#{ so this happened }

[thysilus]

this year’s dyke day experience

[mardyart]

single father of two

[mrrecaswife]

In case I don't see you, good afternoon, good evening and good night.

(cw: mention of reader death, all in all general angst, presence of oc should you squint, talking about oc, do you guys want a full written character sheet about my two hsr ocs?? Also, did you get the reference? If you did, have a 🍪)

if the theory that Mr Reca is a cremator in the MemoKeepers is true, then he'd surely burn all the 'uninteresting' memories and only keep the 'good parts' for his works.

Except those including you. Especially those including you.

For some reason, especially if you have left him in any kind of way, he can't seem to even want to touch them, prefering to gaze solemnly at those fragments of your life. It's such a drastic change that his Assistant Director and everyone else around him cannot help but notice.

He can't touch them. It sickens him to his core to even think about it, as if he would have committed something unforgivable if he did.

So he doesn't. Instead, he puts those memories on repeat only for his eyes to see.

(He misses you. More than what anyone could imagine. Even that strange friend of yours, as much as he enjoys the company, cannot seem to tear him from them.

He sees the glimpse of an empathetic gaze, but doesn't comment on it nor budges. That girl probably considers this as part of her data to collect. (She doesn't, and he knows, but he can't get over the fact that you had to leave)

He really hates the fact that you had a mortal body that had to decay.)

[heart-wit-strength]

She got it from her wives that love her for just being kinda mid <3

Taglist: @hey-its-puddlesock @blightcedas @yourpersonaltimebomb @darcysd20 @lili250307 @amisplacedalphabet

[sad-girl-hours23]

Only One Forever

@118dailydrabble Day Nine: Foster

Bucktommy

Tommy sits beside Evan on the couch. “I’m sorry.”

Evan shrugs. “Fostering a dog is a big commitment.”

“Earlier when I said I couldn’t stand the thought of loving something that wasn’t mine to keep, you know I was only talking about the dog, right?”

Evan stays quiet.

“I’m sorry for what I said that night.”

“I just don’t know what I did to make you believe I’d break your heart.”

“Be young and hot as hell?”

“Tommy.”

Tommy sighs. “It’s not you, okay? I’ve just never been someone's forever guy.”

Evan nods and says, “well, that’s good news for me. Because you only get one of those, and I would really love it if you were mine.”

Also on AO3

[pinkcaraz]

where's the trophy? || sinnettini (the alchemy - taylor swift)

[blummberg]

Today's magma

[stararch4ngelqueen]

Low-Rise Melancholy

—

Time written- 11:33 p.m (Pt.2)

Jason Todd/fem!reader angst

—

You found him curled up in bed, unmoving for quite some time.

He arrived home, but said nothing. He shuffled out of uniform, carelessly abandoning piece by piece of his gear on various surfaces, carelessly draping his jacket over the closest chair.

He had enough mind to at least settle his utility belt and weapons on the desk in your shared bedroom before shuffling to bed, climbing into the mattress with so much as a slow, heavy exhale.

You had witnessed this since the moment he came home, feeling the tension shroud your shoulders before he even as entered through the door. Along with his angry episodes, which he kept out of your way around ninety percent of the time, every once in a while, you’d be witness to a violent slip up.

You followed behind the giant man like a scared puppy, stopping at the bedroom doorway just in time for him to turn on his side, his back now facing you.

He hasn’t moved for a fair hour, rendering you nervous rather than relieved he wasn’t angry. An hour full of checking up on him, wondering if he was ready to eat or talk. Anything.

He said nothing, as per usual, but answered your concerned question via raising his arm out, extending his hand out with an open palm. Would you like me to stay with you?

You settle your arms around him from behind as best you could once you slip into bed, enjoying the warmth that radiated off his back when you held him.

Just like before, Jason said nothing, broad shoulders rising and falling as his heavy lidded gaze nearly caged his eyes behind long lashes, vision long since unfocused after hours of reckless thoughts and dangerous intentions he’s always battled with after patrol.

His eyes close fully, a short, defeated exhale leaving his nose. Still, he doesn’t move, not even when he feels your soft, small hands cradle along his sides, caressing him in a largely limited embrace.

You’re always worried when he gets like this, but your options in soothing his pain were limited.

Your vigilante, your hero, your Red Hood, who refused to acknowledge your presence. Never intentionally.

You wanted nothing more than the man who stole your heart and gave it back but promised to hold it.

Jason Todd; your boyfriend, your big, red cuddly bear, your gentle giant sweetheart.

You wanted to be a strong shoulder for him to cry on, but in this case, you blamed your tensed up morning shortly followed by a series of severely unlucky events.

A short tremor of his shoulders caught you by surprise, making your head raise in question after settling behind Jason for nearly eight minutes. After a moment of waiting, to your dismay, you hear a small shudder from the exhausted man you held in your arms.

It broke your heart once you pinpointed those signs all together, realizing what Jason had been doing this entire time since he arrived home.

A ball of tension grew hotter in your throat, your eyes flushed so full with tears.

His teary, glistening eyes opened upon hearing your tiny hiccup, his head shifting up from its concave perch along your pillow to meet your gaze. His own heart ripped into two at the pitiful little attempt to stop yourself from crying, but you couldn’t help it.

“I-I’m sorry,” you whimper, small fingers involuntarily clasping along the hem of his grey shirt for a second or two.

