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larkingame · 1 month ago

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so, it's 2025...long time no see.

I'll skip they hi, how are yous and get down to the real meat and potatoes of what I'm here to say. TLDR: Larkin is still being worked on (screenshots + such below) and it's always going to remain a free game, but it's under heavy construction atm. thanks for checking in 🫡

for the two people who want to hear the long sob story that usually comes with these type of posts from online creators: I fucked up my back majorly and was out of work for a long time. I went back to work pre-maturely and! I've fucked it up again. the stress of this, lack of income and the fact that i've been taking a lot of meds to help the injuries (but mess with my ability to stay coherent) has made it really difficult to consistently focus on larkin, writing, social media in general, but it is still getting worked on in bits and pieces.

that said, some back story: I started working on larkin in 2019/2020 and it was really really fun! loved it. had a great time. but then i started posting about it and showed it to other people (and to my surprise they??????? liked it????) which made me put a very large amount of pressure on myself that made it not so fun any more. over time i would go through cycles of it's fun! to it's not fun! and so on and so forth. throughout this time I also had pressure from a lot of people around me (irl) to somehow like. strictly monetize larkin somehow, and as someone who was like VERY INSECURE and obsessed with people like mishka making like insane funds off of her game of the same type?/genre? i gave in to that pressure (if you could not tell by all my occasional dirty deletes of shade towards twc. truly pathetic and if any of yall saw. apologies and thanks for ignoring it.) addressing that: i liked twc when it came out, it was fun for what it was and larkin would not exist without it. so thanks for that miss jenkins and i will probably still passively engage with it on my own time.

but, back to larkin. anyways, the looming pressure of this need to monetize made me hate everything that i was doing and constantly feel like i needed to re-evolve and rework and just, overall not have a fun time with it. throughout the months of november, december and january when i was really missing the days of larkin's existence as an idea when me and my sister would just like walk around our neighborhood and i would just infodump to her about my cowboy vampire ocs. so i found my old larkin notebook and the stickies i made planning plot stuff and avoiding tumblr i just. had fun working on my little cowboy vampire game. like not really thinking about other stuff. and that's essentially it.

so I came to a conclusion: larkin is something i love, and i want to continue loving it. so essentially, i won't be monetizing the game itself. episodes/chapters whatever they end up being in the end will always be free. yay. if you want extra content/want to support me in some way monetarily, feel free to join the patreon, however, I won't really be active on it until i have something substantial to show you game wise. that being said, you can still subscribe for access to the backlog of short stories and art etc. I'm turning off charges each month until i have like a real game for you to play that doesn't make me sick to my stomach to look at or think about. another note: pc players are going to be priority until it's finished. I will have a mobile version but i can't promise you she will be all that pretty.

another note, because larkin is free i can't promise quick turnarounds on anything but what i'll be offering on patreon when i start charging again and additionally: i'm back to making larkin a game for me. i really lost a lot of enjoyment for doing this stuff when i thought about that pressure i put on myself like i mentioned above but also, when i started writing it for other people in mind. first and foremost i am making larkin because i like cowboys, i like vampires, i like horror and religious trauma themes. i'm writing this for me: kc, so i can go on my computer and teehee at all the kissing scenes and make a cool cowboy character with fights. i'm going to make it gay and self-indulgent and basically just have fun with it because it's my game and i am making it and i said so.

all that said here are some of the major things i've done with larkin over this past little while:

updated the website so that it is now useable :)

done a lot of work on the ui:

and i have been rewriting a lot of stuff because I FEEL like it was not good and was not fun for me. THE DEMO FROM LAST JUNE ESPECIALLY. it hurts my stomach to look at.

visually, dan (@tapeworrmart ) has been on his fucking a-game with the art even through my crisis. here's the male ace portrait he put together for me last fall and the art for the main menu:

we also have some more art in the works that i am very excited for because they are in pursuit of new fun features :D

all that said. thanks for the continued support if you're still reading this, appreciate any interest you have in my game.

#larkin game #interactive fiction #game development #larkin #larkin interactive fiction

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mikeyisbrooklyn · 2 months ago

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Huh, this is gonna be my first chapter of Why We Can’t Have Nice Things that I didn’t already post on Tumblr before I started uploading onto AO3.

