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Raptor Bughead Fic Rec of the Day #12

Love Grows Colder in the Winter
Written by: aswellingstorm ( @aswellingstorm )
Rating: T
Status: Complete
Summary:  Every day the distance between the Northside and Southside seems to grow. With Veronica and Archie on the fritz and Jughead’s mysterious new friend, Betty can’t help but feel like they’re falling apart.

Why You Should Read It: After some people kept freaking out about Toni Topaz yesterday, it’s only fitting that today’s fic rec features Jug on the Southside and Betty dealing with changes in their relationship and the new people in Jughead’s life. It’s cute, well-written and well-paced and I think you’ll enjoy :)

Originally posted by burgerheadjones

Help me out by reblogging to get this circulating around our fandom for the hiatus. Who knows? Maybe your fic might be featured some day and I’m sure you’d enjoy that signal-boost :)

And of course, if you like the fic, be sure to leave a comment and some kudos. The author will appreciate it!

I think baby boomers’ tendency to get very mad at slow service goes hand in hand with their dislike of smart phones. Every situation I’ve been in where service is slow? I just whip out my phone and browse apps for the extra 30 seconds. It’s not a big deal. Meanwhile Landline Howard behind me in line who’s never held a smartphone in his life is bored with nothing to occupy his time so he yells at minimum wage workers instead.

if you caught him red handed eating cake, he’’ll probably just squint at you and keep eating ¯\_(ツ)_/¯ aaaa also little birthday doodle for myself// toots confetti 

Tweeter and Skeeter.

This is long, be warned. I live in a lowish income neighborhood. My little section is pretty nice, but if you go a few blocks in any direction, it gets pretty shitty. That means I’ve had a few run ins with skeevy meth heads and small time thieves.

This started when I moved in to my house. I noticed that on trash pick-up days, people would go up and down the alley where the trash cans go and dig through looking for recyclables. One of them was a guy I called Old Bob.

Old Bob lived a few houses down. He said he collected to buy presents for his grandkids. I don’t think the kids liked pints of Dark Eyes vodka, but he was harmless. So I started bagging up my cans separately so Old Bob didn’t have to dig through my trash.

Then, there were Tweeter and Skeeter. They would roll up and down the alley in a junky old truck with no exhaust that belched blue smoke. They looked like the after pictures from Faces of Meth. After they saw in was bagging cans for Old Bob, they started grabbing them. This didn’t sit well with me.

The next time I saw Old Bob, I told him I would leave my stuff just inside my yard, up against my shed, where you couldn’t see the bag from the alley. This went on for a month. Then, I heard and smelled Tweeter and Skeeter rumbling down the alley. I didn’t think anything of it, then I heard the rattle of a bag of aluminum cans being thrown into the bed of a truck. Those fuckers had gone into my yard to grab Old Bob’s drinking money. That shit would not stand.

I went to the hardware store; I bought a cheap pair of locks and some latches. I put the latches on my trash cans, I would unlock them when I left for work, which was about 15 minutes before the trash truck came down the alley. I also gave Old Bob a key. By this time, we were becoming downright neighborly. I would chat with him and have him help me around the yard and throw any spare cash his way.

After a few weeks, I heard Tweeter and Skeeter again. I heard them stop, then rattle the can lids, then drive off. I came out the next morning and the fuckers had pried the latches off my cans, and stolen the locks, too.

Now I was pissed. They were stealing Old Bob’s drinking money, and they had fucked with my shit. I stopped keeping cans separate, and started dumping used cat litter over everything.

Tweeter and Skeeter would still roll up to my trash area, but they weren’t willing to dig through shit to get anything. Old Bob was still helping me around the yard, so I would hands him bags of cans when he was over, in addition to the extra cash.

Everything was quiet for a few months. Then, we had a bad storm and the gutters on the alley side of my shed got messed up. They were in OK shape, but the underlying board and gotten torn up. It was too late in the day to do anything, but I figured Old Bob and I could take care of it the next day.

That night, I was woken up by Tweeter and Skeeters damn truck. But before I could throw pants and shoes on and chase them off, they were gone. So were the gutters on my shed.

Needless to say, I was fucking livid. After I calmed down, I went to Home Depot to get a new gutter. As luck would have it, I heard the fucking meth-mobile start up in the parking lot as I was walking in.

I wasn’t about to confront them directly, since I like having all of my blood and internal organs on the inside. What in did do, though, was get a good look at their liscense plates.

They were expired (of course) but the layer of soot from burning oil had obscured the sticker. You wouldn’t notice it from more than 5 feet away.

