the parade is tomorrow

buds pals and dudes this week has been the most intense culmination of  ***pride month*** and my job is kicking my whole ass marching and folding and packing and smiling and programming and calling 

the parade is the grand finale tomorrow, and then all messages and prompts are coming back online as of like Sunday/Monday!!

the twelve hour shifts aren’t giving me that much time to write but i have stories itching at me and replies loaded and cocked and ready to fire

i swear I’ll be properly back soon xoxoxoxo

Happy Pride, people!. :D Here is some celebratory Harry/Draco~

Why the frick is every. single. march. on SATURDAY?

Like y’all know that Sabbath-observant Jews (*coughs* LIKE ME) are completely excluded, right??

Unless we live within walking distance (*coughs* WHICH I DO NOT) then we can’t travel to them on Sabbath.




Tomorrow is Thanksgiving, which means the Macy’s Thanksgiving parade is tomorrow morning. Here is a nice little throw back to when the Cast of In The Heights Preformed during the parade. 

If you’re cold I’ll keep you warm
And besides, there’s so much beauty in a storm
—  La Dispute - Fall Down, Never Get Back Up Again
I wanna follow more blogs

So if you blog about the following, please reblog this. Also if you ship/reblog any f// ships reblog this

Supergirl (Supercorp, Sanvers)
Wynonna Earp (Wayhaught)
The Flash
Legends of Tomorrow
Harlivy (Harley Quinn x Poison Ivy)
Mayday Parade
Game of Thrones
Lesbian Ships
Orphan Black
WWE (wrestling)
All for One


Klaus x Reader

Requested By Anon

“I’m home.” You called out and hurried to dump your bags in the bedroom, smiling hen the pattering of feet headed towards you and you found your son hurrying through the corridor towards you.

“Oh, I see, the affection of a mother is more important than Shakespeare.” Klaus called as you scooped him up and gently poked the boys nose, making him squeal.

“He’s just learning to eat with a spoon and walk without falling, he has years to learn Shakespeare.” You laughed and Klaus frowned at the two of you.

Keep reading

She said “tomorrow, when you go to the parade or the fair. say shabbat shalom....”

So, I was raised in a lesbian household. My birth mom is Jewish, my other mom is Catholic. I grew up Jewish and we attended a very lesbian congregation. Our rabbi is a lesbian herself. When I was around 10 or 11, a little before gay marriage would be legalized in NYC, she gave us a dvar torah the day before pride. She said “tomorrow, when you go to the parade or the fair. say shabbat shalom. just go up to someone, if they seem jewish or not and say it. You may find someone who has been struggling with their religion. Someone who feels that they cannot be Jewish and gay at the same time. And you will touch them. You will teach them there is a place for them in this community. That being Jewish and gay is possible and there is a place for them. When I was a young girl, it would’ve meant the world to me.” To this day her words touch me. I came out as bisexual when I was 14. As I’ve grown older I’ve begun wondering if I may be a lesbian, or at least only situationally heterosexual. I’m not sure at this point and that’s fine. What’s important was that I was given this community. My moms got married under a huppah, whose fabric we ended up using to make the tallis for my Bat Mitzvah. Jewish life and gay life have always been intertwined for me and I’m so glad that I had that established at such a young age. I can be both, you can be both. Being religious and loving your heritage is not something exclusive for straight people. I am as proud a Jewish woman as I am a queer woman and I hope I can one day say “shabbat shalom” to someone else, and make them know what I know.

anonymous asked: I love Joe!!! I would love to see more of him in Modern Glasgow or any other idea that strikes any of y'alls fancy. I think he is truly the only good friend Claire ever had (beyond Jamie, naturally) and I wished the books had even more Joe and Claire moments!

Read the other chapters here.

Our Story

[December 24th, 1998]

There is something to be said for the peculiar hour of the blue-morning, when a hospital beeps into quiet life. The rattle of death behind drawn curtains, expletives hissed over set bones and shots taken in the thigh. It is not like Jamie’s Grampian refuge, which springs forth naturally from the earth. Instead, Boston GH scars the landscape, numbing loneliness through morphine drips and the tug of sheer necessity.

It is during this gradual reawakening, that Claire hides in a closet, imagines the pink, wet sacs of her lungs contract and expand. She counts her breaths—one, two, three, one, two, three—to release the night’s chaos, still lodged in her throat. 

