#like. through their entire school career and across numerous schools. from elementary right into high school.

[byanyan]

the more i think about byan being an art kid, the more i realize that some of their drawings definitely got them sent to see the school counselor on more than one occasion over the years.

[lady-divine-writes]

Klaine one-shot - “The Pussy Collector” (Rated PG13)

Blaine has been crushing on assistant fashion editor Kurt Hummel since the first day he started interning at Vogue. They spent almost every lunch hour together, and he thought Kurt might feel the same way. But after he gets hired on and transferred to Kurt's department, Blaine overhears some conversation that gives him a reason to think differently.

To think that, despite all of their many heart-to-hearts, he may not know the first thing about Kurt Hummel. (2518 words)

A/N: I hate this one, just so you know. Vogue Kurt. Different first meeting. Fluff. Blah-blah.

Read on AO3.

“Oh my God, Kurt! She’s beautiful!” Rachel coos, taking the phone from her best friend’s hands to get a better look at the picture on the screen.

The picture of a gorgeous woman, if her reaction is anything to go by.

“I know, right?” Kurt swipes the screen to reveal the next few pictures. “And forward, too! She came right up to me and sat on my lap without me having to say a word.”

Rachel bumps Kurt’s shoulder, shooting him a sly and secretive look. Behind his computer screen, Blaine scowls. Lucky tramp, he thinks, imagining himself getting up from his chair and sitting in Kurt’s lap, running his fingertips up and down the soft skin of his neck, nuzzling into his shoulder. But no. Apparently, that honor is reserved for rando floozies Kurt meets when he travels for business.

Blaine switches tabs and, for a brief second, catches a glimpse of his reflection in his screen. He looks angry. He looks bitter.

He looks jealous, and that’s not a good look for him.

Who is he to judge Kurt for the life he leads? If Blaine wasn’t crushing on Kurt, he wouldn’t care what the man did when he went out of town. If Blaine is ever lucky enough to get a chance with Kurt, he’ll have to spend a lot of time making up for all of the mental slut-shaming he’s done when he was really just angry at himself for being a coward.

“Why didn’t you bring her home?” Rachel asks, as if that’s even an acceptable question.

“Because who says she wants to get on an airplane and come all the way to the Big Apple?” Kurt takes his phone back and gazes fondly at the image on the screen. “Besides, I’ve got three at home as it is. Who knows if they’d get along?”

Kurt sighs.

Rachel nods in silent agreement.

Blaine’s head snaps up so quickly that he gives himself a cramp. Three at home? What the---? How did Blaine not know that Kurt lived a polyamorous lifestyle? They work at Vogue, the hub of gossip here and abroad. If the vending machine at their office in Paris runs out of gummy bears, everyone hears about it! How did something like this fall under the radar? Why hasn’t Isabelle run a whole feature on him? She eats, what she captions, “alternative lifestyle” stuff up!

“Nope,” Kurt continues as the cramp in Blaine’s neck begins to sting. “Better to let her stay where she is and make her own way in the world. Who knows? Maybe I’ll go back soon and see her again.”

“Yes, but in the meantime …” Rachel cozies up to Kurt with a giggle “… tell me about this trip to Milan you’re taking.”

Blaine tunes out momentarily while Kurt launches into his itinerary for the latest trip to Italy he’d been cleared to take, covering the battle of the big league fashion houses. It was enough to make Blaine pea green, if he wasn’t already.

He doesn’t begrudge Kurt his fabulous life. The man has definitely earned it, what with the hours he puts in … the life he’s endured. He was bullied throughout high school (just like Blaine); moved to New York from Ohio with no college acceptance, no plans for the future (just like Blaine); started out an intern (just like Blaine); and look at him now – traveling the world, meeting famous fashion designers, writing about their passions and their inspirations. That’s exactly the kind of life Blaine wants to have some day. But he’d also like a life where he meets a kind, compassionate, handsome man and falls in love; one where they enjoy simply being in each other’s company - spending long nights on the couch eating ice cream and watching trash TV, cooking experimental meals together, making love till they know they’re going to be late for work in the morning. That man could be a self-made millionaire or an elementary school teacher, as long as the two of them connect.

He thought he and Kurt had.

