#THE CHEF HAS COOKED AGAIN | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

marukyubi · 4 months ago

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OMG ALL THE NEW BABIESSSS

*pick them all and run*

OMG HOBALD SHININ UPON US with his baldness

Eheheheh I love these two love sick idiots so muchhh

Seems like Hobie is *wanted* everywhere (in anyway yes.)

Make Waves

Pairing: Pirate! Hobie Brown x fem! Reader

Word count: 12.4k

Synopsis: The Mermaid's head proves to be a pirate's paradise.

Tags: No use Y/N, no specific physical description of the reader (except for clothing), pirate AU, Reader has nicknames, A sequel to BDAS, CW alcohol mention, CW food mention, CW suggestive, CW violence, CW guns, fluff.

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Beyond the Sea of Night Masterlist

Chapter 2 >>> Chapter 3

Balancing on the bowsprit has always been your one weakness. That and throwing a grappling hook, but you have no choice but to cross the beam when Hobie's on the other end and he hasn't had his breakfast yet. Stubborn as he is, he's way too deep in what he's doing for him to remember to eat. So it's up to you to keep the captain well fed, for your own sanity and his health of course.

The mermaid's head is getting closer by the hour, and the rest of the crew is slowly waking up to the smell of porridge, and land just a stone's throw away.

With both hands occupied, it leaves you little space to keep your balance while trying not to spill the cup of coffee in one, and in the other a bowl of rice porridge. You carefully walk over to Hobie, who's currently facing the sea. Always the daredevil while he teeters off the edge dangerously. His shoulders are slouched, quil scribbling loudly on the piece of parchment. You worry that he'll fall off the ship and into the waters. But you always worry whether he's near an open flame or just sitting with you in bed. You guess that's just a part of loving someone.

“I won't save you if you fall into the shark infested waters.” You say, still slowly making your way towards him.

He chuckles, looking over his shoulder as he gazes at you while the sun is in his eyes. “Between us, love, you look like you're the one who’s about to fall.”

You pause, huffing while your legs tremble. The waves lap at the bow of the ship, crashing against the wood that adds to your worry of falling. You've never been afraid of heights this much since you love climbing things, but the sea looks like it would swallow you whole if you fall in its uncharted waters.

“Can you help me please?”

“So you won't rescue me if I fall but I have to save you if you do?” Raising a brow and clicking his tongue, he smiles teasingly at you. “Double standards, love.” His actions betray him though as he stands up and walks effortlessly on the beam. “Is this for me?”

“No, it's for the bloody sharks, yes it's for you, Hobie. And as if I won't jump in after you.” Handing him the bowl, he tucks the paper in his armpit, and the ink and quill in his vest pockets. Surely smudging ink inside but he doesn't seem to care as he takes your hand and slowly guides you towards the end of the bowsprit. “Why do you keep hanging out here? You could fall.”

Watching where you place your bare feet with your shoes left at the deck safely. You decide to just slide your feet over, it seems easier than walking on what practically is a tightrope with its slim beam of wood that turns skinnier the further you walk to the end. It reminds you of walking the plank back then. But you continue, wanting to spend more time with him and seeing what he likes most.

“It's quiet ‘ere, ‘sides, the view isn't so bad either.”

“It kind of reminds me of walking the plank.” You tell him your thoughts like you always do, not intending for it to strike him.

With your words, Hobie turns around to face you, expression apologetic. “Shit, let's go back then, lovie.”

Your heart feels warm. “No, I was just thinking loudly, let's continue on.”

“If it makes you feel unsafe—”

“You're here, Hobie, I feel safe.” You take his cheek, feeling his scruff, smiling while the early morning sun peeks out from the clouds fully, drenching the two of you in sunlight. He's right, it's beautiful here as you gaze at him in the heavenly light. “And the view is perfect for eating breakfast.”

“Are you sure?” He continues to worry, hand still holding onto you, securing you beside him while you nod with a smile. “Tell me if it gets too much, yeah?”

“I will, come on, the porridge is getting cold.” Nudging him gently, he leans close and kisses the corner of your eye as you hum against the kiss before he pulls away and continues to trek towards the edge.

Once his foot hits the end, he slowly sits down, hand sliding from your hand to your waist as he leads you down on the beam. It takes a few seconds to find your balance, and once you do, you let out a sigh. Your position is mirrored with him as you face Hobie. He straddles the beam while you gaze at him with the backdrop of the mermaid's head. The black pearl swings against his clavicle, a mark of all the things you two endured together. His breezy tunic is unbuttoned, spider tattoo, and scars— some you've mended with your own hands are peeking out while the sun outlines his torso with its light. The bandana that he always wears even though you've told him a dozen times that he still looks handsome with or without hair, is tucked inside his back pocket, tufts of soft curls blowing in the wind. it's the best view you could ever afford. And it beats the view from the crow's nest, anything with him beats everything else.

Unbeknownst to you, he sees you in the forefront of the whole Osprey while the sunlight catches in your eyes. You look like you belong here, a bandolier strapped at your front with a silver octopus wrapped around the leather, one that he stole off a merchant ship a few months ago. You have a flowy top on that he has seen a hundred times on you before but always has him weak in the knees. Trousers that finally fit you, and the cutlass that swings from your hip— a proper pirate that belongs beside the captain on the ship he now calls home with you and his family in it. He couldn't ask for anything else, no treasure could compare to what he has now, what was once a life he once dreamt of in the tiny four walls of his childhood home. He could not ask for more. A pirate should ask for more, to satiate his hunger for more, more, more. But he's satisfied with this, just this. Everything good that happens after this is just a bonus.

“Which one is it, coffee or continuing to ogle me, hm, captain?”

A smile slowly spreads on his lips, silver piercings glimmering under the light as he snatches the cup from your hand. “Coffee first, then I'll make eyes at you again after.”

“Good choice,” you joke back, helping carry the load by taking the parchment from his arm while he balances the bowl on the beam. “Is this the pirate code?” He hums, taking a generous amount of porridge and blowing the heat away before feeding you the first spoonful.

You open your mouth as you receive the porridge. It needs more salt, you thought as you start to read the list while Hobie continues to share the breakfast with you. You see a lot of it is for the benefit of the crew more than the captain. Some are about the equal share of booty, a couple that says that everyone has a vote in all decisions, and one that reads that all in fighting must be resolved by arm wrestling. It even has a detailed line on what the punishment will be for a crew member who is found to be stealing from a fellow crew.

“‘Candles and oil lamps must be shut off before nine.’ I have a feeling that one is catered to me.”

“You tell me, scuttlebutt.” Nudging your dangling foot with his own, he finishes his breakfast and moves on to his cup of coffee while you roll your eyes playfully and continue to read. “D’you approve of ‘em?”

“Yeah…” you read the second to the last line, “‘Mutineers and traitors found will be keelhauled.’ What's keelhauled?”

Gulping down the bitter drink, he finishes it and neatly places the cup inside the empty bowl. “Let's hope you never get to know what that is.”

“Is it that bad?”

Hobie wants to spare you the gruesome details, so he sugarcoats it as much as he can. “We tie them by their feet and bound their hands together. After that we cover their head with a sack and…” the anticipation is killing you. “... throw them overboard while they're gettin’ dragged by the rope through the underside of the ship. We then pull them out, if they live after that we do it again.”

You shudder at the thought, imagining a beaten and battered body dangling on a rope. “Until they stop moving.”

“Until they stop movin’, yeah. If that doesn't happen after three times, they get shot.” He eyes the pirate code in your hands. The parchment flutters in the wind while he sees Gwen wave at him from his peripheral, he gestures to her, and she stomps her foot impatiently. “I'd take it out but it's a necessary evil so they won't even try.”

“No, I get it. It's a warning.” You nod, changing the grim subject as you smile sweetly so he could forget the previous conversation. Eyes flicking down to read the last line, your heart swells at the words written by his hand. “‘Any offence against the ship's doctor will be dealt with by the captain himself.’”

“That one's new.”

As you gaze up at him fondly, you find that he has the softest look on his face whilst he waits for your reaction. “You're too kind, captain.”

“Nah,” shaking his head, his smile stays, “you're jus’ too valuable to lose, doc.”

You chuckle, hitting his head with the parchment. “Fuck you.”

“You already di—” He gets a face full of the paper smacking him. Laughing above the rush of the wind, he holds onto the beam while his head lolls back in laughter.

Rolling the paper neatly, you hand it to him as his giggles get carried by the breeze. “So,” you clasp your hands together, inhaling the salty air. “can I swear now? Y’know, just get it done before the vultures could smell that I'm not officially one of them.”

Hobie snickers, “don't call ‘em vultures and you'll be fine. D’you want to do it ‘ere? We can do it in my quarters.”

“Hobie, if we do it there then we won't be getting out until we hit land.” Your eyes shine with mischief, one that he is familiar with as realization flickers on his face. Chin tucked on his clavicle while shaking his head, you see a rare flustered captain. “If you know what I mean.” Flicking his forehead, he gazes at you as you wiggle your brows.

“We jus' talked ‘bout keelhaulin’ and you're thinkin' ‘bout that?” Hobie can't help but smile lopsidedly at you like a lovestruck teenager.

Taking the empty cup, you sniff at it. “I think something's in the coffee, Hobie—”

“It's not the coffee, love.” Moving close, hand braced on your knee, and the other pushing down the cup, he grins wickedly at you. “I think it's jus' you.”

“Or…” you whisper against his lips, “I've been hanging around you too much.”

“Is that why you still have a separate cabin, hm? So that you don't spend too much time with me and infect you with my… rapscallion thoughts?” His breath fans your lips as he squeezes your knee, eyes never leaving your own.

“No, it's because…” you're at a loss of words as he inches closer to you, unable to let out your doubts. “...of my stuff.”

“You can put your stuff in my quarters,” nudging your nose, he inhales before brushing his lips against your own. “I made space for you already.”

“Wait, you did?” Leaning away, hands on his shoulders, you gaze at him lovingly. “Did you really?”

Hobie's eyes softened, hands reaching to hold your face, “‘course, love, why wouldn't I?”

“I don't know.” You shake your head gently, leaning against his touch while a dozen doubts curl around your mind. “Would I fit?” He knows what you truly meant.

“I love you, you do know that, right?” You nod, cheeks searing. He finally kisses you, brief yet the message is received as he leans away. “You always have a space with me, I'll always make space for you.” As he brushes away your doubts with another heavy kiss on your cheek, you melt in his arms.

“Alright then.” You say against his chest, cheek pressed on top of the spider tattoo, nosing his chest as your arms wrap around him comfortably. “I'll move in. Do you have a space for Jeremiah?”

Hobie furrows his brows, moving back to look at you. “Who's Jeremiah?”

“My skull.”

Hobie chuckles that quickly turns into a loud guffaw. You follow suit, laughing together with him right on the bowsprit. He pulls you in closer, accidentally bumping into the empty bowl and cup in the middle between you two that falls into the depths with a splash.

“Well shit.” He says, looking down while he still holds onto you.

“Good thing that wasn't the expensive one.” Now that there's no barrier, you scooch closer, and he's not in the habit of saying no to you so he hooks your legs, holding under your knees, and placing them around his hips while he cradles you in place securely. You run your palms all over his chest, unabashedly touching him. “What happens now?”

“We sail the seven seas and be pirates until we decide to retire, or the sea takes us together.” Kissing your temple, he lets you rest against him. We and together, casual yet affectionate words that have your eyes filling with gentle tears. Just you and him until the salty end. “Whichever comes first.”

“I vote on the former.” You hum, knuckles running along his spine that have goosebumps appearing on his arms. “Hey, Hobie?” Craning your neck up, he raises a brow and gazes down at you, chin to chin and mere inches from your lips. “Gwen looks like she's about to kill us—”

“Stop fucking on the bowsprit and get your asses over here!” Your guffaws echo above the rushing waves.

“We're not—!” He looks down at the position that you two are in, and your cheeks run warm, hiding your giggles against his bare chest. “C’mon, before she pushes us off.”

—

You line up together with Lyla and George right at the helm. The ship is just at the mouth of the Mermaid's head and you can already see the bustling port from where you stand. People from all walks of life running around, trying to manage the busy port. The first thing you notice about them is the various weapons on them— swords of different shapes and sizes, and guns that they proudly wear around their hips. You're definitely not in a normal port town.

The sound of rustling paper takes your attention away from the ringing bells at the docks. Hobie takes the parchment from his coat pocket, reading through it for the crew. He's now decked out to keep appearances— an appearance of a tough and rugged captain that helped take out the king's flame. He doesn't usually care about keeping that image, but with him needing new crew, he needs to show them a leader. He has a rough leather coat on that has the same colour as burnt amber around his body, coat tails fluttering in the wind. It's scruffed but that adds to the charm. There’s a tricorn hat with a bird's feather and braided leather wrapped around it that you lovingly placed on his head a few minutes ago— which is placed right under a red bandana you've tied yourself. He's still the feared red spider after all, even without a hundred crew behind him or without sailing the original people's revenge.

His boots thump against the floorboards, chains rattling as he goes towards the front of the line where Lyla stands as she yawns. He looks just like how you first met him, intimidating, and that has your heart pumping— in a different way than before.

“I already swore before, Hobie.”

“Different ship and captain, different code. Hand on the paper and swear.” Hobie says with a slight scoff, trying to quicken the process before James, Miles, and Yuri could drop the anchors.

With a sigh, Lyla places her right hand on the rolled parchment. “I honour the code of the bloodsail pirates.” She says in a monotone voice, matching Hobie's emotion.

“Good, still alive, right? Not that hard?” He sarcastically remarks.

As much as they are similar to each other, they seem to not get along as well as the rest of the crew. It's probably Hobie's way of hazing Lyla. Or he's just irked that they come from the same thieves guild that she never fails to mention to him. Maybe one day he'll tell you all about that part of his past, for now you’ll leave it in the past just like he has.

She rolls her eyes, “y’know I'm technically your senior in the guild—”

“Yeah, I get it, you're old.” Hobie moves on to George, who's clearly having doubts while Lyla gasps in offense, holding onto her imaginary pearls as she stares at you. You could only shrug with amusement. “Are you sure ‘bout this, George?”

“It's the only way I get to stay here, right?” He whispers, eyes darting over to Gwen, who's manning the helm.

Hobie glances at you briefly before turning back to the older man. “Never said that, mate. You can stay on the island as my crew until you…” He inhales, staring eye to eye with him, grey crashing against blue. “...decide. No swearin’ needed.”

George appears to think it through, but once Gwen looks over her shoulder with a somewhat knowing glance, he places his hand on the parchment. “I swear.”

Hobie gives him a curt nod and a lingering look before walking towards you, who's probably the only one who's smiling during the ‘ceremony.’ His back relaxes, sighing with a relieved smile. “Scuttlebutt, d’you swear?”

Without trepidation, you place your palm against the paper that's wrapped around with a lilac ribbon. “I swear, captain.”

A smile slowly spreads across his face, rolled paper softly hitting your cheek as he pats you with it. “You're officially a pirate.”

Pav's sudden burst of cheers from above the crow's nest has you and the rest of the crew chuckling.

As you squint from the glare of the sun, you see him tossing something from above. Hundreds of paper scraps fall from the sky, raining down upon the ship in a flurry of hearts and rectangle shaped paper. One falls on your head, and Hobie plucks it off of you, grinning at the piece as the two of you wave at Pavitr, who waves back and hollers below. With the impromptu celebration, it even lightens George and Lyla's mood.

“Always a ball of sunshine.” Hobie murmurs, twirling the heart around his fingers. “He's goin’ to have to clean this all up.” Joking, he tugs you beside him, pocketing the paper before placing a kiss right on your forehead.

“I'll help him, don't worry.” Reaching to poke the crease in between his brows, you press on it gently until he smiles.

“We'll help him—”

“I just fucking mopped, Pav!” James yells from the deck while he lowers the wheel of the first anchor with Yuri. Pav just chortles from the crow's nest, clearly having no regrets when he made the crew smile. Or at least most of the crew.

“Ready to go, love?”

“With you?” He nods. “Always.”

—

The loud thump of the wooden ramp against the dock has your nerves lighting up again. It's been months since you've seen land, and now you're about to set foot in one, one that is strange and new to the likes of you. Pursing your lips together, you let James and George pass first with the rolling barrels stamped with your family's insignias as an excuse to not leave the ship just yet.

The Mermaid's head looks exactly like you expected it to be. People milling around the place, selling wares right from their back, and workers screaming and trying to get ahead of shipping schedule. You've been to a lot of port towns before, but none of them could compare to what you're seeing now, it's as if every pirate in the world congregated in the same place. There are hundreds or even thousands of them walking about the muddy and sandy streets of the Mermaid's head.

Houses and buildings are built around the port, various signs of business on display— a jeweller, a tavern, a warehouse and even a stable with horses and carriages. You have no idea how big even the island is, but from where you first saw it at sea, it seemed smaller. But as you now stand on the bow of the Osprey, looking over the chaos, the size could even rival the capital’s. There are stone roads all weaving and slithering around the cramped alleys of the town, oil lamps swinging on each corner that are protected by a steel column that looms above the street and a metal cage around the lamp itself. And rows upon rows of buildings— both made of wood and stone. Instead of the open sky, you stare above you and see the inside of the Mermaid's head. A cavernous roof of boulders and rocks shaped by the tides itself. A terrifying thought comes to you, that it could collapse and flatten everything, but if it has survived this long, then it'll continue to do so even after you're long gone.

As you look further into the island, the rocky roof stretches as far as it could until a canopy of trees of all kinds shields the busy place. Dappled sunlight passes through the gaps of leaves and branches, a reprieve from the dankness of the streets. You notice children running around, playing with toy swords and singing sea shanties.

Smiling, the hair on the back of your neck stands, smile wavering. And as you slowly turn towards the cause, you see an old man hunched behind a wooden barrel. His eyes are almost white in the dim light, wrinkled hands gripping the barrel as he stares at you heavily.

“Thinking of how you could burn this place?” Gwen sidles up next to you, and as you turn back towards the man, he's gone like the wind. “I was just joking.” Her brows knit together. “You alright?” She grasps your arm, following your line of sight. “Something wrong?”

“There was just this old man staring at me.”

“There are a lot of weird old people here.” She chuckles, taking your attention away from the empty space with a squeeze on your arm. “We call them sea crazy. You don't become that old without surviving horrors.”

“Yeah, I bet.” Exhaling out, you smile at her. “Penny for your thoughts, quartermaster?”

“Nothing much.” Releasing your hand, she leans against the railing and watches Miles haul crates towards the docks. “The streets here are called the shambles because of the rocky roads. Notice there's not a lot of chimneys?” You nod, “Fireplaces are regulated here since the canopy could easily catch fire, same goes for the ships. So if you want to cook or warm yourself up, you have to do it at a designated area or in one of the taverns or inns that are allowed to have one.”

“Mm-hmm.” You pretend disinterested but in truth you found everything fascinating. “What's going on between you and Miles, hm?” Nudging her, you wiggle your brows teasingly.

Gwen manages a flustered smile. “Stop, I literally gave you knowledge and this is how you repay me?” she gently pushes you, earning a chortle from you. But when you don't relent by staring her down with your dancing eyebrows, she sighs and puts her chin on top of her palm, soft blue eyes staring at Miles whilst he carries two sacks in one arm effortlessly. “We're good.” She says, hoping to satisfy your curiosity. But you don't ease up as you poke her bicep annoyingly. “Alright, fine! We're really good! He told me that he loved me—” Your squeal has her eyes rolling away as she tries to move away from you but you grab her arm, hugging her.

