Pairing: Hobie Brown x Fem!Reader/ Spider-Punk x Fem!Reader
Word count: 6.2k
Author's Note: I really need to get better at uploading at a more consistent pace 🥲 but honestly, this part kinda hit me hard when I finally broke through that writing slump. I missed these girls so much, and I'm glad I actually rewrote this chapter for them! I'd like to thank @the-kr8tor for Billie and Ramona, aa well as @pinksugarscrub for sticking with me through this chapter!
Those words skip in Billie’s mind like those old vinyl records her dad kept in his room, scratching with each iteration. The only noise that breaks through the constant loop of revelation is the crinkling of the old photo in her hand, with the smiling faces of you and Hobie hanging over her. Her eyes drift over to the printed image of you– frozen in time, forever young on paper. You’re grinning ear to ear as you hold up a black t-shirt, one with an old graphic design for the band at the time– a red web inked across the chest with the band name trapped on it in white. Billie’s fingers fidget with the worn photo as she glances to the floor, all the content from her trunk still crumpled around her. Scattered photos and papers, strewn pens and pencils, haphazardly-tossed shirts and pants– Billie winces at the sight of them on the clean hardwood floor. A nagging image of Ramona comes to mind: dirt caked on her cheeks, clothes smudged with grime, dust clouded around her as she aired the cabin out.
With a reluctant sigh Billie pushes herself up and starts to clean, starting with the tin box next to her.
The photo of you slides out of her fingers and flutters back into the box, your beaming face slipping into dark shadows. Billie looks away to the other photos on the floor and pushes them into a pile, ignoring the imaginary looming pressure from your printed presence before dropping the photos on top of you.
Tingles crawl over Billie’s skin, her hands restlessly fidgeting across the floor– straightening crumpled papers, tossing pens and pencils into her trunk, piling her clothes to the side. Her big toe twitches back and forth under her electric blue sock. Her fingers wriggle every time an item drops from her grasp. Her head jerks in micro-headbangs as her face pinches in a troubled frown.
Mum’s alive. She’s actually alive.
Billie’s mind rings in her head in bombarding echos like cymbals, drowning out any background noises around the cabin. Her body moves on autopilot– almost robotic and erratic– while she tosses her belongings in her trunk. The urge to run and thrash around thrums in her leg muscles, but the image of Ramona cleaning the cabin still lingers in the back of Billie’s head. She tucks her legs further in to stave away the urge, but her fingers and toes still twitch in anticipation. Butterflies swarm in Billie’s stomach, and a burning tightness creeps up the back of her throat. The cymbals in Billie’s head clash harder in her eardrums, loud and unrelenting, while her fingers tremble against a cotton shirt.
Mum’s alive. She’s really alive. And I might actually see her.
Wrinkles crease along the fabric as Billie struggles to fold her shirt, attempting to fold it the way Ramona did before. Her brows furrow when the shirt slips from its fold, her nose crinkles when the sides droop over weirdly, and her mouth curls into a dissatisfied scowl when her fingers accidentally tug at a fold and pull a sleeve out of it. She’s not gonna make her clothes look like those fancy department store’s– she doesn’t know how Ramona was able to– but she needs something to occupy her fingers. The cymbals gradually cease their clangor as she tosses her sorry attempt of a folded shirt into her trunk, but the thoughts still hum in the background.
Mum’s alive. She wasn’t dead this whole time. And she has another daughter– I have a sister! A sister around my age? Maybe younger? Is Mon-Mon around my age?
Billie’s fingers clumsily fly through folding her trousers, catching themselves into the ripped sections and snapping some frayed denim.
Mon-Mon looks like me, obviously, so she has to be Dad’s daughter too, right? I mean, Dad would tell me if I have a sister, right? But why didn’t he? Why wouldn’t Dad tell me about Mon-Mon? Why wouldn’t he talk to me about Mum? Why did they split us up?
The thrumming itch to move in her stalls from the thought. Billie’s fingers freeze mid-fold, the denim rough against her skin. Her stomach twists the longer those thoughts buzz like low static.
What actually happened between Dad and Mum?
A click rings through the silence surrounding Billie, and she looks up to the door as Ramona freezes under the doorway. Her hand clenches the leather handle of her bass case, the metal hinges softly rattling, the case barely swaying against her leg. Ramona’s eyes, shadowed underneath by a hint of purplish-black, waver under Billie’s stormy scrutiny. The tension looms heavy within the cabin, so thick that Billie can cut through it with her bow string. The faint chirping and rustling leaves outside barely register in Billie’s ears, even as Ramona walks inside and closes the screen door behind her. The cymbals clash back in Billie’s head, all the spiraling questions and thoughts festering in her chest and clawing up to her throat, but the walls behind Ramona’s eyes render them useless on Billie’s tongue. The urge to move intensifies in Billie, but at the same time her body is anchored to the hardwood under Ramona’s gaze.
Her eyes mirror Billie’s, they mirror her dad’s– their dad’s.
Billie swallows the lump in the back of her throat as Ramona finally averts her eyes, but the uncomfortable festering still lingers for the pink girl.
The moment Ramona saw that photo of you– the you before her, captured in the past she seemingly knew nothing about– Billie saw whatever ember in Ramona’s eyes flicker out. She avoided talking to Billie for the next few days– staying out longer for her bass lessons; eating breakfast before Billie woke up; going to bed earlier before Billie came back from her violin lessons.
Hell, Ramona never even touched her mp3 player after that, so the silence within the cabin was even more stifling. No muffled acoustic playing in the background as Billie’s alarm, no faint synths and snare kicks echoing in the background during break times, no hushed pianos and violins to lull Billie to sleep.
And especially no song from Dad blaring out in the cabin.
Billie gets it– being blindsided isn’t fun at all. She’s still grappling with the bombshell of you being alive. But Ramona? She didn’t even get a single story about Dad from you, no hint of him ever revealed in Ramona’s life. The only way he was ever involved in her life was through his music, but you never even mentioned that you knew the band, let alone were involved with them from the beginning. Wouldn’t someone normally brag about that? Or at least mention that part of their life to their daughter? And not only did Ramona have to find out about Dad being alive, but she had to find out through a stranger who happened to be her sister? Of course Ramona would be scared off and avoid Billie at all costs.
Billie gets it, she really does.
It doesn’t mean she has to like it though.
Billie glances back up at Ramona shuffling back to her side of the cabin, the soft clinking of the metal handles echoing as the bass case sways against Ramona’s leg. Rubber soles drag against the hardwood as Ramona approaches her bed, gingerly dropping the case down next to her trunk. She flops onto her bed, her long legs hanging off the edge. Dark coils splay over from behind her ponytail, cascading over her back and onto starched white sheets. The curtains from a window flutter from the gentle summer breeze, and the fading sunlight creeps through the sheer fabric and dapples over the girl amidst looming shadows, as if trying to protect her with its fleeting presence.
It’s like a dramatic painting Billie would see in those big art books Auntie Yuri keeps.
Billie’s face pinches up into a grimace, her eyes narrowing and her mouth curling into a small pout. Prickles fester in her chest as she stares at her melodramatic double– sister? Twin? – before she tosses her poorly-folded jeans onto the floor. The punk girl pushes herself up with a grunt, almost toppling back down from the sudden rush of blood through her leg. Wincing from the pins and needles assaulting her leg, she stumbles towards Ramona, one foot slogging with all of Billie’s weight while her other foot drags behind.
Billie can’t let this go on– if not for Ramona’s spiraling mental state, then for Billie’s own sanity.
Heavy combat boots finally stop in front of the occupied bed. Billie’s shadow looms over the sprawled figure, and it takes everything within Billie not to yank Ramona out of bed.
“Oi.”
Ramona ignores her, burying her face into her pillow. Another sharp prick stabs into Billie’s chest as she nudges Ramona’s leg.
“Oi, Mon-Mon.”
Ramona weakly kicks Billie’s hand off before she curls up on her bed, draping her duvet and pillow over her like a makeshift shield.
The pins and needles in Billie’s leg swarms up to her chest, the prickling growing unbearable to the punk girl. With gritted teeth and hardened eyes, Billie slaps her hand on the fleshy part of Ramona’s rear. A startled scream muffles under the duvet before Ramona scrambles out of her cocoon. Angry tears well up in Ramona’s eyes as she glares at Billie, a hue of red creeping up her skin.
“What was that for?!”
Hot waves of pain emit from Billie’s hand. Frustration claws up her throat, poisoning her tongue with an acrid taste as she struggles not to yell. “I am done with ya ignorin’ me! We are talkin’, ‘n we are talkin’ right now–!”
A harsh scoff slips through Ramona’s lips as she slips out of her bed away from Billie, covering her butt from future assaults. “There’s nothing to talk about–”
“Like hell there is!” Billie chases after Ramona as she storms around the cabin. “Ya t’ink avoidin’ me’s gonna fix any of this?! Jus’ ‘cuz ya don’t wanna talk ‘bout it don’t mean ‘s gon’ go away!”
Ramona storms towards the shared wardrobe cabinet, flinging the doors open until they slam against the sides. She angrily snatches a basket full of crumpled clothes and stomps away before Billie can grab her.
“There is nothing to talk about, Billie–”
“Really? ‘Cuz findin’ out we have t’ same parents seems like somethin’ t’ talk ‘bout–!”
Billie rushes in front of the exit before Ramona could, holding her arms out to block the way. An exasperated groan rumbles through Ramona’s chest as she turns her back from Billie, but the punk girl is not having it. “Are ya really gon’ blank me on this?!”
A tempest brews within the confines of the cabin as the two girls continue their cat-and-mouse game. Loud stomps reverberate throughout wooden walls. Angry groans creak from the floorboards. The windows rattle, stained glass threatening to pop off their panels.
“Damn it, Mon-Mon, talk t’ me!” Billie’s voice thunders against the walls. “Ain’t this a good thing–?”
Ramona slams the basket down, the clothes spilling onto the floor. “In what world would this be a good thing?! How is finding out that your parents lied to you a good thing?!”
Hurt flickers in the punk girl’s eyes as she stumbles back, but she quickly stands her ground again, “I dunno, but there had t’ be a reason–!”
“What reason would they have, then?” Ramona’s counter strikes through Billie like lightning. Frustration storms behind russet eyes, tears welling up before Ramona angrily wipes them off. “Why would they split us up and not tell us about each other?”
The pins and needles worsen in Billie’s chest, but she swallows the bile in her throat as she chases after Ramona again, accidentally kicking the clothes away. “Like I said, I don’t know! But there had t’ be somethin’!” Static crackles in the air as Billie grabs Ramona’s arm and yanks her back. “Stop try’na walk away from me–!”
“Stop touching me!”
Ramona yanks her arm out of Billie’s hand just as hard, fire crackling behind her glistening eyes. A sharp hiccup wracks her body, and stray tears threaten to roll down her cheeks.
“You don’t get it! My mom never lies to me!”
The prickles in Billie’s chest surges up her throat as she stares at her trembling double, her tongue heavy like lead in water.
“My mom never lies to me!” Denial clings to Ramona’s voice, straining it into a hoarse cry. “She doesn’t keep secrets from me! Why would she keep this from me?!”
Another sharp hiccup wracks her body again as more tears bead up along her lashline, threatening to spill over. She trembles under the pressure, the scrutiny, from her stranger of a sister– the one who was raised by a father she never met.
“She never told me anything about Dad,” Ramona’s voice trembles with each hitch of breath. “Not about him being in a band, not about making his merch, nothing!”
Betrayal and hurt flashes in her eyes as the tears finally roll down her cheeks. “It’s not fair! Why do you know something about Mom that I don’t? Why do you get to keep pictures of her and Dad together and I don’t? Why do you get to know about Mom but I don’t know anything about Dad?”
Sharp sobs wrack her body as tears continue to fall, dripping onto the hardwood floor. “Why am I being left out?”
Billie stands frozen as the sounds of sniffles echo within the cabin, the mirror image of her trembling and struggling to breathe with each sob. A dull ache lingers in a void in her chest, rolling and thundering like a storm cloud, rendering her speechless. She takes a tentative step towards Ramona, as if her presence would set off another eruption of tears if she takes the wrong step. The back of Billie’s eyes burn, but tears refuse to surface, not when some are already shed in front of her. Each footfall creaks on the hardwood, muffling the shallow hitches of breath, until Billie stands solemnly in front of Ramona again.
The punk girl gingerly grabs onto her sister’s wrist before pulling her into a tight hug.
Ramona stiffens in the sudden embrace, long, lanky arms wrapping around her like a vice. Despite having a similar build, Billie feels more solid, more steady, more reassuring. A scent of citrus and leather wafts into her nostrils, comforting to the point of bringing her to tears again, before she wraps her own arms around her double. Burying her face into Billie’s shoulders, Ramona blinks away more tears as she clings tighter. More sobs bubble up in her chest, and her body trembles as she gives into her warring emotions.
Billie’s never seen anyone cry before. Granted, she knows what being sad looks like– mainly through her dad whenever Uncle James or Auntie Yuri talked about you– but she’s never seen someone actually cry until now. The ache in her chest is suffocating, crushing her lungs and blocking the back of her throat, as she hugs Ramona tighter.
What would make her feel better? What would make her stop crying? Hugs usually make Billie happy, but it’s just making Ramona cry more. The only other thing that Billie can think of is–
Billie’s eyes widen from the brief epiphany before she gently pulls Ramona back. “Do ya want a choc’late orange?”
“...a what?”
—
Ramona doesn’t remember how she got trapped under a tight blanket cocoon.
One moment she’s being manhandled by her long-lost sister into a bear hug, the next she’s sitting on the floor wrapped in Billie’s blanket. All the while, Billie dumps a pillowcase full of colorful snacks Ramona doesn’t recognize. Disbelief flickers in Ramona’s red-rimmed eyes as she watches Billie tuck an edge of a chocolate bar between her teeth before rummaging through the rest of the snacks.
“Dad always gives me sweets whenever I feel bad,” Billie mutters through her teeth. Her fingers rake through the plastic covered treats and mini cardboard boxes, hunting for one that piques her fancy. “He says sugar can kickstart t’ do…do–hm…”
Billie’s face curls into a frustrated scowl as she snatches one of the cardboard boxes, tucking her finger into the top tab. “He always says t’ word really fast, but ’s basically t’ feel-good feeling in yer brain–”
“...dopamine?”
“Yeah, that–”
She easily rips the top off and tilts the small box, letting an orange-foiled ball tumble onto her awaiting palm. The scent of orange wafts towards Ramona as she leans closer, her eyes lingering on the reflective tangerine-shaded glint. Little dimples cover the ball, and Ramona can already feel the ghosts of them grazing against her fingers, conjuring the image of the actual fruit in her mind.
“Billie, is this the thing you were talking about–?”
SMACK!
Ramona flinches back when Billie slaps her palm against the ball, crinkling the foiled barrier and flattening the inside before unwrapping it.
“It tastes t’ best when ya break it in pieces–”
“Why’d you have to be so violent with it though–?”
“ ’s fun,” the punk girl shrugs as she pulls a small piece out, revealing an orange wedge-like shape. “Plus they’re hard t’ break otherwise.”
Billie lets the chocolate bar drop from her mouth before popping the wedge in, and elation lights up in her eyes. She bounces in place happily, a goofy grin curling up her lips, before she presents the– admittedly perfectly sectioned– pieces of chocolate.
Hesitation flickers on Ramona’s face, her brows furrowing and her mouth curling into a slight frown. Her hand tentatively slips through the blanket barrier around her before grabbing the smallest sliver she can find. The aroma of orange drifts towards Ramona again, the chocolate slowly melting under her touch, the intricate orange-like details running away from the heat of her fingertips. She slowly slips the sliver into her mouth, her tongue lapping up the remnants of chocolate off her fingers.
Milk chocolate coats her tastebuds, melting on her tongue as the taste of orange suddenly floods her senses. The scent lingers the back of her nose while the flavor meshes with the chocolate, a confusing clash within her mouth. The citrus is biting while the chocolate is cloying, almost fighting for dominance in an awkward dance.
Ramona can’t help but let a grimace flicker on her face.
“...it tastes weird.”
“Oi–!”
Billie stares at her double with a flabbergasted stare, as if her very existence was just insulted. “I gave ya t’ best tastin’ flavor too!”
“It still tastes weird. The orange flavor is trying to overpower the chocolate–”
“No it doesn’t! It just brings out a different side of it!” Billie’s cheeks puff out as her lips jut into a frustrated pout. “L-like, it brings out different notes or something–”
Billie’s mind races in a fluster, the sudden urge to defend her favorite sweet charging her sugar-coated tongue. Brief moments of her dad and the band flash in her mind, of how Uncle James would talk about things like “flavor profiles” or “food pairings” with different alcohols and whatnot– but oh god, she for the life of her can’t remember how he said it.
“It’s like…like a mature flavor! Like the kind adults like!”
Ramona’s face curls up into a disbelieving frown, coupled with a dissatisfied groan. “I don’t think I wanna be an adult if that’s something they’re supposed to like–”
“That ain’t what I meant–!”
A loud groan rips through Billie’s throat as she drops her face into her palms, frustration festering in the punk girl’s chest. Even with her face obscured, Ramona can see Billie sulking behind her hands.
“This is Dad’s favorite sweet too…”
Ramona’s frown drops. A heavy pressure looms over her shoulders from the mention of their dad, the image of him in her head now clearer and more daunting than before. What was once a blurry figure with the same eyes as her, a dark shadow lurking in the corner of her mind, suddenly morphs into that man in the picture. Long thick locs, dapples of silver on his skin, a cat-like grin similar to Billie’s– his lack of presence before now prowls closer to the forefront, demanding to be seen, refusing to be ignored.
But somehow with a weird orange-shaped chocolate, with the bitter flavor of white pith and sugary chocolate still lingering on Ramona’s tongue, manages to keep his punkified existence at bay, his demeanor more…Billie-like as he backs away from her mind.
Ramona really doesn’t know how to feel about that now.
She glances at the crinkled orange foil, and another scene comes to mind– a younger girl who looked like her sitting on the lap of the younger Hobie in Billie’s photo. The little girl giggles with delight when the young punk man smacks the chocolate orange with his hand, easily unraveling the pre-sectioned pieces in front of her. A warm smile curls on the fatherly stranger’s lips while the little girl shoves a chocolate wedge in her mouth.
Would Ramona have been like that if she grew up with Hobie Brown?
Her stomach drops from that lapse in her mind, the scene cutting like an old film in a movie theater. Guilt bubbles up Ramona’s throat as an image of you flickers in place– of a younger Ramona sitting on your lap, with you quietly humming and rocking her to sleep. A ghost of chocolate and cardamom lingers in the back of Ramona’s nose, enveloping her into a bittersweet and forgiving embrace. However that reprieve is short-lived, with taunting whispers worming into Ramona’s ears, tugging her back into the reality before her.
She swallows the acrid lump in her throat.
“You really do love your dad.”
For once Billie stays still, the tweeting birds and rustling leaves outside their cabin doing little to offset the charge in her presence. She peeks through the spaces between her fingers, the same russet eyes reflecting back to Ramona.
“...he’s yer dad too.”
Doubt still plagues Ramona’s mind, but the undeniable proof in front of her waves the hushed taunts away from the forefront. Even with wild dark tresses and swatches of denim and plaid on Billie, Ramona can’t deny how they’re like mirror images of each other, how both of them bear resemblance to the man whose music echoed in Ramona’s life in the background.
“...then why didn’t he want me with him?”
The world outside wooden walls muffle in Ramona’s ears, the silence between them growing too heavy to bear before Billie responds with a shrug.
“...probably t’ same reason as Mum with me.”
The bitter lump claws its way back up Ramona’s throat, lodging itself back with a vengeance. Billie’s blanket weighs Ramona down on the ground, trapping her in a suffocating chokehold, while she’s under her long-lost sister’s scrutiny.
“...Mom wouldn’t do that.”
“Neither would Dad.”
The familiar playful grin is nowhere on Billie’s face. The same earthy brown eyes Ramona shares is shrouded with an unfamiliar shadow, dimming the usual glint in Billie’s eyes. A bittersweet smile curls on the punk girl’s lips before she averts her eyes from Ramona.
“ ‘m sure Dad would've loved ya t’ same if ya stayed with us.” Billie shifts onto the hardwood floor until she’s kneeling, her hands trembling as they start to shovel the rest of the candy and snacks back into the pillow case. “Uncle Ned, Uncle James, ‘n Auntie Yuri too. Probably would’ve had both of us travel ‘round with ‘em in Uncle James’s van, havin’ us eatin’ jaffa cakes ‘n monster munches ‘til we’re sick of it, all ‘til we get to the next new city for ‘em t’ perform.”
Her voice wavers with each scoop of treats retreating into the cotton sack, her smile trembling while her eyes refuse to look back up. “Dad would’ve had us watch backstage, callin’ it our personal front row seats while they take over t’ stage…”
A sniffle breaks the fragile silence, but Billie continues to clean, her wild coils shielding her face from Ramona’s eyes.
“...d’ya t’ink Mum would’ve done t’ same? Keep both of us if she could?”
The thought of you rocking Ramona to sleep creeps back up in her mind, this time the background slowly piecing itself together– the small studio apartment filled with old nicknacks and framed sketches, with patched up quilts and numerous photo albums, an ever-evolving time capsule just for you and her. The scent of chocolate and cardamom lingers back, calming the whirling anxiety in Ramona’s chest. Even as a new little girl flickers into her memories, crawling into your lap next to the younger Ramona, a bittersweet warmth creeps up in Ramona’s chest.
“...Mom definitely would’ve.”
Billie freezes mid-tying the end of the pillowcase. Her curls slowly part as she lifts her head, her eyes clouded with wary hope.
“Yeah?”
The lump in Ramona’s throat shrinks down, and she manages to swallow it down with a trembling smile of her own.
“Yeah.”
Billie’s eyes still waver, but a reassured smile curls up on her lips as she crawls away and tosses the pillowcase into her open trunk. A sigh of relief slips through Ramona’s lips despite herself, and she glances back at the reflective orange foil on the floor, the misshapen chocolate wedges beckoning her back with its citrus scent. With an uncertain frown, she reaches for another piece. Her eyes linger on the detailed etchings of the chocolate, the orange-like stamping still a visual marvel to the girl, before she pops it in her mouth again. And like before, her face contorts into a harsh grimace.
“...yeah, it still tastes weird.”
“Don’t eat it then!”
—
Billie can’t sleep.
Lying in her bed, shrouded in darkness and dappled moonlight through her window, Billie stares up at the ceiling with a solemn frown marring her face. Storm clouds whirl in her head, thundering and weighing her down in a muggy haze. The only thing keeping her grounded is the feeling of silicone earbuds tucked in her ears and the sound of a familiar guitar solo echoing into her head. Billie gently squeezes her hand around Ramona’s mp3 player, the plastic tabs on it a reassuring pressure for her, while she glances across the cabin towards Ramona’s bed.
A sheen of green glints under the moonlight as Ramona soundly sleeps, her bonnet reflecting the silvery light Billie’s way. Ramona’s facing away from Billie, like she usually does when she’s asleep, but after these past few nights it still feels like a wall. But Ramona giving Billie her mp3 player before heading to bed is a step to the right direction, right?
A guitar riff quietly croons in Billie’s ears, that familiar string improvisation beckoning her back to the music. As her eyes drift back to the ceiling, her body slowly sinks into the creaking mattress, starched linen and soft cotton brushing against her skin. The riff gently vibrates through her bones, melting away the tension in her body. Billie flutters her eyes shut with a deep sigh, and the music conjures up another scene in her mind– a tall, lanky figure lies next to her, strumming his web-lined guitar, losing himself to the music. Moonlight brightens into a stark-white spotlight over the figure, silver metal glinting on his face and dread cuffs. Long, calloused fingers dance across the fret in a frenzied grace, bending the sounds around him to his will.
Dad is always electrifying when he performs, even through a small speaker.
Billie glances back over to Ramona’s sleeping figure, and the imaginary punk rocker soon follows her sight, sauntering over to Ramona with his trusted guitar in hand. The guitar grows softer in Billie’s ears as the figment of her imagination sits on the edge of Ramona’s bed, moonlight chasing away the shadows from his face. His piercings glint under the silver beams, but tender warmth behind his eyes shines the brightest as he gazes down at Ramona. He sets his guitar down beside him when the strings fade away. His ring-covered fingers tentatively reach towards the slumbering Ramona, but they flinch away when she curls into a ball with a soft snort.
For once, her dad– even as a figment of Billie’s imagination– looks at a loss.
A dull ache creeps up in Billie’s chest at the sight. Her thoughts start to scramble and clash against the music in her ears now, muddling the transition with more questions.
What happened between Mum and Dad? Why would they split up? Why would they split us up? Does Uncle Ned know? Uncle James? Auntie Yuri? Why didn’t they say anything? Do they even know why? Did Dad tell them not to? Would it be too hard to raise both of us together? Would Dad’ve raised us both if he could? Would Mum? Do they still love each other? Does Dad still love Ramona?
The dull ache in Billie’s chest sharpens into a festering prickle.
Does Mum still love me–?
“Bee, I can’t tell if you’re recording–”
“Shit–”
A soft laugh silences the thoughts in Billie’s head, and a new figure settles beside Billie. The punk girl keeps her eyes on Ramona and her imaginary dad, the new presence near her too fragile for her to turn to. Her dad’s muffled groan vibrates in her ears in a nostalgic embrace, but the unknown woman’s voice tugs at Billie’s heart even more.
“How come you’re recording by yourself anyway?” the new voice chimes in Billie’s ears with a mirthful lilt. “I thought you were gonna head to James’s place–”
“Lost t’ key t’ his flat, Cherry,” her dad’s voice grunts back, “ ‘n t’ bloody knobhead wouldn’t answer t’ door. His bloody van’s parked out front, so I know he’s home–”
“Then maybe you could’ve gone later–”
“I don’t wanna–”
“Why not?” The voice in Billie’s ears envelopes her in a comforting warmth. “You can have James work on the mixer while you’re in the booth–”
“I wanna do this m’self,” Billie can hear the petulant pout from her dad’s voice, a rare break from his usual nonchalance. “James’ll jus’ fuck around too much–”
“You know he wouldn’t, Honeybee. Not when it comes to the girls.”
Billie’s eyes glisten as the new figure drapes her arm over Billie’s stomach, gingerly pulling her into an embrace. A ghost of a kiss presses the crown of Billie’s head– she swears she could feel it– while the voice continues to lull her into a relaxed state.
“See?” A strained huff slips through in the voice. “At least one of them agrees with me. Damn, I think Billie was the one who kicked hard–”
“Oi, no, Billie Jean! Be nice t’ yer mummy!”
Soft shuffling echoes in Billie’s ears as she watches her imaginary dad in front of her turn his eyes to her. His usual cat-like smile softens as he stares at her before he pushes himself up from Ramona’s bed. His long, languid strides back sets Billie’s heart thumping, his eyes reminding her of warmed treacle, before he sits on the edge of her bed. He reaches out, but his hand hovers past Billie and to the figure behind her.
“I t’ink Billie wants ya to join in–”
“Hell no, you know I can’t sing–”
“Oh c’mon, Cherry, ya sing t’ ‘em all the time–”
“When we go to bed–”
“Still counts–”
“Bee, I’m not a professional,” the voice chides with another melodic chuckle, “This is more of your lane–”
“But it’ll be more meanin’ful if it came from both of us.”
Billie’s heart twinges, her eyes starting to glisten. She pulls the mp3 player up to her face, only to see a random numbered file name. Was this supposed to be in there? Was this just some mistake mixed into the numerous songs on this player? Did Ramona skip this file because she didn’t know what it was? Is Billie even supposed to listen to this?
“C’mon, Cherry, sing that pretty song–”
“What, no!”
“Please? F’me? For mac ‘n cheese–”
“Don’t use the girls against me! They’re not even here yet– Hobart Brown, don’t you dare–!”
A startled shriek makes Billie flinch, but she soon relaxes at the chimes of laughter from both parents. The weight of both imaginary figures disappear from Billie’s sides, only for the two figures to dance in front of her in laughter– a younger version of her dad hugs the version of you in the old photo, but your stomach sticks out under your shirt like a watermelon. The voice slips through your lips in a giddy laugh while her dad spins you around the room, the dapples of moonlight dancing across the figures like some kind of fairy tale picture. A muffled ‘please’ echoes into Billie’s ears as her dad buries his face into the crook of your neck.
A long silence soon follows, and a sense of dread starts to sink into the pit of Billie’s stomach. The idea of you refusing to sing stings, even if you didn’t have to. What would you have sounded like? Would you only sing in private, with no prying ears from strangers trying to hear you?
Would Billie be a stranger to you–?
Your voice croons into Billie’s ears in a soft melody, your words laced in tender love, chasing away the thoughts muddling her mind. The lyrics stir a sense of nostalgia despite it being Billie’s first time hearing it, the ache in her chest growing bittersweet.
You sing so beautifully to Billie.
A stray tear rolls down the side of her face when she hears her dad’s deep timbre quietly join, an even rarer moment for Billie. Hobie Brown never sings– he only hoots and hollers on stage, only hums around her and the band. He claims his voice would shatter people’s ear drums until their ears bleed, that it’ll condemn the band’s songs like a wretched curse, that it’ll leave everyone deaf if they’re subjected to his singing.
This is a side of Hobie Brown Billie never knew existed.
Billie pauses the audio and rewinds it to the beginning of the song before slipping out of her bed, the figures of you and her dad disappearing. The elastic from Ramona’s borrowed bonnet around her head digs into her skin, but she ignores it as her feet pad across the room towards her sister. Billie’s hand trembles around the mp3 player, her throat tightening with an incoming sob, her eyes glistening even more. When Billie finally reaches the edge of the bed, she hesitantly nudges Ramona.
“Mon-Mon?”
A quiet grunt rumbles from Ramona as she shrugs Billie’s hand off. With a sniffle, Billie nudges her again, more insistent than before.
“Mon-Mon, listen t’ this with me.”
Another disgruntled groan slips through Ramona’s lips as she scoots away from Billie’s offending hand.
“Can’t it wait ‘til tomorrow?”
“No, ya hav’ta listen t’ it now.”
Ramona sluggishly kicks her feet in her bed with a whine before she turns towards the punk girl, her eyes still slightly swollen and glued together. Billie sits on the edge of the bed, earning another whine from her sister as the mattress sinks under her weight, before she tugs an earbud out of her pierced ear.
“Scoot over.”
“Wha– no, there’s no room–”
“Mon-Mon, please?”
The slight break in Billie’s voice briefly rouses Ramona, her eyes barely cracking open, before she closes them again with a relenting sigh. She scoots over to the other side of the bed, and Billie climbs in, leaving little room for them inside the twin bed. Billie gingerly tucks the free earbud into Ramona’s ear before pressing play.
“Slipping through my fingers all the time, I try to capture every minute…”
Your voice whispers in a serenade again through the small speakers. The slight frown on Ramona’s face starts to soften, and her body slowly sinks into the mattress as you beckon her to sleep, as if already familiar with your melody.
Billie ignores the prickling in her chest, focusing on the shift on her sister’s face as Dad quietly joins in.
“Do I really see what’s in her mind? Each time I think I’m close to knowing, she keeps on growing…”
The deep timbre of his voice hums through Billie’s ears, harmonizing with your own hushed one, lulling Billie into a trance-like haze in the cramped space. Ramona’s face relaxes even more from the lullaby-like song until she falls back into slumber, soft snores vibrating from her.
Billie’s eyes soon grow heavy the longer she listens, the beads of tears clinging to her lashes retreating back while your voice beckons her to sleep as well.
“Sometimes I wish that I could freeze the picture and save it from the funny tricks of time…”
Warmth slowly creeps into Billie’s chest as her consciousness slips from her fingers. Clinging to the last of your words, Billie finally dozes off with a final bead of a tear dripping from her lashes.
“Schoolbag in hand, she leaves home in the early morning, waving goodbye with an absent-minded smile…”
----
British Phrase of the Chapter:
Blank - blatantly ignore/ refuse to talk to someone
Pairing: Hobie Brown x Fem!Reader/ Spider-Punk x Fem!Reader
Word count: 6.2k
Author's Note: I really need to get better at uploading at a more consistent pace 🥲 but honestly, this part kinda hit me hard when I finally broke through that writing slump. I missed these girls so much, and I'm glad I actually rewrote this chapter for them! I'd like to thank @the-kr8tor for Billie and Ramona, aa well as @pinksugarscrub for sticking with me through this chapter!
Those words skip in Billie’s mind like those old vinyl records her dad kept in his room, scratching with each iteration. The only noise that breaks through the constant loop of revelation is the crinkling of the old photo in her hand, with the smiling faces of you and Hobie hanging over her. Her eyes drift over to the printed image of you– frozen in time, forever young on paper. You’re grinning ear to ear as you hold up a black t-shirt, one with an old graphic design for the band at the time– a red web inked across the chest with the band name trapped on it in white. Billie’s fingers fidget with the worn photo as she glances to the floor, all the content from her trunk still crumpled around her. Scattered photos and papers, strewn pens and pencils, haphazardly-tossed shirts and pants– Billie winces at the sight of them on the clean hardwood floor. A nagging image of Ramona comes to mind: dirt caked on her cheeks, clothes smudged with grime, dust clouded around her as she aired the cabin out.
With a reluctant sigh Billie pushes herself up and starts to clean, starting with the tin box next to her.
The photo of you slides out of her fingers and flutters back into the box, your beaming face slipping into dark shadows. Billie looks away to the other photos on the floor and pushes them into a pile, ignoring the imaginary looming pressure from your printed presence before dropping the photos on top of you.
Tingles crawl over Billie’s skin, her hands restlessly fidgeting across the floor– straightening crumpled papers, tossing pens and pencils into her trunk, piling her clothes to the side. Her big toe twitches back and forth under her electric blue sock. Her fingers wriggle every time an item drops from her grasp. Her head jerks in micro-headbangs as her face pinches in a troubled frown.
Mum’s alive. She’s actually alive.
Billie’s mind rings in her head in bombarding echos like cymbals, drowning out any background noises around the cabin. Her body moves on autopilot– almost robotic and erratic– while she tosses her belongings in her trunk. The urge to run and thrash around thrums in her leg muscles, but the image of Ramona cleaning the cabin still lingers in the back of Billie’s head. She tucks her legs further in to stave away the urge, but her fingers and toes still twitch in anticipation. Butterflies swarm in Billie’s stomach, and a burning tightness creeps up the back of her throat. The cymbals in Billie’s head clash harder in her eardrums, loud and unrelenting, while her fingers tremble against a cotton shirt.
Mum’s alive. She’s really alive. And I might actually see her.
Wrinkles crease along the fabric as Billie struggles to fold her shirt, attempting to fold it the way Ramona did before. Her brows furrow when the shirt slips from its fold, her nose crinkles when the sides droop over weirdly, and her mouth curls into a dissatisfied scowl when her fingers accidentally tug at a fold and pull a sleeve out of it. She’s not gonna make her clothes look like those fancy department store’s– she doesn’t know how Ramona was able to– but she needs something to occupy her fingers. The cymbals gradually cease their clangor as she tosses her sorry attempt of a folded shirt into her trunk, but the thoughts still hum in the background.
Mum’s alive. She wasn’t dead this whole time. And she has another daughter– I have a sister! A sister around my age? Maybe younger? Is Mon-Mon around my age?
Billie’s fingers clumsily fly through folding her trousers, catching themselves into the ripped sections and snapping some frayed denim.