Kurt had even kissed him once – one of those continental type kisses on both cheeks, but followed by a gaze so deep Blaine felt it in his toes.

Blaine got to know Kurt from the times he goferred between floors. That’s how Blaine learned the details of Kurt’s life – everything from how he took his coffee to how he got into fashion. And vice versa. Some days they’d only talk in passing. Other days, they’d sit at Blaine’s makeshift desk in the back corner of the office and conversate over lunch.

Those were the best lunches of Blaine’s life.

Blaine hadn’t sat in on too many of Kurt’s conversations with his colleagues during that time. But from the second he was hired on and promoted to Kurt’s department (a career leap he had hoped Kurt had something to do with), he got a front-row seat to all of the gritty gossip.

Including Kurt’s numerous sexual trysts, both male and female.

That took Blaine by surprise. He was sure Kurt was 100% gay. If he identifies as bi or pan or something else in between, Blaine doesn’t care.

He just wishes Kurt would give him a chance.

Blaine enjoys his new job. He enjoys finally feeling like an integral part of the Vogue machine. And one of the biggest perks of his job is seeing Kurt for eight hours straight.

But they rarely get to talk anymore.

Blaine misses the one-on-one time he spent with Kurt. Up here, amongst Kurt’s entourage, they don’t get too many chances to talk alone.

Blaine has started to think that Kurt had little to nothing to do with his transfer upstairs after all.

“Hey, Blaine!” Kurt says, interrupting Blaine’s thoughts and helping himself to a seat on the corner of Blaine’s desk. “How was your weekend?”

“Not as exciting as yours,” Blaine says, trying to sound good-natured. It comes across a little less than to Blaine’s ears, but not to Kurt’s, who barely seems to be listening, still flipping through the photos on his phone.

“Well, traveling for work can be exciting, but to be honest, my favorite weekends are the ones I get to spend in the comfort of my own home, curled up on the sofa with a good book, a cup of coffee, a little companionship …” Kurt pauses as if he’s waiting for an answer, some sort of commiseration, but Blaine doesn’t know how to give it. After all, Blaine spent the weekend alone with take-out Chinese food and his guitar while Kurt wooed beautiful women in exotic locales. “Speaking of, did you want to see some pictures from my trip?”

“Oh.” Blaine swallows hard. Did he want to see pictures from Kurt’s trip? After hearing what Rachel had to say, probably not. But maybe … yes? If only to see what kind of person turns Kurt on. Blaine has seen photos from some of Kurt’s previous trips, but he’s never been privy to the photos he shows Rachel.

The ones with his lovers in them.

During the entire time they spent getting to know one another, Kurt never mentioned having one-night stands abroad or a harem of lovers at home.

Could this be a way of broaching the subject?

“Sure. That sounds like … fun.”

“Great!” Kurt scrolls to the beginning and hands his phone over. Blaine takes a deep breath, readying himself for the unimaginable, the sordid … and the heartbreaking. Then dives in.

The photos Blaine flips through are pretty run-of-the-mill as far as business trip photos go – Kurt standing shoulder to shoulder with Michael Kors; Kurt in a group shot with the models from the Victoria’s Secret show; Kurt modeling a suit from Alexander McQueen’s new line; Kurt eating dinner with Altuzarra, Proenza Schouler, Thom Browne, and Rodarte; and so on and so on. Nothing too shocking or risqué there, if you overlook the appetizer on the table. God, that’s a lot of cheese for one plate of stuffed mushrooms.

Blaine reaches the end, shaking his head at how unexceptional those pictures were. He doesn’t understand. Aside from what looked like staged photos with models and group photos with colleagues, Kurt’s photographs didn’t have a single woman in them, not one behaving anything close to intimate.

Not at all what Blaine was expecting, unless …

“Um, forgive me for asking, Kurt, but … are these all the photos? I mean …” Blaine gulps, questioning in his own mind if this is an avenue he wants to travel. In the end, he decides yes. Better to know the truth now, full disclosure, before he gives his heart to this man any more than he already has “… it seemed like you were showing Rachel … other photos.”

Kurt quirks a brow. “Oh!” He takes his phone back. “I didn’t think you’d want to see them.” He swipes through folders, then selects one. “You seem like more of a dog person to me.”

