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Synopsis: You work the nightshift at some laundromat and you discover something that doesn’t make sense.
Tags: No use of Y/N, no specific physical description of the reader except for clothing, CW dark themes, CW panic attack, CW depression, death mention, set during the movie (spoilers), eventual Bobby romance.
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Part 1 >>> Part 2
You’re bored out of your mind. When you took this job you thought it’ll be easy work and an easy paycheck. Well, it is when you work the nightshift at some laundromat that only has a handful of customers that are still loyal to the place. They’re mostly old people, whose conversations are either sparse or they’ll be talking your ear off about anything under the sun, there’s no in between. From trying to set you up with their grandson, who hasn’t called them in months, to asking for your help on how to turn the font bigger on their phone. Even so, the customers are rare these days.
It’s an old shop that was built during the early 80’s. It used to be one of those laundry places that cleans your clothes for you exclusively, now people only come by to use the coin washing machines. You barely have to do anything, all you need to do is make sure the machines are running, and to buzz people in when they knock on the door. There have been…incidents in the past so the owner installed the buzzer so you can control who gets in and out. It’s been fairly safe so far in the past three months you’ve been working here. And there are CCTVs all around that you can see on your tiny monitor by the cashier that only opens for Janet, the manager, who does the laundry in the back for the customers who wanted their clothes professionally cleaned.
Sometimes you wonder how the place is still running in this day and age, it’s probably bleeding money at this point. Or perhaps it’s a front for a money laundering scheme. You could only imagine.
It’s eerie inside, the buzz of the harsh fluorescent lights you’re not allowed to even dim, the black and white tiles from another decade, the rust slowly eating at the machines and that same lavender scent from the laundry soaps that you have grown to hate. But the place doesn’t scare you when you love horror movies, nothing fazes you. Still, you don’t dare watch a scary movie on your phone while at work lest you feel like something’s watching you from behind.
Janet’s been here since the 90’s, and will continue to do so until the place closes down. You don’t pity her for the mundane cycle of work she has been doing for decades, you actually admire her for it, she’s consistent at least. When you’ve only been working here for a few months and you already can’t stomach the smell of fabric conditioner and the incessant hum of the washing machines.
The place feels lonely at night, but you’re used to the loneliness, the persistent silence that rings in your ears, your voice remaining unused for hours that you have to test it every now and then to check if it still works. Loneliness is a common thing for you, a security blanket of sorts. A routine that your body and mind is so used to that whenever that routine is broken, you feel off. Weird, like someone took a piece of you but you can’t tell which piece they took.
The pads of your fingers graze your throat for the umpteenth time tonight. An instinct, a mannerism that you just can’t break as you run your fingers around your neck, feeling the phantom pain.
It’s one of those nights where no one has come knocking on the doors. It’s a regular Thursday night, a normal day where the air feels chilly at night but sweltering hot in the morning. Janet just finished her shift and left the place tidy, leaving you with nothing else to do than to take inventory in the back of the house.
The room where not a lot of people have seen is just through the curtain of clothes covered in plastic that obscures the rest of the laundromat is eerie at night. Like a butcher’s freezer with the dangling meats on hooks, but instead of that it’s clothes hanging on a rotating metal rack that shrieks whenever it roars to life. You’ve only been at the back of the store once in the morning and it’s not any better when the heat from the steamer and the sounds from the industrial washing machines gut punches you, with the metallic thudding that grinds your teeth. At night it’s colder, darker, and silent. A place that feels like it’s from another time.
Janet keeps a tight ship, and it’s no surprise that she has all the supplies organized on the shelf. From the gallon of laundry soaps to the chemicals that would probably blind you, she has them all categorized better than a library.
Sometimes you wonder why she even needs you in the first place.
But you still need to do inventory when there is no other work for you to do. You could sweep the floor or wipe the benches clean but you don’t really feel like doing any of that tonight, especially when it’s still so early in your shift. You can always do it later when Janet returns so she could see you doing something other than reading your book that has gotten you into trouble when she caught you, in her own words, ‘slacking off.’ There’s no slacking off here when there’s literally nothing else to do that she hasn’t done yet. You swear she’s every employer’s dream employee, Janet is a whole army.
Blowing a raspberry, you write down the amount of supply the store has left. It’s damp and chilly inside, and you could feel how cool the tiles are underneath your old sneakers. But you don’t mind it when you have your favorite flowery bomber jacket on you. It’s sort of like your uniform here when you don’t bother dressing up nowadays when there’s no one else to see you looking nice. As if you ever bother nowadays, you’re always too tired, too gloomy to try to look your best. You know it would make you feel better if you put on something other than a graphic tee, the occasional turtleneck and jeans combo. Plus anything other than the old bomber jacket that has a permanent orange stain on the cuff.
Taking a sip of your lukewarm coffee that you forgot that you made at the start of your shift, you purse your lips at the stale taste, making a face, before placing it gently on the shelf before you. The ceramic against wood sound echoes around the silence.
You count the laundry soaps.
One, you touch your neck again.
Two, you feel the tightness around it, curling around you, but you know it’s not there.
Three, your breath sticks to your throat as you cough harshly, inhaling air desperately before taking a gulp of the bitter coffee again to stave it off.
Three gallons left. The coffee works to ground you.
Janet would be pissed about the amount of soap left when she goes through half a gallon each day. It’s a mystery how she always runs out so easily when there are barely any customers. You’re starting to think that she drinks this stuff.
You jot down that you need to order more in your notes so you could call the supplier in the morning before going home. Home, you’re not entirely keen on going home when the silence still follows you there. At least here it’s a different kind of silence, and the faces on the wall don’t follow your every move.
While you’re in the middle of writing, your phone buzzes in your pocket, you take it out excitedly, silently hoping that a friend remembered you. But it’s just a notification about a sale on a game you wishlisted. Nothing out of the ordinary, nothing of note. As usual.
You feel the tightness around your throat, you don’t let it persist as you take another drink of your coffee.
It doesn’t work this time as you wheeze out a breath, clawing at your throat down your chest, as if you’re trying to cleave yourself open to see your jugular.
Tucking the pen in your ear, and throwing your phone and notepad onto the shelf with a solid thump, you hold onto the only solid thing before you. Your fingers tugs at your turtleneck to let yourself breathe, feeling the roughness of the wool, like barb wires tightly wound around your neck.
The only lamp that Janet only lets you turn on while you’re alone in the back flickers atop her table where she has a dozen pictures of her family including her twelve grandkids. The pictures are of strangers, but you can still feel their judging eyes on your back.
You try to pay it no heed as you inhale and exhale, nails digging into the wood, legs wobbling, feeling the lightning crawling inside your limbs as it freezes your fingers, twisted like tree branches. Your limbs feel numb and yet you feel everything around you.
Your phone buzzes again, another notification that doesn’t mean anything worthwhile. You claw at your skin, leaving marks upon yourself.
The flickering stops completely, and the lights shut off.
It’s been happening a lot recently, and the repair man said it’s no cause for concern even though the massive electricity bill has skyrocketed, bleeding the shop drier.
The darkness should’ve made you feel worse, should’ve made you claw harder until you cut yourself open and reach for your trachea, but it does the opposite. The dark soothes you, enveloping around you as you could see nothing else but the light from your phone.
Slowly, your breathing evens out, and in the dark you feel at ease.
Inhaling deeply, your legs feel like jelly, as you rest your forehead against the edge of the shelf until you could feel your limbs again. Your fingers curls away from the wood, and you shake it wildly until you feel the static under your skin ebb away.
It takes some time for you to collect yourself, to bring every part of you together again. But you manage to do it, time and time again you survive through it.
Taking a deep breath that restarts your mind, you blindly reach for your phone and open the flashlight. Your hands still tremble, but you try to keep them still, opening and closing your fingers around your phone and grounding yourself.
You shine it around you. From the smiling pictures on the small office table, to the old timey rickety closet doors that houses spare parts for the washing machines, to the large industrial machines that you’ve once had a nightmare about getting stuck inside. You find the circuit breaker, rubbing a hand along your face, you walk slowly over to it.
“Again? I thought the repairman fixed this shit.” Mumbling, you talk to yourself, this job does that to you.
Scratching your neck, you feel for the circuit box as you use your phone as the source of light. You feel the cool edges of it as you open the box. There are two lines of switches, all labeled, probably by Janet too. You turn all of it on and off again per the repairman’s instructions. Still, it doesn’t budge, and you’re still in the dark. It would be nice to remain in the void but the doors couldn’t be opened if there’s no power, and you’d rather not be stuck here forever. “Fucker, that’s great.”
Thumping your palm against the wall from your frustration, you suddenly feel a bump underneath your hand.
Blinking, you shine the light over it, palm rising from whatever it is. Only to find a new switch just beside the box. It’s red, different from the other switches and it’s placed lopsidedly at a ninety degree angle. Switches don’t look like that.
“What the fuck?” Index tracing the switch, you flip it open.
Nothing happens.
The humming silence stays, and the darkness envelopes you.
“What the fuck did that repair man do?” You haven’t been here long but you know there wasn’t a switch here last week. Nor the week before that, you would know, you watched the man try to fix the damn thing before your shift started.
Running a hand on your face, you accidentally nudge the pen perched on your ear, sending it tumbling down on the floor, rolling on the tiles as the sound bounces off the walls.
That’s your only pen. “Great.” You sarcastically say. You then shine the light on the floor, roaming it around to find the missing pen.
You practically turn the place upside down but you still don’t find your pen. It’s not under the tables, not under the shelves or even the washing machines. You even lift all the heavy plastic bags filled with laundry and yet it’s nowhere to be found.
Standing up from your crouched position after taking a peek underneath another washing machine, you suddenly feel a draft coming from somewhere. It flutters your lashes, as your breath catches in your throat. It smells odd, like mold. It’s not unusual when the building is old, but what’s unusual is the sliver of light coming from the floor.
Tilting your head, you walk around it curiously.
The light is just tucked in between shelves, small enough for a person to fit through but not enough for a whole washing machine to place over it. There’s a rectangular shape left on the tiles, like something was on it for years before it was taken out. Maybe a water cooler or a space heater.
As you get closer, you feel the draft even more. Maybe there’s a crack on the tiles and it’s letting in some air? But you’re on the ground floor, where would the air even come from? It couldn’t be gas when it doesn’t smell like rotten eggs either.
Pointing your light on it, you crouch down, feeling the warm draft kiss your cheeks. It’s odd, it’s the kind of air that is usually wafting from the back of the laundry shop whenever Janet finishes another batch of clothes. Like steam, but the temperature is lower, but still comfortably warm. It reminds you of the summer evenings back in Santa Clara when you lived there once upon a time in your life.
Out of curiosity, you touch the sliver of light.
Instead of the tile, the pads of your fingers clip through the solid floor. Like submerging your fingers in still waters.
“Fuck!” Flinching, you fall harshly on your behind, grasping as you lift your fingers to your face. In the dark, you see the shape of it. All five fingers are intact. Eyes wide, the sliver of light follows your gaze as you tilt your head from side to side.
You’re not dreaming right? It’s not one of those dreams you have whenever you make a mistake of taking your meds before bed instead of in the morning so you don’t feel groggy. Those dreams were weird and fantastical, sometimes scary but you always wake up after. But there’s no waking up from this.
Wetting your dry lips, you crawl back to it, knees hitting the cold tiles as you loom over the floor. It doesn’t look off, apart from the light in the crack, like a door left just slightly ajar to let the air in. But it’s not a damned door, it’s a tile where there’s supposed to just be hard concrete underneath it.
Swallowing thickly, you feel for your phone whilst keeping your eyes on the floor as if it’ll swallow you whole.
When you don’t feel the shape, nor see the light from the flashlight, your stomach falls.
It must’ve fallen into the floor when you recoiled away.
“Fuck me.” Fingers trembling, you reach inside. Fingers disappearing into the floor, like reaching in between closed curtains or in between couch cushions.
Half of you expects to feel the phone just under it, and another part of you expects for something to pull at your hand. Neither happens. Instead, your fingers sink inside, then your palm, then your wrist, until your whole forearm disappears into the floor.
You wretch your arm away, panting and grasping at your hand checking if it’s still attached to you.
What did you just discover?
You need to get your phone back, and just as you’re about to decide to just leave it there and just get another that will most definitely have you scrounging for money to buy food, you hear the unfamiliar yet unmistakable sound of your ringtone.
It’s a soft ballad, a favorite of yours, one that you chose so it’ll be unique, just in case someone calls you, you would know it’s yours. The song is muffled underneath the floor, as if it’s merely under the sheets on the bed, or ringing from a different room.
The song continues, and as you take a deep breath, you brace yourself onto the shelves beside the space on the floor and plunge your head inside like you’re diving in.
The song sounds nearer to you, and instead of the dark, you’re enveloped in sickly yellow. It almost blinds you at how bright it is inside. It’s all yellow wallpaper, yellow carpet, and the smell of lavender is replaced by the stench of damp carpet and mold.
You’re looking down at the floor, as if you’re inside the ventilation and looking straight down from the grid ceiling. Until you realize that you actually are looking from the ceiling. You’re upside down as vertigo scrambles your brain, hair dangling from your head, feeling the bile rise up.
You have no words as you feel the awful feeling creeping on your chest and up to your throat again.
Recoiling away, your eyes take a while to adjust to the absolute darkness around you. There’s no yellow anymore, just the darkness of the laundry shop.
Your fingers tremble, and your legs shake. Instead of standing up and pacing the floor like anyone else would do, you brace yourself once again, and dip your head in.
Your phone stops ringing, and you finally see it atop a pile of laundry that smells faintly like sweat. The screen is cracked from the looks of it, but it still works as it lights up for a moment. You can’t make out what it says. The curiosity gnaws at you.
Looking around, arms getting tired beside your head, you see a weird interior, like a house that hasn’t been moved into if the house was made by a drunk architect.
There are random walls sticking out, a half wall in the corner, two hallways leading to more yellow wallpaper, and a washing machine half embedded into the wall.
You feel the same warmth on your cheeks you felt from the draft. Looking down at your phone, it’s too out of reach for you.
You have to go down.
One minute you’re staring at the floor from atop the ceiling, the next you’re gathering blankets from the pile of laundry that still hasn’t been picked up, it’s been there since you got here, and you doubt it’ll ever be picked up when it’s starting to smell like a closet. You tie each end together tightly, testing it as you tug at every knot. You have the foresight to make footholds on it to make climbing up and down easier, you’re no professional athlete. It takes nine sheets to make a long rope of mismatched fabric. And you manage to do it all in the dark while only using the moonlight from the small window behind one of the machines.
You tie the end of the blanket onto the handle of the machine, making sure it’s all secured. All those years learning how to sail with your grandad has finally paid off when you’re using the same knots he taught you. You hated those days under the sun where your skin cooked, and the salty water that splashes on your face stings your eyes. Back then you didn’t know how good you had it, sometimes you wish that you’ll sail again with him and not complain this time around. That you’ll actually enjoy the time you have left with him.
With the bundle of sheets in your arms, you toss it onto the weird hole.
It unfurls quickly as it falls inside, the rope turns taut as it finally reaches below. You wipe your clammy palms onto your jeans before taking a peek inside. The length is just right as the other end dangles just above your phone.
It’s now or never if you ever want to see who called.
With trepidation, you climb down slowly.
The sheets creak under you, and with every sound, you take a pause and stop breathing. If this thing breaks you’ll be stuck down here forever.
You’re about halfway through when the smell of damp carpet gets stronger, and the humming of the light grinds your molars together.
With a careful grip and making sure that your feet are inside the footholds you made, sweat drips from your brow, as you take deep breaths in between climbs. You’re almost on top of the hill of clothes when your sweaty palm misses the rope.
“Oh, shit—!”
You fall backwards, dangling upside down as your foot is caught in the loop of the fabric. It saved you from a nasty fall onto a pile of dirty clothes, but your ankle aches.
Breathing hard, you fold yourself on the rope, trying to untangle your foot from the loop. You struggle, feeling the ache in the small of your back and your muscles straining under your own weight. The fabric makes an awful ripping sound, and you feel your soul leave your body, freezing in place. You brace for impact, but the makeshift rope remains hanging from the ceiling.
You look up, and everything is still in place. You don’t waste time climbing down the moment you get your foot unstuck.
You fall on your back, groaning at the dull ache from the landing.
The clothes under you smell terrible, like laundry that has been left in the basket for months. Sweat clinging to the clothes, stains dotted all over, and the fabric has turned rough under the touch. Standing up, you cough out the smell and cover your nose. It feels squishy underneath the soles of your shoes as you pick up your phone immediately and put it inside your pocket.
You’re supposed to be climbing up and getting the fuck out of the yellow hell. Instead, your eyes roam around the space, looking at the dreamlike place and feeling the odd warmth on your skin.
The place feels familiar almost. Like you’ve been here before, in a dream perhaps?
The air around you feels stale, like an attic that hasn’t been opened in years. Dust particles drift around you like fireflies. But it doesn’t make your skin itch, or get a sneeze from you. It just drifts there in the still air.
You tilt your head up and see a regular grid ceiling where the rope is dangling from, it’s undisturbed, like how the floor was in the shop when you placed your hand in. Like a surface of water letting you enter.
Taking a step back, you hear a crunch underneath the sole of your shoe. You lift your foot away, and see that your pen is broken, ink flowing out of the cartridge and staining the clothes around it.
Your pulse quickens at the sight. A hand reaching for your chest as you massage it.
With careful steps, you go down the pile of clothes. Some of it falls from the heap as you make it to solid ground.
A chuckle escapes your throat as you feel the unease that wedges itself in between your shoulder blades and feel it settle there. You don’t belong here. You shouldn’t be here. And yet you stay. Just like how you’ve done it in your life. You stayed despite not being needed, despite not belonging anywhere.
Something catches your eye, and you pick up a t-shirt laying beside your foot. It’s one you recognize from one of the customers that came in weeks ago. You would recognize it because you remember it fondly, you even once saw it in a dream. The owner was a guy your age, sandy blonde hair, sunkissed skin, the kind of man that wouldn’t have looked at you twice. But he was there, doing his laundry in the middle of the night while asking about the town, your day, and everything under the buzzing light. He was nice, and the conversation was easy, but he never went back. It was a fleeting piece of something that could’ve been, something that might’ve made living worthwhile, someone that would’ve made you far happier. Maybe you said something weird, laughed at his joke oddly, or you didn’t look into his eyes enough, whatever it is, it wasn’t meant to be. He was out of your league anyway, he would never have gone out with you in your flower bomber jacket and old blue converse that doesn’t have laces in it when you never bothered to replace it after the hospital took it during your last stay.
Why are you still here?
You discard the shirt atop the pile, then you see it— your own bomber jacket, it’s right under where the shirt was and the sight alone makes your heart stop. It’s the same piece, the same flowery pattern, pink cuffs and even the same orange stain on it. But it looks off. They’re almost identical, save for the pattern being wrong, a different shade that is invisible to the eye unless you look closely. And the flowers on it are lopsided, printed wrong, like a piece of paper jammed inside the printer in the middle of it printing and you suddenly yank it out. The peonies are stretched, the leaves are melting on the stems. Like someone tried to draw it from memory with water colors that were too watered down.
Rubbing at your neck, you let a shuddered breath out. You then take out your phone to open the camera, and you get a glimpse of the missed call on it, it’s an unknown number and beside it reads, ‘suspicious’ in big red letters. Coming down here was another disappointment.
Frowning, you open your camera instead of wallowing. You film the space, from the ceiling where you came from, to the details on the wallpaper and the hill of clothes.
The place looks like an abandoned office space, the ceiling and the lights on it reminds you of one. The damp carpet underneath your feet squishes with every step, the soles of your old shoes could feel how chilly it is, how off it feels. It feels like skin that was out in the snow for far too long.
As you move forward carefully, still filming, and taking quick peeks at your screen, the image looks as clear as day. This place is real, and you’re exploring it like how one would explore a friend’s house for the first time. Quiet steps, making sure you don’t bump into anything that could break lest you get kicked out of the house before you could even hang out.
Your hand touches the walls, it feels smooth, the wallpaper doesn’t feel weird, it’s room temperature, a tad colder probably, but nothing out of the ordinary like you thought. But as you stay still, feeling the wall, really laying your whole palm atop it, there’s a vibration underneath your skin. Like a hum, like the place breathes.
It sings.
Slowly, you move your head towards it, it calls to you. Forehead resting against the yellow wallpaper and you just breathe. The stale air, the damp carpet, and just let yourself breathe to the rhythm of the humming as it resonates within you, within your soul.
Eyes closed, your mind is tuneless and quiet. For the first time in a long while, your mind is silent. No heavy bone crushing thoughts that you’re used to, no anxieties, no fear, no loneliness. Just a clear head and the song of the walls.
You stay there for a moment, letting the song ease you, letting the yellow wallpaper embrace you. You have no idea how long you stood there, relaxed, unmoving, breathing, but you’re in no hurry.
The sudden shuffle of clothes flinches you awake. Your hand that holds onto your phone moves on instinct, turning towards the abrupt sound.
You see nothing at the end of the hallway, just more yellow wallpaper, and a random road sign— A caution falling rocks warning that is mirrored, the rocks looks too smooth from what you’re familiar with, it’s wrong.
Glancing at the wall again, you reluctantly push yourself away and walk towards the sign. The light above you flickers, just one, before stabilizing over you.
You don’t feel scared, you’re more curious than terrified. But you should be as you see wires on the floor. The cables are cut on your end, like a rat ate through it. You follow it, leading to a room with thick cables that runs into it with three walls and a jug of laundry bleach sticking out of the wall.
You’re more concerned about the wires as you film it, following it as you end up with a wooden wall. Not yellow wallpaper, just a piece of plywood on the wall that looks like someone placed it in the crevice to block whatever the source of the wires are.
There’s a shiver down your arm, and you feel eyes on you.
Craning your neck up, you see a camera, an older type of CCTV, like the ones you see on an old heist movie from the late 80’s. Tilting your head, you lift your phone and film it right back.
The camera doesn’t respond, the red light blinks, but it doesn’t move. Whoever’s behind it, it knows you’re here. And they may be behind the wooden wall.
You try to push it with your shoulder, but it doesn’t budge. The plywood is thicker than you thought. Your knuckles knock on it, the sound bouncing off the walls.
You should head back.
But you don’t, it could be the curiosity that makes you stay, or the feeling of ease that lingers in your marrows. Whatever it is, it makes you continue onwards and turn towards the jug and turn the cap open. Liquid spills on the floor, not teal blue or light purple that you’re familiar with, it’s black, oozing thickly down on the floor and onto the tips of your shoes.
Taking large steps back, you look at it with curious eyes, filming the phenomenon on your phone. It doesn’t smell like anything, it doesn’t smell like anything at all.
The goop ebbs on the carpet, crawling over to you as you try to avoid it. “Fuck… what—” your back hits the wall with a hollow thump. And you watch as the ooze seeps into the wall, like how a drain would.
You follow it, knocking on it, hearing the hollowness. There’s a false wall no bigger than a laundry basket. Pushing it open, it falls and reveals another room inside.
That shouldn’t be possible when the room next to the wall is where the pile of clothes were, not a room with a lone ironing board in the middle. You even check it, you go back to the place you fell from and look at the wall where the hole you opened was. It’s odd. It’s against logic. Nothing here makes sense.
And you shouldn’t be crawling inside it either. But you are, because for the first time in your adult life you don’t hear yourself telling you no, you don’t hear the doubts crawling the crevices of your mind. You don’t hear anything, it’s quiet in there, and you finally get to do whatever you please.
So you go in when you shouldn’t be, you touch the too long ironing board when you shouldn’t be. And you look up to where a ceiling is supposed to be, only to find more yellowed wallpaper and hangers, dozens of them. The lights are on the wall to your right, like the whole room was tilted at an angle, even the floor is lopsided, making you fix where you’re standing if you don’t want to slide down. One of the ceiling grid lights is left open, revealing the same room you first stumbled upon. The blanket rope swings from the ceiling, and the sight of it doesn’t bother you when it would, when it should’ve, your mind is calm at the sight of a rope dangling. Instead of it making your insides crawl.
You film everything in the room, at how stretched the ironing board is, at the shoes glued on the floor beside it, at the walls and at the dangling metal hangers above.
This place is weird and out of place, and yet you feel calm here, at ease. Maybe it’s the residue from the humming walls, or the air that shifts around you, but whatever it is, it feels more like home than home does.
There’s a sound of liquid being disturbed from the other side, where the wires were, where the ooze drips from the crawlspace you went into.
There’s that shuffling of fabric again. Like the sound of a nylon windbreaker rustling against itself along the wearer’s movements. This time it’s accompanied by wet plops of feet against a puddle of water.
Then a shadow, too long to be human, too tall, too odd.
You’ve outstayed your welcome.
You move immediately, not even looking back towards the sound as you shimmy into the hole of the missing light and it spits you out into the hill of clothes.
Pocketing your phone, you climb up the slope of fabric, like climbing up a sand dune as clothes fall from the pile every time you go up.
You make it up to the rope, and you look back, you don’t know why you looked back, but you see it. A glimpse of a figure, a shadow, merely a shadow that moved before you could register it as such.
Inserting your foot into the footholds you made, your attention is taken by the t-shirt again, the old comic shirt that the man you talked so easily with wore. You take it, shove it in your back pocket and start to climb up.
You make quick work of it, lungs stinging, arms aching as you heave yourself up back onto the laundromat floor.
The cold tile hits your cheek as you rest on it. The air doesn’t feel stale, there’s no damp carpet where your shoes sink in, and there’s no humming, no calm vibrations that quiets your mind.
Your head fills with thoughts again. Worries, fear, the past, the future, everything that gnaws at your insides and eats at every bit of your soul.
The light flickers open.
Turning your head at the floor where a whole world lies under, a creeping smile tugs at your lips.
You’re going back in there.
—
The video you took plays on your phone as your screen lights up the living room. You study it, review the footage and replay every second to memorize every detail. If you’re going to go back, you’re going to need more than a fifteen minute video of it. You need to feel the quiet again.
No matter how much you zoom in on the figure peeking over the wall when your eyes were closed from the footage, you couldn’t see whatever it was. It bothers you that you don’t know, maybe it’s not a threat to you?
It’s a new discovery, something that you could show people that, ‘hey I found this, I discovered this!’ It’s something that could change your life, make a name for yourself, something to remember you by. A legacy. The quiet, the song of the walls could help other people too.
So you hid it, pushed a shelf over the hole in case Janet accidentally falls in. You don’t want her to fall in, her poor back wouldn’t survive it. So you took care of it, made it seem like you didn’t just fall into another world like Alice. You got rid of the rope you made and folded it neatly back to where you found it. And once you were finished hiding everything, the sun was already rising outside. You were merely there for fifteen minutes, you made sure of it, you checked the footage and it says that you’ve only been filming for fifteen, not missing a whole six hours of the day.
Time could be moving differently there. If it is, then you’ve discovered something that has more potential than you thought.
The yellow rooms made you study physics, it made you read underneath the lamps of the library the moment your shift ended. And the more you read the more you understand how the world works, but it makes you understand what you discovered less and less with every passage. It shouldn’t be real, it shouldn’t even exist, and yet you have the proof, you have the footage and you have the shirt that is now hanging behind your bedroom door, smelling like your citrus detergent.
It stayed solid, real, and it’s another question answered.
But you have more questions, questions that are dying to be answered. If only your mind quietens enough to let you think.
The next week you come back to the shop with a backpack filled with supplies, as you wear the shirt under your bomber jacket, and a pair of running shoes that have thicker soles.
Janet didn’t give you a second look, nor paused at the backpack you’re lugging around. She said her goodbyes, left a note of the things you needed to do and left.
For once, you’re happy that you’re alone. You close up shop, write a note on the door that says you’re on lunch break and with a rope around your waist, a real rope this time, a rope for rock climbing, a rope that is rough against your skin— you move the shelf away and descend back into the yellow wallpaper with determination.
The song from the walls quietens your mind better than the meds could the moment your feet hit the hill of clothes. You feel like yourself, the version of you that wasn’t broken.
It takes a while for you to leave the first room, you sit by the wall, ear placed upon it as your eyes close. It rumbles your chest with warmth as it sings its song, it lets you sleep, a dreamless slumber you’ve been wanting since you got out. It’s quiet here, despite the hum of the walls and the lights, it’s quieter than your mind. So you sleep, and wake up to the alarm on your phone that you set to make sure that you don’t stay for too long.
That continues on for weeks, you go down the rope, sit on the carpet, right where it’s warmer, right where it’s not damp, right where it got used to the shape of you as you sleep with your head upon the sickly yellow.
Sometimes you’ll speak into it, secrets you’ve never told anyone, your worries, all the thoughts that never leave you alone. And it listens, it doesn’t judge, it doesn’t make you do exercises that don’t make a dent in your frenzied mind. And it lets you sleep, for once you have the energy to face the day, you’re far happier that even Janet noticed it. And you started your hobbies again, you cleaned your apartment, you washed your hair more than once a week, and you started going on walks just to feel the sun on your skin again.
Nothing disturbs you here, nothing wakes you up. So you stay, you sleep, and it welcomes you each time.
You never missed a day of work, a perfect attendance and Janet is none the wiser.
On the second month of discovering the backrooms, one you dubbed it when you found it in the back of the laundry shop, something else greets you other than the hum of the walls and the lights.
Instead of the chewed up wires, you see a figure in the hallway. It doesn’t move but it speaks. Different languages that rotate every minute. They’re greetings, loud and brash that it overshadows the song of the walls.
It angers you, it’s a disturbance to the peace you found.
So you walk towards it, coming face to face with a life size cut out of a caveman with a speaker in its chest. You rip the head apart with your bare hands, but the speaker still plays the teeth gnashing noise at a dissonance.
You walk towards the wires, step over the ooze on the floor and take the hammer from your belt, one that you picked up from the rusted tool box in the corner of the laundry shop you always brought with your supplies. It’s hefty but all it takes is a good swing. And you raise it up high, bashing at the wooden wall.
It’s cathartic, freeing, as you beat up the wall into shards of splinters.
You make a sizable hole, enough for you to fit inside and shimmy through despite the chunks of wood snagging at your jacket.
What you find is a whole new room. It looks like an expansive living room, where a balcony is raised up high, and a curved staircase leading to nowhere. But that doesn’t concern you as much when you see a table in the middle with tech you can’t recognize. The place is a mess of wires and stuff you have no idea how to operate.
You do recognize one thing, a CB radio, the same one your grandpa had in his sailboat. The light is on, and despite better judgement, you take the radio and click it open.
“Hello?” You talk into it as it whirrs awake. Your finger leaves the button as you listen for an answer on the other side. You’re only met with static. “Who is this?”
Still static.
“Worthless piece of shit.” You curse under your breath, tossing the radio down onto the table with a clash of metal.
Turning towards the place you came from, right in the crevice, you hear the voices from the speaker, then silence as shards of the caveman cutout are ripped to shreds violently by something hidden behind the wall.
Eyes wide, you turn and run.
You sprint towards the only place you could, right in front of the table is a niche in between two walls, and a light at the end. You follow the light, bolting into the crevice sideways as the walls between you make you claustrophobic.
You don’t stop as you hear the familiar shuffling of fabric right behind you, its footsteps are quiet, as if it’s afraid to be seen. Running into a new hallway, passing by a banner, you glance at a chair half embedded into the wall right beside a ship’s wheel and a trail of blood.
Turning a corner, you don’t look back as the shuffling of clothing turns eager, faster, closer.
There’s an opened door to your right, a room with a beach on the walls. You don’t go in. Something inside you tells you not to go in. The wall hums at a low dissonance, and you follow it instead, you turn left, past another hallway with a half wall in the middle of the room, past a mirrored stop sign, then over a large room with a pile of furniture stacked on top of each other.
The song of the walls persists here. But you don’t stop to listen this time around.
Heaving, hands on your knees, you’re lost.
“Motherfucker.” Panting, sweat dribbling on your brows, you keep running as the shuffling continues on, not giving you reprieve.
Your heart beats a thousand miles per minute, you run into another caveman, speakers bouncing around the walls as you run past it.
A chair sticking out of the wall hits your hip in a harsh thud that will surely leave marks on your skin. But you persist, you run through lopsided rooms, warm rooms, cold rooms, past a hallway with green light, past another that has a single red balloon floating inside.
Then it happens, you weren’t looking where your feet would land, and you fall.
You fall ten feet, landing with a harsh crunch that has you screaming in pain. Your shoulder blooms with blinding pain as you writhe on the damp carpet. Tears pour from your eyes as you heave in place, clutching at your shoulder.
For a minute you gather your strength, breathe in and out before opening your eyes.
A swinging rope greets you. Not the rope you brought inside, a rope of hemp, a rope that you used for the sailboat dangling just inches from your nose. It’s broken in half, frayed at the edges, your throat closes in on itself as you frantically crawl away. Your backpack hits the wall, and your heart stops at the sight of a fallen chair beside the swinging rope.
There, just next to where you were laying down is the other half of the rope— a noose.
Heaving, hands on your throat, you cough, trying to get rid of the stone that is lodged in your throat.
Then there’s hands on you, several.
You didn’t hit a wall as a curtain of white hair falls over your face, and you see her.
Janet, but not entirely Janet. It wears her face, distorted, like a screen glitching mid nod, three sets of eyes, four noses, and two mouths. She smells like mold. And she’s just mere inches away from your face.
A scream rips from your throat. Scrambling away, you fumble on two feet.
Janet looks at you, no, not Janet, this Janet has needles sticking out of her arms, four, four arms. Faces melding in her middle, you recognize some, her grandkids, her children, and one that is frozen mid scream, all painted in the same navy blue uniform she always wore.
“Janet?” She doesn’t run towards you, just tilts her head, eyes not truly looking at you, but through you, like the real Janet.
The rough hemp slides into your palm, the noose laying just underneath your skin.
Your throat begins to close up again, until the crinkling of fabric bounces off the yellowed walls.
Fake Janet turns away abruptly, face planted right on the wall, hiding from what’s coming.
On wobbly feet, you run once again.
Weird rooms whizz past you, one filled with old couches, one with broken cameras, one with two doors placed side by side, and one that has the stench of death permeating from it.
You have no idea where you’re going, you should be tracking the places you’ve been so you could backtrack and get back to the laundry room, but whatever’s chasing you doesn’t grant you reprieve.
There’s a door in front of you, it’s painted in all black, and it’s the only thing at the end of the hallway so you go in.
You fall once again, three feet into a bright red hallway that stretches on both sides.
Groaning, and in extreme pain and exhaustion, you’re starting to regret your choices, maybe you should’ve just taken your meds today instead of going back here. Instead of listening to the warm song of the walls. And now you find yourself in a dirty and dilapidated, in what looks like a hospital hallway with flashing red lights.
The moment you stand up on two wobbly feet, mouth feeling dry, lungs on fire, an alarm sounds out. An alarm that rings in your ears loudly, bursting your eardrums.
Your palms land on your ears, cupping around it, trying to quiet it down. But as you look around, you see them— shadows, figures, large, small, tall, wide. There’s several of them, all gunning for you from the end of the hallway.
“Fuck me.” You sprint away, dodging everything from wheelchairs, metal tables, to filing cabinets.
A corner of a table hits you in the same place on your hip, and you wail in pain, limping, but you don’t stop, you keep running.
Screaming, your legs are on fire, muscles aching, a stitch blooming on your side as you feel the fatigue turn your bones into jelly. You’d give anything to be at home, even if it’s quiet there, even if it’s lonely there.
And yet you persist, running, dodging, weaving in between cabinets as you see the door at the end of the hallway. The exit sign blinks at you, and you run faster, dragging your sore feet as you bust through the door and into water.
The door shuts behind you, no more red flashing lights, no alarms, just the sound of something slithering and wheezing through the door you came from.
You turn your head at it, face drenched, clothes damp, and you see that the door has disappeared. Sunk back into the wallpaper.
Heaving, you lay in the puddle, shaking in pain and exhaustion. There’s a sailboat half melted into the floor, bearing the same name of your grandfather’s sailboat— ‘princess,’ he called it, because before you came along, it was his princess. Tears sting in the back of your eyes, turning your vision blurry.
A pair of shoes appears in front of you, it’s familiar. You don’t run this time.
You’re too tired to fight, too tired to run. So you stay there. Waiting for whatever’s in front of you to end your life.
But it doesn’t, it stands there, staring down at you with those familiar eyes, and yet an unfamiliar face.
“Grandad?”
—
You stay inside the half melted sailboat on the bed you used to sleep in, on the same pillow that still has the familiar scent of the sea. But it still feels off, the mattress is too firm, and too cold, and the walls are painted green, when you remember it being blue. The same blue as the sea. Even the glow in the dark stars your grandfather helped you put up on the ceiling looks wrong. They’re not really star shaped, like someone who has never seen stars tried to draw it.
Your grandfather, or whatever stands beside the ship’s wheel stays there, unmoving, not truly looking into your eyes.
It appears that he doesn’t need to sleep or eat, he just stays there, a hand on the wheel, frozen in time. Standing still, too still to be human. Whenever his back is to you, you could just imagine that you’re twelve again, sailing with him as he sings off-key while you eat a pack of sour candy and read a comic to pass the time.
Whatever this being is, he doesn’t seem to want to hurt you despite how odd and terrifying he looks. His clothes are wrong, buttoned wrong, the wrong shade of blue, just wrong.
He just stays there on the wheel, sometimes he’d move around, steps on a puddle, turns away to look at the boat, then he goes back to the helm again. Sometimes he’d even look at you, expression flat, unmoving, perhaps trying to place your face in his mind, or just plain curious as to why there is another being in his domain. It’s odd being near him, like seeing a ghost at the end of the hallway, only for the spirit to flicker away at the last second once you turn to face it. But this time, the ghost doesn’t fade away.
The song of the walls is back in the sailboat room, you don’t try to leave, you don’t even want to leave when it’s comfortable here, where the sound of fabric couldn’t follow you. You don’t know why it hasn’t tried to enter the room, maybe it’s terrified, or maybe it lost track of you.
Your mind has gone foggy. You keep track of time with your phone, there’s no cell service inside so even if you could call someone, what would you even tell them? How would they even rescue you? Would someone even answer?
It’s been two days since you got stuck here. Two days of eating biscuits and rationing the water you packed. Your phone’s battery is still holding on to fifty percent, and you’d like to keep it that way as you shut it off when you have no need to check the time or want to look at old pictures to reminisce and remember that you’re still alive. There’s no day or night cycle here, and that confuses your circadian rhythm, there’s only the yellow walls and the ever permanent hum of the lights. But you don’t mind when your sleeping schedule has always been fucked.
You’ve searched every nook and cranny of the sailboat room. There’s an ever-present puddle of water all around it, never drying out. You could try to gather it in your water bottle but you’re sure that it’ll kill you faster than whatever was coming after you. The walls are still in the sickly yellow wallpaper, save for a corner where there’s a drawn on sun. It’s something you would see on a child’s drawing, crudely drawn with orange paint. You don’t know if it’s always been a part of the room or if someone once got stuck here too and drew the sun there to remember what it looked like, or to try what it felt like to be underneath its warmth.
There are three doors around you, one on your left just under the painted sun, another on your right, and one on the ceiling. You highly doubt you can reach the one high above, so your only options are the ones on the walls.
You’ve been gathering the courage to leave, to find the exit and go back home and never come back here. But once you look at the copy of your grandfather, you could just hear his humming in your head, his warm calloused hand patting your head, and you find yourself turning back into the boat and laying underneath the familiar wrong temperature covers and watching him through the window.
On day four, you hear something shift in the wall. You were pressing your ear against it, palm laying over it like always to find comfort, until you hear the creak within it. Like something shifted, something changed.
You figure it was just your imagination, your mind making up things again that you’re no stranger to. But you’re not in a place that has rules, a place that doesn’t make sense. Maybe the walls are actually shifting. Maybe something did change, or maybe something moved the walls.
On day five, you gather the courage to leave the room. But you made precautions, you packed a marker in your pack just for this exact reason, to mark the walls in case you got lost. It would’ve been great if you had done that before while the entity went after you.
You use the sailboat room as your north star, marking each corner of the walls you pass by with arrows pointing in its direction. You already know it’s safe there, so in case something goes wrong, you can find your way back to its hum.
You don’t take out your phone this time around to record the place, you want to conserve battery, even if it’ll help you in finding your way back by reviewing the footage.
You make it past three corridors away from the sailboat room before you catch a glimpse of a shape carrying a stool way ahead of you in between a crevice in the wall. You don’t call for it as you turn back to where you came from.
On day seven, your phone refuses to open. It should still be at forty percent. When you curse under your breath and tap at its sides, it flickers open, the screen glitching and humming the same tune as the walls. You only know it was actually day nine because you saw a glimpse of the date.
Your supplies are dwindling, you don’t bother with it when you don’t feel hungry anymore. You just press your head against the wall and listen to it sing and all your worries melt away.
On day twelve, you went out again. You made it as far as nine corridors away from the sailboat room, roughly a thousand steps. You find another room with a gaudy beach wallpaper and a door that won’t open no matter how hard you try. You leave it alone, and trudge on. Then you see blood on the wall and a dead seagull, you turn back.
You’ve mapped out the place on the walls of the sailboat room, each having their own distinctive marks on each room you’ve encountered. You must’ve walked a thousand miles by now as the map has grown larger than the wall itself.
You still listen to the humming when you feel too tired to explore, when you feel lonely, which has been a lot lately. The song within the wall and the reprieve it gives you is addicting, you need to be weaned off it if you want to get out of here.
You’ve lost count of the days.
Patrolling around the backrooms comes second nature to you now. It’s as if you’ve made it a place of your own. You walk with certainty, and you don’t bump into anything anymore. The shuffling of fabric hasn’t appeared since you fell into the sailboat room, nor do you want it to ever appear ever again.
You walk around the same path, trying to map out a deeper part of the backrooms, a part you’ve never been in. You tread carefully this time, a marker in hand and a hammer in the other.
Then you hear it— voices. Not the mechanical sound from the speakers that you’ve heard through the walls, and have seen playing on a couple of the same caveman standees, but real voices. People, there’s people here.
Hope blooms in your chest as you follow the voices as best as you could.
As you get closer, you hear three distinct voices. One woman and two men. They’re talking above each other, but you’re still too far away to understand what they’re saying.
Once you turn a corner, you see them. Two men, one woman just like how you heard them as.
One is tying a rope around the other, while the woman is apprehensive, rightfully so.
“Hello?” Your voice calls out to them and you barely recognize your own voice. They freeze in place, simultaneously turning to you with equally shocked faces. “Are you real?”
“Holy fuck, Clark, you got someone else in here?” The woman vaults from her seat, heaving, eyes wide as she glances between you and the older man.
“What, no! I don’t know who she is!” He defends, whilst the one with a rope around his hip points a camera at you curiously. “Who–who are you? How’d you get here?”
You wet your lips as you take a step forward. They all back up tentatively and you freeze on the spot. They look at your hammer as if you’re about to bash their heads in. So you clip it on your belt instead. “I’m real, I’m human.” You tell them your name, you haven’t heard of it in a while.
“Are you okay?” The man with the camera tests your name on his tongue, repeating it.
You haven’t been okay in a long time, the only time you were is when your head is pressed against the yellow wallpaper. “I—I don’t know.”
“I’m Bobby,” he points at himself as he looks at you through the camera’s lens. “She’s Kat, and he’s Clark.” Kat waves awkwardly at you as Clark just stares. “How did you get here?” He’s oddly warm to you.
The lenses hone in on your face as you hear it whirr. “I fell.” You simply say, tone wobbly as your fingers play at the frayed edges of the old comic shirt. “Can you help me get out of here, please?”
“Fuck, how long have you been here?” Kat is the first to walk closer to you as the blonde films the interaction with bated breath. The kind woman sidles beside you, hands to her sides as if she’s approaching a wounded animal.
“I don’t know, a while. I lost count on day twelve.” Your voice catches at the end and her hand grasps at your arm lightly. You almost cried at how warm and real she is.
“Please, you have to help me.”
“Twelve days? How come I’ve never seen you?” Clark asks, eyes glancing down at the slope then over to you as if he’s calculating something in his head.
“I–I avoid anything that moves.”
“There are things that move here?” Kat grasps at her hair, shaking profusely at the two men. “That’s it, Clark, we have to get out of here.”
“What the fuck.” Bobby hisses in between his teeth.
“No, no, we still need to see what’s down there.” Clark gestures at the slope. “Just this one thing, Kat. It’s perfectly safe! She’s been down here all alone and probably going insane.”
You’ve heard that last word one too many times.
“It’s not worth it.” She argues back, shaking her head.
“I kind of want to go down there.” Bobby declares as three heads turn towards him simultaneously. “I’m curious too.”
“I don’t think you should.” You’re on Kat’s side as she agrees with you, nodding along.
“Well, we’re not leaving here until we do.” Clark shrugs, hands landing on his pants with a thump. “You just have to wait, kid.”
You should argue back, say your piece with clenched teeth and furled fists, instead, you fumble your words, like always. You blink and Bobby’s already going down the slope.
This might not end well.
Instead of standing there like a tree, you go to help them with the rope. The quicker this is done, the faster you can go back home. Hands against the rough rope, almost identical to the one you came down on. Kat looks at you, giving you a tight-lipped smile as thanks. While Clark stares warily at you.
“Be careful, Bobby!” Kat’s voice shakes with trepidation.
“This isn’t as deep as I thought—” he almost slips, and you yank at the sliding rope, palms stinging from the friction.
“Bobby!”
“I’m good, I’m good!” His voice goes farther and farther away.
“Alright, what do you see?” Clark asks, yelling down below.
“Just a bunch of dirty laundry.” He replies back as the rope moves to the side.
“Laundry?” Your mouth turns dry. “What—what else?”
“It stinks in here.”
The rope moves further into the level below as you watch Kat’s anxiety clear on her face.
Your lips smack together as you feel your legs go numb under you. “I have a really bad feeling about this—”
“You’re not helping.” Clark mutters under his breath, not even sparing you a glance.
“Bobby?” Kat yells.
“Yeah?”
“Just checking if you’re okay!”
The rope is almost at its end as it slides onto your reddened clammy palms.
“We should go please. I don’t want to spend another—”
“Shit! Pull me up! Pull me up!” Bobby runs frantically up the slope on all fours, feet sliding down as he struggles.
The three of you frantically pull at the rope, until he finally makes it up with Clark helping him up by his arm. He then takes the camera away from Bobby and places it on the bed.
Bobby saw something. Just like you had.
“Something moved.” You don’t say it like a question, you state it as Bobby hyperventilates whilst Kat tries to calm him down.
“There’s fucking something— fuck!” His hands tries to remove the knot around his hip. “What kind of knot is this?”
You know what kind, it’s the kind that you use on ships when the wind is rough and tends to take the sails away so you use a knot that isn’t easy to untie. Why did Clark use that knot?
“Here, let me.” Pursing your lips, you sympathize with him as you try to untie the tough knot. Hissing in between your teeth, Bobby keeps moving, chest heaving and eyes blown. Whilst you avoid Kat’s frantic movements as she tries to make his breathing ease. “Do you guys have scissors—!”
The rope tugs him down, and he instinctively grabs onto something close to him— you.
“Oh shit, Kat!” His fingers dig into your arms bruisingly as you plant your feet on the ground, hands trembling whilst you desperately untie the rope. “Help me! Fuck!”
There’s fear in his blue eyes as he pleads with you, gripping onto you like a corpse in rigor mortis. “I’m trying!”
“Shit, Bobby!” Kat and Clark tries to pull him away from the slope, panic setting in their bones as you feel hands on you, tugging at you harshly.
There’s only the darkness below and a flickering light. Then you see it, a shift in the dark, a shadow waiting down below.
Adrenaline thrums in your veins as you see the rope lift from the slope, then all it took was one strong tug.
You and Bobby tumble down together, his grip still on you and around your ankle, his chin hits the slope in a sickening thud. Screams echo around the place. You don’t know if it was your scream, you just know that you have to act quick.
