#(just quoting ant from the press room after in that last bit)

[quicklyandrogynousfox-blog]

accepting the best presenter nta 2023

[riotwritesthings]

song and dance number not included

WinterIron, T, 1.9k, crack, this is just crack, banter, vague nonpowered AU | A03

Once upon a time @gayspacesprinkles made this post. And fun fact about me I will write basically anything Ant says ahaha ILUBRO.

I know this has already been done better don’t fight me I just wanna make everything crack

Title: song and dance number not included Collaborator Name: Riot @buckybarnesbingo Square Filled: U4, One Night Stand @starkbucksbingo Square Filled: N1, World Domination Ship/Main Pairing: WinterIron Rating: Teen Major Tags & Triggers: Crack, banter Summary: Bucky has seen some wild things in his time as a Professional Cuddle Buddy. Nothing beats finding himself in Tony Stark’s penthouse with the sleep deprived genius himself. Word Count: 1,897

-

Bucky steps off the elevator, into the giant penthouse, and he is 90% sure that this is some kind of elaborate prank. Ten minutes from now someone is going to be shoving a waiver in his face and demanding to broadcast his embarrassing surprised face on national TV.

Because no way does someone like Tony Stark need to hire a cuddling agency.

He takes another couple steps, and there’s no cameras. There’s nothing, just a giant empty penthouse, and Bucky glances down at his phone to confirm that yep, he is in the right place.

He’s just about to turn and leave when a face pops up over the back of the couch.

The first thing Bucky notices is the big doe eyes, warm brown and huge like a Disney character, but so sad. The second thing he notices are the bags under the eyes, deep and dark like bruises, like they’ve been there for a while.

The fact that he’s just staring dumbly at Tony Stark is actually the fifth thing Bucky notices, after the insane lower lashes and the fluffy hair.

Luckily the man is apparently as sleep deprived as he looks, because he just blinks at Bucky for a couple seconds and by the time he speaks Bucky has mostly gotten his brain back online.

“Please tell me you’re really not a hooker,” Tony says, squinting at him, voice rough and a little whiny as he adds “I literally just want a hug.”

Bucky sputters out a laugh, rocking on his heels as he says “I solemnly swear I am not a prostitute. Though I do give great hugs.”

“Awesome,” Tony says with a happy sigh and flails his arms up over the couch, making grabby hands at him.

“Did you wanna move somewhere more comfortable?” Bucky asks, rounding the modernist monstrosity of furniture that is the couch. When Tony opens his mouth, suspicious look on his face, Bucky rolls his eyes and says “Still not a prostitute.”

Tony snaps his mouth shut again with a sheepish look, then huffs out a soft laugh.

“This is fine,” he says, sitting up fully and patting the spot between himself and the arm of the couch, “It’s just me here, I end up falling asleep out here half the time anyways.”

Which is... kind of a sad thought, actually. This penthouse seems huge, too big for one person, and based on the dark circles under Tony’s eyes he doesn’t get much sleep anywhere.

Bucky has barely dropped onto the couch before Tony is plastering himself to Bucky’s side, surprisingly strong arms looping around his waist and his face pressing into Bucky’s shoulder.

“Okay, start the clock,” Tony says, already going limp against his side.

“Hold on,” Bucky says with a laugh, twisting to the side slightly so he can lean back into the corner of the couch and get his arms around Tony in return, pulling him in a little closer and nearly fumbling his phone in the process. “Is that comfortable, um, Mr- Ow.”

“Just Tony,” Tony says, peeking up at him sourly and removing his impressively pointy finger from Bucky’s side, “unless you want to be ‘Mr Cuddle-Buddy’, that is.”

“I’ve been called worse,” Bucky says with another laugh, guiding Tony’s head back down to his chest. “I’m Bucky, though, for the record,” he adds.

“What are you, a Disney character?” Tony asks, voice muffled as he nuzzles into the curve of Bucky’s shoulder and then quickly blurts out “please play with my hair.”

Bucky doesn’t need to be asked twice, burying the fingers of his free hand in Tony’s messy curls, soft and wild like Tony has been running his own hands through it.

“Mm, perfect,” Tony sighs as he pulls his legs up onto the couch, curls himself into a neat little ball against Bucky’s side.

Bucky lifts his phone just enough to see the screen and punches the shortcut to set an alarm for three hours. “Okay, now you’re on the clock," he says, and then wedges his phone into the couch near his head where the armrest meets the back.

“You are already getting marked highly recommended,” Tony slurs out, and Bucky laughs softly. “Seriously, you are like 90% muscle how are you this soft.”

“It’s my specialty,” Bucky says dryly and Tony’s answering laugh shakes his whole body.

“Shh, I’m mentally composing my review,” Tony says, patting lazily at his chest.

“Out loud,” Bucky can’t help pointing out.

“Yes,” Tony says, lifting his hand again to wave it slightly as he talks, “Now where was I- Ah yes, guaranteed ‘not’ a prostitute-”

“-I could hear those air quotes-”

“Very warm,” Tony continues, completely ignoring his interruption except for the way his hand flails a little harder, “Possibly a Disney character."

“Pretty sure I’m not, someone woulda told me by now,” Bucky argues, grinning helplessly and pressing his fingers a little harder into Tony’s scalp.

“Oh, you definitely are,” Tony says with a happy sigh, rubbing his nose against Bucky’s chest, “The only question is, with a name like that, you’re either an adorable animal sidekick, or a villain. Possibly both.”

“What-“ Bucky objects around a sputtering laugh, “I don’t think there was actually a question there.”

Tony tilts his chin up just enough to give Bucky a sleepy glare as he says “Well, which one is it, is the question! You planning world domination?”

“Yes. My plan begins with cuddling you into submission.”

“Well it's working,” Tony says happily, and his expression really does look lighter than it had when Bucky first got here, even if he does still look exhausted. “But when is the song and dance number?”

“Later,” Bucky says with a snort, “It’s my dramatic exit.”

“Or you gotta pay extra, right? In the back room?” Tony asks with a grin and a lazy wink that’s really more of a slow, uncoordinated blink.

“Not a stripper either,” Bucky huffs with a roll of his eyes, resisting the urge to tug at Tony’s hair.

“Too bad,” Tony says with a dreamy sigh, and Bucky really does pull at Tony’s hair a little in admonishment even as he laughs.

Tony continues his rambling ‘review’ amid Bucky’s protests until his warm, teasing voice slowly tapers away, and an hour in he’s fast asleep, snoring quietly into Bucky’s chest.

Bucky is torn.

On the one hand, Tony probably wants to be awake for the time he’s paying for. On the other, he looks so tired.

Waking him up would probably be a crime, and despite Tony’s claims Bucky is not actually a Disney villain.

So he wiggles down a little more against the arm of the couch, slow and careful even though he figures that if Tony does wake up, he has two more hours to fall back asleep if that’s what he wants.

Bucky certainly wouldn’t mind, Tony is warm and pleasantly heavy against his side, draped over his chest, and he looks so much younger when his face is softened with sleep.

He looks so different in real life, so much more real than he looks on TV. So much smaller, curled up into a tiny ball on his giant couch, in his big empty penthouse.

Tony’s hair is a mess of fluffy curls, so soft as Bucky continues running his fingers through it, the muscles of his back strong under Bucky’s other palm.

When Bucky’s alarm goes off it’s startlingly loud in the quiet of the penthouse, and even though Bucky has to fumble with it a bit before he turns it off Tony doesn't do anything more than make a quiet, sleepy sound and wiggle in a little closer.

Bucky hesitates for a second, glancing down at Tony’s peaceful face, and then wedges his phone back into the couch.

He was going to make this his last appointment of the night anyways. He’ll just stay until Tony wakes up.

Bucky wakes up staring at the incredibly high ceiling of Tony Stark’s penthouse, bathed in early morning light.

“Ah, fuck,” Bucky groans quietly to himself.

“Yeah, I actually get that a lot,” comes the voice from somewhere around his sternum, and when Bucky tips his chin down it’s to find Tony with his chin propped against Bucky’s chest, giving him a thoughtful look.

He looks a little less tired, bags beneath his eyes a little less pronounced, gorgeous even with crease marks on his cheek from Bucky’s shirt. Even if there is something wary in his expression.

“Hi,” Bucky says stupidly, still trying to blink away the grogginess in his brain and wincing when his neck aches sharply. That’s what he gets for accidentally spending all night with his head tipped way back against the arm of the couch.

“Hi,” Tony says back, and his big Bambi eyes dart to the side for just a second before he says “I’m not wholly unfamiliar with the one night stand, but I must admit we usually make it further than the couch. Fully dressed. What-“

“If you accuse me of bein’ a hooker again, ‘m gonna roll you right off this couch,” Bucky says before he can wake up enough to stop himself, and while he’s busy mentally cringing Tony’s eyes go wide with recognition.

“Ah fuck,” Tony groans while his cheeks flush an appealing, distracting pink, “What’s the overtime charge look like for top rated pro cuddlers?”

“Nah, don’ worry about it,” Bucky says quickly, finally untangling his fingers from Tony’s hair so he can rub over his eyes, “sorry, should’a woken you up-“

“So you’re saying you’re off the clock?” Tony interrupts, one eyebrow raised in an incredulous look, “You stayed off the clock?”

“I’m- um,” Bucky sputters awkwardly, and then realizes he has no excuse and sheepishly finishes with “Yes?”

“Even after I’m pretty sure I called you a prostitute at least three times?” Tony asks, and he still looks mildly baffled but there’s a smile growing on his face.

“It was five,” Bucky corrects, smiling back helplessly, “Once by callin’ me a lady of the evening, which, incorrect on multiple counts.”

“Right, I remember now,” Tony says slowly, and there is a devious look in his eye as he adds “We decided you’re an animated cow.”

“It was a horse, an’ I think you know it,” Bucky says with a mock-glare, gently pinching Tony’s ear and then tightening his arm around Tony’s back when he unexpectedly bursts into wild giggles.

