#➹ ( defector ) ━ wardrobe.

[yellowcakeuf6]

Sparked by the artwork posted by @spookyshoosh envisioning Data’s off-duty outfits, being the anorak that I am I have gathered together all of the occasions where Data appears in the show out of uniform.

There are surprisingly quite a few but what is intriguing is none of them (apart from Sherlock Holmes) were his own choices. So I give you:

Carlos (The Long Goodbye)

Sherlock Holmes (Elementary Dear Data)

Standup comedian (The Outrageous Okona)

The hideous but nicely figure accentuating purple creation (The Most Toys)

Friar Tuck (Q-pid)

Henry V (The Defector)

Prospero (Emergence)

Ebenezer Scrooge (Devil's Due)

Romulan civilian disguise (Unification)

Psychiatric Doctor's outfit for stage play (Frame of Mind)

Assortment of 19th century costumes to blend in (Time's Arrow)

Barkon IV pre-Industrial garb as his uniform was banjaxed (Thine Own Self)

21st century civilian dress (First Contact)

B'aku civilian dress (Insurrection)

In his off duty life aboard the Enterprise Data always wears his regular uniform, even under his holdeck outfits. The only deviation is the dress uniform in a few episodes and a command red uniform in Chain of Command (in which to be fair did look hot AF) However I don't count the red uniform in Future Imperfect or the black "commando" outfit in Frame of Mind as it's implied these images are in Riker's imagination. Ditto the various ensembles in "A Fistful of Datas" as this was a holoprogram glitch not Data himself.

So to sum up, it seems Data never wore any civilian clothes of his own choice, probably because he had no need for it. But to end this post with an amuse bouche, here's a snippet on Quora from a few years back:

"In the episode, “In Theory” Data describes to Jenna how he arranges his wardrobe by type and then color to make it easier to find what he wants. This implies that, at minimum, he changes clothes occasionally and that he owns a sufficient amount that they must be organized.

Ipso facto, he must change his uniform often enough, most likely for basic cleanliness, wear and tear, etc. Even if he himself does not perspire, his regular contact with organic beings and their surroundings means he must eventually get dirty and clean himself or he would become Typhoid Mary of Starfleet."

Ibi habemus eam...

[letsdressupindia]

Our Top Squid Game characters

Squid Game has climbed up its way into becoming the most-watched show of all time on Netflix. A parable on the capitalistic society, portraying characters that are in huge debts with no way of paying it off is given a last chance to save themselves from it. All they have to do is play childhood games but they come with a life-threatening twist. The series has been a treat to our eyes depicting a completely unique storyline with a set of amazing characters that has made us feel every emotion - love, anger, hate, betrayal, sympathy, pity, friendship, and so on. We have certainly been on an emotional rollercoaster through these 9 episodes.

In our new Squid Game collection at LDU, we have come up with T-shirts, hoodies, night suits inspired by the show to add to the obsession. They feature iconographies of our favorite characters from the show. It’s not easy to pick one, is it? The entire cast has delivered an unforgettable performance in the show. Although if you had to pick your favorite characters on the show, would it be easy? Let’s see!

Kang Sae-Byeok - She definitely deserves to be the topper on our list. A North Korean defector struggling to earn money to support her little brother and bring her family to South Korea. She is the textbook definition of a survivor. She takes no help from others and is always strong on her own. The only time we see her vulnerable is with Ji-Yeong, the only friend she found while playing the game. Her strength and perseverance have made fans go head over heels for her. She is definitely a character that’ll be forever remembered. Abdul Ali - Everyone who has seen Squid Game absolutely adores Ali. Ali was a Pakistani immigrant who had no way to feed his family as his employer conned him. He was forced to play the game to feed his family. He has a heart of gold who helps out everyone and would do anything to keep his friends alive. His innocent nature makes it easy to manipulate him which ultimately led to his destruction. Seong Gi-Hun - Our protagonist wasn’t evidently a perfect, well-natured hero, but like any human character with flaws. A deadbeat dad, bad son, and a gambling addict who has always made it a bit hard to like him initially did grow to be one of the most likable characters. We witness one of the best character developments with Gi-Hun as everyone grows selfish as they further in the game, he starts to rediscover his sense of self & humanity. Ji-Yeong - Even though she had less screen time, she was, without doubt, a character that broke our hearts with the way the story unfolded. She’s nonchalant, alone, and quiet most of the time. The only time we see her a bit happy is when she befriends Kang Sae-Byeok. She loses the game purposely saying that she has nothing to live for, unlike Sae-Byeok who has to look after her brother. She was a sweet character with a tragic past hanging. Oh Il-Nam - Initially plays a pitiable, poor, frail old man who plays the game because he has nothing to lose. Gi-Hun instantly takes a liking towards him but he eventually had to win a game against him and the scene where Il-Nam is shot by the guard is one of the heartbreaking moments. However, little did we know his journey wasn’t over. He turned out to be the mastermind behind the whole game. He obviously turned out to be one of the least liked characters in the show but he sure was the smartest.

The Squid Game-inspired collection of LDU has captured certain moments & characters from the show and portrayed them in style to spice up your casual, everyday wardrobe. You can get them in your size & style and delivered to your doorstep.

[elfyourmother]

So once he's un-zodiarked, does Emet get a whole new wardrobe from Gisele?

Of course! I mean it’s Gisele. Taking his measurements is the very first thing she does.

Like Aymeric, he becomes something of a muse to her, even, given his interest in design. But it’s really two different kinds of philosophies, the way she dresses each of them. Gisele relishes the inherent challenge of designing for Aymeric because there’s so many delicate lines she has to walk, due to the nature of his position. She can’t be too avant-garde or daring, because he needs to project a certain sobriety, but Gisele aims to present him always at the cutting edge of fashion, paying homage to tradition (Gisele truly adores Ishgardian fashion!) but with a unique take on it that is fresh and new, with some manner of boldness—a neo-baroque sort of Ishgardian style that reflects Aymeric’s nature as a reformer. There’s a lot of pressure because a misstep would mean dire consequences for his reputation.

With Emet, she has none of those considerations. Gisele can chase every flight of fancy and daring because he has no expectations—to the world outside the Rising Stones, he is simply Hades d’Amaurot, a Garlean defector who joined the Scions having fled the chaos following the Emperor’s assassination.

Gisele can and does put him in the most outlandish haute couture and he loves it and what’s more, he always looks so good in it. He cuts a striking figure now that he doesn’t slouch quite as much anymore (he’s no longer literally weighed down by the souls of his brethren and Gisele’s constant nagging helps XD). But because of his height and the broadness of his shoulders, Gisele favors heavily structured looks for Emet, with an emphasis on clean, tailored lines—these are meant to evoke the distinctive Art Deco architecture of Amaurot and also as a nod to his seat at the Architect. Naturally Emet picked up on it immediately and nearly wept—they’re very well matched, he and Gisele, being extremely sentimental. He hovers over her endlessly while she works and is deeply involved in the process—sometimes to her annoyance XD Sometimes they bicker over the fine details, notions and the like. But Emet trusts her and he’s never disliked anything she’s ever made him. He struts like a fucking peacock, actually.

[darkficsyouneveraskedfor]

Defector

Warnings: noncon sex (somnophilia and a hint of cockwarming). I’m beggin you, please mind the warnings. If you read anyway, feel free to hit up my inbox to be mad at yourself.

This is dark!Steve and explicit. 18+ only.

Summary: The reader is a former Hydra employee put under surveillance of America’s greatest defender.

Please let me know what you think! and reblog :)

You stood beside the staunch man in his long leather coat. He only deigned to look at you now and then with poorly hidden spite in his singular eye. Fury, his name was. At last that’s what he had introduced himself as. In your files, it had been Colonel Nicholas Joseph Fury; clearance level: Level 10, Alpha, Omega; Target type: kill on sight. You could identify every person you had met in this foreign facility without a second glance. Each name you had read on your screen and categorized in this manner. Hydra had been rather organized in its crimes and you had been one of its many curators.

“They’ve already got a price on your head, you know that?” Fury growled, “Enough zeroes to intrigue me.” You kept silent and folded your hands in front of you. “For now though, I’m more concerned about keeping that tongue in tact. The intel in itself must be the bulk of your worth.”

You were surrounded by enemies. You watched the red-headed woman, Pepper Potts you recalled, as she passed you by. Her eyes never even strayed from her path as if you were to repugnant to look at. Former enemies. Never really true enemies. Merely those Hydra had told you were foes. Paid you to believe to be so. Still, it did not excuse your crimes; those you had come to confess in hopes of preventing future ones. You may not have drawn the knives or pulled the triggers, but you had been complacent nonetheless.

Fury checked his watched and sighed. “Not like my agents to be late.” He grumbled. 

Just as he spoke the door whished open and a blonde man stepped through. You recognized him too but any with a brain and a sense of history would know him. Steve Rogers was every inch the American patriot he had been molded to be. His crystal blue eyes, sharp jawline, and golden hair as pristine as the posters. He greeted Fury with a handshake.

“Sorry about that, I got caught up with Sam. You know, he never shuts up,” He smiled, subtly peeking over at you. You looked to your feet, a small bag just beside them. A single change of clothes and basic toiletries. All provided by your new keepers. “So, you said something about an escort mission.”

“A defector from the ambush in Egypt. She’s apparently got a lot to say but Hydra doesn’t seem too happy about that,” Fury replied, “Harmless really. I trust you should be able to handle her but I’m not so much worried about her as her former comrades.”

“Her?” You sensed Steve’s eyes on you but kept yours to the floor. “Never would’ve guessed.”

“Just a clerk. Couldn’t hold a knife to cut her own steak at dinner,” You bit your lip at the insult and let out a long breath. “Coordinates are being sent to you as we speak. Take her and keep her there until we send for you.”

“Well, I’m almost relieved for a mission that doesn’t involve the apocalypse,” Steve chuckled. “Think I can handle that.”

“Keep an eye on her regardless,” Fury warned, “Once Hydra, always Hydra.” Fury dismissed you as he stepped past Steve and left you alone with him. 

You swallowed and bent to lift you bag. “I’m Steve--”

“Rogers, I know,” You finished for him. You finally found the nerve to look him in the face. “I know who everyone is. It was my job.”

“A desk jockey. Barely a murderer,” He scoffed.

“Just as bad. If not worse for my cowardice.” You returned, “I knew what Hydra did and I helped them do it.”

“I had a friend taken by Hydra,” He began and again you interrupted.

“Sergeant Bucky Barnes, better known as The Winter Soldier, former assassin for Hydra. I know of him. Know his file well.” You stared up at him with all the courage you could muster. “He was brainwashed. What’s my excuse? I certainly knew what I was doing. What the information I gathered led to.”

“So, if you hate yourself so much, why didn’t you let them kill you in the ambush?” He asked.

“Because, I thought if I could help any from being hurt by Hydra again, just one, my whole life wouldn’t have been for nothing,” You lowered your lashes as you voice quavered, “Not that it would absolve me. Nothing could do that.”

-

You spent two days in the car with the super soldier before you reached your destination. It was a quaint little cabin set into the side of a cavern as if growing out of the earth itself. Before your departure, a black band had been clasped around your ankle. A tracker which looked no more than an anklet. It was much sturdier than it looked.

You stepped out in the early evening air, the smell of evergreens and soil filled your nostrils. Steve closed his door and locked the car with a chirp. You hadn’t said much on your journey. He had tried to talk but you hadn’t much to say. Nothing more than self-pity and regret. You didn’t know why you had stayed for so long. There was no excuse you could find to explain what you had done. To yourself or any other. Nothing more than selfishness and willful ignorance.

“Gonna be a long stay if you don’t talk,” Steve said as he waved you ahead of him. Even if he was being friendly, you were still in his custody. “You know, I’ve met a lot of people who’ve done worse than you and didn’t show an ounce of remorse. At least you’re still human.”

You closed your eyes as you stepped aside and waited for him to unlock the door. He ushered you inside before him and the door closed behind him with an audible whir of gears. The interior looked fresh out of the seventies though all the technology was current. You glanced around the front hall, a walnut staircase stretched up to the second floor in a zigzag. Steve dropped his bag and took yours from you with a gentle tug to place it beside his own.

“You hungry?” He asked and you only nodded. “Come on then, I’m sure they’ve got some of that shrink-wrapped cardboard they call food in here.” You followed him to the kitchen. He opened the yellow fridge and chuckled. He pulled out two trays and shoved one in the microwave as he turned back to you. “Not much better than the road rations but I’ll tell Fury to send some real food when I check in.”

He crossed to the long island as you swayed back and forth on your feet. You looked around at the kitchen warily. This didn’t feel right. You should be in a cell. Or dead. “He told me what they did. What he did. But I stayed because I thought I loved him.” You said quietly. You turned to him with arms crossed. “Do you think that makes it right? What happened to all those innocents? To your friend, even? Can one’s love cancel out another’s life?”

Steve pressed his lips together and nodded. “Emotions makes people do stupid things. Terrible things.” The microwave beeped and he took out the tray and replaced it with the other. He grabbed a fork and knife from the third drawer he opened and set the manufactured meal before you on the island. “Can’t take it back now, can you? So, pull up a seat and dig in. I almost think that pile of slop is enough punishment.”

You shook your head at yourself and stiffly climbed up on a stool. You lifted the fork and stared at its shiny tines. Why had you said that? Did you think confessing to him would cleanse you? He didn’t care. He was doing his job. You were a prisoner. An enemy. A criminal.

-

A week went by in which you tried to settle in with your keeper. You couldn’t help but look at him for what he was; your guard. Despite the charm of the cabin, you couldn’t pretend it was anything but a prison. You were growing anxious. You had so much to say. What use were you here? You could help them. Give them information which could save the lives of dozens; hundreds even.

You sat in the armchair, your legs bent so that your feet were on the edge of the seat. You were too restless to read any of the books along the wall of shelves. You picked at the ankle of the plain grey paints. You had been provided a wardrobe of drab cottons. It was just like a prison uniform really. Steve was always there with you too. As vigilant as ever, if not subtly so. Always in the same room; his blue eyes would linger on you when he thought you unaware. He only excused himself for his evening reports to Fury. And to sleep/

He would walk you to your room and lock the door behind you as he retreated to his own. It was just next to yours. Wise. You were surprised you were even allowed your own space as whenever you were awake, it felt as if he was attached at the hip. He was stretched out on the sofa, his feet propped up on one arm as he read. You gazed over his long body through the large windows. The trees rustled in the wind and chipmunks hopped along the branches; the occasional bird landing just outside the glass.

