#good old fashioned antennae war

[usedmobileguide]

Benefits of Selling Old Gadgets

In this excessive-tech world, there is numerous specific merchandise that makes our lives less difficult and every person has their "infant." Perhaps your infant is that twin center CPU pushed pc that allows you to get paintings done, store them online, and surf the net. Or, perhaps it is that smartphone that allows you preserve in contact together along with your pals and family. If it is now no longer one of those, then it probably is one of the many digital devices that grow our livelihood: televisions, stereos, excessive-tech DVD players, navigation systems, and I-pods. Oh, and to make us experience greater security, let's now no longer neglect about approximately safety devices along with domestic safety systems, infant video display units, and smoke detectors.

While the present-day fashions of those gadgets are quality and do an extremely good deal to beautify our lives, we nevertheless appear to be pushed with the aid of using a pressure that leads us on an in no way finishing quest to shop for the ultra-modern and finest devices. It's like we're preventing an infinite war to preserve up with all of the ultra-modern electronics on the market. For example, study the speedy evolution of cell verbal exchange gadgets and the manner clients rushed to shop for the most up-to-date stuff at the market - and for an excellent reason. Back withinside the day, you had a totally restricted choice of merchandise to select from.

Mobile verbal exchange gadgets just like the walkie-talkie and in advance telephones had been big, bulky, and pretty heavy. I suggest the batteries lower back then weighed greater than state-of-the-art molecular telephones positioned together. Oh, and what approximately is the reception? Do you recollect the lengthy antennas that needed to be prolonged as a way to get a respectable signal? Seems like a long time however in reality that point becomes now no longer too lengthy ago. Nowadays you've got 3G and 4G telephones ready with wi-fi net connections and which can be small sufficient to healthy into the palm of your hand.

But earlier than you positioned your machine up for sale, there are some matters which you want to prepare.

Make Sure That the Gadgets Are Still Useable

Are you making plans to promote antique phones or different devices? The first aspect is to make certain that it is nevertheless running. Even if there are more modern variations of the phone out in the market, there are nevertheless a few humans inquisitive about older variations so long as it's far nevertheless usable and bought at an inexpensive rate. It could be absolutely unfair to the individual shopping if he reveals that his phone is not running anymore. Before you sell your old mobile, situation the machine to check and spot if it is nevertheless ok to promote. It's vain to promote something that is not running in any respect as a result it'd be higher in case you simply throw it away. Check your devices' situations to test whether or not it's far nevertheless really well worth promoting to someone.

Repair the Gadget if Needed

Before you promote antique cell telephones make certain that you have constant everything. If you watched that there's something incorrect with the smartphone visit a shop and spot if it's far nevertheless blanketed with the aid of using a warranty. The higher the situations of your machine are, the better you may rate it. It would not honestly depend on you spending pretty an amount of money for the upkeep because you may nevertheless earn all of it lower back as soon as you've got correctly bought an item. It says plenty approximately the vendor if she or he gives handiest the quality devices which paint flawlessly and continue to be in excellent situations. Customers can get inquisitive about shopping for devices that can be nevertheless in extremely good form and nevertheless seem new.

Determining Your Price

Before you pass on and promote your merchandise withinside the market, make certain that you are happy together along with your rate. Make certain that you are not pricing it too low or an excessive amount because whatever is priced too low can inform humans that this positive product is not in excellent form anymore. An honestly excellent-priced blouse will end result in humans being inquisitive about your merchandise getting you all of the cash that you'll want in no time. You may even ask gadgets for hints while seeking to promote antique phones.

[thedailyhermit]

Larry and Moe are friends.

#checking each other out #after resurfacing #good old fashioned antennae war #hermit crabs #thedailiyhermit #larry #moe

[arianaofimladris]

Predictable

A Marvel fic for a change, because I still don’t like Infinity war and wanted to tell myself a better story,

Predictable

 The last Thor remembered before the emptiness of the space sucked everything, was clinging to his brother. Then there was nothing but darkness.

The next thing he registered was lying on the floor of what seemed to be a space ship, not his spaceship, with a bunch of multiracial strangers leaning over him. He was on his feet in an instant, stumbling as his numb, half frozen legs almost refused to carry his weight. Backing away as far as the cramped ship allowed, he took in his surroundings. He found the lot staring at him.

Straightening, Thor returned the stare, turning his head to acknowledge them all. There was a Midgardian man and a short furry creature that looked like some kind of animal. Another man of bulky posture stood to the left, accompanied by a green-skinned lady with fiery red locks. A strange young woman with glowing antennas stared with her eyes wide open, and behind her a young flora colossus observed him from over a game pad of sorts. Together, they probably made the strangest company Thor had ever met.

“Who the hell are you, guys?” He asked in confusion. Lightning cracked between his fingers, readying for the fight that could possibly come. His experience with the strangers of late had not been overly positive.

"Woah, easy, man!" The Midgardian raised his hands in an universal peaceful gesture, while the strange furry creature at his side pulled out a blaster. “Rocket, not here!” He chastised. The creature rolled his eyes but lowered his weapon, if slightly. The others just watched Thor, apparently still surprised by his awakening.

“Not exactly a thank you we could expect,” Rocket muttered with reproach. “You know, we have just literally picked you up from the fuckin’ space. Mantis there woke you,” he made a vague gesture towards the woman with antennas.

That was when Thor realised what he was missing."Wh-where's my brother?"

"You mean the stiff over there?" Rocket pointed to his left. As Thor turned his head to follow his hand, he saw the familiar form laying on the floor. "You two were kinda tangled. Not much we can do there, sorry."

"No..." Thor’s knees buckled treacherously and the lightning sparkling around his fists shot uncontrollably, crafting a smoking hole right next to a control pad.

“Whatever you’re doing, don’t!” The Midgardian cried. “You’ll blow up my ship!”

“It’s my ship!” Rocket huffed in annoyance.

But the lightning disappeared just as quickly, Thor’s energy already spent in the battle with Thanos. He barely had it within him to stand. He forced himself to move towards Loki, grasping at whatever he could find within his reach as his legs threatened to cease carrying him.

Mantis got there first. She knelt by the unmoving figure and rolled him on his back. "He's not dead," she gasped, a hint of surprise visible as her black eyes blinked.

"Holy shit, what?!" The Midgardian choked. “How the hell is this possible?”

“Not as beautiful and strong as this one, but perhaps his strength lies elsewhere,” mused the bulky man. The comment made Thor stop for a second, so out of place it seemed.

“Drax, not now,” someone muttered, but Thor didn’t pay attention who.

"Not-" He stumbled again in his eagerness to reach his brother, desperately clinging to the tiniest string of hope.

"He's terrified and hurting, but not dead, Peter.” Mantis said to the Midgardian as she kept her hands hovering over Loki’s head. “I can wake him too."

"No, wai-"

But it was too late. With Mantis's gentle touch Loki jerked awake. A scream caught in his throat and his hand flung up. He coughed, his breathing coming in hitched gasps, and kept pulling frantically at the collar of his gear, unable to grasp a lungful of air.

Thor fell on his knees beside him as Mantis scrambled away. "Lo- Loki, stop!" He grasped his wrists and pinned them to the floor, leaning forwards so that he could be seen. “It’s alright!” His voice carried the edge of hysteria that contradicted his words.

It didn't work. Loki made a pained noise and his left hand froze, but his breathing was just as hectic. “Th’r,” he wheezed and Thor sighed in relief that at least his brother seemed to recognise him.

“He’s gone for now. Thanos is not here,” Thor promised hastily. Whoever these guys behind him were, they seemed friendly enough, or at least not too willing to kill them on sight. Thor didn’t have much energy left to spend on dwelling whether they could have had some ulterior motives and had picked them from the space for their own benefit.

“Thanos?” The green-skinned lady, who kept silent so far, repeated slowly, her voice distant.

“You know of him?” Thor let his eye fall off Loki and he turned to face her, cursing internally his inability to see the whole room without moving. It was a disadvantage he had yet to work on in fight.

“Gamora is the daughter of Thanos,” the big guy called Drax offered.

At that, Loki bolted upright. He managed as far as to a sitting position, but conjured a pair of daggers even as Thor placed himself between the strangers and his wounded brother. Loki’s left hand seemed useless and the knife fell from his grasp, so he clung to the other, desperately trying and failing to haul himself up.

“Thanos slaughtered half of my people and almost killed my brother!” Thor growled and dragged himself back to his feet. Crackles of lightning danced around his fists and shoulders.

“No, no, wait!” The Midgardian, Peter, rushed forward. “She wants him dead as much as you do!”

Thor glanced from him to Gamora, who nodded. He was trying hard to take her word for that when his brother looked at her with what bordered to outright fear. Loki’s posture screamed of mistrust, but Thor could also see hate and determination that steeled Gamora’s gaze as she looked him in the eye. Hesitantly, he let his arms drop and the lightning subdued.

“There are no friends of Thanos here, alright?” Rocket stepped firmly in front of the woman. “How about you guys sit down and take a breath?” He offered, which earned him a wheezing half-sob, half-laughter from Loki.

 So Thor found himself sitting on a bench with a thick blanket around his shoulders, slowly de-freezing with a bowl of hot soup in his hands. He was left with bone-deep exhaustion and a pounding headache, a courtesy of a close touch of the Power Stone, but he was alive and breathing. And he was not alone.

Loki was slumped to his right, leaning against his shoulder. It had taken some manoeuvring to get him there, as he had let no one but Thor so much as lay a finger on him. He looked no better than when he had been woken and was still half a step away from passing for a corpse, if not for his shallow, wheezing breathing. He cradled his left hand at his lap, but dared not close his eyes and go into a healing sleep. His gaze never left Gamora, even as she withdrew to the farthest part of the room.

Thor listened as Gamora talked about Thanos and his goal to wipe out half of the universe. His anger would have boiled untamed, had it not been for his exhaustion. The Thanos he faced had wielded only one stone, and still he had managed to slaughter all those who had not escaped in the pods with the Valkyrie. He had bested the Hulk. Had bested him.

A shiver and a pained gasp drew Thor’s attention from where he mulled over his soup. Loki seemed to be struggling to breathe again, his good hand hovering over but never really touching his swollen throat.

"Why is it not healing?" Thor frowned as he realised Loki’s left wrist swelled and bruised instead of getting better.

Loki's mouth stretched in a mirthless smirk for a second. "All... I... Have... Goes... For. Not. Dying," he rasped. His eyelids fell for a moment, but he snapped them open again and looked around.

"You'd better not," Thor muttered, careful not to voice too much concern about Loki's statement. His admittance alone was alarming, and in the presence of those strangers, especially Gamora, it was likely all Thor would get. Still, he had to ask. "Do you need anything? Are you hurt elsewhere?"

A minute shake of head was all response he got.

"You guys are creeping me out," Quill startled them both. "We pick you up from NOTHING, the stiff there definitely choked and dead... -ish. And now he's talking already."

"We are not easily killed," Thor offered and he wished he could feel the conviction he heard in his own voice. If anything, the most recent events had taught him that there were forces in the universe stronger than an army of Einherjar, forces that could overpower Asgardians as strong as him.

"Creepy or not, it seems you are short on whatever it is you are using to stay alive," Rocket addressed Loki as came over with a couple of small packages. "So maybe try the good old-fashioned way?" He dropped them at Loki's knees, completely ignoring how tense and utterly still he went.

Loki stared down with a frown.

"Oh, you know? Cold for the swelling?" The raccoon rolled his eyes. "Can't hurt to try. Then you can go on with the magic thing you are doing."

“Thank you,” seeing that Loki would or could not answer, Thor nodded to Rocket and wrapped the cold dressing around Loki’s wrist. “Is there a place where we could rest?” He asked, knowing well his brother would not let his guard down unless they were alone. The proclaimed hatred towards Thanos didn’t seem enough for Loki to trust them and let himself rest. If they were to go against Thanos, Thor needed his brother back in form. And, as much as he loathed to admit it, he himself needed to be able to formulate a trail of thoughts without having his head split in half.

“Oh, yeah, we could probably spare you a room for now,” Quill nodded.

“I am Groot?” The flora colossus nudged Thor expectantly. His input was unexpected, as for the whole time he seemed entirely preoccupied with his game.

“Thank you, young friend, but there’s not much you could do to help,” Thor offered him a warm smile, but Groot ignored him and reached for Loki’s wounded wrist.

Unable to back away, Loki attempted to pull his hand free and yelped. Groot ignored him too and held his hand in both of his own, concentrating. Thor was about to react and drag him away from his brother, but Groot’s efforts paid off and tiny sprouts sprang from his hands. Both brothers watched in amazement as the branches grew, entwining, and soon weaved a brace around the damaged wrist.

Cutting himself off the brace, Groot looked up back at Thor and smiled brightly. “I am Groot.”

“That was brilliant!” Thor felt a genuine smile lighten his face and he stood up, this time hauling Loki along with little effort. Wrapping his arm around his brother’s back, he tossed Loki’s good hand over his own shoulders and smiled to himself at the position he placed his brother in.

Clearly Loki recognised it too. “No. Get. Help.” He whispered and his fingers dug into Thor’s bicep.

“Well, you need it, brother,” Thor chuckled softly. Loki’s nails dug deeper.

Rocket glanced from one to the other, unimpressed. “Ugh, whatever you say. Sleep it off, guys. Over there,” he waved towards the doors to his right.

“Thank you,” Thor nodded and led Loki to where he could possibly rest. “Wake me up when it’s time to split.”

Loki shot him a confused glance. Apparently some of his conversation with the group must have slipped his attention.

Adjusting his grip on Loki’s waist, Thor answered the unvoiced question. “We are going to Nidavellir, brother.” That, at least, was a fixed part of the plan they had yet to form.

 Story can be found here too: https://archiveofourown.org/works/33583816/chapters/83450944

Please let me know what you think.

#Loki #Thor #The Avengers #Infinity war #Infinity war AU #marvel fanfic #Loki lives

[neuronary]

Hello! For the dnd oc ask game, Grey 8, Arrow 24, and I would love to know some cultural traditions of the kenku and bugbear peoples in your world 😊

8. What is something they cannot resist?

Canonically to our game, Grey will risk it all for a book. She revealed the party to steal a bunch from the cult that we've (kinda) been fighting. (In reality it's more like. So we keep running into and like. mildly inconveniencing them? Except when we stole the demon they trapped from them.) But yeah! She wants to learn a bunch of new spells! And read some good old fashioned YA!

24. What’s a controversial food opinion they would have?

Arrow believes (as I do) that it is Fine And Good to eat bug if you catch them! also under any other circumstances! bugs are great for eating! just make sure you have identified it correctly so you can be sure it's not poisonous and get crunchin.

As For The Bugbears.

So I have a homebrewed version of bugbears that a) has subraces, b) isn't just Big Goblins. the design is a bit more of a blend of 'bugs' and 'bears' (yes ik that's not the etymology but sod off it's my world and wotc are boring). they have six limbs, antennae, and big eyes. think stitch's alien form but massive. you can choose whether you want extra legs or extra arms (increased speed to 40ft. or doubled carrying capacity respectively).

on the cultural side of things though: in dnd canon, bugbears follow the goblinoid pantheon, which is the thing that primarily classes them as goblinoids, weirdly enough. but they didn't always. according to that same canon, they do this because their gods were murdered by the goblinoid pantheon in a cosmic war that is well documented enough to be known to be fact. which is just about the most fascinating premise i've ever heard in my life.

so i figure their culture is... scattered, at best. i think they sort of. they worship the goblinoid pantheon on paper. but in reality the majority of them are atheists, which is an unusual stance in a world where it has been categorically proven that there are multiple gods. there are a couple schools of thought on that, the main two being 'gods never did anything for us' and 'our gods were the only gods worth worshipping and now they're long gone'. others still worship the old gods out of nostalgia more than anything. most of them are fairly nomadic and move around in small groups they call grists.

and kenku.

this all happened because i'm obsessed with the idea of genetic memory of flight in flightless birds.

firstly: they can't speak except using mimicry, right? so kenku do have an incredibly strong tradition of oral storytelling, except they perfectly replicate the sounds of the events they're describing, rather than words. there are shorthands - every kenku can create the sound of footfall to indicate travel, wings flapping, etc. their stories sound like strange and confusing soundscapes to non kenku, but they all know the stories well enough to weave in additional noises and words until you have hours and hours of communal storytelling that's never even rehearsed.

secondly: kenku are taught silence long before they're taught to communicate. especially outside the cities. where they live in their own colonies, needing to be entirely self-sufficient because they can't trade easily with other settlements. they need silence to hunt, to leave the world around them undisturbed, to survive. it's always a matter of shutting the babies up before teaching them to mimic properly.

thirdly: Oh Buddy Oh Boy do they have complicated relationships to divinity! they are broadly of the atheist stance of "god exists but she's a bitch" which. yknow. seeing as a god cursed them to be flightless that seems. fair. their culture is definitely one of animism, more than deific worship. they have a big thing about 'no bird above another'; everyone should treat one another as equals and if they don't then they lose the right to be treated as anything but scum. harsh but fair?

fourthly: almost every story involves the protagonist gaining freedom, conveyed by the sound of beating wings because, god, you have to hope, don't you? that void of yearning, aching hope gets passed from parent to the children still called 'fledglings' after all this time. shared suffering maybe, the wondering if they find enough shoulders, the burden of grief will somehow lessen?

send me asks about my dnd characters! (pls)

#basements and lizards #asks #dnd ask game #thanks for the ask i'd die for u! #kenku #bugbears

[dragonrajafanfiction]

Caesar Gattuso - Year One

Cassell College, Norton Hall

Norton Hall was not accustomed to this level of decadence. The stately hall had hosted its own manner of events that catered to lords and ladies in the fashion of high society, but this event had the formality of a massive rock concert-slash-frat party. Although the sun had set, it was still technically Freedom Day and Caesar Gattuso had made his presence known in his first year by winning the contest. Now it was time to cement his legacy. As soon as the announcement of the winner was read, trucks rushed to surround Norton Hall and opened their back doors to reveal equipment that had to have been ordered weeks in advance. Huge speakers, stage equipment, sound, lighting and confetti. By the time the guests arrived, the music was loud enough to shake the building. 

The blue and white Sikorsky helicopter, the mother of all helicopters, swooped over Norton Hall blowing the hair of the women and sending decorations flying. A rope was lowered down and Caesar Gattuso - year one - swung down recklessly, a vicious cold smile on his face, firing a gun in the air. There was a moment of gaiety and joy as the new students of the Student Union welcomed their President with cheers and raised glasses and thunderous applause.

Caesar landed cleanly in his Cassell Uniform, that old green, but he quickly tossed away that jacket to reveal his bare muscular chest. A huge crate landed on the ground next to him and he opened it and pulled out a huge gun that looked like a bazooka and fired it into the air. The rocket exploded into bright red fireworks and he laughed, like a joyous king on conquering the enemy capital. The jacket soared into the gathered crowd in the garden where the women in bathing suits pounced on it, tearing and yanking on it like packs of hyenas.  The day was hot and humid and the perfect time for a pool party. There should not have been any time to build a real pool but Caesar anticipated his win so far in advance that he ordered the sculpture garden revamped. The water was just ready enough as he made his entrance and all the guests dove into a new pool that stretched the length of the backyard.

Dancers surrounded the pool in sequined bathing suits waving feather fronds in their own individual spotlights. The walls of the outside of the building were covered in billboard-sized LED screens so people could watch themselves party. The sound and lighting alone had to cost a few hundred grand and the power demands were so great that generator trucks sat outside. But Caesar doesn’t care about time, money, or restrictions. That’s why he hires people. He just wanted it done and Caesar had over staffed. The attendance was bloated with waiters pouring champagne, valets taking clothes to lockers, cooks replenishing the buffet and cleaning up crew to cart away the bottles. He never wanted his guests to wait or wonder when the next plate of hors dourves would pass by. He wanted everyone to get roaring drunk. And they weren't drinking from some old well. They were drinking the finest, top-shelf liquor and spirits a Gattuso could afford.

And that meant all of them, open bar. 

