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glitterbootsharry · 4 years ago

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chapter two.

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Two weeks passed since Harry and Daphne met and still, her cardboard boxes lined the entry walls of the main room. She had moved in the next day with overnight bags full of clothes and little what-nots she had grabbed after Stephen kicked her to the curb. Harry had seen the smug face of Stephen once just after he and Daphne had met. He was tall, slightly built- like he actually put some effort behind his workouts, and most of all, Stephen was a cocky arsehole that Harry desperately wanted to punch square in the nose.

Daphne asked for both Harry and Eliza to show for her gathering the rest of her things from Stephen’s. While both partners of the former relationship were having a row, Harry rearranged the alphabetical cd's and dvd’s in no particular order. He had thought of rearranging the contents in the fridge too, but he told himself that was crossing the line.

Stephen didn’t budge with Daphne’s furniture which meant she needed a new complete bedroom suite. Harry snickered when Daphne yelled at Stephen in the hallway. “Go ahead and have it. It’s not like you haven’t shagged other girls on it before. Ruddy cheapskate.”

Eliza was called into work after someone didn’t show for their shift at the bookshop so it was just the two of them spending the afternoon looking for decent bedroom furniture.

“You want to build it yourself?” Harry asked as they strolled though the bedroom section of the store. She was lying on already made bed trying out the precise softness of the mattress. She patted the empty spot beside her; Harry looked around before climbing onto the bed, the springs squeaking under his weight, laying beside Daphne. Her eyes were rimmed with red and were slightly puffy where she had cried in the hackney.

“Why not? I built the other meself,” Daphne spread her arms out, arching her back, stretching her body out. “My da was a mason so I know the basics.” Harry folded his hands on his chest and watched as Daphne let the soft music that wa splaying over the speakers ease her into a lull. This was the first time she had been a peace in a very long time, and for some reason, Harry knew she needed this.

“Should I be offended?” Daphne asked moments later. Her mouth grew into a wide smile as she looked at Harry. His emerald eyes were glowing with the creases that appeared when he smiled. She had thought to herself that she gotten lucky in the whole flatmate department. Harry was nice in a way that wasn’t obnoxious. He was funny when he wasn’t trying to be- all the other times, Daphne half-laughed at his jokes because she felt bad. They were good half attempts, but he was solely funny when he wasn’t trying. And he was quite handsome. She could see herself with him if they weren’t living together. She knew that whoever Harry ended up with was a lucky woman.

“Still can’t believe they won’t let me park in the underground car park. I bloody live there,” Daphne sighed, her brow furrowed as she sat up.

“You have to go down to the office and fill out the paperwork, Daph, I told you this already. Twice,” Harry clambered off the bed, annoyed, and straightened his clothes. He never meant to have wrinkles in his garments- he paid the dry cleaners well enough to not mess them up. He pointed to the gray pillow headboard and mattress before saying, “It’s nice.”

“Could use a break in, if you know what I mean,” Daphne’s throat lumped together as the words left her mouth. She hadn’t quite expected herself to be so bold, but it was there stifling the open room like smoke in a closed area.

“I’d break you in half,” Harry cocked a brow before stuffing his hands in his coat pocket. He became used to teasing Daphne like this after two weeks. She would brazenly say something that normally would have the girls thrown down on the bed when they said to Harry, but the sparkle in Daphne’s eyes and the subtle laugh in her lips made it very clear that she was only pulling his leg. “You little shit.”

“And you’re stuck with me until the end of time,” Daphne stood up and kissed Harry on the cheek, his skin burning where her lipstick stained his skin. “Or until I get a boyfriend.”

“God willing.”

“Daphne?” Harry stands at the white doorway waiting for his roommate to open the barrier. He’s been knocking on and off for about a minute and thinks Daphne might have snuck out when she hurriedly opened the door, still holding a towel to her wet body, letting the scent of coconuts and lavender fill the hallway.

“Yes?” Daphne asks with a toothbrush hanging in her mouth. Her blonde hair clung to her body with water dripping on the wood floor. Her hand gathered the corner of the tan towel to secure from falling. Harry swallowed and shuffled his feet not expecting a bare Daphne to stand in front of him.

“You got an interview today, correct?” he asks as if he could forget. The thought of having someone home all the time soothed his mind, but he didn’t want for Daphne to waste her life away eating only take out and binge watching his streaming services.

“Yes?” Daphne shifts her weight on her right leg, clearly irritated. She lets the doorknob go from her hand before going back to her bathroom. Harry leans his head inside his newly rented out room. Clothes were all over the floor and boxes were open. Daphne had placed a few plants in the main room giving the flat a bit of life that it desperately needed- the rest of her plants covered the only open floor area she had left.

Harry smiles at the craftsmanship Daphne had shown when putting her bed together. She had only cursed a few times when doing so. Harry had offered her help, but she declined saying she needed to do this herself.

Daphne reappears from the bathroom still wrapped in a towel. “Do you need something?” Her face, bare and clean, shows her true emotions- slight anger and annoyance.

“After your interview, want to come by the office and we can grab lunch? My treat.” Harry smiles as ruffles his hair with his had. Daphne’s eyes lock on his many rings that claim his fingers. Deep down, despite Daphne desperately not wanting to admit it, she found the rings quite attractive.

“I don’t need a handout, Harold,” she spits the words out with venom. She wants to be left alone, but Harry insists on letting her know every time he’s leaving. “I’m having a migraine so please leave.” Daphne closes the white door with an abrupt force. Harry sighs as he turns to leave feeling utterly defeated.

“Smashed it,” Harry says to himself.

“I washed your plates,” Daphne is sitting on the brown couch watching a show she found today when Harry comes through the door. The Chinese takeout is sitting on the coffee table, loose noodles laying on the bare wood. Harry walks over and picks up her glass drink, sliding the saucer under it, hoping the condensation didn't leave a ring on the table he just polished.

“Your clothes are at the cleaners, and I went down to the main office and got the paperwork to get the bloody sticker for you. All you have to do is sign the paper and you can park in the underground car park,” Harry tosses the papers on the couch. He walks to the kitchen and rummages through the refrigerator. He straightens himself up before letting his head fall back and sighs. “Did you drink my last pint?”

“Had an emergency,” Daphne said through bits of General Tso and lo mein. “The evaluation was shite. I’ll buy you more. You drank my juice last week.”

“I asked,” Harry’s voice carries over Daphne raising the volume on the television. He rings the same place Daphne is eating from and they promise to be there in fifteen. “How’s your head?”

“Better.” Daphne sighs as she slides further down into the couch. This living situation wasn’t working out like she planned. Harry nags her for room not being clean, for leaving her clothes on the floor, for sitting her drink on the bare table. He asks when she’ll get a job even though she paid her rent on time. She tried to tell herself that this was how he was, but when his friends were over, he was completely different: carefree, absolutely not giving a shit if a pint is on the bookshelf without a saucer, and most importantly, he stays out of her business. She has caught him a few times watching her as she reads a book or when she’s laughing at a movie.

It made her heart leapt, the way he looks at her- wanting. She hates that she finds him attractive, but there was nothing in common between them. She went with the flow while he had to have everything planned out. She liked to live life with no regrets and he seemed scared to cross any line without reading the fine print.

She’s starting to regret answering the advertisement in the local forum.

#harry styles fic #harry styles au #harry styles imagine #harry styles #harry fanfic #harry 1d #harry styles fanfic #harry styles fanfiction #harry imagine #harry styles ofc

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silvokrent · 5 years ago

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The Almighty Maker Him Ordain

Tyrian’s salvation came, not in the form of repentance, but of a woman garbed in black and heralded by monsters.

After three days, the restraints were starting to chafe.

Tyrian gave the bindings on his arm another experimental tug. Although he’d long since given up on the possibility of loosening them, it did little to dissuade him from testing for structural weakness. A pull here. A tweak there. His captors had been nothing if not thorough in securing him within the confines of his cell, to an almost paranoid degree, really.

The stasis-cuffs and shackles for his tail, certainly, he could understand those. The muzzle was a bit much.

There was a sharp sting in Tyrian’s shoulder where the leather strap dug into a half-healed wound. He let out a hiss through his teeth, eyelids fluttering shut as he paused to revel in the pain. He welcomed the sensation, the way it lit up his nerves and made them sing. It was a shallow substitute for the exhilaration of the chase, the thrill of blood slick beneath his fingertips, the intoxication of the screams. Little more than a distraction, to be sure, but a very badly needed one. Time in the intervals between guard rotations left him desperately in need of an outlet. Like an addict in the vise of withdrawal, the manic energy surged beneath his skin, on the verge of overflowing without the necessary stimulation to siphon it.

It didn’t help that the sentries had quickly been conditioned by his attempts to cajole them into running into his room. There were only so many times Tyrian could claim his stitches had come undone, or that he needed to use the bathroom, before the response became Pavlovian and they wised up.

His treatment was simply appalling. After all the effort put into capturing him, one would think they’d at least pay him more attention. He was a Very Important Prisoner, and he’d be damned if he didn’t remind them of it.

“Surely you haven’t forgotten about me?” Tyrian glanced at the camera suspended in the corner of his cell. “Or are you still busy cleaning up that little mess we made?” His fit of laughter ended in an abrupt cough. There was an unmistakable coppery tang across his tongue. “I can’t remember the last time I had that much fun. I hope Atlas wasn’t too upset about those Paladins. Though really, they have no right to be. If they were smart, they would have budgeted for collateral damage.”