“Alright, I'm sorry! I won't ask anymore! Just stay for a bit.” You tap your head against hers.

With a sigh, Gwen walks back towards the bannister. “I don't ask about you and Hobie, doc.” She pointedly glares playfully at you.

“I know, gossip isn't your thing—”

“No, it's because you two leave little to the imagination.” Grimacing, she pinches your arm, earning a huff from you.

“Well I was just concerned, you know? I don't want to see any infighting.” You lie through your teeth as you side glance at her.

“Sure, sure, infighting, and it's not because you want to eavesdrop on our relationship.”

“Did you at least say it back?”

“Fuck you!” She guffaws, and the crew looks up at the two of you briefly with a shake of their heads and subtle smiles. “Seriously?”

“Well, did you?” You eye her, nudging relentlessly until she nods slowly. “I knew it! Oh young love!”

“Yeah, yeah shut up or I'll start asking about your nightly visits to the captain's quarters.” Gwen places her palm atop your face as you laugh against her.

“Fine, fine I'll stop.” Waving her hand away from your face, you two fall into a comfortable silence.

Seagulls cry above, perching themselves on top of the ship's mast. People yell along the shambles, and the world continues to turn while you and Gwen take a pause, just savouring each other's company.

“I think there's something going on with my dad.”

You crane your neck so fast to face her that there's an ache on your nape. “Gwen—”

“He's planning on leaving, isn't he?” Her baby blue eyes gaze at you softly, eyebrows furrowed as she grasps your hand. Squeezing her, you encourage her to continue. You look at her with a strained smile. “I don't blame him. We haven't seen each other since I Ieft. That makes it almost seven years now. It's been so long, but he's still my dad and I know my dad—” pausing, she grimaces. “and that probably sounds fucking horrible to you.”

“It's not, you had every reason to do that.” You twist in place, hip leaning against the railing to look at her better. “It's good that you still acknowledge that he's your father. It's a sign that you still love him.”

“I was just a kid. A shitty fucking kid who left her father to the wolves.”

“Still, just a kid who wanted to run away from it all. We have this… innate preservation to keep ourselves safe. And you were doing just that. You were afraid, Gwen.”

She nods, eyes glossing over. “I should've helped him at least, got him away from the cards but after mom— he couldn't bring himself to leave the betting table.” Wiping at a stray tear, she continues. “The lords took everything from family portraits to heirlooms, even my ballet shoes. Then our house. Maybe I should've stayed, but if I did, I wouldn't be here, I wouldn't have met him.” Glancing at Miles on the deck, he notices Gwen's eyes on him and he waves at the two of you with a smile. She smiles back before he returns to his task. “But I don't regret it, even with everything that happened. It's still a life well lived than shoveling shit at the stables to pay his debts.” Turning back to you, she inhales deeply. “I'm sorry for laying all this on you.”

“Lay it all on me, Gwen.” You joke, half genuine, opening your arms and surprisingly, she hugs you with her chin atop your shoulder. “You did everything you could, kid.”

“Thank you,” she whispers your name kindly. “And don't call me kid.” Squeezing you tightly, she whispers the words in a threatening manner that has you giggling. After a bout of chuckles, she relents. “Really, is it bad that I'm mad at him? He should've told me, I guess.”

“Not really that bad, I would be too.” With a chuckle and a pat on her back, she releases you, a bit reluctantly on her part.

“Yeah, I guess you're right.” Holding you at arm's length, she sighs loudly. “Maybe him leaving would be a good thing.”

“How so?”

“One less person to worry about on board.”

Craning your head at Hobie while he's carrying two sacks over his shoulder, it's as if you're immediately gravitating towards him, already finding him within the crowd of pirates. Then Pav and Miles stand beside him, chatting about something while Yuri and James walk past them with crates on each arm. Lyla crouches near the water, eyeing a frog floating beside the dock.

“Yeah, one less worry.”

“Does Hobie know about dad?” She pats your elbow.

“Yes, why? Worried that he'll throw him overboard?”

“No,” chuckling, she leaves the railing to help with carrying the bounty. “Is he worrying that I'll leave?”

“You know him well.” Smiling, you place your hands on your hips. “Yeah, he is.”

“Keep him guessing then, it's my revenge for all the shit he pulled.”

You can't help the grin on your face. “So you're staying then? And giving your captain stress?”

“Yes on both, landlubber.” Before she continues walking down the steps, she turns back to you. “And don't worry either, you can't get rid of me that easily.”

—

Placing the last crate on top of the other, you rub the sore part of your leg, neck stretching from the labour. A sudden yet familiar hand grasps at your nape, kneading it gently that has your strained muscles relaxing.

“Better?” Hobie whispers against the shell of your ear, other arm wrapped around your front protectively. Not even the hundred strangers milling about the port could stop him. He doesn't care when his blunderbuss and cutlass could do the talking to all the wandering eyes.

“Much.” Sighing, you lean against his chest. “So, what do we do with all of the loot?” You ask, head turning to face him as he gazes at you tenderly. “Sell it to some one eyed pirate with a pet parrot?”

Hobie snorts, hugging you closer as if there's still space between you. “We have a mate ‘ere who knows all the best places we could get a better price for these.” With the tip of his boot, he kicks the crate lightly. “Maybe even trade some for chocolates.”

“Oh, I'd love that. I miss hot chocolate.” Your wandering hands rub all over his arm as he smiles against your hairline. “And then what?”

“We use some of the coin to get our ship in better battling shape. Expand the deck by taking out a couple of balconies, get some red sails and—” he pauses then blinks and turns fully to you. “Are you sure you're alright with alterin’ the Osprey?”

“What's mine is yours, Hobie.” You peck his jaw, smiling against his skin. “Like I've told you a dozen times. You can do whatever you want with the ship.”

“Practically married, eh?” He stares at the man-of-war, expression faltering for a second. “It's your family's.”

Kissing him again until the crease in his forehead softens, you take his chin and turn him to face you. “You and the bloodsail pirates are my family now. If renovating the ship increases our survival out there then do it even if you have to break a few balconies and sell a bunch of plates. Do whatever it takes to keep our family safe.”

Hobie smiles, grey eyes twinkling as leans further to your lips. “Jus’ say the word if we're takin’ too much.”

“I won't but alright—”

His lips barely grazed yours when a booming voice echoes out. “Captain Hobart Brown!”

A chorus of swords are unsheathed, and a rouse of guns clicking in place as the crew behind you takes aim at the source of the call.

Hobie lifts up a palm behind him while he twists you around and shields you as he steps in front of your body. “What?”

The man with the handlebar mustache gulps down, hand hovering above his gun. He looks far too young to even have a moustache. “Captain Thorpe calls for you to meet him at the Tempest.”

“Who?” Hobie sucks in his teeth, still casual as you feel for the pommel of your cutlass.

The messenger grimaces but hides his annoyance. “Captain Thorpe Heinrick.”

“Ain't ringin’ any bells, mate.”

“Captain Thorpe ‘tide turner’ Heinrick—”

“Ah, that bloke!” Hobie has a shit eating grin on, hands flipping away his coat and places both hands on his belt that carries his blunderbusses, brandishing it to the man. “Maybe later.” With a simple look thrown at Gwen, she tells the others to back down and lower their weapons to the relief of the stranger. “As you can see, bit busy ‘ere.”

“But—”

Hobie shoos him away with a gesture, adding to the man's annoyance but walks away after a few seconds of thinking.

“What does Thorpe want with you?” Miles walks up to you and Hobie, still eyeing the retreating man.

“Fuck if I know.” He shrugs nonchalantly.

“Who's he?” You ask, heart steadying after the stare down.

“Jus' some bloke, c’mon and let's sell this bloody thing so we can get out of ‘ere.” Hobie waves the previous encounter away and throws his arm over your shoulders. “I'll introduce you to a mate of the bloodsail pirates.” You smile excitedly at that. “Lyla, George can you both guard the loot while we find a place to sell it?” George nods and sits on a crate while James breathes a sigh of relief that he wasn't given the duty.

“Sure—” Lyla starts.

“And no sleepin’”

“...fine.” Lyla huffs on top of a barrel, sitting cross legged. “Bring me a pastry, Yuri!”

Yuri gives her a thumbs up before excitedly running off.

“Where are we going exactly?” You ask Hobie as he leads you towards the inner streets of the Mermaid's head while the crew tags along, chatting happily amongst themselves.

“To the iron heart tavern, lovie.”

—

“So this is the place?” You ask Hobie beside you, squeezing his hand as you look up at the building that looks like it's about to fall from how tilted it is.

The logo of the iron heart tavern swings in the breeze, and inside is the rowdiest tavern you've ever had the displeasure of hearing. And you've been to a lot of taverns before. It's all brick and stone, damp with greenery slithering across the surface. The windows are long fogged up by the warmth inside, and the silhouettes of the patrons inside dance along the glass.

“Yeah,” Hobie grins, seemingly excited to see the place again. “This was our place whenever we port ‘ere. And Riri’s grandfather, a nice bloke, helped us get our sea legs out there.”

Yuri suddenly appears behind you, arms thrown around yours and Hobie's shoulders. “Hobie here is being too generous, this place was our home.”

“How so?”

“Lived, worked here—” a glass smashes inside as Miles doesn't even wince at the sound while he continues. “And Riri used to be a bloodsail pirate too, before her injury and retirement.”

“What happened to her?”

“Always the curious one, eh, landlubber?” Yuri shakes you in place and releases you as she squeezes in between you and Hobie to get inside the tavern. “You'll see!”

As you glance at Hobie, who just shrugs with a smile, you enter the place right after Yuri.

“Hey, Ri—!” Yuri dodges an oncoming axe thrown right at her head, it embeds in the wood beside her and you swear you almost saw the afterlife when it whizzed past you. “Is this how you welcome honoured guests now?!” She nonchalantly continues on, arms spread about as she yells above the crowd.

“You still owe me coin, Watanabe!” A woman tending the bar yells above the rowdy commotion of the tavern, hand holding onto another axe, ready to be thrown.

“Fuck me!” You grasp your chest, staring at the shiny axe beside you.

“You alright there, love?” Hobie asks, half concerned, half amused. “She does that.”

“Yeah, apparently, shit.” You heave, and Pavitr pats your shoulder, giving you an apologetic smile.

“She does that.” Pavitr repeats with a grin. “Don't take it the wrong way, and she never misses so that was on purpose. I think.” Pav says before joining the rest of the crew at the bar, all happily chatting with a brunette.

“Yeah, I heard. She's got great aim, I guess.” You sigh, hand still on your chest while Hobie yanks the axe out of the wall and places it beside his cutlass on his waist.

Hobie sighs, eyes soft as he brings his palm right above your heart, kneading gently. “If you give her your puppy dog eyes she might give you a free pint.”

“I'll keep that in mind. And that only works with you.” With a chuckle, you take his hand and place a kiss on the back of it before walking towards the bar, hand in hand with him. “Come on before she throws another one at us.”

You and Hobie navigate the rowdy tavern, dodging arms and glasses thrown across the room while a jaunty tune is playing on the piano beside the bar. The walls are all brick and mortar, old enough to have the wooden pillars buckling under the weight of the whole place. Each corner has a drunk pirate muttering sea shanties or admiring an anchor hanging from the wall. The whole place screams of pirates, from the jolly roger flag tacked above the bar, the classic skeleton and crossbones, to the tables made from various items from a ship— a giant wheel, a barrel and even a crow's nest that's turned upside down. Even the air smells of the salty sea with ale and rum filtering through the heavy air.

As you look up, you see a shark hanging from the ceiling, perfectly preserved with its maw opened and eyes open. It's a pirate's tavern alright, and they're not hiding their affiliation at all with the countless paintings and drawings of ships, the sea and islands all framed on the walls. There are even portraits of entire pirate crews and infamous pirates on the walls, their faces easily recognizable from when you saw them on bounty posters back in the day.

“Well, well, well what do we have here?” Riri eyes you down and you lift your chin up, not folding under her gaze. “The bloody duchess I see.” She glances at Hobie as you raise a brow at the title. “And the red spider, good to see you still alive, Hobie.” Flicking her eyes atop his head, she winces. “Can't say the same thing to your hair though.”

Hobie scoffs but his smile stays. “Good to see you too, Ri.”

“It's nice to finally meet you, Riri.” You smile, sitting in between Hobie and Yuri. “What's with ‘the bloody duchess?’”

“That,” she chuckles as she hands each of the crew their pints. James groans when the amber liquid hits his lips, Yuri licks the foam off the top of her glass, and the trio settle with clinking their glasses against each other before downing their drinks. “—Fucking hell, you're all thirsty.” Handing you a pint and a rum for Hobie, she continues. “Heard it from everyone, you're famous around these parts, you know?”

“Really,” you wrap your hands around the lukewarm glass, brows furrowed as you question her further. “Why? And why that title?”

“Sorry, about her, Ri.” Yuri says, wiping the top of her lip with her sleeve. “She's one of those people.”

Riri nods in understanding, hand patting Yuri's on the table. And you're scrunching your face at Yuri while the rest of the crew and their captain laughs against the mouth of their glass. You nudge Hobie with your elbow, and he splutters out some of his rum.

“Right, well, to feed your curiosity,” Riri puts her elbows on the counter, soft amber eyes that remind you a hearth stares you down with a smirk playing on her lips. “you did save the red spider from execution while wearing a bloody wedding dress right in the middle of the capital.” She flicks your glass, and the sound reverberates around your hands. “Add the fact that you did it in front of all the royals and navy. Word around here is that you killed Mathias too. Well, you're a fucking icon here, duchess.”

Hobie places his arm over your shoulders, proud of you as he pulls you in for a quick hug. “She's good, ain't she?”

“You sure do know how to pick them, captain.” She raises her own glass, filled with the same amber liquid, and Hobie clinks his drink with hers. You still have no idea how to feel about that title the people seemed to bestow upon you.

“Where's your grandfather?” Hobie asks, taking a sip and giving Riri back her axe, to which she hums in thanks.

“Dead.” Everyone stops and stares at her. “Dead on his feet, come on.” Riri laughs at their expressions while Hobie and the crew sighs, relief evident on each of their faces. “He's asleep upstairs, it's his age, you know. I'd wake him up but he'll just be cranky. So, what brings you all back here in our part of town? I heard about the shit you all pulled in the capital, making good waves throughout the land based on news around here.”

“Loot,” Hobie takes a final sip, emptying his drink. Riri gestures to refill it but he places his palm above the glass, indicating that he has had enough to drink. You can't help but pat his back for his restraint as he answers with a squeeze of your thigh. He's lessening his alcohol intake after you told him that it's not good for his liver in the long run. “You always know the best place to sell ‘em.”

“Ah, maybe this time you can pay your debt here, hm?” Riri wipes some glasses clean, and Hobie silently looks at his glass, avoiding Riri's shaking head teasingly. “The Jefferson's are still good for their money, better than our old usual. Or you could go to Chen's but that's across the island, but they still got Jefferson beat.”

“What d’you lot think?” Hobie turns towards the crew, asking for their opinion before handing Riri a coin for the information.

“Chen's,” Gwen and Miles say simultaneously as Miles subtly nudges her with a shy smile.

“Jefferson's.” James sighs, “my arms are tired, Hobie. I can't haul that stuff across the island!”

“I gotta agree with James,” Yuri adds, asking for another drink that Riri doesn't provide until Yuri bats her lashes that still doesn't work on the former pirate; so she shows her payment that she reluctantly gives to Riri's waiting hand. “Besides, that place is new, we don't know them.”

“Pav? Love?” Hobie waits for yours and Pavitr’s opinion. “We're two for two.”

“The second one.” Pav says while digging through the peanut bowl for dried raisins. “If it means we get more coin for doc's stuff then we go there.” You answer him by dragging a bowl beside Hobie that looks like it has more dried raisins towards him. Pav thanks you with a smile.

The rest waits for your opinion. Before you speak, you gulp down your drink and turn towards Riri, who has an impressed smile on her lips. “What do you think of Chen's? You've known them longer than us.”

“I once sold them a white gold brooch that they bought almost twice the price the Jefferson’s gave me.” She shrugs, refilling Yuri's third drink and fixing her stance as she shifts her feet. “They're new, yes, but that means they're trying to get ahead of the competition and other fences. They're reliable, and all you really need to do is haggle. That and you have to haul all your shit in yourselves.”

“Is there a chance that you have a wheelbarrow? Or better yet a cart with a horse?” You ask her, testing your luck with the new acquaintance.

A smile spreads across her lips, “we have both.” A round of sighs echoes around the bar. “You'll have to drive it yourselves though, I'd help, but y’know. Shit is hurting again.” She gestures towards her leg, and with your curiosity, you take a subtle peek, finding that she has a peg leg made of steel and wood. “Not bad, right?”

“Yeah, nice hardware.” You match her smile. Suddenly getting an idea, you rummage through your bag, finding the jar of ointment that could help ease the ache that she must be feeling. “Here, I've made extra a few days ago, it's for the pain from the prosthesis.”

Her eyes shine, slightly surprised by the gift. “Thank you, I appreciate that. I actually just ran out of these.” Opening the jar, she takes a sniff, chuckling at the familiar herb and menthol smell. “It's the same one, damn, thanks again.”

You feel Hobie's eyes on you, hand still gripping your thigh as you see him smile from your peripheral.

“No problem, take it as payment for letting us use your cart and horse.”

Riri leans against the shelf filled with liquor, hands rolling the jar around her palms. “Well, you surprised me, duchess. I haven't even let you use it, but since you're so nice.”

“Thank you, gorgeous!” Yuri exclaims, you have no idea if she's thanking you or Riri. She's probably already drunk after her fifth pint. “I'll drive.”

A collective “No!” Echoes out while James grabs Yuri by her arm.

—

You decide to wait outside the fence’s place while Hobie and the rest haggle their way into wealth. It took another ask for Hobie if you're alright with them selling things from the ship, to which you said yes once again. You're waiting by the horse, a big guy named Stark, who likes apples as he munches on the one you gave to him, courtesy of the fruit stall next door.

The ride to the other end of the island was rough, you had to go through the shambles and end up literally at the tail end of the island. With the roads being made of blemished cobbled stone, you can still feel your brain bouncing around your head. But you don't mind the view as the sea is spread in front of you in all its primordial beauty.

The island reminds you of the one you and Hobie were stuck in, with its white sand and lush greenery— the Mermaid's head is almost identical to it. It's just missing the waterfalls where you learned how to swim and the empty graves. Maybe not all of it were good memories. You exhale out the memory, hand rubbing along the scars on your palm.

Slightly further on your right, you see the twin island that's connected by a rope bridge. The shipwreck above it has you asking questions on what it is or how it ended up there in the first place. But as you see shadows up in the trees and the broken down bow, you look away, afraid that you might've seen some island god protecting the haunted shipwreck.

As you run your thumb across your necklace, you spot the same mustachioed man walking towards you.

“Not a good time, trust me.” You stop him in his tracks.

“But captain Brown is being summoned—”

“I know, and he's haggling to the death in there, you don't want to interrupt him.” Taking a bite of your apple, you shoo him away as politely as you can. Hobie's charismatic smirk that you saw through the window still has your legs wobbly. “Maybe come back later.”

The man shifts his feet, staring at the building behind you. Stark neighs beside you, huffing as he smells the apple in your hand. After a while of looking, the stranger clicks his tongue and leaves.

With a scoff, you turn around to feed the remainder of your apple to Stark, but as you give it to him, you see the same old man from the docks staring at you. He hides behind the fruit stall, white eyes shining and skin blanched as if he's looking at a ghost.

“Can I help you?” You ask, hand right on the pommel of your sword. The man scurries away once you ask him.