When Jason approached the border of tears, his mouth didn’t curl with a strong lip quiver. Instead, his brows furrowed, his eyes nearly squinting in a pitiful attempt to make the tears halt and retreat.

All will to fight left him once he got home, himself included.

Now, all that flooded his heart was an overwhelming, bitter guilt, forcing him out of his melancholy to register the woman who’s bed he laid on for nearly two hours.

He shifts completely, encasing you in his warm, heavy arms, stroking back wisps of stray hair to peer down at you with worried, furrowed expression.

Were you scared? Were you scared of him getting angry and violent? Images of your terrified face after such an episode were burned into his mind, and a face full of tears was at the top of that crude list.

“No, no,” Jason insists as he puts up a battle once more, fighting back what tears he could. “Don’t say you’re sorry. Don’t.. I— Shit, I didn’t mean to—“

His voice fails, his tone trembling in seconds. His own attempt at rebuilding his crumbled walls failed, leaving cascades of fluttery dust over piles of pebbles.

“M’sorry,” Jason mutters to you, sniffling noses brushing against each other. “Didn’t mean to make you sad. Don’t.. Don’t cry, babygirl. It’s not your fault.”

“It’s not yours either,” your whimpering tone persists, feeling his fingers cradle the back of your head, smoothing down your hair while yours cling to his shirt collar, insisting that you could handle his pain, shoulder it with him.

His mood swings were never his fault. His death was never his fault. His moments where he shut down entirely, leaving you completely powerless to aid him from the shadows, any of it, all of it, wasn’t his pain to shoulder in general.

You wished you could take it all away, but you believed you could only do so much.

“I don’t know how to help you,” you tremble as you admit to him, watching his brows curl downwards in further distress to your confession, your eyes glassy with grief bordering on defeat.

“I want to help you, Jason. I do. Please, tell me how.”

You only knew what he shared with you in the past, so you understood enough. His complications with himself, the curse of hyper individualism rendering him towards a plethora of self doubt, no matter how much he wanted to defy it. He just didn’t know how.

You wanted to be strong for him, but feared you weren’t as tough as you wanted to be.

Jason didn’t want strong, even though he knew you were. he wanted permanence, superglued stability on both of your behalf.

His hand cradled your head against his shoulder, taking in the sweetness of your hair, the warmth of your body dressed in one of his loose fitting shirts, curtesy of you stealing his clothes every evening.

The echo of your heartbeat keeping you alive long enough for you to adore him, to cherish him, to love him like no other he had ever felt before. This returns him towards his quiet tears, but unlike before, he allows himself the freedom to express himself more.

Grief included.

“You just being here… helps, okay?” Jason whispers, cradling your face in his warm palm. “That’s it. That’s all you need to do. Just… don’t leave. Please.”

Please, don’t leave me alone.

Your fingers instantly trail up towards his cheeks, catching his tears in the cradle of your palms. For a moment, your guilty, defeated expression shifted towards one he recognized instantly.

Strong, filled with a temporary determination he recognized many times before when you refused to give up. You refused to give him up.

Those were the eyes he fell in love with, belonging to the woman who desired to help him. His sore heart ached at your persistence, craving that just as much as your eagerly awaiting love.

His shoulders shake, his breathing grows raggedy, shortly cut and uneven. A few of his tears caught along the strands of your hair, the rest seeping down onto the very same pillowcase that harbored most of tonight’s anger and frustration.

His head settled against your chest, relying on your strong heartbeat to keep him submerged in pure sleep. His heavily scarred hands remained stagnant around your waist, thumbs lightly swirling along bare skin while yours settled to comb through his inky, tussled locks.

For the next hour or so, you held one another, cradling each other as the tears long since run dry, leaving two tender bodies submerged in a thin veil of slumber.

Crying together was the last thing on both of your minds tonight, but it’s the most Jason had ever felt accidentally understood, especially now as he refuses to let go of his anchor.

Seen, heard, recognized, loved.

Alive.

[corvus-divum]

Felt down and decided to doodle something before reaching out to people again once I can talk (The other dude is my OC: Resound. I posted about him a couple of days back)

[martinhug]

john sees

[thysilus]

went to dyke day w my very recently self-realized lesbian godsister

[thirstykateyes]

I'm not projecting, YOU'RE projecting!! Sorry it looks like trash-

I was compelled to scribble this, I think Soap is insecure about over talking so he always tries stopping himself, but Ghost loves his rambles and patiently listens every time :,))

[chronologically-challenged]

Actual conversation between my friends and I about giving spoilers about ISAT.

[fictionadventurer]

When Emma stepped through the shining door in her palace's library, there was a blaze of light, a roar of wind, and then she landed on her hands and knees on the wooden floor of a suburban bedroom. She recognized the horse pictures on the wall, the stuffed animals on the bed, the yellow curtains fluttering in the window. She was smaller, thinner, lighter, and felt as though a world's weight had been lifted from her shoulders.

A woman's face appeared in the open doorway; every curl of her short hairstyle was familiar. "There you are, Emma!" she said cheerfully. "I've got your dressed washed for church tomorrow. Now come on downstairs. It's almost time for supper."

Behind Emma, the doorway had become an ordinary closet, cluttered with clothes and toys. The clock read twenty minutes past five. She'd been away only ten minutes.