He snapped the book shut suddenly and sat up, tossing it beside him on the couch. “You wanna go for a walk?” He asked. “Getting kinda stir crazy in here, isn’t it?”

You looked at him in surprise. You had been so lost in the silence that he had almost scared you. “Uh, sure,” You answered. The very idea of being outside was a dream. You’d not be truly free but you could pretend. You hung your feet to the floor and stood as you stretched out your arms.

Steve rose in kind and gestured you ahead of him to the door. You stepped into the front hall and he kicked your plain sneakers over to you before he slipped on his own shoes. “Stay close.” He said, “You try anything and we won’t go out again.”

“I’m not going anywhere,” You muttered grimly. “I’ve nowhere to go.”

He merely nodded and unlocked the door. You stayed at his side. He’d glance over but you weren’t sure it was really out of concern. Maybe curiosity. You had caught him before, staring at you. Was he thinking of what you had done? Of his friend and your hand in the machine that had abused him? You couldn’t really tell if it was hate or pity.

You walked along a winding path through the trees; the leaves overgrown and thick as they caught on your pants. He pointed out some poison ivy before you could brush against it and guided you onward. The stirring of water filled the air as it grew damp. You could smell the lake before you saw it. Just outside the curtains of pine and elm. After days of tension, it was a rare moment of serenity.

You stepped ahead of Steve without thinking and neared the large flat rocks just at the shore. You sat, your eyes on the ripples as you watched them spread across the river. On the other side, the tree line stood in almost a perfect reflection of those behind you and the sun beat down in pleasant streaks across the surface. You leaned your elbows on your knees and exhaled. For a moment, you forgot.

“Why don’t you go for a swim?” Steve shook you from your trance. He was right beside you, his blue eyes glistened like the water before you.

“Aren’t you afraid I’ll run?” You challenged.

“Nah, I’ll catch you if you do,” He smirked, “And I know you won’t.”

You shrugged and looked back out to the lake. “I can’t swim,” You admitted, “I just like the smell.”

“I’ll save you if you start to flounder,” He offered lightly.

“I’m okay here,” You replied, hypnotized by the soft roll of water. “Just nice to get out. In Egypt, we never… I shouldn’t complain. I’m alive. Safe.”

“Could’ve had it a lot worse,” He remarked, “Not just here but with Hydra. They could’ve done more than paid you to do their bookkeeping.”

“I know,” You mumbled guiltily. You sensed an edge to his voice. You knew what he was referring to but you didn’t want to think about it. Didn’t want to remember the photos of the one-armed man in his cage. “We should go back, I guess.”

You went to stand and he held a hand up. “No, enjoy the view while you can.” He turned and pulled his crew neck over his head, “I’m gonna go for a swim if you don’t mind.”

“Sure you wouldn’t care if I did,” You kept your eyes to the water as you heard his belt buckle.

You listened to the rustle of clothing, shoes dropped on top, and glanced over only as he entered the water. He still wore his dark boxer briefs, his thick;y muscled back tensing as he met the cool lake. Your eyes flicked back to the opposite shore line. A family of loons floated across the water as other avian inhabitants sang their peace.

It was twenty minutes before Steve emerged. You couldn’t help but feel suffocated in the strained silence. The whole time you tried not to peek over at him though you felt him watching you. The water splashed around him as he made his way to the shore and he neared, sitting on the stone next to you as he dried off in the sun.

“Fury says it could be a month. Maybe two. He wants you to start writing stuff down. Everything you can remember.” He was close, his hand right next to your leg. “I have some notes to help you. What’s most important. It will give you something to do.” His hand slipped back and just behind you as he leaned back. “Maybe something useful is in that head of yours.”

“Okay,” You mumbled, trying to make yourself as small as possible. You could feel his warmth even as the chill of the lake slaked off of him. “I hope there is.”

-

You had started keeping a journal. You filled the pages during the day as Steve lingered in your purview. Another week elapsed the same as the one before. Wake up, eat, go for a walk, clean up, write...there wasn’t much to do but you were always exhausted when he locked you up for the night. You didn’t really sleep behind that door. You just laid there; thinking.

That night was no different. You had even kept your lamp on and filled another five pages before closing up the notebook and flipping the switch. You tucked yourself under the covers but your eyelids lost their weight. You were turning from side to side. It had to have been an hour when you finally flopped onto your back and huffed. Goddammit. Just sleep. It was just so hard to relax here. Or at all.

You kept your eyes closed and willed yourself to sleep. Still nothing. You just needed to calm down. Stop thinking. Your eyes snapped open as the thought crossed your mind. It was inappropriate. Wrong. Not here...but he wouldn’t know. Your hand was at your stomach. It stopped just above your thin pajamas. You hesitated. It would help you let go but you didn’t deserve pleasure. You earned all the pain you got.

You fingers slid below your pajamas and inside your panties. You pressed between your folds and softly rubbed along your clit. A breath wisped from your lips. You repeated the motion and your shoulders relaxed. Next your legs. Your entire being sunk into the mattress as you twirled your fingers. All thoughts slipped away from; all but the task before you.

-

Steve was restless that night. He was the type that once he laid down, he was out within a couple minutes. The last two weeks had been no different. He knew the girl wasn’t going to run. She didn’t have the strength or the will. He couldn’t really guess how one such as her even managed to get tangled up in Hydra. There was something much darker behind her eyes than any could imagine.

His head was half under the pillow when he heard it. Quiet at first. He was certain it hadn’t been more than the night breeze against the window. Then it came again. He realized what it was; the low moans growing louder. He lifted his head and turned over. He sat up as the mewls came closer together. He felt the twitch in his pants; the one he had been resisting for days. That which had first risen in the lake.

It was her. Was she really doing it? Touching herself? Had she heard him the nights before doing the same? No, he had made sure to hold his breath and bite his lip as he thought of her in his bed next to him. Imagined her ass against his cock as he spooned her. Her breasts warm and soft as he fondled them. It never failed to coax his release. But tonight wasn’t the same. Her voice had riled him completely.

He began to stroke himself as he listened to her. He could imagine the sound of her rubbing herself. The slickness against her fingers; maybe even delving inside as her legs bent in delight. Her back would arch and she would shake until finally...A sharp squeak signaled her orgasm and Steve wasn’t far behind. He burst all over the inside of his pajamas, his breath heavy as he slowed his hand.

A few minutes later, he was still rock hard. It hurt how hard he was. Even after his climax, he was left wanting. He was so tired of pretending. Cooped up in this safe house, resisting the urge to touch. An hour later and he was still throbbing. Worse even than before. He listened for any sound from the other side of the wall; nothing.

He sat up, still alert for any creak of her bed. Nothing. He stood, the front of his pants still damp with his cum. His heart was in his throat as he neared the door. He just wanted to see her. To look at her. That’s all. If she were awake, he would claim to just be checking in. He had heard something and was just being cautious. He stepped out into the hall and gripped the handle of her door, he unlocked it and listened once more.

He pushed inside slowly. Her steady breath was the only noise in the silent room. So deep and measured that she must be asleep. The moonlight shone in between the curtains and limned her curves beneath the quilt. She looked peaceful. He neared, his eyes exploring every inch of her through the dark. Her arms were bent in front of her as she lay on her side, her leg slightly zagged. A small snore escaped her and startled him. She didn’t wake.

He went around the other side of the bed, away from the silver light peeking in. He carefully pressed down on the bed, waiting for her to react to the change in pressure. She didn’t. She was fast asleep. He stood straight and raised the hem of his tee, pulling it over his head as he kept his eyes on her. Not a single twitch. Next he rolled down the waist of his pants, freeing himself from their mess. He stood stark naked as he watched her doze, his cock hard and pulsing.

He place his knee on the edge of the mattress. Still no reaction. His other came up and he was entirely on the bed. He pulled the quilt over himself as he shimmied in next to her. As the bed jostled, she still didn’t wake. She must have tired herself out. He nestled close and kissed the back of her head. He inhaled her scent and shuddered. He’d just lay there for a little then leave.

But he didn’t. His arm was around her and she rested soundly against him. His cock hurt so bad. It felt horribly swollen. He slid his hand down and waited for her to flinch. She didn’t. He tugged down her pants, a light yank to free them from below her. She merely grumbled but still did not stir. Her panties were still wet from her own activities. They were easier to push down. The tangle of fabric unhooked from her feet with a whispered curse. He shouldn’t...

Her pussy was wet too. His fingers were buried in her folds before he could stop himself. His arm held her flush to him as he circled her clit. Her breath hitched and he lifted his head to see if she had awoken. She still hadn’t. She was dreaming. He ran his fingers to her entrance and back. He kept up the motion, focusing on her bud until she was sopping. God, it hurt.

He pulled his hand back and pushed on her pelvis. Her back arched and his hand glided down to her thigh. Her took her leg and eased it over his own. He could feel her pussy against his cock. It was warm; welcoming. He reached around her leg and nudged his tip to her entrance with two fingers. He rocked his hips up and impaled her slowly.

When he bottomed out he couldn’t help the gasp. She was fucking tight. Her walls clenched around him and he thrust smoothly in and out of her. He shivered and did it again. Oh, she was delicious. He felt her move but was too lost as the tendrils coiled around him. She was murmuring but still asleep. The thought of her being so unaware drove him closer to the edge. He couldn’t restrain himself as her pussy clung to his cock.

Her murmurs became mutters and he felt the change. Her whole body tensed and her arm bent, her hand on her face. “W-wha--” She tried to pull away and turned to look behind her. 

Steve stopped her, his hand over her mouth as he held her head straight. He shushed in her ear as he continued to plunge into her. She spoke into his hand; her voice smothered but panicked against his rough palm. “You sounded lonely,” He rasped in her ear. Her hand was on his but he was much stronger. She felt so good around his cock; as if it fit her perfectly. As if this was meant to be.

-

You hadn’t slept so soundly in months. You were dragged down into unconsciousness swiftly after release. You barely recalled drifting off. Your mind filled with visions of the lake. You were sitting on the same rock as before. But then the tide rose and you submerged, struggling to find the surface. The intense ripples rose around you in a cyclone. You gasped for air as you were swept up in the black waters.

Your eyes shot open as the peculiar sensation finally awoke you. It had been only a dream at first. A storm in your loins washing over your body. But then you bobbed to the surface and a last you broke through to reality. You gasped as you felt the hot body behind you, the unfamiliar fullness inside of you; thrusting in and out.

“W-whaa--” A hand clapped over your mouth, silencing you.

A shush filled your ear and warm breath tickled your neck. You tried to speak, your eyes widened at the realization of what was happening. 

“Steve,” You tried to call to him but his hand muted your words.

“You sounded lonely,” He hissed in your ear as you grabbed at his hand. Despite his intrusion, you felt your walls tightening around him. The tingling gathered along your thighs and back. “This is what you wanted, isn’t it?” He nibbled on your ear and you whimpered. “To be punished.”

You continued to pull on his hand but he easily ignored your pathetic struggle. His hand slipped away for only a moment as he rolled you onto your stomach. He kept his cock inside of you as he followed. He was on top of you as his hand found the back of your head and pushed it into the pillows.

You reached out but couldn’t escape from beneath him. His other arm was across your shoulder, his breath ragged in your ear as he pounded you. He lifted his pelvis only to slam it back down into you. You were gasping as you felt the spring wind inside of you. The tension mounted and your nerves erupted in a rapturous flow. You bit down on the pillow as you came, squeezing shut your eyes as your body deceived you.

He continued to fuck you with sharp, decisive thrusts. Your entire body was jolted below him. The bed groaning with his every move. His grunts filled your head as his cock hammered your walls and he buried himself to his limit. He snarled as the warmth seeped from him. His cum spilled inside of you and you felt even more full. He collapsed on top of you entirely, his weight almost suffocating. He sighed as he let go of your tangled hair.

His arms snaked under you and he held you to him as he fell back onto his side. He was careful to stay inside of you as he did. He pushed himself back to his hilt as he slipped slightly. His breath began to slow as he kept you against him; an arm beneath you. His other hand wandered beneath your shirt. He kneaded your tits and purred along the back of your head. You tried again to pull away but he clung to you.

“Sleep,” He commanded.

“Steve--”

“I said sleep,” He rocked his hips forward and jabbed your cervix painfully. Already you could feel him getting hard again, not that he was ever really soft. “I’ll still be here in the morning.”

+

tags:  @meaganottiz02 @patzammit @thepettyavenger @biasedtitties @thosecikinnn @glitterypinkkitty @thoughtlesstales @selinbaskaya @lattaex @vitamingrant @lilithhellfire @bbyspiiice @ironlady1993 @blackpantherimagines @kweenkxtrina @heavenlyblyss @letsagomario @shikin83 @collette04 @thirstyforsomeyandere @secretlyactivated @xxm3xxj @roses-and-absinthe @asleep-amid-the-flowers @sunstarskyhappiness @xxxelettaxxx @honeyofthegods @rainbowkisses31 @alphabloodfur @xdatbitch @quant-um-fizzx @peaceloveyesh @scarletlingeries @directionerfae @bodhi-black @kyllorren @captainarp @sargeant-bbarnes @tuyetnhivo @heartislubbingdubbing @kiwihoee @vanishingod @aekr @purpliepanda @breezy1415 @alexakeyloveloki @beautiful-and-strange @phoenix21love @momc95 @buckycaptspideypool @justballoonfishthings @ms-munchkin @whosmarisaaarw @kxllyxnnx @calspixie @imdiegohargreeves @satinprincessxo @amethyst-the-thot @docharleythegeekqueen @iiqueer-vibesii @carol-damn-vers @l0rd-disick @jilldsumner @hufflebucky @lanabanana-86 @nerdypinupcrystal @notyourtypicalrose @pink1031 @agent-spidey @wassupbitchesssss @lucifersnipnips @stuckybarton @ruff-m3rc @heartbeats-wildly @tea-with-seb @the-lululemon @abesottedlass @poppyshawn @obsesseds-world @jazztherebel @holylulusworld @yagurlrosie @couldntbedamned @desir-ae @adreamemporium @ashrod98 @buckyxwintersxldier

[russiasredguardian]

it had been an assignment like countless others he'd been tasked with over the years; an employee had defected with, with her she had taken sensitive department information and an asset. the woman, a researcher, was an asset herself. she had worked for the department for near on a decade and had been privy to countless programs and experiments. a picture-perfect tale of loyalty right up to when she had dropped off the radar. it could have been the lure of money or a promise of a new life, away from the doldrums of the life her education had sewn her into.

the reasoning behind her actions had never been a concern of his, he only needed facts, not conjecture; last known location, a recent photo and familial information - did she have a spouse? a sibling? parents? they could be used as leverage to force her hand into a willing repatriation. but she'd been unmarried. an only child, raised in one of the states orphanages  ... a blank canvas for the department to paint upon. 

she'd grown complacent in almost twelve months that had gone by since she'd left russia - he wasn't given the assignment until other avenues had been exhausted. her defection hadn't been rooted in espionage. the ease with which he'd managed to track her down had told him that - no promise of sensitive intel had been made to the american government and she hadn't been in contact with any western spies; her cover was too thin. he'd found her within a few days of tracing her to the city; brighton beach. she'd stuck to what she'd known - the taste and flavours of home, the cheap apartments filled with the familiar lilt of russian. a poor job of hiding if ever he'd seen one.

locate. eliminate the defector. retrieve and return the asset.

three simple steps that had framed a lifetime of similar jobs, all with a success rate beyond reproach. 

slipping into the apartment had been easy. sitting at the flimsy kitchen table until the jingling in the lock had him sitting straighter - to the left of the window, it meant he wasn't in her direct line of sight, not that she would have noticed him at first neither - too occupied with the stroller she was trying to wrestle through the narrow door way ... ah. one question answered then. that was why she had defected. perhaps she'd found a partner here, though he doubted it - the apartment was devoid of pictures or personal trinkets. 

no whistle or courtesy sigh to bring her attention up from the sleeping babe in the pram, no point. she'd plead or hide behind the child. he needed answers, not bartering. so there were no headshots, not yet. instead the round he fired buried in her gut - fatal, but not immediate. painful, yes, but people were less inclined to lie when they were struggling with pain. up from the chair without a word, he stepped over the woman to shut and lock the apartment door again. tongue clicking against his teeth, he shook his head and crouched down, tucking some of the woman's hair behind her ear with the silencer at the end of his gun.

