brain tank

Old World Blues … I blame my curiosity.

“mmmm Such an unusual specimen to so boldly… walk… into the mighty expanse of the Think Tank.”

Dr. Dala is the only member of the Think Tank that seems to have some human left in her. …in a few… cells.

…maybe.

:::blue pencil, graphite, lots of photoshop, CGTEXTURES:::

edit: there seems to be some speculation as to who the man is. He is Ross MacFayden, the since-2006 sketchbook enigma that somehow fits into everything.

edit edit: holy wow. thank you for the notes everyone. *_*

Hey There, Cool Rider

Sometimes I creep through the bughead prompts tag, so sue me! 
Warning: full on sexy times ahead. Very sin, much smut.

@xobughead: Betty bonds with Jughead’s dad over fixing his motorcycle. Jughead is surprised and sexiness follows.  


They were trying, and although Jughead didn’t necessarily want to admit it he was enjoying spending time with his dad. It was Betty’s idea to go and see him again together, on more social terms this time. 

“Come on, Juggie,” she pleaded, toying with the collar on his denim jacket. “I’ve never been introduced as anyone’s girlfriend before,” she mumbled shyly, tapping the toe of his boot with the tip of her shoe as she looked down, faint blush dusting her cheekbones. The corners of Jughead’s mouth twitched slightly. It was so adorably normal, what they were doing right now. A girl nervous to meet her boyfriend’s father - the mediocrity of it in amongst all their worries was almost comical. 

“Ok, we’ll go,” he conceded, her bright smile making his defeat completely worth it. “But only for a few minutes,” he warned, fixing her with a not-so-stern stare. She blinked back at him with innocence lacing her eyes, tongue coming out to wet her already glossy lips. 

“Few minutes, got it,” she confirmed unconvincingly. Any protesting groan he was about to emit was swallowed by the firm peck she leaned forward and placed on his lips. He brushed his nose against hers as she pulled away.

“Those are underhanded tactics, Miss Cooper,” he sighed, breath fanning over her flushed face. She only giggled in return, grabbing his hand as they headed towards the trailer park.

“It could be fun!”

***

Fun. It was one of the many words that sprung to mind right now. 

When they’d arrived at the trailer park they found FP outside, bent over a propped up motorcycle, back to them. 

“Hey, Dad,” Jughead called to get his attention. FP jumped in surprise, not expecting to find his son standing inches behind him. His boot knocked the almost empty bottle by his feet, a distinct clang ringing out across the shed. 

“Uh, hey, Jughead,” FP greeted him, taking a small step in front of the bottle as if that would hide what they all already knew was there. His eyes flicked to Betty, her hand wrapped tightly around Jughead’s arm. 

“You remember Betty,” at his pause Betty nudged him gently in the side. “My girlfriend,” he finished somewhat reluctantly, looking down at the stubborn blonde attached to his side with an amused smile and pink cheeks.

“Yeah, of course. Hi, Betty,” FP replied, nodding at her in greeting. 

“Hi, Mr Jones.” A silence commenced between the trio, hints of awkwardness beginning to cloud the edges as it stretched on. “So,” Betty started to ease the tension, “what are you working on?” she asked in her politest parent voice, gesturing with her free hand to the bike behind FP. He glanced back, as if he’d forgotten it was there already. 

“Oh, yeah. Salvaged this thing from a junkyard a few days ago, guy was dropping it off as we got there. Nothing like a free bit of metal,” he joked, his grin looking eerily like his son’s in that moment. Jughead rolled his eyes at his dad’s penchant for a deal. “Trouble is, can’t get her started. Might be a bust,” he lamented, kicking one of the wheels lightly. 

“Well…” Betty hesitated, casting a quick glance to Jughead. “Maybe I could help take a look at it? I help my dad fix up cars sometimes, done a couple of motorcycles too.” The Jones men looked at her in shock. FP nodded, gesturing for her to move forward.

