also i feel like murdering everyone and consuming all the chocolate

Keep You Safe (Bughead One Shot)

Originally posted by moondipity

Anonymous: Hey! If you’re not busy, could you write another part to the locker thing? You know, the “Go to hell serpent slut.”. Maybe an extended version? Thanks so much <3

Summary: An extended part from episode 13 where Betty’s locker is graffitied for writing the article about FP, requested by an anon. Enjoy! 

☾ ☾ ☾

This was all his fault. That was all that Jughead could think when he saw the dominating red words spelled out in harsh pig’s blood.

GO TO HELL SERPENT SLUT!

This was all because of him. She’d written the article defending FP for him. So his dad stayed out of jail, and so his dad had justice. So Jughead could keep on having a dad. And how did he repay her? By letting jerks terrorise her locker in front of the whole school.

“Betty,” he spoke, pulling her out of the devastating trance she seemed to be in, staring at the bold letters whilst he’d pushed his way through the nosy crowd. Jughead stood in her line of view, blocking the words from her. He wished he could do more than just protect her from them physically, but they’d already done the damage.

Jughead’s face was filled with concern and guilt, bringing Betty back to reality.  She reached forward to get rid of the graffitied newspaper articles and the hanging, pierced blonde doll which was obviously meant to symbolise Betty herself.  She didn’t want Jughead seeing this; She knew he’d blame himself.

“Hey, no.” He whispered. Jughead brought his arms around the distraught girl’s shoulders, stopping her from touching the bloody papers.

She tried fighting away from his touch, eager to just remove the mess and stop the humiliation of everyone flashing their phones at the pair.

“It’s nothing, Jug!” She resisted, swallowing back tears. “It’s just a jerk with a can of spray paint.”

Jughead firmly gripped her shoulder with one hand, stopping her from moving forward, with the other one placed tenderly on her face.

“I don’t think that’s spray paint, okay?” He breathed, looking at her with uneasy sadness.

She blinked at him, her face dropping as he pulled her away from the locker and through the crowd of paparazzi-like teenagers. The beanie-clad boy glared at each person who thought it was appropriate to smirk and take pictures of this situation. How dare they?

When they got away from the crowd, Jughead continued walking her out of the school. Betty frowned.

“Where are we going, Juggie?” She questioned the raven-haired dreamboat.

“Pop’s.” He grinned, “I don’t know about you, but I could murder a milkshake right about now.” She returned a small smile but then slightly frowned again.

“But what about school?” She stopped, turning back to the Riverdale building which she knew they both should go back and face, even if it did contain intimidating, judgey adolescents.

“We’ll be back before lunchtime finishes. Come on Betts.”

Betty sighed, not in the mood for debating and resisting anymore, and followed him as the two walked in silence to their go-to place.

When they had ordered and received their milkshakes, they sat down in the usual booth they’d claimed and sipped on the sweet, thick liquid.

Betty would usually order a vanilla or strawberry drink because they, in her opinion, had the sweetest taste. However, this time, a grey-ish, indigo blueberry muffin milkshake sat in front of her. It was the Pop’s special for the day, and as she sipped it, although delicious, it tasted bitter, much unlike her normal choice.

Jughead drank his daily chocolate milkshake which had an uncharacterised, delicate strawberry placed on the rim. As he drank, he stared at Betty, next to him in silence, the quietness consuming them both.

Betty’s face was one of subtle shock and distraction. She was so beautiful as she sat there, even in these circumstances of sadness.

“I think you should stop helping my dad.” Jughead blurted out, slicing a knife through the thick, bitter frosting that was the current quietness. He couldn’t let Betty suffer this kind of backlash because of him.

Betty stared at him in surprise, and then frowned. “No way. Why would you even say that?” She replied, ready to protest at whatever Jughead would further add. “I’m not letting some jerk scare me off of helping your dad, or you.”

“Betty, you don’t deserve to be drawn into the mess that is the Jones’. We’re not exactly liked by this town. ” He scoffed, following with a sigh. Jug stared deeply into her disagreeing, sparkling eyes. He would love to get lost in them forever.