' Эрика Косликова - вы что-то взяли из отдела. Я был отправлен, чтобы получить его. Вы можете либо указать на это, либо я разорву это место, доску за доской, пока я не найду это - выбор за вами. '

and there were the tears.  rolling his eyes, alexei stepped back over the woman - she'd probably never even held a gun before, let alone been on the receiving end of a fired round. give her a few moments to collect her thoughts ... blue eyes skimming across the apartment, he tried to spot any tells of a safe or hiding place - bookshelf along the far wall, the pages of the books could contain confidential files. the drawers in the kitchen counter could have false bottoms, easy store documents or flash-drives there. her bedroom was another option - a hollow wall at the back of the wardrobe?

алексей ... я знаю кто ты. пожалуйста, не давайте его им - пожалуйста? просто прочитайте

her words were lost beneath a whimper born of pain and palpable fear, because he had his hand buried in her hair, yanking her back up to her feet in an instant, eyes alight as he held her fast against the wall, 

'кто сказал тебе это имя? ' 

alexei shostakov had died in nineteen-sixty-three. buried in a state funeral, with full honours and he'd left behind a grieving widow and heartbroken sister. alexei shostakov was dead. the name shelved and a new one issued for each assignment required in order to carry out the honour that had been laid on his shoulders; protect russia. protect its people. and when the union had fallen, his loyalty had remained just as true - be his job in the pages of pravda or in the shadows, it remained the same. it was a guarded secret, buried beneath over half a century. not even the president himself knew that the grave of that test pilot was empty. presidents changed, no point instilling critical information in the hands of someone who would not always be in power.

so how did she know who he was?

no answer. she was too preoccupied with trying to loose his fingers from her hair. giving her a harsh shake, he pointed his gun at the stroller, a baby's unsettled whines starting to leech into cries, ' answer my question or i pull the trigger, erika. ' 

не останавливайся! они сказали мне кто ты! они дали мне ваш файл - один с правдой, один со всем - программы, сыворотка, сбой, красный страж, все это!

that made no sense. she wasn't a chief researcher. her file made no mention of heading up programs or different departments within X. if the leader of their homeland wasn't privy to his personal file, then why was some little street-rat with a university degree given free reign over redacted information? letting go of her hair when the child started to cry in earnest, she collapsed to the floor - a hand braced across her blood-soaked abdomen, the other hauling her across to the child's stroller. if she spoke the truth, then they should have eliminated her earlier. they shouldn't have waited this long to send someone after her ... he was hesitating. why was he hesitating? she'd thrown a wild card into the mix, but he still had half an assignment to complete - the asset. she'd taken something from department X. biting down on the inside of his cheek to steel his unease, he watched her take the child from the stroller, no more than a two or three months maybe - watched her face soften as she soothed the baby - she'd thrown her life away for the sake of a child, and now it would grow up an orphan for those actions. if she had stayed in russia, her position would have afforded it an education and a place within a private school, no doubt. 

' скажите мне, что вы взяли, и нам больше не придется расстраивать ребенка - если вы мне врете, я разозлюсь, и вам будет больно, и это расстроит вашего ребенка. '

Твой ребенок.

her words were so quick, he almost thought he'd misheard her. so clear, for a moment he almost thought she was mocking him, but when he turned around to face her again, there was no mocking on her face. no sneer or narrowed glare - tears on her cheeks, blood staining her face where she'd tried to wipe them away. not even a steely defiance in her brown eyes - no. instead there was defeat. she was in a corner and she knew it. 

lifting her hand to point at the floorboards beneath the threadbare couch, the raven-haired young woman would let him find the box for himself - to go through the files and documents she'd taken when she'd left - the details of the program she had been a part of; files on him, on the widow too. letters she had penned since arriving in the states, even a birth certificate for the little baby she'd hauled into the middle of this mess.  

 Вы хороший оперативник, один из лучших. она тоже - вдовы не могут нести детей. я предложил, я не думал ... я не думал, что позабочусь об этом. но чем больше оно росло, тем меньше я хотел отдать его ... в эти программы. он не был бы маленьким мальчиком, он был бы собственностью. нет выбора. нет друзей. нет семьи ... я - я не хотел этого. я не хотел, чтобы он был убийцей, поэтому я побежал до того, как он родился. 

a breath that stayed too long in her chest and alexei knew his bullet had hit an artery - that had been the plan. but now he had questions of his own and the gun felt too heavy in his hand as he watched her rock the little bundle in her arms,

Мне все равно, что ты делаешь со мной, но, пожалуйста, не возвращай его туда. скажи им, что он погиб, отдай его в детский дом, те, кто здесь, добрее, чем те, кто вернулся домой ... не дай им взять мою маленькую сашу.

[hcrofraid]

Although Tails goes through a wardrobe change in the Defector verse, the bottom half of his clothing doesn’t change, including his shoe style. This is because he not only misses home but doesn’t want to (and feels he doesn’t have the right to) forget everything he’s done and been through, so won’t swap them for any other pair. He’s sentimental and guilty and even that deters his ‘happy ending’.

[evanismfic]

half  - agony. chapter one.

              第一章  .                                          BACOPA  (  假馬齒莧  )

summary: when you last set foot inside the palace seven years ago, your heart was shattered into a thousand pieces. now, after the dowager empress’s death, you find that you still cannot even dare to hope.

pairing: yanjun x f!reader

genre: historical, royals au

word count: 6855

a/n: please expect a lot of artistic license in terms of historical accuracy and medicine i am neither a doctor nor an expert on the song dynasty :’)

                     [ prev. ] | [ 2. ]

     YOU HAD ALL THE MAKINGS of a rags-to-riches story.

     Born a month and a day before the summer solstice, the town shaman told your father –– a man of science who made this augury his one exception –– that you would bring great change. As you grew older, her prediction became less and less likely. Your father once muttered that he should’ve known better than to put stock in “that hogwash.”

     Your family was poor, relying on both your parents to make ends meet. Your mother died not long after you were born, leaving you in the care of your father. He was well-meaning but lacked the emotional competence to navigate raising a child, precocious as you were, alone. More instructional than nurturing, you grew to maturity spending half of your life helping him in his shop. Your father was confident that you would follow in his footsteps and become a healer. That was his anchor.

     You spent the other half of your childhood frolicking by the stream on the outskirts of town. In those nearby woods dwelled the boy you loved. You first met him when you were but four years old, washing bloodied linens from an operation the day before. He peered at you from between the trees. When you first noticed him, he fled.

     There are a great many places where your life would’ve been better had things just ended there. This was one of them.

     But the boy came back a week later.

     Bolder, he came to a stop beside you and asked what you were doing. Your father told you once never to speak to strangers. He also saw no problem, however, allowing a small child to travel all the way across town to do laundry, so you can somewhat blame him for your lack of prudence. You can still remember the boy –– “Yanjun,” he introduced himself, chest puffed outward in pride –– and his tone. Painfully posh, he didn’t hold a lick of the drawl you became accustomed to from your small town. He spoke like the people from the capital, and you were instantly entranced. You had never met a child from Lin’an before. You decided you liked Yanjun very much. If your father noticed that you stayed out longer to play with the boy by the river, he never commented on it. After all, he was just a child. It took you six years to find out who Yanjun really was.

     Given that he only spent summers in the so-named palace –– a sprawling villa on the hill that overlooked your hometown –– you hadn’t really known him for all that long. For roughly three months of every year, the two of you (Yanjun, mostly) would get in as much trouble as you possibly could. From playing in the river to snatching low-hanging apples from a nearby (privately owned) orchard, the two of you were nearly inseparable. On the days where Yanjun didn’t come to play, you were miserable. And it wasn’t until your tenth year that you learned just why he was sometimes nowhere to be found.

     It had been twenty-four days since you two last met before your father was summoned to the Summer Palace. He brought you along on a whim, not knowing how long he would be gone and reluctant to leave you in the care of your gossipy neighbors. He did not expect your gasp of recognition when you laid eyes on the frightfully pale Crown Prince lying in his bed. His younger brother Chaoze sat by his side and shook him awake. When your eyes met, you felt your stomach drop.

     You had spent your summers for the past six years befriending the future Emperor. And his illness, a cold from too many hours spent in the stream, was your fault. Perhaps this was when his mother started to hate you.

     You thought that compromising his health would have you forbidden from ever seeing him again, but he sought you out the moment he recovered. He told you that he never meant to lie to you –– and he didn’t, really, only by omission –– and that nothing had changed. “I hope we can still be friends,” Yanjun said, earnestly taking your hand.

     But things had changed, although you couldn’t be sure if it was for better or for worse.

     When puberty hit, things only got more confusing.

     In your current opinion, at all of twenty-five years old, it’s when everything started to go downhill.

     You always liked Yanjun. He was funny, smart, and cultured. He would tell you about Lin’an and, after you discovered his identity, he would relay funny anecdotes about his tutors and the goings on of the Imperial Court. As he got older and his voice deepened, he suddenly became more interesting to listen to. And while Yanjun had always been good looking, he was especially handsome when the baby fat left his face and granted him those killer cheekbones portraits still fail to replicate. In a year, you had begun staring at his plump lips more and more.

     You didn’t miss the way he’d been looking at you too.

     He first held your hand when you were thirteen, shyly brushing his thumb across your knuckles, and you pressed your lips to his cheek in return. He kissed you on the lips at fifteen, and you told him that you loved him the next year. At eighteen, his father died, and you held him in your arms as he cried. A week later, his mother declared that Yanjun needed to marry in order to inherit the throne, and he asked you to come back with him to Lin’an.

      Saying yes was one of the worst decisions you ever made.

      Somehow, you’re back here seven years later, staring at the palace gates as your luggage is wheeled in behind you. Your father had succumbed to cancer just as spring began to wane into summer, so you have nothing keeping you in Changqi. Not long after his death, you received a letter with the imperial seal requesting that you take on the now vacant role of the royal doctor, as well as requesting that you work on a cure for one of the nation’s deadliest plagues. Imperial patronage was a stunning offer few could even dare to deny. But you still have to wonder why you would return when you had tried so hard to run away after a short five months within the palace walls.

     The answer is rather simple: because Yanjun asked you to.

     On a broader scale, it was easier to provide excuses. No one in their right mind refuses the Emperor. There is a vacancy in the staff. The Court is in need of a healer, and you earned yourself quite the reputation for your innovative herbal remedies. Only the best of the best can serve the Emperor, and you more than enough deserve that title. It has nothing to do with the fact that Yanjun once loved you and that you loved him just as much.

     That time is long gone, and nothing displays that more than how much the palace has changed since you left it.

     It’s certainly livelier, more colorful than it was when you departed. Having come when it was in a period of mourning, though, that is to be expected. Observing servants as they move pots and crates around, you presume Yanjun is doing a bit of remodeling as well. It’s a bold choice for an emperor whose nation is currently at war.

     “There’s no view quite as magnificent is there?” Honglin, the page sent to fetch and safely deliver you to the palace, hands the reigns of his steed over to a stable boy. The fortnight of travel didn’t afford you an extraordinarily close friendship with the young man, but he was currently the only friend you had in Lin’an. You know that he is mixed, his father being a Jurchen defector and his mother a Han woman. Honglin is incredibly proud of his heritage, bearing a zealousness you find endearing. That’s about all that you know about him. “I came here with my father when I was seven and I’m still in awe every time I return.”

     You don’t have the heart to tell him that you have very few memories of the palace to look fondly upon. You smile instead. “Indeed. It’s a testament to our great nation.”

      Honglin seems pleased by your response. He gestures toward the Western Wing, which houses most of the residences of the staff. You’re surprised that your brain has retained that information, considering how you tried to forget everything that you could. “I’ll direct you to your rooms, let you get settled in before I bring you to meet His Majesty. Would you like me to do anything with your supplies?”

      “No,” you say, shaking your head and following Honglin as he starts down the palace’s winding halls. “Just leave them in their crates in the infirmary. I’ll organize them myself tomorrow.”

      “As you wish.”

     Honglin deposits you in front of a bedchamber only marginally smaller than the one from nearly a decade ago. How interesting it is that the quarters of the presumed future empress were roughly the same size as the royal healer’s –– or, rather, how interesting it was that the Dowager Empress thought to give her successor such lackluster accommodations. Both rooms are just as lifeless and empty. Only a desk, a table with which you could receive visitors and dine, a bed, and one of the trunks containing your clothing served as furnishing. They couldn’t even afford you a wardrobe. Honglin chirps that he’ll be around and that you only need to holler for him to come running. He leaves you to decompress, and you collapse on your bed the moment he shuts the doors behind him.

     You don’t plan to lay there longer than twenty minutes, but you’re exhausted. You know that coming to Lin’an was for a good cause. Aside from the honor of being the royal family’s sole physician, imperial support allowed your research to flourish. The royal summons didn’t mention how much of it Yanjun was willing to finance, only that he would give as much as it took to eradicate tianxing illness. You also knew that anything was better than your lack of funds back at home.