Security detail especially was huge.  Caesar was accustomed to party crashers. Before you could even approach Norton Hall on this night you had to get through layers of checkpoints. If you weren’t on the list, you couldn’t even approach the street the building was on and had to watch and listen from a distance, knowing that you just weren’t good enough to make the cut for Student Union.

Nono was poolside, cooling her toes in the water. Her bikini accentuated the curves of her body and the length of her legs. If anything was worthy about Cassell it was her. Despite the rich and joyous smiles of everyone around, their eyes met easily over the fray and the noise. She was calm as though this was a nice day at the beach and that unruffled manner in a sea of revelry just made his heart beat faster. He made his way over to her and offered her her own glass of Champagne which she accepted with serene grace. 

“Enjoying the party?” He asked, sitting down next to her.

She sipped, her eyes taking in the scene in front of her.. “Hm. It’s certainly fun watching everyone have such a good time. But I’m more curious about what’s happening next door.”

He followed her gaze. The revamping of the backyard to accommodate the pool had left a gap in the shrubbery and they could both see the cars parked out in front of Amber Hall as a shield. “Those flags on the antennae of the cars don’t come from any coat of arms or country I’ve ever seen. What about you?”

“It does seem like a state visit. The student inside registered as His Royal Highness.” Caesar smirked a bit. “But results on his exam are still pending. We’ll see how much of a King he really is.”

“Are you planning to start a war?” Her eyes sparkled with intrigue, that unique shade of crimson that fascinated him the moment he saw it the first time.

“Well, they’ve drawn the battleline already haven’t they?” Caesar’s eyes glittered with malicious humor. “Kings are meant to be conquered.” He finished off his glass and a waiter was there to take it immediately. “But since you’re so interested. Shall we go spy on the neighbors?”

“You’re going to ditch your own party that you paid millions for?” Nono snorted.

“I will if you want to.” He said softly, so that only she could hear.

Nono suddenly felt a perverse rise in rebellion at this but, in fact, she was curious who those people were. She didn’t answer verbally. She just stood up and started walking. Caesar followed. 

The only way to see over the trucks was to rise to the second floor but this mystery family had even thought of that and installed black tarps over the garden where people could go outside if they wanted fresh air. These tarps extended from the second story windows of Amber Hall to the SUVs. The rest of the grounds were empty of people. Nono had her bare legs over Caesar’s bare shoulders on the open air balcony, using binoculars to peer in though a tiny gap between the tarps, watching people pass by a single window. Because they thought the tarps would hide it, they left that window uncovered.

“They look older. The people in attendance aren’t students. But they must all be hybrids. Some of them are armed. I saw one with a gun earlier.” Nono said. “They look antique though. Nothing modern.”

“Old men come to cosplay? Typical royal family. Turns out this isn’t as interesting as I thought it would be.” Caesar said.

As soon as those words left his mouth, a sound reached his ears, soft, but unmistakable. A gunshot. Caesar blinked in confusion, not sure if he had heard right. Then another and another! 

“Something’s happened, the crowd is scattering!” Nono said.

He lowered Nono from his shoulders.. “Get down!”

“Hey, put me back up!” 

But Caesar had already vaulted over the balcony and landed on his feet, dashing towards Amber Hall. Nono followed him, determined not to let him get to know what was going on before she did.

-------------

While Dominic was taking his royal vows, a pair of green eyes watched him from the upper floor of Amber Hall. Those Green eyes belonged to Tjark - silent T - Beninga. He was also in a Cassell Uniform but stayed in the shadows. He’d heard of Dominic from his family after he got accepted to Cassell, his parents had applied for him to go here as a ‘special assignment’. His family were underground merchants, mercenaries, and the rich people below needed someone to watch their favored son and with his high level blood, he was a shoe in for the job. It wasn’t until after his arrival did he understand that his job wasn’t to protect the little prince, but to keep him from escaping.

Apparently, he didn’t want to be a prince. Tough break. You can’t pick your parentage.

But he didn’t mind being on watch duty. Dominic was easy on the eyes. If he played his cards right, perhaps he could be promoted to his closest side rather than being a peripheral.

When Dominic fell to the floor, he sat up straight watching Sylke race to him with a feeling of jealousy. That is until his black sword nearly took off her head and the gun fired. Dominic was running up the stairs, firing the pistol, efficiently dropping people one by one and he felt his heart flutter with amazement, excitement, and admiration. He hadn’t really believed this guy was an escape artist. Now he could see it with his own eyes. His job was to stop him from getting away at any cost.

The man was racing right for him towards a second story window, but Tjark simply raised his foot to catch his shin. Dominic fell forward but twisted his body immediately to face him. His eyes were crazed and desperate. He was running for real.

Tjark was top of his class in Taekwondo, Karate and Judo and immediately as he saw that fiery bright light in Dominic’s eyes he felt it spark in him. He no longer had to hold back for sporting rules of competition. He wondered how many hits this guy could take as he lashed out with his fists against and again.

But each time he struck, Dominic continued to back away, ducking, keeping his distance and blocking with one arm. Until he reached the window. Tjark saw his plan and hurried to block him from jumping through. That glass wasn’t the safe kind that could break into little pebbles but the kind that would shatter into sharp blades.

Dominic raised the pistol and fired at Tjark’s head and Tjark ducked away.

Dominic recklessly leaped through it, crystal shards tearing into his suit as he rolled down the tarps to the vans with Tjark right behind him. “Are you insane?” He asked, laughing. 

Dominic didn’t answer, he just turned, fired the gun once, but his aim missed.  He leaped down from the SUV and took off towards where Caesar and Nono were approaching with stunned looks on their faces. He passed them with the full unnatural speed of a hybrid.

 “Nice ass, buddy!” Tjark hollered as he passed them. “Just let me handle this and go back to your party! I’ll see you later!”

Caesar sneered.

When Tjark turned back around, Dominic was on him like a tiger. As soon as he realized Tjark was distracted he turned right back around, ran back to him and destroyed his temple with a roundhouse kick that knocked him flat to the pavement. He pulled a pistol and shot him once before turning and running away.

Nono gasped and rushed to where Tjark was lying on the ground.

“He’s fine. That was an alchemy round. He’ll wake up in about thirty minutes.”  

At this time, people were pouring out of Amber Hall. “Find him! Don’t let him get away!”

Caesar’s eyes widened. This was way more fun than a frat party. A game of hide and seek, a scavenger hunt, a chase. He had to keep this in mind for the next Day of Liberty. He turned and ran back towards Norton Hall.

“Where are you going?” Nono asked.

 He shouted over his shoulder. The cold light in his eyes was replaced by a fiery challenge. “This is way more interesting. You’re right! I’m going to join in!”

#Dragon Raja #Dominic

[braincoins]

For the Prompt: shallura and ryoumelle, double date, festival

((y’know for someone who claims to prefer Gen, here you are with TWO SHIPS!! ‘course you also know it’ll mean Twinganes fun. I’M ONTO YOU!))

A major victory, and well worth celebrating! The Castle of Lions headed back to Oriande, the safest place in all the universe to have what Lance called “an absolute blowout” of a party, and the Diaspora (under the supervision of Coran and Lance) had put together a hell of a celebratory festival: games, rides, music, tons of food... everyone was having a great time.

So it was strange for Romelle and Ryou to look over and see the Princess and the Black Paladin looking a little... restrained. They looked at them, then looked to each other, and a decision was made in that moment: divide and conquer. But instead of going to her cousin, Romelle grabbed hold of Shiro and hauled him away. Before Allura could protest, Ryou swooped in. The two pairs couldn’t know it, but their conversations started out... oddly identical.

“What are you doing?” This from both Allura and Shiro.

“We need to talk,” Ryou and Romelle declared. Romelle pulled Shiro aside into a quieter location, away from her boyfriend and his girlfriend.

“Is something wrong?” All business, all (possibly-hideous) ears. At least they were listening.

“I should ask you that. Everyone else is having fun!”

“I’m having fun,” came the defensive reply.

“Yeah, you sure look like it,” was the sarcastic response. Ryou wouldn’t have dreamed of being sarcastic to Allura before, but they’d spent some time together and, besides, he figured it would be a surprise, and therefore throw her off her game.

“I am! It’s just...”

“Just what?”

And here the individual chats began to diverge. 

“There’s so much more yet to do,” Allura confessed, looking down at her hands. “This was an important victory, yes, but it isn’t the end of the fight. And I can’t help thinking... a-about those who aren’t freed from the Empire yet. They’re out there being oppressed, possibly tortured and killed, and we’re having a party.”

“You okayed having it, right?” Ryou asked her.

“Yes, because it’s good for morale, and the paladins were so insistent, but... well, I just can’t help it.” She fidgeted uncharacteristically, glanced around as if her brief moment of uncertainty was surely the center of attention. 

-----------

“We won a battle, not the war,” Shiro said with a sigh. “And, truth be told, I don’t know what our next step is. When this is over, people are going to be looking to us to lead again, and... I don’t know where to lead them to.”

“I bet the Empire is in the same boat,” Romelle pointed out. “They probably don’t know what next strike to make against us, either.”

“That just means that it’ll be a surprise when it comes, and even though the Coalition is huge and the Castle’s almost full now, we’re still a much smaller force compared to the galaxy-spanning Galra Empire. We can’t afford surprises.” He glanced around, to make sure his negative statements hadn’t been overheard.

-----------

“Look, I don’t know how Alteans work,” Ryou admitted, “but for humans, we need down time. Sleep and rest are when our brains take all the information we’ve learned and sort it out, slot it all into its proper places.”

She opened her mouth to say something, but he could guess where she was headed.

“And before you say it, yes, this counts as rest. It’s a break from the stress. When you have something you’re worried about, sometimes you stop trying to find a solution and just tell yourself ‘think, dammit! Think of something!’ And that doesn’t help! But after you step away from it for a bit, sometimes you can come back and see things clearer.”

“What you’re saying,” she summarized, “is that this is better in the long term.”

“Exactly.”

“Even if lives are lost in the meantime?”

He sighed heavily. “Lives are lost every day, Allura. A lot of those are just... just normal deaths. Old age, a sickness, a bad injury. You can’t prevent those. And if you fight every single moment of every single day, you’ll burn yourself out, become an easier target. And then the Galra Empire wins, and wins forever. 

“You can’t know who’s dying of what, and you can’t save everyone. But you can make the decision that saves more lives - including yours and Takashi’s.”

“I know.” She was nodding sort of absently. “I know you’re right, but it’s hard sometimes...”

“Hey,” he said, changing tack abruptly to snap her out of it. “stepping back and thinking on it helped get Takashi his first date.”

She whipped around to face him. “REALLY?!” she asked, eyes wide with hopeful expectation at yet another “Younger Shiro” story. 

Ryou grinned. Works every time.

-----------

“Well, who says the next step has to be an immediately offensive one?” Romelle asked, with the confidence born of being on the colony’s ruling council. Sure, she was the youngest member, but she’d still been helping to lead her people for the last few years.

“What do you mean?”

“Training!” she declared. “Split the paladins up into groups. Let Keith teach hand-to-hand fighting, have Lance run sniper drills, get Hunk to show off improvised building skills, and Pidge to improve your hackers’... hacking.” She was still getting used to the human terms and how to use them. “Separate your crew into either skills they already have that they need to improve or skills they need to learn, cycle them through the various ‘classes’ taught by the paladins. And while they’re doing all that...”

“...Allura and I can be looking at what our next objective can be,” he finished for her, nodding along.

“Exactly!” She beamed. “And everyone will be better trained when you’ve decided! You can do all that here, just outside of town, near the Castle.”

He smiled. “Thank you, Romelle. Having some idea of what to do next helps me focus on today.”

“Good!” She grabbed his arm again and hauled him back towards where they’d left their significant others.

-----------

“Shiro!” Allura said brightly as she saw her cousin pulling him in their direction. “Did you really ask the girl you liked if she wanted to ‘visit your planet’ while wearing silver ping pong ball antennas on your head?”

“What?!” He snapped his gaze to Ryou and his twin brother’s shit-eating grin. “WHY would you tell her that?”

“I was using an anecdote to illustrate a point,” he replied evenly (though still grinning widely). 

“Answer the question!” Romelle piped up. “I wanna know now, too!”

Takashi sighed. “Technically, no. I wore old-fashioned ‘alien’ antennas from an old Halloween costume and asked two people if they wanted to visit my planet, because I had a crush on both Amaia and her cousin, Jonan. She rolled her eyes at me and he just laughed.”

“But you still got a date with Jonan,” Ryou pointed out. 

“Did this ‘Jonan’ want to know about romantic compatibility with an alien species?” Allura asked, barely able to contain her mirth.

“No, that’s a Takashi line, through and through,” he declared as Shiro turned red all the way to his ears.

Romelle snorted. “I distinctly remember you asking me about...”

It was Ryou’s turn to go crimson. “Hey, uhh... look at that game! With the... uh...”

“Laser versions of Galra power rifles,” Shiro said. “Yeah, let’s go play. Pretty sure Allura can’t accidentally pick up the wrong end of a gun that’s stuck in place.”

“Ha ha,” she said dryly, but they all laughed and she was arm in arm with Shiro, smiling, as they went over to the booth.

“You’re pretty good at this,” Romelle whispered to Ryou as she took his hand.

“I learned from the best,” he replied, kissing her cheek quickly.

#Socks writes Voltron fanfic #VLD #Shallura #Ryoumelle #with Breezy's Romelle #and my Twinganes #AU #great now I have to add this to the master list #OH WELL xD #void-tiger

[poetrex]

I was tagged a while back by the very lovely @pinehutch to list 10 niche interests. I hope she will not regret asking, because—brace yourselves—I am 98% nautical-themed niche by volume, and I will pounce like a pistol shrimp on every chance to infodump! If anyone fancies frothing at the mouth about nuclear SLCMs or New START or whatever, I encourage you to visit my Twitter—I'm not very active there but it's peak esoteric. I've also tacked on some "Ask Me Abouts" in case anyone wants even more specific infodumping! Consider this the Internet Sleepover Journaling Party: Extra Niche Edition—tagging all prior ISJP participants to list 10 of their own niche interests, ask me about one of these, or ignore this tag completely with no hard feelings! @wordrummager @definegodliness @drearydaffodil @viola-cola @lunaragent and @caffeinatedkaboom and anyone else who wants to join in!

1. Weapons proliferation, international collective security, and arms control agreements. I.E. missiles, missiles, and more missiles—except ideally, fewer missiles. Also the history of 19th and early 20th century naval arms races and treaties—especially the 1921-22 International Conference on Naval Limitation and how it affected ship design. Contemporary arms-racing behaviour with regard to anti-ballistic missile systems, anti-ship ballistic missile systems, artificial intelligence, and hypersonic weapons. Autonomous nuclear-powered, nuclear-armed cruise missiles and torpedoes (I hate them, thanks!). Cruise missile proliferation is of particular concern as it tends to fly under the radar (I know I know, bad joke). Ask me about strategic ambiguity, nuclear posture, and why "escalate to deescalate" is a fever dream of western analysts and not actual Russian doctrine!

2. Open-source intelligence and geolocation. Adding to this the buzzwords "citizen science", "crowdsourcing", "hiveminding" etc. (deceptive terms—the "crowd" is increasingly atomized and unrepresentative). I fell down a bit of a rabbit hole a few years back where I spent a lot of time on Google Earth, wikimapia.org, marinetraffic.com and flightradar24.com watching areas of interest, and assisting some patriotic Taiwanese in locating PLA rockets and radars across the Strait using historical satellite imagery and other sources. Ask me about Strava Heatmap, or the Red Bird Express!

3. Military applications of electromagnetic and acoustic waves in the maritime domain, including: the early history of naval radio communications and signals intelligence (SIGINT); the effects of sonar on marine mammals; the military use of marine mammals to detect mines using biosonar; LIDAR seabed mapping; ELF and VLF radio waves as a means for communicating with submarines at sea; high-frequency direction-finding using circularly-disposed antenna arrays or CDAA (one of the last two AN/FRD-10s in operation is in nearby Gander, Newfoundland!); but especially the history of the Sound Surveillance System (SOSUS), still extant in a reduced capacity called the Integrated Undersea Surveillance System (IUSS). Ask me about Soviet submarine shenanigans on the eastern seaboard!

4. Civil Wars in media and memory. And here I count the American Revolution and the War of 1812 as a kind of 3rd and 4th English Civil War transplanted to the New World. I'm fascinated by the political dimensions of Civil War reenactment, particularly in the United States but also English and Russian Civil War reenactors. Ask me why I loathe the "Lost Cause" mythology!

5. Old English, Old Norse, and Medieval Icelandic prose and poetry. I loved Old English in university and even thought about taking a Masters in Medieval Icelandic at Reykjavik University (my grades weren't good enough). Ask me about Grendel's mom and monstrous femininity in Germanic lore!

6. The environmental and ecological history of warfare. The lasting scars of conflict on terrestrial and human geography: craters; minefields; cemeteries; demographics, etc. How "an army marches on its stomach" and its fighting capacity waxes and wanes with the produce of the land. Ask me about Abandoned Military Installations of Canada!

7. Civil-military relations and the history of military coups and revolutionary naval mutinies. I'm especially interested in the intersection of civilian academia with professional military education, and the public outreach of institutions such as the Royal Military College of Canada, US Naval War College, US Naval Postgraduate School, and the Office of Naval Research. Ask me about US vs Canadian Officers' Oaths, or the Royal Indian Navy Mutiny of 1946!

8. Fin-de-siècle music hall performers, drag kings and queens, circus strongwomen, and bearded ladies. Also, historical ideals of feminine and masculine beauty, gender roles, and the modern history of fashion design in western Europe. Corsets and stays, crinoline, stockings, etc. The fetishization of various body types and parts over time and across cultures. Um, there's a lot to unpack here. Ask me why I have Mixed Feelings about Eugen Sandow!

9. Canadian maritime territorial and economic disputes: Arctic sovereignty and the northwest passage; The 'Turbot War' between Canada and Spain; the Hans Island dispute between Canada and Denmark. Ask me why that last one is Really Dumb!

10. Reading and writing fanfiction. This is a new one! There's so much great stuff out there, and it's been a good way to test the waters of fictive prose using ready-made characters and settings. Just the Dragon Age series so far—I’m such a romantic slut for these characters—but I’d like to branch out into some Good Omens or maybe even indulge some nostalgic TNG daydreams. Ask me how fandom Changed My Life!

#niche interests #internet sleepover journaling party #extra niche edition #i know i went a little overboard here #this is clearly more than 10 niches but I COULDN'T CHOOSE

[totalconcentrationpenisbreathing]

The Last Hope Radio, Chapter One, Section A

--CHAPTER ONE-- Joey’s eyes flew open as the compound wide morning alarm blared. The PA system relayed the message from high command: “Wake up everyone, today’s day one of a new age! Get your asses up and ready, we’re live in 30 minutes people let’s move!” Today was his first broadcast. Joey rolled out of bed and pulled on a pair of pants and a shirt. He opened the door and walked out into the compound hallway, breaking into a light jog towards the war room. His thoughts were racing. He was a boy of only 16 and he was about to commit high treason against the One State. Today he risked his future, his freedom, his ability to speak. Today he and all the other Hosts risked invasion by the Enforcement. They risked being Censored and Confined, being rechipped and reassigned, or the thousand other things the One State did to traitors. He arrived at the war room, security personnel one level below the walkway he was on monitoring the studios, the Source, and the entrances to the compound. The monitors and a couple old-fashioned fluorescent office lights were the only light source, giving the room a low, hazy glow. Joey’s uncle, Damian, walked in just behind him. Everyone briefly turned their head to see who entered, and their gaze lingered longer than a few seconds. The Founder himself was in the room. “Joey, change of plans. You’re first up.” “What? I thought Joseph was first up.” He said. “Like I said, change of plans. Joseph’s rig is busted and we don’t have a decent repair crew yet.” “I…what should I say?” Joey paced back and forth, his head in his hands. “what am I supposed to say when I’m the first person to address half of the entire quadrant?” Before Damian could respond, a technician ran in from the other entrance, across the walkway. “Mr. Rodriguez!” Both Damian and Joey turned, but Joey stepped aside, knowing it probably wasn’t him being addressed. Thought he was one of The Hosts and had a decent degree of respect on the Compound, he was only 16. The technician stood there, breathing hard and sputtering in front of the two of them for several seconds. “Spit it out, son. What do you have for me.” Damien said, now impatient. “The antenna to studio—” “four is busted” Damian interrupted. “we know, we’ve adjusted our schedule to compensate.” “sir you don’t understand” The technician walked over to a security monitor, selected a feed, and put it on the main display, in front of all the security crew. It showed two antennas on the top of the abandoned construction site, both of which were bent and disconnected from their cables.

