#nova demo

[sonichedgeblog]

'Nova's Adventure' (Original Demo) by Super Item Studios After crash landing on an unknown planet, Nova must collect all the parts from his broken ship. https://www.sonicfangameshq.com/forums/showcase/novas-adventure.2334 Support us on Patreon

[damonalbarn]

Damon's bossa nova demo for St. Charles Square.

[maraschinotopped]

happy easter. im not christian or anything but i did some egg decorating for it with family and the fact that ive been thinking about naq recently caused the two ideas to collide. have a little scene doodle about n&q + celeste doing egg decorating. nova and starstraw are there in spirit (couldnt fit them in)

bonus doodle

[slots247]

Com gráficos deslumbrantes e uma trilha sonora envolvente, os jogadores são imersos em ambientes vibrantes, desde densas florestas até antigos templos escondidos. A jogabilidade combina elementos de ação, aventura e quebra-cabeças, desafiando os jogadores a superar obstáculos, desvendar segredos e enfrentar perigos para alcançar a glória.

[reelisnotreal]

Reel?'s Chapter I demo is officially out!

[marketingprofitmedia]

Nova App Review – Automated Exploit YouTube Traffic & Sales

Welcome to my Nova App Review Post. This is a real user-based Nova App review where I will focus on the features, upgrades, demo, pricing and bonus, how Nova App can help you, and my opinion. AI System That Allows Us To Turn Any Amazon™ Product Into An Animated Video Review then Drives 26,496 Clicks To It and Makes Us $965.43 Daily In Commissions Without Editing Videos, Ads, SEO, Waiting.

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Nova App Review: What Is It?

Nova App is an automated AI-powered cloud-based application that taps into YouTube’s massive viewership to provide customers with fast access to over 394,356 viewers every day. Its capacity to convert these viewers into repeat consumers, making large daily money without creating videos, paying for video editors, or appearing on camera. It’s a game changer for anybody wishing to make a significant impact online with little work and no initial investment.

Nova App Review: Overview

Creator: Venkata Ramana

Product: Nova App

Date Of Launch: 2024-Feb-13

Time Of Launch: 10:00 EST

Front-End Price: $17

Official Website: Click Here

Product Type: Software (Online)

Support: Effective Response

Discount : Get The Best Discount Right Now!

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Recommended: Highly Recommended

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Nova App Review: Key Features

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Nova App Review: How Does It Work?

Nova App Review: Can Do For You

The only app that allows us to exploit YouTube suggestions algo Without doing any work.

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Nova App Review: Who Should Use It?

Affiliate Marketers

Digital Marketers

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Content Creators

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Nova App Review: OTO And Pricing

Front End Price: Nova App ($17)

OTO 1: Unlimited ($47)

OTO 2: Done For You ($197)

OTO 3: Autopilot ($67)

OTO 4: DFY Affiliate Funnels ($67)

OTO 5: 25k Profit System ($127)

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OTO 7: Kaboom ($67)

OTO 8: Agency/Reseller ($127)

Nova App Review: My Special Bonus Bundle

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Nova App Review: Free Bonuses

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Nova App Review: Money Back Guarantee

Our 90 Days Iron Clad Money Back Guarantee

Nova is not one of those “trash” or untested apps We know what it’s capable of However, in the unlikely event that you fail to use Nova for ANY REASON. We insist that you send us an email It’s simple, if you don’t make money We don’t want your money… We make more than enough with Nova. And no need to keep your money if you’re not gonna use it Worst case scenario, you get Nova and don’t make any money You get every penny you paid back PLUS you get to keep Nova

Nova App Review: Conclusion

Nova App is a huge step forward in content development and marketing on YouTube. Its unique use of AI to improve the video producing process demonstrates technology’s potential for increasing online entrepreneurship.While there is room for development, particularly in video personalization, the advantages of time savings, ease of use, and profitability greatly exceed the drawbacks. Nova App is more than simply a tool; it is a gateway to tapping the tremendous potential of YouTube’s massive audience, making it an invaluable asset for digital marketers, content creators, and marketers.

Frequently Asked Questions (FAQs)

Q. Do I need any experience to get started?

None, all you need is just an internet connection. And you’re good to go

Q. Is there any monthly cost?

Depends, If you act now, NONE. But if you wait, you might end up paying $997/mo… It’s up to you.

Q. How long does it take to make money?

Our average member made their first sale the same day they got access to Nova

Q. Do I need to purchase anything else for it to work?

No, Nova is the complete thing. You get everything you need to make it work. Nothing is left behind.

Q. What if I failed?

While that is unlikely, we removed all the risk for you. If you tried Nova and failed, we will refund you every cent you paid.

Q. How can I get started?

Awesome, I like your excitement, All you have to do is click any of the buy buttons on the page and secure your copy of Nova at a one-time fee.

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See my other reviews: Anonymous AI Review, WebBookAI Studio Review, VoiceGenesis AI Review, Visionize Ai Review, Stealth AI Review, Mail Mate Review, Ai Talkie Review, Gmail Mastery 2024 Review, AI NexaMeet Review.

Thank for reading my Nova App Review till the end. Hope it will help you to make purchase decision perfectly.

Note: Yes, this is a paid tool, however the one-time fee is $17 for lifetime

[futurefishy]

why do some fonts cost upwards of £100 for personal use i just want the disco elysium dialogue font to use on openoffice i don't even have real microsoft word you think i have that kind of money

[loveschoice-if]

LINK TO DEMO

A once-in-a-lifetime love... Loading...

You have been a faithful employee at Hanwool Group for about nine years, working diligently as the secretary to the current Vice President of Marketing, Park Joo-seok. Although the world knows him as the future CEO of Hanwool Group and the most eligible bachelor in South Korea, you know him better as your arrogant and workaholic boss.