Mon-Mon looks like me, obviously, so she has to be Dad’s daughter too, right? I mean, Dad would tell me if I have a sister, right? But why didn’t he? Why wouldn’t Dad tell me about Mon-Mon? Why wouldn’t he talk to me about Mum? Why did they split us up?
The thrumming itch to move in her stalls from the thought. Billie’s fingers freeze mid-fold, the denim rough against her skin. Her stomach twists the longer those thoughts buzz like low static.
What actually happened between Dad and Mum?
A click rings through the silence surrounding Billie, and she looks up to the door as Ramona freezes under the doorway. Her hand clenches the leather handle of her bass case, the metal hinges softly rattling, the case barely swaying against her leg. Ramona’s eyes, shadowed underneath by a hint of purplish-black, waver under Billie’s stormy scrutiny. The tension looms heavy within the cabin, so thick that Billie can cut through it with her bow string. The faint chirping and rustling leaves outside barely register in Billie’s ears, even as Ramona walks inside and closes the screen door behind her. The cymbals clash back in Billie’s head, all the spiraling questions and thoughts festering in her chest and clawing up to her throat, but the walls behind Ramona’s eyes render them useless on Billie’s tongue. The urge to move intensifies in Billie, but at the same time her body is anchored to the hardwood under Ramona’s gaze.
Her eyes mirror Billie’s, they mirror her dad’s– their dad’s.
Billie swallows the lump in the back of her throat as Ramona finally averts her eyes, but the uncomfortable festering still lingers for the pink girl.
The moment Ramona saw that photo of you– the you before her, captured in the past she seemingly knew nothing about– Billie saw whatever ember in Ramona’s eyes flicker out. She avoided talking to Billie for the next few days– staying out longer for her bass lessons; eating breakfast before Billie woke up; going to bed earlier before Billie came back from her violin lessons.
Hell, Ramona never even touched her mp3 player after that, so the silence within the cabin was even more stifling. No muffled acoustic playing in the background as Billie’s alarm, no faint synths and snare kicks echoing in the background during break times, no hushed pianos and violins to lull Billie to sleep.
And especially no song from Dad blaring out in the cabin.
Billie gets it– being blindsided isn’t fun at all. She’s still grappling with the bombshell of you being alive. But Ramona? She didn’t even get a single story about Dad from you, no hint of him ever revealed in Ramona’s life. The only way he was ever involved in her life was through his music, but you never even mentioned that you knew the band, let alone were involved with them from the beginning. Wouldn’t someone normally brag about that? Or at least mention that part of their life to their daughter? And not only did Ramona have to find out about Dad being alive, but she had to find out through a stranger who happened to be her sister? Of course Ramona would be scared off and avoid Billie at all costs.
Billie gets it, she really does.
It doesn’t mean she has to like it though.
Billie glances back up at Ramona shuffling back to her side of the cabin, the soft clinking of the metal handles echoing as the bass case sways against Ramona’s leg. Rubber soles drag against the hardwood as Ramona approaches her bed, gingerly dropping the case down next to her trunk. She flops onto her bed, her long legs hanging off the edge. Dark coils splay over from behind her ponytail, cascading over her back and onto starched white sheets. The curtains from a window flutter from the gentle summer breeze, and the fading sunlight creeps through the sheer fabric and dapples over the girl amidst looming shadows, as if trying to protect her with its fleeting presence.
It’s like a dramatic painting Billie would see in those big art books Auntie Yuri keeps.
Billie’s face pinches up into a grimace, her eyes narrowing and her mouth curling into a small pout. Prickles fester in her chest as she stares at her melodramatic double– sister? Twin? – before she tosses her poorly-folded jeans onto the floor. The punk girl pushes herself up with a grunt, almost toppling back down from the sudden rush of blood through her leg. Wincing from the pins and needles assaulting her leg, she stumbles towards Ramona, one foot slogging with all of Billie’s weight while her other foot drags behind.
Billie can’t let this go on– if not for Ramona’s spiraling mental state, then for Billie’s own sanity.
Heavy combat boots finally stop in front of the occupied bed. Billie’s shadow looms over the sprawled figure, and it takes everything within Billie not to yank Ramona out of bed.
“Oi.”
Ramona ignores her, burying her face into her pillow. Another sharp prick stabs into Billie’s chest as she nudges Ramona’s leg.
“Oi, Mon-Mon.”
Ramona weakly kicks Billie’s hand off before she curls up on her bed, draping her duvet and pillow over her like a makeshift shield.
The pins and needles in Billie’s leg swarms up to her chest, the prickling growing unbearable to the punk girl. With gritted teeth and hardened eyes, Billie slaps her hand on the fleshy part of Ramona’s rear. A startled scream muffles under the duvet before Ramona scrambles out of her cocoon. Angry tears well up in Ramona’s eyes as she glares at Billie, a hue of red creeping up her skin.
“What was that for?!”
Hot waves of pain emit from Billie’s hand. Frustration claws up her throat, poisoning her tongue with an acrid taste as she struggles not to yell. “I am done with ya ignorin’ me! We are talkin’, ‘n we are talkin’ right now–!”
A harsh scoff slips through Ramona’s lips as she slips out of her bed away from Billie, covering her butt from future assaults. “There’s nothing to talk about–”
“Like hell there is!” Billie chases after Ramona as she storms around the cabin. “Ya t’ink avoidin’ me’s gonna fix any of this?! Jus’ ‘cuz ya don’t wanna talk ‘bout it don’t mean ‘s gon’ go away!”
Ramona storms towards the shared wardrobe cabinet, flinging the doors open until they slam against the sides. She angrily snatches a basket full of crumpled clothes and stomps away before Billie can grab her.
“There is nothing to talk about, Billie–”
“Really? ‘Cuz findin’ out we have t’ same parents seems like somethin’ t’ talk ‘bout–!”
Billie rushes in front of the exit before Ramona could, holding her arms out to block the way. An exasperated groan rumbles through Ramona’s chest as she turns her back from Billie, but the punk girl is not having it. “Are ya really gon’ blank me on this?!”
A tempest brews within the confines of the cabin as the two girls continue their cat-and-mouse game. Loud stomps reverberate throughout wooden walls. Angry groans creak from the floorboards. The windows rattle, stained glass threatening to pop off their panels.
“Damn it, Mon-Mon, talk t’ me!” Billie’s voice thunders against the walls. “Ain’t this a good thing–?”
Ramona slams the basket down, the clothes spilling onto the floor. “In what world would this be a good thing?! How is finding out that your parents lied to you a good thing?!”
Hurt flickers in the punk girl’s eyes as she stumbles back, but she quickly stands her ground again, “I dunno, but there had t’ be a reason–!”
“What reason would they have, then?” Ramona’s counter strikes through Billie like lightning. Frustration storms behind russet eyes, tears welling up before Ramona angrily wipes them off. “Why would they split us up and not tell us about each other?”
The pins and needles worsen in Billie’s chest, but she swallows the bile in her throat as she chases after Ramona again, accidentally kicking the clothes away. “Like I said, I don’t know! But there had t’ be somethin’!” Static crackles in the air as Billie grabs Ramona’s arm and yanks her back. “Stop try’na walk away from me–!”
“Stop touching me!”
Ramona yanks her arm out of Billie’s hand just as hard, fire crackling behind her glistening eyes. A sharp hiccup wracks her body, and stray tears threaten to roll down her cheeks.
“You don’t get it! My mom never lies to me!”
The prickles in Billie’s chest surges up her throat as she stares at her trembling double, her tongue heavy like lead in water.
“My mom never lies to me!” Denial clings to Ramona’s voice, straining it into a hoarse cry. “She doesn’t keep secrets from me! Why would she keep this from me?!”
Another sharp hiccup wracks her body again as more tears bead up along her lashline, threatening to spill over. She trembles under the pressure, the scrutiny, from her stranger of a sister– the one who was raised by a father she never met.
“She never told me anything about Dad,” Ramona’s voice trembles with each hitch of breath. “Not about him being in a band, not about making his merch, nothing!”
Betrayal and hurt flashes in her eyes as the tears finally roll down her cheeks. “It’s not fair! Why do you know something about Mom that I don’t? Why do you get to keep pictures of her and Dad together and I don’t? Why do you get to know about Mom but I don’t know anything about Dad?”
Sharp sobs wrack her body as tears continue to fall, dripping onto the hardwood floor. “Why am I being left out?”
Billie stands frozen as the sounds of sniffles echo within the cabin, the mirror image of her trembling and struggling to breathe with each sob. A dull ache lingers in a void in her chest, rolling and thundering like a storm cloud, rendering her speechless. She takes a tentative step towards Ramona, as if her presence would set off another eruption of tears if she takes the wrong step. The back of Billie’s eyes burn, but tears refuse to surface, not when some are already shed in front of her. Each footfall creaks on the hardwood, muffling the shallow hitches of breath, until Billie stands solemnly in front of Ramona again.
The punk girl gingerly grabs onto her sister’s wrist before pulling her into a tight hug.
Ramona stiffens in the sudden embrace, long, lanky arms wrapping around her like a vice. Despite having a similar build, Billie feels more solid, more steady, more reassuring. A scent of citrus and leather wafts into her nostrils, comforting to the point of bringing her to tears again, before she wraps her own arms around her double. Burying her face into Billie’s shoulders, Ramona blinks away more tears as she clings tighter. More sobs bubble up in her chest, and her body trembles as she gives into her warring emotions.
Billie’s never seen anyone cry before. Granted, she knows what being sad looks like– mainly through her dad whenever Uncle James or Auntie Yuri talked about you– but she’s never seen someone actually cry until now. The ache in her chest is suffocating, crushing her lungs and blocking the back of her throat, as she hugs Ramona tighter.
What would make her feel better? What would make her stop crying? Hugs usually make Billie happy, but it’s just making Ramona cry more. The only other thing that Billie can think of is–
Billie’s eyes widen from the brief epiphany before she gently pulls Ramona back. “Do ya want a choc’late orange?”
“...a what?”
—
Ramona doesn’t remember how she got trapped under a tight blanket cocoon.
One moment she’s being manhandled by her long-lost sister into a bear hug, the next she’s sitting on the floor wrapped in Billie’s blanket. All the while, Billie dumps a pillowcase full of colorful snacks Ramona doesn’t recognize. Disbelief flickers in Ramona’s red-rimmed eyes as she watches Billie tuck an edge of a chocolate bar between her teeth before rummaging through the rest of the snacks.
“Dad always gives me sweets whenever I feel bad,” Billie mutters through her teeth. Her fingers rake through the plastic covered treats and mini cardboard boxes, hunting for one that piques her fancy. “He says sugar can kickstart t’ do…do–hm…”
Billie’s face curls into a frustrated scowl as she snatches one of the cardboard boxes, tucking her finger into the top tab. “He always says t’ word really fast, but ’s basically t’ feel-good feeling in yer brain–”
“...dopamine?”
“Yeah, that–”
She easily rips the top off and tilts the small box, letting an orange-foiled ball tumble onto her awaiting palm. The scent of orange wafts towards Ramona as she leans closer, her eyes lingering on the reflective tangerine-shaded glint. Little dimples cover the ball, and Ramona can already feel the ghosts of them grazing against her fingers, conjuring the image of the actual fruit in her mind.
“Billie, is this the thing you were talking about–?”
SMACK!
Ramona flinches back when Billie slaps her palm against the ball, crinkling the foiled barrier and flattening the inside before unwrapping it.
“It tastes t’ best when ya break it in pieces–”
“Why’d you have to be so violent with it though–?”
“ ’s fun,” the punk girl shrugs as she pulls a small piece out, revealing an orange wedge-like shape. “Plus they’re hard t’ break otherwise.”
Billie lets the chocolate bar drop from her mouth before popping the wedge in, and elation lights up in her eyes. She bounces in place happily, a goofy grin curling up her lips, before she presents the– admittedly perfectly sectioned– pieces of chocolate.
Hesitation flickers on Ramona’s face, her brows furrowing and her mouth curling into a slight frown. Her hand tentatively slips through the blanket barrier around her before grabbing the smallest sliver she can find. The aroma of orange drifts towards Ramona again, the chocolate slowly melting under her touch, the intricate orange-like details running away from the heat of her fingertips. She slowly slips the sliver into her mouth, her tongue lapping up the remnants of chocolate off her fingers.
Milk chocolate coats her tastebuds, melting on her tongue as the taste of orange suddenly floods her senses. The scent lingers the back of her nose while the flavor meshes with the chocolate, a confusing clash within her mouth. The citrus is biting while the chocolate is cloying, almost fighting for dominance in an awkward dance.
Ramona can’t help but let a grimace flicker on her face.
“...it tastes weird.”
“Oi–!”
Billie stares at her double with a flabbergasted stare, as if her very existence was just insulted. “I gave ya t’ best tastin’ flavor too!”
“It still tastes weird. The orange flavor is trying to overpower the chocolate–”
“No it doesn’t! It just brings out a different side of it!” Billie’s cheeks puff out as her lips jut into a frustrated pout. “L-like, it brings out different notes or something–”
Billie’s mind races in a fluster, the sudden urge to defend her favorite sweet charging her sugar-coated tongue. Brief moments of her dad and the band flash in her mind, of how Uncle James would talk about things like “flavor profiles” or “food pairings” with different alcohols and whatnot– but oh god, she for the life of her can’t remember how he said it.
“It’s like…like a mature flavor! Like the kind adults like!”
Ramona’s face curls up into a disbelieving frown, coupled with a dissatisfied groan. “I don’t think I wanna be an adult if that’s something they’re supposed to like–”
“That ain’t what I meant–!”
A loud groan rips through Billie’s throat as she drops her face into her palms, frustration festering in the punk girl’s chest. Even with her face obscured, Ramona can see Billie sulking behind her hands.
“This is Dad’s favorite sweet too…”
Ramona’s frown drops. A heavy pressure looms over her shoulders from the mention of their dad, the image of him in her head now clearer and more daunting than before. What was once a blurry figure with the same eyes as her, a dark shadow lurking in the corner of her mind, suddenly morphs into that man in the picture. Long thick locs, dapples of silver on his skin, a cat-like grin similar to Billie’s– his lack of presence before now prowls closer to the forefront, demanding to be seen, refusing to be ignored.
But somehow with a weird orange-shaped chocolate, with the bitter flavor of white pith and sugary chocolate still lingering on Ramona’s tongue, manages to keep his punkified existence at bay, his demeanor more…Billie-like as he backs away from her mind.
Ramona really doesn’t know how to feel about that now.
She glances at the crinkled orange foil, and another scene comes to mind– a younger girl who looked like her sitting on the lap of the younger Hobie in Billie’s photo. The little girl giggles with delight when the young punk man smacks the chocolate orange with his hand, easily unraveling the pre-sectioned pieces in front of her. A warm smile curls on the fatherly stranger’s lips while the little girl shoves a chocolate wedge in her mouth.
Would Ramona have been like that if she grew up with Hobie Brown?
Her stomach drops from that lapse in her mind, the scene cutting like an old film in a movie theater. Guilt bubbles up Ramona’s throat as an image of you flickers in place– of a younger Ramona sitting on your lap, with you quietly humming and rocking her to sleep. A ghost of chocolate and cardamom lingers in the back of Ramona’s nose, enveloping her into a bittersweet and forgiving embrace. However that reprieve is short-lived, with taunting whispers worming into Ramona’s ears, tugging her back into the reality before her.
She swallows the acrid lump in her throat.
“You really do love your dad.”
For once Billie stays still, the tweeting birds and rustling leaves outside their cabin doing little to offset the charge in her presence. She peeks through the spaces between her fingers, the same russet eyes reflecting back to Ramona.
“...he’s yer dad too.”
Doubt still plagues Ramona’s mind, but the undeniable proof in front of her waves the hushed taunts away from the forefront. Even with wild dark tresses and swatches of denim and plaid on Billie, Ramona can’t deny how they’re like mirror images of each other, how both of them bear resemblance to the man whose music echoed in Ramona’s life in the background.
“...then why didn’t he want me with him?”
The world outside wooden walls muffle in Ramona’s ears, the silence between them growing too heavy to bear before Billie responds with a shrug.
“...probably t’ same reason as Mum with me.”
The bitter lump claws its way back up Ramona’s throat, lodging itself back with a vengeance. Billie’s blanket weighs Ramona down on the ground, trapping her in a suffocating chokehold, while she’s under her long-lost sister’s scrutiny.
“...Mom wouldn’t do that.”
“Neither would Dad.”
The familiar playful grin is nowhere on Billie’s face. The same earthy brown eyes Ramona shares is shrouded with an unfamiliar shadow, dimming the usual glint in Billie’s eyes. A bittersweet smile curls on the punk girl’s lips before she averts her eyes from Ramona.
“ ‘m sure Dad would've loved ya t’ same if ya stayed with us.” Billie shifts onto the hardwood floor until she’s kneeling, her hands trembling as they start to shovel the rest of the candy and snacks back into the pillow case. “Uncle Ned, Uncle James, ‘n Auntie Yuri too. Probably would’ve had both of us travel ‘round with ‘em in Uncle James’s van, havin’ us eatin’ jaffa cakes ‘n monster munches ‘til we’re sick of it, all ‘til we get to the next new city for ‘em t’ perform.”
Her voice wavers with each scoop of treats retreating into the cotton sack, her smile trembling while her eyes refuse to look back up. “Dad would’ve had us watch backstage, callin’ it our personal front row seats while they take over t’ stage…”
A sniffle breaks the fragile silence, but Billie continues to clean, her wild coils shielding her face from Ramona’s eyes.
“...d’ya t’ink Mum would’ve done t’ same? Keep both of us if she could?”
The thought of you rocking Ramona to sleep creeps back up in her mind, this time the background slowly piecing itself together– the small studio apartment filled with old nicknacks and framed sketches, with patched up quilts and numerous photo albums, an ever-evolving time capsule just for you and her. The scent of chocolate and cardamom lingers back, calming the whirling anxiety in Ramona’s chest. Even as a new little girl flickers into her memories, crawling into your lap next to the younger Ramona, a bittersweet warmth creeps up in Ramona’s chest.
“...Mom definitely would’ve.”
Billie freezes mid-tying the end of the pillowcase. Her curls slowly part as she lifts her head, her eyes clouded with wary hope.
“Yeah?”
The lump in Ramona’s throat shrinks down, and she manages to swallow it down with a trembling smile of her own.
“Yeah.”
Billie’s eyes still waver, but a reassured smile curls up on her lips as she crawls away and tosses the pillowcase into her open trunk. A sigh of relief slips through Ramona’s lips despite herself, and she glances back at the reflective orange foil on the floor, the misshapen chocolate wedges beckoning her back with its citrus scent. With an uncertain frown, she reaches for another piece. Her eyes linger on the detailed etchings of the chocolate, the orange-like stamping still a visual marvel to the girl, before she pops it in her mouth again. And like before, her face contorts into a harsh grimace.
“...yeah, it still tastes weird.”
“Don’t eat it then!”
—
Billie can’t sleep.
Lying in her bed, shrouded in darkness and dappled moonlight through her window, Billie stares up at the ceiling with a solemn frown marring her face. Storm clouds whirl in her head, thundering and weighing her down in a muggy haze. The only thing keeping her grounded is the feeling of silicone earbuds tucked in her ears and the sound of a familiar guitar solo echoing into her head. Billie gently squeezes her hand around Ramona’s mp3 player, the plastic tabs on it a reassuring pressure for her, while she glances across the cabin towards Ramona’s bed.
A sheen of green glints under the moonlight as Ramona soundly sleeps, her bonnet reflecting the silvery light Billie’s way. Ramona’s facing away from Billie, like she usually does when she’s asleep, but after these past few nights it still feels like a wall. But Ramona giving Billie her mp3 player before heading to bed is a step to the right direction, right?
A guitar riff quietly croons in Billie’s ears, that familiar string improvisation beckoning her back to the music. As her eyes drift back to the ceiling, her body slowly sinks into the creaking mattress, starched linen and soft cotton brushing against her skin. The riff gently vibrates through her bones, melting away the tension in her body. Billie flutters her eyes shut with a deep sigh, and the music conjures up another scene in her mind– a tall, lanky figure lies next to her, strumming his web-lined guitar, losing himself to the music. Moonlight brightens into a stark-white spotlight over the figure, silver metal glinting on his face and dread cuffs. Long, calloused fingers dance across the fret in a frenzied grace, bending the sounds around him to his will.
Dad is always electrifying when he performs, even through a small speaker.
Billie glances back over to Ramona’s sleeping figure, and the imaginary punk rocker soon follows her sight, sauntering over to Ramona with his trusted guitar in hand. The guitar grows softer in Billie’s ears as the figment of her imagination sits on the edge of Ramona’s bed, moonlight chasing away the shadows from his face. His piercings glint under the silver beams, but tender warmth behind his eyes shines the brightest as he gazes down at Ramona. He sets his guitar down beside him when the strings fade away. His ring-covered fingers tentatively reach towards the slumbering Ramona, but they flinch away when she curls into a ball with a soft snort.
For once, her dad– even as a figment of Billie’s imagination– looks at a loss.
A dull ache creeps up in Billie’s chest at the sight. Her thoughts start to scramble and clash against the music in her ears now, muddling the transition with more questions.
What happened between Mum and Dad? Why would they split up? Why would they split us up? Does Uncle Ned know? Uncle James? Auntie Yuri? Why didn’t they say anything? Do they even know why? Did Dad tell them not to? Would it be too hard to raise both of us together? Would Dad’ve raised us both if he could? Would Mum? Do they still love each other? Does Dad still love Ramona?
The dull ache in Billie’s chest sharpens into a festering prickle.
Does Mum still love me–?
“Bee, I can’t tell if you’re recording–”
“Shit–”
A soft laugh silences the thoughts in Billie’s head, and a new figure settles beside Billie. The punk girl keeps her eyes on Ramona and her imaginary dad, the new presence near her too fragile for her to turn to. Her dad’s muffled groan vibrates in her ears in a nostalgic embrace, but the unknown woman’s voice tugs at Billie’s heart even more.
“How come you’re recording by yourself anyway?” the new voice chimes in Billie’s ears with a mirthful lilt. “I thought you were gonna head to James’s place–”
“Lost t’ key t’ his flat, Cherry,” her dad’s voice grunts back, “ ‘n t’ bloody knobhead wouldn’t answer t’ door. His bloody van’s parked out front, so I know he’s home–”
“Then maybe you could’ve gone later–”
“I don’t wanna–”
“Why not?” The voice in Billie’s ears envelopes her in a comforting warmth. “You can have James work on the mixer while you’re in the booth–”
“I wanna do this m’self,” Billie can hear the petulant pout from her dad’s voice, a rare break from his usual nonchalance. “James’ll jus’ fuck around too much–”
“You know he wouldn’t, Honeybee. Not when it comes to the girls.”
Billie’s eyes glisten as the new figure drapes her arm over Billie’s stomach, gingerly pulling her into an embrace. A ghost of a kiss presses the crown of Billie’s head– she swears she could feel it– while the voice continues to lull her into a relaxed state.
“See?” A strained huff slips through in the voice. “At least one of them agrees with me. Damn, I think Billie was the one who kicked hard–”
“Oi, no, Billie Jean! Be nice t’ yer mummy!”
Soft shuffling echoes in Billie’s ears as she watches her imaginary dad in front of her turn his eyes to her. His usual cat-like smile softens as he stares at her before he pushes himself up from Ramona’s bed. His long, languid strides back sets Billie’s heart thumping, his eyes reminding her of warmed treacle, before he sits on the edge of her bed. He reaches out, but his hand hovers past Billie and to the figure behind her.
“I t’ink Billie wants ya to join in–”
“Hell no, you know I can’t sing–”
“Oh c’mon, Cherry, ya sing t’ ‘em all the time–”
“When we go to bed–”
“Still counts–”
“Bee, I’m not a professional,” the voice chides with another melodic chuckle, “This is more of your lane–”
“But it’ll be more meanin’ful if it came from both of us.”
Billie’s heart twinges, her eyes starting to glisten. She pulls the mp3 player up to her face, only to see a random numbered file name. Was this supposed to be in there? Was this just some mistake mixed into the numerous songs on this player? Did Ramona skip this file because she didn’t know what it was? Is Billie even supposed to listen to this?
“C’mon, Cherry, sing that pretty song–”
“What, no!”
“Please? F’me? For mac ‘n cheese–”
“Don’t use the girls against me! They’re not even here yet– Hobart Brown, don’t you dare–!”
A startled shriek makes Billie flinch, but she soon relaxes at the chimes of laughter from both parents. The weight of both imaginary figures disappear from Billie’s sides, only for the two figures to dance in front of her in laughter– a younger version of her dad hugs the version of you in the old photo, but your stomach sticks out under your shirt like a watermelon. The voice slips through your lips in a giddy laugh while her dad spins you around the room, the dapples of moonlight dancing across the figures like some kind of fairy tale picture. A muffled ‘please’ echoes into Billie’s ears as her dad buries his face into the crook of your neck.
A long silence soon follows, and a sense of dread starts to sink into the pit of Billie’s stomach. The idea of you refusing to sing stings, even if you didn’t have to. What would you have sounded like? Would you only sing in private, with no prying ears from strangers trying to hear you?
Would Billie be a stranger to you–?
Your voice croons into Billie’s ears in a soft melody, your words laced in tender love, chasing away the thoughts muddling her mind. The lyrics stir a sense of nostalgia despite it being Billie’s first time hearing it, the ache in her chest growing bittersweet.
You sing so beautifully to Billie.
A stray tear rolls down the side of her face when she hears her dad’s deep timbre quietly join, an even rarer moment for Billie. Hobie Brown never sings– he only hoots and hollers on stage, only hums around her and the band. He claims his voice would shatter people’s ear drums until their ears bleed, that it’ll condemn the band’s songs like a wretched curse, that it’ll leave everyone deaf if they’re subjected to his singing.
This is a side of Hobie Brown Billie never knew existed.
Billie pauses the audio and rewinds it to the beginning of the song before slipping out of her bed, the figures of you and her dad disappearing. The elastic from Ramona’s borrowed bonnet around her head digs into her skin, but she ignores it as her feet pad across the room towards her sister. Billie’s hand trembles around the mp3 player, her throat tightening with an incoming sob, her eyes glistening even more. When Billie finally reaches the edge of the bed, she hesitantly nudges Ramona.
“Mon-Mon?”
A quiet grunt rumbles from Ramona as she shrugs Billie’s hand off. With a sniffle, Billie nudges her again, more insistent than before.
“Mon-Mon, listen t’ this with me.”
Another disgruntled groan slips through Ramona’s lips as she scoots away from Billie’s offending hand.
“Can’t it wait ‘til tomorrow?”
“No, ya hav’ta listen t’ it now.”
Ramona sluggishly kicks her feet in her bed with a whine before she turns towards the punk girl, her eyes still slightly swollen and glued together. Billie sits on the edge of the bed, earning another whine from her sister as the mattress sinks under her weight, before she tugs an earbud out of her pierced ear.
“Scoot over.”
“Wha– no, there’s no room–”
“Mon-Mon, please?”
The slight break in Billie’s voice briefly rouses Ramona, her eyes barely cracking open, before she closes them again with a relenting sigh. She scoots over to the other side of the bed, and Billie climbs in, leaving little room for them inside the twin bed. Billie gingerly tucks the free earbud into Ramona’s ear before pressing play.
“Slipping through my fingers all the time, I try to capture every minute…”
Your voice whispers in a serenade again through the small speakers. The slight frown on Ramona’s face starts to soften, and her body slowly sinks into the mattress as you beckon her to sleep, as if already familiar with your melody.
Billie ignores the prickling in her chest, focusing on the shift on her sister’s face as Dad quietly joins in.
“Do I really see what’s in her mind? Each time I think I’m close to knowing, she keeps on growing…”
The deep timbre of his voice hums through Billie’s ears, harmonizing with your own hushed one, lulling Billie into a trance-like haze in the cramped space. Ramona’s face relaxes even more from the lullaby-like song until she falls back into slumber, soft snores vibrating from her.
Billie’s eyes soon grow heavy the longer she listens, the beads of tears clinging to her lashes retreating back while your voice beckons her to sleep as well.
“Sometimes I wish that I could freeze the picture and save it from the funny tricks of time…”
Warmth slowly creeps into Billie’s chest as her consciousness slips from her fingers. Clinging to the last of your words, Billie finally dozes off with a final bead of a tear dripping from her lashes.
“Schoolbag in hand, she leaves home in the early morning, waving goodbye with an absent-minded smile…”
----
British Phrase of the Chapter:
Blank - blatantly ignore/ refuse to talk to someone
can i get a req for the spy au where one of them does something to compromise the mission but does it to save the others life, and its kinda hurt comfort??
idk if that makes any sense lol
spy au my beloved !
SPY AU OUR UNDERRATED BELOVED
Pairing: Hobie Brown x fem! Reader
Word count: 1.5k
Tags: No use of Y/N, no specific physical description of the reader, spy AU, based on my Mr and Mrs Smith AU, spy! Hobie and reader, established relationship, one suggestive joke, cw blood and injury, hurt/ comfort, fluff.
Navigation
The room you find yourselves in looks like it came from a comic book villain’s lair. It’s filled with blinking lights, servers lining the vast walls and a huge computer sitting in the center. Hobie would laugh if the mission wasn’t that dire.
It’s dim inside, save for the red emergency lights flashing as the two of you sweep the room carefully, guns raised, and eyes alert. You stand back to back with him, and you feel his heat through the leather of his jacket as you let out a breath, and you see it collect in a flurry of smoke from the cold air.
“It’s bloody freezin’ in ‘ere.” Hobie utters, watching your blindspot as you get to the super computer to insert the usb for hihi to collect data in. You both have no idea what it is, and you could only hope that it’ll help make the world a better place.
“It’s to keep the servers cool.” Fingers freezing as you type, your eyes scan the flashing files as it enters the usb. “I hope this is worth it, we can’t afford another fail, Ho— John.” You have to stop yourself from saying his real name in case someone is listening.
The kind gesture doesn’t fly over his head as he brushes his shoulder with yours lightly. “I know, love.” Scanning the room, gun at the ready, he gets an idea. “I think we deserve a treat after this, right, Jane?”
Chuckling under your breath, you tap the back of your head against his, making him chortle. “I didn’t pack any protection on this trip.”
“I wasn’t talkin’ ‘bout that but remind me to buy some.”
You shake your head with a smile as the progress bar goes up to fifty percent. Almost there. “Noted. What do you want to do after this?”
“Me, you, a rented camper van out in the boonies.”
“Camping?”
“Yeah, I’ve never been.”
“It’s not all that.” It’s his turn to tap his head against yours gently. “Seriously, we’ll be fighting off mosquitos and bears.”
“Sounds like a regular day for us, lovie. At least bears don’t have guns.”
“Bears with guns, sounds like a B movie.” Your side suddenly hurts, chalking it up to the fatigue catching up to you after the firefight you had to survive through as the adrenaline ebbs away. You grimace through the ache as you watch the bar get to eighty percent. “Why do you want to go camping? I never thought that would be your thing.”
“This place reminded me how much life was simpler without all the tech.” You could feel him square his shoulder. “And I’ve never been, campin’ is what married people do, right?”
“Sure, insane outdoorsy couples do.” Hissing under your breath, you feel the familiar warmth dripping down your side. You refuse to check, knowing what that feeling entails. “Y—Yeah, that sounds nice actually. Us under the stars, s’mores, and the smell of campfire.”
“You’re agreein’ with me that easily? What's wrong?” Hobie turns around, grasping at your waist on instinct and you immediately flinch, yelping as his gloved hand comes out crimson. “Fuck—”
The alarms blare as you look at him through glossy apologetic eyes. You rip the usb the moment it reaches one hundred, taking Hobie by the hand as you race outside of the room.
Steel plates start to come down from the ceiling, slowly shutting down the exit. This place is truly a villain lair. Panic sets in your bones as Hobie picks up his pace. With his longer strides, he could make it, but with you injured, you won’t. So with a bleeding heart, you push him through the door before the metal plates close in fully, completely shutting you inside the room, leaving him outside, eyes wide, trembling at what you’ve done.
“No,” he springs towards the locked door, banging his hands and kicking at it as it clangs loudly on the other side. There’s a sliver of glass in the middle, and he could see you through it, tears in your eyes as you heave, face bathed in the red light. “No, c’mon, love!” In his desperation, he shoots at the door, only for the bullets to sink into it but not penetrate through it.
When he lifts his head up to see you, you’re already gazing at him with a solemn smile. “I k–know, it’s okay.” Your muffled tone snags as you act brave. “Go, I’ll find a way out.”
“No, fuck you.” Jaw set, Hobie looks around him to find a lever, buttons, wires, anything to help get you out, but he finds nothing as the sound of heavy footfalls echo towards him. “Love, I won’t leave you ‘ere.”
“You won’t because I’ll be right behind you.” You reassure him, but it’s all in vain when you don’t believe it yourself. “Just go, I slipped the usb in your pocket, don’t fail us.”
“Fuck no!” Sweat dribbles down his temple, eyes wild as he bangs at the door again. “No,” he answers softly this time. “I’ll get you out, I promise, we’ll get out together. Jus’— jus’ wait for me, yeah? Can you do that? P–please, stay awake.”
Blood slips through your fingers as you try to keep pressure, your breath gets weaker, and the cold doesn’t help as it freezes your lungs. “O–okay. I’ll wait, but if you can’t find anything, leave me, please.” Forehead pressed against the glass, you imagine that it’s his lips kissing you and not the cold glass that raises goosebumps on your nape.
“We still need to go on that trip, yeah?” Hobie quickly takes inventory of his ammo and supplies. He reloads his gun, and takes a deep damning breath. “If you don’t want that we can go to the beach, or a cabin in the mountains, anywhere you want, love.” He’s afraid of the permeating silence on the other side.
“Wherever you go,” your voice softens, weakening. “I’ll be there, Hobie.” You whisper his name just for him. If it’s the last time you’ll utter it, you have to remember him by his true name, not what was assigned to him by the company. “Even if it’s the fucking moon.”
Hobie lets out a choked sob as he touches the glass, imagining that he’s holding you through it. “We’ll go to the moon after this then. I promise, hold on.” Before the bullets could whizz by him, Hobie runs towards the control room that he remembers passing by while he was sweeping the place earlier.
“I promise…” voice wavering, your forehead slides off the glass and down on the cold door as you keel over.
—
You wake up to the sound of helicopter blades and the smell of iron in your lungs. Waking up with a start, you’re immediately flailing around, taking gulps of air as you feel the staggering pain on your side.
“Shit— love, calm—!” Your palm smacks at a familiar cheekbone. “Down.” There’s hissing behind you and as you twist around, ignoring the blooming pain, you see Hobie as he grasps at his cheek. “Fuckin’ hell, even after losin’ a pint of blood you can still throw punch.”
“Hobie!” Breathless, your arms envelope around him before you could think twice. And yet, he does the same, holding you so close and so tenderly that you’re melting against him. “Am I dead?” You utter against his neck, getting a whiff of dried crimson and sweat on his skin. He smells like home.
“If you were I’d be too.” With a peck on your temple, he cradles your cheek in his calloused palm. “But no, you’re not, lovie.” His voice softens, a thumb brushing under your eye as he wipes away the caked blood there.
“You idiot.” You say with affection as he chortles. “Why’d you come back for me?”
“Why wouldn’t I come back for you?” To him, it’s the most obvious decision. A path he chose willingly without second guessing.
“Because I was a goner.” Scoffing, you lay your head against his chest, too weak to lift your head up as you look at him between your fluttering lashes, eyes half lidded, pumped full of pain meds to keep you stable and talking. “You could’ve died.” The words are whispered, as if saying it loudly would make it come true.
