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kyloren · 8 years ago

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«you have witchcraft in your lips» —famous!Bughead

When Jughead Jones and Betty Cooper were cast as leads for HBO’s Harry Potter prequel show Magic is Might, they thought they did not know each other. They were wrong.

note: this is a collaborative work between myself and @lilibug--xx. I wrote Jughead’s POV and she Betty’s. Be warned, we are each other’s betas, too.

read it on ao3.

“A dress made of air and webs and you,

The wet dreams evaporate as they come true.

To anyone else just endless blue,

An invisible kite string connects me to you.”

— Pieces of Sky by Beth Orton.

CHAPTER ONE: mr jones and me, we’re gonna be big stars…

@Variety: HBO picks up four pilot episodes, including Toni Topaz’s Harry Potter prequel project.

@Deadline: Up-and-coming musical director Kevin Keller branches off from theatre and confirms working on Harry Potter prequel series with HBO — Magic is Might.

@EntertainmentNews: BREAKING NEWS: Disney darling Veronica Lodge officially casted as one of the leads in Kevin Keller’s upcoming Marauders Era project — Magic is Might.

@Buzzfeed: You will not believe who was just confirmed to be cast in Magic is Might!

@CherryBombshell: To all my loyal, beautiful followers: Of course, I got the part. How could they not cast moi?

@NZHerald: Singer-songwriter Archie Andrews is rumoured to be involved with HBO’s Magic is Might.

@Deadline: Magic is Might Harry Potter prequel series finds its Sirius Black: “He walked in right off the street and I knew — that is our Sirius Black,” says showrunner, Kevin Keller.

@EntertainmentNews: HBO’s Magic is Might just cast its Remus Lupin, and it’s a very interesting choice.

@Buzzfeed: Magic is Might’s Remus Lupin is now — Remmy Lupin?!

THE WAYWARD PRINCE:

The thing about Jughead Jones — he was weird, and he liked to be weird.

Jughead Jones was the following things: adroit wordsmith, razor-sharp, and a smart-mouthed asshole. He was not, however, the sort a teenage girl’s dreams were made of. He was a little too tall and a little too angular with a face that was a little too fond of scowling to be conventionally attractive. He had two girlfriends in the span of his entire life, and first one he’d acquired when he was nine for the span of two days. He was akin to a scalpel — sharp-edged, clinical, and very good at cutting people out of his life.

Except, Sabrina.

Never Sabrina.

And because of Sabrina — he was here, regretting everything.

“This,” Jughead grumbled for the nth time, “is all your fault.”

“Yes,” Sabrina agreed, throwing a dusky-blue button-down at him with a glare that clearly conveyed wear this or else, “it is my fault that you’ve landed the biggest television role of this year. I apologise for being magnificent.”

Jughead snorted. “Potter is the lead.”

“Who cares? Sirius is obviously meant to be the hot one. That makes his role the bigger fish. And you,” Sabrina said, tilting his head sideways and inspecting the carelessly casual style she arranged his hair in (read: brushed once and let it air-dry), “cousin-german, will soon be smiling from a poster on every pubescent girl’s wall and be the main feature in their dreams.”

“If it’s all the same to you,” Jughead’s scowl grew deeper, a feat he had not imagined was achievable before he’d done it. “I’d rather not.”

Two hours later, two thirds of which were spent navigating L.A.’s atrocious traffic, Jughead found himself lounging in a deceptively comfortable egg chair in a Hollywood studio, waiting to proceed with the first script reading session with the rest of Magic is Might cast. Sabrina, primly perched to his right, was scanning the others over the brim of her rapidly cooling coffee cup with shrewd, pale-grey eyes, as Jughead lazily thumbed through the script.

“Stop eyeing them like you want to wear their faces as a mask, Ree,” he muttered out of the corner of his mouth.

“I am so not. I’m eyeing them like I want to make a fashionable skin suit, obviously. Get your facts straight, Jones.”

Here was the thing; — Jughead firmly believed that if you did something, you better put your best foot forward from the start; to do your very best at everything you undertook and not half-ass it simply because it required effort. (Life required effort, Jughead often reminded himself, if it didn’t it wouldn’t be so damn difficult.)

This stance seemed at odds with his disaffected and cynical slacker persona, but what could Jughead say — he was contrary like that. He could remain apathetic and be a pedantic perfectionist at heart; he had layers, like a lasagna.

But precisely that sort of attitude had landed him the lead role in Magic is Might as Sirius Black.

It had happened nine days ago, when Jughead had accompanied Sabrina to her second audition for Magic is Might — she had failed to get Lily Evans’s role and was trying out for Narcissa Black. Jughead was there for emotional support, for the sort of get your shit together, you walking waste of space pep-talks Sabrina and he excelled at. He was there to permit his hand to be crushed in a vice grip as she waited for her name to be called, and to take her to Wildflower Café by their apartment to gorge on breakfast foods and stuff their faces with toasted marshmallow milkshakes in the face of another disappointment.

Jughead Jones was, by profession, a screenwriter; he wrote seven plays, one of which had been actually made into a film. He was not an actor. The universe disagreed, however. Kevin fucking Keller disagreed, too, apparently, because the moment Jughead had walked up to a dumbfounded-looking Sabrina after her audition — handkerchief at the ready, just in case — he’d been spotted by Kevin fucking Keller’s eagle-eyed stare. Kevin fucking Keller who’d taken one look at Jughead, pointed his finger at him and with eyedrum piercing snap, barked out, “You, there — in here, now.” and Sabrina, that fucking traitor, had pushed him forward into the audition room.

It was serendipitous he knew the script like the back of his hand, having practiced with Sabrina until they were blue in the face, it was also fortuitous his reaction in the face of sheer audacity was to fall back on his most defining traits — sarcasm and generally all-around fuck-you attitude.

Both, as it had turned out, were great characteristics for one Sirius Black.

So here he was, Forsythe Pendleton Jones the third, newly minted actor extraordinaire with no education about the craft and enough talent, according to Keller, to fill the Pacific ocean and then some — out of his depth, and feeling utterly displaced.

It was a peculiar feeling, foreign and unwelcome — Jughead hated it with the blazing ebullition of pure abhorrence.

“Hey,” Sabrina called, soft as a whisper, placing her hand on his knee, stilling it. Jughead hadn’t realised his left leg had been bouncing. “Relax, bro-bro.”

Jughead opened his mouth to reply something along the lines of Shut it, hambone, but was interrupted when a tall shadow of a small person fell across his lap.

“Well, well, well, if it isn’t Mad Max himself,” commented a small, red-headed girl on berry-red charged murder-weapons on the lam from the law and thus posing as women’s footwear. “So, tall, dark, and inexperienced, how does it feel to finally be in the real show biz?”

There was a refractory set to Jughead’s clenched jaw, so Sabrina answered in his stead, snickering, “I don’t know Big Red, you tell us?”

The girl’s exceedingly red mouth was reset out of its perpetually sullen pout into a grimace of distaste. “For a virtual nobody, you sure have a mouth on you, Emily Strange.”

There were four rules Jughead Jones instinctively followed whenever he chose to speak: Was he being rational? Was he being truthful? Were his words necessary? Were they kind? Often times, if he had not met all of his criteria, Jughead would settle on keeping his silence a while longer.

This, was not such a time.

“Is that all you can do,” Jughead found himself rasping out, “try your utmost to diss people with painfully obvious references? You’re not doing a very good job, are you?”

“You’re a pretty cool customer, huh?”

“I hide my inner pain underneath a stoic visage,” Jughead quipped. Cheryl Blossom looked like would like nothing more than to dig her red-tipped claws into Jughead’s stoic visage.

“Hey, guys,” said a guy in corduroy slacks and a blue-yellow varsity jacket of all things; he was average-height, but with a Heroic Build identifying him as James Potter material. There was a hint of admonishment in his tone, but not enough to reign anyone in. “We’re supposed to be getting along…”

Jughead was utterly unsurprised when he was promptly ignored.

Big Red sneered down on them and with a snazzy flip of gloriously red hair, pointedly perched on the corner of the oval table. Then, she extended a bedazzled with a shape of a cherry phone Jughead didn’t realise she held in front of her on a selfie-stick, and with that godawful pout, began, “See, my lovely cherries, when presented with a choice between either Tim Burton Junior and his blonde Fran Bow or a ginger Kelly Clarkson, Cheryl Bombshell has no choice but to choose herself. I certainly hope their acting is better than their personalities because those are as parched as a dry spell.”

“Oi, Cherry Bomb!” a female producer barked sharply, the one with pink-striped hair and a punk attitude, “don’t fucking live blog a closed script reading, you imbecile!”

“Don’t call me that!” Cheryl Blossom snarled, teeth unnaturally white against the vivid red of her mouth. “How are my cherries supposed to know what I’m doing at any given moment if I don’t blog about it?”

“I don’t know,” Jughead grumbled, too low to be heard by anyone but Sabrina, who promptly elbowed him in the ribs, “maybe try not to seek validation from a faceless mass of people online?” said the kettle to the pot, he mentally added.

The woman with the pink hair was even shorter than Cheryl, but when she stood up, she cut an impressively intimidating figure nonetheless. “This,” she growled, “is what we get for casting a bloody Instagram starlet.”

“She’s a solid choice, Toni,” Keller admonished, softly, gingerly prying away her fingers off his bicep, “she can act and her hair is iconic. What more could we ask for?”

“A fucking professional attitude for one. And maybe,” Topaz, that was her name, Jughead finally remembered, pointedly shouted in red-head’s direction, “not to always pout like she’s about to suck dick.”

Cheryl Blossom looked up from the highly-focused examination of her razor-sharp talons she’d been performing and pouted. “I don’t suck dick on sheer principle, you grotsky little byotch.”

Varsity Jacket raised his hands in placation. “Okay, seriously, maybe you should—”

“Toni, go smoke a fag and find your chill,” cut in Keller, and her hand immediately shot up, giving him the middle finger, but she left the room nonetheless. “And Cheryl, take it down a notch. I’m serious, you hear me?”

Cheryl turned away from him with a huff, but she hadn’t said anything. Instead, she began typing away furiously on her phone.

Huh, thought Jughead.

Kevin Keller was not a tough guy, he noticed, he did not have a commanding presence. Even Varsity Jacket drew more attention to himself with his ridiculous floppy hair, freckled face, and All-American attitude. But, Jughead decided, Kevin Keller understood women. With that in mind, Jughead settled back in his chair, reading over the script yet again.

It was fifteen minutes later when Toni Topaz strode into the room, her combat boots practically abusing the dotted, grey linoleum with the force of her steps, not looking an iota less stressed. “Fuck it,” she announced, “if we wait anymore for those two, we’ll get behind schedule.”

“All right, then,” Keller said, clapping his hands, “places, everyone.”

