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sovereignjojoz · 1 year

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How they’d react if their kid told them they have a boyfriend/girlfriend/crush.

Featuring: Rohan and Dio.

Warnings: readers position is ambiguous, fluff, crack.

Notes- Dio should’ve had a daughter too idc!!!! All kids are age 4. I had originally written others too but they got DELETED when I put it in my tumblr drafts, so I’ll rewrite them later.

Dio

“Hello father. Hi daddy!”

Dio glanced up from his book upon hearing Giorno and Baby Brando walking into the room. Giorno entered his peripheral vision first as baby Brando held his hand, skipping alongside him.

He closed his book and leaned back in his plush throne, “hello children,” He skimmed the room quickly, “where are your other brothers?”

Giorno shrugged in response to his latter question, “don’t know, I only walk home with her,” he gestured to baby Brando, “since she’s the youngest.”

He hummed.

“And school?”

“It was fine.” Giorno sighed, adjusting baby Brando’s school uniform collar as she smiled up at her coolest big brother, “oh and I’m going to Mista’s house in five minutes.”

Dio raised an eyebrow, “To do what? Why wasn’t I notified prior.”

Giorno clicked his tongue, his father was so nosey. “Just because. It’s not a big deal I go there every week anyway.” Giorno walked to the door, “anyway I’m leaving now, bye.”

Dio scoffed, pre-teens were so sassy, he wished all his kids could just stay at the age where they were cute and docile.

Baby Brando jumped on the couch, shoes still on, and opened the window, hanging out so she could see Giorno.

“Bye Giogio! Love you!”

Baby Brando’s eyes widened as dio lifted her up and placed her on his shoulder.

He held her securely by placing his hand on her back, “Don’t do that.”

Baby Brando smiled toothily at him, “Okay daddy!”

Dio brought her forward, hanging her upside down by her legs, “why are you so happy today stinks?” He eyed her suspicions.

Baby Brando giggled from the weird motion, squirming, causing a heart shaped chocolate to fall out of her school dress pocket.

“Because someone gave me a chocolate today in school!”

Dio’s face contorted into disgusted. What vile vermin was giving confession candy to his daughter? As if he (or her brothers for that matter) would ever allow them near her.

Dio put her down, causing her to look up at him adoringly. “Who?”

“Umm! I dunno his name! Think it started with a j but he said he really really really really loves me and I was like huh really!” She slapped her hands on her cheeks, re-enacting the scene for her father, making sure to capture the full dramatic effect of what happened.

His frown deepened, “Really?”

“Uh huh!”

Dio bent down to his daughter’s eye-level, partially smirking “shall I eat him?” He said with a guise of seriousness.

Baby Brando couldn’t believe he just said that! She covered her mouth with her hands and gasped, “daddy no! That’s bad!”

Dio snickered and lightly pulled on her blonde pigtails, “then no boyfriends.”

“Okay…”

Rohan

“Daddy Daddy!” Baby Rohan kicked her school shoes off and ran into the mangaka’s study.

His eyes flickered to the green haired girl, “Hm.”

“Look!” She came to stand in-between his legs and proudly held up a colourful piece of paper, a little bit too close to his face. “That’s me, and that’s you and that’s the cat and that’s mama!”

Rohan put his pen down and examined the drawing slightly closer, in actuality it was all scribbles yet even so he’d be framing it in his study.

“Wow, very good.” He pulled her to sit on his lap so he could resume his work, “when did you make this.”

“Today, at Josuke’s house…” she blushed.

Rohan clicked his tongue, yes, he had to send his sweet girl to that imbecile’s house yet it wasn’t of his own will, he had an important deadline coming up and his partner was at work, to say he was very reluctant to let Josuke babysit would be an underst- wait. Rohan closed his eyes, he had to have been seeing incorrectly because there’s no way he saw what he thinks he just saw.

Did baby Rohan just blush at Josuke’s name?

“Did you have fun at…Josuke’s.” He tested.

“Yes!” Baby Rohan nodded vigorously, “he’s so cool and fun!” She added, her flush deepening.

No way. Rohan’s mouth hung agape in disbelief as he pulled Baby Rohan closer to him. What did he do!

“Um daddy are you okay?” Baby Rohan asked concerned, poking his cheek.

“Yes, I’m fine.” He was so done with Josuke, when he next see him he ought to-

Ding dong.

Still irritated, Rohan dragged himself to the door, who could have even been at the door this time, it was almost 9pm!

“Hey Rohan I-”

Slam!

“Jojo!” Baby Rohan gasped, “Daddy open the door don’t be mean!”

