#harolds cross bridge

[freedomfireflies]

Off the Shelf*

Summary: The second part to 404*

The one where you hate working with Harry and can’t ever seem to agree.

Except on one thing.

Word Count: 3.9k

*Contains Mature and Explicit content! Please only consume what you feel comfortable with!💞You are so much more important!*

(Note: This edit is not mine!! I believe the @ is on it, but full credit to the incredible creator! It's so perfect!!)

“And what seems to be the problem?”

Instantly, you and Harry are at each other's throats.

“I told him two fucking times to check his email for confirmation—”

“She wouldn’t shut up about the goddamn code—”

“—like that’s somehow my fault when he’s never on time—”

“—already in the middle of fucking rewriting the last sequence—”

“—which is ridiculous because I already told him—”

“—can’t do fucking anything when she’s yapping in my ear all goddamn day—”

“Okay, okay, all right,” Mr. Prescott sighs, raising his palms in surrender. “Let’s just take a breath—”

“She’s fucking up our project,” Harry interjects before leaning back. “Sir.”

Mr. Prescott rests his arms on his desk and glances between you. “From what I remember, the two of you agreed to work on finalizing the AI program. Comb through the bugs and whatnot.”

“Yeah, well, that was before he decided it was a waste of his time,” you retort, ignoring Harry’s obvious glare.

“That’s not what I said,” he huffs. “I said that we need to be working on expanding the GUI—”

“Except that wasn’t a part of our job, so—”

“Oh, and what? I can’t try to make the program better?”

“Maybe if you knew how—”

“I got hired for the same fucking job you did—”

“A job you don’t even want to do—”

“That doesn’t mean I can’t do it—”

“Oh, bite me, Harold—”

“All right, all right,” Mr. Prescott interjects, running a hand down his cheek. “Listen, the two of you are more than qualified for the position and perfectly capable of executing the sequence you were designing. I understand it can be hard to collaborate, but this is what you agreed on—”

“I don’t mind collaborating as long as he does what I need him to do,” you correct while Harry scoffs and uses his knuckle to shove his glasses further up the bridge of his nose. “He just doesn’t like to listen.”

“If what you were saying was worth listening to, maybe I would,” he agrees. “But until then, I’d like to handle my shit and you can handle yours.”

Stuck without much dispute, you bring your attention back to Mr. Prescott, eager for his response. 

The poor, older gentleman crosses his arms and studies you both, seemingly unconvinced but perhaps too exhausted to fight it. “That’s fine by me. As long as you’re reporting your progress to your supervisors – and to each other – I don’t see why you can’t work on different aspects of the sequence.”

“Thank you, sir,” you exhale, glancing toward your partner who’s already turning around on his heel. “Uh, we really appreciate it. And we won’t cause any more trouble. We swear.”

“She swears,” Harry calls, already halfway out the door. “I don’t swear anything.”

Biting back a snort, you scurry after him and toss Mr. Prescott one final, “Thank you again!” before the door falls shut.

Harry is rounding the corner when you finally catch up, hands shoved into his dark jean pockets, and shoulders slightly tense. It’s not unusual, you suppose. He’s always tense. Muscles rigid beneath his clothing. Lip perpetually stuck between his teeth as he gnaws on the pink fibers until they tear and bleed. And glasses that are always about halfway down his nose from the bouncing of his knee.

He’s striding through the lab like he’s got somewhere important to be, and it drives you fucking mad because he’s technically done for the day. The only thing the two of you have left is a staff meeting with your supervisor before everybody is allowed to head home, and that shouldn’t take more than a few minutes.

But you don’t like when he walks like that. You aren’t sure why, but it’s always irritated you. Like he thinks he’s so goddamn special – so important. Like his presence is so valuable. And even worse, he’s always walking away from you. Like your presence isn’t.

However, instead of going straight to his desk – his favorite hiding spot – he rounds another corner and disappears into the next hall.

You pause, unsure whether or not to follow. He had to have known you were right behind him, so is he leading you somewhere? Or is he simply trying to escape you?

Either option seems likely.

Curiosity outweighs logic, and you continue after him until you manage to find where he’s disappeared to.

He’s hiding in the shadows of the abandoned walkway, lurking near a door you don’t recognize, his eyes now on you.

You skid to a stop, confused and a little cautious of the smirk on his face. “Uh…what? What are you…the hell are you doing?”

“You are so fucking annoying, you know that?” he scoffs, nodding his chin at you. “‘Oh, Mr. Prescott, Harry’s being mean to me. Oh, Mr. Prescott, Harry won’t do what I want.’”

Your eyes narrow at the falsetto tone of voice used to mock you. “Fuck you, I’m just trying to get our shit done and over with so we can move on—”

“Clearly,” he hums, but it’s riddled with sarcasm. “No, yeah. You wasting time going through the same data I’ve already been through is a great use of our time—”

“I’m going through it because I’m trying to make it better—”

“I made it. It was already better—”

“God, you are so fucking dumb—”

“Yeah, and you’re a cunt,” he retorts before he’s reaching for the door and swinging it open. “Get in.”

A bit stunned by the sudden and strange command, you blink. “...what?”

“I said, get. In. What, are you deaf and stupid?”

“Harry, it’s the middle of the goddamn day—”

“Get in the fucking closet, Tinkerbell, before I come over there and make you.”

Your eyes roll but you aren’t about to pretend you aren’t intrigued. Despite your revulsion for him, he seems to be in possession of the cheat code to your sex drive. All it takes is a look or a suggestive comment (or a rather rude demand for you to get inside a tiny storage closet) for you to fall victim to his intentions.

And it’s been that way since you met him. 

Which only makes it that much more infuriating.

You obey – with a pointed scowl – striding past him and into the small space as he follows suit and pulls the door shut.

A light flickers on overhead, allowing you to see Harry’s amused expression as you huff, “Now what—”

He kisses you. Instantly and without a single moment of pause. His palms quickly press to the wall beside your head, caging you between his arms as he takes your tongue between his lip and sucks. 

His glasses are cold against your face. You remember how they used to scratch you when the two of you first started this little arrangement but they don’t as much anymore. You think he might have changed the frames for this very reason, but you aren’t sure.

After all, that would be nice, and Harry isn’t nice.

“Harry—” you pant during a quick gasp for air. “We don’t have time—”

“I’m making time,” he counters, pressing his hips into yours while his mouth moves to your neck.

You want to snort your exasperation, but you’re too far lost in the feel of his body. “I thought you had shit to handle.”

“I do,” he replies smoothly, his hand now curving around your cunt until he can squeeze it tight in his grasp. “This is me handling my shit.”

His touch is unforgiving but incredibly welcome, and you whine softly before quickly reaching for his hair. “I thought I was annoying.”

“You are,” he says, sucking bruises into the space below your ear. “But there’s something about the way you stomp your little foot and tell on me that gets me all hot and bothered.”

You yank on his curls until he hisses, although he’s still much too smug. “So this has nothing to do with the girl who dropped by earlier? Or the fact that you apparently couldn’t finish?”

His eyebrow raises but he’s biting back a smile. “What girl?”

“Ha. Very funny. Are you gonna fuck me or are you gonna try to be cute?”

“Why can’t I do both?” he retorts, grinning wildly before pressing his lips to yours once more. 

It feels familiar, this routine. This dance you’ve so quickly memorized, and it becomes increasingly easier to play along as you scratch your nails against his scalp and tug on the loop of his pants.

His hand slips into your jeans, the tips of his rough fingers smoothing down the front of your panties. A teasing touch, and you jolt in his hold before grabbing onto him harder.

“Harry,” you sigh, lashes fluttering as your head falls back into the wall behind you. “God, just…hurry. Please—”

“No.” It’s an easy response. Cruel, almost. But he’s focused on you. On your body and the way it responds to him. “I’m working right now, Tink. Leave me to it.”

He crouches down, pulling on the fabric around your legs until it pools near your ankles. He seems tantalized by the way your pussy sits so close to his face. The way it looks behind the pale blue cotton with the tiny bow. 

He surges forward and presses his mouth to you. Lapping at the material until there’s a rather obvious wet patch – either from you or him, you can’t really be sure – while making your eyes roll back.

“Shit,” you whimper, once again grabbing onto his curls for stability. “God, Harry…we don’t have time for this.”

He smirks against your cunt before dragging his tongue over your covered clit. “D’ya want me to stop?”

Your lips form around the word, “Yes,” but what comes out is a very strained and breathless, “No. Please, no.”

He grins, large palms kneading on the flesh of your thighs to keep them spread before he lands a firm smack to your leg. “Good girl.”

His technique is sinful. Ruthless yet mesmeric, and you look at him with a kind of wonder you can’t explain.

Harry isn’t anything like what you expected. He’s incredibly smart and focused. He cares about his work to a point of obsession. He’s a perfectionist, through and through. He’s diligent and has a great attention for detail.

And yet this man has the most insatiable appetite for sex. 

His list of kinks is a mile long. He’s out almost every night at bars, at clubs, at parties. He likes degradation, he likes pain, he likes bondage. He likes to bend you over your desk and spank you until your skin is raw and red. He likes to yank on your hair and drag his teeth down your throat. He likes to go deep – likes to go hard and slow. 

You aren’t sure why you assumed he’d be docile and a bit vanilla in bed. Perhaps it was the glasses or the way he always corrected your grammar. Which you know wasn’t exactly a fair assumption, but you didn’t have much else to go on.

Well…until the first time.

“You’re holding your breath,” he murmurs from beneath you, forcing your attention back. “Stop doing that.”

Sucking in a quiet inhale, you oblige. “Sorry.”

You have a rather dangerous habit of taking in large gasps for air when he’s eating you out or making you feel good and then forgetting to release them. Which is all fun and games until you begin to feel a bit lightheaded and nearly pass out. In fact, one time you almost did, and it had scared Harry so bad, he refused to touch you for about a week.

Glancing up to make sure you’ve obeyed, he nods once. “Attagirl.”

Your cheeks warm slightly at the praise – another nasty habit you wish you could break – before he’s diving back in.

Despite the way the seconds are ticking by on your watch, Harry continues to revel in the taste of you, even through your panties. He hums until your legs shake, head bobbing to accompany his mouthing at your pussy.

He enjoys eating you, even like this. He always has and you can’t say you quite understand it. Perhaps it’s the power it gives him. The way you whine and whimper. The way you grab at him and give him everything you have to offer. The way you fucking hate him…yet you still let him in.

“Harry, please,” you nearly groan, tugging on him again. “If you’re gonna fuck me, then fuck me already. We don’t have time.”

He makes a tsking sort of noise before nudging his tongue against the front of your underwear. “God, you’re no fucking fun, you know that? And to think I was actually gonna take my time with you.”

Your expression is playfully unamused, but you can’t deny you’re somewhat curious.

