#I was rotting in my bed for the past few days thanks to a flu (or covid

[tinyclowndancer]

#I was rotting in my bed for the past few days thanks to a flu (or covid? I'll never know) but I think I'm back for good now #I'll need one-two days to catch up on everything and get myself organized again but I promise I'll answer your messages as soon as I can ♥ #oh and of course... #keeping expectations low for the sequel because the confirmation the fandom is talking about is the same rumor from 2019 #written by the same journalist - there's no official announcement yet so let's wait and hope for Todd to drop the deleted scenes instead #(I'd rather watch a Carnival spinoff tbh) #Joker (2019) #Arthur Fleck #Carnival #tinyclowntent #queue

[therenlover]

Heartsick (A James Patrick March/Reader Oneshot)

Synopsis: When you fall ill, James is given a forceful awakening about how he’s been neglecting your needs and what he must do to prevent harm from befalling you again

Tags: Fluff, Sickfic, Cuddling, Marriage Proposal

Rating: 16+

Warnings: Language, Potentially Triggering Mentions of the Reader Being Ill for a Long Time/Almost Dying of an Unnamed Illness, Planning Your Own Death

Word Count: 3700~

This was crossposted to my AO3 under the same title!

---------------

James Patrick March considered himself a fairly patient man. He had to be, in his line of work. Some things didn’t deserve his patience, like lazy workers or angry hotel guests, but when it came to things that did matter, he was willing to go to extremes. Murder, for example, deserved his patience. Once upon a time, the Countess did too. Yes, patience was a rare virtue Mr. March had possessed all his life.

When it came to you, though, he found his patience running short.

You had been a revelation all your own when you first walked through the doors of the Hotel Cortez with not even a suitcase to your name, radiating purity with every shallow breath. James had been excited to find you in some dark corner of the hotel and rip the life from your body. That is until you found his little nook at the Blue Parrot Lounge and seduced him with your charming personality and sweet smile. From that moment on the Countess didn’t matter anymore. The whole world was just him, you, and all of the deliciously naughty ways he wanted to debauch you.

James had insisted on moving you into your own suite on the seventh floor that very night, just a few short hallways away from his own, and given every luxury he could offer. He was nothing if not a gentleman. It just wouldn’t be right to move the one he intended to court directly into his bedroom, especially while he was still married to his previous wide. Despite the distance, things between the two of you went swimmingly. Even the murder, which James initially worried could drive you apart, was now a delightful shared activity when you chose to grace him with your presence during a kill.

That’s where the problems started.

Mr. March was a man stuck in his own time. That’s why, after 5 splendid years with you at his side, you still weren’t moved into room 78. This also meant your suite was a place he wouldn’t enter unless he was invited. Sure, you had a healthy sex life, but the Countess still had the March family engagement ring tucked away somewhere. He wouldn’t move you into his quarters or impose himself on yours until the two of you were at the very least engaged. The plans for his and the Countess’ divorce were moving, albeit slowly, when you stopped opening the door for James.

The first day he thought perhaps you were simply elsewhere, but after a week of nothing, he began to get angry. It was one thing to deny him your company, but to ignore him while he made a fool of himself banging on your door? That was a punishable offense in the March family playbook. So, he decided if you wanted to play hard to get, he would too. In his mind, James could practically envision you rushing back into his arms once you got over whatever was souring your mood. It wouldn’t be long until the whole nasty affair was behind the both of you once and for all, right?

Wrong.

A month since he last dined with you, James sat at his table in the Blue Parrot lounge alone nursing the remains of his 4th glass of scotch.

Liz was slow to walk out from her place behind the bar. “You want another?” she asked, holding out a crystal decanter, “or should I fish out the absinthe fountain a little early this year,”

“No, no I do believe I’ve had quite enough. Besides, it’s not as if I can actually get drunk anymore,” he huffed. Whether it was the drinks or his growing rage, Mr. March found his collar feeling a bit tighter. He reached up to pull at his cravat but paused when thinking about the ghastly wound it hid. In the end, he let his hand return to its place on his glass.

“Suit yourself,” Liz quickly returned the decanter to its place and began polishing glasses.

Somewhere in the distance, Iris picked up a phone and began to take an order for room service. James had an epiphany.

“Liz!” he shouted, getting her attention, “has Y/N been ordering much room service lately?”

Liz shrugged. “Only once a day for the past month. Why do you ask?”

“I find myself in a bit of a predicament. You see, Y/N began ignoring me about a month ago. I’ve been giving her a taste of her own medicine for quite some time now, and yet she has made no attempts to seek me out. Do you think, perhaps, there could be something wrong?”

The energy in the room began to still.

“Wait, Y/N hasn’t told you?”

“Told me what?”

The dirty glasses were abandoned as Liz let out a humorless laugh.

“Damn you, woman!” James rose with a shout, slamming his glass down on the table, “what is she hiding!?”

“She’s sick,”

James’ heart would have stopped if it were still beating. He sat down again, bewildered. “What?”

“She’s sick. Fever, puking, tremors; the whole shebang,” As she spoke, Liz came back to the table and sat down on the plush booth across from him.

“But it’s been a month! Influenza shouldn’t last that long…”

“Well, it’s definitely not the flu, I can tell you that. Last time I brought down her dinner she nearly choked on her toast. She was so weak that I had to sit there feeding her soup because she couldn’t lift up the spoon long enough to feed herself,”

It was as if James’ whole world had come collapsing down on him all at once. Mortified, he let his head drop into his hands. “Why didn’t she inform me? Am I that pathetic a lover that she would rather suffer in silence than tell me she was ill?”

“Well, to her credit, you don’t exactly look like the most comforting type. When did she move in again?”

“Almost five years ago, it’ll be the anniversary of her first entering the Cortez on the 20th,”

“And how many times in the past five years have you, I don’t know, cuddled with Y/N,”

“You insolent-”

Liz lifted her arms, offering up a white flag. “I’m just asking a question,”

James opened his mouth to offer up a rebuttal but found he had no way to defend himself.

It was true that his relationship with Y/N tended to fluctuate between chaste and lecherous at the drop of a hat. Once they had made love, it was the only habit for him to leave her in bed and return to whatever was keeping him busy at the moment. Post-coital intimacy was simply something he had never experienced or needed. Unfortunately, seeing that the only time he spent with Y/N outside of their trysts were formal meetings or dinners, there had been no time for gentility or softness between just the two of them. If ghosts could blanch, he would have.

Noticing his sudden shift in mood, Liz rose, backing off. “Now, usually I like to stay out of your business, but because your little relationship makes Y/N happy I’ll give you some advice. Go down to the kitchen, have Ms. Evers heat some broth, and give Y/N her dinner personally, maybe even give her some extra attention as a little treat. That should fix the bulk of your issues. Got it?”

He was never one to take orders, but surprisingly James nodded. He stood quickly, smoothing his suit. “Thank you for your advice, Ms. Taylor, but I must depart. My paramour needs me,”

She nodded. “Any time,” James began to hurry down the stairs, but suddenly Liz shouted. “Wait a second,”

James paused. “Yes?”

“Only the living get sick, Mr. March. Maybe, after five years, it’s time for Y/N to extend her stay at the Cortez... permanently. Just something to think about,”

He gave her a sharp nod before disappearing down the stairs to the kitchen. 15 minutes later he was waiting outside your door with a rolling cart in hard. He had already been stalling there for 5 minutes when he finally, with a deep, steadying breath, unlocked the door.

The room was dark and silent, almost like a tomb.

Your voice rang out like a bell as James pushed the cart forward. “Iris?” you called weakly, “is that you?”

“No, darling,” he responded, closing the door behind him. Slowly, he bent down at turned on a small lamp. “You won’t need Iris to bring you your dinner any longer,”

“James,” You whispered, half reverent and half shocked.

He was far too taken aback by the severity of your condition to form an immediate response.

You were curled up in bed, folded in on yourself as you wheezed for breath. As Liz had mentioned your body was weak and wracked with near-constant tremors while you tried your best to prop yourself up on the headboard. James had to abandon the cart with your dinner on it in favor of rushing over and helping you sit up. As he took in your gaunt face, his heart broke.

Your soft voice snapped him from his thoughts.

“Am I dead?”

James shook his head. “No my love, not yet,”

Tears began to spill from your eyes. “I thought you’d left me, James. I thought I was going to have to rot in this awful, dark room for eternity, that maybe ‘cause I died while I was sick my ghost was too damn weak to get up,” As you spoke, you tried to grip the back of his suit, but found you were far too weak to actually hold the fabric. Your inability to even do the simplest of tasks only made you cry harder.

Mr. March was quick to pull out his handkerchief and wipe your eyes. “Oh, my dearest, that couldn’t be farther from the truth, but none of that matters now. I cannot apologize enough for my abhorrent behavior as of late,”

“Will you stay?” your words were laced with desperation, “just for a little bit?”

“Of course, my dearest. I think you’ll find it very difficult to get rid of me from now on. Besides, I couldn’t leave my beloved paramour without doing what it is that I set out to do,”

“Which is?”

James stood and quickly returned with the room service cart. As he removed the silver tray-topper, you found he had brought you a bowl of soup, a small plate of crackers, and a tall glass of ice water.

“I intend to make sure you are well-fed and taken care of,”

“James, you don’t-” you tried to argue, but he cut you off.

“Nonsense! There is, unfortunately, no way to sugar coat this, but I will try my best,” he whispered as he sat on the edge of the bed beside you, “I have neglected you, darling, not just for the past month when I found my pride and ego keeping me away from you, but also for the past five years. I ignored your needs out of a false sense of propriety by bending to rules that are long dead and considered inconsequential. For that, I fear I may never forgive myself. Things will be different from now on, though. I hope to win back your heart properly now that I have realized the severity of my mistakes. Would you…” he paused, gulping, “would you be willing to humor me?”

You offered him a soft smile. “Oh, my beloved Mr. March, there’s no need. My heart has always been yours,”

Your words soothed him, and he offered you one of his debonair grins, the kind where his little mustache scrunched before his lips parted that never failed to sweep you off your feet.

“Now where were we!” he exclaimed.

“Dinner,” you responded.

“Ah, yes! Soup!” He was quick to get a spoonful of the warm broth and bring it to your lips. “You needn’t worry, my sweetling, I watched Ms. Evers prepare this herself. Nothing but the best for you,”

It was easy to accept the spoon into your mouth. Something inside of you knew that James would be taking care of you from now on.

The rest of dinner passed in relative silence, but you didn’t mind, far too tired to take part in any meaningful conversation. Instead, you simply enjoyed the attention. James had never been shy about his affection, but that affection always tended to come in the form of gifts or sex instead of close, intimate touch. It hadn’t bothered you enough to tell him. You always just assumed he didn’t enjoy that kind of love. Now that you’d had a taste, though, of his gentle yet constant affection, you knew you could never get enough.

Too soon the bowl was empty.

James stood, returning to the door with the cart as you relaxed and rolled onto your side. “When will you be back?”

He chuckled, opening the door. “Did you think you could be rid of me so soon, darling?” The cart was quickly pushed out into the hallway as James turned back towards you.

Your face flushed. “I just assumed…”

“Assumptions, assumptions,” he tutted, “It hurts that you have such little faith in me, but I admit I haven’t given you much reason to. As I said, things will be different now,” James perched himself on the edge of the bed with a smile as he untied his shoes and slipped them off.

“What are you doing?”

“Taking off my shoes, darling, so I can join you in bed,”

Your heart skipped a beat. You had been imagining the first time James would actually stay in your bed to cuddle since the beginning of your relationship, but it had been years since you had given any thought to that silly fantasy. Could it really be happening?

Apparently, your surprise was evident on your face because Mr. March paused once both his shoes were settled neatly on the floor. “Is something wrong, my dearest?”

“Nothing, darling, nothing at all,” you were quick to explain, “we’ve just never done this before,”

James smirked like a predator who had just found his prey. “Such an innocent gesture from such a naughty little minx. I don’t recall you being so… flustered the night we met when I took you up to my suite and-”

“James!”

“Alright! Alright, my love, no more vulgarity from me until you’re fully healed and back on your feet. Well, hypothetically on your feet,” he emphasized his words with a dirty wink. Then he crawled into bed beside you as if he belonged there, scootching over until he was resting pressed against your side. You slotted into place, with your face resting in his neck and your leg thrown haphazardly across his hips as if you were made to fit his body. Holding James was like coming home.

You let out a soft, pleased sound at just how good it felt to be held.

James took this as positive feedback. As he settled in, he began running his fingers through your bedhead, combing through the loosest of the knots. Sensing something strange, he paused to put his hand on your forehead. It was uncomfortably hot. “You’re still feverish. Do you need anything? A cold compress? A wet washcloth? Some water?”

It was funny to hear him fussing over you, but it also warmed the deepest parts of your heart.

You made a negative huff against his neck. “No! You’d better not move. Your skin feels too good. It’s nice… cold. The only thing I could possibly want right now is for you to dim the lights and take your damn shirt off so you can cool more of me off,”

“I would, darling, believe me, but there’s just the small issue of the wound on my neck,”

“James,” you glared up at him, “I have literally ripped a dying man’s dick off in front of you. We have dinner with Jeffery Dahmer on your birthday every year, where I have to eat my salad as he zombifies whatever poor sap wandered into Sally’s clutches across the table. Hell, just a few months ago we fucked in that bathtub filled with some businessman’s blood. Your neck is just another part of you, James, it doesn’t bother me. Shirt. Off.”

“Have I ever told you that I adore when you take charge?”

You grinned as he undid his cravat and the top few buttons of his dress shirt. “Once or twice,” The thrill only lasted a moment, though, because before he finished unbuttoning his shirt he pulled away from your arms and got off the bed. A high-pitched whine escaped from your lips. “I thought you said you were staying?”

“I may be a ghost, dear heart, but my clothes can’t just disappear,” Always one for the dramatics, he shed his shirt and suit jacket to the floor with gusto. The sight of his bare torso made your heart beat faster. You had to remind yourself that you were sick and it would probably kill you to go for even a gentle round with Mr. March. Ah, but what a way to die…

James dimmed the lamp before returning, undoing his pants, and stripping down to his boxers. “Is this better for you darling?”

You nodded and reached your trembling arms out to your lover. “Much. Now come back to bed. You have five years’ worth of cuddling to make up for Mr. March, and I don’t intend on letting you wheedle your way out of even a second of it,”

He gave you a gentle smile as he found his way beneath the covers again. “I wouldn’t dream of it,”

Your face quickly found its way back into the crook of James’ neck. It was inhumanly cool, easing the constant burn of your fever and soothing your sore skin. The slit across his throat truly didn’t bother you. As you said, it was just another part of him for you to love, nothing more than a cosmetic imperfection.

Nuzzling closer, you took a deep inhale of his intoxicating scent. Perhaps it was the cologne he wore at the time of his death or even just what he naturally smelled like, but his pulse point radiated notes of sage and bergamot. God, how you loved him.

The pair of you were quiet for a moment with only the sound of your ragged breathing breaking through the air, but something urged you to speak your mind.

“You know, James, when you walked into my room tonight I assumed you were here to kill me,”

He chuckled. “I can’t say I didn’t think about it, my pearl,”

“Of course you did…” you went silent for a moment, “I wouldn’t have minded. This sickness is hell. I’m wasting away by the day and the pain never stops. I don’t mind dying, not when it means I get to spend the rest of time here in the hotel with you, but I don’t want to go out like somebody normal. My death needs to be special… I want to be the crowning glory of your murders, the most fantastic piece of art you’ve ever created,”

Pressing a chaste kiss to the top of your hair, James sighed. “Perhaps it’s selfish of me, but the moment I thought of you, wasting away in the darkness and succumbing to some common germ, I knew I couldn’t kill you. Not yet. I refuse to have my bride accompany me through eternity bearing a constant reminder of my failure,”

Your breath hitched. “Bride?”

Slowly, his hand made its way to your throat. There was no threat in it, he wasn’t using even an ounce of pressure. It was more of a gentle reminder of his presence; a physical conduit of his passion.

“Yes, bride. I don’t mind if you can only become Mrs. March posthumously, though I would prefer to wed you alive and enjoy your last moments of warmth in the throes of carnal delight on our wedding bed, it all depends on where your illness takes you next. Until then I will be glued to your side. No more harm will come to you. I shall nurse you back to health with my own hand so that you glow with life long after your death. Yes, Y/N, your death will come, but not until I have done my best to atone for my mistakes in your life,”

“Was that a proposal?” You gazed up at James with wide, misty eyes.

He huffed out a laugh. “I suppose it was, and a poor one at that! To think I stalled for years in the hopes of finding the perfect moment to present you with my mother’s ring only to pop the question in bed with no ring in sight. I do hope you’ll say yes. I’d be rather crushed if you rejected me after all this time,”

You nodded, small tears escaping as you pressed your face into his soft skin. “Of course I’ll marry you, you idiot. I would’ve married you if you were the poorest man in the world and proposed with a ring-pop,”

“Then it’s settled. You shall be my wife as soon as you are well enough for me to fuck you again! I quite hate that Will Drake, but I believe he’s our best, quickest option if we wish to get you a dress commissioned. I have a few ideas drawn up already waiting in my office… perhaps I should call Ms. Evers and have her take them to him,”

“Shhhh,” you smiled into his neck, pressing a kiss to his collarbone, “we can figure out the details later. For right now, though, your fiancée is sick and she needs some TLC. What are you gonna do about it, Mr. March,”

He growled. “Well, I suppose ravishing you is off the table. Hmmm... what to do to my darling girl to make her feel better?” With a gentle nudge, he tilted your head up and pressed a sweet kiss to your lips.

