Chaotic Contest, Funding Fallarbor


A few of the other coordinators produced subpar results with their introductions. In fact, one of them even broke into tears when her Zigzagoon did the wrong move and decided to sleep on stage. The other judges were kind and told her that it was okay, that these things happened. Caliban wasn’t much help; all he could do was laugh and tell the poor girl he didn’t know many “career girls” who sucked as bad as that.

“What’s gotten INTO you?” the female judge snapped. “Miles, this is appalling. You need to watch your tone!”

Caliban shrugged smugly and eased himself back. “I heard, you, Mom. Don’t get on my case too hard, alright? No one wants to hear it.”

One would need a decent amount of space to hide a person. As well as a place with few visitors, Harley would wager. This was a small contest, and Harley found that he wasn’t quite ‘home’ here. He didn’t know the halls, and couldn’t figure out exactly where he was going—just that he was going, and that his ears would probably be more useful than his eyes.

He couldn’t even hear the TVs anymore. Maybe I should go back and try something else. Harley never quit, mostly because he had an ego too large to let him, but he was certainly good at coming up with backup plans for his backup plans. And this might have been one of the moments he had chosen to do so had he not heard a very faint sound coming from behind him.

The coordinator turned. There were quite a lot of doors down this hallway. And now that he was really listening, he couldn’t hear a thing. Impatient, he tapped his fingers against his crossed arm, thinking that for once he may have just been hearing things. But no… it came again.

And it wasn’t a cry of a desperate person or even one who was trying to escape. It was tired and hopeless. This guy had probably screamed himself near to sleep, and even then, Harley was sure Caliban had been smart enough to use duct tape.

Geez, which door? Counting on this guy to repeat himself would be more time consuming than the other option, which was simply to start guessing.

(Source: fabulousharley)

Sweet Amends


Caliban’s grin went way too damn far. No one could take that man seriously unless the subject at hand was demolition. The judges hadn’t picked up on it until Caliban’s foul mouth got the better of him. Well, it was that and the fact that the judge he’d attempted to imitate, Miles, didn’t have a Forretress. Good old Napalm didn’t want to stay in his ball.

Here, in Harley’s home, the Magma Grunt had learned a few more tricks on how to keep his trigger-happy Forretress contained. Duct tape worked wonders. The last thing he wanted to do was make the place go boom.

“I just wanted to surprise my Harley-poo,” the pierced and inked-up man insisted. “Is that so wrong?”

"Of course not! Who could blame a person for wantin’ something?"

Well, if anyone could, it would have been Harley. In this particular case, he didn’t, but he did have plenty of unspoken problems with the execution. Harley considered this to be one of those moments where he gave his boyfriend an imaginary gold-star for trying and called it a day. There was no sense in hurting the poor guy’s feelings over it.

"Hey, why don’t you measure a cup of flour, huh?" He had a bowl twirling on his finger just for the occasions (and for fun), which he sat down right before speaking again. It made a rattle on the marble as it settled into its resting position, but Harley talked right over it. "And then you can put it in this bowl here." 

That was a simple enough job, at least, although in the back of Harley’s mind, he contemplated how likely it would be that Caliban’d find a way to make a mess of it. Harley cracked an egg into a cup of Buttermilk. That was why he was handling the liquids.

(Source: fabulousharley)

Chaotic Contest, Funding Fallarbor


‘Aren’t you proud of me, Harley-poo? I’m going to throw this talent show in your favor and you’ll come out of here triumphant and blushing like a horny bride.’ Just the thought of that was enough to give him that hot and flustered smile, enough to flick his studded tongue to the roof of his mouth in anticipation.

“Prince was overrated, pal,” the second judge snapped. “And if a performance reminded of you of something else that’s overrated, you’re overrating it too.”

“Tell me something, my friend,” Caliban retorted, keeping the microphone in his hand. Everyone was his captive audience in this contest, whether they wanted to hear him or not. “What’s the difference between an onion and a critic?”

What the heck? Where did that come from? “Uh…”

“…no one’s going to cry if I cut a critic.”

It was Harley’s distinct pleasure to watch the rest of the conversation on the television. Listening to the judges go at it had Harley smirking at the TV with a finger on his cheek. Coming to my rescue, are we? It was a travesty that it would even feel necessary. And while Harley was sure he had room to be at least a little offended that Caliban thought he’d need help to win, he had to give the Magma credit—that was a beautifully done retort.

Harley made a content sigh and took a stand, turning away from the screen. With a couple more contestants left, he was going to have a considerable break before the second round. It couldn’t hurt to take advantage of his free time by going on a little hunt.

(Source: fabulousharley)

Chaotic Contest, Funding Fallarbor


“That was quite the colorful display! Wouldn’t you say so?” the first judge had nothing but great praise to deliver for the performance, giving one of her highest ratings. “Your Wigglytuff and Snorunt not only know how to properly perform, but they work together quite beautifully. You should be very proud of them!”

