#and then dropping off bc he’s the one w the fevered brow

[dathen]

Jonathan: These nuns are so lovely. If I weren’t madly in love with Mina maybe I’d be a nun and help the sick and unfortunate…

Jonathan: *passes out*

[five hours later]

Jonathan: Wait, I can’t be a nun…

Jonathan: I’m Anglican.

[atlabeth]

fever - sokka x reader

this has been sitting in my drafts half finished for 3 weeks so i thot it was prime time i actually finished it

this is kinda based off the song w dua lipa and angele so you can listen to that if you want

summary: sokka's convinced there's a mystery illness keeping you from focusing, but somehow he's completely oblivious that the only 'sick' you are is lovesick, and he's the reason you can't focus.

a/n: i have never written a sickfic. but this is like. a fake sick fic. its an idiots in love fic. i mean this is coming from mr "is he taller than me? is he better looking?" himself so. it makes sense. as usual, this is not proofread bc im a lazy mf

also im sorry for being vague with the calc but i was NOT about to do math during summer who do you think i am? ??

wc: 1.7k

warning(s): mentions of being sick and 🤢calculus 🤮 but otherwise tooth rotting fluff

-

How could the smartest man you knew be so, so incredibly stupid?

You thought that you were being obvious, so obviously that you were sure he knew. It was embarrassing how obvious you were.

You had met Sokka in your calculus class at the start of the new semester after you ended up sitting next to each other, and it wasn’t a stretch to say that you were immediately smitten. With eyes like the ocean and a face that had to have been crafted by the gods, you were almost too distracted to respond when he asked you for a pencil. But when he winked at you after giving his thanks, it only solidified what you had already suspected: you had known this man for all of five minutes, and you already had a crush on him.

Little did you know, it was going to turn into the most infuriating crush you had ever experienced.

You and Sokka became fast friends even though calculus was the only class you had together. Unfortunately, it was also something that you completely sucked at. Bad news, it was required for your major. Good news, Sokka was some sort of genius and offered to tutor you — Wednesdays in the library turned into a weekly occasion, and served as an opening for your calculus skills, your feelings for Sokka, and your exasperation to all grow stronger.

You normally weren’t someone to beat around the bush. If you started to like someone, you told them and dealt with whatever happened after, but something about Sokka just kept you from spilling your feelings outright. You knew that if he didn’t feel the same way, your relationship likely wouldn’t change, but there was still that tiny voice that said it’s better to stay like this in case things do go wrong — and this was the first time you listened to that voice. You simply valued your friendship too much.

But that didn’t mean you were going to be completely quiet about it — you hoped that if you did enough, he would be able to realize you liked him and do the whole process for you. A bit of a dim hope, but crushes make people do stupid things.

Things like bringing an extra coffee to every session, laughing at all his jokes (even the bad ones), sitting a little closer to him than usual, not dropping out of this wretched class so you could spend time together (it might’ve been required, but you still counted it). He didn’t make a point to object to anything, so you knew you weren’t making him uncomfortable — but you had concluded after nearly a whole semester of working and studying together that he was the most oblivious person in all of Ba Sing Se. He could teach you all kinds of formulas, but had no idea that you liked him. Grand.

Today was arguably the most important session out of any of them, seeing as your next class was the final, so it was only fitting that Sokka unknowingly made himself more interesting than any material you could’ve been working with. His arms were going to be the death of both you and your calc grade. You swore that the heat rushing to your cheeks was actually emanating off of you.

“Hey, Y/N!” Sokka grinned as he saw you and raised a hand in greeting, a sentiment you would’ve returned had it not been for the coffee cups in your hands. You settled for mirroring his grin and settled down in the seat across from him. You slid his coffee cup over, set your own down, then shrugged your bag off all before taking a seat.

“You ready to study ‘till your eyes bleed?” he asked, prompting a nervous laugh from you.

“You jest, but my eyes might actually start bleeding depending on how long we go,” you sighed. “There’s a reason I got an extra shot of espresso today.”

“Come on — by now you should know that you have nothing to worry about! I am the best teacher there is, and you got me all to yourself.”

Your eyes widened momentarily and you coughed, purposefully averting your gaze to give yourself some time to recover. Okay, he was going to make it really hard to focus today. “Let’s just get into it.”

He nodded and flipped open his notebook, beginning to talk as he rifled through his bag for a few extra things. “Okay, we’re just gonna start with going over the basics, then we’ll work our way up. There’s a couple practice problems on that page, so you can go ahead and answer those as a warmup.

You slid the notebook over in front of you and after approximately five seconds of looking at the first problem, found yourself studying Sokka rather than the material. Who could blame you? In the battle of cute tutor boy versus calculus, he was going to win every time.

He turned around and you immediately averted your eyes once again, trying to appear extremely involved, but you found that your mind was empty on anything to do with math. “Hey, uh— how do you do this first one? I’m totally blanking here.”