During the wild evening hours, Claire sees only what exists outside her body. Such an easy thing to do as a doctor, this sudden corporeal separation: leap into the procedural dance, embrace the temporary loss of yourself to the staunching of blood and the sewing of sutures. 

But eventually, the window of calm arrives, and the wall of dissociation begins to crumble. Claire, in her closet sanctuary, returns to her body once more, the sight of her arms and her hands like four old friends, reacquainted.

Claire hunkers down between two shelves, and relief travels from foot to torso, settling somewhere inside her gut. As always, she has brought her medical bag—a gift from her husband, CER embossed in golden filigree—and rummages through it. As always, she finds the folder and flicks it open, seeking the page that is stowed inside. She is forever tethered to its final sentence, which launches a fresh rip of longing straight to her chest.

And as always, she goes back to the beginning, following the words. Fingers like greedy sponges, text absorbing into skin.

NEW YORK CITY, 11:30AM - The diner hushes when the bell tinkles, announcing the arrival of literary darling James Fraser. He is a giant in more ways than one: six-feet tall, wide-set shoulders, and a critically-acclaimed author with legions of fans. But for all his inches and his clout, Fraser is blissfully unaware of the eyes on his back. When he sits opposite me and shakes my hand, I, like the rest of the world, find him to be impulsively likable.

Sporting one month’s growth of beard and a wrinkled v-neck, it doesn’t take long for Fraser’s roguish charm to earn a free meal. He is quick to thank the waitress, and for not the first time, one has to wonder how the man could possibly be single. Surely his good looks, his talent, and Reformed Bad Boy reputation draws the ladies in? 

Point proven: our waitress lingers, hungry for Fraser’s attention, but he closes his menu after ordering a glass of lemonade. (An odd choice, but then our writing heroes are full of idiosyncrasies, aren’t they?) I almost leap to console the girl, that poor thing, as she runs a self-conscious hand down her apron.

Alas, one gets the impression that it isn’t pickiness keeping Fraser romantically unattached. Nor is it misogyny or closeted homosexuality (despite what those tabloid vipers spit). James Fraser simply enjoys his place in the lonely hearts club—and is perfectly content to stay there, sipping ice-cold lemonade.

Frank’s ring glides across the lines, pauses over “single”. Such a different life, so removed from Claire’s, though here it thrums beneath her hands. Suddenly, her head grows heavier, weighted by the chain draped around her neck. Jamie’s thistle ring dangles there, cold as death against her. Forever tucked inside her shirts, a secret between her breasts. (Frank lets her wear it, just as she lets him wear his stained button-downs, other women smiling from the collars.)

Fraser’s second and latest novel, Two Centuries in Purgatory, released just last month to stellar reviews. Hailed as a “modern classic” by The New York Times (and truly, it is), Purgatory has found a comfortable seat at the top of the bestseller lists, and shows no signs of losing momentum. Now touring the U.S., Fraser seems nonplussed by the bustle of the Big Apple, his eighth time to our concrete jungle (“I’ve a parade of publisher meetings and interviews tomorrow,” he grumbles). Though he’s a longtime resident of both Edinburgh and Glasgow, he says no city feels like home nowadays. “Where is home then?” I ask him, and in traditional Fraser fashion, he deadpans: “Lost.”

For all his fame and glory, there is something decidedly melancholy about James Fraser. But of course, we all know why. We’ve read his books, haven’t we? We know his story.

Gillian Edgars: Are you enjoying your lemonade, Mr. Fraser?

James Fraser: Aye, verra much so. Lemonade in Scotland doesna taste like this.

GE: Mmmm, exploring the pleasures of America. I like it. Now, shall we begin? Let’s start with Two Centuries in Purgatory

Claire brings the page a few inches closer. This is not the first time she has read the article, its edges worn to yellowing curls. 

A familiar anger sinks its claws into her side, as this reproduction of Jamie staggers into a flickering half-life. Gillian Edgars thinks she knows the man behind the book jacket. The entire world, for that matter, believes they can claim the bold-faced names on their hardbacks: James Fraser.

But, Claire seethes, do these people know that Jamie smiles in his sleep? That he’s prone to seasicknesses, could not wink at the waitress even if he tried? No. Only Claire knows these smaller, intimate truths—but still, they are not enough. Jamie, no longer only hers, but a communal being disseminated and shared amongst millions. Strangers have molded her Jamie into something new, into hollow casts of their false impressions.