Finally, I had a way to get back at them. I called a relative who knew a few of the local PD. They said the address on the last registration was a house that had since been burned down in a meth lab fire. They never caught the cooks, but they going to keep an eye out for the truck. If nothing else, they would get a ticket and have to put current plates with a real address on them.

I was OK with this, but I wanted blood. I got my wish when the city did heavy trash pick-up.

I put an old grill in my back yard and scratched “Not Trash”, on the underside, along with spraypainting the smokestack white. Sure enough, Tweeter and Skeeter saw it and couldn’t resist. Once they had done that, I spent a few hours on a Saturday driving around the shittier parts of my neighborhood until I spotted my grill sitting in a yard.

I called my buddy with the police contacts and told them where they could find Tweeter and Skeeter and their un-registered vehicle, along with a stolen grill.

A few hours later, Tweeter and Skeeter came home to a few cops waiting for them. Since scrapping from heavy trash pick-up had been good to them, they were caught with a not insignificant amount of Meth and a lot of precursors to make more.

Tweeter has to serve out a 5 year sentence in prison. He also pinned the lab fire on Skeeter, who will be serving 10 years along side him.

Old Bob still helps me out, too.

*cough cough*

Help Ya Gurl and Use My Codes

All credits are for first time users 

 LYFT: MARISSA157986, $20 in credit 

UBER: marissar2334ue, $20 in credit 

Smaller Companies (not in every city yet, beware) 

 VIA: mars6h5, $10 in credit 

 GETT (NYC only): GTEVUSI, $50 over 10 rides. 

 I’ll be adding to this post but yeah, help me get around by using my codes please! Codes and credits for Moovn and Juno coming soon, they’re in beta. 

Okay but.

Have you ever considered…Nick Valentine and his relationship with children?

That he had been in Diamond City for so many years that he’s probably seen the citizens grow from little ones, into adults and then starting families with children of their own?

That he probably always smiles to himself when he hears the news of another member of Diamond City giving birth to a new bundle of joy, and knowing that even though the world is dangerous – that they now have a new little star to light their way in the darkness. (And later going to introduce himself to them and the happy parents, because babies always seem fascinated by his glowing eyes, and he loves their bubbling)

Or that Nick more than likely goes out of his way to learn the names of the children of Diamond City, and does his best to become a mentor to them and answer any and all questions that they have for him – because the children were never afraid of what he was – and are always overjoyed when “Cool Detective Nick” gives them extra attention when he’s not on a case.

“Why do ya smoke, Mista Valentine?”
“Cus it helps this ol’ noggin of mine feel relaxed, kid.”
“Can I smoke too?”
“Aw, I don’t think so, pal. You don’t wanna wind up a dusty old mess like me, do ya?”

Think about Nick bringing one of the kids from the School House in with him to his office after their classes, and Ellie rolling her eyes playfully.

“Another one? Nick, really?” She would say with a sweet giggle, and Nick would ruffle the kid’s head and lean down to their height to place his hat upon their head.

“Nah, but you don’t get it, Ellie,” He would say in response to her. “This here is my lucky partner for the day.”

Now, think about Nick picking the squealing, smiling kid up over his shoulders, and carrying them out to the market place. Telling them that he needs their help, and relying on their wits and detective skills to discover just what happened to Takahashi‘s last batch of Power Noodles.

“Great job, partner! Without’cha the city would’ve been starving tonight! How, how’bout we get a bowl or two to celebrate our detective work, huh?”

Think about Nick turning fiercely protective whenever one of them are bothered by rude people on the Upper Stands, calling them “urchins” or “snot nosed brats”, or someone from the outside that had the gall to try and injure them to prove that it isn’t all fun and games, and “This is what happens to kids out here in the real world.”

Think about Nick placing a hand on the kid’s shoulder and retorting with wisecracks of his own to get the rude person to back down, or worse…standing in front of them, shielding them from the raiders and firing a warning shot, before picking up the kid and tucking them safe under his neck as they travel back home together; telling them that it will be okay.

Just…Nick Valentine and kids, okay.

Because, even though the world is a post apocalyptic hell… Nick is going to do all that he’s able to make sure that the children around him are taken care of, and above all safe, even when they’re parents aren’t able to.

And if all he can do is buy one of the kids a round of noodles, or play detective with them, or watch over them when they’re scared and crying and keep them safe from the close-minded of the city, and the outside world…by goodness, he’s going to do that.

Because he knows what it’s like to be lost in world that is too big and too terrifying for one person to take in on their own. And he knows that to overcome that fear – you need to have hope. You need to have joy, and you need to have a childhood.