He lands another spank to your leg and stands back up. “But that’s not what you want, huh? You just want me to be quick. Want me to fill you up and send you on your way. Don’t want me to play with you.”

You watch as he flicks his belt open and steps closer to you, a rather salacious look in his eye.

“And wouldn’t that be a shame?” he whispers, long fingers sweeping up the inside of your thigh. “For you to go into that meeting with my cum dripping down your leg? When you can’t do anything about it?”

You feel your breath catch, throat going dry at the way he drags the tip of his nose along your jaw. You want to resist him – you should resist him. And yet… 

“Maybe it would be,” you reply coyly. “If you could get it up.”

To accompany your taunt, you reach down and press your palm to his cock, smirking when he sucks in a sharp hiss through gritted teeth.

“Seems you’ve gone soft on me,” you murmur, squeezing once more for good measure before releasing him. “That’s the real shame.”

The hand beside your head smacks against the wall. “S’cute, Tink. Real fucking cute—”

“Is it because of her?” you ask, straightening up until you can ghost your lips along his. Close, but not close enough. “Could she not take your tiny, little dick down her throat?”

You notice the way he swallows. The way the muscles in his arm flex beside you. The way his lashes flutter angrily from behind his glasses.

“Or could you not get yourself off?” You reach for him again. He's already beginning to harden from your touch – your voice – and despite yourself, your ego swells. “Was it when you were fucking your fist in your car this morning? Were you thinking about her? Is that why you couldn’t get hard?”

Something finally snaps, and instantly, you feel his fingers slipping around your throat. Just hard enough to make you grin. “What if I was thinking about you?”

“Mm. I don’t think so. Said it yourself. If you’re thinking about me…you’re always hard.”

He’s amused by this, squeezing your neck before surging forward to kiss you again. “Naughty little Tinkerbell.”

You smile.

With this, he spins you around and tosses you toward the empty and somewhat dusty bookcase in the corner of the closet. His touch is firm and unrelenting. Perhaps even a little cruel. The way he tugs on your hips as though to punish you. The way he shoves you until you’re bent over the shelf, allowing him access to your body like it’s his right.

And you don’t mind. This is the kind of dominance you’ve come to expect from the quiet yet horny man you work with.

Your underwear is yanked to the ground, the sound of a ripping stitch echoing throughout the small space. You frown but you don’t comment.

His palm smooths along your pussy, cupping it somewhat gently before his thumb flicks across your clit. He just wants to see you jump. Make you whine and push back into his touch. 

You hear him chuckle. “Easy, princess. Gotta make sure you’re ready first.”

“I’m ready, just go,” you huff, staring down at the dust beneath you. 

His finger slides inside your cunt, feeling you out for only a moment before retreating. “I don’t know. Seem a little tense.”

“If I’m with you, I’m tense,” you retort, making him smile. “Go already.”

“Now, now,” he warns, slipping in a second finger. “You wouldn’t rush Picasso, would you?”

You groan. “Oh, for fuck’s sake, Harry—”

“What?” He’s enjoying himself. “I’m the painter, and you are my art.”

“No, you’re fucking irritating, that’s what you are.”

“Oh, come on, I thought girls liked sappy analogies like that.”

“No, they like to get fucked. So, hurry up already.”

He lands another smack to your ass before dipping down to whisper, “As you wish.”

You hear the sound of him pulling himself out before you feel the tip of his cock dragging through your arousal. Collecting every drop while slowly pushing in.

He’s right, you are tense. And the stretch that accompanies his large size is enough to make you wince, yet…you love it.

Despite the slight pain, it feels good. Full in every sense of the word, and you focus on the deep breaths you’re taking as your nails begin to curl into the shelf. 

Through clenched teeth, Harry calls, “You okay, Tink?”

“Mhm,” you hum, lashes fluttering shut. “This is easy. In fact, you could go faster, actually.”

He exhales a strained laugh, readjusting his hands on your hips. “Funny.”

“Yeah, I’m hysterical.”

He pushes in a bit further but still slow. He knows your body well enough to know what it can handle. And he understands his size is a touch above average. 

Although he never lets you forget it.

“Being so brave,” he coos with a playful air of condescension. “My brave girl, yeah? Taking it like a champ.”

“Bite me, Styles.”

“Yeah? Just tell me where.”

You get ready to respond, but your remark is ripped from your throat when he suddenly drives in to the hilt. Ripping off the band aid and giving you exactly three seconds to adjust before he begins to fuck you.

The push and pull is everything. The pace, the anger, the pain. His hand is against your scalp, keeping you bent and pliable to his intentions. He’s grunting softly, slowing down just to speed back up. He listens to the noises you make, the way you clench around him. And he uses that to decide what he does next.

Your heart is hammering in your chest and your stomach is doing cartwheels. It’s as though this is the first rush of relief you’ve felt in weeks. Your hands can’t do it. Your vibrator can’t do it. Not even the guy you met at the bar could do it. 

Nobody can do it like he can.

And you fucking hate it.

He lets go of your hair to reach around and slip his hand up your shirt. Finding your tit and giving it a nice squeeze before slapping his palm along the tender flesh. “Oh, you like that, princess, don’t you?”

You nod faintly, whimpering from the subtle sting, silently requesting he do it again. 

So, he does. “S’cute how much you love when I hurt you. Makes me think you might even like me.”

You manage to scoff between unhinged whines. “Shut up, Harry.”

“What? It’s the truth, isn’t it?” he continues. “You like me more than you think you do. That’s why you always do what I ask. Like a good girl.”

You sneak a glimpse over your shoulder, studying the crooked angle of his glasses, and the slight smirk on his face. 

He’s cute, you think. He’s always been kind of cute, but he’s especially cute when he’s ripping you apart from the inside out.

He meets your eye and travels his fingers down to your clit. “Need more, don’t you?”

But you don’t just need more. You need everything. 

He pinches you tight and readjusts his stance to make sure he’s fucking into you at just the right speed. Just the right place to make your back arch and your toes curl. 

“Gonna have to cum for me,” he grits, the graveled request woven between your anxious moans. “You wanted quick, so be fucking quick.”

You nod your agreement, the pleasure at the base of your spine building until it becomes your singular focus. 

You hadn’t realized you were this worked up. Hadn’t anticipated being so close to release after such a short amount of time but maybe Harry was right about something else. Maybe fighting with him is your aphrodisiac.

The first few sparks explode behind your eyelids, taunting you with more as he begins to groan softly from behind you. 

“Fucking shit—” His hips are slapping into your ass, the sound of your arousal being fucked into you by his cock like music to your ears. “There you go, princess. Just like that – keep squeezing me. Yeah…fuck.”

He’s close and you clench around him to get him closer, needing to feel him fill you more than you need air in your lungs. 

When he does, it tips the rest of the dominos. One after the other until everything is falling apart. The warmth of his cum inside of you, the pulsing of his cock in your pussy, the scattering of pleasure between your thighs.

And he sounds so beautiful. Rough and exceedingly desperate. The most perfect, delicious sound and it makes your stomach flip in the most excruciating way. You could listen to him for hours. Could get off to his voice alone, the way he grunts and moans for you. The way he says your name through a heated curse and spanks his hand along your ass.

“S’fucking good, Tink,” he exhales, tightening his hold on your waist to keep you upright and steady. “Milk me, baby, come on. Fucking take it.”

You can feel him dripping down your legs. Can feel the heat and the soreness already settling but you thrive off it. Indulge in the way he takes care of you for a moment more before finally pulling out and turning you around.

He checks your face for signs of distress. Brows furrowed and expression scrutinous from behind his glasses. You can tell he’s got another sarcastic comment locked and loaded but before he can fire it, you reach up, and slip the frames from his nose.

Then, you kiss him. Hard and with fervor. It’s oddly passionate – perhaps filled with the lingering frustration from your previous altercation. But you don’t mind. It feels like him.

After a minute or two, you pop off his tongue, return his glasses to nose, and shove him back. “And now we’re gonna be late.”

He smiles to himself, stepping closer once more to run his thumb just beneath your eye. Collecting what you assume are dried tears and runny mascara. “Oops.”

However, before you can pull your jeans back on, Harry is crouching down and grabbing onto the material for you.

He pulls your panties up and secures them around your hips, ignoring the sticky cum beginning to seep out of your pussy. 

Confused, your eyes narrow. “Har—"

“I told you,” he says calmly while zipping your jeans. “You’re gonna go into that meeting with me inside you.”

You feel your heart skip.

“But maybe if you’re good,” he whispers before looking up with a devious wink, “…I’ll do something about it.”

Next Part:

~ SnakeBite*

Previous Part:

~ 404*

~ Full 404 Masterlist

~ Main Masterlist

~ Blurb Masterlist

Taglist: @walkingintheheartbreaksatellite @keepdrivingkisses @swiftmendeshoran @tiredinwinter @straightontilmornin @justlemmeadoreyou @harrysdaydreams @tiaamberxx @peterparker1sgf @myfavfanficsever @littlenatilda @vamprry @fdl305 @tchalametishot @ssaama @indierockgirrl @likeapplejuicenpeach @vane28282 @lukesaprince @closureesny @lc-fics

[raconteur-wanpi]

One Piece 1130

Here comes another review / reaction!

Starting with the Yamato cover stories again, it seems whoever is the suspicious kidnapper is also trying to steal Yamato's katana! Or at least, I'm assuming it's the same person. I feel like this means we're going to find out who it is rather soon. Is my bet on Perospero going to be completely and utterly debunked? We'll just wait and see.

Franky and the rest of the strawhats remaining on the giants' ship seem to have decided to call off the search! It's certainly the right decision, because as we'll see later, the rest of the crew is indeed already on Elbaf. It's interesting to see Franky specifically showcasing determination and speaking out the decision, I kinda love it. You have to remember he was the leader of the Franky Family for a long while, nice seeing that element of his again.

The rest of the New Giant Pirates are starting to show up! I remember both Gerd and Goldberg, but getting more dialogue from them is nice, they seem like genuinely charming characters and I love both their designs. They even showed up in Vegapunk's flashback, helping out Saul pick up all the books in Ohara. They seem to not like Rodo very much, which is kinda funny but makes total sense. It's also worth mentioning that apparently, according to Linlin's childhood flashback, Loki, Rodo and Goldberg were all born on the same day, or at least very close to each other! (From chapter 866)

The strawhats unfortunately don't recognize these two, who are certainly their allies, so instead they hide away from them.

This panel of all of them making their escape from Rodo's weird creepy dungeon is pretty cute, I always love seeing the strawhats casually interact. Sanji saying he used to cross a rope bridge like this is very interesting to me, surely there was one in Germa, right?

* Edit: oops, turns out that's Chopper saying it! Big thanks for the corrections in the replies. It's really hard to tell, but that makes more sense, we do see that in Drum Island.

Anyway, Luffy seems to spot something that catches his interest during this walk-away.

