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vaguely-gestures-to-the-void · 3 years ago

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Hindsight: My thoughts on Loki (2021)

Spoilers below. Please correct me if I slip up. I am in no way shape or form educated on ANYTHING to do with the making of films, how to critique this stuff etc, this is all just my opinion. If I haven’t covered a scene, it’s probably because it’s already been covered much better than I can. This is my extended episode 1 review.

Episode 1: GLORIOUS PURPOSE

Pre-title scene

The scene titles looking like a train station combined with the scrolling through time is such a cool stylistic choice.

The music is familiar, but followed by an alternate shot of Loki as Cap. A different perspective of something known, how fitting. FYI, I’m going to mention music a lot.

Love how no one questions the Hulk terrifying people.

This is the last time Loki will hear Thor call his name, or speak to him. Oh darn, I made myself sad.

Marvel studios logo

The Marvel logo changing colours + Loki theme finally taking the centre stage. I love it.

The comments made on Loki soundtrack videos saying ‘I see that the Mandalorian soundtrack has become a genre’ are so accurate it hurts. Shout out to Ludwig btw, he deserves all the awards for his soundtracks.

My thoughts so far: This part is setting up the general shift in tone from what we’ve seen in past Marvel projects, even the other shows. It reaffirms the audience’s subconscious that whilst we are familiar with the characters, there’s new twists up ahead, subtle hints to oncoming mischief. Props to the entire team behind the series.

Gobi Desert Scene

As much as I liked the opening bug crawl, the following interactions look a bit CGId. I’m being picky, they really are gorgeous. It’s also difficult after having seen the Mandalorian, but that show really paid attention to scenery as it was an instrumental part of the story, whereas here it’s just one scene and all the others are stunning.

The parallels to Tony in the desert. Loki immediately rips off the muzzle (?).

I just watched the scene and yes, Tony rips off the mask immediately.

Also I think I would have definitely had a crush on young RDJ.

And Gwyneth Paltrow (GOOP LADY) if I didn’t know her now.

Props to Tom Hiddleston’s acting. Loki’s face when he sits up is just pure confusion but with the signature hint of indignation that I’d expect from his characterisation at this point.

The rock lmao.

THE MUSIC WHEN B-15 (MY QUEEN) APPEARS. HELL YEAH!

Also props to the supporting cast of minutemen, where does Marvel find these people? They’re so well choreographed, they all move perfectly and it’s a joy to watch.

Love the time doors honestly.

I couldn’t have been the only one who thought that the temp pads were Samsung phones for a sec right?

Lol is that unintentional foreshadowing about the TVA? Jk I’m just clowning.

Has anyone spoken about what the Temp pad showed?

My theory is that ‘Units’ refer to a predetermined rate of change [e.g. m/s] where one unit = one increment of change.

The steady rate of change here is interesting. I’ll talk about it more at the end of the next episode.

I love the music, just the slow ticking increasing in pace and the dramatic flares brought on by the strings (I think), simply divine. Natalie Holt got it spot on and props to Tom Hiddleston and literally everyone involved for understanding the importance of good music with this series. I’ll talk about this in depth in the next episode, just wanted to mention it when it first started that I noticed.

In retrospect, I can definitely retract my critique of the background in the scene. It holds up well now that I’ve rewatched it.

B-15 doesn’t get enough love. Shout out to Wunmi Mosaku, she’s a trooper and I’m here to hype her up.

Also y'all I just checked the cast list and ???? Mark Ruffalo, Jeremy Renner and Tessa Thompson are on it?????? MARVEL TF IS THIS WHAT TOM MEANT BY EP 4 BEING WILD I-

Tom’s acting chops: The face moment. You know the one. It’s pretty incredible.

Theory from me: the reason that Loki doesn’t see the hit coming is because B15 was moving unnaturally fast.

It’s the immediate change in the music to reflect the audience’s reaction at the standard fight scene taking a strange turn for me lads.

B-15 doesn’t smile, which I think is in character for her.

She’s seen this shit wayyyy too many times.

We’re not even five minutes into the first ep and a) I’ve waffled this much, Gods, and b) the music has changed at least 3?? Times to reflect what’s happening. I love it.

My theory about resetting the timeline: the reset charges get rid of anything in the immediate vicinity of the branch, pretty much a mini-apocalypse of the timeline. If everything is erased, none of it matters. Does that make sense?

Taking away the Tesseract while yes, it serves a purpose with showing Loki the might of the TVA later on, also reflects how nitpicky the TVA are about their time-keeping. They do everything in a very orderly fashion, but as we see later, the outdated nature of things is very human.

The TVA - the elevator thing

Man I love the TVA’s look. Someone (and I’ve heard that Kate Herron was also very particular about the set design) went to extraordinary lengths with every single scene, not just this one, but the one before as well.

Heck I just want to appreciate how much of a visual feast this series is. Good on ‘em.

The shots changing angle is also very interesting. They switch it up between one-takes, close-ups of differing extremities and it just keeps the flow fast-paced, ya know?

Watching Loki run was hilarious.

“Sounds dumb.” - Casey, Null Time Zone.

This weird robot is what I think of when the TVA is mentioned. Advanced tech mimicking a retroistic 70s feel.

The cat’s adorable.

The clock. The cup. The placing of props. Impeccable.

The clock’s hands don’t move whilst they’re on screen.

The realisation on his face when he eyes the stack of papers.

Why is the wall so badly scratched???

I love that the signature is in character. I have a huge thing for attention to detail lmao.

Again, why are all of the walls so scratched? If they could talk, I’d presume it’s just a set design choice but it’s interesting that they did that.

Does anyone else want a TVA sweater vest?

Tickets

The opening zoom in on Loki combined with the consistent brown-orange colours of the set makes the room look uniform and encompassing. I love how the lights are always placed in a repetitive manner so rooms are given the illusion that they go on forever.

Lighting here creates depth, but whilst the lights form a ceiling, we can’t actually see how they’re suspended and I think that’s neat.

The posters. Yes.

This is the first time I noticed the different minutemen uniforms. This one’s half orange-red and black. Pretty cool imo.

Shout out to Tara Strong and the entire animation.

The butterfly was a nice hint to the butterfly effect, and the music is perfect as always.

The wooden walls in the background of this shot. How very 70s.

The reflection showing the guy getting pruned is pretty cool.

Again, another clock with no movement on the wall.

The first 11 minutes are up and we’ve made it to the title! If you’ve read this far, congrats.

1549 Aix-en-provence, France

Just speculating, we’re in a church with an initial high-angled nearly bird’s eye view and then a cut to one looking up at Mobius. I guess it means even if we think as viewers our perspective is omniscient, we’re not spared from the mystery in this series.

Who’s in the stained glass window?

I love how they tie in a detail as small as the gum. It just goes to show when you haven’t got much time, every character interaction is meaningful.

Props to Owen Wilson, he really sold Mobius to me.

Mirrors in a church showing the devil behind Mobius. Or on his side.

Time court 37

The time court 37 really reminds me of train stations.

The chairs remind me of pews. They sure are reverent of the Time keepers.

The lighting is a cool, bluish tinge for the first time I’ve noticed. Especially on Ravonna (MY LOVE!).

B-15 knows Loki’s clowning lmaooo.

Ravonna isn’t here for it either.

Ravonna’s nailpolish is a very nice shade of brown.

Theory: Resetting is ‘being brainwashed for the TVA’. Not very original, but it’s interesting that the TVA thinks that Loki would be useful as a worker, unlike the guy who got pruned earlier.

The TVA exterior is amazing. It also extends forever in all directions, even down.

Time Theatre 25

What is that elevator music??

“I thought you didn’t like to talk” Ragnarok, anyone?

Loki reading the ‘Time theatre’ sign whilst rambling. Gotta give it to him, he’s always aware of his surroundings.

The little TVA logo on Mobius’ shirt.

Shout out to whoever did the costuming. Personally, I liked the shirts with no collars, and the armour of the minutemen and Hunters came off to me as practical but not ignorant of the branding that the TVA likes.

Theory (bear with me): Once you’re a part of the TVA, you’re not collared anymore, though there is an appearance of that on the shirts.

Seriously tho, what are those shirts like? Mobius doesn’t have a collar.

Why do the ties just… end?

Neat details:

Holo projector 35.

The lights being reminiscent of skylights but still leaving the characters in the dark. “The sun will shine on us again, brother.” Not yet.

The reflection of the projector in the table/on the ground.

Loki: *turns away.*

Mobius: *sips Josta.*

Seriously, the lighting is great. Loki moving in and out of the shadows? Great way to show his mistrust/ unease of the situation.

The illusion speech is the last time we really hear 2012 Loki in my eyes, mainly because Mobius really gets into the cracks of who Loki is and then there’s action.

The ‘I was- I am” Freudian slip is perfection.

Side note the music’s changed yet again. It’s definitely setting up the more mournful tones for seeing his mother’s death.

I find it interesting that the door is partially in the shadows.

Doors are symbols of opportunities, barriers and both death and birth from what I remember of high school English.

From what I know in interrogations the person being interrogated is allowed to sit with their back to a door. Initially, both Loki and Mobius are sideways, equidistant from the door. When Loki wants to run, he edges closer to the door, even if it is just to make a point. Excellent blocking in my eyes.

Oh man, Mobius’ little gestures.

“Always so perceptive about everyone but yourself.” I really don’t have to talk about the significance of that line, do I?

Frigga being stabbed in the back. Little solace to a dead man? Ouch. That hurt me too.

Loki’s wounds heal unnaturally fast, because he’s no mortal.

Mobius really drives home the last point. Who says ‘like you did your mother” ??? Owen sold how Mobius can influence Loki's mind.

The ‘best versions of themselves' line and showing Thor must have hit Loki hard. He spent two movies trying to prove who he is, measuring himself against Thor. And then he sees them both working together and being equals.

Loki’s escape

Wunmi and Owen’s line delivery is unforced and charged, completely in character.

Mobius looking under the table is hilarious to me.

The music.

The tidy cubicle = healthy timeline is a bit contradictory because they’re supposedly in the null time zone but okay.

Is no one going to mention the taxidermy ferret?

Loki just had an identity crisis. His ‘gut you like a fish’ seems in character.

The dude’s really questioning everything he knows lmao.

Casey’s ‘what’s a fish’ was really our first hint that not everything is what it seems to be at the TVA.

It amuses me that Loki’s on his knees when he gets the Tesseract.

I’m sure someone’s pointed it out already, but given that Loki takes back the Time Twister, it’s possible he could have stolen an Infinity stone.

Again, point’s already been made but Loki seeing the Infinity stones is what sells the power of the TVA.

Please, the rest of the office not giving a damn when one dude’s having some drama is hilariously on point. They really said ‘not my problem’.

Loki’s future

The screen on the table showing what he’s rewinding as it happens.

Btw if you pause any moment during that, you’ll see a scene.

A quick note on Loki’s characterisation:

He’s been through a lot in a very short period of time, quite literally finding out that his actions don’t have any consequences. He’s lost all autonomy, especially as a god who probably believed he was not as restrained as mortals. More on this in later Eps.

I really liked Ragnarok because it showed Loki and Thor’s maturity; they had to step out of legacies that were thousands of years old and come to terms with a universe that was much bigger than them. It also fleshed out their relationship as brothers, but not at the expense of who they were. Loki still is a schemer, and he talks more because he has less to hide in my eyes. He’s no longer just a villain, and that can’t be shown by just actions, especially in his own tv show.

Loki’s little laugh when Thor talks about giving him a hug. Man that was sad.

What shouldn’t be forgotten is that Loki doesn’t know how it ends. He doesn’t know whether Thanos gets defeated. For all he knows, he died in vain and left behind a brother with no family.

The collar says DANGER.

This is the scene that really nails it home to Loki that his purpose in life was to cause pain. He found out his glorious purpose in that timeline, he’s conflicted as Sylvie points out in Ep 3.

When Loki talks to Mobius, they’re both in medium shots. They’re on the same page.

Loki’s delivery has changed when talking about the 'illusion' but Mobius hasn’t. That may change in the later episodes.

1858 Salina, Oklahoma

Others have covered this better.

Sylvie’s theme is similar to Loki’s but not identical.

It’s got sinister tones which change throughout the series.

I love how you can see the images of the minutemen’s past and future as they walk through a time door, they literally step through time.

I’ve got a whole other post on the end credits scenes. Cheers if you read this all lads.

Ep 1 review

All in all, this was a scene-setting episode. One of my friends texted me and said ‘Loki really went through ten years worth of character development in minutes’ and I think that sums it up pretty well. It’s a great set up, but the next episode is where the plot begins to progress. Really enjoyed it. There’s not too much that was aided by what we know from ep 3 besides Casey’s fish from what I caught.

See y'all next time, if there is anyone reading this. Look after yourselves!

#spoilers #loki spoilers #my respect for people that write scripts/analysis of any kind has increased immensely.#opinion #things i've noticed #sorry if they're not original #i don't hate mobius he is just very good at being an interrogator and it scares me #loki #loki review #b-15 deserves love #the analysts (mobius) the hunters the minutemen casey every one of them deserves love #here's to everyone who worked so hard and put so much into this series

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writingsofmyimagination · 7 years ago

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Red and Gold Part1

So decided aswell as my Joker Fan Fiction that I’d start one for my favourite under appreciated avenger Iron Man.

Enjoy :) and comments and feedback welcome.