“That’s a start,”

-------

a/n: I hope you liked it! I’m really leaning towards writing a second part of this where the reader actually dies, so let me know if you’re interested. Also, my requests are open if you want to see any of Evan’s other characters! 

Please don’t post my work to other sites, thank you <3

#ahs #ahs hotel #james march x reader #james patrick march #james march #james patrick march x reader #I wrote this instead of something incredibly filthy and terrible I have planned for later... #evan peters #evan peters x reader #american horror story #american horror story hotel #I love this man

[pagingevilspawn]

Can you write a fix just full of jolex fluff or jo and Luna fluff Because I really need something from Thursday episode?

clair de lune

wc: 2.2k

pairing: none. Jo & Luna mother-daughter relationship.

summary: sweet little moment between jo and luna

rating: general audiences.

category: fluff.

warnings: tooth rotting fluff. (also, lots of time skips, but that's intentional)

AN: ik you requested this after 17x16 anon, but i hope this still works now! this is easily the fluffiest thing i've ever written, and i hope you enjoy! also, sorry my fics have been so short lately...but what can you do. (contemplated posting this in a couple days, but ultimately didn't. don't start thinking i'll start posting regularly now though haha)

____

“Welcome home Luna,” she says to the quiet apartment, reveling in the way it felt like a home. She sits on the floor, rocking the car seat back and forth while her little girl sleeps, her fist curled into the blanket Link had gifted her a few months prior. She uses her finger to trace the outline of Luna’s nose, giggling silently when it scrunches up in her sleep.

She glances around the apartment, large and spacious in the matter of there was no furniture in it. New things would be delivered soon, but for now she had herself, her little girl, a mattress, and a Pack ‘N Play, and wouldn't wish for anything else.

Luna squirms a bit in her seat, and Jo thinks she’s going to wake up, when she really just circles her hand around Jo’s finger that had fallen close to her chest.

She feels her heart clench, immediately scrabbling at her phone to capture the moment, breathing a sigh of relief when the picture is taken and her baby hadn’t moved.

With that, another photo is added to the album she had labeled under Luna, and she laughs to herself at the absurd amount of pictures she already had of her daughter.

After a few minutes had gone, she tries to remove her finger to get a snack, but settles back down when Luna’s grip around her finger just tightens.

She sighs, but it’s more of a promise to the words that she says next.

“I’ll never leave you, I promise.”

_____

She was driving frantically through the streets of Seattle, rain beating down against her windshield as she made a turn. She bit her bottom lip anxiously, nibbling on it until she could taste the copper on her tongue.

Pulling into the parking garage she stops the car haphazardly into the nearest space, snatching her purse so quickly from the passenger seat it nearly whips her in the face.

While in the elevator she pushes the top floor button so many times it nearly breaks, tapping her foot against the cool marble tile. Normally, she would marvel at the way that the elevator had such flooring (three months of living there and she still wasn’t used to such luxury) but tonight it was the furthest thing from her mind.

When the doors finally slide open, she’s out of them so quickly she nearly trips over her own feet, brushing multiple strands of dark hair that had fallen out of her bun behind her ears and out of her eyes. She swings the door of her home open, not even caring to notice the sound it made when it banged against the wall, too focused on the cries coming from the nursery.

Before she even reaches the room, the nanny comes out, carrying a crying Luna in her arms, trying to calm her down with gentle words and hushes.

“Oh thank god,” she says, exhaustion plain on her features. “I've been trying to get her to quiet down for over thirty minutes now. I’ve tried feeding her, changing her, rocking her, but nothing’s worked. I called you as soon as I knew you would be off work. I’m so sorry Jo, it’s just that—”

“—Hey, hey,” she says gently, taking her daughter from the girl. “It’s okay, I’ve got it from here. Thank you, take thirty from my wallet,” she starts rocking Luna in her arms, the screaming cries coming slowly to a stop once she comes to the realization that she was in her mother’s arms.

The nanny lets out a sigh, “How—? I mean, I’ve tried everything, but—” she stops, tucking the money into her back pocket as she watches Luna’s cries settle down to soft whimpers.

Jo smiles gently, locking eyes with the younger woman, “Sometimes she just needs her Mom.”

____

They were currently in the middle of a very intense game of peek-a-boo, Luna giggling and clapping her hands like crazy every time Jo would reveal herself behind her hands, each grin from the little one bringing one to Jo’s face as well. She could listen to the sound of her daughter’s laugh all day.

After one more boo, Luna laughs so much she falls back onto the couch, squirming and kicking her legs into the air, and Jo scoops her up, blowing kisses on her belly and ticking her little feet. “Mama’s so silly isn’t she?” she teases snuggling her nose with Luna’s.

“Mama, Mama!” she babbles, clapping her chubby palms against Jo’s face.

Jo freezes, not even noticing a small tear had escaped her eyes until she sees it fall on the tiny girl’s onesie. She smiles immediately, her cheeks hurting from how wide she was grinning.

“Yeah baby girl, I’m your Mama,” she hugs her daughter close to her chest, placing tiny kisses on the tuft of hair on her head, letting her happy tears fall freely, her heart so full she felt that it could burst.

The happiness she felt in that moment was greater than one she had ever felt before, and she knew it was a moment she would ever be able to forget.

It was official, she was a mom.

____

“Mommy, mommy!” Luna squeals, running and attaching herself to her mom’s legs the second she walks through the door, latching herself on so tightly Jo doubted anyone would be able to pull her off.

She crouches down and takes her girl in her arms, brushing back her hair from her face, “Hi Lunes,” she places a kiss on her forehead. “I missed you, you know that?”

“I missed you too, Mommy!” the three year old grins, grabbing her mom’s hand and dragging her through Meredith’s house, into the playroom that had somehow held up over years and generations of kids passing through.

She pulls up a plethora of drawings, shoving them into her mom’s hands. “Look Mommy, I made pictures,” she uses her finger to point at the drawing, “That’s you, that’s me, and that’s Chewy!” she exclaims, stopping on a figure which Jo could only assume was their pet goldfish.

“It looks amazing baby,” she places another peck on her daughter’s temple, taking in the scent of her shampoo. Three days without seeing her daughter was torture, but now that she was back home she felt like she could breathe again.

“Make one with me Mommy, then we can be matching,” Luna reasons, already pulling crayons out of the box and displaying them on the table.

Jo looks up to Meredith in the doorway, who only grins. “Go ahead, all she’s been talking about for the past three days is how much she missed you.”

The brunette’s expression relaxes, “Thanks again Mer, I hope she was okay,” she says, using her green crayon to draw the grass in her picture.

Meredith only scoffs, “Are you kidding? She was perfect. She’s my favorite goddaughter for a reason,” she says as she picks up some stray toys that were scattered across the room and tucks them into the chest.

“Were you good for Auntie Mer, Lunes?” Meredith asks the girl, who only nods excitedly.

“Yeah! I ate all my food and I go to sleep early,” she picks up a brown crayon and starts to draw hair on her picture, tongue poking out of her mouth as she focuses.

“You did!” Jo beams, voice cheery and happy when she sees that Meredith had no objections to Luna’s words. “I’m so proud of you baby.”

A little while later, both Wilson’s are done with their picture, and Luna pouts when they put the two next to each other. “Your’s is better,” she whines.

“What!” Jo gasps dramatically, taking Luna and placing her in her lap, wrapping her arms around her . “I think yours is so much better than mine Lunes.”

“Really?”

Jo ruffles her hair, “Oh yeah,” she picks up the drawing and holds it up as if showing it in the light added extra flair. “This one’s going up on the fridge.”

____

Shaking her daughter gently, she brushes her hair out of her eyes, stopping briefly when she feels Luna’s forehead. “Wake up sweetie, you have to get up and I need to take you to daycare.”

Luna groans, “Mommy, my head hurts.” she winces, putting her hand to her head and squeezing her eyes tightly shut, her bottom lip trembling.

Jo’s face immediately twists into a frown, placing her lips to Luna’s forehead, pulling away when she feels the heat practically radiating off of her.

As if she could read her thoughts, Luna immediately rips the comforter off of her. “It’s too hot Mommy.”

Jo hums, concern pooling in the bottom of the stomach; even though all her daughter most likely had was a common case of the flu, the doctor in her couldn’t help but imagine the worst scenarios.

When Luna lets out a hacking cough, she immediately lets the girl bury her head in her chest. “Can I stay with you today Mommy? I don’t feel very good.”

Jo nods, “Of course baby, of course. I’m just going to call work and then I'll take care of you okay?” When Luna agrees she untangles herself from the girl’s hold, quickly rushing back to her room and calling into work, telling them that she wouldn’t be able to make it in that day. She prepares some saltines and medicine, carrying them back to the room where Luna was clutching to her stuffed bunny, another violent cough ripping through her.

She places the crackers down on the bedside table, eventually coaxing Luna into taking the medicine, which she tries to spit out not even seconds after she takes a sip.

“Let’s go to my room, okay? That way you can watch some TV,” Jo says softly, lifting her up and into her arms when she nods, grabbing the crackers for later.

When Luna finally settles into her bed, she curls up to her mom the second she lays down. Jo puts on Disney Jr, and a Puppy Dog Pals re-run plays, lulling Luna into a temporary state of peace.

The rest of the day is filled with lots of soup, crackers, blankets, ice packs, Disney Jr, and so many tissues the wastebasket had started to spill over, but when Luna gets up the next day, completely fine, Jo’s more than relieved.

And when a few days later, Jo wakes up with the same symptoms Luna did a few days prior, the little girl tries to take care of her mother the same way she did her.

_____

Wiping a few stray tears from her cheeks, Jo does a final comb through of her hair, letting it fall into uneven waves. It was too early to cry, there would be plenty of time for that later. “Lunes, ready to go?” she yells, stepping out of the bathroom and sliding on her shoes.

“Yeah Mommy. We need to go now or we’re gonna be late!” Luna stomps into her room, arms crossed over her chest, bottom lip puckered out in an adorable little pout.

Where Luna got her sense of urgency from, she wasn’t sure.

“I’m coming, I’m coming,” Jo laughs to herself, grabbing her purse and slinging it over her shoulder, taking Luna’s hand as they exit the house. “Wait, wait,” Jo says, stopping outside the door and rushing back inside to return with a blackboard saying ‘First Day of Kindergarten!’.

Luna sighs, but takes the board anyway and holds it up in front of their apartment door, smiling for the camera. When Jo had taken enough, she grabs Luna’s hand again, running to the car with her.

It only takes a few minutes before they arrive at the school, and both girls rush to the line for Mrs. Blake’s class, thankful that they hadn’t gone in yet. Luna makes conversation with the little girl in front of her, Kayla, and Jo talks to her mom, Christy, thankful that she wasn’t as stuck up as some of the other parent’s around them seemed. It was a private school, much different than the ones she had spent her childhood growing up in. She had promised herself ever since she was little that whatever children she had would have a different upbringing than her, and she took that to heart. Even if that meant paying for a ridiculously overpriced private school, with preppy uniforms, and parents that had jobs ranging from lawyers to actors.

When Mrs. Blacks comes out, she introduces herself and lets the parents say goodbye, she feels the pricks of tears in her eyes, trying to no avail to keep them from sliding down her cheeks.

She bends down to her daughter’s height, tucking a strand of her hair behind her ear, letting it rest on her rosy cheek. She sighs deeply, biting her bottom lip to stop it from wobbling.

“You be good, okay Lunes?”

The little girl nods. “I will. Don’t be sad Mommy.”

Jo laughs, pulling her into a bone crushing hug, releasing her only to rest her forehead against hers. “I love you baby.” she says, and she knows she’ll have to let her daughter go soon, off to start a new adventure, a new chapter in her life that has really only just begun.

“I love you too Mommy.”

#jo wilson #luna ashton #luna wilson #mother daughter relationships #grey's anatomy fic #grey's anatomy fanfic #grey's anatomy fanfiction #grey's anatomy #grey's abc #greys #camilla luddington #fluffy #so much fluff #payton writes #fluff #atticus lincoln #meredith grey

[logicalbookthief]

will you take this babe to be your only

"It’s all yours, Eds," he says, batting his eyes at Eddie’s glare. "On one condition."

He drops to his knee, just like they do in the movies. His lips make a wet, smacking sound as he kisses the back of Eddie’s hand, grin unrepentant.

"Make me the happiest man in the seventh grade?"

OR: Five times Richie proposed to Eddie as a joke and the one time he was serious. Based on THIS amazing, adorable reddie art by @faiyx. Title from “Let’s Get Married” by Bleachers.

Link to ao3

Richie saunters over to friends – specifically over to Eddie, who’s giving Stan and Bill a wide berth as they fiddle with Bill’s bike. But Eddie catches the glint of his ringpop in the sun and crowds him instantly.

"Hey! Where’s mine?"

"Sorry, Eds. Only one left." He is sorry for that; Richie meant to buy one for Eddie, too. He is decidedly less sorry for the reaction he knows his counter-offer will induce. "Tell you what, I’ll share."

"Gross!" Eddie reddens with his signature disgust. "I don’t want your spit. Who knows what germs you’re carrying! Flu, strep, halitosis–"

"You can’t spread halitosis," Stan interrupts. Eddie shoots him a look that is both confused and scathing.

It’s kind of cute, actually. The furrowed brow, the tightening around his lips. Everything Eddie does is at least kind of cute. Even when he’s trying to connive Richie out of his candy.

"C’mon, Rich. Red’s my favorite flavor."

"Red isn’t a flavor."

"You know what I mean, dipshit."

"Eds, you kiss your mother with that mouth?" Richie tuts. "Or does she save all the lip-action for me?"

"Shut up! You’re so fucking gross.” Eddie scowls, making a lunge for Richie’s arm. He’s got a couple inches on Eddie, and it’s way too easy to hold the ring out of reach, so Eddie has to jump for it.

Richie could tease Eddie like this all day, but an idea strikes, and oh, he can’t resist.

"Okay, you’ve convinced me. It’s all yours, Eds," he says, batting his eyes at Eddie’s glare. "On one condition."

He drops to his knee, just liken they do in the movies. His lips make a wet, smacking sound as he kisses the back of Eddie’s hand, grin unrepentant.

"Make me the happiest man in seventh grade?"

Eddie sputters, his cheeks a hot, fluorescent pink. Too deer-in-the-headlights to even freak over the germs from Richie’s saliva.

"Our Eddie could do better," Stan shouts. Richie yelps in offense.

"Take that back, Stanflakes!"

While he’s distracted, Eddie swipes the ringpop and sticks it in mouth. All smug, completely unrepentant. Richie would be annoyed, if his stomach wasn’t twisted in  fluttery knots all of a sudden.

Weird. Maybe he should lay off the candy, after all.

*

*

*

*

"Expert quarry-diver, Richard Tozier, will now attempt his triple back-splash bellyflop." Richie clears his throat of the British voice, the tips of his toes dangling over the edge of the cliff. He bends to a diving pose, sticking his butt towards his audience.

"Would you be careful?" Eddie nags. "Do you know the statistics of water-related injury among kids our age?"

"Do you know the statistics of virgins who quote statistics all the time?" Richie mimics Eddie’s high-pitched tone, chuckling at how huffy he gets. "Lighten up, Eds."

Mike peers over his shoulder. "It is a pretty big fall."

Richie snorts. "Not as big as my–"

His foot slips, careening back into nothing. The last thing he sees before he plummets is Eddie, seized by terror.

As far as last sights go, it isn’t so bad.

He slams against the water, hard. The impact punches the air out of his lungs. He sinks for a bit, dazed by pain, until the tightness in his chest becomes almost unbearable.

Disoriented, Richie flails his arms, aiming for the surface but going nowhere. His lungs have started to ache with urgency when he’s grabbed under the arms. They breach the surface, gulping in a glorious burst of oxygen, and finally, he’s set on land. He gasps, water sluicing past his lips, tasting all the nasty shit Eddie claims is in there.

Eddie.

"Eddie," he croaks, his vision blurry. He must’ve lost his glasses.

"You idiot," Eddie screeches. Wetness clings to his lashes. Richie suspects it isn’t from the quarry yet doesn’t dare voice this aloud. “I told you, I told you to be careful, and what did you do!? You could’ve broken your neck!"

"Or my huge dick,” Richie coughs, as his glasses are shoved back onto his face. He looks up to see Stan rolling his eyes.

"Besides his brain, is anything broken?”

"Dr. K doesn’t think so," says Ben, smiling in relief. "He jumped in after you, then Bill and I, and we swam you to shore."

"My hero," Richie sing-songs. He grins at his savior. "Marry me, Eds?"

"Pull that shit again and I'll let you drown," Eddie promises, though it's sort of undermined by how he's still hovering over Richie. Clingy Eddie is a worried Eddie, and selfishly, Richie likes it.

