#when red is appropriate I look for Malbec usually | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

matthewtkachuk · 3 months

Text

bad at love

Breaking your brother's only unspoken rule—don't date his teammates—has never been an issue in your adult life. Until now.

pairing: jt compher x reader

warnings: angstttt, smut, a minor car accident with mentions of injury (broken bone/concussion), and the usual (alcohol, swearing, etc. etc.)

word count: 4.9k

a/n: hiiiiii @comphy-and-cozy i'm your super secret fic exchange writer! sorry this is a day late and a dollar short. one of these days @wyattjohnston is going to perma-ban me from participating in exchanges. until that date she remains my ever loyal editor. mad thanks to @thomasschabot for reading it first and telling me they loved it even though they're contractually obligated to do so and for physically being there when the fic idea popped into my head <3

It’s not the first time you’ve shown up at your big brother’s house with a face full of tears and a couple bags full of all your worldly possessions. Despite your best efforts and well intentions—if you had to guess—it likely won’t be the last.

It is the first time you’ve done so with him being a married man, and so it’s your sister-in-law whose comfort you really seek and are expecting to pop up behind the slowly opening door in front of you.

Unfortunately for you, and for the poor soul you really don’t know that well, it’s not Kenzy who opens the door but the over-the-summer pick-up from Colorado.

If it had been any of the other, more tenured of your brother's teammates, you might have been waved inside with nothing more than a sympathetic glance and an unspoken ‘again?’.

Instead, JT’s look of utter confusion has quickly evolved into something more akin to a quiet rage, and you’re reminded that he is a big brother himself. The look is familiar to you, having inspired a similar one on Dylan’s face more times than you can count.

It’s been a really fucking long day, and you don’t have the emotional bandwidth to have any sort of reckoning with some guy you barely know in your brothers drive way.

JT’s in the middle of some sort of sentence that begins and also ends with “What—” as you none too gently push past him in order to finally gain entry to the house.

The mix of sympathy and feigned disinterest that greets you on the faces of your brothers teammates who occupy the large sitting room has your stomach rolling uncomfortably. It seemed like the entirety of the Detroit Red Wings were always around to witness your spectacular failures. What must they think, watching you disappear with the next great love of your life, only to reappear once again with bags packed in a manner of months?

You could hazard a guess at what your brother thinks, the variants of ‘I told you so’ that live and die on his tongue without ever leaving his lips. He wraps you up in an infamous Larkin hug that serves to fix a tiny crack of your broken heart, and so you revel in it like you used to revel in the comfort when the pain you felt was because of falling off the monkey bars when you were a kid.

But, he has a house full of hockey players to entertain and Kenzy has a glass of wine with your name on it. Dylan returns to the living room and you slide out to the back porch with your sister-in-law, briefly catching the eye of the one who let you in. You don’t see the telltale signs of judgment reflecting back at you, but maybe something else entirely.

Outside you pour your soul alongside the Malbec. Curled up on the wicker chair under a blanket you tell Kenzy about Owen and the promises he failed to keep. She oohs and ahs at the appropriate times, commiserating without belittling you.

By the end of the night your heart—and the bottle of wine—feels a little lighter. There’s a little less shame as you make yourself at home in the spare bedroom that might as well permanently be yours.

Owen visits you in your sleep, breaking your heart again and again until his face morphs into one with a ginger beard and kind eyes.

Those kind eyes become a fixture in your post breakup life. If he’s not hanging around your brother's house, he’s bumping into you at the local coffee shop you frequent when you’re in Detroit. If he’s at neither, he’s obviously at the games you attend in support of Dylan alongside Kenzy.

At Dylan’s, you barely speak to his teammates and friends beyond simple pleasantries. At your coffee shop, it starts at small talk but grows to be considerable conversations that dip just below surface level.

It’s at Little Caesars Arena where he really endears himself to you though. Warm ups are arguably your favorite part of the games you attend. You like to look out at the signs, from the heartwarming to the obscene—picking out your favorites and giggling about the latter with your sister in law.

Dylan’s always been really good about tossing kids pucks, and his big bleeding heart only grew larger when he got the red C strapped to his chest. Some of the other guys, even some of the so-called vets are less good about it.

JT’s just like Dylan, maybe even a little kinder hearted. He takes the time to read the signs that are meant for him, never turns down a trade for a puck and even gives a stick to a kid whose sign says he came all the way from Denver to watch him, his favorite player, play in Detroit.

It warms your heart.

So much so you don’t even notice you’re staring until Dylan’s slamming himself into the boards in front of you to startle his wife. She rolls her eyes and calls him a name not worth repeating while you try to pretend like you weren’t just fixated on his teammate.

The thing is Dylan has never outright said his teammates are off limits. Not since you were a teenager making eyes at his USNTDP teammates anyway.

The memory keeps you from looking JT’s way the rest of the warmups, but once the puck drops your eyes can’t help but wander.

Wandering appears to be your specialty, considering you’ve gotten yourself lost in the underbelly of the arena.

Your first mistake was leaving Ken’s side—she was your ferryman, guiding you down the River Styx, and without her, you were lost in Hell.

Were you overdramatic? Maybe. Were you lost with no hope of getting out? Still overdramatic, but definitely a possibility.

The walls begin to look the same, and you’re half worried you’ve accidentally fallen into a back room or something stupid when you stumble upon the one who caught your eye earlier.

‘Stumble upon’ is a gracious way of saying you absolutely smack into him and fall on your ass.

He hauls you up effortlessly with one hand and your skin burns beneath his grasp.

“What are you doing?” you both say in near unison before he laughs.

“I was getting my shoulder checked out, what are you doing all the way over here? Are you lost?”

Regardless of what he was doing, JT obviously has more of a reason to be found wandering the halls of the arena. And he’s right, you’re most definitely lost but you play it off like he’s crazy.

“Me? Lost? No, I know exactly where we are,” you bluff.

JT’s eyebrows raise and he nods slowly. “Which is…?”

Well, he’s called your bluff but he also gave you a key context clue. “Near the athletic trainer, obviously.”

He laughs again and it has your cheeks feeling hot.

“Okay fine, maybe I’m a little bit lost and maybe I was contemplating how I’d be trapped down here forever before you knocked me over.”

“I’m sorry, but you ran into me.” You roll your eyes and begin to argue, but he doesn’t let that happen. “Doesn’t matter, I can help you find your way out.”