The doors open loudly, and the bloodsail pirates exit out with wide grins and cheering as Hobie walks out with a victorious smile.

“I'll take it that you got a high price—oof!” You're quickly met with his arms embracing you, twirling you around until you're a giggling mess. “Hobie!”

He peppers your face with kisses, and the rest of the crew makes gagging sounds as they climb up the cart, probably excited to spend their coin. And yet he ignores them, excitedly clutching you.

With your feet back on solid ground, he takes one final kiss on your cheek before settling for holding your hands. “Gwen and Pav still need to crunch the numbers but it looks like we got enough for the ship, payment for the new crew, and everyone's take. The old bloke said that he hasn't seen that kind of loot since he moved from the east.”

You let out a sigh you didn't know you were holding. “That's good. Really good.” Hugging him, he squeezes you back until you're the one to pull away.

“We need to find you new shoes, love.”

“With that kind of money maybe we can get everyone new shoes.”

Hobie pats your cheek, “aye, maybe we can.”

“Let's just go!” Yuri drunkenly thumps her foot against the floor of the cart. “I'm hungry!”

“Let's go before she eats the horse.” Stark kicks, huffing at Hobie's words as if he understood it. He helps you up on the driver's seat before he hauls himself over beside you. With a gentle whip of the reins, Stark trots back towards the tavern.

“The guy was back by the way, still looking for you.” The uneven road rattles your entire body. You look over your shoulder to check on the crew, finding that Yuri is dozing off on James' shoulder while he's also falling asleep. Gwen chats with Pavitr, all the while holding Miles’ hand as he juggles her hand while scribbling on his notebook. You smile at them before turning back towards Hobie. “And should I tell you about this weird old man who's stalking me?”

“What?” Hobie's head cranes quickly to look at you. “Who's stalkin’ you?”

You shrug, “I don't know, Gwen said he might just be some old pirate who has gone sea crazy.”

“Still, you can never be too careful.” Taking your hand, he weaves his fingers around yours as he continues to lead the cart along the road. “Tell me if he pops out again, yeah?”

“Give him a stern talking to, captain?” Resting your chin on his shoulder, he smiles at you while the mid-day sun shines on the side of his face.

“Aye, get him to leave you the fuck alone.” He noses the side of your cheek. “‘sides, an old pirate is still a pirate, they still know the tricks. You don't get that old in this life without knowin’ how to wield a weapon.”

“My hero.” You whisper right in his ear, blowing air as he chuckles, and goosebumps appear on his skin. “I'm sure I can handle an old man, Hobie.”

“I know you can, lovie, but let me know, yeah? I'll help you.”

“Thank you, I will.” Kissing his cheek, you lean against him amidst the lull of the ride towards the docks.

—

“Alright.” Gwen sighs, stretching her hands and the clinking of coins cease. The opened ledger in front of her is filled with calculations. Pavitr hides the abacus inside a drawer, probably never wanting to see it ever again. “I know Pav and I are right so,” she gives you and Hobie a big grin across the captain's table. “Here’s your cut, doc, cap.” She hands you and Hobie a bag of coins each.

You try not to show your excitement, but it's prevalent when you jiggle the pouch in your hand with giddiness. Hobie nods at Gwen and Pav, thanking them with a grin.

The sun is setting right outside the Osprey, pink and orange hues perfectly aligning with the large windows of the captain's quarters and drenching the whole room in the same shade. Hobie pushes Gwen's and Pavitr's share of the loot. And the two can't hide their equal exhilaration either.

Pavitr laughs, akin to a giggle as he shakes his pouch together with yours, making a tune. “I'm going to buy so much chai to share with everyone!” His soft locks bounce as he leaves the room without missing a beat, probably heading towards the market to spend his coin.

“Watch out for pickpockets!” Your voice calls after him, and he answers with a muffled ‘I will!’ You take a peek inside the pouch, not really counting it since you trust Gwen and Pavitr's calculations, but you look at it nonetheless and your eyes widen at the pile of coins. “This is so much!” Gasping out and kicking your legs about, Hobie gazes at you with endearment as he pockets his share.

Gwen does the same, tucking it safely inside her vest. “It's not much, really.” She shrugs, finding your giddy smile contagious. “Since we mostly set aside the coin for renovation and maintenance of the ship.”

“This isn't a lot?!” Chuckling, you dig your hand inside, feeling the cool metal around your fingertips. You've never had this much coin in your whole life, the closest you got was when Gwen handed you some once upon a time. Remembering your debt, you take out a handful and hand it to a confused quartermaster.

“What's this?”

“For the coins you gave me before.” You shake the pile in your palm. “I told you I'd pay you back.” Hobie's grey eyes stare at the two of you with fondness, watching the interaction with a soft smile.

“And I told you that you don't have to.” She pushes your hand away but you push back. “Doc.” Warning you, she raises a pierced brow. “It's yours, go buy something nice. You earned it.”

“This is plenty, Gwen. Besides, you've got your dad, treat him to lunch at a tavern.” Your determined eyes has Gwen sighing.

“You won't be able to sleep if I don't take this, huh?”

“Nope!” You grin as she opens her palms and you dump the coins on them. “Thank you, Miss Stacy.” Your teasing lilt makes Gwen roll her eyes with a subtle smile.

“Sure,” she pushes the captain's chair away from the table, the carved eagle moving back as the light grazes its wood. “I'll give everyone's share, make sure you lock the rest in the safe, Hobie.” Gathering the pile of coin pouches, she leaves the room with an armful of clinking coins.

“Yeah, yeah.” Hobie fights a yawn, standing up from his seat to hide the rest of the money away from a hidden safe tucked underneath the bed. Right where a string of laurels and violets are etched on the wood. You discovered it after accidentally hitting it with your toe during a lively night with Hobie. “D’you want to go to the market with me, lovie?” He asks, hauling an armful towards the hiding spot.

“How could I say no to that?” Standing up and taking the rest of the coins, you follow right behind him as he kneels down and opens the secret compartment with a click on the bulb of a violet flower.

Hobie hides his smile while he's placing the bags inside the compartment. “Good, I'll buy you those shoes I've been meanin’ to get you.” His voice is muffled, body half inside the safe.

“As long as it's not gaudy like the one Miguel got me.” Sitting down beside him, head leaning on the bed, you hear a muffled scoff.

“I've got better taste than O’Hara.” Hobie wiggles himself out, taking the bags of coins in your arms. “‘sides, we can make a day out of it, show you around the place.” He gets inside once more, and you hear shuffling and coins clinking.

“Did you grow up here?”

“Nah,” he sniffs, probably dusty inside. “‘m from the mainland jus’ like Miles and Pav.”

“How'd you even manage to get here then?” Your fingers play with the frayed edges of your trousers nervously.

You haven't asked him much about his past before he became a pirate, most of the stories he told you were all swashbuckling adventures in the sea. None of which were of his childhood, or his blood family. It alienates you slightly since he knows everything about you, your story, your family, but nothing on his side. All you know is that he's an orphan, raised together with Miles and Pav, bouncing from orphanage to orphanage. And that he met the rest of the crew on the way. In the end he found his family, that you know, but you're a curious one, and you love him for everything that he is, even his past that he so clearly guards away and seals deep inside.

“Stole a ship,” he groans as he scooches himself out. “A merchant one, then sailed ‘ere with the original crew while tryin’ to find if this place really exists. We found out quickly that it was when they shot right at us.” As he exits the hidey hole, his bandana is lopsided with dust clinging on his chin and eyebrow. You giggle at his appearance. “What? Is us gettin’ shot funny, love?” Teasing, he nudges your leg with his foot.

“No, it's horrible.” You say, still laughing. As you pluck out the dust bunnies away from his face, he gazes at you sweetly. “You just look adorable, captain.” Your breath fans his cheeks as you reach up to fix his bandana. “There, still cute but a lot more captain-like.”

Without warning, Hobie grabs you by the waist, tackling you on the floor as you let out a surprised screech. His hand protects the back of your head, ever prepared to shield you from harm.

“Hobie! What are you doing?” You smack his behind as he nuzzles the crook of your neck. “I thought we were going to the market together?” Your voice lilts, a giddy one that exudes excitement. His knee separates your legs, arms woven around you as he kisses your searing skin.

“The market can wait.” He lifts himself up by the waist, voice deep and saccharine. Shrugging off his vest before cupping your face and squishing your cheeks together while you look up at him with shining eyes and a lopsided grin. “‘sides, they never close. We've got all the time in the world now, lovie.” The sky paints him pink as he leans down.

—

Hobie was right, the Mermaid's head never sleeps. It's well past supper when you went to the market with him. The place is noisy and as bustling as it was when you and the crew passed by earlier on your way to the tavern. Shopkeepers call on you like seagulls fighting for a crumb of hardtack. Their stalls are either shining or edible. A pile of locket watches tick in one of the stalls, too many to count, mostly etched with different initials and the navy sigil. Another stall has different sizes of compasses in all the colours of the rainbow. Next to it is a larger stall that houses telescopes that you can see every pirate owning.

On your right is a cobbler's shop where you got your new pair after almost thirty minutes of haggling from Hobie. You can't lie though, that was entertaining especially when he flashed the old saleslady his most charming smile and told tales of his grand adventure with the bloodsail pirates. In the end she gave you a huge discount on the boots and even threw in new socks for you and Hobie for free. He's too good at haggling while you can barely decide what to buy with your newly acquired wealth.

Above you, the exotic birds fly about, squeaking and squawking about the canopy that shields most of the place from the heat in the morning and the cold at night. There are strands of fishnets draped above and under the canopy. Hobie said it's for a tactical reason and not just for aesthetics with its hanging charms chiming about in the breeze. He once told you that the navy tried to ‘liberate’ the Mermaid's head, but the force of everyone combined helped defend and keep the twin islands. The fishnets above are actually made of tougher material, capable of stopping a cannon ball or even a trebuchet from dropping on the town. The marks of the battle are still lingering on the walls of the place, dents on the stone walls, chimneys blasted in half and bullet holes on doors and windows. You can just imagine how it all went, you asked Hobie, but he said it was before his time.

The moon brings dappled silver light upon the noisy market while the lamps swing around their perches and the shopkeepers yell their pitches at you like they're trying to sell you air. You could get used to this, the hustle and bustle of the place, it reminds you of the town you used to live in with Jess. That reminded you how much you missed that life, but you're satisfied where you are now, beside him as he unabashedly holds your hand while strolling the market.

“Pretty pretty lady!” You hear a loud squawk on your left and you're stopped in your tracks. “Got you, got you!” A parrot, yes a parrot with its yellow and orange feathers speak to you in its high pitched mimicking tone. “Shells for the pretty pretty lady?” It asks, seemingly manning the whole stall by its birdy lonesome while it's perched on a stool.

“Holy shit!” You laugh, and Hobie mirrors your smile. “Do you see this?” Pointing at the parrot, Hobie nods, bringing your hand down.

“Careful, don't point or it might bite you.”

You shake your head in disbelief. “A talking bird, and here I thought I've seen everything.”

“Buy something something?” It tilts its head, beak opening and closing.

“Oh I might buy something something just because I love you.” Giggling and cooing, you peruse the parrot's wares. There must've been a hundred multicoloured shells laying neatly on the stall. Some are as big as your face, and miniature ones that are as big as the pad of your finger. You ooh and ahh at each piece, grabbing the big one and placing it right on the shell of your ear to listen to the sea.

Hobie wishes he could capture the moment, the giddy smile, the glimmering childlike wonder in your eyes. Where's Miles and his drawing skills when you need him?

“D’you want that one, lovie?”

“Shh.”

“Don't shush me.” Hobie chuckles, feigning offense. “What's the sea tellin' you?”

“I don't know because you're too noisy.” You fake a glare at him, earning a pinch to your side. “Wait, it's telling me…” he pauses, awaiting your next words. “...that it's too expensive.” You turn the shell and show him the hefty price tag.

Hobie laughs wholeheartedly, shaking his head at you. “Fuck off, c’mon we need to buy you a dagger.”

“In a minute, I need to look at the rest. They're so pretty.” You're mesmerized by the shiny surfaces.

“Don't get swindled.” He whispers to you, afraid that the parrot will lunge at him and claw his eyes out.

“I won't get swindled.” You wave him off, eyeing a pair of earrings made out of shells that might suit Yuri or Lyla.

Hobie grabs your head gently and kisses your temple. And the parrot squeeks out a ‘smitten! Smitten!’ that he chuckles at when the bird is right. “I'll be at the blacksmith, love, be back ‘ere in five, yeah? Don't leave the market without me.”

Meeting with his grey eyes that have softened to a pretty silver pair, you smile at him. “I'll be fine, Hobie.” You pat the cutlass on your hip. “Besides, I have to buy stuff for the crew so take your time. I'll meet you at the blacksmith.”

“I don't want to leave you too long with these scallywags.”

“Hey! Hey!” The bird squawks out in offense.

“I'm sorry that you have to hear the news from me but, you're a scallywag too, Hobie.” Giggling, you pat his chest lovingly, the marks you left still evident on his neck as you hide it by fixing his collar.

He scrunches his nose at you, and you pinch his nose in reply. You two must look like a couple of honeymooners in front of the other pirates. It seems like Hobie has thrown his reputation as the fearsome red spider behind his back in favour of holding you sweetly and brazenly in public.

Smiling, he squeezes your arm before reluctantly leaving your side. “I'll be back, the blacksmith is jus’ around the corner of the apothecary.”

“There's an apothecary here?!” Your excited exclamation barely gets people's attention. You're starting to love this place, especially when everyone minds their own business.

“Don't spend all your money.” He says, walking backwards with his hands inside his pockets while he looks at you sweetly.

“It's going to be hard, but I'll try.” You wave goodbye as the captain walks into the crowd and disappears in the sea of leather and tricorns.

“So, Mr. Parrot, how much for the earrings?” You eye the bird, maybe if you practice your haggling skills on him you'll get better the next time you make your purchase with a human salesperson.

“Poor! Poor!” It squawks out, dancing about his perch.

“Hey!” Maybe if you slyly pocket the jewellery it won't notice. But his beady eyes look like it can see through you as he flaps his wings at you. “Fine, I'll buy it.” The awful bird looks like he's satisfied, maybe that was his plan all along.

—

With your bag filled with purchases, a scrapbook and a new charcoal pencil for Miles. A new flavour of tea that Pavitr might like, and you even managed to find a jar of coconut oil for him. The shell earrings for Yuri and Lyla, which you only managed to get a pair since the bloody parrot was a tough one and didn't even let the price drop to a single coin. So they have to share each one, you guess. For Gwen you found a pair of pink ballet shoes tucked inside an antique store filled with bits and bobs you don't even recognise. The shoes don't look like they could be danced in, but it looks decent enough to be worn. You hope she likes it, but your doubts made you buy a pair of shears to help cut her hair that she's been annoyed about recently, just in case she ends up hating the ballet shoes. Even James got a new leather belt to replace the makeshift rope belt that he uses. All in all, they're all good purchases. Your coin pouch might weigh less now but you're happy that you got your family something as thanks for everything they've done for you.

You love them, and the things you bought can't compare to the amount of love you have for them.

Now onto Hobie's gift, one that you've planned on for weeks now. The silver spoon clinks against the jar of coconut oil as you practically skip around the apothecary that you took a quick peek at their window. Maybe you'll check it out sometime since you still have money to burn.

You spot the mustachioed man before you could stop Hobie from pushing the stranger away with his whole palm against the man's face. Your new boots thump against the rocky road as you quickly pass by people to get to him. Leg aching, you're starting to worry about an ensuing fight.

“I told you like before, fuckin' later.” Hobie gruffly says, sounding mad more than annoyed. “And tell Thorpe that—” He spots your concerned face from the crowd before you get to his side.

“You alright?” You ask, hand gravitating towards his bicep. “Come on, let's just leave.” Tugging him away, the stranger glares at Hobie, which he doesn't appreciate. “Hobie, come on, it's late.” The heat from the blacksmith’s fire sears your cheeks.

Hobie stands tall, eyeing the man, as if he's egging him on to take out his gun.

“Hobie!” You shake him.

The man scoffs, smirking, reminding you of a certain navy captain. “Listen to your girl, Brown—”

Your gun is raised and aimed at the man. Hand not even shaking as you look at him over the barrel of your blunderbuss. “Don't fucking test us. Leave.”

Hobie's eyes briefly widen before those stormy grey eyes flick towards the surprised stranger. “Trust me, mate, she will shoot.”

The whole marketplace seems to go at a stand still.

“Thorpe will hear about this!” He stomps his foot, moustache swaying side to side as he leaves and fades into the crowd.

You don't lower your gun until you can't see the man's red hair. Hobie slowly takes your arm, bringing your shooting hand down to your side as he shields you from where the stranger was.

“You good, scuttlebutt?” Cupping your cheek, you sigh and lean against his touch. Adrenaline rushing through your veins.

“I'm good, yeah.” You sigh, turning to look at the blacksmith before she shifts her eyes away from you, so does the half of the market. “Let's go home.” You don't even have the energy to ask him who Thorpe is.

“C’mon, the crew's waitin'.” Hobie weaves his fingers around your own, guiding you around the market.

—

“Hey, fucking finally!” Lyla exclaims from the deck, munching on a pastry. “They're here!” A rush of footsteps walk towards the railings while you and Hobie sluggishly climb up the ramp. “We thought you got into some trouble.”

“Sort of.” You sigh out, leg aching as you stretch it in front of you while leaning against the railing. Maybe you still need to break in the new shoes.

Hobie notices, helping you sit on a crate. “Thorpe really wants my arse.”

“Who’s Thorpe?” George asks, a question that you've been meaning to ask yourself.

“He's part of the pirate council here.” Gwen answers for Hobie while he's busy kneading your back.

“There's a fucking pirate council?” You gasp out, half annoyed, half surprised. “Why? I thought this place doesn't have rules—” Yuri opens her mouth. “— beside the pirate code.” She shuts her mouth. “Sounds like you have to meet with him, Hobie.” You look up at him, only to find that his brows are furrowed together with worry. Hand finding his own, you squeeze him.

“We have to meet him.” Miles says, leaning on the railing beside Gwen. “We got summoned too.” He gestures towards the original crew.

“Fucker.” Hobie curses under his breath.

“That guy scares me.” James adds, arms crossed over his chest.

“You and me both, buddy.” Yuri clasps his shoulder.

“What do you think he wants, Hobie?” Pavitr asks worriedly, hands wringing around his bangle. “Is it because of—”

“Hobart Brown!”

Hobie grimaces, and everyone runs towards the railings to see the source of the voice. You look over and see the same moustache. This time though, he brought cavalry.

“What?! Only my own crew can call me that!” Hobie yells, sensing the oncoming danger as he unconsciously shields you with his body.

“Captain Thorpe ‘tide turner’ Heinrick has summoned you and your crew.” The familiar click of muskets echo around the docks. “And the bloody duchess!”

“Motherfucker!” You stand up, peeking over Hobie's arm. “Why?!”

“You pointed a gun at me!”

“Fair enough.” You muffledly say, hand inching towards your blunderbuss. “Why don't you come up here and—”

“No, we know your tactics! You used that on Bradshaw but it's not gonna work here!” The mustache man yells back. “Come down here and talk! The captain just wants to see you!”

“How ‘bout we reschedule?” Hobie flashes his negotiating smile. “It’s late and maybe we could—”

“No!” The whole gang on the docks aim higher at your heads. “He wants to see you now!”

“No need to scream, fuck.” Hobie whispers, hand brushing along your back before putting his hands on the side of his head. “Alright, we're comin’, don't get your knickers in a bunch.”

