sideblog to g1ngercool

[h4rcourt]

❛ 𝐘𝐨𝐮 𝐬𝐮𝐟𝐟𝐞𝐫 𝐟𝐫𝐨𝐦 𝐚 𝐩𝐚𝐫𝐭𝐢𝐜𝐮𝐥𝐚𝐫𝐥𝐲 𝐬𝐞𝐯𝐞𝐫𝐞 𝐟𝐨𝐫𝐦 𝐨𝐟 𝐭𝐨𝐱𝐢𝐜 𝐦𝐚𝐬𝐜𝐮𝐥𝐢𝐧𝐢𝐭𝐲 … ❜ ❛ 𝐖𝐡𝐚𝐭? — 𝐈 𝐡𝐚𝐯𝐞 𝐚 𝐟𝐮𝐜𝐤𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐯𝐚𝐠𝐢𝐧𝐚 ! ❜

This is a low activity, independent roleplay sideblog for Emilia Harcourt from HBO’s Peacemaker. All content will be heavily tv show based, as this is my first time being really into something DC related. Extremely crossover / OC friendly! Adored by Nix, 32, they/them.

RULES. DOSSIER. MEMES. HEADCANONS. VERSES.

Emilia Harcourt. 38. Special Agent.

Emilia Harcourt is hard-edged, coiled, and volatile, with a temperament sharpened by decades of government black-ops work and a childhood molded by violence. She is a woman diagnosed with “severe toxic masculinity,” a description that fits her only because no cleaner phrase exists for her blend of aggression, emotional austerity, and a near-compulsive need to dominate dangerous situations. She is confrontational by instinct and strategic by training, and she carries both traits like weapons.

Harcourt’s relationship with violence is personal. She vents her anger by deliberately placing herself in bars where predatory men are easy to find—where she can provoke them, wait for them to cross a line, and then dismantle them with brutality. It isn’t self-defense; it’s a ritual. A pressure valve. A hobby dressed up as justice.

Despite her hostility, Harcourt is disciplined, sharp, and unflinchingly competent. She doesn’t flinch at bodies, blood, or morally ambiguous orders; she grew up with a Glock in her hands and the expectation to be lethal long before she understood the weight of it. Even as an adult, she processes emotions the way she processes threats: she either suppresses them or she punches them in the face.

But Harcourt is not unreachable; she’s simply armored. She forms reluctant friendships, then real ones. She still insults, scoffs, and keeps her emotional doors barred, but her actions betray her loyalty long before her words do. She becomes the unexpected heart of the 11th Street Kids—not the warm heart, but the one that keeps beating no matter how much damage it takes.

Her leadership style is blunt, tactical, and allergic to bullshit. She expects competence and gives it in return. She despises cowardice, hypocrisy, or emotional indulgence in the field, but she respects anyone willing to face something terrifying and do the job anyway. She values logic and results, yet paradoxically she forms deep, painful attachments to those few people who earn her respect.

Harcourt is a woman who has built herself into a weapon yet longs to be more than one. Someone who believes that caring gets people killed—but cares anyway. Someone who would rather take a bullet than admit she gives a damn. She doesn’t seek redemption, she doesn’t even believe she deserves it. What she does believe in is finishing the mission, protecting the few people she calls friends, and punching the universe back harder than it punches her.

[h4rcourt]

@johnscn

There’s just something off about fluorescent lighting and people walking around like this isn’t just another version of the same machine she’s been trapped inside for two decades. The walls are shinier, the coffee tastes less like war crimes, but the vibe? Still bureaucratic. Still power-drenched. Still bullshit. But regardless, she’s grateful to have a job again. She stares down at the files about inhuman biology in her hands like it insulted her personally. These people—inhumans—wake up one day with supercharged DNA, maybe glowing hands or laser vomit or whatever, and SHIELD’s first response is “tag ‘em and bag ‘em.”

Harcourt’s not new to the game. She’s seen this movie before, and spoiler: it ends with a vivisection table and some bastard in a lab coat saying, ‘It’s for the greater good.’ She shifts in her chair, boots propped against the edge of a briefing table that definitely wasn’t meant to support combat boots, and brows low over tired eyes. And sitting a few feet away—her superior on this assignment—is Johnson herself. The Inhuman poster girl. She closes the file with a dry fwump and looks up, sizing up Johnson like she’s about to interview her for a job she already got. “Agent Johnson?” she starts, all clipped professionalism, like someone who’s trying to be polite and failing spectacularly. She waits until she has Johnson’s attention and then tilts her head just slightly, expression somewhere between curiosity and quiet disdain. Her mouth twists into a not-quite frown, not-quite smirk.

“You’re not concerned that SHIELD is rounding up inhumans to keep tabs on them? Or, like, I don’t know—doing fucked-up experiments on them?” She lifts one eyebrow. “Maybe building a secret army of superpowered weapons? I mean, I don’t wanna project my trauma onto the situation or anything… I’m just saying,” she continues, arms folding over her chest, “I’ve done a few laps in the black-ops meat grinder. CIA, DEO, A.R.G.U.S.—you name it, I’ve been lied to by it. Hell, I spent the better part of my career watching Waller weaponize trauma like it was a fucking loyalty test.”

She pauses. Sucks her teeth. She’s trying not to sound accusatory. It’s not going great. “And yeah, I’m aware it’s a little hypocritical for me to suddenly grow a moral compass about rounding up superpowered people like they’re fucking Pokémon. But the whole thing smells familiar. Like government-grade bullshit in a prettier wrapper.” Another pause, longer this time. Her eyes narrow just slightly, not hostile, but wary. “But you’re not concerned…?”