A moment ago, she'd been the powerful queen of a vast realm whose rule had brought a golden age of prosperity and peace. Now she was twelve years old again, in her familiar old bedroom, safe with a mother that she hadn't seen in thirty years.

Emma wept for joy.

*

Emma's bookshelf contained one new volume--an exquisitely-bound brown leather book, with a tooled and embossed cover, containing a beautifully illustrated account of all the tales of Emma's reign. Her cousin Tessa--as good as a sister--was enchanted by it, and believed Emma without question when she told her that the stories were true.

"Don't you miss it?" Tessa asked, one night a few months after her return.

"Sometimes," Emma said. "But I'm glad to be home."

"You like it here?"

"Why not? We have chocolate here. And giraffes. And shooting stars. Our world is just as amazing as Athelor."

"In Athelor, you were a queen."

"Here, I'm not," Emma said. "Do you know how nice it is to wake up in the morning and do things that don't affect the fate of an entire nation?"

"But isn't it disappointing? In Athelor, you knew you were important."

"Who says I'm not important now?"

*

Emma told her mom about Athelor often. Mom thought Emma was just making up wonderful stories.

That was all right. Because the stories were wonderful.

*

After school, sometimes Mom would take Emma out for pizza. Emma would climb into a carriage that moved with a heart of fire, to a room bathed in enough light to make the night as bright as day, where she ate the cuisine of a far-off realm, and then rode home singing along with minstrels whose voices had been captured long ago and far away.

Emma always marveled that she lived in a world with such magic.

*

Emma grew. And matured. It came with different milestones here, and happened slower, but it had its share of struggles.

On nights when she felt small, helpless and afraid, she remembered that she'd once led a host of warriors--human, animal, and elfin--into battle with a horde of monsters and come out victorious.

She might not be in Athelor, but she was still a queen.

She could fill out a college application.

*

Emma was leaving the campus library with an armload of books when a sparrow spoke to her from a branch above her head. Emma looked up and saw at once it was an Athelorian sparrow.

"Iprit!" Emma cried. The sparrow had been the most devoted of the queen's messengers. "How glad I am to see you!"

"My queen," Iprit said, bowing her head. "I have found you at last."

"Is Athelor in danger?" Emma asked, suddenly fearful.

"She is well and at peace. Berna rules well in your stead."

"As I knew she would," Emma said with a smile. Emma had spent years choosing her successor. Her elfin advisor, though young, was bright and brave and loved Athelor with all her heart.

"But she rules as regent only. She would not take the crown until she knew what had become of you."

"Now you see that I am well," Emma said. "Alive and well and happy."

"Will you not come home to us, my queen?" Iprit asked. "The door stands open to you. Take up the crown and rule your people once more."

For a moment, Emma's heart yearned for it. Athelor called to her, a bright, beautiful dream, a wondrous adventure.

A gust of wind swirled in the branches over her head, sending a crimson shower of leaves down upon her. She gazed out across the campus, at a world she loved. She thought of her mother, Tessa, her classmates, her studies, her friendships, and the future she was building here.

Where was her duty? Here or Athelor?

Another wind came, gentle yet brisk, and Emma knew it for the wind that had taken her to Athelor and brought her home. It lifted her spirits and cleared her mind so she could hear the voice that had never led her wrong in her years as queen.

Emma met Iprit's gaze. "Berna may take up the crown with my blessing. I have done what I must for Athelor. Another world needs me now."

Iprit bowed in a bird-like way, spreading out one wing. "As you wish, my queen. But what shall I tell the scribes? How ends the reign of Queen Emma the Wise?"

"As all good stories should," Emma said. She shifted her voice into the melodic cadence of the best of the palace storytellers. "After many years of good and faithful service, the queen found her way home, where she lived happily all the rest of her days."

[thevoidmeows]

The Arrival of Henry Clerval

[1moreoffkeyanthem]

Calling all enjoyers of the OrangeJuiceVerse and teenage shenanigans!

That’s right, it’s time for another episode of Bedtime Stories With PCE, and this one is SO self indulgent like I know that’s the purpose of this series, just self indulgent orange flavored bonus content, but this one, mannnnn.

Essentially (PCE stfu about OJV Kyle’s bad knee), I was thinking about how i really didn’t let my annoying ass get into the gang as 15 year olds very much post A Fall In The Springtime. So I wanted to explore that dynamic a little more, featuring stupid fights, getting scolded by your parents, Kyle being an angry little fucker, and the way one person in a friend group getting sick means everyone’s getting the plague lmao. Set a couple days after AFITS, here’s

•Fuck It, We Ball•

Stan sighed as he approached the bus stop, Cartman and Kyle already engrossed in whatever they were arguing about now. And so it begins.

He planted himself at Kenny’s side, kicking at the slush that had refrozen with the temperature dropping again over the last few days. Damn March and its unpredictability. “Dude, how do they have the energy for this at seven in the morning?”

“Oh, you know how these two get when they’re bored,” Kenny said nonchalantly. “Probably why Ky suggested takin’ the bus today.”

That made sense. While Stan and the others had taken to making their own ways to school being sophomores, carpooling and the like for the most part, occasionally they’d all load up on the bus for nostalgia’s sake on days nobody had to stay late for extracurriculars. Kyle had been leading the charge in that the past couple weeks, bored being out of basketball and irritable while his knee healed. It honestly wasn’t surprising that he’d find excitement in the childhood routine of debating Cartman, and Cartman just liked to rile Kyle up in general, not that it was hard these days. Stan had laughed his ass off just the other day at his boyfriend’s claim that he was “drowning in ennui”. Dramatic, but warranted.