This isn’t an indifferent being like the copy of your grandfather, this was like the one that chased you, or probably the same one with the shifting fabric and quiet footsteps.
As you fall down, head hitting against the wall, you try your best to balance on the slope as you slide. You take the hammer from your belt and ready it the moment Bobby lands on the floor.
Before you could land, you jump from the slope, using the momentum to swing your hammer.
It doesn’t look like a man, or anything you’ve seen before in the backrooms. This being, this entity is seven foot tall, long limbs and a lopsided face that’s too long, too wobbly. And it looks like Clark.
You don’t ponder as you smack its large head with a hammer, cold blood splashing on your face, before you land harshly right on the foul heap of clothes. Your shoulder cries in pain as you yelp, eyes filling with stars for a moment.
The hit stuns it for a moment, the lights flicker wildly. It groans, its animalistic whimpering ring in your ears.
“Run!” Without thinking, head wobbly, you grab Bobby off the floor and make a run for it.
He cries in pain as you heave him to his feet, taking him over to the door that was placed wrong.
“Bobby!” Kat screams from upstairs, whilst you could see Clark trying to peek at the moving shadows.
One tug at the rope was all it took from his hip and it falls on the floor just as you push him through the door. You almost untied him upstairs, just one second more and you two would’ve been spared.
You’ll apologize to him later for the roughness, but as you stare at the creature that’s now holding onto the limp rope, you’ve never felt fear this intense, not when you were running from it before, not when you were all alone in the dark with a noose in your grip. This is different, there are other people that will get hurt. And you’re terrified for them.
It turns its head at you, a creaky slow movement as it taunts you before tugging at the rope harshly.
“Kat, run!” You warn, throat thrumming.
The sound of scraping furniture makes your teeth shake. Then the screams, two of them, two bodies sliding down. They’ll end up like you.
You don’t wait, you don’t stay as you watch it lumber over to you. Its peg leg thumping against the floor like a death knell.
With a heavy heart, you go through the door and slam it shut. You then take a chair beside you to block it.
It bangs on the door, almost breaking it. Then someone screams, it takes its attention away from you and Bobby.
“What are you doing? They’re still out there!” Bobby struggles to stand up, limping and using the wall to stand up. “Kat!”
“We’ll find them later!” You take his arm and throw it over your shoulder as you try to run as fast as you could with him in tow.
“Kat!” He screams too close in your ears as you try to navigate the winding yellow corridors. “Fuck! Kat!”
There’s more screaming just beyond the wall, you block it out, taking whoever you can still save.
“I know, Bobby! But you have to shut up or else it’ll come after us!” Heaving, he looks at you like you grew two heads. Whilst you try to find a landmark, anything, from the arrows you made to rooms you already passed through. It’s hard to navigate when you’re lugging around dead weight.
“We can’t just leave her—”
“I know! I fucking know!” Sweat dribbles off your brow as you pass by the dead seagull that’s now dried up and smelling like death. You know this place. “We’ll find her later, I promise. For now we have to run, okay? Bobby, tell me that you understand.”
Your eyes pleads with him, his blue eyes swims with thoughts, conflicted. He nods after a second as you pass by the beach room and you finally see the arrows you drew on the wall. You follow it, whilst Bobby picks up the pace, wincing through the pain.
“Where are we going?” His head is on a swivel, looking around to see if you’re being followed, and hoping to see either Kat or Clark. You can feel how afraid he is, from how his brows furrow, jaw tight and eyes turning glossy.
Synopsis: After the disastrous birthday party, your heart is broken into pieces. Lost and alone, you find help from an unlikely friend.
Tags: No use of Y/N, no specific physical description of the reader except for clothing, Co-worker AU, part 5 of my series, mockumentary AU, The Office AU, CW food mentions, R is going through it. Hurt/comfort.
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It’s a beautiful sunny day at the office. The sun is shining, the birds are singing, and despite the stark grey brutalist architecture of the office, nothing could ruin the day. Plus the documentary crew got some new equipment after the network’s big bosses liked the pilot they edited. ‘It’ll be a big hit,’ they said, and Jared the camera man is already thinking about buying a new car from the bonus he’s about to get.
But the subjects of the said documentary aren’t doing so hot unlike the people recording their every move.
Hobie’s almost permanent glare on his face is evident every time the camera pans to him. From the mail room to the break room, he’s scowling, either at the wall or at a particular brunette office mate just across the bullpen.
“How are you doing?” The producer asks him, finally managing to get a one on one with the angry punk.
“What the fuck do you think?” He purposely curses to give the editors a hard time to bleep it out. Whenever he notices the cameras on him, he’s flipping them the bird, or straight up leaving the room.
“Why are you so irritated?” The woman with the tablet asks once more, unfazed by his petulance.
His eyes stare at the expensive camera lenses, as if his glare alone could light it on fire. Jaw clenching, he takes a deep breath. “‘m constipated.” His lackluster reply garners a tight lipped expression from the people behind the cameras.
“Is it because she hasn’t been here for three months?” Jared the cameraman, with balls of steel, asks the punk who has broken a few camera lenses before like he’s best mates with him.
Hobie’s expression softens briefly from the mere mention of you, not a moment too soon, he blinks the tenderness away as he swallows thickly. “What’s it to you, Jared? You’re not invited to our gig anymore.” Vaulting out of his seat, he rips the mic out of his dress shirt, the fabric riding up to reveal a bit of his toned stomach that would have the female viewers wanting more. “Fuck this.”
Jared looks guilty, the other camera turns to the crew member, and he fixes his expression right away. It’s like poetry. The cameraman becomes the subject.
“Mr. Brown, need we remind you of your contractual obligation?” The producer states with a steady tone. Hobie hates this new producer more than the other when the last one at least had the decency to give them space. “If you leave right now you’ll be suspended without pay.”
Hobie runs a hand over his face, surrendering and plopping himself back on the chair. He really wants to punch the lights out, the literal blinding lights of the crew. “Mate, I work a nine to five job that pays me less than what ‘m owed when the white men in suits upstairs buys their fourth yacht. When Darius from shipping had to make a donation page for the treatment of his broken leg when it happened right in the building but the higher ups won’t pay for jack shit. You askin’ why I’ve been so annoyed? That, that’s why ‘m annoyed. Any more questions?”
The producer quietens down, jaw tight and gripping onto the tablet in her hands.
“No? May I go now?” Hobie says sarcastically. The moment she nods, he gets out of his seat, pushing the door open roughly that the thud is captured by the boom mics.
Harry stands on the other side of the door, having a glaring session with Hobie. He pockets his phone, smiling smugly, as if he won something.
The producer smiles at the interaction.
“Move.” Hobie says through gritted teeth as the cameras hone in on his closed fist.
“Have you heard from her?” Harry asks with a raised brow, looking over his nose like a pompous aristocrat. He doesn’t need to mention you by name when Hobie knows who he’s talking about. “She just sent me a picture of the Colorado mountains—”
He gets shoulder checked by Hobie on his way out, not giving him any more attention.
The camera hones in on Harry’s dissatisfied look, rolling his eyes as he sits in the same place Hobie left. “You wanted to hear from me?”
“So, she’s in Colorado?” The producer questions him, shaking off Hobie’s pointed words. “How’s the relationship going?”
“Yeah, I mean…” he leans back on the chair casually, arms crossed over his chest as his eyes wander around, except for looking at the lenses. “It’s going.” Shrugging, he clears his throat. “We text.”
“No calling?”
His index scratches at his cheek, nodding. “A few times.”
“Right.” Jared is skeptical, and Harry gives him a look.
The producer takes a deep breath, bored of the conversation. “Can you call in…” she scrolls through her tablet. “Oh, speak of the devil. I thought you said she’s in Colorado?”
“She is.” Harry’s brows knit together, taking out his phone to check. “Yeah, she said she is.”
“Not according to my schedule. Said she’s supposed to come back to the office today.” Her eyes shine from the prospect of a drama.
“Oh.” Harry smiles, but feels the dread in his chest.
—
Jared is the first to greet you, lugging around the heavy equipment as he exits the elevators and out of the building to get to the parking lot. He spots your car idling, windows rolled down, letting the air out. He sees you brush your teeth just outside, spitting onto the bushes as your hair is all mused, blouse skewed like you slept in the same bushes.
He’s about to call for you, until he sees the state of your car. Outside it’s dusty and muddy, dirt clinging to the tire rims, needing a clean. That’s no cause for concern when he has seen dirtier cars. But what’s concerning is the inside, he zooms in on the interior using the camera, and sees the mess inside. It’s a nest of luggages, blankets and pillows, books, art supplies and a few shoes. It looks as if you’re living inside your car.
Jared’s hands shake as the camera trembles in his hold. You are living in your car.
“Shit.” You say, muffled by the toothpaste in your mouth, eyes wide, toothbrush falling from your mouth. “I can explain.”
—
Jared looks at you with furrowed brows, more concern than pity as he interviews you beside your car. Your hair is now brushed, neater and you don’t have toothpaste in the corner of your mouth anymore. For once, he’s glad that he volunteered to do this alone rather than have a whole team behind him.
“So…” you kick a pebble, sucking in your teeth as you look at the blinking camera. “I’m living in my car.”
“What happened to the conventions?”
“I still went there and did my job, don’t get me wrong.” You chuckle nervously, biting your lip as your shoulders slump. “I think it’s best that I start from the beginning.”
—
“Fuck!” You punch your steering wheel, landing a harsh land right on the horn as it blares out into the neighborhood. Sighing, you rest your forehead against it, letting the tears out as you cry all alone with everything you owned inside your trunk and in the backseat.
Even after you sold almost all of your ‘abysmal’ paintings, you still don’t have enough for a down payment for any decent available apartment. You already used up your savings to get the car, and now you’re broke and living out of said car for the past five days. No one knows of your situation, and you like it that way. You don’t want them looking at you with pity, or offering help that you couldn’t possibly repay.
You’ve been apartment hunting during your breaks, and in turn, missing lunch with your friends. The lunch club said that they missed you whenever one of them would pass by you in the bullpen, and Gayatri has even asked if you’re doing okay. Which you have said that you are, a complete utter lie on your end.
Hobie has been trying to get you to talk about what happened on your birthday, but you usually just shrug with a tight-lipped smile. Citing that it’s all behind you now, and that he doesn’t need to worry about you when you’re doing alright. While Harry gives you the same worried look, they both try to reach you, when one would give you lunch, the other would try to share his with you. Which you both always decline when you always eat in your car in between looking for apartments.
Ironically, they seem to be getting on like a house on fire when it concerns your wellbeing.
Both men have shown their concern for you, but you shut them out, sometimes unintentionally, sometimes intentionally. MJ left you, your oldest friend, the one you shared a half of a necklace with that is now floating somewhere in the bottom of a river— if she could leave you, they would too. So you spare yourself the heartache, drowning yourself in work and being alone. It’s not going great though. You miss your friends, you miss your cozy room, you miss the days when you’d laugh with MJ whilst watching crappy reality TV. You miss your life.
You miss living.
Your eyes glance at the rearview mirror, seeing Hobie’s gifted cardigan laying atop the only remaining painting you kept. Instead of looking at it to give you some sort of motivation, you cover it some more.
You head back to work like usual, stomach filled with instant ramen, and yearning for something more filling for today. Rubbing your eyes with the heels of your palms, you head back inside.
The day went on as usual, you avoided the camera crew despite them shoving the cameras and boom mics into your face, trying to get an interview with you. But you always manage to dodge them with a glare.
You do good work, not excellent, not abysmal either. Just good, enough to keep you on the payroll. As the sky turns dark, you ignore the heavy eyes staring at your back whenever you pass.
When the day is done, you head outside to breathe in the cool air, the weather is turning warmer day by day, and soon it’ll be harder to find shade to park under or else you’ll become a cooked salmon inside when you wake up inside the car.
People pile out of the building one by one, and you see the documentary crew pick up their equipment and haul it inside their van. You wave goodbye to the lunch club as they carpool together in Gwen’s beat up sedan. They gave you the same polite gesture, whilst hearing them ramble about an oncoming test that no one studied for. You sigh, missing them as they drive away.
“Lovie.” Hobie’s voice cuts through the darkness as everyone else heads out of the building and into their cars. “Headin’ home?”
For once you’re glad that the previous owner of the car had a really dark tint on the windows that made it harder to look inside. You have no idea why they did that or what kind of mischief they were doing inside that needed the dark tint, but you don’t care when you got the car cheaper than the market price. Is it legal though? Probably not. But you don’t have enough money to get rid of it even if you wanted to.
“Yeah,” you smile, one that does not reach your eyes. “I just want to take a long warm bath after that shit show of a meeting.” You’re not lying, you want to have a long soak in a tub that isn’t a grimy shower from a cheap motel that you occasionally rent just to have a shower.
“Yeah, Miguel really handed it to us.” Hobie sighs, scratching the back of his neck. “Listen, the band and I are havin’ a small get together this weekend in my houseboat since Ned’s movin’ out. You can come if you’re not too busy.”
You’d want nothing more.
But you can’t.
“I’m sorry, Hobie, I can’t.” You could cry right there and then, and you’re sure that he’ll let you cry on his shoulder. “Busy, my aunt’s visiting.” You must’ve given Harry that same excuse before, but not to Hobie. “I haven’t seen her in a decade, so...” You hate lying, especially right to your friend’s face, but you have to bite the bullet and retreat back into your shell that MJ wanted you to get out of so badly. It’s lonely in there, but at least you won’t get hurt, you won’t get left behind.
Past you would say, “maybe next time!” with a cheerful smile. But this version of you can’t.
“That’s fine.” He takes it in stride like always, he’s good like that. “Maybe next time.” It’s a strike to your soul. “Drive home safely, yeah?”
“Of course.” You smile, and it still doesn’t quite reach your eyes. If Hobie could see it, he doesn’t mention it.
The keys jingle in your carabiner, and you stare at the silver charm that Miguel gifted you on that fated night. It’s a cute little peanut with a top hat, smiling right at you. The reference doesn’t go over your head, and you always smile whenever you look at it, proof that you left a mark on someone’s life that is worthwhile.
You don’t notice another pair of eyes looking at you until he’s crossing the distance over to your car.
“Hey, princess.” Harry tilts his head, ducking to meet with your downturned eyes. “Having second thoughts about going home? Or did you forget something inside?” Chuckling, he misses the sad look in your eyes when you could blink it away.
“Oh, no, I’m just spacing out. Tired, I guess.” You give him a half hearted smile.
“Yeah, we got our shit kicked in by Miguel.” He sniffs, playing with his car keys. “Listen, I talked to my dad about MJ and that you’re about to move out so he offered to let you rent one of his apartments downtown. What do you think?”
If only he knew that you already moved out, or to put it properly, kicked out.
“That’s nice, how much is the rent?” There’s hope under your ribcage.
“It’s not much.” He shrugs, “a thousand a month, he gave you a discount.” Smiling, your own smile falls. His expression falls. “It’s a two bedroom, and near a lot of restaurants.”
“Harry, that’s—” you try to think of more polite words. “That’s kind of him, but that’s way out of my budget. Sorry.” You’re not really sorry. But you know his heart was in the right place.
“Right, yeah, I guess it is.” Clearing his throat, he rakes his fingers through his hair. “I’ll keep asking around though.”
“Yeah, thanks.” You reply, already halfway inside your car.
“And uh…” Harry leans against your window, thankfully you had the insight to only open it a smidge. “I kind of rambled on about you to him, so now he wants to meet you.”
The revelation wakes you up more than a triple shot of espresso. “What?”
“Dinner, just dinner at his place, nothing much.” Harry looks like he’s digging his own grave.
“Oh, I’ll think about it, Harry.” You feign a smile. “Busy, you know.”
“Yeah, your, uh, cousin is staying with you guys, right?” His eyes stare into the small crevice of the window that you cracked open.
“Yeah, yeah, she’s just, really sad about the divorce, so I have to be with her and try to lighten her mood.” Sucking in your teeth, you start the ignition. Another blatant lie let out. “Speaking of, I gotta go.”
“Sure, sorry.” Stepping back, Harry watches you drive away.
The lights from the lampposts flicker past you as you drive around and around until you reach the office once again. All the parked cars are gone, and the only lights inside is the one in the lobby where the security guard is snoring away whilst a baseball game is playing on a tiny TV.
Everyday it’s the same thing for the security guard, Warren, you come to learn from his nametag— he has a giant donut and a burrito for dinner, opens the portable TV and within a few minutes, he’s snoozing away when he’s supposed to be guarding the place. It’s good news for you when you can sneak back in, have a cold shower in the office gym, warm your food that you got from the convenience store in the microwave and head out in just twenty minutes. It’s foolproof, and you always try to avoid the security cameras, but it’s not worth it anymore when you learned that the footage is deleted within twenty four hours, so by the time the morning shift would clock in, last night’s footage was deleted at six am sharp.
You’re getting too good at it, sneaking about, that maybe you should plan a heist at a bank or something like in your favorite heist movie. You just need a team of intelligent women to back you up.
You just got out of the shower, still shivering from the cold as you hug Hobie’s cardigan around yourself. It smells like your car’s air freshener and the instant noodles you had last night, despite that, it’s still soft and brings you comfort. You should probably head out to a laundry shop to get your clothes washed when it’s starting to pile inside the trunk. You’re in an old t-shirt from college that’s slowly fading away from time, and a pair of checkered pajamas that was at one point MJ’s.
With a sigh, the microwave finally beeps, signaling that your dinner is ready. Tonight’s dinner consists of convenience store pasta that might give you food poisoning, and this morning’s leftover breakfast sandwich that you splurged on to keep morale up. The only plus side of your abysmal dinner is that Hobie always kept your tea stocked inside the cupboards, even when you haven’t bought a box in awhile. You made yourself a cup like always, and the first warm sip ebbs from your chest to your stomach, a much needed warmth.
You take your meal carefully, hands wrapped in a small towel as you place it on the breakroom table. The office feels eerie this time of day, it’s dark and liminal, that sends shivers down your spine. It feels wrong to have it be this empty when it’s usually so full of overworked and underpaid employees. Hobie’s ghost story about a nightshift janitor doesn’t faze you anymore whenever it wiggles its way inside your head during times like these.
During the first few days of being alone after getting kicked out from MJ’s apartment because the realtor couldn’t possibly sell the house when you’re still living in it— you stayed at a cheap motel that smells like roaches and day-old boiled eggs. But the money soon ran out, draining your already dried up savings within just a few days. Plus your card was declined in the same place, you’re embarrassed to go back. So now you had to resort to sneaking inside the office during off hours, eating at the same breakroom where you could sometimes hear Hobie’s laugh whenever you sit down that’s adjacent to his usual seat.
You feel yourself going insane, especially when MJ never bothered to speak to you after what happened to your birthday. She just packed her bags one day, told you that the realtor is coming the next day and she moved away that very same day. She didn’t even try to hear you out after the stunt she pulled, the house was a wreck, the decorations you had painstakingly made were strewn about, trampled on the ground. When you did try to talk to her, voice stern yet wobbly, and eyes brimming with tears, she laughed. She really laughed in your face and said, “I didn’t ask you to do this for me, y’know.”
But she did, she fucking did, and now as you’re stewing in your seat, you question yourself whether she did ask it. Or did you just assume that she asked for a big party like every fucking year? Nevertheless, you got mad, you snapped at your best friend, and you said some words that you couldn’t possibly take back.
And she snapped right back at you with more ferocity, like it came so easy to her. That the words were already on the tip of her tongue, left to curdle inside her mind until it was time to be let out.
She accused you of jealousy. How you would always cling to her side, never leaving her alone. That you were the one holding her back. When all you did was try to be the best friend she deserved, the same girl who let her cry on your shoulder before a school trip because her parents didn’t let her join. But you stayed behind, lying that yours didn’t let you join either when the letter with their signatures is tucked safely inside your ladybug jacket that you adored so much.
You played together all day in the school’s playground until your classmates came back, and you stayed the whole time, you stayed with her even when her parents kicked her out during high school and you let her crash at your place. You stayed even when she asked out the guy she knew you had a crush on. You stayed even when you had to juggle classes and part time jobs and come back to your dorm only to see that she had another party and she’s once again passed out on your side of the room. You stayed, you wore the same cheap half of a best friend necklace that turns your skin green because it’s the first gift you got from her when she hasn’t worn hers in years.
You stayed, and yet she left.
Before you could stop it, tears streamed down your cheeks like waterfalls that your vision turned blurry and the show playing on your phone fell in the back of your mind.
The fork falls in between your fingers as you cry in your hands, weeping in the empty breakroom, the harsh fluorescent lights whirring above as the rest of the bullpen is as dark as the night sky outside. Maybe MJ is having the time of her life right now at her penthouse suite with her bandmates, and she already forgot about you.
Your name is suddenly called, but you chalk it up to your sorrowful state, ignoring it.
A big hand squeezes your shoulder, and you jolt back, screaming bloody murder as you see a blurry face in your eyes.
“Fucking fuck!” You fall back in your seat, back hitting the cold floor as your dinner clangs beside you, pasta sauce falling in a splat of red and convenience store cheese.
“Shit! It’s okay, it’s just me!” Miguel, your boss, the same man you saved during the holiday party stands before you in a more casual attire— a pair of denim jeans and an old fading ‘Star Trek’ shirt. His hands are up, trying to calm you down. “You okay?”
“Mr. O’Hara?” Eyes wide, you stare at him in horror. “Oh fuck…”
“Hey, it’s okay!” He’s immediately on the defensive after seeing your tear stained cheeks. “Are you okay? Are you hurt?”
You shake your head, still feeling the remnants of your crying session in your chest. “No, I’m okay.” Miguel gives you a helping hand that you shake off, standing up by yourself with your hand perched on the table for leverage. “I’ll go, I’m sorry.”
“No, just—” he moves to stop you, completely looming over you. His eyes dart down to your fallen dinner, and he lets out a breath, eyes gazing at you with sympathy. “You hungry?”
“What?” You rub your eyes with your sleeves.
“I can get us a sandwich from the deli place. They’re still open.”
Shuffling your feet in place, you would refuse, but the growl from your stomach answers for you.
“Okay.” You answer in a small tone. “Can I get one with extra cheese and a soda?”
His expression softens. “Sure.”
When Miguel came back with the food, he half expected you to be gone. But you even surprised yourself that you stayed.
“Cold cuts with extra cheese.” Taking out a footlong sandwich, the paper wrapper crinkles as he places it in front of you. “And a soda. I didn’t know which one you wanted so I got the usual. I got you a chocolate bar too, it was on sale.” The full sized bar is pushed to your side as you feel your heart squeeze in your chest.
“This is good, thank you.” Sniffing, you open the can gingerly.
“You cleaned?” He asks, sitting adjacent to you as he takes out another sandwich and a bottle of orange juice.
“Yeah, I didn’t want the sauce to smell.” You’re immediately taking big bites of the sandwich the moment you opened it. “I’m sorry.”
“No, it’s good, you showed incentive.” Miguel squeezes out two packets of hot sauce in his sandwich, before taking a generous bite.
A beat passes, you chew, he takes a sip of his juice, and you stare anywhere else other than your boss.
“Can I ask?” He starts, and your glimmering eyes stare at him with worry that he regrets it immediately. “Just…you good, kid? You’re not in trouble or anything?”
You contemplate your answer as you watch the mayonnaise drip from the sandwich onto the paper wrapper. “I— I’m not in trouble. I don’t know about being good though.”
“Do you need my help? The company’s?” Miguel’s voice is uncharacteristically tender, as if he’s speaking to his own kid, or perhaps a wounded animal. “I’m sure I can do something, whatever it is.”
Your nose wrinkles, swallowing down the meat and cheese as you take a big gulp of your drink. “A million bucks would be lovely.” You joke, and he lets out a laugh through his nose.
“You and me both, kid.” He wipes at the corner of his mouth with a napkin and leans back in his seat. “There are programs that could help with whatever you’re struggling with.”
Your jaw clenches as you let out a breath. “Remember my birthday?”
“Yeah.”
Shutting your eyes, you rub with the heels of your palms before taking a deep breath. You tell him what happened, and how MJ means to you. You’re not retelling the story because you’re looking for pity or for more harsh words towards your best friend, just someone that would listen, lend an ear for you to ramble on and on, someone to help take the load off of you.
He listens and hangs on your every word, nodding every so often, as if you’re in the conference room showing off a presentation. But it’s not a presentation, and you’re in your pajamas, crying in front of your boss.
“That…” his jaw tightens, looking away and shaking his head. “I’m sorry about that. But you know you can’t keep sneaking back inside the office.”
“I k–know, I’m sorry.” Your tone breaks in the middle before clearing your throat. “I just didn’t know where to go. I just have to survive until the next paycheck and then maybe I can find a place that isn’t a dump. Or at this point I’m okay with it being a dump.”
Miguel blinks, thinking and takes a deep inhale. “Remember this afternoon’s meeting?”
“Yeah, about the conventions that no one wants to go to.”
“You should volunteer. It’s almost three months away from the office, and you get to stay at three, sometimes four star hotels. They have good food and sometimes you’ll be accompanied by someone here or someone from another branch. But usually it would just be you.”
Being alone in unfamiliar places sounds horrible, but that’s probably what you need, some time alone to be with your thoughts, to not sleep in your car and eat shitty food that takes off a year of your lifespan with every bite. It might not be the stability that you were looking for, but at least you don’t have to struggle every night, trying to figure out where to park your car just to sleep without getting the cops called on you. And contemplating whether if it’s worth it to buy gas or food for that day.
Miguel sees the conflict waging in your eyes. “You’ll get a weekly allowance. Plus gas and food expenses.”
Your brows knit together, eyes narrowing suspiciously. “Then why doesn’t anyone want to volunteer?”
“They have people waiting for them at home.” He simply says, not to purposely jab right at your heart, but it also seemingly strikes right at him too. “It’s three months away from them, and the conventions are the most boring thing in the world. I’d rather watch paint dry.” Finishing his sandwich in one big bite, Miguel cleans up his side.
“Three months, huh?”
“Three months of listening to saggy old men ramble about electric toothbrushes and how it could eradicate dentists.” The faucet squeaks as he washes his hands.
“That’s horrendous.” You turn around in your seat to address him. “I’m in.”
“Good,” he takes a relieved breath, drying his hands on a towel. “Pack your things, it’s this Friday.”
“I’m already packed.” You give him a small smile. “Thank you, Miguel.”
“No problem. I hate it when my employees mope. It’s not good for our image.” He shrugs, giving you a rare smile. “Listen, kid.” Leaning against the counter, he tosses the towel on his shoulder, and you suddenly feel like a kid again having a strange yet important talk with your dad. “I know how hard it is to be at this age. Everything’s uncertain, everything feels like it’ll be temporary. And everyone feels like they’re leaving you for greener pastures.” That part hits right at you like an arrow to your heart.
“But,” He continues. “treading the waters alone is worse than walking through it with people you care about. So when you slip and fall into the water, and trust me, you will, they will drag you back up to the surface, and in turn you will do that for them too. Don’t tread the waters alone, kid. You’ll drown.”
“But what if,” you clear your throat of the sob threatening to spill over. “What if those people turn towards a different tide? They go upstream without me?”
“They either come back for you or you find new people to walk with.” Miguel’s lips curl into a soft smile. “There will always be people treading the same path as you, you’ll meet them, and they may come and go, but a few will always stick with you. You just have to find those people and nurture them, friendship is a two way street, kid.”
You hide the tears brimming in your eyes with a well timed wipe of your sleeve to your eyes. “Thank you, Miguel. You’re not as scary as they say you are.”
“You’re not so bad yourself.” He chuckles under his breath, before tossing the towel back on the counter. “Make sure to close the lights, the night janitor hates it when they’re left open.” Turning to leave, you call his name as he pauses mid step.
“Wait, why are you here?”
He shrugs, looking over his shoulder. “My daughter’s with her mother, and I guess I wanted to get some work done in advance so next time I could be with her without worrying about work.”
You give him equal sympathy. “Humanity isn’t built for this work shit.”
Miguel manages a chuckle. “Damn right.”
You’re left all alone, Miguel’s cologne lingers in the air, a sharp burgundy, and the cold crisp air from the aircon reminds you of how lonely you are.
You stare into the darkness of the bullpen, and right across from where you sit is your cubicle situated right beside wide windows where the moon greets you.
It’s just you and the moon now, at least wherever you go, whatever you are doing, there’s always a guarantee that it’ll be there with you at the same time to stare right back at you.
You decide right there and then that you’ll live, not just surviving. Not because MJ told you to get yourself out there, but because you wanted to, you want to experience things, to see the world beyond the four concrete walls of the office, beyond MJ. Even if it means being alone.
—
“Why are you telling me this?” Jared’s voice wobbles, caught in his throat after he heard your story.
Shrugging, you take a deep breath. “I’d rather you hear it from me than the cameras you guys installed everywhere.” Leaning away from the car, you cross your arms over your chest. “Besides, it’s bound to get out now that I’m back.”
“Are you still…?”
“Yeah.” You grimace, half embarrassed, the other half afraid to admit your own failings. “Maybe you can recommend a place?”
Jared’s face turns red behind the camera and you wonder why. “I kind of live with four roommates.”
“That sounds like hell, I’m sorry.” Wincing, you clasp his shoulder. “I should get back to it.” You gather your bag, slinging it over your shoulder as you ready yourself for the day ahead. It’s been months since you’ve been back, months since you last saw any of them, months since you last saw Hobie.
“G–good luck.” Jared stays rooted in place, filming your retreating back. Then he sees the producer from high above the windows, catching the sight of her flashlight that she turns on and off repeatedly. She has an intense look on her face as he zooms in right on her. He realizes his job is to follow you. “Shit, fuck!”
—
“Hey, Warren.” You greet the security guard, and he grunts in reply, giving you a small wave while his attention is on the small TV screen in front of him that is currently playing a football game. “What a game last night, huh?”
He perks up, expression brightening. “Hell yeah it was! You caught it?”
You scoff a laugh. “Duh!”
“Go Arsenal!” He hollers, fists pumping up as you step into the elevator.
Truth be told, you only saw it because it was playing on the pub TV screen where you were having your dinner. The bartender’s number sits heavy in your pocket, he was cute, talkative, and he was nice. You’d call him if your situation is better, or if your relationship with Harry wasn’t so complicated.
Harry would message you at least once a day, sometimes it’s a picture of his lunch, but usually it’s a selfie of him while on the way to work or at the gym. It’s sort of comforting to know that he still cares after everything that happened and that you upped and left without a notice, with just an off handed announcement from Miguel to the whole team while you were already at the airport.
You’d reply to him occasionally when your days are less busy, a simple ‘how’s it going over there?’ or a snapshot of where you are. No matter how simple your reply was he would always reply enthusiastically, a ‘that looks great!’ at your lunch, or a ‘having fun?’ complete with a heart emoji at the end. The message that always halts you in your tracks is the nightly ones, where he’s sweeter, more tender. A ‘missing you,’ or a ‘thinking of you right now.’ You’d be lying if you said that it didn’t make your heart skip a beat, especially the ones where he attached a picture of himself in bed, torso bare, eyes sparkling in front of the camera.
Your feelings for him are complicated, you like Harry enough, but there is one person who always appears in your thoughts right after talking to him, a reminder that he’s not Hobie. That he’ll never be Hobie. That you just don’t feel the same connection with Harry unlike with Hobie. With the latter it’s easier, you feel like yourself around him.
With Harry, it’s different, you’re more restrained, like if you said the wrong thing he won’t like you anymore. You don’t know what it is but Harry feels so out of reach for you, like he’s living in a skyscraper and you’re just a passing pedestrian in his life.
You promised yourself and to Harry that you’ll take it slow, and you have, the most you’ve done with him is a peck to the cheek and hold his hand whenever you’d walk with him. Minus the kiss at the concert, that still sends shivers down your spine, and a horrible ache in your stomach that reminds you of your day at the hospital. He’s your friend, that’s it mostly, but you know that he wants to be more than that, and a part of you wants it too. But of course, it’s not that simple when you’re still longing for someone you can’t have.
When Harry feels out of your reach, Hobie feels like someone you can never have. Someone who deserves better than you could ever offer, someone who is as cool as him, as nonchalant as him, as sweet and caring as him. Someone who has their life in order.
You feel as though he won’t be happy with you, that he’d feel like there is something missing when he’s with you. And you can’t bear the thought of holding him back from his real happiness because of you. He deserves someone more like him, someone more like MJ.
It hurts to know that love has an expiration date, that they would leave you some day. Maybe they’ll love you now, but what if in a few years, maybe in a few months, they won’t feel the same way? That they’d discard, and you’d be all alone again.
All that lovesick thoughts were hidden in the back of your mind throughout your trip, now that you’re back, it’s out in full force. At least when you were away it took a back seat. This is why you’re dreading coming back here, now you have to face all the things and people you left.
You’ve changed, grown, and experienced things, you’ve met people too, but this place brings you back to that girl who couldn’t even look directly at the cameras. Maybe this time it’ll be different, you won’t shy away this time, that you’ll be better, maybe even someone who would be worthy of being loved back. A love that will stick, a love that will linger and stay with you forever.
Either way, all of that will have to take a step back in favour of you finding your own apartment, lest you have to sleep in your car in a dark parking lot again. You can face all that drama right after.
“Hold up!” Jared runs after you, and you casually hold the doors open for him with your foot. He huffs, thanking you with a bashful smile. “Thanks, nice one.”
“No problem.” You smile back, wondering how things were back here while you were gone. “So Jared,” the man immediately points the camera right at you, cheeks flushed, hiding it behind the lens. “What happened here while I was gone?”
“Nothing much.”
“Really? All those months? Nothing?”
“Well,” he sucks in his teeth. “there was a fire.” The camera captures your shocked expression perfectly. “Everyone’s fine, don’t worry. But Peter almost got fired.”
“What?” You blink.
The scene flashbacks to two months ago.
“Fucking move!” Lyla has her porcelain cats in her arms, pushing and shouldering everyone out of the way through the chaos like a quarterback on a mission.
Smoke billows out of the breakroom, and the cameras flick back and forth from person to person frantically whilst dodging them. One person shatters a window using his chair, while another quickly gets carried away from the said opened window when in a split second he could’ve realized that he’s on the tenth floor too late. Then the camera moves again, and a handful of people are trying to exit out of the air vents as their crawling could be heard rattling up there.
“We’re gonna die!” Pavitr screams in Gayatri’s arms as she hauls him away in a fireman’s carry hold.
“I’ve got you, babe!”
“Whose fucking fajita was in the microwave?!” Jessica grabs the fire extinguisher, heels clacking as she heads face first into the fiery fray.
“Jessica, no!” Miguel follows a second later with two mugs filled with water. “You can’t inhale smoke!”
“What the fuck is happening?!” Harry shrieks, pressing the elevator doors open button like a mad man. “My dad won’t be happy about this!”
“Shut the fuck up, Malfoy!” Hobie walks in frame with another fire extinguisher in hand. “Go and fucking help, you wanker!”
“You can’t use the elevators during a fire, dumbass.” Gwen says casually, unbothered by the chaos. A half second later, she’s dragged away by Miles down the steps.
“Let me save you, Gwen! Just this once let me save you!”
“It’s a microwave fire, Miles, not a damn monster attack!”
The camera then pans downward, right under a table where Peter is crouched down, holding his ears as he mumbles under his breath.
“Not my fault, not my fault.” His lips wobble, eyes stinging with tears as the lenses hone in on his face.
“Peter B. Parker!” Jessica’s furious scream almost breaks the mics. The camera moves over to her as she holds onto a burnt tinfoil with his name written on it in big bold letters.
“Well, shit.” You stifle a laugh after seeing the chaotic footage from Jared’s phone. “Wait, why do you have that video saved?”
“I got promoted after the rabbit incident. Now I’m also an editor.” Jared answers with pride.
“Congrats— wait, the what now?” The Elevators chime open, and you’re greeted by a familiar face.
“Welcome back, kid.” Miguel smiles genuinely that it even has Jared taken aback, zooming in the camera right on his rare happy expression.
“I’d say that it’s good to be back but…” chuckling, you open your arms for a hug after stepping out of the elevators. “Not really.”
To the camera man’s surprise, Miguel hugs you back, even patting your back.
Jared feels like he was transported to an alternative dimension where you’re best friends with your boss. He mutters a shocked curse under his breath that not even the mic could capture.
“Yeah, well, it’s good to have you back.” He pulls away, and the befuddled Jared steps back until he hits the wall, still gawking at the scene of you smiling at the usual stern boss. “How was the trip back? And did you manage to use Gabriella’s sweater she sent for you?”
“It was okay, it was a bit bumpy but I’m alive so good. And I sent Gabri a picture of me wearing it in Colorado actually.”
“She didn’t tell me that.” His brows scrunches as he leads you further into the office and to the familiar bullpen.
You wince, looking apologetic and ignoring the rest of the camera crew crowding around the two of you. You’ve been to Las Vegas during peak season, this is nothing to you. “I see that she’s still mad at you for missing her soccer game, huh?”
Miguel kneads the space between his brows. “I have no idea how to make it up to her.”
“We’ll figure something out, don’t worry, big man.” You fist bump his bicep, and Jared truly feels like he’s dreaming.
A happy shriek echoes out, then a stack of heavy papers falls with a thud. “You’re back!” Lyla skips over to you, brimming with happiness as she pushes away the crew to hug you. “My favorite is back!”
“Oh, hi, Lyla, missed you too.” You embrace her back, patting her back. “How’s Hannah?”
She leans away, rolling her eyes. “Hannah’s out, babes, she was too clingy for my taste.”
The producer shares the same shocked look as the rest of the crew.
Lyla groans, annoyed by their presence alone. “Please, you can’t film everything.”
The scene cuts to a few weeks ago, where Lyla is talking on the phone all hush in the stairwell.
The boom mics capture your name from her painted lips. “I’m telling you, she’s the one, I’m already picking out the ring—” Lyla notices the eyes, or cameras for that matter right on her as she groans. “Hold on, there are vultures around.” Her heels clack as she descends the stairs.
Then the footage turns to Miguel chuckling at something on his phone, clearly talking to someone. His brows suddenly furrow, and he turns his narrowed eyes right at the camera, clicking a button on the remote as the blinds close on them.
Another scene pops up, and with the whole lunch club minus Hobie, at the breakroom, laughing at their phones.
“Is that even legal?” Pav leans closer to his screen.
“Who cares?” Miles and Gwen answer at the same time, before sharing a tender look.
Even from miles away, for some reason, you were less alone than you were with MJ.
Jared hones in on your face. “I talked to them while I was away.” Shrugging, you continue into the office with the others in tow.
“Not because she wanted to.” Lyla adds, and you shake your head at her with a smile. “To think she wanted to be a lone wolf. You are not an alpha, girl, more like an omega.”
“What the fuck, Lyla?” Gwen’s smile falters after she corners you with her arms stretched out.
“What?” The head of the HR department just shrugs.
“Don’t mind her, she’s just excited that I’m back.” Beaming, you hug the blonde. “How are you, Gwen?”
“Good, really good.” She sends you a sneaky wink.
“That’s great.” You wink back, smiling knowingly.
The producer is clearly irked by all the information she’s missing.
“Princess!” Harry grins from ear to ear, arms wide, ready to receive you.
“Hi, Harry.” He embraces you before you could open your arms to him. “Oh!”
“Sorry, hi, you look good.” Putting you down, his hands linger right around your wrists, fingers grazing the barbed wire bracelet, as the cameras, and Lyla zeroes in on the contact. “Welcome back.”
“Thank you, and you look good too. Did you do something to your hair?”
“Yeah,” he touches the ends of his hair bashfully. “It’s lighter, not really blonde but I wanted a different look.”
The scene cuts to Lyla on the confession chair. “Different look my ass, it’s a shade lighter, my cat’s hair is lighter than that.”
It goes back to Harry holding you. “You like?” He asks, and you nod.
“Yeah, it–it looks good, makes you look younger.”
“Thanks.”
“Look what the cat dragged in.” Peter grins, but when he sees Miguel right behind you, scowling right at him, he does a one eighty. “Good to see you again!” He shuffles to his chair with a nervous laugh.
“He’s on probation.” Miguel simply answers the question lingering in your mind. “You have your report? Show me before the rest gets here.” He ushers you away from the crew and everyone else as you happily nod.
“Don’t hog her all to yourself, Miguel!” Lyla exclaims.
“Excuse me.” Once the doors shut and the cameras are outside his office, you deflate right on the chair in front of his table. “Thank you.”
“You’re welcome.” Miguel shuts the blinds to the crew’s dismay. “You can rest here for a bit until you have to clock in, want a coffee?”
“Please.”
“Got it.” Before he could leave, you call back to him. “Hm?”
“What report? You didn’t say anything about making a report.” Your expression spells panic.
Chuckling, Miguel shakes his head. “It was an excuse to get you out of there.”
A grin spreads on your face. “Don’t tell Lyla but you’re my favorite.”
Miguel leaves his office with a smile on his face.
If only the blinds were open then you would’ve seen Hobie stand by the mailroom as he gazes right at where you are with a softened smile on his face.
Jared turns the camera to the presence, but he only manages to see a glimpse of the punk’s dress shirt before he disappears behind the door.
Synopsis: After the death of James, you and Hobie both try to be normal despite the fact that the world is ending. Supplies are dwindling and your condition hinders your movements. There's someone at the door.
Tags: No use of Y/N, no specific physical description of the reader except for clothing, established relationship, Zombie apocalypse AU, CW pregnancy mentions, CW blood and death, CW guns, CW food mentions, grief, hurt/comfort, Part 2 of my zombie AU series, CW suggestive language, Part 1 is a must read to understand this one.
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Part 1 <<< Part 2 >>> Part 3
The bath water swirls around with the crimson ichor. The reflection on the water has a blank stare, dull eyes barely blinking as you gaze right back at it.
Your hands are wrinkled under the prolonged dip, fingertips having the same shape as the swirling tepid water. The tiny pinprick wounds on your palms from the shattered glass of the car window have healed well, leaving only small scars dotted along your flesh.
The room is slowly growing darker with every minute you spend inside, the cozy decorations around the small space with its carved woodland creatures, lace doilies and fluttering curtains are nothing but a mockery to you and what’s gnawing in your head. Their shadows loom over the walls, shapes cageing you in.
It’s quiet inside the familiar bathroom, what was once held a fond memory for you is now marred by the recent memory of James begging for you to shoot him. You can still hear his cries, pleading, begging for you to end him to keep you and your baby safe. The way his hands shook, cradling the bleeding bite and how his voice gurgled in his own blood, and yet he still smiled at you towards the end. Even then he was trying to comfort you.
Your protruding stomach bops up and down in the water, belly button peeking through the mix of blood and soap. You haven’t let out a single tear since Hobie helped you inside the tub, hoping that a warm bath will help. When all it did was numb you.
Gazing at the ceiling, mold dotted along the wood, your eyes sting as you tilt your head down, face half submerged in the water. Waves lapping at the sides of your face. You miss James, he was your companion, a friend that helped you survive the first days of the apocalypse. He was your anchor through it all, the voice of reason when all you wanted was to run outside and look for your lost love. It’s ironic, compared to before the world ended, you and the rest of the band were the ones holding him by the scruff of his neck.
As you run your palm over your stomach, the pinky ring shines atop it, you promise to yourself that you’ll live on so that his sacrifice wouldn’t be in vain. He would’ve wanted you to do just that, but that doesn’t make it alright. You have no idea how to tell Yuri and Ned that their best mate is dead, and that you killed him.
What if his parents are still alive? How would you tell them that their only child is dead? That he died protecting you while holding out hope that he would find them?
The door creaks open, and Hobie peeks through the crack. His cheeks are coated in dirt, and there’s soil underneath his fingernails as he knocks softly. He looks the same as you remember before you had to leave him in the car with hopes of coming back for him. You did come back for him, but he was nowhere to be seen. For three months you wonder where he was, if he’s eating, or if he’s even alive. Now that he’s here, standing in the same room as you, breathing the same air as you, your heart feels like it’s beating once again. Albeit cracked, but alive, thumping quietly as it keeps you and your baby breathing.
“Love,” his voice seeps with fatigue. “You’ll turn into a prune.”
“You like prunes.” You answer softly, tone as tired as his. “Come sit with me please?”
“I’m all dirty,” His boots thump against the floor mats, tracking mud and dirt. His hand clamps over his eyes playfully. “and you’re all naked.”
You manage a small smile. “How do you think I got this?” Gesturing around your stomach, he peeks through his fingers.
“A stork?”
“Nope, birds and the bees, Hobs.” Opening your palms, you gesture for him to join you.
“Yeah, I think I remember that in biology.” Kneeling down, knees creaking in protest, he places his arm over the rim of the bathtub, chin resting on his elbow. “How do you feel?”
“Like sun dried shit.” Your attempt at a half assed joke.
He manages a smile. “The baby?” His eyes gaze gently down, worry etched on his brows.
“I think the baby’s fine. I’m not at the stage where the baby could start kicking like a horse yet. But everything feels fine, considering.” Sniffing, you lean against his arm, a cold cheek pressed on his warm skin. “I really wanted to tell you… I really did.”
Hobie’s free hand reaches to cup your chin, turning you gently to face him. “I know, lovie.” He sighs, thumb brushing along your damp skin. “When did you know?”
“At the party, with Yuri.” The mere mention of her has your heart squeezing in your chest. The same feeling is clear on his face too. “We got a bunch of tests after I got sick all over the bathroom floor.”
“Is that what you wanted to tell me? Before…everythin’?”
“Yeah, I still have the test, kept it just in case.”
His eyes flick over to your growing stomach, belly button protruding above the surface like a buoy. “Well, I believe you, proof or no proof.”
You manage a small chuckle. “I’m way past doubting it. The morning sickness was the worst, and my feet are swollen.” Lifting a foot above the water to show him, Hobie’s brows knit in worry, it looks painful. You look like you’re in pain. He then sees the scar on your leg, a long scar tissue that is still red around the edges of skin. He doesn’t ask how it came to be when he doesn’t want to upset you even more.
He feels sorry that he wasn’t there, that he wasn’t there from the start, holding you, making you feel better. He should’ve been there, he should’ve been here before you. Maybe, just maybe, James would still be alive, that he would hear the muffled shuffling of the undead behind the closet door, and end it before it started. And he would welcome you both inside with a relieved smile.
“My boots would fit you now.” Hobie stifles his hurt, eyes glancing away from swollen feet before staring at the same pain in your eyes.
“Maybe, I’m going to need maternity clothes soon.” Inhaling, you purse your lips together. “I’m going to wear all those old lady dresses with the plain daisies and bland colours. You won’t think I’m fit anymore.” Your knuckles brush alongside his arm.
“Nah, you’re still peng in my eyes, lovie. Even if you dress up as Yuri’s grandma.” Taking your hand, he twists it gently to hold onto you better. Water mixing with soil.
“Remember when she used to make us all those sugar cookies during band practice?”
“Yeah, I’ve gained weight durin’ that.”
“We all did, Hobie.” You gently smile, squeezing him once. After a beat, your smile fades. “Is it horrible of me to think that it’s a good thing that she’s already gone before all this shit happened?”
“No, love.” His thumb runs along your palm. “I wouldn’t wish this on anyone.”
The back of your eyes stings, heat behind them as you swallow thickly. “I should’ve— I should’ve come looking for you. When I came back to the car, you weren’t there anymore.” You fight the tears from spilling. “And then we ran to the docks, and the houseboat wasn’t there either. I’m sorry, I should’ve tried harder. I could’ve tried harder.”
“Just the thought of you comin’ to look for me is enough.” With a gentle hand, he moves a damp strand of hair away from your face. “I’m jus’ glad you weren’t alone.”
Your eyes fall on his fingers, the dirt digs into his nailbeds, darkened by mud and soil. “Yeah, I wouldn’t have survived this long without him.” Your nail scrapes at the dirt, trying to get it clean. And he lets you. “You should’ve seen him, Hobie, he was…he’s great.” Vision glistening, you stifle a sob.
