julianne

amore et melle et felle est fecundissimus mostly shameless, dream smp & young royals (she/they) unlabeled

[conradfiisher]

Glad that it was me.

The Summer I Turned Pretty || 1.07  

[ksdesign]

😇☀️

[daintygogy]

sunshine duo!

[taxolotl]

tina kitten 🌟

[tinamybeloved]

[ctinakitten]

keeping them in my pocket because they’re the cutest people ever

[daintygogy]

:]

[ctinakitten]

lgbt

[mkat-art]

I can't breathe on my own.

[leafylore]

mornings with him

[girlfictions]

illumina sitting in vc listening to dnf argue like a married couple:

[harris-coopers]

She really had a great time then 😂

[cinema-phantom]

no way home spoilers without context

[aroacejug]

aroace jughead + tumblr textposts

[queer-puddle]

rwrb fans young royals fans

🤝

being mentally ill queers

[lesbvan]

You’re right. We’re doing this together.

[daintygogy]

:(

[imreallyloveleee]

Okay, Bughead, they go and get Toffee. I need that cat to be okay. On the way back, Jughead pulls out a cat toy from nowhere and says, "We need to stop for food and drink for the cat and I" Betty looks at him funny, and he says, "Well, Toffee and I know you will just have a milkshake and fries Betts" she's all of a sudden taken aback because he called her Betts playfully. She hasn't heard that in so long. Or something like that???

 A plaintive yowl sounds from the backseat, and Betty’s heart clenches.

“Halfway there, Toffee-toff,” she coos in the high-pitched voice she uses to talk to her cat. She deliberately avoids Jughead’s gaze in the rearview mirror. It’s the same voice she used with Hot Dog back in high school, so it’s not like he’s never heard it before; more importantly, he has no right to judge her. But…still. She feels silly. “Three more hours, you can do it.”

“Do you think she wants this?” Jughead pulls something out of his jacket pocket – one of Toffee’s toys, a shiny orange fish made of fabric that crinkles when touched. Betty hasn’t seen it in months.

She looks at him askance. “Where’d you get that?”

“Found it under the bed.” He crunches the toy between his fingers. “Sorry, I know you wanted them all in the duffel bag. I just figured she might want one to play with on the drive up.”

Betty keeps her eyes on the road as a strange sensation swells in her chest. It’s a sweet thought, albeit one that’s very far off-base for a cat like Toffee.

“I think she’s too freaked out by all this to want to play.”

This meaning, well, this: the fact that Toffee’s long-lost guardian had finally swooped back into town with a strange man in tow, packed up her apartment, shoved Toffee into the much-hated cat carrier, and then piled it all into her car before starting the six-hour drive back up to Riverdale.

When she’d mentioned she was making the trip down to Virginia at happy hour the other night, she hadn’t expected Jughead to offer to accompany her. Even when he had offered, she hadn’t expected him to actually follow through. But there he was, standing in her driveway at eight o’clock the next morning with his hands tucked into his pockets, just as she’d asked.

Now that they’re back on the road, she’s grateful that he came – packing her things would have taken her twice as long as a solo activity. She just doesn’t really understand why he’d volunteered to do so in the first place.

Jughead twists around in his seat to look at the cat, smushed up into a little ball in the back of the carrier. “Yeah, I guess you’re right.”

When he tucks the toy fish back into his jacket, she says, “I thought you hated cats.”

“Hate is a strong word.”

“I remember the phrase beasts from hell being used more than once.”

“That was just my grandparents’ cat,” Jughead says dismissively. “That cat was an asshole. I had a roommate back in Iowa who had a cat, and he was great.”

Betty is glad her ears aren’t mobile like Toffee’s are, because otherwise they’d perk up at the sound of the word Iowa. He’s mentioned his college years only a handful of times in the few weeks they’ve been talking again, and never in any detail. She’s curious to fill in those blank spaces.

“We should stop soon,” he continues, before she can tug on the Iowa thread any further. “Get some food. Give ol’ Toffee a chance to stretch her legs in the fresh air.” At Betty’s look, he laughs. “I’m joking, Betts.”

Her heart leaps into her throat. It took several weeks of carefully avoiding one another in Riverdale before he’d even addressed her directly as Betty. She hasn’t heard him speak with this sort of affection since…well, it’s been years.

“Not about the food part, I bet.”

“Nope.” She doesn’t look, but she can hear the smile in his voice. “Never about the food part.”

(send me a prompt. literally any prompt!)

[heavy-lies-the-crown]

snippet sunday

from part ii of quo vadis:

“It’s a nice gesture, Betty. Really is. But I can’t take this.”

“Like I’d give it to you. You’re a catastrophe. I’m only letting you stand near it now because it won’t go anywhere.” He looked hurt. That didn’t bother her. He could go elsewhere if he wanted to wallow in kind indulgences. He walked over to the car, then lay out on the hood with an arm behind his head so she couldn’t see his face. He took out his flask. “I like this work. I feel useful doing it. You fix something. Then it works again.”

“That’s nice.”

“Well, thanks.”

“I meant it. Look, what’s your point?”

She went to the car and lay out beside him. He smelled like alcohol so she figured he was already pretty drunk, possibly wouldn’t even remember any of this. “I don’t know. I’m just talking really,” she said. “Maybe I’m being wasteful of privileges I’ve been given, being here. Neglectful of a certain pedigree. What do you think?”

He passed her the flask. It was warmer now, which made the whiskey taste worse. “I think you have no obligation to spend your life chasing bad men just because your father was one.”

She looked at him. He was still staring up at the ceiling blankly. After a while, she stood and stretched the tarp back over the bike. “I hope I can give this to you one day,” she said. He continued laying there, so she turned off the lights and left him to drink.

A few days later, he came by the shop room. Clapton was playing softly from an old Candle transistor radio. It was small and painted a bright cherry red. She’d found it behind a cabinet and spent some time fixing it up. He knocked on her desk and said, “Hey there, Layla.” He looked tired, worn like he’d lived an entire terrible life, but his face was freshly shaven. She smiled.

“Well. Look at you.” 

He rubbed his hand over his jaw with a shy expression. He was smiling a bit, too. “Can I ask a favor?”

[lazydaizies]

Snakes and Harleys

Chapter 2: Nowhere to Run