You swoon dramatically, only half joking as you reply “My hero.”

Now that you’re no longer focused on navigating your way out of Pan’s Labyrinth, you’re free to focus on your close proximity to JT. Based on the way his eyes dart between meeting your own and staring at your lips, you assume he’s just as aware.

Is this not what you’ve been wanting since you knocked on Dylan’s door? But that’s part of the problem, and you’re sure JT is thinking the same. Not only is your brother his teammate—and you’ve always been off limits to your brother's teammates to your chagrin growing up—but he’s JT’s captain, too. There’s a million ways this thing could go wrong and blow up in both of your faces.

You could get caught, and be forced to sit with Dyl’s disappointment. You could hurt the one person in your life who consistently showed up for you and loved you and cared for you.

Not to mention you could risk it all for nothing—could crash and burn spectacularly as you were wont to do. Could fuck it all up with not only your brother, but JT too and be left with nothing. It wouldn’t be the first time you’d gone behind your brother’s back, but you had a sneaking suspicion things would be worse than they were when you were 15 to his 16.

Ultimately you decide fuck it, because what’s life without a little risk?

Tentatively, you slide your hand over the rough beard covering his jaw. When he doesn’t flinch or move away from you, you lean in closer.

He’s not pulling away, but he’s also not moving closer, letting you make the first move.

It’s probably a terrible fucking idea, but you’ve never been accused of being someone who makes good decisions when it comes to romantic partners.

The first press of your lips to his is cautious, barely a brushing of your mouths, just to get a taste. Quickly you become a woman obsessed. Unable to get enough, the kisses turn frenetic, bordering on sloppy.

He reciprocates in kind, his mouth hot and heavy on yours while his hands grasp and pull and hold. His very essence consumes you, taking over all of your five senses and pulling noises from you that you didn’t know existed.

If your arm burned from his grasp earlier, your entire body has caught fire.

You’re unaware or probably more accurately uncaring of your public nature, despite your earlier hesitance. Now you just want more and more and more of JT, as much as he is willing to give and maybe even a little more.

He seems to be on the same page, entire body wrapping around you and pulling you deeper and deeper.

Unconsciously your hands begin to pull at the waistband of his pants and it’s then that the two of you finally separate.

You’re worried you’re going to find regret in his eyes and excuses on his tongue, but he’s just looking at you intently.

“Not like this,” he says. “Not here.”

“I don’t want to wait,” you protest, but he shushes you with his mouth.

“It’ll be worth the wait.”

And worth the wait it is.

It's sexy at first. Clandestine meetings in dark hallways, sneaking in and out of JT’s apartment that’s on the same floor as Jake Walman’s, covert texts and quiet phone calls where you get off on the sound of each other's voices.

It doesn’t take long for you to want more, though. To fantasize about not just what his calloused hands can do to your body, but what it would be like to hold one in your own while walking down the street. To show up at a home game and have everyone know you were there to support not only your brother, but JT too.

It’s a fantasy that is only stoked by the comfort you feel walking around JT’s apartment in just his t-shirt with his number on the shoulder. By nights spent together at his dinner table, on his couch, in his bed. By sweet texts and stupid memes and random photos of things that made him think of you.

You don’t dare speak your desires out loud though. For fear of JT not wanting the same thing or for fear that he would, you’re not quite sure.

It’s a tough situation to be in. One where you’re worried you're heading to a fork in the road that has JT on one side and your brother on the other.

You have no delusions about the two paths eventually forging back together again, know that you’ve come dangerously close to that intersection marked with a big fat caution sign.

Probably you should speak to JT, get on the same page about where you’ve been and where you’re going. Following that, assuming he secretly yearns for the same thing you do, you should probably then come clean to Dylan.

Probably you should do a lot of things, but unfortunately what is done in the dark always comes to the light and sometimes it happens quicker than you can make your mind up.

A road win presumably has JT in a good mood. He’s texted you letting you know he’ll be home before midnight, requesting your presence in his bed.

It’s an easy yes, considering you’re already in the aforementioned bed. It’s nice to get out of Dylan’s house, of the suffocating feeling that you’re intruding in someone else’s home, on someone else’s life.

There’s really nothing particularly sexy about the way he finds you, but his eyes darken upon finding you curled up in his bed just the same. You’re not attempting to recreate a sexy pose from a boudoir photo shoot, and one of JT’s shirts and a pair of boy shorts aren’t exactly fancy lingerie.

That doesn’t stop him from dropping his bag dramatically and stripping from his dress shirt and pants.

“Awfully presumptuous,” you say as if the very fact that you’re in his bed in not much more clothing than he is.

He shrugs, “Not presuming anything. I’m fine if you just want to sleep, but I’m sure as shit not going to sleep in those dress pants. Bad enough I had to sit through a plane ride like that.”

His tone is teasing, but the implication that he would be just as fine falling asleep beside you as anything else pretty well takes all the fight out of you.

“C’mere,” you say instead of a catchy comeback, lifting the covers and inviting him into his own bed.

He wastes no time sliding in beside you and curling up around your body. “Hi.”

You snort and hide your face in his neck. “Corny.”

“I’ll show you corny,” he says, but you shush him by pulling his face closer to yours until your lips brush.

“Thought I was presumptuous,” he says upon breaking the kiss.

You roll your eyes—“Shut up.”—and kiss him again.

He doesn’t manage to keep his mouth shut, but at least this time it’s to slip his tongue into your mouth.

The temperature of the room rapidly increases—between the weight of his body covering your own and your body’s reaction to his fervid kiss, you feel the need to lose at least one item of clothing.

“I need—“

Luckily he quickly understands what you’re trying to accomplish by pulling at the hem of your shirt, lifting off of you long enough to assist in removing it from your body.

He makes a noise of appreciation at the bare skin revealed to him before diving back into your lips, this time with one hand cupping your right breast.

Appreciative noises of your own build in your throat when that hand slides down your body to dip into your underwear. It’s teasing touches at first, until you reciprocate by cupping him through his boxer-briefs.

Finally you both shed that last remaining layer, uncaring of where they end up in the bedroom. There’s a brief pause while he rolls on a condom and then he’s entering your body like it was made for him and him alone.

There’s no rush about his pace, just gentle thrusts and soft moans and sweet praises.

