Hi, I'm Nyashia. But, you guys can refer to me as Asia, Ny Ny, or Yume(if you wanna go by my username). I'm 20+ years old, part of way too many fandoms, and my fixtation at the moment happens to be Spider-Man😔. Fanfics come out slowly but surely, I guess😭🤚
Ao3 account:
An Archive of Our Own, a project of the
Organization for Transformative Works
Masterlist:
Hobie Brown/Spider-Punk🕸
I Want It (all come true) --ongoing...
Cater To You
My Love (Adorn You)
The Eye of Her Storm (Sailor! Hobie x Sea Goddess! R)
Hunger Pains (Tokyo Ghoul au)
For Science!
The Demon I Cling To (Demon! Hobie collection)
Accusations! False accusations!
Two Hearts In Mine (Roommates! Hobie & Ekko collection/ Modern AU)
Pairing: Lyonel Baratheon x fem! Reader/ The Laughing Storm x fem! Reader
Word count: 3.7k
Synopsis: Faced with war brought by your own doing, you are forced to be hidden in the Tower of Joy whilst awaiting the birth of your son. Little did you know you carry a dragon, not a stag.
Tags: No use of Y/N, no specific physical description of the reader except for clothing, established relationship, an alternative ending to my series "where's my husband!" Ending 1 of 2 of the Aerion what if (Lyonel's Rebellion), Arryn! Reader, CW blood and death, canon typical violence, mentions of childbirth, Reader was married to Aerion first, Angst.
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Lyonel Baratheon Masterlist
Lyonel's Rebellion
Ending one >>> Ending two
Lyonel comes back to the Tower of Joy with a bright grin on his face despite the gore on his armour and the blood marring his face.
His beard is covered in flesh and blood, not his, Aerion’s. The Lord of Storm’s End shattered every bone the prince had, broke his breast plate into two, cleaving the Targaryen open. Lyonel could still hear the prince’s last words in his broken throat— your name spilling from his bloodied maw, a plea, a sorrowful apology mayhaps, but Lyonel couldn’t care less as he stared down at him in the middle of the battlefield. He watched as the light left your husband’s eyes with a laugh bubbling in his throat.
The battle was successful, a win to his cause as he now holds the realm in the palm of his hands. When all hope was thought lost, the Vale’s men at arms helped turn the tides at the last minute as they rode through the fields atop their galloping horses, bearing your house’s sigil. With his hammer brought down upon the former prince's chest plate, shattering his ribcage like a helpless bird, the Targaryen dynasty came to an end. Lord Lyonel Baratheon has won the war, he is victorious and he is named King of the Seven Kingdoms amidst the viscera of war as the stag helm was placed upon his bloodied brows by the high septon himself.
It was the seven smiling down upon him, the septon took to his cause like water upon wool, coming to his side when you, the Lord Baratheon’s Arryn Lady to be called to him and asked for an annulment only to come out of the meeting with not just a granted annulment but also a new ally after citing your Andal ancestry that brought the seven to Westeros a millennium ago. The coin you provided the Septon didn’t hurt either. The high septon granted you the annulment swiftly, the man hated the Targaryens after they plunged the realm in numerous civil wars that ended with thousands dead. And with less acolytes means less money for their great halls. So when the news came to him, he was the one that wrote to you, asking if you wished to annul the marriage. On that very same day, you wed Lyonel. And you became Lady Baratheon, forsaking the title of princess.
You’ve always had a way with your words like how you are with a blade, and yet your words don’t cut deep when it comes to Lyonel, and your touch is softer than the rare sunshine on Storm’s End when you are with him. Maybe that is why he went to war for you, so that he could experience all of you in peace, to be with you, to call you his and for him to be yours. He just has to come get you out of the tower and spend the rest of his life with you like how it was supposed to be.
With most of the Targaryen ranks gone or deserted across the narrow seas, with only the youngest who has survived and went aboard a ship sailing East, Lyonel is about to be crowned the King of the Seven Kingdoms when he has garnered support from all corners of the realm. But all will be for naught if his Queen isn’t by his side, together with his son and heir.
The last he saw you was when you were heavy with child. Lyonel couldn’t find it in himself to leave you here so deep in Dornish lands, but he needed to keep you safe, he needed to keep his child safe when he started this war after saving you from the clutches of your former husband. He needed a place where you would be kept safe, and for that he needed peace with the Dornish, an act he had to do with gritted teeth and shaking fists. But it was well worth it for your safety, and the kiss you granted him after was a reward for the hard task he had to do.
You married Lyonel just like you always dreamed of, and annulled your marriage to Aerion on the grounds that no consummation happened. It was a blatant awful lie that still gnawed at your chest guiltily. But whenever you hear Lyonel’s laugh, or hear him call your name so sweetly with his arms around you, all that guilt fades away. The reason may not have been the truth but the love you harbour for the stag is as real as your beating heart.
You and Lyonel wanted to wed from the start, to make it official so that the Targaryens have no claim to you anymore. It was especially needed when you found out you were with child after just a couple of weeks spent with the Laughing Storm and just mere a week after becoming Lady Baratheon. He laughed then, grinned and spun you around in his arms, barking out a laugh and saying, “the seed is strong, I knew it!” For all the keep to hear above the sounds of thunder outside, that mayhaps the announcement would be heard from the Stormlands over to King’s Landing so Aerion could hear it. He definitely heard it, everyone from the North to Dorne heard of the whirlwind love story the falcon and stag have.
Despite the wedded bliss, it had to come to an end.
War was knocking on Lyonel’s doors, and he took the Targaryen’s challenge with his whole chest.
With just one selfish choice, one that you never regretted, the realm was plunged into war.
Every war had to start from something, an inciting incident that plunged the realm into chaos. Some say you were taken from your bed by the Laughing Storm, mostly by the Targaryens and allies of the crown. But most would whisper about the love you and Lyonel have, that you wanted to leave and be with your great love and he provided an escape for you, risking his own head just to be with a princess by marriage. It’s the kind of love story grandmothers would tell the children over the fire, whether it’s a story with a moral lesson to learn, a warning, or just a grand story for the girls to giggle about, it depends on who tells it. History would tell both, the chaos, the love, and only a handful would know the truth years after Lyonel’s rebellion.
The Vale sided with your Lyonel, reluctantly of course after the dishonourable stunt you pulled at the Red Keep. Your father couldn’t even look you in the eyes, but you could still look into his, telling him that what you’ve done was right, that the only crime you’ve committed was saving yourself. After all the words you hurled at him, he still sided with the Baratheons because you are still his blood, and your brothers would’ve left his side and over to yours if he didn’t. In truth he made this happen, he pushed you into a marriage you did not want, and he sowed those seeds, and he is reaping the consequences.
You forced his hand, just like he forced yours to take Aerion as your husband.
This wasn’t an act of revenge that was done on a whim. It was love that made you take Lyonel’s offer. And it was love that would be your undoing.
You would’ve fought alongside Lyonel, but as you grew heavy with child, unable to fight or even walk on your own, confined to bed in fear of losing you and the babe, you couldn’t don your own armour and fight. You wanted to be with him, protect him, to see him everyday just to calm your own nerves. But with every complication, every trembling ache rolling from your stomach to your chest, you had to stay behind. You are carrying the heir to the throne now.
Aerion sent you a letter once. Just one, not a letter filled with soft and tender words, or pleading, it bears no single ill will either. There were no sharp words, nor curses hurled right at you. It contains a single phrase, “come back.” He didn’t sign it and the only indication that it came from the Red Keep was the Targaryen seal on the parchment. But you know it’s from him, it was written by his own hand, you know it too well when you were married to him for a year. From the wafting scent of the pressed black dahlia that tumbled out of the letter, it was unmistakably his perfume. The very same one he would ask you to rub upon his neck every morning.
You burned the letter and the flower that night.
War was started for far less, but it was obvious that you were the one that drew the first blood. You hit the royal family where it hurts, right at their own insecurity. Everyone already knows that madness runs in their family, so when the news hit the realm that the young prince’s wife left him for the Lord of Storm’s End, everyone thought of the same reason as to why you left— madness.
You would do it all over again, but you are remorseful for what you started. It could’ve been prevented, but the what if’s does not matter now as you lay dying in your birthing bed.
Your hearing is muffled in your ears as you hear crying all around you. Juniper’s frantic screams, your sworn shield, Andros, threatening the maester to keep you alive when the old man could only shake his head with fear in his eyes. Then, a cry of a babe, a babe that’s still bloody and plump as it lays atop your chest that’s slowly getting colder, breathing going shallow with every minute that passes.
“She cannot die!” Juniper, arms covered in blood, tears streaming down her cheeks, pleads at the old man, begging to give you life. “Please! She is my lady! My friend!”
“There is nothing else I could do, m’lady!” The poor maester shakes, the chains around his neck rattling with every tremble. “I have taken the afterbirth out and yet the bleeding won’t stop—”
“Try something!” Andros’ voice is as broken as Juniper’s. “You must do something!” The Vale’s sigil flutters from his cloak. It’s windy outside and it smells of flowers. It reminds you of home.
“There is—”
Their words fall in the back of your mind, you’re so tired, sore, aching, every muscle in your body is telling you to rest and close your eyes.
Your eyes close for a moment, taking a deep breath, as your hand trembles above you as you move the bloodied blanket away from your babe’s face. Happiness should wash over you that your boy is alive and well even as you lay there bleeding, but you could only feel dread when you see the tuft of hair upon his head. Coldness sweeps through your body like a lightning strike. You immediately cover him with the soiled bloody swaddle, shushing him weakly, caressing his small back.
The doors slam open, breaking at the hinges as Lyonel together with your older brother, Robert, who is hot on his heels enters the tower.
The stench of blood and decay rots Lyonel from the inside out. It’s the smell that he has gotten used to out in the battlefield, not at a bedchamber, especially yours. His smile falls, dread encompassing him. But when his eyes meet yours, his grin comes back— you’re alive, and he could hear his son cry in your arms. All is well.
Silence prevails the moment he walks in, heavy armour plates glinting under the harsh Dornish sunlight, cheeks reddened from adrenaline, and a smile so bright it could bring you back to life.
“My love…” Lyonel strides quickly over to the bed, boots thumping against the slick stone floors. His smile dies as he sees the pool of blood in between your legs, dripping through the mattress as it covers the cobbled stone in crimson, staining the bottom of his boots. “What—” the stench of battle mingles with the smell of death in the air as his heart drops to his stomach.
“M’lord. You have a son, but…” The maester is the first to speak, trembling, lips wobbling behind his long beard. His eyes darts towards the sword at the Lord’s hip. “There was a complication.”
“Lyonel...” One singular weak call of his name has Lyonel crossing the distance over to you.
Robert, your older brother Robert, who saw your first steps, who read to you when you couldn’t sleep, who stayed with you when the nightmares filled with fire and blood woke you in the dead of night looks at his baby sister with grief in his eyes. He knows, he’s no stranger to death, this war made him well acquainted with the stranger.
He knows what will happen next. He has seen it, his own Lady wife has lived it before she left him in this world with his children. And now he has to witness it all over again.
“I’m here, I’m here.” Lyonel takes your clammy face gently in his hands, armour clanking with every movement as he cradles you lovingly. “Stay strong, you will live through this.” You don’t know if he’s trying to convince himself or you. “You gave me a son, an heir to the throne.” He has a lopsided smile, thumbs wiping away the tears you didn’t notice you let out. “My doe, we won. He is gone, his whole bloodline is no more.”
You manage a small weak smile, head fully leaning against his hands lest it falls down from your neck. “You did…good, my stag.”
Your breath comes seldom, heavy, shuddered and with a struggle. And your hands are above the crying babe, protecting him.
Lyonel’s eyes flick at the babe, he chuckles, smiling and beaming at you albeit his smile is breaking at the edges. He refuses to let go. “We did good.” He then turns to the maester, who shivers where he stands. Fury mar his face. “Do something, give her blood, get her something!”
“M’lord, I—I cannot, there is nothing else I can do.”
Lyonel stands up, unsheathes his sword and points it right at his throat. “If she dies, you die.”
“Lyonel…” you try to call for him, to hold him while you still can.
Robert takes the opportunity to get to your side, his sword placed at the foot of the bed as he looks into your tired eyes. “Sister…”
“Rob, is that you?” Your eyes are glossed over, seeing watercolor lights as the tears meld together in your vision. You could feel the stranger’s hand upon your shoulder.
“Yes, it’s me.” His voice trembles, hiding the pain in his tone. “We’re all safe, Jon is coming here with father so you have to hold on. Mother too, you can see her again. She can see her grandchild.” Hand hovering above the babe in your arms, the blanket falls down from his head and your brother looks at you with dread. “What?”
“Take care of him.” You finally break, the brave façade crumbles beneath your feet. You’re trembling, hot and cold at the same time as you feel your fingers numb. “Lyonel will forsake him. Promise me, Rob, promise me.”
“Robert, move.” Lyonel suddenly looms over your brother, looking down at the babe rather than to you.
Rob looks over his shoulder with tearful eyes. “Lyonel—”
“I said fucking move.” With one push, Rob tumbles down from his crouched position to the floor. “My love, where’s our son?” His stormy fury shakes you to your core.
“I’m so sorry, Lyonel.” Your breath hitches in your throat, a trembling hand reaching up for him that he doesn’t take. “f–forgive me, seven above, forgive me.” One hitched breath, one last look at your great love and the Lady Arryn breathes her last.
The hand falls limply to your side. Your whole body stills, head lolling down upon the pillow, falling limp as your eyes remain open, your light is gone from within, and yet you still hold onto your son.
Lyonel could never forgive himself when your last words to him were spilled apologies.
Your name falls from his lips, crumbling to his knees as he sees you dead right where you lay. He expects you to breathe again, to smile, to call his name back like always, like some awful jest. But as he touches your face, you’re growing cold to the touch. Warmth ebbing away with every second.
He closes your eyes for you, a hand too still, too calm when he saw the light fade in your eyes and heard you draw your last breath just to apologize to him. With a final peck to your cold lips, a prayer, a wish whispered above your lips, he stands up, the clanking armour signaling your death for the whole realm to hear.
The baby in your listless hold cries, a piercing cry that could rival the storms in his home. He could believe that the babe is his, that the babe has his blood running in his veins. That the child you died for is his son, not the son of a bastard he just killed.
“Lyonel, don’t—”
He could hear Robert call him but he ignores his brother by law as he takes the babe from your arms, the arms that are lifeless and cold, no longer bearing the warmth you held him in during the storms in his home.
The babe cries, the blanket falling from his hair, showing off a tuft of platinum strands, almost white atop his head.
“M’lord, please give me the babe.” Juniper looks afraid, why is she afraid?
Lyonel’s hand trembles around the dagger in his grip. When did he unsheathe it? The steel barely kisses the fabric of the Baratheon gold fabric wrapped around the babe.
“She named him Ormund.” Juniper tries to act brave, hands reaching out for the child. “She said you two decided to name him that. Juniper if he would’ve been a girl.” She chuckles, no humour laced in her tone, just unfathomable grief.
“Lyonel, please.” Robert pleads behind him, eyeing his discarded sword at the foot of your bloody bed. Lyonel could cut through him and Andros like cake if they dare bear arms against him. “Don’t harm the child.”
Andros’ steel glimmers underneath the sun as he points it right at the new King of the Seven Kingdoms. “Give us the child.”
The crying rings in his ears, Ormund’s cries mingling with the ghost of your voice echoing in his mind.
The blade is mere inches away from the babe’s chubby tear stained cheek.
The Laughing Storm does not speak nor laugh as he holds your murderer in his arms.
“My sister is already gone!” Robert cannot hide his maddening grief as he holds out his arms so Lyonel could give him the babe. “You cannot take the only thing we have left of her.” He knows that if he tries to strike down at the new Lord of the Seven Kingdoms, he would soon join his departed men at arms in their muddy grave.
A man who lost his world has nothing left to lose.
Lyonel takes a deep inhale, smelling the blood, your blood on the child’s skin. He is Aerion writ small. A Targaryen, a family he swore he will end. A tyranny he ended with his own sword and bloodied hammer. A foe he fought to the death with for you so he could live in peace with you and grow old with you just like he always thought would be the moment he fell for you at Ashford.
And yet you’re dead and the boy in his arms that looks like the man he killed is alive and wailing, calling for his mother.
Lyonel started a war for you, and he ended that war for you only to come back to you at the stranger’s doorstep and another man’s child at your breast. Did you know? Mayhaps you had a feeling, a tug at the back of your head. Or perhaps you were too blinded by love to ever notice that it does not add up.
“Lyonel, please!” Juniper is on her knees, arms wide open to receive the child. “Just give him to me! He’s just a child! It is not his fault! She did not know it either!”
The wailing irks him, he just wants it to stop.
Lyonel’s hands have never shook while wielding a blade, but his hand trembles as he holds it above your son.
The boy suddenly opens his eyes, and Lyonel sees your eyes. Yours, not Aerion’s, yours. Not purple despite his Targaryen coloring. He sees you alive through the child crying in his arms, and the dagger clatters down on the floor. He is half you, half of the woman he would love forever and a day.
Everyone at the tower almost keels over from their own relief.
Ormund may not be his, but he is yours, your child that you once sang to every morning, the child he talked through your belly that you loved so much as you grinned and laughed at the one sided conversation. The very same babe you gave your life to. The very same babe he thought was his.
Lyonel cannot squander your sacrifice. He loves you too much to kill the last thing you left of this world.
“Juniper.” He scarcely recognize his own voice. “Take him, sail to Essos, and never come back.”
Juniper is helped up by Andros, heaving her up by her feet as she takes the babe safely in her arms. “Thank you, I—”
“As for everyone else in this room,” Lyonel unsheathes his sword. “The sword or the boat?”
“The b–boat.” The old maester is the first to answer, trembling as his chains rattle.
“The boat.” Andros replies, stepping in front of Juniper, acting as her shield in case Lyonel changes his mind.
“My nephew.” Robert is the last to speak, saying it with his chin held high despite the tears in his eyes. “I choose my nephew.”
Lyonel nods stiffly, taking one last look at you, sheathing his sword, and covering your body with the bloody blankets before taking you in his arms.
“Then leave my sight.” He doesn’t look at them after the command, he could only stare at your covered face, wishing that it was your smile that he is staring at.
Ser Duncan sees the new King of the Seven Kingdoms leave the Tower of Joy with his dead Queen, and no heir.
At least he let the baby live... but damn it😭😭 Imagine if it had been twins but one was a Targaryan and the other a Baratheon. Rip Lady Arryn, at least you had real love before you left😔🥀
Synopsis: Two encounters. One has you both running away, the other giving you hope.
Tags: No use of Y/N, no specific physical description of the reader except for clothing, reader has nicknames, CW blood and injury, CW food mentions, CW unsolicited touching (not from Bobby), CW dark themes. Eventual Bobby romance, slow burn, Part 3 of my Bobby series. Set during the movie (spoilers)
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Bobby Franklin Masterlist
Part 2 <<< Part 3 >>> Part 4
The sounds of wood thumping on metal rings through the tight corridors. You’ve named this place the boiler room, the whole place is covered in metal and steel, some are made out of copper that is slowly turning teal around the edges. It’s dank and smells like petrichor, like it’s about to rain inside. There’s a reason why you haven’t explored this place as much as the yellow wallpaper rooms— it’s hot here, not like a comforting warm summer heat that’s slightly muggy, a weather for the beach, or maybe for sailing out in the open seas, no, this place is searing hot, it’s humid, the type of heat that you could see make waves in the air around you.
Beside you, Bobby struggles to breathe through the hot air, just like you are as you’re still in your bomber jacket, refusing to take it off. The two of you wait for the pirate to move on, for the sound of thumping to fade from your ears as you hear its body scrape against the steel pipes. It’s too large for this place as it shambles around awkwardly.
The chase has you and Bobby winded, even more now that the heat isn’t helping you take in air. You’re drenched in sweat, the beads of sweat drips down from your chin down to your pants as it leaves little dark droplets on the fabric. Bobby is faring better than you, still sweaty and breathing heavily but not as bad as you when you feel like you’re being cooked from the inside out.
“Just take off your fucking jacket.” He whispers, too close to you when the curling pipes hinders him from moving away from you as you both hide inside a small crevice in the wall. “I won’t judge you if you have shitty tattoos.”
“Shut up before it hears you.” You shush him, swallowing nothing when the inside of your mouth is drier than a desert.
“You’re going to die of heatstroke.” You turn to him, glaring at Bobby as he glares right back. “I’m not a fucking idiot, I know shit too.” He takes a deep inhale of the hot air, regretting it when he almost chokes from the heat. “Just take off the jacket, you’ll feel better.”
“I’m fine.” Wiping away the sweat dribbling on your forehead, you strain your ears to try to hear the entity walking around. You don’t hear anything other than the leaking pipes and Bobby’s breathing. “I think it’s gone.”
“Thank fuck.” He shimmies out, passing by you as he stretches his legs from the prolonged crouched position. “Come on, let’s get out of the devil’s armpit.” Holding out his hand to you, you reluctantly take it as you feel your shirt cling to your skin from how drenched in sweat it is. “Before you faint again.”
“It happened one time and you’ll never let me live it down.” You start to walk through the hallways lined with pipes, you suddenly miss the yellow wallpaper instead of this creepy boiler room that makes you claustrophobic.
When the previous corridors felt like an abandoned office space, this one is more industrial, more metal and steel than wallpaper and carpet. There is an occasional hiss from the pipes, letting out warm air, and there are manholes on the floor, randomly dotted around, some look like it’s two in one, melted together like it’s in the middle of mitosis. You’d take the sailboat room more than this place.
“This place looks like it’s out of a Nightmare on Elm Street.” Bobby helps you search for the hasty marks you left when you two were being chased by the pirate. “I’m gonna ask now because it’s fucking eating at me but, did that fucking thing look like Clark to you?”
“Yep.” You pop the letter ‘p’ in your mouth as you struggle to look through the waves of heat ahead. “And don’t ask me why because I don’t know either.”
“Do you think it steals faces?” Bobby’s crop top sticks to his torso and you avoid your gaze from staying too long on him.
“I don’t know, Bobby.” You lumber towards a corner, your hand touching the hot wall trying to look for the mark you left with your marker. “Why are you so talkative?”
Bobby shrugs, keeps walking behind you as he uses his shirt to fan himself. “It helps to distract myself.”
You make the mistake of looking behind you as you see him completely drenched in sweat, his white crop top clinging to his torso like second skin, leaving almost nothing to the imagination. His lean stomach is in full show, heat singes your cheek and it’s not from the heat. Averting your eyes, you continue to walk forward, searching for the same door you two came out of. “It’s annoying me and the thing might hear you—”
Fumbling, stumbling on your own two feet when the heat makes your vision foggy, you hold onto a pipe for balance. Your palm is immediately seared as you scream in pain, taking your hand away. “Fuck!” You hold onto your wrist, keeling over, and crouched down onto the hard ground.
“Shit, let me see.” Bobby crouches down in front of you, gently taking your wrist in his hand. When you don’t budge, he clicks his teeth and calls you by your name. You didn’t even know if he remembered your name. “C’mon, hero, let me see.”
“Hero?” You ask through clenched teeth and tears in your eyes as he examines your reddened hand. “Really?”
“Yeah, you saved my ass, so you’re a hero. And you did that hero jump.” His eyes narrows at your palm, wincing for your sake. “Fuck, I don’t know much about burns but this looks gnarly. You’re gonna need ice for this.”
“Ice isn’t actually good for burns.” You let out a shuddered breath as the pain radiates from your palm down to your wrist, a slithering burn inching downwards to your elbows. “Running tepid water is.”
Bobby starts to unzip your bag, taking out one of the bottles of water for you, to which you instantly stop him with a shake of your head.
“I didn’t know that, but we don’t have either of them, so. Can we just use this instead?”
“N–no,” gritting your teeth, you make the mistake of glancing at your hand, seeing your flesh burn, bubbling up in angry reddened skin. “We need to conserve it for drinking. I—” you take a deep yet wobbly breath. “—I can handle this.” You’ve felt a lot of pain in your life but the burning sensation makes your stomach turn and the back of your eyes burn.
“You’re fucking stubborn.” Bobby stands up, knees creaking as he tries to help you up with his hands cupped around your elbows. “I have an idea.”
“You’re getting ideas now?” Brow raised, you try to focus on his face when your vision is starting to wobble like your legs. The combined heat and the throbbing pain in your hand has turned your body into jello.
“Yeah, you’re not the only one who’s allowed to have them.” He rolls his eyes, a hand reaching into his pocket for something before his palm comes up empty. “You said there’s a pool here? We can use the water for your hand.”
“That’s actually not a bad idea. But I don’t know how to get there from here.” You don’t mean to lean against him but you do as the pain takes hold of you. He lets you use him to steady yourself. He smells the same, just more sweat than cologne, and the scent of weed has almost faded away from his crop top. You try to keep your mind off the pain and heat, to try to recreate the comforting hum of the walls that doesn’t reach this searing place.
“You sound condescending.”
“I’m not,” swallowing down the bile in your throat, you take a deep inhale. “That’s just how I sound when I’m in blinding pain.”
“How about taking some of the pain meds—” you’re shaking your head at his idea as your eyes glance narrowedly at him. “It’ll help. You need it.”
“We need to ration—”
“Well, you fucking need it now, hero.” Bobby stops walking abruptly, feeling you tremble against him has him moving to open your backpack, taking out the little orange pills and handing it to you with a bottle of water. “Don’t be a hardass.” He gestures with his eyes, encouraging you to take it. “I took one before so you take one, equality.”
“Didn’t peg you for an activist.” He’s insisting, and you won’t get a move on if he refuses to walk. So you take a pill, pop it in your mouth and gulp down a mouthful of water.
“I get that a lot.” Bobby simply shrugs, putting the supplies back inside the backpack with a resounding zip before gently yanking down the straps from your arms. “Let me take the load off of you.”
You relent, letting him take the backpack as you watch him sling it over his shoulders. “Thanks…” mumbling, you hear something move, something’s hitting the pipes as the sound reverberates through the tight corridors.
You both simultaneously look back with fear in your eyes. “What was that?”
It’s an incessant tip tapping, almost like morse code, you don’t know much about it to know what they’re saying if it is.
Your feet move backwards, away from the sound as you instinctively grab hold of Bobby’s arm. “Were you a boy scout?”
“No,” he keeps his eyes on the empty corridor as the sound grows nearer. “Why?”
“Does that sound like morse code to you?”
“I don’t fucking know.” He hisses, walking backwards with you as a shadow, one with four legs, and a very large head slithers on the walls. “We should run.”
You’re already bolting away, tugging him away as he runs alongside you. The stench of rusted metal hits your nose, as numerous pipes whizz past the two of you.
You’re going deeper and deeper inside the boiler room. You shouldn’t be, you should be going back to the yellow walls, the familiar ones instead of running deeper through the copper scented hallways.
Your rushed footsteps alert the being as the tapping hastens, following right after you through the winding corridors.
The heat makes it hard to find your breath as you struggle to run this time. Your bomber jacket clings to you, drenched from your own sweat as your hand slips from Bobby’s arm from his clammy skin.
“Here!” Bobby grabs you by the scruff of your neck, yanking you away from a dead end and towards a room with rusted pipes lined around the brown walls. There’s a familiar sight right in the middle of the room, half embedded in the walls as the door swings creakily in the stale air. “C’mon!”
Bobby shoves you inside the industrial sized washing machine, before climbing in with you and shutting the door closed with a resounding clack of metal.
Heaving, you feel the stitch blooming on your side as your wide eyes stare at the yellowed glass panel of the washing machine door.
“What the fuck is that?” Bobby whispers, voice laced with fear as you both watch the creature stalk towards you.
This isn’t like the pirate with its eerie face borrowed from Clark, nor a docile one like your old man at the helm. No, this one is different, like it was meant to be a dog, a copy of it if the dog went through the shredder and blasted with radiation. This thing, is just as wrong as everything else in this place.
It snarls with an opened maw, rows of sharp canines combined with human teeth is in full show. It bites at the air, as if that’s the way it smells when you can’t see a nose where it’s supposed to be. The fur is mangled, dark and rusted just like the walls around it. It’s a moving shadow with four pointed ears, six legs with paws the size of your hand. The three tails, two longer, and one shorter, all seemingly from different dog breeds, stand on its end. It barks like a dog that doesn’t know how to. A mere echo of it, like it’s being played through a broken speaker that ends up spitting out a garbled mess of sounds.
As if things couldn’t get any worse, one more show up, this one is leaner, eyes more hungry and yellow than the first. It has three eyes, all wrong, all looking directly at you and Bobby.
You just now noticed that he’s still holding onto the back of your jacket, fingers bunching up the fabric in his tight hold in an attempt to calm himself.
One word glares brightly in your mind, ‘run.’ Run like you always have in your life. Instead of hiding and cowering in place while you wait for the hounds to get you and tear you to pieces. But there’s nowhere to run when you feel for the end of the washing machine, half expecting a door when you only find warm steel.
“Bobby, what—!” You both yell when the angrier one leaps up to smash its head against the glass.
The window doesn’t budge nor crack at the sheer force. The creature shakes its head, staggered by what it did.
“They can’t get in.” Your companion chuckles, a rising laugh that fades away the moment one of the hounds bashes its head against the glass again.
This time it leaves a crack in the glass and a smattering of black ooze.
You feel for your hammer, readying it in your hold. Bobby turns to you, locking eyes with you as his fear is palpable within the small confines of the washing machine.
You two reach an understanding. You and Bobby might die right here.
Another strike at the glass, another crack. Then another and another. Each hitting you right at your chest.
The glass looks like a mess of cracks and blackened blood as you both could barely see the hounds waiting on the other side.
You fix your hold onto the hammer and wait for another strike that doesn’t come.
A minute passes, a long agonizing minute of staring at a dirty window.
Then another minute, two, three, nothing happens.
You both look at each other, and you slowly inch your way closer to the window, crawling over Bobby’s legs as you peek through the side of the glass where it’s clearer. There, sitting right on the floor, hind legs spread out, are the two hounds sitting on both sides, as if guarding you both whilst their yellow eyes never stray too far from the washing machine. They don’t move a muscle or feel the need to breathe, they’re as steady and uncanny like your grandfather as he stared into space at the helm atop the half sunk boat.
“What do you see?” Bobby whispers beside your ear, raising gooseflesh on your skin despite the heat as his breath flutters your lashes.
“They’re not moving, just…just standing guard.”
Bobby tilts his head up, trying to find a spot on the glass that he could see through. His brows knit together, lips pursed tightly. “What the fuck are they doing?”
“Waiting for us to come out.” Your back hits the metal with a groan, and you stretch your aching legs, too long for the machine as the heels of your feet rise up to the other side of the wall. “I guess they got tired.”
It’s getting hard to breathe in this heat, especially when you’re starting to feel claustrophobic inside. You ball your uninjured fist, opening and closing it to attempt to calm your nerves. If only you had the song of the walls to press your ear onto.
“So we’re just fucking stuck here?” Groaning, he kicks at the wall with a resounding metallic thump. “Dying in a washing machine, how fucking funny.” His blue eyes flick over to you as you look like you’re dying from the heat, panting and sweating. “Shit, you need water.” Bobby takes the backpack off, unzipping it and taking a water bottle for you. “Drink, and don’t give me the rationing bullshit.”
“Has anyone told you—” you shut your eyes for a moment as sweat trickles down your face. “That you have a very unique way of showing how you care?” Uncapping the cap, or trying to at least with your injured palm, Bobby clicks his tongue and opens the bottle for you.
“No, shut up we need to conserve our air.” Watching you take gulps of water eases the tension in between his shoulders for a bit.
Your rising laughter bounces off the metal walls as Bobby looks at you with a raised brow. “Sorry,” wiping your sweat with your sleeve, you continue to chuckle to yourself. “This is actually a bit funny because I’ve had a recurring dream of getting locked in a washing machine.” You take a generous swig, letting the sweet after taste of the almond water coat your tongue. It helps a little bit.
“Okay, Nostradamus.” Swallowing his spit, you notice and hand him the water back. “And yes, I know who the dude is.”
“The dude.” You chortle. “You know a lot of things, Bobby.” Patting his knee, your head reclines back, thumping against the wall whilst he drinks. He takes it as sarcasm. “Never judge a book by its cover I guess.”
“Your hand needs to be bandaged.”
“I’ll do it later.” What’s the point when you’re gonna suffocate in here?
“No, it’ll get infected.” He rummages through the supplies and brings out a gauze and medical tape. Bobby still holds out hope. “Can you tell me how to treat it?”
“I don’t have burn cream…” Your chest lines with warmth and around your heart from the gesture. “Just put the gauze on my palm then wrap it as loose as possible with the tape. Keeping it clean is the only thing we can do.”
Bobby nods, moving closer, legs cageing you in as you sit between them. You give him your hand, the reddened flesh peeling whilst he’s slow and clumsy with his movements. Your skin pulsates with warmth and pain, like a bleeding heart.
Your eyes flick over to him, through the haze of heat, you really look at Bobby. At his chiseled jaw, broad shoulders, sandy blonde hair and pretty blue eyes that always seem to really look into your own. If you squint, he really does look like the guy you talked to for two hours straight whilst he waited for his laundry to finish. Maybe that’s why you’re helping Bobby, a redo of your fumbling.
He’s handsome. You just now realize that he’s good looking, the type of face that would have people giving him a second look on the street, or a face you see up on a billboard. He wears the crop top well, like he just shrugged it on in the morning without an afterthought, without sparing an effort on how he presents himself when his whole face and how he carries himself is enough to draw eyes on him. But he’s not like the frat boys you remember back in college, he doesn’t talk like he owns the ground you’re walking on, unlike them in their snooty letterman jackets and tuition paid for by mommy and daddy, Bobby actually talks to you and even listens. He makes conversations, notices things when you think he’s not paying attention. He’s kind enough to remember your name when no one even bothered to try. Even Janet just calls you kid when she forgot it months ago even though she has your resume on file.
He’s far kinder than you thought he would be. All that crisp angles and handsome features made you think he wasn’t when in truth his kindness was wrapped in his sharp angles and intense stares that is always keenly aware of the details around him.
You wonder why he even went with you in the first place when his ankle got better when he seems to be capable enough on his own. Never judge a book by its cover, but the verdict is still out when you’re both stuck here slowly running out of air.
“Why are you still with me, Bobby?” Your words tumble out of your tongue as your lungs struggle to take in air. “You could’ve gone on your own way to find Kat without me. Seriously, why are you helping a stranger?”
“Because you helped a stranger, idiot.” He says matter-of-factly, jaw tightening at the mention of Kat. Finishing dressing your wound, his adam’s apple bops up and down, admiring his handiwork before tossing the supplies back inside the bag. “I’m not a complete fucking asshole to leave you all alone here when you didn’t leave me. I should be the one asking you that question. You already saved me once and you don’t need to again. I’m no one to you and so is Kat.”
You wet your lips, smiling faintly at him, testing your hand as you open and shut it slowly. It still hurts but at least it’s contained. “You look like someone I knew.” Your words hang in between you as he blinks at your words. “And I’m not a total asshole to leave you wandering around here by yourself. There’s strength in numbers you know.”
You two are quite similar in that matter. You both don’t want to be alone in this place.
“I know that’s not all.” Somehow, Bobby could see right through your eyes and into your very soul.
You wince, looking at how his knee knocks against your own. “Because…because it looked like you needed someone and Kat…Kat was nice to me.”
Bobby glances away, looking at the hounds outside briefly before nodding at your words with a tensed jaw. “It’ll be better when we find Kat.” Everything will be better when they reunite.
It’s an arrow to your chest, your own lie striking you where it hurts. You’ve never been really good at lying or hiding it, but for his sake, you have to bite your tongue until you taste copper. “Yeah.”
“Y’know, I wanted to fucking throw shit at you when you left Kat and Clark in the laundry room.” Bobby turns to you and gazes into your eyes as you glance at the space between his brows instead of locking eyes with him. “I thought you could’ve just taken them with us. That you could’ve, I don’t fucking know…save them.” Shaking his head, Bobby wets his lips. “Then you left me and my thoughts all alone, and shit, I think–I think I would’ve done the same. Probably bolted out of there myself if no one was in my reach.”
“Still,” you sniff, struggling to breathe as you wipe the sweat hastily from your eyes when it stings. “I wish I could have saved them both.”
“Yeah,” he holds his breath for a moment before letting it go and handing you the half empty water bottle. “I don’t know what kind of adrenaline you have but I want some of that too, you could lift a fucking fridge when you’re panicking. Hell, you lifted me off my fucking feet like I weighed nothing.”
You smile after taking big gulps of water. “It’s a subconscious thing, people who are…more cautious tend to be better in situations like that.” Or that’s how your doctor put it when you survived drifting in the water for days.
“Like when a walking horror show tries to rip you apart?”
You manage a scoff akin to a weak laugh. “Yeah, I guess.”
Silence hangs in the air between you, his knees knocks against your own, the space too small for two people as he sits, or more like folded himself adjacent to you. In the cramped space and the dappled fluorescent lights filtering through the cracks of the window, his sharp features look softer.
“We’re gonna die here aren’t we?” Bobby says under his breath, too afraid to say it out loud.
“I hope not.” Hope, hope could be blinding that leads you to disappointment. But sometimes, it’s a driving force to keep you moving forward, even when it’s too dark to see, hope will be the guiding light. You hope for his sake when he has people waiting for him on the other side. You don’t care if you die inside this place, but it’ll crush you if he dies, because you failed to bring him home, you failed to save a life again.
You already failed with Kat and Clark, you don’t want Bobby to end up like them. Or like your grandfather still waiting for you at the bottom of the sea.
“Fuck me.” Bobby rubs his face harshly, leaving his cheeks flush with red. When he opens his eyes, concern mar his face. “You don’t look too good, hero.” He scooches closer, taking the bottle from your weak grip to pour some of it out on his palm and splashes it on your face. “Hey, stay with me.” He says your name gently, coaxing you to keep your eyes open with a pat to your cheek. His palm is warm, silken, with the pads of his fingertips calloused, blazing against your clammy skin.
You want to live for him.
Something moves. A warp in the walls, a metallic groaning of metal sliding against steel. Like nails on a chalkboard that grinds your teeth together.
Bobby hears it too, “what was that?” You know it was real this time, not like the humming in the walls.
“I don’t know…” Head craning towards the far wall, at the other end of the machine, you don’t see rusted metal anymore, just darkness, pitch black, a void that stares back.