“But I didn’t. You would’ve if I left, I couldn’t jus’ leave you there. I–I couldn’t.” As the helicopter weaves around the air, the fading sunlight dances on his broken expression, illuminating all the battle wounds on his face. One eye is blackened and puffed, looking worse for wear as various cuts and bruises dot along his handsome face. Your brows furrow in worry. “I would’ve done it again for you.”
“Please don’t do it again.” Taking his nape in your weak hold, he indulges you as he leans down over to your face. “You should’ve left. Continued on with the mission.”
“I would never do that. The mission isn’t as important as you.” His breath tickles your cheek as he smiles, even though his own aches make it harder.
“I don’t know whether to kiss you or slap you for doing that.” Voice snagged at the end, you let out a weak chuckle as your eyes close tiredly.
“I like the first one better.” With a gentle press to his nape, Hobie takes it as an invitation for a gentle kiss that could easily revive his senses.
Synopsis: Jousting isn't all fun and games when the love of your life is participating in it.
Tags: No use of Y/N, no specific physical description of the reader except for clothing, established relationship, princess! Reader, Knight! Hobie, medieval AU, CW violence and injury, CW food mentions, R has unnamed family member/s, inspired by GOT, fluff!
A/N: I was heavily inspired by the knight of the seven kingdoms 🤭 I highly recommend watching it!
Navigation
The tent stinks of seared metal and old leather. The scents waft around Hobie as he stands beside his squire, a small stumpy boy that could barely reach up to help him strap his chest plate on. The squire struggles, standing on his tip toes as he makes a face that has him looking like he ate a bad clam.
“Tybolt, there’s no dishonour in usin’ the stepstool. That’s why I made it for you.” Hobie flicks his eyes down at the struggling boy.
“But, Ser, it’s dehumanizing.” Tybolt turns his gaze upwards to meet his knight’s eyes.
“Big word for a lad.” With a subtle smile, Hobie simply moves his foot, gathering the stepstool by its leg and then pulling it towards little Tybolt. “C’mon, don’t make me crouch for you, the blokes ‘ere aren’t as nice back at the keep.”
“Yes, ser.” Defeated, Tybolt steps up the stool to secure the leather straps around his shoulders. “May I ask you something?”
Hobie’s gaze wanders around the stuffy tent with its racks of weapons, from lances to swords, to wooden shields that bare each knight’s coat of arms; he hasn’t been in a joust since his first year as a knight. The sight alone makes his stomach tumble, and his mouth turning dry. The last time he was in a joust he almost lost an eye, he has the scar just under his brow to prove it. He won that tourney and got him the title of champion but it made him a tad fearful of jousts.
Hobie did manage to get something better than the job of lieutenant after that— he got to meet you. Even though it’s under a royal, a job is a job, plus, he gets to be near you at all times being your sworn protector. He has done more than protecting you throughout the years though. No one could pry that information out of him even if they threaten him with a hot metal poker to the eye.
He wants to get this tourney done with so he could return to your side once again.
“As long as it’s not as shite as the question you asked me yesterday.”
Fixing his clinking chainmail, Hobie glances at the various knights getting fitted with their armours with the help of their respective squires. Their armours are all different in variety, some are ornate, showing off exotic flowers or animals as helmets, intricate chestplates that depict their house’s sigil and different coloured capes that flutter right behind them. But some opted for the more practical armour that will keep them well protected from a flying shrapnel or from a mace hurling right at them.
“I just asked how you manage to go to the loo with all these on.” Voice squeaky, Tybolt huffs beside him as he finishes the first strap of the chestplate before he heads down and around to fix the other side.
“You’ll find out when you become a knight yourself.” Tone soft and genuine, the boy smiles at him wholeheartedly.
“Thank you, Ser.” He whispers, making sure that the leather straps are extra secure.
“What was your question, mate? And please don’t ask how to woo ladies this time ‘round.” Chuckling, Hobie subtly sizes up his opponents. He might be anxious about the joust, but he still wants to win. Or at least not to make a fool of himself.
Wiping the metal plates with a clean cloth, Tybolt rubs away any fingerprints he accidentally left on the steel. “I was going to ask about the princess.”
Hobie almost chokes on his own spit, and yet he gathers his composure before the squire could notice the way he cleared his throat. “What ‘bout her?”
“If she’s as annoying as everyone says she is.” When Hobie doesn’t answer him, Tybolt backtracks, pausing mid movement, as if he just remembered who he’s talking to. “I–I meant no offense, it’s just that, I’ve heard the workers talking about how she talks everyone’s ear off. And that’s the reason why the northern prince broke off the engagement.”
Scoffing, Hobie sneers at the mere mention of the so-called prince. “She was the one who broke it off ‘cause he was a prick.”
“Aye, but the prince is wealthy—”
“Wealth isn’t enough of a reason to fall in love with someone.”
“Is that why the princess fancies you so much? Because you’re a pauper?”
“I should clout your ears like the other knights do, mate.” Rolling his eyes with a joking chortle, Hobie stretches his hands, testing how loose the metal gloves are, something so small could make or break his aim once the joust starts.
Shrugging with a small smile, Tybolt hops off and admires his handiwork. “You’re not that kind of knight, Ser. Maybe that’s why the princess fancies you.”
“You were jus’ askin’ what kind of person the princess is but you seem to know how much she fancies me.” Brow raised, Hobie takes the offered leather belt from Tybolt. He secures it around him, and then he takes the necklace from under his chest armour plate to bring it atop it. The simple jewelry glints, catching Tybolt’s eyes.
“Not all women can be princesses but all princesses are women. Simply enough, they like a man in armour.” Hands on his hips, Tybolt shrugs and makes a proud face.
“And you know this because you’re an expert in ‘em?” Hobie gestures for his shield, which is almost bigger than Tybolt himself as he wobbles on his feet to get it to him.
“Barely, Ser. I just say what I observe. And I tend to observe a lot when no one pays much attention to you.” Peeking above the shield, Tybolt smiles at him. “It’s the way she looks at you, like you’re the last sweet roll, or a blacksmith to his favorite hammer.”
Grabbing the shield with ease, Hobie stares at the red spider painted in a sea of black, a sigil that he made when he was much younger than Tybolt. “Word of advice, lad, do less observin’ when it comes to the ladies of the court if you want to keep your head on your shoulders. And you can’t say that people don’t pay attention to you because I do, the other knights at the keep do. You’ve got friends, y’know.”
“Hollow threat, Ser.” Smiling at his knight’s last comment, Tybolt doesn’t falter from the former advice. Hobie simply narrows his eyes at Tybolt, a brow raised and a subtle smile hidden beneath the surface. He’s his squire, alright. Maybe he taught him too much. “Yes, Ser.” Defeated, Tybolt scratches his cheek bashfully.
“More trainin’ less oglin’” Ruffling Tybolt’s hair, the boy smiles before brushing off Hobie’s hand away.
“Oi, Hobart!” Someone calls for him from the front of the tent. The noise outside filters in through the opened leather flaps as the blonde swaggers inside.
The sound of a blacksmith’s hammer landing against metal, horses huffing and people excitedly walking around as they wait for the event enters for a brief moment. The sun peeks through briefly, giving him some much needed warmth when you’re away from him. He really cannot wait for the tourney to be over.
The smiling knight’s armour is shiny and new, a white silver with golden vines weaved around the steel plates that deeply contrasts Hobie’s black and red armour with its web like texture design. His white cape that drags behind him matches the rest of his armour, stark white with its hem dirtied by the mud and dirt outside.
“James?” A smile grows on Hobie’s lips as his squire makes a face at the other knight moving closer with his arms open. “What are you doin’ ‘ere, you wanker?” He receives his fellow knight with a grin, embracing him as their armours clank against each other. “I thought you weren’t invited!”
James pats Hobie’s back, the sound is akin to shields ramming against steel armour. “My lord sent me here for the tourney of course!”
“Your lord? You mean your father?”
“Yes, fuck off!” James pushes Hobie lightly, but it has the poor squire shaking in his boots, remembering the last time an unruly knight pushed the red spider knight like that. “Father, lord, what’s the difference, really?”
“One pays you and the other fucked your mother,” Hobie has a wicked smile on his lips. “wait, you’re right, what’s the difference?”
“Still a poet with your way around words.” James clasps his shoulder way too harshly for the boy’s liking, he then turns to the young squire, flashing him a smile. “Has he told you that he used to be an actual poet? A real charmer with a lute too.”
“No.” Tybolt beams up at him, eyes shining.
“Don’t talk to my squire.”
“I can talk to anyone I like, Hobart.” Rolling his eyes, the two knights shove each other off playfully that reminds Tybolt of a couple of ducks he watches behind the castle as they always fight over the food he gives them. James’ gaze lowers, a cheeky grin immediately spreading across his handsome face. “Oh, would you look at that, Hobie has a sweetheart.” Whistling lowly, James eyes the necklace around Hobie’s neck.
The squire’s gaze turns to the single ruby dangling on a silver rope right atop his knight’s chest plate. Tybolt has a feeling as to where it came from, but he’d rather not say it out loud. Hobie is kind, kinder than most knights to their squires at least, but he’d rather not test him by saying your name in front of his friend and most definitely not in front of the realm’s greatest knights, who are probably listening in. His teasing before was a different case, knowing that everyone knows of your character and how friendly you are to everyone at court, but by accusing Hobie of wearing a favour, a ruby necklace more exactly, is like treason. Scratch that, it’s not like treason, because it is treason. Your brother, the king might be called ‘the just’ and the kindest ruler the kingdom has ever seen in recent years, but he won’t take kindly to vile accusations against his only sister.
Hobie brushes away James’ index that pokes the ruby. “Get your dirty hands off it.”
“Oh, come on, I just want to see.”
“I got it myself— James.” Flicking his best mate’s forehead, the fellow knight staggers back dramatically, nursing his so-called injury. “I warned you.”
“Mate, there’s no way you would buy something this fancy, moreso with your lieutenant salary.” Hands on his hips, James’ eyes glance at Tybolt for a moment, as if he’s waiting for him to jump in on the teasing.
“Says the one gettin’ stipends from dear ol’ father.” Hobie doesn’t falter, instead he snatches his folded cloak from his pile of things to clip it on himself, partly to hide his nerves from getting found out, and the other half just to get out of the knight’s tent and out of possible gossiping ears. Knights don’t particularly partake in gossips, but their squires definitely do. Tybolt is proof of it.
Blowing a childish raspberry, James then turns to the only one who would not lie to him. “Lad, do you know where Hobie got that necklace from?”
Tybolt freezes, glancing back and forth to his knight then over to the blond. “Ser?”
“Stop pesterin’ the boy—”
James bends his knees and places his hands atop it for emphasis. “I’ve got a bag of coins with your name on it.”
“Alright, now you’re jus’ bribin’ him.” Clicking his tongue, Hobie grabs James by his shoulder to yank him up to his feet as the man chuckles from Hobie’s reaction. “Tybolt, you’re dismissed, James and I will have a drink before he offers you knighthood for gossip.”
“I wouldn’t protest!” Tybolt blurts out.
“I like this lad!” James gestures at the squire as he’s actively getting pushed out of the tent by Hobie. “Tell me when you’re bored of being his squire and I’ll get you a better knight!” He yells over his shoulder whilst Hobie practically drags James out of the tent.
“I can’t wait to dirty your pretty white armour out on the joustin’ field.” Hobie says whilst yanking James by his white cloak.
—
The tourney is packed with people, nobles and small folk alike. You don’t usually like tourneys with its violence and blood in full display, but you can’t possibly skip this one royal event when it’s held specifically for your brother. Plus, Hobie’s participating, and you’d rather be there to see him joust rather than die from nervousness when you have no idea what happened to him during the competition.
As you walk up the steps to the royal box with carnations all decorated around the place, the kingdom’s flower and your house’s sigil; the nobles, who have the pleasure of sitting with you and your brother nod their heads respectfully at you with polite smiles. The brilliant yellow gold canopy shields the whole royal box from the sun, whilst the common people filter through the gates and onto the sides of the field, more than eager to watch the tourney from behind the fences.
The whole field is bustling with life, fire and smoke coming from blacksmiths, the scent of roasted meat and fresh bread wafting through the air together with the stench of wet dirt from the grass below. And the colourful tents are all pitched up high, all in different fabrics and colours and even decorated heavily with each house’s sigils and motifs, signifying that they have taken part in the festivities.
Your plush seat is placed beside your brother’s, placed much lower than his, but just as opulent and grand with its finely carved unicorn at the back rest together with the family crest. The common people cheer excitedly around the jousting arena, waving their chosen knight’s banners. You could even see an area that is filled with supporters of the red spider as they chant his name.
With all the excitement, you don’t feel the same as everyone else with your hands wringing together, sweat gathering on your upper lip, stomach churning and eyes skimming over the arena as if you’re one of your brother’s purple clad sworn protectors; always looking for threats lurking around. Biting your lip and twirling the ruby ring around your middle finger, the trumpets sing of your brother’s arrival.
He swaggers in, a royal purple cloak dragging behind him as his crown shines against the sunlight. It’s much warmer now, and it’s not helping your sweaty self hide your nerves. The crowd cheers for him as you stand up to greet him, you hope that he doesn’t see through you but as he passes by your seat to get to his throne, he raises a brief brow right in your direction. Or it could be for Lord Faulton that sits behind you with his numerous scandals looming over him.
When the king sits down, you and the others follow suit. You clutch onto the arms of the chair, nails digging in as if your seat would get yanked right from under you.
Your brother leans closer to you subtly, eyes keeping up front as he smiles and waves at the crowd. “You’re abnormally quiet, sister.”
“Is it crude to say that I need to take a massive shit?” You whisper back, much to his chagrin.
“This is why you’re still unmarried.” He says jokingly.
“I wonder why you’re still unmarried, hm?”
“There’s no rush for an heir when I’ve got you as my lawful heir.”
“You know I’m not keen to be queen.” You sigh, eyes scanning the sunlit field for the familiar black and red armour as the bannermen come out and hammer down each knight’s banners right into the muddy soil brought by last night’s rain.
“That’s why you’ll make a good one.” Your brother thanks the cup bearer before taking a sip of mulled wine. “Now, tell me, what’s got you forgetting your crown?”
“My—” you feel for the top of your head, eyes closing, wincing in realization. No wonder why your head feels lighter than usual. “I wanted to look…casual today.”
“Of course, sister,” scoffing, he chuckles atop the rim of his glass. “I guess I’m overdressed then.”
“I’m glad that you finally noticed.” Your eyes glance up and down at his whole royal ensemble with a cheeky raised brow.
“It’s my nameday and my anniversary, and yet you won’t give me some reprieve?”
“Technically our nameday was a week ago, brother,” you roll your eyes, hands placed on your lap as your nails leave crescent moons on your palms. “but you don’t see me complaining about it.”
“This is why I was born first.”
“It’s because mother wanted you out of her quicker.” Turning your attention to your brother, you don’t back down.
“Royal pain in the ass.”
“Royal dickhead.” Shaking your head with a subtle smile, you pluck his glass from his grasp and take a generous sip as he sighs and takes a new drink instead. You feel the warmth lining your stomach, exhaling out grape scented air as you bite the inside of your cheek. “Why does it have to be a tourney? We could’ve just had a nice and calm feast instead.”
“Because tourneys boost morale, sister.” Sitting back, he lounges as the squires start to gather outside right on the jousting field. “It’s been half a century since the last war and our knights are itching for a fight. Wars have been started for far less than wanting to drench their swords in blood.”
“Not all knights are like that.” You say under your breath, but your brother most definitely heard it as he nudges your elbow with his. Just in your peripheral vision, you could see Tybolt lugging around his knight’s equipment.
“Which particular one exactly?” He asks with a lilt in his tone, as if he already knows the answer to his question.
Anxiety bubbles from your stomach, caught as you refuse to look at him whilst your nail scratches at the silver goblet. “No one in particular—”
The trumpets sing again, this time in a more rushed tune together with the sound of war drums that strikes right at your chest, signaling the knights appearance.
Pursing your lips, your eyes immediately find him within the crowd of knights in their finest armours.
Hobie stands taller than the rest, shoulders squared as his red cloak flutters in the spring breeze. Tybolt now stands beside him, holding onto his shield and lance, sandwiched in between the heavy weapons as the poor boy struggles to stay upright.
The red spider gets on his horse as the rest of the knights do, except this one has his eyes meeting yours the moment he sits down, as if he felt your eyes right on him. He’d wink at you if not for the numerous eyes staring at him too, so as a compromise, he nods curtly at you, still knightly and casual without the gossipers singing how the emerald field champion is so lovestruck with the princess and the person he swore to protect. It’s a gentle reassurance, but it doesn’t help calm your flipping stomach and sweaty palms. Just the thought of wooden shrapnels flying dangerously at him has your nerves in knots.
You give him a nod back, albeit a shaky one as your eyes convey all your worries to him.
There were two people in the whole field that noticed the tiny interaction while most were more focused on putting their bets down or cheering for their champions to win— your brother and Hobie’s squire. One who knew you since before you were even born, and one who could clearly see the obvious secrecy between the two of you that transcends a knight and princess relationship.
“Is that the particular knight you were thinking about, sister?” Your brother, the king, whispers to you with a teasing tone.
“Hush, brother.” You utter in between clenched teeth. If it was any other day you would’ve joked back, but with the fight looming, you’re not in the mood.
“He’ll be alright.” He says softly, a mere whisper that has you meeting his eyes. “He’s a fine knight, he’ll do well.”
“I don’t care if he does well or not, I care if he gets injured…” swallowing down thickly, your fists shake around the goblet. “or worse.”
Inhaling deeply, the king finds your hand and pats it fondly. “You can excuse yourself if you need be.”
“I don’t want to,” turning your attention back to the field of knights, you blink the warm tears away, swallowing down your anxiety and facing the event head on. “I need to see.” You need to see him.
Pride swirls in your brother’s eyes. “Very well.” He sits upright, watching the knights gather at each side of the field through his steady gaze.
Hobie eyes his opponents, whose horses neigh and huff in anticipation. They stand ways ahead of him and his squad, armours shining as they stare at his side of the field. Three knights occupy the left hand side, on the first lane is Ser Gunther, known for his brute strength with the mace. Hobie could see that his infamous mace that has smashed dozens of skulls is held by his squire at the ready. His bronze horse whinnies wildly, causing his emerald armour to shine brighter in the sun. The bright green symbolizes his house colour and his crest, an almost blindingly green hue that resembles the first grass of spring.
Right beside Gunther the grim is Ser James himself, Hobie’s best mate, other than Ned, who’s currently learning at the academy, and with Yuri gone across the seas to make a name for herself, it’s just James and him left at the capital. And by some fate, his oldest friend gets to joust against him. Hobie’s already calculating where to hit him that’ll cause less pain to his friend.
The other knight in James’ side is Ser Crawford the younger, who dons a simple armour that’s adorned with poison ivy right on the metal. The vines even spread to his horse’s armour, weaving around the metal as if it’s growing right around it. Hobie wonders if Ser Crawford knows that he looks like a fence with overgrown vines snaking around it rather than a mighty oak covered in vines like his father, Ser Crawford the older.
“Sizing our opponents up, hm?” Ser Eugene that rides on Hobie’s left snickers at him. “No need, I’ll knock young Crawford off his horse with one lance.”
Hobie looks at the knight up and down, seeing him in his shiny golden armour and sapphire crown that sits right atop his helm that looks traitorous since he’s next in line after you. As if he has already crowned himself king when your line still sits the throne. He likes that it’s a middle finger to the crown, but if he’s king, that means that you’re dead, and if you are, Hobie thinks Eugene would be too, by Hobie’s own sword and so would everyone who had their hand on your death. The thought alone fires him up even more.
“Knocking out a knight, who’s a season away from turning ten and eight seems unearned, don’t you think, Ser Hobart?” The blue clad knight, Ser Theodore the Unyielding, says beside him, smiling genuinely as the sun hits his chest plate, where a sailing ship is etched right on the metal, symbolizing his seafaring roots. He doesn’t look too unbothered that he got matched with a known brute.
“Aye, I think so.” Hobie looks back at Eugene simultaneously with Theodore. “You better be careful, mate, those vines are poisonous.”
“A simple itch won’t stop me.” Eugene scoffs, reining in his horse as he snatches his lance and shield from his poor squire.
“I know someone who has died from the hives of a poison ivy,” Theodore smirks right at the annoyed knight. “I heard that it wasn’t so pleasant.”
Hobie chuckles, followed by his right hand knight as the irked knight’s jaw clenches. Eugene then leaves his lane, trotting his horse towards the royal box, holding up the tip of his lance upwards. It’s Hobie’s turn to clench his jaws, eyes narrowing at where the fellow knight points his lance at.
“I ask for the favour of the fairest maiden!” Eugene announces to everyone as the audience eats it all up. “My princess, if you’d give me the honour?”
Your brother has to nudge you for you to notice him. “Y–Yes, of course, my good Ser.” Playing the part of a perfect princess, you grab the offered flower wreath that’s adorned with yellow ribbons from an attendant before placing the wreath into the lance, letting it fall until it reaches the handle. “Good luck, Ser.”
“Princess.” He flashes you his best smile, but you’ve seen better as you can’t help but glance at Hobie, who is smiling cheekily at the interaction.
You sit back down, but you shouldn’t have as Hobie makes his way over to the royal box, lance reaching up towards you with a smirk. Eyeing him down, you stifle a grin.
“I ask the favour of the kindest maiden.” The tip of his lance taps the railing rhythmically, the same knock he does before he enters your chambers. “Lady Juniper,” his eyes go from you to the young girl sitting a few ways behind you. “May I have the honour of being your champion?”
You turn to look at the noble girl smiling from ear to ear as she takes the offered wreath of flowers that’s laden in red ribbons over to him. Sitting fully, you watch with tender eyes as she could barely reach over the railing to place the wreath into the lance. Hobie helps her by tipping his lance further down, winking at you at the opportune moment while everyone’s eyes are on the blushing girl.
“Good luck, kind Ser.” She says in the sweetest tone.
“Thank you, my lady.” Hobie smiles genuinely, before heading back to his lane.
“You did marvelously, lady Juniper.” You say to her with the same smile as Hobie’s.
“Thank you, your grace.” Curtseying before you, she’s ushered by her mother, matching her daughter’s happy smile.
“Huh.” Your brother says under his breath, quiet enough for the people behind him to not hear, but loud enough for your ears.
“What’s that?” Already annoyed, you kick him subtly with the length of your gown hiding it.
“Nothing, best not to anger you when I already bet against your knight.”
“You what— oh you fiend.” You’d say those words louder if not for the crowd around you. “How much did you bet?”
“Fifty gold.” He side eyes you, smirking wickedly. “Walter does the betting—”
“Walter!” Abruptly turning around to face the scribe, he jumps in his seat, shaking in fear that you could almost hear the clinking of coins in his pockets. “A hundred gold for Ser Hobart to become our champion!” You announce boastfully, followed by murmurs and then cheering from the others as they bet alongside you.
“Yes, your grace, right away, your grace.” Frantically, he jots down your bet, hands too sweaty as he drops his quill.
“Fifty coin, what a joke.” Your eyes narrow dangerously at your brother as you see the audience eagerly watch whilst the knights put on their helms and ready their lances.
Hobie for sure heard your jape, but to him, your support means the world. It’s his drive that feeds his adrenaline rush, pumping up his blood as he puts on his helm. It’s practical, and protects him when lances start to split in half, but it obscures half of his vision, it doesn’t matter when his eyes are on you up on the royal box.
When you feel his familiar gaze upon you, you send him another curt nod, more steady this time, not at all romantic, but to the both of you, it’s a kiss upon his cheek from far away, a hand wrapped around yours from a distance. A gentle reassurance that you’ll have all the time in the world with him later.
Hobie then brings his hand to his chest, right where the ruby necklace lies hidden underneath his armour. And you run your finger around your ring, as if you could feel each other’s warmth through them.
“Men, steady yourself!” Hobie’s voice booms around the arena, fluttering the winds itself. “And don’t fuckin’ die!” His team hurrahs, banging their shields with their lances together with the opposing teams. He swears James smirked right at him before closing his visor.
“You’re about to make a lot of people rich, Ser Hobart.” Theodore cheekily says, voice muffled by the metal of his helmet whilst Eugene snickers beside him.
“Ser?” Tybolt taps his armoured foot, jaw set as he frowns up at him.
“Yes, Tybolt?”
“Don’t get mortally wounded, or worse, whichever comes first.”
Chuckling, Hobie smiles under his helm. “I’ll try my best, lad.”
“Not at all reassuring, Ser.” With his final words, the boy backs away to the farthest of the fences with the other squires and spare racks of weapons.
Inhaling deeply, the knight brings his attention towards the men in front of him, fists tightening around his lance and the leather strap of his shield.
The king smirks, hiding his smile from behind his fist as he turns his attention to the field. They wait for his word, and with a nod from him, the joust begins with the eerie sound of a ram’s horn.
Horses neigh and whinny, the sound of thundering hooves has people hooting and hollering louder above the sound of the charging knights. Hobie has never been to a real full blown battle, but he can imagine that it’ll sound like this.
He points and aims his lance as the wind hits the metal of his armour, and he hits James dead on by his shoulder. Wood shattering, splitting down the middle as the shards rain down upon the field. But he doesn’t celebrate when his friend stays on his horse and grabs another lance from Tybolt.
Meanwhile, Theodore holds out his own with Gunther the grim, despite his brute strength, the blue knight manages to unhorse the man, which he wasn’t so happy about when he challenges Theodore to one on one combat whilst the rest of the joust is happening right in the middle of the field.
Hobie grabs another lance from James’ squire, pivoting his horse immediately to strike again. He could feel his horse’s muscles straining under him as he charges towards James.
The sun hits his visor, and he narrows his vision, missing James and hitting his shield instead.
This time around, Hobie gets the brunt of the lance’s force. He staggers back on his horse, held by the stirrups as he faces the sky whilst the horse runs back to his lane.
“Fuck!” Shaking off the pain radiating from his side, Hobie checks for damage, only to see Eugene fall on his back harshly, landing on his arm that cracks from his weight. He groans in pain, clutching his misaligned arm as the younger knight yells above him victoriously.
“Ser!” Tybolt shrieks below, giving him a new lance as James is already halfway down the lane, charging at him, looking like he’s ready to kill.
Hobie doesn’t waste time in taking the outstretched lance, the horse kicks dust as Tybolt dodges just in time to watch the lances hit each other in a shower of splintered wood.
James grits his teeth, taking the offered lance immediately as he bolts back towards Hobie. From where he rides, he could see the fire in his friend’s eyes. Back in the tent, they’re best mates, laughing at shared memories and sharing ale, but on the field of battle, there are no friends here.
Pointing his lance right at James’ shoulder once again, his friend anticipates Hobie’s next move, moving his shield in front of his shoulder at the last second.
But Hobie knows his friend well, he grew up with James, broke bread with him during harsh trainings, laughed with him, and learned beside him. So when his fellow knight moved his shield, Hobie moved his lance an inch downwards, hitting him dead center, flinging his friend off his horse and down on the ground. He lands in a sickening crush of metal and skin.
Heaving, Hobie looks over his shoulder to see a crumpled James before stopping his horse in the middle of the arena and hops off within a second. He runs towards his oldest friend, taking his helmet off to help him breathe better.
“Y–you motherfucker.” James whizzes out, breath taken out from his lungs. His right eye is bloodshot, capillaries broken as he musters a smile through the pain.
Chuckling, Hobie sighs in relief as he pats his friend’s chest plate. “You almost got me there, mate.”
“F—Fuck you, bruv.” Coughing and wincing, James is helped up by Hobie’s outstretched hand.
“I’ll take that as you yieldin’” Looping James’ arm over his shoulder, Hobie waddles back to Tybolt, who’s too busy cheering for Theodore as he goes toe to toe with the bigger Gunther. Their shields and weapons clash, metal against metal. Knight against knight.
“Four broken lances…” James chuckles, only to wince and hold his bruised side. “I think that’s our record.”
Hobie scoffs, akin to a laugh. “I think we can break that next time.”
“I don’t think there’ll be a next time with your princess looking at you like you stole a kiss from her.” It’s James’ turn to snicker, flashing Hobie a teasing smirk. “I knew that ruby necklace looked awfully familiar.”
His heart beats in his throat, threatening to spill out his guts. “James—”
“No need, If anyone asks, I know nothing.”
“Thank you, old friend.” Hobie hands him off to a pair of waiting doctors as they help him.
“Just buy me a pint after this, wanker.”
“I will—”
The sound of applause and cheers interrupts him. Hobie turns his gaze at the fighting pair, and to everyone’s surprise, Ser Theodore the Unyielding stands victorious above Ser Gunther. Which means—
“Hobie and his squad have won the joust!” Your voice stands above the loud crowd, grinning at him from above as you clap your hands victoriously whilst your brother claps to possibly humour you and to give respect to the knights.
Hobie yanks his helmet off so you could see his smile shining around the dirtied and bloodied arena. His face is covered in dirt and grime with a bit of speckled crimson.
He tastes metal on his tongue.
“Ser!” Tybolt screams frightfully at him. “You’re bleeding!”
Bringing his gaze downwards, he sees a piece of a wooden lance protruding from his side, wedged in between steel plates, crimson oozing slowly out of the wound, painting his metal boots in his own blood.
“Well shit—”
The last thing he hears is your scream as he falls into darkness.
—
“You should be in bed.”
The sun bares down on you, a field of wildflowers bloom around, a green field dotted with colourful flowers that matches your gown.
Hobie opens one eye, laid upon the bed of flowers as he smiles up at you, painted in a halo of light, smiling down upon him like an angel brought from above. “And you’re late.”
“I had to escape from my ladies.” Hands upon your waist, you can’t help but look at his bandaged side that you could see through his thin tunic. “While you have no excuse.”
“I haven’t seen you in a couple of moons, my lady, so please spare me the unpleasantness of your glare for my yearnin’ is greater than my self preservation.”
“Shit.” Closing your eyes with a wince, you hear Hobie chuckling under his breath. “Hobie the poet is back.”
His hand wraps around your ankle, thumb caressing your skin lovingly. “You love it though.”
“I do…” Sighing, you plop down beside him. His hand immediately reaches up to your cheek, feeling the warm summer air kiss your skin. “How are you faring? How’s the wound?”
“Better, the doctors said that it didn’t hit anythin’ important.”
The corners of your lips curl up into a small smile. “That’s good, Tybolt did good with securing your armour then.”
“That he did, he may be a cheeky arse but he’s good at his job.” Sitting up, you help him steady himself against a strong elm tree behind him. “How are you? You were beside yourself at my bedside.”
“You’re the one who’s injured and yet you ask me how I am?”
“Well, I don’t think I’ll be able to forget your cries.” He softly says, taking both of your hands in his to place gentle kisses upon them.
“I should put James under the axe for what he did.” You jokingly say, squeezing him three times, earning a chuckle from Hobie.
“Ned and Yuri wouldn’t be too happy about that. And he’s proper guilty ‘bout it, even kneeled before me or else he’ll get a beatin’ from Yuri. I told him that gettin’ his horse and sword was enough of an apology.” Head resting against the tree, he looks ethereal under the dappled sunlight that filters through the branches and leaves. His eyes are aglow, a greyish blue that reminds you of a stormy sea. Strong and unyielding, and yet soft like a spring rain when it comes to those he cares about. “‘m fine, love. You don’t have to worry.”
“Can’t help it.” As he tugs you beside him, you lay yourself down on his side, careful of his injury. “I worry, and I worry, but that’s a part of it. What am I supposed to do with you, Hobie Brown, hm?” You say with all the love in the world.
“Go behind the tree for me and fetch your present?” He utters sweetly against your temple.
“What?” Leaning away, your worried frown is turned upside down. “What for?”
“Your nameday present.” He smiles with you, picking up a stray leaf from the top of your head. “I didn’t finish it in time.”
“But you already gave me my present?” Your fingers play with the ruby necklace dangling around his neck as your brows knit together in confusion.
“A kiss and a visit to your chambers aren’t exactly a present worthy of you, lovie.”
“Then what is it?” There’s a growing smile on your face that Hobie loves so much.
“Look and you’ll see. I’ll go and get it for you but…” he gestures to his wound. “‘m a bit indisposed.”
With a stifled giggle, you kiss his cheek and leave his side to go around the large tree.
There’s a wicker basket filled with a wine bottle, a loaf of rye bread and your favorite cheese. Those were enough to make your heart a flutter but when you see a thick leather bound notebook beside the wine, it piques your interest and your stomach leaps at what could lie inside.
“You can’t miss it, love.” Adjusting his position, Hobie hides his excitement with a wince. His injury still aches but being in your presence is like a comforting balm on his wound.
You return with the basket in hand, grinning from ear to ear that even your brother would say is unladylike of you. “What’s inside?”
“It’s clearly food, my love.” Smirking, Hobie points at the basket, eyes shining teasingly.
“No,” sitting back down beside him, the basket laid in between the two of you, you show him the thick notebook. “I was talking about this.”
“It’s a notebook.” He simply says.
“Hobie, I’ve seen tomes thinner than this!” Giggling, he takes it from your hands and opens a random page for you to see. Your own smiling face drawn in sharp graphite greets you right on the parchment. Eyes watering, you gaze back at Hobie. “You— you drew this?”
“Aye, and a lot more.” He says with pride, flipping to another page where he drew you whilst you were getting fitted for a dress. “This one’s one of my favorites.”
“You rake.” Smiling, eyes crinkling in the corners, you peck the tip of his nose. “Please tell me that this has your wonderful poems in it.”
“Aye, one for each day that I’ve loved you.” He utters with all his heart.
“That’s a lot of poems.” Your eyes water, sniffing and yet your smile stays as he gently wipes a stray tear away from your cheek.
“There are a lot of days that I loved you.”
“I love it,” hugging the book against your chest, you gaze at him fondly through wet lashes. “And I love you, my knight.” With a smile, you lean closer, a hair’s width away from his lips as you give your proper thanks with a much needed kiss.
Taking your hand in his, he places it atop his heart as his thumb brushes along the ring he gave you. Usually it’s you who leans away first for air, but with his injury, Hobie’s the first to pull away, albeit reluctantly as he chases your lips for another peck before parting fully.
“How the tables have turned.” You utter jokingly above his lips, feeling his breathing hitch in his throat as he takes in a gulp of air. Your palm rubs his chest lovingly, encouraging him to breathe slowly as you inhale with him. “There you go, my knight, I’ve got you.”
“L—love.”
“I know, I know, I’m here.”
Hobie takes a deep breath in, wincing yet he steadies himself before you could help him with the glass of wine. “You bet on me.”
You roll your eyes. “Of course I did, I knew you’d win.”
“Sounds like you owe me my cut.” Smirking, Hobie’s arm snakes around you, pulling you impossibly closer beside him as the basket is pushed down in favour of having you near.
“Too bad, I forgot my coin pouch in the castle.” Arm around your shoulder, a hand squeezing your elbow, you instinctively lean your head atop his chest, hearing his heartbeat and how it syncs with yours.
He sighs, pecking the top of your head that doesn’t bear the heavy crown. “Good thing that we live in the same place.”
A beat passes, and you could feel the gnawing thought in the back of your mind.
“Hobie, I think my brother knows.” You bluntly say, craning your neck up to face him with tearful eyes. “About us.”
Instead of sadness or shock in his handsome face, he doesn’t seem to mind the revelation. “He’s the king and your brother, ‘m not even surprised.”