If they were smart, they would have stuck a knife between his ribs by now.

“Ske sha skele,” he said. “Don’t you think this is getting ridiculous?” He let out a dramatic huff. “I’ve received better customer service in Vacuose brothels. All those soldiers in uniform, and you can’t spare one to—”

The electronic lock on the containment cell door pinged, before it slid open along its track. The first newcomer was a stranger to him, another hackneyed guard whose only distinguishing feature was the way his arms shook as he stepped into his room. His second visitor, however—

Tyrian grinned, wide and bright and vicious. Even with the mask concealing part of his face, the expression reached his eyes. It was enough to make the guard falter in his step.

Oh, yes. His prayers had indeed been answered.

“Room service!” Tyrian exclaimed. Locks of matted hair cascaded down the side of his face as he lifted his head. “I was beginning to wonder when you’d come. It’s quite rude to leave a guest unattended for so long.”

Pickerel folded his arms over his chest. “I thought you would’ve had the meal schedule memorized by now.”

“And where’s the fun in that?” he asked. “Predictability makes everything so dull. Routine is more of a prison than any dungeon you could throw me in. The monotony of repetition, the relentless march of time, shackling yourself to an existence sterilized of any meaning.” Tyrian let out a long, shuddering breath. “There are ways to kill a person without knives and daggers.”

“And you’d know a thing or two about that, I’m sure,” the guard said. Pickerel’s attention briefly flitted to his companion, before he redirected it back to Tyrian. The heavy weight of his stare made him positively itch.

“I’m glad to see you’re putting all this time to good use.” The Huntsman’s voice was dry as Dust.

Tyrian inclined his head. “And what else would I be doing?”

“Feeling remorse for the dozens of lives you’ve taken?”

The guard jumped at the sudden, vibrant cackle that was amplified by the acoustics of the room. It took Tyrian a moment to compose himself. “Ask a fire not to burn you, or a storm to soak you to the bone.” He sneered. “See how far you get.”

“Is that what you are?” Pickerel asked. “A force of nature that indiscriminately kills whatever crosses your path?”

“What I am right now is starving,” Tyrian said. The guard made the effort to not flinch as he pointedly glanced his way. “As scintillating as this conversation is, we’re stalling. Come now, no need to be shy. I don’t bite.”

“I should remind you—” Pickerel’s voice sharpened. For all he should have been listening to his captor, Tyrian found himself drinking in the unease he incited in the approaching guard. Hands reached for his face, skating across his cheeks and working at the fastenings on the mask. “—that this is a privilege, not a right, that can be revoked at any time if you choose to act out or refuse to cooperate. We’re obligated to keep you fed. The manner in which we do so, however, is at our discretion.”

Tyrian jerked back his head in a startled laugh, pulling his face out of reach. The guard scowled. “Now that you mention it, I’ve never had a feeding tube before.”

“First time for everything.”

“I’ll keep that in mind.” With the final strap unbuckled, the mask slid from his face. It didn’t matter that the air was stagnant, that perspiration had begun to bead above his lips. A sigh eased its way from him as Tyrian rolled the muscles in his neck, and basked in the cool impression upon his skin. “Much better.”

The guard didn’t recoil, but it was a near thing as Tyrian leaned into his space. The chains anchoring his limbs to the wall rattled with the strain. “I believe you have something for me?” he asked. An undercurrent of menace laced his voice.

Whatever the guard wanted to say he bit back, with a delightful look on his face that wavered somewhere between dislike and revulsion. Instead, he dug through the contents of the bandolier pouch slung across his chest, and removed a nondescript plastic bottle.

Tyrian frowned. “I do hope they took my nut allergy and lactose intolerance into account.” The fretting was ruined somewhat by the giggle he failed to stifle.

The guard scoffed. “I’m sure they did. Head back, asshole.”

It wasn’t the worst thing he’d ever had (carrion scraped off of tarmac still held that dubious honor) though the chalky texture and diluted taste left a lot to be desired. Still, presentation mattered, and Tyrian had an audience he didn’t intend to disappoint. He made a show of tipping back his head, Adam’s apple bobbing as he drank. Each exaggerated swallow was visibly savored. For a moment he let his features soften, his eyes close, a noise of contentment forming at the back of his throat.

“—okay, it’s empty, you can stop.”

And just like that, the bottle was yanked from his mouth.

The pair watched with varying degrees of disgust as Tyrian slowly licked his lips. “Wasn’t that refreshing?” he crooned.

The guard muttered something under his breath as he hastily reattached the mask, all while Pickerel watched. In the tense silence Tyrian found his thoughts gravitating toward his adversary. The Huntsman was a statue, his bearings carved from finely-tuned instincts and discipline rather than the traditional medium of stone or clay. It had occurred to Tyrian—in the liminal space his mind occupied, where isolation had blurred any conception of time—there was a reason why Pickerel had been contracted to assist in his capture. Over a decade of snuffing out lives, ensorcelled by the embers as he watched their fires fade. All of it, at last, come to an end.

How it gnawed at his thoughts.

“All right.” The guard stepped back. “We’re done here. C’mon.”

Pickerel moved to follow.

“Leaving so soon?” Tyrian called after them. “Stay a while, Pickerel. Let’s have a little chat.”

The guard froze. Nervously, he glanced at his escort.

Pickerel hesitated for all of a second. “Go. I’ll be fine.”

Not needing to be told twice, the guard fled from the room without so much as a goodbye.

Pickerel waited until the door lock clicked into place. The Huntsman took up position by the wall across from him, making himself comfortable as he leaned against its surface. “What do you want?”

“The hospitality here is amazing. Really,” Tyrian chided, “I had hoped we could have a civil conversation. After all, this might be our last chance to do so.”

“You’re a prisoner. You’re hardly in a position to be making demands.”

“But I’m not making demands.” Tyrian leered. “I’m asking nicely.”

“Nicely.” Pickerel said the word nicely the same way he might have said mandatory employee seminar.

It was refreshing to be regarded with something other than fear or hate, even if that something was incredulity. The other man didn’t easily submit, unlike the revolving door of guards that had been paraded in and out of his cell the last few days.

Good.

Tyrian shook his head, in a futile attempt to dislodge a strand of hair in front of his eyes. Those were starting to get irksome. “Well, yes,” he answered, rather conversationally. “And I had thought you might humor me.”

If Pickerel arched his brow any higher it would be in danger of permanently disappearing into his hairline. “And why,” he asked, “would I do that?”

The muzzle obscured his grin, though Tyrian doubted the gesture was lost on his companion, by the way he shifted his weight between his legs. “Curiosity,” he breathed. “Before Mistral saw fit to ask for your help, I was little more than a ghost, creating more ghosts wherever I went. How many months did you waste chasing dead ends and following rumors before the combined might of two kingdoms finally brought me to heel?” His lip curled. “The ghost has been made corporeal, though for how long, I can’t say. Tell me, Huntsman—when do you think you’ll get this chance again?”

Already, Tyrian could see the impact his little speech had on Pickerel. He’d taken the bait, long before he’d made up his mind. His jaws parted, once, twice, before he crossed his arms and kicked his heel into the wall. “All right.” Guarded, but not hostile. “Ask your question.”

“Thank you. I do so appreciate the company." Tyrian let the words hang in the air between them, condensed like poisonous fog. “Any idea when they’ll be moving me?”

There was a beat of silence as Pickerel regarded him through half-narrowed eyes, clearly debating how confidential the intel was, and what the consequences of sharing it would be. “Two days, give or take,” he admitted. “We’re waiting for a reply from the admiral at Fort Nubuck, confirming that they sent the additional troops and supplies we asked for.”

Tyrian blinked slowly, head tipped off to the side. “Nubuck. Nubuck. Where have I heard that name before?” The chains softly clinked in time with the tap of his foot. “Ah, yes. Argus. Charming little port city up north. I hear their seafood is to die for.”

“I wouldn’t know.”

“It’s odd that Mistral would ask an Atlas military base for more resources if their intention was to simply relocate me somewhere local,” Tyrian continued. “Which means that they’re not. Remind me again, where exactly am I being transported?”

Predictably, Pickerel said nothing.

“Atlas never does things in half-measures, so I can’t imagine they’d be content with merely locking me in a dingy cell and throwing away the key. No, no. It would be an insult to both of us if they did.” A thoughtful quiet descended upon them. Eventually, he let out a knowing, self-deprecating chuckle. “Íssvangar. Good choice.”

“The most well-funded maximum-security prison on Remnant.” It was subtle. Had Tyrian been a lesser creature, he might have missed the way Pickerel straightened to better stare down his prisoner. “Equipped with state-of-the-art weaponry and over a hundred guards, each handpicked from Atlas’ military, all with unlocked Semblances. The ADX security hardware includes infrared and pneumatographic cameras, motion detectors, and reinforced blast-resistant doors capable of withstanding 4.1 gigajoules from a Dust explosion.”

“Someone did their homework,” Tyrian remarked. “Was that rehearsed, by any chance?”

Pickerel ignored him. “Even if someone hypothetically made it past all of that, it’s in the middle of an icefield, miles away from any settlement. You’d succumb to hypothermia before you reached civilization.”

“All of that just for me? I’m flattered,” he purred. “I always did enjoy a challenge.”

The Huntsman’s eyes turned flinty under the fluorescent light. “You’re not escaping, so don’t get any ideas. Then again, I suppose it doesn’t matter”—he scratched at the stubble on his chin—“seeing as your stay there might be brief. There’s talk of whether or not you’re worth the resources to keep permanently housed there. Once the Mistrali and Atlesian courts convene and finalize your conviction, well, all those felonies make a person wonder if the punishment fits the crime. Incarceration might be too light a sentence, if you ask me.” Pickerel shrugged. “I think capital punishment might’ve come up.”