"You’ll have a helluva bruise," Bev remarks, poking at his skin.

"I’ve only seen people fall that way in cartoons," Mike exclaims.

Stan guffaws. "You dropped like Wile E. Coyote."

"Idiot," Eddie repeats. He hasn’t let go of Richie’s wrist, the point of contact burning so hot it may as well be imprinted on his skin. “Next time, you better listen to me.”

Richie beams. "Of course. What would I do without you, Eds?"

"Die, apparently," says Bill, and Richie laughs so hard water spurts out of his nose.

*

*

*

*

It’s the dead of night when Richie climbs through Eddie’s window, but the motions are so familiar, he could probably do it blind. He’s walked the distance from his house to the Kaspbrak’s so many times he could tell you the exact amount of steps it takes from his room to Eddie’s front door.

The excursions used to be a necessity, considering how frequently his mom would keep him home from school, and how she refused to let any of them visit Eddie when they brought his homework. Ever since Eddie put his foot down over the gazebos, he hadn’t missed nearly as much, until about a week ago.

A few days of absence is tolerable, though by no means enjoyable for Richie. A week is his absolute limit.

He slides the window open and slips inside. The room’s empty, except for a nest of blankets on the bed. Richie frowns, scanning for signs of life. Then the nest shifts, and he hears a sniffle.

"Rich?" Eddie pokes his head out of the cocoon. "What’re you doing here?"

Maybe it’s that he figured this was a case of Mrs. K’s smothering, but he isn’t prepared for the sight of Eddie: cheeks flushed, hair rumpled, his voice a sore-sounding whisper. "You really are sick, huh," says Richie, dumbly.

Eddie scoffs, a cough wracking his whole body. "No, I quarantined myself for fun! I love the smell of stale air and Vicks vapor rub."

"Geez, if you’re gonna be a dick, I’ll take my care-package and go," Richie turns on his heel, as if to leave.

Fingers curl around his arm, stronger than he expected. Richie cuts to Eddie’s eyes, wide and vulnerable. "Please don’t go."

"Eds, hey," Richie says gently. He cards his fingers through his sweaty hair, feeling like an ass. "I was kidding."

Shakily, Eddie nods. "No, it’s okay... I forgot how it was, you know? Being hold up in my room, all by myself, because I’m sick." He swallows, drawing out a wince. "It’s..."

Lonely. Eddie doesn’t have to say it for Richie to read him loud and clear. And who wouldn’t be, trapped in a dark house with only Mrs. K and her soaps for company?

If he wasn’t just some punk teen with two bucks to his name, he’d take Eddie away from this – this prison of a room, with his mom as warden; this shithole town, with all its shake and secrets – in a heartbeat.

"Marry me," he blurts. Eddie blinks at him.

So you’ll never be alone, is what he means. What he says is, "That way if you die, I’ll get your comics."

"Fuck you," Eddie rasps. It sounds more like fug you. Richie snickers.

"You’re cute when you’re congested. I can’t take anything you say seriously."

"Why don’t you put your mouth to good use for once," Eddie grumbles, and slaps a comic into Richie’s palm. "My eyes are too watery to read."

Richie grins and does as he’s told. Probably the only instance Eddie doesn’t complain about his voices are when he reads aloud; even when they were little kids, Eddie would sit entranced, saying he was the best storyteller.. He attempts to keep the volume low, even though there’s a 90% percent chance Mrs. Kaspbrak is already passed out with a bottle of Chardonnay.

After a while, Eddie starts to doze against his shoulder, and even Richie can’t hold his eyes open much longer. He may as well spend the night; as long as he skedaddles before breakfast, Mrs. K will be none-the-wiser.

"Move over," Richie orders, slipping under the covers. They’re all elbows and knees, yet still skinny enough to fit together in the bed. It’s narrow, though. The fit is tight. His heart’s fluttering so loudly he hopes Eddie’s ears are congested, too.

"I’ll get you sick," Eddie frets. A tidal wave of affection rushes over Richie, because the concern is I’m infectious stay away, not ew, get away from me, you fag.

He dreads the day they’ll be too old, or it’ll be too gay, for Richie to sneak into his room and share his bed. So he savors it while he has it, this closeness. Shuffles their positions until his chin is tucked over Eddie’s shoulder, his chest pressed against Richie’s front.

"There," he says, grateful they’re no longer facing each other, so Eddie can’t see the flush on his cheeks. "Now you can’t breathe on me."

Eddie shivers against the cool gust of air over his neck, or maybe he’s feverish, curling back against Richie in search of warmth. Emboldened, Richie throws an arm over his middle, slotting them together. For Richie, it’s like a piece of himself falling into place.

Tomorrow he’ll complain about Eddie’s hideous morning breath and be kicked for his trouble. Tonight he drifts off to the hiss of Eddie’s breaths and is thankful for every wheeze.

*

*

*

*

"Jesus, Rich. Those things will rot your lungs before you’re forty."

Eddie grunts when he spies Richie, a cigarette dangling between his fingers. The glow is unmistakable in the low-lighting of Derry’s school halls.

Richie takes a long, exaggerated drag. "Yeah, yeah, so you’ve told me. A gazillion times."

"You survived an evil sewer clown just to kill yourself with cigarettes?" Eddie makes his bitchiest face.

"When you put it that way," Richie mutters, stubbing it out. Doesn’t want to give Eddie a reason to leave, anyway.

He slinks over to Richie, nose wrinkling at the smell. "Why aren’t you with Becky?"

"Who?"

Eddie rolls his eyes. "Your date, dumbass."

Of course Richie remembers. Becky “B-Cup” Wilkins. She sits by him in physics, where they copy each other’s work (usually with mutually devastating results). This was the first year of high school she had her braces off, and with the metal gone, she was keen to practice her kissing. Richie was more than happy to oblige.

He was a little floored when she asked him to the dance, though. Him and the Losers generally had a pact to go together, but that may have more to do with the lack of invitations from anyone else. They all encouraged Richie to accept the invite “before she realizes what she’s getting into,” as Stan so eloquently put it.

Becky was pretty, overbite or no, and she ran with a crowd of girls that were way out of his league. She had a mean streak to her, too, and apparently he liked that in a girl.

(And apparently in boys, too.)

Her friends were nice to him the whole night, even laughed at his jokes. Whether they thought he was charming in an off-beat kind of way, or simply being considerate of Becky, he wasn’t sure, nor did he particularly care.

Until he returned from the punch bowl to the girls in a cluster, giggling.

"Come on, if you had to pick a loser, who’d it be?" asks Liz Maloney.

"The short one, I guess," another girl answers. Curious, Richie follows her gaze, heart sinking at the sight of Eddie, standing off to the side with Ben and Stan, while Bev and Bill dance. His hair’s combed for once, shiny with gel, and the sweater that looks soft to the touch. Not as soft as his skin, yet it isn’t a fair comparison, since Richie’s imagined touching that for far longer.

"God, Kris, you know he’s gay, right?" Liz jeers. His stomach lurches at the disdain in her voice. "He’s never so much as looked at a girl."

"So what, he’s gay and can’t be cute?" Kris puts a hand on her hip. "Better gay than fat."

"At least Hanscom isn’t allergic to pussy."

They crack up at that, and in the mix, he hears Becky’s little snigger, the one he found so charming. Not anymore.

"You know who I’d pick?" Richie bursts in obnoxiously, startling Kris so bad she yelps. "All of them, over you."

Becky shot him a look as he left, like he was the weirdo upset over nothing, and Richie decided he was a better off a loser.

"Oh! Her." He snaps his fingers. "Yeah, we weren’t compatible, you could say. Turns out, her B-Cup was mostly tissue."

"She dumped you," Eddie surmises.

"Yeah," says Richie, because it’s easier than the truth.

His expression dims, sympathy bleeding from every pore. Eddie bumps his shoulder. "I’m sorry, dude."

Richie shrugs. "Bev is saving me a dance as we speak. I’m sure she’s got one saved for you, too."

"No thanks, I’m good." Eddie shudders. "All the sweat, the touching, the–"

"–the bacteria?" Richie finishes knowingly. "Fuck. Can’t you let loose for one night, Eds?"

"Don’t call me that," he snaps. "And what’re you doing?"

"Crossing it off your bucket list," Richie says cheerily, yanking Eddie to his feet. "C’mon, man. What if you wake up with a staff infection tomorrow? Do you wanna die without dancing at your senior homecoming?"

"Shit for brains, that isn’t how staff infect–" At his unfaltering grin, Eddie relents. "You know what, fine! Whatever it takes to shut you up."

"That’s the spirit!"

It’s obvious Eddie doesn’t quite know where to put his hands. Richie knows exactly where he wants to put his, yet he’s too much of a coward.

"You can barely hear the music," Eddie complains. "We look like idiots."

"Nobody’s watching," Richie presses, holding Eddie a bit tighter, the fear he’ll pull away worse than the fear they’ll be caught. "I could hum, if you prefer."

Eddie snorts, ducking his head, chin brushing Richie’s chest. "I don’t really know what I’m doing," he admits, self-consciously.

"Relax, you’re fine." Richie twists him into an awkward twirl, then does the same to himself, cackling at Eddie’s reluctant smile. "I’ll show you some moves when we go camping at Mike’s next weekend."

Immediately, the smile disappears. "My mom won’t let me."

"Eds,"  Richie groans. "You’re killing me."

"I tried!" Eddie cries miserably. "I tried to ask if I could visit my aunt in Chamberlain, and sneak out with you guys instead, even though it was a long-shot. But she wouldn’t go for that, either!"

"Well, there is no way you’re missing Ben’s triple-layer s’mores or your dancing lessons. Let’s brainstorm." Richie spends a second wracking his brain. "Option one, we fake your death."

"Be serious, Rich."

"Okay, okay. Option two." He makes the mistake of looking at Eddie, the words briefly catching in his throat. "We get married, run away together. As your husband, I’d totally overrule your mom."

"Where’s my ring?" Eddie asks, smirking.

Richie surprises him with a dip, just to hear his squawk. "You got to admit, Eddie Tozier has quite the ring to it," he jokes, his mouth so close to Eddie’s he feels light-headed.

"Sounds like a bad cologne brand." Eddie stares up at him, dark eyes imploring. Like he truly believes in Richie, trusts him to fix anything. "What’s option number three?"

"I stop living in sin and make it official with your mom," Richie blurts, wriggling his eyebrows. "As your stepdad, I could persuade Sonia to let our darling boy have fun with his friends."

He should’ve predicted the smack, but it jolts him enough that he drops Eddie on his ass, collapsing into a fit of giggles next to him on the floor.

"You’re sick," Eddie hisses, with no real bite. "No wonder your date left you."

Richie yanks him into a noogie. "Good thing I’ll always have you, Eddie Spaghetti."

*

*

*

*

He has Eddie, wholly, unconditionally. Until he doesn’t.

Until the memories fade, day by day, month by month, and he forgets every lingering touch, every averted glance, every painstaking swipe of his father’s pocketknife as he carved their initials into the kissing bridge. He loses Eddie, only to find him twenty-seven years later, and then only to lose him again.

Almost. Richie sighs, savoring the steady beep of the monitor beside him. He almost loses Eddie.

They narrowly escaped being crushed to death under the Neibolt, mostly because Richie, in his desperate certainty that Eddie was alive, refused to leave him behind. How could he leave him to die in that cold, dark chasm – Eddie would’ve hated it, he was afraid of the dark, kept a night-light well into his teens, and Richie couldn’t tell the others, not only ‘cause he was sobbing too harsh to make any sense, but ‘cause he promised Eds he’d never tell a soul – when he could barely pry himself from Eddie at the hospital, while the doctors insisted they take him into surgery, now.

So Richie waits, his hands quaking at the memory of Eddie’s skin, gone cold with shock. He waits, helpless, while the doctors try to shove Eddie’s innards back in and stitch up the hole in his chest.

By some miracle, they manage to do it with, and with him only flatlining once, the nurse informs him proudly. Like Richie should be ecstatic that Eddie had to be physically resuscitated, even after they brought him to safety, after killing that fucking clown.

"I’m sorry. Until he’s moved to a room, only family are allowed in the ICU," she explains to the six losers standing vigil. Richie is more than a bit bewildered when she motions him forward regardless. "Sir, you can come with me."

Still a little dazed, he follows without question, lest this privilege be revoked.

"Your husband is heavily sedated, so if he wakes he’ll likely be disoriented. I’ll be good to have a familiar face." She nods to the chair at Eddie’s bedside. "Make sure to keep him calm and comfortable."

With a final, warm smile, she leaves them alone. Richie staggers into the seat, fumbling for Eddie’s hand, where it lies limp against the starch white sheets. He doesn’t realize he’s crying until the fat drops of tears are sliding down the bridge of his nose and into the bed. His chest swells, full of all the regrets he’s carried, all the shame he’s hidden. All the love that’s interwoven into the two.

And Eddie has no idea.

No idea that Richie would fight a million fucking clowns if doing so would keep Eddie safe, let him smile, bright and buoyant, like he had at Richie when he thought he’d killed It for real.

Hell, the nurse from middle-of-fucking-nowhere Derry could tell he was head-over-heels in love, yet he couldn’t find the balls to confess to the one guy in the world who deserved to know.

Richie isn’t sure how long he’s slumped over, their fingers intertwined, before Eddie stirs.

"You’re okay, Eds. It’s Richie, I’m here," he says softly, clutching his hand tighter. "Not leaving you, buddy. Not ever again."

His brow pinches, bewildered. "When did you...?"

"Never mind," snorts Richie. His smile hardly wavers, and it’s hopelessly adoring. Eddie has that effect on him, it seems. "Just running my mouth."

"Per usual," Eddie huffs, weakly. "Did we... It, did we...?"

The monitor speeds up, signaling his distress. Richie acts on instinct, standing up, using his body to shield him from the room, the world. It’s only them, just Richie with his palm over Eddie’s cheek, thumb caressing his scar, his dimples.

"It’s dead," he assures. "Everyone made it out, we’re safe. You’re safe now."

Eddie turns into the touch, nose brushing against his fingertips. Richie sucks in a breath, his heart a jackhammer in his throat. He’s never wanted to kiss anyone like he wants to kiss Eddie right now.

Talking. Talking will distract him from that dangerous line of thought. "We carried you out. You’re in the hospital, attached to no less than a thousand wires, that I'm afraid to poke in case you explode."

A groggy smile tugs at the corners of Eddie's mouth.

"Oh, and the staff thinks I’m your incredibly devoted husband," Richie adds wryly. "What do ya say, Eds? Don’t want to get accused of hospital fraud."

Eddie hums dreamily. "I have to divorce my wife first."

Richie nearly swallows his tongue.

He could blame it on the drugs. Hell, it's probably a joke. Like his half-hearted attempt to startle a laugh out of Richie, his chin smeared with blood, the "I fucked your mom" comment followed by a streak of red.

Except it isn't a joke. This is something else entirely.

"Wha– What are you saying?"

His eyes open to slits, glaring at Richie through his lashes. "I’m trying to be brave."

Richie chokes out a laugh. "Eds, you’re braver than anybody I’ve ever met."

"Hmm." Eddie exhales, eyes slipping closed. Richie stifles the pinprick of panic begging for Eddie to keep your eyes open, stay awake, please, look at me. "Brave. Not happy."

And if that doesn’t fucking break his heart.

"We can fix that," Richie whispers, the words unbidden but earnest. He talks a lot of shit, but this, this is as vulnerable as he's ever allowed himself to be. "You and me, Eds. I want–I want you to be happy."

Happy with me.

There’s no answer. Snores drift from Eddie’s slackened lips. Richie laughs, wobbly and tear-laced, as he nuzzles his hair.

"You rest, Eddie Spaghetti. I’ll be here when you wake up." He strokes his knuckles over his forehead, and then kisses him there, just below his hairline. Fuck it, he’s tired of fearing the worst, hiding the truth.

If Eddie wasn’t afraid, neither was Richie.

*

*

*

*

"Did I ever tell you guys I proposed to my boyfriend when we were twelve-years-old? With a ringpop?"

He garners a couple of hollers and a few scattered ’awws’.

"Let me finish!" Richie shushes. "I proposed to Eddie when we were kids, and, while our friend Stan was dunking on me, he stole the ring off my hand and stuck it in his mouth. He was all: haha, got ya bitch! The lil’ shit."

The crowd titters. Besotted, Richie lays a hand over his heart and sighs.

"Proposed with a ringpop. That is the height of romance – but only if you’re a twelve-year-old. If I pulled that stunt a a grown man, you wouldn’t be waking up to a Buzzfeed article titled: 42-year-old Comedian Ties Knot with Childhood Sweetheart. You’d be reading a news report claiming: 42-year-old Comedian Justifiably Murdered By His Boyfriend."

Cheers ring out, despite him yelling, "Don't cheer for my death!"

"You know what’s really pathetic? Besides the fact my romance game peaked before puberty." He pauses, allowing the chuckles to peter out before he continues, "The worst part is, it was a joke . Yup. I didn’t know I was gay, let alone in love with my best friend! I did it solely to get a rise out of him, and boy, did he get cute when he was mad."