Without warning, the closet door swings open and Joe Abnernathy leans in. “Knew I’d find you in here,” he says, but he draws up short. His smile falters when he sees Claire on the ground. Falters further still when he reads the headline, “Scotland’s Newest Literary Hero.” on the page and on her face.

“Lady Jane, why do you do this to yourself? We’re working, I know, but can’t you try to be merry? It’s officially Christmas Eve!”

Joe kneels down, and levels his gaze with hers—the gentle but silent disappointment of an older brother. Claire holds firm when he pries the clipping from her grasp, the paper snagging the skin of her palm. It glides over and up, a shallow curve that splits into fine, shining rubies. A jeweled J, just at the base of her thumb. 

Claire presses the wound to her teeth, tastes the heady, metallic taste of herself. (Later, she will trace the cut with reverence, grateful to be marred, at the very least, by a shade of Jamie.) Joe tsks and reaches for a shelf, bringing back the first aid kit.

“Perks of hiding in a hospital supply closet. Bandages, everywhere. Take this.”

“It’s fine, Joe,” Claire assures him but accepts the bandaid anyways (Later, she will paste it on before she leaves, for the J should be hidden. Hers alone). “I’m fine—just a bad day and a scratch. See? No significant blood loss.” 

“Phew. Thought I’d witnessed the first fatal paper cut,” Joe says, but then continues, more softly, “LJ, I thought you’d given this up. That Frank made you promise you’d stop.”

“He did,” Claire replies. “And I did too, for a while.”

Her stomach turns as the memory resurfaces: her husband, feeding the shredder a feast of papers. The machine’s tight-lipped and fanged smile, destroying Claire’s collection of articles, her glimpses of Jamie. Frank had held her as the teeth had chewed, tightened his grip when she repeated his words back to him, “Time to leave the past behind.” And afterwards, once the beast’s belly had emptied into the trash, Frank had dragged the bag of shreds to the curb. Claire had looked on, standing in the doorway. A soldier’s wife already in mourning.

(That evening, she almost snuck outside to piece the words together, for old habits die hard and a planet will always yearn for her sun. But then Frank’s arm had risen in the darkness, flopped sleepily across her waist. The weight of it had held her there, and so she’d stayed, picturing the night creatures stealing Jamie away, piece by piece.)

“I just…wanted to see what people were saying. About his new book.” She sighs. “I know I’m being ridiculous. But – it’s just that…”

“He’s everywhere, ain’t he? In the papers, on TV. Saw they’re making a Lifetime adaptation of A Blade of Grass. Jesus.”

Claire nods. “Must say, I’m steering clear of that one.” (But she won’t, of course. Claire will want to see herself and Jamie on that screen, their better, manufactured selves broadcasted in technicolor.)

“You’re really gonna let me down like that, Lady Jane? I thought we’d drink cheap Scotch, put the movie on mute, and invent the dialogue ourselves. Next weekend, the two of us. Drunk and vengeful. Whaddya say?”

“A hard pass, Joe. We’ll be in Oxford for the holidays, anyways. Visiting Frank’s family.”

“Well, la-di-dah. I’ll be on this side of Atlantic throwing popcorn at my TV.” Joe leaps to his feet when his pager beeps. As he walks out the door, his hand flies to his coat pocket and he withdraws a shabby paperback. “Before I forget—a Christmas gift, for the Lady. If you’re gonna scramble your brain with nonsense, let it be the fault of Tessa’s ‘membrane of innocence’. Not ‘Scotland’s Newest Literary Hero.’”

Claire laughs and flips through The Impetuous Pirate, inhaling its smell of antiseptic and mildew, the vestiges of long-ago fingerprints. A Harlequin, taken from the hospital waiting room. “Aye aye, captain. But if it’s all the same to you, I’ll stay here in Davy Jones’ Locker for a while longer.”

“Slack-arrr,” Joe jokes, turning swiftly on his heel. She hears his cry boom down the hallway. “Operating room, ahoy!”

Alone again, Claire tucks The Impetuous Pirate inside her bag, picks up the discarded article from the floor. For the first time, she notices its publication date, October 20th, was her 31st birthday. She cannot remember the details of the occasion—did Frank take her to a concert, or to a movie? Buy her flowers or chocolates?—and yet a foreign scene plays so clearly in her mind. Something cut from the script of her life, the stagehand’s hook pulling her to the wings before she has a chance to speak. Cast in the closet’s dim spotlight, it unfolds as the playact that could have been but never was:

Jamie, in the New York diner, drinking lemonade. Condensation like dew drops, rolling down the pitcher. A young girl, in Gillian Edgars’ place, singing a high soprano. And Claire, beside her, blowing out candles in a single huff.