Of all the reactions Pickerel might have expected, and, if Tyrian was being honest, was probably trying to provoke from him, convulsive laughter wasn’t one of them. Contrite platitudes, pleas for mercy, maybe even some manner of bargaining in exchange for his life—any of those would have fit the script. Those were perfectly reasonable reactions from any sane person.

Tyrian stopped being sane long ago.

Tears of mirth gathered in the corner of his eyes as his laughter subsided. “Oh, I wonder what it’ll be.” He giggled. “Hanging? Perhaps not, takes too long. Electrocution? Hm. Too draconian, though I wouldn’t put it past Atlas to still condone it. Lethal injection?” His speech slowed, becoming darker. “Now there’s something that would let them pass judgment without offending their morality. And I’m sure someone out there would appreciate the irony. After all, I’d know a thing or two about lethal injections.”

His tail curled against the shackles.

Shock slowly reshaped itself into an emotion resembling subdued hate. Like the silhouette of a thing viewed through frosted glass, more impression than reality. “You know.” Pickerel’s hands flexed. “I often wonder how people like you sleep at night.”

“On my left side, actually,” Tyrian said. “It makes it harder for someone to reach the heart.”

“Can’t stab what you don’t have.”

“Such hostility!” Tyrian leaned into his binds, an unseen grin spreading across his face. “And here I thought we were finally getting to know each other.”

Oh, he was good, he was very good. It didn’t cease to entertain Tyrian, watching the ebb and flow of his emotions, the onset of one obliterating the last, all while Pickerel struggled to keep his composure. How long would that last? What could he do to break it?

With agonizing slowness, the tension bled from Pickerel’s body in a long, silent exhale. “You’re delusional,” he said.

“Madness and genius often go hand-in-hand, befitting an artist such as myself. Tell me, as someone who’s been following my work, how have you enjoyed it?”

“I wonder if they’ll let Atlas’ scientists dissect your brain, if they do decide to execute you.”

“Like a bug pinned to a board?” His tail flexed.

The last of Pickerel’s indulgence was evidently spent. The Huntsman snorted as he pushed off the wall. “I have reports to finish. If you actually need something, yell for security. You’re good at that.” With that said and done, he headed for the exit.

“Will you be coming with me to Atlas?” Tyrian inquired. “After all these months dancing around each other, it would be a shame if we were to part ways now and not see this through to the end.”

He paused on the threshold. “Why do you ask?”

“You’re from Anima, are you not? You have a Mistrali accent.” Tyrian studied him. He could feel the delirious climb, the anticipation, coiling at the base of his spine. He could taste the copper again. “Have any family here? Friends?”

Pickerel glanced over his shoulder.

“It’s going to be an awfully long trip.” Malice dripped from his words. “Make sure you say something meaningful before you leave.”

What little color Pickerel had drained from his face. In the heartbeat Tyrian had to memorize his expression, the other man’s pupils dilated in undisguised fear. With considerably more haste than before, he keyed open the door to his cell.

Tyrian’s laughter echoed in the room, long after Pickerel left.

His day got off to a flying start when a squad of soldiers barged into his room.

Sleeping vertically was already hard enough without the additional racket. Blearily, Tyrian cracked open an eye at the armed assembly in front of him, trying (and failing) to suppress a yawn. “I don’t remember asking for a wake-up call.”

One of the soldiers, whose uniform sported a decal pinned above the breast pocket, addressed the group: “Prep him for transport.”

“I don’t suppose we could postpone?” The muscles in his neck protested as he lifted his head, and attempted to shake the curtain of unkept hair out of his face. “I had a rather long night planning my escape. I don’t think rescheduling would be too much to ask for.”

Either they’d been briefed on what to expect, or his reputation preceded him. Disappointingly, none of the soldiers reacted. As two of them stepped forward and began to undo the locks anchoring his chains to the wall, a third wheeled a padded hand truck forward.

“Watch the tail.” The soldier who’d spoken earlier consulted her scroll. “The medical team still hasn��t manufactured an antidote. Last thing I want is for someone to get poisoned.”

“Honestly, would it kill a person to learn the right terminology?” Tyrian affected a scandalized little noise. “Poison enters the body through touch, ingestion, or inhalation. Venom is directly injected into the bloodstream.”

It ached where the metal dug into his skin as the soldiers pulled the chains taut. A hand wrapped around the base of the telson, securing it firmly in their grasp. The unfamiliar touch upon his exoskeleton set the nerves alight.

“Won’t matter what ya call it if we decide to cut it off, half-breed,” one of the guards muttered.

“Ooh, half-breed. Like I haven’t heard that one before. If you’re going to be prejudiced, at least try to be creative.” A palm on the center of his back firmly pushed him toward the transport. He stepped back onto the platform, unresisting as the soldiers secured his restraints to the hand truck. “Let’s see, what are some of the ones I’ve heard? There’s vermin, mongrel, collier—”

“That’s enough.”

“So what does that make all of you? The animal-catchers?” Tyrian erupted into a peal of laughter that caused one of his entourage to draw back a fraction. The soldier who had made the original comment averted his gaze as Tyrian leered at him. “What’s the matter?” he asked. “Scorpion got your tongue?”

The squad lapsed into an uneasy silence. It wasn’t quite the full-blown panic Tyrian had been aiming for, but it was an improvement, if nothing else. He could live with that.

“Let’s move.” At her command the soldiers flanked him, with the exception of the unlucky bastard tasked with wheeling him from behind. There was little in the way of fanfare as they traveled through empty corridors and halls, every rounded corner met with the same drab color palette and conspicuous lack of personnel. Tyrian didn’t spare much thought for his surroundings until they passed through a pair of imposing, heavily-fortified doors, and he found himself outside.

The moon glowed coldly overhead, casting a silvery sheen across the rooftop and nearby Mistrali airship. Tyrian shivered beneath its light.

“Might I ask what time it is?” There was a slight pop along the vertebra as Tyrian stretched as far as the restraints would allow.

The squad leader slanted him a look out of her periphery. “Zero three hundred hours.”

Well, that put things in an unhelpful context.

“While there’s nothing quite like a moonlit stroll,” Tyrian said, “it’s strange to be doing this so early. Or late. Depends on how you look at it. It’s all semantics, really, though I’m sure someone must appreciate the distinction.”

She said nothing.

“Oh, do I get to guess?” The hand truck rocked slightly as Tyrian gave a little bounce—well, more like an aborted hop, at any rate. It wasn’t like he had a wide range of motion to work with. “Most of the population’s asleep right now. Less people awake, less of a chance someone’ll see me, minimal risk of mass hysteria. Of course,” he mused, “the cover of darkness provides quite a few tactical advantages. Though who the advantage is meant for in this case is a bit hard to tell. I see in the dark, after all.”

He tilted his head, just enough to let the overhead glow bathe his face. He could picture the light catching on his eyes and creating the distinctive eyeshine. It was convenient for the aforementioned night vision, and for the added bonus of unnerving the racially small-minded. (It didn’t escape his notice, the scornful squint one of the soldiers directed at him.)

His lip curled beneath the mask.

“Cornetto!” She strode toward the gangway that had been erected alongside the airship. At the sound of his name, a man poked his head out of the starboard hatch. “How long until departure?”

The pilot tucked his helmet under his arm. “We’re ready to go whenever you are, ma’am.”

“Good,” she said. “I want this over and done with. You heard him, gentlemen. Get Callows onboard.”

“Wait!”

The small procession halted and turned to look at him.

Tyrian made a show of scanning the vicinity. “We can’t leave yet. We’re missing someone.” He leveled a knowing look at the woman ahead of him, all innocence and concern. “Where’s Pickerel?”

“None of your business.”

He clucked his tongue in disapproval. “That is a shame,” he sighed. And then, very softly, he giggled. “Was it something I said?”

She narrowed her eyes. With a sharp hand gesture, she signaled for her subordinates to wheel him onboard. Over the roar of the airship’s engine, Tyrian’s voice carried, in a dissonantly amicable tone: “Do you think I’ll get a window seat?”

Tyrian did not, in fact, get a window seat.

He didn’t even get a seat.

In the end, his handlers had deemed it “a waste of time” to undo his individual manacles and assorted restraints, only to then have to reconnect those directly to the hull of the ship. And so, they’d opted for the much simpler solution of leaving him on the hand truck, and attaching that to the hull instead. Cutting out a few steps, as it were. The unconcerned attitude, coupled with the surprisingly small five-person squad overseeing his transport, left Tyrian a bit insulted, frankly. It gave him the troubling impression they either overestimated their own capabilities, or underestimated his.

He preferred to think it was the former.

It could hardly be called an improvement over his previous accommodations. At least the company was a nice change, even if their only contribution to the conversation was stony silence, with the occasional for gods’ sake, shut up thrown in for good measure.

He’d worked with worse.

“It’s all in the wrist,” Tyrian was saying. He did his best to pantomime the movement around the stasis cuffs. “Once the old cuticle is ready a crack starts to form in the shell. By then it begins to dry out and expand, so it gets easier to wedge a knife underneath. The new cuticle’s particularly sensitive—learned that the hard way when I nicked myself trying to prise it off. But if you can get the blade in at just the right angle, it’s like peeling an orange. And while it helps to speed up the actual moulting process, I’m afraid I haven’t found a handy home remedy for the itching as it starts to—”

“Can’t we just push him off the ship, and say he died in a prison riot?” The soldier shot his CO a hopeful look. “It’s not like anyone’s going to care.”