Well that just won’t do�� hmm it won’t be as organized as the other three but I may as well spoil the Tumblr peeps before I officially post it.

(Warning: this is the final rough draft before the actual final draft that gets posted on AO3 in a few hours.)

Why We Can’t Have Nice Things (4)

Price regretted vocalizing how much he missed paperwork. He knew he would be behind upon his return, but as he limped into his office, he had two stacks of papers so high it swayed in response to any nearby movement. And this was apparently the leftovers after Simon tried to keep it from building up in his absence.

“Glad to ‘ave you back.” Simon grunted, as he held Price’s office door open for him. The warmth in Simon’s voice would be imperceptible to anyone else, but Price caught it. “Don’t croak anytime soon, I don’t want to even think about all this red tape you work with again, let alone handle it.”

“Not so easy being Captain, is it?” Price joked back as he went to sit in his chair slowly.

“That’s why they pay you the big bucks.”

Price let out a single rueful chuckle, knowing how untrue that was—at least, compared with all the shit he had to clean up. Speaking of, he had work to do…

He managed to be both the last to arrive and the first to exit the small party celebrating his return from leave. No one, except McTavish, was thick enough to try to keep him longer—but even the Scot let him slide away after seeing the look of pure exhaustion in Price’s eyes. He didn’t even get half of what he wanted to get done and Price knew that with each day back the more would pile on. That was the nature of the job, even if he couldn’t hit the field, the fight never ends. Price half-heartedly shambled to his room for the first time since getting back to base—not even having entered the room upon arriving with Gaz offering to take his things there for him—and laid down in his bed without even disrobing in a paltry attempt to sleep.

Though being fully clothed didn’t help, the real ailment that kept his eyes was the nagging voice in the back of his head. The one telling him how far behind he already was and would continue to be if he didn’t shape up. It didn’t matter that it was only his first day back, it didn’t matter that if it were any of the 141 or anyone else he would call them mad for thinking they could fill a two month gap in a day, it didn’t matter that he was specifically put on desk duty to not exert himself. All Price could hear in his head was how everyone’s tone with him since his injury had skated on caution, and all he could see were the carefully formed faces of professional soldiers that he could still clock as worried when they didn’t think he was looking.

*Liability*

Price shot up in bed so fast he thought he might get nauseous. Again. That’s been happening too much. He shook his head and ignored the brief pain of getting up on his leg too fast. Price knew he ought to get some rest, but he also hated being behind more than he hated being tired; despite his better judgment, Price slunk back to his office as the dusk turned to twilight.

The rising sun tried and failed to shine a light into Price’s office, as it was blocked from window entry by his drawn curtains. Price sprung up from his desk with a shout at the knock from his door; and if the top sheet from a stack of paperwork was stuck to his face as he did, then that was between him and his maker.

“John?” Nik’s smooth baritone seeped through the door and its vivacity made its way into Price’s very being even with the distance. Or, it tried to anyway, as when the warmth started coursing through him, it was as quickly flushed out by…guilt? Embarrassment? “Mishka, I know you’re in there. Are you alright?”

Damn it all to Hell, there was that cursed worry in Nik’s voice. Price hadn’t even done anything. Had he? He mumbled a half-hearted affirmation that he was coming.

The moment the door was open wide enough, Nik’s arms were around Price. Price stiffened and quickly forced himself to relax, but Nik noticed all the same.

“Mishka?” Deep brown eyes analyzed him, and then, “you did not sleep last night.”

It wasn’t a question. He just knew, Nik always knew when Price wasn’t taking good care of himself. And he was always there to rectify that. When the captain skipped a meal in favor of picking apart intel, Nik conveniently brought servings for two when he came around. Many a night would Price be found with a blanket and neck pillow whilst he slept on his desk if not for the Russian guard dog waiting patiently nearby. The crick in Price’s neck right this instant tells him he would’ve appreciated that act more than ever last night, but Nik was on a mission. In fact…

“Nik. What happened to Amsterdam?” Price deflected. There was no point in lying to Nik, but that didn’t mean Price had to acknowledge his dissecting gaze.