“We use limits in everything — this is actually something you’re really good at!” He studied you intensely and frowned. “Are you okay? Like, you’re not sick or anything, are you? You seem kinda out of it.”

You choked out a laugh and shook your head. “No, no — I’m fine. I guess I’m just a little tired.” As if to demonstrate your lie, you took a sip from your coffee and cringed internally. Love had turned you into an idiot.

He seemed to buy it as he nodded and picked up the pencil, scribbling a couple of notes as he explained the first problem to you. “Does that make sense?” You nodded and he handed the pencil back to you. “Okay — the other ones follow the same kind of process. It should be easy enough.”

You managed to get a little further in the second problem, but your lovestruck mind would not stop focusing back on Sokka every time you tried to do, well, anything. Curse him and his perfect arms, and eyes, and hairstyle, and everything.

You shook your head and set the pencil down once more, letting loose a frustrated sigh. “I don’t know what’s gotten into me.” Yes, you did. “I just can’t focus at all.” Because of you. You picked up your cup once more and took a sip, hoping it would do something to get you back into the math state of mind.

Sokka frowned once more as he put the back of his hand against your forehead. “God, you’re hot.” You nearly choked on your coffee as your eyes practically bulged out of their sockets — he had to know what he was doing by now — how could he not? “Like, you’re completely burning up. Are you sure you’re okay?”

“I’m fine, I swear— I just…” you set your cup down on the table and heaved a sigh that was a touch more exasperated than necessary. “Are you telling me you seriously haven’t noticed? Like, not a single thing this whole year?”

“I’ve noticed a lot of things this year,” he chuckled. “It’s kind of our whole job, so you’re gonna have to be a lot more specific.”

You finally couldn’t hold it in anymore. “Sokka, I’m not— I’m not sick! Haven’t you noticed that I’m only ever flustered, or running into things, or forgetting info, or— or just a complete idiot when I’m around you? I like you, like, a lot, and I have for an embarrassingly long time! The reason I can’t focus is because I am hopelessly attracted to you in every single way.”

His brows creased for a moment and you clamped your mouth shut, worried that you had just ruined everything. It was only after a pause that felt like a century that he finally responded, the hint of a smirk on his lips.

“Well, why didn’t you just say something?”

You stared at him, eyes wide and lips slightly parted in pure surprise before the annoyance set in. You set your jaw as your brows furrowed and you hit him lightly on the side of his arm with the back of your palm. “You can’t be serious! You— you’ve gotta be messing with me by now. I really can’t believe that you can be that smart but this oblivious!”

He finally let the grin play across his lips in full force and he shrugged nonchalantly. “I mean, I don’t know how you don’t expect me to mess with you when you scrunch up your face all cute like that every time you get mad. Besides, I started liking you after that fifth class; I offered to help you out so I could spend more time with you! I didn’t realize you felt the same way. I kinda just enjoyed the free coffee and getting to look at you all the time.”

“I can’t believe you!” you cried as you hit his other arm. “You’re telling me that I had to deal with this- this mental turmoil about whether you liked me back, while you were just enjoying the free eye candy and coffee the whole time?”

“You have nothing to worry about! I enjoyed the company far more than the coffee,” he joked, a certain twinkle in his eye. “But, you are probably out a couple twenties after all of that. So, what do you say about this Saturday, the cafe by the shoe store? My treat.”

“Damn right it’s your treat,” you shot back, though you couldn’t stop the smile forming on your face. “You owe me a lot — you have to make up for those coffees and all the emotional distress you caused.”

“Oh, I think I’ll have plenty of time to make up for lost time. After all, we do have a lot of coffee dates to get through.” And when he winked at you just like that first day, you remembered just how impossible it was to be angry at Sokka. “But first, we kinda have to get through this study date. The final’s still happening tomorrow.”

You responded with a raised brow. “This is a study date?”

Sokka shrugged and grinned. “They’ve all been study dates. You just didn’t know it.”

-

idiots in love idiots in love idiots In LOVe

perm tag list: @dv0412 @siriuslyslyslytherin @maruchan77

atla: @marianne1806

[ravenvsfox]

Hello hi! I have a prompt if you're feeling up to it? There is so much of Andrew looking after sick!Neil but can we have it reversed? I think Andrew would low-key (highkey) love the focused attention from Neil (also,,, Neil not being sure how to look after sick people and turning to advice from the other foxes as discreetly as possible bc there's no way Andrew wants them knowing he's anything less than impenetrable)

(I did my best w this prompt from one POV, sorry it took so very absurdly long! lots of Andrew thoughts with a side of useless boy dialogue)

He wakes up bleary and dry-mouthed, his tongue catching on his hard palate like papers rustling together. Andrew squints into his pillow, pressing two fingers into the eyelid of one streaming eye. The sun is too dilute to touch him, and the breeze from the cracked window chills him so much that it hurts, muscles locked and shivering.