Meanwhile, back on the ship with the Giant Warrior Pirates....

Dorry and Broggy have been framed for the Egghead incident by Morgans also! Well, they did go against the government, so it's to be expected. Their bounties increasing to such numbers seems to actually align with real life inflation rates, Oda did his research.

Aaaandd here it is, one of the biggest things in this chapter. Vivi left a message to the strawhats!!!!!!! Being with Morgans, she was obviously able to draw the marking on the photo before it started getting reproduced for publishing. Everyone predicting Vivi joining the strawhats this arc is probably correct, hopefully! Please let it happen. Go get your girl kids!!!!!!

OK, this is the other huge (pun unintended) thing revealed this chapter. More information on Loki and, well.... the revelation Harjudin might be his brother!? They're both the King's sons, right? They both get referred to as princes here, aren't they!?

King Harold is referred to as Loki's father here, so it's safe to assume he was Harjudin's father also. If this is the case, Harjudin going after the Flame Flame Fruit in Dressrosa makes more sense.

Hmm, this narrative is pretty interesting, Loki getting called things like "cursed", "the shame of Elbaf" "not right in the head" etc, it feels like pretty cruel words. Even if he is indeed a horrible and dangerous person, something tells me we're meant to be wary of people being spoken about that way, so it might be a case of the people of Elbaf taking their measures against this guy too far and pushing him into what he eventually turned into.

One Piece loves this narrative, when you have things like Wano's unjust treatment of the Kurozumi Clan or Doflamingo's treatment when he was a child. Yes, Orochi and Doffy did turn out into terrible, horrible people, but the implication of those narratives is that it's the systems that failed them that created those monsters. It's not to feel sympathy towards them or anything, they really don't deserve that at this point, but rather to understand how they were created, and that the people who unwittingly turned them into such dangers were in many ways in the wrong as well. After all, Tama is also a Kurozumi, for example, and Wano needed to get over their treatment of entire clans for the crimes of a few. We even see that with Yamato being hazed for his father being Kaidou in the cover stories, only for Denjiro to scold the younger generation for this behavior. Not to mention, "the shame of Elbaf" does immediately make me think of "the failure of Germa" and such similar things. In fact, if we wanna push that parallel further, Loki being almost married off to the Charlottes' in a similar way, might have in fact been an attempt at "getting rid of the failure" and letting someone else deal with him, rather than an attempt at making amends with Linlin. I do think it's most likely that Loki will be a bad guy, but I think there will also be a narrative on how cruelty breeds more cruelty. Oda's favorite!

And here he is, the "accursed prince". Wow, what a panel! This is such a good drawing in sense of scale and danger. Incredible artistic work. Immediately leaves such a strong impression on who this character is, it's quite the introduction!

[footemoji]

ooo silly clown asks if you have any sexuality headcanons for tdn?? i like seeing people's different takes on the td cast :} 🎉🎉

-clown anon

YES.

Lindsay- straight (ally) or bisexual (we'll cross that bridge when we get to it)

Noah- gay gay homesexual gay

Geoff- straight (ally)

Sadie- straight (ally)

Gwen- bisexual (also transgender)

Eva- lesbian (homophobic /j)

Izzy- pansexual

Beth- straight (we don't know her stance on gay people)

Harold- straight (but transgender)

Ezekiel- straight (homophobic (he's working on it))

Cody- straight (homophobic (not working on it))

Tyler- straight (ally)

Justin- is it gay if you love yourself?

Heather- bisexual (homophobic)

Courtney- bisexual (male pref)

Leshawna- pansexual

Alejandro- bisexual

Katie- lesbian (closeted)

Duncan- bisexual (homophobic)

Bridgette- straight (ally)

Owen- pansexual

DJ- aroace

Trent- gay, but the normal kind

Sierra- pansexual

[beyondmistland]

Like Bjorn Ironside pretending to be dead and getting his coffin only to suppress attack, what’s the coolest battle/fight tactics in history?

I'm going to preface this with the fact that 1) There are too many to list here (or anywhere really) and 2) I'm limited to what I personally know.

That said, here are a few that spring to mind:

Richard III's last charge at the Battle of Bosworth Field. Not only did he get within a sword's length of killing Henry Tudor himself but Richard also killed Henry's standard-bearer, Sir William Brandon, AND unhorsed burly John Cheyne, his older brother's former standard-bearer. Not bad for a guy who would today qualify for the Special Olympics. (The Japanese equivalent would be Sanada Yukimura.)

Harold Godwinson marching his army 185 miles (or 298 km) in just four days to take the Norwegians by surprise at the Battle of Stamford Bridge. (Honorable mention goes to the soldier who got in a barrel and floated under the bridge to spear the Viking holding off the entire English army. Chevalier de Bayard, a real life knight in shining armor, later replicated this feat by holding off 200 Spanish knights single-handedly at the Battle of Garigliano.)

When the rebels started chanting "Henry Percy King" at the Battle of Shrewsbury, Henry IV shouted back "Henry Percy is dead." Needless to say, Henry Percy did not respond. (His eldest son, the future Henry V (or as Shakespeare names him in his youth, Prince Hal), took an arrow to the face in this same battle, which is why Henry V's portraits always depict him from his uninjured side.)

Hannibal crossing the Alps and whooping Rome's ass multiple times on its own turf. (There's a reason "Hannibal ad portas" became a saying. Also, Napoleon I later replicated this feat.)

At the Battle of Bremule, a Norman knight seized the reins of Louis the Fat's horse, shouting "the king is taken!" Louis' response? Hitting the guy with his mace and shouting "the king is not taken, neither at war, nor at chess!"

Alexander the Great turning the island city of Tyre into a peninsula.

Alexander Buchanan killing Thomas, Duke of Clarence at the Battle of Bauge and holding the dead duke's coronet aloft on his lance.

Thanks for the question, anon

[gaytotaldrama]

i wrote some s1 duncney bc i miss them </3

also on my ao3!

Duncan's pissed. This whole time there's been a five-star resort on the other side of the island, while he's been roughing it in the woods and putting up with Chef's crappy food? Yeah, screw McLean. If Duncan had known about the Playa, he would have snuck in to visit Courtney ages ago.

As it is, the first thing Courtney does when Duncan steps off the Boat of Losers is sock him directly on the arm, hard.

"Damn, Princess, didn't know you could pack a punch," he cracks, massaging his shoulder and shooting Courtney the usual smirk. "Glad to see you missed me."

She rolls her eyes, brows drawn into a glare. She's wearing her grey swimsuit, which he used to think was boring and prudish - now he just thinks it's hot.

"That," Courtney proclaims, crossing her arms across her chest. "Was for snuggling up to Heather."

"What, that?" Duncan scoffs. "Come on, you know I can't stand that chick. And she cozied up to me, or did the cameras not show that part?"

"Doesn't matter!" She throws her arms up in the air - long, tan arms, nice - nearly hitting him in the face. "You let it happen! I saw it!"

He just grins. "You know what you also saw?"

Her only response is a mean stink-eye. God, this woman is like no one else.

"You saw me in the confessionals shouting out to you every episode since you got booted off," he says. "You saw me spray paint the walls of my side of the cabin with your skull."

She narrows her eyes. "That was supposed to be me?"

Duncan blinks. "I thought that was obvious."

Is he seeing things, or did the corner of her lips twitch? "Don't think I missed the heart you carved in the back of my totem head."

"Oh, man, they aired that?" Duncan groans. "The guys at juvie are never gonna let me hear the end of it."

"Well, it doesn't matter anyway, Duncan, because I want absolutely nothing to do with you." And she quite literally sticks up her nose at him. "Hmmpf!"

"Riiiiiight. Sure thing, Princess. And you're the only one who came to the docks to see me because...?"

"Just to tell you how much of an ogre you are!" Courtney splutters, cheeks darkening - has it really been that long since he last saw her, or are there more freckles scattering the bridge of her nose than there were before? "I'm a C.I.T. You're a delinquent. It's not hard to do the math."

Duncan holds up his hands in surrender. "Ok, fine. You have fun making out with Harold, then, since clearly he's more your type."

To his surprise, Courtney freezes, mouth agape. "They didn't tell you...?"

He frowns. "Tell me what?"

"Harold's the reason I got eliminated in the first place! He switched the votes when no one was looking, the little twerp." Her hands ball into fists at her sides. "I've been on the warpath for that dweeb ever since. My lawyers say Chris is going down."

"That geeky little snake!" Duncan pounds his fist into his palm. "Who does that?!"

"Someone who wants to get back at a certain mohawked bully, that's who," Courtney declares. "Don't worry, I haven't let him off easy."

"That's my girl." Another sock to the arm. "Ow! The hell was that for?"

"I'm not your girl," says Courtney, and yeah, she's definitely smiling this time. "As if."

"Uh-huh. How's the pool here? I could use a nice, long swim. Maybe with a certain Type A-In-Training?"

"Ugh. You're still so not my type." She glances around, seems to decide it's safe, then snags him by the collar and sticks her tongue in his mouth. "Mmmm!" She breaks off before he can really return the favor. "Come on, Caveman. Let's get you into your trunks."

Blood rushing in his veins like Owen rushes for breakfast, Duncan grins. "Or maybe you should get me out of my - "

SOCK!

"OW!"

[dangerously-human]

I keep thinking about, like, what if Lucy and Lockwood ran into each other during the Black Winter, because oof. I can't make it work in my head if they actually interacted, because yeah, Lucy's an unreliable narrator, but that would be so uncharacteristic of her to neglect to mention. Now, their paths crossing but only Lockwood noticing? That's some believable angst. Maybe they end up at the furnaces at the same time, Lockwood sees another girl with dark hair and there's always half a second he hopes it's Lucy before the crushing disappointment-relief, but this time it actually is her. His breath catches and he thinks about calling out to her, but she looks content, maybe he even thinks there's something flirty between her and Harold Mailer, and he remembers all the angry words between them before she left and he thinks better of it. Because there's still that big, gaping hole between them (maybe a little bit Aickmere's-shaped, if he let himself consider it long enough), and if he's going to bridge that space, he's got to have a way to truly fix it, to show Lucy that he understands what was broken between them and show her he can do better.

Anyway! I do not need another WIP! But this idea will not leave me alone!!

[sohannabarberaesque]

Postcards from Snagglepuss

Just getting stocked up for some houseboating isn't quite a picnic--or can it be?

DUBUQUE, IA: It certainly took a couple days to reach the Mississippi River from Breezewood, Pennsylvania via US 20 for the most part ... and to cross the Mississippi via the Julien Dubuque Bridge was something of a sign of anticipation for some interesting little escapades ahead.

Via houseboat, even.