“Be my guest.” Betty slipped her arms out of her light blue sweater as to not get it oily, handing it to Jughead who couldn’t figure out how to close his mouth anymore. The night was unseasonably warm anyway, a light sheen already covering all of their foreheads but now, as Betty moved around the bike checking it over for various issues, a sweat broke out over her chest, dripping down in the valley of her cleavage, now tantalisingly revealed by the white tank top she was only left wearing. Jughead watched the bead roll down, disappearing beneath her shirt. He wanted to follow it with his tongue. 

Betty dropped down, crouching on the balls of her feet as she peered into the mechanics in front of her. Her actions revealed a small strip of skin across her lower back, Jughead taking in a sharp breath through his nose at the flutter that erupted in the pit of his stomach. 

“I wanna check the spark plugs. Hey, could you hand me that, Mr Jones?” she asked, leaning back to point to a tool resting on the workbench by FP’s elbow. Jughead watched as she swiped a hand across her cheek, leaving a black smut of oil to trace it’s path. Jughead had never known he had a thing for girl mechanics before, but he sure as hell knew now. 

“Sure. And please, you can call me FP,” his dad smiled, handing Betty what she needed. Betty flashed him a grin in return, turning back to the task in front of her. Jughead barely registered the sound of his father and his girlfriend chatting amicably about different types of engines, models of car, anything, as they worked together. In the back of his mind, yes, he felt an unfamiliar warmth spreading throughout his body at the sight of the two most important people in his life bonding before him. But, for once in his life, more hormonal urges were clouding his brain. 

“Is the tank full?” Betty asked, bending over to lift the cap, giving Jughead the best view of her perfectly round ass, hugged tightly by her light denim jeans. “The engine’s probably flooded, hold on.” With that, Betty swung her leg over the bike, mounting the seat and placed her hands on the handlebars, her position giving Jughead a front row seat to look straight down her top. He looked away, swallowing with difficulty, moving his hands to hold Betty’s sweater strategically in front of him, feeling a stirring in his jeans, head dizzy from lack of blood. Oh yeah, he was definitely having fun right about now.

Jughead startled at the sound of the engine turning over, before finally roaring to life as Betty sat back with a satisfied grin. 

“Whoa, nice work. Got yourself a keeper here, Jughead,” FP grinned, nudging Jughead’s shoulder playfully as he moved to give Betty a rag to wipe her greasy hands on. 

“Juggie, is everything alright?” Betty asked, brow furrowed in concern as she noticed the slightly strangled look on his face.

“Yeah,” he croaked, stopping to clear his throat, “yeah, it’s just getting kind of late we should probably head back,” he finished, pleading eyes fixing on Betty, hoping she’d get the message. The confusion didn’t vanish but she nodded anyway, clearly sensing something was off. 

“Ok, yeah, sure. It was nice seeing you, FP. Let me know if you need my help with anything in the future,” she said, tapping the seat of the bike as Jughead all but dragged her down the path. 

“Will do. See ya, Betty. Night, Jug!” FP called, a hand raised in goodbye. 

“Yeah, goodnight, Dad,” Jughead replied without turning back. 

“Juggie what is wrong with you? What’s the hurry?” Betty asked as their pace didn’t slow. Jughead waited until they were out of sight to clue her in, pushing her gently against the nearest wall and capturing her lips with his. She squealed in surprise before melting beneath him, hands coming up to the back of his neck, fingers burying themselves in his hair. His hands gripped her hips, dipping beneath her shirt to trace along the smooth skin that had been tempting him all night. 

“God, Betts, do you know how hot that was?” he moaned when they parted, lips not leaving her for long as he trailed his mouth down the side of her neck, leaving a blazing path all the way to her pulse point where he sucked gently. Soft mewls left her mouth as a pretty purple bruise blossomed on her skin, his tongue coming out to sooth the irritation. 

“Tell me,” she whined as he pulled her body flush against his, the telltale sign of his arousal pressing deliciously against her upper thigh. All words left his head as she sucked his bottom lip into her mouth, biting down gently and tugging. 