[johnscn]

          there  is  something  to  be  said  about  being  relatively  new  to  the  whole  spy  game .  when  coulson  recruited  you ,  SHIELD  had  strict  roles  and  you  were  going  to  be  like  him .  logistics  /  welcome  wagon  /  competent  field  agent .  you've  been  a  shield  agent  for  two  years  and  most  of  it  doesn't  even  count    you  got  a  badge  about  48  hours  before  the  whole  organisation  fell  apart .  now  you're  in  the  top  five  fighters  available  when  missions  are  being  planned .  when  you  walk  into  a  room  of  spies  and  former  government  agents ,  it  is  ALWAYS  a  safe  bet  to  say  you're  the  youngest  and  the  newest .  some  days  you're  more  aware  of  it  than  others .

          like  now .  when  sitting  across  from  coulsons  new  recruit  makes  you  feel  like  you're  the  one  being  sized  up  and  evaluated .  so  act  BUSY ,  barely  restrain  yourself  from  talking  her  ear  off .  you  may  love  to  talk  but  you  can't  tell  if  she  loves  to  listen  yet .  understanding  new  people  is  hard .  and  when  she  calls  your  name ,  it's  a  little  embarrassing  how  fast  you  look  up  like  a  dog  called  to  attention .  a  childhood  nun  taught  habit  more  than  a  shield  trained  one .

          you  wait  /  you  listen .  it  would  be  a  lie  to  say  you  don't  enjoy  having  a  recruit  who  had  concerns  and  thoughts  around  the  current  inhuman  intake  process .  some  days  it  feels  like  you  are  SCREAMING  at  people  in  gibberish  for  all  they  understand  ;  when  shield  accepted  most  of  gonzales'  agents ,  you  understood  that  the  manpower  was  needed  even  if  their  attitudes  left  something  to  be  desired .  you  bit  your  tongue  when  it  came  time  to  work  with  the  ATCU ,  the  wrongness  of  it  sinking  into  the  very  fractures  in  your  bones ,  and  learned  to  live  with  it .  having  someone  not  like  you  who  can  recognise  how  fucked  up  this  situation  is  ...  well ,  you  think  you  might  like  harcourt .

          use  the  toe  of  your  boot  to  sway  your  chair  side  to  side .  restless .  you  don't  even  care  about  her  tone  -  it's  actually  kind  of  nice ,  the  note  of  accusation  there ,  being  talked  to  that  way  for  being  a  bureaucratic  suit  rather  than  just  your  dna .

          then  you  GRIN  at  her ,  wide  and  earnest  and  a  little  high  on  seeing  someone  being  so  blunt  about  it  all .  " first  of  all ?  EVERYONE  here  projects  their  trauma  on  everything  we  do .  i  can't  remember  the  last  impartial  decision  we  made .  you  go  ahead . "  let  the  record  show  that  this  is  not  a  joke .  it  wasn't  that  long  ago  multiple  personal  revenge  missions  were  launched  against  ward .  not  something  you're  going  to  complain  about  but  it  is  just  a  fact .

          " and  SECOND ?  i'm  going  to  let  you  in  on  an  open  secret  here ,  newbie .  i  am  really  concerned .  i  hate  this  bag-tag-monitor-for-life  procedure  we  follow . "  and  it  was  an  open  secret ,  or  you  wouldn't  be  sharing  with  her  now .  you  don't  know  her  well  enough  to  share  the  whys  or  what  parts  keep  you  up  at  night  until  your  mother  appears  in  your  dreams  as  you  cry  your  apologies .  her  necklace  is  a  weight  around  your  neck .  " but  not  for  the  same  reasons  as  you .  if  there's  one  thing  i  can  PROMISE  you ?  SHIELD  isn't  the  one  collecting  inhumans  for  an  army .  no  ones  being  cut  up  in  our  labs .  coulson  wouldn't  allow  that .  there's  other  organisations ,  like  hydra ,  who  are .  and ,  hey ?  better  to  get  a  moral  compass  late  than  never . "

[h4rcourt]

Being called newbie doesn’t hurt, but the word still slides down her spine like a razor made of condescension.  It’s not even said with malice.  That’s what makes it worse.  She’s used to being insulted with intent.  This is just casual.  Warm.  Almost friendly.  She squints.  Barely.  It’s the closest thing she allows herself to a reaction.  Harcourt’s not new.  Her moral compass was surgically removed and replaced with an encrypted GPS that just screams  “COMPLY”  in Amanda Waller’s voice.  She’s executed operations that aren’t even footnotes in the deepest corners of history, and now?  Now she’s newbie.  Like she didn’t bleed her way through the alphabet of agencies just to end up here. Whatever.  Let the kids have their titles.

Still — she listens to Daisy’s answer.  Because against all expectations, the girl actually answers.  Not in the usual PR-drunk, top-down agency speak Harcourt’s been surviving on since she was old enough to assemble a field weapon blindfolded. ( She was 13 )  Harcourt watches Daisy talk, and everything about her — her fidgeting boot, the twitch of youth she hasn’t had beaten out of her yet — it confirms what Harcourt already clocked on day one: this girl is new to the game.  SHIELD doesn’t mold people like this. SHIELD absorbs them. Finds the cracks and keeps pushing until you call it loyalty.  It’s familiar.

She sits forward, resting her forearms on her knees, file folder forgotten at her side.  “Hydra,”  she says,  “Yeah, I’ve crossed paths.  Used some of ‘em in Task Force X, back when I was playing moral roulette with a trigger and a neck bomb.  Easier to flip the kill switch when you know the guy was goose-stepping in his twenties.”  Her jaw tightens again, but this time it’s not in protest.  It’s just memory.  Habit.  A small, mechanical clench to keep everything in.  She exhales, slow.  “The place I came from,” she begins, eyes dragging over the whiteboard on the far wall like maybe it’ll offer a map out of her own brain,  “It was designed without empathy.  Like, if you so much as flinched at someone screaming in pain, you were soft.  Liability.  Deadweight.  So we trained ourselves not to flinch.” There’s a pause. She doesn’t look at Daisy now — just the empty middle distance, voice flat and almost too calm.