As she slices the birthday cake, Claire nicks her finger on the knife’s blade. “Kiss to make it better!” the young girl cries, and Jamie does, his lips on the sting and then Claire’s mouth. He tastes of citrus, of yellow and sunshine, a marigold paradise in a city of dying autumn leaves. “Does it still hurt, Sassenach?” he asks her. “Not anymore,” she says. And when the little girl giggles, watching them, it is something sacred. She licks the frosting from the candles. “So what’d you wish for, Mama?” she asks, not knowing that, in a moments like these, there is no need for wishes.

Claire’s pager rings, rearranging her memories. Now she remembers her 31st birthday—and knows it did not happen in that diner. On that day, there was no little girl, no citrus kisses in a molting New York. (But in a parallel land, perhaps, where the lemonade is phosphorescent and you can eat the stars.) Instead, Frank had taken Claire to the opera house, a drawn-out affair they had both fidgeted through. He’d led her to the bedroom, with its king-sized bed, and slipped off her dress while she kept her chain on. “Talk to me,” he’d panted, silver thistles against her chest. And when she came, it was not Frank’s body that drew her cries. It was not Frank’s name that rose from her lips.

Claire scans the article, skipping again to the final paragraphs. Here lies the line she reads over and over, the very reason she shells $20 for subscriptions, scavenges in bins for scraps. Anything to discover some evidence of herself, some proof that she still lives in the peripheries of Jamie’s life. And whenever she finds it, it pours into her and lingers, like wine.

GE: Your debut was quite impressive—an instant bestseller, an Oprah Book Club pick, an upcoming TV movie. I’m sure you’ve been asked this before…but allow me to be a hack, for just one moment. Let me ask the nosy questions. Let me pry

JF: I dinna have a fear of rats [SMILES]. Get on wi’ it then.

GE: I appreciate it, Mr. Fraser, I do [LAUGHS]. The protagonist’s struggles in A Blade of Grass—the financial woes, the criminal record, the years of solitude—they seem to mirror your own. Is it accurate to say that the book is autobiographical?

“Randall?” a voice calls from outside the closet. “Randall, are you in there? Mr. Duncan in Room #18 needs to be—”

“Prepped for surgery, I know!” Claire finishes. Her voice is shrill, rising with her goosebumps as she nears the interview’s end. “I’ll be out in a second, Dr. Hildegarde!”

JF: In some respects, aye, A Blade of Grass is autobiographical. Mind, I made a lot of it up myself. Embellished a few things. 

GE: Oh yes, certainly! But even without your embellishments, your life does make for such an interesting tale. In a way, your struggles are what made you a literary sensation. But still, I do wonder—do you regret any of it? The gamble, the money, the arrest? 

JF: [LAUGHS QUIETLY] I thank ye for the compliment, Ms. Edgars, but I hope my sins are no’ responsible for the book’s success. And for the record, they were largely exaggerated by the press. 

GE: Ah, right. We rats are despicable creatures, always making bread from crumbs. But it never rises in the oven, not really.

JF: Have ye tried poetry before, Ms. Edgars? You’ve a knack for it [LOOKS AWAY]. But nay, it isna the crimes themselves that I regret most. Whether they were exaggerated or no. 

GE: Really? There’s something else [LEANS FORWARD]? Will you tell me then, your life’s biggest regret? Or will you keep me and your readers in the dark, forever wondering what keeps our beloved James Fraser up at night?

Now Claire closes her hand into a fist, forces herself to bleed out from that thin, half-mooned J. She imagines Jamie’s face, inscrutable to Gillian Edgars, but fixed in an expression that she, and only she, can read. And if Claire had been there on that October afternoon, sitting in the diner’s vinyl booth, she would have understood. Would’ve known already what Jamie regretted most, what he would and could not say aloud. For within this precious, final line—their spoken and unspoken wishes:           

JF: My biggest regret? I let the story end early.

(JF: I should have loved her better—God! I should have loved her better.)

randomtumbla  asked:

Hey there :)) could you please do a request where Betty gets kidnapped one night and she was just on her way to meet the gang at pops? The gang obviously notices that Betty is late and tries to find her. They go to her house, the school everywhere and conclude that she's missing. Her parents find out and freak out. Please include Jughead and Betty together as in a relationship and make it super angsty!!!!! Thank you so much 💋

Here you go, hope you like it! P.s: This is a long one guys, sorry about that! I straight up wrote a freaking novel lol

**Warning: This fic touches on the subject of kidnapping. Although it is not graphic, it still might be a sensitive subject for certain readers.**


Betty Cooper stood on the curb across the street from Pop’s, smiling to herself as she watched her friends filing into a booth closest to the window. Reaching into her purse, she pulled out her phone and dialed her sister’s number.