“But Jug-”

“No Betts. People are just gonna keep coming at you with judgement and hatred because that’s what they’ve been doing to outsiders like me my entire life.” Betty’s complexion softened and he proceeded to place his hand over hers, squeezing it lovingly. “And what if they start doing more than just writing words? What if they’re out for actual blood? I need you to be safe-”

“And I will be.” She moved her hand from his and placed it on his cheek, like he had when he’d pulled her from the taunting lockers. “I’ll be fine. I’m not giving up on you Juggie. And I’m not giving up on FP. Besides, this is more than you and I. This is about getting your dad justice, showing the rest of this stuck-up town that he’s a person. An innocent person. And a father who’s trying to be a better person.”

Jughead would have protested further, but as Betty spoke, all he could think
of was one thing. I am so in love with Betty Cooper.

He smirked at her. It was one of goofiness but with so much love, all for Betty. She was his light. His reason for continuing through this dark town, because he knew she was at the end of the tunnel, fighting for him every step of the way.

And so, Jughead quickly leant his face down to the gracious, brave blonde’s and, not wanting to waste a second, attached his peach lips to her sweet, pink ones.

The kiss was strong and passionate, full of appreciation and love, but also delicate and soft, showing gratitude and care. They tasted every part of each other, communicating through the endearing action. It was like they could practically taste each other’s feeling for each other: Betty’s determination and adoration; Jughead’s protectiveness and infatuation. The milkshakes were long forgotten in that moment, whilst Betty smiled into the kiss.

“Jug?” She whispered as she pulled away from the best kiss she’d ever had in her whole life. The youngest Cooper girl stared up at him, eyes innocent and hopeful. “Can I have your strawberry?”

Jughead let out a laugh, triggering a giggle from the rosy-lipped blonde.

“Sure, Betts.” He chuckled, placing his arm around her shoulders. “Whatever you want.”

The dark-red fruit was sweet and filled with reassurance, making the bitterness of the blueberries long forgotten.

Betty smiled as she snuggled into Jughead’s chest. They would make it through. They had to.

Originally posted by marorra

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The Civil Wars - To Whom It May Concern (Lyrics)

HAPPY HAPPY HAPPY BIRTHDAY @Larkin21 !!

A little something something, Barisi-esque cuz obviously and always, for you my Love on your special day! Hope your dreams and wishes come true, Babuuuuuu! 




                        TO WHOM IT MAY CONCERN


Rafael Barba was a romantic man, contrary to the assured, perceptions of many, that he had a heart of stone.

Beneath scowls, perpetually etched, and snide squints of green hid a predilection for weepy love stories and happily ever afters.

Imagines of his perfect someone filled dreams so real, he’d wake with a sharp disappointment, daring to chip at his hope of no longer being alone. But it was a stubborn hope, that refused to crumble into defeated rubble.

Because he was also a patient man.

A patience he had gleaned from his abuelita, who shared a fond, penchant for romantic fairy tales. 

Who promised him, he too would have a princess one day and he only need wait. 

“The best things in life take time, nieto.”

Who had filled his nights rich with stories of love turning fins to feet, a beast into a lost prince and kisses into magical balms that could bring a princess back from an eternal sleep; when his days were of monsters and dragons he could not vanguish. 

And who embraced him with a fierce willingness to accept any form of him when his fantasies of beautiful princesses turned into beautiful princes.


“Write down your wishes, papito. There is a magic in the written word, a permanence that can make dreams come true.”

His abuelita had written a love letter for his abuelo, long before ever meeting him. And she swore the letter brought him to be, as if words born from her heart summoned the fates to convene. And touched by her strong desire to gift another her love, they could not help but grant her, her wish. 

So on the eve of his fortieth birthday, after years of failing to find his happy ending from a slew of supposed prince charmings, decides to write his own. It’s in the quiet of his office, where he chose to celebrate alone over a tumbler of amber fire that burned yet numbed, he writes a love letter to a nameless someone, praying his words will reach the heavens or some fairy godmother; his plea for love soon to be fulfilled.

“To whom it may concern”, it began.

“Although I have yet to meet you, know that I already love you.

I was made for you as I believe you were made for me. My heart fashioned to beat to the sound of your name. My arms to hold you. My lips to taste your lips.

I am a patient man so I will wait for you.

But I miss you, forty years I have missed you.

So don’t make me wait much longer; be swift my love. 

