VERONICA LODGE Riverdale: Chapter Eighty One, The Homecoming.
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@ladyreckoning
VERONICA LODGE Riverdale: Chapter Eighty One, The Homecoming.
Camila Mendes as Shelby Pace in The Perfect Date (2019)
Veronica Lodge in Riverdale, Chapter Seventy One: How to Get Away With Murder.
SCARY AESTHETICS
bloodied knuckles | tear stained cheeks | rust | a busted lip | claws | fangs | a bloody nose | chattering teeth | a dark space underneath the bed | scratching noises on a wall | creaking metal | fog | dancing under moonlight | blood dripping lips | heavy breathing in the dark | a feeling of unexplained dread | a figure in a dark corner | dirty peeling wallpaper | a bloody handprint on the wall | sobbing in the dark | bite marks on the skin | eerie whispers | a hood covering a stranger’s eyes | the growl of a hidden animal | the sound of a blade being sharpened | a deep, dark forest | walking on the streets alone at night | a cobweb-filled, abandoned building | eyes darting in paranoia | a heavy beating pulse | the feeling of being trapped | struggling to get out a scream | boards covering broken windows | a quiet graveyard | a gas station in the middle of nowhere | a road that never ends | heavy fog rolling in | the scent of blood in the air | eerie old photographs | walking along train tracks at night | a chill going up the spine | gathering crows | a dusty, dimly lit study | mist over a deserted cobblestone street | ghost towns | shadows around a campfire | the sound of chanting | church bells tolling | an orange harvest moon | a broken down carnival | a dirty stuffed animal abandoned | wiping bloody hands on fabric | nightmares | waking up in a panic | a power outage | heavy lightning storms | a secret trap door | the feeling of being watched | fear from trauma | a ouija board set out on a table | an eerie doll | a scream of anguish and pain | withered plants | a room that’s been forgotten and gathered dust | owl eyes in the dark | curled, dead tree branches | a ritual altar | flickering candles | a lantern held up in the dark | fear of being followed | creaking floorboards | repressed, horrible memories | clenched teeth | soft, echoing piano keys | an old book covered in dust | many pairs of glaring eyes | stumbling in pitch black darkness | being stranded in the middle of nowhere | a trail of blood
tagged by: baby steph @chaosblossomed tagging: @blaesus @endthrive (Rudy) @sluething @pinklocks whoever else wants it
awesomegaydar:
@ladyreckoning
She’s sitting on the edge of the steps outside the entrance of Riverdale High, holding an unopened flask on the inside of her arm while she holds her phone between her hands –– its cold, and she curses herself for leaving her jacket inside the gym, draped somewhere across a folded chair, and the red dress she’s wearing is doing nothing to keep her warm. Much to her dismay, Robin doesn’t text her back, and she rolls her eyes as she puts her phone down beside her and rolls her eyes in quiet exasperation. It is only then, when she dares look back to the double doors that open behind her, that she notices she’s not alone.
Veronica Lodge in her light blue dressed glory appears, with tear stricken eyes and looking everything but joyous. She knows next to nothing about this small town’s very own Heiress, in fact, Santana had managed to make her strangely tumultuous years in Riverdale High fly under the radar of Veronica and her golden trio of weird friends, and she had considered that a victory, until she had suddenly waltzed into her life, three weeks before graduation, looking like something akin to heartbreak. And she usually wouldn’t care (usually), but Santana Lopez is nosy, and she has some time to kill –– “Ever considering emailing the company that made your mascara? All tears, no spills. One man’s trash is another man’s treasure.” But she stands anyway, snatching her clutch and her flask, before reaching inside to fetch some tissues for her. “Here. Let me guess –– they stopped playing the One Tree Hill Season 3 Soundtrack and moved on to The O.C and things got super depressing?”
It’s supposed to be the highlight of high school. Years ago, Veronica Lodge would have rolled her eyes, been far too mature and wise and above her peers to find any joy in something as silly as a senior prom. But Riverdale had met a girl drowning in guilt and credit card debt and one too many nights at all the wrong clubs in New York City and turned her into a girl riddled with teen drama worthy sentimentality, filled with the love of the tiny snow globe town she called her home now and the people inside it. She’s a different girl now. The kind who thinks that maybe the prom could be the most perfect night, one last moment with the people she’s come to call her real family. And somewhere in New York City, in a club she shouldn’t be in, a Veronica Lodge, drunk on expensive champagne lectures her for knowing better than to put her heart in things.
