#it was just a mishmash of stuff tossed into the game

[gerudospiriit]

[Hot take but the reason botw/totk aren't in the same timeline with the rest of the games is because they just did whatever they wanted with the lore, story, etc. and then realized they couldn't fit it in anywhere. In other words, as the writing itself suggests anyway, these games weren't planned out and was just a bunch of fanservice shoved into a big open world game.]

[ssrleona]

homecoming (I)

pairing: leona kingscholar x fem!reader

warnings: slight angst, allusions to childhood mistreatment

word count: 1.5k

s: at your insistence, you finally visit the afterglow savannah and meet Leona's family

a/n: this was written before the tamashna muina event released. and since I haven't read the trans yet, how I describe the savannah and its culture may not be the same as it was described in game. I'm East African, and since the lion king was essentially a mishmash of East African culture (mostly Kenya, Ethiopia, and for some reason some stuff from W. Africa), most of what I describe comes from my own cultural background + light research. enjoy!

It starts with a letter.

It’s not unusual for Night Raven College to be overrun by its unruly student body, but the coming summer holiday brings a new level of restlessness that hums through the walls. Hasty stops at the school store, last minute assignments, bittersweet goodbyes. Even the faculty seem on edge and ready to end the semester.

Ruggie all but collapses at your feet when he spots you in the hall of mirrors, heaving a woven basket twice his size. It’s filled to the brim with an assortment of different packages; mailers, bags, miniature boxes wrapped in newspaper clippings and assorted wrapping paper. A neat ivory envelope tied with a golden ribbon at the very top.

He gives it to you. “Could you hand this off to Leona? I have enough on my plate as it is.”

“Is it usually this bad?” You ask, eyeing the precarious stack that’s leaning just a little too close to the floor. You turn the envelope in your hands. The words on the front are written in a script you can’t make out, only recognizing ‘Leona Kingscholar’ in the far left corner. It’s bulky, like someone crammed multiple letters inside, but doesn’t take away the luxurious quality of the paper. It’s silk between your fingertips.

“It’s from his family, so I doubt he’d read it anyways,” Ruggie comments. He hefts the basket from the floor, “Throw it out if you want.”

His family.

Besides bitter remarks thrown in passing, Leona never speaks of them. Or his home. What you’re holding in your hands is the only piece of the other Kingscholar’s you’ve ever gotten so close to. The letter is tucked away before you give the suggestion a second thought. 

“You came all this way, I might as well.” 

“You just wanna read it, huh?” 

“And you wouldn’t?”

Ruggie laughs at that, turning to the door with a shake of his head. “There’s a reason curiosity killed the cat. Something’s I’d rather not know.”

______________________________________________________________________________

“Took you long enough.”

Warm arms circle your waist as you enter the room, dragging you backwards until you hit the plushness of his sheets. He’s practically on top of you. Flush against him, back to chest. His head finds its way to the crook of your neck and you can feel the sigh he releases on the wisps of your hair. The softness of his tail curling around your ankle.

Leona’s tone is scalding, but the delicate possessiveness of his actions tell you otherwise.

You turn your head. Heavy olive irises sharpen as you place the letter between the both of you. “I got caught up.”

Groaning, he’s quick to toss it on the nightstand before burrowing himself further into your neck. With you two so close, sheets ballooned around you, a drowsy warmth fills you. It’s hard not to fall into it.

“That’s the last thing I need right now.” He huffs.

You raise a brow. “You haven’t even read it.”

“Doesn’t matter. It’s the same old shtick. Naggin’ me to come for break.” 

He sighs. “If it was up to me I’d just stay here.”

“Aw, you’d miss me that much?” You tease, yelping as he pinches your side. The laugh pulled from his lips ease into a yawn.

“In your dreams.” Leona exhales. His breath evens out, warm against the shell of your ear as he’s lulled into sleep. 

And that was that.

In your position on the bed, you have a perfect view of the nightstand, eyes catching the glimmer of gold ribbon in the dim light.

Coming to Twisted Wonderland, you’ve constantly been thrusted into the most asinine of situations all while being told to keep your head down and leave things where they lie.

But you're a curious sort by nature. It’s a hunger, insatiable in its pursuit to pick everything apart, examine every crack and rough edge, feel the grain against the pad of your fingers, piece by piece. You’ve disrupted the debased philosophies of Night Raven College’s elite because you’re always pushing for more, not settling for less.

This is not something you are ashamed of.

Yet, as you stare at the envelope in front of you, you can’t help but feel hesitant.

Leona is an enigma, an ever changing labyrinth. The moment you think you have him figured out, the layout changes and you’re back at square one. And it leaves you starved.

You want to know him, yearn to trace his patterns like the dips in the back of your hand; know where each curve started, why it ends, and swallow it whole to keep wherever you go.

 You also know this: if you push too far Leona will close himself away and never let you see these parts of him ever again. And you’ve grown greedy.

(Something’s I’d rather not know)

You grab the envelope.

The ribbon gives easily enough, and you’re met with letter after letter, all scrawled in messy print. You realize these were written by Cheka– asking his uncle how he’s doing, when he’s coming to visit, and what he’s been up to at the palace since the last time Leona saw him. On the bottom of some of the pages were crayon drawings: portraits of his parents and scenes of Leona and him together, exploring the palace or traveling through the city. 

As you sift through, a paper falls into your lap. 

It’s a photograph of Cheka and who you’d assume to be his parents. The man in the photo is laughing, light smile lines gracing his face. Cheka’s in his arms, and the woman beside them looks at the sight with fondness. The background is flooded with the country’s namesake- an assortment of orange, yellow, and pinks kaleidoscopes together in a painting of the setting sun. It looks homey, tender and inviting, and you can’t help the smile that curls around your lips.

You’d love to be there, surrounded in that warmth.

 Leona’s scoff makes you jump, looking over at him, and his bleary eyes meet your stare. His expression was mostly hidden in the depth of your shoulder but he didn’t look pleased. You didn’t realize you said the words aloud, or that your movements woke him.

“Go be a comedian if you wanna start telling jokes.” He grunts. You turn yourself in his grasp to face him fully and his arms tighten their hold. His hair is mused with sleep, blanketing the pillows beneath. Your hands itch to touch it.

“I don’t think it’s a bad idea,” You insisted. He scowls at this, tail shifting back and forth beneath the sheets. “ I want to see the Afterglow Savannah, the palace, your family. It'd be nice to know where you grew up.”

The message is quiet. You do not tell me enough.

Leona grows silent. Contemplative. He knows when you get like this, stuck on an idea that overrules your every action, close to nothing can convince you otherwise. 

He told you once that’s a trait he liked about you in the best of times. 

( ‘But half the time it just makes you hard headed’ he said, and snickered at your glare.)

Leona knows you well, too well. Usually this would bring a coy flush to your face, but you couldn’t help but grimace at the thought.

“I just want to know more about you.” You admit. 

“You could just ask.”

“Like you’d tell me.”

He says nothing, looking through you, deep in thought. Leona doesn’t seem annoyed by your probing, but something about the furrow in his brows looks resigned. Bitter.

“There’s nothing worth seeing.” He bites out. “It’s a bunch of royals too stuck up to see past their ivory towers.”

The photo; the honest smiles and laughter.

“I’m sure there’s more than that.” You contend.

Something bubbles forth in him. A dark quality you haven't seen before. He growls deep in his throat. It’s too low for your ears to catch, but you feel it reverberate through the bed and into your chest. 

“ Yeah, the stupid age old rules they hide behind–and they're sure to ostracize anyone who steps outside it.”  He meets your gaze.“Birth order is the only thing that matters. If you’re not first then you’re nothing.”

 The vitriol in his tone catches you off guard, and the words fall away from your mouth before you can stop yourself.

“Do you hate the Afterglow Savannah?” 

Instead of the eruption of anger you expected, the brewing storm leaves him sullen.

You regret it as soon as it passed through your lips

“You really don’t let up do you?” He sighs. Leona’s voice is oddly gentle. You wait for the other shoe to drop; anger, arrogance–anything. But it never comes. His arms move you so you’re in your original position, back to chest, as if the conversation never happened. Except this time, he curls himself into you– his body hiding you away, swallowing you whole.

“Stop worrying about it.” He mumbles. “Hurry up and sleep.”

You don’t. You spend that afternoon staring at the photo, tracing over their juvenile smiles.

Leona’s was not one of them.

TBC

[browniefox]

Alright, more Crisis Core, let's go! This one ended up being REALLY long (we got through two chapters), so I'm putting a read more some ways down so it doesn't kill people's dashes.

The boy said the line!

Yay, Cloud is finally here! He still clearly has the basic infantry model other than the head, but it does mean he stands in the casual almost sassy way they all do haha. In general, it's so weird but cute to see him smiling and laughing. Aw, he's not traumatized yet!

I knew what was coming, but my friend I'm playing with didn't, so it was fun to see her reaction (tho i totally still got so excited anyway haha).

This is just here bc I love them so <3 And then Tseng is also here being a third wheel. The sneaking portion that is right after this I sucked ass at. I couldn't make it five feet without being seen and tossed out, and I just had to wait until the game took pity on me and took the guards away.

Genesis, please I'm begging you just kill Hollander. I do love seeing his hair, once so bright red, getting grayer and darker, how his nice leather jacket is getting all broken, giving a sense that he's not taking care of himself and his things as much as he should be.

My sister has tried to stay more-or-less blind to what happens in Crisis Core (she knows some stuff, I know a little more) but all fics tend to use the same Loveless lines (which makes sense, of course) but I did end up reciting this quote with him bc it's one of my favorites, much to the shock of my sister.

I can't believe Zack really thinks Genesis died tho. Like, the guy has a wing, he can fly, falling is not gonna kill him. I'm still not totally clear what Genesis is trying to achieve, but I've been watching some of ButterBuns CCR videos and she's kind of given me a better sense of Genesis. He's just flailing around, trying to get something, anything, to work. He's a dying man who is desperate and doesn't even know himself exactly what he wants.

HELL YEAH! If the creators weren't cowards they would have let your models touch. Our new thing while playing is being proud of Zack for having two boyfriends and one girlfriend. The boy can get it.

