This one hits like a fucked up Valentine’s card somebody dipped in blood and spit on. Oridelle is not a “heroine,” she is a girl who died, got dragged back, and now thinks the only reason she exists is to suck off the guy who saved her. That’s the whole emotional center of the game: her on her knees, him on the throne, and you sitting there clicking through that sick loop of “thank you for saving me, please use me again.” It feels almost too intimate sometimes, like reading someone’s horny therapy diary that got infected by a horror manga. The tone flips a lot. One minute she is this soft, almost cute corpse-girl whispering how grateful she is, and three lines later she is giggling like a brain-poisoned bimbo about how her mouth is “perfect for him” and nothing else matters. It is erotic, yeah, but there is this rotten taste under it, like you bit into candy and it was raw meat.

The horror wraps itself around the sex instead of fighting it. Every time she drags herself back to that coffin, body resetting, clothes fixing, face going back to the “normal” Oridelle, it feels like watching a save file overwrite a human being. She goes out, gets broken a little more, comes back, looks the same. Inside she is not the same. You can feel the split getting wider, her real self trapped under this shiny, porn-brain alter ego that thinks being his perfect cocksleeve is holy work. Some scenes are almost boring in how focused they are on his dick and her mouth, and then suddenly one line pops where she begs him to call her by a name he gave her, not her own, and it hits harder than the actual blowjob. The game keeps telling you, quietly, that she is already dead, just not all at once. And still you keep clicking, because the pacing is like a slow, dripping faucet you kind of hate but keep staring at. Sometimes the writing leans too hard into “bimbo talk” and loses that fragile, tragic vibe I liked at the start, but then there is a moment where she hesitates before opening her lips and it all comes back. I wish there was a way to pull her out, to give her a route where she looks at him and says “no,” but the whole point is that she will not. She crawls back, every time, happy to be used, proud of how empty she can become for him, and that is what makes the whole thing stay in your head after you close the tab and pretend you are just going to check Twitter.

Waking up in this game feels like turning a manga page and suddenly all the panels are drawn by a different artist, but with the same characters. Familiar faces, same snouts, same broad shoulders, same tails, but the vibes are totally fucked in a good way. One guy who used to be the shy lab assistant is suddenly this cocky bar owner who leans over the counter, chest fur showing, flirting like he’s already seen you naked ten times in another timeline. Another dude who was your serious physics partner is now a clingy, soft boyfriend type who isn’t your boyfriend, at least not in this world, but clearly wants to be. The whole thing is built like a visual novel where every route feels like reading an alternate doujin of the same series, switching from fluffy romance page to dick-out panel on the next click.

Sex doesn’t sneak up on you here, it walks right in, unzips, and sits in your lap. There’s no shy fade-to-black, it is very in-your-face, detailed, and honestly kind of charming how messy it is. Big bara bodies pressed together, fur ruffled, claws digging into bedsheets, wet sounds written straight into the text, cocks described with just enough detail that you can see them in your head without needing CGs every time. I like how sometimes the horny hits you right in the middle of a serious science talk, like you’re discussing portal stability and suddenly the guy pins you to the console and grinds his bulge against your hip, asking if “this” is stable enough. That jump is stupid and hot and feels like reading a fan comic where the artist got bored of plot around page 13. Romance actually exists though, not just sex trophies. Some routes make you work for a kiss before you get to blowjobs, and some just throw you into a sloppy, desperate fuck on a lab bench while alarms flash in the background. Choices actually change their attitude in the bedroom, like one character going from gentle, almost shy top to rough, needy fucker because of how you talked to him earlier. I loved that, except when I didn’t, because sometimes the pacing just collapses and you’re stuck in too much dialog about feelings when you only wanted to lick abs and bite his neck.

What hit me most is how every guy is a remix of someone you “knew” before the accident, like reading an AU arc. You look at the big lion physicist and remember how serious he was in the original world, then here he’s a gym-obsessed himbo who blushes hard when you compliment his mane, but still rails you so deep your vision basically turns into screentone dots. The game is horny from a gay furry point of view without apologizing once: musk, size difference, rimming scenes where the text literally focuses on how his tail twitches when your tongue goes deeper, cumshots described with more care than some games give to their main plot. There’s a route where you wake up in his bed, both of you still half hard, and you get this slow morning handjob while he talks about multiverse theory like it’s pillow talk, and it almost feels too sincere for porn. I played on my Steam Deck browser and had to keep switching to Telegram every time I got paranoid about someone walking in, which never happened, but still. Dialog sometimes feels like it was written by different people, like one scene is smooth and sexy and then suddenly somebody says a line that sounds like Google Translate drunk on wine. I kind of liked that, honestly, because it matches the whole “wrong universe” energy. The game trips over its own tone a lot, one moment tender kissing, the next you’re being pushed to your knees with your muzzle stuffed full, zero transition, but that chaotic rhythm is exactly why I kept clicking.

Galactic Athletes feels like someone mashed together the Olympic Games, a horny soap opera, and that one locker room fantasy you never told your therapist about. You play as Finn, a new medic at Thebes Sporting Complex, and on paper his job is to keep all these huge, ripped, very not shy athletes healthy. In practice he spends a lot of time with a tablet in his hand, a hard-on in his pants, and a boss who basically tells him: “Guess who wins, guess who loses, or you’re screwed.” The twist is beautiful in a stupid way: every event ends with the winner fucking the guy who comes last. Gold medal equals top. Last place equals fresh, sweaty bottom. Sports science meets porn logic, and somehow it makes sense while you play.