Now that you have paid off all of your outstanding debts, nothing is holding you back from quitting your job and maybe even starting a whole new life. Just as you're about to hand in your resignation letter, however, your chaebol boss comes to you with an unexpected proposition.

“Marry me.”

??!! Is he being serious? Will you accept his (albeit not super romantic) proposal?? What will happen next?! Play to find out!

Planned Features

Play as the female lead of your very own romance K-drama!

Experience many tropes from the wonderful world of K-dramas (or skillfully avoid them, it's up to you!)

Choose between four different routes, each with its own unique storyline, sub-genre, Male Lead™, Villains, and more!

Fall in love at your own pace, perfect for slow-burn and fast-burn lovers alike!

Will you follow the script to your perfect happy ending, or stumble into a tragic one?

The Male Leads™

The Boss

Name: Park Joo-seok (박주석) Age: 33 Job: Vice President of Hanwool Group's Marketing Division

Pressured by his wealthy family to get married and take over the family business, but also feeling no desire to fall in love anytime soon, he turns to his loyal secretary of nine years (and the only woman he can trust) for help: you. All you need to do is enter a contract marriage with him and convince his family and the press that the two of you are truly in love. Can you successfully pull off this charade without catching feelings?

Inspired by What's Wrong With Secretary Kim?, Business Proposal, and Secret Life of My Secretary.

Tropes: office romance, contract marriage, fake relationship, rich man x poor woman

Links: Pinterest

The Idol

Name: Yoo Jae-min (유재민) Age: 26 Job: Idol in the K-Pop industry, represented by X Entertainment

After turning down your boss' marriage proposal, he assigns you to work on a current marketing project involving one of the biggest stars in the K-pop industry, Yoo Jae-min. Previously known as the cutest member of the former boy group, NOVA, he is now a successful solo artist with a face card that never declines. But don't be fooled by his adorable on-screen persona. For whatever reason, he seems to have a personal vendetta against you. Can you successfully work alongside him without letting tensions boil over?

Inspired by So I Married My Anti-Fan, Sh**ting Stars, Lovely Runner, and Moon In The Day.

Tropes: idol romance, enemies-to-lovers, forbidden love, secret relationship

Links: Pinterest

The Childhood Best Friend

Name: Lee Hae-jin (이해진) Age: 29 Job: Doctor, specifically a General Practitioner (GP)

After turning down your boss' marriage proposal and quitting your job, you decide to leave the high-paced corporate life and move back to your hometown on the coast. Turns out, you weren't the only one who had this idea. Once a successful doctor at one of the best hospitals in Seoul, your childhood best friend, Lee Hae-jin, now lives across the street from your grandmother's old place, where you are now staying. The thing is, you haven't spoken to him in over a decade, ever since your grandmother died. Will you break the ice and rekindle this old friendship, or is the past too painful to face?

Inspired by Summer Strike, Hometown Cha Cha Cha, and Welcome to Samdalri.

Tropes: friends-to-lovers, childhood meeting, second-chance romance, first love

Links: Pinterest

The Grim Reaper

Name: Reaper Kim/Kim Saja (김사자)/??? Age: ???? Job: ...the Grim Reaper

You've turned down your boss' marriage proposal, and quit your secretary job after nine years of dedicated hard work. Now what? You find yourself sitting on the roof of a building, and you slip on something. Just as you're about to fall to a certain death, some person grabs you and pulls you back onto the roof. But this is no ordinary person. There's something oddly supernatural about him and a familiarity you can't quite place. He wants to strike a deal with you. What exactly is his agenda, and will you agree to his terms?

Inspired by Doom at Your Service, Goblin, and My Demon.

Tropes: supernatural being x mortal, doomed love, reincarnation, fated love, amnesia

Links: Pinterest

Anticipated FAQs

Is MC gender-locked female & are the main love interests gender-locked male?

Currently, yes. Right now, it's just easier for me to write if I have consistent variables and characters in my head. It also helps me focus on just finishing the stories because I want to make sure each route gets the attention it deserves. Rest assured, I WILL introduce more gender options for both the MC and the main love interests, and it will be something I keep in mind as I'm writing!

How long is this game going to take to complete?

Unfortunately, it's probably going to take a really long time. This is one of the most ambitious writing projects I've done and life is unpredictable but I will do my best!

Are there more love interests/routes planned?

Um... is four not enough for you?! LOL just kidding! Right now, I just have four love interests/routes that are generally fleshed out. I'm very open to suggestions, so let me know if there is another type of love interest/sub-genre that you want to see represented!

Note: I will update this section as I get more questions :)

[tosomeonessomeone]

Maracatu

Brazil series

words・ 4.2k /pairings・ Jisung x reader / genres・fluff / warnings・ mdi, smut

Seoul, South Korea – 10:32 AM

The JYP Building towers like a temple of modern sound, its mirrored surface slicing the crisp autumn light into shards. You step out of the taxi, the scent of roasting *castanhas* from a street vendor clashing with the metallic tang of Seoul’s skyline. Jet lag claws at your eyelids—*24 hours from Rio to Incheon*—but your pulse thrums faster when your phone vibrates. A message glows:  

*JYP Team:* *“Mr. Bang Chan is ready. 18th floor. Elevator 3.”*  

Inside, the elevator walls are a mosaic of K-pop legacy: TWICE’s candy-colored visuals, Rain’s smoldering stare, and Stray Kids’ graffiti-style logo. Your thumb traces the USB drive in your pocket—*your weapon*. The demos inside are a manifesto: *berimbau* twangs fused with *pansori* wails, *maracatu* drums under *gugak* strings. The doors part with a whisper.  