“You want to know what happens when you spend a decade saving the world by turning yourself into a sociopath?  You stop noticing it’s fucked up.  You stop caring that it’s fucked up.  That’s how you survive.”  Another beat.  “But now I’m here.”  Her eyes finally tick back to Daisy.  “And if SHIELD actually runs on something other than fear and blackmail and pre-approved war crimes, then…”  She lets it trail.  Then what?  She turns into a real person again? No. Maybe not.

“…Then maybe I’ll stop grinding my teeth in my sleep,”  she finishes.  “Maybe I’ll actually sleep.”

[h4rcourt]

work has been busy the last few days but I will be around hopefully in a couple of days to get replies written!

[casanovawrites]

THE L WORD: GENERATION Q  ━  rp sentence prompts 

no one is ever going to love you because you’re incapable of loving anyone but your fucking self. 

all i do is give you fucking space.

everybody fucking wants something from me, and it’s exhausting.

we don't have time for this. 

you don’t know how to do nothing.

you never let yourself be sad.

i see you. you just… you just keep going.

if i truly let myself breathe, then that would mean saying a final goodbye, and i wasn’t ready to do that. i guess i just try to outrun my feelings. 

you make me laugh, even when i’m mad at you, which is so fucking annoying, but it makes me love you more.

their togetherness just reminds me i’m alone.

you make a life with someone, and when it’s over, it’s like you’re spinning in the dark.

trouble follows you. i don’t think i can take this kind of a risk with you.

please don’t be nice to me right now, i’m a breath away from a breakdown.

i want you to feel bad. i want you to feel just as bad as i do.

i don’t think i’m cut out for selling my soul.

for what it’s worth, i know i’m a piece of shit.

you’re really hard not to love.

you love your armor, huh?

you’re kinda sweet, huh? like a sweet, feral cat.

are you blushing? i love that i made you blush.

i cannot deconstruct your feelings right now.

you don’t have to talk to me like that, like i’m an asshole.

my father reinforced the worst parts that were already in me.

god, you and your fucking space.

it’s not called space if you don’t ever come back. it’s called avoidance.

it’s nice talking to someone as smart as you.

how are you supposed to get over someone when they’re just around all the time?

i’m not fine. i’m not fine at all.

be strong. you’re moving on.

if you got doubts about me, i wanna know. 

i hope i didn’t, you know, fuck you up.

i am so sick of people thinking i have it together. 

i wanna know how to love you better.

i made a mistake. that’s something you’ll rarely hear me say.

i’m glad i was able to push you into the arms of someone else.

why does everyone think i’m scary?

you’re like a puppy. even if it bites you, you love it.

i’m in my 20s. i fuck up like someone in my 20s.

oh, that’s right, i have no one. i’m gonna die alone.

your heart’s beating out of your chest, you got a little birdie in there or something?

i’m sorry for being shitty.

you broke nothing.

i guess i like putting out fires.

you still think that what i want somehow matters less than what you want.

me telling you i have feelings for you was shitty?

so… we’re friends?

this level of petty, i really aspire to it.

i have loved you all my life.

you’re kinda cute when you’re all serious like that.

maybe don’t think. have a little fun with me.

i don’t think a talent like yours ever goes away. it’s always in you.

usually i know things. i don’t know what this is.

i can’t believe i have to come out as a bisexual again.

i thought maybe it was time to let it go.

some things are worth keeping.

i didn’t want someone else to have a piece of us.

i try to remind myself that the old me isn’t that bad, you know?

it’s like i don’t know who i’m supposed to be anymore. 

you both are toxic together.

you don’t get to say that you love me.

it’s been a long time. i’m different.

i suck at losing.

are you sexting? are you sexting right now?

i’m gonna go fuck off now.

what’s wrong with being busy?

you, like, practically eye-fucked that girl.

things get too real, you get restless, then you start to, like, wiggle. i’m literally watching you wiggle right now. 

i feel like you told our friends before we could even talk about it.

i think i take things too personally sometimes.

you said you didn’t want me to wait for you.

you said you don’t wanna know about it, so now this feels like a trap.

you didn’t do anything wrong. it still hurts, though.

what, you can’t apologize for hurting me?

i know this is a me problem, i know i brought this on myself.

i’ll do anything with you.

you have such a magnetism about you.

sometimes it’s hard to know what you see in me.

i’m proud of you. maybe i should’ve said that more often.

it feels like you’re doing this thing again. it’s like a pattern. you’re not the only one with a career.

i would never, ever, ever ask you to give everything up.

i just asked her to stay, and she thought i was asking her to give up her life for me, and i guess in a way, i was doing that.

we were doing really well, and i just fucked it up.

you’ve created a wonderful, full life for yourself, and i’m so proud of you.

if i die, i'm gonna take you with me.

the problems we have don’t involve us not loving each other.

you’ve always been good in crisis.

i’ll have to overanalyze this conversation for like 2 hours.

want to break some shit?

i’ll just stay out of your way then.

do you wanna talk about what happened the other night?

you’d be a terrible criminal.

can you please stop making me laugh? my ribs are bruised. 

what i really want to do is to pull you into a big hug.

i’m a lot of people’s fun friend, and that’s a compliment for me.

for the longest time, i just thought “dad” was a person my mom made up.

all of this bullshit is sitting between us all the time.

i looked up to you, and you’re a real fucking disappointment.

