If possible could I get the Jofoes (including all of the Pillarmen) with a s/o who's a southern single mother. The s/o uses terms of endearments for everyone out of habit like honey, darling, sugar, sweets, sweetness, and baby. But as soon as anyone scares her child she goes full mama bear saying stuff like, "You touch my child again I will rip off your leg and shove it so far up your ass you'll have toes for teeth, understand?" all with a smile and a sweet southern accent. If you don't want to do this I understand, have a good day/night.
Oh my goodness this is ADORABLEEEE 🥹🥹 absolutely adorable and I can practically hear her accent as she threatens her enemies 😭
Also this quote literally made me giggle outloud thank you for this ask 🫶
Tags: Fem reader, SFW and fluff
Dio Brando (P1)
- When he first meets you, he thinks your constant “honey,” “sugar,” and “darlin’” is condescending, like you are talking down to him the way nobles do, and it makes his blood boil.
- But he quickly realizes your warmth is genuine with everyone, not just him, which both disgusts him and draws him in - he is not used to unconditional kindness and reads it as a weakness he can exploit.
- Dio initially thinks of your child as leverage: a vulnerability to control you with, something to threaten in order to keep you obedient if needed.
- After witnessing you snap on someone who so much as shoves your kid - leaning in with that sweet smile and telling them, “You touch my child again and I’ll rip off your leg and shove it so far up your ass you’ll have toes for teeth, sugar, understand?” - he suddenly sees something of his own viciousness reflected in you and is intrigued.
- You bake for the Joestar estate or the neighborhood - pies, cookies, casseroles - and you always pack an extra plate “for Dio, too, sugar,” even when he has been nothing but cutting and cold - he eats it with a practiced smile, but the domestic intimacy unsettles him more than any Hamon user.
- Dio pretends to find your motherly fussing annoying, but he never stops you straightening his tie, brushing crumbs from his vest, or telling him “You’re workin’ yourself half to death, honey” - it reminds him of something he never had and refuses to admit he secretly craves.
- The first time a thug, rival, or even a Joestar servant makes your kid cry, you step between them, voice syrup-sweet, accent thickening as you threaten violence in graphic, colorful phrases while smiling like you’re offering iced tea - Dio watches, amused, because this is cruelty he understands.
- Later, he corners the offender alone and makes it clear that if anyone dares make “that woman’s brat” cry again, they will beg for death; it is not out of kindness, but because your fury, focused on someone else, is far too entertaining to risk losing.
- Dio quickly realizes your love for your child is your core, unshakable priority, so he frames his manipulations in terms of “safety”: suggesting you align with him because “only power can guarantee your little darling never cries again.”
- He takes a dark pleasure in the contrast: in public, you are the soft-spoken Southern lady calling him “darlin’,” offering him biscuits; in private, he deliberately puts you in situations where you have to bare your fangs for your child, just to watch that transformation.
- Your child once parrots your threat in front of Dio - “Mama said she’d rip off their leg and give ‘em teeth-toes!” - and he laughs harder than he has in years, asking you to repeat the line because “it suits you far better than that saccharine tone you wear.”
- If someone sneers that a “single Southern mother” has no place among gentlemen, Dio smiles thinly and defends you with poisonous politeness, not because he respects them, but because only he is allowed to talk down to his “sweet, dangerous little mama bear.”
Kars
- Kars initially finds your automatic nicknames annoying background noise, the way he might dismiss human customs in general, until he notices how everyone around you relaxes when you say “honey” or “sweetheart.” That effortless social control makes him pay attention.
- Your domestic kindness is alien to him; he was born among ruthless warriors and has no real frame of reference for someone who bakes pies for people she just met.
- The first time you invite him in with a warm “Well hey there, sugar, you look like you could use a good meal,” he studies you the way he studies prey and tools - weighing whether this softness is a mask or a weapon.
- Once he decides you are his, your kitchen becomes his headquarters; he’ll sit at the table, arms folded, watching you cook with the same cold focus he uses when observing an enemy, memorizing every motion and recipe.
- You start packing him neat little containers of food “for the road,” talking to him like a boyfriend coming off a late shift instead of an ancient predator - the normalcy amuses him enough that he lets it continue.
- If he sees you exhausted from parenting and work, he will wordlessly take over chores that require strength or precision - moving heavy furniture, fixing things, carrying multiple grocery bags like they weigh nothing - because efficiency matters to him and your fatigue is an unacceptable variable.
- Kars does not understand human children emotionally at first, but he understands legacy and potential, so he treats your child as an extension of you and, by extension, of his own territory.
- He watches, very quietly, how you kneel down to your kid’s level, brush hair out of their face, and say “What’s wrong, baby?” in that soft drawl - he files away every slight they suffer with the same seriousness he applies to strategic threats.
- The first time your kid shyly calls him something like “Mr. Kars” or even “sir,” he corrects them in a low voice: “If you must address me, use my name,” because he refuses to be seen as anything less than a central figure in this little unit.