In a thoughtful tone, Richie reflects, "In retrospect, the gay thing should’ve been clear sooner."

At the crowd's glee, a grin splits his cheeks.

"Speaking of my gay awakening, he’s in the audience tonight." He locks eyes with Eddie in the front row, sandwiched between Ben and Mike. "Eddie, my love. Light of my life. Fire in my loins. Won’t you join me on stage, so the adoring fans can get a look at you?"

The crowd claps in thunderous agreement. Eddie shakes his head, vehemently at first, losing gusto as the Losers gently (forcibly) encourage him toward the stage. He flashes a quick, uncomfortable grin at the audience before leaning into Richie, whispering "The hell are you doing, asshole?" which, for all his tact, the mic catches anyway.

Richie tucks a now blushing Eddie against his side, showing off his gorgeous boyfriend. "Am I the luckiest guy in the world or what?" he shouts to raucous wolf-whistles. "Okay, that was maybe too enthusiastic. He's spoken for!"

He runs his palm over Eddie's shoulder, soothing the discomfort centered in the tendons of his neck. Once he relaxes, Richie trails it down his arm, skirting across his lower back. "I know you all paid good money – frankly too much money – to hear me joke on this stage tonight. But if you don’t mind, I am going to be serious for a minute."

Performative groans echo here and there, but for the most part, everyone's listening attentively.

"Twelve-year-old me was too afraid to be serious about things. The gay thing, the in love with my best friend thing. God, a lot of things." He turns to Eddie, his throat bobbing with nerves. "I’m not afraid anymore."

He’s thirty years older, his joints a lot creakier, but it’s the simplest thing in the world to drop to his knee and reach for the tiny velvet box in his pocket.

"Sorry it isn’t red-flavored," he says dryly, unclasping it to reveal the gold band inside. "Or edible."

In addition to the spotlights, there’s a dozen camera flashes going off. None of it matters, his sole focus on Eddie's deer-in-the-headlights expression.

"Rich," Eddie wheezes. It isn't an asthma attack, though it sounds like one. "What are you doing?"

"About to be shitting my pants on stage." Eddie snorts out a laugh, an effortless reminder of how in love with him Richie is. "But you make me brave."

The creases of his mouth loosen, his eyes wet around the edges. After a year, Eddie still tends to get that look – that look of utter awe. Less now than before, yet it seems that no matter how much or how often he's told, Eddie is awed by being so loved. Luckily, Richie never tires of telling him.

"Eds, I love you more than anything on earth. Will you marry me?"

He barely asks the question before Eddie hauls him to his feet, down into a kiss so hot his glasses fog up.

The audience erupts into deafening applause. Richie doesn't need to hear anything besides the frantic "yes, yes, yes, I love you, you idiot" Eddie’s pressing against his lips. Parting with a firm, wet smack of lips, Richie pulls away before he jumps him there on stage.

"You’ve been a lovely audience, folks!" he exclaims into the mic. "But if you'll excuse us, I've got a proposal to consummate. "

With a wink, Richie bustles Eddie off-stage. They make it past the curtain before he’s got Eddie hiked up against the wall.

Eddie paws at his shirt, while Richie’s slide towards the swell of his ass. "Can’t wait to get you out of these clothes, God, Eds," he moans reverently, raking his eyes over his fiancé – hang on. "Is that my shirt?"

"Is that my ring?" Eddie fires back. He’s smirking, though, and oh, without a shadow of a doubt, he was getting laid after the show, proposal or no.

"All yours, baby." Richie takes the hint nonetheless, slipping the ring on Eddie’s finger, where it belongs. He can’t resist another kiss, this one longer, sweeter.

"I was always yours," Eddie murmurs once they’ve parted, cheeks pleasantly flushed. "All you had to do was ask."

And it’s shit like that, confessions of love spoken so plainly, without the conflict that’s ruled most of their lives, that reminds Richie how lucky they are to have each other.

They are also a huge pain in each other’s ass, so, "Does that mean I should return the ring?"

"Fuck no," Eddie scoffs. "I’m wearing it forever. And tonight, for sure."

"It’ll be the only thing I wear tonight," he adds, a sultry whisper against in Richie’s ear.

He really is the luckiest man, ever.

#reddie #reddie fic #eddie kaspbrak #richie tozier #it chapter 2 #oblivious childhood sweethearts eventually realize they're in love #and eddie lives so they live happily ever after #rip to stephen king and andy but I'm different

[unholyhelbiglinked]

Dead Ivy | Chapter Three

CHECK IT OUT FROM THE START | AO3 LINK

The house never looked that big before, it was a small two bedroom that was enough for Jason and his wife. He had repainted the gray finish into a pearly white that matched the picket fence. He had replaced the grass and drew little designs on the mailbox to make it look more like home- but now the grass was rotting to a deep brown, and the mailbox’s flag creaked as sticky wind hissed past.

Beca knew she should have grabbed the keys before she got out of her fathers’ truck.

That would have saved her from digging in her messenger bag. There were a lot of papers from the funeral in there, different documents and legal stuff that she would usually pay people to do that for her- which, of course, left a sour taste in her mouth. She hated people like that, but she hated not reading the fine print even more.

They had given her Jason’s things in a plastic bag that reminded her of prison. Beca just remembered staring at the doctor, dry-mouthed and silent against the buzzing fluorescent lights. How could her brother not survive but the set of keys in the ignition were salvaged? It left a thick feeling in her veins.

There was a CD that wasn’t labeled, something they had pulled from the wreckage. A couple of receipts and a picture of his ex-wife that he had, still clipped to the visor. Her father refused to take any of it, so she shoved everything except for the keys into the bottom compartment of her dresser. Of course, now, she couldn’t’ find them.

“Whatever you’re selling, he doesn’t want it.”

The voice startled her into gasping. If she was holding keys, Beca would let them fall to the ground. She had placed the cleaning supplies down by the front door and turned slightly within the bounds of the picket fence. A woman, probably three times her age, was leaning with her garden sheers, way too close to the barrier. She had on a large floppy hat the shaded her ghostly eyes and her pants were coated in grass stains.

“I’m sorry?”

“The young man that lives there, he doesn’t want what you’re selling. We have a strict policy against solicitors, and you can see that there is no car other than yours in the driveway.”

Beca blinked a few times at the woman. She didn’t’ think people like this actually existed. When she was growing up her father would get letters in the mail from the HOA talking about how they needed to trim their hedges or repaint their shutters or else they would get fined for tainting the neighborhood. She never understood people who looked out for that type of thing, but one was standing right in front of her, mouth pressed into a hard line.

“I’m not selling anything.” Beca felt the need to defend herself to this small-town southern belle of the ’50s. “I’m looking for the key.”

She went back to pawing around her back, shoving aside a half-eaten granola bar that was at the bottom. It left crumbs over everything and made it smell like peanut butter, but she supposed there were worse things.

“This place has been vacant for a week now.”

“He’s dead.”

Beca paused in her own movements. She hadn’t said it out loud. She had mulled over it again and again. Her older brother, the kid who used to pick on her about her hair, and her grades, and the fact that she couldn’t pass her driving test on the first try was dead. She had been preoccupied. Busy with arranging his service and keeping up house for the rest of the town. She finally found the key and looked up at the woman, who was quiet for what seemed like the first time in her life.

“He was so young. That’s tragic.”

“It is,” Beca let out a deep sigh and turned the key in the lock. She nodded briskly at the woman before pushing her way into the stifling heat of the house. She was hit with an instant scent of rotted food and stagnant water. The electric had been cut. It left her with the dusty darkness of a bachelor pad.

The house groaned in her presence and she drew in a cloying breath, pressing her back against the door. There were envelopes on the floor, scattered against the hardwood after being shoved through the mail slot. An instant brine of sweat began to adhere her clothes to her skin. Her brother's house looked normal.

Jason’s coat was still hanging on the hook by the front door. There were movies lining the shelves next to a vacant television. A throw moved against the back of the sofa and another picture of his wife was situated by the end table. Beca never understood why he left that there. But then again, she had never been over here to turn the smiling face to the mahogany that it rested on.

She let her boots echo against the flooring as she wondered through everything. There were two bedrooms, one converted into an office, the other had an unmade bed. The dining room was void of a table instead a worn Steinway piano was in its place. She ran her fingers over dusty cover but decided against listening to the notes.

They were both forced to take piano lessons as a kid. Jason wanted to go out for the basketball team instead, and he eventually did. But for three long years in middle school, they both sat with their backs straight and fingers hovering over alternating keys. Beca supposed she did have her father to thank for her affinity in music. Her understanding was owed to Miss Beale.

Beca walked over the fridge and frowned. That same rotted scent of decaying vegetation coated her lungs and she knew she would have to peel open a trash bag and get rid of the food first. It should have been done days ago- all of this had. Instead, she stared at the fridge.

There were letter magnets that were blocky and in primary colors. There didn’t seem to be any combinations that could be read, but they did hold up different poloids. Easter, 07’. Key West, 04’. Honeymoon, ll’. The one that stood out to her was Christmas of 01. Jason was behind Beca, his cheesy smile matching the onesies they both wore in front of a tree too covered in tinsel to ever be considered pine. She leaned into him and they both grinned like they were instructed to.  

Beca jumped when her phone buzzed in her back pocket.

She gulped back the rancid air and blinked away whatever moisture formed in her eyes before frantically fishing her phone out of her back pocket. She didn’t recognize the number, but she welcomed the distraction. “Mitchell.”

“It’s Stacie, I’m so glad I had the right number.” Beca didn’t ask her why, or how, she had gotten it before Stacie spoke again. “Listen, I was serious about getting together. You busy?”

Beca glanced around and brought her fingers up to her collarbone. She instinctively scratched at where a necklace had once been. A nervous habit, she supposed. “No, not at all. What did you have in mind?”

Beca Mitchell ended up at the Snake Eye, the very place she didn’t want to find herself in while staying in the sleepy little town. The music was too loud, and there was an undeniable thickness to the air that culminated in half-rate nachos and open mic nights. High school Beca would have loved this place- hell, college graduate Beca would have loved it too.

“I got you a beer!” Stacie called over the music, shoving a cold amber bottle into Beca’s hand. “I hope that’s okay.”

“It’s perfect, thanks!”

Beca would have taken rubbing alcohol at this point. Anything that would drown out, or at least dull, the sound of the pulsing music. Every seat was taken at the bar, and the few tables that the place had were occupied. Some college girl was mumbling her way through Bohemian Rhapsody, probably on a dare from her friends sitting a few booths down.

Stacie pulled Beca into a vacant corner of the bar. It was oddly quieter on the plush leather seats. She set her beer down on the table and tried to distract herself by reading whatever was on the menu. It was tailgating food and all of it was a greasy mess, yet, Beca found herself craving jalapeno poppers.

“Sorry, this is such short notice. All my residents ended up coming down with the same flu that they were treating last week.” Stacie took a long gulp of her fruity drink. “I feel bad, but I’ve got the night off, and you probably need an escape.”

“I do, yeah, though, I refuse to get up on that stage.”

“What? The singing bug finally left your bones?”

Beca snorted and shook her head. She wasn’t much of a singer, to begin with, sure, she had a voice. Almost everyone from her childhood did. She remembered the after-school jazz band and the concerts that the school would put on.  “I’m more a behind the scenes type of girl.”

“Right, right. Bigshot producer now, I bet a few of your songs are in that book up there.”

Her cheeks heated at that, but she knew the doctor meant well. She was sure there were a few that she had helped produce. Big pop songs that let her top the charts without giving her the fame. Of course, she still found herself pulling her baseball cap down, or looking away from whatever cameras had spotted her. Not here, though. No one knew this place existed.

“That’s pretty cool, Mitchell. Getting out of this place and making a name for yourself.”

“Please, you are literally a doctor. You save lives daily.” Beca took a swig of her own beer, letting the sour liquid sooth her nerves a bit. “That’s dope, dude.”

“Not always. I pull more marbles out of asses than I do bullets.”

Beca frowned at the statement, scrunching up her nose before the two of them burst into laughter. If felt like it used to: she could remember sitting in the refinished garage that Stacie had converted into somewhat of a man cave. There was a fold out couch, and the hum of the dryer would lull them into placid conversation. Stacie stole a beer from her father, and they drank it in there. Two years later she produced a sloppily rolled blunt, and they smoked it there, all while making crass jokes and cracking up. It felt normal.

They both let out an involuntary groan as the first three notes of a Toni Braxton song filled the bar. Beca pressed her forehead against the table and Stacie shifted in the booth to get a good look at whoever had chosen a ballad like Unbreak My Heart.

“No fucking way,” Stacie mumbled, setting her sloshing drink down. “Mitchell, you wouldn’t believe…”

Though, when the first ballad started, Beca did believe. She had heard that voice a million times and had more than enough nights where she fought to forget it. Right now, it was shockingly crushing one of the hardest songs humanly possible to sing- though she had no doubt.

Chloe Beale. Restaurant owner. Single mother- and oh god, wearing really tight jeans.

There weren’t many lights that illuminated the half-baked stage in the karaoke bar. But that didn’t’ seem to matter. A mix of blue and white shaded Chloe while the whole place seemed captivated by the words of a heartfelt breakup song. Ouch.

“She’s crushing it.”

“Mm,” Beca could only hum in agreement as she traced Chloe’s body. Of course, a deep acid still burned against her veins from their curt interaction earlier that morning. She looked so different- so freeing with the mic in her hand and all eyes on her. “I think I need some air.”

Before Stacie could interject Beca pushed herself away from the booth and walked through the crowd that had all turned to face the stage. She didn’t blame them. Her whole body was on fire, like the atoms that made up her God complex were struggling to pull her back. She didn’t know if the hot Georgia air was doing her any favors, but it muted the song.

She let out a dull sigh and pressed her body close to the brick, closing her eyes. She could hear the crickets mix with the low croaks of bullfrogs. She used to find it odd when both were quiet. When she could only hear her breath- but she was used to LA traffic, a different type of loud and never that unsettling silence.

The music picked up again when the door opened and closed. A couple that was sure to move on to their next destination for the night. Stacie coming out to check on her. A bartender coming out for a smoke while they sat on an old plastic carton.

Beca let her eyes shoot open once more when the warmth of another cut through her focus. She steadied herself, hands grasping at her arms. Familiar. “Oh my god, I am so sorry, I-“Chloe Beale wasn’t alone, her breath scarce. She was still riding the high of the stage. “Beca.”

The girl that was with her was tall, towering with those brown doe eyes that could melt the sharpest hearts encased in ice. She wore a floral sundress, loud colors that somehow worked on her lanky frame. A leather coat was against her shoulders to counter the cold of the bar.

“Twice in one day, wow.” She said.

Beca scanned the stranger up and down, not taking her eyes off of her. She was pretty. Very pretty. “It’s a small town- I don’t think we’ve met.”

“Oh, we haven’t.” She said, chipper as ever. “My names Emily. And you’re Beca, Chloe has told me all about you.”

She raised her eyebrows, giving a slight tilt of the head towards Chloe. Her cheeks were red and Beca couldn’t’ tell if that had changed from before this topic of conversation was brought up. She hated the heat that licked at her own throat- she had no right, none whatsoever, to feel that surge of jealousy towards this tall stranger. They had forgotten each other. Forgotten the way they felt against each other. Forgotten how they loved, and how they hated. How they hurt.

“You did very well up there, Chloe.” Beca finally conceded. “Just like old times.”

“Sure,” Chloe’s eyes were hard, that signature blue not shining as it had before. Was it anger? Was it betrayal? Was it both? Beca couldn’t tell before Chloe looped her arm around Emily’s middle and lilted her head. “We have to be going. Have a good night, Beca.”

They walked past and Beca pretended not to get overwhelmed by the vanilla scent that both girls carried. Instead, she simply mumbled dejectedly. “You too, Chloe.”

#Beca Mitchell #Chloe Beale #bechloe fic rec #Bechloe #fanfiction #pitch perfect fanfiction #pitch perfect

[stripestheboar]

Ooooh my stars can you do more PTA Sans scenes?! I absolutely adore that AU!!

Sorry this took so long. Weeks of sickness is getting to me. Not to mention making up jokes can take hours.

Anyways…. PART 3 OF THE PTA SANS COLLECTION!

ENJOY

~Undertale~

Sans: *comes in* okay, what’s going on? Frisk has been late to five doctor’s appointments because the teachers won’t let them leave until i come get them.

Helen: *motions for him to sit down* I’m afraid we just can’t trust your child to leave the class anymore. He keeps writing fake notes just to get out.

Sans: *blinks and sits down* fake notes? whoa whoa, what? that doesn’t sound like them.

Helen: *nods* Yes, he’s quite the troublemaker. Not being her father, it’s clear you don’t know him as much as you thought. He makes fake doctor’s notes, clearly written by him.

Sans: well, how do you know? I always write their notes since Tori’s teaching.

Helen: Well, for one, it’s all types up lowercase. Probably so we don’t recognize her handwriting (he doesn’t seem too bright).  

Sans:… typed?

Helen: Mmhmm. Typed up on a flimsy piece of paper. All lowercase and with bad spelling and grammar. And in Comic Sans no less! *slowly coming to realization* If he really thinks the teacher and…. I are dumb enough to let… that… pass…. *blinks*

Sans:…..  

