#like its been a full decade since i last played it I think

[honeybard]

we're so back (<- is playing through the Layton series again)

[heich0e]

suna's parents divorced when he was eight.

he doesn't remember a lot of the finer details as he's gotten older, mostly just that there used to be a lot of yelling, but he does remember the two piles of belongings that stacked up in the empty living room of his childhood home: one consisting of his father's and his own, and the other comprised of his mother's and his little sister's. their entire life, their entire family, packed up into cardboard and then divided down the middle.

the apartment he moved into with his father was always too quiet. it was in aichi, far enough away from where he spent the first decade of his life that he didn't have to be reminded of it every time he left the house, but since his father worked so much it still left him with plenty of time to think. to grieve. though maybe he didn't recognize it as that at the time. he played video games his father bought for him after school. ate convenience store bentos or whatever leftovers were set aside for him in the fridge for dinner. he put himself to bed at night. it wasn't a bad life, though maybe a bit lonely.

he was scouted to play for inarizaki when he was 14.

the lonely apartment turned into a lively dorm. he had new friends (his teammates) to play video games with. his convenience store bentos were replaced with hot meals from the meal hall. the loneliness of the apartment in aichi was a distant memory, but still lingered.

"i'm home."

rintarou drops his training bag in the genkan as he toes off his shoes, calling into the apartment to announce his return.

"welcome home!" you call back from further in the apartment, and the sound makes him smirk a little to himself.

you've been coming over to his place a lot lately, ever since he gave you his spare key. he's not upset about this in the slightest, but it doesn't mean he won't take every possible opportunity to tease you for it. he plans how he's going to make fun of you as he pads into his home towards the sound of your voice. he almost has it all planned out—his delivery on the very tip of his tongue—when he falters to a stop.

"how was your day?" you ask him without looking up from what you're doing.

and suddenly, anything rintarou may have wanted to say—joke or otherwise—is beyond him.

he watches as you set a plate of food down on the already full table just off his little kitchen. the food that covers the surface is still hot enough that steam curls up into the air above it, its preparation perfectly timed to his arrival home. his apartment is warm, and smells good, and there's music playing from your cellphone on the other side of the room that you must have been listening to while you cooked.

his chest feels tight.

you turn to look at him when he doesn't respond to your question.

"rin?" you ask again, a lilt of worry in your tone. "you okay?"

"what's all this?" he manages to ask, nodding towards the table where the meal you prepared is still waiting.

"oh, i've been craving my mom's recipe for the past few days, i just thought i'd make it for dinner," you say, tugging at your fingers nervously. your entire countenance is a bit different now, strained like you're worried you've done something wrong. "hope that's okay?" your words lift at the end like a question.

rintarou's never seen so much food on his table. can't remember the last time he even sat there to eat a meal—let alone a home cooked one. his face feels hot, and his eyes sting, and he just can't bring himself to look at you.

"yeah," he says, and if you notice how his voice is a bit croaky, you're nice enough not to tease him about it. "'course it's okay."

you smile, and you look relieved. "wash your hands then, it's getting cold."

you eat your dinner together and talk about your days. you take a shower while he cleans up the dishes. you fall asleep tangled up together on the couch with a movie playing in the background.

his home isn't quiet anymore. he isn't lonely.

and it's thanks to you.

[wososcripts]

Face to Face (Part 1)

Fridolina Rolfö x reader

Summary: After months of a toxic back and forth with Frido, things reach a breaking point.

Word Count: 2.2k

A/N: I know it's been forever but that's what being a full time uni student will do! I hope you all enjoy this fic as much as I do, its been a wip for a while now!

As usual this is all fiction and in good fun! Nothing is meant to represent reality. All italicized dialogue is in a language other than English, and I promise... things will get better in this fic eventually.

Warnings⚠️: unhealthy situationship lol, injury, light medical description

"Get out!" You screamed, repeating it over and over until you were alone in your bedroom.

You hated yelling. Absolutely hated it. You couldn't remember the last time before today that you had actually yelled in someone's face. Plenty of people in your sport lost their tempers and shouted on the pitch—whether at a ref or another player—but it wasn’t your style. You always managed to keep your cool. It was your sport, yes, but not your life.

You'd been yelled at too much as a child to think it had any productive effect on a situation, which may have been part of why you immediately felt horrible once Fridolina left the room. You pulled your comforter around your half-naked form, wishing you were less exposed.

This was the end. Whatever you and Fridolina had, it was over. Finally.

You'd been trying to build up the will to make this happen for weeks, and yet your heart felt like it was being strangled with every moment you sat here alone. The worst part was, you knew Fridolina didn't care. She was probably angry, sure, but she was not feeling the heartbreak you were.

You weren't sure how you were going to make it through the next few days. You had to fly to Germany tomorrow for national camp—and then on Friday you were playing Sweden in a friendly. It was hard to imagine that you had been excited to get the news about the friendly last month. It meant you got to be around Frido more, got to see a few of your old teammates from Chelsea like Magda and Zećira, and you genuinely enjoyed being around the German girls. It was still home to you, there, even if you hadn't played for a German league in nearly a decade.

Now you just wanted to stay in Barcelona while Frido left. You wanted to call Alexia, or Patri, and ask them to come over and comfort you. You wanted Patri’s jokes and Alexia’s solid presence, but you were afraid of the questions they might ask. Your eyes were red now, tears running down your face, and your room was a mess. Everything had a trace of Frido, and you hated it.

Ingrid and Mapí, who you would usually call if you wanted to get your mind off of things, weren’t an option either. Though you were fairly certain they wouldn’t ask any pressing questions, Ingrid was Frido’s best friend. And that made her off limits for now, for anything regarding this.

You just had to make it through the night, and the next morning. Then you could collapse into the familiar arms of your national teammates, your family, your language, and try to forget all about this.

—

Your mother knew something was off the second you appeared on her doorstep, Laura in tow.

She wrapped her arms firmly around you, holding you tight for a minute. It had been three months since you were home for Christmas, and you hadn’t seen each other since then. You melted into her, wanting nothing more than the comfort of her protective embrace after all that had been swimming around your head lately.

Your mother greeted Laura next, and you were instructed to bring your bags up to the guest room. You’d have to share, but it wasn’t all that big of an issue. You and Laura often shared rooms when you were at national camp anyway, so this wouldn’t be much different.

“Wie ist Barcelona? Gefällt es? ” Laura asked you quietly that night, rolling over in the bed to face you.

It was late, too late to still be up. Tomorrow you’d have to be at training bright and early.

“I love it there.”

Something about your voice must have been off, because Laura stayed silent. You knew she fretted over you. She was protective too, something you experienced first hand when people were rough with you on the field—Laura hated most of your exes too. You’d known each other since secondary school, when you were barely tall enough to reach the top of your lockers.

“I’ve always wondered if it’s difficult, fitting in with the Spanish girls…”

“And I’m shy, which doesn’t make it easier.”

Laura laughed lightly.

“Well I wasn’t going to say anything!”

You poked her side playfully, and smiled.

“They’re all very welcoming. It can be intimidating when you don’t speak Spanish at first, but I’m pretty good now so I don’t have many issues.”

Laura began playing with strands of your long hair, putting it in small braids.

“What is it, Lau?”

“I can tell something is bothering you. In your texts, the way you looked when I picked you up at the airport, something is off.”

You weren't sure what to say. Laura didn't know anything about you and Frido. Nobody did. You'd have to explain the whole thing, start to finish. You'd have to explain why you stayed even when she treated you like garbage. Why you made excuses for her, compromised things you told yourself you wouldn't.

"It's hard to explain…" you mumbled.

Laura continued to play with your hair, pushing a few wisps back from your forehead.

"You don't have to if you don't want to."

You needed an ally in this, you realized. Desperately.

"Just be prepared, it's kind of a long story."

And so you launched into how you and Frido had been attracted to each other immediately when she was playing at Bayern and you were at Frankfurt. How you had danced around each other when you were signed in Barcelona. How she kissed you one day after a game, before she was even out of her relationship, and then ignored you for weeks—a pattern you didn't realize was going to dominate your life for the next year.

By the end you were crying. You hadn't cried in so long it felt foreign. Everything had been building up for months and nobody had been there to help you carry the weight of it until that moment.

Laura pulled you into her arms, rubbing your back in soothing circles as you sobbed into her neck.

"It's okay, you're okay," she whispered.

"I feel like a fucking idiot."

"She's the idiot for treating you like that, not you. Not you at all." Laura looked at you sternly. "I'm sorry you had to deal with that all by yourself…"

You snuggled closer to her and kept quiet.

"If you need someone to accidentally slide tackle her on Monday let me know…" Laura teased.

You giggled into her hair, and she couldn't help but smile in return.

-

You were nervous. Typically friendlies didn't worry you much, but you didn't want to see Fridolina. You had been playing well in training sessions, but your teammates could tell something was on your mind.

"Hey—" Sara's voice broke you out of your thoughts. The two of you had played together at Frankfurt for a little while, and she was like an older sister to you. She placed both her hands on your cheeks and pressed her forehead to yours. "Whatever it is, put it out of your mind. Leave it here and just play. Just for a few hours."

You closed your eyes and listened to her, letting her voice ground you. You squeezed her hands and nodded. Just a few hours. Then you could avoid Frido for an entire week before you had to fly back to Barcelona.

You assumed your position on the pitch, the roar of the German fans filling your ears. That was the benefit of playing at home. You spotted a few of the Swedish girls you knew: Magda, Zećira, Stina, and Rebecca. All of whom gave you small smiles.

In the few seconds before the match began you closed your eyes, counting down from seven as you always did before a match. Then the whistle blew and you began.

It was a tough match between the two teams. Where the Germans were weak the Swedish girls pounced, and vice versa. You were constantly fighting for the ball, the defenders packed onto you. Stina was the first to score, slipping the ball into the box amidst a chaotic mess just the way she was good at.

From there on out you were determined to score. You were playing all out, more than necessary really. It was a throwaway game, but you just had to get a point on the board.

When your quick pass to Lena had the ball soaring into the back of the net you thought you might explode from joy. You jumped into her arms, letting her twirl you around, laughing. In your head you might as well have won the Olympics.

At halftime it was still 1-1. Your heart was pounding. Laura made you drink some of your water, massaging your shoulders in an effort to get you to calm down. Popp was side eyeing you, considering pulling you out. This behavior wasn't like you.

The second half was considerably more intense than the first. Both teams wanted to score, and the more physical players on both sides were pushing hard. It was a miracle nobody had been carded.

And then suddenly you had the ball at your feet. There was a golden opportunity in front of you. Eyes facing forward, you raced down the pitch, completely blindsided to the weight that slammed into from the side. Suddenly the world went sideways and you were slamming into the ground, not enough time to even think about trying to catch yourself. Your hip and shoulder took most of the initial impact, but something about how you'd been standing, or how you'd been hit, meant your head followed, hitting the ground with a resounding thud.

You came to a few seconds later. Someone was kneeling next to your head, and their hands were on your cheeks.

Fuck. Everything hurt. You kept your eyes closed, thinking maybe that would lessen the next wave of pain you knew was coming. At first you weren't sure what had happened.

"Are you okay?" You heard Zećira's voice in your ear.

"Zećira?" You mumbled. "What happened?"

"You went down and hit your head."

You had gone down near the goal, that was right. Things were a bit blurry. You figured it was a bad idea to move your neck, what with the severe headache you could feel blossoming, and opening your eyes seemed to run the 50/50 chance of you vomiting.

"Do you remember that now? Do you feel okay?"

So you gave her a weak thumbs up, hoping it was clear you needed the medics.

After a moment in which you gathered your resolve and swallowed your nausea, you opened your eyes. There was Zećira looking worriedly down at you. She glanced upwards, probably at the medical team that was surely coming.

"Fuck, fuck…" you heard another voice, those of your German teammates beginning to filter into your awareness. And further away, the sharp sound of yelling.

The medical team finally arrived, clearing the space around you. Your hand shot out, grabbing onto Zećira's you gave her a look that said it all. Fear and panic met in equal amounts as she squeezed your hand lightly.