Rohan opened the door the tiniest milli-fraction, “what.” He glared at the young jojo.

“Hi jojo!”

“Hi!” He reached to pinch the young girls cheek however Rohan was faster. He put up a finger warning him.

“Don’t.” He grit his teeth, “you know what Josuke. Take five steps back and maintain this distance.

Josuke looked befuddled but did as told anyway, “umm okay?” He rubbed the back of his neck awkwardly, “anyway I left my wallet here the other day can I just-”

“Don’t take a single step in here.” He couldn’t come in and contaminate the house.

“I can get it!” Baby Rohan beamed.

“No.”

Rohan brashly grabbed the wallet and chucked it towards him. “Next time be more aware.”

“Thanks-!”

Slam!

#jjba x reader #jojo x reader #rohan x reader #dio x reader #dio x you #Rohan x you #sovereignjojoz #jjba fluff #I made myself chuckle with this one #dio’s probably a good dad but like also a mean tease if ygm #and Rohan is Rohan and we love him for it

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from-the-coffee-shop-in-edoras · 4 months

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Not This Time

Summary: The discovery of Háma’s body after the battle of Helm’s Deep has big consequences for several people. There’s death and blood, but it’s not gory.

Note: I’m back on one of my semi-regular trips into deep thought about Háma, a character I deeply love and most people don’t even remember. But the Rohirrim all remember him—Théoden specifically cites the killing and maiming of Háma as one of his biggest grievances against Saruman (a man who has also killed Théoden’s son and invaded his land!), and Háma alone gets a special grave at Helm’s Deep in recognition of the place he occupied in the hearts of the people. [We’re in the book here, not the movie where Háma never even makes it to Helm’s Deep!] So I’m spending some mental time with the fictional people who loved him as I do.

Bryttalif stood and stretched, rubbing a hand against the ache that had developed in her lower back, the result of too much stooping at awkward angles. Her supplies were nearly exhausted–she had long since run out of fabric for bandages and tourniquets and had torn as much from her own skirt as she could afford–and she needed water both to drink and to scrub her hands clean. But most of all, she needed to find Háma, to fold herself into her husband’s strong arms and help each other forget the horrors of the last few days.

She had ridden with the men to Helm’s Deep not for the battle, but for the aftermath. As a midwife, she had as much experience managing pain and stanching blood as anyone in Rohan, and she had a stern constitution, unafraid of hard work, long hours or unsettling sights. Háma had resisted the idea of her coming, as she was approaching the fifth month of pregnancy herself, but the captain of the guard would not openly oppose a request from his king. And she was willing enough to lend her services, both for the good of the men and to stay closer to Háma. So she had left their daughter in the loving care of relatives, weathered the battle from within the caves, and immediately afterward headed out to the open space between the Hornburg and the Deeping Stream, one of many to search for and treat casualties.

Glancing around her now, several hours into her efforts, she saw none of Háma’s men among those who were still inspecting the field, but Éomer was a short distance away, near what was left of the main gate. He was huddled together with the dwarf and the elf who had arrived with Gandalf, all squatting in a half circle with their backs to her. She headed toward them to see if they knew where Háma and the other king’s guards had last been.

“Éomer!”

He looked up at the sound of his name, and his face blanched when his eyes landed on her. She walked a few steps in his direction, picking her way among broken shields, discarded helmets and errant arrows.

“Éomer, do you—”

“Bryttalif, stop right there!” The urgency in his voice crackled through the air. He stood and turned, and the elf and dwarf immediately shifted into the space he had vacated, blocking her view of whatever they were gathered around. “Do not come any closer.”

She froze. All the color was gone from his face, and his expression looked at once horrified and pitying. A panic immediately welled up inside her. There was only one thing that expression could mean, one reason why he would seek to hide something from her on a battlefield when she had long since grown used to the sight of blood and bodily carnage. She looked down, and through a small space between the elf and dwarf she caught a glimpse of booted feet on the ground. Boots that she knew.

“No!” she choked out and began to run toward them. She tripped immediately in the sea of debris but barely felt it when her elbows and chin drove into the hard ground. She pulled herself back up and stumbled a few more steps before a strong arm looped around her middle and lifted her forcibly from her feet.

“Let me go! Háma!” Her screams echoed off the stonework of the fortress, and she thrashed her body, straining forward toward those booted feet that were still blocked by the elf and dwarf, who stood now side by side with downcast eyes.