Sex with JT is so good, better than with anyone else you’ve ever been with. He’s the very opposite of a lazy, selfish lover. It’s like your needs and your pleasure come first, and you certainly do too.

The positioning of your bodies is so intimate, bodies close, mouths slotted over each other with intermingling breaths.

You worry you’re getting too caught up in that intimacy, possibly running in a direction not quite warranted and so you seek to depersonalize it a touch.

“Let me,” you say softly while gently pressing a hand against his shoulder, indicating you want him to lay on his back. He moves willingly, even helping you climb atop him.

It feels just as good with you on top, and the bit of distance between your upper halves means you can breathe a bit better.

It’s easy to get lost in the feeling, to tilt your head back and focus on your movements and the feel of his bruising grip on your hips.

Feeling the pressure build in your stomach, you slide a hand down your abdomen to where your bodies meet while the other grasps your breast just for something to hold on to. The added friction to your clit is pulling you closer and closer as you move on top of him.

He’s staring up at you with lust filled eyes, mouth open in a mix of awe and pleasure. A look of almost disbelief on his face. His hands are still on your hips, now helping the movement of your body on his when your body lights up like the fourth of July with your orgasm.

It’s hard to keep moving while in the throes of pleasure, but it’s like JT can read your mind, gripping your hips and thrusting up into you until he finishes too.

Your whole body tingles as you collapse on top of him, relishing in the feel of his arms wrapping around your body. Leisurely you kiss for a minute, until your heart rate returns to normal and you feel like you’re not likely to fall over when going to the bathroom to clean up.

When you return, you’ve slipped on one of his shirts once again. There's a soft look on his face as you crawl into bed beside him. It only cracks when you quietly whisper, “should we order pizza?”

“I think you’re the girl of my dreams,” he laughs.

The room is quiet, filled with only the sounds of your breathing and occasional kissing as you wait for the delivery.

Finally the doorbell rings. “I got it,” you tell JT and pull on a pair of discarded sweatpants before pulling the drawstring so they don’t fall.

You don’t bother to check the peephole, certain it’s your food which turns out to be a giant mistake.

Not only is it not your pizza, it’s also the last person you want to catch you with sex hair in oversized clothing that obviously belongs to the guy you’ve just had sex with.

Dylan’s mouth has dropped so far down it would be comical if it wasn’t also horrifying.

“Dylan I–” you start to explain yourself but pause midway through. How could you even begin to explain?

“I can’t believe this.” He shakes his head, hands curling at his side. “Actually no, I can’t believe this from JT, I can definitely believe this from you.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” you snap.

Your brother laughs sardonically, “Well you’re not exactly known for making the right decisions when it comes to relationships.”

JT exits his room, no doubt lured by the loud voices and the lack of food. “Hey man, come on, let's talk about this like adults.”

“Like adults?” Dylan is incensed in a way you’ve never seen before. “Now you want to talk about things like adults? The time to talk was before you started sleeping with my sister behind my back.”

“I’m sorry you found out like this–” JT continues to try to defend himself, defend you while you stand there speechless.

Dylan interrupts, “Sorry I found out or sorry you got caught?”

JT goes to respond but Dylan cuts him off again. “I trusted you dude. I told you she was off limits, and not only did you ignore me, you went behind my back.” He then turns to you. “And you? My teammate? Seriously? You couldn’t have chosen literally any other douchebag to treat you wrong?”

That snaps you out of your stupor. “JT doesn’t treat me bad!”

A different kind of look crosses your older brother's face then. “Well when he does, don’t come running back to my house and crying to me.”

Dylan slams the door and you sit in the quiet of the room for a minute with your ears ringing.

The reality of the situation hits you.

“I can’t stay there, God not only am I a fuck up but I’m homeless too.”

“You can always stay here,” JT offers and it really bothers you that you can’t tell if he wants you to, or if he’s just offering because of his hand in the most recent blow up of your life.

“I’m pretty sure his baby sister shacking up with his teammate he doesn’t want her with isn’t exactly going to win me any favors with Dyl,” you reply.

“Well I’m pretty sure he’d rather you be here than living on the street.”

Ordinarily you think that would probably be true but the look on his face when you opened JT’s door is seared into your mind. “I wouldn’t be so sure.”

In the end you do move your things into JT’s apartment. Kenzy is the accomplice to your crime, helping you pack your things while the team has practice, wrapping you in her arms and telling you that he just needs some time.

“He loves you,” she says.

You’re not so sure.

That’s probably overdramatic. You’re sure he loves you, and you sure hope he forgives you. You’re just worried that this time you’ve both done and said things you can’t take back and you’re not sure how things will move forward from here.

It’s not all bad though.

Living with JT is surprisingly easy, even right one might say. You fit directly into each other's lives like perfect puzzle pieces. His strict routines of practices and morning skates and games—both home and away—allow you the space to complete your own work on your own time. Cooking pregame meals together and curling up beside him when he takes his pregame naps quickly become some of your favorite activities.

You dance around the feelings talk, never quite broaching the subject. But it can’t feel this right if it’s all one sided, all in your head, right?

He’s even kind enough to let you drive his SUV even though the price tag makes you nervous every time you’re behind the wheel. You’re not a bad driver, as evidenced by the fact JT lets you drive the Audi, but you are possibly on this side of over cautious as a result of a bad car accident in high school.

Three home games after your fight with Dylan and approximately zero words or text messages exchanged between the two of you, you find yourself in the passenger seat.

“I could have taken the bus,” you protest weakly, almost knowing exactly what JT’s response will be.

“Over my dead body,” he laughs, eyes flickering over to you before focusing on the traffic in front of him. “Just pick me up after practice or text me if you’re still out and I’ll find a ride.”

“I’m not gonna leave you stranded at the arena, of course I’ll be there after you’re done.”

It’s oddly domestic, kissing JT across the console and then sliding into the driver’s seat that he vacates. You wait as he grabs his gear and walks away, you do really love watching him walk away.

The moment is cut short by catching a glimpse of your brother's vehicle. He’s not in it, obviously already inside the arena, but the sight of it makes your stomach clench all the same.

Thoughts of Dylan and his disappointment and worry that he’ll never forgive you flood your mind the entire drive. So much so that when the next light turns green, you let off the gas without realizing that there is a larger SUV running the red.

It all happens so fast. The screeching of tires, the crunching of metal, the pop of airbags going off and then a blinding pain in your wrist.

