#hierarcher

Drenge - I Want To Break You In Half

If you have a soul I’d like to meet itIf it’s darker than the night don’t think I’ll buy itI won’t do you wrongI want to break you in half

Can I have a minute of your time? I’d like to waste itI wanna meet you in the middle of the night, I want you to hate itI wanna bring you upI wanna break you in half

There are two kinds of upper-class aristocrats. There are those who hate their privilege and the oppressive social system that it stands for. And then there are those who love it to bits. No prizes for guessing which group the majority belongs to.

The minute Skippy had met the Earl, he knew that they wouldn’t get along at all. And he’d been so right. At face value, the two got along like a house on fire; trading witty banter back and forth. But underneath every casual remark was a snide insult, and what would seem to be a double entendre; a joke, even, to the innocent onlooker was always meant in the worst possible sense to each other. Skippy and Win got along like a house on fire, in a sense – Skippy felt like he was enduring a similar pain to being burned to death every time the Earl invited him to one of his mandatory social gatherings.

Can you feel the spit upon your face? Go point the fingerI’ll wave red in front of your face, I’ll make it lingerI won’t do you harmI wanna break you in half

Today is no different. Skippy wanted to reach out and wrap his hands around the blue-haired man’s throat, but even that wouldn’t cease the constant babble of monotonous computerised words flowing from the speaker in his collar. Windsor shot him a smug grin, dusting off his starred epaulets as he made another nonchalant remark about a gangland defeat that Skippy’s gang grunts had conceded earlier this week, and that was when all his remaining restraint utterly dissipated. He had to do something about this self-contained bastard, even if it was the last thing he did.

What’s wrong, baby-faced, cold-blooded killer?Hold my sister in your arms, she says you thrill her.I won’t do you wrongMake you run to the hillsMake you piss your pantsI wanna break you in half

But Skippy knew he had more flaws for the Earl to exploit than vice versa. His adversary was old money; born into high society. His adversary didn't gamble away some nights like Skippy did, nor did he occasionally find himself in bed with the wrong girl. Only heaven knew if Windsor ever even went to bed at all. And Windsor had an imposing stature and a face that commanded it be taken seriously, unlike Skippy's own childish features and freckles.

30. Scars

Dangerous jobs came with occupational hazards. Skippy knew that and relished it. But when it came to the hazards that others faced, he normally had a hard time grasping that he wasn't the only one who willingly and repeatedly put himself into danger every day – and sometimes didn't emerge unscathed.

Now, as he looked at the long brown gash running the length of Venice's arm and the ever-so-imperceptible smaller scar on her cheek, he had said realisation all over again. This time, it wasn't incredulity that he felt; it was anger. Whoever dared put his beloved in such danger didn't deserve to live a moment longer. The anger he had long sought to put behind flared up in his gut again, and his fists clenched.

"Let me at 'em, Venice, I swear I'll do right by ye."

But the look in her eyes told him he would be doing no such thing. Venice had always been the peaceable type, unlike him. Those luminous blue eyes of hers could calm even a raging bull. Just gazing into them for a moment calmed him immensely. They were old scars anyway; ones she had received from an adversary she had faced possibly ages and ages before they had met.

George Ezra // Song 6

Modern office buildings are chasing the sun,and the wind is racing after the dayAnd everybody's chasing a beauty they don't haveAnd I, I'm chasing you

The city was Skippy’s home. It was where he had been born and bred, a steel-and-glass dweller who lived for the boisterous chatter that erupted from bars and cafés down every street, and for the view of the city skyline at night that could outshine the stars. However, since that one trip abroad; since that one fateful encounter, he knew he was a changed man. The buildings and skyscrapers he had once admired so now seemed dull and monotonous; the streams of conversation he heard were nothing but mumbles and mutters; the lights no longer as bright as they used to be.

The raindrops keep falling, searching for a homeMy television's gasping for airAnd everybody's searching, searching for a reasonBut I, I'm searching for you

Now every time he found himself in a crowd, he unconsciously scanned each passing face, looking left, right and over his shoulder. What he was looking for was indefinite, but it had to be a sign, a token of recognition, anything. Whether it was a flash of purple hair, or a brief glimpse of those luminescent ocean-blue eyes he had lost himself in many a time – he knew he would do anything to grasp even a reminder of her.

We are only dreaming,And I'm dreaming only of you

Send a color and my muse will tell you the first thing it reminds them of

hierarcher said:

archer 4 hah

jfc dO YOU KNOW HOW HARD IT IS TO MAKE SOMEONE LOOK INTIMIDATING AND SERIOUS IN PASTEL SHADES KJSGDKJGSDS

He's late.

Not that Proton really cares, of course. It's not as though Archer has anything better to do than fawn over his precious paperwork, and so the other Executive takes his sweet time strolling through the halls of Rocket HQ.

Turning up to their meeting seems like the very last thing on his mind as he stops for coffee in only the most casual manner possible, earning a few concerned glances whilst he does so. Every button press smears the front of the drinks machine with some sort of sticky crimson residue, and many of the more seasoned grunts can easily guess what it is.

Once made, the hot beverage is removed as he takes a leisurely walk to the offices, making extra effort to ignore the elevators in an attempt to prolong the inevitable earache he's about to receive. Proton's duty of  care towards the administrative side of his job has always been a little lacking - that much is obvious - but he makes up for these shortfalls with excellent intelligence gathering and his fieldwork skills. 

He barges into Archer's office almost half an hour later (after Arceus-knows-how-many distractions), luke-warm coffee still in hand and disheveled appearance remaining as though he'd participated in a wrestling match to the death on a muddy field until very recently. 

That description isn't too far from the truth, in all actuality. 

"Afternoon." Proton offers up his greeting with the grin of a true shit-eater, settling down on the corner of the desk as opposed to the chair intended for him. Challenging he may be to deal with, but it's usually all in good fun. He only figures that if he has to listen to Archer talk at him for an hour, then he has to find his own ways of enjoying the process in return.

Unfortunately for the other man, his idea of enjoyment usually involves trying the patience of his colleagues.

A brother was someone to look up to; an older-figure that would always be there to pick you up when you fall. The person you go to when a kid on the playground bullies you; when you want the swings to go higher – the person who spoils you when they take you out just because they can. 

My brother is all of the above, and sometimes none too. Archer picks on me occasionally but I suppose that's part ad parcel of being a sibling. I would never trade him for anything in the world, and— 

The pencil is held between her thumb and forefinger in consideration while a pair of clear blue hues studied the consistent script across the page of her homework. On the top corner her name is written – Corinth Leviathan; and her brother's name written somewhere else between the introductory paragraphing. Apollo Clark. No doubt the kids at school would question why their last names didn't match and how it was even possible that she was born with a head of blonde and he, a shock of turquoise – science and hereditary traits didn't work that way, you know? 

I know. 

I know.

I know. 

The leaf is torn off the pad in a swift motion, though the top edges were ripped apart from the abrasive action of her actions. She scowls in contempt at the romanticized words she had written and glares at the imperfect, jagged edges of her homework that was likened to a reflection to how the topic had felt to her. Brothers — why would anyone produce such a boring topic to write about? What possibly would her classmates find interesting about their lives? Wasn't it a typical experience with an older sibling — the same cacophony of arguments and making up and teasing that comprised of two dissimilar, yet obnoxiously alike people? 

What annoyed her the most, though – was how she knew nothing about him and thus had no way to defend Archer when they laughed at the male for being an orphan adopted into her house; he's not your real brother, you liar—