“Hey, Polly it’s me,” she said into the phone, shoving her hands into her jacket pockets as she stepped to the side and let the family in front of her cross the street. “I’m almost to Pop’s so I can’t talk long, but I just - I wanted to tell you how proud I am of you. I know you probably don’t hear that often, especially from mom and dad, but I just thought you should know that you’re probably one of the strongest people I’ve ever known. I don’t think I could have gone through what you’re going through right now and come out of it a better person but you - you’re raising your baby the way you think is right and you’re doing it on your own. You’re an incredible sister and mother and friend and I just - I wanted to tell you how much I love you. Anyway, I’ll see you tomorrow okay? I can’t wait to squish that little nephew of mine’s cheeks! Bye!”

Betty slid her phone back into her bag before looking both ways for oncoming traffic, and crossing the street. Once she made it safely across, she noticed a familiar face leaning against the side wall, and quickly hurried over to greet her.

“Hey, Josie!” Betty called out to her. “Can’t wait to hear you and the pussycats at the parade tomorrow!”

“Well, I expect another rave review from a certain school newspaper, that’s for sure,” Josie told her, raising one eyebrow at her expectantly as she adjusted the cat ears on top of her head.

“You know me, I only write the truth,” Betty reminded her, taking a step backwards as she headed for the front entrance of the diner. “See ya!”

Josie waved goodbye before hopping into the car that just pulled alongside the curb, making Betty the only person left in the parking lot. Just as she was about to pull open the door to Pop’s, a noise coming from the alleyway on the opposite side of the restaurant struck her attention.

“Hello?” Betty called out to the empty parking lot. “Is someone there?”

When no one answered, Betty was ready to deem herself a fool and head inside the diner like nothing happened until a figure crossing the parking lot towards the alley - letterman jacket, dark hair, tall build - drew her attention back to the strange noise.

“Reggie, is that you?” Betty asked as she took a few steps into the dark alley. “Reggie?”

Rounding the corner, Betty stepped into the alley to find the man facing in the opposite direction, his face completely hidden from her view.

“Reggie, what are you-” Before Betty could get the words out, the man turned around to reveal his face to her, causing Betty’s heart to pound rapidly in her chest as the fear began to set in. 

“You’re not Reggie,” Betty muttered, her breath catching in her throat as she heard movement coming from all around her in the alley.

“No, love,” the man growled, his voice low and rough as he signaled for his menacing companions to creep up behind her. “Can’t say that I am.”

With a quick nod of his head, the man stepped away from Betty and allowed for three men to grab her from behind and lift her into the air.

“No, get away from me! Get awa-” Betty tried to call out for help, kicking and screaming as they carried her through the alley, but it was too late. One of the men had silenced her by placing his giant hand over her mouth, his grip tightening as he threw her into a van at the back of the alley.

No one had heard her cry for help. No one was coming to save her. She was alone and she had no idea how she was going to escape.


“I can’t believe you ordered that.”

Veronica took one look at the giant burger that the waitress had just set in front of Archie and raised an eyebrow at him in mock-disgust. “Do you know what that much grease is going to do to your skin?”

“No, but I’m sure you’re going to tell me,” Archie sighed, looking from the hamburger, to Veronica, and back again, an amused tone to his voice.

“Hey, Veronica, have you heard from Betty?” Jughead wanted to know, his brows furrowing together in concern as he looked over his shoulder for what felt like the hundredth time since they had filed into the booth half an hour ago. “She should be here by now.”

“Not since our phone call earlier,” Veronica informed him, picking up a fry from the plate in front of her and waving it dramatically in Jughead’s direction. “She insisted that my leather mini I bought online last week wasn’t going to make look like a bloated cow, but I told her that-”

“What time was that?”Jughead cut her off, his patience beginning to run thin at Veronica’s incessant need to change the subject back to anything to do with fashion. “Your phone call?”

“Uh, around 5:30 I think,” Veronica answered, her forehead scrunching together as she thought back to the conversation in question.

“Are you sure?”