As per usual, my biggest problem with this game is the writing - especially with Angeal, tbh. I guess Angeal is just like Genesis in that he's desperately trying to figure out who he is, monster or man. But every time he talks about being a monster I kind of roll my eyes. He's like an emo teenager. Last chapter I felt like it was getting a better grip and liking for him, but I'm kind of back to just being like 'what's your deal man'.

That being said, I kind of dig his weird monster form! It's a mishmash but super cool, and I love how his arms are folded in front of him. My friend and sister I don't think liked it as much and mostly made fun of it which, fair.

Mostly unrelated, but i really got myself into a big of predicament in that I'm super overpowered, which means I get through battles so quick, which also means I don't get to show off all the limit breaks and summons and such when we're playing ;-; but then I turn it to hard mode and die instantly.

I'm always a sucker for sad sunsets. I might not get Angeal or his deal, but I do at least buy that Zack cares about Angeal. It's kind of like Angeal was too set in his ways of monster vs heroes, and that a monster needs to be killed by a hero. That Zack is the only hero left to kill a monster like him, or that by doing so Zack proves he's a hero. But really all it's done is given Zack trauma and made him more uncertain than ever who he is and what he stands for.

(It kind of reminds me of near the end of Homestuck, when Dave and Dirk are talking, and Dave admits it's possible that Bro was trying to train him, but all it did was make him scared.)

I wish we got to spend more time in the game with Aerith, but at least you get the sense that they do spend more time with each other, especially with Aerith being there for Zack after this.

MY BEAUTIFUL BEAUTIFUL BOY! I wish your limit break looked cooler tho :P

Wait, so are Angeal and Genesis brothers then?? I knew they were connected through Gillian, but I guess how connected never hit me. I mean, Angeal defo has her hair while Genesis has her face, but also I've been imagining and seeing them as boyfriends this whole time???

So many mixed feelings about Zack right now. The first thing is yay, new hair cut! My sister absolutely hated his bangs, so big win for her. I do like that you get to see that, as one of the last remaining Firsts, Zack has started to take on more of a leadership and mentor role for the other SOLDIERs. However, him telling them to protect their SOLDIER honor is weird when Zack doesn't know what that is either. I've felt it, but I am glad Zack himself has acknowledged that he doesn't know what that honor is or what it means. I hope we get to see Zack figure it out. I also like that Zack is kind of unmoored and uncertain now. Puts him in an interesting place for whatever's next.

Beach episode! It is FUCKING INSANE to me that Cissnei just... tells Zack that Aerith is an Ancient. Why? What was the point of that? Cissnei, you can't just say that! I guess it could be seen as her trusting Zack and demonstrating she wants to help him, but it's still so weird. It's nice Zack has been said to be hanging with the turks more, but I wish we could have gotten more of that in game. I don't think he even knows Reno and Rude's names.

BOOO TSENG SHOULD BE IN A SWIMSUIT TOO BOO!

So I know Genesis is still alive, but interesting that this is beign considered since it's Sephiroth's whole deal. Tbh, tho, I'm not sure how I feel about Tseng openly acknowledging that Mako is life. How much is that recognized in general, actually? I mean, people do fade into mako when they die... hm, much to think about.

The chase through the city was so dumb, I've had it with Hollander, how hard can it be to catch and/or kill one guy for real. That being said, I do like how cool the buster sword is, and at the end is Sephiroth :D I'm glad that Zack seems a little bitter towards Sephiroth; they're both mourning in different ways, and it's driven a rift between both of them. But at the same time, they're the closest thing they both have to someone who can understand what they're going through.

Shoutout to Zack's little fidgets :D He's still a restless little puppy, despite it all. Sephiroth and Zack's relationship is just so good and interesting, I need them to hang out more so I can see more of it.

God Genesis is so pretty. Both him and Angeal have fucked up looking wings - which adds to what they're going through - but I actually love it for Genesis. Again, what is this dude's goal? He'll probably tell you once he figured it out himself. I love the reveal that he was also at Junon this whole time. Interesting parallel to how the Firsts fought 'at Junon' altogether and now they can't be further apart.

I need to pet that dog! Is Angeal still alive?? I totally thought he died, he has to be dead, right? Just living on in his copies? Anyway, the dog should be a character who manages to live forever because I love him. Also, laughed so hard when the little Shinra robots came into the church oh my god, it's not supposed to be funny I think but it's hilarious how non-threatening they look.

Wow Kunsel, jealous much?? Also, a little creepy? Is my boyfriend stalking me? If I trusted Kunsel, at this point I'd think he was going to betray me at some point, but I trust him too much for that. It seems more like Kunsel just doesn't know how to say 'I'm worried about you and you should talk to me about what you're going through'. I love Kunsel <3

As usual, this game feels like it goes too fucking fast. It's always one thing after another, nobody's talking or explaining things. Maybe it's because you're expected to do side missions every so often? That would probably break things up a bit more. God, there's such an interesting story here! I just wish it was told better.

Also I've been playing so much of this game and only just learned you can sprint :P

[skaruresonic]

Count me in as another one who got preemptively blocked. Posts like the Metal Sonic one are why I nowadays prefer to be as concise as possible with whatever I have to say unless I *have* to elaborate. Posts like that one seem to promote the idea that quantity of words is quality, that if you say a bunch of baseless nonsense, the quantity of said nonsense (and its "passion") translates to actually knowing what they're talking about.

Count me in as another one who got preemptively blocked.

You, too?

Well. If I had my suspicions about the existence of a blocklist before, now they've become a hell of a lot stronger. People don't block me under this name because they probably know me better by my old handle.

I wonder what it says. Probably some mishmash of telephone, made-up accusations, stuff like "They think Flynn is literal Satan," "They gag on Sega's boots" and "They all condone death threats and harass people! (ignores the million threats and instances of harassment we've received)"

Posts like that one seem to promote the idea that quantity of words is quality, that if you say a bunch of baseless nonsense, the quantity of said nonsense (and its "passion") translates to actually knowing what they're talking about.

I don't know if quantity is a factor so much as surface-level emotionality. @woodchipp found a, er, piece of "writing advice" by Omocat which succinctly sums up the concept as "feels before reals."

Whatever emotional truths people are predisposed to believe matter more to them than accuracy or logic.

You'll notice posts of this nature tend to use very loaded and definite language, in addition to a noticeable lack of concrete examples. They say lofty things about the games and characters without much nuance or qualifiers to dilute them, because nuance is pesky, and qualifiers get in the way of making A Statement. It becomes little wonder that the truth gets lost along the way. They speak to the emotional truths of people, which are then ruined by canon or logic. If you buy into Metal's existential crisis and you find it poignant, naturally, you're going to exaggerate that part and perhaps neglect or forget the part where he egomaniacally claims he's going to become the "supreme being" of the world and rule a giant robot kingdom. The former doesn't fit your presupposed picture of Metal as an uwu identity-crisis angst-having boy, but it's important not to miss because it's an example of Metal exerting agency. Without it, he's just a passive receptacle of fate: according to OP, he may have "asked" Eggman to remove his voice.

Personally, I think the idea that Metal has an identity crisis of not being the "real Sonic" was a canon-migrant idea that leaked from the OVA into our understanding of the games. And that, even if we were to accept it, by this point too little has been done with it to really mean much.

I would have been willing to have that conversation with them about that - I genuinely feel the games haven't handled it well - but because I'm not willing to say "fuck the games" all the way and like, toss them in the trash or whatever, I guess whatever I said must not have merit. Something something Sega shill.

All that being said, this stuff is actually getting pretty comical.

[clowndensation]

okay my friend is in a meeting so i can't go play dav now that I'm home. time to review the game 👍

this is literally a long ramble compilation of my thoughts. also i can't effectively separate the good from the bad, so it's a mishmash. sorry.

okay. so first of all, very very fun combat. the most fun i've had playing a bioware game so far, and it's not close. everything was pretty consistently difficult up until around level 35, and then fun but fairly easy through level 40. levels 40-50 that i started buying skills that impeded my build just so i could struggle a bit more. boss fights take a dive once we got into late game, but by that point i was invested enough in the story that i just wanted to get through them anyways to keep going forward, so not a noticeable drawback for me. shield toss 9,999 damage ricocheted to 10 enemies my beloved.

really liked the majority of the companions! neve is, i think, the standout character among all of them, with davrin, emmrich, and harding also coming in extremely solid.

bellara i like a lot as a character, and she has a ton of great character interactions and dialogue, but her personal quest was... not great? there were reveals that felt like they SHOULD be a really huge deal for her, but the follow-up conversations didn't capitalize on the emotional stakes in any meaningful way. might make a separate post about this because it really bothered me.

lucanis didn't work for me at all. felt like he had a lot less content than everyone else, but it could have just felt that way because all of his quests were centered around a tedious and obvious plotline, and absolutely refused to engage with the spite stuff until the very end. it truly felt like the spite/lucanis resolution was the only idea they had, and the rest of his family stuff was just buffer to tide you over until then. also the implementation of the crows bothered me, which did not help his case at all.

taash is transgender and likes dragons. if you're not sure what being transgender means, don't worry. they will explain it to you.

the overall story i liked? question mark? a lot of it was confirming longstanding fan theories, re: the titans, the dwarves, and elves and spirits. putting the treviso/minrathous thing at the beginning of the game worked well to establish stakes. half of the factions didn't land for me (veil jumpers, crows, lords of fortune), but the ones that did i liked. as a solas fan, i liked getting to explore more stuff with him, as well his resolution in the game, but i get the feeling it wouldn't work as well for people who don't care about him? i'm doing a hard anti-solas run next, so i'll scope out how that plays.

factions i didn't like: crows literally don't work at all. the game's absolute refusal to engage with the fact that one of our factions contains killers for higher is actually laughable. the resolution of the treviso quests being an orphan who plans to build his own house to take in orphans and train them to be assassins as some sort of uplifting idea is. again. laughable. you can not create a family who loves their job of murdering people for money and just not engage with what that means, and pretend everyone would react to them warmly, or even neutrally. there's literally a codex between neve and lucanis where lucanis confirms he was responsible for murdering the children and grandchildren of a noble family, which is played off tonally as funny. hello.