In the end, you’re pushed into the wrong lane of traffic, the other vehicle damn near in the passenger seat you occupied only fifteen minutes ago. There’s a distinct ringing in your ears and you offhandedly wonder if this is what it feels like to get boarded.

“Are you okay? I’m calling 911.” The words sound like they’re underwater, and it takes you several seconds to realize they’re being spoken to you. Turning your head to the side, you try to get the words out to say you’re fine, but you’re blocked by the airbag that has gone off near your head.

Emergency services come quickly, a perk of living in Detroit you suppose. Embarrassingly, it takes the jaws of life to peel off the driver's side door to get you out. A cop takes your statement and then you end up in the back of an ambulance. Despite your assurances that you’re fine, one raised eyebrow from the female paramedic and the idea that you’ve probably broken your wrist has you agreeing to the ER visit.

It’s then that someone asks you if there’s anyone you want to call. Heartbreakingly, your first thought is Dylan and your second thought is you’re not sure he’ll pick up.

Your third thought is JT and his SUV that you’ve probably totaled.

One of the paramedics helps you dial the equipment manager’s number, the one you were instructed to only ever use in case of emergencies. If ever there was a reason…

When he picks up the phone, you have to explain that you’ve gotten into a tiny fender bender and if you could please speak with JT and yes I mean JT not Dylan.

“Are you okay?” JT all but demands when he picks up the phone.

“I’m totally fine,” you fib, and then concede based on that same female paramedic once again raising an eyebrow. “Okay so I might have broken my wrist but–”

“Which hospital are you going to?” he interrupts.

You tell him, but try to say, “It’s okay you don’t have to–”

He interrupts again, “I’ll be right there.”

He hangs up quicker than you can ask how he’s going to get there without the car that you’ve wrecked.

True to his word, he’s sitting on a chair in your hospital room when you return from getting an x-ray. He stands abruptly upon your entrance and takes the three strides to stand in front of you before hesitating, like you’re made of glass.

You take matters into your own hands and slide your good arm around his back, careful to not jostle your injured wrist. There's a slight tremor to his body that you feel run through yours.

“I’m okay,” you say comfortingly, rubbing your good hand along his back before pausing. “Your car though….”

The tears are already starting to pool in your waterline as he pulls back.

His hands slide to cup your jaw as he speaks seriously, “I don’t give a damn about the car. It can be replaced, you can’t.” A tear slips out before you can stop it and he brushes it away with his thumb before kissing you softly. “I care about you. So much. And that phone call scared the shit out of me.”

Despite the less than stellar background and circumstances, his words have your heart leaping in your chest. “I really care about you too,” you whisper and kiss him again.

“Where is she?” you hear coming down the hall and it occurs to you that your brother is still your emergency contact.

“Did you tell him?” you ask JT who promptly shakes his head.

You don’t even have time to step back from JT’s embrace before Dylan comes crashing into the room. JT wisely pulls away and gives Dylan the space to place his hands on your shoulders and scan for any signs of injury.

“I’m okay,” you reassure him but the words feel hollow considering they’re the first you’ve said to him in more than a week. “Broken wrist they’re gonna cast and probably a concussion. Can’t say the same for the car.”

Eerily similar to JT, Dylan replies, “Cars can be replaced–”

“But I can’t,” you say in unison with him. “I know, JT said the same thing.”

It’s like Dylan remembers his teammate then, eyes sliding over to where JT stands and then back down to your slowly purpling wrist.

The room is silent except for the sounds of medical equipment and the faint sounds occurring outside the door.

“I’m sorry,” you say in unison with your brother again.

“No, I'm sorry,” he says first. “I’m your big brother and I’ve seen you get your heart broken too many times. I’m always going to worry about you but I was out of line.”

“I’m sorry we went behind your backs and I’m sorry you found out that way. We should have just talked to you, I should have just talked to you.”

“Truce?” he asks, like you’re 10 and 11 again, fighting over something silly and trivial.

“Truce,” you confirm, hissing when you knock your broken wrist as you pull him in for a hug.

Later, when you’ve gotten over the guilt of totaling JT’s barely used Audi and the cast on your wrist is long gone, it’ll be a fun story to tell at parties. About how it took an idiot running a red light for you to define your relationship with JT and to reconcile with your brother.

#nhl fic #nhl imagine #nhl imagines #nhl fanfiction #nhl fanfic #nhl x reader #jt compher fic #shelb writes

250 notes · View notes

nyxienoya · 3 years

Text

Humble Surprises

lil Rohan x Dio fic for the bestie

summary: Rohan draws Dio because he's a simp

word count: 1.9k

It was silent in the Kishibe residence, both Rohan and Dio were sitting parallel to each other in the living room. A faint sound of the record player playing Mozart softly. Rohan was sat on his single seater red leather couch seemingly slaving away working on his manga as usual, at least that’s what it seemed like to Dio.

Dio however, was sat on the black three seater leather couch reading one of his old books from the 1880s, holding it with one had as he swirled a glass of red wine with his other hand, stopping his reading to take a small sip every so often.

The two had met only years prior when Rohan was nineteen and decided to take a trip to Cairo to expand the limits of the manga he had been planning for years. He frequently used the architecture of the buildings in the manga, even in frequent volumes just to reference back to one of the best moments in Rohan’s life.

Rohan ended up stumbling away from the city, getting too versed in drawing anything that piqued his interest, to the point of him having to buy an extra four sketchbooks the minute he landed in Cairo, knowing he’d lose all control. It only took two days for Rohan to fill up the first sketchbook. To ensure that he wouldn’t fill the rest of the sketchbooks in mere days, Rohan decided to venture off away from the city, trying to take in more than what met the eye.

Off in the distance he saw a large building, illuminated by candles of all shapes and sizes, curious, Rohan decided to head towards it.

Meanwhile, inside the mansion stood Dio and his thirteen year old son, Giorno in deep discussion in front of the grand staircase. “Giorno, son. Don’t be ridiculous, you can’t venture off to Italy this young on your own!” Dio exclaimed, to which he continued on in a hushed tone of voice, “please son, if you leave it’ll just be me and Vanilla Ice, and as much as I appreciate him as a follower, it’s too much. By this point he should just be my slave, he’s that subservient to me.” In response Giorno rolled his eyes, playing with the ends of his braid. “Father, I’m not doing this to abandon you, I adore you, you care for me whereas mother doesn’t, she left you for a Japanese man, and I cannot forgive her for doing so. But I digress, you’re extremely dramatic. The most compelling reason you wouldn’t want me to leave is as a result of you being a vampire, and Italy is a catholic country, therefore having crosses and garlic and whatever vampires are allergic to.” This caused Dio to look towards his son with a deadpan look on his face whereas Giorno was stood with a smirk on his.