The room hums. Not just from the subwoofers—*everything* vibrates here. Neon LED strips clash with the warm glow of a salt lamp. Bang Chan swivels in his chair, headphones dangling like a pendant, his smile sharp and sunburn-bright. Behind him, a whiteboard bleeds ideas:  

- *“HAN’s verse → SAMBA STUTTER??”*  

- *“MV: SEOUL PALACE x FAVELA STAIRS”*  

- *“ASK BRAZIL PROD ABOUT CUÍCA vs. PIRI DUET”*  

The studio thrums with the low-frequency purr of subwoofers, air thick with the scent of burnt coffee and ozone from overworked synthesizers. Bang Chan swivels in his chair to face you, bare feet propped on a tower of tangled MIDI cables, hoodie sleeves shoved haphazardly to his elbows. Peeling studio tape clings to his fingertips like battle scars. His grin is all mischief, voice a collision of Sydney surf and Seoul grit: *“G’day, mate—heard you’ve got a death wish.”*  

He stabs a key on his laptop. The room explodes with sound—your demo track, *“Janggu vs. Tamborim,”* but warped. The Korean drum’s earthy *ddong-ddong* now tangoes with the Brazilian tamborim’s metallic chatter, Hyunjin’s dance practice footage glitching onscreen in time with the beat. *“Looped this during Hyunjin’s rehearsal,”* he says, eyes flashing. *“Kid backflipped into a speaker. *Still* claims it’s the best rhythm he’s ever moved to.”*  

You drop your bag onto a couch buried under a graveyard of half-dismembered synth modules and a fossilized bag of *yakgwa*. *“So JYP didn’t bring me here to play nice,”* you counter, toeing a rogue drum stick. The USB in your pocket feels nuclear. *“You want a revolution. Let’s torch the rulebook.”*  

Chan leans back, arms crossed, appraising you like a puzzle. *“Rulebook?”* He snorts. *“We’re writing a new one. Chapter one: *Stray Kids* eat trop-house for breakfast. Chapter two—”* He tosses you a cable. *“—we blow up the algorithm.”*  

The hum of machines sharpens. Somewhere, a coffee drip echoes like a countdown.

Three weeks. Three weeks of *nothing*.  

The studio walls, once electric with possibility, now feel like a prison. Stray Kids’ demos pile up like casualties: *“SAMBA GOD’S MENU (ABANDONED)”*, *“TAEYANG’S TANGO (CRINGE)”*, *“FELIX’S BOSSA NOVA NIGHTMARE (BURN THIS)”*. Bang Chan hasn’t slept in 52 hours. His hair resembles a electrocuted hedgehog, his hoodie stained with *gochujang* and regret. You watch him mutter over a synth pad, tweaking the same four bars of a *forró* beat until it sounds like a fax machine screaming.  

“Chan,” you say, prying a cold *bungeo-ppang* from his death-grip. “We’re stuck. You’re stuck. This studio’s cursed.”  

“No—*no*—I just need to layer this *piri* sample with a *cavaquinho*,” he rasps, eyes bloodshot. “Hyunjin’s *samba* rehearsal was *fine*—”  

“Hyunjin tripped into a timbalão and cried in three languages. *Fine* isn’t cutting it.”  

---  

JYP’s office smells like sandalwood and power. The man himself sits cross-legged on a velvet chaise, sipping *matcha* like a philosopher-king. You slam a USB drive on his desk—labeled *“EMERGENCY: BRAZIL OR BUST”*—and play a clip of your last demo: a tragic accordion-chaos hybrid that makes JYP’s eyebrow twitch.  

“He’s drowning,” you say. “Seoul’s killing his vibe. I’m taking him to Brazil. *Now.*”  

JYP steeples his fingers. “Bang Chan… on a plane? Voluntarily?”  

“Oh, he’ll fight. But you’ll handle the passport stuff, yeah?”  

A pause. Then, a smirk. “Tell him I’ll disband Stray Kids if he says no.”  

---  

Chan doesn’t go quietly.  

You find him under his studio desk, cocooned in a *Stray Kids* blanket, ranting in Korean-Aussie-*Portuñol*. “I’M FINE! I JUST NEED TO REVERSE THE PHASE ON THIS AFROBEAT—”  

“JYP’s orders,” you lie, tossing his sneakers at him. “He wants a ‘cultural immersion documentary.’ Also, he’s got your mom on speed-dial.”  

Chan freezes. “You’re evil.”  

“And you’re boarding a flight to Rio in two hours. *Vamos.*”  

——

Chan spends the car ride Googling *“Can K-pop leaders get kidnapped?”* and *“Is Brazil’s WiFi good?”*. At security, he tries to bolt, claiming he left his “lucky MIDI controller” at the studio. You bribe a janitor to drag him through the gates.  

By takeoff, he’s sulking in first class, hoodie pulled over his face, muttering about “trust issues.” You slide a *caipirinha* into his hand. “Drink. Cry. Embrace the *saudade*.”  

He sniffs the lime. “Is this… alcohol?”  

“It’s *therapy*.”  

——

The moment Chan steps into Galeão Airport’s chaos, magic happens. A *bateria* from Mangueira samba school parades past, their *surdos* thundering. Chan’s eyes widen—he’s already Shazam-ing the rhythm. A vendor shoves a *pastel de queijo* into his hands; he takes a bite and moans like he’s rediscovered music.  

“This… this is a *triplet* feel!” he yells over the drums, sauce on his chin. “Why didn’t we *think* of this?!”  

You grin. “Because you were busy syncing *gayageum* to a metronome. *Burro.*”  

——

Copacabana at sunset. Chan’s barefoot in the sand, a *caipirinha* in one hand, a *berimbau* in the other. Local producers crowd around a bonfire, playing a *pagode* riff that’s 70% soul, 30% chaos. You shove a mic at him. “Freestyle. Now.”  