Éomer carried her backward a dozen paces before setting her down and grasping her by the shoulders. “Brytta! Listen to me, please!” He shook her lightly, and she struggled to bring her focus to his face. “I cannot let you go over there. Some images will never leave your mind or heart, no matter how desperately you will want it to be so. Trust me. Let your last image of him be…” His voice cracked and he momentarily looked down. “Let it be anything but that.”

She stared at him in horrified silence for a minute before her face crumpled into sobs and she collapsed against his chest. “What did they do to him?” she gasped between wails, and Éomer said nothing, as there was no merciful answer that could be given. Instead, he tucked her head under his chin and stroked her hair as she wept.

The next few hours passed for Bryttalif in a haze of misery. Éomer brought her into the keep and sat with her as long as he could, and Théoden himself came to pay heartfelt respects for the loyal captain of his guard before riding out to Isengard. But she saw and heard little of what went on around her, unable to direct her mind to anything other than a kaleidoscope of images of Háma, some of the happy, loving man she knew and some of the worst barbarities her imagination could conjure of what had happened to him. Eventually Erkenbrand, master of the Hornburg, sent his most senior healer to her, bearing a special tea that eased her into a fitful, troubled sleep.

**********

She woke alone sometime in the night. All around her, others slept quietly, wrapped in blankets and propped against each other for warmth and comfort. For a moment, she wondered whether everything had been a dream, an invention of an exhausted mind trying to process a day of bloody fear and strain. But the continued swelling of her eyes and soreness in her throat, remnants of many hours of sobbing, immediately extinguished that hope. She slumped forward, feeling an emptiness in her chest, a void in her spirit so deep and overwhelming that it somehow had a shape and substance of its own. She thought it might swallow her whole from the inside.

She pulled herself to her feet, unable to sit with the agonizing emptiness, and wandered out into the halls and passes of the fortress. In the distance, a few sentries stood on watch and occasionally called to one another in hushed voices, but all else was silent and still. Her steps drew her forward, unthinkingly, to the gate and out to the place where Háma had breathed his final breath.

Several hours of additional work had changed the look of the grounds. The Rohirrim had all been removed, the dead buried in two large mounds raised for that purpose and the wounded carried off by survivors to whatever fate awaited them. But bodies and body parts still abounded, and the metallic smell of blood hung in the air, the scent so thick it hit the back of the throat and left a coppery taste in the mouth. There were rows upon rows of corpses stacked up into the distance. The bodies of the invading men waited to be buried in the morning by the surrendered forces of Dunland; where the dead orcs had gone, she did not know.

She continued forward, compelled against her will to the spot where she had seen Éomer and the booted feet. When she reached it, just a short distance out from the gate, her stomach lurched at the sight of the blood still on the grass. So much blood. She felt a horrifying impulse to touch it, to run her hands through the wet blades and feel the only part of Háma that remained to her. She stood frozen, repulsed by her own instinct and unsure of why she was there or what she meant to do. Only a weak but insistent pressure on her ankle broke her mental paralysis.

She looked down and was startled to find that the pressure came from a gloved hand that had lightly wrapped itself around her foot. Eyes wild with terror, she jumped back and kicked her leg to release herself from the hand’s grip. Looking frantically for a weapon, she grabbed a broken spear from the ground and swung at the hand, which pulled back into a small stack of corpses just next to her. She raised the spear for a second swing, but a soft, hoarse voice emerged from the pile.

“Please…please help me.”

She paused, breathing heavily, with the spear still poised in the air like a club to be brought down if needed. There was no more movement or noise from the pile, and after a few long moments she stepped cautiously toward it.

She placed her shoe on the shoulder of the topmost corpse and pushed, rolling him down to the ground and exposing the man just below. He was a Dunlending like so many of the others, wearing the devices of their land on his helmet and breastplate, and one gloved hand rested on his chest while the other hung at his side. His armor had done well to protect his head and torso, but he was grievously injured, with several arrows protruding from his arms and legs, including one that was lodged deeply in his left thigh. His face was tinged gray and his breathing was labored, but he was awake and alert. His eyes widened as he struggled to bring her into focus.

“Are…are you a spirit?” he whispered. “Here to escort me to the Hall of the Slain?”

“A spirit?” she stammered. She swallowed hard, slowing her heart and breath as the initial panic left her and she processed his words. Looking down at herself, still wearing her same blood stained dress with the curve of her pregnant belly clearly visible, she laughed a hollow, mirthless laugh. “I don’t know what kind of spirits are reckoned in Dunland, but if they look anything like I do right now, then your land is stranger even than I have heard.” She leaned in to get a closer look at his wounds. “And you aren’t dead. Not yet, at least.”