“IT WAS STUPID WHEN WE WERE NINE, AND IT’S MORE RIDICULOUS NOW!” Stan’s attention was drawn to his boyfriend’s shrill screeching. “BEING GINGER IS NOT LIKE BEING A VAMPIRE!”

Cartman was grinning in a very self satisfied way. “You burn in the sun, you’re creepy, you suck souls…”

“YOU’RE SO GODDAMN STUPID!!!”

Kyle, directly ensnared in their friend’s trap, moved to swing at him with a crutch, but overshot and was slipping forward, slamming into the ground with a loud “FUCK!”

Stan, Kenny, and even Cartman froze, eyes wide and speechless because Kyle was already hurt; slipping on the ice like that had no doubt made it worse. Kyle curled into the fetal position, clutching his bad knee and cursing up a storm. Stan ran to him in an instant.

“Dude, shit, okay, okay. Fuck, did you hit it?”

“What the HELL do you think,” Kyle hissed, writhing a little in the snow. He’d only recently been able to bend his knee semi-normally again, only with support, and here he was holding it to his chest in a way that definitely couldn’t be comfortable.

“S-Stan, I… GOD, FUCK YOU CARTMAN!!!”

That back and forth was always a good indicator of Kyle’s level of aggravation. He was extremely quick when he was upset enough. Less aggressive on his own, Stan jumped to his partner’s defense without hesitation.

“Why the shit would you work him up like that, huh?!?” Stan demanded, taking their obnoxious friend by the collar of his coat. He gave him a shake, not enough to actually hurt, but Cartman still whined like a pitiful little creature. “He can’t fight anyone yet! He can’t even stand!”

Kyle dragged himself a little down the ice. “I can buttfucking stand! Dramaticfuckass-“

He crumpled under the weight of his own body. Stan caught his neck before his head could whack the ice. “Dude!”

“I’m going to obliterate you,” Kyle warned.

Stan wanted to roll his eyes, but didn’t dare. Instead, he gently scooped Kyle into his arms, relieved when he felt wiry arms latch instinctually around his neck. He turned to the other two as he rose. “Grab his shit.”

Thankfully, Kyle’s house was the closest to the bus stop, and under the rapid pounding of his own heart, Stan could hear Kyle’s pissed off mumbling and sporadic whimpers of pain.

“I’m trying to be careful, dude,” he promised. “I know it’s still hurting.”

“Yeah, because some FAT ASSHOLE made me FALL!” Kyle seethed in Cartman’s direction.

“Ay! You’re the one who was trying to hit me, JewBot!”

Stan spun around to shoot Cartman a glare. “You started it and you know it, fuckknob. Give the backpack to Kenny and fuck off to school if you’re gonna keep causing problems.”

Cartman snorted. “I would, but Kahl’s bitch mom is going to pitch a fit and I happen to find that shit funny, obviously.”

“DON’T CALL MY MOM A BITCH!”

Ohhhh boy. It was definitely too early for all this. Kenny bounded up to the porch, using Kyle’s crutches to knock on the front door. “Guys, tone it down,” he advised before turning the knob. Nobody really locked their doors around here, and they all knew it.

“Yo, Mrs B!” Kenny announced their presence as the boys filed into the foyer.

Only Kyle’s mom would be home around this time, Stan knew. Ike usually rode to his early college high school program with their dad, since it was closer to Gerald’s firm. Sheila tended to fill her days with community meetings and clubs and volunteer work, but she usually stuck around the house until the rest of the family was safely at school and work, ruling the group chat with an iron fist. A veritable lioness when it came to her boys, that one.

Which was why her alarmed gasp upon seeing her eldest son glowering in Stan’s arms wasn’t surprising in the slightest.

“Kyle! Boys! What on earth happened?!”

“He slipped on the ice,” Stan explained, gingerly easing him down onto the couch. “Bashed his knee pretty good.”

Sheila let out a “WHAT?!?”, and Kyle groaned, clearly already done with his mother. “Ma, please don’t freak out. I just need to put it up a few hours or whatever, it’s fine.”

She planted her hands on her hips and stared each of the boys down like only a mother could. Cartman actually cowered a little, avoiding eye contact.

“And just how did you fall, huh, bubbeh?” She demanded of her son. “I thought I told you to be careful.”

Stan hated having to do damage control, but Sheila trusted him, so he was probably the best bet at the guys avoiding too much trouble. “He and Cartman were just arguing. You know how carried away they can get.”

“Don’t look at me, Mrs Broflovski,” Cartman said, putting his hands up in surrender. “Kahl tried to whack me! It’s not my fault his little bird bones gave out.”

“SHUT UP CARTMAN!”

“Kyle!” Sheila scolded. “Inside voices! And how many times do I have to tell you boys not to roughhouse when it’s slippery outside?”

All four of them mumbled varying apologies, even though he and Kenny hadn’t been involved. Kyle’s mom kept raving.

“And here I was about to head out the door! Oy, I’ll have to tell the book club ladies I won’t make it to brunch, and goodness! The PTA meeting will need to be rescheduled, and I suppose I’ll have to put out a grocery order for delivery and miss the deals I’d get going myself-“

“Ma,” Kyle interrupted, even more overwhelmed than he had been. “You don’t need to change your plans or anything. I know you have a full day.”