- When someone hurts or scares your child - another adult, a bully, whoever - your voice stays syrup‑sweet as you step between them, but your whole aura changes; even Kars feels that shift, and it genuinely intrigues him.
- That’s when you give that infamous line, all honey in your tone and murder in your eyes, “You touch my child again, I will rip off your leg and shove it so far up your ass you’ll have toes for teeth, understand, darling?” with a polite little smile and that soft Southern lilt.
- Kars doesn’t stop you; he stands slightly behind and to the side, watching like a scientist witnessing a beautiful new weapon, memorizing your exact wording and the way humans instantly recoil from you.
- He respects ruthlessness and single‑minded drive more than honor, so your willingness to become monstrous for your child’s sake slots perfectly into his worldview - in his mind, this is proof you are worthy of being by his side.
- Later, in private, he will brush a hand over your cheek or your throat and murmur something like, “That look in your eyes back there… that is the face of a survivor, not a weakling,” which is his version of calling you beautiful.
- Anyone who threatens your child twice simply does not get a second chance; whether they mysteriously disappear or suffer a “freak accident,” Kars makes sure no one ever connects it back to you, because he wants your reputation to remain sweet and harmless.
- Your habit of calling everyone “honey” and “sugar” irks him just enough that he corrects you only in private - he doesn’t like sharing, so he listens closely to hear if you ever soften your voice more for someone else.
- When you slip and call him “darling” in front of others, he pretends not to care, but you notice he becomes just a bit more possessive - standing closer, resting a casual hand on your shoulder, or looking directly at anyone who meets your eyes after that.
- In return, he never uses pet names, but he says your given name with such slow, deliberate precision that it feels like one - when he wants your full attention, he will say it once, low and firm, and you always hear him over everything else.
- You’re the public face: the friendly, warm mom who offers pie and sweet tea to stressed neighbors and even to people Kars considers beneath him; he allows it because it creates a shield of normalcy around your home.
- He’s the invisible wall: studying routes to your kid’s school, memorizing faces of teachers and parents, and mentally cataloging every potential threat in your neighborhood, all while you hum in the kitchen and call, “Dinner’s ready, sugar!”
- Eventually, he starts to equate your little household with the “perfect world” he once wanted only for his own race - in his mind, protecting you and your child becomes another long‑term objective, one he pursues with the same cold, unstoppable logic he used to chase the Red Stone of Aja.
Wamuu
- Wamuu is used to warriors and killers, so meeting someone who smells like sugar, butter, and warm bread instead of blood immediately throws him off.
- At first, he assumes you are just a non‑combatant and therefore beneath his notice, but the way you stand in front of your kid without flinching, chin up and voice sweet as tea, registers as a different kind of courage he cannot dismiss.
- The moment he realizes you are a single mother raising a child alone, his loyalty shifts - in his mind, you are now a “protected one,” and by extension, your child becomes part of the territory he defends with his life.
- You call him “sugar,” “baby,” or “darlin’” in that slow Southern drawl without even thinking, and it hits him the same way a worthy opponent’s killing intent does: sudden, sharp, unforgettable.
- At first he corrects you with stiff seriousness, “Call me Wamuu” - but when you just smile and go, “Alright, honey,” he goes quiet and never brings it up again.
- He is deeply unused to casual affection, so he reacts in small ways - leaning closer when you talk, instinctively moving between you and a doorway, or lowering his voice when he addresses you.
- Wamuu does not need human food, but he will sit at the table whenever you cook, arms folded, watching you move around the kitchen like he is studying the most complex battle technique in existence.
- You press warm biscuits or cookies into his hands with a fond, “Here you go, sweetheart,” and he tastes them out of respect - the fact that you made something just for him becomes more important than the flavor.
- He ends up being your unintentional sous‑chef, lifting impossibly heavy things, grinding ingredients, or holding hot pans without flinching while you fuss over him with, “Careful now, big guy, I know you’re tough, but I ain’t fixin’ a burn on you today.”
- Wamuu refuses to harm children and avoids killing non‑combatants, which already sets him apart from Kars and Esidisi - when it comes to your child, that instinct becomes almost sacred.
- Your kid can toddle up and call him “Mister Wamuu” or mispronounce his name entirely, and he will simply kneel down to their level, listening with the same seriousness he would give a seasoned warrior.
- He insists on training your child only when they are older and only if they choose it, framing it as, “So that no enemy may make you afraid,” never as something forced.
- The first time someone grabs your child too roughly or threatens them, Wamuu watches your whole demeanor shift: apron still on, flour on your hands, smile soft - but your eyes turn absolutely lethal.
- You step in front of your kid and, in the same syrupy accent you use to offer pie, coo, “You touch my child again, I will rip off your leg and shove it so far up your ass you’ll have toes for teeth, understand, sugar?” while smiling like a Sunday school teacher.
- Wamuu is stunned for about half a second, then intensely impressed; this is the same ruthless decisiveness he respects in battle, just redirected through a mother’s fury.
