okay in that thread someone wrote a fanfiction and there was some other quality posts, does anyone have these archived? I'm pretty sure the thread was deleted when gotfrag was getting fucked
TLR stole the trophy
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okay in that thread someone wrote a fanfiction and there was some other quality posts, does anyone have these archived? I'm pretty sure the thread was deleted when gotfrag was getting fucked
that fanfiction had me crying on the floor, i showed that thread to people who didn't play tf2 and they found it hilarious
that fanfiction had me crying on the floor, i showed that thread to people who didn't play tf2 and they found it hilarious
Ggglygydid someone say
fanfiction?
Are you going to start reading again?
WILL THE KING MAKE HIS RETURN?
Will I get to suit up as furious_masturbator for one more season?
[quote=Ggglygy]did someone say
[i]fanfiction?[/i][/quote]
Are you going to start reading again?
[b]WILL THE KING MAKE HIS RETURN?
[/b]
Will I [i]get[/i] to suit up as furious_masturbator for one more season?
[i]fanfiction?[/i][/quote]
Are you going to start reading again?
[b]WILL THE KING MAKE HIS RETURN?
[/b]
Will I [i]get[/i] to suit up as furious_masturbator for one more season?
charles stop please stop no no please
i mean i do love my trophy jokes but still
stop
charles stop please stop no no please
i mean i do love my trophy jokes but still
stop
i mean i do love my trophy jokes but still
stop
Guys stop horsing around. Someone needs to take the reins on this and find that post. Please, Musical has a long face.
Guys stop horsing around. Someone needs to take the reins on this and find that post. Please, Musical has a long face.
All I could find: (part 1/2)
“Yes ma'am, Carson Eades in room 215. Need a spare key is all.”
“Here you go, Mr. Eades. I hope you've enjoyed your stay!” the receptionist said with a bright smile. Tyler Morgan took the key in his thick, sweaty palm and rubbed his fingers over it. The tension of the moment was getting to him – he thought for sure that the grease pouring from his face would give away the game. In what seemed like seconds, Tyler found himself in the elevator, taking the slow ride up to his teammate's room.
“Kalkin thinks he carried this team.. but fucking... everybody knows that you can't do it without the Morganator.” The rage had been building inside of him for years; nobody ever appreciated his soldier skills the way they should have. With top tier aim from his days as Quake Live and game sense refined by the Gods themselves, “TLR” as he was known had turned himself into the premier pocket soldier in North America. And now, he would finally have the proof.
The ding of the elevator draws him back into reality. Tyler stares down the hallway, the long walk before him causing his throat to tighten and his legs to clench. What if someone saw him? Would they give chase? Thank the Lord in Heaven above that Tyler had spent so much time before the LAN working out in preparation of this moment. He knew for sure he could outrun Vhalin and Dave; but the rest? The hatred fueled him and Tyler felt himself unconsciously slip the key into the lock for room 215, and the door opens of its own accord, as though God himself had willed this moment. Tyler wipes his hands off on his already well-stained Ed Hardy skull and crossbones t-shirt and reaches for the trophy. If his grip is too tight, it might shatter; too loose, it will fall to the ground and be destroyed. And something this glorious and beautiful should never see such a horrible fate...
First, he drapes a pillowcase over the trophy. Best to make sure nobody can identify it. Then, he slips it under his arm, holding it tight to the side of his bosom with his wrist cradled under it. Unbeknownst to Tyler, the heat and pressure from his disgusting wasteland of an armpit is already beginning to melt the glass. His pace quickens, his feet moving at a near-blur, his afro bobbing back and forth in the most gentle way. Out the emergency exit, down the stairs, through the pool area – and safety.
Tyler's breath is rapid and panicked. He looks around in every direction, making sure nobody has followed. He practically tears at the door of his truck to get it open. “Pleasepleasepleaseplease give me the strength, God” he mutters to himself. The door swings open, Tyler nearly being knocked to the ground by the force. He places the trophy gently in the passenger seat, peeling back the pillowcase to give it a kiss about the base.
“We'll be home soon, sweetheart.”
All I could find: (part 1/2)
“Yes ma'am, Carson Eades in room 215. Need a spare key is all.”