“Do you have a flashlight?”
“No, it ran out of battery on day six.”
Bobby fishes out a lighter from his pocket. He flicks his thumb, letting sparks fly as a flame blows out from the lighter. “Stay here.”
He crawls over you then towards the darkness.
“Bobby, wait—”
When he’s supposed to hit the wall, he continues to move inside. “It’s a way out.”
“What the fuck.” You follow him, crawling on all fours as your knees hit the metal.
It’s so dark inside that you could only see the small flame in front of you. Your arms wobble from your weight, and when the flame flickers away, Bobby curses under his breath.
“Hold on.” With a hand rummaging in your jean pocket, you take out your phone whilst Bobby tries to light the flame again. You press the on button, waiting for your phone to come alive, wishing that the screen turns on.
“What are you doing?” You could only hear his voice and feel his warmth on your side.
“Turning the light on—” the screen flashes and you immediately swipe to open the flashlight. You two blink at the sudden light.
“What the fuck is that thing?” Wincing, Bobby has one eye open, adjusting to the light, trying to get a look at what’s in your hand.
“My phone, duh, c’mon.” Patting his shoulder, you crawl by him when you’re now the one leading.
“That’s a weird looking phone, man.”
More crawling, more metal squeaking underneath you, and with your palm fully bleeding as it leaves bloody handprints on the floor, you finally get out of the washing machine.
You almost fall down if not for Bobby’s hand on your ankle stopping you from falling from the hole. Hopping off, shutting your phone off again and shoving it in your pocket before helping Bobby out, you feel heavier, woozy from the heat and pain. You slouch, folding against yourself when you feel like crumpling on the floor.
It looks like you two crawled out of a metal pipe. It doesn’t make sense one bit.
“Jesus, your hand.” Bobby puts the backpack on, and gingerly takes your wrist with a wince and a grimace. “Fucking gnarly.”
“I’m fine.”
“It doesn’t look fine.” His eyes rake around the bloodied gauze. “You need fucking…something. A doctor, you need a fucking doctor.”
“Bobby, I’m fine—”
You heard him before you saw him. A shuffling of feet on the metal floors, tentative, wary.
There, standing in the corridor, looking worse for wear, sweaty all over with a relieved look in his eyes is Clark.
“Bobby?”
Your companion turns to the voice, following your shaky gaze, landing right at the man, who dragged you on the damp carpet.
“Jesus, Clark.” Bobby puts his arm instinctively in front of you, taking a step forward, apprehensive, unsure of his decision. “Where did you come from?”
“The pipes, f—fuck, you have no idea how relieved I am to see someone—”
“Stay the fuck back.” Despite your injured hand, you grasp the hammer in your bloody grip, shaking, pointing it right at him. “Bobby, don’t trust him.”
“Where’s Kat?” Bobby stays beside you, yet his attention is on Clark. “Is she with you?” Hope is laced within his wavering tone.
“I–I don’t know, we got separated.” His hands wring in front of him. He looks normal, better than the last you saw him. Clark doesn’t look as starved, he does look exasperated like you and Bobby, but his eyes are just as frantic and panicked as yours, not steady and calm like before. He looked like the Clark you met, the one that tied Bobby’s rope too tightly around his waist. Not the Clark that hauled you around and tried to give you to the being. “I’m sorry, I tried.”
There it is, tried. The same word he uttered to you in the room with Kat’s severed hand, sounding too calm, looking too calm for someone that’s starving.
Something’s amiss.
You’re missing something. He shouldn’t look like this, he shouldn’t sound like this, if the Clark that tried to take you was real, then who the fuck is the one standing before you?
If it’s the heat that’s messing with your mind, then it’s affecting Bobby too when he also sees this Clark, nervous Clark, terrified Clark.
“What the fuck do you mean you tried?” Bobby hisses, fists balled at his side. “What happened to Kat? What did you do to her?”
“What? I–” Clark’s eyes find yours, and you falter, heat clinging to your skin, drying you out even more as you feel woozy. “I wouldn’t hurt her! Why would I do that?”
“I don’t fucking know, man.” Bobby scoffs, shaking his head as his tone rolls out sarcastically. “The same reason you did this to her.” He gestures at your neck, scratches reddened at the edges, pulsing with a dull ache. Clark looks confused. “Did you feed Kat to that–that thing like you tried with her?” Voice cracking, his words breaking in the middle. “Where the fuck is she, Clark?”
“I didn’t fucking do anything!” His hands land on his chest, eyes wild, swallowing thickly. “I didn’t do that to her!” Clark now points to you, hands shaking. “Please, I just need some water, we’ll get out together.”
Bobby snatches the hammer from your hand, staining his own palm with your own ichor. “Where the fuck is Kat?” He repeats, heavier this time, more threatening.
“I don’t know, okay!” Sweat dribbles off his clammy face, hands trembling around him. “I heard her through the walls, I really did try to help her but I couldn’t see her but—but she could see me. I don’t know what happened to her, Bobby, and I didn’t do anything to her.” He sounds desperate, heaving, almost keeling over himself. “Please, let’s just get out together.”
“Bobby, we need to go.” You take him by the arm, walking backwards as Clark starts to walk closer to you both. “Bobby, we can’t stay here. We can’t trust him.”
“Just tell me where she is, man.” Bobby breaks, lips wobbling, hand trembling around the hammer. He suddenly brings it to the wall, smacking a pipe as it leaves a dent on the metal. You and Clark wince at his action.
“I don’t know, Bobby. I’m sorry.” Clark holds out his hands in front of him in surrender. He seems genuine, but he also sounded genuine the last time you saw him.
From behind Clark, you hear the shuffling of fabric. A quiet rustle, too silent to be heard by the two men. Your heart rate immediately picks up.
“Bobby,” you whisper, clutching onto his arm, tugging him away, getting more exhausted by the second as you inhale and exhale out hot air. You feel your brain getting cooked inside your skull. “Bobby, it’s here.”
“Is she even alive?”
His trembling words strike right at you when you have the answer to his heartbreaking question.
“I don’t know…” Clark shakes his head, eyes averting from Bobby’s tensed form. “Why are you so scared of me? I didn’t do anything! I’m just me!”
You catch a glimpse of a pair of reddened eyes just around the corner of a wall, it stares at you, watching, observing. Waiting for you to break. “Bobby, on the wall, left side.” Voice trembling, head falling to his bicep, too hot to hold yourself up, you watch Bobby reluctantly take his eyes off of Clark, expression contorting into pure horror when he sees it.
He takes you by the hand, twisting around and running away with you in tow.
Clark screams, followed by his rushed footsteps, trying to keep pace with you and Bobby.
You don’t have the energy to sprint, more so to even lift your feet up. You’re so tired, too hot, your muscles strain under your clammy skin as you heave.
Bobby leads the escape, shoes scraping against the metal as he hides a wince. A pipe bursts near his face, and he shrieks at the sudden puff of warmth on his cheek. But he continues on, holding you up.
Because you would’ve done the same for him, you already had.
He turns a corner, blindly running in the heat soaked boiler room. Turning his head behind him, he doesn’t see Clark following anymore, but he does hear the rustling, the fabric scraping against itself, running, following.
Saliva covers your mouth, coating it as bile rises from your esophagus. Your legs turn wobbly under you. Bobby throws his arm around your shoulder, helping you run alongside with him when he could’ve just left you in the corridor to fend for yourself. He’s not giving up on you so you don’t give up for his sake. Your feet drags along the metal floors, trying to keep pace with his long strides. Your head dips down to your chin, unable to keep it up as you see the floor rush under you, the rusted floors, teal copper spread across it and the occasional manhole covers.
Vision blurring, you want water, you need water, to dive in it, to swim in its depths and stay underneath the currents.
You’re dying of thirst. Heatstroke, you’re gonna die of heatstroke after everything you went through. It’s comedic.
“Stay awake!” Bobby jostles you in his arms, you’re dead weight. “Fuck, c’mon!” He steps onto a manhole cover, and you both suddenly fall inside.
You gasp, flying mid air, twenty feet, fifteen, twelve, watching the hole you fell in get smaller and smaller, a mere dot in your vision.
Wind rushes around you, stale air that smells like chlorine.
You feel Bobby’s hand try to grasp at you mid air, but you feel so light weight, so light, free, like you’re flying, soaring, and you close your eyes, hearing him scream your name as you both plunge into the cold depths.
—
“Hey, princess.” You look up and see him, your grandfather, smiling down at you. Or you think he’s smiling when the sun behind him blinds you, covering his features. “You’re cooking here, you should get under the shade.”
His voice sounds far, muffled, like it’s playing on an old cassette tape that’s been played a hundred times before. Weathered, the movement of time marring the edges of the tape.
“I put sunscreen on.” You mutter, eyes squinting up at him as the popsicle in your hand melts, staining your hands raspberry red. “I miss you.”
He chuckles, that familiar laugh right from his belly that you’ve always told him was too loud and garners too much attention. You shouldn’t have told him that because he doesn’t let his laugh out like that anymore.
“I’m right here, sweetheart. What’s there to miss?”
There’s a seagull flying above him, the sky is blue, the clouds don’t move. And your eyes follow the bird, attention taken away, watching it fly until it hits a wall made to look like the horizon. It falls, leaving a smattering of blood amongst the blue.
It squawks loudly, an ear piercing cry of pain as it lands harshly on the ocean painted floor.
When you turn to look at him again, his face is mere inches away from your own.
Your breath shudders, gazing into those wrong eyes in the wrong face. He looks like someone who just moved as you press the camera’s button and the lens captures his blurred features that melt together.
“What’s there to miss?” He asks, garbled, the words stuck in his esophagus, choking on his own broken tone.
You wake up with a start, eyes opening to tiled ceilings and walls. It’s startlingly bright inside, a bright blue that encompasses around you, a deep contrast from the rusted boiler room. You take a deep breath, heaving, a palm to your chest as you smell the acrid chemical chlorine permeating the air around you as it tickles your nose.
The first thing you notice is how drenched you are, your clothes cling to your skin uncomfortably, soaked as droplets of water drip from your bare arms. You don’t have your jacket. Your arms are bare, the scars lined around your flesh. Old, but still there.
Gasping, you cross your arms around you, eyes panicked, frantic as you feel the familiar numbness climb from your legs to your chest, suffocating you.
“Hey, hey, it’s okay, you’re okay!” Bobby appears from behind, arms hovering around you as his eyes rake around your panicked face. “It’s okay, just breathe, we’re safe here.”
“Where’s—” you struggle to find your words when your lungs don’t work. “Where’s my jacket?”
Blinking, he looks at you like you’re a fish out of water. “I took it off you, I’m sorry, I had to, you were cooking in it.”
“P–please, just— just give it back to me.” Tears sting your eyes as you fold your legs against you, trying to press further into your chest as if you’re absorbing your legs into yourself.
“What? It’s wet—”
“Bobby, please!” Your nails dig into your forearms, leaving crescent shapes on your slick skin.
“Okay, okay!” He rushes away from the pool lounge chair where you have found yourself. There’s some rustling behind you, and your first instinct was to run. “Here, I’m sorry, I was hanging it over a chair to dry it out.”
“Give it to me.” You don’t extend your arms as your hand opens and closes. He passes it to you, turning away when your shirt clings to your front, it’s white and shows him too much of everything. Once you’ve put on your jacket, you hug yourself, collapsing onto the pool lounge chair that squeaks under you. “Thank you.” You wheeze out, a hand around your throat as you take deep inhales and exhales.
“Yeah, you’re welcome.” Bobby walks away, clearing his throat, scratching the back of his flushed neck as his wet hair clings to his nape and temples. His torso is bare, showing off a lean body, probably drying his shirt just like what he was doing to your jacket before you woke up. “You thirsty?” He asks after a beat of awkward silence.
Smacking your dry lips together, you feel your strength return as you sit up. You’re still wobbly, trembling slightly, and your head still has that dull throbbing ache as you rest your forehead against your folded knees. “Please.”
A second later there’s a bottle of almond water nudging your thigh. “This one’s yours. I found a couple more here.”
Where is here exactly?
You lift your head, eyes roaming around the new environment you both fell in. The walls are covered in white symmetrical square tiles, all lined perfectly, the grout in between is black, and it reminds you of a comic with the tiles lined in thick black lines. From the pillars down to the floor, it’s covered in the same tiles. Right in the middle of the expansive room is an Olympic sized pool, rectangular in shape, with various pool toys floating on the blue water. It would look normal if not for the random colourful slides sticking out of the walls and some on the ceiling that has a drop that would have your stomach churning.
As you gaze at the ceiling, you see the manhole cover above, now closed, the other side showing you the underside of the rusted metal.
“It’s not going to drink itself, y’know.” He shakes the bottle, looking down at you with a faint smile as the fluorescent lights shine behind his head, a halo of light lined around him. You blink owlishly at him, and his face contorts into deep worry as he squats beside you. “Shit, did you hit your head?” A hand cups the side of your face gingerly, like he’s afraid you’ll break in front of him from his touch alone. “Was it dilated pupils or pin point that says someone has a concussion?” He says more to himself, mumbling, looking into your eyes.
“Neither, the pupils should be equal in size, not one bigger than the other.” You answer, voice hoarse as you look into the blue depths of his eyes. You could drown in them. “I’m okay, Bobby, just shocked, where are we?”
“Oh, thank fuck.” His hand falls atop the lounge chair, head lolling down to his clavicle with a relieved sigh. “I thought the impact broke your head.”
“Did we fall?”
“Yeah,” he sniffs, a hand raking through his drenched tresses. “From that manhole.” Pointing up, you both look up, twenty feet from below, you squint from the harsh white lights. The manhole cover remains on the ceiling, a brown dot amidst the stark white tiles. “I don’t know how though, I stopped trying to figure out how things work here ever since we got out of the washing machine. But thankfully we fell into the water and we didn’t turn into a pancake.”
You crane your neck down, looking at him as he still gazes at the ceiling. His lean neck is stretched out, a sharp jawline that moves at the hinges when he purses his mouth. “You swam us out of there? On your own?”
Your gaze stretches from both ends of the deep pool, wondering how he managed to get you out and himself without drowning. You’re impressed by his feat. And he knows it from your tone alone.
The water is so clear that you could see the bottom, but it’s deceptive, you know it’s far deeper than it seems. This place is bigger than any of the rooms so far, it’s as big as a football field, probably twice as big when the pool stretches so far. There are three doors in this place, one adjacent to you, painted in deep emerald green with three odd doorknobs on it. Then the other two are on the far right end of the wall, both having signs on it. Then there’s the wrong door right in the middle of the far wall. It’s small, like a doggy door, painted in blood red. Something tells you that you shouldn’t go there. You guess the two doors beside each other are the bathrooms or shower rooms from the looks of it like in public pools, but you can’t tell what the signs says from where you sit.
His eyes crinkles in the corners, smiling gently, a nice reprieve from the fearful look on his face that you’ve gotten used to. “Not to brag but, I was on the varsity swim team during sophomore year.”
“Just sophomore year?” You can’t help it when the corner of your lip tugs up.
“I flunked chemistry.” Bobby winces, chuckling at himself. “And they had to kick me out because my grades weren’t as good.”
“I should be the one calling you hero now. And chemistry sucks anyway.”
His eyes softens from your words. “Please drink, I’m tired from wetting your lips with your own jacket. It was like I was feeding a baby bird.”
“That’s not embarrassing at all.” Shaking your head, you hide your smile as you gulp down the sweetened almond water. You let it coat your insides with that odd saccharine taste.
“Trust me, it was more embarrassing for me than for you.”
“At least you didn’t use your own shirt.” You wipe your mouth with your sleeve.
“Yeah, or you’d be drinking remnants of my sweat.” Bobby gives your shoulder a pat before rising, knees creaking as he stretches. “I’m preparing dinner.” Those are the words you thought you’ll never hear again.
“What?”
“I found a bunch of food in this place, just under the sink in the bathroom. It’s like someone left their stash here. I’m sorting through it, just rest, you were really out of it.”
“You think someone else was here?” You call out over your shoulder, watching the clear undisturbed water.
“Probably, I don’t know which one is scarier, us being alone here or someone else was here, wandering around just like us.” There’s a clang of metal behind you, and you twist around, ignoring the pang of pain radiating from your feet up to your knees. Your palm still aches, but more tolerable rather than the blinding pain. Bobby is trying to break open a can of peaches with your hammer. “Shitty fucking thing.”
“Use the other side of the hammer. Stab at the corners.” You simply say, body folding against yourself as you still feel the heaviness weigh you down. “Fuck…”
“You good?” He pauses from his hammering, looking at you as you wince, a hand grasping your forehead. “I told you to rest, lay back down, hero.”
“Did Clark…did he follow us?” You hug the back of your legs, half lidded eyes staring at him.
Bobby shakes his head, turning the hammer and stabs at the corner of the can just like you instructed. “You were right, something was up with him. He was hiding something, I could tell.”
You’re hiding something from him. “Yeah,” twisting around, you lay back down on the lounge chair when you feel the heaviness in your chest weigh you down. “You okay, Bobby?”
“Yeah, just starving.”
“Back in the sailboat room,” you hear him hum in reply, telling you that he’s listening. “Who do you think left the food and water?” The metal scraping against metal pauses. When he doesn’t reply, you call out to him. “Bobby?”
“I don’t know.” You could hear the confusion in his tone. “Why didn’t we ask that? It was left right there on our doorstep. It was clearly for us.”
“We have a mysterious benefactor.” Your eyes close, embracing yourself as your muscles relax to the sound of Bobby’s ministrations and the scent of chlorine. It should bother you more, but it doesn’t.
Your wet clothes should make you uncomfortable at how it sticks to your skin, but it does the opposite, it comforts you, reminding you of the days where you would swim for hours and let the air dry you as you doze off on the deck.
“I wonder who it is. It can’t be Clark or that thing.” Bobby is only met by silence. Worry slithers up his chest as he leans back until he could see you on the lounge chair, sleeping soundly, curled around yourself and more importantly, still breathing. He lets out a sigh, before trying to open the can quieter this time around.
—
Bobby floats aimlessly in the water as it laps around his face, eyes closed, breathing steady when he has stripped himself bare except for his boxer shorts. He’s unashamed, while you avert your eyes as you dig through the can of peaches.
There’s only silence around the pool room, save for the gentle scraping of your finger against the side of the crinkling metal can and the gentle lapping of water, it’s stifling. You miss the quiet comforting song of the walls, that slight tremble within the wallpaper that is warm to the touch. Bobby helps, his presence is a good alternative to the hum, but how long will that stay when you’re withdrawing important information from him? Something that might break him and ruin his peace.
He looks softer as he floats on the water, his arms are spread around him, legs floating as he lets out a breath. The lights illuminate him, the chain around his neck catching the light, making him look ethereal, almost akin to a renaissance oil painting. One that bears tragedy underneath all the brush strokes and pretty colours.
“I think I’m going insane. The tiles are starting to melt together in my eyes.” His voice cuts through the silence, echoing as his eyes open, head craning to look at you slouched on the lounge chair. “You look like a camel.”
“Thanks?” You slouch some more as he snorts out a chuckle. “Sounds something like an insane person would say.”
“Slouching is not good for your back.” Bobby stops his floating and swims over to the edge of the pool, arms over the tiles as he rests his chin above his arm. His blue eyes sparkles, head tilted as he gazes at you like he’s trying to read your mind. “Do you think someone created this place?”
“I don’t think so.” You lick your lips, grimacing slightly at the taste the peaches left. “No one’s smart enough or this crazy to invent something like this place.”
Bobby sucks in his teeth, legs floating behind him as he watches the water lap at the edge of the pool. “Back in the laundry room where we…fell.” You hum, eyes staring at the floating peaches inside the can. “I saw my own shirt on the pile of laundry. It was fucked up, it was dumped there like some kind of trophy.” He waits for your reply, and yet when he glances at you, you’re just staring at your dinner. “Earth to hero? Am I annoying you?”
You flash him a smile. “No, just thinking.”
“Penny for your thoughts?”
“You don’t have a single penny.”
“Not right now, but I have money in the real world, y’know.” He flutters his lips at you, blowing an annoyed raspberry as he pushes himself away from the edge of the pool and floating again on his back.
“This is the real world, Bobby.” You don’t mean to sound calloused or bitter, it’s just the truth.
“And they both suck.” His wrist flicks at the water, splashing some water upwards as if it’ll reach the manhole cover on the ceiling. “Do you know how to swim?”
“Yeah.” The slice of peach doesn’t go down your throat easily and you have to take a swig of water.
“Oh yeah, you lived near water.”
More silence, a tension brought back by your dry replies.
“There’s more food in the backpack if you’re still hungry.” He says, prodding at you with his gaze. You hum in reply, and he purses his lips.
Bobby sighs, swims over to the edge of the pool again and looks at you over his arms. “You know that I won’t judge you, right?” His words cut through you when his gaze flickers towards your covered arms. “We’ve all got shit we don’t want to talk about. And that’s okay, I understand you, I won’t ask you about it or judge you for what you did. I’m just glad you stuck around, hero.”
You instinctively hug yourself, the taste of the tart peaches makes you gag. You never liked peaches. “Where’s the bathroom?”
Bobby’s face falls, your name falling on his lips quietly, swallowing thickly as he looks away from you, perhaps guilty for bringing it up, or maybe pity. “Far wall, the signs are fucked so choose whatever.”
You vault from your seat, placing the half eaten can of peaches down on the lounge chair with a clang before walking carefully on the damp tiles. You could feel his eyes follow you, and you could finally breathe the moment you reach the bathroom door.
He’s right, the signs are weird. The usual female and male signs are wonky and turned upside down, it looks like it melted under some heat and you could barely tell what it originally was. You don’t pick which one to go into when you shove your way inside.
The bathroom is dimly lit compared to the bright pool room outside. It’s clean, filled with stalls and sinks, some have showers just like you surmised. And it looks normal, like a public bathroom at a dying mall or an airport bathroom during a red eye flight when there’s no line. For a moment there you thought that you got out, that you’re back in reality instead of being stuck here with a stranger that has saved your life twice now. But when the smell of mold hits you, and you catch sight of a painted sun with a face on the mirror, you know you’re still here, where the air is still, and the monsters in your mind have come alive and are out to get you.
You take deep breaths, grounding yourself, counting how many things you can touch in the place, how many things you can hear, what things you can taste, and all the things you can see. You come up with less and less as you grip onto the sink, opening the squeaky faucet as it splutters out cold water.
Yanking off the jacket, the fabric is still damp to the touch when you toss it haphazardly onto the counter as it clangs loudly, bouncing off the walls. You don’t look at yourself for a while, maybe the feeling will go away if you don’t look.
Taking out your phone from your pocket, you try to turn it on, to find comfort through the pictures, but just as you suspected, it doesn’t turn on. You should toss it against the glass and break it into pieces, but it’s the only thing you brought from home that reminds you that there is still something for you when you get back. Even if it’s just a gravestone, or an empty apartment, or a dead end job. So you shove the phone back in your pocket, maybe if you get out of here you can get it repaired and see the old pictures again.
Unwrapping the bandage Bobby wrapped around your palm, you place your injured hand underneath the water, letting it drench your hand with a wince. Biting your lip, you whimper, eyes glazing over with tears let out by the pain in your hand and in your chest. You unstick your gaze from your reddened flesh, reluctantly staring at yourself in the mirror, you look worse for wear, tired even though you’ve slept long enough and ate enough to keep you going. You still refuse to look at your arms.
You must keep going for his sake, you have to bite through the pain and live on, even when it hurts. Even when he has seen why it hurts.
Head tilted down, you listen to the rushing water hit the porcelain, watching the water collect on your palm as it overflows and hits the sink with a splash. You let your breathing even out when you’re starting to feel the bone aching numbness spread through your limbs. You’re antsy, and you feel your throat close up, static poking right at your fingertips.
Your mind rushes a thousand miles per hour, you just can’t help it. From thoughts about Clark to Kat, to Bobby and the exit, you didn’t hear the sound of the cubicle door opening right behind you.
You feel cold arms wrap around your middle, featherlight at first that you thought you were imagining it, that you’re so touch starved that you were day dreaming about a gentle embrace. But when the pair of arms wrap tighter around your torso and arms, you jostle awake.
Your heart stops when you look at the mirror, there, situated right behind you is a man.
He’s awfully familiar, but unfamiliar at the same time. His face peeks behind your head, and it’s wrong, like the ink on a picture that has faded out. Like Janet down here, just like the memory of your grandfather that stays still at the helm. It’s just like them, it’s not alive.
And it’s wearing the exact same shirt as you.
“Fuck!” You stagger away from the sink, trying to wiggle out of its hold. “No, let go!” Your elbow meets its stomach, but it continues to hold onto you for dear life, not even feeling your striking blow.
The sounds of your shoes squeak across the floor, and you feel it grasp onto you tighter, fingers interlocking on your front, digging you further against its chest like it’s trying to absorb you within itself.
You struggle, kicking around, managing to shuffle to the wall as you push it against it harshly, knocking it against the tiles, trying to make it let go. All it does is make it sink its head against the crook of your neck.
It doesn’t breathe, it doesn’t blink, it doesn’t speak, it just presses itself against you, embracing you like it knows you, trying to take your warmth.
“No!” You shriek, tears blurring your vision as its arms hold onto you so tightly that it’s getting harder to breathe. You have no choice as you claw at its arms and face. “Bobby!” Your nails hit something soft, digging into something akin to a foam than flesh.
Your guttural screams echo around the walls.
“Bobby!” You hear something crack, a bone, maybe yours as your breath leaves your lungs with a dry cough. It holds onto you like velcro, and your legs weaken from the lack of air. It turns you around, pressing you against the wall and further into the tiles. Something in the walls shift, you could hear it hum, you could feel it move. The coldness parts against your cheek as it absorbs you, one by one, cell by cell. “Bobby!” Your screams turn dull with every press against your chest. “Bobby—”
There’s a loud thwack from behind, and the arms let you go.
You keel over, taking deep breaths as you push yourself out of the walls. Crawling backwards and away from it, fingers grasping at your neck, desperately dragging air into your lungs. You see Bobby wield your hammer, standing tall, drenched, striking right at the entity.
“Motherfucker!” He brings it down with a force so harsh that it breaks its face, cleaving it open. “Fuck off!” He strikes again and again until it staggers backwards into a stall.
It’s hand tries to reach for you as if asking for your help, pleading for your help.
Bobby stalks over it, anger rolling off of him from his posture alone as the muscles on his back tense with every rise and fall of the hammer.
The cubicle door swings close behind the two similar looking men, and you could only hear the sound of the hammer meeting whatever it’s made of. Not flesh and bone, something else, something you can’t tell.
You flinch with every smash, metal hitting it in decreasing intervals when Bobby’s ragged breathing echoes around the bathroom.
Your eyes glance at the wall, and you see the tiles close in time before it returns to normal. Or what normal is around here.
The door swings open, and Bobby wipes the sweat off his face with his arm, standing over what remains of the thing that took the form of a man you met and talked to once.
Its face is smashed in, leg twitching, fingers opening and closing. There are stuff around it that bears a resemblance to its cut open face. It looks like foam, like what’s inside a mattress instead of blood and bone.
Bobby heaves, crouches down in front of you, the hammer clangs against the tiles as it falls from his grasp before his hands take hold of your face gingerly, making you look away from the carnage. “Are you okay?”
Your lips wobble, but you keep a brave façade. “Yeah, it— it came out of nowhere.” The lack of air made your voice hoarse, cut at the edges, almost broken.
“I swear that I checked this whole place and there was no one else here.” He sounds guilty, face contorted into a mix of guilt and ebbing fury, the edges of his eyes are reddened, crimson amidst blue. “Did it…did it hurt you?”
Shaking your head, you feel an ache between your ribs that you decide to ignore. “No, it just—it was pushing me into the wall.”
“Fuck, I’m so sorry.”
You don’t know why you did it, maybe it was his genuine bone aching worried expression or maybe it was because he saved you again, either way, you break, opening your arms and pulling him against you for an embrace, as if he was the one in need of comfort. Maybe you shouldn’t when you could still feel the entity’s arms around you, so unfamiliar, so cold. But Bobby is so warm, so familiar, and he lets you, you haven’t held onto someone in so long that your body has forgotten how real warmth feels like. Not from the walls, or whatever nonsensical thing you could fill your days with in the real world. This is humanly real that it sends your mind into a state of calm, a quiet that you’ve only felt through the song of the walls.
Bobby holds you gently, taking you in his arms in a softer and kinder way as his palms rest on your back gingerly. His hand shivers slightly from the adrenaline or from the unfamiliar affection from you.
“I’m not going to break.” You mutter near his ear, watching the thing twitch on the bathroom floor. Bobby squeezes you, letting out a relieved sigh. He holds onto you for a moment, his knuckle gliding along the length of your back, the other cupping the back of your head, waiting for you to pull away first. Once you finally gather your breath and your trembling seizes, you pull away. “Thank you.”
“I heard you call for me and I thought—” his lips purses together, a palm patting your cheek. There is an unsteady tremor from his touch that isn’t as well hidden as he hoped. “nothing, I’m glad you’re okay.” Eyes flicking down your torso, his brows knit together.
“What?” You look down at yourself, expecting blood, or for him to be staring at your arms.
“It was wearing the same shirt as you…” Bobby’s blue eyes meet yours, confusion swimming in them. His mouth forms a question, until.
“Hello?” A voice calls from somewhere. Echoed, like speaking through an old speaker.
“What the fuck?” Bobby instinctively shields you, a hand grasping at your bicep as you both frantically look around the source. “Who the fuck?”
“Holy shit, you guys are real.” Relief is palpable in the stranger’s tone.
“This place is fucked, let’s go.” Bobby helps you up, cautiously walking away.
“Wait, no, please! I’m human! I’m stuck here just like you guys!”
“Can you see us?” You ask tentatively, holding onto Bobby’s elbow to stop his frantic movement. Looking around, you see nothing out of the ordinary, except for the being on the floor. “Where are you?”
Bobby side eyes you, asking what you’re doing through his expression. You reassure him with a squeeze of his arm.
“In some fucked up looking house.” He sounds ragged, exhausted. “I could see you but you can’t see me, right?”
“Yeah.” You could see the cogs in his mind turn as you both recall what Clark told you two in the boiler room. “Who are you?”
“My name’s Peter.” He takes a deep breath that you could hear everywhere around you. “Peter Tench. I… I worked here, still work here.” He laughs bitterly. “I’m a researcher.”
“I fucking knew it!” Bobby seethes, still shielding you from the unseen Peter. “The fucking government made this shit.”
“No, no, we’re not the government, we’re far from it.” He sounds increasingly tired with each word he lets out. “Listen, I don’t have much time, it’s out there.”
“What is, Peter? Maybe we can help you.” Bobby turns to you with a befuddled expression.
“We don’t know this fucking guy, don’t be a hero, hero.”
“I didn’t know you either and yet I saved you. And you didn’t know me but you still saved me.” Your words has him clamping his mouth shut. His jaw clenches before he turns away, and yet he doesn’t leave your side.
“No, he’s right.” Peter shudders a breath, “you shouldn’t trust me but I do know a way out of this place.”
“Tell us.” Bobby demands, standing steadfastly, adrenaline still rushing through him. His eyes are narrowed to slits, fury still rising from his skin like steam.
“There are CB radios scattered around this place, there’s one in every outpost. it’s our…” he pauses, trying to gather his breath. “Our way of communicating with the outside world. If you could find it you can contact my people. I only ask for you to tell them that I’m alive and to come get me. It would be impossible for us to meet up so don’t waste your energy in trying to find me yourself. They know this place better than you ever will.”
“That’s not ominous at all.” Mumbling to himself, Bobby licks at his lips. “And who exactly are these people of yours.”
“You’ll find out.”
“Cryptic motherfucker.”
“Peter, I’ve come across one of those radios and I tried it but no one answered.” You add, taking a step forward and away from Bobby as he watches the side of your face.
“Fuck, it was probably the wrong frequency. Things here like technology don’t work as well for some reason.” He laughs, an ugly laugh that sounds half humourless and half pained. He almost sounds insane, hopeless. With a wobbly breath, he tells you the frequency, just three digits, saying it twice for you and Bobby to memorize it. “Did you get it?”
“Yeah,” your eyes rake around the walls, trying to figure out how he could see you but you can’t see him. Clark said the same thing. Nothing makes sense here, and Bobby’s right, you should stop trying to understand it. “Do you know where any of these radios are?”
“They’re mostly in level zero with the yellow wallpaper.” Your breath hitches at the mere mention. “Your best bet is to just wander around and hope for the best, me giving you direction to a directionless place is a waste of breath.”
“Or you could try giving us a landmark, fucking anything, man.” Frustration rolls off Bobby’s shoulders as you feel his adrenaline fading away.
“Chairs, a ton of wheels from a boat, and I remember a banner that says ‘everything must go,’ once you see those you’re near one.”
“Well, that’s fucking helpful.” Bobby scoffs, walking towards the fallen hammer and picking it up together with your discarded jacket on the counter. “Any other helpful tips, mister scientist?”
“Yeah, don’t get lost.” Peter chortles, a sound from the back of his throat that you feel your skin rising from his laugh. “I have to go, I could hear it shuffling outside.”
“Peter, wait!” There’s a sound of rushed footsteps on the other side, retreating away as you and Bobby are now left alone in the bathroom. “What the fuck just happened?” Turning towards Bobby, he looks at you with furrowed brows, frowning right at you. You feel self conscious as you cross your arms over your chest. “Bobby, I—”
“Are you really okay?” It’s not pity in those pretty blue eyes of his, it’s remorse, it’s guilt marring at his face, it’s empathy that cinches at his heart whilst he holds the jacket close to his chest, your scent clinging on the rustling fabric. “Hero…what happened—”
“I’m fine, thank you but I’m fine.” You would break in front of him, to cry in his arms or hold onto him again but you don’t give yourself that when you’ve been lying to him with an excuse of saving him from the hurt. Stepping towards him, his concern grows, he doesn’t seem to be so convinced. Why is he so worried about you? “I’m okay, worrying won’t get us anywhere.”
“Am I not allowed to worry about you?” Bobby’s eyes flicks towards the entity’s feet as it peeks through the stall, still twitching, still trying to get up. “That’s what people do, hero, they worry about other people. That thing could’ve killed you, and I—” shaking his head, he turns his head away and the fluorescent lights shine right on his glimmering eyes. He’s still soaking wet from his swim, he must’ve rushed here when you called him. “You said that we’re a team. I really don’t want to lose my only teammate, or lose you to insanity like that Peter guy.”
You swallow his words and tuck it in your heart, keeping it there, not knowing how to respond. “You don’t believe him?”
He scoffs at your reaction, biting his lower lip as he shakes his head. “Let’s just get out of here. You are the most frustrating woman I’ve ever met, and I’ve met a lot.”
“I’m sorry that I’m emotionally constipated.” You meant it as a joke, but he doesn’t find it as funny as you.
Bobby licks at his teeth, head falling down on his clavicle with a chortle akin to a scoff. “You said it, not me.” Taking a deep breath, he hands you your jacket back. “You didn’t finish your peaches.”
“I hate peaches.” You awkwardly shove the jacket on.
“See? That— you should’ve said so.” He shrugs, frustration right on his movements. “Don’t shut me out, man. You don’t have to tell me everything but at least tell me *some of the shit. Like how you don’t like peaches or that you’re dying from the heat or about the radio thing, you didn’t tell me that.”
“I didn’t even know it still works. Bobby, I’m sorry, but I’m really trying, I…” clutching at the hem of the jacket, you shut your eyes for a moment before looking at him, not between his brows or the wall beside him, but right into those blue eyes that remind you of the ocean you once sailed on. “I’ve just been alone for so long that I have no idea how to… I’m sorry.”
Bobby’s shoulders ease, a hand raking through his wet hair as he bites the inside of his cheek. “No, don’t be sorry.” The heel of his palm kneads at the space between his brows. “I keep prying you with questions when you know as much about this place as I do. Kat tells me that I could be an annoying ass sometimes.” Pausing, he lets out a sigh, looking at the wall behind you for a moment before meeting with your eyes. “I—I just want you to look after yourself for a change.”
Shaking your head, you reach for his hand, you shouldn’t, but something in you told you to, that you should show him that you understand, that you care. “You’ve been nothing but pleasant so far, Bobby.”
The corner of his lips ticks up into a sad smile. His fingers squeeze you weakly. “Kat would be happy to hear that. Just— just don’t forget that you have to survive too, you need to take care of yourself, not just me. I’m not a kid, don’t sacrifice your comfort for me.” He takes a pause, fingers flexing on his side. “I need you to fight for this. Like you already did before.”
“Okay.” You feign a smile that doesn’t quite reach your eyes. “Let’s go find that radio.”
Getting a burn while on the verge of a heatstroke sounds absolutely dreadful🥀 Those two are stronger than me bc I would just throw myself to those weird ass dogs and let em eat me atp😮💨
Brooo, where tf is the real Clark😭😭 All these fakerssss. And omfg, Kat isn't really dead, right😰
The pool room! Yooo, who tf is helping us tho??? Like, more food and water??? Also, I looked up the almond water and apparently, some of them have different effects🤔 Could that be why Bobby healed that quick or why he's moving like he's a veteran survivalist, lmao
R was lost at sea??? Oh man, rip grandpa🥀 How did that even happen??? R lore got me hooked, I need to know moreeeee💕
Bobby is actually being really fucking sweet, especially since ik he knows that R is a walking bucket full of trauma🥹❤️
AYOOOO, WTF WAS THAT THING IN THE BATHROOM??? WHY DO YOU HAVE THE SAME SHIRT AS ME, HOE😰🤚🏾
Bobby 🫱🏻🫲🏾 Me Thinking the government is behind it all🤣
Wtf you mean people are stuck here researching this fucked up place😀🥀 Don't tell me they're the ones giving us food and shit. They've been watching usssss😰😭
Last Song : Make Some Noise for the Desi Boys (Hindi song btw)
Last Movie : Where Evil Lurks (Horror movie watched it at midnight)
Last Thing I ate : Chilly Paneer
Last Place I went : A mall in another city I was visting lol
Last Video Game : Rhythm Hive
No pressure Tagging- @holyymoly @imkindasleepdeprived @asexual-lemonade @wolfstarisareligion @ineffablelyqueerwolfstarshipper @iamawolfstarsimp @aiexh @hamzakamehroomkurta @femmour @linnielemon+anyone I forgot + anyone who is seeing this and wants to do it and didn't get tagged. go ahead, act like I did tag you
Last thing I ate- Roti and Ladyfinger ki sabji (bhindi)
Last place I went to - The shell petrol pump
Last video game - Either valo (last year prolly) or pandemic on board game
Moots-
@moonandstarshangoutinbars @moonyisnotonfire @istillwishforyouateleveneleven @adduptosomething @moonyluvrr @fantasyfiend222 + anymore I forgot to add+ open to all
last song - currently listening to like real people do by hozier
last movie - uhhhh. uhhhhhhhh. I don’t actually know tbf, I think last movie was when I pirated fantastic beasts and where to find them because I missed my little crush on newt scamander ngl
last I ate - chive & onion twists. currently munching on them. yummy
last place I went to - corner store bcs I ran out of lipbalm
last video game - stardew valley I think??? or maybe minecraft. forgot which was last
tags !! no pressure ofc !! - @andromaex @merthurtrenches @epic-sorcerer @frederissa @frogmerthur @wingsstilldontwork + open !!!