Unbeknownst to the two, the grand door had been open for a minute where Rohan had been standing, jaw agape from what he had just witnessed, “You-“ he tried to muster something to say, but was quickly silenced by the tall vampire suddenly appeared by his side. Giorno looked to the scene in amusement, “You can’t kill him.” He spoke nonchalantly to which Dio opened his mouth to reply only to close it once more, unable to think of a response. By now, Rohan had gained control over his thoughts once again and started to look around frantically. “Ah! The architecture of this place is simple magnificent.” Rohan exclaimed, turning to face the vampire. “And, you’re a vampire? Your features would be great in my manga. Oh the possibilities are endless, having a vampire in my story would add a little spice.” Rohan ranted, without Dio realizing, his son had slipped away from the situation, laughing softly noticing how fascinated his father was with the mortal.

Dio was stunned, normally if a human had stumbled into the mansion, Dio would kill them or turn them into a vampire to act as his follower, but this human, he was something else.

Over time, Dio found himself infatuated with the human who he came to know as Rohan, and within a years’ time of knowing him, his partner. Dio thought it would be appropriate to turn Rohan into a stand user just lie himself, using the arrow. To no surprise to anyone, his stand; Heaven’s Door took inspiration from Rohan’s zeal for manga and the arts. Later, the two found that The World had a softness for Heaven’s Door, acting in a nurturing way towards it. The first time the two saw their stands together The World seemed to be fretting over Heaven’s Door and seemingly inquiring about its powers. Seeing this made the users chuckle, who knew their stands felt so softly for each other?

Fast forwarding to the present, Rohan was scribbling away at a piece of paper, having his coloured inks sprawled on the coffee table, dipping his pen in every so often. Dio thought is was cute how Rohan acted when he drew, tongue in between his lips, eyebrows furrowed, his hair sticking to his cheeks; his headband working to no avail. Whilst reading, Dio would look up over his book to take in the sight of his partner. He thought it was strange how the two of them clicked, a 138-year-old vampire, and a passionate manga artist. Two unlikely lovers, and quite frankly, Dio wouldn’t have it any other way.

“Aha!” Rohan suddenly called out, causing Dio to place down his now empty glass of wine as well as his book. “Are you okay there, darling?” Dio asked, an undertone of concern laced in his words. Rohan looked up to his boyfriend, a large grin plastered on his face, “Everything is fine, my love. If you don’t mind” he stood up, drawing in hand, “I’ll be right back.” Rohan then rushed upstairs in order to finalize some details.

Dio rubbed his chin in curiosity, “What ever could that man have been drawing to be that excited for it?” He questioned. Shrugging, he stood, picking up the glass and walked into their kitchen which had the key to the basement. Dio snatched the key off the hook and headed towards the basement door. He opened it and flicked the lights on, stepping down the wooden stairs. He took a deep inhale, the smell of various types of wine accumulating into one scent. He walked around the racks of wine, uncertain on what flavour he was craving. Dio didn’t realise that ten minutes had already passed before he finally picked the perfect red wine. A Malbec; which Dio thought perfectly expressed the fruitiness of summer, having a blueberry flavour with a hint of spice. Perfect for these Summer evenings.

The moment he picked up the bottle of wine from the rack to take back upstairs, he was suddenly was enveloped by two arms around his waist, “I knew you’d be down here, you alcoholic.” Rohan joked, nuzzling his cheek into Dio’s defined back. “Oh hush, young one, I simply ran out of the wine from earlier. That’s beside the point though,” he started, turning to wrap one of his arms around his boyfriend. “what did you need from me, dear?” He asked, pressing a soft kiss to Rohan’s forehead.

“I came to ask you to come upstairs. I wanted to show you the finished piece.” Rohan smiled, taking Dio’s free hand and almost dragging him upstairs. Taking almost stagnant steps, Dio smirked; “You know dear, you’re stronger than you look.” To which Rohan replied with briefly glaring at him and groaning, “Come on, I don’t have all evening to wait for you-“ He was promptly cut off by seeing that his boyfriend was no longer behind him, rather; leaning on the door frame in front of him, eyebrow quirked. “Exactly what I’m saying love, come on, we haven’t got all day.” Dio spoke, sarcasm dripping from his voice. Once more, Rohan groaned, muttering “Sometimes I hate that stand of yours.”

Taking his boyfriend’s hand once again, the two walked up to Rohan’s office in silence. When the two were in front of the door, Rohan released Dio’s hand and turned to face him. “Okay, no using The World, I want you to cover your eyes, it’s a surprise. Whether you’ll like it or not is beyond my control, but I hope at least you’ll appreciate it.” Dio nodded and covered his eyes with his arm, still holding the bottle of wine whilst reaching out for Rohan’s hand and succeeding.

Rohan opened the door and took slow steps, trying to ensure his partner wouldn’t trip, walking into the center of the room then stopping. Rohan let out a sigh and released Dio’s hand again. “Okay, you may uncover your eyes.” To which Dio complied, accompanied by Rohan saying “Surprise!”

He took in the drawing. It was him, which was the first thing to shock Dio, Rohan really cared that much about him to take hours of time to draw him? What surprised him more was the fact that is was him when he was a teen, back in the 1880s before everything in his life fell apart. Dio was taken aback, stumbling backwards slightly. It was a beautiful drawing, the fluidity of the ink encapsulating his features perfectly. Dio, needless to say was taken away with the drawing, and Rohan could see it in his expression.

Tears cropping up in the corner of Dio’s eyes shocked Rohan the most though. “Darling, are you alright, is the drawing that bad? I can destroy it if you want.” Rohan frantically explained. Dio shook his head, rejecting the idea. “Don’t do anything of the sort darling. I apologise, but I was just incredibly taken aback from it. It’s beautiful. You perfectly matched up my personality from when I was a boy, all from the stories I’ve told you about my youth.” Dio stated, Rohan nodding as he spoke.