“Oh,” is all Blaine can say because that response is kind of … confusing? Was that code? A lot of the people in the office had one. So, were men dogs? Because, otherwise, how can the opposite of woman be dog?

Even without a logical explanation, that sounds sort of rude. Blaine didn’t think that Kurt was that kind of person.

He’s not, Blaine realizes, when Kurt hands him back the phone with the new photos displayed on the screen.

“Kurt” - Blaine swipes through the pictures – artistic, spectacularly composed pictures - with a renewed sense of confusion wrinkling his brow - “these are cats.”

“I know.” Kurt sighs, looking at the pictures from over Blaine’s shoulder. “Aren’t they precious?”

“I … yes, but I …” Blaine hands Kurt back his phone, unable to come up with a coherent sentence “… I don’t understand.”

“Photographing stray cats is a thing with me.” Kurt opens another folder on his phone. This time, instead of handing it to Blaine, he pulls up a chair beside him so he can show him for himself. “Funny when you consider I wasn’t exactly a cat person back in Ohio.”

“Why is that?” Blaine takes this opportunity to pull himself closer under the guise of getting a better look. He breathes in through his nose, the scent of Kurt’s cologne pleasantly subtle, the warmth of his body bleeding through Blaine’s shirt sleeve where his arm rests beside his.

It’s not sitting in Kurt’s lap, but it’s nice.

“In a place like Ohio, stray cats are a menace. They attack native birds and wildlife, get into the trash, poop in your yard. They’re a nuisance in general.”

“I remember.” Blaine chuckles, recalling how his mom’s marigolds were decimated one summer by a local tom cat who wouldn’t stop spraying them.

“But city cats are different. They have an air of sophistication, a wisdom about them. They have scars. They’ve been through things. You can see it in their eyes.” Kurt swipes through photograph after photograph of cats he’s found in New York: sitting on a trashcan in the alley behind his loft, on the steps of the public library, lying brazenly beneath a table at The Four Seasons. “I’ve been photographing city cats ever since I moved to New York. And when I travel and I feel lonely, I roam the streets wherever I am and take pictures of them. I’ve found them in every city from L.A. to India. It makes me feel connected to home. That’s why I have three of them.” He switches to a picture of what Blaine assumes is Kurt’s living room. He sees three cats lying on his sofa – a sleek, black Siamese, a fluffy Maine coon, and a straggly, orange, short-haired beast of a tabby. “Well, I don’t exactly own them. They come to my fire escape and I feed them. I let them inside when it’s raining out. The Siamese I know lives at the bodega down the street, and I think I might be co-opping the tabby with my neighbor.”

Blaine watches the photos change as Kurt swipes them, the three cats lying around his loft as if they own it – draped over the back of the sofa, congregating in a single patch of sunlight, drinking out of bowls on the kitchen table. “That’s … kind of romantic.”

“That’s me.” Kurt shrugs. “Just a silly romantic.” He swipes through the pictures a moment longer before he chooses to speak again. “That’s kind of something I wanted to discuss with you.” He switches off his phone and puts it in his pocket, guaranteeing that he has Blaine’s complete attention.

“Oh?”

“You know, after Isabelle hired you, I had you transferred up here so I could spend a little more time with you …”

“You … you did?” Blaine asks, his heart creeping up his throat.

“Yup. But unlike a lot of the people in this department, you actually spend your time working, so that plan hasn’t gone off nearly as well as I’d hoped.”

“Well, at least now I can afford to pay my rent, so I do thank you for that,” Blaine teases to keep the flirtatious nature of this conversation going. But Kurt nods like that statement might be changing his mind about what he’s mulling over in his head, and Blaine immediately regrets saying it. But before he can backpedal, Kurt asks, “Do you think you could afford to spend a little time away from your apartment and go on a special assignment … with me?”

“What kind of assignment?” Blaine asks, trying to play it cool, recover from his flirting faux pas … none of which he accomplishes when his voice hikes up a few notes.

“Have you ever been to Milan? I don’t know if you’ve noticed, but my itinerary is packed so tight, it squeaks.”

“I … hadn’t really noticed,” Blaine admits, since he’d tuned Kurt out while he was discussing it. “But I can imagine.”