Permenant Tag List:

@txnystarkimagines @imaginesforyoursoul

Happy Reading

I sat staring out of my bedroom window allowing the calmness of the ever darkening blue of the sky distract me from the glare of my computer and my flow of emails in front of me. It was a Sunday evening and the 4th week of my new job. I’ve recently transferred from the engineering and computer science research and development department at the New Avengers headquarters to working directly under Tony Stark; I still haven’t quite decided if it’s better than working directly under Nick Fury. My transfer was against Starks will as It’s certainly no secret Tony does not play well with others and is a solitary character especially when it comes to his suits and work. Since the events of the so called “Civil War” Tony has been more involved with governments and legislation of the Sokovia Accords and various other politics; this has robbed him of time doing what he does best. Fury figured Stark might need some assistance and due to certain regulations now in force any work, updates, mechanical upgrades of any of Stark’s Avengers or Iron Man equipment must be witnessed, checked and signed off. Thus Fury offered his top engineer up.

At only 27 I’m a Dr of Computer Science finishing first in my class at MIT. Fury recruited me when I was still studying when I’d managed to hack the systems at Avengers HQ bypassing some but not all of Stark’s security in place. I’m not a criminal though, under a security directive Fury wanted to check how safe the systems were and asked the most advanced computer science minds to attempt to get in. I being the only one to even get in Fury scooped me under his wing and by the time I graduated I was planning and starting to lead projects for the Avengers R&D. This was not without its hurdles; being so young I often had friction as my subordinates who were seniors in age didn’t like being told what to do by “the unrelenting master chick.” as some of them like to say, at least there’s one complement on my intelligence in there.

To be honest my job hasn’t changed that much; I still spend the majority of my time at New Avengers HQ as Stark has yet to request my assistance unsurprisingly. As a consequence of recent events Stark is as paranoid and distrustful as ever. In my new role I’m privy to a lot more information than that of my colleagues and due to that I’m fairly positive Tony probably monitors my every electronic move. I don’t mind so much Tony has been through a lot and I’d be more concerned if he didn’t. He’s slowly picked up drinking again; working all hours of the day with minimal sleep as a result my “assisting duties” have slowly edged away from the technical variety to more personal ones; I figured it would be a good idea to make sure my boss doesn’t run himself into a grave. In spite of this I have become to admire him in many ways; he has such a strong heart and will to make the world a safer place despite how much he is vilified.

On a more positive note with my job I got to relocate, I basically used to live at Avengers HQ keeping an eye on everything which sometimes was a 24/7 job. Eventually they gave me a room. I have upgraded considerably since relocating to Stark Tower/ Old Avengers HQ , I near enough have a whole floor to myself, Vision is probably here the most at the moment to keep an eye on Tony but he doesn’t always stay. All of the upper floors are designated living space for the Avengers and guests and seeing as there is a new HQ and half of them are underground I’m pretty alone, how I generally like it. My room is large and the whole outside wall is just glass, it’s beautiful really I get a breathtaking view of New York especially at night as the dark sky slowly merges down into a sea of orange lights. I rolled off my king size bed; the mahogany wood floor was cold beneath my feet. I looked at myself in the full body mirror beside my desk in a small alcove to left of bed; my tight but stretchy black skinny jeans felt soft against my toned legs, the knees were slightly worn and slowly fading to grey, my white tank top sat nicely on my hips and a tiny bit of cleavage was on show. I deemed myself suitably dressed to leave the room. “F.R.I.D.A.Y is there anyone in the swimming pool?” I asked out loud to Tony’s AI which ran almost everything in the building. “No Miss Chase there is no activity in the pool area” replied a toneless silvery voice.

“Have a nice evening Miss Chase” She continued. I must ask Tony to change her programming that she calls me Jaime. I sauntered over to the cream chest of drawers beneath my flat screen tv which clung to plain white walls. I pulled at the mahogany handles and pulled out my Egyptian cotton blue towel; the softness soothing my hands as I chucked it over my shoulder. I opened my door and turned to grab my access card which was placed in a socket on the wall. The cards are compulsory in the building and depending on who you are you will have are varied level off access. I pretty much have full access as Tony Stark’s assistant I kind of need access to wherever he does.

I left my room and headed off down the long corridor of bedroom doors each with a symbol of the Avenger above them. I reached the large open plan living and dining area. As I enter on the left is a modern kitchen with granite marble finish side with an oven hob and dishwasher neatly disguised underneath, overheard cupboards along the wall above them; there is a breakfast island with the same finish with a sink, chopping boards and various knife sets. Above the island are lighting rods which outline the island. Just before this kitchen is a large oval table with a black finish and seats tucked neatly under, if you could look closely I’m sure there would be a small film of dust gathering on the surface. To the right is a spacious social area with 2 large L-shaped black leather sofas and one regular shape sofa laid out in half a square enclosing the oak tv unit supporting the massive 75inch flat screen as well as an array of various gaming consoles. On my route to the elevator I also passed the pool tables yes that’s a plural. I hit the button on the elevator, after a few seconds I was greeted with the familiar ding which pulled me back from my thoughts. Inside I slid my card into the slot and pressed the floor for my destination; the fitness suite. With another ding the doors slid open I grabbed my card and headed for the pool.

Like so many rooms this room also had a glass wall that overlooked New York, it looked so peaceful the amber lights moving, flickering of and on with the occasional intrusion of blue lights moving faster than all the others. The temperature in the pool room was a comfortable humid one, I chucked my towel down onto a sun lounger and turned to face the pool, the radiating beam of the warm blue pool lights enticed me to hurry up and get in. I shed my jeans revealing the lower half of a black bikini, the bottoms tie up at both sides so they sit perfectly, this also reveals a large tattoo up the outside of my right thigh, it starts off just above my knee with a small delicate DNA helix which gradually increases in size as it twists up my leg ,the bonds then break and the tattoo is finished with a lovely beautiful black and grey water colour of a tree in bloom. I pulled the top overhead and just as my top was covering my face I heard footsteps and sensed a presence in the room and lowered my top to see. Mr Stark had entered the room from the Spa direction, our eyes both widened as we caught each others gaze; we clearly both thought we were alone. I quickly fumbled my shirt back on and pulled it down covering as much of my toned figure the elastic would allow. He’d emerged round the corner with a white towel wrapped around his waist leaving his well developed abs and large biceps on show; I quickly averted my gaze upwards out of awkwardness and social etiquette not to stare even though the view was more than pleasing to the eye. He was drying his dark brown hair with another towel draped around his neck leaving it looking slightly chaotic with some whispers overhanging onto his forehead. He came to a unsteady stop “Uh Mr Stark, I didn’t know you was in here I would have come back another time” I rushed. His eyes which were the type of brown like chocolate, the chocolate though had grown hard from all pain and turmoil he tries to hide from the world. These eyes looked at me and thankfully sensed my unease “It’s fine Jaime this place is yours to use as much as it is mine and besides it’s nice to know there’s a hot chic in a bikini in my house” Some of the hard chocolate in his eyes softened and threw a cheeky smile in my direction. I replied with a smile and a look that said nice try. “What? I get nothing” He joked, I replayed the previous look. “I’ll get out of your hair now, have a nice evening” He reassured me after a moment. I smiled gratefully back at him “Good night Mr Stark” I wished him while hoping his hangover isn’t bad tomorrow. He carried on jaggedly towards the door which I entered and I re took my off my shirt and let it drop to the floor; I would have been totally oblivious to him double checking me out if it wasn’t for the whole reflective surface of the glass wall. A small smile crept onto my face, there’s the old Tony Stark as I smiled he must have noticed he’d been busted “Jaime did you get a chance to look at those maintenance and adjustment records for Mark 47?” he asked. Smooth Tony very smooth. “I’m about half way through but I’ll need to come into the workshop tomorrow and do the visuals and run the diagnostics against my protocol” I said this as professionally as one can when stood in a bikini talking to your boss. At this point I’d turned to face him and he threw me a thumbs up “Night” he answered and then was gone. I finally stepped in to the heated pool and with each passing stroke let the water absorb all of my stress.

#tony stark #robert downey jr iron man #iron man #iron man fanfiction #iron man fic #iron man imagine #tony stark imagine #fanfiction #marvel fanfiction #txnystarkimagines

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jd-rush · 7 years ago

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Chuck help me--I committed fanfic: Tony Stark meets the Guardians of the Galaxy.

TITLE: Units From Heaven* AUTHOR: J.D. Rush FANDOM: MARVEL, MCU--Iron Man and Guardians of the Galaxy PAIRING: Tony Stark/Peter Quill kinda RATING: R for excessive f-bombs and sexual innuendo (I mean, it IS Tony Stark after all) SPOILERS: a couple of minor ones for “Guardians of the Galaxy 2”, nothing too damaging SUMMARY: The Guardians arrive on Earth with a dire warning. Perhaps someone should have warned them about Anthony Edward Stark. Takes place approximately three years after “Captain America: Civil War”, and the Avengers are still estranged. (I guess that's the nicest word for it.) DISCLAIMER: Characters belong to MARVEL and Disney and anyone else who could sue me. I also stole borrowed a couple of lines from “The Avengers”. I’ll return them when I’m done with them. AUTHOR'S NOTE: Humour, it's what I do. This turned out more cracky than I expected, and while I poke fun at Tony, it's done with deep love. Also, I don't know how long it takes Groot’s species to age or how the aging process works in space; for the sake of argument, let's say he's now the equivalent of early 20's, ‘kay? SECOND AUTHOR'S NOTE: Many thanks to my lovely friend, Michele, for giving me the encouragement to write this, even though it meant putting up with my current Iron Man obsession and my crippling writer's block. The XF joke is just for you, sweetie.

Italics mean inner thoughts

“Boss, an unidentified flying object has landed in the south corner of the Compound.”

“Unidentified? As in. . .”

“As in a space ship, Boss. It just appeared and. . .”

Tony Stark didn’t wait to hear the rest of what FRIDAY had to say. With a flick of his wrist, his armor formed around him; in the blink of an eye, he was suited up and flying out to meet his ultimate nightmare. He had been preparing for this moment for years, and he was ready. Whatever came out of that ship was going to regret even thinking about coming to Earth, let alone being stupid enough to actually do it.

Tony landed about ten feet from the brightly coloured alien craft, the mid-day sun reflecting off its vivid blue and orange hull. He barely had a moment to be thankful that he had stuck to classic hot-rod red and gold for his suit when he noticed a side door begin to lower and a shadow crossed the opened hatch. Bracing his hands in front of him, Tony powered up his repulsors.

Okay, Stark, here we go. Showtime. Shoot first, ask questions later. Bring it on, you space motherfuckers. You are going DOWN!

The invader appeared. It was a large grey bald male humanoid; shirtless, his bare torso was covered in intricate scarlet scars. He wandered slowly out of the ship, his red-rimmed ice blue eyes looking around in wonder, a big smile on his pudgy face.

“What the fuck?” Tony muttered under his breath.

The first visitor was followed by another male humanoid who was wearing some kind of metal mask with red-disk eye lenses which rendered his face completely unreadable and reminded Tony a bit too much of that putz, Ant-Man. He was decked out in a long brown leather duster, two high-tech guns strapped to his waist like a genuine space cowboy.

“No, what the actual fuck?” Tony asked again.

At that point, two shapely female aliens made their way down the ship's ramp--one was a stunning brunette with green skin, the other was pretty with pale skin, big dark eyes and two tiny stalks protruding from her head. Tony gave them the once-over and nodded.

“Okay, hot chicks. Good. I can work with that, even the antenna. But I still gotta ask. . . What. The. Fuck?”

He didn't get an answer. Instead he got a fifth alien, and this one was definitely not humanoid. In fact, it looked like a raccoon, walking on its hind legs, and wearing a uniform that contained more weaponry than Black Widow on a normal Thursday morning. Tony tried to remember if he had gotten drunk last night so he could explain all this away as nothing more than a severe hangover.

“What in the name of fuckitude is going on here?” Tony groused. “I seriously don’t get paid enough to deal with this shit, and I get paid a fuck-ton, thank you very much.”

The words were barely out of his mouth when a tall tree-like creature lumbered out of the ship and walked over to stand with the others. With a disbelieving headshake, Tony threw up his hands in defeat. “You know what? I’m out of fucks. Seriously, there are not enough fucks in my data bank for this. I surrender. Take me to your leader. What the fuck ever.”

“I am Groot,” the tree-creature rumbled, its arms--or rather limbs--stretched out wide in greeting.

“Yeah, right, you come in peace,” Tony snorted with a sarcastic laugh. “I’ve seen that movie, pal. Not buying what you're selling.”

“I am Groot,” the creature repeated, the tone of the words slightly different from the first time.

Hearing that, Tony lowered his hands. Retracting his helmet, he glanced over his left shoulder towards the cluster of trees at the edge of the field. “Yeah, I suppose she’s sexy. For a tree. I don’t know. Elms never did it for me. Give me a Northern Red Oak anytime. Nothing like a redhead, right?”

“I am Groot?” the creature asked, curiously.

“Nah, none around here," Tony answered. "Sorry, bud. Get it? I called you ‘bud’, because you're a tree and you sprout buds. Or maybe you don't, seeing as you're an alien tree. Maybe you sprout, I don't know, starfish or cupcakes or something weird like that. Although a cupcake sprouting tree would be pretty fucking fantastic, now that I think about it.”

“I am Groot!” Now the creature sounded miffed.