“You can’t just stay home alone! What if you’ve hurt your knee worse?!”

Stan could tell his boyfriend wanted to roll his eyes. “It really isn’t a big deal, okay? And I’m not alone. The guys can help me if I need anything.”

Kenny had already taken to removing Kyle’s hat for him and hanging it on the hook by the door. “Yeah, we got ‘im, scout’s honor.”

“The hippie would probably stay anyway,” Cartman pointed out. He had migrated to the kitchen and was rifling through the freezer, hopefully for an ice pack and not to raid the snacks.

Well, as much as Cartman was a dick, he wasn’t wrong. Stan had no intention of leaving Kyle’s side.

Kyle’s mom pursed her lips and checked her watch. Stan could practically see her internal conflict: would she deviate from her carefully curated schedule to stay home and smother her son, or would she let four teenage boys skip school and hang out in her living room? He turned on his best “charming and trustworthy” face; he usually had good luck with adults.

Sheila sighed, and Stan felt disproportionately victorious. The woman was even more expressive than Kyle was. Clearly, the gang was about to get a day off class with no grown up supervision. Yes!

“Fine,” she relented. “But only because I’m already running late. I’ll see if I can get all four of you an excused absence.”

That definitely wasn’t going to be an issue. Principal Charles would just love the idea of them practicing “wholesome male friendship and emotional support” and all that. If that wasn’t the conclusion the principal came to on his own, Cartman was a master manipulator and could talk himself, and the rest of them by extension, out of trouble.

Sheila grabbed her purse and bent down to kiss her son’s forehead, leaving a lipstick mark. “You’re a little warm, Kyle, do you feel-“

“Ma, I was wearing a hat,” Kyle groaned. “Please give the worrying a rest.”

“Fine, fine,” she clucked, shaking her head. “You boys just behave, do you hear me? And Stanley, you call me if I need to come home.”

“Yes ma’am.”

When the door shut behind her, Kyle groaned yet again, dramatically throwing his arms over his eyes. “I swear to God, she’s gonna be fussing over me like I’m a kid until the end of time.”

“Totally weak,” Cartman agreed.

“She just gets concerned about you,” Kenny reminded him. “I mean, it’s not like she doesn’t have a reason.”

Stan almost expected Kyle to fly into a rage at that, but he just sighed. “Can’t wait to be done with the goddamn crutches so she can chill the fuck out.”

Yeah, Sheila Broflovski ever chilling the fuck out was probably about as likely as Randy sobering up. Not gonna happen. And Kyle had gotten more than just the hair, nose, and height from his mother; he’d also gotten her temper, so Stan chose to let him believe she’d let up once he could walk.

“Ha! That’ll be the day,” Cartman laughed as he turned away from the freezer, ice pack in one hand and a popsicle in the other.

Stan caught the pack easily when it was tossed his way, ignoring their resident troublemaker in favor of getting his super best boyfriend’s leg elevated better. “This okay, baby?”

“Yeah, it-“ Kyle cut off with a wince. “Doesn’t hurt as bad as it did at first.”

“Still hurts, though?”

“I mean, it never really stopped hurting,” Kyle said with a shrug. “Not all the way.”

Stan had done his research after his partner first messed up his leg. What the basketball coach guessed was a sprain turned out to be a hyperextended knee and partial meniscus tear, straining the outside ligament and everything. Not an injury that required surgery, since Kyle was young and relatively healthy, but he wasn’t supposed to put any weight on it at all for a full month, was supposed to be taking anti inflammatories and painkillers. Kyle tried to downplay it, sick of being out of commission, but Stan maintained that it caused him more trouble than he admitted.

Kenny hopped up from where he’d been perched on the arm of the couch. “Where’s your drugs? I gotcha.”

“I don’t need-“

“Nightstand,” Stan interrupted. Kyle wasn’t about to weasel his way out of medication. Kenny bounded up the stairs as Kyle angrily unzipped his coat and threw it in the general direction of the jacket hooks.

“Dude, I don’t want the fucking painkillers.”

Cartman snorted from his position on the floor, where he’d claimed control of the remote and was looking for trashy reality tv. “You’ve been on crutches for weeks and you still can’t walk, you dumb bitch. Take the goddamn pills if you hurt. That’s like, common sense.”

“You wouldn’t know common sense if it bit you in the fat ass.”

As much as Stan hated to agree with Cartman, he did have a point. “Kyle, please don’t be difficult about this. We’re just trying to help.”

Kyle scowled and crossed his arms. “You can help by getting off my case. I swear, you guys are as bad as my mother.”

“No can do, firefox,” Kenny re entered the living room, holding the orange vial of painkillers aloft. “Consider us on your case like white on rice. This bottle should not still be this full.”

“Let me see that.” Stan confirmed that it was pretty obvious that Kyle had been slacking on the meds. “Dude, c’mon. Have you not been taking these?”

“I took them “as directed” or whatever the first week,” Kyle protested. “I don’t like how they make me all foggy and tired!”

Stan fought the urge to groan. “Baby, you’re literally in pain. Your leg’s gonna hurt if you don’t treat the symptoms.” He didn’t add that the fact that Kyle had been hurting and doing nothing about it had definitely played in to his irritability. He knelt down and took Kyle’s hand. “Will you just take one? For me? Your pain is my pain.”