“No.” She paused mid-type, and glanced up from her scroll. “Just ignore him.”

“What’s the matter? Don’t tell me all these brave, strong soldiers are squeamish.” Tyrian laughed. “If you can’t handle a little anatomy lesson, perhaps you’re in the wrong field. Besides,” he said. “Nothing wrong with swapping beauty tips to pass the time.”

The soldier reclining against a stack of crates snorted. “Do we look like bugs to you?”

“I’ll have you know I’m an arachnid,” he retorted, in mock affront. The chains securing his tail rattled faintly. “You ought to pay attention.” His words held all the subtlety of a fireworks display, audibly aching with the desire to watch something bleed. “The difference might get you killed one day.”

There was a brief silence.

“You know”—the soldier taking a whetstone to their axe spoke up—“I think he has a point. We should put it to a vote. All in favor of executing the prisoner now, say ‘aye.’”

“For the last time,” she groused, “we are not executing him. We have orders to transport Callows and that’s it. If you wanted to kill something, you should have asked to be deployed on the assignment to hunt Grimm—”

The lights flickered as the airship shook. The squad scrambled to their feet.

“Cornetto!” She hurried toward the cockpit. “Did we hit turbulence?”

“Negative, ma’am.” He sounded bewildered. “My instruments aren’t picking up any changes in air pressure. It’s weird, though. The ship’s decelerating, almost like she’s flying into a Dust vortex.”

“Can you do something about it?”

“I can adjust our course and see if that fixes anything, but truth be told, I’m not keen on flying with unknowns. If the problem persists we might have to land and inspect for—”

A second tremor sent the ship lurching sideways. This time, it was accompanied by a roar.

“Grimm!” She unsheathed the scimitar at her waist. “Brace yourselves for a fight if they penetrate the hull. Cornetto, get the ship’s weapon systems online and—”

“What weapon systems?” Tyrian could hear the slap of a hand frantically moving across the command console. “This ship is rigged for fast transport with no heavy armaments. It doesn’t even have shielding!”

The soldier with the axe staggered into the wall beside him, knocked off balance by the ship’s epileptic tremors. “Why the hell not?” they shouted.

“Mistral Command said Grimm activity in this sector was minimal. The Atlas base denied the request for firepower because they thought we wouldn’t need it!”

A black, serrated beak punctured the ceiling.

“Does that look minimal to you?” one of the soldiers yelled.

The Nevermore withdrew its head before her scimitar could connect. “Then use evasive maneuvers,” she spat. “We need to dislodge them before they get into—”

Whatever she’d been about to say was drowned out by the sickening screech of tearing metal. They had all of a second’s warning before a large sheet was torn clean from the hull.

In hindsight, Tyrian would marvel over the serendipity of the hand truck being anchored to the wall, the only thing that stopped him from being sucked out of the aircraft cabin as it decompressed. He narrowed his eyes against the sting of debris and torrents of air rushing past him, only just able to catch sight of two soldiers plummeting into the atmosphere. The remaining three had narrowly avoided the same fate, by virtue of grabbing onto pipes winding through the wall, and in the case of one, embedding their axe into the hull.

A Griffon lofted onto the platform created by the rift.

To his surprise, the creature didn’t move to strike. Coal-red eyes swept over the group as it studied them one by one. There was an alien intelligence in the recesses of its skeletal face, unsettling in its familiarity. Even as his heart beat against his ribcage, the adrenaline raced through his veins, Tyrian felt no fear.

Perhaps it was a suicidal thought to harbor, but he felt an unrequited kinship with the Grimm. What it must feel like, to be compelled by some primordial instinct to kill. Was it the same for them? The hedonistic rush that accompanied each life he took? The hunger no bloodshed could ever sate, that he never wanted to be sated?

When people called him a monster, it was in recognition of what he did. When Grimm were called monsters, it was in recognition of what they were.

The Griffon’s four eyes lit upon him. For a moment it merely stared, its jet-black feathers ruffled by the wind.

Then it lunged.

With their axe anchoring them to the wall, the soldier didn’t have the ability to react as the Griffon bore down on them. The space inside the ruptured cabin was filled by a whirlwind of black, white, and red as more Grimm pushed their way inside. Any view Tyrian might’ve had was obstructed by the thrash of limbs. It did nothing to deafen him to the discordant song of the Grimm and their victims, whose screams had shifted from terror to pain.

So transfixed was Tyrian by the chaos, he nearly didn’t notice the Nevermore approach.

It crawled toward him on clawed wingtips and came to a standstill less than a meter away. With no Aura to protect him, no ability to move, Tyrian was defenseless. He bared his teeth in a wordless snarl, daring it to attack.

The great beast reared back and unfurled wings that bristled with serrated feathers. With a spectral cry, it flung them.

The restraints on his limbs, tail, and face, and the stasis-cuffs on his wrists, shattered.

Renewed energy surged through him. Tyrian held up a hand to inspect the abraded skin on his wrists, watching as a purple sheen rippled over the appendage and spread across his body.

His Aura had returned.

He was free.

At some point the screaming had stopped.

Tyrian turned his attention back to the Nevermore. It had yet to move away, or make an attempt to injure him. Wariness faded to confusion as he regarded the creature. Before he could stop himself, he reached out, fingertips hovering over the wicked beak.

He was close enough to touch.

That was when a sound like magnified thunder rippled through the fuselage, and the airship split in two.

The air left Tyrian’s lungs as an explosion punched him through the hull. The impact sent him spiraling away from the wreckage that had joined him in freefall. Unbidden, his eyes mapped the trajectory of his descent, seeing without comprehending as the earth grew ever closer. There was a distorted beauty to the world around him, great plumes of smoke trailing behind the debris as it fell with all the power of a meteor strike. If he hadn’t been suffocating, the sight would have left him breathless.

A shadow passed above him.

It was all the warning Tyrian had before a pair of talons wrapped around his biceps. Animal instincts screamed predator and escape and fight. His tail coiled behind him, bracing in anticipation for attack. He looked up at the Nevermore, his thoughts already pushing a thousand strategies to the forefront of his mind, looking for weaknesses to exploit, advantages to leverage.

And then he saw her.

Tyrian would never forget the way she moved, silhouetted against the shattered moon while Grimm encircled her. She lifted a hand, and the flock twisted through the sky like starlings. They were poetry in motion, like black ribbons come to life, weaving around the woman as she slowly descended toward the ground.

There was a burning sensation in the corner of his eyes that caused them to blur. Tyrian blinked, and his vision cleared.

The wind caressed his face as the Nevermore banked, its wingbeats slowing as it sailed downward. Toward her, he realized. His chest seized.

With a surprising amount of gentleness, the Nevermore lowered Tyrian to his knees and retracted its claws. It let out a soft, melancholy warble before rising back into the air.

Very slowly, Tyrian lifted his head. He wasn’t quick enough to compose himself, and failed to choke back a sob as he beheld her.

Long, black robes fluttered behind her in the grass. It created a mesmerizing contrast against the pallor of her skin, like freshly-fallen snow, untrodden and untainted by the decay of time. The woman studied him with eyes not unlike those of the Grimm, embers stoked with power that transcended those of the fell beasts gathered around them. A Griffon crept next to her, and she rested a palm atop its face, her gaze never once straying from his. Had he not already been on his knees, Tyrian would have fallen.

“What are you?”

The rasping voice pulled Tyrian from his trance.

Cornetto had survived the crash. The pilot managed to drag himself by the arms, out from underneath a section of the ship. Blood dribbled from the corner of his mouth, and when he tried to crawl forward, let out a moan. It only took a moment to see why—a bone had torn through the back of his leg.

Even as he hemorrhaged, even as his strength failed him, the pilot continued to speak, each word teetering on the cusp of incoherence, dragged from his throat like shards of glass: “What are you?”

The woman inclined her head. A small smile tugged at the corner of her mouth. The first words Tyrian heard her speak were in a language he didn’t recognize. It didn’t matter that he couldn’t comprehend them; they chimed like portentous bells, a death knell he would have understood in any tongue.

Tyrian didn’t get the chance to act on the impulse before one of the Grimm intervened. A Beowolf padded toward the broken pilot. He watched, enthralled, as the Beowolf lowered its muzzle and extended its jaws around his head. A mangled noise escaped him.

“What are you—?”

There was a sickening crunch. Tyrian didn’t look away.

It took him a moment to feel the hot streaks trailing down his cheeks. His tail kinked behind him as he gazed upon his savior, drank in her triumphant expression with a thirst he’d never known. Tears flowed freely across his skin.

“Beautiful,” he whispered.

For the curiously-inclined, I thought I’d elaborate on some of my RWBY headcanons and worldbuilding.

Stasis-cuffs – Also known as pneumatostatic cuffs, or Aura-breakers. A feat of Atlesian engineering, these devices artificially inhibit a captive’s Aura, sapping them of combat strength and their ability to self-heal or use their Semblance (if unlocked). The handcuffs siphon energy from the captive, using the very thing they suppress to power their circuitry. These handcuffs aren’t made available to the public, with usage restricted to Atlesian law enforcement, military personnel, and Class-B Huntsmen.