He knew he was getting sick when the hurt that lives inside him flared real, visible and disgusting. All this hacking, running, sweating makes him vulnerable, loud when he wants to be quiet. Neil had called him overdramatic. He’d dragged the covers to his side of the bed in reply, battered sleep’s door until it splintered.

Now he feels like he always felt in the heart-racing countdown to withdrawal, fighting through sweat and aches and cracking lips, cracking skin, cracking strength. Whiskey won’t help him here though. Nothing will help him here, after rowing through the confused, freezing night and only now washing up in foggy morning, fever lapping at him.

Something drips onto his hot forehead and his chest pumps hard, startled. His eyes flash open.

Neil is frowning, looming over him and holding a cold rag that’s a bit too wet. It’s clumsy, but it feels better when Neil arranges it on his sweaty brow. His hand stays on the compress, a sustaining pressure, like he’s healing with just his hands and his willpower. Water runs into his hair like tears.

“How are you?” Neil asks. His other hand walks from the bedspread to Andrew’s side, he can feel the fingertips becoming a full-palmed press. It’s the comfort of a person who always feels better when he’s touched hard and deliberately, alive in a way he can feel.

Andrew doesn’t reply, but he knows that his closed eyes and relaxed body mean something to Neil. He trusts him with his hot forehead and his bedside.

“You look bad,” Neil continues.

“I am not playing,” Andrew says hoarsely. “If that’s what you’re angling for so tactfully.”

Neil’s hands retreat, Andrew’s forehead folds under the rag where no one will see. “I’m here because you’re my— I’m not worried about our goalie, I’m worried about you.”

“You’re here because this is your room,” Andrew corrects.

“Fine,” Neil says, voice full of the opposite. “I’m going to practice, anyway, since that’s all I care about.”

Andrew feels him leave their bed, and he finds that the wet smell of his hair was keeping his headache at bay. Another drop of water rolls down his temple, and he scrubs the compress from his face so he can watch Neil leave, but he’s already gone.

It haunts his heart, for a while, the snapped olive branch, the hurt that put its fist in its mouth and left the room so Andrew wouldn’t see it properly.

He knows, deep in him, that he’s not being any different than usual, but he also knows what Neil might have expected, seeing him spread out in their bed with his eyes wet. He’s trying to fix Andrew’s surface like he never tries to fix what’s underneath.

Neil doesn’t have the vocabulary for sickness that isn’t terminal, though. He can’t fathom something between a bandaid and a prosthetic.

He drifts, for hours, so thirsty that he can feel it in his skin, so stuffed from throat to nose that he can only breathe dry and heavy through his mouth. He can hear the wheeze inside of him.

In foster care, they would make him sleep in the garage when he got sick. They didn’t want him to infect a house full of already difficult children. He remembers watching the shadows of feet moving in the light under the door, the way the cold only made him sicker and angrier, a yoga mat between his body and the concrete.

He blinks and his eyes are crusted together. He can taste salt. He thinks of Neil and the pain in his chest changes. He latches onto the feeling, like the garage door opening in the morning, letting him back into the warmth.

There’s water on the bedside table the next time his eyes open all the way, and he rolls, panting with the movement, putting his hand around the base of the glass, his muscles loose, feeling barely taped together.

He feels a hand on his spine, and then the glass is plucked from his grip. He slits his eyes against bright bright sunlit auburn, and gulps when Neil tips the glass against his chapped lips.

“This is bad,” Neil says urgently. “You’re too hot, I think we have to break the fever.”

“You will be sick,” Andrew warns, delirious. “You’re so close.”

“I’m close,” Neil confirms warmly. “And I got Dan to cancel practice tonight.”

“What?” Andrew says, uncomprehending.

“Exy. Not happening.”

“Are you also sick?”

Neil laughs quietly, and Andrew’s eased back onto the pillows, glass drained.

“Do you want me to be here?” Neil asks quietly. The back of his hand keeps brushing against the flushed skin of Andrew’s cheeks.

“I want you,” Andrew starts, swallowing and coughing around the caught, sharp feeling in his throat. “I want you to cancel more practice. All of it.”

“Funny,” Neil says flatly. “Anything else?”

Andrew screws his eyes closed and says nothing. He wants him to stay close. He feels so much like a cure, he’s burned so many things out of Andrew before.

“I don’t know how to help you,” Neil says honestly, rough with frustration. “Just tell me what’s hurting you.”

It’s a childish response to pain, wanting to see the physical source of it so it can be staunched and fought and squared away. His energy is frenetic, actively pursuing, waking Andrew up. The heat of Neil is different from the heat of his fever—jungle rain instead of drought.

Neil gets up to leave again, and Andrew catches him by the wrist. It’s the fastest he’s moved all day. “Stay.”

Neil stops moving immediately, save for the way his hand curls until they’re palm to palm.

“Yeah,” Neil says, and gets up into bed, drawing Andrew’s hand with him. He ends up half arched towards Neil, hand sweaty, t-shirt twisted around his chest. It’s uncomfortable. It’s better.