"You're gonna be okay, älskling, everything is gonna be alright." If anything, her tone scared you even more. You knew Zećira, and she wasn't someone you would describe as warm and cuddly. For her to be using that tone with you meant something had gone wrong.

"Okay, we're gonna sit you up now." The medic warned you, and you felt two pairs of hands rest on your body, one on the back of your neck, slowly pull you upright.

Your nausea came back in full swing, and you fought to keep your breakfast in.

"Can you hear me?" You nodded.

"Can you understand what I'm saying?" You nodded again, resisting the urge to roll your eyes.

"Can you squeeze my hand?" You squeezed his hand tightly.

"Okay, I'm gonna shine this light in your eyes for a moment, can you try and follow it for me?" You did your best, but it wasn't easy.

"Okay," he put the light away and you thanked whatever God in the universe for that. "We think it's likely you have a pretty bad concussion. We'll have to run a few more tests to be sure, but she definitely has to come off."

He must've been talking to your coach at that point, because the next thing you knew Zećira and the medic were helping you up to your feet, the man supporting you heavily with your arms draped across his shoulders.

"I'll visit you after the match, okay?" You heard Zećira assure you, to which you gave another thumbs up.

You cringed slightly at the sound of the crowd cheering you off.

[notsocooljess]

something small

Katniss and Peeta exchange surprise gifts on a cozy Christmas morning.

“Spiked eggnog?” Peeta asked.

“This early?” Katniss responded with a grimace.

“Why the face? It’s your favorite.”

“Not at nine in the morning.”

“That’s not what you said last year,” Peeta chuckled, but he put the pitcher away and set a kettle of water on the stove instead.

Christmas celebrations came about after the war, when New Panem hired historians to look up traditions from the past to help bring morale back to the nation. It took a few years to really take hold – frivolous gifts had never been big in the districts, where money had always been better spent on items needed to survive.

But, in time they learned that gifts were not the only thing people loved about the holiday. Coming together over great food, drink, and dance with neighbors had always been loved here. What harm is caused by celebrating old traditions with those you love? With well over a decade since the war ended, people were faring far better than the previous generation could have hoped for, so the cause for celebration had firmly planted its place in society once again.

So, now on the day, they bake and sing and dine and drink. The past few years, Delly, Thom, their two boys, and Haymitch have stopped by in the evening to eat a feast Peeta spent hours cooking up while Katniss pretended to help and nibbled on the scraps. The mornings, however, are reserved for the two of them. Lounging about, playing games, and reliving memories, both happy and sad.

Katniss straightened out a bow on their tree while Peeta attended to the whistling kettle. When they first set up a tree years ago, she wasn’t sure how she felt about cutting it down just for decoration. She hated damaging her woods. She remembered how Peeta had begged her to have it inside and finally convinced her by telling her they would cut the tree apart for firewood after the holiday, and she chuckled at the memory.

A hand waving in front of her face made her jump back.

“Whoa!” Peeta exclaimed, taking a step back to avoid spilling the contents of the steaming mugs in his hands. “Sorry, didn’t mean to startle you. Did you hear me calling you?” Peeta asked, and Katniss shook her head. “Peppermint or cinnamon tea?”

She plucked the peppermint tea from his hand and went over to sit on their couch. Peeta was not far behind her with his mug in one hand and a tray of speculoos cookies they baked together in the other. He placed the tray in front of them and sat beside her, and Katniss tucked her cold feet under his warm flannel-clad thigh.

He took a sip of his tea and looked at her, his eyebrow arched as his mug made its way to and from his lips. He looked at her like he was waiting for her to confess something.

“What?” Katniss asked defensively.

“You feeling okay? I don’t think I’ve ever snuck up on you in my life.”

Katniss dipped her cookie in her tea and swirled it around. Bits of cookie broke off as it became saturated, spinning in the mini whirlpool inside her mug. This morning, her stomach didn’t seem open to much more than the tea.

She forced a smile and said, “I’m fine. Just thinking.” And she really was just thinking, but Peeta nodded in response as if he knew what she meant. Almost all the time he did, but she doubted he did right now.

They sat in the silence of thought and memory. Snow was flurrying outside, a calm before the heavy storm that was supposed to come later in the week. Katniss was thinking, yes, but she didn’t want Peeta to think it was over something sad. She wanted to make sure their day was full of joy with their found family.

She drank from her mug and gave a content sigh, catching Peeta’s attention as she laid her head against the back of the couch. He mimicked her movements, and smiled at her.

“You’re so beautiful,” he said to her, and even with years and years of getting compliments like these from Peeta, Katniss still wasn’t used to how casually he was able to say it, and she felt heat rush her cheeks as she smiled back at him.

Looking at him in their home, happy and healthy and hers, she felt a sudden wave of emotion start to overtake her. Again, she didn’t want Peeta to think she was sad, quite the contrary, and she needed to change the topic before he became worried.

“So remind me of our menu tonight?”

Peeta went on to describe the feast he had planned, which Katniss was already familiar with since she had helped gather much of the items. Roasted duck, brussel sprouts, mashed potatoes. Cheese buns and spinach pastries. Too many cookies and apple pie. Normally, Katniss’s mouth would be watering just from the conversation. Currently, the only thing that sounded appetizing was the cheese buns.

“Well if we’re gonna feed the town tonight, shouldn’t we get started?” Katniss asked.

“Soon, but not yet,” Peeta responded. “First,” Peeta started, and he leaned over the side of the couch, “I want to give you this,” he finished, presenting Katniss with a small box. She looked at him with surprise.

“It’s just something small, but…” his voice trailed off as he bit his bottom lip, suppressing a smile.

They’d never been Christmas gift givers. A calm morning off from the bakery and a break from hunting were usually how they celebrated. Small gifts on the day-to-day just helped further cement their love for one another, and for Katniss and Peeta, grand gestures had always come off the most sincere when they were unexpected. Of course, since they did not typically give gifts on Christmas, Katniss supposed this would now be considered unexpected.

Peeta placed the small box in her hands, perfectly wrapped by his skilled hands. When Katniss opened the box, she found a gold ring, expertly shaped to look like a primrose flower with a small diamond in the center. She gasped, and tears brimmed her eyes almost immediately, but she couldn’t take them away from the ring.

Since she couldn’t speak, Peeta filled the silence. “It just hit fifteen years, and I thought this would be a good way to remember her. I reached out to Effie, and she got me in touch with someone Cinna and Portia used to work with. I sent her probably fifty sketches of my idea. I was so nervous she wouldn’t be able to do it how I envisioned it, but I should’ve known that if she worked with Cinna and Portia, she’d be able to do practically anything.”

So, Peeta got her a gift, and not a gift he just went and bought. He designed it. With Cinna and Portia and Prim in mind. Any words she could come up with right now would not be enough.

With Katniss choked up, Peeta’s anxious words continued like an endlessly flowing river. “And I know we toasted so long ago, but we never really did the ring thing, and I never even really asked you if that was something you wanted because it's always been such a Capitol thing, but then I thought maybe you felt like you were missing out on it. I also thought a ring might be the easiest piece of jewelry because it’s small and it won’t get caught in your hair like a necklace would, and you can still use your bow with it since I had a probably very impractical thought that a bracelet could get in the way of that and you’d get hurt somehow.”

Katniss looked up and met his blue eyes, which were wide with anxiety and observing her every move.

“Do you like it?” Peeta finally asked, eyes searching her face as if the answer would be written there.

An idea hit her before she could properly respond. “I’ll be right back,” Katniss blurted out suddenly, and jumped from the couch, darting up the stairs.

If her brain hadn’t been in such a fog these past few days, she would have made sure to stay behind briefly to tell Peeta how much she loved it. She would’ve told him how wonderful and thoughtful this gift was, how hopeful this gift made her feel. At the very least, she would’ve warned him that she wasn’t running away because she was sad, thinking of hurtful memories from their past. But in her current state, once she remembered something, she needed to act on it before she lost the idea entirely.

Not that her gift to him was ever something she could forget. She was just going to wait to tell him. She wanted to make a special moment for it so it could be perfect, at a time when she felt more ready for it. But, she knew if it was her and Peeta, it would be perfect either way.

When she bolted back down the stairs, winded and smiling with her hands behind her back, Peeta presented her with a smile of his own, eyes still wide with confusion and shock and now joy to match her own.

“I have something small for you, too,” Katniss said. She stood in front of him on the couch and placed her gift to him, clumsily wrapped in only tissue paper, in his hands.

Peeta shot her another curious look before tearing the paper away. His eyes went wide when he saw what was in his hands.

“Katniss?” Peeta breathed, her name bearing a question, an answer, a lifeline. “Is this real?”

She barely gave him a nod before he jumped off the couch, laughing and sweeping her into his arms, kissing her face anywhere he could, tears now brimming both of their eyes. Because in his hand he clutched the greatest gift of all: a small plastic test clearly adorned with a dark blue plus sign.

[kittttycakes]

I'll take Dreamling with #8 in secrecy because i'm curious of where that could go 👀

Please enjoy this vaguely heist-y AU!

It wasn’t supposed to happen like this.

“We have got to stop meeting like this,” Hob said with a smile, aiming for charming and casual and only succeeding on one count. He leaned against the bar next to Dream, adjusting the cuffs of his jacket, if only for something to do with his hands. Something about the other man made him nervous, threw his decades of professional experience out the nearest window so that it lay, writhing, on the sidewalk, far from him.

Dream, as stunning as ever in a sleek black-on-black suit, took a drink of his wine before setting the near full glass down. He thought he saw the hint of a smile, hiding at the edges of his lips. “Have we met before?” he asked instead, that all too familiar, somnolent voice too close to Hob’s ear to be strictly polite.

If that was the game he wanted to play, Hob could go along with him. “Only in my dreams,” he replied with a wink. That earned him something that might have been a laugh, if Dream had let it develop. As it was, Hob recognized an amused huff of air when he heard one, especially when it came from Dream.

He startled slightly when Dream took his elbow, steering him away from the open bar and back towards the floor of the exhibit hall. It had taken more than a few strings pulled for Hob’s name to be added to the guest list; the museum had increased security since the last time he had set foot in it, and it had taken rather more of Johanna’s skills than it had before, but she had pulled it off: Hob’s name appeared on the guest list as one of the highest tier donors of the year. It was only natural that he should be invited. In three hours, all records of his chosen pseudonym for the evening would disappear. He would never have existed. For the moment, however—

Dream was pulling him through the hall, walking at a pace that would not arouse any kind of suspicion: two men, having a friendly walk through the exhibit, the light refracting through an inconceivable amount of gemstones and gold, platinum, and silver. He took a sharp turn, taking Hob with him, disappearing behind a column and then down a corridor that Hob had mentally designated as a possible exit route if his first four choices failed.

It was only when they were out of earshot of anyone else, and decidedly out of range of any cameras, firmly hidden in a dead spot that Johanna had specifically noted for him, that Dream spoke to him again.

“I’m afraid you and I are after the same target,” he said in that same steady, even tone. “I would advise you to pick a new one.”

Hob nearly laughed. As if it were that simple. He had a buyer lined up for specific pieces, which Dream undoubtedly knew. He was in the same position, although Hob could never be sure of just how much their particular circumstances overlapped.

“And what target would that be?” he asked lightly, watching Dream’s face in the dim light of the service hallway.

“I do not care what else you spirit away, but that ruby is mine.”

He hadn’t thought he’d been that obvious, and he nearly said as much before thinking better of it.

“Ask me for anything else and it’s yours, love, but that’s the one thing I cannot do,” Hob replied, not without genuine regret. His job was regrettably lonely, his only real point of contact Johanna, and whoever pulled her strings was a complete mystery to him. Being a contract for hire specialist had its advantages and disadvantages, and the solitary nature of the work was both at once. It was a miracle that he had ever even met Dream, let alone run into him on more than one occasion. It should not have happened at all, and yet they kept colliding, showing up where the other least expected it. He didn’t even know if Dream was, like himself, working for someone else, or if this was all for his own gain. He could picture him, surrounded by beautiful things like a dragon in its hoard.

When Dream did not respond, Hob continued, recklessly, “This is it for me. I’m out of the game after this, getting too old for it. Can’t botch the last run, can I?”