Sooo, have we ever thought of Ghost Rider! Hobie? Specially cowboy! Ghost Rider! Hobie🤔😩 Oh oh! Better yet, Ghost Rider! R and Spider-Punk! Hobie! Like, like, cuz there's nothing more punk in his eyes than seeing his lovie acting out vengeance against those that even he questions his own non killing rule about. Seeing the penance stare would ultimately frighten him and yet, he's never been more intrigued by you🤭💕 And the fact that you look so absolutely otherworldly while riding your own motorcycle/vehicle that's blazing with your hellish flames. Watching you switch between forms so effortlessly (putting aside that it took such a long time for you to even get to that point because of the deal, yk💀) makes him feel like you're completely out of his league, but to his delight, you like the annoying little spider that sometimes crashes your nightly rides as you seek out victims– I mean, wrongdoers👀
OMG YUME QODMKWNDKEMDKD I LOVE THAT IDEA
Brooo the way i need a fanart of hobie as ghost rider tho 🥰😳 wait WAIT COWBOY HOBIE AS GHOST RIDER?!!! THAT MEANS HIS SKELETON HORSE IS IN FLAMES THAT IS SO BADASS I'M SO DOWN BAD FOR THAT CONCEPT AUGH 🥴
Ghost rider! R is gonna unlock something in him 👀👀😳 y'know that one meme with the tall woman and smaller guy in an alleyway? Yeah that's r in her ghost rider form and spider punk hobie looking up at her like she's a goddess reborn 🤭
Hell, Ghost Rider unlocked something in me when I was younger bc I would. Even when he's in that form, I WOULD😩💕💕
BUT YEAH, LIKE THAT SCENE IN THE MOVIE WHERE THE OLD GHOST RIDER CALLS HIS HORSE AND TURNS IT INTO THE SKELETON HORSE❤️ Him and Buckeye would be feared lmaooo
Ghost Rider! R is just staring him down with a sizzling hot chain wrapped up in her hands. "Do you know who I am, little spider...?"
@yumeaoka-chan who says hobie has a no kill rule? Like that PUNK WEARS blue laces. He also def probably knows about lace code. And most often in lace code that means someone killed a cop or someone in the line of duty
+ go look at his comics… lets just say he does a lot more with that guitar than play it… so so. Hobie would probably love his lovie
However i do fuck with this idea (i fuck with it and love this idea a LOTTT)
Ik all about his comic book counterpart, trust🤭💕 But, this is assuming movie Hobie has roughly the same universe as his comic book👀 (idk, they both feel like 2 slightly different Hobies to me) Besides, maybe he has a no kill rule on minor villains rather than that twat Osborn and the venom police guys🤔 I'm actually really curious about movie Hobie's universe, ngl🤔
Lol, but besides that, ofc he loves his lovie🤭💕
"You do realize that I could melt your face off if I wanted to?"
"Sounds like a lovely Friday night😀"
He his absolutely, HORRENDOUSLY, down bad for the glowering spirit towering over him🙂↕️
Synopsis: After saving Bobby you go out to look for Kat, only to find someone else. Something else is lurking between the walls, watching, observing. Waiting.
Tags: No use of Y/N, no specific physical description of the reader except for clothing, part 2 of my Bobby series, CW dark themes, CW canon typical blood and violence, CW injury, CW food mentions. Eventual Bobby romance, set during the movie (spoilers).
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Bobby Franklin Masterlist
Part 1 <<< Part 2 >>> Part 3
Bobby slides down the side of the half melted sailboat, wincing, tears gathering in the corner of his eyes as his hands tremble around his swollen ankle. The skin around it is red and angry, throbbing painfully, and he could feel the pain with every shift of his body.
His head turns to you, cautious, fear still clinging to his bones.
You peek through the crack in the door, listening for something, anything, footsteps, wood thumping on carpet, or even a scream, something to indicate that you weren’t followed; or better yet, a sign that Bobby’s two companions made it out alive.
You can feel your pulse thump, straining against your skin, beating, beating, pounding, thrumming like the heartbeat within the walls.
But there’s nothing but silence in the corridors. The air is still, and the droning whir of the familiar lights are steady above you. It’s eerily quiet, with nothing but Bobby’s shuddered breath behind you. And the warmth calling to you from the walls. You ignore the latter for now.
You close the door quietly and place a chair under the doorknob like always as you glance at the half melted sailboat to look for the copy of your grandfather. You see him at the helm again, standing still, unbothered. His eyes don’t trail right behind you as you move, you don’t know if that hurts more than being watched by the ghost of him.
The song of the walls greeted you inside the moment you stepped foot, like an old friend with its arms open for you. The humming calms you, easing your sore body as you take in the familiar room.
Crossing the short distance over to Bobby, you finally feel the adrenaline ebb out of you in aching waves. One by one you start to feel heavy with fatigue, knees creaking, your side blooming with a dull ache and your muscles beating like a pounding heart.
Bobby looks at the map on the wall that you drew. Through his tearful eyes, as blue as the ocean, as blue as the walls of your childhood room. His throat bobs up and down, chest heaving as his hand weakly grasps at his ankle. Now that you look at it, and at his expression filled with trepidation, the mural looks like the scribbles of a madwoman.
His eyes turn to you, swallowing thickly, wary of you.
“It’s a map of the place.” You explain simply, standing like a tree that sways in the wind as your feet shuffles underneath you.
“I figured.” He answers, sweat dribbling off his face, drenching his white crop top. He’s a guy probably into fashion you think, like the influencers you see flaunt their style on their page. “You’ve been alone all this time?” His eyes shift all over you, not ogling, just taking you in, truly seeing you like it’s the first time and not through the lens of the camera.
You don’t know what to do with your hands. You put them behind you at first, then you must’ve looked like a timid schoolgirl in front of him so you tuck it in your pockets, but it’s too casual. So you resign to wringing your hands together, fingers playing with the cold zipper of your bomber jacket.
“Sort of.” Your hand grazes at your neck before bringing them down in front of you with a shuffle of fabric from your jacket. “I have him, but he’s not much of a conversationalist.”
“What, who?” You watch in real time as Bobby notices your grandad standing on the sailboat, while he grasps onto the helm like usual. There’s an unnatural stillness to him, like a man in a photograph and somewhere in Bobby’s brain recognizes it as inhuman. “Is he—” He tries to stand up, only for you to gently hold him down by his shoulder.
“He’s harmless.” You explain, searching his eyes, trying to convince him. Your hand flinches above his shoulder after feeling how warm he is, and how his muscles tighten underneath your touch. Taking your hand away, you bite the inside of your cheek, rethinking the interaction like you always do. “He won’t hurt us.”
His eyes glance between you and the old man. “What—” his tongue brush along his dry lips. “What is he?”
“I— I don’t know.” You’ll never tell him that you know him, or knew him more like, unless he asks you. “But he wasn’t like the one that attacked us. He’s dormant, sort of. He sometimes moves.”
Bobby runs a hand through his hair, yanking his shades off and tossing it haphazardly to the side as it slides towards the mural. “What the fuck is happening?”
“I don’t know, Bobby—”
“You should know, you’ve been here for more than twelve fucking days, you said it yourself. Fuck, Kat, where the fuck—” His anger rolls off him in waves, he lets his words out without a thought, and he regrets it the moment it leaves his lips. Bobby heaves, crumpled, afraid. “I— I’m—”
You wince, eyes closing as your finger picks at your hangnail. “I’m sorry, I really don’t k–know. All…” Clearing your throat, you stare at him with the same fear in his eyes, the same uncertainty. “All I know is that we have to get out of here.”
“Not without Kat.”
“Not without Kat.” You repeat, reassuring him with a nod. “We’ll find her, we’ll go out and find her but you can’t go anywhere with your ankle like that.” There’s a pebble lodged in your throat. “I’m sorry but you’re…you’re dead weight.” Guilt immediately eats at your ribcage.
“I can’t—” his hands gesture wildly, eyes wide and frantic. His face is blanched like he’s about to throw up all over the damp carpets. “I can’t just fucking wait here!”
“What do you want to do?” You step closer, looming over him with the same fear in your eyes. “Limp on out of here? The moment that thing comes after you, you’re dead.” His expression falls, jaw tightening at your words. Inhaling, you crouch down, eyes softening. You remember how terrified you were the first time, you wished someone was here with you to comfort you or at least keep you company. The walls were that comfort for you, even though it wasn’t a person, a living thing, just some tacky yellow wallpaper. Bobby is too late to be that person, but you can be that person for him. “I’m sorry but that’s the truth.”
“Well, you’re a goddamn downer.” He hisses in between his teeth, a hand raking through his tresses, and head thumping against the boat. Deep down he knows that you’re right, but he refuses to say it out loud. Because saying it for the yellow walls to hear is making it come true.
“Just a realist.” You manage a joke, sitting down crossed leg beside him whilst giving him space to breathe. “May I? I have meds with me, but they’re only for the pain.”
Taking your backpack off, you open the zipper as the sound echoes around the room. Your food and water supplies are scarce with nothing left but a bottle of water and a packet of biscuits. But the fortunate thing is that you have enough pain meds to last him a few days and your first aid kit is still unused. You can’t say the same thing for your hammer as it dangles on your hip all bloodied.
Bobby licks his dry lips, an open palm reaching for it. “Just give them to me.”
Handing him a pill, he pops it in his mouth as you open up the bottle of water for him. “Don’t drink it all.” You instruct him before he could down it. “That’s the only water we’ve got.”
Wiping his mouth with his wrist, Bobby gives you back the bottle, eyeing your movements as he takes a peek inside your backpack. “You don’t have enough?”
You could only shake your head. Inhaling, you take out the first aid kit and shut the backpack, changing the subject. “It doesn’t look like it’s broken.”
“You a doctor? A nurse?”
“No, I just watch a lot of TV.” The plastic clicks as you open the first aid box. “Lots of medical shows.”
“That’s reassuring.” Sniffing, his cheek rests against the cold side of the boat. “Are you sure this place is safe?”
“So far it’s been safe. No other entity has been here except for him.” Your head gestures to your grandpa still at the helm. Hands unfurling the brown cohesive wrap, you ask for permission with a glance. “This’ll help relieve the pressure.”
“You know how to do it?” He’s unlacing his shoe, before yanking it out, hissing between his teeth when it jostles his injury.
“Yeah, I was a clumsy kid.” You chuckle lightly, memories flickering in your mind. “May I?”
He nods, slowly twisting around and lending you his ankle. He’s closer to you now, and you could smell his cologne on him, something heady with manly musk amidst sweat and a faint smell of weed on his clothes. His blue eyes watch you fold the wrap around his ankle, with your pinky brushing along his heel so gently that he barely felt every tug.
“I won’t break, y’know.”
Your movements pause, eyes flicking to meet with his eyes. “I just didn’t want to hurt you.”
“I’m guessing it won’t work if you don’t make it tight enough.” Bobby manages a small smile to reassure you. “I’ll be alright. Just do it, the faster I get back on my feet the faster we find Kat.”
“Okay,” nodding and taking a deep breath, fingers grazing his skin, you feel him shiver underneath your touch. Something so human, a reaction that you never thought was possible to miss during your solace here. You cinch the wrap tighter as you see him take a breath between his teeth. You don’t ask him if he’s good in case you annoy him. “Is this okay?” You finish the wrap, palm cupping at his ankle before moving away. “It’s not too tight?”
“No, it’s fine. Thanks.” Bobby tests his ankle, turning it slowly around the joints before wincing and putting his foot back down slowly. He then looks at you, blue eyes staring right into your own as you fidget in place. “You’ve got blood on your face.”
“Oh,” you blink, brows rising to your forehead as you blindly wipe at your face with your sleeve. The fabric of your bomber jacket is now stained with dried blood, dyeing the poppies on it even more red. “Thanks.” You give him an unsure wobbly smile. “Your chin is bleeding. You want me to get that for you?”
Bobby touches his chin, the pads of his fingertips are reddened as he winces. He nods and you start to disinfect his wound with precise movements, cleaning it and putting a gauze and tape over it to keep it clean. He still shivered under your touch, maybe it’s his adrenaline wearing off.
“So, what now?” Touching his chin, he then tilts his head back and he stares at the door on the ceiling, brows folded together as his hand mindlessly fiddles with the chain around his throat. “This place is fucking weird.” You can just tell that his mind is on a lot of things, running a thousand miles per second just behind those ocean eyes of his.
“You haven’t seen weird yet.” You have a lot of stories to tell him, but he probably doesn’t want to hear any of it when he’s still in shock.
“Where did you even get those stuff?” His index points at your bag then over to you.
“I brought it here.”
“What? You said you fell in, that you got trapped here, not bringing camping shit and intentionally staying.” His brows furrow, agitated, terribly guarded because of you. “No sane person would want to stay here.”
“I didn’t want to stay, Bobby.” You muster up the courage to speak up, years ago you would’ve collapsed under his gaze. But not this version of you, this one survived the impossible over and over again. Not even his piercing eyes could make you keel over when you’ve stared death in the eyes. “I brought this so I could explore, just like you wanted, remember? You grabbed me and brought me down with you. Curiosity got the best of us.”
He glances away from you, an arm perched over his knee as he stares at the map before him. “Was everything you said real? Because I just met you and— I don’t know if I can trust you.”
“I just took care of your ankle for you, let you drink from my last water and saved you from that thing.” You collect your things and shove them inside your backpack. “But I get you, you don’t know me, I don’t know you. It’s your choice to trust me but everything I’ve told you so far is real. I fell, got chased, and I got lost. All I want right now is to get home just like you do.”
Bobby remains silent as he looks up at you whilst you stand up on wobbly legs.
You zip everything back in your pack before slinging it over your shoulder. “You should rest, there’s a bed inside the boat if you need it, and here.” You take half of a granola bar from your jacket pocket. “When you get hungry.”
“Wait, where are you going?” Bobby gingerly takes the snack from you, brows knitted.
“To find Kat and Clark.”
He lets out a scoff akin to a chuckle. “Alone?”
“Perks of being here for more than twelve days is that I know the layout, at least some of it.” You fix your hold on your pack as it hangs over your shoulder. “I’ll be back, I’m not planning on leaving you here.”
“Yeah, but you can’t just—” he gestures all around him like it’ll finish his sentence for him. “Go explore all alone when that thing is still out there.”
“I have to while they could still be nearby. This place is a fucking maze, Bobby, they’ll get lost. And it’s better to have at least one person to look for them than to have the two of us doing nothing.”
“Will…will you be okay? On your own, I mean?” There’s genuine concern in his tone.
“Yeah,” you don’t believe your own voice as you nod your head, and pat the hammer by your side. “I’ve got this.”
“Still, it won’t kill it.”
“I know, but it’ll be enough to stagger it.” Inhaling, you take a look at the map and then over to your grandpa before zipping your jacket around you. “I’ll be fine. If not then, try to retrace your steps back to where you got in.” You let out a humorless laugh. While his expression doesn’t change as you clear your throat at the attempt at a joke. “Don’t put pressure on your ankle and keep it elevated.” Turning around, you make it to the door as you take the chair away under the doorknob quietly.
“Wait—!” He stops you, standing up with a struggle as his hand braces against the boat. “Just—if you find Kat first, bring her here then we’ll all get out together.”
“What about Clark?”
Bobby shakes his head, fingers curling around his palm. “He knows this place too, he can get out by himself.”
“That’s a…a loaded sentence if I know one.” You utter dryly as his lips tugs in the corners. “Don’t bother him,” your eyes glances at your grandpa at the helm. “And he won’t bother you.”
The door closes behind you with a click, leaving Bobby behind with the copy of your grandpa. Bobby stares at the environment around him, he’s so sick of the yellow wallpaper already.
—
You stare at a severed hand on the floor.
Your ragged breathing bounces off the yellow wallpaper. The hammer dangles from your fingertips as you feel your limbs go numb.
It took you a while to get here, hours perhaps, and you followed all the signs, a drop of blood in the hallway, a splatter of deep crimson on the wall amidst the sickly yellow. And the stench of mold staying in the still air. You kept to the wall, almost hugging it as you left your mark on it as always to find your way back to Bobby. Your legs were aching even more when you smelled it— decay.
There’s no blood on the hand anymore, left to curdle and dry as the skin over the severed bone has rotted like it’s been here for weeks. There’s a singular fly on it, weakly flapping its wings over the rot, feasting on the cleaved flesh. You know it’s hers, who else could it be when there are only four people inside this place? The beaded bracelet with pink and white beads still hanging on around the wrist tells you it’s really her.
You think of Kat and her grisly end, she was kind to you, or at least civil when the two men only stared at you in disbelief as if you spawned and crawled out from the walls itself. She deserved better than this.
You’re no stranger to death, you’ve seen it before, out in the raging waters in a storm, and as it gripped your neck before the rope broke. You’ve seen it, you’ve felt it, you’ve heard it through the strange hum in the walls, but that doesn’t mean it gets easier, the grief, the bone aching pain in your chest still rumbles and claws right at you. Death is permanent, you know this, and yet you attempted this, you once felt it as the sound of a swinging rope echoed in your ears whilst you dangled. Seeing the remnants of it, what it leaves, even from a person you barely knew, still leaves you in this human pain, this grief that you wish to never feel ever again. But it stays, it always stays, it leaves a mark, pointing and mocking you with the memories that remind you of that heart wrenching grief. You don’t know Kat well, and you’ll never know her. A whole person with memories filled with joy and sadness, someone with dreams and fears, just gone, decimated, damned to a fate worse than anything outside these yellow walls.
It should’ve been you instead. At least no one would miss you.
There’s a sudden pinching pain in your neck, you lift your hand away from your skin, finding blood underneath your fingernails. You’ve been scratching at your throat the whole time, trying to cut into the skin, trying to claw away at the gnawing feeling of death.
The pads of your fingers pat at your neck, wincing when you feel the stabbing pain of the cuts around your skin. Your lips wobble as you sob for a woman you never got the chance to know.
You never wish this on anyone, but you’ll be the bearer of it, the messenger of this grief to Bobby.
“I tried.”
A voice says from behind, so unfamiliar, so broken.
The hammer falls from your fingertips as it clangs loudly on the carpet.
You whirl around and you see him— Clark. He looks exhausted, starved, skin pulled taut around his bones, clothes hanging loosely on his body. Under the yellow reflection of the walls, he looks as sickly as the wallpaper. The light above him flickers wildly before the bulbs burn and he’s draped in darkness.
He couldn’t possibly look like this, not yet anyway when it’s only been a few hours since the separation happened. You understand the exhaustion, but not the hunger in his eyes, the crack in his dry lips and the crackling breath in his lungs. This is the face of a man who was abandoned on a mountain for months without food or water.
“What?” Your brows wrinkle together, eyes raking worriedly at his form. “What happened to you, Clark? Are you okay?”
“Can you come with me?”
‘Can you come with me?’ Not, ‘do you have food?’ or ‘Do you have water to spare?’ or even ‘do you know the way out?’ It’s an invitation, an invitation to somewhere you really don’t want to accept.
There’s something off with him.
“Is this…” you point at the hand laying just behind the heels of your shoes. You ask even though you already know the answer. But you still do, a confirmation, closure for Bobby. “Is this her?”
“My assistant manager.” His voice is heavy with fatigue and you feel like clawing at your throat again. “Can you come with me? I know a safe place.”
You blink at him, breathing heavily. There’s something wrong with him. His eyes are the same as the last you saw him, just tired, heavy with sleepless nights. But he doesn’t talk the same, he talks robotically, like he rehearsed the words in front of the mirror beforehand in case he runs into you, or Bobby for that matter. You expected for him to be frantic or hysterical after what happened, not this, he’s calm, too calm for someone who has seen horrors beyond human comprehension.
“You said… you said that you tried.” Slowly, you move your way down to pick up the fallen hammer. “What did you try, Clark?”
“Tried to save her. But she just…I couldn’t get to her in time.” Clark takes a step forward and you flinch out of instinct. Something shifts in his eyes. “There was a pool and a wall. And she said she could see me but I couldn’t see her.” He swallows thickly. “Are you afraid of me? Like last time? Your hand looks much better.”
“My–my hand?” You shake your head, taking slow deep breaths. “No, this place it…it keeps you alert. I’m not scared of you.” Your foot nudges at the hammer as it clangs lightly. “I’m sorry for what happened. About Kat, about all of this. I tried to tell you.”
His eyes flicks towards the hammer.
“Clark, how long have you been here?” You distract him, jaw tight as you keep your eyes on him.
“A while.” His tone cracks at the edges from his dry mouth. Still too calm, still too normal.
“It’s only been a few hours, Clark. How–how could it be a while since then?” You must’ve picked up something from the numerous doctors you’ve spoken to when you use their own tactics against him. You say his name in a calm manner, telling him that you see him, that you’re staring at him and not through him. That you understand his words, his plights, instead of instigating him. You try to comfort him, this is a man who has been alone here for far longer than you have with no food, no water, and no humming in the walls to keep him company. He has become the very thing he called you. “Where have you been staying? If you’re injured I have meds and first aid. I have a bit of food, and some water if you—”
“I’ll show you where I’ve been staying.” He smiles, skin tugging in the corners. “It’s safe there, and I have food, plenty of it.”
“Where do you get the food, Clark?” Your fingers inches closer to the hammer by your feet as you slowly bend your knees.
“You’ll see, come.” He gestures behind him, still smiling. Still off.
“Where is this place? You can tell me which direction and I’ll just go there with Bobby later.” Your lashes clump together from the unshed tears in your eyes as you feel his eyes on you whilst you crouch down to grab the hammer. You’re inches away from the wooden handle as he takes two steps forward, frantic, worried.
“You’re still with Bobby?” His hand holds out to you as you stop short, fingers mid curled around the handle. “Where is he?”
“Somewhere safe.” With a shuddered breath, looking up at him, refusing to leave your gaze from him, you finally get a hold of the hammer. “Clark, do you know the way out of here?”
Blinking, like a deer in the headlights, he stares at the hammer in your hand whilst you’re still crouched.
“I do.”
“Can you tell me where it is?” You’re careful with your words.
“You’ll tell everyone about this place.” He chuckles with no ounce of humour laced in it.
“No, no, I won’t, Clark.”
“Yes, you will.” He takes a step forward and you’re forced to stand up abruptly, clutching onto the hammer. “I like this place. I know you do too.”
“No, I don’t.” Your hand trembles around the hammer. He’s scaring you. You don’t want him to come closer. “Clark, tell me where the exit is and we’ll leave you alone.”
“I still need you here. You and Bobby.”
The thumping of wood against carpet echoes from a hallway on his left. Clark turns his head at the sound and you take the opportunity to sprint away.
“Hey, no!” He tries to grab at you, managing to grab at your backpack as you’re hauled backwards onto your back with a harsh thud. “I said stay!”
You know this is Clark, not some copy of him like your grandpa or like Janet. He feels real as he looms over you, he’s warm, not cold like the pirate that chased after you, nor does he smell like mold and decay. He’s tangibly real as he drags you by the handle of your backpack towards the clambering sound of a wooden peg leg.
“Clark, no!” Shrieking, you watch as the ceiling moves quickly above you as you’re being dragged. You feel the rug burn against your back as you kick and scream and try to get a hold of his hand.
Your hammer has fallen down on the ground from the struggle, getting smaller and smaller as you’re dragged away.
There’s a chair half embedded into the wall, and you grab it, fingers curling and digging into the wood as you feel the rough edges of it.
“Let go.” He says too calmly.
“No!”
Clark looms over you, leaning down to wretch your hand away from the chair leg. “I said let go!”
With all your strength, you bring your fist to his face, punching him right on his nose as he staggers back, letting you go.
“Ah, fuck!”
You scramble away, crawling on the carpet and getting back on your wobbly feet. You shouldn’t have turned around, maybe it was your morbid curiosity, maybe you just wanted to see if the sounds weren’t from your imagination alone.
But then you see it, real, lumbering from the dark depths of the yellow hallway as it holds onto the sides of the walls, too tall, too long to go through it quickly. It fills the whole corridor with its lanky body.
Pirate Clark has its sights on you.
The light flickers, and you run.
You take the fallen hammer on your way out, bolting out of there as you hear Clark, not the wrong one, the real one, screaming your name gutterally. His scream bouncing off the monotonous yellow walls.
The signs guide you, and the song of the walls turn at an ear piercing dissonance, overwhelming you with the sights and sounds of the backrooms.
You turn a corner, more yellow wallpaper, more ringing.
There’s a junction in front of you, and you stop, hearing the mix of rushed footsteps and the wooden thumping just right behind you.
On your left is unmarked, unexplored by you. On your right has your arrow pointing right down the hallway.
With your breath stuck in your throat, fist throbbing with a dull ache and a stitch blooming on your side, you draw a bigger arrow on the wall to your left with a sharpie from your pocket as it points right at the place you have no idea what it leads to. It’s a stretch, they could still follow you so you mark the right one with an X right over the arrow, before running in that direction.
Clark isn’t stupid, you might not fool him with that alone but fighting a human being is easier than fighting an entity that could rip into you. At most it would disorient whatever pirate Clark is. So you run, keeping the same pace as you make as little sounds as you could whilst drawing fake arrows leading to nowhere right on the walls you pass by.
The best you can do is to keep Clark away from the sailboat room and far away from Bobby.
For a moment you take a breather, holding onto your knees as you pant and breathe in the still air. There’s no sound of running behind you anymore, nor the peg leg knocking on the carpets. It’s just you as you inhale and exhale, watching the sweat drip from your brow and over to the carpet below.
Lifting your head, you hear it first— the shuffling of fabric, a faint rustle. Then you see it, a glimpse of a familiar flowery bomber jacket peeking from the hallway in front of you.
It moves away, replaced by a long hand, too long fingers, long nails with blood matted underneath its fingernails as it grips at the edge of the wall.
It peeks over it, a forehead, then a pair of reddened eyes.
You don’t wait around to see the rest as you run away.
The moment you see the door to the sailboat room you feel lighter. Opening the door frantically, you shove yourself inside, startling a sleeping Bobby as you shut the door as quietly as you could and place the chair right under the doorknob.
“Hey, you okay?” Bobby glances at you as you keel over on the floor, head resting against the wall while you heave. “Did you see Kat?”
You shut your eyes tightly, a hand wiping at your sweaty face as you swallow down the bile rising in your throat.
“...No.” You utter softly, too soft for a blatant lie. “No, I didn’t see her.”
The hope on his expression falls. “What happened then?”
“I—” Bobby reaches for you, taking hold of your elbows as he pulls you back up to your wobbly legs. “I saw Clark.” You’re face to face with him as you watch his brows furrow. “He’s not…fine. There’s something wrong with him.”
“What do you mean?” His eyes search for yours as you look anywhere but him.
You look at your grandpa, or a ghost of him, as he stares up at the drawing of the sun in the corner, looking up at it as if he could just feel its warmth if he could just come closer. Your vision warbles, legs going numb under you, as if you’ve been running around for days. Your stomach grumbles, and your mouth is dry as your eyes fall in the back of your head.
“Shit! Hey!” Bobby catches you in his arms before you could hit your head.
—
The walls take you within itself.
You wake to the sound of fabric ripping and your flesh tearing at the seams. You’re surrounded by the same yellow wallpaper, from the walls to the ceiling, it warps around you, moving, breathing as it absorbs you into the sickly yellow.
You try to scream, call out for help, but no words come out of your mouth, just a guttural wheeze from the back of your throat.
Then you realize, the walls absorbs your voice too.
It takes you in, the wallpaper wrapping itself around your limbs, dissolving you into its warmth. It’s warm, so warm, like a late afternoon at the beach where the air smells like the sea and the clouds are turning pink over you. The water lapping at the sand near your feet, the grains of sand in your hair as you watch a small crab climb the length of your bare leg, you stayed on that beach, waiting for the ambulance to come, to see the pink sky be drenched in the red and blue siren lights. Like that day, you sink into the wall like how you were sinking into the wet sand.
The walls around you breathe, warbling right in front of you like the waves as it rolls around you, like you’re drifting underneath the tides.
The yellow wallpaper slithers up your chest, taking you inside the warmth. It laps at your temples, muffling your ears as you hear the hum at a frequency you could hear so clearly. It’s a sorrowful tone made by no instrument you’ve ever heard before, it’s a song made by something older than you, as old as the walls that are currently taking you in its embrace.
It’s a song you will soon be a part of.
You wake to a touch upon your arm, worried, tensed around your skin.
Your eyes open to the ceiling, where the plastic glow in the dark stars are slowly peeling away at the paint on the walls like the real ones. These ones aren’t stars though, just blobs of green tinted plastic that glows wrong in the dark, too bright, too intense unlike the real ones. It’s glowing in that same hue as the curtains are fully drawn to a close.
Turning towards the source of the hand, you see Bobby’s face sigh in relief when he sees your eyes look into his own. As blue as the waters that day, as blue as the siren lights that flooded the whole beach.
“You were screaming in your sleep.” He says, voice taut, tired as he lays his chin atop the edge of the bed, too exhausted to hold it up.
“Sorry, did I wake you up?” Your throat aches, like you swallowed a pebble, and your whole body still vibrates from the dream.
“No, couldn’t sleep.” His jaw tightens, he was too afraid to sleep, afraid to wake up to the entity that hunted him down, afraid that he won’t wake up.
“I’ll take this watch,” you say, rather than tell him out right to sleep. Sitting up, you see him look up at you with those big blue eyes that feels like it searches for your soul inside those sad eyes of yours. “You take the bed, the floor isn’t comfortable when it’s at an angle.”
“Yeah, I kept sliding down.” Bobby lifts himself up on the bed, back hitting the porthole as he obscures even more light whilst the plastic stars above illuminate the room. “I had those when I was a kid too.” His head is tilted up, the chain around his throat caught in the light.
“Same here.” You answer, unconsciously copying his movements as you rest your back against the wall, watching the fake blob of stars. “Mine kept falling down on my face while I tried to sleep.”
“You should’ve used double sided tape, not the ones that came with it.” Bobby chuckles, a deep rumble in his throat as he runs a hand over his face. “These ones just look weird though. Like someone who has never seen stars tried to draw stars.”
The corner of your lips tug at the corners as you crane your neck to look at him. You find him still staring at the stars, eyes half lidded, back easing with every breath he lets out. “I thought of the same thing too.”
You guess trauma really does bring people together. Even complete strangers who would otherwise never have met.
“Like a kid in kindergarten trying to draw stars.” His head turns to you, giving you the same small smile. You watch as his eyes drift down at your neck, and his face contorts into an expression you know all too well— pity. “Did Clark do that to you? You said you saw him.”
You shake your head, turning away to look at the ceiling again, the same ceiling you gazed at your whole childhood, the same ceiling you placed those stars that never really stuck to the ceiling as you watched each star fall from it, peeling off the paint along with it. You once got so tired of it that you yanked every single star off the ceiling and tossed them right in the bin.
“No,” the fake stars fizzle in and out before glimmering again. “It wasn’t Clark. I don’t think it was Clark.”
“What do you mean? Was Kat with him?”
“He looked…off.” Bobby shuts his eyes and moves his gaze away from the side of your face. “And Kat wasn’t with him.” Not anymore.
“Then,” He shifts on the bed, trying to keep his eyes open. He still smells faintly like weed and cologne. “What was wrong with him?”
Taking a deep breath, you could still feel the rug burn against the back of your thighs when he dragged you across it by the strap of your backpack. “Like he’s been here for years, he didn’t look like himself.”
“Maybe,” his lips smacks, biting the inside of his cheek as he rubs at his injured ankle. “Maybe you imagined it? Like, I don’t fucking know, your mind playing tricks on you? I mean shit, the human mind isn’t built for this kind of stress.”
Your mind has played tricks on you before you fell into this place, you’ve heard things that weren’t there before, you’ve seen things that aren’t truly there, but this, what happened to you in that corridor with the severed hand of Kat laying beside your feet as you felt her severed flesh brush alongside your ankle, was tangibly real. You would know the difference, your doctors taught you how to decipher between what was real and what wasn’t. Clark was as real as the scars along your arms.
“It was real,” you finally turn to face him with a hardened look on your face, fingers scratching at your throat. “He tried to lure me somewhere, but I saw something was up with him and I didn’t go and he just… dragged me on the carpet towards that fucking thing.”
“He did what?” Bobby sits up, face serious and breathing hard. “Clark could be a bit of an ass but he wouldn’t do that.”
“That’s what I thought too. That’s why I thought it wasn’t truly Clark.”
“Like what? He’s like the old man outside? One of those things?”
“No, I’ve seen things like him, they’re mostly dormant, curious at most, but never violent. This Clark was.”
“Did he…” he reaches for your neck before realizing what he’s doing, head tilting, hand retracting, visibly grimacing. “Did he scratch you during it?”
“...yeah, I guess he probably did.” Another lie. How long can you lie to the only person alive who is willing to talk to you?
“I’m sorry he did that. I’m sorry you went through that shit. I’d say that I should’ve been there to help but…” he chuckles, leg perched up on the bed as his elbow rests on his knee, head falling into his hand. “I’d rather not have been.”
“We’d probably both be dead.” You utter with a weak chortle. “How long was I out?”
“I have no fucking idea.” Time here moves differently, and you don’t blame him for losing track of it. His voice is muffled under his palm, before rubbing across his face as his hand rakes through his messy strands. “Three or four hours give or take?” The fake stars illuminate his face, drawing sharp shadows on the wall beside him. In this light, he looks like the boy you talked to once at the laundry shop, the boy whose shirt you found in the pile of clothes and decided to keep it that is now hanging on your torso. “You were out of it, I thought I lost you for a second. I kept checking your pulse.”
Bobby doesn’t really want to be left here all alone.
“That’s a long nap.” You scooch away from the bed, sitting on the floor instead as you see your backpack and the hammer laying neatly on the floor beside you. “It’s your turn, you need your rest for your ankle.”
“I don’t think I can sleep when I’m thirsty.”
“Here,” you’re already unzipping the bag and handing him the last of the water. Bobby’s blue eyes rake from the bottle then over to your face. “I’ll find us something, there’s a room here filled with pools, the water might be safe for drinking.” You found the pool rooms on day eleven, it reminded you of an indoor water park complete with slides that start from nowhere and end into a wall. It smelt like chlorine.
“Or it might give us the runny shits.”
“There’s a room filled with toilets too, might come in handy for that. We get to pick our thrones.”
A genuine smile stretches across Bobby’s face, before flickering away, almost guilty of smiling when Kat is still out there all alone. “I don’t even want to imagine what that looks like.”
“Like a showroom of a bathroom like in those furniture places.” You shake the bottle lightly as the water sloshes. “Just take it, Bobby, please.”
“What about you?” He says with a smaller tone, and yet his hand stretches towards the bottle that only has a quarter of water left inside.
“I’ll be fine, I’m like a camel.”
Bobby pops open the lid, tilting his head to look at your back. “I don’t see a hump back there though.” He takes a small sip, enough to wet his lips and the inside of his mouth before handing it back to you.
“It retracts, like wings.” You joke back, taking the water and capping it close, saving it for when you really need it. The corner of Bobby’s mouth tugs up, a small smirk before plopping his head down on the pillow.
“My ankle is better.”
Your eyes naturally drift towards his injury. The skin around it does look better than before. “Yeah? Can you roll it around now?”
Lifting his foot to prove a point, he rolls his ankle around and around, wincing faintly, like nothing ever happened to it as the wrap still stays on around it. It’s almost miraculous. Maybe it’s the same as your shoulder, it healed faster than humanly possible. Or it probably wasn’t as bad as you thought and that your wrap helped him heal.
“I can run now.” ‘I’m not a burden to you anymore.’ He can look for her, with or without you.
“We’ll look for Kat once you wake up then.” Your tone snags at the mention of her name.
“Wake me up in a few hours, okay?” His cheek is squished against the pillow that smells like you as his eyes flutter close. “And don’t you dare leave again. I won’t be there to catch you if you faint again.”
“Thank you for that by the way.” You say softly, too quiet as if it was meant for the walls instead.
“You saved me, and I saved you from a nasty fall. Tit for tat.” And yet he still hears you, rolling over as his back faces you.
“You could just say, ‘you’re welcome’ like a normal person.” Muttering under your breath, your gaze falls towards the hammer with the cloying blood on the steel.
“Shut up, I’m already asleep.” He utters muffledly. You scoff out a laugh through your nose.
You haven’t noticed the hum in the walls until you heard Bobby snore softly. Once you do, you stand up, leave the boat, look at your grandfather at the helm and hop off the boat before pressing your head against the warm wall.
If it absorbed you before Bobby came along you wouldn’t fight back, you would not have any regrets, you’d accept your fate once the yellow walls form around your face and you’re finally part of the structure of this place. But with Bobby here, you have a reason to live through this place, to continue searching for the exit, more determined than before when he needs your help. Before you were doing it begrudgingly, as if you have nothing else better to do, that you never truly thought you’d get out of here and you were just waiting for that moment where you run into the wrong corridor, where the door doesn’t open for once, where the hum lead you to your death. You were waiting for death. But with someone else here, a reason, it’s necessary to find that exit, even if it kills you, even if it means you getting stuck here forever, as long as he gets out of here. Because that means at least one person in the world would never forget you.
That you’ll be remembered. That you saved a life. A repentance.
—
You let Bobby sleep for some time, longer than you should have as you kept watch over the doors. You listened to the hum and felt its warmth like it would be the last time you’ll ever find peace in this place. It could be as you both are ready to leave the sanctuary of the sailboat room.
“I need to tell you something before we go, Bobby.” Your hand rests on the doorknob, eyes glancing at his shoes before rising to look at his eyes that you immediately regret doing. There’s a lump in your throat, heavy and laden with rot.