“Are you sure that’s all-“ Rohan started, but getting cut off mid-sentence by his boyfriend. “I know you must think there’s some deeper meaning to by my response being as sorrowful as you expected, and there is. It’s just that, looking at this drawing evoked something inside of me; regret? Anguish? I’m not sure, but whatever it is makes me miss JoJo, I never wanted to actually hurt him-“ Dio’s rant being cut off by Rohan hugging him, tears of his own cropping.

Dio smiled softly, returning the hug, staring at the drawing. “I want you to frame it. It’s too precious to put elsewhere.” Rohan nodded.

“Thank you Rohan, this means a lot to me. You’re so talented and I cannot thank you enough for being my partner despite my past.” Dio spoke softly. Rohan muttered a response against his partner’s chest; “I love you too, Dio. If you ever need me to draw something which can bring to life the memories you once had with Jonathan, I’ll do it, no questions asked.”

Later that night, Dio found the drawing framed and hung in the walkway to the living room and smiled softly. “Thank you, JoJo.” He whispered to himself. As he said those words, he could’ve sworn he felt a large hand on his shoulder, one so familiar to him, but so distant at the same time. Jonathan Joestar after all these years was still looking over his brother.

#dio brando #jojo's bizarre adventure #jjba #rohan kishibe #dio x rohan #jjba fanfic #DIO #kishidio

4 notes · View notes

peopleareleaving · 3 years

Text

a secret garden for dreaming

It started with a small tree she’d bought at the nursery.

“You’ll need to re-pot it,” warned the nursery hand, “or it won’t grow.”

She looked at the small tree and tried to imagine it as an adult, as a fully formed, wild tree, a towering Californian Redwood, plugged into the earth’s core.

“But it’s okay to keep inside, right?”

“Yes. It’s an indoor plant.”

She re-imagined the tree now, living inside, with her, growing and extending its branches onto the arm rest of the sofa, in front of the fridge, into the bedroom door. I’m going to need a bigger pot, she thought.

She made her way to the appropriate area of the nursery and made her selection; the biggest pot she could find, jade-coloured and polished to a shined finish. Next she bought potting mix, and a small potting-spade, and finally some ‘dynamic lifter’, something the nursery hand had recommended.

“It’s a fertilizer,” he explained, “it helps create a better exchange between tree and it’s environment – so the plant can better take in the nutrients it needs to prosper.”

“It smells,” she said, “but if it helps my small tree…”

The nursery hand said nothing and helped her carry the large jade pot to her car.

At home she re-potted the tree into its new vessel, first pouring a little of the potting mix into the base of the jade pot and mixing in some water. She then dislodged the small tree from its old pot and shook the roots free, careful to place it in the centre of its new pot before filling the remaining space with more soil. She watered the tree, smoothed the potting mix to an even finish, and stood back to admire the small tree – and her handy work – before taking it to its new home.

But was the tree already in its own home, she thought, like a hermit crab that had found a larger shell? Did the tree know the difference? Would its roots, turned back upon themselves by the borders of its previous, smaller pot, eventually find the walls here too, and know it was merely in a larger prison? Or was this the optimal life for a tree; not stuck in the same stretch of nature strip, or backyard, or centre-road traffic island for all its life, but movable – rooted in contained but fertile soil, with the potential to look out upon any number of vistas? She looked at the small tree again, trying to figure out what she would prefer as a tree, and then placed it in an alcove where the back door landing area met the hallway. She stood back and surveyed the tree in its new surroundings, weighing the potential inner life of the tree, the nursery hand’s instructions and the overall feel it gave her apartment. Soft natural came through a high window and reflected off the white walls, and when the back door was opened the tree would feel the breeze rush in. It was a fine place for a small tree, she thought. The front doorbell rang. A friend, who was coming over to make spaghetti and drink wine, had arrived early.

“I hope you’re happy here,” she said to the tree, and left.

The friend had brought over a surprisingly nice bottle of Argentinian Malbec, and after the spaghetti, somewhere near the bottom of the bottle the girl had remembered her new, small tree.

“I bought a plant today,” she told her friend, “a small tree.”

“Like a fern?”

“No, a small tree,” she repeated, “I’ll show you.”

They both picked up their wine glasses and for some reason tiptoed down the hallway. The girl came to a stop in front of the tree, her friend at her side.

“It’s a little scrawny,” said the friend.

“I told you, it was a small tree.”

“And what about spiders and bugs and all that stuff, doesn’t that bother you, having it inside?”

“Hmm. I don’t know,” said the girl. They stood there for a moment before the friend turned back for the kitchen, and more wine.

“I don’t think you’re scrawny,” the girl said, “I think you’re a perfectly okay, small tree.”

They two friends left the dishes in the sink and opened a second bottle of wine. They stayed up late, drinking and talking about their work, and what books they were reading, and the usual stuff old friends talk about. All in all, it was a generally enjoyable evening. But the girl kept thinking about the small tree, and her friend’s dismissal of it. They were different people when it came to trees. Buying a tree was like buying a piece of art, she decided, and she got a secret thrill out of having the tree just down the hallway, knowing it was alive and wild and growing. She imagined having an apartment full of them; an indoor jungle of small trees and vines and fallen leaves. She imagined the light scratch the branches might make as she brushed against them on her way to the kitchen, and the smell of damp earth as she laid with her eyes closed, the trees breathing in what she breathed out.

The girl woke in the morning, a little later than usual, and felt slightly lightheaded. She floated out past the kitchen, and the sink full of dirty dishes, and went to check on the small tree. Her eyes were drawn to the large jade pot. Something looked off. It was cracked. She was sure it had been completely fine when she bought it.

“Goddamn it,” she said, and kneeled down to inspect the crack, which ran the full range of the pot, from top to bottom.

“What have you done, small tree?” she asked. But the tree gave no clues. It just sat there, perfectly innocent. She ran her index finger slowly along the length of the crack, trying to sense a beginning, or an end. The further she ran her finger along the seam, however, the more pronounced the crack felt, and the more she looked at it the more uniform it appeared. In fact, the crack ran perfectly vertically. She turned the jade pot slightly, and discovered the crack curved and turned 90 degrees, curved again, and ran perpendicular back down to the floor. She ran the fingers of both hands around this edge, feeling for some explanation – how had she not noticed this yesterday, she thought? She traced the outline again and applied the slightest amount of pressure to the whole of the cut-out which clicked, released and then gave way, sliding inwards, somehow absorbed into the base of the small tree, revealing a bottomless darkness.