“Nothing. This is simply pit stop.” Nik retorted. “I wanted to see you. I’ve done this many times.” There was a tension in his voice. Not quite arguing, but very much so challenging Price to misstep. Price knew that, yet again, Nik was right. The pilot had made it a habit to visit the base mid-mission and Price never complained about the company. He wasn’t now either, but even he caught the edge in his own voice; as if he was trying to rush Nik off or…or didn’t want Nik there.

Fuck. That’s—that’s not true. Right?

“John?”

Fuck. Price was spiraling again. “Ah, yea, ‘m sorry.” He grabbed the back of his neck and futilely started on the crick in his neck. He stood still for a second—two, three—too long before moving aside. “Come in.”

Nik hesitated and eyed him. Then he eased his stance, something that almost looked casual—if Price couldn’t see just how clinical and forced it was. “Hm, I was hoping to share breakfast, while I have time away from mission. Off the base, of course. I’m sure you have not fed yourself, da?”

Price frowned and crossed his arms. So was this what they were doing? Relaxed stance or not, Price knew this was a standoff—not even mentioning the subtle dig at his ability to take care of himself. He’d had dinner, and a quick glance to the clock showed that it was hardly past 0800, so it wasn’t absurd that he hadn’t had breakfast yet. He wasn’t a lia—*urk*, he fought what felt like rising bile at the bottom of his throat and internally shook it off. The point was, he could feed his damn self. But if he said as much, it’d definitely come across as petulant whining. No, no he would not play into Nik’s hand so easily. Instead,

“Nah, ‘aven’t but it’s cause I was gonna eat with the boys. Planned to make an appearance at the caf, ya know, keep morale up.” He lied through his teeth. Price would stay in his office for days on end if no one came to grab his arse. And Nik knew that too, showing as much with his singular raised eyebrow.

“Oh? Then I can join you.”

“Sure you wanna spend however little time ya got eating the slop they call food ‘ere?”

“You forget who you speak to, rodnoy. I have lived off of nothing but the grubs from the earth, I handle ‘slop’ just fine.” With that, Nik looped his arm around Price’s waist and suddenly and swiftly pulled the man out of the office doorway and against Nik’s side.

Though a small part of Price enjoyed being manhandled just a little, he could tell it was also a way to end the conversation. He was familiar with Nik’s tricks after so long—the way the Russian would use his strength and suavity to poke at each of Price’s weak points with the precision of a sniper. Normally, Price took the usage of those tricks as a sign he needed to relax—trusting Nik’s judgment above all else, but right this instant something ugly flared inside him and caused him to pull away from Nik. The moment he did it felt like something not only in his core but something in the center of the earth ***broke***. As if the very balance of the universe was thrown off. It crushed more than that damned rubble.

In response, Nik froze and several dozen emotions ran across his features. A twitch downward from where his lips meet his right cheek, a scrunching of the space between his eyebrows, and his eyes—God, it was *always* his eyes wasn’t it—taking on a fire deep in their brown like embers in a forest moments from going ablaze. “Wh—“

Price forcefully aborts whatever Nik is about to say by grabbing his hand and moving back into the pilot’s space—though not as close as before. “Sorry, sorry, still waking up. Los’ my balance.” It was some of his worst work to date, but it felt impossible to lie to Nik. It’s why he couldn’t meet his eyes when the fib left his mouth, instead busying himself with closing his office door behind him. “Lessgo.” He grunted, pulling Nik along the hallway without another word. Thankfully, Nik didn’t give him a taste of his medicine and pull back; the holes being drilled in the back of Price’s head could be ignored for now.