“Here you go, Mr. Eades. I hope you've enjoyed your stay!” the receptionist said with a bright smile. Tyler Morgan took the key in his thick, sweaty palm and rubbed his fingers over it. The tension of the moment was getting to him – he thought for sure that the grease pouring from his face would give away the game. In what seemed like seconds, Tyler found himself in the elevator, taking the slow ride up to his teammate's room.
“Kalkin thinks he carried this team.. but fucking... everybody knows that you can't do it without the Morganator.” The rage had been building inside of him for years; nobody ever appreciated his soldier skills the way they should have. With top tier aim from his days as Quake Live and game sense refined by the Gods themselves, “TLR” as he was known had turned himself into the premier pocket soldier in North America. And now, he would finally have the proof.
The ding of the elevator draws him back into reality. Tyler stares down the hallway, the long walk before him causing his throat to tighten and his legs to clench. What if someone saw him? Would they give chase? Thank the Lord in Heaven above that Tyler had spent so much time before the LAN working out in preparation of this moment. He knew for sure he could outrun Vhalin and Dave; but the rest? The hatred fueled him and Tyler felt himself unconsciously slip the key into the lock for room 215, and the door opens of its own accord, as though God himself had willed this moment. Tyler wipes his hands off on his already well-stained Ed Hardy skull and crossbones t-shirt and reaches for the trophy. If his grip is too tight, it might shatter; too loose, it will fall to the ground and be destroyed. And something this glorious and beautiful should never see such a horrible fate...
First, he drapes a pillowcase over the trophy. Best to make sure nobody can identify it. Then, he slips it under his arm, holding it tight to the side of his bosom with his wrist cradled under it. Unbeknownst to Tyler, the heat and pressure from his disgusting wasteland of an armpit is already beginning to melt the glass. His pace quickens, his feet moving at a near-blur, his afro bobbing back and forth in the most gentle way. Out the emergency exit, down the stairs, through the pool area – and safety.
Tyler's breath is rapid and panicked. He looks around in every direction, making sure nobody has followed. He practically tears at the door of his truck to get it open. “Pleasepleasepleaseplease give me the strength, God” he mutters to himself. The door swings open, Tyler nearly being knocked to the ground by the force. He places the trophy gently in the passenger seat, peeling back the pillowcase to give it a kiss about the base.
“We'll be home soon, sweetheart.”
“Yes ma'am, Carson Eades in room 215. Need a spare key is all.”
“Here you go, Mr. Eades. I hope you've enjoyed your stay!” the receptionist said with a bright smile. Tyler Morgan took the key in his thick, sweaty palm and rubbed his fingers over it. The tension of the moment was getting to him – he thought for sure that the grease pouring from his face would give away the game. In what seemed like seconds, Tyler found himself in the elevator, taking the slow ride up to his teammate's room.
“Kalkin thinks he carried this team.. but fucking... everybody knows that you can't do it without the Morganator.” The rage had been building inside of him for years; nobody ever appreciated his soldier skills the way they should have. With top tier aim from his days as Quake Live and game sense refined by the Gods themselves, “TLR” as he was known had turned himself into the premier pocket soldier in North America. And now, he would finally have the proof.
The ding of the elevator draws him back into reality. Tyler stares down the hallway, the long walk before him causing his throat to tighten and his legs to clench. What if someone saw him? Would they give chase? Thank the Lord in Heaven above that Tyler had spent so much time before the LAN working out in preparation of this moment. He knew for sure he could outrun Vhalin and Dave; but the rest? The hatred fueled him and Tyler felt himself unconsciously slip the key into the lock for room 215, and the door opens of its own accord, as though God himself had willed this moment. Tyler wipes his hands off on his already well-stained Ed Hardy skull and crossbones t-shirt and reaches for the trophy. If his grip is too tight, it might shatter; too loose, it will fall to the ground and be destroyed. And something this glorious and beautiful should never see such a horrible fate...
First, he drapes a pillowcase over the trophy. Best to make sure nobody can identify it. Then, he slips it under his arm, holding it tight to the side of his bosom with his wrist cradled under it. Unbeknownst to Tyler, the heat and pressure from his disgusting wasteland of an armpit is already beginning to melt the glass. His pace quickens, his feet moving at a near-blur, his afro bobbing back and forth in the most gentle way. Out the emergency exit, down the stairs, through the pool area – and safety.
