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persephx · 4 years

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once the coast is clear (1/4)

The Rebellion has defeated The Horde, and, to celebrate, they have a party. Glimmer, the Queen of Bright Moon, can't bring herself to celebrate.

warning: mentions of glimmer’s stay at horde prime’s ship and the trauma from that. there’s also kind of a panic attack.

read on ao3

After everything that happened, a party is the last thing Glimmer wants, but it seems like a good thing to do after defeating Horde Prime and saving Etheria, so she agrees. They don’t even bother to return to Bright Moon, they settle in a field nearby and the party starts right then, right there. Everyone is invited to the event, no matter the kingdom, no matter who they are. Anyone who wants to celebrate the defeat of the Horde and the win of the Rebellion is free to join them, and they sure do. Soon, there are so many people that counting them would give her a nightmare.

They are safe now, and still, Glimmer can’t stop shaking.

She’s leaning against a wall, away from the center of the party, a.k.a. Catra and Adora. From her position, she can see everything that is happening, which makes her feel just a little bit better.

She can see Sea-Hawk dancing, and Mermista pretending she’s embarrassed at him. Even from afar she can see how smitten Mermista really is with him. It’s cute, she can’t help but think, that she still tries to maintain the façade.

If she moves her eyes to the right, she can see Adora and Catra dancing. Well, they are either dancing on making each other promises of what’s to come once they are alone. She can’t only imagine what they must have felt, pining for their best friend for most of their lives and only finding relief now.

Looking at Bow, who is dancing with Scorpia and Perfuma next to them, she realizes she doesn’t have to imagine it.

She’s known Bow for a long time. Sure, not as much as Adora and Catra had known each other, but they’d also never tried to kill the other, so they at least have that. They had exchanged “I love you’s” but they hadn’t talked much since Prime had been defeated. Not really.

She forces herself to look away, and her eyes fall to her father. Her father. He’s talking with her aunt, but they don’t seem angry. She can’t imagine what it must have been like, for either of them. She’d been so young when her father disappeared that she didn’t remember much of him, but her mom and her aunt definitely did. Her mother had died without knowing her dad was alive, and maybe… maybe that had been for the better. She couldn’t imagine what her mom would have felt like if she’d found out that her dad had spent all those years alone in Beast Island. She would have blamed herself, that’s for sure.

Glimmer closes her eyes and slowly lets out the air in her lungs. Then, she breathes again. It hasn’t been long enough since her mother’s death that it doesn’t heart any more.

She’s standing there, with her eyes closed and a party going around her, when someone touches her cheek. Suddenly, the noises of the party disappear. There’s only the feel of someone’s hand in her cheek. The hand is cold. Metal-like. They end sharply. Her breathing stops. Seconds turn into hours. She can only think of cold, green eyes. Soulless. Looking right at her as they show her her friends’ deaths.

She pushes the person away before she even opens her eyes. Only when she does, she sees King Micah of Bright Moon looking at her with wide eyes and an alarmed expression. For a moment, his dark eyes seem bright green, but then the illusion breaks, his image going back to normal. Glimmer is still shaking.

“Are you okay, Glimmer?” her father asks slowly.

She hates the way he’s looking at her. They are strangers, really, they don’t know each other yet, they haven’t had the opportunity, and she hates that too. Her eyes travel to Hordak, awkwardly hoovering over Entrapta; they will have to deal with that, too. She can’t look at him without feeling nauseous, so she looks away, just for now.

“I’m fine.” She gives him a smile. It’s a fake one, but she’s gotten better at faking since she met Adora, and he doesn’t know her well enough to know the difference between that and a real smile. Still, she relents. “Just tired.”

She doesn’t like the way he’s looking at her, but she maintains her smile. “If you need something…” He seems so unsure that it breaks her heart. At the same time, she doesn’t know how she would make him feel better, she’s unsure herself.

“I will,” she answers, knowing what he wants to say. When he turns to walk away, she grabs his hand. She holds it in hers and sighs for what she’s lost. “Before me and the others leave, I would like to spend some time with you.”

She’s unsure even as she says this. She sees the way his eyes shine and, still, she fears he will say no.

But, instead of a rejection, she gets a soft smile and a nod. “Nothing would make me happier,” he answers, and, for the first time, it sounds like he’s speaking to a queen, somber and definitive. Glimmer can’t say she doesn’t like it.

“Go back with aunt Castaspella, I’m going to get some air,” she says. She can tell that he wants to say something else, but, thankfully, he changes his mind and just nods. “And have fun,” she can see his tired eyes, “you deserve it.” She tries to keep his chipped self away from her mind, but she’s unsuccessful. She tries to hide her unease, though, and she must be doing a good job, because he nods.

She looks at his back as he walks back to where he was before coming to speak to her and she sighs. It feels like she’s been sighing the whole night, but there’s nothing she’s going to do about it. She does as she said she would and walks away.

The field they’re at is surrounded by rocks, and it looks nothing like what she’s used to, but she can see a forest not too far. She yearns, and she teleports. She’s glad her powers aren’t limited anymore, it’s liberating, it’s relieving. It’s good that she can feel her magic. She remembers how it had felt in Prime’s ship, the lack of magic. It had been… so weird. She had felt like she couldn’t breathe properly for the whole time, and only getting to Etheria had made it better. Teleporting for the first time had been liberating. It had been proof that she could do it again, that she was full again. That she wasn’t useless.

She is in the forest in a blink. It’s not the Whispering Woods, because there’s nothing like the Whispering Woods, but it reminds her of home, and that’s enough to calm the shaking in her hands. It doesn’t stop, though. It hasn’t stopped all evening. She’s worried, but voicing her concerns makes them real, and she doesn’t want that either. So she sits there, on a root, with her knees drawn to herself and her arms hugging them. She sits there, breathing slowly, hoping to shake the shaking.

She’s not sure of how much time has passed, but someone interrupts her, sitting right in front of her. Bow. It’s always Bow.

“Hi,” he says. He’s smiling at her, and she can tell he’s worried. She smiles at him and she’s sure he can tell that her heart is not into it.

He looks... so normal. Bow has been the one thing that has stayed the same throughout the war. They’ve had their ups and downs, but he’s always been there. And then and there he looks like home. He looks like afternoons spent teleporting until she’s empty. He looks like arrows stuck to her wall with cute doodles and short messages. He looks like nights spent in the Whispering Woods looking for adventure. He looks like her Bow.

She can’t help it. She starts crying.

#glimbow #spop #spop fic #glimmer #bow #glimmer-centric #ao3 #she-ra #she-ra and the princesses of power #she-ra glimbow #glimbow fic #she-ra fic #persephx #once the coast is clear #my fic

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damess-bea-blog · 4 years

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[ & ; * - naomi scott / bisexual / she/her ] isn’t it weird how close { beatrice ‘bea’ dames } resembles { naomi scott }? damn, i heard they are a { 22 } year old { undergraduate } and a member of { kωπ } studying { film studies }. outside of class { bea } participates in { film and gymnastics } and their party anthem is { wicked ones } by { dorothy }.

Ingla Khatri was an up and coming Bollywood actress. She was only seventeen years old and considered the hottest young star in Hollywood. When the acclaimed Director Eric Dames arrived in India to film his latest blockbuster, it wasn’t long before Ingla caught his eye, despite being 15 years her senior, he promised to make her a star both in her home country and internationally.

They spent the next two years together, Eric claiming that Ingla was his muse for his work and Ingla always duitfully by his side. However, it didn’t take long for Hollywood to realise that Ingla was the true talent of the two and Eric feared losing his cash train.