And with such interesting company of Your Correspondent as Huckleberry Hound and Touché Turtle, Bristlehound and Dum-Dum were bound, in their role as guides, to make sure things were running smoothly. Hence, their directing us via text message to meet them at the Hy-Vee supermarket coming off the bridge into Dubuque. Yes, as in a certain "little old lady from" made infamous, in a way, by Harold Ross in launching that somewhat sophisto and urbane journal known as The New Yorker back in 1925. Insisting that he was not intending The New Yorker to be for the Little Old Lady from Dubuque, implying that she would likely be satisfied with The Saturday Evening Post, Collier's, Grit and Comfort rather than a high-class literary-leaning review.

But back to the Hy-Vee: Both Dum-Dum and Bristlehound would meet us at the entrance for the preparatory shopping trip for supplies heading into the little houseboat excursion. More than likely a "mystery trip," by all assumptions, yet mind you, leave any pretension of emulating Tom Sawyer and Huckleberry Finn at the dock.

Following a modest little cafeteria-manner lunch in Hy-Vee's dining area, something of a staple in their larger locations across eight Midwestern states, Bristlehound and Dum-Dum led the way into getting the necessary supplies: Meal-replacement drinks (mainly for breakfast) ... wholemeal crackers ... cheese spread ... summer sausage ... smoked sausage ... buns ... charcoal ... bottled water, spring and seltzer ... flavouring concentrate ... batteries for the transistor radio ... all in all, just trying to be low-impact more than anything.

As Dum-Dum admitted, "it's more than likely we'll want to spend our nights sleeping on the roof of our houseboat just for the experience."

Bristlehound added, "Especially when passing barge tows in the night leave such wake as can make things interesting in the sleep department." Thankfully, CPAP was not the sort of thing we were on, nor even think about being on.

Once out of the way, a drive to the docks where Bristlehound and Dum-Dum tied up their modest little houseboat--hardly a fancy sort, yet stylishly simplistic for the purpose. Even if it took a few minutes for a freight train to clear the tracks so we could get to the boat, by which time early evening's effects were starting to be obvious. And once loaded, reviewing the inevitable safety procedures for boating in the Mississippi's waters, the call of "Touché awayyyy!" by none other than was the call to cast off and get underway.

Huckleberry Hound couldn't have said it better in observing that "what could feel more interesting than to just spend a couple days on the river living the houseboat life ... even if it means the likes of Boost for breakfast?"

"At any rate, folks," Dum-Dum was quick to note, "Bristlehound and I decided on meal-replacement shakes for breakfast more than anything. Especially when the desire is to get out on the river with as little mess as possible after breakfast."

"Even allowing for recycling," Bristlehound added.

Still, even if the supper was mainly a bag of wholemeal tortilla chips with some salsa in the bargain as we made bivouac for the night on some sandbar on the Wisconsin side of the river. Just be thankful for the deck chairs to provide some sleep, and just hope the trains don't keep you all too awake.

*************

@warnerbrosentertainment @iheartgod175 @ultrakeencollectionbreadfan @jellystone-enjoyer @artistic-octopus @passionateclown @archive-archives @themineralyoucrave @screamingtoosoftly @thylordshipofbutts @thebigdingle @warnerbros-blog1 @colorfulsaccharinecalamity @gravy-sammich @theweekenddigest @indigo-corvus @zodiacfan32 @warnerbrosent-blog

[kvetchlandia]

Harold Chapman     Peter Orlovsky and Allen Ginsberg at the Beat Hotel, Paris 1957

When ever Minnerbia gets on the subway I get off – shes so fat & covered with all kinds of slime even the air shreeks & curles away from her. She warms ink print off old papers she handles & there at night on the platform she sleeps, her bum snowey head pushed into night alone in the tunnel. In the wake of the scream she dreams of her last baby, her golden brown patato leg fat tonight covered by green, her teeth brush dream is the one she loves most.

-- Peter Orlovsky, “Fantasy Of My Mother Who’s Always On Welfare,” New York City  1959

To Frank O’Hara

Sometimes when my eyes are red

I go up on top of the RCA Building

         and gaze at my world, Manhattan—

                    my buildings, streets I’ve done feats in,

                          lofts, beds, coldwater flats

—on Fifth Ave below which I also bear in mind,

         its ant cars, little yellow taxis, men

              walking the size of specks of wool—

  Panorama of the bridges, sunrise over Brooklyn machine,

         sun go down over New Jersey where I was born

            & Paterson where I played with ants—

  my later loves on 15th Street,

         my greater loves of Lower East Side,

            my once fabulous amours in the Bronx  

                                       faraway—

  paths crossing in these hidden streets,

     my history summed up, my absences  

            and ecstasies in Harlem—

     —sun shining down on all I own

      in one eyeblink to the horizon

              in my last eternity—

                                    matter is water.

Sad,

     I take the elevator and go

            down, pondering,

and walk on the pavements staring into all man’s

                                          plateglass, faces,

            questioning after who loves,

     and stop, bemused

            in front of an automobile shopwindow

     standing lost in calm thought,

            traffic moving up & down 5th Avenue blocks behind me  

                     waiting for a moment when ...

Time to go home & cook supper & listen to

                     the romantic war news on the radio  

                                    ... all movement stops

& I walk in the timeless sadness of existence,  

     tenderness flowing thru the buildings,

            my fingertips touching reality’s face,

     my own face streaked with tears in the mirror  

            of some window—at dusk—

                                    where I have no desire—

     for bonbons—or to own the dresses or Japanese  

                     lampshades of intellection—

Confused by the spectacle around me,

         Man struggling up the street

                    with packages, newspapers,

                                          ties, beautiful suits  

                    toward his desire

         Man, woman, streaming over the pavements  

                    red lights clocking hurried watches &  

                           movements at the curb—

And all these streets leading

         so crosswise, honking, lengthily,

                           by avenues

         stalked by high buildings or crusted into slums

                           thru such halting traffic

                                          screaming cars and engines  

so painfully to this

         countryside, this graveyard

                    this stillness

                                          on deathbed or mountain  

         once seen

                           never regained or desired

                                          in the mind to come

where all Manhattan that I’ve seen must disappear.

--Allen Ginsberg,  “My Sad Self,” New York City   1958

[bolton-buried]

Here’s to an official second episode.

[[Video begins:

White text on a black background opens the video. It reads “Apologies for the quality of today’s video being substandard. Today’s subject was rather against being understood. —HB”

Then the video proper starts on a subway in the tube. Charlotte is seated next to Angie, in what seems to be an otherwise empty train car. Charlotte speaks, while Angie looks to be sulking.

“Today’s tip was from one of our patrons who requested to remain anonymous. A mysterious stop on the CIR route, that opens into a bustling junction that could rival Kings Cross. The problem? There seem to be no stairs to the surface, and none of the departing trains are real. We haven’t nailed down what causes this to manifest, but we’ll figure it out.”

The video recording distorts into static nonsense, before seeming to reform with a shot of a station. Angie and Charlotte have their backs to the camera, and Dez is right behind them. The recording is still imperfect and somewhat staticky.

Dez turns to the camera. “Do you remember getting off the train?” A pause, then he hums and starts to walk, moving as though trying to avoid running into people in a crowd. The rest of the team follows him. The footage fades to static again.

When it comes back into something recognizable, Angie is walking, facing the camera.

“Can you feel it? They don’t have souls. I can sense it, all these people…”

Harold responds, “Yeah, Angie, they probably don’t, but they also don’t have faces and I think that’s really the more important thing here. Just say your line.”

“It feels like we’ve been walking for hours, but every device here that should measure time, it, well.”

Angie lifts her phone to show the clock on the Lock Screen, which proudly displays that it’s 72 minutes past W.

The camera pans to Dez as he starts speaking, walking backwards to face it. Other than him, Charlotte, and Angie, the station appears to be empty.

“I think it’s fairly clear that we’re in some manifestation of the Spiral, maybe based in a kind of fear of getting lost in a subway system. They can be confusing, especially to a lot of people who didn’t grow up with them, so a manifestation that preys on that fear would make sense.”

Charlotte responds, not turning to face the camera and continuing to walk around invisible people.

"Sure, but there's got to be a way out. Otherwise how would we have gotten that tip?"

"That would make sense..." Dez trails off in thought. The video distorts out of visibility.

His voice rings through the static again before the video comes back.

"Hey, puddles, check this!"

The footage comes back in, Dez is facing the camera, pointing off screen.

"There's a... I swear, there was. Just a second ago."

As he talks, his face falls.

Charlotte speaks from off screen.

"There's a way to crack this. There has to be a way through. Nothing else makes sense."

Dez sighs.

"It's Spiral, it won't be making sense."

The tail end of his sentence falls to static. This time, rather than fading back in, it cuts to a talking head of Dez, sighing with his fingers against the bridge of his nose.

"I kept seeing those stairs out. Every time that no one else was looking, I'd see stairs back into sunlight, then it'd be gone once someone else turned to see. So I did what I do. I thought."

He straightens.

"We were in a manifestation of the Spiral, born out of the fear people have of losing their way and being unable to navigate an unfamiliar place. Between the four of us, with Charlotte's determination to find the way out, Harold's stubbornness that things have to make sense-"

"Hey!"

Dez continues. "-and Angie's beliefs that she has a higher understanding of things, I was the only one not looking for a way out. I wasn't afraid of losing my way, because I know that there isn't a way. It's the Spiral, it's not going to make sense. So I wasn't feeding into the fear."

Dez laughs brightly.

"I was giving the damn thing indigestion, and the stairs were it trying to spit me out. Took a while to get everyone out with me."

The video cuts back into the static. Charlotte is speaking.

"I found a map."

She opens it to the camera as it fades into view. The notation is not in any legible language, and there are so many pinpoints of different shapes and colors haphazardly arranged that it could be mistaken for a late Monet.

Dez's voice rings out over the light static.

"Okay, new game!"

Harold speaks from behind the camera.

"Hey, what are you-"

A light kissing noise cuts him off.

Angie, still offscreen, speaks next.

"My hair! I can't see."

"Don't touch it. Hold Harry's hand."

Dez steps on screen and pulls off Charlotte's glasses.

"You know I'm farsighted, what's that-"

"Hold Angie's hand in one hand, mine in the other. I'm leading now!"

The video fades back to static. Then Desmond cuts in as a talking head again.

"If they were blinded, that means they're not looking for a way out, so they're not afraid they won't find one. Makes sense? Not really, but it doesn't have to. If you find yourself in King's Uncrossed station, the exit is only there when you're not looking for it, so bear that in mind. Peace!"

It looks like the video is ending, but then the credits cut out, replaced by a room lit with pink LED lights.

Desmond comes on screen, holding the camera to himself.

“I don’t know why I’m putting all of these on the ends of the Hunting Hauntings episodes. I guess I never learned how to be someone without an audience. I would tell Harry, but. He’s been so happy lately, and I can’t take that from him. Anyway, brass tacks.