The rest of the crew follows, and one nod at Lyla from you has her understanding what you meant as she grabs George's bicep, pulling him back on deck. The man tries to argue but Lyla whispers something at him that has him reluctantly agreeing.

Once on the dock, Hobie gets closer to the man casually even when the barrel kisses his chest. Your heart leaps, afraid while your instincts tell you to fight and shield him.

“Don't worry, he won't shoot.” Hobie waves back to the crew, sensing yours and their concern for the captain. “Thorpe loves me too much.”

A sudden metallic clang echoes on the far side of the docks, where another commotion is happening. You gotta hand it to the Mermaid's head, there's no dull moment.

“C’mon, we're all yours.” Hobie sneers. “Where to?”

As you turn towards the louder commotion happening, you spot a pair of familiar faces getting hauled off a ship. Their eyes strike a memory to you, green and blue, different but a mirror of the other. An apple scented air, cracked hazelnuts in your palms while you wait with them by a dark lake. And birds, hundreds of migrating birds flying out of the trees after yelling obscenities at them.

“Cousins!” You yell, quickly running towards them before Collette's face gets a fistfull from a pirate. “Collette, Jonathan!”

Hobie takes the opportunity to exact chaos.

#katy has cooked yet again #everybody say thank you chef!!#BAHAH PARROT (thats me with my fri and her gf)#R bought soo much but nothin for her 🥹#BABI IS SOO CARING FOR HER FAMILY #THIS MEAL IS PERFECTION!!!!!

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pucksandpower · 3 months ago

Text

Crash Course in Love

Lando Norris x Carlos Sainz’s best friend!Reader

Summary: in which Carlos forgets to tell his two best friends they’ll be staying in his villa together, and now a stressed out lawyer has to survive living with a human golden retriever, but you know what they say … opposites attract

You’ve been in Marbella for four days and already gone through three bottles of wine and two existential crises.

Carlos’ villa is too quiet for someone used to white noise: emails pinging, heels clacking, cortisol. The silence in this place isn’t peaceful — it’s accusatory. You’ve spent more time staring at the sea than you have your own reflection in the last ten years, which is saying something.

It feels indulgent. Like if someone walks in, they’ll accuse you of being lazy. You’d have to explain the insomnia, the migraines, the crying in bathroom stalls between depositions.

But Carlos isn’t here to judge. He’s off somewhere filming shampoo commercials in Paris or golfing in socks with his dad. He just texted you the gate code and told you to “relax, coño.” So here you are, inhaling almond-scented air and avoiding your inbox.

You’re halfway through a rerun of The Holiday when the doorbell rings.

You don’t move.

It rings again. Louder.

“Delivery?” You mutter to no one. You didn’t order anything.

You shuffle to the door in socks and an old hoodie of Carlos’ that you’ve unofficially adopted. You crack the door open and freeze.

Lando Norris is standing there. With a suitcase. And a sunburn.

“Hey,” he says, blinking like he’s not entirely sure this is the right house. “You’re not Carlos.”

“You’re … not a delivery guy.”

“Definitely not. Unless you ordered someone with mediocre Spanish and no plan.”

You blink. He grins.

“Sorry, I’m Lando. Uh. Carlos said I could crash in the guest room. Hotel bailed on my reservation. Long story. But he didn’t mention you’d be here.”

“He didn’t mention you’d be here either.”

“Cool. So we’re both surprised. That’s … fun?”

You stare at him. He looks like he just rolled off a yacht he wasn’t invited on. Sleeveless shirt, board shorts, and the confidence of someone who’s never had to Google “how to flirt.”

You open the door all the way. “Come in, I guess.”

He wheels his suitcase past you. It makes an annoying thunk over the threshold. You follow him into the hallway, watching as he does a slow 360 like he’s never seen furniture before.

“Whoa. This place is insane. Does Carlos actually live like this, or is he secretly royalty?”

“Just rich.”

“Same difference.”

You cross your arms. “You want something to drink?”

“God, yes. I’m parched. Is that still a word people use? Parched?”

You turn toward the kitchen. “Not since 1912.”

Behind you, you hear him mutter, “Alright. Tough crowd.”

He follows you to the kitchen like a golden retriever. Doesn’t ask where things are — just opens cabinets and drawers like it’s his Airbnb.

“I got this,” he says, pulling out two glasses. “I’m a fantastic guest. Top tier. Five stars on all platforms.”

You raise an eyebrow. “You have reviews?”

“No, but if I did? Flawless.”

He pours two drinks. One is wine. The other is apple juice. He hands you the wine. “Cheers.”

You eye the juice. “Is that … what you’re drinking?”

“I burnt a little on the flight. Gotta rehydrate.”

He’s completely serious. Like drinking juice is a medical emergency. You stifle a laugh.

“You okay?” He asks, suddenly earnest. “You look like you’re tired. But not like, normal tired. Lawyer tired.”

You blink at him. “Lawyer tired?”

“Yeah. Like … your eyeballs are sleepy but your soul’s still trying to finish a brief.”

You stare.

“I mean that in a good way. Like, impressive. Respectfully.”

“Wow.”

“I should stop talking.”

“Yeah, probably.”

***

Dinner is his idea. You offer to order something in. He insists on cooking. “I make a mean carbonara,” he says. “Or maybe risotto. Wait, do you eat dairy?”

You nod.

“Okay, sick. Chef Lando it is.”

You spend the next hour watching him destroy Carlos’ kitchen with the chaotic enthusiasm of a man who’s only cooked two times in his life and once lit a tea towel on fire.

He tells stories while he cooks, most of them involving near-death experiences, bad tattoos, and a rental car that somehow ended up in a lake.

You lean on the counter, sipping your wine. “Do you ever filter?”

“Rarely. But I can if you want. I can be quiet. Mysterious. Brooding.”

“You?”

He makes a face. “Okay, rude.”

“You burn your hand yet?”

“Twice,” he says cheerfully. “But I’m hiding it to preserve my ego.”

He fumbles with the tongs. Pasta flies out of the pan and onto the floor. He shrugs. “Five-second rule?”

You deadpan. “I’m not that desperate yet.”

He laughs. You notice he has a nice laugh. Not performative. Just … happy.

Dinner is terrible. Somehow both overcooked and cold. You take one bite and try not to gag.

“So?” He asks, eyes wide with hope.

“It’s … ambitious.”

He winces. “I’ll order pizza.”

“I won’t stop you.”

“Should’ve stuck with cereal,” he mutters, pulling out his phone.

You don’t mean to smile. But you do.

***

Later, you sit on the couch with your legs tucked under you while he scrolls through terrible Spanish romcoms on TV.

“This one’s got a 3.4 on IMDb.”

“Perfect.”

He clicks play.

You steal glances at him when he’s not looking. He’s gotten more attractive since the last time you saw him, though you’re not sure if it’s the jawline or the fact that he keeps folding your hoodie when you leave it on the back of a chair.

He’s obnoxious, yes. Too comfortable too fast. But when you yawn mid-movie, his entire face falls.

“Oh no, I’m boring you.”

“It’s the wine.”

“I’m still boring you.”

“You’re not.”

“I totally am.”

He turns toward you, earnest again. It’s disarming. “You wanna sleep? I’ll shut up.”

“You never shut up.”

“Harsh.”

He watches you for a moment. “You sure you’re okay?”

You pause. That question again. The one you’ve been dodging since the breakdown.

“Yeah,” you lie.

He nods. But doesn’t push.

You both go quiet. The movie drones on in the background.

“Hey,” he says suddenly.

“Yeah?”

“You’ve got a cool vibe.”

You look at him. “What does that mean?”

“I dunno. Like … your energy. It’s nice.”

You snort. “Are you high?”

“No! I’m complimenting you. With words.”

“This is how a teenager hits on a barista.”

“Okay, true, but still. I meant it.”

You stare at him.

He grins. “Just accept the compliment.”

You roll your eyes. But you don’t say no.

***

By the time you head to bed, the house smells like burnt garlic and whatever cologne he bathed in.

You hear him shuffling around in the guest room next to yours. Singing under his breath. Awful pitch.

You press your face into the pillow. You’re not supposed to like this. The noise. The chaos. The presence.

But when you wake up later and find your bags stacked neatly by the door — shoes lined up, hoodie folded on the chair — you smile.

Just a little.

And only when no one’s looking.

***

It starts the next morning with coffee.

You’re barely awake — just a hoodie-draped zombie with bed hair and a fading dream you don’t want to examine — when he appears in the kitchen, too chipper, too shirtless.

“You drink it black, right?” Lando asks, holding out a steaming cup like he’s been doing this forever. His curls are a mess. There’s toothpaste on his chin.

You blink at him. “How do you know how I take my coffee?”

“You made fun of me yesterday for putting oat milk in mine. I remembered.” He shrugs like it’s no big deal. “It’s called observation. I do it professionally.”

“Driving is not the same as remembering my coffee order.”

“I do both with style.”

You accept the cup, suspicious. “Did you spit in this?”

“Only love and a little judgment.”

You take a sip. It’s surprisingly decent.

“You’re not completely useless.”

“That’s the nicest thing you’ve ever said to me.”

He says it with a grin, but something flickers in his eyes when you smile over your cup. You don’t catch it. Not yet.

***

Days pass like that. Mornings laced with caffeine and accidental comfort.

You fall into a rhythm neither of you talks about. He gets up earlier than you expect — blasts music while brushing his teeth, sings ABBA off-key in the hallway, makes smoothies that look like radioactive goo.

You argue over playlists constantly.

“No. We’re not doing Pitbull at eight in the morning.”

“He’s Mr. Worldwide! It’s inspirational.”

“He’s bald and shouting.”

“That’s showbiz, baby.”

Sometimes, you win. Most of the time, he sneaks Mr. Brightside onto every playlist and pretends he didn’t.

You never thought you'd get used to someone like him. Loud. Playful. Constantly hovering in your peripheral vision. But there's a gentleness under the antics. A sweetness that doesn't beg to be noticed, but you notice anyway.

He drives you to the market without asking. Carries your groceries like it’s a competition. Starts trying to cook again — more confident than competent.

“What’s your favorite dish?” He asks one evening, hunched over his phone like it owes him money.

You answer without thinking. “Cacio e pepe.”

“Easy. I got this.”

He doesn’t got this.

He overcooks the pasta, forgets to salt the water, and ends up Googling “what is pecorino” in a panic.

You walk in on him whispering “don’t clump, don’t clump” at the sauce like it’s sentient.

You bite your lip to keep from laughing. “Need help?”

“Nope. I’m an artist. This is part of the process.”

He serves it with flair. You pretend not to notice the texture is more glue than cheese.

Still, you eat it. He watches your face the whole time, pretending not to. When you finish the plate, he beams like he’s won a Michelin star.

^**

The rain starts on a Tuesday.

You wake to gray skies and the soft percussion of drops against the villa’s roof. You think it’ll pass. It doesn’t.

By mid-afternoon, you’re both restless.

“I have to move,” you say, pacing in the living room. “I need to do something.”

Lando sprawls across the rug like a teenage boy at a sleepover. “Let’s play Mario Kart.”

“That’s not productive.”

“You’re literally vibrating with stress. Sit down. You need to get your ass kicked by Princess Peach.”

You do not get your ass kicked. You annihilate him.

“This game is rigged,” he whines as your kart zips past his. “You’re cheating.”

“I'm just better.”

“You're heartless. Cruel. Unfairly good at drifting.”

“You sound like a man who’s losing.”

He groans, flops over, and covers his face with a throw pillow. “I hate fish.”

You blink. “What?”

“Just thought I’d change the subject.”

You snort. “Okay. Why?”

“They smell weird. They look weird. Their eyes freak me out.”

“Do you think fish can understand us?”

He lifts the pillow slightly. “Are we high right now?”

“No, I’m serious. What if they know we’re watching them?”

“Then I owe a lot of apologies to some sushi.”

You laugh. A real one. Not the polite chuckle you use in meetings, not the rehearsed smile for courtroom civility. This one hits your ribs.

He sits up. Watches you. Doesn’t say anything for a moment.

“What?” You ask.

“Nothing,” he says. “Just … you’re different when you laugh like that.”

You glance away. “Like what?”

“Like you forgot something was weighing on you.”

His voice is soft now. Uncharacteristically so. You don’t respond right away. Just look out the window, rain sliding down the glass in long, lazy streaks.

After a while, you say, “I don’t know what I’m doing.”

He looks over.

“I mean, with my life,” you continue. “I was going so fast, for so long, and now I’ve stopped and I don’t … know what’s left.”

You stare at your hands. You hate how raw that sounds. How uncertain.

He doesn’t jump in. Doesn’t make a joke. Doesn’t try to fix it.

Just sits beside you. Quiet.

“I used to think being successful would feel better than this,” you say. “But I don’t even remember who I was before I started chasing things I don’t even know if I wanted.”

“Do you wanna go back?” He asks.

“No. But I don’t know how to go forward, either.”

He nods. Not like he understands completely — but like he’s trying to. Like he’s holding space for you, instead of advice.

“I don’t have answers,” he says eventually. “But I’m really good at distractions.”

You smile faintly. “Clearly.”

“I mean, c’mon. My carbonara almost killed you.”

“It did. I wrote a will after.”

“Harsh.”

“Truthful.”

He grins, and you feel lighter. A little.

***

That night, the rain intensifies.

You can’t sleep. Not because of the storm, but because something inside you is too noisy. Like your mind won’t stop pacing the room.

You wander out into the hallway, barefoot and restless, planning to make tea.

You don’t expect to see the front door open.

Or the rain soaking the floor tiles just past the entry.

Or him — barefoot, shirt clinging to him, hair dripping, crouched on the porch with his hands around a toppled plant.

You step outside. The rain is warm. Immediate. Your hoodie clings to your skin.

“Are you serious?” You call.

He looks up. His smile is sheepish, wide. “It fell over. I didn’t want it to drown.”

“In the middle of a storm?”

“Poor guy didn’t ask for this.”

You stare at him. His knees are muddy. There’s a leaf in his hair. He’s cradling the ceramic pot like it’s a kitten.

“You’re ridiculous.”

“Guilty.”

“But also kind of … sweet.”

He looks at you.

You’re not sure what’s shifted. Maybe it’s the rain. The hour. The silence between the two of you that’s no longer awkward.

You’re suddenly aware of how close he is. How sincere his face becomes when he thinks you’re not looking.

He stands slowly. Water drips down his neck.

You say, “You didn’t have to do that.”

“I know.”

You say, “You’re soaked.”

“So are you.”

And there it is — that moment. Hanging. Taut.

Not quite a kiss. Not yet.

But the kind of stillness that precedes something inevitable.

He tucks a wet strand of hair behind your ear. Doesn’t touch anything else.

His fingers are cold. His eyes are impossibly warm.

You shiver.

He notices. “Come on. Let’s not catch pneumonia.”

You nod. Follow him inside. Neither of you says much as you dry off.

But something’s different now.

And you both feel it.

Like you’ve stepped into something bigger than a holiday detour.

Something that might last.

***

You don’t expect him to ask.

You’re elbow-deep in a bowl of popcorn, half-watching some Spanish cooking show neither of you understands, when he says it — casual, like it’s nothing.

“You should come to Monaco next weekend.”

You blink. “What?”

“To the race. I’ll give you the VIP treatment.”

You raise an eyebrow. “What does that even mean?”

“It means you get a lanyard. And free food. And I pretend to be cooler than I actually am.”

“So, your regular weekend?”

He smirks. “Exactly.”

You scoff. “I’m not going to be some … grid girl.”

His grin falters. Just a little. “It’s not like that.”

“Lando.”

“You’d be my guest.”

“That’s worse.”

He turns toward you on the couch, legs folded under him like a golden retriever mid-persuasion. “Come on. It’s glamorous. There’s champagne. Helicopters. You love judging rich people.”

“That part is tempting.”

“I’ll let you wear one of my team shirts.”

“Still not sold.”

“I’ll bribe you with food.”

“Try again.”

“I’ll-” He pauses, thinks hard, then lights up. “-I’ll serenade you. Publicly. At the paddock.”

“You wouldn’t.”

“I would. Off-key. Acapella. I’ll make the engineers cry.”

You roll your eyes, but you’re smiling.

He leans closer, dramatic whisper: “Come on. I’ll look lonely if you’re not there.”

“You’ll be surrounded by people.”

“Yeah, but none of them steal my fries and insult my music taste.”

You try not to let the warmth bloom too fast. “That’s your best argument?”

He lifts his hands. “That’s all I got.”

You shake your head. “Fine.”

He blinks. “Wait, seriously?”

You sigh. “Yes. Before I change my mind.”

He fist pumps the air. “YES. I mean — cool. Chill. No big deal.”

You snort. “You’re such a loser.”

“Your loser.”

You ignore the way your chest does a weird little flutter.

***

You regret saying yes almost immediately.

Not because you don’t want to go — but because it’s a lot.

The paddock is chaos. Noise. Cameras. Sunglasses on everyone, like they’re all pretending it’s not just overcast. You can feel eyes on you from the second you step out of the car.

Lando’s bouncing on the balls of his feet beside you, grinning like he owns the place. Which, in a way, he kind of does.

“You okay?” He asks.

You nod, a bit dazed. “You weren’t kidding about the VIP treatment.”

“Would I ever lie?”

“Yes.”

“Fair.”

He hands you a pass. “Here. This is your all-access badge. Makes you important.”

“Is it laminated?”

“Of course it’s laminated. We’re not animals.”

You laugh. He smiles like that was his whole goal.

People greet him constantly — engineers, press, fans. He throws a casual arm around your shoulder more than once, guiding you through the crowd.

You notice it after the third introduction: no one asks who you are. They all assume.

“Oh, so this is your-”

“Hey, you finally brought her!”

“Lando’s girl, right?”

You start correcting people. At first.

“Oh no, we’re just-”

“Not together, actually.”

“Just friends.”

But he never jumps in. Never clarifies. Just smiles, tugs you along, calls you mate in that annoyingly endearing way.

At some point, you stop correcting anyone. You tell yourself it’s just easier that way.

You’re lying.

***

You meet Oscar by the snack table.

He’s polite, a little dry, surprisingly funny. You’re mid-laugh when Lando shows up, scooter wheels screeching dramatically.

“Hey,” he says, too loud. “What’s going on here?”

Oscar raises an eyebrow. “Just talking.”

“Looked like flirting from over there.”

Oscar blinks. “I was complimenting her trainers.”

Lando squints. “They’re mine.”

“Ah.” Oscar smiles. “Well, you’ve got good taste.”

You can feel the tension radiating off Lando like heat from asphalt.

“Oscar was just telling me about the simulator,” you say, steering the conversation.

Lando crosses his arms. “Yeah? I’m faster than him in it.”

“By two-tenths,” Oscar says mildly.

“Still counts.”

You glance between them. “Are you … racing right now?”

Oscar shrugs. “Always.”

Lando tries to lean casually against a tire stack. Misses. Nearly faceplants into a crate of water bottles.

You wince. “You okay?”

“I’m fine,” he grumbles, hopping back up.

Oscar’s expression is unreadable.

You bite your lip. “Should I, uh, go find my seat?”

Oscar nods. “Probably safer over there.”

You follow Lando as he storms off, silent. His curls are a mess. His ears are red.

When you finally stop near the garage, you say, “What was that?”

“What?”

“You nearly crashed your scooter trying to interrupt a conversation.”

“He was flirting with you.”

“No, he wasn’t.”

“He was definitely flirting with you.”

“And if he was?”

Lando blinks. “I-”

You tilt your head. “Lando.”