Ske sha skele – An idiom used by speakers of Xeric Arcadian. Literally, it translates to “a cloud brings a storm.” Figuratively, it means “don’t ignore the small things before they become big things that catch you unaware.” In Vacuo, a single cloud, if not carefully monitored, can quickly become the precursor for torrential rainfall and flashfloods that are highly dangerous. Skele, originally a derivation of the plural for “clouds,” is a relexicalized word with the acquired meaning “storm” (as in, a storm is made of a bunch of clouds). Tyrian is using the idiom to taunt his captors; “You should pay attention to me, before I give you something to really worry about.”

Íssvangar – A maximum-security prison located in the desolate, frozen wastes of Solitas. Its name translates to “fields of ice” in Old Norse. Its name is a play on words that alludes to both Isengard, the fortress in The Lord of the Rings where Gandalf was held captive; and Bolvangar, the facility from His Dark Materials where children were detained and experimented on.

“Collier” as an insult – IRL a collier is a coal miner. In RWBY, a Dust miner would be the equivalent occupation. Because Dust-mining is an underregulated industry with high fatality rates, the work is often outsourced to Faunus. Over time, collier and Faunus became synonymous. When you call a Faunus a collier, you’re basically reducing their existence to a job that’s cheap, dangerous, and exploitable. You’re saying that they’re expendable and fit only to provide the resources other people benefit from. It’s the implication that a Faunus is meant to go about unseen, toiling away in Dust mines, and when those mines collapse, die in anonymity.

Dust vortex – A term that describes areas with large concentrations of naturally-occurring Dust veins, that interfere with natural phenomena. Depending on the type, the effects of these vortices vary. Gravity and Wind Dust, for example, can create localized high- and low-pressure fields that generate turbulence and storm cells. Other types, like Fire and Ice Dust, can cause disparities between the vortical and ambient temperatures that result in volatile microclimates. Examples of Dust vortices include the floating islands above Lake Matsu.

#rwby #rwby fics #rwby thought dump #tyrian callows #salem #f. pickerel #t. cornetto #the almighty maker him ordain #my posts #i speak #rwby worldbuilding #canon compliant as of V7E7 #look i just really wanted to write tyrian being creepy okay

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ozzysdrycleaners · 2 years ago

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laxibrook · 2 years ago

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#laundry service near me #laundry near me #laundry service hackny #dry cleaning hackney #laundry Service islington

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mr-and-mr-diaz · 4 years ago

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Sorry for the delay! Life hit the fan after posting chapter 1, so to make up for the GIGANTO delay, I’m posting 2 chapters today! The plot thickens :D

M/M Romance, Arranged Marriage - Also available on AO3

Chapter 2: The Marriage Contract

"...And he has grown up so much, of course! A lovely young man. And with wonderful prospects, too, you would of course have seen in the papers about his engagement to Henry Shawdun?" My mother tittered over a glass of brandy, waving her fan freely at the assembled ladies in the room. She was a tiny woman, and the generous cream-colored sofa she sat in almost swallowed her.

In my single-minded desperation to get home, I had forgotten that she would be entertaining today. I had hired the first hackney that would take me and ran into the house, winded and rumpled. Her friends turned to look at me, genteel smiles freezing at my harried appearance.

"Philip?" The couch released my mother as she stood to look at me. "I thought you were spending the day with Henry?" Her tone told me that all her assembled friends knew I was to spend the day with Henry and I had better come up with a convincing story fast.

"He started feeling quite ill, I'm afraid. Heat exhaustion, Henry thinks. He sent me home post-haste to refresh myself so I would not feel the same." I laughed with a dry throat. "A day like this, we were so lost in each other we didn't stop for even a sip of water. He sends his apologies." My own words were giving me heat exhaustion. I put my hand to my forehead. "But I'm afraid he was too right in his fears, because I do feel a bit of a headache. Do excuse me ladies, I should lie down." With a small, polite bow and a pointed look at Mother, I headed to the stairs with as much grace as a dusty coat and flyaway hair would allow.

I did have a headache. I hadn't drunk enough that day, and had spent the better part of the afternoon dodging through odd nooks of the city in my mad dash for freedom.

Or the illusion of freedom. I knew at the end of the day, no matter how far I ran, he would eventually appear, waving the marriage contract in my face with my hopeful parents and a solemn priest in tow.

Truly there was nothing much wrong with Henry. He was rich and generous with his funds. And handsome; my description at the dress shop was accurate in every way except the slight build and the freckles. As for build, he had a naturally strong build, tall and muscular. And as for the freckles, those were mine. And if I could give them to him, I would.

No, it wasn't Henry's appearance or lack of eligibility that made me resent him so. It was his personality--smug, self-assured, cocky--and the painful fact that I was inescapably tied to him for the rest of my life. His every smirk reminded me that we would be shackled together, and there was nothing I could do about it. When he entered a room it became a jail, and my every dash from his company was my own small way of fighting to breathe.

There had to be a way to break this engagement. Surely the contract came with its own set of loopholes, how's and heretofore’s, something .

If only I could get a glimpse of it. There were only two copies, one held by my father in his private deposit box and another held in the Shawdun mansion, presumably under lock and key. I refused to go to Shawdun mansion except under duress; I hadn't been there since the engagement dinner two years ago except when dragged by my parents for social to do's.

Desperation required I make an exception. If I so much as made an innocent inquiry as to our copy of the contract my father would become suspicious. Nothing would get in the way of him being able to continue his wanton lifestyle. I went to rest with this idea firmly in my mind.

And woke up the next morning with a plan.

Putting on my finest cravat and hose, I reached for one of my nicer suits of clothing, gritting my teeth as I peeled off the tailor's card with Henry's name on it. If I were to show up unannounced, I would have to do all else I could to make a good impression. And pray that Henry was in a good mood and ready to oblige my unusual request.

I grabbed a gentleman's taxi this time, riding in clean comfort to the Shawdun family's massive mansion. They lived right next to the Countess in town and,title or not, were one of the most influential names in the city. The townhouse had a massive garden, with a long path leading to the front of the house.

...

"Is Mr. Henry Shawdun at home this morning?"

"I'm afraid Master Henry is out visiting. Is he expecting you?"

I thought quickly. "Ah, yes. Indeed he is. We arranged to meet in his study not five minutes from now. If you would be so kind as to escort me there, I'm more than happy to wait for him to conclude his other business and meet me then; he told me himself I was free to make myself comfortable."

The butler nodded thoughtfully and led me through the house. "The young master Henry doesn't have a study, but I imagine he meant the business study. I will seat you there and send someone to inform you when he arrives."

"Thank you." I murmured, excitement warming the pit of my stomach. This could not have gone better! The butler led me into the study and shut the door behind him.

As soon as I heard the latch click, I stood. No telling how much time I would have before Henry arrived back home. I looked at the papers littering the top of the desk, but none were the one I needed. Then I gently opened the drawers one a time, rifling gently and making sure to replace everything exactly where I'd left it. Nothing.

In desperation, I glanced around the room, felt under the desk for a secret door, cabinet, a nook where a roll of paper could be hiding. My eye caught on a painting of Henry next to his father. They both looked solemnly at me, as though judging my every move. Henry, unlike myself, had inherited his father's traits, large built and dark hair with piercing blue eyes. I had inherited my mother's: small, though not as slight as she, with hazel eyes and freckles. I looked away from the photo, scowling.

Next to the painting on the wall was an ornate parchment, framed in a dark burnished wood. It looked like a certificate of sorts, signed at the bottom and stamped with two seals in blue wax. One was a simple merchant's seal, a hammer over a crate, that I recognized as the Shawdun family seal. The other one was... Ours.

I walked over to the frame, squinting to read the tangled script. Surely this had to be it!

" In exchange for debts accrued over a lifetime, and the provision of a comfortable life, Sir Roland Edward Mallory does promise his son, Philip Alexander in marriage to Henry Matthias Shawdun. In the union, Henry Matthias will take on the Mallory name and all titles owed to the family. The family endowment and all honors at court will be shared by the two as wedded partners.

This is a declaration of engagement. The engagement cannot be annulled lest all forgiven debts be recounted and accrued to the Mallory name in payment of debt, in addition to ten thousand pounds in payment for embarrassment to the Shawdun family name."

I sighed in defeat. Never in a thousand years could we pay such a sum. Blearily I read on.

However, if Henry Shawdun conceives a child with another partner, thus performing a breaking of trust and shaming Philip Alexander, the marriage will be annulled and all debts assumed by the Shawdun family shall remain their responsibility, and the ten thousands pounds penalty will not apply. However, no further assets will be sent to the Mallory household and all ties broken thereforth.

I felt a glimmer of hope at that. Such a debt I at least had a prayer of paying.

In addition, if Mr. George Shawdun or Mr. Henry Shawdun were to annul the engagement himself, the above would apply, and they would owe two hundred and fifty pounds to the Marjory Family for embarrassment accrued.

The bottom of the contract was signed by my father Aloysius Marjory and Henry's father, George Shawdun. I paid little attention to their signatures. Henry would never agree to annul our engagement, but if I could somehow put him in the path of a beautiful woman... Afterwards I would be near penniless, a working man with two aging parents in need of support, but I could do it. I would do it if it meant not spending my life tied permanently to that cursed man, at the disposal of his family and their every whim. The title-hungry new money would not be sucking me dry.

Gleefully, I turned to leave. I could feign a headache and get out of the house before Henry even arrived. I reached for the doorknob when it rattled under my hand and the large form of George Shawdun himself filled the doorway.

