Southside Sweetheart

Stu laughs, sharp, and unamused. “Yeah. Okay. No memory lane scrapbooks. Got it.” His fingers drum against his thigh, restless, the way they always do when he’s on edge. “You don’t wanna see you? Trust me, man… neither does the camera.” He shrugs, that signature cheeky smirk. “You'd be lucky if you didn't crack the lens." Stu slaps a hand on Billy’s shoulder with that usual carefree demeanor he always hid behind, a coping mechanism, you could say. "You think I enjoyed bein’ the only guy who remembered the real you, while everybody else got the legend?” He steps closer, his smile somewhere between a grin and a grimace. “But if you want the cold, hard facts? Yeah. I can show you. But are you sure about this, man? ’Cause once you see it… you don’t get to un-see it. And I ain’t carryin’ you if you decide you can't handle it. I barely managed to carry myself outta that house.” He jerks his chin toward the door. “Come on, miracle boy. You wanted answers? Let’s go dig ’em up.”

Sweet Pea lets out a sharp, disbelieving laugh as he takes a step closer, hands still at his sides. “In on it? Yeah, man, because clearly I’ve got the time to run a freakin’ sci-fi experiment in my spare hours between bar fights and keepin’ the Serpents from killin’ each other.” He scoffs, head tilting as he sizes the guy up, the smirk on his face is a taunt and a warning. “If I wanted to mess with you, you wouldn’t still be standin’ here askin’ questions. You’d be picking asphalt outta your teeth.” Then, his expression hardens. “I don’t know what kind of trip you’re on, but if you ‘woke up like this,’ maybe start there. ‘Cause whatever this is?” He gestures vaguely around them. “It’s not my circus, and you sure as hell ain’t my monkey.” He leans in, voice low, a smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. “But I’ll tell you this, keep throwin’ around accusations like that, and we’re gonna find out real fast if you’re as bad as you think you are.”

@twinklefangs / @sirensoundsx / @noonecallsusanymore / @kindnessicpunkrck / @writtenforjoaquin / @dontdreamitsovcr

Joaquin glanced at the rat, then at her, head tilting slightly. “Yeah, that’s… unsettling,” he admitted, voice low. “Looks like it’s about to pitch me a timeshare instead of sing carols.” He lingered beside her, eyes tracing the twinkly lights around the display. “I don’t think it’s just you. Rats and Christmas don’t exactly go hand in hand. Unless the store’s going for ‘festive plague.’” A faint smile tugged at the corner of his mouth. “People will make anything seasonal if it sells, I guess. Still, if one of those things starts moving on its own, I’m out of here first.”

Sweet Pea blinked, the smirk fading as the words sank in. For a second, all that swagger drained right out of him, leaving guilt in its place. “Alright, easy, Nine,” he muttered, palms coming up in mock surrender. “Didn’t know there was a story behind it.” He studied him for a moment, the clenched fists, the tension running through his shoulders, then exhaled, long and slow. “Guess I hit a nerve. My bad.” The crooked grin crept back in, softer this time. “Just… next time, maybe lead with the whole tragic-genius origin thing before I open my big mouth, yeah? Kinda makes ‘dingus’ feel underpowered now.” He stepped back, shoulders loosening. “Name suits you, though. Has bite.” A pause, "And for what it’s worth, I don’t mess with people who earn their own names. So, what brings you here, Nine?”

Stu snorts “Yeah, four minutes. Give or take. I wasn’t wearin’ a stopwatch.” He shrugs, fingers tapping against his jeans. “Next thing I know, some intern’s screaming, I’m pukin’ up half my blood supply, and, boom, welcome back, miracle boy.” He glances up, grin crooked but eyes still searching Billy’s face for… something. Recognition. Blame. Anything. “Guess you missed the resurrection party, huh? Don’t worry, wasn’t much of a crowd. Couple of cops, bad lighting.” Then, quieter, leaning forward just a little: “They said you were dead too, man. Difference is, I remember everything. You? You look at me like I’m a stranger.” Billy’s mention of Prescott makes his smirk falter. “Yeah, I know that name,” he mutters, voice dropping lower. “Sidney. Wrong place, wrong night, real good at not dying.” He pauses, eyes flicking back to Billy’s. “You don’t remember her, do you? Figures. Town made her a legend and us a cautionary tale.” The with a grin. “But hey, if you really wanna jog that memory, we can go visit a few old haunts."

"mom, what even is normal? didn't we leave that in the past a long, long, long time ago?" god, normal. she hated that word, almost as much as she hated perfect, and always would. none of them were what she was, they would always be what she had tried being and for that, betty knew that she'd never be alright with any of it. no. right? "the usual. this may not be riverdale, but it's pretty damn close to it." @writtenforjoaquin

Alice’s jaw tightens, the faintest tremor running through her hand before she sets her mug down a little too hard. “Close to Riverdale,” she echoes, a bitter laugh slipping out. “That’s not exactly something to brag about, Elizabeth.” She leans against the counter, studying her daughter the way a reporter studies a headline she’s already afraid to print. “You keep talking like everything’s fine, like you can just box it up and label it ‘the usual.’ But you and I both know nothing about our lives has ever been usual.” Her voice softens, but the edge doesn’t fade. “I just wish, for once, you’d stop carrying it like a secret and let someone else shoulder it. You don’t have to survive every storm alone just because you learned how to.”

Sweet Pea tilts his head, brow furrowing. “Billy who?” he mutters under his breath before exhaling through his nose, slow, almost a laugh. “Doesn’t matter. Town like this doesn’t need facts to start a fire.” He shifts forward, elbows on his knees. “You’ve been through enough without playin’ defense for every rumour they invent. If they’re draggin’ your name through the mud, that’s on them, not you. Still, if somebody’s out there plantin’ that noise, point me their way. I don’t mind remindin’ folks what happens when they run their mouths.” Then, softer, “You don’t owe this town an explanation, Christina. Let ‘em talk. You just keep standin’.”

Jughead’s eyes flick to Archie, that mix of exasperation and fondness crossing his face. “Since when do I like cider? Since you decided happiness comes bottled with cinnamon and bad decisions,” he mutters, slouching deeper in his seat. “Don’t twist it, Andrews. I’m not carving pumpkins or sipping cider because I’m happy. I’m doing it because you’d probably cry if I didn’t.” He pauses, then, smirks faintly. “Now hurry up before the cider cools off and you start philosophizing about corn mazes again.”

Joaquin arched a brow, the corner of his mouth twitching. “Just taking a walk, huh?” he repeated, voice rough but not unkind. “Yeah, sure. I’m good,” he said, the grin that followed was something between disbelief and amusement. “You always take midnight strolls through Serpent territory?”

Joaquin raised a brow, grin tugging wider. “What am I’m doing?” he asked, voice low, and teasing. “Didn’t realise it was your place to ask questions.” He leaned back against the wall, the flicker of a smirk playing on his lips. “And you’re right, you’re not the one fucking around with a knife. That’d take a little more nerve than crossing your arms.” His tone dropped, less bite, more intrigue. “But if it makes you feel better...” he tapped the pocket where the blade rested, “...it’s away. Happy now?”