Like the asshole she was, Sabrina took the seat assigned to him, next to Varsity Jacket, and switched their name planks with a wink. Jughead had neither the inclination nor the naiveté to question her choices, so he dragged the chair he had been sitting for the last half-an-hour towards the table by its back, and positioned himself on Sabrina’s left, straightening the SIRIUS BLACK plaque so it was uniformly aligned with all the others.

The plague before a lounging Cheryl Blossom did not read BITCH FROM HELL, much to Jughead’s surprise, instead, it said — LILY EVANS.

A thought streaked across the forefront of his mind: We are all royally fucked.

Varsity Jacket’s named turned out to be Archie Andrews. Jughead knew that now because the first words out of that kid’s mouth were, quite literally, “Hey, there. I’m Archie Andrews, I’m eighteen, you may know me from last year’s 16 Birthday Wishes, and I look forward to working with ya all.”

Jughead could not have conjured this kid up had he even tried. He shared a concerned glance with Sabrina who mouthed, is he for real? and Jughead only had the energy to shrug. Yeah, he decided, he could see this Archie Andrews as one James Potter. If he squinted.

Cheryl Blossom did not introduce herself. She scowled at all of them, even poor golden retriever puppy personified Andrews, called them philistines, and proceeded with reading her lines. Interesting development: she could act. Expected conclusion: she packed too much malice into her lines and came of as passive aggressive. Keller had to intermediately correct her. That was, however, a correctable quality she could redeem herself from with enough effort; or so Sabrina had said, Jughead’s inescapable, little-devil-on-the-shoulder-type expert on all things acting™.

When it was his turn to read, Jughead did what he had always done when he read out loud his scripts during editing: tried his damndest not to stutter, keeping his voice smooth and even, and detached himself from the situation, rendering himself utterly impervious to nerves and apprehension. It was not Jughead Jones who had been reciting the script from memory as the lines printed on paper streamed before his eyes in a confusing, maddening swirl — it had been Sirius Black doing all those things; teasing his friend James, flirting with prim and proper Lily, arguing with Narcissa.

Disassociating might have kept Jughead’s anxiety at bay, but it made Sirius Black come alive.

So, of course, once Jughead had gotten into the swing of things, the universe rained on his parade: the door slammed open, revealing two girls standing on the other side of its frame.

“Oooops,” said the shorter one, her dark hair reflecting light attractively as she stode in the room. She had not sounded particularly sorry, Jughead noticed. “Apologies, hadn’t meant to barge in quite so—”

“Veronica,” Toni cut in, as bitingly as a wolf, “you were supposed to be here half-an-hour ago!”

“That late, huh,” muttered Veronica assumingly Lodge, flipping her wrist to check the slim, diamond-encrusted watch on her left hand. “Apologies, Toni, darling, but L.A. traffic is simply odious, as you well know. Got held up.”

“By what — appearance of abominable snowman in the middle of Franklin Avenue?”

“Not quite,” Veronica replied, a sly not-quite smile settling on her face, “Betty and I—”

“Of course, you had hamstrung Cooper, too.” Toni cast a dirty look over Veronica’s shoulder at a willowy, nervous-looking blonde still hesitating in the doorway. “Don’t think I haven’t noticed you there, princess.”

“Well, as I was saying, Betty and I,” continued Veronica Lodge, bulldozing over Toni completely and out of the corner of his eye, Jughead could see Call Me Archie Andrews’s jaw unhinge a little, “were late completely by accident, but it was all my fault. Let’s just say, a Lodge doesn’t always land on their feet.

“Still, I had to amend such an insufferable grievance,” Veronica smiled, charmingly, still sly as a fox. “Imagine how tickled pink I was to learn we are not only headed into the same building, but for the same script reading—”

“To which you are late; both of you,” grumbled Toni, but she seemed to have lost most of her heat. Kevin was rubbing her shoulders soothingly as she massaged her temples. Momentarily, Jughead wondered if she was prematurely grey beneath all that pink dye.

“—long story, short: Betty here,” Veronica said, stepping back and drawing the taller girl into her side. “Is my new BFF and I love her to pieces.”

“From a five minute meeting,” Kevin asked, corner of his mouth twitching.

“Boo, you whore,” teased Veronica, earning an unexpect snort from Sabrina, “it’s love at first sight. Don’t judge.” Then:

“You there,” Veronica snapped her fingers in the direction of a fish-eyed assistant Jughead took care to ignore — she’d been making moon-eyes at him, according to Sabrina, and there were times to be wary of his cousin’s advice, but not in instances such as this one. “Fetch me a skinny venti white mocha, one shot, with two pumps of sugarfree vanilla, no whip — pronto. I can’t think clearly without my daily recommended injection of sugar and caffeine.”

Immediately, the situation dissolved into absolute bedlam as everyone clamoured for Ginger’s attention to place their coffee order, too. She’s a sly one, Jughead thought for the third time, smart, too.

Here was the thing about Jughead Jones: he was an objective observer of life, not an active participator. An introvert and a borderline misanthrope, he regarded the world from a safe distance of cool, clinical detachment — he watched and he recorded and he understood because he noticed enough to pay attention in the first place; he was perceptive, and he used this to his advantage.

And as if enticed by a magnetic pull, Jughead’s eyes drifted towards the leggy blonde to his right. The first thing he noticed her was this — she was uncomfortable. The second was that she was seemed nervous, displaced; and third — well, she was making her way towards him.

This girl, however, was totally throwing him for a loop.

She was dressed in a diaphanous, intricately embroidered, sapphire-coloured blouse, and when she shifted to pull out her chair, Jughead could see her laced brassiere through the silk material. Unexpectedly, she sat next to him, across from a plaque reading REMMY LUPIN. She had a striking look — blue-eyed and golden-haired with a face like a porcelain doll’s; wide-eyed, lovely, and haunting in its stillness. I met a lady on a moor, Jughead though, aureate hair, refulgent eyes; a dancing, starry sprite.

“Hi,” she greeted, turning to him, face splitting into a blooming, honeyed smile, white teeth gleaming, the streaming sunlight from the window behind them set her braid into a molten blaze, “I’m Betty.”

THE DREAMER:

“Three creams, two splenda, please.”

Betty Cooper was already running (hopefully, fashionably) late; not exactly a good first impression. She had woken up behind schedule (she had sort of fallen into the black hole that was Tumblr, recently, and had taken to staying up late); her cat, Caramel, had thrown up all over the kitchen floor. One side of her hair had dried flatter than the other — she was never going to bed straight from the shower ever again. And her uber had been running behind. Fantastic, she had uttered when finally arriving at the address given. The time on her phone alerting her that she should would have been inside already, had her morning gone accordingly, sipping on her coffee without a care in the world.

Well, that last bit was a stretch. If you asked anyone who knew her, they would say without a doubt that, Betty Cooper cared too much, about everything.

It was kind of her thing, though. Betty had a profound sense of perseverance and applied it to anyone in need of help that she came across. Polly (her older sister and recently, albeit somewhat regrettably, her manager) akined it to her being like a new mother, babying her fresh-faced ducklings. It often impeded her own desires and well-thought out plans.

Betty was a goner for a schedule. She could plan her day like nobody’s business — rarely did it ever actually go according to plan though. She would describe herself as being meticulous bordering the edge of perfectionist — Betty actually detested that word. Being in control of the situation, however, gave her life.

This was all new to her though, at least, fairly. Acting, that is.

She had been on edge of booking a flight back to San Francisco for what seemed like months. With only $200 to her name, and a can of cold soup sitting like a rock in her belly, Betty had auditioned for a role in Magic is Might. She had been failing auditions for months, her savings account was gone, and she was exhausted from working two menial jobs in order to have money to even go to auditions.

So, by all accounts, Betty figured an extra boost of caffeine was in order to make it through the whirlwind day that had been plotted ahead. A table read with her cast mates of Magic is Might, who she had yet to meet, was slotted for the whole day. As well as some promotional pictures of the group. The whole thing came together rather quickly for an HBO show, as she understood. Betty would be forever grateful that they hadn’t found anyone for the part of Remus Lupin yet.

Somehow, her name had been misspelled (she wanted to glare at Polly) and they thought it had said Elizander, on her papers. Whoever had been manning the audition hadn’t done a thorough look-through at the time and had barely looked up at her, just shooed her through the door. They seemed desperate.

To be fair, she hadn’t realized that the part of Remus was male. Of course, she had read the Harry Potter books, who hasn’t? But Polly had simply implored her to get her ass to this audition, without much else to go on.

Everyone had stared at her when she entered the room, but the guy in the middle of the group seated before her had stood up, planting his hands on the table with a loud smack.

“Excuse me, this isn’t —”

“No, excuse me, but that was incredibly rude.” A blush bloomed across her chest, streaking upwards, despite her outward display of confidence. “I’m here to audition, so let me audition before turning me away.”

It turns out that the man was Kevin Keller, one of the showrunners. Betty had desperately wanted to curl into a ball from mortification when she found out, but instead she had been engulfed in a hug while he had exclaimed “Such fire!”, and had let her do the audition.

They had complimented her afterwards. Apparently she had an inner voice that matched Remus’s suppressed darkness à la werewolf unequivocally. They were going to change the character and rework the script for her. Betty was unperturbed usually, but she had been floored by their sentiments.

Now, granted, they had done the same thing for the character of Snape, but that was for Veronica Lodge — ex-disney starlet who had bowed out of the limelight for several years only to return and turn everyone’s heads when she demanded the part of Severus Snape.

Betty mussed her life was going to be very different from here on out (assuming the show gets picked up after the contingent episodes), but she was looking forward to not cringing every time they ran her card through a register. She loved food, and coffee was a vice she wasn’t willing to give up.

In L.A. there seemed to be a Starbucks on just about every godforsaken block, so she had been thankful there was one conveniently close to the building she was now ardently walking toward. Betty was practically jogging as she took a sip of her drink, the mouthful of cold coffee was sweet and creamy. It was really refreshing — had she not just spilled it all over her shirt when someone plowed into her shoulder, jarring the cup from her hand.

Betty had stood frozen in place, her muscles turning tense as she panicked. Of course she had worn her favorite outfit today. Her pale pink sweater was now sticking to her skin uncomfortably, but thankfully there were only a few drops on her jeans — the dark color of them would prevent a stain from being noticeable, but her sweater…

“Oh my god, fuck, I am so sorry.”

Betty looked up from where she was still staring at her coffee soaked front, hand crushing the now empty cup. She blinked owlishly at the girl who had spoken. A dark haired girl with an equally empty cup, however stain free clothes — impeccable, by the way, in front of her. Small hands covered in white lace gloves (really? The urge to roll her eyes was strong) were reaching out for her and grabbing hold of her arm, gently albeit forcefully. Betty had no choice but to be tugged along and out of the path of the ravenous L.A. goers on the sidewalk.

“It’s… fine, really,” Betty hadn’t wanted to use the word, but there wasn’t anything else on the tip of her tongue. “I’m running late to my read through anyway, I should —”

Veronica interrupted her, raising her impeccably arched brows even higher. “Read through? As in, script?”