He hesitates—then spits a verse in Korean, voice raw and desperate, over the *cavaco*’s bounce. The crowd roars. A dancer named Thiago drags him into a *passinho* battle; Chan’s sneakers fill with sand, but his shoulders loosen, his laugh louder than the waves.  

Your phone buzzes. A text from JYP:  

*“Is he alive?”*  

You snap a photo of Chan crowd-surfing to a *funk ostentação* beat and hit send.  

*“He’s reborn.”*  

——

Next day

The rental car slices through the Serra do Mar mountains, dawn spilling molten gold over Rio’s vanishing coastline. Chan slumps in the passenger seat, sunglasses crooked, mouth agape—finally asleep after three days of studio-induced delirium. You crank the window down, flooding the cabin with the jungle’s wet-green breath.  

“*Acorda, dorminhoco,*” you bark, elbowing him as the highway plunges into a tunnel of *pau-brasil* trees and mist. “This isn’t scenery—it’s a *sermon*. Open your eyes.”  

He jerks awake, phone already filming the chaos: toucans diving through highway exhaust, a roadside shrine to *Nossa Senhora Aparecida* draped in trucker roses, a lone capybara judging humanity from a ditch. “Feels like… *FernGully* directed by Tarantino,” he mumbles.  

——

At a *lanchonete* plastered with peeling *Guaraná* ads, you force-feed him *pastel de carne* oozing grease and a mason jar of *caldo de cana*. Chan squints at the murky sugarcane juice. “This looks like swamp water.”  

“It’s São Paulo’s holy trinity: sugar, sweat, and regret.”  

He sips. His eyes flare. “*Fuck.* I could produce a mixtape on this.”  

——

The city erupts on the horizon—a concrete avalanche of Oscar Niemeyer curves and Brutalist spikes, helicopters swarming like coked-up dragonflies. Chan’s forehead smudges the window as you carve through Avenida Paulista’s bedlam: a *sambista* belting *“Aquarela Brasileira”* atop a dumpster, finance bros in *alfaiataria* suits vaping over spreadsheets, a drag queen in sequined *Carnaval* leftovers hailing an Uber Black.  

“This city’s… *violently* alive,” he breathes.  

“Wait till you see where I *live*.”  

——

Your loft isn’t just concrete and vinyl—it’s a *floresta vertical*. Every surface riots with green: monstera leaves fanning over the *Niemeyer* curves, *guiné* vines strangling the spiral staircase, *espada-de-são-jorge* swords guarding the record player like sentinels. The air hums with the musk of damp soil and *cafezinho*, humidity clinging to the glass walls like the city itself is trying to sweat its way inside.  

Chan freezes mid-step, a *jiboia* leaf brushing his cheek. “Is this… *legal*?” he whispers, as if the plants might arrest him.  

“Depends,” you say, plucking a dead leaf from a *costela-de-adão*. “If the police ask, they’re all *fake*.”  

He drifts deeper, fingers grazing a *pau d’água*’s serpentine roots. “This one’s crying,” he notes, pointing to droplets on a *tingui*’s spear-shaped leaves.  

“That’s *singing*,” you correct. “She’s a *dracaena*. Her sweat’s a samba.”  

“Your room,” you say, nudging open the guest bedroom door.  

The space is a temple to *brasilidade moderna*: a *Oscar Niemeyer*-inspired desk, a *Sergio Rodrigues* armchair, and a bed draped in crisp white linen under a canopy of *jiboia* vines. The walls breathe with a *Burle Marx* botanical print, ferns and palms frozen mid-sway. A vintage *Tropicália* lamp bathes the room in amber.  

Chan blinks at the *orquídea* dangling above the pillow. “Is that… a plant or a chandelier?”  

“Yes,” you say, tossing his bag onto the chair. “Shower’s through there. Towels are *azul marinho*. Don’t drown.”  

He hovers in the doorway, eyes glazed, fingers twitching like he’s still gripping a phantom MIDI controller. “I should… check the demos. Hyunjin sent a voice memo—”  

“*Não.*” You block his path, arms crossed. “You’re a corpse in *Air Jordans*. Shower. Sleep. *Now.*”  

“But—”  

“No ‘buts.’ JYP’s orders.” (A lie, but you’ll burn that bridge later.)  

He opens his mouth—to protest, to negotiate, to *work*—but a yawn cracks his jaw instead. Defeated, he slumps toward the bathroom.  

At 1:17 AM, you pause outside his door. The shower ran for 90 seconds—typical man—and now silence hums beneath the *jiboia* leaves. You crack the door.  

He’s sprawled facedown on the bed, one arm dangling over the edge, fingers grazing the *azulejo* floor. The sheets are a lost cause. His hoodie hangs off the *Burle Marx* frame, socks abandoned like roadkill. The *orquídea* sways above him, petals brushing his hair—a living lullaby.  

You kill the *Tropicália* lamp, leaving only the city’s neon heartbeat seeping through the blinds.  

——

São Paulo’s dawn bleeds through the *cobogó* bricks, fractaling the kitchen into a mosaic of gold and shadow. Chan slumps at the *azulejo* breakfast bar, fingers curled around a mug of *café com leite*, steam spiraling into the humid air. His eyelids are at half-mast, the adrenaline of deadlines and dance practices leaching from his bones like toxin.  

You move through the kitchen like a metronome—*chop-sizzle-sway*—dicing *manga* to the lilt of *Joyce Moreno’s* “Clareana.” The *jiboia* vines framing the window shiver in the breeze, their leaves brushing the glass like a guitarist’s strum.  