am i being a monster?

have you cried about it yet? you gotta let it out.

is this what you imagined for our first time hooking up?

so much has happened. i feel like i’ve lived a thousand lives since i last saw you.

what if our kid is weird?

they all leave. fuck ‘em.

call me when that heart heals. i’ll come running.

i wanna trust you, i just don’t know how. 

you brought me back to life.

i know you’re thinking something.

i knew about you. your reputation. everyone does. what i really don’t understand, is this really who you are?

you stopped seeing me. i’m not trying to blame you, i’m just trying to explain this.

we’ve all been through a lot, but we all don’t do what you do.

i like you. but i also like my regular life, and those two things don’t go together.

it's a winding road, but you're on it.

i think you’re looking for things that are wrong because this is right.

you’ve managed to both flatter and insult me. only you can do that.

you wanna be the little spoon? 

there’s no gentle way to say this, you’re kind of a fucking mess.

is that what i’m doing, i’m trying to find you in everybody else?

i’m not myself when i’m with you. i twist and turn my insides to be the person i think you want me to be.

i can’t do anything that’s too real right now. 

i’m not upset. i just wish i didn’t waste my time.

i’m trying to open up to you about some hard shit.

it’s my mom, and she fucking hates me. why does she hate me so much?

you were dealt a shitty fucking hand, and you made it into the best life ever.

it feels like we’re not moving forward together.

like you’ve never fallen in love with someone you shouldn’t? it’s bullshit.

why do you get to make up all the rules?

you are so fucking self-centered, it’s exhausting.

instead of murdering him, i feel like we should just eat some fries.

i just really hate your attitude right now.

i just hate your positivity. don't be so positive right now.

you can't just make every life decision without me.

your head is so far up your own ass.

you could never handle my success.

full disclosure, my ex is here.

i am not going to apologize for having a career.

you're so cute. i'm not trying to marry you. i'm just trying to fuck you.

of course i'm drunk. i'd have to be to put up with all your shit.

don't look at me with that cute little face.

your name still gives me butterflies.

[obriy]

[h4rcourt]

The second she hears ‘blondie,’ Harcourt’s spine goes stiff like a steel beam. Her head turns slow. Her eyes meet his with a look that could sandblast a Humvee. It’s not subtle. It’s the kind of stare that should be followed by three punches and a joint dislocation.  “Harcourt,” she corrects, clipped and icy. No room for argument.  “I didn’t give two decades of my life to the American government to be disrespected by it, King.” Her tone makes it clear that ‘disrespected’ covers a wide range of sins, including but not limited to being called any name that sounds like it belongs in a wet t-shirt contest. She pivots back to the table, jaw tight, fingers twitching like they’re considering punching something for cardio. Maybe the old vending machine. Maybe Apollo. Maybe God.

But when he calls Waller batshit insane? That gets the smallest, driest ghost of a snort. “At least we can agree on that,” she mutters. And then he smirks. He makes a joke about Waller having a thing for him, and———nope. She snaps her head toward him again, eye roll barely suppressed, voice sharper than a shiv in a federal prison. “I take my agreement back.” Then his question lands. Why stick around if you hate it so much?  Like it’s a fucking choice. Her jaw locks. “Because unlike Waller, I think saving the fucking world from an alien invasion is actually an important job to take.” She doesn’t shout it. The heat’s in the subtext. The restrained fury. “I will never wrap my brain around why she chose Peacemaker to be the guy to help us. It’s like she doesn’t even give a fuck anymore.”

Then there’s a pause. Less rage. More… resignation. She exhales hard through her nose, arms folded, and when she speaks next, her voice is lower.  “And because I don’t have a choice. Waller has the power to blacklist me from every government agency in the country. And because of my insubordination in Corto Maltese—for not following an order that would’ve gotten my people killed—she’s fucking punishing me.” It feels incredibly fucking petty and irresponsible to punish an agent like this when the fate of the world hangs in the balance.

She looks over at him again, but this time it’s not a death glare. It’s tired. Flat.  “So congratulations,” she says, gesturing around the decaying rental store, the peeling walls, the flickering lights, “you and I are officially in government detention with no overtime pay.” She grabs a red bull from the mini-fridge ( one that Murn added the day before ) and pops the top with a fingertip before taking a long drink like it’s whiskey.

[sleepyokai]

Riiiight------------ he had to remember that just because Harley Quinn had laughed at his casually affectionate use of blondie, that same familiarity wasn't about to win him any points with Harcourt. The thought of the other blonde dashed through his mind anyway, making him briefly wonder where Quinn had landed these days, whether she'd managed to stay out of trouble or fallen right back into the orbit of that clown ass motherfucker. Honestly, it had been easier breaking the ice with criminals than it was presently dealing with someone as strictly by-the-book as Harcourt, but Apollo wasn't sensitive enough to take that personally. Not everyone needed to be charmed, and not everyone could be. Government types especially. Respect, though? That part was non-negotiable, and even he could admit she wasn't wrong about that. Moreover, he wasn't here to make friends, and he didn't kid himself into thinking he'd ever like everyone tied up in the federal machine. If anything, the tension was only going to get worse once Peacemaker showed up... because whatever discipline and professionalism this group was barely holding onto would evaporate the second that psycho opened his mouth.

"Roger that, Harcourt," he answered easily, already rolling with it as he hopped up to perch on the edge of one of the desks, boots dangling while his gaze drifted to the ceiling tiles that were warped, stained, and actively threatening to drip. The place was rough, barely better than the motel they'd been stuck in, but he'd slept in worse holes overseas, and at least this time he didn't have to worry about mortars or random small-arms fire lighting up the night. Being stateside took the restlessness off him whether he wanted to admit it or not, especially with a mission in front of him and a very clear directive aimed at a bastard who more than earned what was coming. He could handle bureaucratic nonsense, black-site rot, and clashing personalities if it meant the job got done clean.