“I think he was a scout when he was a kid.” A smile curls in the corner of his lips at the image of James wearing those uniforms when he was just a boy. Green and khaki complete with a beret and sash filled with patches. Hobie beats himself up for not remembering if James really was a scout. “I know he was great, lovie, jus’ seein’ you here is proof enough.”
“He went full on survivor. We were stuck at his parent’s condo for a bit until we ran out of supplies and the electricity in the city was shut off.” Your palm is pruning, but you’re afraid of leaving the comfort of the tub. “I got a baby book though.”
“Yeah? Like the one with baby names?”
He wants to tell you what happened to him in those three months, how he struggled, how he longed to see you alive, how he was seeing you in his visions. And what he saw, what he had to do to get back to you. You know that the houseboat is gone from his expression alone, if it wasn’t you two would’ve sailed out of the town before the blood dried on the floor.
You gently shake your head, water sloshing softly. “No, the kind that has instructions on home births.” Voice wavering, you hold onto him tightly, realizing what he has to do when the time comes. “I’m scared, Hobie.” Your throat betrays you, closing up as you let out a sob. “What if something happens to the baby? There’s no hospitals or doctors anymore—”
Hobie brings your face to his chest, shushing you tenderly as he rubs at your back. Despite the water drenching his sleeve, he still holds onto you as waves of tears flow out of you. He’s scared too, afraid to lose the baby, afraid to lose you. For ten years, he has loved you, and for those ten years, he never once thought of a day without you in it. He can’t lose you when he needs to love you for the rest of his life.
“It’s alright, we can do it, yeah?” He feels you nod against him as you shiver in his arms. “We’ve watched enough hospital dramas to know all about givin’ birth.” Joking, Hobie kisses the crown of your damp head as you manage a chortle.
“That’s reassuring.”
“I’ve got you and the baby. I promise that you two will be safe and sound.” Leaning away to cradle your face, he meets with your shining eyes, tears still clinging to your lashes. “I promise you.” Even if it kills him.
“Okay.” Inhaling deeply, you grasp at his wrist, a firm yet affectionate hold. “And I’ll watch your back, like always.”
Hobie smiles, the kind that reminds you of the days where he would play on stage, giving you that same reassuring smile as the lights flicker on his handsome face. “To start off, let’s get you dry and warm before you catch a cold.”
—
When you pictured saying goodbye to one of your friends, you never envisioned burying them at an age where they shouldn’t be six feet under. That it’ll just be you and Hobie, staring at the freshly packed ground right in front of you with a crudely made headstone. James doesn’t deserve one that is made out of a broken window panel, he deserved a headstone that is carved out of marble, where his name would remain etched on it forever. Not like how you wrote his name on the wood with a sharpie.
His father’s hunting vest feels rough in your hands. Dried blood staining the very same fabric that James once wore. You’ve been told that his father wasn’t the best, but the vest brought him comfort throughout his survival, a reminder, his fuel to continue living. Now it remains in your trembling hands, fingers digging into the dark blood.
“D’you want to say a few words?” Hobie utters softly amidst the strong wind as trees rustle nearby. If he thinks hard enough, he can imagine that his best mate doesn’t lie six feet under him. That he didn’t bury him there with his bare hands.
You shake your head, chest aching, eyes heavy and hot with unshed tears. No words could ever stifle your grief, there are no words in the world that makes this right, no worthy words to describe how great a man James was.
He understands your grief and your guilt, he knows you well to know what’s rushing inside your head. His eyes wander towards your shaking hands, and the façade he built to keep you steady and anchored almost crumbles.
“J–James Jameson,” his tone cracks, fists shaking, nails leaving crescent shapes on his palms. “You’re the best damn drummer I know, save us a spot up there, yeah?”
You heave, tears streaming down your face as you take a careful step forward. With your heart in your stomach, you kneel before the headstone, laying the vest around it, imagining that you’re putting it on him for the last time. “You’ve done well, James.” Your words are carried by the wind, palm placed atop the fresh soil, where his head could lie underneath.
Hobie’s arm curls around you, chin resting atop your head as he faces the grey sky.
—
The days have gone by with silence. The surrounding woods let out a whisper of leaves and a howl at night. But inside the cabin, grief lingers in the air, staining the wooden walls, slithering on the floorboards.
James’ presence weighs heavy between the two of you. Even though Hobie never said that he blames you for it, you still beat yourself up for what happened. If only you were quicker, that you didn’t hesitate before pulling the trigger. Every day Hobie lets you know that he doesn’t, for one moment, blame you for James’ demise. Through his actions, taking care of you, making sure that you’ve eaten, slept, taken your prenatal vitamins, and his touch, he lets you know that he loves you, that the world hasn’t ended for him because you’re still by his side.
The two of you have just been surviving on sparse supplies, and the water taken from a well behind the house that he has to boil before letting you take a drink. But the quiet, and the stifling air inside the space makes it more unbearable. You’ve tried to turn on the telly when the solar panels on the roof have recharged, but you’re only met with static. Not even the radio plays crappy music anymore, just an incessant buzzing. It’s as if you’re the only people left in the world.
The books and board games on the shelf meant for guests are gathering dust. You’d rather spend your days studying the baby book, every word memorized and carved in your head. Hobie made himself the handyman of the house, he fixed the holes on the front door where your bullets hit it, and he has reinforced all the windows with planks of wood he found in the tool shed. In case a shambler comes too close to the perimeter he set up that he agrees is abysmal when he only has strings and cans to work with. It’s a crude version of an alarm, and he wishes he could make something better for a precaution.
Hobie barely sleeps, keeping watch at night and day, taking naps in between when his body shuts down. When you see him dozing off on the couch, you sit beside him and he’s immediately magnetized to your side. You always tug his head down on your lap, letting him sleep there as your old cardigan that he managed to save from the houseboat is draped on his shoulders. Sometimes you see him reading the same baby book, folding the edges of the important pages when it’s your turn to keep watch. You miss him, even though you two sleep on the same bed with his arms wrapped protectively around you. But the easy conversations, the laughter, you miss those. This isn’t a way of living anymore.
You can’t help it when your eyes wander towards the spot where you held James one last time. No matter how much you scrub at the walls and floor, the stain stays. A macabre reminder of that day amidst the comfortable cottage decorations placed by the same dead man resting beside James’ grave.
The bowl of canned chicken noodle soup in front of you warms your cheeks as Hobie’s palm leaves your shoulder with a squeeze. Your eyes dart towards his side of the table, noticing that he doesn’t have supper, only a glass of room temperature water.
“Hobie?” Clearing your throat, your hand rubs at your stomach. Your shirt has gotten smaller, making you pull it down occasionally over your swollen belly.
He sighs in relief just from hearing your voice, pausing by the counter tops, hands reaching above the cabinets. “Yeah, love? Feelin’ alright?”
“Where’s your soup?” Craning your neck, you see the opened cabinets, seeing it nearly empty, save for a can of chocolate pudding, and a pack of dried beef jerky that’s still unopened. Just by the look in his eyes, he doesn’t need to say it out loud. “We need to go into town.”
“I need to go into town.” He leans on the counter, arms on his side as the dark circles under his eyes are illuminated by the electric lamp that was recharged by the solar. “Before you say anythin’, I’ll be quick.”
“And alone. You need someone to watch your back. We’ve got two guns for a reason.”
“Sure, I’ll jus’ ask one of the woodland creatures to come with me.”
“I don’t want to fight, Hobie.” Standing up, hand braced under your stomach, you close the small distance towards the kitchen. The cabin used to carry good memories, now it only bears agony. “Please, let’s not argue.” Hands rubbing his arms, you gaze at him softly. “I’m still not that far along, I can still run if we need to.” You don’t want to tell him that your scarred leg aches when you run.
You feel all the heaviness that James left in your heart, but you can’t let it hinder you forever when you’ve got Hobie and the baby to think about. They’re now your reason to survive, just like how James held on because of the baby and in hopes of finding his best mates and his parents.
Hobie avoids your eyes, sighing as he takes your hands in his. He feels the small indents from the scars that you told him about after another night of crying. He doesn’t want to look at it when it only makes his heart break at the thought of you getting hurt. So he keeps his eyes on the promised ring around your pinky instead, the same one he saved for months just to get it for you.
“What if we see those things? Or worse, run into people?”
“We hide or run, and if need be, we fight.” You look at him with determination and with untapped bravery he hasn’t seen yet. “I don’t want you to starve yourself. Or for you to die when I’m stuck here waiting for you to come home when I don’t know if you’ll ever be back.” Reaching over him as his hand falls on your hips, you take the beef jerky and the lone can of chocolate pudding. “So which one will it be for tonight?” With a small smile, you weigh both in your hands. “I need you full of energy tomorrow.”
Chuckling, Hobie takes the beef jerky and then takes your chin daintily in his hand. “The last time you told me that was before a concert.”
“I remember.” Sunlight passes by your eyes. “You killed it that night.”
His eyes wander behind you where his guitar case is tucked in-between an armchair and the telly. He still hasn’t opened it. “You follow me, yeah? When I tell you to run, you run, when I tell you to leave me behind, you do just that.”
You take a second before nodding.
“Let’s share the puddin’” Throwing his arm over your shoulder, and a peck to your temple, he leads you back to the table.
Kissing his cheek, you giggle, the very first genuine laugh you’ve let out in a couple of weeks. “That’s what I like to hear.”
—
Hobie hesitated before taking the car into town. The engine could draw unwanted attention, or it could break down in the middle of a drive. But he can’t exactly make you walk for miles on end when you’re almost four months pregnant. If only he had a bicycle on hand, and go on a ride with you like when you were teenagers sneaking out to go wherever you please.
“I hope we find a shoe place.” Your mumbling gets his attention, hand reaching towards your thigh as he keeps his eyes on the road. You place your hand atop his, squeezing once as you smile fondly at him. It reminds you of a similar memory when the two of you were driving in his old car to a gig or a date at the park. Not driving towards what could be a dead town filled with rotting corpses. “Some new trainers would be good for my sasquatch feet.”
His piercings catch the light, glinting from the sun shining on them. Hobie looks incredibly handsome, you’ve always said that the sunlight suits him more, and he would always say that the moonlight fits you best. His locks are tied into a ponytail that you helped him with. He desperately needs a haircut when his curls are starting to cover his eyes that you always have to move them away, covering a new scar he got from the car crash right on his forehead. It’s not because you think it makes him look awful, but you hate the fact that he got hurt, that he had to tend to his wounds himself. Your guilt refuses to let you look at the scar.
Hobie snorts, noticing your lighter demeanour now that you’re out of the cabin. “I’ll keep a look out.” Thumb drawing circles over your jeans, he squeezes again. “And your feet aren’t that big, love. I’ve seen bigger.”
Pinching the back of his hand, he lets out a chuckle. “Yeah, yours.” Your eyes warn him before he could even smirk. “And don’t say it.”
“Wasn’t gonna.” From his smirk alone, you could tell that he was in fact ‘gonna.’
Smiling, for a moment you forgot that the world ended, that James isn’t laying six feet underground just beside the living room window.
Hobie senses the negative shift in your demeanor. From all his reading on the baby book you brought, he has read that when the mother is in good spirits, and not stressed, the baby will turn out healthy and happy. He has made it his mission that you and the baby remain in okay spirits, impossible to make it better on account of the things around you, but he still wants to try. After James and everything else, something as small as new trainers could help brighten you up. He’s even contemplating that the cabin might not be the best environment for you, but where would he bring you that is safer than a cabin in the middle of the woods?
“I’ve been thinkin’” Clearing his throat, he shifts in his seat with the town now in sight.
“A lot, I imagine.”
He glances at you with a small smile. “Yeah, too much.” Sighing, he slows down the car once the town’s faded banner greets him. The place doesn’t look any better like before, but it doesn’t look worse either. “What if we look for other places we could stay? Somewhere safer, quieter and away from cities for when the baby is born.”
“The cabin is already all of that.”
“Yeah, I mean…somewhere that doesn’t remind you of what happened.”
Your eyes cast down at your lap, index mindlessly picking at a hang nail as you gaze at your ring instead. “I don’t know, Hobie, James is there, he’d be alone.”
“He’ll understand, love.” Sighing, he parks the car on the side of the silent fishing town. “We don’t have to make a decision now, jus’ think ‘bout it, yeah?” With a hand on your thigh, he squeezes you reassuringly, and you smile right back at him with the same kind of comfort. “I see a cobbler over there, maybe someone didn’t pick up their shoes.”
Like always, he helps with your seatbelt gently, even avoiding grazing your stomach with his hand. Maybe it’s him being careful with you, but it’s as if he’s afraid to really hold onto your stomach, afraid to face the baby that could possibly end your life.
He smells faintly of the watered down minty shampoo and a coconut body wash that the last renter left at the cabin. While you probably smell of the milk formula for mothers that you’ve been rationing since you left the condo with James. Even then, Hobie pecks your temple sweetly.
“There, you ready?”
Taking his hand, you place his palm with apprehension on top of your stomach, letting his warmth ebb through your skin. “I’ve read that babies tend to already know their parents in the womb, but you haven’t been there the first months so I want them to get to know you more. Is that alright?”
His lips tug into a smile, chuckling softly as he feels around freely. “Yeah, ‘m the dad, love, of course it’s alright.”
You match his grin. “Just checking.”
Kissing your cheek, his lips linger for a moment before pulling away. He looks around with bated breath, making sure that there aren’t any surprises lurking around the corner shops. The town is quiet, eerily quiet, like in one of those apocalyptic shows Yuri pestered them into watching with her.
Cars are left on the road, some doors still open as the wind and rain ravage the leather seats. From the pink and yellow banners around, and the wilted flowers all tied with a pretty ribbon around the lampposts and shop windows, he’d think there was some celebration happening before the world ended. A flyer fluttering by gets stuck in the windshield wiper, it answers his question.
“‘Happy Mother’s day.’” You read solemnly. “Fuck me that’s ironic.”
Hobie scoffs a laugh, patting your stomach gingerly as he inhales deeply.
He doesn’t see any movement from the streets, no rustling, just some trash getting carried by the wind. But he spots something in the corner of his eye, a flash of movement inside the cobbler’s store, a quick shadow darting in between shelves of shoes.
“What is it?” You ask, brows furrowed as you feel his trepidation. “You okay?”
“We should move on.” Hobie starts the car again, as something gnaws at the back of his mind, telling him to move, telling him, ‘not here, there’s death lingering here.’
“I thought…” you don’t argue, trusting his instincts. “Okay. Maybe a house would be better.”
The car jolts to life as Hobie keeps his steely gaze on the road. “Yeah, the neighborhood is probably better to look through.”
The two of you drive around in silence, the fear sits between the two of you, heavy and permeating as the car rolls into a suburban area with white picket fences and blue windowsills. The place looks normal, still pristine and untouched by the dead and survivors.
Hobie looks around, car slowing down as he spots a two story home that he has probably seen dozens of times in his life. It looks fine, no blood on the walls, no corpses laying around, just an overgrown lawn and dusty windows.
“This is the one?” Your eyes narrow as the sunshine reflects onto the car windows and onto your eyes. It was a gloomy day when you went out, but the sun wanted to be seen for a moment. It’s a good reprieve from all the grey and darkness in your mind.
“Got your gear?” Hobie clicks his seatbelt off and then over to yours in a swift calculated movement.
“Yep,” you inhale deeply, taking his helping hand as you get out of the car. There’s a small ache on the pit of your stomach, and you chalk it up as nerves. You fix the hold on the backpack, a hand feeling for the kitchen knife on your belt and the gun hidden underneath your coat and tucked into your jeans. “Yours?”
“Ready,” Hobie shows you his backpack and the shotgun strapped on his shoulder, he then pats the hammer dangling on his belt before nudging your hand, resisting the urge to hold it instead. He needs his hands free to protect you. “Food and water first.” He instructs. “I’ll keep a lookout for shoes.”
“If we find the stuff we need for the home birth should we grab it? Or should we save space for food and toiletries?” You’re careful where you place your feet as you both walk onto what was probably a pristine lawn before the dead walked around.
“If we still have space in our packs, I don’t see why not.” Hobie keeps a careful eye around, making sure his hand never leaves the handle of the machete. And that you’re within his vision at all times.
“Maybe we’ll find some strings for your guitar too. They’re small, so it’ll fit my pockets.”
Hobie falters for a moment before stopping in front of the door. “You opened my guitar case?”
“Yeah,” you say as you cup your hands around a foggy window whilst you try to take a peek inside. When you’re met with silence, you lean away to look at him. “Am I not supposed to? I’m sorry, I got curious.”
“No, love, it’s alright.” His pinky brushes along the back of your hand. “It’s jus’ that I haven’t opened it since the houseboat broke down.”
“Oh, well, it’s fine, just that the stings are a bit fucked. No water got in or even a scratch on it.”
“That’s good.” With a relieved sigh, he gently taps the glass window to double check that there aren’t any shamblers hiding inside.
The two of you wait for a bit, but when a minute passes by without the sound of a pained groan or movement inside, Hobie grips the door handle.
He sees a wind chime a second earlier before he could open the door. With his height, he easily stops the chiming before it could chime out with a hand. Hobie then yanks it out, and gently places it on the ground.
“Good eye.”
“Thanks—” he’s about to push the door open, until your hand catches his wrist.
“Alarm.” You mutter with a shaky tone, pointing at the sign hidden behind the tall grass of the overgrown lawn. ‘This house is protected by Octavius security.’ It reads in big bold letters.
“Fuck me.” Slowly, he lets go of the door knob. “What are the chances that they don’t have power either?”
“I don’t know, but we can’t risk it.” You swallow thickly, a hand brushing along your stomach for comfort. Pursing your lips, you remember a conversation you had with James on one warm evening, warm enough that he made popsicles for you both. Yours was mango because he said that fruit was better for the baby, and he had chocolate instead. You’ve been craving mangoes nowadays, but can’t say anything to Hobie to add more to his stress. “I’ve got an idea, follow me.”
Slowly, with a hand on your knife, you carefully tread the lawn and over to the side of the house. Hobie follows closely behind, too afraid to lag behind you, afraid that you’ll get lost in the tall grass, or get snatched by one of the dead.
There’s a fallen kid’s bicycle on the ground, half buried in grass and dirt. Once upon a time a kid rode that up and down the neighborhood, now it lays there, rotting, slowly rusting, like the world around you.
“Here.” Clearing your throat, you both make it to the back door without a hitch. So far so good. “Okay, let’s hope that—” you begin to bend down, but Hobie stops you halfway with a hand on your chest.
“Let me. What are you looking for?” Crouching, Hobie looks up at you as the grey clouds start to obscure the sun behind your head, covering the halo around you.
“A key under the welcome mat.”
“Lovie, I don’t think…” and yet he still lifts the dirty mat, only to find a single key under it. “Well, fuck me sideways.”
“Already did that.” You cheekily joke, helping him stand up with a hand wrapped around his lean bicep.
Hobie smiles, really smiles, the kind of smile he would flash at you during lazy mornings where you two have nowhere to be that day. “You offerin’?”
Chuckling, you snatch the key from him as you insert it inside the lock. “Maybe if you find me some shoes.”
“Promise?” His lips curl into a mischievous smile, one that you’re incredibly familiar with.
“Yes,” biting your lip with a stifled laugh, you take a step back for him. “Could you please open the door?”
“How’d you know that the key would be there?”
“James’ dad owns a security company, and he told me that some people would usually forget their codes, or are afraid that when there’s no power they won’t be able to go inside because the system automatically locks the house. So sometimes they’d ask to not have an alarm at the back door, for big houses that is. For the key, well,” you shrug smugly. “I just applied common sense.”
He smiles proudly at you. “I keep forgettin’ that his dad had his hand in a lot of pies.”
“Just open the bloody door, Hobs.”
“Yes, ma’am.” He mocks a salute, unlocking the door slowly as the door creaks. Hobie peeks through the gap, waiting for any shamblers to appear. Tapping his blade on the door, once, twice, he waits some more, a precaution. Whilst you keep watch of the surroundings, heart beating loudly in your chest. “I think we’re good, lovie. Just need you to stay close to me, yeah?”
You nod, mouth feeling dry as you grip at the hilt of the kitchen knife. Your feet feel like you’re standing on warm sand, and your belly does somersaults, the baby could probably feel the tremors in your body as you enter the home with Hobie right in front of you.
This time, you’re making sure that you see the threat before it happens. The two of you sweep the kitchen first, the pantry has some food left but no monsters lurking in it. He finds the laundry room, same thing, no dead nor a soul inside.
You breathe a little better, and Hobie gives you a reassuring look, nudging your arm in a simple, ‘we’re okay,’ gesture.
While you keep watch, Hobie ransacks the pantry.
One thing has caught your eye though, on the counter, there is an empty flower vase with yellowing water, and beside it is a wilted and long dried up bouquet of roses. You take a peek inside the card, and it reads, ‘happy mother’s day!’ Scrawled by tiny hands written in crayon.
He loads up the duffle bag with food first, canned foods are the priority as he avoids the perishables. You wanted to check the fridge whilst he’s doing that but he can’t, or won’t let you out of his sight. You did promise to watch his back, so you did with your hand on the pistol right on your waist as he stacks cans upon cans of food.
Then he sees the biscuits, chocolate coated ones that he knows you like the most. He takes a box of those, checking the expiration date wouldn’t have meant anything when he has lost track of the date already. But if it doesn’t smell or isn’t covered in mold, it could still be good, so he packs it instead of another can of peas. He grabs a few seasonings too, and what’s left of the rice they had. He read that rice is good for the baby, so he takes it even though it weighs a ton.
The duffel bag is filled to the brim already when he finishes packing.
“Love.” He can’t help but smile, turning around to face you. “We’re not goin’ to starve.”
Chortling, you give him a quick yet loving peck on his shoulder. “Thank you.”
“There’s more in the fridge, and there are still jugs of water in here.” He whispers, in case there are lurkers upstairs.
“We also need soap.” Your eyes glances over to the laundry room. “What do we do?”
Pursing his lips, his eyes darts from the fridge, where there are magnet souvenirs and family photos on it, then over to the laundry room. He really needs clean clothes too. “We load this up in the trunk, dump it all in there then come back here.”
“Greedy, but I agree. I can’t sleep for another day in those sheets.”
With your approval, and a squeeze to your hand, the two of you trek back to the car, and carefully dump the canned goods inside the trunk of James’ car.
“I’ve never asked.” Hobie starts, a hand clasped around a can of peaches. “What happened to the window?” Glancing at the missing window at the back that was hastily wrapped in tarp and taped by duct tape, you follow his gaze.
“A horde got to us when we were leaving the condo building.” The stacking pauses on his end. “We were okay, we made it out by using molotov cocktails.”
He smiles fondly as something swims in his eyes, pride perhaps? Or perhaps jealousy. “You learned from the best.”
“We did, Hobie.” You tap the back of his knee with your foot as you finish your side. “I hope we find deodorant.”
Nodding, Hobie shuts the trunk as quietly as he could as he takes the empty duffel bag in his hand. “You smell great, love.”
“It’s because your brain started blocking the smell.” Giggling, you start your trek back again with him in tow. The steps are lighter, less careful now that you know what to expect.
“Nah, I think it’s your pheromones, you smell fit.”
“Never say that word ever again, Hobie.” That earns a kiss from him as he steals one from behind, right on your nape, before stepping around you to get to the laundry room before you could.
It goes like that for an hour, when the bags get full, he dumps it into the car and goes back again. It’s routine for the two of you, one that he refuses to go in and out alone when he can’t bear to leave you outside or inside the house for that matter. Even though it was tedious, going back and forth, he would still do it if it meant never straying too far from your side. He lost you once, he’s not planning on losing you ever again.
Both of you have cleared out the first floor, you found laundry detergents, food and water, now you’re on a mission to get some new clothes or maybe some pillows and blankets while it’s still light outside.
The walls of the house have grown familiar for you, the pictures on the walls of an unknown family, all strangers, and yet you found a connection to them. Somewhere in between taking their supplies, you wonder about them. Did they prefer beef over chicken when everything you found in their freezer was beef? Did their son ask for snacks before dinner like every kid does? How were they living now? Did they escape together? Or perhaps they’re shambling somewhere together with the rest of the dead.
Brows furrowed, your feet are on fire as you take a breather on the steps, taking hold of the bannister as you inhale through your nose and exhale out of your mouth. A breathing exercise that you read in your book.
“Love?” Hobie calls your name with worry. “You good?”
“Yeah, it’s just that…my feet are really fucking swolen and it kind of hurts. And I sort of need to pee.” Wincing, you give him an apologetic smile.
“Alright.” He sighs in relief, almost smiling. “I’ll take you to the loo.”
Hobie does a quick sweep of every room, there are only two bedrooms upstairs, and one office that is under lock and key. Every room is quiet and pristine, except for an odd smell coming from the master bedroom. Once he deems it safe, he helps you into the bathroom, keeping watch just outside the closed door.
Hand on his weapon, he keeps finding himself looking at the nursery right in front of him. It has light blue walls, powder blue like the sky on a good day in London, and it’s painted with fluttering birds and flowers. There’s a crib in there too, pristine, probably newly bought when there is still plastic wrapped around it. On the other side of the room is a small bed, meant for a toddler with rocketship bed sheets and glow in the dark stars tacked on the ceiling. In between them is an old rocking chair, oak and probably older than Hobie. And sitting on top of it is a box of trainers, with a neat pink bow on the lid. It’s from the brand that he knows you have been saving up for before the dead started walking.
He glances at the closed bathroom door, hearing you shuffle on the other side. The door is closed, and he didn’t find any undead inside the whole house. The place is safe and the nursery faces the loo where he could still keep an eye on you, so he takes a step away from the door and over to the rocking chair.
Hobie makes his strides quick and quiet, crossing the short distance over to the box as he takes it. He opens the lid, finding the same soft blue inside, the shoes seem to be larger than your usual size, but it would now fit you.
Grinning, his mission is accomplished. He shoves the pair inside the duffel bag, turning around with a triumphant smile on his face. “Love.” He shows you the box just as you exit the bathroom. “Look.”
The sheer happiness on your face makes his chest warm. He hasn’t seen you have that expression in a long while, it’s as if he’s a thirsty wanderer who finally found an oasis. For the first time ever since the party, he grins widely, the unabashed carefree smile that tugs at the corner of his lips first, right next to the piercing, a lopsided smile that never fails to turn your legs into jelly.
“Please tell me it’s my size.” Your hands reach for the box, squealing giddily once you see the size on the side.
“Open it.” His stomach thrums with excitement.
“Yes, new—!” Your face falls at the emptiness, and once you turn to look at the father of your unborn child, his cheeks are puffed, trying and failing to stifle a guffaw. “You wanker.”
“I couldn’t help it, lovie.” Tossing the box away that lands into the crib with a thump, he leads you to the rocking chair as you scowl at him like back when he accidentally ate your cheesecake in the fridge that you were saving for the end of the day. Hands on your shoulders, he’s still smiling at you, crouching down as he retrieves the shoes from the duffel bag. “‘m not evil.”
Your expression melts from annoyance to giddiness once again. “It’s blue.” You utter softly, lashes batting as Hobie slowly unlaces the old dirty shoes you have on.
“It is.” Chuckling fondly, he gently takes off your shoes, palm carefully cupping your heel, a thumb brushing along the hill of skin before slipping the new shoes on you. “Brand new too, we hit the jackpot.”
“I think it’s the exact same one I was saving for.” You still remember the road to and from work, where a shoe place is situated right on the road home, where you always look at the display longingly, waiting for the shoe to go on sale. “Just in blue.”
“What was the colour you wanted?” He slips the next one on your other foot, tying it twice, making sure that the laces won’t suddenly untie and make you trip and fall.
“Black,” you admire the shoes on you as you wiggle your feet about. “Easier to pair with my clothes.”
“Either one suits you.” Taking both feet, he taps the heels together playfully. “They fit you perfectly.”
“Thank you, Hobie.” You follow his smiling eyes as he stands up, a hand perched on the armrest of the rocking chair as his knees creak.
“Thank the bloke who got it.” His head tilts to gesture at the room. He wonders if the man who lived here got the shoes for his wife on mother’s day, or just because he wanted to show his love for her. Hobie knows he would do the same for you.
The irony doesn’t escape you when you find yourself sitting in the middle of a nursery. Maybe in another life, you and Hobie are refurbishing the spare room in his houseboat, the room you both use as a workspace slash art room slash library. It was littered with trinkets from you and Hobie the last time you saw it. You don’t remember much what was on the shelves when it’s been so long but you do remember the feeling whenever you spent a whole lazy afternoon with him in there.
The soft rocking of the boat would lull you to sleep whilst you read on an old lazyboy you two found abandoned on a street corner, the same one you had to call in James and Yuri to help haul it in the van. You would read and Hobie would tinker with his gadgets, sometimes taking odd fixing jobs from friends, fixing an antique clock, a radio, or a fan. The sound of the tinkling metal, the curses under his breath, and the water splashing against the side of the boat, it felt like home. It was warm and cozy, but it was colder in the winter when the space heater doesn’t help much with the chill. Those were the days where Hobie would huddle close to you on the armchair underneath all the blankets even when you both don’t fit in the chair. You miss those soft days, the peaceful days where you don’t have to be careful where you step, where the stench of death and decay doesn’t stick to your nostrils. It was just living, now all you know is surviving. Surviving to see Hobie for another day. Surviving to see the day your baby is born.
“Love,” he senses your heavy thoughts, hand reaching out to your chin, lifting it with his knuckle softly. Hobie doesn’t have the right words to comfort you, maybe there are no right words that will ever comfort you, but he tries, the only way he knows how, the only way that could get your mind out of the plague that is your mind. “You wanna take a look around? Maybe they’ve got something we could use for the baby.”
“We’re in a nursery, Hobs,” you say with a teasing tone. “I’m sure there’s baby stuff here we could use.”
Hobie chuckles, exhaling through his nose as he helps you off the rocking chair. He wonders if he could fit the chair in the car, the baby would love it, you would love it. The cabin already has a rocking chair but it’s old and weathered, looking like it’ll keel over once someone sits on it.
“I’ll check if they have books on giving birth.” His hand lingers on your hip before turning to the bookshelf with colourful children’s books.
“I’ll raid the closet.” Your hand instinctively brushes along your stomach, feeling the heaviness weigh you down.
You didn’t plan to get pregnant, moreso get pregnant during the end of the world where society has collapsed. You always knew from the moment you saw those two red lines that it wouldn’t be easy for the two of you, but now, you just feel regret and shame. Regret that this happened so soon in your life. Ashamed that you can’t be of any help to Hobie as the months go by. And when the inevitable comes, you could die, and you don’t want to leave the love of your life all alone in this world with a newborn to take care of. Or worse, you both don’t survive, and Hobie’s truly left alone.
You’re tired, exhausted already from carrying the extra weight on you. Bones aching on a microscopic level, as if you have a sack of cement on the small of your back. If you feel this tired just after a few months in your pregnancy, you fear for the coming months. What if you end up being bedridden? You’ve heard countless horror stories from women in your family at how terrifying it is to give birth. They said that when you’re giving birth, you have one foot buried in the ground. But they had doctors and medicine, while you have a book from the 90’s about childcare. You might die in front of Hobie while covered in blood and screaming in pain. You don’t want that to be the last thing he remembers of you.
Fists clenching, you feel the indents left on your palms. You take deep breaths, reminding yourself that stress isn’t good for the baby. So you start to distract yourself instead. You stare at the adorable clothes on the rack, all colour coded, from dinosaur onesies to tiny coats and matching beanies, you have the urge to take it all. The owners of the house have great taste, and you feel guilty for even being inside.
Taking a red and white plaid onesie that has matching socks, you turn to show Hobie.
“Lovie, look.”
“Hobs, look.”
You simultaneously turn to face the other.
You smile as he mirrors your expression. “‘Oh, the places you’ll go,’ really?”
“It’s a good read.” Shrugging, he shoves it in the dufflebag. “But look, baby names.”
You’re supposed to be happy, to smile at the book and imagine the names you could name the bundle born out of love, but you can’t find that happiness as you feel a lump on your throat form. Baby names are the last thing on your mind right now.
“That’s great, Hobs.”
“Couldn’t find any books about births, though.” Placing it inside the bag, right beside a teddy bear he nicked from the crib, Hobie smiles at the small pile he gathered. If he noticed your faltering expression, he doesn’t say anything about it. “What’d you find?”
“It looks kind of punk, doesn’t it?” Lifting the onesie, you peek over it, trying to hide your wobbly expression.
“Lovie…” taking the fabric in your hands, he grins fondly at the onesie. It’s so small, barely the size of his forearm, and he can’t help but imagine a little version of you wearing it. “This is the most fuckin’ adorable thing I’ve ever seen.”
“Take it?”
“Absolutely.” Peeking behind you, he sees more, eyes going wide at the swaddling cloths, tiny booties and the cutest bear onesie he has ever seen. “I say take ‘em all.”
You snort, backing away as he helps himself to the baby clothes. “That’s greedy, Hobie.” Despite your words, you help him shovel in the small socks and cute bibs. “Take some towels too, I read that they drool a lot.”
A laugh escapes his throat, barely contained as he almost forgets where he is, what might be lurking in the dark corners of the house. “Love, look at this one.”
He lifts up a plain yellow shirt with the bold pink letters that reads, ‘Daddy’s favorite.’ You clamp your mouth shut, before spluttering out a giggle.
“D’you think they have an adult sized version of this?” His eyes sparkle with playfulness. “For you, I mean.”
“Fuck, you’re so annoying.” And yet you shove the tiny shirt inside the bag with your cheeks aflame and a laugh bubbling in your throat.
“Love you too.” Pecking your temple, he moves away from the closet. “C’mon, we gotta move on to the bedroom.”
Your brows raise to your hairline, heat blossoming in the pit of your stomach. “What, right now?” You haven’t done that in a while, fuck, you just now realized that you haven’t done it since you found out about the baby. Your hands are suddenly at the hem of his shirt, desire filling your chest.
Hobie’s brows furrows for a moment before realization flickers on his expression. Eyes drifting down at your pawing, and then back over to your half lidded eyes. “Fuckin’ hell, love, not that. We need sheets and new clothes. Although that’s temptin’.” He pecks your pouting lips, giving you a sly smirk through the kiss. “Maybe later if you play your cards right, hm?” Now he’s in the mood too. It just crossed his mind when all he thought about recently was how to survive and finding you alive.
If your cheeks weren’t searing before then it’s fiery now. “I can’t believe I let you fuck me.” Groaning, head tilted back to hide your flustered expression, you walk past him towards the master’s bedroom.
“C’mon, lovie, that’s the reason why you’re pregnant.”
You flip him the bird on your way out that makes him smile even more. For a moment there he felt normal, that everything was back to normal and he’s at home with you while the houseboat rocks gently.
The two of you make it to the bedroom, and the smell hits you before he gets a whiff of it. It’s dank, like mold clinging to the damp walls, like the smell of wilted flowers downstairs, only stronger, more prominent.
“God, what is that smell?” Plugging your nose, you wince. “It kind of smells like teeth at the dentist. I’m gonna hurl if we stay here long.”
“Don’t know, but I don’t like it.” Hobie moves you aside gently before treading the dry carpet to open a window. The sun is beginning to set outside, and worry gnaws at his chest. Soon this place would be crawling with the undead. “We need to hurry, this is our last run before we head out.”
“Yeah, gotcha.” You don’t argue as you hastily grab everything you need. Some clothes that might not fit either of you perfectly, even a few maternity clothes you found, a couple of thick coats, and the sheets you’ve been eyeing.
The bags are almost full when you finish grabbing the things you needed, and Hobie even managed to find a couple of camping backpacks to fill it with two pillows and more blankets. He’s ready to leave when you remember the towels.
“Shit, Hobie, we need towels.”
“Love, we can wash the ones we already have.” Fixing his hold on the bags, he checks the ticking clock on the wall and the sun setting in the horizon that paints the sky a deep bloody orange.
“Those are threadbare, Hobie, I could the count strings on it. I’ll be quick, promise.” You’re already at the bathroom door, opening it as it creaks, the sound echoing through the hallway.
“Lovie, wait, let me—”
The stench permeates through the bedroom from the bathroom, stinking up the whole place, the same wilted flower smell. Teeth, it wasn’t just teeth, it’s bones.
“Fuck…” The bile rising up your throat and the spit filling your mouth almost made you retch. But the sight of the bodies hugging in the bathtub, surrounded by dead flowers makes your heart fall to your stomach.
The door is shut before you could let out a sound. Hobie holds you in his arms, and you stay there, frozen, still staring at the door, as if you could still see them decaying inside the tub.
“C’mon, love, we need to go.” Hobie whispers in your ear, gentle and reassuring as his hand rubs up and down your arm. He calls your name with the same gentleness, honeyed and saccharine, trying to get you to move.
Once you blink away the blurriness in your eyes, you turn to Hobie with an unreadable expression. There were three of them in there, no, four, a family, one still in the mother’s cleaved open belly. Their skin has turned to leather, sun dried, stretched over blanched bones.
“Love?” His thumb traces the length of your jaw, grounding you to the present. “We need to go.”
“Yeah, let’s go—”
There’s a shadow in the doorway.
It hunches in the dark, breathing, watching.
You act first, grabbing the shotgun from Hobie’s back as you aim.
Hobie exhales, eyes wide, before yanking at the barrel, pulling it up and away from the figure.
The shot rings out through the house and out of the opened window.
Pieces of the ceiling fall on the carpet, paint and wood cracking and splintered, falling upon the stranger like raindrops.
The figure now crouches, grasping at its ear, while a hand, a wrinkly old palm stretches at you, surrendering.
Your ears ring, a shrill deaf tone that rattles your teeth inside your mouth whilst Hobie nurses his singed hand.
“Fuck!” You yell, but you don’t hear your own voice.
The sounds are muffled in your ears as Hobie grabs the gun from your hands.
“What are you doing?!” His voice fades in and out in your hearing. His eyes are wide, frantic as he points at the crouched figure. “He’s alive!”
The words strike you like a fist.
“What?” You ask, befuddled, heaving heavily as you stare wide eyed at the stranger in the doorway.
“I’m s–sorry…” a trembling voice says, spluttering and weeping on the floor. “I’m sorry, I–I didn’t mean to—” he chokes on air, coughing as he desperately tries to clear his throat.
Narrowing your gaze, honing in to make out the man’s face, you see an old man cowering from your stare. Guilt gnaws at your conscience.
“Oh, fuck, I’m sorry. I didn’t—” you wipe your hands at your jeans, as if it’ll clean the gunpowder on your skin. As if it’ll undo what you have done. “I didn’t know, I thought you were one of them.”
“Mate,” Hobie’s words feel dry on his tongue. “Who are you, how’d you get in here?” If the man was dead, he wouldn’t be so afraid, as he eyes you underneath his bucket hat. If he was, he wouldn’t have wasted time staring in the doorway instead of devouring you. Hobie’s wary as he stands in front of you protectively. He might’ve saved the stranger’s life, but he doesn’t know him and what he’s capable of. “You can stand up, we’re not goin’ to hurt you if you don’t try anythin’.”
You stand still, breathing heavily as you keep your weapon close while your hand shields your stomach.
The stranger is old, trembling as he stands up as instructed, back hunched, and messy hair untrimmed; his dirty blonde hair is matted under his hat. He looks frail, and you could easily outrun him, but you’ve learned never to underestimate anyone in this world.
“My—” his voice is crackly at the edges, tongue trying to wet his dry lips. “My name is Norman, I’ve been here since…since I don’t know.” His tone is weak and rough like someone who has a cold. “My son, he has a place here, but—but I forgot where it was, and I got lost. He…he said that he’ll meet me here in town.”
“Old man,” Hobie takes a step closer, while his free hand holds onto your wrist, keeping you close, all the while his other hand grasps at the weapon on his hip. “We’re not ‘ere to fight, but if you could jus’ move away from the stairs. We need to get out of ‘ere before any of the dead come.”
“I– I don’t know where I am.” His lips wobble, sniffing as his big brown eyes fill with unshed tears. “I’m sorry, who…who are you, lad?”
Hobie slowly inches towards the door as you hold onto his shoulder, blade at the ready as you peek over him.
Something in you pities the man. He reminds you of Yuri’s grandmother when she got sick, when there were days she wasn’t herself. You recognize the same condition in the man, how in the world has he survived this long all alone?
“Hobie, I think he’s unwell.” You whisper to him, feet feeling the dry carpet below you, the sky outside is going dark, and the automatic lights inside the hallways open. There’s power, and you could see the office door that was locked is now wide open.
“I know, love. We jus’ need to get out of ‘ere.”
The old man’s eyes pleads you for help. His face is gaunt underneath his salt and pepper beard, the skin around his eyes are darkened, and eyes beady. His nails are awfully long, curved and yellowed at the end. He has been surviving on his own whilst his own mind attacked him.
“He needs help.” Your grip on Hobie’s shoulder tightens desperately.
James would’ve helped him. Just like he helped you.
“Love.” The protest is on the edge of his tongue. But when Hobie turns to the man and his raggedy clothes, and the gaunt of his cheek, skin blemished and blanched, it reminds him of the people he would meet at the soup kitchen he volunteered at. The same place where he used to come to when he was struggling. “Norman, right?”
The old man reluctantly nods, as if he’s trying to recall his own name.
“C’mon, before the dead get ‘ere. They would’ve heard the shot.” Hobie grabs the fallen bags from the floor, glancing at you briefly as your expression is a mix of regret, relief, and pity. “Lovie, stay close. You too, Norm.”
“I haven’t heard that name in awhile.” He mutters under his breath, nodding along to his instructions.
Hobie lets him walk first, keeping a close eye on him, in case he is bitten. If he followed behind you, his mind wouldn’t be at peace if that was the case.
The whole house is lit up the moment the sun faded from the horizon. In the warm yellow lights, the place doesn’t feel so eerie. In another world he would have a place like this with you and the baby, maybe have the kid grow up in a nice house like this. It was near impossible before the world collapsed, now it’s just wishful thinking. Like how one would imagine winning the lottery.
“Where did you two come from?” Norman asks, arms curled around himself for comfort.
“The woods, we’ve got a cabin there.” Hobie adjusts his hold onto the bags, crossing the threshold towards the kitchen and to the back door where you two entered. Where he propped a can of peas on the door to keep it ajar just in case.
You watch as Norman’s face furrows, as if he’s trying to recall something deep in his mind.
“We have to hurry—”
Hobie sees it happen in slow motion, Norman’s hand wrapped around the door knob of the front entrance, tugging at it out of instinct.
“Norman, no!” You scream, but it’s too late.
The alarm blares around the house, echoing throughout the neighborhood. If the shot didn’t gather the dead’s attention, the alarm would.
There are rushed bare footsteps slapping against concrete outside.
“Run!” Hobie grabs you harshly, yanking and pulling you towards the back door as you reach your free hand over to Norman.
He takes your hand desperately. In his addled mind, he recognizes danger, and it makes him sprint behind you.
Hobie lugs the bags around his back and arms, whilst leading you outside. The same carefulness when you two arrived is out of the window the moment he heard gurgled groaning.
He turns his head towards the cul-de-sac, and he sees a gaggle of the shambling dead run at break neck speed towards him.
Their limbs flail right behind them without a care, they’re caked in blood, jaws unhinged, claws raised up as the wall of rotting stench follows them. Blood drips from their eyes, gnashing their teeth in the air as if they’re tasting him on their blackened tongues.
He makes it to the car, throwing the bags into the backseat and helps you inside the passenger seat before going around the hood to the driver’s side and hops in quickly. Thank fuck he had the foresight to not lock the doors. It was a horrible decision back then when there was danger of getting the car nicked, but he figured that you two were the only survivors in the whole town. He thought so at least.
“Love!” He yells your name, whilst you frantically put on your seatbelt. He could see the corpses run in the reflection of the side mirror.
“Norman!” You scream, waking the stranger from his terrified stupor, frozen just beside the car. “Get the fuck inside!”
The old man scrambles inside, tossing his whole body in the car whilst Hobie doesn’t waste time in starting the car, or even waits for Norman to shut the door.
The engine splutters weakly.
“Fuck you! C’mon you stupid, cu—!”
The pained shrieks of the dead come close as the car roars to life.
Exhaust fumes exit out of the car as Hobie steps on the gas. The wheels screech on the cement, leaving tire tracks as he drives quickly out of there.
A can of peaches rolls out of the backseat and onto the street just before the opened door beside Norman slams shut as Hobie turns a corner, watching the corpses fade in the rearview mirror.
“Holy fuck.” Panting, bad leg aching, you turn to Hobie with wide eyes. “Are you okay?” Your hand squeezes his trembling arm.
“Yeah, yeah…” Hobie swallows the bile in his throat, utterly relieved to be out of there. He takes your hand, and presses a heavy kiss on your knuckles whilst keeping an eye on the road. “You?”
“I’m good.” Smiling and chuckling, knees wobbly, you turn to Noman, who is still laying on the pile of canned goods and bags you got from the house. “You okay, Norm?”
The man’s lips stretches into an easy smile, “yes, thank you.”
You rub Hobie’s bicep, giving him a quick loving peck. “Let’s go home, Hobie.”
A/N: sorry for the really late update I had to get into the zombie au vibes to get to writing lmaoo please reblog if you loved it!
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Hi, could you do domestic fluff Hobie x reader where they stargaze on his boat and the artist reader shows off their sketchbook, maybe even draws him!🥹
Hi hun! I have a similar fic that I've been working on (the reader showing Hobie her sketchbook) so I added in your prompt (stargazing part) since we had the same idea (great minds think alike 😏), hope you don't mind! Thank you for requesting ❤️
Pairing: Hobie brown x gn! Reader/ Spider-Punk x gn! Reader
Word Count: 1.5k
Tags: no use of Y/N, no specific physical description of the reader, lovestruck Hobie, FLUFF.
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There's a city-wide brownout, the usual lights in historic London are all off, the entire city enjoys a rare sight in the night sky. Without the light pollution that usually presides over the city, the stars in the sky shine brightly, blanketing the dark sky in twinkling star lights. There's no cloud in sight, therefore nothing could cover the magnificent view.
Hobie's houseboat is littered with candles, providing a romantic light on his 'porch'.
You sigh longingly for the fifth time that night, neck craning up, staring at Orion's belt. You lift your eyes off the constellation for a second to finish your sketch of Orion, pointing your little torch on the page. Your hand expertly shade in the drawing. The well loved sketchbook is filled to the brim with various drawings– some landscapes, food, dogs you encounter and an embarrassing amount of Hobie.
The pages are covered with him, whether he's sitting with a guitar in his lap, strumming away, or Hobie in his suit, sometimes with his mask on but mostly without it, and so many portraits of Hobie, you just love sketching him.
You'd die of embarrassment if he ever sees them, he might think you're obsessed with him (you are) or tease you into oblivion.
You can't help it though, accidentally making him your muse. There's just something about his perfect jawline, how his lips curve into a sly smile, or how his eyes light up whenever he's passionate about something, he gives you so much inspiration to make art.
You sigh, absolutely whipped for him. A breeze sends shivers through you, hugging your thin jacket closer to your torso.
Suddenly a heavy weight drops on your head, Hobie laughs loudly as you make a sound from the back of your throat.
"Hey!" You lift the heavy cloth away from your face, Looking closer at the heavy material, you see Hobie's familiar leather jacket, your heart swells.
" 'm sorry" he pecks the top of your head, his hands full, holding two steaming mugs, Hobie puts the mugs down on the table, the contents sloshing a bit to the sides. "Here let me"
Hobie reaches for the jacket, at first you thought he's gonna take it from you, but once he drapes the jacket behind you, your heart soars, thumping hard on your chest. You're sure he can feel it when he gets closer to you, so he could help you slot in your arms inside the jacket. You feel giddy, you smell like him now.
"There, warm enough?" Hobie rubs your arms, sneaking a look at you wearing his jacket, a smile creeping to the corner of his lips. Your cheeks heat up from his stare.