It was then that Ingla found herself pregnant with their daughter and seven months later Beatrice Dames was born, hauntingly resembling her mother and seemingly winning the hearts of everyone in the hospital.

Ingla quit her budding career to raise Beatrice while Eric continued to flit around the world, still continuing to make his blockbuster films and always gushing about his perfect family back home.

Though it was far from picture perfect; her father would often be caught with the newest startlet on his arm while her mother retreated more into herself, mourning over the career she lost because of a slightly jilted Director.

It wasn’t long before Beatrice got that wonderful taste of fame. Accompanying her father on film sets and being enticed from a young age by the bright lights of the set and the fame and praise that came with being in front of a camera.

She was determined to be the next big Hollywood startlet, not the mundane ones of today but the true classics like Bette Davis and Vivien Leigh, Audrey, Katherine- the ones whose name would remain in lights forever.

Except one minor problem; Beatrice just wasn’t that great at acting. Her lines were stilted, she lacked the natural charisma her mother had or the eye for directing like her father. Though that didn’t stop her from pursuing a life in the spotlight.

When she failed to make the Yale drama program, the next option was Film and Television, where she discovered that she had a talent for screenwriting, something she’d never considered before since her father had always told her that screenwriting was for ugly broads.

As Beatrice has gotten older, she’s seen the type of man her father is and what he did to her mother, determined to never allow that to happen to her- though she always gives the illusion that she comes from a picture perfect Hollywood family.

Facts of life:

Has always preferred to be called Bea, believing it’s far more memorable than Beatrice.

Has a strained relationship with both her parents- her father always off shooting another film and her mother growing to resenting Beatrice.

Definitely a drama queen, loves to make a scene over everything.

Likes to dress in vintage clothes- big mink coats, long dresses, vintage sunglasses.

Considers her red lipsticks and long dark curls her trademark.

Still believes she is destined to be the next great screenwriter.

Loves a good party, always seen dancing the night away on the dancefloor.

Every relationship she has ever had, Bea has ultimately ended up cheating on them mainly due to her getting bored and not knowing how a stable relationship works.

Tends to call her parents by their first names.

Grew up in Beverly Hills but spent a lof time travelling to movie sets with her father.

Mainly raised at home by nannies.

Possible connections:

regular hookup - someone Bea hooks up with.

Ex-relationship - they dated but Bea cheated on them.

unfaithful - a person could’ve cheated with.

One night stand - they could’ve been drunk or just a casual night.

friends with benefits - more benefits than friends, honestly.

ride or die - the one person who can handle Bea’s dramatics.

like siblings - the sibling that Bea never had.

old friends - perhaps they knew each other growing up.

frenemies - stabbing you in the back is easier.

enemies - they cannot stand the sight of one another.

#yale:intro #just hit that heart #if you'd like to plot

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acsversace-news · 6 years

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Ryan Murphy hates the word “camp.” He sees it as a lazy catchall that gets thrown at gay artists in order to marginalize their ambitions, to frame their work as niche. “I don’t think that when John Waters made ‘Female Trouble’ that he was, like, ‘I want to make a camp piece,’ ” Murphy told me last May, as we sat in a production tent in South Beach, Florida, where he was directing the pilot of “American Crime Story: The Assassination of Gianni Versace,” a nine-episode series for FX. “I think that he was, like, ‘It’s my tone—and my tone is unique.’ ”

Murphy prefers a different label: “baroque.” Between shots, the showrunner—who has overseen a dozen television series in the past two decades—elaborated, with regal authority, on this idea. To Murphy, “camp” describes not irony but something closer to clumsiness, the accident you can’t look away from. People rarely use the term to describe a melodrama made by a straight man; even when “camp” is meant as a compliment, it contains an insult, suggesting a musty smallness. “Baroque” is big. Murphy, referring to TV critics (including me) who have applied “camp” to his work, said, “I will admit that it really used to bug the shit out of me. But it doesn’t anymore.”

We were outside the Casa Casuarina, the Mediterranean-style mansion that the Italian fashion designer Gianni Versace renovated and considered his masterwork—a building with airy courtyards and a pool inlaid with dizzy ribbons of red, orange, and yellow ceramic tiles. A small bronze statue of a kneeling Aphrodite stood at the top of the mansion’s front steps. In 1997, a young gay serial killer named Andrew Cunanan shot Versace to death there as the designer, who was fifty, was returning from his morning stroll.

The previous day, Murphy had filmed the murder scene. Cunanan was played by Darren Criss, a star of Murphy’s biggest hit, “Glee.” I’d visited the set that day, too, arriving to find ambulances, cops, and paparazzi swarming outside. There was a splash of red on the marble steps. Inside the house, Edgar Ramirez, the Venezuelan actor playing Versace, sat in a shaded courtyard, his hair caked with gun-wound makeup, his face lowered in his hands.

Now Murphy was filming the aftermath of the crime, including a scene in which two lookie-loos dip a copy of Vanity Fair into the puddle of Versace’s blood. (They sell the relic on eBay.) The vibe was an odd blend of sombre and festive; a half-naked rollerblader spun in slow circles on the sidewalk next to the beach. Murphy, who is fifty-three, is a stylish man, but on set he wore the middle-aged male showrunner’s uniform: baggy cargo shorts and a polo shirt. He has a rosebud mouth and close-cropped vanilla hair. He is five feet ten but has a brawny air of command, creating the illusion that he is much taller. His brother is six feet four, he told me, as was his late father; Murphy thinks that his own growth was stunted by chain-smoking when he was a rebellious teen-ager, in Indiana.

Murphy’s mood tends to shift unexpectedly, like a wonky thermostat—now warm, now icy—but on the “Versace” set he made one confident decision after another about the many shows he was overseeing, as if skipping stones. He also answered stray questions—about the casting for a Broadway revival of “The Boys in the Band” that he was producing, about a grand house in Los Angeles that he’d been renovating for two years. “Ooh, yes!” he said, inspecting penis-nosed clown masks that had been designed for his series “American Horror Story.” He approved a bespoke nail-polish design for an actress. A producer handed Murphy an updated script, joking, “If there’s a mistake, you can drown me in Versace’s pool!,” then scheduled a notes meeting for “American Crime Story: Katrina,” whose writers were working elsewhere in the building. Now and then, Murphy FaceTimed with his then four-year-old son, Logan, who, along with his two-year-old brother, Ford, was in L.A. with Murphy’s husband, David Miller.

“I never get overwhelmed or feel underwater, because I feel like all good things come from detail,” Murphy told me. It’s what got him to this point: the compulsion, and the craving, to do more. “Baroque is a sensibility I can get behind,” he said. “Baroque is a maximalist approach to storytelling that I’ve always liked. Baroque is a choice. And everything I do is an absolute choice.”

Murphy’s choices, perhaps more than those of any other showrunner, have upended the pieties of modern television. Like a wild guest at a dinner party, he’d lifted the table and slammed it back down, leaving the dishes broken or arranged in a new order. Several of Murphy’s shows have been critically divisive (and, on occasion, panned in ways that have raised his hackles). But he has produced an unusually long string of commercial and critical hits: audacious, funny-peculiar, joyfully destabilizing series, in nearly every genre. His run started with the satirical melodrama “Nip/Tuck” (2003), then continued with the global phenomenon “Glee” (2009) and with “American Horror Story,” now entering its eighth year, which launched the influential season-long anthology format. His legacy is not one standout show but, rather, the sheer force and variety and chutzpah of his creations, which are linked by a singular storytelling aesthetic: stylized extremity and rude humor, shock conjoined with sincerity, and serious themes wrapped in circus-bright packaging. He is the only television creator who could possibly have presented Lily Rabe as a Satan-possessed nun, gyrating in a red negligee in front of a crucifix while singing “You Don’t Own Me,” and have it come across as an indelible critique of the Catholic Church’s misogyny.