“Hobie,” you sit up, palm resting above his heart. “What if he assigns you somewhere else? What if, god forbid, strip you of your knighthood?”
“Lovie,” his tone softens even more as he caresses your cheek with his knuckles. “I know your brother, not as much as you do but I know that he loves you more than what the other houses think. He won’t do such a thing, especially if it means losin’ you.”
“Losing me?”
Hobie tilts his head, “what would you do if he does that? Separate us?”
You blink, chuckling at your own revelation. “You’re that confident that I’d leave with you?”
“Well, you don’t want to be queen someday and you’ve rejected every bachelor in the realm. ‘m fairly confident ‘bout it.”
“You ass.” Laughing, he matches your laughter as the sound gets carried by the wind, fluttering the wildflowers.
“‘m serious, your brother won’t do that. He’d rather you marry me than risk your wrath.”
“And would you?” Your tone turns quiet, unsure as your fingers play with the ties on his tunic. “Marry me if he makes us?”
“Lovie.” Hobie takes your face in his hands lovingly, calloused palms brushing along your skin like finely woven silk. “Even if he doesn’t make us, I’d do it. If you want to.”
“But you won’t be a knight anymore.” You utter through unshed tears, soft and quiet, as if saying it will strip him of his title.
“I could be both, I’d be honored to be both.” His forehead touches yours, gazing softly into your eyes as he holds you in his strong arms that have held you far longer than you could remember, that you’d let hold you forever if he could. “And if he does separate us, then what else is stoppin’ us from leavin’ this all behind for us?”
“M–must you be so sweet to make me cry joyfully?” Face planting right on his chest, you rub your tears right on his tunic as you feel his chuckle rumble in his chest.
“We could become farmers, or sail the seas and find somewhere as warm as this, where we could jus’ be us.”
“What k–kind of farmers?” You could barely get the words out as you let out a soft cry.
“Pomegranates, you always loved those the most.”
“Pomegranate farmers it is then, if not, we become pirates.” That earns a hearty chuckle from Hobie.
“I have to draw you like this.” Your squished face in his hands, you pout at him as he pecks the pout off your face until you’re grinning at him. “Add it to our collection.” Hobie gestures at the notebook on his lap with his head.
“As long as you’re in this one. Preferably with me.” Poking his chest, he matches your smile.
Can you do a blurb of reader and hobie where she doesn't like her hair being touched and is very particular abt it? (Styling, washing, who can play with it, etc)
Like theyre cuddling and hobie just absent mindedly plays with it and realizes before profusely apologizing
And reader is just "oh its okay I like you playing with my hair, it feels nice" before going back to doing whatever like nothing happened
Sorry if this is a lot or doesn't make sense, I just really love your work!!!! (´・ω・`)/~~
Feel free to decline! (^^;
This was such a cute prompt! Thank you so much I hope you like it ❤️
Pairing: Hobie Brown x fem! Reader/ Spider-Punk x fem! Reader
Tags: No use of Y/N, no specific physical description of the reader, established relationship, fluff!
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The new couch under Hobie feels nice, it’s definitely better than his old patchwork one with the metal springs protruding out of it. He has gotten way too many injuries from it poking him. Now he doesn’t have to worry about that when he got a great deal for the new-ish couch at a thrift store, and he doesn’t have to worry about his old couch accidentally slashing you whenever you come over. He would miss helping you put on some bandaids though.
The new couch might feel so comfortable that his eyes are drooping, muscles relaxing as he yawns for the umpteenth time, but nothing beats having you comfortably in his arms as you talk about your day.
You lay beside him, lounging against his side as his arm is thrown over your shoulders. Your cheek rests atop his chest, arms wrapped around him as he taps his index rhythmically on your stomach. The houseboat doesn’t help with his sleepiness when it rocks back and forth from the waves outside. And with the sun starting to set, soft pinks and warm orange spilling in through the windows and blanketing his place, he can’t help it when his hand wanders up to your head.
His fingers absentmindedly plays with your hair, twirling it around his finger, and feeling how smooth it is against his calloused hand. Hobie is fighting sleep to even notice what he’s doing.
“Did you and the band really lug this all the way from the shop to the houseboat by yourselves—?” The way you pause abruptly has Hobie opening one eye and gazing at you with a raised pierced brow.
You look up at him, illuminated by the glorious sunset, looking divine that makes his heart leap in his chest. But when he sees his lithe fingers wrapped around your hair, he panics and lets go, almost jumping away from shock and waking himself up.
“Shit, ‘m sorry, love, I was fallin’ asleep—”
“Why’d you stop?” Eyes soft, lashes fluttering, your gorgeous face painted in the sunset, you tilt your head at him as your brows knit together in confusion.
“You don’t like havin’ your hair touched?” He asks, more to himself. Mirroring your furrowed brows, swallowing thickly, Hobie thinks that he fucked up. He specifically remembers that you don’t like it when people touch your hair, especially when you always took time to take good care of it only for someone to ruin it.
“I don’t,” his stomach lurches. “But when it’s you, it’s different, I like it when you play with my hair.”
“Really? Are you sure?” His eyes glance around your expression warily.
Chuckling, smiling fondly up at him, you then take his hand that was playing with your hair and place it atop your head. “So, I was asking if you and the band carried this home without a truck.” You lay back down casually, a palm resting on his chest as you help him ease himself down on the couch whilst your index draws circles all over his chest. “Maybe that’s why your lower back is hurting.” You could feel him turning into a puddle under you as you smile against his shirt whilst he continues to play with your hair, more confident this time around.
Hobie smiles in relief, muscles relaxing, and pressing a kiss on the crown of your head. He feels special as he caresses the softness of your hair in his hand.
“Yeah, love, anythin’ for you.”
“You up for a massage?” Turning your head up to him with a cheeky grin, Hobie thinks that he may not be having his nap.
Pairing: Hobie Brown x fem! Reader/ Spider-Punk x fem! Reader
Word count: 3.1k
Summary: Hobie's valentine's day plan goes awry when Spider-Man duties call.
Tags: No use of Y/N, no specific physical description of the reader, established relationship, CW suggestive, CW food mentions, lovestruck! Hobie, canon typical violence, fluff.
Requested by @thesevenofstaves -- had to double check the master list but i don’t think there’s one similar to this? but if there is feel free toto discard—hobie trying to have a great valentine’s day with his partner, but everything keeps going wrong. we’re talking villain attacks, we’re talking culinary failures. you get the idea!thank you love you 🥰
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You open your eyes to a cold valentine's day morning. But the cool wind barely nips at you when you've got your very own furnace holding you close under the thick blankets.
Hobie embraces you from behind, soft snores escaping from his parted lips as he finds his place on your nape. You feel his breath fanning across your skin, goosebumps appearing on your arms as he lets out an exhale. You wonder what he's dreaming about, you only hope it's good things as his arms subconsciously squeezes you in his sleep.
His legs are tangled with your own, socked feet rubbing along your cold leg as you feel him stir when the light from the windows beam through the curtains. His hands wiggle their way under your night shirt, holding your stomach and letting his warmth ebb from his palms. Smiling, you hold the back of his hands, thumbs running along his knuckles as a soft and gentle way to wake him up.
“We need new blinds.” Hobie murmurs against the back of your neck, lil piercing brushing along your raised skin. His voice is still deep and rough from sleep, it single handedly makes your heart flutter.
“Good morning to you too.” You chuckle, voice soft amidst the early morning fluttering of dust. “Maybe that'll be your valentine's gift from me.”
He laughs, a deep rumble in his throat that reverberates through you. “Make it blackout, love. ‘m startin’ to think that people can see through and see our nightly—” you crane your neck to give him a side glance as a warning, only to find that he has already cracked an eye open, waiting for your reaction. “—Activities.”
Humming, you're satisfied by his use of the word.
“‘m talkin' ‘bout makin’ love, by the way.”
“Hobie!” You giggle, and the sound immediately has Hobie moving to detangle himself away from you and lift his body atop your own in quick succession and fluid movement. His lopsided smile has your words stuck in your throat as you look up at him through wide eyes.
“Hearts day today, hm?” He pokes your cheek, arms enclosed around you and legs trapping your thighs together. “The most capitalistic time of the year.”
You try to tamp down a laugh but can't help giggling when he tilts his head and tries to look all flirty with you when he's still wearing his pink silk bonnet and with crusts still in the corner of his eyes.
“That's true,” lifting your hand up to rub away the sleep in his eyes gently, he closes his eyes whilst you do it. “But you always go all out during the holiday.”
“Yeah, but it's for you.” He leans against your touch, sighing longingly as if you're across the sea from him. “And only for you, love.” Dropping down, he places his head on your shoulder, burrowing his face in the crook of your neck as he gives small pecks on your skin. Your heart feels full in the moment as you hold him close and tangle your legs with him. “Says you who made me a whole bloody outfit from scratch.”
Laughing, he continues to kiss your neck and up to your jaw. “And I loved making it for you,” you say breathlessly as he kisses deeper and you move your neck to give him more space to cover. “Just say you love the holiday, Hobs.”
Hobie pauses from his barrage of kisses, lifting his head up to look you in the eyes. He fixes your unruly brows that still bear sleep, and rubs your cheek lovingly with his knuckles.
“No.”
“Is it because you have to go on patrol today unlike last year?”
“The world is tearing us apart, lovie.” He leans in, kissing the corner of your lips, cheeks and the tip of your nose.
“Maybe just London, Hobie.” You gasp as he presses a sweet kiss on your lips. You reciprocate wholeheartedly, hands balling his pajama shirt and smiling through the kiss.
“London can wait a few more minutes.”
—
“Hobie, be careful, please?” You hug yourself tighter, wrapping Hobie's cardigan around you. “I have plans for us tonight so please come home in one piece.”
Hobie, in his full regalia of spandex and leather sits in-between the window sill as if he’s thinking whether he should stay or go.
“You know I always will, love.” Holding up his arms, you park yourself in the space as he curls himself around your form, face scrunched on your belly, and with you hugging his head. “I'll be on time, hm?” He whispers against you, placing a heavy kiss atop the cardigan that you both share.
“I'm not worried about that.” Craning your neck, not worried about the crick you're about to surely have, you kiss his temple sweetly. “Just come home, okay?”
Hobie reluctantly lifts his head away from you, smiling up at you. If he doesn't leave now, he'll never get out of the flat. “You want wine for tonight?”
“If you're coming home all beaten and battered, you better have something stronger.” You joke as you caress his cheek.
“I'll get you the good stuff, hm?”
“Anything from you is the good stuff.” Leaning down, you kiss him on his waiting lips. “Now go, the city needs you, Spider-Man.”
Hobie gives you one last smile before placing the mask on his head. Now face to face with the famed vigilante. Taking your hand, he kisses your knuckles and lets you go to jump off the window and swing away into the bustling city.
Watching his form retreating away, you sigh and start preparing for tonight's meal, that's for sure would be so bountiful that it would send the vigilante to a food coma.
—
Hobie heaves in place as the lizard lays unconscious by his feet. It's barely noon and he has stopped seven disasters already. There goes his plans to swing by and hand you a bouquet that he gathered himself that's now slowly floating down to the dust covered pavement. Fragrant flower petals come down from the sky, and a few people stop by and watch as the colourful flowers grace the cold London street.
“It's a Valentine's miracle!” A bystander exclaims happily, dancing around the floating petals.
Hobie shakes his head, rubbing a gloved hand across his masked face. He should've seen the lizard coming but he was too enthralled by his own mind that was playing what your reaction would be after he gives you a visit and hands you the flowers.
“Fuckin' hell.” He stretches his aching shoulder, already thinking of a faster route to gather all the flowers he needed to make a new bouquet. Whilst he thinks, a fire alarm blares in the distance, making his senses go off. With a sigh, the flowers have to wait.
—
You swirl the final touches on the red velvet cake you just finished. Smiling happily at the result even though it's your first time baking one. As you check the time, looking over to the clock on the wall, you have plenty of time to finish up dinner. Now with dessert out of the way, it's time for the main course.
You wonder what Hobie's up to and if he has eaten lunch yet.
—
“You wanker! That was my lunch!” Hobie screams at the cackling Rhino. Real fury in his veins whilst he glances at the sandwich you packed for him this morning that's now flattened under the villain's metallic foot.
“Oh poor spidey lost his sandwich?” The Rhino mocks while doing a crying motion at him. “What are you gonna do about it?”
Hobie cracks his neck, jaw tightening and walking slowly at the humongous suit of armour. He has no quip nor a joke, just silence; making the Rhino fear for his life.
—
“Shit!” You yelp, dropping the smoking metal tray into the sink. Opening the faucet, the tray hisses and lets out steam whilst the whole kitchen is covered in smoke. “Damn it.”
Maybe taking a short nap while the oven is on wasn't such a great idea. Good thing you have a plan b just in case something like this happened.
Checking the time, you're starting to worry that you won't finish before Hobie comes home now that it's well into the afternoon. With a groan, you start again.
—
“No, Ned, not a bloody yellow one!” Hobie yells into the phone's receiver, which he only uses for times like these. He's on call with Ned who owes Hobie big time and whom he asked for help in buying ingredients from the store. He dodges the Scorpion's stinger, balancing on a metal railing just near the end of the docks. “Not blue either! It'll look like it's for a baby shower—!” The stinger gets too close for comfort. “Do you fuckin' mind? 'm on the phone.”
“Drop the call, Spider-Man!” The scorpion says in his scratchy tone as he hangs upside down on a lamp post. “What's more important than saving the bank?”
“The bank can fuck off for all I care!” Hobie jumps and webs the stinger to a building. “It's the hostages you've got inside, you knobhead—! No, not you, Ned!” Groaning, he has had enough and quickly somersaults over the second stinger that was aimed for him. “What's up with you animal themed villains today? Got no dates?!”
“That's harsh.” The Scorpion's shoulders deflates sadly.
“Guess it's hard to find a date when you dress like that!” He pounces, punching the guy right on his jaw.
Hobie looks at the sun slowly setting on the horizon and he focuses on the task at hand. The faster he defeats the Scorpion, the faster he can get to you.
“Pink or red only, Ned, and get the good chocolate and please don't forget the thing I told you.” He closes the call and tucks the phone back in his vest pocket. Cracking his knuckles, he hones in on the villain. “Maybe you'll find a date in jail, yeah?”
—
You set up the dinner table all pretty like with red roses, a fine tablecloth, and gilded utensils that you got a deal on at an estate sale last week. Looking around, the pretty string lights and the strawberry scented candles have you smiling and patting your back for a job well done.
Your phone pings on the kitchen counter, and you race towards it to check if it's Hobie telling you that he's on his way. Your brows knit together when it's Ned asking you when your birthday is and if you're allergic to nuts. A weird combination of questions but you still open your phone and answer him.
—
“C’mon, blackcat, not today.” Hobie sighs, the marks from the previous fights is evident on his soot and scratch covered suit. The sun has fully set, and the clock ticks close to seven pm as he stands on a rooftop with blackcat, who's carrying a duffel bag full of jewellery.
“Why? Got something to do, handsome?” She says in a sultry tone, sharp claws glinting in the moonlight. Hobie subtly tilts his head in annoyance. Nothing seems to be going his way today. “Oh, I get it, you've got someone waiting for you tonight, hm?” Her heels click on the rooftop as she walks closer to him. Hobie smacks his lips together, fists tightening.
In the distance, the famous jewellery shop she just robbed empty has its alarms blaring loudly. Sirens go off around the area, and Hobie just wants to go home.
“Y’know what?” Hobie starts, exasperated. Blackcat tilts her head, her silver eyes under the domino mask narrows at him. “That place was owned by an arsehole, go.”
She blinks in place, a smirk slowly appearing on her painted lips. “Really? Just like that?”
Hobie nods, “promise not to tell anyone what you deduced and give thirty percent of the money you get from that to a charity and I'll let you go.”
“Shit, Spider-Man, why didn't you say so in the first place?” She chuckles, reeling her claws back in.
“Fuckin’ say it, Felicia.”
“Damn, you don't have to call me by my government name, man.” She rummages through the bag and tosses him something shiny which Hobie catches effortlessly. “Here, for your special someone. And I promise, spidey. Cross my heart, hope to die.” She draws a cross over her chest.
“I'll know, don't lie to me.” His voice falls into a dangerous timbre.
She visibly stiffens from the threat, not forgetting what he did to Osborne a few years ago. “As if I'd lie to my favourite spider.”
As blackcat tumbles away, leaving Hobie alone, he opens his palm to see a shiny diamond tennis bracelet. Maybe he can detach the diamonds and make something else.
“Shit!” He needs to get to Ned’s real quick.
—
You've been sitting pretty on the dining table for four hours now. The candle is dwindling and the food is getting colder while the clock ticks on the wall. For the umpteenth time tonight, you fix your clothes as if there's even a crease or a speck of dust on it. You don't mind waiting for him when you know the nature of his work, but you're starting to worry when his last text to you was hours ago. You've even turned on the telly in the background just in case he pops up in the news.
With a yawn, you decide to lay your head on the table. “Just closing my eyes.” You mumble to yourself as you drift in between slumber and wakefulness.
Hobie's heart breaks when he sees you asleep on the table with your head tucked in your arms. The candles are fully melted on the candelabra, and the smell of food is fading away. He's sure that it might've smelled heavenly hours ago, if only he got there earlier.
He quietly takes off his heavy boots by the door, the crinkling of the paper bag has him cringing. But when he glances at your sleeping form, you're still sleeping soundly. He curses himself internally as he roams his eyes around the living room and the decorations you've put out. You've even got new pictures of you together with him inside pretty frames to place around the shared place. The flowers on the vases are still fresh and blooming, and you look absolutely stunning.
Gently placing the paper bag on the table, he kneels next to you, hand grasping your bicep while he wakes you up.
You stir, sniffing the air as you lift your head up. Your face lights up when you see him smiling softly at you.
“Hi.”
“Hello, love. Sorry ‘m late, let me carry you to bed, yeah?” Hobie rubs your thigh lovingly, chest feeling heavy and guilty. “I tried.”
You immediately know what he meant. “I know, Hobs.” Reaching for his cheek, you let your touch warm him. His face still feels chilly from how he might've run to get to the flat. “You okay?” He nods, eyes shining as he moves closer and places his head on your lap. “Bad day?”
“A shite day.” He hugs your waist, face nudging you.
“Sounds like you need a Valentine's meal, hm?”
Hobie lifts his head up, palms holding your hips. “It's cold.”
“That's why microwaves and the stove were invented.”
A smile curls on his lips until he's laughing against your stomach. You giggle with him, fingers kneading in between his shoulder blades.
“What did you make?” He asks, still holding you in place and in turn holding him down to the present.
“Baked chicken with lemongrass just like how you like it.” You whisper to him while the pads of his fingers draw circles on the small of your back. “Some mashed potatoes, so many buttered vegetables.” You chuckle and you feel his smile atop your skin. “Fish fillet—”
“With the garlic and cream sauce?”
You nod, gazing down lovingly at him. “With the garlic and cream sauce of course. Some tomato soup, and cake.”
“We feedin’ a whole town now, lovie?” He smiles up at you, stomach rumbling from the menu.
“Yeah, you,” you joke, earning a squeeze from him. “I rarely cook for you these days so I went all out.”
He beams at you, eyes gazing at you lovingly. “I got you flowers.” He says in a small tone. Your heart flutters. “It's all over downtown now though.”
Your laugh is music to his ears. “I bet it made someone's day though.”
“There was a bloke who looked like he was in the sound of music.” He places his chin on your thigh, staring at you with heart shaped eyes. You laugh, hands cupping each of his cheeks. “I made you chocolates, but Neddy got coconut fillings in most of ‘em. And the sprinkles are green, sorry.”
“Is that why Ned asked me if I have any allergies and when my birthday is? He helped you make them?”
“I can't make it ‘ere when you were cookin’ up a storm. Wait, he asked you? Idiot.” He curses Ned's name and you giggle. Hobie bites his lip, suddenly nervous. “And he was askin' when your birthday is so he could get your birth stone.”
“My stone?”
“I just told him to pick it up so I could set it myself and the wanker forgot when your birthday is just because I just said your birthstone.” You squeeze his cheek to stop his nervous rambling. He sighs, rummaging through his jacket pocket and procuring a simple bamboo box. “Made and designed by yours truly.” He chuckles nervously as he opens the box, revealing a simple platinum necklace that has your birthstone set in a guitar pick shaped locket. “Sorry that the stone is so small. The old lady who owned the place got me a good price though.”
“Hobie,” you softly sigh out, tears prickling your eyes. “You could get me a candy necklace and I would still love it.”
“Should've gotten that then.” He laughs, mirroring your smile. “I thought, ten fuckin' years together, ten Valentines, I have to get you somethin' nice. You deserve nice, love.”
“The chocolates and the pavement flowers were nice too. Anything from you is nice, Hobie.” You don't hold yourself back anymore, leaning down and kissing the corner of his eye as he holds onto you. “Amazing even.”
“You like it then?” He says as he gets a barrage of kisses.
“I love it. Come stand up and help me put it on like in the movies.”
Hobie reaches for your cheek, a calloused palm holding you close and keeping you warm. “Kiss me like in the movies then.”
Pairing: Hobie Brown x fem! Reader/ Spider-Punk x fem! Reader
Word count: 5k
Synopsis: The Hobie Brown support group helps a fellow spider.
Tags: Use of Y/N sparsely, no specific physical description of the reader, cw food mentions, cw suggestive, established relationship, multiple variants of Hobie from my different AUs, cowboy!/OPIN! Hobie, dad! Hobie, Vampire!/IPOB! Hobie, Prowler! Hobie, Spy!/ Mr. Smith! Hobie, Pirate!/BDAS! Hobie, fluff!
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A part two of this fic!
A/N: Happy Valentine's day!! 💐❤️❤️
Hobie wakes up uncharacteristically early. It’s still dark out when his alarm buzzed around his wrist that he had to set to vibrate lest it wakes you up too. Your cheek is pressed against his chest, sleeping soundly, too soundly that he has to pry himself from your grasp like opening up a beartrap wrapped around him.
Carefully, once he’s out of your warm embrace, he takes his pillow and wedges it in your arms instead. Hopefully that’ll fool you before you suddenly wake up without him by your side after you felt his absence.
Just like he guessed, you squeeze the pillow and nuzzle your face atop it like how you'd usually do to him. He's completely enamored by you even with your hair all mussed, and drool on the corner of your lips.
With one last loving look at you, Hobie tip toes out of the bedroom, body still sore from last night’s activities, he’d stay in bed with you until noon if it weren’t for the fact that it’s Valentine’s day. He’s not a fan of the holiday’s capitalist side, but he does like the idea of celebrating love, and as much as he shows you how much he loves you every second of everyday, Valentine’s day can’t be beat, the kisses you left on his skin proves that.
The whole houseboat is dim except for the moonlight spilling from the windows and a single lamp as his light, with the whole place rocking softly against the waves outside. He’d turn on the kitchen lights but he can’t risk it when you could wake up from it. The remnants of last night’s dishes are still in the sink, long forgotten because the both of you got distracted by each other. He would wash it now but he needs to focus on your Valentine’s day present before you could wake up.
“Right.” He inhales the cold morning air, shivering as he opens the fridge, light flooding the kitchen whilst taking all the ingredients he hid behind a box of protein bars that James left. He was absolutely sure that you wouldn’t be able to look there when you’ve said that the protein bars tasted like chalk. Arms filled with ingredients, he shuts the door with his foot before he freezes from the cold and hobbles over to the counter.
Sucking in his teeth, Hobie then starts to gently take each ingredient down on the counter. Juggling cans of creams, milk, flour and eggs. The most fragile comes first, a single egg carton is placed safely, the shop he got it all from was last minute because Rhino was particularly not in a Valentine’s day mood, they only had two boxes of four eggs on the shelf when the recipe needed at least a dozen. He’s starting to regret choosing to make a pavlova now.
One carton is left in his arms, it sits atop a box of raspberries, and under that is a whole packaging of sugar that wobbles in his hold. His tongue pokes out from in between his pierced lips, deeply concentrating when one wrong move could topple the tower of ingredients and have you be woken up by a mountain of mess in the kitchen.
His hand shakes as he grasps the carton, and as if some cosmic entity wanted to see his downfall, his watch vibrates out of nowhere, a hologram screen suddenly popping out, scaring the shit out of him.
“Fuck—” he’d scream if it weren’t for you sleeping in the other room, but he stifles himself by biting his tongue.
Thanks to his quick reflexes, Hobie catches the toppled ingredients mid air like his life depended on it. He looks like a contestant in one of the Japanese game shows you watch where the contestants have to twist their body to fit into a very specific silhouette. His leg is lifted up to catch a carton of milk, arms raised on his sides to catch the flour and fruits, and of course the eggs just had to land right on his head. If his hair wasn’t already mussed from last night, it definitely is now.
“Looking like a proper ballerina, bruv.” His own voice sounds out from his watch as the hologram moves to automatically face him. “She did a number on you, hm?” An older version of him snickers, having almost the same marks right on his neck.
“Fuckin’ hell, old man.” Hobie huffs, exasperated. “It’s four in the bloody mornin’”
Another hologram pops up beside the existing one, a more pinkish hue that adds to the bright orange light of the former hologram. “Someone better be dyin’.” Another variant of Hobie appears within the pink hologram, yawning and scratching his scruff, this one has a southern drawl mixed in subtly with his accent. “You lot almost made me crush an egg.”
“Jus’ an egg? Don’t you live on a farm?” Hobie grimaces, hopping on one foot to place the carton of milk down and then bending over to slide the eggs to the counter. “The old man ‘ere almost made me drop everythin’.”
“‘m in the middle of nowhere durin’ the wild west, mate, it’s not all sunshine and rainbows ‘ere.”
“Alright, calm your flat arses, we all know that you’re all awake to make somethin’ for your lovies.” Dad Hobie rolls his eyes as he whisks something off screen. “Someone needs our help.”
“Need changin’ a diaper?” The cowboy version of him snickers, while the sound of a rooster echoes from his side of the call.
“Yeah, yeah, don’t forget that you’re lookin’ right at your future, wanker.” That shut him up as the older Hobie makes a scrunched face.
Hobie kneads at the space in between his brows, extra careful with taking the utensils he needed from the cupboards. “Who needs our help?”
“Prowler.” Dad Hobie says it with a teasing smile. “Say hi, prick.”
The room lights up with another hologram, this one in deep purple that almost drowns the rest of the holograms in its light. “How the fuck do you make chocolate?” His voice shakes desperately, whispered while he seems to be hiding in a dark room with his face so close to the camera. He looks like he’s in one of those found footage horror films that always makes your motion sickness act up.
“Why do you look like you’re in a coffin?”
“Yeah, that’s my thing, mate.” Another call blinks in, this time in bright crimson as this Hobie variant has two prominent fangs poking in between his smiling lips. He looks like he’s in his red velvet bathrobe, faring better than Hobie when he’s still in his boxer shorts, shivering in the cold.
“‘m hiding from my girl.” Prowler whispers, his locs swinging as he leans closer. “She sleeps like the world is huntin’ her, one fuckin’ sound and she’s awake with her claws out.”
“Well, she is the black cat.” Cowboy Hobie utters under his breath as he chops something up in the background.
“Hidin’ where exactly?” Hobie asks, finally starting to make the pavlova cake.
He sighs, rubbing the space in between his brows. “The closet.”
“We’ll be waitin’ for you when you’re ready, mate.” Cowboy and Older Hobie make the same exact joke.
“Bruv.”
“I remember dating a black cat, it ended with her shreddin’ my denim collection.” Vampire Hobie shivers as the sound of a sewing machine hums in the background.
“Wasn’t she a shape shifter?”
“Everyone shut the fuck up, how the fuck do I make chocolate?” The purple clad Hobie rambles on. “‘m on my last ingredients, I wasted a whole fuckin’ thing and it ended up lookin’ like actual shite.”
“I think that’s a talent.”
“Did it taste like shite too?”
“Prowler, did you forget Valentine’s day?” Hobie reads his desperation clearly with a slight tug in the corner of his lips.
Prowler clams up.
“Shit, you did.” The older variant chuckles, “I’d say that you’ll be fine if your lovie isn’t the black cat, but she is, so good fuckin’ luck.”
“At least yours isn’t an otherworldly bein’ or a cryptid. I know there’s a variant of her out there that’s like that.”
“It’s our first Valentine’s day, alright?” The poor Prowler variant sighs defeatedly. “It’s not my fault that I only realized when she showed up in a—”
“Let me stop you right there, mate,” Dad Hobie puts a finger up in the most fatherly way possible. “my boy is awake and watchin’ the telly but that doesn’t mean he can’t hear you.”
“Says you who has all those marks on you. And didn’t you call Prowler a prick jus’ then?” The outlaw says with a snicker.
“They’re mosquito bites. And he’s three years old, he doesn’t understand that.”
“And my arse is fat, fuck off. Now help me.” Prowler almost sounds like he’s whining, utterly desperate to get you something to show his fondness for you.
“Who’s three years old, Prowler or your kid?” Vampire Hobie guffaws, straight up calling the other older Hobie a liar as he chuckles to himself whilst he’s focused on his sewing.
“First off, what kind of chocolate are you tryin’ to make?” Cowboy Hobie asks, mixing something vigorously.
“Regular chocolate?” He makes a face, looking like he’s in some found footage film from the angle and from the pitch black background with only the hologram’s light shining on him. “I thought it was bloody simple, I even got the molds and everythin’.”
“Wait, you said you forgot the day, how did you get heart shaped molds last minute? I couldn’t even find a dozen eggs.” Hobie is in disbelief, remembering how every store in his dimension was picked clean of the valentine’s day stuff.
He shook his head at the over-consumption, that’s why he prefers making his gifts for you, something you’d appreciate better than a polyester heart shaped pillow that has been manufactured a million times before. The other Hobies share the same sentiment, he excuses Prowler for being desperate and with him having his first milestone with you, or more like with his own lovie. He’s still not used to that when all his variants have near identical partners with only small differences that are hard to decipher for someone who doesn’t know you.
Sighing, the Prowler grumbles something under his breath before showing them a Halloween themed chocolate mold, it clearly has a cat shape, a witch’s hat and cauldron, and tiny skulls.
The thunderous laughter that follows, both has Hobie and the Prowler lowering the volume and switching to the headphones that are attached on the side of the watch. Something that Miguel didn’t think of but the Hobie Brown variants did during one afternoon of tea. Their booming laughter shakes his ear as Hobie stifles a chuckle, not even blaming Prowler Hobie when he knows the desperation to make something to show his love for you.
“Mate, your lovie isn’t a witch!” Cowboy hoots, slapping his knee in laughter.
“Oh, you’re killin’ me!” The thousand year old Vampire laughs so hard that it looks like he fell from his chair as his camera shakes before it shows him lying on the floor giggling.
“‘m callin’ pirate and spy and siccin’ ‘em on your flat arses.” The purple variant whisper yells whilst glowering at his screen.
“What would they do, make me walk the plank and shoot me?” The outlaw taunts.
“Who am I shootin’ at?” A finely dressed Hobie variant blinks in, adding a green hue to the collection of holograms. His suit is all crinkled to hell, and there’s blood right on his collar that he doesn’t seem to mind one bit. Not a single Hobie looks too concerned about it either, already so used to his antics, his usual spy slash assassin self, and whatever the company has him doing with his fake missus.
“I don’t make people walk the plank anymore, I do keelhaulin’ now.” Another hologram appears, this time it’s in ocean blue, adding calmness to the call if not for Prowler’s annoyed expression. Pirate Hobie seems to be on top of the crow’s nest as the waves dance in the background, wind rushing against the speakers whilst sea shells clink together in his hands.
“Lovely.” Hobie sarcastically says, he regretted asking him what keelhauling is during one of the many meetings he has been in. The vampire showing him a historically accurate video of it didn’t help him one bit, he did understand the process of it, too well in fact.
“What’s happening?” The pirate captain asks whilst not looking at the screen as he chisels something in the background. “Wait, someone’s missin’” He sniffs, and blinks at the group of holograms that mirrors his own face.
“Cherry Hobie isn’t answerin’” The older Hobie answers, checking his watch and shaking his head, not out of pure disappointment but from understanding, but maybe with a bit of disappointment too. “so ‘m guessin’ that his lovie’s awake.”
“Bloody good.” The vampire is now sitting properly back on his chair. He has a dust bunny clinging to his velvet robe from when he fell to the floor. It’s a miracle that his lovie hasn’t woken up yet from all the racket he’s making with his sewing machine and from his fall “At least one of us is gettin’ it.”
“All our lovies are asleep?” Hobie asks as he measures his ingredients whilst the houseboat rocks in the waves, which is a task and a half in itself.
“After last night, she has to be.” Vampire Hobie chortles under his breath, smiling and puffing his chest with pride.
“Fuckin’ hell, we didn't need to hear that, bruv.”
“Wait, tinkerbell ain’t ‘ere either.” The dapper yet bloody Hobie asks, looking at the glowing holograms as he pauses from polishing something metallic.
“Right, well, that’s rough.” Making a face, the spy lights up a cigarette all suave like. It seems that he’s making something for you too, but Hobie can’t tell from how he’s holding onto a knife as a harsh lamp light illuminates his face, and he thinks that he doesn’t even want to know. “D’you think he’s cryin’ on a bed of flowers right now?”
“Don’t be mean to the poor bloke.” The older one chastises, clicking his teeth as he ties his long locs together before continuing to make breakfast.
“Yeah, you don’t know how good you have it, wanker.” With his fangs bared, the vampire shakes his head with a grimace. “I’d know.”
“‘m goin’ to hang up if you lot don’t help me.” Prowler almost whisper yells in between his teeth.
“What are you all makin’ for your lovies?” The pirate captain asks, fixing the bandana on his head before looking directly at Prowler with a subtle smirk. He clearly knows what he’s doing to the vigilante.
“Wha—”
“Kitt Kat, stop tryin’ to eat your sister’s barbie.” Sighing, the oldest of the bunch, vampire excluding, looks over his shoulder with a raised brow. “Mona’s goin’ to be mad at all the slobber you left.”
“‘m makin’ her a holster ‘cause she keeps complainin’ that the company mandated one is shit.” Surprisingly, the spy answers without a single quip. Instead, he smiles fondly at his handiwork before showing the fine leather holster up to the camera for everyone to see.
“I wish I thought of that!” With the waves thrashing at the side of the ship, pirate Hobie holds onto crow’s nest bannister. “I made her a trinket plate from a clam, and ‘m makin’ her a bundle of charms for her hair to match mine!” He yells atop the sound of the wind and the squawking seagulls, smiling brighter than the sunrise bathing him from above.
“She’d love the pearls, mate.” Grinning wholeheartedly, the outlaw moves his watch so it could face a finely woven blanket all folded neatly on the dining table. “I made her a blanket out of the wool from our sheep. Plus breakfast in bed.”
“Careful, bruv, or you’ll be seein’ clones of yourself runnin’ ‘round the farm from how sweet you are.” Chuckling, voice rumbling his chest, the older Hobie shows his stove that’s working overtime with the amount of food cooking on it. “‘m cookin’ breakfast for her and the family like always, and I made plates with my girls durin’ our ceramics class. It’s a bit lopsided but I know she’ll love it— Kitt, what’d I tell you ‘bout climbin’ the shelf.”
Suddenly, his hologram wobbles as he leaves the watch on the counter while the rest of them watch their older self rushing to grab the baby that’s climbing the shelf. Baby Kitt giggles loudly that the mics picked up. His babbling would have anyone cooing at him, even a thousand year old being.