“Good god. We’re live in…” Damian checked his watch. “we’re live in 15 minutes. Why isn’t repair crew up there fixing this?” He glared at the winded technician. “repair crew got taken by the Enforcement last night, they never came back to base. You weren’t told?” Damian paced back and forth, anger in his eyes, but not reckless anger. The gears of his brain were spinning fast. Suddenly, he stopped. “Joey, do you have your transponder?” “Yeah, right here.” “You’re going to have to disconnect studio 7’s antenna and broadcast from it manually using that transponder. It should have a proper receiver for it. Why are you still standing there? Get your ass on the roof, now!” Joey nodded, then turned and sprinted back down the hallway he just came out of, heading for surface access. Though he was in a bit of a panic about what to say, he was still excited to be the first Host on air. Cal is gonna be so jealous, he thought, grinning as he ran. He raced down the halls, passing technicians, repair crew, security crew, and others. He ran past the studios, seeing the other Hosts sitting at their broadcast stations, ready and waiting. He turned corner after corner, finally seeing the transporter, with its pale green glow and blinking lights, at the end of the hall. He rushed up to the control panel and punched in the code for roof access. In the strange nature of ATT’s, or Atomization Transport Terminals, all he saw for nearly a full second was black, then he reappeared on the roof of an abandoned, half built shell of a building. The bleak cityscape of District 4 stretched out before him. He raced across the roof to the antenna, pulled out his transponder, and plugged into the tall broadcast antenna, praying that this would work. He checked his watch to find he was just in time; 10 seconds until The Last Hope was live for the first time ever. 9… 8… 7… He wiped the sweat off of his forehead and steadied his breathing. 6… 5… 4… He cleared his throat and raised the transponder to his mouth. 3… 2… 1… He looked up in anticipation. Nothing happened, for the longest seven seconds of everyone in the compound’s lives. Finally, the indicator on antenna 7 turned green, signaling a steady connection. Joey pushed the talk button and began the first broadcast. “Good morning everyone, and welcome to the beginning of the revolution, the start of a new age, the first chapter of the next generation. I’m talking to you from an undisclosed location, and I’m here to give you a glimpse into the past, to before our oppressive government controlled every facet of our lives, before dreams were extinguished, joy was stolen, and before it was decreed that enjoyment be regulated, standardized, packaged, and approved. If you choose, you can tune us out. Just press the reset button on your standard issue headset or earpiece. But if you choose to come with us on this journey, then welcome…. Welcome to The Last Hope Radio. I’m your host for the next couple hours. Call me Joey.” -----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

#oc #original story #The Last Hope Radio #Joey Rodriguez #Sydney Callum #Damian Rodriguez #please be nice this is my first public story #i worked really hard on it with a few different people so be conscious of what you're commenting on

[heatonenterprise99-blog]

The Goody-two-shoes Superhero is the best kind.

We as humans crave excitement and vigor. We live in a world that is pretty mundane in comparison to what the human mind can create meaning our imagination is an outstanding resource for making things more fun and interesting. When an individual or group creates and shares something really great using their imagination then people will take a quick break from their boring lives to sit back and admire what imagination creates. All of us are invigorated by that nostalgic “BANG!, BOOM!, SMASH! And KAPOW!” from a superhero comic or movie. Nothing was better during my childhood than hopping on the couch with a bag of popcorn cheering Superman on while he saves a whole train load of people while my little brother hangs out the window with an antenna trying to get the best signal. Now that cinema has evolved, technology and CGI has paved the way for great works of cinematic art that brings millions and millions of people across the world to the theaters to root for their favorite superhero. DC and Marvel Comics are worth billions of dollars outfitted with armies of specialists and professionals working to create the greatest superhero movies. But what I have found to be the most important part of what makes a great superhero movie is the nature of each superhero. Specifically the goody-two-shoes type also known as the “Boy Scout” Superhero.

The persona of a superhero can really make or break a hero movie because of the appeal they have on the majority, their positive influence on the world, and the ease of incorporating that type of superhero into a story line allows for better films. Having a Goody-two-shoes superhero as a main character in a movie is definitely what makes for a great cinematic work of art. The Goody-two-shoes type is the kind of superhero that consistently displays idealism, courage, and morality, a person with superpowers that has those conventional superhero characteristics like the old style comics. Every good movie in this genre needs an idealistic hero for the audience to root for.

I would like to bring Wonder Woman to the spotlight as one outstanding example of a Goody-two-shoes superhero. In this case, Goody-two-shoes is a compliment. Wonder Woman was raised on a Utopian island by other pure women, without the “corrupting” influence of barbaric men. She was fashioned out of clay and taught since birth about moral justice and purity, she is insanely intelligent and not only does she make the perfect feminist icon but she makes for a great “Girl Scout” type superhero.

In the movie starring Gal Gadot, Her character learns of the wrath of Aries and immediately goes out to free the world from his destructive might. During her conquest she displays her courage, determination, and innocence throughout the movie. When she saw someone in trouble she went to help them whether it was convenient for her or not. Being an icon for women, she was definitely a guardian for her gender and their children. This Amazon was trained to be the unconquerable warrior and when Steve Trevor crash lands on her island,she saves him. Despite the reaction of the other Amazon warriors Wonder Woman (Diana) saves him making the audience fall in love with her because of her kindness and compassion. These characteristics appeal to the good side of the audience making the movie more comfortable and exciting for the audience to watch. One example of a great scene that pushed the audience to root for Wonder Woman was the scene called “No Man's Land” where her and her colleagues find themselves blocked by a trench war. The distraught and tired American soldiers are on one side and the German soldiers were blocking the way on the other.  Instead of giving up and trying to find a way out of that situation, Wonder Woman majestically takes on the whole German Army helping the soldiers take control of No Man's Land while at the same time liberating the people of the town nearby.  No matter the type of person watching everyone, has human nature to root for the good guy as long as the hero gives the audience a cause to believe in. In connection to a Superhero with a righteous cause and a true talent for being the good superhero just like Wonder Woman.

Superman is definitely the most well known for being the stereotypical perfect Superhero of doing good to all and standing for the “American Way”. According to Rotten Tomatoes reviews, Superman didn’t do as great as Wonder Woman but the thing that did generate the positive feedback and what has carried Superman through the decades in overwhelming popularity is his utmost goodness and “Boy Scout” personality.

These types of characters allow for the greatest stories to be told following the monomyth structure that the human race has been following for hundreds of years. A Monomyth or a Hero's Journey type story laid the foundation for the modern hero films that we know today. In old mythology the Protagonist receives a call to an adventure or challenge, he or she then obtains some supernatural or divine help such as an ability or weapon of some sort after they then get started on their journey and experience a few road bumps along the way, a helper or mentor (sidekick) comes along to make it easier to discover their newly obtained abilities and provide relief in difficult situations.  After they make it through the long road of tests and trials and mini quests normally orchestrated by or connected to the protagonist  we reach the final showdown. In the beginning of the finale it seems the odds are definitely not in favor of the hero. But through strategic methods the hero gains the upper hand and triumphs over evil. This type of storyline with the exception of a few deviations makes for the foundation of all of our favorite actions movies. This type of storyline allows the the frame or shape of the story but the demeanor of the characters are what keeps the story going. By following this story and utilizing the characters personalities and reactions to certain events has outstanding effects on the quality of a film. Taking a closer look at how the producers strategically use the Avengers to build a successful film is very beneficial in understanding how  the “good” heros do such holding an intensely action packed film together.

Starting with Captain America, we had the opportunity to follow his story from the beginning of his life up to the point that the Avengers were created. His experiences of being the “little guy” and wanting to make a difference in the world made him a revered superhero which in turn made it easier for screenwriters and producers to use a character like him to create the The First Avenger. His experience of being the underdog, his kindness and mental strength allowed him to be the perfect candidate as the leader of the Avengers and a very likable, non-controversial representative for superheros. Because of his “goody-two-shoes” demeanor, it created the balance needed to deal with heros less “boy scout-like” such as Iron Man with his spoiled, snobbish attitude, Thor with his prideful and entitled demeanor, and Black Widow with her dark assassin toughness. Although Iron Man, Thor, Black Widow, are obviously heros and not villains they don’t necessarily fall under the “boy-scout” criteria. They still have that type of personality that can be overpowering without a character like Superman or Captain America to balance out the scale. Even in the movies Captain America confronts Tony Stark by asking him,

“Big man in a suit of armor. Take that off, what are you?”

Captain America understood that being a hero is not just your abilities but by who you are. He knew that Tony Stark definitely wasn’t a “goody-two-shoes” type of hero. And he knew that his attitude bothered him enough that he had a need to challenge him.  When these types of Superheros display that kind of character, we as fans can’t help but feel that heroic intensity grow within ourselves. That is the reason why it's common to see that child dressed up in a superhero costume with the the red cape with running around the house. Not only is it awesome to have superpowers but because every kid (and adult) really does want to have those “boy-scout” qualities in one way or another. Even if you look at an anti-hero like Deadpool, he doesn’t do so great in being the good guy; which the audience may enjoy for a while but by the second movie even Deadpool grows a conscience and begins to clean up his act and follow more closely to the “traditional” superhero psyche. This is proof that having a “goody-two-shoes” superhero as a main character in a movie is definitely what makes for a great cinematic work of art. The next time you watch a superhero movie see if you find exactly which character displays those traits and pay attention to how the writers of the movie use that character to make the film more balanced and how their actions make you feel as a fan.

[thelankyrandman-blog]

Full Album-A-Day List in Alphabetical Order: 2017

Full Album-A-Day List in Alphabetical Order: 2017

Alright, it’s been too long since the end of the year, but here my list of albums I listened to in 2017. There are 365 albums here in alphabetical order by artist and then by release date in each artist. I am repeating the challenge for 2018 and so far I’ve listened to 62 albums. Let me know what you guys think of this list and please check out some of the music on here. Some of my favorite albums ever are on this thing.

A:

Actress - AZD

Alvvays - Alvvays

Alvvays - Antisocialites

Aminé - Good For You

America - America

Anderson .Paak - Malibu

Andy Shauf - The Bearer of Bad News

Andy Shauf - The Party

Angel Olsen - Half Way Home

Angel Olsen - Burn Your Fire For No Witness

Angel Olsen - My Woman

Angel Olsen - Phases

Animal Collective - Marriweather Post Pavilion

Arcade Fire - Everything Now

Ariel Pink - Pom Pom

Atmosphere - Fishing Blues

The Avalanches - Since I Left You

B:

BADBADNOTGOOD - BBNG

Band of Horses - Cease to Begin

Beach House - Depression Cherry

Ben Folds - Songs for Silverman

Berhana - Berhana EP

Blank Banshee - Mega

Big L - Lifestylez ov da Poor & Dangerous

Big L - The Big Picture

Big Sean & Metro Boomin - Double or Nothing

Big Thief - Masterpiece

Big Thief - Capacity

Bob Dylan - Empire Burlesque

Boogie Down Productions - Criminal Minded

Booker T. & The M.G.’s - Green Onions

Brockhampton - SATURATION

Brockhampton - SATURATION II

Brockhampton - SATURATION III

C:

Capital STEEZ - AmeriKKKan Korruption

Car Seat Headrest - Teens of Denial

Carly Rae Jepsen - E•MO•TION

Chance the Rapper - 10 Day

Chance the Rapper - Acid Rap

Chance the Rapper - Coloring Book

Charles Mingus - Mingus Ah Um

Charli XCX - Pop 2

Charlotte Gainsbourg - Rest

Chet Baker - She Was Too Good To Me

Childish Gambino - Because the Internet

Childish Gambino - Awaken, My Love

City and Colour - If I Should Go Before You

Clarence Clarity - No Now

Clipping. - Splendor & Misery

Connan Mockasin - Forever Dolphin Love

Connan Mockasin - Caramel

Crosby, Stills, & Nash - Crosby, Stills, & Nash

Crywank - Tomorrow is Nearly Yesterday and Everyday is Stupid

D:

Daniel Caesar - Freudian

Danny Brown - The Hybrid

Danny Brown - XXX

Danny Brown - Old

Danny Brown - Atrocity Exhibition

Dave Brubeck - Time Out

David Bowie - Hunky Dory

David Bowie - The Rise and Fall of Ziggy Stardust and The Spiders From Mars

David Bowie - Aladdin Sane

Death Cab for Cutie - Transatlanticism

Death Cab for Cutie - Narrow Stairs

Death Grips - Exmilitary

Death Grips - The Money Store

Death Grips - No Love Deep Web

Death Grips - Government Plates

Death Grips - Fashion Week

Death Grips - The Powers That B

Death Grips - Interview 2016 EP

Death Grips - Bottomless Pit

Deerhoof - The Man, The King and The Girl

Deerhoof - The Runners Four

Deerhoof - The Magic

Deerhoof - Mountain Moves

Deerhunter - Halcyon Digest

Denzel Curry - Nostalgic 64

Denzel Curry - Imperial

DeYarmond Edison - Silent Signs

Dirty Projectors - The Glad Fact

Dirty Projectors - Bitte Orca

Dirty Projectors - Swing Lo Magellan

Dirty Projectors - Dirty Projectors

E:

Earl Sweatshirt - Earl

Earl Sweatshirt - Doris

Earl Sweatshirt - I Don't Like Shit, I Don't Go Outside

Elucid - Valley of Grace

Eric Clapton - Eric Clapton

Everything Everything - Get to Heaven

F:

Fantastic Negrito - The Last Days of Oakland

Father John Misty - Fear Fun

Father John Misty - I Love You, Honeybear

Father John Misty - Pure Comedy

Feist - Let It Die

Feist - The Reminder

Feist - Metals

Feist - Pleasure

Fever Ray - Plunge

FKA Twigs - LP1

Fleet Foxes - Sun Giant EP

Fleet Foxes - Fleet Foxes

Fleet Foxes - Helplessness Blues

Fleet Foxes - Crack-Up

Flying Lotus - 1984

Flying Lotus - Cosmogramma

Frank Ocean - Nostalgia, Ultra

Frank Ocean - channel Orange

Frank Ocean - Blonde

Freddie Gibbs - Shadow of a Doubt

Freddie Gibbs - You Only Live 2wice

Freddie Gibbs & Madlib - Piñata

G:

Ghost Ship Octavius - Ghost Ship Octavius

Girlpool - Powerplant

Godspeed You! Black Emperor - Lift Your Skinny Fists Like Antennas to Heaven

Greta Van Fleet - Black Smoke Rising EP

Grizzly Bear - Horn of Plenty

Grizzly Bear - Yellow House

Grizzly Bear - Friend EP

Grizzly Bear - Veckatimest

Grizzly Bear - Shields

Grizzly Bear - Painted Ruins

H:

Harry Styles - Harry Styles

Huncho Jack - Huncho Jack, Jack Huncho

Hurray For The Riff Raff - The Navigator

I:

Ibibio Sound Machine - Uyai

Ice Cube - AmeriKKKa’s Most Wanted

Ice Cube - Death Certificate

IDK - IWASVERYBAD

Interpol - Turn on the Bright Lights

Isaiah Rashad - Cilvia Demo EP

Isaiah Rashad - The Sun’s Tirade

J:

J Dilla - Donuts

J. Cole - 2014 Forest Hills Drive

J. Cole - 4 Your Eyes Only

Jaden Smith - SYRE

Japanese Breakfast - Soft Sounds From Another Planet

Jay Som - Everybody Works

Jlin - Black Origami

Joey Bada$$ - 1999

Joey Bada$$ - B4.Da.$$

Joey Bada$$ - All-AmeriKKKan Badass

John Coltrane - A Love Supreme

Joni Mitchell - Ladies of the Canyon

Joni Mitchell - Blue

Joni Mitchell - Court and Spark

Joni Mitchell - The Hissing of Summer Lawns

Julien Baker - Turn Out The Lights

K:

Ka - The Knight’s Gamble

Ka - Honor Killed the Samurai

Kaitlyn Aurelia Smith - The Kid

Kamaiyah - A Good Night in the Ghetto

Kamaiyah - Before I Wake

Kamasi Washington - The Epic

Karriem Riggins - Alone Together

Kaytranada - 99.9%

Kelela - Take Me Apart

Kendrick Lamar - Section.80

Kendrick Lamar - Good Kid, m.A.A.d City

Kendrick Lamar - To Pimp a Butterfly

Kendrick Lamar - untitled unmastered.

Kendrick Lamar - DAMN.

Kesha - Rainbows

Killer Mike - R.A.P. Music

King Krule - 6 Feet Beneath the Moon

King Krule - The OOZ

L:

LCD Soundsystem - LCD Soundsystem

LCD Soundsystem - Sound of Silver

LCD Soundsystem - This is Happening

LCD Soundsystem - american dream

Lil Pump - Lil Pump

Local Natives - Gorilla Manor

The Long Winters - Putting the Days to Bed

Lorde - Pure Heroine

Lorde - Melodrama

Lou Reed - Lou Reed

Lou Reed - Transformer

M:

Mac DeMarco - Salad Days

Mac DeMarco - This Old Dog

Madlib - Shades of Blue: Madlib Invades Blue Note

Madvillain - Madvillainy

Marvin Gaye - What's Going On?

Matmos - The Marriage of True Minds

Melvins - Eggnog EP

Melvins - Lice All EP

MF Doom - Operation Doomsday

MF Doom - Metal Fingers Presents: Special Herbs, Vol. 1 & 2

MF Doom - Mm.. Food

MGMT - Oracular Spectacular

Mick Jenkins - The Water[s]

The Microphones - Don’t Wake Me Up

The Microphones - It Was Hot, We Stayed in the Water

The Microphones - The Glow Pt. 2

The Microphones - Mount Eerie

Miles Davis - Porgy & Bess

Miles Davis - Kind of Blue

Miles Davis - Bitches Brew

Moses Sumney - Aromanticism

Mount Eerie - “No Flashlight” Songs of the Fulfilled Night

Mount Eerie - Lost Wisdom

Mount Eerie - Dawn

Mount Eerie - Wind’s Poem

Mount Eerie - Clear Moon

Mount Eerie - Ocean Roar

Mount Eerie - Sauna

Mount Eerie - A Crow Looked At Me

Mount Kimbie - Crooks & Lovers

Mount Kimbie - Cold Spring Fault Less Youth

Mount Kimbie - Love What Survives

The Mountain Goats - Goths

M83. - Dead Cities, Red Seas & Lost Ghosts

N:

NAO - So Good EP

NAO - For All We Know

Nas - Illmatic

The National - The National

The National - Sad Songs for Dirty Lovers

The National - Alligator

The National - Boxer

The National - High Violet

The National - Trouble Will Find Me

The National - Sleep Well Beast

Neon Indian - Psychic Chasms

Neon Indian - Era Extraña

Neon Indian - VEGA INTL. Night School

Neutral Milk Hotel - Everything Is EP

Neutral Milk Hotel - On Avery Island

Neutral Milk Hotel - In the Aeroplane Over the Sea

New Order - Power, Corruption & Lies

Nick Murphy - Missing Link EP

Noname - Telefone

Notorious B.I.G. - Life After Death

O:

Oddisee - The Iceberg

Open Mike Eagle - Brick Body Kids Still Daydream

P:

The Pablo Collective - The Death of Pablo

Paramore - After Laughter

Perfume Genius - Put Your Back N 2 It

Perfume Genius - Too Bright

Perfume Genius - No Shape

Phoenix - Ti Amo

Phosphorescent - Muchacho

Pixies - Bossanova

Playboi Carti - Playboi Carti

Portishead - Dummy

The Postal Service - Give Up

Princess Nokia - 1992 Deluxe

Q:

Quelle Chris - Being You is Great, I Wish I Could Be You More Often

Quasimoto - The Unseen

R:

Radiohead - Pablo Honey

Radiohead - The Bends

Radiohead - Kid A

Radiohead - Amnesiac

Radiohead - Hail to the Thief

Radiohead - In Rainbows

Radiohead - The King of Limbs

Radiohead - A Moon Shaped Pool

Rapsody - Laila’s Wisdom

Ratt - Out of the Cellar

Red House Painters - Down Colorful Hill

Richard Dawson - Peasant

Rogue Wave - Out of the Shadow

Run the Jewels - RTJ3

S:

Sampha - Process

(Sandy) Alex G - Beach Music

(Sandy) Alex G - Rocket

SBTRKT - SBTRKT

SBTRKT - Wonder Where We Land

ScHoolboy Q - Oxymoron

ScHoolboy Q - Blank Face LP

Shabazz Palaces - Black Up

Shabazz Palaces - Lese Majesty

Shabazz Palaces - Quazars: Born on a Gangster Star

Shapes & Colors - Love / Sex / War EP

The Shelters - The Shelters

The Shouting Matches - Grownass Man

Slint - Spiderland

Smino - blkswn

Snakadaktal - Sleep in the Water

Soft Cell - Non-Stop Erotic Cabaret

Solange - A Seat at The Table

Sorority Noise - You’re Not As ___ As You Think

Spoon - Hot Thoughts

Squarepusher - Feed Me Weird Things

Squarepusher - Music is Rotted One Note

Squarepusher - Go Plastic

Squarepusher - Do You Know Squarepusher?