Sleep tries to put a bag over his head and lead him out of the room, but Neil’s presence is neutralizing, especially when he starts to talk.

“Practice was terrible, you didn’t miss much.”

“I didn’t expect to,” Andrew says stuffily. Neil pinches his pinky between two of his fingers.

“Your alternate sucks. He shouldn’t be allowed in goal if he’s going to desecrate it like that.”

He’s talking about the scrawny freshman goalkeeper with the attitude of a fourth year and the skill of a high schooler. Something about him fires Neil up in a way that Andrew finds off-colour amusing, on a good day.

“He didn’t save a single goal. It wasn’t even practice, it was public humiliation. Renee would’ve obliterated him, and her skill set is limited, next to you. But christ, Nicky could’ve done better. I was considering locking him in the change rooms but you know how fucking loud he is, and last time Wymack…”

Andrew’s mind wanders, alternately focusing on the slip of Neil’s fingers between his, the whir of the overhead fan, the way the tag on the duvet is irritating the bare skin of his stomach. His insides are an uneasy sea, and his face is raw from rubbing his running eyes and nose. Neil’s voice is so soft, even when he’s saying things that should leave scratches.

Andrew thinks, confused, that he’s never been taken care of before, except by an apologetic Nicky on his way to a shift at Eden’s Twilight, a bottle of stolen tylenol left at the foot of his bed. Cass— no. He’d been afraid to be the sort of foster kid who needed things, and so his weakness was folded up and swallowed. He pretended not to hurt for as long as he was with the Spears.

His withdrawal and rehabilitation had been his own problems, bloody things dragged through the foxes’ house. Everyone’s noses wrinkled, involuntary, at the ugly sight of his healing.

But Neil shared his coping mechanisms and grinned at his anger and provoked him into something, urged him into something—

Sometimes he feels like the monster, the shapeshifter, being coaxed back to humanity by the love interest, the waning moon. Neil makes him feel like his fangs are receding. Neil is a speech and a silver bullet.

For so many of the worst years of his life, everyone else waited for him to fall off the precarious side of a building, told him that it would get better, told him there was a safety net five stories down, even though he couldn’t see it. Neil launched the front of his body over the side, teeth gritted, muscles straining, and started hoisting him up by the hand.

His throat clogs with tiredness, itchy and thick. Neil’s free hand passes over his damp hair, his body heat bumping closer like a mouth ducking to kiss him, and Andrew is dropped, overwhelmed, into sleep.

______

“No, I don’t know. It’s not about him. No, Dan. Put Matt on the phone? Don’t tell him—no, I’m serious.”

Andrew’s face breaks watery sleep, but his ears are still foggy underneath the surface. Neil’s voice is low and distant, probably in the seat by their window.

“Hey,” Neil says quickly. “Do you still have the recipe for that soup you were making Dan last— no he’s fine. I just wanted to…” He makes a clucking noise, upset, and Andrew rolls over to watch him. He finds him staring distractedly out at the parking lot with his feet tucked underneath him, unlit cigarette between his fingers.

There’s a burble of a voice on the other end of the line, and Neil puts his head back. Andrew watches the whole long arc of his neck and feels a violent pull of affection in his gut, wishes he could do something about it.

“Yeah,” he whispers, Andrew frowns at the shift in Neil’s tone. “It’s scaring me. I know it’s not— he’s not that sick, or hurt, and no one’s responsible, so it’s…” he looks towards Andrew, whose eyes are still slitted against the lamplight.

“Exactly,” he breathes, looking back out at the cloud-frothed sky. “I can’t fight a virus for him. And I don’t know how, I don’t know what people do, like, am I supposed to be doing what he wants or what he needs because they’re not— I can’t solve this with cigarettes on the roof, and I can’t pour alcohol on it, but I want his eyes clear again. I don’t. I hate it when I touch him and he doesn’t react. I can’t… he’s too sick to see straight.” He’s getting upset. Andrew can hear his own heartbeat reacting, surging ahead.

“I know,” Neil says, frustrated. “But I don’t want to do nothing. I just--do you have that recipe or not?”

A moment, a hum, a scribble.

“Okay, thanks Matt. I’m not telling him that. Okay. Okay. Bye.”

He flips his phone shut and drops it on the carpet, putting both palms to his eyes and holding them there, cigarette still dangling. Andrew’s eyes close, but he hears it when Neil sighs and stands, moving carefully to the door. He can sense him pausing at the foot of the bed and watching Andrew for a moment, and then he says, “you’re awake.”

“Yes,” Andrew replies, not opening his eyes. “You were having a heart-to-heart two feet from my sickbed.” He can tell that Neil’s gnawing his lip. He can almost hear the skin tearing.

“Did it bother you?”

“You are constantly bothering me.”

“I mean—“

“I know what you mean. I do not care what you do or do not tell Boyd.”