“Hey, not my fault for once,” Tony fired back. “I wanted to plant some, but Bruce wouldn't have it. He’s a big Earth Day kind of guy. ‘You can’t bring in non-native plants, Tony.’ ‘They mess with the ecosystem, Tony.’ ‘I told you to buy organic, water-based lube, Tony.’ Do you know how hard it is to find that in Key Lime Pie flavour? I mean, don’t get me wrong. He’s a total honeybun. Well, when he’s not turning into a big green rage monster.” He gestured over at the green female alien. “I can hook you up with him. You two would make a good looking couple.”

“Wait a minute!” Cos-play Ant-Man cut in, obviously flustered. Pointing at the tree creature, he asked, “You understand him?” “Well, yeah,” Tony replied, “he’s a great conversationalist. Much more eloquent than our current (sarcastic air quotes) ‘president’, I can tell you that for free.”

“I am Groot.”

Tony let out a loud belly laugh. “You got that right! I‘ve done business with that douche canoe. *I* sure as hell didn't vote for him.”

The cowboy stepped forward and demanded, “HOW can you understand him? I've been traveling with him for YEARS and I still don't get it!”

With a shrug of his armor-covered shoulders, Tony remarked, “Compared to Dum-E, he’s practically Oscar Wilde.”

Retracting his own helmet, Definitely Not Ant-Man said, “I have no idea who that is. And what is a Dum-E?”

Tony was momentarily knocked breathless by the handsome green-eyed, artfully-bearded face that the helmet revealed. “Whoa! Wow! Was not expecting that! FRIDAY, take a note--the chicks aren’t the only hot aliens on that ship.”

“If you call me a chick once more, I'll pull your spleen out through your nose and make you eat it," the green chick, ahhh, female humanoid snarled.

“No offense intended," Tony quickly apologized. “Seriously, I meant it strictly as a compliment. You’re total babes. Plus, I sort of don’t know your names.”

The green alien chick, ahhh, babe, ahhh, lady tilted her head and narrowed her eyes menacingly, causing Tony to take a step back in case his spleen was still in danger. (He wasn’t entirely sure what a spleen was but he certainly didn't want to eat one, especially his own). After a moment, she conceded, “Okay, I'll let it slide. For now.”

“She's getting soft,” the furry raccoon-like being chuckled.

She turned her glare on the critter, for which Tony was thankful. “I’ll show you soft,” she hissed.

“I’ve seen her soft and it’s not half bad,” Hunky Not-Ant Man smirked, and Tony fell just a little bit in love with him.

Green girl took a deep breath, released it slowly, and started again. “I’m Gamora. And this,” motioning to the bug alien, “is Mantis.”

Mantis smiled, making her already pretty face glow. “Hello, you have a beautiful world,” she said, her voice soft and soothing. “I look forward to seeing more.”

“So do I,” Tony replied, suavely, throwing in a wink for good measure.

“Don’t tell me--you flirt with everyone, don‘t you?” Gamora asked.

“Pretty much, yeah,” Tony admitted with a smug grin

Shaking her head in dismay, Gamora muttered, “Great. Another one. What did I ever do to deserve this?”

“You were an intergalactic assassin who killed many people and destroyed untold lives,” the big bald alien stated matter-of-factly.

“Yes, right I did do that,” Gamora admitted between gritted teeth. “Thank you for reminding me.”

“You are welcome,” the big bald alien said, totally without sarcasm or irony. “However, I do not understand how you could forget something like that.”

Gamora clenched her fists tightly and took another deep breath. The calming techniques Mantis had taught her usually worked when she was ready to kill her crewmates, though not always as the hole she had recently punched in the galley’s door would testify. Pointing to the big bald paisley-printed alien she continued, “That’s Drax and the ‘other hot alien’ as you so obnoxiously put it, is our captain, Peter Quill.”

“I am Groot,” the tree announced proudly.

"You've already met Groot," Gamora commented dryly, “and last but not least. . .”

“I'm Rocket,” the furry animal creature cut in. Looking up at Gamora, he snarked, “Sorry, sweets, but I was growing old waiting for you to get to me. We’re The Guardians of the Galaxy. It’s what we call ourselves. Sort of like a team. ‘The Universe’s Mightiest Heroes’ type thing.”

“That’s my line,” Tony grumbled under his breath.

“Actually, they call me Star-Lord,” Quill corrected as he stepped forward, hand extended, pointedly ignoring Gamora’s eye roll.

“And you can call me anytime,” Tony crooned in his best seductive voice, which was pretty damn good. His right gauntlet folded back upon itself effortlessly and he grasped Quill’s warm hand, shaking it a bit longer than necessary. Quill blushed slightly, which made Tony grin. 'I still got it', he thought cheerfully.

“We know who you are, Anthony Stark,” Gamora said, interrupting the magical moment.

“It's why we chose this spot to land,” Mantis added with a nod of her head which made her antennae bounce gently.

Tony stop shaking Quill's hand (much to the man’s disappointment) and regarded the two females suspiciously. “You know me? How? ‘Cause if it was those damn YouTube videos again, I swear I’m just gonna buy that fucking company and burn it to the ground. I don't care what my lawyers say.”

“Ain’t you Iron Man, the guy that blew up the Chitauri army?” Rocket asked, waving at Tony's armor. “I mean, ‘cause your outfit is kind of a dead give-away. Great suit, by the way. Nice and shiny.”

“Thanks, I polished it today. You wouldn't believe the amount of Turtle Wax I go through in a week, and that's not including the extra-curricular activities. And yeah, I nuked some alien space ships, but in my defense, they were sort of destroying Manhattan at the time, so they definitely deserved it.”

“Your name is known throughout the cosmos,” Mantis informed him, respect and awe in her voice.

“They sing songs of you and your legendary deeds!” Drax boomed, excitedly.

Tony pondered that for a moment before saying, “Well, I suppose that weekend party at Hef's in ‘05 would qualify me as a ’legend’ but that doesn’t explain how YOU know who I am.”

“I am Groot.”

At that, Tony eyed the group skeptically, then shook his head. “Bullshit. You're pulling my leg.”

“That is impossible,” Drax declared emphatically. “We are standing too far away to even touch you let alone pull your leg.” Off to the side, Quill did a dramatic face-palm.

Tony continued to study the individuals in front of him, searching for any sign that they were joking but it was obvious they were serious. He laughed uneasily. “No, ah. . .see, I think you’re mistaken. I’m not even a hero on this planet, let alone across the universe. You can ask anyone. I mean, Rogers probably has a entire notebook filled with my faults. And I’m pretty sure S.H.I.E.L.D. had to start a second file cabinet.”

“That’s where you’re wrong, Mr. Stark,” Quill said. “You actions saved many worlds from invasion. Billions of beings, trillions maybe, owe their lives to you. You are indeed a hero, and it is an honour to finally meet you.”

For once in his life, Anthony Edward Stark was truly speechless. He just stared at the six beings in front of him as he tried to process what they were saying. He couldn't remember the last time he had been told he did something good, never mind getting any praise for it. “I, ah. . .wow. Okay. Thanks,” he finally stammered. “That’s, um, good to know, I guess. It still doesn’t quite explain why you’re here, though. I mean, you could have just sent me a cookie bouquet or something.”

“We're here because of Thanos,” Gamora stated simply.

“Say who?” Tony shot back.

“He’s Gamora's father,” Mantis answered.

“Adoptive father,” Gamora corrected. “Intergalactic terrorist, genocidal maniac, menace to all life forms. . .“

“Big time dickbag,“ Rocket added, disdainfully.

“Yeah, that, too,” Gamora agreed. “He wants to rule the universe and impose his will on every living creature in it. And Terra is first on his list.”

Tony huffed. “I‘m guessing we‘re ‘Terra‘?” At Gamora‘s nod, he whinged, “Jesus Christ on a fucking crutch. What did we do to piss him off?”

“Besides blow up his army?” Rocket retorted.

“You ever hear of the Infinity Gauntlet?” Quill asked.

“Opening band for Black Sabbath?” Tony guessed.

Gamora just grimaced. “Why am I destined to be surrounded by the biggest idiots in the galaxy?”

Quill quickly began talking fast before Gamora's sword made an appearance. “Best as I can explain it, there’s this glove, and it holds these six stones. . .”

“Infinity Stones,” Rocket supplied.

“Right, Infinity Stones,” Quill continued. “They’re really old and super powerful and whoever has the glove and those stones can rule the universe. Thanos already has four, so once he gets the final two. . .”

“The Mind Stone and the Time Stone,” Tony interrupted.

Mantis's already big eyes grew bigger in surprise. “How do you know about those?” she asked breathlessly.

“Oh, that's easy,” Tony said. "I've got them."

"WHAT?!??!" the Guardians all exclaimed, well, all except Groot, who exclaimed, “I AM GROOT!”

“Not ME personally," Tony clarified. “My friend, Stephen Strange, has one of them. Well, I SAY friend. Sorry. Bad ‘Sherlock’ joke. Had to do it. Anyway, it’s encased in this pendant called the Eye of Amaretto or something like that. Tacky ass thing, but major league hoodoo I can tell you that. We got drunk once and he used it to turn me back into a virgin so he and Rhodey could. . .”

“And the other stone?” Gamora prompted, not wanting to know where that story was going.

“Yeah, the Mind Stone.” Tony chuckled, rubbing the back of his neck awkwardly. “Well, it's currently embedded in the head of my accidental mystical android son.”

Gamora rubbed her eyes tiredly and groaned, “I really don't even want to know.” Tony got the feeling that was her default reaction to most things. “The point is, we have to get to them before he does or else. . .”

Quill mouthed ‘Ka-Boom’ while miming an explosion with his hands.

Tony mulled their words over before confirming, “So you're telling me that we’re going to be invaded by space aliens again. Extra-terrestrial armies, space ships, powerful super-beings, advanced weapons, all that shit, right?”

“Exactly,” Quill replied. “That’s why we journeyed across the galaxy. To warn you and maybe help Terra prepare for. . .”

But he didn‘t get to finish what he was saying as Tony let out a sudden, excited shout, “That is fucking AWESOME!”

Everyone just stared at Tony in confused silence until Drax asked, cautiously, “It is?”

“Fucking A+ it is!” Glancing upwards, Tony screamed to the sky, “You hear that, Rogers! I was right, you sanctimonious twatwaffle! You and Barton can both eat me!”

Rocket snorted. "Twatwaffle. I like that. I'm stealing it."

"What else is new?" Gamora scoffed.

“Um. . .” Quill started, but Tony just talked right over him. “For years I tried to tell them. I kept saying, ‘The aliens are coming back‘. ‘They’re gonna kick our asses‘. ‘They’ll make New York look like a day at Disneyland’, but would they listen to me? Oh no. They were all like ‘You’re crazy, Tony.’ ‘You’re drunk, Tony‘. ‘You’re being paranoid, Tony.’ ‘You’re talking out of your ass, Tony.’ Well, suck my hairy balls, you assclowns, because I fucking NAILED IT!” He ended his victory speech with a couple of fist pumps and a happy ‘robot dance’, including some moon walking which looked rather graceful even in the armor, proving it probably wasn't the first time he had done it.

Quill gave a long, low whistle of approval. “Sick moves, bro!”

“Like 'em?” Tony said with a saucy smirk. “Had a private session with Beyonce once. And then we did some actual dancing.”

Mantis leaned towards Gamora and asked uneasily, “Are we sure this is the man who will save the universe?”

Gamora stepped forward, determined to reason with this obviously eccentric (though desperately needed) man and get their mission back on track. “Mr. Stark, if you would just. . .”

Tony held up his hand to silence her. “No, no, sweetheart. Wait a minute. Let me enjoy this for a few seconds. I’ve earned it. And please, it’s Tony.”

“I like this guy,” Rocket announced, hands--or rather, paws--on his tiny hips.

“As I was saying, TONY,” Gamora continued, undaunted, “super villain on the way, imminent interplanetary war, millions of planets at stake, not much time. Need a plan. Is there some place we can talk?”

“Yeah, sure, you can all stay up at the Compound,” Tony replied, breezily. “We’ve got plenty of room. Most of the team is out on a mission right now. I only stayed behind because I promised Parker I’d help him with his senior class science project. Not that he really needs it—the kid’s a goddamn genius but he seems to like my input for some reason. I think he does it for the hugs and the Double Stuf Oreos. And Strange is mixing it up in the multi-verse somewhere. He’s gonna be so stoked to meet you, Star-Lord. All the awesome facial hair bros!”

Quill's smile was almost blinding. “You called me Star-Lord!”

“Why wouldn’t I?” Tony commented. “It’s much cooler than ‘Peter’, and cool’s the rule right? Hey, I just thought of something--I've got TWO Peters now! I really should make some kind of pervy sex pun about that.”

“Please don’t,” Gamora muttered. “It’s really not necessary.”

“You don’t know me very well,” Tony grinned. “Man, I can't wait until Rhodey gets a load of you guys. He's gonna lose his shit!”

“Isn’t that what you want to do with sh--” Drax began but Gamora quickly cut him off before he could finish. “And our ship?”

“Don’t worry about your ship--it’ll be totally safe. Eject!” With that, the Iron Man suit opened and Tony stepped out, dressed in the tight black jeans and even tighter black tank top he was wearing when FRIDAY had sounded the alarm.

“GUH!” Quill gasped as Tony Stark was fully revealed for the first time, noting that he DEFINITELY put that smoking hot Rajak girl to shame.

Tony preened a bit. ’Oh yeah, definitely still got it’, he thought, but instead he patted the suit‘s shoulder and said, “52 here will watch over it for you. He'll like that. Will make him feel useful. Sentry mode.” At the command, the suit closed back up and raised its arms to chest level, repulsors at the ready.