I’m counting down the days, dear, whomever you might be. Counting down the days until I finally know who you are and you can be mine, as I will be yours.

Love, Rafi.”


Five years pass with not a sign from any powers of the unearthly sort, that he almost resigns to accept a life of loveless solitude.

It’s become such a familiar state of being, he soon forgets the letter, hidden in the recesses of a drawer in his office desk. And he can’t be bothered to make sure.

There are far more pressing matters to focus on.

Like abused children, a murdered colleague, and unknown assailants wanting him dead.

But among the melee and chaos of work and life, his shining knight appears:

Dominick “Sonny” Carisi.

His dreams of a faceless prince return and soon its eyes turn steel blue and there is a quirk of supple lips, so red they rival the crimson tint of blood that dripped from a finger pricked by a bewitched spinning wheel and spindle and the crisp apple that tempts a princess of raven black hair and snow white skin. It teased of mischief and secrets he longed to be whispered in his ear.

He soon scrambles to search for the love letter he’s put away and forgotten so as to change the opening to “Sonny” and to alter certain points, dreaming the “I love you” he mouths against an arched neck, he’s seen only ever covered by stiff shirt collars, is returned.

But he also thinks Sonny is straight, and could never; afraid to regard the younger man’s lingering glances that seem to hint of sinful things he knows would feel so good. He deems them wishful, preposterous thoughts that most likely manifested from mornings he wakes so unhinged from torrid dreams of the night before.

His presumptions are proven true when he hears excited talk of a certain “34B” and date nights of Broadway shows.

The revelation devastates his remnants of hope and an impulsive want to build a funeral pyre to mourn his heart and burn the torn pieces of the love letter he feels foolish to have ever written, consumes him.

Succumbing to dark notions, he ignores the part of him still alive with the sentiments of his grandmother.

Fairy tales are just fanciful things, love is not for everyone, and there is no such thing as happy endings.

It is two weeks before his forty-sixth birthday, and the love of his life, his forever prince, just broke his heart.


The night before his birthday, the knowledge of he’s adamant to keep a secret from his cohorts, is especially busy. He, along with the squad, chose to take resident in the empty bullpen to prepare for the coming court day the following Monday. The case was so encompassing, the whole squad has had to work insane hours all week; cumulative bloodshot eyes and shot nerves prevalent among the group of five.

He welcomes the distraction.

As the hours pass and the paperwork mounts, he realizes he’s missing some files, having left them inside the metal cabinet in his office. Before he can think he orders Sonny to go and bring back the files.

He means to retract and go himself, but the detective has always ever been so eager in everything and Sonny is already out the door before he can tell him to never mind.

It’s forty minutes later when he hears the ping of a message alert from his phone.

Hey, it’s Sonny :D I can’t open the file cabinet, it’s locked. What do I do now?

He almost rolls his eyes at the thrill that tickles his spine from receiving a text from Sonny and the fact that the younger man even knew his number. The emoji the detective felt the need to add did not help matters.

“He’s taken, remember?” he mutters sharply at his subconscious, quick to tamp down any emotion he thinks he has no right or luxury to feel.

The key is in the top left drawer on my desk. Hurry back so we can finish for the night and go home.

To the point, emojiless and a touch of acerbic severity is the way he chooses to answer, desperate to be detached and unaffected. The silence that answers allows him to return to his work, tho he can’t help but feel slighted.

But the ping that comes again minutes after leaves him simultaneously annoyed and giddy.

It’s not here. Can you come down and help me find it?

He hopes the color of shame that stains his cheeks is subtle and escapes the three pairs of eyes he thinks for sure can see into the cogs of his mind as he leaves with a haste that matches the eagerness of the detective.


It’s more than an hour later when he finally finds himself turning the knob to his office to find it empty, no detective in sight. He is about to turn from the room, reaching into his pocket for his cell to call said missing detective when he spies a folded piece of paper in the middle of his desk, propped up like a steeple.

Curious, he strides over, taking it from the center of his desk and sees a line of writing on the underside.

Come to the roof.

Although not signed, he is far too familiar with the script of the writer to know who wanted him upstairs.

And as he ascended to the rooftop, a ringing in his ears grow suffocating in its clamor, matching the erratic pulse of his heart that threatened to break through the confines of his chest.