“I didn’t like it.”

You cross your arms. “Why not?”

He stares at the ground. Rubs the back of his neck. Looks nothing like the confident, camera-ready version of himself from earlier.

Finally, he says, quietly, “I just really like you.”

You freeze.

“I know I’m not your type,” he adds quickly. “And I know you’re probably just being nice to me because I make dumb jokes and cook badly and follow you around like a puppy-”

“Lando-”

“-but I’d try, you know? To be whatever it is you’re looking for. Even if I’m not it.”

The words hang between you. Raw. Honest. Vulnerable in a way you haven’t seen from him before.

You laugh. Just a little. Not because it’s funny, but because it’s too much.

He looks crushed.

“Sorry,” you say quickly. “That wasn’t — I’m not laughing at you. I’m just … overwhelmed.”

His mouth twitches like he’s trying to smile through it.

You reach for his arm. “You don’t have to be anything else. You’re already …”

You stop. Your heart fills in the blank your brain can’t say.

You’re already it.

***

Back in the garage, you watch him from a distance. He’s talking to his engineers, gesturing wildly, helmet tucked under one arm.

He doesn’t glance your way.

For once, you’re the one staring.

Something’s shifted again. The line you’ve been walking is gone. Or maybe it was never there to begin with.

Maybe this thing — whatever it is — isn’t waiting to be defined.

Maybe it’s just becoming.

***

It starts with a subject line you don’t want to read.

RE: Return to Work Policy Update.

You’re sitting cross-legged on the villa’s sun-warmed patio, coffee cold beside you, when the email comes through. You stare at it for a full minute before opening it.

Then you read it. Reread it. And again.

By the time the words actually register, your throat is dry.

They want you back.

In the office. Full-time. Effective immediately.

No room for extension. No regard for the months of burnout, the time zone, the soft, tender recovery you’ve only just begun to trust.

The deadline sits there, bold and final: next Friday.

If you don’t return, they’ll consider it a resignation.

Your hands tremble. Not dramatically. Just enough to spill a little coffee when you try to pick up the mug.

You wipe it away with your sleeve. Then you close the laptop slowly, gently, like maybe that’ll keep the contents from being real.

***

Lando doesn’t notice at first.

You’re good at hiding. You always have been.

He bounds into the kitchen mid-morning, wearing swim trunks and no shirt, hair wet from the sea. “I made toast!” He announces proudly. “It’s only slightly burnt. Also, I may have used all the butter.”

You smile. Or something close to it.

He pauses. “Hey. You okay?”

“Yeah. Just tired.”

“You wanna go for a swim?”

“Not right now.”

He watches you for a second longer than normal.

Then shrugs. “I’ll save you a good floaty.”

You nod.

But later, you don’t join him. You stay inside. You open a suitcase you haven’t touched in weeks. You fold slowly, carefully. As if touching your things too fast might make it all feel too real.

***

The villa shifts.

There’s a silence between you that hasn’t been there before. Not sharp, just … echoey.

You stop making jokes. Stop dancing in the kitchen. Stop stealing his hoodies and pretending not to.

Lando notices.

And he spirals.

First, he overcompensates — louder jokes, bolder breakfasts, compliments that sound like YouTube comments.

“You’re glowing today. Like, solar flare-level.”

“Okay.”

“That hoodie’s working overtime. Is that a new shade of existential dread?”

You manage a weak laugh. It makes him look relieved. Which only makes you feel worse.

Because none of this is his fault.

He doesn’t know.

You don’t tell him.

***

Wednesday, he plans the party.

He does it in secret. Sort of.

Oscar is in on it. So is Carlos — over FaceTime, mostly to say things like “Do not set anything on fire” and “Are you using actual TNT?”

Lando doesn’t care about the logistics. He just wants to make you smile.

“She’s leaving, I think,” he mutters, digging through drawers for balloons. “She hasn’t said it, but … I can tell.”

Oscar looks at him, concerned. “Did something happen?”

“Not exactly.” Lando shrugs. “I think I broke it.”

“You?”

“She’s … retreating. Like, emotionally. It’s like she’s packing her heart before her suitcase.”

Oscar frowns. “That’s poetic. Are you okay?”

Lando ignores the question. “I just want her to know she matters here. That this mattered. That I’ll-” He stops. Runs a hand through his curls. “-that I’ll miss her. So fucking much.”

***

The party is terrible.

Confetti ends up in the punch. The playlist is just ABBA and Martin Garrix on loop. Oscar bails halfway through. Carlos texts I warned you.

But the real problem is this.

You don’t show up.

Lando waits. He checks his phone. Checks the garden. The pool. The kitchen.

Nothing.

Eventually, he wanders outside. Something tells him to check the back.

That’s where he finds you.

Curled into yourself on a bench beneath the lemon tree, head bowed, fingers twisted in the hem of your shirt. Shoulders shaking.

He stops mid-step. Heart hammering.

“Hey.”

You flinch, barely.

He walks slowly, like he’s afraid you might vanish if he moves too fast.

“What’s wrong?” He asks gently.

You shake your head.

“I thought you were mad at me,” he admits. “But you’re-”

“I’m leaving,” you say suddenly, voice hoarse. “Next Friday. If I don’t go back, they’ll fire me.”

He blinks. “Oh.”

“I didn’t know how to tell you.”

Lando sits beside you. Not close enough to touch. Just near.

You bury your face in your hands.

“I don’t want to go,” you whisper. “But I don’t know how to stay, either.”

And just like that, the dam breaks. The tears come fast, messy, embarrassing in their intensity.

You expect him to panic. To joke. To offer a stupid, misplaced solution.

He doesn’t.

He just slides closer. Wraps his arms around you.

“I don’t know how to fix this,” he says softly, chin resting on your hair, “but I can sit here until you’re okay.”

You cling to him like he’s a life raft. And maybe he is.

You cry harder.

“I don’t know what I’m doing,” you admit. “I’ve spent years building a life I’m not even sure I want anymore.”

“Then don’t go back to it.”

“I have to.”

“Why?”

“Because I don’t know who I am without it.”

He’s quiet for a long time.

Then, quietly, “I think you’re someone who deserves to choose. And be chosen.”

You pull back slightly. Just enough to look at him.

His eyes are red. Not from tears, just open. Vulnerable.

“Lando,” you whisper.

He leans in.

Slow. Careful. Like he’s waiting for you to stop him.

You don’t.

The kiss is gentle. Reverent. A question more than an answer.

You breathe into it. Let your hand slide to his jaw. Let yourself feel the way he sighs against your mouth, like kissing you is something he’s been holding in for weeks.

When he finally pulls back, he rests his forehead against yours.

“Stay,” he says, barely audible.

You close your eyes.

“I want to.”

“Then we’ll figure it out.”

***

You don’t decide to stay because of Lando.

Not exactly.

You decide to stay because the thought of packing up now — of folding all this softness into a suitcase and shipping it back to a life you’re no longer sure you chose — makes your chest ache in a way that has nothing to do with fear and everything to do with clarity.

Lando doesn’t ask questions. He just finds you that morning in the kitchen, barefoot and bleary-eyed, scribbling a pros and cons list onto the back of an electric bill.

You don’t look up. You just say, “I’m not leaving. Not yet.”

He’s quiet for a second too long, and you glance up — worried he didn’t hear, or worse, that he did.

But then he grins. Huge. Bright. Like someone lit a fire inside him.

“You’re not leaving?”

“No.”

“Like … not leaving leaving?”

“For now.”

“For now,” he echoes, nodding, trying to play it cool. “Right. Yeah. Cool. Chill.”

You sip your coffee.

He bumps your shoulder. “So … does this mean I can keep introducing you as my emotionally exclusive, spiritually bonded non-girlfriend?”

You laugh into your mug. “That’s not a thing.”

“It could be. It sounds deep. Very committed. Like a tax bracket.”

“Just say girlfriend.”

“But we didn’t talk about it.”

“Then talk.”

He straightens, clears his throat dramatically. “Would you do me the honor of being my emotionally exclusive-”

“Lando.”

“Girlfriend. Would you be my girlfriend?”

You give him a long look. “Okay.”

He whoops and spins you around the kitchen before you can change your mind.

***

The days fall into place like dominoes after that.

Not perfect. Just … consistent. Yours.

Mornings start with half-burnt toast and Lando doing pushups in the living room because “I skipped the gym, babe. You want me to be weak?”

You steal his hoodies like it’s your job. He leaves little notes in your shoes like it’s his.

Sometimes, you fight. Over dumb stuff — who used the last clean towel, whether ketchup belongs in the fridge or the pantry, if “driver” is a real career or just a glorified Mario Kart enthusiast.

But the making up is easy.

It always has been, with him.

***

One afternoon, Lando walks into a coffee shop holding your hand and introduces you to the barista.

“This is my girlfriend.”

You blink. He hasn’t used the word out loud yet.

“Well,” he adds quickly, “not officially officially, but like, we’re emotionally exclusive. Spiritually connected. She knows where I keep my socks.”

The barista nods slowly, very confused.

You squeeze his hand. “We’re dating.”

“Oh,” she says, relieved. “Cool.”

Lando turns to you as soon as she walks away. “Was that weird?”

“A little.”

“Did I oversell it?”

“Maybe.”

“But you still like me?”

“Unfortunately.”

He beams. “Sucker.”

***

You record a video of him attempting to fold laundry and accidentally inventing a TikTok dance while pulling a hoodie inside out. It gets 300,000 likes overnight.

He tries to act modest. Fails completely.

“I’m an icon,” he says, scrolling through the comments. ‘Boyfriend energy — see that? That’s me. I am the boyfriend.”

You steal his phone.

“HEY!”

“No more reading comments. You’re unbearable.”

He leans in, eyes wide and innocent. “You knew what you signed up for.”

You did.

You just didn’t know it would feel this good.

***

Carlos calls during dinner one night. You’re sitting outside, feet in Lando’s lap, a half-eaten bowl of pasta between you.

Lando puts the call on speaker.

“Have you both burned down my villa yet?”

“Nope,” Lando says cheerfully. “Just christened all of it.”

You kick him.

Carlos sighs. “I knew letting you stay there was a mistake.”

You grin. “We’ll leave it better than we found it.”

“Good. Because I’m coming back next month.”

Lando chokes on his milk.

Carlos raises an eyebrow — visible even through the pixelation. “What?”

“Nothing. Cool. Chill. Welcome back, mate.”

You lean in. “We’ll be out before then.”

“Where are you going?”

Lando shrugs. “Nowhere far.”

Carlos stares suspiciously, but lets it go.

For now.

***

It happens on a Sunday.

You come home from the market, arms full of fresh herbs and way too many lemons because Lando said “go big or go home,” and walk into absolute chaos.

Smoke. Everywhere.

You freeze in the doorway.

“Lando?”

A pan clatters. “It’s fine!”

You drop the groceries and rush in. He’s waving a dish towel at the smoke detector, eyes watering.

“What did you do?”

“I was trying to make that shrimp thing you like!”

“I told you I was allergic to shellfish!”

He pauses. “Wait, shrimp counts as shellfish?”

You just stare.

“I thought it was like … seafood.”

“It is seafood!”

“So … not fish?”

You blink at him. “That’s your defense?”

He drops the towel. “I’m really bad at this.”

You cross your arms. “I noticed.”

He opens his mouth to keep digging the hole.

You laugh.

It surprises both of you.

“God,” you say, walking over, “you’re a disaster.”

“I tried to impress you!”

“With anaphylaxis?”

“I got confused!”

You wrap your arms around his waist, still laughing.

He exhales, relief flooding through him.

You tilt your head up. “Next time, just buy me a cupcake.”

He grins. “Can do.”

Then he kisses you. Slow, familiar. Like you have nowhere else to be.

And maybe you don’t.

Maybe this is it.

Maybe this mess of smoke and lemons and burnt fish-smelling air is yours.

***

Later, curled up on the couch in one of his shirts, you ask, “So what’s the plan when Carlos comes back?”

Lando taps something on his phone, pretending to be casual. “We … move?”

You raise an eyebrow. “That’s your plan?”

He tosses the phone down and stretches, clearly trying to be nonchalant. “I mean, we can’t actually stay here forever.”

“No,” you admit.

“I’ve been looking at places.”

Your eyes widen. “Seriously?”

“Yeah.” He shrugs, cheeks going pink. “Just, you know. In case we want … options.”

You lean your head against his shoulder. “And do we?”

“I do.”

He presses a kiss to your hair, then grins.

“Hey … do you know any good lawyers?”

You look up. “Why?”

“Because Carlos is definitely going to want his villa back. And I think I need legal counsel before I sign the papers on a new one.”

You laugh. “Are you trying to retain me?”

He grins. “Emotionally. Spiritually. Legally.”

You nudge him playfully. “You’re such a dork.”

“And you love it.”

You do.

And you’re staying.

***

Carlos arrives at the villa just after noon, sun-tanned and dead-eyed, dragging two suitcases and a single, unrelenting hope.

Peace. Quiet. Maybe a cold beer. No one yelling. No team meetings. No cameras.

Just Marbella, his lemon trees, and the blessed sound of absolutely nothing.

He exhales as he unlocks the front gate, breathing in the soft scent of sea salt and sunscreen. It’s good to be home.

Or so he thinks.

Because he hasn’t noticed the massive moving truck parked next door yet.

***

He’s halfway through unpacking — half a beer gone, half a suitcase open — when he hears it.

A crash. Then laughter. Then what sounds like, yep that’s Lando’s voice shouting, “Babe, I think I broke the blender but like … in a hot way?”

Carlos freezes.

“No,” he mutters. “No. No. No.”

He walks stiffly out to the garden wall, cranes his neck — and there, as if summoned by evil spirits and bad karma, is Lando.

Wearing a tank top, holding a screwdriver, grinning like the world is made of sunshine and Monster energy.

“CARLOS!” He yells, delighted. “You’re back!”

Carlos stares, horrified. “Why are you here?”

“Oh, right — funny story!” Lando sets the screwdriver down on what might once have been a blender. “We live here now.”

“You what?”

“Moved in last week.”

Carlos blinks. “Here? As in … next door?”

“Yeah! Isn’t that great?”

Carlos looks like he’s trying to mentally summon a lightning strike. “You bought that place?”

“Well, technically it’s still in escrow,” Lando says, wiping his hands on his shorts. “But spiritually, we’ve already moved in.”

Carlos glares.

Lando grins wider. “Wanna see the kitchen? We painted one of the walls blue by accident but I think it kind of slaps.”

Before Carlos can recover enough to yell, you step out from inside, wearing Lando’s hoodie and holding a glass of orange juice like you own the sun.

You freeze. “Oh.”

He blinks. “You’re here too?”

You smile sheepishly. “Hi, Carlos.”

Lando beams. “We’re neighbors!”

Carlos closes his eyes. “I need another beer.”

“Want one of ours?” Lando offers brightly. “I bought those fancy ones you like. The ones with the weird labels.”

Carlos opens one eye. “Did you drink all the ones in my fridge?”

“No! I have your beer memorized.”

“That’s not better.”

You snort, already laughing.

Carlos stares at the two of you, then sighs. “This was supposed to be my peaceful getaway.”

“We can be peaceful,” you promise.

Lando leans against the garden wall. “Super peaceful.”

A loud crash echoes behind him.

You wince. “What was that?”

Lando blinks. “Oh no. I left the microwave on.”

Carlos groans into his hands. “This is my nightmare.”

“C’mon, it’s us,” Lando says, grinning. “What could go wrong?”

Carlos doesn’t answer. He just walks back into his villa, muttering something about divine punishment.

***

From his kitchen, he can hear you both laughing through the open windows.

And weirdly, it kind of sounds like home.

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ari-ana-bel-la · 6 months ago

Note

Hey could you write maybe more of dad carlos maybe drive to survive and little yn steals the show at 3 years old

Drive to Survive the Yn show

Carlos had known from the moment he opened his front door at the crack of dawn that this weekend was going to be a long one. The Drive to Survive crew stood outside, cameras already rolling, lights glaring, and all Carlos could do was stare at them with an unimpressed expression, arms crossed over his chest.

“Good morning, Carlos!” one of the producers greeted him cheerfully.

He sighed, stepping aside to let them in. “Is it?”

The crew laughed, mistaking his sarcasm for good humor. He shuffled towards the kitchen, rubbing his face as he tried to wake up properly. He was used to early mornings, but this? Being filmed first thing in the morning in his own house? This was excessive.

Carlos moved around the kitchen with practiced ease, grabbing eggs, bread, and fresh fruit while the cameras hovered around him. He knew how this worked—every word, every glance could be twisted into a narrative of Netflix’s choosing.

As he cracked eggs into a pan, soft footsteps signaled that Rebecca had woken up. His wife appeared in the doorway, still dressed in pajamas, hair a little messy from sleep. She paused at the sight of the cameras and gave Carlos a knowing look.

“Oh no,” she muttered, making her way over to him. “They caught you before coffee?”

Carlos huffed. “Sí. I think they planned it.”

The crew chuckled again, but Rebecca ignored them as she reached for a cup and poured herself coffee, sighing in satisfaction as she took her first sip. “Well, at least they get to see the real you.”

Carlos smirked. “Which version? Grumpy pre-coffee Carlos or amazing chef Carlos?”

“Both,” she teased, giving him a quick kiss on the cheek before hopping onto the counter to watch him cook.

It wasn’t long before more footsteps echoed down the hallway. His parents had arrived. Reyes greeted the cameras with her usual warm smile, unfazed by their presence, while Carlos Sr. simply gave them a polite nod before making a beeline for the coffee machine.

And then, the real star of the morning made her appearance.

Rebecca turned her head as the sound of tiny, tired whimpers came from the staircase. “There she is,” she murmured, shifting off the counter to meet their daughter.

Little Yn, still half-asleep, clung to her mother’s shoulder, her curls a messy halo around her head. She buried her face in Rebecca’s neck, only peeking out when she realized something was different.

The cameras.

Carlos put down the spatula and walked over, effortlessly taking Yn into his arms. “Oh, mi amor, still sleepy?”

Yn made a tiny noise of agreement and nuzzled against his chest. Carlos instinctively cradled her closer, rubbing her back. “It’s okay, go back to sleep, baby,” he whispered, pressing a kiss to her forehead.

Rebecca looked at the Netflix crew and smirked. “I think you’ve lost your main character.”

She was right. The cameras were no longer focused on Carlos. They had all shifted to Yn, who was curled up against her father, completely unbothered by the world.

Carlos shook his head. “Figures.”

By the time they arrived at the circuit, Carlos had accepted his fate. This was no longer his documentary episode—this was Yn’s.

The moment their little family stepped out of the car, the fans erupted.

“CARLOS!”

“REBECCA!”

“YN!”

Carlos blinked. He turned to Rebecca, who raised an eyebrow. “She has fans now?”

Rebecca grinned. “Obviously. She’s adorable.”

Yn, meanwhile, was unbothered by the attention, happily munching on a strawberry as they made their way through the paddock. The cameras continued following them, but they seemed less interested in Carlos preparing for his home race and more in his three-year-old daughter discovering the world around her.

At one point, Yn gasped, dropping her strawberry. “¡Mariposa!”

Carlos followed her gaze to see a small yellow butterfly fluttering near the McLaren motorhome. Before he could react, Yn took off running.

Or at least, what counted as running for a three-year-old.

“Dios,” Carlos muttered, already following her. The cameras, of course, were rolling.

Yn giggled as she “chased” the butterfly, tiny legs moving as fast as they could. The butterfly barely even noticed her, lazily floating through the air as if playing a game with her.

“Papá, so fast!” Yn announced proudly.