St. Vincent - Marry Me

St. Vincent - Actor

St. Vincent - Strange Mercy

St. Vincent - St. Vincent

St. Vincent - MASSEDUCTION

Stan Getz & Cher Baker - Stan Meets Chet

Substantial - The Past is Always Present in The Future

Sufjan Stevens - Michigan

Sufjan Stevens - Seven Swans

Sufjan Stevens - Illinois

Sufjan Stevens - Carrie & Lowell

Syd - Fin

SZA - Z

SZA - Ctrl

T:

The Tallest Man on Earth - Shallow Grave

The Tallest Man on Earth - The Wild Hunt

The Tallest Man on Earth - There’s No Leaving Now

The Tallest Man on Earth - Dark Bird is Home

Temple of the Dog - Temple of the Dog

This is the Kit - Where it Lives

This is the Kit - Bashed Out

This is the Kit - Moonshine Freeze

Thom Yorke - The Eraser

Thundercat - The Golden Age of Apocalypse

Thundercat - Drunk

Todd Terje - It’s Album Time

Tonedeff - Polymer

Travis Scott - Rodeo

A Tribe Called Quest - The Low End Theory

A Tribe Called Quest - Midnight Marauders

A Tribe Called Quest - We got it from Here... Thank You 4 Your Service

Tycho - Past Is Prologue

Tycho - Dive

Tycho - Awake

Tycho - Epoch

Tyler, The Creator - Bastard

Tyler, The Creator - Goblin

Tyler, The Creator - Wolf

Tyler, The Creator - Cherry Bomb

Tyler, The Creator - Flower Boy

U:

Unknown Mortal Orchestra - Unknown Mortal Orchestra

V:

Vagabon - Infinite Worlds

Vampire Weekend - Vampire Weekend

Vampire Weekend - Contra

Vampire Weekend - Modern Vampires of the City

Van Morrison - Astral Weeks

Vince Staples - Hell Can Wait EP

Vince Staples - Summertime ’06

Vince Staples - Prima Donna EP

Vince Staples - Big Fish Theory

Volcano Choir - Unmap

Volcano Choir - Repave

W:

The War on Drugs - Wagonwheel Blues

The War on Drugs - Future Weather EP

The War on Drugs - Slave Ambient

The War on Drugs - Lost in the Dream

The War on Drugs - A Deeper Understanding

Warren G - Regulate… G Funk Era

Wavves - You’re Welcome

We Made God - It’s Getting Colder

The Weeknd - Beauty Behind the Madness

WIFE - What’s Between

Wiley - Godfather

Wolf Parade - Wolf Parade EP

Wolf Parade - Apologies to the Queen Mary

Wolf Parade - At Mount Zoomer

Wolf Parade - Expo 86

X:

X - Los Angeles

Xiu Xiu - Forget

The xx - Coexist

The xx - I See You

Y:

Yes - Close to the Edge

YG - Still Brazy

Young Pappy - 2 Cups Part 2 of Everything

Young Thug - Beautiful Thugger Girls

Young Thug & Carnage - Young Martha

Your Old Droog - Packs

Z:

Zola Jesus - Stridulum

Zola Jesus - Okovi

#’s:

21 Savage, Offset & Metro Boomin - Without Warning

#lankyrandman #music

[alishirtsofficial]

New Ugly Christmas Sweater You Should Buy Now

Please click on the article to see more! 1. Let It Snow Game Of Thrones Ugly Christmas Sweater It's the holiday season and we know what that means: ugly Christmas sweaters. And since Game Of Thrones is coming back on Sunday, we thought it would be a good idea to create some Ugly Christmas Sweater versions of your favorite characters. So let's get started! 2. Merry Sithmas Star Wars Ugly Christmas Sweater It's that time of year again, and it just wouldn't be Christmas without a Star Wars ugly sweater. There are so many different characters from the movies to choose from but if you're on a budget we have some great options too! Check out this post for all your ugly Christmas sweater needs. 3. Game of Thrones Winter Is Coming Ugly Christmas Sweater Winter is coming, and so are the ugly Christmas sweaters. This holiday season, get your hands on one of these Game of Thrones-themed sweaters before they're all gone! 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If so, gift them this Cow And Pink Flowers Ugly Christmas Sweater. It's the perfect gift for those who love to laugh and have fun during the holidays! This holiday season is sure to be one they'll never forget. 28. Fireman Firefighter Ugly Christmas Sweater FROM: ALISHIRTS STORE       Read the full article

[minc3meat-blog]

I said I’d post some of my writing so here’s a little snippet:

Voyager

“There is only an infinitesimal chance that the plaque will ever be seen by a single extraterrestrial, but it will certainly be seen by billions of terrestrials. Its real function, therefore, is to appeal to and expand the human spirit, and to make contact with extraterrestrial intelligence a welcome expectation of mankind.”       B.M. Oliver

1: “Conception”

                                “Like a ghost, my reflection on the cabin window smirks back at me. Were it not for the thick-heeled work boots laced up to underneath my knees, I probably wouldn’t be able to see out the window at all. My overalls and shirt, unbuttoned just enough to display a hydraulic oil stained tee, hang off my skin like Navy banners.  My unmanageably curly red hair, coated in a sheen of the natural dust from the ship, droops over my eyes and ears in similar fashion. Radiation tans on my arms and legs from too much time in the cockpit on my otherwise fair skin clash against the freckles on my cheeks. Not the vision of a ship captain most would imagine, but a ship captain nevertheless. Staring from the rear deck of my ship, a dozen dark shapes drifting away from the workcrew hold, I can’t help but to take in the scene. Against an endless pool of black, the dark blobs are dwarfed by the rubble and debris of the asteroid field. Skeleton wrecks and decrepit hulls of vessels from times and wars gone by. Corroded reminders of a past long forgotten. Monuments of heroes and men, lives saved and lost. Cables and tubing, unaware of the emotional ties they grip, ensnare and squeeze steel and cargo alike. Looming over the hulking wrecks are the watchful eyes of Dastrov’s four moons. Gaseous and dark, casting a looming shadow of poison and radiation over the asteroid field. Demigods of this corner of the universe, they exploit their power to hold the floating graveyard in place, trapped in a gravitational purgatory for all of eternity. A stranger in this sacred space, a lone ship slowly makes its way through a passable corridor through the catacombs of metal. With a large hull and tiny forward cockpit, it looked more like a giant beetle than a scavenging ship. Hazard lights on all sections of it flash intermittently, illuminating its way through the corroded tunnels of junk. It putters and shakes as it goes, feeling the need to announce its age and mechanical issues.  Twelve rusted, robotic insects zip in and out of the wrecks, only stopping to drop their finds into the cargo hold of the ship.  Like flies, they bounce from corpse to corpse, their host leading the way through the field of the dead.

“Like a ghost, my reflection on the cabin window smirks back at me?” my copilot giggled, which sounded more like someone choking on metal scrap. “Thas’ a bit overdramatic dontcha’ think?” Renna, my copilot, leaned over the nav console. Her tall, built frame and grey skin made her look like a formation of boulders in a forest of cables and tubing of our ships cockpit. Her jet black hair, tied in a single ropelike braid and draped between to grey horns, reached all the way down to the back of her ankles. Her eyes were almost as dark as her hair, with the exception of the dim glow of retina implants. From eyebrow to chin: piercings. One arm, studded with patches of unfinished sleeve tattoos, glowed fluorescent in the ambient lighting emitting from the flight computers. The other, a mechanical prosthetic, whirred and twitched as it gripped an empty drink glass. She’d almost pass as human, if not for half her body being machine parts. “I’m sorry,” I spun on my heel to face her, closing the voice dictation window on my arm computer. “How many autobiographies for an Old World civilization have you written?” She swirled the watered down ice in the bottom of her now-empty drink glass. “You really think we’re gonna’ find this thing, dontcha’?” “I mean, we wanted to get paid, right?” She tapped her drink onto the holographic screen, making the pixels sputter and dance. The sweat beads from the side of the glass glistened like diamonds against the readout. “Well, duh,” she snorted. “But like, you... Want to find this rusty ‘ol probe. Want-want.” I did want-want to find it. The contract source was sketchy but the payout was huge, regardless of whether or not we found the Old World probe intact.. Or if at all. It’d been spotted orbiting around GB-44 for a few decades, before suddenly sputtering off to Serpens Arcturus, which was what alarmed the Navy… because ancient propulsion-less probes don’t usually sputter off at all. Of course, rather than sending their expensive autonomous patrols to track the unknown, the Navy contracted the mission to lower-tier organic pilots. Whatever the probe was, it had spooked the most powerful fleet in the Imperium. What intrigued me about chasing a metallic ghost from the past wasn’t the bounty (entirely), but the chance to send a message: two giant middle fingers to the Navy Federation and entwined Corporation dealings. A warning to people of Old about the nightmare that they would unknowingly incubate, and possibly saving them from themselves before they could dig their grave too deep. But whatever the true reason, it was a good chance to shake things up. The week to week grind of automaton wreck salvaging had gotten less cost effective, not to mention monotonous. “Primary tethers offline. Machine error recorded.” a computerized voice chimed. “Fock it,” Renna cursed, scrambling to the salvage controls. “It’s that busted relay coil again, ‘innit!?” “Yes, Renna. It is that busted relay coil again. May I remind you… AGAIN… to service said part as soon as possible.” “Aw, yes mum. I’ll get right on it, mum.” Renna smirked, glaring at the ceiling. “Mum, can we have the talk about the birds n’ the bees?” “Which species intercourse behaviors would you like to discuss?” Renna spat out the piece of ice she had been chewing loudly on. “I was joking you filthy, ceiling lady voice!” she turned to me. “That AI’s got quite the mouth, dontcha’ think?” “Can you fix the coil, or is this a spoiled run?” I asked, ignoring her childish banter with an inanimate machine. Renna shook her head. “Shit if I know, isn’t that why you got a flight mechanic?” We did have a flight mechanic.. Or at least I think we had a flight mechanic. His name was Diz, and I’d never actually seen him. Renna had hired him some time ago, and to be completely honest, I don’t think she’s ever paid him. On occasion, I’d hear a soft sigh or clamoring in the vents. Sometimes I’d even see his little antennae pop up from behind a console, or in between pistons.. I think he lives and feeds off the ship, like a parasite. As unnerving as it sounded, Diz did good work… except for now, of course. “No fix!” a soft voiced hissed from behind the salvage computer panels. “Diz, you lil’ cunt, fix the damned coil!” “No fixxxxx!” Diz hissed again, as shuffling sounds moved across the back of the command console. “No fix, no go.” If I leaned forward just a bit, I probably could’ve caught a glimpse of our illusive mechanic. At this point, I almost didn’t want to ruin the mystery, so I remained still as I called out to him. “Where don’t you wanna go?” “He doesn’t want to go probe chasing,” Renna interrupted. “He’s the only one who hates change more than you do.” I shrugged. She wasn’t wrong. “I’m not forcing you to come with us, but you do need to fix that coil for the job we’re on now.” Diz grumbled softly in agreement from behind the entanglement of cables and servers, than shuffled back over to behind the salvage console. With a loud clang, he was into the ventilation system and off to fix the coil. “What’s got him all uptight? I think that’s the most I’ve ever heard him talk.” “Somethin’s got him shook about this ‘ol probe thing. Weird, ‘innit? I’ve never seen ‘em get spooked ‘fore…” Renna replied, rapping her long fingernails against the idle salvage controlpad. “This ‘ol things even got me a bit frazzled, but I’m excited too, ya’ know?” “You’re actually excited about this?” I questioned. “I mean, it wouldn’t have been my first choice of a job. The Navy’s just usin’ us as cannon fodder to chase after some rusty piece of junk they’re scared of. Which is actually pretty typical… ‘s just the way they went about it. And the amount of coin they’re offerin’..” “It is pretty sketchy, I’ll admit. But Navy contracts never usually put us in any more danger than we’re used to, so I’m sure we’ll be fine.” “Well that’s a glimmerin’ endorsement...” “The Navy’s never fucked us over… directly…” I muttered, exhuming anxieties about the contract I thought I had buried alive a few hours earlier. “Oh boy.” Renna laughed. “C’mon, it’ll be fun!” she cheered, pouring another glass of whatever sludge she considered liquor. “The last organic crew in the system, escapin’ the mundane, on an adventure to discover to find some creepy probe and make payday!” I smiled, albeit warily. I knew what they’d write on our headstones.

#writing #wip #voyager #ill probably never finish this

[yuckitup-jwd]

Fulldekisms Part 2

He writes blank checks on a closed account.

He'd screw up a two-car funeral procession.

He'll eventually qualify as a Darwin Award winner.

He's a General Protection Fault trigger.

He's a man on a mission, but can't find his dossier.

He's as soppy as a sack. (British)

He's been invited to every party in town... Once.

He's completely West Ham. (Two stops short of Barking on theLondon Underground.)

He's diagnosable.

He's in a federal witless protection program.

He's not a complete idiot -- some parts are missing.

He's not stupid; he's possessed by a retarded ghost.

He's really into himself... His head is up his ass.

He's so dense, light bends around him.

He's so dense, the Titanic wouldn't sink in his head.

Hears everything that a dog can.

Hears more lyrics on records when they're played backwards.

Her access time approaches infinity.

Her ancestors came to this country looking for bananas.

Her ass is sucking swamp gas.

Her blender doesn't go past "mix".

Her body is rejecting her.

Her brain cells are as hard to isolate as <your favoritepolitician's> concern for his/her electorate.

Her brain comes with single-bit error detection and half-assederror correction.

Her brain has a corrupted filesystem / someone needs to runfsck on her brain.

Her brain is as useless as a mule's gonads.

Her brain is more like a Rube Goldberg device than a computer.

Her cache is incoherent.

Her career is just taking off -- she's never at work.

Her closet is full of hangars, but no clothing.

Her dentist went deaf from the drill's echoes.

Her dialing thumb must be broken.

Her display is always flashing 12:00.

Her driver's license says, "Picture continued on other side."

Her ears serve the same function as holes in a dribble glass.

Her face is a threat to clocks everywhere.

Her files are compressed 100%.

Her finals are burned out.

Her friends took her aside, and left her there. -- Ron Richards

Her gene pool could use a little chlorine / a good filter.

Her head doesn't cast a shadow.

Her head needs a periodic whack on the side.

Her input pipe is broken.

Her interrupt handler hit a loop.

Her IQ is the reason they had to invent negative/imaginary numbers.

Her kid is an honor student, but she's still an idiot.

Her leads need resoldering.

Her learning curve is fractal.

Her lint trap is full.

Her lists are unlinked.

Her memory is truly random-access.

Her mental function can be graphed with a single dot.

Her mere presence causes parity errors, power fails, and head crashes.

Her mind is not grounded to a logic supply.

Her mind might have spontaneously combusted.

Her mind would be unstable even mounted on a tripod.

Her modem lights are on but there's no carrier.

Her objects are not fully oriented.

Her only hope for brainpower is vacuum point energy.

Her personal problems can only be solved using high explosives.

Her phone doesn't quite reach her desk.

Her pool balls don't fit into the rack.

Her positronic matrix won't reboot.

Her purpose in life is to balance out the bell curve.

Her random access is the same as her sequential access.

Her sewing machine's been out of thread for some time now.

Her ski lift doesn't go to the top of the hill.

Her stack has been corrupted.

Her synapses are about |that| far apart.

Her system file has zero bytes.

Her tires are a little low.

Her wheels are turning but she's upside down. -- U2

Her wipers don't touch the glass.

Her word length is zero bits.

Hid behind the door when they passed out brains.

High relative humidity... He's lost in a fog.

His access light's on, but the drive isn't spinning / isstill spinning up.

His accumulator overflows at zero.

His actual mileage varies.

His antenna/radio doesn't pick up all the channels/stations.

His boot block is in a bad sector.

His boot ROM has a bad checksum.

His brackets are mismatched.

His brain could be the perfect dielectric.

His brain is sueing for neglect.

His brain was sold separately and they were out of stock.

His brain would rattle around in a gnat's navel.

His bread ain't done.

His buffer is full.

His clutch is slipping.

His data bus stops for red lights.

His deck has no face cards.

His elevator is stuck between floors.

His face is on a coin... On the edge.

His family tree is a telephone pole.

His family wasn't dysfunctional until he arrived.

His freelist is empty.

His future is behind schedule. -- Bob Thaves

His gene line isn't just dead, it's extinct.

His golf bag does not contain a full set of irons. -- Robin Williams

His grades were so bad, after school he couldn't even getinto prison. -- Shannon Sharpe

His grey matter is brown / doesn't matter.

His head whistles in a cross wind.

His home page is out of order.

His home planet is flat.

His IQ test results were negative / IQ is a false positive.

His jack can't get the car off the ground.

His military nomenclature is ID-10-T (idiot).

His mind is a few Hertz off its assigned frequency.

His mind is great at error magnification.

His mind is less substantial than the Emperor's new clothes.

His mind is on vacation but his mouth is working overtime. -- Allision

His mind is write-protected/write-only.

His mind reached escape velocity and achieved orbit.

His mind wandered and never came back.

His motto is: Space, the final frontier.

His mouth rarely makes calls to his brain.

His only hope for sexual variety is vegetables / to change hands.

His outgoing message starts with, "Hello, Mr. Answering Machine."

His page was intentionally left blank.

His picture is in the dictionary under "zero".

His pointers are null/uninitialized.

His puzzle is missing a few pieces.

His reaction time is longer than his attention span. -- Thaves

His root file system isn't mounted.

His seat back is not in the full upright and locked position.

His shared libraries aren't installed.

His signal-to-noise ratio is epsilon.

His signature is long, boring, and stupid, but it's the bestpart of his postings.

His spark can't jump the gap.

His spirit guide is a three-toed sloth.

His stack's not very deep / he has an eight-byte stack.

His strings aren't null-terminated.

His strip is demagnetized.

His system administrator is never in.

His train tracks aren't quite parallel.

His URL denies outside access.

His watch dog is sleeping.

His Wheaties have been in the milk too long.

His wisdom is stolen from bumper-stickers and T-shirts.

His wits have left the rails and are careening about the countryside.

His X, Y, and Z axes don't meet at the origin.

Hitler's evil twin.

Holds a grudge until it dies of old age, then has it stuffed andmounted. -- David Weber

Hyperspatially interconnected / permanently disconnected neural net.

Hypnotized as a child and couldn't be woken.

I like him; he reminds me of when I was young and stupid.

I would follow him anywhere, but only out of curiosity.

I wouldn't piss in his ear if his brain was on fire.