And yet she had. She’d put her heart in Archie Andrews and this town. She’d thought a place like Riverdale could hold it safely in the palm of its red gloved hands. Somewhere between pep rallies and milkshakes. Despite all the gorey tragedy Riverdale had come with, it’s not the kind of heartbreak she’d expected. She leaves the building, feeling suddenly like she’s standing outside of that snow globe for the first time since she’d met Archie Andrews at Pop’s. Music hums inside but it’s far away, drowning out the sound of the announcement that Cheryl and Toni will be prom queens, that dreams will come true in Riverdale tonight for anyone but Veronica Lodge. It’s a reminder that maybe Riverdale was never hers to begin with. Santana Lopez’s voice breaks the dull echo of her own self pity, over her mental whispers that she’ll pull herself together in just one second. Veronica quickly wipes at her tears before she’s handed a tissue, but reaches out to take it anyway. “I’m beginning to wonder if I should have paid more attention to those shows. I think somewhere they were trying to remind us that there’s always one person winds up heartbroken at the prom.” She smiles but it’s bitter and she drops her hands into her lap. “Now I’m nearly as much of a cliche as the girl outside drinking alone.”
TONI TOPAZ & VERONICA LODGE Riverdale: Chapter Eighty, Purgatorio.
@awesomegaydar sent: “ is everything alright between us? ”
“ I’d prefer there be far less than everything between us, Santana ” the answer is entirely flirty and pointed as she looks up from the picnic table at the other girl in her matching vixens uniform. “Why keep everything between us when we could instead be inches apart?” She knows she’s driving Santana nuts, but it’s part of her job. What are two hook ups if not an excuse to start publicly laying it on a little thick. Veronica Lodge doesn’t usually kiss and tell but there’s no one with her but Archie at the table. Her grin slowly wipes away, not wanting to actually torture anyone and Veronica sighs. “Of course, everything is fine, Lady Satan. What would make you think otherwise?”
blaesus:
the tone of her voice, the obvious repulsiveness that she must be feeling, has blaise wanting to revert back into himself and it has him jerking his arm away, hastily making sure the sleeve of his shirt cover the tainted skin. it was his fault, he shouldn’t have been so reckless or careless enough for him to bare the most sacred part of him now. it were all his fault. being brought up in a pureblood household with his mind being poisoned with all the values and ideals that all pureblood’s held had definitely paved the way for him and despite it not necessarily being something he wanted, it couldn’t have been avoided. but he couldn’t blame it all on that. ❝ do you honestly think that anyone has a choice when it comes to that? ❞ he bites, speaking much harsher than he has ever spoken to her before and he regrets it as soon as soon as the words left his mouth. he had made no choice to join the ranks of the voldemort’s followers but he certainly didn’t deny the offer. how could he? the zabini name is a name that most wizards know, both death eaters and the order alike. and with that reputation comes a time where they must announce their alliance. for him, his mother made it years ago when she become betrothed to a primary member of the death eaters. it had never been his choice, not since he were born but yet, he wishes that he could say that they tortured him, that they blackmailed him to take the mark. he had sat there, grimaced but took the pain somewhat gracefully when they embedded the mark into his flesh as he didn’t want to give them any pleasure of seeing him writhe in pain. ❝ what do you want me to say? that they threatened to kill my mother? ha … ❞ he lets out a short low laugh as his shoulders slump like all of a sudden, all of the weight of the world suddenly rested on his shoulders.. ❝ i wish they had, i would’ve let them do it. no, veronica. they didn’t force me to do anything … i just don’t have a death wish. ❞
She holds her breath nearly the moment he snaps. The emotion in Blaise’s voices makes it already abundantly clear what his answer will be. She had known before she’d even asked it. It’s why Veronica had been so desperately hoping that somehow she’d been wrong. A selfish hope, maybe. But she’s found that sometimes selfish is the only way that works. Still, she doesn’t move, she lets him explain, trying not to make the horror in her eyes as clear as it feels ,but she can barely keep it back. It’s not horror with him. It’s not horror at what she thinks Blaise is capable of. She knows him well enough by now. It’s horror at the situation -- the reality of it, the terror of their families and the war to come. He says he doesn’t have a death wish and she doesn’t have one for him either. It brings her back to reality, brings her focus back to the boys sitting besides her, hurt and wounded and angry -- tainted by a world that neither of them can get out of. “I realize how vile it would be to say that I wish you did. Because I don’t.” She drops her hand back to his arm, and tries to pulls his attention to her. “I don’t want anything to happen to you, Z. But this -- it’s something.” And it reminds her that the day is likely right around the corner when she’ll be asked to do the same thing he had, when her father will expect it of her. “Merlin,” she breathes out, a little bit defeated. “I’m sorry. I don’t want to see you wrapped up in all of this any more than I want to be wrapped up in myself. But I don’t -- it isn’t you I’m angry at.”