When Murphy entered the industry, he sometimes struck his peers as an aloof, prickly figure; he has deep wounds from those years, although he admits that he contributed to this reputation. Nonetheless, Murphy has moved steadily from the margins to television’s center. He changed; the industry changed; he changed the industry. In February, Murphy rose even higher, signing the largest deal in television history: a three-hundred-million-dollar, five-year contract with Netflix. For Murphy, it was a moment of both triumph and tension. You can’t be the underdog when you’re the most powerful man in TV.

On that sunny afternoon in South Beach, however, Murphy was still comfortably ensconced in a twelve-year deal with Fox Studios. On FX, which is owned by Fox, he had three anthology series: “American Horror Story”; “American Crime Story,” for which he was filming “Versace,” writing “Katrina,” and planning a season based on the Monica Lewinsky scandal; and “Feud,” whose first season starred Susan Sarandon as Bette Davis and Jessica Lange as Joan Crawford.

For Fox, he was developing “9-1-1,” a procedural about first responders. He had announced two shows for Netflix: “Ratched,” a nurse’s-eye view of “One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest,” starring Sarah Paulson; and “The Politician,” a satirical drama starring Ben Platt. Glenn Close was trying to talk him into directing her in a movie version of the Andrew Lloyd Webber musical “Sunset Boulevard.” Murphy was writing a book called “Ladies,” about female icons. He had launched Half, a foundation dedicated to diversity in directing, and had committed to hiring half of his directors from underrepresented groups. And, he told me, there was something new: a series for FX called “Pose,” a dance-filled show set in the nineteen-eighties.

It was no mystery which character in his current series Murphy most identified with: Gianni Versace himself. Versace was a commercially minded artist whose brash inventions were dismissed by know-nothings as tacky, and whose openness about his sexuality threatened his ascent in a homophobic era. Versace, too, was a baroque maximalist, Murphy told me, who built his reputation through fervid workaholism—an insistence that his vision be seen and understood. “He was punished and he struggled,” Murphy said, then spoke in Versace’s voice: “Why aren’t I loved for my excess? Why don’t they see something valid in that?”

[...] Murphy has long been a connoisseur of extremes and hyperbole, games and theatricality. He rates everything he sees and revels in institutions that do the same—the Oscars are a kind of religion for him. In Miami, at dinner with the “Katrina” and “Versace” writers, he played a high-stakes game in which he was forced to immediately choose one person in his circle over another; he demurred only when the choice was between Jessica Lange and Sarah Paulson. His go-to question is “Is it a hit or a flop?,” and he asked it about every show that came up in conversation, as I observed him giving shape to “Pose,” from scouting locations to editing dance footage. (He has other stock phrases. “What’s the scoop?” is how he begins writers’ meetings. “Energy begets energy” explains his impulse to add new projects. “That’s interesting” sometimes indicates “That’s worth noticing” but just as often means “That’s infuriating.”)

[...] His multitasking benefits greatly from the freedoms of cable and streaming: he has zero nostalgia for the twenty-two-episode network grind of a show like “Glee,” in which “halfway through Episode 15 you had nothing left to say, the actors were sick, the writers were sick, and it was fucking oatmeal until the end.” He favors eight or ten episodes, often with a small writers’ room, as with “Pose.” He writes scripts for some shows, whereas for others he gives notes; on a few projects, like his HBO adaptation of Larry Kramer’s play “The Normal Heart,” he’s very hands-on. “We left blood on the dance floor,” Murphy said, affectionately, of his three-year collaboration with Kramer. “Versace” had one writer, Tom Rob Smith. But Murphy provided close directorial, design, and casting oversight, and he had a strong commitment to the show’s themes, particularly the contrast between Versace and Cunanan, two gay men craving success, but only one willing to work for it.

[...] In the meanwhile, Murphy had scored a ratings bonanza with Fox’s “9-1-1,” a wackadoo procedural featuring stories like one about a baby caught in a plumbing pipe. It was his parting gift to Dana Walden. “Versace” had been, by certain standards, a flop: lower ratings, mixed reviews. Artistically, though, it was one of Murphy’s boldest shows, with a backward chronology and a moving performance by Criss as Cunanan, a panicked dandy hollowed out by self-hatred. After the finale aired, a new set of reviews emerged. Matt Brennan, on Paste, argued that “Versace” had been subjected to “the straight glance”—a critical gaze that skims queer art, denying its depths. “Even critics sympathetic to the series seem as uncomfortable with its central subject as the Miami cops were with those South Beach fags,” Brennan wrote. Murphy was reading a new oral history of Tony Kushner’s “Angels in America,” in which, in one scene, Roy Cohn denies being gay because, he barks, homosexuals lack power: they are “men who know nobody and who nobody knows.” The line echoes one in “Versace.” A homeless junkie dying of aids tells the cops, bitterly, why gay men couldn’t stop talking about the designer: “We all imagined what it would be like to be so rich and so powerful that it doesn’t matter that you’re gay.”

#acs versace #ryan murphy #the new yorker #interview #article #may 2018

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wordsonpages1-blog · 7 years

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beautiful surprises and realism

still going with my 500 celebrations... another from Perfect Enigma series on ff.net. Basically this is a composite to Admiration to Love [I couldn’t get the link b/c my computer was not cooperating but check the bughead tag or my page and it will there, was posted just before this one] and details Betty’s journey of falling in love with Jughead. Enjoy xx

At first falling for Jughead had taken Betty by surprise. The familiar butterflies catching her off guard as they erupted in her stomach for an unfamiliar reason- these butterflies were ebony, blacking out the usual red. He had strolled into her room with a typical sardonic comment on his lips and standard beanie. However, his jeans, boots and flannel shirt had been replaced with a well-fitting suit and tie, suspenders actually across his chest for once and not hanging by his legs. He had shied under her gaze, boyish smile gracing his face as she obviously appraised him with her eyes. She thinks part of her always registered that Jughead was attractive, but that afternoon her mind was cleared of the fog of childish fantasies and she was able to see him in all his gentlemanly glory. She was surprised by the urge to run her fingers through his hair, the urge to smooth down his shirt and fiddle with the spenders. She was definitely surprised, but certainly not perturbed.

And from that day forward, Betty felt like she was finally awake. It was as though she had been living in a dream, a glossy illusion that was obstructing her from seeing the big picture, from seeing the truth and most importantly from seeing him. Suddenly she was awake and alive and all the glorified, too bright colours from that dream were replaced with realistic shadows and sharp lines. She was no longer living in a fantasy of vivid rainbows, scorching red and white picket fences. Instead she was revelling in reality, accepting the darkness and allowing herself to become enthralled with details, discovering black was not a singular shade and that the moon could actually outshine the sun.

But the thing that surprised Betty the most about falling in love with Jughead Jones is that when she thought about it, it didn’t really surprise her at all. In fact once all the dream like smoke cleared and she was left with the mirrors, every little moment came rushing back and she was suddenly acutely aware that it had been him all this time. He had always been her rock, her constant, hers. He was always the one who noticed, who consoled, who took care of her just like she did him. And they fell together so naturally, so effortlessly, without expectation or pressure and it was so utterly, catastrophically perfect.