     You wonder if the ladies of the court are still here. At least one of your tormentors is gone. Though you feel terrible for being relieved that the Dowager Empress is dead, you still find yourself consoled by the fact that you don’t have to deal with her. You’re terrible, and you have to force yourself to fight the instinct. Horrible to you she might have been, she was still Yanjun’s mother and is apparently the current reason you are employed by the court. Your hopes that the volatile atmosphere of the palace had vanished were dashed by the rumor that your predecessor killed himself for failing to cure the Dowager Empress of her ailment. Is Yanjun really that foul-tempered now? Perhaps this is what his mother was trying to save you from.

     “This is no place for a commoner,” she had said when Yanjun first announced his intention to take you to wife. You wanted to protest at first. You loved Yanjun and Yanjun loved you ––  surely such a fairytale romance would triumph over all else, wouldn’t it? You weren’t in control of the circumstances of your birth. It wasn’t like you chose to be born beneath Yanjun’s station. You were naïve to think that the strength of your character would prove you worthy of the role of empress, particularly because you weren’t as strong as you thought.

     You could stand ridicule from one person. Yanjun, young and headstrong, had a rebellious streak that reinforced his insistence that you disregard his mother’s protests, that you two were soulmates and nothing could come between that. However, you weren’t prepared for the near-ubiquitous vitriol and abuse sent your way. You expected jealousy. You weren’t a fool. The Crown Prince was going to be sought after no matter who he was. To marry the future emperor was the easiest way to secure one’s future. In some respects, you could understand the utter incredulity that a random girl from the country managed to snatch Yanjun away from the noblewomen who knew him all their lives. That didn’t justify their cruel words, though. Of how you didn’t belong, of how Yanjun deserved someone of higher status who wouldn’t pollute the royal bloodline. Of how he was making a terrible mistake by choosing you and how he would come to regret this decision for the rest of his life. Of how you would be an unfit mother to his children, passing on both stupidity and inferiority to his heirs.

     You thought yourself a strong girl. But there was only so much even the strongest could take.

     At least now, you’re not a threat. You don’t mean anything to Yanjun anymore. They have no reason to snap at you, broad as his harem is.

     You spend so long in your miserable reminiscence that you don’t realize how much time has passed. Honglin has to knock on your door and snap you out of your self-pity. “Just a moment!” you shout, scrambling to your trunk and throwing on your nicest gown. You comb your hair as quickly as you can and hope that minimal makeup will be enough. Honglin smiles and tells you that you look nice when you open the door. You slip your hand into the crook of his elbow when he offers his arm, taking a deep breath.

     Chuckling, Honglin begins to guide you toward the Great Hall. “You don’t need to look so nervous,” he tells you, patting your hand gently. “His Majesty isn’t going to rip your head off for being late. His meeting with the Ministers of Defense ran a little long, so I doubt he’s noticed anyway. Between them and the men of the Inner Court, I’d be surprised if he actually gets a word in beyond granting or denying their absurd requests.”

     “Is he really so busy?”

      “Oh, of course. The nation is on the brink of war at all times, miss, no matter what harebrained but effective schemes General Cai has up his sleeve. Invasion is a constant possibility. The Jurchens simply refuse to let up.”

      You pretend to know what he’s talking about. “Right.”

     “Well, whatever the case, I’m glad we have Yanjun leading us. With him, I feel as though victory is just around the corner.”

     “I see,” you murmur. You hadn’t thought much of public opinion on the current administration. Politics were less your forte. You simply followed your moral compass, bureaucracy be damned. Honglin might be a little biased, but you still find yourself fascinated by the open admiration in his tone. It seems Yanjun is the great leader you always thought he’d be, bringing to life the praise you’d whisper to him late at night as he laid his head in your lap and voiced his doubts. “You think very highly of him.”

     “He deserves it.” Those three words settle the matter.

     After what seems like an eternity navigating the palace’s endless corridors, Honglin stops in front of the large crimson doors of the Great Hall. Covered in gold decorations, it’s even more ornate than you remember. The phoenixes and floral imagery are new, somewhat clashing with the preexisting spiraling dragons and flamboyant clouds. Somehow, though, the doors seem smaller than you remember them last. Perhaps you’re no longer as intimidated by them and the secrets they hold. You know what type of vipers dwell within. There’s only the one on the dais that you’re still apprehensive of. There is still the slight chance that Yanjun is still as harmless as a garter snake. In your infinite maturity, though, you know better than to hope.

     “Are you ready?” Honglin asks. You don’t give yourself room to hesitate. At your nod, he smiles encouragingly and pushes the great doors open. Voice booming, he calls out your presence. “This humble servant presents the new imperial healer to His Majesty the Emperor, Son of Heaven and Ruler of the Earth, He of Ten Thousand Years.” Bent at the waist, he shuffles forward. You follow him, head bowed and hands folded in your sleeves.

     Yanjun says your name when he tells you to rise. As you obey, you force yourself to suppress a shudder. If even such a short vocalization can send shivers down your spine, you can’t imagine what a full sentence will be like. “Look at us,” Yanjun says. A rustle of silk indicates he beckoned you with a finger. You raise your head to fully look at Yanjun –– Emperor Qiànzо̄ng, you remind yourself –– for the first time in seven years.

     He’s just as beautiful as he was back then. No longer boyish, he’s replaced that youthful charm with a regal and dignified demeanor. His hair is longer and spills over his shoulders, flesh paler presumably from years indoors. He waves at you almost teasingly, fingers still slim and pretty. It’s a wonder he can still move with the heaps of fabric atop him. He’s always been scrawny, but you see that he’s filled out his robes. The rich silks are adorned with golden embroidery depicting his family crest, the Phoenix –– so, it was his addition to the doors after all –– along with, you notice on his sleeves, tangerine and citrus trees. To reflect the flourishing growth brought about by his reign, you suppose. He truly is an emperor now.

     “It’s good to have you back,” Yanjun says. For all the refinement in his dress, he still slouches a little, shoulders raised as he cants a hip to the side –– the way he used to when the two of you were still kids. He’s twenty-five now. Handsome as ever. Voice still rich and soft and tender when addressing you. One would think that his father-in-law isn’t standing less than a foot from him. For all your avoidance of all things imperial, you can remember the beady eyes of Lady Pingting’s father easily. The emperor’s Right Hand eyes you with obvious distaste, sleeve already raised to his mouth as if he is mere seconds away from whispering disparaging comments about you into Yanjun’s ear. You have no doubt that he will as soon as you are out of sight. Seven years have brought very little change to Lin’an.

     In the wake of your silence, the emperor looks at you expectantly. You have to remind yourself that this isn’t the little boy who used to fish your ribbons out of the river for you, who would stand on his tiptoes to pick the ripest fruits to share. You doubt he is still the same man that you loved. He is a man of power, now. He is atop the world’s finest nation. He is expected to lead it in war, to reclaim the lost North. “This humble servant thanks the crown,” you tell him, lowering yourself to your knees. Gripping the insides of your sleeves so tightly you dig crescents into the fabric, you bow once more and press your forehead into the velvet carpet so hard you think it may leave marks. “It is an honor to serve the great Dragon Emperor.” When you dare to meet Yanjun’s eyes, his mouth is drawn into a tight line. Perhaps that was the wrong thing to say.

     For a long, tense minute, neither of you speak. Honglin looks nervous on your behalf

      Yanjun’s gaze switches to something akin to… disappointment. Something else you can’t name flutters in your stomach. You’ve felt it before when looking at him, you just refuse to acknowledge it as affection. You like Yanjun. But you don’t love him anymore. You can’t. So, while you can care and fret over why he seems disappointed in you, you are not allowed to bend over backward to try and please him. That’s not your job anymore, assuming it ever was.

     The emperor clears his throat, snapping you back into reality. “How do you feel, coming back to the capital after all this time?” He pauses. “We’re sure you must’ve had some reservations, clean and… succinct as your parting was.”

     If you were more naïve, you might dare to presume that there’s a hint of regret in his tone. Yanjun as a prince was sentimental. Soft. As an emperor, he is not allowed to have such unnecessary inclinations. And you, though not quite the commoner girl you once were, are still light years beneath him. You are a healer, not the daughter of a nobleman or a foreign princess or his empress. You have a place –– one that is not with him. “Not at all,” you say, feigning ignorance to the way he leans forward in interest. “Whatever my previous feelings for the palace were, I have grown in the past seven years. And I would be foolish to disregard a royal summons. I thank Your Majesty for your generous offer. I know that with imperial support, I will be able to complete my research and create a better standard of living for our people. Improving the health of our citizens is my greatest priority and I am grateful that Your Majesty has deigned to allot such a great sum to such a wonderful cause.”

     You’re suddenly made aware of the dozens of pairs of eyes on you. Though the throne beside Yanjun is empty, his many advisors are all around him, among other members of his staff like scribes and entertainers. To say nothing, as well, of the diplomats and bureaucrats from afar. How many of them know who you are and what you once meant to him? How many are willing to use that and this lackluster reception against you?

     Yanjun blinks. “We… see.” He opens his mouth to speak further, but his Right Hand cuts him off as the old man lunges forward to whisper in his ear. Nodding, Yanjun waves him back with an arm. “We are terribly sorry to curtail this… long-awaited reunion, but we have some business to take care of.” Glancing at Honglin, Yanjun dips his head. “If you would be so kind as to escort the lady healer back to her quarters. General Zhu and his retinue will be here shortly.”

     And just like that, you are dismissed and his attention is elsewhere. You and Honglin bow before you depart, but Yanjun hardly seems to notice as he unfurls a scroll in his lap and listens to the rambling of his ministers. It’s probably for the best.

     When the doors of the Great Hall shut behind him completely, Honglin throws you a smile. “That wasn’t so terrible, was it? He’s still fond of you!” It seems he does remember you were betrothed to the emperor. Prior to this, he hadn’t mentioned anything of the sort. Maybe his memory was jogged by Yanjun’s words. Regardless, you appreciate the attempt at levity. “I told you he’s a good man. You had nothing to be worried about.”

     He’s right, in a way. You didn’t know why you were so worked up over a conversation that took less than ten minutes. What were you expecting? For Yanjun to beg you to love him again, for him to confront you over breaking his heart? Clearly, it wasn’t very broken in the first place, considering the fact that he married Pingting not long after you left and gained a reputation of being something of a womanizer. Not that anyone would ever accuse an emperor of debauchery to his face.

     “Would you like to go back to your room, or are there other matters you would like to take care of?”

     “Actually,” you say, “do you mind taking me to the infirmary? I think I’d like to begin unpacking.” It’d take your mind off of things, at the very least. And you’d like to get your practice off the ground as soon as possible. Momentarily forgetting about Yanjun is just a bonus.

     Honglin eyes your robes with an arched brow, but when you look at him expectantly, he shrugs and grins. “As you wish. Follow me!”

     By the time you’re finished with unpacking most of your surgical equipment and organizing your anesthetics, you are sweaty, your hair has come undone, and your arms are sore. Just thinking about having to put away everything else has you sighing in exhaustion. You’re only about halfway done, and remembering that you still have to take inventory of all of your herbs makes you want to quit even before you’ve started, but you grit your teeth and decide to have everything finished by the next evening. The sun has long since set, and the palace has fallen into relative silence. Having removed your shirt jacket for ease of movement, you have to slink back to your rooms with it draped over your shoulders, hoping no one sees you in a state of moderate undress. You breathe a sigh of relief as you successfully make it back to your room without being spotted. Only to scream –– thankfully short and quiet enough not to cause a large commotion –– when you see the scene laid out before you, of course.

     Lin Yanjun and an extravagant dinner are at your table, and he looks moderately amused by the sight of your surprise and messy attire. His mother ambushed you similarly seven years ago, but you were wearing more clothes then. You doubt he is aware of how much he takes after her. “Sit,” Yanjun says, sounding more like he’s suggesting rather than ordering. “I wanted to speak with you in a less ostentatious setting.”

     And the candles, golden cutlery, and huge roast duck definitely serve to create a more minimalist, humble atmosphere.

     Biting back the quip, you do as he says and take a seat across from him. When you dined with his mother (whom you can see in him so clearly with the way the shadows dance across his face), you were expecting an apology. She did a good job of maintaining the impression of civil conversation, though its content was anything but civil.

      Without a hint of aggression, she told you, “You must know that you are no good for him.”

      You tried to protest, only to get plowed over.

      “Look at it this way,” the Dowager Empress had said. You still remember her words and the way her hair decorations clacked as she moved clear as day. “You are doing my son no favors. You may operate under the idealistic belief that true love will conquer all, but I must remind you, young one, that Yanjun will become the leader of a country in the real world. A country at war, constantly being attacked by our enemies to the north. He will reclaim the North and drive the Jurchens out once and for all. What he needs is someone who will provide him with the most aid in his endeavors. What could you possibly offer him that he could not find elsewhere?”

     At the time, you weren’t able to speak, tongue stuck to the roof of your mouth. You never needed to challenge such a great authority before. The Dowager Empress took advantage of that.

     “Money? Connections? Are you a tactician of any sort?” You had no response. She was right. Yanjun was meant for greater things. And while you thought you’d be with him every step of the way, you knew that it wasn’t practical for him. Lady Yun, whose father was the second largest landowner in the entire country, or perhaps Lady Likun, whose father and brother were prominent figures in the military and who was a capable strategist in her own right, were better matches. He ended up choosing Lady Pingting, the daughter of a high-ranking official in the Ministry of Defense, so Yanjun evidently took his mother’s wishes to heart. What did you have to offer him besides your love? “You are a commoner, my girl. He will be an emperor. Surely you see something wrong with this picture, yes? You may believe that the two of you are in love, but that is only because you don’t know any better. The universe has an order and it will always right itself. This is a lesson you would do well to learn now.

     “This is what is going to happen,” said the Dowager Empress then, so sure that she could tell the future. “You are going to tell Yanjun that you no longer wish to marry him. You will then pack your meager belongings and return to Changqi. You will remember your place, and you will never speak of or to him again.”

     As it turned out, the old bitch was a prophet.

     Except here you are, sitting in front of Yanjun as he places a leg of duck in your bowl. It’s something a husband would do. Is this the universe righting itself? No, it can’t be. You remain frozen, hands in your lap. “Why?” You thought you could do this. That you could speak to him again without wanting to flee. It should be easier without all those eyes on you, but it isn’t.

     “Is it wrong of me to wish to speak to an old friend?” He arches a brow and smiles at you. It isn’t pleasant. He looks every bit like the shark his mother was when she last spoke to you. He looks like he’s just waiting for you to spill blood so he can strike. “We are still friends, are we not?”