Helen:….

Sans: *sighs* y’know, it’s pretty hard being a married working mother when you’re single, unemployed, a skeleton, and most importantly a dude, but damn it, Helen…. Frisk and i donated fifty cans to the food drive. i think we deserve some respect here.

Helen: Well I’m head of the PTA, so there really is no-

Sans: how many cans did you donate, Helen?

Helen: That doesn’t really matter-

Sans: how many, Helen?

Helen:….. *looks down* Four.

Sans: really? wow. i would’ve though you would’ve had the time to donate more with how much time you spend bitching about my kid.

~Underfell~

Sans: *hands Frisk money* here’s twenty g. vending machine is around the corner. don’t go around spending it all in one fuckin’ place. now run along, ya little shithead.

Frisk: *snatches up money and runs off*

Daniel: *walking when Frisk suddenly races past him* Hey, watch where you’re going. *sighs* Little shithead.

Sans: *suddenly next to him* uh, what the fuck did you just call my kid?

Daniel: What? You call them that all the time!

Sans: yeah, it’s okay when i say it because they know i still fucking love them. when you say it, you actually fucking mean it.

Daniel: then maybe you shouldn’t speak to your child that way.

Sans: then maybe you should mind your own fucking business or else!

Daniel: Or else what? It’s your fault you don’t love your child enough!

Sans: *stops* oh… you fucker… *chuckles evilly* i’ll show you love, asshole. *disappears*

The Next Saturday 

Daniel: *helping his young son onto his bike* Alright, Cody, today’s the day you’re going to learn to ride like all of your friends. *hands him his helmet* Now, it may be scary at first, and you may fall down a few times, but remember that I will be here to help you-

Cody: *puts on helmet* It’s okay, dad! I already know how! *rides off on his bike perfectly with a smile*

Daniel: *shocked* What? How did he-? When did he-?!

Sans: *rides by on his tricycle* ha ha asshole! i taught your kid how to ride a bike! you’re never gonna get that back! *rides off into the sunset*

~Underswap~

Sans: *finishes checking off the last name* AND DONE! THAT’S EVERYONE! *grins* GOOD WORK, EVERYBODY! THIS FUNDRAISER WILL MORE THAN HELP THE BAND GET NEW EQUIPMENT! SINCE MARIA’S CHILDREN RAISED THE MOST, THEY GET TOP PRIZES. *walks over and hands Maria a bone* HERE! A TOKEN OF MY ETERNAL GRATITUDE!

Maria: *smiles and takes it, shaking off how weird it is* Aw, thanks, Sans. I really appreciate it. Cindy had fun selling to all her friends.

Sans: WELL CINDY IS DOING AN AMAZING JOB! HERE, A BONE FOR HER AS WELL. *hands her a smaller bone* TELL HER THE PRIZES WILL BE HERE IN A WEEK.

Linda: Bones? Don’t you think that’s kind of weird?

Sans: *tilts head* I’M JUST SHOWING MY GRATITUDE. DO HUMANS NOT LIKE THAT?

Linda: It’s just kinda weird with all the bones. What’s with you monsters and your obsessions with bones? Or is that just a skeleton thing?

Sans: *thinks hard* I’M ACTUALLY NOT SURE, LINDA! I’VE ALWAYS THOUGHT IT WAS WEIRD THAT YOU HUMANS LIKE TO GET MARRIED THREE TIMES AND PULL THEIR CHILD INTO THEIR DIVORCE BATTLES THUS DRASTICALLY AFFECTING THEIR SCHOOL WORK AND MOTIVATION TO DO THE ACTIVITIES THEY LOVE SUCH AS BAND. OR IS THAT JUST A LINDA THING?

~Swapfell~

Sans: AS HEAD BOOSTER MOM-

Gloria: *aside to her friend* As you’ve proclaimed fifty times this meeting.

Sans: - I AM THOROUGHLY SATISFIED BY THE RATE AT WHICH WE WERE ABLE TO HELP FUND ADEQUATE  EQUIPMENT FOR OUR CHILDREN. NOW THAT ALL OF THIS HAS BEEN SETTLED, LET US DISCUSS SETTING UP THE STAGE ON THURSDAY TO GET READY FOR THE SHOW. I ASSUME IT MAY TAKE US A GOOD SIX HOURS TO GET IT READY.

Gloria: Wait- what?

Sans: WE NEED TO SET THE STAGE FOR OUR CHILDREN. WE MUST MAKE IT PERFECT; OUR CHILDREN SHALL ACCEPT NOTHING LESS.

Gloria: Six hours of setting up? Look, I don’t have time for that.

Sans: IT WILL BE IN THE AFTERNOON. YOU CAN’T SPARE YOUR TIME FOR AN HOUR?

Gloria: I still can’t make it. I have a busy schedule. Can’t we use some of the money from the fundraiser to hire a few people to do that.

Sans: THAT MONEY IS FOR THE EQUIPMENT! FINE. I SHALL TAKE YOUR CHILD TO THE PERFORMANCE AS WELL.

Gloria: E-excuse me?!  

Sans: IF YOUR SCHEDULE IS SO BUSY TO WHERE YOU CAN’T MAKE IT EVEN FOR AN HOUR, YOU WILL SUEELY BE TOO EXHAUSTED TO TAKE YOUR CHILD TO THE PERFORMANCE THE NEXT MORNING. DO NOT DESPAIR. MY MUTT CAN EASILY TRANSPORT YOUR CHILD.

Gloria: You are not touching my son. Look, my schedule is packed tight and there’s nothing I can do about it.  

San: GLORIA, YOU’RE A STAY-AT-HOME MOTHER RAISING ONE CHILD. I COULD GET CANCER AND DIE OF IT IN THE AMOUNT OF TIME YOU SPEND WATCHING “THE REAL HOUSEWIVES” IN A SINGLE DAY. IF YOU CAN’T SPARE A SINGLE HOUR, WHY ARE YOU IN THE PTA AND BOOSTER CLUB TO BEGIN WITH?

~Horrortale~

Sans: *sits down in front of the desk* so what’s the deal, Suzanne?  

Suzanne: *folds her hands* I’m afraid it’s about Aliza.  

Sans: what’d she do this time?

Suzanne: *pulls out a hand-drawn picture of King Asgore getting stabbed by a little kid* The teacher showed me this. Aliza drew it in her spare time; she’s starting to really scare the other children.

Sans: *looks at it and laughs* ha, that’s just Asgore, the former king, being slain by a human who condemned us to rot in the Underground and starve to death.

Suzanne: Why would she draw such a thing?!

Sans: the kid’s growin’ up. soon she’ll be old enough to follow the last one’s footsteps and slay the Undyne. i think it’s kinda her dream at this point. little rascal. kids, amaraite?

Suzanne: You-you actually encourage your child this to do this?!

Sans: hey hey, calm down. don’t worry, Tori and i have already sat her down and had the talk with her.

Sans: college comes first.

~Altertale~

Lillian: Oh, hey, Sans. How’s Kate doing in class?

Sans: *smiles* she’s doing very well. however, i have a few… concerns.

Lillian: *sits down* Concerns? What’s wrong? Is she misbehaving?

Sans: well… somewhat. she’s been spreading around very foul language as of late. swear words and the like. do you know where she could be hearing these words?

Lillian: Oh dear! I have no idea where she could have picked this language up. I’ll give her a grounding when she gets home. How bad is it?

Sans: she’s been saying these words every chance she gets. *turns around* Katie? can you come in, dear?

Kate: *pokes her head in and giggles* Fuck!

Lillian: Hey! Watch your fucking mouth!

Sans: *silent*…..

Lillian: What?

Sans: Lillian do you even have ears?

~Underlust~

Karen: Did I hear right? You’re signing up to be the Sexual Education teacher.

Sans: you heard right, babe. i thought that if it should be anyone, it should be someone with tons of experience and a scientific background.

Karen: That’s….. extremely problematic.

Sans: i kinda get where you’re coming from; you don’t want someone like me teaching your children. trust me, they’re in no better hands than mine.

Karen: Says the one with dozens of past sex partners and only one boyfriend.

Sans: says the one with three marriages and four children and yet somehow clearly not getting enough sex in her life.

Karen:……

Sans: and pfft. “dozens?” you underestimate me. smh, boo, smh.  

~Echotale~

Martha: My child just had a cold, is all.

G: no, he has the flu. he needs to stay home. i thought i told you to get him vaccinated.

Martha: Oh what do you know?

G: *hands her his PhD*

Martha: *tears it up*  

G: *pulls out another* i know what i’m talking about, Martha.

Martha: Wha- *tears that up as well*

G: *pulls another PhD out* i’ve won this game before, and i’ll win it again.

Martha: *snatches it up and crumples it* How do you have so many?!

G: i made sure to print, like, fifty before i got here. *pulls out two more*

Martha: *smacks them away* You’re insane!

G: *pulls out four more* you can’t fight the inevitable, Martha.

Martha: *backs away* What are you doing?!

G: *pulls out thirty more* *PhDs are all she can see* i’m gonna vaccinate the fuck out of your kids Martha, and they will live a healthy life.

~Outertale~

Anna: -and that’s why I believe every child should be given gluten-free lunches. This is what we should be spending our funds on, not a play about peace between humans and space monsters. It has good intent, yes, but these lunches are far more important!

Sans: *has been silent this whole ten minute period*

Anna: Sans? Are you even listening to me?

Sans: of course.

Anna: Your thoughts?

Sans: just missing the sounds of the cold vacuum of space. that’s all.

~Reapertale~

Elizabeth: *lying in bed, asleep* *eyes shoot open when she hears a creak*

Sans: *slowly rises from the ground and out of the darkness* greetings human mortal. my faithful messenger, Frisk, has told me of your ways. what is it you desire, human mortal?

Elizabeth: *eyes wide, shaking and sweating in fear* M-more coin f-for the schoolhouse? A-and a new writing slate?

Sans: very well. the contract has been sealed. you have five.

Elizabeth: F-five? Five what?!

Sans: no… make it four. *slowly sinks back into the darkness* *appears next to Frisk* this is probably the best thing i’ve done in centuries. alright, who’s next on the list?

~Dancetale~

Beatrice: *grabbing some brownies from the food table* *turns around and shrieks in surprise and drops her paper plate*

Sans: *breakdancing right in front of her*

Beatrice: *sternly* Sans, for the last time, I’m not changing my mind. We’re not wasting our funds on a dance club when they’ll never use it as a future skill.

Sans: *continues breakdancing*

Beatrice: Sans, you can’t keep doing this every time I refuse-

Sans: *breakdancing harder*

Beatrice: S-Sans, I-

Sans: *breakdancing intensifies*

Beatrice: S-stay away from my family-!

Sans: *just breakdancing* *only breakdancing*

~Aftertale~  

Frisk: *made a science project featuring Geno and Sans, and how their existence proved the theory of multiple timelines*

Geno: *hops off the table once the science fair ends, pulling sticky notes off of himself*

Sans: *doing the same* first place, kiddo. we’re proud of ya.

Frisk: *smiles proudly*

Helen: *approaches and crosses her arms* Well it’s quite and achievement for an idea so absurd.

Geno: *pulls the last sticky note off of him* Excuse me?

Helen: *turns her head* I just believe Frisk is too much of an… overachiever. We already know he’s saved the world. Why should he rub it in everyone’s faces when he clearly has an advantage over everyone else.

Geno:… lady, i stand here as living proof of the existence of both multiple timelines and universes. i spent countless lifetimes within the Void in endless loneliness and agony, only to be released by this special kid right here. they deserve every award they get, especially when second place was an airplane model built by you, not your kid.

Helen: *cheeks turn red* What?! These are just harmful accusations!

Geno: Helen, i’m a firm believer that people truly can change, but we saw you double dip with Maria’s salsa at the meeting. we know you’re that kind of person.

~Machinatale~

Sans: *looks through the plans* Wait… we’re getting rid of the computer lab? Why?

Sharon: *looks over* Hmm? Oh, that’s just a request for now. We need it approved by the administrators. Children need to tear their eyes away from a screen and hold something real.

Sans: How else are they going to get all the information they need? They’re too young to earn smartphones.

Sharon: The library, of course.

Sans: Okay, yeah, but kids are only allowed to check out two books at a time. Why should they spend so much time trying to find a book with the information they need when the world’s database is at their fingertips?  

Sharon: *sighs* They don’t need a screen to figure things out. They spend too much time on the internet.

Sans: They need computers to do the proper research from multiple sources, as well as print out papers. Research could be conducted within minutes, not hours.

Sharon: She can do that at the library. *scoffs* Of course you would be all over technology. You’re a robot. What makes you think you’re smarter than a loving parent?

Sans: Sharon, I have more processing power than modern day’s best calculators, and yet, somehow your bullshit still isn’t adding up.

#ask #the third part of the PTA Sans trilogy #kinda wanna try it with other characters #PTA!Sans #Sans #Undertale #PTA AU #Underfell #Underswap #Swapfell #Horrortale #Altertale #Underlust #Echotale #Outertale #Dancetale #Machinatale #Aftertale #Reapertale #all these AUs

[animationnut]

Single Dose

Fandom: Gravity Falls Rating: K+ Summary: Stan has been alone for a long time. He knows how to take care of himself. But when he falls ill, Dipper and Mabel insist on taking care of him, like he cares for them. Stan has forgotten what it's like to have someone look out for him, to have a loving family surround him. Dipper and Mabel are happy to remind him that they will always be by his side. Note: Sequel to Double Dose, which you can find here.

Swiping at the sweat beading on his forehead, Dipper let out a sigh mixed with relief and exhaustion. Dropping the hammer into the red steel toolbox by his sneaker-clad feet, he declared, "It's finished!"

"And we didn't even have to call professionals!" said Mabel cheerfully, studying the repaired living room wall, which looked as if nothing had ever happened to it. "We are the professionals!"

There was the solid sound of the front door opening and closing and a minute later Soos appeared in the room, a toolbelt strapped around his waist. "There we go, hambones! All fixed up. And I didn't bring down the whole wall this time."

"Do you think you could take a look at the golf cart next?" asked Dipper, rubbing the back of his neck sheepishly. "I'm pretty sure we messed it up slamming it through the living room wall. Accidentally."

"Sure thing. I could fix that thing in my sleep!"

"You're a lifesaver, Soos!" said Mabel, running over to give him a grateful hug.

"I can't believe we patched up that big a hole in a day," marvelled Dipper.

"It's the power of teamwork!" said Mabel, pumping her fist triumphantly. "Just wait until Grunkle Stan hears we finished already."

"I wonder what he's been up to," said Dipper, brow furrowing. "He hasn't even stopped in to check on us."

"Ah, I'm sure he knew we had it covered. I am an expert handyman," said Soos. "I'll check out the golf cart for you dudes."

"Thanks again, Soos!" said Dipper as the man departed, waving over his shoulder. Turning to his sister, he said, "Come on. Let's find Grunkle Stan."

They left the living room and stepped into the gift shop, where Wendy had her feet propped against the counter, reading a magazine. "Wendy, is Grunkle Stan out doing a tour?" asked Mabel as she skipped up to the counter.

"He hasn't been here for a couple of days, which I thought was weird. But hasn't he been helping you guys fix that hole you made?"

"Technically the hole Mabel made," corrected Dipper. "It's her fault."

"It's in the past, let's move on," said Mabel, shoving his shoulder. Turning to Wendy with a small frown, she said, "No, he hasn't been helping us. So if he hasn't been here and we haven't seen him, where's he been?"

"Let's find out," said Dipper determinedly.

They hurried back into the house and almost immediately heard a loud, harsh sneeze. Realizing it was coming from Stan's room, they made a beeline down the hall and Mabel knocked on the wooden door. "Grunkle Stan? Are you in there?"

"No," said Dipper with a roll of his eyes. "The sneeze came from the Invisible Wizard."

When they didn't receive an answer, Dipper boldly pushed open the door. They were greeted with the sight of their great-uncle buried under the covers, the trashcan next to his bed overflowing with used tissues. Mabel gasped in concern and went to stand at the edge of his bed, reaching out to clasp his hand.

"He's cold! Oh no, Dipper, we gave him our flu!"

"Darn runts," grumbled Stan hoarsely, staring up at the ceiling and trying to keep his vision from spinning. "You infected me."

"You haven't been here alone for a whole day, have you?" asked Dipper in worry.

"Haven't felt like movin'. My head might split apart if I do."

"Why didn't you come get us? There's no way you could rest with all the noise we've been making!"

Stan managed to lift his head from his pillows, sending a weary glare at his nephew. "Because I knew you'd stop workin', and I don't need a hole in my living room. I'm fine, kids. Just need a few days to recover."

"And we're gonna help," declared Mabel.

"No, you're not. You're gonna work in the Mystery Shack as punishment for driving my golf cart through the house."

"We can do that after," dismissed Dipper. "You're more important."

Rubbing a hand down his face, Stan said stubbornly, "I don't need to be taken care of. I'm the adult here. My job is to take care of you."

"And now you're sick, so we're gonna take care of you, like you did for us when we were sick," returned Mabel, equally as stubborn. She hoisted herself over the edge of Stan's mattress and rested her wrist against his forehead. Feeling the heat against her skin, she turned her head slightly and said, "He's got a fever!"