“I’m being followed. I see it. Everywhere. In the corner of my eye. In the shadows. If it’s another fear, it’s paranoia incarnate. A world away from the paranormalities of my past.

“I want to know what it is. I want it lain bare in front of me, but I’ll settle for the next best thing. I want it gone. And I see two routes for that.

“When Harold was 11, an avatar of the Hunt had his sights set, and he escaped by falling into a river—the Buried. Then later, when the girls were in that book—the Vast—Harry destroyed it by exposing it to the Buried’s energy. I may be able to escape my stalker by turning to another fear, but I can’t until I know which fear it is—otherwise I’d risk exacerbating the issue.

“The other way I see it is… risky. Harry’s dad is a hunt avatar who has killed multiple beings of the other powers. If I can get my stalker into the same place as him, I could retrigger his ‘wolf’ state, and he’ll kill the stalker for me.

“I’ll update with the next episode.”

End video.]]

[coffee-n-bagels-comic-universe]

Self-Indulgent Series December: Granite Hills

It's December, and that means I get to be self-indulgent and give myself gifts, mainly the gift of looking at actors I like.

I give you my series of self-indulgence, Granite Hills (1990):

~~💀💀~~

Set in 1980 in the fictional town of Mudslide, Wisconsin, mainly at the Granite Hills university. This cast will be a mix of actors who would and wouldn't be available at the time.

The Show's Cast Includes:

Alfred Molina as Angel Ramon Vega [Age: 24]

Anjelica Huston as Sandy Cherry Lawson [Age: 26]

Billy Connolly as Professor Darwin Derryl Rigby [Age: 40]

Billy Crystal as Jethro Mephisto Butcher [Age: 25]

Brendan Fraser as Dallas Nathaniel Gray [Age: 23]

Carrie Fisher as Veronica Beverly Chambers [Age: 21]

Cary Elwes as Easton Markos White [Age: 27]

Chris Barrie as Douglass Wilfred Bernard [Age: 20]

Christina Applegate as Storm Hekla Jóhannsson [Age: 18]

Christopher Walken as Professor Karl Cai Lowell [Age: 40]

Craig Charles as Chuck Vance Sheppard [Age: 21]

Dan Aykroyd as Cesar Clay Leon [Age: 23]

Danny John-Jules as Quentin Kingston Hollister [Age: 21]

Daryl Hannah as Bernadette Daphne Jordan [Age: 24]

Diane Lane as Saffron Elouise Mason [Age: 19]

Fran Drescher as Monique Joanne Curtis [Age: 22]

Geena Davis as Erin Kermit Cantrell [Age: 28]

Gunnar Hansen as Thor Hjörtur Jóhannsson [Age: 48]

Harold Ramis as Edmund Morgan Blackburn [Age: 29]

Jack Black as Odin Hrafn Jóhannsson [Age: 21]

Jeff Bridges as Professor Kennedy Troy Gill [Age: 40]

Joe Pesci as Professor Jeremiah Emmit Jekyll [Age: 40]

John Belushi as Julian Noel Hood [Age: 25]

John Candy as Dale Randall Newman [Age: 26]

John Cusack as Andrew Simon Garfield [Age: 23]

John Goodman as Cyrus Lars Nielsen [Age: 27]

John Leguizamo as Alijah Mrlon Cross [Age: 29}

Judd Nelson as Colton Kenelm Coy [Age: 19]

Katey Sagal as Ramona Adrienne Dunn [Age: 25]

Kevin Bacon as Brad Nathan Hardy [Age: 25]

Kiefer Sutherland as Trenton Homer Abbey [Age: 21]

Luis Guzmán as Jaxxon Garrett Flores [Age: 29]

Mandy Patinkin as Elishua Saul Zebedaios [Age: 28]

Matt Dillon as Dennis Waylon Marley [Age: 20]

Matthew Lillard as Alexander Buddy Jones [Age: 19]

Oliver Platt as Ruben Manuel Valdez [Age: 22]

O'Shea Jackson (Sr.) as Tyrese Jordan Maxwell [Age: 18]

Philip Seymour Hoffman as Parris Hayes Grant [Age: 19]

Raul Julia as Professor Marcel Gomez Agua [Age: 40]

Ray Winstone as Holden Montgomery Lynn [Age: 27]

River Phoenix as Kent Horace Woodward [Age: 18]

Robin Williams as Jaycee Aramis Ellis [Age: 26]

Sean Young as Maxine Jade Upton [Age: 26]

Stanley Tucci as Luke Robin Flynn [Age: 22]

Steve Buscemi as Hugh Chester Sweeney [Age: 25]

Tom Hanks as Mark Everett Shaw [Age: 20]

Tony Shalhoub as Orlando Jaime Guerrero [Age: 25]

Val Kilmer as Earl Blue Dior [Age: 29]

Wayne Knight as Osborne Finnegan Jarvis [Age: 28]

William Baldwin as Theodore Joshua Ball [Age: 20]

Willem Dafoe as Terry Roosevelt Jepson [Age: 27]

[freedomfireflies]

404*

Summary: The one where you and Harry are software engineers on a project for Juno Inc.

And you can’t fucking stand each other.

Word Count: 2.6k

*Contains Mature and Explicit content! Please only consume what you feel comfortable with!💞You are so much more important!*

(Note: This edit is not mine!! I believe the @ is on it, but full credit to the incredible creator! It's so perfect!!)

“What the hell are you still doing here?”

Your eyes never leave the computer screen as Harry’s familiarly snippy question echoes across the empty lab. “Working,” you answer simply.

He snorts as the door falls shut behind him. “It’s two in the fucking morning, I thought you left hours ago.”

“I did. And then I came back.”

You vaguely hear him walk further into the dark room, slipping around the different tables as he moseys his way closer. “Why?”

“S’this fucking sequence,” you mumble, now glaring at the different variants that litter the test. “Every time I run the simulation, the connection fails. And it shouldn’t.”

Your peripheral catches the way he uses his knuckle to push his glasses further up the bridge of his nose. “Is there a missing link?”

“There shouldn’t be. I’ve run it before, and it’s worked fine. But now it’s not. It’s like something is broken.”

“Or missing,” he argues, coming to a stop behind your chair. He studies the project from over your shoulder, and you feel your muscles recoil when you get a whiff of his cologne. “There could be something wrong with the back end.”

“Okay, well, there’s not,” you retort, shooting him a quick glare. “I already checked.”

“Well maybe you missed it. You have a tendency to misplace things.”

“I didn’t misplace it, Harold, I studied every inch of that fucking code, and there was nothing broken or missing.”

He leans back, arms crossing as he regards both you and the program. “Maybe you should check it again.”

“And maybe you should bite me,” you huff, too overworked to deal with the snarky attitude. “I really don’t have time for this today, all right? Can you just leave me to it?”

“I’d like to, but clearly you don’t know what you’re doing,” he replies calmly, and even without looking at him, you can sense his smug smile. “Every time I leave you to it, I come back to find out you’ve wrecked our project.”

Your eyes roll. “First of all, it’s not our project. It’s my project. And second…why are you even here? I thought you had shit to do tonight.”

“I did, but I’m done now.”

“Oh, so, naturally you came back just to annoy me?”

“Naturally.” He places his hand on the desk beside you and leans down, hovering near your arm as he glances over the computer. “There could be something wrong with the framework. Try the sequence again, I wanna see how it behaves.”

“No thanks.”

Harry smirks, and you realize you don’t like how close his face is. “Relax, Tinkerbell, I just wanna help.”

“And I don’t want your help,” you remind him, using your elbow to shove him to the side. “I’ve spent months with this program, it’s my baby, and I will fix it alone.”

“We’re supposed to be working together,” he argues, but it’s much too coy. “So stop being such a bitch and just run the goddamn sequence.”

You snort under your breath as you spin around in your chair to look at him. “It was that bad, huh?”

He settles back against the table behind him, hands shoving into his pockets as he stares right back. “What was bad?”

“The sex.” You jut your chin toward him. “The thing you had to do tonight. It was bad enough that you had to come back here and start swinging your dick around just to feel better.”

He smirks, tongue running over his bottom lip. “It was fine.”

“Fine? Gee, how romantic.”

He exhales an amused laugh and glances around the lab. “She was still hung up on her ex. Think it lasted all of fifteen minutes, and I’m pretty sure she faked it.”

“Well, she was having sex with you. Of course she faked it.”

His smile gets a bit bigger. “Well, I faked it, too.”

“You?” you scoff. “No way. She could have sneezed on your cock, and you still would have cum.”

His head shakes, grinning wildly. “Normally, yeah. But we both just wanted to get out of there.”

“Poor girl.”

“Yeah? What about poor me?”

“Oh, I never feel sorry for you. You always find a way to get what you want eventually.”

His head tilts, green eyes sparkling behind the tortoiseshell frames of his glasses. “Do I?”

“Clearly.” You settle back into your chair, legs crossing. “I mean, have you ever heard the word no in your life?”

“Hear it all the time with you.”

“Exactly. I’m doing you a favor.”

“Oh, really?”

“Yeah. I’m keeping you humble.”

“Is that right?”

“It is.”

That smug look of endearment returns as the lab falls silent. He watches you for quite some time, and you think that you’d pay anything to hear what he’s really thinking.

Then, he smirks. “Good,” he says, and with that, he’s pushing off the desk and striding to you.

He bridges the five-foot gap between you with ease, and you aren’t even afforded the chance to take a breath before he’s grabbing hold of your face and kissing you.

His large body bends in order to reach you in the chair, but you can feel him tugging on you. Encouraging you up and into his hold as you gasp against his mouth and allow him to help you stand.

It’s a seamless dance. Familiar. He grabs onto your hips and slams you onto the desk, knocking a few pens and some of the various equipment out of the way.

His hands are sliding up your shirt. Memorizing the expanse of your skin as his lips press into your neck. Nipping and sucking just below your ear in the way he knows you love.

Your fingers have disappeared into his curls. They’re soft and oddly comforting. Perfect to tug on as you whimper gently and arch your back. Pressing your tits against his chest as he groans.

“Can I tell you a secret?” he murmurs, now sliding his hand toward the zipper on your jeans.

You nod quickly, mewling as you practically buck into his touch.

He smiles, mouth trailing across your jaw, “I was thinking about someone else, too.”

Your lashes flutter shut.

“The whole time,” he carries on, rough fingertips dancing down the front of your underwear. “When I was with her. Couldn’t think about anybody else but you. Every time she’d whine or say my name, I thought about how you’d do it. How you’d sound, how you’d feel.”

Your nails scratch down his black t-shirt, needing more than anything to feel his skin. See it littered with your marks. Your claim.

“She could never do it right,” he tells you, and it makes your stomach wrench. “Never do it like you.”

“Yeah?” you manage to breathe, wiggling in an effort to help him yank your pants down. “S’that why you couldn’t get hard?”

He grins as he flicks his belt undone. “Who says I couldn’t get hard?”

