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heytherejulietx · 3 years

Note

7 and 8 with Jughead but where he's getting his hair braided if that makes sense

Soft ~ Jughead Jones

Masterlists

Read on AO3 here.

Notes - I’m sorry if this fic sucks it’s just gone 1am here and I was pushing to get it finished but aiwoxjxheid I love how fluffy this is. 🥺

Warnings - None.

Word count - 1.3k.

Prompts -

“Your hair is so soft.”

“Can I braid your hair?”

Riverdale tag list - @idont-knowrn @bucky-j-barnes

If you’d like to be added to a tag list please just ask!

Y/N couldn’t remember a night that week where Jughead hadn’t stayed up working on his novel. Of course, she was proud of him. Her boyfriend was putting his heart and soul into an actual novel. One that was extremely well written, in her opinion. Though she was also concerned about him. He needed his sleep to help him tackle school and other daily things on top of his personal project, and no matter how many times she’d gotten him in bed with her to cuddle, he’d be right back at the desk with his laptop to continue working once she had fallen asleep. He had been living with her for a while, because of his home situation, so she could tell when he hadn’t slept without even needing to be told, and it did worry her that he wasn’t getting enough sleep.

She looked up from her book and over at her boyfriend from where she was sat on her bed with a small concerned frown. His beanie was long forgotten about on the desk beside his laptop, his raven curls slightly messy from his hands running through them stressfully whenever he got annoyed with himself. Under his eyes were dark circles - ones that hadn’t been so dark since he had first moved out of his father’s trailer. He hadn’t even typed anything for a good few minutes. He was just sat staring at the screen, his lips pressed against the knuckles of his hands which were keeping his head held up.

He didn’t notice as Y/N had put her book down on her bedside table and got out of her bed - only in one of his flannel shirts. Though he noticeably relaxed once she stood behind him and moved her arms around his shoulders. He leaned back in the desk chair so that his head was against her shoulder, and she watched as his tired eyes fell closed as he breathed out a quiet sigh.

“You know, stressing over the novel this much isn’t good for you.” She mused softly, her hand rubbing his arm gently.

He simply hummed in response, lifting one of his own hands to gently rest on her arm. “I just can’t think of what to put.”

“Then leave it. It’ll still be here in the morning.” She told him as she leaned her head down a little to press her lips against the crown of his head. “Plus you need sleep, Jug, being tired probably isn’t helping.”

He sighed again though nodded, turning his head so he had his face against her neck, breathing in the familiar scent of her vanilla perfume. “Who am I to ignore the advice of a gorgeous lady?” He muttered into the skin of her neck with a slight smirk playing on his lips.

“I don't know, but you’ve ignored it every other night so you’d know.” She pointed out, and giggled when she felt the huff of air he had let out against her neck.

“I just wanted to get it done.” Jughead complained quietly, earning a quiet giggle from Y/N as she watched her boyfriend practically sulk like a child.

“I know, love, I know. You just don’t need to burn yourself out whilst doing it.” She told him, before kissing the top of his head again. “I still love you, though.” She teased.

“Mhm,” He hummed, gently squeezing her arm. “Me too.”

She pouted once he’d spoken and shook her head a little. “No, you have to say it back.” She whined, only feeling him smirk against her neck in response.

“It back.” He responded, and when she pulled away to look at him he had a shit-eating grin over his expression.

“Not what I meant.” She huffed, earning a chuckle to escape past his lips.

“Say it.” She huffed, spinning the chair around so he’d be facing her properly.

“Or what?” He cocked an eyebrow upwards, his smirk only growing as he looked up at her.

“Or…” She trailed off as she thought of something, biting her lip for a short period of time as she pondered it before she started smirking once she had glanced over at her bedside table and spotted her bottle of water. “Or I’ll throw water over you.”

“You wouldn’t dare.” He narrowed his eyes at her, causing her to giggle as she turned like she were about to walk away.

Though just before she could walk off he reached forwards and moved his hands to the back of her thighs, earning a light squeal from her as he pulled her so she’d be sat in his lap; furthering his attempt to keep her there by wrapping his arms around her waist tightly.

“That’s cheating.” She giggled, her own arms loosely wrapping around his shoulders.

“Whatever.” He shrugged, lightly squeezing her in his hold. “I wouldn’t want the girl I love to pour water over me, now would I?” He asked, causing her to giggle quietly once he had playfully kissed the end of her nose. “I love you.”

“I love you too,” She smiled. “See, it wasn’t that hard to say.” She teased playfully with a small smirk.

Jughead just rolled his eyes as he leaned forwards enough to press his face into her neck again, his arms tightening around her to keep her close to him. Y/N smiled softly as she kept one arm around him, and lifted her other to start gently running her fingers through his raven strands, that were for once free from his grey beanie.