I'd like to buy him for what he's worth and sell him for what hethinks he's worth.

I've worn dresses with higher IQs than his.

If brains were bird droppings, he'd have a clean cage.

If brains were chocolate, he wouldn't have enough for an M&M.

If brains were dynamite, she wouldn't have enough to blow hernose / her hat off / the wax out of her ears.

If brains were farts, he couldn't stink up the inside of a matchbox.

If brains were gasoline, he couldn't ride a moped around a fruit loop.

If brains were grains of sand, he couldn't fill a dixie cup.

If brains were lard, he'd be hard pressed to grease a small pan.

If brains were leather, he couldn't saddle a flea.

If brains were taxed, he'd get a rebate.

If brains were water, hers wouldn't be enough to baptize a flea.

If dumb were dirt, he'd be an acre.

If fashion law is ever enforced, he'll be found guilty withouthope of parole.

If God tried to help him, we'd have an eight day week.

If he didn't exist, he wouldn't be worth inventing.

If he donated his brain to science it'd set civilization back 50 years.

If he gets any denser, the geocentric theory of the universewill come true.

If he had a lobotomy he'd depressurize.

If he had another brain (cell), it would be lonely.

If he had brains, he'd take them out and play with them.

If he had console lights, we would see only the idle loop patterns.

If he had half a brain, his ass would be lopsided.

If he were an Indian, Custer would be alive today / would havedied of old age.

If he were any brighter he'd be in the visible spectrum.

If he were any more stupid, he'd have to be watered twice a week.

If her brains were put in a hummingbird, it would fly backwards.

If his brain were a hard drive, it would back up on a single floppy.

If his brains were money, he'd still be in debt.

If his IQ was two points higher he'd be a rock.

If ignorance were bliss, she'd be orgasmic.

If it's not in his horoscope/tea leaves, he doesn't take it seriously.

If men were dominoes, he would be the double-blank. -- P.G. Wodehouse

If not for his scrotum, he would lose his balls.

If sex appeal were dynamite, he couldn't blow the cobwebsoff his balls.

If she had a disk we could upgrade her with DOS 3.0.

If she was any dumber, she'd be a green plant.

If stupidity hurt, he'd go through life on a morphine drip.

If stupidity were a crime, he'd be number one on the Most Wanted list.

If the government ever declared war on stupidity, he'd get nuked.

If there were a merciful God he'd be dead by now.

If they each had half a brain, they'd still only have half a brain.

If they knock heads, implosion will suck all the air out of the room.

If what you don't know can't hurt you, she's practically invulnerable.

If wit were shit, he'd be constipated.

If you called him a wit, you'd be half right.

If you give him a penny for his thoughts, you get change back.

If you stand close enough to him, you can hear the ocean.

Ignorant, and proud of it.

Immune from any serious head injury.

Immune to caffeine and all other stimulants.

In a tub of Preparation H, he'd shrink down to thumb size.

In his optimum environment, he'd be locked in a life and deathstruggle with mushrooms.

In line for brains, thought they said pains, and said, "No, thanks".

In line for brains, thought they said trains, and asked for onewith lots of steam / said his dad just bought him one.

In line for brains, thought they said were handing out milkshakes,and he asked for "extra thick."

In need of a ROM upgrade.

In serious need of attitude adjustment.

In the pinball game of life, his flippers were a little fartherapart than most.

In the shopping mall of the mind, he's in the toy store.

In touch with her higher power, but out of touch with the rest of us.

Includes a "thank you" note with her tax returns.

Infinite space between her ears.

Informationally deprived.

Inhabits her own private timezone.

Inspected by #13.

Inspired the slogan, "A mind is a terrible thing to waste."

Intellectually/synaptically challenged.

Intelligence somewhere between a pet rock and egg white.

Invented a pencil with an eraser on each end.

Invented a submarine with a screen door.

IQ = dx / (1 + dx), where x = age.

IQ lower than a snake's belly in a wagon-rut.

It's hard to believe he beat 100,000 other sperm.

Just another flash in the bedpan.

Just asleep, but others worry that he's dead.

Keeps his imagination on a long leash.

Kept an open mind -- and his brains fell out.

Keywords: generalizations clue get

Knitting with only one needle.

Knows his sports, but his understanding is limited to violence.

Landed with his gear/brain up and locked.

Leaky sunroof.

Left hand threaded.

Left his booster on the launch pad.

Left the store without all of his groceries.

Leveled off before reaching altitude.

Life by Norman Rockwell, but screenplay by Stephen King.

Lightbulb over his head is burned out.

Lights / porch lights are on but nobody's home.

Lights not burning too bright.

Like a barometer -- vacuum at the top.

Like a loose-leaf folder in winter.

Like a one-armed man climbing a rope.

Likes dunking for french fries.

Likes to execute his data.

Little red choo-choo's gone chugging 'round the bend /jumped the track.

Lives in La-la-land.

Lives in the same world, but a different universe.

Lives just up the street from the corner of Walk and Don't Walk.

Living proof of Einstein's theory that there is no limit tohuman stupidity.

Living proof that evolution CAN go in reverse.

Living proof that God did die back in the 60s.

Living proof that God has a sense of humor.

Living proof that nature does not abhor a vacuum.

Living proof that there's ALWAYS someone worse off than you.

Long on drywall, short on studs.

Looking for a nickel in the corner of a circular room.

Looks for the "Any" key.

Looks just like Bill Gates.

Loose chip on the microprocessor board.

Loose wire to his headset/ringer.

Lost his marbles.

Lots of silverware on his table, but no plates.

Loves a good insult, but can never remember any.

Low on thinking gas.

Low-bandwidth as an information source.

Luckily these types kill themselves before reproducing... Thinkof it as evolution in action. -- Larry Niven

Lugnuts rattling in the hubcaps.

Made a career out of mid-life crisis.

Mainspring's wound too tight.

Makes a black hole look bright.

Makes predictions that make weathermen/economists look good.

Meandering to a different drummer.

Memorized every Dr. Seuss story written.

Mental software is Version 1.0 / still in beta test.

Mentally qualified for handicapped parking.

Metronome needs oil.

Might look like he's doing nothing, but at the cellular levelhe's really quite busy.

Might still be a virgin except for what nature did to her mind.

Mind like a steel sieve.

Mind like a steel trap -- everything gets mangled / full of mice /nothing in, nothing out / rusted shut / someday it willsnap shut and swallow his face.

Missed her last four scheduled tune-ups.

Missed the last train to Clue Junction. -- Rev Billy Wirtz

Missing a few buttons on his remote control.

Missing a few catalog cards / gears / marbles.

Missing a layer of insulation in his attic.

Monorail doesn't go all the way to Tomorrowland.

Mooring lines don't reach the dock.

More armpits than brain cells.

More marbles in a spray-paint can than brains in his head.

Mouth is in gear, brain is in neutral.

Moves his lips to pretend he's reading.

Must have ignored a knock-down pitch.

Nearly lives up to her full potential as a dumb blond.

Nearly on a higher plane, but lost his boarding pass.

Needed a tutor to learn how to scribble.

Needs a checkup from the neck up.

Needs a little remedial evolution.

Needs a stepladder to pick his nose.

Needs an operating manual for a screwdriver.

Needs another brain to make half-wit.

Needs both hands to wipe his behind.

Needs front end alignment.

Needs his disk checked/reformatted.

Needs his sleeves lengthened by a couple of feet so theycan be tied in the back.

Neither left-brained nor right-brained. -- Bob Thaves

Nervous as a long-tailed bobcat in a room full of rocking chairs.

Network constantly loses packets.

Neurons are firing non-sequentially.

Never finishes a thoug

Never had a headcold in her life since diseases can't existin a vacuum.

Never misses an episode of her screensaver.

Next-day delivery in a nanosecond world. -- Van Jacobson

Nice color but not enough wattage.

Nice house but not much furniture / nobody lives there.

Nine pence in the shilling.

Nine rooms; no furniture.

Nineteen cents short of a paradigm.

No bubble in his gauge. (Refers to a submarine dive gauge.)

No charge in her synapses.

No coins in the old fountain.

No filter in the coffeemaker.

No grain in the silo.

No hands on the rudder/yoke.

No hay in the loft.

No one at the throttle.

No ROM basic.

No salt in his socks. (Land-lubber or green sailor.)

No tar in his hemp. (Tar preserves a hemp (marijuana) line; thisphrase means one has been smoking his rope.)

No wind in her mind's windmills.

Not all his dogs are barking.

Not an idiot, but plays one in his life.

Not as dumb as he looks, but that would be impossible.

Not digging in the same ditch with the rest of us.

Not done evolving yet.

Not enough brain cells for the Prozac to be effective.

Not enough brains to get anywhere NEAR the gutter.

Not enough bullets for Russian Roulette.

Not enough change to break a dollar/pound/deutschmark/yen.

Not enough sense to come in out of the rain.

Not enough sense to stay out in the rain. (Like a 60's flower child.)

Not firing on all four/six/eight cylinders.

Not firmly seated in the socket / screwed in tight.

Not hard-docked.

Not inflated to 90 PSI / head is stamped "inflate to 40 PSI".

Not Intel Inside. (Or, given Pentium problems, just: Intel inside.)

Not much to show for four billion years of evolution.

Not only rude, but ugly too.

Not playing with / dealing from a full deck (-- not even in the game).

Not ready for prime time.

Not running on full thrusters.

Not shooting pool on a level table.

Not so much of a has-been, as a won't-be.

Not the brightest bulb on the Christmas tree / light in the harbor /crayon in the box.

Not the full quid.

Not the hottest burner on the stovetop.

Not the same since they took him off his medication.

Not the sharpest knife/spoon in the drawer / tool in the shed /nail in the box / quill on the porcupine.

Not Turing equivalent.

Not within a bull's roar. (A term used by lawn bowlers.)

Not worth henshit on a pump handle.

Not worth pissin' on.

Not wrapped too tight.

Nothing between the stethoscopes.

Nothing on her radar.

Numb as a post / pounded thumb.

Number 'n a hake. (New England expression; a notoriously stupid fish.)

Nutty as a fruitcake.

Of all the things he's lost, he misses his mind the most.

Off by one.

Off his rocker/trolley.

Oil doesn't reach his dipstick.

On permanent/unexcused leave of absence from his senses.

On the batting end of a no-hitter.

One anna short of a rupee.

One bead short in her rosary.

One bean short of chili.

One bean shy of full strength.

One beer short of a six-pack / a six-pack short of a case.

One bird short of a flock.

One bit short of a byte/word.

One blade short of a sharp edge. -- Nanci Griffith

One block short of a filesystem.

One board short of a porch.

One bomb/melon short of a full load.

One boot stuck in the sand.

One bottom short of a bucket.

One brick short of a wall/hod/load/pile.

One bumper/rail short of a bank shot.

One bun/donut short of a dozen.

One byte short of a checksum.

One byte short of a full 256K SIMM.

One car short of a chase scene.

One card/marble short of a full deck.

One chapter short of a novel.

One chicken short of a henhouse.

One chip short of a cookie.

One chip short of a megabyte.

One citation short of a footnote.

One clearance short of landing/take off.

One clown short of a circus.

One clue short of a solution.

One cold solder joint.

One color short of a full deck. (A half-wit.)

One color short of color-coordinated.

One couplet short of a sonnet.

One course short of a degree. (As in: "I've got a degree inhome economics, but I was only one course short of adegree in advanced nuclear physics.")

One crayon short of a full box.

One crouton short of a salad.

One cup and saucer short of a place setting.

One cylinder short of a full re-format.

One diamond short of a ring.

One dimension short of reality.

One doughnut short of being a cop.

One drool bib short of neat and tidy.

One drop short of an empty bladder.

One ear short of a bushel.

One electron shy of a full shell / noble gas arrangement.

One feather short of a whole duck.

One fish short of a string.

One floor below the poopdeck.

One flower short of an arrangement.

One flying buttress short of a cathedral.

One foot in the future, one foot in the past, pissing on the present.

One french fry / hamburger short of a Happy Meal.

One Froot Loop short of a full bowl.

One fruit short of a basket.

One gene short of a full chromosome.

One goose short of a gaggle.

One grape short of a bunch.

One guppy short of an aquarium.

One handle short of a suitcase.

One harmonic short of a tubular bell.

One hot pepper short of an enchilada.

One inch short of a foot/yard.

One inspection short of passing.

One kangaroo short in her top paddock.

One kernel short of an ear.

One key short of a piano.

One kopek short of a ruble.

One link short of a chain.

One live brain cell away from being a talking monkey.

One measure short of a staff.

One miracle short of being where he thinks he's at.

One miracle wouldn't be enough to help him.

One monkey short of a full hundred.

One node short of a network.

One nut short of a full pouch.

One of the early failures of electroshock therapy.

One open splice.

One pancake short of a stack.

One pane short of a window.

One pea short of a pod/casserole.

One peak short of a chromatogram.

One pearl short of a necklace.

One pickle short of a jar.

One pie short of a holiday.

One plane short of an Air Force / hangar.

One point short of a polygon.

One prayer short of absolution.

One press short of a CAPS LOCK key. (Types all uppercase.)

One punch/swing/hit short of a fight.

One quark short of a hadron.

One republic short of an empire.

One revision behind.

One sandwich/apple/ant short of a picnic.

One saucer short of a tea-service.

One scallop short of a seafood platter.

One screw loose.

One screw shy of a final assembly.

One sentence short of a paragraph.

One shade short of a rainbow.

One sheep short of a sweater.

One shingle short of a roof, and the water's getting in.

One ship short of a full fleet.

#fulldeckisms #nerdjokes #personalityjokes

[believe-that-you-can-my-friend]

Where The Wild Roses Grow

Summary: When Jughead becomes an active member of the Southside Serpents, him and Betty are starting to grow further and further apart, as the boiling volcano of Riverdale's Civil War is threatening to erupt in full force. Can a heart to heart with Alice Cooper and an old Serpent jacket give Betty and Jughead the hope they both need?

Read on AO3

(This is huge so grab snacks and drinks. The Bughead scene ruined me. I apologize for all of this. Warning: full angst and sin ahead! I’m not describing it as much anymore cause after the Jughead I saw in the finale that’s a given but still, after I post this, I’ll crawl under my covers in blushing embarassment.😂 Here you go, lovelies! I hope you enjoy this! ❤️)

"On the second day he came with a single red rose

He said, "Give me your loss and your sorrow?"

I nodded my head, as I lay on the bed

"If I show you the roses will you follow?"

The snow is slowly melting under the heaps of rain and so is her will to contribute to life these days. The icy scenery that adorns Riverdale gives out under the rays of sun that stubbornly peek through the pine trees and white oaks, ridding their leaves from the coldness of nature, only to become shiny droplets of clear water that hold the whole kaleidoscope of colors, just like tears and their colossal scale of emotions. He is the ice, she is the stubborn sun; that’s what he tells her through the sad darkness of each night that they lay together but further and further apart. He says it as a compliment, in the most sullen John Wheelwright fashion, but she accepts it gladly as her fingers form infinity signs over the crackling ice of his golden heart. Her hair is golden too under the dim moonlight, it’s a match made in heaven, and she vows that tomorrow she will try to burn hotter than the December sun over the patches of snow that are menacingly trying to turn him into a lifeless statue. And she does. But not today.

There are colors of blue and gold in the sky as the sun dips into the hills far, far away. There is The Register, forgotten and coffee-stained, over the floral plastic tablecloth, opened in page six and the magniloquent article about Riverdale’s corruption and subjection of justice signed by Elizabeth Cooper, Alice Smith-Cooper. There is her history book, her copy of To Kill A Mockingbird stashed on top of it littered with a million colorful sticky tabs and her laptop opened, cursor blinking warningly on the half-finished document about the reflection of Atticus Finch throughout the novel. But there are also Social Service papers and Southside High paperwork and his beanie left on top of his messenger bag, both thrown hastily on a creaky dining chair, and Betty can’t focus on anything important, like school, or the paper, or generally her life so she just cooks, unburies any pot and pan she can find, and cooks.

The limited Tupperware is filled with homemade lasagna, meatloaf with roasted potatoes – his favorite –, fried chicken, some vegetable soup that she knows he is not going to even touch but she just hopes for his sake.  There is also apple pie in the fridge but that doesn’t count; she had brought that from home and she is sure it is going to be inhaled by him in a mere matter of seconds when he will notice it lurking behind his usual TV-dinners. Chocolate brownies are being baked in the slow oven and a pot filled with water is boiling, just like her temper that forms a lump in her throat, making her want to shed fat tears of worry and frustration over the pile of breakfast sandwiches she is storing into silicone zip up bags. She is glaring at the clock on the wall, once per nanosecond, the ticking making her more anxious and pushing her more to the verge of screaming, to wail like another Banshee at the premonition of something terrible. She doesn’t know where he is, she doesn’t know what he is doing but she does know that he is with them, as if the perpetual dreadful feeling in her chest needed any more confirmation from the open living room closet where his limited choices of jackets are hanging messily on mismatched hangers except for one.

Heavy, jogging footsteps up the tiny outdoor staircase shake the whole trailer under their squeaky force and Betty literally jumps, peanut butter filled knife dropping against the olive counter with sound, heart flattering with relief that for one more night he is safe and with her. Keys jiggle and the wooden door gives out under his drumming fingers, Betty’s rushing palms urgently coming to wipe the wetness that formed against her cheeks without her even noticing. She hears him halt for a moment and then turn to the kitchen, combat boots thudding against the hardware floor in coordination with her heart each time her antennas are sensing him close to her, either across the hall or glued to her chest, it didn’t matter.

“Hey!” Betty hears her voice greeting cheerfully, surprisingly steady enough to pass as her typical easy-going tone, even though the burden drilled to her chest leaves no room for cheerful. She gives him a quick smile over her shoulder, catching him sporting a sweet, dumbfounded smile while resting a forearm again the kitchen threshold, black leather contradicting on white wood, before her eyes are once again occupied with the task at hand.

“Something smells good in here.” Jughead comments with delight, eyes casting from the steam emitting pot to the alit kitchen and then her killer legs wrapped in skintight dark denim. He licks his lips and for the first time in his life he is not salivating at the sight of food.

“You think?” she continues the lighthearted chat, because that’s what he needs, that’s what they both need, a tiny piece of normality and everyday living mist their tragedy stained small town world. There’s shuffling behind her and the swoosh of leather being thrown carelessly away and she sighs with a small feeling of contentment at the action. He is well aware how much she hates that jacket and the promise behind it; so he makes sure to always shred it off his shoulders himself before stepping into her world of comfort and vanilla. It’s a silent deal between them, a religious habit of his, slipping back into his Jughead Jones shoes the nights shared with her before waking in the morning in an empty bed again as one of those Serpents.

“It’s the brownies.” Betty smiles around the word, knowing that his weakness for chocolate is only a tad smaller than his weak spot for her and her cheeks flush momentarily at his naughty suggestion of tasting both his vices some night, dark chocolate dipping in every hallow and hidden curve of her body as she writhes under his lustful tongue. And just like that, she wants him again, sore thighs be damned, still deliciously aching by his bite marks and their spread opened position all night yesterday.

She can feel him stride towards her and the drumming of her heart increases until there are large hands on her low abdomen, playing with the hem of her white fuzzy sweater, grazing skin, making her sigh and melt back against him.

“Yeah, that too.” Jughead hums, the tip of his nose running from the hollow of her collarbone up her neck and his lips settle against her pulse point, sucking wetly and tasting the salt on her skin, the sweetness of her perfume, the blood that pumps quicker because of him. Home. Her head falls back on his shoulder with a sigh, she offers him more skin to get lost into, bodies rolling sensually as her back collides with his hard chest and her firm behind finds him already half-hard and ready to ravish her. His bony fingers undo the button of her jeans and naughtily sneak inside, the soaking lace drawing a moan from both of them, the vibrations of her neck mingling with his trembling lips, teeth biting hard, and the effect is evident on her panties again, his long fingers stroking her like a fine harp or the world’s filthiest violin.