And Nick is going to do all he can to make sure that the kids out in the Commonwealth get just that, even if it’s from a weathered old Synth Detective like himself.s

my family is at a huge risk of losing our house because of this capitalist nightmare

my mother recently lost her job, the main source of the household’s income, on top of any money we were getting from my father through child support ending on august 1st. neither my younger brother or i have been able to find work to even remotely help out with the situation, according to my mother we’re down about $3k a month, and i’m getting absolutely desperate here.

if anyone can help me out and spread this around, i have commissions open, or you can donate to my paypal directly, information and links for each are in this page on my blog (not linking to my paypal.me directly so this post still shows up in searches, y’know), thank you.

4

GRAVEL TO TEMPO

“I started carrying a citrine crystal around with me […] it’s helped me to get rid of my self-doubt, and it’s just centering me. I thought, ‘If this is helping me this much, I should call my EP Citrine because that’s what I want my EP to do for my fans – I want to promote happiness and get rid of self-doubt, I want to do that for them.’ That’s why I called it Citrine.” (insp)

(click images to enlarge them)

5

This is Duke. Duke isn’t always photogenic, but I love him. He’s 2 years and 2 months old and 100% mutt, but we think Rottweiler/Doberman/Shepherd although we honestly have no clue. He’s working on learning some tasks to help me around the house, such as getting my meds, retrieving water from the fridge, checking the house, and getting my room mate for help. I could talk about this mutt all day.

Hide and Seek


Tony wasn’t too sure how they managed to get on to the topic. 


Actually- scratch that- yes he was. It was Clint. All bad things in the world happened because of Clint. 

Probably.

Anyway- Clint had been talking about his years in the circus, and how they’d taught him all sorts of weird ways to contort your body for the extra showmanship. “Made for some pretty awesome games of hide and seek, though,” he’d said, nodding serenely to himself as he’d sipped from his coffee.

“I bet I’d still find you in under an hour,” Natasha had challenged, raising a daring eyebrow up at him before turning back to the morning paper.

Clint scoffed, turning to Steve, who was stood cooking eggs on the stove. “Cap, you can vouch for me here, right? I am the master at hide and seek. No one beats me at hide and seek.”

And Steve had laughed- a lovely throaty thing that made Tony smile just from hearing it. “Uhhh, I don’t know? It depends on a lot of variables. If it were in a park, maybe- but here? Tony would beat you hands-down. He knows every nook and cranny of this tower, you wouldn’t stand a chance.”


And then- here had come Tony’s fatal mistake of the day. Later, he’d pin it on lack of caffeine in his system and the early hour at which he was conscious- but really, he was just an idiot who’d forgotten how offended his teammates could (and did) get on his behalf.


“Actually, I’ve never played. Although I could still probably beat Barton.”

(Read more, mobile users! Finish it on your laptop or PC if you can’t on mobile!)

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Hypothetical

 Anon prompt: “Hi! All hail Jughead Jones. I’m in love. Anyway, could you write something where the reader is really close to Archiekins and Juggie asks Arch about how to get close to the reader? Thanks xxx”

A/N: I sure can! All hail Jughead P Jones!!

Jughead slumps down onto one of the library couches across from me, I smile stupidly at him.

“Mister Jones.” I say.

“Hey, Y//N.” He smiles at me.

Hands reach down around, fingers clawing at my sides enticing laughter from me as the unknown culprit tickles me.

“Archibald Andrews! If that’s you I swear I’ll end your existence!” I manage between laughs.

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-crawls out of sewer and slaps this onto table- H e y

Fault - 2

(Part 1)

Summary:

“Bucky had never been held responsible for what he’d done, but you, oh god, everything that had happened had been your fault, and Bucky knew it too.”

Word Count: 1251
Warnings: Injury, angst


There are bright lights when you come to, blinding. That’s the first thing you notice.

The second is the pain, hitting you like a brick to the chest then spreading agonizingly quickly, like fire, to every inch of your body.

The third is that you’re moving. Fast.

“Stop–” You cough, hacking up your lungs as blood coats your lips. Bucky throws you a worried glance through the rear-view mirror, and then you’re moving faster.

Stop the car!” The words are just out of your mouth before your body convulses in on itself, sending you into another coughing fit, eyes daring to shut again because of the pain. The car jerks swiftly to the right, then jolts to a stop. In the backseat, you gasp for air.

The door above your head opens and cold air rushes in, stinging your face. It’s wet outside, but the sky is clearing up and there’s a couple stars shining, and you’re trying to focus on them in hopes that it’ll distract you from the pain. Then Bucky’s face appears in your line of sight, eyebrows pulled together, and his mouth is moving, saying the same thing over and over until you can finally make out his words. “What happened? What’s wrong?”

And truth be told? You’ve been wondering the exact same thing. There’s panic ebbing its way into your veins, coiling in your stomach and threatening to slip past your lips in cries for help, but you can only just manage to whisper between coughs.