Nodding, Betty looked up to the tall glass front building they were almost in front of. She had been so close…

“Well, I think we’re headed to the same place then. Veronica Lodge,” the raven haired girl extended her glove covered hand and Betty raised her hand that wasn’t a sticky mess to shake it. Veronica continued, “pleasure to meet you…” she trailed off and Betty interjected.

“Betty Cooper.”

“Betty, allow me to offer you a new blouse, I simply can’t let you in there like that.”

Betty had started to shake her head, fingers itching to reach up and tighten her ponytail, but alas, she realized, she had worn her hair in a loose braid that brushed the edges of her collarbone. “No, that’s okay, you don’t have to do that.” she waved a hand, tossing her empty cup into the trash bin they had stopped by.

“I insist. Come,” it wasn’t up for debate anymore, that white glove grabbing Betty’s wrist again and pulling her toward a sleek black car that was parked some spaces down. “Don’t worry about being late, if we both are then they really can’t do anything about it."

Betty was surprised that the words didn’t sound pretentious coming from the other girls mouth, but humble. Veronica had pulled her inside the car, instructing her to pull the door closed. She hesitated before doing so, the door shutting with a soft click. She never thought being in a car alone with Veronica Lodge would ever be on her agenda, but here she was, with a collection of delicate tops spread over their laps that were distinctly not at all Betty’s style.

But beggars couldn’t be choosers.

Her green-blue eyes examined the choices carefully, taking in the price tags still dangling from them. Her throat was dry, her swallow surely audible. Everything was more-than-her-rent expensive. Plucking the one with the smallest numbers up, a transparent (okay maybe she had made a mistake here…) sapphire-blue blouse with colorful embroidered flowers, “This one is great,” she smiled at Veronica.

“Oh, excellent choice. Can’t go wrong with Derek Lam 10.”

She scrunched her nose up, fingering the material. Veronica had leant back against the seat, arms crossed expectantly. Betty glanced around to the car windows. “You want me to change here?”

“I expect you, too, yes.”

Betty sucked in a breath of courage and peeled off the stained sweater. Thankfully, her white (unlucky, she had decided) lacy bralette would be suitable underneath the barely-considered-a-shirt. She felt Veronica’s dark eyes on her, watching as she slipped the garment on over her head. Betty tugged it down gently, it only hit the top waist of her jeans.

Veronica reached out a hand to snap the price tag off, tossing it into the empty front seat. “There, oh you have to keep it, it looks perfect on you.”

The blonde smoothed a hand down her somewhat exposed stomach, wishing she were thinner or more toned. “Sure. Thanks, Veronica.”

“You’re quite welcome, darling. Nothing bores friendship quicker than the sharing of clothes and gossiping over boys. So one down, one to go.”

Betty couldn’t help the smile blooming across her face at Veronica’s words. She could use a friend. L.A. had been a lonely place the past two years, which did nothing to help her anxiety.

“Of course, I’m looking forward to it. We’ll be spending a lot of time together after all.”

The other girl smiled back, tucking glossy black hair behind her ear. “Indeed, we might as well make the best of it.” she paused, checking the fancy was fastened around her delicate wrist. “We are incredibly late now, darling. We had better hurry along before Toni sinks her teeth into us.”

Betty nodded, climbing out the car door as gracefully as she could with shaking hands. Veronica had saddled up to her side, linking their arms together as they walked. Feeling a burst of adoration for the girl Betty felt she had wrongly judged in the past (she grew up watching Disney channel, after all) she vowed not to judge any of the other actors based on the same principle.

The ease of being by Veronica’s side made her nerves calm until they were in front of the appropriate conference room door. A wicked smirk graced the raven-haired girl’s features and she disentangled their arms. A dainty platform heeled foot kicked the door in with surprising force for such a small girl.

It had Betty stepping back, hiding away from the doorframe a ways, eyes darting around the room and taking in the scene. It looks like they had already started the read through, and the ball of nerves in her stomach started to grow again.

She did not think it would ever leave her.

tbc.

note: Title comes from Shakespeare’s Henry V: “You have witchcraft in your lips, Kate. There is more eloquence in a sweet touch of them than in the tongues of the whole French council.” Chapter title comes from Mr. Jones by Counting Crows.

#bughead #bughead fanfiction #otp: bathed in sunlight; drenched in shadows #character: jughead jones #character: betty cooper #pairing: jughead x betty #tv: riverdale #riverdale fanfiction #in this tag resides fanfiction #♔: victrix #stark writes #series: roseblood #a song of smol bean and tol bean #series: famous bughead #*

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kyloren · 8 years ago

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«let’s drive to the countryside, leave behind some green-eyed lookalikes»

summary: “I wish we could just go. Just hop on a motorcycle and just leave Riverdale.” “So why don’t we?”

Wherein, Jughead and Betty leave; and they don’t look back.

note: So my perfectionistic ass didn’t sit and ruminate over every single word for eighty-four years, but instead wrote, edited, send to it to my lovely beta, smol bunny bean, @lilibug--xx who gave her seal of approval, and then, I published it. All of this amounts to me dying from anxiety.

BUT, bottom line — this is me, fixing s02e05.

read it on ao3.

“Love is a river, I wanna keep flowing.

Life is a road, now and forever, wonderful journey.

I’ll be there when the world stops turning,

I’ll be there when the storm is through.

In the end, I wanna be standing,

At the beginning with you.”

The bell chimed above Jughead merrily as he walked through the door into Pop’s.

“Betty Cooper,” Jughead drawled, tilting his head a little, “you are a sight for sore eyes.”

She rounded on him, smiling beatifically, and Jughead felt like all air had been punched out of his lungs.

Betty was beaming up at him as she got out of her seat; blindingly bright, and affectionate, and oh so very sweetly. There was a dimple in her left cheek and the corners of her blue eyes crinkled some, long eyelashes curling at the ends like a seahorse’s tail. When she pulled him into an unexpected, one-armed embrace, Jughead had felt her unduly strong fingers grip his back through both his jacket and threadbare shirt, and relaxed, at the familiarity of her touch.

Immediately, Jughead let his hands to settle on the dip of her waist, circling it; and his nose brushing against the soft skin stretched over the sharp jut of her collarbone. Betty smelled of crystallised honey-lemon sweets, fresh nectarines and sugarplums, and home.

He had missed her. How he had missed her.

Planting a kiss onto her cheek, Jughead’s mouth instinctually twisted into a crooked half-smile, “Thanks for coming to meet me—”

The rest of the sentence was swallowed by her mouth as Betty cradled his face between her hands and pulled him into her.

I love you, she thought. I love you. I love you.

The kiss tasted of smoke from his cigarette and sugar that clung to her lips, and immediately, she can feel his hands anchoring on the small of her back, fingers catching the material of her sweater. His mouth was hungry and desperate, as he pulled her closer, body pressed flush against her, firm and hot and close. Betty was no longer sure who was kissing whom, but it was open-mouthed and all-consuming, and she let the kiss linger for longer than was seemly. She did not want ever to stop.

His breathing was ragged when he finally pulled back, nose brushing against her own, eyes wild. It always made her heart surge and swell with ardour, how Jughead looked at her like he didn’t quite believe she was real.

(She was sure she mirrored the look right back.)

“I am so very glad you called,” Betty whispered, softly, pulling away and tucking away her smile. Jughead felt the loss keenly, as if the sun had been snuffed out.

Still, she did not step away, but instead busied herself by brushing over the contours of his face, the bones of his skull, neck, and shoulders, with fluttering, gentle hands. Jughead was not quite sure if she meant to check for injuries or to reassure herself of his presence; either way, he was not begrudging the attention.

He felt her slim fingers circle his wrist and tug him towards the booth she’d been previously occupying.

“God, I’ve missed you,” he said as he took his seat, giving voice to his thoughts, “I’ve just been feeling — I don’t know… unmoored.”

“Me, too.”

“I just wanted to make sure you were still alive,” Jughead quipped, half-joking, a smirk hiding away in the corner of his mouth.

A shadow fell across Betty’s features and her voice hitched an octave when she asked, “What do you mean?”

For a moment Jughead can only stare at her, brow furrowed as he hones in on her face, trying to uncover whatever it was she had been hiding in her eyes. “That… exposé that you published about your mom, that article you wrote…”

“Oh, ummm… ” Betty said, casting her gaze downward, fumbling for words, “that’s a long story, but, yeah, pretty intense.” Then, “What happened to your hand?”

The most convincing lies, books have taught Jughead Jones early on, must carry a grain of truth.

“Oh, I’m dog-sitting. Do you remember Hot Dog, that mutt?” he asked and Betty sighed softly, tension palpably easing out of her shoulders. “Don’t worry. He’s got his shots.”

Betty bit her lip, fixing her stare on their entwined hands, and whatever brief spark of joy that had been blazing in her moments prior, had fizzled and dimmed into uncertainty.

Betty was gloriously lovely; she had a winsome smile, a charming demeanour, and, to him, was utterly ravishing, always. In part, because she was the only one he had ever found desirable, but mostly because before Betty, he had not known it was humanly possible to love and want one person interminably and in such overwhelming abundance.

But it would seem undisclosed sorrow had etched itself into her bones, giving her an air of haunting tragedy. She was all the more beautiful for it. But achingly sad, too; and Jughead loved her best, happy.

She’s hiding something, he thought, worriedly, because Betty was incredibly easy to read when one looked at her the way Jughead did. But then again, so am I.

Lies, secrets, truths omitted — when had this become us?

Still, the moment stretched and silence hung between them.

As it played, Jughead could not help but catch the lyrics of the song buzzing softly in the background: When you lose, when you rush. When you don’t feel strong enough. Everybody needs a pick me up, you can count on me—

The fingers of his fist flexed, involuntarily, tightening their grasp on Betty’s small hand.

Come what may come what might. Everybody falls down sometimes—

“Don’t lose hope it’ll be alright,” quietly sang-along Pop’s from behind the counter as he wiped down the counter. “You can count on me.”

It was very hard not to regard this moment as some ominous foreshadowing.

Life was not a story, Jughead reminded himself, not for the first time; it did not follow the rhythmic beats of a plotted narrative. Seemingly innocuous details were not designed presages for future events, they were merely arbitrary trivialities, instead.

Life is not a story. I have long learned that long ago, to my sorrow.

Still, he could already feel the claws of the narrative sinking into him, twisting and pulling and remoulding him.

“I wish—” Jughead stuttered, then, cut himself off, swallowing harshly, his words jerking Betty out of her thoughts with a chilling start. Jughead never wished for anything; it was a heartbreaking quality Betty both readily admired about him and pitied greatly.

When he spoke again, his eyes were growing glassy and far-away, “I wish we could just go. Just hop on a motorcycle and just leave Riverdale. Go someplace where there’s no Northside, or Southside… or Serpents, Ghoulies—”

“No crazy moms,” Betty sniffed, smiling a little, “no Black Hoods.”