“Your hair is so soft.” She whispered absentmindedly after a moment of comfortable silence, her eyes closed as she leaned against him.

“Thanks, grew it myself.” He smirked a little, though noticaly relaxed as Y/N continued playing with his hair, even leaving a light kiss against the soft skin of her neck.

“Can I braid your hair?” She asked after a moment with a soft giggle, though instead of him saying no like she had expected, she was pleasantly surprised when he had just shrugged and gave her a quiet accepting “mm-hmm.”

Y/N leaned back a little as she smiled, gently combing her fingers through his hair once he had leaned back, his eyes still closed and a soft fond smile painted over his lips. “Just don’t pull my hair.” He joked.

“I won’t, I won’t.” She giggled quietly as she split his hair into three sections and started braiding the front part, biting her lip in concentration as she gently braided the three strands together. Once she had finished she held the end of the braid with one hand as she used the other to pull her own hair-band out from the end of her braid, letting her hair fall loose as she used it to secure the end of the braid. “Violá.” She smiled, pulling her hands away once she was finished.

“I feel like I look stupid.” He joked, lifting his hand to gently feel along the braid in his hair.

“No, you look pretty.” She smiled as she giggled softly, though her expression softened as he reached forwards and gently ran his fingers through her hair since it was loose.

“Want me to do one on you?” He asked with a small entertained smile.

“Sure.” She giggled and nodded her head as she took the hair-band out of the end of his braid and combed her fingers through it to get rid of the braid, his raven strands slightly wavy. “Just don’t pull my hair.” She giggled as she repeated his phrase from before, and watched him chuckle softly because of it.

“I won’t, I won’t.”

#riverdale #riverdale fic #riverdale oneshot #riverdale one shot #riverdale imagine #riverdale fluff #jughead #jughead jones #jughead jones fic #jughead jones oneshot #jughead jones one shot #jughead jones imagine #jughead jones fluff #jughead jones x y/n #jughead jones x reader #jughead jones x you

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ickle-ronniekins · 4 years

Text

when all hope seems lost [ch. 2]

desc: George finds himself to be lost: his business, merchandise and home have been destroyed in the war and his twin brother is still healing from a battle wound that could’ve been fatal. He’s living temporarily in a flat in a desolate looking neighborhood, and he’s desperate for anything to feel like it used to be. It seems as though all hope is lost, until he meets someone who reminds him that he’s got to endure the darkness to be able to appreciate the light.

⇢ Chapter 1

A/N: second installment, loves.

pairing: george x fem!american!reader

word count: 2.4k

warning(s): mentions of war, anxiety, injury, mental health, alcohol

tag list: @mintlibri @georgeweasleyx @seppys-return-to-madness @fopdoodledane @fredd-weasley @iprobablyshipit91 @darling-details @laneygthememequeen @lupinsx @keoghans @helloallthethingsilove @dreamer821 @feffffffy @the-hufflepuff-of-221b @62442-am @wtfweasleyy @obsessedwithrandomthings @thoseofgreatambition @harrysweasleys @sleep-i-ness @shadowsinger11 @haphazardhufflepuff @afriendlyneighborhoodhufflepuff @hood-and-horan @letsfightsomeorcs @theweasleysredhair @purpleskiesstorm @hxfflxpxffs @wand3ringr0s3 @finecole @angelinathebook @highly-acidic @purplefragile @90shermione @zreads @susceptible-but-siriusexual @hollands-weasley @andromedaa-tonks @bbstrawberry0421 @princessof-theuniverse @cappsikle @mytreec @imseeinggred @idont-knowrn @flyingserpxnt @auroraboringalis57 @godricsswords @jejegu @annasofiaearlobe @starlightweasley | message me to be added!

The weeks dragged on, the rain continued to patter on the roof of your house, the days seemingly melted into one another. What month was it? What day of the week? The weather had gotten a bit cooler, so you figured you might be nearing October. Quite honestly, you were both too exhausted and too fragile to care, or even to check your calendar that lay across your desk underneath a pile of unopened books. Your mental capacity was absolutely shot. Four months since the war and it seemed as though nothing was getting better. You’d been searching for some type of normalcy for so long; you wondered if you’d ever be able to feel that sense of comfort ever again. You weren’t sure how many more evenings of unwanted sobbing beneath your blanket you could take.