“The way you looked… riding that bike, all covered in grease and dirty… it was almost too much to handle,” he gasped, chest heaving in time with hers. He pulled back to look at her, eyes wild, hair a mess from running his fingers through it, lips red and swollen. She was the epitome of sin. 

“With the way you dragged us out of there I’d say you didn’t handle it too well,” she smirked, grinding her hips against his teasingly. The noise Jughead let out could only be described as a growl, crushing his lips to hers once more as he tried to wipe the smug look from her face, replacing it with one of need and desperation. His tongue swept across the seam of her lips, looking for entrance which she readily gave, holding her own as they battled for dominance. 

“Juggie…” she rasped as he busied himself with palming at her breast, head coming down to lick the bead of sweat that was running down the dip in her collarbone. 

“Hmm?” he hummed casually against her skin. 

“My…” she paused, struggling to catch her breath as she felt Jughead’s teeth graze against her overly sensitive skin, her familiar aroma of strawberries filling his senses. “My parents aren’t home.” He froze, only the sound of their harsh breathing filling the humid night air. He brought his eyes level to her, pupils blown wide with lust. 

“What are we waiting for?” he asked incredulously. Betty couldn’t help but laugh at how much of a teenage boy he sounded right now, loving how naivety looked on him. He spent too much of his childhood being an adult. She gripped his hand, pressing a chaste kiss to his lips before pulling him home. 

***

They fell through Betty’s bedroom door in a mess of limbs, tripping over each other as they attempted to move while keeping their lips on each other’s skin at all times. Jughead walked them backward, hands cupping Betty’s face until her knees hit the edge of the mattress, sending them both tumbling down. One thigh slipped between both of hers, both of them moaning at the heart-stopping friction it created. 

Betty placed both of her hands on Jughead’s chest, pushing slightly until he raised himself up on his elbows, looking down at her with dark eyes. She took a moment to take him in, cheeks flushed, curl hanging down in front of his eyes as he hovered above her, ready for the taking. She pushed further, leaning up herself until he understood what she wanted, dropping back onto the mattress and gazing up at her with expectant eyes. 

“You said you liked to watch me ride things,” she muttered, voice small as she tried to keep the nervousness out. With that she swung her leg over his hips, settling down over his groin and circling gently, pulling a desperate groan from both of them. 

“I-it’s certainly pleasant,” he stuttered, pushing her hips down harder, worried that she might take the dizzying pressure away from him. She grasped the hem of her top, pulling it quickly over her head, expert fingers reaching round to unclasp her bra and throw the offending items into a heap on the floor. Jughead couldn’t keep his prowling hands away for long, fingers dancing up the tanned skin of her stomach before cupping her breasts gently, squeezing experimentally to find the best way to elicit sweet sounds from her mouth, craving the noises she made under his touch. His thumb brushed over the dark pink peak of her left breast, causing her head to fall back, a low groan travelling up her chest, the vibrations heading straight to his pants, hips bucking upwards. 

He broke contact as she clawed at his shirt, too impatient now to care any for the fabric barrier, nails running down his pecs, his abs, before coming to grip the band of his jeans in a silent question. He nodded, nerves tingling in his every extremity. They’d only done this once before, content to take their time, exploring every inch of one another’s bodies. The first time had been nothing like this, awkward, clumsy, and inexperienced hands fumbling with stuck zippers and uncertain movements. They giggled their way through it, high on the nervousness and newness of it all. But this time there was nothing but heat, a fire igniting in both of them they didn’t quite know they were capable of. 

Before he knew it she was completely naked in front of him, wet slippery heat resting against his abdomen as he kicked his boxers off his ankles.

“Are you sure?” he stopped to ask, always the gentlemen, gesturing to their position. She nodded, biting her lip so enticingly he wasn’t sure how long this was going to last. She rolled the condom on, watching his muscles flex as her small hands brushed teasingly down his dick, sinking down onto him straight after, tight heat the only thing he could feel. A breathy sigh fell from her lips, toes curling at the feeling of being completely filled by him. His hands flexed at her hips, willing her to move but not wanted to push, every muscle in his body coiled like a spring. Slowly she lifted up, slamming back down against his hips with little finesse. 