The way she looked at him now made fear and dread tighten in Jughead’s belly. It made him want to scoop Betty up and tuck her into himself; to open up his own chest, expose blood, visceral, and bone, and hide his girlfriend away in nook close to the muscle of his heart, to shield her from everything and everyone.

“Like Romeo and Juliet,” Betty whispered, soft as a petal’s kiss, “but we live happily ever after instead.”

There was a tear rolling down the high curve of her cheekbone, burning a salty, downward path on Betty’s flushed skin and… and there was something haunting in her gaze, searchingly saturated in colour and sentiment — the greens and the blues spiralled, twisted, and gyrated; an ineffable, wildering emotion flowing, streaming from her into him.

It set a wild thumping in Jughead’s chest, like his heart was scrambling to escape his ribcage and rush to her. A river, he thought, flowing through us.

“So why don’t we?”

“What?”

“Why don’t we leave?” he repeated himself, staring at Betty intently. “We can. I do have my bike and some cash…”

“We can’t,” she stuttered, but she hadn’t pulled back. “We’re fifteen—”

“Sixteen,” corrected Jughead, because of course he would.

“You are sixteen and emancipated,” Betty pressed. “I am neither. My mother—I can’t just—I have no choice—!”

“Betty,” softly interrupted Jughead, lacing his fingers through hers as he cupped her palm. “We always have a choice.”

“I…”

“External forces, facticities, personal histories, circumstances, and responsibilities — whatever may be limiting our capabilities, but the bottom line is still this; — nothing can force you to follow a course. This is the tragic beauty of the human condition: we inherently posses the inescapable freedom of choice.

“To think otherwise is self-deceiving,” he added, smiling a little, “it would be acting in bad faith.”

“Oh, yeah,” Betty asked, an eyebrow twitching upwards into an arch in spite of herself, “who taught you that?”

Jughead winked. “Sartre, actually.”

She opened her mouth to say, Of course, you’d bring philosophy into this, but what tumbled out instead was:

“I’m in trouble.”

“The key,” Jughead began once Betty concluded her stilted, emotionally-charged account of Black Hood’s demands of her, “is to change the situation.”

Upon being met with a blank look from her, Jughead continued, “As it is, the game—”

“This is not a game!”

“I know that,” Jughead said, leveling his best keep-it-together-sweetheart stare on her, “but does he?”

Jughead’s tone was cool, having composed himself but moments prior in that deep, bone-chilling way only he could. It was as if he shut down off his emotions to the problem and stepped away from situation to examine it from a distance — his ability to control himself like that had always pissed Betty off because she could never do that, she always found that she cared too much about everything.

“No,” she whispered, hunching her shoulders, “no, I don’t think he does.”

They were camped out in his trailer, on the recently steam-cleaned floor carpeting by the threadbare couch, Jughead’s long legs stretched out in front of him as he scrolled through Betty’s phone, marking down time stamps and length of call from Unknown Number in a spiralled notebook he set against his thigh. Betty was tucked into his side; she folded her legs against herself, a skinny arm wrapped around herself in a hug and tucking her chin into the valley between the rounded bones of her kneecaps.

Unwittingly, her left hand twitched — it was resting on Jughead’s thigh. The warm weight of it beneath her palm was familiar; reassuring. If she closed her eyes, Betty could almost pretend they were engaged in another investigative session in the old The Blue & Gold offices, just like old times.

Almost, she thought, but not quite.

For one, there was a large, hairy sheepdog resting by her feet, sleeping soundly.

“What will happen to the dog?” she blurted, out of blue.

“Hot Dog?” Jughead asked, raising his eyebrows as he stole a glance at her profile. “I imagine Toni will take him in.”

“Toni ?”

“Or Sweet Pea, or Fangs, or any other deranged member of Baby Serpents Club.”

Betty snorted, “Doesn’t that include you?”

“Perhaps,” Jughead conceded, smirking, “but we won’t be here, now, will we?”

“Yeah,” she agreed, softly, “we won’t.”

“Well,” Jughead said, sealing the sturdy, brown-paper envelope in front of him, “that’s the last of it.”

It had been filled with a notebook containing everything both she and Jughead recorded about Black Hood, her unlocked phone with the evidence, and a thumb drive housing a video on which Betty tearfully explained all the ways Black Hood had been terrorising her and what he threatened her with — enough documentation to verify that Betty, in fact, had not been kidnapped.

A necessary precaution against Alice Cooper and her absolute lack of chill.

Betty hummed in acknowledgement, but otherwise didn’t reply. She was lying on the couch, either staring off into space or studying the trailer’s ceiling, he was not quite sure, her hair untangled and flowing free until it brushed the floor — soft and golden, and gleaming in the waning afternoon light.

“She’s certainly very pretty, isn’t she? ” Toni had said after she first met Betty. “Like a doll. She smiles quite a lot. ”

“Betty,” he called through sandpaper-dryness of his throat, “what’s wrong?”

To Jughead Jones, his feelings for Betty were inimitable in their singularity. To him, what he and Betty shared was incompatible and unsurpassable; Betty, both as a friend and as lover, was matchless and unrivalled. Betty was Betty — she was in a league of her own.

It sometimes slipped his mind that was not the case for most other humans. To them, Betty was the all the pretty things, big dreams, romantic ideals, girl-next-door with a happily-ever-after tale; blonde and perky, and seemingly perfect. They did not know her like he did, and liked her for all the things she appeared to be, rather than for what and who she was. Even earnest, good-natured Archie believed more in the illusion than the truth.

No wonder Black Hood was making her his Christine.

But the girl in front of his wasn’t quite his Betty — it was like a shade of her had been drawn; wan and drained, and most broken he’d seen her in a while. She tried to blink the brightness from her eyes, but to no avail; he had already noticed — when Jughead looked at Betty, he saw her, more clearly than he saw anything.

He glanced at her hands; mercifully, they were blood free. She’d been twisting the hem of one of his shirts that she put on the minute they entered the trailer, pulling at the fabric until Jughead was sure it’d been stretched permanently. Turning fully to face her, Jughead had eased onto his knees, hovering over her. He took her chin between thumb and forefinger, and although she had not stopped him, she closed her eyes, her mouth twitching.

“Nothing,” she murmured, and caught his hand, pressing a quick kiss to his rough palm. Then, confronted with the feeling his furrowed brow scowling down on her, insisted a little more firmly, “nothing’s wrong.”

“Betty,” he implored, soft and gentle, in a quiet tone he reserved solely for her. “Please.”

She could be as delicate as spun glass, but Betty’s sweet, gentle, and spirited nature belied how her mettle was as firm and unyielding as tempered steel. She, much like him, had a resilient core, on which he counted on to see when she opened her eyes.

Jughead was not disappointed.

“He won’t like it — that we’re leaving.”

“So? He’s welcome to convey his feelings to my face and I’ll kick his ass.”

A wretched sound crawled out of her throat: half frantic, high-pitched laugh, half-sob; utterly heart-wrenching. “I just want him to leave me alone.”

“He will,” he assured her, “once we’re gone.”

“But Polly—!”

“He wants you,” Jughead said leaning forward, pressing his lips to her forehead. His fingers ran small, soothing circles against the side of her head, right behind the shell of her ear. “He wants you, Betty. What use is Polly to him if you aren’t here?”

“He might hurt her,” came Betty’s broken whisper.

“He won’t. If she was a target, he would have hurt her already.”

Her face was warm beneath her lips, and as Jughead touched her cheek, trailed the back of his fingers along her jaw, she leaned into him, drawing even closer. She breathed deep and steady, keeping anxiety at bay, the sound of her filling the trailer’s tight space.

A slow, but unmistakable shiver crept up his spine like a snake coiling around his heart. Ever since she’d told him what has been happening to her, he felt the hot, sizzling sting bubble in him — it had always secreted itself inside of him, that red rush of absolute murder that sung in him ever so often, setting his blood ablaze. Now, it refused to leave him, wreathing inside and setting his ordinarily focused mind into a storm, connecting the events of the past and splintering the future. A dull throb began to beat inside his head, matching rhythm with his pounding heart.

Jughead had never been anything close to tame by any stretch of the truth, but in comparison to other boys at Southside High, he came off as mild-mannered. There was, however, a chasmic disparity between appearance and reality. And Jughead was thoroughly F.P. Jones’s son, no matter how desperately he tried to refute and reject it.

When it gets down to the bone, he thought, thumb running across Betty’s knuckles, pressing his lips to the sharp ridge of her cheekbone, all real snakes are the same.

“The Joneses are fucked by the fickle finger of fate,” snorted Jughead, twisting the key in the trailer’s lock with a sense of finality, of bringing something weighty to its interminable end, “many a time and throughout the generations.

“But there’s one thing we do best,” he paused then, considering, “well, three things, actually, so this will have to count as fourth — we do know how to make an exit.”

“So this is us,” Jughead said, bright eyes locking with Betty’s, both thrilling and frightening in their intensity. It felt like a start of something. “Making an exit.”

The plan was that they did not, in fact, have a plan.

Uncharacteristic of both of them, given that they were Jughead Jones and Betty Cooper, calculation and organisation personified, respectively, but having no contingency plans was liberating in its impulsivity.

A novel feeling to both of them, in truth.

They decided against taking the truck, by in large because while Jughead had acquired the appropriate documentation and licences for the motorcycle, he was yet to do so for his dad’s beat-up Ford — but also, because the bike was notably faster. Jughead had scavenged up an old Steib sidecar his dad has used for him and Jellybean when they were little, and by unanimous vote, they had decided to use it to house their personal belongings and supplies, while Betty rode on the back with him.

Now, Jughead was leaning against his bike, arms folded at his chest, straining the denim with the breadth of his shoulders, and waiting for Betty to emerge from the lightless depths of her house with a packed bag.

When Betty finally bounded down the front steps on coltish legs, she was dressed similarly to him; dark jumper, dark jeans, sturdy boots, and a fur-lined jacket. Without preamble, she threw an old carpet bag into the sidecar, landing it on top of Jughead’s hiking rucksack.

She turned sharply to greet him and was startled by finding that a single, white flower filled her vision with its loveliness. Betty blinked, confused. “Who’s that for?”

“You,” said Jughead, and tucked the gardenia bloom behind the shell of her ear.

Swooning a little over the gesture, she drawled, smilingly. “Smooth.”

He gave a one-shouldered shrug, but a corner of his mouth quirked up, almost shyly. “I try.”

Back in the trailer, only hours ago, Jughead had told Betty: “The key is to change the situation.”

What that meant was this: “We take you out of equation, Betty. We take away his pawn, we change the rules of the game — then, it’s no longer his game. It’s ours. We dictate the rules. He’s doing it for you. What if there’s no you to do it for?”