“I should’ve muted you, mate.” Vampire Hobie sighs with a smile. “Great, now I want my own.”
“Isn’t that a death sentence for her?” Hobie asks, crouching down to place the cake inside the oven.
“No, this ain’t twilight. The baby might jus’ look weird.” Snorting, and the sewing machine whirring, the vampire knits his brows. “I think.”
“Weird like smeagol or weird like fae?” The spy puffs out smoke into the camera.
“Poor bloke is catchin’ strays and he ain’t even here.” A hand runs over the Prowler’s face, exasperated.
“Probably a mix of a muppet and CGI Renesmee.” The vampire is probably joking, but Hobie can’t really tell with him, and he’s a version of himself. “What about you, new Hobie? What’d you get for her?”
“I embroidered patches for her jacket and now ‘m makin’ chocolate and a pavlova cake. She really loved the one we had at James’ birthday.” Hobie doesn’t stop from baking as he starts mixing in the ingredients for the chocolate so it has time to cool in the freezer before you wake up.
“Finally someone knows how to—”
“‘m makin’ her patches too!” Fangs in full display, vampire Hobie interrupts the vigilante for what must’ve been the umpteenth time today. Hobie would feel bad for himself, but he isn’t. “And a pouch for her wooden stakes.”
“Fuckin’ hell can we jus’ focus!” The Prowler has had enough. “I jus’ need to know how to not make it taste like a battery!”
The Hobies pause for a moment, all having similar growing smirks on their faces before laughing at his attempts. Meanwhile, Prowler thumps his head quietly against the closet wall.
Dad Hobie is now carrying baby Kitt in his arm whilst the tiny version of him chugs milk. He makes a face after hearing the tail end of the conversation as he adjusts the bracelet back on his wrist properly. “How in the flyin’ fu— fudge did you manage that?”
“Dada!” Kitt points at the holograms happily.
“Hi, Kitt!” They simultaneously greet, except for an irked Prowler, who is currently rubbing at his temples.
“For the love of—” suddenly, the darkness around Prowler is illuminated as the closet door creaks open.
Hobie has never seen his own expression look so terrified and shocked before, he doesn’t bring a mirror during his toughest fights anyway, so it comes as a surprise to himself when he sees his own face looking so scared and befuddled that he shudders in place.
“Hi, lovie.” The Prowler smiles, albeit wobbly as he swallows thickly.
“What are you doin’ in my closet with…” your voice is heard in the background as everyone waits with bated breath, as if they make a sound they’d get the claws too. “...A shit ton of chocolate and my mixer?”
“Tryin’ to make you chocolate.” He simply says, doubling down on his ten megawatt smile as he stares up at you whilst holding onto the silicon tray of Halloween cats and cauldrons.
“Bloody smooth, mate.” Spy whispers, making the poor Prowler cover his whole watch before you could open the door wider.
“I heard you talking.” You utter, probably leaning against the doorway, Hobie knows that tone well enough to know that the Prowler version of him will be more than fine. Maybe there aren’t a lot of differences between your variants when he can tell the endearment and fondness in your cadence. “Already hitting up someone?”
“I was talkin’ to no one, jus’ myself.” He’s technically not lying. “And no, bloody hell, love.”
“C’mon, I can think of another use for all that chocolate.” Your voice seems to be closer to the receiver now, more sultry and saccharine. All the Hobies know that you’re most likely crouching down and cupping the Prowler’s chin in your hand with a flirty smile.
“Yeah?” The longing in his voice is very prominent, especially to the other variants, knowing it all too well.
It doesn’t take a genius to know when to drop him from the group call. The purple glow of his hologram blinks away, and the remaining Hobie variant gawps at their screens. The exact feeling strikes them after hearing your voice, they suddenly miss you, even though you’re just in the next room, or below in a shared cabin in pirate Hobie’s case. Or in a coffin for Vampire Hobie.
“‘m done with my present.” Stretching, the dubious spy is the first to break. “‘m goin’ to head out. She’s probably awake.” His hologram fades away without another explanation, but everyone could see the hidden excitement on his face.
“Aye, me too.” Clearing his throat, Pirate Hobie looks below the crow’s nest with a smile. “My lovie’s waitin’ for me below.” The cold blue hologram blinks out from the call.
The sound of a rooster echoes in the background of the outlaw’s hologram. “Yeah, I think my lovie’s awake too.” He’s either vying for the Oscar win or he heard your footfalls from above. “See you blokes next meetin’?”
“Yeah, don’t forget to bring the book I lent you.” Hobie says whilst his eyes keep darting towards the bedroom door where you remain asleep, resisting the urge to check on you.
The cowboy drops the call all too excitedly with a curt nod.
“Hear that? I think my darling’s awake.” No one believes the vampire as he giddily smiles, fangs and all, before shedding off his obvious lie. “‘m not goin’ to sugar coat it, lads, I want to snog my lovie.” He simply says before his hologram fades out into nothingness without another word.
“Right, jus’ us, old man.”
“Sorry, mate, ‘m done cookin’ and I have to put this little man back to bed or he’ll start biting me.” Bouncing the smiling Kitt in his arm, dad Hobie shuts the stove off and smiles at his son fondly. “Ain’t that right, Kitty? Say bye.”
“Bye, bye!” His Chubby hands wave at him goodbye as Kitt smiles toothily. Hobie couldn’t help but wave back with a chuckle, he can clearly see that the little Hobie got your smile and the way your eyes crinkle in the corners.
“Good luck with your cake, mate, ‘m sure she’ll love it.”
“Thanks, you have a good one, yeah?” Smiling, Hobie shuts the bracelet off as the older version of him nods and with Kitt waving enthusiastically back at him.
“What smells good?” Just in time, you lean against the doorway, eyes blinking at him blearily as you yawn. “Why are you awake so early?”
“Too many questions this early in the mornin’, lovie.” Leaving the mess in the kitchen, he distracts you by crossing the small distance, arms outstretched, and within a second, he’s embracing you and gently twisting you around to face the bedroom and away from his present.
“I’m asking a lot of questions because you’re being weird.” Nudging his jaw with your cheek as you giggle, he pats your behind and lifts you up briefly to place your feet atop his own. He hobbles back inside the bedroom with you whilst peppering your cheek with kisses. “Who are you and what have you done to my Hobie?”
“Jus’ your regular ol’ Hobie, sorry.” He whispers in your ear, blowing raspberries atop your cheek as you let out a giggle.
The back of your knees hit the bed, and the two of you plop down on the bed with his hand protecting the back of your head as the two of you bounce briefly together. He lands atop you, and he immediately buries his face in the crook of your neck, humming in satisfaction with your strawberry scented shampoo wafting over him.
“Oh, but I love this Hobie, just the way he is.” You coo endearingly, a soft touch caressing the back of his neck lovingly.
“And I love you,” leaning away to gaze back at you, Hobie beams from above, brushing a stray strand away from your cheek. You feel the calloused pads of his fingertips run along your jawline, tracing you like an artist with fine marble. “Even when this lovie is always late…” your chuckles interrupt him, and yet he matches your happiness as he wedges his knee in between your knees, elbows propped beside your head as he continues and makes himself comfortable atop you. “likes to interrupt when I confess my love for her, and always forgets her tea after makin’ it. I’ll still choose this lovie over…” Hobie leans closer, nosing the tip of your nose, a hair’s width away from your lips. “And over,” with a peck, he moves away as you chase his lips. “And over,” kiss, “and over again.”
Giddy from his antics, you then take his face in your hands, legs wrapping around his hips and locking him in place. Hobie grins as he kisses you, with every peck, with every touch, and with every breath he lets out he shows you his love for you. That you’re the only one for him in all the multitudes of universes.
Breathless, you pull away, pupils wide as you gaze upon his kiss bitten lips. “You taste like icing.”
“I know ‘m sweet, lovie.”
“Are you baking a cake?” Your eyes sparkles at the prospect.
“Maybe,” your excitement is palpable, ebbing over to him. “maybe not.” Your disappointment is immeasurable. “Probably.”
You pinch the smirk away from his expression, Hobie dramatically lands on his back on the bed, acting like your pinch was a smack from Rhino. Groaning with a roll of your eyes, it’s your turn to loom over him, a mirror of his previous position. “Cake for breakfast? I should be on my knees right now.” His eyes were enough for you to double back. “With a ring, Hobie! With a ring!”
“I wasn’t thinkin’ of anythin’ else.” He acts innocently, hands running up and down your sides.
“Behave or you won’t get your present from me.” Your empty threat has him grinning even more as his leg hooks around your thigh. Eyes flicking down, your lips curl into a mischievous smile. “Hobie.”
“Fine,” surrendering, he releases your leg and watches you twist in place to rummage through the bedside table. “You hid it in there?”
“Yep, I knew that you won’t touch the mess of wires in here.”
Shaking his head with a grin, Hobie places his arm over his eyes as he hears you curse under your breath. “Found it?”
“It’s like wrangling snakes— aha!” You crawl over to him once again, straddling his waist as you pat his arm. “Open.”
A dainty red box with a tiny ribbon is placed right on his chest. “Shit, you weren’t kiddin’ with the ring, hm?” His heart leaps at the sight of it.
Biting your bottom lip, he could feel your nerves. “Open it, please.”
“Only ‘cause you asked nicely.” Gently, he takes the box in his hands and carefully unwraps the ribbon. “Is it the part for my watch upgrade that I’ve been lookin’ for?”
“Finding a unicorn for you is much easier than getting you that doohickey.”
“Doohickey—” his snort abruptly stops as he stares at a ring that’s shaped like a guitar, not just any guitar, his own guitar. An almost perfect replica, only smaller with less stickers and scratches. “Holy shit.”
“I said the same thing after I finished it. I surprised even myself.”
The way his neck craned up to look at you so fast you thought that he cracked something. “You made this?” His chest fills with pride, gazing at you proudly. He never doubted that you’re good at anything you put your mind into.
“Yeah, I took a jewelry making class, it was more like blacksmithing with all the smelting we did though.” Tilting your head, your fingers tap his lean stomach rhythmically. “But that’s what I made from what I learned, do you like it?”
“Is this why you had those burns on your hands before?” His hand grasps your own, thumb caressing a small scar right on your palm.
“...yeah,” you bashfully say, heart pounding. “It was worth it though.”
“Lovie…” Hobie can’t believe his eyes, the effort you put into this single tiny ring has him thinking that he’s the one who should be giving you a ring whilst he’s on his knees and proudly telling you about his undoubted love for you. “I should’ve made a three tier cake.” You deserve it all, but for now, he needs to snog you until he’s breathless or he’ll spontaneously combust.
Your loud guffaw has your head throwing backwards, and he matches your laughter, eyes crinkling in the corners that never fails to have you smiling even more. “I’ll take any kind of cake you bake happily, Hobie.”
“I fuckin’ love it,” sitting up, he quickly puts on the ring before cupping your face in his hands as you feel the cold metal against your cheek. “I fuckin’ love you.” Peppering your face in kisses until you’re a giggling mess, Hobie smiles through every single one of them.
“Hobie,” you’d kiss back if he wasn’t so eager to eat your face. Sniffing, you smell something burning. “Hobie.”
“Let.” Kiss, “Me.” Kiss, “Snog you.”
“Hobie, the cake!”
“Ah, fuck!” Maybe he should’ve let you off his lap before rushing to the kitchen as he manages to carry you whilst sprinting to save the cake and the houseboat from a very warm Valentine’s day.
Can I req a hurt/comfort for Hobie? 👀 like Hobie and r broke up a little while ago, and R lowkey regrets it. They see Hobie after a while, and they’re about to go up to him, only to see him with someone else 👀
Congrats on the 2k, pookie!
- 😅
Writing this made me tear up ngl 😂 i hope you like it bestie!
Pairing: Hobie Brown x fem! Reader/ Spider-Punk x fem! reader
Word count: 1k
Tags: No use of Y/N, no specific physical description of the reader except for clothing, established relationship, hurt/comfort.
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You’re miserable. You have no idea if it’s because a customer was rude to you, or that you didn’t get enough tips for today, or the fact that you spilled coffee on your favorite work blouse that made you smell like stale coffee the whole day, whatever it is, you’re absolutely miserable. Your bed is calling your name right now, and you can’t wait to have a steaming hot shower to wash off today’s shitty events.
To top it all off, your bus is still not here as you wait at the bus stop like some kid who got left at the museum during a field trip. The sky is as gloomy as you, grey clouds hiding what little sun you already get during your ten hour shifts. What probably makes you as sad as the spilled boba tea right in front of you, is the fact that the record shop Hobie used to love to bring you to is just across the street.
It still has the same posters on the shop windows, vintage with its ink fading. As you stare at the yellow tinted windows, you could almost smell the inside that has burrowed its way deep into the crevices of your memory. It smelled like old parchment, in a good way, like you just stepped inside a forgotten past, but this memory isn’t easily forgotten, especially when he’s in it.
You still remember the day he broke it off, it wasn’t your finest moment, but you always told everyone that it was amicable, that the two of you just fell out of love and the separation was the right thing to do. But it wasn’t, you would’ve grovelled at his feet if it meant fixing what broke in the relationship, but the look on his face when he told you, it wasn’t anger or indifference, it was guilt and utter sadness. It was as if he needed to do it, or something terrible would happen to him, or to you. So you didn’t protest, you didn’t fight with him despite the tears in your eyes, you accepted it. And you regret it to this day.
Perhaps that’s why you’re miserable, you miss him, and you wish that you did something, anything that day. As you sit across your special place with him, you still remember the way he held your hand whilst he skims through vinyl records, never letting you go even when he struggles to pull out the one he wanted with one hand. Hobie loved you, you could just tell, even when he’s a man of few words, he shows it through his touch and his smile, and the way he’d look at you. Everyone could just tell, and that he could just see how much you loved him back.
The two of you didn’t need to do grand gestures to show your love, sometimes it only took waking up together in the morning only to see him stirring awake at the same time as you, as if he felt you waking up. Sometimes it’s the silent goodbye with a simple affectionate kiss before heading in different directions, only for the both of you to look back at each other with a smile. Sometimes it only took a simple touch, a single peck, or a lingering glance to know that the love was still there. At the end, it was still there, you know it. And sometimes, you think that Hobie knew it too.
Sighing deeply, you roll the bracelet around your wrist, a simple silver bangle with one of his song’s lyrics etched underneath it. It’s one of the few gifts you kept after the break up when you threw a lot of them out in anger. Perhaps you shouldn’t have when his scent still clings on each one. This bracelet though, his love still lingers on it with every letter of the lyrics carved upon it.
The love was there, but it wasn’t enough for him to stay.
You feel the lump in your throat again just like that day. But the familiar sound of the record store’s door opening has you looking up through dappled vision. There, the man that stirs your mind every second of every hour exits the same shop with the very same smile you adore, a deep contrast to your deep frown.
Hobie has a plastic bag that has a couple of vinyls poking out from the top as he stops to open the door for someone. He’s talking, but you can’t hear his voice, you wish you did.
Your legs stand up on their own, too quick as your vision dims for a moment before focusing again. Breath hitched in your throat, heart pounding, your foot steps forward into the puddle of spilled tea.
“Hobie—”
An unfamiliar blonde and pink hair follows behind him, talking and smiling up at him like you used to. They seem happy as Hobie laughs at something she said. Just as happy as you were with him back then.
Your heart breaks again just like that day, the mended cracks in the walls break once again. A single tear slides down your cheek, and a fond smile replaces your frown. At least he’s happy, even if it’s not with you. And you couldn’t ask for more, just to see the love of your life be happy was enough for you.
You stand under the awning, watching him laugh and smile with the blonde just as your bus arrives, obscuring him from your vision. Taking a deep breath, you get inside, leaving him, letting him be happy.
Sitting down, you resist the urge to turn your head towards the window and over to the love of your life. So you close your eyes instead and cup your mouth with your palm, silently sobbing.
Hobie cranes his head at the right time, seeing you in the bus, looking like the day he left you. Deep regret rears its head, his mind fills with what ifs as he watches the bus move in slow motion, watching you cry all alone, quiet and broken, just like the last time he saw you.
Without a second thought, he shoves the bags into his friend’s arms. “Gwen, take this.”
“Where are you going—?! Hobie, hey!”
He breaks off into a sprint, running towards you, something he should’ve done months ago. No more hiding now that the person threatening you is no more, so he runs to you, and he’d run forever if it meant catching up to you.
Are requests still open? I am a sucker for the coworker au. Would you do a one shot with sick reader? MJ is m.i.a after saying she'd pick up medicine and soup. Hobie calls to check in with r and realises MJ bailed so he takes matters into his own hands and does what he can till r feels better. If you want to make it a little drama maybe he sees MJ on his was over, but shes very obviously not getting stuff for r?
Coworker au oh how I missed writing you!!! Thank you for requesting! I hope you like it ❤️
Pairing: Hobie Brown x fem! Reader/ Spider-Punk x fem! Reader
Word count: 4.3k
Tags: No use of Y/N, no specific physical description of the reader except for clothing, co-worker AU, based around my co-worker series, established relationship, description of illness, food mention, one suggestive joke, fluff!
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My requests are open!
Hobie was looking forward to work today, but not because he really absolutely wanted to get some work done. Simply because of someone he really wanted to see, someone he doesn’t get tired of seeing everyday, someone he dares not say that he has been crushing on hard. Someone he really wanted to talk to about a movie that you two have been waiting for what seems to be forever that coincidentally opens next weekend, and by sheer coincidence, he already has tickets for. Two tickets to be exact.
And that someone is currently missing work. Something so unusual that his worry slithers up his throat almost immediately. The whole time you’ve been working for the company, you’ve never missed a day of work, you were never late either.
When he went to your desk to drop off a package for you, you were obviously not there. Your chair is still tucked under the desk, and the unmistakable scent of your perfume doesn’t linger in the air either. He’d ask your desk neighbor, Harry, but Hobie’s not on good terms with him right now and would rather listen to nails on a chalkboard than to hear his voice. So with the excuse of the very important package, he goes to Lyla in the HR department. If anyone knows where you are, it would be her.
Hobie hates Lyla’s department, he likes Lyla enough, she’s a chatterbox and likes to gossip but at least she’s funny and is very much in support of the union. But the HR department just gives him the heebie-jeebies. Maybe it’s the unnerving posters that remind him of propaganda, or the utter quiet inside, either way, he really doesn’t want to be here right now. He’d call you but he doesn’t want to be that bloke since you're not responding to his message. So off he goes to the HR department that smells weirdly of photocopy ink and stale coffee.
Package in hand, Hobie knocks on Lyla’s office door before opening it. Peeking through the crack, he sees something he never thought was possible— Lyla working.
“Hobie, sorry, I’ll be with you in a second.”
“If you’re busy I can come back.” The box rattles in his arm as he points back to the hallway.
“Nope,” she finishes her typing with a flair. “You’re good, come in.”
Hobie’s eyes are narrowed suspiciously at her as he walks further in. “Yeah, I have a package for—”
“She’s sick.” She immediately answers, hands folding in front of her. “I can already tell by the look on your face.”
“What?” Hobie blinks, nose scrunching as Lyla simply raises a brow, not even intending to explain herself. “Did she say anythin’ else?”
“Just that, but she really sounded sick. Like dying kind of sick.” Lyla leans forward for emphasis. “But I wouldn’t worry too much, she said that her roommate is getting her the meds.”
“MJ? Yeah, sure…” his worry grows. “I’ll jus’ keep this in the mail room for now.”
“Oh yeah,” before Hobie could walk away, she calls him again. “by the way, Harry doesn’t know.”
“About what?” Looking over his shoulder, Hobie’s brows instinctively knits together after hearing Harry’s name.
“That she’s sick or he’d already be there.” Lyla, for some reason, sends him a wink, as if they have a secret shared. “I mean he’d be missing work for her but we all know that he doesn’t need any more money.”
His grasp on the doorknob loosens as he raises a questioning pierced brow. “Why are you tellin’ me this, bruv?”
“Because, bruv,” she scoffs, rolling her eyes. “I’m here to tell you that you can have an early lunch. On the house.” Lounging back on her seat, Lyla flashes him a wicked grin, brows rising up and down. “You know, just in case you want to get a nice warm chicken soup from the nearby deli place for no reason. I heard that it’s a miracle cure.”
“Why are you doin’ this?” Hobie's eyes narrow dangerously.
“Maybe just maybe, I’m a good friend.”
“To me, or to her?”
“Why can’t I be both?” Shrugging, she chuckles. Her phone rings, and her smile drops instantly. “Now, shoo, I’ll cover for you.”
“Question,” Hobie takes the opportunity like a low hanging fruit. “What if I suddenly don’t feel well, I think my throat is itchin’ and my eyes are hot.”
Lyla doesn’t buy it, even if she wants you and Hobie to finally get together, she likes having money, and unfortunately she needs this job to have that. “Don’t push it, Hobie. I’m not a miracle worker. Now go before Harry gets wind of this.” She ushers him away with a gesture. “Two hours, that’s my limit.”
It’s Hobie’s turn to smile, victorious. “Thanks, maybe I’ll get you some chicken soup too.”
“With croutons.” That’s all she says before answering the phone as Hobie closes the office door right behind him.
Hobie immediately makes a beeline for the mail room, ignoring Miles’ and Pav’s stares, quickly taking his jacket and bag before anyone else could notice. He stares at the package with your name on it and decides at the last minute to take it with him. He’s almost at the elevator when he hears a familiar voice calling his name.
“Where are you going?” Gwen raises a brow, looking at him up and down as he fixes his hold on the package.
“Lunch.” He simply says, gulping down and acting nonchalant.
“It’s only ten?” She checks her watch for good measure just as the elevator doors open. “Hey!”
Hobie steps inside without a second thought and punches the close door button frantically like he’s in some horror movie and the killer is right on his tail. “Sorry, Gwendy, no time to explain.”
She huffs and speed walks over to him, leaving the mail cart in place. “Get me something too—!”
The elevator doors close inches away from her face, and Hobie laughs to himself, his chuckles echoing inside the whirring metal chamber. “Right, soup then check on lovie.” He says it like a mantra, a man on a mission.
—
The streets are barren, probably not that weird considering that it’s a weekday and it’s not even near lunch time yet. Plus, the cold is a natural deterrent. It’s perfect for Hobie though because he got to the deli shop in record time to pick up two bowls of chicken soup, one with croutons on the side and an extra BLT sandwich for Gwen.
On his way back to his van, he munches on a protein bar that the shop keeper was kind enough to give him for free after a quick chat about the savoury soup that Hobie was even tempted to take a sip for himself. Just as he gently places the goods on the passenger side, he gets a glimpse of a familiar head of red hair inside a nice looking car that’s stopped by the stop light just in front of him.
“MJ?” He couldn’t even believe his own eyes as your best friend slash roommate is jamming along to loud music, grinning from ear to ear.
Her eyes glance at him before recognizing him. “Hobie, hey!” She waves and Hobie waves back, albeit more reluctantly, especially when she’s supposed to get your medicine. “Hop in! Check it out, my friend got a new ride!” Tapping the door, she flashes him her best smile. “C’mon!”
“Can’t, I have work.” He crosses the distance to check on her. Sighing in relief, he doesn’t smell any liquor on her, and sees her whole band with her. “D’you have her meds?”
“Whose meds— oh!” Her green eyes widen before planting a palm on her forehead. “Yeah, I got her the meds, I dropped it off at home ages ago.” Head lolling out of the window, the music blares right in his ears. “She wasn’t answering the door and I sort of left my keys inside so I dropped it on the doorstep. I’m sure she has it now.”
“You jus’— MJ, she’s sick.” He emphasizes with his hands on his hips.
“Yeah, but I knocked really loudly.”
“It’s bloody freezin’ out ‘ere.” Shaking his head disappointedly, he scoffs at her. “Never mind, I’ll check on her.” Hobie’s already walking away with furrowed brows just before the light turns green.
“Are you sure you don’t want to hop in?” MJ yells back, and she gets her answer with a slam of Hobie’s car door.
—
Hobie stopped by a pharmacy on his way to your flat, just in case the medicine that MJ got you wasn’t enough, or god forbid the wrong kind. Juggling two bags, one with the cold medicine and throat lozenges, and the other with the food, he sees the white paper bag that’s now drenched from frost left right on the doorstep just like MJ said.
“Fuckin’ hell.” Alarm bells start ringing in his head, imagining you having the fever of your life as you lay curled up on your bed.
He looks around for a way to get inside. He sees the obvious, a doormat which he looks under to only find bugs and a wad of gum. Dismayed, his worry grows as seconds ticks by. He then sees the window beside the door, it’s cracked open just a smidge, enough for his arm to wedge inside.
When Hobie was going through the dreaded puberty, he hated how long his arms had gotten, people called him lanky, a beanpole and joked around him being an octopus. As time went by, he grew to love himself and his lanky appendages, this time though, he really loves his long arm for managing to unlock the front door even when he almost spilled soup on your doorstep.
Inhaling deeply, the tip of his nose is freezing and his fingers are turning stiff, he picks up the now trashed medicine and heads inside the warm flat.
“F–Fuck.” Shivering, Hobie wipes his boots on the doormat, shutting the door closed behind him and placing the bags on the table before yanking off his jacket. “Love?” He calls for you tentatively, warming his hands with his breath as he heads towards your bedroom door. “You awake?”
The floorboards creek, and as he grasps the doorknob, the door flinging open before he could do it himself, he’s almost greeted with a canvas right on his face. “Fuckin’ hell!” Jumping back, the canvas drops, thumping against the floor to reveal a weary you.
Your eyes are shot, red and puffy. Whilst you clearly have sweated through your pajamas as the fabric clings to your skin that he has to look away. Lips dry, you suck in a shuddered breath, knees almost buckling under your own weight in either relief or from your fever.
“Hobie?” A crackly cough escapes you.
“Yeah, lovie, it’s me.” He holds up his arms in front of him in case you keel over. “Are you alright?”
“I think I’m starting to hallucinate.” Breathlessly, you stagger back inside the bedroom on wobbly feet. “Out of everyone why do I have to hallucinate Hobie? Fuck, do I miss him that much?” You utter to yourself before plopping face down on the mattress that has your silhouette left of it from how much you’ve sweat.
Hobie tries to ignore your comment, but the way his heart thumps in his chest with his cheeks feeling warm, he’d think that he’s the one having a fever. “Right,” clearing his throat, he quickly toes off his boots haphazardly and leaves it outside your door before walking in. “Can I check your temperature?”
“You can check my ass for all I care.” Even with your muffled words, Hobie pauses mid step. “I’m dying, I’m really dying, where the fuck is MJ?”
“I don’t know, love.” He stands over you, unsure of what to do. But he knows one thing though, he needs to protect your heart from getting hurt by your so-called best friend. “Oi, can you turn around for me?” Even as he stands near you, he could feel the heat radiating from you.
Head rising up weakly, you pout. “Oh no, it’s one of those sexy hallucinations.” And yet you turn to face him with no ounce of finesse. Your half lidded eyes meet his own, cracked lips smacking together. “Don’t tell MJ but I’ve had so many sexy dreams about you that it’s frankly insane.”
“O–Okay— it’s me, not a hallucination or a dream.” Hobie chuckles nervously, looking away, anywhere else other than the way you gaze at him. “And your secret’s safe with me.”
“Goodie, okie dokie.” You give him a thumbs up, or more like a toes up that has you giggling to himself and with Hobie stifling a laugh.
“Where’s your thermometer?” He helps bring your foot down gently with his hand wrapped around your ankle. From the brief touch alone, he could tell that your temperature has skyrocketed.
“With Waldo.”
“Love, I need to know your temperature.”
“It’s over there, you wanker.” Hobie never knew it possible for someone to call him a wanker that has his heart leaping in his chest in a good way. He follows your finger, and sure enough he sees it on your bedside table right alongside a teddy bear that’s dressed up as Waldo, stripes and all. “I’m hungry.” You stare at the swirling ceiling as Hobie picks up the thermometer that still has your last temperature right on the blinking screen. “I ate the last canned soup. But MJ said she’ll get me something warm from the store.”
“Oh shit.” He’s immediately sprinting to the living room.
You don’t even notice his panic. “Y’know, I could go for some cordon bleu with white sauce, maybe chocolate pudding too, oh, and some hash browns, yum.” Talking to yourself as the ceiling swirls in your vision, you hear the faint sound of glass clicking together while you let out a weak breath. “Is it just me or does hash browns sound like Hobie Brown? It rhymes, right?” You’re lifted up gently as you lay limp against his side. “Maybe the real Hobie likes them. I should ask him next time.”
“Open your mouth, love.” The medicine pokes right at your dry lips. “Shit, you should’ve called me, or fuckin’ anyone.”
“Take me out on a date first.” You weakly brush away his hand with a grimace, sniffing and coughing on his side.
“Maybe after you get better, but you have to drink this now.”
Your eyes narrow at the medicine before craning your head to face him with a hopeful gaze. “We’re gonna go on a date after this?”
“Yes,” Hobie cradles you in his arms, smiling down at you fondly, not minding how your pajamas cling to his skin. “Open your mouth, please.”
Chuckling, you take the medicine with him helping you swallow it down with some water. With a sniff, you lick your dry lips. “My Hobie never says please.” Your palm pats his chest affectionately, a small thank you, as your sweaty cheek presses atop his heart.
“That’s not true, I say please all the bloody time.” He can’t seem to find it in him to place you back in bed, as if his hold would cure you instantly.
“I was lying.” You say in a sing-song tone, voice croaking.
Hobie beams down at you, a thumb gently cleaning up the water that dribbles on your chin. His chest aches at the thought of you all alone with a fever that high, waiting for medicine and for help that wouldn’t come. “You should’ve called me.” He softly says more to himself as you make yourself comfortable in his arms.
“I tried…” your eyes flutter close, tucking yourself against him, back folded to hug him. “But my battery died because MJ borrowed my charger and I don’t know where it is…” a cough wracks your chest whilst Hobie pats your back until it subsides. “She’s forgetful like that…” Even in your fever haze, you defend her. “Hobie?”
“Yeah, lovie?” He brushes the stray hairs away that's clinging to your sweaty face.
“I need a bath, I smell like Harry’s tuna sandwich. I fucking hate that tuna sandwich.” You sniff him, he smells of lavender detergent and his signature cologne, smiling to yourself, you grip onto his shirt with weak fingers. “Specifically that tuna sandwich.”
Chuckling, he stifles in his guffaw lest it disturbs your calm. “I got you chicken soup, I can heat it up for you while I change your bedsheets so you can rest. How does that sound, hm? You good with me changing your sheets?”
Your half lidded eyes gaze at him softly. “Sounds lovely.”
“Yeah?” His smile could cure you. “I’ll wrap you up nicely on the couch and put a wet cloth over your head, is that alright? I’m goin’ to carry you now.”
“Yep,” sighing, arms thrown over his shoulders, you shut your eyes tiredly. “Hobie?” You call for him as you’re lifted off the bed gently. “I think I need a new roommate.”
“I’ll help you look for a better one.” Hobie chuckles against your hair before plopping you down on the couch carefully. He cradles your searing cheeks, crouching down as he smiles at you. “Don’t fall asleep.”
“Why?” He could see that you’re fighting sleep as your eyes flutter open and close.
“Because,” His breath gets stuck in his throat. “I’m afraid you won’t wake up.”
“Don’t be silly.” Your forehead thumps atop his shoulder as he takes the couch blanket and drapes it around you securely. “But okay.”
“That’s my girl.” He says with his whole chest as he helps you sit properly, placing the throw pillows around you to secure you in place. “I’ll make this quick.”
“You don’t strike me as someone who’s quick with it.” Giggling, you nudge his leg with your foot as you wink tiredly at him.
“Fever riles you up, good to know.” He takes one good look at you all bundled up before heading to your bedroom to grab a small towel. Pausing mid movement, he chuckles to himself before heading to work in making your fever go down.
Hobie moved like he’s being paid a thousand bucks per minute. He opened your bedroom windows to let out the air while he changed your bedsheet and blanket, which he does in record time. He then puts clean pajamas in the bathroom for you later before taking the thermometer, pocketing it and heading to the kitchen to heat up the soup for you. Within just ten minutes, he’s back on your side with warm soup and a thermometer to check your temperature again. The wet cloth atop your forehead is almost dry just from your warmth alone.
“Can you put this on for me?” Crouching down, he sees your eyes closed, body limp as you lay your head on the armrest. “Love?” He’s panicking, heartbeat racing as he shakes you. “Shit, oi.”
“I’m awake, I’m awake.” Eyes fluttering open, the color has returned to your lips, albeit slowly. Hobie lets out the loudest sigh of relief ever. “What smells good?” Sniffing, you blink blearily at him.
“Chicken soup, you think you’re good to eat?”
“Yep.” Sitting up, you blink at him slowly, as if you’re trying to place his face. “Hi, how are you?”
“‘m good, better than you are right now.” A hand on your knee, he feels that your fever has gone down a little but you’re still warmer than usual.
“Can you sit down beside me?” Voice small, you nudge him with your foot. “The walls are closing in on me, dizzy.”
“Yeah, I can.” Knees creaking, he sits down beside you just like you asked and takes the warm bowl. “D’you want me to feed you?”
“I’m not a baby.” Back resting against the plush couch, cheek pressed against it, you gaze at him with fondness. “Hi.”
“Hi, you already said that.” Chuckling, he places his palm on your forehead to feel your temperature more accurately. “You feel better, but I still need you to use the thermometer to be sure.” Taking a throw pillow he places it on your lap and rests the bowl on it. “I’ll get you some water.”
“I feel icky. Like I’m made out of slime that rolled around… something sticky, I don’t know.” The spoon trembles in your grasp, and Hobie can’t find it within himself to leave you even for a moment. Before he helps you, you persist determinedly, blowing the soup and taking a generous sip. “That’s good, did you make this?”
Hobie’s tensed shoulders eases up visibly. “No, I bought it.”
Humming, you take another sip. “I’ll pay you back.”
“You can pay me back by eating it all.”
“Thank you, Hobie.” You’ve grown more lucid after taking the medicine.
“No problem, it’s you, love.” He nudges your shoulder with his own before standing up to grab you a glass of water. “You’re gettin’ better, and ‘ere I thought I have to bring you to hospital.”
“Good thing you didn’t, because I wouldn’t be able to pay for it.”
Hobie sighs, hands on his hips. “I’ll run you a bath, is that alright?”
Nodding, you gaze up at him with tenderness, chest feeling a different kind of warm. “Yeah, thank you.”
“No problem,” he matches your soft expression. “Eat, I’ll be back.”
—
Hobie waits just outside your bedroom door as you take a bath. He’d wait in the living room on the couch but he fears that your dizziness would cause you to slip and fall, so he guards you at a respectable distance, keeping his ears open. He keeps himself entertained by looking at available flats that could be within your budget. You didn’t ask him to do that, but he has had enough of MJ abandoning you when you have done nothing to deserve that abandonment.
“Hobie?” The door abruptly opens, and with his back against it, Hobie falls backwards, now looking up at you in a fresh pair of strawberry printed pajamas that he picked for you. “Sorry, you okay?” You give him a helping hand, looking at him apologetically.
He could stay down here forever and look at the view from below forever if he could. “Yeah, ‘m good.” Taking your hand, his calloused palm turns so sweaty that you think that he caught the flu from you.
You heave him off his feet, chuckling to yourself as you see a dust bunny clinging right on his lapel. “You’ve got a little something…” reaching for his neck, Hobie freezes in place, skin warm, heart thundering. “There, I need to clean my floor.”
“Definitely better.” You’re still out of breath and a bit shaky on your feet, he notices with worry in his eyes. To ease his concern, you head to the bed, sitting down and resting against the headboard as you pat the space beside you, inviting him.