“Yeah?” He fixes the chain around his neck for the umpteenth time, and there was still nothing wrong with it like before.
Lips pursing together, the pads of your fingertips press at your throat, a motion that doesn’t escape his eyes as every miniscule movement you do is noted by him. You don’t know if he’s still wary of you, or he’s just naturally observant. Either way, it makes you overthink.
What will happen if you tell him that Kat is dead? Will he spiral? Will he take it in stride and continue on and survive for her? You don’t know Bobby that well to know which one, grief doesn’t manifest the same to everyone. Some falter, some are indifferent, some only fall into the depths after some time has passed. For you, you fell head first into the void of grief, with no sign of slowing down. He could be that too, that he’d become a shell of himself as you tug him around the corridors without hope in his heart. At least if he continues on to live in ignorant bliss, he’d have hope, he’d have a chance to ready his mind for the truth, a privilege you didn’t have.
So you lie for his sake. One that you might end up regretting. “I think…I think there’s another entity here other than the pirate.”
“The pirate?” His brows furrow, mouth pursed in a thin line as he shuffles his weight between his footing.
“You didn’t get a good look at the one that attacked us?”
“No, I was too busy being in pain.” He blinks, face contorting into a questioning look. “It was a pirate?”
“Yeah,” you purposely omit the fact that it had Clark’s face, but wrong. Shaking your head, you let out a deep exhale. “And there’s probably another one roaming around. It’s quieter, like a fucking stalker, you can only hear it coming with the sound of shuffling fabric.”
“As if our lives aren’t already fucked.” He runs a hand through his hair, palm bumping onto the shades on his head as he catches it mid fall. “So we keep a lookout on a pirate and the shuffler, easy.”
You snort a laugh, an attempt at stifling it. “The shuffler?”
“What? It has to have a name.”
“The name’s too cute for what I saw.”
“You saw it?” The already small smile drops. “Shit.” He huffs out a breath. “You shouldn’t have left alone.”
“It didn’t attack me like the pirate did, it was more like…” you recall its reddened eyes as it followed you. “observing me.”
“That’s not creepy at all.” Bobby takes another sweep of the sailboat room as if it’ll be the last time to do so. His eyes lands on your grandfather as it gazes blankly ahead. “Rules.”
You stand more straight as he does it and it makes him shake his head with a subtle smile and a roll of his eyes. Taking your mirroring as teasing.
“We need to stay together, no matter what.” His face hardens seriously, jaw tight at the hinges, eyes boring into you. “No splitting up like in the movies. I walk behind you and you’re always up front because you know this place better than I do.”
“...I bet you say that to all the girls.” You say too flatly to be a joke as Bobby tilts his head, looking at you with a ‘really?’ expression. “Sorry, my therapist says I use humor at the wrong time to cope. And yes, I understand, no splitting up. Sorry.”
“You have a shrink?” His brow raises.
“Everyone needs one at this point. C’mon.” You grow antsy under his gaze as you twist the doorknob and open it quietly.
You stop short when something bright on the floor catches your attention.
“I’m not done yet with my rules— is that a box of cereal?”
“And water bottles.” Instead of elation, you’re wary of the supplies literally laid out in front of you. “What do you think, Bobby?”
“You’re asking what I think?” You don’t have to look at his face to know that he’s raising his brows at you.
“Of course,” you don’t take your attention away from the food and water as if it’ll suddenly grow legs and walk away. “We’re in this together now whether we like it or not.”
“Reluctant allies.”
“What?” You unstick your gaze from the food over to his face.
“It’s a movie trope.” He says dismissively. “We can test it on grandpa over there to check if they’re safe to eat.”
“It doesn’t need to drink, Bobby. And how would we even test it out?”
“We shove it into its mouth.”
You blink at him with a flat look. “We’re not doing that.” Crouching down to take the supplies, you quickly shut the door gently with your foot. “We test it now, I’m fucking starving.”
“I thought you were a camel?” Bobby asks, placing the chair under the doorknob before following you.
You plop down in front of the large map you drew, cautious about the unopened box of cereals. It looks ordinary, all the words aren’t garbled like the books in the bookshelves inside the boat. It’s real and normal and it looks like a gourmet meal to you.
There’s a presence beside you as Bobby sits down beside you, legs crossed, chain swinging around his neck as he tilts his head, ducking to meet with your pensive eyes. “Has anyone told you that you scrunch your nose when you’re thinking?”
You consciously unscrunch your nose. “No,” no one ever paid enough attention to notice it.
With a shuddered breath, you break the top of the box, opening it as you take out the plastic packaging of the cereal. It’s as colourful as the picture of it up front, and it has one of those tiny marshmallows that you always took out of the bowl to save it last.
“It looks fine to me. Thank fuck they’re not spiders.” Bobby takes the cereal from your hands with a crinkle of plastic as he opens it. He takes a whiff of it, and the whole room smells like sweetened cereal flakes and processed marshmallows. “Smells fine.” He notices your silence, pausing mid scoop. “Do you wanna have a taste first?”
“No,” you lean back, resting against the boat. “You’ll be my taste tester, my guinea pig.”
“Oh fuck off.” He chuckles, shoving a fist full of the cereal inside his mouth. Chewing, the sound filling the room and adding to the tension, you two wait as he swallows.
“Feel anything?”
“Yeah…” his palm drops to his stomach, covering his midriff that shows up whenever his torso moves in the crop top that he wears well. “I think…” the fear settles underneath your ribcage, until he shrugs and shoves another hand full of cereal into his mouth. Bobby shakes it in front of you, offering it to you with his cheeks puffed and smiling faintly. “It’s fine.”
“I wonder how you manage to get a girlfriend when you eat like that.” Shoving the backpack off your shoulders, you take the cereal from him and eat a few bites full of it. It tastes awfully sweet, like it’s almost entirely made of sugar. It doesn’t taste odd, but it does leave a weird aftertaste on your tongue, like eating a day old bread left in the sun.
“I don’t have a girlfriend.” His nose scrunches, as if offended at the mere thought.
“You serious?” Your brow raises to your hairline. “Is Kat not your girlfriend?”
“We’re…” his hand twists around, leg propped up, elbow on his knee as he looks at the map in front of him instead of you. “...We’re undefined.”
“Oh, you’re that type of guy, huh?” You scoff out in between chewing.
“What does that mean?” He finally turns to you, it’s his turn to scoff at you.
“That you’re the kind of guy who doesn’t bother in giving the relationship a label. You know, ‘keeping it open,’” you make air quotes with your fingers. “because you have issues or you’re waiting for the right person to come along.” You have no idea where this is coming from within you but talking to him is easy, maybe the trauma you both shared really did help in breaking the ice. “I mean, just one look at you and your slutty crop top tells it all.”
“This is in fashion.” He lifts it by the hem, his toned stomach showing and a small patch of hair you’ve never noticed before trails down from his belly button down and disappears under his jorts. “Everyone is wearing this.”
“And who are these people exactly?” You avert your eyes, picking out the marshmallows and popping it in your mouth.
Bobby snatches the cereals from you, “you know,” he gestures around him, around the yellow walls and the unusual half sunken boat beside him. “Men, people.”
“You’re the first man I’ve ever seen wear one.”
“Do you live under a fucking rock or something?” He makes a face before eating more cereal. “Just walking around Santa Clara and you’ll see like five people wearing this.”
“You live in Santa Clara?”
“Yeah, me and Kat. And Clark too, I guess.” Something in the room shifts between you, the lighthearted air around fades away like water on a sizzling pan. “Why?”
“I—I used to live there, once upon a time.” You crack open one of the water bottles that were left with the cereal.
“Cool. Where exactly?” His voice drops a timbre, not wary, just curious, like he’s asking you about a secret.
“Near the water.” Your eyes glaze over, looking in front of you and nowhere at the same time. You snap out of it like how you snap the cap off and take a swig of the water. “Not anymore though.” The taste isn’t what you expected as your face contorts into disgust.
“What, what is it?” His hand flies to the bottle, taking it away from you like it’s about to blow up. He takes a sniff at it, making a face. “It doesn’t smell like water.”
“It’s fucking almond water.” Taking a handful of cereal and marshmallows, you eat it just to get rid of the surprise taste on your tongue. It wasn’t as bad as you make it out to be, you were just shocked that the water didn’t taste like water at all. Like the rug was pulled under you.
“What the fuck is almond water?”
“I have no idea. I just know it’s not regular water.” Wiping your hands on your pants, you watch him take a tentative taste, his face morphs into disgust, lips smacking together before he makes a ‘not bad’ look then he’s back to sipping at it. You guess he’s not much of a germ freak when he’s drinking at the same bottle you drank from. “So, you and Kat live together and yet it’s undefined, huh?”
Bobby’s eyes flick to you just as you nudge him with your elbow. “It’s complicated. Rent is expensive.”
You hum, “doesn’t sound like it though.”
For a moment there you thought that you weren’t stuck in some alternate yellow hell with a stranger, instead it felt like talking to an old friend while having a snack at home while you tease Bobby.
He feels the same as he chuckles, rolling his eyes at more of your playful jabs. “Well it is, it’s complicated.”
“She probably didn’t think so.” You say in a sing song.
“And you would know this because?”
“We’re both women.”
“Of course, and because you’re an expert on relationships like mine—”
Wood thumps quietly on the carpet, barely there, almost silent, too far, but you hear it as the walls hum in the same dissonance when it followed you. It’s not the droning hum of the lights, the walls vibrate, turning the room warmer than normal.
The walls warn you.
“Shut up.”
He chortles. “Don’t tell me to shut up—”
“Pack the food, quickly.” The serious look on your face has him panicking.
“What is it?” Bobby sits up, rolls the plastic bag of cereal and shoves it inside the bag together with the water bottles.
“You don’t hear it?” Your head is on a swivel as the song of the walls increases, like a choir harmonizing, slowly rising in volume.
“No, hear what?”
Your grandfather, the copy of him, leaves the helm and runs towards the inside of the boat at a speed that startled you and Bobby. His feet were padding across the floor like a startled deer.
“Take the bag, let’s go.”
The thumping gets closer, and Bobby hears it too as his head turns towards the door where it came from.
“Bobby.” His head whips towards you, finding that you’re on the other side of the boat now, right in front of the other door. You whisper yell, ushering him towards the other side, the door that leads to corridors that you’ve only partially mapped. “Bobby.” You yell louder this time as he freezes. “Fuck.”
Bolting to him, you grab the bag on your way to him and take him by his hand, leading him away at the right moment before the peg leg stops right in front of the door.
It starts off as a knock, tentative, testing the waters. Until it hears Bobby’s staggered breathing, a choke, quiet enough to only be heard by you, but you’re not the only one who heard it as it begins to bang at the door frantically, desperate to get to the both of you.
It splinters the wood in a shower of shattered wood.
“Run.” You practically shove Bobby out of the door, before you take one final look at the boat with your grandfather looking through the porthole with his wrong eyes in his wrong face.
You shut the door behind you, and instead of yellow walls, you’re met with walls of metal rusted pipes as Bobby looks at you with wide blue eyes, waiting for you.
First off, Bobby, loose the fucking attitude😒 Aren't we only in this predicament because of you and Clark??? Yeah... That's what I thought😒
NOOO, DONT TELL ME KAT IS REALLY DEAD😰😭💔 She was the only sensible one😔
Oh fuck, R tried to commit? Real talk, anyone that has ever felt that low enough to consider it or have tried it, I promise you, there will be someone who knows you're gone. You do matter, whether you realize it or not. You are important and there are people you love you, I promise. It gets tough, believe me, I know, but there will be a day where you sit back and realize that there was more to life than just the funk you're in right now. It gets better, believe me, I understand because I've been there❤️
Oh hell nah, wtf😰 What's going on with Clark now??? I am NOT following you, please leave me alone😭🤚🏾
R, STAND UP, DON'T LET THAT BITCH DRAG YOU😰
IS THERE TWO OF EM??? WTF???
R and these walls, man😮💨
Yooo, repentance? Repentance for what??? Did R watch her grandad die or something???
Lmaooo, I love R and Bobby's banter🤣 They act like old friends already.
Yo, how long have we really been down there for our injuries to heal this quickly tho???
Aw, hell nah, that cereal is poisoned asf🥀 Who left thattttt😭 Don't tell me it was the pirate or the shuffles. They did it as bait, I swear
ALMOND WATER??? WTF??? IS THAT ACTUALLY A THING, IM CRYING💀🤚🏾
Oh fuck, they found us😰
R looking at her weird looking ghost grandpa one last time:
Sooo, have we ever thought of Ghost Rider! Hobie? Specially cowboy! Ghost Rider! Hobie🤔😩 Oh oh! Better yet, Ghost Rider! R and Spider-Punk! Hobie! Like, like, cuz there's nothing more punk in his eyes than seeing his lovie acting out vengeance against those that even he questions his own non killing rule about. Seeing the penance stare would ultimately frighten him and yet, he's never been more intrigued by you🤭💕 And the fact that you look so absolutely otherworldly while riding your own motorcycle/vehicle that's blazing with your hellish flames. Watching you switch between forms so effortlessly (putting aside that it took such a long time for you to even get to that point because of the deal, yk💀) makes him feel like you're completely out of his league, but to his delight, you like the annoying little spider that sometimes crashes your nightly rides as you seek out victims– I mean, wrongdoers👀
OMG YUME QODMKWNDKEMDKD I LOVE THAT IDEA
Brooo the way i need a fanart of hobie as ghost rider tho 🥰😳 wait WAIT COWBOY HOBIE AS GHOST RIDER?!!! THAT MEANS HIS SKELETON HORSE IS IN FLAMES THAT IS SO BADASS I'M SO DOWN BAD FOR THAT CONCEPT AUGH 🥴
Ghost rider! R is gonna unlock something in him 👀👀😳 y'know that one meme with the tall woman and smaller guy in an alleyway? Yeah that's r in her ghost rider form and spider punk hobie looking up at her like she's a goddess reborn 🤭
Hell, Ghost Rider unlocked something in me when I was younger bc I would. Even when he's in that form, I WOULD😩💕💕
BUT YEAH, LIKE THAT SCENE IN THE MOVIE WHERE THE OLD GHOST RIDER CALLS HIS HORSE AND TURNS IT INTO THE SKELETON HORSE❤️ Him and Buckeye would be feared lmaooo
Ghost Rider! R is just staring him down with a sizzling hot chain wrapped up in her hands. "Do you know who I am, little spider...?"
Sooo, have we ever thought of Ghost Rider! Hobie? Specially cowboy! Ghost Rider! Hobie🤔😩 Oh oh! Better yet, Ghost Rider! R and Spider-Punk! Hobie! Like, like, cuz there's nothing more punk in his eyes than seeing his lovie acting out vengeance against those that even he questions his own non killing rule about. Seeing the penance stare would ultimately frighten him and yet, he's never been more intrigued by you🤭💕 And the fact that you look so absolutely otherworldly while riding your own motorcycle/vehicle that's blazing with your hellish flames. Watching you switch between forms so effortlessly (putting aside that it took such a long time for you to even get to that point because of the deal, yk💀) makes him feel like you're completely out of his league, but to his delight, you like the annoying little spider that sometimes crashes your nightly rides as you seek out victims– I mean, wrongdoers👀
OMG YUME QODMKWNDKEMDKD I LOVE THAT IDEA
Brooo the way i need a fanart of hobie as ghost rider tho 🥰😳 wait WAIT COWBOY HOBIE AS GHOST RIDER?!!! THAT MEANS HIS SKELETON HORSE IS IN FLAMES THAT IS SO BADASS I'M SO DOWN BAD FOR THAT CONCEPT AUGH 🥴
Ghost rider! R is gonna unlock something in him 👀👀😳 y'know that one meme with the tall woman and smaller guy in an alleyway? Yeah that's r in her ghost rider form and spider punk hobie looking up at her like she's a goddess reborn 🤭
Hell, Ghost Rider unlocked something in me when I was younger bc I would. Even when he's in that form, I WOULD😩💕💕
BUT YEAH, LIKE THAT SCENE IN THE MOVIE WHERE THE OLD GHOST RIDER CALLS HIS HORSE AND TURNS IT INTO THE SKELETON HORSE❤️ Him and Buckeye would be feared lmaooo
Ghost Rider! R is just staring him down with a sizzling hot chain wrapped up in her hands. "Do you know who I am, little spider...?"
Sooo, have we ever thought of Ghost Rider! Hobie? Specially cowboy! Ghost Rider! Hobie🤔😩 Oh oh! Better yet, Ghost Rider! R and Spider-Punk! Hobie! Like, like, cuz there's nothing more punk in his eyes than seeing his lovie acting out vengeance against those that even he questions his own non killing rule about. Seeing the penance stare would ultimately frighten him and yet, he's never been more intrigued by you🤭💕 And the fact that you look so absolutely otherworldly while riding your own motorcycle/vehicle that's blazing with your hellish flames. Watching you switch between forms so effortlessly (putting aside that it took such a long time for you to even get to that point because of the deal, yk💀) makes him feel like you're completely out of his league, but to his delight, you like the annoying little spider that sometimes crashes your nightly rides as you seek out victims– I mean, wrongdoers👀
OMG YUME QODMKWNDKEMDKD I LOVE THAT IDEA
Brooo the way i need a fanart of hobie as ghost rider tho 🥰😳 wait WAIT COWBOY HOBIE AS GHOST RIDER?!!! THAT MEANS HIS SKELETON HORSE IS IN FLAMES THAT IS SO BADASS I'M SO DOWN BAD FOR THAT CONCEPT AUGH 🥴
Ghost rider! R is gonna unlock something in him 👀👀😳 y'know that one meme with the tall woman and smaller guy in an alleyway? Yeah that's r in her ghost rider form and spider punk hobie looking up at her like she's a goddess reborn 🤭
Hell, Ghost Rider unlocked something in me when I was younger bc I would. Even when he's in that form, I WOULD😩💕💕
BUT YEAH, LIKE THAT SCENE IN THE MOVIE WHERE THE OLD GHOST RIDER CALLS HIS HORSE AND TURNS IT INTO THE SKELETON HORSE❤️ Him and Buckeye would be feared lmaooo
Ghost Rider! R is just staring him down with a sizzling hot chain wrapped up in her hands. "Do you know who I am, little spider...?"
Pairing: Hobie Brown x Fem!Reader/ Spider-Punk x Fem!Reader
Word count: 6.5k
Author's Note: I'M BACK, BABY!!!!! 😩 I missed writing these girls frfr, and I've lowkey been locked in for the past week for the last scene alone with a specific song stuck on loop 🥲 I'd like to thank @the-kr8tor for Billie, Ramona and another original character that you'll see later in the chapter, as well as @pinksugarscrub for beta reading this chapter!
The first thing Ramona wakes up to is a foot shoved against her face.
An exhausted groan rumbles in Ramona’s chest as she blinks the sleep out of her eyes. Dull sores pulse all over her body when she finds herself being squished between a wooden wall and a sprawled out Billie. Quiet snores rumble from the punk girl, her mouth hanging open with drool coating a corner, while the patched up comforter is halfway on them and on the hardwood floor. Billie’s warmth adds onto the creeping heat from the late-morning sun, the wooden cabin slowly baking Ramona alive.With an annoyed whine, she sits herself up, pushing Billie’s foot away from her. She winces from the soft pops crackling along her spine while she stretches her arms up to the ceiling.
A heavy fog swirls in Ramona’s head. Pressure looms over her shoulders as her arms drop to her sides, leaving her in a hazy vertigo. She struggles to crawl out of her occupied space through her bleary vision, her fingers sliding against wrinkled sheets until they curve onto the edge of the bed. With as much grace as a teetering bowling ball, Ramona tumbles onto the hardwood floor with a grunt, her face planted on wood grain and lint.
A loud snort rings above Ramona before her bed creaks again, the springs groaning under shifting weight until Billie’s foot hangs over the edge near Ramona’s face again.
Ramona’s face pinches into a grimace before she rolls away from the offending appendage, lying on her back and staring at the ceiling. Throbs lap over her head while swirling greens and blues bloom and fade from her vision. She blinks the sleep out of her eyes before she sits herself back up, her bonnet slowly slipping back from her head until frizzy baby hairs peek under the elastic headband.
Her sleep has been getting worse.
Ramona rolls over onto her hands and knees, crawling towards her unlatched trunk. Hazy memories flicker in the girl’s mind as she flips the trunk open, voices both familiar and foreign crooning in her ears while she pulls out a clean change of clothes. Your hushed, honeyed voice sends a bittersweet warmth through her at the sight of one of your embroidered cardigans— pink-petaled flowers and cherries dancing across the sleeves on cream-knitted polyester. At the same time, a deep timbre gently rattles through her bones as she fishes out some patched jeans.
She’s not sure why she can hear the man’s voice so clearly in her head, but it tickles a nostalgic part of her conscience just as much as your voice.
As she pushes herself onto her feet with her clothes in hand, Ramona’s eyes trail back to the slumbering punk girl in her bed. Ruby-hued bonnet halfway off her head, wild curls spilling onto crumpled sheets, black earphones tangling in long nimble fingers— Billie made herself at home in Ramona’s space a little too much. Ramona presses her lips together with a disgruntled sound before heaving a sigh.
Ramona has a sister. A long-lost sister. And she’s sprawled over Ramona’s bed like a carefree dog in their owner’s bed.
As the small mp3 player slips from Billie’s hand, Ramona gingerly grabs it and tugs the earphones out of her sister’s pierced ears. Billie quietly whines as she rolls over to Ramona’s indent on the bed. She buries her face into the pillow, her half sock-covered foot jerking against the headboard.
With a relenting shake of her head, Ramona toes her sneakers from under her bed before stumbling towards the door.
–
Ramona is used to the stares by now.
The tinny ring of a bell spikes in her ears when she enters the camp office. Wood of different shades and grains wall around her, decorated with strings of color-faded flags and taxidermied animals that would haunt Ramona’s subconscious if she stared for too long. Floorboards creak under her scuffed white sneakers. Small dust bunnies hop across the hardwood while the smell of mildew tickles her nostrils. Some counselors quiet down and peek over from the open kitchen area, a rarity for a kid to come into their domain so far into the camp season. The only person not paying Ramona any mind is the receptionist behind the desk, the older woman’s eyes locked in on the old, dusty computer monitor.
With a wrinkle of her nose, Ramona slowly approaches the desk, her fingers toying with the small black mp3 player in her cardigan pocket.
The older lady glances up from the box-like monitor, a wary acknowledgement, before turning her attention back.
“Back for another charging session?” Loud clacking rings behind the desk when the older lady resumes her typing. “It’s a little early for you this time, isn’t it?”
A sheepish smile curls up on Ramona’s lips as she pulls her mp3 out. “Just used it a lot more than usual last night, Ms. Janet.”
A noncommittal hum rumbles from the receptionist before she reaches over the desk for the device, her eyes still locked onto the monitor. “I swear, Georgette needs to redo the electrical wiring in that damn cabin. Can’t just throw two kids in there and expect them to deal with only three working outlets.”
Ramona’s hand twitches as the player slips from her grasp, but she pulls her hand back with a slight frown.
“It’s not like we have a lot to charge, so I don’t really mind—”
“It’s still not something to overlook though.” Ms. Janet lets out a scoff as she shoves a charger port into the device. “If she’s not careful, she’ll have a snot-nosed brat make a complaint to their parents and have them sick a damn lawsuit on the camp.”
Heavy footsteps bounce off wooden walls before another figure steps into the room. Another older woman stares at Ms. Janet with a deadpan as she stirs her coffee mug.
“Janet, c’mon, why do you have to speak like that to a camper?”
“Don’t act like they’re innocent angels, May.” Ms. Janet resumes her typing with a snort. “You’ve heard those kids cursing worse than some war-torn sailors out there without a thought behind their eyes.”
“That doesn’t mean you have to join them.” With an exasperated sigh, May approaches the back of the reception desk, her long white doctor’s coat fluttering right behind her. “Whether they know it or not, they still look to us for guidance—”
“Trust me, they’re not paying attention to old biddies like us.” Ms. Janet twirls her swivel chair to May with a deadpan of her own. “They’re just focused on their assigned lessons and whatever camp activities are available for the day.”
“You have no faith,” May rolls her eyes before she turns her attention to Ramona with a tender smile. “And how’re you doing today, Ramona dear? Do you need a restock on allergy pills?”
Ramona adamantly shakes her head, her tied dark coils swaying behind her back. “I’ve been airing out my cabin, so I should be okay, Nurse May.”
Another scoff reverberates in the room as Ms. Janet swivels back to the desk, shuffling through some papers. “You shouldn’t have to air out your own cabin if Georgette actually properly maintained the campgrounds—”
“Janet—”
Ms. Janet rolls her eyes as she drops some papers onto the desk one by one in different piles. “You and I both know it, May. The only reason why those old cabins are being used in the first place is because of her bad ass grandson and his shenanigans.”
May narrows her eyes at the curt receptionist before turning back to Ramona with an apologetic smile. “Is there anything else you need, sweetheart?”
Ramona’s hands drop to her sides, her fingers toying with the hem of her embroidered sleeves. “Did any letters come for me and…”
What is Billie to Ramona? Obviously she’s her sister, but it’s still too sudden for her, too jarring for her to say out loud.
“…my roommate?”
With a low grunt, Janet pushes herself back on her swivel chair towards the colorful array of cubbies behind her. “Give me a second. It was you and…?”
“…Billie Brown.”
Another low grunt of acknowledgement rumbles from the receptionist as she rummages through one of the cubbies, more mumbled expletives tumbling from the older woman’s mouth. With an exasperated sigh, May leans against the desk and cups her coffee mug, eyes training back onto the preteen.
“Your other friend’s also doing well,” the nurse’s eyes soften as she takes a sip. “There weren’t any issues after his initial concussion, so he’s clear for the rest of camp. He’ll just have to pop in every now and then, but I’m sure he’ll be just fine.”
Relief flickers in Ramona’s eyes, the tension rolling off her shoulders for a brief reprieve. “That’s good.”
Arnold peeks from the back of Ramona’s mind, the shorter boy’s sheepish gapped smile flashing behind her eyes before he rushes back offstage. A few other figures pop up and disappear soon after— Billie with her mega-watt cat-like grin, you with your calming voice. However, one towers over Ramona in the back of her mind, tinny vibrations of guitar strings crooning in her ears while the rest of the world retreats from her. Billie’s smile curls along his lips, but it looks foreign to Ramona— sharper, more perceptive. She snaps back to reality once her ears pick up the sound of wheels scraping wood.
Ms. Janet spins her way back on her rolling chair to the desk with a fat stack of envelopes bulging out against a single rubber band. “Well damn, whoever your roommate is, she either has a big family or a very doting one.”
Ramona reaches for the stack, the sudden heft against her palm nearly making her drop it before her other hand saves it. A myriad of envelopes grab her attention— fiery reds, electric blues, citrusy yellows, gem-like purples. Only one white envelope atop the stack stands out against the rainbow palette in her grasp.
“Don’t worry, your usual mail’s on top,” Ms. Janet dismisses with a wave of her hand, but her eyes soften behind her metal-rimmed glasses. “I’m sure you don’t wanna shuffle through all of that just to find that one letter.”
The small smile falters on Ramona’s lips, a lump-like weight bobbing in the pit of her stomach. The image of you flickers back in her mind— your sketchbooks towering over you at your desk, ink and charcoal staining your skin, the scent of chocolate and cardamom trailing around you. The you in her mind smiles just the same, the smile you always have around her every time you meet her eyes.
That smile pricks a bittersweet sting in Ramona’s chest.
“Thank you,” the girl ignores the taste of ash on her tongue as she tucks the stack of letters against her chest. “I’ll come back tomorrow—”
“Yeah, yeah, same deal, same routine.” The receptionist waves Ramona off as she turns her attention back to the ancient monitor. “I’ll keep your mp3 player out safe and sound until then.”
A disgruntled sigh echoes behind Ramona as she retreats to the door, the nurse and receptionist’s voices muffling in her ears with complaints and disagreements before the door shuts behind the tween.
—
Your handwriting stands out amongst pop art cutouts and garish envelopes against the dark hardwood floor.
Ramona leans against the edge of her bed, her lower back and rear growing sore on the wooden floor, while she stares at the letters scattered before her. Most of the letters scream for her eyes’ attention— cut-out photos and letters from magazines plastered over some yellow and purple envelopes, messy pen smudges stain the bright blue ones, and sketched out webs and music notes border along the reds.
But the one that keeps beckoning her back is the unassuming white envelope in the middle, comically orderly and clean compared to the hodgepodge of envelopes. Your familiar cursive adorns the blank canvas, ink etched onto the paper with clean strokes and a steady hand. The way your ‘o’s and ‘a’s loop around in tight circles, the way you squiggle through your ‘m’s and ‘n’s, the way the dot above your ‘i’s skews off to the side— they all well up warm nostalgia in her chest.
Ramona Diane. Her name from your hand.
Snores rumble beside her ear. Ramona turns towards the head of the bed as Billie rolls towards the edge in blissful slumber. The crimson bonnet is nowhere on the punk girl’s head, her wild coils tangled and frizzy from her sporadic movement. Silver glints beneath dark tresses, the small stud lodged in her earlobe glittering under the late morning sun filtering in the cabin, before Billie burrows herself under the covers.
Ramona blinks away the warmth behind her eyes as she looks back at your letter. She picks it up, the envelope encasing the usual numerous pages you tend to write every week. Each page throughout her time apart from you spills through in inked words, like you can barely contain every little detail you’ve seen for her before you run out of blank space. You’ve always written like you’re running out of time— a habit from you pushing through your deadlines, perhaps. But even with your scrawls bombarding through paper stationery, your words always paint through every moment you have seen in her mind.
She flips the envelope over and tucks her pinky under the sealed flap. With a quick flick, she rips through, revealing the folded papers of your recent thoughts and tales.
Rustling sheets echo into Ramona’s ears again before thin calloused fingers brush against her shoulder. She fights off a flinch as Billie’s head lolls over, her eyes barely cracked open. Her morning breath ghosts Ramona’s cheek like a humid hiss from old pipes. The punk girl slinks her arm out of her cotton cocoon and points at the envelopes on the floor.
“…red.”
“…which one?”
“All‘em…”
With a relenting sigh, Ramona gathers all the red envelopes and hands it to her sister— still a strange revelation, but one Ramona cannot run away from. Loud rips echo into her ears as Billie retreats into her temporary haven. Rustling sheets and creaking springs overtake the quiet of the outside world, bubbling the duo in their shared world of scratched inks and torn paper. Bright crimson shreds flutter over Ramona like confetti, erupting out of Billie’s blanket cave like papery red ash, before they land atop your folded pages. The scrawled ink across the red canvas is illegible to Ramona’s eyes— jagged, angular, heavy. She can make out indiscernible words pressed against the paper, the inkless grooves pimpling throughout the paper like hairline wrinkles.
Hobie Brown must have a heavy hand when he writes, at least to Ramona.
Her eyes drift back to the bound letters in her hands, weighing heavy with the red petal-like scraps sitting on cream papers. She brushes them off, fingertips lingering on his invisible words stamped into the scraps, before she tugs your multi-paged letter out of the envelope.
Inked cursive dances across lined paper. Every thought written down by you is jam-packed within the lines, almost spilling out of the pages. As she reads, images roll through Ramona’s mind like a film reel in a movie projector. Rolling waves lapping at sandy shores, vanilla ice cream melting over waffle cones and fingers, glass and steel skyscrapers towering up to blue skies. Stills of executives in suits in your meetings morphing into silly caricatures in your prose— a pot-bellied old man with a wall of mustache cloaking his upper lip; a spindly elderly lady with bright red lips and an enormous plume tucked into her hat; a towering giant with broad shoulders and skinny stick legs. Ramona’s lips press into a thin line to cage the bubbling giggles.
Before she flips over to another page, loud rustling and giggles suddenly bombards her ears while the comforter gets yanked against her back. She looks over her shoulder, only to be greeted with two peaks repeatedly kicking the blanket in the air. Each kick props the patched comforter higher, the edges jerkily pulling away from the bottom, until Billie’s beaming face surfaces. A thin stack of glossy card-like paper hovers over her face as her smile brightens. Russet eyes dart over to Ramona’s own as a beam of sunshine shines over Billie’s. Flashes of copper and amber glitter under the light, as if the sun itself decided to pool over darkened honey.
“Mon-Mon,” Billie calls to her in a hush, as if preparing to unveil a secret, “d’ya know where Washin’ton D.C. is?”
Ramona stares back at her giddy double with a befuddled pinch of her eyebrows.
“…Like, around Maryland, I guess?”
“Yeah, but where?” Billie scoots closer until half her body hangs off the bed. “Like how far is it from here? Like an hour away? Or is it ‘cross t’ country? Is it true that ya can pass through like ten different states in a whole day—?”
“Billie, I don’t have a map—”
Despite Ramona slowly backing away, Billie continues to invade her space. “Anyway, Dad went there earlier. He sent alotta pictures ‘n everythin’.”
Some photos slip from Billie’s grasp and flutter onto the floor. Blurred captured moments are inked onto the resin-covered papers, each one revealing at least one member of the band. A burly blonde man with rose-tinged skin pointing up at a hanging fighter plane with jagged teeth painted at the front. Another man with liberty-spiked hair staring up at a skeleton of a tyrannosaurus rex. A ravenette woman with sharp eyes in front of a gate flipping off a far away White House.
But the one that catches Ramona’s eyes is of a towering man with gravity-defying wicks holding a carrot out to a giraffe. His chiseled profile warms through the printed ink— a giddy smile curling his pierced lips, awe glinting in russet eyes, a tattooed and scarred arm reaching out before the majestic spotted creature lowering its head. The image of the famous guitarist crumbles and rebuilds itself in Ramona’s mind one by one, no longer the enigmatic rockstar out of her reach, but a man slowly unveiling through a sister she barely met. Instead of complex guitar riffs, a deep timbre of his voice croons in Ramona’s ear. Harsh, dark eyes in black and white posters shift into warm russet browns. A nonchalant smirk morphs into a bright grin, lighting his face up amidst the hazy darkness of her subconscious.
It’s strange how much Hobie Brown looks like Billie to Ramona now.
Technically, by that logic, it should apply to her too— of Hobie and her looking alike. But she still can’t see it, not fully at least.
“They went t’ a lot of touristy places this time,” Billie’s voice breaks through Ramona’s pondering as the punk girl slides further over the edge of the bed, blindly pawing for the dropped photos. “T’ last photos Dad sent me were mainly hikin’ trails ‘n Uncle Ned passed out on a huge boulder.”
A snort sneaks up on Ramona before she covers her mouth, her body trembling from the bubbling giggles in her chest. The letters in her hand gradually slide out of her grasp before they flutter onto the floor.
“Honestly, this is probably t’ first city where they actually found a whole bunch of t’ings t’ do ‘stead of bein’ holed up in an airbnb.” Billie rolls over on the bed until she hangs upside down over the edge, her dark coils tangled from her slumber-driven moving. “Normally, Dad ‘n Uncle James would get bored ‘n hunt down whatever seemed fun, ‘n Uncle Ned would drag Auntie Yuri with him t’ hunt ‘em down right after.”
Another snort slips through Ramona’s nose before a sputtering wheeze escapes her lips.
“At least with this place, ev’rybody got t’ have fun in their own way.” Billie holds out another picture to her twin, gently wobbling it. “They’ve been tryin’ t’ find diff’rent places fer me t’ go t’ after camp…”
Ramona gingerly grabs the photo, the glossy shine reflecting light before the image reveals itself. Hues of pink, purple and blue catch her eye as she brings it closer— hundreds of balloons flooding the floor within indigo walls with a manmade lotus flower towering over. Blurry figures linger at the bottom corner, one of a startled ‘Uncle’ Ned mid-scream and mid-fall with ‘Uncle’ James tackling him from behind with a feral grin. In the far background, a tiny ‘Auntie’ Yuri points at them mid-cackle while more balloons float in the air around her.
Ramona trembles as she swallows down the giggle bubbling up her throat. “They’re like big kids…”
“Basically, yeah.”
A cat-like grin curls up on Billie’s face as she leans closer. The punk girl tilts her head to the side until it rests against her sister’s, her wild dark coils cascading over Ramona’s shoulder. “But they make travelin’ more fun. Dad doesn’t like stayin’ inside fer too long durin’ tours, so he ropes Uncle Ned int’ researchin’ different cities with ‘im while Uncle James ‘n Auntie Yuri drive ‘round.”
Billie tucks her chin against Ramona’s shoulder. “I t’ink Dad’ll want t’ take me t’ DC first. He sent me a lot of photos from this bubble place alone, but I t’ink he likes t’ zoo more…”
Ramona hums out in absent acknowledgement as she drifts her eyes between the photo in her hand and your letter on the floor.
“Does…”
Her words crumble to ash before Ramona can breathe life into them. What can she even ask? Does she even have a right to? Would Billie even care if she did?
A gentle nudge against her head buoys Ramona out of her thoughts. She glances at her sister, expectant curiosity glinting in Billie’s russet eyes.
“Does…?”
A small pebble lodges itself against Ramona’s throat. It doesn’t choke her, but it burrows itself against her esophagus before she struggles to swallow it down. Her question burns acrid on her tongue as she wills herself to utter it out.
“…does he have any pictures of his concerts?”
It doesn’t sit right for Ramona, the way she worded it. She can’t bring herself to say it despite the festering creeping up in her chest.
Billie’s eyes continue to stare back, eyes mirroring each other in some uncanny valley moment for Ramona, before she responds in a hush.
“Dad?”
The pebble pulses uncomfortably against Ramona’s throat, but she slowly nods.
“Yeah. Dad.”
The word tastes foreign to Ramona, a word that she never thought would leave her mouth. Her stomach churns as she shrinks away from her double, averting her eyes back to the letters by her feet. Tingles thrum under her skin from Billie’s scrutiny as Ramona curls into a ball.
“…prob’ly not for this concert yet.”
Billie’s voice ghosts against the shell of Ramona’s ear, more solemn and wistful than it should be. Lanky arms wrap around Ramona before Billie’s chin digs deeper in her shoulder, dark coils tickling the side of her neck.
“I t’ink I got some pictures of his other concerts though.” Billie tightens her embrace as the rest of the photos slip off the edge of the bed. “Ya wanna look while I go through ev’ryone else’s photos?”