(That was the thing about Jughead Jones, Betty remembered then, he always saw startlingly clearly through everyone. Even if he did not see himself clearly at all.)

“Last chance to back out,” Jughead murmured, drawing Betty near in spite of his words, his legs bracketing her hips. “You sure about this?”

“I don’t know,” she whispered softly, then, her eyes widened and she scrambled to clarify, “I just mean… I’m not so sure about everything, any more.”

Jughead locked his gaze on her, keeping silent. Surprisingly, Betty was neither distressed nor discomfited by the intensity of a stare that even had her mother balking. With Jughead, there was no pretence. He knew who she was, what she was, what she could do, and what she would do — he knew her.

Such a degree of familiarity and intimacy between them was liberating in and of itself.

Finally, he said, voice rougher than she anticipated, “I’m sure about us.”

Betty smiled at him, her eyes glittering; thick lashes curled in twin half-moons so thick they left shadows on her cheekbones. “I’m sure about us, too. It’s the only thing I’m sure of.”

Jughead’s smile was much the same as when they were kids — slow and heady and honeylike, and just as sweet. It filled her with joy; rushed through like a flood, eddies swirling, and flowing to every corner of her being.

I love him, she thought, heart swelling. I love him.

Months ago, she had told her mother Jughead was her family. That was no longer strictly true — he was more than family to Betty, he was a part of her. He had burrowed himself into her, crawled into her heart; he flowed through her veins and lived in the marrow of her bones, cut through her teeth, dusted on her skin, and woven through her hair. Jughead was under her nails and caught in the back of her throat. There was no escaping how she felt for him.

When they kissed again, his mouth was soft and hot, and he tasted tart and electric, like aged brandy. His lips were softer than they were that morning, gentler, too, and he impatiently tugged off his glove before cupping the side of her face, dipping down to kiss her again, feathering soft kisses until her mouth opened under his, warm and pliant.

Theirs was an insolvable, unabating love.

Whatever our souls are made of, Betty reflected, his and mine are the same.

That had to be enough.

Six hours before sunrise, a motorcycle engine flared to life. It roared, a dragon breathing smoke and brimstone as it sped past the sign reading Welcome To Riverdale: The Town With Pep!.

fin.

sidebar: I recently re-watched Anastasia, the 1997 animated feature, and found Richard Marx’s At The Beginning to be unexpectedly fitting of Bughead, in the cheesiest, fluffiest of ways.

#bughead #bughead fanfiction #otp: bathed in sunlight; drenched in shadows #character: jughead jones #character: betty cooper #pairing: jughead x betty #tv: riverdale #riverdale fanfiction #in this tag resides fanfiction #♔: victrix #series: i could not love except where death was mingling his with beauty’s breath #stark writes #*

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kyloren · 8 years ago

Photo

«a girl with kaleidoscope eyes» — always-a-girl!Jughead Jones/bisexual!Betty Cooper AU.

Forsythe P(enthia) Jones the Third was an enthusiastic littérateur, had a younger sister by the name of Forsythia P(endleton) Jones — a name which outstripped even hers on the why-would-you-do-this-to-your-own-child?-o-meter, but luckily avoided having a ‘the Fourth’ tag-on — was only sixteen-years-old and already was permanent-place-of-residence challenged, and had been in love with Betty Cooper since she was twelve-year-old. Incidentally, the same age when Betty herself fell in love with Archie Andrews, boy-next-door extraordinaire, rendering Jugs to years of unrequited pinning and bittersweet heartache from the far-away distance of Right-By-Betty’s-Side.

Oh, and Jason Blossom’s corpse had been found on a bank of Sweetwater River, but who cares about the dead kid’s unsolved murder when there’s drama~! afoot.

[extract from B&J Detective Agency™ group chat]

Head Judge: To quote my social worker; my case is held in abeyance pending the outcome of an independent inquiry into my father’s case.

Head Judge: To put it simply: Till the popo finds something on F.P. that will stick, I’m a Shrödinger’s Foster Kid.

Head Judge: I haven’t been staying here a week, and all ready I cleaned and reorganised Andrews’ entire house three times.

Head Judge: I think Fred’s torn between keeping me as a live-in maid and wishing murder upon me for alphabetising everything.

Head Judge: Apparently he had a “system”.

Betty In Pink: Wow. Your sarcasm is palpable across the country.

Betty In Pink: That’s a new record for you.

Head Judge: I stand by my words and by my work.

Head Judge: ;P

Head Judge: Seriously though, I fucking indexed everything from a stray nail to his underpants, but, no, Fred gives me the chiding, kicked-puppy look he totally passed onto his son and sighs because I moved coffee canister and filters above the actual coffee machine.

Betty In Pink: Did you actually index Fred’s underpants?

Betty In Pink: Wait. Don’t answer that. I decided I don’t wanna know.

Betty In Pink: And I could say I’m surprised you cannot deal with downtime.

Betty In Pink: But I actually met you, so I won’t.

Head Judge: Ass.

Betty In Pink: Back at ya, broski.

Head Judge: Coop, did you just channel your inner bro?

Betty In Pink: Totes, gurl.

Head Judge: Please, refrain from addressing me as such.

Betty In Pink: Don’t go cramping my style, piz.

Head Judge: *removes herself from this narrative*

Head Judge has exited the chat.

Betty In Pink has added Head Judge to the chat.

Betty In Pink: Right on.

Betty In Pink: Radical.

Head Judge: Now, you are just using random words.

Betty In Pink: That…is not untrue.

Head Judge: *rolls eyes*

Betty In Pink: Keep doing that and one day they are going to get stuck that way.

Head Judge: *rolls eyes twice as hard*

Betty In Pink: *rolls eyes thrice as hard at Head Judge rolling her eyes twice as hard*

Betty In Pink: P.S. weak…

Head Judge: *rolls eyes in the power of infinity at Betty In Pink in general and everything she represents*

Head Judge: P.S. who’s weak now, punk?

Betty In Pink: FUCK.

Betty In Pink: YOU.

Head Judge: *gasps* Be still my beating heart!

Head Judge: Have I just obtained physical proof Elizabeth Cooper has, in fact, a secret potty-mouth? Why, yes. Yes, I have.

Betty In Pink: 🖕🖕🖕

Head Judge: *is totally screenshooting this convo for posterity*

Betty In Pink: 🍆

Head Judge: Why, Miss Cooper, you are being awfully forward!

Head Judge: I’m not that type of girl.

Head Judge: Gotta wine and dine me first. 😜

Betty In Pink has blocked Head Judge.

Head Judge: Sooooo…I take it you don’t want shirtless Archie pics?

Betty In Pink has unblocked Head Judge.

Head Judge: Thought so. 😏

note: This is a part of my fem!Jughead AU WIP that I’m developing. Come yell headcanons at me.

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kyloren · 8 years ago

Text

«a sea-change into something rich and strange» — “Stranger Things” AU.

summary: Nothing is going to be the way that it was, Jughead had echoed the same words he had spoken to her five years ago. We can’t change the past.

Or, a party is on the agenda, a kid went missing, presumed dead, and some things were left unsaid between Jughead and Betty.

read it on ao3.

“A party?” Veronica asked as bright-eyed and eager as Betty was hesitant and concerned when she chased her friend’s question with one of her own:

“On a Tuesday?”

To her left, Cheryl snorted, but Betty ignored her in favour of staring down Reggie Mantle, whose guileless gaze was flickering between Veronica and her.

“Come on,” Kevin nudged Betty, gently, “it wouldn’t be that bad.”

She opened her mouth to disagree, but Veronica had already pivoted around, and directing her brightest, most entreating smile at her best friend, implored: “Please?”

Betty shut her mouth with a click and pressed her lips together into a flat line; a mannerism eerily reminiscent of her mother. Then, she nodded hesitantly. Veronica and Kevin had braved Alice Cooper for her many a time — Betty could handle an impromptu party for them.

“Fabulous,” Veronica grinned, clapping her hands, and Betty offered her a strained smile. Lately, Veronica spent more time at Betty’s than she had at her own home. Something untoward was brewing between her parents and she needed a distraction of a party now more than ever. A development that had not been lost on Betty.

Veronica spun on her heel to face Cheryl. “What’s the theme?”

“Oh, I’m sorry,” Cheryl said, raising an eyebrow and not sounding sorry at all, “was I supposed to provide a theme, too? Is a location, drink, and sustenance not enough for you, Princess?” And just like that, Veronica and Cheryl settled into another one of their passive-aggressive quarrels.

Kevin rolled his eyes and bumped Betty’s shoulder playfully, mouthing Two weeks, tops with an exaggerated wiggle of the eyebrows. She just shrugged and cast her eyes on the floor, studying her feet as she scuffed the school linoleum with a side of her shoe and refusing to comment otherwise.

The six of them — Betty, Veronica, Kevin, Cheryl, Reggie, and Chuck — were waiting for Moose, who was at the nurse’s office getting his sprained ankle re-bandaged, and Jason, whom Miss Grundy asked to stay behind to discuss his upcoming flute solo.

Betty was friends with neither of the boys, but Veronica was still amicable with Reggie, even if they were not dating any longer, and some incomprehensible arrangement of staunchest-comrades-slash-bitter-frenemies with Cheryl Blossom. Plus, Kevin and Moose were shaping up to be a something soon enough, even if neither was keen on defining the something in question.

So here Betty was, fifth-wheeling the conversation (because no way on God’s green earth would she willingly engage in a one-to-one conversation with Chuck Clayton. Ever.) and looking to be soon fifth-wheeling a pool-party.

Hopefully, Betty thought, rather sourly, Chuck would have the presence of mind to bring Nancy.

He was a swine and an asshole, but not utterly incurable; and Nancy Woods miraculously reigned him in by being a human equivalent of ‘the big stick’. Sometimes, the implications their relationship transmitted with anyone with a working pair of eyeballs and half a brain made Betty shudder. Better not to think about that lest she wanted a hefty dose of brain-bleach.

“Ugh — look,” said Cheryl, wrenching Betty out of her thoughts and pulling her gaze towards the redhead’s pinched expression. Somehow, she managed to pack twice the usual amount of disdain into her tone. Betty did not think it was possible, but that was Cheryl Blossom in a nutshell — exceeding expectations in the most dramatic of ways.

“Jesus, that’s depressing,” snorted Reggie, a frown pulling at his face.

Betty turned around, curious about what they were looking at. She knew the exact moment when Kevin’s eyes had found the target because she heard his sharp intake of breath and the half-muttered “Oh, no,” as his posture shifted against her back. It was his response that clued her in more than anything else.

There, not far from the main entrance, Jughead Jones stood by the bulletin board, studiously pinning a blue Missing Person flyer, as perversely dogged in his grief as he was in everything else. The sight made Betty’s heart clench in sympathy.

Jughead and her were academic rivals, of a sort. She knew he took her assiduous attempts to best him in their classes as a personal affront to his person, but they had been the best of friends, once.