When Tony settles down again he digs his chin into Bucky’s sternum with a happy sigh. His expression goes thoughtful, chewing on his bottom lip, and Bucky tries really hard not to get distracted.

They’re so close that Bucky can just barely feel the way Tony’s breath shakes nervously on the inhale, and then he asks “So, what are your feelings on breakfast?”

“Important,” Bucky blurts quickly, heart jumping in his chest, “Very important. Especially if I’m going to accomplish world domination today.”

“I knew it!” Tony crows victoriously, pushing himself upright and elbowing Bucky in the gut in the process. He grins happily in response to Bucky’s pained grunt and climbs to his feet, grabbing Bucky’s hand and giving it a tug. “C’mon,” he whines when Bucky moves not at all, “we need to go raid my kitchen. I want to get on your good side before you take over the world, I’m hoping it’ll get me a good spot in the dance number.”

“Yeah, I think that can be arranged,” Bucky says, grinning wide as he lets himself be pulled to his feet.

[h0unds-of-h3ll]

I don’t understand that reference

The bunker nonetheless is the most boring place on earth, until you come to terms with it.

This is a Team Free Will x reader one shot, but its heavily on Casanova .

Viewer beware you're in for a scare: with the number of nicknames, fluff, sexual themes, and language, in this one.

I love these dorks too much..slight au

"Cas, it's just a bug," you sighed, rubbing your hand on the angels back trying to calm his thunderous mind. Cas let out a whimper, his deep-sky blues glassy as he watched another hoarder's ant crawl its way into the bunker, into Dean's electric trap he rigged up from the angel leaving out food for them to eat. One particular spark sent him into a frenzy he jumped into your arms "Y/N! IT'S JUST SO INHUMANE!" he sobbed out his breath getting caught in his throat as he gasped through the lump in his throat. "I know, I know" you reassured him, threading your fingers through his darkened locks, running your fingernails across his scalp, he slumped against your shoulder. Even throughout the tears, he smiled finding joy in your actions. 

It had been a few minutes, without Cas's whimpering or complaining. You had no idea how hard it was to lose your grace for the second time and especially to Lucifer, himself. Cas had lost it, to say the least, but it was ten times worse than before, and he was too dangerous to be left alone. so the boys had designated you the mom or babysitter was more an accurate title. And my God, if you didn't love him you would have left him to the ants because good lord was it a tiring title. 

The boys rarely even helped you with the man child/angel, Sam, of course, trying to pitch in whenever he could but he couldn't even help the half of the damage Cas had caused when he was out hunting. Which led you here crissed cross on the couch, reading Casanova IT, his head rested on your thigh. Blue oceans staring blankly at the plain white ceiling, hands entangled with one of yours. He said the book was too scary for him so he grabbed one of your hands to reassure him of safety, which you of course thought was ridiculous, but hey at least he was quiet. Every now and then he glanced your way. He was watching your lips as they twisted and turned your eyebrows knitting as you tried your best portraying the book and dramatizing it so it would interest him in the least bit. 

He gasped as he heard through his foggy brain as they mistreated Ben, he hated bullies, he hated Lucifer so much because he was such a big bully to his family. As he gathered his courage, he wanted to show you that he was devoted to protecting you from the darkness that scared him the night. He picked himself off the couch, dusting off an excellent portrayal of Kurt Cobain. On a washed-out grey-black shirt you had gifted him when he said his usual attire was and I quote "too sophisticated, not my taste." You remembering laughing at his snooty face as he declared his style of fashion.

 Lifting you out of your thoughts, quite literally might I add, he tucked his arms under the ditches of your knees and around your back. His hand behind your back was heavy on your chest. You just hoped he wouldn't squeeze. But oh, of course, the bloody bastard had to squeeze. (You honestly do blame Crowley for your variety of words.)  "CAS!" you squawked losing the page you were reading and dropping the 1000 paged book on the wood floor along with your dignity, to your dismay. 

You lifted your face from your misfortune and glared at the creature who had been breathing on the back of our neck for the last minute or so. His breath held as he realized, if he lowered his head the smallest bit, he would touch his lips against what he thought of luxurious finger-licking good ones. It didn't take long for you to notice where his eyes were flickering to every second that had passed. He wasn't what you would call "smooth." Quite the opposite, really. "I'm your shining knight, y/n.," he spoke softly, his lips twisting into the proudest smirk you had ever seen from the man-child. You snorted a laugh, not the most attractive thing you've done but you couldn't help it, seeing only how one side of his parted lips perked up, such a lopsided grin fitted for a lopsided man. "Casanova, you are the last person I would want to be my shining knight, in your state, I mean wait till we get your grace back. Then we can talk, you know my room number." You doubted if he did remember it, hell, he couldn't even remember his name half the time.

 His eyes sank in the rejection. They turned glossy and you knew the waterworks were going to come soon, although before they could you both heard the loud bearing of the bunker door opening. Telling you that both the boys were home. Alarming Cas he dropped you. Yes, I did not stutter, he dropped you. Right on your tailbone. You breathed out a stuttering gasp and groaned in pain as you reached back and felt the blossoming bruise. You looked up at the assailant, he looked like he had been shot. Eyes wide as saucers, mouth open letting flies in, his form turning stiff, and it certainly didn't help when Sam and Dean came into view, he ran. Presumably into your room to hide he no longer slept in his room demeaning it to have too many monsters in it. You couldn't help the eye roll that came after when he had told you that. Sam took one look at your current situation and sighed, saddened at the fact that. This was getting way too familiar to stumble across on you to find you like this and with and with a huff he grumbled out "I'll go and get the ice." 

It had been a few hours since Casanovas incident. Dean smirking and teasing how you and Cas should be less the next time, earning him the bird with he let out a hearty laugh at. You couldn't sit straight for the most part, which you and Sam later to find out that you had broken your tailbone. Which gave Dean even more fuel for him to jab at, but saying that you were devastated to find out about the loss of being able to sit was an understatement. You going to get Cas back, twice as hard. You were thinking about taking away his favorite cereal, he would be even in worse pain then you were. And if you could you would evil laugh but all that came out were sputters, "Y/n the only way you're going to be able to walk is to pop it back into place and hope for the best.." 

Sam said gently trying to not alarm you but doing the exact opposite. He was referencing to you laying flat on the wood floor face pressed against it making your cheek squished. Your eyes were wide looking like they were going to bust out of your skull, you tried to push yourself at off the cold surface but found yourself army crawling to get away from Sam's comment towards the current issue at hand. (More like at spine.) "You what?!, I swear to hell if you touch me. I will make Castiel smite you, and he thinks of me as his god, so-" your tangent was shortly interrupted by Sam's gorilla hands sandwiching your stomach and lower back right above your fun cushion. "HOLY MOTHER OF fUc-" you screeched as the sickening pop sounded from your lower half, your eyes fluttered close as your body became exasperated from the torture that it had just encountered. Sam's face had gone into a new level of bitch face as he tried to registered what your threat and what followed after it. 

"Hands down Sam, I'm just gonna put it out there that I'm the mother," Dean said patting the crouched Winchester by the back with a wicked smirk, Sam's face turned into disgust swatting away what he now thought of his brother's contaminated hand. Which I mean probably was it is Dean was talking about, what'd we expect? Sam carefully wrapped you in a blanket tortilla too afraid to move you and not wanting to get the headache of hearing your lecture, he decided that this was the best approach. Afterward, Sam stalked towards the fridge, his daddy long legs (completely non-sexual, or is it?) carrying him in a few strides. He hunched down, the mini-fridge they kept in the living room was too obnoxiously small for the giant. Dean knew that but would never get a new one, just because of the hilarity of having to see his brother crouch for a beer was something else. "If you are the mother then I must be a saint." 

Sam stammered out as he gulped down a drink of his beer, obtaining a now slight buzz and realizing that his hair was such a complex thing to keep out of his face. He started to swat at it as he would with a fly. Trying and failing to get it out of his face. Dean chuckled to himself and reached into his blue jean pocket and grabbed the small computer from his pocket, filming his brother that was looking like he was having a stroke. 

You awoke to dark blue eyes scanning your face, and what appeared to be Casanova sitting on the backs of his thighs, and his head held tilted like a kicked puppy, yet, he slumped over a little too much and fell on his side he smiled, and groaned out a laugh. "Heay, y/Loki' he slurred out, although when your eyes began to focus you noticed a drinking game is being played behind you between the two boys, Sam was laying on the table passed out while Dean had propped his feet on the table and kicked back in the chair, unconscious as well. Great. You didn't know how they could sleep through it but your ears were bleeding from the amount of bass in the background. 

You began to lift yourself up with the assistance of the couch, you grimaced your back now a dull pain, but as sharp as ever. You got about halfway but then your knees gave out and now you are face to face with the man, the myth, the legend. Casanova. He smiled a lazy one and if he wasn't drunk he sure did look high. "I blew a kite once." He said you just stared like a deer in headlights, not believing the blackmail you now have on him. His eyes grew wide and he shifted so he was lying flat on his back, he stuck his hands out and grasped something so vivid that was in his mind dragging them back and forth up and down. Then all at once, he stopped and his hands stayed in one place. You didn't dare question his intentions, having a grand time watching him mime his scenario out. He became eerily quiet for someone who was turned into a toddler for the second time in his career. 

You were shifted on your side, your left arm propped your hand resting against your head to keep it from falling. He looked over and you swear you just had the most intense staring game in your entire life. Not knowing his intentions it was all a ploy, a trick to some. He jutted out his neck and bit your cheek. You squealed in shock and in somewhat surprise as to his actions. You grasped your cheek now rubbing the reddened skin, "Goddamn Castiel, what are you? a walker?" you questioned the man who was now trying to act like a turtle and hid in his shirt. He pulled his shirt over his head, his stomach coming into full view. Your mouth fell slack as you took in the pale toned flesh of the angel. Who knew the man-child was so fit? you choked back a groan when you sat yourself up fully and attempted to stand. And holy hell the gods listened to your prayers and had allowed you to stand.