As fast as it appears the sensation is gone and Betty momentarily frowns before she is dropped on top of the kitchen counter, just like that first night the world came upside down for them. The very first night that, after a bitter confrontation and hateful claws shedding that bloodcurdling jacket from his shoulders, he had made her a woman on that creaky couch in the next room, with words like “mine” and “I need you, don’t leave me” against her open in wonder lips. It’s a desperate battle for dominance now once again, lips bruising lips, tongues twirling wetly in a hurricane of need, fingers creeping on cheekbones, digging on skin. He gasps against her opened lips and her tongue comes out for a lewd invasion, making him groan and fist her ponytail, pulling hair and changing the angle of their kiss to violate her mouth more, until there are scratches of blood against the soft pink of her bubblegum lipstick. Jughead demands her sweater off as he wrinkles it inside his tight fists and she complies, raising her arms and arching her chest towards him when the warm garment is just a useless white fluff on the tiled floor. He smirks in appreciation at the lacey pastel blue bra that greets him, full breasts rising and fall under his intense stare, and he follows her blush up until their eyes connect for a moment, pupils dilated and eyelashes blinking in a disorientated stare. And in that moment she can see all his true colors, the blues and the violets and the dark greys and the pastels behind his eyes, she can see him, her one and only. He feels it, the prying into his soul, and he softens his movements, hand cupping her scarlet cheek with excessive care and baby blues almost watery, pouring every ounce of love he has for her, the beautiful Helen of Riverdale’s civil war.

With a clasp of her ankles behind his knees and a slide of her hips to end up flat against his, the moment of tenderness is gone and he groans as he dives for her bee-stung lips again, inhaling inside the hotness of her sinfully sweet mouth, his thump caressing the corner of it, indicating that he wants it wider, and Betty leaves a low moan of delight at the gesture, complying of course and hungrily reciprocating his kiss, heads tilting from side to side in frenzy, wet sounds fueling the pushing and pulling of their hips. Her hands run down his muscular chest and bury under his black t-shirt, fingers slaying on his flexing abs and delivering a sensual caress up his pecs, bringing the cotton material with them and making him hiss under her touch before pulling back to user the shirt off his body, recklessly tossing it down to join her sweater with a wolfish smirk that makes her stomach flip in excitement before it gets lost against the crook of her neck. He is working to create a mark, just like the plethora of others that she finds in almost every inch of her skin when she showers, and she feels him biting hard on her collarbone, momentarily pulling her flesh harshly while groaning. She moans loudly and her legs slide up his sides in reflex as he reaches behind him and takes hold of her ankle, pushing it up until the heel of her fawn ankle boot is hooked over the waistband of his black ripped jeans.

“What took you so long today?” Betty sighs against his jawline, lips dropping messy pecks under it, on his tender neck, behind his ear. She doesn’t know where she finds the sanity to utter words, especially as her soft palms are roaming over his strong back, feeling his shoulder blades flexing manly with his hard pants, but she needs to make sure that he is still the guy that used to climb windows just to see her.

“I had some things to take care of.” Jughead murmurs uninterested in small talk and only paying attention to the love bite forming against her collarbone, pulling back to smirk momentarily at the sight of it before running his tongue across her heaving sternum, erotic wetness coaxing the base on the other side of her neck.

“Social worker?” her eyebrows knit in concern because their meetings are frequent now that his official move to the foster family is only some days away and she hugs his shoulders tighter without even noticing it, either for comfort or in a desperate attempt to never let him go or both, definitely both.

He shakes his head negatively against her neck, messy raven locks tickling her cheek and she can’t fight the urge to run her fingers through them, scratching his scalp and tugging lightly, opening her mouth to speak again but the only sound that comes out is a strained low sigh as his large palms run up the sides of her jean clad legs, her hipbones, his ribs, until they grasp her breasts firmly, squeezing them heavily over their pastel blue prison.

“Them?” Her stone-cold voice and accusatory tone can be hardly missed and Jughead gets tense for a moment but his lips never stop devouring her porcelain skin, his fingers never stop digging roughly at the swell of her breasts as he gropes them urgently, pads slipping into the lace and nails grazing against their peaks that are already hard and desperate for his attention. Betty is moaning, low and deep, besides the temper that starts once again to rise inside her chest or maybe because of it, she doesn’t know. She just feels ready to explode and that’s surely because of him, because of his heavenly touch and his current un-heavenly transactions with criminals. It’s a strange feeling, for somebody to cause such diverse emotions to her, that someone never being the one to agitate the turbulent waters of her heart only to calm them, and it is confusing and frustrating and so damn mind-blowing intense.

Jughead pulls back with a big exhale, raven locks pocking his pitch black from passion eyes, hips jerking against her heat once, almost violently. “I’m not doing any drugs, if that’s what you’re asking.” He reassures her with his typical smart-ass tone and goes to resume the actions of his hands that still lay casually on her breasts, ready to be done with this troublesome conversation, but she stops him, his head bouncing back as she tugs at his hair, a little more harshly and painfully than intended. Her green eyes are cold and hide a hint of disappointment that Jughead loathes with every fiber of his body so he adopts his usual defensive stare as he waits for her to mention once again the elephant in the room.

“Are you selling them then?” The bomb is dropped; Jughead knows that a new round of fighting is going to begin in a matter of seconds and he wishes he could stop it, he wishes there was a thing in the history of the world that he could say and make them shiny and new again, but there isn’t and he is tired of fighting and tired of trying to prove constantly himself to her and he can feel his tongue slip and not for it to bring her pleasure this time but pain.

“It never crossed my mind that you of all people would think that low of me.” His voice is venomous, just like the snakes he is thrown into, and his eyes narrow in disbelief, actually hurt that she, the person that knows his heart like the back of her moon-scared palm, believed even for a second that he would be responsible of condoning any kind of addiction, let alone that of teenage kids like them.

“Can you blame me?” she grows defensive too, ominous green shade on her doe eyes. “Ever since—” she begins but he is faster than her, always faster, and a hurricane of words emit from the depths of his slowly closing in a suffocating choke throat.

“Ever since what?” Jughead snaps, challenging her to go on if she dared. “I found a family? I found people that want me in their life and they are not ready to flee with the first chance they get?” he shoots question after question unceremoniously, angry that she doesn’t understand his need to finally be accepted by a community that doesn’t treat him a parasite. She scoffs at his words, he glares at her. “What, Betty, you wanted truth, I’m stating the truth!”

The volume of his voice takes her aback and she replies with the same hostile tone and glare. “The truth is that I don’t like the person you’re becoming.” Second bomb.

“The person I’m becoming?” Jughead exhales the words and his eyes are smaller than buttons as disbelief and anger creeps around them. “What about the person you’re becoming?!” He is infuriated now, pacing up and down in front of her, hand gestures intense and erratic. “You defended my dad, Betty, in front of the whole fucking town. You defended them in that stupid article” he points menacingly at the newspaper on the stinky kitchen table “that now seems to be nothing but lies and a popularity façade. What are you trying to prove this time, huh? Tell me.” He holds his ground and demands, chest heaving once again but not from the heat of her body but the heat of anger at her behavior, at his own behavior.

“Are you being serious right now, Jughead?” Betty’s hands come to grip the edge of the counter she is still sitting on, knuckles turning white, and her fingertips itch to just slip and pierce her skin instead of the cheap linoleum and she is sure she will later tonight when she crying in bed but not now, not in front of his towering posture and his furious eyes. She is not going to appear weak now. “Are you really doubting my intentions after everything that I went through this whole month defending you and that clan of criminals?” she doesn’t believe him, she doesn’t believe the words that are coming out of his mouth and her heart sinks to her stomach at the revelation that maybe this is actually his true self and all those time she was just holding on her own personal version of purity and illusions.

“Could have fooled me.” He states in a low casual voice but his eyes are lifeless and his tone of apathy bites more deadly than the cobra on his jacket.

She shakes her head and huffs and, unlike his eyes, hers are filled with emotion, with fat, angry, painful tears so she casts her gaze down on the denim of her knees, not wanting to give him the pleasure of breaking right before his eyes, even though she has done it a million times before. “Brilliant.” She chokes. “Just brilliant.” She decides to face him again, catching a frown of concern or maybe regret painting the middle of his eyebrows. “Just because you chose to crawl back into your shell and stop communicating with me, don’t try to turn this whole thing against me.” She spits with much deserved venom and she hopes he sees the salty water in her eyes.

“Well, you might be confused cause you are the one turning distant and so damn cold here.” He groans at the end of his accusation, watching as something goes off at the back of her mind while she straightens her back to face him fearless and shameless, like she always faces all her demons.

“Yeah, of course, my only use anymore is to be hot and ready to be fucked, right Juggie?”

The water in the still boiling pot overflows. It pours viciously on the hot stove with a chilling sound. It gets burnt.

They both jump and he rushes to turn off the appliance before he throws the pot inside the sink with a loud thud, fingers colliding with the torrid iron and getting burnt just like his heart some seconds ago under the deadly sparkles of her words. He hisses a curse and groans in frustration, his palms slamming against the counter, making her jump again, and his shoulders hunch over the sink in despair, Jughead closing his eyes to control his temper. But her look of total emptiness and the rancorous way she said his nickname that always held a fondness and sweetness he had never experienced before from any woman in his life are replaying in his mind again and again like a movie in which everyone dies and there’s no happy ending.  

Behind him Betty doesn’t dare to utter any further word. She struck a cord, she knows by the way his bare shoulder blades stay tense and his breaths come out sharp and fuming, and she thought she would feel good inside her skin if she paid him back with a painful dagger of words through his heart but she doesn’t; in fact, she fills more awful than before.

“Hey, Jug, you’re up for some night paroling?” the voice of a boy cuts through the tension, barging in the trailer like he owns the place while continuing his carefree monologue, Jughead straightening up his posture immediately to turn to look at her, topless and seated on the counter, and Betty scoffs incredulously at his new buddies and their lack of manners. “Hunter fixed that motorbike you wanted – oh” he stops mid-stride and scans her up and down before he lets a wolf-whistle in appreciation along with a smirk. “Nice game, man.” He compliments the both of them and Betty narrows her eyes at him in annoyance in coordination with Jughead’s loud clearing of his throat in warming, as she hops to the ground and curls her arms over her chest protectively. She has seen him before, he is the guy responsible for the cute dirty ball of fluff that lurks on Jughead’s doorstep every day, but she doesn’t pay him any more attention as she turns to the boy that makes her see red once more.

“Motorbike?” she raises her eyebrows in a you-gotta-be-kidding-me grimace. “Seriously now?”

Jughead hesitates, voice becoming tentative and low. “It was a gift…” he offers vaguely.

“Like the jacket, I know.” Betty sighs in disappointment. “You can’t really say no to such full of gratitude gestures right?” she spits to his face and chuckles with no humor at all when she sees him drop his head to the ground, not even trying to justify himself.

“Whatever, I’m out of here.” She reaches for her sweater on the floor, her school stuff long forgotten on the table. She just needs to get out, to leave that suffocating trailer, to breathe.

“Betts…” Jughead tries in the usual soft voice Betty still hears in her dreams, assuring her that everything is going to be okay, and he goes to grab her wrist but she squirms out of his touch.

“Don’t.” she snaps coldly at the nickname and his pleading eyes. “And you did well picking friends that they don’t even have the decency to knock” she sends a glare to the Serpent boy that looks from her to Jughead sheepishly “because you’re not having any of my booty call company ever again. We’re done.”

The thin trailer walls shake under the force of the closing door behind her. And then it’s just darkness.

Not all Serpents are bad.

It’s the third evening in a row after their fight that Betty doesn’t go to Pop’s but instead curls Caramel on her chest and lays in her floral bed, drowning in heartbreak. Her green eyes are watery but there are no more tears in her to shed, the waterfalls of that night that she was inconsolable drained, but her head is filled with a million thoughts that don’t seem to take a rest even at the wee hours of morning. Betty needs an intervention.

She finds it from Alice Cooper, as she sits next to her on the bed, sweet smile intact and ready to offer some feministic speech about the importance of independence and the absurd habit of women crying over ungrateful men. Or that’s what Betty expects. Because the only thing that echoes in her pastel room is the only phrase that the younger Cooper never expected to roll off the tip of her mother’s snobbish tongue.

Not all Serpents are bad.

“I don’t care about them, I only care about Jughead.” Betty stubbornly responds at the cliché her mom is trying to convince her of. “He is changing because of them.”

“Change is not always bad.” Alice contradicts in simplicity, her daughter sending her a fed up glare over her shoulder.

“You’re not helping, mom.” She replies sarcastically, a tad annoyed at her now too and her lack of any of her usual authoritative statements. Betty never thought that a day would come when she would crave her mother’s ultimatums.

“I’m just saying that change is bound to happen.” The older woman explains lovingly, a hand rubbing her daughter’s arm. “You’re teenagers, Elizabeth; you’re shaping your personalities, shredding some aspects of them, gaining some others.”

Betty turns to lay on her back with a huff, picking aimlessly at the fur of her beloved stuffed cat. “Yes, but we are not supposed to lose ourselves.”

“Is he really losing himself?” Alice challenges with a raised eyebrow, sure of the answer, because she knows Jughead Jones, she used to be him many, many years ago. Betty opens her mouth to reply, then closes it in a loss. Deep down, she knows too that this isn’t the case.

“He doesn’t belong there, mom.” Green eyes reach their replica pair as Betty shakes her head vigorously, stubborn and stupidly spiteful and just a teen. “He belongs here in Riverdale High and at Pop’s and with—” her lips are running and her tone is the usual Betty Cooper one when she is extremely passionate about something but Alice cuts her off with a knowing look.

“You?” she completes her daughter’s sentence with a years-of-experience smile, the girl on the bed across her sighing a “yeah” in exasperation. “And why not the opposite? Why don’t you belong there with him?” the woman fires back with one of her overconfident expressions and Betty is at a loss again, eyebrows knitting in confusion as to what on earth her mother was suddenly talking about.

Alice laughs lightly at her clueless expression, a hand patting her hip in affection as she stands up. “Come on; I have something to show you.”

Their attic is the same as Betty remembers it, dusty and filled with a lifetime of memories. Everything is organized; newspaper documents, old house décor, Polly’s section, Betty’s section, their parents’ past. It holds her mom’s wedding dress, her dad’s tuxedo, a carton box titled College, another one titled High school. Betty knows this corner like the back of her palm, she and Polly always used to snoop around there, looking at pictures, taking turns wearing Alice’s long wedding veil or her vintage silver pumps. She is utterly confused as to why they are here and unless her mom unburies a yearbook with some inspirational quote from FP that indicates that Jughead has still hope of being saved, Betty finds it completely bizarre.

Her head actually bounces backwards in surprise and her eyes widen when her mom pulls some loose planks off the hardware floor and brings to surface a black box she’s never seen before with the initials A.S. in the middle, a snake forming a circle around them. Alice drops it against an old coffee table and smiles warmly at a bewildered Betty as it opens it to reveal a whole other world, a world that all those years she kept secret in her heart.

There’s a pair of baby shoes, some toys, a rug doll, some elementary school drawings. And then there are fishnets and black leather pants and concert tickets and an empty pack of red Marlboro autographed by Slash and three stacks of photographs and other memorabilia that she doesn’t understand but what she immediately sees and understands is the black leather jacket at the bottom, folded with excessive care so the logo on its back to be untouched by time; Southside Serpents.

“Mom…?” Betty’s head snaps to look at her, shock painted all over her stunning features.

“Yes, I was born in the Southside.” Alice confirms without a hint of shame in her voice. “Yes I was a Serpent; and a damn feisty one.”

Story time begins and Betty learns about her mom’s parents for the first time – not the vague “they died pretty young” she knew all those years – two hippies with a lifestyle based on freedom and free love and utopian socialism. With a free spirited nomad as a father and a rebellious biker gang member as a mother, Alice grew up to be fearless and strong, with a sharp tongue and a red-hot attitude. Her father left for a roadtrip to India when she was ten and never came back and her mother was just a background silhouette on a speeding bike, never becoming a proper mother, never knowing how to become one. The Serpents took her in, raised her, loved her, they became her family. The jacket she wore back then was never a burden or a suffocating knot around her neck; it was a badge of honor, something that she was proud of wearing, something that gave her confidence and unique Alice Smith back then attitude. And because she was confident and because she knew her potential and her ability to succeed she fought for a better quality life. And she got it.

“I’m not the person I was back then, Elizabeth.” She concludes with a sigh, taking an old picture of herself from a stack and examining it with a nostalgic smile. “But I’m still me, here” she presents her the photo “and here.” She pokes her chest and Betty’s eyes go from her preppy looking mother back to the girl on the photo that laughs carelessly with a beer bottle in hand on top of a Harley, waist-long hair messy and leather jacket draped over her shoulders. They look deferent but they are the same; it’s in the eyes.

“Mom” Betty huffs still looking at the picture “I…I don’t know what to say.” A breathy chuckle leaves her lips at the hurricane of new information, her mind still not grasping the idea of uptight Alice Cooper being part of a notorious centuries old biker gang.

“Southside, Northside, we are all Riverdale.” Alice states matter-of-factly and that holds Betty’s attention. “And Riverdale should be unified; you said so in your article. So don’t waste any more time discriminating and setting labels. You were always better than that.” She reminds her with a sweet smile, unfolding the jacket and handling it over to her, like a former queen passing the precious crown to her heir.

“Life’s too short to hide behind meaningless words or pride or ego, honey.” Alice hugs her shoulders from behind, Betty running her thumps over the printed back of the jacket in thought. “If you love this boy and you wanna be with him, then go get him. Deal with the mess together, help each other find your ways.” She encourages her firmly and Betty feels her heart flutter at her words, the reality of how stupidly immature they are both acting settling in her chest. “He is a good boy, baby. And he makes you happy. Go, be braver than me.” Alice nudges her cheek in affection and then she is gone as Betty stands there alone, face to face with the piece of clothing he hates the most.

But not tonight. Tonight will be her own badge of honor.

Jughead pushes the door open, the rusty hinges letting an icky sound under the weight of his palm, as the newly recruited Serpent walks into his dad’s trailer, head hung low and a heavy burden of problems and responsibilities on his shoulders.

He expects to find the place dark, empty and cold. He isn’t naïve enough to believe that after their latest fight Betty would come crawling back to him. His million texts and phone calls were unanswered, his two drives to Riverdale High fruitless, her refusing to even acknowledge him in the parking lot as she walked away hand in hand with Veronica, the brunette girl giving him a sympathetic smile over her shoulder that he only reciprocated with a nod. She is right; the fights are a few too many now, his last words were stupid and harsh for no reason. Things are bad, maybe he is bad too, bad for her. Snakes curling around porcelain necks can only lead to tragedy. So maybe she is better off.

He expects to find the place dark, empty and cold. But it is only dark, neither empty nor cold. It’s filled with that unique feminine scent that can make his toes curl and his breath quicken in a nanosecond and it’s warm, hot, inflamed by the erotic image she is offering, spread out and ready for him and only him.

“Betty…” it isn’t a question, just a confirmation, a sullen relief and deep longing, her name spilling off his lips in a low sigh of ultimate wanton. Blue eyes, shining under the dim fluorescent light that invades the room through the small window, roguish and intrigued, roam over her slender figure on the ugly, floral couch, like another French girl posing lasciviously for the hungry eyes of her biggest admirer.

She isn’t completely naked but that is the madness of it all. Three tiny items on her sinfully promiscuous body are fogging any of his logical thoughts, bringing to the surface only his darkest ones, the ones that all those years he tried to suppress, labeling them fantasies or abnormalities of his brain. A pair of heels, black and deadly stiletto, with tiny straps holding her ankles captive just like his fingers did the first time he got lost between the abyss of her thighs, and all the other lewd filled times that followed, keeping her open and immobile with legs thrown over his board shoulders, feeling even the tiny bones there, at her delicate ankles, spasming under the treatment of his hungry tongue against the place that he only had the privilege to French kiss for hours until, spent and with no other oxygen left in her heaving lungs, she is always begging him to stop before her mind would paralyze under his dirty pleasure spell. A pair of red lace panties, barely there, barely visible doing little to none to hide her heated center, the center of gravity for his male primal needs, sitting low against her prominent hipbones that still hold the shape of his kisses in color purple, some small, some big, some paired with nail scratches from yesterday and the day before and all those days he pushed her roughly against his pistoling member or anchored himself while he was teasing them both, tip getting soaking wet from her need to have him always inside her. And what he sends him spiraling, in the verge of losing his mind and any ability to proceed further and brush his fingertips against the sharp edges of the goddess of his dreams; the black leather jacket – the same snake-decorated leather jacket he is now sporting as a symbol of unity and acceptance – worn over the ultimate weapons of her sexuality, no preppy sweater, no good-girl bra, just the two mounds of swollen flesh that bring pleasure to him in a way he never imagined, bare and stretching the hard leather.

