After the butt-load of trouble Reggie had gotten himself into by selling Jingle Jangle to the students of Riverdale High, his parents decided it was best he make up for his poor decisions by writing an exposé for the Blue and Gold on why drugs were not to be taken lightly. As editor, Reggie was assigned under Betty’s supervision as he settled into the newsroom in an over-sized varsity hoodie to hide the bruises on his arms and back, as well as a pair of sunglasses to conceal the shiner under his right eye. His mother may have been disappointed enough to make him do this extracurricular, but his father was livid. And when Marty Mantle gets angry, people get hurt. Mainly Reggie. He’d never let his mom get hit; no matter how many times she’s stood idly by when he’s the one taken the blows.

“I don’t even get why I have to do this. It’s retarded.” Principle Weatherbee warned him not to speak in that matter when he threw a fit in the principal’s office and said similar things. It’s what earned him an extra lick by his father before he was sent to the newsroom. But what sucked the most dicks was the fact that they took his car away from him. Now he was forced to take the bus everywhere like some low level commoner. “How about you write this thing for me? In return for your services, I can get you high.” he grinned, removing the sunglasses to lean back in his chair and kick up his feet. He needed to be relaxed. “We got a deal?”

just a little bit of affection meme + @cooperdcrling​

Send 💕 for a gif(s) of how my muse would be affection with your muse (both shippy and platonic!)

You usually DON’T want to fuck with the kids that work in the newspaper. They got something about vendettas that carry along with them, something that makes it seem like if you even get one fucking thread out of order on their perfect Oxford shirts, they’ll haunt you for the rest of their fucking lives. Not like they don’t got anything better to do, it’s more like they’re on the kind of drugs that get them going for hours and hours and hours. Yeah, she’s sold a few drugs to Betty Cooper, but only the kind that make you fiercer, make you alert. And in return she gets a handful of threats and that look on her face where it looks like the porcelain in her grin’s about to snap and it kind of fucking freaks Rue out if she’s being honest, but she only ever laughs about it later.

Betty’s not at these kinds of parties usually, so seeing her here is kind of a trip. Her nervous glasses enough to scream to the room that she doesn’t feel like she belongs, and not in the way that Kat used to look before she started fucking everyone who even spoke to her (well, all the more power to you) but in the kind of way that Lexi looked sometimes, adrift amongst the crowd that didn’t see her when her sister was in the room. Only Betty’s sister’s a fucking looney and got carted off a while ago, same way her dad’s a fuck up and was killed last year, so, yeah, maybe it makes sense that she’s here, now that Rue thinks about it.

“You uh... looking for some company or something?” awkwardness is her middle name, it shows in her jerky movements, her rapidly blinking eyelids that betray that fact that she’s at least on something, though she’d struggle to tell you what. Something that she lifted out of the Howard’s bathroom last week, somehow kept in reserve until this moment, when she’d just GROUND IT ALL UP and done the lines off of someone’s paperback copy of fucking Pride and Prejudice. Homework assignment, unfinished. “Kinda looks like you didn’t come with anybody.” a little bit like her, even though she’s still officially Casper to everyone here, their discomfort with her apparent resurrection now that she’s out of rehab apparent. 

emoji this! meme + @cooperdcrling​

SEND AN EMOJI TO:💤 - fall asleep on my muse.

Sometimes when she’s high it feels as if the world’s soaked through to the bones - drenched in glitter and freedom, a sense that everything’s going to be alright. For a moment, she isn’t Toni Topaz, there’s no ties to this earthly planet, no responsibilities to a girl that’s more an idea in a novel than she is a girlfriend, no thoughts to cherry lip gloss, to leather jackets, no fear for the survival that haunts her at every turn. For a moment, everything’s a trip, glorious and ragged, it’s just her, her friends, that joy that comes from the release, how they can all just SMILE and have a good time, no thought to gang loyalty, to schoolwork, to the pressures that are waiting for them all back home, or the best thing that resembles it.

Maybe she ought to feel bad for getting Betty Cooper to smoke that joint, to LIVE A LITTLE as she says with a sinner’s smile, and a saint’s promise that nothing will happen to her. And nothing will, not when she’s around, her fingers wound up in gold and wheat, with her words breathy, tired, as they relax against a ratty couch in the basement of this associate of hers with ill repute but the best molly, as she glares, blearily, at those passing, preferring to feel that this is their ship, and they’re off, off, gone from this time, this place. 

send “you okay?” to find my muse sitting alone on a roof at night.

accepting