- If the threat is human, Wamuu usually does not even need to move; your words and your smile do all the work, and he simply stands behind you like a living wall, arms folded, eyes promising a slow, honorable death if the warning is ignored.
- If someone actually follows through and hurts your child, Wamuu treats it as a formal challenge: he does not toy with them, but he also does not grant them an easy death, making it very clear that harming a child - especially your child - is beneath even the lowest warrior.
- Afterward, he will place a hand on your shoulder or back, grounding you as that adrenaline drains, silently acknowledging that your rage was righteous and worthy, not something to be ashamed of.
- In private, he calls you by name only, but the way he says it is reverent, like a title; in return, you soften those old battle scars with pet names, “my brave boy,” “my big warrior,” or “my storm,” as you trace them with gentle fingers.
- Your sweetness never makes him think you are weak - instead, he sees it as proof that true strength is not just in destroying, but in choosing to nurture even after the world has tried to break you.
- If you ever apologize for being “too much” when you snap to protect your kid, Wamuu cuts you off with a firm, “You are a mother. That is your battle. Anyone who threatens your child has already chosen their fate,” and he means it.
Esidisi
- Esidisi pretends to be annoyed when you call him “honey” or “sugar,” but his lips always twitch up, and his veins flare hot for a second like he is embarrassed by how much it pleases him.
- He is ancient, proud, and used to being feared, so having a girlfriend who casually pats his chest and says “Darlin’, sit down and let me fix you a plate” completely disarms him more than any Ripple user ever did.
- The first time you call Wamuu “sweetheart” and Santana “baby,” Esidisi hisses about humans’ strange customs, but he silently decides that only your little family and his brethren are allowed to receive those pet names.
- You are always baking in whatever hideout the Pillar Men are using, the scent of pies, cookies, and casseroles drifting through a space that used to be only stone, blood, and battle plans.
- Esidisi leans against the doorway watching you fuss over the oven, half-lidded eyes soft, and mutters that humans are weak and foolish even as he waits for you to tap his cheek with a flour-dusted hand.
- When you hand him a plate and say “Here you go, sugar, eat up,” he makes a show of calling it a “tribute,” but in truth he catalogs each flavor like a strategist learning a new battlefield.
- Your default mode is “Southern mom at church potluck”: you make extra portions “just in case,” offer seconds, ask Wamuu if he’s drinking enough water, and tell Santana to sit up straight while you fix his hair.
- Even Kars gets a “Can I fix you a plate, honey?” sometimes, and Esidisi watches carefully, oddly proud that you can treat a godlike being the way you treat a fussy neighbor.
- Esidisi, who has wiped out entire clans, finds it bizarrely soothing listening to you hum while you tidy up, your voice turning the lair of immortal predators into something resembling a home.
- The first time someone makes your child cry, Esidisi learns a new kind of fear - not of death or sunlight, but of the way your smile stays sugar-sweet while your eyes go flat and cold.
- You step between your kid and the offender, hands on your hips, and in that syrupy accent say, “You touch my child again, I will rip off your leg and shove it so far up your ass you’ll have toes for teeth, understand, darling?” like you just offered them more pie.
- Esidisi actually laughs, low and delighted, because your threat is every bit as vicious as his boiling blood, and he decides that from now on, anyone who even looks at your child wrong will deal with both of you.
- Esidisi starts shadowing your child in subtle ways: a presence in the corner, a ripple of heat when someone gets too close, a lazy smile that never reaches his eyes if anyone raises their voice near you.
- When you go full mama bear, he does not calm you down - instead, he stands at your shoulder, hand on your waist, and purrs, “You heard her. She is being merciful. Do not make her prove it,” treating your words like a royal decree.
- Later, when your child is safe and you are back to wiping their tears and offering, “It’s alright, honey, Mama’s here,” Esidisi quietly tells you that your wrath was beautiful, and that any human who survives your warning should consider it a blessing.
Santana
- Santana is initially confused by how you call everyone “darling” and “sugar,” assuming it is some kind of human verbal tic or social camouflage, but he quietly notes that your tone with him is always just a little softer.
- The first time you offer him homemade cornbread and pie, he studies the food like it’s research material, but then decides you are “useful” and “pleasant,” which is his version of a compliment, and keeps coming back to your kitchen.
- Around the house he moves silently, watching your routines - cooking, cleaning, talking to your child - and slowly adjusts his own habits so he can be near you, like sitting at the table while you bake instead of lurking in a doorway.
- He doesn’t fully understand human comfort, but he notices your stress levels drop when he helps, so he’ll casually lift heavy furniture, fix things, or stand guard outside at night while you rock your kid to sleep on the porch.
- You call him “honey,” “sugar,” and “darlin’” without thinking, even when he’s doing something mildly terrifying like squeezing through a vent, and it short-circuits him because no one’s ever spoken to him like he’s precious instead of dangerous.