There's something in the air tonight, making the atmosphere romantic. Maybe because you're floating on the river in his houseboat currently stargazing in the dark?
"Mmhm" you nod with a shy smile, unable to form the correct words, eyes practically shaped like hearts, Hobie mirrors your expression.
Yeah, there's something in the air. It's definitely not because you're both absolutely lovestruck for each other.
He sits down, cringing when his knees creak. Damn his joints, he's trying to act cool in front of you.
You think it's endearing, adorable, even.
You give him a knowing (teasing) smile, putting your chin in your hand, while your elbow rests on the arm of the chair.
He rolls his eyes at you, but his smile betrays his true emotion. Hobie grabs his drink to hide his grin.
"Softie" you murmur.
"Drink your bloody tea, don't want you freezing to death while you're in my boat" he moves the mug closer to you.
You notice him sitting farther from you, you mentally shake your head, that won't do. So you place your opened sketchbook on your lap. Putting both hands on the back of his chair, you try to pull him towards you. But alas he's too heavy for you, your movement causes you to almost topple over.
Hobie's senses warn him before you could fall, with a strong grip on your chair, he stabilizes you. "What are you doing, love?" Words dripping in fondness.
"You're too far" you struggle as you continue to pull him towards you.
Instead of Hobie pulling your chair towards him, he slightly lifts himself off the chair, lessening the weight off it. You don't notice this, smiling triumphantly when you finally move his chair closer to you. The metal scraping against metal, makes your ears ring, but you mentally high five yourself for a job well done.
"Nice, you hitting the gym?" He places his arm on the arm rest of your chair, he's a lot closer now, breath mixing in with yours. Your cheeks heat up, you should've thought this through.
Knowing that you're too flustered to make a coherent sentence, you just nod "mmhm"
"Mmhm" he mimics you, teasing. "Right, just don't replace me with a gym bro, yeah?"
Your eyebrows knit together, taking his joke seriously "never"
He glimpses your opened sketchbook, that's miraculously still in your lap. Without thinking, he grabs it, whistling when he sees your drawing of mighty Orion.
"You drew this? Just now?"
Nodding, You try to reach for it back, please don't flip through it, you thought, embarrassment creeping up to you.
Hobie, being Hobie raises it higher away from your hands. He pretends to compare the constellation in the sky to your drawing. "Can't believe you drew this the whole ten minutes while I was making tea"
"Yeah, the stars inspired me, can I have it back, please?"
" 'm not done admiring it" he holds it with both hands, thankfully staying on the same page.
You grit your teeth, hoping, praying he doesn't move to another page.
Mother nature has a different idea though, a strong wind rushes past, rocking the boat slightly, the candles you meticulously lit up, blow out in the wind; the pages of your book flips widely, conveniently (unfortunately for you) stopping at a sketch of Hobie.
Oh, fuck. You internally curse. Nope that's it he's gonna get weirded out, and he's gonna break up with me. You keep catastrophizing.
"Is that me?" Hobie moves the book closer for inspection, his eyes roam to the perfect copy of him on the page, his heart skips a beat. "When was this?"
You put your face in your hands, you groan out, "I'm sorry, I should've asked for permission"
He's confused, Hobie closes the book, placing it carefully on the table. He grabs your hands carefully, you can feel the calluses on his fingertips.
"Nothing to be sorry about, look at me" he waits for you to remove your hands from your face. "I liked it, hey," he rubs the back of your hand with his thumb, "you don't need to apologize"
You sneak a peek through your fingers, "you must think I'm a weirdo"
Hobie ducks his head to meet your eyes "yeah, because you are, knew that before I dated you, but you're my weirdo, yeah?"
You close your fingers together, hiding your flustered state from him, he called me his? You completely forget the part where he called you a weirdo.
"Enough of this, yeah?" He shakes you slightly "you don't need to ask permission to sketch me," he shakes you again, trying to make you laugh,
"I like" shake "it" shake "and I" shake "fancy you" Hobie shakes you harder, you smile behind your hands.
You bravely remove your hands away from your face.
"There you are" Hobie grins, while you look at him through your lashes, bashfully.
"You mean it?"
"We're literally together" he says through his laughs, Hobie cups your jaw affectionately "we're stargazing, even though it's bloody freezing, you think I'll do something like this if I didn't fancy you?"
"And you made me tea," you point out.
"And I made you tea, which you haven't even taken a sip yet, you ungrateful shit" Hobie smiles through his swearing, even with him cursing at you, you smile widely at him, knowing that's how he shows his affection.
You gather all your courage "you wanna see the rest?"
He taps your cheek "you sure?"
"Mmhm" you nod.
Hobie searches your face for any doubt, but finds none. He grabs your sketchbook, opening it to the first page. His own face greets him.
He whistles "who's that handsome man? I like his piercings"
"You dork," you laugh, pushing your face closer to his bicep, feeling his warmth through his hoodie.
Hobie releases his bicep from your hold, you pout, but he places his arm behind you, bringing you closer, a flustered smile replaces your pout.
He flips a page, a sketch of the planet saturn.
"You can actually see saturn from here" you say softly, content in his arms.
"Yeah? Point it to me" Hobie whispers against your hair.
You both crane your neck up, Hobie follows your pointing finger.
"Right there"
"Yeah?" He buries his face closer to your hair, muffling his voice.
"You're not even paying attention," you say softly, noticing his relaxed state.
"Nah, continue, I'm listening" Hobie cuddles to your side closer.
You let him relax in your hold as you point out more planets and constellations.
ʕ·ᴥ·ʔ
Thanks for reading! Consider reblogging if you enjoyed it ❤️
Hii, dear🧡🧡 Congrats on your three year anniversary😍 I've been here for a little while but immediately loved your vibes🤌🏻
May I request a "Then comes a baby in a baby carriage" with our man Lyonel and little Juniper? I've been thinking smth along the lines how he wants to be helpful. And he spends lots of time in the library in secret, looking for info about the usual baby stuff-teething, colic,etc🤭💞
Thank you so much bestie!! I had so much fun writing this prompt 🤭
Pairing: Lyonel Baratheon x fem! Reader/ The Laughing Storm x fem! Reader
Word count: 1.1k
Tags: No use of Y/N, no specific physical description of the reader except for clothing, established relationship, Arryn! Reader, husband! Lyonel, dad! Lyonel, fluff!
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Lyonel Baratheon Masterlist
3rd year anniversary celebration 🎉
My requests are open!
You come out of the bath looking for your husband. Lyonel is usually on the shaded bed waiting for you with the same smirk and twinkle in his eye, hoping to get lucky that night. But you found the bed empty, sheets still made, and your husband nowhere to be seen.
Sighing, your lower back aches, still weighing heavy even after the birth. Despite your exhaustion, you grab a cloak to tie around your shoulders and over your slip as you head for your daughter’s nursery. If Lyonel isn’t in the shared chambers, surely he would be there watching over her like usual. Recently, he has taken to watching Juniper sleep for a few minutes after you have placed her down on her cot. With a keen eye, he watches little Juniper’s chest rise and fall protectively, and with his hand gently grasping onto her tiny foot.
But when you enter the nursery, you don’t find him there, nor your daughter inside her cot. Your mind must still be addled by the unbalanced humours from the birth, but you were sure that you have put Juniper to bed. You would ask her nursemaid but she would already be fast asleep. So you take a candle from the table and set off to find your family within the vast keep.
Storm’s End is much gloomier and greyer at night. As if there are ghosts lingering around the halls whilst the storm winds howl outside. But you continue on, a hand hitching the skirt of your slip whilst the other keeps the candle upright. No ghosts will stop you from finding them.
As you go through the winding hallway with numerous sculpted Baratheon ancestors on the walls, you see a light flickering from the open doors of the library.
Slowly, you peek inside, seeing a lone figure hunched over a table filled with dozens of thick tomes as the shadow sways softly like a ship on gentle tides.
“You’re well fed, changed, and thank the seven you’re not ill.” Lyonel’s voice whispers at the bundle in his arms. “Gods be good, Juniper, why won’t you sleep, hm? Have you no mercy for your poor mother and father?”
Your giggle takes his attention. His head immediately moves towards the source, the corner of his lips tugging into the signature Lyonel smile that you adore. “Your daughter is petulant.”
“My daughter?” You slowly walk across the threshold and over to him, tender gaze never leaving him. “She is yours as she is mine. And our daughter is merely a month old, it is impossible for her to be petulant.”
“She takes after you.” He utters affectionately.
“She looks the most like you, my love.”
You expect for him to hand the babe over to you, too tired to carry her or too annoyed, so you reach for her, but instead of giving the babe over to you, Lyonel leans her away from your waiting arms. He pouts, brows furrowed at you, as if you have offended him and his child caring skills.
“No, this is my duty, I shall not hand her to you until she has fallen asleep in my arms.” He even dramatically turns her away from you as you bite your lip to hinder the laugh in your throat.
Meanwhile, Juniper gurgles in her father’s arms, legs kicking about under her swaddle as her tiny hand grasps onto Lyonel’s doublet.
“She was already asleep when I placed her down in her cot.” Raising a brow, you accuse him of waking her up just so he could put her to sleep himself, an act he sees through as a jest.
“I did not wake her up.” Defending himself, Lyonel, points accusingly at you. “Mayhaps you didn’t put her to sleep well enough. When I went to check on her she was gurgling and kicking about happily. Now I’m not a midwife but that was a very awake child.”
“Babes wake up for no reason, my love.” You answer lovingly, taking a good look at the tome he was reading. Some of them have dust on the covers, the books seem to have been there for quite some time. And each one is about childbirth or anything pertaining to raising children. Your eyes glistens with unshed tears when you look back at your husband. “You’ve been reading…”
“Contrary to the whispers, I know how to read.”
“Oh, my sweet Lyonel.” Your hands reach out to him, and he meets you halfway, placing his face in your open palms as you cradle his face. “You were learning how to raise our Juniper.” Cooing, Lyonel feels good when he’s the one on the receiving end of your cooing for once.
“Of course, I have.” He says matter-of-factly, eyes closing as your thumbs run along his cheek lovingly. “I can’t let you have all the glory.”
Grinning, you pull his face closer to your own, nudging his nose with yours sweetly. Gods, you want another babe with him. Especially if they’ll have his nose too and his smile.
“Oh, you’re already doing so well, my stag.” The reassurance fills his chest with warmth, the same warmth he feels whenever you place his head on your chest in bed so he could sleep soundly, the same warmth he feels whenever Juniper holds his finger in her tiny hand. “Juniper is lucky to have you as her father.” Peppering his face with kisses, you kiss every inch of his face until you see him give you a lopsided smile.
Pulling away, Lyonel immediately misses your lips upon his skin. “Tell me more about how good I am.”
“You’re doing marvelously, my love.” A grin spreads across his handsome face, beaming at you as his hand pats Juniper to sleep. “How about I accompany you here whenever you read? We could learn together.” Your hands don’t leave his side, holding him and Juniper close.
“That is a tremendous idea, my wife, but you and I both know that there won’t be much reading when we are left to our own devices.” His dark eyes sparkle with something familiar.
You make a face, chortling under your breath, “that is true.” Chuckling, you go to check Juniper in his arms, only to find that the quiet wasn’t just because she’s safely tucked in and content in her father’s arms, but because she has finally fallen asleep. “Look at that, you did it, she’s asleep.”
Lyonel looks at his daughter and grins from ear to ear, as if he just unhorsed another Targaryen. “I did it.” He says it with triumph, that you want to paint his expression on a canvas to look at it whenever you please. “It’s all because I’ve been reading.”
“I am sure it was.” Taking his hand and the candle on the other, you lead him out. “Now come and put her back to her cot so we may do some reading of our own.”
Who is he to say no? “Yes, my love.” He gladly follows your lead.
Pairing: Lyonel Baratheon x fem! Reader/ The Laughing Storm x fem! Reader
Word count: 12.2k
Summary: Moments with your children, and Lyonel being the best dad in the realm.
Tags: No use of Y/N, no specific physical description of the reader except for clothing, established relationship, Arryn! Reader, based on my 'where's my husband series,' mentions of childbirth, dad! Lyonel, parent AU, CW animal death, CW suggestive, CW alcohol mention, fluff!
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Lyonel Baratheon Masterlist
My requests are open!
Storm’s End has truly become your home after the birth of your first born, Juniper. She’s a glad child, a welcome laughter amidst the thundering storms just outside the keep. Her father thinks so too when she has him wrapped around her little finger.
Juniper, barely a year old, is Storm’s End little princess, Lords and Ladies from across the realm have granted her favours in an attempt to forge a friendship or even an alliance with you and your Lord Husband. From silver rattles, to intricate weaved blankets from the North, Juniper is swimming in gifts. And just like her father, she loves the attention, giggling and kicking in your arms whenever Lyonel would bring another present to her from a merchant you two met back in Essos.
But despite all the lavish gifts and attention she has garnered, it doesn’t compare to her father’s presence. She’s a delight whenever she’s with him, dark eyes shining the moment she sets her eyes on Lyonel. And he’s the same, mirrored expressions gazing at each other as he takes the two of you in his arms whilst Juniper shrieks happily.
“She was born with laughter in her throat.” He told you one day, voice soft and tender, eyes glimmering with love for his girls while the rare sunshine danced across his handsome face. You were nursing Juniper, whilst he accompanied you and even brought his work on the bed just to be in your presence.
Lyonel has been awfully clingy, always seeking out your warmth, a hand always on your skin. You’re not one to complain when you are the same, always asking for him, always calling his name whenever you please, and it’s quite frequent. If Juniper smiles at something, laughs or even points at something so mundane as a flower or at a horse, then you’re asking the nearest servant to call for your husband so he could witness the miracle that is your daughter.
One day though, you’re the one who is away on business, doing your duties as Lady Baratheon and hosting guests from the Riverlands. Lyonel was by your side, but the moment the conversation turned dull, talking about harvests and Riverland history that may or may not have been a segue into asking for an alliance through marriage with your daughter and the Tully’s youngest— Lyonel has vanished from your side.
You would be irked by his sudden disappearance, how he left you to fend for yourself in front of the Riverlords, but the moment you heard his voice through Juniper’s nursery, all your anger faded away.
Lyonel’s sitting on your rocking chair with Juniper in one arm, slowly falling asleep, long lashes fluttering against the apples of her chubby cheeks. There’s a tome in his other hand, whilst he softly reads the passages to her. He’s reading Florian the fool, a story that he has told you was childish drivel, that he has more interesting stories to tell you as he traced your face with his lips.
“‘You are a fool.’” He reads, tone lowered, thumb kneading at the pudge of Juniper’s leg as he takes a quick peek at her. “Why aren’t you asleep? Your mother told me that you always fall asleep whenever she reads to you.”
Juniper just flashes him her batting lashes, eyes sleep heavy as she sucks on her thumb.
Sighing, Lyonel chuckles, pecking the top of her head, curls tickling his nose. “You are as stubborn as your mother.” The second he finishes his sentence, his eyes flick over to you at the doorway. “I’m afraid we’ve got a spy in our midst, flower. What do we do with spies?”
Juniper makes a sound from the back of her throat, a half giggle, half babble in reply.
“Yes, we show them Stormlander hospitality.” He kisses her curls once again before craning his head to face you with that mischievous smirk on his lips that never fails to make your stomach tumble. “Halt, who goes there?” He jests, and you chortle, crossing the distance over to your family.
“Just the Lady Baratheon, my lord Lyonel.” Smiling, you cup his cheek lovingly, watching as he immediately rests against you with a soft look whilst gazing at you with reverence. “You disappeared on me, my love.”
“‘My lord Lyonel,’” He repeats with a low rumble in his throat, amused. “I haven’t heard that in a while…” his palm cups your behind, squeezing faintly as he rests his hand atop it casually. “It’s always, ‘Lyonel, please take the hounds out,’ or ‘Lyonel, I need you in bed now.’” Mocking your voice, complete with a pout, you can’t help but laugh, a sound that warms his insides. “I heard her cry, so I had to leave, my apologies.”
“No, you did not. She has her nursemaid and she was on the other side of the castle. You…” poking his chest, he tosses the hefty tome on the ground with a solid thump as he pulls you onto his lap. “Did not hear our daughter cry all the way from the great hall.”
“Never underestimate a stag’s hearing.” Pushing you against him by your hip, the chair rocks gently under the weight, and you find your hand is occupied with patting Juniper’s side for her to fall into slumber. “I could not bear hearing another one of Lord Tully’s veiled attempts at brokering an alliance through our Juniper and his fish son.”
“His fish son.” You giggle against his corded neck. “Oh, my love.” Kissing him right on his pulse, right where you know he prefers to be kissed, he lets out a shuddered breath. “You’ll be glad to know that he did not succeed. Juniper has her whole life ahead of her.” Your index tucks away a strand of her hair away from her sleeping face. “And she may choose her husband if she pleases. But not yet.” You melt in his hold, and he embraces you tighter. “Not today.”
“Or any day.” Lyonel kisses the length of your temple until he reaches your cheek. “If it were up to me she wouldn’t be married until we are both sixty.”
“You at sixty or me at sixty? Because those are vastly different years, my love. Yours sooner rather than later.”
“You wench.” Laughing against your cheek, he muffles his guffaw lest Juniper wakes up. The thought of growing old with you warms him from the inside and out, it’s heavenly bliss.
—
Juniper’s giggles echo around the stables as you waddle inside. Your belly is bigger than when you were carrying your daughter. The new maester from the citadel said that it is a good sign that you are carrying a son this time around. Lyonel would be glad of the news, should be glad about having a son and heir, but he’s too busy playing with little Juniper to be ecstatic about the news when he said that the little Baratheon could still turn out to be a girl. To then you have said that he just wanted another little girl that is an exact copy of him. Someone to spoil and hoist upon his shoulders as he walks around the keep to show her off. It’s a bit unfair that you were the one doing all the labours if all your children would end up looking exactly like their father. But you do adore Juniper’s little curls, and her nose that is an exact copy of her father’s.
But he has said that whenever Juniper would smile or pout or even cry, she always reminded him of you. “She might favour my looks more, my sweet, but she is you through and through.” He once uttered against your temple whilst the two of you watched Juniper play with her cousins.
Juniper has the Lord of Storm’s End wrapped around her little finger. She just turned two years old, walking on her own now to yours and her father’s delight. Her second nameday was a sight to behold in the whole realm. In true Baratheon fashion, her father organized a tourney in her honour, and for his unborn child that is currently kicking right at your bladder. It was an even bigger affair than the Ashford tourney, Lords from houses all over the realm visited and came to pay their respects to house Baratheon. Juniper loved the attention and the favours she received, while Lyonel loved unhorsing the Lords and upstart knights at his own tourney. You thank the gods that nothing horrible like a trial of seven happened during the seven day tourney. Just a few drunken fights and a lot of out of tune singing.
You cannot believe that you were once worried that Lyonel might not take to being a father as well as being a good husband. But he has once again proven you wrong. He’s a great father to Juniper, and you are sure that he will continue to do so for the babe that is squirming in your belly.
You enter the stables, smiling from the memory of the recent festivities, especially from the memory of your reunion with your older brothers and a certain hedge knight and his squire. The smell of horse and grass hits you the moment you see Juniper giggling atop a horse whilst her father holds onto the scruff of her dress from the ground, as she grins from ear to ear as she reins in the horse in her tiny fists.
Lyonel felt your presence before you could announce yourself. He turns his head at you as the rare sunlight beams right at your back, basking you in heavenly light.
“Careful, my love, she might fall.”
“She is in the best hands.” He gestures for you to come closer, fingers opening and closing in a come hither motion until you sidle beside him. “Aren’t you, flower?”
Juniper answers with a happy shriek, kicking her tiny legs about. Then she sees you, big dark eyes widening happily as she tries to reach for you. You never expected to be with child so soon after Juniper, but you can’t exactly blame Lyonel when you’re as insatiable as your husband.
“Did you miss me, my gentle heart?” Opening your arms, Juniper jumps off the horse without a care, whilst Lyonel bears all the kicking and flailing to get her to your arms safely. He’s letting you carry her with his hand protectively holding her by the armpits so as to not put stress onto your back and already heavy stomach.
Juniper nods enthusiastically, pressing a wet kiss to your cheek as she embraces your neck. She babbles incoherently against your skin, perhaps retelling her time with her Lord father.
“I thought I’d find you here, Lyonel.” Pecking her temple, you then turn to kiss his cheek, never leaving him out of your affection. “Already trying to teach our girl how to ride when she could barely talk?”
“Never underestimate our daughter, my love.” Lyonel’s free hand lifts your belly from underneath, easing the heaviness as you let out a sigh. “She’s learning quickly.”
Eyes closed, you smile with satisfaction as you feel lighter. “Keep your hand there, please. This one is much heavier than when I carried Juniper.”
“The maester has told me of the possibility of you carrying twins.”
“Twins?” Your eyes fling wide open. “Gods, no, we could barely contain Juniper. And with another on the way….” You imagine feeding two babes at once, shuddering at the thought. “Perhaps I’m just carrying a giant? Your father was incredibly tall.”
“Could be.” He shrugs, clearly amused.
“You want twins.” You exclaim matter-of-factly and he makes a face, nose scrunching at your narrowed eyes teasingly. “Lyonel, you are not the one birthing them.”
“Wanting twins doesn’t make it come true, my love.” Chuckling, a deep rumble in his throat, Lyonel gives you a reassuring kiss whilst Juniper plays with the pearl necklace around your neck. “Having two in one go means that we could stop having children, no more labours for you. I am incredibly happy with the children you have already given me.”
As much as he loves his children, he could not help but worry for you whenever you’re screaming and pushing on the birthing bed. He utterly worries for you, the love of his life as your belly swells with life he helped create. It’s the only time he feels powerless, he can’t wield a sword to defend you from this nor hold a shield or use his charms to help, and he hates it, feeling absolutely helpless to ease your suffering when he is also the one to blame.
“Stop the making of said children too?” You playfully jab his chest with your finger, earning a feigned roll of his eyes.
There’s a sudden jolt of pain in your belly, but it’s normal in this state, so you ignore it. You’d tell him of the prophecy once told to you during the Ashford tourney, but it seems ridiculous for you to say it out loud even though a part of you believes it.
“Gods, no, I’d rather die.” Lyonel looks devastated at the thought. “I’m sure that the maester has a potion to remedy the… side effect.”
“Well—” Your clever retort gets caught on your tongue as your belly twists. Something wet splashes on your feet, a familiar feeling that has the two of you looking down and back up to face the other.
Lyonel laughs loudly, albeit nervously. And Juniper, having no clue, laughs along with him. “We’ll know for sure if we’re having twins today it seems.”
—
It was an easier birth this time around, it only took you six hours of labour for your son to be born. Despite his sheer size, the mother smiled down upon you for a safe and easy birth. When your first child was born during a storm, the new lordling of Storm’s End was born during a rare warm and sunny day. The maester called him a summer prince for it, to which Lyonel grinned at as he wiped the blood off the wailing babe’s face gently.
He was more hands on for the birth of his son when no midwives or ancient maesters were there to bar the door for him. From the start of your labours to the first cry of your son, he was there through it all. He was never fainthearted about blood anyway.
Ormund, you and Lyonel have decided to call him, cries in your arms so loudly that it wakes you up from your exhausted state.
“You are in the presence of the Lord and Lady of Storm’s End, comport yourself.” Lyonel jests, gazing down at the two of you as his cheek presses against your clammy temple. His finger is wrapped around his son’s tiny fist as he continues to wail inside your chambers. “Our son has no manners, my love.”
“Are all of our children so loud?” You ask, still panting but free from all the gunk that came after the birth. And yet utterly blissed out as your hand lovingly caresses Ormund’s chubby leg.
“Perhaps it is proof that they are truly my children.”
You’re too tired to roll your eyes at your husband’s teasing. “As if there is any doubt that they aren’t yours when they look exactly like you. It is unfair to say the least.”
“They got your ferocity and tenacity, my love.” Smiling, Lyonel presses a kiss on your skin, leaning closer to the crying babe to nuzzle his cheek gently. Little Ormund quietens down when he recognizes his father, lips smacking together as he chases his warmth. “I knew that would work.”
“He recognized you.” Chuckling, you find yourself instinctively brushing your fingers into Lyonel’s curls.
“All that speaking into your stomach is not for naught.” Side by side, you can really tell the similarities in their features. Ormund has Lyonel’s wild curls, the same nose, the same eyes and lips. He’s a little Lyonel, his late lord father was not jesting when he said that the Baratheon seed is strong. You both wish that he met his grandchildren.
“Shall we call for Juniper? I want to introduce them to each other.”
Lyonel smiles, giving you a much earned kiss. He rests his forehead against your own, breathing you in as he says your name lovingly. “I’ll come and get her. But first,” taking out a velvet box from his pocket, he opens it for you, revealing a golden brooch of two fawns meeting. “I had it made just for the occasion.”
Your fingers trace along the intricate carving, tears brimming in your eyes as you look up at him. “I don’t know what to say…”
“‘Thank you, I love you, you’re the kindest lord husband in the whole realm and the most handsome.’” He makes a face and tries to copy your voice awfully, that has you chortling through the dull ache. “I have more examples if you need it.”
Moving close, you nuzzle his jaw with your nose, letting his beard tickle you. Lyonel lets out a satisfied hum, clasping the jewelry gingerly on your chemise lovingly. “Thank you, I love and adore you, my stag.” It’s enough to make a lord tear up.
—
You wake up on your own, no babes crying, no storm bashing against the walls of the keep, or even the soft pawing from your husband beside you. For a moment it’s utter bliss, you haven’t slept this peacefully in quite some time, the last one was perhaps before you got married.
Sleep is a rare gift when you’re a mother of two loud children that took after their father. You need all that rest when you have a newborn and a babe, who refuses to sleep by your will. Juniper and Ormund are the light of your life together with your husband, but you love sleep, and your silk sheets beckons you back into slumber. That is until you realize what hour it is and that you haven’t heard a single cry, nor felt Lyonel’s warmth beside you when you reached out to his side of the bed.
Sitting up abruptly, heart racing as your eyes rake around the bed, only to find no one else beside you. You then turn to Ormund’s cradle, finding it empty, save for his blue Arryn blankets embroidered by your mother and sisters by law.
“Fuck.” Panic sets in your stomach despite the sunshine draped across your form, a rare sight to behold in the Stormlands when it’s been raining nonstop for more than a week.
You flip the blankets open, feeling the cold floor on the soles of your feet, movements erratic and panicked.
You hear humming, a strange softened humming, a tune you’re not so familiar with as you follow the source. You enter the solar, the blinds billowing around the wind in wisps of silken fabric.
Heart thrumming in your throat, you see a sight that makes you want to call upon an artist to paint it to preserve the scene forever.
Standing in the balcony is Lyonel, torso bare to the sun, basking in the light, scars and freckles dotted along his back as he holds two sleeping bundles in his arms. The light shines at his curls, salt and pepper dripping in golden light.
Ormund’s cheek is squished atop his father’s freckled shoulder, milk drool in the corner of his lips, and curls dancing in the wind. He’s left in only his swaddling cloth, skin to skin with his father as Lyonel pats his back rhythmically.
Where Ormund is sleeping soundly, Juniper fusses in her sleep, foot twitching, one missing a sock, as her arm falls limp in between Lyonel’s armpit, fully laying on him with her long curls falling over her face. Perhaps dreaming of running around in the gardens.
You don’t call for him as you approach. With a gentle hand in between his shoulder blades, you slowly go around him to gaze into his eyes with the same lovestruck expression you had during the tourney where you met him.
“My love.” You say softly, quietly, saying his name in the most saccharine way possible as the pads of your fingers glide along the length of his arm over to his bicep then to his jaw. “What a sight to wake up to.”
Lyonel unabashedly looks at you up and down, left only in your thin chemise that flutters in the wind, and the sunshine illuminating through the fabric. Leaving nothing to the imagination, as if he has to imagine when he has seen you bare countless of times. And yet it never fails to make him as giddy as today, as needy for your touch like all the days.
“I could say the same thing, my doe.” He leans down for a kiss.
The backdrop of Ship Breaker’s bay below and the horizon just behind you makes waking up more worthwhile.
“You’re awake quite early.” You mumble against his pouted lips.
“Ormund was stirring after Juniper waddled inside our chambers. And I heard from the midwives that the early morning sun is good for the babe.”
Your brows furrow in worry. “She has never done that.” He would knead at the space between your brows if has another hand to spare. “But thank you for bringing them out here.”
“I’m afraid that she feels jealous of her brother.” Lyonel’s curl falls over his eye, and out of instinct, you gently tuck it away and he lets you, watching you fondly. “She wiggled her way into our bed. I’m quite glad I wore my breeches before falling asleep in your arms.”
You stifle a giggle, biting your lip as you gaze at the babes cradled gently in his arms. “She told you that?”
“That she is quite glad that I wore my breeches?”
“No, the part before that.” Rolling your eyes, you flick his earring lovingly and teasingly. “That she’s jealous of Ormund.”
“She did.” Sighing, he looks at his eldest. “His arrival took all the attention away from her.”
“Gods, I didn’t realize.” Your expression falls, a hand lovingly rubbing along the length of Juniper’s arm.
“We’ll do better.” He simply says with a smile. “We’re still learning, my doe.”
“I know.” Taking a deep breath of the sea air, you lay your head against his clavicle. “We’ll do better.”
Lyonel hums again, that same unfamiliar tune. You’ll ask him about it later, for now, you’ll melt against your husband while listening to your children’s little breaths.
—
It’s your nameday and in true Baratheon fashion, Lyonel has organized a grand feast to celebrate. He made sure that everything was set up well beforehand, ravens were sent to different Lords and Ladies that you both wish to see, and Lyonel did not skimp out on his coins, using it wisely, or so he said when he asked for a dozen cakes to be made in your honour.
The two of you made a great pair in organizing it. He wanted you to sit back and let him handle things, but you have said that this feast is to celebrate your marriage to him too, five years together, five years of married bliss. You made the great hall your war room, telling each staff where to put which table, or which flower arrangement is correct and up to your husband’s taste, even though he could not care less about sunflowers or daffodils, but Lyonel loves to see that look on your face. The determined commanding ferocity he loves so much. He has seen it during his cursed cousin’s rebellion, where you commanded Vale troops instead of chefs about which pie to make. He has to confess that your stern tone and sheer dominant presence does something to him, making it hard to walk around with you looking like you’re ready for war.
The feast was delayed for a few hours because he kept tugging you away from your duties. Which you barely protested, you loved those long lengthy moments with the Laughing Storm grunting in your ears, while you two hid in a niche, or behind a tapestry.
The night has gone on and on, the guests are properly drunk off of wine, but the flow of the drinks seems to never stop. Food is overflowing on the tables, meat pies, sweetened pastries and all sorts of food from the north to across the narrow seas. He did not spare expenses for the feast. You were alright with just celebrating with your kin and your children by your side with maybe a cake or two, but it couldn’t be helped when your husband is the epitome of Garth Greenhand.
Lyonel lives for revelry, and nothing makes him feel more like himself with a full goblet of wine in hand and with you sitting right on his lap.
You’re laughing at something Ser Duncan said beside him, the kind of giggle that reverberates through you and onto Lyonel’s chest that warms him throughout his whole body. It could be the wine, but it could also be because you’re wiggling far too much on his lap.
His hand is on your hip, squeezing at every clap from the dancing crowd. He watches Juniper dance around with Egg, both barefoot and laughing along to the jaunty tune. Juniper reminds him of you with every passing year as she grows. She may look every bit like a Baratheon, but she has your soul, she has your smile, and she even dances like you. Whilst little Ormund tries to keep up with their steps, waddling and tugging at the prince’s robes. He tried to get them abed, but they’re your children, as stubborn as you, and as defiant as him.
It’s the kind of night that has fond memories flooding his head, you in your threadbare cloak, hiding behind a giant of a man and looking like a falcon missing its wings. You ignored him at first, and that had him intrigued at your audacity to ignore the Laughing Storm in his own pavilion whilst you sip on his wine and sit there looking beautiful under the warm candle light. The thought has him squeezing you even more, nose nudging your jaw until you tilted your head to grant him space to give your throat a kiss.
Lyonel didn’t want to get married at first, he wanted to be free, free to galavant around the realm, to drink and be merry without worrying about anything or anyone. But duty was thrust upon him when his older brother died during the Blackfyre rebellion, and he was left as the sole heir apparent. Suddenly, he needed to marry, he needed heirs, but just like you, he wanted someone that he would love, or at least care for, and have a partnership with. But as the years went on with him unmarried and his father’s health dwindling, he needed to act fast when vultures were circling around Storm’s End.
His father recommended you, all he knew of you were from him, letters written by your own father that were addressed to his late father. They were flowery words, words that he could not tell if it was true or a lie. But the late Lord Baratheon approved of you, said that if you were anything like your father, Lyonel would find kinship with you. If not love, companionship is the next best thing. Little did he know that he would find both with you. He fell for you hard. One that he never thought was possible. And like everything else in his life, he did not back down and continued to pursue you even when you hid behind your cloak with a beaming smile that could part the grey clouds.
Gods, he loves you, he loves the little lives you have given him, and he would organize a thousand more feasts just for you if it meant eternal life for the both of you. Forever laughing together, forever dancing and holding the other. When he never gave marriage a second thought before, now he would step in front of a blade for you. He made a vow, and he intends to keep it. You are his, and he is yours.
‘This is the life,’ he thinks. Utter bliss, belly full of good food and wine, his great love laughing on his lap, and his children as happy as him, while surrounded by loyal allies.
Lyonel always thought that Storm’s End was dull and dreary, its stone walls are too high, consuming all the light that breaks through the grey clouds. But as he sits at the head of the table, stag crown on his brow, he’s proud of what he made of his dull keep that has more laughter than silence. That has more light breaking through from the inside, it’s warm and comfortable, and most of all, safe, he made it safe for his family. And hopefully for generations to come. Only time will tell.
“My love…” you whisper upon his ear, nibbling and tugging at the earring dangling in his lobe. You wear a crown of antlers just like him, but with feathers around the circlet that are laden with sapphires and yellow diamonds, a gift he made just for you. “Shall I put the children to bed so we could commence the real feast?”
Lyonel loves his children, and loves to hear their laughter and how their eyes crinkle in happiness. But he says yes in the blink of an eye.
—
The sun rarely shines in Storm’s End, but when it does grant the Stormlands some reprieve from the window shattering rains, its people come out to bask in the sun’s presence.
Your husband has grown bored of the council chambers as you see him clamber up the steps towards the gardens, right where you have placed a blanket on the mossy stones to rest upon it with your children. His eyes convey that one of his vassal lords have irked him up to the point that he has forgone the need to drink something strong in favour of seeking out his family’s warmth. Especially yours.
Ormund babbles incoherently on your lap, in his tight fist is a crushed lemon cake, while the other has a small wooden toy carved into a battleaxe, a special gift from his lord father. He seems to never grow tired of it even when you feed him small bites of fresh fruit. While he’s busy bashing the head of a wooden toy dragon, his older sister is humming a tune right behind you as she mindlessly braids your hair whilst drawing a flower in between bites of lemon cake.
Lyonel takes note of the peaceful scenery, birds chirp alongside the garden beds filled with sweet scented flowers. And his great love sits in the middle of his little fawns, crowded around her with love in their eyes as the sun blankets you all in warmth.
“Father!” Juniper is the first to notice him, she vaults from her place to run to Lyonel. Her bare feet thumps against the cobbled stone, not minding the roughness as she jumps for an embrace.
“Oh, my flower.” He groans, back aching as he catches her mid jump. “Stop growing too quickly for me would you?” She giggles in reply, hugging his neck and kicks her feet.
“She can’t help it, she got your stature.” You utter with amusement as you watch baby Ormund waddle towards the pair determinedly.
Your husband opens his free arm to receive the babe. Despite the crick in his neck from staring at reports all day long and the dull ache in the small of his back, he takes both children in his arms gladly, before sauntering over to you.
The sun is overshadowed by the looming Laughing Storm as he beams down upon you with equal warmth.
“Let us hope that she gets your ferocity.” He plops himself down on the blanket, wincing at the heaviness of his own body, head immediately falling down your lap as he settles comfortably with both his children on each arm.
“She already has it, my love. She called the septa a horrid word today.”
“Ah, just like your mother, hm?” Juniper just hides her head in the crook of his neck bashfully.
You have no idea if his intention was to lie down on you, but no matter, you wanted him on your lap anyway. Raking your fingers through his wild curls on instinct, you watch as the sunshine drapes upon his face, immediately easing his stiff expression into a softened one. His eyes crinkled in the corners as he lets out a sigh of content, lips curling into a tender smile.
“We missed you in the council chamber this morning, still having headaches?” His brows knit in worry.
“Yes, unfortunately. Please give the Lords and Ladies my sincerest apologies.”
“You didn’t miss anything profound,” he scoffs, akin to a laugh. “It would’ve been less of a bore if you were there with me though.”
Your cheeks warm from his words, many moons later and after two children, he still finds the right words to fluster you. “I am sure that it would’ve been less of a dull affair.”
“No more talk of duty. What did the three of you do today?” Lyonel’s eyes shimmer with light, gazing up at you with such reverence that it would be considered heresy to the seven.
“Nothing much, sat, played, ate cake.” Smiling down upon him, you feed him a pinch of lemon cake that he immediately chews on, lips chasing your fingers. “It was such a hard and busy day, husband. What about you?” You tease, earning a soft chuckle from him.
From this angle and from the light, you notice more white hairs growing from his curls. He’s aging gracefully, and you smile at the thought. Like your husband’s wish for Juniper, you wish for time to slow down.
“Lord Swann has reported that the harvest won’t be enough for this season, so we mayhaps have to ask another loan from the Tyrells for a hundred or so bushels to not starve.” He answers, hands caressing Juniper’s back as she draws a rose, whilst the other traces Ormund’s chubby arms when he has taken his attention towards his toys. “I hate asking them for anything.”
“I know.” You coo lovingly, bending down to press a chaste kiss on his forehead that he chases your lips as you rise up with a chuckle. “Thank you for asking the Tyrells for help, my love, I know how hard that was for you.”
“Those rose scented lordlings might ask for the hand of our flower next time when Lord Tyrell has managed to give his Lady wife a son after five daughters.” He scoffs at the thought, if you asked him, he would’ve been happy enough with just one child. “That poor woman.”
“Mayhaps the Lady wanted it too.”
His eyes flick at you from Juniper’s drawing. “Mayhaps.” He utters, mind somewhere else, still utterly worried after hearing too many women succumbing to the stranger’s arms on their birthing bed. “I am quite content with having two perfect babes.”
“Three.”
“What?” Lyonel laughs as if you just told him an awful jest.
“I went to the maester this morning, the fatigue and the headaches aren’t from Lord Swann’s ramblings.” There’s a growing smile on his face, albeit wobbly. Just as you say it, your stomach makes a gurgling sound that is awfully familiar to him whenever he presses his ear against your swollen stomach. “I am with child again, which does not come as a surprise after all the nights we spent during my nameday tourney.”
“Gods, another Baratheon.” Sitting up, Lyonel places his hand gently upon your stomach. “I remember those nights.” He leans close, taking your face in his hand as he presses a saccharine kiss upon your waiting lips. “And so does Ser Duncan—”
“Hush!” Your eyes widen, grinning nervously as you look around only to find the gardens the same as before, no wandering ears to be found. While your children are too busy devouring the rest of the lemon cakes. “Lyonel!”
“What? We’ll soon find out if you birth a giant hay haired babe.”
“That is not funny!” And yet you laugh nonetheless.
“I’ll love him anyway.” He jests once again, he knows that the growing child inside of you is his when he remembers that exact night like it was yesterday.
“You are evil.” You laugh against his lips, whilst he pecks warmth into your skin.
—
You meet another son during the hour of the wolf. Your screaming kept the whole castle awake, and Lyonel thanks you for it since it has also kept him awake to witness Orys’ birth. The labours were normal according to the maester, but your heart plummeted in your stomach when your son wouldn’t cry the moment he was born. It took a good smack on his behind from the maester for him to cry, and to yours and Lyonel’s relief, you’ve given birth to another healthy babe.
Orys was a large baby, larger than his older brother. Whenever you would carry him in your arms to feed him, you look smaller in comparison. Lyonel was proud about that fact since it seems that his son got his Lord father’s size. Despite the dark hair and eyes, and the unmistakable Bartatheon look, there were cruel whispers going around the keep, no, the whole realm, that your son who looks strikingly like his Baratheon grandsire is actually the rising kingsguard, Ser Duncan’s bastard. Lyonel tried to put a stop to the rumours by showing Orys around the Storm’s End, and even around his vassal’s lands, but there were still some whispers about your son’s true father when the fact in the matter is glaring right at their faces.
No one saw it amusing when it had gotten to the point that it reached the small folk. Lyonel jests when it first started, even laughed at the prospect of it, but as the time went on, everyone from the north to Dorne knew about the rumour of Lord Baratheon’s unusually tall and quiet son, that they have dubbed him the, ‘Tall Storm’ to those that think the rumours are true, and the, ‘Quiet Storm,’ to those who know the truth.
Whenever Lyonel hears of the said whispers in his own walls, it garners his stormy wrath, so no one in their right mind, not even the jesters, would say it out loud. The last one who bravely did at his court had his tongue removed and sent to his mother in a box. You would disapprove, but you were starting to fear the consequences it would get once Orys and his siblings are older. The last thing you want is to sow strife between them, especially when the rumour is the farthest from the truth.
It doesn’t help when Orys is the opposite of his brother Ormund, whereas the elder is a mirror of his father when it comes to his attitude and disposition, Orys is quieter, bookish, and would rather stay inside than learn how to wield a sword and shield. He is still quite young, and his father hopes that he’ll grow out of it.
Out of all your children, Orys is the one who clings to you more. Whenever he’s not playing by himself or begging his septa or older siblings to read to him, he would always be found beside you. Clinging and hiding behind your skirts or being held in your arms. Lyonel sighs whenever he sees little Orys cling to you endlessly even during supper, but you always tell him that he is the same.
“Like father like son.” You have said, and all the words die on his tongue.
—
Lyonel hates waking up in the dead of night, he needs his rest, and he loves to huddle beside you, hogging your warmth, as if he wants to crawl inside your ribcage and lay asleep inside. But when he had babes of his own, he quickly got used to being woken up by a shrill cry in the night. Whether by Juniper or Ormund, he would immediately flip open the covers and sluggishly go over to their cots that you insisted they rest inside the shared chambers out of your own fear of losing them in the night or from a sudden chill.
With Juniper having her own chambers now, and with Ormund moved out of the nursery in favour of little Orys, who is as quiet as a mouse and would sleep throughout the night, Lyonel hasn’t woken up in the middle of the night in months. Until that is when he hears the softness of your voice stirring him awake, the same voice you would always use for your children, motherly and tender, even when you scold them.
“You shall be as brave and as bold as your father, Orys.”
Lyonel cracks an eye open, heavy with sleep as the rain pours down outside, turning the keep colder and damp. He then finds himself near the edge of his own bed, the privacy curtains grazing along his back from how far he is from your side.
Ormund sleeps beside him, or at least his feet is, when he is sleeping upside down with his head near the other end of the bed. He’s twitching in his sleep, drooling on the sheets that were just cleaned. Lyonel’s brow raises at the sight of his son, eyes going over him in search of you, only to see Juniper sleeping soundly beside her brother, cuddling her doll as she curls around herself.
Lyonel lifts himself by his elbow, looking over Juniper to see baby Orys wiggling around on the bed, fully awake, dark eyes fully open as he huffs whilst you run your index on the length of his nose gently. A loving act that you love doing with your children when they were still babes that seems to always calm them down.
“My sweet.” His voice crackles with sleep, deep and gruffed more than usual. “Why is half of the castle in our bed?”
You chuckle softly, tired yet happy eyes gazing at him. “The storm woke them up. Ormund couldn’t bear sleeping in his own chamber, while Juniper couldn’t fall back to sleep on her own.”
“I understand Orys’ reasoning.” His hand goes over his oldest and over to Orys who looks at him with those curious eyes of his. As Lyonel gently takes his small fist. “But I never expected it from these two.”
“I couldn’t find it within myself to say no.” You give him an apologetic look, but once he reaches for your cheek, the pads of his fingers dancing along your cheekbones, you then smile, knowing that your husband would not be able to say no either. “They won’t make it into a habit.”
Orys gurgles happily, milk bubbles dripping down his pudgy chin. You smile down at your son and wipe his face with such care that Lyonel wants to have another with you.
Lyonel chuckles, rests his head upon his fist as he gazes at his children and over to you fondly. “They better not, or else I’ll put a lock on our chamber door.”
Stifling a laugh, you reach over to him to caress his cheek. “I am sure they’ll grow out of it. Just like you had when you were little.”
“How’d you know that?” His brows furrow, and he has an intense urge to go over to your side of the bed and hold you even if that means that he would fall off the bed if he so moves a muscle.
“The old midwife told me.”
Lyonel hums, nodding as his dark eyes glimmer under the low light of the moon. “Teasing me this early in the day will have you staying abed until the afternoon.”
“Hollow threats, my love, when our children are in between us.”
“When they leave then.” Groaning, he sits up fully, eyeing baby Orys, who looks back at him with a gummy smile. “For now, I shall take away your happiness.”
You gasp, watching as he takes Orys from your side, holding onto him gently and supporting his neck before laying back down and placing him atop his chest. “Lyonel.” You whisper yell. “Give me back my son.”
“No,” he draws the word to add to the teasing. Orys wiggles atop his chest, warm and smelling like milk. From this angle, all swaddled in his Arryn blue blanket, Orys looks like a little worm. “My son and I need to bond. And you need to sleep, can you tell your mother that I am right, Orys?” Carefully grasping his chubby cheek, he makes the babe speak. “‘You are right, father.’” He mimes, talking in a high pitched tone.
You couldn’t help but laugh at his antics as your head plops onto the pillow, muffling your laughter.
—
You have the twins on a fine yet bloody day in the realm. It was during the rebellion, whilst their father and brother were out fighting, you were keeping the stranger away from your birthing bed. They come within two minutes from each other, and you were beyond exhausted, almost giving Lyonel a fright, more terrified than when he faced the Blackfyre army when you fainted from the bloodloss. Thankfully the maester brought you back from the brink, and now you’re chasing your sons down the hallway, dripping wet as they have escaped their baths.
The twins have proven to be a handful. When you thought that Ormund was the more problem child out of the bunch, always out looking for a fight, easily taunted and quick to anger, the twins are rebellious. They never listen to anyone, always running away hand in hand, like a pair of hopping fawns bolting away from the sound of footsteps. In this case, the footsteps are from their maester calling them for their lessons, or their poor septa telling them to stop climbing the walls or setting fire to the gardens.
They’d always go out of their way to play tricks on people, whether the target is their siblings, the servants or even you and Lyonel. The moment you hear their giggles echoing around the halls, you just knew they were up to some mischief.
The only person they would listen to is their father. One stern call of their names has them freezing mid run. You thought that when you named them after your older brother, Robert, and your uncle, Robin, it would be perfect for them. That they would embody their chivalry and kindness, but alas, the seven gave you two rambunctious children that refuse to bathe and attend their lessons.
They would still listen to you of course, only when they see that you are close to calling their father on them, or gods forbid, their aunt Juniper, whom you have called for help to discipline them. You truly needed the extra help when it came to them.
There are times that they would settle down though, and it’s with their older brother, Orys. He’d call for them in the library, and to yours and Lyonel’s surprise, they answered gladly. Orys would calmly read to them as the pair listened intently by his side. They always preferred the wild stories from Essos, and the histories of house Targaryen, to their father’s dismay.
Robert grew to love fishing, Lyonel would take you all on fishing trips when the waters at Ship Breaker’s bay are calmer, and when the summer sun shines upon the glittering tides. Robin grew to love hunting, him and his pet hound that he aptly named Aerion, after his platinum coat, would run around the forests of the Stormlands with either his father or the master at arms. You suspect that he got the name for the hound after Lyonel told him about the story of the Ashford tourney where he met you and participated in the once in a lifetime trial. Whenever Robin calls for Aerion, you bite your tongue lest you let out a guffaw unbefitting your station.
