtains hid the windows, most likely coated in dust and grime, and the floorboards creaked at every step you took. The wooden chair he sat on felt cold and sturdy, indicating how you rarely sat on it due to your apprenticeship in the city, while the table across him bore scratches hidden under a doily you embroidered. A basket with a few apples and grapes tempted him, but he didn’t act on it. The house, smaller than his own, is located on the outskirts of the city, and he still couldn’t understand how you lived here by yourself like this. Knowing that women can’t own property of their own, Dio had asked you a question: how did you keep the house to yourself?
“I lie about father sending me on errands,” was your simple reply despite the fact that your parents were long gone. One morning, Dio had found you dragging your feet in the streets and, when you had suddenly leaned into him, the quiet sniffles told him everything. He had taken you home that night—damn his father, he never even cared where he went as long as he brought back a bottle of alcohol—and stayed upon your request. The moment he led you to your room, glimpses from an open door showed him emptied drawers and a barren wardrobe. A drawer box was left hanging from its cabinet, as if it was pulled out in haste. The candle was barely touched. Its wick remained spotless and barely any wax dripped down the candle holder atop the cabinet. He didn’t need to see the rest of the room to know what happened.
His ten-year-old mind didn’t know why he stayed, much less took you back to a cold, lifeless house. Yet, he did all that and more—he kept you by his side without a single, logical reason. You didn’t follow him around like a lost puppy would. If anything, he seemed to be the one drifting anywhere near you. He would wander the slums and traipse through the bars for scraps, mostly booze for his deadbeat father, then his gaze would land on you. You were there every single time, whether it was for apprentice work in that dress shop or buying bread in the bakery, and it drove him mad. Dio, the one who survived alone in this shitty reality of his, subconsciously seeking your company like a besotted fool. The very thought makes him scoff and laugh. Every time he asked himself about these coincidences, he came up blank. His mind conjured nothing but the image of your tear-stained face and the devastation that set itself in place of your usual smile.
Dio didn’t know why, but he’d rather not see you in that condition again. Never.
The creaking floorboards announced your arrival. With a sweeping flourish, you switched the warming rag with a new one wrapped around ice and firmly pressed it to his cheek. Dio hissed, throwing you a venomous glare at the amused smirk on your face. You shrugged, the damning smirk remained, and only laughed when he ripped your hand off the rag to grasp it on his own.
“Stop acting like a child,” you tutted, mocking him as if he was the child in the situation. Heat crept up his neck and ears, skin flushing a slight red. Whether it was from embarrassment or indignation, he didn’t know. All he knew was the annoyance fluttering in his stomach and the twitch of his fingers, ready to smack your hand away should it be necessary. Another laugh came from you, and the fluttering feeling increased tenfold.
“We are children. Speak for yourself,” Dio snarled, but this only earned him another smile from you. The soft, small one that always resembled his mother’s.
He hated it, how you sorely reminded him of his mother, but why won’t he leave?
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“Oh, aren’t you…”
Your wide eyes shifted into crescents, a smile gracing your lips, as you told Jonathan your name. The blue-haired aristocrat gently took your hand and kissed its knuckles, which caught you by surprise. The slight flush of your cheeks said it all. Dio could feel his eye twitch at the predicament unfolding in front of him.
Is this what it felt like when God has forsaken you? Not that Dio believed in the supernatural, but it best captured his feelings at the moment.
He coughed into his fist, diverting your attention away from his stepbrother, and asked as nonchalantly as he could, “I thought you’d be working in the dress shop today? You told me you couldn’t come to the rugby game.”
“Oh, w-well…” You trailed off, fiddling with your thumbs and looking away from the blond. You gnawed your bottom lip, a tic Dio associated with nerves, as your eyes flitted between him and Jonathan. Somehow, this irked him more than it should. Jonathan watched the scene in curiosity, only recognizing you from the time he had seen twelve-year-old Dio walk after you in the city once. The oblivious boy asked about you, and Dio immediately glared at him until he was cowed into silence. Dio was about to demand an answer—childish, really, but his patience was being tested—until you finally answered him.