veil jumpers ARE interesting, and i like what they have going on, but the game's refusal to admit that elves might be torn over whether to support their gods or not kneecaps them pretty hard. strife and irelin also felt severely underdeveloped as faction contacts, which sucks, because i want to know more about them. (they aren't the only underdeveloped faction contacts, the lords and the mourn watch are also lacking. strife and irelin just bother me the most because it really felt like they should have had a relevance equivalent to antoine and revka, and they didn't at all).

the lords are treasure hunters. and also isabela is there. there is quite literally nothing more to them. whatever.

and finally, they did a huge disservice to all the villains outside of the gods. the game's unwillingness to add any sympathetic faces to the opposing force rendered everything to kindergarten level "good guys vs bad guys" black and white morality that really hurts the game:

the antaam are a faceless, nameless horde for us to kill. you could not get more "foreign savages" with it if you tried. they quite literally never should have made this a thing in inquisition and onward. qunari who follow the qun are interesting enough on their own, putting in questlines where you actually have to talk with a qunari that isn't taash or their mom would have done wonders with this.

similarly, the venatori are just evil guys to kill. we don't get to see any interesting venatori plots in the way we got to see, say, meredith, cullen, and the rest of the templars actively ruining the lives of the people around them in da2. i want to kill the venatori because they're venatori, but there simply wasn't any personal investment there.

anyways. tldr:

a middling game with characters i want to chew on. actually feels like it has reallly solid bones under there, but there was obviously something nightmarish happening behind the scenes in development that kept it from taking it's good moments and making them great, and which made it's lacking moments dissatisfying at best and offensive at worst. still about fifteen times better written than inquisition was, however, and i'm gonna be replaying it for the next year straight probably. classic bioware maneuver!

[safethaw]

Choosing Deck Wood: Top 3 Picks.

Ah, the deck. That cozy little extension of our homes where memories are crafted and morning coffees taste just a tad bit better. But, selecting the right wood for that haven? Now, that's an adventure and a half. 1. The Vintage Vibes: Cedar Have you ever stumbled upon an old vinyl record and just felt the nostalgia? That’s cedar wood for deck for you. - Guarded by Mother Nature: Cedar doesn’t just sit pretty; it's a fortress against decay and bugs. It’s like that vintage leather jacket - stylish and durable. - That Visual Treat: Cedar’s appearance? A beautiful mishmash of rich colors and patterns. Whether you let it age gracefully or dress it in stain, it's pure aesthetic pleasure. - Elegance on a Budget: And the best part? It's luxury but without that lavish price tag. Win-win, right? 2. Redwood: The Robust Rockstar If cedar’s the classic tune, redwood’s the electric guitar riff that makes the wood for deck track unforgettable. - Strength Meets Beauty: Redwood is like that underdog sports car with an engine that surprises everyone. It resists wear and tear while looking effortlessly chic. - Nature’s Moisturizer: Thanks to its unique oils, redwood stays younger for longer and scoffs at rot and insects. - Pay a Bit, Get a Lot: Sure, it’s on the pricier side, but man, does it pay off in the long run. 3. Pine's Alter Ego: Pressure-Treated Pine Introducing the unsung hero of the decking world, the ever-reliable pressure-treated pine. - Under Pressure, It Thrives: It’s pine, but with a PhD in durability. Enhanced and ready to tackle all threats, making it perfect wood for deck. - Your Wallet's BFF: Getting quality without emptying your pockets? Yes, please. - Needs that Occasional Pep Talk: Look, it's tough, but even heroes need some pampering. Seal it, nurture it, and watch it shine. Facing Winter’s Chilly Temper? Here’s A Pro Tip Winter. It’s all fun, games, and snowball fights until your deck gets the chills. Tossing salt or random chemicals might seem tempting, but it's kinda like feeding candy to a baby. Quick fix, but not great in the long run. Enter Safe Thaw. A Deck’s Knight In Icy Armor. - Whisperer to the Woods: Safe Thaw treats your deck like royalty. It melts the ice and keeps the wood's integrity. - Magic in a Bottle: With its uber-cool formula - crystalline amide with a dash of glycol - this isn’t just any ice melt. It’s deck-friendly magic. - No Drama, Just Results: And rest easy. With Safe Thaw, there's zero stress about corroding stuff or any electric shocks. Your space is safe, and your machinery's even safer. Final Whistle Picking the wood for decks, and then protecting it from the elements - it’s quite the journey. But as the snow blankets your yard and your deck stands tall, a mug of cocoa in hand, you'll know every decision, every plank, was worth it. Cheers to that! Read the full article

[digisims2]

As someone who has voiced their thoughts on this matter I honestly think Sims 4 stuff looks perfectly good - in Sims 4. That's my opinion and I'll stick to it even if that will make people dislike or look down on me. Surely everything I post is ugly to some people too and it's their right to feel that way. Just like I'm allowed to not like Sims 4 conversions.

I'm just not a fan of the plastic look of it in Sims 2 but anyone who likes it, good for you! You'll have years worth of content to download because it's all being converted as new packs get released and it doesn't look like EA's in hurry to stop tossing out new packs anytime soon.

And for anyone who doesn't like it (such as myself) we can always just look for older Sims 3 conversions, older Sims 2 files or like you said make it ourselves. But it does get a little bit frustrating to see all the new Sims 4 conversions pop up day after day and knowing that I'll never have any use for them unless I commit my whole game to clay aesthetic or awful mishmash of stuff and I don't want that.

So I'll stick with my semi-realistic game and be one of the like 10 people who don't like or use 4t2 conversions in their games. *shrugs*

Every time I see someone gripe about all the new CC being 4t2 I think '...ok, how about you make something that isn't?'

How terrible that the people who make free things you could download aren't making what you like. So learn how. It's a skill. (Or a set of skills really.) You can do it. Or you can moan about all the free things you don't want. Your call.

And follow @goatskickin while we're at it. Lots of lovely non 4t2 stuff.

[scribblesofanaricat]

Crossed Out

(an older version has been posted here before, but I’ve finally gotten round to making a fully edited version with an altered ending (and hopefully a bit more of an explanation), so I hope you guys like)

---------

It’s not a crime to be curious.

That simple fact is what’s led him to end up stuffing his knapsack with an assortment of things that normally have no business being in there. Normally. A scarf that just so happens to be ideal for somebody who’d rather their face went unseen. A chunk of nut and raisin-infused bread snuck- borrowed from the loaf his mam keeps wrapped up in the kitchen (which he can never resist sampling at the best of times). And the battered old woodcutter’s axe he can barely raise any higher than his shoulder - just in case.

That bag’s been packed for days now, wedged out of sight in a corner of his clothes chest. He hasn’t been able to bring himself to do anything more than that. Until now, that is.

His teeth clench at every telltale creak of the floorboards under his bare feet, even though he isn’t really doing anything wrong…yet. He gives them a hard prod with his toes all the same. Traitors.

As he fervently hoped, the front room is clear of any mother-shaped obstacles when he slinks his way downstairs. Just the rough-hewn table and chairs sitting in their usual corner and the mismatched sideboards pushed up against their usual walls, although one of them now has what looks like fresh creamy milk waiting patiently atop it.

Right on cue, a distinctive voice swells from beneath the threadbare carpet.

“Arlo, that milk was just delivered this morning! Don’t you go drinking it straight from the bottle!”

“No, Mam,” he half-mutters, setting down the glass bottle he definitely hasn’t just been raising to his lips.

This is okay. Perfect, really. If she’s down in the cellar, that means she’s probably busy making preserves to sell at the market or something again. By the time she notices he’s neither in the house nor working in the garden, he’ll be well away. And then…then he’ll have some answers, whether she likes it or not. Satisfaction curls in his chest like a languid cat.

Arlo inches out of the door shoulder-first, lifting and lowering the latch as noiselessly as his fingers can manage - the same fingers that nearly drop the scarf twice when he knots the stained grey fabric over the lower half of his face, cursing the pit of his stomach for the uncomfy feeling spreading through it like so much spilled mead. What does he even have to feel guilty about? It’s not a crime.

Enough of that. Enough of it all.

He darts one glance over his shoulder, back at the rusty rooftop and their patch of garden, a weather-beaten face spotted with a mishmash of flowery freckles (except for the bit with his mother’s favourite lilies arranged on it, obviously. Those, she keeps spick and span and never lets him go anywhere near, though he has no idea what she thinks he’ll do to them). Then he starts to run. His legs set about their task in earnest, without taking directions from his mind. He already knows the kinds of places where he can find them…not that it’s any huge secret anyway. Or rather, it’s a secret to everybody; the type little kids hear all about as soon as they can toddle a few steps. Then they get their ears bruised with dire warnings to stay well away from it. Stupid. As if that won’t just put ideas into their tiny heads.

He’s not a kid anyway, Arlo reminds himself, puffing his chest out a little despite how short his bursts of breath are growing. This is no daft childish game. It’s something important. Something that goes hand in hand with the way he’s been jolting awake lately. Gagging around a yell jammed in his throat; a weird sort of dread tying his insides into hard knots. Or opening his eyes to find a stupid wetness spilling down his cheeks…or (he stifles a groan at the memory, heat rushing to his face) soaking his bedsheets.

He doesn’t know if he’s having nightmares...hallucinations, terrors, whatever. How can he? They float away like soap bubbles on washing day every time he tries to latch onto them. But it feels familiar to him, in all the places where it shouldn’t. One morning, he even woke up with the ghost of a name on his tongue and of blood suffocating him with its metallic tang. That’s all they were, though. Ghosts. And they vanished just like that, leaving nothing behind but a dragging weight in his chest.

Arlo just doesn’t know. Yet he’s sure- he’s sure he remembers, no matter how dimly.

To make matters weirder, talking to his mam hasn’t been any use whatsoever. No sooner do the words leave his lips than she butts in to set him some chore or another, or else shifts the topic in a way that curls his hands into fists. The last time Arlo tried to ask her about it, she had her own grilling ready for him – “Who have you been talking to? Who’s put all of this in your head?” – and something in her tone, something strange and strained, made him drop the subject like a hot coal.

He supposes some part of him wanted her to laugh at these dreams that he can’t even remember and at him for ever confusing them with real memories. That’d be better than having this brush-off tossed his way instead. Anything’s better than that.