     You don’t respond. The question hangs awkwardly in the air as you turn instead to eat. Perhaps it’s petty of you, but you’ve learned to pick and choose your battles. Professing any affection for him would do you no good, especially when taking into consideration the people who could hear you but who you couldn’t see. “And I suppose you thought you were doing me favors by coming to my quarters?” He blinks in surprise as you speak after sipping some broth. It’s remarkably easier to speak to Yanjun when you think of his mother at the same time, of how he’s no longer the lovesick boy that you knew –– of how he might not have your best interests at heart anymore. “There are eyes and ears around the palace and you thought that coming to my bedchambers alone was the best course of action. I see.”

     Yanjun laughs then, releasing a rather cavalier scoff. “My apologies, I didn’t think ––”

     “Clearly.”

     His chuckle cuts off abruptly. “I was hoping we could be civil.” Clearing his throat, Yanjun returns to his meal. Each movement –– even to raise his chopsticks to his mouth –– is practiced and sharp. Though it is only dinner, and a private one at that, Yanjun still can’t relax. You feel a little bad for snapping at him. The last seven years probably haven’t been very good to him. He had to have been forced to grow a thicker skin. Scales, if you will. The bags under his eyes say as much, anyway.

     The two of you eat in silence, as you don’t dare to speak lest he turn your cold attitude against you. You had often imagined what it would be like to share meals as husband and wife. What it might be like to sit beside him in the grand hall, reaching over to add some vegetables to his rice and as he ladles you soup. How domestic it might have been. How useless these fantasies were. The Dowager Empress was right. At the time, you were a frivolous, naïve girl in love with the idea of love. Now, you are not. You’ve grown, and you’ve grown beyond him. The two of you were better off without each other. This isn’t you finding your way back to each other, or whatever drivel your eighteen year-old self would’ve come up with.

     This is not the universe correcting its course.

     But still, you have to wonder.

     “Why me?”

     The two words startle Yanjun out of his apparently length and intense internal monologue. From the harsh way he was staring at the plates in front of him, you thought he was trying to consume them with sheer willpower and ocular strength alone. He looks up at you and raises a brow. “I beg your pardon?”

     “Out of all the doctors in the Middle Empire, out of every physician, every healer, every master of the art of medicine, why did you choose to extend this position to me?” There are plenty of people more famous than you, renowned across the nation for their prowess and advancement in the field. While you had garnered a bit of popularity (and something of an ego) for your improvements of herbal medicine, you still had doubts that these accomplishments alone warranted your sudden and enormous rise in status. “I highly doubt it’s because we are friends. If you’ll forgive me for the rudeness of the accusation, I believe you may have some ulterior motives.”

     It isn’t something you would have suggested of him before. At least, not out loud. Yanjun was shrewd and playful, but such an important position, one that held the entire palace’s health in its hands, was not one to be taken so lightly. Nepotism had no place when life and death were involved, and you always thought that he knew better than to place personal preference over effectiveness. But you hardly know him anymore. So much of him is physically familiar. The details, however, are too dissimilar not to notice.

     His relative reticence, the almost sleepy way he blinks, head occasionally dropping and his chin staying tucked against his clavicle as if he doesn’t want to lift it back up. The calluses on his fingers from hours of holding a brush. The wry curl of his lips resembling something like guilt. Like you’ve sniffed him out. The light dusting of pink across his cheeks, either from the wine he’s been indulging in intermittently throughout the night or embarrassment. Surprise, given that you never thought to challenge him like this before.

      So, you were right. He was hiding something. Maybe you know him better than you think.

     “That is a rather abrasive way to phrase your concerns,” Yanjun says mildly, “but I will forgive you for your tone.” He folds his hands in his lap. “The simple truth is that I needed someone I could trust implicitly. Although I had my doubts that you would be able to hold up under the pressure, there are very few people I trust to make sure that my family and friends and allies are healthy.”

     You swallow roughly. The pressure. Right. When you told him you no longer wished to marry him, you cited pressure as the deciding factor in your departure. Of course, he’d remember.

     “Nevertheless, you are correct. I owe you the truth. I am well aware of what was written on the summons. None of it is particularly untrue. I fully expect you to conduct research to combat the tianxing plague in Guilin. But that isn’t all I wanted to ask of you. I suppose that, upon reflection, my apprehensions no longer seem very reasonable. And, as such, I no longer see the point in hiding anything from you. Are you aware of what happened to your predecessor?”

     “Only that he leapt into a river not long after your mother’s death.” You decide to keep your conspiracy theories to yourself.

     “You were not informed of why?”

     You shake your head. You wish he would just get to the point, though he’s had a history of being superfluous in his storytelling.

     “The official narrative we passed along to the palace staff is that he feared punishment for failing me because he was unable to prevent my mother’s death. She had an ailment of the liver and suffered a painful death. It would not be surprising to hear that he feared retribution from the crown.” Would it? You didn’t think he was that kind of man. But people change. Yanjun leans in and your traitorous heartbeat quickens. If he notices the way your breath catches in your threat, he doesn’t say anything.

     “Only three ministers, the Empress, myself, and now you know the truth. The Crown Prince’s health has been deteriorating for the past month. While it seemed the doctor had been making some headway, he took his life two weeks into my son’s illness. I can only presume this was because he reached an unfavorable prognosis. But rather than do anything he could to save a seven year-old boy’s life, he took the coward’s way out.” Yanjun clenches his fists. You fight the urge to reach over and take his hand.

     What little surprise you felt at learning that he was a father quickly faded and was replaced by sympathy. You had no children to call your own, disgraced to spinsterhood after the dissolution of your engagement. You had no idea what he must feel to watch his son in pain, to watch the boy die. You could scarcely fathom it. It puts the exhaustion in his visage into perspective. Your heart aches for him.

      But you still aren’t very happy with him. “Why… why didn’t you just tell me the truth?” For someone who claimed to trust you enough to put his family’s life in your hands, the fact that he decided to withhold this information from you didn’t support his assertion whatsoever.

     “I couldn’t risk your summons being intercepted. If the news that the heir to the Empire was dying fell into the wrong hands, I feared the worst. Morale dropping in the midst of a war we are losing is the mildest of consequences.” He clenches his jaw and avoids your gaze. “Worse yet, the Jurchens may send someone to finish the job. We are aware that they have spies within the palace. We just don’t know who they are.”

     “That sounds like a bunch of excuses. Valid ones, yes, but not the truth. Yanjun, if you want me to do the best that I can, you have to trust me.” Not all of him is entirely unfamiliar –– the way his voice wavers and the way he refuses to look you in the eye are little dishonest quirks you recall from his childhood. Your fingers twitch and his flex in return. You’re both too stubborn to reach over and complete the movement. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

     Licking his lips, Yanjun drops his head. He reaches up to rub his jaw. He used to do that when he got in trouble and his steward was about to wring a confession out of him. “I was afraid. And foolish. I thought that you still loved me. That you would refuse to treat a child that you thought could’ve and should’ve been yours. For that, I apologize. I should not have let my assessment of you be clouded by fanciful sentiment.”

     Can you resent him for his line of reasoning? Part of you wished that he thought you still loved him, but that notion was supposed to work in conjunction with the idea that he still loved you too. That part of you, the smallest bit of romanticism remaining within you, was wrong. He thought you still loved him, and he used that to think the worst of you. You are not afraid to admit that it hurts –– both on your behalf and his. What happened to Yanjun to make him this cold? Was it… was it you who made him this way?

     “Oh, Yanjun.” Your words are pitying. You can tell by the way his shoulders tense that it irritates him. “If you had just asked, I still would have come.”

     A chill creeps down your spine as Yanjun stands and meets your eyes. You’ve never seen him like this before. Aloof, icy. His eyes are hard as stone. It’s difficult to categorize him, and he always seems to be shifting. For much of your dinner, Yanjun was nowhere near as cold. Just because he wasn’t talking didn’t mean that he was trying to freeze you out or scare you. But now, you can’t be sure. When you look up at him, you can’t help but remember the way he used to look at you. He gazed at you with such warmth, like you were the sun and stars and everything in the universe –– a sentiment that you shared toward him.

     Now, none of that remains. Yanjun looks at you, and there is… nothing there. Negativity, resentment, and bitterness, perhaps. Though you don’t want it to be so, there is no longer anything warm and loving when he beholds you. There is only dislike. He speaks deliberately, mouth forming his words with self-assurance. You can’t construe his tone as anything but loathing. “I couldn’t have known that.”

[ryoshan-a]

" do you think weiss and ruby have caught on? "

◤ UNPROMPTED.┊always accepting. @defectore (but kind of also @rosescattered and @glyphscattered)[PART.3]

        Yang didn’t answer right away, right eye pressed against the crack of the wardrobe where she could see the side of the room with the recently-abandoned bed and no more. Ruby and Weiss had disappeared from her sight, but she could still hear them moving despite Blake’s voice so close to her ear. The closet, after all, wasn’t a very large space and Blake had been forced to stand in behind Yang with arms wrapped around her waist and a chin on her shoulder. It might have been romantic if they weren’t naked and hiding from the former half of their team, who apparently seemed to be looking rather intently. 

        “I don’t know, Blake.” Yang whispered, in a tone that might have been partially indignant and partially playful all at once if it weren’t so quiet. “The sheets are a mess, there’s probably stains that only ultra-violet lights can see, and all of our clothes are in like, four piles all over the floor.” 

        Blake stifled a giggle, and there was something giddy in there. Yang knew better than to attribute it to the situation they found themselves in, and more the moments before that made it no small miracle that Blake’s shuddering legs hadn’t given out on their way to the closet the moment they’d heard Ruby and Weiss approach. That train of thought led to places that surprised Yang, and she paused for a second, swaying backwards a little and drawing Blake’s attention with the heavier weight of her body. 

        “Why are we hiding?” Yang asked, head tilted back as though in such close proximity it was the only way Blake had a chance of hearing her. Fingers flexed against her torso, and Yang tensed her stomach right back. 

      “I don’t know. You were the one who told me to run!” 

          “Not into the closet!” 

      “Where else were we supposed to hide?” 

          “But why are we hiding?” 

      “It was your idea!” 

          “I panicked, okay!” 

        That last one was a little sharp, and Yang heard footsteps approaching as Blake’s palm closed around Yang’s mouth. Both of them spotted the white head of hair that passed by, and the inquisitive pause of those footsteps. Yang licked Blake’s palm, and she offered a silent ew in response. Next came a muffled  “what is it?” followed by a “never mind, thought I heard something.” It might have ended like that, too, had Yang not bitten off more than she could chew -- literally, as her teeth started to nip Blake’s palm. 

        See, Yang was a little more vulnerable here. With one hand over her mouth, Blake still had a whole hand free and resting on Yang’s stomach. All that needed to happen was for that hand to slip its way downwards, for nails to graze rapidly blazing flesh, for a tease so pertinent to the girl who was more than ready to go that neither of them could have predicted what happened next. 

        See, the very last thing Yang wanted was to be caught in the closet in an even more compromising position than she already was. Enough that her first response to get out of said situation, was to fling herself forwards. 

        Yang burst through the doors in a manner so sudden that she heard at least three sounds on the spectrum of screaming to yelling. It was a small mercy that the doors to the closet had clattered shut behind her, but the upside kind of fell behind the fact that she was now lying naked on the floor. She didn’t hesitate though, darting across and diving into the bed she’d vacated so recently the duvet was still warm. Tucked up to the nose in the sheets, she blinked twice, finally looked Weiss and Ruby in the eyes (which was quite easy, seeing as Ruby in her abject terror seemed to have hopped into Weiss’ arms Scooby-Doo style) and released a very theatrical yawn. 

        “Oh, hey guys.” Yang said, with more successful nonchalance than she believed herself capable of. It didn’t exactly matter, though, seeing as both Ruby and Weiss were far more intelligent than passing it off that she’d been in bed the whole time required. “Didn’t see ya come in. Nice morning, huh?” 

        Ruby and Weiss simply stared at her, and behind them Yang spotted Blake’s head peeking out through a small gap she’d opened in the doors. 

         “So,” she started, and the word was punctuated by the thump of Ruby landing on her backside on the floor; the second, smaller fright loosening Weiss’ grip. For a moment, Yang thought Blake was going to explain everything from the closet looking like a cat with its head stuck in a fence. Then, it became all the clearer that she’d had more influence on Blake than Blake had let on. Blake cleared her throat. 

        “So I guess this brings a whole new meaning to ‘coming out of the closet’, huh?” 

[lokgifsandmusings]

It's not unreasonable to think that the only requirement for running as president in UR is being a citizen, plenty of countries in the world have it that way

Right, but the question was if she is one at all. There’s really no indication that she is, and more that she’s not. I guess she could have just changed her residence or something? I think I actually worked that into Tribunals a bit, because of the speculation of Iroh II running. 

“But is [Iroh] even eligible? You have to be a citizen of the Republic.”

“There’s no minimum requirement for how long though,” Raiko pointed out. “He could become one tomorrow and declare his candidacy the next day.”

Kushala looked skeptical. “There’s been no indication that he’s going to do that. A prince of the Fire Nation, changing citizenship? Even though he’s not the crowned prince, that would still be…unprecedented.”

I will never stop laughing if we actually get a speech bubble of her explaining this in Part 2. I’ll make it my header image. 

Anonymous said to lokgifsandmusings: oh you’re right about that S2 outfit, I was thinking the S4 one with her hair down, which to me semed the first time she had a tiny bit of independence from him and strayed from WT colors? maybe I’m overthinking this and they had no specific background in mind for her

That’s when she was serving Kuvira though. Then she kind of wore the “defector colors” Bolin also donned after they left that. The brown palette. Varrick went back to his WT duds though. Omg, do I need to do a Zhu Li wardrobe analysis?

Really, with regards to her background, the only hint we have is “Moon.” That’s generally a Korean name, which generally means EK. But the Avatar-verse is also globalized.

From what we can tell with commentary, they didn’t think much about her at all except as a punch line until Book 4. Then they worked to correct the sexual harassment narrative, with mixed results, I’d say. I rather like Zhurrick, but I get why it falls very short for a lot of people. 

[carterashofficial]

5, 17, 24 & 27 for Fiika for the 42 questions asks?

5. How do they dress? What styles, colors, accessories, and other possessions do they favor? Why?

Before she joined the Navy, Fiika was all patched pants and old, slightly-stained shirts. She worked in her uncle’s bakery after school until she was old enough to join the military. Then it was flight suits and padded vests. After a couple months of her uncovering an SIS agent directing defectors and some serious heartbreak, Fiika was recruited into Imperial Intelligence.