- You’re the type to hand a plate of cookies to strangers with, “Y’all hungry, sugar?” and then gently steer them away from rooms where Santana is, because you know he’s watching and you don’t want anyone spooked.
- Santana treats your child like a fascinating, fragile creature at first - he’ll crouch down, silently observing the way they move or talk, tilting his head like he’s analyzing a new species.
- Over time, he learns little routines: standing behind them when they’re on a swing, catching them without even looking when they trip, and letting them tug on his hair or poke his ribs because “they are… mine and hers.”
- The first time someone shoves or yells at your kid in public, you step between them with a sugary smile, drawling, “You touch my child again, I will rip off your leg and shove it so far up your ass you’ll have toes for teeth, understand, sugar?” while sounding like you’re offering sweet tea.
- Santana goes utterly still behind you - eyes narrowed, body tense, and decides that this threat level is sufficient - he doesn’t even need to move because your voice and smile already make the human recoil in instinctive fear.
- If anyone persists, that’s when Santana quietly appears at your back, towering over them, speaking in a low, calm tone about how easy it would be to “break and rearrange” a human body, all while you’re still smiling like a polite Southern hostess.
- Afterward, he will murmur something like, “Your hostility response is… impressive, darling,” and you’ll just pat his chest and go, “Aww, that’s just bein’ a mama, honey,” before going right back to baking brownies with your kid while he stands guard in the doorway.
Dio Brando (P3)
- Dio absolutely notices you because you are nothing like the bloodthirsty killers he usually surrounds himself with: warm smile, soft drawl, and a kid tucked against your hip while you offer cookies to people who could level a city block.
- Your “yes, sugar” and “need anything, honey?” charms his ego in a way nothing else does - he likes that even knowing exactly who he is, you still speak to him like he is just a man coming home, not a god-king on a throne.
- He decides very quickly that you and your child will live in his mansion, close to his casket and his inner circle, justifying it as “security,” but really because the domestic atmosphere you bring makes his lair feel like a domain instead of a tomb.
- The terracotta mansion in Cairo ends up smelling like butter, sugar, and coffee at all hours because you insist on baking for the agents, even the terrifying ones, greeting them with “Afternoon, darling, you look like you could use a biscuit.”
- His minions are both unnerved and addicted: one day they are executing brutal orders in the city, the next they are sitting at your kitchen table being asked if they’ve eaten yet while you slip them a slice of pie.
- Dio pretends he is above it, but he starts rearranging schedules so he can pass through the kitchen when you’re cooking, leaning on the doorframe to watch you move around like you own the place, listening to you hum and call him “honey” without fear.
- You treat Dio the same way you treat everyone else: “Dio, sugar, sit down and let me fix that shirt, you’ve got blood on the collar,” said in the same tone you use on your kid, which amuses his arrogant, megalomaniacal streak because it feels like worship with a hint of defiance.
- His more fanatical followers are stunned when you brush past Dio, kiss his cheek, and scold him: “You can’t just run yourself ragged, darling; even vampires need to sit still while dinner’s hot.” He lets it happen because your unshaken tenderness feeds his ego and curiosity.
- You also dote on the agents: patching them up, bandaging wounds, and fussing with “Hold still, baby, this’ll sting,” until some of the most vicious Stand users relax around you in a way they never do around their master.
- The first time someone so much as raises their voice at your kid, that sweet tone hardens and you step between them, smiling like sunshine as you purr, “You touch my child again, I will rip off your leg and shove it so far up your ass you’ll have toes for teeth, understand, honey?”
- The room goes silent; even the most hardened killer feels the hair on their neck stand up, and Dio’s golden eyes narrow with interest because this is the same ruthless, rule-breaking cruelty he respects in evil people - only aimed at protecting, not dominating.
- He doesn’t intervene - he lets you finish the threat, studying how the agent visibly wilts under your sugar-sweet smile, and afterward he dismisses them with a lazy command, amused and impressed that your maternal fury can cow his followers almost as effectively as his Stand.
- Dio is already ruthless and cautious, sending Stand assassins across the world to crush the Joestars - that same meticulous paranoia transfers to your child’s safety. Guards are reassigned, routes are cleared, and anyone who even looks suspiciously at your kid simply…disappears.
- He privately tells his elite agents that your child is under his personal protection: harming them is equivalent to betraying Dio himself, which terrifies the household more than any threat you could make, even with your charming Southern lilt.
- When you go full mama bear, he is delighted; he sees your vicious protectiveness as proof that you share his belief that the strong must crush threats completely, only your “strong” is defined as “anyone who would hurt my baby,” and he encourages it with a soft, “Do as you please.”
- In quieter nights, when the city is still and the mansion is hushed, you curl up on a couch with your child asleep on your lap, Dio lounging nearby while you run your fingers through his hair and call him “darling” like he is not the terror of the world.
- He likes to hear you talk about mundane things - what your kid did that day, the new recipe you’re trying, the gossip you picked up in the market - because it reminds him of a human life he cast aside for power, and it feeds his twisted longing for a “heaven” only he understands.