Cartman mimed throwing up. “Jesus Christ, you fucking simp! What is this, a shitty fanfiction?!”

“SHUT UP, CARTMAN,” Kyle snapped. Then his eyes met Stan’s, and his anger dissipated some. “Damnit, Staniel. Don’t give me the face! You look like a sad puppy and- ugh, fucking fine, but if anyone draws dicks on my face while I’m taking a damn high ass nap, I’m kicking the ass of everyone in this room.”

A threat not to be taken lightly, even with Kyle’s current physical limitations. Small, injured, about to nod off from the pill he’d swallowed while he was talking, but vicious.

“No dicks, promise,” Kenny said with a hand over his heart.

“Yeah, we all know the only dick you want on your face is Stan’s-“ Cartman was cut off by a throw pillow flung in his direction. “Fine! Geez, I won’t fuck with you.”

“I’ll keep watch,” Stan offered.

Cartman rolled his eyes and went back to flipping through daytime television. “I hate your gay ass, I’m so seriously.”

———

There was only so much Real Housewives the boys could take before it got old. And Stan really didn’t give a shit what the Kardashians were up to. Even Cartman had gotten restless after a few hours, corralling Kenny out the back door to throw chunks of ice against the fence.

Kyle was still sleeping through all of it, though his sleep looked far from peaceful. Kyle didn’t usually sleep well in general, and lying in an uncomfortable position on the couch with his face tight even in sleep, he looked to be struggling. Nightmares, probably, made even weirder than normal by the drugs making him sleep harder than he usually did.

Stan didn’t have the heart to wake him up, instead just in his lookout post on the floor next to the couch. He switched the channel to National Geographic and turned the sound off, letting his head fall back next to his boyfriend’s.

He couldn’t have been asleep long, before being jolted awake by a thump and a muttered “god damnit”.

Adjusting to the dim light of the living room, Stan landed on Kyle, who had apparently walked into the doorframe in his post nap confusion. He was immediately up and darting his way.

“Dude, you’re supposed to be using your crutches! Where’re you going?”

Kyle grumbled and rubbed at his leg. “I’m running the Boston Marathon, what does it look like? I’m on a piss quest, Stanathan.”

Stan swung an arm around him for support, helping him hobble down the hall. “For fucks sake, Ky, you’re gonna hurt yourself walking around like this.”

“Didn’t think about it,” Kyle argued. “I told you the pills make me all groggy.”

They stopped at the bathroom. “Can you make it?”

Kyle hopped through and shut the door. “I’m not helpless.”

Stan leaned against the wall, trying not to laugh at the frustrated look he’d flashed. “You have a good nap, at least?”

“Had a dream I was in a wheat field.”

“A wheat field?”

“Yeah.” He heard the toilet flush and the faucet start up. “We were trying to invade a kingdom of giants with a marching band. And then I was in my car and all the tires exploded. Pedro Pascal was there.”

Steadying his boyfriend on his way back into the hall, Stan chuckled. “The Mandolorian slashed your tires?”

“Apparently.”

Heat was radiating from Kyle like a furnace. Not that he didn’t usually run warm, especially when he slept, but even Sheila had noticed earlier. Stan helped him down onto the couch and rested the back of his hand on Kyle’s face, checking for fever.

“Dude, do you feel okay? You look kinda pale, and you’re hot.”

Kyle rolled his eyes. “Jesus, not you too. I’m fine. I can’t be sick on top of everything else, you just worry too much.”

That wasn’t how it worked, but okay. Kenny and Cartman came barging in the kitchen door, shaking ice from their shoes in a haphazard way that a certain matriarch wouldn’t appreciate.

“I need some fucking hot chocolate!” Cartman declared, Kenny letting out a muffled agreement through his scarf before unwinding it.

“Guys,” Stan started, “have you been sick at all the past week? Like, fever, dizziness, anything?”

Kenny shrugged. “I had the sniffles a couple days ago, that’s it.”

“I don’t get sick,” Cartman insisted. “My immune system is superior. Oh, lame, you guys! Is Kahl infected with some disease now too? I mean, more than just his default.”

Kyle moaned dramatically. “Please cut it out. I’m tired, assholes.”

Stan ignored him, at least until he had a chance to check for certain. “Ken, will you get the thermometer? Under the kitchen sink. I think I might’ve given you guys that cold I had over the weekend.”

“You got over that in like, two days,” Kyle pointed out.

“That was me. This is you. And if you’ll recall, I almost cracked my head open in your bedroom,” Stan reminded him.

“Because you’re a dick who tried to ignore it.”

“And what are you doing right now?”

Kyle opened his mouth to make some remark, and Kenny took the opportunity to shove the thermometer under his tongue. Kyle glared but didn’t yank it out, probably hoping to prove them all wrong.

“Ha!” Cartman was at least a little amused reading the screen. “Of course you’re sick. What, can’t handle a little seasonal bug like the rest of us?”

Moving to lunge off the couch, Kyle swung, not missing this time, but falling to the floor nonetheless. Cartman wailed like he’d just been stabbed.

“Did- did you guys see that?! Kahl totally got me in the eye! Oh, god, I’m blind! I’m suing your crippled ass!”

“Knock it off, Fatboy, you’re fine,” Kenny said tiredly. “Kyley, I think we should get you up to bed and call your mom.”