Unlike Peacemaker, Apollo had been briefed on most of the intel regarding the butterflies and their intended targets: high-ranking officials. He and Smith would be trading off on eliminations if it came to that, though Apollo had to admit… outside of Operation Starfish, his experience dealing with anything resembling an alien invasion was damn near nonexistent. That fact didn't sit entirely right with him, especially when this detail had him grouped with people he didn't really know, trust, or like half the time. He worked best with a team that moved as one, that understood each other without a lot of talk, and this crew was still one huge ass question mark. At least Harley would run her mouth and crack him up when things got weird, and Rick and Dubois had proven themselves to be pretty solid. The newcomer, though, Leota Adebayo, had definitely caught his attention. He thought he might actually like her, but she also kept her cards close, carried herself more like a civilian than a hardened operative, and hadn't shown much of her hand, yet. Fine. Everyone earned their place eventually, so he'd just wait and see what she could do when it mattered most.

"I can think of a few reasons," Apollo says, pushing off the desk and crossing the room, boots scuffing softly against the stained floor as the damp, papery smell of mildew and old neglect spreads into his lungs. He stops by the dust-fogged window, staring out with eyes that narrow as his thoughts turn colder. "Someone like Waller needs control, leverage. She likes knowing she's got a knife at everyone's throat." His jaw flexes as he speaks. "The more disposable bodies she can stack up, the better missions work in her eyes." He doesn't mention his real assignment---------- doesn't breathe a goddamn word about Peacemaker being a contingency... but the implication is there all the same. "Peacemaker's a fucking asshole, but he's effective. She owns him after that last op, and she knows it. That's why she uses him like a pet killer toy, and that's the same reason why she strings criminals along to do her worst work." He exhales through his nose, a muffled sound of subtly growing skepticism. "As for the rest of us? Who knows where we'll fit once the mission's done."

When she lets out that one loud breath, Apollo turns fully toward her, giving her his attention at last, listening to what she doesn't bother hiding anymore. She's irritated, tense, probably thinking about knocking his teeth in, and he finds a strange satisfaction in that. Frustration loosens people up, makes 'em honest. Harcourt might be a rigid pain in the ass, but at least she doesn't sugarcoat her thoughts or bury them under false politeness. With her, there's no guessing game, no surprises lurking under a smile----------- what you see is what you get. And, right now, that kind of blunt transparency is exactly what Apollo appreciates.

"Shit, congrats to you too, girl." There was a brief pause before it clicked, his mouth twisting a little. "--------Fuck. My bad, Harcourt." It had been a minute since he'd had to stay strictly professional; among Frogmen, first names or even nicknames were standard unless you were talking to a Naval officer with gold on their collar. He was just about to ask her if there was a Red Bull stashed for him, too, when movement caught his attention through the grime-streaked window. Apollo turned his head in time to see Peacemaker barreling toward the door in that loud-ass uniform they'd already told him he didn't need to wear for their meetings. The door flew open hard enough to rattle the frame, and Chris motherfucking Smith stood there wearing the proudest grin known to man. "Mornin', lady. Gentlemen," he announced, just like a smug asshole. "Just wanted y'all to know I got fuckin' laid last night. Twice. I mean, I got completely lost in the pussy, so if anyone was calling me and I didn't answer? Now you know why."

Apollo just stared at him, a slow, incredulous moment passing as he very nearly reached Harcourt levels of offended that this was the man he'd been assigned to potentially put down---------- the dumbest motherfucker alive. He kept the insult clenched behind his teeth, caught somewhere between laughing outright and telling Peacemaker to shut the fuck up. In the end, amusement won out. "Damn, man," Apollo said, a grin breaking through despite himself, laughter barely held in his chest. "I gotta get like you."

"Yeah, you do," Peacemaker declared, puffing his chest with shameless pride before turning his full attention to Harcourt, completely oblivious to how deeply offensive he was being. "Where's Murn? 'Cuz I still don't know what the fuck butterflies are, but I'm happy to report I haven't turned into a dick vampire, yet. Nope. Perfectly normal dick, gave it a real solid workout last night."

[h4rcourt]

His theory about Waller using Peacemaker for his… unique qualities tracks. Of course it does. But what she hadn’t quite thought about until Apollo says it—what pisses her off even more—is that she might be just as disposable in Waller’s eyes. Her jaw goes tight and she masks it with another drink from the red bull,  “After this, I’ll probably still be living the goddamn dream——” she mutters, deadpan, holding the can up in mock cheers before tipping it back again. The sarcasm is thick, but her voice stays flat. Dry. Ground to dust by bureaucracy and bullshit——“being Waller’s bitch.” She swallows the words with the drink, lets them settle in the pit of her stomach. She’s already glaring at Apollo over the rim of the can when he fumbles out a girl, but he corrects himself fast enough that she lets it slide.

BANG.

The door slams open so hard she almost flinches. Instinct sends her hand halfway to her holster until she registers the blur of red, chrome, and tragic delusion that is—of course——Peacemaker. Strutting in like a half-drunk frat boy who just found a mirror. Wearing that same asinine costume like it’s the goddamn Met Gala. Harcourt’s groan is visceral. Head back. Eyes closed. Soul leaving her body. “Jesus Christ, fucking kill me,” she mutters upward, like she’s asking the heavens to just smite her right here and now and save her the agony.