The pebble grows bigger, pushing against the walls of Ramona’s throat until it cuts the airway from her lungs. Heat tingles the back of her eyes before she blinks it away, her vision blurring at the edges until the sheets of your handwriting go unfocused. She swallows around the lump little by little, inching it down her esophagus until it plummets into her stomach.
“…okay.”
—
Water laps over Ramona’s dangling feet. The wooden swim dock creaks under her weight with every swing of her legs. Gradients of purple, pink and orange drape across the forested skyline, the rippling surface of the lake glittering from the setting sun. Paper crinkles drift in the air when Ramona shuffles through your letters, your inked words scrawled through the pages under the fading sunlight, while she tries to find where she left off.
All the photos Billie showed her earlier still flicker in Ramona’s head, bleeding into the forefront with every roam of her eyes. Flashes of neon lights bubble in her head in tandem with your retellings, stuffy caricatures of your potential investors suddenly thrown into a balloon pit before being tackled by punk-like figures. Dinosaur bones surface under sandy shores with every ocean wave lapping over. Skyscrapers erupt from the ground around the White House, towering over the governmental building, until it sits under their shadows. Wild animals prowl through the boardwalk, licking ice cream off their maws with saltwater air breezing through their manes and furs.
Ramona shakes her head from the fantastical daydreams.
A lot of the captured moments weren’t like the family photos Ramona usually sees in movies. They weren’t the picturesque ones with amusement parks or picnics, nor were they the staged photoshoot ones with the white backgrounds and mini props. The photos were chaotic. They were blurry, random, probably morally illegal at times. Even with the typical touristy backdrops, the band somehow commands an anarchic energy with every inked paper. One image of a flushed ‘Uncle’ James being piggybacked by an exasperated ‘Uncle’ Ned mid-falling onto the street flickers. Then another of a giddy ‘Auntie’ Yuri climbing over a wire fence towards a neon-lit venue. And then another with Hobie— Hobie? Dad?— screaming at something off-camera with a makeshift sign in hand and paint smeared across his face at a protest. These moments weren’t staged, nor were they censored or edited to make themselves more like normal adults in her mind.
They were themselves. With all their grit and bite. Without a shred of fear or care.
Ramona wonders how they all got to that point.
Her eyes drift back to the scrawled ink on the lined paper. The tips of her fingers drift over your writing, your words permanently branded into the fibers. You weren’t really the type to take photos of yourself, preferring to be behind or away from the camera, but you always made sure to take note of whatever caught your eye. Whether it was a fabric that caught the sunlight just right, or an art piece that inspires a new pattern, or just a silly moment Ramona would laugh at— you would always write it down.
A bittersweet smile curls up on Ramona’s lips before she finally finds the paragraph she left off.
Music creeps into her ears— not her usual curation on your mp3 player, but nostalgic syncopated beats played on the radio when she gets picked up after school. A new figure emerges in the forefront of Ramona’s mind, leaning over Ramona’s shoulder with warm eyes and paint-splattered freckles across his cheeks. Paint fumes and graphite ghost along her nostrils as the figure’s presence warms her back. Soft scratchings of pencil against paper fill in the background of the hip-hop instrumentals, a myriad of colors spraying into the edges of her periphery. A canvas erupts from the ground and towers over her mind, spray painted sunflowers and vibrant comic book art tagged across it. The figure slowly pushes himself up and approaches the mural, amber-like caramel eyes lighting up at the art. Another familiar figure approaches the first, you standing beside him with a giddy smile, a sheen glinting over your eyes at him before you turn to the vibrant art. Warmth creeps the back of Ramona's eyes from the awe in your writings, the pride you weave through pressed ink for—
“Uncle Miles?”
A scream rips through Ramona’s throat from the intruding voice. Frantic eyes dart to its direction behind her, greeted by mirrored russets. Billie stares back at her sister as she sits back up on her rear, the wooden dock creaking out in protest by the sudden weight distribution. A shaky breath wheezes through Ramona as she slowly loosens her grip onto the crumpled letters.
“Billie, why—?”
Billie shrinks from the exasperation in Ramona’s voice, her shoulders hunching in as she crosses her legs together. The spike of irritation extinguishes within Ramona.
“Billie?”
The punk girl stays quiet, a habit slowly becoming more common around Ramona. A gentle breeze drifts between the long-lost twins with a piney, earthy scent, but neither takes notice, only scrutinizing each other behind a setting backdrop. Billie’s eyes waver in Ramona’s sight, flicking between Ramona’s eyes and the letters in her hands.
“I didn’t mean t’…”
Billie trails off as she curls into a ball, wrapping her arms around her tucked knees. “Didn’t mean t’ look. Was gon’ check on ya after ya left t’ cabin, but ya were really focused when I found ya, ‘n I jus’ ended up…”
The punk girl shrinks even more, her voice getting lost in the summer breeze.
“S’from Mum, right?”
Ramona’s face drops, and a faint ache creeps up within her ribs.
“…yeah.”
Rubber soles tap against the grained wood as Billie’s boots fidget against the wooden dock.
“Ya didn’t really talk ‘bout her earlier.” Billie tucks her chin between her knees, caution flickering in her eyes. “Didn’t really talk at all, t’be honest. Kinda jus’…stayed quiet t’ whole time.”
Her arms snake around her knees tighter. “Didn’t really ask a lot ‘bout Dad or nothin’. Or ‘bout Uncle Ned, Uncle James, Auntie Yuri either.”
“…there’s not really much to ask when you already answered them for me.”
Ramona hesitantly scoots over to the side, the water rippling from her feet’s sudden movements. She pats her hand with a tentative drum beside her. Billie’s eyes briefly widen before she slowly scoots up to the edge of the dock, steel toes peeking over and knees tucked against her chest. Silence permeates between the girls. Lapping water and rustling leaves muffle into white noise in their ears. The last of the warmth in the sky cools to a blue-tinted palette, oranges and pinks giving into indigos and violets. The moon peeks over through the sky, its silver light peeking behind fading golden rays, while the sun slowly sinks further behind the trees.
They stare at the sunset, but even the tranquil beauty of nature can’t burrow its roots through the tension.
Ramona glances to the side, eyes lingering on her sister, while Billie absently fidgets her boot laces until they come loose.
“…I don’t know what you expect me to ask, to be honest.”
Ramona’s voice wavers as her gaze drifts over to the rippling water before them. “Technically, I already knew about him and everybody through Mom. Or at least their music. And with all the photos and stories you had, I think I got a gist of it—”
“That ain’t t’ same, though.”
Billie’s paint-chipped finger twirls a black bootlace around itself as she continues to stare off to the sunset. “S’like ya were jus’ sittin’ back ‘n takin’ in whatever I told ya, but ya weren’t really…into it, I guess.”
The punk girl’s dark tresses flutter in the breeze, shielding her face from her newly-found twin. “Ya don’ really listen t’ Dad’s songs either, not on yer own.”
A tingling itch creeps up the back of Ramona’s throat. Two ghostly hands clamp onto her shoulders, long calloused fingers slowly pressing into her flesh, while the scent of citrus sneaks up her nostrils.
“I mean, I get it.” Billie’s fingers move on to the other boot laces, tugging an end by the plastic aglet until the knot unravels. “It ain’t easy, dealin’ with some life-changin’ chance meetin’ like some main character in a bizarre story, but…s’our life right now. ’m still tryin’ t’ wrap m’head ‘round it too.”
“Doesn’t look like it.”
An acrid tinge lingers on Ramona’s tongue as she averts her eyes back to the water. She slowly kicks her submerged feet against the lapping waves, the lake’s intended direction stronger than her resolve against the current. “I still don’t know how you’re okay with all of this. With Mom and Dad keeping us a secret from each other.”
Dad.
The word still leaves an uncomfortable feeling on Ramona’s tongue— almost drying and heavy with a metallic taste.
“I don’t know if I’m being a baby about this whole thing, but I can’t just accept this on the spot. I can tell he’s a good guy with all your stories, with all your guys' photos, and I want to learn more about him and everything. But…”
Chilled goosebumps prickle over Ramona’s skin as her feet prune in the water, but a wave of heat creeps up behind her eyes as the apparition’s hands grip onto her shoulders tighter.
“I can’t just see him as my dad. Not like how you already see Mom as your mom.”
The ghostly hands slowly slide off her shoulders, leaving behind another chill on Ramona. She bundles herself up with your cardigan to chase the cold away.
“…s’not as easy t’ t’ink ‘bout Mum fer me.”
Billie pushes her hair out of her face, revealing the telltale sheen over her eyes. A melancholic smile tugs at Billie’s lips, but it looks wrong on her to Ramona.
“Tha’ recordin’ of Mum ‘n Dad in yer mp3 was t’ first time I actually believed she was real. All t’ stories Uncle Ned, Uncle James ‘n Auntie Yuri would tell me were jus’…stories t’ me. Not really memories fer me t’ look back on.”
With a sniffle, Billie tugs her boots and socks off. Setting her footwear aside, her feet join Ramona’s in the frigid water. “Sometimes I thought they were jus’ makin’ her up t’ be some super-mum fer me, like s’gon’ make me feel better ‘bout not havin’ her in m’life.”
Billie’s watery eyes drift back to Ramona’s. “Then I come over ‘ere ‘n end up findin’ out she’s alive, ‘n I got a sister who has all these memories of her I never got t’have.”
A bead of a tear clings to her lashes, but Billie blinks it away before it can roll down her cheek.
“Is it really that bad t’ feel t’ same way ‘bout Dad fer ya?”
Ramona’s vision starts to blur as she stares back at her sister, but she blinks her own tears away before they can escape.
“It’s not like I don’t, but…it’s still kind of hard for me to believe that a punk rock star is my dad.”
Her hand clutches onto your letter again, tingles festering against her palm. “I didn’t know you wanted to know about Mom that bad, though.”
Billie shrugs as her feet bob up to the surface.
“Can’t really ask while yer strugglin’ with it, can I?”
A rock slowly sinks in Ramona’s stomach. The festering in the back of her throat grows stronger, ebbing in tandem with the burning tingle in her hand. The jagged folded parts of your letters scrape against the flesh of her palm, almost begging to be read more. Ramona glances at the crumpled papers in her trembling hand, and with another blink of her gleaming eyes, she carefully flattens them on the wooden deck before sliding them to Billie. The punk girl furrows her brows at the letters before Ramona quietly speaks.
“Uncle Miles isn’t really my uncle, but he’s kinda like how Uncle Ned, Uncle James and Auntie Yuri are to you.”
A wavering smile curls up on Ramona’s face. “Other than that, I think you can get an idea of how Mom is through this.”
Hesitation flickers in Billie’s eyes as she stares at your wrinkled handwriting, like a forbidden Pandora’s box beckoning her, before her hand hovers over the letters.
“…her handwritin’s pretty.”
Billie’s eyes latch onto your first words as she grasps your pages, slowly taking in every line with awe. “She writes a lot, though…”
A trembling huff slips through Ramona’s lips as she turns away to the sun finally leaving the sky, painting all the remaining light in blue.
“Yeah, she kinda does that. She’s not really a picture person.”
Ramona lifts one of her feet out of the water and props it on the edge of the dock. Rivulets of water trickle down her paled wrinkled leg, pooling beneath her naked sole and seeping into the wood and the denim over her inner thigh.
“Mom doesn’t like being distracted from the moment. She said she’d rather take it all in and remember it before telling me. But I think it’s also her way of saying she doesn’t wanna take pictures of herself, though.”
The sounds of chirping crickets and lapping water respond back to Ramona. With a quick side glance, her eyes land on a quiet Billie shuffling to the next page. Her eyes are hooked onto the letters, devouring your every word as if starved for a different adventure. Entranced under the moonlight, lips curling and dropping depending on what part she reached, Billie refuses to pry her eyes away from the crumpled papers. When she finally reaches the last page, her eyes slow down their pace, almost savoring the last of your words until the bittersweet end. And even then, she still stares at the last page as the moon finally takes its place in the night sky.
A small drop drips onto the crumpled last page before Billie quickly hands the letter back with averted eyes.
“Mum should’ve been a writer or somethin’,” Billie hiccups as she wipes under her eyes.
The festering in Ramona’s throat screams louder at the sight of her sister’s tears, but Ramona swallows it back before taking the letters.
“Yeah, but Mom said she barely makes her deadlines as it is with her designs. I don’t think she’ll be happy adding writing deadlines into her routine.”
A quiet, broken laugh trembles through Billie while she pulls her own feet out the lake, splashing some of the water back onto the back of her jeans. “Then maybe she’ll write those stories famous people write ‘bout ‘emselves.”
“I doubt she’d wanna write a full-on autobiography.”
“Maybe not, but she’ll at least have somethin’ interestin’ t’ write ‘bout…”
Billie’s smile strains under the moonlight when her eyes drift back to the letters. Warm russets dim and glint with more unshed tears before the punk girl averts her eyes back to the lake. Crickets and faint waves croons back into the twins' ears, chasming the distance between them. Finally, when amber lights from the campsite flood behind them, Billie’s voice bridges them back together.
“I wanna meet Mum.”
A cool breeze brushes against their skin, prickling their skin with more goosebumps and chills. Small beads of tears cling to Billie’s lashes before she looks back at Ramona with a resigned smile.
“I know ‘m bein’ selfish, but I really wanna meet her.”
Sharp shrapnel stabs into Ramona’s throat. Her stomach churns and eats itself alive, and her heart squeezes until a dull ache ebbs through her chest. For a moment, Ramona doesn’t see Billie, nor does she see a guise of Hobie Brown over her.
She sees you.
Not obviously, of course. Billie still looks like a mini copy of Hobie Brown, but Ramona can’t help but see your smile on her— the faraway one, where you’re lost in thought when you thought no one would notice.
A brief inkling whispers in Ramona’s mind before it sneaks away and slips through her mouth.
Ramona blinks away the warmth behind her eyes as she looks back at your letter. She picks it up, the envelope encasing the usual numerous pages you tend to write every week. Each page throughout her time apart from you spills through in inked words, like you can barely contain every little detail you’ve seen for her before you run out of blank space. You’ve always written like you’re running out of time— a habit from you pushing through your deadlines, perhaps. But even with your scrawls bombarding through paper stationery, your words always paint through every moment you have seen in her mind. –WHY DO YOU WRITE LIKE YOU'RE RUNNING OUT OF TIME? WRITE DAY AND NIGHT LIKE YOU'RE RUNNING OUT OF TIME🎶
All the pictures they sent Billie sound so chaotic and so sweet🥺
I fear R is me cuz I don't really like taking pics of myself😮💨 Shh, just ignore my pfp literally being a pic of me tho
Sunflowers? Miles??? Is that my son– IT IS MY SON❤️❤️
Aww, Billie choosing not to ask questions bc Ramona was so upset🥺
Oh? OH??? THE TRAP PART OF THE PARENT TRAP AU IS IN THE WORKS, I CAN SMELL IT😤 Or, at least, the switcheroo is, lmao
Hii, dear🧡🧡 Congrats on your three year anniversary😍 I've been here for a little while but immediately loved your vibes🤌🏻
May I request a "Then comes a baby in a baby carriage" with our man Lyonel and little Juniper? I've been thinking smth along the lines how he wants to be helpful. And he spends lots of time in the library in secret, looking for info about the usual baby stuff-teething, colic,etc🤭💞
Thank you so much bestie!! I had so much fun writing this prompt 🤭
Pairing: Lyonel Baratheon x fem! Reader/ The Laughing Storm x fem! Reader
Word count: 1.1k
Tags: No use of Y/N, no specific physical description of the reader except for clothing, established relationship, Arryn! Reader, husband! Lyonel, dad! Lyonel, fluff!
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Lyonel Baratheon Masterlist
3rd year anniversary celebration 🎉
My requests are open!
You come out of the bath looking for your husband. Lyonel is usually on the shaded bed waiting for you with the same smirk and twinkle in his eye, hoping to get lucky that night. But you found the bed empty, sheets still made, and your husband nowhere to be seen.
Sighing, your lower back aches, still weighing heavy even after the birth. Despite your exhaustion, you grab a cloak to tie around your shoulders and over your slip as you head for your daughter’s nursery. If Lyonel isn’t in the shared chambers, surely he would be there watching over her like usual. Recently, he has taken to watching Juniper sleep for a few minutes after you have placed her down on her cot. With a keen eye, he watches little Juniper’s chest rise and fall protectively, and with his hand gently grasping onto her tiny foot.
But when you enter the nursery, you don’t find him there, nor your daughter inside her cot. Your mind must still be addled by the unbalanced humours from the birth, but you were sure that you have put Juniper to bed. You would ask her nursemaid but she would already be fast asleep. So you take a candle from the table and set off to find your family within the vast keep.
Storm’s End is much gloomier and greyer at night. As if there are ghosts lingering around the halls whilst the storm winds howl outside. But you continue on, a hand hitching the skirt of your slip whilst the other keeps the candle upright. No ghosts will stop you from finding them.
As you go through the winding hallway with numerous sculpted Baratheon ancestors on the walls, you see a light flickering from the open doors of the library.
Slowly, you peek inside, seeing a lone figure hunched over a table filled with dozens of thick tomes as the shadow sways softly like a ship on gentle tides.
“You’re well fed, changed, and thank the seven you’re not ill.” Lyonel’s voice whispers at the bundle in his arms. “Gods be good, Juniper, why won’t you sleep, hm? Have you no mercy for your poor mother and father?”
Your giggle takes his attention. His head immediately moves towards the source, the corner of his lips tugging into the signature Lyonel smile that you adore. “Your daughter is petulant.”
“My daughter?” You slowly walk across the threshold and over to him, tender gaze never leaving him. “She is yours as she is mine. And our daughter is merely a month old, it is impossible for her to be petulant.”
“She takes after you.” He utters affectionately.
“She looks the most like you, my love.”
You expect for him to hand the babe over to you, too tired to carry her or too annoyed, so you reach for her, but instead of giving the babe over to you, Lyonel leans her away from your waiting arms. He pouts, brows furrowed at you, as if you have offended him and his child caring skills.
“No, this is my duty, I shall not hand her to you until she has fallen asleep in my arms.” He even dramatically turns her away from you as you bite your lip to hinder the laugh in your throat.
Meanwhile, Juniper gurgles in her father’s arms, legs kicking about under her swaddle as her tiny hand grasps onto Lyonel’s doublet.
“She was already asleep when I placed her down in her cot.” Raising a brow, you accuse him of waking her up just so he could put her to sleep himself, an act he sees through as a jest.
“I did not wake her up.” Defending himself, Lyonel, points accusingly at you. “Mayhaps you didn’t put her to sleep well enough. When I went to check on her she was gurgling and kicking about happily. Now I’m not a midwife but that was a very awake child.”
“Babes wake up for no reason, my love.” You answer lovingly, taking a good look at the tome he was reading. Some of them have dust on the covers, the books seem to have been there for quite some time. And each one is about childbirth or anything pertaining to raising children. Your eyes glistens with unshed tears when you look back at your husband. “You’ve been reading…”
“Contrary to the whispers, I know how to read.”
“Oh, my sweet Lyonel.” Your hands reach out to him, and he meets you halfway, placing his face in your open palms as you cradle his face. “You were learning how to raise our Juniper.” Cooing, Lyonel feels good when he’s the one on the receiving end of your cooing for once.
“Of course, I have.” He says matter-of-factly, eyes closing as your thumbs run along his cheek lovingly. “I can’t let you have all the glory.”
Grinning, you pull his face closer to your own, nudging his nose with yours sweetly. Gods, you want another babe with him. Especially if they’ll have his nose too and his smile.
“Oh, you’re already doing so well, my stag.” The reassurance fills his chest with warmth, the same warmth he feels whenever you place his head on your chest in bed so he could sleep soundly, the same warmth he feels whenever Juniper holds his finger in her tiny hand. “Juniper is lucky to have you as her father.” Peppering his face with kisses, you kiss every inch of his face until you see him give you a lopsided smile.
Pulling away, Lyonel immediately misses your lips upon his skin. “Tell me more about how good I am.”
“You’re doing marvelously, my love.” A grin spreads across his handsome face, beaming at you as his hand pats Juniper to sleep. “How about I accompany you here whenever you read? We could learn together.” Your hands don’t leave his side, holding him and Juniper close.
“That is a tremendous idea, my wife, but you and I both know that there won’t be much reading when we are left to our own devices.” His dark eyes sparkle with something familiar.
You make a face, chortling under your breath, “that is true.” Chuckling, you go to check Juniper in his arms, only to find that the quiet wasn’t just because she’s safely tucked in and content in her father’s arms, but because she has finally fallen asleep. “Look at that, you did it, she’s asleep.”
Lyonel looks at his daughter and grins from ear to ear, as if he just unhorsed another Targaryen. “I did it.” He says it with triumph, that you want to paint his expression on a canvas to look at it whenever you please. “It’s all because I’ve been reading.”
“I am sure it was.” Taking his hand and the candle on the other, you lead him out. “Now come and put her back to her cot so we may do some reading of our own.”
Who is he to say no? “Yes, my love.” He gladly follows your lead.
YAYYY I GOT A REQUEST FOR TTN CUZ I MISS THEM SO MUCH
since reader is a fashion designer and hobie is punk, hobie diys most of his clothes, so one night, reader got woken up to hobie trying to use their sewing machine for a diy project (no idea why he’s using the machine at the dead of night, you can figure that out 👀👀) and after some back and forth teasing they end up staying up all night just helping each other with hobie’s diys, like painting his shirt with his favourite bands, adding studs to his clothes, making diy jewelleries from scraps of fabric/left over fizzydrink cans, etc!! 🥹🥹 (the type of projects that leaves a mess on the floor, like paperclips spilled everywhere and paint on the floor typa MESSY) but it’s so #fluff they’re on the floor cuddling and teasing each other the whole time 🫶🫶
TTN! Hobie my very first masterpiece 🥹 thank you for the lovely request! I hope you like it!!!
Pairing: Hobie Brown x fem! Reader/ Spider-Punk x fem! Reader
Word count: 1.9k
Tags: No use of Y/N, no specific physical description of the reader except for clothing, TTN! Reader and Hobie, set in my thread the needle AU, established relationship, CW one suggestive joke, best friends to lovers, fluff!
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3rd year anniversary celebration
You wake up from an awful dream of a visit to the dentist where the doctor used a drill to put holes into your teeth. You could still feel the ache in your mouth when you awaken abruptly on the bed with the sound of the sewing machine bouncing off the walls of the houseboat. Now you know how you got that dream.
Turning to face Hobie’s side of the bed, you see it empty through your sleep heavy eyes. Your hand pats the sheets, feeling it cold underneath your touch. You get a glimpse of the clock, and the glaring red numbers read three AM. Why in the world is Hobie frantically sewing at three in the morning when he could’ve been cuddling you instead?
Blinking away the sleep in your eyes, you wrap the blanket around your shoulders and slowly make your way to the bedroom door. It creaks as you open it, and not even the sound gets his attention away from his sewing project that couldn’t possibly wait in the morning.
“Hobie…” your voice cracks from the slumber, even so, he still doesn’t notice you. “Baby, why are you up?” Shuffling on the cold floor, you cross the distance over to him, a hand reaching for his shoulder.
The cold pads of your fingers against his bare skin shocks him as he flinches away, almost sewing his thumb into the fabric.
“Fuckin’ hell, love!” He jumps in his seat, shutting the machine off as it only lets out a mechanical hum that you’re familiar with. His hand grasps at his bare chest, right where his heart is as he blinks at you. “What are you doin’ up?”
“Why are you awake?” Brow raised, your hip hits his side, and he instinctively curls his arms around you, chin resting against your stomach as he looks up at you lovingly. Judging from his very awake eyes, he’s been awake for at least an hour. “What are you even making?” You giggle when you see the utter love in his eyes.
“Shit, I woke you up didn’t I?” You nod with a soft chuckle as your fingers find his hair, tugging at it gently while you feel him relax against you. “I put a jumper over it and I shut the door. I thought it would be enough to quiet it down. ‘m sorry.” His eyes sparkles underneath the warm yellow lamp.
“Yeah, well, Hobs, that thing is a dinosaur and impossible to quiet down.”
Hobie squeezes you, palms cupping your behind comfortably. You’d roll your eyes with a scoff but you melt under his loving gaze. “‘m sorry, love.” His lips peck at your belly button, before nudging you right there and squeezing you some more. “I had a stroke of inspiration.”
“And what’s so important that you had to lose sleep over it?” Your nails rake over his scalp as he sighs and presses his cheek against your skin. You take a peek over to the machine and see pieces of fabric on an old leather bag you’ve been meaning to mend. “Is that my bag from way back?”
“Yeah,” sniffing, he inhales your strawberry scented lotion. “I wanted to fix it for you so you could use it again.”
Hobie made the bag look more punk, gingham straps instead of the cracked leather straps, there lace trims around it, a few of his patches on the holes, one huge black and red star, and one with a letter H written in cursive. A glint catches your eye beside the machine, and you see your metal scraps on it. It seems that he was in the process of making a charm for the bag too when you could also spot the various random keychains from his collection that are all clipped onto a chain. He made the bag look better than it was originally, and it warms your heart that he was making it just for you.
Cooing, you lean down to kiss the crown of Hobie’s head, letting your warmth seep through his tired body. “Thank you, that is the sweetest thing. And you made it look better than the original, I’ll use it for work.”
“Wait till I finish it.” Looking up at you, he beams, fingers tracing your sides in the usual loving motions that you could feel in your bones. “I have a few more ideas, lovie, I jus’ need some time to finish it for you.”
“Hobs, you’ve been hanging around me for far too long that you became a fashion designer too.” Chuckling, he mirrors your smile. “I love this and I love you but you have to go back to bed. You don’t have eyebags anymore, they’re eye luggages.” Your thumb gently traces underneath his eyes. “Besides, I can help you in the morning once we’re both recharged.”
“Yeah, but, I have the inspiration now.” His tone is soft, sleepy at the edges as he holds you dearly. “You know the feelin’ when you jus’ really want to make somethin’ before the feelin’ goes away?” You nod, knowing the familiar feeling. “That’s me right now, I want to make so much shit, most of it is for you, love.”
Folding yourself to nuzzle his nose as you feel him let out a little lovestruck sigh, you peck his cold cheek and then his nose and after that a kiss on his lips that lingers for too long that his hands were beginning to wander under the hem of your shirt and around your warm skin.
“I’ve got an idea…” you sigh wistfully atop his lips. “We’ll make your ideas right now, together.”
“Together?” Hobie pecks you lovingly, giving you a little kitten lick before pulling away. His eyes are half lidded, and he’s starting to get conflicted. On one hand, he wants to bring you back to bed and snog you until you’re a puddle under him, but at the same time the crafting scissors and the rolls of fabric in the corner of the room are calling his name. Not in the way you would call him breathlessly whilst your nails drag at his back, but more like, ‘you have to make a pair of pajamas to match with your lovie or your burst of creativity will be wasted.’ Kind of way. “Can we really?”
“Yeah, of course. But you have to put on a shirt or else you’ll catch your death out here.”
“Shit, and ‘ere I thought you loved seein’ me like this.”
“That’s also true, but we’ll end up not finishing a project if you look like that.” Your palm splays over his back, fingers dragging along his toned back as you draw patterns on him. He flexes his back muscles to tease you, you know exactly what he’s doing as you can’t help but feel his muscles unabashedly.
“But we’ll be able to finish. Probably twice, or three times—” With a smirk, his cheeky face is suddenly obscured by the jumper he put over the sewing machine.
—
The lights are fully on in the living room of the houseboat. The water outside is gentler, barely rocking the boat as you cut a fabric for the top he drew. It’s a bolero, one made with the same sheer-like fabric he’s using to make a top for himself to wear at a concert you two have been planning on going to with the rest of the band.
The whole floor is littered with scraps of fabric, crafting supplies, dozens of metal grommets he used to up cycle an old shirt of his into a new blouse for you. There are paint splatters all over the floor, and scattered glitters that you’ll surely find for months around the boat. The house is messy, the type of mess that will take you both hours to clean just from the scattered little metal hoops alone. But you don’t mind it all when he looks so peaceful that you have taken a few stolen polaroids of him whilst his tongue peeks in between his lips, concentrating with the most adorable expression.
His sketches are placed all around him, his designs as he hand sews some rhinestones onto a skirt that he said you absolutely *need to model for him after he’s done with it. He was right about the fact that inspiration hit him like a moving truck, he’s fully in the zone, as he sips at his icy cola every now and then for the extra boost of energy.
You know he’s about to crash soon as you could tell from how his sewing gets slower, wobbly, and he keeps redoing a stitch.
“I think you’re in the wrong profession, Hobie.” Your eyes glance over to the pair of jeans he hand painted dragons and fire on it that are still drying atop the worn green couch. “I think you should come to work with me next time to showcase all of these.”
“Don’t have to when you’ll be wearing most of it.” He licks at the thread, trying to thread it through the needle. “You jus’ inspire me, love. You’re my muse.”
Eyes looking up from his work, he finds you smiling lovingly, all tender, like when he holds you the moment you get home, or when he kisses the hinge of your jaw that never fails to make you melt. A soft smile spreads across his face, the warm yellow lamp illuminates him, painting him in a beautiful scene right out of an artsy indie movie.
“Fuck me, to think I missed you being this sweet on me for years.” Feeling the warmth in your chest, you crawl over to him, avoiding the fabrics and scissors on the floor, until you’re pushing away the crafting supplies to sit across him, knee to knee as you take the needle and thread from him.
“Absence makes the heart grow fonder, y’know? But I wish the absence didn’t take too long.” His head drops to your shoulder with a quiet thump whilst you thread the needle in for him. “I’ve got a whole vault full of sweet words reserved for you.”
“Yeah?” You whisper against his ear as he yawns atop your skin, breath fanning over you. “Just for me, Hobs?”
“Yeah, all for you, love,” his lips kiss your shoulder, a hand moving away your sleeve to peck at your bare skin. “lovie,” he kisses again. “my cherry,” and again, “gromit.” and some more until you’re sighing over his head, thread and needle forgotten on the floor beside you. His arms envelope around you, feeling him lean against you, his warmth spreading through your body from him. “Fuck, missed you so much.”
“Missed you too, Hobie.” You’re fully embracing him on the floor as he tugs you on his lap, just holding you there, letting himself fully meld with you. “Do you want to go back to bed now?”
“No bed.” His legs spread underneath you, pushing away the crafting supplies on the carpet to make space for you as he gently lies you down, together with him atop you. Hobie lays his head on your chest, eyes closing, lashes fluttering against the apples of his cheeks, and arms still holding onto you with a faint smile on his lips. “I’ll sleep right ‘ere.”
“Ow, our poor backs, Hobie.” Chuckling against his hair, you wrap your legs around his own, fully embracing him and you relax, eyes closing as you feel the fog of sleep envelope around the two of you.
“We’ll worry ‘bout that later…” his voice fades as he falls into a dreamless slumber.
Hobie, your neurodivergent is showing🤣🤣 But, he's def me when I'm in the middle of finishing up a wip. I get so caught up that it goes from midnight to damn near eight am💀🤚🏾
Pairing: Lyonel Baratheon x fem! Reader/ The Laughing Storm x fem! Reader
Word count: 12.2k
Summary: Moments with your children, and Lyonel being the best dad in the realm.
Tags: No use of Y/N, no specific physical description of the reader except for clothing, established relationship, Arryn! Reader, based on my 'where's my husband series,' mentions of childbirth, dad! Lyonel, parent AU, CW animal death, CW suggestive, CW alcohol mention, fluff!
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Lyonel Baratheon Masterlist
My requests are open!
Storm’s End has truly become your home after the birth of your first born, Juniper. She’s a glad child, a welcome laughter amidst the thundering storms just outside the keep. Her father thinks so too when she has him wrapped around her little finger.
Juniper, barely a year old, is Storm’s End little princess, Lords and Ladies from across the realm have granted her favours in an attempt to forge a friendship or even an alliance with you and your Lord Husband. From silver rattles, to intricate weaved blankets from the North, Juniper is swimming in gifts. And just like her father, she loves the attention, giggling and kicking in your arms whenever Lyonel would bring another present to her from a merchant you two met back in Essos.
But despite all the lavish gifts and attention she has garnered, it doesn’t compare to her father’s presence. She’s a delight whenever she’s with him, dark eyes shining the moment she sets her eyes on Lyonel. And he’s the same, mirrored expressions gazing at each other as he takes the two of you in his arms whilst Juniper shrieks happily.
“She was born with laughter in her throat.” He told you one day, voice soft and tender, eyes glimmering with love for his girls while the rare sunshine danced across his handsome face. You were nursing Juniper, whilst he accompanied you and even brought his work on the bed just to be in your presence.
Lyonel has been awfully clingy, always seeking out your warmth, a hand always on your skin. You’re not one to complain when you are the same, always asking for him, always calling his name whenever you please, and it’s quite frequent. If Juniper smiles at something, laughs or even points at something so mundane as a flower or at a horse, then you’re asking the nearest servant to call for your husband so he could witness the miracle that is your daughter.
One day though, you’re the one who is away on business, doing your duties as Lady Baratheon and hosting guests from the Riverlands. Lyonel was by your side, but the moment the conversation turned dull, talking about harvests and Riverland history that may or may not have been a segue into asking for an alliance through marriage with your daughter and the Tully’s youngest— Lyonel has vanished from your side.
You would be irked by his sudden disappearance, how he left you to fend for yourself in front of the Riverlords, but the moment you heard his voice through Juniper’s nursery, all your anger faded away.
Lyonel’s sitting on your rocking chair with Juniper in one arm, slowly falling asleep, long lashes fluttering against the apples of her chubby cheeks. There’s a tome in his other hand, whilst he softly reads the passages to her. He’s reading Florian the fool, a story that he has told you was childish drivel, that he has more interesting stories to tell you as he traced your face with his lips.
“‘You are a fool.’” He reads, tone lowered, thumb kneading at the pudge of Juniper’s leg as he takes a quick peek at her. “Why aren’t you asleep? Your mother told me that you always fall asleep whenever she reads to you.”
Juniper just flashes him her batting lashes, eyes sleep heavy as she sucks on her thumb.
Sighing, Lyonel chuckles, pecking the top of her head, curls tickling his nose. “You are as stubborn as your mother.” The second he finishes his sentence, his eyes flick over to you at the doorway. “I’m afraid we’ve got a spy in our midst, flower. What do we do with spies?”
Juniper makes a sound from the back of her throat, a half giggle, half babble in reply.
“Yes, we show them Stormlander hospitality.” He kisses her curls once again before craning his head to face you with that mischievous smirk on his lips that never fails to make your stomach tumble. “Halt, who goes there?” He jests, and you chortle, crossing the distance over to your family.
“Just the Lady Baratheon, my lord Lyonel.” Smiling, you cup his cheek lovingly, watching as he immediately rests against you with a soft look whilst gazing at you with reverence. “You disappeared on me, my love.”
“‘My lord Lyonel,’” He repeats with a low rumble in his throat, amused. “I haven’t heard that in a while…” his palm cups your behind, squeezing faintly as he rests his hand atop it casually. “It’s always, ‘Lyonel, please take the hounds out,’ or ‘Lyonel, I need you in bed now.’” Mocking your voice, complete with a pout, you can’t help but laugh, a sound that warms his insides. “I heard her cry, so I had to leave, my apologies.”
“No, you did not. She has her nursemaid and she was on the other side of the castle. You…” poking his chest, he tosses the hefty tome on the ground with a solid thump as he pulls you onto his lap. “Did not hear our daughter cry all the way from the great hall.”
“Never underestimate a stag’s hearing.” Pushing you against him by your hip, the chair rocks gently under the weight, and you find your hand is occupied with patting Juniper’s side for her to fall into slumber. “I could not bear hearing another one of Lord Tully’s veiled attempts at brokering an alliance through our Juniper and his fish son.”
“His fish son.” You giggle against his corded neck. “Oh, my love.” Kissing him right on his pulse, right where you know he prefers to be kissed, he lets out a shuddered breath. “You’ll be glad to know that he did not succeed. Juniper has her whole life ahead of her.” Your index tucks away a strand of her hair away from her sleeping face. “And she may choose her husband if she pleases. But not yet.” You melt in his hold, and he embraces you tighter. “Not today.”
“Or any day.” Lyonel kisses the length of your temple until he reaches your cheek. “If it were up to me she wouldn’t be married until we are both sixty.”
“You at sixty or me at sixty? Because those are vastly different years, my love. Yours sooner rather than later.”
“You wench.” Laughing against your cheek, he muffles his guffaw lest Juniper wakes up. The thought of growing old with you warms him from the inside and out, it’s heavenly bliss.
—
Juniper’s giggles echo around the stables as you waddle inside. Your belly is bigger than when you were carrying your daughter. The new maester from the citadel said that it is a good sign that you are carrying a son this time around. Lyonel would be glad of the news, should be glad about having a son and heir, but he’s too busy playing with little Juniper to be ecstatic about the news when he said that the little Baratheon could still turn out to be a girl. To then you have said that he just wanted another little girl that is an exact copy of him. Someone to spoil and hoist upon his shoulders as he walks around the keep to show her off. It’s a bit unfair that you were the one doing all the labours if all your children would end up looking exactly like their father. But you do adore Juniper’s little curls, and her nose that is an exact copy of her father’s.
But he has said that whenever Juniper would smile or pout or even cry, she always reminded him of you. “She might favour my looks more, my sweet, but she is you through and through.” He once uttered against your temple whilst the two of you watched Juniper play with her cousins.
Juniper has the Lord of Storm’s End wrapped around her little finger. She just turned two years old, walking on her own now to yours and her father’s delight. Her second nameday was a sight to behold in the whole realm. In true Baratheon fashion, her father organized a tourney in her honour, and for his unborn child that is currently kicking right at your bladder. It was an even bigger affair than the Ashford tourney, Lords from houses all over the realm visited and came to pay their respects to house Baratheon. Juniper loved the attention and the favours she received, while Lyonel loved unhorsing the Lords and upstart knights at his own tourney. You thank the gods that nothing horrible like a trial of seven happened during the seven day tourney. Just a few drunken fights and a lot of out of tune singing.
You cannot believe that you were once worried that Lyonel might not take to being a father as well as being a good husband. But he has once again proven you wrong. He’s a great father to Juniper, and you are sure that he will continue to do so for the babe that is squirming in your belly.
You enter the stables, smiling from the memory of the recent festivities, especially from the memory of your reunion with your older brothers and a certain hedge knight and his squire. The smell of horse and grass hits you the moment you see Juniper giggling atop a horse whilst her father holds onto the scruff of her dress from the ground, as she grins from ear to ear as she reins in the horse in her tiny fists.
