for tip show 3/8/19

Desiderata by Max Ehrmann

Go placidly amid the noise and haste,
and remember what peace there may be in silence.
As far as possible without surrender
be on good terms with all persons.
Speak your truth quietly and clearly;
and listen to others,
even the dull and the ignorant;
they too have their story.
Avoid loud and aggressive persons,
they are vexations to the spirit.
If you compare yourself with others,
you may become vain and bitter;
for always there will be greater and lesser persons than yourself.
Enjoy your achievements as well as your plans.

Keep interested in your own career, however humble;
it is a real possession in the changing fortunes of time.
Exercise caution in your business affairs;
for the world is full of trickery.
But let this not blind you to what virtue there is;
many persons strive for high ideals;
and everywhere life is full of heroism.

Be yourself.
Especially, do not feign affection.
Neither be cynical about love;
for in the face of all aridity and disenchantment
it is as perennial as the grass.

Take kindly the counsel of the years,
gracefully surrendering the things of youth.
Nurture strength of spirit to shield you in sudden misfortune.
But do not distress yourself with dark imaginings.
Many fears are born of fatigue and loneliness.
Beyond a wholesome discipline,
be gentle with yourself.

You are a child of the universe,
no less than the trees and the stars;
you have a right to be here.
And whether or not it is clear to you,
no doubt the universe is unfolding as it should.

Therefore be at peace with God,
whatever you conceive Him to be,
and whatever your labors and aspirations,
in the noisy confusion of life keep peace with your soul.

With all its sham, drudgery, and broken dreams,
it is still a beautiful world.
Be cheerful.
Strive to be happy.






Oversight by sabinelagrande
"I don't know what you're trying to accomplish here, sir," Clint says. The longer he sits like this, the harder it gets to sound as unconcerned and sarcastic as he wants to; he's kneeling, naked, on the floor of the bedroom, hands bound behind his back, legs spread just enough for it to be embarrassing without being all that uncomfortable.

The plug up his ass isn't doing much to help the situation.

Phil's not even looking at him; his eyes are on his book. He's reclining on the bed, and all he's done in terms of clothing since he got home is loosen his tie and take off his jacket and shoes. Clint is quietly infuriated and just a little humiliated by that, when he's over here all fucked up and Phil looks like he could be on his lunch break. "I'm not trying at all," Phil says, turning a page.

"Could've fooled me," Clint tells him, struggling a little against the leather cuffs.

"I don't have to try," he says. "If I leave you there for long enough, you'll do all the hard work for me." He turns another page, and God, if only Phil would put down that fucking book and look at him for a second. From here it looks like Rainbow Six or some shit and he is not even reading it, just flipping through the pages, and Clint knows he's just doing it to get a rise out of him.

Working.

Time passes; Clint's got a pretty good sense of it, so it must be about ten minutes, but at the same time it is a whole fucking year. Nothing is getting better, and several things are getting worse. The strain in his shoulders is increasing, his knees are getting tired, and his dick, Jesus Christ, it's better if he just doesn't even think about that. The plug rides the line between hot and uncomfortable; he's full and it's pushing against him in just the right spot and generally it's pretty great, but it's not enough, not by a long shot. At this point, it's exactly right for turning him on just enough to piss him off.

"You're a bastard, Coulson," Clint spits, even though he's mad at himself for giving him the satisfaction.

Phil smiles to himself. "So they tell me."

He's wiggling now, writhing around so that he can find some way to make it better, move the plug or something. It's not working and not working, and then Clint is suddenly struck by what he must look like, down on the floor, totally exposed, humping against nothing, begging for it. His face goes hot in an instant.

"You win," he says, through his teeth.

"Do I?" Phil asks, still engrossed in that fucking, fucking book. "What did I win?"

Clint groans in frustration. "Shit, I don't know, fuck me, do whatever you want, just do it. Don't leave me like this."

Phil picks up his bookmark, carefully marks his place, and sets his book on the nightstand. He turns to Clint, and the look on his face, the overwhelming satisfaction, the effortless power he's radiating- it makes Clint glad he's already on his knees, because if he weren't he'd be scrambling to go.

"That's a dangerous thing to say," Phil tells him.

"You know me," Clint says, breathless. "I live dangerously."

Phil smirks.

Clint is screwed.