So this is all her fault, if anything. All she has to do is be straight with him, just like she is with everything else…but no. Instead, he’s been left to flail in the dark. And driven to a straggle of shacks, several miles apart from any other dwelling.

At least, any human dwellings.

Arlo’s foot chooses just the wrong moment to catch on a particularly mean-spirited tussock. He stumbles as gracefully as a sledgehammer in a knife fight, the scrubland sailing up to greet his face. It’s not until after he clambers back up (along with a muttered spate of the words his mam indulges in when she thinks he’s out of earshot) that he gets back to reflecting on the rumours that’ve flown thick for as long as he can remember.

The Hexes. The…things that hushed voices regularly call witches, demigods, monsters, spirits, fae, devils and everything in between. And the only ones in this world who can shed any light on what’s happening to him.

As far as Arlo’s concerned, Hexes are the sort of stuff that everyone acts so certain about, like they know everything that is to know. Yet when they’re asked if they’ve ever even seen one for themselves, their faces flap like fish caught up in a net. And that’s the thing with all these rumours. His mam’s market customers insist they’ve spoken to others who’ve seen Hexes melding with slivers of moonlight and devouring the stars. Somebody has a relative whose neighbour knows someone who swears blind that the lot of them are descended from the legendary Ironflayer clan – that kind of thing.

None of them really know anything.

Before long, Arlo will.

*

Their shadow’s just slightly out of sync. Maybe it’s the gloom playing tricks, or maybe all those tales have made Arlo ridiculously paranoid. But he could swear that the very silhouette of the Hex is something a little too slow, a little too disjointed. Something that breathes.

Arlo tries to keep his head fearlessly raised, his eyes darting from corner to corner as the Hex breathes life into a candle wick, birthing yet more shadows, and shadows of shadows, from everything it casts its azure-tinged flame upon. The grip on his bag tightens all the same, clenching around the long bump of the axe’s handle.

He can’t make out their face. Not really. Every time he attempts to get a glimpse, it melts away somehow. In the end, he resigns himself to running his fingers in a weird erratic rhythm along the splintery surface of the table, not unlike his mam’s at home. He has to wrench his mind away from the thought of what her face would look like if she knew where he is right now.

Arlo doesn’t see the Hex placing the mixture down in front of him. One moment there’s nothing there but the elaborate symbols (probably occult-y hieroglyphs or something) carved into the tabletop; the next, kaleidoscopic light spills out over its surface from inside a vial. Specks of gold dance in its contents, rising and falling, swallowing the colours and spitting them back out.

His brow furrows, one hand coming up to rake through damp hair.

“You want…me to drink that?” The question rasps in his throat.

The shadow opens its eyes, two acid-green spots burning into Arlo’s face. But the Hex doesn’t so much as turn their head, let alone halt. ‘Not a crime, neophyte, I’m sure?’ they ask at length, words emerging as though they’ve drawn them out from some deep well. They echo off cold damp stone that isn’t there; they drip down his neck like icy, brackish water. ‘And neither are such answers as you seek. Drink.’

Arlo stares at the unknown mixture. Just like the Hex’s shadow, it stares back, pressing spectral hands against its crystal prison. Drink.

He shouldn’t.

He has to. Doesn’t he have every right?

His fingers obviously agree. Despite the stupid tremor running through them, they greedily close around the vial and prise out the cork, letting loose vapours that ghost over his skin.

The brew blazes its way down his throat and sets his stomach alight. Cough after cough rattles deep in his chest. He isn’t sure whether he’s been forced to his knees or not. Those gold spots have returned to swarm his vision, scratching out everything before him.

Arlo’s head rolls from side to side, trying to find where the Hex has disappeared to, trying to get some sign that this is what’s meant to happen. All that comes out is a mangled noise (has his tongue always been this heavy?) before it snakes into his head and swallows him whole. And the floor beneath his feet - or is it the entire world? - caves like a house of cards…

and tips him down, down, down into a slough of phantoms lurking,

living,

breathing,

waiting to snare him in its murky waters. A quicksilver voice sings him to his fall.

‘Memories don’t sleep, neophyte. They only like to pretend that they do.’

*

Cold. Cold biting at his skin like a million tiny pinpricks. Cold tendrils creeping around his heart, around the very flow of blood through his veins. And the kind of silence that comes when time itself is suspended.

Even so, the masses of limbs and soulless white eyes watch him.

He watches them right back, as empty of fear as they are of flesh and blood. How can they live here? What do they feed on?

Whatever your head offers us, is their answer, as they bare bloodied teeth in a gory grin.

As if in explanation, the golden scratches swimming at the edges of his vision fall away, only to be replaced with a face he feels like he knows. A face that cradles him in its familiarity yet crushes him beneath the expression etched deep in every line of it. He can’t place that expression. But the voice belonging to that face (didn’t that voice once call something to him about a milk bottle, a million years ago?) drips with it.

“What’s going to happen to him?”

Him. Him, him, him.

He stares at the place where that disembodied face hangs long after it’s flaked away like a butterfly drawn on a wall. Is he the reason for that shattered look in her eyes?

That’s when a twisted symphony – blurry and broken but somehow sharp enough to pierce him over and over again – awakens from the depths of some excruciating black hole spreading through his head.

Screams of a name. That name isn’t his own. It’s a name that once slept in a little bed next to his and proudly showed him the worms it had dug up with a stick behind the house. Once. It’s gone now. But also not gone at all.

It’s still there, out in the garden - only this time, it’s below the earth. He never saw that happen. A whisper in his heart knows it did, all the same, and knows exactly where (don’t ever touch the lily patch).

A wasted limb ending in long yellow claws stretching out from underneath his mattress…its grey splinter teeth, the smaller body leaping in front of him and trying to wrestle its grip from his ankle…the blood. So much blood, splattered so far. He remembers wondering how such a small person could hold that much.

He remembers.

And everyone kept it hidden from him, she kept it hidden from him, his mother- no, their mother, theirs-

That clawed arm, those teeth-

It’s coming back.

It’s coming to finish what it couldn’t before.

His cry seems to come from across an ocean. The pain explodes, taking every spectre with it, as his fingernails dig into his scalp like they can tear it away.

Gone is any idea of who he is, where he came from, what he was searching for in the first place. All of it is crossed out, scrubbed from existence, until only a blank wall remains. With one thing painted on it in burning black letters.

It’s coming.

*

It’s not a crime either, to want to be sure. To have to be sure, to know. The second the rough wooden lid is prised open with numb fingers, something cold and black grips his heart anyway - and he wouldn’t care if it struck him down where he stands.

The lid slips, joining the shovel on the lilies beneath his feet. Its fall could almost be called soft, if that wasn’t so wrong. But how could anything be more wrong than- than this?

He isn’t sure how long his gut chokes him, burning his throat, nostrils, eyes. When they finally give up, he drags a sleeve across his mouth. Huddles in the hole that seems to be opening into a bottomless chasm even as he clenches himself against its side, blurrily aware of the damp earth pressing into his forehead. Just like the nothingness seeping through his soul.

Little by little, one arm raises until barely two inches separates it from the arm in the box. One so alive. The other so grey, like the shadow they’ve become to him. And small. And folded with withered flowers over a sunken chest.

The gashes. So many. He wonders if it’ll do the same to him.

(It’s coming.)

Those phantoms laugh. Play in his head.

(It’s coming.)

[lunaraen]

July 30: Youtuber AU

Making videos can pay off well and be a lot of fun in the long run.

It's nice to know that other people enjoy what they make and enjoy their antics, and it's nice to feel appreciated for the work that does go into their content, but that means there is some downright deplorable work leading up to that recognition.

Their work can't be validated if there isn't any to begin with, and Olivia knows exactly why she's the one stuck doing the editing.

It's boring, it's tedious, it requires patience that only she's willing to have and use, and her sense of effects may not be as flashy as Axel's, but it's still sharp and well-paced enough to be enjoyable.

And Olivia's always been the responsible one, so why break tradition now?

She doesn't edit all their videos, because that would leave her little time to make her own, or eat, or sleep, or live her life beyond video making.

All the same, they're lucky enough to make enough off of what they enjoy doing to make a living, so she's fine with editing the bulk of what they produce in the office.

Her redstone tutorials don't require too much anyhow, Jesse's videos are more like pet vlogs and inspirational Q&As most the time that require nearly nothing besides a cute title card, and Axel's gaming stuff is laid back enough unless he tries to be a jerk and ask her in the footage to do something over the top in editing.

It's a bit like when they used to all share an apartment, but the office feels roomier and this way there's a lot less arguing and bickering at odd hours of the night over who gets to use the bath.

Bickering still happens, but at least it's usually when the sun's out and it tends to be a lot more fun than late grumpy arguing over bathing.

"And now we have a wild Jesse, nesting in her natural habitat as she hoards stacks of paper."

Olivia does her best to not be too obvious as she peeks over her screen, focus switching from the current work in progress to whatever Axel's trying to do now, more slinging himself against his chair than sitting in it as he shifts closer to Jesse, camera in his free hand while his other one keeps him from toppling over altogether.

"A curious creature. Not even Jesse experts know why she does this, though the popular theory among professionals is that it's either a stress response or an attempt to remind herself of her dorky mate."

There's a brief but sudden desire to snicker clawing its way at her throat, passed off as a poor cough as she grins.

It might be the jab about Lukas or it might be the goofy documentary voice Axel's doing, both getting Jesse to look up from her mound of paperwork and half-baked jotted down ideas, but either way, it's great.

Jesse's response, a sound that's a mishmash of a squeak, a hiss, and a croaky roar, gets Olivia's coughing to turn into full on laughter, a bark escaping her before she can think to hold it back.

And after that, there's not much point in trying to stay quiet.

So Olivia doesn't bother, instead enjoying a good, long laugh while Jesse bats at Axel's arm, trying to get at the camera as he pulls it away from her and stops filming.

Jesse doesn't try long, sinking into her chair as she pouts up at Axel, waiting for his laughter to stop.

It takes a bit longer to die down than Olivia's, both of them grinning widely at Jesse.

"You're not uploading that."

"I'm totally uploading that, and the editing is gonna rock."