 You jabbed angel face in his too defined ribs with a sock clad foot, fear took over him and he started to swat everything in existence and kicked too, you would never forget about the kicking, you would never know-how, but he had managed to kick himself straight in the head. He moaned as he raised his hands to his head and clenched his fists in his/your shirt. You crouched and my god did it hurt like hell. You hesitated at first before you placed a hand on his, afraid that he would have another fit if you touched him. "Hey, buddy it's y/n," you started trying to comfort him to the point where he'd come out of his shell so you could see the damage he'd done to himself. All you got in return was a muffled "MMF." You knew by the way he snarled out that mmf that he was pissed, but quite frankly you didn't give a damn, too fed up with having to keep up his shit. "You know what casanova fuck it fine. Have it your way." 

You hissed out, you grabbed well more, yanked them from his head. His no's and why's sounding like a war cry. You didn't care about that though, all you cared about was ending this shit day, putting Casanova to bed by your side, and forget about all of what has happened in the mere few hours. He growled whenever you shoved the shirt down from over his face, revealing his eyes that were the deepest shade of blue and the most striking piercing shade that you have ever seen from the years you've known him. 

He querched an eyebrow when you didn't say anything but gawk at how beautiful they were. "Y/n," he let out your name in such a collected and calm tone that was such a contrast from his voice over the day, that you didn't even notice that he had spoken. Until he asked your name again with a sharp shake of your shoulders, that broke your trance from his gaze. "Wha-?" You were cut off short when his torn and broken shade of tulip lips pressed against yours in such quick haste, that it took your breath away. Or it could have been the fact that you were holding it from the sheer fact, that the casanova had just done something so intimate.  

His long fingers stretched behind your ears and cupped your jaw positioning you to the correct height, your own hands shoved into the raven on hair grabbing and pulling every which way. The literal child of man was making out with you, the man that had annoyed you to the ends of the earth, the man who had taught and some days forced you to learn about his culture, the man who you would risk your life for and him the same, the man who wouldn't leave your side for months until you finally got over a minor cold. And that he was postponing the literal apocalypse. (Yeah, that happened, long story.) Yet, he would always be the man who you loved. 

[elderkale]

chapter six

tell me we’ll never get used to it - chapter six

Thump. Thump. Thump.

Theta missed the ball on the last bounce. She twisted around to watch as it went over her shoulder and into the corner. She stared at it for a moment then sighed and got to her feet.

She brushed the dust clinging to the rubber surface off and wrinkled her nose. It was something new to look at, at least.

She glanced over her shoulder. The empty whiteboard stared accusingly back at her.

Well. Almost empty.

She flung the ball at it again. It knocked off a magnet before bouncing off in the other direction. A photograph fluttered loose and slid across the floor, finally coming to a stop under the toe of Theta’s boot.

Annie Hopkins. That had been her name, the girl on the wall. Her mother had confirmed it.

She grimaced as she crouched to pick it up, and shuddered when her nails scraped against the plasticky surface of the photo paper.

She tossed the picture onto her desk and snatched up a scrap sheet of paper (at least, she hoped it was scrap). She wandered around the desk in a circle, tilting her head up to stare at the ceiling.

Had it taken her this long, before, to figure things out?

She threw herself into her seat. It jolted and she kicked the desk, sending herself spinning across the room. Her elbow slammed into the wall with a bang and she winced. The chair squeaked in protest.

No, it hadn’t. At least, she didn’t think so. It was hard to remember. Hard to put into perspective, at least. Time was fickle like that.

She balled up the paper in her hands and tossed it between her hands. Everyone has off days, she reasoned. Nothing to be ashamed of. She clenched the ball tighter in her hands and kicked off the wall, spinning back towards her desk.

She grabbed it with her free hand as she passed, dragging herself to a stop.

Off days. That’s what this was, then. An off day. Off month. Months, if you would (she wouldn’t).

Of course, most peoples’ off days didn’t involve giving funeral homes more business.

She tossed her rudimentary ball at the board. It more flopped than bounced off, crinkling as it drifted to the ground. She sighed and tossed her feet onto her desk.

It hadn’t taken her this long before. That, she was certain of.

So why the hell was it taking her this long now?

She could hardly be out of practice. That just wasn’t something that happened. Not like this, not with her. She scowled and snatched the marker pen off the table, twisting its cap on and snapping it back on again. Pop, click, pop, click, squeak, click, pop.

She bit down on the end of the cap and twirled the pen between her fingers. There was, she admitted to herself with a small grimace, always the possibility of the copycat being better than her. Small, though. Very small. Miniscule, even, if you liked the word, which she did. Not one that she was willing to entertain, though.

He wasn’t. Not the type.

It was stifling. She tugged her jacket off and tossed it to the side of the room.

Motive. There was always motive. Even when the motive was nothing, there was always a reason. She knew that better than anyone.

Chewing gum too loud. Unfortunate resemblance to an old enemy. Stupid hair.

Convenience.

Who, her? Projecting? Pshaw.

It could, suggested a small, traitorous voice at the corner of her mind sounding suspiciously like a certain bearded psychiatrist, be that, though, couldn’t it? Maybe, it suggested. Maybe. Just maybe. Maybe you’re sympathetic? Empathetic, even? Could that be possible? Maybe you don’t want to catch him. Maybe you’re on his side, just a bit, or maybe you’re worried about what comes next, or that—

She threw the marker at the board. It left a streak of black in its wake and rolled away to join the ball.

What had she done before?

The subconscious was a funny thing.

She slid off her seat and flopped to the ground. She quinted up at the ceiling, a frown tugging at her eyebrows.

She’d talked to people, she was fairly sure. Nothing door-to-door, but she had. Watched interrogations from behind the glass. Joined in, sometimes (very sometimes) (as in once).

She grimaced and pressed the heels of her hands into her eyes until she felt like they were going to burst.

Not mainly, though. Nothing as inactive as that.

No.

It must have been her second year, or maybe late in her first. Before her third, for sure. Between August and November, maybe?

Disembowelment. That, she remembered. Disembowelment. Disembowelment and bone-robbing, which hadn’t been a term before that day, and for good reason, too.

A doctor, John had said. A surgeon, Mike had corrected. A fucking sicko, Owen had grumbled. That doesn’t help, Jack had snapped.

(And that’s the thing: how do you know? How do they—how does she—fit so perfectly into the mold, this archetype, this machine, and how do they make it work?

And here’s the other thing: it doesn’t always have to be that complicated.)

Anyone who’s ever cooked a chicken can figure out how to break out a spine. Anyone with half a brain can figure out how to use a knife. But who’s going to need that many bones?

Ah. There’s the question.

It wasn’t the sort of question to be answered in an office, or at home, or in front of a board. It wasn’t the sort of question to be answered, period.

(The term ‘liquid courage’ truly wasn’t any sort of exaggeration. It had burned going down, and had burned coming up again the next morning, but, in the moment, head spinning, blood rushing, heart beating like the drums of war, she’d felt weightless, and weightless she’d stayed.)

The femur, she’d remembered, somewhat hazily, hands buried in dying, withered heat. The tear of skin and a crack like splitting wood—

Wood.

There’s the answer.

(The chairs really hadn’t been too comfortable, though she supposed they fit a certain aesthetic. Theta had left it to Jack to suggest burying the furniture to the families.)

Her phone rang and she all but dove for it, sending papers flying. “She’s a bitch,” said Martha before it had even finished ringing.

“What?”

She heard a shuffling on the other end of the line. Her phone buzzed against her ear. “Messages,” said Martha bitterly.

Theta flicked the call to speaker and dropped the phone on the desk, leaning over it and squinting down at the screen.

Her stomach turned.

“Just a gossip column, but Jack’s losing it,” Martha informed her. Her voice sounded oddly thin over the speakers, like she was whispering into a tin can. Or was that just her?

Theta waited for her to say something else. “Did you read it?” she asked when she didn’t.

“No.” Lie. Theta pursed her lips and flicked her finger up the screen. The words whipped by in a blur of black on shocking pink, like ants smudged across a page. What she did catch made her nauseous. “Any luck, it’ll be down soon.”

“Won’t be,” Theta grumbled, grimacing and pinching the bridge of her nose. Her head was pounding. “Free press.”

Martha made a concerting noise over the line. “Ask Jake to hack it?” she suggested.

Theta shook her head, then remembered that Martha couldn’t see her. “Nah,” she said lightly. “Nah,” she repeated. Her tongue felt like sandpaper.

“Fine.” Martha didn’t sound upset, Theta didn’t think. And then she wondered why she thought she would be. “You alright?”

“Hm.” Her fingertips were tingling, buzzing with something that wasn’t quite warmth, but couldn’t reasonably be called anything else, either. “Yeah,” she forced herself to say, biting out a tight grin, despite the fact that Martha couldn’t see her. “Yep. Right.”

She hung up and threw her phone across the desk. Her hands shook when she flexed them, palms stinging with pins and needles.

Fuck.

*

Really, Theta didn’t know why she was so surprised. After all, it had only been a matter of time.

Cases dragged on. It happened. It wasn’t like there was much they could do about it. Asking nicely never seemed to help.

(Theta had been asked to give an interview, once. It had gone horribly, and she was fairly certain that, had the microphone not been mysteriously unplugged, it would have been a disaster.)

She drummed her fist against the table, staring at her screen. The computer had switched itself off ages ago, but she didn’t need to see the article to quote it.

Scandalous, the writer (Claire Rook, her name had been Claire Rook. Like a side character in a children’s adventure novel.) had said. Well, if you were looking for it, maybe.

She squeezed her eyes shut and dragged her hands down her face, elbows grinding against the desk.

It didn’t matter. It shouldn’t. They’d all been dragged by the press at some point or another (Some more than others; Martha had a Google Alert set up for Jack, and Mickey had taken out subscriptions to at least three tabloids. He didn’t seem to mind—rather, he seemed to thrive on the attention).