George was soaked to the bone because of the constant rain. He was standing outside of the gloomy looking Burrow after having apparated there. He always stopped by the Burrow -- before heading to the shop, immediately after, sometimes very early in the morning to help Molly with the laundry and with breakfast, sacrificing his own hunger. With all of its colours and multiple stories, the Burrow had never looked sadder or less like home. He ran a hand through his hair to shake out the excess rainwater and stepped inside the kitchen. The first thing he noticed was that the dishes from yesterday that had been piled high in the sink were now washed and put away. Then he noticed Ginny tending to Fred on the couch. He looked more lively today. More alert. The dark blacks, purples, and blues on his hollow cheeks were healing nicely, though the pale colour of his face beneath the deep gash just above his eyebrow made him look all the more terrible. “Mate, you’re looking ghastly,” Fred joked, his voice scratchy and weak and wheezy. George wondered, as he looked down at his twin’s sunken chest, and his limp and shattered leg, if Fred would ever be able to walk properly again. Test products. Breathe correctly. Stand up straight. The idea of him not being able to do any of those things made George begin to tremor. He forced himself up to his childhood bedroom to stifle his oncoming panic attack before Fred could see him cry.

-- -

“You’re telling me there’s a waiting list for Aurors?” Your voice sounded unusually harsh for your liking, and you sucked in a deep breath. It wasn’t this young woman’s fault that so many individuals were looking to enhance their careers as Aurors. It made sense, especially given that half of the Wizarding World had been wiped out due to the war. It was only necessary for more people to sign on to protect their loved ones. The Ministry of Magic, and The Department of Magical Law Enforcement within it, was quite different than the way the MACUSA was laid out. You already felt off kilter being here. You slowed your breathing and gave the woman behind the desk a genuine grin. You apologized and asked her if she knew exactly how long the waiting list would be. Her eyes softened and she offered a lopsided, gentle sort of smile before telling you that she wasn’t sure exactly when there would be openings, but she’d be happy to keep your information on file. If only she knew how many times you’d heard that one. You huffed out a dry “Thank you” before making your way back through the Ministry and toward the street, where it was now down pouring. And where was your umbrella? Of course -- at your apartment, collecting dust, because in your hurry to get to the Ministry as early as you possibly could, you’d left it on the kitchen table. You just let the rain soak through your clothes. You could really have used one of George’s steaming cups of tea.

Why was it taking Fred so long to get better? And why did it look like there was absolutely no progress on the fixing of their shop? George shook out his umbrella and laid it gently against the front door before making his way inside. The sight of the blasted shelves made his insides twist. Their hilarious design of Umbridge faltering across a tightrope had snapped in half; their display of Love Potions had been blasted to smithereens. He glided across the floor, his feet carrying him to wherever they chose to go, when he bumped into something on the ground. Slowly he reached down and spread his fingers against their very first Weasley & Weasley trunk, which now looked more like Weas nd W, for the rest of the lettering had been damaged. His eyes suddenly became very blurry and he felt a burning sensation sting the back of his throat. He’d do anything to be back at Hogwarts now, sneakily selling products to the Gryffindor house all while avoiding Umbridge and Snape and Filch. He’d give anything to be back at school, where everything felt good and happy and alright, at least for a little while.

George had to keep reminding himself that there was an entire storage space full of products that he and Fred had been saving, in case of an event like this. At the time, it seemed like they’d had so many, and in the event of a wipeout, the brothers would be able to restock and resell as if nothing had ever happened. But looking now at how much damage had been done, and how many of their products they’d worked so painstakingly hard on had been destroyed, George truly didn’t know if the spare merchandise they had left would last them more than two weeks.

-- -

When you walked through the front door, exhausted from seeking employment all afternoon, only to find none, you figured you were allowed a glass of wine. Or perhaps several. So you put on your fluffiest pair of socks, the softest sweater you could find, and sat yourself down in front of the fireplace with your wand as you casually sipped on the bottle of red you’d purchased after leaving the Ministry this morning.

Perhaps moving here was a mistake. Would it be easier to gain employment back home in America? You shook your head at the silly thought that crossed your mind. Of course it wouldn’t. They’d gotten rid of you for a reason, hadn’t they? They couldn’t afford to keep so many people on after the war. Plus, you’d already moved your stuff in here, halfway across the world, so there was no point in uprooting your life, again. Besides, the painful memories that flooded your mind at the thought of home made you appreciate the coziness of England even more so than you did when you first got here. It was helping you forget -- about all of it.

You mindlessly muttered spells just to give yourself something to do. So this was unemployment -- repeating to yourself the charm you’d learned when you were eleven, making your belongings float in the air. How absolutely pathetic. You wondered if George felt this way too, as you lazily flicked your wrist and sent your notebook chock full of potential jobs toward your bedroom.

George couldn’t wait to change into some comfortable, dry clothes. He opened up the front door and left his wet umbrella out on the porch. As he hung up his coat in the closet, he spotted you next to the fireplace, and it seemed as though you were muttering incantations to yourself and enjoying a glass of wine. He felt a small smile tug at his lips, because he didn’t realize how much he wanted to do the exact same thing until he saw you.