She was five years old the first time they met and although she can’t recall much from that period of her youth, she remembers that day with a transparent clarity. Polly had gotten exceptionally ill and her parents had rushed to the hospital placing her in the care of the Andrew’s until they returned. She remembered feeling confused, but more than happy to spend a few hours playing with Archie. She was surprised though when she entered the backyard to find a boy she did not recognise. He was dressed in a silly hat, placed upon the beanie he already had on, a feather sticking out the top and an eyepatch over his face. They had looked at each other curiously for a few moments before Archie appeared dressed in an equally amusing costume, smiling and proudly announcing, “Betty this is Jughead, he’s my best friend. Jughead this is Betty she’s my girl best friend.” The red headed boy had run back to their “pirate ship” after that. Jughead eyed her sceptically, even then at the tender age of five his dark brows knitted together and his green eyes deepened with apprehension. The tiny blonde haired girl shuffled nervously, shooting him a bright smile.

“Can I play too?” she asked shyly. The little pirate seemed to consider that for a moment before breaking into a big grin and passing her his hat, “I’ll be on your team.”

He surprised her that day, not only in his very presence but in the way that he had accepted her almost immediately. He had let in to the little world he and Archie had created in the backyard and trusted her not to destroy it but rather add another layer. Sure at five years old neither was really aware of that fact, but in retrospect, knowing everything she does now about his childhood and his life, the fact was he had trusted her with something deeply personal and that was the beginning of them.

And from that moment onwards he had never, ever let her down. He had been on her team every day, weathering every storm with her even when the rain was so heavy she couldn’t see that he was standing a few feet in front of her, waiting it out. His loyalty was something she had tried to never take for granted, especially when everyone else around him seemed to. He was loyal in a fierce manner that she learned made her heart ache, and yearn to repay that loyalty, to show him that it wasn’t in vain, that she could stand beside him and weather his every storm too.

When they were ten Betty began to learn that people could let you down sometimes no matter how much good you saw in them, they weren’t always perfect. She learned that Archie, although her best friend, wasn’t always the most reliable friend in the world. She was young and naïve and pretty much worshipped the ground he walked on. But the infatuation was not mutual. On her tenth birthday the bubbly little girl was left sorely disappointed as her neighbour was guilty of forgetting her birthday. She had shown up to school practically bouncing with excitement awaiting the special treatment children typically received from their peers and especially their friends on the day that was entirely theirs. Instead she was greeted with ramblings of the guitar lessons he had just started. She remembered trying her best to put on a brave face that day, furiously blinking back tears and fisting the sleeves on her new pastel pink cardigan tightly. She had never felt as invisible in her young life as she did that day. Well actually that morning, because as soon as her other best friend, a certain beanie wearing raven haired, boy had arrived at school-late and looking slightly flustered- her day instantly improved. He had rushed into the classroom, plunking down at the desk across from her and hastily passing her a poorly wrapped package across the table.

“Happy Birthday Betts,” he whispered, finishing the exclamation with a slight smile before turning his attention to the teacher who was now lecturing him on punctuality and demanding a signed note- she learnt later he didn’t have one because his mum was working and his dad refused to take him to get her present, so he had ran to get it before turning up to school. Inside the parcel was a diary, soft pink to match her sweater with a gold B on the front. Her eyes positively glowed with gratitude and appreciation. As soon as their teacher wasn’t paying attention she reached over to grab his hand. “Thanks Juggie,” she whispered, her smile back to its bright origin and a new glow surrounding her.

That day she learnt that Jughead was especially good at making her feel important. He made her feel like she mattered to someone and that she was worth remembering. He made her feel special and happy and light. And maybe at ten she didn’t understand the gravity of that feeling. She didn’t know that happiness and ease trumped fawning. She didn’t know that mutual admiration and appreciation was much better than infatuation and she was ignorant to the value of safety and stability. But looking back it all made sense. It was always him, remembering the details, paying attention. And although she was oblivious to the fact until recently, she had been paying attention too. She had always seen him.

When Betty was thirteen she learned that she could pull down her defences with him. One of the things she had always admired most about Jughead was his ability to read a situation and know the right thing, or something akin to that to say. It was the beginning of autumn and the nights were still rather warm, cool breeze alleviating the heat but not extracting the pleasant essence. Her parents had been particularly agitated since they had gotten home, arguing over the newspaper layout and letting their stress and frustration seep into their parenting. Betty had been at the kitchen table doing her homework when her mother erupted in a tirade. It was an ink mark on her chin from where she had been resting her pen, deep in thought that had set it off. Alice Cooper had launched into a lecture about the importance of presentation and that sloppiness was not tolerated in their family. She told Betty that she should’ve known better and that her slacking off didn’t reflect well on the family- they had certain expectations of themselves and others held certain expectations of them that they would meet and her lack of respect for such things and clearly herself was not good enough.

It didn’t end there though. She couldn’t remember now what else they had been said but she knew that night was filled with arguments and lectures and pressures to be perfect. She didn’t know what her tipping point was but she remembered suddenly being outside and feeling the liberating night air against her skin. She had looked toward Archie’s window first hoping to see some light there to no avail. She had tried calling him before her spur of the moment prison break but he hadn’t answered, texting her a few minutes later to say that he couldn’t pick up because he was busy but he would walk her to school tomorrow and they could talk then. Her heart had dropped at the message, causing more tears to spring to her eyes and further blur her vision. She took off down the street then needing to escape, to run, to be free, to let it out. Eventually she found herself curled up inside her childhood haven; Jughead’s tree house. The wooden planks encapsulated innocence and care free days- days of pure joy and childhood amusement. It made her feel warm and safe for a little while. Like maybe it was all just a bad dream that she could out run. A little while later she was joined by her peculiarly named friend, now a lanky and slightly awkward adolescent. He had clambered into the tree house and startled upon the sight of her.

At first neither of them spoke, both too surprised to say anything and not yet willing to give anything away. He moved with miniscule hesitancy to sit beside her where she rested against the wall, his body heat radiating through his Dad’s old flannel and warming her skin. She didn’t chance a look at him this close, not wanting to draw attention to her dishevelled state. But she could feel his attentive eyes on her and waited until he had finished his examination to see what would come out of his mouth.

“Needed an escape?” he finally asked and Betty found herself suddenly extremely grateful that she was in Jughead’s company. He always seemed to know what to say to her. Always seemed to know when to point out the obvious and when- like now- to hedge around the subject until she was ready to confront it. She nodded and offered him a small, strained smile. He sighed, looking unsure for a moment.

Another second passed and she suddenly realised that her presence in this little sanctuary wasn’t the only anomaly at this time of night. “What are you doing here?” she implored him as her curiosity piqued. Jughead shrugged. “Couldn’t sleep. Too much noise at my house.” He wasn’t lying to her, that much she knew. He had never been good at lying to her and the thought of that both warmed her heart at her friend’s soft spot for her and simultaneously made her want to laugh at the absurdity of it; Jughead Jones, cool, apathetic, aloof, Jughead Jones being eaten alive by guilt at lying to his best friend, sweet, innocent, Betty Cooper. But Betty knew he was still hiding something from her. She let him though. Tonight wasn’t the time to pry, she was too emotionally exhausted for that and he didn’t seem ready to share.

Eventually the silence weighed on her and she felt as though she would implode if she didn’t shed her conscience to him.

“They want me to be perfect Jug, and I can’t be that.”

She felt so defeated in that moment, so tired and weak and done. He looked at her with studying, piercing green eyes though, eyes that held such empathy and compassion and something else she didn’t recognise and for a moment she felt a little better. She felt a little less broken and could breathe a little easier.

