Writer's Block

Jughead Jones - Sharing a Shake

Sharing a Shake – Jughead Jones

Anon

Words: 1,182

You'd lost track of just how many hours you'd been sitting in the corner booth at Pop's, the one furthest away from the door, curling into yourself and watching hot tears drip onto the polished table before you. The sobs had come and gone – you'd bite your lip to keep the whimpers in, squeezing your eyes closed as tears streamed down your cheeks. You'd calm down, return to normal breathing patterns, perhaps glance out the window. One moment would pass, then another. Without warning, a new batch of salty wetness pooled behind your eyes, spilling out with no filter and you ducked your head to hide your shame from the world.

Maybe you should have gone home. You'd considered it a hundred times since you sat down. But as soon as you'd move to stand, you'd be reminded of why you'd run to the diner that had become your sanctuary in the first place, and you'd be blinded by tears and crippled with anxiety at the mere thought of someone catching you in such a state. You friends knew where you were, but not why. The reason you were hiding was probably out having fun right now, and you didn't want to run into him or his stupid friends.

The bell above the door chimed, though it had done so frequently enough throughout the day that you'd learned to tune it out. You heard the mumblings of a familiar voice ordering food at the counter, but your exhausted gaze remained fixed on your lap.

Until a figure was sliding onto the bench across from you, and you stiffened as anxiety crawled up your spine.

"(y/n)?" Jughead's voice questioned, soft and dripping with concern. He'd never seen you cry, and you'd known each other for years.

You remained silent, fingers fidgeting with the sleeves of your hoodie.

"(y/n), what's wrong?" he inquired. "Come on, you know you can talk to me. Did something happen? Are you hurt?"

His gentle tone and genuine worry had your lower lip quivering. You'd run out of tears, so you simply trembled in your seat, closing your eyes and ducking your head until you were completely hidden beneath your hood.

Jughead was quiet for a moment, sitting back in his seat and thinking through all of the occurrences that could have possibly led to your current situation. He exhaled a soft sigh, grey eyes gazing softly at you though you couldn't see it. "It was Chuck, wasn't it?"

You visibly twitched at the name, and the boy across from you made a noise very akin to a growl like one would hear from a protective wolf. Jughead was the only person you'd told about your being in a relationship with Chuck, the resident man-whore. He'd advised you against it, insistently, but you'd assured him that you would be fine. The entire student body was quickly made aware of your relationship, as Chuck and his football buddies liked to loudly gossip about the people they were dating. Everyone was accustomed to hearing too many details about their sexual partners, whether such things had actually happened or not. Unfortunately for you, you thought that Chuck had changed, that he truly cared about you, and you'd let him have you.

In one dreadful blink of an eye, all of your private business was buzzing through the halls of Riverdale High. Most of the students pitied simply because you'd gotten with Chuck at all. Some of the self-appointed "popular kids" stuck their noses up, claiming that you should have known what you were getting yourself into. Chuck and his friends were the worst of all, twisting the story into a fairytale about you being desperate and begging for Chuck to claim your virginity.

A fist slamming into the tabletop caught your attention, and you hesitantly lifted your gaze to glance at the brunet sitting across from you. His lips were twisted into a frown, his brows furrowed with what appeared to be anger. His usually soft eyes were stern, swirling with emotions that you couldn't quite identify. Your teeth nervously gnawed at your lower lip – was he mad at you? Did he think you were stupid for trusting a jock?

"I should have known," he grumbled. "I should have known that jerk would do something to you. I'm so sorry, (y/n). I didn't want you to be with him but... I didn't want you to feel like I was controlling you. It's not my place to say who you can or can't date. I'm your best friend, not your dad."

He sighed heavily just as Pop padded over with a chocolate shake. Jughead thanked him, holding it close and taking a long sip. He then paused, glancing at you before sliding the glass across the table. It slowed to a stop just in front of you, and your eyes darted between the dessert and your best friend.

Jughead rolled his eyes. "Drink it. I know ice cream makes you feel better."

"It's yours," you shook your head. "I couldn't."

The writer rose from his seat, and you winced, thinking that he was simply going to leave. Instead, he approaching your bench and slid in beside you, taking hold of the milkshake glass once again.

He took a sip before handing it over to you. "Come on. Share it with me. Please?"

You couldn't help but chuckle at his insistence. To appease him, you took a small drink, failing to stifle a sigh as soon as the chocolate reached your tongue.

Jughead grinned beside you. "That's what I thought. I know this is your weakness."

"Thanks, Jug," you murmured. You shifted closer, resting your head on his shoulder.

He secured an arm around your back. "Anytime." His head rested on yours, and he would alternate between drinking the shake and pressing the straw to your lips.

After a long while, with the glass now empty, he glanced down at you. "Are you feeling any better?"

You couldn't meet his eyes as a large sigh fell from your lips. "I'm in the playbook."

Jughead tensed beside you, and you bit your lip. You knew that would get his attention, and that he would want to do something about it.

"Sounds like the football team is about to fall victim to larceny." His arm tightened around you.

You didn't want to start drama but... you had to admit, Jughead wanting to fight for your honor made your chest swell with pride.

Using one hand to gently grasp your chin, he tilted your head up, forcing you to meet his eyes. Your tears had long since dried up, but your eyes were still red and puffy and exhausted.

The writer leaned in, pressing the softest of kisses to your lips. You simply hummed in response. He pulled back, offering you a smile, which you bashfully returned.

"I'm always here for you," he promised, and you nodded softly. He eventually bought you dinner, and when the two of you were done eating, he walked you home, where you insisted he spend the night and continue comforting you.