He was not as tall as Henry, and far rounder in the middle. His hair was silvering, but had not receded in the slightest, still spilling over his forehead in the fashion many of the rich merchant's class had taken to wearing about town. His eyes regarded me solemnly over a set of wire glasses. I felt like a crate of merchandise opened for his inspection.

"Young Sir Mallory. I wasn't expecting you here."

I summoned my most innocent and charming grin. "Mr. Shawdun. I came here by request of your son, but he never arrived for the appointment, and now I must return home to attend to my mother."

He sniffed at me curiously. "Of course. You will of course be attending our small to-do this weekend with Henry. I trust you saw the invitation? Our footman told me it was delivered straight into your hand." He smiled down at me, expectantly

Disgusting social climbers!

I fought up a grin. "Of course, I wouldn't miss it for the world." Unless Henry is unfit to be wed to me any longer.

Henry would conceive with a woman before the weekend, I was determined. It was only a matter of which one.

I pondered this problem as the same butler escorted me to the front door and into a waiting carriage. Certainly there was no shortage of women who would be eager to be wed into one of the richest families. I had already spent many a social gathering suffering their ire, glowering at me as though my attachment to one of the most eligible bachelors in the county was somehow my doing or something I was remotely pleased about.

Two particularly charming and aggressive specimens came to mind; Lady Evelyne Egret, and Lady Burnett de Witt. Of all the young women I knew who were eligible and jealous, they were as shameless as they were well attached. I quickly added Miss Lyla Havisham to the list, as she was a cunning, sharp woman who would be motivated to social climb. Any one of them being caught in an indiscretion would mean a quick marriage and my freedom.

When the taxi arrived home, I already had the beginnings of a plan in my head. A drawing room gathering. Intimate, low lighting. Wine and spirits flowing freely. Poetry, to feed the romantic air of the room. And then I would be called urgently away late in the evening, leaving a very drunk, hopefully aroused Henry alone in the company of three equally ambitious, determined young ladies. The rest would surely take care of itself.

Chuckling, I hustled to my writing desk and went about writing the invitations.

#mm romance #arranged marriage au #the reluctant fiance #original story #original work #not well researched #historical inaccuracies #EVERYWHERE #Philip Marjory #Henry Shawdun

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toast-tit · 5 years ago

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Noir (Chapter Three)

Mob!Tom Holland x OC

One Two

Author’s Note: And Tom finally makes an appearance! Anywho, my requests are open all summer long :)

Warnings: Language, violence

Summary: Andi has no idea what she’s doing in life, but what she does know is that she just witnessed a brutal murder that had connections to the Holland mafia and now she’s practically fucked

By the time I came to, the black bag was still on my head, and I was being jostled around every now and then, giving me the assumption I was in a vehicle of some sort. My fingers traced from my neck to my chest, feeling the heavy material of a seat belt. “I’m flattered you care for my safety,” I slurred, realizing that the sound of my own voice was too loud.

“Don’t be too flattered. Tom said to not let any car accidents fuck you up before he does,” the man quipped back. Tom, I had heard that name before. I closed my eyes and replayed the events from the last day and a half to try and remember. “Is he your boss? This Tom guy?” I asked. I recalled that my captor had told the man he murdered that Tom didn’t like to be deceived, but that was the only instance his name was muttered. I received a grunt as an answer, but I didn’t leave the topic alone.

As I regained my strength, I sat up straight. I lifted my hand to take the black bag off but I felt the man’s hand grasp my wrist tightly. “I wouldn’t do that,” he warned and I left the bag alone. “So,” I started, “Who is Tom and why does he want to fuck me up? I understand you, but him? Why?” “You know, for someone who’s getting kidnapped and potentially murdered, you have a big mouth. Weren’t you just panicking in the bathroom before all of this?” Another pang in my stomach hit me. Potentially murdered, was that the price for watching another man die? If I hadn’t gasped or made myself noticeable, would I have been in the clear? Or would I still be fucked up, if not more?

“I don’t know,” I answered, “Would you rather have me cry and plead for my life?” “It depends on the day,” he said as I felt the car slow down. It turned to my left and pulled into what I could assume was a driveway. The car stopped to a halt and the door on my side opened and I was yanked out of the car. My knees fell onto what seemed like concrete and I was dragged across the floor, breaking the skin. I yelped, but a different voice spoke up and told me to shut up. Not wanting to cause anymore trouble, I listened.

After a few minutes of getting dragged around everywhere and nearly getting dropped down the stairs, I was thrown into a chair. The black bag was yanked off me and all I saw was a binding light, sending a painful throbbing to my head. I had forgotten about getting pistol whipped and now that I thought about it, I most likely have a concussion from it. I looked around me and saw my raw and bloody knees and a dark room filled with the silhouettes of three men. My hands rubbed against what felt like rope and I realized that I was bound hand and feet.

“Are you going to cry and plead for your life now?” one of the men piped up and I squinted, seeing the tall man who kidnapped me. He was dressed in a casual black suit, like something out of John Wick and to say he wasn’t attractive would be an understatement. However, my fear of getting tortured outweighed my need to be laid.

“I don’t know,” I said, my mouth dry, “Do you want me to?” “It would be more entertaining than watching you just sit there and ogle me.” “I was not ogling you!” my voice raised in defense, not helping my case at all. “I was just trying to see what you looked like considering I’ve been bagged for God knows how long.” The man smiled lopsidedly, “So ogling me.”

One of the men walked over and backhanded me before turning to the man, “Harrison if you wanted to fuck her, you shouldn’t have told Tom about your incident.” My head throbbed more potently than before and I knew if that light kept shining in my eyes I would not be able to keep conscious. “I-,” I began but the man who slapped me stepped forward so I shut my mouth. As if on cue, a door opened, spilling more light and the darkened silhouette of another man walked down the stairs. The scene was comparable to watching the Devil walking back to Hell. Perhaps it was the Devil.

The door closed behind him and the room was engulfed in darkness again. With one of my eyes open, I watched as the man came close to me, but I still couldn’t see his face. If I wasn’t so drowsy, I knew that I would be panicking by now. This was him. This was the Tom who wanted me dead for witnessing a murder.

There was a scraping on the floor and I watched lazily as Tom pulled up a chair in front of me. He pulled the light away from my face and I closed my eyes in relief, relishing in a moment’s darkness before I felt the familiar feeling of a gun against my temple. “I’d open those eyes if I were you,” he said. It was then I noticed that him and Harrison both had accents.

Doing as I was told, I forced my eyes open and looked at my killer. He had chestnut hair slicked back with one strand falling in front of his face. His eyes were of the same color and he held a scowl. He was young, possibly my age. Yet he was in charge of what? An organization of contracted killers? Was this a big crime ring? Then it clicked.

I remember hearing his name on the news. Tom Holland, infamous mobster and contracted killer, escaped from the UK and emigrated his entire organization to the US. This was the Holland mafia, the deadliest thing since the plague. In fact, they were a plague, a plague of men in suits with daggers, tourniquets, and guns, ready to infect anybody who doesn’t obey orders. I had fallen prey to Tom Holland. I had witnessed his organization at work and blew my cover. Excellent.

“Alessandra Reese,” he started, “You’ve gotten yourself in some deep shit.” I hadn’t heard my full name in years, it felt strange hearing it and from a killer nevertheless. “I’m well aware,” I said and watched as the side of his mouth curled into a smirk. His eyes watched mine, most likely taking note of the cowardice that hid behind my tongue. “And before you kill me or torture me or whatever the fuck you’re going to do, I want you to know I’m not going to say anything. I already told Harrison that,” I couldn’t shut myself up.

Tom laughed and it wrenched my stomach. He looked back at Harrison and pointed at me with the gun, “She’s not going to tell.” Harrison and him shared a laugh as did the rest of the men. My face burned. Of course, he expected me not to say anything. Who the fuck was I going to tell anyway? From what I’ve seen, the mafia owns the police. Would I tell Katy? Lilah, in order to make our own old movie plot? There was noone I could confide in, so me defending myself with that hackneyed saying had no power at all. I just looked stupid and possibly more dead.

He turned back to me and took the gun off safety, pointing it at my face. “Now, who would you tell that made you think this?” He asked, “Your brother? Your kindergarten class? Katy?” The anxiety crept in like bugs in my skin. He knew Katy. Of course he did, he knew my fucking name! “None of them,” I said, “Forget about it.”

“Oh but I don’t want to,” he leant forward, “I want to know what made you think you were going to snitch. What would you even snitch about? ‘911? Yes I saw a man get murdered! It has to be the mafia!’ You’re hilarious, Reese. Now tell me, besides that pathetic attempt to save your life, why should I let you live?”

There was a million things I could think of that was a reason to live: My brother, Katy, my class, Thanksgiving, the songs I had never listened to, and the fact that I don’t want to live. However, he probably knew that already. He probably expected me to say those just so he could laugh and blow my face off. “Are you going to say something?” Tom pushed, “Or are you going to die with that pathetic excuse of life on your mind?”

“Jesus fucking Christ! Let me think for a goddamn second! I’m scared out of my mind by dying and you’re not making it any better by telling you a reason I must live when you’re going to fucking shoot me anyway!” I shouted and immediately wanted to cover my mouth up, but with my hands being tied up, I obviously couldn’t. He didn’t say anything, so I took this as an opportunity to say more, considering I was going to get shot either way. “Let’s see, if I live, you wouldn’t have to clean up the mess. I’m sure you love murder and all, but clean up has to be tricky, am I right? Oh, and if I live you won’t have to hear from me again, then again the same goes for when I’m dead. You know what? Just shoot me, you know you want to.”

