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it's spring and that means stand by me season begins! (3/4 seasons are stand by me season ⚾️☀️🍂)
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hiii loves ❤️😊 I love not being on tumblr and trying to kick the habit is so liberating. HOWEVER in my newfound free time I would love to write more fanfiction, so I’d love to hear which (if any) of my existing, years-old WIPs you would like to see finished (I know you can only vote for one, so pick the one you’re most eager to read and tell me about others in the comments) or if you have a specific request for a fic I would sincerely love if you commented on this post. i’ll check back in a week lmao.
it au will be finished if i have to write it on my deathbed make NO mistake. I’m just wondering what to prioritize for my faithful readers (briana my best friend briana)
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Chapters: 1/1
Fandom: Riverdale (TV 2017)
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Relationships: Fred Andrews/FP Jones II
Characters: FP Jones II, Fred Andrews
Additional Tags: Angst, there is sex but its all downhill from there
Summary:
FP figures he can just ignore him like usual, but it rankles a little more when Fred presses his lips to FP’s shoulder, wrapping his arms around his waist, talking about “Imagine a coupl’a kids running around here… Or, in our big house-” like that’s just a thing they’re gonna have. A certainty.
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i'm leaving for christmas today so here's some festive old man sex @ariesbilly ❤️
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✨ parentdale holiday fic recs ✨
🎄 make the yuletide gay (@ariesbilly) - a fred/fp happiest season au where fred is marginally less of a dick than the girlfriend was
❆ I Just Can't Face Myself Alone Again (@nadjaofstatenisland) - freds recovery from opioid addiction and the fic that bonded me and kim for life (*rubbing my gay little hands together*)
🪀 give all the toys to the little rich boys (@nadjaofstatenisland) - hiram and fp spend christmas of 199(2?) together. A MUST READ! ten stars out of five.
🎁 all our costliest treasures (by me) - 9 year old fp jones spends christmas at fred's house 🥺
❄️ (as long as you love me so) let it snow, let it snow, let it snow (@ariesbilly) - old man smut in the police station ft fred's teenage white night fantasies what more can i tell you!
😇 hal cooper and the worst christmas pageant ever (by me) - baby parentdale church christmas pageant antics
🌨 i think i'll skip this one this year (@nadjaofstatenisland) - sweet little adult parentdale anthology christmas story
⛪️ its not like christmas at all (@nadjaofstatenisland) - sad depressing haunting teenage halice and the baby they never talked about again
⭐️ happy golden days of yore (by me) - teenage fredsythe fluff to give you cavities
and the rest of my holiday fics (including my jarchie ones) here!
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It's officially Christmas season cuz I did my yearly reading of this baby 🥹❤️🥰 thank u @nadjaofstatenisland forever
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@ariesbilly did someone order tooth rotting college au fredsythe fluff so sweet it causes cavities 🥰👉🏻👈🏻
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COLLEGE AU UPDATE! featuring acts of service fp jones, a whole lot of feelings, and the best 1994 bruce springsteen concert that never was :')
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@ariesbilly um did. someone order fred calling leather daddy sex hotlines?????
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ok i did it. i wrote the fp coming out fic.
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Happy Birthday @ariesbilly!!! I'm sorry it's not long but I wanted to write a little follow up to one of your drabbles 👉🏻👈🏻 anyway can i interest you in fred visiting gladys' moms queer bookstore??
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surprise college au update and also happy early birthday @ariesbilly !?? 💛 i have something else to post on your actual birthday as well fear not
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The REAL shower reveal scene I deserved 😤
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The leaf blower’s been sitting in the Coopers’ garage for about a month. Alice keeps complaining that it’s taking up space, nearly trips over the darn thing every time she goes to her car.
It’s not that Hal’a ignoring her. He just…forgot. Or can’t seem to find the right time to bring it over back next door. It wasn’t intentional, is the point.
But he remembers today when he almost upends a whole bag of cat food. And Fred’s truck is parked out front, so. Now seems like a good time.
He lets himself into Fred’s garage, slipping the machine into a corner that he hopes won’t cause a nuisance like the one in his own garage, and, just for safe measure, heads up the back steps of the Andrews’ home to let Fred know what he’s done.
He gives a few quick knocks to the door, and when Fred finally answers he seems a little out of breath, hair damp and he’s dressed in nothing but a robe, bare chest exposed in the opening.
“Oh, sorry, buddy. Didn’t mean to disturb ya,” Hal chuckles. Fred’s cheeks go a little pink. Or maybe they already were.
“Yeah, no problem,” Fred pants. “Something I can do for you, Hal?”