His keys slip from his finger and collide with the ground with a jiggle. His lips part in a silent gasp and his stomach coils with raw excitement, a deliciously strong gut-wrecking feeling. Betty Cooper is a vision to behold wrapped in the black leather of the most infamous jacket in the history of Riverdale.

“Are you just gonna sit there and stare?” she challenges him and the wild sea of his blue eyes gets disrupted by her voice, bewildered orbs running from the valley between her breasts where they are practically gawking, to land on her lips, full, luscious, dark red like the lace against the apex of her thighs. He can’t decide which pair of lips is sweeter so he always ravishes both with equal tremendous passion, like a man feasting on his last meal or an exile coming home, kissing the land that holds his identity in utter gratitude.

She swings lightly against her elbows, the ends of her golden locks caressing the biblical symbol of sin behind her, her leg that is bended by the knee on the couch nudging closer to her long and outstretched other. She is clenching them together to ease some of the fire in the place that longs even a brush of his hot, manly breath but not making the first move because she loves it when he is in charge of it all, when he is in control of her body and mind, even if, in reality, she is the one holding him hostage in her erotic webs. She knows what she is doing to him and he knows what he is doing to her and together they push each other limits, tangled up together with a promise of forever.

“I thought you weren’t talking to me.” Jughead tries to get his mind to work, a truly impossible task with the way she is offered in front of him. He bites the inside of his cheek at that, wanting to hold back a choke at the repetition of her hurtful words that plays in his mind, at his desire to have her despite them. There’s a porcelain plate still laying on the kitchen floor behind him, useless and in pieces, symbolizing the constant breaking of both their hearts when they battled with harsh insults and not their inflamed bodies two days ago and a week ago and that very night that he had accepted the jacket of the damned and forgotten as his bulletproof armor against their mad, hostile world.

Betty rises to her feet, cat walking slowly to the man that holds her entire being on his now greased and calloused palms. “And I thought that you would always fight for us.” Click, click, click, heels fall in coordination with his breathing, sharp and quick, as the distance between them shortens and her perfume of arousal and sin invades his senses, calling for him, luring him in. Come, ignite my body, he can hear the echoes breach from her chest, the curves of her breasts against the metallic zipper of the jacket two Sirens enchanting him to a sensuous death and he can’t do anything but close his eyes and take a sharp intake of breath, knowing that he will always be a lost cause at the sight of his own celestial Venus.

“I would.” He confirms curtly, eyes open to show the determination behind their now dark color, a full man now, not a beanie boy holding on his fair share of innocence. She misses the beanie boy but she loves the towering man before her more, because now she can read him, because now, even with blindfolded eyes, she can pinpoint every scar on his hard body, every nervous twitch of muscle, every feverish beat of his iron soul. “I still do. This will never change.” He promises her his life, because what is his living without her in it, but she doesn’t want his sacrifice, she just wants him and the comfort of his arms and his words of delirious wanton against her sweaty skin.

“Then why are you just staring at me still?” with her chin up, Betty faces him fearless and shameless, green orbs piercing through his soul and draining it from the hardly any blood that is still there and not in the delicious bulge between them.

They don’t speak anymore, he doesn’t need any more encouragement. His lips are on her scarlet ones, smudging their color, opening them up, poking them with his wet and demanding tongue. They don’t say “I’m sorry” to each other, they don’t need to anymore, because they have nothing to be sorry for just their fate and their involuntary involvement in tragedies, like two Shakespearean heroes in a world full of Macbeths. They’d rather show it as their bodies curve against each other and their breaths mingle and there’s a music of desperate gasps and heavy panting as he cradles both sides of her face and angles her head in frenzy, messing her hair and pushing her lips more and more against his thirsty ones, wanting to consume her whole, to inhale her and hold her captive forever in his bloodstream.

His hands fist the jacket and his mind is filled with million questions about how and why but she bops her lips sensually up and down his tongue and he loses it, almost loses his footing, because that action is pleasantly recognized by his cock that twitches painfully against the metallic prison of his zipper and he forgets each and every word he ever learned. He goes to push the jacket off her shoulders but she grabs his wrists to stop him, unwrapping her swollen lips from his. Jughead blinks rapidly against the darkness of the room, mind not really registering surroundings or the reason why the warmth of her mouth disappeared.

“This stays on.” The blonde angel lowers his arms to his sides, rolling her chest over his sensually as the tip of her tongue comes out to lick the corner of his mouth. “I want the full Serpent experience tonight.” She whispers filthily against his open lips and sends him a provocative look under innocently flattering eyelashes and Jughead can’t hold back anymore, he grunts almost painfully and regains control of that sinful mouth, twirling his skillful tongue in a way that has her putty in his arms.

Betty’s back collides with the wall; there is a hiss of pain that turns into a weak gasp as Jughead’s teeth bite hard on her lower lip and then disappear, Betty leaning forward in a desperate attempt to follow the anchor of her desire. He pushes her back against the wall, a large hand splaying on the top of her sternum, fingers parallel with her collarbones, and she pants heavily, hands raised up in surrender against the wall, mouth open, eyelashes flickering over lust filled eyes. She surrenders under the intensity of his stare, the pad of his middle finger drawing a straight line down the middle of her breasts, making her arch against the utter simplicity of pleasure that it offers.

“Where did you get the jacket?” his voice comes raspy and authoritative because he needs to know now, intrigued by the change of heart in that particular item of clothing. His eyes cast at the hint of pink that now the misplaced garment offers, Adam’s apple bopping as his fingers trail skin until they are caressing it and then they move under the leather to twitch the already hard nipple, gaining a low moan from the girl captured between the cold wall and his heated body.  

“Long story. Not now.” She is not gonna discuss Alice Cooper and her rebellious past while there are bony fingers abusing the sensitive peak of her breast so she vaguely answers around pants and hissing breaths. And then she feels the wet heat of his lips enveloping the tensing nerve-ending and she immediately loses every train of thought as her head falls back with a bang. The sensation lasts only for a minute, then his attention is on the neglected nipple and next she can’t feel him anywhere again, just hears the sexy pop of his lips freeing her reddened skin before she groans and snaps her eyes open. Upon catching his glistering with passion eyes watching her again, or rather her soaked dark nipples stretching against the zipper of the jacket, she smirks, words coming out of her lips to tease him and fuel his fiery, dominating side more that make her legs jelly and her panties soaking wet since day one.

“What?” Betty has his attention, head snapping up, pitch dark eyes peaking behind raven messy waves. “You lost your ways, Serpent King?” it’s simultaneously a title of honor and shame as it rolls off her tongue and he can feel his blood boiling and pumping in his veins, the fingers of the hand that is still firmly on her sternum, turning to dig lightly against her flesh.

Jughead leans to her ear. “You shouldn’t have said that.” It’s a low whisper, a sexual threat, and she shivers against his chest, at his words and his teeth that graze her earlobe as a follow up. “If that’s the case, then a king should always bow down to his queen.” And with that he is lowering himself to the ground, sexy smirk intact as one knee meets the floor and the other stays bended against her calf.

His large palms caress from her breasts to her ribs, the front of her thighs, the back of her calves as his lips sloppily trail open mouthed kisses against her stomach and to her navel, licking a path across the elastic of her underwear before taking it in his teeth and pulling momentarily, then letting it snap back against her skin, making her arch against his mouth and bring her legs together to ease some of the fire he is causing her. Those blue eyes look up to catch her forest green ones and the smirk never leaves his lips as he closes the red lace between his teeth again but this time he rolls them down, spreading her wetness on her thighs on the way, before they are just an accessory around her right ankle. The action turns her on even more as she searches for his hair and tugs forward, bringing his cocky face against the middle of her thighs.

Jughead licks a trail from the inside of her knee up her thigh and then he’s opening her up, nails scratching down the back of her thigh before his hand curls at the crook of her knee and he hoists it up his shoulder, stiletto heel and red panties gridding against the tongue of the snake behind his back while her hips are mimicking their action against his own marvelous tongue. He is fully clothed and she is fully naked, apart from the jacket that now rubs deliciously against her perky nipples, Betty moaning at the combined sensation and scraping his scalp, fingers fisting his hair for dear life. There are heavy licks and audible sucks and she can feel herself falling, falling into the depths of numbness and wholeness, mewling through her smudged lipstick and withering against the cheap wall, the wall that receives a hard slap from her palm as she feels his lips directly on her most sensitive nerves, sucking hard and moaning from the taste of her nectar.

It doesn’t take long, Betty can already feel her legs trembling, and when she feels his fingers joining the feast against her heat she strongly believes that her heart is going to jump right out of her exposed chest. He pushes two fingers inside of her, to the hilt and with no warming, the fallen angel on top of him delivering a deep moan that makes his painful erection twitch against his unbelievably tight jeans and he groans as more wetness runs down his fingers, making her silk and ready for him and the rest of the plans he has for them for tonight. Her hips are staring to spasm, her feminine scent is filling his nostrils making him dizzy and demanding, reaching for the leg on his shoulder and curling a hand behind her knee, rising it a tad and opening her up more as the pad of his fingers dwell on the spot inside her that makes her produce the filthiest of sounds, something that happens again like clockwork and has him smirking and groaning against her tensing muscles.

“Oh God, Jug, please…” his name falls from her lips in a common Betty Cooper erotic sigh and her eyes snap open in wonder as he moans in response and quickens the action of his fingers, his tongue on her clit drawing heart-stopping figure eights that has her grinding her hips against his face in frenzy. She is practically riding his mouth and he loves it, the red lace against her ankle swaying vigorously like a red flag in the face of a bull threatening to escape. What does escape is a long, deep moan from her chest when she looks down to the amazing man between her legs and she catches him with eyes closed, enjoying it as much as her. She violently grabs a fistful of his hair, the action drawing a hiss from him against her dripping wetness and his eyes snap up to take her in, in her most vulnerable and utterly breathtaking form. Her body stiffens and her legs start to tremble, not bearing more of the intensity of his treatment and she is falling, falling into the depths of the universe, with his long fingers pistoling in and out of her and his teeth grazing the bundle of nerves at the center of her existence.

She isn’t able to even form a moan or one of the high-pitched sighs he loves, her lips just open in heavenly agony and utter pleasure and she is spasming relentlessly while he works her more and more, wanting to taste every drop of her release and prolong the flattering of her muscles for as long as possible, as hard as possible. Betty has to stop him at some point, hypersensitive and afraid that her body is going to melt into a useless puddle on the floor if he keeps going, using her hold on his hair to drag him up her body and kiss him senseless, tongue twirling around his soaked lips and throat letting a lustful moan at the taste of herself on him. Her hands run from his hair to his neck and then the lapels of the identical with hers leather jacket but it’s his time to grab her wrists and break their heated make out.

“Turn around.” Jughead’s voice is barely a whisper against her opened in heavy panting lips but its tone is still a command and Betty bites her lip at the feeling of more wetness that rushes to her center just by the implication of his words and his dominating stare. She complies, turning to face the wall, excitement and electrifying desire invading her senses as he helps her hands slide up over and on either side of her head for leverage and taps the inside of her thigh to widen the gap between her legs.

He takes off his clothes as he watches her; the black leather contradicting her golden locks, her porcelain white skin, her sun kissed personality. He lets his own jacket drop, then grabs the back of his dark grey sweater to pull it off, shaking his head from side to side in a manly fashion to get the stray locks of his black mane away from his eyes. He bends for his combat boots and his eyes land on the valley of her legs, thighs glistering under the pure moonlight from his tongue work and her arousal and his member twitches again, demanding attention at this point. He unbuckles his belt and he swears there is a tiny wiggle in anticipation from the glorious hips in front of him and, with a bite on his lower lip, a manly moan and without any more self-control, he yanks his black jeans and boxers down his legs, kicking them off completely. His little minx of a girlfriend offers him a sly smirk over her shoulder and a lick over her upper lip and he loses it right there, snatching a condom from his jacket and quickly rolling it over his impossibly hard member with a hiss of anticipation, before dropping against her back and lining himself to her entrance.

She mewls and pushes back against him and he doesn’t want any more encouragement as he grabs her hip and enters her in one swift movement, his other hand slamming the wall next to hers as he closes his eyes and drops her forehead against the back of her neck, him letting a deep manly moan and her gasping loudly at how firm and hot he feels inside her. He begins a slow, lascivious rhythm, hips rolling in delicious waves and it’s such a slow burn that Betty feels like drowning, like she doesn’t have control of her body anymore, like her fate is handled wholeheartedly over to his amazing hands. There are low moans and sharp intakes of breath and Jughead is murmuring apologies and filthy compliments against the back of her neck, bruising the skin there and making her drop her forehead against the wall, offering him more skin, offering him everything he wanted from her.

Soon, Betty gets frustrated and starts to push back with vigor, wanting for him to speed his pace and have her hard and fast, the way both of them love, but Jughead refuses with a halt of his movements and a painful nail scratch on the side of her thigh that makes her shiver and curse under her breath as he smirks cockily against the snake of her jacket. She knows how to play dirty too though and when he starts moving again, painfully slow and teasingly, she clenches her muscles around his throbbing member and he actually has to anchor himself with both hands from her hips as his hips jerk forward, too wound up for her to play such games on him. There’s a low grunt out his lips and Betty smirks in victory but it doesn’t last long because she suddenly feels empty, the wonderful fullness between her thighs gone and she growls in frustration as he turns her around and picks her up by the back of her thighs, her gasp getting tangled up with his groan. They kiss with fever licks, demanding teeth and roaming hands on her behind, his tip soaking wet from her body’s reaction towards him all the nights spent in this trailer, as he walks them to the bedroom, kicking the door with his foot and dropping her on the mattress that creaks under their weight. There is a devilish smirk on his red lips and Betty clenches her legs together at the sensation a simple facial expression of his is causing to her overly sensitive body.

“Ass up, hands on the headboard, baby.” Soft tone but commanding dark blue eyes and Betty is sure she can come right here and there by that look alone and the view of his hard, naked body. He drops a playful but loud slap on the side of her hip when he sees her not moving but instead eyeing his hard on with lustful eyes and she offers him a foxy smile before going on with his request, resting on her knees, her ass in the air and slender fingers wrapping around the mahogany bars of the vintage double bed. A trembling sigh leaves her lips as the cold air of the room contradicts with the hotness of her skin and the tingling sensation against her center, the position she is in adding a thrilling naughtiness in her already way too turned on mood and she wiggles her hips against him once again, asking for something, anything to feed the hunger between her legs.

“You don’t even know how exquisitely delicious you look right now.” Jughead whispers in awe, eyes capturing the image and storing it at the back of his mind, knowing that this is surely going to be his wet dream from now on, every night she isn’t lying next to him. And what a spectacular wet dream that is.

His fingernails are scratching lightly up and down the back of her thighs as he starts teasing her with his tip, making her shiver and writhe under him, his hands going to settle around her waist, bending it more and pushing the leather material up to trace the adorably sexy dimples against her skin there. His knees push her knees further apart and without warming he is inside her to the hilt one again, Betty snapping her head back with a surprised moan and him dropping over her back with a baritone gasp.

Slow and languid isn’t an option anymore; they’ve missed each other those days that they were stubbornly pushing each other away and now they are way too wound up and ready to chase their pleasurable union down that road of intense sexual magnetism that their bodies seemed to have since the time they shared their first kiss. He is thrusting behind her in a steady rhythm, skin colliding with skin and the sound mingling with the operatic moans that fall out of her voluminous lips, fueling the tightness low on Jughead’s stomach and causing his movements to become curt, sharp, deeper and deeper. He feels on fire, literally catching in flames and burning down in ashes as she pushes back against him with vigor, meeting his thrusts and clenching him more and more in the pouring lava of her feminine abyss.

“Pull my hair.” Betty sighs breathlessly, too lost in the sensation of his hard cock hitting places inside her that makes her legs spasm against his and he groans deep in his chest as he does what he is told, taking hold of her blonde curls and twirling them in a makeshift ponytail, tugging her head lightly towards him. Her eyes roll back to the inside of her skull in pleasure and her sigh is a full on sultry one as he drops his lips on the side on her neck and starts sucking on her thudding pulse point, hard.

Jughead’s hips push and pull quicker, her legs almost give out but he curls a strong arm around her belly and holds her against him, completely at his mercy. The world spins way too crazily, the headboard is banging loudly against the wall, her heels are digging painfully on his calves, his lips are everywhere on her neck, sucking and marking, and his hot raspy breaths echo between her sultry moans and high pitched sighs. They are on the verge, shimmery sweat coaxing both their tense bodies and the leather sticks awkwardly on her skin but she loves every second of it, just as much as he does. Jughead abandons her neck and her hair fall like a waterfall of gold at the side of her face as he straightens his back and takes hold of her hips fiercely, nails scratching against her hipbones in sweet pain, pulling her more ferociously against his thick length, Betty biting the pillow under her and letting a muffled scream as her knuckles turn white around the wooden bars of the bed.

He commands himself not to close his eyes because his need to watch her is desperate right now, the snake in her jacket staring him right in the eyes before his lust-filled orbs drop further down to the skin on her waist that reddens under the iron hold of his fingertips, her frim ass smacking against his hipbones, him getting lost inside her. She feels heavenly, soaking wet, burning hot and tight like a vice and he can’t help but groan loudly as her muscles start to flutter around him and her legs start to shake uncontrollably, the telltale signs of intense orgasm he has imprinted in his mind.

His fingers sneak down where they are connected and once the pad of her middle finger comes in contact with her sensitive clit, her whole body jolts from electricity and an almost painful moan rips her chest as she falls forward, hands sliding down the bars of the bed with a squeaky sound due to her sweaty palms, Jughead’s free hand gripping her breast under the jacket, pinching the hard nipple and rolling it in circles that coordinate with the circles between her thighs.

“Jug, I’m going to co– ah!” her orgasm strikes before she gets the chance to say it, lips falling open in a perfect O and body going rigid as pleasure runs through her bloodstream like a drug. Her head falls back on the shoulder of the arm that is flexing to draw out every ounce of white pleasure from her body and she squeezes him, soaked walls demanding his release and of course he complies, joining her in the crescendo of her erotic loud sighs mingled with his name, thrusts messy and uncalculated as he comes undone inside her body. His hand yanks the hem of the jacket down her shoulder violently, as severe spasms run down his spine, and Jughead drops against her with no control of his body to bite hard the soft skin around a deep primal growl of Betty’s name.

They are all trembling limps and a mess of sweat as they try to calm their raging breaths, him pulling out of her with a tender kiss against the redness on her shoulder, her offering him a lightheaded smirk at the action and a trembling sigh of contentment. He drops back carelessly with a cooing exhale vertical on the messy sheets, too exhausted to actually plop himself up properly on the bed and he takes hold of her ankle to slide her gently down and to his side, Betty throwing an arm carelessly over his stomach and hitching a leg between his, jacket still on but wrinkled and on one side low on her shoulder. Some minutes of blissful silence pass before he speaks up, voice hoarse and deep, still affected by his previous intense high.

“Betty, I love you.” Jughead states, because he has a feeling he is not saying it much these days, and Betty nudges her nose at the crook of his neck, tightening the hold of her arm around his torso, dropping a soft kiss against his collarbone. “What you said the other night, about this, between us, being just sex now… You know that’s not true, right?” he tilts his head to look down at her with concerned knitted eyebrows, her final words in their latest fight still stinking like a flaming iron on his chest.