"I'll grab the thermometer and a cold cloth," said Dipper.

He departed the room and Mabel leaned her head against Stan's chest, listening to the soft, steady thumping of his heart. Settling her hand overtop Stan's cold and clammy one, she said forlornly, "I wish you would have told us sooner. Then you wouldn't have had to suffer alone."

Guilt stirring in his gut at the genuine sadness in her usually upbeat voice, Stan shifted his position against his stack of pillows, so he was sitting slightly upright and Mabel was in a more comfortable position. Threading his fingers through her hair, he said softly, "Sorry, kiddo. I've been taking care of myself for so long that I don't think much of it. And I wasn't sufferin'. It's just the flu."

Mabel tilted her chin upwards to squint suspiciously up at him. "How's your tummy?"

"Nauseous, but I haven't felt the need to upchuck yet, so I take that as a good sign."

Mabel wriggled her way out of Stan's bed and grabbed the full trashcan. "I'll go empty this."

"Sweetie, you don't need to do that."

"Sure I do. You cleaned out all our snot rags when we were sick."

Stan could not help but grin at Mabel's choice of words. "And it was pretty gross, so I guess it's fair you have the same experience."

Mabel lugged the steel bin out of the room, squeezing past Dipper in the hallway. Dipper approached Stan and carefully set the sopping wet cloth against his burning forehead. When he went to stick the thermometer in Stan's mouth, he snatched it from him.

"Thanks, but I think I got this part covered."

"If you did, you would have taken your temperature a day ago." But Dipper let his great-uncle take the glass instrument. Knowing it would take a couple of minutes to get an accurate reading, he took the time to grab some more supplies, quickly returning with a bottle of aspirin and a tall glass of orange juice.

"Well?" Dipper asked, noticing Stan holding the thermometer between two fingers.

"One hundred. You runts definitely infected me."

"I thought it was already obvious by now," said Dipper, though he offered an apologetic smile. He handed Stan the glass and half of the orange liquid was immediately consumed, along with an aspirin, before being placed on the nightstand.

"I told Wendy and Soos you wouldn't be in today," spoke Dipper, beginning to tuck the covers around Stan more securely. "They said to get well soon, and they'll take care of everything."

"That instills me with confidence," muttered Stan warily. But he reached a hand out to briefly rub the top of Dipper's hand. "Thanks."

"No problem." Spotting a folded-up wool blanket sitting at the end of the bed, Dipper snagged it. When he caught Stan's raised brow, he said innocently, "Just in case you get tempted. You have to cool down a fever, you know. Can't do that smothered in a blanket."

"You're a regular comedian, you little hypocrite," said Stan with a short laugh, which then turned into a brief coughing fit. "Ugh," he grumped when it subsided, "ow, that hurt."

Mabel returned, a trashcan in each hand. "I got an extra one for you!" she announced, setting them beside the bed. "One for your tissues and the other in case you gotta throw up."

"I'm going to get Stan some cough drops," informed Dipper. "Where do we keep them, again?"

"In the drawer near the kitchen sink," answered Mabel. "I'll come with you. Grunkle Stan needs soup!"

The idea of Mabel near the stove did not set Stan's already-turning stomach at ease. "Er, I'm not hungry, so—"

"You haven't eaten in a day, you got to have something," said Dipper, setting his hands on his hips. "I'll help her, don't worry."

At Dipper's stern expression, Stan smirked. "So when I get sick, you two turn into the authority figures, huh?"

"Yup!" said Mabel cheerfully. "Because even though you won't take proper care of yourself, we will!"

Stan let out a defeated sigh, sinking back against the mattress, letting his eyes fall shut. "All right. Soup sounds good, kids."

"You rest," encouraged Dipper. "We'll be back."

Dipper left the bedroom door slightly ajar, so that they would be able to hear their great-uncle if he called for them. They went to the kitchen, where Mabel grabbed hold of a wooden chair and dragged it over to the cupboards. She climbed onto the seat and stood on her tiptoes, reaching for a pot stashed on one of the higher shelves.

"We've got tomato soup and vegetable soup," said Dipper, rifling through the cans stocked in the bottom cupboard. "I think we used up all the chicken noodle when we were sick. Which one should we make Grunkle Stan?"

"Neither!" Mabel dropped the pot haphazardly onto the stove, the resulting clanging noise making Dipper jump. "We'll make him homemade chicken noodle soup!"

"Mabel, we don't have anything for homemade chicken noodle soup." To prove his point, Dipper crossed the dusty kitchen tiles and opened up the fridge, which was half-full. He knelt down to open the crisper, immediately placing a hand over his nose to block the stench of rotting vegetables. He gingerly lifted a rotting carrot and said, "These aren't for human consumption."

"We'll buy the ingredients," said Mabel airily.

"How? With what money?"

Mabel faltered at that, her posture drooping in disappointment. "I guess Grunkle Stan probably wouldn't loan us the money, huh?"

"Most likely."

"Hey, hambones!" greeted Soos, entering the kitchen. He leaned over Dipper, resting one hand against the boy's hat while the other reached into the fridge to grab a can of soda. "I heard Mr. Pines is sick. Is there anything I can do?"

"I don't think so, but thanks for the offer," said Dipper, lightly batting Soos' hand off of his head so he could stand up.

Spotting Mabel staring moodily at a can of soup, Soos asked, "Why the long face?"

"I wanted to make Grunkle Stan homemade soup, but we don't have the ingredients for it," she said with a sigh.

"Oh, psh, no problem," dismissed Soos. "What do you need? I'll pick it up for you."

Brightening at that, Mabel said hopefully, "Really?"

"But we don't have any money to give you," said Dipper with a frown.

"Ah, I can pay for it."

"We can't let you pay for all of it." Dipper patted his pockets, as if simply wishing for money would cause it to materialize.

Soos patted Dipper on the back and said cheerfully, "Seriously, don't worry about it. I'd love to help Mr. Pines get better and homemade soup is definitely the best."

"Yay! Thanks, Soos! You're our hero!" squealed Mabel, hopping from her chair and racing to give Soos a hug. "We can make the soup Mom and Dad always cooked when we were sick back home."

It took some recollection, but eventually Dipper and Mabel remembered all the ingredients needed for their parents' homemade soup. They didn't know exact measurements, but they figured their estimations were close enough.

Mabel went with Soos to do the shopping and Dipper tiptoed to Stan's room, where he was snoring away. He deposited the cough drops onto the nightstand in case he woke up and crept back out. He decided to see if Wendy needed any help in the Shack while he waited for his sister to return.

He was surprised to see Wendy in full action in the gift shop, directing customers to bobbleheads and bumper stickers and ringing them up with a speed she normally didn't possess once her shift started. "Gee, Wendy, you're working hard," remarked Dipper, coming to stand by the register. "Are you sick too?"

Wendy laughed, slinging a plastic bag towards a lanky tourist and sliding his change across the counter. "Nah. Stan hardly ever gets sick, so when he does I figure I might as well do what I barely get paid to do. Guy basically does everything around here, so the least I can do is pick up the slack when he's not feeling so hot."

"That's really nice of you."

"Don't tell him I said that," said Wendy, wagging her finger mock-threateningly in Dipper's face. "I don't need him thinking I'm soft."

"I don't think Grunkle Stan would ever think you're soft," said Dipper with a smile. "Is there anything I can do? I'm waiting for Mabel to get back with Soos so we can make soup."

"Sure. If you could dust the shelves and junk, that'd be great. It's been pretty crazy today, which means your uncle will be in a good mood when he comes to check the profit when he gets better."

For half an hour Dipper swiped a rag across the wooden shelves lining the gift shop, coughing as clouds of dust rose in his face. Eventually the business slowed down enough for Wendy to help him, and they had a dusting race to see who would finish a shelf first.

Crash!

Dipper paused his hurried cleaning to glance over his shoulder, letting out a laugh when he discovered Wendy standing over a broken bobblehead. Making a face, she kicked the pieces beneath the shelf. "Remind me to alter the inventory sheet."

The door connecting the gift shop to the main house slammed open and Mabel hovered in the entryway. "Ready, Dipper!"

"I'll take that, dude." Soos moved past Mabel and towards Dipper, where he took the rag.

"Thanks again, Soos," said Dipper appreciatively.

"Any time."

Dipper entered the house and found Mabel in the kitchen, the pot already having a fire lit beneath it. "Soos washed the chicken and vegetables, so we just have to let this boil for a bit."

They went to check on Grunkle Stan, finding him awake. Stan stretched his arms over his head and glanced over at the kids when they approached him. "What happened to the soup?"

"We're waiting for it to boil."

Stan's eyebrows flew upwards. "You don't boil canned soup, runts."

"We're making homemade soup," explained Mabel. "It's gonna be great!"

"Homemade soup?" echoed Stan. "We don't even have the junk for that."

"Soos went to get us ingredients," replied Dipper. "It's the soup Mom and Dad make us whenever we're sick, so we wanted to make it for you too."

The sudden constricting of Stan's throat had nothing to do with his illness. Giving a harsh cough to try and clear the emotion away, he said gruffly, "You're going to too much trouble runts."

"That's okay. We don't mind." Mabel grabbed his empty glass. "I'll get you some more orange juice."

Dipper plucked the dry cloth from where it fell into the blanket during Stan's slumber. "I'll soak this and clean the thermometer."

They left, leaving Stan to recline against his pillows, staring up at the ceiling. His clogged sinuses, sore throat and aching head did little to distract him from his thoughts. He had forgotten what it felt like to be taken care of. In the past, whenever he fell sick, he took a day or two in bed before straggling back to work.

He didn't need Dipper and Mabel to take care of him. But that didn't mean he didn't want them to. To see them peer at him with concern, to insist that he rest while they looked after him, caused a strong warmth to swell within him. It was his job to take care of the kids, sure, but he loved them deeply. And to know they were willing to go to great lengths to comfort him…

He cursed quietly when his eyes misted over and he hastily scrubbed at them. That's it. This illness is making me to darn emotional.

Dipper and Mabel returned and she handed him a fresh glass of juice. Stan took a gulp, the cold liquid soothing his scratchy throat. Dipper set the thermometer on the nightstand for when they'd need it again and put the cloth back on Stan's forehead.

"How are you feeling?" asked Mabel.

Stan reached out to tussle her hair. "Better," he said sincerely.

"Good!" Mabel beamed. "Some more rest and soup and you should feel even better!"

She climbed into bed, moving to cuddle against Stan's side. Dipper moved to lay against Stan's opposite side, his head resting against his shoulder. Stan curled his arms around them even as he said, "You runts are going to get sick again."

"I don't think it works like that," replied Dipper. "Besides, we have to wait a while for the soup to boil."

"Don't you have anything you'd rather do?"

"Nope," said Mabel, nuzzling into his forearm.

Stan sagged against the pillows, intense affection and warmth bubbling within him. With his niece and nephew close, he once again dozed off, the weight of their small bodies against his own a great comfort.

It was over an hour later when he awoke, roused from Mabel poking her finger against his cheek. "Psst, Grunkle Stan! Your soup is ready!"

"Huh?" asked Stan with a yawn.

"Your soup."

When the blurriness disappeared from his vision, it was to see Mabel holding out a wooden tray, containing a bowl of steaming chicken noodle soup, along with a glass of water. He carefully took the tray from her and picked up the spoon, stirring the contents of the soup. "Uh…there aren't any secret ingredients in here, right?"

"No," assured Dipper, who was carrying two smaller trays, each containing a bowl of soup.

Mabel took a tray from Dipper and the pair retook their positions by Stan's side, snuggling under the blankets. Stan blew on the liquid and took a cautious sip, the savoury flavour exploding against his tongue. Though his tongue burned from the heat, Stan paid it no mind as he took another sip.

"This is great, kiddos." Stan felt a twinge of guilt. "Sorry I didn't do the same when you were sick."

Dipper waved a hand dismissively. "It's fine. Canned soup is good too. Besides, you're not a great cook. And that's okay too."

"Yeah," agreed Mabel. "You did a bunch of other stuff when we were sick. You told us a story."

"And you cleaned up my puke," said Dipper, blushing slightly from embarrassment. "Again, sorry about that."

"You held me when I had that bad headache," recalled Mabel.

"You did so much when we were sick. This is the least we can do for you."

Stan wrapped an arm around Dipper's shoulders and squeezed. "You're good kids. But you're still a pain in my butt."

"We love you too," chorused Mabel and Dipper, flashing their great-uncle wide, knowing smiles.

Stan only huffed and returned to his soup, trying hard to suppress his own smile. "Lemme eat. I'm starved."

With Dipper and Mabel pressed securely against him, Stan's contentment made it easier to ignore the symptoms of his illness. He idly rubbed at his leaking nose as he remarked, "Hey, you runts are still going to owe me double-shifts at the Shack when I'm cured. Don't think I forgot your punishment from bashing a golf cart through my wall. I'm sick, not senile."

"That's up for debate," returned Dipper, who then yelped and hastened to keep his soup from spilling when Stan jabbed him in the side. "Grunkle Stan!"

As Mabel laughed, Stan's smile broke through. It would be relief when he recovered from his summer flu, but for now, he was perfectly fine for living in the moment, with his loving niece and nephew to watch over him.

#gravity falls #dipper pines #mabel pines #grunkle stan #stanley pines #gravity falls fanfiction #byanimationnut

[astro-b-o-y-d]

The Long Road Home Pt. 1

The next three chapters of SOSO are finally here! Author’s notes and additional fic warnings are on Ao3. And trust me, you’ll want to read them.

[Read on Ao3]

"Took you nerds long enough to get here!"

"Nikki, there are other stops before ours," Max said, as he stepped out of the bus and onto the pavement.

"Yeah, we don't have big jock friends who can drive us around like you!" Neil added, following suit.

Nikki laughed as they came to a stop beside her. "Hey, I asked if you guys wanted to be picked up from school, but you said no."

"Yeah, because Stasson likes to keep his front windows rolled down at fifty miles an hour," Neil pointed out. "I catch colds easily, Nik, you know that!"

"Plus, the guy's taste in music is shit," Max added, kicking a pebble off the sidewalk as they began to head up the street.

"Hey, I thought you liked metal!" Nikki pointed out.

"Yeah, I do," Max said. "But there's good metal and then there's metal that sounds like screws in a blender. In a washing machine."

"Says the guy who listens to Hatred of Red Olives," Neil said with a smirk.

Max scowled at him. "You got something you wanna fucking say to me?"

"Yeah, I wanna say your taste in music is pretentious," Neil said smugly. "I mean, really? 'Hatred of Red Olives'? What the fuck does that name even mean?"

"Maybe they just really hate red olives," Max said defensively, and tossed his hands up in the air. "Maybe the 'red olives' represent the man keeping us all down. Fuck if I know! Either way, their music's amazing and highly underrated."

"Hey, speaking of olives," Nikki said. "You think David will let us order pizza for dinner?"

"God, I hope so," Max said. "It's perfect movie night food."

"So, what movie are we deciding on, anyway?" Neil asked.

"I think 'The Cult Camp of Murder-Suicide Lake' is on tonight," Nikki said.

Max rolled his eyes. "Yeah, I think I'll pass on Daniel's biography, thanks."

"Oh, wow, I'd completely forgotten about him," Nikki said. "God, that was a weird day, wasn't it?"

"If by weird, you mean we almost died," Max said, "then yeah, I'd say it was really weird."

"Think he lived through that whole Kool-Aid thing?" Neil asked.

"I fucking hope not," Max said, making a face. "Now, I'm not normally one to believe in being assigned to a place after death based on your actions in life, but if I were, I would hope that he's drinking rat-poison-flavored Kool-Aid in the deepest pit of Hell for all eternity."

"You guys ever wonder what it'd feel like to die?" Nikki asked curiously. "I mean, not like...by killing yourself as a part of some horrible cult or anything, but just in general. You think it would hurt?"

Max stopped mid-step. "You know, it's funny...I've actually thought a lot about that since my parents died."

Nikki's smile fell. "Oh, Max, I'm sorry, I didn't mean to—"

"No, it's fine," Max said. "I don't really do it much anymore, not since I moved in with David. But sometimes when I was really miserable, I'd just think about what would have happened if I decided to stay home the night of the fire. Whether I would have been able to catch it in time, or if I would have just died with my parents? Did they die in their sleep or did they suffer? Would I have suffered? Pretty morbid shit like that."

He felt a hand on his shoulder and turned to see Neil giving him a sympathetic look. "You okay, pal? You need to get anything off your chest?"

"Yeah, yeah, I'm fine," Max assured him, as he started walking again. "I can stop being a downer if you want."

"Hey, if you need to talk, we're all ears," Neil said. "Right, Nikki?"

"Yeah, absolutely," Nikki said as she began to balance on the edge of the curb. "You can trust us, Max."

"I know I can," Max said. "You guys are amazing. But honestly, there's not much else to say about it. They died and I was shipped off to a foster home. End of story."

"Wait, did you even get to attend their funeral?" Neil asked.

"Nope," Max said. "They didn't get one."

"They didn't?" Nikki asked.