It had been a few weeks, but the two of you hadn’t gotten to know one another much. Little things, here and there, such as “D’you care for milk or cream?” or “How’s your brother doing?” or “Any luck with employment?” You two just barely scraped the surface; there was no diving deep into conversation. Neither one of you prodded the other -- you both simply kept to yourselves with the occasional evening offering of a cup of tea, and then went on your separates ways once morning came. So when you asked George if he’d like to join you and sent a wine glass from the cabinet soaring through the air toward you, George accepted your invite and immediately went to change into something a bit warmer.

As he expected, it was easy to get you to open up about your life. Not just from the wine, but he was sure that helped. He’d started simple: asking you how your day was. He didn’t realize it would turn into a full blown story about your entire life, but he didn’t mind. It was sort of comforting, knowing that someone else living under the same roof as him was going through hell.

He learned all about your time at Ilvermorny, the American Wizarding school, about your studying and ambitions to become an Auror at the MACUSA (the Ministry in America, he came to find) and how you’d had a great job up until the war, when all in the same day you’d lost that job, your home, and someone very close to you. There was a bit of glassiness in your eyes, but he couldn’t tell if it was from the sadness or the buzzing of the wine.

“But enough about me, complaining about all things that have gone wrong,” you said, waving him off, gulping back the rest of your second glass, “what about you?”

Since the war, since the demolishing of his business and his brother’s injury, George hadn’t once let people see how he really felt. He kept everything bottled up, just as he always had since he was young. Fred always used to tell him that one day he was going to explode from the inside out, but George never listened. He always kept everything inside. But between the brief anxiety attack he’d had at the Burrow this morning, and the very long months of keeping everything close to his heart, he supposed there wasn’t any harm in telling you a few things, getting a few things off of his chest. Not his entire life story (like you, those Americans!) but he could share. He could tell you a bit. Maybe it was okay to open up his heart.

-- -

Somehow you’d both made it to one a.m.; not that it mattered, both of you had nowhere to go come morning, though you’d probably just go about your normal routines -- each puttering around the kitchen, sharing a simple ‘good morning’ and heading forth on your way.

Or maybe, after three and a half glasses of wine each, a simple ‘good morning’ would turn into something more.

George had six siblings, you learned. Five brothers and one sister. He’d left the British Wizarding school, Hogwarts, just before graduating to open up his business with his twin, Fred. He’d played Quidditch at school and was a ‘bloody good Beater’, in his own humble opinion, he was known for his pranks, and when he’d accidentally turned his brother Percy’s hair a permanent bright pink color one day (they’d eventually figured out the antidote) his mother had nearly kicked him into next week.

George and Fred had to put their business on hold during the war. George explained that he’d lost his ear during an attack one evening before everything had unraveled. The twins had gone back to Hogwarts to fight alongside their friends and family (your jaw had dropped when you’d found out that they were friends with the Harry Potter, who was just as famous in America as he was in England) and unfortunately due to their absence, sixty percent of their shop and merchandise had been blasted apart with no remains. Fred had been severely injured during the war, and, according to George, was lucky to be alive. More than lucky, it sounded like. It had been four months and Fred was still struggling to sit upright without getting winded.

George hadn’t really offered up much about his personal life before this, but then again, neither had you. Perhaps it was the wine, or perhaps it was the recognition that both of you landed in this apartment with the intent of a fresh start. New beginnings. Maybe he felt as though this was an opening: telling his truths to a complete and total stranger who was going through their own heartache. Well, not total stranger. You were his roommate, after all.

You were both heading in opposite directions toward your bedrooms after you hadn’t been able to keep your eyes open any longer. You were absolutely exhausted. He caught you by surprise when he called from his doorway, “I lost someone too, you know. So I understand the... worry of starting over.”

You swallowed thickly; you hadn’t gone into too much detail, or any detail at all, but from the sincerity in his eyes, you recognized that look of understanding. You wondered just how much he understood your loss, and if his was the same. “So if you ever need too.. I dunno, talk about it, I’d be more than willing to lend you an ear.” He cupped the side of his head where his missing ear should be, and actually snorted a bit at his own teasing. It took everything in you to stifle your laughter at that terrible excuse of a joke. His eyes were tired and he wobbled a little bit in the doorframe. “That’s the wine talking. Normally I’m really bloody good at jokes.”

“You don’t say.”

“Hey,” he pointed at you and threaded his eyebrows together, then laughed again. “But really. You ever need to have a chat, you know where to find me.”

“Well I’d hope so. We do live together.”

You thought, watching him from the other end of the hallway as he laughed again and scratched at the door handle, that perhaps this was a step forward. You’d learned an awful lot about him in the time it took you both to get through three and a half glasses of wine each. You were grateful. It was nice to put a story to the face you saw every single morning. He was becoming more of a person, rather than just a body living underneath the same roof. As he rubbed at his eyes and continued to laugh, you wondered if he was again becoming the George Weasley he was before the war. The one you were meant to know.

“Have a good night, Y/N.”

“You too, George.”

He was more than just your roommate. He was your friend.

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