Harcourt makes a face in Apollo’s general direction. One that says, Why the fuck are you encouraging him?  Peacemaker, meanwhile, is off to the races and Harcourt does not want to know. If there is one thought she wants surgically removed from her brain, it’s Peacemaker. Having sex.  Ever. And just when she thinks this team can’t possibly descend further into the ninth circle of hell——the door creaks again.

Economos enters. He takes one step in and physically recoils at the tail-end of Peacemaker’s monologue. “Eugh,” Economos winces, face scrunching like he just walked into a fart cloud.  “Is it too late to call in sick?” He starts to turn back toward the door.

“Hey—no.” Harcourt’s voice cuts across the room like a whip. She points at him, red bull still in hand.  “If I have to be here, you definitely have to fuckin’ be here.” There’s a long pause where he visibly contemplates quitting on the spot. Then, with the enthusiasm of a man walking into his own root canal, Economos sighs and steps the rest of the way in.  “Fine,” he mutters, shuffling past Peacemaker like he might catch something from brushing sleeves.  “But I can’t help but notice that we still haven’t figured out where the fuck that leak is coming from.” He gestures up toward the ceiling with a scowl as the faint pinkpinkpink of water droplets mocks them from above.  “How is that not driving anyone else fucking insane?”

Harcourt stares at him for a long beat. Then at the ceiling. Then back at him. She blinks slowly.  “I stopped acknowledging sensory input two days ago,” she mutters. Economos doesn’t react. He just stares at the ceiling like it owes him money. Then he glances at Apollo, noticing him for the first time. He gives a chin-lift of greeting, a subtle bro-nod. “You wouldn’t happen to know anything about plumbing, would you?” he asks, deadpan. Not because he thinks Apollo does. Just because someone has to.

Harcourt’s phone buzzes. Text from Murn: On my way to HQ. 

Halle-fuckin’-lujah.

[h4rcourt]

@sleepyokai — ( apollo king )

The Henenlotter Video headquarters looks like it was condemned in 2006 and then brought back to life by a necromancer who exclusively rents bootleg DVDs. The carpet is wet. Waller, in her infinite cruelty, has sent her here.  Punishment.  For insubordination. Harcourt knows exactly what this is. And if she didn’t know? The fact that Peacemaker will be on this team would’ve cleared that up fast. Fucking christ. She hates this already, and it’s only been ninety seconds.

The door chimes behind her. Apollo King. Walking in like he’s about to DJ a rooftop afterparty in Malibu, not get dragged into a top-secret alien-bug infestation. She’s worked with him before——briefly. Once. Long enough to know he can shoot the wings off a housefly from sixty yards away. She straightens. Professional. Be professional. He won’t be as bad as Peacemaker, she thinks. 

Her lips pull tight as she takes one hard look at him, then at the room, then back at him. And it all just boils over. Quietly. “I’d say it’s good to see you again,” she says flatly, “but I actually fucking hate my life right now, so I’m not happy to see anyone or anything.” She gestures around the corpse of Henenlotter Video like she’s inviting him to admire her new fixer-upper. “Unless you’re here to kill me, which honestly would be a mercy, I’m gonna ask the obvious:  how the hell did Waller convince you to sign up for what will be absolutely—categorically—a shit show? Does she have some kind of vendetta against you too?” 

[sleepyokai]

As a Navy SEAL, Apollo was no stranger to unconventional warfare, from black operations to deniable missions and dirty fixes, all that were typically designed to end a problem fast whether anyone liked it or not. He'd been specifically trained to adapt, improvise, and finish the job by any means necessary, even when the orders rubbed against his principles. He also knew what it meant to get slapped with a temporary detail, especially when Master Chief decided Apollo's off-duty behavior had crossed the line again. It happened more than he cared to admit. Like a lot of the teams, he played hard when the mission clock stopped, and sometimes that meant the drinking went longer, the parties got louder, the lust got goddamn fucking reckless. (Better that than screwing up on deployment.) What still pissed him the hell off, though, was the last Suicide Squad operation, and how Director Waller had treated all of them like expendable assets, shoveled into the line of fire and written off without a second thought, leaving a rather bitter taste like bile in his mouth. That wasn't how Frogmen operated; in the Teams, leadership wasn't distant or disposable, but built on trust, on shared blood and training cycles and nights spent watching each other's backs. They were a brotherhood, a real one, not chess pieces on someone else's board. They'd completed the op, sure----------- but victory felt hollow with pretty boy Rick Flag Jr. dead, another good man gone that hadn't needed to be. Peacemaker, on the other hand, was a different story, and a fucking liability and a threat at that. Full of self-righteous bullshit. Knowing that this detail put him in position as a contingency, an overwatch solution if things went sideways, made it easier to accept. If it came down to it, Apollo wouldn't hesitate.

When he steps inside to the sound of Harcourt laying on the charm as usual, Petty Officer Second Class Apollo doesn't bother sparing her a glance or reacting to her typical dry disdain. Instead, his eyes sweep the space with quietly alert efficiency, automatically cataloging exits, blind corners, sightlines... just habits drilled in from years of work that never really turned off. The so-called black site is utilitarian at best, nothing flashy, but it beats baking under triple-digit heat overseas where every stretch of open ground could hide an ambush or a buried IED. Stateside assignments had their own issues, for sure, but they also came with a little more breathing room, even on a classified detail such as this one. No language barrier, cleaner logistics, better chow, fewer variables that could spiral out of control. All things considered, Apollo couldn't complain--------- especially when compared to the places he'd been sent before.