"We have no family in this country," Max admitted. "And we weren't close to anyone outside of it. So there was no one outside of a depressed, jobless, fourteen-year-old to pay for a funeral, which meant they didn't get one at all."

"Wow..." Neil said in disbelief. "Life really can't cut you a break, can it?"

"You have no idea, pal."

"Hey, is that David's car?"

Nikki's question caused Max to turn his gaze from Neil and towards David's home at the end of the street. "...That is David's car. What the fuck is he doing home so early?"

"Maybe he quit his job?" Nikki suggested.

Max raised an eyebrow at her. "David? Quit a job that involves caring for children? One of the thing he loves more than life itself?"

"...Good point."

"Maybe he got sick?" Neil said. "It's almost flu season."

"Of course you would know that," Max said as they crossed the lawn. "But he was fine this morning. Wouldn't shut the fuck up about how it was 'Music Day' and he was going on and on about how excited he was to play his guitar for the kids."

They came to a stop before the front door and Max tested the doorknob. Unlocked. With a shrug, he pushed the door open and led Neil and Nikki inside. "Hey, David, you home?"

There was no response.

"David?" Max said again, a little louder as he dropped his bag by the door. "Hello?"

"Maybe he's in the backyard?" Nikki suggested, as her and Neil followed suit with the backpack-dropping.

"Doubtful," Max said, as they headed towards the kitchen. "He did all the yard work a few days ago, and he only goes to stare wistfully at the woods behind the house on Mondays and Thursdays."

"...He only stares at them, and doesn't...like...go hiking through them or something?" Neil asked.

"I think it's some kind of comfort thing," Max said with a shrug. "You know, reminds him of the camp?"

"Again, he can't just go hiking?" Neil asked.

"Look, he—"

Max froze as they passed by the dining room. David was seated at the table, his back to the doorway and his head low. On the table before him, Max could see the familiar pages of the Camp Campbell scrapbook that David would normally display on the coffee table with pride.

Something was wrong. Very wrong. Not the usual, David-sized levels of wrong, which were normally reserved for stupid things like 'birds picking at the flower bed in the backyard' or 'the store being out of his favorite brand of trail mix'.

No, something was 'day-at-the-bonfire' levels of wrong and a wave of fear rushed through Max as the possibilities of what might be wrong began to rise in his head.

One terrifying possibility bubbled to the front of his mind before he could push it back and pretend it never existed, and a strong, aching feeling in his chest followed. Had David, for some reason, lost the right to be his guardian? Had his social worker decided that David wasn't fit to parent him?

...Had David...grown sick of him?

Max made a face at his own stupid thoughts. David was obnoxious, peppy, and annoying beyond belief, but he cared about Max more than Max probably cared about himself.

Plus, even if David had grown sick of him, it's not like it was anything he wasn't used to by now, right? ...No need to get all worked up over the same bullshit he had grown used to over the past year.

...Right?

"David?" he asked, trying to keep his voice casual and uninterested. "Is...everything okay?"

David nearly jumped at the sound of Max's voice, and used one hand to slam the scrapbook closed. "Kids! I didn't realize you were home!"

"We said your name like...twice," Neil pointed out.

"Oh, right, of course." David rose from his chair, his back still to the kids as he began to head for the kitchen. "I'm sorry, my mind was elsewhere. I haven't even started making dinner-"

"It's only four, David," Max said.

"We could order pizza!" Nikki said excitedly.

"Nikki, shut up," Max hissed, before looking back to David. "Something's wrong, David. Don't lie to us, what is it?"

David stopped in the kitchen doorway. "...Nothing's wrong, Max."

"Then look us in the eyes and tell us that."

David was silent for a moment, before his shoulders fell in defeat. "...Mr. Campbell...passed away this morning."

"...Oh."

Well...he hadn't expected that. And he definitely wasn't sad about Campbell in the slightest. The shifty old asshole could rot in Hell (or whatever waited for him in an afterlife that may or may not exist) for all he cared. And he was definitely relieved that David's mood hadn't been caused by something else (something he definitely wouldn't have been upset over at all and no one could prove he would have been).

But it felt like someone had just dumped a bucket of cold, icy water over him in the middle of winter. Numbness, shock, and a mess of other painful emotions had manifested in the pit of his stomach and Neil and Nikki tensing up beside him only made the feeling worse.

"'Heart attack,' they told me over the phone," David continued, clearly attempting (and failing) to hide the shaking in his voice. "I...He was always such a strong man, I...I didn't think...I thought he'd..."

He took a deep breath and finally turned to face the kids. It was more than obvious he'd been crying for a long while, and was smiling widely in an attempt to hide that fact. "Well, I suppose it doesn't matter," he said in a falsely-cheerful voice. "No one can live forever, right? This day was bound to come eventually. It's not as if I secretly hoped that one day, he'd be released from prison and maybe things could just...pick up where they left off all those years ago—"

"David..."

The smile fell and David sank into the chair closest to the kitchen doorway, his head in his hands. "I haven't seen him in about three months," he said, no longer making an attempt to hold back his tears. "I could have made more time, maybe taken a week off and went upstate to visit him every day. There was so much more I could have done..."

He lifted his head and wiped the tears from his face. "I'm sorry, kids. I know this is probably worrying you—"

"What about the funeral?" The question escaped Max before he could process it, and he could practically feel Neil and Nikki's eyes on him. "Aren't you going to his funeral?"

David hung his head. "There...isn't going to be a funeral. Mr. Campbell left a lot of debt in his wake, and the prison didn't want to 'waste more money on him.'"

And now Max felt like someone had dumped another bucket of cold water over him in the middle of the Arctic, as his thoughts drifted back to the conversation he, Neil and Nikki had shared on the way home. About death, about his parents...about the night they died.

How they hadn't even been given a funeral due to their own lack of any family (outside of Max) to pay for it. How he'd only been given a short time to properly grieve before being shipped off to the first of many foster families, where he had been forced to either keep a lot of that grief to himself or unleash it in fits of anger or sadness. How said fits were was usually met with being kicked out and sent to another family.

Just a shitty cycle of attempting to mourn, only to be abandoned and alone.

And it had fucking sucked. It still fucking sucked.

He looked towards Nikki, who had a hand over her mouth and the faintest hint of tears forming in the corners of her eyes, and then to Neil, who looked like he wasn't sure how he should be feeling at the moment.

They had no idea, as far as Max was aware, what it was like to experience that kind of grief of losing someone you care about so strongly. To stay up late at night, as a million 'what could have been' scenarios played out in your head. What you could have done, if you could have done anythingat all. Regrets of not appreciating what you had when you had it. Moments where you wish that you could have been in their place instead of left alone to cry and grieve, and just...hurt.

Cry...grieve...

He could practically feel a light bulb go off in his mind. He hadn't gotten his chance to grieve, but...that didn't mean David couldn't get his chance. Max didn't care if it was about Campbell of all people, and he didn't care if it resulted in him having to answer a number of questions that he was positive Neil, Nikki, and or David would ask at some point or another.

Like Hell he was going to let anyone, especially David, go through what he did. Not if he could help it.

"Hey, David?"

David looked up from his hands. "Yes, Max?"

Max shuffled his feet, and tried to keep his usual, uninterested tone as he spoke: "You're really gonna sit there and tell me that you haven't thought about planning some kind of memorial service for the bastard? Come on, I thought I knew you better than that."

David's eyes widened. "What did you say?"

"I mean, sure, Campbell was a real piece of shit and I'm not going to pretend he wasn't," Max continued. "But if you can't have a funeral for him, then why not do the next best thing and just...have a memorial service? I'm sure there's probably a ton of other camp-loving weirdos who would want to come mourn his death, too. I mean, just because our summer hated the place doesn't mean all of them did, right?"

"Hey, yeah, you're right," Neil said thoughtfully. "If that place was open since David was a kid, then statistically there had to have been summers where the campers actually enjoyed themselves and actually wanted to be there."

"I wanted to be there," Nikki said.

"Yeah, but you're one of the only ones during our summer who did," Max pointed out. "I'm talking about entire groups of campers who actually had fun during their stay at Camp Campbell. Groups of people who have actually-fond childhood memories of that place, as shocking as the idea sounds, and who'd be upset to hear that Campbell kicked the bucket. So why not throw a memorial service and let everyone grieve together. You know, 'misery loves company' or what-the-fuck-ever? I don't know, it sounded cooler in my head..."

David's expression had grown more brighter and hopeful with every word, and his wide, happy smile had returned by the time Max's sentence trailed off. "You know, I think that sounds like an amazing idea, Max! We wouldn't have to do anything too big or fancy—"

"Honestly, spending as little money as possible would be the best tribute to that asshole's memory," Max said, rolling his eyes.

"-but we could still do something instead of just sitting here and crying over what could have been!" David continued cheerfully. "I could make some calls, get in touch with my old counselors, maybe see if they might be able to help get invitations out to any other Camp Campbell alumni who'd want to attend!"

"I could probably convince Harrison to come," Neil said. "And he could probably convince Nerris. I know it's not much, but hey, at least you know you'll have two guarantees."

"There's a dollar store near my school," Nikki added. "My team always gets decorations there for our after-game parties. Though they might still be out of all the black and blue ones after our last shindig... Maybe we can just get white tablecloths and spray paint them black? I know a guy with spray paint, I can call around."

"And there's plenty of room in the backyard to hold the service," Max pointed out. "I'm sure those other camp-loving assholes will love having the forest as the event backdrop."

David stared at him with a fond expression, as tears of joy replaced the ones of sorrow in his eyes. "You know what, I think hosting a memorial service is the perfect way to honor Mr. Campbell's passing. Max, how did you come up with something so clever? I mean, not that I'm surprised in the slightest, you're a very smart child—"

"Yeah, yeah, enough of the compliments," Max said, ignoring the looks that he was positive Neil and Nikki were giving him. "Just go start making plans before I regret giving you the idea in the first place."

------------------------

"Yes, thank you, Darla!" David said happily into his phone. "I can't wait to see you and Gregg there!"

Max looked up from his notebook. "Is she coming?"

David nodded as he ended the call. "She says that throwing a memorial service for Mr. Campbell is a fantastic idea, and that she cannot wait until next Saturday. And she's more than happy to get the word out to any of the other campers she might have counselor-ed during her time at the camp." He sniffled softly and reached up to wipe his eyes. "Gosh, she's just as sweet as she was back when I was a kid..."

"Don't start crying again," Max said, as he scribbled a 'yes' next to the name on the page. "Just call the next person."

"So, I've got some good news," Nikki said through a mouthful of pizza. "I texted Cookie, and he's still got the black tablecloths from our last party, with only a few tears from when one of the guys was dared to do a handstand on the table. And then fell off the table. It was awesome!"

"I think we should just go ahead and buy new ones," Max said, reaching for his own slice from the box. "Also...there's a guy on your team named Cookie?"

"Uh, yeah!" Nikki said. "We call him that because he's the best baker on the team. He makes these caramel cookies that taste like..." She made a motion of approval with her hands.

"Sea-salt?" Max asked.

"Of course, he's not an animal."

Max snorted as he looked around. "Where the Hell'd Neil go?"

"I think he stepped outside to call Harrison and Nerris," David said with a smile. "I definitely can't wait to see them again! They were such good kids."

"You've said that about all of us, and you're been wrong every time," Max pointed out, as he stood up and headed for the back door. "I'm gonna go tell him to get his ass back in here before Nikki eats all the pizza."

"Hey, he snoozes, he loses," Nikki said, as she reached for another slice.

Max rolled his eyes as he pulled the back door open and stepped out into the warm evening. Sure enough, Neil was seated on the bench at the edge of the deck, his phone against his ear and a smile on his face.

"Yeah, of course we can," he was saying softly. "It sounds great, babe."

Babe? Max's smile widened. "Hey, lovebird. You wrapping it up anytime soon?" he asked quietly as he approached the bench.

Neil looked at him and nodded, before turning his attention back to the phone. "I gotta go, but I'll talk to you tomorrow, okay? ...I love you, too. Goodnight."

His cheeks flushed, he hung up the phone and looked at Max. "Harrison says he and Nerris can make it to the service, and they'll even help us with setting up. They've been working on some levitation spells that they'd like to put into practice."

"Yeah, and the whole 'babe' thing?" Max asked, sitting down next to him.

Neil's face grew redder. "We're getting lunch tomorrow. Can you and David cover for us if my mom calls here?"

"Yeah, you know I will," Max said.

"You're the best," Neil said, giving him a playful nudge.

Max smiled and nudged him back. "You really like him, don't you?"

Neil's expression softened. "Yeah, I really do. Max, he's...God, he's really great."

"You big sap," Max said, crossing his arms. "So, can I be best man at your wedding?"

"Come on, we're not that serious."

Max raised an eyebrow. "You're only saying that because you've already promised the role to someone else, haven't you?"

"Oh, absolutely," Neil said. "Sorry, pal. First come, first serve."

Max let out a laugh. "Oh, speaking of serve, I came out here to warn you that Nikki's going to eat all the pizza if you don't come back inside. Plus we could use another phone to call up potential service guests."

"Right, right," Neil said. "Can I ask you something, though?"

Oh, God, there it was. The inevitable questioning. "I know what you're going to ask, Neil. And no, I don't want to talk about it, okay?"

Neil gave him a look. "Max, as soon as David said that Campbell wasn't getting a funeral, your face was as pale as a sheet."

"Your face is as pale as a sheet," Max said defensively.

"Max..."

Max looked out at the forest that lay past the backyard, darkened by the evening with only a few slivers of moonlight between the trees. "Look, losing someone you care about sucks, and not being able to get closure sucks harder. I just...didn't want David to go through what I did, okay? That's it."

"Is it really all it is?"

"It's all I feel like talking about," Max said. "I've unloaded enough of my problems on you."

"You know I don't mind listening," Neil pointed out.

"Yeah, but I don't want to be that friend," Max said. "The one who's constantly depressed and needs to always talk about his issues, to the point where everyone gets sicks of hearing about them. I've see it happen before, and I don't want it to happen with you or Nikki or David, because I actually like all of you."

Neil let out a laugh. "Max, come on. If we aren't sick of you by now, then we'll never be sick of you."

Max let his gaze drop to his hands sadly, a motion that Neil didn't miss. "...Oh. Oh, shit, you're not just making jokes as a way to cope with your issues this time, are you? You're really serious."

"Of course I'm serious," Max said. "You guys are the best thing to happen to me all year. But seeing David that broken up over Campbell, it just made me think of everything that happened to me before I moved here and I mean...you know how my year's been so far."

He pulled his legs up onto the bench and hugged them close. "You and Nikki are my best friends. I trust you two with a lot of things. But...a lot of bad shit's happened to me. And I know you say that you won't get tired of me even if I vent to you, but it's happened before and I just...can't help but be worried that it'll happen again. I don't...think I could handle that. No, fuck that, I know I couldn't handle it."

"Max, you're a strong kid," Neil said. "I'm sure—"

"Neil, you don't understand," Max said, hesitating for a moment before he continued: "...Before I moved in with David, I was in the worst place I've been in all year. It was around the anniversary of my folks' death, and I had...okay, a bad day's an understatement, but I that's what it was. I just...really missed my folks. I was having a hard time, a really hard time. You know what my foster parents at the time did when I tried to go to them for help?"

"What?"

"They told me they were too busy to deal with my problems right now," Max said grimly. "And that we could discuss it later. That's what a lot of them would say if I was having a bad day. 'Let's talk later' or 'suck it up' or they'd just straight up yell at me for being too emotional. They'd get angry with me or just ditch me altogether for being unable to cope with my feelings properly."

"Why the hell would all these people dedicate their time to being parents if they were just going to ditch their kid when things got rough?" Neil asked.

"Why would people dedicate their time to having a kid if they're going to abuse them, neglect them, or kick them out of the house for being gay?" Max countered.

"...Touche."

"There's a lot of people out there who only like the concept of having a kid," Max said, "but don't want to put the actual effort into caring for a real kid. One with their own thoughts and emotions and issues and all that parenting shit that isn't romanticized to Hell and back. And going through family after family like that makes you less and less willing to talk about your issues, to the point where you either repress everything or..." he touched his left arm. "...do something unhealthy."

He didn't dare look at Neil's reaction. "Max..."

"Like I said, I was at my lowest point with my last family," Max admitted. "Probably the lowest point of my life. I'm past it now, so don't start worrying that I'm going to do something drastic, because I'm not. But it did happen. I was just... so tired of everything. And when I couldn't turn to anyone that day, I...I couldn't do it anymore, Neil. I just wanted all of it to end."

He felt tears welling up in the corner of his eyes, which he brushed away quickly in the hopes Neil wouldn't notice. "I'm scared, Neil. I don't want to lose everything I've got here. Yeah, I talk a lot of shit, but I am not strong enough to go through all that again. Sometimes I wake up in the middle of the night, and I actually go downstairs to the living room or to David's bedroom to make sure he's still there, just so I know that all of this isn't a dream and I'm not going to wake up with another family who doesn't give two shits about whether I live or die."