Finally he scooted closer to her, nudging her side and saying, “You don’t need to worry about that Betts, you’re perfect just the way you are.” His words were so kind and honest, she wanted with everything she had to believe them but there was something inside her that wouldn’t quite let her do that. She took in a shaky breath not wanting the damn to break again, and voiced that shred of doubt to him. She didn’t know what it was, but there was something so honest about his presence that made her feel like she could confess everything and she knew he would never judge.

“But I’m not Jug. Not to them. And no matter how hard I try to be perfect, to be who they want, she’ll always find something out of place, something to pick on. Tonight it was an ink smudge. How stupid is that? I’m apparently forsaking the family name because I had an ink smudge on my face.” She shook her head incredulously, blonde waves cascading over her shoulders wildly. Jughead sighed again, shaking his head . Then he did something that really surprised her. Placing his hand on the floor of the little hut, Jughead swiped his fingers along the wood, gathering a small collection of dirt. Then he steadily moved his fingers up to rest on her cheek, she inhaled sharply not prepared for the intimate touch. He carefully smoothed them across the skin leaving a small smudge of dirt. Then he moved his hand down to the collar of her button up shirt, gripping on side and scrunching before removing his fingers. She raised an eyebrow at him in shock. The dark haired boy just let out a small chuckle, rubbing the back of his neck as his cheeks became slightly flushed.

“You’re perfect Betts, just how you are, including all the little messy pieces. You’re perfect even when you’re dishevelled and feeling all over the place. They’re part of you. And you-the real you, not the you they force you to be- is perfect, the real kind of perfect, not the false idea of it your parents have.”

That was the night she learned to try and embrace her messy little pieces and quirks. She learned it was okay not be put together all the time and that he was always going to be there to remind her of such a fact. That night she felt that same elated feeling, the one where her heart contracted and her chest warmed and she felt a dizzying sense of affection for him. At thirteen she was still living in the blissful fairy tale of Archie Andrews, but she was not oblivious to the safety and the sanctity that was Jughead Jones. He brought her serenity when everyone else drove her mad. He made her feel better when nothing else could. She chalked it up to the very best of friendship only to realise later it had never been that. Because it takes someone special to make you feel that way. It takes a specific person to have such a calming, tranquilising affect. Because it’s so very rare to find that someone who accepts all of you and knows you entirely. It was never just friendship. That’s what’s surprising.

When Betty was fifteen her family life was escalating in intensity, her sister’s decisions although admirable, made their roof more difficult to live under. Her mother’s eye became even more watchful than usual, picking up the most subtle flaws and out of place features, fixing her and making sure she retained the perfect image to make up for Polly’s disgraces. She was running herself dry, picking up an abundance of extracurricular activities to please her mother and studying almost every second she was at home in order to maintain her perfect grades. It was exhausting and it was getting to her. Everything was becoming difficult, getting out of bed was a chore and darkness began to seep its way into her ‘glowing’ life. She despised the darkness then because she felt like she couldn’t control it, like it was going to consume her and it was frightening beyond belief.

She wanted to relax, to let her mind ease but she had no time for that. Her mother noticed she was becoming more introverted at home and Betty told her she was “just tired”. That’s when Alice started with the Adderall. Bringing it to her one afternoon with a spiel about all the benefits it would have, allowing her to focus more and concentrate harder. Betty didn’t want it but she took it. If she didn’t she knew her mother would force it down her throat, making up for every ounce of control she was losing with Polly.

It was just before finals when she burnt out, getting barely two hours of sleep the night before due to her compulsive stress induced need to study. She skipped breakfast due to waking up late. She had been in a rush to get dressed, her appearance was still aligned and almost on par with her usual flawless, respectable image; only those looking closely would have noticed her ponytail slightly askew, single crease in her shirt- Jughead noticed. She had barely been able to keep her eyes open throughout her morning classes, her locker was jammed and Archie-her lab partner- had forgotten to write his half of their report. By lunch she was hanging on her last piece of sanity, which of course was quickly shed by none other than Cheryl Blossom whom “accidentally” knocked Betty’s tray right out of her hands. The blonde had snapped, fleeing the scene as quickly as her legs could carry her, tears flowing freely and nails digging into her palms. She only stopped when she found an empty classroom, quickly sinking down behind the teacher’s desk and brining her knees to her chest and hoping that maybe if she wrapped her arms around herself tight enough she wouldn’t fall apart.

The door squeaked open after a few minutes; she looked up surprised to see Jughead timidly poised in the doorway. She looked at him, blue eyes glistening with tears, shaking breaths leaving her lungs. She felt vulnerable and defeated and could not find the strength to pull her walls back up and continue with the perfect façade. Jughead didn’t linger any longer, taking purposeful strides toward her and crouching down before her eyes. He was much taller than her now, puberty causing him to shoot up and his frame , although still lanky was beginning to resemble a man’s rather than a boy’s.

“Hiding doesn’t usually make things better,” he stated gently, his eyes soft and his voice calming. Betty choked on a sob, wiping her eyes before answering with a broken, “No, but it prevents a spectacle.”

He offered a wry smile, appreciating her whit even when she was at her worst. “Betts, don’t hide okay? If you need to get away, that’s fine. And if you need to let it out, that’s fine too. But don’t hide away, don’t hide all of this behind smiles.”

He was looking her straight in the eye, speaking with such conviction she couldn’t help but agree with his words, trusting him fully in that moment and letting his sense of safety overwhelm her. Betty nodded but he didn’t yet seem appeased. Searching her face for a moment he seemed to decide on something, before lifting his hand to her cheek. At first she thought he was going to wipe the tears away in a cliché gesture that seemed very antithetical to his personality. She was surprised though when instead he swiped his thumb gently downward on her cheek, smudging the black residue of her mascara in a distinct trail.

“Nobody’s got it all together, it’s okay to fall apart.” He offered her a small smile which she returned with her own watery grin, her mind conjuring images of the two of them in a tree house years ago on a dark night, with dirt smudges and affirmations that perfect was overrated. It sent warmth radiating through her that he remembered that and that he embraced her flaws, rather than holding her to the same expectations as everyone else.

Looking back now, Betty didn’t know why she was surprised by his actions that day. She supposed it was because she was still blind to the world he could offer her, too focussed on chasing that perfect image. But once that image fell away and she was left with darkness she finally let herself be drawn in by him, finding home in his deep ebony skies and noir lighting. She found comfort in the messy reality he put forth and recognised the affection he sparked deep within her soul. When he kissed her it felt like the most natural thing in the world, dispelling shock and delving into belonging. It was like he pulled up the blinds and she could finally see the view. She could finally realise that he was her constant and that stability and safety and warmth and love and dependence and selflessness were much more romantic and desirable than grand gestures and pining. She finally realised he had always been there noticing her, taking care of her. And suddenly it wasn’t a surprise at all.

The realisation was accompanied with a sense of clarity unrivalled.

So when he helped set up the search party for Polly and accompanied her to the baby shower and told her not to let go and that she was stronger than the white noise, told her that she was holding her family together with such conviction in his voice she was not surprised. And when he grabbed her collar in his trademark way of showing her being a little messy, dishevelled and broken was okay and he still adored her none the less, she wasn’t surprised. Instead she was touched, and filled with a deep sense of affection and adoration for the man before her. She yearned for his touch and when he embraced her in his arms, protecting her from the evils of the world, holding her steady, keeping her strong, she felt at peace, no longer taken aback by the way he could elicit such feelings.

No, now the only thing that managed to surprise her was that she had probably been falling in love with Jughead Jones her whole life and only now was letting herself see it.