Stan was inclined to agree, not just because Kyle was definitely running a temperature now, but also because he’d just fallen for the second time in the span of a few hours, and there was no way even Kyle could deny how much that had to hurt. He scooted the coffee table out of the way to help him up.

“Okay, use the good side, I’ve got you.”

Kyle had gotten pretty graceful at using the pistol squat method to get up without putting weight on his bad knee over the past few weeks. He’d always been deceptively strong, even like now when he was sick and drawn, and Stan was just kind of there just in case he faltered.

“Don’t call my mom,” he pleaded. “It’s just a little fever. I can probably sleep it off.”

Well, considering his ridiculous stubbornness, Kyle could probably argue that illness going around right out of his body. “You can try, dude, but Sheila’s gonna be pissed I didn’t tell her.”

“I’ll handle it,” Kyle mumbled, accepting his crutches and letting Kenny and Stan accompany him to the stairs. “Will you guys stay?”

Stan raised an eyebrow. “Even Cartman?”

“Pshh, like I wanna stick around for the jew to get pissed off and try to kill me again.”

The guys knew Cartman well enough to know that was just his way of saying he didn’t want to be the reason Kyle got carried away and hurt himself, but they didn’t point that out.

“Then fuck off, fatass. Go manipulate the FBI or whatever you get up to,” Kyle said with another eyeroll.

Cartman snorted. “Eh, it’s still pretty early. Maybe I’ll start a cult or something.” He grinned mischievously. “See you assholes.”

Kenny flipped on the hall light. “I wonder what it is that he actually does in his spare time.”

“Something stupid or illegal.” Kyle groaned as he was helped into bed. “Or both.”

That sounded about right. Stan settled under the blankets next to him, Kenny having procured the cold meds still in the drawer from Stan having been sick. Stan read the pack carefully before handing Kyle a few capsules. “Here, dude. It’s the daytime shit. No acetaminophen or any of the crap that’ll fuck with your other drugs.”

“Thanks.”

Kyles massive “Ass Pro Shops” tumbler, a Kenny McCormick creation that was forever stationed on Kyle’s nightstand with its blue silicone straw, washed down the medicine before Kyle lied back with a sigh. He was clearly still in pain, and now feverish to top it off. “Have I mentioned yet that I’m really fucking annoyed?”

Kenny snorted, casually shooting the mini basketball into the hoop mounted on the closet door. “Darlin’, you’ve made that pretty clear.”

Stan wrapped him up in his arms, carefully, like his boyfriend might attack like a wounded animal. And here we see an injured fox, in his burrow, directly after fighting off the raccoon. He has allowed the continued company of the bear and the opossum, who continue to aid in his recovery. The rabbit often accompanies this ragtag group, though she would likely be unwilling to leave school, fearing both the agitated fox’s anger and a potential to be grounded.

Laughing at his mental nature documentary comparison was probably not in his best interest, lest Kyle assume he was being made fun of, so Stan just kissed his boyfriend’s flushed cheek. “You gonna be able to fall asleep again?”

Kyle snuggled closer. “Mm, if you keep holding me like this.”

Stan knew both he and Kenny would have to leave his side eventually. Kenny had basketball practice and Stan had off season football conditioning. He could get out of classes today, sure, but coach wasn’t about to ease up on him, not with Stan set to play first string in the fall. If South Park had one thing (other than cattle) to be proud of, it was high school sports.

Still, he’d savor this moment, getting to take care of him with Kenny for backup, and he’d probably cave and stay if Kyle asked.

———

The alarm clock on the nightstand flashed that it was almost three when Sheila poked her head in to whisper (or her version of it, at least), “boys!”

Uncharacteristically, Stan was the first to wake, followed by Kenny, who had curled up at the foot of the bed like a pet, while Kyle only moaned and rolled over.

“Yes ma’am?” Stan mumbled, rubbing his eyes and disoriented from their nap.

The matriarch planted her hands on her hips, one auburn brow arched in concern. “Is everything alright? Eric already left?”

“Mhm. A while ago. He went because he was making Ky mad again and they were trying to fight and we all didn’t want him to hurt himself more. It was Cartman’s decision.” Stan didn’t know why he was defending the dickhole who liked to mess with his favorite person. Maybe because Cartman had recently shown a few redeeming qualities, plus Stan felt bad in general about giving the guys his cold. “Kyle, he didn’t want us to call you, but he’s running a bit of a fever. Or, he was a few hours ago. We got some medicine in him, so hopefully it’s down.”

“WHAT WHAT WHAT?!”

Kyle sat up quickly, squeaking a little in his confusion. “Ma, what’s going on? Why are you freaking out?”

She rushed over, immediately all over her son. “Oh, I knew it! I knew you were warm this morning! Call it a motha’s intuition, but I knew you’d caught what’s going around that school of yours!”

“He’s okay, Mrs. B,” Kenny cut in. “Stanny and I both got over it quick, and Cartman definitely had it but didn’t even complain, and you know how he is.”

Sheila sighed, hands still on the face of an absolutely peeved Kyle. “Oh, I suppose. I just, I worry! About all of you! And my poor baby is already hurt, I can’t imagine how miserable it must be-“

“Ma, please. I’m okay. Just let me go back to sleep.”

Turning to the other two, who had gotten up and were standing attentively like seven year olds in trouble, she offered a motherly smile. “Why don’t the two of you go down and make yourselves a snack?” She suggested. “You have to leave for your sports soon, right? Can’t go on an empty stomach!”