It was a gossip rag. A gossip rag that had clearly stolen pictures from The Guardian. They were running hentai ads alongside the front page, for God’s sake.

A gossip rag that had gotten ahold of her school records what the fuck.

She hit the space bar and the screen blinked back to life.

913 hits, because this was the kind of website that counted hits. One each for Jack, Martha, and Mickey, and another nine for her. 901, then.

She leaned back in her seat, squeezing her eyes shut.

Troubled past. She scoffed. The whole thing was one badly-Photoshopped cover from being a supermarket pulp novel.

I’m not angry.

What word would you prefer?

She opened her eyes a crack and peered at the screen.

915. Fuck her.

She could, she supposed, call Koschei, if only to let him know.

Koschei.

Koschei, who had been in the article too.

There is reason to call into question the ethics of the investigation, especially when considering the presence of famed psychiatrist Koschei Oakdown in the lives of the senior investigators—

Famed. She scoffed. She could almost see Koschei’s head swelling. Hardly the word she’d use. Inobscure, maybe.

—a hidden past shared with the notorious Theta Lungbarrow herself—

She gagged and slammed the laptop shut.

Her legs were itching. She leapt to her feet and began pacing.

Bullshit. Bullshit smeared across a server and tagged as news. She scoffed and dragged her fingers over her scalp. A strand of hair got caught beneath a nail and she shuddered as she tugged it free.

Abruptly, she threw herself to the ground, then got up again, then sat back down.

The infamous raid on Satellite and Fifth—

There was hair on the carpet, too, and eraser shavings, and a bit of a broken branch she’d tracked in on her boots. She twisted it beneath her fingers until it snapped, then did it again, and again.

—in the perfect true crime setup, with Lungbarrow set to lead; but as the villain, or the hero?

She snorted, brushing her hands clean on her knees. It was almost—no, it was—laughable.

Her keys were still in her pocket. She supposed she’d forgotten to take them out.

She dragged her fingers through her hair again. Her scalp was oily; she hadn’t showered.

She jiggled her leg, heel beating the ground.

It’s the moments in between, Rose used to believe, that are the most important. Nothing planned really happens, she used to tell her. It’s the stuff before and after that decides everything.

Failure drives success. Grief drives rage.

She vaulted to her feet and marched out the door.

[98prilla]

Turned

Next

Previous

AO3

...

He didn’t know how long it had been, by the time he came back to himself. He was sore and stiff from being curled up in a ball in the corner in the dark, unable to chase away the lingering memories, the lingering voices that ran through his head, nearly making him curl back up in his hole until he died.

 But he was numb, now. He’d cried and panicked himself out, there was no lower he could sink, and it was too dark. Silently, he crept out of the closet, grabbing his backpack on the way out.

 He stared at it, the worn fabric, the resewn zippers, the thinned out fabric around the edges. It was the same one he’d used when he’d left the coven. It hurt more, this time. He closed his eyes, hugging the pack tight to his chest, bracing himself, surprised that he had any more tears left to cry.

 He’d made himself at home, here. He had photos of himself with the others on a fairy light with clips, illuminating Patton’s smiling face, Logan’s small smile, Roman’s boisterous laugh captured on film. He had shelves of books, fiction and otherwise, some Logan had gotten for him to further his knowledge of mythicals. His drawers, full of clothes, mostly from Roman trying to spruce up his wardrobe, though he was so damn good at getting his tastes right he could never be mad. He somehow managed to find the perfect sarcastic quoted tees for him, and they made him laugh every time Roman presented him with a new one.

 He couldn’t take it all with him. So much of it would be left behind, so much of his history with them would be lost, but maybe that was for the better. If he was out on his own again, he didn’t want anything that could lead anyone back to his family. His heart twinged, as he realized he wouldn’t be able to take any of the photos with him. Despite himself, he grabbed the one he’d snapped himself, of Roman, Patton and Logan, Patton in the middle with a stick of cotton candy, Roman pointing with delight at something off screen, Logan sighing, adjusting his glasses fondly.

 He set his phone down on the desk, another loss to mourn, but he couldn’t have anyone trace it, trace him. And he had to leave the laptop as well. Gods, this was hard, it was so much harder when he didn’t actually want to leave.

He took a deep breath, shoving the sturdiest of his clothes into the bag, along with his skull headphones and his old school mp3 player. Then he chose a few slim volumes from his shelf, that same book of sigils, his journal, and a small booklet of maps of the area. He scrubbed at his eyes, trying to steady himself against the heartbreak. The last thing he put in his bag was the stuffed animal spider Patton had got him a month into his recovery, when he was still bedridden on the couch from his broken bones. Patton was terrified of spiders, but knew they were one of his favorites. He’d woken up to a vase of violet irises, a wrapped box of chocolate chip cookies, the spider plush atop the box with a little, handmade card that read “are you a spider? Cause you’ve caught me in your web!”

 He’d named it Webby, in honor of Patton’s favorite ducktales character. Patton had nearly cried at that, and they’d spent the rest of the day together on the couch, binging it. It had some dark moments, for a cartoon, and now they always watched it together.

 He pushed back another wave of tears as he patted Webby once, before zipping up the bag and slinging it over his shoulder, opening the door with a final longing glance at his room, creeping down the hall.

…

Patton’s eyes blinked open at the slight shuffle from the hall. At first he didn’t think anything of it, he still wasn’t quite used to his heightened vampire hearing, every little thing, every creak of the house settling sounded loud as thunder, sometimes. But his ears perked when he heard a muffled curse, from the hallway, someone stubbing their toe. Instantly, he was awake and alert, eyes shooting up and locking on Virgil, who was furtively creeping towards the living room. He furrowed his brow at the pack slung over Virgil’s shoulder, and without further hesitation, flicked on the light.

 “Virgil?” His quiet voice immediately woke the others, and Virgil froze like a deer caught in the headlights. Patton inhaled sharply. Virgil looked terrible. His hair was slick and matted with sweat, his eyes wide and bags darker than ever, his face pale and breathing ragged. He looked paranoid and on the edge of either passing out or breaking down or both. He looked nearly as bad as he had, if not worse, in the days immediately after the attack. Virgil looked away, flinching, as if burned by Patton’s gaze.

 “Kiddo?” He asked again, voice dry, feeling worry clogging his throat at the defeated despondency in Virgil’s eyes, red and puffy.

 “hi.” Virgil mumbled in reply, voice hoarse and scratchy, as if he’d been screaming, or crying for hours, and his heart clenched again.

 “Virgil… why do you have your backpack?” Roman piped up, and Virgil bit his lip, face hidden in his bangs.

 “You were going to leave. You were hoping to avoid us by sneaking out late, not expecting us to be ‘camped out’ in the living room waiting for you.” Logan stated, not unkindly.

 “you’re gonna kick me out anyway. I figured this… this would be easier. Less… less messy.” His voice is strangled and choked, clutching the straps of his bag, trying to control his breathing.

 “Why would we kick you out, our stormy knight?” Roman asked softly, and Virgil bit back a sharp sob.

 “it’s f-fine. I wouldn’t want me h-here either. I-“ He broke off, inhaling sharply as his voice broke. “I w-wouldn’t trust myself, either.” That was enough for Patton. He stood, walking slowly to Virgil, gentle as he tipped his chin up, to meet his eyes.

 “I trust you, Virg.” Virgil shook his head, taking a stumbling step back, back against the wall of the living room as he shook his head.

 “You shouldn’t. You really shouldn’t, you wouldn’t if you knew-“ He broke off, a sob clawing its way out of his throat. He didn’t fight Patton this time, as he pulled him into a gentle hug, burying his face against his shoulder, letting his bag drop to the ground as Patton pulled him closer, nestling his own head atop his, pressing a gentle kiss to his forehead.

 “I d-didn’t know better, I d-didn’t think, I didn’t w-want to, but I c-couldn’t keep going, I just br-broke, I hurt so many people, pat, I k-killed so many people because I thought it was r-right!”

 “Shhh, I know, I know, honey.” He soothed, swaying gently.

 “You don’t though. B-before I left, before I thought for myself, Pat, if I had met you then, I would have killed you. Nothing would have mattered, except you being a vampire. I w-wouldn’t have thought twice. Remy, and J-anus, gods, Janus, he wouldn’t even give you a chance.”

 “virgil. I know. I read the stories, about all three of you. We heard the rumors and the reports and the deaths. That doesn’t make me love you any less. It doesn’t make me trust you any less. You haven’t given me a single reason to doubt you.” Virgil let out another sob at that, Patton barely managing to catch him as his legs buckled under him, probably from a combination of fear, relief, and exhaustion. Instantly, Roman was at Virgil’s side, hugging him as well, and Virgil clung to the two of them like a lifeline.

 “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. I was going to tell you and then I was too scared cause you all were so nice and I didn’t want to be alone again, so I just tried to forget it ever happened, and of course it can’t just go away, and I always do this, I always drag us into trouble, I’m never good enough to protect you.”

 “falsehood. You are enough, Virgil. You always have been. You’ve seen through traps and predicted dangers none of us would have seen coming. You’ve saved all of our lives several times over. It does not change what you did in the past, but what you did in the past does not change you to us.” Logan added softly, resting a supportive hand on Virgil’s shoulder.

 “I’m not good enough. I’ll never be good enough. No one will ever love me. I’m not worthy of it. I’m not… I’m a danger and a problem and that’s all… that’s all I’ll ever be.” Patton hissed at the tired, dead tone in Virgil’s voice, anger flaring to life as his eyes flashed red.

 “Who told you that, honey? I promise, they’re about to get a face full of angry papa patton!” Virgil looked up at him with those defeated, dark eyes, and he wondered how coherent Virgil really was, if he even really knew what was happening anymore, through his exhausted haze.