“It would make my life a helluva lot easier if I had an assistant,” Kurt explains as he inches closer. “You know, someone to juggle my appointments, manage my notes, help with my editing, join me for dinner, maybe a nightcap …”

“Are we allowed to do that?” Blaine asks, praying he and Kurt are on the same page and that he’s not reading too deep into a very platonic invitation to join him on a business related venture.

“Well, there’re no rules at Vogue against employees dating, as long as we’re not obnoxious about it. That is … if that’s something you’d like?”

Blaine chews his lower lip, all pretense of cool, calm, and collected thrown completely out the window. He can’t think of a single thing he’d like more right now than a date with Kurt. “Does this mean you’re going to introduce me to your cats?”

“Blaine” - Kurt puts a bold hand on his knee - “going to Milan will only be our first date. Meeting the cats is a second date activity.”

*** This was originally titled "Cats-anova" but I figured that would be too big a give away xD

[thekillingquill]

Not Another Tragic Backstory | 3

Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3 + Epilogue Pairing: Jughead x Reader Word Count: 3,105 + Epilogue: 303 Warnings: I solemnly swear. By which I mean, there be curse words below! Also I attempted fluff. Summary: Riverdale has resurrected the Blue & Gold and with it, the Journalism program! This week’s lesson: Human Interest/Profiles. Reader is paired with Jughead who writes an unflattering profile on her, prompting her to confront him about it. A/N: So there are 750 words of this that I wrote before any part of this story and it’s the part where she is going awf on Jughead. I didn’t proofread this and an epilogue is included at the bottom. It’s an attempt at fluff so beware.

When the bell rings for lunch I all but run out of class. I’m the first person in the hall and I keep my head down to avoid seeing anyone who would want to talk to me. I reach in my bag and touch the sharp edges of the profile Jughead Jones has written about me, ensuring that it is still there. It’s a familiar motion, one that I’ve been completing since Ash handed it to me after our journalism class.

Ash’s words have stirred up my nerves. I’m afraid, but I can’t ignore this opportunity. An itch has already started and I know that nothing but reading this article can satisfy it. I opt to duck into the janitor’s closet under the stairs and cringe at the musty odor of a long forgotten room. The lighting in here is terrible so I pull out my phone and use the flashlight function to light up the words.

The headline reads: Y/N Y/L/N A RIVERDALE LEGACY’S PATH TO REDEMPTION and my stomach clenches in fear of what I’m about to read.

The town of Riverdale was founded 75 years ago by six prominent families who each inspired the development of the town. The Y/L/N family had a large hand in cultivating the tone of Riverdale’s community as they, and their descendents, were voted into office for ten terms back to back. This was considered the family business until Mayor Sierra McCoy was elected in light of what is known as the July Scandal.

From the moment she was born Y/N Y/L/N has been on the fast track for a political career. In grade school she participated in numerous National speaking competitions and took first place on four separate occasions. In Junior High she was president of the Debate Club, taking them to Nationals, and organized a Model UN with the schools in nearby towns. She participated in two speaking competitions and placed third and second respectively.

Now a sophomore at Riverdale High Y/L/N is a member of the notorious River Vixens cheer team, co-captain of the Debate team, and will be running for Class President. Today she has foregone the River Vixens uniform for a business casual attire of brand name blue jeans, an ironed blouse and kitten heels.

Y/L/N was four years old when the July Scandal unfolded. During a debate between former Mayor Y/L/N and candidate Mayor McCoy a young woman approached the front of the town hall and asked the former Mayor why he wouldn’t acknowledge his mistake. That woman was an intern at City Hall that the former Mayor had engaged in relations with, resulting in pregnancy. The pregnancy has never been confirmed, but it was a big enough scandal to tip the election in Mayor McCoy’s favour.

Since the July Scandal the Y/L/N family has stepped back from politics to focus on other projects, but it looks as though their legacy will continue with our classmate.

I am so angry that I am visibly trembling. Jughead’s piece goes on and on about how I’m going to essentially spend the rest of my days in Riverdale as a politician in some sort of twisted redemption for my family’s shame. He might has well have written that I’m going to die here and be buried next to my Mayoral ancestors.