Kenny opened his mouth to protest, but Stan knew how Sheila’s mind operated. She wasn’t going to take no for an answer, especially while she had already blustered into full caretaking mode at the mention of her child under the weather. She’d do that for all five of them, yeah, but as much as Kyle would kick his ass if he said it, Kyle had always been more prone to physical problems than the rest.

“Will do. Ken, sandwiches real quick and we head to the school?”

“Works for me, brother. Thank you, Mrs B.”

Sheila smiled tensely, trying to force feed Kyle the lukewarm water at his bedside. Stan reached around her to squeeze his hand. “Okay, dude?”

“I’m okay. Little plague and a fucked up leg can’t take me out.”

“Kyle, language!”

Stan had to laugh. “We left the thermometer downstairs,” he offered. “If you want to check again. We’ll be outa here in a sec.” He kissed the back of Kyle’s hand, noticing how glassy his eyes were, all the brighter in their fever flush. “Can I come check on you after?” He was asking both Kyle and his mother.

They answered in unison, which made Kenny laugh. “Aight, loverboy, let’s feed us so we don’t die during suicides.”

The irony wasn’t lost on either of them when they made it down the stairs into the kitchen. “Dude, I really hate the idea of leaving him alone.”

Kenny retrieved sandwich supplies eagerly from the fridge and cabinets. They all knew where everything was kept in each other’s houses.

“He’s not alone. Got his mama, and you know she’s leaping at the chance. Where do ya think Ky gets it?”

True. Both Kyle and Sheila shared that overbearing motherly quality. They thrived on caring for people.

Problem was, Kyle was a godawful patient, and Stan liked to coddle him in spite of the protests.

“Make me a pb&j, will you?” He asked Kenny. “I’m gonna heat up some soup for Ky. He hasn’t eaten since breakfast, if he did have that.”

“He’s gonna get annoyed,” Kenny pointed out.

That was true, but still. “Dude, my boyfriend is hurt, sick, stubborn as fuck, and diabetic. I’m not letting his levels get messed up.”

Kenny laughed. “Just marry him already. You’d make a great overprotective husband.”

“Sick, man, we’re kids!”

“That has nothing to do with what I just said. I’m talkin’ future shit.”

Stan dumped a can of chicken noodle into the pot he’s grabbed. “You deadass said “already”. We’re sixteen and fifteen.”

“You’re still gonna be a good husband one day.” Kenny was building sandwiches, didn’t look up. “We call him a mom, but you’re absolutely the type of dad to be waiting on the porch with a shotgun if your daughter brings home a date. Not that your pacifistic ass would use it.”

That was true, guns were not his favorite. “Ken, knock it off.” He checked on the time. “Hey, drink some water. We should head out as soon as we eat.”

Canned soup was easy and quick enough to heat up, and Stan had it poured into a bowl with a few crackers on the side by the time Kenny had gotten sandwiches and drinks set up on the bar. “Gonna take this up to Ky, be right back.”

“Leaning into that knight in shining armor complex pretty hard today, huh?”

Stan flipped him off over his shoulder.

In Kyle’s room, Shiela was humming at a low volume, fussing with the covers and the washcloth she’d laid on his forehead. Kyle saw him first.

“Dudeeee,” he complained. “Tell Ma I’m okay and she doesn’t need to smother me.”

Laughing and setting the soup on the table, Stan leaned over to run his fingers through Kyle’s hair. “Sorry, but I’m on her side, dude.” He gave Sheila a sheepish smile. “I’m sorry I didn’t call you, I just, he was already getting pretty good rest and I didn’t want to rile him up-“

“Oh, believe me,” she said pointedly. “I know he’d have only worked himself up.”

“I’m right here!”

“See what I mean?” Sheila put on her all business face. “Bubbeh, Stanley and Kenny have to leave soon for practice.”

Kyle looked positively betrayed. “Dude, you’re actually leaving me?”

“You need more rest, baby. I can maybe come back and visit after conditioning?” Yeah, right. More than likely, his mom would veto any more company until Kyle was over the fever. “You need to eat and keep taking it easy.”

“Yes, sir,” Kyle grumbled sarcastically.

Stan suppressed another laugh and kissed the back of his hand again before turning to Sheila. “We’ll be out the door in a few minutes. I’ll ask before coming after.”

She nodded. “I think that would be best. Thank you for helping out today, Stan.”

“Definitely, dude.” Then he froze. He called his own mother dude, but he had never called Kyle’s mom that. Thankfully, she smiled fondly.

“You boys just put your dishes in the sink when you’re done. Have a good practice.”

Stan grinned and kissed Kyle again before heading back down. Kenny was halfway through his sandwich when he plopped down and snorted.

“Man, I totally just called Ky’s mother “dude”,” he commented.

Kenny giggled. “Only you, brother. Gotta tell ya, I think this basketball team thing? This is probably a one time deal.”

“You’re not planning to play next year?”

“It’s just, well, it was only fun with Kyle, and he’s out for a hot minute. Plus I could be spending my free time workin’. Lot to think about, ya know? And it’s not like you and football. I just wanted to try it out.”

Stan understood. He’d cycled through plenty of hobbies himself. “Why not just go ahead and quit?”

Kenny shook his head. “Season’s almost over, anyway. Gotta finish it out. So, for now…” he saluted with his sandwich. “Fuck it. We ball.”