The twins look so alike that even you have trouble distinguishing them from the other. It takes you a few seconds to know which is which twin. Robin has dimples whenever he smiles, and a small mole in the corner of his eye. Whilst Robert’s curls curl the opposite way from his twin’s, and he has a birth mark in the shape of the narrow sea on the back of his hand. But that doesn’t stop them from switching places if they deem it so. To the ire of their maester and septa, they keep finding ways to disguise themselves as the other. Only when Lyonel is called or their aunt Juniper, is when they come running over to you to hide behind your skirt, flashing their big eyes they got from their father as they try to charm their way out of their punishment.
Once the twins are old enough to hold a sword without accidentally stabbing each other in the eye, they took to the sword and shield like you and Lyonel. The lessons were such a delight to them that they would either beg you and Lyonel to be taught, if neither of you weren’t able to, they would grab the master at arms and take him hostage in the training yard until they are satisfied with what they have learned. Ser Andros has many complaints about the pair. Mostly that they would work him to the bone. Not even Ormund was that determined to learn how to fight, and he is considered as the best fighter next to his father.
During the rare days where they would rather be under the covers and in their mother’s arms, you would always take the opportunity to have them settle beside you as they snore the day away. Under the light, the twins look a lot like you, only with Lyonel’s hair, eyes, and lips.
Rob and Rob, you’ve lovingly called them whenever they become petulant, have grown to be remarkable warriors in the making. Even their older brothers weren’t this quick with a sword, a fact that their father is proud of. Day and night, rain or shine, the boys would train together, honing their skills, trying to surpass your brothers, their brothers, and of course their father.
“One day,” you’ve heard Lyonel say to them as he spoke to them in the training yard whilst you pretended not to hear them as you helped Juniper and Orys with their bows. “You will surpass me in skill, for now, do not let your pride drive you, let it be your motivation. Strive to be of great renown through your own. You are a Baratheon and an Arryn, both the noblest of houses in the realm that has borne great warriors. Be good, be better than any of them.”
Their first tourney during Egg’s coronation had the two becoming champions. And they were only two and ten, both taller than children their age, which you did not allow at first just like their brothers had been, but they entered as the mystery knights, wearing both blue and golden colours upon their armour. With a sigil of two antlered falcons soaring above the sea. You knew it was them the moment they stepped foot on the muddy field. And yet you and your husband did not say anything to stop them when they are forging their own paths.
Robert and Robin Baratheon, the king’s champions. Your twin falcons who soared high to great renown before they were three and ten.
—
Lyonel walks through the hunting camp with heavy steps and a frown on his face. He holds onto three hares by their ears, smelling like death and iron as he walks past the many tents that were pitched on the edge of the forest. The hunting trip was a celebration, organized by the Tyrells to bid the betrothal between the houses a good fortune. Unfortunately though, it’s his own child’s betrothal, his Juniper, his flower that is to be wed to a Tyrell boy that she has seemingly, utterly, and unabashedly adores.
He’s happy for his child to have found a love match, but he doesn’t want his little girl, his princess to marry, not yet, it’s too soon for him. Lyonel has said his piece, he has told Juniper that she has to wait a few more years to marry since she is still far too young. To which you have agreed to, and to which both children have reluctantly agreed to, but the one thing you did not agree upon is his clear protest on the union.
You’ve seen how Juniper looks at the Tyrell lordling, the same look you have whenever you turn to Lyonel. And the boy, gods be good, he’s as lovestrucked as her. So much so that you and your future kin had them separate occasionally, lest they ride out of the hunting camp and elope in the middle of nowhere. But you can see the love between them, the innocent kind of love, the purest kind that when Juniper begged for the union, you did not think twice to grant her happiness.
Perhaps that is why Lyonel hasn’t spoken to you in a day and a half. He’s irked, annoyed by the turn of events. And when he was seeking your counsel, you went on and agreed for his little girl to be shipped off in the Reach, so far away, too far away from him.
When he enters the Baratheon pavilion, hares in hand with a scowl so deep that it turned the inside of the tent cold, his children paused from what they were doing.
Ormund stops cleaning his sword, Juniper clamps her mouth shut and stops her conversation with her betrothed on the settee, whilst the Tyrell boy shrinks under his gaze. The twins hastily takes off yours and his helm, hiding it behind their back. All the while Orys stops his reading, and Orys rarely stops his reading for anyone.
“Where’s your mother?” He asks them, and the servants drop what they are doing to curtsy and escape from the tension filling the tent.
Ormund would jest and say, “do you miss her that much, father?” But he doesn’t have a death wish.
“She went on a hunt, father.” Juniper is the only brave soul to answer him.
The hares almost falls from his grip. “Alone?”
“I think so.”
“She’s been away for hours, father.” Orys, the usually quiet one, the one that doesn’t fan the flames, actually fans the flames under his father. “Said that she won’t come back until she hunts a boar for the feast.”
“On her own?” Stepping forward, his heart grows heavy in his chest. “Why didn’t any of you join her?” His dark eyes turn to his oldest son, then over to Juniper. “Hm?” They haven’t seen him this furious ever since prince Aerion came back from his banishment.
Lyonel rarely gets mad, especially at his children. When it comes to his family, he is awfully patient with them, he doesn’t raise his voice, nor use his hand to strike. He promised to be a good father, and he tries to be one. But when it comes to your safety and theirs, they get a glimpse of the storm underneath his fatherly nature.
“She told us to stay.” Juniper replies calmly, ever the voice of reason for her siblings.
“I insisted, father. I tried to accompany her.” Ormund adds, swallowing thickly as Lyonel’s eyes turn to him once again. “I did try.”
Lyonel sighs, and places the hares on the table. He lets out another breath, and another, and another, until he feels himself calm down.
“Which direction did she go?” He utters softer this time around, and he could feel the tension ebb away.
“North.” Orys simply says, before going back to read his hefty book.
“I’m off,” his hands leave the corner of the table. “If she comes back here without me, send a man for me. I have words with your mother.”
“Yes, father.”
He opens the tent, and the sunshine outside nearly blinds him. Lyonel is about to go on his horse when he hears the commotion coming from the northern edge of the forest.
There, basking under the sun, neck and arms coated in fresh blood, hair matted with crimson, is you. Riding on your horse, as a dead stag drags from behind.
People come out of their tents to watch the Lady Baratheon, who has just announced that she is with another child once again, ride into the hunting grounds with her husband’s sigil dead and dragged behind her.
“Gods…” A Tyrell squire, the same age as his Ormund mutters behind him. “I want a wife like that.”
You stop your horse right in front of your husband, looking down at him over your nose. “Husband.”
The crowd and the Lords around the two of you expected a fiery dispute between the two of you. Words hurled, all equally angry, instead of what happens next.
Lyonel lets out a booming guffaw that shakes his whole body. He laughs, the Laughing Storm lives for his name as he almost keels over from laughter. Whilst you, covered in the blood of his house’s sigil, laughs along with him.
“Seven hells, my love.” The laugh lingers in his throat, smiling up at you with reverence as he holds his arms up to you. “Message received.”
You let him get you off your horse, holding onto his steady shoulders as you grin at him. Leaning close, you whisper to him. “Truth be told, this wasn’t my intention. I thought I shot a boar.”
He guffaws again, reaching to grasp at your bloodied cheeks. “We need your eyes looked at by the maester.”
“Perhaps.” You snort out a chuckle. “I am deeply sorry, for the argument we had, and the stag I shot.”
Peeking to your side, looking at the deer, he shrugs. “He’s not my kin, it’s not as if you killed an uncle of mine. Besides, I found it fucking hilarious. You put out a good show for them.”
“I learned from the best,” he pecks your forehead for all to see. “even though it is not my intention.”
“How is the babe?” With a hand upon your armoured stomach, he lets his warmth seep through the leather. “Were you hurt?”
“No, I’m fine, the blood sprayed on me when I took out the arrow.” You can see his worry fade away, hands still holding onto you as he rests his forehead on yours.
“I’m deeply sorry too.” He mumbles, not caring for the eyes on him. He’s holding his wife, they should be the one looking away. “I should’ve heard Juniper’s reasoning.”
“You’re her father,” you take him by his cheek, gazing at him with love. “It is only expected that you wish for her to never leave home. Most fathers are the same. I would wish for her to stay with us forever but it can’t be, not when she has found her love, just like we have.”
“The others fucking geld me.” He inhales deeply, “Why do you always have to be right, hm?” Taking your cheek once again, he peppers your skin with kisses whilst you laugh, also not caring for the stares. Mayhaps a bard would write a song about this encounter. “Come inside, we shall have a bloody feast.”
Lyonel takes you by the hand, not minding the blood on yours when his hand is also bloody. When he turns around, he sees his children look at the two of you with the same expression— disgust.
The older Juniper, your handmaiden is beside them, clearly stifling a laugh. “Now you all know why there are five of you, with the sixth on the way.”
“Did you two have to kiss in front of the whole hunting party?!” Juniper groans, hiding her face in her hands out of embarrassment.
—
Ella was born with a striking resemblance to you. The only child who looks more like you than Lyonel, except for her dark curls and dark eyes, she is you, only a younger, more sweeter version of you. Even your older brothers could see it, especially your father and mother, who cried when she first held Ella during her first nameday.
“Our last babe,” Lyonel has said after Ella’s birth as he carries her in his arms, looking so small, so delicate. “No more, my love.” His words were tender, worried, terrified. He knows about the prophecy you were once told nearly two decades ago, and he has reassured you that no harm will come to them. But who could possibly know what the future holds as you lay sore and still bleeding with the afterbirth? Lyonel loves every single one of his children, but you’re his great love, the one he wants to spend the rest of his life with. He’d rather put the whole realm to the torch than lose you on the birthing bed or any cruel fate that befalls you.
His children are your greatest gift to him, and he’d rather see you watch them grow old with him than fulfill some prophecy. He doesn’t want to be the reason why his children never got to know their mother who loves them dearly.
Ella is the sweetest out of the siblings, but she has the same hidden ferocity as you. When push comes to shove, she will shove back.
She’s tenacious, a fighter who could use her wit as good as a dagger in her hand. She’d either have a scowl on her pretty face or a grin that parts the grey clouds of Storm’s End. To no one’s surprise, she has her father wrapped around her finger. She was as spoiled rotten as her older siblings, you and Lyonel may have grown old but the two of you did not lack in parenting Ella. She was rarely somber, a cry from her happens once in a blue moon, but when it does appear, a sob threatening to spill from her eyes because a toy broke, or her brothers were teasing her too much, or a simple frustration, the whole keep comes to her side. Whether that’s you, her father or her handmaidens, she was truly never alone.
When King Egg announced the betrothal that the three of you have conversed intensely about for nearly a year, Ella was sorrowful at first. Until she met the heir apparent. Prince Duncan was the prince she always had in mind, handsome and chivalrous. The kind of man who would treat your daughter right.
So she begged you to teach her how to be a Lady, how to be a perfect queen once she ascended the iron throne even when the thought alone terrifies you and Lyonel.
She’s your little girl, and Lyonel’s princess. If it were up to you she would not have to marry a prince, that she would marry someone she loves. But it’s for the alliance, an age-old alliance between the Baratheons and the Targaryens that spans beyond you and Lyonel, even King Aegon himself.
So Ella toiled away, read all the books, practiced her etiquette, in preparation to be the queen of the seven kingdoms. You could only hope that you and your husband will be there to protect her, knowing all the dangers the red keep has slithering in the dark corners of their castle.
But you both know that you can’t protect your children forever, but you can teach them how to fight, how to defend themselves. And Ella learned it too, just like her older sister did, just like all her brothers did. So when the time comes that she needs to wield a sword, she would know how.
But alas, no matter how much love, how much care you put all into your youngest, the realm will never know how great of a queen she would’ve been.
—
Lyonel eases his horse in front of a known tavern in his land, whilst you halt yours beside him. You’re both accompanied by guards, all wielding weapons, all sworn to protect your house.
The noise coming from the inside of the tavern echoes outside, and as Lyonel helps you off the horse, and the mud cakes around your boots, you quickly stomp over to the door.
What greets you has you grabbing onto the nearest thing to you— a vase. You hurl it towards all the fighting, shattering it into a million pieces as the patrons and the fighters stop in shock. All staring perplexed at their liege Lord and Lady. Even Lyonel was taken aback.
“Ormund Baratheon.” Your words carry around the tavern, felt by all the unruly sons inside. “Home. Now.”
Lyonel stifles his grin at the sight of Ormund looking far better than his opponent. His nose is bleeding, and there is a blooming bruise on his cheek. But it does not compare to the man in his fist, who is fighting to stay awake.
“Mother, I—” Your son frowns, a mirrored image of your husband whenever you tell him that he has had enough wine. “I did not mean to—”
“Now, Ormund.” You will hear him later, for now, you let your anger out to let him know that you are not in the mood to be charmed. You did not raise a son so he could go out and brawl in a tavern.
His eyes then turns to his father, asking for help.
Lyonel shakes his head, giving him a look that says, “you’re on your own, son, not even I could calm her.”
Sighing, Ormund gathers his belongings, plops a few silver on the table and leaves with his head down.
“As for everyone in this tavern,” they see a stormy side of you, a side that Lyonel adores as much as your softer side whilst you glare at every patron inside. “if I ever see any of your faces in my keep I will shoot an arrow right into your hearts myself.”
Lyonel feels the familiar warmth bloom in the pit of his stomach. “Gods, my doe, that was…”
“Not today, Lyonel.” You say with a pointed gaze. Before sighing, eyes softening as you turn to him once again. “Maybe later if you agree with me when we talk to your son.”
“Now he’s just my son, and not yours—” his mouth clamps shut, he’s not ruining his chances. “yes, of course, my love.”
—
You take a trip in the narrow sea, just a few ways away from Ship Breaker’s bay, accompanied by two more ships filled with guards in case pirates decide that it’s their day to perish from Lord Baratheon’s sword. The waters are calm and warm, as the sun shines all around you. It’s a perfect day for a swim, which Lyonel has decided on a whim that it is time for a quick excursion out at sea.
“It’s the perfect day,” he said, hair greying at the edges, eyes crinkling in the corners and yet looking as handsome as the day you met him. With a kiss from him, you agreed.
The children loved the idea, and so you found yourself on a ship floating in the middle of the narrow sea whilst your children swim and jump into the water.
Juniper shrieks as she gets pushed by Ella into the water, before she hops out of the boat and yelps once the water hits her. Ormund takes laps around the ship, using the time to exercise and increase his endurance, all the while the twins are plotting against their older brother. You could hear the muffled, “pull him under,” and “pull his breeches off,” from them. You decide to let them be, unless someone is drowning then you have no cause for concern as you bathe under the sunshine in a simple cotton dress.
The sun suddenly gets blocked by a Lyonel shaped shadow.
Taking a peek at the intrusion, you smile immediately once you see how red his bare chest has become. His curls are damp from the salty sea, and he has an easy twinkle in his eye, the same one that always appears when he spends time with his family away from duties.
“Didn’t I tell you that the concoction the maester made would prevent exactly that.” You gesture around his chest, ogling it, almost getting lost by staring at the ridges and muscles. “I could help put it on you, my stag.”
“Tempting, but that is not why I am here.” Sitting down beside you on the floor, you just now noticed the two wooden sparring swords in his hands.
“Why do you have that with you?”
“The twins brought it, I had them spar to see how much they’ve improved.” His corded neck tilts back, groaning as he lets the sun shine on him. Gods, you want to sit on his lap and trace his neck with your lips. “They did well.”
“And? What’s the problem with that?”
“I tried to coax Orys out of his corner, using the excuse of sparring with me. Not even Ormund could get him to stand up and fight. The boy annoys him to no end, he would’ve managed to get him to fight him.” He runs a hand through his salt drenched hair. “He’s just so…quiet.”
The mention of your second son has the two of you turning your heads towards him. Orys is tucked in a corner, hiding from the sun in what little shadow he has as best as he could. His long legs are folded, with a tome sitting atop his knees, reading like always.
“I’m afraid that he wants to become a maester. That means he will have to forsake our name one day.” Lyonel says solemnly, words weaved with worry.
“If that’s the path he has chosen then so be it.” Facing your husband with a tight-lipped smile, you hold his hand, weaving your fingers around his own before leaving a peck to each of his knuckles. “What’s so bad at becoming a maester if that’s what would make him happy?”
“He will have to shed the Baratheon name, my love, our name, his legacy, in favour of dusty old books.” Shaking his head, he watches his children play in the water instead. “I worry for him. And I hate that I do not understand our son.”
“Then talk to him.” You say with utmost love for both. “Try to understand him.”
“I don’t understand him, my doe. Sometimes I do think that he’s Duncan’s—” he stops himself, wincing at the words he let out. “I did not mean that.”
“I know.” You touch his face, and leans into your gentle caress. “But he is yours, you and I both know that. He is the splitting image of your Lord father, there is no denying that. He is your son, our son. And I understand him, just like how I understand you and our children. Give him time, spend that time with him. Mayhaps you will learn something about him that you didn’t know.”
Lyonel kisses your palm, eyes closed as his kiss lingers atop your skin before reluctantly pulling away. “I will try.”
“You promised that we will do better, trying is already half of it, my love.” With a kiss to his lips that has him melting in your hands like candle wax, Lyonel chases your lips when you lean away. He would whisk you below deck to the chambers if not for his fatherly duties.
“Wish me luck?”
“If he doesn’t throw the tome on your head then you’re already doing well.” You give him another peck for luck. “Good luck, my stag.”
Groaning, knees creaking as he stands up, he walks over to Orys like how one approaches an animal, slowly, carefully, lest Orys runs and dives away from him.
“What are you reading?” That’s a good start, and you give him a reassuring nod that encourages him even more. The moment Orys gazes up at him, you see your boy subtly smile at his father. The kind that is easily missed by anyone. Perhaps Lyonel could see it now that he is sitting beside him, conversing with Orys in a hushed tone.
“Mother!” Ormund yells from the water, spluttering out gasps of air as his arms flail in the air.
You vault from your seat, screaming at the edge of the ship. “Robert! Robin! Stop trying to drown your brother!”
Ormund takes a deep gasp as the twins surface from under the water and appears beside him. “Sorry, mother…”
“Gods be good.” And yet, you wouldn’t trade this for the world. You thank your lucky stars that you snuck out of the Arryn tent that night, you would never have thought that the single act would give you six children, and a husband who loves and cherishes you and your rumbactious fawns.
A/N: thank you for reading please reblog if you liked it!! ❤️
HAPPY THREE YEAR ANNIVERSARY, POOKIE 🥺 (why did i make it sound like it’s our anniversary, lmaooooo—)
For my first req, may I have something new with Zookeeper!Hobie x Vet!R? 🌝 perhaps of the popular Hobie struggling to flirt with R when they’re alone because R is focused on checking up a baby cub of some kind 🤭
Bonus point if Hobie is a secret loser 🌝😩
-😅
What do you mean it's not our anniversary?! Why did i buy these flowers and chocolates then?!! You know how much i love this au 😉
Pairing: Hobie Brown x fem! Reader/ Spider-Punk x fem reader
Word count: 2.2k
Tags: No use of Y/N, no specific physical description of the reader, veterinarian! Reader, Zookeeper! Hobie, established relationship, cw food mentions, talks of having kids, fluff!
Navigation
3rd year anniversary celebration
You always go out on break at the same time every day, three pm on the dot. You’re so predictable and consistent that your boss, Miguel, already knows what you’re about to ask before you even said it while he’s elbow deep in operating on a sedated baby giraffe.
Lyla spares you a knowing look, a cheeky smile hidden behind her surgical mask as her eyes crinkles. “Say hi to loverboy for us.”
Miguel sighs, and continues on with the operation. “Just be here on time, we have a lion cub coming for a check-up.”
“Got it,” you say, muffled by the glass door as you leave the vet clinic of the zoo. You would’ve replied a clever retort to Lyla but she couldn't be more right when the only reason you take your break at the same time everyday is to see him.
Hobie smiles on stage, he has a mic strapped to him, and the zookeeper uniform that is all khaki, and knee length shorts to show off his calves. He told you numerous times that he hates the bloody thing, how the khaki just washes him out and makes him look like an utter nerd. Well he is a nerd which you told him already and he always just flashes you his million watt smile that makes your knees weak. He hates the uniform so much to the point that he proposed a new uniform to the big bosses, they said that they’ll think about it, it’s been two years and they’re still thinking about it. Truth be told, you liked his design for the new uniform, but he makes those khaki shorts look fucking good. Even the teachers think so too as they whisper amongst themselves at the back of the theater whilst their students watch the show eagerly.
This is where you go everyday to watch the same show, to watch the same zookeeper tell the same joke over and over again to different audiences. And yet you haven’t grown tired of it yet, even when you have memorized the whole show, and would mouth his jokes together with him. Sometimes Hobie mixes it up, he tells his own jokes, does a new trick with Penelope the parrot or Lawrence the lizard and the crowd would eat it up. You would eat it up, especially when Hobie’s eyes immediately search for you within the crowd to see your reaction.
You sit at the far back with your packed sandwich, watching as he walks around Colin the crocodile, teaching the kids all about the wild animal. It’s the crocodile show for today, this is the show you never want to miss, not because you’re a big fan of Colin, but you’re deathly afraid that something will go wrong and that Hobie will end up with one less finger, or worse. You might be an animal doctor, but you still took pre-med meant for humans. So if, knock on wood, something does go wrong, then you’re ready to jump in and help Hobie.
You’ll never tell him that though, you can already see the smug look on his face if you confess that to him. And you’ll never hear the end of it, always teasing you with that smirk, with those piercings that always have the women and men in the crowd swooning, including you, and with those shining mismatched eyes of his. One green, as green as the algae you studied during college, one russet that reminds you of warm coffee during a chilly morning. You’re crushing on him hard, you were in denial in the first few years though, but Hobie has managed to wiggle his way into your stoic heart.
Hobie’s quite popular in the zoo, that whenever a school would organize a field trip, they would always ask for him as their guide. Even the people working the zoo’s socials have taken a liking to him that most of the content has him in it. The people have dubbed him the punk zookeeper, which Hobie laughed at, but you have found him more than once scrolling through the comment section that sings his praise. For someone who has said that he doesn’t care what people think of him, he likes to see those same people smile at the work he’s doing. Because that means he’s making a difference, that means he’s doing great work at his dream job.
You find yourself smiling in his presence as time went on. Sometimes you’d eat with him when he doesn’t have a show, or simply take a walk with him during his patrols around the zoo. You found something more to love about your job because of him.
“Remember,” Hobie’s voice echoes from the sound system as the kids are on the edge of their seats, gawking at how close he is to the crocodile. “They can run on land. So if you see one sunbathin’ don’t get too close, yeah?”
“Yeah!” The children agree in a chorus.
“Right,” Hobie spots you sitting amidst the crowd, and you show him the bag of crisps, shaking it for him with a smile. His beaming grin warms your insides. “That’s the end of our show, thank you for listenin’! Say bye, Colin!” He gently takes the crocodile’s tiny arm, making him wave at the crowd as the other zookeepers around him take a bow. The kids giggle, and Hobie flashes you a quick wink before ushering Colin away and back to his enclosure with a whole chicken.
Once he’s done and the children have moved onto a different show, you stifle a grin as he treks up the steps on the amphitheater over to you. His toned long legs make quick work of the steps, and the sun is doing him a favour as it shines right on his skin, showing off the hidden muscles.
“Where are my crisps, love?” Sitting down beside you, he takes your iced tea and takes a sip as if he bought it.
“Here.” You toss it at him, landing directly at his chest. “Ew, you have cooties.” Snatching the drink away, he grins, mouth closed, full of iced tea. “Great show by the way, would’ve been better if you put your hand closer inside his mouth.”
“Colin was in a good mood.” Opening the crisps, he gives it a good shake before taking one and offering the rest to you. “You really want to see my hand get bitten off by a croc, huh?”
Tilting your head, you gaze at him flatly. “More than anything in the world.”
“I’ll have you sew it back on me, doctor Frankenstein.” He answers with a smirk, chomping loudly at his snack just to annoy you.
“Oh, how sweet, calling me after a deranged psychopathic doctor.”
“But you’re my deranged psychopathic doctor.” He’s leaning close, too close at your face that you could see yourself in his mismatched eyes, and smell his familiar cologne that he probably freshly sprayed on himself for you.
“You think you’re so cute.”
“Nah, you think ‘m cute.”
“No, I don’t. Gaslighting is a crime now, y’know.”
His brows scrunches, and he chuckles, eyes glancing down at your lips before retreating away. “Since when?”
“Since your mama told you she loved you.”
“Fuckin’ hell, love,” his laughter echoes around the empty amphitheater. Nose scrunched, eyes crinkled in the corners as he laughs with his whole chest, the kind of laugh that makes you smile, absolutely endeared. You love making him laugh. “‘m happy to tell you that my mum loves me very much. Just like how your mum loves me, she told me last night.”
“Oh, fuck off!” Your walls fall as you laugh, giggles bouncing around the venue as you cover your mouth with your palm. “You cheeky shit.”
“Your cheeky shit.” He takes another crisp and pops it into his mouth whilst you hide your flustering self behind your half eaten sandwich. “So, what have you been up to in the clinic?” His mouth has gone dry from the crisps, or probably because he’s talking to you and that tends to happen to him whenever you’re in his presence, same goes for his sweaty palms and thudding heart.
You hand him the bottle of iced tea, and he gladly accepts, staring at you for a second before taking it. “We’re finally fixing Gerald’s wonky leg.”
“Finally got the funds, hm?” He takes a big gulp before handing the drink back to you.
“Yep, thanks to your fans.” You then take a sip from the same bottle, and Hobie’s brain short circuits. “Their donation meant a lot, titanium isn’t cheap.” When you notice him staring at you like an owl, you nudge his shoulder. “You good, zookeeper?”
Hobie blinks, clears his throat and wipes his drenched palms on his khakis. A mistake when it leaves an obvious palm print. He hates khaki so fucking much. “Yeah, doc.”
Lips smacking together, tasting him on your lips, you look at him with a small yet sweet smile. “You wanna meet someone special?”
—
Hobie watches you cradle the lion cub in your arms as you gently sway, bottle feeding the cub milk. Something in him breaks, unlocking something else.
“The guys at animal control found him in some rich asshole’s house.” You keep your voice low, while the cub’s eyes slowly close. “They said that he was keeping him as a pet and that the house was basically a biohazard.”
“That’s fuck–ed up.” Hobie’s voice peaks in the middle, like some prepubescent boy speaking to his crush. Clearing his throat, he sees you smirk at him in his peripheral vision. “That’s fucked up, love.” He manages to say without his voice crackling.
“Yep, the guy is in jail now and this little guy is safe.” Your eyes sparkles as you look at the lion cub. “Aren’t you, baby? You’re being such a good boy.” The lion swishes his tail happily.
His stomach warms up from your cooing and soft words. “Thanks, love, I have been doin’ a bangin’ job lately.”
Chuckling, you shake your head at him, eyes glimmering under the fluorescent lights of the zoo clinic. “I wasn’t talking to you.”
“Now my day is ruined.” Taking a step closer, he peeks at the bundle in your arms. The cub is the second cutest thing he has ever seen, the first being you when you were covered in fur after shaving a grizzly bear for surgery. Thank goodness he took a picture of you like that, it’s your caller ID picture on his phone. “I think I want kids.” He blurts out a half joke, half genuine confession if the said kid is with you.
He expected for you to roll your eyes at him, or even laugh. But he didn’t expect the softened look on your pretty face as you turned to gaze at him with the same tenderness.
“Yeah? I think me too, if I ever find the right person. And when I’m financially able.” He’s so close to you that you could just reach out to his cheek and let your touch linger there and feel his scruff like you always wanted to do.
Hobie wants to be the right person. But he has to start now, no more dancing around with you, having a good banter when he has utterly fallen in love with you ever since you yelled at his boss for holding a baby panda wrong.
“D’you…” his lips purses together, leaning away and grabbing the nearest thing to him to keep his shaking hands occupied— a thermometer. “D’you want to go out with me sometime? Out of the zoo, maybe dinner at that Italian place you said you wanted to go to.”
“You remember me saying that?” Your eyes widen a smidge, before a genuine smile replaces the shock on your face.
“Yeah,” his fingers dance along the length of the thermometer mindlessly. “It’s you, lovie. I remember everythin’ you say.”
You place the sleeping cub back on the bassinet he came in, with barely contained giddiness as you turn back to face him. “He needs a name.”
Hobie’s face is indescribable as he tries to save himself from sheer embarrassment and longing. “M–maybe Terrence—”
Plucking the thermometer from his hands, you then grab wet wipes and gently clean his palms. You swear he shivered under your touch. “That thermometer has been in a very dark and warm place, Hobie.”
“Shit—”
“Yep, same place where that came from. Don’t worry, that’s why I’m here.” Grinning up at him sweetly, one that he rarely saw, the smile he has seen once when he made a crude joke about the elephants. He doesn’t even remember the joke, but he did remember your smile. “How about we think of a name for the cub during dinner?”
Hobie could burst into glittering hearts, but you wouldn’t appreciate getting glitter all over the clinic. “Yeah, yeah, sure, lovie.” He tries to act casual, as if he’s not dancing in his head.
“Great,” your beaming smile makes him almost faint right there and then. Your hand brushes along his own faintly, barely there, a feather touch that still leaves him with a giddy smile. “It’s a date then.”
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HAPPY THREE YEAR ANNIVERSARY, POOKIE 🥺 (why did i make it sound like it’s our anniversary, lmaooooo—)
For my first req, may I have something new with Zookeeper!Hobie x Vet!R? 🌝 perhaps of the popular Hobie struggling to flirt with R when they’re alone because R is focused on checking up a baby cub of some kind 🤭
Bonus point if Hobie is a secret loser 🌝😩
-😅
What do you mean it's not our anniversary?! Why did i buy these flowers and chocolates then?!! You know how much i love this au 😉
Pairing: Hobie Brown x fem! Reader/ Spider-Punk x fem reader
Word count: 2.2k
Tags: No use of Y/N, no specific physical description of the reader, veterinarian! Reader, Zookeeper! Hobie, established relationship, cw food mentions, talks of having kids, fluff!
Navigation
3rd year anniversary celebration
You always go out on break at the same time every day, three pm on the dot. You’re so predictable and consistent that your boss, Miguel, already knows what you’re about to ask before you even said it while he’s elbow deep in operating on a sedated baby giraffe.
Lyla spares you a knowing look, a cheeky smile hidden behind her surgical mask as her eyes crinkles. “Say hi to loverboy for us.”
Miguel sighs, and continues on with the operation. “Just be here on time, we have a lion cub coming for a check-up.”
“Got it,” you say, muffled by the glass door as you leave the vet clinic of the zoo. You would’ve replied a clever retort to Lyla but she couldn't be more right when the only reason you take your break at the same time everyday is to see him.
Hobie smiles on stage, he has a mic strapped to him, and the zookeeper uniform that is all khaki, and knee length shorts to show off his calves. He told you numerous times that he hates the bloody thing, how the khaki just washes him out and makes him look like an utter nerd. Well he is a nerd which you told him already and he always just flashes you his million watt smile that makes your knees weak. He hates the uniform so much to the point that he proposed a new uniform to the big bosses, they said that they’ll think about it, it’s been two years and they’re still thinking about it. Truth be told, you liked his design for the new uniform, but he makes those khaki shorts look fucking good. Even the teachers think so too as they whisper amongst themselves at the back of the theater whilst their students watch the show eagerly.
This is where you go everyday to watch the same show, to watch the same zookeeper tell the same joke over and over again to different audiences. And yet you haven’t grown tired of it yet, even when you have memorized the whole show, and would mouth his jokes together with him. Sometimes Hobie mixes it up, he tells his own jokes, does a new trick with Penelope the parrot or Lawrence the lizard and the crowd would eat it up. You would eat it up, especially when Hobie’s eyes immediately search for you within the crowd to see your reaction.
You sit at the far back with your packed sandwich, watching as he walks around Colin the crocodile, teaching the kids all about the wild animal. It’s the crocodile show for today, this is the show you never want to miss, not because you’re a big fan of Colin, but you’re deathly afraid that something will go wrong and that Hobie will end up with one less finger, or worse. You might be an animal doctor, but you still took pre-med meant for humans. So if, knock on wood, something does go wrong, then you’re ready to jump in and help Hobie.
You’ll never tell him that though, you can already see the smug look on his face if you confess that to him. And you’ll never hear the end of it, always teasing you with that smirk, with those piercings that always have the women and men in the crowd swooning, including you, and with those shining mismatched eyes of his. One green, as green as the algae you studied during college, one russet that reminds you of warm coffee during a chilly morning. You’re crushing on him hard, you were in denial in the first few years though, but Hobie has managed to wiggle his way into your stoic heart.
Hobie’s quite popular in the zoo, that whenever a school would organize a field trip, they would always ask for him as their guide. Even the people working the zoo’s socials have taken a liking to him that most of the content has him in it. The people have dubbed him the punk zookeeper, which Hobie laughed at, but you have found him more than once scrolling through the comment section that sings his praise. For someone who has said that he doesn’t care what people think of him, he likes to see those same people smile at the work he’s doing. Because that means he’s making a difference, that means he’s doing great work at his dream job.
You find yourself smiling in his presence as time went on. Sometimes you’d eat with him when he doesn’t have a show, or simply take a walk with him during his patrols around the zoo. You found something more to love about your job because of him.
“Remember,” Hobie’s voice echoes from the sound system as the kids are on the edge of their seats, gawking at how close he is to the crocodile. “They can run on land. So if you see one sunbathin’ don’t get too close, yeah?”
“Yeah!” The children agree in a chorus.
“Right,” Hobie spots you sitting amidst the crowd, and you show him the bag of crisps, shaking it for him with a smile. His beaming grin warms your insides. “That’s the end of our show, thank you for listenin’! Say bye, Colin!” He gently takes the crocodile’s tiny arm, making him wave at the crowd as the other zookeepers around him take a bow. The kids giggle, and Hobie flashes you a quick wink before ushering Colin away and back to his enclosure with a whole chicken.
Once he’s done and the children have moved onto a different show, you stifle a grin as he treks up the steps on the amphitheater over to you. His toned long legs make quick work of the steps, and the sun is doing him a favour as it shines right on his skin, showing off the hidden muscles.
“Where are my crisps, love?” Sitting down beside you, he takes your iced tea and takes a sip as if he bought it.
“Here.” You toss it at him, landing directly at his chest. “Ew, you have cooties.” Snatching the drink away, he grins, mouth closed, full of iced tea. “Great show by the way, would’ve been better if you put your hand closer inside his mouth.”
“Colin was in a good mood.” Opening the crisps, he gives it a good shake before taking one and offering the rest to you. “You really want to see my hand get bitten off by a croc, huh?”
Tilting your head, you gaze at him flatly. “More than anything in the world.”
“I’ll have you sew it back on me, doctor Frankenstein.” He answers with a smirk, chomping loudly at his snack just to annoy you.
“Oh, how sweet, calling me after a deranged psychopathic doctor.”
“But you’re my deranged psychopathic doctor.” He’s leaning close, too close at your face that you could see yourself in his mismatched eyes, and smell his familiar cologne that he probably freshly sprayed on himself for you.
“You think you’re so cute.”
“Nah, you think ‘m cute.”
“No, I don’t. Gaslighting is a crime now, y’know.”
His brows scrunches, and he chuckles, eyes glancing down at your lips before retreating away. “Since when?”
“Since your mama told you she loved you.”
“Fuckin’ hell, love,” his laughter echoes around the empty amphitheater. Nose scrunched, eyes crinkled in the corners as he laughs with his whole chest, the kind of laugh that makes you smile, absolutely endeared. You love making him laugh. “‘m happy to tell you that my mum loves me very much. Just like how your mum loves me, she told me last night.”
“Oh, fuck off!” Your walls fall as you laugh, giggles bouncing around the venue as you cover your mouth with your palm. “You cheeky shit.”
“Your cheeky shit.” He takes another crisp and pops it into his mouth whilst you hide your flustering self behind your half eaten sandwich. “So, what have you been up to in the clinic?” His mouth has gone dry from the crisps, or probably because he’s talking to you and that tends to happen to him whenever you’re in his presence, same goes for his sweaty palms and thudding heart.
You hand him the bottle of iced tea, and he gladly accepts, staring at you for a second before taking it. “We’re finally fixing Gerald’s wonky leg.”
“Finally got the funds, hm?” He takes a big gulp before handing the drink back to you.
“Yep, thanks to your fans.” You then take a sip from the same bottle, and Hobie’s brain short circuits. “Their donation meant a lot, titanium isn’t cheap.” When you notice him staring at you like an owl, you nudge his shoulder. “You good, zookeeper?”
Hobie blinks, clears his throat and wipes his drenched palms on his khakis. A mistake when it leaves an obvious palm print. He hates khaki so fucking much. “Yeah, doc.”
Lips smacking together, tasting him on your lips, you look at him with a small yet sweet smile. “You wanna meet someone special?”
—
Hobie watches you cradle the lion cub in your arms as you gently sway, bottle feeding the cub milk. Something in him breaks, unlocking something else.
“The guys at animal control found him in some rich asshole’s house.” You keep your voice low, while the cub’s eyes slowly close. “They said that he was keeping him as a pet and that the house was basically a biohazard.”
“That’s fuck–ed up.” Hobie’s voice peaks in the middle, like some prepubescent boy speaking to his crush. Clearing his throat, he sees you smirk at him in his peripheral vision. “That’s fucked up, love.” He manages to say without his voice crackling.
“Yep, the guy is in jail now and this little guy is safe.” Your eyes sparkles as you look at the lion cub. “Aren’t you, baby? You’re being such a good boy.” The lion swishes his tail happily.
His stomach warms up from your cooing and soft words. “Thanks, love, I have been doin’ a bangin’ job lately.”
Chuckling, you shake your head at him, eyes glimmering under the fluorescent lights of the zoo clinic. “I wasn’t talking to you.”
“Now my day is ruined.” Taking a step closer, he peeks at the bundle in your arms. The cub is the second cutest thing he has ever seen, the first being you when you were covered in fur after shaving a grizzly bear for surgery. Thank goodness he took a picture of you like that, it’s your caller ID picture on his phone. “I think I want kids.” He blurts out a half joke, half genuine confession if the said kid is with you.
He expected for you to roll your eyes at him, or even laugh. But he didn’t expect the softened look on your pretty face as you turned to gaze at him with the same tenderness.
“Yeah? I think me too, if I ever find the right person. And when I’m financially able.” He’s so close to you that you could just reach out to his cheek and let your touch linger there and feel his scruff like you always wanted to do.
Hobie wants to be the right person. But he has to start now, no more dancing around with you, having a good banter when he has utterly fallen in love with you ever since you yelled at his boss for holding a baby panda wrong.
“D’you…” his lips purses together, leaning away and grabbing the nearest thing to him to keep his shaking hands occupied— a thermometer. “D’you want to go out with me sometime? Out of the zoo, maybe dinner at that Italian place you said you wanted to go to.”
“You remember me saying that?” Your eyes widen a smidge, before a genuine smile replaces the shock on your face.
“Yeah,” his fingers dance along the length of the thermometer mindlessly. “It’s you, lovie. I remember everythin’ you say.”
You place the sleeping cub back on the bassinet he came in, with barely contained giddiness as you turn back to face him. “He needs a name.”
Hobie’s face is indescribable as he tries to save himself from sheer embarrassment and longing. “M–maybe Terrence—”
Plucking the thermometer from his hands, you then grab wet wipes and gently clean his palms. You swear he shivered under your touch. “That thermometer has been in a very dark and warm place, Hobie.”
“Shit—”
“Yep, same place where that came from. Don’t worry, that’s why I’m here.” Grinning up at him sweetly, one that he rarely saw, the smile he has seen once when he made a crude joke about the elephants. He doesn’t even remember the joke, but he did remember your smile. “How about we think of a name for the cub during dinner?”
Hobie could burst into glittering hearts, but you wouldn’t appreciate getting glitter all over the clinic. “Yeah, yeah, sure, lovie.” He tries to act casual, as if he’s not dancing in his head.
“Great,” your beaming smile makes him almost faint right there and then. Your hand brushes along his own faintly, barely there, a feather touch that still leaves him with a giddy smile. “It’s a date then.”
hi babes❤️❤️ im so curious abt what request you got done🤭🤭🤭 im so happy im gonna eat all of them the second they are posted 😭
Hiii ❤️ so far I've got two reqs set in the TTN universe, one with Yuri's best friend! Reader, one modern lyonel, one spider R, and one fae! Peter Parker!!
What time period do you reckon vampire Hobie turned a vampire? Medieval era? Renaissance? Was he a pirate before? Or is he a relatively modern vampire
Hmmm that depends on which vamp hobie bc in ipob he is canonically a thousand years old and he was about 21 when he got turned (no spoilers on who turned him tho or why 🤭)
For regular vamp hobie in my reqs/oneshots he's at least 200/300 years old so mayhaps sometime in the 1800s or even 1700s so he could most definitely have been a pirate back before he was turned!!! I'd like to think that he was shipwrecked and almost died and a vampire stumbled upon him and saved him
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Pairing: Lyonel Baratheon x fem! Reader/ The Laughing Storm x fem! Reader
Word count: 12.2k
Summary: Moments with your children, and Lyonel being the best dad in the realm.
Tags: No use of Y/N, no specific physical description of the reader except for clothing, established relationship, Arryn! Reader, based on my 'where's my husband series,' mentions of childbirth, dad! Lyonel, parent AU, CW animal death, CW suggestive, CW alcohol mention, fluff!
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Lyonel Baratheon Masterlist
My requests are open!
Storm’s End has truly become your home after the birth of your first born, Juniper. She’s a glad child, a welcome laughter amidst the thundering storms just outside the keep. Her father thinks so too when she has him wrapped around her little finger.
Juniper, barely a year old, is Storm’s End little princess, Lords and Ladies from across the realm have granted her favours in an attempt to forge a friendship or even an alliance with you and your Lord Husband. From silver rattles, to intricate weaved blankets from the North, Juniper is swimming in gifts. And just like her father, she loves the attention, giggling and kicking in your arms whenever Lyonel would bring another present to her from a merchant you two met back in Essos.
But despite all the lavish gifts and attention she has garnered, it doesn’t compare to her father’s presence. She’s a delight whenever she’s with him, dark eyes shining the moment she sets her eyes on Lyonel. And he’s the same, mirrored expressions gazing at each other as he takes the two of you in his arms whilst Juniper shrieks happily.
“She was born with laughter in her throat.” He told you one day, voice soft and tender, eyes glimmering with love for his girls while the rare sunshine danced across his handsome face. You were nursing Juniper, whilst he accompanied you and even brought his work on the bed just to be in your presence.
Lyonel has been awfully clingy, always seeking out your warmth, a hand always on your skin. You’re not one to complain when you are the same, always asking for him, always calling his name whenever you please, and it’s quite frequent. If Juniper smiles at something, laughs or even points at something so mundane as a flower or at a horse, then you’re asking the nearest servant to call for your husband so he could witness the miracle that is your daughter.
One day though, you’re the one who is away on business, doing your duties as Lady Baratheon and hosting guests from the Riverlands. Lyonel was by your side, but the moment the conversation turned dull, talking about harvests and Riverland history that may or may not have been a segue into asking for an alliance through marriage with your daughter and the Tully’s youngest— Lyonel has vanished from your side.
You would be irked by his sudden disappearance, how he left you to fend for yourself in front of the Riverlords, but the moment you heard his voice through Juniper’s nursery, all your anger faded away.
Lyonel’s sitting on your rocking chair with Juniper in one arm, slowly falling asleep, long lashes fluttering against the apples of her chubby cheeks. There’s a tome in his other hand, whilst he softly reads the passages to her. He’s reading Florian the fool, a story that he has told you was childish drivel, that he has more interesting stories to tell you as he traced your face with his lips.
“‘You are a fool.’” He reads, tone lowered, thumb kneading at the pudge of Juniper’s leg as he takes a quick peek at her. “Why aren’t you asleep? Your mother told me that you always fall asleep whenever she reads to you.”
Juniper just flashes him her batting lashes, eyes sleep heavy as she sucks on her thumb.
Sighing, Lyonel chuckles, pecking the top of her head, curls tickling his nose. “You are as stubborn as your mother.” The second he finishes his sentence, his eyes flick over to you at the doorway. “I’m afraid we’ve got a spy in our midst, flower. What do we do with spies?”
Juniper makes a sound from the back of her throat, a half giggle, half babble in reply.
“Yes, we show them Stormlander hospitality.” He kisses her curls once again before craning his head to face you with that mischievous smirk on his lips that never fails to make your stomach tumble. “Halt, who goes there?” He jests, and you chortle, crossing the distance over to your family.
“Just the Lady Baratheon, my lord Lyonel.” Smiling, you cup his cheek lovingly, watching as he immediately rests against you with a soft look whilst gazing at you with reverence. “You disappeared on me, my love.”
“‘My lord Lyonel,’” He repeats with a low rumble in his throat, amused. “I haven’t heard that in a while…” his palm cups your behind, squeezing faintly as he rests his hand atop it casually. “It’s always, ‘Lyonel, please take the hounds out,’ or ‘Lyonel, I need you in bed now.’” Mocking your voice, complete with a pout, you can’t help but laugh, a sound that warms his insides. “I heard her cry, so I had to leave, my apologies.”
“No, you did not. She has her nursemaid and she was on the other side of the castle. You…” poking his chest, he tosses the hefty tome on the ground with a solid thump as he pulls you onto his lap. “Did not hear our daughter cry all the way from the great hall.”
“Never underestimate a stag’s hearing.” Pushing you against him by your hip, the chair rocks gently under the weight, and you find your hand is occupied with patting Juniper’s side for her to fall into slumber. “I could not bear hearing another one of Lord Tully’s veiled attempts at brokering an alliance through our Juniper and his fish son.”
“His fish son.” You giggle against his corded neck. “Oh, my love.” Kissing him right on his pulse, right where you know he prefers to be kissed, he lets out a shuddered breath. “You’ll be glad to know that he did not succeed. Juniper has her whole life ahead of her.” Your index tucks away a strand of her hair away from her sleeping face. “And she may choose her husband if she pleases. But not yet.” You melt in his hold, and he embraces you tighter. “Not today.”
“Or any day.” Lyonel kisses the length of your temple until he reaches your cheek. “If it were up to me she wouldn’t be married until we are both sixty.”
“You at sixty or me at sixty? Because those are vastly different years, my love. Yours sooner rather than later.”
“You wench.” Laughing against your cheek, he muffles his guffaw lest Juniper wakes up. The thought of growing old with you warms him from the inside and out, it’s heavenly bliss.
—
Juniper’s giggles echo around the stables as you waddle inside. Your belly is bigger than when you were carrying your daughter. The new maester from the citadel said that it is a good sign that you are carrying a son this time around. Lyonel would be glad of the news, should be glad about having a son and heir, but he’s too busy playing with little Juniper to be ecstatic about the news when he said that the little Baratheon could still turn out to be a girl. To then you have said that he just wanted another little girl that is an exact copy of him. Someone to spoil and hoist upon his shoulders as he walks around the keep to show her off. It’s a bit unfair that you were the one doing all the labours if all your children would end up looking exactly like their father. But you do adore Juniper’s little curls, and her nose that is an exact copy of her father’s.
But he has said that whenever Juniper would smile or pout or even cry, she always reminded him of you. “She might favour my looks more, my sweet, but she is you through and through.” He once uttered against your temple whilst the two of you watched Juniper play with her cousins.