“Fucking cool,” Rocket stated, clearly impressed.

Tony preened some more. He liked it when people geeked out with him over his tech--even when those people were walking, talking raccoon-like things. “I know, right? You should see the awesome shit I’ve got in development. I’ll give you a tour of my lab later. You’ll love it. Your whiskers may never stop twitching.”

“That might not be a great idea,” Quill warned, recognizing the scheming twinkle in Rocket’s eye.

“Nah, it’s a great idea. I always have great ideas.” Slinging an arm around Quill’s shoulders, Tony started leading him towards the Compound. “For instance, there was this one time that me and Reed Richards--great guy, maybe you‘ll get to meet him if Disney ever gets the rights back from FOX--anyway, we had this idea to. . . oh wow, is that an actual Zune? Cool. Haven't seen one of those in years. Retro-tech. You'll get along great with Parker. That’s my other Peter by the way. Still haven’t thought of a good sex pun yet. Seriously, you should see what that kid can do with a Nintendo Game boy, a roll of copper wire, and a box of Legos. Here,” digging into the back pocket of his jeans, Tony slapped a cellphone into Quill’s hand. “Starkphone 8.0 Latest model. Not even on the market yet."

“Why would I need a phone in outer space?” Quill asked, puzzled.

“It holds 50,000 songs, not including the entire AC/DC song library, which comes pre-loaded,” Tony explained. “Cost me a fortune for the copyrights, but totally worth it. Can you believe there are people out there that don't know the words to 'Highway to Hell'? I mean, what's wrong with this world? Maybe I should let Thermos have it after all.”

“Thanos,” Rocket corrected.

Tony waved his hand dismissively. “Him, too.”

Gamora shook her head and admonished, “Is everything a joke to you?”

“Funny things are,” Tony shot back automatically. “Whoa, déjà vu!”

“Did you say FIFTY thou--?” Quill couldn’t even find the words he was so overwhelmed. Throwing his arms around Tony, he gave the man a huge bear hug. “I love you, bro.”

“Yeah, I hear that a lot,” Tony laughed, patting Quill on the back. “Would this be a good time to tell you I fully intend to go old school Captain Kirk on you later? Explore the final frontier, if you get my drift.”

“Just so you know, I don‘t put out just for a phone, even one as awesome as this,” Quill bantered back, caressing said phone as if it were the greatest treasure in the universe. “You also have to buy me dinner.”

Tony squeezed Quill‘s shoulder and grinned widely. “Oh absolutely, Star-Lord. I know how to properly woo a guy. Way to a man’s heart, all that jazz. Hey, do you like shawarma? I know this great place. They deliver. Well, they’ll deliver for me. They’re back in the city so it’ll take a couple of hours but I guarantee it’s the best food you folks have ever eaten.” Calling over his shoulder to the other Guardians, he asked, “Anyone else in?”

“I should like to try it,” Mantis said with an excited smile, hurrying to catch up with Tony and Quill. “I like experiencing new things.”

“There are so many ways I could respond to that, but most of them will get me slapped,” Tony quipped.

“Or worse,” Quill said. Leaning close to Tony’s ear, he whispered, “Drax kinda has a crush on her, and his nickname is ‘The Destroyer’.”

“Say no more,” Tony whispered back, happy for the warning, though truthfully he only had eyes for Captain Hottie anyway. To Mantis he said, “Just follow me, my dear lady. I’ve got a whole world of new things to show you.” To the others, he gestured grandly towards the Compound, “C’mon Treebeard. You too, Crash Bandicoot. Right this way.”

“I am Groot?”

Tony stopped, turned around, and dramatically clutched at his chest in horror. “Are you kidding me? You don't know who Treebeard is? Fuck me sideways.”

“Do-able” Quill mumbled.

“That’s it, we're definitely watching 'Lord of the Rings' tonight. The Director's Cut. You’ll love it. Oh, and don’t even think about stealing the suit, Meeko,” Tony warned, seeing Rocket making a move towards the Iron Man armor. “First off, it’s coded just to me, myself, and I, and it’ll turn you into a smoking grease spot faster than you can say ’boy, that was a dumb fucking thing to do.’ And second, it wouldn’t fit you anyway. No sweat. I can build you one. I’ve got some odds and ends hanging around the workshop. Should only take me a day or two.” He motioned to the last two Guardians. “You joining us, Green Bean? Conundrum? Shawarma for everyone!”

Drax followed along after the others, musing aloud, “How is it possible that he can talk out of his ass? They did not mention that in any of the tales. Indeed, he is a hero worthy of song!”

“Fuck my life,” Gamora muttered as she trudged after her team, knowing the hole in the galley door was going to have a new friend very soon.

THE END *Title is a play on the phrase, "Pennies from Heaven", ie. unexpected good fortune, and as GotG use 'units' instead of money, well, there you go.

#fanfic #tony stark #iron man #guardians of the galaxy #text

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ryukoishida · 8 years ago

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PARS 2017 | Day 2: Spring Feelings | In which Isfan tries to avenge his brother’s death only to fall in love with the mafia’s deadly assassin.

Title: Come, Break Me Down Day/Prompt: Day 2 – Spring Feelings Author: ryukoishida Summary: Isfan is only in this line of business to await his chance to avenge his brother’s death someday; he never expects to fall in love with the deadliest assassin in Lion’s Den. [Mafia AU] Pairing(s)/Character(s): Isfan/Gieve, Daryun Rating: NSFW Warning: Gunplay A/N: Remember that sad excuse of a mafia AU? Yeah, I wrote more for it. Rather than reading this as a linear story, just… treat these as little vignettes, I guess. Might help if you read the first part, but it’s not necessary.

Radical Notion Series: i. (All My Friends Are) Bad Kids | AO3 ii. Come, Break Me Down | AO3

“Mr. Isfan?” the stranger asks the moment he opens the door to his cheap, one-room apartment unit.

It’s almost three in the morning.

“Yes, and who the hell are you?” he resists the urge to yawn, the defense mechanism of having a strange man dressed in a tailored suit of somber colours ringing his doorbell so urgently in the middle of the night hasn’t quite kicked in yet.

“Mr. Shapur sent me,” he only says, and with both hands, offers him a white envelope, “to give you this.”

“You a co-worker of my brother’s?” Isfan narrows his eyes as he plucks the letter out of the man’s hands, molten gold irises gleaming with a trace of suspicion that’s justifiable given the line of business that his brother is in — the kind of business that Shapur doesn’t want Isfan to be entangled with.

They may not be borne of the same mother, but Shapur was the one who took care of him since his mother was killed in an unfortunate “accident”. Of course, as Isfan grew older and understood more of the circumstances of his broken family — the illicit relationship his mother had with Shapur’s father, who, at the time, was working for the largest criminal empire of Pars as one of the leader’s right-hand men — he knew that his mother died because of another woman’s jealousy and irrationality.

Isfan doesn’t blame Shapur for any of it; in fact, he’s thankful for all that Shapur has done to support him — both financially and emotionally. Shapur never disclosed anything related to his work or source of income, and Isfan never thought to ask. Despite that, their relationship isn’t strained by their parents’ estranged affairs; it has only pulled the two half-brothers closer than ever.

“I’m one of his subordinates,” the man clarifies, and Isfan hears the quiet pride in his voice, in the way he straightens himself a bit taller when Isfan’s glare doesn’t phase out.

“Well, thank you for bringing me this,” Isfan waves the letter in his hand, the motion a little stiff and unnecessary, so he stops. “Anything else?”

The man, who now upon closer inspection, seems at least a few years younger than Isfan who’s a fourth-year majoring in mechanical engineering at the local university himself, looks hesitant for a short moment, his mouth opening slightly as if to say something but decides against it at the last minute. Instead, he mutters, eyes focusing on a spot to the right of Isfan’s face, “No. Have a good night, sir.”

“Yeah, you too.”

He shuts the door without waiting for the stranger to speak, his back leaning heavily against the door as he tears open the letter with shaking fingers.

Something must have happened if Shapur wasn’t able to meet him in person or even send him a text. He imagines his older brother having to run away to another country because the police are after him, which wouldn’t be too much of a stretch considering the type of work he deals with on a daily basis, but Isfan realizes how foolish his worries have been when he finally unfolds the paper and reads the last words his brother will ever say to him.

“When this note reaches you, I’m most likely dead…”

The rest of the letter, written in meticulous cursive, is read in silence but Isfan neither takes in its content nor its meaning, the words run together in a swirling mess of ugly, blue ink; his tears have blurred a few lines of handwriting, the diluted Persian blue seeping down the page like streaks of blood.

Hours later when he’s sitting in the dark bedroom with the letter still grasped tightly in his hand, the sky outside starting to light up in orange glow of a new day, Isfan makes a decision and a promise to himself: to bring down the bastards who are responsible for his brother’s death.

He’s not a defenseless, frail little boy who needs someone to take his hand and lead the way anymore.

From this day, he drowns in the sorrow and indifference of winter.

Isfan is about to meet the murderer of his brother.

“Can I trust you to control your temper when you deliver this to him?” Daryun asks as he hands his subordinate a heavy leather suitcase, his deep voice, usually imbued with authority and solemnity, carrying a hint of concern.

Isfan takes the suitcase in one hand from the man with night-black locks and piercing golden eyes that would render weaker men to cower before him begging for mercy, and a miniscule of a smile appears on his lips, though it doesn’t touch his eyes at all, “What were you expecting me to do? I’ve never even saw the man before — I’m actually rather excited to meet the mysterious and most capable assassin of our company.”

Daryun’s brows gather into a deep frown.

“You’ve been with the Lion’s Den for the past three years, so I’m sure you’ve heard all sorts of rumours about Gieve’s involvement in Shapur’s death.”

Isfan tries to hide the flinch upon hearing his brother’s name, but it doesn’t escape Daryun’s observation.

“Your brother was a man I admired ever since I started here, when we were still working under Andragoras; he meant a lot to me and those who knew him well, too, but it’s not in our place to tell you what to think, or who to blame,” Daryun looks out the window of the office for a brief moment, the mask of inscrutable stoicism temporarily melted into an expression much softer, more human, when he allows himself to remember, and then he turns back to look at Isfan. “You should hear his side of the story first. Know who your true enemies are, Isfan. Your brother wouldn’t want you to hurt yourself because of him.”

It’s rare to see the arms dealer talking so much, but Isfan senses the older man’s sincerity, knows that he’s just looking out for him, and he appreciates that all the same.

“I promise I won’t do anything stupid,” he tells Daryun, mulling over what the older man has said.

Daryun seems satisfied at the brunet’s reply, but Isfan can feel the temptation slithering through his bloodstreams all the way to the tips of his fingers, the desire to pull the trigger, to feel the warmth emitting from the metal of the gun strapped closely to his side.

“Gieve, someone’s here to see you.”

Isfan and the young woman with an uncomfortable amount of face piercings who’s walking ahead of him enter a spacious and brightly-lit, L-shaped chamber located in the underground of an industrial part of the city.

At first glance, Isfan notices the peculiarly vivid and loud furnishings that overwhelms everything else within his sight: the walls are washed with deep turquoise and stark white frames; one wall is completely dominated by all types of firearms — from dainty pistols to heavyweight assault rifles and extravagant scopes and accessories — while the adjacent wall has shelves of expensive alcohol and a bar complete with a few stools; and the open space is decorated with a coffee table and strangely cozy couches of floral patterns that probably dated back to the 60’s that seem at odds with the purpose of this room.

From the far end of the chamber, Isfan hears the echoed cocking of a gun and the subsequent reports fired.

The woman pokes her head around the corner and calls out for her boss again but to no avail.

“Just take a seat anywhere and make yourself comfortable,” the woman waves her hand towards the couches when she walks past Isfan towards the direction they’ve come from. “When he gets like this, it’s going to take him awhile to come back.”

“Gets like this?”

“Testing out new firearms,” she says before closing the door on her way out.

He considers waiting as the woman has suggested, but pure curiosity and the desire to finally come face-to-face with his brother’s killer are burning furiously at the back of his mind, and after placing the suitcase under the coffee table, Isfan quietly walks towards where he can still hear the man fiddling with his weapon.

Gieve’s back is towards him, and the reason why he’s ignored his subordinate’s call previously is now clear to Isfan: he’s wearing a pair of hearing protector over his ears. From his position, Isfan observes the fluid and graceful way with which the man reloads the magazine with quick fingers and efficient movements.

Isfan has no idea how long he’s been staring at the man, as the assassin continues shooting at the paper targets with frightening accuracy and speed. Most of his shots are aimed either at the head or heart — the most delicate parts of a human body — and he hits his targets almost perfectly.

He’s been standing in the same place for so long that his legs are beginning to get numb, but he cannot tear his eyes away from the man, who seems so physically fragile when Isfan first sets eyes on him that, has he not witnessed Gieve’s shooting finesse, he would definitely have been one who underestimates the man’s true skills.

Putting the handgun down, he swivels around so unexpectedly that Isfan instinctively takes a step back in alarm.

He calmly takes off his protective gear and places them on the counter. Gieve doesn’t look surprised to see him there, as if he’s been expecting his presence all along.

The sense of self-preservation prickles hot in warning along Isfan’s spine, shouting at him to run, yet he can’t force his legs to move, transfixed as he is by the assassin’s ethereal grace and undeniable menace.

Doomed from the start, Isfan thinks, a long time from now.

“When did Daryun hire such a pretty delivery boy?”