Jesse picks up one of the several colored pens resting by her keyboard, scribbling random lines onto the corner of one of the sheets of scrap paper. For as dreadfully mopey as she looks, there's a small smile slowly forming, her shoulders relaxing and her other fingers no longer furiously drumming against her desk, and her tone is openly curious as she glances back up at Axel.

"What kind of editing would you have to even do?"

"Dramatic lighting, maybe some animal sounds in the background, and a real roar at the end." Axel shrugs, free hand absently flicking at one of the springy desk toys Nell gave Jesse a while back. "Or something like a kitten mew. Maybe I'll just leave that part as it is, because you did a really good job being adorable."

Jesse grins, wide and too large, as sweet as the thick syrupy voice she uses next.

"It's a gift."

"No kidding. Seriously, why don't you leave the worrying over paper to Lukas?" Lukas's videos range from writing advice to baking videos, and Jesse seems to have the elements of both today, a plate of cookies baked by Lukas resting under her computer monitor while the paper not filled with official looking form questions has the same swirling pattern as Lukas's rough draft sheets. "You didn't steal any of this from him, did you?"

"Not this time." Jesse's smile is cheeky, wide and toothy as she picks up a handful of pages and straightens them out against the desk, a corner of the pages managing to dog ear itself in the corner of her keyboard. "It was a gift, he gave it me."

Axel and Olivia share a glance before nodding, sounding entirely smug as they both speak.

"Nesting material."

Olivia has a monitor to hide behind, but Axel isn't so lucky, tossed a face-full of already crumpled paper. It doesn't keep him from snickering as Jesse visibly pouts again, her lower lip sticking out as she gives an melodramatic mutter.

"You guys suck."

It doesn't deter the snickering or Olivia's own growing giggles any, and Jesse's only likely supporter happens to be wedged somewhat under Olivia's desk. 

In Reuben's defense, he seems awful comfy, his head against her leg while he lies down.

He also happens to be getting bribes in ear scratchings, and doesn't seem too bothered by Jesse's current plight. He’s either too sleepy to notice or more than used to their shenanigans by now to worry.

(Axel says it's like Jesse got a huge dog, but Olivia thinks Reuben's size is closer to a short but long pony. He's good at getting attention when he wants it, regardless of what exactly his size is like, because a pig resting its head against your knee, begging for an ear scratching or belly rub, is a hard force to ignore.)

Olivia shifts her other hand slowly, pressing a button on the camera she happens to have set up beside her computer, clearing her throat as she smirks.

Jesse's been conveniently too preoccupied having banter with Axel to notice how it's been pointed at her desk the entire time.

Frankly, she thinks Axel has too, which works well.

Olivia’s always happy to get to use her documentary voice, and she knows she looks as cocky as she sounds, chin resting on her interlocking fingers while her elbows relax against the smooth wood of her desk.

"Despite all attempts, there is no consoling the lone, mopey Jesse. The dejected Axel then absconds with the ultimate prize, swindling his prey of one plate of cookies."

There's a pause as Axel and Jesse both freeze, Axel cradling the stolen plate close to his chest, tipped enough to not let the cookies slide off, as Jesse's gaze darts from where her snacks were to where they now are.

"Axel!"

Oh yeah, they're going to have a lot of fun editing this. It'll make for a fun little behind the scenes video, if nothing else.

[mysunfreckle]

Prompt: Claquesous trading names with Montparnasse when Javert is questioning them AGAIN and exaggerating it x1100 (because it's canon)

“Gentlemen.”

Claquesousfreezes and Montparnasse groans inwardly. How does he do that. For a guy that looks like he has damn marching musicplaying on a loop in his head Javert sure know how to appear out of nowhere.

“Officer,”he grimaces, turning around and his friend does the same.

“And whatmight you two be doing out here at this hour?”

Honestly,four in the morning is exactly the appropriate time to be outside a shady clubbut whatever. “Are we being detained?” Montparnasse asks coldly.

Javertsmiles thinly. “There’s no need to take that tone,” he says. “We’re just havinga friendly chat. Nor is there anyneed for the parade about you two having forgotten your identification.” Hesquints at Montparnasse. “Mister Montparnasse, is it not?”

“No,”Claquesous suddenly speaks up. “That would be me.”

He’s takingsuch care to pronounce all the vowels in the words that Montparnasse nearly smirks,but he just manages to keep a straight face.

“And thatwould make you Mister Claquesous,” Javert points at Montparnasse.

Montparnasseslants his head and lets his shoulders sag a little. “Yeah, sure,” he mutters.

“And whereis your loud friend?”

“I expecthe is still inside,” Claquesous says with a sigh, delicately brushing his fringeout of his face.

“We’re havin’a night out,” Montparnasse says, shoving his hands into his jeans pockets. Twocan play at this game.

“Really?”Javert says, unimpressed. “And what did this night out involve?”

“Mostlydancing,” Claquesous says before Montparnasse can answer. “I am an excellent dancer.”

“An’ I justlike to…soak up the music,” Montparnasse slurs in retaliation.

“I see…”Javert’s eyes seem to be continually fixed on either one of them. Dude could outstarea cat. “If that’s the case I’m sure you wouldn’t mind emptying your pockets forme?”

“Are webeing searched, officer?” Claquesoushuffs with a flounce of his shoulders.

“If you’relooking for drugs, we don’t have any,” Montparnasse mumbles, trying to makeenough hair fall in front of his eyes so he can glance out from behind it. “Idon’t need it…I live for my art…”

Claquesoustakes in a sharp breath. “You think I’dtouch drugs? You have any idea what that stuff does to your skin?”

Javertprobably isn’t capable of not frowning, but he’s definitely frowning more now. He probably thinks they are ondrugs instead of carrying them. “If I was about to search you, you would knowit,” he says coldly. “I am only asking, in a very friendly manner, if you wouldn’t mind emptying your pockets.”

“Oh, well,if that’s all,” Claquesous says and he smiles. He actually smiles.

Montparnassehas to hold his breath not to laugh at Javert’s face.

“Sous,”Claquesous snaps. “Hold this.” And he begins shoving whatever he has in hispockets against Montparnasse’s chest. Montparnasse has to scramble to take hishands out of the pockets of his skinny jeans and grab the random shitClaquesous always seems to be carrying around.

“Most ofthis useless crap is yours anyway,” Claquesous scolds. “God your so messy. I never carry anything but the essentials. Like amirror. And three different eyeliners.” He turns his pockets inside out andmakes a face at Javert. “See? Nothing naughty.”

Montparnassescoffs and stuffs the mishmash of things back into Claquesous’ hands. “You’reso full of shit,” he slurs. “Here.” He digs his packet of cigarette’s out ofhis jacket and tosses it to Claquesous. “Take your cancer sticks back.” Heglances up at Javert. “I don’t smoke. It’s bad for my voice.” He continuesemptying his pockets. There’s only one eyeliner by the way and no mirror. “There,nothin’.”

They bothhave plenty of things on their person that could land them in jail, but none ofit is in their pockets that’s for damn sure.

Javertstares at them for a moment. “Alright then,” he says curtly. “I suggest youfind somewhere else to spend the rest of your night.”

“Hm-hm,”Montparnasse grunts.

“Thank you officer, so kind of you,”Claquesous snarks.

They watchhim walk away and turn the corner. As soon as he does Montparnasse straightensup and Claquesous leans back against the nearest wall.

“What thefuck was that?” Montparnasse asks, but he can’t stifle the grin on his face.

“Bored,”Claquesous says with a lopsided smirk. He starts putting his belongings back inhis pockets.

“Hey,” Montparnassesnaps his fingers and holds out his hand.

Claquesousrolls his eyes and gives him his cigarettes.

Montparnasselights up and smooths his hair back.

“So,”Claquesous hums. “Where’s your mirror?”

He justmanages to evade Montparnasse’s kick to his shins.

[prince-darkleboop]

14, 33, and 48 for the oc asks!

I’m going the TF2 OCs route.

14. Introduce an OC with a tragic backstory  

... oh

You know, I occasionally talk about one particular trans BLU Spy, Lazare. Drink knows the full story about him (just about, there’s little tidbits that are split and vary depending on plotlines, but Lazare is A Mess(TM))

Welp, let’s get started! (Imma suggest people press j/scroll past if they don’t want to read about transphobia and all sorts of abuse. I mean it, like primarily physical, but there’s some sprinkles of heavy implied sexual, emotional, and all the other abuses you could think of)

So he’s born as the ‘daughter’ of a merchant and banker in what’s called the Pyrénées-Atlantiques area, likely in Lower Navarre (so he’s French and Basque), so he fits somewhere in the middle class. He’s got a younger sister, a mom, a dad, and a couple of random ass family members and very good friends that typically make up a family of nine (usually). He’s got black hair, and heterochormia irridium: one eye green, one eye blue (used to be just green but I apparently like bi colored eyes for him)

He always knew he was a boy. Too bad his mom wasn’t very amused, heated up a spoon and burned it on his hand when he was about... 9 (It’s either 8 or 9 but pretty sure it’s 9)

During the war (he’s roughly 14~16 during this period of time), his father is dead (he was told dubious things), his mother and younger sister flee to Britain (limited transport, could only do two), and he’s with his uncle he doesn’t really like. That’s kinda okay, he’s around two really friendly priests that were friends of his father. Good ol’ Father Mendoza and Father Maxime, was really great friends with his father and became great friends with him. Stayed around during the war, despite how it might’ve been more than a little dangerous (since they’re really close to Basque and visit once a week from Basque, they’re likely Catholic) 

Too bad his uncle’s a fascist.Who knows what the uncle’s reasoning was. Lazare already disliked his uncle because said uncle followed through with his mother’s stringent requests (post collapse, it’s likely a French based middle class family would have had time to arrange themselves into a semi-comfortable position, but Lazare recalls a lot of cooking and gardening and a lot of women’s tasks that used to be left to the servants). It likely got worse post German occupation. The intention was resistance fighters got in the way, and the uncle was going to teach Lazare what happens to those who rebel.

Lazare got to him first, purely because the utter betrayal of his home and country (twice) made him angry. Besides, Lazare knew he could take risks.