Taking me by surprise, he put the gun down. I wanted to relieve all the tension stored in my body and thank the Lord I didn’t get shot, but then he pulled out a bowie knife. He stood up from the chair and walked behind me. “How fitting,” I whispered to myself, closing my eyes and making peace with myself internally. I felt the cool blade press against my cheek and then it slid to my throat, where it stayed put.

“One day, Reese, you’ll learn that silence is golden,” he whispered in my ear. He took the knife off of my throat and cut the rope from my hands and feet. “Get up,” he ordered and I did so with very little success. My knees were shaking and I almost fell, but I kept my balance, barely.

Tom handed me a flip phone and said, “I saved your life, darling, but now you’re in my debt. When that phone rings, you’ll answer.” I turned it over in my hand, my heart sinking when I realized I was probably better off dead. “What if I don’t?” I asked, keeping my eyes on the phone. I felt the blade of the knife rest below my chin and he raised my chin to meet his eyes. “I don’t call twice. If you don’t answer, you and everyone around you is dead. The price of doing business with me, I’m afraid.” He snapped his fingers at Harrison and the man who slapped me, “Get her out of here.”

Harrison grabbed my arm and started to lead me out of the place. The other man grabbed the black bag and right as he put it over my head, I saw Tom wave goodbye at me. “I can’t wait to hear your voice soon, Reese,” he said and I was forced out of the place, suddenly a slave to the mafia.

#spiderman #spiderman: far from home #Spiderman: Homecoming #spiderman: hoco #tom holland #tom holland fanfiction #Mob!Tom #tom holland au #tom holland x oc #fanfiction #peter parker #marvel

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whifferdills · 5 years ago

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" a cracked mask, late hangover, and a ragged suit " gomens, Hastur, Hastur/Ligur, ~1.2k words, mild gore and violence, snuff, necrophilia, Hastur is a pile of maggots, it could be grosser but also dead dove do not eat

alternately on the AO3

Hastur believes in the Cause, of course. He trusts Satan's infernal vision, Beezelbub's vile bureaucracy. He is the Duke of Hell, and he has his part to play in the eternal mechanisms of war.

So Armageddon approaches; if Hell needs more bodies and if there are quotas to be met, he will do it. If a privileged young man needs to turn his frustration into bigotry, he will use one of the shared accounts on the World Wide Web and encourage him to hate. If he must tempt a priest with the sins of the flesh, he will arrange it. If a guard must be made to watch as prisoners, who have done nothing wrong, die slowly from negligence and institutional cruelty, he’ll make a memo.

And if Beelzebub hands him a name, and says you know what to do, he does. He knows what to do. He stares at himself in the mirror for a very long time, one of the nice ones in the lobby (Hell's mirrors are cracked and dirty and will only ever show you the worst of yourself). He stares and he concentrates until the toad recedes; until the boils fade; even until his hair becomes less lank, and his eyes less black. A human's version of normal, average, bordering on attractive. Certainly not ugly.

(There are more recently Fallen demons who are more naturally beautiful, a whole department dedicated to sensual and sexual temptations. But Beelzebub trusts him, and he would never refuse.)

He stares at this version of himself, this nice and normal middle-aged man, and he sends the focus-grouped Grindr message to a particular politician. Poised for greatness, they say. And he would be - well, the projections say he’d be sort of average, in the grand Earthly scheme. But down in the trenches? Oh, the potential of this man.

So an hour later Hastur is in a Hackney hotel room, and he is being fucked. Two hours later he is still in the hotel room, and he is being murdered.

The politician, thirty something and wearing years of repression - a specific move by Leraje and an early nudge by Gaap - and anger, of course, that he built himself, that his parents gave to him, that his schoolyard friends shared with him, the impulse to hit the thing that is frightening him, hit it again and again and again - Hastur is gasping and crying and it’s a show of course but something about this is so very nice - to be brought down like this, used like this, snuffed out like this, and all in service of Armageddon. He smiles, he breathes the last breath he will take for some time,

And the politician’s soul was theirs.

Hastur plays dead for several days. He is dead in the hotel room in Hackney, listening as the politician cries and storms about and calls his secretary. He is dead as he is swabbed clean, as fingerprints are lifted, as alibis are made. He is dead when the housekeeper finds him, when the police arrive, when he is bagged and carried out. He is dead in the morgue, growing colder, bruising where the blood has settled. He is dead while another demon plays grieving widow, his body retrieved and sent to the funeral home. He is dead as they discuss options - cremation, embalming, caskets. He is dead as the fluids go in, as the makeup is applied, at the viewing where no one, aside from what hell provides, shows. He is dead in the cold hard ground, dirt piled high above him - the LARPing demons abscond and the cemetery sexton trundles away, one arm drifting a lit cigarette from the window of the cab of his backhoe.

(They fight, back and forth. Death is a big thing for both sides and there’s always something new about how to do it, how it comes, how it’s dealt with. Embalming was Hell’s idea, but built off of what Heaven gave; natural burials were Heaven’s idea, with enough pagan humanity in it that they couldn’t really lay claim. Humans, by and large, have a lot of sway over their grief. Not much of a home-field advantage for either team.)

Hastur is dead. He’s been dead for some time. And when enough time has passed, he exhales, and he swarms-

He arrives back in Hell, maggots coalescing loosely into shape. He feels odd. Uncertain, almost. Unconvinced of himself. So much time exploring Earthly pleasures. Still bruised and bloated around the edges. The decay of him keenly felt.

“It’s a trip, isn’t it.” Ligur says, face impassive but the chameleon winking. “Being killed.”

Hastur nods. Ligur nods. The air is heavy and fetid and this isn’t charged so much as regretfully required. Ligur takes his hand, and tugs him into the nearest unused general-purpose room. He goes willingly, pliantly, bones moving easy and wetly in his body.

He’d almost felt, not peaceful, not ever that, but at rest. A job done, and done well, and being currently unneeded, simply a body at rest. He’d been down in the earth as he festered and rotted, as the worms came towards him. And he is a body in motion, now. He is himself and he is falling loose, into decay and sloughing skin, into the maggot-mass that he is, as Ligur presses against him.

“How did it feel?” Ligur asks. He licks down Hastur’s neck, curling into the open sores, tickling the worms that live there now.

“Beg pardon?”

“Being dead. Being killed. Being murdered, in an act of passion.” Ligur’s hand between his legs, pulling the fly down and slipping into the swarm of him. The wet, crawling mass, enveloping Ligur’s fingers.

The frog croaks and the lizard winks and Hastur gasps and Ligur quirks an eyebrow - and Hastur bursts open, the fetid rush of him spilling out, the fluid and the flies and the worms and the maggots and the dirt, too, the grave-earth, the soil of humanity and that hits something, that nags at something, he’s become something else -

He chokes on whatever’s left in his stomach, as it comes up. Leaves it cool and drying on his lips, the stench of it. He can’t tell what he feels other than awful.

“I was the same, my first time. The way humans murder. Different, from discorporation. Easier and less, okay, you get less dead, but there’s something. Huh.” Ligur steps back, lights a cigarette that he’s waved into existence. “Makes you realize why the Department of Bodily Violence and the Sensual Temptation folks talk to each other so much.”

Hastur cannot nod, because Hastur is now a reasonably-sized pile of maggots writhing about on the linoleum. The computer in the corner showing a bouncing screensaver logo that will never, ever hit the corner.

Ligur coughs up something approximating a laugh, and ashes the cigarette into the center of him, stepping neatly over, letting the door close just a touch too loudly.

Hastur believes in the Cause, of course he does. This is what he’s been built to do. He stares in the mirror, one of the ones in the lobby because they’re almost honest: stares at himself until the maggots form features and the features form a face, until he has hair, and black eyes, and festering sores. He is the Duke of Hell, and he will play his part as Earth quakes and the stars align. He is, as the kids say, groovy with it.

He steps out into a busy SoHo street, with a name in his hand and a grin on his face. The mechanism ticks over, and he flags a cab, body shifting into place. He knows what to do.

#good omens fanfic #hastur/ligur #hastur

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hamlet-laundry · 2 years ago

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#hamlet laundry #laundry #drycleaning

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veryfineday · 4 years ago

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Friday 8 April 1825

7 1/4

1 50/60

Vc Vc

Breakfast at 9 – the waiter having got me a nice hacKney chariot for 4 hours certain, and as much longer as I pleased, tooK Cordingley with me, and was off at 9 1/4 – got out at the College at 10 – Left Cordingley to wait for me, and, having driven first to the house, found the professor had come down immediately and was ready for me at the college – I met him in the stable on the left of the entrance – which opens on a pretty quadrangle laid out in grass, and enclosed with stables, and sheds on one side, the museum etc. –

we stood talKing in the stable a considerable time – It was lofty, the stalls about 6 feet wide, the common depth – the professor said, if he had now the building of these stables, they should be very different – the stalls should be... (vide line 3 et sequentes of this page) – it was not necessary to have a stable so lofty – § 8 feet high was enough – he would nt have then higher – the great art was in ventilation which had never been properly understood – they had just expended £1400 on ventilating their church on the plan of — : it did not answer – To economise heat, as it was called, the good air was properly let in at the bottom of the building; but then the apertures for the escape of the bad were only about a feet-and-a half or 2 feet above those to admit the good air, and therefore the plan could not answer, and ladies were still obliged to go out fainting; for the bad air always rises to the top, and ought to be let out there – the stable was for 5 or 6 horses (I thinK 5 but am not certain) – I observed 3 holes on a level with the ground (perhaps 6 inches by 4 inches) for the admission of fresh air, and ‘exactly over the nose of each horse’, as he stood at his hay-racK