 “janus. W-who else would w-ant me? It’s f-funny, he lies a-about everything, but he was r-right about that.” Virgil slurred, then his eyes slipped shut and he slumped against Patton, unconscious. Patton pulled Virgil into his lap, gently stroking his hair, eyes blurring with tears as he tried to find his own voice.

 “he needs rest. He’s worn himself out, both physically and emotionally. He’ll probably be out of sorts when he wakes, as his brain shut down in order to allow him to recover as he needs.” Logan said softly, his own voice wavering slightly. Patton nodded, lifting Virgil and settling on the couch with his head in his lap. He tucked a blanket around him, teasing his fingers through Virgil’s hair.

 “Here.” Roman murmured, tucking Webby underneath Virgil’s arm, smiling smally as Virgil shifted with a small noise, clinging to the spider and pulling it close to his chest.

 “he was gonna take Webby?” Patton asked, voice trembling.

 “yeah. One photo of us, too. From the carnival. No phone, no way we would be able to contact or find him.” Roman answered, placing the photo carefully on the coffee table. Logan huffed fondly, looking at it.

 “What were you pointing at, Roman?” He asked.

 “There was a bouncy house obstacle course being blown up. We raced, and I almost got stuck in one of the tube tunnels, and Roman had to jump to my side to help pull me out.” Patton answered, laughter in his voice.

 “Yes, and then you and finding emo wouldn’t race me!”

 “Well, that seems a sensible descicion. I do seem to remember Patton coaxing all of us onto the pony rides, however.” Logan, a smile on his face.

 “Ah, yes, Georgia! My valiant steed!” Roman exclaimed. “I follow them on facebook, she’s a mother now! An adorable little spotted filly.” Patton awed, and even Logan chuckled, rolling his eyes.

 “Virg was so good with the animals, remember? He practically had the entire petting zoo surrounding him, even after he ran out of food. All the baby goats were sleeping on his lap. I’ve got that picture around here somewhere, too, it was so cute!”

 “I still think we should get him a pet.” Roman grumbled.

 “We have talked about this, Roman.”

 “What? Animals help with anxiety! Besides, I happen to know a pony…”

…

 It was dark. He wasn’t sure where he was, but it was dark. Flashes of movement out of the corner of his eyes, shadows flickering just out of sight. His mind felt slow, blurred, and dimly, he realized he was in restraints, chained to the wall. He pulled, hissing in pain as a sharp, steel collar bit into his neck, feeling warm blood trickle from the small puncture wounds.

 “Well, well, aren’t you just tempting me?” He flinched, a figure suddenly appearing before him with a slight whoosh of air, rough hands grabbing his chin and pulling him forwards. He hissed again as the collar dug into his throat, glaring as his gaze met those neon green, almost glowing eyes of his captor. “You certainly are a sweet little morsel. It would be a pleasure to drain you dry.” The vampire purred, and he shuddered as he felt the vampire’s tongue run up his neck, before he lightly nipped beneath his ear. He jerked back, but the vampire’s hand was firm, and he chuckled as he pulled away, examining his face. “So pretty, too. It’ll be such a shame when I finally kill you. But such a pleasure.”

 “What do you want?” He spits, trying to clear his head, trying to spark fire to life in his hands, light that will burn this abomination off the face of the earth, but he can’t do anything, his magic is being blocked, by the manacles around his wrists, no doubt.

 “I know you are.” He froze at those words, eyes narrowing.

 “I’m no one. Just a self taught magician. I’m afraid you’re mistaken.” The lie rolls off easily, and anyone else might have bought it. But this vampire just laughed, head thrown back, wild cackles piercing the air.

 “Oh, that’s a good try, pet. But no, you aren’t. You’re Deceit. You’re one third of the trifecta keeping me and my kin from ruling over you pathetic mortals.” He snarled, eyes flashing.

 “You won’t get anything out of me.”

 “I don’t need to. My coven members are following your sneaky little friend, Sleep, or should I say Remy? And any moment he’s going to lead right where we need to be.” He bites his tongue, fear eating him inside out.

 “You don’t need to keep looking. Anxiety is dead.” He said, truthfully this time, in a way, Anxiety was dead, had died the moment he left. “He’s not a threat to you.” He won’t drag Virgil into this, he can’t let that happen. Virgil may hate him, but he’d always respected Virgil’s choice to leave. He’d stayed away, kept Remy away, even when he so desperately just wanted to see his face, to see how he’d grown up, and he would not let this vampire steal whatever peace Virgil had found away from him.

 “I think we both know that’s not quite true. I’ve done my research, see. Oh, there’s plenty of beings who claim to have done the deed, but none have the proof to back it up. He’s still out there, and I won’t have him ruining things to try and save his little boy toy.”

 “He won’t! He doesn’t care, anymore, he won’t come for me, he won’t get in the way!” He shouts, hands clenched into fists, oh, if he had his magic right now this man would be struck down with all the force of a hurricane. As it is, he can only watch with a plummeting heart as the vampire grins, sharp canines showing, as he steps away.

“I don’t believe you. And even if I did, how could I pass up a chance to get the full set? You three would make quite a collection. So much fun to play with. I think I’ll start with your little Virgil first. Seems like you have a soft spot for him.”

 No. NO, the vampire had already known, had already found him, probably had his coven members at the house already, and he cursed Remy’s stupid predictability, his stupid sense of loyalty, he should have cut his losses and ran, not tried to get involved.

 His screams echo down the hallway as he pleads and begs and curses, pulling at his restraints, heedless of the blood dripping down his neck, the sores opening on his wrists, he screams his throat raw until he has nothing left, and slumps against the wall, defeated.

 “virgil. Please. Please hear me, please listen, please just run, just run” He whispers, tugging at the weak, tenuous strand connecting himself to Virgil, praying it’s enough, any of it, is enough to give him some warning. “I’m sorry.”

[kiruuuuu]

Thatcher/Lesion oneshot in which Lesion has a tattoo and Thatcher hates it. (Rating T, fierce denial and fluff I suppose, ~2.5k words) - dedicated to @glazkov-smile​ who put this ship into my brain where it now festers and grows shakes fist

.

The first time Thatcher catches a glimpse of it, all he feels – curiously enough – is betrayal.

No part of it makes sense, it’s neither his body nor his decision and yet it’s as if he’s been deceived in some way, left in the dark about a topic concerning him personally. It’s irrelevant how nonsensical his emotions are because they’re there regardless and no amount of logical arguing with himself is able to make them vanish. He can’t rationalise it even if he tries, and he tries desperately. He’s merely being a judgemental old fart, probably, something he’s been called before in differing contexts. But he doesn’t know how to deal with it.

It was no longer than a second: Bandit pulled on the back of Lesion’s collar to drop an ice cube into his shirt, and Thatcher just happened to look over at the commotion and saw colour lick at the back of Lesion’s neck, usually hidden by whatever garish shirt the man inexplicably chose to wear that day but now revealed in a flash of ink. And it’s enough to conjure up a profound disappointment in Thatcher.

They’ve known each other for years now, stayed in contact where Smoke exchanged irregular messages which taper off now and then, only to rekindle once in a blue moon. No, Thatcher and Lesion wrote and called almost every week, given their work permitted it, left messages on a variety of media depending on their current location and sent each other postcards even, both of them carefully and happily maintaining an unlikely friendship. They differ in many regards though not the most important ones, and thus remained pointed towards each other like magnets. Friendships like this one are rare, Thatcher has come to understand this all too keenly.

And he can’t stand tattoos.

To him, they’re much worse than gaudy jewellery, flamboyant clothes and unnaturally dyed hair together – not only are they alarmingly permanent but also usually horribly tacky. Who cares if someone managed to father a child? Congratulations, they fulfilled their purpose the way nature intended, no need to plaster their kid’s heartbeat or birth date or entire bloody face all over their arms and legs and basically rub it under everyone’s nose. He doesn’t care to know the names of people’s partners nor is he interested in cringy quotes or supposedly deep and symbolic bullshit which allegedly holds so much meaning for its bearer. They’re ugly. They mar skin instead of decorating it.

He much prefers freckles, scars, stretch marks, hair, natural discolouration, any sort of blemish which tells him this person is alive and breathing and not airbrushed or genetically engineered to look this way. He doesn’t care tattoos have been around forever, to him they’re a disgrace and can erase all his interest in someone. Can, and have.

Thinking back, he’s fairly sure he ranted about this to Lesion’s face before, was met with the usual calm patience tinged with amusement whenever he complains about something at length, earned no more than a half-reply implying his position was at best a bit too extreme and at worst complete and utter dogshite in Lesion’s opinion. He’s never dismissive about it, merely pokes fun but ultimately chooses to respect Thatcher’s views which is probably one of the reasons why they’re still friends.

So when he catches sight of precise strokes lining Lesion’s back, Thatcher is appalled. Indignant. Offended, even.

He needs to see it.

Just like he demands details about all the unnecessary so-called ‘apps’ most people around him use so he can judge them accordingly, curiosity grips him in its iron hold and compels him to view the entire disaster Lesion immortalised on his body for reasons unknown. Maybe it’s linked to a previous partner, a family member, a time in Lesion’s life about which Thatcher knows nothing yet, something deeply personal – in which case he’ll still disapprove of the ink but possibly gain more insight into his friend’s past. In that case, it’d be a worthwhile endeavour despite the knowledge of what exactly is tainting Lesion’s skin. He won’t be able to unsee it afterwards.

.

“Do you want to fight?”, he interrupts Lesion’s current conversation and gets a good-natured laugh from his friend and a concerned look from Ying in return.

“I thought we agreed not to argue politics in the workplace anymore”, Lesion replies cheerfully and moves his toothpick from one corner of his mouth to the other, Thatcher’s gaze following its journey momentarily.

“You said you were a little rusty in whatever fancy martial arts style you always torture the recruits with, so I thought you could use a refresher.”

“It’s much too warm to fight”, Ying points out and Thatcher barely bites back a response along the lines of that’s the point.