Hobie bounces on the balls of his feet for a moment, hyping himself up before crossing the small distance and sitting down by your feet. “You look good— I mean, better, yeah, better.”
Colour has returned to your lips, and your eyes don’t look as swollen and red as before. You’re not sweating as much either or trembling just from standing up. You still feel faint with a cough here and there, and Hobie could tell that you’re fighting it by how you breathe in with effort.
“Thanks, I checked my temperature and it’s back to normal now thanks to you.” Smiling, you poke his side with your knee. “How’d you know I was sick by the way?”
“Lyla, she was worried about you and told me so I went to check on you.” Pausing, his fingers play with the frayed edges of your pajama pants. “‘m glad I did.”
“I guess having perfect attendance before and then suddenly being absent one time would have anyone concerned.”
“Or your mate is jus’ worried.” He nudges back. “Like I was.”
“Thank you, Hobie, really.” Sniffing, you hide the fact that you’re trying not to cry from feeling loved and remembered by having a convenient excuse of having a cold. “I’d probably still be drowning in my fever haze without you. Lesson learned, always keep the medicine cabinet restocked.” Chuckling nervously, you don’t even realize that you’ve got Hobie on your bed, just someone you care about while having a heart to heart and not your coworker turned friend that you have fallen for. “They’re probably looking for you.”
“The mail can wait.”
“In that case.” Tapping the side of the bed, you scooch away to make space for him. “You need to rest too after all that shit you had to endure because of me.”
Hobie snorts and sits beside you, shoulder to shoulder as he moves his head in your direction. “It’s not endurin’ if it's for you. We take care of people we care ‘bout, nothin’ wrong with that. You deserve to be cared for too, love.”
Blinking away the tears, it’s not enough as you rub at your eyes. “Shit, sorry, the cold’s making my eyes water.”
“Don’t rub it, you’ll make it worse.” Chortling, he then takes your wrists gingerly, fingers bracelet around yours as you sniff and exhale. “Speakin’ of mail, I’ve got your package, I think it’s another shipment for quality assurance.”
“Did you use that as your excuse when Miguel saw you sneak out?” Gazing at him through your wet lashes, you tentatively rest your head on his shoulder, not placing your whole weight on him, hovering more like. But Hobie doesn’t lean away, instead, he cups the side of your head in his palm, helping you get comfortable.
“Bold of you to assume that I got caught.” Winking, your laughter that follows has him grinning even more.
Your arm wraps around his, and Hobie smiles against the crown of your head whilst his hand intertwines around yours. “That’s my Hobie.”
The movie tickets in his pockets weigh heavy, maybe he’ll ask you next time when you’re all better. Hobie doesn’t care that it’s way past his extended lunch when he’s got you falling asleep in his arms. Hopefully Lyla will forgive him when he gets back with her soup.
Are requests still open? I am a sucker for the coworker au. Would you do a one shot with sick reader? MJ is m.i.a after saying she'd pick up medicine and soup. Hobie calls to check in with r and realises MJ bailed so he takes matters into his own hands and does what he can till r feels better. If you want to make it a little drama maybe he sees MJ on his was over, but shes very obviously not getting stuff for r?
Coworker au oh how I missed writing you!!! Thank you for requesting! I hope you like it ❤️
Pairing: Hobie Brown x fem! Reader/ Spider-Punk x fem! Reader
Word count: 4.3k
Tags: No use of Y/N, no specific physical description of the reader except for clothing, co-worker AU, based around my co-worker series, established relationship, description of illness, food mention, one suggestive joke, fluff!
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My requests are open!
Hobie was looking forward to work today, but not because he really absolutely wanted to get some work done. Simply because of someone he really wanted to see, someone he doesn’t get tired of seeing everyday, someone he dares not say that he has been crushing on hard. Someone he really wanted to talk to about a movie that you two have been waiting for what seems to be forever that coincidentally opens next weekend, and by sheer coincidence, he already has tickets for. Two tickets to be exact.
And that someone is currently missing work. Something so unusual that his worry slithers up his throat almost immediately. The whole time you’ve been working for the company, you’ve never missed a day of work, you were never late either.
When he went to your desk to drop off a package for you, you were obviously not there. Your chair is still tucked under the desk, and the unmistakable scent of your perfume doesn’t linger in the air either. He’d ask your desk neighbor, Harry, but Hobie’s not on good terms with him right now and would rather listen to nails on a chalkboard than to hear his voice. So with the excuse of the very important package, he goes to Lyla in the HR department. If anyone knows where you are, it would be her.
Hobie hates Lyla’s department, he likes Lyla enough, she’s a chatterbox and likes to gossip but at least she’s funny and is very much in support of the union. But the HR department just gives him the heebie-jeebies. Maybe it’s the unnerving posters that remind him of propaganda, or the utter quiet inside, either way, he really doesn’t want to be here right now. He’d call you but he doesn’t want to be that bloke since you're not responding to his message. So off he goes to the HR department that smells weirdly of photocopy ink and stale coffee.
Package in hand, Hobie knocks on Lyla’s office door before opening it. Peeking through the crack, he sees something he never thought was possible— Lyla working.
“Hobie, sorry, I’ll be with you in a second.”
“If you’re busy I can come back.” The box rattles in his arm as he points back to the hallway.
“Nope,” she finishes her typing with a flair. “You’re good, come in.”
Hobie’s eyes are narrowed suspiciously at her as he walks further in. “Yeah, I have a package for—”
“She’s sick.” She immediately answers, hands folding in front of her. “I can already tell by the look on your face.”
“What?” Hobie blinks, nose scrunching as Lyla simply raises a brow, not even intending to explain herself. “Did she say anythin’ else?”
“Just that, but she really sounded sick. Like dying kind of sick.” Lyla leans forward for emphasis. “But I wouldn’t worry too much, she said that her roommate is getting her the meds.”
“MJ? Yeah, sure…” his worry grows. “I’ll jus’ keep this in the mail room for now.”
“Oh yeah,” before Hobie could walk away, she calls him again. “by the way, Harry doesn’t know.”
“About what?” Looking over his shoulder, Hobie’s brows instinctively knits together after hearing Harry’s name.
“That she’s sick or he’d already be there.” Lyla, for some reason, sends him a wink, as if they have a secret shared. “I mean he’d be missing work for her but we all know that he doesn’t need any more money.”
His grasp on the doorknob loosens as he raises a questioning pierced brow. “Why are you tellin’ me this, bruv?”
“Because, bruv,” she scoffs, rolling her eyes. “I’m here to tell you that you can have an early lunch. On the house.” Lounging back on her seat, Lyla flashes him a wicked grin, brows rising up and down. “You know, just in case you want to get a nice warm chicken soup from the nearby deli place for no reason. I heard that it’s a miracle cure.”
“Why are you doin’ this?” Hobie's eyes narrow dangerously.
“Maybe just maybe, I’m a good friend.”
“To me, or to her?”
“Why can’t I be both?” Shrugging, she chuckles. Her phone rings, and her smile drops instantly. “Now, shoo, I’ll cover for you.”
“Question,” Hobie takes the opportunity like a low hanging fruit. “What if I suddenly don’t feel well, I think my throat is itchin’ and my eyes are hot.”
Lyla doesn’t buy it, even if she wants you and Hobie to finally get together, she likes having money, and unfortunately she needs this job to have that. “Don’t push it, Hobie. I’m not a miracle worker. Now go before Harry gets wind of this.” She ushers him away with a gesture. “Two hours, that’s my limit.”
It’s Hobie’s turn to smile, victorious. “Thanks, maybe I’ll get you some chicken soup too.”
“With croutons.” That’s all she says before answering the phone as Hobie closes the office door right behind him.
Hobie immediately makes a beeline for the mail room, ignoring Miles’ and Pav’s stares, quickly taking his jacket and bag before anyone else could notice. He stares at the package with your name on it and decides at the last minute to take it with him. He’s almost at the elevator when he hears a familiar voice calling his name.
“Where are you going?” Gwen raises a brow, looking at him up and down as he fixes his hold on the package.
“Lunch.” He simply says, gulping down and acting nonchalant.
“It’s only ten?” She checks her watch for good measure just as the elevator doors open. “Hey!”
Hobie steps inside without a second thought and punches the close door button frantically like he’s in some horror movie and the killer is right on his tail. “Sorry, Gwendy, no time to explain.”
She huffs and speed walks over to him, leaving the mail cart in place. “Get me something too—!”
The elevator doors close inches away from her face, and Hobie laughs to himself, his chuckles echoing inside the whirring metal chamber. “Right, soup then check on lovie.” He says it like a mantra, a man on a mission.
—
The streets are barren, probably not that weird considering that it’s a weekday and it’s not even near lunch time yet. Plus, the cold is a natural deterrent. It’s perfect for Hobie though because he got to the deli shop in record time to pick up two bowls of chicken soup, one with croutons on the side and an extra BLT sandwich for Gwen.
On his way back to his van, he munches on a protein bar that the shop keeper was kind enough to give him for free after a quick chat about the savoury soup that Hobie was even tempted to take a sip for himself. Just as he gently places the goods on the passenger side, he gets a glimpse of a familiar head of red hair inside a nice looking car that’s stopped by the stop light just in front of him.
“MJ?” He couldn’t even believe his own eyes as your best friend slash roommate is jamming along to loud music, grinning from ear to ear.
Her eyes glance at him before recognizing him. “Hobie, hey!” She waves and Hobie waves back, albeit more reluctantly, especially when she’s supposed to get your medicine. “Hop in! Check it out, my friend got a new ride!” Tapping the door, she flashes him her best smile. “C’mon!”
“Can’t, I have work.” He crosses the distance to check on her. Sighing in relief, he doesn’t smell any liquor on her, and sees her whole band with her. “D’you have her meds?”
“Whose meds— oh!” Her green eyes widen before planting a palm on her forehead. “Yeah, I got her the meds, I dropped it off at home ages ago.” Head lolling out of the window, the music blares right in his ears. “She wasn’t answering the door and I sort of left my keys inside so I dropped it on the doorstep. I’m sure she has it now.”
“You jus’— MJ, she’s sick.” He emphasizes with his hands on his hips.
“Yeah, but I knocked really loudly.”
“It’s bloody freezin’ out ‘ere.” Shaking his head disappointedly, he scoffs at her. “Never mind, I’ll check on her.” Hobie’s already walking away with furrowed brows just before the light turns green.
“Are you sure you don’t want to hop in?” MJ yells back, and she gets her answer with a slam of Hobie’s car door.
—
Hobie stopped by a pharmacy on his way to your flat, just in case the medicine that MJ got you wasn’t enough, or god forbid the wrong kind. Juggling two bags, one with the cold medicine and throat lozenges, and the other with the food, he sees the white paper bag that’s now drenched from frost left right on the doorstep just like MJ said.
“Fuckin’ hell.” Alarm bells start ringing in his head, imagining you having the fever of your life as you lay curled up on your bed.
He looks around for a way to get inside. He sees the obvious, a doormat which he looks under to only find bugs and a wad of gum. Dismayed, his worry grows as seconds ticks by. He then sees the window beside the door, it’s cracked open just a smidge, enough for his arm to wedge inside.
When Hobie was going through the dreaded puberty, he hated how long his arms had gotten, people called him lanky, a beanpole and joked around him being an octopus. As time went by, he grew to love himself and his lanky appendages, this time though, he really loves his long arm for managing to unlock the front door even when he almost spilled soup on your doorstep.
Inhaling deeply, the tip of his nose is freezing and his fingers are turning stiff, he picks up the now trashed medicine and heads inside the warm flat.
“F–Fuck.” Shivering, Hobie wipes his boots on the doormat, shutting the door closed behind him and placing the bags on the table before yanking off his jacket. “Love?” He calls for you tentatively, warming his hands with his breath as he heads towards your bedroom door. “You awake?”
The floorboards creek, and as he grasps the doorknob, the door flinging open before he could do it himself, he’s almost greeted with a canvas right on his face. “Fuckin’ hell!” Jumping back, the canvas drops, thumping against the floor to reveal a weary you.
Your eyes are shot, red and puffy. Whilst you clearly have sweated through your pajamas as the fabric clings to your skin that he has to look away. Lips dry, you suck in a shuddered breath, knees almost buckling under your own weight in either relief or from your fever.
“Hobie?” A crackly cough escapes you.
“Yeah, lovie, it’s me.” He holds up his arms in front of him in case you keel over. “Are you alright?”
“I think I’m starting to hallucinate.” Breathlessly, you stagger back inside the bedroom on wobbly feet. “Out of everyone why do I have to hallucinate Hobie? Fuck, do I miss him that much?” You utter to yourself before plopping face down on the mattress that has your silhouette left of it from how much you’ve sweat.
Hobie tries to ignore your comment, but the way his heart thumps in his chest with his cheeks feeling warm, he’d think that he’s the one having a fever. “Right,” clearing his throat, he quickly toes off his boots haphazardly and leaves it outside your door before walking in. “Can I check your temperature?”
“You can check my ass for all I care.” Even with your muffled words, Hobie pauses mid step. “I’m dying, I’m really dying, where the fuck is MJ?”
“I don’t know, love.” He stands over you, unsure of what to do. But he knows one thing though, he needs to protect your heart from getting hurt by your so-called best friend. “Oi, can you turn around for me?” Even as he stands near you, he could feel the heat radiating from you.
Head rising up weakly, you pout. “Oh no, it’s one of those sexy hallucinations.” And yet you turn to face him with no ounce of finesse. Your half lidded eyes meet his own, cracked lips smacking together. “Don’t tell MJ but I’ve had so many sexy dreams about you that it’s frankly insane.”
“O–Okay— it’s me, not a hallucination or a dream.” Hobie chuckles nervously, looking away, anywhere else other than the way you gaze at him. “And your secret’s safe with me.”
“Goodie, okie dokie.” You give him a thumbs up, or more like a toes up that has you giggling to himself and with Hobie stifling a laugh.
“Where’s your thermometer?” He helps bring your foot down gently with his hand wrapped around your ankle. From the brief touch alone, he could tell that your temperature has skyrocketed.
“With Waldo.”
“Love, I need to know your temperature.”
“It’s over there, you wanker.” Hobie never knew it possible for someone to call him a wanker that has his heart leaping in his chest in a good way. He follows your finger, and sure enough he sees it on your bedside table right alongside a teddy bear that’s dressed up as Waldo, stripes and all. “I’m hungry.” You stare at the swirling ceiling as Hobie picks up the thermometer that still has your last temperature right on the blinking screen. “I ate the last canned soup. But MJ said she’ll get me something warm from the store.”
“Oh shit.” He’s immediately sprinting to the living room.
You don’t even notice his panic. “Y’know, I could go for some cordon bleu with white sauce, maybe chocolate pudding too, oh, and some hash browns, yum.” Talking to yourself as the ceiling swirls in your vision, you hear the faint sound of glass clicking together while you let out a weak breath. “Is it just me or does hash browns sound like Hobie Brown? It rhymes, right?” You’re lifted up gently as you lay limp against his side. “Maybe the real Hobie likes them. I should ask him next time.”
“Open your mouth, love.” The medicine pokes right at your dry lips. “Shit, you should’ve called me, or fuckin’ anyone.”
“Take me out on a date first.” You weakly brush away his hand with a grimace, sniffing and coughing on his side.
“Maybe after you get better, but you have to drink this now.”
Your eyes narrow at the medicine before craning your head to face him with a hopeful gaze. “We’re gonna go on a date after this?”
“Yes,” Hobie cradles you in his arms, smiling down at you fondly, not minding how your pajamas cling to his skin. “Open your mouth, please.”
Chuckling, you take the medicine with him helping you swallow it down with some water. With a sniff, you lick your dry lips. “My Hobie never says please.” Your palm pats his chest affectionately, a small thank you, as your sweaty cheek presses atop his heart.
“That’s not true, I say please all the bloody time.” He can’t seem to find it in him to place you back in bed, as if his hold would cure you instantly.
“I was lying.” You say in a sing-song tone, voice croaking.
Hobie beams down at you, a thumb gently cleaning up the water that dribbles on your chin. His chest aches at the thought of you all alone with a fever that high, waiting for medicine and for help that wouldn’t come. “You should’ve called me.” He softly says more to himself as you make yourself comfortable in his arms.
“I tried…” your eyes flutter close, tucking yourself against him, back folded to hug him. “But my battery died because MJ borrowed my charger and I don’t know where it is…” a cough wracks your chest whilst Hobie pats your back until it subsides. “She’s forgetful like that…” Even in your fever haze, you defend her. “Hobie?”
“Yeah, lovie?” He brushes the stray hairs away that's clinging to your sweaty face.
“I need a bath, I smell like Harry’s tuna sandwich. I fucking hate that tuna sandwich.” You sniff him, he smells of lavender detergent and his signature cologne, smiling to yourself, you grip onto his shirt with weak fingers. “Specifically that tuna sandwich.”
Chuckling, he stifles in his guffaw lest it disturbs your calm. “I got you chicken soup, I can heat it up for you while I change your bedsheets so you can rest. How does that sound, hm? You good with me changing your sheets?”
Your half lidded eyes gaze at him softly. “Sounds lovely.”
“Yeah?” His smile could cure you. “I’ll wrap you up nicely on the couch and put a wet cloth over your head, is that alright? I’m goin’ to carry you now.”
“Yep,” sighing, arms thrown over his shoulders, you shut your eyes tiredly. “Hobie?” You call for him as you’re lifted off the bed gently. “I think I need a new roommate.”
“I’ll help you look for a better one.” Hobie chuckles against your hair before plopping you down on the couch carefully. He cradles your searing cheeks, crouching down as he smiles at you. “Don’t fall asleep.”
“Why?” He could see that you’re fighting sleep as your eyes flutter open and close.
“Because,” His breath gets stuck in his throat. “I’m afraid you won’t wake up.”
“Don’t be silly.” Your forehead thumps atop his shoulder as he takes the couch blanket and drapes it around you securely. “But okay.”
“That’s my girl.” He says with his whole chest as he helps you sit properly, placing the throw pillows around you to secure you in place. “I’ll make this quick.”
“You don’t strike me as someone who’s quick with it.” Giggling, you nudge his leg with your foot as you wink tiredly at him.
“Fever riles you up, good to know.” He takes one good look at you all bundled up before heading to your bedroom to grab a small towel. Pausing mid movement, he chuckles to himself before heading to work in making your fever go down.
Hobie moved like he’s being paid a thousand bucks per minute. He opened your bedroom windows to let out the air while he changed your bedsheet and blanket, which he does in record time. He then puts clean pajamas in the bathroom for you later before taking the thermometer, pocketing it and heading to the kitchen to heat up the soup for you. Within just ten minutes, he’s back on your side with warm soup and a thermometer to check your temperature again. The wet cloth atop your forehead is almost dry just from your warmth alone.
“Can you put this on for me?” Crouching down, he sees your eyes closed, body limp as you lay your head on the armrest. “Love?” He’s panicking, heartbeat racing as he shakes you. “Shit, oi.”
“I’m awake, I’m awake.” Eyes fluttering open, the color has returned to your lips, albeit slowly. Hobie lets out the loudest sigh of relief ever. “What smells good?” Sniffing, you blink blearily at him.
“Chicken soup, you think you’re good to eat?”
“Yep.” Sitting up, you blink at him slowly, as if you’re trying to place his face. “Hi, how are you?”
“‘m good, better than you are right now.” A hand on your knee, he feels that your fever has gone down a little but you’re still warmer than usual.
“Can you sit down beside me?” Voice small, you nudge him with your foot. “The walls are closing in on me, dizzy.”
“Yeah, I can.” Knees creaking, he sits down beside you just like you asked and takes the warm bowl. “D’you want me to feed you?”
“I’m not a baby.” Back resting against the plush couch, cheek pressed against it, you gaze at him with fondness. “Hi.”
“Hi, you already said that.” Chuckling, he places his palm on your forehead to feel your temperature more accurately. “You feel better, but I still need you to use the thermometer to be sure.” Taking a throw pillow he places it on your lap and rests the bowl on it. “I’ll get you some water.”
“I feel icky. Like I’m made out of slime that rolled around… something sticky, I don’t know.” The spoon trembles in your grasp, and Hobie can’t find it within himself to leave you even for a moment. Before he helps you, you persist determinedly, blowing the soup and taking a generous sip. “That’s good, did you make this?”
Hobie’s tensed shoulders eases up visibly. “No, I bought it.”
Humming, you take another sip. “I’ll pay you back.”
“You can pay me back by eating it all.”
“Thank you, Hobie.” You’ve grown more lucid after taking the medicine.
“No problem, it’s you, love.” He nudges your shoulder with his own before standing up to grab you a glass of water. “You’re gettin’ better, and ‘ere I thought I have to bring you to hospital.”
“Good thing you didn’t, because I wouldn’t be able to pay for it.”
Hobie sighs, hands on his hips. “I’ll run you a bath, is that alright?”
Nodding, you gaze up at him with tenderness, chest feeling a different kind of warm. “Yeah, thank you.”
“No problem,” he matches your soft expression. “Eat, I’ll be back.”
—
Hobie waits just outside your bedroom door as you take a bath. He’d wait in the living room on the couch but he fears that your dizziness would cause you to slip and fall, so he guards you at a respectable distance, keeping his ears open. He keeps himself entertained by looking at available flats that could be within your budget. You didn’t ask him to do that, but he has had enough of MJ abandoning you when you have done nothing to deserve that abandonment.
“Hobie?” The door abruptly opens, and with his back against it, Hobie falls backwards, now looking up at you in a fresh pair of strawberry printed pajamas that he picked for you. “Sorry, you okay?” You give him a helping hand, looking at him apologetically.
He could stay down here forever and look at the view from below forever if he could. “Yeah, ‘m good.” Taking your hand, his calloused palm turns so sweaty that you think that he caught the flu from you.
You heave him off his feet, chuckling to yourself as you see a dust bunny clinging right on his lapel. “You’ve got a little something…” reaching for his neck, Hobie freezes in place, skin warm, heart thundering. “There, I need to clean my floor.”
“Definitely better.” You’re still out of breath and a bit shaky on your feet, he notices with worry in his eyes. To ease his concern, you head to the bed, sitting down and resting against the headboard as you pat the space beside you, inviting him.
Hobie bounces on the balls of his feet for a moment, hyping himself up before crossing the small distance and sitting down by your feet. “You look good— I mean, better, yeah, better.”
Colour has returned to your lips, and your eyes don’t look as swollen and red as before. You’re not sweating as much either or trembling just from standing up. You still feel faint with a cough here and there, and Hobie could tell that you’re fighting it by how you breathe in with effort.
“Thanks, I checked my temperature and it’s back to normal now thanks to you.” Smiling, you poke his side with your knee. “How’d you know I was sick by the way?”
“Lyla, she was worried about you and told me so I went to check on you.” Pausing, his fingers play with the frayed edges of your pajama pants. “‘m glad I did.”
“I guess having perfect attendance before and then suddenly being absent one time would have anyone concerned.”
“Or your mate is jus’ worried.” He nudges back. “Like I was.”
“Thank you, Hobie, really.” Sniffing, you hide the fact that you’re trying not to cry from feeling loved and remembered by having a convenient excuse of having a cold. “I’d probably still be drowning in my fever haze without you. Lesson learned, always keep the medicine cabinet restocked.” Chuckling nervously, you don’t even realize that you’ve got Hobie on your bed, just someone you care about while having a heart to heart and not your coworker turned friend that you have fallen for. “They’re probably looking for you.”
“The mail can wait.”
“In that case.” Tapping the side of the bed, you scooch away to make space for him. “You need to rest too after all that shit you had to endure because of me.”
Hobie snorts and sits beside you, shoulder to shoulder as he moves his head in your direction. “It’s not endurin’ if it's for you. We take care of people we care ‘bout, nothin’ wrong with that. You deserve to be cared for too, love.”
Blinking away the tears, it’s not enough as you rub at your eyes. “Shit, sorry, the cold’s making my eyes water.”
“Don’t rub it, you’ll make it worse.” Chortling, he then takes your wrists gingerly, fingers bracelet around yours as you sniff and exhale. “Speakin’ of mail, I’ve got your package, I think it’s another shipment for quality assurance.”
“Did you use that as your excuse when Miguel saw you sneak out?” Gazing at him through your wet lashes, you tentatively rest your head on his shoulder, not placing your whole weight on him, hovering more like. But Hobie doesn’t lean away, instead, he cups the side of your head in his palm, helping you get comfortable.
“Bold of you to assume that I got caught.” Winking, your laughter that follows has him grinning even more.
Your arm wraps around his, and Hobie smiles against the crown of your head whilst his hand intertwines around yours. “That’s my Hobie.”
The movie tickets in his pockets weigh heavy, maybe he’ll ask you next time when you’re all better. Hobie doesn’t care that it’s way past his extended lunch when he’s got you falling asleep in his arms. Hopefully Lyla will forgive him when he gets back with her soup.
hi hi i have no idea if you have a fic similar to this but could i have sick dad hobie? and yk how men act fine when they’re bleeding out but then act like their dying when its a cold😂 thought it be funny
Lmaooo that's so real!! Thank you for requesting! I hope you like it! ❤️
Pairing: Hobie Brown x fem! Reader/ Spider-Punk x fem! Reader
Word count: 2k
Tags: No use of Y/N, no specific physical description of the reader, established relationship, parent AU, Dad! Hobie, Mum! Reader, Billie and Ramona AU, cw descriptions of illness, fluff!
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My requests are open!
Hobie feels like his insides are being ripped apart by Rhino while the human torch blasts fire into his eyes down his itchy throat. Add the fact that his whole body shakes, muscles feeling like it’s being torn bit by bit by Doc Ock’s many metal arms. Or that’s what he told you this morning when he woke up with a record breaking fever. Something that you never thought would be possible for him to even get.
Hobie isn’t like everyone else, he doesn’t even have any allergies, save for his lactose intolerance, and of course his enhanced healing that usually acts as his shield against illnesses. Usually. And through the years you’ve known him, he has suffered through worse injuries than this, torn ligaments, shattered bones, collapsed lung, you name it, and he got through it all without a single tear shed. Even while you were tending to each one, his knuckles shaking against his own grip and the inside of his cheeks bitten and bloodied to keep his composure. You never heard a complaint or a cry from him. Maybe a few teasing flirty remarks here and there but nevertheless, his pain tolerance is better than anyone.
But the flu has its grip on him. Wherever it came from or whatever it is, it’s got him writhing in bed, clutching at his insides and clawing at his aching head. Perhaps his tolerance to sickness isn’t as good as his pain tolerance. And you understand it perfectly well when he has only been sick a handful of times. And that was before he got bit by the spider, after that he never got sick, ever.
Hobie’s loud groans in the pillow would have you laughing on a regular day if he wasn’t so sick. You feel his pain, and if you had the ability to take it away, you’d do it in a heartbeat. You wet the cloth for the umpteenth time today, letting the cool water wash down the heat trapped inside. Heat that came from his fever. The sound of the rushing water seems to exacerbate his symptoms as he covers his ears with the pillow. You’d think he has a regular hangover if he could actually get drunk when his enhanced abilities don’t exactly let him. But alas, it’s an interdimensional flu that you have no idea if the traditional methods would work against it. You’d rather be tending to a hangover Hobie right now than have him be in so much pain.
“I’m coming, I’m coming, sorry.” Biting your lip, and closing the tap, you carry the sloshing basin filled with water as the cloth floats above it. “Why the fuck aren’t you getting better?” You ask more for yourself than to him, confused as to why this flu doesn’t seem to be affected by his quick healing.
“I don’t knowwwwww.” He moans into the pillow, pained grunts muffled as he huffs. “Lovie, ‘m dyin’.”
“I’m sorry, it’s not your fault.” Cooing, sitting down beside him on the bed, you gently flip him over to face the ceiling. His whole face is drenched in sweat, the pillow under him darkens from it, and yet he’s still shivering. “That’s it, I’m calling Jessica.”
“Noooooo.” Taking your wrist weakly, Hobie frowns deeply, russet eyes glimmering under the warm lamp light as his chest rises up and down slowly, breathing heavily and sniffing. “‘s jus’ a cold.” You never thought it would be possible to frown as deep as what you’re seeing on his handsomely sick face.
“Hobie,” your brows knit in worry, squeezing out the excess water on the basin before you place it atop his sweaty forehead. He shivers, biting his lip with a wince. “What if this is some alien flu or something? You’ve been dimension hopping a lot more so maybe you got it in one of them.” Wiping at a dripping water on his cheek carefully, you kiss his hand that refuses to let go of your wrist. You then take the thermometer to measure his temperature, which he shudders at the simple movement. “If you don’t get better within two hours from the meds, I’m going to call her. Deal?”
Shaking his head weakly, Hobie’s shining eyes gaze at you with such sadness that you thought of yourself cruel for even lifting up his arm to insert the thermometer. “I don’t want her, I want you.”
“She knows interdimensional shit better than I do.” You say softly, mindful of his hearing that seems to have increased ten fold more than the usual.
“But she’s not you.” With a whine, he’s almost in tears by the looks of it, and you mirror his frown, cooing as you caress his clammy cheek.
“I’ll still be here, Hobie, I just need to ask her for some help with whatever it is you’ve caught.”
“But—” Hobie was about to hug you and place his head on your lap, but his ears pick up the doors opening with a creak. “Lovie, it’s the girls.”
Sure enough, you look over your shoulder and see Billie and Ramona peeking through the door. “Sweethearts, you can’t come in here, remember? You might catch daddy’s cold.”
“We jus’ wanted to see if he’s better. And we brought him a lemon drink from the fridge.” Billie says sweetly, up on her tip toes to get a glimpse of their dad. “Mummy, we need him better by tomorrow for our swim meet!”
“I’ve seen him bleed all over uncle Ned’s couch and he was fine a few hours later for your date.” Ramona makes a face, a mirror of her dad’s deep frown. “It’s jus’ a cold.”
“Mona, don’t be mean!” Billie beats you to it as Hobie tugs you closer to him, and you scooch on the bed until he’s leaning his warm cheek atop your thigh. “D’you think he’ll be okay by tomorrow? It’s the semi finals!”
“Girls.” You and Hobie simultaneously say. With him saying it in a more whining way as he coughs on your leg, whilst you pat at his back lovingly. “Aunty Yuri can drive you, I’m sure the band will be happy to support you there. Daddy and I can watch the video, y’know that I can’t just leave your poor dad here all alone while he’s sick.”
“But his healin’ would’ve worked by now.” Ramona says with a smaller tone, worried for her dad.
“I know, baby.” You coo, placating the girls, while you try not to bring more worry for them. “We’ll be there for the championship, I promise.”
Goosebumps rise on Hobie’s skin for no reason, shivering even more. “Daddy won’t make it to your competition.” He lets out a crackly cough. “‘cause I’d be dead by then.”
“Hobie!” Shocked, you look down at him with your mouth agape. Hobie gives you a weak wink followed by a sneeze that wracks his body.
“Dad, no!” Ramona stomps her foot, rushing towards the bed as you block her with your arm before she could get on the bed, lest she gets the flu too.
“Who’s gonna drive us there?” Billie huffs, going on the other side of the bed and hopping on it, making the bed bounce for a second as Hobie shuts his eyes with a subtle smile. “Dad!” The lemon juice bottle rolls on the bed, landing on his side as he clings to you tighter, surely to annoy them some more.
“Bee, don’t get too close.” You try to get her to back away, and she does, before immediately forgetting about it and leaning slightly closer to look at him better. “Billie Jean.” Hobie helps you by pushing her away lightly. And she huffs on the bed, pouting.
“Nope, dad’s on death’s doorstep.” Hobie reaches for the cloth over his forehead, bringing it down to his eyes. “I want sunflowers on my grave, Cheese, don’t forget.”
Ramona rolls her eyes the moment she sees you stifle a laugh. “You’re already gettin’ better.”
“You look like our Ken doll that we left in aunty Yuri’s backyard for a year.” Billie lounges on the bed casually. “You shouldn’t worry, mum, dad’s jus’ actin’ like a baby so you’d take care of him.” She gives you both her regular eleven year old sass.
“That’s not true.” Hobie lifts the cloth a smidge to turn his gaze at you. “Lovie, the meds aren’t workin’” He says with a pout.
“I think he’s pullin’ an uncle Peter.” Mona whispers to you. “Remember when we visited them one time and he was bein’ such a baby to aunty MJ?”
“Yeah, but he had a broken arm, baby.”
“This is no different, mum, trust me. Men want attention from their wives when they’re sick—”
“Oi!” Hobie shrieks out, bringing you closer and hugging your side like he’s asking you to protect him from his own daughters. “Your dad’s dyin’ and you're—” a rough cough interrupts him before he could finish. Hiding his face on your stomach, he grips onto you tightly. You keep patting his back in an attempt to help ease it out of him. It sounds so bad that you felt the pain in his chest just from it.
The cough was enough to remind the girls that he’s truly sick, or it reminded them that he’s contagious and that they couldn’t afford to get sick.
“Nope.” Billie slides off the bed, covering her mouth and nose with her jumper sleeve.
“He’s all yours, mum.” Mona joins her sister at the bedroom door, shutting it close right behind them.
But the door opens again a second later with the twins peeking around it. “Love you, dad.” They say at the same time with affection before closing the door once again.
“Love you too.” Sniffing, heart full, Hobie lifts his head up from your stomach, flopping back on the bed as he wheezes. “Fuckin’ hell, love.”
“I know, I’ll talk to them later. They just really want you to be there, Hobie.”
“I know, love. I want to be there for ‘em too.” Swallowing down the lump in his itchy throat, he rubs at his warm eyes before gazing up at you tenderly.
“I’m sure they’ll understand after I talk to them. They’re just worried, y’know?” With a sigh, you turn him to his side, facing you so you could knead his back and fix the fallen cloth back over his forehead. “I don’t mind babying you anyway.” You lovingly say as you move his stray hairs that sticks to his clammy face.
“My girls were bein’ mean.” Nose scrunching, the same face Billie was making just now, he pouts, sniffing away as he holds onto your waist like it’s his lifeline. “‘m really sick, sweetheart.”
“I know,” nodding, eyes soft for him, you then take the cloth and use it to wipe his sweaty cheek with such gentleness that Hobie feels it could cure him right there and then. “And I’m going to take good care of you, my love.” With a peck to his forehead, he lets out a satisfied hum.
“You would?” His big brown eyes look up at you with sheer wonderment.
“I absolutely would.” Quickly pecking the crown of his head, you take out the thermometer that beeps under his armpit. “Let’s see—” your shoulders ease from the lower temperature. “Oh thank fuck, Hobie, you don’t have a fever anymore—!”
You’re suddenly pulled to him, arms cageing you in, legs wrapped around yours as you could feel his grin on the crook of your neck.
“Nah, you promised.” He clearly feigns a cough. “See? Still sick, you have to take care of me.”
“Cuddling me isn’t the same as wiping your snot.” And yet, despite your words, you lay atop him comfortably.
“Mm–hmm, sure, lovie.” Patting your behind, he lets out a satisfied hum, tired eyes closing. But before he falls asleep, he scooches away from his side of the bed that’s drenched in sweat, carrying you over to yours that’s all nice and dry, all without dropping you, and he finally falls asleep. Taking note of drinking the lemon juice that’s poking his side once he feels better. Probably after a much needed nap with you.