Carlos snorted. “Yes, super fast, mi vida.”

He caught her just before she could stumble, lifting her into his arms. She giggled, still reaching for the butterfly.

Behind them, Charles appeared, laughing. “She’s faster than you in slow corners, mate.”

Carlos rolled his eyes. “Not now, Charles.”

Charles grinned at Yn. “You remember Roscoe and Leo, right?”

Yn blinked up at him, thoughtful. “Sí.”

“Well, they remember you too,” Charles assured her.

Carlos snorted. “Charles, they are dogs.”

Charles ignored him. “Do you want to say hi next time I visit?”

Yn nodded excitedly. “Yes! Leo soft.”

“See? She gets it.” Charles ruffled her curls, earning another giggle before he walked off.

The Netflix cameras were still following, capturing every second.

Carlos sighed. “This is not about me anymore.”

Rebecca patted his back. “You’re just realizing that now?”

Between media duties, meetings, and race prep, Carlos kept an eye on his daughter. It was a habit at this point—he could be mid-conversation with his engineers, but a small movement from Yn in the corner of his vision would immediately catch his attention.

At one point, while Carlos, Rebecca, Reyes, and Carlos Sr. sat in the hospitality area drinking coffee, Yn curled up in her grandfather’s lap, yawning.

Carlos Sr. smiled, running a gentle hand through her hair. “She’s tired from all the excitement.”

Rebecca reached over, stroking Yn’s cheek. “It’s been a big morning.”

Yn’s eyelids drooped. “Sleepy,” she murmured.

“Then sleep, mi amor,” her grandfather whispered, adjusting his hold so she was more comfortable.

Yn didn’t need to be told twice. She was asleep within minutes.

Carlos shook his head, watching her. “She can sleep anywhere.”

Reyes smiled. “Like you when you were little.”

The cameras, of course, filmed the whole thing.

Later, Rebecca knelt beside Yn, applying sunscreen to her delicate skin.

Yn wrinkled her nose. “Cold!”

“I know, baby,” Rebecca soothed, rubbing it in.

Yn giggled as the cream was smoothed over her arms and cheeks. She wiggled but let her mother finish, laughing when Rebecca poked her tummy playfully.

Carlos sat beside them, shaking his head with a smile. “You think sunscreen is funny, mi amor?”

Yn nodded enthusiastically. “Tickles!”

The cameras caught the entire moment. Carlos wasn’t sure if Netflix had ever filmed something so far removed from the actual racing season.

By the time the race weekend ended, Carlos wasn’t even sure why Netflix had followed him at all.

They had hours of footage of Yn—running after butterflies, giggling while getting sunscreen, falling asleep in her grandfather’s arms. The clips of him were mostly just him being a protective dad, always watching over her.

On the last day, Carlos looked at the cameras and sighed. “Are you even making a show about Formula 1 anymore?”

One of the producers grinned. “We’re just following the most interesting story of the weekend.”

Carlos groaned.

Rebecca smirked. “Told you, cariño. You’re not the main character anymore.”

Yn, sitting happily in Carlos’ lap, clapped her hands. “Me!”

Carlos sighed, pressing a kiss to the top of her head. “Yes, baby. You.”

And somehow, he didn’t mind at all.

(And when the episode finally aired, the title was: “Carlos Sainz: Family Man.” He never forgave Netflix for that.)

♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♥︎♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡

Authors Note: Hey loves. I hope you enjoyed reading this story. My requests are always open for you.

-💙🦋

#f1 drivers as fathers #formula 1 #formula one #f1 x daughter!reader #f1 x female reader #formula 1 x reader #f1 x reader #💙🦋#carlos sainz x daughter!reader #carlos sainz x reader #sainz!reader #dad!carlos sainz #charles leclerc x reader #netflix

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wendichester · 4 months ago

Note

please can i request where both Sam and Dean and DOWN BAD for reader and they’re kinda competing whilst reader is just sweet and oblivious :3

-💌

⋆ 𐙚 ̊. sweet, oblivious, you,

summary. dean likes you. sam likes you, too. lucky you, oblivious to it all.

pairing. dean winchester x reader x sam winchester genre. fluff? giggling

wordcount. 902

notes / warnings. the fact that i will NEVER get tired of writing this scenario. ever. keep 'em coming! 😙

It starts — like all dumb things do — with a stupid dare.

“Bet I can make her laugh first,” Dean smirks across the map table, arms folded like a smug bastard.

Sam snorts. “You wish. She actually appreciates wit, not whatever half-baked dad jokes you throw around.”

You’re by the bookshelf, humming under your breath, completely oblivious to the low-key testosterone death match firing up behind you. You reach up for a dusty tome, tiptoeing just slightly. The hem of your shirt rides up.

Dean notices. Sam notices. They both die a little inside.

Dean’s already moving before his brain catches up, slipping in beside you with a cocky grin.

“Need a hand, sweetheart?” he drawls, voice low and way-too-charming.

You glance over, flashing him a sunny, unsuspecting smile that could probably solve international crises. “Oh, thanks, Dean! But I got it.” You stretch a little higher. The book wobbles dangerously.

Sam’s at your side in an instant, shooting Dean a look that screams "back off."

“Careful,” Sam says, steadying your elbow with a gentle hand. “You’ll hurt yourself.”

Dean rolls his eyes so hard you hear it. “She’s reaching for a book, Sammy. Not defusing a bomb.”

“Still.” Sam’s thumb brushes your arm, lingering way longer than necessary. “Better safe than sorry.”

You, adorable and oblivious, just beam at them both like they’re not about two seconds from actual combat over who gets to breathe your air first.

The second battlefront: dinner.

You curl up in one of the bunker’s oversized chairs, thumbing through an old lore book, mind a million miles away.

Dean’s in the kitchen, sleeves pushed up, working the stove like he's auditioning for a cooking show. Sam’s at the counter, chopping vegetables with the focused intensity of a man preparing for war.

You poke your head in. “Whatcha making?”

Dean immediately perks up. “Your favorite,” he says, without hesitation. (He’s guessing. He has no idea. But it’s worth the gamble.)

Sam frowns. “I thought you liked pasta?” He’s already halfway into preparing a damn Michelin-starred spaghetti situation.

You laugh — that bright, easy sound that turns both their spines into melted goo — and shrug. “Honestly? I’ll eat anything. Thanks, guys!”

And just like that, they’re both locked in a culinary death race, throwing ingredients around like Iron Chef rejects, both pretending not to be watching your every move.

Dean wins, barely, sliding a plate in front of you with a wink that says worship me, woman.

Sam, not to be outdone, offers fresh-grated parmesan with a flourish. You clap your hands, delighted by the drama you don’t even realize you’ve caused.

They both look like they’ve been knighted when you say it’s the best dinner you’ve had all month.

The third (and most painful) arena: movie night.

You stretch out on the couch, blanket pooled around your legs, utterly relaxed.

Dean flops down beside you, casual as hell, his thigh brushing yours. No accident.

Sam pointedly drops onto your other side, “accidentally” letting his arm settle along the back of the couch — behind you. Also no accident.

The TV flickers. Some old action movie Dean picked blares into the room, all explosions and bad one-liners. You cuddle deeper into the couch, utterly content, totally unaware you’ve become the center of a full-blown territorial pissing contest.

Dean shifts closer. His knee bumps yours again. This time he doesn’t move it.

Sam leans in, murmuring some quiet comment about the plot that makes you laugh. His hand, warm and steady, brushes the back of your shoulder.

Dean glares at Sam. Sam glares at Dean.

You just sip your drink, clueless, precious, without a single idea that these two men are on the verge of an emotional knife fight over who gets to make you giggle next.

The final straw?

You yawn.

Not just any yawn — a sleepy, trusting, head-tilted yawn that makes you look small and soft and like every secret dream they’ve ever been too scared to say out loud.

You lean, just slightly, onto Sam’s side.

Dean’s arm snaps out, catching your waist instinctively, pulling you half against him instead.

You blink up at them both, confused and sleepy and unfairly cute.

“What’s wrong?” you mumble.

Everything, Dean thinks, stomach flipping.

Nothing, Sam thinks, already plotting Dean’s downfall.

Dean covers faster. “Nothing, sweetheart. You’re just…” His voice dips, rough and warm. “You’re real cute when you’re tired, y’know that?”

Sam’s hand flexes where it’s still behind you, fighting every urge to just tuck you under his chin and never let you go.

You laugh softly, like they haven’t just shredded themselves into tiny pathetic ribbons over you. “You guys are weird tonight,” you tease.

Dean grins, cocky and lazy, masking the manic panic under his ribs. “We’re always weird, darlin’.”

Sam hums, low and agreeable, his palm brushing your shoulder again — a steady, grounding touch.

You yawn again, curling up tighter between them like you belong there. Neither of them breathes for a full minute.

Later, when you’re asleep, curled up with your head on a shared pillow between them, Dean catches Sam’s eye over your hair.

Silent. Battling.

Sam shrugs a little, as if to say, not giving up.

Dean smirks back, mouth twitching with all the trouble he plans to cause. Bring it on, Sammy.

Because no matter who wins?

You’re the prize.

And hell — you’re worth fighting for.

ꔛ. navigation 𓂃˖ ࣪ all drabbles ; compatibility readings ; support my work .ᐟ

#dean winchester #sam winchester #dean winchester x reader #sam winchester x reader #dean winchester fluff #sam winchester fluff #dean winchester fic #sam winchester fic #supernatural #.docx #.req

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joffyworld · 8 months ago

Text

FORNARIIIIIIII

Reunification

#OHHHHH SHITTTTTTT #YESSSSSS #STEPDADRINDER #STEPRINDER #DADRINDER #FUCKINGGGG YESSSSSSSSS #ELIZA COOKS AGAIN #IT WAS NEVER IN DOUBT #THIS CHEF HAS NEVER LEFT THE KITCHEN IN HER LIFE HOLY SHIT #SO FUCKING SKILLED AND SUCH A LOVELY PERSON TOO LIKE HOW DO YOU FIND THE TIME????????

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queen-of-signs · 1 month ago

Text

📚🎬5th Lord Through the Houses 🎨👶

Note: These are all my personal observations and patterns I've noticed over the years. Take what resonates with you more and leave the rest. Lemme know in the comments if it hits home! A single placement or aspect isn't enough to conclude and the whole chart has to be analyzed! Look at ur Vedic chart!

5th lord in 1st -> You come off playful or youthful, no matter your age. You're the fun aunt/uncle in your family. Your children reflect you a lot in terms of looks, behavior, or personality. You romanticize life and relationships a lot. You might’ve had crushes or romantic experiences early in life. You're your own teacher. You enjoy content that reflects you, like vlogging, journaling, selfies, and POV content. You’re the type who talks about your crushes or kids like they're your whole personality. You’ll randomly start dancing or acting out scenes in the mirror. Might treat your pets like they’re your actual children. Might have your future baby names picked out since 15. You tie your self-worth to grades and low-key panic if you don’t perform well.

5th lord in 2nd -> You treat your kids like mini besties. They would grow up eating the same food, watching the same shows. Your kids are exact little copies of your mindset. You have this “come over, I’ll cook” energy. You're the frnd who remembers the birthdays and shows up with gifts and snacks at the hangout. You're lowkey possessive in love like "what's mine is mine" energy. You study in the same spot every day as routine helps you focus. You might overshare your love life with your family. You keep baby pics, old drawings, or love notes in drawers “just in case.” You’ve definitely written a love letter at least once in your life.

5th lord in 3rd -> Your kids might pick up your slang as they age. You tried to start a vlog, blog, or fan page at least once. You’ve had at least one situationship that started in the DMs. You’ve had crushes on classmates, neighbors, friend's sibling, like real “next door” energy. You randomly start hobbies, do them for 3 weeks, then never touch it again. Also, you multitask while studying. Your friends might know everything about your romantic life, with updates included. You like it when someone creatively roasts you. You buy matching notebooks, stationery, or games for you and your kid/partner.

5th lord in 4th -> You cuddle with your kids or partner while watching the same comfort show. You might decorate the house based on your crush's or child’s favorite color, theme, or cartoon. You cook or bake when you're in love or just feeling soft. After kids, you might keep boxes full of your kids' first drawings, first haircut, random scribbles, everything. You might clean the house aggressively when you're mad at someone. You feel personally attacked if someone dislikes your home setup or decor. You take things personally…then cook for them anyway.

5th lord in 5th -> You're the kind of parent to go around and tell everyone that your child is gifted. You would put your kids on a pedestal. You could be great at cooking or will become one once kids are in the picture. You can even open a restaurant or become a chef later in life. You would take your kid’s wins personally, like you got the A+ or scored the goal. You love being liked by your kids’ teachers or your partner’s friends. You call your partner/kid “my world” like five times a week.

5th lord in 6th -> You clean while angry, like scrubbing the sink, because your partner replied “k.” You’ve dated at least one walking headache. You help your kid/classmates with homework but end up doing most of it while yelling. This can continue in your work life as well. You might be into watching trashy shows or watching bad movies for fun. You’ve had to block and unblock someone more than once. Seriously, why sign your kid up for activities, then complain about having to take them? You get annoyed when someone interrupts your TV time. You and your partner or kid argue, then bond over a shared complaint or gossip about someone else. You procrastinate hard, then go beast mode last minute.

5th lord in 7th -> You treat every crush like it could turn into marriage. You do fantasize about them having kids with you and all. You naturally seek a partner who would be a good partner to you and a good parent to your children. You might watch romcoms and imagine the characters as you and your person. You make future plans with someone you just met, in your head. You want to feel chosen by your kid, your bae, your crush, and everyone.

5th lord in 8th -> You don’t post/talk about your crush or partner until it’s dead serious. You fall for people who make you feel safe and low-key mess you up emotionally. You’ve had crushes no one knew about for literal years. You would teach your kid to keep things in the family, like “don’t tell anyone our business.” You might randomly disappear from socials when you’re going through something. You low-key get mad when someone doesn’t share their feelings, but also you won’t share yours.

5th lord in 9th -> You say things like “I just want my future gen to have a better life than I did.” You fall for people who live far or come from a different background. You catch feelings for people who are out of reach like a different city, culture, age, or time zone. You get major crushes on teachers, mentors, professors, or the one who “knows stuff.” You might love to visit museums, libraries, or watch documentaries “for fun.” You might daydream about studying abroad or actually studying abroad. You randomly get obsessed with one topic, then forget it 2 weeks later.

5th lord in 10th -> You want your crush to like your posts on socials, compliment your dress, or talk proudly of you to others. That gives you a full serotonin hit. You crush on people with status, doesn’t have to be famous, just well-respected. If you have a kid one day, you want them to look up to you and feel proud (you already think about that sometimes).

5th lord in 11th -> You’ve caught feelings for someone who was just a “friend” more than once. You’ve been in a “we’re not dating, but we talk every day” situation. You post or update your status about something subtle, hoping that one person will see it and “get it.” You might have studied abroad or could have been homeschooled or changed schools twice or thrice during childhood. You spend 90% of your time online talking to people you don’t even hang with IRL. You might have joined a random online space (group, fandom, server) and made real connections there.

5th lord in 12th -> Be honest, you fall asleep while daydreaming full fake convos in your head. You don’t really tell people what you enjoy most bcoz it's personal. You don’t mind being alone but still feel left out when people make plans without you. You stay up at night doing absolutely nothing but still don’t sleep. You like doing creative stuff but only when no one's watching. You zone out in class and miss the main point, but somehow still pass. You cram the night before and pray for memory to kick in during the exam. You’ve studied while lying in bed and fallen asleep with the laptop open.

💌For readings, check out my pinned post for pricing! ✨💌🪐

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doodlyyna · 18 days ago

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RAW FEELINGS ― R. SUKUNA

♯ content. ― chef!sukuna, college!reader, fem!reader, small age gap (sukuna is 28, reader is 23), likely incorrect use of culinary terms and michelin stars again, ooc!sukuna me thinks, ooc! everyone actually. wc. 5.3k

✎ summary. — When Ryomen Sukuna announces a meet-and-greet event, you sign up, not thinking anything of it. That is, until you're on a flight to LA to attend a cooking class with a michelin chef. Only problem is.. you're a terrible cook.

⤷ note: soso sorry for the wait! the last week has been so busy </3 (credit to my discord kittens for the title, poetic geniuses🙂‍↕️)

drabble

The meeting room smells like coffee and pure exhaustion. The table is littered with empty cups, half opened laptops, and scattered papers filled with notes. A whiteboard sits at the front of the room, the ink of half finished thoughts smudged and erased. It's silent, aside from Uraume's exasperated sighs and Sukuna's fingers drumming on the edge of the table.

The past hour has gone something like this:

An idea is proposed. A signing event, a merch line, discounted meals, anything you could think of. Sukuna leans back, pretends to consider it, and then shakes his head. By the third suggestion, Uraume can sense an oncoming headache. Despite how badly they want to intervene as his manager, they can't force Sukuna to participate in an event. He simply won't show up.

His PR team's leader, Kenji, is worn thin. "Oh," he lifts his head, "we can sell his apron. Or one of his knives."

Sukuna scoffs. "Who the hell is buyin' that?"

Kenji takes a breath, doing his best to channel his inner patience. "I don't see you offering any ideas."

The man does nothing but shrug, leaning back in his seat. "That's your job. 'm not allowed to pitch ideas anymore, remember?"

At times like this, Uraume wonders how he made it this far.

Thinking back, they've been there to watch his entire career develop. He went from a broke college student posting gourmet instant noodle recipes to a michelin star chef with a successful restaurant. Uraume was the one who encouraged him to start posting in the first place. He never lacked passion. If anything, he just needed a small nudge in the right direction.

He started off as a line cook, quiet and dedicated to his craft. It wasn't often that he actually spoke to his coworkers outside of work. Back then, Sukuna didn't care where he was as long as he was cooking.

Uraume still remembers the night they met as if it was yesterday. It was late at night, in a small convenience store near their school. They were standing in front of the instant noodles when Sukuna walked beside them, nudging his chin towards the pack in their hand. "Don't get that one," he'd plucked the noodles from their hand, tossing it onto the shelf. "Get this. It's healthy but it still tastes good."

Looking at him, messy pink hair and tribal tattoos, Uraume only had one thought — he was weird. Especially after he went on a rant about the levels of MSG in instant foods as of late. Without a word, he took their bowl and made his way to the microwave. Uraume couldn't do anything but follow behind the stranger, watching in awe as he put such care into something so simple. In the end, curiosity won, and they tried the food. For convenience store noodles, it was the best thing they'd ever tasted.

In the past, he was just a college student with a brash personality Uraume could appreciate. Now, he's the main reason for the dull ache in Uraume's temple.

All things considered, Sukuna has never been easy to work with. Between his snarky comments and dry attitude, most people didn't like him. He wasn't one to express himself clearly, but he wasn't so bad if you bothered to look close enough.

He's weird that way. But people say some things presents itself in mysterious ways. It seems that Sukuna's way of showing he cares is by being insufferable and annoying his entire team.

Speak of the devil, his voice interrupts Uraume's thoughts. "I'm a chef. I cook."

Someone scoffs, "You have fans, Sukuna. That basically makes you a celebrity."

That's it. How could they forget? Ryomen Sukuna is a chef above all else.

He sucks his teeth. "The hell do you people take me fo—"

"Be quiet," Uraume interrupts. "How about a cooking class that doubles as a meet-and-greet?"

A beat passes. Slowly, everyone's attention turns to Sukuna.

He stays silent. Uraume takes it as their cue to continue. "We can keep it small, ten people at most. Sukuna gets to cook, and his fans get to meet him. Win-win."