“Yes, I’m sure,” Veronica assured him, pushing the plate of fries away and narrowing her eyes at Jughead. “Okay, what’s with the spontaneous game of 20 Questions: Betty Cooper edition? Is something wrong?”

“I don’t know,” Jughead muttered, his gaze focused on nothing in particular in front of him. When he noticed all of his friends’ eyes on him, he quickly shook his head out of its trance and turned to them with a reassuring smile. “I mean no, of course nothing’s wrong.”

Skeptically, Veronica pulled her gaze away from Jughead and turned to Kevin. “Anyway, Kev, what’s your take on the skirt situation?”

Letting his friends continue their conversation, Jughead slid out of the booth to a quieter section of the diner and pulled out his phone.

“Uh, hey, Bets, it’s me,” Jughead greeted his girlfriend’s voicemail, his hand sliding up and down the back of his neck nervously as he tried to keep his voice calm. “I told myself that I was never going to play this sort of role in my lifetime for fear of becoming just like every underdeveloped male character in a romantic drama, but with you I can’t seem to help it. I’m starting to get really worried, Bets. I know there’s probably a logical explanation for your not being here but I’m to the point where I can’t think of one that makes any shred of sense to me. So when you get this, can you please call me back so we can both laugh about how much of a fool I am together please? I just - I want to know that you’re safe.”

Just as Jughead clicked off his phone and turned to head back to the booth, a figure heading in the opposite direction caused him to slam directly into their chest and nearly knock him into booth next to them.

“Oh, sorry, Arch,” Jughead mumbled as he looked up to see his longtime friend staring at him with concerned eyes. “Didn’t see you there.”

“Jug, what’s going on?” Archie asked. “You’ve been acting strange since we got here. Does this have something to do with Betty not being here yet?”

“Of course not. People can be late, Archie,” Jughead reminded him, his eyes darting to the floor as he attempted to avoid Archie’s gaze. “That’s not an abnormal thing to occur, especially for teenagers.”

“It is for Betty,” Archie pointed out. “She was an hour and a half early for our Kindergarten graduation, Jughead. And if you remember correctly, she made sure that all of us were the first ones at the door to take the SAT’s last month. She texted us hours before we had to be there to make sure we were up and ready to go. Betty hasn’t been late a day in her life and there’s no way that she would start now, not when she had that important announcement she wanted to share with us tonight.”

Jughead fidgeted uncomfortably next to Archie, his mind screaming at him to tell him that he was right, but his heart too terrified to admit the truth.

“You think something’s wrong,” Archie concluded, and Jughead’s head snapped up to meet his gaze.

“No, I don’t-”

“Come on, Jughead, I know you,” Archie reminded him, his voice dropping to a whisper as he let a few of their classmates headed for an open booth pass them. “You’re really worried.”

“I just - I have this feeling,” Jughead struggled to explain himself, his words coming out rushed and unsure. “It feels like something’s not right. And I know her, Archie. She would have called me if she was running late. She would have made sure that one of us knew where she was.”

“I agree,” Archie concurred. “So let’s go find her.”

“You don’t think I’m crazy?”

“You know Betty better than anyone, Jughead,” Archie explained, reaching up to clap a reassuring hand on one of Jughead’s shoulders. “If you say something’s not right, then I believe you.”

“It’s probably nothing,” Jughead backpedaled quickly - a way of assuring himself more than anyone, that his girlfriend really was just fine. “I’m probably freaking out for no reason and she’s just at home with her parents or with Polly or I don’t know, staying late at the Blue and Gold and forgot to tell me.”

“Okay, well let’s go find out for sure so we can have a good laugh about this later, okay?” Archie suggested, knocking back Jughead’s shoulder in an attempt to get him to crack a smile. When he gave a faint nod, Archie took that as an affirmative and gestured towards the door. “Alright, let’s go.”

“Archie, wait,” Jughead stopped him, placing a hand on his arm to swing him back around so that they were facing their friends. “We should tell the others.”

“After you,” Archie let Jughead pass him before heading to the booth to join their friends, both of them shuffling their feet as they walked through the diner to stand in front of the table with troubled expressions evident on their faces.

“Something is wrong I knew it,” Veronica declared the second she looked up from her phone to take note of Jughead’s furrowed brows and deep frown. “Did Cheryl make Dilton Doiley wear the mascot head again? Did he pass out like last time? God, I thought I told her to-”

“It’s Betty,” Archie explained, his eyes drifting to Jughead standing next to him, his arms crossed in front of his chest. “Jughead and I think that something might have happened.”