Without turning around, Betty asked, “Did your dad mention any progress, Kev?”

“Not really,” her friend shrugged. “But the Sheriff put him on a different case. Everything Dad knows is peripheral.”

Chuck smirked. “How much do you want to bet he killed her?”

“Shut up, Clayton,” hissed Cheryl, slapping his shoulder. Had it been bared, the tallons she called fingernails would have no doubt drawn blood. She grimaced. “Sweet sugar maple, you’re a dick.”

“Yeah, man. Not cool,” Reggie shook his head.

“Since then are you so high-and-mighty?” Chuck shot back, peevishly rubbing his bicep.

“Hey, I might give the guy some flack—”

Veronica arched a brow. “Some?”

“Fine — a lot of flack,” amended Reggie, staring at his ex-girlfriend with an expression that clearly conveyed You happy now?, but Veronica just shrugged, persisting in further addling his mind with that enigmatic smirk of hers he could never read. “But no-one thinks that, you know, Charlie McGee over there killed his sister.”

“I would.”

Simultaneously, their heads snapped to gawk at an unsettlingly nonchalant Cheryl. She was casually leaning against a wall, examining her immaculate manicure.

“What?” she asked, nonplussed. “Statistically speaking, in domestic cases, a member of the family is more likely to be responsible than a stranger. And we all know that the only functioning human being in that family was the kid.”

“Is, Cher — is the kid.” Kevin released a frustrated sigh. His hand was already halfway up towards his hair before he remembered himself and let it fall limply to his side. “Jesus, guys, J.B. isn’t dead. She’s only missing. Besides, Jughead’s functional—”

“He’s a weirdo,” Reggie shot in, much too loudly, and yelped when Veronica pinched his forearm, hissing at him to be quiet.

This, more than anything else, drew in stray stares from the surrounding student body.

“Fine,” Kevin relented. Reggie was being an ass about it, but he had a point. “He is, but personality flaws aside, Jug’s a decent guy. And besides, his little sister is missing. It’s an actual tragedy, not fuel for what you will no doubt assume to be very clever taunts, but in reality will barely scrape up to be mediocre — yes, I’m looking at you, Charles Clayton.”

“Hey! I was just kiddin’ before!”

Kevin narrowed his eyes. “You have a look of a man who would gladly kick a guy when he’s down. Forgive me if I’m being skeptical. Back me up here, Betty. We should—Wait. Where’s Betty?” He spun around, gaze searching for a familiar blonde ponytail. “Betty?”

“There she is.”

Four pairs of eyes followed the direction in which Cheryl’s red-tipped finger was pointing in.

Betty was not sure what she hoped to accomplish by approaching Jughead, but, she reasoned, had it been her in his shoes she would have wanted someone, anyone really, to try and comfort her. So, here she was. Trying to comfort.

Except, Betty has not been the first to whom this notion had occurred.

There, below the swim team’s aqua-coloured tryouts notice, Trula Twyst stood much too close to Jughead Jones, her beringed fingers resting on his shoulder, her straight back to a corridor full of a flowing stream of conspicuously eyeballing teenagers. They were talking, and from what little Betty could see and determine from Jughead’s hunched posture and pinched expression, from either anger or frustration, not about the most pleasant of topics.

“Hey,” Betty softly mouthed to him and gave a little, self-conscious wave. Jughead just sluggishly blinked at her in acknowledgement over Trula’s freckled shoulder before casting his eyes downward.

If Betty was being honest, Jughead and her had not been friends in a long while. Long before Veronica moved into town, even before The Archie Incident had transpired. And a guilty part of Betty’s heart hissed that they might as well be strangers now for she knew next to nothing about him these days.

“—call you later on, all right,” she overheard Trula saying in a hushed tone. “You’ll figure something out, Jug. You always do.”

Jughead gave a jerky nod, refusing to look at Trula’s face, and with a sigh the redhead stepped away from him and gingerly pried away half-a-stack of printouts out his grip. Trula cast a sideways glance at Betty out of the corner of one eye, but did not comment on her presence otherwise. She picked up her backpack from where it had been propped up against the wall and with a parting pat on Jughead’s bicep, walked away.

Betty and he both waited, inexplicably, for the school doors to shut close behind Trula Twyst’s short figure before either of them chose to look at the other.

“So,” Betty began, uncertainly.

“So,” he echoed. “How’s it going, Bets?”

“It’s good, actually,” Betty answered instinctively. But then, her brows knitted in a frown, as she was taken aback by the casual nature of the question. “But…I’m not here to talk about me. I just…I wanted to say, umm, I’m sorry—” about everything, “—about your sister.”

“Yeah,” he laughed, hollowly, “I figured you’re here about that. Well, you paid your dues, Coop. Now, run along,” he said with a dismissive wave of a hand.

“No,” Betty insisted, grabbing onto his other wrist and squeezing, gently. When she spoke next, her voice was firm and full of meaning. “I’m sorry about your sister.”

Jughead’s jaw clenched, his whole demeanour changing, straightening, and stilling with tension and something else, a quiet intensity of sorts, but he stayed silent, waiting. Holding her insistent gaze with his own.

She wondered what he was seeing there. If he was seeing her as she was or as she wanted to be? But as quickly as the thought came, it vanished, winking out of existence like the fitful flickering of a dying candle.

As swiftly as if she had been burned, Betty let go of his wrist.

The moment hung between them like a hangman’s noose for a heartbeat. Then, Betty licked her lips and persevered. “This whole situation just sucks.”

“Right,” Jughead gave her a wan, thin-lipped smile, “sucks.”

In her head, Betty could almost hear the sarcastic remark brewing on the tip of his tongue: ‘Sucks’ is a perfect descriptor of the situation my family found itself. Your eloquence is spot on, Coop.

She tried a different tactic. “Everyone’s thinking about you.”

Jughead’s gaze flickered away from her face and he glanced at her friends over Betty’s golden head. “Sure they are,” he snorted, softly.

He has a point, Betty thought. Still. It would not do to concede it.

“I am,” she insisted, unwittingly stepping closer.

“That,” Jughead assured her, not unkindly, “I do believe.”

Conscious of their proximity and the five sets of eyes boring into her back, Betty’s stare shifted from his face onto the grainy, black-and-white picture of J.B. beneath the bold, black question: HAVE YOU SEEN ME?

For a briefest of moments, she thought about Archie, and promptly shoved the memory out of her mind. It would do no good anyone at all to dwell on ghosts.

“She’s a smart girl,” Betty found herself saying as the tip of her finger traced the upward curve of J.B.’s smile, “she’ll be all right.”

Paradoxically, despite what her mother said about likelihood of finding a child unharmed in a forest that immense and in such proximity to a turbulent Sweetwater River, Betty did believe her words. J.B. was shrewd; she different from clever Polly, smart Ethel, and cunning Toni in some fundamental way that was all too similar to her older brother. J.B. was every bit as astute and sharp-witted as Jughead, if not nearly as hardheaded, thankfully.

“It’s my fault.”

It took Betty a moment to realise he had spoken. “What?”

But Jughead paid her no mind. He was directing a thousand-yard stare at the bulletin board, his fingers absently tugging at a cuff of his pale-blue sherpa jacket.

“I took an extra shift at work,” he explained, tone simultaneously far away and disconcertingly matter-of-fact. “Came in late. Didn’t realise she was gone until the morning. Had I been home, I would have noticed sooner. Perhaps, she would not have disappeared at all.”

The most polarising attributes of Jughead Jones’s character, Betty remembered, only with partial fondness, were his pertinacious assurance of his own capabilities and his adamant insistence on doing things his own way.

It should not be this hard for him, she reasoned, to yield. Just this once.

He would not though, she knew with certitude. Just as he would not let go of his perceived guilt. Just as he would not give up on his sister, no matter what.

Jughead said it was his fault. And what did one say to a statement like that?

“I,” she began, haltingly. I cannot imagine what I would do had it been Polly who vanished in J.B.’s stead. I cannot imagine what you are going through. Whatever I think, does not even hold a candle to what you are feeling.

“I’m here for you, Jug,” Betty finally said, grasping his hand again and squeezing his fingers tightly between the fragile bones of her own, “whatever you need.”

Let the past die, she wanted to say, but had not found the courage to. Put our ghosts to rest.

Let me be your friend again.

“I see you spoke with Creepshow,” Chuck said when Betty approached him and her friends. “I did not know Jones possessed a capacity for more than monosyllabic answers to anyone below the age of thirty-five.”

Betty shrugged noncommittally, but did not speak otherwise. She turned her profile towards Kevin and away from Chuck, wishing not to interact with him at all.

(She ignored Chuck’s lowly muttered, “Bitch.”)

The bell had keeled but a half-a-minute prior, and Jughead had taken the opportunity to slip away from her with a mumbled Got a Physics test. Need jet, Coop.

He had not spared her a second look.

“Fine!” Veronica exclaimed, clearly a follow-up of whatever conversation (read: argument) she was having prior. “Reginald, you win. Happy?”

“Ecstatic, darling,” he chimed, putting a hand on Veronica’s hip and smoothly tucking her into his side.

Veronica pushed Reggie away with what should have been effective glare, had she not been smiling a little, too.

Kevin coughed discreetly into his fist, nudging Betty’s side a little with his elbow, but it was Chery’s sharp tone that jounced Betty out of her haze of thoughts.

“Ugh, you two are disgusting. Jay-Jay, let’s go,” her command cracked through the air, reminiscent of a whip lashing bare skin. Face twisted in a grimace of displeasure, Cheryl swivelled on a heel, and purposefully and snappingly strode away on charged murder-weapons on the lam from the law and thus posing as women’s footwear.

Jason, the eerily silent twin-brother with the same exceedingly red hair, followed closely behind, appearing too much like an inverse of what a strawberry covered in whipped cream should look like in his pristinely white clothes and shoes.

Veronica watched the pair until they were out of sight. She pursed her lips and turned sideways to peer up at Kevin. “You had to do provoke her, didn’t you?”

“Hey,” the boy’s positively shit-eating grin carried no apology whatsoever, “you asked me to.”

“I have, haven’t I,” she sighed and instinctively touched the string of perfectly matched pearls looped around her neck.

“All right,” she barked, cheerily, clapping her hands together and pivoted on her heel to blind Reggie with a smile far brighter than the situation warranted. “You’re in charge of liquor, Reggaeton—”

“Yeah, I am!”

“Remember,” Veronica interrupted, pointedly stabbing his left pectoral with an index finger. “No tequila.”

“Yeah, Princess,” agreed Reggie, softer this time, “I know.”

“Ugh,” groaned Betty as her forehead connected with Kevin’s bicep, issuing a soft laugh from the boy as he patted her ponytail fondly, “Mother Mary and Joseph, what did I get myself into?”

(“A right pickle,” quipped Kevin as he draped an arm around her shoulders, but it fell on deaf ears.)