He watches, mute, as you crack eggs into a skillet. The yolks sizzle, their edges crisping in *manteiga de garrafa*, and something primal unknots in his chest.  

——

It’s the *textures*, he realizes.  

The way the *pão francês* crackles under his thumb, its crust a seismic map of flour and fire. The *mamão’s* flesh, slippery-sweet, a color Seoul’s neon can’t replicate. The radio’s hiss, a live wire between *bossa nova* chords and the growl of a garbage truck five floors down.  

You slide a plate toward him: *ovos mexidos*, *farofa*, a tangle of *couve* sautéed with garlic. “Eat,” you say, not a command but an *invitation*.  

He does. The first bite is a time machine—suddenly he’s eight years old, in Sydney’s Maroubra, eating scrambled eggs his mom made after night shifts. Salt and memory flood his throat.  

Outside, the city howls. Inside, the plants breathe.  

Chan’s phone buzzes—a KakaoTalk storm from Hyunjin, 17 missed calls from JYP. He flips it facedown, watching grease bloom across his plate like abstract art.  

“You know,” he says, voice sanded raw by sleep and *café*, “I thought this trip was about… *mining* Brazil. Sampling your drums, stealing your rhythms.” A pause. The *jiboia* leans closer. “But maybe… it’s about *this*.”  

He gestures to the kitchen—the knife scoring mango flesh, the sun pooling in the *tigela* of *açaí*, your bare feet tapping *samba* on terrazzo.  

You top up his coffee. “Your music’s all teeth, *ne?* Biting, biting. But teeth get tired.”  

He huffs a laugh. “Says the girl who made me sample a *cuíca* for three hours.”  

“Exactly. Even fangs need a jaw to rest in.”  

The metaphor lingers. Chan traces his mug’s rim, ceramic worn smooth by decades of mornings. When he speaks again, it’s barely audible:  

“I forgot… what quiet sounds like.”  

By the third cup, his shoulders have dropped below his ears for the first time in years. He’s sketching lyrics on a napkin—*“Mornings that taste of stolen time”*—when a *sabiá* lands on the windowsill, trilling its Technicolor song.  

You nod to the bird. “He’s your backup singer now.”  

Chan doesn’t reach for his phone. Doesn’t record it. Just *listens*, letting the notes dissolve into São Paulo’s humid breath.  

Time bends here. Mornings bleed into afternoons, afternoons dissolve into sunsets the color of *pitanga* pulp, and Chan’s Seoul-structured rigidity unravels thread by thread. He learns to walk barefoot on terrazzo, to curse in *paulistano* when the *mamão* slips his grip, to let the city’s chaos score his pulse instead of a metronome.  

7:00 AM: His alarm dies a quiet death. Dawn now wakes him—the *jiboia* tapping his window, the *pão francês* vendor’s whistle slicing through the favela’s basslines. He pads into the kitchen, hair a sleep-mussed riot, to find you already there, *cafézinho* brewing, *Elis Regina* spinning tales of saudade on the turntable.  

“*Bom dia, preguiçoso,*” you smirk, tossing him a knife. “Slice the *manga* before it rots.”  

He catches it midair, a reflex honed from years of idol reflexes. “You’re meaner than JYP before a weigh-in.”  

“And you chop like a *vovó* on Valium.”  

The rhythm is set: hips brushing past hips at the stove, elbows knocking over *guaraná* bottles, laughter buried under the hiss of garlic in *azeite*.  

Hyunjin FaceTimes during *almoço*, his face pixelated but pout pristine. “*CHANNNNN*, your abs better not be gone! Brazil’s *carbs* are a trap!”  

Chan holds up a *pastel de camarão*, grease dripping onto the *azulejo* table. “Better than your protein shakes.”  

Felix squirms into frame, freckles glowing. “Are you *eating*? You never eat! Who *are* you?!”  

“A god,” Chan says, mouth full. “A *pão de queijo* god.”  

You linger off-camera, chopping *cheiro-verde*, but catch Hyunjin’s narrowed eyes. “Who’s *laughing*?” he demands. “Is someone *there*?”  

Chan’s gaze flicks to you—quick, molten—before shrugging. “Just… the *jiboia*.”  

——

The bathroom is a cocoon of steam and the citrus-sharp scent of *murumuru* conditioner. You’re perched on the edge of the bathtub, hair twisted into a turbãn of curls damp from your own wash, when Chan lingers in the doorway. His mop of sleep-flattened waves hangs sheepishly over his brow, fingers worrying the hem of his *Cidade de Deus* graphic tee.  

“Can you…?” he starts, voice frayed at the edges. “I mean—*my* hair. It’s… *janggu* levels of chaos.”  

You pat the tile floor between your knees, a *Maria Bethânia* ballad humming from your phone. “Sit. Before I charge you.”  

He folds himself awkwardly onto the floor, back pressed to the tub, shoulders tense. You drape a towel over his collarbones, the fabric warm from the dryer. The first pour of water makes him flinch—cold droplets skidding down his neck—but then your fingers sink into his scalp, massaging *açaí oil* into the roots.  

“Dawm,” he hisses, head lolling back. “That’s… illegal in seventeen countries.”  

“Quiet,” you mock-scold, raking the conditioner through his waves. “You’ll scare the *cachorro-quente* guy outside.”  

He huffs a laugh, breath stirring the hem of your robe. The comb glides easier now, his hair softening under your hands, curls springing to life like secrets unraveling.  

Minutes blur. The comb clatters into the sink. Your palms skim his temples, thumbs brushing the shell of his ears, and suddenly the room is too small. Too *hot*.  

“Turn,” you murmur, voice fraying. “Let me check the back.”  