“You’re retiring?” Dream asked, amusement coloring his voice.

“Something like that. Need to lay low for awhile, might go on holiday. I’d invite you to join me, but—”

“Men like you do not simply give up, Hob Gadling,” Dream said, and Hob froze. He had never, not once, told the other man his actual name, not even during the very memorable weekend they had spent in a penthouse suite in Paris after having independently taken more than €1 million worth of art from a well established and taste making gallery. A relatively low take for both of them, but it had been rather fun. Johanna didn’t even know his name, and certainly not his nickname.

“Seems a little unfair that you have my name and I don’t have yours.” He had little doubt that Dream was an alias, and had never minded that he didn’t know what he might be called otherwise, until that very moment.

Dream smiled slightly. “Perhaps I might give it to you in exchange for your assurance that you will not attempt to take what is mine.”

“It isn’t quite yours yet, though, is it? Really, Dream, I would love to, but the buyer that’s lined up for it is rather keen on it and nothing else, if you take my meaning.”

“I am afraid your buyer must prepare to be disappointed.”

“We’ll see,” Hob said lightly, smoothing one hand down the front of Dream’s lapel. “Lovely seeing you again. I’m sure we’ll do this again soon?”

“Sooner than you might imagine.” As quickly as he had led Hob away, Dream disappeared, slipping further down the hall into the less lit shadows. He thought briefly of going after him before dismissing it; he had his own concerns, and the clock was starting very soon.

-

Hob did not see Dream when he stepped quietly out into the now empty exhibit hall. He had a finite window in which the entire camera system would be run on a loop: Johanna had promised him three minutes, and he was confident he could manage it in two and a half. She had assured him that the alarm system would be temporarily disabled during this window, but Hob never took such things for granted. He had mapped out no less than seven potential exit routes, should he be interrupted, and had timed each to ensure he knew which would be fastest.

His secondary targets could wait. Best to start with the biggest and work his way down. The ruby sat in its own case, nestled in a bed of black velvet. It was uncut, the dull color of dried blood, and as large as his fist. When he carefully picked it up, it flashed with a hidden fire: it could be stunning, in the hands of the right jeweler, crafted to exquisite perfection. Hob dropped it in one of many silk lined pockets, and moved on.

He had added two paired sapphires and a pigeon egg sized opal to his take when he saw the first hint of movement out of the corner of his eye. Hob turned, alert, only to see Dream, still dressed in his suit from the gala, leaning against the empty display case and watching him intently.

His voice echoed in the empty hall. “You’re certain I cannot convince you to part with that ruby?”

Hob had one minute and forty-five seconds left. “I’m sure you’re very convincing, love. But I’m afraid not.”

“A pity,” Dream said, standing up. “I would very much have liked to try. And I don’t imagine I’ll see you again?”

One minute and thirty-two seconds. Hob smiled, a little sadly. He would have rather liked to see him again. “I don’t imagine you will.”

“In that case,” Dream began, crossing the little space between them with a speed and grace that Hob should have expected, but somehow never did.

One minute and twenty-seven seconds. This was somehow both the most exposed and the most private place that they had ever kissed. Hob could mentally catalogue them all: pressed against the wall on a darkened side street in Madrid, laying back against the ridiculous sheets of the king size bed in the Paris penthouse, in the back room of a club in Monte Carlo—this was different. It felt different; it felt like the most important thing in the world, a moment just for the two of them, in secret, in the middle of the museum floor.

Hob had lost count of the time by the time Dream’s mouth left his. For a moment, that had been all that mattered. He would be sad to see him go.

Abruptly, three very important things happened in quick succession: there was a faint shuffling, the sound of feet in non-slip shoes walking down a tiled hallway and the distant thud of a door swinging closed on its own; Dream nearly disappeared, passing through the room like a shadow in a direction that Hob had never considered and idly wondered how exactly he planned to leave by it; and a soft red light began flashing in the case nearest to him as the system armed itself once again. It was past time to go.

Hob was, he could admit, very, very good at his job. He exited the museum entirely without incident, making it back to the flat he was currently using as his home base without being seen or followed. After ensuring that the rooms were still secure, he at last allowed himself to relax, only slightly. He sat at the table, and began to empty his pockets. The opal had survived in perfect condition; he had been concerned that it could be damaged, as relatively soft as it was, but it caught the low light of the flat in its smooth surface, perfectly whole. The sapphires, unsurprisingly, were also intact; he knew he would see them dangling from the earlobes of some minor princess or billionaire’s wife within a month, but couldn’t bring himself to care.

He had deliberately left the ruby for last; everything else, even missing the yellow diamond he was meant to have taken, was infinitesimally small compared to it. He withdrew it, and nearly laughed.

In his palm sat a paperweight of the approximate size and shape of the ruby, along with a small, folded piece of paper. He hadn’t even noticed Dream’s hand move, hadn’t felt a thing as he had, clearly, made the exchange. He set the paperweight down, and unfolded the note.

Hob had not been expecting an apology. What he received was a command: Burn after reading. What followed, in sharp, spidery handwriting, was an address in, of all places, Wales. The note was signed with a capital M. It wasn’t quite a name, but it would do.

He stood, leaving the gemstones on the table. He had so much to do: a bag to pack, travel plans to make, a note to burn. Hob had wanted to go on holiday. He was certain Wales would be lovely.

Send me a kiss prompt!

[heartsmadeofbooks]

[New Story]: Through Crooked Aim.

Hi everyone! Hope you're all doing great.

I wanted to share with you the preview of my upcoming Klaine fic, Through Crooked Aim, which will start next week, Thursday December 12th.

This is a story that I've wanted to write for a while now, and I'm excited to finally get to share it with you all. I hope to see you next week for the first chapter.

Hope you like this little snippet. Story is beta'd by @christinejaneanderson and the picture for the preview was made by @nerdishedits.

See you on the 12th for a new adventure!

The sun was hinting its presence in the horizon as the car took the last turn. The radio was playing softly in the background, the weather man of the usual show he listened to as he got his day started predicting a lovely April day, Spring in full swing, perhaps a bit chillier as the night returned to cover Lima, Ohio. But until then, it would be a warm, beautiful day – it made Kurt smile as he parked the car in his usual spot.

The diner looked good. They had given the exterior a new coat of paint just last month. The only thing that showed just how long it had been there was the sign on the roof, the one Kurt refused to change because it had been picked by his father, many, many years ago: the second m on Hummel’s was dimmer than the other letters. Kurt knew it could be easily fixed or replaced, but he refused to. Sometimes it was okay to choose history over esthetics.

And there was so, so much history here.

Hummel’s had been around for decades. It was the go-to diner for most of the residents of Lima, founded by his own father when he was barely out of high school. It had had a bumpy start – Kurt had heard the story ever since he could remember, how his father had turned years of savings and some money he’d gotten from his family after graduation, into his livelihood. It had been hard at first, doing everything himself because he couldn’t afford to hire any help, a few friends popping over here and there to help flip pancakes or make small repairs as Burt did everything else. Eventually, though, it began to grow, and Burt had enough money for new furniture, for a better grill, for a couple of waitresses. The business grew, and there had been plenty of sweat, tears and sleepless nights invested in it until it did. But Burt Hummel had been a proud man, and when things got hard, he worked harder, until he beat all the odds that had been against him.

“I didn’t have many choices after high school,” Burt had told his son on more than one occasion. “I knew I had to start my own business – I wasn’t exactly book smart, I’ve never been. For a while I entertained playing football in college, but then I got hurt during my senior year in high school so that was out. My dad owned a garage back then, and I thought about following in his footsteps, but there was enough competition in town that my dad was already struggling and going to work with him would have been a terrible idea. It was also probably a terrible idea to open my own diner – I didn’t even know how to cook, for god’s sake. I don’t even know where I got the idea to begin with. But I just knew I wanted my own business. And we all used to drive all the way to Kenton or even Dayton on the weekends for a good dating spot. There was nowhere decent to have a meal with your friends or your girlfriend here. I know you still call Lima a small town, but it certainly was small back then…”

For a younger Kurt, who dreamed of big cities filled with skyscrapers, Lima was certainly small – small-minded, too. He couldn’t imagine anything smaller than that.

Nowadays, Kurt wouldn’t think of Hummel’s as a dating spot, but he guessed back then it had been a pretty decent option, before places like Breadstix opened when he was a teenager, or even the Lima Bean, the local coffee shop that Kurt had loved when he was still in high school. Slowly, Hummel’s had become everyone’s go-to choice for a quick breakfast before school or work, or even a dinner stop at the end of a long day. Everyone had loved Burt Hummel – he had been a bit gruff, but always decent and kind and he would always sneak an extra scoop of ice-cream on every kid’s order of waffles.

A couple of years ago, that thought had sent a pang through Kurt, ache and grief mixing to make everything in him feel tight, tight, tight. Now, it had dulled into a manageable ache, and he was able to smile whenever one of the patrons shared a memory of his father with him. He still missed him – what he wouldn’t give to get one more hug, one more piece of advice, to hear his laughter once again – but it didn’t take his breath away, as it used to.

Kurt unlocked the door and went into the diner, turning every light on as he went. First order of business, every morning, was to turn the coffee machine on, so he went straight to it on the counter and got it started before he went into the office to leave his bag. As the scent of freshly brewed coffee began to fill the empty diner, he started to take the chairs down from the tables, getting everything ready for the first few customers, who would surely be here soon.

The inside of Hummel’s had a classic American diner vibe. In recent years, Kurt had only allowed himself to change a few things in the décor, mostly those that were too worn with age. He kept all the framed photographs that filled one of the walls, though, the ones that showed the history of his family with this place. He had only added a few, marking the moment he had taken over the diner after his father got sick and eventually passed away. Now, alongside pictures of his parents in their 20s, you could find pictures of Kurt’s twin daughters sitting side by side on the counter, or of his husband, Ryan, helping to fix a leak in the kitchen sink. His chest filled with pride as he stared at them, as he did each morning – he had never imagined they would end up here, and yet now… well, he couldn’t picture himself elsewhere.

The little bell above the door twinkled as it opened. Kurt turned and smiled at Marley, the morning shift waitress, as she came in. She was already wearing the dark blue uniform, her hair pulled up in a pony tail. She was also a recent addition to Hummel’s. Kurt liked her – she was kind and quick and responsible, and she was never late. Whenever he had to hire someone new, he wondered whether his father would approve. He thought he had nailed it with Marley.

About a minute after she had arrived, the door opened again and Blaine Anderson walked in.

[invis-o-william]

Day 6: Immortal AU

Danny leaned back in the grass, the wind brushing his white gravity defying hair back away from his forehead, and sighed. Amity Park had changed a lot over the years. What had once been a fair sized growing metropolis was now a sprawling city blending urban technological feats of science with older infrastructure that had been in place for over a hundred years.

One thing that hadn’t changed too much though, was its main cemetery. Others had cropped up on the outskirts of the booming city, but this one, the original burial ground, stayed intact even though no new burials had occurred there in decades.

“Sorry for not visiting sooner,” Danny said, “the Realms have kept me on my toes lately. Clocky has had it with the Observants and is trying to get rid of them as a whole. Good riddance I say.”

He chuckled at the last sentence. “I know you were never a fan of how much they interfered when I first took the throne, so I figured you’d be happy to hear that at least.”

Danny’s eyes followed a pair of children nearby happily playing on the sidewalk with gliders that seemed so similar to the Red Huntress’. Danny frowned. So much had changed over the years, and he was starting to feel like he couldn’t keep up anymore.

“I had something I wanted to tell you about too..” He trailed off and turned to look at the headstone next to him. While it was old, as was every grave in this section, this one had been well cared for. Cleared of creeping plant life and with any and all dirt meticulously brushed off. The inscription read:

Dr. Jasmine “Jazz” Fenton

B. March 31, 1988 D. May 6, 2070

Beloved Mother, Sister, and Professor

“I decided to stay in the Infinite Realms full time now. With my duties as King, and the whole new zone developing there I just don’t have the time to patrol Amity Park anymore. Not that there’s a need to anymore.” He sighed the last words. It was true, after a few decades of kingship, Danny had figured out how to balance the limits that ghosts could venture to the mortal plane and the damage they could cause there.