To Nik’s credit, his eyes never left Price, even through the attempted conversation—if you could count Nik not-so-subtly probing Price for what was wrong under the guise of causal interest and Price’s increasingly brusque, noncommittal grunts in response as *conversation*. Those eyes were so sharp and scrutinizing that Price was starting to feel like he was about to get sick, ruining his appetite, but something else—something that felt just like that flare from moments ago—started festering, too. Was it indignation? Enmity? Rancor? No, no it couldn’t be, he’d never feel that way at or about Nik. He just wished those damn eyes would stop studying him. Stop waiting for him to—to what? Prove him right, was that it? Price wasn’t stupid, he knew Nik didn’t want him to be in such a hurry to get off leave. He knew Nik had all but begged Price to take it as an opportunity to take a “much needed break”. He remembered the arguments that ended in soft cuddling and quiet assurances, and it’s in his memory he recalls that this *feeling* at the pit of his stomach stuck with him even after the heated debates died. ‘Cause this wasn’t a fluke, this was a developing pattern. Price would try to maintain or regain some sense of normalcy and Nik would swoop in and take the reins. It was never malicious, more like a father keeping his son from touching a hot stove, but Price wasn’t a damn child. He wasn’t a damn liab—

Price thanked a god he didn’t pray to that a few sergeants came over to bother him as he felt bile slowly rising to the middle of his throat. In fact, he used them as an excuse to cut breakfast short, much to Nik’s chagrin.

“But you are not finished!” The Russian stood up as Price was already walking his tray to a nearby trash can.

“Sorry, the boys need me. I’ll make it up to you later. Good luck on the rest of yer mission.” And Price didn’t even give Nik a chance to respond as he left him standing there without so much as a look back, which caused him to miss the slightest quiver in Nik’s bottom lip.

The following weeks were more or less uneventful, at least, relatively. On desk duty, Price didn’t get to live out the eventful days, he only got to read about them in the paperwork he was about ready to go mental over. Every pile he managed to get done, another two would appear. Luckily, he was able to at least lead trainings and spars, even if he couldn’t participate.

There was also the constant, nagging, sick feeling at the pit of his stomach, getting worse with each time he blew Nik off. Truly, if whatever the hell this feeling was didn’t kill Price, the increasing guilt might. Nik certainly didn’t spend his every waking moment on base with the 141, typically only there for a safe and familiar place to do repairs or the occasional invite or visit, but it seemed like lately every chance the pilot had away from Chimera or any other dealings saw him present. And more importantly, looking to spend time with Price.

Surprise gym sessions. Nice romantic dinners. Invites out to private, scenic walks or long drives. Even a planned helo trip as a “spontaneous adventure that doubled as a relaxing holiday”. All of which Price found excuse after excuse to turn down or bail out of part way through. At first, he made an attempt to seem deeply conflicted but as time went on his excuses got limper and his defenses more meek.

The truth was, Price *was* conflicted just not in a way he could genuinely express. It was as if every waking moment Nik and those piercing eyes, analyzing his every step, made him anxious and frayed his nerves. And John Price doesn’t ***do*** anxious. Watching Nik watch him like a hawk was worse than being pinned down with heavy fire and nothing but your bare hands—at least then Price knows no matter he does he’s got to fight his way out or die trying. But this? Nik threw Price off his rhythm, he made Price a kind of vulnerable and open he had made extra sure to never be. And at the onset of the relationship—their *romantic* relationship, Price knew it meant opening up more and Nik was a patient man. More so than Price deserved, he knew that much. Slowly and surely, Nik was able to peel back the layers and break down the walls and Price was actually relieved to have something with someone where he didn’t feel this incessant need to *be* anything. Or to perform or have it all together. It was just him and Nik and it was simple and now…now it’s not.

Because Nik thinks Price fragile—knows he’s breakable, because Nik can tell Price is slowing down and getting himself hurt in stupid ways he should be better than. That’s why Price knows Nik is really always around now to keep a close eye on him, covering it with a saccharine veneer of romance and chivalry—not that Nik didn’t do those thoughtful things all the time but…but this is different. Price knows it is, it’s what the feeling in the pit of his stomach tells him. It’s what the bile slowly climbing to the top of his throat assures him. It’s not Nik’s fault, he’s just trying to protect Price’s dumbass from getting himself hurt again. Nik’s just trying to be the fixer he always has been, the fixer Price could always rely on, the fixer Price now needed. But Price knows that he’s the one thing Nik can’t fix, because he’s not a problem that’s solvable; Price is a liability, plain and simple.