#bughead #bughead fanfiction #jetty #betty x jughead

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sicklylittlesnowflake · 7 years

Note

Riverdale request!!: something with Jughead having a bad Bad cold and sneezes all over betty while she takes care of him and she ends up getting Sick. Thank you!! Idk if you're taking requests so I'm sorry if I'm disturbing you!!

(Yo anon! Since my Jughead is aro/ace, or maybe gray aro, this is platonic Bughead!! :)) Hope that’s cool with you!! Anyway, thanks so much for the prompt, it was fun writing it! I absolutely love Jughead and Betty interactions and I think they work so well together!! Also anon ur not disturbing me, silly! I loved it!! I’m always up for your requests!)

Jughead sneezed harshly into his t-shirt for what was probably the hundredth time that morning. The process of sneezing over and over again was exhausting and he felt so drained from the repeated process.

Archie winced as he watched the boy weakly muster out his sneezes, despite how weak he clearly was his sneezes still came out with brute force, which clearly didn’t help his weakened state.

Jughead had been sick for about two days at this stage. He had given off the odd extra sneeze and cough here in there to begin with, then his voice became a little stuffy and Jughead initially blamed it on allergies, then went to bed. The next day he had a full blown cold, and had gone to school. Archie found him standing outside his history classroom when he had gone to the bathroom sneezing his lungs out, and then learned that he was kicked out of the test because of how much he was disrupting the class.

“I don’t want to leave him alone like this, dad,” Archie expressed to Fred who was standing a few feet away from him.

“Neither do I, Archie. Maybe we can postpone–”

Jughead shook his head violently, “No! Don’t! I know how much seeing your mom means to you, Arch–trust me, I would know–and it’s honestly just a bad cold. Nothing that can kill me.”

Archie did not look convinced whatsoever, “Still! You look dreadful, Jug.”

Jughead shot him a thumbs up, “Thanks dude.”

Fred raised an eyebrow, “Jughead, you know what he means. But still, it doesn’t feel right to be leaving you here..”

Jughead groaned loudly, “Guys, honestly, I’m fine.”

“What if you died?!”

Jughead grinned, “Then I’d be the first person to die of a cold! Wouldn’t that record look great on the mantle??”

Archie looked genuinely terrified.

Jughead rolled his eyes, “Oh my god, Archie. It’s a joke. I’ll be fine–if anything goes wrong, I’ll call the Coopers who are literally next door.”

Archie nodded, while obviously still anxious, “Okay, fine.”

Fred nodded as well and whipped his car keys out, “Okay, so we’ve left you more than enough money for the weekend, money for food, medicine and some snacks..but there is enough soup and other easy to heat up food, and enough medicine and Archie loaded you up on snacks. And I think you’re okay on refills. Uh, yeah, ring us if there’s anything wrong.”

Jughead shrugged and smiled, “Honestly, I’ll be fi–” he was cut off by an abrupt, loud sneeze he barely managed to turn to the side, and grinned sheepishly, “fine. I’ll be fine. Have a good weekend, you guys.”

Archie gave him a smile, but the congestion laced in his hoarse, baritone voice as opposed to his usual tenor got him super worried so he ran to him and gave him a huge hug, for good measure.

Jughead pretended to vomit, “Eugh, I’m going to get the Andrews disease.”

“Please don’t die, Jug,” Archie laughed and gave his hair a ruffle and followed his dad to the doorway.

“Yeah kid, look after yourself, okay?” Fred smiled as he left the house and unlocked the car.

Once they took off and were out of his sight, Jughead leaned back and slumped against the cough, pulling the fleece blanket tighter around his shivering frame. As he rummaged around, he accidentally hit the remote and switched the channel to a Transformers film, and instantly, his nose began to twitch and an extremely intense tickle began to brew in his nose.

Now that he was alone, he really didn’t care about how stupid his pre-sneeze expression was, and how ridiculous his twitchy nose looked, and how loud he was hitching. He also didn’t care about how explosive and loud his release was, the fit lasting for about 5 sneezes. He didn’t bother covering either. He made a face at the mist he saw forming before him and shrugged.

He glared at the shitty movie before him, “I’m fucking allergic to your bullshit, Michael Bay.”

Jughead hadn’t even realised he had been dozing off–he didn’t realise he could, the Big Lebowski was on–until the doorbell rung out. He jolted awake and sniffled, wondering who it could have been. He figured it was some advertiser dude or someone trying to get him to convert to some religion, and he really wasn’t up to that. Hopefully he would scare them away with how awful he looked.

Jughead padded over to the front door and opened, only to be surprised to see the bright and bubbly Betty Cooper, holding a pink bag that resembled a Children’s Nursing Kit.

“..Betty?” Jughead stammered, not even sure if what he was seeing was real or if this was some weird fever illusion.

“Jughead! You look worse than I thought,” She frowned as she took in his sickly appearance.

Jughead sniffled, wiping his nose quickly on the back of his hand, “Hm, didn’t think I could possibly downgrade even more, thought I was already at rock bottom in terms of the look department.”

Betty looked shocked, “Juggie! Don’t say that about yourself–”

Jughead laughed at her softly, “Betty–I don’t care about that sorta thing, it’s cool. Just a joke.”

“Anyway, how did you know I was–Archie,” Jughead growled, groaning loudly at the very thought of Ginger Judas himself.

“Well I’m glad he told me, Juggie! I wouldn’t want you all sick by yourself,” Betty exclaimed, taking in his features and pressing the back of her hand against his cheek, frowning.

Jughead rubbed at his nose, his eyes growing hazy as he turned away from Betty and sneezed harshly twice into the crook of his arm and turned back to see her worried eyes. “M'fine,” He said stuffily, not sounding very convincing.

Jughead stepped back to let her in and flopped back at the couch, resting his head on one of the pillows. Betty walked into the house and put her bag down.

“Archie called me like 10 minutes after I saw him and Mr Andrews leave the house panicking because he was so worried about you. He thinks you’re going to drown yourself in your own snot,” Betty explained, taking off her jacket.

Jughead raised his eyebrow at his friend’s antics, “..Well, I’m flattered.”

Betty shrugged as she pulled a container of homemade soup out of her bag, “He’s only worried about you, Jug. So am I, actually. But hey listen, I’m here to make it all better!”

Jughead gave her a small smile, “Your everlasting sunshine and youthful glow is seriously withering my dark and gloomy aesthetic, Betty but I–is that soup?! Did you make me soup?! Jesus, you didn’t have to!”

Betty tutted, “Don’t raise your voice! That’s not good for your throat. But I know you love my soup when you have a cold, with my secret formula and things! That’s why it took me a little bit to get here.”

Jughead chuckled lowly, “What’s the secret ingredient? Mr Krabs’ secret formula?”

Betty simply rolled her eyes as she made her way to the kitchen to retrieve a spoon, “I’ve got to text Archie that I’m here, he’s probably making Mr Andrews’ brain burst at this stage!”

Jughead could picture that perfectly–Archie spluttering and spitting out nonsense and gibberish at his dad, making Fred seriously reconsider his choices. Hopefully Betty would text him soon, for Fred’s own sanity, of course.

Betty came back with a spoon and gave Jughead the bowl with the spoon, throwing another blanket around him as she noticed his shivering, and how the bowl seemed to rattle when she placed them in his shaking hands.

“Are you warm enough?” She asked gently, for Jughead to nod in response.

Jughead dipped the spoon into the soup and placed it into his mouth, despite his congestion and impaired taste sense, he could taste the signature creamy, flavourful goodness of Betty’s soup.

He smiled at her, “Betts, you never cease to amaze me.”