The whole thing runs like a horny prediction game inside a visual novel. You move through event schedules, medical checkups, locker room talks, post-match “therapy” sessions. Before each event you look at the athletes, listen to their cocky bragging, check their conditions, and try to guess who’s going to take first and who’s going to eat the dust, and then eat something else later. There was this one javelin scene where I totally misread a shy, lanky guy, thought he would choke under pressure, marked him as last. Then he absolutely destroyed the field, turned around with this smug little smile, and later I had to watch him pin a muscle monster to the bench and grind him into it while Finn stands there trying to pretend he’s taking clinical notes. That moment hurt my ego more than it should, but I still rewatched it twice. For “research.” The sex scenes don’t feel like some random gallery you click through. They are chained directly to how you read those guys, how you interpret their bodies, their nerves, their stamina. If you fuck up your predictions, somebody else gets fucked, and not in the way you hoped, which is somehow worse than losing in a normal game. And yeah, it calls itself a league, but the whole setting feels closer to ancient Greek mythology fanfic where Zeus opened a gay gym and never invented clothes. I know Thebes is from Greek tragedies, but here it’s basically a giant sex clinic with running tracks.

What I enjoy most is how the game treats the athletes like horny gods and also idiots at the same time. They are tall, thick-chested, thighs like tree trunks, and there is zero shame about how much attention is on their cocks, their asses, the way sweat sticks to body hair. You get these surprisingly tender moments too, like one sprinter limping in after a bad run, Finn icing his leg, both of them talking about pressure and fear, and then five minutes later the same guy is buck naked, bent over a massage table, groaning while the new league champion pushes in slowly, and Finn is on the side trying to judge if this counts as “recovery protocol.” I wish the game actually punished wrong predictions harder sometimes, like really lock you into awkward pairings and force you to watch your least favorite guy get topped over and over, just to be cruel, but it kind of plays nice with you in a way that doesn’t match how brutal sports can be. Still, you get that nice balance where sometimes you are genuinely reading their psychology, like “he’s too confident, he will blow his load early,” and sometimes you just pick the one whose ass you want to see ruined. It pretends to be about strategy, then laughs and shows you two sweaty men going at it against the wall of the locker room while towels slowly slide off the hooks. It’s all gay, all the time, and proudly so, like old-school bara doujin met a modern queer sports anime and they got very drunk together. I opened it thinking “ok, just some porn with medals,” and somehow ended up caring who makes Champion’s league and who falls into Redemption league hell, which to be honest, is where all the best fucking happens anyway.

You wake up on this flying steel hotel called HMS Yuritopia, officially as “new fighter pilot”, unofficially as “dude dropped into a horny anime base”. The whole thing has this weird mood where half your brain is going “ok, we have mission briefings and air combat to worry about” and the other half is looking at the Seraph Squadron girls in their tight uniforms and thinking about literally anything except safety protocols. It starts pretty tame, just chatter in the hangar, some teasing, a bit of MC awkwardness, you picking dialogue options and trying not to sound like a complete idiot. Then very quietly the game puts your dick on a rails and goes, yeah, this is about sex, romance, and also jets, try to keep up.

What I like is how it doesn’t shove you straight into porn from line one. You flirt, you pick sides, you piss someone off by choosing the “cool” answer that actually lands as cringe, and the game remembers it. One scene you’re in the cockpit, comms crackling, adrenaline going nuts while you chase bogeys over some nameless ocean, and then later you’re in the locker room with one of the girls, the air still buzzing from the mission, her boots half unlaced, her flight suit hanging loose from her waist. She lifts her foot onto the bench, starts smirking down at you, and suddenly you’re on your knees, cheek pressed to her thigh, tasting sweat and soap while she rubs her toes along your lips like she owns your mouth. She doesn’t even need to say “good dog”, you feel it. The game loves that kind of power imbalance, like constant little reminders that yeah, you’re the pilot, but they’re the real aces here, especially when it comes to your body.

At some point you end up in this semi-private observation deck, glass all around, stars and clouds outside, and one of them decides to use you as her stress relief. She sits on your face while the ship hums around you, legs clamped tight, voice dripping trash talk. She calls you pathetic in one line and then fingers your hair in the next, sighs like she’s actually proud you know how to use your tongue. You can feel her heels against your back, pressing, like she’s pinning you there so you don’t even think about breathing before she’s finished. Later, another route, you’re in her cabin, lights low, she makes you sit on the floor between her knees while she lazily strokes you with one hand and pats your head with the other, talking in that soft pilot briefing tone about how “a good subordinate obeys every order”. The handjob is slow and almost painfully controlled, she stops right before you cum just to tilt your chin up with her toes and ask if you deserve it. That’s the kind of mean that sticks in your brain. And then somewhere else, way less dramatic, you’re just in the mess hall, talking shit about loadouts and missions, and two girls are basically flirting with each other over your plate like you’re just background furniture, brushing each other’s fingers, trading little looks, and it’s somehow hotter than the obvious blowjob scene that comes later in the corridors when one of them drags you behind a bulkhead, drops to her knees, and uses you to wipe that smug smile off your face, except it doesn’t work because now you’re the one whimpering against the wall, trying not to make noise while she dribbles spit down your shaft and laughs quietly every time your hips jerk. The whole thing feels like romantic drama and horny barracks gossip got locked together in a cabin, and you’re the idiot who knocked on the door at the worst possible moment.