The girl stared into the secret doorway, transfixed, her two hands gripping the opening involuntarily. Sensing this, she relaxed her grip and gently offered her hands to the void. Slowly, her hands were enveloped by the plants roots. The thin, membrane like roots crawled out and spread through her fingers, over the back of her hands and around her wrists, forming a firm bond. It was reaching out and steadily, but tenderly, taking hold of her, the way a parent would ensure a good grip before lifting a child. Slowly the small tree began to draw her in.

This girl gave no resistance to this most peculiar occurrence. Instead of screaming, or trying to free her hands, she found herself in a state of calm acceptance. As if this was as normal as sliding the shower curtain closed, or changing the television channel. She closed her eyes and let the small tree gradually carry her through the threshold; hands, wrists, head, shoulders, waist, and finally her bare, wriggling toes.

She slowly slid though the doorway, and a coldness swept through her, one she could not assign to a particular place in her body nor could she locate a direction or source from which it was coming. She couldn’t place the feeling at all. It’s as if I’ve been dipped in dry ice, she thought. She also experienced an all-enveloping silence, free of everything except the small pulse of her own heart, felt, rather than heard, in her inner ear. Is that really my pulse, she thought, maybe I’m just imagining it, maybe I am imaging this whole thing – maybe I am still in bed, full of spaghetti and red wine. Open your eyes, she thought.

The girl realised she was no longer cold, and that things were no longer silent. She could hear a serene purr, like a nearby ocean; the sound of the earth itself turning. She opened her eyes and found herself in a lush garden, surrounded by ivy and banksia and a slow running stream. Tropical fronds were separated by flowers she’d never seen before and ferns that didn’t have names. Her body felt weightless, at perfect temperature – one could say temperature-less – and her mind fell perfectly to ease. Above her, blocking out patches of perfect blue sky, were the branches of a grand tree reaching up and out of sight, bending and offering her the exact right amount of shade, protection, and seclusion. This, she knew immediately, was her small tree.

Suddenly the girl felt sleepy as if she hadn’t been to bed at all the night before. But where am I, she thought, where is this? Yet, try as she might to stay awake, her eyes involuntarily closed, and she fell into a deep sleep.

She dreamed she was a criminal, on the run from the authorities, and looking for places to hide out. She visited friends and loved ones but no-one seemed sure about helping her. Their reasons were more to do with practicality, however, rather than any moral objection to assisting a criminal on the lam.

“I don’t really have the room,” a good friend told her, “and plus with the dog inside, it’s not very comfortable for visitors.”

“It’s just not a good time,” said her brother, “you know, with the kids.”

And so it went. Everyone seemed perfectly reasonable – some even expressed their wish to help – but ultimately unable to assist. The girl didn’t feel the least bit resentful, and although she was unsure as to what her crime was, she didn’t feel guilty either. She just went from person to person being politely but clearly turned down, and politely and understandingly moving on. Strangely enough, with each passing person and their lack of help, the girl began to feel better about her situation. In fact, the more people who wouldn’t help her the better she felt. Eventually she gave up trying to find places to lay low and realised that the police weren’t chasing her at all. Dreams sometimes worked backwards, she thought.

The girl lifted her head and reluctantly opened her eyes. She lifted herself off the timber floor of the hallway and looked down at the small tree. Those dirty dishes aren’t going to wash themselves, she thought.

0 notes

discordandglory-blog · 7 years

Text

Consolidation || Callum and Cat

Callum and Cat discuss the finer points over a meal at a Touch of Class.

Cat sat waiting for Callum. She was in her usual seat, a bottle of Malbec and Pinot Grigio had been waiting for her and she had helped herself to the red. The table was on the edge of the terrace, giving the occupants of it a beautiful view over the lake. Yet all Cat could think about was how just a few days ago they had been fighting an inferno a few kilometers from here. However, she was determined that this meeting go well. She had chosen a secluded spot where no one would overhear their conversation. She had even dressed to impress, where a sheer black dress that hugged all the right places and showed off all the correct parts. As Callum arrived, she rose from her chair to greet him, he had to lean down for her to kiss both of his cheeks -- much like the French did. “Callum,” she cooed, “I’m pleased you could make it, sit, have a drink.”

Callum had received the invitation from Cat whilst doing a drill with his Cohort. Even after a devastating fire, life at Camp had to go on. Being invited to dinner with Cat had intrigued him, why would the Centurion of the First Cohort and a member of the Cult summon him to dinner? Nonetheless, he had decided to accept her invitation. He arrived at the said meeting place, the restaurant, A Touch of Class, and notified the host that he would be joining the Karavarda party. He had chosen to wear one of the only suits he had, which consisted of maroon trousers, a plain white button up shirts, no tie, and a navy blazer. He greeted her and then took his seat, unbuttoning his blazer as he sat. “Of course I would make it. I always have time for a fellow Centurion.” He replied, with his signature smirk on his face. He poured himself a class, and held it up, swirling the wine inside. “What can I do for you, miss Karavarda?” He didn’t normal address people with such a formal tone, but the energy of the restaurant had influenced him to do so.

Smirking at his address of her, Cat couldn’t help but reply in kind. “Well Mr Hayes, aside from joining me for one of the best meals in New Rome, there were a few things that I’d like to discuss with you in private. Believe it or not I’ve been taking a keen interest in your activities for a while.” She sipped at her wine and analysed him. He was dressed appropriately which was always a relief, and he seemed to understand what it meant for him to have been invited here. Yet at the same time there was something about the son of Cupid’s personality that set her on edge. He was too good at what he did sometimes and that worried her. She could play this game with all of the centurions and she wasn’t convinced that many of them would be able to play along with her. However Callum had the potential to make or break this situation, it was important that she won him over. “So, if you’re interested, I think that there is a lot that we could do to benefit one another.”

Callum uncharacteristically hadn’t taken a sip of the wine yet, not because he didn’t trust Cat, but rather that he wanted to stay sober for most of the conversation. He knew who Cat was, and by what Jax had told him, and with what he had seen with his own eyes, he knew that she was definitely a force to be reckoned with. This had made him a bit anxious about what the meeting would be about at first, causing him to think back on all the acts of mischief he had done in the last month that might have upset her. But when she said that there was something that they could both benefit from, Callum dismissed his list of things that he might have done wrong and instead, started making a new list of things Cat had in mind. “I am interested.” He said after a short pause, giving her a quizzical look. He thought back on how useless he was during the fire, thus concluding that the only thing that Cat could benefit from in a partnership with him, were his specific abilities. “But what could you benefit from having me involved?”