Betty shrugged, opening up a packet of chips she had taken from the kitchen ,“It might just be because all you eat is fast food junk so this is a nice change for you.”

Jughead rolled his eyes and continued to eat his soup, and changed the channel as Ratatouille came on.

Betty raised an eyebrow, “I didn’t know that film noir, art house film loving Jughead Jones would be into Pixar.”

Jughead huffed, “They’re particularly good on sick days! I don’t want to spend my sick day trying to decipher the hidden meaning behind some Nicolas Winding Refn film.”

Jughead’s breath began to hitch and he turned his head to the side, away from Betty and raised an arm to his face. He pitched forward twice and caught two explosive, wet sneezes into his arm.

Betty jumped, “Jesus! That was..quite a sneeze.”

Jughead sniffled and laughed softly, “They’re the absolute worst and I hate them. I can’t for the life of me control them–it’s awful when you’re someone like me who doesn’t want attention. I try to stifle sometimes–but then I just can’t stop!”

Betty smiled fondly at him and reached over to ruffle his hair, only noticing that he was without the signature grey beanie. It was still a little odd to see him without it.

“They’re fine, Jughead. No one really pays attention half the time,” She reassured.

Jughead’s eyes grew distant once again and his breath hitched once again, inhaling sharply, but found that the sneeze just wouldn’t come out and he was left continuously gasping for breath and nose twitching like a rabbits. He let out a tiny groan before looking up at a window, and once the light hit his eyes the next two sneezes came out.

Betty looked oddly impressed, “You’re one of those sun people!”

Jughead laughed a little at her excitement and rolled his eyes, “Yes, I’m an alien from the Sun. I come in peace–I only wish to learn about the human’s odd, odd ways.”

Betty hissed playfully and whacked his arm, “Ugh! You know what I mean!”

Jughead laughed at her, “Yeah yeah, one of those sun people. My body hates me, we’ve all established.”

Betty munched on her chips and watched as Remy the rat began to roam Paris, “Uh, I know this is a little awkward but..are you okay?”

Jughead grinned, “My entire body is consumed by what appears to be a plague but otherwise, yes, I appear to be functioning and not on the brink of death.”

Betty sighed, “No, Jug. You know what I mean.”

Jughead laughed, “Oh, you mean that my best friend has gone off to see his mother who loves him with his father who is stable enough with said mother that they can be in the same room as each other?? And I can’t have that? Y'know because my mom hates me and my dad loves me but is still deadbeat and also in jail?”

Betty bit her lip, knowing that Jughead used humour as a coping mechanism and that it was probably the fever talking. Jughead was also known for his darker humour, but one thing she couldn’t ever know despite knowing him since childhood was wether things were affecting him or not.

“..Jughead, you know that none of these things are your fault?”

“Yeah, I know that. I genuinely do Betty.”

She still looked concerned.

Jughead sighed, “Betty, I’m doing better than I’ve been in a while. Yeah it sucks and sometimes it makes me really anxious and sad but today..everything’s fine. Well, I have an awful fucking cold but aside from that, I’m fine.”

“like meds help–like I was so against it to begin with because Fred is paying for it and I hate the fact he’s spending on me, but it helps, Betts,” Jughead said, a lot more genuine and slow.

Betty smiled at him, relieved and more relaxed, “I’m glad Jug. We’ve all been so worried about you these past few weeks..”

Jughead chuckled, “You and Archie, you mean?”

Betty shook her head, “No! Veronica and Kev too. Honestly Jug, your self esteem is almost as low as..as..Veronica’s height.”

Jughead burst into laughter, “Fuck! I wish I had recorded that! I’d kill to see her face if she knew you called her that.”

Betty flushed red, “You wouldn’t tell her, would you?!”

Jughead raised an eyebrow teasingly, “To blackmail you, maybe.”

Betty groaned loudly and smacked Jughead on the head playfully, ending up grabbing at a curl and twiddling it around her finger. She seemed a little impressed.

“I didn’t expect your hair to be so soft?” Betty commented.

“Makes up for my cold hard, stoic exterior,” Jughead replied.

Betty scoffed and chuckled lightly, “You are a massive softie at heart, Jughead Jones. Who went to Kevin’s little cousin’s birthday party and bought her a present because she had a crush on you?”

Jughead went slightly red, not wanting to admit how soft he genuinely was, “It was just..uh..Kevin pressured me.”

Betty laughed, knowing full well that was not the story. The gang had all gone to Kevin’s house, who was surprised by his little cousin and aunt being at his house. His little cousin clearly took a liking to Jughead and drew him a picture. Jughead’s heart burst but when confronted by his friends, he pretended he didn’t care.

Betty left it for now, and took the bowl from Jughead who had finished his soup and took it to the dishwasher. Once that was done with, they spent the remainder of the movie in a comfortable silence, with a few interruptions from Jughead’s coughing and sneezing, as well as a few funny comments here and there.

As the two moved on to Inside Out, Betty pulled out her bag to retrieve a bag of chamomile tea.

Jughead raised an eyebrow, “Since when have you become Nurse Joy?”

Betty laughed, “I figured we should do the thing when we were kids and we played sick and I always took care of you. In fairness, you were sickly then, so chances were you probably were actually sick.”

She left the room to make the tea in the kitchen and by the time Riley had acquired all of her emotions, she returned with the tea and the medicine Fred had left.

“Don’t dry swallow these, it’s why I made you the tea,” Betty warned, and passed him the two objects. Jughead obliged.

Jughead reached for the toilet roll to blow his nose when Betty slapped his hand.

“No way are you using that! That’s awful for your nose, here, I brought you the nice lotion ones,” Betty explained as she pulled out her pink bag and passed them over to Jughead.

Jughead raised an eyebrow, “Is that Mary Poppins’ bag? What else do you have in there?”

He then proceeded to pluck one out and blow his nose, wincing at the sound and chucked the tissue into the bin. He then took the tea back and continued to sip at it.

“Speaking of bad tissues, look at your nose, Jughead. It’s literally bright red and chapped! Here, I’ve got something that can help..” She pulled out some ointment out of magic bag.

Jughead looked impressed and also shocked, and hadn’t had time to react until Betty was standing before him and applying ointment onto his already tender, sensitive nostrils.

His nose reacted quickly, his nostrils beginning to twitch as a result of the rubbing. His nose tickled so bad but he couldn’t quite cover his nose because he was holding onto the rather large tea mug and couldn’t put it down anywhere without spilling it everywhere.

“B-Betty..please..I’m gonna..hhh..!! I really need to..hehh!!snn..” He hitched breathlessly, trying to scrunch up his nose and withhold his sneeze. His disobedient nostrils kept twitching with desperation, desperate to sneeze.

Betty laughed softly, “Jug! You look like a little bunny..”

“B..be..betty..p..p-please!! hhh..” Jughead pleaded but alas was too late, his body fully committing onto the sneeze, inhaling sharply, eyes shutting as he let out a loud, harsh sneeze that caused the tea to rattle and spill a little bit on his lap. The worst thing is that he knew that that sneeze certainly was not dry in any sense of the word.

“Fuck–Betty im so–” This time Betty did move to the side so he could aim his sneezes elsewhere and sneezed three more times, so harsh and powerful they completely drained him of energy. He was exhausted when he finished.

“Bless you!” Betty exclaimed, competely unfazed by the entire debacle.

“Betty, I’m so so sorry, that was so gross and horrible! I’m so sorry, you’re gonna get sick now, I’m really–”

“Oh my god Jug, stop. It’s fine, honestly. Honestly it was my fault, I didn’t move out of the way, but your pre-sneeze face is just so cute??”