“Just wanted to let you know I returned your leaf blower. Sorry ‘bout the delay-“
“Freddie, we gotta try that thing with the shower head again, it was-“
FP Jones, of all people, comes padding up behind Fred, hair dripping down his bare shoulders, bare chest… only a towel he’s clinging closed at his hips to cover him.
Fred seems to tense a little at his appearance, must not have heard him coming.
“Harold Cooper!” FP grins. “What brings you by this fine Sunday morning? Allie didn’t send you over, did she? Sorry if we were making too much noise-“ He starts to laugh, but Fred cuts him off with a swift elbow to his stomach.
Hal doesn’t really understand the joke, but that’s usually the case around these two. “Uh, no. Nope. Just returning something to Fred. I’ll let you two go back to your day!”
He waves them off, FP giving him a rather jovial goodbye in return while Fred mumbles something that sounds disgruntled as he shoves FP back inside and closes the door.
Those two. Always so strange.
He returns home to Alice sitting on the couch engrossed in the morning paper.
“The leaf blower is gone,” Hal states.
“It’s about time,” Alice responds, still behind the paper.
Hal takes a seat on the recliner across from her. “Oh, and the plumping must be busted down at Sunnyside again. Maybe we should write up an article, get some attention on it. People can’t keep living like that…”
“Hal, what on earth are you talking about?”
“FP. He was over at Fred’s. I’m pretty sure he had to use his shower again.”
At this, Alice finally folds a corner of her paper down, fixing Hal with one of her incredulous stares. “Hal…”
“What?”
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@fredheads is for certainly asleep right now but thats ok that just means you have a present to wake up to! happy very very belated birthday lmfao editing this while as exhausted as i am mightve been a mistake...
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9. you've discovered something you don't even have a name for. 👉🏻👈🏻
Their VW bus is still more of a clubhouse than a vehicle on this hot June day in 1992, still sitting wheel-less in its rusted glory on four blocks below a summer-blue sky. The rear of the van is bathed in hot, golden sunlight, while a slightly cool breeze carries the smell of fresh-mown grass and flowers through the rear doors. The fresh air cools their skin from overheating even as the heat brings droplets of sweat up on the back of FP’s neck and at the base of his hairline. It’s June heat, but it’s the kind of weather you could sit comfortably in for hours.
He’s on his back on the floor of the van, beach towels bunched under him as a mattress, arms folded behind his head as he feigns a nap. Fred’s sitting across from him, his back against the wall as he reads from a baseball paperback he’s holding in one hand with the cover bent backwards. His brown eyes, soft and thoughtful, move back and forth across the page. Silence is warm and comfortable between them, stretched out and somnolent with their easy breathing and the peaceful sounds of a summer’s day, the far-off lawnmowers and rustling trees and a faint melody that could be an ice cream truck. Fred’s legs are stretched out, one arm up behind his head so that the down of his armpit hair is exposed, his tan so deep, smooth, and unbroken even on this early day in June that his armpits are the same caramel brown as the rest of him.
He has no idea how beautiful he is. Has no idea that FP’s relaxed posture is hiding the yearning, insatiable glimpses he’s been stealing from between his eyelashes, these glimpses getting longer and longer and yet nowhere near satisfying, because Fred in this casual moment is something he could look at forever and never wish for reprieve. The summer air is heavy and sweet, thick with warmth and fresh with morning. There’s still something of an early-morning lightness in the air at 10 am, even with the sun already as strong as mid-day. It feels like a persistent momentum, an eternal moment poised at the beginning of a perpetual afternoon. It feels like a beautiful day just beginning, one that promises to last forever and ever and never quite starts. It feels like a tiny slice of heaven.
And Fred sits and reads in unknowingly erotic imperfection, shoelaces undone, dirty athletic socks uneven, scattered sunburn on his cheeks and a hole gaping in the armpit of his cut-sleeved, cropped white t-shirt. Never a big reader except for these baseball paperbacks, dime-store sports novels inherited from his older brother that he reads by the dozen, treating them with this bent-cover carelessness that’s charming and tender rather than destructive. His dirty-soled Nikes are inches from FP’s elbow, and FP can follow the lines of him up his legs from there, defined calf muscles bunched under the skin from the running routine he starts in spring, the skin darkly suntanned and scattered with brown hair and an imperfect constellation of scrapes and cuts.
Feeling brave, or maybe just desperate, FP raises his eyes from Fred’s perfect legs to his thighs, sun-warmed and gold, the skin sprinkled with dark curls of hair just before it disappears below the dangling hem of his cut-off jean shorts. Torturing himself with slowness, he allows his eyes to move higher up the wide stripe of tanned stomach visible below his best friend’s cropped shirt, the same faint flush of newly dark hair travelling in a runway from Fred’s waistband to his navel. His arms are thin and long, his long fingers wrapped tightly around the cover of the paperback, the hollow of his neck damp with ignored perspiration. His single gold hoop earring twinkles brightly in the sunlight.