“Mrs. Smith allowed me to leave early—” once she knew you were playing, was what you thought but chose not to divulge that information—“so here I am.”
Dio let out an amused huff, the swell of relief almost choking him, “Well, what did you think of the game then?”
You hummed, placing a hand on your cheek with a mock thoughtful expression. Dio subconsciously tapped his shoe on the grass as he awaited your response. The raucous beating of his heart dulled his senses the longer you mused, which wasn’t that long in all honesty. It only took a mere three seconds before you spoke.
“I think you and Jonathan were amazing. I would have never expected him to pass the ball to you, then you taking the winning score.”
Dio would have basked in your compliment, which was a rare occurrence unfortunately, if it weren’t for the fact that Jonathan was included in it. Regardless, he sported a triumphant grin and clapped you on the shoulder with a hearty laugh. Your eyes widened in surprise, but this had gone unnoticed by Jonathan, who knew nothing of your relationship with Dio, and the man himself. The confusion swarming your mind remained even when Jonathan bashfully grinned and expressed his gratitude.
“Oh! Well, thank you, but this victory is all because of Dio,” he told you. You sighed, knowing that would stroke Dio’s ego, but the latter felt his heart stutter at the sight of your smile. If he didn’t despise Jonathan and plotted to take the Joestar fortune for himself, then he would have been grateful to Jonathan at the moment. That was not the case, but he took the compliment in stride with a boastful grin.
Unfortunately, his heart dropped when you dismissed it with a wave. “Nonsense! You deserve the recognition as much as he does!”
It felt wrong seeing you smile at Jonathan; the one that always reminded him of his mother. His blood simmered under his skin as his jaw clenched, teeth painfully grinding together. His heart hammered in his chest; mind screaming and urging him to lead you away from the spoiled, ignorant Joestar. He didn’t like this: how you and Jonathan are in the same space and breathing the same air. He felt those ghostly fingers grip his throat and prick his skin, the phantom sensation of nails scratching the sensitive area. Yet, he kept the polite smile and the pretense that he’s friends with his stepbrother. Dio Brando will get everything he wants soon. He can’t afford to ruin his carefully sculpted plan all because of a girl.
You are not worth the repercussions.
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“How many times has it been this week?” You smiled, but the disgust and spite associated with the expression disappeared in a sharp inhale from Dio.
Blood stained your dress, splattered over your skirt and apron, as your fingers clutched at the arm embedded in your torso. Drops of blood found their way to your boots, the worn leather speckled with scarlet dots. A cough sent a spurt of blood to dribble down the corner of your lips as a terrified cry of your name echoed in the hall. Jonathan—it was Jonathan’s voice, followed by the voices of his companions Dio didn’t even bother to acknowledge. The muted horror of what he had done registered in his mind, and the blond vampire immediately ripped his arm away from you. The force propelled your body forward, falling towards the stone floor of the castle, but an arm hooked itself around your waist.
“You bloody idiot,” Dio hissed, dropping to his knees from the momentum of capturing you. One of his hands cradled your head, fingers buried into your hair, while the other held your body flush against his chest. “You bloody fucking idiot.”
“How many times have you taken lives this week?” Your voice warbled, hints of melancholy in your teasing tone. Dio briefly barked orders for the zombies to attack Jonathan and his comrades before he returned his attention to you. His heart clenched, cracks starting to form at the unsightly hole in your stomach, but his rage at what you have done made his mouth run.
“Why?” One of his arms supported your back, gripping you closer in a futile attempt at clinging to your life. He had no warmth—no comfort to spare for your dying body. It was the first and only time Dio cursed the consequences of his immortality, but he couldn’t dwell on that now. Not when you, the girl he had known since childhood and the one he shared a strange bond with, were waning between the realm of life and death. You looked at him, and Dio’s rage grew at the soft smile still on your face. It spoke of promises and hope, the things Dio had forsaken ever since his mother died and his father began to further drive a stake into his future.