With a rather determined tug, he shoves your panties to the side, large hands stroking through your folds.

“Because if I’m thinking about you,” he whispers, eyes trained on your cunt, “I’m always fucking hard.”

You whine when he thrusts inside, two fingers to start. He’s rarely gentle, but you love it. And so does he, obsessed with the image of your pussy stretching around him. Any part of him. His tongue, his hands, his cock.

He’s bigger than most, and he always makes sure to prep you before he gives you what you really want. Granted, he taunts you with the idea of ruining you and splitting your poor cunt in half each time. Driving himself to the hilt before your tight little hole is ready. He likes the idea of corrupting you for someone else. 

“Relax,” he instructs, soft but firm. “S’gonna hurt a lot more if you don’t.”

You drop your head back and balance yourself on your hands, legs pushed open by his hips. “I’m trying,” you whimper, just to see his jaw clench.

“Gonna have to try harder,” he says, working his fingers into your wet cunt while his glasses slowly begin to slip down his nose. Settling at a crooked angle, and it makes you smile. “Can’t give you my cock if you don’t.”

You push your lips into a pout. “Please, Har.”

He looks up, the veins in his neck prominent as he seems to swallow another groan. “You’re so tight, Tink. Gonna wreck this pretty pussy if I don’t get you stretched.”

“Good,” you moan, thighs shaking as he brings a third finger closer. “Want you to.”

He grins. “Yeah?”

You nod fervently. “Want you to do whatever you want. I’m always good for you. Always fit you.”

“You do,” he agrees quietly, the heel of his hand pressing into your clit as he works through your arousal at a quicker pace. “Always take me so well. Even when it makes you cry.”

You whine again at the thought as he finally yanks his fingers free and moves to retrieve his cock. 

You’re nearly salivating at the idea, scooting toward the edge of the table in preparation as he pulls himself out and steps up to you.

Your eyes widen when you see him. Hard and heavy in his hand, leaking the most delicious looking drops of pre-cum that you’re already thrilled he never offered this other girl.

He runs the tip through your folds a time or two, making you both squirm before he gently begins to push in.

You have to give him props for the amount of restraint he always demonstrates for you. The ability to go slow and be delicate despite the fact all he wants to do is ram himself inside you and settle into your warm cunt.

Like now. You can see the effects of such sluggish movements, the way he holds himself back until he’s sure you’ll be all right. Teeth gritting, muscles tensed, cock throbbing.

You reach out and gently slide his glasses back up, making sure they’re comfortable and that he can see all right before kissing him. “Okay…okay, go.”

He kisses you back quickly before studying you. “Are you sure?”

“Yeah,” you whimper, hooking your leg around his hip. “Need it, Har, please.”

And that’s all it takes for him to sheath himself inside your aching pussy, disappearing completely between your legs as you both moan.

The quiet lab isn’t so quiet anymore, and you throw your arms around his neck as he begins to pull out and push back in.

“There she is,” he grunts, large hand squeezing your thigh to keep you still. “Look at you, Tink, taking me so well.”

“Always,” you exhale, pressing your mouth to his cheek. 

“Better than she ever was,” he continues, setting a quicker rhythm now. “So much better.”

He’s pounding you into the desk, hitting spots that make you see stars, and you clench around him until he gasps.

“Funny how well you take me…when you claim to hate me so much,” he says now, unable to resist needling you, and you whimper.

“I do,” you insist, despite the way you scratch down his back. “Fucking hate you.”

“Yeah?” His hips snap to yours. “S’that why you always beg for my cock?”

You don’t like the insinuation that you beg him for anything, especially when you know that he’s right. But you’re too far gone right now to take care, equally as depraved of pleasure as he seems to be.

The two of you don’t do this often. Maybe once or twice a month, if that. Most of the time, it’s incredibly unfriendly. A quick fuck in the supply closet or in his car in the parking lot. In between quippy remarks about how fucking unhinged the other is. How idiotic, and uncouth, and how goddamn annoying.

Because he is. So endlessly annoying and every day you have to resist the urge to slap those fucking glasses off his face.

But he knows how to fuck. That much is certain, and despite your immeasurable hatred for him, you can’t help but fall victim to his prowess.

In fact, moments like this are about the only time you don’t mind him. That you can actually stand him, and even want to submit to him.

Of course, you’re filled with regret and embarrassment the second you’re both finished, but for these few minutes…you don’t mind.

“Every fucking day,” he continues, holding onto your waist as he buries his cock deeper. “Have to watch you parade around like you’re fucking God’s gift to technology.”

You’d snort if you had enough air in your lungs to do so. 

“In your fucking tight little tank tops and see through dresses,” he seethes, dragging you back to the edge of the desk to angle you the way he likes. “With your hair always up in that stupid ponytail. Just begging to be pulled. To be yanked onto your knees while you take me down your throat.”

Your eyes roll back as you keen into his body. Memories of swallowing around him flooding your mind as you shiver.

Despite his aggravating remarks, he’s always so proud of you when you take his cock down your throat. He knows it’s a lot and he knows he can’t force you to do anything your body isn’t equipped to handle.

But he’s enamored with the way you try. Pleased to see you lick him, suck him, take as much of him as you can. He might hate you, but he praises you more than anybody else ever has.

And it’s one of the main reasons you can’t quit him.

“Then maybe…you shouldn’t look,” you pant, whimpering when he thrusts particularly hard. “I don’t wear that shit for you.”

He snorts, now grabbing onto your wrist and forcing your hand against your clit. He moves your fingers for you, pressing them into the sensitive nerves until you cry out and clamp down on him again.

“No?” he taunts, cock twitching inside you as he nears his release. “Then who do you wear it for, hm? Fucking Sam?”

You make another noise as he pushes your body into more immense pleasure, touch still locked atop yours.

“No, not Sam,” he decides. “Cause Sam can’t do it the way I can. S’why you came to me, isn’t it?”

You don’t dignify this with a response. You don’t have to. He knows.

“Sam can’t make you cum, can he?” Harry continues, almost vengefully as he feels you get closer. “Never fucking could. That’s why you only cum for me.”

It’s blinding. So intense that it makes your entire body ache as you fall victim to the wave of pleasure pulling you under.

He’s right behind you, spilling into your cunt before spilling out of it. Dripping down your legs, down the table, down his thighs as you both ride each other through the bliss.

He doesn’t let you release your clit for at least a good two minutes after, ignoring your pleas for mercy as your body struggles against the sensation.

It’s overwhelming. Hot, sticky, sweaty. He pulls out to go grab a towel from the supply closet before bringing it back and helping you clean up. 

He leaves a few teasing licks to your cunt in the process, and you swat your hand across his head in warning.

He smirks.

Once he’s finished, he pulls your jeans back on and up before tucking himself into his pants to do the same. 

Then, after helping you hop down, he offers you a lopsided grin and pushes his glasses back up.

“Now,” he says coyly, “go be a good girl and run the fucking sequence.”

Next Part:

~ Off the Shelf* (pt. 2)

~ Full 404 Masterlist

~ Main Masterlist

~ Blurb Masterlist

Taglist: @walkingintheheartbreaksatellite @keepdrivingkisses @swiftmendeshoran @tiredinwinter @straightontilmornin @justlemmeadoreyou @harrysdaydreams @tiaamberxx @peterparker1sgf @myfavfanficsever @littlenatilda @vamprry @fdl305 @tchalametishot @ssaama @indierockgirrl @likeapplejuicenpeach @vane28282

[fantabulosogamedev]

Fantaria Release: The First Cerulean Vault

Hey folks!

I’m excited to announce the release of a formerly backer-exclusive demo: the first Cerulean Vault!  Cerulean Vaults are a gameplay feature planned for Fantaria, which take the form of miniature challenge levels that Capboy encounters throughout his journey.  The world progression of Fantaria is current under some heavy renovating, but the vaults will be unlocked through rare collectibles found in the main levels - think along the lines of secret exits in Super Mario World.

This specific Cerulean Vault is focused on the sliprail grinding mechanic, a unique movement mechanic where Capboy utilizes his slipspace energy to grind along rails at high speeds.  While sliprails will be incorporated throughout the rest of the game, the high density of them in this Cerulean Vault really showcases some of the fun movement you can experience with them.

This vault was the testing bed for the first implementation of sliprail grinding, and with help from the backers I polished it into a state that people were quite happy with!  I’m excited to release this demo to the public and see what the wider community thinks.

You can find the demo by clicking here.  Note that this demo is primarily focused on the sliprail grinding mechanic, and some core mechanics such as leveling up and combat are not present at all in this demo.  However, a time trial mechanic exists for players who want to push the movement to its limits - share your times with your friends and compete to see who can beat it the fastest!

---

While we’re here, lemme talk about the new project a bit too! Progress on it is going quite quickly, and I’m hoping to be able to announce it properly in the next couple of weeks.  For the time being, here’s a teaser for one of the NPCs you’ll encounter in it:

This NPC, who goes by the name of Harold, is actually one of the backer characters from Fantaria!  Created and sketched out by Alonaria, he’ll be present in both games, but you’ll likely see him in this new project first.  You’ll be able to encounter him as you play the new game and pay him to steal resources from other players...I guess I haven’t mentioned yet, this new project is focused on online competitive multiplayer!  We’ll take a closer look at Harold once this game is revealed and once he has a proper 3D model.

For any other backers who want to, I’d be very interested in working together to incorporate your characters into this new project as well - let’s cross that bridge once the project’s fully announced, however!

---

That should be it for this update!  Hopefully you guys enjoy the Cerulean Vault demo.  I’m excited to hear your thoughts on it!

[set-phasers-to-whump]

i'll be right beside you now, and i'll keep you warm

prompt: falling through the ice

whumpee: john reese

fandom: person of interest

hi! here's another poi fic (i'm still only on s2 so if characterization is a bit wonky we know why) anyway this is kind of pre-ship john/harold but also not necessarily. idk. i never know lol. hope you like it!! (title from into the storm by banners)

At around 3:00 on a frigid, damp January morning, John Reese is pushed off of a pedestrian footbridge that crosses a frozen lake in Central Park. 

John orients himself in the air during the few seconds of his fall, aiming his shoulder at the ice in order to tuck and roll. 

His shoulder hits the hard ice and he does start to roll, and then there’s a loud crunching and cracking sound and before he can react, the ice splinters beneath him and he’s plunged into the freezing water. 

Certain things are harder to deal with. Things like gunshot wounds and torture - you’re prepared for those. And then you experience them once or twice in the field, and you’re ready for the pain and can mitigate the shock. 

Crashing through ice and into freezing water is not something that John has ever prepared for. The cold takes his breath away, and his clothes quickly grow heavy, dragging him under. There is hardly any light coming from above the water’s surface, and he can’t tell which way is up. 