“Fuck, Betty,” he cursed, a tingle tripping down her spine at his rare use of the cuss. She built up her pace slowly, enjoying the way his mouth dropped open at every roll of her hips as she began clenching in time with her movements. He was completely under her control, all power given to her. She loved being the only one to see him this way, open, vulnerable, and laid bare beneath her. 

He didn’t know how much more of her teasing he could take, bringing one hand up to rub small, quick circles over her delicate bundle of nerves. She stiffened, hips bucking faster instinctively as she barrelled towards her high, dragging him willingly with her. 

“Jug…” she gasped as her thighs tightened, every muscle in her body quivering as she fell over the edge, him following quickly behind as she rode him through it. When she felt as if she couldn’t take another moment she pulled off him, collapsing by his side as he tucked her against him, both trying to get their frenzied breathing under control. They lay there in silence, basking in the afterglow. She lifted a finger to trace patterns over his sweaty skin, locking her legs between his. 

“So,” Jughead began, his words coming out as a sigh, “I’m thinking of getting a motorcycle.” A laugh burst from her lips as she tucked her head into his neck, Jughead unable to contain his own laughter along with her.

“Ok, Juggie.”

CW: Siberia - Or the One Where Superheroes Try to Kill One Another

This post is honestly difficult for me to write. As I write it, I know I’ll probably get hate for it. But I think that not writing it would make me no better than the Wanda stans that wave off her actions. So, here goes nothing. Here is my promised analysis on the battle in Siberia – also known as the one where superheroes try to kill one another. Fair warning: This is a LONG POST. It’s also nowhere near as unbiased as my pre-Siberia one - but I did try my best. FEEDBACK APPRECIATED.

I’ll start by saying that I hated the end scene of CW. I have said that before, and I will never stop saying it. I went into the cinema believing that by the end, Cap and Tony would find a compromise.  The traumatizing ending eventually led me to leave the fandom for months. After I came back, I returned to my fanfic, which led me to Tony’s MCU wiki page. It called Bucky Tony’s “attempted victim.” At that point, I’d also run into some posts debating whether or not Tony tried to kill Bucky, mostly going for no (in the Tony Stark Defense Squad). I naturally knee jerked into “Tony is innocent” mode and went back to the movie to see for myself.

After going over that scene for several times, my conclusion is that Tony did indeed try to kill Bucky in Siberia.

Before you jump at me, let me explain my train of thought.

In some ways, the fight is all over the place. It’s obviously meant to be paced as a climatic battle, but for fans who nitpick details (like us), it has huge holes.

From the very beginning, it’s clear that Tony doesn’t use the full extent of the armor. We’ve seen him fight before, in previous movies – and we know he could do better. The main argument behind the No, he didn’t try to kill Bucky answer is the unibeam. Now, I can’t say why Tony didn’t try to use the unibeam. He had ample opportunity.  Several times, he had Bucky pinned, and he could have done it. At one point, Tony has Bucky by the neck. It’s when he asks “Do you even remember them?” and Bucky delivers his heartbreaking “I remember all of them.” At that time, Tony could have easily killed Bucky, especially since Steve was down below. Inexplicably, he does not, and instead flies down, where he is intercepted by Steve.

When it comes to Steve, one thing is obvious – at first, Tony visibly tries to get Steve out of the way. This is a huge disadvantage, and it gives Steve openings he might not have had otherwise (such as the time he disabled the repulsor boots). I honestly don’t know if the armor Tony uses during this battle has the “one-off” present in Iron Man 2, but Steve’s presence and possibly the lack of open space would have made that unusable. 

Keep reading

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Thinking thoughts.