Tyler's breath is rapid and panicked. He looks around in every direction, making sure nobody has followed. He practically tears at the door of his truck to get it open. “Pleasepleasepleaseplease give me the strength, God” he mutters to himself. The door swings open, Tyler nearly being knocked to the ground by the force. He places the trophy gently in the passenger seat, peeling back the pillowcase to give it a kiss about the base.
“We'll be home soon, sweetheart.”
(2/2)
The words sound like that of an attacker, an assaulter, a rapist. Were the trophy human, it would likely quiver in fear. Tyler puts on his seat belt, remembering his mother's words of wisdom: “Always look both ways before you cross the street. Wear a condom when you penetrate the horse. Never drive in the rain.” That's when he noticed it – the constant beating down upon his hood. He ran his hand through his hair and felt the unbearable weight of truth on his fingertips: it was raining. In Oklahoma, there were no stoplights, no stop signs even. How could he navigate the big city to find his way home without using horse trails and other landmarks as a guide? Think, Tyler, think...
“Hide the truck” were the only words he could pluck from his brain. In a parking lot as enormous as this one, it would be simple to hide his 1957 shit-brown Ford with a full-color emblem of his prized horse painted on the hood. He turned on the engine and drove carefully though the rows of cars, his ight hand rubbing gently against the orifice of the trophy. His mind wandered, his cock stiffened, and he imagined the feeling of blowing his first load inside of the trophy and then watching it expand and drip along the finely-crafted glass. Pulling his truck into a free spot near the street, Tyler felt relief. His plan had gone swimmingly; not a single person seemed to know.
“Heh. And Mackey thinks he's good at playing spy... I could have gotten a six-man backstab and still made off with the trophy” Tyler thought, as he walked back to his hotel room. Lange would be there, and Dave AC – they wouldn't know. Nobody would. They'd think it was just a burglar, maybe a former LAN runner-up. Maybe Carnage got liquored up and wanted to add another trophy to his collection, or Orzo came back to claim what was rightfully his. Tyler gripped the handle to his hotel room and pushed open the door.
“HEY TYLER! What the fuck did you to to the trophy?!” Kalkin bellowed out. Tyler froze. What could he do? There was a second door in the hotel room, but if Lange and Dave were there, he would never make it. The emergency exit was to his right... it was time. Time to test if his training had been worth it. In a footrace, who wins: the tortoise or the hare? It's now or never, Tyler. His feet slam against the carpeted floor, each step more thunderous than the last. His white New Balances tear up carpet fiber as he runs, his sweatpants flapping in the wind as they pick up air. And then, pain. Confusion. Blood. He feels the front of his mouth to make sure all of his teeth are still there.
“What the fuck did I trip on!” Tyler screams through tears so thick that he could drown in them. He looks around, knowing Kalkin is fast approaching. And then he sees it – his sweatpants down around his ankles, the fabric stuck beneath his shoes, his bare ass exposed to all who dare come through the second floor hallway. “I.... I'll just tell them it was a troll. A funny troll.” Sobs broke up his words and destroyed his thoughts. “Where are you mommy... I ne... I need you...”
Tyler felt Kalkin's hand grip the collar of his t-shirt and it all went black.
(2/2)
The words sound like that of an attacker, an assaulter, a rapist. Were the trophy human, it would likely quiver in fear. Tyler puts on his seat belt, remembering his mother's words of wisdom: “Always look both ways before you cross the street. Wear a condom when you penetrate the horse. Never drive in the rain.” That's when he noticed it – the constant beating down upon his hood. He ran his hand through his hair and felt the unbearable weight of truth on his fingertips: it was raining. In Oklahoma, there were no stoplights, no stop signs even. How could he navigate the big city to find his way home without using horse trails and other landmarks as a guide? Think, Tyler, think...
“Hide the truck” were the only words he could pluck from his brain. In a parking lot as enormous as this one, it would be simple to hide his 1957 shit-brown Ford with a full-color emblem of his prized horse painted on the hood. He turned on the engine and drove carefully though the rows of cars, his ight hand rubbing gently against the orifice of the trophy. His mind wandered, his cock stiffened, and he imagined the feeling of blowing his first load inside of the trophy and then watching it expand and drip along the finely-crafted glass. Pulling his truck into a free spot near the street, Tyler felt relief. His plan had gone swimmingly; not a single person seemed to know.