Recall the father I barely mentioned? And his good friends Father Mendoza and Father Maxime?They’re all First World War Spies. Lazare didn’t know the Spy bit, but because of where he lived at, his father insisted that everyone know Spanish, Basque, and French. His father thought Lazare was slacking in Spanish.Nope, Lazare was just your typical rebellious kid who had too much a penchant for listening in on secrets. Well, Lazare knew that his father supported “the Monastery” and there were all sorts of religious terms used to talk. But Lazare wasn’t actively encouraged to read the Bible until it suddenly became banned by his uncle.And all the quotes started to make sense in a “this is a code” way.

And those rebel fighters included a mishmash of people, including who would become his best friend, Dima Rishmawi (who later became known under the codename Nube (though I’ve constantly misspelled it as Nuba, gj me))Dima’s got her own story so just know two things 1. she’s around Lazare’s age and 2. she’s a sniper (her papa was a sniper and taught his twin daughters)

Dima stayed behind because she realized Lazare had nothing and they essentially had to make sure stuff was unusable. Helped that Father Maxime and Father Mendoza come over and help. They were a little upset at the two, but figured it would happen (damned fascists). Well, sometimes the best spies are ones that have to be tossed in blindly. Not to say Father Maxime and Father Mendoza didn’t help, but both Dima and Lazare took massive risks.

But I will say that this is likely when Lazare is 16 (and Dima’s a year older, roughly). This is... roughly 1941~1942 (which does account for resistance fights and the like, but tf2 world is weird anyhow so I do fumble around with years). His primary Spying is 1943~1946(ish). He’s young.The main reason I accent this, is his worst enemy and influence is Father Mendoza. This is a man who partially flayed his arm, because Lazare didn’t have the stomach to flay one of his enemies. And it’s not the worst done to Lazare.The barest I will say, because while I want people to understand that Mendoza is horrifying, but at the same time tumblr is a crapshot and I can’t quite put tagged warnings (there’s probably a way that I do not know).. Mendoza deserves worse than what he will ever get.

but Mendoza trains him as does Maxime, and he learns a lot of tips from The Monastery (I will explain this in a bit). Lazare and Dima wander the countryside, Lazare with new knife skills and a Dead Ringer, Dima with her sniper rifle. They trade secrets for bullets and rations. Lazare becomes known as the mysterious nun, often uses the modifier ‘The Queen of Navarre’ as a signature (it’s a bit of a joke). Their luck runs out 1945, when they were captured by Italian fascists (so the event was they were being paid better than normal to find out what the fuck was going on at some outpost that agency Spies couldn’t sort out. In short: bad shit.)

An assortment of things happen, and a mixture of contrivance and someone’s mercy let them live.Only Lazare is pregnant. He’s genuinely Catholic aligning, does not believe in abortion period. He’s miserable, but he’s having that baby.

Aside from being forced into semi-retirement (he knows a lot of things and that gets him from a hospital in Italy back to Basque, because the Monastery could help him), he encounters a different problem.

Agency Spies.

So this is essentially when the War starts calming the fuck down, but there’s still key people that need taking down and out. The Monastery is a ‘monastery’ full of First World War spies that kinda had nowhere to go. A bunch are old agency Spies that were left by the wayside. Some are missing limbs or an eye or are too stricken with PTSD and other illnesses that make Spying too difficult (impossible by agency standards). Some may have made a questionable decision that sent them to an early retirement, instead of climbing the ranks of the agency. Some more than likely should be dead (for whatever reason). Very few are horrible people, Mendoza is the exception because he’s good at hiding. So you’ve got the Monastery, and likely they’re not the only collection of non-agency Spies. There is an agreement between the Agency (as a whole) and the Monastery. The Monastery wants to be left the fuck alone because they’ve been abandoned, and it’s better to have non-agency Spies in your pocket, than have a group of very disgruntled Spies that may decide revenge over the good of nations.

You’ve also got the Agency. There’s a bunch, some nations have multiple (think the US), but many just have one within a nation. The agency in France regained control and they needed people. The agency in Spain was always in control, at the cost of many men and women.

See, they’ve heard about the Queen of Navarre, and Lazare could not hide his eyes. So. He gets harassed by both, while pregnant. Almost gets kidnapped once.Essentially Lazare knows the game: he’s going to get offered a contract. It’s not gonna be good. It’d essentially demand him until he dies (or he stops being good at being a Spy, but hah, that’s essentially death). Also noting that Lazare is 20~21, and pregnant. Lazare knows the stories from the Monastery Spies, the outcome is not gonna be good for the little one. Likely would become a Spy too, when the little one is really young. Younger than Lazare young.

Thankfully, the Monastery kept that from being a horrifying reality. And Father Maxime and Father Mendoza. Lazare does get to have a relatively peaceful birth and a couple months with his daughter (names her Teresa, there’s some French play he took inspiration from). Then, he had to leave. It was a tough decision, and he left for an assortment of them. But post giving birth, the Agencies gave him space, but they didn’t leave him alone.

So he leaves Teresa with Father Maxime (who honestly always wanted a family of his own so it works out) and Lazare and Dima go out.

Life does turn up for Lazare. He gets back at the people who wronged him and Dima. He gets to transition (took a bit, but he does do so). Eventually gets the Agencies off his damn back (transitioning helped a bit). Life is good as a small time fraud organizer and cooperate Spy (let’s just say some of his info includes businesses that were ill gotten and he influenced a bunch of closures and purchases and fractures because fuck those who profited off pain). But most his fraud was tax havens. He had a lot of businesses: taxi scams, hookah bars, tea houses, restaurants, even a mechanic’s shop he eventually pivoted to a legitimate business.

hell his religious conviction does lead to his name: Lazare. He sees himself as reborn. (I do think he’s had a crisis of faith at times, but he’s generally still Catholic leaning)

Ah, but how did he join MannCo?

So there was a small city in France (I picked Grenoble for some reason), a bunch of politicians were getting off a massive crime. It triggered an emotional response in Lazare, and he killed them. In public.there he was, in prison. likely was going to get sentenced to death for his crime there.And along came Miss Pauling.

(in terms of how it goes from there, I do have a written part that was based around gallows humor in AO3, but like, what happens is kinda up in the air, depends on what kind of plot in MannCo I shove him in. But mostly he’s in an unfavorable contract that’s got some basis of being half decent and like a prison sentence. Like a 10 year contract long. He gets signed on at 35~38, typically. This is kinda where things depend on plot.)

also a RED Medic took off his head and may or may not have done other unscrupulous things (depends on the plot, the Sniper/Spy one that’s on hold is a “likely a lot happened”. The Medic/Spy one was more a “just the head and the rest was mild, all things considering”)

33. Your shyest OC?

Someone I actually would like to toss around more into RP plots it’s a trans Sniper. Ah Lawrence. Generally not a people person, somehow manages in the Australian Army (mostly a translator, but he did have sniping skills)

48. OC who is a perfect cinnamon roll, too good for this world, too pure

My trans female Scout, Justine. She just wants to live her life, and wants her uncle Lazare, who adopted her as a niece, to be happy because lord knows he deserves it. (I actively want to write more centering around her. When senior thesis isn’t killing me, I’ll write all the Christmas stuff)

[thesnadger]

Axolotl - Chapter Eleven: There's A Room Behind A Door

Read previous chapters on Ao3

Whaaaaaat? An update for Axolotl?! It’s a Summerween miracle! You won’t have to wait as long for the next chapter, that’s a promise. 

Thanks as always to Scribefindegil for betaing!

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Dipper stepped into the darkened kitchen, yawning as he filled a glass with water from the sink. Between the day he'd had looking for clues, the news he'd gotten before dinner and then a couple hours of what Great Uncle Ford had called “debriefing” (which had been a mishmash of information about the mindscape that he'd had to absorb quickly and a number of long rambling tangents that he still couldn't connect to anything) Dipper was thoroughly exhausted.

He grabbed an apple from the basket by the window and took a big bite, looking out the window as he munched on his snack. He'd finish this, then get ready for bed. One way or another, tomorrow was going to be a big day.

Some noise from the back porch attracted his attention, and he opened the door, looking out. He saw Waddles first, ambling around in the moonlight. When he was smaller Mabel wouldn't take him outside unless he had his leash and harness on, but by now he'd grown so massive that she reasoned any flying archosaurs or viking hordes that had a mind to carry him off would be slowed down by his weight enough that she'd be able to catch them. Besides, there wasn't a harness or leash on the market that would fit him now.

A few steps further out and he saw Mabel watching her pig from the porch. At least, she seemed to be watching him. Her gaze was distant, and her knees were drawn up against her chest. Even through the material of her sweater, Dipper was pretty sure he could see the tension in her shoulders...or maybe he just recognized the pose.

He walked out onto the porch and whistled. “Here, Waddles!” he called. The pig glanced in his direction, then looked away. Typical. He held his hand out in front of him. “I've got, like...a third of an apple for you.”

Waddles's ears lifted up and he made his way over, snuffling the air. Dipper sat down beside Mabel, holding the apple out.

“Don't feed him too much, or he won't sleep well.” Mabel muttered beside him.

“I won't.” Dipper promised. He nudged her with his elbow. “How about you? Think you're gonna get any sleep tonight?”

Mabel sighed. “I should be asking you that. You're the one who's gonna have to face down Bill. I'm just gonna have to watch. And wait. From the outside.” She threw her arms in the air and flopped back on the porch. “Totally helpless and unable to do anything about it! I'm! Fine!”

“I can tell.” Dipper smirked. “Since you sound so fine and cool with it.”

“Super cool!” Mabel said, raising her voice to a near shout. “Never been better!”

Dipper smiled a little, then his smile slipped. “...Is that what you're upset about? Grunkle Stan picking me to do this instead of you?”

“No!” Mabel said, pulling the neck of her sweater over her face. “That would be totally dumb and childish.”

“...You know he probably only picked me because he doesn't want you to see all the gross, embarrassing stuff in his head, or something. I mean, you said it yourself, you know you're his favorite.”

“I know.” Mabel muttered. “And it's okay to say that because you're Grunkle Ford's favorite, and it's okay to say that because even if they have favorites they love us both very much. And we can both have favorites too, because fair's fair.”

“So what's the problem?” Dipper asked.

Mabel was quiet for a long time. Dipper sat beside her, letting Waddles gnaw on the apple core in his hand. When there was nothing left, he wiped his drool-covered palms on Waddles's back. By the time they were halfway to clean, Mabel had begun to poke her head out of the top of her sweater neck.