Lyonel felt your presence before you could announce yourself. He turns his head at you as the rare sunlight beams right at your back, basking you in heavenly light.
“Careful, my love, she might fall.”
“She is in the best hands.” He gestures for you to come closer, fingers opening and closing in a come hither motion until you sidle beside him. “Aren’t you, flower?”
Juniper answers with a happy shriek, kicking her tiny legs about. Then she sees you, big dark eyes widening happily as she tries to reach for you. You never expected to be with child so soon after Juniper, but you can’t exactly blame Lyonel when you’re as insatiable as your husband.
“Did you miss me, my gentle heart?” Opening your arms, Juniper jumps off the horse without a care, whilst Lyonel bears all the kicking and flailing to get her to your arms safely. He’s letting you carry her with his hand protectively holding her by the armpits so as to not put stress onto your back and already heavy stomach.
Juniper nods enthusiastically, pressing a wet kiss to your cheek as she embraces your neck. She babbles incoherently against your skin, perhaps retelling her time with her Lord father.
“I thought I’d find you here, Lyonel.” Pecking her temple, you then turn to kiss his cheek, never leaving him out of your affection. “Already trying to teach our girl how to ride when she could barely talk?”
“Never underestimate our daughter, my love.” Lyonel’s free hand lifts your belly from underneath, easing the heaviness as you let out a sigh. “She’s learning quickly.”
Eyes closed, you smile with satisfaction as you feel lighter. “Keep your hand there, please. This one is much heavier than when I carried Juniper.”
“The maester has told me of the possibility of you carrying twins.”
“Twins?” Your eyes fling wide open. “Gods, no, we could barely contain Juniper. And with another on the way….” You imagine feeding two babes at once, shuddering at the thought. “Perhaps I’m just carrying a giant? Your father was incredibly tall.”
“Could be.” He shrugs, clearly amused.
“You want twins.” You exclaim matter-of-factly and he makes a face, nose scrunching at your narrowed eyes teasingly. “Lyonel, you are not the one birthing them.”
“Wanting twins doesn’t make it come true, my love.” Chuckling, a deep rumble in his throat, Lyonel gives you a reassuring kiss whilst Juniper plays with the pearl necklace around your neck. “Having two in one go means that we could stop having children, no more labours for you. I am incredibly happy with the children you have already given me.”
As much as he loves his children, he could not help but worry for you whenever you’re screaming and pushing on the birthing bed. He utterly worries for you, the love of his life as your belly swells with life he helped create. It’s the only time he feels powerless, he can’t wield a sword to defend you from this nor hold a shield or use his charms to help, and he hates it, feeling absolutely helpless to ease your suffering when he is also the one to blame.
“Stop the making of said children too?” You playfully jab his chest with your finger, earning a feigned roll of his eyes.
There’s a sudden jolt of pain in your belly, but it’s normal in this state, so you ignore it. You’d tell him of the prophecy once told to you during the Ashford tourney, but it seems ridiculous for you to say it out loud even though a part of you believes it.
“Gods, no, I’d rather die.” Lyonel looks devastated at the thought. “I’m sure that the maester has a potion to remedy the… side effect.”
“Well—” Your clever retort gets caught on your tongue as your belly twists. Something wet splashes on your feet, a familiar feeling that has the two of you looking down and back up to face the other.
Lyonel laughs loudly, albeit nervously. And Juniper, having no clue, laughs along with him. “We’ll know for sure if we’re having twins today it seems.”
—
It was an easier birth this time around, it only took you six hours of labour for your son to be born. Despite his sheer size, the mother smiled down upon you for a safe and easy birth. When your first child was born during a storm, the new lordling of Storm’s End was born during a rare warm and sunny day. The maester called him a summer prince for it, to which Lyonel grinned at as he wiped the blood off the wailing babe’s face gently.
He was more hands on for the birth of his son when no midwives or ancient maesters were there to bar the door for him. From the start of your labours to the first cry of your son, he was there through it all. He was never fainthearted about blood anyway.
Ormund, you and Lyonel have decided to call him, cries in your arms so loudly that it wakes you up from your exhausted state.
“You are in the presence of the Lord and Lady of Storm’s End, comport yourself.” Lyonel jests, gazing down at the two of you as his cheek presses against your clammy temple. His finger is wrapped around his son’s tiny fist as he continues to wail inside your chambers. “Our son has no manners, my love.”
“Are all of our children so loud?” You ask, still panting but free from all the gunk that came after the birth. And yet utterly blissed out as your hand lovingly caresses Ormund’s chubby leg.
“Perhaps it is proof that they are truly my children.”
You’re too tired to roll your eyes at your husband’s teasing. “As if there is any doubt that they aren’t yours when they look exactly like you. It is unfair to say the least.”
“They got your ferocity and tenacity, my love.” Smiling, Lyonel presses a kiss on your skin, leaning closer to the crying babe to nuzzle his cheek gently. Little Ormund quietens down when he recognizes his father, lips smacking together as he chases his warmth. “I knew that would work.”
“He recognized you.” Chuckling, you find yourself instinctively brushing your fingers into Lyonel’s curls.
“All that speaking into your stomach is not for naught.” Side by side, you can really tell the similarities in their features. Ormund has Lyonel’s wild curls, the same nose, the same eyes and lips. He’s a little Lyonel, his late lord father was not jesting when he said that the Baratheon seed is strong. You both wish that he met his grandchildren.
“Shall we call for Juniper? I want to introduce them to each other.”
Lyonel smiles, giving you a much earned kiss. He rests his forehead against your own, breathing you in as he says your name lovingly. “I’ll come and get her. But first,” taking out a velvet box from his pocket, he opens it for you, revealing a golden brooch of two fawns meeting. “I had it made just for the occasion.”
Your fingers trace along the intricate carving, tears brimming in your eyes as you look up at him. “I don’t know what to say…”
“‘Thank you, I love you, you’re the kindest lord husband in the whole realm and the most handsome.’” He makes a face and tries to copy your voice awfully, that has you chortling through the dull ache. “I have more examples if you need it.”
Moving close, you nuzzle his jaw with your nose, letting his beard tickle you. Lyonel lets out a satisfied hum, clasping the jewelry gingerly on your chemise lovingly. “Thank you, I love and adore you, my stag.” It’s enough to make a lord tear up.
—
You wake up on your own, no babes crying, no storm bashing against the walls of the keep, or even the soft pawing from your husband beside you. For a moment it’s utter bliss, you haven’t slept this peacefully in quite some time, the last one was perhaps before you got married.
Sleep is a rare gift when you’re a mother of two loud children that took after their father. You need all that rest when you have a newborn and a babe, who refuses to sleep by your will. Juniper and Ormund are the light of your life together with your husband, but you love sleep, and your silk sheets beckons you back into slumber. That is until you realize what hour it is and that you haven’t heard a single cry, nor felt Lyonel’s warmth beside you when you reached out to his side of the bed.
Sitting up abruptly, heart racing as your eyes rake around the bed, only to find no one else beside you. You then turn to Ormund’s cradle, finding it empty, save for his blue Arryn blankets embroidered by your mother and sisters by law.
“Fuck.” Panic sets in your stomach despite the sunshine draped across your form, a rare sight to behold in the Stormlands when it’s been raining nonstop for more than a week.
You flip the blankets open, feeling the cold floor on the soles of your feet, movements erratic and panicked.
You hear humming, a strange softened humming, a tune you’re not so familiar with as you follow the source. You enter the solar, the blinds billowing around the wind in wisps of silken fabric.
Heart thrumming in your throat, you see a sight that makes you want to call upon an artist to paint it to preserve the scene forever.
Standing in the balcony is Lyonel, torso bare to the sun, basking in the light, scars and freckles dotted along his back as he holds two sleeping bundles in his arms. The light shines at his curls, salt and pepper dripping in golden light.
Ormund’s cheek is squished atop his father’s freckled shoulder, milk drool in the corner of his lips, and curls dancing in the wind. He’s left in only his swaddling cloth, skin to skin with his father as Lyonel pats his back rhythmically.
Where Ormund is sleeping soundly, Juniper fusses in her sleep, foot twitching, one missing a sock, as her arm falls limp in between Lyonel’s armpit, fully laying on him with her long curls falling over her face. Perhaps dreaming of running around in the gardens.
You don’t call for him as you approach. With a gentle hand in between his shoulder blades, you slowly go around him to gaze into his eyes with the same lovestruck expression you had during the tourney where you met him.
“My love.” You say softly, quietly, saying his name in the most saccharine way possible as the pads of your fingers glide along the length of his arm over to his bicep then to his jaw. “What a sight to wake up to.”
Lyonel unabashedly looks at you up and down, left only in your thin chemise that flutters in the wind, and the sunshine illuminating through the fabric. Leaving nothing to the imagination, as if he has to imagine when he has seen you bare countless of times. And yet it never fails to make him as giddy as today, as needy for your touch like all the days.
“I could say the same thing, my doe.” He leans down for a kiss.
The backdrop of Ship Breaker’s bay below and the horizon just behind you makes waking up more worthwhile.
“You’re awake quite early.” You mumble against his pouted lips.
“Ormund was stirring after Juniper waddled inside our chambers. And I heard from the midwives that the early morning sun is good for the babe.”
Your brows furrow in worry. “She has never done that.” He would knead at the space between your brows if has another hand to spare. “But thank you for bringing them out here.”
“I’m afraid that she feels jealous of her brother.” Lyonel’s curl falls over his eye, and out of instinct, you gently tuck it away and he lets you, watching you fondly. “She wiggled her way into our bed. I’m quite glad I wore my breeches before falling asleep in your arms.”
You stifle a giggle, biting your lip as you gaze at the babes cradled gently in his arms. “She told you that?”
“That she is quite glad that I wore my breeches?”
“No, the part before that.” Rolling your eyes, you flick his earring lovingly and teasingly. “That she’s jealous of Ormund.”
“She did.” Sighing, he looks at his eldest. “His arrival took all the attention away from her.”
“Gods, I didn’t realize.” Your expression falls, a hand lovingly rubbing along the length of Juniper’s arm.
“We’ll do better.” He simply says with a smile. “We’re still learning, my doe.”
“I know.” Taking a deep breath of the sea air, you lay your head against his clavicle. “We’ll do better.”
Lyonel hums again, that same unfamiliar tune. You’ll ask him about it later, for now, you’ll melt against your husband while listening to your children’s little breaths.
—
It’s your nameday and in true Baratheon fashion, Lyonel has organized a grand feast to celebrate. He made sure that everything was set up well beforehand, ravens were sent to different Lords and Ladies that you both wish to see, and Lyonel did not skimp out on his coins, using it wisely, or so he said when he asked for a dozen cakes to be made in your honour.
The two of you made a great pair in organizing it. He wanted you to sit back and let him handle things, but you have said that this feast is to celebrate your marriage to him too, five years together, five years of married bliss. You made the great hall your war room, telling each staff where to put which table, or which flower arrangement is correct and up to your husband’s taste, even though he could not care less about sunflowers or daffodils, but Lyonel loves to see that look on your face. The determined commanding ferocity he loves so much. He has seen it during his cursed cousin’s rebellion, where you commanded Vale troops instead of chefs about which pie to make. He has to confess that your stern tone and sheer dominant presence does something to him, making it hard to walk around with you looking like you’re ready for war.
The feast was delayed for a few hours because he kept tugging you away from your duties. Which you barely protested, you loved those long lengthy moments with the Laughing Storm grunting in your ears, while you two hid in a niche, or behind a tapestry.
The night has gone on and on, the guests are properly drunk off of wine, but the flow of the drinks seems to never stop. Food is overflowing on the tables, meat pies, sweetened pastries and all sorts of food from the north to across the narrow seas. He did not spare expenses for the feast. You were alright with just celebrating with your kin and your children by your side with maybe a cake or two, but it couldn’t be helped when your husband is the epitome of Garth Greenhand.
Lyonel lives for revelry, and nothing makes him feel more like himself with a full goblet of wine in hand and with you sitting right on his lap.
You’re laughing at something Ser Duncan said beside him, the kind of giggle that reverberates through you and onto Lyonel’s chest that warms him throughout his whole body. It could be the wine, but it could also be because you’re wiggling far too much on his lap.
His hand is on your hip, squeezing at every clap from the dancing crowd. He watches Juniper dance around with Egg, both barefoot and laughing along to the jaunty tune. Juniper reminds him of you with every passing year as she grows. She may look every bit like a Baratheon, but she has your soul, she has your smile, and she even dances like you. Whilst little Ormund tries to keep up with their steps, waddling and tugging at the prince’s robes. He tried to get them abed, but they’re your children, as stubborn as you, and as defiant as him.
It’s the kind of night that has fond memories flooding his head, you in your threadbare cloak, hiding behind a giant of a man and looking like a falcon missing its wings. You ignored him at first, and that had him intrigued at your audacity to ignore the Laughing Storm in his own pavilion whilst you sip on his wine and sit there looking beautiful under the warm candle light. The thought has him squeezing you even more, nose nudging your jaw until you tilted your head to grant him space to give your throat a kiss.
Lyonel didn’t want to get married at first, he wanted to be free, free to galavant around the realm, to drink and be merry without worrying about anything or anyone. But duty was thrust upon him when his older brother died during the Blackfyre rebellion, and he was left as the sole heir apparent. Suddenly, he needed to marry, he needed heirs, but just like you, he wanted someone that he would love, or at least care for, and have a partnership with. But as the years went on with him unmarried and his father’s health dwindling, he needed to act fast when vultures were circling around Storm’s End.
His father recommended you, all he knew of you were from him, letters written by your own father that were addressed to his late father. They were flowery words, words that he could not tell if it was true or a lie. But the late Lord Baratheon approved of you, said that if you were anything like your father, Lyonel would find kinship with you. If not love, companionship is the next best thing. Little did he know that he would find both with you. He fell for you hard. One that he never thought was possible. And like everything else in his life, he did not back down and continued to pursue you even when you hid behind your cloak with a beaming smile that could part the grey clouds.
Gods, he loves you, he loves the little lives you have given him, and he would organize a thousand more feasts just for you if it meant eternal life for the both of you. Forever laughing together, forever dancing and holding the other. When he never gave marriage a second thought before, now he would step in front of a blade for you. He made a vow, and he intends to keep it. You are his, and he is yours.
‘This is the life,’ he thinks. Utter bliss, belly full of good food and wine, his great love laughing on his lap, and his children as happy as him, while surrounded by loyal allies.
Lyonel always thought that Storm’s End was dull and dreary, its stone walls are too high, consuming all the light that breaks through the grey clouds. But as he sits at the head of the table, stag crown on his brow, he’s proud of what he made of his dull keep that has more laughter than silence. That has more light breaking through from the inside, it’s warm and comfortable, and most of all, safe, he made it safe for his family. And hopefully for generations to come. Only time will tell.
“My love…” you whisper upon his ear, nibbling and tugging at the earring dangling in his lobe. You wear a crown of antlers just like him, but with feathers around the circlet that are laden with sapphires and yellow diamonds, a gift he made just for you. “Shall I put the children to bed so we could commence the real feast?”
Lyonel loves his children, and loves to hear their laughter and how their eyes crinkle in happiness. But he says yes in the blink of an eye.
—
The sun rarely shines in Storm’s End, but when it does grant the Stormlands some reprieve from the window shattering rains, its people come out to bask in the sun’s presence.
Your husband has grown bored of the council chambers as you see him clamber up the steps towards the gardens, right where you have placed a blanket on the mossy stones to rest upon it with your children. His eyes convey that one of his vassal lords have irked him up to the point that he has forgone the need to drink something strong in favour of seeking out his family’s warmth. Especially yours.
Ormund babbles incoherently on your lap, in his tight fist is a crushed lemon cake, while the other has a small wooden toy carved into a battleaxe, a special gift from his lord father. He seems to never grow tired of it even when you feed him small bites of fresh fruit. While he’s busy bashing the head of a wooden toy dragon, his older sister is humming a tune right behind you as she mindlessly braids your hair whilst drawing a flower in between bites of lemon cake.
Lyonel takes note of the peaceful scenery, birds chirp alongside the garden beds filled with sweet scented flowers. And his great love sits in the middle of his little fawns, crowded around her with love in their eyes as the sun blankets you all in warmth.
“Father!” Juniper is the first to notice him, she vaults from her place to run to Lyonel. Her bare feet thumps against the cobbled stone, not minding the roughness as she jumps for an embrace.
“Oh, my flower.” He groans, back aching as he catches her mid jump. “Stop growing too quickly for me would you?” She giggles in reply, hugging his neck and kicks her feet.
“She can’t help it, she got your stature.” You utter with amusement as you watch baby Ormund waddle towards the pair determinedly.
Your husband opens his free arm to receive the babe. Despite the crick in his neck from staring at reports all day long and the dull ache in the small of his back, he takes both children in his arms gladly, before sauntering over to you.
The sun is overshadowed by the looming Laughing Storm as he beams down upon you with equal warmth.
“Let us hope that she gets your ferocity.” He plops himself down on the blanket, wincing at the heaviness of his own body, head immediately falling down your lap as he settles comfortably with both his children on each arm.
“She already has it, my love. She called the septa a horrid word today.”
“Ah, just like your mother, hm?” Juniper just hides her head in the crook of his neck bashfully.
You have no idea if his intention was to lie down on you, but no matter, you wanted him on your lap anyway. Raking your fingers through his wild curls on instinct, you watch as the sunshine drapes upon his face, immediately easing his stiff expression into a softened one. His eyes crinkled in the corners as he lets out a sigh of content, lips curling into a tender smile.
“We missed you in the council chamber this morning, still having headaches?” His brows knit in worry.
“Yes, unfortunately. Please give the Lords and Ladies my sincerest apologies.”
“You didn’t miss anything profound,” he scoffs, akin to a laugh. “It would’ve been less of a bore if you were there with me though.”
Your cheeks warm from his words, many moons later and after two children, he still finds the right words to fluster you. “I am sure that it would’ve been less of a dull affair.”
“No more talk of duty. What did the three of you do today?” Lyonel’s eyes shimmer with light, gazing up at you with such reverence that it would be considered heresy to the seven.
“Nothing much, sat, played, ate cake.” Smiling down upon him, you feed him a pinch of lemon cake that he immediately chews on, lips chasing your fingers. “It was such a hard and busy day, husband. What about you?” You tease, earning a soft chuckle from him.
From this angle and from the light, you notice more white hairs growing from his curls. He’s aging gracefully, and you smile at the thought. Like your husband’s wish for Juniper, you wish for time to slow down.
“Lord Swann has reported that the harvest won’t be enough for this season, so we mayhaps have to ask another loan from the Tyrells for a hundred or so bushels to not starve.” He answers, hands caressing Juniper’s back as she draws a rose, whilst the other traces Ormund’s chubby arms when he has taken his attention towards his toys. “I hate asking them for anything.”
“I know.” You coo lovingly, bending down to press a chaste kiss on his forehead that he chases your lips as you rise up with a chuckle. “Thank you for asking the Tyrells for help, my love, I know how hard that was for you.”
“Those rose scented lordlings might ask for the hand of our flower next time when Lord Tyrell has managed to give his Lady wife a son after five daughters.” He scoffs at the thought, if you asked him, he would’ve been happy enough with just one child. “That poor woman.”
“Mayhaps the Lady wanted it too.”
His eyes flick at you from Juniper’s drawing. “Mayhaps.” He utters, mind somewhere else, still utterly worried after hearing too many women succumbing to the stranger’s arms on their birthing bed. “I am quite content with having two perfect babes.”
“Three.”
“What?” Lyonel laughs as if you just told him an awful jest.
“I went to the maester this morning, the fatigue and the headaches aren’t from Lord Swann’s ramblings.” There’s a growing smile on his face, albeit wobbly. Just as you say it, your stomach makes a gurgling sound that is awfully familiar to him whenever he presses his ear against your swollen stomach. “I am with child again, which does not come as a surprise after all the nights we spent during my nameday tourney.”
“Gods, another Baratheon.” Sitting up, Lyonel places his hand gently upon your stomach. “I remember those nights.” He leans close, taking your face in his hand as he presses a saccharine kiss upon your waiting lips. “And so does Ser Duncan—”
“Hush!” Your eyes widen, grinning nervously as you look around only to find the gardens the same as before, no wandering ears to be found. While your children are too busy devouring the rest of the lemon cakes. “Lyonel!”
“What? We’ll soon find out if you birth a giant hay haired babe.”
“That is not funny!” And yet you laugh nonetheless.
“I’ll love him anyway.” He jests once again, he knows that the growing child inside of you is his when he remembers that exact night like it was yesterday.
“You are evil.” You laugh against his lips, whilst he pecks warmth into your skin.
—
You meet another son during the hour of the wolf. Your screaming kept the whole castle awake, and Lyonel thanks you for it since it has also kept him awake to witness Orys’ birth. The labours were normal according to the maester, but your heart plummeted in your stomach when your son wouldn’t cry the moment he was born. It took a good smack on his behind from the maester for him to cry, and to yours and Lyonel’s relief, you’ve given birth to another healthy babe.
Orys was a large baby, larger than his older brother. Whenever you would carry him in your arms to feed him, you look smaller in comparison. Lyonel was proud about that fact since it seems that his son got his Lord father’s size. Despite the dark hair and eyes, and the unmistakable Bartatheon look, there were cruel whispers going around the keep, no, the whole realm, that your son who looks strikingly like his Baratheon grandsire is actually the rising kingsguard, Ser Duncan’s bastard. Lyonel tried to put a stop to the rumours by showing Orys around the Storm’s End, and even around his vassal’s lands, but there were still some whispers about your son’s true father when the fact in the matter is glaring right at their faces.
No one saw it amusing when it had gotten to the point that it reached the small folk. Lyonel jests when it first started, even laughed at the prospect of it, but as the time went on, everyone from the north to Dorne knew about the rumour of Lord Baratheon’s unusually tall and quiet son, that they have dubbed him the, ‘Tall Storm’ to those that think the rumours are true, and the, ‘Quiet Storm,’ to those who know the truth.
Whenever Lyonel hears of the said whispers in his own walls, it garners his stormy wrath, so no one in their right mind, not even the jesters, would say it out loud. The last one who bravely did at his court had his tongue removed and sent to his mother in a box. You would disapprove, but you were starting to fear the consequences it would get once Orys and his siblings are older. The last thing you want is to sow strife between them, especially when the rumour is the farthest from the truth.
It doesn’t help when Orys is the opposite of his brother Ormund, whereas the elder is a mirror of his father when it comes to his attitude and disposition, Orys is quieter, bookish, and would rather stay inside than learn how to wield a sword and shield. He is still quite young, and his father hopes that he’ll grow out of it.
Out of all your children, Orys is the one who clings to you more. Whenever he’s not playing by himself or begging his septa or older siblings to read to him, he would always be found beside you. Clinging and hiding behind your skirts or being held in your arms. Lyonel sighs whenever he sees little Orys cling to you endlessly even during supper, but you always tell him that he is the same.
“Like father like son.” You have said, and all the words die on his tongue.
—
Lyonel hates waking up in the dead of night, he needs his rest, and he loves to huddle beside you, hogging your warmth, as if he wants to crawl inside your ribcage and lay asleep inside. But when he had babes of his own, he quickly got used to being woken up by a shrill cry in the night. Whether by Juniper or Ormund, he would immediately flip open the covers and sluggishly go over to their cots that you insisted they rest inside the shared chambers out of your own fear of losing them in the night or from a sudden chill.
With Juniper having her own chambers now, and with Ormund moved out of the nursery in favour of little Orys, who is as quiet as a mouse and would sleep throughout the night, Lyonel hasn’t woken up in the middle of the night in months. Until that is when he hears the softness of your voice stirring him awake, the same voice you would always use for your children, motherly and tender, even when you scold them.
“You shall be as brave and as bold as your father, Orys.”
Lyonel cracks an eye open, heavy with sleep as the rain pours down outside, turning the keep colder and damp. He then finds himself near the edge of his own bed, the privacy curtains grazing along his back from how far he is from your side.
Ormund sleeps beside him, or at least his feet is, when he is sleeping upside down with his head near the other end of the bed. He’s twitching in his sleep, drooling on the sheets that were just cleaned. Lyonel’s brow raises at the sight of his son, eyes going over him in search of you, only to see Juniper sleeping soundly beside her brother, cuddling her doll as she curls around herself.
Lyonel lifts himself by his elbow, looking over Juniper to see baby Orys wiggling around on the bed, fully awake, dark eyes fully open as he huffs whilst you run your index on the length of his nose gently. A loving act that you love doing with your children when they were still babes that seems to always calm them down.
“My sweet.” His voice crackles with sleep, deep and gruffed more than usual. “Why is half of the castle in our bed?”
You chuckle softly, tired yet happy eyes gazing at him. “The storm woke them up. Ormund couldn’t bear sleeping in his own chamber, while Juniper couldn’t fall back to sleep on her own.”
“I understand Orys’ reasoning.” His hand goes over his oldest and over to Orys who looks at him with those curious eyes of his. As Lyonel gently takes his small fist. “But I never expected it from these two.”
“I couldn’t find it within myself to say no.” You give him an apologetic look, but once he reaches for your cheek, the pads of his fingers dancing along your cheekbones, you then smile, knowing that your husband would not be able to say no either. “They won’t make it into a habit.”
Orys gurgles happily, milk bubbles dripping down his pudgy chin. You smile down at your son and wipe his face with such care that Lyonel wants to have another with you.
Lyonel chuckles, rests his head upon his fist as he gazes at his children and over to you fondly. “They better not, or else I’ll put a lock on our chamber door.”
Stifling a laugh, you reach over to him to caress his cheek. “I am sure they’ll grow out of it. Just like you had when you were little.”
“How’d you know that?” His brows furrow, and he has an intense urge to go over to your side of the bed and hold you even if that means that he would fall off the bed if he so moves a muscle.
“The old midwife told me.”
Lyonel hums, nodding as his dark eyes glimmer under the low light of the moon. “Teasing me this early in the day will have you staying abed until the afternoon.”
“Hollow threats, my love, when our children are in between us.”
“When they leave then.” Groaning, he sits up fully, eyeing baby Orys, who looks back at him with a gummy smile. “For now, I shall take away your happiness.”
You gasp, watching as he takes Orys from your side, holding onto him gently and supporting his neck before laying back down and placing him atop his chest. “Lyonel.” You whisper yell. “Give me back my son.”
“No,” he draws the word to add to the teasing. Orys wiggles atop his chest, warm and smelling like milk. From this angle, all swaddled in his Arryn blue blanket, Orys looks like a little worm. “My son and I need to bond. And you need to sleep, can you tell your mother that I am right, Orys?” Carefully grasping his chubby cheek, he makes the babe speak. “‘You are right, father.’” He mimes, talking in a high pitched tone.
You couldn’t help but laugh at his antics as your head plops onto the pillow, muffling your laughter.
—
You have the twins on a fine yet bloody day in the realm. It was during the rebellion, whilst their father and brother were out fighting, you were keeping the stranger away from your birthing bed. They come within two minutes from each other, and you were beyond exhausted, almost giving Lyonel a fright, more terrified than when he faced the Blackfyre army when you fainted from the bloodloss. Thankfully the maester brought you back from the brink, and now you’re chasing your sons down the hallway, dripping wet as they have escaped their baths.
The twins have proven to be a handful. When you thought that Ormund was the more problem child out of the bunch, always out looking for a fight, easily taunted and quick to anger, the twins are rebellious. They never listen to anyone, always running away hand in hand, like a pair of hopping fawns bolting away from the sound of footsteps. In this case, the footsteps are from their maester calling them for their lessons, or their poor septa telling them to stop climbing the walls or setting fire to the gardens.
They’d always go out of their way to play tricks on people, whether the target is their siblings, the servants or even you and Lyonel. The moment you hear their giggles echoing around the halls, you just knew they were up to some mischief.
The only person they would listen to is their father. One stern call of their names has them freezing mid run. You thought that when you named them after your older brother, Robert, and your uncle, Robin, it would be perfect for them. That they would embody their chivalry and kindness, but alas, the seven gave you two rambunctious children that refuse to bathe and attend their lessons.
They would still listen to you of course, only when they see that you are close to calling their father on them, or gods forbid, their aunt Juniper, whom you have called for help to discipline them. You truly needed the extra help when it came to them.
There are times that they would settle down though, and it’s with their older brother, Orys. He’d call for them in the library, and to yours and Lyonel’s surprise, they answered gladly. Orys would calmly read to them as the pair listened intently by his side. They always preferred the wild stories from Essos, and the histories of house Targaryen, to their father’s dismay.
Robert grew to love fishing, Lyonel would take you all on fishing trips when the waters at Ship Breaker’s bay are calmer, and when the summer sun shines upon the glittering tides. Robin grew to love hunting, him and his pet hound that he aptly named Aerion, after his platinum coat, would run around the forests of the Stormlands with either his father or the master at arms. You suspect that he got the name for the hound after Lyonel told him about the story of the Ashford tourney where he met you and participated in the once in a lifetime trial. Whenever Robin calls for Aerion, you bite your tongue lest you let out a guffaw unbefitting your station.
The twins look so alike that even you have trouble distinguishing them from the other. It takes you a few seconds to know which is which twin. Robin has dimples whenever he smiles, and a small mole in the corner of his eye. Whilst Robert’s curls curl the opposite way from his twin’s, and he has a birth mark in the shape of the narrow sea on the back of his hand. But that doesn’t stop them from switching places if they deem it so. To the ire of their maester and septa, they keep finding ways to disguise themselves as the other. Only when Lyonel is called or their aunt Juniper, is when they come running over to you to hide behind your skirt, flashing their big eyes they got from their father as they try to charm their way out of their punishment.
Once the twins are old enough to hold a sword without accidentally stabbing each other in the eye, they took to the sword and shield like you and Lyonel. The lessons were such a delight to them that they would either beg you and Lyonel to be taught, if neither of you weren’t able to, they would grab the master at arms and take him hostage in the training yard until they are satisfied with what they have learned. Ser Andros has many complaints about the pair. Mostly that they would work him to the bone. Not even Ormund was that determined to learn how to fight, and he is considered as the best fighter next to his father.
During the rare days where they would rather be under the covers and in their mother’s arms, you would always take the opportunity to have them settle beside you as they snore the day away. Under the light, the twins look a lot like you, only with Lyonel’s hair, eyes, and lips.
Rob and Rob, you’ve lovingly called them whenever they become petulant, have grown to be remarkable warriors in the making. Even their older brothers weren’t this quick with a sword, a fact that their father is proud of. Day and night, rain or shine, the boys would train together, honing their skills, trying to surpass your brothers, their brothers, and of course their father.
“One day,” you’ve heard Lyonel say to them as he spoke to them in the training yard whilst you pretended not to hear them as you helped Juniper and Orys with their bows. “You will surpass me in skill, for now, do not let your pride drive you, let it be your motivation. Strive to be of great renown through your own. You are a Baratheon and an Arryn, both the noblest of houses in the realm that has borne great warriors. Be good, be better than any of them.”
Their first tourney during Egg’s coronation had the two becoming champions. And they were only two and ten, both taller than children their age, which you did not allow at first just like their brothers had been, but they entered as the mystery knights, wearing both blue and golden colours upon their armour. With a sigil of two antlered falcons soaring above the sea. You knew it was them the moment they stepped foot on the muddy field. And yet you and your husband did not say anything to stop them when they are forging their own paths.
Robert and Robin Baratheon, the king’s champions. Your twin falcons who soared high to great renown before they were three and ten.
—
Lyonel walks through the hunting camp with heavy steps and a frown on his face. He holds onto three hares by their ears, smelling like death and iron as he walks past the many tents that were pitched on the edge of the forest. The hunting trip was a celebration, organized by the Tyrells to bid the betrothal between the houses a good fortune. Unfortunately though, it’s his own child’s betrothal, his Juniper, his flower that is to be wed to a Tyrell boy that she has seemingly, utterly, and unabashedly adores.
He’s happy for his child to have found a love match, but he doesn’t want his little girl, his princess to marry, not yet, it’s too soon for him. Lyonel has said his piece, he has told Juniper that she has to wait a few more years to marry since she is still far too young. To which you have agreed to, and to which both children have reluctantly agreed to, but the one thing you did not agree upon is his clear protest on the union.
You’ve seen how Juniper looks at the Tyrell lordling, the same look you have whenever you turn to Lyonel. And the boy, gods be good, he’s as lovestrucked as her. So much so that you and your future kin had them separate occasionally, lest they ride out of the hunting camp and elope in the middle of nowhere. But you can see the love between them, the innocent kind of love, the purest kind that when Juniper begged for the union, you did not think twice to grant her happiness.
Perhaps that is why Lyonel hasn’t spoken to you in a day and a half. He’s irked, annoyed by the turn of events. And when he was seeking your counsel, you went on and agreed for his little girl to be shipped off in the Reach, so far away, too far away from him.
When he enters the Baratheon pavilion, hares in hand with a scowl so deep that it turned the inside of the tent cold, his children paused from what they were doing.
Ormund stops cleaning his sword, Juniper clamps her mouth shut and stops her conversation with her betrothed on the settee, whilst the Tyrell boy shrinks under his gaze. The twins hastily takes off yours and his helm, hiding it behind their back. All the while Orys stops his reading, and Orys rarely stops his reading for anyone.
“Where’s your mother?” He asks them, and the servants drop what they are doing to curtsy and escape from the tension filling the tent.
Ormund would jest and say, “do you miss her that much, father?” But he doesn’t have a death wish.
“She went on a hunt, father.” Juniper is the only brave soul to answer him.
The hares almost falls from his grip. “Alone?”
“I think so.”
“She’s been away for hours, father.” Orys, the usually quiet one, the one that doesn’t fan the flames, actually fans the flames under his father. “Said that she won’t come back until she hunts a boar for the feast.”
“On her own?” Stepping forward, his heart grows heavy in his chest. “Why didn’t any of you join her?” His dark eyes turn to his oldest son, then over to Juniper. “Hm?” They haven’t seen him this furious ever since prince Aerion came back from his banishment.
Lyonel rarely gets mad, especially at his children. When it comes to his family, he is awfully patient with them, he doesn’t raise his voice, nor use his hand to strike. He promised to be a good father, and he tries to be one. But when it comes to your safety and theirs, they get a glimpse of the storm underneath his fatherly nature.
“She told us to stay.” Juniper replies calmly, ever the voice of reason for her siblings.
“I insisted, father. I tried to accompany her.” Ormund adds, swallowing thickly as Lyonel’s eyes turn to him once again. “I did try.”
Lyonel sighs, and places the hares on the table. He lets out another breath, and another, and another, until he feels himself calm down.
“Which direction did she go?” He utters softer this time around, and he could feel the tension ebb away.
“North.” Orys simply says, before going back to read his hefty book.
“I’m off,” his hands leave the corner of the table. “If she comes back here without me, send a man for me. I have words with your mother.”
“Yes, father.”
He opens the tent, and the sunshine outside nearly blinds him. Lyonel is about to go on his horse when he hears the commotion coming from the northern edge of the forest.
There, basking under the sun, neck and arms coated in fresh blood, hair matted with crimson, is you. Riding on your horse, as a dead stag drags from behind.
People come out of their tents to watch the Lady Baratheon, who has just announced that she is with another child once again, ride into the hunting grounds with her husband’s sigil dead and dragged behind her.
“Gods…” A Tyrell squire, the same age as his Ormund mutters behind him. “I want a wife like that.”
You stop your horse right in front of your husband, looking down at him over your nose. “Husband.”
The crowd and the Lords around the two of you expected a fiery dispute between the two of you. Words hurled, all equally angry, instead of what happens next.
Lyonel lets out a booming guffaw that shakes his whole body. He laughs, the Laughing Storm lives for his name as he almost keels over from laughter. Whilst you, covered in the blood of his house’s sigil, laughs along with him.
“Seven hells, my love.” The laugh lingers in his throat, smiling up at you with reverence as he holds his arms up to you. “Message received.”
You let him get you off your horse, holding onto his steady shoulders as you grin at him. Leaning close, you whisper to him. “Truth be told, this wasn’t my intention. I thought I shot a boar.”
He guffaws again, reaching to grasp at your bloodied cheeks. “We need your eyes looked at by the maester.”
“Perhaps.” You snort out a chuckle. “I am deeply sorry, for the argument we had, and the stag I shot.”
Peeking to your side, looking at the deer, he shrugs. “He’s not my kin, it’s not as if you killed an uncle of mine. Besides, I found it fucking hilarious. You put out a good show for them.”
“I learned from the best,” he pecks your forehead for all to see. “even though it is not my intention.”
“How is the babe?” With a hand upon your armoured stomach, he lets his warmth seep through the leather. “Were you hurt?”
“No, I’m fine, the blood sprayed on me when I took out the arrow.” You can see his worry fade away, hands still holding onto you as he rests his forehead on yours.
“I’m deeply sorry too.” He mumbles, not caring for the eyes on him. He’s holding his wife, they should be the one looking away. “I should’ve heard Juniper’s reasoning.”
“You’re her father,” you take him by his cheek, gazing at him with love. “It is only expected that you wish for her to never leave home. Most fathers are the same. I would wish for her to stay with us forever but it can’t be, not when she has found her love, just like we have.”
“The others fucking geld me.” He inhales deeply, “Why do you always have to be right, hm?” Taking your cheek once again, he peppers your skin with kisses whilst you laugh, also not caring for the stares. Mayhaps a bard would write a song about this encounter. “Come inside, we shall have a bloody feast.”
Lyonel takes you by the hand, not minding the blood on yours when his hand is also bloody. When he turns around, he sees his children look at the two of you with the same expression— disgust.
The older Juniper, your handmaiden is beside them, clearly stifling a laugh. “Now you all know why there are five of you, with the sixth on the way.”
“Did you two have to kiss in front of the whole hunting party?!” Juniper groans, hiding her face in her hands out of embarrassment.
—
Ella was born with a striking resemblance to you. The only child who looks more like you than Lyonel, except for her dark curls and dark eyes, she is you, only a younger, more sweeter version of you. Even your older brothers could see it, especially your father and mother, who cried when she first held Ella during her first nameday.
“Our last babe,” Lyonel has said after Ella’s birth as he carries her in his arms, looking so small, so delicate. “No more, my love.” His words were tender, worried, terrified. He knows about the prophecy you were once told nearly two decades ago, and he has reassured you that no harm will come to them. But who could possibly know what the future holds as you lay sore and still bleeding with the afterbirth? Lyonel loves every single one of his children, but you’re his great love, the one he wants to spend the rest of his life with. He’d rather put the whole realm to the torch than lose you on the birthing bed or any cruel fate that befalls you.