Nothing is going to be the way that it was, Jughead had echoed the same words he had spoken to her five years ago. We can’t change the past.

She stole a glance at the school entrance, but Jughead was long gone.

Betty could almost imagine him there again.

I am not certain we can forget it, either, Coop.

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kyloren · 7 years ago

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LAURA. I AM CRYING. THIS IS GORGEOUS. 😍

30 days of bughead (6/30) → countdown to season 2 ↳ nikita gill, lost and found

#bughead #otp: bathed in sunlight; drenched in shadows #character: jughead jones #character: betty cooper #pairing: jughead x betty #tv: riverdale #riverdale: gif set

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kyloren · 8 years ago

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would you love me tomorrow (like you say you love me now)

summary: With or without the jacket, the memory knelled over and over, an echoing reverberation permanently affixed in the passageways between the archives of his mind, gnawing at him like a church bell’s toll, you’re a Serpent.

Or, Jughead brings Betty up to speed.

read it on ao3.

“All I know is the way I feel

Whenever you’re around.

You’re got a way of lifting me up,

Instead of bringing me down.”

— Fleetwood Mac, Love In Stone.

PART ONE: you gave me your name and sight with a halo around my eye

There was a sound of a rhythmic rapt of knuckles against the window-pane, and even before she threw open the curtains and pulled up the bottom panel, Betty already knew whose face she’d see.

“Jug,” she breathed out in greeting, equal parts pleased and surprised by his unexpected appearance; a shy smile already creeping onto her face. “What are you doing here?”

Her boyfriend gave jouncy shrug in lieu of an actual answer and then tilted his head, catching her questioning gaze with a darkly glinting eye. The strange expression he bore but moments prior melted into a smirk.

“Arise, fair sun,” he recited, swinging one long leg over the windowsill and slipping into her room with noiseless familiarity, “and kill the envious moon, who is already sick and pale with grief that thou her maid art far more fair than she.”

“Oh, hush, Romeo,” Betty whispered, grinning, and, walking backwards, pulled Jughead further into the room by the wrist. “You don’t want to wake my mom up, do you?”

Truthfully, both of her parents had already doused their habitual dose of Valium and settled down for the night near an hour ago, but Polly was downstairs and half-binging half-napping through a comedy show on Netflix; and it would not be the first time since she returned from Thornhill when, startled by a weird noise, she would panic and rouse the entire Cooper household in her wake. Jughead Jones sneaking about in Betty’s bedroom could definitely constitute as a source of a ‘weird noise’. Thus, Betty, preferring to err on the side of caution, quickly made her way towards her door and locked it.

She turned, half-expecting his mouth to be either twisted into a wry, knowing grin, tongue ready with a tart quip, or for it to slide against her own in a seamless kiss, locking them together for a good half-an-hour in a haze of ardour and romance. Instead, Betty found Jughead directing a thousand-yard stare at her floral wallpaper and absently fingering a thick, gold ribbon she’d wrapped in a bow around a parchment lampshade of her bedside light.

The soft, blue-tinged glow cast ghoulish shadows on his features, highlighting the hollows of his cheeks, the sharp cut of his jaw, and the dark, sooty bruises lining his pale eyes.

Jughead Jones, her boyfriend and possibly-maybe-definitely her soulmate, was darksome and handsome, even at his broodiest. Jughead Jones, the distrait boy in front of her, was sunken-eyed and weary, and twice as pondersome than usual. A troubling picture, indeed.

When she called his name, he did not stir.

What had he been thinking, coming here?

“Jughead?”

Was he thinking at all? Highly unlikely, as he was at an unexpected point of his life when seeking out Betty had become instinctual.

“Jug, you’re scaring me.”

He should not have come here.

But as it often was with all things pertaining to one Betty Cooper, the should of Jughead’s life — that meta-thinking part of him which dissected and compartmentalised his life into digestible segments as if it was a constructible narrative; the part that disassociated Jughead from his own problems as a way to make them bearable and replaced the friendless outsider descriptor with the objective observer in his own book; yes, that integral part of Jughead Jones that kept him sane and resentment-free all those years by turning his feelings of alienation into something productive, something he could work with, by ceaselessly insisting that he did not want other people to understand him and he only ever needed himself — went out the window with a sharp whistle and a parting buddy, you’re in too deep.

“Jug,” Betty’s voice finally pierced the fog of his thoughts as she laid a gentle hand on his shoulder. “Jug, you all right?”

Jughead’s head snapped up sharply, startled. His eyes locked with Betty’s, and he could see the frantic look he bore mirror itself on her face, bleached bone-pale by the streaming moonlight and hauntingly lovely.

With or without the jacket, the memory knelled over and over, an echoing reverberation permanently affixed in the passageways between the archives of his mind, gnawing at him like a church bell’s toll, you’re a Serpent.

“Just peachy,” he quipped, reflexively.

“Jug,” Betty pressed, stepping into his personal space, her fingers burning a path from his shoulder to his sternum. “Talk to me. Please.”

A pause hung between them like the waxing crescent outside. Then:

“There’s a distinct possibility,” Jughead began, slowly and with a resigned sigh; deliberately choosing his words for minimal emotional damage, “that you may…have been…onto something. About the Serpents. About what they…and the jacket…may mean…for me.”

“Jug?”

He hated himself for putting a furrow in her brow and the wavering edge to her tone, but this needed to be addressed. I want to know all of you, she’d insisted and Jughead had never had the willpower to deny Betty anything.

This is me, he thought, this is who I am. Living on the wrong side of luck, the left edge of danger; tethering on the fringes of an abyssal, depthless cliff.

With a soft sigh, he pulled off his beanie, tucking it into a pocket of his denim-jacket, and ran a shaky hand through his damp hair. “Babe, I gotta initiate the Full Disclosure Protocol.”

Betty’s eyes widened; in the moonlighted, twilit bedroom, the vivid brightness of them glowed — they tethered him.

The Full Disclosure Protocol was exactly what it said on the tin — full disclosure, no judgement and no interruptions. They had drafted it in the wake of Jughead’s disastrous birthday celebrations — complete, thorough, and unsurprisingly legally sound, because of course the two of them would utilise legislative language in a pact to facilitate their relationship.

Betty had employed it several times — for the most part to discuss her anxiety issues, the incident with Chuck Clayton, threatening to boil him alive in a hot-tub and promptly forgetting all about that, and, as always, Being a Cracked Cooper™. Jughead, only once — in the wake of his father’s arrest, divulging everything about Toledo, his mother, and the life he would never have.

So Betty nodded, biting her lip anxiously, her heart atwitter, and led her boyfriend towards her bed, pushing him to sit on it with a gentle palm against a bared clavicle. She focused her eyes on that pale strip of skin as she perched next to him, knocking their knees together when he shifted to face her. She watched, transfixed, as Jughead’s adam’s apple bobbed once, then twice, and her eyes lingered on the side of his neck, where a triangle of moles rested, and on the stray, inky curls twisting around his nape.

Reluctantly pulling her eyes away, she focused them on the angled planes of his face instead, and self-consciously tugged on the hem of her skirt and smoothed out the imagined wrinkles of her cardigan. Then:

“All right,” she said after taking a deep breath. “Proceed.”

As he always became when it came to emotional vulnerability, Jughead’s explanation was succinct and matter-of-fact, grimly veracious if a little dry.

He began like this, tone as cool and detached as his expression: “I postulated the attack at Fred Andrews could have been personal. Upon sharing this hypothesis with Archie, he theorised it might have a rogue Serpent with a drudge. So I called Viper and asked him to look into it.

“He did.”

As he explained whom and what he’d found waiting for him in the trailer earlier that evening, Jughead involuntarily reflected on his father and the entailment of his legacy. Serpents take care of their own, F.P. had avowed. Jughead had been cognisant of the moral implications of that statement in the abstract way one was intellectually aware of quantum physics — better not to think on it too much lest you get a skull-splitting headache.

Now, though, his mind was caught in a double think: the ethical line was as stark as a high-contrast shot in a film noir, as homogeneously grey as a winter skyline.

“Hence, I spent the last three hours scrubbing out another man’s blood out of the carpeting because I hadn’t been careful enough with my words,” Jughead concluded the account.

Betty let out a shaky breath he hadn’t realised she’d been holding. “They roughed-up a man because—”

“Because I asked them to,” Jughead cut in, the sight of bloodied brass-knuckles and the stead dripdripdrip of viscous gore seared into his eyelids. Persistently taunting him each time he blinked.

Immediately, Betty grasped his hands with her own, squeezing them tightly. Jughead could feel the fine bones of her fingers pressing alongside his own. “No. No, don’t be like that. It’s not your fault.”

Jughead tilted his head, still not looking at her directly. “Perhaps,” he acquiesced, half-heartedly, “but it is my responsibility.”

Some part of him must have suspected — had to have suspected — it could end in blood; otherwise the events of this night had completely blindsided him, and that was beyond exceptionable and more than utterly intolerable. Such lack of anticipation would mean he had not thought everything through, had not deliberated his actions three steps ahead like he always did, and such blind, over-trusting gullibility was inexcusable.

Serpents take care of their own.

Well, Jughead thought, darkly, talk about a double entendre.

Betty gave his fingers a brief squeeze and Jughead realised with a start that she had neither let go of his hand nor averted her gaze from his face. An overwhelming wave of tender fondness for her surged through him. “Jesus, Jug, they basically made you into their crime boss, haven’t they?”

“Well, technically,” corrected Jughead, because of course he had to, “I’m more of a Michael to my Dad’s Vito — and, yeah, judging from your horrified expression that was a bad analogy. Trust me, Betts, I won’t go the route of good-man-turned-bad. And if by misfortune of fate, I do — you should dump me faster than a used Kleenex.”

“Shut. Up,” Betty exclaimed, a tad more vehemently than he’d expected, and, grabbing a throw pillow from behind him, hit Jughead twice over the head with it, punctuating her words. “Nobody is breaking up with anybody any time soon, and if you know what’s good for you, Jughead Jones, you better not entertain that train of thought again.”

“I yield, I yield,” Jughead gasped and fell backwards onto Betty’s bed, laughing inexplicably. “Corporal Cooper, you have purged me of treasonous thoughts.”

“I had better,” Betty huffed and gave an affected sniff. She looked at him then, laying on his back on top of her mountain of throw-pillows, hands resting across his abdomen, and gaze searching for answers her ceiling did not have.

Her gaze softened. Jughead wasn’t his father or the Serpents or like anyone else she knew. Jughead was Jughead, and…

And she loved him and she was in love with him; these were the irrefutable facts. That alone was enough.

With that in mind, Betty crawled up the bed and slid up next to her boyfriend, inserting herself into his space, and, wrapping an arm around his waist, tucked her head in the crook of his neck.

“This doesn’t change anything,” she whispered, hotly and full of surety, “I love you and I meant what I said earlier — I’m not going anywhere, not even if you ask.”