@vrake gets a starter i’ve owed her forever
I thought we were never getting out of there. She sits herself down on the living room sofa, far away from the chatter of her and Cheryl’s parents of a meeting they’ve disguised as a “polite dinner.” They’re not friends -- not even friendly. And certainly their families have never understood politeness beyond fake pleasantries and taking out only their second best bottle of merlot for the occasion. It’s not common for the Lodges and the Blossoms to gather at any capacity, let alone for Veronica’s parents to invite them to dinner. But they had nonetheless, and she’d been instructed to be polite and accommodating while they discussed an important deal.
So polite and accommodating is what Veronica does, painting a sweet hostess smile on her face all through dinner and only letting it shake out when she and Cheryl are dismissed to let the adults chat alone for a little while. As though they’re children. As though neither of them has seen what their families are capable of. “Daddy doesn’t usually ask me to sit out on business talks, but if I had to spend one more minute listening to all of their best attempts at passive aggression, I may have exploded.” She’s been far more candid toward Cheryl than her parents would probably like. They’ve met before thanks to the family business but they’re also certainly not friends. “You can make yourself comfortable. I won’t make like the parents and force us into false pretenses.”
geminaes:
@ladyreckoning
“–– Almost everyone’s pretty cliquey, and sticks to their guns. I think its some ridiculous, centuries old prejudice or something, but everyone loves to preach about unity even though witches practically bully the vampires, and well… the werewolves bully themselves, but Jo and I hang out with everyone”. She keeps her arms behind her back as her boots leave an imprint on the path towards the old mill; though she usually takes this endeavor in pairs, she’s alone in the mission to show Veronica Lodge around. A dangerous feat, if she’d be afraid of vampires at all. Actually, quite the opposite. “I’m strictly… don’t ask, don’t tell but, if you don’t mind me asking… What happened to you?”
“ So what you’re saying is that supernatural high school is exactly like every other high school in suburban America? ” There’s no malice in her tone, and Veronica certainly isn’t surprised to learn that the Salvatore school has it’s cliques. “Have no fear, Lizzie Saltzman. I thrive in a competitive setting, especially when there are social games at play. Not that I play them. I’m strictly game free. I left the worst of me in New York City. Expect to find me floating above all of it, bully wolves, bitchy witches, and nosey tour guides included.” She smiles as she says it, leaning in to the tone that she doesn’t intend to explain her dalliance with Nick St. Claire to anyone just yet.
Veronica Lodge + her waitress uniform.
seesgood:
People tend to walk on eggshells around Veronica Lodge. And it’s not hard to figure out why. Daddy Dearest has money. Connections. And rumors about his business spread faster than wildfire. Still, she’s never bothered to fall into the category that fall at the other girl’s feet. Her mom was a cop. She learned from a young age that people like Hiram and Veronica Lodge don’t deserve fear. Hence…why she’s here. ❝ Veronica Lodge, ❞ Caroline’s tone is cheery enough to disguise their usual brand of irritation with one another. Without invitation, she drops the small stack of her books on the table and takes the seat, slipping her bag over the chair behind her. She could come right out and say it. Ask the questions that everyone else will. She has her notepad and pen at the ready to take the kind of notes that’ll make for a killer article on the subject — but she’s not stupid. She’s witnessed Veronica chew people up and spit them out for less than that. ❝ I heard about your Dad’s deal. ❞ She won’t pretend otherwise. And she’s a terrible liar anyway. ❝ I came to bargain, actually. — I have seriously killer notes for our final. Like, you’re guaranteed an A if you use them…Just give me five minutes with your Dad’s secretary. ❞
❝ Ouch -- I’m offended, Miss Forbes. ❞ She’s not but she plays it off anyway, a hand clutched to her own pearls as Veronica balks at Caroline’s proposal. ❝ Here I thought, in the age of girl power and feminism, when we’re well past teaching the world that we’re each a fish without a bicycle, that you would never be so bold as to assume to that I can’t do my own homework. ❞ She’s teasing really, sizing Caroline up now that she can smell a threat. But she also knows Caroline Forbes, knows she works hard, knows she’s a better person than most. She leans forward on the table, cupping her own chin as if to feign her innocence in this whole exchange. ❝ But I’ll tell you what, cut me a better offer than that, and I’ll see what I can do about getting you a quote from daddy. Something you can use in that little paper of yours to advance your career. He won’t ever humor a sit down. We Lodges don’t play games with the media. ❞
plotted starter for @dottirmikaelson
The crisp fall air in New York was more invigorating than usual. It cooled Veronica’s chest in the way autumn always did as it ran in after summer; freeing, expanding. She’d read a poem once by an old german man who said that autumn was the season of independence. She hadn’t taken it to heart then, but while stuffed up in a pent house loft, Veronica Lodge had had a lot of time to read poetry and think about independence.
