Tactile



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  1. Public Bookmark *

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    Moody reclined in his chair, his prosthetic scratched over the floor. “What year is it, Riddle.”
    It wasn’t phrased like a question, maybe that was why Tom finally answered.
    “September.” Tom clipped out coldly. “1942. You know this.”’
    Harry inhaled so sharply he choked on his spit. He hurriedly turned away, hacking and wheezing as he nearly asphyxiated on his own saliva.
    “Yeah,” Moody grimaced with a slight disgruntled noise hidden in his tone, “that’s a problem.”

    Tom Riddle, 15 years old, in the middle of the London Blitz suddenly finds himself in a future with no allies, resources, information, and everyone he knows treats him with enough restraint to not murder him on the spot. It takes a lot to truly ruin a human being, to rot them so thoroughly even fruit flies avoid the stench. Tom doesn't want this bullshit, Tom only wants to-
    'Please God, let me live.
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    25 Dec 2019

  2. Public Bookmark *

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    What if Sirius decided to stay in England and deliver on his promise to raise Harry instead of hiding somewhere sunny? Changes abound with that one decision...

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    Language:
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    Chapters:
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    27 Dec 2018

  3. Public Bookmark 30

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    31 Dec 2017

    Bookmarker's Notes

    This is so I can go back and copy the quotes and also because I'm going to want to reread it

  4. Public Bookmark 35

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    There were a few things Roadhog expected after leaving Australia with Junkrat. He expected to make a lot of money, to never have to eat another bug unless he wanted to, and that he would probably never know a moment’s peace with Junkrat constantly babbling in his ear. Roadhog forgot to think about what it might mean that Junkrat no longer had to eat anymore bugs unless he wanted to.

    At least, until Junkrat’s system went into overdrive with the influx of nutrients and steady food and clean water and reminded him that his body was more than just a husk of skin and metal.

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    06 May 2017

  5. Public Bookmark *

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    “Mr. Gully is my former employee,” says Finch, fingers splayed over another stack of printouts, Gully’s blank-smiling face lurking in the upper left corner.

    “Oh.” John waits, but Harold doesn’t add anything, doesn’t move except where his fingertips are twitching against the paper. "Forgive me for saying so, Harold, but that seems like the kind of information you’d lead with.”

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    17 Mar 2017