His role on Earth as Phantom had long been redundant now, and there was no one here for him anymore. All his friends had long since died, as were even Jazz’s grandchildren. On Earth, Danny felt truly and utterly alone.

“Of course I’m going to still come and visit you guys,” Danny said, “other than that though, I think that’s it. People around here are starting to think I’m a fairy tale anyway.” He didn’t think he would ever stop visiting the resting places of his family, his friends. They had meant too much to him not to, and he never wanted to forget them, never wanted to forget who he was.

Danny stood from the grave he had been sitting in front of, glancing at its inscription. It was worn and harder to make out than Jazz’s, but it still clearly read;

Daniel “Danny” Fenton

B. February 12, 1989 D. July 17, 2031

Gone too Soon

Danny still smirked at the irony of it. A grave for a halfa that would never truly die. He had stayed physically stuck in his thirties for centuries now, and wasn’t sure that would ever change. Looking back to his sister’s headstone, he knelt down and placed a rose encapsulated in ghostly blue ice at its base.

“Happy death-day Jazz.” he said with a smile, “I’ll come visit you soon.” With that he turned and with a wave of his hand opened a portal to the Infinite Realms. A familiar woman with a mop of long white hair peeked out of it.

“Thanks for the privacy Dani. Do you want to go see Sam and Tucker now?” he asked his clone. She grinned with enthusiasm before jumping out of the portal to join her “older brother”. Once the portal was closed, they both changed from ghost to human and set off down the rows of graves to visit their departed friends.

[delirium1217]

There's no need to hide

Word count: 1009 words James/Regulus. First wizarding war AU (they're both stuck together in the same safe house)

⋆｡°✩˗ˏˋ ★ ˎˊ˗⋆｡°✩

“No, this won’t do.” James stands up, “We are not spending today of all days moping.”

“We’re not moping, we’re just talking.” Regulus replies, slightly indignant.

“All we ever talk about are big, sad, mushy feelings.” James dramatically flails his hands around, almost as if shooing the sentiment away.

“Big, mushy, feelings.” Regulus repeats, he tries to sound offended but the tug on his lips says otherwise.

“Well yeah, everyone you know thinks you’re dead, terribly sorry we can’t do anything about that by the way. And me, well, where the fuck do we start, you know?”

Regulus looks back at him, slowly blinking. the sickly yellow lightbulb casting down its shadows.

He doesn’t need to think about that right now.

He just needs something to fill the noise.

The air was filled with the sense of slight delirium. Nothing felt real. Nothing had consequence. James felt like he could run away, sprint off into the fields and pretend the last twenty two years of his life were a lapse of chemicals his mind made up in a haze.

The depression that hung over him all week threatened to spill into hysterical exuberance. But James didn’t care, it’s been so long since he had someone near him, someone that wasn’t decades older than him. Someone that talked to him, not just through him. Someone that didn’t expect him to be something he wasn’t.

He’ll let himself get drunk on whatever endorphins his body, for whatever reason, was dishing out.

He just needs something to fill the noise.

“Look James, maybe we should call it a night-“

“Nonsense! It’s your birthday, we’re staying up. We’re transforming some stale bread into equally stale cake. We’re playing music your obnoxious little self wouldn’t be caught dead listening to, and we’re dancing.”

He taps his wand. The tinny radio spluttered to life. The glittery synths were scratchy and soft. It filled the room instantly.

Regulus looks back horrified, his eyes widened.

He stretches his hand out for Regulus to take.

Regulus stares down at it, then back at James’ face “Oh no, absolutely not.”

“Oh c’mon, I used to do this all the time with Peter.”

“Is that all what you four did all day? dance around with each other?”

“Mostly, amongst other things. The worst of us was Remus, man had two left feet and fingernails like talons.” he fondly remembers the way Remus’ grip dug into his shoulders and ‘Moony, can you for the love of everything try and be less rigid’ while everyone else in the common room cheered them on, well, mostly Sirius.

Regulus snorts, “I should’ve known. And to think of all the time I wondered what on earth you people did.”

“Well, we had to, the marauders couldn’t embarrass themselves in front of the ladies.”

James’ hand was still outstretched. He wiggled his fingers again, “Come on. Can’t you just humor me?”

“You know it’s my birthday, you should be humoring me.” Still, something in his expression softens - he sighs, unfolds his arms, and carefully places his hand into James’ own.

The soft music and layered vocals had filtered throughout the room. The noise of it seemingly amplified in the tiny living room.

James slowly put his hand on Regulus’ shoulder - the unexpected warmth that rushed through him made him pause. He realizes, this was the first time he’s touched another person in months.

(Eight months to be exact, the last time he saw Marlene, drenched in black hoods at an Order meeting. She gave him a full body hug and squeezed all the oxygen out of him.)

Still, he slides his other hand across Regulus’ palm. The song playing was by a muggle band he didn’t recognize - a ditzy little number, all dreamy sounds and far away vocals. The shimmering effect the night held seemed to surge as they swayed.

It was awkward at first, as it always is. Clutching to each other’s shoulders in a frigid way that even Remus would realize was painful. That was until James, in his delirious state of glee started adding twists and turns left and right, loosening both of them up.

Regulus followed his every move, surprisingly fluid and confident in a way his posture never was. They both slowly started to laugh with every unnecessary kick or turn they flourished as they moved across the kitchen floor. This wasn’t a formal dance in any sense of the word, bouncing around like fools across the linoleum tiles.

It’s been a long time since he felt like this. Young, stupid, and full of bravado. Of course, now it was tinged with the haziness of all what’s broken his heart over and over, night after night. But it was still there, a flickering light in the dark. On and off. He silently pleaded with whoever was handling it to not click it off just yet.

“Okay, you have to stop before I start to vomit,” Regulus raises his voice over the bellowing music, a woman singing about hot stuff.

“We’ve both had nothing all day, nice try though!”

“Have you ever seen a cat dry heave?”

James laughs. He slows his tempo down back to a sway.

“Alright, we’re slowing down, only because it’s your birthday. Otherwise we would’ve been spinning off the patio,”

Regulus promptly ignores him. “Wasn’t there a promise of cake during your little speech?”

“Stale cake.” James corrects. “and i can only manage sweetened white bread, with bits of frosting.”

“I’ve had worse meals,” Regulus replies

“I bet you did,” James smiles back.

They come to a stop as the last seconds of the song play, another already fading in.

They both found themselves a few moments later hunched over a piece of incredibly stale, possibly moldy bread. Both throwing every bit of transfiguration spell they had in their arsenal. The result was a dried-out, but surprisingly pretty piece of yellow sponge cake. James had taken bits of milk and transfigured it into real looking icing, which coated the sides in swirls and peaks.

[leahsgf]

omg could u write adult lottie x reader?? maybe w lottie js comforting reader or something? theres such a lack in lottie fics its heartbreaking :((

an instant cure

pairings. adult!lottie x reader

i actually wrote two different versions of this! the other is a little more heavy so i’ll post this one first, thank you so much for the req! and i agree i wish there was more fics out there for lottie :(

-

“honey are you coming?” lottie’s voice sounded from the other side of the bathroom door, so soft and full of love that you could almost melt.

“yeah, yeah. just a second!” you shook off the threatening tears as you glanced over your appearance in the mirror. it’d been one of those days that had just been off. nothing particularly out of the ordinary had happened, just the usual jobs and classes around the compound, but since you had woken up you had felt like you had a brick sat on your chest, refusing to shift.

you were desperately clinging to the logical side of your brain, trying to convince yourself that it was all in your head and to not let your thoughts completely overwhelm you. however nothing could quite quell the crummy feeling lingering in your gut.

you’d been delaying leaving the bathroom and joining your wife in bed because you didn’t want to dampen her mood. she was a constant beam of light, and spent her days helping people navigate their feelings purely out of the goodness of her own heart, and the last thing you wanted to do was to taint her high spirit and put her back into work mode when she should be relaxing. maybe, you thought, spending a second longer getting ready would be able to shake that off you - but, you were mistaken. so with a deep breath you opened the door, heading towards your shared bedroom.

your entrance instantly caught lottie’s attention, her eyes softening as she saw you, instantly plastering a smile across your features. “come on.” she demaned lightheartedly, holding up the sheets. “get over here.” you laughed and waltzed over, snuggling down next to her, inhaling her scent and instantly feeling comforted, and lighter.

the fuzzy feeling surrounding you reminded you of the first time you’d had the pleasure of being taken out on a date by her, decades ago, before the thought of nationals, before the crash, before switzerland, before everything. the pair of you had genuinely been through it all, and had always had each-other.

you’d met lottie when you were six. you were the terrified, shy new kid, and had refused to speak to anybody for the entirety of your first day. until she had toddled over, plonking herself down next to you and wordlessly started braiding your hair, beaming at you with her gappy smile.

her playing with your hair had always been a huge comfort to you - from the playground decades ago, to now, wrapped in her embrace from as she pressed kisses to the crook of your neck every now and again.

alongside her ability to love beyond belief, one of the things you loved the most about lottie was how observant she was, the little things that would fall unnoticed to most being the things that she would notice the most. she quite literally knew you inside and out, and was in touch with your emotions just as much, if not more than her own.

her fingers branched out from your hair, feathering over your cheeks ever so slightly, pulling you back into reality.

“what’s going on in that beautiful mind of yours?” she quizzed, her eyes studying your expression.

“just thinking about you.” you replied, so softly it was barely audible. “about the first day we met.”

“oh yeah?” she raised an eyebrow, the very same smile from that day spread across her cheeks. “you were so cute. i think i knew i loved you from the second my eyes set on you that day.” your eyes glazed over once more as your cheeks heated in response to her words.

after a moment of silence that fell between you, she nudged you slightly, an expectant look across her features, sighing softly as you met it with confusion.

“i don’t help people navigate their feelings everyday for nothing you know. what’s actually going on?”

“nothing,” you mumbled, “honestly, it was just a weird day.”

“weird?” her eyebrows furrowed as she scolded herself internally for busying herself today to the point of missing that you weren’t a hundred percent.

“yeah. just off. you know those days that just feel wrong, even though you don’t really know why?”

“absolutely baby.” she assured. “please always tell me or just give me a signal when you’re feeling like this. you are my top priority, always.” she pulled you into her arms further, caressing your back as she pressed a kiss to your forehead.

“thank you lot. i’m honestly feeling much better now. it’s quietened down a lot.”

“you sure? i don’t want you feeling icky before bed. i know it can take a while for it to let you relax sometimes. i could make you a smoothie? one of the ones you really like? o-or i could run us a bubble bath? or give you-“ she rambled, her brain scrambling for every possible way to comfort you, not realising that she is comfort enough.

“hey, hey.” you stopped her, a small chuckle slipping past your lips. “all i need is you, right here with me. i promise.”

lottie grinned over at you, pausing her train of very enticing ideas. “as long as you’re sure. i can very much do that. i’m not going anywhere.” she shifted your position so your head lay on her chest, her arms securely around your frame, almost cradling you. butterflies erupted within you, like they always had done at the slightest touch from her. she had had this effect on you for as long as you had known her.

“i love you so much.” you whispered, sleep now fully prepared to overcome you.

“i love you more sweetheart. don’t hesitate to wake me if you need me.” she soothed, gently squeezing you as your lips met hers to say goodnight.

lottie had always been like an instant cure to every negative emotion you had ever experienced. it seemed to again of worked effectively, as you drifted off to sleep happier than you’d been all day, knowing that you could get through anything as long as you had your love.

[alfiereot]

my top 5 video games of all time (w/ recommendations)

Deus Ex Human Revolution

Why I like it

I fell in love with the world of Deus Ex back in 2011. The cyberpunk immersive story of Adam Jensen and his growing involvement against a high elite group illustrated a vision of world based on distrust and control of information. Human Revolution creates an extremely believable future which is inspired and grounded, with an enormous selection for approaching combat. This is probably my most replayed game of all time, and I cannot fathom the hours I’ve spent just reading every single piece of lore the game ever offered me. The immersive sim genre, of which Human Revolution belongs to, is one of the most underrepresented in the industry. I cannot come with an answer of why this is the case, but I think it is widely rewarded that Human Revolution, the successor of one of the genre originators, is a true to name sequel that should be experience at least once.