Lesion ignores her statement and leans back in his lawn chair, one of Rainbow’s most sought after commodity in summer – ants are prevalent and therefore sitting in the grass ill-advised. “Even if I did, I’d go to Yumiko and not you – no offence.”

“I bet you’ve been doing it for longer than she has.”

“Possibly, but she’s still lengths better.” The younger man raises an amused eyebrow. “Mike, are you bored?”

Oh. It’s the perfect excuse, his entire team is known for their eccentric solutions to boredom as well as striking fear into everyone’s heart as soon as it looks like they’ve got nothing to do. “Yes”, he lies smoothly, “so you can either join me willingly or spend the rest of the day anticipating a non-consensual fight. I’ll know when you least expect it, Tze Long.”

“Sounds like you don’t have a choice at all”, Ying sighs, shaking her head. “Men.”

“Don’t pretend you wouldn’t jump on the opportunity to roll through the mud with Elena, my dear”, Lesion comments casually after which neither of the two stick around for long enough to watch her turn crimson and splutter at the accusation. “So, tell me. Was this a misguided rescue mission or do you need my help with anything embarrassing?”

Thatcher blinks at the unexpected question until he realises his excuse sounds so terribly flimsy Lesion didn’t buy it for a second, correctly assuming an ulterior motive. Even if he’s nowhere near guessing it. “Oh, neither. I really just – it was a genuine suggestion and I…” He trails off when crinkles appear around dark eyes.

“Aren’t we a little too old to kill time by beating each other up? Let’s go drink some green tea to cool down instead, shall we?”

His objection dies on his tongue as his friend turns away, wearing a small smile. “I don’t even like green tea”, Thatcher protests quietly yet trails after Lesion nonetheless.

.

“Let’s go swimming.”

Lesion pauses visibly, marks his spot on the page he’s currently on and then glances up sceptically. “Now?”

Yes, Thatcher almost blurts out but catches himself just in time, checks his watch and pretends like he didn’t completely lose track of the hours ticking by purely because of Lesion’s presence. It’s a common occurrence, oddly enough. “Of course not”, he scoffs, “but what about tomorrow?”

“Where is this coming from? We’ve never gone for a swim together, you prefer going alone.” Fortunately, there’s no suspicion in his voice, only curiosity.

“I just thought you might want to join me. When’s the last time you went swimming?”

“Yesterday. Meghan invited me.”

Ah. Thatcher squints before he can help himself – they probably spent the time showing off their respective tattoos, and for some reason this thought makes it worse than as if Lesion had gone with anyone else. Even Blackbeard. “Well. If you don’t want to, that’s fine”, he concludes curtly and directs his attention back to the book in his own lap, fighting down another wave of dismay. So others are allowed to see it, apparently, where he’d not even been aware of it at all.

“What? Of course we can go, I was just surprised -”

“Nah. Nevermind.”

“Mike.” There’s gentle exasperation in Lesion’s voice now and he leans forward in the armchair which has become basically his over the course of several months – it bears his imprint and smells of him. Not that Thatcher would know. “I didn’t say no.”

“I’m busy tomorrow anyway”, he lies through his teeth and wonders whether he sounds cranky.

Lesion silently examines him for a few seconds longer, expression unreadable, and finally shrugs. “Alright. If you do want to go, just let me know.”

.

The doors of his wardrobe have mirrors. It’s the perfect plan. Thatcher buys the Dutch beer Lesion likes so much, and while Maestro is in the middle of listing all the exotic animals he’s eaten in his life with Smoke listening intently (and probably adding quite a few to his bucket list), while Mute snitches on Bandit’s newest plan to Sledge, while Sledge pointedly ignores Maestro’s hand slowly creeping up his thigh – while all of them are gathered in Thatcher’s living room, he makes sure to spill some of it down Lesion’s back.

“Whoops”, he says after his friend has jumped up with an undignified noise of surprise and hopes dearly that either none of the others watched him very deliberately tip his bottle or that they at least know to keep their mouths shut. “Come on, let’s get you something else to wear.”

“Why did we even stay in if I end up smelling like pub anyway”, Lesion complains weakly on the way to the bedroom, lamenting the wasted drink and accepting the fresh t-shirt Thatcher presses into his hands. “Thanks. You can go ahead.”

Thatcher pauses, hovering uncertainly. This – isn’t how it’s supposed to go. The last time, Lesion undressed in front of him without any qualms and he hoped it would be the same now, positioned his friend between himself and the mirrors so he’d get a good look no matter what. “I, uh -”

“Do you want to watch me change?”, Lesion asks, audibly entertained.

“No, I just – you probably need a towel, right? To get rid of the beer.”

“Sure”, the younger man agrees easily and Thatcher nods more to himself than for his benefit, leaves the room and dashes as soon as he’s out of eyesight. He’s never fetched a wet towel faster in his life, hoping to at least see part of it if Lesion’s in the middle of undressing, yet when he returns, Lesion is still wearing his soaked shirt. As well as a meaningful smirk. “Thank you, Mike. I’ve got it from here.”

No, he’s not going to let this opportunity pass. “Are you sure you don’t need help with your back?”

“Do you want to see it that badly?”

Oh.

“I have no idea what you mean.”

“Your personal vendetta against my shirts. It took me a few days to realise why so many of them ended up ruined, stained, ripped or threatened. You’ve not seen it before, have you?”

He hasn’t been that obvious. Has he? Thatcher considers denying everything but his curiosity prevails, triumphs over the prospect of never living this down. Defeated, he shakes his head, prepares for the inevitable ribbing yet is merely awarded with Lesion’s fingers reaching up to unbutton his soiled shirt, a gesture so hypnotising all speech evades him.

“I didn’t know you were that interested”, Lesion comments nonchalantly as if the temperature in the room hadn’t just jumped up a few degrees – or maybe Thatcher is experiencing a heatwave, yet whatever it is, his face is burning.

“I’m not”, he replies petulantly and is in the middle of justifying all his actions to himself in his head when the piece of fabric drops, carelessly gets discarded, and then Lesion turns.

It’s -

Well, it’s large, first of all, covering the entirety of his back and seemingly continuing even below the waistband of his trousers, just shy of curling all the way around his ribs. The ink is vibrant and mesmerising, no part of Lesion’s natural skin colour visible between all the vivid colours crassly at odds with everything Thatcher considers desirable. To him, it looks more like a yakuza tattoo than anything else, the motif of a roaring tiger familiar yet kept in a more tasteful style, no cartoonish bulging eyes or exaggerated features. Part of it is shiny with moisture, making it look even more recent and amplifying the otherworldly feel of it.

And it’s still a tattoo, even if the fact that it’s Lesion’s back changes something about it; even if the outline of his shoulder blades, the dip of his lower back, the gently curved spine do something to Thatcher, its nature remains intact. He doesn’t know why anyone would choose to deface their natural beauty like this, would spend a horrendous amount of money on something this hideous, would endure a million needle pricks only to look like this.

He also has no idea why he can’t stop staring.

A detail catches his attention and, without thinking, he lifts his hand and brushes over the tiger’s face with a thumb, the skin warm and slightly sticky. “He’s got a scar below his eye”, Thatcher murmurs and fights hard to keep this odd, uncalled-for reverent tone out of his voice.

“Do you want to watch him dance?”, Lesion asks him quietly and his brain is too occupied to process his words, discern the meaning behind them because – surely, he’s not -

The air is thick around them and it’s not only a byproduct of the season; it’s not stuffy yet heavy nonetheless, struggles against Thatcher’s deep inhale. His other fingers join his thumb in resting on intricate swirls, scared to move in case they smudge the ornate ink. “What do you mean?”, he hears himself mumble, possibly hoping for a repetition only, not even a clarification.

“Oh. Nevermind.” Lesion’s reply is soft and it sounds like he’s grinning. “I’m glad you seem to like it though.”

“I don’t”, Thatcher protests immediately and withdraws his hand, suddenly light-headed with the rush of oxygen, air flooding his lungs, returned to normal from one second to the next.

His friend throws him a look over his shoulder and he really looks like the Cheshire cat for some reason, as if he’s having the time of his life and Thatcher feels like he missed something somewhere along the way. “Alright”, Lesion agrees readily.

They get him cleaned up and into Thatcher’s shirt without any more interruptions, but when he turns to leave, the Brit holds him back yet falters at the expectant, amused and open smile with which the gesture is met.

“How about”, he begins, suddenly sheepish, “we go swimming this weekend?”

And to his relief, Lesion nods immediately, grinning and extremely pleased with the suggestion. “Of course. I’d love to.”

[alphacrone]

“warming up”: or, “in which LAX bros are unintentional wingmen”

When Bittle returned from his run, Jack knew almost immediately that something was wrong.

From the kitchen, he could hear the front door open and close. But where there  normally would have come a cheerful greeting from the hallway there was only silence. When Bittle didn't come into the kitchen or even pass by the doorway, Jack stood and poked his head into hallway, concern itching at the back of his neck.

His heart skipped a beat when he saw Bittle on the ground. It took a second for Jack to register that Bittle had removed his shoes and socks, and was clutching at his bare feet.

“Hey, Jack,” Bittle said softly, not looking up. Moving closer, Jack could see that the many layers of clothing Bittle had worn for his run were soaked through. Bittle was trembling from the cold, wet hair plastered against his forehead.

“Bittle, what happened?” Jack was almost certain it hadn't rained in the hour Bittle had been gone.

“So you k-know the p-prank war?” Bittle asked, teeth chattering a little. “That the boys hav-ve going with th-the lacrosse team?”

Jack frowned. “They didn't,” he said sharply.

Bittle huffed a laugh. “Couple of ‘em jumped m-me. Threw me in the P-Pond as p-p-payback for Holster and Shitty TP-ing their yard last night.”

“They what?!”

Ransom and Holster had wandered downstairs by this point, and Jack was pleased to see they looked as pissed as he felt. “The fuck,” Ransom said, crossing his arms. “That's such a dick move. You haven't been a part of this at all!”