He grins at Isfan, the expression playful and boyish, but Isfan is hyperaware of the hungry, wolfish curve of his lips and the dangerous glint in the man’s eyes.

“Mr. Daryun’s warned me about you, but you’ve definitely exceeded my expectations,” Isfan appraises him warily as the man approaches him.

Every step he takes is calculated and deliberate, and Isfan doesn’t miss the handgun strapped on the shoulder holster that wraps snugly along his slender body and over his wiry shoulders, the black leather a gorgeous complement to the dark hyacinthine-coloured button-down shirt and tailored feather-grey dress pants that accentuated his lithe figure.

Isfan swallows, eyes unable to look away from those eyes, beautiful like the summer sea and full of unspoken promises, or those lips that just won’t stop smiling at him, like Isfan is an amusing object and he’s enjoying this just as much as a cat enjoys toying with its prey.

“Oh? And what did Daryun tell you about me? All good things, I hope.”

He walks past the brunet and makes his way towards the couches. Isfan follows from a few paces behind.

“He said you’re an incorrigible flirt and that I should avoid coming within your reachable distance,” Isfan recalls Daryun’s words, which he thought was a joke at the time of the conversation.

“That was one time!” Gieve laughs good-naturedly as he takes his seat. He gestures for Isfan to sit down across from him. “What else?”

“That I shouldn’t try to ambush you in any way or form if I want to stay in your good graces… and stay alive,” Isfan pushes on. He finds Gieve’s scrutiny mildly disconcerting, the green of his eyes a mesmerizing shade, yet it’s equally cold and cryptic.

“Good advice,” Gieve nods approvingly. “And?” He leans forward in his pause, elbows bracing against his knees as a lock of dark hair uncurl from behind his ear from the motion. “Why are you really here? Don’t tell me you’re in it for the money or the adrenaline rush.”

It seems like the assassin already knows Isfan’s identity and is looking for a particular answer, and Isfan thinks he may have the perfect response.

“He told me I should listen to your side of the story concerning my brother’s death,” Isfan’s voice is deceitfully calm, yet his heart is beating so hard that the blood roars in his ears, and he feels as if he can’t quite breathe.

Gieve’s expression gives neither his thoughts nor his emotions away, his mouth curling up into one of those inscrutable smiles that Isfan is beginning to despise.

“Ah, the tragic, epic tale of one avenging his brother’s death — how touching,” he says, and it’s strange that despite his frivolous comment, his tone suggests that he’s merely stating an obvious fact.

Somehow, Gieve’s nonchalance makes Isfan even more furious. He slams both fists on the coffee table, golden eyes blazing with the intent to kill, but Gieve doesn’t so much as flinch.

“You sick bastard, don’t you dare treat this as a joke!”

“I never intend to do such a thing, Isfan, but I don’t know what you want me to say, either,” Gieve leans back into the couch, unperturbed by the other man’s outburst.

“Tell me the truth, all of it!”

Gieve heaves a sigh, and runs his hand through his hair before he starts, gaze never straying from Isfan’s, “Here’s the thing: I’m an assassin, and if you couldn’t tell already, I make a living by killing people in the simplest method that requires the least amount of clean-up. Your brother — Shapur, if I recall correctly — he wasn’t part of the plan, but believe it or not, I saved him—”

“By putting a bullet in his head?” Isfan growls, low voice filled with incredulity.

“In a manner of speaking, yes,” Gieve admits without hesitation or guilt, and Isfan hasn’t expected that.

He’s not about to make excuses for a job by hiding behind a wall of made-up righteous reasons; if the man before him still wants to take his life after he hears him out, then so be it. “How much do you know of the circumstances?”

“Just bits and pieces.” Isfan seems to have at least calmed down a little, though his jaw is still clenched and his body rigid, ready to spring at any moment.

“Did you know that your brother was captured by the Khosrow Group and that the senior members of the gang had been using, shall we say, ‘creative’ methods to extract information from Shapur — important information, secrets that can bring down Andragoras and the entire Ecbatana Group if given to the right person?

“My job then was to take out the alpha of the branch group in charge of the extraction, so naturally your brother was at the location as well, and by god, those sons-of-bitches had fucked him up well beyond recognition.”

Gieve has seen his fair share of gore and violence — after all, it’s part of his job description — but what he saw that day through the tinted glass of the luxurious high-rise building that houses the many operations of Khosrow Group was one of the worst and inhuman images he’d encountered up until this point in his career: there were bleeding cuts and welts and bruises all over his body not covered by filthy clothes tainted in the man’s own sweat and blood, his eyes had been taken out, and his fingers looked sickeningly crooked.

They had ruined him just enough to have Shapur hanging precariously by a thin thread below which lies the canyon of sweet, liberating death.

Shapur wasn’t going to live, so Gieve did the only thing — the only merciful thing — he could to make it the least painful for a man he barely knew.

“What did they do to him?” There’s a trembling to Isfan’s whisper that makes the assassin look up.

“I don’t think you want to know,” Gieve says, tone earnest for the first time during their exchange.

Gieve allows the implication of that statement sink into Isfan’s mind, and watches the brunet carefully in case he lashes out again, but all Isfan can do is stare into his palms, his eyes prickling with unshed tears.

“It’s late to say this now, but I’m sorry for your loss,” Gieve’s sympathy is sincere, but Isfan refuses to acknowledge it with a noticeable gesture or expression. “Look, I’m not going to give bullshit excuses to defend my own action: I was the one who shot your brother, and his blood is on my hands. Just know that he was beyond saving by the time I got there, and putting him down was the only option I could think of at the time to end his suffering.”

When Isfan remains eerily silent, Gieve continues with a modulated manner, “So? How should we proceed from here?”

Golden eyes flash vehemently and glare at him through brown forelocks, his hand slipping into his jacket and fingers grasping the familiar shape of his gun.

It will be so simple, Isfan thinks, and after that he’ll go after the bastards at Khosrow — every single one of them who’d hurt his brother.

“Give me one reason why I shouldn’t kill you — right here, right now.”

“Well for one thing—”

Gieve swiftly glances at Isfan’s hand inside his suit jacket and back to his face, a crooked smirk growing along his lips after he pauses.

In a matter of seconds, he’s already on his feet and launches himself straight at the other man by stepping directly on the coffee table between them, and Isfan, distracted by the toiling waves of anger and frustration that easily overwhelm his reason and perception, finds himself instantly trapped under Gieve’s smaller body, his arms pinned down and the tip of a knife held taut against the pulse point of his neck.

The assassin lowers his head and whispers into Isfan’s ear, hot breaths moistening the sensitive skin there, “I’d like to see you try, sweetheart.”

As if to prove his point further, he presses the tip of the blade with just enough pressure to split the surface of Isfan’s skin, and a bead of blood oozes from the tiny wound.

“Get the fuck off of me,” Isfan ignores the blade held close to his neck and growls deep in his throat.

“As long as you promise to be this entertaining every time we meet,” Gieve chuckles.

“Fuck you,” Isfan spits out in disgust.

“Maybe next time,” Gieve replies smoothly, and before Isfan can retort with a better comeback, Gieve retrieves his knife and gets off of him. Standing before him, the assassin hardly looks disheveled, his hair still a beautiful mess of ink black and sunset violet, and his shirt and pants still looking as pristine as ever.

He pulls himself up, smoothing down his creased suit, and gives Gieve one last, scorching glare before he stalks out of the shooting range, slamming the door hard behind him.

Sometime after Isfan leaves and while Gieve is examining the contents inside the suitcase that Isfan has left behind, he receives a phone call from Daryun.

“How did it go?” Daryun asks without any preface.

“The SRS is really pretty, and it seems fairly light-weight? And oh — so many convertible calibers to play with! You do know what I love best, Daryun, but I don’t think tan is quite my colour.”

“We can discuss the kind of modifications you want after you’ve tried it out,” Daryun says hurriedly before dragging Gieve back to the topic at hand, “I mean the talk with Isfan — how did that go?”

“If you’d wanted to send someone after my life, you should’ve picked one who’d pose more of a challenge for me,” he says without changing his tone, picking up one of the barrels and inspecting it closely.

“Fuck, he did something, didn’t he?” the man on the other end of the receiver sighs, and Gieve can just picture the usually calm and menacing arms dealer pinching the bridge of his nose with the most impressive frown.

“He certainly tried,” Gieve laughs heartily, placing all the parts back into the rifle’s case with meticulous care.

“I’m sorry,” Daryun mutters apologetically, “I honestly thought that, with three years between now and what’d happened to Shapur, he’d have an easier time taking it in.”

“You should send him over more often, I want to see how far I can push him until he breaks,” he grins slyly.

“Gieve… come on, play nice.”

Daryun can feel a migraine coming on as soon as Gieve uses that tone of voice; he doesn’t have time, nor is he paid nearly enough, to play mother hen in this organization.

“Letting him get out of here alive after he attacked me today — that’s me playing nice,” Gieve says, not without a hint of threat in his playful tenor, “but I was kidding anyway. He seems like a decent kid, a bit too goody-two-shoes for my taste, but whatever works best for you.”

After the conversation concludes, Gieve takes out the switchblade he was brandishing earlier. The tip of the metal still bears Isfan’s dried blood, and as he carefully wipes his knife clean, the assassin figures that he may just try to win the other man over with charm, if only to make up for the life he’s taken from him.

“Okay Isfan, you may be cute, but did anyone ever tell you that you make really idiotic decisions sometimes?”

Gieve is positively certain that he’s leaving a very obvious trail of blood as Isfan tries to half-drag and half-carry him as quietly and quickly as possible without alerting their enemies of their whereabouts.

Somewhat tricky when the underground parking lot is really just a giant, enclosed amplifier that reverberates every little sound they accidentally make.

Hiding behind a Honda parked by the wall, Isfan finally has a chance to inspect his companion, who seems sickly pale and clammy, and is shocked to find that Gieve has been shot in the leg from the earlier scuffle. Blood has already soaked through and darkened the expensive fabric of his charcoal dress pants, and he can only see the entrance wound on one side of his calf, which means that the bullet is still embedded inside his flesh.

“Oh shit, you’re bleeding…like, a lot,” the brunet stutters, and his instinct is to put pressure on the wound to slow the blood flow. The warm blood gushes between his fingers, and Isfan tries not to think about it and is only vaguely successful in that regard.

“Yes, thank you for being so observant, that was really helpful,” Gieve mumbles, the sarcasm weak but forever present. His eyes slip closed as he leans back against the pleasantly cool metal of the vehicle while he tries not to wince at the stinging and burning sensation radiating from his wound every time he takes a deep breath.

“Zaravant, Jimsa, and the others should be here soon,” Isfan assures him — assures them both — as he creates a temporary dressing out of his rolled-up handkerchief secured by tightly winding his tie around it.

It’s only a matter of time before they are found; there’s only so much area to cover, and Khosrow Group, if nothing else, prides themselves in numbers.

“How much ammo do you have left?” Gieve asks in a hoarse whisper. The blood loss hasn’t been so bad, but with the adrenaline from the fight gradually wearing off, the pain is becoming more unbearable and distracting.

“Two more rounds,” Isfan says after checking.

After a bit of fiddling and a lot of muttered swearing, Gieve pushes something into Isfan’s hands, “Here, take this.”

“But you never let anyone touch this gun,” Isfan blinks owlishly at the objects he receives from the assassin, two hands cradling Gieve’s treasured Classic Carry Elite and the leftover rounds.

“You’re not ‘anyone’,” Gieve manages to crack open his eyes a little, the sea-green hazy and barely able to focus on Isfan’s face when he speaks, “I thought I made that very clear.”

“I can’t believe you can still say that with a straight face,” Isfan only replies with an exasperated laugh. He puts the gun and cartridges close by him.

“And it’s not like I’ll be of any use with a gun right now, am I?” Gieve nods pointedly at his wound, and notices belatedly that his words are starting to slur, that his vision is turning blurry as well, and he rests his head against Isfan’s shoulder, exhaling a shuddering breath. “I trust you with my gun just as much as I trust you with my back.”

“You’re talking too much,” he mutters, cheeks growing strangely warm, but he’s sliding his arm around Gieve’s shoulder to bring him closer.

“Oh, sorry. Blood loss tends to do that to me.”

They stay quiet for a few minutes when they hear footsteps echoing in the distance.

When the sound dissipates again, Isfan finds the resolve to ask, “Why would you do that?”

“You’ll have to be a bit more specific than that, sweetheart.”

“Get yourself involved in this mess — my mess.”

“I’m not about to let you walk into Khosrow’s nest by yourself; you won’t last more than five minutes in here. Lion’s Den got a reputation to maintain, you know.”

“So, that’s it?”

Gieve swallows hard, fingers gathering into a loose fist when he allows himself to speak in frank admittance, “And also to compensate for what I’ve done… to Shapur, and to you.” His head is lowered so that it’s impossible for Isfan to see his expression.

“You’re an idiot,” Isfan shakes his head slowly, finally understanding.

“Excuse me, but who’s the jerk that brought us into this shit of a mess?”

“I knew what you did was necessary. My brother would have appreciated your weird brand of kindness, I think.” Even now, a sliver of uncertainty wedges its way into Isfan’s mind, but he knows that it’s useless chasing a phantom enemy when the true villains stand directly before them. The brunet runs gentle fingers through Gieve’s hair, matted with blood and sweat, and continues with a small smile, “I was just too much of an obstinate asshole to admit it, which is to say I’ve forgiven you some time ago.”