She rolls practically on top of him, elbows resting on his chest, damp curls tickling his left pec. “I was being petty because I was angry. There’s pressure from everything and everyone around us, it was bound for us to crack under it. Of course I know it and of course I didn’t mean it.” She assures him and he sighs, relieved. “I love you, Juggie, and it’s real. I can feel it in my fingers when I touch your cheeks, I can feel it in my heart when I see your face in the crowd, I can feel it in your eyes when you look at me like that, as if love is a word you only learnt from my lips.” Betty whispers lovingly, fingers tracing the handsome features on his face, illuminated by the moonlight.

“It is.” His own whisper is barely audible and his eyes seem to water, Betty leaning up to press a soft kiss of love and affection against his temple, over untamed waves and droplets of sweat.

“I don’t want to keep pushing you away anymore. I love you too much to do that.” She says in a soft, vulnerable voice. “It’s just, we are changing—”

“Betty, we’re not—” he tries to cut her off with a fierce shake of his head but she has more to say.

“Yes, we are, Juggie. And it’s fine.” She points the word with a slow nod to show him that she is perfectly okay with this reality. “It’s part of this crazy scary thing that’s called growing up. And it’s not fair for me to constantly keep beating you up for the choices you decide to make about your life.” She says apologetically, hating herself for making him choose between her and his need for acceptance, even though she knows how bad he is seeking it.

“Maybe I don’t have a clue about what the hell I’m doing.” Jughead sighs in despair, his eyes focused on his fingers playing with her hair. “Maybe all of this is a giant, disastrous mistake.” He is puzzled, trapped in his own head and the world around him and he fears for the worst, messing everything up, betraying his dad, ruining them. His mind is literally in the verge of exploding and he needs her to be his anchor to sanity.

“Then so be it.” Betty doesn’t miss a heartbeat. “We’re going to face the consequences together. I’m with you, Jug.” He hears those three little words and his heart flutters almost as if she said “I love you” or “come in me”.  “You could destroy the world and I’d still be by your side.” Her eyes are sincere and loving, with a hint of determination in their green shade and Jughead is falling in love again, more than he already is, harder, faster with no chance to second guess or to secure his heart.

“You, Betty Cooper, are growing into an amazing woman.” He whispers in awe, hand coming up to caress her cheek, like he is touching a goddess or the world’s finest art work. In his mind, she is both.

“That needs you, Jughead Jones, the most brilliant and terribly handsome man on the planet by her side.” She leans forward to connect their foreheads and a thump caresses the corner of his lips, him tilting his head to peck lightly the pad of her finger.

“Your excessive compliments are slipping far away from the truth but I’m way too exhausted to argue right now.” He breathes in his usual snarky tone and Betty giggles lightly, messing his hair against his forehead. “Seriously Betts, this outfit,” he trails his eyes down her silk body, licking his lips at the sexy heels that are still on her feet and the way her breasts are pushed up against his side “damn, I swear my eyes nearly fell off their sockets when I first saw you on the couch, baby.” He lets a tiny groan at the image and bites his lip, as a hand sneaks at the back of her head and pushes her forward for a lazy, wet kiss.

“Yeah, you kinda demonstrated how much you liked it.” Betty sighs when they pull apart, eyes closed dreamingly and lower lip between her teeth, as her hips roll involuntarily against the side of his thigh, him groaning again as he feels her still wet for him. “And it was mind-blowing.” She whispers against his lips in sultry delight, his chest falling with a deep exhale as he captures her lips again in languid passion.

“When am I learning the story behind this jacket?” he murmurs curiously when they pull back for air, still a tad exhausted to engage in a full make out.

Betty settles back against his shoulder with a small smile. “It’s a gift from an old Serpent. Very long story; you’ll be surprised.” Her lips move in coordination with the pad of her index finger against his pec. “Let’s save that for later, I just wanna be with you close right now.” She purrs and clings to him in a cute girly fashion, his own arm closing tighter over the leather on her back, lips leaving a loving kiss on top of her hair.

The stay in silence for a while, him blinking up at the ceiling in peace now that his angel is again in his arms and her enjoying the heat and scent of his body with closed eyes, the gentle rain creating a soothing background to their deep breathing and delicious aching of bones.

“Hey, Betts?” Jughead whispers abruptly, as low as he can, not sure if she is asleep and not wanting to wake her if that’s the case.

“Hm?” she hums, nudging her cheek against his chest.

“You wanna know what my favorite thing here is?” The question is out of the blue but she doesn’t stop him because of course she wants to know, she always wants to know any big or tiny thing about him. “Every Friday night there’s this movie gathering where they set up this big screen and play retro movies. There are families there, kids our age, couples…” a tiny smile forms on his lips aimed at the abstract shapes of moon dust on the ceiling. “It’s a very nice sight to see amongst all the black leather and gas smoke.”

“Like the Drive-in?” Betty smiles too, even though she can’t see him do so. She can feel it.

“More like an outdoors cinema.” Jughead explains, fingers tracing the skin of her shoulder aimlessly. “They lay down blankets or tablecloths or worn out car sheets and just enjoy.”

She sits up against his chest again, eyebrows rising in pleasant surprise. “And Serpents actually turn up to such thing?”

“Of course.” He scoffs like it’s the obvious because it is. “There are people, Betts, just like us. A jacket doesn’t make a difference.” He states matter-of-factly and her mother’s previous words echo in her head.

Southside, Northside, we are all Riverdale. And Riverdale should be unified; you said so in your article.

“What are they playing this Friday?” she catches herself asking without even noticing.

“Tarantino, Pulp Fiction.” His baby blues shine with a hint of boyish excitement, that light that goes off when he is passionate about something and Betty utterly adores, and she doesn’t think twice before she goes to reply with a dashing grin.

“Then we should go.”

“What?” He almost jumps off the bed, head jerking up and his eyes now big round balls of shock.

“Yeah, we should.” She repeats, seeing him frown, while examining her face in the darkness in confusion. “We haven’t had a date since ages, Juggie. Plus, I really do wanna know your world. I wanna be here for you, for real this time.” Her tone is serious now, she is with him through every step of the way. “Maybe I can meet the guys you hang out with at school there too? If you want to, of course.” Betty’s sweet smile never fazes and Jughead is at a loss once again, mind blank and shut down by the sudden change of events.

“I do but… you, I mean, you don’t have to—” He stutters pathetically because he loves her for what she is trying to do and he will feel the happiest person on the planet if she wants to hold his hand while he dives in this new world that terrifies him but excites him at the same time. But he’s always putting her first and pressuring her or putting her in danger are some things he never did and will never do, so he is ready to refuse, to keep her out of trouble, to keep her pure and untouched, away from this muddy swamp he made his home.

She is stubborn like usual, fingers running to his lips to shush him. “I want to.” She declares, not leaving room for further discussion. “I told you before, Jug, if we’re gonna be together I wanna know everything about you.” She reminds him with a lovesick smile, taking his hand, like she had done back then at Polly’s baby shower, the Serpents being again the cause of conflict between them, and this time she brings her lips to his knuckles, kissing softly. He melts at the tender gesture and his eyes shine with love and devotion at the miracle of a girl that gets to call his.

“Fine, we’ll go.” Jughead can’t really refuse her anything; she has already conquered the most important parts of his identity, his soul and his muse. She squeals in delight and she kisses him with smiley lips and he can’t help but chuckle at her genuine enthusiasm, before raising his eyebrows in warning. “But now don’t go full on worried mode about first impressions and whatnot. After you slammed that door in my face the other night, Ryker practically worships you. He thinks you are so cool.” He drops his voice to mimic the other boy’s tone and then scoffs in exasperation, rolling his eyes too as Betty laughs loudly and smooches his cheek lovingly. He can’t stay broody after that though and he sighs in content as he gets lost in her eyes, his lovely boyish smile curling his lips and reaching his eyes, Betty’s heart thudding deliciously against her ribcage, as she feels an equal smile appear on her lips, her face the definition of a woman madly in love.

Yes, not all Serpents are bad. And her Serpent is definitely the purest soul of them all.

#bughead #jetty #bughead fanfiction #bughead prompts #betty x jughead #riverdale #riverdale fanfiction #bughead fic #riverdaleships #otp:sundaes & plaids #mywriting

[itravelonmystomach]

While walking to our hotel in Vienna on a bright July afternoon, my husband Mark and I turned a corner and found ourselves in Mariahilferstr, a pedestrian shopping street. On the corner is a souvenir shop called Bruder Kohn. My shopping antenna went up hoping they might sell Austrian snowglobes that I collect. We had just completed a four hour city bike tour, and Mark, bordering on hangry, was ‘unhappy’ when I wanted to go in. ‘Let’s get back to the hotel and clean up” he moaned. “I need to get something to eat too.”

But, oh no– I was on a snowglobe replacement mission. I collect high end ones. Yes, they exist. And the Viennese are very good at this thing. We had visited Vienna for New Years 17 years before and I had bought several snowglobes – one with a kugelhopf cake floating in the snow and another with a pile of chocolate glazed donuts.   The kugelhopf globe had broken and I was determined to find a replacement.

Bruder Kohn is a small, polished wood paneled delight of Austrian made products. An old fashioned bell on the heavy wooden door jingled as we entered the shop and before me I beheld four shelves of snowglobes. A veritable blizzard.

Marilyn Kohn, the owner, stood behind the counter. A woman in her seventies with dark hair and welcoming eyes, she is still minding the family store.   Mark stood to the side exchanging pleasantries with her while I, mouth open and pulse racing, was drawn to the shelves.   Showing what I thought was great restraint I chose 4 globes; a large kugelhopf, a small kugelhopf , a large donut and a snowman.

Mark took out his credit card to pay.   She looked at it and said.   “Ohhhh, Lampl”   “that’s Austrian!”

“My grandfather was from Vienna and left before WWI – he went to the University of Vienna. He lived here when Lampl was a common Jewish name.”

“I’m Jewish too” she said.

“Really?” my husband said, “Were you born here?”

“No. My mother was a nurse in London before World War II. I was born there and we came back after the war. This shop has been in my family for several generations, but, was confiscated by the Nazis. We were one of the few who received reparations – believe it or not Germany was better about reparations than Austria.”

We were alone with her in the shop and continued talking for another twenty minutes.   Mark forgot he was hungry and that I was obsessively buying snowglobes. She went on to tell us that most of her family was killed in the concentration camps during WWII.   But, an uncle, Walter Kohn, escaped Austria on the last Kindertransport, the humanitarian program that brought thousands of Jewish children to Great Britain from Nazi Germany and Austria. Eventually he made his way to the United States by way of London and Canada. In 1998 he won the Nobel Prize in Chemistry. The reality of what was lost was not lost on us.   I asked her why her parents brought her back to Vienna after such horror. “They wanted to come home – to them Vienna was still home. There is still a Jewish community here.”

“As a surprise to my husband, I was hoping to find a Lampl or perhaps someone connected – I searched the Jewish Gen website to see if I could connect Mark with family even if it was just a former address.   But, I couldn’t find anything.   So here I am replacing something small that was lost,” I told Marilyn. Instead we had found this shop and made this connection.

“Why all the globes with pastries?” she asked.

“Oh, I love to bake and I love miniatures – a perfect combination for me.”

Ahhh she said. While you’re in Vienna you must try this dessert– it is a summer specialty made when apricots are in season so you are in luck. She wrote the name on a sticky note and handed it to me. Marillenknodel .

I put the sticky note in my purse as we got up to leave. She walked us to the door and we shook hands and touched each other’s arms. Just as we opened the door a small group walked in.

We spent the next day – a damp and rainy one – with Viennese friends, Gunter and Elsa, who took us to the Wachau Valley vineyards for a heurige tour, tasting and dinner. A heurige is a family owned vineyard, wine garden and restaurant.   Despite the uncooperative weather, we had a wonderful time at the corny tour and the tasting at the end was divine. From there we went to dinner.   We stepped down to the charming, cavelike restaurant with stone walls and on this soggy evening there was a fire burning and the tables were candlelit. Crazy charming.

Over a glass of Gruner Veltliner we caught up on our children, summer plans and work.   We enjoyed a delicious farm to table (where else would it come from and go to?) meal of weiner schnitzel, fresh salad and grainy bread.

Elsa asked if we would like something sweet to end the meal. She and I like to cook so she told me there was an apricot dessert she would love me to try. I dug in my purse and took out the Marillenknodel sticky note. Is this it? I asked. “Yes” she said surprised. “I thought I would be introducing you to something that you had not heard of.” Sigrid asked the waitress if the dessert was being served. The waitress shook her head no and explained why in German to Elsa. Elsa told me that the young women apologized but the apricot delivery had just arrived and they wouldn’t be serving it till tomorrow.   A disappointment. The waitress cleared our plates and went back in the kitchen.   A few moments later she reappeared and said she had spoken to the chef and that if we wouldn’t mind waiting he would make it for us. Not at all.

We told our friends about meeting Marilyn and how deeply it had affected us. There are no accidents I said. I had been searching for something of Mark’s heritage and found Marilyn while trolling for snowglobes.

We began talking about World War II and Gunter told us about his father.   His father had died several years before and never spoke about the war until before his death.     He haltingly spoke of his 16 year old father who was given the choice to join the army or be shot. He joined, and, at 17, he became a POW held by the Americans in France. When the Americans got word that the war was ended they released him. “Go home”, they said when they saw his papers and that he was a 17 year old boy.   His father told him that if he knew what he would see and be involved with he would have asked the Austrian officers to shoot him in the head. But, he was 16 and wanted to live. Gunter’s voice cracked.

“We all want the same, don’t you think?” I said. “For our children to be safe. Well, not all of us.”

The Marillenknodel, a dumpling redolent of apricot and sprinkled with powdered sugar arrived and we enjoyed the warm and sweet delicacy. Memory, sweet and salty, was the main ingredient.

  MARILLENKNODEL

10.5 ounces of low fat farmers cheese

1 scant cup of all purpose flour

½ stick (2 oz.) of unsalted butter at room temperature

½ tsp. vanilla sugar

1 egg

¼ tsp salt

10 apricots

10 cubes of sugar

garnish:

¾ cup of breadcrumbs approx.

1 stick of unsalted butter

confectioners sugar

Beat softened butter with vanilla sugar and a pinch of salt until creamed. Mix in the egg, farmers cheese and flour until it forms a dough.

Place dough into a ball, cover with plastic wrap and put in a cool place for approximately 30 minutes.

Remove pits from apricots and place a sugar cube in the center of each one.

Flour a work surface and shape the dough into a roll approx. 2 ½ inches thick.

Cut into slices and gently press them flat between your hands. Place an apricot in the dough and shape the dough around it. Seal well. With floured hands form them into dumplings and place on a floured board.

6.  In a large pot boil slightly salted water and then lower the heat. Place the dumplings    into the water and simmer for 10-12 minutes stirring carefully so that they don’t stick together.

7.  Garnish: Melt the butter in a sauté pan. Add the breadcrumbs and cinnamon and toast till golden brown.

Remove the cooked dumplings carefully and roll in the garnish. Dust with confectioners sugar. This will remind you of a snowy snowglobe!

TIP: Cook a single ‘tester’ dumpling before filling with apricot to ensure that your dough is working. If necessary, add a little more flour to dough.

                                        Vienna While walking to our hotel in Vienna on a bright July afternoon, my husband Mark and I turned a corner and found ourselves in Mariahilferstr, a pedestrian shopping street.

[weirdlandtv]

Behind the scenes of the making of: “Star Quest”

This post contains background information on the Star Quest video, which can be seen here on my YouTube channel, Tales from Weirdland:

It’s funny. As a kid, I wasn’t a big sci-fi fan. Or even a little sci-fi fan. There was Star Wars, sure--I loved Star Wars--but outside of that, nothing took my fancy. My brother, a real nerd, complete with jam jar glasses and an oversized digital watch that accurately showed all the moon phases, used to watch all the shows religiously: Battlestar Galactica, Buck Rogers, V, and so forth; but me, I played with dolls and wanted a doll’s house for Christmas (which I got, thank you). My main memory of the 1979 Buck Rogers TV show basically is this hideous villain that appeared in one of the episodes: there was something wrong with him, his skin looked like mutant muesli. Boiled cancer. It made me lose all appetite for like, years.

He’s wearing his mask there--this is to protect you, reader. (I took that image from a blog, John Kenneth Muir's Reflections on Cult Movies and Classic TV.) Google “Varek”, “Buck Rogers”, if you dare.

But anyway, the sci-fi genre wasn’t really for me.

And yet, I find that it’s exactly that, those old sci-fi shows and comics, that evoke some of the strongest childhood memories. Possibly because they promised an exciting future, somewhere in the background. Or maybe it’s like the songs you don’t really pay attention to: those get stuck in your head.

(A song gets stuck in your head when your brain is trying to finish it, to resolve it, but it can’t. To counter this, play the song in its entirety.)

That’s me, left, being my autumnal self in the early 1980s. My big brother is lost in a comic and unaware of reality.

Star Quest is an homage to this era of silver spacesuits, capes, medallions, bushy sideburns, tin foil antennas, robots made of gold-painted hard latex, and control panels that were really disguised mixing desks. I’ve always been intrigued by the technology from that period: those robust, bulky designs, built to withstand a bomb explosion apparently. 1970s telephones look like pre-school toys, with big buttons and thick, coated armor. The enemy ship in SQ is like that: it’s plated, heavy, a shark-shaped fortress:

Grand Vizier Rylox, captain of this evil ship, originally looked like the image above. His appearance resembled that of a Noh demon, but as much as I liked the design, it clashed with the 70s theme, so I abandoned it before I got to coloring the face. As I was redesigning the character, I wanted Rylox to look as if his face could be a rubber mask, or as if he was wearing prosthetics maybe. That’s why he has limited mouth movements in the video: it’s not bad lip syncing, it’s simply that the actor can’t move his facial muscles too well.

When Captain Logan is being addressed by Rylox via hologram, he just sternly stands there, listening. As Rylox himself wasn’t much to look at, with his small, black mouth, I had to vary the camera positions occasionally to prevent the video from losing its rhythm. That resulted in this tricky shot. I was very pleased with Captain Logan’s look actually: it’s a blend of Lorne Greene and a non-specific Filmation character (I was thinking of Journey to the Center of the Earth). To get the right 1970s feel for the video, I watched clips of all the relevant shows, but found that once you try to copy that style, you quickly venture towards caricature, parody, like that Starsky & Hutch film with Ben Stiller and Owen Wilson: it’s so SEVENTIES you actually forget it’s supposed to take place in the 1970s. A better approach is to just try to come up with a good design first, and then adjust it so that it fits within the fashion perimeters of that era. After all, in the 1970s, nobody looked or dressed like it was the 1970s.

That’s a fancy way of saying I more or less stole the outfits from the 1977 TV show, Space Academy.

The shark ship, before I forget, was originally supposed to be a city ship, a floating metropolis, housing thousands of people. (That’s inevitably in our future.) I thought it was a grand idea, until I discovered that a similar design features in Alien 2. So, exit city ship. The interior of the Starship Olympus was inspired, sort of, by E.T.’s ship.

Because I animate the old-fashioned way, by drawing everything on paper with pencil, I have to be economical when it comes to using paper. Hence these three heads crammed together on one sheet. The “Star Commander”, left, echoes 1970s Marvel comics: he doesn’t feature in the video itself but is simply there to suggest you’re watching a series. Also, he was the first character I started drawing when I set myself the task to go for a 1970s sci-fi theme.

The introductions were fun to do. Admiral Jericho is paired with Sola, in typical 1970s split-screen style. Again, these shots were intended to suggest you’re watching a running series instead of a brief one-off. I always think up small backstories for such glimpses, just for myself. Sola is being briefed by a Galruggian worker--”All cells have been replaced, lieutenant”--Jericho, in his lab, is testing out a new laser, making adjustments, taking notes.

Jim Booker and Captain Matt Logan. Matt, you say? Yes. My brother and I used to play with Lego Space when we were kids, and we had invented this show called Space Police. My main character in it was Jim Booker, my brother’s was Matt Logan, after, I suppose Matt Trakker (M.A.S.K.) and Wolverine. So my video is an homage to that too: that brief, golden flash that is your childhood.

Until next time!

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