He reconsidered her face and looked up at the spear still in her hand. “A Rohirrim then? Do you mean to finish the job?” His words were raspy and slow, but clear. “If so, kill me quickly. I have laid here long enough already.”

She looked around her and saw again nothing but gloomy stillness as far as her sight could reach. There was only her and this man and the dark stain of Háma’s blood. Had this Dunlending been the one to deliver the fatal blow? Had he been the one to continue hacking and stabbing until what was left was so blighted and maimed that she was denied even one final look at Háma’s beloved face? A little coal of flame ignited in her heart.

She leaned forward to look again at the arrow in his thigh. It would be such a simple thing to just pluck it from its resting place and watch as all the blood in his veins emptied onto the bare ground. He’d be dead in minutes. No one was there to stop her, and, even if they were, she doubted anyone would. At least, not anyone who knew what his side had done to Háma. She skimmed a finger lightly along the arrow shaft. “Do you believe that you deserve death?”

He grimaced a little, though whether it was from contemplation of her question or his physical pain she wasn’t sure. He watched her hand move down the arrow. “Whether I deserve it is not for me to say.”

The burning coal in her heart flared. Mere inches from where this man now lay, the love of her life had died, possibly by the man’s own hand and definitely by the forces he supported. But he was unprepared to make any moral judgment of himself? He dared to keep a distance between his own actions and the carnage he had contributed to? She bent down to look directly into his eyes. “And what would you say if I told you that a man you may have killed was my husband?” Her voice quavered, but her gaze was keen. “The father of my children. Right over there. What would you deserve then?”

He closed his eyes for a long moment, considering his response, but when he opened them again he met her gaze. “I am sorry about your husband, whether I am the one who killed him or not. Death is a consequence of war, but I don’t wish it for anyone. Just as I don’t wish to die now myself, but I will accept it if need be.” He was briefly seized with an ugly, rattling cough, and he whimpered slightly as it faded. “In my land, we believe that a slain warrior goes on to a glorious afterlife. He joins his comrades in arms to feast and drink and hunt and compete until they are at last summoned to fight at the side of the gods themselves. Such an end would be an honor, for your husband or for me.”

She looked back to where Háma had fallen, trying to imagine his spirit going on to more fighting and more battles, but she could not see it. Nor could she see the glory or happiness in any such afterlife. Not for her husband, a man who loved nothing more than to make his daughter laugh. Who routinely brought home stray dogs and injured wildlife to care for. Who stayed up to any hour of the night when she was out working, waiting for her safe return so they could go to bed together and he could sleep at last with her nestled in his arms. He didn’t live and die a soldier to spend eternity as one, too. He fought only when needed to protect himself or others. He was gentle and kind and valued life in all its forms.

She looked back at the Dunlending, a sheen of sweat on his face despite the chill in the night air. His chest moved up and down quickly in a light pant. It was the onset of shock, likely caused by loss of blood. She had seen it many times before, and she knew his time was running out. If she didn’t act, he would slip away, first to unconsciousness and soon after to death. Then she would be as responsible for his loss as the commander who put him on that field or the bowman who fired the arrows now lodged in his leg. She also knew that this man’s unnecessary death was not what her sweet husband would want, not for the Dunlending and certainly not for her. Háma had loved that she brought lives into the world, that the purpose of her own life was to help and serve others. And he would hate for his death to be the reason she lost that purpose for good. The fire in her chest went out, replaced only by weary sorrow.

She dropped the spear and reached down to grasp the man’s foot. “This is going to hurt, but you need to elevate your injury.” She pulled up on his ankle, lifting the leg enough to prop a discarded shield underneath it, and he groaned piteously. “I’m sorry for your pain, but if you lose much more blood, you’ll be dead before I can get anyone to carry you out of here.” She tore a strip of fabric from the cloak of a nearby corpse and packed it carefully around his most serious wound. “Put pressure on the dressing if you can, but do not disturb the arrow under any circumstances. I’ll be back as soon as I can find someone to help bring you in.”

He reached a hand down to press on the makeshift bandage but his other hand went once more to her ankle, stopping her just as she turned to run off. “Thank you.” His voice was barely audible now, but his eyes tracked to her face and he offered the barest of smiles. “For your kindness.”

“Don’t thank me. Thank my husband.”

#lord of the rings #lotr #lotr fanfiction #rohan #hama #háma #éomer #eomer #divider by saradika #helms deep #you don’t have to love háma like i do but i will fight you if you disrespect him

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