That’s what I’m afraid of, he wanted to say, but did not. Instead, Jughead angled down his head and slid his mouth against her own in a lingering kiss. It was deep and slow and very sweet, much like the one they shared earlier that afternoon. It melted his fears away. It made her never want to stop.

Except they had and when she sighed, Jughead pressed a his lips against the crown of her golden head, whispering I love you, too; and Betty felt the shimmering ardour inside of her upsurge into a searing blaze, like it had two days ago, fervid and flaming and unstoppable.

She smiled up at him, bright and sweet, and laced her fingers through his, tight and true.

“I love you,” she repeated, and kissed him again.

note: I tried to write this as an exercise to get over my huge writer’s block, but I’m not sure I succeeded. Part two will come as soon as I actually write it. Now, excuse me, I have episode two to watch.

#bughead #bughead fanfiction #otp: bathed in sunlight; drenched in shadows #character: jughead jones #character: betty cooper #pairing: jughead x betty #tv: riverdale #in this tag resides fanfiction #♔: victrix #stark writes #riverdale fanfiction #*

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kyloren · 8 years ago

Note

//bughead prompt// Hi! Can you do something that involves that adorable lock of hair Jughead has? Thanks!

Here you go nonnie! (ﾉ◕ヮ◕)ﾉ*:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ✧

As expected, she found him at Pop’s, sequestered in the far corner booth, methodically hitting his head against the table.

“You know,” Betty began, stifling back a grin, “you’re going to damage something vital doing that.”

Startled by her voice, Jughead jerked upright nearly spilling his coffee and peered up at her with curious eyes. He must have taken off his beanie some time ago, she noted, because a stray forelock fell across his smooth forehead. Pitch-dark and lightless, it twisted lazily in a serpentine curl, and—

Had he always been this cute? was a thought that hit her with all the quiet grace and subtlety of fire-fighting truck. The second thought that sprung in her mind sounded suspiciously like the chiding of Alice Cooper when it streaked across the forefront of her consciousness: That boy is badly in need of a haircut.

A notion with which Betty immediately and vehemently disagreed: surely such would be a disservice to humanity as a whole. Nope. No haircuts for one Juggie Jones.

It was the last thought which made Betty realise with a dizzying start that it was Jughead Jones she had been dumbly staring at and low-key ogling. Thus, circling Betty’s train of thought back to her initial reaction: When had Jug become so cute; and how had I missed it?

Truly, some distant part in the recesses of her mind whispered drily, she has a bright future in investigative journalism with these stellar observational skills she’d been displaying here.

(She would, also, later reflect on how utterly unfair it was that he had a full head of voluminous, curly hair and he kept it hidden under a beanie of all things. Not to mention that the concept of hat-hair did not, apparently, exist in the universe Jughead Jones occupied, because his never seemed to get either flat or frizzy.)

#bughead #bughead fanfiction #character: betty cooper #character: jughead jones #otp: bathed in sunlight; drenched in shadows #pairing: jughead x betty #tv: riverdale #stark writes #riverdale fanfiction #in this tag resides fanfiction #*

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kyloren · 8 years ago

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“You’re so much stronger than all of the white noise. You’re stronger than your mother, you’re stronger than your father. You’re holding this family together. So don’t. Don’t let go.” “I won’t.”

#bughead #bugheadedit #character: jughead jones #jughead jones #jugheadjonesedit #character: betty cooper #betty cooper #bettycooperedit #otp: bathed in sunlight; drenched in shadows #pairing: jughead x betty #tv: riverdale #riverdaleedit #photography and cinemagraphy tag #♔: victrix #mine #myedits #*#mine: riverdale #fyeahriverdale

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kyloren · 8 years ago

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Regarding the Finale and the upcoming Season Two

So, I feel like the finale’s purposeful hinting that Jughead’s possible joining of the Southside Serpents might create tension between him and Betty — given that she obviously gives him a concerned look when he puts on the oh, la la~ jacket, which understandably dampens his spirits some, more on that later — is a sort of red-herring.

The same way the pilot queer-baited viewers, the finale is V→A→B→J-love-square-baiting the audience and stirring up drama just to keep us guessing until Season Two premiere.

The finale established Varchie and Bughead as canonical ships, with the former going from semi-dating to actual dating, and the latter being a solid supercarrier (is it? or is it still a dreadnought?). And while sure, both vessels can hit turbulent waters and, hey, Riverdale is an adaptation of Archie comics, so V/A/B tension is expected (although I have an inkling the A/B part of it might be just from Archie’s side) — we have been hit over the head so many times with the Jughead/Betty and Archie/Veronica soulmate parallels that I honestly think that the show-runners intend those two ships to be eventual endgame. Please, please let Bughead be endgame. #CrossingFingers #HopingNoOneJinxedIt.

But back to my original point; it being that I have a few theories regarding the Southside Serpents storyline. One of which is that Jughead will eventually accept being a Serpent — hopefully with Betty’s support, but maybe without — in order to uncover the truth about the drug-ring in Riverdale and clear the Serpents of the allegations. He and Betty are too much of Intrepid Reporters to let that one go. Plus, Betty’s speech to her mother and then later to the town hinted she will take the truth by its dirty underpants and drag it into the light.

Maybe he won’t even join them in any official capacity, and his putting on the jacket was just the show-runners teasing the audience, but it was a very clear symbolic gesture that his allegiance is now with the Serpents and the Southside, and he will take their side over that of the people of the…err, I guess the Northside…? (Southside is still part of Riverdale, right? Does the better off side of town have a name?)

Somehow I feel like Betty will join him on the whole support the Southside…side. *face-palms* being real eloquent here. But as much as I would want a serpent!Bughead with Betty going all ��Full Dark, No Stars’ on everyone’s asses, I am fairly sure Jughead will ultimately return to Riverdale High after an indeterminate amount of time at Southside High. As much as the Southside accepts him, Betty was right in saying he is Riverdale and he will return to where he is needed soon enough.

Plus, from a meta point of view, it is clear the entire core four is having some sort of Coming of Age storyline with Betty becoming a more confident person who stands up for what she believes in, Jughead coming to terms with his insecurities and finding both a place and the people he belongs with, Archie’s whole find-yourself arc, and Veronica unlocking a well-rounded-person achievement and becoming better, just as she promised to herself to do. So, Jughead’s season two storyline will obviously bring him back to Riverdale High.

All in all, the show-runners are trying for Romeo&Julet, Westside Story vibe for Bughead in the finale, but ultimately I think it is Varchie that will play out the star-crossed lovers theme in Riverdale, given the blatant allusions to the Hiram Lodge-Fred Andrews antagonism, while Bughead will have a more Neutral Good take on the Bonnie&Clyde-esque Battle Couple of Justice and Truth.

If it wasn’t blatantly obvious already, I could probably gush about Bughead moments in Sweet Hereafter for another 3k words, but I shouldn’t. I really shouldn’t. Though I will say this: hand-holding while running through the forest is a pretty underestimated romantic gesture. And now, I’ll try to reign in the Yes, that is my OTP! vibes.

Tangential observation, but I think the reason why Jughead was #WhenHeSmiles over the jacket was because it was concrete proof, along with the whole biker-gang spreading out at his doorstep, that what FP told him — “Serpents take care of their own” — wasn’t just him wishing on a star and stubbornly holding out on the law, but actually adhering to a code. So, Jughead got validation that his father wasn’t just being a stubborn moron and screwing himself over by not taking the deal, but was “sticking by his own”.

Side-bar: Who else teared up a bit when FP told Jughead in a roundabout way that he was proud of him; please, raise a hand?

Also, I think that Archie and Cheryl might not have a romance arc, as much as a substitute-sibling arc where a lot of Cheryl’s unresolved feelings regarding Jason will be projected onto Archie, who actually is a legit good person and probably is the best choice to be their recipient. I just really want those two to bond, okay?

In the same line of thought: Poor Cheryl. She needs a hug and some decent friends because her face in that scene where she was talking to Jughead and Veronica was about to ask her if she was okay, but was interrupted by Archie (or was it Kevin?) who ran there to tell them about Betty’s locker, well, it was just heartbreaking. Seriously #GiveCherylAHug2k17.

I’m fairly sure that Hiram is behind Fred’s shooting. That’s the reason why Hermione was so keen on buying him out; she was trying to protect her friend-slash-ex-lover from her husband, who, need I remind you, had already used violent underhanded tactics against Fred before.

Also, I wouldn’t be surprised in the least if Hiram is involved in the drug trafficking and Clifford landing him in jail was his attempt at cutting Hiram out of it. But it might be just me. I tend to assume Hiram has his fingers in all the pies. All of them.

P.S. Can we go back to Jason, pls? In one of the first episodes Archie said Seventeen-years-old and how he will be remembered?, and when you look at Jason in hindsight, that line can’t help but break my heart.

Although I tend to think of Jason as a Base Breaking Character given how much of his characteristics are expositioned via other people’s subjective opinions of him, so he is very much subjected to Alternative Character Interpretation, he turned out to be a pretty solid kid. I mean, I used to think Cheryl was just waxing poetic about her bro-bro, viewing him through rose-coloured glasses and all that, a point that seemed to have been confirmed in episode 3 with the score-book, but…maybe he wasn’t a wolf in sheep’s clothing like I assumed.

The kid got his girlfriend pregnant, wanted to do the right thing by her, loved her enough to defy his family (Fridge Logic moment, but if Jason and Polly’s babies are ultra-super-Blossom, something Mama Blossom was totes okay with, then why didn’t the Blossoms want him to date Polly? I get why Coopers didn’t want that. Hal is anti-incest and Alice is very anti-Blossom, but C&P are very cool-with-casual-incest parents, so Jason dating Polly wouldn’t have been that horrible a thought for them to swallow.), and started being a drug mule in order to get the funds for them to run away. Which, I guess, was how he figured out Clifford’s involvement with the drug trafficking. Maybe he wanted to do something about that, too; he did have drugs stashed in his getaway car. Jason wasn’t the most upstanding citizen, but he tried to do good and was killed for it. …just…poor kid.

P.P.S. Also, slight confusion over here at my end. Let me get this straight. Jason got drugs A from the Serpents to move them somewhere. Since FP claims they don’t deal with hard stuff, drugs A might be marijuana or something. Somehow Jason found out that Blossoms traffic drugs B, which might be cocaine or something equally hardcore. The same drugs he had stashed in his getaway car. But since the show insists on calling all drugs just ‘the drugs’ and using virtually identical packages in their footage, I am still not sure if drugs A≠drugs B. Give me evidence, I beg you.

Rant over? Rant over.

#bughead #riverdale meta #riverdale headcanon #riverdale spoilers #riverdale theories #character: archie andrews #character: betty cooper #character: jughead jones #character: veronica lodge #pairing: jughead x betty #pairing: archie x veronica #otp: bathed in sunlight; drenched in shadows #tv: riverdale #mila.txt #this tag is meta #♔: victrix #*

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