A brief pause, and then comes Gieve’s raspy yet snarky reply, “You couldn’t have let me know about this sooner?”

He can’t remember when pushing Gieve against the wall and kissing him ardently on the mouth have become more of a matter of habit than just an outlet to release the adrenaline from their latest mission or the lingering frustration that he bears towards the infuriating assassin.

“Jacket, off,” Isfan orders as soon as they stumble into Gieve’s bedroom, the words muffled against the other man’s lips as they share a wet, filthy kiss, all tongue and vicious teeth leaving their lips swollen and red.

“Mm, pushy,” he gasps out when Isfan starts to nibble his way down his neck, leaving a trail of marks that will bloom purple while unknotting his tie and roughly pushing his jacket off of his shoulders to reveal the lavender button-down and the leather gun holster.

“Are you complaining?” he asks, leaning away momentarily to let Gieve tear off his suit jacket before the slighter man pulls him back in by his tie and gives him a bruising kiss that left both men breathless and wanting more.

“Not at all,” he grins mischievously up at the brunet, sea-green eyes darkened by desire.

Gieve pushes him back until they reach the edge of the bed, and the moment Isfan sits down on the mattress, the assassin wastes no time to clamber onto his lap, taking advantage of the height this position grants him in assaulting his companion’s neck with more enthusiastic kisses and licks while his elegant fingers make quick works on Isfan’s tie and buttons, soon revealing a long patch of tantalizing skin and muscles that begs to be touched and marked.

He starts at the collarbone, peeling off the material of Isfan’s shirt bit by bit as if to tease himself and kissing lightly along the exposed skin until he reaches his shoulder, but before Gieve can even consider taking the rest of the garment off, Isfan stops him with his fingers wrapped around his wrist, his golden eyes rapturous and captivating the entirety of Gieve’s attention, and possibly his heart.

Taking Gieve’s hand and with his gaze focused on the assassin’s face, Isfan leads him to the grip of Gieve’s prized handgun. The wooden round heel feels oddly cold against their overheated skin, and it sends a trickle of thrill and excitement down Gieve’s spine, his irises darkening with the promise of more.

Isfan knows that look well — a sort of hunger that can only be satiated by relinquishing his control to Isfan whom he trusts always — and pulls him close by a fistful of his shirt, mouth by his ear.

“May I?”

He may have whimpered at the infuriatingly polite tone and the contrasting connotation they both comprehend that those two words hold.

“Fuck, yes please,” he moans against the crook of Isfan’s neck.

The brunet takes the holster off of Gieve’s willowy frame and lays the leather straps on the bed; with utmost care, Isfan removes the gun from its holster, holding it gently in his right hand to feel the smooth grip and solid weight while his left thumb traces the bi-tone metal of the slide mechanism.

As Isfan takes his time to appreciate the elegant form of the gun, Gieve is getting a little impatient, and he makes certain that Isfan is aware of this by grinding himself against Isfan’s thigh, his breathing hitched just from that slight pressure.

“You’re so pretty when you’re eager,” Isfan chuckles, his lips curving into a playful smirk when he brings them closer for another kiss, much softer this time, more contemplative but less satisfying, and the inferno of lust simmers down into a single flame.

That is, until Isfan pulls himself back from the kiss and says, with a hand firm on Gieve’s shoulder, “Down on your knees for me.”

He complies without a cheeky retort, which is a rare occasion by itself, and lets Isfan undress him slowly — torturously so — until he’s only in his briefs. The material has already been stained by precum from their foreplay, and Isfan hasn’t even started yet.

Retrieving the gun from the mattress, he holds it out before Gieve’s face, the tip of the barrel barely an inch away from those reddened lips Isfan has been so fervently kissing earlier.

Gieve eyes the weapon with glazed eyes, and then glances up at Isfan as if asking for his permission. It’s an act that they’ve played a few times before, and they understand and trust each other entirely in this regard.

“Go on,” Isfan urges quietly, fingers running through Gieve’s hair in an affectionate manner as he combs his bangs back to reveal rosy cheeks and stormy eyes, “I thought you wanted this.”

With his heated gaze still trained on Isfan’s face, Gieve begins to lean forward, touching his lips against the metal and closing his eyes at the delirious pressure against his sensitive lips when Isfan presses the gun closer, with more urgency.

There’s something inexplicably sensual about the way his tongue curls around the muzzle and laps at the rose gold and gunmetal of the slide with so much eagerness, the red of his lips such a beautiful contrast to the gun’s cold shades of silver and black.

He moans around the barrel as he tries to take it in deeper, one hand clawing at Isfan’s clothed knee with the sort of desperation that makes the brunet want nothing more than to break down the assassin’s perfectly poised stature, that self-assured smirk, the shield of pride that builds up from his successful kills.

Isfan wants to destroy it all for the moment and expose what’s beneath all that blood and history and secrets that even now, after having been together for almost a year in a relationship they don’t dare put a label on, Gieve is still hesitant to tell him.

Swallowing greedily around his precious firearm’s barrel and gripping Isfan’s thighs with whitened knuckles, Gieve revels in the stretch and fullness in his mouth.

With his hand still grappling Gieve’s hair, Isfan tightens his fingers and tugs the other man’s head back so that the gun is no longer in his mouth. Gieve whines at the loss, and whimpers when Isfan teases him a little more by dragging the warmed metal down his jaw and the column of his neck.

When he places the gun back into its holster and hangs the leather straps on the back of his chair, Isfan returns to the bed to find Gieve in the same position — kneeling and staring up at him with dark eyes and red lips, his hair mussed up from Isfan playing with it, and his underwear a wet, wet mess.

He isn’t going to be disappointed for long.

“You’ve been so good,” Isfan softly traces the other man’s lower lip with his thumb as he sits back down on the edge of the bed, and because Gieve will always be Gieve, his tongue darts out and shamelessly chases after the taste of Isfan’s finger, encouraging him to put the digit into his warm mouth. “Would you like a reward?”

“And what will that entail?” he asks, voice hoarse from their earlier activity but eyes still glimmering with interest.

“Let’s just say it’ll involve my tongue and your ass,” Isfan tells him, as casual as if he’s explaining the mechanics of the new modifications on one of Gieve’s guns. Isfan helps him up from the floor and removes his soaked briefs.

“Intriguing,” Gieve comments just as lightly, though the flush on his cheeks is almost too obvious, and then Isfan is guiding him so that the assassin is lying on the bed with his hands and knees bracing the mattress. “Enjoying the view?” he asks teasingly, turning his head to give the other man his signature smug look, which Isfan is intending on destroying in a few minutes.

He finds the bottle of lubricant and condoms in the bedside drawer and places the items where he can easily reach for them before situating himself behind Gieve, one hand gently fondling the assassin’s soft skin, finger tracing down the knobs of his vertebrae and stopping at the small of his back, where it’s slightly curved, giving the impression of a graceful feline ready to spring.

“A bit, yeah,” Isfan murmurs.

Compared to Gieve, Isfan is still wearing too much clothes: his unbuttoned slate-blue shirt hangs off of his shoulders, and his trousers are feeling too tight and constricting at the sight of Gieve — shed of all the layers that created a convincing front for the public eye, steel-eyes and iron-bones, cold and unbreakable, a killer with no regrets, now shaking with anticipation, eyes predatory yet yielding as he feasts on Isfan’s adoration and attention.

It’s been so long since Gieve feels even remotely comfortable sharing this part of himself with anyone, and he wouldn’t have guessed the current outcome a few years ago. Isfan is the type Gieve has tried his best to avoid: distressingly earnest, genuinely good to those he treasures, and irrevocably loyal to those deserving few.

“Only a bit?” Gieve snorts, facing the headboard of the bed again, “I’m insulted—— shit!”

He’s rudely interrupted by Isfan, who has, without warning, starts licking down between his butt cheeks, his hands tight on his hips as he tentatively traces a path with the tip of his tongue until he reaches the ring of quivering muscle.

“Mm, you were saying?” he murmurs with a slow smile, and the hot breaths casted against sensitive skin with a warm tongue that begins to stiffen and delving inside make Gieve’s arousal swell, skin crawling with pinpricks of burning stars, eyes shut tightly and hands gathering fistfuls of bedsheets.

“You…” he huffs out when he attempts, unsuccessfully, to regain his composure against the gentle and frustrating assault from his lover’s mouth, “you are an asshole who enjoys tormenting me with that talented tongue of yours way too much.”

“Makes up for all the times you’ve teased me in front of the others,” Isfan responds with a low chuckle, and he sucks the rim with just enough pressure so that the other man loses his train of thought, his mind blissfully blank and overwhelmed by pleasure, “Calling me ‘sweetheart’ and ‘pretty’…”

“But I was just being honest…” he whines when he locates his voice after a short while, still trying to be defensive even as he feels Isfan’s slicked fingers entering him, slowly pushing in until he grazes the particular spot that causes Gieve to groan into the pillows, his cock twitching in want.

Gently and with careful hands on his waist, Isfan turns him over so that Gieve is lying on his back, one leg propped on Isfan’s shoulder. Below him, the assassin looks ravished: his face and body are flushed a lovely shade of pink though the long scar across his chest just below his collarbone draws a pearl-toned line, his lips bitten raw, sea-green eyes glassy, and the thin lines of black ink on his biceps stark on his skin that tell the bloody history of his past, a bitter reminder but an emblem of personal pride, nevertheless.

“Yeah? As honest as you are now? With your body splayed out and displayed for me like this?” Isfan turns his head slightly to place a soft kiss on the pale scar on his calf, and remembers a time when he’d never imagine that his future will turn out like this: being in an intimate relationship with the man whom he’s sworn to kill to avenge his brother’s death, only to realize that he’s not the true enemy at all.

The scar marks a change in their relationship, and Isfan never wants to turn back.

“God, why did I ever thought you were a goody-two-shoes?” Gieve moans when he feels the tip of Isfan’s length nudge against him.

With little difficulty, Isfan is able to slide all the way in, and the tight warmth that engulfs him is enough to make the brunet’s heart tremble and his frame shake with yearning. He leans down to kiss Gieve, just a gentle peck on the mouth, barely enough.

“Should I be a good boy for you next time, then?” Isfan grins, topaz irises gleaming with wicked intent.

“Cheeky,” Gieve laughs before dragging him down for a deeper, longer kiss, his legs wrapped tightly around Isfan’s waist to wordlessly encourage him to move.

With one of his hands securing Gieve’s leg on his shoulder and the other on his hip, Isfan begins to pull out, slowly at first, knowing how much it’ll drive the other man crazy and allowing himself to feel every inch slipping out before he pushes back in again with a snap of his hips, the motion hard enough to jostle Gieve’s body and making him gasp from the sensation.

“Touch yourself for me,” Isfan murmurs as he continues, guiding Gieve’s hand to his dripping cock. He doesn’t need more encouragement as he tries to match Isfan’s furious pace, his fist pumping fast with a chaotic rhythm that soon loses to the coil of heat burning low in his abdomen, the exhales branding hot against his neck as Isfan’s breathing quickens, the need to release burning bright and blinding.

Gieve comes first, with curses spouting from his mouth and his back arched up as ribbons of white flow between his fingers, warm and wet and making a mess on his skin; it doesn’t take long for Isfan to unravel after watching his lover spill all over himself, his body shuddering as he comes inside Gieve with a low grunt and a whisper of his name.

Wrapped in this warmth — Gieve’s warmth, strangely contradictory when he ponders upon it, a cold-blooded killer capable of this gentle, tender warmth — and embraced within those arms, their hearts beating together, Isfan thinks he’s finally ready to leave the darkness of winter behind and welcome the sweet light of spring.

A/N: Oh my god. I’m NEVER writing anything that has to do with guns EVER again, fuck me. But I really do enjoy writing assassin!Gieve being needy as fuck in the bedroom. Go figure. Also, can you tell I just basically gave up at the end there? LOL.

A few notes/HCs concerning this AU if anyone cares:

- After Isfan graduates, he calls up Daryun, whose contact information was written on the Shapur’s letter, along with Narsus and Farangis’. The only reason he calls Daryun and not the other two is because they’ve actually met each other before when Isfan is still a teenager.

- Isfan is technically a weapon designer who helps researching and upgrading weapons, working under Daryun’s supervision for three years. (Imagine Q from 007!)

- Gieve was a freelance assassin before he joins Arslan’s Lion’s Den. He has an obsession with guns and sees beauty in the designs, accuracy, and ergonomics of firearms. He likes using expensive guns that are efficient for his jobs and are pretty to look at.

- Gieve has tattoos on his biceps — thin lines of black ink around the arm, each signifies one kill in his career.

- Gieve’s treasured Classic Carry Elite (handgun), and the SRS-A1 (sniper rifle) that Daryun has Isfan deliver.

- In the bedroom, Gieve willingly relinquishes his control to Isfan, whom he trusts with unwavering loyalty and love. While Gieve always calls Isfan “pretty” and “sweetheart” in public, on their own, Gieve will get turned on as soon as Isfan starts using pet names.

#pars2017 #arslan senki #the heroic legend of arslan #gieve #isfan #gieve/isfan #isfan/gieve #bowie's crappy writing

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whenmythoughtswagewar · 8 years ago

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Part 2/? The Good will Follow

Please note that this fic includes Spoilers for Harry Potter & The Cursed Child. Be warned!