Though factually he’s correct about my past, his piece is ignorant and ill-informed about the me of today. I have no intention of running for class president. I didn’t run for the title of class president last year, and I considered it for college applications this year, but I ultimately decided that it wasn’t worth it. The July Scandal didn’t just cost my father the election, but nearly cost him his family. I have no interest in walking down that path, ever.

He goes on to describe myself and the other descendents of the six founding families as legacies and talks about our obligations to the town. It just makes me so sick. This is how he sees me: in the afterglow of a scandal that nearly tore my entire family apart. My shaking rage dissolves into frustrated tears and I know that I can’t stay at school.

I will allow myself one minute to be upset and then I will have to be a big girl. This is a skill that was taught to me early on in life. I am allowed to be upset for a moment, but then I must put it behind me and be a grown up about it. I breathe deeply, wipe my tears, and then start texting Ash.

Hey Ash, I’m not feeling very well so I’m going to go home can you cover for me?

You read it, huh?

It wasn’t as bad as you made it out to be. Which is a lie I need to tell myself right now so that I can hold myself together until I get home.

If that’s what you need to tell yourself babe. It is, for now. My visible shaking has become an unnoticeable quiver by the time that I get home. The anger and sadness, however, has only grown in intensity. I head straight to my room and open my laptop, pouring out all of these emotions in the only way I know how: through writing.

I write poems, small paragraphs, bits of a bigger story and multiple blog posts of 2-3 sentences that are vague and drenched in angst. It’s during my fifth poem that I realize what has happened.

Jughead Jones has broken my heart and he has no idea. Well, that was going to change.

I knew I’d find him at Pop’s. I just didn’t know if I’d find him there alone. On the one hand, the part of me that is hellbent on seeking revenge wants to drag him in front of his friends. On the other hand, the part of me that is scared and heartbroken wants to keep this as private as possible. Less witnesses if I started crying again.

Jughead’s profile on me is rolled up in my clenched fist and I subconsciously squeeze it as I survey the crowd at Pop’s. There are a couple of  families on the other side of the diner having ice cream and milkshakes, a few kids from school studying, and sitting as far away from the crowds as possible is Jughead Jones.

He’s wearing his fur-lined denim jacket and his infamous beanie, staring intensely at his laptop while his fingers move across the keyboard with purpose. Next to his laptop is an empty glass and a plate that is half full (or half empty) of fries. I falter briefly in my mission and know that if I don’t act now then I’m going to end up rolling over and letting this slide.

My strides are so long that it takes me approximately four steps to approach Jughead’s booth. When I do, I slam his profile down on the table so hard that his glass tips to the side, startling him for a second time. He looks up at me, wide-eyed and completely speechless and I try to school my features to hide the fact that it hurt like a son of a bitch to hit the table that hard.

“You don’t know me or what my plans are, Jones.” I say it with as much cold venom as I can muster and slide into the booth across from him. He looks at the wrinkled and slightly curved pages on the table between us. A look of realization crosses his face before it’s replaced by annoyance. He slouches back in the booth and starts eating fries, looking bored and disgusted with the situation.

Yesterday this would have disarmed me. Today, it sustains me and my rage.

“You didn’t ask me a single question to support your profile, so I’ve prepared some of my own.” Jughead opens his mouth to say something, but I hold up one finger and raise my voice over him “One: what are you hopes for the future? Well, Jones, one day I hope to have an extensive mug collection for my modest apartment in any town that isn’t Riverdale.” I put up a second finger and make sure I am holding eye contact with Jughead while I speak.

“Two: why did you decide to take journalism this year? Well Jones, I’ve been writing since they taught us how in elementary school. I thought taking journalism this year might show me a way to turn my hobby into a career. I thought it might help me improve my storytelling. Frankly, I find print journalism to be fascinating.” I give him the most sarcastic smile I can muster.

“Since you are so interested in my past, I feel like I should share with you that when I was younger I thought it would be cool to write for a magazine. Now that I’m in journalism I know without a doubt that I’d like to get at least one piece published in the following magazines either in their print publications or online: Ms. Magazine, BUST, Bitch, Rolling Stone, Variety, Cosmo, and The New Yorker. And here’s a tidbit about the speaking competitions you mentioned in your piece: It’s not just talking to a crowd. I wrote all of those speeches, thank you very much.”