They were empty and meaningless, but not with you.
“Why?!” He demanded, visibly trembling at your silence. Dio didn’t need to elaborate. You knew what he wanted to know. He wanted to know why you jumped in front of Jonathan to take the hit. The light in your eyes began to dim, but you shakily placed a hand on his cheek. The same bruised cheek you had tended to before his father died and he had been adopted by the Joestars. The memory made Dio shudder and he moved to evade your touch, but you stubbornly clasped his cheek with the remaining strength your fragile, bleeding body had.
“Should there be a reason?” You rasped, chuckling a little. The gesture resulted in another harsh cough and more blood to spill from your mouth. The red coated your lips akin to the lipstick of those aristocrat beauties Dio observed during the parties George Joestar hosted. The color mocked him, taunting him for his dependence on the wretched substance. The vampire’s eyes widened, then narrowed into slits. The rage festering inside him threatened to break through his cool façade. He was about to snap at you for your foolish remark when your thumb ghosted over the skin under his eye.
"This is a first," you whispered, chest heaving and eyes flickering between dark and light. "I thought I'd never see the day you'd cry."
"Save your breath," Dio fumed, cursing once more for the obvious tremor in his voice. "Just save your strength. I can save you—just—"
"Silly boy," your smile grew as you looked into Dio's eyes, finding semblances of the bruised boy you had bumped into when you first met. "I wish you wouldn't look at me like that, or I might regret my decision."
Before Dio could say anything, scream at you for your audacity in your last moments, your lips brushed against his cheek. His breath hitched and his hold on you slackened the tiniest bit. He felt your lashes flutter over his pale skin, the receding warmth of your body, and the dainty caress of your hands on his cheeks. Faintly, in the back of his mind, he yearned for more. Dio yearned for more time with you—to relive the days when you two were nothing but gullible children in a world dominated by greed and power-hungry beasts lurking beneath beautiful masks.
The moment shattered when your body sagged against him; your head lolled to the side and unceremoniously bumped against his shoulder. The blood from your lips marred his skin, but he paid no mind to it. His hands scrambled to hold you—keep you close to him—as his breath came in short, panicked bursts. Dio didn't care if he looked like an idiot in front of his army. He didn't care if Jonathan and his parade of fools saw him in his moment of weakness.
He only cared about you.
He lifted a hand, shoulders shaking a bit, to take a look at your face. The soft smile you always adorned, one that lit your expression, now painted itself on your pallid complexion. Your eyes remained close, and you looked nothing but peaceful the moment you died in his arms. The blood on your clothes and the hole he created didn't deter nor ruin your blissful image. He hated it. He always hated that smile.
It was the same smile his mother gave him before she died.
The ghostly, spindly appendages found their way around his neck. They ruptured his skin and crushed his throat as the back of his eyes stung. A lone tear dripped down his cheek and landed on your own, devoid of the flush it once had when you were still alive. A silent, choked sob slipped past his lips and he brought you closer; his nails digging into your arm from how tight he gripped your corpse. He brought your face into the crook of his neck. Dio couldn't bring himself to look at you, knowing what you meant by your last words.
You wanted to die as a human. This thought made him curl his body over yours, shielding the ghastly sight of your corpse from the others, if only to provide him some sense of comfort that you didn't shun him. You never did, not when you saw him discard his humanity and not even when you decided to join Jonathan to search for him. Dio never understood why you'd follow him to the ends of the earth. He never understood why you didn't leave him when he chose to become immortal. He never found the answers to these questions. Although, he understood why he never left you—he saw himself in you, a girl abandoned by her family and scorned by society. Dio couldn't find it in himself to leave you; his pride prevented him from stooping to their level. There was another reason, but the crushing weight of this revelation only served to choke him in his guilt-ridden wrath.