You want to say something, but suddenly there’s a hand on your arm and every single nerve in your body tenses and there are alarms – sirens – going off in your head, the word danger flashing in an angry red in your mind. “Stop! Stop! Don’t touch me!”

The hand is gone as fast as it came, and Bucky’s alarmed face is in front of you again, eyes wide. He takes you in for a moment, barely concealed panic behind his blue eyes, before his expression falls into a neutral. “Look Y/N. Everything that happened back at the tower? We can deal with it later, okay? Just let me get you help first.”

You want to scream. Nothing makes sense. Nothing around you makes any sense at all, and the word ‘help’ is so foreign it sounds more like a threat than a promise of safety.

Your actions are slowed down by the wounds all over your body, and with your mind equally as hazy, you don’t get time to respond before the door slams shut. You flinch.

The front door opens and Bucky sits down and then he’s driving again, and you’re in and out of consciousness, trying to figure out a way to get out of the car but knowing that in your state, there’s no way you could manage.

“I have to–” you breathe sharply as the car swerves to the left. “Tell you something. Bucky, listen–”

There’s another sharp turn to the right this time. Your body lurches forward and the seat belt suddenly feels like a knife to the stomach, cutting into the exposed, bloody skin. It hurts, god, it hurts so much that you can barely focus on anything around you. Tears cloud your vision, and your eyes roll to the back of your head.

They know, Bucky. They know and they’re going to come back.

The words never slip past your lips.


“Look, I just–”

“You better get out of here before I blast your punk ass out.”

This is the second time you wake up to bright lights, and it takes a few blinks to clear your vision. This time, there’s no pain. Instead, it feels like you’re floating on a cloud, and everything around you is a different, calm kind of hazy. It feels kind of nice for once, until–

“Fuck.”

The arguing around you comes to a stop, and the constant hum of machines fills the room. Tony, casually leaning against the wall with a bag of dried blueberries in his hand, pushes off when he sees you awake. He throws a glance at the other man in the room , sporting a black and purple bruise around his left eye, and your breath hitches in your throat as you’re hit with an overwhelming sense of familiarity. There’s a thump in your chest, reflected by the quickened pace of the heartbeat monitor, and you shift backwards on the

The man looks at you, opens his mouth to say something, then stops at a cutting look from Tony. He closes his mouth, throws you one last glance, then shuffles out the door.

“How you feelin’, kid?” Tony asks as he walks to the side of your bed.

“Like shit.”

He laughs, and you can tell that he wants to say more, that there’s words caught on the tip of his tongue, but he bites them back with a lopsided grin and settles for a hair-ruffle instead. You’re too tired to swat him away.

The door swings open, and this time a nurse and doctor walk in. Routine procedure, now that you’re awake, they tell you. A couple broken ribs, a concussion, broken leg, four stitches across the forehead, twelve staples near the abdomen, and the list goes on. Then come the questions, which gain a few weird looks from Tony and a ton of scribbles from the nurse.

“You’ve been in a medically induced coma for the past week to aid in reducing the swelling of your brain,” the doctor says. You stare at him and he continues, “But you are showing symptoms of post-traumatic amnesia. It’s transient, so don’t stress about it. You received a lot of head trauma, so it’s expected. Your memories should return shortly; don’t try to force them back by thinking too hard, that’ll only hurt your head.”

You nod, trying to process the information. There’s this feeling that you can’t shake off, that you know something important that you have to tell someone, but you can’t figure it out and now you know why.

“We need to complete a few more tests, so you’ll be in here for the next couple days, but once that’s done, you’re free to go.” You nod again, and the doctor fixes some equipment around the room before leaving with the nurse trailing behind him.

Tony plops down in the plastic chair beside your bed. “Amnesia, huh?” You sigh in response.

“Okay, so, I was totally cool about the situation, but Capsicle? Think New York City, twenty-ten, fresh-out-of-the-ice. Guy was the most scared I’d ever seen.” A chuckle escapes your lips, followed by a groan of pain, and Tony only smiles.

“Get some rest, kid,” he says as he gets up to leave. “I’m gonna grab something to eat.”

And he’s almost at the door when the question that’s been bugging you can’t stay in your head any longer.

“Tee,” you croak, voice raspy and mouth parched. He pauses and turns to look at you, eyebrows raised in question. “Who was that guy you were talking to?”

Tony stiffens for a moment, eyes hardening and not meeting your gaze. Then he smiles, “No one you need to worry about right now, Y/N. Get some sleep.” He leaves the room.

For someone who had been asleep for the past week, you’re pretty tired. So you close your eyes, sinking into the pillow as sleep overtakes your body.

You dream of the man’s blue eyes and metal arm.


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