Pairing: Hobie Brown x Fem!Reader/ Spider-Punk x Fem!Reader
Word count: 6.2k
Author's Note: I really need to get better at uploading at a more consistent pace 🥲 but honestly, this part kinda hit me hard when I finally broke through that writing slump. I missed these girls so much, and I'm glad I actually rewrote this chapter for them! I'd like to thank @the-kr8tor for Billie and Ramona, aa well as @pinksugarscrub for sticking with me through this chapter!
Those words skip in Billie’s mind like those old vinyl records her dad kept in his room, scratching with each iteration. The only noise that breaks through the constant loop of revelation is the crinkling of the old photo in her hand, with the smiling faces of you and Hobie hanging over her. Her eyes drift over to the printed image of you– frozen in time, forever young on paper. You’re grinning ear to ear as you hold up a black t-shirt, one with an old graphic design for the band at the time– a red web inked across the chest with the band name trapped on it in white. Billie’s fingers fidget with the worn photo as she glances to the floor, all the content from her trunk still crumpled around her. Scattered photos and papers, strewn pens and pencils, haphazardly-tossed shirts and pants– Billie winces at the sight of them on the clean hardwood floor. A nagging image of Ramona comes to mind: dirt caked on her cheeks, clothes smudged with grime, dust clouded around her as she aired the cabin out.
With a reluctant sigh Billie pushes herself up and starts to clean, starting with the tin box next to her.
The photo of you slides out of her fingers and flutters back into the box, your beaming face slipping into dark shadows. Billie looks away to the other photos on the floor and pushes them into a pile, ignoring the imaginary looming pressure from your printed presence before dropping the photos on top of you.
Tingles crawl over Billie’s skin, her hands restlessly fidgeting across the floor– straightening crumpled papers, tossing pens and pencils into her trunk, piling her clothes to the side. Her big toe twitches back and forth under her electric blue sock. Her fingers wriggle every time an item drops from her grasp. Her head jerks in micro-headbangs as her face pinches in a troubled frown.
Mum’s alive. She’s actually alive.
Billie’s mind rings in her head in bombarding echos like cymbals, drowning out any background noises around the cabin. Her body moves on autopilot– almost robotic and erratic– while she tosses her belongings in her trunk. The urge to run and thrash around thrums in her leg muscles, but the image of Ramona cleaning the cabin still lingers in the back of Billie’s head. She tucks her legs further in to stave away the urge, but her fingers and toes still twitch in anticipation. Butterflies swarm in Billie’s stomach, and a burning tightness creeps up the back of her throat. The cymbals in Billie’s head clash harder in her eardrums, loud and unrelenting, while her fingers tremble against a cotton shirt.
Mum’s alive. She’s really alive. And I might actually see her.
Wrinkles crease along the fabric as Billie struggles to fold her shirt, attempting to fold it the way Ramona did before. Her brows furrow when the shirt slips from its fold, her nose crinkles when the sides droop over weirdly, and her mouth curls into a dissatisfied scowl when her fingers accidentally tug at a fold and pull a sleeve out of it. She’s not gonna make her clothes look like those fancy department store’s– she doesn’t know how Ramona was able to– but she needs something to occupy her fingers. The cymbals gradually cease their clangor as she tosses her sorry attempt of a folded shirt into her trunk, but the thoughts still hum in the background.
Mum’s alive. She wasn’t dead this whole time. And she has another daughter– I have a sister! A sister around my age? Maybe younger? Is Mon-Mon around my age?
Billie’s fingers clumsily fly through folding her trousers, catching themselves into the ripped sections and snapping some frayed denim.
Mon-Mon looks like me, obviously, so she has to be Dad’s daughter too, right? I mean, Dad would tell me if I have a sister, right? But why didn’t he? Why wouldn’t Dad tell me about Mon-Mon? Why wouldn’t he talk to me about Mum? Why did they split us up?
The thrumming itch to move in her stalls from the thought. Billie’s fingers freeze mid-fold, the denim rough against her skin. Her stomach twists the longer those thoughts buzz like low static.
What actually happened between Dad and Mum?
A click rings through the silence surrounding Billie, and she looks up to the door as Ramona freezes under the doorway. Her hand clenches the leather handle of her bass case, the metal hinges softly rattling, the case barely swaying against her leg. Ramona’s eyes, shadowed underneath by a hint of purplish-black, waver under Billie’s stormy scrutiny. The tension looms heavy within the cabin, so thick that Billie can cut through it with her bow string. The faint chirping and rustling leaves outside barely register in Billie’s ears, even as Ramona walks inside and closes the screen door behind her. The cymbals clash back in Billie’s head, all the spiraling questions and thoughts festering in her chest and clawing up to her throat, but the walls behind Ramona’s eyes render them useless on Billie’s tongue. The urge to move intensifies in Billie, but at the same time her body is anchored to the hardwood under Ramona’s gaze.
Her eyes mirror Billie’s, they mirror her dad’s– their dad’s.
Billie swallows the lump in the back of her throat as Ramona finally averts her eyes, but the uncomfortable festering still lingers for the pink girl.
The moment Ramona saw that photo of you– the you before her, captured in the past she seemingly knew nothing about– Billie saw whatever ember in Ramona’s eyes flicker out. She avoided talking to Billie for the next few days– staying out longer for her bass lessons; eating breakfast before Billie woke up; going to bed earlier before Billie came back from her violin lessons.
Hell, Ramona never even touched her mp3 player after that, so the silence within the cabin was even more stifling. No muffled acoustic playing in the background as Billie’s alarm, no faint synths and snare kicks echoing in the background during break times, no hushed pianos and violins to lull Billie to sleep.
And especially no song from Dad blaring out in the cabin.
Billie gets it– being blindsided isn’t fun at all. She’s still grappling with the bombshell of you being alive. But Ramona? She didn’t even get a single story about Dad from you, no hint of him ever revealed in Ramona’s life. The only way he was ever involved in her life was through his music, but you never even mentioned that you knew the band, let alone were involved with them from the beginning. Wouldn’t someone normally brag about that? Or at least mention that part of their life to their daughter? And not only did Ramona have to find out about Dad being alive, but she had to find out through a stranger who happened to be her sister? Of course Ramona would be scared off and avoid Billie at all costs.
Billie gets it, she really does.
It doesn’t mean she has to like it though.
Billie glances back up at Ramona shuffling back to her side of the cabin, the soft clinking of the metal handles echoing as the bass case sways against Ramona’s leg. Rubber soles drag against the hardwood as Ramona approaches her bed, gingerly dropping the case down next to her trunk. She flops onto her bed, her long legs hanging off the edge. Dark coils splay over from behind her ponytail, cascading over her back and onto starched white sheets. The curtains from a window flutter from the gentle summer breeze, and the fading sunlight creeps through the sheer fabric and dapples over the girl amidst looming shadows, as if trying to protect her with its fleeting presence.
It’s like a dramatic painting Billie would see in those big art books Auntie Yuri keeps.
Billie’s face pinches up into a grimace, her eyes narrowing and her mouth curling into a small pout. Prickles fester in her chest as she stares at her melodramatic double– sister? Twin? – before she tosses her poorly-folded jeans onto the floor. The punk girl pushes herself up with a grunt, almost toppling back down from the sudden rush of blood through her leg. Wincing from the pins and needles assaulting her leg, she stumbles towards Ramona, one foot slogging with all of Billie’s weight while her other foot drags behind.
Billie can’t let this go on– if not for Ramona’s spiraling mental state, then for Billie’s own sanity.
Heavy combat boots finally stop in front of the occupied bed. Billie’s shadow looms over the sprawled figure, and it takes everything within Billie not to yank Ramona out of bed.
“Oi.”
Ramona ignores her, burying her face into her pillow. Another sharp prick stabs into Billie’s chest as she nudges Ramona’s leg.
“Oi, Mon-Mon.”
Ramona weakly kicks Billie’s hand off before she curls up on her bed, draping her duvet and pillow over her like a makeshift shield.
The pins and needles in Billie’s leg swarms up to her chest, the prickling growing unbearable to the punk girl. With gritted teeth and hardened eyes, Billie slaps her hand on the fleshy part of Ramona’s rear. A startled scream muffles under the duvet before Ramona scrambles out of her cocoon. Angry tears well up in Ramona’s eyes as she glares at Billie, a hue of red creeping up her skin.
“What was that for?!”
Hot waves of pain emit from Billie’s hand. Frustration claws up her throat, poisoning her tongue with an acrid taste as she struggles not to yell. “I am done with ya ignorin’ me! We are talkin’, ‘n we are talkin’ right now–!”
A harsh scoff slips through Ramona’s lips as she slips out of her bed away from Billie, covering her butt from future assaults. “There’s nothing to talk about–”
“Like hell there is!” Billie chases after Ramona as she storms around the cabin. “Ya t’ink avoidin’ me’s gonna fix any of this?! Jus’ ‘cuz ya don’t wanna talk ‘bout it don’t mean ‘s gon’ go away!”
Ramona storms towards the shared wardrobe cabinet, flinging the doors open until they slam against the sides. She angrily snatches a basket full of crumpled clothes and stomps away before Billie can grab her.
“There is nothing to talk about, Billie–”
“Really? ‘Cuz findin’ out we have t’ same parents seems like somethin’ t’ talk ‘bout–!”
Billie rushes in front of the exit before Ramona could, holding her arms out to block the way. An exasperated groan rumbles through Ramona’s chest as she turns her back from Billie, but the punk girl is not having it. “Are ya really gon’ blank me on this?!”
A tempest brews within the confines of the cabin as the two girls continue their cat-and-mouse game. Loud stomps reverberate throughout wooden walls. Angry groans creak from the floorboards. The windows rattle, stained glass threatening to pop off their panels.
“Damn it, Mon-Mon, talk t’ me!” Billie’s voice thunders against the walls. “Ain’t this a good thing–?”
Ramona slams the basket down, the clothes spilling onto the floor. “In what world would this be a good thing?! How is finding out that your parents lied to you a good thing?!”
Hurt flickers in the punk girl’s eyes as she stumbles back, but she quickly stands her ground again, “I dunno, but there had t’ be a reason–!”
“What reason would they have, then?” Ramona’s counter strikes through Billie like lightning. Frustration storms behind russet eyes, tears welling up before Ramona angrily wipes them off. “Why would they split us up and not tell us about each other?”
The pins and needles worsen in Billie’s chest, but she swallows the bile in her throat as she chases after Ramona again, accidentally kicking the clothes away. “Like I said, I don’t know! But there had t’ be somethin’!” Static crackles in the air as Billie grabs Ramona’s arm and yanks her back. “Stop try’na walk away from me–!”
“Stop touching me!”
Ramona yanks her arm out of Billie’s hand just as hard, fire crackling behind her glistening eyes. A sharp hiccup wracks her body, and stray tears threaten to roll down her cheeks.
“You don’t get it! My mom never lies to me!”
The prickles in Billie’s chest surges up her throat as she stares at her trembling double, her tongue heavy like lead in water.
“My mom never lies to me!” Denial clings to Ramona’s voice, straining it into a hoarse cry. “She doesn’t keep secrets from me! Why would she keep this from me?!”
Another sharp hiccup wracks her body again as more tears bead up along her lashline, threatening to spill over. She trembles under the pressure, the scrutiny, from her stranger of a sister– the one who was raised by a father she never met.
“She never told me anything about Dad,” Ramona’s voice trembles with each hitch of breath. “Not about him being in a band, not about making his merch, nothing!”
Betrayal and hurt flashes in her eyes as the tears finally roll down her cheeks. “It’s not fair! Why do you know something about Mom that I don’t? Why do you get to keep pictures of her and Dad together and I don’t? Why do you get to know about Mom but I don’t know anything about Dad?”
Sharp sobs wrack her body as tears continue to fall, dripping onto the hardwood floor. “Why am I being left out?”
Billie stands frozen as the sounds of sniffles echo within the cabin, the mirror image of her trembling and struggling to breathe with each sob. A dull ache lingers in a void in her chest, rolling and thundering like a storm cloud, rendering her speechless. She takes a tentative step towards Ramona, as if her presence would set off another eruption of tears if she takes the wrong step. The back of Billie’s eyes burn, but tears refuse to surface, not when some are already shed in front of her. Each footfall creaks on the hardwood, muffling the shallow hitches of breath, until Billie stands solemnly in front of Ramona again.
The punk girl gingerly grabs onto her sister’s wrist before pulling her into a tight hug.
Ramona stiffens in the sudden embrace, long, lanky arms wrapping around her like a vice. Despite having a similar build, Billie feels more solid, more steady, more reassuring. A scent of citrus and leather wafts into her nostrils, comforting to the point of bringing her to tears again, before she wraps her own arms around her double. Burying her face into Billie’s shoulders, Ramona blinks away more tears as she clings tighter. More sobs bubble up in her chest, and her body trembles as she gives into her warring emotions.
Billie’s never seen anyone cry before. Granted, she knows what being sad looks like– mainly through her dad whenever Uncle James or Auntie Yuri talked about you– but she’s never seen someone actually cry until now. The ache in her chest is suffocating, crushing her lungs and blocking the back of her throat, as she hugs Ramona tighter.
What would make her feel better? What would make her stop crying? Hugs usually make Billie happy, but it’s just making Ramona cry more. The only other thing that Billie can think of is–
Billie’s eyes widen from the brief epiphany before she gently pulls Ramona back. “Do ya want a choc’late orange?”
“...a what?”
—
Ramona doesn’t remember how she got trapped under a tight blanket cocoon.
One moment she’s being manhandled by her long-lost sister into a bear hug, the next she’s sitting on the floor wrapped in Billie’s blanket. All the while, Billie dumps a pillowcase full of colorful snacks Ramona doesn’t recognize. Disbelief flickers in Ramona’s red-rimmed eyes as she watches Billie tuck an edge of a chocolate bar between her teeth before rummaging through the rest of the snacks.
“Dad always gives me sweets whenever I feel bad,” Billie mutters through her teeth. Her fingers rake through the plastic covered treats and mini cardboard boxes, hunting for one that piques her fancy. “He says sugar can kickstart t’ do…do–hm…”
Billie’s face curls into a frustrated scowl as she snatches one of the cardboard boxes, tucking her finger into the top tab. “He always says t’ word really fast, but ’s basically t’ feel-good feeling in yer brain–”
“...dopamine?”
“Yeah, that–”
She easily rips the top off and tilts the small box, letting an orange-foiled ball tumble onto her awaiting palm. The scent of orange wafts towards Ramona as she leans closer, her eyes lingering on the reflective tangerine-shaded glint. Little dimples cover the ball, and Ramona can already feel the ghosts of them grazing against her fingers, conjuring the image of the actual fruit in her mind.
“Billie, is this the thing you were talking about–?”
SMACK!
Ramona flinches back when Billie slaps her palm against the ball, crinkling the foiled barrier and flattening the inside before unwrapping it.
“It tastes t’ best when ya break it in pieces–”
“Why’d you have to be so violent with it though–?”
“ ’s fun,” the punk girl shrugs as she pulls a small piece out, revealing an orange wedge-like shape. “Plus they’re hard t’ break otherwise.”
Billie lets the chocolate bar drop from her mouth before popping the wedge in, and elation lights up in her eyes. She bounces in place happily, a goofy grin curling up her lips, before she presents the– admittedly perfectly sectioned– pieces of chocolate.
Hesitation flickers on Ramona’s face, her brows furrowing and her mouth curling into a slight frown. Her hand tentatively slips through the blanket barrier around her before grabbing the smallest sliver she can find. The aroma of orange drifts towards Ramona again, the chocolate slowly melting under her touch, the intricate orange-like details running away from the heat of her fingertips. She slowly slips the sliver into her mouth, her tongue lapping up the remnants of chocolate off her fingers.
Milk chocolate coats her tastebuds, melting on her tongue as the taste of orange suddenly floods her senses. The scent lingers the back of her nose while the flavor meshes with the chocolate, a confusing clash within her mouth. The citrus is biting while the chocolate is cloying, almost fighting for dominance in an awkward dance.
Ramona can’t help but let a grimace flicker on her face.
“...it tastes weird.”
“Oi–!”
Billie stares at her double with a flabbergasted stare, as if her very existence was just insulted. “I gave ya t’ best tastin’ flavor too!”
“It still tastes weird. The orange flavor is trying to overpower the chocolate–”
“No it doesn’t! It just brings out a different side of it!” Billie’s cheeks puff out as her lips jut into a frustrated pout. “L-like, it brings out different notes or something–”
Billie’s mind races in a fluster, the sudden urge to defend her favorite sweet charging her sugar-coated tongue. Brief moments of her dad and the band flash in her mind, of how Uncle James would talk about things like “flavor profiles” or “food pairings” with different alcohols and whatnot– but oh god, she for the life of her can’t remember how he said it.
“It’s like…like a mature flavor! Like the kind adults like!”
Ramona’s face curls up into a disbelieving frown, coupled with a dissatisfied groan. “I don’t think I wanna be an adult if that’s something they’re supposed to like–”
“That ain’t what I meant–!”
A loud groan rips through Billie’s throat as she drops her face into her palms, frustration festering in the punk girl’s chest. Even with her face obscured, Ramona can see Billie sulking behind her hands.
“This is Dad’s favorite sweet too…”
Ramona’s frown drops. A heavy pressure looms over her shoulders from the mention of their dad, the image of him in her head now clearer and more daunting than before. What was once a blurry figure with the same eyes as her, a dark shadow lurking in the corner of her mind, suddenly morphs into that man in the picture. Long thick locs, dapples of silver on his skin, a cat-like grin similar to Billie’s– his lack of presence before now prowls closer to the forefront, demanding to be seen, refusing to be ignored.
But somehow with a weird orange-shaped chocolate, with the bitter flavor of white pith and sugary chocolate still lingering on Ramona’s tongue, manages to keep his punkified existence at bay, his demeanor more…Billie-like as he backs away from her mind.
Ramona really doesn’t know how to feel about that now.
She glances at the crinkled orange foil, and another scene comes to mind– a younger girl who looked like her sitting on the lap of the younger Hobie in Billie’s photo. The little girl giggles with delight when the young punk man smacks the chocolate orange with his hand, easily unraveling the pre-sectioned pieces in front of her. A warm smile curls on the fatherly stranger’s lips while the little girl shoves a chocolate wedge in her mouth.
Would Ramona have been like that if she grew up with Hobie Brown?
Her stomach drops from that lapse in her mind, the scene cutting like an old film in a movie theater. Guilt bubbles up Ramona’s throat as an image of you flickers in place– of a younger Ramona sitting on your lap, with you quietly humming and rocking her to sleep. A ghost of chocolate and cardamom lingers in the back of Ramona’s nose, enveloping her into a bittersweet and forgiving embrace. However that reprieve is short-lived, with taunting whispers worming into Ramona’s ears, tugging her back into the reality before her.
She swallows the acrid lump in her throat.
“You really do love your dad.”
For once Billie stays still, the tweeting birds and rustling leaves outside their cabin doing little to offset the charge in her presence. She peeks through the spaces between her fingers, the same russet eyes reflecting back to Ramona.
“...he’s yer dad too.”
Doubt still plagues Ramona’s mind, but the undeniable proof in front of her waves the hushed taunts away from the forefront. Even with wild dark tresses and swatches of denim and plaid on Billie, Ramona can’t deny how they’re like mirror images of each other, how both of them bear resemblance to the man whose music echoed in Ramona’s life in the background.
“...then why didn’t he want me with him?”
The world outside wooden walls muffle in Ramona’s ears, the silence between them growing too heavy to bear before Billie responds with a shrug.
“...probably t’ same reason as Mum with me.”
The bitter lump claws its way back up Ramona’s throat, lodging itself back with a vengeance. Billie’s blanket weighs Ramona down on the ground, trapping her in a suffocating chokehold, while she’s under her long-lost sister’s scrutiny.
“...Mom wouldn’t do that.”
“Neither would Dad.”
The familiar playful grin is nowhere on Billie’s face. The same earthy brown eyes Ramona shares is shrouded with an unfamiliar shadow, dimming the usual glint in Billie’s eyes. A bittersweet smile curls on the punk girl’s lips before she averts her eyes from Ramona.
“ ‘m sure Dad would've loved ya t’ same if ya stayed with us.” Billie shifts onto the hardwood floor until she’s kneeling, her hands trembling as they start to shovel the rest of the candy and snacks back into the pillow case. “Uncle Ned, Uncle James, ‘n Auntie Yuri too. Probably would’ve had both of us travel ‘round with ‘em in Uncle James’s van, havin’ us eatin’ jaffa cakes ‘n monster munches ‘til we’re sick of it, all ‘til we get to the next new city for ‘em t’ perform.”
Her voice wavers with each scoop of treats retreating into the cotton sack, her smile trembling while her eyes refuse to look back up. “Dad would’ve had us watch backstage, callin’ it our personal front row seats while they take over t’ stage…”
A sniffle breaks the fragile silence, but Billie continues to clean, her wild coils shielding her face from Ramona’s eyes.
“...d’ya t’ink Mum would’ve done t’ same? Keep both of us if she could?”
The thought of you rocking Ramona to sleep creeps back up in her mind, this time the background slowly piecing itself together– the small studio apartment filled with old nicknacks and framed sketches, with patched up quilts and numerous photo albums, an ever-evolving time capsule just for you and her. The scent of chocolate and cardamom lingers back, calming the whirling anxiety in Ramona’s chest. Even as a new little girl flickers into her memories, crawling into your lap next to the younger Ramona, a bittersweet warmth creeps up in Ramona’s chest.
“...Mom definitely would’ve.”
Billie freezes mid-tying the end of the pillowcase. Her curls slowly part as she lifts her head, her eyes clouded with wary hope.
“Yeah?”
The lump in Ramona’s throat shrinks down, and she manages to swallow it down with a trembling smile of her own.
“Yeah.”
Billie’s eyes still waver, but a reassured smile curls up on her lips as she crawls away and tosses the pillowcase into her open trunk. A sigh of relief slips through Ramona’s lips despite herself, and she glances back at the reflective orange foil on the floor, the misshapen chocolate wedges beckoning her back with its citrus scent. With an uncertain frown, she reaches for another piece. Her eyes linger on the detailed etchings of the chocolate, the orange-like stamping still a visual marvel to the girl, before she pops it in her mouth again. And like before, her face contorts into a harsh grimace.
“...yeah, it still tastes weird.”
“Don’t eat it then!”
—
Billie can’t sleep.
Lying in her bed, shrouded in darkness and dappled moonlight through her window, Billie stares up at the ceiling with a solemn frown marring her face. Storm clouds whirl in her head, thundering and weighing her down in a muggy haze. The only thing keeping her grounded is the feeling of silicone earbuds tucked in her ears and the sound of a familiar guitar solo echoing into her head. Billie gently squeezes her hand around Ramona’s mp3 player, the plastic tabs on it a reassuring pressure for her, while she glances across the cabin towards Ramona’s bed.
A sheen of green glints under the moonlight as Ramona soundly sleeps, her bonnet reflecting the silvery light Billie’s way. Ramona’s facing away from Billie, like she usually does when she’s asleep, but after these past few nights it still feels like a wall. But Ramona giving Billie her mp3 player before heading to bed is a step to the right direction, right?
A guitar riff quietly croons in Billie’s ears, that familiar string improvisation beckoning her back to the music. As her eyes drift back to the ceiling, her body slowly sinks into the creaking mattress, starched linen and soft cotton brushing against her skin. The riff gently vibrates through her bones, melting away the tension in her body. Billie flutters her eyes shut with a deep sigh, and the music conjures up another scene in her mind– a tall, lanky figure lies next to her, strumming his web-lined guitar, losing himself to the music. Moonlight brightens into a stark-white spotlight over the figure, silver metal glinting on his face and dread cuffs. Long, calloused fingers dance across the fret in a frenzied grace, bending the sounds around him to his will.
Dad is always electrifying when he performs, even through a small speaker.
Billie glances back over to Ramona’s sleeping figure, and the imaginary punk rocker soon follows her sight, sauntering over to Ramona with his trusted guitar in hand. The guitar grows softer in Billie’s ears as the figment of her imagination sits on the edge of Ramona’s bed, moonlight chasing away the shadows from his face. His piercings glint under the silver beams, but tender warmth behind his eyes shines the brightest as he gazes down at Ramona. He sets his guitar down beside him when the strings fade away. His ring-covered fingers tentatively reach towards the slumbering Ramona, but they flinch away when she curls into a ball with a soft snort.
For once, her dad– even as a figment of Billie’s imagination– looks at a loss.
A dull ache creeps up in Billie’s chest at the sight. Her thoughts start to scramble and clash against the music in her ears now, muddling the transition with more questions.
What happened between Mum and Dad? Why would they split up? Why would they split us up? Does Uncle Ned know? Uncle James? Auntie Yuri? Why didn’t they say anything? Do they even know why? Did Dad tell them not to? Would it be too hard to raise both of us together? Would Dad’ve raised us both if he could? Would Mum? Do they still love each other? Does Dad still love Ramona?
The dull ache in Billie’s chest sharpens into a festering prickle.
Does Mum still love me–?
“Bee, I can’t tell if you’re recording–”
“Shit–”
A soft laugh silences the thoughts in Billie’s head, and a new figure settles beside Billie. The punk girl keeps her eyes on Ramona and her imaginary dad, the new presence near her too fragile for her to turn to. Her dad’s muffled groan vibrates in her ears in a nostalgic embrace, but the unknown woman’s voice tugs at Billie’s heart even more.
“How come you’re recording by yourself anyway?” the new voice chimes in Billie’s ears with a mirthful lilt. “I thought you were gonna head to James’s place–”
“Lost t’ key t’ his flat, Cherry,” her dad’s voice grunts back, “ ‘n t’ bloody knobhead wouldn’t answer t’ door. His bloody van’s parked out front, so I know he’s home–”
“Then maybe you could’ve gone later–”
“I don’t wanna–”
“Why not?” The voice in Billie’s ears envelopes her in a comforting warmth. “You can have James work on the mixer while you’re in the booth–”
“I wanna do this m’self,” Billie can hear the petulant pout from her dad’s voice, a rare break from his usual nonchalance. “James’ll jus’ fuck around too much–”
“You know he wouldn’t, Honeybee. Not when it comes to the girls.”
Billie’s eyes glisten as the new figure drapes her arm over Billie’s stomach, gingerly pulling her into an embrace. A ghost of a kiss presses the crown of Billie’s head– she swears she could feel it– while the voice continues to lull her into a relaxed state.
“See?” A strained huff slips through in the voice. “At least one of them agrees with me. Damn, I think Billie was the one who kicked hard–”
“Oi, no, Billie Jean! Be nice t’ yer mummy!”
Soft shuffling echoes in Billie’s ears as she watches her imaginary dad in front of her turn his eyes to her. His usual cat-like smile softens as he stares at her before he pushes himself up from Ramona’s bed. His long, languid strides back sets Billie’s heart thumping, his eyes reminding her of warmed treacle, before he sits on the edge of her bed. He reaches out, but his hand hovers past Billie and to the figure behind her.
“I t’ink Billie wants ya to join in–”
“Hell no, you know I can’t sing–”
“Oh c’mon, Cherry, ya sing t’ ‘em all the time–”
“When we go to bed–”
“Still counts–”
“Bee, I’m not a professional,” the voice chides with another melodic chuckle, “This is more of your lane–”
“But it’ll be more meanin’ful if it came from both of us.”
Billie’s heart twinges, her eyes starting to glisten. She pulls the mp3 player up to her face, only to see a random numbered file name. Was this supposed to be in there? Was this just some mistake mixed into the numerous songs on this player? Did Ramona skip this file because she didn’t know what it was? Is Billie even supposed to listen to this?
“C’mon, Cherry, sing that pretty song–”
“What, no!”
“Please? F’me? For mac ‘n cheese–”
“Don’t use the girls against me! They’re not even here yet– Hobart Brown, don’t you dare–!”
A startled shriek makes Billie flinch, but she soon relaxes at the chimes of laughter from both parents. The weight of both imaginary figures disappear from Billie’s sides, only for the two figures to dance in front of her in laughter– a younger version of her dad hugs the version of you in the old photo, but your stomach sticks out under your shirt like a watermelon. The voice slips through your lips in a giddy laugh while her dad spins you around the room, the dapples of moonlight dancing across the figures like some kind of fairy tale picture. A muffled ‘please’ echoes into Billie’s ears as her dad buries his face into the crook of your neck.
A long silence soon follows, and a sense of dread starts to sink into the pit of Billie’s stomach. The idea of you refusing to sing stings, even if you didn’t have to. What would you have sounded like? Would you only sing in private, with no prying ears from strangers trying to hear you?
Would Billie be a stranger to you–?
Your voice croons into Billie’s ears in a soft melody, your words laced in tender love, chasing away the thoughts muddling her mind. The lyrics stir a sense of nostalgia despite it being Billie’s first time hearing it, the ache in her chest growing bittersweet.
You sing so beautifully to Billie.
A stray tear rolls down the side of her face when she hears her dad’s deep timbre quietly join, an even rarer moment for Billie. Hobie Brown never sings– he only hoots and hollers on stage, only hums around her and the band. He claims his voice would shatter people’s ear drums until their ears bleed, that it’ll condemn the band’s songs like a wretched curse, that it’ll leave everyone deaf if they’re subjected to his singing.
This is a side of Hobie Brown Billie never knew existed.
Billie pauses the audio and rewinds it to the beginning of the song before slipping out of her bed, the figures of you and her dad disappearing. The elastic from Ramona’s borrowed bonnet around her head digs into her skin, but she ignores it as her feet pad across the room towards her sister. Billie’s hand trembles around the mp3 player, her throat tightening with an incoming sob, her eyes glistening even more. When Billie finally reaches the edge of the bed, she hesitantly nudges Ramona.
“Mon-Mon?”
A quiet grunt rumbles from Ramona as she shrugs Billie’s hand off. With a sniffle, Billie nudges her again, more insistent than before.
“Mon-Mon, listen t’ this with me.”
Another disgruntled groan slips through Ramona’s lips as she scoots away from Billie’s offending hand.
“Can’t it wait ‘til tomorrow?”
“No, ya hav’ta listen t’ it now.”
Ramona sluggishly kicks her feet in her bed with a whine before she turns towards the punk girl, her eyes still slightly swollen and glued together. Billie sits on the edge of the bed, earning another whine from her sister as the mattress sinks under her weight, before she tugs an earbud out of her pierced ear.
“Scoot over.”
“Wha– no, there’s no room–”
“Mon-Mon, please?”
The slight break in Billie’s voice briefly rouses Ramona, her eyes barely cracking open, before she closes them again with a relenting sigh. She scoots over to the other side of the bed, and Billie climbs in, leaving little room for them inside the twin bed. Billie gingerly tucks the free earbud into Ramona’s ear before pressing play.
“Slipping through my fingers all the time, I try to capture every minute…”
Your voice whispers in a serenade again through the small speakers. The slight frown on Ramona’s face starts to soften, and her body slowly sinks into the mattress as you beckon her to sleep, as if already familiar with your melody.
Billie ignores the prickling in her chest, focusing on the shift on her sister’s face as Dad quietly joins in.
“Do I really see what’s in her mind? Each time I think I’m close to knowing, she keeps on growing…”
The deep timbre of his voice hums through Billie’s ears, harmonizing with your own hushed one, lulling Billie into a trance-like haze in the cramped space. Ramona’s face relaxes even more from the lullaby-like song until she falls back into slumber, soft snores vibrating from her.
Billie’s eyes soon grow heavy the longer she listens, the beads of tears clinging to her lashes retreating back while your voice beckons her to sleep as well.
“Sometimes I wish that I could freeze the picture and save it from the funny tricks of time…”
Warmth slowly creeps into Billie’s chest as her consciousness slips from her fingers. Clinging to the last of your words, Billie finally dozes off with a final bead of a tear dripping from her lashes.
“Schoolbag in hand, she leaves home in the early morning, waving goodbye with an absent-minded smile…”
----
British Phrase of the Chapter:
Blank - blatantly ignore/ refuse to talk to someone
I forgot to say that I've opened requests this time around to celebrate 2k of lovelies!!!! Happy 2k besties! 🎉❤️❤️❤️ I love and appreciate all of you! ❤️
Pairing: Hobie Brown x fem! Reader/ Spider-Punk x fem! Reader
Word count: 7.7k
Synopsis: A date night gone wrong.
Tags: No use of Y/N, no specific physical description of the reader except for clothing, Dad! Hobie, Older! Hobie, Mum! Reader, parent AU, Billie and Ramona AU, established relationship, CW drinking, CW food mentions, Fluff!
A special thank you fic for @hyperfix-wip ❤️❤️❤️
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Dad! Hobie Masterlist
“Dad’s acting weird.”
Billie and Ramona’s hush whispers freeze in place, muffled words hanging in the air, as they stop in their tracks whilst they sit around in their shared bedroom. They both look at their younger brother, Kitt, with different expressions. Billie’s eyes are cartoonishly large, shocked at the sudden intrusion. While Mona raises a questioning brow when their little brother has never set foot in their bedroom, the last time was when he was a toddler asking them to play with him.
Mona beckons him over wordlessly, before her twin follows with the same gesture as if they have a secret of their own to be told.
Kitt sucks in his teeth, shutting the bedroom door quietly as he hears your giggles in the kitchen, probably because of a joke from their dad.
“What’d you hear, Kitty?” Billie whispers, patting the bed as she scooches back. Mona twists in her seat on the carpeted floor, chin resting atop the mattress, eyes boring into him like always.
“It’s not what I heard, it’s what I saw.” Sitting down, his sisters are intrigued by his words. Kitt rubs a hand over his tired face, almost a mirror of their dad’s exasperated look. “Dad picked me up from the debate club like always,” they stare at him with anticipation. “and he was all…weird when I got in.”
“How weird exactly?” Mona scrunches her nose at her brother.
“Details, Kitt, we need details!” While Billie snaps her fingers at him, prompting the ten year old to scoff and push her hand away.
“He called me ‘kiddo—’” They both gasp, before simultaneously rolling their mirrored eyes. “What? He doesn’t call me that! You both know that!”
“That’s it?” Billie scoffs, grabbing a chunky plushie, giving it a squeeze, head falling atop its soft head. “We thought we’d get more juicy details.” Her voice is muffled by the toy.
“W–well, that’s not all.” Both of their attention are back on him. “He was hiding something in the backseat jus’ under his jacket. I think it was a bouquet because it smelled like one but he never gave it to mum when we got home.”
“No!” Billie’s face contorts into agony.
“Bee, calm down, it’s probably jus’—” Mona tries to placate the older twin with a hand on her arm. But Billie brings the plushie to her face and screams into it. “A misunderstandin’, I swear you want a career in theatrics when you’re such a drama queen.”
Billie lifts her head up abruptly, scoffing loudly, offended by her twin’s comment. “This is mum and dad that we’re bloody talkin’ ’bout!”
“I don’t get it.” Kitt’s worried look says otherwise. “I mean, I might be wrong, it did kind of smelled like mummy’s perfume.”
“Please, mummy doesn’t use her flowery perfume unless there’s a special occasion.” Billie’s hands move around wildly, and Mona has to restrain her hands before she accidentally hits their little brother just like before and a few times before that. “Plus, we also think that daddy’s actin’ weird.”
“Don’t forget that mummy is actin’ weird too.” Ramona corrects casually, her tone is straight forward, stable like always but judging from the subtle knit of her brows under the light of Billie’s princess lamp, she’s just as concerned as her twin and little brother. Albeit more quiet and keeping the worry all to herself.
“Well,” Billie’s shoulders sag, biting the inside of her cheek. “That’s true.”
“What did mummy do that’s so weird?” Kitt’s worry is shown by the way he curls his legs against his chest and hugs it tightly.