Jughead gagged, “Eugh, how can any aspect of sneezing be cute? But now you’re going to get sick and–”

Betty shrugged, “I was destined to get sick the moment I stepped into this house. It’s fine, Jughead, really. I want to help you.”

Jughead sighed, “I just don’t like it when people are nice to me at their own expense, it makes me feel awful.”

Betty tutted, “Hey, c'mon Jug. You’d do this for me. You’re always such a giver, sometimes you have to be a taker! And stop with this I don’t deserve kindness bullshit, you deserve it just as much as any of us. Now shut your emo ass and let’s watch Inside Out, okay?”

Needless to say, Jughead was right. Betty had done Jughead a good at her own expense, and about three days later Betty had come down with what he had. Granted, her better immune system made the illness not quite as bad as he had it, but the illness was dreadful, so of course it was still miserable.

Jughead made his way up the stairs, still at complete disbelief on how he was even allowed onto the Cooper household. As a child he had never been able to step in, on very few occasions he was, but rarely. Alice didn’t want FP Jones’ son in her house. However, Hal was the only one home, so perhaps that would explain it.

He knocked gently before walking in to see Betty curled up in bed, blankets strewn about as she watched a rom com on her laptop. The room smelled of tea. She was pale and sick looking, but Jughead didn’t really care. He really wasn’t one for appearances anyway.

“Hey, I’m so sorry about this, this cold sucked,” Jughead expressed guiltily.

Betty looked up and when she saw it was him she smiled, “Really, Jughead. It’s not a problem. Actually..as awful and dreadful as this is..My Mom wanted to bring me to some lecture about Good Behaviour and Respect today, and I would actually die if I had to go. Now I have an excuse.”

Jughead scrunched up his nose, “..Yeah..I’m sure this cold isn’t as miserable as that.”

Betty laughed hoarsely and gestured towards her bed, “Here, sit over here. We can continue our Pixar Marathon. You were right, Pixar is great for sick days.”

Jughead grinned, “What are we watching?”

“All the Toy Story’s. Wait, what’s that,” She asked, pointing at Jughead’s hands.

Jughead turned a little red, “..Uh..it’s soup. I figured that it was only right since you got me soup. Um, it’s not that special or as nice as your soup. I-it’s Campbell’s, actually, but uh..”

“Its soup,” Betty chuckled and took the bowl from him and dug in. She coughed softly, and moved over a little to give Jughead some space.

“It’s not bad,” Betty commented.

Jughead shrugged, “You’re just saying that so I don’t tell Veronica you said she was short.”

Betty laughed, “But she is. She’s like a little cupcake, adorable, but tiny! She can try all she wants to be tall with killer heels, but there’s no escaping the fact she’s a tiny little fairy!”

As she finished her sentence, Jughead pressed ‘stop recording’ on his phone.

“Jug..oh my god, Jug! Delete that!” She squealed.

“No way, Josè!” Jughead laughed, as the two began to play fight and ended up a giggling pile of mess.

#jughead jones #betty cooper #archie andrews #fred andrews #riverdale #platonic bughead #sickfic #prompts #i loved this one so much omg

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investmart007 · 6 years

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NEW YORK | Celebrities, fashion insiders react to death of Kate Spade

New Post has been published on https://is.gd/xtW2b3

NEW YORK | Celebrities, fashion insiders react to death of Kate Spade

NEW YORK — Celebrities and fashion insiders react to the apparent suicide of designer Kate Spade:

“Fuzzy picture but i love it. Kate and I during Christmas family photos. We had so much fun that day. She was so sharp and quick on her feet. She could make me laugh so hard. I still cant believe it. Its a rough world out there people, try to hang on.” — Brother-in-law and comedian David Spade, via Instagram.

“#KateSpade, whose lively, colorful, and yes, joyous designs has died. My deepest sympathy to her family and friends, and her many fans around the world, who loved the wonderful illusions she created. I am stunned.” — Bette Midler, via Twitter.

“My grandmother gave me my first Kate Spade bag when I was in college. I still have it. Holding Kate’s family, friends and loved ones in my heart.” — Chelsea Clinton, via Twitter.

“The CFDA is devastated to hear the news of our friend, colleague, and CFDA member Kate Spade’s tragic passing. She was a great talent who had an immeasurable impact on American fashion and the way the world viewed American accessories. We want to honor her life and her major contribution to the fashion business and express our most sincere condolences to the family.” — Diane von Furstenberg, chairman of the Council of Fashion Designers of America, in a statement.

“Kate Spade was more than a designer. She had a quirky visual language that captivated Bat Mitzvah girls and artists alike. She was also a staple of NYC who spread good will. My heart breaks for her family. Thank you, Kate, from one of the millions you made feel beautiful.” — Lena Dunham, via Twitter.

“I remember when I got my first Kate Spade bag in high school. It was my most prized possession. My current wallet, covered in bees, makes me smile every time I see it- it’s by Kate Spade. My heart is just broken for her family and loved ones.” — Actress Beth Behrs, via Twitter.

“I will never forget the first Kate Spade bag I got for Christmas in college. She was a trailblazer. Her life and death are a reminder that pain doesn’t discriminate. Sending love to her family.” — Jenna Bush Hager, via Twitter.

“I am heartbroken about the news of Kate Spade. I have worn her clothes many, many times. They were colorful, bold, cheerful, and encouraged women to find the twinkly person inside them. You couldn’t walk into her boutiques and not smile. Rest In Peace, Kate.” — Mindy Kaling, via Twitter.

“It is devastating news to hear of Kate Spade’s passing. Neiman Marcus has been a longtime fan and early promoter of Kate Spade. We enjoyed a close relationship with both her and her husband Andy. We send our deepest sympathies to the family and the entire fashion community who are experiencing this loss. Her creative light and bright mind will be greatly missed.” — Neva Hall, executive vice president for Neiman Marcus Stores, in a statement.

“The American Foundation for Suicide Prevention offers our condolences to her family, friends, and everyone touched by Spade and her creative work.” — American Foundation for Suicide Prevention, in a statement.

“My heart and prayers go out to Kate Spade and her family. What a wonderful, talented woman who will be dearly missed.” — Reese Witherspoon, via Twitter.

“The nicest woman, the first person to compliment me on Liz Lange Maternity when I first started. And the creator of the most iconic brand. I am heart broken by this news.” — Designer Liz Lange, via Twitter.

“Here we are in happier times, I’ll miss my dear friend Kate. My thoughts are with her family” — Designer Cynthia Rowley, with a photo of she and Spade pregnant, via Twitter.

“Devastated to hear the news about the iconic Kate Spade. A reminder that you often times don’t know the internal struggle of another person. For everyone out there who reads this please know you are not alone + you are loved. Sending thoughts and prayers to Kates friends + family” — Olivia Culpo, via Twitter.

“As ‘unfussy’ as I am, I still loved my Kate Spade bags. Practical, classy, and elegant… Praying for her family…her husband and 13 yr old daughter.” — Viola Davis, via Twitter.

“Just landed in NYC to the news of Kate Spade. What a loss for us. What a loss for the industry. If you or someone you know has suicidal thoughts, please call 1 800 273 TALK or TEXT 741741” — Stacy London, via Twitter.

“Kate Spade, the visionary founder of our brand, has passed. Our thoughts are with her family at this incredibly heartbreaking time. We honor all the beauty she brought into this world.” — Kate Spade New York, via Twitter.

By Associated Press – published on STL.News by St. Louis Media, LLC (.S)

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#Celebrities fashion insiders react #death of Kate Spade #My grandmother gave me my first Kate Spade bag #New York #TodayNews

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