Juniper has the Lord of Storm’s End wrapped around her little finger. She just turned two years old, walking on her own now to yours and her father’s delight. Her second nameday was a sight to behold in the whole realm. In true Baratheon fashion, her father organized a tourney in her honour, and for his unborn child that is currently kicking right at your bladder. It was an even bigger affair than the Ashford tourney, Lords from houses all over the realm visited and came to pay their respects to house Baratheon. Juniper loved the attention and the favours she received, while Lyonel loved unhorsing the Lords and upstart knights at his own tourney. You thank the gods that nothing horrible like a trial of seven happened during the seven day tourney. Just a few drunken fights and a lot of out of tune singing.
You cannot believe that you were once worried that Lyonel might not take to being a father as well as being a good husband. But he has once again proven you wrong. He’s a great father to Juniper, and you are sure that he will continue to do so for the babe that is squirming in your belly.
You enter the stables, smiling from the memory of the recent festivities, especially from the memory of your reunion with your older brothers and a certain hedge knight and his squire. The smell of horse and grass hits you the moment you see Juniper giggling atop a horse whilst her father holds onto the scruff of her dress from the ground, as she grins from ear to ear as she reins in the horse in her tiny fists.
Lyonel felt your presence before you could announce yourself. He turns his head at you as the rare sunlight beams right at your back, basking you in heavenly light.
“Careful, my love, she might fall.”
“She is in the best hands.” He gestures for you to come closer, fingers opening and closing in a come hither motion until you sidle beside him. “Aren’t you, flower?”
Juniper answers with a happy shriek, kicking her tiny legs about. Then she sees you, big dark eyes widening happily as she tries to reach for you. You never expected to be with child so soon after Juniper, but you can’t exactly blame Lyonel when you’re as insatiable as your husband.
“Did you miss me, my gentle heart?” Opening your arms, Juniper jumps off the horse without a care, whilst Lyonel bears all the kicking and flailing to get her to your arms safely. He’s letting you carry her with his hand protectively holding her by the armpits so as to not put stress onto your back and already heavy stomach.
Juniper nods enthusiastically, pressing a wet kiss to your cheek as she embraces your neck. She babbles incoherently against your skin, perhaps retelling her time with her Lord father.
“I thought I’d find you here, Lyonel.” Pecking her temple, you then turn to kiss his cheek, never leaving him out of your affection. “Already trying to teach our girl how to ride when she could barely talk?”
“Never underestimate our daughter, my love.” Lyonel’s free hand lifts your belly from underneath, easing the heaviness as you let out a sigh. “She’s learning quickly.”
Eyes closed, you smile with satisfaction as you feel lighter. “Keep your hand there, please. This one is much heavier than when I carried Juniper.”
“The maester has told me of the possibility of you carrying twins.”
“Twins?” Your eyes fling wide open. “Gods, no, we could barely contain Juniper. And with another on the way….” You imagine feeding two babes at once, shuddering at the thought. “Perhaps I’m just carrying a giant? Your father was incredibly tall.”
“Could be.” He shrugs, clearly amused.
“You want twins.” You exclaim matter-of-factly and he makes a face, nose scrunching at your narrowed eyes teasingly. “Lyonel, you are not the one birthing them.”
“Wanting twins doesn’t make it come true, my love.” Chuckling, a deep rumble in his throat, Lyonel gives you a reassuring kiss whilst Juniper plays with the pearl necklace around your neck. “Having two in one go means that we could stop having children, no more labours for you. I am incredibly happy with the children you have already given me.”
As much as he loves his children, he could not help but worry for you whenever you’re screaming and pushing on the birthing bed. He utterly worries for you, the love of his life as your belly swells with life he helped create. It’s the only time he feels powerless, he can’t wield a sword to defend you from this nor hold a shield or use his charms to help, and he hates it, feeling absolutely helpless to ease your suffering when he is also the one to blame.
“Stop the making of said children too?” You playfully jab his chest with your finger, earning a feigned roll of his eyes.
There’s a sudden jolt of pain in your belly, but it’s normal in this state, so you ignore it. You’d tell him of the prophecy once told to you during the Ashford tourney, but it seems ridiculous for you to say it out loud even though a part of you believes it.
“Gods, no, I’d rather die.” Lyonel looks devastated at the thought. “I’m sure that the maester has a potion to remedy the… side effect.”
“Well—” Your clever retort gets caught on your tongue as your belly twists. Something wet splashes on your feet, a familiar feeling that has the two of you looking down and back up to face the other.
Lyonel laughs loudly, albeit nervously. And Juniper, having no clue, laughs along with him. “We’ll know for sure if we’re having twins today it seems.”
—
It was an easier birth this time around, it only took you six hours of labour for your son to be born. Despite his sheer size, the mother smiled down upon you for a safe and easy birth. When your first child was born during a storm, the new lordling of Storm’s End was born during a rare warm and sunny day. The maester called him a summer prince for it, to which Lyonel grinned at as he wiped the blood off the wailing babe’s face gently.
He was more hands on for the birth of his son when no midwives or ancient maesters were there to bar the door for him. From the start of your labours to the first cry of your son, he was there through it all. He was never fainthearted about blood anyway.
Ormund, you and Lyonel have decided to call him, cries in your arms so loudly that it wakes you up from your exhausted state.
“You are in the presence of the Lord and Lady of Storm’s End, comport yourself.” Lyonel jests, gazing down at the two of you as his cheek presses against your clammy temple. His finger is wrapped around his son’s tiny fist as he continues to wail inside your chambers. “Our son has no manners, my love.”
“Are all of our children so loud?” You ask, still panting but free from all the gunk that came after the birth. And yet utterly blissed out as your hand lovingly caresses Ormund’s chubby leg.
“Perhaps it is proof that they are truly my children.”
You’re too tired to roll your eyes at your husband’s teasing. “As if there is any doubt that they aren’t yours when they look exactly like you. It is unfair to say the least.”
“They got your ferocity and tenacity, my love.” Smiling, Lyonel presses a kiss on your skin, leaning closer to the crying babe to nuzzle his cheek gently. Little Ormund quietens down when he recognizes his father, lips smacking together as he chases his warmth. “I knew that would work.”
“He recognized you.” Chuckling, you find yourself instinctively brushing your fingers into Lyonel’s curls.
“All that speaking into your stomach is not for naught.” Side by side, you can really tell the similarities in their features. Ormund has Lyonel’s wild curls, the same nose, the same eyes and lips. He’s a little Lyonel, his late lord father was not jesting when he said that the Baratheon seed is strong. You both wish that he met his grandchildren.
“Shall we call for Juniper? I want to introduce them to each other.”
Lyonel smiles, giving you a much earned kiss. He rests his forehead against your own, breathing you in as he says your name lovingly. “I’ll come and get her. But first,” taking out a velvet box from his pocket, he opens it for you, revealing a golden brooch of two fawns meeting. “I had it made just for the occasion.”
Your fingers trace along the intricate carving, tears brimming in your eyes as you look up at him. “I don’t know what to say…”
“‘Thank you, I love you, you’re the kindest lord husband in the whole realm and the most handsome.’” He makes a face and tries to copy your voice awfully, that has you chortling through the dull ache. “I have more examples if you need it.”
Moving close, you nuzzle his jaw with your nose, letting his beard tickle you. Lyonel lets out a satisfied hum, clasping the jewelry gingerly on your chemise lovingly. “Thank you, I love and adore you, my stag.” It’s enough to make a lord tear up.
—
You wake up on your own, no babes crying, no storm bashing against the walls of the keep, or even the soft pawing from your husband beside you. For a moment it’s utter bliss, you haven’t slept this peacefully in quite some time, the last one was perhaps before you got married.
Sleep is a rare gift when you’re a mother of two loud children that took after their father. You need all that rest when you have a newborn and a babe, who refuses to sleep by your will. Juniper and Ormund are the light of your life together with your husband, but you love sleep, and your silk sheets beckons you back into slumber. That is until you realize what hour it is and that you haven’t heard a single cry, nor felt Lyonel’s warmth beside you when you reached out to his side of the bed.
Sitting up abruptly, heart racing as your eyes rake around the bed, only to find no one else beside you. You then turn to Ormund’s cradle, finding it empty, save for his blue Arryn blankets embroidered by your mother and sisters by law.
“Fuck.” Panic sets in your stomach despite the sunshine draped across your form, a rare sight to behold in the Stormlands when it’s been raining nonstop for more than a week.
You flip the blankets open, feeling the cold floor on the soles of your feet, movements erratic and panicked.
You hear humming, a strange softened humming, a tune you’re not so familiar with as you follow the source. You enter the solar, the blinds billowing around the wind in wisps of silken fabric.
Heart thrumming in your throat, you see a sight that makes you want to call upon an artist to paint it to preserve the scene forever.
Standing in the balcony is Lyonel, torso bare to the sun, basking in the light, scars and freckles dotted along his back as he holds two sleeping bundles in his arms. The light shines at his curls, salt and pepper dripping in golden light.
Ormund’s cheek is squished atop his father’s freckled shoulder, milk drool in the corner of his lips, and curls dancing in the wind. He’s left in only his swaddling cloth, skin to skin with his father as Lyonel pats his back rhythmically.
Where Ormund is sleeping soundly, Juniper fusses in her sleep, foot twitching, one missing a sock, as her arm falls limp in between Lyonel’s armpit, fully laying on him with her long curls falling over her face. Perhaps dreaming of running around in the gardens.
You don’t call for him as you approach. With a gentle hand in between his shoulder blades, you slowly go around him to gaze into his eyes with the same lovestruck expression you had during the tourney where you met him.
“My love.” You say softly, quietly, saying his name in the most saccharine way possible as the pads of your fingers glide along the length of his arm over to his bicep then to his jaw. “What a sight to wake up to.”
Lyonel unabashedly looks at you up and down, left only in your thin chemise that flutters in the wind, and the sunshine illuminating through the fabric. Leaving nothing to the imagination, as if he has to imagine when he has seen you bare countless of times. And yet it never fails to make him as giddy as today, as needy for your touch like all the days.
“I could say the same thing, my doe.” He leans down for a kiss.
The backdrop of Ship Breaker’s bay below and the horizon just behind you makes waking up more worthwhile.
“You’re awake quite early.” You mumble against his pouted lips.
“Ormund was stirring after Juniper waddled inside our chambers. And I heard from the midwives that the early morning sun is good for the babe.”
Your brows furrow in worry. “She has never done that.” He would knead at the space between your brows if has another hand to spare. “But thank you for bringing them out here.”
“I’m afraid that she feels jealous of her brother.” Lyonel’s curl falls over his eye, and out of instinct, you gently tuck it away and he lets you, watching you fondly. “She wiggled her way into our bed. I’m quite glad I wore my breeches before falling asleep in your arms.”
You stifle a giggle, biting your lip as you gaze at the babes cradled gently in his arms. “She told you that?”
“That she is quite glad that I wore my breeches?”
“No, the part before that.” Rolling your eyes, you flick his earring lovingly and teasingly. “That she’s jealous of Ormund.”
“She did.” Sighing, he looks at his eldest. “His arrival took all the attention away from her.”
“Gods, I didn’t realize.” Your expression falls, a hand lovingly rubbing along the length of Juniper’s arm.
“We’ll do better.” He simply says with a smile. “We’re still learning, my doe.”
“I know.” Taking a deep breath of the sea air, you lay your head against his clavicle. “We’ll do better.”
Lyonel hums again, that same unfamiliar tune. You’ll ask him about it later, for now, you’ll melt against your husband while listening to your children’s little breaths.
—
It’s your nameday and in true Baratheon fashion, Lyonel has organized a grand feast to celebrate. He made sure that everything was set up well beforehand, ravens were sent to different Lords and Ladies that you both wish to see, and Lyonel did not skimp out on his coins, using it wisely, or so he said when he asked for a dozen cakes to be made in your honour.
The two of you made a great pair in organizing it. He wanted you to sit back and let him handle things, but you have said that this feast is to celebrate your marriage to him too, five years together, five years of married bliss. You made the great hall your war room, telling each staff where to put which table, or which flower arrangement is correct and up to your husband’s taste, even though he could not care less about sunflowers or daffodils, but Lyonel loves to see that look on your face. The determined commanding ferocity he loves so much. He has seen it during his cursed cousin’s rebellion, where you commanded Vale troops instead of chefs about which pie to make. He has to confess that your stern tone and sheer dominant presence does something to him, making it hard to walk around with you looking like you’re ready for war.
The feast was delayed for a few hours because he kept tugging you away from your duties. Which you barely protested, you loved those long lengthy moments with the Laughing Storm grunting in your ears, while you two hid in a niche, or behind a tapestry.
The night has gone on and on, the guests are properly drunk off of wine, but the flow of the drinks seems to never stop. Food is overflowing on the tables, meat pies, sweetened pastries and all sorts of food from the north to across the narrow seas. He did not spare expenses for the feast. You were alright with just celebrating with your kin and your children by your side with maybe a cake or two, but it couldn’t be helped when your husband is the epitome of Garth Greenhand.
Lyonel lives for revelry, and nothing makes him feel more like himself with a full goblet of wine in hand and with you sitting right on his lap.
You’re laughing at something Ser Duncan said beside him, the kind of giggle that reverberates through you and onto Lyonel’s chest that warms him throughout his whole body. It could be the wine, but it could also be because you’re wiggling far too much on his lap.
His hand is on your hip, squeezing at every clap from the dancing crowd. He watches Juniper dance around with Egg, both barefoot and laughing along to the jaunty tune. Juniper reminds him of you with every passing year as she grows. She may look every bit like a Baratheon, but she has your soul, she has your smile, and she even dances like you. Whilst little Ormund tries to keep up with their steps, waddling and tugging at the prince’s robes. He tried to get them abed, but they’re your children, as stubborn as you, and as defiant as him.
It’s the kind of night that has fond memories flooding his head, you in your threadbare cloak, hiding behind a giant of a man and looking like a falcon missing its wings. You ignored him at first, and that had him intrigued at your audacity to ignore the Laughing Storm in his own pavilion whilst you sip on his wine and sit there looking beautiful under the warm candle light. The thought has him squeezing you even more, nose nudging your jaw until you tilted your head to grant him space to give your throat a kiss.
Lyonel didn’t want to get married at first, he wanted to be free, free to galavant around the realm, to drink and be merry without worrying about anything or anyone. But duty was thrust upon him when his older brother died during the Blackfyre rebellion, and he was left as the sole heir apparent. Suddenly, he needed to marry, he needed heirs, but just like you, he wanted someone that he would love, or at least care for, and have a partnership with. But as the years went on with him unmarried and his father’s health dwindling, he needed to act fast when vultures were circling around Storm’s End.
His father recommended you, all he knew of you were from him, letters written by your own father that were addressed to his late father. They were flowery words, words that he could not tell if it was true or a lie. But the late Lord Baratheon approved of you, said that if you were anything like your father, Lyonel would find kinship with you. If not love, companionship is the next best thing. Little did he know that he would find both with you. He fell for you hard. One that he never thought was possible. And like everything else in his life, he did not back down and continued to pursue you even when you hid behind your cloak with a beaming smile that could part the grey clouds.
Gods, he loves you, he loves the little lives you have given him, and he would organize a thousand more feasts just for you if it meant eternal life for the both of you. Forever laughing together, forever dancing and holding the other. When he never gave marriage a second thought before, now he would step in front of a blade for you. He made a vow, and he intends to keep it. You are his, and he is yours.
‘This is the life,’ he thinks. Utter bliss, belly full of good food and wine, his great love laughing on his lap, and his children as happy as him, while surrounded by loyal allies.
Lyonel always thought that Storm’s End was dull and dreary, its stone walls are too high, consuming all the light that breaks through the grey clouds. But as he sits at the head of the table, stag crown on his brow, he’s proud of what he made of his dull keep that has more laughter than silence. That has more light breaking through from the inside, it’s warm and comfortable, and most of all, safe, he made it safe for his family. And hopefully for generations to come. Only time will tell.
“My love…” you whisper upon his ear, nibbling and tugging at the earring dangling in his lobe. You wear a crown of antlers just like him, but with feathers around the circlet that are laden with sapphires and yellow diamonds, a gift he made just for you. “Shall I put the children to bed so we could commence the real feast?”
Lyonel loves his children, and loves to hear their laughter and how their eyes crinkle in happiness. But he says yes in the blink of an eye.
—
The sun rarely shines in Storm’s End, but when it does grant the Stormlands some reprieve from the window shattering rains, its people come out to bask in the sun’s presence.
Your husband has grown bored of the council chambers as you see him clamber up the steps towards the gardens, right where you have placed a blanket on the mossy stones to rest upon it with your children. His eyes convey that one of his vassal lords have irked him up to the point that he has forgone the need to drink something strong in favour of seeking out his family’s warmth. Especially yours.
Ormund babbles incoherently on your lap, in his tight fist is a crushed lemon cake, while the other has a small wooden toy carved into a battleaxe, a special gift from his lord father. He seems to never grow tired of it even when you feed him small bites of fresh fruit. While he’s busy bashing the head of a wooden toy dragon, his older sister is humming a tune right behind you as she mindlessly braids your hair whilst drawing a flower in between bites of lemon cake.
Lyonel takes note of the peaceful scenery, birds chirp alongside the garden beds filled with sweet scented flowers. And his great love sits in the middle of his little fawns, crowded around her with love in their eyes as the sun blankets you all in warmth.
“Father!” Juniper is the first to notice him, she vaults from her place to run to Lyonel. Her bare feet thumps against the cobbled stone, not minding the roughness as she jumps for an embrace.
“Oh, my flower.” He groans, back aching as he catches her mid jump. “Stop growing too quickly for me would you?” She giggles in reply, hugging his neck and kicks her feet.
“She can’t help it, she got your stature.” You utter with amusement as you watch baby Ormund waddle towards the pair determinedly.
Your husband opens his free arm to receive the babe. Despite the crick in his neck from staring at reports all day long and the dull ache in the small of his back, he takes both children in his arms gladly, before sauntering over to you.
The sun is overshadowed by the looming Laughing Storm as he beams down upon you with equal warmth.
“Let us hope that she gets your ferocity.” He plops himself down on the blanket, wincing at the heaviness of his own body, head immediately falling down your lap as he settles comfortably with both his children on each arm.
“She already has it, my love. She called the septa a horrid word today.”
“Ah, just like your mother, hm?” Juniper just hides her head in the crook of his neck bashfully.
You have no idea if his intention was to lie down on you, but no matter, you wanted him on your lap anyway. Raking your fingers through his wild curls on instinct, you watch as the sunshine drapes upon his face, immediately easing his stiff expression into a softened one. His eyes crinkled in the corners as he lets out a sigh of content, lips curling into a tender smile.
“We missed you in the council chamber this morning, still having headaches?” His brows knit in worry.
“Yes, unfortunately. Please give the Lords and Ladies my sincerest apologies.”
“You didn’t miss anything profound,” he scoffs, akin to a laugh. “It would’ve been less of a bore if you were there with me though.”
Your cheeks warm from his words, many moons later and after two children, he still finds the right words to fluster you. “I am sure that it would’ve been less of a dull affair.”
“No more talk of duty. What did the three of you do today?” Lyonel’s eyes shimmer with light, gazing up at you with such reverence that it would be considered heresy to the seven.
“Nothing much, sat, played, ate cake.” Smiling down upon him, you feed him a pinch of lemon cake that he immediately chews on, lips chasing your fingers. “It was such a hard and busy day, husband. What about you?” You tease, earning a soft chuckle from him.
From this angle and from the light, you notice more white hairs growing from his curls. He’s aging gracefully, and you smile at the thought. Like your husband’s wish for Juniper, you wish for time to slow down.
“Lord Swann has reported that the harvest won’t be enough for this season, so we mayhaps have to ask another loan from the Tyrells for a hundred or so bushels to not starve.” He answers, hands caressing Juniper’s back as she draws a rose, whilst the other traces Ormund’s chubby arms when he has taken his attention towards his toys. “I hate asking them for anything.”
“I know.” You coo lovingly, bending down to press a chaste kiss on his forehead that he chases your lips as you rise up with a chuckle. “Thank you for asking the Tyrells for help, my love, I know how hard that was for you.”
“Those rose scented lordlings might ask for the hand of our flower next time when Lord Tyrell has managed to give his Lady wife a son after five daughters.” He scoffs at the thought, if you asked him, he would’ve been happy enough with just one child. “That poor woman.”
“Mayhaps the Lady wanted it too.”
His eyes flick at you from Juniper’s drawing. “Mayhaps.” He utters, mind somewhere else, still utterly worried after hearing too many women succumbing to the stranger’s arms on their birthing bed. “I am quite content with having two perfect babes.”
“Three.”
“What?” Lyonel laughs as if you just told him an awful jest.
“I went to the maester this morning, the fatigue and the headaches aren’t from Lord Swann’s ramblings.” There’s a growing smile on his face, albeit wobbly. Just as you say it, your stomach makes a gurgling sound that is awfully familiar to him whenever he presses his ear against your swollen stomach. “I am with child again, which does not come as a surprise after all the nights we spent during my nameday tourney.”
“Gods, another Baratheon.” Sitting up, Lyonel places his hand gently upon your stomach. “I remember those nights.” He leans close, taking your face in his hand as he presses a saccharine kiss upon your waiting lips. “And so does Ser Duncan—”
“Hush!” Your eyes widen, grinning nervously as you look around only to find the gardens the same as before, no wandering ears to be found. While your children are too busy devouring the rest of the lemon cakes. “Lyonel!”
“What? We’ll soon find out if you birth a giant hay haired babe.”
“That is not funny!” And yet you laugh nonetheless.
“I’ll love him anyway.” He jests once again, he knows that the growing child inside of you is his when he remembers that exact night like it was yesterday.
“You are evil.” You laugh against his lips, whilst he pecks warmth into your skin.
—
You meet another son during the hour of the wolf. Your screaming kept the whole castle awake, and Lyonel thanks you for it since it has also kept him awake to witness Orys’ birth. The labours were normal according to the maester, but your heart plummeted in your stomach when your son wouldn’t cry the moment he was born. It took a good smack on his behind from the maester for him to cry, and to yours and Lyonel’s relief, you’ve given birth to another healthy babe.
Orys was a large baby, larger than his older brother. Whenever you would carry him in your arms to feed him, you look smaller in comparison. Lyonel was proud about that fact since it seems that his son got his Lord father’s size. Despite the dark hair and eyes, and the unmistakable Bartatheon look, there were cruel whispers going around the keep, no, the whole realm, that your son who looks strikingly like his Baratheon grandsire is actually the rising kingsguard, Ser Duncan’s bastard. Lyonel tried to put a stop to the rumours by showing Orys around the Storm’s End, and even around his vassal’s lands, but there were still some whispers about your son’s true father when the fact in the matter is glaring right at their faces.
No one saw it amusing when it had gotten to the point that it reached the small folk. Lyonel jests when it first started, even laughed at the prospect of it, but as the time went on, everyone from the north to Dorne knew about the rumour of Lord Baratheon’s unusually tall and quiet son, that they have dubbed him the, ‘Tall Storm’ to those that think the rumours are true, and the, ‘Quiet Storm,’ to those who know the truth.
Whenever Lyonel hears of the said whispers in his own walls, it garners his stormy wrath, so no one in their right mind, not even the jesters, would say it out loud. The last one who bravely did at his court had his tongue removed and sent to his mother in a box. You would disapprove, but you were starting to fear the consequences it would get once Orys and his siblings are older. The last thing you want is to sow strife between them, especially when the rumour is the farthest from the truth.
It doesn’t help when Orys is the opposite of his brother Ormund, whereas the elder is a mirror of his father when it comes to his attitude and disposition, Orys is quieter, bookish, and would rather stay inside than learn how to wield a sword and shield. He is still quite young, and his father hopes that he’ll grow out of it.
Out of all your children, Orys is the one who clings to you more. Whenever he’s not playing by himself or begging his septa or older siblings to read to him, he would always be found beside you. Clinging and hiding behind your skirts or being held in your arms. Lyonel sighs whenever he sees little Orys cling to you endlessly even during supper, but you always tell him that he is the same.
“Like father like son.” You have said, and all the words die on his tongue.
—
Lyonel hates waking up in the dead of night, he needs his rest, and he loves to huddle beside you, hogging your warmth, as if he wants to crawl inside your ribcage and lay asleep inside. But when he had babes of his own, he quickly got used to being woken up by a shrill cry in the night. Whether by Juniper or Ormund, he would immediately flip open the covers and sluggishly go over to their cots that you insisted they rest inside the shared chambers out of your own fear of losing them in the night or from a sudden chill.
With Juniper having her own chambers now, and with Ormund moved out of the nursery in favour of little Orys, who is as quiet as a mouse and would sleep throughout the night, Lyonel hasn’t woken up in the middle of the night in months. Until that is when he hears the softness of your voice stirring him awake, the same voice you would always use for your children, motherly and tender, even when you scold them.
“You shall be as brave and as bold as your father, Orys.”
Lyonel cracks an eye open, heavy with sleep as the rain pours down outside, turning the keep colder and damp. He then finds himself near the edge of his own bed, the privacy curtains grazing along his back from how far he is from your side.
Ormund sleeps beside him, or at least his feet is, when he is sleeping upside down with his head near the other end of the bed. He’s twitching in his sleep, drooling on the sheets that were just cleaned. Lyonel’s brow raises at the sight of his son, eyes going over him in search of you, only to see Juniper sleeping soundly beside her brother, cuddling her doll as she curls around herself.
Lyonel lifts himself by his elbow, looking over Juniper to see baby Orys wiggling around on the bed, fully awake, dark eyes fully open as he huffs whilst you run your index on the length of his nose gently. A loving act that you love doing with your children when they were still babes that seems to always calm them down.
“My sweet.” His voice crackles with sleep, deep and gruffed more than usual. “Why is half of the castle in our bed?”
You chuckle softly, tired yet happy eyes gazing at him. “The storm woke them up. Ormund couldn’t bear sleeping in his own chamber, while Juniper couldn’t fall back to sleep on her own.”
“I understand Orys’ reasoning.” His hand goes over his oldest and over to Orys who looks at him with those curious eyes of his. As Lyonel gently takes his small fist. “But I never expected it from these two.”
“I couldn’t find it within myself to say no.” You give him an apologetic look, but once he reaches for your cheek, the pads of his fingers dancing along your cheekbones, you then smile, knowing that your husband would not be able to say no either. “They won’t make it into a habit.”
Orys gurgles happily, milk bubbles dripping down his pudgy chin. You smile down at your son and wipe his face with such care that Lyonel wants to have another with you.
Lyonel chuckles, rests his head upon his fist as he gazes at his children and over to you fondly. “They better not, or else I’ll put a lock on our chamber door.”
Stifling a laugh, you reach over to him to caress his cheek. “I am sure they’ll grow out of it. Just like you had when you were little.”
“How’d you know that?” His brows furrow, and he has an intense urge to go over to your side of the bed and hold you even if that means that he would fall off the bed if he so moves a muscle.
“The old midwife told me.”
Lyonel hums, nodding as his dark eyes glimmer under the low light of the moon. “Teasing me this early in the day will have you staying abed until the afternoon.”
“Hollow threats, my love, when our children are in between us.”
“When they leave then.” Groaning, he sits up fully, eyeing baby Orys, who looks back at him with a gummy smile. “For now, I shall take away your happiness.”
You gasp, watching as he takes Orys from your side, holding onto him gently and supporting his neck before laying back down and placing him atop his chest. “Lyonel.” You whisper yell. “Give me back my son.”
“No,” he draws the word to add to the teasing. Orys wiggles atop his chest, warm and smelling like milk. From this angle, all swaddled in his Arryn blue blanket, Orys looks like a little worm. “My son and I need to bond. And you need to sleep, can you tell your mother that I am right, Orys?” Carefully grasping his chubby cheek, he makes the babe speak. “‘You are right, father.’” He mimes, talking in a high pitched tone.
You couldn’t help but laugh at his antics as your head plops onto the pillow, muffling your laughter.
—
You have the twins on a fine yet bloody day in the realm. It was during the rebellion, whilst their father and brother were out fighting, you were keeping the stranger away from your birthing bed. They come within two minutes from each other, and you were beyond exhausted, almost giving Lyonel a fright, more terrified than when he faced the Blackfyre army when you fainted from the bloodloss. Thankfully the maester brought you back from the brink, and now you’re chasing your sons down the hallway, dripping wet as they have escaped their baths.
The twins have proven to be a handful. When you thought that Ormund was the more problem child out of the bunch, always out looking for a fight, easily taunted and quick to anger, the twins are rebellious. They never listen to anyone, always running away hand in hand, like a pair of hopping fawns bolting away from the sound of footsteps. In this case, the footsteps are from their maester calling them for their lessons, or their poor septa telling them to stop climbing the walls or setting fire to the gardens.
They’d always go out of their way to play tricks on people, whether the target is their siblings, the servants or even you and Lyonel. The moment you hear their giggles echoing around the halls, you just knew they were up to some mischief.
The only person they would listen to is their father. One stern call of their names has them freezing mid run. You thought that when you named them after your older brother, Robert, and your uncle, Robin, it would be perfect for them. That they would embody their chivalry and kindness, but alas, the seven gave you two rambunctious children that refuse to bathe and attend their lessons.
They would still listen to you of course, only when they see that you are close to calling their father on them, or gods forbid, their aunt Juniper, whom you have called for help to discipline them. You truly needed the extra help when it came to them.
There are times that they would settle down though, and it’s with their older brother, Orys. He’d call for them in the library, and to yours and Lyonel’s surprise, they answered gladly. Orys would calmly read to them as the pair listened intently by his side. They always preferred the wild stories from Essos, and the histories of house Targaryen, to their father’s dismay.
Robert grew to love fishing, Lyonel would take you all on fishing trips when the waters at Ship Breaker’s bay are calmer, and when the summer sun shines upon the glittering tides. Robin grew to love hunting, him and his pet hound that he aptly named Aerion, after his platinum coat, would run around the forests of the Stormlands with either his father or the master at arms. You suspect that he got the name for the hound after Lyonel told him about the story of the Ashford tourney where he met you and participated in the once in a lifetime trial. Whenever Robin calls for Aerion, you bite your tongue lest you let out a guffaw unbefitting your station.
The twins look so alike that even you have trouble distinguishing them from the other. It takes you a few seconds to know which is which twin. Robin has dimples whenever he smiles, and a small mole in the corner of his eye. Whilst Robert’s curls curl the opposite way from his twin’s, and he has a birth mark in the shape of the narrow sea on the back of his hand. But that doesn’t stop them from switching places if they deem it so. To the ire of their maester and septa, they keep finding ways to disguise themselves as the other. Only when Lyonel is called or their aunt Juniper, is when they come running over to you to hide behind your skirt, flashing their big eyes they got from their father as they try to charm their way out of their punishment.
Once the twins are old enough to hold a sword without accidentally stabbing each other in the eye, they took to the sword and shield like you and Lyonel. The lessons were such a delight to them that they would either beg you and Lyonel to be taught, if neither of you weren’t able to, they would grab the master at arms and take him hostage in the training yard until they are satisfied with what they have learned. Ser Andros has many complaints about the pair. Mostly that they would work him to the bone. Not even Ormund was that determined to learn how to fight, and he is considered as the best fighter next to his father.
During the rare days where they would rather be under the covers and in their mother’s arms, you would always take the opportunity to have them settle beside you as they snore the day away. Under the light, the twins look a lot like you, only with Lyonel’s hair, eyes, and lips.
Rob and Rob, you’ve lovingly called them whenever they become petulant, have grown to be remarkable warriors in the making. Even their older brothers weren’t this quick with a sword, a fact that their father is proud of. Day and night, rain or shine, the boys would train together, honing their skills, trying to surpass your brothers, their brothers, and of course their father.
“One day,” you’ve heard Lyonel say to them as he spoke to them in the training yard whilst you pretended not to hear them as you helped Juniper and Orys with their bows. “You will surpass me in skill, for now, do not let your pride drive you, let it be your motivation. Strive to be of great renown through your own. You are a Baratheon and an Arryn, both the noblest of houses in the realm that has borne great warriors. Be good, be better than any of them.”
Their first tourney during Egg’s coronation had the two becoming champions. And they were only two and ten, both taller than children their age, which you did not allow at first just like their brothers had been, but they entered as the mystery knights, wearing both blue and golden colours upon their armour. With a sigil of two antlered falcons soaring above the sea. You knew it was them the moment they stepped foot on the muddy field. And yet you and your husband did not say anything to stop them when they are forging their own paths.
Robert and Robin Baratheon, the king’s champions. Your twin falcons who soared high to great renown before they were three and ten.
—
Lyonel walks through the hunting camp with heavy steps and a frown on his face. He holds onto three hares by their ears, smelling like death and iron as he walks past the many tents that were pitched on the edge of the forest. The hunting trip was a celebration, organized by the Tyrells to bid the betrothal between the houses a good fortune. Unfortunately though, it’s his own child’s betrothal, his Juniper, his flower that is to be wed to a Tyrell boy that she has seemingly, utterly, and unabashedly adores.
He’s happy for his child to have found a love match, but he doesn’t want his little girl, his princess to marry, not yet, it’s too soon for him. Lyonel has said his piece, he has told Juniper that she has to wait a few more years to marry since she is still far too young. To which you have agreed to, and to which both children have reluctantly agreed to, but the one thing you did not agree upon is his clear protest on the union.
You’ve seen how Juniper looks at the Tyrell lordling, the same look you have whenever you turn to Lyonel. And the boy, gods be good, he’s as lovestrucked as her. So much so that you and your future kin had them separate occasionally, lest they ride out of the hunting camp and elope in the middle of nowhere. But you can see the love between them, the innocent kind of love, the purest kind that when Juniper begged for the union, you did not think twice to grant her happiness.
Perhaps that is why Lyonel hasn’t spoken to you in a day and a half. He’s irked, annoyed by the turn of events. And when he was seeking your counsel, you went on and agreed for his little girl to be shipped off in the Reach, so far away, too far away from him.
When he enters the Baratheon pavilion, hares in hand with a scowl so deep that it turned the inside of the tent cold, his children paused from what they were doing.
Ormund stops cleaning his sword, Juniper clamps her mouth shut and stops her conversation with her betrothed on the settee, whilst the Tyrell boy shrinks under his gaze. The twins hastily takes off yours and his helm, hiding it behind their back. All the while Orys stops his reading, and Orys rarely stops his reading for anyone.
“Where’s your mother?” He asks them, and the servants drop what they are doing to curtsy and escape from the tension filling the tent.
Ormund would jest and say, “do you miss her that much, father?” But he doesn’t have a death wish.
“She went on a hunt, father.” Juniper is the only brave soul to answer him.
The hares almost falls from his grip. “Alone?”
“I think so.”
“She’s been away for hours, father.” Orys, the usually quiet one, the one that doesn’t fan the flames, actually fans the flames under his father. “Said that she won’t come back until she hunts a boar for the feast.”
“On her own?” Stepping forward, his heart grows heavy in his chest. “Why didn’t any of you join her?” His dark eyes turn to his oldest son, then over to Juniper. “Hm?” They haven’t seen him this furious ever since prince Aerion came back from his banishment.
Lyonel rarely gets mad, especially at his children. When it comes to his family, he is awfully patient with them, he doesn’t raise his voice, nor use his hand to strike. He promised to be a good father, and he tries to be one. But when it comes to your safety and theirs, they get a glimpse of the storm underneath his fatherly nature.
“She told us to stay.” Juniper replies calmly, ever the voice of reason for her siblings.
“I insisted, father. I tried to accompany her.” Ormund adds, swallowing thickly as Lyonel’s eyes turn to him once again. “I did try.”
Lyonel sighs, and places the hares on the table. He lets out another breath, and another, and another, until he feels himself calm down.
“Which direction did she go?” He utters softer this time around, and he could feel the tension ebb away.
“North.” Orys simply says, before going back to read his hefty book.
“I’m off,” his hands leave the corner of the table. “If she comes back here without me, send a man for me. I have words with your mother.”
“Yes, father.”
He opens the tent, and the sunshine outside nearly blinds him. Lyonel is about to go on his horse when he hears the commotion coming from the northern edge of the forest.
There, basking under the sun, neck and arms coated in fresh blood, hair matted with crimson, is you. Riding on your horse, as a dead stag drags from behind.
People come out of their tents to watch the Lady Baratheon, who has just announced that she is with another child once again, ride into the hunting grounds with her husband’s sigil dead and dragged behind her.
“Gods…” A Tyrell squire, the same age as his Ormund mutters behind him. “I want a wife like that.”
You stop your horse right in front of your husband, looking down at him over your nose. “Husband.”
The crowd and the Lords around the two of you expected a fiery dispute between the two of you. Words hurled, all equally angry, instead of what happens next.
Lyonel lets out a booming guffaw that shakes his whole body. He laughs, the Laughing Storm lives for his name as he almost keels over from laughter. Whilst you, covered in the blood of his house’s sigil, laughs along with him.
“Seven hells, my love.” The laugh lingers in his throat, smiling up at you with reverence as he holds his arms up to you. “Message received.”
You let him get you off your horse, holding onto his steady shoulders as you grin at him. Leaning close, you whisper to him. “Truth be told, this wasn’t my intention. I thought I shot a boar.”
He guffaws again, reaching to grasp at your bloodied cheeks. “We need your eyes looked at by the maester.”
“Perhaps.” You snort out a chuckle. “I am deeply sorry, for the argument we had, and the stag I shot.”
Peeking to your side, looking at the deer, he shrugs. “He’s not my kin, it’s not as if you killed an uncle of mine. Besides, I found it fucking hilarious. You put out a good show for them.”
“I learned from the best,” he pecks your forehead for all to see. “even though it is not my intention.”
“How is the babe?” With a hand upon your armoured stomach, he lets his warmth seep through the leather. “Were you hurt?”
“No, I’m fine, the blood sprayed on me when I took out the arrow.” You can see his worry fade away, hands still holding onto you as he rests his forehead on yours.
“I’m deeply sorry too.” He mumbles, not caring for the eyes on him. He’s holding his wife, they should be the one looking away. “I should’ve heard Juniper’s reasoning.”
“You’re her father,” you take him by his cheek, gazing at him with love. “It is only expected that you wish for her to never leave home. Most fathers are the same. I would wish for her to stay with us forever but it can’t be, not when she has found her love, just like we have.”
“The others fucking geld me.” He inhales deeply, “Why do you always have to be right, hm?” Taking your cheek once again, he peppers your skin with kisses whilst you laugh, also not caring for the stares. Mayhaps a bard would write a song about this encounter. “Come inside, we shall have a bloody feast.”
Lyonel takes you by the hand, not minding the blood on yours when his hand is also bloody. When he turns around, he sees his children look at the two of you with the same expression— disgust.
The older Juniper, your handmaiden is beside them, clearly stifling a laugh. “Now you all know why there are five of you, with the sixth on the way.”
“Did you two have to kiss in front of the whole hunting party?!” Juniper groans, hiding her face in her hands out of embarrassment.
—
Ella was born with a striking resemblance to you. The only child who looks more like you than Lyonel, except for her dark curls and dark eyes, she is you, only a younger, more sweeter version of you. Even your older brothers could see it, especially your father and mother, who cried when she first held Ella during her first nameday.
“Our last babe,” Lyonel has said after Ella’s birth as he carries her in his arms, looking so small, so delicate. “No more, my love.” His words were tender, worried, terrified. He knows about the prophecy you were once told nearly two decades ago, and he has reassured you that no harm will come to them. But who could possibly know what the future holds as you lay sore and still bleeding with the afterbirth? Lyonel loves every single one of his children, but you’re his great love, the one he wants to spend the rest of his life with. He’d rather put the whole realm to the torch than lose you on the birthing bed or any cruel fate that befalls you.
His children are your greatest gift to him, and he’d rather see you watch them grow old with him than fulfill some prophecy. He doesn’t want to be the reason why his children never got to know their mother who loves them dearly.
Ella is the sweetest out of the siblings, but she has the same hidden ferocity as you. When push comes to shove, she will shove back.
She’s tenacious, a fighter who could use her wit as good as a dagger in her hand. She’d either have a scowl on her pretty face or a grin that parts the grey clouds of Storm’s End. To no one’s surprise, she has her father wrapped around her finger. She was as spoiled rotten as her older siblings, you and Lyonel may have grown old but the two of you did not lack in parenting Ella. She was rarely somber, a cry from her happens once in a blue moon, but when it does appear, a sob threatening to spill from her eyes because a toy broke, or her brothers were teasing her too much, or a simple frustration, the whole keep comes to her side. Whether that’s you, her father or her handmaidens, she was truly never alone.
When King Egg announced the betrothal that the three of you have conversed intensely about for nearly a year, Ella was sorrowful at first. Until she met the heir apparent. Prince Duncan was the prince she always had in mind, handsome and chivalrous. The kind of man who would treat your daughter right.
So she begged you to teach her how to be a Lady, how to be a perfect queen once she ascended the iron throne even when the thought alone terrifies you and Lyonel.
She’s your little girl, and Lyonel’s princess. If it were up to you she would not have to marry a prince, that she would marry someone she loves. But it’s for the alliance, an age-old alliance between the Baratheons and the Targaryens that spans beyond you and Lyonel, even King Aegon himself.
So Ella toiled away, read all the books, practiced her etiquette, in preparation to be the queen of the seven kingdoms. You could only hope that you and your husband will be there to protect her, knowing all the dangers the red keep has slithering in the dark corners of their castle.
But you both know that you can’t protect your children forever, but you can teach them how to fight, how to defend themselves. And Ella learned it too, just like her older sister did, just like all her brothers did. So when the time comes that she needs to wield a sword, she would know how.
But alas, no matter how much love, how much care you put all into your youngest, the realm will never know how great of a queen she would’ve been.
—
Lyonel eases his horse in front of a known tavern in his land, whilst you halt yours beside him. You’re both accompanied by guards, all wielding weapons, all sworn to protect your house.
The noise coming from the inside of the tavern echoes outside, and as Lyonel helps you off the horse, and the mud cakes around your boots, you quickly stomp over to the door.
What greets you has you grabbing onto the nearest thing to you— a vase. You hurl it towards all the fighting, shattering it into a million pieces as the patrons and the fighters stop in shock. All staring perplexed at their liege Lord and Lady. Even Lyonel was taken aback.
“Ormund Baratheon.” Your words carry around the tavern, felt by all the unruly sons inside. “Home. Now.”
Lyonel stifles his grin at the sight of Ormund looking far better than his opponent. His nose is bleeding, and there is a blooming bruise on his cheek. But it does not compare to the man in his fist, who is fighting to stay awake.
“Mother, I—” Your son frowns, a mirrored image of your husband whenever you tell him that he has had enough wine. “I did not mean to—”
“Now, Ormund.” You will hear him later, for now, you let your anger out to let him know that you are not in the mood to be charmed. You did not raise a son so he could go out and brawl in a tavern.
His eyes then turns to his father, asking for help.
Lyonel shakes his head, giving him a look that says, “you’re on your own, son, not even I could calm her.”
Sighing, Ormund gathers his belongings, plops a few silver on the table and leaves with his head down.
“As for everyone in this tavern,” they see a stormy side of you, a side that Lyonel adores as much as your softer side whilst you glare at every patron inside. “if I ever see any of your faces in my keep I will shoot an arrow right into your hearts myself.”
Lyonel feels the familiar warmth bloom in the pit of his stomach. “Gods, my doe, that was…”
“Not today, Lyonel.” You say with a pointed gaze. Before sighing, eyes softening as you turn to him once again. “Maybe later if you agree with me when we talk to your son.”
“Now he’s just my son, and not yours—” his mouth clamps shut, he’s not ruining his chances. “yes, of course, my love.”
—
You take a trip in the narrow sea, just a few ways away from Ship Breaker’s bay, accompanied by two more ships filled with guards in case pirates decide that it’s their day to perish from Lord Baratheon’s sword. The waters are calm and warm, as the sun shines all around you. It’s a perfect day for a swim, which Lyonel has decided on a whim that it is time for a quick excursion out at sea.
“It’s the perfect day,” he said, hair greying at the edges, eyes crinkling in the corners and yet looking as handsome as the day you met him. With a kiss from him, you agreed.
The children loved the idea, and so you found yourself on a ship floating in the middle of the narrow sea whilst your children swim and jump into the water.
Juniper shrieks as she gets pushed by Ella into the water, before she hops out of the boat and yelps once the water hits her. Ormund takes laps around the ship, using the time to exercise and increase his endurance, all the while the twins are plotting against their older brother. You could hear the muffled, “pull him under,” and “pull his breeches off,” from them. You decide to let them be, unless someone is drowning then you have no cause for concern as you bathe under the sunshine in a simple cotton dress.
The sun suddenly gets blocked by a Lyonel shaped shadow.
Taking a peek at the intrusion, you smile immediately once you see how red his bare chest has become. His curls are damp from the salty sea, and he has an easy twinkle in his eye, the same one that always appears when he spends time with his family away from duties.
“Didn’t I tell you that the concoction the maester made would prevent exactly that.” You gesture around his chest, ogling it, almost getting lost by staring at the ridges and muscles. “I could help put it on you, my stag.”
“Tempting, but that is not why I am here.” Sitting down beside you on the floor, you just now noticed the two wooden sparring swords in his hands.
“Why do you have that with you?”
“The twins brought it, I had them spar to see how much they’ve improved.” His corded neck tilts back, groaning as he lets the sun shine on him. Gods, you want to sit on his lap and trace his neck with your lips. “They did well.”
“And? What’s the problem with that?”
“I tried to coax Orys out of his corner, using the excuse of sparring with me. Not even Ormund could get him to stand up and fight. The boy annoys him to no end, he would’ve managed to get him to fight him.” He runs a hand through his salt drenched hair. “He’s just so…quiet.”
The mention of your second son has the two of you turning your heads towards him. Orys is tucked in a corner, hiding from the sun in what little shadow he has as best as he could. His long legs are folded, with a tome sitting atop his knees, reading like always.
“I’m afraid that he wants to become a maester. That means he will have to forsake our name one day.” Lyonel says solemnly, words weaved with worry.
“If that’s the path he has chosen then so be it.” Facing your husband with a tight-lipped smile, you hold his hand, weaving your fingers around his own before leaving a peck to each of his knuckles. “What’s so bad at becoming a maester if that’s what would make him happy?”
“He will have to shed the Baratheon name, my love, our name, his legacy, in favour of dusty old books.” Shaking his head, he watches his children play in the water instead. “I worry for him. And I hate that I do not understand our son.”
“Then talk to him.” You say with utmost love for both. “Try to understand him.”
“I don’t understand him, my doe. Sometimes I do think that he’s Duncan’s—” he stops himself, wincing at the words he let out. “I did not mean that.”
“I know.” You touch his face, and leans into your gentle caress. “But he is yours, you and I both know that. He is the splitting image of your Lord father, there is no denying that. He is your son, our son. And I understand him, just like how I understand you and our children. Give him time, spend that time with him. Mayhaps you will learn something about him that you didn’t know.”
Lyonel kisses your palm, eyes closed as his kiss lingers atop your skin before reluctantly pulling away. “I will try.”
“You promised that we will do better, trying is already half of it, my love.” With a kiss to his lips that has him melting in your hands like candle wax, Lyonel chases your lips when you lean away. He would whisk you below deck to the chambers if not for his fatherly duties.
“Wish me luck?”
“If he doesn’t throw the tome on your head then you’re already doing well.” You give him another peck for luck. “Good luck, my stag.”
Groaning, knees creaking as he stands up, he walks over to Orys like how one approaches an animal, slowly, carefully, lest Orys runs and dives away from him.
“What are you reading?” That’s a good start, and you give him a reassuring nod that encourages him even more. The moment Orys gazes up at him, you see your boy subtly smile at his father. The kind that is easily missed by anyone. Perhaps Lyonel could see it now that he is sitting beside him, conversing with Orys in a hushed tone.
“Mother!” Ormund yells from the water, spluttering out gasps of air as his arms flail in the air.
You vault from your seat, screaming at the edge of the ship. “Robert! Robin! Stop trying to drown your brother!”