It was fickle. The fine line between freedom and control that came with vampirism. Two years in Nick St. Claire’s strange family had taught her that, if nothing else. She’d never forgiven him for the violent turning that got them there, tried not to think about the night she’d woken in his hotel room with the taste of blood in her mouth or the family she left behind. She’d never forgiven him for being another in a long line of powerful men that she ached and planned every day, over poetry, coffee, and thick brimmed glasses, to slip away from.
But with power came freedom, came the strength in her step and the hollow thunk of Italian shoes against New York City gravel. Veronica walked tall, armed with nothing but her own determinedly set jaw, a fresh body full of blood in her system -- a young bookshop owner she frequented because he was always awake at 5 am -- a daylight ring, and the crisp autumn air breathing new beginnings and freedom and into her lungs.
“Veronica Lodge.” She held her hand out to Rebekah Mikaelson, in the doorway of the penthouse apartment on the other side of town that she’d looked her up at. “I understand you took a meeting with Nick St. Claire last night. He’s my sire.” The words burn her throat but she smiles, doesn’t miss a single beat. Her mother fed her cough syrup as an infant to keep her from screaming while her father worked. Veronica’s accustomed to swallowing things that taste like acid. “I was hoping we could talk. Alone.”
supervisories:
Momentarily distracted by the sound of Veronica shuffling behind her, she makes note of the vase in her hands with a quizzical look on her face, before she looks at the peephole again. That’s when she sees him, it, the man behind the door with a heavy winded jacket quietly screwing a silencer on a handgun. It makes every nerve in Sawyer’s body stand up and she shakes her head in Veronica’s direction again, points to the room behind her and takes a few steps back and away from the door. ❛ Get inside. Lock the door. Don’t come out until I say so. ❜
And that’s when the knock comes, three slow and tentative taps against the wood, and Sawyer is the one moving towards it. When she looks again, he has his side to the door, and the gun tucked in his jacket, Sawyer swings the door open with the gun aiming at his head. ❛ Drop… Your weapon.❜
The look of surprise in his face does not elude her; he swings at her and Sawyer ducks, giving him enough time to take off on a sprint down the hallway. She doesn’t say anything, doesn’t order him to stop, doesn’t tell him she’s with the FBI (she knows what’s at stake here, what could happen if he has that information and this is someone associated to Veronica’s father), but she takes off after him anyway. He shoots when she stops at a corner, but she ducks just in time to see the hole it leaves on the wall behind her, and he’s pushing a window open as Sawyer chases him again. He slides out with a surprising amount of ease, so much so, that when Sawyer stops at the window and looks out –– he’s gone.
When she returns to Veronica’s apartment not fifteen minutes later (after doing a thorough sweep of every nook and cranny of her floor), she’s holstering her gun and locking the door behind her. All three bolts, with her phone in hand; she’ll have to report this to her superiors, but there is something more important that needs tending first. The girl behind the door. Sawyer knocks on Veronica’s bedroom door, leans against it. ❛ Ms. Lodge… Would you like to come out or would you like me to come in instead?❜
At first, Veronica considers being brave. She considers staying put with that vase in her hand and helping to defend her apartment from whatever is going on. But she sees the look in Agent Cross’s eyes and thinks better of it. They’d talked about this before, about what happens when it’s time for Sawyer to do her job. Veronica has to trust her and listen to the other or they’ll b e in even greater danger than they already were. So Veronica does as she’s told, she goes into her bedroom and locks the door. But instead of keeping the vase in her hands, she puts it down in the middle of the room and moves to the safe. It’s in the second drawer of her vanity, in a lock box with a pin pad safe that only she can open. Her father may not be a good man but he’d taught Veronica some very important things about protecting herself. One of those things was to always be armed.
She’d never had to take that gun out before but she takes it out now, with shaky hands, surprised once again by how cold and heavy it is. And then she waits. She hears a scuffle but it’s far away. Silence. And then the door. Veronica waits, standing by her bed, out of eyeline of the door, with the gun pointed straight in front of her, finger on the trigger. As she hears footsteps approach, she tightens her grip, squares her jaw, prepares herself. She’ll think about what happened to Agent Cross and whether or not she’s alive after. First -- this.
Ms Lodge. She hears Sawyer’s voice and exhales with relief. She isn’t dead. But it could still be a trap. She could be held at gun point, being forced to knock on the door. She doesn’t know Sawyer quite well enough to know what she’d do if her life was being threatened, and Veronica’s too smart a bussines woman to not think of every possible outcome. “Come in,” she urges her. But she’s still holding the gun, still not moving, still standing on the other side of the door. “You can come in.”