And telling himself that over and over doesn’t make it any easier to get off his knees in front the toilet one night while the moon reaches its peak, nor does launching what little food he’s eaten recently into it ease the bile that’s burning his esophagus.

Price is pretending he didn’t spend far too many hours sobbing, clutched to a shitter like a teen who just reached the worst part of his first binge, the next morning while watching gaggles of rookies do laps when his luck—if one could call it that—runs out.

“Jonathan.” Normally, when the Russian man said his name, it was with mirth or some degree of panic considering the circumstances of their employment. But right now, Nik’s voice carried a gruffness only matched by Price himself, sounding all the more imposing thanks to his size.

Price turned to see Nik walking towards him with a determined glare and steady swagger. A spike of cold rushed down Price’s spine as he not-so-subtly looked for a way out. It was too late to pretend he hadn’t heard his approaching partner, he had already turned in his direction. He couldn’t conjure up some “incredibly important” captain’s business as he had just admitted to the now preoccupied rookies that he was free if needed; he had the feeling Nik heard that. And if he outright ran away, he wasn’t actually sure Nik wouldn’t just chase him down.

That final thought had heat pooling in his gut. Dammit, now isn’t the time for his dick to make his internal conflict worse.

In all of Price’s catastrophzing, Nik had gotten closer and closer, until finally being a breath away from him. Somehow, in this open field, he felt more trapped than when he was under that rubble.

“What is wrong?” Nik sounded like a man trying to keep the worry out of his voice, far too clinical to be believably neutral. “Are you hurt and do not want me to see? Is there something I have done? Something I have not?”

“Not sure what the hell you’re talking about.” Price, unfortunately, also did a terrible job at acting indifferent. There couldn’t be a clearer sign that they ought to simply speak plainly, but John Price never did simple when it came to matters of the heart.

“Jonathan.” Nik all but growled, more desperate than angry.

“Stop saying my name like you’re my bloody father.”

Nik frowned in confusion and exasperation. “Why will you not answer the question? I know something is wrong.”

Price dragged a hand down his face and let out a breath he didn’t know he was holding as he turned towards the dying grass. “Nik, just drop it.”

“Nyet. You have been…” Nik seemed to weigh the words in his mouth before continuing, “off for weeks now, Jonathan. I have waited for you to tell me what ails you in your own time, but the more time goes by, the more… the more you pull away.”

Price did all he could not to freeze as if caught with his hand in a cookie jar. He would not admit how he failed at this. “Nik…Nik, I—no, I’m just still playing catch up. And even then, I’m always busy.” He hardly finished speaking before Nik cursed in Russian, something Price vaguely recognized as an exclamation of disbelief. Bullshit.

“Are you so busy, Captain,” Nik continued, something like venom at the back of his throat upon using Price’s title. “That you cannot spare a glance at meals, or even attend them—or anything I plan to do with you—at all? That you have not spoke more than a single sentence to me beyond niceties?”

Price knew he was wrong, hell, he knew in Nik’s shoes he might even have been twice as vindictive about it. But still, that feeling in the pit of his gut turned into some awful beast inside him—the bile reaching the top of his throat and coming out in form of words he didn’t mean. “Are you daft? Go ask any of my men, if it’s not training or op prep or bullshit paperwork, it’s damn near impossible to get a second in with me. Think you’re meant to be special?” Price regretted those cruel words as soon as they left his mouth. It only got worse when he watched Nik’s face shift; gone was the frustrated but desperate look of a man reaching out—throwing a Hail Mary, now what sat on the larger man’s face was pure detachment.

“Yes, that is what most men think when they share a bed. My apologies, Captain,” The words left Nik’s mouth colder than a tundra. “ I will leave you to your busy schedule.” With that, Nik turned and left. Catching up to him wouldn’t be hard. Screaming his name, or even an apology would be easier.

But Price instead stood there, speechless, hating himself more than he had ever before. He promised himself he would do better, that he wouldn’t *ruin Nik*. That’s what he was doing, right? So why…why did it feel like he couldn’t have gotten it more wrong?

#nikprice #cod nikolai #captain john price #handwritten by a lost boy #baby’s first fanfic #cod #cod mw2 #simon ghost riley #cod mw3

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