His muscles are all tensed up but he’s shaking at the same time. He can’t breathe and his chest hurts and for that matter so does his shoulder. But he knows how to survive without breath, at least for a little while. He forces the instinctive, animalistic, afraid part of his brain to calm down, and looks for a way out. 

The faint glow of street lights reflects around him, seeming to come from all directions at once. But if he focuses his eyes, as much as he’s able to while underwater, he can see which lights don’t seem to be reflecting. From this, he knows which direction is up, and he swims. 

He reaches out a hand when he nears the surface and comes into contact with what feels like a sheet of solid ice. But his impact with the surface of the lake must have destroyed a fairly large amount of this ice, so he carefully swims around the area, hands pressed to the ice above him, until at last there’s a break in it, and one of his hands sticks out into the air. 

He swims upwards, and at last his head breaks the surface. He sucks in a deep gasping breath that burns his chest like fire with none of the warmth. 

John hauls himself up out of the water slowly and carefully. His palms get scraped up on the rough, shattered edges of the ice, and he can feel the warmth of his own blood against his freezing skin. 

He keeps himself low and flat on the ice, inching forwards on his elbows until he’s fully out of the water. From there, he army-crawls towards the shore, stopping every few seconds when the ice creaks and groans ominously below him. 

He makes it to shore without falling through again, and at long last hauls his tired, aching, freezing body onto dry land. He allows himself a single second of doing nothing, of lying there flat on his stomach, shivering, breathing hard and struggling not to start coughing. 

Then he’s back into action. He looks around. His target - the man he’d been pursuing, the man he’d gotten into a fight with on the bridge, the man who’d pushed him over - is nowhere to be seen. The park is completely deserted. Only the quiet sounds of the city and the faint rustling of the wind tell him that anything else exists. 

He needs to find his target again. But he’s soaking wet and at least a little bit bloody, and his electronics have surely all been ruined by his plunge into the lake. He has to go back to the library before he can do anything else. 

And so he gets to his feet. His body protests - it’s so cold - but he pushes past it. He’s used to this kind of thing. He has to keep going. 

He walks. Coordination is difficult with how hard he’s shaking. His lungs are burning. But it’s not that bad - he’s weathered far worse. This is only a bit of cold. 

He staggers through the city like a drunk man, like a dying man, and after an eternity of walking, the library comes into view. He has never been so glad to see it. 

And just like that, he falls. His foot catches on a curb and his reflexes are too slow to stop himself and then he’s sprawled out on the sidewalk, thoroughly exhausted and only a step away from unconsciousness. He doesn’t have the strength, the coordination, the breath, to get back up. 

He lies there on the cold sidewalk, shivering, feeling himself slipping closer and closer to unconsciousness, unable to do anything against it. 

And then there are hands on his shoulders - it takes him a long time to realize this, their presence all but unnoticeable over the sheer coldness. 

“John!”

It’s this, more than the hands themselves, that really gets through to him. His name. The concern with which it’s uttered. 

He lifts his head and sees him, half illuminated by a flickering street light. 

“Hey, Harold,” he says, or at least tries to say. His tongue doesn’t want to obey his brain. Everything is just numb. 

“We need to get you inside. Can you stand?”

He doesn’t know. He should be able to. He has to be able to. 

Finch’s presence helps. Gives him a bit of strength. And so he shoves himself up off of the ground, his already-raw palms scraping against the concrete. Finch keeps a hand on his arm, helping as much as he’s able to. 

John makes it to his feet. He’s still shaking and it’s hard to balance, but Harold is here and the library is close by and so everything will be alright. He tells himself this as he walks, slowly and deliberately and with Harold’s hand on his arm, the whole way back. 

Inside, the library is almost painfully warm. Harold guides John through the halls to a bathroom, which at some point or another has had a shower installed. 

“Take off your wet clothes, please,” Harold says, and there’s a brusque note to his voice that doesn’t entirely cover up the way it trembles. 

John does nothing for a second, just stands and watches Harold turn on the shower, mourning the loss of the hand on his arm. 

And then the orders he’s been given sink into his brain, and he slowly begins to undress, peeling off his soaking suit. 

By the time he’s gotten his wet clothes off, the shower is ready. 

“It’s not too warm,” Harold says, looking respectfully away from him. “Your body needs to get reacclimated to the heat. Take it slow, and turn up the temperature when you feel ready. I’ll be outside.”

And with that, he turns and walks away, pulling the door closed but not entirely shutting it. 

John steps into the shower. Even this barely lukewarm water stings his cold skin. He forces himself to endure it, and after a moment it becomes bearable, almost pleasant. He turns the temperature up slightly, then sinks to the floor and leans against the shower wall, where he slowly and carefully cleans the blood off of his palms. 

The warm water flows over him, and slowly, after a few more temperature increases, John stops shivering. The warmth permeates him down to the bones, and when he at last stands back up to turn off the water, he’s pleased to note that the majority of his coordination has returned. 

He gets out of the shower and dries himself off, noting with some surprise that there are fresh clothes on the counter. He doesn’t remember if they had been there before, doesn’t recall Harold coming in with them. This is worrying. He should know. 

But he doesn’t, and he’s exhausted, so he can only worry about this particular problem for so long. Besides, wherever the clothes came from, they’re warm and soft and fit him exactly, even though he’s never seen them before. He gets dressed quickly, then pushes out through the door and into the hallway. 

Harold is there to meet him, and he looks almost pleased. 

“You look much better,” he says.

John nods. “I need to…need to go back out and -”

Harold holds up a hand, and John stops talking. “You’re not going anywhere. Detective Fusco will take care of your assailant, and, if you’re feeling better, we can resume work tomorrow or the day after.”

“But -”

“John. I found you nearly unconscious in the middle of the sidewalk. Fifteen minutes ago you were fairly hypothermic, and you look like you’re two seconds away from falling asleep. You are going to rest and recover. Myself and the detectives can keep things running for at least a day.”

And with that, Harold puts his hand back on John’s arm - he can actually feel the contact, the warmth of it now - and leads him to a bedroom. 

It’s the room John sometimes uses, at times when the two of them don’t leave the library for days on end. He likes this room. It’s secure. There is a thick comforter on the bed and in the mornings the sunrise pours through the little window and colors the room pink and orange and yellow.  

Harold doesn’t fully let go of John’s arm until he’s under that comforter, which feels even warmer than John remembers it being. Immediately he is drawn towards sleep. 

This is...this is...it’s nice. It’s so nice. The warmth and the familiarity and Harold’s hand on his arm and the clothes - sweatpants and a t-shirt and a hoodie and socks, none of which he’s seen before but which were clearly bought for him, and not for working, either - these are not things he’s used to. These are the kinds of things he hasn’t had in years. The kinds of things he isn’t supposed to want, shouldn’t be allowed to have. 

He can’t quite understand it. Harold doesn’t need to do this. Obviously he needs John alive and well, but this is more than that. This is comfort and care and it’s nice. 

It has been a very long time since someone was nice to him like this. It settles over him like another blanket, foreign and heavy but warm. 

He likes this. Even if he doesn’t deserve it. Even if he shouldn’t want it. 

“Sleep well, John,” Harold says softly. 

“Goodnight, Harold,” John mumbles, and he falls asleep to the thought of showers and blankets and what it means to feel safe and what it means to feel at home.

thanks for reading! hope you liked it and hope you had a good day <3

[lightcreators]

look at me meme / @tiimecrash​  

Rattle  of  the  movements  of  an  antique  clock  adorning  his  apartment,  in  a  pleasant  sound  that  echoed  in  unison,  surrounded  his  thoughts.  An  discrete  need  of  an  time  recollection,  for  someone  who  always  sensed  time  was  escaping  day  after  day  —  always  coming  late  when  he  thought  he  anticipated  well  his  moves,  who  watched  around  the  time  period  he  was  living  sometimes  with  an  distance  unexplained  sensations  …  An  stern  expression  who  noticed  day  after  day  moves  inside  an  society,  where  realization  of  the  bridge  he  was  part  of,  between  common  people  and  noblesse,  between  evolutions  and  advancement  to  come,  tourmented  silency  inside  how  much  he  could  impacting  his  world  …  As  he  sensed  all  the  time  an  shadowing  presence  behind  his  back,  when  crossing  shadows  inside  the  streets,  falling  inside  a  realm  of  complete  darkness  awakening  strange  unexpected  feelings  inside  of  him.  He  was  feeling  comfortable  inside  these  darkness,  and  someday,  an  name  seemed  resonated  endlessly  inside  his  head,  as  in  some  manner,  there  were  something  inside  his  mind  needed  to  been  explored.  James  Moriarty.  It  acted  like  a  memory.  It  acted  like  an  recollection.  Nevertheless,  sensed  it  was  always  something,  something  upcomping  —  It  was  for  the  moment  left  inside  his  portion  of  his  mind,  acting  inside  scientist  spheres,  searching  for  appreciated  hands  be  able  to  recognize  his  talent.  Maybe  what  he  thought  it  was  perceiving  inside  darkness  was  merely  an  impression  given  by  the  pressure  of  the  meeting  !  Maybe  he  was  simply  imagining  there  was  something  behind  their  darkness,  as  there  was  something  already  ruling  behind  that  dangerous  realm  !  Messy  apartement,  inside  an  environement  full  of  papers  and  newest  researches,  tried  to  take  advantage  of  the  new  studies  he  had  been  able  to  obtain.  It  was  supposed  to  be  a  usual  day,  another  peaceful  journey.  

Nevertheless,  four  drums  sounds,  who  apparently  resonating  coming  from  the  walls  themselves,  embraced  temporary  sounds  of  the  clock.  Once  more,  rationality  wanted  to  believe  it  must  had  been  coming  from  another  apartement,  or  maybe  did  something  broke  for  made  that  noise  —  but  it  resonated  once  more,  discreetly,  before  disapparearing.  For  some  reason,  that  sound  was  still  keeping  to  tourment  him.  For  some  reason,  he  was  followed  by  that  noise.  For  some  reason,  that  noise  —  that  noise  generated  an  sentiment  of  confusion,  that  noise  created  an  frustration  sentiment  he  cannot  explain  …  Slow  decomposure  of  his  features  inside  an  silenced  panic  forced  him  to  remember  he  wasn’t  alone.  Oh,  he  was  always  sorry  to  worry  his  beloved  Elisabeth  over  that  brutal  confusion  !    ❝  The  noise  …    ❞  It  was  the  only  thing  he  could  tell.  Confused  eyes  over  affectionate  one  of  his  lady,  of  the  affectionate  gesture  to  reassure  him.  He  was  always  doing  too  much,  given  to  himself  too  much  trouble  !    He  was  worried  over  details,  he  knew  that.  He  was  worried  over  everything,  he  knew  that  too  !  Apologies  were  expressed  by  an  lowered  down  gaze,  who  was  followed  by  her  hands  contact  over  his  face,  over  an  mutual  gaze  for  each  other.    ❝  These  obscures  drums  keep  following  me,  again  and  again  …  maybe  I’m  going  mad  …    ❞  Remembrance  over  an  young  man,  in  which  he  shared  the  name,  but  in  which  he  seemed  had  an  particular  distanced  outlook,  where  silent  stares  were  always  welcomed  by  the  young,  generated  further  confusion.  He  was  Harold  Saxon  —  senior  —  a  lord  who  was  doing  his  best  for  the  future  of  society  …  and  there  was  an  Harold  Saxon  Junior  who  watched  over  circumstances  inside  an  frustrated  gaze,  who  sometimes  pay  him  a  visit,  who  often  pay  them  a  visit  …  who  always  had  condescending  spark  inside  his  eyes.  Distasteful.