- If you ever chirp, “My boys’ll be just fine, sugar. Nobody’s touchin’ my baby while you’re around,” he feels that as worship: you are trusting his invincible power to guard the small, warm world you have built in the middle of his nightmare empire.
- As his feud with the Joestars tightens, he becomes even more controlling of where you and your child go, keeping you near the heart of the mansion or in carefully protected parts of Cairo, all while sending Stand users to harry his enemies.
- You bake extra before the big confrontations, pressing sweets into his hands with a soft, “Come back in one piece, honey,” and that mixture of domesticity and absolute, terrifying devotion makes his ambition burn even hotter.
- If the Joestar group ever glimpsed you - this soft-spoken Southern woman with a child on your hip and a threat like a guillotine behind your smile - they would realize that even DIO has managed to carve out something resembling a family in the middle of his path to domination.
Kira Yoshikage
- Kira is used to blending in as an ordinary salaryman, so your sweet, chatty Southern manners initially read as a liability to him: you say “honey” and “sugar” to strangers, bring casseroles for new neighbors, and know everyone’s business.
- What hooks him is that beneath that warmth, you move with a very disciplined, almost ritual routine as a single mom - school runs, meal prep, tidying - which mirrors his own obsessive love of schedules and order.
- The first time you call him “darlin’” in public, he stiffens because he hates attention, but the casual way you call everyone that lets it pass as a harmless quirk instead of romantic focus on him.
- In private he quietly grows attached to those pet names, because they make him feel like he has something normal and domestic, even if he never admits that out loud and only answers with a faint, pleased hum.
- He enjoys coming home to the smell of pies and stews, the TV murmuring in the background, and you pottering around the kitchen in an apron, because it feeds his fantasy that he is just another man with a family instead of a meticulous serial killer.
- You pack him bento with little handwritten notes, “Eat up, sugar, long days are rough” - and he starts timing his murders around your schedule so there is never blood on the days you expect him home for dinner.
- Around town you are that friendly Southern mom: offering cookies to Josuke and Okuyasu, calling Jotaro “sir” and Hayato “sweet pea,” fussing about everyone’s appetite, and insisting people take leftovers home.
- The first time someone shoves or yells at your child, you step between them, tilt your head, smile as sweet as iced tea, and say in that soft drawl, “You touch my child again, I will rip off your leg and shove it so far up your ass you’ll have toes for teeth, understand, sugar?” - never dropping eye contact.
- Kira, who has always been annoyed by nosy or disruptive children, is startled to find that he respects your absolute, unwavering prioritization of your kid - it matches his own ruthless instinct to eliminate anything that disturbs his lifestyle.
- If anyone actually lays a hand on your child, Killer Queen becomes the invisible consequence: you give the verbal warning with a smile, and later, the aggressor “mysteriously” disappears in an accident that looks perfectly normal to the rest of Morioh.
- Your presence nudges him toward a warped version of “family man”: he becomes more careful, cleaner, and more methodical, not out of guilt, but because he refuses to let his killings ever brush up against you or your child.
- In turn, you never quite know why bad people around your kid seem to have such spectacularly unfortunate luck - but when Kira silently takes your flour-covered hand while you’re baking and presses a rare, almost tender kiss to your knuckles, you decide not to ask.
Diavolo
- You probably met because you were working somewhere quiet and domestic in Naples - like a bakery or a café - all “What can I get y’all today, sugar?” and Diavolo clocked you as the perfect innocuous cover for a boss who wants his past erased.
- He tells himself you are useful because of that disarming sweetness, but he fixates fast: you never pry, you just hand him coffee and call him “honey,” and for a man who lives in paranoia and secrecy, being treated like he’s just some tired regular knocks the air out of him.
- The more he learns you are a single mom, the more that obsession twists - Diavolo, who murdered or threatened his own family to protect his secrets, is violently fascinated by the way you openly center your child with zero shame or fear.
- Passione’s high command has no idea the Boss spends time in a tiny kitchen where you’re saying “darlin’, hold that bowl for mama” while you bake, and Diavolo stands there like a big, silent shadow being asked to taste test cookies.
- You call everyone something sweet out of habit, “Now listen here, sugar,” even to capos - and it unnerves them that the man who built a brutal drug empire sits at your table while you plate up food and wipe flour off his cheek like it’s nothing.
- Diavolo himself does not understand why he lets you fuss over him, but he is addicted to the ritual; in a life built around erasing time and witnesses, being told “Sit down, honey, food’s gettin’ cold” anchors him in a way that feels almost sacrilegious to his whole philosophy of destroying the past.
- Diavolo is willing to kill his own daughter to keep his identity secret, which makes your child a terrifying, alien concept to him at first: a tiny person you would burn the world for instead of erase.