“They're all so weak, Bits is the only one of us they could carried,” Holster said angrily. “Douchebag assholes. We gotta get ‘em back.”

“I'll text Shits and Lardo,” Ransom said. “I'm thinking it's time for Operation Panty Raid.”

“Nuh uh, bro,” Holster said grimly. “They attacked one of our own. We gotta up the ante. Operation Hot Sauce Undies is a go.”

“‘Swawesome,” Ransom said, holding out his fist. Holster bumped it without even needing to look. “Don't worry, Bits. We’ll avenge you.”

“Thanks, y'all,” Bittle said with only a hint of exasperation. His shaking was getting worse, and Jack could see his fingers and toes were dangerously close to looking blue.

“C’mon, Bittle, let’s get you changed,” Jack said, hoisting Bittle to his feet. Bittle stumbled a little, so Jack grabbed him by the rib cage to steady him.

“Keep him safe while we’re gone,” Ransom told Jack as Holster disappeared into the kitchen. “Watch over our favorite baker.”

Before Jack or Bittle could tell him to fuck off, Holster reappeared holding several bottles of Sriracha. “Lards is bringing plastic wrap, we’re gonna cover the toilets so they piss everywhere.”

“Rad,” Ransom said, then turned to Jack and Bittle. “If we don't return, remember us as we were.”

“Brave, righteous, and foxy as hell,” Holster finished. Then they were out the door, and the Haus fell silent.

After a beat, Bittle said, “I don't have bail money.”

Jack snorted and shook his head. “I do, but I'm not bailing them out. C’mon, you need to change into dry clothes.”

Bittle sighed and nodded, letting Jack shepherd him upstairs. Jack wasn't the most outwardly caring person, but he had a protective streak a mile long, and the moment he and Bittle were in Bittle’s room he was stripping off the icy jacket and sweatshirt that clung to Bittle’s torso. While Bittle struggled to tug off his leggings, Jack grabbed a bath towel and a pair of thick sweatpants from the laundry basket on the desk chair.

“Thanks,” Bittle said, taking both from Jack, and Jack had to divert his eyes from the sight of Eric Bittle standing there in only his boxer briefs, soaking wet. “Can you grab a pair of undies from the basket, too?”

Jack thought his head might explode, but he managed to snatch a pair of Samwell red briefs and hand them over without saying something stupid. Bittle took them with a smile and Jack barely had time to look away as he stripped down completely.

“That's something they never tell you about the cold down south,” Bittle said softly. “How much it hurts.”

Jack looked back again to see Bittle toweling his hair slowly, every motion stiff and forced.

Concern seeped into Jack’s gut. “Bittle, get into bed. You need to warm up.”

Bittle nodded and did as Jack said, dropping the towel to the floor. Jack chewed on the inside of his cheek and looked around Bittle’s room until he found what he was looking for.

“This stuffed moose,” Jack said, picking up the smiling toy. “It's microwavable, right?”

Bittle nodded. “Birthday present from Rans last year. ‘We’ll make a Canadian of you yet, Bits,’ he said.” Bittle sighed, waggling his fingers in air quotes. “There's a core you take out to microwave.”

Jack was out the door before Bittle finished his sentence. His mother had never quite acclimated to Quebec winters, and Jack was proud to see he could still microwave a heating pad and make cocoa in record time. He had both in his hands in a matter of minutes, burning his skin a little, and was back in Bittle’s room as quick as he left. Bittle looked surprised, and nearly dropped his phone when Jack barged back in.

“Here,” Jack said, placing the core back into the Moose and shoving it under the covers down to the place by Bittle’s hip. He then handed Bittle the mug of cocoa, and fussed over his throw blanket as he drank gratefully. “The toy should warm you up soon. Do you need socks? You were holding your toes when I found you…”

“No, Mister Moose should do just fine,” Bittle said. “Thank you, Jack, you didn’t have to make hot chocolate-”

“‘Course I did,” Jack said incredulously. “You don’t like hot tea and it’s too late for coffee. So cocoa it was.”

Bitty was visibly touched, and he set the cup down on his bedside table. “You know, Rans and Holster probably wouldn’t’ve done this for me. You’re a good friend, Jack. A good captain.”

Jack felt something hot well up in his chest. Instead of responding, Jack changed directions. “So, Mister Moose, eh?”

“Hush,” Bittle said, pouting a little. “Save the chirps for when my toes stop hurting.”

“Monsieur Orignal,” Jack said, smirking a little.

Bittle glared at him, clearly fighting a smile. “Sayin’ it in French doesn’t make it less of a chirp, Jack Laurent.”

Feeling a bit awkward, Jack sat down on the bed by Bittle’s waist. Almost instinctively, Bittle shifted closer, until he was pressed up against Jack. “It is if you can’t understand what I’m saying.”

“Chirp, chirp, chirp,” Bittle mumbled. “Christ, you’re so warm. Have you been sitting in a sauna?”

Jack laughed and moved so he was leaned up against the headboard. Bittle flopped his head against Jack’s arm, sighing happily as he pressed his frigid nose into the skin just below  Jack’s sleeve. “Warmer than Monsieur Orignal?” Jack asked, mostly to be a little shit.

“Somehow, yes,” Bittle said, voice muffled by Jack’s bicep. “Please stay in my bed forever.”

Normally, Jack would have found the little “eep!” Bittle uttered in mortification to be cute. However, in this moment, his brain was hung on the idea of being in Bittle’s bed...in another context. His dick twitched traitorously.

“That’s not what I meant, Jack, I swear-”

“It’s okay,” Jack heard himself say. He wasn’t sure how he was speaking at all, given the images flashing through his mind like a soft porn montage: Bittle pulling back the covers to reveal his naked chest to Jack; Bittle gasping as Jack licks his way up rivulets of muscle; the broken, whimpering sound he makes as Jack grazes his teeth across a nipple-

“No, it’s not, I should be more careful,” Bittle said, face turning pink, smile gone. Jack didn’t like when Bittle wasn’t smiling. He did like when Bittle was flushed like that, however. “Not everyone is as understanding as you…”

“No, Bittle,” Jack said, words almost slurred with how little his brain was functioning right now. “I mean, it’s okay. I wouldn’t...wouldn’t mind if you meant it that way…”

Bittle’s brows drew together, mouth pursing. “What are you saying?”

But Jack had never been good with words, especially not while his dick was trying to think for him, so he leaned over and kissed Bittle, soft and brief.

“Oh,” Bittle breathed as Jack pulled back. “Oh.”

“Yeah,” Jack said, eloquent as always. “I, uh. Um. Yeah.”

Bittle smiled, small and tentative, and pressed his lips to Jack’s again, a little harder, a little more urgent. Jack turned to better face him, cupping his face with one hand, and Bittle shuddered.

“You know,” he said, voice still soft but harder around the edges, dripping in suggestion. “I’ve read that, uh, skin-to-skin contact is the fastest way to warm up.”

“You know,” Jack said, grabbing his shirt by the collar and tugging it over his head. “I’ve heard that, too.”

Jack almost had a sense of deja vu as Bittle pulled back his duvet, dressed only in his briefs, chest flushed with excitement. Jack shucked off his jeans and crawled in next to Bittle, hands unable to stay still as they roamed every inch of Bittle’s torso. Bittle arched into Jack, mouth finding his in a series of lazy, open kisses, more biting and sucking than the press of lips.

“Alright, Bittle,” Jack said gruffly, pushing Bittle onto his back and straddling his thighs. Bittle looked up at him with wide, happy, hungry eyes, chewing on his lip in the most maddening way. Jack drank in the sight of him, wondering how he hadn’t dreamt of this sooner, wondering if he would ever dream of anything else ever again. (God, he hoped not.) “Let’s warm you up.”

[ciathyzareposts]

Island of Dr. Brain – Won!

Written by Reiko

Easy if you can read a treble clef.

In the far corner of the room, I find a piano, which launches the music puzzle. This has three stages. “Lesson 1” is Sight Reading: clicking the correct note on the piano that matches each note on the staff. Lesson 2 is Placing Notes: clicking the correct place on the staff that matches each note played on the piano, which is just the inverse of sight reading.

The given melody.

Lesson 3 is Memorize the Tune, which is a bit harder than the first two. A melody is played while it appears on the staff, then it disappears, and I have to recreate the notes on the staff by memory, either ear or visual memory. But I can do a few notes at a time and then replay the melody as needed, so it’s not really all that difficult, just a bit tedious. I could have even used the above screenshot, but I didn’t look at it until after I’d already cleared the puzzle.

I should probably clarify that I do have some musical training but I’m not particularly skilled at either reading or playing music: I just sing in choir. As long as you can read a treble clef, understand note lengths and what sharps and flats are for, you can do this puzzle. It’s a precursor to the rather more difficult music puzzle in Lost Mind of Dr. Brain, which at higher levels requires the player to be able to read music well enough to be able to assemble a selection from measures that may have been transposed or flipped horizontally or vertically.

Once the puzzle is complete, which of course gives the Music Theory plaque, the game offers a free play option where you can plink around on the keyboard or put notes on the staff and have the game play the constructed melody. That’s a neat option. I don’t think any of the other puzzles have offered a free play option outside of redoing the actual puzzle.

This whole island has an engine??

The final room shakes when I enter it (every time even, if I go back and re-enter the room). Dr. Brain congratulates me on getting to the battery. But we’re not quite done yet. This room seems to be the control center of the island. I can’t do anything with the consoles right away, but there’s a large button on one wall with an obvious label: “Press Button”. Well, okay then. That pops open one console, which looks like it isn’t working properly.

I also notice another panel that displays a map of the island, including what looks like some kind of engine attached to the back. Wow, what a convoluted place. You can see representations of the various rooms we’ve traveled through to get to the control center at the bottom.

The squares are supposed to represent some kind of computer chip or board, I guess.