Other games like it

Deus Ex Mankind Divided: The sequel to Adam Jensen’s story, this is a contender for my favourite game of all time. There are two major reasons on why this has not dethroned Human Revolution as my favourite. The first one is the nostalgia Human Revolution has, as it was one of my first PS3 games. For the second one, you can tell the story presented in Mankind Divided is incomplete. A sequel was under-works but has so far been cancelled by Eidos Montreal new owners. But Mankind Divided is a great game by itself that improves on every system its predecessor introduced, while boasting an incredible city hub that is still lauded to this day.

Prey: I have so far only played the first couple of hours of one Arkane Austin’s most acclaimed games, but even I can tell how much magic the title boosts. The game offers deep combat rooted in the immersive sim genre and created an environment full of secrets to find. Additionally, I have also heard Prey’s DLC, Mooncrash is probably one of the best expansions ever done for a video game. It is quite a shame the game sold so little copies.

God of War: Ragnarök

Why I like it

Originally, I had God of War (2018) as the entry on this list. Over the last couple of months, I have been able to experience the sequel meticulously crafted by Sony Santa Monica, and I can honestly say it surpasses the original in every single way possible. I know one of its gripes is the story is not singularly focused as the one found in 2018, but I honestly believe it is for the better. Every single twist and turn offered by Ragnarök kept me on the edge of my seat, and it reinforced my believe that video games are the best media for storytelling. Maybe it’s the fact you get to experience the story first hand, or that you get to feel Kratos AND Atreus’ struggle firsthand, or just that the medium inherently has more room to breathe, but I do believe my 53 hours experience with Ragnarök, and Valhalla, reflects the best the medium has to offer. My favourite parts of the game are just taking a opportunity to reflect on the events of the story as me, Kratos, Atreus and Mimir told stories to provide a sense of safety and levity.

Other games like it

God of War (2018): If you like Ragnarök you evidently are going to enjoy God of War (2018). I do think it is meant to be enjoyed before Ragnarök, as it was clearly envisioned as a two-part story. This way you get to fall in love with the recurring characters, and you complete the character journey of Kratos and Atreus.

Portal 2: It’s been over a decade since I got a chance to experience Portal 2, so I really need to go back and replay the title. However, I do believe Portal 2 and Ragnarök share some DNA, specially where it comes to dialogue and writing. The first is inherently shorter than Ragnarök, but every single minute is packed with a sense of wonder which is enhanced with the incredible character writing. Whether it is GLADOS coming up with a joke at your expense or Mimir telling a captivating story, I do believe fans can find enjoyment in each one.

Sly Cooper Series

Why I like it

I officially started my gaming life back in the PS2 era of games and, among the plethora of game mascots Sony created for this console generation, I was only able to meet Sly in his first foray into the video game world. As I grown older (and became acquainted with what Ratchet and Jax had to offer) I can say this was one of the best happenstances in my life. The Sly Cooper series (not including Thieves in Time as I haven’t played it) has personally become synonymous with what a great video game should be. Everything from character to level design is immaculately crafted to be its very best, and I have little to no complains about these games. I do hope Sly gets a chance to make a comeback much as like Rachet and Clank have over the years.

Other games like it

SpongeBob SquarePants Battle for Bikini Bottom Rehydrated: My favourite out of the platformer and collectathon games from the SpongeBob franchise is SpongeBob SquarePants The Movie video game, and I am not holding my breathe for it to be remaster, as it is probably a licencing hell which they probably don’t want to deal with. It is for this reason I recommend Battle for Bikini Bottom Rehydrated. Purple Lamp’s immaculate remake has crafted a compelling gameplay experience which exemplifies what this genre needs. If you are a fan of Sly Cooper, especially Thievius Raccoonous, I think you will enjoy SpongeBob BBR as well.

Catherine & Catherine Full Body

Why I like it

I was debating whether to include Persona 5 Royal or Catherine within this list, but I ultimately chose the latter. My nostalgia googles are right and burning for P-Studio’s 2011 puzzle game, and it has been ever since I laid my eyes on the gameplay. Back then, I enamoured with the simple, yet detailed, character animation, as Vincent and the gang felt as ever real every time I logged on to the Stray Sheep. Whilst the story is not groundbreaking, the gameplay is where Catherine, and its remaster, work their magic. To this day, I haven’t been able to find a game where the puzzle system has engrossed me to this degree. Its system is hard to master but incredibly rewarding, and my main reason for wanting a sequel to this underrated gem is basically because I want to move more blocks. Alongside its incredible atmosphere, I wholeheartedly recommend to any puzzle game afficionado this tale of love, magic and blocks.

Other games like it

Persona 5 Royal: There are no other games like Catherine. I could recommend puzzle games the likes of Portal, or a recent favourite like Carto, but there is no other I have played which can offer the experience found on Catherine. So, if you like the other elements which also make Catherine a great game, I recommend Persona 5 Royal. The atmosphere and character writing its P-Studio at its best (still haven’t played P3 Reload), and they were clearly able to take everything they learned in Catherine to create the king of vibes in video games. I personally enjoy the vanilla ending to P5 better than Royal, but I would be foul of me to omit the variety of improvements to the gameplay which makes it sincerely better than the original.

Citizen Sleeper

Why I like it

My history with gaming is mostly relegated to consoles, with some exceptions such as Team Fortress 2. CRPGs has been a genre which has eluded me, and this does, to this day, however, it came to me as a gracious surprise that in 2023, a year boosted by a cornucopia of excellent games, Citizen Sleeper was my favourite game of the year. I generally enjoy sci-fi settings more than fantasy and, within its theme, Citizen Sleeper is superb. I was immediately drawn into the story, on how you are a cyborg* quickly becoming obsolete thanks to your own sense of independence. Its world is extremely beautiful and harsh, and becoming independent in a collapse capitalistic society was an experience of extreme joy and tension. Parallel to this, the game boosts a beautiful soundtrack and marvellous art direction, which makes Citizen Sleeper an easy game to recommend.

*Cyborg is an oversimplification of the arrangement of human conscious and artificial body tale found in Citizen Sleeper.  

Other games like it

Tacoma: Tacoma is a beautiful first-person sci-fi narrative game in which you find yourself reliving what happened to the crew of an orbital station with its namesake. The highlight of the video game is its presentation, as it was able to make a believable abandoned space station that definitely felt lived-in, and both the usage of in-game augmented reality and sign language is supremely captivating. With extremely believable sci-fi, both Tacoma and Citizen Sleeper offer a glimpse into their dystopian societies whilst elevating their stories they are trying to tell. Fans of sci-fi will find something to like in either.

[alexanderwales]

Review: The Case of the Sleeping Beauties

The Case of the Sleeping Beauties is a novella that I wrote back in 2015. Ambitiously subtitled "a Utah Sinclair mystery", it did not make any significant splash. It's got 67 lifetime sales, a 3.8 rating, and a single proper review. Some of this is simply a lack of marketing: back in 2015 I had written some fanfic and not much else, and was still working as a software engineer. I'm not sure why I wrote this novella, or decided to put it up for pay (unlike virtually everything else I've written, it's never once been up for free), but I consider it an abject failure, at least as far as writing for money goes. Also the cover sucks. The whole thing is 20,000 words, so short enough that I can easily blow through it in an afternoon. Also (still) available in EPUB, MOBI, and PDF for patrons, but I don't have firm numbers for how many people read it that way, nor if it did anything to encourage patronage.

But is it an artistic failure as well?

There is actually another Utah Sinclair mystery, it was intended as a trilogy of novellas that together would be long enough (and coherent enough) to stitch into a full book with the three cases being individual "acts". I don't know the last time I reread The Case of the Sleeping Beauties, but my guess is that it was while I was trying to complete The Case of the Slaughterhouse Prophet, and that would have been almost a decade ago.

The story was written at a time when I was playing Malifaux, a skirmish game, and is clearly heavily inspired by that, though with the serial numbers filed off. It follows Utah Sinclair, a private detective of the yonside as he wanders around a rambling city trying to figure out where undead prostitutes are coming from.

Mild spoilers follow.

Prose

The first thing I noticed is just how much noir it's channeling, and how much is being put into descriptive phrases. Stuff like this:

The first human through the portal from earthside had found himself on the outskirts of an empty city, one that seemed like it had been cobbled together by an orgy of deranged architects.

Or this:

There were a few maps of Cathopolis, but they only agreed on the areas that the Priz maintained control over. Everywhere else was a geographical bedlam.

Or this:

He was the sort of person who was waiting to disgorge his thoughts, like a mother bird ready to feed a starving chick.

Or this:

I had a revolver strapped to my ankle, one affectionately advertised in the back of the penny dreadfuls as the Silent Witness. It was supposed to be a subtle weapon, but it was still a gun, and if I’d paid chits for it instead of pulling it off a dead man I might have written a nasty letter to the manufacturer about its supposed silence.

Or this:

It took me a moment to realize it, but he was dressed up like a Catholic priest, all in black with a white collar. Even if he’d been standing in the middle of the Vatican with the Pope vouching for him, it wouldn’t have been convincing. Partly it was the scars on his face, but it was also the head that had been shaved with a secondhand blade. The snub-nosed shotgun at his side didn’t help matters either.

I assume that this is channeling Raymond Chandler, since I read a lot of detective fiction when I was a teenager (my dad had loads of the stuff) and Chandler was always a favorite. I think the density of these flourishes could be higher, and if you're going with this style, it's better that it's liberally peppered in. You don't want to sink into the rhythm "normal" prose only to have a tiny speck of flourish pop out at you.

There were a lot of things that I tightened up while reading, partly because this is the easiest thing in the world when reading in GDocs, but I don't know that I'll push a change to the ebook, partly because I would need to figure out how. Most of these changes are fairly minor. There's an overuse of semicolons, which I think I was in love with at the time, a romance that hasn't lasted. There are a few minor tweaks that are just on the order of "no, the phrase 'mechanical fingers' might be misread as poetic, it should reworded to be clear that these are prosthetic". A few of the tweaks are just to reduce down how much text there is, making it more punchy, so "the Priz didn't tax any property that a person might want to claim in this part of the city" becomes "the Priz didn't tax property in this part of the city", and this is essentially inarguably better, tighter, cleaner prose.

Also I fixed some typos, and those do make me feel like I need to figure out the reupload.

Character

I think I've gotten better at character voices through the years, but here I kind of doubt myself, since everything seems fine in that regard. Utah and his partner Ralph don't talk enough early on in my opinion, and there might be a few too many characters introduced in rapid succession, which is a problem when they're not advancing the plot. Cyanide Sally is a bartender who owns the House of Skulls, and she serves a bitter almond special that's (supposedly) fatally poisoned one time in every hundred, and this is very fun ... but it's irrelevant to the plot, it's just fun for the sake of fun.

I do think that Ralph gets speaking lines a bit too late, given that he's the second main character. My advice to my past self would be that he should be getting characterizing dialogue from the word go, and that this central relationship should be better understood by the reader much earlier. And they should be more distinct from each other: the orthogonality thesis is that every set of characters should only overlap where there's something interesting to say with that overlap. Cover up the names and see if you can tell who said what line! This does not work for Ralph and Utah, but I think it does work for most of the other characters. And I guess I wouldn't say this is fatal, since it's not like there's some grounding character arc between our detective and his sidekick.

Utah himself is ... fine. Some of his characterization comes through in the narration, and there were a few moments I particularly liked from him, but I'm not sure that I could sketch him out in a sentence. He's down on his luck, loves to break rules, lies through his teeth, scrambles around and gets back up from the hard punches. I'm not sure that this is enough. A job should be more than a job, I guess, and I do get the sense that he's skeeved out by the necromancy, but ... well, that brings us to the other thing.

Theme

This is, if you squint, or maybe even if you don't, a cop story about sex work. It also kind of doesn't have that much to say about either of those things.