I’m looking for intellectual space to grow & argue positions and realities without there being a winner. I’m looking to challenge position while also allowing my ego to rest and allow the words “you’re right! That’s brilliant. Yes!” to be shared even when we disagree.

I’m looking for intellectual stimulation that has experience in the classroom, but lives in the streets.

Theory + practice.

Black intellectuals.

You fight your superficiality, your shallowness, so as to try to come at people without unreal expectations, without an overload of bias or hope or arrogance, as untanklike as you can be, sans cannon and machine guns and steel plating half a foot thick; you come at them unmenacingly on your own ten toes instead of tearing up the turf with your caterpillar treads, take them on with an open mind, as equals, man to man, as we used to say, and yet you never fail to get them wrong. You might as well have the brain of a tank. You get them wrong before you meet them, while you’re anticipating meeting them; you get them wrong while you’re with them; and then you go home to tell somebody else about the meeting and you get them all wrong again. Since the same generally goes for them with you, the whole thing is really a dazzling illusion. … The fact remains that getting people right is not what living is all about anyway. It’s getting them wrong that is living, getting them wrong and wrong and wrong and then, on careful reconsideration, getting them wrong again. That’s how we know we’re alive: we’re wrong. Maybe the best thing would be to forget being right or wrong about people and just go along for the ride. But if you can do that – well, lucky you.
—  Philip Roth American Pastoral

Brain Tank: Ah, lovely, figured that out, have we? Would you like a cookie?

The Courier: Why are you such a dick?

Brain Tank: Well, that’s a fine how-do-you-do! Me! A, quote, dick, unquote. As if I’m the one responsible for the way you carry on, gadding about the Wastes. I’m not the one that makes us clamber around tetanus-infested ancient Vaults or go charging off to New Vegas on missions of ill-conceived revenge! And have we forgotten who got us shot in the head and buried in a shallow grave? Hmm? Do you think I enjoyed that little moment?

The Courier: Of course you’re responsible! You’re my Brain!

Brain Tank: I most certainly am not! I am the seat off all reason and logic in our little partnership! All those… feelings that motivate you, that sense of righteousness and that rush you get when you help someone, do you know where those come from? Glands. They come from glands. Free of the tyranny of your ape-like and primitive endocrine system, I can see how foolish your motives are.

The Courier: But you’re the source of most of those glands. Unless you’re arguing that my thyroid is to blame.

Brain Tank: I… Well… look, it’s all a very complex system of biofeedback and other things I wouldn't  expect you to understand.

The Courier: Admit it. You’re just as glandular as I am.

Brain Tank: Oh, all right… perhaps I am, but at least I’m logical about it.

The Courier: Don’t you want to be reunited? I thought you’d be happy to get back into my head!

Brain Tank: I’m not going to lie to you, the prospect is definitely not that appealing! Look at it from my perspective. Here, I have peace, quiet, and safety - well, barring the odd rouge scorpion. In your head, I’ve got poison, radiation, grisly injuries, and biological functions. Do you know how much more you can get done when you’re not constantly looking for places to urinate? It’s quite a lot, I can tell you.

The Courier: But what about the good things? What about a cool breeze on your cheek, the smell of food… love?

Brain Tank: Overrated biological feedback. Believe me, you only feel that way because you’ve got all that meat… oozing hormones.

The Courier: Isn’t it just as true that you only feel this way because you’re lacking those hormones?

Brain Tank: Hmm… I suppose you’re right. That does call certain assumptions into question, doesn’t it?

The Courier: So, we’re at an impasse. You can’t feel what I feel, and I can’t think the way you think.

Brain Tank: Indeed. Quite the conundrum. How do you suppose we resolve it?

The Courier: I think we have to trust each other and acknowledge that we aren’t complete if we’re separated.

Brain Tank: I suppose there might be some advantage to that, yes. There’s a chance that the re-integration would create some improved synergy between us.

The Courier: So… What do you say, Brain? Join me for some more wild adventures?

Brain Tank: Well… I suppose you’ve convinced me well enough. I’ll rejoin your body if that’s your final decision.