His children are your greatest gift to him, and he’d rather see you watch them grow old with him than fulfill some prophecy. He doesn’t want to be the reason why his children never got to know their mother who loves them dearly.
Ella is the sweetest out of the siblings, but she has the same hidden ferocity as you. When push comes to shove, she will shove back.
She’s tenacious, a fighter who could use her wit as good as a dagger in her hand. She’d either have a scowl on her pretty face or a grin that parts the grey clouds of Storm’s End. To no one’s surprise, she has her father wrapped around her finger. She was as spoiled rotten as her older siblings, you and Lyonel may have grown old but the two of you did not lack in parenting Ella. She was rarely somber, a cry from her happens once in a blue moon, but when it does appear, a sob threatening to spill from her eyes because a toy broke, or her brothers were teasing her too much, or a simple frustration, the whole keep comes to her side. Whether that’s you, her father or her handmaidens, she was truly never alone.
When King Egg announced the betrothal that the three of you have conversed intensely about for nearly a year, Ella was sorrowful at first. Until she met the heir apparent. Prince Duncan was the prince she always had in mind, handsome and chivalrous. The kind of man who would treat your daughter right.
So she begged you to teach her how to be a Lady, how to be a perfect queen once she ascended the iron throne even when the thought alone terrifies you and Lyonel.
She’s your little girl, and Lyonel’s princess. If it were up to you she would not have to marry a prince, that she would marry someone she loves. But it’s for the alliance, an age-old alliance between the Baratheons and the Targaryens that spans beyond you and Lyonel, even King Aegon himself.
So Ella toiled away, read all the books, practiced her etiquette, in preparation to be the queen of the seven kingdoms. You could only hope that you and your husband will be there to protect her, knowing all the dangers the red keep has slithering in the dark corners of their castle.
But you both know that you can’t protect your children forever, but you can teach them how to fight, how to defend themselves. And Ella learned it too, just like her older sister did, just like all her brothers did. So when the time comes that she needs to wield a sword, she would know how.
But alas, no matter how much love, how much care you put all into your youngest, the realm will never know how great of a queen she would’ve been.
—
Lyonel eases his horse in front of a known tavern in his land, whilst you halt yours beside him. You’re both accompanied by guards, all wielding weapons, all sworn to protect your house.
The noise coming from the inside of the tavern echoes outside, and as Lyonel helps you off the horse, and the mud cakes around your boots, you quickly stomp over to the door.
What greets you has you grabbing onto the nearest thing to you— a vase. You hurl it towards all the fighting, shattering it into a million pieces as the patrons and the fighters stop in shock. All staring perplexed at their liege Lord and Lady. Even Lyonel was taken aback.
“Ormund Baratheon.” Your words carry around the tavern, felt by all the unruly sons inside. “Home. Now.”
Lyonel stifles his grin at the sight of Ormund looking far better than his opponent. His nose is bleeding, and there is a blooming bruise on his cheek. But it does not compare to the man in his fist, who is fighting to stay awake.
“Mother, I—” Your son frowns, a mirrored image of your husband whenever you tell him that he has had enough wine. “I did not mean to—”
“Now, Ormund.” You will hear him later, for now, you let your anger out to let him know that you are not in the mood to be charmed. You did not raise a son so he could go out and brawl in a tavern.
His eyes then turns to his father, asking for help.
Lyonel shakes his head, giving him a look that says, “you’re on your own, son, not even I could calm her.”
Sighing, Ormund gathers his belongings, plops a few silver on the table and leaves with his head down.
“As for everyone in this tavern,” they see a stormy side of you, a side that Lyonel adores as much as your softer side whilst you glare at every patron inside. “if I ever see any of your faces in my keep I will shoot an arrow right into your hearts myself.”
Lyonel feels the familiar warmth bloom in the pit of his stomach. “Gods, my doe, that was…”
“Not today, Lyonel.” You say with a pointed gaze. Before sighing, eyes softening as you turn to him once again. “Maybe later if you agree with me when we talk to your son.”
“Now he’s just my son, and not yours—” his mouth clamps shut, he’s not ruining his chances. “yes, of course, my love.”
—
You take a trip in the narrow sea, just a few ways away from Ship Breaker’s bay, accompanied by two more ships filled with guards in case pirates decide that it’s their day to perish from Lord Baratheon’s sword. The waters are calm and warm, as the sun shines all around you. It’s a perfect day for a swim, which Lyonel has decided on a whim that it is time for a quick excursion out at sea.
“It’s the perfect day,” he said, hair greying at the edges, eyes crinkling in the corners and yet looking as handsome as the day you met him. With a kiss from him, you agreed.
The children loved the idea, and so you found yourself on a ship floating in the middle of the narrow sea whilst your children swim and jump into the water.
Juniper shrieks as she gets pushed by Ella into the water, before she hops out of the boat and yelps once the water hits her. Ormund takes laps around the ship, using the time to exercise and increase his endurance, all the while the twins are plotting against their older brother. You could hear the muffled, “pull him under,” and “pull his breeches off,” from them. You decide to let them be, unless someone is drowning then you have no cause for concern as you bathe under the sunshine in a simple cotton dress.
The sun suddenly gets blocked by a Lyonel shaped shadow.
Taking a peek at the intrusion, you smile immediately once you see how red his bare chest has become. His curls are damp from the salty sea, and he has an easy twinkle in his eye, the same one that always appears when he spends time with his family away from duties.
“Didn’t I tell you that the concoction the maester made would prevent exactly that.” You gesture around his chest, ogling it, almost getting lost by staring at the ridges and muscles. “I could help put it on you, my stag.”
“Tempting, but that is not why I am here.” Sitting down beside you on the floor, you just now noticed the two wooden sparring swords in his hands.
“Why do you have that with you?”
“The twins brought it, I had them spar to see how much they’ve improved.” His corded neck tilts back, groaning as he lets the sun shine on him. Gods, you want to sit on his lap and trace his neck with your lips. “They did well.”
“And? What’s the problem with that?”
“I tried to coax Orys out of his corner, using the excuse of sparring with me. Not even Ormund could get him to stand up and fight. The boy annoys him to no end, he would’ve managed to get him to fight him.” He runs a hand through his salt drenched hair. “He’s just so…quiet.”
The mention of your second son has the two of you turning your heads towards him. Orys is tucked in a corner, hiding from the sun in what little shadow he has as best as he could. His long legs are folded, with a tome sitting atop his knees, reading like always.
“I’m afraid that he wants to become a maester. That means he will have to forsake our name one day.” Lyonel says solemnly, words weaved with worry.
“If that’s the path he has chosen then so be it.” Facing your husband with a tight-lipped smile, you hold his hand, weaving your fingers around his own before leaving a peck to each of his knuckles. “What’s so bad at becoming a maester if that’s what would make him happy?”
“He will have to shed the Baratheon name, my love, our name, his legacy, in favour of dusty old books.” Shaking his head, he watches his children play in the water instead. “I worry for him. And I hate that I do not understand our son.”
“Then talk to him.” You say with utmost love for both. “Try to understand him.”
“I don’t understand him, my doe. Sometimes I do think that he’s Duncan’s—” he stops himself, wincing at the words he let out. “I did not mean that.”
“I know.” You touch his face, and leans into your gentle caress. “But he is yours, you and I both know that. He is the splitting image of your Lord father, there is no denying that. He is your son, our son. And I understand him, just like how I understand you and our children. Give him time, spend that time with him. Mayhaps you will learn something about him that you didn’t know.”
Lyonel kisses your palm, eyes closed as his kiss lingers atop your skin before reluctantly pulling away. “I will try.”
“You promised that we will do better, trying is already half of it, my love.” With a kiss to his lips that has him melting in your hands like candle wax, Lyonel chases your lips when you lean away. He would whisk you below deck to the chambers if not for his fatherly duties.
“Wish me luck?”
“If he doesn’t throw the tome on your head then you’re already doing well.” You give him another peck for luck. “Good luck, my stag.”
Groaning, knees creaking as he stands up, he walks over to Orys like how one approaches an animal, slowly, carefully, lest Orys runs and dives away from him.
“What are you reading?” That’s a good start, and you give him a reassuring nod that encourages him even more. The moment Orys gazes up at him, you see your boy subtly smile at his father. The kind that is easily missed by anyone. Perhaps Lyonel could see it now that he is sitting beside him, conversing with Orys in a hushed tone.
“Mother!” Ormund yells from the water, spluttering out gasps of air as his arms flail in the air.
You vault from your seat, screaming at the edge of the ship. “Robert! Robin! Stop trying to drown your brother!”
Ormund takes a deep gasp as the twins surface from under the water and appears beside him. “Sorry, mother…”
“Gods be good.” And yet, you wouldn’t trade this for the world. You thank your lucky stars that you snuck out of the Arryn tent that night, you would never have thought that the single act would give you six children, and a husband who loves and cherishes you and your rumbactious fawns.
A/N: thank you for reading please reblog if you liked it!! ❤️
Lyonel being such a doting father is so freaking sweet🥺 Aww, don't be jealous, Juniper❤️
Lyonel always thought that Storm’s End was dull and dreary, its stone walls are too high, consuming all the light that breaks through the grey clouds. But as he sits at the head of the table, stag crown on his brow, he’s proud of what he made of his dull keep that has more laughter than silence. That has more light breaking through from the inside, it’s warm and comfortable, and most of all, safe, he made it safe for his family. And hopefully for generations to come. Only time will tell. – Er... So, about that...😬
I love how different all of the children are, they're really their own people and they're growing up amazingly❤️
Lmaooo, not the Duncan rumor💀🤚🏾
NOT THE HOUND BEING NAMED AERION😭🤚🏾 Man, that's disrespectful... to the dog, of course😒
But alas, no matter how much love, how much care you put all into your youngest, the realm will never know how great of a queen she would’ve been. –WAIT, WHAT, NO😭🤚🏾
The fact that seeing his wife be commanding and issuing well deserved threats does it for him will never not be funny💀🤚🏾 He's so whipped, it's insane🤭❤️
We're all happy and safe and nothing bad is ever gonna happen to them. Right...? ...Right...?😰
Pairing: Lyonel Baratheon x fem! Reader/ The Laughing Storm x fem! Reader
Word count: 3.4k
Tags: no use of Y/N, no specific physical description of the reader except for clothing, established relationship, modern AU, CW drinking mention, CW suggestive, smut implied, best friends to lovers, fluff!
Requested by anon: May I request a something new with modern Lyonel please where they wake up married in Vegas!
A/N: thank you for requesting! I went feral while writing this btw
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3rd anniversary celebration
My requests are open!
Your head pounds harshly against your skull, a deep pressure pressing in between your brows as you groan awake. The sun’s in your eyes, and everything just feels so bright, and you could just feel everything around you a hundred times more than usual. The sheets under you scrape at your bare body, it’s not even rough, it’s silk and smooth and yet it feels like sandpaper. Your tongue is awfully dry, throat aching like you screamed at the top of your lungs on a rooftop.
Wincing, fingers massaging your aching head, you refuse to open your eyes. You’re sore all over, as if you ran a marathon whilst asleep, and you smell like a bar, hair matted under you as it sticks to your clammy skin. Plus you can still taste the booze on your tongue last night as you smack your lips together with a grimace.
But then there’s the smell, not the alcohol permeating around the bed, but a familiar cologne amidst the awful stench, a heavy musk, manly, smelling like a mix of petrichor and burgundy. You can smell your best mate, Lyonel on you. But that’s impossible when he’s supposed to be halfway around the world by now for work when you’re here in Vegas partying your heartbreak away with your girlfriends. Maybe you just miss the guy?
Ever since you got engaged, well not anymore, you haven’t seen him in a while. It was a whirlwind engagement when you and your ex have only been dating for six months. Which Lyonel clearly did not approve of but bit his tongue because he has known you since middle school when he was still just a neighbor who became best mates with your older siblings and you were just their annoying sibling. He always included you though, always listened to you when they didn’t care enough to stop and listen to you talk. He’s always been like that to you, kind, thoughtful, always trying to get you out of your shell with his charms and sheer energy alone.
Lyonel could sometimes be too much, but not to you, to you he’s just right.
Sighing, heart feeling lonely once again, you crack an eye open despite the blooming headache. You face the floor to ceiling windows as the Las Vegas strip greets you down below. In the morning, the place doesn’t feel like the same city you went gallivanting around, it feels quieter. Warmer even without the flashing neon signs.
Yawning away the sleep, you pull the covers over your bare self. You have no idea how you got back to your hotel room, or why you’re naked, well, you’ve been told numerous times that whenever you’re drunk off your ass you tend to shed your clothes off, a horrendous side effect of drinking. To your friends’ ire and to Lyonel’s amusement, he would laugh before taking off his jacket and placing it around you and hauling you away before you flash anyone. You guess sleeping naked isn’t much of a mystery to you now that you think about it. Maybe one of your friends yanked you back to your room so you could strip naked all on your own and crawled into bed yourself.
But as the blanket gets snagged by something behind you, you pull harder at the hem, then some more when it doesn’t budge. The blanket still doesn’t move and your hand slips from the silk and you accidentally punch yourself.
“Ow, fuck…” wincing, you cradle your cheek.
The blanket moves on its own, not to cover your bare thigh, no, it moves further away from you.
Your heart drops in your stomach. You might be hungover and can barely remember anything from last night but you know you’re not sharing a room with your friends. Or anyone for that matter.
Slowly you turn around to face whoever’s hogging the blanket.
A bare freckled back greets you, a back that is so awfully familiar that you have seen numerous times during warm summer beach days with him. “Lyonel?”
Eyes wide, pulse thrumming, you lift the cover upwards, taking a peek inside, only to see what you’ve only seen in one of your dreams that you refuse to tell anyone even under torture. He’s as bare as the day he was born. His ass, also freckled, and plumper than you thought would be, wiggles beside you as he stirs in his sleep.
“The others take me…” You mumble, unable to look away. You let go of the blanket, heaving as you finally realize why you were so sore. But you need more evidence so you turn towards the trash can beside the bed, and you had to clamp your mouth shut before you could let out a shriek from your warm chest. There’s three, no, five fucking rubbers in there. What the fuck did you do? And were you that insatiable?
Your head falls back into your pillow, and you flip the blanket away once again just to make sure that you’re actually seeing Lyonel’s ass with a very red handprint on it that is coincidentally the same size as your hand and not a hallucination.
Sighing, taking deep breaths, you rub a hand over your sweaty face. Then you feel it, the cold metal on your ring finger that you’re sure you got rid of when you threw it at your cheating ex-fiance’s face.
You have a new ring on you, and it’s not just a simple golden band, there’s two— an engagement ring with a sizable yellow diamond in the middle, one that you were ogling on a magazine months ago, and a wedding band engraved with stag antlers all around it.
“Gods.” Swallowing the lump in your throat, you’re about to look at Lyonel’s hand just to check, until he turns in his sleep, an arm thrown over your middle as he embraces you, nuzzling his face against your chest comfortably. “Oh…” this feels right. This feels perfect.
With his hand on your hip, you can see an identical ring on his ring finger. Gold with the same engraving.
You can’t keep quiet forever, so you tap his back, slowly, gently until he hums against your skin, breath fanning over your chest.
“Lyonel, wake up.” Your tapping increases.
“Five minutes…” he waves you away, cuddling further into your warmth as something on your thigh pokes you. You don’t have to look down to know.
“In the name of the seven wake the fuck up!” Your patience wears thin, that Lyonel always laughed at. Now he’s the receiving end of that patience, you wonder if he still finds it amusing as he wakes up with a start.
“What?! What is it, doe?” He blinks the sleep in his eyes, voice gravelly and deeper than usual as he lifts his head away from your sternum, chin resting on it as his eyes narrow at your face. “I was having a nice fucking dream.”
“What did we do last night?!”
“Stop screaming.” His heavy head falls right back on your sternum, as bare as the rest of you as his nose nuzzles way too close to your chest. “It’s too early for you to be so annoying.”
“Open your damn eyes, Lyonel.”
Sighing, he does what he’s told, and you watch in real time as his eyes widen, face greeted by your chest. You swear you could hear his heart thump wildly against your stomach before he flinches away and takes the blanket to cover himself.
“Seven hells!” He looks down at your bare self, whilst you look at him with nonchalance, before he looks at himself then tosses the blanket over your form. “Did we just—?”
“Yeah, check the trash.” Your whole face is aflame as he hides his groin with a throw pillow. You don’t even try to cover yourself up anymore. What’s the point when he has seen and felt everything, just like you have with him? You can feel the memory of his touches on you, how he was gentle, albeit as drunk and giggly as you.
Lyonel takes a peek over the bed and to the bin, eyes wide, face contorting into amusement. “Five?!” You could feel it before he could let out a booming laugh. “Fuck me, and I don’t remember it? That’s fucking cruel.” Wincing, you kneads at his aching forehead. “Gods, this bloody headache.”
“Lyonel! Be serious!” And yet you let out a chuckle in between your words.
“I am!” He mirrors your expression. “Do you want to talk about it?”
“Yes!”
“Fine!” He rubs a hand over his messy curls, feeling the ring around his finger. Blinking, he makes a befuddled face that you find endearing. He brings his hand over to his face as you watch the same realization flicker on his expression. “Oh, we definitely have to talk about it.”
Your attention flicks over to the tea and coffee on the kitchen counter. “Over tea and ibuprofen?”
—
You’re now in an oversized shirt, too hungover and sore to wear something else or to even wash off the night’s revelry as Lyonel makes the two of you a cup of tea. He knows your tea preference by heart as you hear him tap the spoon against the rim of the mug twice like he always does.
The curtains are closed, blocking the bright sun of Sin City. As you slowly exhale out to stave off the headache. Lyonel looks better than you, he’s always better in hiding his hangovers and aches better than you could. His cheeks are flushed, albeit his eyes look as tired as yours. It seems that you two did not get enough sleep on account of well, all the drunken love making. Juniper’s either going to kill him, or perhaps kill you, or maybe the both of you for marrying without her as the witness just like you promised when you were both just little girls. You can’t even imagine what your shared best mate, Duncan, will say about this.
“Here.” He hands you a cup of warm tea and some ibuprofen as he now walks around with a hotel towel wrapped around his waist. “You look like warmed over shit.”
“You look like warmed over shit, my wife.” Your hands wiggle in front of his face as you show off your rings. You then drink the medicine, gulping down some tea along with it. It tastes perfectly, just how you like it.
Lyonel scoffs out a laugh, pushing your leg away from the edge of the bed as he sits beside you. The bed dips as he sits, sipping at his drink, drinking the same meds, whilst the two of you process everything.
The hum of the AC bounces off the hotel walls that have palm tree wallpaper all around it. Your mind wanders as you see the scratches on his back and arms, ones that you couldn’t see before that are most definitely from your nails. Flashes of last night appear in your head, the sounds you two made, your fingers in his hair, and the love between the two of you, not just on the bed, but also whilst you two casually strolled around the Vegas strip, hand in hand, grinning at each other whilst you two smelled like a bar.
Lyonel watches the far away look in your eyes and he gulps down at his tea with trepidation, trying to rid of the lump in his throat. He might’ve ruined his relationship with you. He’d rather live a life of loneliness than live the rest of his life without you in it. He would’ve stayed just friends with you forever if it meant that he could stay by your side forever. He loves you, ever since that one camping night where everyone else was asleep and you two gazed at the stars all night long just talking. But if what happened last night meant losing you today, then he’d rewind time to stop this from ever happening.
“Nice ring by the way.” He jests, rolling his aching shoulders and knees as he scrubs away the sleep in his eyes.
“Thanks,” you admire the sparkling diamond with a smile. “I think you chose it. You’ve got great taste.”
“I bought it too.” Lyonel chortles, “I saw the receipt.”
“Do you want to go halfsies?”
“Fuck no, love.” He replies, almost offended. “It’s a gift, I bought it for you.”
“Thank you, I love it and I wasn’t planning on giving it back by the way.” A grin tugs at your lips. And he looks at you like, ‘as if I want you to give it back.’ Smacking your lips together, your mind goes back to the kisses shared last night briefly before going back to the present. “What are you even doing here, Lyonel? I thought you would be in Essos by now.”
“Juniper called me for help, she said that they can’t wrangle you anymore. You were traipsing all over the strip like a depressed duck, her words not mine.” He recalls the memory in his hungover mind. “I was just at the airport when I answered her call and coincidentally my flight was delayed.” With one leg over the other, the towel falls away from his toned thigh, revealing more skin, that you have to unstick your gaze from it. “I got here forty minutes after she called.”
Your heart squeezes. “Your flight wasn’t delayed.” You know him too well, including his tells.
“No, it wasn’t.” He confesses, dark eyes gazing at you with softness.
“Do you remember anything?”
“Bits and pieces.” Lyonel answers over the rim of his cup, watching you with tender eyes. “You good? I didn’t— I didn’t go overboard on you last night?” His lips smack together, brows furrowed with concern, as he lets out a shuddered breath. “Are we good?”
“A bit sore, a good kind of sore though.” He swallows thickly at your confession. “But you’re worse off honestly. And we’re good, don’t worry about it.”
“I am?” He scratches at his beard, then over to his sore neck, why is his neck so sore? But Lyonel feels lighter after your answer. “Well I do feel like I ran a thousand miles.”
“My handprint was on your ass when I woke up.” You smile over your cup as he actually turns around to take a peek under the towel. “Oh, Lyonel, come on, don’t actually check it.”
“You said it, of course I’m going to bloody check!” He shimmies out of the towel, craning his neck down and around, looking like a dog trying to chase his tail.
“It was there! It’s faded now!”
“I took off my towel for no reason just to give you a show?”
“I didn’t ask you to take it off, idiot.”
“You implied it.” Scoffing, he sits back down, rubbing his hands on the back of his neck. After a beat and with you taking huge gulps of your tea, he finally speaks. “What if I got you pregnant?”
“Fucking hell, Lyonel.”
“What? It’s a genuine fucking concern! I mean I guess it wouldn’t be so bad but how the fuck do we explain it to them?” Fully turning to you, he clicks his tongue and sighs once again. “‘Yeah, your mum and dad got drunk in Vegas and decided to get married on a whim and have you after pining for each other since high school.’” He shrugs and makes a face. “That would scar the fucking kid!”
You don’t mean to laugh, you really don’t. But he painted such a clear picture for you that you just couldn’t help it. Plus the declaration of love makes your heart tumble inside your chest as your whole body floods with warmth. “Gods, that’s…I don’t know what to say.”
“Our kid will think they’re a mistake, love.” He moves closer, trying to look serious. “It’s not funny.”
“It’s a little bit funny.” You say with a soft smile as you place your mug on the bedside table, sitting up closer to him just to push his wild curls away from his face. Your hand stays on his cheek, and unsurprisingly, he holds your hand there, a thumb running along the inside of your wrist lovingly. Whilst his other hand rests on your knee, cupping it tenderly. “Especially about the pining part. Has it been that long?”
“Ever since I could remember.”
“Well shit.”
“Yeah, I don’t think anyone’s going to be too surprised if we tell them about this.”
“That’s true. We weren’t very slick about the whole being in love with each other thing.” Your voice lowers, a half whisper as your eyes drift to the ring around his finger. “Do you want to get divorced?”
“No,” his answer is immediate, no uncertainty laced in his tone. “Do you?”
“I don’t want to either.” There’s no lie in your words either. “And it’s not because there’s going to be a lot of paperwork.”
“You do hate paperwork.” Lyonel moves closer, hip to hip as his arm cages your side, dark eyes gazing into your own most ardently. “So what now?”
“This wasn't a mistake. Not really. I think we can both agree on that.” He nods, eyes softened, head tilted to gaze down at you tenderly. Your voice lowers some more, a whisper, words dedicated just for him. Deep inside, even in your subconscious, even in his, you both wanted this. “I just wish I could remember all of it.”
“We could always get married again.” He says matter-of-factly, so sure, so certain as a smile tugs at his lips. “Not by an Elvis impersonator this time around.”
“Was it an Elvis impersonator?”
“I definitely remember a sparkling man with big hair marrying us.”
Your laugh warms him as he beams at you. “Gods, Lyonel. I can’t believe we got married, that we’re both confessing to each other after the marriage.”
“Who said we have to do it step by step, hm?” He’s leaning so close that you could see yourself in his eyes. “I really do adore and love you, you know?”
“I know. I love you too, my drunk self knew that too.” You’re the first to lean closer, a hair’s width away, eyes closing as your lips brushes along his own.
“Our drunk arses got us together.” He chuckles, eyes crinkling in the corners as his warmth ebbs over to your chest.
“We should thank our drunk selves.” You mutter atop his lips.
Lyonel kisses you back, breathing you in, smiling through the kiss as his shoulders ease from the kiss. He could melt against you whilst his hands cup your face lovingly, like he always wanted to do. It’s a relief to him, relieved that this didn’t ruin anything between you. Relieved to find out that you love him back, enough to continue being married to him. This kiss is slow, loving, saccharine, as if you two are still mapping out each other’s lips. It’s so tender that you could feel every warm peck in your heart.
After the slow loving kiss, the first of many, you pull away reluctantly for air. Lyonel looks at you like you hung the stars, like you’re his reason for living, like a great love should. And you gaze at him with so much love that memories of last night flashes in his mind, all tender, all saccharine, with you smiling and giggling through it.
After a beat of just gazing into each other’s eyes and coming down from the high that was the kiss, Lyonel clears his throat, pecks you one more time, then another, and another before pulling away. Then he immediately decides not to move away from you, as if leaving the vicinity of your lips will cause him to perish.
“I have an idea.” You utter above his lips as he moves the blanket away from your lap to loom over you with a needy gaze aimed right at you.
“Yeah?” His fingers tilt your chin up gently, peppering kisses upon your throat as his humming reverberates through your chest. “Mrs. Baratheon?”
“Maybe I took pictures.”
Lyonel stops in his tracks, remembering a few snapshots of you in his memories where you’re clearly filming through the night of revelry. But the sensation he remembers the most is your lips on him, on his skin, and the lovely sounds you made. “Let’s take a look, shall we?”
FIVE??? FIVE OF EM??? Ayo, how do you even move that efficiently while drunk💀🤚🏾 Damn, they wanted that cookie BAD, lmaooo🤣🤣
Not them getting freaky again like they didn't just say they felt all sore😮💨💕 And damn, R, how hard did you slap his ass for the mark to still be there until you two woke up💀💀 This was so funny and cute, the dumb little freaks🥰❤️
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
The idea that Billie doesn't know what crying is like because there's not really anyone in her life that lets themselves be that vulnerable, even Hobie–
Aight, cut the cameras. Deadass... Bc why am I actually crying right now...? Like, I'm so fucking serious, this chapter made me cry, Hyper, wtf is your problem🥲🤚🏾 My girlssssss, falling asleep together while listening to something they never heard before, made by both parents, just stab me why don't you🥀
Pairing: Hobie Brown x Fem!Reader/ Spider-Punk x Fem!Reader
Word count: 9.5k
Author's Note: *6. Months. Later....* ....So...we're back? 😅
I am so. fucking. sorry 😭 Not gonna lie, this one was a doozy for me. I actually had to think long and hard with how I wanted to approach this particular chapter (plus a lot of the stuff happened, but that's not important to the topic lol). But, yeah, I really wanted to write this one as precisely as how I imagined it, especially with how I ended Chapter 5. Not sure how this one will actually be, but I think I'm pretty proud of this one.
I'd like to thank @the-kr8tor and @pinksugarscrub for really helping me out for this one. They are honestly the best people I could ever ask for, especially for the amount of yapping and panicking over Billie and Ramona. I don't know what I would do without them to help me bring these girls to life
“Step lively,” the elderly counselor briskly hikes up the dirt trail, her heavy boots stomping down the worn down path. “The sooner we reach your new quarters, the sooner you two can be settled in.”
A winded groan slips through Ramona’s lips as sweat beads up and rolls down her face. Heat from the sun’s rays beats down against her slick neck as she trudges behind the counselor, the strap of her duffle bag and guitar case gradually digging into both her shoulders the higher she hikes up the steep hill. Her legs strain from the constant upturn of the hike, screaming bloody murder at her to take a break, but she continues on with a stubborn grit to her teeth. She blows up at a loose coil on her face with an annoyed frown before glancing to the side. Billie huffs and drags her roller suitcase up the uneven path, not faring any better as she grips onto her violin case.
Birds squawk above the towering trees, mockingly so, as they soar through the blue sky towards their intended direction. A brief prick of jealousy stings in Ramona’s chest as she weakly glares at the flying smug rats with feathers, taunting her with their wings gliding through the wind, free from any heavy baggage over their shoulders, free from sweating and ruining their legs up this stupid hill–
The moment she reaches the top of the hill, Ramona heaves out a tired groan before she stops to catch her breath, hunching over and resting her hands on her knees while her mind continues to curse out the passing birds. Billie trails behind her before collapsing on a nearby tree stump, kicking her suitcase to the ground as she gasps for air.
“Oh, thank god, proper flat land!” Billie rolls onto her back on the stump, her limbs dangling from it while she stares up at the sky. “M’ plates o’ meat’re killin’ me, they migh’ jus’ start fallin’ off t’e bone–”
A guffaw rips through Ramona’s lips before her breaths stutter out her lungs. She stumbles over to a tree and leans against it, trembling and tearing up from holding in her pained laughs.
“What?!” Ramona manages to sputter out before succumbing to the burning in her lungs, coughing up a lung with choked out wheezes.
Billie turns her head to her trembling double with a cheeky grin, sweat trailing down her forehead and mirth glinting in her eyes as her accent grows thicker. “Yeah, jus’ creamed after trekking up t’is damn hill–” Ramona instantly chokes from her own spit before collapsing onto the ground on her knees with another wheeze– “ ‘n take a butcher’s a’ me daisies!”
A strained grunt rips through Billie’s lips as she lifts her legs up in the air, swaying back and forth while she flutters her dirt-covered combat boots. “Absolutely muddied ‘n pimpled wit’ pebbles, innit? Ya’d t’ink t’e paths ‘ere’d be smooth ‘n not a safety hazard–”
A shadow suddenly looms over Billie, briefly startling her as her legs swing back down to the dirt, before she looks up at the deadpan of the counselor.
“Are you two finished?”
Billie sheepishly laughs as she pushes herself up from the stump. Ramona coughs out the rest of her laughter before pushing herself up the ground and shuffling over next to Billie, embarrassment flushing on her cheeks. The counselor blankly stares at the identical duo before dropping her head and letting out a relenting sigh.
“Alright then, you two. We have six weeks left at camp, but since the two of you have resorted to non-peaceful matters against your fellow camper, you two will be spending every glorious one of them in this isolation cabin.”
The elderly counselor points her thumb over her shoulder, and the girls look behind her to see an old run-down cabin sitting in the shadows on the top of the hill. Eerie creaks echo through the woods as a breeze blows against the cabin, some of the roof tiles fluttering and barely hanging on the roof, and the wooden staircase leading up to the rocket porch barely looks stable enough for someone to set foot on it. Both girls stare at their new quarters with evident disbelief as a bird flies up to a wooden banister, only for it to creak and start to tip to the side before the bird frantically flies off it.
“...’s a li’l much for a punishment, innit?” Billie bluntly asks before straightening up to look at the counselor. “Wasn’t there another cabin we passed by earlier? It looked…”
“Stable?” Ramona suggests. “Structurally sound?”
“Less haunted–”
“Alright, I understand this cabin is not ideal for the both of you,” the counselor tries to placate the duo, “but the other cabin is already being occupied by another camper.”
Billie’s eyes narrow into cat-like slits as she crosses her arms against her chest. “Lemme guess, Benny’s got the nicer lookin’ cabin–”
“I will not divulge that information–”
“But ‘m right though, huh?”
“I will not answer that–”
“But ‘m right though– OW–”
Ramona quickly elbows Billie in the arm, effectively shutting down any more provocation from the Brit double as she winces and rubs her arm with a pout. “What was that for?...”
Ramona rolls her eyes at Billie before focusing on the counselor again. “Is there another reason why we couldn’t have the cabin from earlier?”
The elderly woman drops her shoulders in relief at Ramona’s calm demeanor. “The cabin could only house one camper, so we had to give the other camper his own space–”
“You could say it’s Benny,” Billie interjects with a nonchalant shrug. “We already know it is–”
“As I was saying,” the counselor cuts back in, narrowing her eyes at Billie in disapproval before turning back to Ramona, “it could only hold space for one camper, so it was decided that you two will be staying at the bigger isolation cabin while Benjamin–”
“Benjamin?” Billie stifles a snicker before Ramona elbows her again, biting back another wince while the counselor ignores her and continues.
“–while Benjamin will be staying at the other one.”
Despite Ramona quietly nodding along, her lips purse into a pensive frown. “Hm, okay. That makes sense, I guess. So it has nothing to do with the fact that Benny’s your grandson?”
A small snort sneaks up on Billie as the elderly counselor’s brief smile drops from the sudden question.
“...no, it has nothing to do with that.”
Billie’s face scrunches up into a disbelieving frown, her brows furrowing until her forehead ripples into small wrinkles. “...you sure?”
“Yes–”
“You sure sure?”
“Yes–”
“ ‘cuz it sounds like a convenient excuse–”
“IT HAS NOTHING TO DO WITH–”
The counselor abruptly stops herself before she could say more, taking a deep breath before moving on. “Anywho, since you girls are sisters, I would assume you two would be fine sharing a cabin with each other until camp is over.”
Both girls glance at each other, confusion flooding their faces, before looking back at the elderly woman and answering at the same time.
“We’re not sisters though.”
“You have got to be kidding–” the counselor sputters in exasperation– “what do you mean you’re not–”
“We literally just met yesterday,” Billie adds on with a shrug while Ramona nods along. “Had a laugh ‘bout it ‘n all tha’–”
“But you two are practically twins!”
The girls look over at each other again, Billie tilting her head to the side with a scrunched up nose, and Ramona tilting her head the opposite way with a furrowed brow.
“…her teeth’s a bit off though, innit?” Billie bluntly counters with a nonchalant smile, “a little gap in her front teeth, but not too bad.”
Ramona instantly rolls her eyes and stares at Billie with a deadpan. “What does my teeth have anything to do with this–”
“Regardless–” the counselor interrupts in exasperation– “you two will be staying here. Is that understood?”
The girls glance over each other, skepticism mirrored in their eyes, before they reluctantly look back at the adamant counselor. Without another word, the same thought flickered in their minds.
She’s full of bull.
—
The interior of the cabin (unsurprisingly) matches the exterior– creaking floorboards, peeling paint, cracked walls, groaning rooftop– vindicating Billie’s suspicions as she belly flops onto one of the twin beds with a muffled grunt. Her luggage clatters on the wooden floors as the metal springs in the mattress groans underneath her. The smell of lemon-scented cleaning products barely masks the mustiness in the air, even when she buries and irritates her face into the stiffly-starched pillow.
The absence of giddy chatter and gossip from her old cabin sends a wave of discomfort in Billie; cold shivers prick up her skin from the looming solitude within these worn-out wooden walls. The only sounds reverberating in her ears are the wind blowing against the loose roof boards, as if the cabin itself is breathing its labored breaths, and shuffling from the only other person in her new space. Ignoring the itch tickling her nose, Billie turns her head over and stares across the room, her eyes lingering on Ramona’s back while she unzips her duffle bag on her own bed.
Dark tight coils tied up into a ponytail with a red scrunchie, green nylon rustling from her oversized windbreaker, paint-splattered trainers absently bouncing against the squeaking floorboards– it’s like if Billie’s watching herself in some strange 90s sitcom that Uncle James and Auntie Yuri would love to watch. It’s even weirder that Ramona is so…quiet. Not that there’s anything wrong with that, though, but… it’s weird seeing someone with Billie’s face and be so quiet.
For a brief moment Billie remembers the time Uncle James read to her about doppelgangers– when you meet yours, they’re usually your evil twin bringing bad luck into your life. Ramona doesn’t seem evil though, if anything, she’s more of a good person than anybody here.
Would that make Billie the evil twin? Nah, she’s too cute to be evil.
Even though she did kick Benny’s arse and wrestle him to the ground. But he deserved it. Obviously.
While Billie’s mind wanders, Ramona looks over her shoulder with a befuddled frown, her brows furrowed and her lips pursed up into a slight frown. “Uh…is there something on my back?”
Billie’s eyes refocus and flick up to Ramona’s, the same familiar russet shade as hers, the same shade as her dad’s.
If anything, Ramona's eyes look more like her dad’s. Odd.
“Nah,” Billie groans as she pushes herself up on the bed. Her eyes flick to the neatly folded clothes and small, organized piles on Ramona’s bed– pens, papers, bonnets and scrunchies, guitar chords, printed pictures. “Jus’ havin’ a gander a’ me new roomie.”
A small snort slips through Ramona’s nose as she turns around and sits on the edge of her bed, some of her trinkets sliding down against her sides from the sudden shift in weight. “Still a little weird for me, not gonna lie. Didn’t think I was gonna get in trouble, especially with fighting.”
“To be fair, you weren’ fightin’,” Billie shrugs as she pushes her curls out of her face, “you had the right t’ slap ‘im in t’e face. T’was jus’ unlucky tha’ t’e li’l twit ended up havin’ his nan under his thumb.”
A stifled snort briefly slips through Ramona’s nose, and she covers her mouth before she quietly giggles behind her hand.
If someone who knew Billie saw Ramona in her outfit laughing right now, they’d probably have whiplash. Or at least fear for the end of the world while making sure she isn’t sick or dying…
That’s a little annoying to think about, Billie fights the urging twitch creeping up in her eye.
“Anyway,” Billie huffs, swinging her feet up in the air and slamming her boot soles onto the protesting floorboards before pushing herself up from her bed, “we migh’ as well get ta know each other now. Can’t really get comfy here for t’e rest of camp if I don’ know a t’ing ‘bout you.”
Each slow, heavy step from Billie approaching Ramona reverberates against the walls and floorboards. Small chains dangle from Billie’s army green cargos, clinking softly against the denim, and silver studs on her denim vest glint under the sunlight shining through the grime-stained windows. With a lopsided grin Billie holds her hand out to her double, mirth and mischief flashing in her eyes.
“Billie Jean Brown, nice t’ meet’cha. But you can call me Billie.”