For a couple years she wore mainly disguises or the Imperial Officer uniform as Lana Beniko’s jack-of-all-trades assistant. Even during KOTFE, she’s dressed in her uniform.

But slowly she starts to switch it up. White pants, instead of the deep gray. She ditches the cap, her buns are still strict, but some ends of her hair stick out. 

When she’s made Empress alongside Arcann, her wardrobe goes to all white/pale grays, all accented in gold. Robe-like, soft material, flowing or draped. She doesn’t have anything she’s picky over, but she does favor her hair up and the drape-like outfits. It’s easier to hide blades and other weapons.

17. Are they more shaped by nature or nurture — who they are, or what has happened to them? How have these shaped who they’ve become as a person?

Fiika grew up with ‘nurture’ from her parents: her mother and step-father Luuko. They loved her, nurtured her, and made sure she never got herself into trouble (unless that trouble was from her cousins. then Fiika was on her own).

In the military and Intelligence Academy, it was definitely ‘nature’. If you don’t know what end of the knife to hold, that’s your own fault.

Working under Lana was a mix of both, but what really shaped her was Ziost being destroyed. Fiika was devastated and returned to the Navy. she could barely cope with losing her entire family. Then she was frozen for five years.

She’s best shaped by ‘nature’ but she would definitely prefer nurture. 

24. How do they present themselves socially? What distinguishes their “persona” from their “true self”, and what causes that difference?

Fiika is a spy. She knows disguises, she knows how to act. She presents herself as an agent who’s got everything under control, someone to be wary of because you never know how many daggers she’s got on her.

If she decides you a friend and opens up to you, she’s sassy and warm. The reason for her more guarded professional act is for self preservation that was drilled into her in the Intelligence Academy. It’s easier to kill a target if you’re not close to them.

27. What do they strongly like and dislike, in any category? Why?

Fiika hates, and I mean hates, anyone going near the pilot’s seat. She is a trained pilot from the Navy. She will fly whatever it is. She also loves being in a walker. Theron and Lana repeatedly try to keep her out of one, but that doesn’t always work. She has too much fun behind the controls.

Her favorite food is pudding, or any other traditional Ziost food. She is not a fan of Theron’s mild obsession with peanut butter. He puts it on almost everything and she’ll just stare in judgement.

[solarbird]

The Armourer and the Living Weapon, Chapter 7: they are beautiful, but they are new

This chapter is worksafe, with the possible exception of some moderately strong language. [AO3 link]

Lena Oxton bolted upright in her bed, leapt vertically, and jinked across the room. Where am I?! She grabbed at her chest, missing the weight of her accelerator, pawing at herself, terrified until she slowly realised that she wasn't slipping out of time - she'd teleported, without even thinking.

Looking over next to a closed door, she saw her accelerator - or a smaller, thinner version - resting on a charging station not unlike her own. What the bleedin' hell...? How'd I do that? Is this a Slipstream world?

Looking down, she realised she was in front of a window, dozens of stories above the ground, and standing on a dresser. She stomped at the piece of furniture - quite solid, quite real. Looking back at the bed from which she'd leapt, she realised, suddenly, Widowmaker?! as the assassin sat up, blinking, looking over to Lena, confused, then remembering, looking around, afraid... and then, less so, as she saw the Kiss, unloaded, but quite intact, by the nightstand next to their bed. She grabbed her, reassured herself with her presence, and placed her back down, nearby.

"Looks like we've got first class accommodations," Lena said, quietly. "And they were kind enough to keep your counterpart close. Thanks, invisible room monitor." She walked quickly over to Widowmaker, leaning her head against her lover's, whispering, "Do you remember anything after my apartment? I don't." "No," the defector replied, just as quietly. "But clearly, time has passed. Your eyes are..." she looked closely, to be sure, "...copper. They are beautiful, but they are new."

Lena paled as the room's door opened, and Oilliphéist came rushing in. "You're awake! Finally!" She wrapped herself around her lover, who found it took everything in her to push her back away. "You lied to me!" Widowmaker shouted.

"No! Yes! A little!" replied Oilliphéist, standing off, giving her counterpart her space. "It was horrible, and I hated it - I didn't want to, but I had to get you home! But that's the only thing I lied about, and Moira's agreed I'll never have to do it again."

"What's she done to us?" demanded Tracer.

"Nothing! Well, nothing much. Why, do you think I should?" interjected Dr. O'Deorain, as she stepped into the room, following Emily by some seconds.

"You call this nothing?!" Lena pointed at her eyes and snarled at the infamous doctor, a spike of instant loathing for her running across her body.

The doctor laughed. "Nothing psychological. Yes, I... fixed a few things for you, while you were here. I was, after all, an Overwatch medical officer, and you are a member of Overwatch, and I am, still, a doctor. You'll like it, once you know. Here, see?"

She reached over, and turned off Lena's chronal accelerator. Lena shrieked, and failed to teleport, but did back quite quickly into the wall behind her, which remained as substantial as ever.

"I thought you might appreciate a little insurance against incidents like the one in Numbani last year."

Lena reached around her, touching the wall, the bed, the wardrobe - all still entirely solid. "...how?"

"The anchor core was separable, and easily powered. It's part of you, now."

"...you implanted it?" She didn't trust it, or any part of it. Get it out, get it out, get it out...

"It runs off your own glucose - a far better solution, I think you'll agree, than before. You'll need to eat more, but not too unreasonably more, and you'll still need the vest for teleporting and time jumps. But you no longer need to be wearing it for that, and you'll get more jumps per charge."

"Yeh - I'll believe that when Winston verifies it, and not before. How'd you make room... inside me?" She shuddered at the thought.

"Easily enough done. Your lungs are slightly smaller, but vastly more efficient; you've come out ahead, I assure you. But let's skip the Q-and-A, shall we?"

She held up a hand, and started counting on long, long fingernails. "Thanks to all the head trauma you've suffered, your retinas were going to disintegrate well before you turned 40. Now, they won't." A second finger. "While I was in there, I got rid of your blind spots. Also," a third finger, "you'll see better in both darkness and extreme light." A fourth; "And, I have this wonderful new technique for improving nerve conductivity, so I threw that in as a bonus. You're even quicker, now, and more dextrous." She flipped her hands open, palms up, and took a little bow. "You're welcome."

Lena just stared at the doctor, the fear in her mind rising as the list grew. "Bleedin'... anything else?"

"Welcome to Oasis?"

The Overwatch agent glared in silence, trying not to shake.

Through all of this, Widowmaker had been inventorying her mind. She didn't feel reconstrained, but she knew from previous conditioning that she never did - she always felt like herself. She looked over to Oilliphéist, who still looked so beautiful, so perfect, and to Tracer, who still looked so perfectly annoying, so perfectly foolish, and yet, so perfectly... wonderful. If nothing else, she has let me keep this, she thought.

"And me, docteur?"

Dr. O'Deorain gave her an exasperated look. "My niece would barely let me touch you. You can't ghost, like she can, which is a bit of a shame. But she did at least allow me the nerve conductivity - you're now her equal in speed, though neither of you can keep up with your diminutive... friend... here."

I'll never trust my quickness again, thought Tracer, enraged. Fuck. Fuck you, doc. Fuck you.

Emily walked back over to Widowmaker, and knelt beside her on the floor, by the bed. "I'm really sorry she made me lie to you. But she swore she wouldn't touch you, not the real you, not your mind, not ever again, and I've stayed awake the whole time, making sure." She reached up, offering her hand. "Forgive me?"

Widowmaker hesitated, then took Oilliphéist's hand, and nodded, once. "Oh, god, I've missed you," the newer creation repeated. "It's so good that you're home." And Widowmaker smiled, relaxing, resting her head against Emily's and running her hands through her beloved's hair. "It's... so lovely to be with you again," she whispered. I wish we could do an associations check, she thought, but that is not a tool we should reveal here...

"How long we been out, luv?" Lena asked Emily, kindly, a little touched at the scene, despite herself.

"A little over a week," the once ginger replied, sleepily. "I've been watching over you both, worrying, night and day. I really need a nap."

"Why don't you take one, dear," said the doctor. "I owe our guests an explanation, and I do have a proposal to make."

Emily crawled into bed next to Widowmaker and held her, so tightly, and this time, Widowmaker didn't push her away, and didn't even want to. She smells so nice, she thought, sliding aside and off the bed as Emily curled up to sleep. And she feels so wonderful. But then... she always did.

"I imagine you're both hungry. Lunch?"

"No," said Tracer, as her stomach growled. "Well... maybe."

-----

"So you're sayin' that part's true? Akande really wants to start another Omnic War?"

They were both back in their "guest room," Oilliphéist still asleep, the two of them at a small round table with four chairs, surrounded by windows overlooking the city. Tracer had turned her accelerator back on at first opportunity, not taking any chances.

Widowmaker nodded. "He has - or, at least, a few weeks ago, had - every intent of doing exactly that. All my most recent orders had involved helping him consolidate his power - I made a particularly lovely shot to kill a rather... more pedestrian... member of council, interested only in money, and not politics. A common criminal, risen far above his level, but at least he died beautifully."

"Killing Mondatta was part of the war effort, wasn't he." It wasn't a question, and Widowmaker did not treat it as one.

"Yes, absolutely."

Lena snarled, but considered the repercussions. "Seems t'me this kind of infighting must really weaken Talon. It happen often?"

The assassin smirked, wryly. "How do you think Akande went to jail?"

The door to the guest room opened again, and Moira appeared, with afternoon tea. Lena glared at the minister, who smiled in return. "Checking on my information? Good - that's only the proper thing to do. Tea?"

"No. Well... what kind?"

"A nice tippy assam, I find it good in hot weather. I'll go ahead and be mother, it seems only fitting," said the doctor, as she sat down and began pouring cups for the table. "And yes," she tilted her head just a little to Lena, "we'll share the same pot. We can even swap cups if you'd like."

"I insist," said Lena, after the cups had been poured.

Moira waved at the tea set, and smiled a tiny smile. "At your pleasure."

"You did it," Widowmaker said to Moira, as Lena swapped cups around. "She's... wondrous."

Dr. O'Deorain smiled the least-ungenuine smile Tracer had yet seen her manage. "She is. I always backed her petitions for enhancement. I have no idea why the rest of the board was so hesitant." She added just a hint of sugar to her tea, and took a careful sip.

"What else did you do to her?" demanded the senior assassin.

"Other than the obvious?" she laughed. "Very little. There were reasons she was the template, after all." She looked over to her niece, still asleep in bed. "She is more mission-focused, now. If it makes you feel better about what happened, I'm certain that's the only reason she was able to lie to you about the meeting. She even fought me on it. Honestly, I was surprised."

"She wasn't always floatin' about in a little cloud of euphoria, was she?" Lena asked. "Doesn't seem your type, love."

"No. That is also new," replied the Frenchwoman.

"And not my doing. I gave her everything she wanted, everything she'd ever dreamed, and it all actually worked just like she'd always hoped. What did you expect, depression?" Tracer glared, but Widowmaker laughed, just a little. "But... as you have demonstrated, the mind has a way of rebalancing itself to a kind of neutrality over time, and I've enabled her to avoid that fate, if she chooses. You can hardly blame me for wanting to see my niece be happy, can you?"

"Mate, I could blame you for saving an orphan from a runaway lorry."

The doctor laughed. "I can't blame you for that, right now. But I do hope that over time you'll forgive me this little incident. I couldn't exactly ring you up for a teleconference, could I? Not with what you know."

The minister put her tea back down, and leaned forward. "Look, I'll be direct. Akande is a danger to the entire world, and needs to be stopped. I do not have the political power within Talon to do it, which means it is time for a short, vicious, but small war, to prevent a long, disastrous, and genocidal war. I intended to go into it with myself and my two most brilliant creations, but I would prefer to go into it with you on my side, as well, and with Overwatch specifically deciding to keep its distance. If we lose - no loss for you and yours, it's all on us, and no "heroes" are implicated. But if we win... everyone wins."

"I don't believe you, mate," glared the teleporter, putting sugar and milk into her tea. "Somethin' else is goin' on."

"Something else is always going on," the doctor agreed, picking up her teacup. "Akande is shorting my budget within Talon, and it is affecting my work. Nothing matters more than that - nothing - and I will not stand for it. Renewed Omnic incursions would absolutely target this city, and, therefore, my facilities and experiments, and I will not have that, either. The chaos would set my research back years." She sipped her tea. "There. Is that selfish enough for you? I do not pretend to be otherwise."

"What's this 'small war' involve?" She almost growled the question. Bloody hell, you irritate me, she thought. No wonder Ziegler doesn't like you.

"Widowmaker will be familiar with kind of actions needed - distance assassinations, close-up killings, some theft, some intelligence gathering for blackmail, all the nasty covert games Overwatch pretends to hate, but did so very much of the first time around." She placed her cup back in its saucer, and added a little more tea. "This time, Overwatch wouldn't have to be involved, not directly. But you... you'd make a lovely addition to our little task force, and with your personal involvement with my two favourites, you can see why I had to ask."

"I'm not agreein' to anything," Lena said. "Not here, not like this." She sipped from her teacup, and looked down at it. Huh. A bit light for my tastes, but... not bad.

"You're free to leave, you do realise that?" asked the minister.

"Am I? Really?"

"Yes."

"Then where're my pistols?"

"Did you check the dresser?"

"...you serious?"

"Absolutely," the doctor said, adding just a little more tea to her cup.

As Lena arose to check the dresser - where her guns and wrist braces had been neatly put away in the top drawer - Emily stirred, muttering, "...pistols?" She sat up, blinking. "Pistols? Oh! Yes! Pistols! Lena, I have presents for you!"

"...wot?" replied the teleporter. "You..."

"Your old pistols are terrible! " She smiled, and shook her head ruefully. "Awful balance, erratic kick - how did you ever hit anything? " The armourer yawned, broadly, and stretched.

"Emily, you should get some more sleep. You've been up for days."

"I know, but..."

"You can give her your presents in the morning, dear. That's an order."

Emily muttered, and rolled back over, wrapping her arms around her pillow. "Fine..." she said, and closed her eyes.

Lena had snapped on her wrist holsters, and popped her pistols free, spinning them in her hands. Loaded, she thought, more than a little surprised. She pointed them straight at Moira's face. "So I can leave whenever I want, then?"

"Yes. But I wouldn't recommend shooting me first. Assassination of a government minister is frowned upon, here in Oasis."

Tracer flipped back her pistols. "Leave... alone, abandoning Wids here to be monkeywrenched? Not hardly, mate."

"You too," she said, turning to the former Talon assassin, waving her right hand airily. "At any time."