I can tell that Jughead is growing more uncomfortable by the second and I know that my voice is too loud for the crowd at Pop’s. He refuses to meet my eyes and slouches in the corner of the booth with his arms crossed. It feels so so so good to finally say all of this, to not hold back. I hold up a third finger and am tempted to tell him to read between the lines.

“Three: why are you so upset, Y/N? You know, it really warms my heart that you would ask me that. See, you’ve written about 500 words about my character based on things you’ve heard or maybe seen. You didn’t profile me. You wrote assumptions and deductions. The truth is that you don’t know me, Jones. You think you do, but you actually don’t know what I’ve lived through or what drives me or who I love. You don’t even know my favourite colour or what kind of movies I like, but I bet if you were to guess you’d say it was purple and that I like romantic comedies. Well, surprise, bitch! My favourite colour is mint green and I like psychological thrillers.”

I take a deep breath and lean back in my seat. I have officially burned through all of my anger and am left with something else, something softer and heavier all at once. I take a moment to collect myself and evaluate my audience. His eyebrows are furrowed and he is leaning forward with his lips slightly parted. In his eyes I see intrigue. He starts to speak and I cut him off without having to raise my voice.

“I’m not finished yet,” I tell him tiredly. I hold up four fingers and then let my hands rest on the table in front of me. “Four: Y/N, you mentioned that I don’t know what you’ve lived through. Why don’t you elaborate on that and educate me?” I let out a sigh and give Jughead a half smile across the table. “See, now these are the kind of probing questions I had expected of you, Jughead. After all, you are investigating Jason Blossom’s murder and that would involve a certain level of intelligence.”

Jughead reaches up and closes the lid of his laptop and I know he’s truly invested in my mock interview. Maybe it’s because I called him by his first name but it’s probably because I mentioned Jason Blossom.

“Frankly, I don’t think you deserve an answer. However, as a fellow writer, I would hate for the quality of your piece to suffer, so I will give you this much: The only friends I had as a kid were the possessive kind that liked to put me on a shelf when they were done with me. They got angry if someone else acknowledged me. It could be borderline abusive at times, but I’m stronger for it.”

“Are you talking about Cheryl Blossom?” Jughead asks before I can stop him. I shoot him a sarcastic smile.

“Sorry Jughead, you had your chance to ask your questions. Five: Why bother explaining yourself to me?” I choke on my words, but there’s something about how he’s looking at me, really looking at me, that makes me push through my nerves. It’s now or never.

“Because I’ve quietly admired you for years and it really fucking hurt to know that you think so little of me. Meanwhile for the last three months or so I’ve been trying to stop thinking about how you’re the kind of boy who hangs stars in the sky when you smile. That’s a direct quote from a poem I wrote in English class last year. It was about you, as most of my poems these days are.” I close my eyes tightly and take a deep breath, leaning my head back against the booth.

I feel like I’ve just cut the cord tethering me to earth. It never occurred to me just how heavy this secret was, that it had been a constant weight that I’d been carrying around. I’m scared and relieved all at once. I’ve just gathered the energy to leave when Jughead speaks.

"Just because you got personal with me doesn't mean I'm going to spill my tragic backstory to you." His voice is quiet and not unkind. There is an almost teasing lilt to his tone. I open my eyes and he is looking back at me with an indiscernible expression on his face. It’s almost a mixture of uncertainty and awe? I give a mirthless laugh and sit up, mirroring his position with my arms crossed and elbows leaning on the table.

"You think all that was a tragic backstory? Honey, my tragic backstory is going to die with me." I wink and shoot him a flirtatious smile, one that I learned from watching Ash and Reggie.

“Really? Spending your childhood as Cheryl Blossom’s toy isn’t a tragic backstory?” He’s leaning forward over the table and his smirk causes my thighs to press tightly together.

“Not by a longshot, Jones. You’re curious now, aren’t you?” I lean back and try to keep my composure. Jughead follows my movements and leans back against his side of the booth casually.

“No, of course not.”

“I’m starting to see why you don’t say a lot. You’re a terrible liar.”