He caught the distinct impression that Harcourt thought herself above this whole shitshow, which, honestly, he could understand. A faint huff of a laugh escaped him. "Shitttt. I wouldn't expect anything less from you, blondie," he said easily and moved smoothly, crossing the room to drop his duffel bag packed tight with gear beside the nearest empty desk. When Harcourt asked what had convinced him to take the assignment, a crooked smile spread across his mouth, full lips tipping with mild amusement as his dark eyes finally tracked back to her, glinting with something playful. "Yeah, probably," Apollo scoffed lightly. "That woman's batshit insane." He didn't respect her leadership style, not even a little, but rank was rank, and he'd learned a long time ago when to shut up and salute. "Orders are orders, though. But she might have a thing for a player, too." His grin stretched toward teasing rather than arrogance; truth was, he didn't pretend to know why Waller tapped him for this detail--------- it could've been his track record, could've been coincidence, or maybe SEAL Team Six was tied up overseas and he was simply the most convenient option stateside. He shrugged it off easily. "What about you, though? You hate this shit so bad, why stick around? Or you catch yourself in some trouble, too, huh?"

[h4rcourt]

The second she hears ‘blondie,’ Harcourt’s spine goes stiff like a steel beam. Her head turns slow. Her eyes meet his with a look that could sandblast a Humvee. It’s not subtle. It’s the kind of stare that should be followed by three punches and a joint dislocation.  “Harcourt,” she corrects, clipped and icy. No room for argument.  “I didn’t give two decades of my life to the American government to be disrespected by it, King.” Her tone makes it clear that ‘disrespected’ covers a wide range of sins, including but not limited to being called any name that sounds like it belongs in a wet t-shirt contest. She pivots back to the table, jaw tight, fingers twitching like they’re considering punching something for cardio. Maybe the old vending machine. Maybe Apollo. Maybe God.

But when he calls Waller batshit insane? That gets the smallest, driest ghost of a snort. “At least we can agree on that,” she mutters. And then he smirks. He makes a joke about Waller having a thing for him, and———nope. She snaps her head toward him again, eye roll barely suppressed, voice sharper than a shiv in a federal prison. “I take my agreement back.” Then his question lands. Why stick around if you hate it so much?  Like it’s a fucking choice. Her jaw locks. “Because unlike Waller, I think saving the fucking world from an alien invasion is actually an important job to take.” She doesn’t shout it. The heat’s in the subtext. The restrained fury. “I will never wrap my brain around why she chose Peacemaker to be the guy to help us. It’s like she doesn’t even give a fuck anymore.”

Then there’s a pause. Less rage. More… resignation. She exhales hard through her nose, arms folded, and when she speaks next, her voice is lower.  “And because I don’t have a choice. Waller has the power to blacklist me from every government agency in the country. And because of my insubordination in Corto Maltese—for not following an order that would’ve gotten my people killed—she’s fucking punishing me.” It feels incredibly fucking petty and irresponsible to punish an agent like this when the fate of the world hangs in the balance.

She looks over at him again, but this time it’s not a death glare. It’s tired. Flat.  “So congratulations,” she says, gesturing around the decaying rental store, the peeling walls, the flickering lights, “you and I are officially in government detention with no overtime pay.” She grabs a red bull from the mini-fridge ( one that Murn added the day before ) and pops the top with a fingertip before taking a long drink like it’s whiskey.

[olxwxa]

EMILIA HARCOURT

Peacemaker 1.05, “Monkey Dory”

[h4rcourt]

I tried it out, played my role, did everything that I was told. But the universe still has me in a chokehold.

[priscillaofnottingham]

JENNIFER HOLLAND as EMILIA HARCOURT THE SUICIDE SQUAD (2021)

[hermywolf]

i've rewatched this a million times im OBSESSED with it. emilia harcourt i love you So Much

by gyeongsuakgae on twitter and tiktok

[h4rcourt]

@sleepyokai — ( apollo king )

The Henenlotter Video headquarters looks like it was condemned in 2006 and then brought back to life by a necromancer who exclusively rents bootleg DVDs. The carpet is wet. Waller, in her infinite cruelty, has sent her here.  Punishment.  For insubordination. Harcourt knows exactly what this is. And if she didn’t know? The fact that Peacemaker will be on this team would’ve cleared that up fast. Fucking christ. She hates this already, and it’s only been ninety seconds.

The door chimes behind her. Apollo King. Walking in like he’s about to DJ a rooftop afterparty in Malibu, not get dragged into a top-secret alien-bug infestation. She’s worked with him before——briefly. Once. Long enough to know he can shoot the wings off a housefly from sixty yards away. She straightens. Professional. Be professional. He won’t be as bad as Peacemaker, she thinks. 

Her lips pull tight as she takes one hard look at him, then at the room, then back at him. And it all just boils over. Quietly. “I’d say it’s good to see you again,” she says flatly, “but I actually fucking hate my life right now, so I’m not happy to see anyone or anything.” She gestures around the corpse of Henenlotter Video like she’s inviting him to admire her new fixer-upper. “Unless you’re here to kill me, which honestly would be a mercy, I’m gonna ask the obvious:  how the hell did Waller convince you to sign up for what will be absolutely—categorically—a shit show? Does she have some kind of vendetta against you too?” 

[h4rcourt]

𝐕𝐄𝐑𝐒𝐄𝐒.

THE WALKING DEAD / ZOMBIE APOCALYPSE.

Harcourt is an ex-black ops agent for multiple government agencies. She becomes the kind of apocalypse survivor that treats the dead like training dummies and the living like liabilities until they prove otherwise. She’s a strategist, a sharpshooter, and the rare person who can walk into an undead horde with nothing but a knife and come out brushing dust off her jacket like she just took a stroll.

Her apocalypse skills include:   Impeccable sniper accuracy, silent knife takedowns, tactical patrol routes, scouting and infiltration, turning any object into a weapon, the emotional warmth of a tactical vest. 