He’s apparently so engrossed in his book that he doesn’t notice at first when FP’s gaze fixes hungrily on his face, greedily absorbing how his delicate eyelashes go gold in the sun, the freckles that pop up across the bridge of his nose every June, the scar in his eyebrow that shines pale in the sunlight. Fred’s hair is growing down past his ears - his summer project is to get it down to his collarbone, to his father’s chagrin. FP’s is getting long too, as if in unspoken tandem. He’s spent a lot of this June with fleeting images of Fred’s hands in his dark hair.
Fred’s eyes dance up from the page at last, meeting FP mid-stare. There’s a momentary twinge of regret, but no crippling embarrassment at being caught: they’re so calm and settled as best friends in each other's company that shame can’t find purchase. Fred’s brown eyes just hold his gaze for a second, and then he smiles, easy and playful, a handsome, careless crook of his mouth that is as blinding to look into as staring right into the sun. For a moment he’s as perfect as FP’s ever seen him: eyes calm and loving and bright, teasing grin slanted affectionately so that his face fills even more with warmth. And FP thinks for some reason of the old movies he used to watch with his mama at the drive-in: James Dean who was so carelessly, audaciously handsome even to a seven-year-old.
He doesn’t know what makes him get up. Before he can stop himself he rolls into a sitting position and then kneels, leaning forward almost into Fred’s lap, and Fred’s perfectly suntanned legs open like french doors for FP’s knee to come down in between them. FP’s hand finds the van floor just behind Fred’s hip to brace himself, and now he’s sitting in between his legs almost in his lap, their faces closer than maybe they’ve ever been before.
Fred’s brown eyes are questioning, but kind, so kind, calm and light and familiar and safe. His warm breath touches FP’s cheek; his eyebrow scar and his summer freckles are suddenly huge in his vision, the heat from his body warming FP’s already sweaty-damp skin. And for a moment FP panics, for a moment he realizes just what line he’s maybe already crossed, caught as if in someone else’s body, halfway through something he can’t take back. The thing they’ve only still ever joked about, the way any guys joke about it maybe, but Fred laughs along but he doesn’t say these things, lets his brother call them boyfriends and their school friends needle each other with queer as though secure in the knowledge this words will never apply to him - but he does not laugh, cruelly or otherwise. And yet it’s unspoken but self-evident, surely, that to say the words is one thing but never, never, never, could they ever even imagine that thing that pounds inside FP’s secret, guilty heart like a scared rabbit.
And yet he doesn’t feel fear right now, only heat and exhilaration with Fred’s body so close. The blood rushes hot in his veins at their proximity, his sun-kissed skin goes to cold sweat, and every beautiful feature of Fred’s body is apparent to him at once, as though mocking him cruelly: muscled calves and dark eyes and perfect lips. Their lips are close enough to touch, their bodies overlapping as one animal, the pulse roaring in FP’s ears might be Fred’s or his own. And there’s no anger on Fred’s face, not even hesitation. So FP closes the gap between their faces, the sun falling over his cheeks from the skylight, and he kisses him.
It’s chaste, and it’s scared, almost not there at all, but Fred’s nose presses so strongly back against his that he knows Fred doesn’t hate him for it, and the second he does it it becomes something he can never take back. His lips are soft and sun-warmed and perfect, and Fred’s eyelashes brush over his face when they close and then flutter open again. He opens his eyes to see Fred’s brown ones, the bronze eyelashes as soft as a girl’s, but that first flush of manhood in his muscular chest and the lean contour of his jawline, and there are no words for the feeling that roars through every inch of his body. All he knows is that his already hot blood turns to fire in his veins. And he finds himself thinking, strangely, that none of those cruel words are true, none of them describe what he’s just done, what unfurls now in his chest like a late-blooming rose, on this late day in June when he will never be the same person again.
on ao3
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this is my 100th riverdale fanfiction wow... anyway here's some fp jones trauma for @ariesbilly 🥰
When Forsythe Senior threw him out of the trailer he’d grown up in at age sixteen, FP had no reason to believe he’d ever be back.
He’d certainly never expected to be walking up to the door as a grown man, his best friend and his best friend’s son behind him, after the asshole had finally died and unexpectedly left FP the honour of cleaning out his shit and putting his childhood home - if you wanted to use that word - on the market.
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Just Like Heaven - Chapter 4
“I..” Fred whispered, his eyes falling over FP’s shoulder to the door of the motel room. FP twisted his neck to see what he was looking at, and then turned back.
“No one is going to get in. You don’t have to worry about anything. I’m going to stay awake, okay? All night. I won’t let anything happen to you, I promise.”
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