- The first time your kid toddles over and grabs his pant leg with a “Mister, up?” and you go, “Now, sugar, that’s mama’s… special friend,” Diavolo’s brain blue‑screens; he is used to subordinates trembling, not snot‑nosed toddlers demanding cuddles.
- Over time, he becomes obsessively watchful - King Crimson and Epitaph are constantly scanning ten seconds ahead any time your child is near windows, stairs, or strangers, because the idea of fate touching them feels like an insult to his control.
- Passione under Diavolo is ruled by fear and secrecy; then you breeze into the orbit of some lower‑ranked members with a warm “Y’all be safe gettin’ home, alright, honey?” and hand them still‑warm biscuits, and they are more terrified than ever.
- Rumors spread about a woman in a sundress who calls assassins “darlin’” and “sweet pea” while sending them home with leftovers, and how the Boss does not erase her from existence, which makes everyone deeply reconsider their life choices.
- You are invited, at Diavolo’s subtle order, to “safe” gatherings as a normalizing presence; you laugh, you feed them, you say “Now, sugar, wipe those boots ‘fore you track dirt in,” and meanwhile every man in that room knows the Boss can erase ten seconds of time if they so much as look at your kid wrong.
- The first time someone so much as shoves your child in passing, the entire street hears your accent drop into lethal honey: “You touch my child again, I will rip off your leg and shove it so far up your ass you’ll have toes for teeth, understand, sugar?” - and you’re smiling like you just offered them pie.
- Diavolo is frozen for a second because this is exactly his kind of ruthlessness wrapped in lace and pet names; the fact that your threat is all for protecting a child, not a secret, completely scrambles his usual logic.
- If it is a Passione member, Diavolo doesn’t even erase the incident - he wants them to remember the feel of your nails in their collar and his Stand’s hand poised near their skull, so the association “hurt the kid = fate worse than death” gets carved into the organization.
- In fights, he uses King Crimson’s time erasure preemptively to keep threats from ever getting within arm’s reach of your child, seeing those ten seconds of future and deleting the ones where the kid cries or you get hurt.
- Anyone who even considers using your kid as leverage disappears into some “accident” no one can explain - to them, they just blinked and suddenly they are bleeding out, because Diavolo skipped right to the part where he wins and you and your child never even see it.
- He does not admit it aloud, but your mama bear mode becomes something sacred to him - in a life of paranoia where he believes the past must be destroyed, watching you snarl for your kid’s future becomes the one thing he refuses to erase.
- When Doppio fronts, he’s immediately soft for you and the kid - being called “sweetheart” and “pumpkin” while you hand him snacks fits his more awkward, eager‑to‑please personality, and your warmth soothes his anxiety in a way even Diavolo begrudgingly uses.
- You definitely hand Doppio a plate like, “Here you go, sugar, eat up,” kiss your kid’s cheek, and Doppio feels so safe he ends up oversharing something that makes Diavolo internally scream about “careless” information - but he never punishes you for it. He just tightens the walls around you instead.
- The irony that the Boss of Passione - who kills to erase his own history - has become part of a tiny, chaotic, Southern‑accented family where you bake, Doppio babbles, and a child giggles around his ankles is not lost on him; he hates it, and he needs it, and he will annihilate anyone who threatens it, right alongside his sweet, vicious mama bear.
Enrico Pucci
- Pucci initially views you as an oddly comforting presence, the kind of warmth he tells himself he has no time for, yet he keeps visiting your home “for counseling” and coffee. Your Southern hospitality, calling him “sugar” and pressing second helpings on him, contrasts sharply with his usual cold, ascetic routine.
- He tells himself he is only checking on a single mother in need of support from the church, but he lingers too long at your kitchen table, fingers resting near your child’s coloring pages as you hum and bake. The moment he realizes he is genuinely at peace in your house, he quietly decides this must be “fated” rather than a mere weakness.
- You call everyone “honey,” “sugar,” and “darling” without even thinking, including prisoners, guards, and random parishioners, which makes Pucci look oddly stern standing next to you. The first time you call him “darlin’” in front of others, he stiffens, but later admits in a low voice that he does not want you to stop.
- He pretends to be mildly disapproving of such casual affection, but he secretly likes that your warmth disarms people he intends to manipulate later. When you kiss his cheek and murmur, “You eat yet, honey?” he allows himself a small, rare smile, insisting he is only accepting your kindness because it would be rude to refuse.
- Your house smells like sugar, butter, and coffee at all hours - you leave extra plates out “just in case Father Pucci drops by,” and he nearly always does. He recites prime numbers in his head at your cluttered kitchen table while you bustle around in an apron, and it calms him more than praying alone in his room ever has.
- You bring baked goods to the prison staff and inmates, balancing Tupperware on one hip and your child on the other, greeting everyone with a soft drawl. Pucci observes how easily you make even hardened criminals relax, and he files that away as proof that your presence is a “necessary component” of the world he wants to build.
- Pucci is serious, precise, and devout on the surface, but with your child he becomes oddly gentle, adjusting their clothes or explaining small moral lessons in a quiet, patient tone. He reads them simple prayer books and children’s stories, all the while convincing himself that guiding this child is an extension of his grand design.