Pairing: Albus/Scorpius Other Characters: Harry/Ginny, Ron/ Hermione, Draco, Charlie Weasley Genre: Hurt/Comfort Warnings: brief discussion of torture and violence, anxiety, character death (already happened), hospitals Summary: After watching Harry’s parents get murdered, Albus and Scorpius seem to seek comfort in each other.

Harry bent over Albus’ form and scooped him up, forgoing a weightless charm but staggering under his weight. “We must take them to St. Mungo’s.” Draco placed a hand on Scorpius shoulder and ushered him towards the floo. Scorpius hesitated, absolutely hating the hospital since his mother’s frequent visits there. “Please Father! I’m okay, I don’t need to go.” Scorpius implored, wriggling under Draco’s hand. “As the Head of Magical Law Enforcement, it is a requirement that for the prosecution of the use of an unforgivable curse, a healer from St. Mungo’s must provide an assessment and authenticity of the curse. We need her to stand trial for this so we must go.” Harry explained quickly.

“I’ll stay with you, son. You will be absolutely fine.” Draco squeezed Scorpius’ shoulder then reached out for the floo powder. With a swirl of pearlescent blue flame, Draco and Scorpius were whisked off to the lobby of St Mungo’s. The fire spat orange embers briefly before settling back down to its usual stillness. Hermione had escorted all of the Ministry officials, along with Delphie from her office to give the others some privacy so only Ron, Ginny, Harry, and Albus were left. Harry looked torn between Albus and Ginny, knowing that only one family member would be able to accompany him. He jostled Albus as carefully as he could, who was now silent but very tense. Ginny understood instantly. “It’s fine Harry, you go. You’ve been through the assessment before. You can tell Albus what to expect.” Ginny reached out and pushed Albus’ hair from his forehead, not revealing a scar unlike the older Potter. “I love you Albus. I’ll see you very shortly.” Albus nodded in return and felt Ginny watch them as they stepped into the floo.

Not trusting Albus’ voice, Harry managed to collect the powder with one hand and suddenly, they too had disappeared into the lobby of St. Mungo’s where Draco and Scorpius were waiting testily.

“Took you long enough Potter. Don’t tell me you had trouble with the intonation of the place!” Draco was interrupted by a short, plump receptionist waving a clipboard around the group.

“Welcome to Triage. If you could fill in this form in as much detail as possible that would be very helpful, then we can get you onto the correct ward.” She was eager to clear them from the floo, not knowing when the next patients would arrive. Harry ignored her clipboard. “Harry Potter. Head of MLE. Draco Malfoy. Head of the Department of Mysteries. I need two private rooms and Healer Charlie Weasley. Now.” The woman had obviously not recognised the two rather well known wizards and began to fluster with her clipboard looking for two available rooms.

“Yes sirs. Fourth floor. Rooms 36 and 45 are free. If you step back into the floo, I’ll send a patronus to Healer Weasley.” Harry and Albus and Draco and Scorpius flooed to rooms 36 and 45 respectively, where Harry finally put Albus down onto the bed. He twisted and groaned slightly as his back muscles twanged back into place, before taking a seat next to the bed.

Albus watched the brief flash of pain cross his father’s face.

“You should’ve Wingardiumed me.” Harry felt himself flush with relief that Albus was coherent again, and also still talking to him. He laughed lightly.

“You’re right, I’m an old man now.” A grin spread across Albus’ face that vanished when he heard a sharp knock on the door, before his uncle, Charlie Weasley, stepped into the room. Albus’ had loved hearing about Charlie’s stories growing up and watching the dragon tattoos fly around his biceps. Despite his ruggedness, it was very difficult to find Charlie intimidating. He had returned to England very soon after the end of the War, knowing that his family would need his support after Fred, and Bill. He pottered around for a bit, undecided about what a dragon tamer could do in a country without dragons before realising his knack for healing burns gave him plenty of opportunity to train as a Healer. And now, he loved the job. He’d even moved to paediatrics two years ago and away from the burns unit, although he was still called in on the particularly challenging cases. “Albus! I’m so glad that you’ve been found!” Charlie pulled Harry in for a quick hug before taking his side at Albus’ bed. “Now, what is it in particular that brings you here?” Albus shrunk down onto the bed and fidgeted nervously. Harry rapidly explained that both Albus, and Scorpius had been kidnapped and tortured with Crucio and that they needed full assessments. Charlie’s face darkened with pity before withdrawing his wand and beginning the examination.

In another room, just further down the hall, Scorpius sat on the very edge of the bed. Draco was clearly standing in front of the door to block him from running, knowing that Charlie would first attend to Albus as a blood relative. Draco hadn’t crossed paths with Charlie that often, other than at the occasional wedding or the fundraisers that Draco attended for St Mungo’s but he found him to be highly competent and was relieved Harry had requested him.

“I’m sorry you had to go through this Scorpius.” Draco broke the silence. “I know- I – I feel respon- I know what it feels likes to be put under Crucio and even if it was just the once. I don’t want to think it makes you any less of a wizard.” His father was showing emotion that Scorpius so rarely saw. He scuffed his shoe again the laminate floor as he decided what to say.

“It wasn’t just once Dad.” Scorpius looked up into Draco’s eyes and shrugged. “I’m not sure quite how many but it was definitely more than once.” Draco strode across the room and pulled him into a hug. A hug they remained in when Charlie Weasley finally entered the room.

“Mr. Malfoy.” Charlie went over and shook Draco’s hand. “Do you consent for me to assess Scorpius? Harry’s already explained what happened.”

“I consent. Scorpius, this is Healer Charlie Weasley.” Draco introduced the two briefly. Scorpius shook his hand then with a sudden remembrance asked, “Albus? Is Albus okay? He-“. Charlie reassured him, “Albus is doing fine. Don’t worry. I’m here to worry about you now.” Scorpius flushed. “If you could please get changed into the gown in the top drawer here, then lie down on the bed and I will begin the assessment. I know that you are very nervous, I can feel your rapid heartbeat from here but I will let you know exactly what I am going to do before I do so, okay?”

Scorpius tugged the flimsy curtain around the bed before changing out of his rather damp and smelly clothes. He lay on the bed nervously and coughed before calling out to Draco and Healer Weasley. “I’m ready, sir.” Charlie pulled back the curtain and withdrew his wand. “Fantastic. Okay so to start I’m going to cast a couple of spells to look for particular types of damage. You might be able to feel my magic, you might not. Then if I see anything I’m worried about, I’ll cast a couple more spells on that particular area and then let you know how we are going to treat it. Sound good?” “Y-y-y-yes sir.” Scorpius’ nervousness gave him away. Draco tried to stand supportingly, but it is hard to convey that sense.

Charlie set to work casting an array of spells that often emitted coloured clouds of gas in the form of results. A floating quill rapidly took notes onto a chart. The colours were relatively pastel until they reached Scorpius’ left hand, which he had been trying to hold in a fist since his arrival at the hospital. Charlie noticed this but continued the examination, trying to complete it as quickly as he could to ease Scorpius’ nerves.

Finally, he was finished. “Okay, that’s done Scorpius.” Charlie took a step back from the bed and heard Scorpius release a sigh. “Right. So overall you are in pretty good shape. Slightly underweight for your age but I think that is the Malfoy genes so I’ll prescribe some nutrient potions for the next few weeks to help with the healing. You do have a gash on the back of your head which I’m going to reopen, clean and then stitch back. I think it’s quite possible you got this whilst under the effects of Crucio but a relatively quick job. Now, in regards to Crucio, the majority of your body is coping well. We have a specific potion that will help you recover and prevent further nerve damage which I will give you in a minute but there is one thing that worries me slightly at this stage.” Draco turned his head in shock, realising the significance of Charlie’s words but let Charlie continue.

“So, Scorpius, your left hand – can you feel it trembling?” Scorpius looked down at his hand.

“I can feel it.”

“Do you think it has stopped trembling since the spell was cast?”

“No.”

“Okay, well as I’m sure you know, Crucio can have permanent effects on the nervous system. It is possible that this is one of those, but it is far too early to tell. We are going to have a closer look at it, and keep an eye on it to see what we can do to help but at this stage I’m hopeful. You are young so even if it takes years, you still have a strong chance at a full recovery. For now, try to relax it, let it tremble.”

#harry potter and the cursed child #HP #Cursed Child spoilers #cursed child #albus x scorpius #scorpius malfoy #scorbus #albus severus potter #draco malfoy #charlie weasley #harry potter #fanfic #fanfiction #writing #whenthoughtswagewar #hpfic #hp fic

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caveartfair · 7 years ago

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How Auction Houses Woo Billionaires

Champagne Army, . Jessica Craig-Martin Nathalie Karg Gallery

The following is an excerpt from Chapter 8 of “The Orange Balloon Dog: Bubbles, Turmoil and Avarice in the Contemporary Art Market,”the latest book from economist and art market commentator Don Thompson, released in the U.S. in September.

Prior to the mid-1990s, major auction houses were most concerned with attracting consignments. They searched out and charmed owners of important works, offering the possibility of a catalogue cover and a lavish write-up identifying the consignor, noting high prices paid for similar works, or price guarantees, either from the auction house or a third party.

There is still fierce competition for consignments, but today auction houses focus more on buyers. This means persuading wealthy collectors to buy additional works, and finding wealthy non-collectors to convert. Identifying potential bidders used to mean that senior people from Christie’s and Sotheby’s pursued social connections in New York, London and a few other major cities. That guaranteed they would encounter most of the collectors, agents and dealers who mattered. Now an auction specialist is expected to meet thirty new potential clients each year and learn their collecting preferences.

As more important Impressionist and modern art resides in museums and long-term collections, specialists have to find collectors to bid on what still appears at auction in order to keep annual sales totals growing. This is the Red Queen phenomenon, named after the character in Lewis Carroll’s Through the Looking Glass. The Red Queen cautions Alice, “It takes all the running you can do, to keep in the same place. If you want to get somewhere else, you must run at least twice as fast as that!”

Former Christie’s chairman and international head of postwar and contemporary art Brett Gorvy said he had a client database that was updated from auction bidding and with leads from Christie’s art specialists around the world. In 2015 most key customers on the list were in their forties and fifties and, Gorvy says, “ran their own companies.” Twenty percent were from Asia, most of those from China. Twenty years earlier, 90 percent of those on a comparable list would have been in their sixties and seventies, senior executives with major corporations or heirs. Most would have been from the United States and Western Europe.

Christie’s has said that at its various auctions in 2014, it took bids from collectors domiciled in 170 countries, twice the number that competed in the 2014 Winter Olympics in Sochi. The potential is considerable; Christie’s noted in 2015 that 43 percent of billionaires are based outside traditional Western countries. In July 2015, Skate’s Market Notes estimated, based on its data mining, that only 11 percent of global citizens with assets over $100 million were currently invested in art.

The process of prospecting for new buyers is highly personal. Kelly Crow of the Wall Street Journal quoted Giovanna Bertazzoni of Christie’s as saying that specialists from both auction houses host birthday parties for collectors’ children. The hope is that the kids invite their school friends and that the friends’ parents stay for the party. It is said that in 2014, Sotheby’s hosted a children’s birthday party in London with an art-themed scavenger hunt. Thirty Eastern European families attended, some of whom became new clients.

The most discussion-worthy promise came from Alex Rotter, then co-head of contemporary art worldwide, and Simon Shaw, then co-head of worldwide Impressionist and modern art, both at Sotheby’s. In a New York Times interview about obtaining consignments they were asked whether they would help get a collector’s child into college to score a success. Both “laughed and nodded yes.”

Kelly Crow also reported that in May 2014, Christie’s invited a group of eighteen Chinese collectors to visit New York. The auction house had identified some of these potential new bidders at their Shanghai and Hong Kong auctions. After vetting from Christie’s specialists, the collectors travelled to New York as guests of the auction house. They were taken on visits to the Museum of Modern Art and the Frieze art fair, then hosted for dinner at Christie’s Rockefeller Center headquarters.

The auction house seated them in two skyboxes in Christie’s main auction sale room at the two-day sales of Impressionist, modern and contemporary art. The skyboxes both signalled respect on the part of the auction house and prevented other auction houses or dealers from photographing the collectors and researching identities. Bidding took place by telephone from the skyboxes, relayed via Christie’s contemporary art specialist Xin Li. Xin’s clients bid on six of Christie’s highest-estimate contemporary works, which together sold for what W Magazine reported as $236 million—half the evening’s sale total.

Gorvy clarified that Xin was bidding on behalf of clients from Malaysia, Taiwan and Indonesia as well as China. François Curiel, employed at Christie’s for thirty-five years, said he had never seen one specialist account for that high a proportion of a sale. One sale to a skyboxed Chinese client was Jeff Koons’ sculpture Jim Beam—J.B. Turner Train (1986) a 9½-foot-long (2.9-metre) stainless-steel train filled with bourbon. It sold for $33.8 million. The sculpture was produced in an edition of three, plus one artist’s proof. A different edition of the train had sold in 2004 at Christie’s for $5.5 million.

Xin offers a great backstory to Christie’s efforts to find new Chinese clients. She is six-foot-one, a former professional basketball player from China’s Manchuria region, near the North Korean border. After she left China she spent a period as a Paris fashion model. In 2008, after a stint at modelling (and at the advanced age, for a model, of thirty-two), she asked her new acquaintance Diana Widmaier Picasso, granddaughter of the artist, how she might gain a foothold in the art world. Picasso introduced her to Emmanuel Di Donna, then worldwide vice-chairman at Sotheby’s, who hired Xin as a trainee.