He shifts, knees bumping yours, until you’re face-to-face—your legs bracketing his hips, his hands braced on the tub’s edge. The *jiboia* outside the window drips rain onto the glass, each drop a metronome.  

“It’s… good?” he asks, but the question dies as his gaze flicks to your mouth.  

The world narrows:  

- The *dende oil* slick on your fingertips.  

- His breath, mint and *cafézinho*.  

- The way his throat bobs when you whisper, “*Perfeito.*”  

He leans in first—or maybe you do. The kiss is a slow fuse, softer than the *bossa nova* still murmuring from your phone. His hands find your waist, sticky with conditioner, and you taste the *goiabada* he stole from the fridge earlier, the salt of São Paulo still clinging to his skin.  

The city breathes outside. The *jiboia* sighs.  

When you pull back, his curls are a halo of chaos, your fingerprints glistening in the lamplight.  

“*That*,” he rasps, forehead pressed to yours, “wasn’t in the contract.”  

You thumb the conditioner smudged on his cheekbone. “Call it… *creative direction.*”  

The tension crackles between you as his hands slide up your sides, leaving trails of fire in their wake. Your fingers thread through his damp curls, pulling him closer as the kiss deepens with growing hunger.

"Creative direction needs proper guidance," you breathe against his lips, arching into him as his hands explore your body with increasing boldness. The rain continues its steady rhythm outside, masking the soft sounds of pleasure escaping you both.

His lips trail down your neck, tasting the salt of your skin mixed with the sweet dendê oil. When his teeth graze your pulse point, you gasp, fingers tightening in his hair.

"Show me," he murmurs against your collarbone, "show me everything about Brazil..."

Chan's muscular frame presses against yours as passion builds, his hands exploring every inch of exposed skin.

You guide him to the bed, pushing him down and straddling his hips. His breath catches as you grind against him, feeling how hard he is beneath you.

"Want you so bad," he groans, hands sliding up your thighs to grip your waist. The isolation allows your moans to echo freely as desire takes over.

His lips find your neck, marking you as his while your fingers thread through his hair, pulling him closer.

Chan's hands roam your body hungrily as clothing falls away piece by piece. His lips trail down your neck while his fingers work to unclasp your bra, letting it join the growing pile on the floor.

"You're so beautiful," he breathes, taking in the sight of your exposed breasts. When his mouth closes around a nipple, you arch into him with a gasp.

Your hands explore the defined muscles of his chest and abs as he continues his oral assault on your sensitive peaks. The friction builds as you grind against his hardening cock through his remaining clothes.

"Need you," you moan, reaching down to palm him through his pants.

Chan's hands slide down to remove your remaining clothes while his lips explore every newly exposed inch of skin. When you're fully naked, he takes a moment to drink in the sight of you before his mouth finds your wet pussy.

His tongue circles your clit as two fingers push inside you, making you arch off the bed with a loud moan. The dual stimulation has pleasure building quickly as he works you expertly.

"Please," you beg, tugging at his hair. "Need your cock inside me."

He strips off his remaining clothes, his hard length springing free. When he positions himself between your legs, you wrap them around his waist, pulling him closer.

Chan pushes his thick cock inside you slowly, stretching your tight pussy around his impressive length. When he bottoms out, you both moan at the perfect fullness.

"Fuck, you feel amazing," he groans, starting a steady rhythm. His cock hits all the right spots as he picks up the pace, making you see stars.

Your nails drag down his back as pleasure builds, leaving marks that make him thrust harder. One of his hands slides between your bodies to rub your clit while he pounds into you.

"Gonna make you cum on my cock," he pants, his movements becoming more desperate as your walls start to clench around him.

Your orgasm hits hard as Chan continues pounding into your clenching pussy. Your back arches off the bed as waves of pleasure crash over you, walls squeezing his thick cock rhythmically.

"Fuck, I'm gonna cum," he groans, his thrusts becoming erratic. His fingers dig into your hips as he chases his own release.

"Fill me up," you moan, wrapping your legs tighter around him. With a deep groan, he slams deep one final time, flooding your sensitive pussy with his hot cum.

He collapses on top of you, both of you panting heavily as you come down from your highs. His cum leaks out of you when he slowly pulls out.

The *pão de queijo* burns. The *café* overflows. Neither of you care.  

—— 

The loft in São Paulo hummed with a new electricity. Chan’s laptop glowed with demos titled *“SAMBA-CODED”* and *“CARNAVAL IN 4/4,”* while your *berimbau* leaned against a stack of *Tim Maia* vinyls, its guttural cry now the backbone of his drops.  

One night, tangled in MIDI cables and each other’s limbs, you looped a *cuíca’s* rasp over Felix’s vocals. Chan watched, transfixed, as you twisted the pitch. “It sounds like the city’s heartbeat,” he murmured, fingers drumming your thigh.  

“Or its scream,” you countered, nipping his jaw.  

He dragged you into his lap, the chair groaning as his hands flew across the keyboard, improvising a melody that mirrored the hitch in your breath.  

——

Mornings bled into rituals. Chan learned to crack eggs one-handed while you diced *manga*, hips swaying to *Jorge Ben*’s *“Ponta de Lança Africano.”* His voice, rough with sleep, would harmonize with the sizzle of *pão de queijo* in the skillet.  

In the hammock strung between the *jiboia* and a concrete pillar, he traced the chords of your spine, humming melodies into the sweat-damp hollow of your neck.  

“This one’s called *���Cafuné’*,” he whispered, lips grazing your shoulder blade.  

“Cheesy,” you laughed, but your voice cracked.  

He wrote it anyway.  