“She’s not answering her phone and I haven’t heard from her since right before she left to come here,” Jughead continued. “It’s not like her and I’m - I’m starting to get worried.”

Without another word, Veronica slid out of the booth, slinging her bag over her shoulder and turning to face her friends with a look of determination.

“What do you need us to do?” Veronica asked, her brows drawing together in concern as her thoughts drifted off to where her best friend could possibly be.

“I think we should spread out, look at all the places where we think she might be,” Archie suggested, turning to Jughead for confirmation. When he nodded, Archie continued on with his plan like they were heading off into battle. “Jughead and Veronica, you take the Cooper’s house while Kevin and I check the school. In the meantime, Veronica can you-”

“Already sent a mass text to everyone in our class telling them to let me know if they’ve heard from her in the last hour or so,” Veronica explained. “If anyone’s seen her, we should know within the next few minutes or so. We’re going to find her, Jughead, I promise.”

“First rule as a mystery or horror novelist, Veronica,” Jughead muttered, his eyes dropping to the ground. “Never allow your characters to make promises they can’t keep.”

“Well, this isn’t some Stephen King novel,” Veronica reminded him. “This is real life, and she’s Betty Cooper. The B to my V. Your girlfriend. And we won’t stop looking until she’s back in that booth with us, enjoying a strawberry milkshake like it’s just any other day. That’s a promise I can keep.”


“Are you sure this thing’s sturdy?” Veronica called up to Jughead as she slowly made her way up the ladder leading to Betty’s room.“I mean, I’m really not wearing the right shoes for this. If this $150 heel gets stuck in that rung, I’m so sending you the bill to get it repaired.”

“Well, would you rather go through the front door and explain to her parents what we’re doing here?” Jughead asked, glancing down to watch Veronica take one nervous step at a time from his spot at the top of the ladder.

“If she really is missing, Jughead, we’re going to have to tell them,” Veronica pointed out, clutching the rung above her with both hands as she waited for Jughead to make his way to the window.

“She’s not missing,” Jughead muttered under his breath, placing his flashlight under his arm as he fiddled with opening the window. “We’re just going to have a look around her room - see if we find any clues that might tell us where she is.”

“Are you sure that the window is even going to be-” Veronica started to say as she watched Jughead struggle with the window, but quickly silenced herself as he slid it open with such ease that made it seem like it hadn’t even been locked in the first place. “So this is why you guys look so happy all the time. You have an all-access, sneak-in-anytime-you-want, booty call entrance.”

“Would you just stop talking and start climbing,” Jughead snapped, locking the window into place and stepping into Betty’s bedroom.

“Sir, yes sir,” Veronica mocked, carefully swinging her legs around and hoisting herself into the room.

Jughead shut the window behind her and stuffed the flashlight into his back pocket as he casually began to peruse Betty’s desk, lifting up papers and various odds and ends that looked like they could be hiding something.

“What are we looking for exactly?” Veronica wanted to know, crossing the room to run her hand along the quilt that Betty’s grandmother had made for when she was younger, feeling the fragile fabric with her fingers as she sat along the foot of her bed.

“Notes, books, any sort of hint that might suggest she made a stop before she came to meet us at Pop’s,” Jughead explained, leaving the mahogany desk to rummage through the trashcan that sat alongside it.  

“Well even if she did, I doubt she would have left anything in her room about it,” Veronica pointed out, hopping off the bed to join Jughead by Betty’s closet. “That girl’s been more secretive than ever lately, especially with her parents poking around here all the time.”

“That’s why you need to know her favorite hiding spots,” Jughead mumbled, his head snapping up as if a thought suddenly occurred to him. His feet moving quickly, he made his way to Betty’s bedside table and began rummaging through it until he found the screwdriver he remembered her mentioning a few weeks ago. Once he had what he was looking for, he turned around to face the wall closest to the bed and crouched down to the floor.

“The air vents?” Veronica questioned, skepticism evident in her tone. “Isn’t that a little, Veronica Mars?”

“It might be outdated, but it works like a charm,” Jughead informed her, twisting the screws until the frame popped off and setting it onto the floor next to him. Reaching inside, Jughead pulled out a thick leather-bound journal and held it out to show Veronica.

“Great, now I’m going to have to explain to Betty why I’ve been sneaking into her room with her boyfriend and reading her diary,” Veronica mumbled. “This goes against so many girl codes I can’t even tell you.”