"And Emily?" asked the assassin.

"She should stay, at least a few more days - I'm not sure you remember this, Widowmaker, but the first months after your upgrades, you required extensive adjustments and maintenance, so that..."

"I remember," said the senior assassin, abruptly. "It was... extraordinarily painful."

"I learned a great deal from creating you," said the doctor. "It will not be so, for her. And less will be required." She sighed. "I'd've done it already, except she refused to sleep."

"Then," Widowmaker said, "we will have to wait, until that is finished. And I will watch you, every single moment, while you work on her, and if you do anything - anything - to her mind..."

"Bullets?" offered the doctor. "I know she's empty," she said, gesturing to Widowmaker's rifle. "Here." She reached into her jacket and pulled out a standard set of sniper rounds. "Just stay out of my way, while I work. You know how much I hate interference."

Widowmaker nodded, and took the rounds, inspected them, validating them as real, and loaded the Kiss. "Lena?"

"I don't like it, but - I'm not leaving without you, and I'm not gonna ask you to abandon her."

The assassin reached out, squeezing the teleporter's hand tightly. "Thank you."

"I take it, then," said the Irish doctor, "we're all in agreement?"

Lena nodded briefly, and the Widowmaker echoed her, a moment later, more slowly.

"We are agreed."

[sorayanroberts]

LONGFORM (4000 Words+)

How TIFF Lightbox Became a Money Pit, CB, 2024

Canadian TV’s Superficial Diversity, Walrus, 2022

Wonder Women, Hazlitt, 2020*

How the Internet Killed Feminism, Jezebel, 2019

The Fred Rogers We Know, Hazlitt, 2018

Under the Hollywood Gaslight, Hazlitt, 2018

The Evolution of Sarah Polley, Hazlitt, 2017

 Sofia Coppola's Eternal Becoming, Hazlitt, 2017

Same New Archie Andrews, Hazlitt, 2017

Adrienne Shelly Will Take You There, Hazlitt, 2016

John Hughes’ Women, Hazlitt, 2016

Winona, Forever, Hazlitt, 2016

Alanis in Chains, Hazlitt, 2015**

The Secret History of Flashdance, BuzzFeed, 2014

ESSAYS (Research-Based)

Why the Toronto Arts Are Crumbling, Local, 2024

The History of That CK Ad, NYT Magazine, 2024

Gerard Butler’s Camp Masc, NYT Magazine, 2023

The Visible Man, Baffler, 2020

Very 80′s Fairytale: 16 Candles, Arrow Films, 2019

Tokens of Appreciation, The Baffler, 2018

The Fugitive Still Won't Quit, Atlantic, 2018

Vanity Foul, Baffler, 2018

No Filter, Baffler, 2018

Who Decides What’s ‘Sexy’?, NYT Magazine, 2018

The Whiteness of Holiday Movies, Walrus, 2017

The Personal Essay Isn’t Dead, Walrus, 2017

Everybody Hurts: MSCL’s soundtrack, Hazlitt, 2016

FEATURES (Interview-Based)

David Lynch’s Thinking Room, FT Mag, 2024

Cory Michael Smith, GQ, 2023

The Movies Never Got Over Gekko, FT Mag, 2023

Actors Seeking Direction, NYT, 2023

Where Did Cliffhangers Go? FT Magazine, 2023

Valley Girl, Like, Deserved Better, Atlantic, 2023

Marlee Matlin Rights the Past, L.A. Times, 2023

Buffy the Vampire Slayer: The Movie, Atlantic, 2022

Severance’s The You You Are, Vanity Fair, 2022

Deep Water’s Sexless Thrills, Toronto Star, 2022

Animal Filmmaking’s New Era, Ringer, 2022

Diana Without Diana, LARB, 2022

Susie's Popping Curb Wardrobe, Gawker, 2021

Welcome to the Juliaverse, Grub Street, 2021

Hollywood’s Thai Cave Machine, Defector, 2021

Coronavirus & the Influencer Bubble, Vice, 2020

Reality Bites' Perfect Gen-X Irony, Atlantic, 2019

They Speak Gilmore, Don’t They? Hazlitt, 2016

Saving Nelvana, Harper’s, 2015

BEST OF DEFECTOR

On Space and Voice in Art, December 29, 2023

On Prescriptive Morality in Art, October 27, 2023

On the Unaffordability of Concerts, July 4, 2023

On Indie Cinema as Genre Cinema, May 10, 2023

On Television and its Endings, March 24, 2023

On the False Equivalency of AI, February 20, 2023

On Lists, December 15, 2022

On TV’s Vibes Cartel, July 20, 2022

PROFILES

Bilal Baig, Maclean’s, 2022

Meredith MacNeill, Walrus, 2021^

Michael K, Jezebel, 2018

REVIEWS

Abbott Elementary, American Prospect, 2022

Love & Anarchy, Defector, 2021

Collective, Defector, 2021

The Investigation, Defector, 2021

The Power Notebooks, Gen (Medium), 2020

COLUMNS

Pipe Wrench, June 2021-April 2022

“Cold Comforts,” Defector, June-December 2021

Longreads, October 2018-May 2020

^45th National Magazine Award nominee (2022) *Best Canadian Essays 2021 (Biblioasis, 2021) **39th National Magazine Award nominee (2016)

[1dhomeroom]

Anne T. Donahue on Why Grown Adult Women Are Obsessed with Harry Styles

The blessed prince of pop embodies the traits many of us are still trying to find ourselves. (Plus, let’s honest, he’s a babe)

Anne T. DonahueSep 15, 2017 A photo of Harry Styles from One Direction. He is wearing a black shirt and suit (Photo: Getty)

We started this week on a high note. While filling in last-minute for The Killers, Harry Styles performed solo for the first time in BBC Radio 1’s Live Lounge and delivered fresh renditions of “Sign of the Times,” “Two Ghosts,” and Fleetwood Mac’s “The Chain.” It was beautiful, it was magical and it solidified the 23-year-old’s place as a blessed prince on the pop music landscape. And, days away from his first world tour, it also reaffirmed that Styles is an artist worth caring about.

The myth of Styles is unparalleled. From his turn in Dunkirk to his self-titled solo debut, the 1D alum has gone on to establish himself as a young cultural icon with universal appeal. Which is rare for someone entrenched in industries (music and film) equally notorious for toxic and disposable approaches to young talent. Even rarer? That in addition to a subculture that existed during One Direction’s heyday, Harry’s fanbase has grown to include grown-ass women. And it’s all due to the Holy Trinity.

Good music, a great sense of style, and a magnetic personality: these are the traits one must exhibit to maintain a place atop pop culture’s hierarchy. Fortunately, by the time One Direction announced its hiatus in 2015, Harry had already mastered all of them, earning praise not just for co-writing the group’s jams or his vocal range, but for his onstage charisma, his unscripted interviews and a very public friendship with Stevie Nicks. Plus, he’d begun aligning himself with fashion houses renowned for creativity and gender fluidity: Gucci suits became mainstays, while his penchant for Yves Saint Laurent boots went on to garner physical reactions. He embraced prints, sheer fabrics, lace, and even women’s clothing. And as a result, he cemented himself as an artist who took an active role in his image.

When One Direction promoted Midnight Memories in 2013, the singer began standing out for his fashion sense, having graduated from graphic tees and high tops to a sleeker, tailored style. But during Made in the A.M.’s press cycle the next year, he upped the aesthetic ante: with longer hair, a zest for hats and military jackets and unbuttoned dress shirts, he began drawing comparisons to ’70s rock mavericks —especially Mick Jagger—which made sense, especially after 1D’s performance with Ronnie Wood back in December 2014.

Which is particularly appealing, since an evolution of one’s style tends to connote an evolution of one’s self. (Also, Mick Jagger is a total babe.) But where anyone with money can begin investing in labels and designers, Harry used his wardrobe as a vehicle through which to explore creative complexity—and to suggest that like Jagger and Bowie, he also didn’t (and doesn’t) subscribe to gender norms.

And that’s appealing to grown-ass adults, particularly as we’re still finding ourselves stuck releasing “unisex” collections that resemble shapeless pieces from a dystopian future. But Styles actually gets it. And by using his platform as a means of embracing gender neutrality, particularly through clothes, he signals an understanding of how fashion can be a gateway to bigger conversations, to creativity and to self-expression. Which should draw in anybody—and does, regardless of age bracket.

Because in addition to growing up, he’s continued to include his teen fan base. When speaking to Cameron Crowe in April he defended teen girls, while more recently he went on record about the necessity of One Direction’s hiatus. And that type of transparency is important, particularly since it parallels Harry’s inclusive persona. While Styles’ new music is geared towards an older crowd (more on that in a second), his respect for teen culture re-affirms his humility: he isn’t too good for the community who launched his career, and he’s old enough not to act like a petulant child, rebelling against his teenage self. At 32, I know few adults my own age who can walk that fine line—most of us are still grappling with who we used to be versus who we want to be now.

Arguably, we’re all kind of like Zayn: where the first Direction defector used Mind of Mine to separate himself from the 1D narrative, Harry used his debut for self-expression on a few fronts. Instrumentally, he played guitar (which only Niall Horan did in 1D). And vocally, he delivered a range of ballads (“Sign of the Times”), rock songs (“Kiwi”), and sweet, acoustic jams (“Sweet Creature”), as if to show us what he could do. Plus, he sang explicitly about adult-ish content: sex, heartbreak and his own self-destructive tendencies, all while presented without slagging off the group he came from or dismissing the type of music they used to perform. In contrast to Mind of Mine, Harry Styles seemed a celebration of past and present Harry, while suggesting he seemed to know himself, at least enough to take stock of his life in an articulate way.

And that’s a trait—the willingness and ability to compromise—fellow adults can recognize. Because while his debut was decent, it was his press tour that drew further attention to Styles’ capacity for charm, warmness and intellect. His first solo interview with Another Man saw him engage (as an equal) with Paul McCartney, while he used a conversation with Chelsea Handler to talk about fame and God. On Graham Norton, he held his own against the quick wit of the host and the guests (fellow adults) while very politely acknowledging the pandemonium around him.

Compare this to an artist like Justin Bieber (who’s staging complicated battles very publicly), or Zayn (who’s nestled comfortably into rebelling against his 1D persona), or even to an actor like Leonardo DiCaprio (whose cargo shorts and model girlfriends tend to eclipse everything else), and Harry’s approach to his music, his acting, his fans and the press is very rare. He simply is, which is refreshing when it comes to a famous person—or a person in general. And as adult consumers of his music and, well, brand, it makes sense that we find refuge from our day-to-day bullshit in the persona of a young artist who embodies the traits many of us are still trying to find ourselves. (Plus, like Mick Jagger, he’s also a babe.)

So ultimately, Harry’s trajectory seems destined to keep us in awe of his choices. And whether those are about his suits, his open blouses, or his ability to speak and sing candidly about his experiences with perspective, he’s laid the foundation for an empire defined by the merits of taking creative and aesthetic risks, and doing so with grace, humility and an earned confidence.

In fact, you could say that Harry’s real appeal lies in our own desire to be like him. And while we—as adults—may harbour a crush or think he’s cute or just love his music, we zero in especially hard because he exhibits what we strive to achieve ourselves. Personally, I’d love to perform a One Direction song next to Ronnie Wood.

Or hang out with Stevie Nicks. Because if she stands by Harry, that’s good enough for me, full stop.

http://www.flare.com/celebrity/harry-styles-donahue/

[disappointingyet]

Atomic Blonde Director David Leitch Stars Charlize Theron, James McAvoy, Sofia Boutella, Toby Jones Germany/Sweden/USA 2017 Language English, German, Russian (one line of) Swedish (with English subtitles) 1hr 55mins Colour

Charlize Theron adopts Harry Makepeace’s hairdo and lamps some Commies

Atomic Blonde is a Cold War action movie set in Berlin in November 1989 that relies on you setting aside whatever you know about the real Cold War, the real Berlin and the real 1989*.

There’s an interesting idea at the heart of the movie, though, and presumably its graphic novel source (if you didn't know the film’s comics origins, you’d guess within the first minute). On the eve of the Wall coming down, both sides of Berlin were full of people whose business was the Cold War and whose future was uncertain if it ended abruptly. At the same time, there was a younger generation in the East who had simply had enough of boredom under Communism, sensed (or just hoped) it was all about to crumble and just wanted to party.

Against that high-stakes backdrop, we have Lorraine Broughton (Charlize Theron), top MI6 operative with a supermodel’s wardrobe, in town to look for a Stasi defector (Eddie Marsan), who has the file that includes the name of a mole inside British intelligence. 

Let’s politely bypass the mechanics of the plot, which has the usual double and triple crossing and twists that make everything that has happened before nonsensical. It’s that kind of movie. 

And rather like a Hollywood picture of the studio era, it takes a shortcut to characterisation by having actors rehash parts they have played before. So Toby Jones as MI6's second-in-command is a minor variation on his Percy Alleline in Tinker Tailor Solider Spy, James McAvoy as the agency's rogue head of Berlin station is in Irvine Welsh mode and John Goodman’s CIA man any one of the sinister figures of power he has played in his latter years.

As for Theron, she has to convince us that she is someone who can clobber a Soviet bloc thug round the head with a portable hob while wearing a expensive minidress and heels. While she gets an amazing wardrobe, she also has to spend a chunk of the film visibly battered and bruised. It’s the kind of thing the Academy still confuses with acting in more middlebrow films – but then Theron always been willing to de-glam if necessary. I think she earns at least a 4 on the 5-point Statham scale of looking at home in an action movie.

If you’re between 40 and 50, you could probably assemble the soundtrack yourself. The rules: has to have been released in the ’80s, preferably by a German-speaking act but known in the English-speaking world. That those songs are mostly from the early ’80s and would have been neither current nor oldies in ’89 is, again, not a stumbling block in this cartoonish version of history.  

More problematic for enjoyment of the film, I think, is that it is often unclear which side of the Wall we’re on. Which is pretty vital in a Cold War story**. It’s a big failing, and one that’s down to plain sloppiness.

What the film does get right are the action sequences, most of all the extended fight up and down the stairs of an East Berlin tenement. It’s brutal and inventive.

There are a number good things about Atomic Blonde: the action, Theron’s clothes, some of the set design and cinematography. On the other hand, the dialogue is terrible, the plot cretinous, there are no laughs, and the whole Berlin November 1989 aspect often wasted (and made worse by having news footage from the time running on TVs around the place). It’s by no means terrible, but I wanted to like it a lot more than I did.

*It’s just possible I’m not the intended audience for this movie.