“...I think Grunkle Stan made the wrong choice.” she said quietly.

Dipper frowned. “Oh, thanks.”

“No! Not like that!” Mabel sighed. “I know you're totally badass, Dipper. That's not what I meant. It's just...if it were you and me, that'd be one thing...”

“...It's Grunkle Ford you're worried about?” Dipper raised an eyebrow.

“Yes! And also no!” Mabel sat up. “We're all scared of Bill. But it's different with Grunkle Ford. And with you. You know that, right?”

Dipper went quiet. He nodded. It was different with them. Bill might have kept Mabel prisoner in that bubble, but the whole time she was in there, she never saw his face. She had bad dreams about Mabeland, and once in a great while she'd wake up screaming about the monster that chased them in the Fearamid. But usually when she had Bill nightmares, they weren't about him hurting her.

Usually, they were about that note. About her not noticing that he was possessed in time.

Dipper held out a hand for her to squeeze, and she took it. Her grip was tight as a vise, and he winced, but didn't pull away. She looked him in the eye.

“What if something scary happens in there,” she said, “and it's just you and Grunkle Ford, and you're both too scared to think, and there's no one to make you laugh or remind you to be brave?”

Dipper squeezed back, even though the ache in his own hand was beginning to spread up his arm. Mabel had cried for a day and a half after the two of them split up to go to separate colleges. He knew because he'd kept calling her over and over, just to say goodbye one more time. It had been a while since then, and a lot of things had changed. But some things would always be the same.

Dipper thought for a moment. “Give me your hair thing.”

Mabel unclipped the barrette from her hair, handing it to him. It was one that she had made—a fuzzy, little green monster with one eye, felt feet, and a big, goofy smile. He clipped it onto his shirt.

“There. I'll wear this, and if I get too scared I can just look down at it, and I'll remember to be brave. It'll be just like your glitter.”

Dipper saw a weak smile start to spread across Mabel's face, and then he saw the roof of the porch as he was grabbed and knocked back by one of her full-body hugs. He laughed and rubbed the back of his head.

“Ow. You gotta stop doing that, you know.” He said, a smile still on his face. “You're way too old for it to still be cute.”

“Liar.” Mabel's voice wavered, and even from his mid-hug vantage point Dipper could see her eyes were tearing up, but she was smiling too. “I'll never stop being cute, ever.”

“You're gonna cutely give me a concussion one of these days.” Dipper reached up and ruffled the back of her head. “C'mon. We've got a long day tomorrow.”

Mabel's grip around him tightened a measure, but she nodded and reluctantly let go. Waddles followed her as she stood and headed for the door, with Dipper walking behind them.

“Think either of us will sleep tonight?” Mabel asked as they headed upstairs.

“Maybe, I dunno.” Dipper shrugged. “I heard Grunkle Stan snoring when I passed by his room earlier. With all that's going on his head, if he can still sleep, I guess anyone can.”

* * *

Stan heard Bill's voice deep in his dreams. It came from everywhere, echoing in his head even when he tried to cover his ears. It echoed in a way that wasn't natural, that had nothing to do with acoustics or ordinary sound. And why would it? The voice wasn't in his ears. It was in his mind.

It was so, so, so damned annoying.

“The game is called three-card Monte.” Bill's voice came from a spot in one of the corners of the room. “Find the lady! Nothing to watch, a dollar to play, who's interested?”

“I'm ignoring you.” Stan said, pulling the newspaper up a little higher in front of his face.

The newspaper was a prop, there was nothing to read on it. The letters on it swum and danced the way writing usually did in dreams, blurring as his eyes ran over them. Still, it was either look at that or look at Bill, and Stan didn't feel up to that. Not tonight.

When he'd first seen him in the dream, Bill had said they'd had that same conversation over and over a thousand nights before. Stan thought that was at least partly true...there was a deep sense of familiarity to this place, and not just because it looked like a room he knew so well in reality. Everything had a sense of deja vu to it. He'd shouted in surprise when he first saw the little demon, but his heart had barely been in it. On some level, he'd already known he'd be there.

Tomorrow they'd take care of all of this. He just needed to get through one night.

“Find the lady, find the lady!” Bill hovered over the card table in the corner, flipping a deck of cards between his tiny hands.“C'mon, there's gotta be a wagering man out in the crowd today!”

“I told you, I don't play rigged games.” Stan muttered.

“I gotcha, cards too complicated for your tiny human brain, huh?” Bill tossed the cards in the air and they vanished in a puff of smoke. He set three walnut shells down in front of him. “I've got something easier for you, then. Just find the pearl. Even an idiot can find a pearl hidden under a shell.”

Stan grunted with irritation and flicked the newspaper while Bill held a tiny black pearl out and placed the middle shell over it. He kept pretending to read while he heard the click of shells being moved around behind him.

“So, muppet-face, you think you know where the pearl is?” Bill asked.

“It's in your hand.” Stan muttered without turning around.

“You aren't even looking.”

“Don't need to. I know how that one works. You pinch it between your middle and ring finger and slip it out from under the ridge of the shell. Then you wait for the sucker to turn over an empty shell and you load it next to the one he picked when you turn it over. That trick's even older than I am.”

“Ahh, I see we've got an educated man in the crowd!” Bill said. “Tell ya what, smart guy. I like your face, so for you we'll wave the fee. Just tell me if you can spot me palming the pearl.”

Stan sighed and put the paper down. With a grunt, he hefted himself out of the chair and walked over to the table Bill was playing at, sitting down in front of it. Hell, it was a way to pass the time. Besides, he didn't feel up for a brawl, and the little glowing bastard probably wasn't going to stop talking unless he indulged him.

Stan watched Bill's fingers move with unnatural speed and deftness as he flipped the walnut shells back and forth.

“There.” Stan said, pointing. “When you moved the middle one forward.”

“Not bad. Think you can do that again?”

“Let's see.”

Bill moved the shells back and forth, twirling them around. Stan kept watching for the palm, waiting for him to lift the back of a shell just slightly while moving it forward. But it never seemed to come.

“Well?”

“...No idea. Didn't see you palm it.”

“That's because I didn't. It was under the middle one the whole time. If you'd been watching the shells, you'd have found the pearl.”

“That's not how the con works.” Stan protested. “Only a sucker watches the shells.”

“Unless the guy moving them knows you're paying attention to his hands, waiting for him to slip the pearl out. Then his best bet is to play the game straightforward.”

“You're nuts.” Stan said

“Sure I am, but I don't see what that has to do with anything!” Bill stacked the shells in his hand. “I still had you looking in the wrong place.”

“Fine, fine, I see your point.” Stan grunted. He smirked a little, “kinda like what Ford and I did with you, eh?”

Bill's eye briefly glowed red. He resentfully closed his hand around the shells, crushing them to powder which vanished in a puff. He produced three cards again. “You still remember how to play this one?”

“It's been a while.” Stan took the cards and started shuffling them between his hands. He was a little shaky at first, but muscle memory soon took over and he was throwing them down naturally again. “Okay. Here's the queen. Keep your eye on her. Easy enough for you with that big boiled egg in the middle of your face.”

“Sticks and stones can break your bones, meatbag, but I haven't got any handy!” Bill leaned forward on his hands, watching Stan flip the cards back and forth in an imitation of rapt attention. The pose was deliberate, Stan was sure of it. Something to make him look more childlike. He wasn't buying it for a second. This thing wasn't a child, and it sure as hell wasn't cute.

“Three-card Monte's all in the throw.” Stan said, tossing the cards back and forth. “It's best if you've got another guy in on it to help work the crowd, but in a pinch you can do it alone.” He stopped and spread his hands, inviting Bill to pick one.

Transparently playing along, Bill pointed to the card on the left. Stan flipped over a joker, then turned over the queen on the right. He stacked the cards and started shuffling them again.

“I look like I'm throwing down the queen, but I'm really throwing the top card down. That's what the sucker keeps his eye on while I'm shuffling.” Stan said. “Of course, half of it is working the rube. Keeping him entertained with quips and games so he doesn't see what you're really up to. Y'know. Like what you're trying to do with me right now.” Stan said, fixing a hard eye on Bill.

Bill ignored the bait and pointed to the middle card. Stan turned over a joker.

“Technically, unlike a shell game it's possible to beat three-card Monte if you know the trick and have a sharp enough eye to see the throw.” Stan said, shuffling the cards again. “Of course, if the dealer sees you're onto him he'll start throwing down the bottom card instead of the top. If he's fast and has a smooth technique it's almost impossible to see which he's doing.”

Stan spread the cards out and leaned forward, looking down at Bill pointedly. “The real con isn't in the throw itself, it's in making you think you can win. The dealer tries to convince you that you're the smart guy who's onto him, and that's how he beats you. The only way to win is not to play.”

Bill glanced up at Stan, looking irritated, and flipped the queen of hearts over with a gesture. “That's if he's trying to con you.”

“Why else would he be playing the damn game?” Stan folded his arms.

“Maybe he's bored.” Bill twirled his finger and the cards floated around it.

“So, what game are you playing, huh?”

Stan swore he saw a playful glint in the monster's eye as he picked the cards up again and shuffled them.

“The game's called three-card Monte. Find the lady.”

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[romijuli]

Mickey’s Tabletop Hell: the other stuff

Oh, you thought the dnd stuff was it? Mickey has an entire world to run, and bureaucracy cares not for careful campaign schedules! And what of the other groups?

Kairi is usually the one to step up when Mickey’s away; she has an entire Fate Accelarated campaign that she breaks out on game night. She’s pretty creative! Probably because she stayed at school longer than Sora or Riku.

No one lets Donald DM anymore after the TPK Fiasco of Disney Castle.

Goofy usually doesn’t DM, usually just organizing a traditional board game (or video game) night. The one Pugmire game he ran was nice, though.

Sora hasn’t quite settled on a system that he’s fond of running, but the stories he creates are pretty neat. Generally they’re a mishmash of places he’s been and people he’s met, but they come together quite nicely.

Riku once DMed a game of Dread for Roxas, Namine, Xion and Lea and they loved it so much that they beg him to do it again every time they come to visit. It’s practically tradition at this point.