He hopes for things he’s afraid are too fantastical and reality brings on a harsh, promised pain like a blade pushed into his neck; pushed hard enough against skin that yielded like butter and would soon be stained red.

What greets him is surprising and jars, he thinks at first he’s fainted and is experiencing a moment of delirium.


It’s Sonny standing in the the center of the rooftop, a handful of balloons in one hand, bobbing in the light breeze above his head, and a small plate with a chocolate cake and a lone candle, lit and casting shadows across the younger man’s face.

“What…how?” Words fail him and he can only stutter as a tremor stars from his toes to the tips of fingers.

“I have my ways counselah.” Though it’s dark, he can almost hear the smirk filtering through Sonny’s voice and it’s a sweet sound, something he allows himself to indulge in.

It’s his birthday after all.

“I read your letter.”

It snaps his head up from his stupored reverie, unable to decipher anything from the younger man’s shadowed face as his breath grew thick and loud in the echo of the silence that was starting to deafen in the space between them.

“My letter?” he can barely gasp, a dread raising the hair at his nape. But before he can deny or offer apologies, Sonny cuts their distance by two as he finds the younger man close enough to touch, the plate of cake and glowing candle offered near his lips.

“Blow out your candle and make a wish.”

He obeys with an urgency, not wanting to break the spell. 

“Let me keep him,” is the prayer he sends to his abuelita and anyone else who cared to listen.

“I love you too…” the declaration by his ear is a shock and stops his prayers abruptly.

“But…34B..?” 

“Don’t listening to rumors counselah. Of all people to follow such juvenile practices.”

“You love me?”

The small smile is blinding, bright against the dark, lit only by a flickering of starlight. 

“Happy Birthday, Rafi”


It was going to be a beautiful forever of happily ever afters.

Diet Coke & Ray, a Raywood fic

Ryan didn’t have favorites, but he had Diet Coke, and he had Ray.  (read on ao3)

Everyone seemed to realize Ryan didn’t have particularly strong pulls towards a ‘favorite’ thing separately, but they all came to the same conclusion eventually.  fahc Raywood, fluff, ignore that Christmas was ages ago, based on the fact that Ryan gets annoyed if you ask him what his favorite anything is, ~6k aka much longer than I intended sorry, (also juggey because who doesn’t have those feels at this point) ((also also im not sorry for all the run on sentences and overuse of the word observant))

*

Michael pulled Ryan’s name for Secret Santa and threatened to rage quit Christmas immediately after seeing the name.  Fortunately Geoff was the only person in the room at the time, because Michael had immediately begged, “Can I switch with Ray?” and Geoff had frowned at him, beginning a Dad Lecture™ about honor and responsibility.  That’s when Michael knew he was screwed.

What the fuck did Ryan even like?  Besides murder?  Michael slowly realized he knew the least about Ryan than anyone in the crew.  Ryan was out with Ray four nights a week doing jobs. The other nights, he was on the couch with Gavin, Jeremy, and Ray playing any pretty much any video game. Geoff and Jack knew everything there was to know about the crew and Los Santos.  Michael didn’t know shit.  Michael was fucked.

Even though Geoff had strictly forbidden Michael from seeking help from anyone else (even the B-team! What kind of bullshit rule was that??), Michael still thought maybe Ray would accidentally (or not) let something slip about what Ryan might want for Christmas.  Everyone knew Ray and Ryan were the closest of anyone, and Ray and Michael were good friends, right?

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Golly Prompt: Gail on Ice

31st of December.

Gail Peck was sitting at her desk. Actually, every rookie at 15th was sitting at their designated desks. Why, you ask? Because their shifts were about to be over. In about 5 minutes they were going to be free to go home and celebrate the New Year’s Eve.

“Gail…”

Gail Peck, elbows on the table and hands up holding her head, closed her eyes for a moment and sighed deeply at the sound of her name being repeated by the thousandth time.

“Chloe, I swear to God, if you start with the Frozen soundtrack again, I am going to kill you.”

Chloe Price was even more cheerful than on the 24th. Who knew that was possible? That was a rhetorical question but, no one. And everyone at the precinct was secretly hoping otherwise. A bit of the holiday cheer was actually wonderful but there was such a thing as too much. And Chloe was it.

Keep reading