- When your kid calls him “Mr. Pucci” instead of “Father,” you laugh and say, “Now, sugar, that’s your daddy’s chair you’re sittin’ in,” and Pucci has to look away because the word hits something deep and unprepared. From that point on, he begins to include your child in his private idea of the “perfect world” he is building, a piece of personal Heaven he refuses to admit he cares about.
- Most days you are soft-spoken and syrup-sweet, but the instant someone snaps at your child, your entire demeanor shifts while your smile stays exactly the same. You step between them, hands on your hips, voice still honeyed as you say, “You touch my child again and I’ll rip off your leg and shove it so far up your ass you’ll have toes for teeth, understand, sugar?” in that slow Southern drawl.
- The first time this happens in front of Pucci, a guard shoving your kid aside, Whitesnake is half-summoned before he even realizes it, reacting to the spike of cold fury in his chest. He watches your sweet, polite threat freeze the man in place, and something in him decides that anyone who endangers you or the child will simply be written out of his “Heaven” entirely.
- Later, in private, Pucci gently takes your hand, thumb tracing your knuckles as he murmurs that next time you do not need to dirty your hands, that fate itself will handle anyone who wishes your child harm. You only smile up at him and say, “Oh, honey, a mama’s job is never done,” and he realizes that this is one thing even his Stand cannot outdo: your absolute, terrifying love.
Funny Valentine
- Valentine first notices you because you’re the only person in a tense political or race‑related environment treating everyone like “honey” and “sugar,” offering coffee and pie to men who could have you arrested with a signature. The way you keep your child close yet happy in a room full of dangerous people intrigues him far more than any report.
- He initially approaches you with that polite, polished smile, expecting you to be easily swayed, but your firm politeness and quiet steel whenever his eyes drift to your kid makes him reassess you as a valuable, immovable constant rather than a disposable citizen.
- To Valentine, your kindness is strategic gold: a naturally disarming presence that can calm a room, gather information, and make people underestimate both him and you, all while you genuinely mean every “darlin’” you say.
- He is fascinated by how you can threaten someone with “I will rip your leg off and shove it so far up your ass you’ll have toes for teeth, sugar, do we understand one another?” and then immediately ask if they’ve eaten yet, the same honey‑thick Southern lilt never changing.
- At home, he becomes almost ritualistic about your domesticity: your cooking, your baking, the way you hum and call him “honey” when you fix his tie before a meeting. He treats those moments as sacred breathers between ruthless decisions, never allowing subordinates to disturb you when you’re cooking or when he naps near you on the couch.
- He quietly arranges for the best ingredients, new ovens, and imported sweets to appear “by coincidence,” all under the guise of presidential privilege, because he likes that his house smells like sugar and butter instead of blood and gunpowder. When you pack lunches for him and your child, he actually feels guilty if circumstances force him to miss a meal.
- Your kid is an absolute untouchable line in the sand for him: the “nation’s future” in public, but “our baby” in private. He uses all of his influence and information networks to make sure no one with ill intent ever gets near them, officially or otherwise.
- When your child runs to him calling him some version of “Mr. President” or a cute nickname you started, he kneels immediately, regardless of clothes or status, and listens like their story is a diplomatic briefing. That kind of unconditional importance is something he never had growing up, and he becomes quietly addicted to giving it.
- The first time someone lays a hand on your child—maybe a guard grabs their arm too hard or a rival makes a pointed threat - you go dead‑eyed sweet, stand between them and your baby, and let that line drop in a sugar‑thick drawl: “Touch my child again and I’ll rip off your leg and shove it so far up your ass you’ll have toes for teeth, understand, honey?” The smile never leaves your face, and the temperature in the room plummets.
- Valentine doesn’t stop you. He watches. He files it away. Then, with that calm presidential cadence, he finishes what you started: reassigns the offender to some horrifyingly unlucky post, or has them disappear between “two objects” so thoroughly they may as well have never existed. Your rage becomes state‑sanctioned
- Outwardly, he gives you a gentle, almost chiding look. “My dear, threats of that nature are unbecoming of a lady such as yourself.” Inwardly, he is absolutely pleased that your brutality aligns perfectly with his own “for the greater good” philosophy.
- Later, in private, he cups your face and kisses your forehead, voice low and sincere: “For our child, there is nothing you must ever apologize for.” The fact that your moral event horizon is your kid, not your country, intrigues him - he quietly works to make sure those two priorities never conflict.
- You call everyone “sugar,” “sweetheart,” and “darlin’,” including secret service agents, racing sponsors, and foreign dignitaries who do not know how to process being scolded like misbehaving nephews. Valentine lets it continue because it lowers their guard and reinforces his image as a president beloved by gentle, salt‑of‑the‑earth women.