Of course he was interested. Cat didn’t need to be a genius to see that even before he had admitted it. She could read people and she had been taught to notice these things. Her father had been grooming her for something like this for years and this was almost second nature. “I know you’re a member of the cult, I know you’re a son of Cupid and I know what you can do. I don’t plan on remaining a centurion forever, but to get anywhere in this city then I’ll need some help.” She bit her lip gently, watching the wine in her glass for a moment as she considered what next to say. She was about to continue when they were interrupted by a waiter who had come to take their food order. Glancing at the menu, she shooed him away and asked him to return soon before continuing. “However, that can wait, have whatever you like, the meal’s already paid for, even if you say no, at least you can still enjoy a meal here. The waiting list is seven months right now, though it fluctuates of course.”

As soon as the words ‘I don’t plan on remaining a centurion forever’ left her mouth, a grin replaced his quizzical look. Callum watched her facial expressions, seeing that she had more to say, but was interrupted by the waiter. He sat up straight and picked up the menu, slowly paging through it. “You know, I can’t be bought.” He hummed. “I’m not materialistic, so none of that would interest me, and neither would food. However, I won’t say no to a free meal that isn’t from the camp's kitchen.” He respected Cat, for the powerful woman she is. He knew that she had great passion for this city and the people in it. If she asked him to help her climb the ladder, he would probably do it for nothing in return but respect. “On that note,” He looked over at her, making eye contact, “I don’t know what you’re going to say next, but whatever it is, I’m in.”

Raising an eyebrow gently. Cat made a note of Callum’s mistake. She’d never have committed to something without knowing what it was that she had committed to. As the waiter return, she ordered herself a steak with salad and rice, she couldn’t abide by deep fat fried potatoes, even if they insisted on calling them fries. Waiting for Callum to order, she watched the waitress stride away. “Well that was easier than I thought it would be, although I wasn’t planning on buying you, it is good to know that your loyalty doesn’t have a price. All I will say to you, is that if you stick with me, then you won’t be climbing the ladder alone, you’ll be given access to resources that you could have never even dreamed off and I’ll provide you with anything you need.” She shrugged. “The truth is that if we’re careful we’ll be able to rule New Rome without anyone even noticing it, I just need you to trust me and I need assurances of your loyalty.” She sipped her wine cautiously before waiting for Callum’s reply.

Callum looked over the menu, which was pointless as he had no idea what half the meals were. He always ordered the same meal, regardless of where he went. It was a meal that he and his mom used to get together. He ordered a cheeseburger without fries. The burger bun was enough carbs on it’s own. He listened to what she had to offer him and nodded. He liked what he heard. He felt that this city had so much more potential that the senate wasn’t accessing. He also felt that a lot of the resources were being wasted on people that didn’t belong there. He knew Cat to be a woman that knows how to take charge, and that when she wants something, she gets it, one way or another. “The reason I said that I’m in without you telling me what it was, is because I know you to be someone that strives for greatness. I assumed that it would be something along these lines. You have no need to worry about my loyalty, I fully trust that you have this city’s best intention in mind. This is why I will help you, because this city is my home too, and I believe that you , miss Karavarda, have the passion and strength to turn it into something so great, that it would make history. “ He raised his glass and made a cheers with the air.

Raising perfect eyebrows, Cat listened carefully to Callum’s proposal. He could see her obvious worth. So why couldn’t her father? She pushed that thought away as they waited for their food to arrive. “Well it is always nice to receive a compliment like that. But you’re not wrong, I will make this city great again. I promise that you’ve got nothing to worry about. However words mean nothing, actions are what will prove whether you are truly loyal, so I want you to swear your loyalty on the river Styx and then we can really get started.” Twisting her hair through her fingers, she waited to see Callum’s reaction. “You don’t have to decide now, but once you have decided I won’t take a different decision.” She waited for his response, knowing that this could be the start of something great. However they were once more interrupted by the waiter, bringing them their meals. Picking up her knife, Cat slowly began to cut into the steak.

At the suggestion of swearing on the river Styx, Callum hesitated. He thought about all the things this could lead to and what the oath would force him to do. All he had to do, was swear his loyalty to her, did that mean that he had to follow out every order she gave him, or did it just mean that he couldn’t work against her? He watched as the waiter placed the burger in front of him, but refrained from eating just yet. He watched as Cat cut into her steak, still working everything out in his head. Would he ever want to be disloyal? Finally, he had made a decision. He picked up his knife and fork, and cut into his burger, which was weird as he normally ate burgers with his hands, but he felt that this wasn’t an acceptable place to do so. Before he placed the piece of burger in his mouth, he swore, “ I, Callum Rey Haynes, swear on the river Styx, loyalty to Cat Karavarda, as long as she does her utmost best to make this city a better place and follow the terms that we agree on in the following conversation.” He ended the oath by biting down on his fork and dragging it through his teeth, purposefully making a scraping noise. “Does that work for you?”

Smiling gently, Cat bit into her first mouthful of steak as Callum made the oath. She wasn’t sure if the steak was extra good, or maybe it was knowing that without much effort she had just made an ally and a friend, yet regardless she was all but convinced that the piece of steak that she had just enjoyed was more tender and juicy than any that she had ever tasted. She allow silence to hang in the air, chewing on the steak before swallowing. She sampled the wine before smiling gently and nodding. “Well, now that that is out of the way, we’re free to enjoy the rest of the evening. I’ll contact you when I need you Callum, but for the moment we will have to remain focussed on the senate house and its re-construction, that must be the priority right now.”

Callum, who had now almost completely devoured the burger, nodded in agreement. At the mention of the senate house reconstruction, he remembered something that he had been thinking about lately. “When it comes to the re-construction of the senate house, it would probably be in our best interest that we ensure a roman is placed in charge of the reconstruction, and not Annabeth.” He stated, washing down his now finished burger with the last of his wine. “However, I look forward to working with you in the future.” His smirk returned. He had become quite serious during the conversation, and now that the formalities were out of the way, he felt a lot more like himself.

#f&gwriting #para #p: callum #chatzy para #consolidation

7 notes · View notes