“I think,” Neil starts, “that he was too surprised that you have a human response to viral infection to use it against you.” He sounds torn between annoyance and amusement, and Andrew cracks an eye at him.

“I don’t need soup,” he informs him, and Neil sags, walking heavily over to the bed and dropping down in front of it. It’s so dramatic that Andrew might have left the room, if he were mobile.

“What do you need?”

They look at each other, and the only sound in the room is from the galloping fan and their breathing.

“Get in bed,” Andrew says finally, trying halfheartedly to make it seem like it’s not an answer to his question.

Neil’s eyes go cotton-soft, grateful. He puts his face down on the blankets in front of him, and Andrew stares at the slip of a cowlick on the top of his head.

“Painkillers first,” he murmurs. “Aaron got you NyQuil, and there’s Vicks in the bathroom cupboard.”

Andrew lets him talk, and knows that he’s been searching for ways to fix this, asking their teammates and the internet. There’s a bow in Andrew’s chest, and Neil always seems to have a grip on both slippery loose ends. The knot of it keeps giving and giving and giving.

Neil stands again, hesitating. “Thanks for trusting me with this,” he says softly. He closes the door behind him, and it clicks into place like it’s embarrassed.

Andrew blinks. Gluey sickness peels back just enough for him to recognize that he’s enjoying himself somewhere through his gummy symptoms. Neil treats a nasty flu with the same attentive concern that he affords gunshot wounds, that he never seems to give his own pain.

He’s never taken care of someone, and Andrew’s never been taken care of, but it works, somehow, it makes sense. That garage door swings inward and the warmth wriggles back into Andrew’s fingers.

Neil comes back in with a tray full of over-the-counter medications spread out like a dessert sampler, and Andrew coughs, hard, over the unfamiliar twitch of laughter in his throat.

Neil sleeps through the time that practice usually falls, and Andrew holds him to his chest, too hot to sleep. Neil bought him strawberry lozenges designed for kids, and Andrew’s halfway through the pack, mouth buzzing. The sun melts, a slab of ice cream on the hot horizon.

“Hey, knock knock,” Nicky says suddenly from the doorway, and Andrew’s keenly aware of how debauched their room looks, the wrappers and kleenex and clothes and heat, Neil crushed to Andrew’s body. “I just wanted to see if you were okay, and I knew neither of you were offering any updates, so hey, I’m here. Are you okay?”

Andrew means to say ‘leave’ but what actually comes out is “yes”. The painkillers must be there, behind his teeth, loosening his tongue. Nicky beams. Neil hitches his leg higher over his hip. Andrew pinches his eyes shut.

When he opens them again, Nicky is gone, and so is the sun. But Neil’s there, shivering without a blanket, mouth wet at Andrew’s clavicle. He sighs into his hair, and the breath comes easy. His chest is clear.

[cryingbilldenbrough]

bill and richie making out in bill’s ford ??? some friends to lovers hcs about that????

OH BOY ok so firstly, you should read this fic bc it involves bichie truck makeouts and also i love it

NEXT, i know you said headcanons but i accidentally wrote a ficlet? sorry? anyway here you go: 

ao3 link

derry doesn’t really have a good spot for kids to drive to and make out in the car at.

bill suggests the kissing bridge once, when richie’s mom has walked by the open door of richie’s room for the third time that night and cleared her throat at the way the boys are sitting. bill’s thigh is pressed close to richie’s on the bed as they study and he keeps getting distracted by the way richie bites on the end of his pen. the plastic clicks against his teeth and bill fists a hand in the sheets next to him and closes his notebook.

“the kissing bridge?” richie laughs, pen sticking out of the side of his mouth as he smiles, “that’s cliche, billy,”

“it’s b-better than trying to sn-sneak kisses between your m-mom’s p-puh-patrols!” bill argues and richie’s eyes flick down to bill’s lips. bill knows he’s won the moment richie looks back up into his eyes. they’re darker, mischievous, and bill feels his heart tug just a little bit. richie slides out of bed limply, rolling onto the floor and pushing himself up and bill wonders what he sees in the fucking dork.

they’re tiptoeing through the front hall when richie’s dad’s voice rings out from the living room. they can’t see him from where they’re standing.

“where are you boys off to now?” he calls and richie freezes with his shoe half on. they share a moment of nervous eye contact and then richie clears his throat and speaks.

“we’re just gonna go get some…” richie trails off, turning to bill with wide eyes.

“s-snacks!” bill finishes and richie makes a face at him, rolling his eyes and flinching. there’s no response from richie’s dad in the living room and bill shrugs before bending over to tug his sneakers on. the screen door clangs behind them as they leave the house and richie runs for bill’s blue ford. he slides in the passenger seat, the door squeaking as he pulls it shut behind him, and bill walks around the front to the driver’s side.

the engine shudders as he turns it over, roaring to life with just a little hesitation, and bill puts it into gear.