[thebugass]

Total Drama Questions

By @the-type-a

1. Favorite character & why? Courtney because of the simple fact that she slays. She terrifies me and intrigues me. What made you like this, Courtney? Are you aware that you're a wreck? Can I fix you? Are you okay? Questions that the show will choose to demonize Courtney over answering every time, but a boy an dream.

2. Favorite season? Season one

3. Worst season? ...All Stars

4. Otp? Courtney x Duncan

5. Top 3 couples? Courtney x Duncan, Harold x Lashawna, Alejandro x Heather

6. Create your own challenge. Kiss me...... please?

7. Describe your OC. My OCs a bug. He wouldn't do very well on total drama considering the fact that he's a bug. He wouldn't try either. He'd just bug the competition. What a lad.

8. Least fav character & why? Owen. I understand that he's the nostalgic face of the series, but dear lord, not one of his jokes has ever landed for me. If you're into fart jokes, good for you. I'm sick of it, and it's just gross for me. At least Justin had "I wouldn't know, math is for ugly people." I quote that daily. I'm also a huge Mike hater. As somebody with DID... oof. Can I have... better representation... please? I'll take anything at this point. Just don't make EVERY CHARACTER WITH DID EVIL STOP ITTTT. im the only evil one uwu :) WAIt NO I FORGOT ABOUT SIERRA. This list is going off the rails, I'm sorry. Sierra's 100% my least favorite, though. Isn't abuse and stalking FUNNY, guys? Isn't this horrible thing I had to deal with for years just absolutely HILARIOUS. Insert laughs here. No. I'm giving you judgmental stares, Fresh TV. You've been towing the line for a while, and Sierra just crossed it and then ran a few miles for good measure. Fuck you, Sierra.

9. Favorite challenge? The awakeathon. It was a down to earth, neat idea. Not to say I don't like the insane ideas from later, because I do, but it just felt so... normal. When they're getting mauled by bears, I can't relate. I CAN relate to being exhausted because please just let me sleep.

10. Do you have a favorite fan fic? Yes. You don't get to know what it is, though.

11. How old were you when you joined the fandom? Thirteen when I watched the show and fourteen when I began to stalk the fandom from the shadows.

12. Did you ever RP, if so, who? Never done a total drama RP, I'm afraid. The idea just has never appealed to me.

13. Top five girls? Am I allowed to list Courtney five times? No? Okay. Courtney, Heather, ...God, I have the Wiki pulled up. I do not like many of these poor people, do I? Bridgette's alright. I like Crimson because she has a cool design. Lashawna's a neat lass, too.

14. Top five guys? Duncan, Alejandro, Noah, Cody, and Harold.

15. Who would you join an alliance with? I'll take Bridgette or Gwen. Bridge is entirely useless and I'm not all that fond of Gwen, but they seem vaguely trustworthy. Don't let Gwen near your boyfriends, though.

16. Who would you wanna go against in the final two? Cody. I can beat Cody's ass. (Sorry Cody ily)

17. Underrated character? Courtney. Very popular character, but there is no height that she can reach that wouldn't be underrated for her magnificence.

18. Favorite TDWT song? THE ONE ABOUT BUG FUCKING. You see, I am a bug. I do not fuck bugs but you get my point. If I had one. I don't think I had a point.

19. Worst TDWT song? The racist Chinese one.

20. Is there another show you’d like to see a crossover with TD? I want a TD crossover with my OCs (non TD related) just because they'd be so concerned the entire time like "Your host just threw a shark at you are you ok" and everyone would be like "Oh no thats normal"

21. Favorite team (of any season)? The villians from all stars. Hate all stars and hate almost all of the characters but fuck if it isn't funny to shove every asshole into one house with poor Gwen.

22. Who do you think deserved to win at least once? C O U R T N E Y. She would invest the money. Responsible little gal.

23. Something you would change 100% from any season? TDWT Duncney breakup. And if that has to happen, TDAS Gwuncan breakup. I still want it to happen, but GOD. If that abomination of a ship is what you destroy my OTP for, what was the point. Oh. Drama. Right. Listen, if Duncney has to go out, let it go out for something good. Not whatever that two second long relationship was.

[izzysarchivedblogs]

Clint knows that admitting what he was feeling would basically saying the story of Tony's life. The man was one of the celebrity guys of the avengers, been dealing with being recognizable; known by people off the street and in public since he was child. He knows, for a fact, that the media and the government has tried to use the fact that Tony Stark, the Iron Man, was an alcoholic and than sober more often than once.

He had realized that he was going to have to face this scrutiny himself; risk having his name everywhere again. He recognized this once he had gotten into rehab, that he was lucky that Tony was paying for it. Hand selected where he was going. The people there all had their own varying degrees of worries, to which some confessed to in group, about their public image being sullied by their addiction.

It's not that Clint hasn't dealt with celebrity, public image, and reactions. Look at him joining the Avengers, being slammed with doubt because he was a criminal, never caught; public villain of Iron Man. Than there's the uproar when he was running with the Thunderbolts, his turning himself in and going to jail for the T-Bolts. Killing Bruce Banner, ensuring trial, and than the public praising him for that. RONIN, which he's looked online; seen the news articles and forums. It's not looking great.

Adding his alcoholism on top of the current stuff, that's going to hit in him a sore spot. It's a weakness, and Clint hates that it could be used to hurt him; when this was going to matter for him. SPEAKING NERVES CAME FROM ADMITTING TO WHO HE WAS. It may be anonymous, private, but it was still public people. Owning that he was going to get recognized, when he's deeply ashamed that he's the same as father in some degrees.

❝ Yeah, that's bothering me. ❞ He admits as Tony breaks down what Clint was going to face. ALL YOU CAN DO IS FOCUS ON YOU AND YOUR SOBRIETY. ❝ I know this isn't public and I don't really want to go public with THIS. I barely handled⸺ ❞ DRANK. thus did not handle. ❝ Public reaction to Bruce; and than of course, I'm going to see what's been said about me with Ronin. It's mistrust I am use to, deal with being a criminal to the media. ❞ Dealt with the fact that he has had to worry about, had his name been suggested to ruin and sully the Avengers image.

❝ BUT you know the public doesn't really know I come from where I am come from. ❞ He means the home life that he came from, it's not that he has hid it and that someone couldn't look into the Bartons, figure out that his father was an abusive drunk. LIKE FATHER, LIKE SON. It's why he didn't want to talk about the root of this, or bring it up and he's got plenty in his life that he could talk about but that weighted heavily on him. ❝ Y'know, HAROLD ⸻ Folks hear alcoholic, and get judgey, than some go looking. I don't wanna hear how I've become him. ❞

Clint supposes that Tony was right about all of that, knows that Tony handles this stuff a lot more than Clint ever has and probably ever will. He avoided that on the day to day, it had been better for him that way but than he knew the power of the media. He had to think about it constantly, twice as much, when he was running the Thunderbolts. He used the fact he was public-facing, to be seen and a spectacle, to make his Ronin lie more believable while he was getting drunk off gin at a charity event.

He does like the way that Tony puts what they are. ANOTHER STITCH. . . He was lucky for the fact that Tony and Carol had paved the way at this particular meeting. It does such that'll have to cross the Brooklyn bridge when he wanted when Clint moves home to Brooklyn. He knows he'll probably just find somewhere closer for himself, for convivence or more specifically emergency needs.

I WON'T SAY IT ⸺ ❝ Bullshit. ❞ Tony absolutely was going to say it. How could the man not? He's already starting to smile, bumps him in the shoulder. Clint is smiling back at him, though. ⸺⸻ GOOD NEWS. SEVEN FOR SEVEN. ❝ That's basically saying it; you'll have to drive to Brooklyn because should check out this one, since, it's a neighborhood over at my place. ❞ They had meeting on Sundays, this could be his Sunday place while he was here.

❝ Yeah, I'm feeling queasy about all of that; but, uh, you get what you needed off your chest too? ❞

Tony knew that feeling Clint was having well. There was something about being in meetings - even now - that the celebrity part added a nauseating aspect to. Rehab was different. Rehab for Tony (and Clint because Tony had paid for it), was a fancy medical facility full of people who if they didn't have some level of fame themselves were rich enough that being in close contact with fame wasn't a huge deal. Yeah - they might look at a superhero with a drinking problem as particularly problematic, but generally they were all there dealing with their own problem in the public eye. They knew what the pressures of fame could lead to and they were conscious of their own dirty laundry get aired out in public too.

But in a meeting it was supposed to be antonymous. They were all strangers who shared a problem trying to get through. Only Tony wasn't a stranger. He was the billionaire, playboy CEO who had gotten on the cover of Time when he was still a teenager. He was Iron Man. He was an Avenger. They were all anonymous. He was standing there in the spotlight and spilling his guts knowing full well there were people there who would want to get an autograph and a selfie, and others that would go home and tell someone close to them that you wouldn't believe who was at the meeting today and he said he'd piloted the suit drunk.

Now Clint was having to deal with that reality too. And so far it was okay. There were definitely people who had recognized him in a noticeable way, but they'd left him be. Maybe it was the fact that it was Carol and Tony's meeting, so they were just used to alcoholic superheroes now, but there was going to be a day that Clint showed up at a different meeting and everyone was going to start whispering behind their hands because it was HAWKEYE. HAWKEYE WAS AN ALCHOLIC.

"There were for sure people who knew who you were. I'd say everyone likely knew who you were, and if they hadn't clocked you before you spoke, they definitely know now. There's nothing you can do about that. You can't change the fact that some of them might go home and talk to their friends about it. You can't change that there might be some who lost their respect. All you can do is focus on you and your sobriety. This group is pretty good though. And you've had me and Carol going to have them all get used to the idea of Avengers having weaknesses too. And you know what? They're all dealing with their own shit. They're all there because they hit rock bottom. We're just another stitch in the fabric of people who aren't perfect and fuck up bad."

He hadn't expected Clint to suddenly change his mind about the Sunday. He bumped him gently with his shoulder, a smile crossing his features. "Yeah? I won't say it - but that's good news. Seven for seven."