Utah is a private detective, doling out justice for people who can pay him. In real life, private detectives come in a variety of flavors, but one of the most common is just the pursuit of things that are not actually criminal issues, like breach of contract, or adultery. This is a criminal issue within their world, but it's one that no one in power is pursuing. There's some clear contempt for the regular cops from Utah, and some further contempt for the law itself, since he breaks all kinds of laws in this lawless world, including murdering two men, which doesn't greatly affect him. This is self-defense, but still. I don't think there's some great thesis on criminality or justice here, and the novella overall is justice-neutral, seemingly unconcerned with what's right or wrong, only trying to work the problem. This is maybe fine?

And the sex work stuff is seen through the lens of Utah, and this is also seen as maybe being just morally neutral in a matter-of-fact way, something that people do in order to get by, no different from working in a coal mine or whatever. And there's exploitation, but that's no different from working in a coal mine. So I think this story has a viewpoint, but not a thesis.

Does a story need a thesis? Does a little novella like this need to have something to say about the world and the people in it? I don't know, I guess not, but I sure do prefer when there's something to grab onto. I am a sucker for story structure though, and a nice little character arc, and this piece ... does not really have that. Utah is challenged, but he's not challenged to his core, and does not grow and change, and this probably fine for a 20k word novella.

I think in the end it's more of a "wouldn't it be fucked up" kind of story, and in this case I don't particularly like that, since it's not fucked up enough.

Ideas

One of the other things that I look for in any story is cool ideas, and this is one of the things that I like most about reading long ago pieces, because sometimes I've forgotten those ideas.

The idea density is okay, but I would have liked to see more. A weird fiction setting is a playground for ideas, and I feel like especially in the back half, there's just not enough playing going on. It is only 20k words, but that feels like it's enough for easily twice as many little fucked up weird things. So that's what I would do, include more fucked up weird things. (The part where they go to the manor is the one that stands out clearly to me as needing more fucked up weird things, there should have been some kind of magic sculpture there or a steampunk maid or something.)

Of all the stuff that I had forgotten about, my favorite was the necromancy lobbyist, a guy who just really believed that necromancy should be legal, but was supposedly not a necromancer himself. So he's just talking about like regulatory schemes and social mores, and this is funny. I'm glad he wasn't a bad guy in the end, for some reason I thought he was going to be involved in the plot in a more critical way. Instead, he's just a happy little academic.

Conclusion

Fun to reread, and no, I would say not an artistic failure. Definitely feels like it wants a second mystery to follow after it. I believe The Case of the Slaughterhouse Prophet is approximately half written, which with editing work means only a quarter written, but again, the numbers mean that there's just no way that I can justify that as anything but a labor of love.

I wouldn't say that this is the best thing I've ever written, but I think it compares favorably to the other mid-length stuff. Definitely would have been stronger with a thematic core, and with more cohesion between protagonist and plot, but I also think that's fine.

I guess, having read it after nearly a decade, I'm feeling weirdly defensive about it for no particular reason. It might have been one thing if it had just not sold, that's partly just down to the lack of marketing and also the market for novellas being bad. But it also scored poorly in terms of ratings, and on top of that, never got enough reviews for me to get a picture of what was not hitting right, which leaves me grappling in the dark.

So I'd say that I learned approximately nothing from this, except that I had some more ideas for a Weird West kind of story, if I ever end up writing one of those.

[beastlycheese]

Does Robert Carlyle, now 62, get his kit off in the new TV series of The Full Monty? ‘Nobody wants to see that,’ he says with a grin. 

Photograph: Alana Paterson/The Observer

Interview

By Rebecca Nicholson, printed in Guardian/Observer

Robert Carlyle’s life has been defined by two remarkable characters: the explosively violent Begbie, and Gaz in The Full Monty. Here, he talks about his Glasgow childhood, Britpop hedonism – and playing the PM…

It was 1997, and Robert Carlyle was in his mid-30s, when he first played the stripping Sheffield steelworker Gaz in The Full Monty. Last year, to get ready to play him again – this time for an eight-part TV series – he sat himself down to watch the film. He seems slightly embarrassed to admit it – he’s not the kind of actor who likes to watch himself. “And I’m not about trawling back through something from 20-odd years ago,” he says. But The Full Monty was calling him to South Yorkshire, so trawl back he did. He decided that he would watch a few minutes, then he would move on. “And I sat there and watched the whole thing.” He was surprised to find that it still worked, even after 25 years. “I don’t know if I can say this, but I really enjoyed it. It really stands up.”

The original Full Monty told the story of six unemployed men from Sheffield who put on a DIY strip show at the working men’s club. It was an indie film, shot on a very small budget, and it almost went straight to video; a last-minute re-edit saved it from obscurity and it went on to be a staggering global success, making £200m at the box office. Carlyle’s Gaz is the ringleader, a schemer and a dreamer trying to keep enough money in his pocket to put the heating on when his son comes to stay.

I had misremembered it as a film about men getting their kit off, a bawdy hen night of British comedy. But rewatching it I was struck by how political it seems now. Three decades later, in the new series, people are still broke and Gaz is still scheming, but the working men’s club has shut down, the school is crumbling and children are going hungry.

‘I love it when I dive into a job. You’ve got a little family unit, you love each other to bits and you think you’re going to be friends forever’

“It’s easy to forget that the film is quite heavily political,” says Carlyle. “It makes a point. And I think the same applies to the TV show. These people have lived through what seems like 25 years of austerity.” He credits the writers, Simon Beaufoy and Alice Nutter, with its gallows humour. “But you see that the older people’s lives have been pretty tough for the past 25 years, and then there’s 20 years of what Simon calls the Young Montys, the younger characters, heading for the same shit. So it’s good that this has been made. It shows what people go through to survive the day to day.” Not just men getting their kit off, then. Does he strip this time? “Nobody wants to see that,” he says, with a grin.

Carlyle is a great talker, open and funny and relaxed. He admits he was not always this way, particularly when it came to the press, though he did have his reasons. He’s calmed down a lot since his wilder days, in part because he is, as he says, “125 years old” (he’s just turned 62, though he looks younger) and also because he now lives in Vancouver, on the west coast of Canada. “There’s a laid-back attitude and quality here I enjoy,” he says. He moved there to film a TV series, Once Upon a Time, in 2011, with his wife, Anastasia Shirley, and three children, and found that he liked the city, though he has kept a home in Glasgow, where he grew up, and the family splits its time between the two. His kids are 21, 19 and 17.

Do they have Canadian accents? “Aye, they do,” he laughs. “My eldest son’s got this strange – hang on, let me see if I can do it – this half-American thing with a bit of Scottish thrown in, you know?”

Carlyle is at his happiest when he’s at home. “I’m a homebody, there’s no doubt about that,” he says. “I’ve got loads of friends, particularly in London, and I enjoy it when I get to meet up with them. It’s brilliant. But I’ve always been a bit of a loner to be honest.” Carlyle was brought up by his father; his mother walked out when he was a child. He has spoken before about moving around a lot, living in communes. “I always think about it as darkness and light, my life, because the first part of it was pretty dark. My mother had left when I was a wee boy. I was brought up by my dad alone in Glasgow in the 60s, and the single- parent family, there was not a lot of that around, especially a single-parent family with a father. That made me instantly different from the rest of the people who were around me.” He seems surprised by his own candour. “Genuinely, I’ve never really spoken about this before. But I guess that’s probably where it started.”

I still love Begbie. It was such an explosion. An absolute avalanche

Did he feel like an outsider at school? “When I was very young, yeah, definitely. It’s the little things.” He has a teacher friend and he says he is pleased to hear that things are very different now. “But back in the day, if you had to get permission for something, the teachers would say, bring a note in from your mum. Stuff like that. Of course, when you don’t have that, that really hits home, even when you’re a wee boy.”

Carlyle left school at 16, became a painter and decorator, and worked with his dad. At 21, he came across a copy of Arthur Miller’s The Crucible, and it lit something up inside him. He went on to the Royal Scottish Academy of Music and Drama, and set up his own theatre company. For a loner, he has picked a very sociable job.

“Yeah, but I’ve been doing it for so long that I’ve become very good at separating those things. I love it when I dive into a job, whether theatre, film, TV, whatever. You’ve got a little family unit, you love each other to bits and you think you’re going to be friends for ever. Then two months later you never see them again,” he laughs. Family means a lot to him. “I’d always wanted to have a good family unit, to be able to connect with each other and be pals with each other,” he says, talking about his three children. “Thankfully, we’re great friends.”

In 1991, he was cast as the lead in Ken Loach’s Riff-Raff, and worked steadily through the 90s, playing a serial killer in Cracker, which set the tone for more villainous roles to come. But nothing prepared him for the double whammy of playing the sadistic maniac Begbie in Trainspotting at the end of 1995 and Gaz in The Full Monty, 18 months later. “From that point on, they were massive shadows that then followed me around for the rest of my life, the rest of my career,” he says. “So it was something that I had to get used to, the whole fame thing. Because I am, as I’ve been saying, quite a homely guy, a family man, it took me a long time to get used to that.”

To say the films were hits is an understatement. Both were phenomena that travelled around the world. One of the strangest things about watching The Full Monty again, he says, is that it took him right back to that time. “It’s looking at yourself in another life, and all the things that were happening in my life back then. I mean, we can all look back in photographs, but I’ve got this living, breathing thing in front of me.”

What was happening in his life back then?

“Ha!” It was the height of the Britpop era, and because of those films, Carlyle was right at the heart of it. Back in the day, as he puts it, he was invited to everything and went to most of it. “I met all the personalities of the day, the Oasis lads, Damon Albarn, who’s still a great friend. I was right in the middle of that whole thing, enjoying that life.”

Was it as hedonistic as it seemed? He doesn’t pause for breath. “One thousand per cent,” he grins. “It was incredibly hedonistic, but it was exciting. If you think about it politically, we’d just come out of Tory rule. Blair was there, everything seemed to be on the up. And I can remember that feeling.” He appeared in an Oasis video, for the song Little By Little.

Was it easy to be friends with Blur and Oasis, given their famous rivalry? “Hahaha. To be honest with you, I was really good at not getting involved. But I remember when I did Little By Little, Damon was like, ‘Why the fuck did you do that? Come and do one for me!’ I said, ‘But you never asked,’ which was true! And that was the end of the conversation.”

“It doesn’t sound like you were a homebody in those days,” I say. He laughs again. “No,” he says. “There wasn’t so much homebody then. I certainly wasn’t shy in getting out the door.”

But there was a darker side to that era. His fame made him a person of interest to the tabloids. He says it’s nothing compared to what some people experienced, but still it sounds unpleasant.

“At the time, going through that was horrible, to be honest with you, because I didn’t understand it. I was suddenly in this world and I was very open. Probably too open, at times.” The papers responded by reporting on his private life and his family. “They got in touch with my mother and pulled her out the dark, and that was really upsetting. So I slammed the door shut for a long time, because I just hated it.” He was tight-lipped in interviews and wouldn’t do chatshows, though he will say he still regrets saying no to Michael Parkinson. “I think that was probably quite clever, because then you do keep a little bit of yourself. I mean, you see people on these chatshows and everything comes out and you go, ‘My God, I don’t know how you can live your life like that.’”

He does them these days, however. “Because I’m 125, I’m more used to it,” he jokes. “I can do it better now. Time and age is a great thing.”

Is it just time? Has he mellowed with age?

“It’s family, children. My children came in the 2000s, so all the stuff in the 90s, there were no kids then, but once children arrive in your life, everything changes overnight. So that becomes more important. That becomes your focus. And you begin to think, ‘Oh, the other stuff’s not actually worth bothering about.’”

Carlyle has had the chance to go back to two of his most iconic characters. He revisited Begbie for T2, the Trainspotting sequel, in 2017. A sequel was always planned, and Carlyle says he and Jonny Lee Miller, who plays Sickboy, wanted it to be sooner. “But Danny Boyle [the director] always said, we’ll do it, but when you’re older. He was obviously right, because it’s in the face. You can see that life has been lived.”