Sora is almost always the first player to knock the tower over, but he enjoys it, and probably enjoys it more when he’s not quite involved in the horror anymore.

Speaking of the Nobody Quartet, Namine DMs Monster of the Week for them and the Twilight Town trio!

The only threat to Riku’s Dread DM crown is Aqua, whose decade in the Realm of Darkness gave her a lot of material to work with. Any and all planned games are immediately thrown to the wayside when she visits.

Sora doesn’t play when she DMs, but he always knows that she’s visiting because they toss around character sheet questions days in advance. He’s still participating! Just not scared and/or immediately dying.

Aqua, for her part, eventually allowed Vanitas (who’s here) to run Chuubo’s Marvelous Wish-Granting Engine for her and the rest of the Wayfinder trio.

Terra knows full well that Chuubo is a high school AU of Nobilis (the official tabletop game of the Nort Cohort), and knows full well that this is exactly why Vani originally picked it. Terra is just going to let Vani stew in that knowledge.

(“Um yes xemnas sir there’s a rebellion stirring” “how can you be sure” “marluxia is running secret Nobilis games every Tuesday” “THAT MOTHERFUCKER”)

[otomefantasy]

5 Man Cave Clichés You Should Avoid

5 Man Cave Clichés You Should Avoid

Naturally, you want your man cave to stand out from the crowd. It needs to both look unique and represent you as a person. This guide helps you understand the five major clichés surrounding man caves that trap newbie cave designers.  Learning about these 5 man cave clichés you should avoid also helps you understand the true definition of a man cave and just how important they are in every man’s life.

  Many people resort to purchasing things that appear to fit in a man cave, rather than something that actually suits the room, and fall victim to a host of clichés. If not that, then they go for gaudy things that match their theme or some horrible design choices that seem good at the time. With that in mind, let’s begin your journey for a unique man cave!

    1) Super Macho

A man is about spirit, not how bushy your beard is or your profession (although lumberjacking certainly doesn’t hurt with that manly image). Similarly, its association with a man makes a room a man cave, not the presence of a billion ‘manly’ things. If you think a cave requires a gun rack, sports-themed posters, or whiskey instead of your favorite spirit, then think again. Buying something for a man cave just because it looks manly turns your cave into a cliché, rather than a room that represents you. It’s the 21st century, and we men no longer need to conform to stereotypes in order to maintain our pride.

  2) Stuff Unrelated to You

If you put in mounted antlers or taxidermy animals, you better be a hunter! Otherwise, it just looks tacky and launches you into awkward conversations when your guests mention them. That My Chemical Romance poster might look aesthetically pleasing and match the colors of your cave, but if you never listened to their music, resell it or toss it instead of using it. Your cave represents who you are and what you do. Everything in it should either have a use to you, go with your interests, or relate to you as a person. Buying things because they look cool or match the room works for the living room or study, but not in a man cave. Don’t fall into this cliché trap!

    3) Too Much Brown (or: No Color)

For some reason, Hollywood and video game companies alike fell in love with a rusty brown color. It looked gritty, hardcore, edgy, dirty, and…well, manly. Adding in this shade of rusty brown to a room certainly adds a rustic feel, so you might feel inclined to use it everywhere in your cave. It helps you match colors, too! If you agree with those two statements, then you fell victim to one of the more dangerous man cave clichés—too much brown! Brown looks like crap, for obvious reasons. Paired with certain colors, such as blue or tan, it creates a modern look. However, if you focus on brown and rusty reds in your room, you need to tone it down and throw in some accent colors.

  Similarly, a room without any accent colors at all looks bland. Everything looks like it came out of a box and comes off as impersonal. Throw in one or two small trinkets that match your favorite color, or—if your favorite color is white or black—pick a color that carries symbolism you like. Blue appears professional, emotional, and knowledgeable, while red represents strength and passion. The combination of red, black, and white looks great together. If you use more gray tones, blue fits in more.

  4) Only Store-bought Decorations

Speaking of personalization, one other important aspect of creating a non-cliché mancave lies in how much effort you put in. Store-bought furniture and trinkets usually withstand the test of time, but making things yourself ensures you have something that lasts a lifetime. On top of that, it helps you build a connection with your room. Remember that a man cave is more than a study—it is a sanctuary! A mantuary, if you will. Putting in things wrought by your own hands enforces that.

  It also helps a bunch when it comes to finding things that match your theme. Does Walmart sell no steampunk frames, and do the ones on Etsy suck? Time to go to Home Depot and make some improvisations!

    5) No Theme, Concept, or Attention to Detail

The last cliché—and easiest trap to fall into while building your man cave—concerns your theme, or lack thereof. Without a theme, your man cave holds no identity. Everything looks like a mishmashed bunch of furniture. Call it a man cave all you like, but it’s little more than a hang out spot and a place you make the rules in. Technically, you make the rules in your own apartment, but you don’t go around calling it a man cave, do you? Pick a color palette, time period, fandom, or function that ties your cave together.

  The moment you step through the threshold, you enter another dimension where you relax and do what you want for a change! Make it look different than any room you’ve ever seen, or it falls into the cliché of looking like every other room!

  The How and Why: 5 Man Cave Clichés You Should Avoid

Ultimately, your man cave is only as unique as you are. When you learn about 5 man cave clichés you should avoid, you prevent a personal disaster when all is said and done. Stepping into your cave and enjoying a room that really represents you makes up for spending the extra time to find things that truly match your cave. A room that suits you on a personal level also helps accustom your guests to the area. After all, when you know the ins and outs of your cave, your friends pick up faster. Anyways, good luck building your man cave the way you want, and use this post to feel confident that no clichés will trap you in the process!

  The post 5 Man Cave Clichés You Should Avoid appeared first on True Man Cave.

from True Man Cave https://www.truemancave.com/5-man-cave-cliches-avoid/

[lifeasarandomdudeknowsit-blog]

Entry #323 - Unpacking Memories

The past two days have been rather mentally and emotionally exhausting for yours truly.  Going through these boxes for the first time in nearly two years, figuring out what to actually keep for the future...it's way more difficult than initially expected.  Sometimes, you find a box full of cool stuff you forgot you owned (like a box today that contained about a dozen shirts still in good condition).  Those are what I like to refer to as the “fun boxes.”  Then there are the boxes that just have a huge pile of random crap that appears to have been tossed into the box in a panic.  Then a tornado somehow managed to contain itself entirely within that box, causing an even bigger mess.  The very first box I cleaned out was one of those, as was the second box I cleaned out today.  Those are, by far, the most difficult boxes to go through.  It's just a mishmash of random stuff, from old papers I'm not sure I still need to all sorts of cords and cables for items I don't even know if I still own to all manner of other stuff.  Those are usually the boxes that, when attempting to go through my possessions by myself, I give up after about five minutes and stop going through boxes for another six months.  At least having my mom there to push me through the worst of it is helping me actually get through the bad boxes.  It's probably also helping me to get rid of a lot of stuff I might have otherwise kept.  Things like old DVDs and CDs filled with stuff I downloaded years ago that I will more than likely never watch or listen to (or at least stuff that is easily available on the Internet nowadays).

Once my mom said the magic word (that word being “hoarder”) I realized I was actually behaving like one.  I was saying things like, “Oh, I'll probably have use for this at some point later,” when what I really mean is “This is something I don't think I should throw away, but I also don't think anyone else would find useful, so I'll just keep it myself.”  And that is a dangerous mindset to have going into a project like this. I said going in that I wanted to cut down significantly on my possessions, and so far, I've done a decent job.  I've gone through five boxes and have pared the content down to about half that.  One box is dedicated solely to books, and I'm certain there will be more book boxes to come.  But the other box is filled with (yet again) a pile of random stuff.  Slightly less random than the bad boxes, but I haven't exactly documented what's in that particular box.  So I'm going to have to go through it again so I actually know what's in there, because the last time I packed, I didn't document or label any of the boxes, so I have no idea what's in any of them.  Not exactly the smartest plan, was it?  And I don't really want to deal with that again if I do end up moving to a new place.  Which, considering I would really like to stop renting eventually, is basically a guarantee.

I don't know why I thought this was going to be a relatively easy project to work through.  Maybe I thought I had managed to go through and remove all the random crap during the last move.  What REALLY happened was I kept most of my boxes of crap in the garage to the house I lived in for two and a half years, and never really went through most of those boxes in the first place.  So I'm sitting here with maybe close to twenty huge plastic bins full of stuff the contents of which I do not know.  It's ridiculous, really.  I've managed to live without most of this stuff for the past two to four years, so why should I need them now?  I could probably just toss out the boxes and I wouldn't miss any of it.

But then again, if I did that, I would be tossing out all of my books, possibly tossing out more perfectly usable clothes, and other things useful to my life.  Which is why I began this project in the first place.  When I talked yesterday about there being no real substitute for a paper book, I would not have realized that had I not gone through a box yesterday that had a lot of books in it.  Had I just tossed out the first box I cleared today, I would have lost a dozen good shirts.  The bad boxes are a huge chore to go through, but when I find a box with usable items, it makes my day that much better.  I suppose had I ended up going through the two boxes I cleared today in the reverse order, I would be far less emotionally drained than I am now.  That second box really took everything out of me.  I could barely function after finally clearing it out.

I'm certain that there are people out there who wonder why I'm struggling with this so much.  They are probably the same people who can pack their entire lives into ten small boxes and a half dozen pieces of furniture.  I'm not sure I can live like that.  While I don't necessarily want to fill an entire house with my crap, I also like having some things around.  Things like books, video games, records, that sort of thing.  I also enjoy looking back at some of the stuff I've made or accomplished over my lifetime, papers or half-finished songs or video game ideas or awards.  There are more pleasant memories in my brain than I take credit for, and I need to remind myself of that on occasion.  I try to keep myself relatively positive, but some days are tougher than others.  That's why it helps to have a few items kept around to remind me that I'm a pretty decent person.  I'm not amazing.  But I'm not too bad.

I think I've managed to regain myself after the emotional drain of that last box.  I think I can be a functional human being again.  At least as functional as I am.  Of course, it's now the evening and I don't exactly have any plans to go out.  Though I may give that a try one of these days now that I have my cane.  One of these days...