——

At the album’s Seoul premiere, JYP sipped *caipirinha* from a smuggled thermos, eyebrows climbing as *“TROPICALIA TRAUMA”* shook the speakers. “This is… a war crime against genre.”  

Chan’s thumb brushed yours under the table. “No,” he said. “It’s a peace treaty.”  

Years later, when a reporter asked about the magic behind the record, he didn’t hesitate.  

“Love’s the best producer. It samples silence, mixes truth… and never lets the track die.”  

You rolled your eyes. But your hand never left his.  

In São Paulo, the *jiboia* still hums their secrets.  

[sonichedgeblog]

'Sonic Rush 3D' (Demo) by Team Vela Nova A 3D fan re-imagining of Sonic Rush! https://sonicfangameshq.com/forums/showcase/sonic-rush-3d-sage-2024-demo.2282/ Support us on Patreon

[haveyouplayedthisttrpg]

Here is a list of all the games i played in 2024

Agon

One of my favorite games, gm'd it for a local con. It's basically the Odyssey, but told in a fast & furious fashion

Argyropée

French only, a optimistic renaissance fantasy game where i enjoy the universe, the worldbuilding decision, but the system could be better

City of Mist

A noir urban fantasy game, of misteries and myths, stories mixing with regular life.

Donjon & Cie

french only for now. Instead of playing the adventurers, instead your characters are the monsters of the Dungeon, in reality the biggest business in the land. Dongeons meet the office. Will be "translated" ( more of a 2nd edition) by the Merry Mushmen as Dungeon Inc.

Eureka investigative urban fantasy

What it says in the title. It's good, it's great, it's what i will use to run cthulhu modules in the future

Exquisite Biome

Occuped some long train rides this year. A solo game where you create little ( or big) creatures in the environment you made up.

Feathered adventures

It's ducktales without the branding. A diceless and possibly gmless game that plays like Scrooge McDuck comics

FIST

I think I traumatized my fellow players with my character. It's great

Knight an avalon rpg

A french game translated in english ( the books are coming). King Arthur in mecha armor fighting against horrors that threatens humanity in the 2030s. One of the most played because we're playing the epic (yes, epic, not campaign).

Lalaland of the dead

French only. Being in the right discords, sometimes, you can play with the authors themselves. A zombie apocalypse game that is also a musical. Sing for more dice.

Magie de minuit

French Only. A gmless tarot game of witches fighting darkness within and out.

Mausritter

Play as little mice, it's totally not terrifying.

Meanwhile in the subway

The game is not a book, it's a subway map

Mothership

The worst rolls possible at creation. Yet the character survived.

Naheulbeuk

French only. The ttrpg parody that is often played at the club when we just need a quick one shot, a silly session.

Nova

The sun exploded ( or did it ? some revelations of the designer on the bird app says it was eaten actually), so get your power suits out. My players managed to be the Horsemen of the Apocalypse.

pasion de las pasiones

A demo session with the french translator. Now sitting nicely on a shelf.

Rune

Elden ring as a solo game

The Dark Eye

In germany they created this to avoid playing D&D. I am wary of games that ask me to successfully roll a d20 3 times for each roll. (yes you do roll 3d20 for most things)

The Thunder perfect mind

In development, a game created by Tanya Floaker during NaGaDemon that I playtested. A gmless game of gnostic gothic punk where you play as undeads.

Triangle agency

It's on most list of games of the year for a good reason. Also be careful when reading it or you will get too many demerits and lose access to the Frozen Yogurt Room.

Troika

Used to be my cursed game. The one I would propose but something always happened and couldn't play. Finally I have played it. (But the curse transfered...)

Vaesen

Occult mysteries based on Nordic mythology.

Wilderfeast

Monster hunter meets Dungeon Meshi. I love cooking monsters.

World Wide Wrestling

The new cursed game. Did a first session for a group ( for a mini campaign). That was in August and was supposed to last 1-2 months.............this was the only session

[passaro-selvagem]

A gente se perdeu: não no meio de uma floresta, ou numa cidade nova e nem em um show lotado. A gente se perdeu da gente. Nem sentimos e quando nos demos conta já era tarde demais. Tarde demais para voltar atrás.

Nessa Cross

[guessimdumb]

Paul McCartney - Step Inside Love (demo) (1967)

Paul wrote and recorded this demo for Cilla Black, to be used as the theme song to her TV series Cilla. Unheard until fairly recently, it's a really nice, almost bossa nova type version.

[slutterhaus]

AN: Clive has made tough times bareable so I wanted to make something cute rather than my regular nsfw content. Thank you @fallendev0tionvn for giving us the perfect bbygirl malewife to love 💕 definitely check out the demo for Fallen Devotion!!

CWs: None except maybe the mention of developing a small obsession with Clive. No beta, we die like barbarians

Other: Second Person POV, GN!Reader, Fluff, Established Relationship, Clive may be a little ooc I'm so sorry. Under read more because it's more than 100 words.

Word Count: 830

Music played through the small speaker located in the kitchen, joined by the sound of something being fried on the stove. You were peacefully making dinner, focused on whisking some eggs to add to the rice bowl recipe you found online. A smile played on your face as Clive’s reflection appeared in the cabinet’s window when you closed it. “Hey.” You greeted. “I know you don’t like anyone in the kitchen with you when you’re cooking.” He began, a playful look on his face as he held his hands up in defense. The dimples you adored were on full display, and while you both knew you couldn’t be mad at him, you decided to feign annoyance and cross your arms, quirking a brow as you tried your best to keep a straight face. “It just smells so good.” He said, emphasizing his statement by letting himself lean to the side as if he were about to faint, letting his arms dangle and closing his eyes.

You couldn’t help but snort at the scene when you turned around. “Alright, alright, sit down. If you were feeling lonely, you could’ve just asked, y’know.” With a victorious smile, he happily sat at the kitchen island that gave him the perfect view of you as you moved around.