Even more so than Gaz, the terrifying Begbie is the character who has followed him around the longest. “The terrifying Begbie!” he laughs. “I love Begbie. I mean, who knew? Who knew what was going to happen with that character? It was such an explosion, Trainspotting. An absolute avalanche.” At the time, he knew that the film was going to be something special. “I thought this character is gonna be around for a while. But I thought, maybe a few years.” Yesterday, he says, he went to the butcher’s near his house, and the man in the shop, in his 20s, from Bilbao, recognised him and said he loved him in Trainspotting. “He said, ‘I’ve got a T-shirt of you, of Begbie with the glass.’ This thing I thought was going to last a few years, is still there, in people’s minds, 27 years later.” Wherever he goes now, people still recognise him as Begbie. “That mad character!” He’s not exactly a teddy bear, is he? “I mean, this is a line from the film – he’s a psycho, but he’s a mate, so what can you do? I do love him. And Gaz. Both these characters have given me a tremendous career and a tremendous life, and you’ve got to love him for that.”

Besides, Begbie’s not dead yet. There is a six-part TV series, The Blade Artist, in the planning, about Begbie’s post-prison life as an acclaimed artist in California. Carlyle is working on it with Irvine Welsh and Hex author Jenni Fagan.

“It’s been brilliant, this one. I mean, let’s face it, Begbie is me. So to be right in at the beginning of that and be able to go, well, actually, maybe change this, change that… that’s where we are at the moment.” He thinks they’ll start shooting in the next year or two.

For now, he’s off work, relaxing in Vancouver, travelling with his wife, spending time with his family. “Back in the day, it was all about the next job, next job, next job and I don’t think so much like that any more.”

Recently, he’s been playing the British prime minster, Robert Sutherland, in the political thriller Cobra. “Who would have thought? Begbie, Gaz, the prime minister…” he says. In the original Full Monty, Gaz explains that he can’t go shoplifting because “I’ve got serial killer written on my forehead.” Carlyle nods. “That’s right. That’s probably my issue with parts. Certainly with Sutherland, when he gets angry, I’ve got to really pull it down. Don’t get Begbie-angry,” he says. “Begbie as the prime minister!” I wouldn’t put it past him.

The Full Monty will be streaming on Disney+ from 14 June

[akatsuki-shin]

[REVIEW] スロウ・ダメージ Slow Damage

Just finished marathoning this game to get all the endings and that was a blast!

It's been a while since I last posted a review of anything, so here goes~ ^^

Note(s):

Long post ahead, may contain spoilers

This review is written by someone who is familiar with all of Nitro+Chiral's previously released BL Visual Novels (so I may make remarks on their comparison here and there)

This is my personal review; my opinion does not represent the entire audience and players of the game

SUMMARY:

In the Year 20XX, the nation of Japan has been rapidly declining to rock-bottom in the past decade, leading to a significant spike in poverty, unemployment, and crime rate.

Once known as a thriving Tokyo Waterfront City, the special administrative region of Shinkoumi fell into the hands of the yakuza Takasato Group, who ruled the city like a nation of their own.

Here lives Towa, an indolent, hedonistic young man with seemingly no goal or ambition in life. Day by day, he wastes himself away in smoke, alcohol, and — sometimes — violent sex with peers and strangers alike whenever he feels like it.

However, few knows of his true identity as "Euphoria," a genius artist known for his prominent paintings that perfectly captures a human's deepest, darkest desire.

STORY: 7/10

With 2 (two) default routes, 1 (one) locked route, and 1 (one) True Ending route, Slow Damage is different from the previous 4 (four) BL Visual Novels that has been released by Nitro+Chiral thus far, in which there is neither adventure or "greater plot" that needs to be resolved as the main body of the story.

In the previous games, we can say that the general plot overall does not change much regardless of which route we takes, save for a few in-depth details that can only be obtained in the True Ending route. For example, when playing DRAMAtical Murder, Toue will still be defeated and the Platinum Jail will still go down no matter which character's route you decide to take.

Slow Damage, however, is a game where you unravel a "puzzle" named Towa.

No route can stand on its own; you need to play all 4 (four) available routes in order to fully understand everything. There is no particular "grand goal." Maybe you'll solve someone's problem in one route, maybe you'll take down the yakuza in the other route.

The 2 (two) default routes will present you the Towa as "it is," according to your first impression on him, where he helps solve the respective Love Interest's problem by diving into their mind and unravel their inner "wounds." The locked route will dig halfway to Towa's past to show a little bit more about him prior to his current life.

But eventually, you will only be able to understand him, why he looks and acts like that, why he does the thing he does, after completing the True Ending route.

Depending on your expectation before playing the game, you may or may not be disappointed after discovering the full story. Personally speaking, I was a bit disappointed at first because I thought the plot is superficial and doesn't touch on any major subject regarding the universe where the story takes place. In the end, however, I think it's a quite solid and complete story, albeit taking a different spin from the previous games.

The plot is deep and detailed; it can really deliver some very heavy emotional issues, as well as presenting the fun and romantic sides. I personally feel the plot twists and revelations obtained in the True Ending is very cleverly wrapped. There are many small, miss-able things in the other routes that will only be explained in the True Ending.

Furthermore, if I have any complains about the previous games, it is that they tend to drop an "info dump" at some point in the story. Fortunately for me, Slow Damage is very good at distributing the information through dialogues, narration, and dividing them between scenes.

A few "minus" points from me, though...

There are some important things that do not have enough foreshadowing in the front, but suddenly becomes extremely significant in the latter part of the story. For example:

Towa and Fujieda's real names. There are no hint leading to this at all from the beginning and it doesn't really give any impact whatsoever to the whole story, either. But for some reason, the story-telling makes it look as if it is very important.

Although Fujieda himself as a character appear briefly in the other 3 (three) routes, there is next to no hints at all that connect him with Towa prior to the True Ending route. Sure, his little sister appeared in Towa's dream before, but the story-telling doesn't connect it with Fujieda before we unlock his route. Personally-speaking, while the True Ending route is overall very satisfying for me, I still feel some disconnection with Fujieda's background and motivation in the story.

Speaking of "disconnection," this is especially true for Madarame's route.

Before, when playing the default routes (Rei and Taku), we are already used to the indolent, lazy Towa and his occasional self-harming habits whenever he's craving stimulations. But in Madarame's route, you are suddenly being shoved in the face with stories about Towa's past with him out of the blue, forcing you to accept that Towa does not used to be like that.

While the latter part of Madarame's route until the ending is neatly put together, I cannot help but still feel that he is a stranger who suddenly barges into the main plot and forcefully diverts the direction of the story for no reason. It's like a skyscraper that looks majestic from the outside but actually has shallow foundation below.

I also feel that Taku's route has a massive plot hole because even though Taku is supposed to know Towa from when he was still a child, very little details are revealed in his route. Perhaps it's so that it won't clash with the secrets known only in the True Ending, but it makes Taku's route feel somewhat lackluster (especially since Towa isn't questioning about his past at all during this route).

And last but not least, I think this is the first time I'm playing a Visual Novel where you can't exactly call the endings as "Good" or "Bad."

Certainly, in the True Ending route, it's obvious to see whether the ending you get is "Good" or "Bad." But other than that, the term "Euphoria" and "Madness" ending just fit the theme so well because as f*cked up as the "Madness" ending is, Towa as the main character doesn't feel it's bad because he's simply that unhinged of a character.

CHARACTER: 10/10

Towa's character development until the very end is simply amazing. It is especially heartbreaking to see him crumble as he gradually draws closer and closer to the truth about his past. Likewise, it feels fulfilling to see him finally getting the true happy ending with a kindred soul who shares his pain.

Furthermore, as much as I'm glad that he finally finds the closure and salvation that he so deserves, I'm particularly happy that we are allowed to get a glimpse at how his sociopath mother truly felt back then. While it cannot, in any way, be used to condone what she had done to Towa and her other victims, it shows the ironic difference between her life and Towa:

Towa has friends that care about him, hence helping him to settle down and eventually come to terms with his issues. His mother, however, was a lonely soul with no one who could help her address her issues until the very end.

Putting aside my earlier "complains" about Madarame and Taku's routes, the dynamic between Towa and his Love Interests are interesting to follow because each has a unique and different approach to it. The way their romance blooms is like a refreshing breeze amidst the story full of heavy emotional and psychological traumas.

The side characters have very solid personalities and fit perfectly into the main plot with their respective roles. Truthfully, I can't really find anything to complain about regarding the characters.

GAMEPLAY: 10/10

Almost a decade after DRAMAtical Murder was released, Nitro+Chiral has really kicked up their game's quality by a whole notch.

The "Interrogation" and "Exploration" makes it super different from your traditional Visual Novel games where most of the time, the choices can be rather predictable.

Of course, I also love how the game's visual appearance change significantly before and after finishing the True Ending. The interface is pretty to look at and suits the story's theme perfectly.

ART/VISUAL: 9/10

This is probably the best-looking Visual Novel from Nitro+Chiral I've ever played.

Opinions on the art style may differ between each person, but I think we can all agree that they really pay attention to the details. Especially for major characters like Towa, even the location and degree of his injuries vary in his avatars following the situation currently taking place in the plot.

I also can't believe how detailed they draw the background, food, drinks, and objects that appear in the CGs.

That said, I feel like for a city that is described as "you can easily stumble on dead people on the street," the background art is way too pretty and clean, it doesn't really look like a declining city at all where people can die from cold and hunger.

MUSIC: 10/10

Likewise, I personally feel Slow Damage has the best music compared to the other 4 (four) games before.

The BGMs are not boring; it can really build up the atmosphere and makes you feel the tension presented on the screen.

I am especially fond of the music during romantic scene. If I have to put it into words, it gives the NSFW scenes a dash of fluff on top of the sexy that you can't help but melt with him.

SUMMARY: 9.2/10

As different as it is from the previous games released by Nitro+Chiral, Slow Damage certainly does not disappoint although there is quite a gap until this game was finally released. It's really worth the wait, and it can easily wrap you emotionally while you're playing through the story.

Furthermore, I think the current generation, especially the millennials, can really relate to the setting of which the game is taking place. Maybe not to that extreme, but the way the young generation in the game is described as overworked, exhausted, and depressed is truly a reflection of life nowadays for us. :')

I look forward to replaying this game again some other day, now that I already get all the secrets they have to offer. Perhaps it will give a different experience. <3

P.S. This isn't about the game but more about the translation/localization. I wish English publishers will pay more attention to the expressions and nuances in the original language when translating instead of just throwing whatever words that fit.

For example, in Rei's route, he says "抱きたい" which means "I want to embrace you," but they just translated it into "I want to f*ck you."

Sure, "embrace" and "f*ck" would lead to the same result, but that's not the way he was saying it. Those two words bear two completely different feelings, and this is just one among numerous other issues with the official translations.

[sunwarmed-ash]

Thank You For Your Patience!! (Sinful Sunday Post)

As a thank you for being patient and sweet while I sorted my life out, I'm gonna post 4 lil Sinful Sunday snippets today! These will NOT be posted to ao3 until their debut! Get em while they're hot

Part 4: Alpha Dog & Omegalomaniac- Beta!El x Alpha!Peter x Omega!Neal

“Uh oh, I know that face,” El says, taking a seat at the kitchen table next to her partner of over a decade. “Don’t tell me you're thinking about Neal Caffrey again. I've been competing with him for years!”

“He would have been released today,” Peter sighs, taking El’s hand and squeezing. He loves her so much. She's so perceptive while also being emotionally skilled enough to navigate tough conversations with him. “He’s just started another 4 year sentence.”

“You considering his offer? Well, that’s a silly question,” she chuckles to herself, “obviously you are or you'd be in bed with me.”

Peter smiles and mentally praises her perception once again. 

“There's more to this escape El. Some angle he’s playing. There has to be. It can’t just be some ‘lost love.’ Neal doesn’t do anything halfway.”

“Mmhm,” El agrees, looking at him suspiciously. “Let me see if I got this right. You’re suggesting he escaped a maximum security prison knowing full well you'd be the one to catch him, just so he could trick you into letting him out again?”

“Well I guess it does sound ridiculous when you put it like that.”

She smiles and kisses his fingers. 