“I don’t know,” the next judge grumbled. “I thought it was a little too gaudy.” Excuse me? Gaudy? Harley? Noooooo! “The serpent effect was fascinating, and almost begged to tell a story with your presentation, but it was too shortlived. I think you need to work a little more on your middle piece of your work. Your beginning was good, and your ending went off alright, but—”

“Hey, don’t be hating on that show,” the third “judge” snapped. A certain someone had taken on this poor bastard’s identity. “Psychic is always one of those moves that never ceases to impress, and mixing Toxic and Icy Wind is unprecedented. If anything, my thoughts turned to Prince’s Purple Rain for a minute. Don’t diss the classics, pal.”

The other two were silent, wondering what had come over Miles.

Harley listened idly to the commentary, the first one blowing through his ears with little response. It was a complement he’d expected, certainly nothing he hadn’t heard before. He was hardly listening to the second judge, but a certain word caught his attention.

By now, Harley’d mastered the art of looking perfectly chipper. But inside, he was fuming. Who does this hick-town wannabe think he is? Harley knew his performance was perfect, and apparently so did—

Oh noAnd just who does HE think he’s kidding? The other two judges and the whole darn stadium, apparently. This, to Harley, was nothing more than proof that the other two judges were complete and total idiots who definitely should not be in charge of scoring this popular coordinator. But what did it matter? True to his expectations, his score was right up at the top, despite the second judge’s complaints. Although the circumstances were a bit different, now.

Harley didn’t give ‘Miles’ a second glance. He left the stage as he always did, blowing kisses to all of his fans on the way out. So, he’s in the pannel, huh? I guess I’m gonna have a little change of plans.

(Source: fabulousharley)

Chaotic Contest, Funding Fallarbor

Whew! It’s about time I got to stand. Already eleven of the sixteen contestants had made their performances, and they had all been so very boooring to watch that Harley’d stopped paying attention at number five. None of them are a match for me, anyway. And from what Harley could tell from the scores, that was a pretty accurate assessment.

Harley stood in his place backstage, waiting for the previous contestant to pick up his mess of a performance and come back in so he could take the stage. One of his picks would be having her debut today, and they were still going to be showing everyone why Harley was an absolute star. Sure enough, the younger contestant—a little boy named Jameson—speed-walked past Harley looking extremely frustrated about his results.

Did this bother Harley? Not in the slightest. In fact, he wished he could see that face again. But there wasn’t time to worry about that. It was his turn, after all. Pokeball in each hand, Harley emerged from the deep hallway that made up the backstage and into a roaring crowd, wearing a determined smile that was backed with a lust for crushing the inferior.

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pkmnmay replied to your post: :>

Oh, hi Harley!! How have you been lately? I never really know what you’re up to, now that I think about it heheh

"Oh, the usual… Been kickin butt in this year’s contests, so nothing new. What about you? How’re you holdin’ up with all those big competitors out there?” Harley clasped his hands together, distress written all over his face. “I sure hope they’re not crushing you or anything!”

"Eheh." What was she doing here? It didn’t matter. Harley plastered on a smile and waved enthusiastically. “Hiya, May!”

Sweet Amends


Follow orders? Yeah, he could do that. Caliban hadn’t lost his grunt job with Team Magma because he could follow basic fucking (and non-fucking) requests. He flexed, stretching his brown, Henna-tattooed chest as far as his pecs and muscles could extend. That little action woke him up, if only by a little. When his flexing was over, he reached for his nearby pants and put them on. The steel-toed boots could wait.

“I can do that,” he assured Harley. “Hell, it beats getting creative. You saw what I did at that charity contest. Right?”

This must be what it’s like to sit in the audience and watch a master like himself perform. Perfect silence, absolute mesmerization, and a resounding (in this case mental) praise for having witnessed something brilliant. Harley waited patiently and smiled when his partner looked ready. 

"Good, it’ll be fun!" Harley led the way back to his kitchen, tracing the marble counters as he went back to the bowl he’d left out. "You didn’t really think I’d missed that, did you?" Harley looked over his shoulder at Caliban, giving him a face that practically screamed ‘come on now.’ Magma Man hadn’t fooled him for a second.

(Source: fabulousharley)

Sweet Amends


“Nah, Harley-poo. It was Pamela fucking Anderson,” Caliban teased sarcastically, rolling his red eyes. “I was bathing in Playboy Lopunnies and red jello shots.” Every word became increasingly sarcastic as he went on, making it damn clear that he wasn’t serious about a single word.

Breakfast? Caliban was about to say he wasn’t a breakfast guy, but his stomach disagreed with a loud and angry roar. “Sounds good to me,” the Magma Grunt agreed, doing a back-flip to land on his feet like some sort of circus performer. Or rather, he would have, but he misjudged where his head was in regard to the floor…and toppled over again.

Whatever words Harley was considering using to counter Caliban’s sarcasm were shoved right out of the way to make room for a very loud burst of laughter. He really shouldn’t be laughing at Magma Man’s misfortune, but Harley couldn’t help it. That was priceless. Absolutely golden. And exactly why he kept him around. 

"Now if that didn’t wake you up, I don’t know what will.” Harley extended his hand, but continued to speak as he offered his help. “I’m glad it sounds like a good idea to you, cause you don’t have a choice. I got all the dull stuff taken care of while you were getting your ‘beauty sleep’. So all you have to do is follow orders.”

(Source: fabulousharley)