Now That We Are In Carnival Season, It's Okay To Post These Iconic Photos Of Senna Again

An SBR request! Could we have Johnny bring around a reader with Keratosis Pilaris? Aka strawberry skin, they look similar to bug bites! Btw I absolutely love your writing, I’m falling for characters I hadn’t even paid full attention to before!

YOUR MIND - astounding. The things you’ve done for the Johnny Joestar community 🙏 I have KP myself and suddenly love it a lot more! I'm so glad you enjoy my writing my love, hope you enjoy this one too, it’s such a fun premise! <333

Strawberry skin – Johnny Joestar x Reader

Sexual themes | Word count - 1676 | Day 2 SBR fanfic Week

It hadn’t been a plan.

Not at first.

After the Steel Ball Run ended, after the winners were named and the dead were not, it turned out no one really knew what to do with themselves.

You hadn’t expected to survive, much less to have to figure out what came after. You’d ridden halfway across a continent for a reason that didn’t even make sense anymore. Salvation, maybe. Or spite. Some days it was hard to tell the difference.

But when it was over, your name wasn’t in the papers. There was no parade. No epilogue written in gold.

Just bruises, half-healed wounds you still didn’t like to talk about, and a quiet life with Johnny Joestar.

“You don’t have to go back,” he’d said, not quite looking at you.

“There’s room at the ranch. I could use the help.”

You knew what he meant. You both did. It wasn’t about chores. It wasn’t even about the room.

It was about not being alone.

He hadn’t wanted to ask. You hadn’t wanted to say yes.

But here you were.

Somewhere in the middle of nowhere you were living on Joestar land, sleeping in the old guest room, and pretending it wasn’t strange that your post-trauma coping strategy included shovelling horse shit and arguing about who made worse coffee.

You weren’t together-together. Not officially.

But there were looks. Drinks together. Moments that lasted too long and silences that said more than anyone was willing to put into words. Something had started in the desert, and it hadn’t stopped growing. Not yet.

The morning was already warm by the time you started on the stables.

The air smelled like leather, grass and dust, the kind that clung to your skin no matter how many times you washed. The sky stretched overhead in that cloudless, uncaring way that reminded you of your race days - only now, the only thing trying to kill you was hay fever.

You had your sleeves rolled up and your pants cuffed at the knee. Not for fashion. Just because it was hot, and the horses didn’t care what your legs looked like.

You were halfway through mucking the second stall when you heard the slow crunch of gravel behind you.

“You get bit up bad or somethin’?”

You turned.

Johnny was leaning against the fence, arms crossed, his expression unreadable in that classic Joestar way. He wasn’t wearing the hat today. His hair was tousled like he’d run a hand through it and then given up halfway. There was a glass of lemonade sweating in one hand and a twitch of amusement in the corner of his mouth.

He nodded toward your legs.

“Legs’re lookin’ a little rough.”

You blinked. Followed his gaze.

Right.

The keratosis. Strawberry skin.

The skin below your knees prickled under his stare. Pale, red-flecked, raised along the surface. The sun wasn’t helping.

You dropped the pitchfork, wiped your hands on your legs as if that would help, and shrugged like it didn’t matter.

“It’s not bug bites. I have a skin condition.”

Johnny didn’t answer. Just kept looking.

“Keratosis Pilaris,” you added, like it was a spell that might end the conversation. “It’s not contagious. Just… ugly.”

Still nothing. Just the breeze. Just him, watching.

You tried to brush it off with a laugh that didn’t quite land.

“You can say it’s gross. I’m used to it.”

Johnny tilted his head. Sipped his lemonade. And then, slowly:

“I wasn’t gonna say that.”

Pause.

“I was gonna say something worse.”

Your brow lifted. “Worse than gross?”

He stared at you for a beat too long. Then looked away, like he needed to physically reset himself to say it out loud.

“I’ve only ever told one person this before,” he muttered. “And that was Gyro. Which I regret every goddamn day.”

You blinked. “Okay…”

“I have a bug bite fetish.”

You froze.

“Excuse me?”

“It’s a thing,” Johnny said defensively. “A real thing. Don’t look at me like that.”

You were absolutely looking at him like that.

He kept talking. Too fast. Clearly spiralling.

“It’s not like - not in a weird way. Or not weirder than the stuff people are into now. It’s just - there’s something about it. The texture. The way it looks. And you’ve got that- look.”

You raised both eyebrows.

“Bug bite look?”

“Okay, that sounds worse out loud, I’m realising that now.”

You stared. For a long moment.

Then:

“You’re a fucking weirdo.”

Johnny grinned, all teeth.

“Takes one to move in with me.”

Your face burned hotter than the sun overhead. You rolled your eyes and went back to the pitchfork, jabbing it into the hay a little harder than necessary.

“You need therapy.”

“I had therapy. He quit when I started talking about corpses.”

“That’s not comforting.”

“Well, neither is watching you stomp around in barn muck and somehow making it hot.”

Your hands stilled on the pitchfork.

Then, slowly, you looked over your shoulder.