“He served the time you put him in there for. I think that’s fair, don’t you?”

“He just put himself back in jail for four more years and for what?”

“For what? Peter... You’re saying, if you were Neal, you wouldn’t have run for me?”

“I- of course I would!” 

“Well there you go,” she beams.

“He’s an Omega,” Peter admits suddenly. He doesn't mean to, it just sorta flies out of him. And once he does, all of her body language shifts. Monumentally. 

“How do you know that?”

“He told me.”

“When?”

“When I saw him a few weeks ago. I haven't been able to shake the feeling something is wrong ever since.”

“You knew that and you let him go back in there anyway?”

She’s right. He knows she's right. Peter should have done the morally right thing and at least found a way to move Neal into protective custody after he found that out. Just to be on the safe side. But he didn't. 

“I thought, maybe he was lying. Ya know? A- A last ditch attempt, at getting freedom.”

El, his partner of 10 years and friend of 20 looks at him for a long time. In an instant, it's obvious how hard she's trying to hold something scathing back. Instead she just exhales and squeezes his hand tightly.

“No. I really don't think so Peter.”

Peter’s guilt feels like its about to swallow him whole. And maybe, it should.

---

Peter’s guilt only heightens when he sees Neal again. In the 17 days apart, Neal looks like he’s aged ten years. His beard has started to grow back out, and Peter hates to admit how unflattering it is on his face. The bags under his eyes are purple and the paleness of his skin insinuates he hasn't seen the sun in a few weeks.

But even that wasn't the most troubling visual cue. Across each of Neal’s forearms are newly wrapped gauze bandages. As soon as Neal comes close enough Peter can smell the dried blood and antiseptic underneath.

These injuries are new, less than 24 hours new. Peter’s instinct burns for him to find the person responsible for it and destroy them, but a voice in his head that sounds suspiciously like El says the victim and the perpetrator are one and the same. 

“Peter, what are you doing here,” Neal finally asks and even his voice sounds defeated. 

“It's the end of your four year sentence.”

“Yippie,” Neal scoffs hatefully, “except did you forget the part where you got me locked up in here for four more?”

“You breaking out got you four more,” Peter corrects, but not unkindly. He’s not here trying to start a fight. He’s here to figure out what the hell happened to Neal in their time apart. Because it doesn't look like anything good. “Now do you want your gift or not?”

“I get a gift,” Neal asks and Peter can see the hint of smile start to form. It’s not everything, but it's something. 

“Well you gotta come over here to see it,” Peter smirks a little himself. 

Neal’s eyebrow raises and he walks a little closer. 

Peter eventually exposes the label of the bottle to Neal. It’s an 82’ Bordeaux. A real one.

“Peter,” Neal deflates, “you know they won’t let me have that in here...”

Peter’s really starting to hate the look of desperation on the man. Maybe that's really why he’s doing this. 

“I know,” Peter smiles, waiting for Neal to piece it all together. And when he does, Peter feels floored by the magnitude of Neal’s gratuity. It's the first time in weeks he's seen a glimpse of his the old Neal Caffrey and the knot in his gut finally starts to ease. 

---

When Neal comes out the south gate, he’s got quite a bit more pep in his step. Peter supposes getting released from prison can do that to a person’s attitude. But he can’t let Neal get too excited. Because this isn’t summer camp, this is a federal punishment. One that would come down hard on Peter if it failed. It needs to be treated accordingly. 

“Let me see it,” he instructs when Neal is only a few steps away.

Neal stops walking to pull up his pant leg. 

“You like,” Neal smiles, showing off the ankle monitor. “I’m officially yours.”

The phrase catches Peter off guard, because Neal’s always been flirty, buts it's never been this direct. And that's why his neck and cheeks are flushed. No other reason… And he will be sticking to that story in court. 

“You know what this means right,” Peter pivots. 

“Yeah,” Neal agrees, “I'm released into your custody as property of the FBI with this horrible eye sore on my ankle as a permanent fashion piece. Anything I'm missing?”

“Yeah. if you run, and I catch you, which I know I will because I’m 2-0, you're not just back here for four years you're here for good. Got it?”

“Yeah Peter," Neal sighs a little irritably, "I got it.”

“You're going to be tempted to look for Kate, don’t.”

Neal’s earlier smile fades.

“Trust me, she doesn't want to hear from me.” 

It's a very different dismissal than the way he reacted weeks ago. Harsh enough Peter almost buys it. Almost.

“Alright. Let's get going then.”

“Hey, uh, Peter?”

“Yeah?”

“Why... you decide to do this? Let me go, I mean?”

Peter opened his mouth to answer but his tongue freezes in his mouth. 

Because, as soon as I set eyes on you today the bad feeling i've been feeling for weeks compounded tenfold. Almost like it was congratulating me for locating its source and scolding me for waiting so long. 

Because, you looked like you were on death's door less than an hour ago and if those bandages are what I think they are, my mistake was seconds away from causing me to lose you for good. 

Because, I can't have one more soul on my conscious. Especially not yours...  

“Because my wife thinks you’re a romantic.”

ao3 kofi insta

Read the other 3 here!

[ontherocks21]

Someday I'll Write It: (Sneak Peek of Interlude's Ch 8)

Full chapter now posted to AO3 and FFN. Links below.

“You seem a little on edge.”

Anakin’s lip curls before he can banish the tell.  He supposes he could lie.  Try to play off his rising irritation as boredom.  But if Obi-Wan already caught onto his dejection, it would be smarter to leverage that awareness to his advantage. 

“Just feeling a bit disconnected is all,” Anakin says.  As the last vestiges of Padmé’s far-off beacon fade to black, he rolls his right shoulder uncomfortably.  It’s not a total lie - his prosthetic still feels foreign and strange - but to claim his arm is the disconnect bothering him isn’t the truth either.

Nodding slowly, Obi-Wan shifts his weight, a bit uncomfortable himself.  An introspective look passes over the bearded face, and Anakin doesn’t flinch when a familiar withdrawal turns the master and apprentice bond momentarily into a yawning chasm.  He’s used to it by now.  After a decade of learning to harden against the resentment, Anakin barely tastes its sourness anymore.  Even if he could, he’s still too distracted trying to chase a far sweeter flavor.

A minute passes or maybe two before Obi-Wan returns to their brief conversation. “That’s understandable,” he says.  “A prosthetic arm…”

Anakin bites back a snarl of anger but can’t stop the dark whispers drowning out his master’s platitudes. Since when was Obi-Wan an expert in prosthetic limbs?  How can he possibly think he can understand what Anakin was going through?  His master’s arm wasn’t lying in some Geonosian hangar.  His master’s mother wasn’t lying beneath Tatooine’s sands.  His master’s soulmate wasn’t pretending she could just walk away from her other half!

The tumult of emotion barrels out of Anakin like blown compressor.  Mercifully, Obi-Wan doesn’t seem to notice, or if he does, he opts to ignore it for the sake of continuing his instruction.

“… can’t force it,” Obi-Wan is saying.  “I’m sure the more opportunities you have to use it, the more natural it will feel.”

Right.  Natural.

Anakin almost rolls his eyes when the sensation of silk sliding under his fingertips rips him out of the chilly cockpit and drops him onto a shaded terrace where recycled stale air gives way to an intoxicatingly fragrant summer breeze. The feeling rises again, intimately foreign and yet sinfully familiar.

Skin, he realizes.  Her skin.

Soft. 

And smooth. 

And real.

Except it can’t be real.  Padmé’s flesh beneath his fingers is just a memory, one his alloy hand never had the luxury of knowing.  Nonetheless, sun-kissed warmth radiates up his right arm’s sensors as clearly as if his hand was stealing another forbidden touch.  Like then, the moment is fleeting, the phantom feeling fading into the periphery.

“You alright?” 

Like being dunked in the deep end of the training pool, Obi-Wan’s question cuts through the fog of Anakin’s enchantment.  He blinks rapidly, flexing the metal digits and eyeing them suspiciously.

“You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”

“Yeah, I just felt… good for a second.”

“Don’t keep pushing it.  You’ll only exhaust yourself.”

“Right.” Anakin frowns, still wondering at the bereft twinges in his fingertips.

A sonorous chime disrupts the awkward silence settling between the cockpit’s only two occupants.  Obi-Wan leans forward, a bit too eager to consult the nav computer.  “Looks like we are on final approach.”

Anakin had already presumed as much.

As if it had been awaiting his master’s permission, the hyperdrive disengages with a soft whine.  In the forward viewports, swirling space shrinks until all that remains is a pale blue speck of a planet floating in a sea of stars.

They had arrived at Ilum.

[valkyrjavalhalla]

Strange kind of body horror....

I realized I was trans this year. I think there were some signs I had picked up on, like how if there was a button that would magically turn me into a girl, I would push it. I was always aware of trans people, I've had trans friends since middle school, but never once did I ever consider that perhaps I was also trans. I had read articles, listened to personal stories, and watched videos that analyzed and dissected the trans experience. I felt comfortable with my masculinity, affirmed I was a boy, wore masculine clothing all the time, and went through high school with little pretty much zero question of what my gender was.

This all changed in about May. I was playing a video game and I was playing as a woman. I've always preferred to play women in video games, but this one was different. It is the only game I've played that allows you to select your genitalia, regardless of body type. I thought this was cool! And as I played, I realized that I actually wouldn't mind if I were a woman with a penis. "Not minding" the thought of being a woman turned into going to bed begging to wake up as one.

Constant weighing of my options and choices I had led me to conclude that, in some form or another, I was "not cis." In the game, the character's full name was Valerie. It's only said a few times in the game itself (the protag goes by V regardless of gender), but Valerie just sounded like such a nice name...so I picked it, and it's my name now.

At first, everything was pretty okay! I came out to my close friends, who were all incredibly supportive, and I started researching what my next steps should be as the months passed. As time has gone on, however, my mental state towards my transness has depleted itself of all its positivity. Where I was once comfortable with being assigned a different gender at birth and separating who I was then from who I am now, this is no longer true. Things that didn't bother me before have started to affect me more than I thought they ever could. My hands are massive, my torso is generically male, my hips are rigid and not pronounced, my face is a big jaw with a decent-sized nose and itty bitty eyes, and I have hair in more places than I can count. I am no longer comfortable with most of this (the nose I can honestly live with, I think it will look good on Girl Me).

While I am bisexual and have a boyfriend, I have a pretty strong preference towards women, especially as I've gotten older. The unfortunate truth is that positive cis WLW posts that end up on my feed make me extremely jealous. I've read endless adorable stories about young WLW relationships or loving one another's cis bodies as women, knowing I've missed that, and will never have that.

I feel like a kidnapping victim who has realized their whole life was a lie. All these positive memories from my childhood are fraught with a lack of femininity, and it brings me to tears. I love my boyfriend more than anything else in the world, I want to spend the rest of my life with him, but it hurts so deeply that I never got to be a young queer cis woman. I don't care how more challenging my life would have been. I want to hit reset.

What I am experiencing, and what many late-bloomer trans women experience, is this strange kind of body horror. Where once you were at least kind of okay with having a man's body, now this body feels increasingly wrong. Surely this can't be the same body I have had for the last 19 years of my life...

As my brain was swirling with memories of childhood and transness, I remembered something my mom said to me in 6th grade as she dropped me off at a friend's house. She was always supportive of my queerness and is queer herself. (She was a lesbian for decades, and learned she was bisexual when she met my father) She told me then that if I did not feel I was the right gender, if I felt they got it wrong and I was in reality a girl, she would get me puberty blockers and the time to get them was now. At the time, I was a clueless kid. I thought I knew perfectly well who I was and what my gender was going to be for the rest of my life. I turned back to her and smiled, saying "No, it's okay! I'm a boy!"

I will never get to go back and tell Little Me to say yes.

I know, in the end, I will be okay. And if you read this far, you will be okay too! Besides this bullshit, I am doing very well mentally, and everything is looking up for me! (I start HRT later this month) I plan to continue to write about my trans experience and overcome my haunting feelings surrounding my identity. I hope one day I can look back on this and cringe, or at least reflect. I hope I feel different. I hope I am different. I hope I'm happy.

Stay safe out there girlies <3