- When you slip and call him “honey” in public at a formal event, a few senators nearly choke, but he only smiles, takes your hand, and addresses you as “my beloved” with such gravity that everyone decides it must be a charming national quirk.
- He quietly rewrites entire security protocols around you and your child: routes, guards, times you’re allowed to be in certain places, all to ensure no one ever puts you in a position where you need to turn into that smiling threat again. From his perspective, if you are driven to that edge, then the system has failed.
- In his most honest moments, he admits (only to you) that losing your child would break you in a way he could not fix with all the power in every parallel world. That thought terrifies him more than any enemy Stand, and it makes him twice as ruthless with anyone who endangers your little family’s peace.
- On rare calm nights, after the chaos of plots and policies, he sits with his head in your lap while you card your fingers through his hair and murmur, “You’re workin’ yourself too hard, sugar.” He falls asleep like that - most guarded man in America, completely vulnerable under your hand.
- If you ever feel guilty about how violent your protective streak gets, he corrects you, voice firm: “A mother who will bare her fangs is precisely why this country is worth protecting.” In that moment, your softness and your savagery stop being contradictions and become the exact balance he has been chasing his entire life.
Toru
- Toru first notices you at the hospital café when you call the barista “honey” and “sugar” without even thinking, and he is instantly entertained by how naturally you charm everyone around you.
- He starts hanging around your usual spots on his “breaks,” leaning against a wall with that casual grin while you’re balancing a diaper bag and a box of cookies you baked for the nurses, calling every last one of them “darlin’” in that soft drawl.
- He teases you about the nicknames at first: “Do you call everyone ‘sweetheart,’ or am I special?” but the first time you absentmindedly murmur, “Thank you, sugar,” to him while fixing his collar, he files it away like a small victory.
- At home, Toru pretends he is just a lazy part-timer crashing on your couch, but the truth is he likes the way your apartment always smells like cinnamon, butter, and something in the oven because you are constantly baking for neighbors and coworkers.
- You pack extra slices of pie and send him off with, “Take this to your boss, honey, and tell ‘em I said thank you,” and he has to fight a smirk because if only you knew who his “boss” really was.
- When he slips in late at night smelling like rain and asphalt, you’re waiting with reheated leftovers, gently scolding, “You gotta eat, darling,” as if he’s just a tired boyfriend and not the mastermind of an entire calamity-based operation.
- Toru acts blasé about kids, but your child has him wrapped around their finger; he lets them climb on his back, play with his hair, and “help” him with his phone, while he lounges on the floor pretending none of it matters.
- You watch the way his eyes flick to the door, to the windows, constantly assessing threats even when he seems relaxed, and your heart warms at the idea that the “dangerous” one in the room keeps reflexively positioning himself between your kid and any potential harm.
- Your child copies your nicknames - one day they toddle up, tug on his shirt, and say, “Toru, honey, look!” and he just freezes before laughing under his breath, suddenly, painfully aware that he has accidentally built a little family here.
- The first time someone at the playground shoves your child, you go from honey-sweet to lethal in a heartbeat; you step in front of your kid with a smile as soft as fresh pie and say, “Sugar, you touch my child again and I’ll rip your leg off and shove it so far up your ass you’ll have toes for teeth, understand?” in that lilting Southern accent.
- Toru watches, equal parts delighted and impressed, as the other parent stammers, completely thrown off by the contrast between your syrupy tone and the violent threat; he leans against a tree, eyes bright, thinking calamity has nothing on this.
- Later, he drawls, “You know, darling, you’re scarier than Wonder of U when you’re mad,” and you just pat his cheek and say, “Then don’t let anything happen to my baby, sugar,” not realizing you’ve just given the most dangerous man in town a personal order.
- When a real threat appears - someone tied indirectly to the Locacaca mess getting too curious about your child - Toru becomes eerily serious, all playfulness gone as he arranges a “coincidental” calamity to remove them from the board.
- You only see the aftermath: the threat hospitalized after a freak chain of accidents, and Toru strolling in with flowers, shrugging, “World’s a dangerous place, honey,” while you stand over your sleeping child whispering, “If anyone ever tries to hurt you, mama will destroy them, understand?”
- He hears you repeat that same line, “I’ll rip your leg off and shove it so far up your ass you’ll have toes for teeth” into the dark as you tuck your kid in, and for once, the ruthless Rock Human feels an unfamiliar sting of protectiveness that has nothing to do with strategy.
- Over time, Toru starts seeking your approval in subtle ways: asking, “Did you save some of that cobbler for me, darlin’?” or texting you a picture of his takeout with, “Bet this doesn’t beat your cooking, honey.”
- He never planned to care, but every time you unconsciously stroke his hair while he lies with his head in your lap and your child snuggled against your side, murmuring, “My boys,” his carefully built emotional distance erodes a little more.
- The cruelest irony for him is that your unconditional, motherly warmth is exactly what Rock Humans like him should avoid, yet he finds himself thinking that if calamity ever comes for you and your child, he will gladly stand between you and it, even if it means being crushed first.