(that sort of oval iron racK placed lengthwise upwards) was an aperture in the top of the ceiling (close to the edge of the wall) about 3 inches by 2 inches ‘the size of a bricK-end’ – for the escape of the foul air as emitted from the nostrils of the horse – They suited the buildings to this as well they could – sometimes they tooK off a ridge stone, and put a little contrivance at the top to Keep out rain, and let the air escape at the sides –

He had been employed to ventilate all our dragoon barracK-stables – had done those at yorK – not a good thing for the stalls to fall towards the bacK – § threw too much weight on the hind legs – all the horse-stalls leaned a little towards a grate in the centre of the stall, thro’ which the urine passed away by a channel underneath – the marc-stalls were, of course, obliged to have the grate at the foot of the stall, and the stall must lean sufficiently towards it – the stable was washed a light blueish gray or drab – the stalls the same, or yellowish stone colour – the horses never suffered to stand on litter during the day – the stalls paved with round gravel or moderate sized pebbles, as large as a large hen’s-egg –

then the professor said a great deal about the nature of colds and catarrhs and complaints of the lungs § – and on the necessity of the frog having pressure – when a horse came in very hot, the perspiration was an effort to cool – why shut all the doors, make the stable as close as possible, and sheet the horse, and do all to prevent this effort of nature – the best plan, to sponge a horse dry with cold water – §§ sponge him all over, and wipe him dry – he would be dry in a few minutes – It was not cold that gave a horse cold – if out all weathers, his coat would stare, and and he might be thin and starved – but he would be free from pulmonary complaints – it was heat, – exertion that determined too much blood to the heart and lungs that gave these complaints, – and he argued for sponging – said post-horses were taKen to ponds – the Russians plunged from hot baths into cold – If I myself was much heated sponging (wiping myself dry) and putting on dry linen would be best for me – he would not advocate for firing – it created a great deal of inflammation – he preferred the effect produced by bandaging – §§ 3 KnucKles-broad, four-feet-long bandages wrapped very tight round the part (while the leg was dry) then throwing cold water on the bandage, the cold produced by the evaporation of the water in drying contracted the muscles in a better way than firing without producing inflammation – grease never heard of now – a sure proof of a bad stable or bad grooming – § they generally used a mild solution of sulphate of zinc – §§ Poultices required so much care, they should always be used with caution – the effect should be to produce cold by evaporation, consequently tho’ did good while moist, they did harm when dry, and required constant attention in being changed sufficiently often – the best month to take a horse up is May §§ – when the horse has had the benefit of the spring grass, when he can have green meat in the stable, and when the temperature of the stable becomes nearly the same, as the tempreture out of doors – finds that warm stable do best, but then they should be properly ventilated § –

after standing perhaps 1/2 hour talKing in the stable, – went into the museum, small, maKing no shew compared with the French one, but excellently furnished with models of shoes, and all sorts of feet – If this room contained all the museum, there was perhaps a want of the others parts of the horse, – of the sKeleton at large – there seemed a good collection of the different interior parts ogans organs of the animal –

Here our attention turned entirely on the feet and on shoeing – the necessity of pressure to the frog – § Xenophon in his retreat of the ten thousand preferred a horse with a frog high from the ground – but this was accounted for, because the art of shoeing was then unKnown – his horses have a yard to run in paved with pebbles – §§ no nails should be near the heels, because they prevented the expansion of them on the frog having pressure and endeavoring to squeeze them out – the frog should never be touched in shoeing, unless unsound, and to cut the bits off and leave it clean – there ought to be room for a picKer between the heel of the shoe, and the crust of the horse’s heel – the sole ought always to be hollow – it was a general rule, it ought to be cut clean – that is always a guide, for it becomes clean (cleanhorn) sooner or later in proportion to its quality, and is a certain index §§ – the shoes ought to go to the end of the heel – when turned out, the forefeet (the hind feet should have no shoes) should be only tipped – ironed round the toe, and a bar from the middle of the toe to the outside quarter – the effect of this may be in time a little contraction of the inside quarter, then remove the bar to the inside – but the inside has always more weight to bear, and is more delicate –

Xenophon says choose horses with blacK hoofs – he is right – he was a philosopher – no stones, nor cut glass wears or hurts their horses hoofs so long as ity it is dry – it is moisture that wears away the horn – and therefore tips only do in dry weather § – from may to September – always bear this in mind, that it is moisture that wears the hood §§ – clay the best stopping – moisture is the thing to be produced by stopping – cowdung is only added to Keep up this moisture, but nothing does better than clay which is just as good without the cow dung – white a pupil of the Professors – a great deal of humbug in him § – so said they at Clarenton (the veterinary college near Paris) –

altogethr 1 1/2 hour with the professor – asKed if he had published written much – he said he talKed more than he wrote – probable enough – he talKed to me all the while as if he was lecturing – a middle sized (perhaps 5 feet 6 inches) stoutish, or, rather, portly man – neat in his person – but evidently a man who had risen by his merit – He had written on the foot of the horse and on shoeing – said I must have his booK, and on giving him my address (at webbe’s hotel) he promised to send it –

on leaving the college drove direct to sir Hector Maclean’s 1 Allan’s Terrace Kensington, to call on old Coll and Breadalbane McL-[MacLean] Found they had gone the Saturday before – In returning drove round the bacK of Kensington gardens (by the gravel pits as the coachman called it), and so direct to mrs. Partington’s, 16 Orchard street (near Portland Place) to call on miss Hall, general whartons sister, and Mr. wharton’s of Skelton castle – she was at home – very glad to see me – sat with her an hour – she had lately heard from Eliza Belcombe talKed a great deal about the B-s[Belcombes] –

Severe upon miss marsh – her dictatorial manner she had learnt at the spinning school, and which made her disagreeable – old Wallis said her grand father (marsh) Kept a little public house – she under restraint before her sister’s marriage (mrs. greenup always pretty and vulgar) and mrs. Salmond had Kept her in order, but the Norcliffes brought her out – she had had a handsome vulgar niece with her whom she would be glad to get off – for the G-s[Greenups] had been banKrupt – § Miss M[arsh] had done all she could to marry Mr Duffin was right to have a nieice to live with him § I said I had heard (π [Mariana] told me) Mr Henry Chaloner said the niece was handsome but as coarse in mind as body I thought Miss M[arsh] had brought her too forward Mrs Greenup had behaved unlike a gentlewoman to me and I knew nothing about her we were not on speaking terms § Mrs MacKs[MacKenzie’s] father was one § of the Yorkshire Dawsons sspent his fortune was master of the ceremonies at Bath after Nash left his wife there and ran off with Miss Fitz Herbert with whom he lived till her death the people at Bath pitied the poor wife she had some share in the profits of the rooms continued to her and Miss H[erbert] seemed to insinuate that they made a sort of subscription for her – Miss H[erbert] did not illnaturedly volunteer this about the MacK[enzie]s but the manner in which she spoke of Miss Marsh made me come away saying to myself she was grown a scandalizing old maid § – miss Hall said that manner Kept ladies, and ladies of patched up characters lived in Sloane street – had warned mrs. mcK-[MacKenzie] not to let miss mcK-[MacKenzie] walK about with the Miss Saundersons mrs. Saunderson not a gentle woman –

From Miss Hall’s drove to the Blue boar Holborn – tooK 2 inside places for Sunday morning – the man told me to be there at 6 3/4 – then drove to Hewitt’s, straw hat manufacturer, 96 curtain road, near worship street – on Mrs William Priestleys account a first cousin of hers she wanted to know what sort of man he was I pretended a recommendation for hats from a family of Smith of Halifax in Yorkshire the man caught at this made inquiries about the πs [Mariana’s] mentioned the relationship and I promised to say I had seen him he seemed respectable supplied the city straw hat sellers made chiefly black willow bonnets and English leghorn –

From curtain road drove to no.94 Pall mall, got out there at 3 50/60 – § gave Cordingley money to give mr. webbe to pay the man for the hacKney Chariot (from 9 1/4 to 4) and went in (the Apollo Saloon, 94 Pall mall) to hear the infant Lyra – a child apparently about 5 years old, play the harp – no notes – from ear – different airs with variations – a pretty little g child – fine blacK eyes – speaKing, interesting, pensive cast of countenance – the performance, certainly wonderful lasted about 1/2 hour – the room full – I was rather too late, but heard her 20 minutes –

returned home – spoke to Leuliette at the coach office, about the mistake made in Dover as I went – charging me 18 francs too much – spoke, too, about sending parcels to Paris or receiving them from there – he would take care it should be done safely – § each parcel however small would be charged 5/9 from London to P-[Paris] or P-[Paris] to London – and a largish parcel would only be the same – Duties, of course, not included –

§§ while I was out Professor Coleman had sent the booK, 1 volume 4to [quarto] London 1802. ‘Observation on the Structure, œconomy, and diseases of the foot of the horse’ and on shoeing – Read a little of it – 2 or 3 of the first pp.[pages] – Dinner at 6 – hair curled at eight – for about an hour before dinner and between 2 and 3 hours afterwards (till 10) writing out my accounts from march 30 up tonight – then till one copying the fir[s]t page of and half of the third and the ends of my letter to Mrs Barlow – Very fine day – a very little discharge having no syringe unpacked merely washed with cold water

#anne lister code breaker #1825

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