“w-where to?” bill asks, turning to look at richie. the sun has set over derry, the sky purple and blue, black at the edges where night creeps in, and richie looks beautiful in the low light. his glasses glint as he grins at bill and slides over just a little closer on the bench seat, not quite in bill’s space but not in his own either. “p-put your s-seatbelt on,” bill commands, waiting to pull out of richie’s driveway until the boy does. there’s a moment where he worries richie is going to disobey and the thought of him crashing and richie flying through the windshield makes his breath quicken and his fingers tighten on the steering wheel.

but then richie slides back over to his own seat and does what bill told him, clicking the seatbelt over his waist and rolling down his window. he wiggles in the pocket of his jeans and pulls out a pack of cigarettes and his zippo.

“aw, richie, i don’t wanna k-kiss you when you t-taste like menthols!” bill says as richie flicks the lighter open and sticks the smoke between his teeth.

“you love it,” richie replies, but he takes the cigarette out of his mouth and puts it behind his ear, for later. the zippo stays out, richie flicking it open and closed absentmindedly.

bill turns down a few random streets, waiting for richie to offer up a location to park.

“turn left,” richie commands suddenly, flicking his lighter closed. the truck is silent, radio turned down low so they can talk, and the sound is metallic in the night. wind rushes by richie’s open window and whistles a tune, sticky and humid. it’s almost summer, bill can feel the turning of the seasons in his bones, and derry has been uncharacteristically warm. the breeze from richie’s window helps, but bill can feel sweat already building on his brow away from the air conditioning of richie’s house. his truck has no A/C or heat, making the cold maine winters basically unbearable, but luckily he has richie to pick him up if the weather gets too bad.

he follows richie’s stilted directions until they’re on a road going somewhat out of town, passing by the bowers farm.

“turn off into the next cornfield,” richie says and bill turns his eyes from the road to look at him.

“you wanna m-m-muh-make out in mike’s cornfield?” he asks, but he’s really not surprised.

“you got a better idea?” richie says and bill is already flicking his turn signal and pulling over tire-stamped corn. he follows the tracks of a tractor, his truck digging into wet ground. he goes just far enough in to be hidden from sight of the road and turns his lights off. he leaves the keys in the ignition and fumbles for a cassette to throw in the player. the truck is old enough it doesn’t have a port for CDs so bill and richie spent an entire afternoon in every thrift shop in town looking for good tapes. there are only a few that richie deems good making out music and bill picks his personal favorite.

the opening guitar strains of “magic man” by heart ring out and bill leans back in his seat. he can feel richie’s eyes on him, hot in the night, and bill raises his eyes to look at him. bill reaches a hand back, opening the back window that leads to the bed of the truck, and then smiles at richie.

“i’ve got a b-blanket in t-the b-b-back,” he says and richie grins at him.

he climbs out of the truck and goes around back, dropping the hatch and unfolding a tartan blanket out over the bed. it’s cool when he spreads out on it, metal chilled on his too-warm skin, and bill watches as richie climbs up. his glasses slip down his nose as he settles down next to bill and he can’t help but reach over and adjust them for him, black frames crooked on his ears.

the night is quiet, only the sound of wind rustling corn and bugs buzzing over the sound of bill’s radio, and he settles down with his elbow bent and his arm behind his head. richie leans over him, balanced against bill’s side, and finally kisses him. the truck bed is cool but richie’s body is fever hot where he presses against bill.

richie kisses like a freight train. there’s no subtlety to his tongue in bill’s mouth and the way he grips bill’s face in both hands. his hair falls in bill’s face and tickles his nose but it’s no distraction from the way richie pulls his mouth open just a little bit wider to lick into it. he breathes out through his nose and relaxes against the bed of the truck, foot slipping and dragging the blanket slightly with it. richie shifts a little, breaking the kiss to press one against bill’s cheek, and then he’s throwing a leg over bill’s midsection to straddle him. he rests his body on bill’s lower stomach, bending over to reattach himself to bill’s mouth.

their teeth clack a little, still clumsy despite themselves, and bill huffs out a laugh. his skin is sticky in the humid air, flannel shirt collar sticking to the back of his neck and he’s sure his white undershirt is damp by now. he reaches a hand around to curl around the back of richie’s neck, resting the other on richie’s lower back, and the other boy is sweating too. it makes everything feel just a little more passionate, slick and wet, and bill can feel arousal stir in his stomach.

they make out for what feels like hours, pressed together and sweating in the heat of the night. bill’s neck gets stiff from tipping up to meet richie’s lips and his neck is throbbing from the probably half-dozen richie has given him, slick with spit and skin irritated. his pants are tight, making him groan every time richie wiggles on top of him to get more comfortable, and bill closes his eyes and lets his head fall back against the truck bed. a faint breeze blows over his overheated skin and bill opens his eyes as richie settles back.