The room watches him with bated breath. This is their best idea so far; if he rejects this, they're out of luck.

After what feels like hours, Sukuna finally turns to face Uraume. "I have full control of the menu." He pauses, then adds, "And I want to choose the winners."

The entire room seems to release a breath. Now that he finally agreed to an idea, the hard part is over. All that's left is to figure out details and announce the event.

From there on, the meeting room is the image of controlled chaos. With so many things to figure out and so little time, everyone is moving quickly. Even Sukuna is put to work, much to his dismay, assigned with deciding on a menu and the event type.

The setting sun shines through the windows, casting a warm light on the aftermath of today's work. Papers are still scattered across the table, now filled with notes and tasks. The sounds of pens scratching across paper and clicking keyboards have died down into relaxed jokes.

The room gradually gets empty, until it's just the two of them left. Sukuna leans back with his legs spread under the table. He seems to be lost in thought when Uraume looks up. After a moment, his head jerks up, his brows furrowed. "They're amateurs. Probably can't even hold a knife properly. How am I 'posed to teach a cooking class like that?"

Uraume doesn't even look up this time, still focused on the pile of papers in front of them. "We're choosing two students from a local culinary school." They glance up, commenting dryly, "Try not to suck the life out of them."

Sukuna hums, then grins. "Always a step ahead, huh? Smart cookie."

They don't respond, but Sukuna doesn't miss the faint smile pulling at their lips. Even after nine years, the two of them haven't changed.

When you see the announcement, you're sprawled out on the floor in your friend's dorm. While everyone else is scattered around the room, Shoko sits beside you with her feet on your lap, turning her phone every few minutes to show you another stupid post. Suddenly, she sits up, shoving her phone in your face. "Look! Isn't this that dude you're always drooling over?"

You sit up, confusion painted across your features. "What dude?"

9 Year Anniversary Event: Meet-and-greet cooking class with Michelin Chef Ryomen Sukuna!

The room falls silent. You stare at the screen for a few seconds too long, and Shoko stares at you as if you're malfunctioning. To be fair, you are.

Maki leans forward, peeking over Shoko's shoulder. "A meet and greet? That has to be a scam. I heard he's an asshole in person."

"Yeah," Utahime chimes in, "But he looks better in person. I think you should sign up!"

You glance between them, weighing your options. On one hand, it's a great opportunity. You've been watching Sukuna since your freshman year of high school. You remember binging his videos when you were supposed to be studying algebra. He was only nineteen then, still adventurous enough to try whatever weird combination fans recommended. His thumbnails were what caught your attention, always pictures of the food at weird angles. However, his blunt personality is what kept you watching for so long.

So, there's plenty of reasons to sign up — there's one thing that cancels everything else out. One tiny, irrelevant problem.

You can't cook. Not only that, you're terrible at it.

Shoko clicks on the post and scrolls. She hums contemplatively, then shrugs. "It looks fun. I don't see why not."

Nodding in agreement, Utahime moves to sit on your left. She snatches the pillow under your head, grinning when you swat at her. "You've liked him for a long time, right? As long as you don't faint in front of him, you'll be fine!"

After a moment, Maki speaks up. "Are you going to be upset if you don't win? There's probably thousands of people signing up." Maki cares about all of you, it's just.. subtle.

You purse your lips, mulling it over. She's not wrong; there's no telling how many people will sign up, so it's better to stay realistic.

"Okay," you murmur, glancing over the details. "Yolo, I guess." Mumbling a half-hearted prayer that you aren't selling your soul, you reach for the phone.

Shoko immediately gasps, slamming her phone down. "Yolo? Whenever I say it you act like it's a crime!"

Laughter fills the room. Maki snorts, "Only because you say it whenever that douchebag calls you."

She opens her mouth to speak, glancing around for a moment, then closes it. "It doesn't hurt to be curious. Maybe he wants to get back together."

"Curiousity killed the cat," you tease, plucking the phone from her hands. "I think you're out of lives, missy."

Shoko rolls her eyes, but she's already smirking. "It's nothing serious, okay? I'm just.. gathering information."

"Information about how pathetic he is," Utahime mumbles, peeking over your shoulder.

Maki tosses a pillow at her, sighing loudly. "Can we stop talking about exes? I'm getting a headache."

You chuckle, tossing Shoko's phone onto her lap. "Deal. No more reminiscing tonight."

The dorm settles into a low hum, AC rattling in the window like it's trying to escape. The form sits forgotten on Shoko's phone, confirmation email sitting in your inbox. As you lie there, surrounded by crumbs and laughter, you can't help but smile.

A week later, you get the email.

You're sitting in the library, laptop half open in front of you as you pretend to study. You nearly drop your phone and scream.

Congratulations! You've been selected to participate in Ryomen Sukuna's 9th Anniversary Meet-and-Greet!

You stare at the email for what feels like hours. Is this real? Thousands, maybe more signed up for this. What are the chances that you got picked?

Eventually you close the email and brush it off as a scam. They've gotten more and more realistic lately.

Deep down, you're a little disappointed. But you weren't expecting to win. It's enough to live through the few people that did win.

At least, that's what you thought — until your phone is displaying a call from an unsaved number. You usually don't answer calls like that, but something in your gut told you to answer.

"Hello?"

Uraume's voice comes through the speaker, soft and flat.

"Hi. This is Uraume, Chef Sukuna's manager. We sent an email yesterday and didn't get a response."

You blink, fumbling for words. "I— That was real?"

The line is quiet for a moment, then a soft huff of laughter. "Yes, that was real. You were selected as one of the winners."

"...Are you sure?"

"I'm positive," Uraume reassures. "Ryomen picked the winners himself."

Your heart nearly drops through the floor. Ryomen Sukuna himself picked.. you?

Uraume continues at your silence. "If you're unable to attend—"

"No, no, I can!" You blurt, scrambling to gather your things. "Um, I might need some time to figure out transportation and such."

"Everything is paid for. It's an all-inclusive trip."

"Oh."

The realization sinks like a brick. You're going to meet someone you've admired for nearly ten years. You're meeting Ryomen Sukuna.

And then it really hits you.

You're meeting Ryomen Sukuna.. at a cooking class.

And you're a terrible cook.

"Are you there?"

Uraume's voice brings you out of your thoughts. "I'm here. Um, is there anything else I need to do?"

"No. The rest of the details will be emailed to you. Have a nice day."

The call ends soon after, leaving you in a calm silence. It lasts for a total of ten seconds.

You're already frantically tapping at your screen, excitement bubbling in your chest as you all but sprint out of the library. You can't dial the numbers fast enough.

You call Shoko first. She gets less than ten words out before you're cutting her off. "Yes, my buzzy beautiful sunshine nug—"

"Sho, the email wasn't a scam! I actually won!"

"Won? What are you talking about?"

You falter mid step, staring ahead incredulously. "Sho.. the event I signed up for last week."

A beat of silence. Then: a gasp and squeal. "Seriously? Oh, don't forget me when you marry him and get super rich and famous."

You click your tongue and shake your head, smiling. "You're the first one I'm forgetting if that ever happens."

You call Utahime and Maki next. Utahime talks so fast that you have to remind her to breathe, and Maki sighs exasperatedly in the background.

The next two days are a cycle of rereading the email, packing, and questioning your sanity.

You and your friends gather in your dorm the day before you leave, huddled around your suitcase.

"It's a cooking class, not a trip to the Bahamas. Why would I pack a bathing suit?"

Shaking her head, Shoko shoves it into your bag anyway. "You're probably going to some snotty hotel. It's obviously going to have a pool, so you need a bathing suit."

Surprisingly, Maki nods in agreement. "Think of it as a vacation. It's not everyday that your whole trip is paid for." She ignores you even when you glare at her, turning to look at Utahime rummaging through your closet. "What are you looking for?"

She turns, holding out a dress. "An outfit for the event. This is a michelin chef we're talking about. My dear friend, you will turn heads."

When Utahime gets like this, it's best to let her be. Maki sighs, turning to find Shoko elbow deep in her chips. "I dunno. He's not all that— Maki!"

Shoko whines, clutching her arm where Maki pinched her. She pays the girl no mind, snatching the bag of chips. "Don't overthink it. You should worry about being comfortable."

"Don't listen to her," Utahime mumbles, pulling out another mini dress. "You'll get a chance to have fun at some point. Best to be prepared."

You wave her off and shrug. "I guess. Nothing too.. racy. I'm still going to be surrounded by strangers."

Staring down at your suitcase ― packed to the brim with clothes and everything unnecessary. It almost feels bittersweet. You won't be gone for long, but it's still going to fee weird not having your three closet friends around. You'll have to learn new faces and names, get acquainted all over again. It's a little daunting.

Maki, ever the observant one, pulls you from your thoughts. "We'll call every day for updates. Bring back some souvenirs, too."

Utahime pouts, wrapping her arms around you. "Text us when you land, okay?"

You nod, looking around at the mess you'd made in your dorm. "I'm going to miss you guys."

Shoko hums, batting her lashes at you. "You'll miss me the most, right?"

The rest of the night is filled with laughter and comments about your husband waiting for you. And even though you're nervous, afraid of what will greet you tomorrow, it feels a little less scary with them.

The next day goes by in a blur. Airport lines, irritated TSA staff, and overpriced coffee that tastes like dirt.

By the time you land, you're running on spite, two hours of sleep, and a lukewarm red bull.

When the shuttle finally pulls up to the hotel, marble floors and staff that get paid enough to be this nice, one thing is clear.

This is real. You're here, in California, meeting Ryomen Sukuna.

Staff dressed in sleek black and red uniforms greet you with practiced smiles, taking your bags before you can blink. You're escorted to a lounge area where you wait for the other participants.

"Hey," a voice calls out, startling you from your half-asleep state.

A man comes into view, long dark hair and a ridiculously handsome face. "Sorry, I didn't mean to scare you. Just wanted to introduce myself." He extends his hand, "Geto Suguru."

You sit up, extending your hand to shake his. It's warm, his fingertips slightly calloused from use. You offer your name, sitting a little straighter when he repeats it. "Nice to meet you. Hopefully, we'll run into each other outside of the event."

Before you can respond or ask what he meant, Uraume is stepping into the room behind the last two participants. Once everyone is seated, they introduce themselves. "Good morning. My name is Uraume, but you all probably know me as Sukuna's manager."

A staff member comes around to distribute keycards. "These cards will get you into your rooms. First, we'll let everyone get settled, and then go over details of the event. If you need anything, don't hesitate to ask any of the staff members. Also, feel free to make use of all the amenities."

With that, Uraume steps out of the room, leaving the rest of you to converse amongst yourselves.

The man from earlier is nowhere to be found. But, there's plenty of time to figure out what he meant. In the meantime, you may as well get to know the rest of the participants.

A boy with salmon-colored hair approaches you, another with dark, spiky hair trailing behind him. "I'm Yuuji!"

His energy is somewhat startling, yet refreshing. You nod, blinking the sleep from your eyes as you introduce yourself. He suddenly turns, pushing the other boy forward. "This is Megumi! Don't mind him, he's just a bit grumpy from jet lag."

Megumi stares at you, offering a tired wave. It seems like that's the most you'll get from him tonight.

The rest of the participants introduce themselves: Satoru, Nobara, Todo, Inumaki, and Nanami. It's a diverse group, for sure.

With introductions out of the way, everyone splits up to find their rooms. When you arrive at your room, the hallway is still full of people gathering their things. Satoru is on your left, and Yuuji is across the hall. As if the two of them aren't lively enough, Todo is only a door down.

You glance around, the man from earlier is still nowhere to be found. But, the room beside yours has luggage sitting untouched outside the door. When you peek at the tag, you find a familiar name is scrawled across the paper.

Geto Suguru.

You keep the information in mind.

When you finally step into your room, it smells like citrus and clean linen. It's spacious, to say the least. Floor to ceiling windows, king-sized bed, and a bathroom that looks straight out of a movie. A welcome basket sits on the desk, stuffed with trinkets, snacks, and a schedule for the next few days. A handwritten note is attached with your name on it, stamped with Sukuna's logo.

You drops your bags by the closet door and sink into the plush mattress. The last few days are still catching up to you ― the email, the call from Uraume, the flight, this hotel ― it's exhausting. Everything here is the picture definition of quiet luxury.

Your mind drifts back to the stranger from before, Geto Suguru. You say his name on the luggage next door, but where did he go? And what did he mean by "see more of each other?"

For now, you decide to drop it. There's still plenty of time to play detective. The first thing on the schedule is right around the corner.

Standing from the bed with a heavy sigh, you reach to open your suitcase. Since it's only the first day, it's better to start with a simple outfit. Just as you're applying finishing touches to your outfit, there's a knock on your door. Satoru's sing-song voice sounds shortly after.

"Princess, it's time to go! They're calling us for the event debrief.. or whatever it's called."

You snort, walking to pull the door open. You find Satoru, Yuuji, and a less grumpy looking Megumi standing outside. "Oh, did you guys wait for me?"

Yuuji grins. "Yeah, we figured we could all walk down together."

You smile, touched by the gesture. "Thanks. Let's go before we're late."

The four of you make your way downstairs, quickly finding the meeting room. The energy in the room is a weird mix of nerves and excitement, everyone murmuring in anticipation. The table is decorated with small treats and drinks, as well as name tags for each person. When you sit down, you notice Geto's name tag across from you.

Uraume stands at the front of the room, stoic as ever. To your surprise, Suguru is standing beside them, along with Todo. They're both introduced as culinary students that are there for experience.

When you look up again, you catch Suguru watching you. His gaze lingers a moment too long to consider casual, then he looks away.

The debrief continues smoothly with a short presentation covering kitchen etiquette and safety rules.

The rest of the evening moves quickly. Dinner with the participants, a tour of the kitchen, and a reminder to get enough rest. Tomorrow, the real event begins.

When you make it to your room, it feels like you've been awake for days. You fall into the nest of blankets and pillows without bothering to unpack the rest of your suitcase. You can deal with that in the morning.

For now, you sleep.

The next morning moves fast. Breakfast, small talk, and outfit changes feel like a blur. Before you know it, the sun is high in the sky and you're being led into a kitchen that probably costs more than you can comprehend.

The room is decorated with sleek appliances, dark wood, and soft lighting. Stations are set with prepped ingredients and polished utensils, each marked with a name tag. Glancing up, you find Suguru standing in front of your station, a smile stretched across his lips. "Looks like we're station buddies."

You laugh, nodding. "I guess so."

Staff members float through the room, making final adjustments, but your attention is drawn to the banner hanging in the front.

Ryomen Sukuna's 9-year Anniversary

You're barely settled when the door swings open, and in walks the man himself. You imagined this moment over and over in you head, but none of it looked like this. If you thought he looked big on the screen, there's nothing to describe how he looks in person.

He stops at the front of the room, crossing his arms as he introduces himself. "I'm Ryomen Sukuna, owner of Malevolent Shrine. Thanks for comin', and.. uh, nice to meet you all."

There's something attractive about the casual confidence he exudes, like he owns the room without trying. And he does. All eyes are on him.

"Today's going to be simple," he starts, voice low and rough. "We're going to cook, eat, and you might learn somethin' if you're lucky."

A few chuckles sound throughout the room and Sukuna grins, almost sharp enough to feel dangerous.

He makes his way around the room, learning names and faces. When he reaches your station, he grins again. Only this time, it's slower. Flashing his canines, he extends his hand towards you. "'m sure you know my name by now. Mind telling me yours?"

You blink, slightly flustered from seeing him so close. You give him your name, watching as he tests it on his tongue. "Pretty name for a pretty girl."

You thank him, all smiles and pink cheeks. Sukuna only smiles, leaning against the counter. "You excited?"

"Of course! I mean, I've been watching you for years."

This time, Sukuna blinks. "Years?"

You nod, glancing away. "Oh.. well, yeah. I still remember your garbage ramen—"

He immediately straightens, his ears tinted pink. "The fuck? Why do you remember that? I was, what— nineteen?"

"It was what made me start watching you."

He looks back at you, tilting his head. Before he can respond, Uraume is getting his attention, gesturing for him to move on.

He sighs, pointing at you. "We're finishin' this later." Sukuna walks off, returning to his spot at the front of the room.

Suguru turns to look at you, grinning as he teases. "Someone got his attention."

At the front of the room, Sukuna speaks up, now to standing behind his station. He's already rolled up his sleeves, revealing the black ink curling along his forearms. "Alright, we're making two dishes today. Gyoza and donburi. It's simple enough, so try to make it look good, at least.

Sukuna gestures to the ingredients laid out in front of him. "We'll start with the dough and filling for the gyoza. Watch me first, then I'll come around and see how bad you're screwin' it up."

You glance up, peeking past Suguru to see him separating ingredients.

Leaning forward, you speak loudly enough for him to hear. "You've made this before?"

He shrugs. "Once or twice."

He falls into a rythym: chopping, mixing, portioning the filling and dough. The kitchen is full of motion and soft chatter, broken by the occasional comment from Sukuna.

"That's too thick," he calls across the room.

You're halfway through dicing your vegetables when Suguru turns, examining your work. "You're holding the knife wrong. You could cut your fingers."

He's quick to cover your hands with his own, correcting your grip on the knife. "Like this. And you cut them wrong."

Another voice cuts in, dry and amused. "Cut them wrong? It looks like a massacre," Megumi mumbles from two stations down, prompting Yuuji to laugh.

You frown, shielding your station from his view. "It's not wrong. I julienned it. I think."

Sukuna walks past your station, pausing as he eyes the state of your vegetables. He doesn't speak at first, simply nudges you to the side and cuts them for you. He's already walking away before you can thank him, kissing his teeth as he passes Nobara's station.

"Are you even trying? I could've done better with my feet."

Nobara scoffs, smacking the cutting board. "It doesn't matter if they look bad, I'm just going to eat yours!"

Sukuna scowls, walking back to his station. "Spoiled brat."

You mix the rest of the ingredients, dumping them into the bowl. After a few minutes, it starts to resemble dumpling filling.

Sukuna passes by your station again, fulling stopping in his tracks. "..The hell did you do?"

You glance up, only to find him staring at you. He nudges you aside again, plucking a spoon from your drawer. He scoops the filling, bringing it to his mouth.

"Wait, that's raw. Can't you get salmonella?"

Sukuna brushes you off, popping the spoon into his mouth. "It's extra protein, don't worry."

Not even a split second later, his whole face twists. Everything is off. It's crunchy, yet somehow slimy, too salty, and there's a weird aftertaste to it. He pauses for a moment, pressing his lips together. "...fuckin' hell."

You falter, embarrassed by the sudden attention. "I'm the only one that has to eat it, right?"

As if realizing what he said, he immediately backtracks. "It's not bad.. just a little salty."

You're not even looking at him, too embarrassed to comprehend what he's saying. He leans down, catching your gaze with furrowed brows. "Look, it's not bad, seriously. Didn't mean to hurt your feelings, sweetheart. You can use mine, it's not like I really need it."

You nod, glancing at him quickly. "Okay."

He switches your bowls out, then starts walking around the room. You don't realize he's passed your station so many times, so focused on trying to get the next part right. Filling the dumpling wrappers and folding the dough. He's lingering near your station longer than he really needs, practically supervising you.

You're struggling to fold the dough when a warm hand covers yours, guiding your fingers to pinch the gyoza closed. "There you go," Sukuna murmurs, his voice low. "Better than the other three attempts."

He straightens up, brushing past you to return to his station. "Gyoza goes on the trays for steaming. The staff will handle that," Sukuna says, motioning to the side. "Now, grab a clean pan. We're starting the donburi."

