" I write, To explore my thoughts. I never expected to find my own demons." Fake| #Riverdale | writer is 21+ | #DevilSwan
Joined November 2014
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Jugheαd Jones.
Rıverdαle
- Descrıptıve
- All seαsons- Mostlч αfter 7 чeαr jump.
- Shıps depends on Chemıstrч
- In need of αll ınterαctıons
« meant to be you and Arch..” No remorse, no anger Jughead saw it in the stars. And now as he relived that reality; he loved Betty deeply but our cards were sold before we relived this future; it stung but felt real.
« unwritten. It felt solid and almost a distant memory. Jughead heard the question and he felt his hand circle around her own as a single touch. And he said the words with ease. “ You picked him.. Long before we ended. I think in some weird way it was always »
« the concept of finding out the truth it made his pulse race. But Betty she was that perfect innocent girl next door. And now as we sat so close together watching a future turn so suddenly he felt that lump that formed in his throat.
An ending felt »
Where we stood now? It felt like a blur; no idea to what felt real and what was written as fake. Everything we assumed was real now unfolding in front of our eyes as if for the first time. Jughead was detective at heart; he was driven by mystery. Driven by »
« love? Was it still present as I felt her touch; a safe tingle in my palm. Our lives different yet felt looped together just the same.
« wiped away. “ Of course.” He mumbled the words as he dropped his palm down to her own. Fingers wrapped around her smaller palm as he glanced to the screen. Memories; we could chose to hold onto.
Or erase, and for a second I wondered was it real? The »
« 50s it was like another lifetime. One Jughead had to compose himself for. He knew Betty and himself shared a past; a love that felt deep. But we moved on right? He asked himself as his eyes were torn down to the blonde, her stray tears that were recently »
« like a loop inside in his head. He was Jughead; he had darkness and light wrapped in his frame.
He remembered the memories, of holding her; of letting a brush of a hand push her stray of blonde hair back. Our first kiss in her bedroom. Being stuck in the »
The tapes; it showed the decisions, the mistakes we made that shaped us as a whole. Jughead was never the sentimental kind, he took the future his choices with a gain of salt. He was never terrified of what it meant. He wasn’t scared of seeing the visions »
« smile forced upon bare lips. And he tried to find the right words; a story told before us; but now our hearts linked as one. And he wasn't sure where either of our hearts now laid.
« light he glanced to the blonde that he once loved. That he once would’ve done everything for, But now rewatching the way it was so easily for her to be with Archie, to fall for the boy next door. The cards weren’t taped for us. And Jughead felt a kind »
« tended to get lost in the process, Jason his death pledged on his skin. The identity of finding love, of kissing Betty for the first time at her bedroom window. To rolling the film years later. Jughead didn’t know what he felt.
In the light the dimmed »
Jughead was in disbelief, he watched with full eyes, the story. The horror, the deaths, the terror we all lived in, from the black hood to Ga Oil King, and so on the story wrote itself. Death hand printed on us. The investigation skills Jughead wore; he »
« flickers of flutters in our skins when our palms met.
And now I questioned what does it mean? Are we meant to end together? Was the stars always aligned for us? Confusion rose in his brows as his eyes stayed locked in unison with her own. As if lost in »
« stories that fascinate you leaving you up at night. These stories of our lives, the phases we missed in another universe. Jug felt torn with himself; he once was so desperately in love with Betty; the sparkle in her hues when our eyes locked. Those »
Memories of joy, of destain, of pain that admitted through their eyes, as if the first time. Jughead sealed the memories shut; no recollection of the moments until the images unfolded through fresh eyes now. Jughead had always found a muse of writing, the »
« his chair; his lips moved in a whisper. “ What a time..” A time of love, of fun, as if it were sitting with only us yesterday.