An amused scoff slips through Ramona’s lips before she grabs Billie’s hand with a firm shake. “Do you always introduce yourself like that to everybody?”
“Eh, ‘sa habit,” Billie shrugs before letting go, hopping onto Ramona’s bed with an oof, making Ramona bounce up from the impact with a squeak. “Gotta make yourself known ‘fore ev’rybody tries t’ do it for ya.”
Billie then wraps her arm around Ramona’s shoulder and pulls her against her side, “Least tha’s what m’ dad told me anyway.”
A small grunt breaks through Ramona’s lips before she gives a sidelong glance to her punk double, her eyes flicking to the dangling silver hoop in Billie’s earlobe and the matching ear cuff on the rim of her ear.
“But enough ‘bout me,” Billie barks out a mischievous laugh, shaking Ramona out of her small trance. “I wanna know more ‘bout t’e damsel tha’ smacked Benny in the conk–”
“His what?” Ramona chokes out a guffaw, pushing the snickering Brit off her before Billie flops down on the creaky mattress. “Look, I didn’t actually mean to hit him! He just kept pulling my hair–”
“ ‘m not sayin’ it’s bad!” Billie cackles as she props herself up with her elbows, her wild dark curls splayed a stark contrast to the starched white sheets. “If anythin’, ya could’ve gotten more hits in–”
“No!” Small giggles bubble up from Ramona’s chest, slipping through her lips and nose through short bursts of exhales while she curls up against the headboard of her bed, easily sliding her sneakers off her feet before tucking them underneath her. “I had enough violence for the rest of camp!”
Billie playfully rolls her eyes before she flops back down on the bed, dried mud flaking off the soles of her boots on the wooden floor. “The twit had it comin’ though!”
“That doesn’t matter!”
“ ‘Course it does!”
Their laughter bounces against the groaning wood, piercing through the heavy silence within the isolated cabin, while the sunlight gradually peeks through the grimey windows and warms the room.
“Now c’mon, Mon-mon!” Billie huffs out as she rolls along the bed, careful to avoid rubbing dried mud on the covers, “Don’ leave me hangin’! I don’ ‘ave a scooby doo ‘bout ya, so start rabbitin’ on–”
“Alright, alright!” Ramona plants her hand on the rolling punk girl, earning a cheeky giggle from Billie as she melts along the grooves of the bed. With a small mirthful huff, Ramona crosses her arms and tilts her head to the side, her pulled-back coils fluttering down to the side. “There’s not much to know about me though–”
“ ‘Course there is,” Billie rolls her eyes with a pout, stretching her lanky arms out. “You could talk ‘bout whateva’ comes t’ mind. Like where’re yer from, yer fav’rite games…”
Billie’s eyes flick down at Ramona’s clothes for a brief moment before flicking back to Ramona’s eyes with a quirked eyebrow, “or why yer dressed up like a primary school teacher–”
“I’m gonna ignore that last option,” Ramona rolls her eyes before she gently pushes Ramona back with her flower-printed socked foot. Billie groans in feigned hurt as she rolls back to the other side of the bed, her lips curling back up to that familiar cat-like grin.
With another playful roll of her eyes, Ramona straightens up her back and reaches up to fix her ponytail. “Well, my name is Ramona, and…”
A second of trailing off, to two, to three, until Ramona sheepishly shrugs and pulls her hands away from her coils, “I don’t know, I…I like mac and cheese?”
A loud snort breaks through the comfortable silence before Billie barks out a cackle, prompting Ramona to kick her double off her bed until Billie flops onto the wooden floor with a grunted “oi!”
“Shut up!” Ramona huffs out with a flush creeping up her face, “That’s all I could think of–”
More snickers bubble up in Billie’s chest as she pushes herself up from the ground, brushing the dust off her clothes, before grinning at the pouting Ramona. “I never said it was a bad t’ing! I like mac’roni cheese too– oh, stop hidin’ your face, it ain’t tha’ serious–”
Laughter rips through Ramona’s throat as Billie quickly grabs her wrists and pry her arms away from her face. The action itself is surprisingly familiar to Ramona – as if this isn’t their first time being alone together, as if they have been like this for a lifetime rather than for an hour. It seems easier to be around Billie somehow, even easier than with Arnold despite her overt brashness. Maybe the ridiculous circumstances between them broke through the usual awkward small talk phase, or maybe Ramona is slowly growing accustomed to Billie's overfamiliarity.
Either way, Ramona, for once, doesn’t think about it too much.
—
Loud clatters shatter the silence within the worn cabin walls, followed by a disgruntled curse from a certain Brit.
“Bloody hell– not again!”
With a furrowed brow Ramona glances up from her bass, already dressed in her green pajamas and her matching bonnet, while Billie scrambles onto the floor to deal with the aftermath of her belongings exploding from her suitcase. Wrinkled shirts, creased pants, worn down notebooks, small half-filled bottles of different products– the chaotic mess is enough for Ramona’s fingers to have the urge to straighten and organize everything.
Ramona slowly sets her bass aside on her bed and slides off her bed, the wooden floors creaking under her socked feet, before kneeling down to pick up a crumpled shirt (and ignoring the urge to smooth it out in front of Billie).
“What’re you looking for?” Ramona inquires as she continues to pick up the scattered items on the floor, mentally wincing at the sight of dust from the floor on the clothes.
Jesus, they’re gonna have to clean this place up too, huh? A seed of doubt plants itself in Ramona’s chest when her eyes drift over to the open suitcase, the remaining clothes and other belongings a small mountain threatening to crumble down with a landslide.
“M’ towel ‘n bonnet,” Billie replies as she tosses her clothes over her shoulder and onto her– no, don’t throw them on the bed! – “Pro’lly shouldn't've taken tha’ nap earlier, bu’ t’e damn hike got me knackered.”
“I’m sorry, but I can’t understand half the things you’re saying,” Ramona coughs out a huff while she crawls on her knees closer to her punk double, handing her her things despite the growing itch in her fingers to fold them.
“Wha’, you wanna write a dictionary fer yerself or sumthin’?”
“...that might actually help, yeah.”
A loud guffaw rips through the punk girl, her grin becoming a familiar sight for Ramona, before Billie grabs her clothes and tosses them over her shoulder again. Ramona briefly winces again from a pair of black shorts sliding down between Billie’s bed and the wooden wall. Is that area even clean?
“Yer an actual riot, Mon-mon,” Billie wheezes before she drags the suitcase closer to herself, the silver metal scraping against the hardwood. “It ain’t tha’ hard t’ understan’ me, yeah?”
A pregnant silence soon follows, with Ramona raising her eyebrow with a clear deadpan.
“Well, you can understan’ me now,” Billie playfully rolls her eyes, a snort slipping through her nose while she rummages through her suitcase, her hands digging deep into the pile. A twitch unconsciously pulses in Ramona’s eye when a couple shirts from the pile plops down onto the ground from Billie’s movements as Billie tugs a ratty, faded orange towel out from it.
God, Ramona might actually have to clean this cabin up.
“...do you need help putting your stuff away?” Ramona hesitantly asks, her eyes flicking back and forth between Billie and her suitcase, “That way you don’t have to worry about it later?”
“Yeah?” The same grin grows on Billie’s face again. “Tha’d actually help me out, thanks!”
A wave of relief washes over the itch in her hands as Ramona lowers herself onto her rear. Her nose wrinkles from the obvious layer of dust against the dark green fabric of her pajama bottoms before she lightly smacks it off her knees.
Yeah, she’s definitely cleaning tomorrow.
“Oh yeah, been meanin’ ta ask ya,” Billie continues on, throwing her towel over her shoulder while her other hand still wriggles in her suitcase, “been eyin’ yer bass fer a while. How long ‘ave you been playin’?”
Ramona’s eyes widen from the sudden question while her hands gingerly smooth out some wrinkles from a random shirt from the pile. They briefly flick over to the numerous patches and pins on her denim vest, the punk rock influence blatantly obvious to her, before sweat breaks out on her back.
“Oh, uh… like a year or two?” Ramona sheepishly smiles, laying the now-folded shirt on her lap before grabbing another one from the pile. “I haven’t been playing too long, only just switched to it after playing the ukulele for a while–”
“Ukulele?”
Ramona’s eyes instantly squint from how bright Billie’s smile got. “Damn, ya know how to play tha’? Tha’s really cool!”
“It is?”
“Yeah!” A twinkle glints in Billie’s eyes. “I mean, my dad ‘n uncles taugh’ me how t’ play a bunch o’ instruments, but they never had a ukulele. Who taught ya, by the way?”
Ramona slowly leans back as Billie leans closer to her, her personal bubble instantly compromised, before Ramona slowly pushes her punk double back with an embarrassed smile.
“I, uh, I actually taught myself. Just looked up some Youtube videos when my mom bought me a ukulele from her business trip and followed them…”
Heat slowly creeps up on Ramona’s cheeks the longer she’s under Billie’s scrutiny, the eager glint in her eyes making her shrink into herself more. “And for the bass… I asked my mom if I can learn bass after…”
Ramona’s cheeks redden even more as she trails off, the enthrallment in Billie’s eyes growing more daunting by the minute, “...after I heard a really cool baseline from a song…”
A heavy rock plummets in Ramona’s stomach as the familiar ringing creeps up in her ears again. The dust clinging to her pajamas suddenly weighs down on her knees, her mind screaming and clawing in her head to smack more of the dust off. The creaking from the floorboards muffles in and out of her ears, but they’re drowned out by the ringing– that damn ringing– while her mind starts to spiral.
Why couldn’t you just lie and say you just got interested in playing bass? Look at Billie, she looks like she’s already ready for a huge stage with a guitar or something! She’s gonna think you’re a poser now–
“Which one?”
The berating voices and the ringing grow silent as Ramona’s eyes flick up at Billie, patiently waiting for her answer.
“Which what?”
“Song. Which song’re ya talkin’ ‘bout?” Billie laughs, as if it’s obvious. “Is it like a classic from an old band or sumthin’? Like t’e bands my dad would listen to? He likes songs with a really cool bassline, even though he likes playing electric guitar more– anyway, I know t’ere’s a lotta bands like The Ramones, The Clash, Dead Kennedys, Bad Brains–”
Ramona’s shoulders shake a bit as she lets out a soft huff of a laugh, the tension in her body slowly seeping away from Billie’s enthusiasm. “I don’t know if the song I’m talking about fits those bands’ kind of vibe…”
Ramona starts to get up, only for the clothes she’s been folding absently start to slide from her lap. A conflicted frown pinches her face before she tucks them under her arm and pushes herself up.
She will be damned if she let these clothes get covered in dust.
“It has more of a synthy, pop-alternative kind of vibe,” Ramona rambles on as she scrambles to the nightstand beside her bed for her mp3 player, “but the instrumentals are still really catchy, and the song itself is actually kinda sad if you pay attention to the lyrics–”
“There’s m’ bonnet!”
Billie cheers behind Ramona before trying to pull it out of her suitcase, but the joy is short-lived. A deafening rip breaks through the comfortable peace, the silence palpable and heavy. Ramona slowly looks over her shoulder, only to meet the thinly-veiled shock and distress in Billie’s eyes and the tattered remains of a patched up bonnet in her hands still stuck in the hinges of her suitcase.
Ramona’s hand hovering over the awaiting mp3 player stills in the air, fingers twitching from the awkward tension, before she trails it down to the top drawer and pulls it open to rummage through. With a sheepish smile she pulls out a shiny red silk bonnet and holds it out to her distraught double.
“Uh…wanna use one of mine?”
—
Quiet chatters echo through the mess hall the next morning, campers sleepily lining up and grabbing their trays for the awaiting breakfast on the table. Aromas of cooked sausage and bacon waft in the space, the crackling sizzle of eggs and batter frying on the griddle mingle in the background, and the stacked trays of different breakfasts– eggs, pancakes and waffles, hashbrowns, biscuits and gravy, etc. – present themselves on the long tables, waiting to be eaten.
Amongst the sea of tables that other kids swarm around for an empty spot there is a small table tucked in the corner of the mess hall, one with a laminated sign taped on the edge for the whole camp to see.
Isolation Table.
The only occupants sitting in the lone table, away from the rest of the campers, are Billie and Ramona, sitting across each other with their own trays of food. While Ramona’s tray only has small portions of sausage and scrambled eggs on her plate, Billie’s has a stack of pancakes, teetering from the weight of the browned, puffy slabs. A waterfall of honey gradually cascades down from the summit, trailing down the crisped edges and pooling into the indented plate into a moat of viscous amber. With a glint of awe in her eyes, Billie carefully tears at the jagged edge of her fifth packet of honey, her fingertips tacky from sticky edges of her discarded packets, before she starts to squeeze every last drop onto her pancakes.
Ramona, with her fork lined with egg still hovering in the air, stares at her punk double with mild bewilderment and horror, her throat tightening from the cloying sight of the pancakes being waterboarded with honey. She winces from Billie licking the leftovers off her fingers, her tongue trembling from the saccharine sight, and she blanches the moment Billie saws through a large piece through the stack and stabs through it before shoving it in her mouth.
Despite the blissful smile curling up on Billie’s stuffed face, Ramona’s stomach churns from the thought of having a mouthful of honey flooding her mouth and throat.
Billie flicks her eyes up from her plate with a swallow, oblivious to the subtle revulsion on her double’s face, before spearing another piece of honey-soaked pancake and holding it out to her.
“...wan’ a bite–?”
“No thank you.”
With a shrug Billie stuffs the bite into her mouth again, and another small wave of nausea washes over Ramona before she finally looks away and finally takes her own bite of food, only for her face to scrunch up from the imaginary honey clinging to her tongue.
Appetite lost, Ramona’s eyes flick away from sweet-loving Billie to the rest of the mess hall, lingering on the other campers crowding in the numerous lunch tables. A cacophony of laughter and clattering utensils bounce against the walls and into Ramona’s ears, a welcome white noise to the deafening silence in their cabin when Billie is off to her independent violin lessons (which is surprising for Ramona considering Billie’s personality, but to each their own, she guesses.)
Her russet eyes soon land on a familiar figure across the room, hunching over his food with a solemn frown as he pokes his spoon in a small plastic bowl of frosted cereal. Arnold, grimacing even more at the growing sogginess of the cereal, slowly pushes his bowl away from him before turning his head towards her direction.
The moment their eyes meet across the mess hall, Ramona instantly sees the hesitation wavering in Arnold’s, the guilt following soon after as he shrinks from her. He looks like a puppy, keeping his head down with remorse while waiting for his owner to yell at him for doing something wrong.
A dull ache pools in Ramona’s chest, but she wills it to go away as she gives her friend a reassuring smile and mouths out the only words of comfort she could think of.
I’m okay.
She can still see the wavering in his eyes, the lingering doubt. She knows he still feels bad about what happened with Benny and his grandma, about her being pulled from the regular jazz lessons for her own independent lessons, about her and Billie moving out of their respective cabins for the isolation cabin. She doesn’t blame him though, she doesn’t regret it. If she was given a chance to go back in time to that game, she wouldn’t do anything different.
Annie soon pops up behind Arnold with her own tray and sets it down next to him, briefly breaking him away from Ramona’s gaze, and a small wave of relief ebbs through Ramona. At least Arnold isn’t alone.
After a moment of quiet chatter between them Annie glances up to Ramona’s direction, and a small encouraging smile curls up on Annie’s face, as if to tell her to hang in there. With a growing smile, Ramona holds up a thumbs up to them in understanding.
Relief briefly flickers on Annie’s face before her face suddenly drops, her brows furrowing and her jaw dropping in disbelief instead. Confused, Ramona slowly looks behind her, only for her face to drop in alarm at Billie shoving the last honey-soaked pancake into her mouth, a sticky empty plate sitting in front of her.
At that moment, Ramona decides that she’s not eating honey anytime soon.
—
Loud merry whistling rings out in the open, standing out amongst the rustling of leaves and crunching gravel under rubber soles. Soft clanking against metal harmonizes with the whistles, the handles of the violin case swinging back and forth from Billie’s bounce in her steps, echoing against the backdrop of the towering greenery surrounding her as she treks her way back to the cabin.
Birds fly overhead with their tuneful chirping, faint reverberations of different instruments from different music lessons bounce against wood and leaves, laughter and chatter from other campers lap against Billie’s ears– each sound becomes a melody for her to take in, each an accompanying note or harmony for her own personal soundtrack.
Despite the annoyingly far distance across the camp from her violin lessons to her abode, Billie doesn’t mind the walk itself, especially without her luggage torturing her arms and legs with their weight. The scenery itself is beautiful– mother nature, a riot of viridescence and burnt siennas against the manmade structures of the cabins in the campgrounds. The vividly earthy colors are a stark contrast to the drab concrete grays in London, the constant roaring of traffic and waves of pedestrians already a distant memory to her. Her eyes drift over to the glittering distance where the lake should be, a startlingly beautiful accent to the rest of the camp, before pulling away to the winding trail to the cabin.
Her violin case continues to smack against the side of her thigh with each step, a rhythmic low thudding akin to Uncle James’s bass drum during band practice. Her whistles gradually switch up to another familiar tune to her, one that Auntie Yuri whistles to while she watches the rest of the band packing all of the instruments with Billie (much to the chagrin of Uncle Ned barking at her to help).
Those little reminders gradually reel in her mind the longer she thinks about them, a small weight under her shirt growing warmer with each thought, before she absently reaches for the braided red string around her neck and tugs out her lucky pick. Billie’s thumb runs along the weathered grooves on the plastic, the familiar scratchings of the initials ‘HB’ on it sending a wave of comfort over the brief ache of homesickness.
As much as she likes being here– even with the setback of getting in trouble and forced into independent study for the rest of camp– she still misses the band. She misses the offkey singing from Uncle James while he drives the band van, the unabashed laughter from Auntie Yuri when they go sightseeing, the thrumming of Uncle Ned’s fingers while he tries to figure out how to braid her hair during their concert intermissions, and especially the soft humming from her dad as he lulls her to sleep.
As much as she likes being here, she still misses home.
Blinking away the burning in the back of her eyes with a sniffle, Billie continues to trek up the hiking trail to her temporary home in this camp. Just a few more weeks, just a few more weeks until she goes back home–
Billie’s feet suddenly halt once they step onto the top of the hill, her eyes bulging from the sight of plumes of dust chimneying out of open windows. Loud coughing echoes through the forests, along with the now-familiar groaning from the cabin itself, before she stumbles and rushes to the sound. Her heavy soles pound against the dirt and gravel, the wooden porch steps nearly cracking in protest from her stomping, the thudding of her feet breaking through the groans of the old cabin, until Billie finally stumbles underneath the doorway and peers inside.
Most of the cabin is startlingly sparkly. What was once caked in grime, the cracked windows are now clear, the sunlight now shining down and brightening the space. The wooden shelves and walls are more polished, not dulled with layers of dirt from months– maybe years– worth of neglected dusting. The mustiness in the air is gone, replaced with long-awaited fresh air flowing through the open windows and door. Even the hardwood floor, which used to be plastered with dried mud and dust, is now squeaky clean– gleaming and varnished with the scent of lemon lingering in the air. Ramona, oblivious to the gaping Billie behind her, sneezes and coughs while smacking a large dust-covered rag out the window, her overalls and cheeks just as covered in dust and dirt.
“Holy bloody hell…” Billie mutters under her breath before glancing down to her dusty combat boots. A conflicted frown pulls on her face before she hurriedly unties her boots and kicks them off, her socked feet padding against the clean floor as she approaches her double.
Muffled music hums around Ramona the closer Billie gets, the sounds of a catchy baseline and a synth-like piano ringing through Ramona’s earphones, distracting her enough for Billie to be close behind until she taps on Ramona’s shoulder.
A shrill scream rips through Ramona, jolting Billie with her own scream, before she snaps her head around and glares at the sheepish Brit.
“Jesus Christ!” Ramona huffs as she pulls an earphone out, the bassline blasting through the speaker bud. “You can’t just sneak up on somebody like that, Billie–”
“The hell happened here?” Billie laughs, her eyes completely enthralled by the spotless state of their quarters. “This wha’ you’ve been doin’ all mornin’?! Didn’t ya have lessons or sumthin’?”
Ramona sighs as she flops down on top of her trunk, a wearily satisfied smile curling up on her lips as she watches Billie wander around the space with an impressed glint in her eyes. “Just a one-on-one bass session with one of the counselors. I didn’t really have other activities planned for today though…”
“My god, Mon-mon, I’ve been gone for a few hours!” Billie scoffs in amazement before she lightly tosses her violin case onto her bed, which was left in its own messy state in the morning. “You got all this done?! ‘s like some Disney princess magic shite o’ sumthin’.”
A snort slips through Ramona’s nose while Ramona sheepishly looks away from the Brit. “It’s not much–” Billie instantly gives her a deadpan–”...okay, actually it was a lot, but it wasn’t a big deal. I was just getting tired of having dust all over me.”
“We just moved in here like two days ago–”
“And I got tired of it in those two days.”
Another bark of laughter booms from Billie as she steps up in front of Ramona, picking up the earbud and tucking it in her ear. “Ya really hav’ tha’ clean freak vibe, don’t cha.”
“I’m not a clean freak! I just don’t like feeling gross and dirty.”
“Yeah, yeah, whateva’ ya say, Snow White,” Billie snickers as she gently bobs her head, her wild coils swaying back and forth in tandem with the drum kick. “Song ain’t bad. A little poppy fer me, but I like the psychedelic vibe of it.”
Ramona’s eyes instantly light up, the fatigue from the cleanup dissolving like smoke. “Oh yeah, this was the song I was talking about earlier! I personally think the synths are a great backdrop to the bassline, and the drums are also a great partner to it. And the lyrics themselves are really deep, like they’re talking about having an unrequited love–”
Her smile instantly drops once she notices Billie’s eyes widening and her face dropping in shock, and Ramona sheepishly glances shrinks down under the punk’s scrutiny.
“Sorry,” Ramona mumbles as she stares down at her mp3 player in her hands, “you probably don’t really care about that–”
Ramona’s eyes snap up at her Brit double, heat creeping up on her cheeks and the back of her ears, before she turns her head away.
“No, it’s embarrassing–”
“Oi, don’t gimme tha’!” Billie scoffs, nudging Ramona’s leg with her own. “If ya like sumthin’, ya like sumthin’! Ya can’t jus’ back away from it!”
She plops down next to the flustered Ramona on the large trunk and bumps their shoulders together with her signature cat-like grin. “Now, c’mon, what other songs do ya have? Ya go with more of a bubblegum poppy vibe or a psychedelic alt one?”
Ramona rolls her eyes again before she clicks on the middle play button, the screen flashing its blue light and revealing multiple named playlists and as she scrolls through them. “I listen to other genres, like hip-hop, rock, alternative–”
“So you picked out all of these songs on it?”
“...no. My mom did.”
A slight petulant pout juts out from Ramona’s lower lip as she continues to scroll down the menu. “I mean, I like listening to them either way…I just get more options through my phone than on this…”
“ ‘s better than usin’ a cassette player,” Billie huffs out a small laugh as she holds her hand out, waiting for Ramona to place the player on it. “M’ dad refuses t’ use a dog, let alone a tablet, ‘cuz he t’inks the gov’ment’s spyin’ on us ‘n keepin’ track o’ our data. M’ Uncle James jus’ calls ‘im old, though, ‘cuz he doesn’ know how to use ‘em.”
A brief flicker of confusion crosses through Ramona’s eyes– What does a dog have to do with this? – before she notices the telltale sheen in Billie’s downcast eyes. The pensive smile on her face, the slight strain on her lip. That familiar trembling of her fingers.
Ramona’s gaze softens before gently dropping the mp3 player onto Billie’s palm. “Maybe you can get your dad one of these instead. I’m sure they’re old-school enough for him to listen to music with.”
“Nah, he actually sucks a’ using these too,” Billie lets out a watery chuckle as she starts to scroll through. “Crazy, though, ‘cuz he knows how to take stuff like ‘ese apart and put ‘em back together, but he doesn’ know how t’ download a song–”
A sharp gasp hitches in the Brit, her eyes widening and her jaw dropped, before she lets out a bark of a laugh again, any trace of vulnerability on her face replaced by pure elation.
“Oh my god, you actually listen to this band?! Okay, wait wait wait wait wait–”
Billie then bolts off the trunk, accidentally yanking the earbud out of Ramona’s ear, before scrambling to her own. “No, ‘cuz I have the perfect t’ing for this! Annie let me borrow this before I moved out, but I never got t’ chance t’ use it!”
The moment Billie unlatches and pops her trunk open, Ramona’s face falters in dismay from the shambolic state inside. Crumpled t-shirts and pants in disarray, crinkled papers sticking out between layers of clothes, and some pencil eraser ends peeking out– is that even safe to stick your hand in?!
Ramona flinches when Billie haphazardly shoves her hand inside, digging through the chaos within, before she yanks her arm out with a large pill-shaped speaker in her hand.
“Found it! I t’ink they should be compat’ble wit’ each other– oh, wait, there should be a chord with this, unless yer player’s got bluetooth or sumthin’–”
“Yeah– yeah, it has it,” Ramona scrambles over to Billie before she risks plunging her hand inside her trunk again, “but can we do it after we get your side cleaned up?...”
Billie owlishly blinks at Ramona before slowly glancing over to her bed. The fitted sheets are half off the mattress, pillows and a crumpled blanket are scattered across the bed, and her stuffed bunny Pom-pom hanging off the edge. Her eyes also linger on the layer of dust and grime on the windowsill beside her bed and a suspicious cobweb–that definitely wasn’t there before hovering–over her headboard.
Her face pinches in reluctance at the sight, clearly not enthused at the potential work, before an idea pops into her head.
“Or maybe…”
—
The Ramones blare through the speaker, upbeat guitar and drums vibrating against the wooden walls and rattling against the windows. Loud thumps ring through the music, socked feet and painted converses stomping and jumping against the groaning floorboards, as the two girls thrash and dance across the cabin.
Billie headbangs to the raw guitar riff, her dark coils wildly swishing in the air, while she plays her air guitar along the instrumentals with feather dusters in hand. Giggles bubble up from Billie’s chest as the familiar rush of adrenaline washes over her, images of flashing lights and screaming crowds ringing in the background of her mind with each thrash of her head, shadows of leather and spike-cladded bodies flitting back and forth on her mini concert.
Ramona, meanwhile, flails her arms and twirls the towels in her hands, twirling and whooping across the cabin with a grin growing on her face. Exhilaration courses through her veins, limbs swinging in tune of the beat and ponytail slapping against her skin in sharp stings, and a welling builds up in her chest until it explodes out of her mouth into a whoop.
The moment the drum solo takes over, both girls chant out the hook at the top of their lungs–
“Hey! Ho! Let’s go! Hey! Ho! Let’s go!”
Their voices reverberate the wood in reckless abandon, their singing following the frontman screaming through the plastic speaker, while they dance and scrub through the rest of the cabin. Loud smacks of feathers slapping dust off in tandem with the drums. Feet bouncing against squeaking floorboards. Towels sweeping against surfaces with each bass riff. Sheets and blankets snapping in the air. Clothes being folded, papers and pencils being sorted through. The smell of sweat and lemon mingling with the fresh air. The rickety cabin livens up from the inside for the first time in a while, groaning and vibrating along with them in their wild bopping, their jubilant concert for two.
With the last of their chants rolling off their tongues, they flop onto Billie’s now-clean bed the moment the song ends, more giggles bubbling up their chests while they bask in the inviting spotlessness around them. Sunlight pools through the open windows, the telltale sounds of instruments playing and children laughing in the background lulling them as an intermission.
“I actually needed that,” Billie huffs out with a growing grin, a lot more broad and child-like compared to her usual cat-like one. “Can’t deal with those bloody violin lessons anymore, what with their bloody postures, their techniques, their rule about stayin’ still–”
“Okay, before you continue,” Ramona gasps out with a winded laugh, pulling out her mp3 player from her pocket to lower the volume in sync with the speaker before the next song plays, “why did you sign up for the orchestra program– let alone for violin? I thought you’d go for something more…your vibe.”
Billie blows a long raspberry with a disgruntled frown, her forehead wrinkling up and her nose scrunching up. “M’ dad ‘n m’ Uncle Ned tried t’ get me into t’e other programs, but they were all filled up. T’e only ones left at t’e time were violin ‘n… tuba.”
Both girls blanch at the thought, their arms already protesting with dread from the weight of the brass instrument.
“Can ya ‘magine me carryin’ tha’ ‘round camp?” Billie adds on with a sputter, “ ‘specially wit’ me luggin’ it up the damn hill?”
“Okay, yeah, no,” Ramona coughs up, struggling to stifle her laughter, “that would’ve sucked.”
Billie’s grin grows the more she listens to Ramona’s giggles. She slowly rolls onto her side, her attention square on her double as she sinks down on the creaking mattress. “Yeah, Dad ‘n Uncle Ned were kinda worried ‘bout me gettin’ in, thinkin’ ‘m not gonna have fun or not get along wit’ the others, but it’s not so bad, I guess.”
The flicker of nostalgia in Billie’s eyes does not go unnoticed by Ramona.
“You’re really close with your dad, huh?” Ramona coaxes as she shifts on the bed to face the Brit.
The grin on Billie’s face briefly drops for a moment before it softens into a soft smile. “Yeah, he’s m’ best friend. We do everythin’ together.”
A small twinge pricks in Ramona’s chest, but she ignores it with a small sniffle. “Yeah? Like what?”
Pride floods Billie’s face. “We go on tours together wit’ his band. They go all over Europe ‘n the States ev’ry year ‘n take me durin’ summer term. Normally I’d go wit’ ‘em, but Uncle Ned wanted me t’ spend more time wit’ other kids this year–”
“Wait, on tour?”
“Yeah! They’re bloody big in London, but lately they’ve been gettin’ more shows here, so I’ll prob’bly be stayin’ here durin’ the summer more often.”
“Whoa…” Ramona gapes at the grinning punk, eyes filled with awe, earning a snicker from Billie.
“Yeah, but what ‘bout you?” Billie props her arm on the mattress and rests her cheek against her hand. “Wha’s yer dad like?”
Ramona’s face falters from the inquiry, that small twinge pricking in her chest again, before she glances away from Billie.
“...I don’t know my dad. My mom doesn’t really talk about him a lot.”
Billie instantly stops smiling, her chest instantly hurting from the brief light in Ramona’s eyes dimming, before she changes the subject.
“...wha’s yer mum like then?”
Ramona’s eyes flick up to Billie’s again, and Billie sighs in relief from the light gradually building up in her double’s eyes.
“She’s my best friend,” Ramona whispers with the sweetest smile Billie’s ever seen, one that stirs up a familiar image she cannot explain. “She raised me by herself, so we’ve been through a lot together.”
Ramona clears her throat and glances away, blinking away the sheen in her eyes. “I usually stay home or hang out with her at her studio, but my mom had to go on a long business trip this summer, so she and I signed up to come here.”
A small smile creeps up on Billie’s face the longer she listens. “She a musician too?”
Ramona shakes her head, her smile gradually growing with a quiet pride of her own. “She’s actually a designer. She owns her own clothing company and everything. Sometimes she’ll design some stuff for fashion shows and other commissions, but she normally focuses on regular clothes.”
Pushing herself up on the bed, Ramona sits up straight and holds her arms up to show her overalls, a bright patch of a cherry sitting on her chest area. “She actually makes some of my clothes, from the designs up until the final product. She’ll usually show me her ideas and let me pick out which ones I like before she makes them for me…”
A dull ache creeps up in Billie’s chest this time, but she smiles it through. “Kinda wish I had a mum like that…”
The nostalgia in Ramona’s smile dissolves as she stares back at the punk girl, the same bittersweet smile briefly on her face. She shifts along the mattress until her legs are crossed and tucked underneath her.
“Is your mom…?”
Billie shrugs her shoulder before pushing herself up, mirroring Ramona as she pushes her wild curls out of her face. “Never really got a clear answer ‘bout that, but I guess so. Dad doesn’ really talk ‘bout her, but my uncles and aunt do. They’d tell me a whole bunch of stories ‘bout her ‘fore I was born, basically had Dad smitten ‘n wrapped ‘round her finger ever since they met a’ one of their earliest shows before they blew up…”
A wistful smile lingers on Billie’s face, a face that Ramona instantly doesn’t like on her.
“M’ mum ended up makin’ their first band shirts ‘n stuff, ‘n she’d go to ev’ry show jus’ t’ watch Dad play his guitar solos. Eve’rybody loved her. M’ Auntie Yuri even told me once tha’ I look like her sometimes, even though ev’rybody else says I look like m’ dad.”
A familiar guitar riff quietly creeps into Billie’s ears, and she glances at the speaker with a hint of shock and sentimentality in her eyes. “Wait, hang on, can ya turn the speaker up for a secon’?”
Ramona furrows her eyebrows from bewilderment, caught off guard by the change of subject, before complying. “Yeah, sure. I really like this band too, but this one’s my mom’s favorite band. She’s been a huge fan of theirs for a long time, like ‘knowing all the members by name' kind of fan. She actually started taking me to some of their concerts recently–”
Ramona’s voice slowly grows muffled in Billie’s ears, only focusing on the recognizable guitar riff, one her dad usually plays. Then a nostalgic female voice starts to belt through the speakers, sending a rush of homesickness to her chest.
“...Auntie Yuri?” Billie mutters in disbelief before she glances down at the mp3 player in Ramona’s hand. “Can I…?”
Puzzlement flickers in Ramona’s eyes before her face slowly drops, her eyes widening and her jaw dropping before she hands Billie the player. “Wait…don’t tell me…”
A burning sensation creeps up in Billie’s throat the moment she stares down at the small screen, her eyes watering again as they linger on the all-too-familiar band name.
“My god, that’s m’ dad’s band,” Billie huffs out, a watery chuckle wavering in her voice. “Ya actually listen t’ m’ dad’s band…”
“Hang on– this is your dad’s band?!” Ramona’s thoughts race through her mind in a frenzy, the revelation from Billie a literal bombshell as she pieces the details together. Her Auntie Yuri, the frontwoman? Her Uncle Ned…the bassist? And since Billie’s last name is…Brown…
“YOUR DAD IS HOBIE BROWN?!”
As Billie scrambles off her bed and rushes to her trunk again, Ramona whips her head with a look of alarm. She clambers off the bed and rushes to Billie’s side while Billie rummages through her newly organized trunk.
“Nonono– you’re not gonna just drop that on me and not tell me more!” Ramona sputters in exasperation. “You’re telling me this whole time your dad is Hobie Brown?! Oh my god! His guitar riffs are crazy! And you basically got to see him and everybody live and up close?! Are you serious–”
Tuning out the mental spiral next to her, Billie pulls out a flat tin box and pops it open, revealing various old pictures of her and the band– as well as rendering the babbling Ramona silent with shock and awe.
“Won’t lie, was kinda disappointed tha’ nobody in m’ old cabin didn’ know ‘bout ‘em,” Billie sheepishly chuckles before gingerly tucking the photos into a stack, “but since you do, figured ya’d ‘preciate seein’ these–”
“Holy crap.” Ramona gapes at the hidden treasure in Billie’s hands, “my mom would probably freak out if she saw those…”
A snort slips vibrates through Billie’s nose before she hands the pictures to Ramona, who eagerly gazes at the faded ink. “They ain’t much, but m’ Uncle James wanted me to know the ‘whole history’ – she air-quotes with a playful eye roll– “of the band. They mainly played in Camden at some old bars and underground venues before somebody picked ‘em up.”
Ramona’s eyes twinkle with excitement and recognition, her eyes lingering onto each grainy photo before her fingers reluctantly shuffle to the next. Yuri Watanabe– the Yuri Watanabe– grinning at the roaring crowds with a mischievous grin akin to Billie’s. Drummer James Jameson with his arms raised up to the heavens with his drumsticks, blond hair whipping in the air, before swinging them down to the cymbals for a thundering drum solo. Ramona’s eyes widen at the image of bassist Ned Leeds in mid-air, soaring into the crowd for a stage dive, leather-cladded with black liner staining his cheeks.
One photo makes Ramona’s fingers freeze– a young man with wild wicks and silver piercings, skidding towards the edge of the stage on his knees with an electric guitar in hand. A glint of mischief flashes in his eyes, a familiar smirk curling up on his pierced lip, living in his element in one solid image. Billie instantly pops into Ramona’s mind when she stares at the photo, her heart soaring and welling up in overwhelming wonder.
She’s staring at the Hobie Brown– before the fame, before the sold-out concerts, living his life through the music. It feels like a shame to move on to the next photo, but Ramona reluctantly shuffles on, the printed memories getting ingrained to her mind the more she looks at them.
A couple of baby photos pop up soon after. Baby Billie fast asleep on a sleeping Yuri’s chest. The same baby Billie giggling and grabbing handfuls of the same James’s hair, the man wincing with a pained smile. The same baby Billie reaching her tiny hand out to a yellow plastic maraca in a beaming Ned’s hand.
Despite knowing the curly-haired infant in these photos is someone else, Ramona can’t help but imagine herself in them, especially the photo of a wearily content Hobie gently bouncing the baby in his arms.
Her mind briefly wanders off to her own father, the stranger with no face in her mind, the shadow who lingers in her mom’s memories. Would he have been as gentle and loving to her like Hobie to Billie? Would he look at her with the same love like Hobie to Billie?
Her hands tremble slightly as she hesitantly slides that photo behind, only to stare at the next photo right in front of her– a young Hobie Brown hugging a young woman holding up a band t-shirt. An all-too-familiar looking woman with an all-too-familiar smile.
You.
“Oh yeah, tha’s my mum,” Billie whispers beside Ramona, her eyes gleaming with awe and tenderness. “Tha’s the only one Uncle James could find o’ her. Even then though, I know she’d be the best mum if she were still wit’ us. Honestly, I don’t really believe Auntie Yuri when she says I look like her. I mean, I look pretty fit like m’ dad, but m’ mum? I think she’s the most beautiful…”
Billie trails off as soon as she glances up at the stunned Ramona, her hands trembling and crinkling up Billie’s borrowed memory. Worry floods Billie’s face before she carefully shakes her double’s shoulder. “Mon-mon? What’s wrong?”
But the moment Ramona finally answers, Billie instantly hears glass shattering in her ears.
“Mom?”
----
British Phrase of the Chapter:
Plates of meat - feet
Creamed - or creamed crackered; knackered, exhausted
Ngl, if I happened to find out I had a twin and the parent that took me never told me about them, I'd be pissed💀🤚🏾 More than pissed, actually...😒 I wonder why R and Hobie never told the girls anything🥺