At the front, Sukuna tosses rice into his pan. The smell of garlic and soy sauce instantly fill the room. "This is more about taste than appearance. Don't burn it."

Just as you're oiling your pan, Sukuna is passing by your station again. "Let me help you, sweetheart."

He reaches around you, hand brushing your wrist as he tilts the pan just slightly. "Not too much oil. You want it hot, not drowning."

You nod, heart beating a little too fast as he tosses in garlic and diced onions. He doesn't leave right away, either. He lingers, nudging your hand when you start stirring too early.

"Let it sit. It'll burn if you mess with it too much," he murmurs, so close his lips are almost brushing your ear.

In front of you, Suguru clears his throat. "You giving everyone that much help, or just her?"

Sukuna looks up, meeting his gaze head on. "Funny coming from you, student. You shouldn't need my help for something like this."

Suguru smiles, holding his hands up in surrender. "Just making sure you remember the rest of us are here."

Sukuna snorts, finally stepping away from your station. "Step it up, then."

He walks away, but not before sparing you one last glance. He moves throughout the room, giving feedback and barking out orders.

The rest comes together easily enough: sauce, layering flavors, finishing touches. By the time you're plating, the room smells incredible.

You step back, admiring your hard work. Really, it was Sukuna's, but that's neither here nor there.

As everyone starts plating, the room shifts into a quieter chaos. Laughter mixes with the clinking of utensils, and a few stations over, Satoru proudly announces that his food is edible.

You glance over at Suguru, who's already finished arranging his donburi. "Want to trade?"

He smirks. "How big of a risk is it?"

You roll your eyes but pass him your bowl anyway. He takes a bite, brows lifting. "Wait, this is actually good."

You grin. "I told you."

He chuckles, nearly choking on his food. "You're awfully cocky for someone that barely touched anything the whole time."

You try his next, and it's annoyingly perfect. You make a face. "Show off."

He only smiles, nudging your shoulder. "It's talent."

Eventually, people start to pack up, wiping down stations and thanking the staff. Sukuna claps, gathering everyone's attention. "That's it for today. Most of you did well. The rest of you, better luck next time."

The group leaves gradually. You gather your things, pulling your bag over your shoulder when Suguru falls into step beside you.

"I'll walk you back," he says. "Since we're basically neighbors and all."

Before you can answer, a voice halts you both in your tracks.

"Actually," Sukuna starts, eyes flitting to Suguru, "I need her for something."

Suguru pauses, then looks between you two. "You need her?"

"Mhm." Sukuna's expression remains the same, but there's something smug in the way he lifts his brow. "Don't worry, I'll make sure she gets back safe."

Suguru laughs, though there's barely any humor in it. "Alright. She's all yours."

Once he's gone, Sukuna turns to you, all teeth and lazy charm. "It's nothing serious. I just figured I owe you."

You blink, brows furrowing. "Owe me?"

"For being a fan for so long," he explains, leaning closer. "And for putting up with my ramen phase."

You giggle, cheeks warm. "I guess you're not wrong.."

He leans down, voice low. "I'll give you a one-on-one lesson. Just me and you. That is, if you're free tomorrow night."

Your heart nearly leaps from your chest, but you manage a wobbly smile. "I think I can make time. I'll have to check my schedule."

He grins. "Good."

⤿ afterword. ― sorry again for the wait!! :( the last couple days were actual hell 😭 also this won't be the last of chef!sukuna on my blog, i'll try to cook up some drabbles! (get it?) i've had some ideas collecting dust for a min.. be ready. in the meantime, lmk your thoughts on this!

✉ taglist (open) ― @whosmarjj @audreytoru @feliaeae @okayiamkassandra @meowsannie @cassieeethingssss @bearchermer @sugurusfeet @airandyeah @chocalycake @jkslvsnella @audreytoru @certifiedchangbinlover @nanamincake @i8yourt0ast @erenspersonalwh0re @ynishalee @shychyy @persyhange @ssetsuka @sukubusss @tacobellfreshavocado @makeitrainonsomehoes @lmaoshush @noooo-onee @6eyesmunch @rijhi @surgikull @fiercedeception @nessca153 @rufus313 @megumisgf @thatoneweirdkidattheplayground

also, if you asked to be added to the taglist, you'll be tagged on this post as well, just so i can keep track!

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marukyubi · 3 months ago

Text

AYEEE ANOTHER ONE!? damn he works quick- No spoiler ahead. Just AEHEIUAWEIAO I'VE BEEN FED!!! YESSS

Countryside Bliss

Pairing: Cowboy! Hobie Brown x fem! Reader

Word count: 3k

Synopsis: A life together after your supposed death.

Tags: No use of Y/N, no specific physical description of the reader (except for clothing), mentions of pregnancy, one suggestive comment, cowboy AU, wild west AU, Our place in the middle of nowhere AU (a must read to understand this one), an epilogue, dad! Hobie, Billie and Ramona AU, cw food mentions, fluff!

Navigation

Our Place in the Middle of Nowhere Masterlist

“Billie! Ramona!” You call from the porch, eyes sparkling under the setting sun. As you hear giggling and small feet bounding across the grass, you see a glimpse of Mona's floral dress before disappearing inside the duck coop. “Your dad's coming home soon! You two better be inside by then or you'll catch a cold again!”

Smiling, you place your elbows on the wooden bannister on the porch so you could rest your aching back. And you thought carrying your third would be easier this time around, but alas, your symptoms are just as the same as when you had the girls. Sometimes you blame Hobie due to your hormones, but in truth it's half your fault when you're as insatiable as the cowboy.

The house glows bright under the fading orange glow, you and Hobie have made a good home from scratch. It has remnants of the one that was burned down— a wrap around porch, blue paint that bears a striking resemblance to the sea. And various knick knacks and photographs all placed inside the cozy farmhouse like you always talked about to Hobie, one that you weren't fortunate enough to achieve back in the first home. As you look around the glade, it's all you ever wished for back then, a home and a family you could call your own. Sometimes you think that it's luck that got you to this point, but it's also blood and tears, dirt under your fingernails, and sacrifices. You try not to think of those days, but it made you who you are now, and in turn it has made you a better mother and a partner than the people who were in your life back then. They're long gone now, their faces fading in your mind’s eye, just like how you like it.

The horses trot along the glade, sunlight drenching your form in warmth and hues of orange. Cherry ushers her foals inside the stable, neighing and kicking the dirt under her while her oldest, a dappled mix of Cherry's and Bucky's coat— waits for them inside the barn, trying to hurry them along with a loud huff. If Bucky was here he would be the one telling them to get inside quicker, ever the stubborn and impatient one like his rider. You guess humans and horses aren't as different when it comes to their children.

Clover is sniffing around the garden for her pups, who are probably hiding in the thicket to keep playing around the dirt some more. She's older now, but still full of energy as she bounds towards her litter, probably telling them to head inside the dog house that you and Hobie made just for her and her own little family.

The cows moo inside the barn together with the small flock of sheep that Hobie herded in a few hours ago before he left for town. You still have no idea why Hobie left in the first place, excusing himself promptly right after lunch to grab something from town. You still worry for the cowboy sometimes even though you know he's more than capable of defending himself out there. But with what happened back then, you can never be too careful. People who might bear ill will towards him might think that you're both dead, empty graves dug and filled in right beside the burned down farm, but you'll always look over your shoulder, not for you but for your family. That's why you've kept your eye sharp and your gun hidden underneath your skirt.

You and Hobie have built a perfect home, and you won't let anyone burn it all down like before.

As you twirl the gold band around your finger, the same imperfect gold that Hobie made— the baby kicks, as if they're trying to wake you up from your swirling thoughts, making you smile and rub your swollen stomach. “I'm alright, I'm sorry for worrying, little one.”

Just as when you look back at the farm, you see a familiar figure on a dark horse heading towards the house. You grin wider at the sight, waving them over whilst your worries ebb away.

—

“D’you think mummy noticed?” Billie asks while chewing her apple, front teeth missing after her baby teeth fell out just a few days ago. She's having a harder time taking big bites of the fruit than her twin.

“I don't know, Bee, we did steal an entire basket.” Mona winces but continues to munch on her apple. The wicker basket creaks as she adjusts it in her lap. The duck coop doesn't provide much space for the two as they hide amidst the feathers and quacking ducklings.

“It's not stealin’ if aunty Riri gave it to us!” Billie exclaims, duck feathers sticking to her denim overalls and braids.

Mona shushes her sister, index placed right on her lips. It earns a glare from her twin. “She asked us to share. And uncle Miguel said apples are good for mummy and the baby.”

“It's not like we're goin' to eat all of it.” The older twin bats her lashes, taking another bite of the apple with a crunch. Her eyes widen at the harsh sound, “uh oh.”

“Why uh oh?” Mona exclaims, matching her expression, a bit concerned for her sister.

“I phink mah pooth pell out.” She says with the apple still in her mouth. Sure enough, when she moves the fruit away, her baby tooth is half embedded into the apple's skin.

“Not again—!” The roof suddenly lifts up, revealing their dad's face with the sun shining behind him as the girls scream in surprise.

“What’re you two doin’ in ‘ere?”

“Mothin’” Billie smiles, small droplets of blood dribbling from her lips while Mona hides her face behind the apple basket.

“Says your missin' tooth, squirrel.” Chuckling, Hobie tilts his head at his daughters. “C’mon, we need to clean that or your mum will have my head.”

“You're not mad at us?” Ramona asks, lips wobbling as she looks up at her dad with her big green eyes, a copy of her dad's emerald eyes. She even pouts the same. “We ate a lot of apples.” She eyes the couple of apple cores by her feet.

“Nah,” he can't help but smile at his girls. He's glad that he dug himself out of death to witness this moment. “We’ll jus’ ask aunty Riri to send us another basket.” That earns a relieved smile from them. “Why’d you think I'll get mad at you for eatin’?” He'll never scold his girls for something like this, not when he promised himself while they were crying in his arms just after they were born, that he'll never let his children experience the same childhood he had.

“Because you get mad at Bucky when he eats all the apples.” Mona answers for her sister, lifting up the basket as best as she could for Hobie to take it away from her hands.

Tucking the coop roof under his arm, he takes the basket, it looks a lot smaller in his hands compared to when Mona was holding it. “It's because he's a horse, chipmunk. Are you a greedy horse?” They both shake their heads. Laughing, he puts the basket down on the grass to help his girls out of the coop. “See? You can have all the apples you two want, jus' ask mum first next time, yeah? We can cut it in bunny shapes just like how you like it. We jus’ don't want you two gettin’ a stomach ache.” The girls smile softly at his words.

One by one, he carries them out of the feather covered floor and back outside where the sun is painting the whole glade in pinkish hues and dark blue tones. Putting the roof back on securely, he hands Mona the basket again before scooping her and Billie up in one fell swoop. His metal spurs clicking with every movement.

“Daddy, my teeth hurt.” Pointing at her gums, Billie still smiles even though she's probably aching. “Do I get ice cream like last time?”

“We'll ask mum, maybe I can whip something up quickly.” In truth, it'll take hours for him to churn the mixture up, but he doesn't mind if it's for his girls. Hobie pecks her temple while he spots her tooth sticking out of the half eaten apple in the basket. “Shi—” he pauses, clearing his throat. “That went in there good, huh?” Fixing his hold on Mona, he makes his way to the porch right where you're waiting for them.

“Can Billie still hide it under her pillow?” Admiring the said apple in her hand, Mona plucks a feather away from Hobie's shoulders. He kisses her cheek in thanks, and she giggles from the casual affection.

“Yeah, we can.” Smiling, finally back on the porch, you greet him with faux annoyance, complete with your hands right on your hips. You don't look intimidating when you're about to pop. “Hi, lovie. Caught a couple of ducklings for you.” You resist the urge to smile back when he flashes you a lopsided grin that has you reminiscing about your younger days with Hobie.

“Hello, cowboy.” He lets out a fond chuckle at your affectionate tone. “Now, what's all this talk about hiding things under a pillow?” You raise a brow as Mona hands you the basket and you pat her head in return. The sight of your girls all properly tucked in their father's arms has your heart feeling warm.

“Mummy, I lost a tooth!” Billie ecstatically says while showing you her mouth that's clearly missing more than a couple of teeth than the last time you saw her. “The tooth fairy will come back again, right?”

Hobie glances at the apple with the tooth right on it, and you follow his line of sight, wincing at it. Whistling lowly, you grimace at the thought of Billie hurting. “That's a tooth alright.”

“Can I have ice cream too even if I didn't lose a tooth?” Ramona asks, flashing her puppy dog eyes at you as if you need convincing. If you're still able, you'd carry your girls and squeeze them in your arms.

“Of course, my flower.” You coo, cupping her cheek briefly before taking out your handkerchief to wipe Billie's lips. She closes her eyes and politely lets you clean her up. “As long as your dad still has the strength to churn it.”

“Me?” Hobie acts shocked, prompting the girls in his arms to pout and flutter their lashes at him. They're definitely your children, their expressions alone are a direct copy of yours when you want something. “‘m sure, I can.” He surrenders almost immediately. “Your dad is as strong as a bull, y’know?” To show the evidence of his strength, he wiggles them in his arms, bouncing and twirling them around effortlessly as if his knees aren't creaking from the combined weight. The girls cackle in delight.

Giggling, you watch on with glee. “I think your dad has to show you something first though.”

Your words stop Hobie in his tracks, almost forgetting why he went to town and rode for hours just for it. “Right,” chuckling, he puts the girls down on the porch to their slight dismay. “C’mon to the stables.”

“Why?” Mona immediately gravitates towards your free hand, swinging the joined hands together in hidden excitement.

“But we already fed the horses!” Billie protests in place.

“You'll see, stop complainin’ like your mum.”

“Hey!” You yell, but your smile betrays you as he takes Billie's hand and runs away in fear.

“Hurry, Billie, mum's goin' to eat us jus’ like your little brother!”

“What?!” She tries to catch up with Hobie, but her little legs could only take her so far, so Hobie lifts her up and carries her halfway towards the stables. “Mummy!” She yells like you've betrayed her.

Sighing, you tug at Mona's hand. “Come on, let's rescue your sister.”

She tugs back, big green eyes gazing at you with slightly furrowed brows. “Daddy's jus’ jokin’ right?”

“Of course, that's not how babies work.” Nodding, you gently bend your knees and carry her despite the strain. You can't help it anymore, you need to carry your girls while you still can and while they still let you.

She immediately lays her head right on your clavicle like how she always did when she was just a little baby. She's careful with your stomach, legs dangling on your side to avoid accidentally kicking you. “How are babies made anyway?”

Slowly walking towards the stable and across the glade, you're extra careful with where you're stepping. “You should ask your dad instead, I'm sure he has all the answers.” You laugh at yourself, palm cupped at the side of her face to shield her eyes from the sunlight.

Billie's happy shriek has Mona perking up. “Mon–Mon, hurry!”

Craning her neck towards you, Mona smiles sweetly. “Can I go see?”

“Of course.” You let her down gently on the grass and she immediately bolts away towards the stables, bare feet bounding across the grass.

Her excited scream soon follows while you waddle closer. “Mummy, look!”

“I'm coming,” heaving, Hobie pops his head from the stable doors, meeting you halfway with his hands outstretched towards you. “Please don't tell me you got them a basket of kittens.” Taking his hands, he tugs you beside him gently, holding you by your waist, fingers grazing your stomach as he lets you rest against him. Weaving your fingers around his own, you feel for the identical gold band around his finger.

“It's somethin' better.” He fondly kisses your temple while slowly helping you to the stable. “I tried gettin' ‘ere quickly, but Miguel was in town and we talked for a bit.” Hugging you tightly, he inhales your scent as if he was gone for days. “Were they a handful?”

“No, they're angels, Hobs.” You breathlessly say against his neck, lips brushing along his scar, prompting goosebumps to rise on his arms. He doesn't hide his scar anymore. When the girls were younger he was afraid that they'd be terrified of the raised skin, but they never got scared of it, simply because it's a part of their dad. “What did he say? Is everything alright?”

Rubbing your sore back, the two of you can hear the loud chatter of the twins inside. Their boisterous thank yous ringing across the farm.

“Everythin’ is fine, love, we're safe ‘ere.” He whispers against the crown of your head. “Don't worry your pretty head ‘bout it, yeah? Especially now that Hobie Junior is ‘bout to pop his little head out.”

“Fuck, don't say it like that.” Laughing, you slap his chest playfully while he mirrors your smile. “And we're not going to name him Hobie Junior. We don't even know if he's a he.” Tugging the brim of his hat down to hide his eyes, he chortles before fixing it properly on his head, he then decides to take it off and place it atop yours instead. Your heart leaps from the small action.

“I've got a knack for these things, love. ‘sides, I predicted the girls didn't I?”

“Not really, you said girl, not plural.”

“Still, I was right.” Taking your face in his hand he kisses you softly under the fading light right at the entrance of the stable. Leaning away, brilliant green eyes fluttering open, he keeps your chin in place. “Before you say anythin’, I want you to know that I love you, yeah?”

You narrow your eyes suspiciously. “What did you do, Hobie Brown?”

“Nothin’, didn't do nothin’ but make our girls happy.” He grins, nosing the tip of your nose.

Before you completely melt in his arms, you flick your eyes towards the inside of the stable, and you see two new saddles perched on top of the fences. One has a red tint on the leather, saddle bags etched with Billie's initials, and the saddle itself has subtle flower shapes stamped on it. The other has a blue tint dyed right on the leather, they're a mirror of each other, except for its saddlebags that have Ramona's initials, and with small stars instead of flowers.

The horses look calmer now that Bucky's back. Cherry nuzzles him lovingly, while their foals sleep beside them as if the girls’ excited shrieking doesn't bother them. Perhaps they're more used to their laughter than their cries. The thought alone has your chest feeling warm.

“Look, mummy! We can ride along with you and daddy!” Billie jumps for joy, if she has the strength to carry it she would've by now with how she's hugging the whole saddle like it's her stuffed toy.

“Daddy said once our horses are grown we can ride together!” Mona runs to hug Hobie's leg, flashing her pearly whites and batting her lashes at you. Most probably from Hobie's direction.

Hobie grins innocently at you, “it's their birthday present?”

“Their birthday isn't for another six months, Hobie.”

“The tooth fairy gave it to ‘em.”

You eye him down with a feigned annoyed look, arms crossed over your chest, and a hidden smile.

“They already know how to ride. And they have to wait for their horses to grow a bit more for the girls to train ‘em.” He adds to his case as he grabs Mona off the ground and shows you her puppy dog eyes. “Look at how happy our baby is.”

Mona grins wider, kicking her tiny feet about while Billie rushes to your side to hug your leg. She mirrors her sister's dramatic smile, embracing you tighter.

“Please?” The three simultaneously ask, all similar eyes and pouts thrown right at you.

They drive a hard bargain.

“Fine—” their loud celebration wakes up the horses while Hobie puts Mona on his shoulders and scoops Billie in his arm while he grabs you gently and tucks all three of you close.

“Thank you, love.” Hobie blindly peppers your face with kisses while Mona hugs his face and accidentally covers her dad's eyes.

“Thank you, mummy!” The twins speak at the same time. Billie hugs your side, all the while careful of your stomach.

“Yeah, yeah.” You melt in their arms, happy and satisfied with the life on your little farm. The past is nothing but memories thrown over your shoulder now that you're able to replace them with happier ones.

And Hobie is more than willing to build those memories with you.

#katy has cooked another 5 stars meal again #Gobbling it all up #You saved me from hunger #Thank you for the meal #chefs kiss #Hobie I love u so dearly #But I aint trusitn u with naming the kids

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