So next I have to repair the Navigation Computer by filling in gaps in the patterns of various kinds of computer components. One time I was given squares with various diagonal lines; another time they looked more like resistors with colored bands. Completing the four rows solves the puzzle and gives me the Visual Series plaque.

Then the game (not Dr. Brain’s voice, just a game message) instructs me to “Throw the lever forward.” Now that the computer is fixed, I can do that, but now I’m in danger because the volcano pressure has increased too much. When I push the lever forward, I’ve set the throttle to full (does this whole island move?), but the “Volcano Stack Computer” is broken. Something flies out of it, and an alarm goes off.

Leave it to Dr. Brain to mess with volcanoes.

I click on it, and I’m given a schematic of the computer with one component damaged and sparking. I click on that to remove it, and then I have to put it into the reprogrammer by solving the “Transistor Logic” puzzle. I have to test the old chip to determine its logic pattern and then program a new chip to replace it.

Testing the damaged chip.

The program is constructed using classic logic gates: AND, OR, NAND, NOR, XOR, etc. I have to construct a gate combination that will give a specified output pattern using up to four inputs. This can get kind of complex, actually, especially if I have to use three gates.

Instructions for the circuit programmer.

My winning circuit pattern.

In the particular pattern I get, I notice that only two of the inputs actually have any effect on the output. If D is 0, then then output is the inverse of B, but if D is 1, then the output is 1 (or D). Since AND has the effect of outputting 0 if both inputs are 0, and 1 otherwise, I can simply construct the gate combination that can be represented as “D AND NOT B”. A and C make no difference. This gives me the “Logic Gates” plaque and also allows me to win the game.

Before I describe the ending, I’m going to go back through the game from the beginning and revisit each of the puzzles to see what the differences are on the easier difficulty levels. You can always go back and redo earlier puzzles, which gives you more hint calls if you need them, and doing the puzzles again on multiple difficulty levels also adds bonus points.

Microscope puzzle on Standard: just lines.

Polyominoes: Doesn’t appear to be any different on different difficulty levels. It’s always a 6×8 rectangle with about a dozen pieces that must be fit inside. It’s possible that “easier” configurations are selected on the easier difficulties, but having completed the puzzle at least once at each level, I didn’t notice much difference.

Microscope: Decidedly easier. On Novice, the equations are both just perpendicular straight lines, one for the y-coordinate and one for the x-coordinate, which is trivial to solve. On Standard, both equations are linear with slope and offset factors. And, of course, on Expert, one of the equations was a parabola.

Sarcophagus Lock: Also easier. On Novice, there are only three very simple numerical sequences, and on Standard, there are four mostly simple sequences. On Expert there were six, and some sequences involved squares or varying patterns.

Towers of Hanoi: Requires moving four rings on Novice (which is just barely harder than three, really), five rings on Standard, and seven rings on Expert. So the Expert solution takes more than eight times as long as the Novice solution, and four times as long as on Standard.

That last twisty gray area is just one puzzle piece on Novice.

Jigsaw: The Novice level breaks the puzzle up into much larger pieces, so there are far fewer of them and the puzzle is far quicker to solve. I think it took me not much more than two minutes. On the Standard level, the pieces are the same size as on Expert, but the whole outside border is already done. This cut the solving time down by about a quarter for me, so I solved it in about fifteen minutes compared to twenty for the full puzzle.

Blinking Flamingoes: Made trivial on Novice by only having to set one flamingo, and while Standard requires two, it’s still a lot simpler than Expert’s three.

Word Search: Generated exactly the same way each time, with twenty foreign words hidden in the grid, but on Standard, only fifteen of the twenty need to be found, and on Novice, only ten. All twenty can still be found after completing the required number, but nothing extra happens if you do.

Cipher Bridge: Noticeably simpler on Standard: the quotes are shorter, and the scrambles are easier. Both word and sentence anagrams are used. On Novice, it gets even easier: no word anagrams are used, only scrambled sentences and misplaced spaces.

Botanical Garden: Same background image on each level, but only 12 animals need to be found on Standard, and only 8 on Novice. Honestly, the Novice level puzzle I played ended up being harder than the Standard because there were three tiny ant lions, two very close to each other. I don’t think there’s any reason why there should be even two of the same animal in any given puzzle, even on Expert, but especially on Novice. In the several times I played it, I saw at least twenty-five different animals. It’s really not that hard to make an algorithm that doesn’t repeat items from a list.

Novice level tells you outright what the element is.

Element Analysis: You may remember that on Expert, this involved analyzing objects that were comprised of three elements (plus trace elements). Well, on Standard, the objects only have two major elements, like a brass knob (copper + tin), and on Novice, the objects only have one element, and it’s usually named in the description of the object, like a silver earring. You just have to know the abbreviation, or you have to click the elements until you find it, that’s all.

Numeric Planning: Expert and Standard levels both use a 4×4 grid, so I’m not really sure how the Standard one was easier, but it was. The Novice level uses only a 3×3 grid, so it’s much quicker to guess and check options.

Spectrum Analyzer: The Expert level pattern involves six elements; on Standard it’s five; and on Novice it’s only three. I approach it the same way no matter how many there are, though: I test each individually and then combine the ones that match.

Antonym Anthill: Always asks two sets of three quotes, but on Novice, each quote has just one word that needs replacing. Standard has two words, and Expert has three. The lower levels also indicate when a particular quote has all words correct; I don’t think Expert did that.

Synonyms and Homonyms: Similar (ha), with two words per sentence on Novice and three words on Standard. On the synonym puzzle, the Novice level is particularly simple because only the rhyming words at the end need to be replaced.

Standard level matching

Novice level matching

Object Matching: On Expert, the objects were rather detailed masks with a lot of different but similar features. Standard has silhouettes of creatures that still have several different features, but not as many as on Expert. Novice just uses geometric shapes, which are a lot easier to match, of course. Each level still requires five sets.

Bookshelf: Standard asks the player to sort books, four per shelf, about various geographical features into categories like mountains and rivers. The Novice puzzle asks the player to sort books, three per shelf, about various instruments into categories like woodwinds and percussion.

Counterweight: Even on Standard, I found this to be the hardest puzzle in the game. Maybe I just need better mental math? Novice separated the liquids into different divisions of the bucket, and it also automatically determined which division of the bucket to pour into, but you still have to do the math to figure out how many of each size container will add up to the given total.

Elevator: Even on Expert this puzzle was sometimes trivial if the ratio was a whole number, so this puzzle didn’t differ much.

Robot Programming: As far as I can tell, it’s pretty much the same on all levels. The three cartridges themselves have three levels of difficulty, but you have to use all three anyway.

Genetics: On Standard, the combinations are simpler: I think all of the grandparents start with pure sets (AA or aa) of all the genes, rather than possible mixes. On Novice, there’s only one generation: the player must simply cross two creatures to get the right final mix among the children.

Art Concentration: Standard only requires identifying two of the three rows of paintings, so there are more examples already identified for comparison, and Novice only requires identifying one row of paintings.

Music: Fairly similar on all levels, but the selections of music are a bit shorter on the easier levels. Plus on Novice, the game chooses the correct length of note for you.

Visual Series: Novice and Standard generally offer more obvious series, such as a sequence of bands that rotates one place each square, but otherwise the puzzle is exactly the same. I played a couple different times, and one time on Standard I got a puzzle with colored dots that was inscrutable to me. It’s easy to shift back and forth between difficulties and generate a new puzzle, though.

Logic Gates: Only uses three inputs on Standard, compared to four on Expert. Only two on Novice, which is more or less trivial because the test area at the bottom will display the truth table for any single gate. Still, for anyone that doesn’t understand logic gates at all, Novice is a good place to start.

Island Ship of Dr. Brain

After I finish the logic gates puzzle, that fixes the computer at the heart of the island. The view cuts away to a side view of the island, which shows a huge engine attached to one end. The engine starts running, which pushes the whole island. It’s turned into a ship! The anchor is raised, and a flag emerges from one of the hills. Then the view zooms way out to the map from the very beginning with the copy-protection “puzzle,” where we see the island-ship moving around until it arrives at Dr. Brain’s castle in one corner.

Dr. Brain’s latest invention: The Lazy Scientist 2000 (my name)

There I see Dr. Brain lounging in his latest invention: a comfy lounge chair complete with fancy drink-holder, foot massagers, a fan, a book holder, and other amenities. He sent me off to get a battery to run this thing?? I guess it must use a lot of power to run all the automatic gadgets attached.

Full score for completing the game after doing each puzzle once with no hints.

Dr. Brain congratulates me on my score (calling it “unbelievable” since I scored full points). The maximum total score is 1000 points, but only 390 of those come from completing the game: the rest come from replaying the puzzles on multiple difficulties and from not using hints.

Then the credits roll, complete with little animated heads and comments from the staff. Actually, these aren’t real credits since they don’t give full names, just whatever name is given in the comment, which is usually just first name. After the credits finish, the game gives the option to go back and keep playing puzzles, replay the credits, or quit.

Brett is probably Brett Miller, for instance.

And that’s Island of Dr. Brain! Puzzly fun for the whole family! Next time we’ll take a look at how it stacks up.

Session Time: 4 hours 30 minutes Total Time: 12 hours 0 minutes

source http://reposts.ciathyza.com/island-of-dr-brain-won/

[perfectlycoralfury-blog]

Acquiring Help From Your Family members, Friends As well as Doctors.

Unless you reside in an uncommon spot, a minimum of a third from your adult good friends, coworkers, as well as neighbors possess some type of mental disease that is actually being actually addressed through major pharma and/or big liquor. A buddy loads a vital role as a confidant, someone which pays and also listens closely focus on you, is willing in order to help you, as well as has actually discussed enthusiasms. Sooner or later they will certainly be able to push the Mountain ranges" button and also take a digital chopper tour through the mountains without leaving the mobility device. A ton of people actually possess No hook-ups" in their bio, which gives you a concept that they're looking for one thing a little even more serious.

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