“we should go back,” richie says, voice hoarse. his lips are shining in the moonlight, ruby red and covered in bill’s saliva. bill finds it kind of hot, the idea that he did that. richie’s chest heaves, shining with sweat where his top button has come undone, and bill knows if they stay out here any longer he’s going to have a fucking mess to clean up when he gets home.

bill nods, agreeing, and richie climbs off of bill. he jumps down off the bed, stretching his arms above his head and cracking his neck from side to side. bill feels achey, still kind of hard enough for it to hurt, and he knows he’s going to be pissed at richie later for the marks on his neck. for now though, he just admires the way the bruises shine in the rearview mirror.

they pull out of mike’s cornfield, keeping the headlights off until they’re back on the highway, and bill drives them home. he wipes his forehead with his sleeve and lets richie pick the next cassette. he draws out a personal mix, full of songs he selected specifically because he liked to listen to them while driving, and pushes it in the player. he flicks open his zippo and finally lights another cigarette, filling the truck with the familiar smell of smoke. bill tries to hate it, but he lets richie pass the cigarette his way and he inhales before ashing it out his own window.

they rock out to paradise by the dashboard light, richie trying desperately to sing the girl parts to bill, voice cracking uncontrollably. bill laughs the whole way home, pulling into richie’s driveway. he makes richie roll the windows up and he waits as richie finishes his cigarette.

“fuck!” richie exclaims, hitting his forehead with the palm of his hand. bill kills the engine.

“w-what?”

“we didn’t even get any fucking snacks!”

please send me your headcanons/prompts!

[bruhnushka]

did you really not know (anthony ramos x reader)

request: anonymous: *slides u 10 bucks* heyo bud! Can i request a anthony ramos x reader where reader is an understudy in Hamilton and has a huge crush on ant & some of the other castmates have a running bet about when the reader will finally talk to him. And one day the lin and daveed are teasing the reader and ant's like "who ya talking about" and yeah, fluff (sorry if its confuzzling + thank you<3)

Summary : fluff betweeen you & anthony bc u 2 belong togehter and people teasing and jfakdsfj;adskjf

Warnings: hardcore fluff, embarssment, cussing, u getting EXPOSED, you kissing daveed, anthony being dumb 

a/n - lots of these r in my inbox im working my way though them and hello anon i will gladly take that ten dollar foudning father without a father out of your hands.

Oh, he was cute. You were an understudy for eliza schuyler-hamilton, and you had just glanced your first view of john laurens/phillip hamilton. your heart started to race and blood rushed up to your cheeks as you slowly counted back from ten, the seconds it would take for him to realize that you were staring. you weren't just ‘oomf, oops, sorry for just glancing at you i spaced out’, you were staring staring. and then he looked up, and blushed, and you feel straight into daveed. 

“woah there pony boy” he laughed, as he extended a hand to help you up. you shyly glanced at  your feet as you stumbled onto your bearings. 

“so-sorry” you muttered. daveed laughed again, a roaring, loud, laugh which made a hint of a smile ghost your lips. 

“there’s that beautiful smile i was looking for! hey, aren't you the new eliza understudy?” he asks you, grinning widely. you look up and nod, starting to feel more comfortable. 

“let me show you around!” he volunteers. you nod again, and he grabs your arm, and drags you around. 

“thats our national treasure, aka, oakierite onadowan.” daveed laughs. oak turns around and gives him a deadly ‘are you fucking serious’ look. 

“you literally could not have pronounced my name worse” he rolls his eyes, laughing. you couldn't help but chuckle, and daveed continued to show you around. during lunch, phillipa caught you making heart-eyes to anthony, who was across the room, laughing with daveed about something. 

“so, you caught the anthony-fever too?” she asks, nudging your elbow slightly. 

“whaaaat? i have absolutely no idea-” you look at phillipa, rolling her eyes, “ok yeah i may have a little bit of a crush on him.” she laughs, and slugs her arm over you. 

“its like destiny or something, every eliza understudy ever falls for him. unfortunately though, anthony’s a huge player and your heart couldn't have fallen in a bigger hole than it just did.” she teases. 

“hey- you never know, i just might grow out of it.” you shrug hopefully. 

“sure you will.”

it had been about three months since  you came officially on the cast. they were absolutely wonderful to you. but you avoided anthony like the plague. almost your second week of the third month, you stumbled upon a piece of paper left haphazardly on one of the couches. 

pippa: 6 months 11$

daveed: 4 months 10$

lin: 8 months 8.56$

oak: 10 months 9$

groffsauce: a lot of fucking time 20 cents

ariana: i believe in my girl, ill go with 5 months 15$

the list went on and on. you had no idea what this paper was about, but you stuffed it in your back pocket and grabbed your backpack from the side of the couch. you had left it there yesterday on accident. it felt heavier than usual. suspiciously, you looked through the bag to find about three of anthony’s shirts, you'd know since you'd memorized his work closet, stuffed inside your backpack. rolling your eyes, you looked for anthony. you knocked on his door when you spotted it. 

“come in!” he yelled, and you carefully opened the door. a shirtless, confused anthony came into view, making your breath catch and all planned words fall into a stutter.