Ormund takes a deep gasp as the twins surface from under the water and appears beside him. “Sorry, mother…”
“Gods be good.” And yet, you wouldn’t trade this for the world. You thank your lucky stars that you snuck out of the Arryn tent that night, you would never have thought that the single act would give you six children, and a husband who loves and cherishes you and your rumbactious fawns.
A/N: thank you for reading please reblog if you liked it!! ❤️
This was so good, just what I needed after a long and tiring day🩵 That family means so much to me, never a dull moment with all these little stags😍 I love how the siblings are with each other and the care Lyonel has for his lady, she's truly his moon and stars🥹
"You at sixty or me at sixty? Because those are vastly different years, my love. Yours sooner rather than later.” - hahah, for a moment I even thought he meant Juniper at 60🤭🤣
Lyonel felt your presence before you could announce yourself. He turns his head at you as the rare sunlight beams right at your back, basking you in heavenly light. - they're so in tune, I love it😍
“‘Thank you, I love you, you’re the kindest lord husband in the whole realm and the most handsome.’” He makes a face and tries to copy your voice awfully, that has you chortling through the dull ache. “I have more examples if you need it.”- not to forget humble,lol. I love the gift idea, sounds so pretty🥰
Standing in the balcony is Lyonel, torso bare to the sun, basking in the light, scars and freckles dotted along his back as he holds two sleeping bundles in his arms. The light shines at his curls, salt and pepper dripping in golden light. - mm, truly a blessed sight to wake up to🤌🏻
“My love.” You say softly, quietly, saying his name in the most saccharine way possible as the pads of your fingers glide along the length of his arm over to his bicep then to his jaw. “What a sight to wake up to.” - hahah, we share a brain🤭
“That she is quite glad that I wore my breeches?” - I'm sure she only thought it maybe🤣🤣
“She did.” Sighing, he looks at his eldest. “His arrival took all the attention away from her.” - Juniper will always be their special first born girl🥹
Lyonel lives for revelry, and nothing makes him feel more like himself with a full goblet of wine in hand and with you sitting right on his lap. - his paradise 🤭
“My sweet.” His voice crackles with sleep, deep and gruffed more than usual. “Why is half of the castle in our bed?” - hahah, I'd be there too if I could, I said what I said👀
Robert and Robin Baratheon, the king’s champions. Your twin falcons who soared high to great renown before they were three and ten. - Lyonel got his wish🥰 just kidding, of course, he loves all his kids a lot, bless him🥹
Perhaps that is why Lyonel hasn’t spoken to you in a day and a half. He’s irked, annoyed by the turn of events. And when he was seeking your counsel, you went on and agreed for his little girl to be shipped off in the Reach, so far away, too far away from him. - fate has its ways to surprise us, I didn't see this coming either🤭
But alas, no matter how much love, how much care you put all into your youngest, the realm will never know how great of a queen she would’ve been. - the heart wants what it wants, can't say I blame little Dunk but I can't imagine how Ella would have felt🥲
Lyonel kisses your palm, eyes closed as his kiss lingers atop your skin before reluctantly pulling away. “I will try.” - in the end of the day, that's all that matters, to try and be better and you're halfway there💖
They're my family at this point lmaooo yessss they're all very close with each other!
Lmaoooo poor juniper will be a spinster 😂
Literally soulmates!!!!
You know he's amazing at gift giving 🤭
Ahhhhhh the hivemind is connecting!!
Lmaooooo
Yesss juniper will always be their baby 🥹❤️
He's living the life!
AYO?! I mean same 🤭🤭
I know lyonel is their biggest supporter next to their mum 🥺
If it were up to him none of his kids would ever leave home
Brooo I'd be pissed too also they all have their own armours so imagine pulling up to a war and seeing every single one of the family members pull up with the drippiest armours 😆 i know egg suddenly turned into a scared little kid there
YESSSSSS 🥹🥹🥹
Thank you so much lovely!!! ❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️ You'll always be my biggest lyonel lover 🥺❤️
Part 2 of the fic I posted last year😬 Sorry for the wait, guys, life's been wild.If you read this like you're watching a romcom, it'll probably be better🥲 Based on the ask sent by @youmiyoumo to @the-kr8tor. Lovely banners made by @cafekitsune❤️
Pairing: Ekko x Reader x Hobie Brown/ Ekko x Reader x Spider-Punk! Hobie Brown
Word Count: 20.3k
Tags: fluff, soulmate au(red string of fate), modern au(they're all in Hobie's universe, really), cursing, cw! food mention, cw! alcohol mention, tw! catcalling (slight), tw! harassment (slight), tw! name calling (slight), (this sounds way worse than it is💀), no physical description of R (besides clothing), can be read as any gender, sparse use of y/n(just once, really), your friends being utterly cute and sappy ew, childhood friends to eventual lovers, everyone is a little dumb (for a reason trust)
Summary: Deep down inside of you, you'd always known the truth.
Part 1 <<< Part 2
Fingers shuffling through the stack of papers littered about on the coffee table, Ekko can feel his frustration growing the longer he stares at the numbers before him. Hazel brown eyes narrowing and frown deepening, he huffs and shuffles the papers once more. It didn't matter how many times he crunched the numbers in his head, the only solution to his current predicament glaringly obvious. Twisted locs slipping from his bun and framing his face, his skin prickles and his breath hitches at the feeling of something brushing his hair away from his eyes. Whipping his head up at the source, he has to restrain himself from smacking the stupid smiling punk before him, eyes narrowing at the way the man dangles upside down from the ceiling.
“You're gonna get frown lines, ‘Ko.” Russet brown eyes filled with mirth, Hobie chuckles as he drops down to the floor, landing almost gracefully on his feet and hands tugging the web he'd been hanging from off of the ceiling.
“Fuck, man…”, Ekko breathes out as the tension in his shoulders eases up, scowl painted on his lips. “I thought I told you to stop it with that crap. One of these days, I'm gonna have a heart attack and it'll be your fault.”
Hobie just smiles and tilts his head, plopping down on the worn brown couch and slinging his arm around the tense man's shoulders. Focus shifting back towards the paper in his hands, he can feel the punk's intense gaze on him, skin buzzing at the attention. The frown on his face falls and he raises an eyebrow in question, head turning to face the man who looks at him so fondly.
“You're back earlier than I thought you'd be. Slow night?”
“Mhm, ‘s all quiet for once. Wha's got you all miffed though, hm? Could feel it a mile away…” Hobie mumbles as he brings up a hand towards Ekko's face, fingers tenderly brushing underneath the slight bags under the man's eyes before tracing the lighter patches of skin speckled along his face. The corners of his lips quirk up into a smile at the slight scrunching of his nose from the action. Hobie could remember the day the patches first appeared on him, Ekko freaking out slightly at his skin turning a lighter shade. As it spread the older he got, he grew more and more self conscious about his appearance. And only when Hobie had kissed him senseless the day they officially moved in together did he start to slowly take pride in it, whispering words of affection against his skin over and over until the white haired man could feel himself melting into a puddle of goo.
Ekko lets out a sigh and leans against the punk, left hand moving up to hold the one draped over his shoulder and right hand brushing against the one on his lap. The string that connects them gives off a soft red glow and Hobie pulls his love closer, the papers now sprawled all over the wooden coffee table.
“It's rent, Bee. It just keeps going up and between that and the other shit we gotta pay for, it ain't looking too good…” Teeth worrying at his bottom lip, Ekko glances down at the frustrating documents once more before shaking his head. “At this point, we might have to dip into our sav–”
“–Gonna stop you right there”, Hobie interrupts, shaking his head and moving his body to face the shorter man, his hands moving to gently grip at his arms. “We agreed that money's off limits, yeah? ‘S for your store.”
Sucking his teeth, the white haired man rolls his eyes. He knew Hobie wouldn't agree to dipping into their funds, so adamant on getting Ekko his dream shop so that he could put his many different innovative skills to use.
“It would help, Hobes. Just take a bit and we'll put it back in no time.”
“Not happenin’. Once you start takin’ from the stash, it gets harder to keep your mitts out of it. Well known fact, innit.” Opening his mouth to refute his fact that, weirdly enough, made perfect sense, the look in the punk's narrowed russet brown eyes was enough to make him bite back his words. Fingers coming up to scratch at the back of his head and a resigned huff leaving his lips, Ekko looks up at Hobie with a raised brow.
“Only other idea I have is getting a roommate, but the possibility of them finding out you're Spider-Man is…” That makes Hobie sit back a bit, teeth worrying at his lip ring as he contemplates the options they both have. They could always go and get some freelance jobs, but there's never the guarantee of even getting some work that way. And with him being Spider-Man, there was always the chance that a new roommate could spot him coming into the window in the dead hours of the night. Not to mention that one spare room they have filled with his gadgets and web-shooters.
“...Let's get someone we know to move in”, he finally says after a moment of silence, and Ekko groans, his body slumping back on the cushions.
“All of our friends have homes, Bee. And most of them don't know you can stick to walls.”
“Ned knows…!”
“Yeah but Ned is getting ready for his girlfriend to move down here in the next few months, remember?” Hobie lets out a low curse. He'd forgotten about that, about his friend's mysterious long distance girl he'd met online two years ago that he refused to introduce to his friends until she moved to London. He'd found it a little weird, but who was he to judge, especially seeing how happy his long time friend was. Resting his head against the couch, the punk gazes up at the ceiling as both him and Ekko muse their current situation. Both of them would rather their roommate be someone they knew, someone they could trust. And as the silence stretches on, Hobie's fingers move to fiddle with the guitar pick around his neck absentmindedly, his thoughts drifting to the only other person besides the man sitting at his side that shares a necklace so similar.
“...Know who'd be the perfect fit, ‘Ko…?” Hobie hums softly, a fond smile flitting across his face. Huffing out a little chuckle, Ekko moves himself so that his head rests against the taller man's shoulder. Because he did know. The only person they really, truly wanted as their roommate was miles away. Their missing link, the only other person who was against the world with them. Russet brown eyes flit over to meet hazel brown ones, the same thought seemingly dawning on them both. Hobie raises his eyebrows at the man just as Ekko lifts himself off of the couch to gather his computer. It's been a while since you three talked anyhow.
**********
Loud ringing from your computer jolts you awake and you snap your head up from where your cheek had been pressed on your papers with a snort, a thin line of drool trailing down your chin that you lazily wipe away with the back of your hand. A groan leaves you as you rub tentatively at your aching back. Perhaps you shouldn't have fallen asleep hunched over the coffee table from your seat on the floor, the slight pop of your joints making you wince. But between the warm afternoon sunlight peeking through the blinds and the stupid amount of homework in front of you, it wasn't that hard to drift off. Blinking away the bleary haze of sleep and focusing on the caller ID, you instantly sit up straighter at the name, wiping the cold slobber decorating your arm onto your shirt. Fingers tapping the keyboard, you give the two men that pop up on the screen a warm smile, as if you hadn't been dead to the world just a few moments ago.
“Hi, Hobie! Hi, Ekko!” You greet them before clearing your throat, trying to rid yourself of the sleep induced slurring of your words. The punk before you stifling his chuckle and the white haired man beside him quirking his lips up into a smile, you raise a questioning eyebrow at them. “What? What's so funny?”
“It's only around two o'clock where you're at. Were you sleeping, trouble?” Ekko hums, a knowing glint in his hazel brown eyes.
“N-No…” You stammer, lying straight through your teeth. “What makes you say that?” Smile lighting up his features, Hobie taps his cheek a few times, nodding to you.
“Essay ’s on your face, lovely.” Eyes wide, you grab your phone and bring it up towards your face. Sure enough, there was black and blue ink from your papers printed on your left cheek, the words on the parchment smudged. Sighing, you rub the ink away with your palm, gazing back over at the two men on your screen, their amused chuckles sounding in your ear. “Still drowning in homework, yeah?”
“Like you wouldn't believe”, you groan, a scowl on your face as you bunch up the ruined work in your hands. Now you'd have to rewrite that whole page because of course your professor wanted a handwritten essay instead of a typed one. Your friends did warn you that Professor Viktor was a tough one. “Why do I even need stupid science? I'm majoring in English!”
“Hobes and I keep saying we can help you with your homework. But you never call”, Ekko says with a sigh and you give an apologetic smile.
“I want to, but I feel bad everytime. It's always late over there when I actually start…”
“Bug, I live with this nerd. You really think I get any sleep anymore with this thing around?”
“Look who's talkin’”, Hobie grumbles as he scrunches his nose up in indignation. “Caught this weirdo tinkerin’ with his doohickeys ‘till almost five in the mornin’.”
“Not the doohickeys. You two losers need a better sleep schedule”, you mutter while trying not to laugh at the way Ekko looks at Hobie as though he'd been snitched on. “Though, I can't really say I'm any better.”
“We'll get there one of these days. Maybe… Hopefully…” The way you three visibly cringe at the thought of never fixing your sleep schedule makes laughter flow between you then. Hand absentmindedly drifting up to touch the pick hanging around your neck, you don't notice the way the two men's eyes soften, their gazes warm as they peer at you through the screen. Conversation flows effortlessly between you three after that, as it always did. No matter how many years have passed, that feeling of easiness and familiarity never wavered. The thought makes your heart feel warm, grateful that at least some things never change.
You three talk about anything and everything while they help you with the rest of your essay, ranging from what you've eaten in the past week to plans for the future and what you all want out of life. So caught up in telling your beloved childhood bffs about the time you caught your science professor making out with his supposed rival professor, you don't notice the way Hobie's eyes drift upward, his gaze lighting up at something behind you.
“–And then, Professor Talis begged me not to say anything. Which, I mean, of course I wasn't going to–.” The feeling of something brushing along the back of your neck makes you jump, a squeak of surprise leaving you as your hand darts up to find the source. Fingers intertwining with your own, you crane your neck upward, the playful shit-eating grin of your roommate greeting you. You can hear both Ekko and Hobie chuckling.
“Talking with your boyfriends, I see”, Serenity says merrily, all too pleased with herself for startling you. With a huff, you shoot her an annoyed glare while trying to ignore the heat rushing to your cheeks at her words. Resting her chin atop your head, she gives the two men on the screen a smile. “How's it been, you two?”
“Been a while, Reni. You taking care of our bug?”
“Always, always. Don't know what's gonna happen when I move next month, though. Poor thing might starve.” Sighing dramatically and softly patting your cheek, you grumble curses under your breath at the teasing.
“Ya movin’”, Hobie asks while leaning against Ekko, eyebrows raised with mild surprise. Serenity nods, moving to plop herself down on the loveseat behind you. You move your head a little so that she can be seen. “Jus’ to another flat or…?”
“Nah. I'm gonna be living over there. Taking over my great aunt's café and all.”
“That's crazy. Need me and Bee to come get you from the airport?”
“Sweet of y’all, but my boyfriend is gonna pick me up and stuff.”
That makes them look at her in surprise. For as long as they've known about Serenity being a good friend you'd made once moving to California, not once was it mentioned that she has a boyfriend. Especially one living in London.
“Lovely, you ain't tell us your friend has a bloke livin’ down ‘ere.”
“Not really my place to say, Bee. Besides”, you huff as you fix the stack of papers in front of you, “nobody wants your scary asses jumping the poor guy.” Ekko sucks his teeth at that and Hobie scoffs, both of them feigning indignation.
“That ain't true, bug. We'd just rile him up a bit, not full on jump him.”
“Yeah. Can't have a creep hangin’ ‘round our ducky's nanny.”
“Oh, fuck off.”
“Shut the hell up. Laughing at the way both you and Serenity flip them off, Hobie leans back against the couch while Ekko brings the camera back with them.
“Can't believe you're really coming down here, though. You gonna be okay living by yourself, trouble? Or… got any plans of coming to London anytime soon…?” Ekko's question just oozes with hope, the shine in both of their eyes making your heart feel tight in your chest. You knew the question was coming, felt it as the seasons changed and the temperature outside grew warmer. Summer was coming, which meant school was almost over and you'd promised them that you'd try to come visit them if you had the time. They'd asked before if it'd be easier if they came to you, but you'd shaken your head and said you really wanted to come back to England. There were things there that you missed, their company included. Mustering up an apologetic smile, you shake your head.
“Sorry, guys… Not this time…” Disappointment makes itself known on their faces for just a split second before they gift you looks of understanding. It makes your heart ache, having shot down any hope they might have had. Hobie waves away your apology.
“Ain't nothin’ to apologize for. If you can't make it, you can't make it. There's always next summer, love.” Ekko nods in agreement and you suddenly wish you hadn't said anything. You missed them and they definitely missed you. Serenity stares at you for a while before looking back over at the two men on the screen and you try to ignore the sudden pang of guilt.
“What's your boyfriend like, Reni? Just so we can keep an eye out for him.” Ekko muses and you're glad the subject has changed. Your roommate scoffs and rolls her eyes.
“Why would I tell you two weirdos anything?”
“We're jus’ lookin’ out for ya ‘s all.”
“Sure…”, Serenity says dryly, neither you nor her convinced in the slightest. Even as they look at you both with wide innocent eyes. Sharing a look with her, you tilt your head and silently urge her to share something about her long distance lover to satiate their curiosity, amusement shining in your eyes. Rolling her eyes, she lets out an exasperated groan.
“Only thing I'm telling you guys is that he's a sweetheart, and he plays the drums and bass.” For some odd reason, that gets them even more intrigued, Ekko waving his hand to signal her to continue.
“Is he in a band? How long has he been playing?”
“Details, nanny, details.”
“Fuck you, this is why I ain't saying shit.” Flicking both of the men off for the rather stupid nickname, Serenity gets up and walks towards the kitchen and you stifle the giggle that threatens to escape you. The two look at you expectantly as she disappears from their view, waiting for you to reveal what your friend's boyfriend is actually like. Only for you to shake your head and shrug your shoulders to their disappointment.
“The only other thing I know is he's good with engineering, but that's it. She's told me nothing with this one because she really wants me to meet him first.” Ekko's booing at your words makes you laugh. It wasn't like you were lying. Your friend, although an open book, has been particular about this relationship. More so than past one's and she wanted you to meet him in person first, having stated that it would make the first impression better. You didn't really understand it, but as long as the guy wasn't an asshole, you were happy that she was happy.
“What about you, trouble? You met anyone yet…?”
“As if”, you scoff and you think you're imagining the relief that floods your friends’ faces. “I tried to talk with someone on campus a few months ago, but they ghosted me after a few weeks after talking.”
“Fuck ‘em”, Hobie chimes, clicking his tongue and scrunching up his nose. “They missed out on a good thing. You deserve better.”
“You're too good for someone like that anyways”, Ekko huffs and it makes you smile at how readily they are willing to come to your defense.
“You two are more worked up about it than I was. It's okay. They weren't for me and that's that. You guys are sweet, though, thank you.” Fiddling with the pen sitting on top of your neatly stacked essay, you gift the two punks a sheepish smile. “What about you two…? Anybody catch either of your eyes?”
“No one but you, me duck”, Hobie coos at you, earning him a smack to his arm by Ekko. You roll your eyes, trying hard not to dwell on just why your heartbeat skipped a little at his words.
“He's dumb, ignore him”, Ekko sighs, sucking his teeth and hazel brown eyes shooting a cheeky looking Hobie a glare. “Neither of us are dating anyone, bug. Haven't found the right person yet.”
“Or, we're jus’ waitin’ for ‘em to show up”, Hobie mutters and the confirmation of them being single weirdly enough brings a sense of relief that you weren't aware you needed. Ignoring whatever weird feelings that shouldn't have been there in your heart in the first place, you lean back until your back hits the edge of the couch. Pulling your laptop into your lap, the three of you continue chatting for nearly an hour, laughing and reminiscing. Making promises that you truly do intend to keep. When you finally end your call with them, you're left feeling warm and giddy inside with a smile on your lips that doesn't seem to fade. Placing your now finished essay away thanks to the help of your friends, you close your laptop and stand up from your seat on the floor. Joints popping as you stretch, the sudden shocking sensation of frigid cold presses against your cheek, making you gasp and stagger back. Serenity grins at you as she waves the ice cold bottle of water she more than likely pressed against you around. Scowling, you snatch it from her and she scoffs.
“Uh, excuse you? Rude.” Placing her bottle of orange juice on the coffee table, she fixes her long braids into a bun atop her head and gazes at you knowingly. “Thought you would've been in a better mood after talking with your boyfriends.”
“Not my boyfriends", you huff, twisting off the cap to your water. “I don't know why you insist on calling them that. We're just friends.”
“Yeah, okay, sure”, she snorts as she plops back down on the couch. “‘Just friends.’ I'm friends with you and I don't look at you that way.” Rolling your eyes, you let out a reluctant groan .
“Here you go–”
“No, but if you actually paid attention”, your loving roommate interrupts, her voice growing in volume as she pulls you down by the hem of your shirt to sit beside her. “They're into you. Like really into you. Like, ‘parting is such sweet sorrow’ type into you.”
“The Shakespeare?!”
“You're not listening”, Serenity groans as growing frustration mares her face. It's not like you haven't heard all this before. Even your mother had spoken of your childhood friends holding affection for you before, though you never believed them. And, while it's true that you had thought of them in that way once, you'd never soil the good friendship you had with both men since primary school. Besides, the chances of both Hobie and Ekko liking you at the same time we're slim to none. No, you'd remain a good friend for them, no matter what.
“They look at you the way my teddy bear looks at me and I've told you about how he looks at me.” Reni says dreamily, swooning over her long distance boyfriend yet again. Groaning, you flop down to lay across her lap, hitting her thigh lightly in an attempt to stop her rant before it can truly begin.
“I get it, you love your man. Good on you… But I swear, the only reason you keep saying they like me is because you ship us.” Snorting, your roommate looks down at you in a way that screams ‘duh’.
“You guys are my entertainment. My kdrama but it's the UK edition.” Astounded laughter leaving your lips, you gaze up at her with wide eyes and Reni pinches your nose. “Also, what was up with you lying to them earlier? Why didn't you tell them you're moving back down there?”
“I wanted to surprise them”, you mumble nasally, moving your head so that she frees your nose. “They'll be really happy that I'm not just visiting.”
“They could've been real happy now. You should've told them you'd be on the same flight as me.” Smiling, you just sigh, adamant on your moving staying a surprise. With a lot of paperwork and a ton of hours waiting on emails, you'd finally gotten your papers for college transferred to London. Even though your credits didn't necessarily transfer over, all you needed was two more years of schooling and some hands-on experience before you could become a licensed teacher. You'd already worked things over so that you had a potential job as a teacher's assistant at your old secondary school. And, as far as housing, you'd found someone in need of a roommate online. After talking and video chatting for about a month, your new roommate named Cassie sent you a copy of the key. Everything was looking bright and the knowledge that you were finally going back to the place you called home for so many years made excitement flow through you.
“Well, what's done is done, I guess. We should finish packing up, at least. C'mon”, Reni groans, pushing at your head until you sit up. Standing up from the sofa, she holds her hand out for you to grab. “The sooner we start, the sooner we'll finish.
**********
“Remind me again why you two are riding with me?” Ned yells over the wind whipping through the air, the windows of his truck rolled down. The air had finally grown warmer, summer arriving and the sun peeking through the clouds. Eyeing the two passengers in his backseat through the rearview mirror, his eyes peek over the top of his sunglasses that were slipping down the bridge of his nose.
"We ain't even 'ere, mate", Hobie yells back, wicks swaying and lips curled in a playful smile. The wind ruffles his clothes as he sits back in his seat, arm hanging out the window. Russet brown eyes twinkling with mirth at his bandmate's growing annoyance.
"We ain't allowed to hang out with you, Ned?" Ekko pipes up, eyebrow raised and a ghost of a smile threatening his face as he plays along with antagonizing their friend. White twists whipping about, Hobie puts them up in a bun for him. Sucking his teeth, Ned narrows his eyes at the two men briefly before glancing back at the road ahead.
"You both are full of shit. Today's the day I pick up my girlfriend, you wankers just wanna see what she looks like." Hobie lets out a dramatic gasp, turning to look at the man beside him. Ekko turns as well, feigning surprise.
"She's comin' down 'ere today? Ya knew bout that, 'Ko?"
"No way! It's that time already?" Ekko questions with his mouth open and eyebrows raised up. Ned has the strongest urge to crash the car. Chuckling, the two punks gaze back at their frustrated friend.
"Just messing with you, man. Bee and I didn't wanna wait to meet her, is all.”
"Yeah, "fore you hog her all to y'self and we don't hear from you for a few days." Hobie chuckles and Ned narrows his eyes in slight confusion.
"Why wouldn't you hear from me?" His two passengers give him stern looks, staring at him hard.
"Ned..."
"What?"
"Bruv..."
"What?" It takes a few more seconds before he puts two and two together, his face growing warmer by the minute despite the breeze filtering through the open window. "Oh, fuck off you absolute wankers."
Grumbling as the two men laugh, Ned rolls his eyes. Hobie leans forward and claps his shoulder.
"Ya tellin' me you aren't gonna?"
"What me and my bird do don't concern you two. I don't ask about you two shits."
"Oh, mate, if you wanted to know, just ask–" Ekko slapping his stomach with the back of his hand stops him, a small "oof" leaving the punk's lips. Scrunching up his nose, the white haired man gives his lover a stern look, only for it to melt when he leans forward and pecks his forehead, cheeky smile on his face all the while. Shaking his head, he hates how easily Hobie can get to him. Ned rolls his eyes at the pair and focuses back on the road, nearing the airport.
"You two are ridiculous. I don't get why you both couldn't have waited to meet her with the rest of..." Words slowly trailing off, Hobie turns to peer at his friend curiously. Pushing at the back of his bassist's seat, he tilts his head.
"Oi. Everythin' alright, Ned?" Rolling up the back windows, Ekko reaches his arm to the front of the car to roll the front ones up, just so they can both hear the man better. Or, at least, so Ekko can.
"No fuckin' way..." Ned breathes out softly and Hobie climbs up to the passenger seat, legs sprawling over the dashboard before he fixes himself up in the seat better. Glancing over at his friend, he watches the way Ned's wide eyes move between looking at the road and his right hand that grips the steering wheel tightly. Concern colors the punk's gaze and he places a hand on the man's shoulder, worried about his bandmate that's starting to seemingly break out in a nervous sweat.
“Ned...?” Ekko asks softly and their shared friend finally stammers out a sentence as they stop at a red light.
"I - I feel it..." He utters, his hands trembling on the steering wheel and Hobie imagines that even without his enhanced hearing, he'd still be able to hear the frantic beating of his friend's heart. "The string - my string. I-It's moving..."
Sucking in a breath, they know exactly what that means. Ned's soulmate was nearby. Hell, they were more than likely someone at the airport, given the look of growing panic on his face the moment the light turned green again and they started moving. It was a rare thing to ever be able to meet your soulmate, most people living their lives without doing so. Both Hobie and Ekko weren't really ones to favor the idea of being matched with someone according to fate. They were lucky enough to be friends and develop feelings for each other before they'd been able to see their strings. For some, it happened when they were already in loving relationships with someone else. Fate shouldn't have a say in who someone was allowed to love. They'd always believed that and that wasn't going to change now.
"So what if you feel it", Ekko mutters after a moment of silence, hazel brown eyes sharp as he locks eyes with Ned in the mirror. "Does this mean your feelings for your girl don't matter then? You giving up on you two before it can really go anywhere?"
"No way... I've waited two whole years for her, ain't nothing changing how I feel", he says with conviction. But as the airport comes into view, his voice trembles just a bit. "B-But, the other person attached to me..."
"Who says you have to fall in love wit’ your soulmate, hm", Hobie pipes up, pointing a finger at an open parking space. "If the one attached to you doesn't respect that you've already got someone you care for, they got no business bein' in your life. Fuck all that fate and destiny, shite. You choose who you choose."
Ned doesn't say anything to that, slowly parking the car and killing the engine. He plucks his sunglasses off of his face and pinches the bridge of his nose, letting out a deep sigh. Sharing a worried glance, both punks can feel the concern for their shared friend flowing between them. Something that came with being tied together, funnily enough. It takes several long minutes before Ned even shifts again and the pair fears that he won't heed the message that they were trying to tell him. That he'll actually abide by that fate nonsense. But when Ned opens his eyes again, determination swirls in them and Hobie feels a little dumb for ever doubting his bandmate.
"You're right. Fuck bloody fate", Ned huffs as he pushes open the car door, the pair right behind him. "I wanna meet my girl."
The three of them stride into the bustling building, weaving through the sea of people boarding and unboarding planes. Ekko notes how the bassist glances down, repeatedly looking between his phone and his right hand. Despite the way that nervousness is practically ebbing off of him in waves, he still keeps up that determined stride. It doesn't take long before they reach the area for those getting off the plane, moving to stand beside those who wait for the passengers. Minutes pass as they all search the incoming crowd of people, Ned typing on his phone. Hobie drapes an arm over his bandmate's shoulders and sighs.
"Y'know, it'd be a lot easier if you showed us a pic of what she looks like", he mutters slyly, peering down at his friend from the corner of his eye, sucking his teeth when he sees that he's being paid no mind. It's then that he feels a sudden shift in the air, like something prickling at his flesh. Eyebrows furrowing and the hairs on the back of his neck standing on end, Hobie senses the sudden taut tug of his lone second string before he feels it. He looks around, russet brown eyes searching the packed building, trying to find the only other person he could be attached to. His arm slipping from off of Ned's shoulders makes his attention snap back to his friend. Ned lets out a breath and clutches his phone tighter in his grip, grey eyes frantically searching about.
"She's here... So is my soulmate..." He breathes out softly and Ekko walks over to him, placing a steady hand on the anxious man's back.
"You got this, man. We're right behind you." Nodding his head in thanks for his friends' support, Ned doesn't take his eyes off of the incoming flux of people. Scanning the crowd of people, Hobie and Ekko spot an oddly familiar face, the woman's green and black box braids pulled into a bun atop her head. Brown eyes wide with what looks like fear, she slips past the other unboarding passengers, fervently looking about.
"We bloody called it, 'Ko", Hobie chuckles, watching how Ned's eyes lock onto the nervous woman. Ekko smiles and shakes his head as they both walk behind their friend, the three of them making their way to her. Grey eyes drifting from his right hand to the woman frantically searching, Ned seemingly can't help the wobbling smile that graces his lips. With every step closer, his smile grows bigger and the two punks know he's found his soulmate.
"...Reni, love..." Ned breathes and the anxious woman snaps her head up from where she'd been staring at her trembling left hand. She looks at the drummer with wide eyes full of utter shock and disbelief, brown eyes darting down to look at her hand, then Ned, then back again.
"F-For real...?" Serenity mutters, stepping closer as she gazes up at him with tears shining in her eyes. "This ain't a joke or anything...? We're really attached to each other...?"
Tenderly taking her hand in his, the chuckle that leaves his lips is one of pure elation and utter relief as the two gaze down at their hands.
"Turns out, I really was waiting for you. All my life, it seems." Hobie and Ekko watch the scene unfold before them with a growing fondness, the two finding each other's hand and intertwining their fingers together. Thoughts drifting to you as they watch their friends finally get their happy ending, the two wonder if they'll ever get to see you have yours. Or if they'd ever be a part of it. Letting the couple finish up their moment, Hobie soon walks over to them, Ekko right behind him. Proud smirks on both of their faces, they note how Serenity's eyes light up at the sight of them behind Ned.
"Small world after all, hm?", Ekko chirps up and Reni looks at them both in confusion. "How've you been, Reni?"
"What are you two nerds doing here?" Ned blinks before jutting his thumb back at the men behind him, astounded that his girl knows his friends.
"Jus' confimin' stuff. We had a feelin' we knew your bloke and we do." The taller man hums, mirth shining in his russet brown eyes. Serenity just sighs and shakes her head.
"Of course you know Neddy."
"You lot know each other," Ned questions, eyebrows furrowed as he's still on the fact that they all know each other.
"Mutual friend. The one we told you about, from primary school. But, Neddy?" The white haired man chortles and the man between them all grows slightly red in the face. A sweet smile on her lips, Serenity takes hold of Ned's arm, head falling onto his shoulder.
"That's right! He's my Neddy bear", she swoons, giggling at the embarrassed sound that leaves the man beside her and Hobie presses his lips together, the amusement on his face clear as day.
"Know what", Ekko muses before sweeping his gaze over at the punk beside him. "Hell yeah. It's better than Kokonut." Hobie lets out an offended gasp, a hand pressed against his chest.
"Oi! It was made wit' love!" The shorter man laughs at that and Hobie's eyes soften at the sight, the only other person besides you that makes his chest warm. A gasp makes the two look over and Serenity stares at them with wide, knowing eyes. She points a finger at them, mouth open in a shocked grin. The two punks suddenly feel exposed. For what, they weren't sure.
"You two are together", she states, more so like a fact than a question. "You two are together... and you didn't tell my pookie?"
Sucking in a breath, the taller man winces and the punk beside him rubs a hand on the back of his neck almost guiltily. It wasn't that they didn't want to tell you. They just were waiting until you finally made your way back to England. Once you came back, they'd promised each other that they'd tell you everything from the start of their relationship to their never waving feelings about you. For you. About how it started in grade eight as a small budding thing, something the two men had originally believed to be just childish admiration. Just for it to blossom into something more once they reached the age of fourteen. Ekko had been the first to fall, first to struggle with the yearning he'd had for both of his childhood friends. It wasn't until the day you'd officially moved – his chest heaving and nose still stuffy from the crying you all had done before they'd chased after your mom's car – that he'd sobbed right beside Hobie. Telling him everything as the punk tried to desperately console him. Hobie was too scared to tell him anything back then, too worried about putting either of you in danger now that he had the abilities that he did, even if you were now several hundreds of miles away. So, he'd kept silent, just awkwardly hugging one of his best friends in the entire world close as he spilled his heart out to him.
It had been a bit awkward between them after that day, with the taller of the two fumbling with his ever present longing for something more between you three and the staggering truth that the life he was just barely starting to lead was one of constant risks. Ekko had built up a wall between them, a small one but it was nevertheless there. Meeting Ned had rekindled their bond somewhat, but Hobie knew he'd messed up and fifteen year old him had no idea how to fix it. No matter how much he wanted to.
That's the way it stayed for years until the night before they graduated, Hobie sneaking into Ekko's bedroom through the window. Beaten and bloodied from his fight with the Lizard, he'd had an epiphany while listening and watching his best friend nag and fret, carefully stitching him up while still shirtless from sleep. He couldn't go on like that anymore, not when one of his most beloved people was so careful in caring for him, not when every fiber of his being was screaming at him to let himself love and be loved. And that's exactly what he'd told Ekko before slotting his lips firmly against his. It took a lot of talking after that, a lot of figuring out exactly what they wanted, more so when they found out they both had two strings instead of one and that they were attached to each other. And despite their thoughts on the matter of soulmates in general, the two were practically brimming with joy when they saw their string glow between them. Well, at least Hobie was because he was surprisingly the late bloomer of the group, unable to see his string until those few days spent tracking the Lizard's whereabouts. The only other want they had after talking about it all was to be with you, and the years following just amplified that.
"We're gonna tell trouble, promise", Ekko pipes up after the silent judgement coming from Serenity in staggering waves. "We just want to say it all in person. Bug deserves that much."
Hobie nods in agreement and the woman eyes them for a bit longer before letting out a dramatic sigh. Her glare does little to intimidate them when she's smiling so hard that her teeth are showing.
"Fine! You guys better fess up about everything, then. And I mean everything." They don't get a chance to ask just exactly what she meant by that before she turns to face Ned, her knowing grin replaced with a softer, sweeter one.
"Let's get going, Neddy. We still have to stop by the café before we go to yours, remember?" Ned snaps his fingers, the thought that was forgotten because of his stressing over his string suddenly dawning on him.
"That's right! Still can't believe you're related to Mama Kay..." Ned sighs as the couple walk towards the exit with linked arms and Hobie and Ekko share an incredulous look before scrambling after the two lovebirds.
"Related to who?!"
"Oi! Reni...!"
The two men are so caught up in trying to figure out if Serenity is truly taking over their most beloved café, they don't even feel how lax the second string has become on their pinkies.
**********
Phone held tightly within your grip and thumb hovering over the text message on your screen, you try to quell the feeling of anxiousness bubbling up inside of you. Try to ignore the little voice in your head that's screaming at you, yelling that you'd regret the decision of moving in with this woman in the future. Looking at the sight of the flat before you, you're starting to think it's right. She'd texted you when you landed, saying she was off to sleep over a friend's house and that you could just go in and show yourself around without her. Claimed that it was just a little messy from the gathering she'd hosted the night before. Messy was a severe understatement. When you'd first opened the door, the scent of musk and liquor was the first to hit your nose. It only got worse when you stepped inside completely. Empty cans and beer bottles and sticky red plastic cups were strewn about the place, littering the carpet and stained brown sofas. The coffee table was piled up with cups full of various liquids, opened boxes of pizzas and residue of spilled substances. Pieces of shining confetti draped every inch of the scene the deeper you walked into the flat, careful not to crush the broken shards of glass and chips on the floor. To your horror, the kitchen was even worse. Sink piled high with dishes, trash can overflowing with buzzing flies hovering near it, and food thrown carelessly about the countertops.
Blinking at the sight, you head towards the bedrooms and fear for the worst, only to let out a breath you didn't know you were holding once you see that the one most likely meant for you is thankfully untouched, although a little cluttered with little things. At least one thing wasn't trashed. You honestly just want to crash in bed and say fuck it because your flight was long and you were tired but after seeing how terrible everything looks, you drag yourself towards where the bathroom most likely is. Because, surely that was still safe. It just had to be. Opening that door, you're so disgusted that you feel itchy. You couldn't leave, either. With not enough money for a hotel room nor any friends nearby in this particular neighborhood as far as you knew, you only had two choices. Sleep and wait for Cassie to come back so that the flat could be cleaned by the both of you or do it yourself. Knowing you had to be there for your first day as a teacher's assistant tomorrow as well as go job hunting for a second job, you really only had one option with your limited availability.
"Let's get this over with", you groan, shedding your jacket and placing your suitcase next to the bed. It takes you hours to clean the entire flat from top to bottom minus your absent roommate's room. You'd been lucky to at least find some cleaning supplies in the hallway closet. By the time you finished scrubbing the last bit of grime off of the bathroom sink, the whole place smelled like bleach and pine sol, practically sparkling like it was brand new again. Huffing, you don't bother putting the cleaning supplies away, dragging your now aching body towards the bedroom and flopping down on the mattress with a groan. Phone suddenly buzzing in your pocket, you let out a louder groan, fingers roughly fishing it out of your jeans.
"Hello..." You greet lowly, not even bothering to check the caller ID as you press the device to your ear.
"Well, you sound like fucking rainbows, don't you", the voice on the other end, Serenity, hums with evident amusement coloring her tone.
"I'm going through a crisis, shut up."
"Why? Have you met your roommate yet?" Sitting up, you have to bite your lip to muffle the gasp that wants to escape you when you feel your joints popping. Just adding to the urge to throttle Cassie.
"No. She texted me earlier to let myself in and that the flat was just a little messy. Reni, I have been cleaning since one thirty." You spit through gritted teeth and your friend lets out an incredulous sound as you further explain just how filthy everything was.
"Oh hell no. It's almost nine o'clock, the fuck?! Why didn't you call me when you saw that shit? Better yet, why didn't you call Hobie and Ekko?" You grow silent at her words, suddenly realizing that maybe you really hadn't needed to do all that work just to be able to sleep comfortably.
"Uh..."
"'Uh'", she mocks before sucking her teeth. "Your ass forgot those options? And don't say some bullshit like you 'didn't wanna impose' or some shit." You clamp your mouth shut, those exact words dying on your tongue. She knew you better than you thought she did. It's like you could feel the eyeroll through the phone and you hear shuffling on the other end.
"I fucking knew it. Give me the damn address."
"You cuss a lot when you're angry."
"Don't piss me off right now. The address."
"It's fine", you sigh, holding the phone between your shoulder and your ear as you go to place your suitcase on the bed. "I already took care of it, anyways. I'll just have to have a talk with Cassie when she gets here."
"That's not the point", Serenity huffs and you roll your eyes, mentally preparing yourself for the nagging she was going to do about your choices. "If this is how she presents herself and her home to someone she plans on living with, it'll only get worse from here."
"I'll talk to her. Until I get my money up, I need a roommate. Living with you and your man is out of the question. Not when you two are just barely starting your life together." She grows silent then, as if really taking your words to heart. Both of you were right, with you needing to leave before your Cassie situation got worse and with Serenity getting to know her boyfriend on a more intimate level now that they were no longer long distance.
"Besides", you pipe up as you lay out your outfit for tomorrow, "this might've just been a one time thing. Cassie was really sweet when I talked with her a few months ago. I'm sure we can work something out so that this doesn't happen again."
"Sure", your friend drawls, sounding as unconvinced as you felt, no matter how much you try to get yourself hopeful. "Don't forget to let Bert and Ernie know that you're finally down here, though. Before you get too busy."
"I will. Promise" The two of you chat for a few minutes more and you slowly feel like a weight is lifted off of your shoulders, hand idly drifting to touch your necklace. Despite being stressed about your potential living situation, you at least were a little more hopeful for the future then earlier.
“Shit, Shit, shit!” That's all you can say as you frantically haul yourself off of the bus, legs pushing you towards the looming high school building ahead of you. It was bad enough that you'd woken up late, your alarm having a mind of its own and deciding not to go off. Then, you managed to spill toothpaste on your first shirt and coffee on the second. As if that weren't the worst of it, Cassie had absolutely no food in her cabinets, pantry, or refrigerator. To put the cherry on top of the worst start to your day, you'd missed your bus. It's a good thing the driver felt pity for you when he'd seen you chasing after it when it zoomed past you just as you reached the bench, stopping just long enough for you to hop on and pay. At least the universe had some pity on you. Well, that's what you thought before seeing the vehicle stop about a mile away from the brick building.
That's how you found yourself currently running towards the school, slipping through a crowd of people and bumping into someone with a stack of papers. Parchment shoots up into the air and flutters towards the pavement. The man curses you as you shout back apologies, resuming your sprint. Ten minutes left before you'd officially be late for your first day, you will yourself to go harder, for your feet to carry you faster. By the time you finally get to the doors, sweat clings to you like a second skin, chest heaving as you take in lungfulls of air and try to regulate your breathing. Glancing down at your wristwatch, you feel proud of yourself for having three minutes left to spare. You quickly wipe off the sweat on your face and straighten out your attire to the best of your abilities to appear a bit more put together than you felt internally. And as you pull open the double doors to your old school, a rush of sudden nostalgia comes over you. Memories of your years spent walking the halls come to mind with every step you take, your sneakers squeaking against the linoleum floors. Hardly anything has changed about the place with the same old red lockers, the same old trophy case right next to the front desk. There's still a chip in the wood of the desk, visible from where you stand in front of the woman typing something on the computer. Her red, manicured fingernails fly over the keys, lips pulled in a frown as she narrows her grey eyes behind the screen. You almost hate to interrupt when she looks so focused on whatever it is that she's working on.
"Um... Excuse me..." The furious typing stops and her eyes shoot up to look at you. Black curls framing her face, the woman looks at you questioningly. You give her a nervous smile. "I'm the teacher's assistant that was supposed to come in today."
"Okay. Straight towards the faculty office on the right down the hall. First door you see." She smiles at you warmly, something that makes your day a little brighter. Here's hoping everyone was this nice, especially whatever teacher you were going to be assigned to work with. Walking down the hall and mumbling affirmations under your breath, it doesn't take you long to reach the office door. You don't have to put your ear to the polished wood to hear the yelling from inside, making you hesitant to open it.
"I've never needed an assistant in all my forty years of teaching here! I don't need one now!" That voice sounded painfully familiar. It made a nervous sweat break out on the back of your neck.
"You have no say in the matter. This was decided by the board and we both know you need the help more than you think." The voices grow louder, closer, and you stumble back from the door just as it slams open.
"Both you and that assistant can rot in hell, Parker!" The older woman before you yells back, her head turning to face you and you swear under your breath. Despite the years making her shorter and the wrinkles more pronounced than they'd been before, you'd recognize that blonde coiffed hair anywhere. She'd kept the same style during all of the years you'd attended, golden blonde hair now almost platinum, streaks of white throughout every strand. The same terrible caked on make-up all over her slightly withered face, making her complexion more orange than the normal skintone. Scowl painted on her thin, cherry color stained lips, her icy green eyes scan you from head to toe before she lets out a snarky laugh.
"Speak of the devil...! This is my so-called assistant, May?" Mrs. Crumb spits as she turns her body to the side, just as a taller woman a tad bit younger than her walks up behind her. Exasperation coloring her gaze as she looks at you, the auburn haired woman gives you an apologetic smile and motions for you to come inside the office fully. You can feel Mrs. Crumb's glare on you as you slip past her, praying that she doesn't remember you nor your two best friends.
"Welcome, dear. You're here for your first day, right?" The woman, May, asks as she takes your hand in greeting. "My name is May Parker. I'm the principal. And this is Mrs. Crumb, the teacher you'll be assisting."
As polite as she was being, the principal ushers both you and the glowering woman out of the door. She's quick in her rundown of the job and the school as she walks you both to the teacher's classroom, so quick that you can hardly get a word in. Once you all finally arrive, she shakes your hand once more and rushes back down the hall. All too eager to get away from the spiteful old woman who was leering at your back. You don't blame her. Mrs. Crumb has always been a bitter old hag. Taking a deep breath, you turn to face the teacher with the most charming smile you could muster, in hopes that she won't make this very much needed job a living hell for you.
"So! You're Mrs. Crumb, right? My name is-”
"I know who you are", she interrupts you with a scoff, green eyes narrowed to slits. Folding her arms across her chest, she slowly circles you, like a predator sizing up prey. It makes anxiousness flutter around in your stomach and you swallow the lump in your throat, fearing that she does remember you after all as her beige heels click along the linoleum floors. The sound of your name leaving her thin lips has you fighting back a wince.
“Thought you'd be in jail by now with those little delinquent friends of yours. You three were nothing but trouble making pests!” Well, there goes your hopes of being forgotten. Rubbing the back of your neck, you try to avoid her gaze. Mrs. Crumb seriously has a staring problem. Or just multiple problems.
“We weren't that terrible, ma'am.”
“Your friend threw toilet paper all over my house and car!” She snaps and you wince at the memory. “He was always late, always fighting, and always questioning authority. He should've been rotting in juvie!”
The older woman drones on and on about how reckless and irresponsible you three were, about how she's surprised you even amounted to anything when you hung around no good brats like the two men you held dear. For several painfully long minutes, you stood and listened to the exhausting nonsense she kept spouting, to the insults she kept hurling towards you about your time in school. You could feel the way a muscle in your jaw began to tick, how your teeth grinded together in an effort to keep silent. After another minute passes and it's apparent that Mrs. Crumb has no intention of biting her tongue, you let out a loud exasperated groan.
“You're way too old to be hating on things people did when they were children, like damn. Get a fucking life already”, you snap before you can stop yourself, irritated that she kept ranting. When she shoots you an incredulous look, you'd wished you kept your mouth shut, for the sheer venom in her eyes was enough to know you were now damned. Stepping close enough that you can smell the coffee on her breath, Mrs. Crumb lowers her voice to a dangerous whisper, cruel smirk on her lips.
“This is going to be a very very long school year for you.” And just like that, your new job was officially going to be utter shit.
Eyes watering from the sudden cold wind that whips at your face and clothes, a shiver runs down your spine and you stifle a sneeze. It's mid October and you feel like shit. Between the job at the school, your remaining studies, and the newly acquired position as a server at the beloved Last Drop, you've had barely any time to just be still. Unless you were sleeping, of course, which even then, you didn't do a lot of. You couldn't even remember when you last spoke with your friends, too busy working and taking care of your shared flat. Cassie had proven to be the worst type of roommate imaginable, what you'd feared on your first day back in London.