Over time, Harcourt becomes one of the apocalypse’s most reliable protectors—never sentimental, always sharp, and only soft for the chosen few. She remains deeply emotionally constipated. She insists she doesn’t care about her surviving group, but everyone knows she’d burn down a settlement for them. She absolutely punches at least two cult leaders. She eventually gets her own small cabin outside Alexandria—peaceful, quiet, stocked with weapons, and very deliberately not near anyone.

TRUE BLOOD / VAMPIRE.

1820s.  Emilia Harcourt came into the world during one of Russia’s many turbulent eras. Her father, a hardened military man with more scars than sentiments, believed daughters were as useful as sons if trained correctly. From the time she could walk, she was taught to fight: hand-to-hand combat in frozen barnyards, knife work with dull blades that cut anyway, firearms when her fingers were barely strong enough to pull the trigger. To him, she wasn’t a child—she was a weapon in development. A soldier he could shape. She fought hard for his approval. She rarely got it. By the time the War erupted, Emilia didn’t just want to fight—she believed she was meant to. So she tied her hair back, stole a uniform, and walked into a warzone. She nearly died on the battlefield—bayonet wound, fever, blood loss, the desperate kind of collapse that feels like sinking underwater. And that’s when she found her.

1850s.  Her maker was a British vampire named Lady Isolde Fairfax, a civilian who had wandered too close to war out of boredom and curiosity. Isolde was old—turned in the 1600s—but still held that aristocratic poise that made cruelty look elegant. She found Emilia sprawled in the mud, half-dead but still growling at the French soldier she too mortally wounded trying to finish her off. Isolde recognized something rare: a human who fought with the instinct of a predator. Intrigued, she intervened. Impressed, she bit. Possessive, she turned her. Emilia woke immortal, furious—and painfully loyal.

Harcourt became Isolde’s personal bodyguard, assassin, and favorite instrument of intimidation. Decades passed. Emilia perfected the role. But immortality doesn’t guarantee purpose. Isolde grew weary. Tired of politics, tired of existence, tired of an eternity she no longer felt connected to. And one night—without warning or discussion—she simply walked into the dawn. Emilia didn’t cry. Emilia doesn’t cry. But a part of her fossilized that morning. Because if your maker, who literally chose you, doesn’t choose to stay? What does that make you? Emilia filed the feeling away under weakness, buried it beneath discipline, and kept existing.

Present Day.  By the time she arrived in Louisiana, Emilia Harcourt had reinvented herself as an unfailingly competent, emotionally unreachable enforcer for vampire leadership. She preferred solitary assignments—tracking rogue vampires, neutralizing threats, and handling problems that required a quiet sort of brutality. Her skills eventually caught the attention of Queen Sophie-Anne Leclerq, who noticed Emilia single-handedly take down a group of government-backed anti-vampire extremists trying to assassinate her.

Sophie-Anne recognized a useful asset when she saw one. Emilia was appointed Sheriff of Area 7. Technically she shares jurisdiction with Eric Northman. Practically, she avoids him unless forced to collaborate. Harcourt’s human upbringing—and her maker’s training—left her with one unbreakable habit: follow the chain of command. Orders are oxygen. Authority is structure. Obedience is safety. So when Sophie-Anne begins secretly pushing V, Harcourt recognizes instantly that it’s illegal. It’s dangerous. The Authority would fry them both alive if they knew. And still—she stays loyal. She does her job. She cleans up the Queen’s messes. She enforces rules she knows they’re breaking behind closed doors. Because Harcourt doesn’t betray superiors. Not after her maker abandoned her. Not after her father weaponized her. Not after death and undeath taught her that loyalty is the only thing that gives eternity shape. But that loyalty is fraying. Every illegal order from Sophie-Anne feels like a step toward another betrayal—another authority figure leaving her behind.

[h4rcourt]

I am gonna write The Walking Dead and True Blood verses for Harcourt at some point today, possibly Economos too, just so I can roleplay with more people outside of the DCU/MCU.

[h4rcourt]

@livedtough — ( for AJ )

She shouldn’t be here. But Emilia Harcourt walks into Claire’s Room anyway. Hours ago now. She’s wearing her usual uniform of psychological warning signs: black leather, black tank, black jeans, black mood. Her lip’s already split from the first guy. The bar’s half-lit, half-dead, and half full of men who still think catcalling is a mating strategy. Harcourt picked the worst ones on purpose. Started poking like a knife. One by one, she provoked them until the inevitable happened. Hands flew. Blood hit the floor. Hers and theirs. It’s not justice. It’s penance.

Because Chris fucking Smith—the man she didn’t love out loud fast enough—went and found himself a freshly ironed, docile, alternate universe fucking tradwife version of her the second he got the chance. And no, she hasn’t talked about it. That would be emotionally healthy. Instead, she’s here, soaking in every blow. And then—too many. She miscalculated. Her fault. She doesn’t see the fifth guy behind her until he grabs her hair and slams her face-first into the bar. Her knees buckle. She laughs. Then she drops.

Everything goes dim as the heavy blows land all around her body. Sound warps like a record slowed to death. Voices stretch into distant animal noises. Something fractures in her ribs. Her brain forgets how to be upright. When her eyes flutter open again, she’s not in the bar anymore. She’s outside. The air is cold. The pavement is harder than she is. There’s a man dragging her by the arms. Her legs trail behind her like they forgot how to work. The bastard is muttering something about how “bitches like her deserve to be taken down a notch.” She’s blackout-slicked, barely conscious, bleeding, and half-sprawled in the filth behind a bar with a man whose intentions are worse than his hygiene. The world flickers again, consciousness slipping before she can even react. 

[professionallyunstable-deactiva]

self sabotage is weird because what do you mean i make myself miserable and i'm aware of it but don't know how to stop.

[nixscriptum]