“Heh. And Mackey thinks he's good at playing spy... I could have gotten a six-man backstab and still made off with the trophy” Tyler thought, as he walked back to his hotel room. Lange would be there, and Dave AC – they wouldn't know. Nobody would. They'd think it was just a burglar, maybe a former LAN runner-up. Maybe Carnage got liquored up and wanted to add another trophy to his collection, or Orzo came back to claim what was rightfully his. Tyler gripped the handle to his hotel room and pushed open the door.
“HEY TYLER! What the fuck did you to to the trophy?!” Kalkin bellowed out. Tyler froze. What could he do? There was a second door in the hotel room, but if Lange and Dave were there, he would never make it. The emergency exit was to his right... it was time. Time to test if his training had been worth it. In a footrace, who wins: the tortoise or the hare? It's now or never, Tyler. His feet slam against the carpeted floor, each step more thunderous than the last. His white New Balances tear up carpet fiber as he runs, his sweatpants flapping in the wind as they pick up air. And then, pain. Confusion. Blood. He feels the front of his mouth to make sure all of his teeth are still there.
“What the fuck did I trip on!” Tyler screams through tears so thick that he could drown in them. He looks around, knowing Kalkin is fast approaching. And then he sees it – his sweatpants down around his ankles, the fabric stuck beneath his shoes, his bare ass exposed to all who dare come through the second floor hallway. “I.... I'll just tell them it was a troll. A funny troll.” Sobs broke up his words and destroyed his thoughts. “Where are you mommy... I ne... I need you...”
Tyler felt Kalkin's hand grip the collar of his t-shirt and it all went black.
The words sound like that of an attacker, an assaulter, a rapist. Were the trophy human, it would likely quiver in fear. Tyler puts on his seat belt, remembering his mother's words of wisdom: “Always look both ways before you cross the street. Wear a condom when you penetrate the horse. Never drive in the rain.” That's when he noticed it – the constant beating down upon his hood. He ran his hand through his hair and felt the unbearable weight of truth on his fingertips: it was raining. In Oklahoma, there were no stoplights, no stop signs even. How could he navigate the big city to find his way home without using horse trails and other landmarks as a guide? Think, Tyler, think...
“Hide the truck” were the only words he could pluck from his brain. In a parking lot as enormous as this one, it would be simple to hide his 1957 shit-brown Ford with a full-color emblem of his prized horse painted on the hood. He turned on the engine and drove carefully though the rows of cars, his ight hand rubbing gently against the orifice of the trophy. His mind wandered, his cock stiffened, and he imagined the feeling of blowing his first load inside of the trophy and then watching it expand and drip along the finely-crafted glass. Pulling his truck into a free spot near the street, Tyler felt relief. His plan had gone swimmingly; not a single person seemed to know.
“Heh. And Mackey thinks he's good at playing spy... I could have gotten a six-man backstab and still made off with the trophy” Tyler thought, as he walked back to his hotel room. Lange would be there, and Dave AC – they wouldn't know. Nobody would. They'd think it was just a burglar, maybe a former LAN runner-up. Maybe Carnage got liquored up and wanted to add another trophy to his collection, or Orzo came back to claim what was rightfully his. Tyler gripped the handle to his hotel room and pushed open the door.
“HEY TYLER! What the fuck did you to to the trophy?!” Kalkin bellowed out. Tyler froze. What could he do? There was a second door in the hotel room, but if Lange and Dave were there, he would never make it. The emergency exit was to his right... it was time. Time to test if his training had been worth it. In a footrace, who wins: the tortoise or the hare? It's now or never, Tyler. His feet slam against the carpeted floor, each step more thunderous than the last. His white New Balances tear up carpet fiber as he runs, his sweatpants flapping in the wind as they pick up air. And then, pain. Confusion. Blood. He feels the front of his mouth to make sure all of his teeth are still there.
“What the fuck did I trip on!” Tyler screams through tears so thick that he could drown in them. He looks around, knowing Kalkin is fast approaching. And then he sees it – his sweatpants down around his ankles, the fabric stuck beneath his shoes, his bare ass exposed to all who dare come through the second floor hallway. “I.... I'll just tell them it was a troll. A funny troll.” Sobs broke up his words and destroyed his thoughts. “Where are you mommy... I ne... I need you...”
Tyler felt Kalkin's hand grip the collar of his t-shirt and it all went black.
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