“Is that such a bad thing?” He asks me, tone serious.

“No,” I answer him softly. My smile is no longer flirtatious, but fond. His honesty is one of the things I like most about him. Followed by his passion for things. I like how soft he looks when he thinks no one is looking. I like his tenacity and his independence and his way of viewing the world.

“Can I… can I buy you a milkshake?” He asks, sounding uncertain of himself.

“I would love that.” I try to tone down my enthusiasm, but his smirk tells me that I’ve failed. I enjoy getting to admire the object of my affections up close and personal. I expect him to shy away from my hungry eyes, but he seems to be looking back just as intensely. The tension in Pop’s threatens to choke me, so I smile softly at him and start a new conversation.

“I never got to finish my interview in class today. So, question five: tell me, when did you realize that you were a pretentious twat or have you not figured it out yet?”

“It’s recently been brought to my attention,” he admits with a smile.

“I’m happy to say that a lot of you did well with your profile assignments. Jughead Jones, in particular, excelled with his profile on Y/N Y/L/N and will have the privilege of interviewing Mayor McCoy.” Mrs. Cooper is holding up a copy of Jughead’s assignment and I can’t help but to look look at him over my shoulder. His eyes are already on me and he quirks his eyebrow, tossing a potato chip in his mouth. He smirks while he chews. Asshole.

I flip him off with as much subtlety as possible.

“I’ll be leaving the profile on my desk for anyone who is interested in reading it after class.”Ash glares at Jughead over her shoulder and sends me a sympathetic smile. I wave off her concern and pass her a note, encouraging her to read it again after class.

Mrs. Cooper launches into a discussion on what we did well and what needs work and I smile down at my notebook. I sneak glances over my shoulder and he’s always looking back at me with that intensity that attracts me like a moth to a flame.

At the end of class Ash all but sprints to get her hands on Jughead’s profile. I watch him pack up his things and follow behind him as he leaves the room. Reggie Mantle is standing outside of the classroom. He and Ash must be very much on right now if he’s walking her to and from classes again. He smirks when he sees Jughead and puts a hand on his shoulder, stopping him from passing.

“Where’s the fire, Wednesday Addams? Off to plan your next murder?”

I force my way under Jughead’s arm, wrapping my arm tightly around his waist. He looks startled by my appearance.

“Actually Reg, we’re headed to the bleachers to make out so you and Ash should go somewhere else today.” I twist out from under Jughead’s arm, grabbing his hand and walk backwards so that I’m facing him. He, along with Reggie and a few other students in the hall looks stunned.

“Do you not want to make out under the bleachers?” I ask him teasingly. He smirks and jerks his arm backwards bringing me chest to chest with him.

“You’re being cheeky,” he tells me lowly.

“I’m being daring,” I counter, pushing up on the tips of my toes to press a soft kiss to the corner of his mouth. “So do you want to go behind the bleachers or no?”

Jughead smirks and laces our fingers, taking the hall that will bring us outside to the football field.

EPILOGUE

When I left for college Jughead gave me picture frame and inside of it was an article he had cut out of The New Yorker. It’s the one I wrote in junior year after we, along with his friends, solved the murder of Jason Blossom. My first published piece, but not my last.

Jughead took a gap year to promote his book and when it reached the New York Times Bestseller list, I printed it off and had it framed. I gave it to him in person on the anniversary of the day I stormed into Pop’s to yell at him for being presumptuous. I still get dizzy thinking about the way I kissed him that night, with his back pushed up against the pillar on my front porch.

I found my modest apartment in Salem. Jughead populated my mug collection by sending me one from each city he visited and one from every hotel chain he stayed at while on tour with his book. If I had to pick a favourite, it would be the two he brought from Pop’s the night he sold the movie rights to his book. We drank cheap champagne from them and he drunkenly confessed his desire to marry me.

He presents me with a scrapbook six months later. Every magazine article that I’d gotten published is cut out and pasted down on its own page. Underneath or beside the article are handwritten notes from Jughead: little comments or thoughts he had about the piece.

On the last page is a mock article he has written. Our wedding announcement. Underneath it he has taped the engagement ring I wear now. I twist it around my finger and listen to Jughead caressing the keys to his computer in the next room and I am so so so happy.

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