“Be quiet a second,” Jughead shushed her, flipping to the last page in the journal and reading intently.

“What is it?” Veronica leaned in to see what Jughead was looking at, gently jerking the book away from him and pointing it in her direction. “Did you find something that might tell us where she is?”

“I can’t believe it,” Jughead breathed, his eyes going wide as he finished reading the rest of the page. “She actually did it. She actually-”

“What the hell are you two delinquents doing in my daughter’s room?”

Veronica and Jughead spun around to find Mrs. Cooper standing in the doorway, her hands on her hips and her eyes shooting daggers in their direction.

“Mrs. Cooper,” Veronica said in a small voice. “We were just-”

“Save it, I don’t want to waste my time hearing half-assed excuses from the likes of you two,” Mrs. Cooper ran a tired hand down her face as she took as few steps into Betty’s room. “Now, would one of you like to tell me where she is? Last time I checked, she was supposed to be having dinner with both of you at that little diner she loves so much right about now.”

“Um,” Veronica whispered, exchanging a worried glance with Jughead as she scrambled to think of something -anything- to say to her.

“Well, go on then,” Mrs. Cooper pressed. “Stop bumbling like you forgot how to speak - where is she?”

“We don’t know,” Jughead admitted, a defeated expression crossing his face as he lifted his gaze to meet her angry eyes.

“What do you mean you don’t know?” Mrs. Cooper narrowed her eyes at Jughead. “Where is my daughter?”

“She was supposed to meet us over an hour ago,” Jughead explained. “She never showed up and we haven’t heard form her since.”

“That’s not like her,” Mrs. Cooper concluded, turning her back to Jughead as she called out to her husband. “Hal, get in here!”

“And there’s something else you should know,” Jughead added, holding out Betty’s journal for her mother to see. “I found this - it’s Betty’s journal. She was documenting everything she knew about the murder investigation and what she knew about Jason and Polly. I mean, this goes back to just after Jason was pronounced missing over the summer. Anyway, this last entry is from today and I think…” Jughead trailed off, turning to look at the faces staring at him with terrified expressions.

“What?” Mrs. Cooper urged him to continue, her hand resting gently on the journal as she pried it from Jughead’s grasp.

“I think she finally figured out who murdered Jason Blossom.”


“Hello?” Betty’s voice echoed off the walls of the dark warehouse she had been taken to, her eyes searching in the darkness for any sign of movement. “If you’re going to take an unarmed minor in the middle of a dark alley, at least show yourselves so I can see what a bunch of cowards really look like!”

Betty thrashed against the chair she had been strapped to, her hands wriggling uncomfortably between the rope that linked them together.

“She’s a lively one,” a voice came from somewhere behind her, causing her to jump slightly in her chair at its abruptness and turn towards the source. “Definitely not what I expected from the youngest Cooper girl. Polly, maybe, your mother, definitely. But little Elizabeth - not so much.”

“Who are you?” Betty demanded to know, her head whipping in every direction as she tried to determine who it was she was speaking to. “What do you want?”

“I just want to have a little chat,” the voice said, the nonchalantness in its tone causing Betty’s cheeks to redden with anger. And while she could never have explained it, there was a familiarness to that voice that made her feel even more uneasy than she had only a moment before.

“I don’t talk to strangers,” Betty spat, her frustration becoming more and more apparent as her kidnapper continued to remain anonymous. “That’s the first lesson they taught us in preschool, if you can remember that far back.”

“Oh, but I’m not a stranger,” the voice admitted, sounding much louder and clearer as it came closer and closer to Betty. “You know exactly who I am - and you know exactly what I’ve done. And you see, Betty Cooper, that’s a problem.”

Suddenly, a figure emerged from the darkness to reveal its identity to Betty. Her blood ran cold as she took in this person’s appearance, recognition flashing across her face as they took a step into the light.

“It was you,” Betty breathed, a shudder running down her spine as the mystery that she had been obsessed with for months finally came into her view. “You killed Jason. I was right.”

“Congratulations,” her kidnapper said dryly, clapping slowly as they came around the chair to place a firm hand around her neck. “Here’s your grand prize.”

Betty shut her eyes, letting her mind drift to thoughts of her friends and family - to thoughts of Jughead. She remembered the way his lips felt when they kissed hers. She remembered the way he made her smile when he cracked dumb jokes about authors that no one but her understood. And she hoped more than anything, that she would get a chance to be with him like that again - if only for a moment.