He inhaled and exhaled slowly. "It's just...really hard to process that things might finally be okay for me again, like really okay. And yeah, I knowDavid's great and I know I could talk to him about all my stupid problems. Hell, I talked to him the day I moved in, and it was like he hadn't changed at all since camp. He was so nice, so willing to listen..." He hugged his legs closer. "But, like...that doesn't just stop me from thinking that he'll get sick of me if I keep going to him with my stupid problems. Again, I know it's a stupid, stupid thought, because it's David, and he'd never grow sick of me. But it doesn't stop me from thinking about it, you know?"

He fell silent, as he waited for Neil to respond. However, a sharp pinching sensation to the side of his face caused him to yelp in pain and instinctively slap a hand to the spot. He looked at Neil, his fingers in the universal pose for pinching. "Dude, what the Hell?!"

"That was so you could be sure that this isn't a dream," Neil said. "Believe it or not, the pinching thing actually works."

Max's look of confusion melted into one of slight amusement. "You could have warned me, asshole."

"The shock factor would have increased the odds of you waking up, if this had been a dream," Neil pointed out. "But hey, you're still here, so it has to be real, right?"

"Not sure if that's exactly how that works, but I...do appreciate the sentiment," Max said. "As weird and nerdy as it was."

"And as for everything else," Neil said, his expression softening. "I know this is probably obvious advice, but I do think you should talk to David. Even if everything in your head's telling you not to, you should do it anyway. I mean, you said it yourself that you were happy here with David, right? Happier than you've been all year."

Max shrugged. "I mean, yeah."

"So clearly David's a much better guardian than any of the other ones you've had," Neil pointed out. "Which means he'd be more willing to help you than any of the others."

Max looked down again. "Look, I know you're right. But if I talk to him about it now, he'll just spend the next week worrying about me instead of focusing on the service. I don't want to take that away from him."

"Max..."

"I'll think about it," Max said. "But for now...I just can't. I'm just going to pretend everything's fine for a week, and let David mourn Campbell in peace without having to worry about me and my issues. He deserves that, at least."

"...Alright, man," Neil said, rising to his feet. "But if you...get to that low point again—"

"I'm not going to, Neil," Max said, following suit. "I can promise you that I won't."

"But if you do—"

"I won't, okay?" Max said, and touched his arm again. "I was in a bad place, and it only made things worse. I promised myself I'd never do it again and I'm not going back on that."

Neil gave him a nod. "Okay. And, you know, if it helps, you told me all that and I'm not sick of you. Wait, shit, that came out wrong—"

"No, I get it," Max said, a small smile on his face. "Thanks, Neil."

"Hey, heteros!" Nikki called from the back door. "Pizza's almost gone. Get in here, or I'm calling dibs on all of it."

"Nikki, come on!" Neil said. "I was in the middle of a phone call! With my boyfriend! That hetero comment shouldn't have an S!"

"Don't care, I'm gonna eat your slices if you aren't inside in negative five seconds!"

"Nikki!"

Nikki laughed as she ducked back into the house. Neil started to hurry after her, but Max grabbed his arm before he could head inside. "Hey, one last thing."

"Yeah?"

"Don't...tell David about what I said, okay?" Max said. "Nikki, sure, she can know, but...not David."

Neil was silent for a moment before he nodded. "I won't tell him. You should, but I won't."

"I know..."

With a sigh, Max let go of his arm and followed him back into the house, the sound of David's voice as he chatted with another potential service-attender over the phone greeting them as they stepped inside.

#Camp Camp #SOSO #A 3+ month labor of love #I'm so proud #Other chapters will follow

[sicklylittlesnowflake]

Yoo you know what I really fucking love?? Contagion. Like what If.. juggie got sick and archie took care of him and THEN he got sick and betty was like "y'alls are Dumb" and took care of them. Thank you! !

(Hey anons! I’ve decided to combine both of your prompts together, as they’re very similar and I would end up writing the same exact fic for both! So, this way, it’s longer and has more content so hopefully that’s okay with you guys! Also this has an abrupt ending, sorry! Didn’t know how to!)

Archie was really affectionate.

He loved being touched, being held, whatever. A complete opposite to Jughead, who only allowed people to touch him in special occasions. Jughead had recently found he enjoyed smaller gestures, like shoulders brushing, little back or shoulder pats or the occasional hair ruffle.

But it did not compare to Archie, who lived for cuddles and snuggles and still hugged his dad every time they parted or reunited. Even if it was just from school.

So when Archie was gone for three days on an away game for football, he was definitely in need for some cuddles.

Jughead had been sick for a few days now, his sickness starting just as Archie left. He had managed to catch himself a flu, which was a culmination of both an awful chest cold and a head cold. Jughead had been sneezing and coughing nonstop, and was just a disgusting mess of bodily fluids.

He didn’t want to worry Archie, so he hid it for a while. Jughead wanted Archie to be at his best for the game (which he found out was worth the effort, because he and Fred received a very excited call from Archie at night proclaiming their victory) so worrying Archie was most definitely a no-go!

However, once Archie was on that bus, and the bus was out of sight, Jughead had finally released that sneezing fit he had been holding in. It then accelerated into a coughing fit, which Fred just tutted to and sighed. Of course Jughead was sick. Fred simply shook his head and put an arm around the boy, leading him to the car that would take them home where he would take care of him for the next few days.

Fred had been a very good caretaker, but Jughead was nowhere near better yet. In fact, Fred had just left to buy some medicine and other supplies, not expecting Archie to return yet. He had come back quite early.

“JUGGIE!” Archie yelled as he practically smashed into the house, like the Juggernaut in that shitty X Men movie.

“Fuck!” Jughead yelped in surprise as Archie tackled him down onto the couch to give him a massive hug, squeezing the smaller boy.

“Fuck, Archie–you are literally deflating me like a–” A tickle in his nose caused him to drop his sentence, his entire body being overtaken by the sneeze.

He used whatever control of his body he had left to warn Archie, “..A-arch..hh..I’m sick..hh..! Get off..!! I’m go..gonna.. snee–”

Archie didn’t seem to care that his best friend was going to splutter germs all over his face, because he just shook his head and kept on hugging him. Then Jughead sneezed all over him, and again, and blushed so hard in embarrassment. Archie didn’t care; and just laughed loudly, missing his friend far too much to even care about the gross act.

Archie finally let him go, to see Jughead red as a strawberry.

“Archie! I’m so sorry–fuck you’re going to get sick, that was so disgusting!”

“It’s fine Jug, honestly? I’m in dire need of some coddling and I’ll get more of it if I get sick,” Archie grinned.

Jughead rolled his eyes, “You’ve got this sick fascination with sickness. Honestly, it’s the bane of my existence and it happens to me so often!”

Archie tapped Jughead on the nose, “Its probably a side effect of your great metabolism. Besides, you get to miss school and get to stay in bed all day, which are things you like??”

Jughead huffed, “Yes, if it weren’t for the fact I lose my appetite, which is the most tragic thing that could happen to me, which is really something given my life’s miserable track record, and also for the fact I hate sneezing and coughing. It’s the worst.”

Archie laughed, “They’re funny though, seeing as such loud noises can come from such a quiet person!”

Jughead groaned, “Which is why I hate them! I hate attention, and my sneezing always brings me so much attention cause I can’t be any quieter!”

Archie laughed and swung an arm around him, “You’re fine the way you are Jug, don’t ever change.”

Archie was a clingy sick person.

Jughead was still asleep, and still sick, when Archie woke up whining, asking Jughead for his dad. The moment he heard Archie Jughead felt absolutely awful and guilty for getting Archie sick. There was this pit of guilt forming in his stomach.

One emotion that Jughead could not deal with was guilt. Sadness was common enough in his life, anger was not as common but he accepted, and happiness he embraced. However guilt ate away at Jughead’s heart and sometimes he couldn’t even move he felt so guilty, that it literally consumed his every waking moment.

So Jughead put his remaining sickness aside, because he was getting better, he would be fine, and went straight into caretaking mode. A mode of his he wasn’t used to using with Archie, because Archie got sick once a year, but he was an older brother, and he had experience.

Archie had caught this weird version of his Flu, in which he had caught the chest cold part of it. He was a hacking, phlegmy mess and every time Archie coughed, it was like a pang in Jughead’s heart. He just felt so awful.

When Fred came up to check up on Archie, he gave his son the cuddles he was practically begging for. Jughead knew he was potentially thinking of staying; and he felt so bad, knowing that the Andrews were in a bit of a pinch for money. Fred should be working as much as he could; and Jughead had prevented that.

So in order to prevent this from happening, Jughead took control of the situation, claiming he was no longer sick. Fred naturally was skeptical, and felt for a temperature to find that there was none. Satisfied, Fred left Jughead to his devices with some supplies. What Fred didn’t know though, was that minutes before, Jughead had soaked his face in freezing cold water to temporarily remove the heat.

Jughead went downstairs to prepare Archie some tea to soothe his throat, and rubbed at his nose to try and hold back a sneezing fit. He sniffled for good measure and walked up with the tea, and once he walked into the bedroom Archie spread his arms out.

“Juuuuug~” He whined, clearly wanting a hug.

Jughead sighed and shook his head, “Yes, after you drink this and take your medicine.” He sat at the edge of Archie’s bed and handed him the said objects.

Archie pouted like a child, “I don’t want to! Pills hurt my throat.”

Jughead pinched the bridge of his nose and rolled his eyes fondly, “Do you want me to fetch the cough syrup instead then and spoon feed you?”

Archie nodded, completely serious.

Jughead blinked, looking at Archie, trying to decipher wether he was genuinely serious, “..Are you serious?”

Archie smiled and nodded eagerly.

“You really are something, Archie Andrews,” He teased fondly, as he went downstairs yet again to retrieve the cough syrup and a spoon. As he returned, he once again sat at the edge of the bed and poured the contents of the bottle onto the spoon and brought the spoon to Archie’s mouth, hoping Archie wouldn’t notice that his hands were shaking.

Archie didn’t seem to notice and opened his mouth, letting Jughead spoon feed the medicine into his mouth. The medicine wasn’t as horrid as he expected; it tasted like strawberry. He took the cup of tea and sipped at it, letting out a sigh of content.

“..This is my favourite tea, Jug. The kind that you make,” Archie gushed, the tea soothing the soreness and scratchiness of his throat.

Jughead huffed, “Its the type of tea you buy at the supermarket. Not exactly gourmet, luxury tea.”

Archie grinned at him, “..Yes, but you made it.”

Jughead groaned and whacked him very lightly, “This sweetness is rotting my teeth. Stop it.”

Archie then pulled Jughead in with him, taking the smaller boy into his arms and snuggling his face into Jughead’s soft, black hair.

“You’re warm, Juggie,” Archie said softly as he pulled the boy closer, to absorb his warmth.

Jughead tensed slightly, wondering if Archie had caught him in the act.

“..it’s so nice,” Archie finished, letting out a small sigh of satisfaction as he closed his eyes, relaxing. Jughead relaxed.

The two stayed like this until Jughead took out his laptop and played on a Die Hard movie to keep them both entertained, running his hands through Archie’s hair to keep him happy. Jughead couldn’t even concentrate, and could only concentrate on how bad he was feeling.

“I’m hungry,” Archie said halfway through the Avengers movie.

Jughead was relieved, needing to get out of there to grab himself a glass of water, and relieve himself of a sneeze that he was battling for the past half an hour. He groaned to cover up his act.

Jughead went down the stairs to heat up some Campbell’s Chicken Noodle, waiting until it finished before pouring the soup into a bowl. Jughead then brought the steaming bowl upstairs, the steam causing his sinuses to start to run again, and Jughead bit back the temptation to sniffle.

Archie smiled as he walked in, “That smells, great, Jug!”

Jughead shrugged and sat down next to the boy again, handing him the bowl and spoon. Archie stared at the objects for a while, then looked back up at Jughead.

Jughead could not believe this little shit.

He raised an eyebrow, “Do you want me to fucking feed you?”

Archie grinned bashfully.

Jughead sighed, unable to refuse this stupid ass boy and took the bowl and spoon back. He dipped the spoon into the creamy soup and brought the spoon into Archie’s mouth.

As much as Jughead groaned and complained, Archie knew that Jughead was secretly enjoying it. The action reminded Jughead of his little sister, and being an older brother again. Archie would often cuddle Jughead and he knew Jughead missed being an older brother. He hoped that this would help Jughead cope better, rather than make him miss it more.

When the soup was finished, Archie felt extremely sleepy. He tried to keep his eyes open but ultimately failed, grabbing onto a pillow to cuddle, thinking it was Jughead.

Jughead sighed in relief as Archie’s breathing evened out, needing a moment to himself and let out a few coughs and sneezes he had been desperately trying to hold in. He made sure Archie was comfortable and walked down the stairs into the kitchen, stifling some coughs into his sleeve. He pinched his nose as he began to sneeze, relieved he had finally tried to relieve the tickle in his nose, but still having to be quiet in case he woke Archie.

Suddenly, the door bell rang and Jughead groaned.

He made his way to the door and opened it, to see the bright and lovely Betty Cooper holding two tubs of ice cream.

“Hey Jug! I heard Archie was sick so I brought these in,” Betty said cheerily.

Jughead smiled at her, “That’s so nice of you Betty. Uh, he’s asleep right now so..”

“Okay!” She whispered as she let herself in and walked towards the kitchen. “Let’s get these ready.”

Jughead sniffled and rubbed his nose, hot on her feels. He hadn’t quite finished sneezing so the tickle was still there, irritating the heck out of him.

Betty made her way to the kitchen, knowing the place inside and out. The three were childhood friends, so of course she knew. She pulled the bowls out and began to open the tubs.

“Jug? Can you pass me the ice cream scooper?” She asked.

Jughead nodded and walked toward the drawer to locate it, and on his way back to Betty, a sudden headache flooded his senses, his legs gave way and he nearly fell, grabbing onto the counter.

“Juggie?!” She exclaimed as she rushed towards him.

Jughead gave a thumbs up, and went to look up when his hair that was peaking out from his beanie fell onto his nose, and all hell broke lose. Jughead fell onto a sneezing fit, harsh and rough.

Betty sighed in exasperation, “You’re so dumb, Jughead.”

Jughead sniffled, rubbing at his nose, “Well, at least I didn’t get sick because I refused to get off of someone who was about to sneeze.”

Betty facepalmed, “You’re both the dumbest people I’ve ever met. How you’re both not dead, I will never know.”

Jughead smiled sheepishly.

Betty groaned, “ugh, you’re coming with me!”

The blonde dragged the brunette up the stairs, literally by the ear and once they were both up at Archie’s bedroom, she literally threw him into the air mattress.

“Wh–huh, what’s happening Betty?” Archie asked groggily.

“Ebony Dark'ness Dementia Raven Way over here is still sick and is being a little..buttface,” She hissed fondly.

Jughead laughed nervously.

Archie raised his eyebrow, “Seriously, Jug? You are so impossible.”

“..You’d never let me take care of you if you knew I was still sick,” Jughead mumbled into the pillow he was thrown into.

Archie softened, “Did you..just admit you like taking care of me?”

Jughead shrugged, “Yeah I guess. It makes me feel useful again; and since..it’s always the other way around I feel like I owe ya this one.”

Archie pulled the boy into his own bed, even in his sickness strong enough. “..C'mere, there’s enough space here.”

Betty laughed at them, “You two are so weird. I’ll be back in a second.”

Betty came back up in a minute with bowls of ice cream, three flavours in each bowl. It was oddly a representation of all of them; chocolate for Archie, vanilla for Betty and Strawberry for Jughead.

As the boys basically lunged for the bowls, Betty pulled them back and shook her head.

“Medicine first, idiots,” She laughed, handing them both pills.

Jughead wolfed the pills down no problem; being used to constantly swallowing pills due to constantly being ill, and also taking pills for anxiety.

Archie pouted at Betty, “..but my throat hurts!”

Betty looked confused.

Jughead sniffled, “He’s saying he wants you to spoon feed you syrup.”

Betty rolled her eyes and poured out some cough medicine onto a spoon. She brought the spoon close to Archie’s mouth, putting on a mocking, cooing voice, “Here comes the choo choo train, little Archie!”

She shoved the spoon into his mouth and laughed heartily, and Jughead couldn’t help but join her until he began to cough again. Betty frowned and rubbed his back for him.

“Like I said, you both are so dumb,” She sighed, sinking further into the couch. They began to dig into their ice cream, as Betty put on The  Winter Soldier onto Jughead’s laptop for them to watch.

They all sat in a comfortable silence, somehow all fitting in Archie’s double bed. It felt all too familiar; the three childhood friends in Archie’s house (because Alice didn’t want FP’s son in her house, of course, and she also didn’t want her daughter in FP’s house either), watching movies with ice cream. Granted back then they were watching The Lion King and they’d all start crying, and now they were watching Captain America, but it still felt as safe and warm as it did then.

As a rather suspenseful scene came up onto the screen, despite already seeing the movie, the three tensed up. Suddenly, Jughead sneezed loudly and caused the two to jump in surprise.

“Jug!” They groaned in annoyance.

“..sorry!” Jughead exclaimed in embarrassment, until they all started laughing heartily.

Despite two of the three people sitting on that bed feeling awful and ill, they still had a great time, because there was no better medicine than each other.

#jughead jones #archie andrews #betty cooper #qp jarchie #qp bughead #riverdale #sickfic #prompts