**So when I was eight years old, we went to both Berlins. My memory (not necessarily reliable, but my father says pretty much the same thing) is that West Berlin’s whole sense of identity was its not-Eastern Blocness – it was as loud and neony as possible.

[rose-of-pollux]

The Beast of Broadway Affair (MFU fic), part 1/5

Expanded version of an idea I tested with a couple drabbles a few weeks ago that garnered some interest.  Here is the full version of chapter one, and expanded version of this drabble.

Title: The Beast of Broadway Affair Rating: PG13 (for action/danger) Chapter summary: For two weeks, sightings of a monstrous beast in Midtown Manhattan have filled the news.  After being rescued from THRUSH, Napoleon has reason to believe that he is the one transforming into the creature.  Faced with this unfamiliar situation, Napoleon now turns to Illya to find out just what happened to him during his two-week captivity, as well as helping him stay human. Notes: This version of the fic (cross-posted to AO3) is slash; if you prefer reading gen, there is a gen version on ff.net, but I can’t link to it with tumblr’s new linking restrictions

                                             Act I: Ever a Surprise

It was always a nerve-wracking moment, raiding a THRUSH stronghold to recover an imprisoned partner.  There was no way of knowing what to expect—what condition the partner would be in.  For Illya, it had been two weeks since Napoleon had been captured, and the Russian had spent every hour thinking only of finding him again.

Now, he had found where he had been held; THRUSH had flown the coop and hadn’t bothered to take prisoners with them.  As other U.N.C.L.E. agents freed the other prisoners, Illya looked in each cell for Napoleon until--

“Hey, glad you could make it!”

Illya paused, looking into a cell to see Napoleon, reclining on a cot and propping himself up with one arm, looking at him as he used his free hand to wave to him.  He was dressed in a THRUSH prisoner’s uniform, like all the other captives, but he seemed be unharmed and in high spirits.

“Are you alright?” Illya asked, as he unlocked the cell door.

“Well, I’ve been bored out of my mind, but, otherwise, I’m fine,” Napoleon said.  “Well, that and… the fact that I’ve missed you.”

He drew in for an affectionate, private greeting, but Illya reluctantly grabbed him by the shoulders.

“Others are here to help the other prisoners,” Illya explained.

“Ah…” Napoleon said, disappointed.  “I don’t suppose you managed to recover the clothes THRUSH took from me?  They were very determined to ensure that I didn’t have access to any secret pockets that I could have hidden things in…”

“Sadly, Napoleon, they searched your suit for hidden pockets—very, very thoroughly,” Illya said.

Napoleon let his face fall.

“Say it isn’t so--!” he exclaimed, holding his arm up to his forehead for a melodramatic effect.

“Shredded,” Illya finished, apologetically.  “But cheer up, Dorogoy.  I am sure you will be reimbursed, since the damage was clearly done by overzealous THRUSHies.  Your wardrobe will recover.”

“I suppose I can live with that,” Napoleon said, with a mock sigh.  “Now let’s get out of here; I want to go home and put my feet up.”

“You have earned it,” Illya said.  “But are you certain you are well enough?”

“I feel fine,” Napoleon insisted.  “They didn’t try anything while I was here—surprisingly.  They just kept me around in this cell.  To be honest, I was beginning to wonder why I was even here, if they weren’t going to even try to interrogate me.”

“They didn’t question you at all?  About anything?”

“Nope—not a thing,” Napoleon said, as he and Illya exited the cell.  “Were they making a ransom or trade offer for me?”

Illya shook his head.

“How odd…” the Russian then mused.  “You are C.E.A., after all.  As you said, one would expect them to have at least tried to question you.”

“Yeah, you’d think…” Napoleon said.  He held out his arms, and, sure enough, there wasn’t a mark on them—not even a bruise.  “Huh. Well, as long as I get my suit reimbursed, I can’t complain.  Are we going home?”

“You are certain you don’t want to stop at Medical first and make sure there is nothing wrong?”

“I feel perfect,” Napoleon said, with a shrug. “Just let me kick back and relax—that’s all I need.  Maybe we can spend the rest of the day relaxing.”

“Very well,” Illya said.  “But you appear to have lost your sense of time being cooped up here.”

“Oh?”

“It’s past suppertime; there is no ‘rest of the day,’ Napoleon.”

“…You gave up a meal for me?  Wow, you really do love me!”

Illya smiled.

“Of course I did.  With my worry, I have barely had an appetite these past two weeks. Come; let’s help the other prisoners—if you are certain you are up to it.”

“Couldn’t be better,” Napoleon insisted.

Satisfied, Illya nodded.

They spared a bit of time to help the other prisoners (most of them independent scientists and THRUSH defectors rather than U.N.C.L.E. agents like Napoleon), after which Illya was insistent that Napoleon get some proper nutrition; they headed to U.N.C.L.E. HQ for Napoleon to change and for them to grab a quick supper at the commissary.  They then quickly met with Waverly, who noted that it was good to see Napoleon back, and that he could take a few days’ rest before coming back to work.  Napoleon nodded and opted to take him up on the offer, but denying that he needed to see Medical.  Waverly knew better than trying to coax either of the two partners into seeing Medical, and so, he let the matter drop, trusting Illya to look after Napoleon.

The two partners made it home to the apartment soon after, and Baba Yaga the Egyptian Mau greeted the two of them warmly—Napoleon especially, as she hadn’t seen him in two weeks.

“I see you snuck her back home,” Napoleon said, gathering the cat in his arms.  Baba Yaga purred in response, pleased.

“Da,” Illya said, through a loud yawn.  “She has been worried about you, too; it made sense for us to worry together.”

Napoleon chuckled slightly and cooed to the cat for a while before setting her down on her basket and changing to his purple silk pajamas.

Illya was already in bed in his blue pajamas, and Napoleon took a moment to enjoy the feeling as he relaxed in the familiar comfort of their bed at last.

“You know, Tovarisch, I haven’t properly thanked you for rescuing me.  Even if THRUSH wasn’t doing anything to me, it wasn’t fun being cooped up in that cell.  So, I’d like to show you my appreciation…”

Napoleon trailed off as the response he got from his partner was a drawn-out snore, and he suddenly realized that this was Illya’s first night sleeping soundly, too—not just his.  He managed a wan smile.

“…Tomorrow then,” Napoleon sighed, good-naturedly.

He wrapped his arms around his partner and fell asleep soon after that, as well.

                                                  **************************

Initially, Illya hadn’t thought much of finding that Napoleon wasn’t in the apartment the next morning; Napoleon often ducked out early if he found that they needed some groceries, or if he was in the mood for a jog—and, more than likely, after being cooped up for two whole weeks, Napoleon was pretty much expected to be stir crazy and would have welcomed the chance to exercise his restless legs by taking a run in Central Park.  And so, Illya was mostly unconcerned about Napoleon’s absence in the apartment as he read the morning paper and drank his morning tea, repeatedly shaking off the insistent nagging voice that always seemed to accompany a recent rescue.

He clicked his tongue as he read a report about another monster sighting in Midtown Manhattan—a bipedal, black-furred creature known as the Beast of Broadway, as the papers had called it since the sightings had begun—also around two weeks ago.  But Illya had been so preoccupied with finding Napoleon, he hadn’t bothered to pay any attention to the wild claims.  Now that he had the opportunity to relax, he proceeded to read about the sightings and scoff at them.

“Beast of Broadway,” he muttered to Baba Yaga, who was loafing on the coffee table.  “More like Beast of Bourbon.  Or something else they have been drinking…”

He trailed off as Napoleon suddenly ran into the apartment, slamming the door behind him, gasping for breath.  His face was very red, as though he had run all the way here, but what concerned Illya most was that his partner was still dressed in his purple silk pajamas—or, rather, what was left of them, as they were now in tatters around Napoleon’s frame.  Napoleon had, clearly, tied a some of the strips of cloth from his shirt and pant cuffs around his waist to help preserve his dignity on the way back to the apartment.

“What happened to you!?” Illya asked, as Baba Yaga stood up and meowed in concern.  “Were you mugged!?  And why were you out and about in your pajamas!?”

“I don’t know,” Napoleon said, shaking his head in utter befuddlement.  “I think I must have been sleepwalking.  Do you have any idea what time I left?”

“I felt you getting out of bed around 4—I thought you wanted to get an early start to the day for whatever reason, so I went back to sleep.”

“When Waverly gave me the day off after my rescue from THRUSH?  I was planning to stay in and see if I could have breakfast in bed,” Napoleon muttered.  “Sleepwalking.  I haven’t done that since I was five!”

“Yes, I remember Mother saying she used to tie your foot to the bed…” Illya mused, referring to Napoleon’s mother—and for all intents and purposes, Illya’s mother-in-law.

“…She told you that!?”

“She tells me everything,” Illya replied, without missing a beat.  “At least you had the foresight to take the apartment key before you sleepwalked out the door.  Though it’s not at all uncommon for people to take their keys and even drive whilst asleep. Hmm… perhaps I should take a leaf out of Mother’s book and start tying you to the bed again… for your own safety, of course.”

“Oh, thanks a lot.”

“In all seriousness, I don’t want you wandering around or driving around Manhattan traffic,” Illya said. “Something has already happened to you. Do you remember anything?”

“Nope,” Napoleon groaned. “Woke up somewhere on 42nd Street. I must have come across as a very bizarre vagrant in tattered silk pajamas…”  He winced and looked at what remained of them.  “These were imported…!”

“Be grateful that nothing worse happened,” Illya said.  “Where did they hurt you?”

“Well…  Right around…” Napoleon trailed off, looking at his skin that was visible among the tatters.  “Um… nowhere.”

“What?”

“There isn’t a mark on me,” Napoleon said, trying to get a look at his back.  “I’m not hurting anywhere, either.”

“Well, your pajamas didn’t just rip themselves!” Illya scoffed.  “Someone did that!”

“I’ll figure that out later,” Napoleon muttered.  “Right now, I just want to change and get something to eat.”

Illya murmured a sound of assent, and continued reading the article about the Beast of Broadway as Napoleon moved to leave the room—and then spat out a mouthful of tea, causing Napoleon to stop.

“What?” Napoleon asked.

“…Nothing,” Illya lied.

“…Give me the paper.”

“Nyet!”

“Give. Me. The. Paper.”

They wrestled for it; more strips of purple silk went flying and Baba Yaga watched in concern as, finally, Napoleon tore off the page that Illya had been trying to conceal.

“Beast of Broadway?” he asked.

“Sightings have been going on for two weeks—must be drunkards,” Illya said hastily.  “You can give that back--”  He cringed as Napoleon paled upon reading what Illya had read moments ago.

“…‘The black-furred Beast was spotted early this morning on 42nd Street, wearing the remains of what seemed like purple silk…’  …Oh, God, no…”

“Napoleon…” Illya said, getting up and gently grabbing him by the shoulders.  “Napoleon, I am certain there is an explanation for this--”

“Of course there is—I’m turning into a were-beast!” he practically yelled.  “Illya, what am I gonna do!?  What--!?”

“First, Dorogoy, you must remain calm,” Illya whispered, now placing his hands on Napoleon’s face.  He could feel Napoleon tremble.

“How am I supposed to remain calm!?” Napoleon asked, his voice cracking.  “How are you staying so calm when I could transform again right here and attack you!?”

“Because I love you, and I have the utmost faith in you,” Illya said, gently kissing him. “Whatever is happening, we are going to get to the bottom of this.  Trust me. And trust yourself, as I trust you. Now, breathe with me.”

He held Napoleon close, inhaling and exhaling.  Napoleon matched his breathing, and Illya could feel him calm down as his shaking subsided.

“Thank you,” Napoleon whispered.  “But what happens now?”

“Now, you will change and we will have Medical take a look at you.  We won’t tell them anything; we’ll just say we want them to see if there is anything out of the ordinary.”

“R-Right…”

“And then,” Illya continued.  “We will find out exactly what happened while you were a prisoner of THRUSH.  These Beast of Broadway sightings started just after they had captured you.  It could be that, rather than interrogate you, they experimented on you instead. But whatever it is they have done, we will find a way to reverse it.  You are the love of my life, Napoleon.  Believe me—I will find a way.”

Napoleon swallowed the lump in his throat and nodded.

If anyone could figure this out, it would be his loyal Illya.  Of that, he had the utmost faith.

[reviewsbyracine]

I SAW A MOVIE: “Atomic Blonde”

I'm really loving the action renaissance of Charlize Theron. She has always been a versatile actress, able to swing between award-winning roles and blockbuster fare with ease. With Mad Max: Fury Road, she proved her ability to portray a strong, badass action star. Now, with the new film Atomic Blonde, she is not only kicking ass but also the leading face of the film, a rarity for an action movie.

Atomic Blonde stars Theron as Lorraine Broughton, an MI6 agent sent to 1989 Berlin to investigate the murder of one of her fellow spies. Cold War tensions are high, especially with double agent Satchel selling British intelligence to the Soviets. Lorraine meets up with British agent David Percival, played by the always charming James McAvoy, and she quickly learns to trust no one.

The movie is mostly Theron, although she is supported by a wonderful assortment of character actors. John Goodman and Toby Jones appear as CIA and MI6 superiors, respectively, interrogating Lorraine as she describes the film's events. The striking Sofia Boutella plays Delphine, a French agent who grows close to Lorraine, while Eddie Marsan plays Spyglass, a sympathetic Stasi defector.  

The film is both flashy and cold, with strong neon colors highlighting the Berlin nightlife while also keeping in mind the stark, brutalist architecture of East Berlin. Lorraine's wardrobe, along with many of the other actors, is mostly black and white, giving an item like a red high-heeled shoe extra emphasis.

The film makes use of many real world weapons, with Lorraine reaching for car keys or saucepans instead of machine guns, allowing the action to stay grounded. Director David Leitch, known for directing the equally-invigorating John Wick, opts to shoot a stairwell fight scene in a single take, allowing each punch and kick to feel painfully real.

By far my favorite element of the movie was the soundtrack. Staying true to the time and setting of the movie, Atomic Blonde uses a number of new wave musicians to set the film's tone. David Bowie, Siouxsie and the Banshees, and New Order score the film's action, with many of the fight scenes being choreographed to the beat of the music. It is easily one of my favorite soundtracks of this year.

Fans of action films will definitely enjoy Atomic Blonde, even if it isn't totally clear what is happening or whose side everyone is on. The underlying current of Cold War espionage means that everyone is betraying everyone and the main mission - to retrieve a list of Soviet agents hidden in a wristwatch - isn't really that important. Second viewings may be recommended. While I was never totally clear what was going on plot wise, Atomic Blonde was an enjoyable, intelligent action film with a truly badass lead character, something that is often rare these days.