“When she picked us up from practice, we stopped by a dry cleaner’s before she bought us ice cream—”
“You lot got ice cream?!” Kitt’s furrowed brows turn into an offended shock. “Where’s my ice cream?!”
“That’s why we love it when mum’s the one pickin’ us up.” Mona says in a sing-song tone, one that has Kitt blowing a raspberry at her.
“Can we focus on the bloody details?” Shaking her siblings, Billie brings them back on track. “She went to pick up her LBD from the dry cleaners, which, number one, she only wears that dress when dad takes her somewhere fancy. And B, she bloody hates the dry cleaners. She’d rather do it herself!”
“First off, what the bloody hell is a LBD?”
“And why did you start with a number then end off with a letter?” Ramona adds whilst Kitt nods.
“You lot are clueless.” Rubbing her face dramatically, Billie thumps her hands on her plushie with frustration. “An LBD means little black dress, also why are we glossin’ over the fact that she got us ice cream after gettin’ the dress from the cleaners, hm?” She pauses for effect. “To buy our silence!”
“That makes sense.” Thinking, the cogs in Ramona’s head turn as Billie spreads her arms with an ‘exactly!’ expression. “I don’t remember a special day today though. It’s not their anniversary, or any of their birthdays.”
“Unless we forgot.” Kitt’s eyes widen, snapping his finger in a light bulb moment.
“No, Kitt, we didn’t forget the date.” Rolling her eyes, Mona bites her thumb, a nervous tick of hers as she continues to think of a reasonable reason as to why their parents are being so weird and secretive around them. “Maybe they’re goin’ to a funeral?”
“That’s the reason you can come up with, genius?” Huffing, Billie scratches her cheek, accidentally nicking the star pimple patch on her face before wincing and putting it back on lopsidedly. “They would’ve told us and have either auntie Yuri or Uncle Ned to watch over us.”
“Or uncle James.” Kitt says with a grin.
“Mum will never let uncle James babysit us alone ever since he let us watch cabin in the woods.”
“It was a good movie though.” Mona chuckles at the memory of you literally shaking their uncle James and chastising him until he was pouting and in near tears.
“Wait, why is dad actin’ weird ‘round the two of you?” Scooching closer, Kitt whispers when his ears pick up the sound of your humming in the hallway before fading away into your shared room with their dad.
“It happened yesterday actually.” Billie understands when she also hears your humming and their dad’s familiar footsteps following right behind you. She waits for the door to close, even hearing the lock click in place before she continues. “Before we got in the van just before school, he was in a phone call, which he had to put down immediately when he saw us near the car.”
“Then he was actin’ all weird all of a sudden,” Mona continues. “askin’ us if we had breakfast and where you were even when he ate with us and you were literally at the front door gettin’ attacked by mum’s goodbye kisses.”
“Then, get this.” Leaning close as her siblings mirror her movements, they listen closely at Billie’s next words. “There was an unknown number callin’ him before you got in, Kitty, then he quickly canceled it at the speed of light.”
“I’ve seen him dodge a knife from goblin but I’ve never seen him drop a call that fast.” Ramona once again finished her twin’s sentence.
“So, what do we think it is then?” Frowning, hands wringing together, Kitt inhales deeply. “What if they’re—”
“Nope, nuh uh.” Hands shutting her ears, Billie frantically shakes her head. “I refuse to say it!”
“But, they’re not like that, right?” Ramona’s forlorn eyes is what breaks the camel’s back that has the siblings on edge. “I mean, they still love each other.”
“We still see ‘em kiss and hug.” Kitt embraces his legs tighter as Billie drags him to her side to hug him instead and gives him her plushie for comfort.
“That’s true, it won’t be like that one time with uncle Peter and MJ?”
Billie and Kitt’s attention turns to their sister, deeply frowning and disapproving of her comment.
“Definitely not.” Forcing out a chuckle, Billie snorts and waves the lingering question away. “They’re very much in love!”
As if on cue, you knock on their door, peeking through, hair tousled compared to before, whilst you have a giddy smile on your lips. “Dinner’s ready. Dad made pasta and garlic bread.”
Hobie peeks above your head, having the same lopsided smile as his hand cups your waist lovingly. “Last one down gets the butt of the toast.” He then bolts downstairs, which Billie immediately follows behind, leaving her siblings in the dust. She leans up to peck your cheek on the way down the stairs.
“Careful!” Chuckling, you watch Billie jump on her dad’s back on the stair landing.
“Bee!” Mona stomps her foot down before running after her twin, doing the same as she kisses your temple before sliding down the stairs on the bannister, gaining speed.
“Not fair!” Kitt pulls up his one lousy sock, almost tripping over it as you reach for him with a hand and a smile. “‘m goin’ to get the butt of the bread, mum!”
Wrapping him in your arm, you assure him with a pat on his back. “If we go down together then they won’t know who’s last, so we both won’t get the butt of the toast. And your dad doesn’t have the heart to give it to us, baby.”
Smiling, Kitt hugs back as you gently lead him down the stairs. He thinks that his worries are just that, worries, and something his own mind has concocted when there’s no proof to connect it all to. He’s sure that there’s a valid explanation to things and not what he’s dreading when his mum and dad are still absolutely in love with each other.
“What were you gossiping about with your sisters, hm? Any juicy details I can know?” You ask, matching his smile, seeing him hide his ‘caught digging into the cookie jar’ expression that’s reminiscent of his dad’s face whenever you catch him snacking in the kitchen with the kids at midnight.
“Uh, jus’ school stuff.”
“Is it about Tina? I heard that she’s dragging her feet through calculus and giving your sister the cold shoulder again.”
“Sure, mummy, yeah, it’s ‘bout…her.”
“Mona’s got her hands full with tutoring this year, I’m sure.”
Kitt listens in, watching your face light up when Hobie presents the dining table like one of the show presenters in the telly that you seem to love watching with his dad every Friday night. Your smiles and Hobie’s gentle hand sliding upon your palm makes Kitt forget all about his concerns when you still look undoubtedly in love with his dad.
—
“Billie! You’ll be late!” You yell up the stairs while Hobie helps Kitt with placing the finishing touches on his diorama.
“In a minute!” Your oldest yells back, huffing and puffing from the way her feet frantically stomps around her room, for sure still getting dressed at the last minute.
It’s never a dull moment in the morning in the Brown household with all three kids going to school now. You still remember the day when the girls were crying their eyes out during their first day in kindergarten. They weren’t the only ones crying on that day though, you’d think you would cry but Hobie’s stifled sob in the car when the girls were dropped off at school had you comforting him instead.
Kitt wasn’t any better though, he didn’t cry or throw a tantrum, he was calm and quiet, even a bit excited with his Spider-Man lunchbox in hand. But when your youngest went home that day with the deepest frown you’ve ever seen, claiming that he hates school and never wants to go ever again, you thought that you had to home school one kid. Despite all the hurdles, the girls are doing great in school, and thanks to their pep talk to their little brother, who looked like he wanted to burn the whole house down, he went back to school the next day and made a good friend that made school better for him.
All in all, you and Hobie did a great job with them, even when Billie stomps her foot at you, or when Mona gives you the silent treatment, and when Kitt is being smart with you, they’re growing up to be great someday. Just like their dad, who is currently struggling with the hot glue gun that’s burning his fingertips.
Wincing, Hobie flinches but finishes Kitt’s diorama of the London bridge that everyone had to pitch in last night and help to finish it before bed.
“There you go, Kittkat, I don’t have my fingerprints anymore but who needs it anyway, hm?” Messing his son’s hair, Hobie admires the work. “Spider-Man swingin’ on it is a bloody nice touch.”
“You only say that, dad, because it’s you.” Mona comments, struggling to put all her books inside her backpack that’s already full.
“Bein’ proud of yourself is a good trait to have, innit?” He says, fixing up Kitt’s afro when he gave him the signature Kitt death glare.
“Isn’t that jus’ pride?” She adds, smiling and joking around as Hobie tosses a popsicle stick at her which she catches effortlessly thanks to her inherited reflexes.
Chuckling, you take the bundle of books from her and put it inside a separate tote bag instead. “There, now you won’t end up having a hunched back when you’re twenty.”
“Thanks, mummy.” Smiling softly, Mona closes her backpack, and with your help, you put the tote bag around her shoulder.
“You’re welcome, I know you’re going to kill your presentation today.”
“I hope so, or it’ll end up killin’ me first.” Huffing, she tilts her head to look back at the stairs. “Billie, it’s not funny anymore! We’ll be late!”
You almost flinch at the sudden volume coming from your quietest child. Eyes meeting with Hobie’s, he makes a face, smiling as he kneels down to tuck Kitt’s trouser pants inwards lest he trips over them.
“I can’t find my favorite earrings!” Billie shrieks back, frustration rolling off her tone.
“The cherry one?” You and Mona say simultaneously, chuckling at each other briefly before you sigh and decide to help Billie or else she’ll suffer the wrath of her twin. “It’s in your ballerina box, Bee.”
“Cheese,” Hobie calls for his daughter as he stands back up, knees creaking. “Don’t forget that auntie Yuri’s goin’ to pick you all up later, yeah?”
“Why is auntie Yuri goin’ to pick us up exactly?” Like a detective, Ramona questions Hobie with a raised brow.
“I told you,” she could practically see the beads of sweat rolling down his temple. While Kitt watches on through suspicious eyes. “Your mum has her appointment and I have patrol.”
“An appointment to where?” Arms crossed over her chest, Mona goes head to head with her dad. “Hair salon, doctor’s?”
Kitt’s eyes widen at the last word. “Is mummy okay?”
“Mummy’s fine, drum Kitt.” He reassures with a cheek pat. “She has a thing at the library, the readin’ stories for kids, remember?”
“Right, yeah, I remember now.” For now, Mona backs off.
Humming, Hobie gazes at her through narrowed eyes before stomping over to her with his heavy boots and embracing her from behind, blowing raspberries at her cheek like back when she was little.
“Dad!” Giggling and kicking her feet about, Mona’s shrieks echo around the house.
“Why are you bein’ so nosy, huh?”
“I jus’ wanted to know!” She says in between giggles. “Daddy, my hair! Mum’s gonna kill you if you ruin it!”
With a roll of his eyes, Hobie brings Mona back down. Patting her head just to add to her annoyance, he lets out an obnoxious guffaw as he opens the front door.
“Start the car for me, Cheese.” Tossing the car keys at Mona, she catches it effortlessly whilst putting her backpack on. “Help Kitt with his project, yeah?”
“Yeah, yeah, dad.” Beckoning Kitt over, Mona grabs the diorama carefully and brings it to the car.
“Oi, Kitty.” Hobie yanks his son back by the strap of his backpack as Kitt scrunches his nose at his father. “Eat your lunch today, don’t want you gettin’ sick again.”
“But ‘m not hungry.”
Kneeling down to Kitt’s height, he realizes that his son has gotten taller when he has to crane his neck up to face him. “Jus’ eat a little bit.” Smiling softly, Hobie pokes his belly playfully. “Tell you what, have half of a sandwich and the orange slices and we’ll bring you to the record shop on the weekend, deal?”
Kitt thinks it over, a frown slowly replaced by a small smile. “Okay, deal.” He stretches his hand for a shake which Hobie gladly does before ushering him to the car.
Standing up, knees creaking, Hobie sighs in relief. “Billie Jean Brown!”
“Comin’!” Loud footsteps echo as she sprints down the steps. Billie almost falls from the last step but with Hobie’s quick reflexes, he catches her in time. “Mum found it, it was under my bed.”
“Good, next time keep it safe. Go, you’ll be late, again.” Patting her back, Hobie gently pushes her through the door whilst she giggles and mumbles about her being late ‘a team effort.’
Inhaling deeply, your palm lands on the small of his back, squeezing softly as he turns to you with a smirk. “Hey,” Biting your lip, he takes your hand and kisses the back of it lovingly. “Be careful out there, okay?”
“Always, lovie.” Soft eyes land on you, Hobie resists the urge to kiss you right there and then, but he knows that his children will be more tardy if he does. So he settles with a peck on the cheek, letting his lips linger for a second longer before pulling away. “Any plans later?”
Cheeks warm, hands clammy, you swear that a bead of sweat dribbled down your temple. “Maybe.”
“Yeah? Me too.”
“Hobie.”
“Hm?” His amused smile and raised brows has your heart aflutter.
“Go. We can’t be called to school again for their attendance.” Turning him around, hands on his shoulders, you usher him out to the porch and into the morning sun. But before you could let him go, you lean over and kiss his jaw sweetly. “Love you.”
“Love you, too, I’ll see you later—”
The car horn blares out with Mona at the wheel and looking frustrated at her parents. “Let’s go, please!”
Chuckling, and mirroring each other’s smiles, Hobie gives you one last look, winking over his shoulder before getting inside the car to face the day ahead.
—
Yuri’s car radio shakes the whole vehicle, punk rock music blaring through the speakers. Once she’s in the school zone, she lowers the volume but her loud singing persists as she looks for the carbon copies of Hobie.
“What’s up, banana one and banana two.” The brakes squeak as she stops in front of a waiting Billie and Ramona. “You two look like you need ice cream.”
“More like rum ice cream.” Mona mumbles under her breath, pulling the van door open and sliding inside with a loud relieved sigh.
“What clawed up her ass and did you steal her space pants again, Bee?”
“Not this time, auntie.” Billie huffs, sliding beside her sister as the door shuts with a thud. “Her presentation almost failed.”
“Because my groupmates didn’t do their part so I had to riff off what I read!” Mona slouches, looking miserable as she runs a hand on her face. “I knew I should’ve jus’ worked by myself.”
“Ouch, that’s rough, buddy.” Yuri pats Mona’s knee, giving her a small smile. “Extra scoop?”
“Make that three, please, auntie.” Voice muffled by her hand, Mona melts into the seat as Billie puts her seatbelt for her.
“My poor wallet but I’ll just ask your dad to pay—”
“Is that Kitt?” Billie suddenly lunges to the front of the car, pointing at her little brother, who’s currently walking further away from the car. “Where is he goin’?”
“Maybe he didn’t see us, hold on.” Worried, Yuri starts the car immediately and rolls it slowly beside the sidewalk where Kitt is walking. “Hey, I’ve got candy, hop in, kiddo.”
With his head buried inside a book, Kitt’s eyes widen for a moment before realization hits him. “Auntie Yuri! You scared me!”
Chortling, Yuri gestures for him to get in. “Come on, we’re all going for ice cream—”
“No, we need to follow dad!” Swiftly, Kitt heads inside the car in record time whilst his sisters give him similar looks, eyebrows raised like it was copied and pasted on their faces. “Let’s go!”
“Kitt, don’t be rude.” Billie flicks her brother’s forehead.
“You okay? What’s up with dad?” Mona looks over Billie and over to a wincing Kitt.
“Yeah, what’s wrong, Kitty?” Yuri’s concern is evident on her face.
“Remember last night when I said that dad was actin’ weird?” The twins nod. “I put a GPS tracker in his suit while he was asleep jus’ to see, and look.” Turning the book around, he reveals a flickering screen tucked inside the pages with the city’s map right on it where a red dot is moving quickly.
“You’re the one that’s actin’ weird, Kitty.” Billie nibbles on the end of her braids, eyes glancing at her brother then over to the screen.
“He stopped at our house an hour ago and he’s goin’ out again to where he already finished his patrol!” Groaning, he gestures wildly. “He rarely does that! And I didn’t hear any police chatter in that area.”
“So that’s where my scanner went!” Ramona scoffs, offended.
“Can’t you two jus’ focus!”
The girls lean close to the screen as Yuri blinks her confusion away.
“Well, that’s not weird, he sometimes goes home to eat or to go to the bathroom.” Mona, ever the realistic one, utters steadily.
“Yeah, but I bet he doesn’t go to a fancy hotel right after. Look.” Billie points at the screen, where the dot slows down beside a known hotel.
“That son of a—!” Grinding her teeth, Yuri revs up her engine. “Put on your seatbelts, kids!”
They do as they’re told, bracing themselves as Yuri probably breaks a dozen or so road laws in the process.
The ride to the hotel was filled with tension, apprehension can be felt through the trio as Billie gnaws on the ends of her hair nervously, Mona biting her thumb, and with Kitt wringing his hands together. Yuri was more furious though, rather than nervous, as if she already knew what her best mate is up to in his age with three kids and a loving wife at home.
As the car slows to a stop, the girls gasp at something, eyes wide as they point at the Hotel entrance. “There’s dad!”
“And he’s wearin’ a suit? With a bouquet of flowers?” Scrunching her nose, Billie is flabbergasted by the fact that her father, of all people, is wearing a suit during a random Friday. “Huh, he actually looks good.”
Kitt’s concern grows, slinking into his seat as his stomach turns into knots. His anxiety gnaws at him even further when her sisters gasp in tandem, faces falling as they see him go to the hotel bar through the wide clear windows as he sits beside a woman.
“Wait, isn’t that your mum’s car?” Yuri points at a parked car with the same make and plates as the family car. “Is she here too—? Oh.”
“Oh?!” Mona’s nerves escalate. “D’you know somethin’ ‘bout this, auntie?” Chest heaving, worried that her parents are tangled up with something bad. Or worse, something that she doesn’t even want to say out loud.
“Well, I’ve got a theory—” the car door suddenly slams open and out comes Kitt rushing outside, dodging cars as he sprints towards his dad. “Kitt!”
“Shit! Kitt!” The twins simultaneously yell, clicking their seatbelts off and immediately running towards him. People give them weird looks, and the valet does a double take at the running pair.
“Oh, fuck, gorgeous is gonna kill me.” Panicking, Yuri follows suit, a car honks at her which she gives the finger to as she makes it to the trio before they could catch up with a dapper looking Hobie.
—
You stare at yourself in the mirror, the dress fits you perfectly, cinching just the right amount around your curves. As you smack your lips together, pinky cleaning up the edges, you back away further from the mirror to admire your handiwork. The red lipstick you chose is a pretty contrast to the black dress, and the dainty silver jewelry is the cherry on top. Not bad for someone juggling three kids and a vigilante husband.
Inhaling deeply, incessantly tugging down at your dress, your palms grow sweaty with every second you stare at yourself. You haven’t looked like this in ages when you’ve been so busy with attending recitals, helping with homework and tending to wounds, sometimes all in the same day. Twisting around, you nickpick at every little thing on you, from the small fluff sticking to the dress, to the loose thread hanging on the hem and a stray glitter on your cheek. You’re one misplaced thing away from yanking the dress off you and throwing it in the laundry basket.
After you fix what’s bothering you, you take deep breaths in front of the mirror. Nerves light up your senses as you spray your favorite perfume around you. The smell reminds you of Hobie when he gave it to you during one of the many anniversaries. It never fails to bring a smile to your face, until now that is. Nervous is an understatement, you feel like your legs are turning to jelly, hands trembling as you grab your purse, and fingers feeling numb as you take off your wedding ring and tuck it safely inside the bag.
“What the fuck are you doing?” Whispering to yourself, you take one last deep inhale and exhale before walking outside of the bedroom, onto the quiet house and out to the car.
There’s a lump in your throat whenever your eyes dart towards the empty ring finger on the steering wheel. Focusing on the road, you suck in your teeth as the car gets closer and closer towards the hotel. The building rises high amidst the concrete jungle, and you had to wipe down your hands on a handkerchief lest you coat the wheel with sweat.
You exit the car in front of the valet, smiling sweetly as you pass the keys to him. The building looms over you, big, sparkly and sleek around the edges that reminds you of James’ parents’ house during that one time you and Hobie visited for his birthday.
When you step foot inside, the automatic doors opening for you, the space is finely decorated and enormous. Marble floors and columns that are so clean that you could see your reflection on it. You take a whiff of the place, smelling like lavender with a hint of money lingering in the air. It’s all crystal chandeliers and rolling suitcases from business people around. It all makes you more nervous than before while you bite the inside of your cheek.
Suits walk around with their attention on their phones like zombies following a meat on a stick. Hobie would roll his eyes at them, and you’d chuckle and tease him about wearing an expensive suit as a dare. But you shake your head and wave the thought away from your mind, focusing towards the hotel bar just beside the lobby.
The place oozes with luxury, full leather seats, oak tables and warm chandelier lights that illuminate onto the fully stocked bar. Sitting down, you fix your skirt, clearing your throat as the bartender slides towards you.
“A martini, please.” The man nods and heads to make your drink for you.
Your ears pick up the sound of someone sitting on the stool beside you even though there are plenty of chairs to sit on. But you understand quickly when you get a whiff of a man’s perfume, burgundy and oak with a hint of citrus. Something that brings a smile to your face.
“A pint, please.” He places his order with finesse, warm eyes glancing at you just as you look back. A large bouquet of flowers sits beside his arm on the bar, dainty baby’s breath, red roses and pink tulips all bundled up prettily.
“Isn’t it too early for a pint?”
Chuckling deeply, he turns his attention to you. A tailored suit fits him perfectly, all black and sleek. The first two buttons of his shirt are unbuttoned, showing off stacked silver necklaces that match his chunky rings. There’s silver hair weaved through his locs, salt and pepper curls that has your heart racing even more. He loosens his cuffs, taking off the cufflinks and pocketing it all.
“Isn’t it too early for a martini?” He replies, a suave tone laden with his comment.
“Touché” You say above the rim of your glass. The alcohol warms your insides, giving you the much needed liquid bravery.
“Thanks, mate.” The man says as the glass slides to his palm, no wedding ring in sight.
“Waiting for someone?” You ask, throat still feeling the lingering warmth as your finger dances along the rim of the glass.
“I was.” Sipping on his pint, he swallows thickly, throat bobbing up and down as he sets down his glass. “Got stood up.”
“Lucky.”
He turns to you with a raised pierced brow. “How is that lucky, hm?”
“What I meant was, lucky me.” Fluttering your lashes, you smile brightly, giving him your most sultry look.
A smile replaces his confused look, giving you a friendly hand, rings shimmering, fingers lithe and long, the stranger looks deeply into your eyes. “Hobie Brown, might as well introduce myself to the lucky one.”
Taking his hand gently, letting his fingers wrap around yours, you shake him, pulse beating rapidly, easing more and more with every second he holds onto you. You tell him your name, and a familiar grin spreads across his face. “Nice to meet you.”
“You too.” Releasing your hand, his pinky lingering for a moment, his eyes never stray too far from yours. As if he’s looking deeply into your very soul, seeing you for who you are. “So, why are you ‘ere, love? Bloke stood you up?”
“Nope, I’m here for business. A convention.” You manage to say, feeling the warmth settling in the pit of your stomach.
“Fancy,” Hobie takes another sip, lashes fluttering as you watch his adam’s apple move whilst he swallows like you’re some lovesick teenage girl. With a thumb, he wipes the foam off the top of his lip, eyes honing in on yours as he licks the pad of his finger clean. He knows what he did, and sure enough, he gives you a smug smirk. “So, what d’you do?”
“Hm? What?” You blink, bringing yourself back down to earth. “Sorry, what did you say?”
Chuckling, Hobie reaches for your hand gripping onto the glass tightly. “Can I?” He asks but takes your hand gently off of the glass anyway. “There, wouldn’t want you shatterin’ it, do we?”
“No we don’t.” Sighing longingly, you shake your head, remembering that you should be the one flirting so effortlessly. “Um, I work in finance…yeah, finance.”
He tamps down an amused smile. “You look like it.”
“Do I?” You ask with a grin, before composing yourself, and clearing your throat. “Yeah, fancy job requires a fancy dress.”
Hobie hides his grin behind the mouth of his glass. “You look beautiful.” He says genuinely, foot nudging yours under the bar. “Fuckin’ gorgeous.”
You bite your lip, throwing a leg above the other casually. “And you look handsome, really…” your eyes glance him up and down before flicking your attention back to his soft eyes and even softer smile. “...hot.”
He almost chokes on his drink, “shit, you’re straightforward. I guess you deserve this more than anyone.” Sliding the bouquet over to you, paper crinkling as the scent of the flowers waft over your nose and triumphs over the scent of liquor.
“Why thank you. I do like tulips.” Your fingers dance along the petals, gliding softly, as Hobie finds himself glued onto the sight of your fingers. “Are you sure? Maybe your date will show up.”
“Who fuckin’ cares anymore.” Muttering under his breath, throat tight and fists curled around the other before he clears his throat and gathers his composure. “Nah, she won’t show up. What about your convention?”
Shaking your head, scooching closer, knee to knee as your hand crawls atop his own before he turns his hand to hold onto you fully. “I’m right where I’m supposed to be.”
“In that case, I’ve got a room upstairs.”
“Now who’s being too straightforward?” Whispering lowly, thumb rubbing along his wrist, his other hand reaches for your hip, warm and calloused as he grips onto you with familiarity that raises your heartbeat.
“Is that a yes or no?”
“Do I still get to keep the flowers if I say no?” The two of you inch closer to each other with every word.
He chuckles, a roaming hand sliding down further from your hip down to your thigh. “Of course, it’s yours now.”
“It’s a yes then—”
“Dad!”
A familiar squeak yells from behind, followed by a chorus of angry voices yelling the same name. Your whole family marches angrily towards you, and you shrink behind Hobie, chugging down your expensive martini before it goes to waste.
Hobie furrows his brows, spidey senses failing him as he turns and meets with the very angry faces of his children plus his best mate and a couple of frantic hotel workers lagging just behind them.
“Why are you cheatin’ on mummy?!” Kitt stomps his foot down, almost in tears but still absolutely furious.
“You wanker!” The twins yell at the same time. If Kitt didn’t gather enough attention before, they definitely have it now as heads turn towards the bar. Some shake their heads in disappointment, the others hide their faces behind the menu.
“Hobie, you little shit— oh hi gorgeous!” Yuri changes tune quickly when she finally sees you behind Hobie, unintentionally obscured by him and the flowers. “We fucked up, didn’t we?”
“Wait, what?” Billie furrows her brows, a face that’s a mirror of her sister’s as she squints her eyes at you, as if she barely recognizes you in your ensemble. “Oh, hi, mum— shit!”
“Billie, watch your language.” You say, albeit unsurely when you and Hobie are in the forefront of everyone’s attention.
“‘m so confused, what, why?” Mona rakes her hand through her hair, for the first time having no answer to her confusion.
“Mummy?” Kitt flashes his big tearful eyes at you, lips wobbling and fists tightly curled around. “What’s goin’ on?” He runs to you, and your arms immediately receive him, patting his back and pecking his temple. “I thought—” his face buries into your side, tears staining your dress, but you don’t mind as you kick Hobie’s leg to wake him up from his stupor.
You’ve seen him battle it out with a giant lizard and a living sandstorm but you’ve never seen him this frozen before. The last time he was this speechless was when you confessed to him.
“I—”
“Sir, please escort your children out of the hotel.” An employee says, wincing and nursing his shin that has a very familiar footprint right on his trouser leg.
“Right, sorry.” Hobie hops off his stool, slamming the bills onto the bar, paying the tab and ushering his family out of there.
People watch on with judging eyes, but you ignore them as Hobie’s hand upon the small of your back guides you and Kitt out. Ramona narrows her eyes between you and Hobie, while Billie hides her embarrassment behind the bouquet of flowers.
Yuri circles back, grabs the half empty pint and downs it all down, sends a wink at a woman staring from the end of the bar and does it all within a minute before following behind you and your family.
Once outside of the hotel and beside the family van, the trio turns to you and Hobie with similar looks of disappointment, confusion and anger. Which can all be seen on their faces, mirrored faces that are almost a carbon copy of Hobie’s handsome face. It’s like you’re being judged by his clones.
“Did you kick that poor bloke?” Hobie starts, only to be cut off by Kitt’s sniff. He then softens, crouching down to meet with his eyes. “Kitt, mum and I are sorry.”
“We didn’t mean to worry all of you.” You cross the small distance, a hand atop each girls’ heads, but neither of them relent, still furious as they refuse to meet with your eyes.
“Awkward…” Yuri says in a sing-song tone, leaning against the van door with a smile. “Oh boy, am I so glad that I don’t have a kid.”
“Yuri, kindly.” Hobie gestures for her to walk away.
“What about the kids?” She replies, sneaking a wink your way. “I mean, what about your plans?”
“Yuri, thank you for picking them up but we’ve got this.” You say with a much kinder tone than Hobie.
“In that case,” clicking her tongue rhythmically, she does finger guns at the five of you, before twisting around and walking back to the hotel with a pep in her step. “Good luck!”
An awkward silence envelopes around your whole family. The sounds of the car horns and the mindless chatter around adds to the tension.
“So?” Billie is the first to break the ice. “What’s all this then?”
“And why all the secrets?” Her sister finishes the sentence, arms crossed over her chest.
You glance at Hobie with trepidation as you bite your lip. Kitt doesn’t look any happier, his face is all scrunched up, pouting and mirroring Mona’s stance. Meanwhile, the twins demand an answer, and knowing them, they won’t leave without getting it.
“Well,” Hobie reaches for your hand, and you take it as he tugs you to his side. “We should get inside the van first.”
“Nah.” The twins say at the same time in the same steady tone.
“Right.” He glances at you unsurely. His hand squeezes you once, twice, thrice for comfort. “We were on a date, that’s all.”
“You could’ve told us.” Kitt finally adds with a face that mimics Hobie’s glower. “Like always.”
“Well, your dad and I wanted to keep this one a secret. Because sometimes, couples need some time alone together, and just be…” you turn to Hobie for an answer.
“Themselves, yeah, themselves.”
“You mean, without us?” Mona asks, biting her thumb as she sighs.
“Yeah, I mean, sort of.” You backtrack immediately. “Your dad and I have been together for a really long time, sometimes we need to find something new to do. And we haven’t been to a fancy place like this so we thought, why not have a date here, right?” You elbow Hobie’s side gently.
“Right! It’s like bein’ tired of the same pub so we go to another pub.” He side eyes you, looking for approval as you nod and give him a subtle thumbs up.
“That’s it?” Billie rolls her eyes and raises a brow. “We thought you two were actin’ weird ‘cause you were cheatin’ on each other.”
Hobie grasps onto his imaginary pearls, shocked that they would even consider that. “Mac, I wouldn’t do that to your mum, you all know that. That’s bloody horrible to think that we would do that.”
“We love each other, we wouldn’t even think about doing that.” You reassure further, as you see their demeanors ease up with every reassuring words. “My loves, we’re sorry that we made you all worry.” Crouching down, senses telling you to open your arms, which you do as Kitt quickly parks himself in your arms and hides his face in the crook of your neck. “Oh, I’m so sorry, baby.” Patting his back, the girls then glances at their dad simultaneously.
“We’re sorry, mac and cheese. We should’ve jus’ told you lot ‘bout our plans.”
Billie’s the first one to hug Hobie as Mona stands her ground.
“Mon-mon?” Hobie gestures for her as he hugs Billie.
“It’s okay to keep secrets sometimes but you both made Kitty worried sick.” She sniffs, frowning deeply. “You made us worry, we thought we’d have to celebrate two separate birthdays and two different holidays.”
Billie pokes her head out of Hobie’s side. “I thought we’d have to parent trap you two.”
You let out a chuckle as Billie then moves to you for a much needed embrace, which you hug back wholeheartedly. Ramona looks at the scene, decides back and forth but one look at her dad’s soft eyes, she crumbles and runs to him for a hug.
“I’m sorry for kickin’ the bell boy.” She says against his blazer, muffled by the suit. “And callin’ you a wanker.”
“That was you?” Hobie tries to hide being too proud in his tone lest they get used to kicking people. Especially after you glare at him briefly. “Maybe don’t do that anymore.”
“C’mon, let’s order something greasy and watch something cheesy.” You announce, pecking each of your children’s heads lovingly.
—
The girls are all tuckered out as the movie continues to play in the background. Pizza boxes are all that’s left of dinner, dirty cups and plates are strewn across the table, along with a couple pints of ice cream because you just can’t say no to your babies that are quickly growing up. One day they’ll realize exactly what happened today, and it’ll shatter what they currently know, but for now, you’ll listen to their soft snores, watch their breathing rise and fall and cuddle up beside them until the day they decide that they’re too cool to hug you.
Ramona is curled up on her armchair, her quilt laid atop her, courtesy of her dad. Meanwhile, Billie is splayed on the longer side of the couch, arms spread, looking like a starfish as her favorite plushie threatens to fall from her side. Her quilt is kicked down near her feet, clearly sleeping unbothered without it. While you and Hobie are settled on the couch comfortably with Kitt on the precipice of falling asleep in between the two of you.
Your hand runs along his head, careful of his curls as you see his lashes flutter close. “You can sleep, Kitty, dad will carry you to bed.”
“I wanna see…” his voice falters, sinking further into your side. “...the toys get back together.”
“You’ve seen this movie a dozen times, Kittkat.” Hobie whispers, tucking the blanket under his chin.
Your son only answers with a hum, before finally falling asleep in your arms.
“Fuckin’ hell.” Hobie’s tensed shoulders eases up, head falling backwards on the couch as you let out a quiet chuckle.
“I know.” Nudging his foot with your own, he answers with his socked foot looping around yours in a sort of hug. “I think we did pretty well, considering.”
Hobie raises his head, an arm thrown behind you and over Kitt as the TV lights flicker on his handsome face. He now wears an old loose band shirt, and his typical black sweatpants all topped with his mismatched socks, a guitar and a bat printed on it. And yet, you still find him just as hot when he was wearing the suit. Hotter even when he looks more relaxed, surrounded by his kids and his lovie.
“Yeah, why would they think I’d cheat on you?” He still looks seriously offended by that.
“Look at it from their perspective, their usual punk dad was wearing a sharp suit while holding onto a bouquet of flowers and walking inside a fancy hotel that you’ve said wasn’t your scene.” You say with a smile, fingers inching closer to his, atop the back of the couch.
“That’s…yeah, I’d think that too. But, shit, lovie, you know I wouldn’t, right?” He’s the one to close the distance, tugging onto your hand as he holds you wholeheartedly. His wedding ring clinks against yours. “I wouldn’t in a million bloody years.”
“I know,” bringing his hand to your lips, you peck him affectionately as the frown on his face turns into a loving smile. “And I wouldn’t do that either.” His heartbeat syncs with you simply from the reassurance. “I gotta hand it to you though, you were good at roleplaying.”
“Yeah?” A giddy look appears on his face. “Oscar worthy?”
“Hmm, maybe more of a golden globe.”
“Ah, fuck off.” Joking, the two of you laugh, the sound that has Billie twitching in her sleep. He pats her, like back when she was still a baby and she immediately relaxes.
“I don’t think it quite worked though. You were right about the venue, it didn’t seem very much like us.”
“Oh, thank fuck.” It’s his turn to kiss the back of your hand. “I thought you were into it.”
“Well, I was way into the suit.” A smug grin appears on his face as he puffs out his chest. “You looked fucking fit but that really wasn’t our scene. It was too stuffy. I’d rather be at our pub sharing a plate of fish and chips or be at home watching crappy movies while we rag on it. It was nice though, for a minute or so until I remembered the price of the drinks.”
Hobie muffles his laugh atop the couch cushions. “Yeah, we could always try it again, in a different place next time, and with the kids knowin’ where we’re going. It was…thrillin’.”
“But not all the details.”
“Not all of it.” Hobie reiterates with a grin, thumb running along the back of your hand. “Maybe I should return the suit. We can afford it ‘cause you bein’ in finance and all that.” That earns a giggle from you that you have to muffle with a hand.
Biting your lip, you look at him with a flirty expression, bedroom eyes immediately have him sitting up straight with a lopsided smile. “Or maybe in a few days, what’s the rush? I still have the receipt anyway.”
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