“u-u-uh i-i ha-v-ee-ve- yo-u-ur sh-i-i-i-r-rt” you barely got out, and anthony’s eyes widened in surprise. 

“ohmygod! y/n what are you- ahhh” and he let out a string of incoherent words in spanish. 

“uh-oh god- sorry for barging in on you but those dumbasses put your shirts in my bag. 

“thats where they went! jesus christ I've been searching for them for like an hour and a half now. how'd you know it was mine?” he asked as he took them out of your hands. 

“you literally wear the same five shirts everyday of your life.” you laugh, as he slips one of the shirts back on.  “anthony i-” you start, thinking about asking him out, but then was interrupted by a phone call. 

“sorry got to take this, one second.” he says, and picks up the phone. 

“hey babe!” he grins, and your heart and smile drop. “nothing, im on my way right now love you too!” and with that he leaves, no good bye or anything. you were startled, and in shock you go back to your dressing room couch and sit down. 

“surprise! did you do it? did he ask you out?” your friends all jump out from behind the couch and yell.  “wait- somethings wrong. y/n?” phillipa stopped them and sat down beside you. you started to cry into her jacket and they realized what had happened. 

“that son of a bitch-” “he has a girlfriend, i cant-” you start but phillipa shushes you and you cry. the cast comforts you as they glare angrily in the general direction of anthony. 

anthony furrowed his brows as he saw you laughing with daveed about something. he didn't feel particularly jealous or anything, just there was something boiling at the pit of his stomach and he couldn't knock that feeling off. he needed to get a breath of air, so he walked outside. meanwhile, daveed was teasing you about anthony. 

“honey, it is so obvious. he's not even dating anyone anymore!” phillipa pointed out, waving her finger around. 

“can we not talk about him for once? all we do is talk about him. everyday.” you sighed, and picked up a fry from the bowl in front of you, munching on it with a pout. 

“aw, ok fine. what do you want to talk about? we have no shows today and everyones free.” jonathan asks. you look at him and furrow your brows. 

“lets go to chipotle.” you suggest, and everyone whoops. so there you guys were, everyone in their full costumes, walking to chipotle. anthony was outside, talking on the phone to someone. daveed saw him and leaned over to snake his arm around your was it. you looked up at him quizzically, and he whispered “just go with it” to you. he nodded his head towards anthony and suddenly you understood. you snuggled into his arms and crossed the street. people started to take photos of all of you guys and notifications on your phone started buzzing. you echoed instagram, looking at the photos people tagged you in. 

@ brownmagiic ((my instgram self promo)) [photo] my mans @ daveeddiggs   is cheating on me!!!! but i would too if i had the option to date someone like @ y/u/n 

@ hamleton [photo] CONSPIRACY THEORY TIME!!!!! 

you rolled your eyes and laughed, occasionally glancing towards where anthony slugged behind you. he glared at daveed and you couldn't help but laugh more. as you and saved ordered your food, anthony sulked in the corner booth of chipotle. 

“what is it?” phillipa says , and anthony rolls his eyes. 

“nothing.” he huffs, turning away from her. 

“is it y/n?” phillipa laughs. anthony shakes his head vigorously. 

“what? no! i could never like-” “oh shut up” she laughs, “we all know it. man up. ask her out.” 

“but shes-” “with daveed? no-” “then explain that” anthony points at daveed kissing you square on the lips. 

“wha-wh- w- what” she stuttered out, confused. anthony storms out, face red. 

phillipa graciously stomps over to the two of you. 

“what was that?” she growls. 

“we just kinda got into it and then leslie was like you two should kiss so we did and-”

“go apologize to anthony! he was about to ask you out! go! now!’ phillipa pushed you out the door to meet anthony, sitting on the curb. 

“anthony?” you asked him, eyes pleading him to answer.

“hmm?” 

“what happened?” you shyly asked, taking a set next to him. 

“nothing-nothing really. uh. just, theres this person i like. and they uh- they like someone else. and its really hard.” he says looking up at you. 

“i can assure you that person does not like who you think they like” you laughed.

“wel, then who do they like? because they've been avoiding me.” anthony says with a breath. 

“they havent been avoiding you. they've just been scared to confront you because if they do-” you stopped yourself. 

“what? what will happen if you do?” anthony turns his whole body towards you. 

“then id have to admit to myself that i really do like you. anthony, i really like you.” you let a sigh esca[e and he spends a few seconds just looking at you. suddenly you both are kissing and cheers are  heard from all around you, several cameras on. 

“fi-fucking-nally!” daveed yells.

you guys laugh as anthony holds you close. 

a/n p. 2 - ANTHONY CUT HIS HAIR WHAT THE FLIPPTY FUCk???? FIRST LIN NOW ANTHONY.???? WHAT NEXT? DAVEED ???? I CANT STAND THAT HIS HAIR IS THE REASON I AM ALIVE TO THIS DAY HELPDS DFHASKDHF;L