“You wanna touch it?”

You didn’t look at him. Just kept working the pitchfork like you hadn’t just flipped the entire balance of power in the barn. Straw and whatever-the-hell-else shifted under your boots while the silence behind you stretched dangerously.

“You serious?” Johnny said, a beat late and a little too casual to be real.

You didn’t answer right away. Just leaned on the handle like you had all day and zero intention of making this easy for him.

“Well,” you said slowly. “You’ve been staring at my legs like they owe you money.”

“I haven’t.”

“Johnny.”

“Okay but like - respectfully.”

You shot him a look over your shoulder. He was standing there, lemonade in hand, mouth slightly open like his brain had completely shut itself off from the rest of his body.

“You’re not exactly subtle.”

“I could be,” he offered. “But you just keep… existing. Like that.”

You gestured vaguely to the pitchfork, to the sweat, to the literal shit you were knee-deep in.

“Like what? Covered in dust and horse piss?”

“Like someone I absolutely should not be thinking about in this setting.”

“You need help.”

“I need to look - respectfully.”

“You are not looking respectfully.”

Johnny didn’t respond. Just sipped his lemonade in the world’s most suspicious silence.

You raised an eyebrow. “You thinking about it?”

“I’m trying not to,” he said through gritted teeth. “I’m failing.”

You couldn’t help it - you grinned.

“It’s just skin, Joestar.”

“No. That’s like - fuckin’ - limited edition.”

You nearly dropped the pitchfork.

“Limited - what? Are you mad?!”

“I’m just saying!” he blurted, face pink. “You’ve got that… deluxe model skin!”

You wheezed.

“You are so goddamn weird.”

“You offered!” he reminded you, voice cracking halfway through the sentence like his vocal cords had just tried to file a protest.

You tilted your head, still grinning.

“So…?”

He stood there. Glass still in hand. Eyes firmly planted somewhere below your knees like they were trying to manifest a deeper meaning from your skin texture.

“I want to,” he admitted, and he sounded uncomfortably sincere about it.

“But?”

“I don’t wanna get slammed in the jaw while you’re holding that pitchfork.”

You stepped closer. Just enough for your foot to bump lightly against his boot.

“Then don’t be weird about it.”

“It’s already weird.”

“Okay, but like - don’t be gross about it.”

Johnny looked you dead in the eye.

“I make no promises.” 

Johnny looked like you’d handed him something delicate, forbidden, and weirdly exciting.

“I’m gonna… just - yeah,” he mumbled, reaching out like your shin was booby-trapped.

You didn’t move. You also didn’t help.

He finally touched it - just a light brush of fingers along the skin, slow and cautious, like you might retract your leg and kick him in the jaw at any moment.

“Huh,” he breathed.

You raised an eyebrow. “Huh?”

“It’s… soft,” he said, surprised like you were some kind of rare terrain.

“Wow. Crazy how skin works.”

“No, but like - textured. In a cool way.”

“You’re describing me like a countertop.”

His lips twitched.

“A countertop…” he repeated, like he was testing the flavour of the word.

Then he looked up at you, slow and unmistakably up to something.

“You’re giving me ideas.”

You pointed the pitchfork at his chest without missing a beat.

“Finish that thought and I’ll brain you with this.”

Johnny grinned. “You say that like it’s not still on the table.”

You groaned.

He was still touching your leg gently, like he was scared he’d be banned if he pressed too hard. You permitted it. Just for a second.

Then you stepped back, and his hand dropped like you’d unplugged him.

“Okay,” you said. “Enough leg fondling in the barn.”

“You’re cutting me off?”

“I’m cutting you off before you start talking about getting a second helping.”

Johnny squinted, obviously trying to think of something clever and failing miserably.

“I wasn’t gonna say that.”

“You were about to say something unholy. I could see it building.”

“I was gonna say ‘compliments to the chef,’ actually.”

“Jesus Christ,” you muttered, already turning away. “I am not letting you simp for my legs in a room full of hay and horse shit.”

“That’s fair,” he said, recovering instantly. “But just for the record, I was being so respectful.”

You gave him a flat look over your shoulder.

“You looked like you were about for my leg in marriage.”

“Was gonna ask real nice, too.”

“Save it.”

“So, not never,” he called after you. “Just… not while you’re holding a pitchfork?”

“That’s what I said.”

“Cool, cool, cool. Hypothetically, if I brought you a drink and washed my hands-”

“Johnny.”

“Okay! Just checking. Later, then.”

“-I’ll clean the countertop.”

You stopped in the doorway.

“Clean it with what, your drooling mouth?”

Johnny didn’t miss a beat.

“Good idea. I did call you a countertop, didn’t I?”

f1 admin 😭😭

The start of the Dark Era:

The end of the Dark Era:

EMERSON FITTIPALDI celebrating victory on the podium at the 1974 BELGIAN GRAND PRIX

JAMES HUNT, 1976

Today's Sigma: got punted :(

ALAIN PROST and NIKI LAUDA ↳ January 01, 1984

They were like this in 1984.