She moved to Christie’s in 2010 when that firm offered a position as director of Asia business development. Xin won’t talk about what incentive triggered the switch, only that she was “presented an opportunity that I couldn’t refuse.” She was quickly promoted to deputy chairman of Christie’s Asia. Xin says much of her time is spent with “about five major Asian collectors who can each spend $100 million [in] a single season on art.” That is annual expenditures, not lifetime. In 2014 and 2015, Xin was probably the most publicized auction specialist in the world.

Another tale of what is done to find customers and consignors involves Loïc Gouzer, who also started at Sotheby’s, then moved to Christie’s in 2011. He was described in a July 2016 New Yorker article as “The Daredevil of the Auction World.” Gouzer is now a chairman at Christie’s of postwar and contemporary art, best known as a pioneer of themed auctions, which combine known and less-known works. For example, the 2015 “Looking Forward to the Past” themed auction combined contemporary works by John Currin and Peter Doig with those of Picasso, Monet and Giacometti. The auction totalled $706 million.

A few years earlier, Gouzer—then a mid-level specialist at Sotheby’s— was trying to expand his collector connections. He jumped at an opportunity to accompany über-collector Adam Lindemann on a surfing trip to the Maldives, even though Gouzer had never before tried the sport. He survived. Lindemann has been quoted as saying that since then, Gouzer had sold many works for him. On another occasion, reported in the New Yorker article, Gouzer—then at Christie’s—sought consignment of a painting owned by a Manhattan plastic surgeon who had a long-standing relationship with Sotheby’s. Gouzer made an appointment to have a mole removed, and spent the appointment in a conversation about consigning. He lost the mole; there is no indication of whether he gained the consignment.

Christie’s auctioneer Jussi Pylkkänen claims that for a major work coming to auction, his in-house intelligence is such that he almost always knows prior to the auction the identity of the final three competing bidders. But sometimes there are huge surprises. In the November 2015 Christie’s “Artist’s Muse” auction of twentieth-century works in New York, the featured work was Amedeo Modigliani’s Nu couché (1917–18). This is a painting of a nude woman with red cheeks and a red coverlet. The work is highly sexual, considered a trophy painting because of its bright colour and dramatic impact. It had been featured in shows at the Musée National d’Art Moderne in Paris, the Tate Gallery in London, and MoMA.

Christie’s needed an iconic work as a centerpiece for “Artist’s Muse.” Nu couché was perfect. It had been in the collection of Italian art historian Laura Mattioli Rossi and her father for sixty years. Christie’s hurdle was that Rossi would consign only if she were offered a $100-million guarantee. That amount was considered incredibly risky. Modigliani is not among the top ten modern artists on almost anyone’s list. The former record for a Modigliani was $70.7 million in 2014 for his sculpture Tête (1911–12). Christie’s reportedly countered with a guarantee offer of $70 million. Rossi held firm; Christie’s finally agreed to the higher amount. The auction house then offered generous terms to any investor willing to take on some or all of the guarantee risk. Apparently a contract was signed on the afternoon of the sale, with three third-party guarantors assuming 50 percent of the risk. Holding out for a huge guarantee is not uncommon, although this was an extreme case.

The Modigliani was positioned as lot 8A, in the hope that it would be desirable to a Chinese billionaire (8 is an auspicious number in China). The successful bidder was the Liu Yiqian, who has been characterized in the Chinese press as a former taxi driver and handbag seller turned billionaire art collector. That is factually accurate but somewhat misleading. It neglects to point out that the handbag business was family-owned and that in the 1980s and ’90s Liu invested in pharmaceutical companies and real estate to achieve a worth of (depending on the source of the estimate) $1.5 billion to $2.8 billion.

Liu and his wife, Wang Wei, were well known to the auction houses, but not for modern art. In 2014 they spent $45 million at Christie’s Hong Kong for a fifteenth-century thangka, a Tibetan silk tapestry, and $36 million at Sotheby’s for a Ming-period porcelain cup. Liu owned a Jeff Koons sculpture, but was always classified by auction specialists as a collector of modernist and classical Chinese artworks. Liu bid for Nu couché on the telephone with Elaine Kwok, Christie’s director of education for Asia, rather than with Xin Li. When the Modigliani came up there were six bidders. There were four still in at $100 million. Bidding from Liu and another collector on the phone with Loïc Gouzer stalled at $140 million. The identity of Gouzer’s bidder was known in advance; that is why he was with Gouzer. Then there was a surprise bid from the room, from New York–based Korean art dealer Hong Gyu Shin. He was seated, not in a skybox, or in one of the sections reserved for important collectors, but in auction-room suburbia, near the back of the room. He placed a single bid of $142 million, then dropped out.

The final invoice amount was $170.4 million after addition of the buyer’s premium. Nu couché beat the former artist record by almost $100 million, to become the second most expensive work ever sold at auction. Liu may not have been expected to bid, but as the commercial says, wealth does have its privileges. He is reported to have paid with an American Express Centurion Card, with a one-year payment option.

Wang Wei told The New York Times that she and her husband would pay off their charge within the year. “If we had to pay cash upfront, that would be a little difficult for us. I mean, who has the money for that?” Known as the black card, the Centurion is made of anodized titanium and advertised as having no pre-set limit. It is the card with which you can buy anything. Liu did; his purchase reportedly earned 132 million frequent flyer miles. Christie’s would have paid just over $3 million in credit-card charges. The Modigliani was thought to be the largest single charge ever made to an American Express card—the company refused to confirm or deny, but seemed to welcome the publicity. Pylkkänen was right on only one final bidder of three. That is less than perfect bidder intelligence, but still a passing grade for the second most expensive work at auction.

from Artsy News

#Artsy News

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georgiacollender-blog · 8 years ago

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Charlotte Josephine

CJ Two ways of writing: having a plan and not. Inspired by everyday life. Writes little but often then puts the pieces together like a puzzle. - Confidence - Reading and language - Watching alot - Space and respect Write a list of colours: Pink Purple Green Red Brown Yellow Orange Blue Chocolate bars: Mars Twix Kit Kat Galaxy Bounty Kinder bueno Bathroom cupboard: Toothbrush Deodorant Tampons Toilet roll Perfume Sun cream Tablets Teenagers bedroom: Plates Cups Bed Dressing table Clothes Shoes Straighteners Lady handbag Make up Tampons Purse Phone The pill Paracetamol Book Diary List of fans as tic lies I need to feed my fish My bus was late I need to see my Nan I find it easier when no one else is in the room to do my presentation You're my fave I love you A list of things todo when embarrassed Go toilet Bite nails Put the focus on someone else Go red Shit myself Play with my hair Look at my feet Leave the room Pretend you don't care Think of being in bed/comfort zone A list of BIRTHDAY cake wishes I want to meet Harry styles I wish for a someone to love me I wish for concert tickets I wish for money I wish for everyone to be happy I wish for no arguments I wish to have the people who mean most, forever I wish for my friends to come home from uni I wish for a mini A list of things that terrify us Spiders Losing my friends Being hated by everyone Not going anywhere in life Disappointing my family Death The unknown My pets dying Never having kids Getting pregnant at the wrong time Throwing away something I didn't realise was important. A list of things you'd find on a summer holiday: Factor 50 suncream A burnt ginger Alcohol Books People awake at 7 to put a towel on a sunbed Tanned people Lost languages A list of hiding places: My bed My car Millie's house The park Under my bed Behind a door I'm a hole Under the stairs Anywhere dark The green room Aunty jos house The library Things never said to a parent I smoke You're child is a Cunt You raised you're kid shit I've fucked your daughter I hate you Places to stand when the sea is rough In bed Somewhere where there is no sea On a boat In the sea with a snorkel Pavement Masculine or feminine things Blue Pink Muscles Hard labour Giving birth Emotions Trust someone: Raw Honestly Hearing what you don't want to but need to Having my back when I'm not in the room Being there when I need them most Answering the phone Going along with my lies Meeting your girlfriends parents for the first time: "Hi John nice to meet you, yes this is your daughter, yes she's wearing my top and no, she hasn't got shoes on because she was at mine last night not at Chloes like she said and yes that is my cum in her hair" - as if I'm going to say that out loud as my first words to John but it's definitely what's running through my head rn... how about a simple hello and hand shake, that could work right? But I don't want him to think I'm too formal.. fuck. Right that's it I'm not going. I don't understand why first impressions are always hard. When In actual fact it a simple hello. Everyone seems to always over think it. Ofcourse I want to make a good impression but I'd much rather not lick his ass hole because a year down the line he's going to know the real me and know I was putting on this front to impress him. Why can't I go in with the simple "alright mate, I'm your daughters new boyfriend, I respect her a lot fuck on a daily and think she's fucking hilarious" but nah got to respect that although he knows that the hand he just shook has actually be all over his daughter... he's thinking, I'm thinking it, might as well say it right? But instead I go with the, "nice to meet Mr Smith, I'm Daniel" "do I work?" Well yeah in a bar one day a week I'm still a student.. "still a student at the age of 21... living of mummy and daddy still then?" Why the fuck do I need to be questioned about what I do as long as what I'm doing makes me happy, I'm living my life not you. Blake: Age: 21 Cats or dogs: Dogs Live: house in leatherhead How do they spend their days: High as a kite writing music for the homeless. What is a smell that calms them: Petrol Three words to describe them(mum): a little podgy, good boy, likes candles Happiest on holiday: Florida At 8 he wanted to be: Fireman Item of clothing wear too much: Adidas original jumper in Kaki Phrase to often: but think of the homeless man Secret: I have a kid Roll model: my nan Fave drink: Redbull Vodka and Lime Lost virginity: his family friend Louise at 18 (he begged her init) On his own he dances to ballets Deeper secret: he is a professional ballet dancer Parents : mum is his world dad is a rich wanker Place: His studio, his workspace but also his hobby, he has his own chair (that no one else can use) others can join him but not use his chair. There is a hidden mirror for when he wants to practise ballet. Blue dim to the room - no windows. Constant music playing, there's a window to the booth that has a sticker of his dog and nan on the right hand corner. Smells like hard work, has a little can of petrol hidden under his desk where is chair is for when he gets stressed. There a aircon unit that always makes a slight noise of fresh air coming into the room. Everything is black apart from the lighting. Wearing something unusual: he's wearing a leotard under his clothes - it quite tight but he likes it, no one can see it but he knows he's wearing it. Smells fresh out the packet never had one before but always envious when watching professional ballet people wear one. I didn't mean todo it, it just... *sitting in his studio* staring at his hidden mirror - reveals it from behind its curtain. Looking at himself in his new leotard practising first position. A 1,2,3 second 1,2,3 first 1,2,3 second 1,2,3 first... *phone rings - it's zain* Wag1 Blake I'll be outside in 2. Blake: gets dressed quickly, hides his 'ballet for beginners book' and sits in his chair.. zain opens the door "oiiii wag1 G what you saying" Blake realises the mirror is still on show.. "shit" Madting when did you get a mirror in here..." B:"errrm yesterday init... it's for..." Z: it looks sick bro, makes the room feel massive.. Zain sits down Z: "oi you heard this new tune" Plays some bad man song Blake tries to release his wedgie that his leotard is giving him.. Zain is oblivious keeps mixing music Blakes burst out "I didn't mean todo it, it's just one day I saw your sister...." Z: "what do you mean my sister..." Blake: it just she was standing there in her leotard and it got me... Z: got you what bruv why you looking at my sister in a leotard bruv are you a pedo or something Blake: wait what... Z: staring at my sister whilst she's dancing wtf if wrong with you Blake: no no bruv it's not like that.. I wasn't looking at her because she had no clothes on.. I mean very little clothes on and don't get me wrong she looked fit init but" Z"what the fuck do you meeeeeeaaaan, what didn't you mean todo stare at her fat peachy beautiful ass" Blake: wait what... Z: forget get that... Blake: nah it's just I was fascinated Z: fascinated by Me and An old man in an army uniform We are in a very busy train station on a Monday morning I want success But there is a shark in the way I'm a busker, I've tried making it in acting, I've tried making it in dance and now singing but here I am... Monday morning the busy crowd is coming and I'm playing my guitar... people chuck coins and pennies and some cunt chucks a button... all I've ever wanted is success.. all I ever need is success but my success and the worlds are completely different, I just want to be heard, respected and a warm house to go home to, to see my loving family. I see an old man approaching.. he's wearing a uniform shit do I need to run? My license doesn't cover this station... I start packing my away my equipment, collecting my scraps of money... I look up again and he's just standing there... his uniform looks worn but well kept, badges glistening.. his boots are shinny and still smell of polish. He chucks a £50 note in my case.. "I tried to make it one time too but the army called for me instead" I stare.... my heart still racing from preparing to out run the Feds... He reaching out a hand to help me up... I take the offer, my hands trembling from adrenaline. BOTH HAVE THE SAME SHARK TATTOO. Fish tank This is England Shane meadows I really enjoyed Charlottes workshop as she opened my mind to write everything and anything and atleast one of them if not more will blossom. You don't have to have an order or a reason when you first start just start. I find writing terrifying, I'm always cautious that it won't have a good ending, beginning or even an interesting plot but Charlotte made me feel so comfortable to just write. Going forward I definitely will write down any ideas even if I leave them for months and revisit them with a fresh mind. Overall when it comes to writing my own script I will not give up and I will accept mental blocks and stop to allow my brain to breathe. Watching films and TV series really inspire me to help build characters however Charlotte opened my eyes to embrace what is happening in the moment day to day, as well as through books and seeing live theatre. There is never too much detail to a character or a place.

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