She was beyond loud, beyond messy, and had little to no respect for your things. Like this morning, when you walked into the kitchen to find it wrecked, her and her hangover having friends giggling as they ate from the containers containing your prepped food for the week. When you'd confronted her about the matter, she'd just patted your shoulder and promised to replace everything while her buddies looked at you like you were annoying. That was another strike on the rather long list of grievances you had with her. You think the first one was when she finally came back home after being gone for almost an entire week after your arrival, whistling loudly as she skipped around the place that you shouldn't have had to clean.
"Cheers, mate! You're the absolute best for this", is what she'd said as she pulled you into a bear hug. And, you probably wouldn't have been as upset as you got if she'd just left it at that. But, the next day after that, right after you two came to an agreement about the cleanliness of the flat, she went and threw a party. Not a small one either. You'd came home to the walls practically vibrating from how loud the music was, bodies packed tight in the flat and the smell of liquor sickeningly strong. It had taken you nearly an hour to track Cassie down and she just kept telling you that you were making a big deal out of nothing when you'd complained about the mess. A part of you felt like you shouldn't have a say in what happens in your home because it wasn't yours at first. But that part of you was dying the longer she kept disregarding the rules you both set.
Looking up at the darkening sky, you let out a ragged sigh, phone loose in your hand as you stand in the middle of the fairly busy side walk. You'd just gotten off work at the school and were now headed toward the pub for your shift. Tired eyes blinking up at the clouds, you lift your phone up to your face and your mood sours even more at seeing the missed calls from Serenity and your two dorks. You haven't even gotten the chance to visit them, let alone call them to tell Hobie and Ekko that you were back in the first place. People walk around you as you stare hard at the caller IDs, something you can't quite place forming in the pit of your stomach. Serenity was right, you should've just told them in advance instead of trying to surprise them. Perhaps then you wouldn't feel as out of place as you did right now. Fingers of your free hand reaching up to trace the edges of the pick around your neck, you let out a long sigh. Maybe you should just call them, if only to hear their voices again after months of doing without. Your thumb hovers over Hobie's name when you suddenly feel it.
That small tugging sensation, a little incessant thing that's due to one of your strings on your pinkies. Ever since your plane landed in England, you've felt them move where they'd been taut before. Heart lurching in your throat, your eyes swarm the crowd of people walking past you, straining to find the source of the pull almost instinctively. Meeting one of your soulmates now would just add more to the stress piling up on you, especially since you were hoping to be tied together with a very specific pair of people. How would you be able to look whoever those people were in the eye when your heart has always belonged to the two you long for most? Two people that you definitely shouldn't have any feelings for because they wouldn't have them for you. That's what you kept telling yourself to avoid any unnecessary heartache. A shout brings you out of your anxiety induced stupor and you yelp as hands suddenly push you out of the way.
"It's that Spider-Punk guy!"
"Spider-Man?!"
"Spider-Punk, where?!"
The shouts from the people around you echo in your ears, bodies pushing and shoving yours as you frantically try to escape the crowd you've been forced into. An arm shoots up in front of your face, almost hitting you and you look towards where the person was pointing to with growing frustration. You barely get a glimpse of something in red zipping over a building before you feel your phone slip from your fingers, panic rising when you're unable to duck down after it. The sound of something cracking makes you wince and the people around you slowly disperse once the sighting of the vigilante is over. Eyes searching the pavement, you see that your phone has somehow ended up in the street during the chaos, most likely kicked from the crowd leaving. And, as if the universe truly hates you and thinks your existence is nothing short of a comedy, a car comes zooming down the street, tires pummeling your poor method of communication to bits. Tiny sparks fizzle from the remains before dying out, just like your hope for the future of your wallet.
Picking your jaw up from when it dropped open at the murder of your phone, you blindly reach out to a man that's just about to walk past you.
"Excuse me", you mumble and he turns to you with a raised eyebrow. "Could I borrow your phone for a few minutes? Please...?"
"Uh, no? Where's your own phone at?" Pointing to the street, the man's blue eyes widened at the sight. "Damn... Shit luck you're havin', mate. Here." Fishing his device out of his pocket, he hands it to you and you try not to cry as you look up the pub's number. You were going to be late for work, it seems.
**********
"Still not answerin'...?" Hobie mumbles softly, watching as Ekko grips his cell phone tightly in his hand, his own fingers fiddling absentmindedly with the scraps of metal surrounding them on the work bench. Letting his phone clatter onto the wood, the white baired man huffs through his nose, frustration evident in the furrowing of his brows while he picks up his screwdriver once more. Hands taking the webshooter in his palm apart piece by piece.
"No", Ekko mutters, voice clipped with concern and the feeling echoes through the connection he has with the punk sitting beside him. "I can't get through and Serenity says she can't either. We've never not been in contact with bug this long before..."
"I know, 'Ko." Hobie's eyes stray to the way his love was snipping at a wire.
"And it's not like we can just pick up and leave for LA–"
"'Ko, you're gonna hurt y'self..."
"What if something happened? What if bug got hurt-"
"Ekko." Hissing, the white haired punk recoils his hand, accidentally nicking his pointer finger during his distracted rambling. A bead of crimson blossoms from the cut, glinting lightly under the lamp sitting on the shelf of the bench. Taking his hand in his own, Hobie sighs and reaches over to grab a bandage and alcohol wipe from the desk beside them. Blood wells up from the cut as he cleans and dresses it, russet brown eyes peering back up at Ekko's hazel brown ones through long lashes.
His own concern for you and your lack of contact swirls in his gaze as he shares his worry with the only other person who feels the same way about you as he does.
"...'M worried too, 'Ko. But if somethin' really was wrong, 'm sure lovie's mum would be the first one to call us. Let's give it a little more time, yeah?"
Bringing his hand up to his lips, Ekko sighs as Hobie's piercing brushes against his knuckles. He was right, of course, Worrying so much would only make them antsier and they had to trust that their long distance friend who meant the absolute world to them was still doing okay.
"Right... You're right. Let's finish fixing up your shooters so I can stop thinking about it." Brushing his hand under the other's chin affectionately, the white haired punk turns back around in his seat to resume his work on the fried heap of metal. Clicking his tongue, he shakes his head, fingers picking gingerly at the scrap again. "That electric guy really did a number on this, didn't he?"
"Yup", Hobie groans, throwing a clunkier version of his shooter on the bench, "Been stuck usin' my prototype the past few days. It works fine sometimes, but it jammed up on me at the worst moment today. Almost fell flat on my arse."
"If this was what you were using before, it's no wonder. The handiwork is mediocre at best- is this copper...?" Ekko gawks at the hunk of metal in disbelief, a teasing grin on his lips that has the man beside him huffing and puffing out his chest.
"'S not that terrible. I was fifften, piss off." The shorter of the two lets out a laugh at the punk's pout and pats him on the back reassuringly.
"I'm messing with you, Bee. I've just never seen anyone put copper in this particular spot before." He points to a busted up looking chip with his screwdriver.
"Pefectly good place to put it, come off it. 'Sides, that won't the only reason I almost ate pavement today..." Ekko hums at his words, hands taking the tool his lover was holding out for him. When he notices that the only sounds echoing in the room are him tinkering with scrap metal, Hobie not following up on his story of his day, the white haired punk pauses in his work. Peering at the punk out of the corner of his eye, he lifts a brow in question at the unreadable expression on the man's face.
"Bee...?" Hobie doesn't answer him, russet brown eyes hardening with an inner turmoil that Ekko isn't privy to until a sudden rush of emotions bleed into their concretion. Anxiety, trepidation, and the unshakeable resolve that's entirely Hobie. Sitting up straighter on his wooden stool, Ekko takes his lover's hands in his own, the red string on their pinkies glowing softly between them. Hazel brown eyes glimmering with warmth and love, his voice is a concerned quiet murmur. "Hobie, what is it? Tell me what's wrong."
Hobie shakes his head and lets out a breath, thumb tenderly running along the back of the other man's hand, the one with the string that isn't attached to him. It's been nagging at him for months now and if he could keep what happened to himself, he would. But that wouldn't be fair to Ekko, especially since this was the second time it's happened. The man sitting in front of him waits patiently and Hobie lets out another breath, heart beating a mile a minute.
"I... I felt it, 'Ko", he breathes out, russet brown eyes fluttering down to gaze at the way his hands clasp at the other's. Ekko furrows his brows in confusion, questions swirling in his mind.
"...That's cryptic as fuck, Bee." Hobie can't help the huff of amusement that leaves him and he gives the punk's hands a squeeze. "What did you feel, hm?"
"The string," he mumbles after a moment of silence, choosing to rip the metaphorical bandaid off now rather than later. "Felt it when I was swingin' near Vander's, jus' a few blocks away from Stan's... But that was only today..."
Ekko's jaw tightens and now the trepidation doesn't just ebb from the taller punk. This was something they'd been slightly worried about. The possibility of them not being attached to the same person. It was already rare enough that they both possessed two strings instead of one. If there was even a slight chance that they were tied to two different people, that conversation was going to be real messy. Taking a deep breath, the white haired man lets it out in a shuddering sigh. Hobie looks at Ekko for a long while, taking in every expression until the uneasy feeling passing between them suddenly makes sense.
"Yours moved too." It's a statement, a knowing fact that rings true when his russet brown eyes meet nervous hazel brown ones.
"... When, Ekko...?”
"Fuck, twice", the punk breathes out, the breath he hadn't known he was holding escaping him so fast that his chest deflates. "At our old secondary school when I was picking up the lyrics for the band's new song from Riri. Saw it leading to the faculty office, but I left 'cause I was running late."
"The other time...?" Licking his lips, he looks at Hobie almost guiltily, which the punk soothes with a reassuring smile because this was nothing to feel guilty for.
"The first time was at the airport... Right before meeting Ned's girl." And Hobie has to reign in his shock at those words. Because he'd sworn Ekko hadn't felt a thing. It couldn't have been a coincidence that they both felt their second string move at the same time. "I didn't say anything at the time 'cause I wasn't sure if you'd felt it too-"
"-No I felt it that day, too", the dark haired punk interrupts, chuckling at the irony of it all. "Didn't say nothin' either, 'n case you ain't felt it."
"Well, fuck. We're both dumb", the white haired man sighs, relief making his shoulders slump. Letting go of his lover's now clammy hands, Ekko sits back until his lower back hits the edge of the workbench with a soft thump.
"Ducky would say we share the same braincells, innit." The two let out small laughs at that, little chuckles as the image of you teasing them like that comes to their minds as clear as day. They should've just confided to one another beforehand. It might've made this whole moment a little less nerve-wracking than it had to have been. Fingers toying with a string of the frayed fabric of his shirt, hazel brown eyes meet russet brown ones after a moment of silence, and Hobie's heart aches a little at the unsure look on the white haired man's face.
“...Should we tell bug about this, too? Just in case we aren't… y'know…” Hobie lets out a breath through his nose and leans forward on the workbench, arms folded atop the polished wood and head turned to face Ekko. A ghost of a smile graces his lips and he shrugs lightly.
“We could, but I think ‘s gonna be okay. No matter who we’re tied with, my lovie and my Kokonut are the only ones f’me.” The shorter punk gives a slight chuckle, body scooting closer towards his love’s and head falling onto the taller’s shoulder. White twists tickling his cheek, Hobie hums and rests his chin on the top of Ekko's head.
“You're corny… but same. Nobody for me but you guys.”
**********
“Thanks for coming in on such short notice, dear. Hope it didn't put a hold on any plans.” Waving a hand in dismissal, you give the man pouring drinks a smile. Watching as he puts the glasses and pints neatly on your tray that sits idly on the polished wood of the bar.
“It's no problem, Vander, really. I just hope your daughter feels better.”
“Ah, she'll be fine. The change in weather Just got her is all. Speaking of, you remember to bring your jacket, right?”
“Yes, I remembered, dad”, you groan and playfully roll your eyes. The tall man lets out a hearty chuckle, arms coming up to rest on the bar and knuckles drumming lightly against the wood. Since the first day you started working for Vander part time a few months ago, the burly pub owner loved to nag and fret over you like you were one of his own. With the holidays just around the corner, your overwhelming amount of work at the school was lessening. Even the spiteful Mrs. Crumb was becoming less of a grouch with winter break on the way. Not a lot of people could stay mad during the holiday season, you suppose. To make up for the shorter hours at the school, you'd been taking more shifts at the pub, which in turn made your fatherly boss more prone to his fretting. You didn't mind it all too much, finding it a little endearing that he cared.
“Hey, I just gotta make sure, is all. Don't want you getting sick on me too after working six nights in a row.” Despite the joking lilt in his tone, there was a flicker of concern in his eyes. He probably thinks you're a workaholic and he might just by right. You were only taking up all these shifts in order to save up for a new flat, your Cassie situation not improving in the slightest during the last few months. Hell, it's gotten worse ever since she started dating Josh, who may or may not be her plug. The man was always high, always smoking, and purposely instigating the arguments that would spark between you and your roommate. Which was more than a little bit these days. He was sleeping over so many nights that you were half expecting him to just outright move in. However, despite the headache that was living with Cassie, you appreciated that she always paid her portion of the bills. It was a wonder she had so much money when all she did was throw parties and go clubbing.
“I'll be fine, Vander,” you sigh as you take the tray loaded with drinks into your hands, giving him a reassuring smile before making your way towards your awaiting table. Twisting and weaving your body through crowds of people and between filled tables, you bob your head along to the soft music that plays from the speakers near the bar. The sounds of chatter and laughter mix together, the low lights almost comforting in a sease. The Last Drop was already so familiar to you, like a piece of you that you couldn't imagine your life without.
You remembered passing by it often in your teenage years of living here, remembered how you'd ogle at the sign curiously with your friends but wouldn't dare set foot inside due to you being underage and a little intimidated at the giant of an owner. Hobie and Ekko would love it here. They'd love the warmth of it all and they'd admire the man who ran it, you just know they would.
Thinking of the two men has your chest aching, guilt melting the smile on your face a bit and your longing for them a familiar weight in your heart. Months with no contact with them was making you feel awful. You'd managed to scrounge up enough money for a new phone a few days after losing your old one, resigning yourself to just eating cup ramen for a few weeks to refrain from touching your savings. Having the hindsight to back up most of your data with your email was the only bright side of it all. Unfortunately for you, that had all happened a week before the even more exhausting week of the autumn half term. You'd been running around like mad, working yourself to the bone and unable to take a breather. Unable to call the two men nor Serenity to let them know you'd gotten a new phone and phone number. The last time you'd spoken to them had been during August, right before you'd boarded that plane with Serenity. All three of them must be worried sick for you and you worried for them in return. This was too long to go without at least a wellness check or at least a word that you all were even alive.
Letting out a breath, you push the thoughts from your mind for now, stepping closer towards the table with three patrons awaiting their drinks you carried. Tonight was the night you called them. You were off work tomorrow from both jobs and you missed them terribly. It was time you finally let both Hobie and Ekko know that you were living in London once again.
“Our little server finally came back, boys.” The words make your attention snap to the three men sitting on the stools at the rounded table and you smile at them politely. One of them, the brown haired fellow who'd been the one to speak, gives you a coy grin that has you pressing your lips together. “What took you so long, sweet thing?”
“Just busy doing my job”, you say with a polite chuckle, sliding the respective drinks towards each person. The way they leer at you is beyond uncomfortable. You hoped they wouldn't do what you think they were going to do or else you weren't going to be as nice as you were trying to be at the moment. “Gotta make sure all the thirsty people in here get their fill, right?”
“You sure we can't get you to be our personal little server, darling?” The one with red streaks in his black hair asks, his hand reaching to meet yours before you can pull it away from the pint you'd placed in front of him. His fingers wrap around yours, taking your hand in his and his thumb rubs along your knuckles. You have to bite the inside of your cheek to prevent yourself from letting the polite look on your face melt into one of irritation. It wasn't like you hadn't noticed these three men ogling at you all night, whispering amongst themselves when you first walked up to them to take their orders. It didn't make it any more pleasant to be hit on now that you were in front of them again, especially while you're working.
“Oh, I don't know. Got a lot of orders to dish out right now.” Letting them down easy, you pull your hand away a little too quickly and hurry back towards the bar. Their eyes burn holes into the back of your head and you can feel it, making the rising irritation grow a tad bit bigger. Vander notices the slight scowl on your lips as you reach the bar, his eyebrows furrowing and his words gruff.
“Oi, what's wrong? Customers giving you hell?” Placing the tray back onto the polished wood, you shake your head as he slowly loads it back up with more drinks, the glasses tinking against each other. It was only a little issue, nothing too big that you had to bother your boss about it.
“It's nothing I can't handle, V.”
“If someone's chatting you up and you don't like it, I can have a word with them.”
“I promise, it's nothing. Honest”, you say with a grateful smile. The burly man doesn't seem the least bit convinced, so you take the tray back into your hands before he can pull it away. Most likely trying to make you talk before you take off again. “If it gets to a point where I need help, I'll come to you.”
You don't let him get another word in, patting the wood of the bar softly before heading straight for another table. Business picks up, people flooding in from some charity event that ended a few blocks away from the pub. The three men watch you as you hand out drinks, their gazes never leaving your form for nearly an hour. They call you back over and over, for refills and the chance to sling more pick up lines your way. The smell of alcohol slowly begins to waft from their breaths alone, and you try to ignore the irritation that thrums in your veins as their advances get bolder. Comments and snide remarks that border on sexual to the point you're positively fuming. Your boss watches you with growing concern that you purposely ignore in favor of willing yourself to continue, telling yourself that you only had a few more hours left to go of the suddenly long shift. Sliding them their sixth round of drinks, you let out a quiet sigh.
“Alright, gentlemen. Any more than this and you're gonna be seeing colors.” The three laugh at your joke and you give them a tight lipped smile. It drops the second you turn around, tray tucked under your arm and a hand still holding a drink for a different patron a few tables down. You're so sick of these three that you can't even feel how lax your string on your left pinky has surprisingly become. A familiar laugh rings from across the room then, reaching your ears despite the cacophony of sounds jumbling about the place. Your heartbeat stops before picking up, eyes widening as you search about. That had sounded painfully like Serenity…
“Now that's what I'm talking about. Standing there and letting us appreciate the view. Love that…!” Words coming out in a low whistle, the harsh slap of a hand meeting your ass makes you jolt. Freezing in place, your jaw drops open in disbelief before you whirl around. You peer at the culprit in astonishment, hand gripping the glass tighter as your heart thuds in your ears. He grins up at you, sending a kiss and a wink your way as he brushes his blonde hair out of his face. Patting his thigh, he spreads his legs a little wider and your blood boils. “How about sitting all nice and pretty for us next, sweetheart?”
Muscle ticking in your jaw from how hard you grit your teeth, your body moves before you can think straight. The hand holding onto the drink shoots out, dark brown liquor drenching the offender's face and ice spilling onto his clothing. Anger burns bright in your chest like a flame eating at wood and you have at least some control not to outright punch the man in the face. Even if he did deserve it, you were still at work. The blonde sputters and gasps, eyes screwing shut as he shoots up to his feet. Wiping at the burning liquid stinging his eyes with the back of his hand, he lets out an incredulous sound.
“What the fuck?! The fuck is wrong with you?!”
“Touch me again and I'll break your fucking face!” You spit lowly and his friends seem to dislike that, standing up to tower over you. You give them all a venomous glare, fury shining in your eyes and hands trembling around the now empty glass in your grip. He's lucky you didn't just hit him with it.
“Don't get pissy with us for showing your ugly ass some attention!” Oh, so now they thought you were ugly? After trying to get in your pants all night? It only fuels the fury boiling in your blood and you slam the glass down onto the table along with your tray.
“You three fucks can't take a hint? I don't wanna be six feet near your shriveled shrimp dicks!” It's the one with red streaks in his hair that steps closer into your personal space, all three now glowering down at you with a fury that could match your own. The nauseating amount of ale on his breath makes your nose scrunch up in disgust but you don't back down, even as they try to intimidate you.
“What the fuck did you just say, whore…?” And you were fully ready to repeat yourself, ready to deck him straight between his eyes if he tried coming even a foot closer than he already was. That was until a hand grips your upper arm gently yet firmly and pulls you back. Eyes darting to look up at the back of the person who almost gracefully slid between you and the three men, you can feel your heart shooting up to your throat at the familiar sight. Hair in neat white twists that look almost platinum underneath the dim lights of the pub and a few lighter patches of skin speckled along the back of their neck. Your mouth feels dry and the anger that thrums through your blood is replaced with one of staggering elation. And when the person shielding you opens their mouth, you feel your chest aching in a way it hasn't in a long time.
“Ganging up on someone doing their job is pathetic. A no is a fucking no, assholes.” Ekko says lowly, hazel brown eyes sharp as he looks pointedly at the men before him. Nose scrunching up, he scowls. “You three reek. Go home, you're all wasted.”
“And who the fuck are you, patches?!” Spits the man with brown hair, jabbing a finger against the punk's chest which has your anger growing once again. You step from behind Ekko to stand beside him, arms folded and frustration marring your face. “This doesn't concern you. How bout you go ask the printer to give you back your ink?”
“That the best you can come up with?” Ekko drawls while brushing away the man's finger, both of you noticing how the men start to crowd you. “I'd leave before the owner comes over here, if I were you three.”
“Like we give a shit about the owner”, the blonde one chortles before pointing at you, malice darkening his gaze as he sneers. “We ain't going nowhere until we teach that one some manners.”
“Well, that's rich coming from you lot, yeah?” The words come out softly from behind you and you turn your head to see Vander walking towards the commotion. His face is relaxed, as if he wasn't bothered by the patrons and his employee causing a scene in his bar. Blue eyes sweeping over the men's faces, they light up at the sight of the punk standing beside you. “Ekko! It's good to see you, son. How'd the charity event go?”
“It was great, V. Reached our goal thanks to the band.” Not missing a beat, Ekko turns towards the pub owner with a warm smile, eyes briefly darting down to meet your own, as if you both were pulled to the other by some invisible magnet. He forces his attention back to Vander, the taller man clapping a hand on his shoulder.
“The gang is all here?”
“Everyone except for Hobie. He had to drop off some stuff at home.” Your heart soars at the mention of your other best friend and your fingers move to brush along the necklace around your neck, hazel brown eyes taking note of your every movement and softening at the sight.
“Ah, gotcha. How about a round of drinks for everyone, on me?” Lips quirking up at the offer, the shorter of the two nods his head. Taking your eyes off of the two long enough to glance at the three you'd been arguing with earlier, their faces are so red that you imagine steam would come out of their ears if it was possible. It doesn't look like they like being ignored.
“If you're offerin’. Thanks, man.”
"You twats forget we're here or something?" Blonde hair questions angrily and Vander turns to them with a raised eyebrow.
"You three still in my bar?"
"And who the hell are you supposed to be", red highlights spits, voice wobbling with drunk indignation.
"The person whose bar you're leaving", the man groans before looking down at you with concern. "They put their hands on you, dear?"
"Yeah", you scoff and cross your arms. You don't see the way both men beside you glare daggers at the drunk patrons, too busy sneering at them yourself. "That's why blondie here stinks of peanut butter whiskey right now."
Letting out a low hum of understanding, your boss shifts his gaze toward the blonde offender. Despite his body language giving off a sort of nonchalant indifference, his eyes remain sharp and smoldering.
"Right. You gentlemen best get going. I don't tolerate harassment of my employees."
"And just why would we give a damn about what you say, old man?" The one with brown hair questions lowly, stepping closer until he's inches away from touching Vander's chest with his. Ekko moves to stand between the two but the pub owner just shakes his head and smiles at the man trying to intimidate him. Voice low, Vander tilts his head to the side and chuckles softly.
"I don't think it'd be wise to go hitting the man that pours the drinks, yeah?" It's only then that you notice just how quiet the bar had become, the only sounds being the music playing from the speakers and the softened murmuring of the other patrons. Eyes from every corner of the room are locked on you six, threatening glares pointed at the three drunks that appeared to be sobering up now that they held the menacing attention of the bar. Vander cocks his head and smirks at the nervous gulp that leaves brown hair, watching him slowly back away while his friends look around anxiously. "Now. You gentlemen were leaving... Right?"
Almost stiffly, they slowly nod their heads and inch away from their table towards the door, shrinking under the heated gazes following them out of the bar. Only when the door closes behind them does normalcy return, chatter and laughter echoing around the room. You let out a breath you hadn't known you'd been holding, glare softening and eyes straying back to the men beside you, only for you to catch something red glowing in your peripheral. There aren't any red lights within the pub and with furrowed brows, you trace the source of the soft glow. Breath hitching and eyes growing wide with disbelief once you see the red string on your right pinky glowing faintly. Not only that but it was completely and utterly lax, swinging idly between you and the person tied to you. The one on your left remains taut, dull, and you slowly lift your head to see Ekko looking straight at you. As though he'd never taken his eyes off you to begin with. Hazel brown locks with your own and you find yourself breathless at the onslaught of emotions that swirl within.
He breathes your name, softly, reverently, and you're drowning in one of the beautiful pairs of eyes you'd been longing for.
"...Hi, 'Ko", you murmur, so soft that it's barely heard above the noisy building. Feelings of quick fire disbelief and elation flood through you then, heartbeat stuttering when you realize that they're not entirely your own.
"Y-You've got some explaining to do, trouble", Ekko chuckles, a relieved huff more than anything. His hand reaches for you then, grabbing your arm and pulling you into an embrace you're all but ready to fall in. Arms looping around his waist, your hands grip at the back of his leather jacket, eyes closing as you breathe him in. He was here, real and solid against you and not separated by a screen. Cheek pressing against the top of your head, Ekko lets out a sigh. "I've missed you, bug. What took you so long...?"
"It's a long story", you say while giving a watery laugh, heart swelling and beating a mile a minute. "But it started with me trying to surprise you guys."
"Surprise is definitely one of the things I'm feeling right now", the punk scoffs, pulling back just enough to peer at the soft glow emanating from your connected string highlighting your face like a holy light. His gaze is soft, warm and almost loving, if you were to let your imagination get the better of you. It was a wonder you were attached to one of your childhood best friends in the first place, your damned heart dredging up old feelings you'd struggled to conceal now that you're finally facing one of them after so long.
"'Among other things', I'm guessing?" You hum as you pull back some more, giving him a once over. He looks good, beyond good. Better, especially now that you can see him in person. Since high school, he'd always favored keeping his white hair in twisted locs, the length of it growing as the years passed. Months of not at least video calling each other, you're a little surprised to see that it's gotten longer, the twists almost platinum underneath the lights of the pub and reaching a bit past his shoulders. Half of the punk's hair pulled up into a bun atop his head with a few twists framing his cheeks, your eyes trail over the lighter patches of skin speckled across his face. The white turtleneck compression shirt underneath his dark brown bomber jacket fits his form nicely, along with the green retro cargo pants and brown combat boots. It takes a tremendous amount of willpower to force your gaze and mind elsewhere, mentally cursing your friends for being as attractive as they are. As they've always been, really. You do catch the glint of the pick necklace sitting on his chest, however, and your chest grows warmer at the sight.
"Among other things", he echos softly, tender smile in place as he does the same to you. You think you're imagining the look in his eyes as he takes you in.
"You look good, considering we haven't talked in months.”
“Fuck, right”, you wince, hands slipping from around him as you reluctantly remove yourself from his hold, much to Ekko's disappointment. His hands catch yours, holding them tenderly as your lips twist up into an apologetic grimace. “See, about all that–”
A cough to your right has you both looking over, your raised eyebrow at the interruption falling as you smile nervously. Vander looks at the both of you with a twinkle shining in his blue eyes, arms folded across his chest and lips curled into a smile. You quickly yank your hands from Ekko's, the punk clicking his tongue as he gives the amused man an exasperated look.
“Little upsetting you forgot I was standing here”, your boss chimes teasingly, having been watching the whole moment between you and your newly found soulmate. He looked way too chipper for someone watching their scheduled employee fraternizing with a regular during their shift. Like he knew just what had occurred. “Good to know you actually do have friends, kid. I was getting worried.”
“Sorry for– wait, what's that supposed to mean?” You say with furrowed brows, trying to decide whether or not you should take the burly man's words as an insult or just plain concern for your social life. Punk beside you failing at stifling his amusement, you look at him with narrowed eyes and he shakes his head.
“It's a little sad that your boss thinks you have no friends”, Ekko muses, joking lilt evident in his words and a playful gleam shining in his gaze. He chuckles when you punch his arm in retaliation, grumbling curses under your breath.
“S-Shut up…” Shooting the smug man beside you another look of mild irritation at his teasing, you look over at Vander again apologetically. His gentle expression catches you a little off guard. “Sorry about that, V. I'll go ahead and start cleaning up this table.”
“No need, I can handle it”, he assures you, hands swiftly plucking the forgotten tray lying absentmindedly on the table. He expertly loads the empty glasses and trash onto it before lifting it up in his hands.Turning back to give you a kind smile, one of his hands gently clap your shoulder. “Why don't you go on and take the rest of the night off, hm? I've got it from here. I'll make sure you get a full shift’s pay, too. ”
“What? But, I can work.” You pray you didn't do anything wrong for him to send you home early. And, besides that, you would feel a little guilty for earning your full pay despite not working your full shift. Was this because you'd lost it over the three men harassing you earlier? No, you were sure Vander wasn't like that. He cared more about his employees feeling safe working for him than some assholes who couldn't take no for an answer.
“Don't worry, you're not in trouble, dear”, he muttered softly, that weird uncanny ability he had to read you like an open book making itself known as he fixed the tray in his hand. He tilts his head slightly, motioning towards Ekko with a gentle smile. “You've been working hard for days now. Go on and enjoy your night with your friends, okay?”
“B-But…” Stammering, you don't get to finish your words before the burly man slips away and through the crowds, moving just like a man with years of experience of running his pub mainly by himself.
“Better to just let it go”, Ekko sighs as he steps closer towards you once more, hand brushing yours and hazel brown eyes roaming your face as though he were trying to commit the image of you to memory. “Once his mind is made up, there's no changing it.”
You've only known Vander for a few months but in that short time, you'd figured out pretty quickly just how stubborn he could be. Sighing, you feel fingers wrapping around your wrist in a featherlight caress, a touch that has you searching for the warmth of the man beside you almost instinctively like a moth to a flickering flame. His hands trails along your forearm before gently cupping your elbow. Ekko looks down at you silently then, eyes searching yours like it would give him the answer to everything, to the connected string to you both, to the reason you didn't keep contact with them for months. It's like you can sense the question before it leaves his lips.
“...What happened, trouble…?” Pressing your lips together, you feel the weight of all the months prior settle on your shoulders then and you give a tired shrug, shaking your head as though that'd be enough of an answer.
“Like I said earlier, it's a long story…” He nods slowly then, hand sliding back down to take your hand firmly in his again, the string glowing faintly once more.
“Can you tell it to me while we sit? Something tells me you need a drink and I'm not the only one who's been worried.” Tilting your head in question at his words, he guides you through the building, to the other side of the room in a tucked away corner. It isn't until he stops at an occupied booth that you realize what he meant, mouth dropping open in disbelief. Several heads turn to look at you both and only one of the people sitting down shoots up out of their seat to rush at you.
“What the actual fuck?!” Serenity practically shrieks, your name spilling from her lips in a frantic rush of breath. She climbs over a rather familiar man's lap to get to you, pulling you into a bone crushing hug and hands squeezing you until you feel like you'll pop. Not that you mind when you're squeezing her just as tightly. “You absolute asshole, do you know how worried I've been?! Why haven't you been answering our calls and texts? Where have you been for fuck's sake? Next time you tell me to do something dumb like keep your location a secret, I'm not doing it! This was dumb as fuck!”
“I've missed you too, Reni. I promise I didn't just up and ditch you all”, you laugh softly, eyes stinging with the threat of tears. You'd missed her more than you thought you did these past few months. She pinches your side and pulls back to run her hands up and down your arms, checking you over as if she hadn't seen you in years.
“You sure? It felt like you did. Fuck, I'm just glad you're okay and didn't end up in a murder documentary.”
“Why is that your first assumption”, you question dryly and she all but drags you over to the booth, pulling you to sit between her and Ekko. Looking at the others sitting with you guys, you see the man Reni had climbed over sitting beside her and two others. A woman with brown eyes and black hair, bangs covering her forehead. The other woman, you knew well, her grey eyes sparkling with familiarity. Reni motions towards everyone with a sweep of her hand.
“Kamala, Riri, Ned, this is the one we were telling you guys about!” Riri is the one to point at you, eyes wide and grin lighting up her features.
“I knew it! I knew you were the one Hobie and Ekko were going on and on about!” The punk beside you shuffles in his seat, ears burning slightly and you shoot him an amused look before turning back to Riri.
“I remember you saying you played in a band, but I didn't think it would be Hobie's…” It was crazy to think your coworker knew your best friends, let alone played in a band with one of them. After exchanging pleasantries with Kamala and Ned, you realize that you actually do know Serenity's boyfriend. He was the same Ned that took Mrs. Crumb's class with Hobie and joined his high-school band before you'd left for the States.
“We need different friend circles or something. We can not all know each other”, Reni sighs heavily, shaking her head in mock disappointment, which means absolutely nothing by the way she clings to both you and her boyfriend. “Anyway, enough with the introductions. Tell me everything that happened to you.”
And you do. You tell them everything that had happened during the last few months following your no contact with them, from your draining work-life imbalance, to your phone being murdered in cold blood right before your eyes. When you mention your piece of work called your roommate, Reni tightens the grip around her glass, temper rising. As though she still recalled that first night you'd ranted to her about Cassie. Kamala and Riri are kind enough to give you four space while you told them your story, heading towards the bar counter to chat with Vander and gather the drinks for you all. They tell you about what had been going on in their lives, about the reason they'd been there at the pub in the first place. The charity event that had been a few blocks away was for FEAST and Ekko was the head of it all, the band helping by performing and Serenity bringing food she'd made at the café.
“Hobie's gonna flip out when he sees you”, Kamala remarks cheerfully as both she and Riri come back with drinks, glasses clinking onto the table. Handing you one that you're sure is a mint julep, she looks over at the white haired man sitting beside you with a questioning frown. “Actually, where is he? Wasn't he supposed to be here by now, boss man?”
“Mmhm”, Ekko hums, mouth full of a drink that smelled like caramel. Placing his cup back on the coaster, he pulls his phone out of his jacket pocket and you try not to peer over his shoulder. Brows furrowing and handsome features twisting into a worried frown, he looks up from his device to give everyone a reassuring smile. “He probably got held up. I'll go outside and give him a call.”
“I'll come with you”, you pipe up, all of you sliding out of the booth to let the punk through. He raises an eyebrow at you questioningly and you shrug. “Need some fresh air.”
You don't say the words that rattle in your mind, though. The words that simmer in your chest. That you don't want to leave his side right now, not when one of the pieces of the puzzle called your soul finally came back into your life physically. The way he looks down at you, it's almost like he can tell what you're not saying and a smile graces his lips.
“Alright then. Come on.” Hand reaching for your own, he threads his fingers with yours and pulls you out of the stuffy pub. Cool air hits your flushed cheeks and you shiver. The leather jacket that was just around his shoulders is draped over you faster than you can blink and the warmth seeps into your body, your warm face no longer just flushed from the cold. Ekko's hand never leaves yours as his other thumbs through the contacts on his phone, stopping and pressing on the icon for Hobie. The red string sways between you two. Just as Ekko presses the phone to his ear, you feel the taut sensation on your left pinkie grow steadily lax. The punk beside you seems to sense it the same time you do, both of your heads snapping towards the approaching red van driving down the street. Music blasts from the bass of the vehicle before it quiets down. Scoffing lightly, the white haired man gently tugs you toward the van, while your heart beats a mile a minute. Meeting your second soulmate so soon after finding your first…? It couldn't be who you think it was, could it…?
The closer you get to the van, the more lax your string becomes and you almost want to squeeze your eyes shut, if only to not get your hopes up. The window rolls down to the van and the other voice you'd been dying to hear floods your ears.
“‘Ko? Wha’ ya standin’ out ‘ere for? And who…” Hobie's voice trails off as those russet brown eyes you'd only seen via a screen for the past six years lock onto your own. Once again, your breath leaves you and your heartbeat thuds in your ears. The punk immediately cuts off the engine, hopping out of the car so fast that you hadn't had time to process it before he was standing a few feet away from both you and Ekko. Lips parted, pierced brows furrowed in disbelief and hands shaking ever so slightly at his sides, Hobie looks at you like you were a saving grace he'd been begging all of his life for. Tongue darting out to wet your dry lips, you let your eyes drift down to your lax second string and the choked sound that leaves your lips sounds like a sobbing chuckle. The relief that floods your system then isn't just your own, the man holding your hand squeezing yours softly before letting go as you take a step towards the only other person you're attached to in the whole world.
“...How've you been, Bee?” Hobie's lip quivers as he furiously shakes his head, long legs closing the distance in seconds before his long arms pull your body flush against his. You can feel something warm and wet hit your neck as he holds you close, the string glowing faintly between you as you clutch at his band tee. Hobie lets out a wet laugh even as his body trembles just a bit, sniffing and letting out a heavy puff of air that warms your flesh. He has to bend down a little to pull you closer to him, as close as he physically can, and you swear you're hallucinating when he mumbles a quiet, triumphant ‘I knew it’.
“This the part where ya tell me to wake up, innit?” He sighs softly, and you chuckle, sniffling back your own tears.
“Why? Is this a nightmare for you?” You can feel the stubble on his chin rubbing against your cheek, hear the way amusement colors his tone.
“Oh, yeah, definitely. A terrifyin’, traumatic one at that”, he quips sarcastically, playful lilt in his voice and he chuckles as you slap his arm in retaliation. Hobie pulls back just enough to gaze down at you, russet brown eyes roaming over your features reverently. “Still. I wanna see this one through. I don't wanna wake up…”
Stupid heart doing somersaults in your chest at his gentle expression, you find yourself looking away despite how much you want to bask in the seemingly loving aura radiating from him towards you. Ekko watches the exchange between you two silently, a warm smile on his face all the while. Happy that the two people he loved more than anything were now reunited once again. Hobie slowly pulls away from you, much to your mutual disappointment, and you're struck again with the fact that your two best friends are stupidly attractive. The taller punk standing before you sports a ripped band tee that fits him a little too well, a black cropped leather jacket, and ripped jeans adorned with swinging pocket chains. The black combat boots on his feet plus the several rings on his fingers compliments the outfit nicely. And, just like Ekko, he wears the pick around his neck among the choker and other necklaces on his neck.
“Wha’ are ya even doin’ ‘ere, me duck? Wha’ happened? None of us could get in touch wit’ you for so long.”
“Right, right. Ugh, it's a long story-” Your words are cut short by the sudden ringing of your phone and you can feel frustration growing in your chest at your reunion being interrupted. The call ends just as you swipe your thumb to answer it, a text popping up on your screen right after. Seeing the name of the person who sent it, you internally groan at seeing Cassie’s name. Eyes scanning the text, your look of mild annoyance slowly begins to shift to one of pure furious incredulity.Your grip on your phone tightens and both men stand beside you with worry as you feel your world crumbling in just minutes. Cassie has just kicked you out. Kicked you out of your shared flat, let her problematic boyfriend move in and threw your stuff outside the door. You type furiously, demanding answers, demanding any legitimate reason for her just blatantly disregarding to at least give you thirty days to find another place. All you get back is a heart and peace sign emoji. Your feelings of indignation and hopelessness bleed into your connection with the two punks on either side of you, Hobie patting your shoulder worriedly.
“Lovie…?” Let out a long, staggering sigh, you take a deep breath before letting it out once more. Just when you thought the universe was giving you a break, just when you thought nothing could spoil this moment of reuniting with the two men you held dear and finding out that they were always meant to be in your life. The Cassie situation officially blew up in your face. Several long minutes pass before you look at them both apologetically, gifting them a forced smile that doesn't reach your eyes.
“I'm sorry. I'm really sorry, I just… I have to get home. S-Something came up, so…” They spare a glance at each other before nodding. Hobie throws Ekko the keys, the shorter of the two rounding the van to slide into the driver's seat. Hobie opens the passenger side door and motions with his head.
“C'mon then. Let's get you home”, the punk says softly, the caring look shining in his russet brown eyes and it makes your chest ache. You didn't want them to know you were now probably homeless.
“N-No, it's fine, I'll just walk–”
“Jus’ get in, love. It'll be faster.”
“No, really, I'm good. You guys are sweet–”
“Love..”
“Get in the car, trouble. Before I have Bee pick you up and buckle you in”, Ekko says firmly, hazel brown eyes looking at you expectantly. Hobie smiles and motions with his head yet again, the both of them stubbornly refusing to let you walk alone. Not when they just found you again after all this time. Not when you were the last piece missing in their lives like they'd always known you were. You want to refuse again but the looks they give you makes your stubbornness cave, a sigh leaving your lips as you climb into the passenger seat. Closing the door once you're seated comfortably, Hobie climbs into the seat behind Ekko and the white haired punk drives off down the street once you give him the directions to your flat.
“...Wanna talk ‘bout it…?” The punk sitting in the back speaks up after a moment of silence caused by you stewing in your own dilemma. Biting down on your bottom lip, you shake your head, if only to spare them your feelings on the matter. “You're not fine, lovie. I can feel it, y’know.”
“Same here”, Ekko pipes up, eyes briefly peeking over at you before focusing back on the road. You don't see the look both men share through the mirror. “Perks of being tied together… Please tell us what's going on, bug. We're here to help you ‘cause we care about you.”
And you know they're telling the truth about wanting to help, you didn't need the strings tethering you to them to know that. That's just how Hobie and Ekko were, caring for their loved ones and ensuring that they were okay no matter what. That's just one of the many things that you loved about them. Taking a deep breath, you let it out in a rush of air and quietly tell them what you only found out moments ago. By the time you're done telling them about the Cassie situation, both men are sporting looks that could kill. Ekko looks annoyed, pissed off and silent about it as his hands tighten their grip on the steering wheel, the van starting to turn in on your street. Hobie scoffs and scrunches his nose up in irritation.
“That's utter shite and fucked up. This ain't the first time your roommate screwed you over?” Shaking your head, you rub at your temples gingerly, trying to will away the headache that was threatening to grow. Ekko slowly parks just outside of the entrance of your building, and you can tell he's thinking hard about something by the way his tongue visibly pokes the inside of his cheek.
“No, that's not even the half of it. I'll tell it to you after I see what's going on.” Opening the door, you step out of the car and head towards the apartment building before you. Striding pass flat after flat, feet moving quickly as you rush towards your shared home. You hear the loud bass thumping music first before you see the flashing lights spilling from the bottom of the door. Eyes straying towards the suitcases and vase lying on the stained carpet of the building, you feel your chest burn with anger at the note lying on top of it all. One that stated that Cassie had changed the locks and that you could just throw away the old key. Shoulders shaking with barely restrained fury, your indignation remains deaf to the party happening just beyond that door. Frustrated shout leaving your lips, you kick the door harshly, again and again and again. You only stop when you're out of breath and see the wooden door beginning to chip. Minutes pass as you stand there, huffing and chest heaving, trying to rein in the anger that made you want to kick the door down entirely. A hand suddenly placed on your shoulder startles you a bit and you turn to see Hobie and Ekko gazing at you. Not with pity, not with judgement. Just a quiet steady presence in the place of your raging emotions.
Taking steadying breaths and letting them out slowly, you let the anger wash over you until it's calmed enough that you don't feel like punching through the dumb door. Without even asking if you need help, the two punks each grab one of your suitcases, Hobie motioning for you to grab your vase. Bending down and plucking it from off of the floor, you walk behind them silently, heading back towards the van parked outside. Almost a full fifteen minutes pass in silence once your things are put safely within the trunk, and Hobie then clears his throat, almost nervously.
“Right. That's that… How are you holdin’ up, love…?” Shrugging, you rub a palm over your forehead.
“I don't know… I mean, I was always planning to leave Cassie and get another place under my name. I-I just didn't think it would be so soon.” Which was true. You were more mad that she kicked you out in an awfully ridiculous way than you were about being kicked out all together. Groaning softly, you let your head fall back into the passenger seat as you all climb back into the car. “Where's the nearest hotel…?”
“Woah, wait”, Ekko stops you as he turns in his seat to fully face you, arm draped over the dashboard. “Why a hotel? You could just stay with me and Bee.”
“Yeah, but, I don't really wanna be a bother on you guys”, you mumble softly, gazing down at the two strings tied around both of your pinkies. Hobie lets out a fake offended gasp and shakes his head.
“Could never be a bother, me duck. Never. Plus, we got a spare room. If… If you want it, that is…” You turn your head to blink at Hobie curiously, questioningly. They weren't saying what you think they were saying… were they…?
“What are you guys saying…?” Almost simultaneously, the two punks reach over to hold each of your hands in theirs, gazing at you with such tenderness that it makes your breath stutter in your chest. The red strings connecting you three glow softly as Ekko slowly speaks up.
“So… Listen. We've been searching for a roommate for months now and, well, we all are tied together…” Lips twisting in a frown at how he trips a little over his words, you can't help the endeared smile gracing your lips then. Something warm and utterly enamored wells up in your chest and you bite down on your bottom lip to refrain from giggling at the way his ears flush a light dusting of red. However, the mention of all of you three being tied together instead of just you being matched with them both like you'd thought lingers in your mind. The implications of it ring and you realize the two men were also soulmates of each other. Hobie idly rubs a thumb along the back of your knuckles, as though he'd made up his mind about all of this.
“Lovely… Move in wit’ us…” Eyes widening slightly, you hadn't expected for him to say it so suddenly. “Ya need a new place and we have plenty of room. Besides, you still owe me that story ‘bout how you got ‘ere.”
Chuckling softly, the two punks look at you like you were the oasis to their desert, something raw shining within those beautiful sets of eyes you adore so much. Those feelings of longing for something more than friendship rear their head again, harder this time, more insistent, and by the way they both grip your hand a little tighter, you know that they felt it. There was no hiding this time, not when your soulmates could feel the fluttering emotions flooding through your bond. Something else glimmers in their eyes then, something sweeter, softer, something that reminded you of that day they gifted you the pick around your neck that matches perfectly with theirs. Something that told you they've felt the same way for a long time. None of you utter a word for several heartbeats and you think of everything that had led to this moment, to this night where you finally made your way back home. And nothing else seemed to matter after that.
“...Tell me everything while I unpack…?” The beaming grins that light up their features will forever be ingrained in your memory. You would all have to talk more, talk about everything better, about the strings that connected you three and what you think would work best for you all. But, that could come later, when you settled into your new home that was always meant to be yours in the first place.
“Of course, bug. Gonna tell you everything, from start to finish. Oh, almost forgot to tell you something.” Lifting your hand up to his lips, Ekko places a kiss so soft on your knuckles, Hobie lifting your other hand to his to do the same.
AHHHHHHH THAT WAS SO AMAZING!!!!! TRULY WORTH THE WAIT
Gasp 20k?!!! You have learned the art of yapping my padawan
Oop viktor and jayce cameo!!
I love the sweetness between hobie and ekko 🥺
I was screaming at r the whole time to just call them 😂😂
And here I thought they'd have a big cry together as they reunite at the airport bro like r go out and surprise them already!!!!! I bet that wait was agonizing for her too
Serenity is a girl's girl!!!
I knew it would be neddy!!! Bro is lucky!
Mj (coworker au) 🤝 cassie being a shit roommate
Coworker R 🤝 thim R having shit luck
Brooo working with your former nightmare teacher is so awful 😂 i feel for her
The scene where r sees spiderpunk swinging away felt like something out of the movie!!!
Peter!
Aunt may!!
Gasp vander!
Kamala!!! Oh the cast is stacked!!
The throuple needs a hug and a million dollars methinks
THE STRING IS ATTACHED TO THEM BOTH AHHHHHHH R's luck has finally turned!
Brooo the way i got mad for R's sake in the bar scene
THE REUNION!!!!! WODNOSMDOSMDKD
Now they can finally smooch 🤭🤭🤭🤭🤭
AUGHH SO GOOD!!! I LOVE IT!! YOU DID AMAZINGLY ❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️