You were 22 when Clive came back into your life, and if you were attached to the hip before, you were even more inseparable seven years later. Sometimes you thought therapy was in order, but you already lost Clive once, always wanting to be with him was rightfully justified in your mind. He didn’t seem to mind either, playfully teasing you about looking like a baby koala with the way you stuck with him.

Oh, who were the two of you kidding? Clive had rubbed off on you, and while you knew any type of obsession was unhealthy, you didn’t care at this point. You were happy, in a loving relationship with literally your best friend, and it’s all that mattered to you. All that mattered was that gorgeous smile beaming with appreciation as you set down the bowl of food in front of him, the way you could talk about everything and nothing, and how sweet he was with helping around the house like doing the dishes after dinner.

Though there was always something you wanted from him, something that made you a little nervous. And as he finished with the last dish, you took a deep breath. “Mi vida…” You called, shifting your weight from one foot to another.

“Mm?”

“Would you… give me my first tattoo?”

The question seemed to catch him off-guard, his shoulders tensing slightly before relaxing as he turned around. ‘You…. You sure?” He asked. While he showed some hesitancy, he seemed to be holding back his excitement. You had gifted him a Sol Nova Unlimited, and he went through the fake skins like they were napkins cleaning up a spill, so he was dying to show you just what he could do. "Now?"

"Do you have the stuff at hand? We don't even have a design." You giggled.

Clive paused for a moment before answering. "Oops."

The two of you shared a fit of laughs, landing on the couch as Clive went into his silent fit. The fact that he was struggling so much to get back his composure sent you even further into giggles, sides burning as you buried yourself under his arm to try and calm yourself. The moment was fairly quick, but it was something you were going to cherish forever. You didn't want to live another day without Clive, not when you were left breathless after something so silly. "Tomorrow, then." You said in bewteen soft gasps for air. "Make a list and we'll go get everything in the morning."

It took everything in you not to burst out laughing again with how giddy he looked, a toothy grin on his face as he jumped up from the couch and went to get his tablet.

"What'd you have in mind?" He called from the bedroom. You pulled out your phone as he entered the living room again, tablet in hand while you pulled up your inspiration pics. "You have total creative freedom to make changes, but I was thinking something like this." You said, showing your phone to Clive. He leaned in close, observing the photos with a focused look on his face.

"I got the perfect thing in mind."

A smile crept onto your face as you watched him work, heart swelling with what could only be described as pure love and adoration. Seven years and sometimes you can't believe your sweet boy is back home.

Sure, he looked a bit different, and the scar along his neck brought back painful memories once in a while, but all that mattered was that he was home.

[reelisnotreal]

The fan demo of "Doctor Toxin" is now out!

[shattered-eagle]

Act I Content Updates

Total Word Count: 397,252 (340,451 w/o code) Average Playthrough Length: 98,327

I’ve taken into account the past few weeks of feedback, typo/error reports and my own desire to polish up Act I before working further on the in-progress Chapter VI in order to bring you a interchapter content update! I would like to thank the many insightful reports and posts I’ve gotten on the Forum and Discord for helping to further enrich the story thus far. As always, notify me if there are any errors or mistakes with this smaller update. If there’s any areas I could touch up the new character option, please let me know as well.

All of the relevant updates are listed below. I advise you to clear your browser cache before opening the update on COG Demos due to startup edits.

Act I Changelog

New Character Customization Option: Transgender Male Character

Consentia scenes given edits to provide more clarity and insight into her character

New Family and Name Options for a Provincial Prefect and Nova Prefect.

Additional Nova related dialogue and choices added to Chapter II.

Gender Selection now modified to be less counter intuitive and less confusing.

Facial Hair choice for Male Prefects; affects Chapter II and IV dialogues.

Implemented bald choice when selecting Male Prefect hair.

Additional references for a female Seyetite Prefect who marries Julia.

Additional Legate Romance dialogue for a Consort Prefect in Chapter V.

Additional Treasury Career references in Chapter I and II.

Additional pious choices for Darius in Chapter IV.

Additional Court Venue/Senator Arrest choices in Chapter I.

Augusta's potential mismatch is revised.

Galeriae Codex Entry implemented.

Sorcerous Career description and trait revised.

Collector Career description revised.

Career Reputation changes rebalanced.

Personality Stat changes fully added through Chapter V.

Fleshed out familial letter scene in Chapter II, including with family member names.

Additional familial communication in Chapter V.

Scene List Filled In.

Official Imperial Family Tree added in Stat Screen.

"Your Family" Codex Entry, activating in Chapter II.

Numerous typos fixed and bugs stamped out.

Author's Note on the Transgender Male MC Option

I originally intended to include a transgender man character option in addition to the transgender woman character (Nova) option. However, I wasn’t able to reconcile an out and transitioning trans man with the strictures of the matriarchy. I left the “transm” variable as an artifact of that unfortunate triage.

Now, I have found a way to thread the needle. In this variant, the Trans Man Prefect is closeted, having to bury his identity deep to survive in Iudia’s hostile matriarchy. He chooses an additional name at character creation to reflect how he sees himself beneath the lies he must maintain before the world.

Corresponding text has been added to almost every file to account for a Trans Man Prefect, particularly in the Sorcerous career. Trans Male Prefect will be able to come out to a truemanced Julia when selecting your relationship type, which affects dialogue with her. There is also new significantly more dialogue added in the Castra of Chapter II, and an entirely new scenes variant involving the Legate in Chapter IV. Just as with the Nova Prefect, there will be more to come in subsequent chapters and more ways for this Prefect to both express himself and struggle for a better future.